By nature as well as social convention—more the latter than the former—elves were a quiet people, and though Geletra’s was the second largest of the elvish palaces, its rooms, halls, and yards did not have the same constant bustle of activity that their human counterparts so often did. Even the clacking of heels upon the polished wood floors was considered distasteful, and the raising of one’s voice in any form was strictly prohibited.
But even by those strict, silent standards, the palace halls were deathly quiet as Auriel made his way through them. There were no voices, nor footsteps, nor even a breeze, in most cases. Just the gentle rustle of a dozen silk layers all whispering at once about what was to come.
Mithril had remained in his chambers to tidy it, and now Auriel was flanked on either side, front and back, by two royal guards, their heads kept high and straight, but their eyes occasionally flitting in Auriel’s direction. The servants and nobles he passed behaved similarly, bowing their heads for just a moment in respect but keeping their eyes firmly glued as their prince glided past them, seemingly carried by a cloud of lavender silk.
Despite his appearance, Auriel couldn’t have felt more leaden. Every eye that beheld him, every head that bowed to him, every hand that covered every gaping mouth that gasped in wonder at him—they were all just links in the invisible chains that hung from him. They did not inspire love, nor gratitude, nor pompous vanity, but rather fear, and anxiety, and self-consciousness about everything. Was his belt off-center? Was his hair askew? Was his face too expressive, or not expressive enough? Were his steps too slow, or too fast? Would he stumble, or trip, or, worst of all, fall, and break the allure of the ethereal prince they purported him to be?
These thoughts and more swirled about his mind like loose leaves in a windstorm, quelling only for a moment when he stopped before the grand oaken doors leading to the throne room. Auriel stood perfectly still with both hands folded in front of him as the guards bowed their heads and opened the doors in a smooth flourish.
Seated in his throne of branches and gold-edged leaves was Auriel’s closest companion and strictest jailer: his father, Seyfrus, who stood up the moment his son passed the threshold.
Upon first glance, it seemed as though Seyfrus could hold no parental claim to Auriel. His features were much sharper, his jawline much harder, and silver hair fell from his head pin-straight, like thousands of little icicles. But their eyes were carved from the same chunk of emerald, albeit a bit narrower in Seyfrus’s case. Those narrow eyes beheld him now, not with the reverence of those he’d passed on the way, but rather the warmth and soft pride that only a father could give his son.
Two more links in the chain.
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“My son, you are radiant,” said Seyfrus to him in a voice low and tender.
“Thank you, Father,” replied Auriel with a gentle smile. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for long?”
“Certainly not. And even if you did, I’d much rather you keep me waiting all day than present yourself poorly in the name of expedience. I’m sure High Prince Celethir would agree. I only wish…”
Seyfrus’s lips stilled, then fell closed in a soft, mournful smile as his eyes faltered a bit in composure. Gently he took Auriel’s hands in his own and held them close.
“…I wish that your mother could be here to see you.”
As he spoke, his father’s eyes fell to a ring on Auriel’s left hand. Compared to the other jewelry adorning him, it was simple, and just a hair lighter in color than the rest. Normally, for an occasion so momentous as the reception of a High Prince, such an aberration in color unity would be totally unacceptable, but to Seyfrus, leaving the ring unworn at any time was an even greater affront—one that Auriel had been scolded for more times than he liked to recall. The band may have been plain, but to Seyfrus, the single word etched in the golden surface was more beautiful than the purest diamond. Aevilta. “Forever.”
His mother’s last word.
Auriel shared in his father’s desire for his mother’s presence today, if only so he could understand the gravity of what it would mean. He’d barely learned to walk by the time she’d passed. He could not recall her touch, nor her voice, and had it not been for the grand portrait of her hanging in the great hall, he would not know her face nor name. The placard beneath the painting read “Elyria,” and the painting itself was in all ways except the eyes and chest a direct reflection of Auriel. He recognized the similarity, of course, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to feel a connection to her beyond that. He certainly could not feel the bond that Seyfrus had woven so tightly between them—despite being reminded of it nearly every day—but regardless, it was there, so the ring was as well, its voice a thousand times louder than Auriel’s could ever dream of being.
“Sire,” came an even voice from the throne room door. It was Vanduil, Seyfrus’s most trusted advisor. He looked as he always did: his hands held behind his back, his long black hair pulled up, and his face totally still, save for the occasional fleck of light reflected in his wire-rimmed spectacles. For this rigid stance and neutral visage, he was known to some as “the Edifice,” and according to palace legend, he never smiled because he lacked the faculties to do so—in that regard, Auriel felt him kindred.
Seyfrus lingered on the ring for just a moment more but did not release Auriel’s hands as he shifted his gaze to Vanduil, who continued, “The gates have been opened, and High Prince Celethir’s carriage is within view.”
“He’s arrived earlier than expected,” said Auriel.
“The High Prince cannot be early when it is he who sets the time,” Seyfrus replied. “But I’m sure the quickness of his trip is due entirely to the prize awaiting him at its end. So let us make for the courtyard at once, lest he be deprived of your beauty for even a second more than necessary.”
