Cosmos

Little embers flung from the flickering flame, filling the cramped nook with a faint, comforting aroma of smoke. The fire was warm; the room beyond the fence of pillows dipped in the setting sun’s dimming light as it pierced through the vivid stained glass of nearby windows. Those who surround the cinder-stained furnace huddled together, fingers interlocked and toes curled as their wide and eager eyes beckoned for the day’s final routine to commence.

“Did you know?”

There was always something mystic and mischievous in the soft tone of her storytelling. Something that charmed even the most stubborn of ears to come and listen. Whether it be her decades long experience or something else to blame, every tale that left her mouth was akin to a seed that plants itself into one's memories, soon to bloom into a garden that paints a brilliant landscape.

Her grey irises were reflective of both the nearby fire and the passion she possessed for her duties, though as there were often only novice eyes near enough to stare, none may ever really know just how strong nor how deep that zealousness is.

“Long ago, our kingdom was ruled by three siblings who governed the people using their wondrous but terrifying powers.”

She flipped the pages of the hefty tome, its parchment stained by time yet its gravity weighing heavily against her thin, frail arms in which she held it.

“One gave life, one oversaw life, and one harvested it,” she lifted the book, showing her little listeners an old illustration.

“They were called Cosmos. Like the flower.”

Small gasps flew as hands rose to shield eyes from the majestic scribbles of mythical figures in fear that they may follow them back in their dreams. The storyteller, however, had only a faint smile on her face.

“The people were terrified of them and their abilities, so one man rose to banish the Cosmos.”

The intricately drawn portrait she presented this time elicited grins rather than shrieks, for even young minds would not fail to recognize the very face carved on every golden statue erected in their streets.

“Our first king, his majesty, Aier Caislo, defeated the Cosmos and saved us.”

Chatters and praises ensued, each with little renditions of the same, valiant tale.

“But,” their novice cheers were ceased by a continuation they did not foresee, “before the Cosmos disappeared, they left the kingdom with a warning.”

She moved her hand to shut the pages of the weathered literature within its leather cover, yet her tale has not yet reached its conclusion.

“They proclaimed that when time comes, they would sprout the seed of life for three children.”

She gazed at each of her audiences’ eyes.

“One would plant life, one would rear it, and one would harvest it.”

The storyteller settled on the greyish purple orbs of a young girl among the small crowd who started back knowingly, as if the end of this particular story was already well within her juvenile foresight.

“They said that these three children will continue their legacy and soon reclaim their kingdom, bringing the reign of the Cosmos back to Caislo—”

A set of applause stopped the tale's progression.

The cautious Annalise Wendel, perpetrator of the intervention, spoke to the occupants of the reading nook with a bright and nervous, “Alright, I think that’s enough story time for today.”

She tucked the locks of her long, red tresses behind her ear, flashing her superior a signal in the form of a forged grin. “It’s getting late, we mustn’t make your parents worry.”

Her interference received groans and whines from the invested toddlers and young’uns within the pillow forth barricading the furnace, causing their storyteller and educator, Zinnia Amaranth, to chuckle.

“Miss Anna is right, we shall carry on tomorrow,” she told her students as both her and Annalise began to pick up hands and usher them out of the reading room.

"We'll have more stories to explore soon."

The castle library bid farewell to their youngest learners just as the sun finally nestled behind the mountains of Caislo. And as they watch their students retire as sons and daughters for the night, Annalise felt an urge to question her superior.

“First it was insect monsters and magical waters, and now it’s a prophecy,” murmured Annalise as they waved goodbye to the children, feeling her exhaustion double due to what is supposedly her day’s final itinerary. “Madam, just how many versions of our history must you tell of?”

“I am simply reading what is written, Anna,” Zinnia reasoned, her voice as gentle and carefree as ever —a strong arsenal against her assistant’s cumbersome thoughts. “We should be thankful. It must encourage the children to seek and study more, no?”

“Perhaps. But most likely, so will their parents.” Annalise’s faking of a smile was of her caution for a consequence she could already imagine.

“Well, learning does not stop in childhood, as I say.” Zinnia Amaranth, with her roster of experiences, feared no, nor detected any, consequences.

“And what of that prophecy, madam? What if they believe it?” was Annalise’s final endeavor to beckon an epiphany from her superior.

“What else are we to do?” Zinnia merely walked back inside the reading area. “I have told, not advocated. Their belief is not mine to sway. The kingdom has its well-known history. From the mouths of children, they might barely believe my version.”

“Alright.” Annalise succumbed, another breath creeping out of her chest as she kept her hands politely clasped. “I have no clue how Mrs. Edena had done it, but believing you has never troubled me, anyways.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Annalise.” Zinnia beamed, to which her assistant smiled.

Zinnia turned to the now dark room, spotting a curled figure by the flame watching the embers sparking out of the furnace; silent yet unwavering; near but not enough to feel the heat from the swaying fire, having been taught that she may burn in it.

“Lily,” Zinnia called, causing the child’s head of wood brown hair to shift towards her direction, a quiet but curious golden glim lighting her irises.

Zinnia placed out her hand, beckoning, “Shall we go home?”

“Yes, mama.”