Jorgen-18

Galin, come in," his mother said. "What are you hiding back there for? Come help me wash my hair. You know my hands aren't working well."

He saw his mother sitting in the bathtub, knees bent, with a strange understanding in her eyes, leaving Galin unsure of what he had done wrong—entering the bathroom uninvited or hiding behind the shower curtain afterward.

"You shouldn't have come here, Mother. It's late."

"I know. Did you come alone?"

"Yes, just me."

"Come over here."

Her long black hair was dry from the crown to the center of her back, with only a small strand at the end dipping into the water. There was a bruise on her thigh; hopefully, soaking in the water wouldn't make it hurt. Under normal circumstances, a handmaiden would assist her in the bath, but not now—certainly not at two in the morning. "I knew she was here, followed her as carefully as I could, so no one would see. The water looked cold, without the white and transparent mist rising from her hair and skin. There was a faint salty smell in the air. Outside the window, it was pitch black, but a distant light could be seen. It was impossible to distinguish whether it was a light or a star hanging exceptionally low.

His left hand lightly rested on the back of her neck, and his right hand gathered a strand of hair beside her shoulder. The previously submerged strands lifted from the water, spreading blue ripples that disappeared around her waist. He scooped water with a wooden spoon, wetting her hair. Water droplets splashed onto his nightgown, dampening the fabric against his abdomen, sending a shiver of coolness.

"Mother, are you going to meet that person?"

"Do you know who it is?"

"I know."

"Even his name?"

"No."

"Do you want me to tell you?"

"No need."

Galin roughly understood what was going on. She would finish her bath and then go meet that 24-year-old officer. He felt his mother had the right to do so because the king was doing the same. Sometimes he would bring other women home, and on those occasions, his mother had to sleep elsewhere. But what Galin didn't understand was why his mother needed to sneak around when she did similar things. These events began around three months ago, at least from what he observed. Galin knew he had seen the man several times, but he couldn't recall his face. Over the decades, the man had become more like a phantom disturbing his memory, much like the penultimate missing page in a novel's conclusion. Galin knew these things had indeed happened, but due to the absence of a clear memory of the man, his recollections increasingly focused on his mother.

At seven, he had already encountered concepts from books: grand love, sacrificial love, and unconditional love. However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't fit what happened between his mother and that man into these concepts, no matter how much he wished it were true. Even with more knowledge about the man, it might not change his perspective. Perhaps his mother's intentions were different from what he had read in books.

"Why do you want to see him?"

His mother wiped away a droplet of water that splashed onto her eyelid with her right hand. "Why not?"

A resistant response, even when it came from her own son. She didn't like anyone questioning her choices.

"Father will be angry."

"He definitely will."

"Then why..."

"Whatever I do, he gets angry. So I stopped caring."

Galin once thought his mother was using the only means available to her to defy the king. Her weak, battered body—unable to swing a sword in moments of peril, unable to escape when getting hit—could only do so much. But decades later, whenever he recalled this conversation, Galin felt that perhaps his mother's initial intentions were much more negative.

She stood up, and her long hair slipped from Galin's palm. "I haven't finished helping you, Mom. Why are you standing up?" She turned around, looking out the window. "Are you waiting for him? Don't wait any longer, Mother. Don't look outside, please. Father will find out at this rate. He'll come soon. Can't let him find out, Mother. I can't protect you much longer because you're ignoring me. Father has asked me many times if I've found anything, and I keep saying no. He doesn't believe it, and I don't believe it myself. The water is too cold. The droplets falling from your hair are landing on my face. Leave here, or I'll tell. I'll tell why you're here in the middle of the night. I'll go now. I'll go now. I'll go now..."

Galin walked briskly, the guards keeping pace with him. Crossing the corridor, he descended a staircase restricted to commoners, reaching the lower level and exiting the building. His destination was the execution grounds: a secret, narrow, circular stone chamber with an open ceiling, resembling a large well protruding from the ground. When he initially ordered the execution of Crecyda, he asserted that merely viewing the corpse would suffice, emphasizing his trust in Jorgen. Galin mused to himself that the woman slated for execution held no connection to him, merely an impediment, and as the ruler of a nation, he saw no need to waste time in person. Yet, this could also serve as motivation for him to witness it, avoiding exposure of his hesitation and fear to others, despite knowing Jorgen likely discerned it already.

"Prince Galin," he said, "I've been waiting for you."

"How is it going?"

"Following the procedure you requested, she has been hanged. The fire has just been lit. Do you plan to go in now?"

Galin didn't answer immediately.

"Prince, I wanted to ask. Why didn't you let me use the fire directly?"

"Because that's too painful. She deserves to die, but it's not an exceptionally heinous crime."

"I understand."

Jorgen had the guards open the door, and Galin walked in. A familiar scent. A familiar sense of confinement.

In the center of the room, a fire burned, fueled by several layers of firewood. A pole stood in the middle, with a human figure attached to it. A sudden pain shot through Galin's right hand—the edge of the diamond ring on his father's index finger pierced his palm. This was the tightest grip his father had ever held his hand, not a sign of acceptance and protection, but of coercion and confinement. Galin thought he wouldn't be able to move, but being led by his father, he walked smoothly without any hindrance. He was eager to understand the meaning behind his father's words, "I want you to witness the punishment she deserves." His father never explicitly mentioned "death" to Galin, perhaps trying to prevent his son from refusing to witness.

After staring at the flames and the human figure in the fire for ten seconds, Galin still hadn't grasped what was happening—his mind was blank. He guessed it was his mother, but he couldn't translate everything he saw into tangible meaning in his brain.

"I treated her with mercy," the king said, "used hanging first before igniting the fire. Watch closely. For those who betray the royal family, this is the most fitting and appropriate ending."

Fitting? Appropriate? These words were like describing a newly hung curtain. On the left side of the room, a charred body lay. "This is the man who committed the crime," the king said, "you don't need to witness his torture. Your mother, at least, was once a member of the royal family and cannot be burned with him." Next, the king pushed him a bit forward, making him smell the unpleasant odor. Galin fully understood that the person in front of him was his mother; she hung her head, eyes covered with black cloth, making it hard to discern the original color of the face now reddened by the fire. The flames reached her knees and were climbing steadily, soon to engulf the abdomen that once carried him and the chest that nursed him. Swarms of ants carried away the remnants of insects. Rain washed away the mud prints on the stones, revealing a bald surface. River channels succumbed to drought, cracking under the relentless sun. Objects disappeared, turning into invisible things. His mother.

The ends of his mother's hair began to burn. The black hair, identical to his mother's, burned much faster than the flesh. The once soft and moist strands curled and twisted in pain as soon as they touched the intense heat. The wind stopped; light it now. The timing is right. That night, I wanted to wash your hair. I wanted to finish washing it for you. But I didn't have the time and opportunity because you didn't care at all. You stood up, waiting for him so eagerly, staring out the window. You didn't care whether I was by your side at that moment. I wanted you to leave, stop waiting for him, but you couldn't hear. So I ran out of the bathroom, found Father. But I really didn't know he would do this to you. Truly didn't know, I swear—

"Aren't you daring to look?" The king held Galin's face, forcing him to keep looking ahead. "No. You have to watch, remember. Remember, son, if any woman betrays you like this, she deserves the same fate. Do you hear me? Answer me. Answer me that you remember."

Galin nodded, and the king's hand loosened slightly as he suddenly broke free. But it wasn't to escape; it was to get closer. Closer to the flames, closer to her, closer—

The woman in front of him, like his mother, hung her head, eyes covered with black cloth, making it hard to discern the original color of the face now reddened by the fire. The flames reached her knees and were climbing. Her hair, the same black as his mother's, began to burn at the ends. He recalled the encounter in the bathroom and later, closely smelling her hair. Suddenly, he realized a series of memories were about to vanish from his brain along with the flames. It was his choice, a choice made according to his father's command. Smoke, smoke from burning firewood, smoke from burning clothes, smoke from burning flesh mixed into one, escaping from the skylight above. I wonder what those outside would think as they watch this smoke? Would they guess where it's coming from? Or, like those who watched fireworks in the night sky decades ago, would they begin to whisper silently?

A fierce impact rushed into his brain, as if the smoke had solidified into a clump and smashed into his ears, but Galin didn't feel any pain. Watching everything disappear in the flames, he felt a sense of release. There would be no more phantom of his mother. No one would have a chance to know what he was mourning. From today onwards, he was just the ruler of Stromgarde. He intended to choose a suitable queen from the previous blind dates and have an heir with her. He wouldn't allow his queen to secretly bring a child to watch fireworks. If he got tired of this queen, he would find a few mistresses for himself, of course, while preventing her from doing the same. His son would learn to weigh the pros and cons, and if he discovered any behavior from his mother that harmed the dignity of the royal family, he would report it to him for an appropriate punishment. This was how things were supposed to be, how things should be.

Loneliness crept up from the depths of his heart like moss on the well's edge. Galin Trollbane picked up a piece of broken firewood that rolled out and tossed it back into the fire.