Of Blood and Fire

Chapter 8 - Henri

This chapter has been edited and finalized.

His room was a cage, and he was forbidden to leave until three o'clock for the afternoon tea with his bride-to-be and a couple of other women. He'd been awake since eight, went down for breakfast, and returned at ten. He hadn't left since.

Lunch will be sent up to you, his mother had told him, lifting his chin to peer directly at him. I'm sorry it'll be so boring, but we can't have you peeking at the ladies until teatime.

He'd painted. He'd paced. He'd painted even more. He even took a hot bubble bath to try to relax. Nothing was working. It was INFURIATING. Add his mother's mysterious behavior at lunch a week ago – even though it had dissipated the next day – and Henri could safely say that no, he was not having a good day.

Henri's mind kept running in circles of What if they don't like me? to What if I don't like them? to What if I like them and they like me but they aren't suitable for queenship? back to But what if they don't like me in the first place? The thoughts were wearing grooves into his brain.

He pressed a finger into the call button to the kitchens. Someone on the other end picked up. "Henri. Ordering a platter of your best treats. Muffins, cupcakes, chocolates – the like."

"Yes, Your Highness," the servant replied. Less than three minutes later came a knock at Henri's door, and he began to graze on the food, knowing the tea cakes would be to his mother's liking but not to his. In Nerali, we had tea cakes every morning, she'd reminisced to him one day when rain poured in sheets onto the windows. It rained a lot in Nerali. It isn't as tropical as Rised, but it's warm enough that there's not much snow and a lot of rain.

Lumia had been there, he remembered, sitting primly on their mother's other knee. She'd been nine, and him five. A pang of grief shook him as he recalled how inquisitive she was, how curious she was, and how it hurt her to push all that down for the good of the kingdom.

Nobody else knew. She'd hidden it well.

Henri decided, after twenty minutes' worth of slowly munching through his plate, to paint again. Another portrait of Lumia, smiling – as she hadn't done many times after she turned twelve, as she'd been launched into extensive training for the throne. She had to squeeze in time for her own artwork – oil pastels on thick white paper. Henri had tried his hand at oil pastels once Lumia disappeared, attempting in his own way to hold on to some part of her, but he couldn't get the hang of it, and eventually gave up, dejected. That year, for the Feast of the First Snow, his parents had given him a paint set. At just over eleven years old, he had

found his talent.

He halted halfway to his paints box and considered the oils. Now that he'd gained better control of his hand, with little to no tremors and able to glide a brush across a canvas, maybe he'd find his skills with oil pastels would have improved. Hesitant, not wanting to disturb the servants once again, he pressed the call button.

"Henri. Can I have some oil pastels and a clean canvas?"

"Of course, Highness," came the inevitable reply. There was an almost imperceptible burst of static and Henri plopped on his bed beside the platter, biting into a chocolate mini cupcake as he waited. Sweetness flooded his mouth and he closed his eyes. The bakers weren't paid enough for their excellent service.