#also it's hard af to remember to write caleb instead of callebero

[curiosity-killed]

Free-write 3/2/17

The afternoon sun is high and bright, bouncing gold off the black walls. It’s quiet in the garden, the noise of the city brushed away by the sea breeze, and the river is cold on his feet. He stretches and curls his toes against the cool current. His sandals sit by his red cape, carefully out of the way of the water. The heredem princep can’t attend the parade in soaked clothes.

No one said anything about his feet, though.

He wriggles his fingers into the sun-warmed sand before scooping both his hands forward. The sand slides forward in small hills, fine grains running back against his fingertips. Shaking his hands free, he flattens his palms over both hills and smooths them out by rubbing them down over the sand. He can still hear the hurried footsteps of the citadels’ occupants as they rush here and there within the stone halls. Occasionally, there’s a hushed conversation that hurries away too quickly for him to catch. 

With a contented sigh, Caleb flops onto his back and kicks his feet a little more. The parade is one of his favorites: the whole city flushed red with garlands and flowers, the red cacti flowers threaded into crowns and rouge painted onto every eyelid. Bara had braided glass beads into his hair like little rubies, and when he reaches up to touch them, they’re cool against the heat radiating off his black hair. 

A set of footsteps breaks off from the background, crunching over the pebbled path. Caleb pushes himself up and blinks against the sudden brightness of the sky. A blue aura lingers, but the figure comes into view.

“Mamán!” he shrieks, leaping up.

He scrambles out of the river, nearly tripping over his sandals and cloak. Stumbling forward, he bolts towards her. Mamán crouches as he approaches, arms extended. He hits her with full force and wraps his arms around her neck. Even with the breath knocked out of him from her breastplate, he can feel nothing but startled joy. 

“You’re back!” he says.

Her arms wrap around his torso and squeeze. He squeezes back.

“Hi sweetie,” she says with a laugh. She gives him another squeeze. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too, Mamán,” he says. “Haya said you weren’t going to be back yet. Does that mean you won?”

“Yeah, we won,” she says. “But enough about that. How have you been?”

She pulls away a little, holding him at arm’s length as if to look him over for changes. He’s grown since he last saw her. He hopes she notices.

“Captain Jemma said I’m almost ready to start with a sword,” he says, “and Mateus says Valyn ‘n I are the fastest students he’s had, and House Perduto visited a couple months ago and Lumeira says she’s in love but Bri says that she’s too young to be in love. I think Bri’s right, but Cri says we’re being cynical.”

He pulls a face at that, and Mamán laughs. She tugs him in for another hug, quick and impulsive.

“You have had a busy time,” she says. “And you’ve grown! You’re going to be taller than me, soon.”

He beams. 

“The tailors say I’m going to need all new robes by New Year,” he says.

Mamán snorts and stands. He nearly comes up to her shoulders now.

“I believe that,” she says. “Are you ready for the parade?”

He turns to grab his sandals and cape, fastening the latter on before dropping to the ground to tug on the former. He stands with a bounce once he’s done, and Mamán holds out her hand. He squeezes it, and she responds with two quick pulses. He grins and squeezes three times back.

“Bara put beads in my hair this year,” he says, tilting his head to give her a better view of them.

“Bara – oh, right,” Mamán says. “They look beautiful. You get more beautiful every year.”

He flushes, pleased. Mamán herself is dressed simply, just her armor with a long scarlet cape and red ribbons twisted through the metal wings of her crown. The rouge on her eyelids is offset by thick black kohl, simpler and sharper than that on Caleb’s. 

“Princess Malia said she wouldn’t wear red,” he says, adding, a little more subdued, “I think she’s missing her parents.”

Mamán squeezes his hand, and when he looks up, she has a sad look on her face.

“It has to be hard for her,” she says. “Have you been helping her?”

He nods dutifully. “We eat together most days and we study together after arms. She’s much better at arithmetic than me.”

Mamán nods. She gives him a small smile.

“Good. I’m sure she appreciates having you for a friend,” she says.

He shrugs, uncertain of how to reply. He’s only doing what he’s supposed to, he thinks. There are rumors that he and Malia will be betrothed in the next few years, though he doesn’t like to think about it. It’s too distant, too unreal. They’re friends, nothing less.

“She said she’d teach me embroidery if she got to train in arms with me,” he says instead. “Captain Jemma and Captain Tiramin said they had to talk to you, though.”

Mamán hums, canting her head to one side as they step into the cool shade of the loggia.

“It does seem useful for her to learn,” she concedes. “I’ll speak with the captains.”

Caleb nods. He doesn’t wholly understand what’s happen in Nafyr, but he knows that a war isn’t won with politesse. 

“And you’re just going to be the next Sattel with your art and embroidery, aren’t you?” Mamán says.

Caleb wrinkles his nose but can’t help grinning at the compliment. He wants to say that it’s her he wants to be modeled after, but he doesn’t have the right words.

“Have you been drawing recently?” Mamán asks.

“Some,” he says. “I drew some of the horses yesterday. And Anharad said she’d show me how to make pigments from the right flowers.”

Mamán stiffens, just slightly. She doesn’t like when he brings up Anharad, he knows, but until she gives him a decent reason, he’s not going to stop visiting the gardener. Her hut is one of his favorite havens with its dried herbs and green starters. She’s fun to talk to, too. Her accent and stories are nothing like the polished ones he’s given within the palace.

“That is exciting,” Mamán says evenly.

They’ve entered the palace now, and their steps ring through the Echoing Hall, coming back a little softer off the black walls. Mamán is still stiff, eyes forward, and Caleb chews at his lip. If they would just explain, just tell him why it’s so terrible he spends time with his aunt’s wife – he doesn’t want to upset them, not really. He just doesn’t understand.

“I’m glad you’re back, Mamán,” he offers and squeezes her hand.

She turns to him with a bright smile, like she’s just realized he’s there.

“I’m glad to be back,” she says. “Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t mean to be distracted.”

“It’s alright,” he says. “The crown is a heavy burden.”

It’s something he heard at the last gala, from a Regent who didn’t quite notice the heir apparent standing nearby. Mamán gives him a funny look, like she wants to laugh but is about to cry instead.

“Perhaps,” she says, “but I’m your mamán right now.”

He smiles, because he knows what she she means, how one person can be divided into two. As much as he looks up to Imperator Princep Alir, she is a distant figure of whom he gets only glimpses. Mamán is the tangible person, with her strong arms and gentle smiles.

They stop at the inner gate, where the captains already wait. Jemma and Tiramin are deep in a hushed conversation while Catterik is distracted by a servant. Caleb can’t make out the words, but the servant looks flustered and pleased. They keep looking down at their plain sandals and back up through their lashes. Catterik has a smile like a cat, curled and smug.

“Eminence,” Jemma greets, bowing low.

The effect is instantaneous: Tiramin turns to bow with their arm crossed over their breastplate, and Catterik shifts away from the servant to do the same. The servant nearly prostrates themselves in their haste to bow.

“Rise,” Mamán says. “We don’t want to hold up the parade.”

The captains relax with easy smiles. Tiramin brings two garlands close, the red flowers held delicately in their calloused hands. Mamán takes them both and then pauses. A smile quirks the corner of her lips, and Caleb frowns in confusion. Before he can say anything, Mamán turns to him and extends one of the crowns.

“Here,” she says.

Caleb accepts it, baffled. Mamán kneels before him with a grin and dips her head pointedly. Caleb falters a moment before carefully extending the crown and settling it over her black hair.

“May Victory ride beside you,” he recites.

Mamán smiles and straightens up just enough to settle the second over Caleb’s plainer circlet.

“And may it crown you in scarlet,” she replies.

A grin breaks out across Caleb’s face, a shivery thrill running under his skin at the familiar words. No matter how many years he’s been to this parade, the words never lose their power. He could be a hundred years old, he thinks, and still feel their weight skitter over his nerves.

“Ready?” Mamán asks as she straightens.

She holds out a hand, and Caleb grips it, still smiling.

“Ready,” he says.

Together, hands joined, they walk out into the light.