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Sixtee n

C rimson let her hands run over the time bitten pages, moths feasting with delight over the ink and parchment that lay open before her. She saw the imaginations that were painstakingly detailed, drawn with the idea of what each of the Saints looked like.

There were six total.

The first image was of a woman more lovely than any other before her, clearly a deity with floor length hair that pooled around her feet in yards of the whitest silver to have ever existed. Her skin gleamed like the moon with pale spots of grey that appeared where a red blush would normally arise. She was draped in nothing more than an ivory bolt of fabric, thrown across her shoulder with a grey belt made of the several moon phases.

The Dreamer.

Said to represent the line between life and death, the space where all mortals went at night when they experienced a tiny bit of death, when their life floated away in the darkness. She bore the most amount of curves compared to the other Saints, stunning in every way. There was a faint paragraph under it that held a sketching of a six-pointed star, a moon trapped within the clear crystal.

Each of the Saints had a magical artefact that allowed them to be summoned whenever their relic was touched in just the right way. The crystal star needed to be placed in one’s forefinger and thumb, spinning it delicately three times and thinking of their last dream as an offering.

The Dreamer roamed through the blank minds, sprinkling sparkling sands of shimmering visions for those who could not find slumber or dreams. The one that West claimed turned his glory down to an imaginable mortality.

She turned the page to see a familiar face.

Grimm.

Also known as the Warrior, with his infernal strength and rippling muscles that seemed to never end. The image depicted by his drawing barely did anything to cover the indecent parts. He wore chestnut leather that fitted over him like a vest and ran down into a pleated skirt of sorts. Thick hair covered the upper portion of his chest, curling and it made her shudder. Sandals rose to his huge calves. He bore a helmet under his left arm and a short sword in his right. His eyes were red, bloodshot instead of the brown hue they appeared in his mortal form. The description under the image read as such,

The Warrior is known for his brute strength and inconceivable bloodlust. With the rage of every mortal man who thirsts for something more, he carries the weight of war on his shoulders. The Warrior’s token is his helmet, seen above. In order to summon him, one must prick their finger and let the blood spill onto the metal.

The Muse followed after the short shiver that ran down her spine at the godlike form of the description of the Warrior.

The Muse was said to have straight golden hair that plummeted to her backside, with a middle part and eyes of strong white that stood out. The illustration had a music note at the corners of Muse’s eyes, golden lashes that looked like the cords of a harp. A turquoise dress wrapped around the dark brown skin, leaving the hips bare and falling just before her anklet clad feet. She wore no shoes but held a harp in her strumming fingers, her item. One had to simply strum the strings of the pocket sized harp and hum their favourite tune to summon her.

There was a paragraph underneath that warned the readers of her pied piper-like abilities, able to capture men’s minds, hearts and souls with a single song. Her music enslaved them if they weren’t careful enough to stuff their ears full of cotton before calling upon her.

Crimson flipped the page to see the Imp, who represented the mind, oddly enough. Half of their face was painted to look like they were sane, with a broad smile and rosy cheeks. But the other half held a crazy smirk, green eyes wild. They wore an emerald and violet cap with three points that all ended in shiny bells that matched the ones on their upturned shoes. A skin tight matching suit ran along their body, hands shoved into ruffled gloves that held strings over humans.

They loved to whisper mad little nothings into people’s minds as soon as they found their wand, a cap on the end to mirror the one upon their head. They had momentary lapses of judgement, losing to the insane side of their minds with the coaxings of Imp’s tongue. A white heart was painted upon their lips.

The next drawing made her heart stutter a little bit at the handsome male she stared down at. The Heartache. His title let on enough, said to be the picture of hearts and love, pain and suffering. Scarlet red hair fell in perfect waves from his head, bronze skin with eyes of the purest blue she had ever seen. He wore no shirt, a large X scar over his heart in black.

Heartache could find one’s true love with a flick of their hands or take away the emotions with another. He rarely did the latter, always claiming that it would never be worth it. His grey pants were tattered and yet seemingly in one piece, like the heart itself. Broken time and time again, shattered and stomped, yet able to be put back together again after every beating.

The last one made her stop, unfamiliar with the blond head of hair that had been illustrated. He had his left arm filled with constellations, golden and silver tattoos that wrapped around his skin. Dark sapphire eyes framed by dark lashes, and a broken compass dangling out of his blue trousers.

The Northern Star.

Crimson pondered over the text below his worn image, finding it fascinating. This looked nothing like the male she knew to be the Northern Star.

The Northern Star. Known for always leading their patron in the truest of norths and most righteous paths. Often said to be the kindest of the Saints, with no tricks or traps up his sleeves.

She paused her reading to look at the black sleeves of his shirt that had been rolled up to his elbows.

One has to spin the compass and find their true north in order to summon the Star, and align their hopes in the purest of directions.

Sounded confusing.

But the Saints always were.

“Imp thought it would be funny to portray him as a glimmering god, a star in every manner of the word.” The Empress mused as she approached Crimson from somewhere between the stacks.

One would be able to tell who this woman was from the moment one laid their eyes on her. She was stunning, in every definition of the word. Crimson felt as though she should bow or something, but the Saint continued to speak to her as though they were long time friends, instead of a sovereign and one of her mere subjects.

“So in the recorded history of Hisaith, he’s been whitewashed, I suppose you could say.” Osira Talon rolled her glorious eyes.

“But anyone who sees him, can clearly tell who he is.” Crimson protested as she shut the book, dust blooming once more. She holstered the need to cough.

“Not everyone can, surprisingly.” She huffed a light chuckle. “You just happened to see straight into his star-flecked soul. A rare thing indeed.” Osira motioned towards the books. “I’ve been working on correcting that foolish Saint’s tricks. That’s one of the last pieces I need to adjust it. Thank you for pulling it out.”

Crimson wasn’t sure what to say.

“Have you found what you’re looking for?” The Empress asked as she dragged her cream skirts behind her. “North tells me that you’re searching for Heartache.”

So that’s where he’d been for most of the day.

“I am.” She confirmed, feeling safe enough to answer truthfully. “But no, I haven’t.”

“What about seeking out his talisman? If you find that, you could summon him to appear before you. It might take him a few days to appear from wherever he’s hiding out in Hisaith, but it might be worth a shot. ”

“According to the book, no one knows how to use it in order to get him to appear.” She tapped the cover thrice. “What good would it be to obtain it and then have no clue on how to use it?”

“You’d be one step closer to him than before, that’s why.” Osira’s eyes were the colours of lemons in the spring, fresh orange juice and the sun all wrapped up into two beautiful orbs. “But Rapscallion Voss was always a gossipmonger, so don’t believe a word he says regarding the talismans. They’re most likely untrue.” She inched closer, flipping the massive tome open and finding the picture with the terrible rendition of West. “After all, he published this ridiculous novel without checking his sources. Perhaps if he had, North would be more accurately drawn.”

She stroked her pointer finger down the drawing, tracing all the wrong angles fondly. Not in the way a lover might tend to their partner, but in a way that family did. A true family, which is what Crimson supposed they were. For those that liked each other, unlike War who remained in his dark hiding pits and Heartache who had yet to be found.

Crimson smiled, a feminine little thing. “Has he seen this picture of himself?”

“I highly doubt it. He doesn’t often find himself here, of all the places to be in the castle.”

“May I borrow this, then?” She timidly asked, trying to quell her hopes for a spot of mischief.

Osira shrugged, waving her hand in the air. “I see no reason why not, as long as you eventually return it.”

“Thank you.” She closed the book and brought it close to her chest, wrapping her arms around it. The thing was ginormous, even for a history book about the past of Hisaith.

“It’s Crimson, correct?” The Empress suddenly interrogated out of nowhere .

“It is, your Majesty.”

“Oh, none of that.” Osira scoffed with an air of disdain. “I hate that level of praise and sticking noses up where they don’t belong. I’m sure our darling Saint has told you who I am, as he’s informed me of who you are and why you’re really here instead of that poppycock excuse he’s telling others. Muse or Osira will work just fine.”

He hadn’t told her anything regarding another Saint in the palace, but the book made it clear enough who she was.

“Alright.” She avoided the urge to bow or curtsy before the woman in some sign of respect.

“I hope to see you at the ball in a week’s time. It will be an event not to miss. I think some revelry will do you some good, after so long below the Bronze Gate.”

“I’ll try to be there.”

The Empress placed both hands on her hips, glaring at her with a gaze that almost felt intrusive, if it hadn’t been for the soft bit around the edges that reminded Crimson of a mother’s love. “See to it that you are. Even if that means I have to coerce the captain into bringing you along as his date, I’ll make sure that you enjoy the evening.”

“I don’t think he’d enjoy being told what to do very much.” She winced at the thought of Osira shoving a stiff-backed West into the hall and urging him to dance.

“Which is precisely why someone needs to. If it won’t be you, dear Crimson, then it’ll have to be me. That Saint has refrained from living for far too long. It’s time he sampled life and the wonders it offers us all, even if we may live forever.”

“Why?” She asked.

Osira didn’t need any further explanation, she understood the one worded question well enough. “Because for people like us, who have eternity and beyond, he feels as though there is no point to it all. To experience and love and laugh, only for it to be taken away in a matter of years, decades, centuries.”

Crimson chewed on the inside of her lip. “But that’s a terrible way to look at life. ”

“Exactly.” She agreed, a little melancholic melody that waved in musical ways, clear in her lilting voice. “Which is why I think this little living experiment might be good for him. He already seems to care a great deal for you and your brother, even if he’s only known you a short while. A word of advice, Crimson. North doesn’t easily attach himself to anything or anyone. I’ve never seen him latch onto anything or anyone before.”

It almost sounded like a warning, more so than a piece of advice. Even in Muse’s tone that reminded Crimson of a breathy flute.

“If you don’t plan on sticking around for the long run, then don’t bother getting to know him at all. If you leave, it won’t be easy for him.”

“He’s saving Cobalt’s life.” Crimson declared. “I owe him mine in return. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” Osira said softly. “But it might be a hard road ahead, if you plan on getting him to open up.”

Neither one of them seemed to notice the fly that buzzed in the air, right above them as it overheard every single thing.