story - part 3 - complaints - 1118 words

The court is a blur. A wash of cloth and color covering the walls, far different from the comfortable muted browns and greys of wood and stone and faded tapestries and wind scratched floors. The banners of nobles, an array of every color imaginable, are a shock to the system, and something about it makes my stomache twist and my heart ache. The first time I stepped into this room, I wanted to sweep the artwork from the walls and wrap it about myself; I wanted to have those colors in my eyes, in my skin. They were the colors I imagined the wind should be, if I could only see it.

The faces of nobles lining either side of the main hall blend together in my eyes; they all look the same, pale and puffed up peacocks with ridiculous clothing and hair that makes me want to laugh. How many hours must they spend teasing sparse locks up into complicated cascades around their faces? And how long before the wind will blow it all flat against their heads?

Like his followers, Corbin wears an elaborate costume, coerced into it by his advisors and his timid, mouse-like wife. Unlike them, he has the poise and the looks to carry it. A large man with golden hair and a stubborn jaw, the beginnings of worry lines around his eyes and tugging at the corners of his mouth, he seems too guileless and controllable to be a King.

His wings, however, draw in the eye. They, like the young Prince's, make my heart ache and a slow throb settle into my spine. I crave them. I hate him for having them. I hate the mangled mess that is so easily hidden in the depths of my black cloak. I hate the fact that his feathers are long and the same shining gold as his hair, as opposed to a matted black, torn and twisted. I hate him. And I love him.

This is the time and place for the petty feuders and the bored petitioners to step forth, mingled with those few peasants who have true complaints and fears. Men quarrelling over ten feet of land, a musician whining that a friend sold his song, a woman complaining about the theft of her sickly old cow. Their problems do not matter, nor do his solutions - only the fact that for ten minutes, twenty minutes, they get to stand before the King and stare in awe. When they arrive, it is with the hopes that they will find out he is real, that he truly exists and that he is not merely a myth. When they leave, they are still not sure. There is something godly about the cut of his jaw, and that halo of gold.

I understand the importance of these meetings. I fear Tumaire passes them off as merely the complaints of pathetic peasants. He does not understand that one cow could be the difference between life and death for an old woman living on her own, or that ten feet of land is enough to plant another row of crops, could be enough for the poor to afford meat for dinner. If I were to tell him that some people eat potatoes every night for dinner, that they cannot afford shoes, that they huddle into corners and share beds not only because they have so few but because they need that shelter and that warmth, he would laugh at me.

I am forced to hover at his right shoulder and watch him stare off into space. His fingers twitch against his knee and his lips shift down into a faint frown. That edge of violence, something that has never surfaced in me before, swells and makes my heart pound as his eyes slowly slip close and it looks like he is going to nod off. These are his people, and he does not care about them. All he wants is to slip out of the room and run off to his rooms.

He hates the crowds, the eyes locked on him. I think it is because he knows they are judging him, and on a subconscious level at the very least he knows that he does not measure up to their standards. To him, it might just be because of the shadows under his eyes, the bony wrists and the pale, drawn expression. He might not understand the depths of his inadequacy, but he can wrap his mind about the idea that he does not look the part of a prince, and even less that of a King. But then, neither do I.

Tumaire is dreaming about the elaborate castle his father gave to him as a present a few days ago. I can tell by the faint smile that curves across his face, the way he ignores the slow, sideways stares in his direction and the obvious way that noble gossips whisper about how unhealthy he looks, about the fact that I hover behind him. His fingers scissor, walk idly down to his knee, the gesture subtle enough that it is only visible to the nearest obsevers, and could be passed off as an absentminded, unintentional movement. It makes me clench my jaw, my ears ringing with sudden anger.

My job is that of physician, not of teacher, but sometimes I feel it is my duty to educate him despite this fact. Today this is done with a slow pressure at the back of his neck, my hand settled cold against his skin. It is gentle at first, and I can feel him begin to tense, muscles jumping as he straightens in his chair. His eyes do not open, he pretends to be ignoring the contact, but I know the workings of his body to see past the lie.

Fingers dig into the skin at the back of his neck and he finally makes a tiny noise, his eyes slipping open and his head coming up. That easily, his focus shifts back to the meager peasant woman who is making some soft, timid request. His expression is still distant and uninterested; I will have to help him fix that, later.

He would not dare tell anyone, if I hurt him. On some level, I am sure that he is in awe of me, that he can sense something that quells his pride and his distain toward the common folk. Slowly, he is coming to trust and perhaps to love me. That is why he tries so hard to dig up my secrets, to push my buttons. He wants to know me, inside and outside. He wants to know me as well as I know him.