Cian the Girl

“And then Nevian made me a flower crown!” Cian blushed at the recent confession of her first love, who shared the same likeness. She twirled her slick black hair into her palms, as her mother continued to brush her hair in her bed.

“Well, you know what that means?” Her mother took her by the shoulders and pulled her into her lap, embracing her red-faced daughter. She knew what was incoming, upon seeing her daughter’s face became redder and redder.

“H-HE WANT-WANTS TO-TO MARRY ME!” She finally admitted, squealing and burying her face into her mother’s arms. She kicked her little feet on the bed covers, as her mother calmed her overthinking daughter.

“Cian, dear. Honey, that’s quite optimistic of you! But don’t you think that's way ahead of thinking for your future. Moreover, what if you both are not on the same page? ” Her mother’s hands brush off her messed up hair. As silky as it is, it is thick as the slick oil of all emperors. Gold, black diamond, the petroleum that lurks beneath the ground.

It is the most excruciating value whose amount can be exaggerated to nine or eleven figures. But the most notable is how desirable this hair is as silky as that of an alimony.

It's one of the rarest traits that one can have as a royal family.

‘But I-I…. Yes… mother,’ the princess slouched down, just as the queen’s hands wavered and turned her around.

It’s the mother's time to talk.

‘Who said it?’ The queen may be frail due to the sickness, but it’s the mother’s strong will to console and guard her daughter’s happiness. Even if it means burning a few dead bodies… here and there.

“Father said that I can’t marry a peasant…” Her lower lip protruded, corners of the mouth pulled down, giving in to the mother’s stern question. The wooden Pegasus would have died, if it were to be alive, being squeezed between the tender yet agile arms of the little soldier.

“Don’t listen to that nonsense.” The mother cut his Royal’s decree down.

“You are you. It's your life. I know that you are a princess, heck all of us know that you're a princess, and you have duties to be fulfilled. But is that all you can think of as a princess or as you, Cian?”

“Mister Burness said that a princess can live happily by working for the people.” She let go of the toy, climbing into her mother’s lap. She could smell warm hot chocolate and dusty old books nearby.

Not familiar, yet so homely.

“Is that the only purpose of your life?” Gentle hands combed the little strands, gliding smoothly like a kite in the wind. She continued the doubting

“Fulfilling duties? Serving your people? Yes, those are noble causes, but there’s no way you wouldn’t have desires that you would want to fulfill.” The girl shook her head. Her mother sighed.

“All humans are selfish, it depends on how much they limit themselves to indulge in those desires. AND IF you don’t have ANY DESIRES, then why not go out and figure it out? If you hide your heart’s desires and become like those people of all sorts of nobility, you might end up regretting it till you're as dead as them.”

The queen realizes the words haunting upon the dilated pupils of the child’s eyes.

Frustrated with herself, the mother unbraided her hair to relieve the stress.

Until realizing the key was all along in her hair.

The queen had plucked the peacock hairpin from her braid, its iridescence shimmering like a tear.

"Your father fears peasants because they have nothing to lose. But that’s why their love is lighter than ours." She pressed the pin into Cian’s palm. "This? It’s pretty, but it stabs if you grip too tight. Remember that when you choose."

Cian clenched the feather, its spine biting her skin. "What do you mean? I don't understand mother. Nevian… wouldn’t hurt me."

"No," her mother sighed. "But your crown will."

The child’s skin goosebumps upon hearing the words that she needed all along.

Her being destined to be the sole heir to the throne isn’t written in her fate, but rather being next to one is.

A hairpin is an accessory that women wear to adore her status, flaunting their capricious locks on men at the same time it can be used as a weapon with an intent to defend her ground.

Meaning…. She can be a princess and a girl.

"The world will make you choose. Don’t let it." Her mother’s lips pressed against her watery cheeks, realizing that their time was coming to its conclusion.

That wasn’t the only conclusion she came to know of.

“And this won't be the last time we will ever have a talk? Will we, Saintess?” Regardless of the illusion, she hugged the caster, arms tightly wrapped around their waist.

“The ‘heck’ gave it away. And also, mother never drank cocoa nor did she ever defy Father’s decree. Quite a pity that there are only saints. No saintess.” She answered with closed eyes, her sixth sense spiked in sight as it could feel the embarrassment in the room. It could flood it, if it were a wave of emotions.

Cian’s grip on the hairpin tightened—not in anger, but as if clinging to a ghost. The hairpin’s needle bit her palm. A bead of blood swelled— real pain for an unreal moment.

"But you deserved one." The Saintess’ arms tightened—like she wanted to say more, but oaths bound her tongue.

“Please, follow your heart. Don't worry, everything here is only between us. Nobody listened to one single bit of it, but it is your heart that needs to be listened to, all the time. It's screaming, only for you.”

Because it is through desires that one needs to go forward in their life. The flickering mother kissed her head one last time, pulling her even deeper into her embrace.

The ‘motherly’ embrace that she hadn't faced, touched, or felt over the last decade, or even more than that decade. The embrace felt too warm—real mothers never ran this hot, like a fever or a forge.

An embrace that she would never, ever receive for the rest of her life, only known to the crying Saintess.

She barely remembers even her own mom's face. The face is just a blur, shining light that covers up her face. But yet, she instinctively knew she was her motherly figure.

The Saintess’ tears fell onto Cian’s hair—marking the last time anyone would weep for Cianon the Girl.

“Mom, you know I know why. I am who I am today in your eyes, or more than that, in your heart. To all men, whoever, I know it. I am just a girl. What more can I possibly do so?”

Finally, she let go of her ‘mother’ making the room crack in half. The white background became to dissolve all the inhumanly tall, rock hard ceilings as well as the tears.

“Thanks for making me leave. You could leave her embrace in a dream or so. Just a suggestion, Mom.”

The Fading Mother smiled,“Goodbye, Cian the Girl.”

Her tears faded in ashes like her mother’s body disappeared in ashes

Ashes like smoke fumes burned from woods.

Her lungs seized—the scent wasn’t just a memory. 

The ashes were in her black hair, black clothes.

It was all over her four-year-old body.

For a breath, the Saintess’ robes weren’t the usual golden white mix from the usual depictions from the tales. It was pure blackness.

Why, why… it is so familiar? The girl wondered.