Narcisse

The Broken Chant Tavern

“I am afraid to stay,” she whispers, leaning in close. “I believe I’ve upset him, and I don’t know if I should stick around for his return.”

Two sprites dance in her voice—one a lie, the other, truth.

“But I am very curious, Narcisse, why after so many nights of longing for my attention—tonight was the night you decided to heed your curiosity.”

Why, indeed? It would be easy, perhaps even lazy, to simply blame his sudden boldness on the ale. It is not of any particular renown or quality, as the owner has always been the sort to deal in quantity to line his pockets, but it is an easy, smooth drink, making the journey to the inebriated mind quicker. It certainly wouldn’t be a lie, but still quite far from the truth of the matter—that life as he knows it is slowly coming to an end, for by this time next year, he will be wed, made husband to some woman he does not know from a neighboring kingdom he has only visited in the library and the depth of history studies.

I wanted to meet you, at least once, before I was never able to come here again, Narcisse confesses in the privacy of his own thoughts. I wanted to taste your name on my lips, and hear you taste mine.

Perhaps she sees the answer—desperation—in his pale eyes or, if not, perhaps she truly doesn’t care? For before he can speak, she’s already taken a handful of steps in retreat, the gesture as inviting as it is confusing. And then she proposes a walk.

The night is dark and full of terrors, but beauty, as well. The river she seeks is not far, less than a kilometer to the north, with a shore that gathers darkness like cloth and water that reflects the moonlight like glass. The Mercers would curse his foolishness, write lectures upon which future nobles would learn; sing cautionary tales about the Fool Prince, who walked into the dark with a beautiful maiden, never to be seen or heard from again. Something deep inside him recoils at the thought of being alone with her, away from prying eyes, shrouded in obscurity.

A primal, instinctive thing.

But the man in him, the heir apparent doomed to a future he did not ask for, ignores it. “A walk sounds lovely,” Narcisse says, rising from his stool. He offers her his arm, and then they faded into the song and dance of the crowd, disappearing as if they were never there.
---
“If you’ve a heart for sightseeing, you’ll meet no better,” Narcisse says, guiding her through the foliage and onto a beaten path. “I know these lands better than most.”

It was his father’s wish that he learn the ways of the ranger, for a man is not a man if he cannot hunt and trap and navigate for himself, and a man is not a king if he does not know the land he is to rule. And so for much of his youth, Narcisse spent his Spring and Summer out in the wilderness, learning to fend for himself and survive with the bare necessities. All for those grueling, excruciating moments to be used not for survival, but to escort this ethereal mystery to a river.

The soft, gentle swishing of the water fills the air long before the shore comes to view. The thicket falls away behind them, as if cut by a giant’s blade, leaving a grassy clearing that feeds itself into the waiting river. “And here we are,” he says, gesturing at the pastoral scene with a wave of the hand. “It is as you prophesized – a shoreline, a crescent of moon above us, all framed with dark, gorgeous woodlands. This is the river Ouras, the largest in the land and from which many of the smaller rivers in the kingdom form.”

Still, Narcisse remains at her side. “And to answer your question from earlier, I suppose it’s because the opportunity to introduce myself was rapidly dwindling away. At some point, there’s no more time to think or consider. You either act or you don’t.”

Glancing down at her, Narcisse smiles. “I’m glad I did.”

The Broken Chant Tavern

The signs of fate aren’t always evident.

They do not always taken form in the prophesied birth of a hero, the fall of a legendary tyrant, the death of an era, or the rise of a mighty empire. More often than not, they mask themselves in the shadow of auspicious moments, make themselves easy to be mistaken for luck or pure coincidence. Fate, and its agents, require as much submission as they do blind faith, for to believe in Her is to relinquish all control, all influence.

But for a child a prophecy, such a thing is commonplace, for their future is no more their own than their present moment.

And for a man of prophecy, it is impossible to ignore the signs he has been trained his entire life by palace Mercers to seek.

“Ella,” she replies while offering a hand, her voice polished to a shine, absent of the local accents, of which he has heard many.

A foreigner then. How thrilling.

Ella’s hand fits against his with the perfection one can only call destiny. Her skin is soft as the finest silk in the realm, cool to the touch in a way a beverage quenches the thirst on a summer day, crisp and refreshing. And yet, for all her hand’s gentleness, Narcisse is abundantly aware of the power it holds, and more keenly, the effort to restrain it. This is not a hand that moves recklessly or without purpose, he reasons, all too aware of the havoc it might rain on those in its path. This woman is certainly more than he ever imagined she might be—more than her pale skin, her dark hair, her molten eyes and full lips—and each moment in her presence only whets voracious curiosity further.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Narcisse says, releasing her hand and returning his grip to the mug of ale he’s brought with him. “I’ve wanted to for quite some time,” he confesses unbidden, confused, but not appalled, by the unexpected bought of honesty. He leans into it, lets it carry him deeper into along the current of conversation. “I would tell myself for months, if she comes tonight and she is alone, I will introduce myself and ask to drink with her. And every night, you’d shown up alone, and every time, I’d talk myself out of it.”

Narcisse flips his attention back to Ella, though it never fully left, lips curved in a rogue’s grin. Sharp, inviting, and dangerous “But, we aren’t getting any younger, are we? So, here I am, hoping to learn more about you, the lovely and mysterious Ella. Sit with me a while?”

The Broken Chant Tavern

It isn’t the first time Narcisse has seen this woman at the Broken Chant Tavern, but the first time he’s worked up the courage to speak to her.

The first time was nearly a year ago, long after he mastered the art of sneaking out of his room and slipping past the guardsmen, but before he learned to scale the palace walls without effort or incident, as if he were the king of thieves. It was after he learned to hide his regal mannerisms and the other tells of a posh upbringing, to bury the truth of his nobility beneath the finery of a commoner, but long before he was due to inherit the crown and shoulder the weight of his kingdom.

Before many things, and after many more.

Even so, that first night, nearly a year’s worth of life ago, was not so different than this night, for she sat alone back then, as well, with only her drink and the bartender’s flirting to occupy her time. And so she does now, beneath the central chandelier, alone even when surrounded by over a dozen others.

There’s something different about her. She’s no commoner, that’s for certain, but it’s more than that. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

Being raised at court, one quickly learns to recognize royalty. It is in the air around her, exuded from a bloodline as ancient as it is powerful; in the way that the entire tavern seems to gravitate toward her presence. They don’t know it, of course, and may not even believe it if they were told—but he has watched, learned, and seen how the revelers always end their nights closer to her than where they started. And he can hardly blame them, for she is beautiful in the way of kings and queens, supple yet sharp, soft yet powerful.

Perhaps I’ve found a partner in crime? These escapades would certainly be more enjoyable with a friend. There’s only so much mischief one can get into by themselves.

But there is something in the air that night, thicker than the aroma of spiced meat and stench of cheap ale, more encouraging than intoxication and more charismatic than a beloved general’s final speech. Narcisse has no name for it, this mysterious thing that picks him up from his table and guides him toward her while the bartender departs to mend his wound, but he embraces it, letting the cards of fate fall where they may.

“He’ll be alright,” Narcisse says, his words as sure as a promise while slides into the seat on her left. “It wasn’t that bad of a cut.”

His attire is simpler than most others in the room, carefully curated from the servant quarters in the palace in an effort to avoid bringing unwanted attention toward his person. His brown leather boots had seen travels he himself had not, made from quality leather but muddied and in need of a cleaning; his pants, a dark gray, fit him well; and his shirt, a billowing, long-sleeved tunic gray as a storm cloud, he cinched around the waist with a belt from which both his purse and dagger hung.

“Narcisse,” he says, extending a large, calloused hand toward her. His eyes, so pale a brown as to be white sand, nearly glow against the dark skin of his bearded face. “And you are?”