Jorgen-17

The wind ceased. "Light it," Mother said. The timing was perfect.

Fingers withdrawn from the candle flame, palms now warm. The bright yellow flame flickered, emitting a silent scream as it brushed past fingertips. Crouching, moving forward, right hand gripping the candle base recklessly—he knew he lacked the strength to crush it—pointing it at the fuse. A drop of wax fell to the ground, quickly solidifying like a tiny feather. "Galin, come back to me after lighting it," Mother instructed. "Alright, Mother," he murmured silently. The flame touched the fuse, igniting it, bursting into scattered sparks. Battles everywhere: swords and shields, waves and rocks, fire and fuses. He pulled his hand away, avoiding the sparks' confusion in his eyes, returning to Mother's right side. The candle-holding hand, now descending, akin to a soldier lowering his sword after battle, no longer concerned about dripping wax. Left hand gripped Mother's hand—more like a tug; her hand, a steadfast anchor, yet soft and warm. Watching the fuse burn.

Moments of silence followed by a sound—louder than the twilight's battle horn, more solemn than the slowly opening city gates. He couldn't see, but he knew something ascended into the sky with that sound. Perhaps souls departing their bodies were like this. How high could it fly? Don't let it fly too high, not beyond the clouds—

In the next second, red mixed with a hint of purple fragments spread in a web pattern in the night sky, proud and fervent. The glow of fireworks momentarily dyed the walls and rooftops red, a brief embrace for those standing on the earth.

"Look," she said, "how beautiful."

Galin turned his head slightly, seeing Mother's face illuminated. Her gaze fixed on the fireworks was so focused, the smile so natural, that Galin felt a moment of jealousy: he couldn't bear Mother's attention shifting from him to another, even if that worthy object was just fleeting fireworks. This emotion made him miss the moment when the fireworks disappeared into the darkness, as he forcefully tugged her hand, hoping to redirect her gaze to himself. Many years later, Galin gradually understood why Mother showed such enthusiasm for the fireworks at that moment: she was just a big child back then. In that year, Galin was four, and Mother was nineteen.

Every time he saw those nobles selling their daughters to become royal kin, Galin wondered if Mother had experienced something similar. The women, aged from fourteen to twenty-five, dressed in splendor, smiling at him, ready to do anything for him. Did any of those women smile sincerely? When Mother presented herself to King Father, did she wear the same lifeless smile? No, she was different; she must have had something different to become a queen. Perhaps she was so special that she didn't need to go through such self-promotion. Galin believed his birth was definitely not Mother's purely utilitarian choice. Every minute spent with her reinforced this belief. And it was this thought that made him increasingly intolerant of those selling themselves before him. When he ordered the naked woman to crawl and fetch the blanket, he first loathed her, then began to loathe himself. He endured not saying this to Crecyda.

"Queen Mother," Galin said, "why only red? No blue, green?"

"This firework is only in red."

"I want to see others."

"Next time. I'll find different ones next time," she said. "It was beautiful, wasn't it?"

There was no next time. That night, Galin saw the only fireworks since Stromgarde fell into territorial crisis. He continued his father's policy of prohibiting the manufacture and ignition of fireworks by the common folk because all gunpowder should be devoted to war, and igniting fireworks in the company of the enemy was inappropriate. But four-year-old Galin, who didn't understand these principles, only knew that Mother somehow got hold of something he had only seen in picture books. Excitedly, she led him to the open backyard. There was a bit of debate about who should light the fuse, although Mother's reason was, "You're too small, it's dangerous." Looking back now, Galin realized that she was slightly disappointed that she hadn't won the right to illuminate the sky with a candle from her son. Almost as soon as the flame disappeared, and the sky returned to silence, Galin heard many subtle but intricate noises rising from the earth's surface. They came from dimly lit cottages, towering towers, flat rooftops—not far, but beyond Galin's line of sight. They were the sounds of people. Guards with steadfast spears, commoners preparing for sleep, prisoners gripping iron bars with both hands—all those who witnessed this momentary brightness. Was that a firework? Why did it appear here? Who lit it? What does it represent? Can I see it again? In Galin's eyes, that one firework covered his entire field of vision; in the eyes of those people, it was an unexpected event to be cherished; and in the eyes of the wilderness in Arathi, it was just a brief moment of light in the night, far less bright than the flames of war. Galin wanted to know what the firework represented in Mother's eyes, but due to the lingering jealousy, he didn't want to ask.

In any case, Galin knew what the firework represented in King Father's eyes. Mother, as usual, led him back to the bedroom, but before she could open the partially read storybook, King Father entered. He seized Mother's right wrist, pulling her off the bed.

"What did you just do?" he said.

"I didn't. I just..."

"As a queen, you engage in such childish acts. Do you know this could cause panic among my subjects? Do you think you can openly defy my decree?"

"Galin wanted to see..."

He slapped her.

"Do you want to shift the blame to my son? Is that what you're trying to say? You make such a foolish mistake, then turn around and accuse my son? That's outrageous, woman. Where did you get those things?"

"The warehouse. They're in the warehouse."

"Impossible. There wouldn't be such things there. You're lying to me. Who gave them to you? Have you met someone?"

He hit her again. Galin's heart raced.

"No, don't do this here. He's watching," she said.

"Are you afraid? You've made my subjects afraid. How should this matter be handled? I'll ask again, where did you..."

He stopped, glanced at Galin, then dragged Mother out of the room. "Defying the decree, lying to me. You can't do such things." Galin could still hear King Father's voice echoing down the corridor, but it didn't completely fade away. Two maids quickly came to soothe him to sleep, but he only managed to doze off towards dawn. He always thought King Father's roar lingered in the room, never dissipating, overshadowing Mother's faint breath. He was utterly confused: were fireworks good or bad? Mother said they were beautiful, and he agreed. But what happened now, was it the price needed for that momentary beauty?

The next morning, life seemed unchanged. But throughout the day, Galin noticed Mother wasn't very willing to speak to him, and when she did, her voice was soft and hesitant. Galin thought Mother was angry with him for what happened yesterday, but later that day, he saw a bruise on her neck. When she caught her son staring at her neck, she smiled, pretending not to know anything, pulling up her collar.

If Galin were to describe Mother now, his first word would be "adventurous." For a queen, this wasn't a virtue to boast about. Perhaps realizing this, King Father never overly showcased her presence in public. The people knew there was a queen, but they rarely had the chance to see her. In Galin's memory, Mother spoke publicly only two or three times. Setting off fireworks wasn't the first expression of Mother's adventurous spirit, but it wasn't the last either. Every time she ventured, King Father found out, and something Galin didn't want to see inevitably happened, but it seemed unable to stop her.

In the year when Galin turned six, Mother took him close to the forbidden area—the stone temple where the symbolic legacy of the Arathor Dynasty, the sword Tolkar, was kept. This sword was never allowed to be touched by anyone other than the king and the heir, and women, even the queen, were forbidden to look at it. Just like when he wanted to see the fireworks, Galin never directly told Mother his desire to see that sword—he didn't have the right before coming of age—but Mother knew his thoughts and took him there. At a place just within sight of the temple gate, guards intercepted them. Her earnest persuasion not only failed to make the guards make an exception but also led him to report directly to King Father.

After that, Mother appeared in public even less frequently because King Father broke her right hand. Although doctors treated her, it became challenging to lift, rotate, or exert force afterward. She permanently lost some vitality.

At six, Galin knew he had passed the age where Mother could hold him all day, but it wasn't for this reason that he resisted when Mother embraced him with her left hand. There were still many places he wanted to see—the sails on the sea, the herds under the sky, basically everything beyond the city walls. He feared feeling Mother's fingers against his back again, smelling her hair, and he couldn't help but speak out all those wishes. Then Mother would go to those places with him in every possible way, regardless of whether King Father would interrupt her with his other hand. "Don't bring it over," he said to Mother, then turned his head, avoiding the surprise and disappointment in her eyes.

"Prince," a guard entered the room. "Mr. Jorgen wishes for you to arrive at the scene as soon as possible."

"I know."

"He said, for you to personally confirm..."

"I've said I know. Leave."

Galin stood up. On his desk was a miniature portrait of his mother, no larger than a palm. When the guard entered earlier, he had turned it face down. Now, he lifted it again, carefully observing. This tiny portrait was all he had left of his mother. No one could know he still thought of her. He had been careless, revealing it to a woman who would never trust him. He had to witness the death of this woman.

The miniature portrait was just a reproduction—the original, a three-meter-tall masterpiece, had been burned after his mother's death. The current image depicted the short-lived queen of Stromgarde but not the mother in Galin's eyes. Translated by two painters, her black hair and eyes were no longer the way he remembered. He could no longer see that reckless spirit of adventure, but there was no regret, for his mother had unexpectedly left the last adventurous spirit of her life to someone else.