memories of the fairytale’s prince

In a clearing that had lost its detail and remained only its space and existence were four children. Two boys of bronze skin and golden hair, and the other set of twins the boys both called Flower. One of the boys, louder and brash, was usually not to play with the twins and his brother, but as it was the first day of summer their mother had decided to make a singular exception.

The skies were clear, the wind was present, and the grass was soft and warm under their legs. The girl named Flower opened her wicker basket and began to pass around the berry filled pastries and jars of honey and jasmine milk her grandmother had prepared, both of which had grown warm and fragrant from the unrelenting sun. Shadows were the whereabouts of the animals as they stayed cool, but the small bugs and pink and yellow flying creatures decided to venture out of the shade. A butterfly with wings the shade of reddened clouds at sunset brushed against his open palm. He recalled it sipping his honey-dripped fingers, dancing its little wings about, then flying off. The boy named Flower took the basket and went to pick porcelain and lilac flowers for his sister, and when he returned she began to make crowns and rings for each of them.  

He did not remember what they had spoken off, but that was because he forgot that they had not spoken very much at all. It was the one instance that the beauty of such a warm and empty world rendered them completely without motion or sound. It was evident in that moment one of the bronze boys thought to himself that the feeling was so tender a thing that it would be remembered forever, the only portrait of his childhood he would care to hang in the long, dark corridors of memory. And the realization of such a fact made him even more silent in that clearing, fingers gripping the dirt until roots showed, dreading for when it would come to its end and remain only a portrait. 

But the boy named Flower surrendered to him a smile with his eyes a beautiful and adoring brown, and he placed his pale hand atop his bronze hand, and the girl named Flower put her little head on his shoulder and wrapped her little arms around his body, and the weight of this moment lessened so that he could enjoy it only as it was in the present without fear of only seeing and loving it in the future, and his mind relaxed. His brother sat alone, and they both looked up to the sky.

~Sammicakes