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soscarlett1twas · 5 months ago

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Palimpsest

↳ As time for the next ascension nears, the earis grows worried. ↳ 15.2k words / also available on ao3!

The crowd was loud, so loud it only permitted you that thought.

People roared in the stands, screaming, chanting, some even threw things. Thousands of seats were full with onlookers. They were yelling for your mother.

As she stood on the podium, the surrounding crowd continued, a grand smile painting her face. You’d heard how people described her voice like a siren. You hadn’t understood the comparison until then.

She took one last bow and stepped away, from the shade of the baldachin and into the inner stadium. You whined as she disappeared from view. A man in uniform sat beside you until she returned to your booth, you picking at the details on your outfit in the meantime, trying to focus on something other than the noise. Cheers were much less enchanting then your mother’s song.

When she returned, she sat on the sofa and swept you up into her lap, kissing your cheek.

“Did you enjoy the show?” She asked.

“Yes, mama!” You enthusiastically said, hugging her neck as she held your waist.

She tried to put you down, but your hands shot right up to your ears, covering them to stifle the noise. She pulled you close, eliciting a giggle. You rested your head in the crook of her neck, your cheek against the cold gems across her collarbone. Her hand covered the ear open to sounds other than her heartbeat.

The two of you sat like that for a while, waiting for the ruckus to die down. It didn’t.

Eventually a man stepped forward under the baldachin, up onto the podium. He wore the regalia fitting of his station: Pearls and gemstones dripped from his ears and neck, hair adorned with refinements. Unlike you and your mothers, his clothing was made of fine cotton instead of silk, each part of it ornately detailed.

The stadium quieted in the presence of their Eminence.

He spoke, welcoming all to the grand revival of the tournament, including the foreign diplomats and rulers who decided to join them.

Your mother shifted her hand away from your ear as your father continued on. Even still, you weren’t listening, still picking at threads on your kameez.

As his speech began to take a downturn, he turned his attention to the podium’s entrance. A figure stepped out of the darkness.

The stadium erupted again. You flinched back into your mother, so harshly there was a small rip from the bare thread, but she pulled away just as quickly. She darted to the balustrade to peer down at the figure. Her face was unreadable, eyes frantic as they scanned the person.

“Mama?” You slipped off the couch and walked to her, hands covering your ears.

The sound still permeated every thought, every vibration from the stadium.

Your father joined hands with this mystery person and together, they raised the knot of fingers to the sky.

You were too young to recognize them then. Yet the name that echoed within the stadium was laced with vitriol.

Your hands cupped around your ears as you tried to understand just what they were saying, only catching the name as your mother said it. Her voice was still warmed from song, muttering it with utter contention.

–

Today, another name hung in the air.

Court was ablaze, cacophonous gossip like smoke choking out all other conversation. Every hallway echoed with it, noble and servant mouths alike moving to ask the same questions. It was not often something could unite their interests.

Then again, it was not often the Eminence proclaimed their renouncement.

You turned into a hidden door, an opening to a narrow hallway.

Going about your normal routine was all but impossible today. You’d put your faith in the servants corridors, praying they were untouched by anyone else. You’d lucked out more than you hoped – even the retainers were mostly absent, running around to get the affairs in order for the renouncement ceremony.

Your entire life led up to that moment. Often, you feared it’d never come. Now it was just a few months away.

Despite having a lifetime, it wasn’t enough to stop the twisting in your gut. There was still so much to be done, starting with sucking up your nerves and asking someone directly about the Trials.

You moved swiftly, surrounded by nothing but unpainted bricks and unlit tapers. Noon sun poured in through the thin windows and you, quite absentmindedly, didn’t step into the light, only the bars of shadow. Instead you took care to count each door you passed, wood equally as unpainted as the brick. Voices emerged from their cracks.

You kept note of each one you passed, which room it may belong to, counting for the one you needed to take.

A retainer carrying cloth exited one, wearing the floriated livery typical of summer months. He bowed as he passed. Still, you did not miss the smile on his face nor the fondness in his eyes as he addressed you. “My earis.”

You returned the smile and kept walking.

The route ran through your mind as you marked off potential locations of your general. You knew little of their routine, often avoiding them whenever possible, but today you had no choice. So the courtyard seemed like a good place to start.

It was still a gamble. They liked to sneak away whenever they could.

When you found the (estimated) right door, you turned out and paced down the stairwell it led to, footsteps rapid in their descent. Noble voices from the surrounding rooms became clearer, cheer becoming sharp needles to your ear. One even laughed.

Of course you had known this was coming – your father was clear to you, in both intentions and warnings – though you couldn’t have expected the excitement. They practically vibrated with joy, maintaining composure in court but ready to celebrate amongst themselves.

Or conspire.

Entering the cloisters, you heard it again. The crow of your name.

“Atha’lin.”

A small crowd populated the other side of the garth. Whether they were discussing you or your father, you didn’t care to learn.

You quickened your pace, but they took notice.

“My earis,” a woman called, making her way to you. Her dupatta was sapphire, a darker blue than the rest of her clothing. Pearls dripped from her neck in twin strands.

You smiled as she approached and slowed down.

Her address had not come with respect as the servant’s did, though she wore a smile. It was pronounced in the corner of her lips, almost like tugged with wire and a great deal of exasperation.

“Or, I suppose, after the ceremony it will be ‘my Eminence.’”

Your mouth tightened and gave a polite laugh. “That is without contention, I pray.”

She hummed. “Only without contention?”

Somebody in the entourage scoffed.

“I’ve upheld Serulla’s values my entire life. I can assure you, no matter what happens on that night, I will continue to do so,” you said, as graciously and reverently as you could.

She nodded. “Of course. And you’ve been given ample time for preparation, naturally.”

You curled your lip ever so slightly into your teeth, biting down.

“45 years on the throne! A whole twelve years longer than Roena’s reign. Our Eminence surely has been intent on keeping it.”

Not really. That was the average lifespan of rulership, Queen Dowager Roena was the exception.

Before you could respond, she continued: “Oh, this news does come at a great shock to the rest of us. But we are sure they’ve prepared you adequately.”

“Oh yes, I have prepared. But it will only be necessary if there is any contention at all,” you reminded her.

Her smile curled into something genuine, though not unsinister. “Yes, if.”

“If,” you echoed.

A beat of silence passed between the two of you, before you took a step to her side and motioned to pass. “Well… if you’ll excuse me, I do have a great deal to do.”

“Of course.” She stepped away, allowing you to leave. She dipped herself. “My earis.”

You nodded in return and left as quickly and politely as you could. They all watched you go, gazes worse spikes then their voices.

Once inside, you rolled your eyes, intent on speeding away. But as their conversation began again, you stopped and listened as closely as you could without putting your ear to the wall. With the amount of swarming servants you didn’t need one of them spying on your own eavesdropping.

“-of course someone will contest,” said a masculine voice. “Are they truly so foolish?”

A sound of agreement roused from the group, though quickly silenced itself just as the woman began to speak. “They know their stakes in this. I can’t imagine they’ve lived their life in the dark, and it’s clear they’ve been prepared.”

Low murmurs sprouted, all unintelligible to your ear. Her voice rose again to clarity.

“One strong contender is all Serulla needs, and we have five noble families ready to jump at the bait.”

“Six, if–”

“There is no sixth. The Ilves dynasty is gone.”

Steps grew from another corridor and a pair of flower-spotted uniforms caught your eye. You slipped away before you could eavesdrop more, managing only to catch the tail end of her sentence.

“After what Nira did to Roena... not to mention her children. They couldn't be satisfied with the throne. They need to be disposed of.”

By the time the courtiers turned in your direction, you were gone.

–

The last few days were restless, and whether you were caught in conversation or alone, the renouncement was all you heard about. Impatience nipped at you, even eating had become tiring, as it forced you to be around the vultures.

Last night, you retired with nothing but an empty stomach and a bottle of arrack. You also spent the night puking into your chamber pot.

You groaned as you ran fingers along book spines, your mind still pounding. It was worse in the morning, like a clapper swinging and your skull, the bell body. It had dulled significantly, but you could still feel the blood pacing. At least the dim light didn’t hurt your eyes so bad.

A part of you yearned to lay back down, but you needed to make the most of your time. Especially since your general wasn’t in the palace, or Serulla, at all.

On international affairs, a lady-in-waiting had informed you. With a bit more pressure she admitted it was to Thyten, Serulla’s southern neighbor. A common courtesy – as one of Serulla’s closest allies, the Eminence often sent a trusted diplomat over to personally tell Thyten’s ruler of their renouncement. With them should be a note of appreciation, sealed with the High Ruler’s signet.

They’d try everything to steal away from the country, even if for work.

But in lieu of primary came secondary sources, and each day that passed brought you closer to the renouncement. To the Trials. There was only so much preparation to do, but what you could do would be done.

You stopped at the bookend and pulled your hand away.

The shelf loomed. Each book was weathered from centuries of use. Tags written in old Serullan marked their covers, titles ranging from recognizable classics to esoterica. These tombs were both about and had become history.

You skimmed each title, finally landing on one embossed with the words “The Law of the Second Eminence: Interpretations and Executions.” You delicately pulled it from its spot, greige dust clouding in its wake.

Your arms stiffed as you held it against your chest, steps careful as to not bob yourself.

You made your way back through the hallway, passing countless books from bygone eras. You held one of the younger volumes – some stretched back to even before Serulla was founded. Many sat untouched for years.

Stepping through an archway, you squinted, eyes adjusting to the light. The guard gave you a nod and stepped back between the arc.

Copies of the books were available in many libraries, transcribed by a legion of scholars whom your father hired to lower restrictions on imperial resources. But the originals were guarded day and night.

You began to walk back to your study table.

The main library was nothing short of enchanting: a cavernous ceiling arched, painted with murals of the legends which its books wrote of. Most were accented with gold, reflecting vibrantly off the sunlight that streamed in through lattice windows, patterns of shadow cascading across the floor. As a child, you made a game of trying not to step into the light, hopping only in the dark.

Most of all, it was vast, beautiful in its very purpose. From food to coins to fiction, this was a place molded by humanity, past and present. One could never run out of knowledge, even if they’d spent a lifetime trying: Something new was always getting added and something old was always being checked out.

It’s the closest you’d ever get to seeing the world.

That thought, while not unique to today, felt heavy in your chest.

Your desk sat in a far corner, away from prying eyes. You reached it and put the book down, still as cautious as ever, and sat in the adjacent chair. Scattered on it were books and pamphlets, a torn-through mess evident of your research. You pushed a volume away to make room for the new one to open.

The flyleaf alone was brittle with age, flaking under your touch. The table of contents was no better. Each chapter title was barely understandable in contemporary language. Still, you attempted to read it, jotting down notes where you could.

Most of the book only stressed strength, history’s cardinal pillar of good leadership. You groaned as you closed it, nearly forgetting to be tentative in your frustration.

You pushed the book away and laid your head where it once sat. Your headache was back, teasing your skull with a faint pulse. You squinted already-shut eyes.

Contentions were archaic, historical remnants of a time where a duel could decide a countries fate. Brawn was hailed, almost religiously, as the mark of a good leader. It wasn’t until their only modern interpretation that other skills were in the Trials.

You propped your chin onto your forearm, surveying the landscape of books sprawled around you.

There was little you didn’t know about your father’s Trials. The general history was practically legendary in Serulla now, the intermediate years of the transition of power still fresh in the public conscience, and you, the torchbearer of that dawning legacy. You were to make your fathers rulership a dynasty, and with that expectation, you became acutely aware of what had gotten your family to this position.

The only thing you didn’t have was a personal account. Anytime you had asked, you were dismissed, reasoning that ‘you were too young’ or ‘a renouncement isn’t soon’.

Maybe they fled to Thyten so they wouldn’t have to answer me, you mused.

You reached back out for a modern history book – “The Serullan Power Struggle'' – and leafed through the pages, past the blood and gore of renouncements long gone. Maybe there was something, anything you had missed between history lessons.

When you reached the section on the latest Trials, it didn’t begin with portraits of the contenders, as all else had. It began with Roena Ilves and Nira Atha’lin. Beside them each were smaller portraits of their children.

You turned the page, eyes barely skimming their likenesses. There were enough portraits in the palace of all three Ilves, and you didn’t need a refresher on your father or grandmother.

On the next page was an iteration of the story. How Nira put forward her son, your father, Zaros Kymen Atha’lin as a man to challenge the Ilves earis. Thus began their Trials, and to everyone's shock, Zaros came out victorious.

Not that anyone had felt happy. The next few decades would be proof enough of that.

You rolled your eyes as the paragraphs morphed from marking Zaros’ victory to praising the Ilves in their final moments of leadership, Roena especially – beloved queen of Serulla. The nobles hailed her name, more so after her passing.

Near the end of the chapter, in a section marked as speculation, there was a paragraph on collusion within the Trials. Cheating was always a threat to their integrity, but the Trials never had a large-scale incident. Yet your grandmother seemed to have a habit of making history.

Closely acquainted with the garden staff, Nira has been suspected of collusion during the seventh Trial, wherein the sarl and earis had to identify plants and their toxins. While only speculative, many point to this event as the reason to why the Atha’lin family would eventually win the Trials–

You slammed the book shut, rubbing your temples at the returning throb.

Contention was archaic. But now, reborn in the spirit of modernity, the nobles were presented with an opportunity to get rid of your family for good. To usurp the usurpers.

–

The curved sword glistened at the hilt and across the blade. With a bit of pressure, you felt the handle’s cover give slightly, allowing you to secure your grip. You walked to the center yard.

The sun crested the horizon, orange skies growing darker with each moment. Sand mirrored its color change, pale yellow to umber.

The notion of ‘strength’ stuck to you like honey in its comb. It scared you. For as vibrant as new values were, tradition gripped Serulla in its vice. You were sure it’d be tested.

So, even without a teacher, you found yourself in a sword yard, twiddling a blade in your hand.

In the middle of the yard, you dipped the sword. It traced gentle lines in the sand as you encircled the clearing.

When the lines connected, you stepped within them and balanced yourself.

You were not fraile. That much was clear when you took a swing, hard and solid, but against an invisible target. But it bit at you, almost teasing your insecurity.

Every Eminence put to these tests were physically strong. Most earis’ had been too.

But irony was palpable in that statement, feeding your sense that this wasn’t worth it

You turned the sword and caught your eye in its fuller.

The Ilves earis, so full of strength, such a brute – and yet they are not the Eminence.

–

The backlawns had their first sprouts, born from the waxing summer. You watched them brustle in the wind.

Despite the season, the air was brisk, cool against your skin. A breeze had caught and every window was now thrown open to welcome it in. A welcome change to the beating heat.

You watched as the coachman stroked the horses. It also gave the perfect chance to leave the palace.

In truth, it was not your idea. But your mother had implored you to free your mind, if only for an hour, so you two could go take a trip together. Half-abandoned lists of potential Trials sat on your desk, but you ran them through your mind anyway, determined to make the most of your day upon returning.

Footsteps gathered behind you. You turned to see your mother exiting the palace, walking towards the coach. She wore a silken kameez above her lehenga, both the color of sampige, embroidered with colorful thread. A smile pulled at her lips.

“Are we ready?” She asked, coming to a stop right next to you. Her voice was honey to your ear.

“Just about.”

She kissed your cheek. “And how are you?”

“Alright,” you rocked on the balls of your feet.

She frowned.

The coachmen went to open the carriage doors for you two, your mother climbing in first. As you sat, the door shut and the coachmen climbed to his spot. With a thwack, you were off.

Your mother adjusted herself, moving the cushions you two shared. You reached to open a curtain. She hummed in approval.

As many rides do, it started off bumpy. You jostled at every turn and stop, almost gripping the seat to try and stabilize yourself. You could feel the difference in road as the coach went off palace grounds and steered onto public streets, muttering a half-blessing to your father for pouring so much into public works.

Time passed slowly. The rolling fields could only do so much to entertain you and the city you headed towards was long familiar. There were songs of its beauty, rightfully so – the entire thing was a rising triumph of limestone, buildings seemingly stacked on top of eachother and accented with complementary styles of architecture, from golden-domed bethels to sprawling universities. But it was also the view you got from your window each morning. A hometown was still a hometown, despite its luster.

You sighed and laid your head on the seat, closing your eyes.

A minute barely passed before your mother nudged your arm.

“I suppose it’s a pointless question, but what’s wrong, dear?”

You looked at her, trying to come up with a response. When you didn’t answer, she spoke:

“This is a hard time for us all. But your father’s time has come to an end, and he, as well as I, have every confidence you will succeed.”

Funny, how she always spoke of him as if he wasn’t her husband. You soured at the thought. Still, you did not speak.

“I know we haven’t spent much time together recently, but don’t be a stranger.”

“I’ve been busy,” you said.

“Preparing? Books will not get you far.”

“You knew I went to the library?” She quirked her lip. “It was a guess.”

This time when you laid your head, it was on her shoulder. “I’m trying. I knew that I wouldn’t just be handed the throne, but… I don’t know. It’s too real now.”

She hummed, letting you continue. But you didn’t speak, until an idea popped into your head.

“You saw the last Trials. What were they like?”

She shook her head. “That a book could tell you. Serulla was tense, no one knew what to think.”

You slouched against her, defeated. That was nothing new.

A new question came tumbling out before you realized you had thought it: “What was grandmother like?”

She stiffened. “Nira?” The name was shaky on her tongue. “Why do you ask?”

Honestly, you didn’t even know, and you told her as much.

She sighed. “Your grandmother was… how does one describe her? She was headstrong, absolutely. A self-righteous woman who believed in no gods but herself. But everything she did, it was clearly because she cared – perhaps a little too much – but for Serulla and her son, she loved them deeply.”

No sentimental reverie entered her voice, in fact, it seemed to get colder.

“Didn’t she orchestrate you and father’s marriage?” You asked delicately. “What was that like?”

A somewhat bitter laugh left her. “A mess. The council tried to decide a match for Zaros without consulting her, and she blew up at that. But being Queen Mother has its perks, and she got what she wanted.” Your mother pulled her arms around herself, winking at you before looking out the window. “A daughter from her favorite silk tycoon. Who had never opposed her, of course.”

Melancholy seeped into her expression as worry did in yours. You nudged her shoulder playfully.

“Well, at least she didn’t cheat in the Trials.” It was meant to be a joke. To poke fun at the claim’s absurdity and make her ease.

Your mother kept her gaze. As she often did when uneasy, she placed delicate fingertips on her neck, to the caracanet on her collarbone. The outside world had seldom seen her without it. To your understanding, it was a gift from her father at her wedding – a mark to remind her, and Serulla, that she’d always be a Kellestine. Not an Atha’lin. Once, when you were just a child, she had assured you that one day it’d become yours.

A shame you’d never get the chance. From your blood to repute, you were a leech.

“Where did you get that idea?” It was soft, though not a whisper.

You straightened yourself, tensing everywhere, wondering why she wasn't denouncing it. You hesitated before answering. “The library. And noble gossip.” It came out disjointed as you tried to justify why you had said that at all.

She still didn’t move.

“She wouldn’t, right? If she was so self-righteous, then…” A gloved palm covered your knuckles.

“I do not know, and neither do any of them. There are only three people in this world that could answer that question.”

How unfortunate one was dead, another abroad.

The two of you sat in silence, the only sounds being the bustling streets you passed.

“Then why must we pay the price?” You finally asked. “Why are we blamed for it all?”

She looked at you. “Dear, I think you know why.”

You did, but it only made you, strangely enough, tired.

“But the tournament–”

“Blood of the Queen Dowager does not go easily from our soil.”

At that you paused.

“Many think he waters the garden with it. Heralds, damn them. They’ve called against your father since his ascension.”

She wasn’t angry. Not in the way you were, anyway. But there was a growing strain on her face, one far more telling than her words. She’d seen the civil war, playing defense for a family not her own, a duty thrust upon her by Nira’s marriage demands.

Pain drenched her face. You stopped, refusing to speak for the rest of the journey, not if it’d continue to hurt your mother.

And so you didn’t, the carriage ride passing in silence, her hand still on top of yours.

Eventually, a voice rang from the window. “Madam?” The coachman turned and looked at your mom. “We’re here.”

She nodded.

He climbed down as your mother smoothened out her lehenga. He opened the door and you two slipped out, your mother handing a few extra coins to the driver as a tip. He thanked her and promised to be still, awaiting your two’s return.

People ran along the road, other carriages and horses moving on the pavement.

“Would you like me to cover your ears?” She leaned in to say.

You laughed. You’d always hated loud noises, but not the bustle of your hometown. Never the sound of life, of your future peoples lives.

So you laced your fingers together and entered the city. You could feel the tense air slip from the two of you as weaved through the streets, pointing out spectacles and mundane things equally.

Of course people recognized you two, some even cheering your name, already declaring you Eminence. You rooted with them, rousing an even bigger reaction from the onlookers. Some small part of you even believed it.

Guards watched from afar, but there was less danger here than there was in the palace. Serullans loved their king, despite noble demagogues.

You wove between shops and vendors, looking at trinkets and clothing and books, many of which you’d already read but still entertained the seller. Your mother ended up purchasing a small music box, delighted to hear its crisp sound. The vendor had promised to make one with her own voice.

Eventually the two of you ended up at a food stand, enheartened and laughing together from the trip. It was your last stop before returning to the palace, dusk already painting the sky in watercolor hues.

The vendor’s pan was frying as you walked up, the vegetables crisping from the oil they cooked in. He took flat ladles and spread the pakoras out onto a large dish.

As you ordered and paid, he wrapped them delicately in paper. Once squarely in your hands, he dipped his head.

“Thank you, my earis. May the Atha’lin’s flourish under your rule.”

You looked at him, startled.

“Thank you,” you responded, shifting your free hand to take his. He smiled wider.

Walking back to your mother, you remembered why you were so determined for the throne, in honor of the Atha’lin family or not.

–

Night descended slowly, summer sun unyielding. Still, the darkness came and you were left in the thralls of night, exhausted.

You weren’t drinking, just caught in a bout of sleeplessness. Your mind stirred in unquiet thoughts as you tried to shut it down.

Despondency pulled you from your warm blankets and out into the hallways, searching for the kitchen. You didn’t know much, but you knew your way around a tea kettle. The thought of peppermint on your tongue already seemed to make you drowsier.

As you made your way, you took a moment to step onto a balcony, drinking in the chill. It would be a long time before you felt this breeze again. Incoming monsoons were sure to drench the country before cooling it.

The moon shone, stars like pinpricks illuminating the ebon sky. Constellations strung together like tapestries. An astrologer could tell you what they mean scientifically, but all you knew were the mythologies. You tried to remember the stories and fell short. Your mind wasn’t in the right spot for that.

You propped your elbows up on the balustrade and pressed your hands to your forehead, wiping your eyes, which were sore from languor. Sleep evaded everything but your desires, it seemed.

As your eyes were cast downwards, they caught something in the garth which the balcony overlooked. Something illuminated by the moonlight.

Two figures stood side by side. One, certainly a man, stood thumbing a flower, eventually drifting away from it to go to another bush. His hair was pale, perhaps more so in the moonlight. His companion followed after a moment. They drifted besides one another like long-time friends or strangers. You couldn’t tell which.

You watched them go, then turned back to the stars.

–

Looking over the sea of people, you found yourself glad for the vantage of a throne, even if it meant being an object of attention.

The Presence Chamber was crowded beyond belief. It seemed the entire world had decided to stop by Serulla for a visit – from neighbors to as far east as the Black Salt Bay, countries diplomats kept filing it, vying for your fathers favor.

It was not unexpected. Retainers had spent the days leading up preparing the hall for such a crowd, new curtains being drawn around open windows. A shame, they had missed the breeze. Mostly everyone stood sweating in their fine clothes. Only servants, who lined the walls, had the luxury of wearing lighter fabrics.

You and your mother sat on either side of the king, figureheads more than anything. Respects were made to you each but it was your father who captured everyone's attention.

Placid expressions had danced on his face all day, neither impressed nor offended by any one entourage. But diplomacy was not a game to be played in front of countless others, especially not other contestants. They swarmed like there was already blood in the water.

Even yet, the closest neighbor had yet to come, and you picked your nails idly in restlessness.

The official said her final blessings to Zaros, ensuring him Kallard’s best wishes for the renouncement and of her monarch’s excitement to be there for the coronation, she gave a final curtsey and shuffled to be in line with her procession.

She did not say whose coronation it would be.

Trumpets blared for the next entourage and you jolted to attention.

When Thytens standard-bearers came in, you could not help but stiffen. Their flags of yellow bristled from the windows air. On them was the symbol of the High Ruler, Thytens own Eminence.

Once they were done came the rest, your eyes scanning each row for a familiar face. You only recognized one, but he was not the person you’d hoped for.

“Satya,” your fathers lilt projected the hall to a shush. “What a pleasure for you to be here.”

“The pleasure is all mine, your Eminence.” The ambassador dipped to a bow.

Satya was Thytens personal doyen of high society, a man recognizable if only from his mirth. To have him here was symbolically, as well as politically, a great deal of importance. Yet you could not help but be agitated that it was he who stood before you.

The two men went through the motions. The exchange couldn’t have been longer than 15 minutes but each dragged on as if they were an hour. You spent most of the time continuously searching the crowd.

You could practically hear your mother’s voice in your head. “Do try to look at least partially interested.”

They only gained your true attention when Satya revealed an envelope, which a courtier handed off to Zaros. You spied the indent on the seal, a mark unique to the High Rulers signet ring, before he opened it.

You raised an eyebrow. It was not Satya’s job to deliver that. Your eyes trailed up to your father. For as good as he was, you did not miss the slight narrowing of his eyes nor the wrinkle that appeared on his temple. He thought the same.

Thytens delegation marked the last audience. When Satya and Zaros were finished speaking, they said their graces, and Satya returned to his crowd, no Serullan general in sight.

The Eminence stood, you and your mother mirroring him. He and your mother left side-by-side, but you waited until they were gone to cleave through the crowd.

They’re here. It was the only thought running through your mind. Certainly not with you in the Presence Chamber but here – Serulla, the palace – and they couldn’t keep hiding. You intended to find them.

Your mental list of their possible locations appeared in your memory. Places for audience were close to the Presence Chamber, so you’d start with searching the drawing rooms.

The crowds began to disperse once the Eminence left the room, though since all had been invited to stay in the palace until the renouncement, they loitered in every hall. And you thought the nobles alone were bad enough.

Threading through each way muddled you in some talks, though you did your best to excuse yourself as quickly as possible. You tried to reach a servant's door whenever possible, but each was blocked. You were forced to brave the nest.

“My earis,” a woman with pale skin and reddish hair walked up to you. She must be from far westward.

You nodded your head as she fell into a curtsey.

“How incredible it is to be here. I’ve heard tales of Serullas beauty, but to see it with my own eyes,” she clicked her tongue. “The stories don’t do it enough justice.”

You exhaled a friendly laugh. “Thank you. It’s our pleasure to host, especially with the succession line marching forward.”

She nodded. “Indeed. It was lovely to see the famed Atha’lin family.”

From behind her, you saw a man with similarly auburn hair speaking to the Gazi heiress. The two laughed before walking into another room, entrenched in conversation.

The woman kept talking as you looked around. It seemed her entire country was here, putting roots into the noble soil. It wasn’t just them. The Kalli delegate was speaking to the Dolgan heir, Balleus officials conversing with the Hýned family. They were covering their bases.

“-it is quite wonderful, how your family gained the throne,” she said, only half-way making it to your ear.

“Yes, well, shall you return, we hope to still be ruling it.” You said dully.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “I meant no offense.”

You grimaced before walking away, already tired from conversation.

More people went up to you and all were ignored. You could not be bothered with pleasantries, not if they’d insult you and your family so openly.

Mutters followed. Of your ill-temperament, mostly. It did not surprise you, but the hypocrisy struck a nerve. Your father had often gone on about the vexation of the Ilves earis, but the moment an Atha’lin earis did the same, it was a crime.

No matter. All you needed was the general.

Your footsteps became stomps as strides became lunges.

Personal crowds had gathered farther away from the main buzz. They quieted as you passed. One such conversation snagged your ear with a single word: Roena.

You paused.

“She was brilliant. One of the greatest rulers in this country's history,” someone praised. From the accent, you’d guess they’re from the other side of the sea.

“And she was so easily displaced?” “The Law of the Second Eminence does not follow in spirit of the current ruler, but their child. Still, if the Ilves ruled for half a millennium, then the second-generation Atha’lin cannot be so hard to remove as well.”

You started again, this time faster than you meant.

Ilves, Ilves, Ilves.

It was not in your mind. Everywhere you turned, someone uttered the name in spite of your family. You turned twisted between corridors, making your way farther into the palace, away from all the noise.

Ilves, Ilves, Ilves.

For their honor. To restore the glory of their leadership.

You ran, not stopping until you ran directly into somebody.

Stumbling to a stop, you rubbing your temples, groaning in slight pain. You didn’t open your eyes until the other voice beckoned you.

Ilves!

You opened your eyes.

“Are you alright?” They repeated. You nearly fell to tears.

They wore a simple kurta, plain enough to show they had no intentions of joining the Presence Chamber with Thytens delegation. Their hair wasn’t held by anything.

The general stood before you.

You latched into a hug.

“Hello,” they muttered. “Nice to see you too.”

–

“Absolutely, they are suffocating,” they agreed with you.

“How does my father deal with it so well?” They smirked. “Oh, don’t let the facade deceive you – he doesn’t.”

The yard was untouched, much to both of your reliefs. Entourages bled between most of the palace's walkways but here was a haven untouched by foreigners and aristocrats alike.

You spied the circle you drew into the sand and the footsteps parallel to it. The same sword you used then was in your hand now, though strangely was lighter, and you swelled with more confidence than you did before.

“Did you ever tire of society?”

“All the time. I still do,” they walked around the sand. “Only it is not my job to deal with them. So I do what I want.”

You two shared a smile.

They stopped at the wall, where the assortment of weaponry was held.

“Sharpening your ability for the Trial of strength?” They ran their fingers along the equipment.

You shrugged. “I tried without a mentor, but a ghost is no good combat partner.”

“You’ll find many ghosts on a battlefield, living or dead. Zaros, for example,” they said with a snort.

Your gut twisted at them mentioning your father. They drew a blade from the rack.

“Well, you’re here now.” You take a few steps towards them.

They turned and looked you up and down, clearly playful in manner. “You’re right. I’m a much better teacher.”

You shuffled as they went towards you, stopping only on the outskirts of the circle. A huff left them, and they took a deliberate step into it.

“I didn’t ask you here just to practice one possible Trial. I have questions, if you’ll permit them.”

“Sure,” their tone suddenly edged on boredom. “Though I cannot promise I’m the best person to ask anything.”

“I’d hope you’re an expert in such a topic.”

“High praise. Tell me, what could I be so knowledgeable about?”

“Your own life.”

They raised their eyebrows as you giggled.

The last Ilves scion was a warrior in every sense of the word, hardened from travels that had turned to legend. Even as wiry strands of hoar fell from their updo, scars of unknown makers were pale against them. They often regaled you with stories from their time away, the twenty years they spent from Serulla after losing the Trials.

Now, they officiate the tournament – a competition once only available to Serulla’s nobility, now open to all citizens and foreigners alike – as its ringmaster. You had been there, the first time they did so. The king had taken their hand and risen it to the sky, claiming the dawn of a new age.

Ilves and Atha’lin, hand in hand.

Recent chatter was nothing compared to those succeeding days. Or weeks.

“I really should have prepared for this.” They trailed on the outskirts of the circle, twirling their sword in your vague direction. “From one earis to another.”

They planted the sword into the ground and rested an elbow on it.

“Still, why not ask your father? Surely you’d want the victor's opinion.”

“I didn’t think it appropriate to ask the Eminence about succession rites.”

Something in their demeanor shifted, laxity turning cold. But as quickly as it happened, it was gone, replaced again by their blithe.

They hummed. “Fair enough. What do you want to ask me?”

“What can you tell me about the Trials? The tests, what I can do to prepare, even what goes on beyond the actual events. Anything.”

“You’ve gone to the library?” “Yes.” “Well then there's nothing I can tell you about the Trials themselves. They’ll probably be the same as my own, maybe with slight deviations, though I can’t imagine what.”

You moved closer to them.

“Study a lot. Trial of knowledge aside, it’ll help you with practically all of them. They like to see you build on what you know.”

You paused right in front of them, listening intently.

“And…” they considered something.

Then pulled the sword up and swept your leg.

“Nothing goes as expected. Be prepared to adapt.”

You landed on your back hard, a grunt of shock escaping you. The hot sand burned your palms.

When you looked up at them, slightly bewildered, a look of entire seriousness gazed down at you.

Then they turned away. “Excellent. Thank you so much,” you muttered under your breath.

“You think I’m joking.” They slid the sword back into its position. “You know, much farther westward, their swords are straight as a plank. Heavy as one, too.”

You stood, brushing the sand off your trousers. They continued to consider the blades.

There it was again, that question, nipping at you. The moment was right to ask, but the pit in your stomach seemed to suck away all the words. Each time you parted your lips it left you. As you gripped your sword, you realized that you were trembling.

They pulled a long, wooden stick from the rack and twirled it around themself, going on about some technique on how to use it. You still could not ask. So you pivoted.

“Truly, what can you tell me? Surely there is something.” They huffed, eyes not leaving the weaponry. “Again, go to your father. I do not think I can be of much help.”

“You’re not even giving yourself a chance,” you pleaded. Even now, with the Trials mere-however-many-moments away, they dodged every question like a paring knife. “You’ve always dismissed me when I ask. Can’t you try, at least now?” It came out harsher than you’d like.

“You’ve had a lifetime.” They twisted their head to face you, expression stone cold. “I had a month. I can assure you that you do not need me.”

The surrounding heat was nothing compared to the kind rising in your face, crescents imprinted so deep in your palms they might draw blood. Their dismissiveness – their arrogance. They didn’t need to prepare, because they were the Ilves earis, who didn’t have the entire court waiting to put their head on a stick for the false actions of their grandmother. You had a lifetime, sure. But what good is a lifetime worth when surrounded with fools like them, who refused to be blunt with you?

You wanted to taunt, to get a reaction.

“You mentioned the unexpected. Did something unexpected happen in your Trials?”

They stopped, hand hovering over the rack

“What are you asking.” It did not sound like a question.

“My grandmother,” you began, flitting towards them, wondering why they seemed so taut, but relishing in it. “There’s so much speculation. You’re really the only one who can answer.”

A pause. “Surely your father could.” “He’s the Eminence. I don’t think he’d entertain the idea, or me for that matter.”

“Nothing happened with Nira.”

You exhaled, annoyed at the simple answer.

“Why did you think something had?” They walked towards you.

You startled as you faced them, their features embroiled with scrutiny. They leaned in, watching you squirm under the stare.

You stuttered, trying to find a justification.

They scanned your face. Cold, calculating eyes running over your own.

“Go,” they said after a moment, pointing to a place in the circle. “You wanted to fight. We go until first blood.”

–

Your mind was torn as you watched the distant streets, the taste of pakoras faint on your tongue.

Your hair pooled water, despite having wrung it multiple times. It dampened your shoulders. The one was still raw from where they slit it. First blood.

Why were they so upset? Had something on the trip in Thyten? You knew you misstepped, but never had you seen them so angry.

Forehead collided with the wall. Every thought was jumbled, enlarged with another that only made sense half the time. You could not make sense of them.

The only thing clear was that they weren’t telling the whole truth. The overreaction told you that – but you couldn’t wrap your head around that one either.

And your mother. Her stillness. Her assurance.

You kept returning to one question: Had your grandmother truly been so evil?

The remaining rational part of your mind answered that for you. Yes.

You sunk down and clenched a pillow, wrapping your arms around it like a lover.

Your mind ran wild as your body was still, eyes barely blinking and watching the horizon. The internal noise was so grand you didn’t hear the knock at your door, nor the footsteps behind you.

A gentle hand startled you. You jumped, your mother just as shocked as you were.

“Dear?” You relaxed into her palm. “What’s wrong?”

Your sight didn’t move, still grazing distant cities. You barely parted your lips to tell her when you spotted the gems around her neck, stirring the candlelight into their hues and turning them orange.

This was not her fight.

“Just tired,” you murmured.

She said nothing as she kissed your brow.

“I won’t disturb you,” she whispered. “I’m only here to give you this.”

She slipped a pamphlet into your hand and left.

Only once the door was closed did you glance at it, the bold words Renouncement Ceremony written across the top. There was a date on it as well. They were trying to beat the monsoons.

You had three weeks.

–

The gardens were always stunning. All but hanging off the palace, it became a little paradise for the visiting diplomats.

It must be a strange sight, amongst all this beauty.

You could hear their whispers as they walked by. For once, you did not care for their ogling. Not to say it didn’t anger you, just you lacked the energy to deal with it today.

The Atha’lin earis at an Ilves gravestone. What a view indeed.

You did not know why you came here first, or really at all, but here you now stood, watching the faded stone. The name was still visible however much time seemed to chip it away. His body must be right below your feet.

You did not know much about the first Ilves earis, only of how he was given life and who took it away. Roena’s portraits with him were still the happiest she’d ever looked. Her rulership was as young as her son, both blossoming with potential similarly to how both would be cut short, an Atha’lin hand grasping both of those scythes.

The enveloping fatigue came for you again, like the ghosts you spoke of were coming to haunt you.

But when Roena lost a child, Nira lost her mother. Their deaths made the first ravel between the families. Even if only the former was ever acknowledged.

You began once more through the gardens.

A crowd gathered along the pathway stumbled to make it as if they weren’t spying, beginning nonsense conversation. You passed them without a second glance.

The Eminence Graveyard was not far. For as many premature deaths there were in these lineages, both burial gardens were lumped together in a solemn wing. You passed beneath the gate.

Each mausoleum was whitewashed, only the roof color denoting which dynasty the corpse may have belonged to. The frontmost gardens held the earliest lineages. You passed Dolgan purple which quickly transferred to Faysel yellow, the earliest contention in history.

Red, pink, orange. Nearly every house was accounted for.

When you reached the stretch of blue-capped tombs, you straightened your back. Five hundred years worth of Ilves phantoms whispered their curses to you.

It was the longest walk by far. Nobody else had ruled for so long.

The final monument sat jarringly alone. No more buildings followed it, only the rolling flower fields of buds colored to match the houses, which, despite, no foliage grew on the building. Eventually a mausoleum with a green roof would join it at its side, the first Atha’lin Eminence to be immortalized with the rest.

The blue rooftop reflected the sun and dappled the gravel in cerulean. You stepped into its shade as you climbed the three steps, gently pushing the doors at the top inwards. They were shockingly heavy.

Inside was small, though larger than what you’d expect from observing the house. The walls were bare of any carvings, only dust lined the floor, even the sunlight, which escaped through vent-like lattice, was scarce. You stood in the light.

There were only two things in the sepulcher: an effigy and a grave.

A tomb was raised in the center, clearly cut from the same stone as the building. For a royal corpse, it was the only extravagance permitted in here, embellishments lining its sides.

The statue was raised behind the tomb. Roena’s countenance was tranquil, eyes closed as if dreaming. A smile painted her lips.

They reminded you of her portrait. Gruesome fantasies danced around you, and you could almost see the blood dripping from her lips, her choking until she laid dead across the floor.

Your mouth was dry. You dared not swallow as if to ward off your own blood, as you stared, unblinking, at her.

Your father promised. He swore that they hadn’t hired cutthroats to steal Roena’s life. That it was a coincidence she went out with a poisoned cup. Yet her death began the war: and long after the streets had quieted, as the nobles schemed in the dark, it festered. It festered something in you.

Your blood ran as cold as your newfound feelings towards it. Thoughts returned to the static stimulation of the previous night, choking you from the outside in. What had they done?

Air became thick as you tried to steady yourself, to no avail. It seeped into you: your blood the biggest traitor of all as it strung together point after point, tragedy after tragedy. The thoughts were loud, it didn’t even matter if they were right, they were just so loud.

You staggered out to the door, hands clammy against the frame. Breathing became short as you nearly toppled down the steps. The outside air was no better than the sepulchers.

“Earis,” a voice commanded. You looked up.

A gaggle of people stood in front of the mausoleum, all with wide eyes. They wore Serullan fashions. Not diplomats.

You shoved past them, almost breaking out to a run.

“What were they doing in there?”

“Gloating, maybe.”

“They’re an Atha’lin, they’re drawn to any garden.” Somebody snickered. “And the gardeners.” Tears bit at you.

“They flee like a gardener too.”

“Funny, didn’t the mole also run away with Kellestine silks?”

Your shoe dug into the gravel as you halted, cutting your ankle. You turned to them.

Nira was one thing. By the gods, they might even have a point – but your mother?

“Don’t bring her into this,” you spat.

They looked like deer, heads whirring so fast in shock. They glanced between each other before one said, “Don’t be ignorant, she brought herself into it. She married Zaros and helped pay them off.”

“You don’t know anything!” Spittle flew from your mouth as you screamed.

You prayed they didn’t as you turned away, booking it out of the cemetery.

–

You couldn’t hear. Air rushed past you as you went through the palace, climbing each stairwell, taking the well-worn path to the office.

People called for you. You didn’t answer, because you couldn’t hear.

Blue and green pulled you from desperation.

A painting. Two figures. They wore the colors of their respective house.

They leaned into one another, faint smiles playing at their lips, like one had just said a particularly funny joke. Or something particularly snide.

Your heart pounded in your chest, loud as the first day you saw them.

And your thoughts ran like the stadium voices.

And your sense was as muffled as your ears.

And your voice was your mother’s, spitting vitriol, watching them together.

But your body was your own, and it made its way towards Zaros Kymen Atha’lin.

–

The guards outside his office watched you with apprehension.

“Let me in.” “My earis, the king is busy–”

“Let me in.” It was pathetic, but you were still the earis, and forever his child.

They glanced at each other before each grabbing a handle, opening up the office. You stormed in without a word.

The office of the Eminence was ornately decorated, with an entire wall dedicated to files and books. Though clearly it had been stripped of your fathers touch due to his incoming abdication. Still, he sat at his desk, mulling over some document. You stopped in front of him.

He looked up.

Age has been kind to your father. Blonde hair threaded with silver hung around his shoulders, wrinkles carving his rich skin. Verdant eyes were as bright as they were in his portraits. His beauty was accented with the brush of life, not tainted.

It sickened you.

“My child,” he said with some shock. He rested the paper on the desk. “To what do I owe this visit?” You stood still, watching him. “Father,” a shaky response.

His look faded to worry.

You, quite suspiciously, went and sat on the sofa, which was placed parallel to his desk. Your voice was hollow, diaphragm clenching as you thought the words. The pit in your chest seemed to suck the passion out of anger, letting you be alone with it and its target.

“What’s wrong?” He implored. His concern did not soothe you like your mother’s – you knew with her, nothing was conditional. But this only served to heighten your own.

“Nothing,” you managed. “Can I not spend time with my father?”

You could tell he didn’t believe you. But he smiled and turned back to his work, fine to play along for the time being.

“I heard you went out with your mother,” he diverted. “Next time you should invite me.”

You grimaced. “Yeah.”

He stopped the platitudes after that, leaving you two in silence.

Columns and architecture held your attention as you leaned back into the sofa, tracing lines in your sight. You tried to remember what had been where, the room barren of personality and ready to be remade.

“Didn’t there used to be a map there?” You pointed to a spot above a bookcase.

Zaros looked up. “Yes, I suppose there was.” He didn’t look at the spot, only eyeing you.

He rested the paper on the desk. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing-”

“Something’s wrong, otherwise you would not be in here. Just tell me already.”

You sat up on the cushions. Barbs cut at your throat. It tasted raw, invisible sores lining your mouth.

If you didn’t ask now, you never would. So you did, spitting ugly words like Roena had her blood.

He blinked. “What?” His face drained of any happiness. His brows furrowed as went to stand, never taking his eyes off you.

“Nira. Did she cheat?”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said as he walked around his desk and came to you. You paced backwards, your fathers eyes alighting in sadness as you did so.

“Your Trials. Nira got one of the gardeners to help you, didn’t she?” Your hands clenched to stop them from shaking, though your voice did it plenty instead.

He looked as if struck. “No! Where did you even get that idea?”

“How couldn’t I’ve of?” Your voice got louder. “It’s everywhere. Textbooks, gossip – everywhere.”

“If that’s everywhere you have a very small view of the world,” he retorted. It took you back – he’d never so much as raised his voice at you before. “I thought we raised you better than this, to accuse your grandmother and I of cheating for the crown? What’s gotten into you?”

You studied his face for a moment, watching the shock fade into betrayal. Yet he wasn’t saying no.

“Gossip? Are you kidding me? Nobles despise our family, you know that, and you trust their word above mine?”

“Well why do they hate us?” You yelled, despite suddenly feeling very foolish, making him flinch. You wanted him to say it, that they killed Roena, that they cheated, that they did neither. Something. Anything. “What am I supposed to believe? Everywhere I go I suffer the consequences because of your last name!”

“A name that’s made you earis!” He roared, disgust dripping into his tone. “Your grandmother pulled us out of poverty and crafted this lineage herself and you dare say that your privileges aren’t good enough-”

“What privilege is worth having the world hate you?” You screamed back. “Did your mommy really want this life for us? Because, according to both of you, nobles are nothing more than rich, pompous, ego-centric imbeciles who’ve worked for nothing! And now we’re them! What does that make us?”

“I’ve done all I can for Serulla as their king-”

“Even if you had to cheat to do it?” His nostrils flared. “Those are lies spread from nobles to justify why the Ilves lost, they cannot be trusted.” He wasn’t saying no, by the Gods, why wasn’t he just saying no? “But we’re a part of them now. You’re the embodiment of them. Doesn’t that mean I can’t trust you either?”

“I’m your father!”

“And Nira was your mother! You’d do anything to protect her!”

“Anything but treason!” He panted, regaining his composure and breath. His face steadied as his voice became cool and even: “The Trials aren’t petty nonsense, they dictate our country. We had everything to prove going into them – their hatred, despite your ego, didn’t start with you – and cheating? Gods, we would have been executed.”

“What about after these ones then, huh?” Your dry anger became wet as tears covered your eyes. “What will happen after we’re no longer the Eminence?”

“You don’t know that.” “I do. Being earis means nothing if it begins with ‘Atha’lin.’ This dynasty is dead in the water because of your grandmother, because of Nira, because of you,” you accented each name with a lifted finger, “and because my name carries the weight of all of those people, like I’m just some – some leech!”

Something in his demeanor changed as the ire burned from his face, revealing layers of shock and something you couldn’t quite figure out. He looked as if he wasn’t with you. He swallowed and took a step forward.

“My earis…” he tried to grab your hand.

You swatted him away. You backpedaled hard, almost launching yourself right into a chair, before you took off from the doors.

The guards outside were clearly listening, scattering back as you flung the doors open and booked it down the hallway.

Your father called your name and a rush of footsteps followed, the clang of metal in his wake. But as you ducked into a servant's door, you heard the sounds dim, and eventually, cease.

–

The plate sat in front of you untouched.

It was already cold by the time it got sent to your room, you knew. It became cold the second it was off the stove. Salt brought the meat to an overwhelming sourness the second it was away from fire, as if heat was the one thing keeping it fresh. You hated the taste of it. You hated the fact it now stunk up your room. You pushed the plate away as you turned back into your too-warm covers, over the indented bed, in your own wallowing miasma. You hated all of that, too.

You hadn’t left your room in two days. The first morning, servants tried to coerce you up from beyond the door, ready to dress you for the day in whatever outfit they held. You simply hadn’t responded. They left after a while, only to return with your mother, who rapped on the doors as she begged you to speak.

She was the only one you answered and even that was just a plea to be left alone.

The next day followed in a similar pattern, only your mother didn’t return. In her wake was a tray of jalebis and the blessing of solitary. You sent the plate back, all but licked clean from.

So on your third day of misery she was tired of you. She returned to your doorway and begged for entrance, voice firm in love that only mothers could be. Again, you pleaded to be left alone, voice more pathetic than even you could imagine.

“I’m not leaving until you let me in,” she said delicately, not demanding anything but still, it was too much for you to do.

Silence followed as she gave you the space to open the door, and when it became clear you had no intentions of doing so, she sighed.

“Zaros told me what happened.” You clenched your blankets closer. “If anyone understands how you’re feeling, it’s me. Please, dear.”

Prying yourself away from your nest of a bed, you staggered over to the door. She was right. Of course she was – she knew your frustration with your father more than anyone, her own probably much deeper than yours.

The object of your mothers exasperation flashed before your eyes as you reached the door. You tried to shake them from your mind, but it was hard to pull them away from Zaros, in many ways beyond just your imagination. You closed your eyes as your tried to clear your mind of them, twisting the knob–

“Melira?”

You stopped. That was not your mothers voice.

“Emeritus earis,” she responded tensely.

Your eyes burned as you forgot to blink, as if that’d affect your hearing.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice grew distant as she pulled away from the door.

“What I assumed you’re here to do, speak to our dear earis.”

“They’re not taking audiences right now.”

They hummed. “A shame. I was going to answer their questions.”

It was clear they were trying to get you to open the door and let them in, and while you wanted them, quite desperately, to leave, it did pique your interest. You thought back to the yard, where they refused everything you said. What has changed?

You pressed your ear to the door.

“What questions?” It was rhetorical, your mother sounded more exasperated than curious. “My child is locked away, refusing to speak because of you two, they don’t need more of this nonsense.”

“Maybe they’d feel better with the truth they so desperately seeked.” “If you say anything to them-”

“What, Melira?” Nails dug into your palm as they addressed her with her name, not title. “Are you threatening me?”

They weren’t challenging her, maybe if they were, it’d be more tasteful. But they sounded tired of her, like she was nothing more than a fawning mother that was far too protective of her child.

“I’m staying,” she responded. “You don’t get to speak to them without me present. And that’s if they want to speak to you, or me, at all.” Her voice got dangerously low as she spoke. “You’re not earis anymore. You don’t get to barge around and demand anything from anyone. You bend to their will, not the other way around.”

Bumps rose on your arms. You’d never heard your mother like this.

“And besides,” she continued, voice edging into a sing-songy taunt that you didn’t think she was capable of. “Don’t you think I deserve this ‘truth’ too? Don’t think I don’t know you and Zaros keep things from me. But as Queen, and eventually, Queen Mother, I deserve to know my husband and his concubine’s little secrets, don’t you think?”

So she wasn’t tired of you, she was tired of not knowing. You could sympathize.

Before the Ilves could respond, you opened the door. They turned to you, shock in both their faces.

They were barely a pace away from each other, your mother rigid while the Ilves was leaning in. Their mouth was agape from a cut-off retort. Good. They didn’t deserve the last word.

“I think I would like to hear this ‘truth.’ And the Queen deserves it, too.”

Your mother smiled at you, the Ilves grimacing as they leaned back.

So the three of you ended up in your room, you on the windowsill (you couldn’t keep sitting in that bed), your mother beside you, and the Ilves sitting on the floor, up against the wall. There was a slight pleasure in seeing them physically below you.

Still, the air was tense, and your mother squeezed your hand. You squeezed back.

The Ilves moved the fabric of their kameez, making sure they weren’t sitting on it uncomfortably.

“Well?” You demanded.

“Impatient, are we?” They glanced up at you briefly before shifting for the last time. “It’s alright. I was too.”

“You’re stalling.” Your mother said.

They sighed, taking a deep breath. “You weren’t too off with accusing Nira of cheating.”

Your throat ran dry, and you clenched your mother’s hand much harder than you meant to. This was it.

“What did she do?” You managed to get out.

“No – no, no, it isn’t what you’re thinking–” “What could she have done?” “It was Roena, earis. My mother. My mother cheated.” Everything went deathly still. Your panic suddenly honed to a pinpoint as everything you thought, all the overdrive your mind had reverted to, went blank. From your peripheral you saw your mother do the same, short circuiting at the inane statement. The Ilves simply glanced between the two of you. They shifted again under the shared gazes, smoothing out their sleeves.

When they began again, their voice was hesitant, like even they didn’t know – didn’t believe – what they were saying.

“I was losing the Trials. She’d been keeping me updated on our statuses, which probably should’ve been my first sign, but I’d only won knowledge and strength, while Zaros had the other four. But if I could grasp the seventh, I could close that gap before the end.” They laughed darkly. “It was identifying plants. Plants! And Zaros always said that they were rigged in my favor. I had no chance, so my mother was determined to give me one.

“She paid off a gardener, I believe, with silks from the Kellestines." They glanced at your mother. “They tampered with the provided flowers and such. I knew something was wrong, it was too easy. And when I confronted her, she broke, confessing what she’d done. She wasn’t regretful at all – she was convinced it was our only course of action. And oh-so happy that it worked.”

They waved their hand haphazardly, listlessness pooling into their actions as it had their eyes. “But, of course, Nira noticed something. She stormed up to the council incharge of the Trials and demanded an answer as to why my test was so much easier than Zaros’. They all but dismissed her complaint as petty nonsense. Zaros told me all about her outrage. He didn’t know what it was for at the time, but he, as well as I, was growing disillusioned. I told him to just win. Serulla needed him. And Serulla got him, despite the nobles' outrage.

“The year afterward was strange. Court was restless as nobody trusted the new dynasty, and as public favor started to turn against my own, Zaros forbid ill-will towards us. I don’t know why, by all means, he should hate the Ilves.” You shared a look with your mother. “But we stayed at court, my mother counseling his first months of rulership. They grew close, I think. But my mother and I had never been so distant. One night I asked her to tell me what had happened, truly happened, to my brother. She refused.” Their throat bobbed. “So I went to Nira.” You remembered his grave, the portraits, the uneven grass where they had to dig a hole for his body. If any existed of your great-grandmother, maybe they’d also appear.

They weren’t done but you couldn’t help but ask: “What did she say?”

They shook their head. “Things I don’t repeat here.”

“You promised the truth.”

“About Nira, not my brother.”

“Why won’t you tell me?” You practically screamed. Your mother flinched harshly.

“You asked about your family, I don’t owe you an explanation of mine.” Their rising tone had barked you down before, but not now.

“You’re just like her, you know.” Desperation filled your voice, choking out reason and sense. “Like Roena. Full of secrets and still able to victimize yourself.”

You wanted a reaction. You wanted a fight, to show that you were strong, that you were whatever Serulla needed.

Instead, they barely flinched, relaxing into the wall and shutting their eyes. “Maybe if I was like her, I would be the Eminence.”

Your shoulders scrunched as you curled into yourself, fighting back the growing wet in your eye. You were as breathless and you were speechless, choking to find air and the words.

“Is that what it takes?” You eventually mustered. “To be Eminence? I have to be a filthy, lying bitch who… who lies to everyone about everything? Should I cheat in the Trials? Tell me, Ilves, do I cheat?”

Silence passed between you all, barely a sound above your mothers exhaling breath. They considered for a moment, moving their gaze to the city just behind you, through your window, sprawling in the distance.

“Roena didn’t have the Trials. You need to be like a victor, not an earis.” They met your eye. “You need to be like your father.”

You stared into their eyes. Something stirred in them, but it was not the love you thought existed between the two of them. Regret.

“May I continue now?”

You exchanged a look with your mother before nodding.

“Nira told me everything I needed to know. That woman was a force of nature, but she was just one — if she was buried here, she’d probably rise from the dead to chastise you herself for accusing her of cheating.” They chuckled. “With what I knew, I couldn’t stay in Serulla anymore. I left to travel the world and I was free, but I was forced to return at the news of my mother. Despite everything she… still gave birth to me. And despite whatever I felt for this country, the political situation became so dire I had no choice. They call it the ‘civil war’ now, but it was more than that. It was an international crisis, so bad it reached my ear all the way to the south. But I made one stop before returning.

“Nira was hiding out in the Atha’lin country home. I used to visit it with Zaros, when we were much younger. She told me she had no connection to my mother’s murder. So we returned to the capital together and spoke to Zaros, devising a plan to quell the outrage. We settled on the tournament.” The story came to a close, you being able to piece together everything else. You had so many questions. Only one felt relevant.

“What now?” You said softly.

They cast their gaze away from you. Orange light caught the bridge of their nose, a brick of light falling across their cheek in tandem. Cast shadows darkened at their wrinkles, halation painting their gray hairs white. It was like a painting you’d find in an archive: one from when they were in your position.

“Do what I always did when I needed answers.” They said, an unknown delicate tone coating their voice. “Go see your grandmother.”

–

The journey took a week. You left at night, cloaked in darkness, with the barest of essentials. Your mother saw to the carriage as the Ilves broke the news to your father. All three of you figured them to be the best at doing so.

You stayed at inns and, occasionally, slept on the pillows of the carriage. You became friends with the coachman, who told you of his dreams to become a jockey. You purchased fruit from stands and let the juices run sticky over your fingers and chin, no one around to recognize or judge you.

By the time you reached your destination, you had nearly forgotten your purpose like the sky had forgotten the sun.

As you stepped out of the carriage, you pulled the cloak tighter above your head. You handed the coachmen a few extra coins as gratuity. With the crack of a whip, the horses steamed away, wheels skirting mud up at you. He was to return in an hour.

Monsoon season had begun early this year, drenching Serulla the very night you left the capital. Rain pelted down hard, turning the ground to mire. The heat still persisted. Humidity drenched your clothes in sweat before the rain did.

You charged through the storm, trying to follow a gravel path, hoping it was the right one. As you ran, a silhouette of a structure came into focus.

You slipped underneath its entrance canopy, peeling the hood away from your hair and inhaling. You looked around.

Downpour blocked most of your vision. A couple of houses sat adjacent to the one you stood beneath, though were equally beaten down with poverty and barely had roofs attached to them. A child sat outside one, cupping their hands below the water, taking it to their lips, and drinking as it slipped between their fingers.

Your hand shifted to your pocket, to a pouch, to the coins within it. You ducked back into the rain and approached them, hesitant as not to startle.

“Hello,” you called, voice softened by the static of rain.

They looked up, hands breaking apart, dropping the water they coveted.

You winced, kneeling besides them. They did not cower at a stranger nor ran. They stood their ground, watching you with attentive eyes, fists curled.

And suddenly you recognize just how your grandmother had come from here.

“I wanted to give you this,” you said, holding out the purse. “It’s money.”

They did not move, narrowing their eyes at you.

“I only ask for directions in return, I mean to pay homage. Do you know where the crypt is?” Their demeanor shifted, softening at the plea. They walked up and took the bag, dropping it into their palm, as if to weigh the coins in their hand. Then they pointed farther down the path.

“She’s at the end,” they muttered.

“Thank you.” You stood and pulled the cloak over your hair, looking at the kid one last time before booking it through the water.

As you followed the path, buildings became sparse. For a few moments you feared you were lost, until a silhouette rose in the distance, barely distinguishable in shape from the nearby homes. The roof was green-washed.

As you moved into the building, you noticed that even your grandmother's resting place wasn’t more than a shack built on top of the tomb.

There was no door to enter. You walked underneath the arch, carefully stepping over the loose rivulets of water. It was a small room, barely protected from the elements, with nothing in it but the start of a tunnel. You peered into it. It was a thin shaft, a short line of steps descending.

You began downwards. Resin candles burned on the walls. The bottom was far brighter, guiding you down.

As you mounted off the final stair, the full room came into focus.

A grave was raised from the ground, built in a way that reminded you of the Royal Graveyard. But there was no effigy of Nira Atha’lin. Just her body ensconced in stone.

And flowers. There were so, so many flowers. Some were planted in boxes, but most were wrapped up in paper and ribbon. Bouquets piled up in every egress of the room, mostly coating her coffin, some withered, some new. The crypt was open to the public, you knew. What you didn't know was how beloved she was by her hometown.

You spied a bouquet which looked about two weeks old. The flowers were not Serullan. If you were to guess, it was probable they were from Thyten.

You sighed.

Lowering your soaked hood, you took steps closer to your grandmother, resting a hand on her grave.

Nira Atha’lin: a villian, a local hero, your grandmother. What you wouldn’t give for one conversation. You still didn’t know what to make of your family, but for its matriarch, you almost reverently placed your forehead on your hand.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, finishing the rest of your apology in your head. Sorry for misplaced blame and for an even more misplaced reputation on her dynasty, and sorry for being unable to continue it.

“I’m not as willed as you, I don’t have your visions, I… I can barely shoulder your name.” You bent down to sit beside her. “I don’t even know what I want.”

A finger traced the dust on her grave. “I guess you never had that problem.”

You got no response.

“What do you want me to do,” you asked, a whisper washed away by the sound of torrential rains.

It should not be such a surprise that, only amongst the dead, you were alone.

Even Roena seemed to haunt you, raising the hairs on your neck and leading you astray from your family. But your grandmother refused. You didn’t expect her corpse to embrace you, but nothing? Not a single omen from her spirit?

You pressed your back to her bed, taking in the atmosphere. Rain continued to pelt from above.

You refused to believe Nira Atha’lin could be held down by something as mundane as death. Her name still carried with it the weight of the past three generations. She was invoked in countless conversations, still a piece alive and well in Serulla’s conscience – if nothing else, her name had not died with her.

And you realized Nira had sent her blessings to the world around her. She lived on in the gossip, yes, but also in the memory of those who loved her, from the Ilves to her son. Her hometown worshiped her like a god and maintained the crypt, despite barely having enough for themselves.

As your eyes traced the room, you noticed a box beside her coffin, where bell-shaped green flowers grew on a hooked stem.

And the flowers. It wasn’t the bouquets, but the knowledge that someone had nurtured these seeds for months, making them blossom, that was so deeply reminiscent of Nira.

You stared at the green hooks for a long moment.

Nira Atha’lin was a woman of action. She wouldn’t want your apology from your voice, but acts.

You shuffled closer to try and pry one of the buds from the dirt.

–

The return was longer than the initial journey on account of the weather, and certainly a lot less pleasant. It was midday when you arrived, and you still managed to collapse in your bed, no longer tired of it once you’d spent weeks in others.

It still didn’t feel like home. The palace had finished its transformation for the renouncement ceremony, a stage set to entertain.

As its lead actor, you took your position.

For the remaining delegations that turned up, you were gracious to the visitors and gave them a tour of the palace. You paid respects to the other noble families and were seen strolling in the gallery, being civil to their heirs.

Rumors still surrounded you. Word spread of your outburst in the funeral gardens. They whispered of you being ‘unstable’ like the rest of your family, violent and ready to lose it at any moment.

All you could do now was hold yourself high.

The days passed quickly, though barely traceable as the sun still hid behind a cloud screen. With all the preparations done, the servants were now preoccupied with one job: making sure they weren’t swept away by the winds or storm.

As the final day began, it was eerily quiet. Even the nobles ceased their squawking, simple living in the last moments of what they knew: your fathers reign.

For all it was worth, nobody truly had a clue what was going to happen. They feared change as much as you did. Polite ambience filled the palace that day, everyone expectant and pulled as taut as a bowstring, forced to still labor through the hours where there was nothing they, nor you, or anyone, could do to quicken or change tomorrow. You all simply had to exist to get there.

When the moon rose behind the overcast and everyone else laid to rest, you found yourself with your mother, her tending to your hair.

Upon finishing, she cradled you in her arms, swaddled you in a khes, and let you relax into her. She even sang your favorite lullabies and rocked herself to help you sleep. You were just a child in their mothers arms, and, even for fleeting hours, it was so nice to be nothing more.

–

The ballroom was loud, a dissonant mixture of music, talking, and the shuffle of feet.

Diplomats, noble families, the common people – it was an occasion open to all walks of life. They congregated mostly amongst themselves, though all brought together to witness the same occasion.

You stood in a highbox with your mother, watching the crowds below, sipping on a flute of wine. Yesterday's calm was short-lived. You tapped your foot urgently against the floor, trying to release the nearly painful adrenaline pulsing through your entire being.

“We have some time before the ceremony, you can go take a moment for yourself.”

“If I leave, I fear I won’t come back.”

Your mother huffed. “Fair enough.” She walked up beside you, an identical glass in hand.

She had performed earlier, responding with the crowd buzzing about the ‘Siren of Serulla’. You saw her smile as the title wafted up to your box again, and you couldn’t help but do the same.

Light from the chandelier reflected on her, making every piece of jewelry rutilant. Her sheer dupatta was lined with almost ichor-like stitching, seemingly flowing with gold. Her tikka was weighed by pearls and had intricate patterns carved into it, gemstones embedded in its plate. Her carcanet still hung around her neck.

She was radiant.

You both took a sip of the wine, surveying the people below you, swirling to a dance. Purely an instrumental piece, it’d be an insult to have anyone sing after Serulla’s queen. Not that anyone could compare anyways.

“Do you think I should be dancing down there? Maybe it’d make a good impression.”

“A bit late for that now, isn’t it?”

“I’ll sneak in,” you joked. “You’ll be my partner. They won’t even notice we just joined, we’ll be the best dancers on the floor.”

You took a sip of wine.

“Do you dance, mama? I can’t say I’ve ever seen you.”

She shook her head. “Never had the teachers or the partner.”

You both glanced at the balcony where Zaros stood. He was against the wall, so far from the banister that he couldn’t be seen from the main floor. He was speaking to the Ilves general. You looked away before she did.

The only audience you wouldn’t entertain was his. He tried, and you owed him an apology, but you couldn’t bear it. Especially not with the mental comparisons to Roena. Or your actions two nights ago. So you let him play Eminence, not father – and eventually, he let you play earis, not child. You both kept your distance.

“No matter. Like you said, we’ll dance together,” she said, smiling through her wine glass, before putting it down.

You heard the strike of a clock hand ticking into place, marking the tenth hour.

“I must go,” you said, sighing. “It’ll start soon.”

“Alright. Make me proud.” She cupped your cheek and pulled you in for a kiss, which grew to be a hug.

“I will.” You whispered into her ear.

She cupped hands around your face and planted a kiss on your forehead. Her eyes were glossy in the light.

“Don’t cry, mama.” You tried to enter a hug again, but she stopped you.

“I’m not.” She sniffed, smiling as she dropped her hands from your face. She dragged you to the exit, almost pushing you out of it. “Go. Have fun.”

“Have fun?” The Ilves' voice asked through the curtain. They entered the box, ornately decorated in their own ways.

“What am I supposed to say?” She jabbed. “What are you doing here? Surely the Ilves family has its own box, and Zaros has plenty of room beside him.”

“Well, if you must know, I am here to send condolences to our earis.” They turned to you. “My deepest apologizes.”

Your mother scoffed as you giggled.

“And I don’t particularly wish to spend this night with my family ghosts, there are enough that surround me tonight already.” They turned to your mother. “I was going to ask if you’d give me the pleasure of allowing me to spend it here, instead.”

She raised her brows at that.

“I really must go,” you said, slipping away for them to solve this themselves.

The hallways which wrapped the terraces were barely lit. Flickers of light danced across the floors, and you found yourself walking around the flame, footsteps staying in shadow. Little groups walked together and you passed them. To those who noticed you, they nodded. “My earis.”

A passing servant offered to take your glass. You took one last swig of the half-alcoholic, half-melted-ice mixture before handing it off.

You stopped before the entrance, taking a deep, long breath. You could almost taste the perfume in the air, mixing with wine and the flowers and food.

On the exhale, you stepped into the ballroom.

There was much more light in the ballroom proper. The dance had just finished, and people were stepping away from the center. As you walked, countless people gave you brief wishes, shaking your gloved hands. They ebbed between congratulations and sympathy.

You would’ve worn them bare, but still you could not shed them of silt, and if it was for any other reason than the truth, you might have just bared it.

It had been done in darkness. You kept the root in hand as you passed the guards, startled, though not suspicious, of a midnight romp in the gardens. You truly are your father’s child.

It was not hard to find tools and even easier was using them. The hardest part was jumping the fence into the Eminence Graveyard. If there was one thing your grandmother taught you, it was this.

A small bloom now abutted the grave. Vibrant in the day, it had become the hue of sea glass in moonlight. Zaros feared the Queen Mother’s desecration, hiding her grave along the shore. Now you committed the act against his mentor, another matron. Even still, you could not find condolence in your heart.

Let the Mother’s flowers dance on the Dowager’s grave.

Your mind remained elsewhere as you drifted to the center, the tic tic of a clock moving like a metronome in your head. Thoughts of your grandmother filled your mind. How many like-minded people were in this room tonight, ready to do what they could to bring Serulla into betterance? You uttered a silent prayer to her.

The toll of a bell brought you to attention, clapping and then the shushing crowd permeating the air. The Eminence walked out on the balcony, commanding everyone's attention.

Zaros began to speak, alone in the limelight sans his courtiers.

“Good evening. I’d like to firstly thank all here for attending, whether you came from far or near. We are honored to be graced with the presence of you all on this historic night.”

A low murmur rose from the crowd.

“Before its invocation, I will recite the Law of the Second Eminence, Horth Nighten Stellaire.” A courtier ran up to hand him the scroll, freshly brought out from the library. He began to read from it:

“As our sacred nation Serulla was founded by a family united not by blood, but by shared values wherein a land became home, the ambiguity of resolution and division of power remained, for all would elect themselves to govern and a verdict never carried.”

You stole a look to the other figures emerging from the crowd, purposefully going to stand where they’d be in clear view of the Eminence and all onlookers. The Gazi family pushed the heiress to the front. The Faysel heir cowered behind his father, not entirely sure of what was happening. He was only nine, after all.

“To ensure the longevity and justness of an equally just nation, it was put forth than upon a monarchs renouncement, the noble families of Serulla gather before our sacred nation to accept the next in line or challenge their position, thereby invoking the imperium right, a Trial of honor, strength, and wisdom, all qualities that without, one could not claim the throne.”

Zaros paused, regaining his composure. He finally looked down and saw you, staring up at him, ready to inherit your purpose. He lingered for a moment before continuing the proclamation.

“Thus, In sight of all dominion, of all nobility, of all messengers to harken and disseminate, the ruling head of this land must ask their favor or for their contention.” He swallowed. Please step forward.”

You, along with five others, stepped forward. You stole a quick glance to the Ilves heir, who sat with your mother.

“If none contest, then my only child will ascend and the Atha’lin family will continue to uphold the foundations of Serulla until the next monarch renouncement.”

You close your eyes, the room drenching itself in darkness just as it does in silence. You wait. You listen.

As is customary, the Ponvillus line is called first.

#sakuverse #zsakuva #zsakuva zaros #zaros atha’lin #zaros #earis #nira atha'lin #melira kellestine #roena ilves #divider by cafekitsune

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year ago

Text

Yellow, City, Chapter Two - a Malevolent AU

A continuation of Cloud City, because some people (@flamdoodles @thescentofwhiteroses) wouldn't stop inspiring me.

Arthur remembers some things.

Things he's done that he is not proud of.

Things he's done that terrify him now.

Some of those things... he can't handle at all.

There is some sexual content with dubious consent in this chapter. Arthur initiates things (enthusiastically, at that), but he's also out of his mind, so proceed with proper warning.

AO3

-------------

Arthur’s memories were broken, fractured, pieces of a painted mirror he could not fit together. They were disordered, messy, absolutely wrecked.

Just like him.

“Beautiful,” Hastur rumbled.

“What is?” Arthur muttered, trying not to remember what he’d seen here, struggling with what he knew was true beneath his memories of Cloud City: a golden metropolis of angles like shattered amber, buildings slanting in directions that made no sense, gravity ignored.

Arthur had walked up walls going after so-called perps… and rationalized it all, painting it over like a palimpsest with images from his home city, with faces from his past.

“You are,” Hastur answered, being an ass.

“Sure.” Arthur lay in Hastur’s hands, face on his arms, pretending no one could see him as they flew who knew where.

“It’s only true,” said Hastur with a horrifying glee. “Your madness; your self-loathing; you are a constant storm of thought and hate, unpredictable in direction and destruction, yet familiar enough to savor.”

Oh. Great. “That’s beauty to you?”

“Humans, stretched to their limit, revealing what lies beneath their seams?” Such a pleased bass rumble. “Yes.”

I’m fucked, Arthur thought, and clenched his fists.

“Is your pet on a leash today?” burbled some guttural thing, and Arthur covered his face with his hands.

“Today,” said Hastur, who was carrying Arthur like a doll and moving so fast that wind blew Arthur’s hair back.

“Where the fuck are we going?” Arthur murmured.

“To see someone who requested to see you,” said Hastur.

Arthur didn’t want to see anyone, especially someone who thought he was worth seeing. “Do we have to do this?”

“They’ve all seen you already, in various conditions,” Hastur said, as if that would be at all soothing.

“Oh, gods,” Arthur moaned. “Various what?”

“You didn’t always want to wait for paltry things like clothing before taking off on your little adventures,” Hastur said with another dark laugh. “It was quite the sight.”

Arthur curled into a ball. Maybe if he ignored everybody, was boring, they’d go away. “Let me die.”

“No. I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

Arthur curled tighter.

“Great lord!” someone called as they flew by.

“Great one!”

“Indomitable king!”

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Arthur grit his teeth. “I wasn’t… I was good to you.”

“Yes,” rumbled Hastur.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“The contract, Arthur,” Hastur said. “In time, you’ll appreciate me properly… when you’re not mad, even. But this first period must be rough because you demanded it.”

Arthur began to shake, weeping again.

“Such drama,” rumbled Hastur.

“Fuck you,” said Arthur. “You love this.”

“I do,” said Hastur. “And I let you, when you asked.”

It took Arthur a moment. “Oh, gods,” he moaned again.

He remembered it, remembered—

“It was a lovely, human response to celebration,” Hastur explained.

Oh. Oh, it had… it had been something like that.

He remembered. He refused to say. “You know what? You can go to hell,” Arthur said to the giant hand holding him.

Hastur laughed.

He remembered. Yes, he did, though it was in pieces, out of order, disjointed. Remembered freeing the orphans, the wicked priest, the—

No. No, that hadn’t happened at all.

Arthur remembered thinking the orphans were starving because someone was stealing from the orphanage. And maybe it was the priest’s fault and maybe it wasn’t, but he was going to find out. He remembered—

Running through Hastur’s halls, past windows taller than half the buildings in Cloud City, past beings that leaped aside because Hastur flew on Arthur’s heels like some favorite game. Running and spinning the story in his head even though there was no proof, because there was no orphanage, so how could there be evidence, and—

Discovering the receipts proving Father Monahan had taken donations and bought food but where was it? Where was the food? How could the orphans be starving? And Arthur—

Charged down some octopus-looking guy in purple livery with gold piping, and full-body tackled him, shouting about orphans, about stolen food, about theft and should know better and you think your God would approve of this?

And the octo-guy—standing there, not even knocked down-–staring at Hastur with complete bafflement while Hastur laughed, and laughed, and did nothing to stop this, and—

Monahan fought, of course he fought, he’d been caught red-handed, and it was time to pay. The coppers were coming, and Arthur didn’t care, didn’t even care if they jailed him too after this, because it was kids, this guy had hurt kids, and that could never be forgiven.

Hastur pulled him off, and—

Hastur pulled him off, gently but firmly, saying, “Leave something for the judge to convict, partner.”

“Now, I think that’s enough. You’re tiring yourself out, little detective.”

And—

Arthur was still shaking and sweaty when they went back to the room they shared (and he saw his apartment, and saw Cloud City through his glass wall, but at the same time saw the enormous impossible sculptures, and walls that were not flat, and it hurt to look at, hurt to see, so he just threw a tarp over it in his mind, and—)

“So you’ve solved the case of the starving children,” said Hastur, said his partner, and maybe if he hadn’t phrased it that way

(children)

or maybe if he’d let the conversation drift to something else, it wouldn’t have happened, but he did, and maybe he knew, except

(in Arthur’s head, they were already lovers, already together, and it made sense to—)

he did say children, and Arthur cried, and it was ugly crying, and he didn’t know why he cried, thinking of children, thinking of little kids, so that his heart tore more with every beat, and then in that utterly raw moment, he wanted to be comforted.

Distracted.

Used.

And he remembered

(Hastur was surprised)

reaching for him, reaching for his partner, for his

(and laughed, and said, “Really? Well, then. As you wish, little detective.”)

trusted partner, and it was strange.

Hastur wasn’t shaped like a person.

Arthur didn’t know what to touch, what to kiss, where to put his tongue, so he just tried everything (he was a considerate lover, damn it all). And oh, oh, oh. Oh.

Arthur remembered.

Pressing inside, such a welcoming space, such heat and tightness, nearly losing himself right away and fighting to last a little longer (a considerate lover), still touching and tonguing anything he could, but lost, lost to this pull, and he may have been penetrating but he was not in charge.

He couldn’t last.

That climax was the best of his life. So far. Took his breath, shattered his sight, and Hastur gave him a moment, chuckling darkly while Arthur tried to catch his breath and stop the room from spinning before saying, “My turn.”

And then it was Hastur’s turn, and it was

(this was pain, this was nightmare, this was being flayed and opened and denuded and entered)

such all-encompassing bliss that he had the insane thought that his dick had taken over his whole body, and managed one choking laugh before his mouth was filled again, and it

(so much blood)

satisfied him in some deep and awful way that he’d always wanted and never found, all his insides scooped out and replaced, supplanted, filled and burning.

When it was done, and he was somehow folded back into one piece, part of his mind knew this had never happened before. He was wrong. This wasn’t his known lover. This was… this was inhuman, and he should not have enjoyed it.

The rest of him lay in that many-armed grip and wished he could purr, too.

He’d started this.

He…

Felt sick.

“Oh, dear,” said Hastur like this was very funny, and slowed. “Do you need to throw up? It seems that you might.”

Arthur did, and Hastur held him while he heaved over the side of some height, which Arthur could only tell because of the breeze in his face and how long it took for his spew to hit the bottom.

He was curled in Hastur’s hands when the scents outside changed.

Hastur’s city had a smell like polished gold, metals and strange water, none of it bad, just… very city. This… this was earth. Soil. Loam. Dark and rich dirt in which things grew.

“Where are we?” he murmured.

“Would you like to see?” said Hastur.

Arthur would. Arthur did. “I… I want to see.”

“As you wish, little detective.” And Arthur’s sight turned on.

He gasped.

Woods did not cover this. The trees were monsters, every leaf a mountain. The quiet forest-sounds were hollow, far-away, epic in their scope and timbre. Something about this place slid in between his tensions and tremors and soothed him, just a little bit.

At least, until the voice.

No. The Voice.

He had no idea what it was saying, could tell instinctively that if he did understand it, he’d be insane again, and not even Hastur could bring him back, so he curled back up, hands over his ears, and waited for it to stop.

Hastur stroked down his back with one large finger. “Arthur. Someone is here to see you.”

Someone who wanted to see him didn’t sound like a good person.

“Did you fucking break him?” said a woman Arthur didn’t know and yet did, the particular inflection, something about the attitude, and he could not help but peek.

A woman stood there, tall, with shoulder-length black hair and an athletic build, wearing a sort of black sheath dress. She scowled at Hastur without a trace of fear or obeisance, and he knew her, but couldn’t place how.

“No, I did not,” said Hastur, slightly huffy, “though he seems to wish I would.”

The woman gave him the driest look that ever existed, and Arthur suddenly knew who it was. “Asenath?” he breathed.

“Put him down, for fuck’s sake,” she said.

“A little respect will do you good,” Hastur warned.

“Not here, your lordship,” said Asenath (and it was Asenath, there was no question it was Asenath, and Arthur stared as Hastur lowered him to the ground).

He stared up at her. “Asenath?”

“In the flesh, so to speak,” she said, kneeling by him. “Hey, buddy. Good to see you as yourself.” She smelled the same; that scent he still thought might be lavender, and it was her eyes, and her lips, and just her, changed only in the simplest way.

He was starting to cry again. “But you died!”

“I sure as fuck did,” she said. “Nothing compared to your adventure, though. I’ve been hearing all kinds of stories. Can you stand?”

Arthur didn’t know about that, but he could do this: he reached, grabbed her, and sobbed against her pleasantly soft breast.

“Yikes,” she said, and stood with him. “So clearly he’s doing fine. I’m going to give him some tea.”

“Not too far, now,” Hastur rumbled, a warning.

“You think I’m going to steal your guy?” Asenath snorted. “Good job, Arthur. You got to him. Here we go. Come on.”

Arthur barely processed what she said. He clung, walking as directed deeper into this impossible Wood, and did not at all grasp her next words.

“Revenge is apparently a dish best served fucked up,” said Asenath, and plopped him at a human-sized table in the shadows of god-like trees.

She let him calm down before trying to talk, and that was a good and grateful thing. The tea was delicious; he couldn’t identify it, but it was flowery, pleasant, light. It made him feel light, like it somehow lifted the weights on his heart.

And she was alive.

He didn’t understand how that worked, or why. Or maybe if she wasn’t even here, and he was just imagining her. He could be. The tea was just a touch too cold now, though, and that didn’t seem like a thing he’d imagine.

She just watched, waiting, like they had all the time in the world, and who knew? Maybe they did. This was hardly Earth.

This was hardly reality. This was hardly sanity. “Hi,” he began like a moron.

She laughed softly (and it was definitely her laugh, just a little higher). “Hi. You goober.”

“I’m not a goober.” Why was he even protesting? “Or maybe I am, I don’t know.” He wiped at fresh tears, which were at least leaking without drama. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’ve been fucking nuts for a little while, you know? So, hey. Cry a minute.”

He made a sound that was neither sob nor laugh. “Three years.”

“A little more than that, but yeah. Not that time matters in this place,” she said comfortably, and sipped some tea. Her nails were still painted, but no longer chipped; they somehow graduated from black to green, perfect blends.

“Am I… did you die?” he said. “I thought you died, but I don’t… I can’t trust my memory right now.”

“Yup!” she confirmed with cheer. “Cookie?”

He stared at it. It looked nice, oval and brown and baked, but his stomach still hated him. “I… maybe later.”

“Sure.”

“You wanted to see me?” he said. “Why would you want to see me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she said. “I like you, you idiot.”

He dropped his gaze. “You shouldn’t.”

She rolled her eyes. “Here we go. I swear, Arthur Lester, if you go on some stupid It lowers you rant, or something, I am going to shake you until your eyeballs fall out.”

He stared at her. “Why? Why would you… why…”

She sighed. “Arthur. You saved the world? You did the hardest thing. I’m proud of you. It matters.”

He had trouble considering anyone would be proud of him right now. It was a beautiful thought, but utterly out of reach. “That really happened?” he said softly. “Most of my memories aren’t… I don’t…”

“Can you tell, right now, which were imagined and which were real?” she said.

He paused. He could tell; he could see it clearly, see the paint he’d layered over everything, and still see what lay beneath. “Yes.”

“So trust yourself.”

His hands shook, even as gargantuan leaves trembled overhead in sweet and verdant breeze. “I can’t. I did… I’ve been…”

“Yeah?”

There was so much. He waved one hand. “I… we… I did things, Asenath, I…”

She raised her other eyebrow.

His lip trembled. “I… I did…”

She stared at him. “What? Did you fuck your god?”

Arthur stared, slack-jawed. “How did you…”

She shrugged. “Humans do that. Not all humans; some of them are lucky enough not to have that drive, but any of us who do tend to react that way to utter, exposing, penetrative power. Relax, Arthur Lester.”

He couldn’t process her reaction to this most horrifying news. “I… Why did you want to see me?” he said, suddenly suspicious. “Really. None of this ‘I like you’ shit.”

She tilted her head. “I wasn’t lying, Arthur Lester. I heard you’d come out of the dream, and wanted to see how you were. I’m kinda hoping you stick around, you know? And… you will, if you can manage these first few years. I like you. I think we could be friends… and I doubt anyone else is telling you that you can make it through this. They just don’t think like that here.”

He stared. “Asenath, I’m… I’m insane.”

She snorted. “So am I.”

“I’ve done horrible things. And you’re not insane.”

“Yeah, I am, and so are you, because we’re here. This is the Dreamlands. Our gods create madness. Just go with it. It’s great.”

He stared.

She grinned and leaned across the table. “It’s like being in a river. Fuck, you never went river-rafting, did you? You couldn’t. Listen, you know what a river is, right? Think of it like that: you’re on a flotation device, in that water. The current’s got you. As long as you just let it take you away, you’re fine. In fact, you can have a blast. But if you fight…”

His face twisted. “You… what?”

“Fuck yourself up. Fall off the floaty. Drown. But you don’t have to drown, Arthur.”

His stupid eyes kept leaking. “I don’t understand.”

“I think you will.” She refilled his tea. “You don’t have to drown.”

It hit him. “You waited three years to tell me this?”

“Yep. I mean, I couldn’t tell you at first. You were already off your rocker.”

Boy, was that the truth. “I… the moment I saw him, fully, I…”

“Everybody does. He’s the King in Yellow. That’s what he does.”

Arthur couldn’t tell if that was better or worse than this madness just being a flaw in him alone. “What was I… doing?”

“Talking about the mayor, and receiving the key to the city for stopping a rogue Contractor from bringing in an invasion of shoggoths.” And her lips quirked. “Honestly? It was a great story.”

And suddenly, he could see it, could see how absolutely ridiculous it was, and surprised himself into laughing. “I did?”

“Oh, yeah. Hastur was showing you off to everybody like a new puppy, and you just made no godsdamned sense. It was kind of great.” She grinned. “Good imagination.”

“Oh, gods.” He rubbed his face, but he was still smiling. “Okay. It’s embarrassing, but…”

“It’s not devastating. You haven’t done any harm, Arthur. Okay? Maybe the villains you ran down were imaginary, but you were still running down villains, not becoming one.”

This was more complicated than she was making it sound. He licked his lips. “You’re telling me this like you’re trying to throw me a rope.”

“I am. You’ll want to go under again. Maybe you will. It’s okay. If you do, it’s okay. Maybe I’ll go on an adventure with you. Just… instead, I hope you ride the river.”

Stupid tears. Stupid eyes. He wiped at them. “I don’t deserve this help.”

“Stop that. Yes, you do.”

“Not with what I’ve done,” he said, low and angry.

Her look softened, and she sighed. “Well, I’ll be happy to hang out with you as long as you’ll have me, anyway. Okay?”

“I’d like that.” He hadn’t known he would agree, but here he was, agreeing. “I…” He swallowed. “I don’t want to go back.”

“Mmm. You have to.”

“I know,” he whispered.

She studied him. “What happened to you, Arthur Lester? You didn’t hate yourself this much the last time I saw you.”

He couldn’t tell her.

He couldn’t say the words.

Faroe…

“Oh, boy. Oh. Ah.” Her eyes widened. “Hey. Focus. Hey, buddy, I’m still here.”

Faroe.

He’d killed her, murdered his daughter with his own hands and stupid self-indulgence, killed her because he hadn’t been able to avoid his fear in a healthy way, and now he was sobbing, weeping hard, gasping uncontrollably, curled forward and hiding his face.

Asenath sighed. “It’s gonna be okay, Arthur Lester,” she whispered. “Hastur! Come get your boy!”

Killed her, he’d killed her, he’d taken her life, and she’d known the pain of bullets in her last horrid moments, and felt terror, and he wasn’t there to comfort her because he’d done it to her himself.

Arthur screamed.

Memory stuttered.

Birds in the trees? Flapping wings, hard and sharp.

Wind in his face, fast, cold.

His partner, soothing, reminding him of what was important. “Yes, you did it, Arthur. Everyone is very pleased with you. You solved the case.”

He did it. He’d done the right thing. He’d protected someone innocent.

He couldn’t remember his day. Couldn’t remember what he’d done. That was okay. He’d done it. Hastur said so.

“There we go,” his partner said, pressing fruit to his lips. “Eat.”

Eating was a waste of time. There was more to do. Evil to stop. Wicked, wicked men to track down and fucking stomp into the ground until their faces were mush and their eyeballs jelly and their noses bashed into their brains and—

“Sleep, Arthur.”

And he had to, because he couldn’t disobey his god.

But as he did, he overheard, overheard the Voice talking to his god, overheard it say: You may have to tread carefully with this one, or he will destroy himself.

He’d destroy evil. That’s what he’d do, and he dreamed about it as he drifted, safe in his partner’s arms, because he, Arthur Lester, was one of the good guys, and nothing could take that away.

#malevolent au #mature fic #malevolent fic #cloud city #arthur lester #hastur/arthur #the king in yellow/arthur lester #dubious consent

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