Chapter 6 — The Lilac Garden

Rhys knelt upon the soil of the garden outside the House of de Guise, slender fingers gently tracing the line of a lilac petal like Fern once did. He’d not knelt in dirt since he was a child. "My family... I wish for them to be buried here," He did not lift his gaze to meet Alaric’s.

“The greenhouse at the palace will be restored if you wish for them to be closer.” Alaric replied.

“No. I want them to lie here.” Rhys stood, dusting his knees off. “When de Guise is repaired for the new kingdom, the House will become a memorial.”

“As you wish.” Alaric nodded, hands folded behind his back neatly, his chin raised slightly. Perhaps in recognition. Of what, Rhys could not say.

The image came clearly to the prince—the memorial would be a grand establishment of marble and wine colored walls like his dear palace, the carpets would be the same, as well, charcoal and soft and new. No ash would litter them. The entrance would be two tall doors with carved figures of his mother and father, and on the first wall, Aris would stand with his sword. Tears welled in Rhys’ eyes—yes, he thought, what a marvelous way to honor them. The statue of his eldest known ancestors—the founders of his great kingdom—would stand next to the garden where glorious headstones would be nestled within tall lilacs. 

Alaric opened his mouth to speak before silently closing it once more with dropped shoulders by a fraction.

Rhys glanced up at him once before turning back to the lilacs. He whispered a small prayer and crossed his heart to the Gods as he did when Fern would do so first—Rhys did not understand what it meant to do such a thing at the time, but he felt as though the Gods were listening now.

He turned on his heel and made his way back into the House, mapping the layout. Each bedroom would still be the proper rooms of each fallen kin, Rhys decided, and his room would hold the story of De Guise—from his greatest grandparents to himself, he would tell the story to his children, and they would tell theirs, and de Guise—or whatever it may be called in the future—would never truly fall. 

Rhys understood then why the meaning of the sapphire was so sacred, why it truly was so special and he held it tightly in his hand to his heart, closing his eyes.

Grief was easily curable by time and patience. Even flowers wilted to be grown again. They grow through difficult winters, Fern had told him, referring to the lilacs. But Rhys, too, would grow through the upcoming difficult winter. 

The sapphire was not a symbol of opulence nor royalty, but remembrance. The sapphire was not simply riches handed down from royal family member to the next, it was proof they were alive. Proof they stood. And Rhys would cease to forget that again—he would cease to take such a simple thing for granted. For life was truly precious, and one’s life was only as great as their memory.

His mother dared not tell him that at such a young age, and Edmund felt as though the realization would force Rhys to come to this realization. Perhaps, taking with that, the idea of a memorial at all. The meaning of the sapphire was something Rhys had to learn on his own to truly appreciate it, and he did. Gods, he did. He only clung to the gemstone, then.

Alaric took a breath, Rhys was pulled from his thoughts, just then realizing the tears that trickled down his cheeks, but he realized, also, the smile on his face.

“When my father died,” he began slowly, testing to see whether Rhys would brush it off. But Rhys understood, now, that to grieve was to love. And if Alaric was choosing to speak of love right now, who was he to deny him? “I believe I cried more than you did.” 

Rhys’ eyes widened. Why would Alaric tell him, of all people, such a thing? Perhaps because Rhys understood loss, now. Perhaps because the previous mention of his family’s burial had stirred something within Alaric’s own heart

“He was a strong man, who’s heart was worn stubbornly on his sleeve, even with his last breath, he ensured my mother knew she was loved by him.”

Rhys swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding in understanding. Fern showed through him in sympathetic and gentle ways, even when Rhys’ own mind said he should not care. That Alaric’s loss did not take from his own. But perhaps Rhys wasn’t as strong as his desires.

“My father did not love so proudly.” He said, “He showed love through the lessons he taught us—how to wield a sword and how to not raise your voice in anger.” Rhys tilted his head in thought, his eyes stinging, grief still fresh in his heart, “But I understand. And I am sorry. What a truly horrible thing loss is.”

“Indeed.” Alaric agreed, his voice rough and quiet. And there they stood, their heads bowed in equal mourn and sorrow, the realization of their wedding looking much like this did not help the situation much. 

And there it hung, above their heads within the House of loss.

They could not know that one day the future held true peace. That the fallen kingdom would soon represent a rising dawn. Or that the bluebirds, waiting patiently upon nearby brances, had not come to rest.

They had come to hope.