Human Again

by E. L. Tenenbaum

  I rambled in similar manner on more than one occasion, not just to her, but to Azeria, who I apologized to for never bothering to know; to my mother, who I reassured that I held no ill will against; and to my father, who I either berated with all the ferocity of my pent up anger or fell to my knees and begged forgiveness for never being the son he’d lost.

  I slept very little, I ate even less, my clothes loosened and there were days I could hardly keep my pants about my waist. I stared for hours at the sheet music Kiara had given me, struggling in vain to read the melody and recall the joy it once brought me. Sometimes, I wandered the halls in nothing but my nightshirt and the blood-stained boots I’d worn to war. My cheeks sank in, giving my skin a sickly white pallor, which made the blue of my eyes stand out even brighter, the black of my hair and beard appear even darker.

  Frankly, I looked like the hoarfrost the jaguar imprinted with his paws, the ghost of a beast who even then was still alive and vigilant in its fight to devour me. Two different forces waged a final battle for what was left of my body and soul. There was the beast, which had been steadily gaining ground since I first learned to identify my unnerving, chilling anger for what it was. Then there was the part of me that was once human, that weak, fragile flame clinging to an almost consumed wick. I needed to only loosen my grip on it one instant and I would tumble into the interminable darkness below, a blackness so thick and enveloping that even light could not find it.

  The will to live is a peculiar, singularly minded force that can drive a man even without sense or direction; it doesn’t care where he goes, simply that he goes. As it would turn out, I discovered the lengths mine would go to only after I broke completely.

  Through all this, I saw color only when I looked upon the roses that had brought me Kiara. As winter approached, I watched the rose petals fall one by one, slowly detaching and drifting downward, in effect the final pendulum swing of the clock tolling my end.

  One evening, I stood in the front parlor and gazed absently through the windows, knowing my eyes were seeing the falling snow, but not processing any of it. My mind was oddly blank, my human side having forfeited any attempt at regaining all that had been lost. In a way, I stood there to watch winter stake its claim, knowing it would bring my end. For just as a bear eats its fill so it can hibernate through the cold, the beast was finishing the war begun long ago, readying for the winter of my lifetime when it would live without opposition. I had no idea what spring would bring, but I knew that even if a part of my consciousness still lived within me at my next birthday, even if my soul could still lend me some sight, I would be unwelcome in my own body. I would only be able to watch as the beast did as it pleased, no doubt continuing with added fervor the path of ruin and destruction already carved so deeply into my life and the lives of all those around me.

  The suffering of my mind drove me further into madness, the anguish of my heart made me beg for it to be over soon.

  I have learned there is nothing as disquieting as a man who prays for his own end, especially when the number of his years show that his life has only just begun.

  I focused so much on those roses that wisps of memory overlaid their wilted limbs until I saw them once more in full bloom. I saw the deep red color, redder than the apple that poisoned Princess Lyla, redder than the blood the beast loved to let flow. I stared at those remembered roses and recoiled in the memories they recalled, stared at them with all the cold and hatred of my blackened soul, willing them to shatter into shards of ice from the intensity of my rage.

  The roses, even absent, mocked me with the power they held over me, the knowledge of what they’d brought me, which also made it possible for it to be taken away. My life was so much emptier now that it knew what it was to be full.

  I flew out of the parlor like a madman, snarling like a wolf attacking its prey. I dove at the rose bushes, arms flailing, grabbing at stems, snapping off shriveled leaves, and shredding any last petal into the ground with my feet.

  I could very clearly see what I was doing, but I had neither will nor desire to stop myself. I think there may have been a point when someone called my name. Ms. Potsdam, or Kellan, or both pleaded with me to stop, knees on the ground, hands clasped before them in supplication as I ravaged the rose bushes. Like the moment I ripped apart the stag’s throat, I felt nothing at the needless devastation of something that could be so beautiful.

  In my destruction, I paid no heed to the thorns either, my hands and arms bleeding and tearing as I plowed through each bush. In many ways, I even took delight in watching them leave that thin red trail along my skin, knowing that despite the pain I wasn’t feeling the blood that came with it meant I was still alive, even if my humanity wasn’t.

  Having gone so long without proper rest, my body weak with hunger, I allowed the final reserves of my energy to pour out over those roses, and when the last of them was ruined, when the last root had been savagely torn from the ground, I collapsed amid the carnage, sure the beast had finally consumed me at last.

  A memory surfaced in the darkness.

  I was nine years old, Adlard had recently turned eleven, and Amellia was six. We stood nervously beside our mother as we awaited a very important delegation from a desired ally, a kingdom my parents had been trying to reach for years and was only now receiving a response to their overtures. We’d dressed more carefully than usual, as this was a delegation come to talk about trade and peace and all other manner of politics that keep the people on either side of a precarious treaty mutually happy and safe.

  It was the first time representatives from Yadrehena had come to visit us in almost a century, and above the rumors the truth was being heard, the story of the Princess Alaina who was cursed by a faery, of a royal court that froze in sleep, of a prince and second son who defied the thorns and bramble and awoke the sleeping princess.

  Father paced the carpet as we waited for the delegates to be announced, always touchy when it came to the once-conquered Yadrehena. Adlard stood rigidly, my mother held Amellia’s hand and reached for mine, but I shook her off. My posture was perfect, my expression confident. I looked every bit the prince who would dedicate his life to protecting his brother’s crown.

  The delegation arrived, and Father quickly returned to his seat. The men entered, all sharply turned out, almost as much as we were.

  They stepped forward and bowed, to my father, to my mother, to us.

  Father welcomed them, introduced Mother, then singled out his children one by one. Our instructions at this point were very clear; step forward, accept their bows with gracious nods then step back into line without uttering a word past a friendly greeting. Be seen but don’t be heard.

  “The crown prince, His Royal Highness Adlard Lukas Olafur,” Father proudly gestured to his eldest.

  Adlard returned their bows with a crisp one of his own.

  One delegate asked Father, “Will the prince join in some of our discussions?”

  “Of course,” Father agreed, beaming. “His brother, His Highness Prince Ignatius Azahr II,” he said next.

  I stepped forward and accepted their bows. I disliked when he emphasized that I was the second to carry my name, as if he specifically wished to remind me that I was not the first, that I would never be the first in anything.

  No one had a question about me.

  I stepped back so Amellia could be introduced.

  “This is my daughter, the Princess Amellia Serilda Constantina,” Father concluded, introducing her with an obvious pride that was lacking in his voice when he spoke of me.

  Amellia stepped forward and accepted their good wishes. Then she twirled around to show off just how far the skirts of her soft blue dress could go, and everyone laughed delightedly. Her hair joyfully whipped around her head, and she looked like a dollop of sweet blue cream. It’s no wonder she was so well loved.

  “She is very excited with her new dress,” Father explained to the delegates, indulging his daughter in a way he never would his sons
. “All right, dear,” he finally said.

  Amellia ended with a curtsy and everyone laughed again as she returned to Mother’s side.

  I don’t know why I held onto this memory when there were so many more significant things that occurred over the course of that visit. But, somehow, the entire scene remained perfectly intact in my mind, as if it might have meaning to me now.

  I came to on my familiar stack of mattresses, my room too bright considering the darkness that held me. I tried to open my eyes, but hadn’t the strength to keep them open. My head felt funny and every limb was heavy with fatigue.

  There were voices in the room, but as I didn’t want to speak to anyone, see anyone, or even harm anyone, I made no effort to indicate I was awake. Still, I couldn’t help the urge to wave my hand at whomever was there and warn them to get out, now when I was still weak enough to be confined to my bed, before it was too late.

  My feeble motion must have been noticed, because immediately I heard a gasp, a rush of material, and then something warm took my hand.

  “Azahr?”

  A frozen note.

  A held breath.

  A skipped beat.

  It couldn’t be.

  “Azahr?” the voice asked again.

  There was no mistaking who it came from. There was no denying the door it nudged back open just a little more, widening the sliver of light it had, once upon a time, let it. Suddenly desperate, I grabbed that door with both hands, jamming my foot in the opening so it couldn’t close again, pulling and tugging until it splintered and opened all the way. I had thought that door closed and locked to me forever. I had thought the key lost in the ice and snow of my rage.

  Except, like most doors, it could be opened from the other side.

  I struggled to remain in the present, forced myself to edge away from the long fingers of darkness seeking to pull me back under. I fought my eyes open one at a time, sought out the light so long denied me.

  “Kiara?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she hiccupped a muffled cry of anguish mixed with a laugh of unbridled joy. There were tears in her eyes.

  “We were so worried!” she exclaimed. “I was so worried!”

  She went on to talk about how Jaxel had carried me inside, barely needing Kellan’s help because so much of me had wasted away. She spoke of how I had been sleeping for almost a week, how she had returned to the castle right away, rushing to help me bedridden and fighting for my life.

  I knew what she was saying but I was hardly listening. Even as she went on about everyone at the castle, about how the villagers had shown an outpouring of support for the heroic, valiant prince with gifts of the finest they had to offer, only part of me heard. For in truth, none of it mattered. There was only one thing in my life that meant anything to me at that moment.

  “You’re here,” I managed to scratch out.

  Kiara stopped midsentence. Her fingers fiddled with my hand then dropped it, picked it up again then grew still. Her face flushed and it took her several beats to find her voice again.

  “If it’s all right with you,” she said carefully, “I’d like to stay a little while.”

  Unbidden, a smile started somewhere at the edge of my mouth and worked its way across my lips. “Your father? Your sisters?” I asked. “Back to the terrifying beast?”

  “I told them I was sorry to leave them, but I wanted to go home,” she said simply

  I looked at her, not quite believing my ears. “Home,” I repeated. “The castle is home.”

  “I said that?”

  “Take it back?”

  Kiara shook her head slowly, then pursed her lips a moment, fortifying herself for what was to come next. She raised a finger and ever so gently traced the outline of my jaw, her touch weightless, warm, and welcome.

  “A beast lives inside you,” she began, “but he lives inside of a good man. I know what you are and I know what you can do and I don’t know how much I can yet help you. Still, I am going to keep trying.”

  There, for the first time in my life, I heard the words I had so long awaited.

  Acceptance.

  For me.

  Finally, enough.

  The first waves of warmth flooded my body, and I only knew them for what they were because Yarrow had shown them to me on a quiet, war-torn night. I closed my eyes and lay back against the pillows with a contented sigh, welcoming the beginnings of calmness, the first thaw of the icy wall around my heart.

  “Azahr?” Kiara questioned at my sudden stillness, a stillness seeming so sweet.

  I opened my eyes enough to look at her and offer a reassuring smile. I caught up her hand and brought it to my lips, planting a gentle kiss on her palm. Her pulse quickened at her wrist, and so I pressed my lips there as well.

  “Your castle, stay as long as you wish,” I reminded her. “I hope a very long while.”

  And just like that the first sear of heat cut through the frost to illuminate a small green bud pushing its way past the cracked earth of my heart. I relished the sight and locked its memory in the vault of my mind, that first sign, an omen and a promise that the curse was finally beginning to break.

  With Kiara back, a new day dawned after an eternity of night, and my appetite, my energy, my faith returned with gusto. Her very presence breathed life back into the palace, and I certainly benefited the most from it. I was the perfect patient, bounding back from what had felled me with the vigor of a man who’d never been sick. Kiara, of course, was the perfect nurse, tending to me with all the healing powers of a sun that never dimmed, of a light that could never be blocked, swallowed, or contained.

  When I was strong enough to sit up for longer periods of time, she brought books from the library, sitting in a chair to read alongside me or to me if I didn’t have the strength to keep my eyes open for longer. She brought sheets of music, and we sang together for as long as my breath lasted.

  All through that winter she nursed me back to health, turning that time into the exact opposite of what I had anticipated it to be. Daimyon had once warned me about a winter sun, warned that it could shine and brighten without heat. I was so sure then he was referring to Kiara, cautioning me that she would not be the ultimate cure to my darkness.

  That winter proved otherwise, showing how a time when no flowers bloomed and no fruit ripened could still be something beautiful. The snow had never been so pure and white, the ground brightening as only winter can, the earth sparkling under a cover of ice crystals. The curse was not yet entirely broken, but I was so certain then that it would be. For the first time since Adlard’s passing, I was filled with an unshakeable hope in the future, an indomitable surety that I might just scrounge together a life worth redeeming.

  I finally allowed myself to voice my thoughts, my vision, my dreams for the Delphe I wanted to rule. Kiara encouraged me, she challenged me, she made me determined to see such things come true. She even had some ideas of her own, most of which I agreed to because I believed so much in the goodness that Kiara had to share. And all the while, I watched the snow and scoffed at the notion of a winter’s sun.

  As it would turn out, Daimyon’s warning had little to do with Kiara and all to do with me. But it would be a while still before I faced the truth of that.

  With the first signs of spring, I was well enough to get out of bed for longer stretches of time. Relying on Kiara’s arm, I walked the length of the castle, and we were soon able to resume our nights in the parlor, spending long hours before the fire nursing hot drinks and talking about anything our minds could conjure.

  I suppose it took so many months for me to recover because my healing had to go back much farther than my collapse, the war, this castle. Back to before the faery’s curse, before the Academy, before my first fit of anger, back to the moment I’d been told my brother was gone and I’d have to replace the irreplaceable. It wasn’t all going to be instantly mended, or even fully, but I was finally starting.

  The first warm day, Kiara led me
outside to check on the newly planted rose bushes. Considering what I’d done to them, someone probably brought in new plants to replace the old ones. It almost looked as if nothing had ever happened. Almost.

  “Look!” Kiara exclaimed, pointing to a small red bud trying to preen between the thorns.

  “You’ll have your roses again soon,” I told her.

  “I can’t wait,” she said, inhaling deeply as if to already smell them.

  I watched her, a slight smile playing about my lips. It was an expression I was becoming more and more familiar with, the delight bubbling up in me without force or premeditation, enough so there was nothing I could do but make it known.

  Kiara said nothing about it, but I knew she noticed the change, knew she could see it from the way she didn’t hurry to avert her eyes whenever they locked with mine, as if they found comfort in whatever she was seeing reform within me. The servants were noticing it too, and it was coming out in ways that were more than just uncontrollable smiles.

  One such example was when I bounded down the stairs one day, whistling as I went, an uncommon enough occurrence that the servant passing me stepped back in fright.

  “Something the matter, Euchnid?” I asked, offering a hand to set him to right.

  The servant stared at me in wide-eyed wonder, unable to control his shock at seeing his prince as a man once more. Surely he felt the warmth in my proffered hand, the ice melting away in the blood of my veins.

  “Well then, careful as you go,” I warned amiably. “There’s no cause for you to take a spill for something foolish as a missed step.”

  Euchnid nodded dumbly, and I continued past him, taking the stairs two at a time and leaving a giddy laugh in my wake. I felt his eyes following me until I was out of sight, and no part of me stirred at his insolence.

  I ignored the warnings that were never far from my mind, the advice from Yarrow and Daimyon that I would only fully be able to recover through my own efforts, through realizing I couldn’t hold Kiara in one hand, the power of the beast in the other, and truly have them both. If they could see the change that had come over me, if Yarrow could put his hand over my heart once more, they would know that I was regaining control, and be glad for it.