Page 56 of When Kings Rise

Niamh looks at me, surprise etched on her face.

“An entire store dedicated to chocolate. It will be glorious,” I grip her hand for a moment with excitement.

As we continue our stroll, a thought bubbles to the surface. “I once dreamed of opening a store here,” I confess, the words slipping out before I can weigh their impact.

Niamh's interest is piqued, her eyes lighting up with curiosity. “Oh? What kind of store? A bookstore?”

The guess brings a smile to my face. “You would think, but no. I wanted to open an amezaiku store.

“Amezaiku?” She echoes, her expression a blend of confusion and intrigue.

“It's a very artistic style of Japanese candy making,” I explain, the memories of my fascination unfurling like the pages of a well-loved book. “I was obsessed with it for about two years. It was one of those dreams that shine brightly for a moment before fading into the backdrop of reality.”

Niamh's interest seems to deepen. “You had other dreams?”

“Too many,” I admit with a laugh, a sound that feels both free and a little sad. “My parents let me explore anything that caught my fancy.”

“That sounds nice,” she muses, a note of wistfulness in her voice.

“It was, in its own way. But in the end, we both ended up in the same place, didn't we?” I say, a subtle acknowledgment of our shared journey, of paths that diverged and converged in the most unexpected of ways.

Our conversation shifts to lighter topics as we secure some Chinese takeout, the warmth of the containers promising comfort and satiation. However, our search for a bench to enjoy our meal proves fruitless; every potential spot is already claimed, a testament to the city's bustle and life.

Undeterred, I lead us to a quiet piece of wall on the side of a building, an improvised spot that offers respite and a view of the street's vibrant dance. Sitting down, I lean my back against the cool brick, feeling its solid presence grounding me. Niamh joins me, her own back finding the wall, and we sit side by side in companionable silence, the city's hum a backdrop to our shared meal.

The rice is divine, with just the right amount of honey sauce poured on, and I find small cuttings of filet beef mixed like prizes amongst the rice and peppers.

“So, what happened at the theater?” I ask. I had tried to ask earlier, but Niamh had avoided my question. She was so obvious; now I need to know what took place.

Niamh’s cheeks color with a sudden blush, her eyes darting away, and I can’t help but smile at her bashfulness. “Why are you blushing?” I tease, trying to ease her discomfort. “You’re a grown woman, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of. And, if you're worried about someone overhearing, there’s no one close enough to care. Even if they did, no one knows us, anyway.”

She hesitates, then, looking at me with a mix of admiration and incredulity, she changes the subject. “How can you think about shopping, food, and... other things when there’s so much bad happening in the world?”

Her question strikes a chord deep within me, a reminder of a truth I seldom visit. I recall the moment my parents revealed the nature of my existence to them—not as a daughter cherished and loved for who she is but as a commodity, a pawn in their social maneuverings. I had idolized them, believing in their affection and support, only to discover their warmth was as hollow as the echoes in a deserted hall. The realization had come crashing down on me during a stay at my grandparents’ where the absence of genuine love in my upbringing became painfully clear.

Yet, this revelation, this understanding of my place in my family’s world, is not something I wish to lay upon Niamh's shoulders. So, I choose simplicity over the weight of my history. “If you worry about something that’s going to happen, you suffer twice,” I say, hoping to offer a sliver of wisdom amidst the uncertainty.

Niamh pauses, considering my words. “Buddhism?” she ventures, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

“Close!” I laugh, shaking my head at Niamh's guess. “Seneca, a Roman philosopher.”

Niamh rolls her eyes playfully, and for a moment, the tension between us eases. We're just two friends sharing lunch, not competitors in a bizarre contest for love. But even as we banter, my mind drifts to Diarmuid—charismatic, enigmatic Diarmuid. It's easy to get lost in discussions about his many fine qualities; his charm is undeniable, his smile infectious. But beneath the surface, there's a darkness that nags at me, a shadow I can't ignore.

“He's got this... aura, doesn't he?” Niamh muses, her voice tinged with a mix of admiration and curiosity.

I nod, trying to focus on the conversation, but my thoughts betray me, wandering to that haunting image. Diarmuid, a man capable of killing without hesitation. The rumor of him killing a child whispers in my mind, a sinister lullaby that won't let me rest. I glance at Niamh, wondering if I should share my fears. But what if knowing puts her in danger? What if ignorance is her shield?

We drift to lighter topics, like Diarmuid's peculiar habit of always keeping his shirt on. “Maybe he's hiding a tattoo,” Niamh suggests, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Or maybe scars from some secret past,” I add, trying to match her levity. We weave theories as fantastical as the tales of old, each more absurd than the last. But the laughter doesn't reach my eyes, and I wonder if Niamh notices.

Lunch ends, and we dispose of our garbage, the mundane act grounding me for a moment. As we link arms, heading towards the chocolate store, I can't help but marvel at the strangeness of our situation. Here we are, acting like lifelong friends, yet we're rivals, each hoping to win Diarmuid's heart. I think of Amira and the last time we saw her.

“Have you heard from Amira lately?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Niamh's expression sours slightly. “I try not to talk to her even when we're in the same room,” she admits, and there's a bitterness in her voice that surprises me.

As I lean over the counter, watching the chocolatier package our order with an artisanal touch, Niamh's phone shatters the cozy atmosphere of the shop. She steps aside, her expression shifting from casual curiosity to intense focus. I try to distract myself with the array of chocolates, but the undercurrent of our situation tugs at me, pulling me back to a reality I'd rather forget.

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