Star-Crossed

Chapter Eight: And then I can tell myself/ What the hell I'm supposed to do

IN TONIGHT'S DREAM OF A MEMORY, I am singing. The melody is somber, forlorn. Lovesick.

I cannot seem to leave what happened yesterday behind. The way Xerxion's low voice rumbled in my ear, his tone wheedling, begging me not to marry Ithuriel.

I cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. Xerxion is a man who does not let his emotions dictate his actions. That much is clear given the fact he is five-hundred years old in Earth years and still unmarried, dedicating himself to my family instead of starting a life. So, I know that even if Xerxion felt that pulse between us when he held me on the battlefield, that pulse would not be enough for him to beg me not to marry Ithuriel.

At the same time, though, I can't deny that there is some part of me-some part bigger than I ever realized-that wants Xerxion to want me. It's funny because before what happened between us last month, I hated him with a passion so fierce it was more than hate. Yet, after he held me, I found myself searching for him in the halls, my eyes seeking his, my body yearning to be in his arms once more.

Love is such a strange thing, one moment it's not there and the next moment, there it is, staring at you as if to say, "I've been here all along."

The evening air rustles through my hair like a caress, the sweet scent of unpolluted air filling my nose. The branches of the blue trees shiver as I continue my song, letting my voice rise and fall in a rhythm that shows I am a Royal. Only the true member of a Royal can sing a tune so beautifully.

The words I sing are in my native tongue and they flow like the waters of Mare Aurea. On this planet, we still speak Latin, a language we had once spread among the human beings who weren't trying to dissect us. It's a song my mother sang to me when I was just a child and even now, it still stays with me.

"You have the most beautiful voice in all of Niburu," says a soft voice from behind me.

I turn and meet the familiar, kind eyes of my mother. She is not looking well these days, her body deteriorating quickly as her ten-thousandth year approaches. Still, she comes to see me, wanting to spend as much time together as we can before her soul travels to some world we know nothing of and leaves me behind forever.

"Mother," I greet her softly, moving from my place on the balcony and walking over to her. "You should be in bed."

She is deteriorating faster than Father. The fact that she even made it to my room on her own is a shock within itself.

She sits on the edge of my bed, managing to look elegant despite her illness, and gives me a small smile.

"I wanted to see you, Rania, mea puella pulchra." Her eyes crinkle around the corners as she smiles wholeheartedly. "But here, I come to find you worrying. What plagues you?"

I swing my arms at my sides, tilting my face up to the sky as I wonder how to tell my mother all the thoughts swirling around in my head. Ever since I was a small child with insignificant problems, I told them to Mother. She has always listened to all of my problems without complaint, her voice is my voice of reason. It has been this way for the past nine-hundred years.

To think of a day without her creates a deep abyss straight in the center of my very being.

"Do you think me marrying Ithuriel is a good idea?" I finally ask, blowing out a breath.

Mother is quiet for a moment, only the sounds of her shallow breaths fill the room. I am looking at the ceiling, afraid to make eye contact because if I do, she'll know.

"Is there some reason you're having second thoughts, Rania?" She wonders, a knowing lilt in her voice.

"Someone told me I shouldn't marry him," I admit, still not meeting her eyes.