The Sleeping Beauty

Dreaming

His: 

Hands; long-fingered, lily white hands with calluses on the pads of the index finger and thumb. He remembered the feel of them as he played with them, tracing the faint lines and memorising the texture of her skin. It had brought him such comfort.

Always he was remembering the spindle. Silver and flashing with jewels, the dazzling play of light as the spindle dropped and the skein of thread spun and spun until the silver spindle’s spur gentled against the marble tile; alighting to hover before being swept up only to once again spin and spin down.

The play of light flickered along the strand, plucking at it to produce glimmers of light. So delicate and fragile it seemed, but he had taken it into his hands, wrapping it around and around and then pulling tight. It would not break, refused all his efforts to brand him with the sharp sting of it cutting into his palms. Once he had pulled so hard blood welled in the cut he had made, the dark slick marring the perfection of the dancing silk.

Then the hands were there, cradling him as gently as the spindle; rocking him close to a beloved body as they soothed the angry redness of his hurt. Fond words of ‘foolish’ and ‘darling tempest’ crooned into his ears.

“I couldn’t break it, Mama.”

“Nor will you, little man. A thread of my spinning is never broken.”

Hers:

Hyperion stared down at his son from his position on the balcony. He knew the boy could not see him as he went about his training. Grudgingly, Hyperion admitted to himself that the boy was good. But was he too good? With a weary shake of his head the King looked up and over towards the mountains. Somewhere within those treacherous snowbound paths his son’s destiny rested in the hands of one man. Ultan has assured him that he would be all that Hyperion had requested: quick, agile, non-script and deadly.

He remembered the first time he realised that all his hopes had been lost. It had been dawn, the day after the accursed ones had managed to get their hands on his son. His lips curled into a snarl and Hyperion gripped the stone of the battlements until his knuckles showed white against the battle scarred skin. How he hated their wretched superiority.

“Our family has played puppets to those alien beasts too long. You were to be our salvation.” Hyperion thought as he looked down once more upon his son, striving to impress him with his diligent obedience. “But Rhiyon’s misplaced faith has ruined all of it and you are of no use to me now.”

The King once more looked out in the direction of the mountains. Somewhere in those great ranges his hired assassin laid in wait for the last of the passes to melt away.