In the rich material of silk, they called her a spectral presence.
And he continues, doesn't he? He was the silent shadow that followed her every step as she walked along.
A silent palace guard whose name is Kabelo Dube is stationed there. His is a name devoid of distinguishing marks or achievements. He hails from a nonexistent family line, one on which no great history is written. No predestined fate is written on aged scrolls and no prophecy exists that speaks of the course of his destiny. He was born beneath a sky full of shattered stars and brought up amidst a cruel world of unyielding rocky walls. He was a mere boy who was schooled in swordsmanship long before he learned how to imagine himself with dreams or goals.
But he definitely had dreams.
He had a vision, a sincere aspiration, reserved exclusively for her.
Thumbelina Kumbukani.
the girl who moved like she had been chiseled from starlight. Who bowed before seniors as if they had not humiliated her. Smiling reservedly, one cried silently. She was all Kabelo could never be: regal, elegant, untouchable.
However, for a brief instance, she did glance his way once.
Just one example was more than sufficient.
That day he recalled. From the marble, rain murmurs cool into the courtyard. Slipped, her dressy sandals wet. Laughing once others did—gruff, too subdued— he bent down on one knee, hand outstretched, helmet held over his heart like a badge of honor.
She had not uttered a word then. She just started doing things without any verbal communication.
Then she bowed her head.
A princess had curtsied gravely in his direction—a princess, indeed, in all the important ways that it counts, save for the formal title which normally comes with one, that is.
After that time, everything changed, and the heavens were never viewed by him in the same light again. If we were to compare Thumbelina to the moon shining brightly on a clear night, then surely Kabelo would be like the tide—irrepressibly attracted to her, irresistibly returning again and again.
He watched her every step from the darkness of the shadows, silently and intently. With every step that a guard took, he felt as if he was watching a holy pilgrimage in honor of her presence. He stood guard strategically beside her garden walk, near the high council halls, so he would be at every corner where her life crossed his own. Not once did he ever speak out of turn or say anything that might be thought improper. He never once crossed the lines that were drawn. He just belonged there, in the moment, always so!
Tightly gripping his fists at the uncontrollable laughter on the part of the nobles
He shot a piercing, withering glance at the maids, which sent them silent; at last they stopped their whispered exchanges of biting put-downs and epithets.
Placing himself in the middle of the festive partygoers, he decided to disregard the instructions that had been issued to him concerning his conduct, simply to make sure that she did not feel neglected or abandoned.
He whispered softly and quietly into the profound silence of the night, enveloped by the warm, golden light of the lanterns that lit up the colorful and lively Nerjjeb festival being celebrated on that magical night.
"With my own bare hands, I would do anything within my power to shield you from the cruelties and threats of this world, if only I were able to do so."
Nobody could hear him at all.
Nobody was compelled to do that.
For the whole of the world surrounding him, he had held back from saying those specific words.
He certainly would have seized the chance to put words to them for her.
He never spoke directly. He never expressed himself or his intentions directly in a clear manner.
In the end, love was not a luxury that he could simply buy or acquire at whim. He did own one tunic, which was worn by him with pride. He tended to catch naps at the outer buildings, ones that were most uninviting. In pain, he bled without noise, holding it within himself, as he complied with orders through a louder silence that attested to his resignation. What desire, then, might a male, shaped from the ground itself, ever feel for something as remote and elusive as a moon?
Even the humblest dirt can flower gorgeously when tended with love.
From street markets, he picked out hairpins for her and left them anonymously at her window.
By making the effort to learn about the different books that she especially loved, he was considerately able to position copies of those books in the particular spaces where she loved to read the most.
He bowed his body lower than any other person there when she was humiliated, his forehead making contact with the rough surface of the rock beneath; he stood tall and upright when all the others standing around him showed their contempt in sneers and jeering faces.
She would never even know.
One would never really know that.
In the specific reality they lived within and experienced, it was a widely recognized practice or custom that existed with meaning.
The Day She Passed Away
They said it was a mistake.
Still, he knew.
The festival fires were too great that day; the street was too noisy; the agents turned over strangely. It was intended. Shiny. Bloody. In the square where people could see, Thumbelina, who once gracefully waltzed across the palace halls was crushed. Fell with her mouth open and arms stretched, as if pleading the gods why.
Kabelo sprinted.
Into the smoke. via the yells. His armour rang like the bells of death.
He came too much later.
She was lying there eyes wide. Not looking away. Stopped breathing.
First off in his life, he yelled.
A scream so unvarnished the festival went quiet.
He held her in his arms, not caring who saw. The guards tried to pull him off, but he rejected them as though they were covers. He pushed his forehead to hers, searching desperately for a warmth that wasn't there, his tears staining her ceremonial robes.
And then something broke.
Revenge him.
Repay would be politics, hired help, Shyama's guards.
It was no great matter to him who it was. He did not ask permission.
He Found them.
He also stopped them!
One after another.
Fire. Dead. Silence. Stillness.
He killed everyone involved.
Finished, he headed back to her graveside.
Three Consecutive Days
He stayed totally immobile and did not move at all for three entire days.
Gently, he knelt beside her grave, located at the center of meticulously trimmed as well as elegantly laid-out royal garden, his sword firmly planted deep within the luxuriantly nourishing soil as if this was a sacred pledge to her memory.
He did not eat anything at all.
Did not drink any alcohol.
Did not even blink an eye.
When birds alighted gently on his shoulders, he did not flinch one bit. When the rain started falling all around him, he did not flinch one bit. When they begged him passionately to leave the scene, he did not flinch one bit.
He died there. At the age of twenty-three.
He fell and slipped at the very spot where love seized him for a long duration of time, causing him to feel intimate.
His final breath left him in the form of a faint, gentle whisper:
"Next life, I swear on my heart that I will guard you and make you mine for real. I am ready to take on whatever challenges that come our way, even if it takes the whole world to suffer for your happiness."
And the world, vast and silent, heard it all.
Because love that pure is not easily buried.
Rebirth:
The Uplifting and Phenomenally Incredible Comeback Story of Khwezi Dlamini In another world—colder, sharper—he was born again.
At this point in time, he went by the name of Khwezi Dlamini.
The heir to a twisted empire. Cold, beautiful, dangerous. The press called him "the Phantom Prince." The underworld called him "the Blade." He had the money Kabelo never had. The power. The reputation.
But that was not so for her.
He relentlessly looked for her familiar smile in the face of each stranger he met.
She never made a scene at all.
Women chased him relentlessly. Yet, none opted to stay with him. He did not want their presence.
His only wish was to have her beside him.
He didn't know why. Didn't know why his chest ached when he looked at the moon. Why his dreams bled silver and silk. Why he woke up gasping, Thumbelina's name like ash on his tongue.
But he was not able to forget how her eyes appeared.
Over the years, he transformed, changing in ways that mirrored the passage of time.
The warmth of Kabelo faded.
The fire that once protected began to consume.
He became the personification of all the different traits and characteristics that the villain in the story was created to completely embody and fully illustrate throughout the story.
On this deeply poignant anniversary which marked and celebrated the fatal loss of Thumbelina in a city that was as far away from even the slightest semblance of fairy magic or the enthralling beauty of a star-filled night sky suspended overhead as it was, he stood moodily by the grand window of his lavish penthouse apartment.
The world below worshipped and adored him with unshakeable loyalty.
Yet how about the moon up high above us?
Even today, it still reminded him of her in his mind and conscience.
And he whispered once more:
"I am coming to fight you. Regardless of the obstacles that lie in my path, even if I have to break the fundamental structure of the world to fulfill my purpose."
The shadows thickened. His eyes, once soft, burned red.
And now, the dramatic story of the villian.
Had at last begun to occur.