Calluna

Chapter Four

The Flower

I was a quiet child growing up, Father said. He said I was always too busy reading books or making up stories in my head to run through the meadows or help him with farm work.

            He said those things, but I always thought it was strange for him to call me quiet. I am not quiet; I just have nothing to say. I was never allowed to play with the children in Pago or talk with villagers. I was never allowed to speak over a soft whisper outside our cottage. Too much attention can be drawn if you speak too loudly, Father would say.

That is why I do not shout or fight as the carriage makes its slow journey across the jagged paths of Oculi. I don't fight because I know it's useless. My father's dead. I've been taken against my will. There is nothing for me to fight for anymore. There's no use in screaming.

If I could, I would try to negotiate with the wicked prince to let me go. But I can't even contemplate the idea of it. What could I possibly say to a man so cruel?

I'm grossly unprepared for what lies ahead of me.

I can't fight, I can't negotiate, I can't escape. I never learned how. I'm useless and pathetic and weak. All I can do is cry.

I cry as horses pull the carriage in a slow trot over boulders and down hills. I cry with the background of birds flying and singing with freedom. I cry when I hear the snort of horses and the crack of a whip. I cry when I hear the eerie dark laugh of Prince Atreus and the returning chuckles of the sentries surrounding him.

Has it been hours, minutes, days? I've been too worried to sleep, yet too anxious to stay fully alert. The waiting is what kills me.

My arms are wrapped tightly around my knees, holding my body together in fear I might fall apart. I don't dare look out the window, for I dread that I would catch a glimpse of the wicked prince's white hair and his white eyes and I would collapse in hatred.

But it's hard to resist the urge to look out when the cheering begins. The voices rise like a chorus outside the carriage, shaking me back and forth, causing my stomach to roll. I finally suck in a sharp breath and dare to peek out the window, pushing back the heavy black curtains only the smallest bit.

Vitio. The royal city. I know it so clearly from my father's descriptions. Colorful, large, and wealthy. The people look like those out of a vibrant storybook, each one wearing a different pigment of color, their outfits elaborate and regal.

The crowd is cheering, only an inch away from touching the carriage. Too close. Most are not focused on me, however, but rather on their prince who sits atop his horse firmly, looking ahead, his mouth curving upwards with each shout of applause.

I look past the citizens of Vitio, and instead study the buildings, which are large and tall, each made by the same white stone that reflects the sun, blinding me slightly. Different colors paint the doors and windows, and even the roofs.

The amount of color marking the buildings and covering the citizens' clothing reminds me of children's toys. Blue as deep as blueberries or as light as the sky, each with its own royal hue. Green sparkles across the citizens as well as the trees, the same shade as moss you would find in a pond. Yellow streams from the candles and streetlights, even alive during the day. Orange as bright as a carrot and as dark and a pumpkin. Red as hot as the morning sun and as light as a pig.

There is no purple, however. No citizens wear indigo or violet, or even lavender like my eyes. The city seems without knowledge of the color of an eggplant, or an onion, or even a calluna flower. No color here resembles that of my eyes.

Activity is bustling throughout the city streets, beyond the prince's admirers there are vendors and shopkeepers and workers and customers. Everything seems to be happening fluidly, the city's routine exciting yet arranged in perfect order.