Debt of Skin

Seven: A Ball of Confection Wrapped in Wax Paper

When Kaliya was a child, he was a tyrant. There was nothing he loved more than running up and down the palace halls, hiding in unknown eaves, and snatching golden trinkets when no one was looking. The king assigned multiple personal attendants to him with the hope of keeping track of his unpredictable movement. But much like a panther, he would always find a way to disappear without a trace.

He was only about six years old when he decided to run off on a dreary afternoon in spring. It was too cold to play outside, the snow having yet to fully melt. So Kaliya instead decided to wander the long corridors, sneaking around the corners and peaking into open rooms. The gaurds on duty were as stoic as ever, not even batting an eye at him. Some days he would do all sorts of things in front of them to try to break their focus. Today he did not care for that game.

Something about the gloominess left him antsy. The winter was too long, the snow too cold, the sun too fleeting. Naturally he grew restless and desperate for entertainment.

To the child's luck, there was the distant sound of a piano. The song was gentle and lulling, drawing him towards it like a moth to the light. When he grew closer, he realized that the music poured out from a ballroom. The song stopped abruptly, and he furrowed his brow as he wondered where it went.

He approached the decadent double-doors and peered curiously inside, ignoring the guards stationed outside of it. Of all the things his vivid imagination anticipated, a child not much taller than him was the last of them.

This child was sitting blankly on the piano bench, staring at the keys as if they greatly wronged him. His hair was blonde in some parts, brown in others — tied back into a short ponytail. He had warm, tan skin that emphasized the red around his eyes.

Suddenly, the child began to cry.

Kaliya watched as he covered his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably into them. As if his world had ended; as if he was in immense pain. The echo of his gasps reverberated to where Kaliya dumbly stood, watching in confusion.

Some time went by before that child finally looked up a bit and jumped at the sight of another person. Kaliya was dressed neatly like a prince would in winter, while the boy was wearing a grey jacket and pants too large for him. He now stood only a few feet away.

Kaliya innocently asked, "Why are you crying? Do you not know how to play the piano?"

The boy was shocked and confused, dazedly wiping his face until his skin was raw and red. His beautiful blue, bleary eyes were large and perceptive.

"You were playing just fine a moment ago." Kaliya said. "Who are you?"

Unable to find his voice, he only continued to stare. But he was not sobbing any longer.

"My mama taught me how to play the piano. Don't you have a mama to teach you?" He was young and ignorant, assuming that the life he lived was the only kind. Children were always like this — unable to see past their small height and button noses.

"My mom is dead." He finally spoke, his voice scratchy from crying, but his tone was incredibly soft. Like a freshly fluffed pillow.

Kaliya walked all the way to the piano and leaned against it. "My papa is dead too."

"Both of my parents are dead." His voice broke, a few silent tears trailing down the apples of his cheeks.

"Oh." Kaliya tilted his head. "Is that why you're here?"

"Yes."

"What's your name? I'm Kaliya Soren Argus the Second. I'm an honorary prince." He told him proudly. There were many times where he was reminded of his full name and position, often asked to recite it to palace guests like a well-oiled machine. Like most children, he was exceedingly talented at parroting what he was told.