Fyra (First Draft)

Twenty

Three days.

It had been three days since the night of the ball, the night he should have remembered as ordinary as any other. He was a sitting duck pacing his room, attending dry and pointless political gatherings, and hacking away at a training dummy he wished were his father. It was bizarre watching people come and go from the castle, people who had no memory of the chaos that had broken out during the ball they had attended. People acted as normal, and Cirian couldn't help but feel out of place.

How could he have been deceived for so long? The question echoed through his head, though he knew the answer. Those gifted like Athan could steal his thoughts and bend them to their will. His father was a hypocritical bastard, damning magic then using it for his own benefit.

What irked Cirian most was that he could do nothing. He was powerless. While Athan may have put down arms for Fyra's sake, others would not be so inclined to aid him should he seek to oppose his father. Should he gain support from non-gifted allies, they could be robbed of their memory at the wave of a hand. He sighed, remembering the afternoon tea his stepmother had yet again insisted he attend.  Would she remember meeting Fyra at all? Or was that wiped from her mind as well?

When he reached the room, Isabella was sitting at the little table on the balcony, lost in thought. The intensity of her gaze surprised Cirian. She was always the picture of confident grace, but there was a trace of fear swimming through her focused eyes. When she faced him, there was an age he had never seen in her eyes.

"Cirian. Thank the gods." Her voice was laced with relief and dissipating worry, and Cirian didn't stop her as she stood and embraced him. "Are you alright?"

Cirian tried to hide the slight alarm that had surfaced. Her worry was not a common thing, in fact, any emotion shown on her part was usually subtle and hidden. "I'm fine...why do you ask?"

She met his eyes, a tired smile gracing her features. Isabella considered skirting around the real topic of concern, but by the look in Cirian's eyes, a direct approach would be more effective. "Do you recall what transpired the evening of the ball?"

Cirian's heart sped up, and he shifted in his seat a little in an attempt to appear casual. Isabella's alliance wasn't clear, but she had never given any inclination that she was anything but loyal to the king. Was this some sort of test orchestrated by Henry? Or was his stepmother's concern genuine?

"Just a normal ball. Nothing too interesting."

"And what of that friend of yours I met?" Isabella thought of the girl who had been missing since the night of the ball. The girl who had reminded her so much of herself, in both her spirit and brokenness. Fyra was safe, that much Isabella knew, but it was clear that Cirian didn't. Wether he was aware of the finer details or not, he was concerned about her disappearance.

She knows. Cirian tried to keep his voice from wavering. "We danced." In that moment, Isabella saw the battle raging in his eyes, saw the uncomfortable fluctuation of his emotional energy. He attempted indifference by assuming a casual pose, but the tension knotting him up was all too evident.

"I see you remember what your father would rather you forget." Isabella nodded. Cirian's nervous demeanor was masked behind a cool disinterest, but she had known the boy long enough to see past it. Somehow, he had evaded the memory wipe. "I wanted to keep all this magical business away from you. But I suppose it's time you knew."