I remember my birth feeling fresh. I rose from the white, white sand with not a single blemish on my skin. Water beaded down my hair, kissing me on the cheeks before falling and disrupting the lake’s gentle surface. The first thing I ever smelled was lavender--and to my surprise: I knew it was lavender. I saw to my surroundings in search of others, but found nothing. Only the expansive lake, its surrounding mountains and the deafening sound of serenity. A child to no parents, I held myself in my own arms and let the subtle wake push my hips into a playful sway.
The mountains cradled me in their arms. Wind blew through them like fingers through a lover’s hair. They sang poetry to me--poetry of the sky, rain and everything else that is blue. Swimming to the shallows, I was finally able to give my fatigued legs the rest they needed. My inexperienced fingers pressed against my tense and knotted muscles. My body, sentient and conscious, rejected these advances. Falling, my arms grafted themselves to the shore’s soft and eroded stones. Pink and pristine flower petals fluttered down from the sky--as they fell I tried to catch them with my mouth. I desperately closed my eyes and lay my open maw in the air as beads of drool fell from my tongue.
The mountains gave me what they could, food, shelter and comfort. But they could never satisfy my cravings. I desired to taste their flower’s sweet and sultry scents. To have all of my body worshipped by mud. To dream safely and unopposed.
I remember seeing my father for the first and only time in my life. It was cold. The clouds choked the sky with wrathful hands, only letting small rays of sun escape their persecution. The damp morning fog made my skin and fur permeable--all I could do was shiver in opposition. He rose from the mud that coalesced by the tall, dark red trees whose leaves shaded the beach I resigned myself to. Blades of grass bowed to him as he marched down the aisle. His gaze refused to admire my home and the work I put into making it beautiful. A sentimental wheel turned within us and indulging the skeletons we both possessed, he spoke.
“Hello. My…child.”
My mouth could not outpace my body. I carnally clawed at the shore until dirt and sand filled my fingernails. He chuckled softly. The descent to his knees was almost avian the way his greasy black hair flapped in the wind. I remember holding his hands for the first time. He lifted my dirty hands to the sky and pulled me into his arms. My body wrapped so naturally around his fingers. He smelled like tree bark and fresh sap. His skin was coarse and lacerated yet it felt like woven flax and delicate horsehair. When reciprocating my touch, he would always squeeze a little too hard.
“Do you remember when you were young..?” he whispered but alas I could not answer.
“You used to have such large eyes.” he scratched the back of my ears. “...filled with glittering stars…Who took them from you?”
With a single star beginning to form in my eye, I looked up at him--but he was not gazing back. An infinite amount of richly textured possibilities danced in my head as he had already made his decision. Times and spaces with no one to peer unto me--and no one for me to gaze upon. I was no longer gold and silver, reduced to a mere pile of dirty, filthy mud. Even as I went limp and began to recede back into the shores, he kept me afloat, tightly pressed against his chest.
“The path you are walking is much different from my own.” he said, rubbing the top of my head softly. “And if it were me, I would not have chosen this.”
I nodded my head in acknowledgement against his chest.
“Here.” He held out a small object wrapped in canvas. “No matter where you are, we gaze at the same moon.”
My body reached for the object he held in his hands: a hilt with no blade. A serpent of jade spiralled around the guard, protecting the wielder’s hand with hardened scales. Silk and flax softly surrounded the handle in its woven embrace--tough enough to hold, but soft enough as not to suffocate. Hanging from the pommel was a small red cord that mimicked a flower with blossoming petals. My face remained neutral as I held it in my hands.
“What is this?” I asked.
“It’s a sword.”
“It has no blade-”
“It’s very beautiful isn’t it? I thought you would like it.”
He ignored my statement very fatherly--stern and without movement. But before I could rebut him, he fully hoisted me out of the water and sat me beside him. Though the earth embraced my legs--they could not move--like a beached whale they sat idly as bystanders took notice. The grass tickled my calves and thighs. Their little fingers brushed my skin, goosebumps beginning to ripple across my body like a disturbed body of water. The delicate and entrancing aromas of the earth became more apparent to me. No longer did the scent of lavender have an aura of sterile paralysis encompassing it. It was earthy and smelled of dirt. I clasped the sword in my hand, letting the jade press its smooth, textured body against my index finger. The wrapped handle was near perfect and felt like a firm handshake. Beautiful, sure, but I assumed it to be no more than a trinket.
“A sword. To slash the flesh of those who wish to bring you harm.” he stood up, finally turning his gaze towards me. “I could think of no other gift to bring you.”
My brain wriggled.
“I love you.” He gave me a suffocating hug before pulling away and with a soft smile. “Please take care.”
“I love you too. I’ll miss you.”
I wanted to fall onto his shoulder to cry, but he had already disappeared. All that remained was the trinket proving his existence and two irritable eyes. The mountains could no longer cradle or coddle me and I felt numbed to their requests. What melancholy he breathed unto me only inspired the ability to pursue. But with two legs who knew naught their purpose, it would be a slow process. Memories of his visit played on replay, my muscles seizing in a frail attempt to copy his pattern of walking. But before walking came standing, and before standing came crawling.
Mud and ripped blades of grass littered my fur, permanently covering my being with its earthly perfume. Ascetic and dystrophic, I whinged on the floor, unable to pull myself in any direction. Swing my body towards the water and I may fall and drown. But remain where I lay and the earth would most certainly reclaim my body. So I did what I had to--I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Left. Right. Left. Right- I awoke from my stasis and I was found to be on my feet, already walking.
The nostalgic narrative came to a close and I blinked rapidly to readjust my vision. I am surrounded by walls of judicial white. This place would render the megalophobe a sweating and shivering mess. The soles of my feet ache. Should my feet have a mind of their own, they remain as dull and masochistic creatures with poor taste. The boring, empty halls we walk together lack both substance. My other senses nag as if they’re entitled to this world’s laborious fruit. Are they not satisfied with the marble whose colour provides the facade of delicacy? The marble whose touch is so gentle your fingertips yearn ignorantly for sandpaper? The marble whose- Well…I suppose they have a point. The marble does not smell of the mother they were carved from nor can they recite the lullabies she would echo to lull them to sleep. They’re white like a canvas. Infinite yet unconfident enough to carve themselves into anything but a strict, rectangular obelisk.
I am no exception to this doctrine. My hair, much like the rest of my body, is white--or has it become white? Strands of white hair cling to my clothing, contrasting against my wardrobe’s earthy tones. Had my drapery not been green and my shorts not been brown, I may have never known what colour my hair were--tis the joy of a pixie cut. Just like my head, my skin has become increasingly pale and lacking in human coloration. I acknowledge my ears, my horns and my nose are not very “human,” but am I unworthy of bearing subtle pinks and reds within my skin? I hold up my hands and turn them around twice in the light. My fingernails are ever so slightly stained with red, clay residue--a failure of cosmetology. My calluses haven’t healed, bulging out from within my palms. Small beads of sweat race down my hands as faint pinks finally rise to the surface of my skin.
Plumes of steam rise from cracks in the surface as light from an unseen sun renders the surrounding marble a pale yet refreshing orange. The vents of warm air massage between every follicle of fur as the clouding aura erupts into a playful tango. Like an overzealous nightly affair, the steam climbs my body and becomes overbearing. As my body falls against a nearby pillar of marble, I bat away the stars that are forming in my eyes. I pull myself into the marble’s cold arms and embrace it as lovingly as I could. The steam almost grabs me from behind--pushing me up against the wall. My body forfeits itself, desperately clinging to the wall as sweat runs down every curve of my body. With sweat pooling at my feet, all I can muster are soft exhales to myself.
However, my heaving is interrupted by the odd sensation of smell. With two arms I push myself away from the steam and drag my body towards the unusual cocktail of smell. Rosemary, Jasmine, Basil and Lavender. My head blindly threw itself into its soft presence. Cold fur brushes against my sweaty face. I rub every feature of my face against it as if it were a nostalgic, childhood blanket. Sharp nails press themselves into my skin, cruising from the back of my neck up into my scalp. A thumb rests upon my hand, massaging every vein, knuckle and bruise softly in circles. Small leaves intertwined with long locks of hair caress and hug my head like extra pairs of arms. As she periodically exhales, her cold breath makes me shiver--like quickly moving from a lake to a hot spring. I raise my head to meet my captor with the necessity of a mutual gaze. But my eyelids are heavy. My feet hurt. And the steam feels just right.
She grabs my chin with nothing more than her thumb and index finger--and raises it upwards. As my body began to tremble, I opened a single eye wide enough only to explore. She gazed upon me with sleepy low-eyelids and green pupils. She perked up her chest and leaned into me to the point of almost smothering. My face was flushing a rosy red colour--an obvious side-effect of the heat. She smiles, hiding her teeth.
“Dear prince, I have finally found you.” she whispered. “It has been quite a monumental journey for me…I am so very happy to meet you.”
“Uhm…prince? I-I think you are mistaken…I am no prince.” I pressed, trying to crawl backwards.
“Apologies for my etterath but surely you are who I am looking for! You bear the resemblance almost perfectly.” she caressed my chin softly--tilting my head and observing me from multiple angles. “White hair, blue eyes and the horns of the patriarch.”
She trailed a finger down one of my horns--maintaining eye contact, despite my reservations. She slowly turned her head into mine, gently touching her large bovine horns against my own bovidae horns. “See? We both bear horns, therefore we must be cut from the same cloth.”
“But ma'am, I am no prince. I am no more than a nomad looking for my father. There must be plenty with white hair, blue eyes and horns.” I whispered. As I tried to make an escape, she lay more of her body upon my own.
“I prithee you have not walked as far as I--for the answer surprised me too…” she paused for a moment.
“-and my father is no king! Sure, he is tall but his skin is covered in scars and wounds. He wears little clothing and has long-”
“-black hair that obscures all but a single eye?” she interjected. As we both paused, her lips parted from a smile to a wide open mouth. “You are my prince!”
She wrapped her arms around my waist and crushed my body. I let out a staggered moan before she released me from her grip.
“My name is Lola, dear prince. Your father--the king--sent me to find you personally. He said that you would appear only when the time is right.”
“-Father is looking for me..?”
“Of course he is! He has been very worried about you.”
“Then…why hasn’t he come to see me at all? Surely he knows I have been searching for him.”
“I understand you may feel abandoned, but he does love you dearly. His-” Lola paused for a second. “-Royal duties have simply put him in a difficult place.”
The atrium of marble fell silent. I hunched my back and pressed my lips together as my gaze could look nowhere but the floor. “B-but you will take me to him, correct?”
“Of course, my prince. To protect and bring you to him are my sole duties.”
“O-okay…Then, we should get walking. You said that the journey was long.”
Lola nodded her head, standing up and held out a hand. I grabbed her fingers and hoisted myself up onto my feet. I lay a hand across my forehead and wiped it of all its sweat.
“Before we leave, my prince. I must ask, what is your name? Your father never gave me your name.”
My pupils grew large and my body began to lock up and freeze. “Name..? I had not considered that…for he did not give me one.”
“I prithee your mother gave you one?”
“I have never met my mother--and I have only met my father once.”
“...then you have been given a blessing. You get to choose your own name.”
“What?”
“It is a blessing to be able to choose your own name. I was not given such a luxury. Lola was my mother’s name. And her mother’s name before her.” Lola chattered, her eyes finally fixated on something other than me. Her eyes wandered from pillar to pillar. Empty white canvas to empty white canvas. “For as long as you live, others will call you by your name. It may simply be letters written with ink or sound in the air, but it is your name. And if you ever-”
“How about Prince?”
“Prince?”
“You were always calling me Prince. ‘My prince,’ you said. I think- I think I like the name Prince. I think I like being called Prince.”
“Okay. ‘Prince’ it is. Hehehe.” she chuckled. Lola quickly tugged on the various hemp ropes that bind her to her herbs. “Then shall we get going, ‘Prince?’ We have quite the journey ahead of us.”
“O-Of` course. Let’s get going.”
And the journey began. I trailed behind Lola like a small dog--finding my strides much shorter than hers. As the marble atrium extended mile after mile we continued to chase the scent of freshly cut grass. And finally, an opening emerged. Boring a hole in the clifface of a great mountain was our exit. The marble arches were ravaged by erosion, bearing cuts that resembled bite marks. Grass and ivy grew out from within every little crack, shivering in the cold wind. I almost desired to turn around and reembrace with the warm steam. Brutalist stairs showed themselves after being subjected to the stubbornness of man. They lead down the sheer cliff face and into a small valley.
A valley whose plains were wide and foliage were bountiful. A valley that possessed the most peculiar structure of all: a town. A town whose roads were grey shapeless masses that trampled grass. A town eclipsed in fog--whose only visible buildings were spires of concrete. A windmill turned slowly--its long hands cresting above the surface of the fog like how a blue whale would the ocean. The most bizarre feature of all was a single hill that rose above the fog. And on that hill was but a single, lonely house.