News of Archbishop Mills’s fate had reached me three nights ago. Wielding the authority vested in me as sovereign, I breached the hallowed confines of the Celestian church to visit its crypt, the sacred resting place of the most esteemed members of the clergy and the Saints. Ordinarily, the church’s most sanctified enclaves were forbidden to me, yet on this occasion I had been granted an exception by His Holiness himself. A mere half hour had been allotted for my visit, yet such time would suffice for my purposes.
With a reverence born of deep respect, I entered the windowless chamber with a lone candle as my sole guide against the darkness. Navigating by its flickering light, I delved deeper into the crypt until I found it—the tomb of Saint Claudia, her name etched with delicate care on the plaque, surrounded by flawless white lilies. Considering that only clergy members had access to this sacred space, it was clear that someone within the church continued to honor her memory with floral tributes.
Kneeling in the dirt, heedless of the filth staining my garments, I placed a bouquet of chrysanthemums beside the lilies, their red, white, and yellow hues a striking contrast against the lilies’ unblemished purity. I couldn’t help but smile wryly; the arrangement seemed overly vivid, almost garish next to the serene whites, yet no regrets could alter that now. Indeed, Claudia had never cared for extravagance; she had always preferred to channel potential luxuries towards aiding those in need. “What a waste!” “How indulgent!”—it was almost like I could hear her voice, chiding me for my frivolousness. Truly, there had never been a soul more benevolent.
“And it was that very benevolence that made me fall in love with you,” I whispered, my voice trembling more than I’d anticipated, revealing depths of emotion I dared not fully explore. Even now, twenty years later, my thoughts frequently wandered to her, my affections not diminishing with time—no, instead they grew stronger and stronger. Even I found this peculiar, of course, this profound attachment to a single woman, one who had long passed away. And yet, speaking these sentiments aloud now, after all these years, merely underscored how much of a brokenhearted fool I truly was. Indeed, what else does the heart want but what it needs?
“Say, Claudia, do you remember the day we first met?” I murmured, my lips curving into a gentle smile as I spoke to the silence of the tomb. That memory lingered as vividly as if no time had passed at all.
It had been over thirty years ago. I’d still been crown prince at the time, and I’d found myself in the throne room, merely an adjunct presence to my father’s audience with the then Saint-to-be.
Standing at attention behind the king’s throne, I shrugged my shoulders, dismissing my irreverent thoughts. A commoner as the Saint-to-be? I harbored little in the way of classist ideals, but I still found myself questioning whether a farm girl could possess the charisma needed to win over the hearts and minds of the people—even if her magical abilities were as renowned as they said. Yet in some ways the role of the Saint was merely ceremonial, so perhaps the expectations weren’t all that high.
It was then that the doors of the throne room swung open, and a guard announced, “Saint-to-be Claudia has arrived!” At his call, a young woman entered with a confident stride. She walked with her head held high, her eyes fixed resolutely ahead, betraying no sign of trepidation as she moved with singular purpose down the ceremonial aisle. Her hair shimmered a deep navy blue, and her eyes mirrored the cyan expanse of a clear sky. Tall and poised, her mature countenance bore none of the naive softness of youth.
She’s nothing like the ostentatiously adorned ladies of the nobility was my first thought. Her gown was of a singular, unembellished shade; her face devoid of makeup; and her person unadorned with the glitter of gems or jewelry. Despite this, she was breathtakingly beautiful—not only in her physical appearance but also in a mesmerizing projection of something like an aura of beauty, a tangible elegance that I could palpably feel. Never before had I experienced such an instant, profound admiration for one girl. Initially, I had deemed my father’s request for my presence in this ceremony as an unnecessary and irksome chore, but witnessing her, I understood that my attendance was indeed serendipitous.
She halted in front of the dais and dipped into an elegant curtsy. “Your Royal Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” she began, “it is with profound reverence that I find myself standing in your illustrious presence. On this day, I come to present to you the results of my Saintly Trial and to humbly implore your blessing to ascend to the rank of Saint. I am most grateful for your time.”
Her greeting was—on the surface—a flawless one. A little stilted and less practiced than if a member of the aristocracy had performed it, but it was exceptionally delivered for a commoner. Truly impressive for a hastily learned endeavor, if that indeed was the case.
“Raise your head, child,” commanded my father. “You may stand at ease.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” she replied, her hands releasing the folds of her dress. I didn’t know whether it was nerves or her inherent solemnity, but when she straightened from her curtsy, her posture was as rigid as an arrow and unyielding as oak.
“The tidings of your triumph at the trials have already reached me,” my father proclaimed. “Heartfelt congratulations are in order. We are indeed fortunate to have a sage such as yourself steering the course of our kingdom.”
“Your Majesty’s words do me a great honor. And may I remind you of your promised blessing?”
To my astonishment, she had outright urged a king. Was her temperament naturally impatient, or did she fear my father might withhold his favor? Despite her accolades at the trials, she could not ascend to Sainthood without the dual endorsement of both church and crown.
My father assuaged her hasty expectancy with a kind smile. “Of course. The royal House of Phillips bestows upon you its blessing. You are now the Saint of Celestia. The official certificate shall be yours within a few days.”
Her face lit up immediately. “I am deeply thankful, Your Majesty.”
My eyes widened. There was something about her sudden excitement, the faint but enchanting curve of her lips, that stirred a feeling within me. A comforting warmth infused my very being, my heart quickened, and a delightful tingling ran down my spine.
What is this sensation that besieges me? My heart—it pounds with an unaccustomed fervor. Could this truly be? Have I, despite all of my skepticism, fallen in love?
The moment I identified the nature of my inner turmoil was the very moment I was besieged by a profound wave of chagrin at myself. I had always belittled the notion of love, dismissed it as trivial, a folly unworthy of pursuit. Yet here I was, abruptly ensnared in its delicate grasp. The sheer force of these emotions compelled me to place a hand over my mouth, as though to suppress the red-hot roil bubbling within me.
Claudia... The mere thought of her name ignited a raw, almost primal desire to know her more deeply. This longing surged up within me so swiftly, so overwhelmingly, that I found myself completely ensnared, a willing captive to these newfound emotions.
A few weeks later, I approached my father with a proposal: that I marry Saint Claudia to forge a political alliance. I chose this course of action because, for reasons I could not articulate, the very idea of simply declaring my love for her and pursuing her in the traditional manner seemed unbearably awkward.
Marriages between the Saint and the royal family were not uncommon in Celestia’s storied history. My father did not object; in fact, he seemed quite in favor of it, eager for the benefits such a union would bring. After discussing it with him, I sent the proposal and then waited anxiously for her response. I was certain Claudia would accept; she had every reason to agree, and I expected a positive reply within a few days.
But when the response did arrive, it was merely a letter, brief and crushing, with just the words “I’m sorry” scrawled across it.
“Why...?” I whispered, my hands shaking as they held the parchment. “How could she have...”
My heart shattered. It dawned on me that my confidence—perhaps more accurately, my arrogance—as crown prince had blinded me to possibilities other than a swift acquiescence. But why would she decline such an alliance? Was she already committed to someone else? No...that couldn’t be. The mere thought of her in someone else’s arms was...unbearable.
The shock twisted my love—turning it into hatred, the venom rapidly consuming my heart as I stared at those two horrible words. It was Raymond, my long-standing friend and adviser, who pulled me from the depths of this dark emotion. He stepped forward from his position against the wall to offer comfort. “Your Highness, I urge you to remain composed. I am confident that Saint Claudia’s refusal is not a rejection of you personally, nor do I think it indicates a desire to marry anyone else. News has just reached us that she plans to devote herself to the church. As you know, the church regards the Saint as a divine figure, and earthly attachments are forbidden to those who take the cloth. Thus, I do not think it likely she will be bound to anyone at all.”
And that includes you, Your Highness. Raymond didn’t say this last part out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat, a subtle nudge towards the unspoken truth.
I see. So she rejected me because she intends on joining the church.