A week ago, Justina of Castell had given birth to a daughter, Princess Natalia of Castell. A week ago, her eldest child and only son, Jeremias of Castell, had drowned his sister. Even now the images refused to leave his head; the water coursing off of her tiny body, her once squirming limbs hanging lifelessly towards the floor. He remembered standing, holding her, and being unable to think what to do next--now that it was done and the infant was dead. After what seemed an eternity the priest had stepped forward and delicately lifted the corpse out of his hands and given it to an assistant, who took it with a stony face. Mias was grateful that he didn't have to hold it, and even more grateful that the priestly procession and the two noble witnesses continued without him to the embalming ritual. Traditionally the king drowned his child, but a professional handled the preservation of the infant corpse for the ceremony. Although oftentimes the father would accompany his deceased child in to witness the embalming, Jeremias didn't have the stomach for it. He couldn't really believe he'd had the stomach to drown it, but then--he'd had no choice. Really, no choice, he tried to convince himself as he stood in the empty room, looking down at the dripping sleeves of the ceremonial yellow robe and feeling dirty.

Duty.

It had been his duty to kill the child. As the future king and as his father's son, he had been the only person, really, who could shoulder that task. The weight of it, of what he'd done, was impossibly large, but there was no alternative. He would have died before he'd let his mother or sister even comprehend the burden that accompanied the duty, much less let them take it for him. It was his alone, and he had to be prepared to live with it. Unfortunately, the responsibility of the drowning was not an isolated one; as Jeremias soon discovered, he was now chiefly responsible for the planning of the feast a week thereafter. It had been hell having to sit around for a week and make decisions regarding the festivities, if only because it meant being constantly reminded of his handiwork, of the deed he'd preformed that night at the basin.

Still, despite the boy's horror at having to assist in the planning of the event, it had turned out rather well; the glass building, traditionally used for balls, had been lined with long banquet tables. Anyone who was anyone would be at the feast, and there was certainly room enough to accomodate all of the palace-dwellers, in addition to any visiting nobility from the countryside. The tables had been covered with thick tablecloths, a deep crimson red with Bazhir symbols and decorative patterns stiched heavily onto them with purple thread. Wooden chairs were lined along the edges, with purple velvet seats. The tablecloth was arched, so that each chair slid neatly into its own little niche, and between each of the chairs purple tassels dangled, weighting the tablecloth and separating one seat from another. At every doorway a braid of purple, red, a gold laced the frame inside and out, and half-sheer sheets of purple had been drapped across the glass ceiling, to prevent any glare from the sun. At the far end of the hall sat one table elevated about a foot from the rest--the table where the royal family took up residence, along with their advisors and whomever else they invited to the table. It was supposed to be an honor to have a seat there, especially one near the middle. If that was true, Jeremias was the most honored of all--the large chair directly in the center of the table, facing the rest of the ballroom, was traditionally where the king sat. The king, however, was still ill, and missing the feast just as he had missed the birth, so the "honor" of sitting in the overlarge, throne-like chair fell to the crown prince--just as the "honor" of killing his infant sister had.

He might not have minded the seat so much--it was only a slightly embossed chair, after all--except that it put him directly across from the alter-like thing on which the body of Natalia was to rest. It was a wooden surface which had then been covered with gold, with four claw-like feet supporting it at each corner, a long, narrow rectangular body, and finally a fluted top. Inside the golden top a sheet of dark red velvet had been stretched, and in that little sling-like bed the corpse would lay. The entire thing was sitting on a raised platform, about a foot, with steps on either side so that those who wished to do so could file past and see the child. Behind the altar silky red and purple curtains billowed down, being attached to the ceiling a bit in front of the platform's start and sweeping back until they hung down the rest of the way against the glass wall. It would have been beautiful, if it was not what it was. The sun filtered in through the ceiling hangings in just the right amount to make the plates and glasses sparkle. Everything had been designed perfectly--probably due to the fact that Jeremias' suggestions had been quite limited and very broad, allowing the event planners to have their way with most of the work--and executed with precision and exactness.

As he prepared to enter the feast, Mias looked at the corpse for the first time since he'd surrendered it to the priest a week ago. The embalmer had done a wonderful job of preservation--the infant looked more alive than it had upon leaving the water. The cheeks had been rogued, every bit of skin painted so that the discoloration of death was not visible. The little eyelids had been pressed closed, little girlish lashes splayed with precision and coated with a tiny amount of clear jelly-like substance, which had hardened to ensure that no bumps or jarring movements would ruin the infant's perfection. Her body was wrapped in what appeared to be simply a sheet of dark purple fabric, embossed with golden thread around the edges. It was meant to provide nice contrast against the thing in which she would be lain. Mias' own outfit had been designed primarily in red, with golden accent, so that he seemed almost as much a party fixture, a decoration, as Natalia did. With one final glance at the baby, Jeremias moved to a side door and slipped in to take his place at the top table, beside his mother. His entrance, although subtle, was the cue for the rest of the festivities to begin; in mere moments, now, the priest would bring Natalia in and place her in her velvet bed. He would make a ceremonial announcement, and then the feast itself would begin. The feast in honor of Jeremias' sister, and of the way he had so "valiantly" murdered her.

“Aren’t you supposed to be somewhere?” Pat asked, looking up from his book at Reuben with a frown. They were alone in their quarters, save Broken Paw sleeping under Pat’s chair. Both Pat and Broken Paw had only glanced up briefly when Reuben had come home from training and ran straight to the kitchen in the search of food. They knew better than to interrupt Reuben’s quest for sustenance because there was really no telling the last time that he had eaten.

Reuben was stuffing something vaguely edible in his mouth while flipping through reports that he had thrown unceremoniously on the table. “You mean remedial hand-to-hand?” he asked, “Lieutenant Jiason is perfectly capable of handling it.”

“No,” Pat said, setting his book down on the nearest table and pushing himself off the arms of the chair. “The feast.”

Reuben shrugged, “Oh. I forgot,” he said, though he really hadn’t done anything of the sort. In all honesty, Reuben had been dreading the event. He ran his hand through his hair, it was pretty tangled from the day of training and his hand didn’t get very far and he had to pull his hand out of the mess that was hair. “I don’t really have to go, you know,” Reuben said, not taking his eyes off his reports, “It’s an invitation. Not a command.”

Pat walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Reuben’s waist and rested his chin on his shoulder. “You need to go,” he said sensibly, wrapping his arms tighter around his waist. “It is tradition. It is your duty.”

“Don’t throw ‘duty’ at me,” Reuben snapped, closing the report that he had been reading with a little extra force. “I do my duty for this country. I have no obligation to support their parties. I have no obligation to support the killing of babies-“

Pat released him and gave him a shove, “You are not going to be insensitive tonight,” he said. “No one is going to be pleased. No one is going to be happy. You don’t have to pretend to be glad that it was done, but you do have to realize that tradition is tradition and what’s done is done.”

Reuben sighed and turned around, he was not in the mood for one of Pat’s lectures tonight. He left Pat in the other room as he went to bathe and change, taking as long as possible to get ready until Pat started to bang on the door to hurry him along. Finally, Reuben was clean and dressed in grey with red trim, which Pat had selected for him. He had been ushered out of the Cristoval quarters by Pat, complaining the entire way out the door. Once out in the hall, he knew he had to at least pretend that the whole event didn’t offend him and that the very thought of this party didn’t make him want to vomit.

Reuben strode to the room where the party was being held, for once in his life cursing his quick pace as he arrived there all too quickly. He wandered into the room, looking at the lavish decorations with a stony expression. Luckily he looked annoyed enough that most of the partygoers chose to avoid him, not that they particularly enjoyed him on a normal day, it was obvious that this party did not please him.

He walked past the tables and the other nobles with a somber intensity in his movements and his face that cleared a path for himself to the alter where the murdered child had been lain. He strode to the alter and knelt before, clearly interrupting the flow of traffic past the infant’s body, but one glance from the Commander made the people around him hold their tongues.

Clenching his jaw, he muttered a prayer for the infant in every language that he could form at the least simple sentences in, which was quite a few, given the places that he had traveled in his younger days. On general principle, Reuben did not believe in asking the gods for assistance, he believed in accountability and thought that the gods were nothing more than a crutch for the weak, but he didn’t see how the baby could be accountable, nor could he see the baby as anything but frail and needing so much more than a crutch.

Lifting his head, he backed away from the corpse, knowing the familiar despair that death brought to his chest. He glanced around the room, looking up darkly at the place where the royalty was to be sitting. The young prince was there, Reuben looked at him levelly, knowing the burden of duty and how heavy it could be.

He glanced away, outright glaring at the other partygoers; he snatched an unattended drink off a table. Reuben was fairly sure that someone was going to miss it, but he was confident they could find another. He lingered on the edge of the room, looking very serious and very much unapproachable, even more so than usual.

Lisabeta paused as she prepared to leave her chambers, sighing as she glanced in the mirror. She did not want to be going to this feast. It was possibly the last thing she wanted to do that evening - ever, for that matter. Celebrating the murder of her niece because of some outdated tradition that the royal family was bound to follow? No, it certainly was not something she wanted any part in.

But she could not abandon Justina and Jeremias and leave them to deal with it on their own. She could not even begin to think that she could understand what her sister-in-law and nephew had gone through - Justina had to deal with the fact that her daughter had been killed, and Jeremias had been the one that had to carry out the terrible deed. The boy seemed well enough so far, but Lisabeta still worried about him. There was no possible way that such an event would have no effect on the teenager. Mentally, she cursed her brother for being too ill to do his 'duty' and leaving it to the prince, and for the fact that he was still abed and would not be attending the feast that evening.

There was nothing to be done about it now, though. The act was over and done with, and all she could do is help the queen and the prince deal with the aftermath. And that included attending the festivities that evening, as distasteful as Lisabeta found them to be. With a sigh, Lisabeta swept out of her rooms, deciding there was no point in wasting any more time. She dressed soberly for the event - it may be a celebration, but she wasn't about to act like it was any sort of normal party. Her gown was of a simple cut, made of a deep grey silk that had just a hint of purple to it, and she chose to cover her dark hair with a veil. She walked alone to the building where the feast was, having dismissed her maid earlier that day. There was nothing she needed help with, and she would not need her maid at the feast.

The building was decorated nicely, but Lisabeta hardly noticed any of that as she entered through a side door. She ignored the priests standing there, ignored the fact that one of them now held the body of Natalia. She would have nothing to do with them, and had already said her own prayers for the infant to the Black God and the Goddess. She saw that Jeremias was already at his place at the main table, seated next to Justina.

Lisabeta did not want to be there, not at all.

She made herself cross to her seat, on the crown prince's other side, avoiding looking at anyone else. She did not want to know what they thought of the royal family at this moment. She rested her hand on Justina's shoulder momentarily, giving the queen what she hoped was a comforting smile, before taking her seat. She wanted to say something to him, but nothing that didn't sound shallow and empty came to mind. All she could do is hope for the feast to start, because the sooner it began, the sooner it would be over with.

It wasn't the ideal reason to have a feast, really, to celebrate the drowning of the late princess. It was strange; in Tortall, Zekeal had missed Barzun, picturing it as a better place, a warm, civilised and cultured country. Which of course it was, but traditions like this one seemed to lower it's value. It was almost barbaric, to be feasting, because the 'unwanted' child of the Queen had been disposed of. Times were changing- look at Tortall, they had introduced Lady Knights, which, although he didn't support wholeheartedly, he didn't oppose. Barzun didn't need these old traditions to keep it's stature and culture. But who was Zekeal to change it? It wasn't his child. She wasn't connected to him in any way.

But something about this child he hadn't even seen or known had touched him, perhaps because of his lonely state currently, and he desperately didn't want to go. Yet, at the same time, he did was to appear; to express his condolences to the Prince, despite having only met him once, because how he felt- being the drowner- must be ten times the slightly queasy feeling in the ambassador's stomach.

He examined his outfit- it was in muted colours, and it wasn't what he would normally choose to wear, but he didn't feel much like going through his wardrobe unneccessarily to piece together another outfit that he didn't particularly like anyway.

He ran a hand through his hair again. He glanced at his desk, where a wine glass stood- he'd already had some wine to steady himself, let him see past the old tradition's tradgedy and just accept it was the case, and it was none of his business, and he shouldn't give a damn, like almost all the court, even though they gave sad, false smiles and wiped fake tears from their cheeks. Well, maybe that was untrue; but still, he was caring too much. Think diplomatically, sensibly, and act normally, Zekeal though to himself, waving a servant away who'd was checking his clothes.

He entered the hall subtly; he wasn't in a very social mood, and was slightly awed at the apperance of the hall. He had expected it to be a sombre affair; not much decoration; in dedication of Natalia. But the entire room was glowing with red, purple and gold, with tassles everywhere. Zekeal looked up to the Royal table and glanced the Crown Prince seated on the throne. He suddenly felt a wave of empathy for the young man- well, he was still a boy; he was having to take his father's mantle far earlier then anyone ever should. He was far to young to be ceremoniously drowning his own sister and organising and taking the place of honor at a party Zekeal doubted he wanted.

In front of the regal table lay the altar-like object in which the child would lie. Zekeal held back a wave of disgust at the thought of the preserved body- it really wasn't like him to get so emotional about something, even like this. A passing servant handed him a glass of wine since he'd put his hand out for one, and he took a refreshing gulp. Perhaps he should have sipped, given his earlier glass and the party to come, but Zekeal didn't really care much for sense at the moment, and glanced around to see a place where he could take a seat.

Rami shrugged into a coal black overvest, taking his sweet time to buckle up the five leather straps down its length. Once he’d secured the final buckle, Rami tightened a black leather belt around his waist. The belt empty of his sword, felt too light, completely unnatural. Underneath, he wore a cream lace up cotton gambeson, the long sleeves decorated with an intricate, snaking string design. The outfit, coupled with black trousers and long polished boots, the leather stretching up to his calves on the outside of his trousers, made him look less of a soldier and more of a nobleman. Rami was more comfortable in his rough and simple solider's garb than noble finery, but the occasion called for fine clothing and gentlemanly manners. When it came to dressing, he’d taken his time in both choosing his clothing, and in putting it on. Anything to lessen the amount of time he would have to spend at the feast.

It was his duty to attend the feast honouring the dead princess, but the later he was the less time he would have to spend pretending that he understood why a harmless baby had to die. The excuse of it being customary was nowhere near an acceptable reason. He wasn’t about to create a scene, he wasn’t about to protest, or voice his concerns. There was a time and place for that to happen, and a feast for a dead princess wasn’t the right time, nor the right place. Besides if it was beyond the King and Queen to overturn or find a way around the heinous custom, it was certainly beyond the Second Commander of the Royal Guard. It was absolutely repulsive that the custom included a feast and festivities. Who felt like celebrating and reveling in the death of one so young, one who would never get the chance to experience life?

Setting his jaw in a schooled blank expression, he pulled the door of his room closed behind him and headed for the glass building. He passed servants, slaves, and nobleman only acknowledging those who acknowledged him. When he entered the hall, his gaze roamed the room searchingly, pausing on Reuben for a moment before sliding to the royal table and resting upon the crown prince. Jeremias of Castell was growing into a man, after all, he wasn’t that much younger than some of the members of the guard. Unlike some of the younger soldiers, Jeremias had already taken a life. Not just any life, but the life of his sister.

Rami knew what it was like to be responsible for ending the life of another. It changed you. It made you somehow less, but also somehow more than the person you used to be. It stripped you of your innocence. Duty was often a heavy burden, the results of which was decided by the gods...or so the saying went. The crown prince had done what needed to be done. He’d assumed the responsibility of carrying through with the custom, and he would wear it like a weight for the rest of his life. Rami knew what it felt like, how suffocating it could be. Standing in this room, he felt it bearing down on him.

He dipped his head to the crown prince, keeping it bowed for a moment, in a gesture of respect, solace, and understanding. Sliding his gaze away, he moved over to the body of the princess. He stood, peering down at her tiny perfect body before bowing low, muttering in soft, inaudible Barzun “blessed be forever.” Pulling away, Rami filed slowly past the line of those waiting to see the princess, retreating to lean against the far wall watching the people moving around the room.

As queen, Justina was first to enter the hall and take a seat at the high table. She was led from her chambers to the hall by an escort of priests, and followed by her train of sombre ladies. They each were adorned quietly in deep hues of purple and red and all were veiled. The priests wore their traditional robes, and the two who preceded the queen slowly swung a heavy incense that trailed in eerie, purple coils behind them. The queen herself was also veiled, but instead dressed in purple and gold; the ceremonial jewelry she wore featured brilliantly red rubies, reminiscent of the crown prince's own garb and of blood. The priests led Justina to the two-tiered dais on which the high table had been positioned and remained grounded as she ascended to take her place at the table. Her maids filed behind her and took their places, sitting and reclining solemnly on cushions on the lower dais.

Justina sank into the lesser of the two ornate throne chairs, to the left of the one in which Jeremias would be seated. She undid her fail and tilted her chin upwards in a hard-faced, expressionless, but nonetheless regal expression. Her arms, exposed from their long, flowing sleeves as she draped them over the chairs', were heavily marked with dark henna designs. Her wrists were weighed down by bracelets, some following the gold-and-ruby theme of her traditional attire, others of more simpler make, with Bazhir charms and charms to dispel grief and other demons. One even had the crudely simple make of a child's hand, likely the craftsmanship of her cousin's daughter. Her eyes, heavily marked in kohl and accented further by the dark circles beneath and the solemn hollows of her cheeks, were startlingly blue. Despite this and their eerie clarity, they stared directly across the hall--or rather at the space in between--entirely devoid of feeling or recognition.

As the nobility and other guests filtered into the hall, and even as Jeremias was announced, Justina remained still and emotionless in her place at the head of the festivities. Her pale lips did not even so much as twitch with the slightest emotion or desire to speak, not even when the priests settled every one down, and began the ceremonial berating of the greed and selfishness of the royal couple. Their scolding shifted to a discussion of the tradition and then disgusting enthusiasm at the bounty that was now available to them all. After a swift prayer all were bade to begin the first course of the feast.

It was at this point Justina swallowed thickly and shivered. With the tiniest movements of her head, she looked across at Lisabeta and Jeremias, hoping she was not the only one feeling too ill to eat what was placed before her. But for the sake of appearances and tradition, she knew she had to lead an example for her son and her subjects. With what seemed like dreadfully slow movements on her part, she took up her silverware and began to take small bites of the food on her plate. In between bites, she looked down at the guests seated below for the first time that day, and began to wonder what they must think of this tradition, what they must think of her. Her cousin had expressed his entire opinion of the matter by choosing not to be present at the high table and at her side. He at least knew what was expected of him and was likely to attend, but she had given up trying to push him into sitting by her. His decision hurt deeply, but Justina was too much of a mess of subdued emotions to realize that much for herself at this time.

Continuing to eat in silence, Justina allowed her memory to go back to the feast that had been held for Ramon. Quite bitterly she remembered how her husband had refused to allow her to approach the pedestal and see her son one last time before he was entombed. She recalled how easily he assumed the role he was required to take, although then and now she had convinced herself to understand the pressures he had been under as crown prince, under the unsympathetic and highly traditional surveillance of his own father and king. She had grieved long and hard for Ramon, and the loss of Gabril soon thereafter made her hopes of emotional recovery bleak. The twins and her blissful years with them were a blessing--and then came the weakness and the foolishness that produced the very child now displayed at the other end of the hall. This time she believed she had succeeded in detaching herself from the babe, but her gut told her she had failed. She was sick to her stomach with loss and grief, her heart and mind were tortured by it. And yet she forced herself to endure it, assuring herself that not only would it not happen again, but that queens before her had survived the same ordeal, and that she had to be a strong figure for her son.

Blinking back a sudden sting of tears, Justina glanced over at Jeremias. She marveled at how he was holding up and wished very much to tell him how proud of and how sorry she was for him. The two of them had not had any chance to be together since the drowning, especially since the king's poor health meant that Jeremias and Lisabeta had many affairs to attend to in his place. Now that she had recovered from the birthing and the feast was through, she too would assist in those matters, but that did not necessarily mean that her son would not have the time to spend with her privately. How his sister felt about things Justina did not know, but promised herself that later that evening the two of them would speak. For now, Justina cast her a sorrowful glance and sighed.



This post has been edited by Justina of Castell on Sep 7 2009, 12:54 AM

Riaz's birthday had been the third, which he celebrated thoroughly or at least that's what he assumed since most of it was remembered as brief and vague visions, although the best clue was that he woke up a day and a half later far beyond the palace, his house, or even a place that he actually knew. While he had been boisterous and jolly, Riaz was extremely concerned that he was turning a year older and had to officially declare himself as such. Perhaps it was that issue in his mind that Riaz had woken up with a handful of women close to half his age- not that he had enjoyed thinking about that kind of math. The day after was mostly a recovery day when he finally made his way back to the palace to attend to the King that evening. Of course it was also a time spent wallowing after he read through the letter from Isaura again which made him regret the kind of couple of days of partying he just had.

However there was one hope that he was going to have died on the street that night, for two days after the end of his celebrations was the feast of Natalia; an event he didn't want to go to, though Riaz knew everyone felt the same. Riaz would never understand why one day the royal family was forced to drown an 'excessive' child and then holding a feast, almost a definition of the word excess. Getting up for that day was hard on Riaz who wanted nothing more than to sleep in bed all day and night. He had sent Bidane to Eivissa more than a week before, before Justina gave birth, refusing to initiate his daughter to this part of court culture. That evening Riaz participated in the Moment of the Voice, sharing his sorrow with them and taking comfort in the words of his people. In them he found the courage to be brave enough to at least go to the party and drink until some servant escorted him back to his rooms.

He dressed in white breeches and a matching long tunic with embroidered in traditional Bazhir patterns in green thread. They were flowing and as Bazhir as he could make it, Riaz trying desperately to distance himself from the court as possible. He strode into the hall with two things, one to brighten his own mood, and the other was to fulfill a promising he made to his daughter. He pointedly refused to look at the body of the baby and went directly over to the high table to Justina. While he refused to sit with her, he had something for her.

"Bidane might've heard you were going to be sad," Riaz said after clearing his throat to announce his presence in front of his cousin. He took out a small cloth doll, one of Bidane's favourites and set it in front of Justina. "She said the doll is named Terra and always makes her feel better when she is sad," Riaz wasn't sure what Bidane ever had to be sad about but he was beyond arguing with his daughter's logic in this sort of situation. He gave Justina a look of sympathy, knowing it might've been a bit hard on Justina to take this sort of gift at the moment.

Gods curse it. She was late. Again. But then, it was her own fault.

Jasminn of Castell had purposefully taken time getting dressed. She saw no reason why she should be required to attend such an occasion. Every fiber in her being rebelled utterly. Going to a feast to celebrate the death of a child? Her own little sister? Not for the first time that day did the princess feel sick to her stomach. As the maid laced up her crimson dress, she had "accidentally" stepped backwards on the hem. There was a terrific ripping sound as a tear the size of her hand appeared in the dress. There was an exclamation of horror from the maid, but she did not think to blame the princess; there was no time to get another dress, this one had been specially prepared for the occasion. She would just have to mend it.

The maid took needle and thread and began to hurriedly stitch the rip closed. As she worked, Jas stood tall and looked at herself in the mirror. The gown was a deep red, almost the color of blood. It fit her figure well, but leaned towards the loose and comfortable style the people of Barzun favored. It was a simple make, not dripping with beads and jewelry, but it was elegant. The fine lines were accented by tasteful gold and black threaded designs. The sleeves were loose and flowing and she despaired over them. She was grateful that she wasn't feeling exactly ravenous for this banquet; she was sure she would've trailed the excess material through gravy or soup or whatever else had been on her plate. Her wrists were adorned with several simple gold bracelets, and on one hand was an elaborate henna design. From her pointer finger to almost her elbow, the ink marks twined. Here and there were dark streaks of red to compliment the black. Black and red. Grief and blood.

Grief and blood. The words brought her mind back to the purpose of the feast. A child's death, because she was the surplus. She was the result of---as some would say---her parents' extravagance. Jas clenched one hand into a fist. Again, she couldn't help but question the laws that governed Barzun. What kind of place murdered children, infants who never got a chance to speak up and defend themselves?

"Princess, you're ready now."

Jasminn turned to look down at the maid, who was sitting back on her heels. The rip had been mended so skillfully it seemed incredible to think that there had been a gaping hole there in the first place.

"I'm afraid you're very late now, Your Highness," the maid told her, getting to her feet. "I doubt that they waited. These festivities are very important, after all."

"No, it's alright," the princess told the woman, smoothing the folds in her skirt. "I must pay for my tardiness by knowing all the eyes in court will be speculating over my late arrival. Still, no matter. They are not what's important today." Taking a deep breath, Jas stepped from her chambers and began to make her way to the banquet hall.

She halted outside the door, she could hear a quiet murmur on the other side of the doors. Yes, plenty of people were there already, curse it. However, she didn't think the feast had officially begun. That was one mark in her favor. Jas generally hated being tardy to a function or social gathering such as this, because she disliked the way a newcomer was instantly looked over and assessed the minute they put foot in the room. She liked to be punctual, early if possible, and thus escape such goings over. But she had had no desire to be on time this time. She had needed time to collect her thoughts and calm her mind. It would be quite silly and embarrassing to be seen sniffling in the soup over an infant whom she had not even seen, whom was now dead. So she had taken as much time as was necessary till she felt able to control the storm of feelings inside of her.

Head erect, she took a deep breath. She could do this. It was a feast. A simple feast. She nodded to the guards. Together, they opened the massive doors that led to the banquet hall and Jasminn of Castell, Princess of Barzun, entered.

She did not need to look to see where the royal family would be sitting, she knew. At a high table at the end of the hall stood a table where they, their advisors, and any of their honored guests took their place. Towards this she walked, head high and her blue eyes looking neither left or right.

Reaching the table, she bowed her head respectfully to her mother and to Jeremias, who was sitting in their father's throne today. Seeing him sitting there sent a pang through her heart. 'Mias was tall and the chair did not dwarf him, but in one sense it did; it was meant to fit a bigger man who was used to bearing the weight of country's problems on his broad shoulders, it was hardly meant for a lad who was just starting to become a man.

Eyes down, Jasminn took her place at the table.

This post has been edited by Jasminn of Castell on Sep 28 2009, 12:40 AM