tsvetoslav shalev

In conclusion, I must submit to you the following supposition. Namely, that falling in love with life, while no mean feat, the notion of an eternity where nothingness reigns supreme, so entirely unwholesome and even banal, renders living a worthy pursuit. Continue to study the Cosmos and its unfathomable vastness, but remember to also turn your inquisitive gaze on the inner universe of your being. Let kindness, courage, curiosity and the scientific principle be a shining beacon against the evergrowing background of cognitive darkness.

– Ser Aldred Hamm, Cosmologist Royal

Trial in absentia is a criminal proceeding in a court of law in which the person who is subject to it is not physically present at those proceedings. In absentia is Latin for “in absence”.

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Leaning back in his leather armchair, Aldred’s bright-hazel eyes continued scanning the contents of the page before him. Tall, wiry, with a clean-shaven face, eyebrows so bushy, they jutted above the frames of his glasses. He kept his porcelain-white hair sleeked back, a wardrobe thoughtfully-assorted, his totality rendering the people that didn’t know of him, clueless in their guesses as to his exact age. He was, in fact, a wee little lad, when Godwin, the last of the Old Kings had died. It was a right miserable day. Thousands of folks, men, women, old and young lining the streets, pushing and shoving, some mumbling, others weeping inconsolably. A solemn procession, their beloved king as the centrepiece, armour-clad and ready for battle. That day, however, he laid on a bed of crimson red and violet satin, in the jealous arms of Death, so very pale and lifeless. His body was being taken to the Western tower of castle Sundorne, where a great pyre would be lit come sundown. Although it had rained earlier, it was already around noon and the heat was getting unbearable. Aldred’s mother had looked down at him that day, with moist eyes the colour of honey-glazed almonds. How could he have possibly known, that she wasn’t actually shedding tears for their deceased Monarch? No, her worry was for him – his future made uncertain, while the seat of power remained unoccupied.

The Cosmologist took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes as if trying to force memories of old back in. He always stared when concentrating, sometimes unblinking for hours on end. There was so much more that he wanted to accomplish, but time was mercilessly running away from him today. Another Monarch was soon to leave this veil of tears, as well as a throne and the authority that came with it. The fate of the Kingdom would soon be left in the delicate hands of two boys, aged 18 and 16, and a girl of 14. The oldest, prince Edric was the next in line to rule, as the Custom dictated, but he lacked the strength and the keen eye for governance, unlike his younger sibling, Tilian. The latter, ill-tempered, obsessive-compulsive, just like their father in so many ways, was favoured among the nobility. Annis, the youngest, was not meant to rule, the future was already decided for her with an arranged marriage come two Summers’ time. To Aldred, they were still just kids playing make-believe with powers beyond their comprehension. So easily deceived, insincere platitudes and affirmations peddled like sweets at an annual fair, laced with slow-acting toxins. Blind confidence was about to clash with impotent civility, in a bloody conflict of interests that could last centuries. And in the midst of all the chaos, a solitary flower of noble white and ebony, the radiant Princess Annis. She would need powerful allies to help keep the Realm from being torn asunder.

The owlish Cosmologist released the last page from the typing machine, rolled it up and inserted it in an ornamented cylindrical container of bronze, then screwed the cap on, firmly. The weight of the object grew exponentially larger with the contents held within it. He grimaced, eyebrows almost touching. There was no time to ponder his own falterings. The ring of metal scraping against stone began to echo across the corridors of the Royal Observatory. The Guards would soon be at his doorstep, on orders to escort him away. His presence was expected, his counsel welcomed, his fielty to the Crown – demanded, but currently in question. He rose from his chair and hurriedly inserted the cylinder in one of the shatter-proof glass pipes lined on the wall next to his desk. The label on the pipe read GARS:4326, the designation of one of his trusted students and a talented assistant, Theodore. In his early forties, Theo, as he was known to close acquaintances, carried lawful goodness in his heart. If anyone was up to the tasks outlined in the letter, that would be him.

Aldred caught one last glimpse of his message, as the bronze container shot straight down the pipe with a barely-audible thump. His gaze then slowly turned back to the desk. There was another item of importance lying there. A pistol syringe made of surgical steel, a liquid of dull dandelion yellow encased within its vial. The sunlight streaming from outside made the cold object glimmer like crystalline zirconium. Aldred stared at it, misty-eyed. Just then, the thud of someone brusquely banging on the door, returned focus to his wandering mind. “Ser Aldred? Open up”. Heavy oak and wrought iron was the only thing standing between the Cosmologist and the inevitable. While not impregnable, that door afforded much-needed time. He took the syringe and pressed it firmly against the leathery skin of his neck. Fresh supplies of resolve coursed through his body, hand steady as the granite stone floor under his feet. “Open up!”, the banging continued, growing louder. Someone tested the door’s handle, then followed with a muffled “It’s locked”. This time, a different voice, commanding in both volume and presence rang like a temple’s bell, “Ser Aldred Hamm, this is Captain Dougal of the Royal Guard.”, a pause, then “We were given orders to escort You to the Court of Iridescence, immediately!”. The captain, Aldred knew, while a person of principle, was faithful to whoever wore the Crown, to a fault. He snickered, then squeezed the trigger of the pistol.
“What do we do now?”, asked one of the Guardsmen. Everyone but the Captain wore a look of indecisiveness. They were all familiar with the respect, the high esteem the Cosmologist Royal enjoyed throughout the Realm and beyond. However, recent rumours of insubordination initially dismissed as defamatory gossip, now materialised as a warrant for the scientist’s arrest. “Break the door down”. Dougal’s orders hung in the air briefly, nervous gazes glancing around in search of mutual affirmation. The sense of wrongness only slowed the task down, but their combined efforts however shaky, produced first a groan, then the dislocation of one of the hinges rather quickly. Eventually, the door crashed back and to one side. This was now a scene, as a score of people gathered both inside the Observatory, as well as outside, to watch. Some, stared in disbelief, others seemed appalled, but few made any attempts to disrupt the proceedings. One particularly vocal spectator, a lady of the Court of Fall, hurled reproachful remarks, one after another, in criticism of the brashness of the arrest. The heavy scent of rosewater candy carried in the air around her, as the heat of that day amplified not just personal musk, but artificial odours, as well. Now standing next to the Captain and about to resume her tirade, her eyes finally caught up with the point where his troubled stare was trained on. She let out a high-pitched scream, then collapsed on the floor, while Dougal unsuccessfully tried to keep her on her feet.