To Honor a Memory by Zero

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To Honor a Memory



He delays his entrance. First five minutes, then ten, then fifteen, then twenty-five, and the clock keeps racing, like the gossips and the murmurs of the crowd.

He knows perfectly what awaits him. Forced pleasantries. Power plays. Nobility titles and family names as shields and refuges. Expectations like black magic, like generational curses. Quiet storms to weather.

He dreads it.

The sixteen years he had been spared, escaped unscathed all of this come to an end and it’s just the start of autumn and every day has a little less light.

He stares one last time into the bathroom mirror. He has pulled back his golden hair in a half bun. The bronze, golden, sunlight shade, a trait from his mother’s bloodline, now passed. As soon as he starts moving his bangs will starts coming loose, as the locks of shorter hair at the nape. That always pisses his father.

If he stares too long in the mirror he can see the ring of gold in his eyes around his pupil, that is unmistakably his father’s. The flecks of sunlight being swallowed by the black at the center of his eye.

His eyebags are mostly gone. The battle against insomnia not quite won. The mix of dubious herbal remedies, blind faith, prayers, and stubbornness have held their own against the sleepless nights.

Even in the insides of the castle, with the windows shut, the smell of his father’s garden of aromatic flowers, vast and ever expanding courses through the air.

"Prince Alphonse".

A sixteen years old prince with a dead brother. To inherit a country at war. This is where fate —or God or chance— has led him, cornered him.

"So, royal shearing ceremony tomorrow on your sixteenth birthday" a nobleman approaches him, a glass of wine in his hand "It’s a sacred rite of passage".
"It’s ancient" Alphonse grabs a glass of orange juice from a tray that passes them.
"A freshly shorn prince is always a sight of beauty and regality" the nobleman gives him a crooked smile "There are lots of young royals here who have never witnessed or heard of the royal shearing and its origins, care to enlighten them, prince Alphonse?".
"They will be able to hear all about it tomorrow" he is not entertaining this man, he has decided "Or read it in the newspaper the day after".
"Alphonse. These are our guests. Be more welcoming" his father, King Erasmus lands a hand on his shoulder.

Alphonse looks over his shoulder. His father’s stone face, clean-shaven head, his meticulously trimmed and groomed beard just at the edge of his jawline. His lack of adornment and jewels.

Austerity. His family is renowned for it among the other royals. Their kings and princes have foregone vanity. Stripped their male heirs of anything deemed vain the day they turned sixteen.

There is a price to pay at the end of it. A compulsive pursuit of beauty elsewhere. The sanctification of what was denied and forbidden. An altar for what they could no longer have, a perpetual mourning for it.

His great-grandfather and his hundred exhibition horses. His grandfather and his collection of art pieces and sacred jewelry, obtained by less than honorable methods from all over the world. His father’s bottomless knowledge of botany, gardens and flowers.

Alphonse wonders where Thomas would have tried to chase beauty had he been alive. He fears where he himself will end up obsessing over beauty.

And tonight, his father is a mirror. Like his brother was. The three of them caught in a infinite formation of mirrors.

And Alphonse’s reflection hasn’t felt like his in a long time.

"Fine" he gives in, looking at his father in the eye. "There are many variations of this legend" he clarifies "This is the one I was told as a young boy".

"A long time ago, our kingdom was ravaged by decades of war. The death toll of the famine, the disease, the trauma, the loss of the impoverished kingdom was staggering. This led to unrest and riots on the street. There were multiple assassination attempts on the royal family from all directions".

Alphonse makes eye contact with the people that have gathered around him, their perverse fascination does not go unnoticed by his sharp eyes, but he wishes it would.

"The king’s son" he continues "A vigorous teenager with long hair was the target of most vitriol. His health, his youth, a reminder of the deep inequalities between the ruling family and their subjects. A reminder of how the royal family didn’t suffer the same hardships".

"The boy was seen as vain, estranged from the people he would one day rule, living a sheltered, luxurious life while other boys like him either died from disease or at war" his gaze goes over the people in the ballroom.

Alphonse tries banish to the back of his mind the boys dying in war. The men who never return home. His brother who died in the frontlines.

He tries to ignore the feeling that he is telling a backwards prophecy about himself as he speaks.

"One day, after a tense encounter, the king made a decision" he takes a deep breath to pause, this is the part he hates the most of the story "He summoned a barber, a commoner, in the capital’s main square. He had the young prince escorted to the main square and knelt in front of the barber. The crowd gathered around them. Then, the king commanded the barber to shave off his son’s hair, all of it. The barber complied. He razored the young prince’s head once, twice, thrice over until it was completely bare, in front of everyone. The prince endured. It was a public display of humility and sacrifice".

King Erasmus’ gaze on him is heavy and Alphonse bears the weight of it in every sentence he utters.

"Afterwards, the king declared that as long as the war and hardship lasted, their prince wouldn’t grow his hair back or wear any kind of jewelry or adornments" he speaks in the most neutral, factual tone he can produce "The prince was crowned some years later, the hardships persisting well into his first years as a ruler. For all that time, the prince refused to grow his hair back out, he took it as an oath. In fact, when the prince had a male heir of his own, he also had his hair shaved off".

What is his bloodline if not a heartlessness that perseveres through the ages?

"A few decades, when peace and prosperity was finally achieved, the prince, now king, decided the royal tradition should be upheld. As a reminder of the past struggles and for future rulers to remember they’re not, never, above the people they rule" he clutches his glass of orange juice a bit tighter in his grasp "And so, after generations, the tradition is still upheld and sanctified".

He takes a sip of the orange juice, lets the tangy, sweet, citric taste take away the arid taste of the legend he has told.

His father, the scholars, they taught it —first to his brother, then to him— as a tale about humility, duty and sacrifice.

Since he first heard it as a child, Alphonse has thought one thing and one thing only about it: It’s a story of a young boy being punished and humiliated to repent for sins he didn’t commit, to appease a rage that wasn’t his to answer to.

"And tomorrow, you will also uphold it, Alphonse" his father doesn’t let the reminder go, as his hand goes back to his shoulder.

Alphonse nods and mutter a quiet affirmation in response. He sees the faces around him. He feels the eyes trailing up and down his entire body. He feels the gazes lingering on the ring he wears on his right hand. The pupils on the gold chain with the pendant he inherited from his late brother, prince Thomas around his neck.

"Besides, prince Alphonse is doing this for the war effort" king Eramus announces to the attendants, their faces intrigued by his words.

Alphonse flinches. The war effort. He was hoping this wouldn’t be brought to the light. Not yet at least.

"Prince Alphonse, your Highness, are you joining the fight in the frontlines?" a younger noblewoman looks at him with apprehension "But you’re still so young".

As is the earth on prince Thomas’ grave.

"No, prince Alphonse will be contributing to the war effort in a different manner" his father King Erasmus speaks in his behalf, his hand fingering the first locks that have freed themselves in his nape "Prince Alphonse’s shorn hair will be collected, carefully cleaned and preserved and woven into jewels that will be auctioned to aid the families affected by the war".

This isn’t the first time he’s hearing this, of course. His father broke the news to him weeks ago —had the decency to break the news to him beforehand at the very least— but it doesn’t mean his heart doesn’t sink at the mention of it.

He sees the faces of the courtiers. The way shock, interest, pity and admiration flicker in their eyes at the same time as the information settles in their minds.

Alphonse knows both him and his father, king Erasmus still hold against the other the verbal onslaught that followed from both their sides the day he was informed of this decision.

"You’re very quiet" the nobleman he hates observes him "Have you’ve got nothing to say about this, your Highness?".
Alphonse halfway forgets how he was trained to word it, so he recalls his best from memory and answers the question to his best effort "I can say I hope it will be worth what I give up".

It isn’t quite what he was supposed to say, or how he was supposed to say it, but Alphonse’s life isn’t what it was supposed to be either or headed where it was supposed to, so it will have to suffice.

"Austerity is a distinctive of our esteemed royal family, your Highness" the nobleman smirks as he speaks to him "I’m sure it will suit you".




Alphonse sees the portrait of prince Thomas on his dresser after the attendants are gone.

He unties his hair and runs a hand through his long, golden locks. Tomorrow morning will be the last time he washes it and combs it.

"It’s barbaric" he utters.
"War is always barbaric" king Erasmus’ weary voice answers.
"No" Alphonse shoots back without thinking "I mean, yes… but I’m referring to this so-called royal shearing".
"We’ve been through this, Alphonse".
"You expect me to be okay with being commodified and stripped of a part of myself publicly like this!?" Alphonse snaps back.
"As a matter of fact, I do" his father turns to face him, his demeanor stern "And so does everyone else".
"Your Majesty" a guard interrupts them "The royal jeweler is here".
"Let him in".

Alphonse frowns. The jeweler walks in. He wears silver-rimmed glasses, his brown hair slicked back. He carries a messenger’s bag across his chest. He greets his father first. His low-pitched voice echoing in the chamber.

"Prince Alphonse, your Highness" he calls him.
Alphonse gives him a courteous nod in response.
"I’ve come to inspect and measure your hair, as agreed" the jeweler gives him an eager smile "If you’d be so kind to sit while I...".
"Of course" Alphonse drags a chair closer and sits down.

King Erasmus stands right in front of Alphonse. His father’s clean-shaven head glistens underneath the dim lights. It’s a perfectly shaped skull. No scarring. No imperfections. No bumps. No stubble anywhere. Pristine.

The jeweler examines a single lock of hair from his crown against the light, underneath a magnifying glass, as he would with any gem. Alphonse feels a faint, soft tug in his scalp as the man twists it gently and holds it in his fingers.

"The day after the ceremony, I’ll teach you how to shave your own head and maintain it, son. You’ll learn how to take care of everything yourself" Erasmus looks at Alphonse as if he is proud, almost loving "You have to be self-reliant".
Alphonse nods briefly "I know".
"Pure gold. Warm undertones. Such richness in the sheen" the jeweler scrutinizes the clump of hair and takes notes in a book "Truly remarkable. I’m sure the jewelry made from it will fetch very high prices at the auction".
"I’m going to have to estimate but…" the jeweler holds the lock back as it would fall, down to Alphonse’s shoulder "… I’d say we have a good twenty centimeters at least for a lock like this. How will the length be preserved when it’s cut if I may ask, your Majesty?".
"Prince Alphonse’s hair will be shaved down as close as possible with a sharp straight razor. Everything will be shorn down to the skin and most of the length of his hair should remain intact by this procedure" his father explains "The barber will know to collect it as carefully as he can while he shaves the prince".
"Could it be styled in a way that when it’s removed it comes off in it a way that’s manageable?" the jeweler lets go of the lock and runs a hand across the length of his hair "And I’m sorry if I’m intruding, I just want to assist in any way I can with the preservation and collection of prince Alphonse’s hair, your Majesty".

Alphonse hears the jeweler talk about his hair as he would about any object, any raw material and clenches his fists on his lap. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

He holds back his anger, his calcinating, racing heart.

"Usually, the hair is not styled for the royal shearing, but since we need to preserve Alphonse’s hair, perhaps the barbers can come up with a solution".
"I understand, your Majesty".

Alphonse feels the hand abandon his hair. He is relieved that the jeweler is no longer touching him.

"I’d really like to collect a lock of hair while I’m here, if that is okay with both of you" the jeweler speaks again "I want everyone in the workshop to get familiar with the material as soon as possible".

He shudders. He opens his mouth and bites his tongue. He searches for his father’s eyes with urgency.

He wants to plead. He wants to say ‘no’. He wants his father to please say ‘no’.

His father’s expression is unreadable. As if he is considering the request inside his mind. His father’s eyes glaze over him in a pensive state. As if he weighed him.

"Go ahead" his father says with a firm tone.

Alphonse freezes. He sees the jeweler take a blade from the inside of his bag. He unsheathes it. He studies his head, deciding where will he extract the lock of hair from.

He tilts Alphonse’s head at an awkward angle, over his left shoulder as he exposes the skin behind his right ear. He holds his head in place firmly and commands him to hold still.

His father, king Erasmus moves forward to assist. He offers to hold him in place so the jeweler can secure the lock of hair with his free hand.

Alphonse feels his skin writhe as the steel descends on him. He can hear the scrape of the blade against his skull as his hair is removed in short, repetitive strokes from his head.

As the jeweler finishes grinding the blade against his scalp. Alphonse sees the clump of golden hair trapped inside his finger being moved to a small metallic box.

He feels his father release his head and his breath comes ragged, he is shaken as the man secures the piece of his hair inside the container.

"We’re thrilled to work with such a precious, high-quality material" the jeweler gathers his belongings once again "Rest assured, prince Alphonse’s hair will be treated with utmost respect and care in my workshop".
"We know and we appreciate it" king Erasmus smiles but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
"Prince Alphonse, your Highness. It’s very noble of you, what you’re doing, it honors the memory of the fallen" the jeweler looks his way before vanishing.

He can’t give a verbal response as the door closes.

His hand trembles as he touches the indent on his hairline behind his right ear.

"Dad, what did you, why?" Alphonse’s voice shakes as the speaks, fondling the patch where a lock of hair is missing as he tries not to burst into tears.
"Alphonse, my son" his father sighs and cups his temple inside his hand "You know your hair will be shorn either way. It makes no difference".
"But, dad…" his voice falters further.
King Erasmus caresses his hair "You are the heir to the throne now, my child, you know this".
"I don’t…" his eyes start watering even though he doesn’t want them to.
His father talks to him as if he knows what he will say next, and he does "You are".

As Alphonse lays in bed that night, his hand keeps moving to the stubbled patch behind his ear.

It’s sandpaper. He winces.

This wasn’t anything any of their legends or parables taught him.

His accession to the throne wasn’t told by any oracles.

And now he has to follow fate wherever it will lead him.




Alphonse feels the tugs on his hair as the royal barber braids it from top to bottom, right at the center. The strands of hair move inward, they tighten in the middle.

His bangs have been pulled back into the depth of his scalp and Alphonse feels a terrible awareness of how exposed and bare his face is.

"There is a shorn patch behind your ear, your Highness" the royal barber observes.
"I know" he takes a deep breath.

He fidgets with the ring in his right hand. Feels the meticulous braiding as his hair is gathered in locks one last time. He feels like an exhibition animal, like one of his great-grandfather’s hundred horses.

"Alphonse. The jewelry" his father does not miss it.

He sighs and slides the ring off his finger.

"You have to be unadorned from now on. You’ll only wear your wedding band when you marry. Your appearance has to be as austere as possible" king Erasmus wipes his freshly shaven head with a cloth, drying off the drops of water that slide down his temples "Remember that".
"Yes, I will remember" Alphonse puts the ring on top of his dresser.
His father’s eyes are trained for hunting, as his gaze never misses anything "You’re wearing the pendant. Take it off".
He feels his heart ache, almost physically "It was Thomas’. Please, don’t make me".
King Erasmus considers "Fine. But wear it underneath your clothes, at all times".

The barber quietly secures the last locks of hair at his nape into the braid. His movements are gentle, dexterous as he touches the strands.

As he looks into the mirror and appreciates the craft, Alphonse almost wishes he had worn his hair styled like this more often.

"I’ve taken care of your hair since you were a little boy and I will continue to take care of your scalp once you’re completely shaven, your Highness, you can rest assured of that" the barber places both his hands on Alphonse’s shoulders for a moment.

Alphonse can’t find or trust his voice, so he nods and thanks him.

"Congratulations on your sixteenth birthday, prince Alphonse. And on your royal shearing".

He won’t celebrate his birthday today, Alphonse decides.

Time keeps racing towards them and he takes a long hard look into the mirror one last time, before he is called.




His father has moved the ceremony from its usual place to a square near the army’s headquarters.

It’s a sacrifice for the war effort. The troops must bear witness of their crown prince.

There are a lot of soldiers here.

Alphonse watches the first part of the ceremony. The royal barber hands over his tools to his commoner colleague who will perform the royal shearing in front of the crowd. He sees the royal barber —his barber— speak gently, warmly to the other as he touches his arm.

Then, he is signaled to move forward. He makes eye contact with the other barber, the one who will shave off his hair.

He is a young man, his eyes overflowing with humanity —his eyes hold the most humanity he has ever seen in anyone’s gaze— and he has tanned skin and a gentle, caring smile.

"You’re in good hands, your Highness".

Alphonse kneels in front of the barber and the crowd disappears for a moment, as does his father, as does the world around him when he faces the ground and the metallic vase before him, where his hair will be collected.

And he can hardly maintain a hold on his trembling body.

It worries him, because he is not supposed to move, if he can’t stop shaking he will get hurt, the blade will cut into his head and he will have a scar and it will always be visible.

Alphonse doesn’t know why he thinks of this, why such thing anguishes him but it’s the thought that crosses his mind as he tries to still himself.

The first thing he feels it the hand tilting his head just a bit further down.

The second is the coldness of the steel.

As the blade glides over his scalp, as it moves from his nape to his crown, he cannot fight back the shiver on his spine or the tears welling up in his eyes.

The cold touch of the blade contrasting sharply with the warmth of the sun-kissed autumn breeze. Each stroke cascades through his body.

Alphonse sees sparse locks of gold fall on the vase below him. They drift quietly, piling in clumps. He can’t make out his face in the surface.

He hears the scraping of the blade and feels his scalp being bared further and further.

He shuts his eyes and capitulates.

Alphonse cries because Thomas is dead, because his only brother died.

He doesn’t know the reason why he is alive while Thomas is dead.

But he can walk beyond this night and find the reason at the end of it.

He surrenders to the moment, allowing himself to be enveloped by the ritualistic rhythm of the shearing. The whispers of the crowd become distant echoes, drowned out by the steady pulse of his own heartbeat.

Alphonse lets out a breath before he suffocates and opens his eyes once to see a handful of gold cascade down his face.

The last vestiges of his golden mane fall away as the blade finally meets the end of his hairline where his bangs start.

His head is showered with water, the vase filled with golden hair is carried away, secured for the jeweler, for the relics to aid their struggling nation.

Alphonse wipes the water streaming down his face with both hands and hopes it camouflages the tears.

"Hold still, your Highness" the barber places a firm hand on his back "I’m shaving a second time all around, okay?".

He takes another breath. He nods and lets the barber maneuver the blade a second time around his head.

The second shave stings. The blade bites into his denuded scalp. Yet Alphonse is calmer.

The razor dances in short strokes around his head, jumps from his sideburns, to his nape, to his hairline, once, twice, with and against the grain.

The third shave is his father’s.

It’s not customary or protocol. But King Erasmus requests to handle the razor and give a shave to his second-born son himself, the way he could never do it for Thomas.

The third touch of the steel in his head is almost a caress and Alphonse can appreciate the sensation, the rhythm and care of the motions.

A towel cleans his now bare head, his exposed neck and ears.

The razor is laid to rest and he is commanded by his father to rise to his feet.

Alphonse doesn’t touch his own head. He is not allowed to do it publicly. Not yet. He gazes into the soulful eyes of the young barber first.

"Thank you," Alphonse can hardly speak.

Then, into his father’s gaze, a flicker of pride through the grief and their shared pain and the long road ahead for both.

Alphonse thinks he can see a sunrise in his father’s eyes for the first time in months, a light breaking through the night for the first time and he hopes it’s in his eyes as well.

He gazes into the people before him. And hopes he can be worthy of leading them.

That he can carry the crown the way they deserve it.

That he will one day believe it.





AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey, Zero here! Odd one, I know. I need to stretch my hand a bit. Okay about this one, well the idea came from Victorian mourning jewelry, I knew I wanted to work around it for a while, but wasn’t sure about the direction or the focus until this happened. As always, if you guys love it or hate it, I always welcome any kind of comments and feedback. Thanks for reading!

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