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Fantasy one hand on the sword; the other clasped in mine ⋆★⋆ k&c
- Thread starter candygore
- Start date
if he vaguely tries to recall, he muses with a tender—almost wistful—smile, he remembers this place.
bearing his weight in his left arm, his the ligaments stretch to accommodate his bulky silhouette in the thicket, body leaning away from the tree his fingers clutch; aware but perhaps not, of the rubble that crunches under his heavy boot and tumbles down the precipice.
“think they’ll recognise you?”
it should’ve been surprising, insulting even, how he barely sensed another presence in his company. it should’ve but right now, as he watches the spear-sharp spires from three days afar, it brings nothing but a haughty flare to his brows and he swerves his body around the scaly bark to land almost airlessly, towering a head over his intruder.
or invited intruder, he supposes. he’s the one who extended the offer in the first place, half-prompted, half-intentional.
he smirks, feels the warm barrels prodding his temple already. if he really tried to seek it out, he’d bet a good dime there was lead and carbon in their air already. “even from three days away…” his puny guest’s eyes pinch with questions that only his accelerated heartrate hold, the tumultuous gleam in his eyes could appease. and if not that. if not that, then the concupiscent swoop in lower belly could most certainly answer.
they had been expecting him, he notes, slowing down his dark steed a hair before the hefty yet oddly ornamental gates separating the dregs from the worthy. he doesn’t dismiss is that easily: how the knights stationed at the stone brims of the royal castle barely twitched in their posts even when a war horse charges at their defenses. alone (a quaint little adjective that flips his perspective.) or mostly.
they stomp their iron-clad feet behind his mare and oh, yes, there’s that anticipatory clank! of their pikes clinking like little teacups in a spring garden. “gentlemen,” he chides. all in good faith; his pearly whites shine through and it must assuage them to some degree. he tugs on one end of the leather reigns, guiding his horse to turn around. his rectification of their orders comes easy: “the lady rides with me.”
their faces are moulded with what once was malleable metal, viscous and unyielding even to the harsh rays of afternoon sun. he can’t see past the slit where their eyes should be and wonders briefly with an internal huff of pity, if they truly belong to these knights anyway. he can’t see the expressions the men wear but there is a stare hidden in them, much too impassive for outcast patrol guards living near the brinks of nosy villages.
“were you not informed?” the quirk of his brow is genuine in its question. his, ah… attendant had been blithe with their ink, filling the parchment with swirls of detail about the exact attire and timing of his visit to dienberg. it seemed unnecessary to him and he’d voiced just that. “you have not been,” was the curt reply he received, met immediately with vain titters from a petite figure who redeems herself now. if the plea in her ruby-red eyes is anything to go by.
he rolls his eyes in another genuine gesture, this time of disdain. “gentlemen,” he repeats. “meet Thyme.” they understand he speaks of the woman accompanying him on a horse similar to his, only lighter (tones lighter. it’s white, where his is an ashy-brown.) and he understands it doesn’t answer their queries so he unties his crass tongue: “i am a man who requires a bed partner to keep his chambers warm for the night.”
it’s disgusting how well it works.
they’re officially allowed on castle grounds. he ignores the waves of seething heat unfurling on his back in favour of leaning forward, chest touching the hard jut of his saddle. flanking his horse just once, he’s galloping down the naked path carved into impenetrable stone, silk ribbons of harsh wind sluicing across his exposed skin and drenching his short, dark hair.
it’s cute how well his bed partner keeps up.
he’ll have to tease her about it later—makes a mental note of it—how he wasn’t all that far off from the truth. except usually, it’s usually a ménage à trois whenever it concerns them. has been for more than the last two decades.
if he vaguely tries to recall, he muses with a wistful—almost condoling—smile, he remembers this place.
ah, he catches himself. catches the gaze of rose-quartz silently following a step behind him, and he simpers. and although not visible behind his veil, the quick flit of her eyes away from his tells him everything he ought to know. (that he should’ve paid attention when they were still two nights away from their destination and she’d unrolled a parchment on the tips of her pointed fingers to read the text like holy commandments) it’s a strange, strange sense of deja vu: how intimately familiar he is with this interior despite- “you have not been.”
for more than the last two decades apparently, he’s aware. though he can’t remember a time when… when estee Parelius (his soul sings half the name), estee inez wasn’t their eternal empress. time stretches in strange, strange ways, he ruminates, when you strain your chains farther than the chalk-circle drawn around you.
there’s a literary beauty warping the interior around him. he’s heard of the castle build to intimidate, and he can see how an ordinary folk may be browbeat into cowering after flickering their dazed scan upwards to see just how low they stand under the crated, curved ceiling. he, however, ambles and admires the brushstrokes of foreign artwork above him. he saunters and savours the way the soles of his shoes stitch with his reflection’s on the pristine floors sweeping the grand hall.
ah, he’s reminded: the grand hall. and oh, he’s cautioned by thick, metallic barrels that warm his temple with their heating carbon; the same ones from three days ago, when his presence was merely an intruding shadow miles away from the royal castle. the threat is more imminent now. he notes with a twitch of his eye, the way his gait attracts foreign eyes like a peacock’s mating ritual.
how demeaning, he sniffs. if there’s one—and there is only one—peahen whose attention he wants to garner and weave between his fingers-
with a wide, sweeping motion both, his veil and his hood are divested from his face to reveal a stencil of traditionally handsome features: dark buzzed hair, prominent square jaw, chiseled pointed nose. and all of it bows collapses before the dais in humility, reverence, utmost DEVOTION because oh, for the life of him, he cannot remember the last time he bowed to admit so garishly that he was beneath someone.
(and yet, a childlike excitement bubbles in chest and bleeds his dark eyes black.)
“your… eternal. greatness.” he knows he sounds out of breath, feels a warmth accumulating in the cupid bow above his lip. his heart hammers, hammers and he wishes he could plunge a hand in to crush the trembling beat making his peripheries vibrate with lightning-blue adrenaline.
the defiance. the defiance of waiting excruciatingly till he was a hair’s width away from the queen’s platform to even acknowledge her omnipresence on the throne. “i-” her court watches him then flicks to her and he takes that second’s worth of reprieve to gather himself on his knee, one palm resting atop it as the other fists the ground with the black veil in-hand.
“i. am Cyre,” he speaks plainly, voice loud and steady to everyone’s pointed ears. “i know not of my patronymic or my clan. the only kin tethering me to life outside war is my propinquity with his late imperial highness.” they must hear the immiscible mélange of dejection and dulia in his tone but they do not detect the delight that dances under the submissive bow of his head. he barely stops himself from a headlong lift of his gaze just to peek at the expression he’ll find laser-trained on him. what an honour.
he wonders if the queen rages inside, fevers for the name flashing parchment upon parchment of neatly stacked letters in the king’s study. if only they’d met under different circumstances—when he wasn’t Cyre—then he could’ve relished watching the zapping of a jilted, jealous lover on her façade.
for now, he relinquishes his ifs and whens.
“and now,” he continues, holding his own stare on the polished marble floors, watching his mouth form words he rehearsed for weeks and weeks lest he stumble in front of the empress and her court. “as per my lordship’s final will, the leash of my serviceability belongs to She he held most dear.”
Krill
bearing his weight in his left arm, his the ligaments stretch to accommodate his bulky silhouette in the thicket, body leaning away from the tree his fingers clutch; aware but perhaps not, of the rubble that crunches under his heavy boot and tumbles down the precipice.
“think they’ll recognise you?”
it should’ve been surprising, insulting even, how he barely sensed another presence in his company. it should’ve but right now, as he watches the spear-sharp spires from three days afar, it brings nothing but a haughty flare to his brows and he swerves his body around the scaly bark to land almost airlessly, towering a head over his intruder.
or invited intruder, he supposes. he’s the one who extended the offer in the first place, half-prompted, half-intentional.
he smirks, feels the warm barrels prodding his temple already. if he really tried to seek it out, he’d bet a good dime there was lead and carbon in their air already. “even from three days away…” his puny guest’s eyes pinch with questions that only his accelerated heartrate hold, the tumultuous gleam in his eyes could appease. and if not that. if not that, then the concupiscent swoop in lower belly could most certainly answer.
***
they had been expecting him, he notes, slowing down his dark steed a hair before the hefty yet oddly ornamental gates separating the dregs from the worthy. he doesn’t dismiss is that easily: how the knights stationed at the stone brims of the royal castle barely twitched in their posts even when a war horse charges at their defenses. alone (a quaint little adjective that flips his perspective.) or mostly.
they stomp their iron-clad feet behind his mare and oh, yes, there’s that anticipatory clank! of their pikes clinking like little teacups in a spring garden. “gentlemen,” he chides. all in good faith; his pearly whites shine through and it must assuage them to some degree. he tugs on one end of the leather reigns, guiding his horse to turn around. his rectification of their orders comes easy: “the lady rides with me.”
their faces are moulded with what once was malleable metal, viscous and unyielding even to the harsh rays of afternoon sun. he can’t see past the slit where their eyes should be and wonders briefly with an internal huff of pity, if they truly belong to these knights anyway. he can’t see the expressions the men wear but there is a stare hidden in them, much too impassive for outcast patrol guards living near the brinks of nosy villages.
“were you not informed?” the quirk of his brow is genuine in its question. his, ah… attendant had been blithe with their ink, filling the parchment with swirls of detail about the exact attire and timing of his visit to dienberg. it seemed unnecessary to him and he’d voiced just that. “you have not been,” was the curt reply he received, met immediately with vain titters from a petite figure who redeems herself now. if the plea in her ruby-red eyes is anything to go by.
he rolls his eyes in another genuine gesture, this time of disdain. “gentlemen,” he repeats. “meet Thyme.” they understand he speaks of the woman accompanying him on a horse similar to his, only lighter (tones lighter. it’s white, where his is an ashy-brown.) and he understands it doesn’t answer their queries so he unties his crass tongue: “i am a man who requires a bed partner to keep his chambers warm for the night.”
it’s disgusting how well it works.
they’re officially allowed on castle grounds. he ignores the waves of seething heat unfurling on his back in favour of leaning forward, chest touching the hard jut of his saddle. flanking his horse just once, he’s galloping down the naked path carved into impenetrable stone, silk ribbons of harsh wind sluicing across his exposed skin and drenching his short, dark hair.
it’s cute how well his bed partner keeps up.
he’ll have to tease her about it later—makes a mental note of it—how he wasn’t all that far off from the truth. except usually, it’s usually a ménage à trois whenever it concerns them. has been for more than the last two decades.
***
if he vaguely tries to recall, he muses with a wistful—almost condoling—smile, he remembers this place.
ah, he catches himself. catches the gaze of rose-quartz silently following a step behind him, and he simpers. and although not visible behind his veil, the quick flit of her eyes away from his tells him everything he ought to know. (that he should’ve paid attention when they were still two nights away from their destination and she’d unrolled a parchment on the tips of her pointed fingers to read the text like holy commandments) it’s a strange, strange sense of deja vu: how intimately familiar he is with this interior despite- “you have not been.”
for more than the last two decades apparently, he’s aware. though he can’t remember a time when… when estee Parelius (his soul sings half the name), estee inez wasn’t their eternal empress. time stretches in strange, strange ways, he ruminates, when you strain your chains farther than the chalk-circle drawn around you.
there’s a literary beauty warping the interior around him. he’s heard of the castle build to intimidate, and he can see how an ordinary folk may be browbeat into cowering after flickering their dazed scan upwards to see just how low they stand under the crated, curved ceiling. he, however, ambles and admires the brushstrokes of foreign artwork above him. he saunters and savours the way the soles of his shoes stitch with his reflection’s on the pristine floors sweeping the grand hall.
ah, he’s reminded: the grand hall. and oh, he’s cautioned by thick, metallic barrels that warm his temple with their heating carbon; the same ones from three days ago, when his presence was merely an intruding shadow miles away from the royal castle. the threat is more imminent now. he notes with a twitch of his eye, the way his gait attracts foreign eyes like a peacock’s mating ritual.
how demeaning, he sniffs. if there’s one—and there is only one—peahen whose attention he wants to garner and weave between his fingers-
with a wide, sweeping motion both, his veil and his hood are divested from his face to reveal a stencil of traditionally handsome features: dark buzzed hair, prominent square jaw, chiseled pointed nose. and all of it bows collapses before the dais in humility, reverence, utmost DEVOTION because oh, for the life of him, he cannot remember the last time he bowed to admit so garishly that he was beneath someone.
(and yet, a childlike excitement bubbles in chest and bleeds his dark eyes black.)
“your… eternal. greatness.” he knows he sounds out of breath, feels a warmth accumulating in the cupid bow above his lip. his heart hammers, hammers and he wishes he could plunge a hand in to crush the trembling beat making his peripheries vibrate with lightning-blue adrenaline.
the defiance. the defiance of waiting excruciatingly till he was a hair’s width away from the queen’s platform to even acknowledge her omnipresence on the throne. “i-” her court watches him then flicks to her and he takes that second’s worth of reprieve to gather himself on his knee, one palm resting atop it as the other fists the ground with the black veil in-hand.
“i. am Cyre,” he speaks plainly, voice loud and steady to everyone’s pointed ears. “i know not of my patronymic or my clan. the only kin tethering me to life outside war is my propinquity with his late imperial highness.” they must hear the immiscible mélange of dejection and dulia in his tone but they do not detect the delight that dances under the submissive bow of his head. he barely stops himself from a headlong lift of his gaze just to peek at the expression he’ll find laser-trained on him. what an honour.
he wonders if the queen rages inside, fevers for the name flashing parchment upon parchment of neatly stacked letters in the king’s study. if only they’d met under different circumstances—when he wasn’t Cyre—then he could’ve relished watching the zapping of a jilted, jealous lover on her façade.
for now, he relinquishes his ifs and whens.
“and now,” he continues, holding his own stare on the polished marble floors, watching his mouth form words he rehearsed for weeks and weeks lest he stumble in front of the empress and her court. “as per my lordship’s final will, the leash of my serviceability belongs to She he held most dear.”
Krill
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Krill
Lurker in Darkness
There is always a gasp, or a murmur; a shuffling of feet and a 'tap-tap-tap' of shimmied pages' shoes sent scurrying off to carry out their soon-forgotten parts in greater machinations. A man can die in his house in great Yan-Tok and not a soldier's servant in the house next door will change a moment of their day; but should an errant bug be seen before the dais at the heart of Dienberg, generals ten miles away will wait up through the night to hear their orders changed.
It is a place for seeing, where a great oracle could pluck out from little scenes the fates of a thousand men three generations down the line. It is a place to see - but also to be seen.
The treasurer stands at ceremony, hands clasped behind his back; legs locked in stiff trousers; dangling scabbard, cursed in golden twine, betraying not a jitter; as a thousand calculations swirl behind unmoving eyes. Not a hair in his imperial beard twitches - but behind him is a storm, a half-dozen harvested from the best and brightest of the kingdom's schools by the treasurer himself, each wearing thin the muscles of their hands as their quills swivel and clash on parchments clutched in their other hands. A young girl darts between them with a single pot of ink. Sweat beads quiver on her brow. It is a baffling sight - but it is a sight.
A woman, seated - one of few - looks on from further down the hall, twisting a lock of platinum hair around her fairy-white nail as the petitioners pass. A young boy swings a fan adorned with feathers the length of his own arms, which strain against his limits with every vertical extreme. A man in purpling hues of darkened black leans down to whisper in her ear, his hand curling over the shoulder of her chair, each finger encircled by a ring more ornate, more twisted than the last. Others whisper first to him, and others still to them; each shines and shimmers and stands erect, plays at pompous pageantry. Her own little unbidden court; a score more eyes upon the dais.
The old man in brown and white, clothes straining defiantly against renewal. Medals shine and shimmer from his chest, sometimes with a clatter as his whole body shakes and quivers, his cane refusing to give in, as if affixed to this spot upon the ground where it has borne itself a shallow home three decades in the making. His face is half as pale as his whitened beard, and twice as gray; when he coughs and sputters, the room goes eerie still, and his daughter steps forward to take her father's arm. His posture alone - back as straight as a board, eyes undyingly affront - seems to hold him all together. He alone appears not to turn at every moment to observe the Queen's response - some doubt his body could sustain it still.
All of it becomes accustomed to itself and flaunts the edge of recognition. Each gasp and murmur bears its mark not in itself but in the context it is drawn.
The Queen hears all and sees none; sees all and hears none.
"...the leash of my serviceability belongs to she He held most dear."
She feels a cold hand upon her shoulder and does not stir. It fades away.
It has been long since he was here. The room yearns for him. The walls seem to shiver, promising to shuffle off their grime and winter greys if only he can shine upon them again. She feels a thousand demands for his smile, his words. The whispers, the shuffling of quills, the echoes from the hall, she hears it all coalesce, drawn up into one word with the weight of many: the King.
There is an unwelcome space between her hips and the sides of this throne.
The ghost still kneels.
"We," she begins, and hush. "Are unendingly grateful for your service to our Lord, his Great Imperial Highness, the King." She tilted her chin down a millimeter. Another page scurried out of the hall. "Your name in his use was always herald of unrivalled praise. At the end, I have no doubt your long separation weighed heavy on his regrets. And I am certain, had you been by his side then, he would still sing better praises of you today alone than have been uttered in this hall in quite some time." The eyes of all turned briefly on the knight. "But, in his absence, you will have his hospitality through me. And your companion?"
It is a place for seeing, where a great oracle could pluck out from little scenes the fates of a thousand men three generations down the line. It is a place to see - but also to be seen.
The treasurer stands at ceremony, hands clasped behind his back; legs locked in stiff trousers; dangling scabbard, cursed in golden twine, betraying not a jitter; as a thousand calculations swirl behind unmoving eyes. Not a hair in his imperial beard twitches - but behind him is a storm, a half-dozen harvested from the best and brightest of the kingdom's schools by the treasurer himself, each wearing thin the muscles of their hands as their quills swivel and clash on parchments clutched in their other hands. A young girl darts between them with a single pot of ink. Sweat beads quiver on her brow. It is a baffling sight - but it is a sight.
A woman, seated - one of few - looks on from further down the hall, twisting a lock of platinum hair around her fairy-white nail as the petitioners pass. A young boy swings a fan adorned with feathers the length of his own arms, which strain against his limits with every vertical extreme. A man in purpling hues of darkened black leans down to whisper in her ear, his hand curling over the shoulder of her chair, each finger encircled by a ring more ornate, more twisted than the last. Others whisper first to him, and others still to them; each shines and shimmers and stands erect, plays at pompous pageantry. Her own little unbidden court; a score more eyes upon the dais.
The old man in brown and white, clothes straining defiantly against renewal. Medals shine and shimmer from his chest, sometimes with a clatter as his whole body shakes and quivers, his cane refusing to give in, as if affixed to this spot upon the ground where it has borne itself a shallow home three decades in the making. His face is half as pale as his whitened beard, and twice as gray; when he coughs and sputters, the room goes eerie still, and his daughter steps forward to take her father's arm. His posture alone - back as straight as a board, eyes undyingly affront - seems to hold him all together. He alone appears not to turn at every moment to observe the Queen's response - some doubt his body could sustain it still.
All of it becomes accustomed to itself and flaunts the edge of recognition. Each gasp and murmur bears its mark not in itself but in the context it is drawn.
The Queen hears all and sees none; sees all and hears none.
"...the leash of my serviceability belongs to she He held most dear."
She feels a cold hand upon her shoulder and does not stir. It fades away.
It has been long since he was here. The room yearns for him. The walls seem to shiver, promising to shuffle off their grime and winter greys if only he can shine upon them again. She feels a thousand demands for his smile, his words. The whispers, the shuffling of quills, the echoes from the hall, she hears it all coalesce, drawn up into one word with the weight of many: the King.
There is an unwelcome space between her hips and the sides of this throne.
The ghost still kneels.
"We," she begins, and hush. "Are unendingly grateful for your service to our Lord, his Great Imperial Highness, the King." She tilted her chin down a millimeter. Another page scurried out of the hall. "Your name in his use was always herald of unrivalled praise. At the end, I have no doubt your long separation weighed heavy on his regrets. And I am certain, had you been by his side then, he would still sing better praises of you today alone than have been uttered in this hall in quite some time." The eyes of all turned briefly on the knight. "But, in his absence, you will have his hospitality through me. And your companion?"
the monotonous, controlled cadence of the queen’s words disclose not a single thread of her thoughts and he is, uncharacteristically, left yearning for even a pilling to land in his open palms. she sounds formal, composed when she addresses him and- how boring, he drones and wears his emotions like a shield on his heart because unlike the queen, his eyes do droop in disappointment. though the action is hidden from everyone except maybe the woman kneeling to his right, behind him.
he lifts his head when the queen addresses him directly, finally takes in the view he childishly deprived himself of before (or at least, it feels a lot less cunning and a lot more childish now, after it didn’t gouge any visible reaction out of his target.)
(and he understands why-)
his eyes visibly widen. even if only by a fraction, the swelling of his whites is traceable. especially by the queen, especially with the cant of his chin in her direction.
she’s not- with the culminating rumours on the outskirts of her vast empire, he’d expected more… ice. and perhaps he sees it, his mind is quick to tack on in a frail attempt to gather himself before the regal, willowy sight whose dark, dark eyes remind of him warm hands and short hair and a tough abdomen that jerked at the first touch of his rugged palm.
the woman he sees now is far from everything and close to nothing (close to everything and far from nothing) what his memories ache for: she shimmers purple inside the ornate yet somehow still-vapid walls of her castle—the proof of glory passed down to her—while the lush trees five days away from her castle had lustered a deep, deep jungle green he remembers, vividly, having a difficult time untangling from. her magnificence however, and the honour with which her shoulders rest straight, reminds him every bit of the unyielding mangroves he left back at sea.
(or maybe he’s just thinking with his di-)
he’d arrived expecting ice, expecting apathy and disdain in the upward turn of her nose, and wears his surprise in the muscular lining on his quivering arteries when he finds neither: only a cool, calm collectedness.
he clears his throat.
“my better Half, my queen,” he answers rather belatedly though if wore his enamour as obvious as he always does, he supposes he will pardoned for the momentary slip-up. “and i assure you, the Other half is no part of me,” he jokes to brighten the stiff air but something tells him no one in his vast hall is willing to break a breath at his antics. so fortunately for him, before he can add more spice to the nobles’ distaste for him, a soft voice is interrupting his parted lips-
“i am Thyme, your highness.” soft, but guarded. “i follow where my Lord does and he- we agreed a feminine presence is more appropriate by your highness’ side where private matters are concerned. My lord trusts me with his life and my only desire, as an extension of His and his late majesty’s, is to gain yours.” there’s a confident flare to her tone but where his own leans cocky and self-assured, hers is sincere in its promise.
there's a servant girl carefully approaching them, undoubtedly volunteered by her peers to escort the queen's guests to their temporary quarters. his eyes are quick to flicker to the right at the first ruffle of her ankle-length brown skirt.
the queen's announcement of her welcoming the two under her rule was made publicly and it prompts him to make a bold one of his own: "until my queen retires from her day court and daily duties, i will wait diligently in the late king ezekiel's study." then in a lower, more private intonation, he's turning his entire body back to the dark, enchanting figure decorating the throne. "request for my presence as i request for your first private audience of the day."
there must've been something pleading in his brows that warned Thyme of his subconscious intentions to steer away from their script, because she's interrupting his poised tongue once more: "it would work in her highness' best interest for us to discuss this arrangement posthaste." somewhere in her pyrite words is a warning sewn gold. "please excuse us; we've already consumed much of your vital time with the rest."
and with that, he lets Thyme lead him as she's led deeper into the winding hallways of a castle he remembers. remembers. remembers but only on paper.
he lifts his head when the queen addresses him directly, finally takes in the view he childishly deprived himself of before (or at least, it feels a lot less cunning and a lot more childish now, after it didn’t gouge any visible reaction out of his target.)
(and he understands why-)
his eyes visibly widen. even if only by a fraction, the swelling of his whites is traceable. especially by the queen, especially with the cant of his chin in her direction.
she’s not- with the culminating rumours on the outskirts of her vast empire, he’d expected more… ice. and perhaps he sees it, his mind is quick to tack on in a frail attempt to gather himself before the regal, willowy sight whose dark, dark eyes remind of him warm hands and short hair and a tough abdomen that jerked at the first touch of his rugged palm.
the woman he sees now is far from everything and close to nothing (close to everything and far from nothing) what his memories ache for: she shimmers purple inside the ornate yet somehow still-vapid walls of her castle—the proof of glory passed down to her—while the lush trees five days away from her castle had lustered a deep, deep jungle green he remembers, vividly, having a difficult time untangling from. her magnificence however, and the honour with which her shoulders rest straight, reminds him every bit of the unyielding mangroves he left back at sea.
(or maybe he’s just thinking with his di-)
he’d arrived expecting ice, expecting apathy and disdain in the upward turn of her nose, and wears his surprise in the muscular lining on his quivering arteries when he finds neither: only a cool, calm collectedness.
he clears his throat.
“my better Half, my queen,” he answers rather belatedly though if wore his enamour as obvious as he always does, he supposes he will pardoned for the momentary slip-up. “and i assure you, the Other half is no part of me,” he jokes to brighten the stiff air but something tells him no one in his vast hall is willing to break a breath at his antics. so fortunately for him, before he can add more spice to the nobles’ distaste for him, a soft voice is interrupting his parted lips-
“i am Thyme, your highness.” soft, but guarded. “i follow where my Lord does and he- we agreed a feminine presence is more appropriate by your highness’ side where private matters are concerned. My lord trusts me with his life and my only desire, as an extension of His and his late majesty’s, is to gain yours.” there’s a confident flare to her tone but where his own leans cocky and self-assured, hers is sincere in its promise.
there's a servant girl carefully approaching them, undoubtedly volunteered by her peers to escort the queen's guests to their temporary quarters. his eyes are quick to flicker to the right at the first ruffle of her ankle-length brown skirt.
the queen's announcement of her welcoming the two under her rule was made publicly and it prompts him to make a bold one of his own: "until my queen retires from her day court and daily duties, i will wait diligently in the late king ezekiel's study." then in a lower, more private intonation, he's turning his entire body back to the dark, enchanting figure decorating the throne. "request for my presence as i request for your first private audience of the day."
there must've been something pleading in his brows that warned Thyme of his subconscious intentions to steer away from their script, because she's interrupting his poised tongue once more: "it would work in her highness' best interest for us to discuss this arrangement posthaste." somewhere in her pyrite words is a warning sewn gold. "please excuse us; we've already consumed much of your vital time with the rest."
and with that, he lets Thyme lead him as she's led deeper into the winding hallways of a castle he remembers. remembers. remembers but only on paper.
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Krill
Lurker in Darkness
One of many.
The petitioners come, they go; they offer, they plead, they pontificate, they pry. She casts each aside with the simple convenience of bureaucracy, her seal pressed upon the words before they are sorted off into gold-brimmed baskets for ministers and aides and captains to entertain. They disappear from her sight and mind but their problems and protestations will be resolved in her name, by her will. The great machine would crumble without her touch. They flow over her, around her, through her, and she tries to recognize their value.
As she leaves the room - her shoes go tap, tap, tap on the tiled floor, her procession tiptoes quietly, not a soul speaks a word aloud until she's gone - her eyes flitter only briefly to the young boy waving the great feathered fan upon his mistress, Madeleine, sister to the old throne. There is something deeply unsettling in the child's - for he can scarcely be older than eight or nine - murky eyes. Some bit of the King's blood borne strong in this distant cousin; a physical reminder, if not a spirit.
But the recognition is not sparked from the boy, she knows. There are more looming omens this morn than a faint ripple of the Lineage.
Perturbations still circle her thoughts as the door closes on her private chamber. Handmaidens rush up to unsheathe her from her heaviest robes.
He is presumptuous to go there, she thinks. To think of it as some place of personal ownership, some refuge that might still hold a more spirited invocation of his old liege the King's protections. She might have liked him not to see so quickly how she has let herself seep into all that was theirs. But he will only hurt his own images of the past in this haste... and if he still holds some allegiance to his oaths, and not only to his memories, then he will at least now better see the two, the King and his Queen, fused into one through the comingling of what was his with what is unmistakably hers.
"It's not as you remember it," the Queen says, half a question, as she steps within the threshold of the darkened room. Shadey-hued tapestries adorn the room; the shelves are hollow-bare, wood worn where once an artefact or a trophy stood. Parchments litter the surface of the desks, not a word of them written in the fertile strokes of a long-dead man.
Behind her there is a host, guards taking places by the doorway, handmaidens stirring into the shadows. Three linger foremost.
A woman, long of nose and jagged of jaw with an austere expression on a youthful face, pays not a glance to the room nor anyone within it. She aligns herself beside a cabinet along the wall, parchment already in hand, gently adjusting round wire-rimmed spectacles up from the tip of her nose to the bridge so she can stare into it more intensely. Her hair is tugged up in tight braids, and out from either side are long ears that tuck themselves in against the head. Her clothes are more expensive than they look.
The stern, balded man shuffles into the room as well. His eyes seek out Cyre's, striving to pry into the other's gaze and rip out something false within it. There are the telltale signs in his gait, the space between his arms and chest, of real armour beneath this courtly garb. The sword on his hip has no need for ceremony, its bejeweled pretenses betraying rank and prestige, not the admiration thereof. He is a rather short man altogether, shorter than the Queen, but his every fiber, from the tenseness in his legs to the cunning in his amber eyes, speaks to action. His fingers curl.
In the hallway, just beyond the darkness, a hunched figure lingers beyond identification, something casual betrayed by unblinking eyes.
"This room should always be one of action. Of the present. A ruler who dwells in what was... rules only what can be remembered." She passes a glance from the tapestries to the man in black, a question slipped beneath its meaning: you are what was... are you more than that? "If there is something particular of the old King's for which you have returned... some token of your friendship... I can have it uncovered for you. These things mean most to those who lived by them."
The petitioners come, they go; they offer, they plead, they pontificate, they pry. She casts each aside with the simple convenience of bureaucracy, her seal pressed upon the words before they are sorted off into gold-brimmed baskets for ministers and aides and captains to entertain. They disappear from her sight and mind but their problems and protestations will be resolved in her name, by her will. The great machine would crumble without her touch. They flow over her, around her, through her, and she tries to recognize their value.
As she leaves the room - her shoes go tap, tap, tap on the tiled floor, her procession tiptoes quietly, not a soul speaks a word aloud until she's gone - her eyes flitter only briefly to the young boy waving the great feathered fan upon his mistress, Madeleine, sister to the old throne. There is something deeply unsettling in the child's - for he can scarcely be older than eight or nine - murky eyes. Some bit of the King's blood borne strong in this distant cousin; a physical reminder, if not a spirit.
But the recognition is not sparked from the boy, she knows. There are more looming omens this morn than a faint ripple of the Lineage.
Perturbations still circle her thoughts as the door closes on her private chamber. Handmaidens rush up to unsheathe her from her heaviest robes.
***
The royal study shares a wing.
He is presumptuous to go there, she thinks. To think of it as some place of personal ownership, some refuge that might still hold a more spirited invocation of his old liege the King's protections. She might have liked him not to see so quickly how she has let herself seep into all that was theirs. But he will only hurt his own images of the past in this haste... and if he still holds some allegiance to his oaths, and not only to his memories, then he will at least now better see the two, the King and his Queen, fused into one through the comingling of what was his with what is unmistakably hers.
"It's not as you remember it," the Queen says, half a question, as she steps within the threshold of the darkened room. Shadey-hued tapestries adorn the room; the shelves are hollow-bare, wood worn where once an artefact or a trophy stood. Parchments litter the surface of the desks, not a word of them written in the fertile strokes of a long-dead man.
Behind her there is a host, guards taking places by the doorway, handmaidens stirring into the shadows. Three linger foremost.
A woman, long of nose and jagged of jaw with an austere expression on a youthful face, pays not a glance to the room nor anyone within it. She aligns herself beside a cabinet along the wall, parchment already in hand, gently adjusting round wire-rimmed spectacles up from the tip of her nose to the bridge so she can stare into it more intensely. Her hair is tugged up in tight braids, and out from either side are long ears that tuck themselves in against the head. Her clothes are more expensive than they look.
The stern, balded man shuffles into the room as well. His eyes seek out Cyre's, striving to pry into the other's gaze and rip out something false within it. There are the telltale signs in his gait, the space between his arms and chest, of real armour beneath this courtly garb. The sword on his hip has no need for ceremony, its bejeweled pretenses betraying rank and prestige, not the admiration thereof. He is a rather short man altogether, shorter than the Queen, but his every fiber, from the tenseness in his legs to the cunning in his amber eyes, speaks to action. His fingers curl.
In the hallway, just beyond the darkness, a hunched figure lingers beyond identification, something casual betrayed by unblinking eyes.
"This room should always be one of action. Of the present. A ruler who dwells in what was... rules only what can be remembered." She passes a glance from the tapestries to the man in black, a question slipped beneath its meaning: you are what was... are you more than that? "If there is something particular of the old King's for which you have returned... some token of your friendship... I can have it uncovered for you. These things mean most to those who lived by them."
“no.” he takes no moment to contemplate the straightforward reply, and hears the rustle of Thyme’s black uniform—much similar to his own—as she cranes a wary look in his direction. he sees the plea in her pinched brows and feels his chest warm with feathers of a light chuckle. she’s always been too austere. but he’s not nearly pompous enough to not admit his own faults: his acerbic tongue has chucked them bound in dimly-lit rooms far too often.
fortunately for her, he has no premade plans for past repeats. no matter how the bald man behind the queen makes his fingers twitch. he bites the inside of his cheek to keep the mischievous thoughts zipped in the many hollow pockets of his dark garbs. however, he can’t be blamed for the suggestive onceover swept over the stranger’s stocky stature: he’d caught the man’s knuckles ripple underneath his skin, and decided he wasn’t the only one in the room craving a little spice.
“Cyre has returned solely for her royal highness, the empress of the bountiful lands of soward.” Thyme embroiders over his silence, appearing forward to stand in-step beside him, and belatedly, he realises how weightlessly she carries herself: the hard soles of her boots barely made a sound against the polished floors.
he clears his throat, swimming for the curved hook she dips in the afternoon-blue lake. “i did,” he solidifies, and it might be his most honest admission so far. “my beliefs align with my queen’s in this regard: knights unsheathe their swords for the future, not fore the remains of the past. my return to dienberg is how i honour what we had. trinkets-” the letters, his breath stutters with the realisation, that’s what the queen was alluding to, and he mourns. it’s much too late to turn back on his words now. “-and sentimental possessions would, i believe, tarnish the bond we share.”
Thyme stretches her hand over the loose black fabric covering his bicep (he flexes the muscle instinctively, and feels her grip tighten, then relax and fall entirely). it was an apparently soothing gesture of sympathy before she takes over the conversation, steering it back to business: “Cyre is the kind of companion you only find once in a millennia. My lord would ride to the ends of the world to fulfill the wishes of his dearest friends' for only a promise of continuing fellowship in return, and for him, the ends of the world are here: before her majesty, upon the final request of the late king.” Cyre could’ve expressed it better, he inhales a quick burst of air to dampen the sigh threatening his nostrils. Thyme is efficient but hasty, already turning away and walking behind desk sprawled with parchment sheets she’d barely spared a second’s sweep when they’d first breached the double doors.
“so tell me, your majesty.” where his voice runs its highs and lows with audible frustration and excitement, hers is flat and betrays none of the emotions her perpetually-furrowed brows hint at. the second drawer on the right is harshly thrown open, and all he sees from the front is the curve of her spine and the bend of her elbow as she reaches below. “…do you have a lover by the sea?” oh ho ho, he licks his lips. “or perhaps, a reason why the tide flows against you?”
what a hypocrite, he thinks, watching her twirl a vivid-green stem between her thumb and forefinger. she’d scolded him vehemently for his boorishness in the great hall—how he hadn’t thanked the queen for her generosity—and now she speaks so shamelessly herself. as if the queen is a sister-in-law of the past decade.
“i!” a new voice joins them from the side: the poor handmaid assigned to assist the two for the day, who’d witnessed his crumbling dignity when Thyme had twisted his ear between the very same fingers and he’d cried so pathetically for quarter. the attendant is quick to observe the duality of Thyme’s touch, if the perplexed pucker of her lips their way is anything to base judgements off. “i can attest to their peculiar discovery, My Queen!” she speaks loud and certainly, searching for her empress’ approval, no doubt. “Sunny and i meticulously tidied Her Excellency’s study this morning, and we did not come across-” there’s concern in her wary gaze directed at the circular bunch of lilac petals in Thyme’s hand. “…that.”
his partner saunters back to her previous position: in front of the desk, in front of the queen, to the right of him. she tips the singular flower to the other woman, almost like a love confession. but not from her. “the sea thrift, is what we call it,” Thyme introduces. “and it complements your tones quite nicely, your highness.” the umbel of purple florets is brighter than the queen’s shimmery, dark gown but he has to agree: it would not look out of place tucked above her ear. in fact, the light lilac would strike quite a picture in her blonde-black hair, and he knows—as a lover of women in general—her suitor must’ve had the very same image in mind when choosing the particular colour for her.
“while my queen and My lord canvass our place in your court, i request her company.” Thyme unabashedly points to the anomaly in the room: the woman with the least flattering features, ugh. “i am unaware—though given the opportunity, with time, i will learn—of your customs in dienberg, but in Presraine-" a bustling city built beyond oceanic grassland. "-it is improper for men to invite themselves in a lady’s quarters. so i request the her company for a thorough search of your majesty’s personal chambers. i fear the one who left such a lovely gift here for all to see, might not have extended the same courtesy behind public eye.”
fortunately for her, he has no premade plans for past repeats. no matter how the bald man behind the queen makes his fingers twitch. he bites the inside of his cheek to keep the mischievous thoughts zipped in the many hollow pockets of his dark garbs. however, he can’t be blamed for the suggestive onceover swept over the stranger’s stocky stature: he’d caught the man’s knuckles ripple underneath his skin, and decided he wasn’t the only one in the room craving a little spice.
“Cyre has returned solely for her royal highness, the empress of the bountiful lands of soward.” Thyme embroiders over his silence, appearing forward to stand in-step beside him, and belatedly, he realises how weightlessly she carries herself: the hard soles of her boots barely made a sound against the polished floors.
he clears his throat, swimming for the curved hook she dips in the afternoon-blue lake. “i did,” he solidifies, and it might be his most honest admission so far. “my beliefs align with my queen’s in this regard: knights unsheathe their swords for the future, not fore the remains of the past. my return to dienberg is how i honour what we had. trinkets-” the letters, his breath stutters with the realisation, that’s what the queen was alluding to, and he mourns. it’s much too late to turn back on his words now. “-and sentimental possessions would, i believe, tarnish the bond we share.”
Thyme stretches her hand over the loose black fabric covering his bicep (he flexes the muscle instinctively, and feels her grip tighten, then relax and fall entirely). it was an apparently soothing gesture of sympathy before she takes over the conversation, steering it back to business: “Cyre is the kind of companion you only find once in a millennia. My lord would ride to the ends of the world to fulfill the wishes of his dearest friends' for only a promise of continuing fellowship in return, and for him, the ends of the world are here: before her majesty, upon the final request of the late king.” Cyre could’ve expressed it better, he inhales a quick burst of air to dampen the sigh threatening his nostrils. Thyme is efficient but hasty, already turning away and walking behind desk sprawled with parchment sheets she’d barely spared a second’s sweep when they’d first breached the double doors.
“so tell me, your majesty.” where his voice runs its highs and lows with audible frustration and excitement, hers is flat and betrays none of the emotions her perpetually-furrowed brows hint at. the second drawer on the right is harshly thrown open, and all he sees from the front is the curve of her spine and the bend of her elbow as she reaches below. “…do you have a lover by the sea?” oh ho ho, he licks his lips. “or perhaps, a reason why the tide flows against you?”
what a hypocrite, he thinks, watching her twirl a vivid-green stem between her thumb and forefinger. she’d scolded him vehemently for his boorishness in the great hall—how he hadn’t thanked the queen for her generosity—and now she speaks so shamelessly herself. as if the queen is a sister-in-law of the past decade.
“i!” a new voice joins them from the side: the poor handmaid assigned to assist the two for the day, who’d witnessed his crumbling dignity when Thyme had twisted his ear between the very same fingers and he’d cried so pathetically for quarter. the attendant is quick to observe the duality of Thyme’s touch, if the perplexed pucker of her lips their way is anything to base judgements off. “i can attest to their peculiar discovery, My Queen!” she speaks loud and certainly, searching for her empress’ approval, no doubt. “Sunny and i meticulously tidied Her Excellency’s study this morning, and we did not come across-” there’s concern in her wary gaze directed at the circular bunch of lilac petals in Thyme’s hand. “…that.”
his partner saunters back to her previous position: in front of the desk, in front of the queen, to the right of him. she tips the singular flower to the other woman, almost like a love confession. but not from her. “the sea thrift, is what we call it,” Thyme introduces. “and it complements your tones quite nicely, your highness.” the umbel of purple florets is brighter than the queen’s shimmery, dark gown but he has to agree: it would not look out of place tucked above her ear. in fact, the light lilac would strike quite a picture in her blonde-black hair, and he knows—as a lover of women in general—her suitor must’ve had the very same image in mind when choosing the particular colour for her.
“while my queen and My lord canvass our place in your court, i request her company.” Thyme unabashedly points to the anomaly in the room: the woman with the least flattering features, ugh. “i am unaware—though given the opportunity, with time, i will learn—of your customs in dienberg, but in Presraine-" a bustling city built beyond oceanic grassland. "-it is improper for men to invite themselves in a lady’s quarters. so i request the her company for a thorough search of your majesty’s personal chambers. i fear the one who left such a lovely gift here for all to see, might not have extended the same courtesy behind public eye.”
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Krill
Lurker in Darkness
A wrinkle seeps its way between her brows, as if driven skinward by the unfurling of an undetected seed. "Captain," she intones, and the bald man moves as if he has never stopped a moment in his life, his strides - stretched out as long as they can be - tugging him across the room in moments till he reaches out and in one claw-like grasp has that "companion's" wrist firmly tethered, the flowers in her hand held up for his inspection. As he moves, some signal draws another pair of men in silvered helms within the room, two others filling in their spots along the outer walls. The guards advance, fill out the space between the Queen and the strangers. The Queen glides back to give them space, her eyes affixed a moment still upon the petals. And then, briefly, she flickers a glance to the woman behind, still positioned by the wall - though her eyes through convex glass now catch focus on something other than the parchment in her hands. She, too, is watching the flower.
"A flower, m'lady," says the Captain, his voice gruffly sharp, "Though I do not know it well."
"Sea Thrift, yes." The woman by the wall cuts in, and both the Captain and the Queen affix their eyes on her while she stares only at the flower. "Or Marsh Chicken. Harmless, no uses. A weed in wet places."
The Captain releases his grip on the lady's arm, tossing it down with enough force to scatter a petal from the plant. It twirls as it drifts beneath a table to the dusty wood below.
"I'll alert the guard at once, your highness, and determine whose watch was breached these hours past. And these two -" The Captain draws short.
The Queen has raised a pallid hand.
Her eyes bore into Thyme, a brief glance that says nothing spared for her companion between.
"Captain, make haste."
He bows, barely, and rushes out. The two guardsmen pull back, abreast with their liege.
"What will you uncover that my own guardsmen will not, better Half?"
"A flower, m'lady," says the Captain, his voice gruffly sharp, "Though I do not know it well."
"Sea Thrift, yes." The woman by the wall cuts in, and both the Captain and the Queen affix their eyes on her while she stares only at the flower. "Or Marsh Chicken. Harmless, no uses. A weed in wet places."
The Captain releases his grip on the lady's arm, tossing it down with enough force to scatter a petal from the plant. It twirls as it drifts beneath a table to the dusty wood below.
"I'll alert the guard at once, your highness, and determine whose watch was breached these hours past. And these two -" The Captain draws short.
The Queen has raised a pallid hand.
Her eyes bore into Thyme, a brief glance that says nothing spared for her companion between.
"Captain, make haste."
He bows, barely, and rushes out. The two guardsmen pull back, abreast with their liege.
"What will you uncover that my own guardsmen will not, better Half?"
Thyme seethes on the receiving end of the queen’s impassive gaze, and she wants to return the heedless stress of her words right back at her: what would you know about better halves and blindfolded trust, and surely you would know of the decadent titles your servants use in your own lands, within your own rule to describe you under your very nose.
her teeth ache behind her veil, a building pressure in her mouth that threatens to drive the marrow back into her heating skull. her better half must notice the creases by her readily slanting eyes because one moment she’s contemplating jeopardising this entire alliance, arrangement, whatever the hell it’s supposed to be, and the next she’s jolting back to her putated state of being: pacified. the vexed ravines in the corners of her eyes flatten instantaneously and she turns to him. sees him frown and sighs. he retrieves the gentle touch on her elbow.
no wonder they naturally gravitate towards each other: she quells his flagrant flirtations before they course from charming to concerning, and he manages to reel her back before she yells at the queen and earns them their personal knots at the gallows.
Thyme schools her expression to neutral once more and blames dark-haired man beside her for the challenge that still slips past her rosy lips, a shade she shares with the watermelon-pink of her hair and the rouge of her steely irises: all colours she finally reveals now, reaching behind her ears to loosen the black curtain shading over her nose-below features. “i wonder,” she dares as her first verbal reply to the rhetoric directed at her, but the previous swelter is doused and when she once considered shouting it, she mumbles now.
nimble fingers grab the thicker edges of her hood, pushing it back.
“i understand your highness’ distrust of us-” of me, because Cyre already has a reliable alibi. “but i only intended to put myself at service for you.” what use was it marching an army of men (how distasteful) to uncover taunting hints similar to the flower no longer in her field of view. especially since the eyes of her entire guard had been lacking and failed apprehend, much less discern the breach in their security. Thyme and that peculiar woman would’ve sufficed.
there’s another touch on her person, this time tapping the curve of her waist. her partner takes a step forward and leaves Thyme boring her laser-red gaze into the straight buzz of hair right behind his temple. she half-expects him to squirm and apologise on her behalf but he doesn’t and she traces a calloused thumb down the rule of her finger, left to wonder what it exactly is that he wants and hopes out of this discussion. Thyme settles for nothing because she has a cascade-clear caricature of the queen and can identify a misty stone wall when she happens upon one.
“i agree with Thyme, my queen.”
clearly, he does not because he still haggles. that’s what this is, isn’t it—miserable, one-sided haggling—a high knight begging for his past glory amongst royalty. maybe if he’d returned with his army all those years ago, the queen would’ve restored it for him but no, instead he’d killed his honour and embarked on an overdue promise years later.
“and with these startling turn of events, i understand if your greatness wishes for our removal from your lands.” what. “or,” he stresses, as if sensing the tense rattle of her joints behind him. “or. if your greatness deems our return to her empire’s borderlands or her castle’s garrison a more suitable end then that will be our next advancement. the empress’ safety will always precede her vassal’s ties with the past and the battle with his own virtue.” and then he’s plunging to his knees, much like he had in the great hall, save for the animated show he’d put on then. “decree our fate, my queen. whatever it is you see fit for us.”
her teeth ache behind her veil, a building pressure in her mouth that threatens to drive the marrow back into her heating skull. her better half must notice the creases by her readily slanting eyes because one moment she’s contemplating jeopardising this entire alliance, arrangement, whatever the hell it’s supposed to be, and the next she’s jolting back to her putated state of being: pacified. the vexed ravines in the corners of her eyes flatten instantaneously and she turns to him. sees him frown and sighs. he retrieves the gentle touch on her elbow.
no wonder they naturally gravitate towards each other: she quells his flagrant flirtations before they course from charming to concerning, and he manages to reel her back before she yells at the queen and earns them their personal knots at the gallows.
Thyme schools her expression to neutral once more and blames dark-haired man beside her for the challenge that still slips past her rosy lips, a shade she shares with the watermelon-pink of her hair and the rouge of her steely irises: all colours she finally reveals now, reaching behind her ears to loosen the black curtain shading over her nose-below features. “i wonder,” she dares as her first verbal reply to the rhetoric directed at her, but the previous swelter is doused and when she once considered shouting it, she mumbles now.
nimble fingers grab the thicker edges of her hood, pushing it back.
“i understand your highness’ distrust of us-” of me, because Cyre already has a reliable alibi. “but i only intended to put myself at service for you.” what use was it marching an army of men (how distasteful) to uncover taunting hints similar to the flower no longer in her field of view. especially since the eyes of her entire guard had been lacking and failed apprehend, much less discern the breach in their security. Thyme and that peculiar woman would’ve sufficed.
there’s another touch on her person, this time tapping the curve of her waist. her partner takes a step forward and leaves Thyme boring her laser-red gaze into the straight buzz of hair right behind his temple. she half-expects him to squirm and apologise on her behalf but he doesn’t and she traces a calloused thumb down the rule of her finger, left to wonder what it exactly is that he wants and hopes out of this discussion. Thyme settles for nothing because she has a cascade-clear caricature of the queen and can identify a misty stone wall when she happens upon one.
“i agree with Thyme, my queen.”
clearly, he does not because he still haggles. that’s what this is, isn’t it—miserable, one-sided haggling—a high knight begging for his past glory amongst royalty. maybe if he’d returned with his army all those years ago, the queen would’ve restored it for him but no, instead he’d killed his honour and embarked on an overdue promise years later.
“and with these startling turn of events, i understand if your greatness wishes for our removal from your lands.” what. “or,” he stresses, as if sensing the tense rattle of her joints behind him. “or. if your greatness deems our return to her empire’s borderlands or her castle’s garrison a more suitable end then that will be our next advancement. the empress’ safety will always precede her vassal’s ties with the past and the battle with his own virtue.” and then he’s plunging to his knees, much like he had in the great hall, save for the animated show he’d put on then. “decree our fate, my queen. whatever it is you see fit for us.”
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Krill
Lurker in Darkness
Decree.
Such is her occupation, decrees. No thought of hers let free to the aether can be anything less. When, finally, she whispers a soft nothing, unleashes a heedless tirade; when her words collide with void and crumble (not crystallize); when she does not decree - then she is no more.
She assays her subjects. This... knight. Bowed at the neck, at the crook of the back, at the knee, at the ankle; bowed, betrayed by his own dignity, servile. Only two men kneel: the desperate, and the devote. In him she sees both.
Every woman kneels. But the Other Half stands tall. There has never for a moment been a hint of total unity between these two. Partnership, certainly. Companionship? She sees the faint electric touches, the unspoken shifts of the spine. They are out of step with each other and yet connected at the hip, and their mutual confusion befuddles the image of them both. And she thinks, the Queen does, that neither quite realize how close the other is to spelling disaster for them both.
Perhaps the woman knows, the Queen surmises, as she studies the blaring, unbridled fury in those lean limbs, directed wildly and for now seeping out the eyes and over her companion. She fears.
But not enough.
"Yasmine," the Queen begins. The woman by the wall draws up along a string. "See that protection is arranged for my guests. They should be kept under our most careful watch at all times, waking or asleep. I fear that the timing of the King's loyal companion's return... and this incursion into a place he was sure to go... may be more than fateful coincidence. I will not allow the sanctity of my protection over these two to be violated again."
"Yes, your highness."
And the Queen leaves, her cape a billow in her wake. Yasmine follows. The guards remain.
Such is her occupation, decrees. No thought of hers let free to the aether can be anything less. When, finally, she whispers a soft nothing, unleashes a heedless tirade; when her words collide with void and crumble (not crystallize); when she does not decree - then she is no more.
She assays her subjects. This... knight. Bowed at the neck, at the crook of the back, at the knee, at the ankle; bowed, betrayed by his own dignity, servile. Only two men kneel: the desperate, and the devote. In him she sees both.
Every woman kneels. But the Other Half stands tall. There has never for a moment been a hint of total unity between these two. Partnership, certainly. Companionship? She sees the faint electric touches, the unspoken shifts of the spine. They are out of step with each other and yet connected at the hip, and their mutual confusion befuddles the image of them both. And she thinks, the Queen does, that neither quite realize how close the other is to spelling disaster for them both.
Perhaps the woman knows, the Queen surmises, as she studies the blaring, unbridled fury in those lean limbs, directed wildly and for now seeping out the eyes and over her companion. She fears.
But not enough.
"Yasmine," the Queen begins. The woman by the wall draws up along a string. "See that protection is arranged for my guests. They should be kept under our most careful watch at all times, waking or asleep. I fear that the timing of the King's loyal companion's return... and this incursion into a place he was sure to go... may be more than fateful coincidence. I will not allow the sanctity of my protection over these two to be violated again."
"Yes, your highness."
And the Queen leaves, her cape a billow in her wake. Yasmine follows. The guards remain.
he stares at the last wave of the queen’s cape slither through the cracks of the double doors, and hears the final forked-hiss of the dark fabric disappearing. then he stares at the metal latch gliding into place in its carved crevice. and finally, after a heavy silence, he stares Thyme. with only a hint of frown furrowing his features. one reflected on hers tenfold. he would’ve chided her for the liability if it wasn’t her perennial resting face.
“don’t fool yourself,” she speaks, wielding a diplomatically neutral tone.
he can tell she wanted to scoff, not by a twist in her expression but because their camaraderie is as old as Cyre’s deployment. or maybe because—while she would battle lines to deny that her emotions shimmy on the back of her hands—she’d made her distaste for the queen quite obvious. he’d found her little fit of impertinence amusing and frankly? a lot hypocritical.
he watches her pinch her veil between her fingers, sliding it back up to cover all but her shy, shy gaze; lifting her hood to conceal her blush-pink hair; speaking in notes of sugary roses in a language of the seas. “she’ll kill you.” how romantic. “wait until the news of Cyre’s return spreads to the garrison. she’s going to kill you.” Thyme seldom speaks in their mother tongue: Reqese, the primary language made minority in Presraine after the coronation of estee Parelius, empress of soward.
the rarify of the occasion is exactly why he steps closer to her, closing his eyes to savour her honeyed lilt on his slate-clean palate. “oh please, keep talking sweet to me, love,” he hums, boldly murmuring for an audience of two, privately flicking his tongue for the perked ears of an entire room. despite the general consensus of everyone he knows, he’s not actually a completely monkey. sometimes—he decides on a whim, yanking Thyme towards him and with him as he heads for the exit—it’s more believable to have a one-tracked mind.
“as per the queen’s orders, i understand all of you or most of you or some of you accompanying us at all times but please, at least try to give us the privacy of lovers in our room.” he declares rather brazenly by the door, intimately observing the slow swelling of Thyme’s whites as a sunset-red spills on her cheeks. he hollers inwardly, grinning with his teeth on proud display as he tugs her with him, retracing the steps the attendant girl had mapped out for them.
not once does he peek to take stock of their thrall (he counts in time with the low footsteps behind them: two, maybe three guards assigned to their entourage), and the moment he arrives at the guest chamber reserved for the two of them, the door is promptly locked behind him.
the sweet talk from before, much to his grief, does not continue. however, he does watch his counterpart peel her black uniform off, indifferent to the drawn curtains and the afternoon light undulating through the open veranda doors. their vantage point is elevated enough to give them a generous view of the outsides, not the other way around. which is all the safety he needs to grab at his garbs too.
“what won’t the queen’s guardsmen uncover that you would have?” the question hangs in the air like the stubborn hem of his bottoms on his ankles. his eyes trail over the wings of her jutting shoulder pads as she tastes his curiosity, fingers working to button a white blouse all the way to the avalanche of her neck. prude. he matches the shade of his own billowy top with her navy skirt.
she does answer eventually, not yet facing him: “nothing.” and he knows it to be as true as the gunmetal teasing his sensory nerves. “how many times did you cough up dust today?” she’s quick to fire back, slicing around to finally level his gaze, knowing he would never add to his counter under the cinnabar of her eyes.
he weighs her question, puckering his lips in a bemused sort-of thoughtfulness, flicking through the events in his memory thus far. “hm.
"just once.”
“don’t fool yourself,” she speaks, wielding a diplomatically neutral tone.
he can tell she wanted to scoff, not by a twist in her expression but because their camaraderie is as old as Cyre’s deployment. or maybe because—while she would battle lines to deny that her emotions shimmy on the back of her hands—she’d made her distaste for the queen quite obvious. he’d found her little fit of impertinence amusing and frankly? a lot hypocritical.
he watches her pinch her veil between her fingers, sliding it back up to cover all but her shy, shy gaze; lifting her hood to conceal her blush-pink hair; speaking in notes of sugary roses in a language of the seas. “she’ll kill you.” how romantic. “wait until the news of Cyre’s return spreads to the garrison. she’s going to kill you.” Thyme seldom speaks in their mother tongue: Reqese, the primary language made minority in Presraine after the coronation of estee Parelius, empress of soward.
the rarify of the occasion is exactly why he steps closer to her, closing his eyes to savour her honeyed lilt on his slate-clean palate. “oh please, keep talking sweet to me, love,” he hums, boldly murmuring for an audience of two, privately flicking his tongue for the perked ears of an entire room. despite the general consensus of everyone he knows, he’s not actually a completely monkey. sometimes—he decides on a whim, yanking Thyme towards him and with him as he heads for the exit—it’s more believable to have a one-tracked mind.
“as per the queen’s orders, i understand all of you or most of you or some of you accompanying us at all times but please, at least try to give us the privacy of lovers in our room.” he declares rather brazenly by the door, intimately observing the slow swelling of Thyme’s whites as a sunset-red spills on her cheeks. he hollers inwardly, grinning with his teeth on proud display as he tugs her with him, retracing the steps the attendant girl had mapped out for them.
not once does he peek to take stock of their thrall (he counts in time with the low footsteps behind them: two, maybe three guards assigned to their entourage), and the moment he arrives at the guest chamber reserved for the two of them, the door is promptly locked behind him.
the sweet talk from before, much to his grief, does not continue. however, he does watch his counterpart peel her black uniform off, indifferent to the drawn curtains and the afternoon light undulating through the open veranda doors. their vantage point is elevated enough to give them a generous view of the outsides, not the other way around. which is all the safety he needs to grab at his garbs too.
“what won’t the queen’s guardsmen uncover that you would have?” the question hangs in the air like the stubborn hem of his bottoms on his ankles. his eyes trail over the wings of her jutting shoulder pads as she tastes his curiosity, fingers working to button a white blouse all the way to the avalanche of her neck. prude. he matches the shade of his own billowy top with her navy skirt.
she does answer eventually, not yet facing him: “nothing.” and he knows it to be as true as the gunmetal teasing his sensory nerves. “how many times did you cough up dust today?” she’s quick to fire back, slicing around to finally level his gaze, knowing he would never add to his counter under the cinnabar of her eyes.
he weighs her question, puckering his lips in a bemused sort-of thoughtfulness, flicking through the events in his memory thus far. “hm.
"just once.”
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Krill
Lurker in Darkness
There is a knock at the door. The young servant goes to answer it, and Yasmine looks up to see a messenger, their cloak tassled with ivory white and the faux-glitter so recently in vogue, negotiate their way past the guard. They dare not ignore her, though, seated at the old oak desk piled high with missives, cerberus to the Queen's own chambers. The motionless guards, halberds arcing over the door, move only at her command.
"My lady," the messenger intones, bowing. "I come bearing the greetings of my mistress, the Princess Madeleine Inez, to be conveyed to the queen at her earliest convenience."
"She will be informed." Yasmine turns back to the parchment she was engaged with before.
"I have been asked to deliver an invitation personally to her royal illustrious highness herself; it is to leave my hands and enter hers."
Yasmine puts out a hand, motioning for whatever letter the messenger carried to be delivered to her.
"On behalf of my mistress, the Princess Madeleine Inez, beloved sister to the late King Ezekiel Inez, sister-in-law and in essence of love to her highness the Queen, Estee Inez, the two of whom share, through our departed lord ruler, both name and blood, I deliver formally a request to have late audience with her majesty, in the pursuit of delivery, to her, an invitation which will most delight her to receive."
Yasmine looks up at the man, suddenly remembering it would have been etiquette to stand with him or let him sit. But... she prefers this, and stays seated. There's no one to scold her, here. The guards will not gossip and the servant boy, hiding in the corner, knows better than to run his tongue to anyone beyond this room.
The messenger has a knowing, forceful smile that might have been charming if put to better use than running errands for another. Yasmine finds a tooth in the smile that's jarringly out of place, at an angle that it shouldn't be by just a degree or two, but it's enough, once noticed, to throw the whole thing into disarray. She imagines twisting it back into place, yanking it there and holding it firm with sap and gum, then polishing it, tidying it away, and every time she saw that tooth again she could smile and think, I fixed that.
The man clears his throat.
She forces herself to meet his eyes, but almost immediately he looks away. The conversation is over.
"The Queen has retired for the evening and will not be disturbed. Your Lady may have her invitation delivered on the morrow."
The messenger grumbles some final protestation and disappears.
Yasmine carries a candle to avoid hitting the edge of a desk, or tripping over the edge of a scattered carpet, in the inconsistently lit room. Hunched over a desk just beside a grand window, looking out onto the midnight sky, is the Queen. Her aide stops at the furthest edge of the room.
"Your Majesty."
She looks up sharply, over her shoulder. "Yasmine." A book closes. The Queen stays twisted, her hands laid atop each other on the shoulder of the chair, her face catching the distant glow of Yasmine's candle while her hair is lit in blazing shadows by the lanterns on the desk behind.
"Your reports." She steps forward, crosses the room, and delivers the file of parchments. The Queen smiles, but it isn't really a smile, Yasmine has learned. She looks idly through the first few pages. By morning they'll be torn to shreds with the markings of her pen.
"The Chancellor's?"
Yasmine hesitates. She knows she can't be blamed. She knows she won't be blamed. But the flames cast a light that mimics movement in the Queen's gown - a flick of the wrist, a curl of the lip. This room is dark.
"It's... not yet available, your highness."
The Queen doesn't move. She doesn't smile. It's not surprise that drifts through her face, not alarm, but something like... once Yasmine saw a child pour sand from a bucket down a little wooden spout. She doesn't remember when, or where, that other life of hers was. But she remembers seeing the child look up into the bucket when it ceased to pour sand, as if she had thought there might be another second's worth to spill, and then there was not, and the child seemed... to have taken note.
The Queen had taken note.
"His grandson, Marcus," the Queen said, and Yasmine knew immediately that something was being said here for her benefit. "Only sixteen, isn't it?" Gently, the Queen was reaching for something on the desk. In the dark she couldn't make it out. "The position of Chancellor can be very... onerous, even on a man."
Yasmine chose to let silence take her place.
The Queen seemed to finish some thought internally, and placed the papers on her desk. She rested her chin on her palm, rested that against her desk. Her eyes caught the darkness of the sky.
"These feel like times for the onerous, more and more each day."
She speaks like this more often, now. Yasmine knows it's time to leave. Her footsteps on the soft wood and carpet carry her away.
The guards, silent statues in each room, move not a muscle as she passes, save for one, who creaks his metal head towards her and, behind his metal face, behind the dark, smiles.
"My lady," the messenger intones, bowing. "I come bearing the greetings of my mistress, the Princess Madeleine Inez, to be conveyed to the queen at her earliest convenience."
"She will be informed." Yasmine turns back to the parchment she was engaged with before.
"I have been asked to deliver an invitation personally to her royal illustrious highness herself; it is to leave my hands and enter hers."
Yasmine puts out a hand, motioning for whatever letter the messenger carried to be delivered to her.
"On behalf of my mistress, the Princess Madeleine Inez, beloved sister to the late King Ezekiel Inez, sister-in-law and in essence of love to her highness the Queen, Estee Inez, the two of whom share, through our departed lord ruler, both name and blood, I deliver formally a request to have late audience with her majesty, in the pursuit of delivery, to her, an invitation which will most delight her to receive."
Yasmine looks up at the man, suddenly remembering it would have been etiquette to stand with him or let him sit. But... she prefers this, and stays seated. There's no one to scold her, here. The guards will not gossip and the servant boy, hiding in the corner, knows better than to run his tongue to anyone beyond this room.
The messenger has a knowing, forceful smile that might have been charming if put to better use than running errands for another. Yasmine finds a tooth in the smile that's jarringly out of place, at an angle that it shouldn't be by just a degree or two, but it's enough, once noticed, to throw the whole thing into disarray. She imagines twisting it back into place, yanking it there and holding it firm with sap and gum, then polishing it, tidying it away, and every time she saw that tooth again she could smile and think, I fixed that.
The man clears his throat.
She forces herself to meet his eyes, but almost immediately he looks away. The conversation is over.
"The Queen has retired for the evening and will not be disturbed. Your Lady may have her invitation delivered on the morrow."
The messenger grumbles some final protestation and disappears.
***
Always darker than she remembers.
Yasmine carries a candle to avoid hitting the edge of a desk, or tripping over the edge of a scattered carpet, in the inconsistently lit room. Hunched over a desk just beside a grand window, looking out onto the midnight sky, is the Queen. Her aide stops at the furthest edge of the room.
"Your Majesty."
She looks up sharply, over her shoulder. "Yasmine." A book closes. The Queen stays twisted, her hands laid atop each other on the shoulder of the chair, her face catching the distant glow of Yasmine's candle while her hair is lit in blazing shadows by the lanterns on the desk behind.
"Your reports." She steps forward, crosses the room, and delivers the file of parchments. The Queen smiles, but it isn't really a smile, Yasmine has learned. She looks idly through the first few pages. By morning they'll be torn to shreds with the markings of her pen.
"The Chancellor's?"
Yasmine hesitates. She knows she can't be blamed. She knows she won't be blamed. But the flames cast a light that mimics movement in the Queen's gown - a flick of the wrist, a curl of the lip. This room is dark.
"It's... not yet available, your highness."
The Queen doesn't move. She doesn't smile. It's not surprise that drifts through her face, not alarm, but something like... once Yasmine saw a child pour sand from a bucket down a little wooden spout. She doesn't remember when, or where, that other life of hers was. But she remembers seeing the child look up into the bucket when it ceased to pour sand, as if she had thought there might be another second's worth to spill, and then there was not, and the child seemed... to have taken note.
The Queen had taken note.
"His grandson, Marcus," the Queen said, and Yasmine knew immediately that something was being said here for her benefit. "Only sixteen, isn't it?" Gently, the Queen was reaching for something on the desk. In the dark she couldn't make it out. "The position of Chancellor can be very... onerous, even on a man."
Yasmine chose to let silence take her place.
The Queen seemed to finish some thought internally, and placed the papers on her desk. She rested her chin on her palm, rested that against her desk. Her eyes caught the darkness of the sky.
"These feel like times for the onerous, more and more each day."
She speaks like this more often, now. Yasmine knows it's time to leave. Her footsteps on the soft wood and carpet carry her away.
The guards, silent statues in each room, move not a muscle as she passes, save for one, who creaks his metal head towards her and, behind his metal face, behind the dark, smiles.
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Sunny was assigned to kitchen duty when the fiasco in the King’s study took place and thus, missed the Queen’s guests’ grandiose demonstration of misdemeanour. they couldn’t have offended her too severely if she’d offered them home in her palace, but the rumours still slithered like a soft sunday breeze from one ear to the next, past the servants quarters to the front courtyard. the contagion effect of staff who thrived off royal gossip quickly burgeoned, catching wayward drifts of sand, and when the news finally reached Sunny, a scandalous gasp was all she could muster: apparently, the knight’s lady friend had demanded the Queen abdicate her throne and the knight had drawn his sword on her Serene Highness’ slender neck upon her refusal.
that’s… absurd. Her Highness would never allow such impudence to go unchecked! but no one else had a definitive answer as to what had happened—except that one of the finer residential chambers was now occupied—so she’d traded a month’s serving of dessert with one of the chambermaids for a single opportunity to mitigate her nibbling curiosity and serve the Queen’s guests a late lunch.
the inkling of doubt she had was proven correct at the sight of the pair: a man and his consort, dressed down in simple evening garments. she heard they’d knelt before the Queen in her day court like bandits with every inch of their skin cloaked and bloated with lies. Sunny doesn’t recognise avarice in the two and tries to hide her content in a bow of greeting.
they’re a charming couple who request more wine and ask about the stables and their horses. Sunny assures them the grooms will keep them well taken care of and that she can have them ready for his Lordship if he wishes for a lap around the castle grounds. he thanks the Queen’s hospitality through her but declines the offer after a silent gaze at his partner who sits like a pretty picture in front of the dresser. her poise and the gentleness with which she cards the comb through a tuft of hair, reminds Sunny of the grueling hours she watched the King’s sisters put into their etiquette lessons.
the handmaid soon takes her leave but returns later when the skies tinge with a purple darkness and the sun bleeds crimson like wine in a carefully balanced pitcher. not that– she would know how it looks like… but she’s heard! from the boys in the kitchen and friends much bolder than her who abscond their evening duties for trysts higher than the turrets on stocky keeps (and returned to the wrath of red-faced stewards.)
she intrudes on the guests’ temporary living space with a quick succession of knocks at their door and ample amount time to put themselves in order. which– her breath hitches. they don’t and Sunny prays to the late King’s spirit her face isn’t the same dusty bubblegum of the Lady’s hair. the Lady who sits. uh… with her dress flowing down the side of the Lord’s lap in one of the many solo sofas in the room. she’d counted. there were enough.
the guards positioned outside their personal chamber share similar sentiments to the ones caught between her furrowed brows: what an odd couple. how do they still prefer each other’s solitary company when they’re in foreign lands? at the Emperor’s Castle of all places!
“say…” she leans in, covering her mouth with one hand and whispering conspiratorially. her eyes scan the empty hallway as if she’s about to divulge some state secret. “i’ve been wondering all day: which one of them exactly is– uhm, Cyre?” the following silence boils her blood to red vapour on her heated cheeks. with her spine ramrod straight she squeaks, “the Lord! King Ezekiel’s knight. of course, i KNEW that!! good day to you!” they probably hear the resounding fwank! of her metal serving tray smacking her head.
Grr, that was obvious, she should’ve made the connections sooner! why did she think "Cyre" was a feminine name! stupid, stupid, she mutters, quickly pitter-pattering back to her duties.
midnight dares itself to douse darker than the Queen day’s attire, quieter than the troubles she drowns in her stony, obsidian pupils. the sultry silence masks the scent of carbon and lead that’s found itself a new home in the castle halls as of today. no, new is not the appropriate adjective to describe the greedy swirls of black, metallic granules sticking to sun-braised skin: a BIGGER home perhaps. one worthy of violence that wants to be known, wants to flush over nearby towns with impossible hearsays.
one of the very many to come begins with pleading cries of “Princess!” guzzled by the stiff fibres of ornamental tapestries and ornate curtains decking the castle walls with the nostalgia of her childhood. nostalgia she has not experienced in the past two decades of her time here; no matter the hour she chooses for her stroll or the ferocity of her steps when she ambles through. nostalgia that nauseates her head now, with her pulse quivering under her fingernails. fingernails hooked under the cool satin of her indigo gown. gown that warms under her steadily overheating palms. she runs and the adrenaline frightens her with debased memories of young giggles and chubby cheeks.
perspiration clings to her like second skin, making her clothing a third. and if she had more capacity in her head for thoughts other than “please, dear God, brother, father, HELP ME.” she would’ve applauded herself for flinging her heeled shoes five corners ago. “WAIT!” she yells and her voice is wet like the right half of her face, and the right half of her pale scalp, and the right half of a sagging shoulder unable to carry the additional weight of sopping fabric.
“Princess Madeleine!” the guards behind her take another breath to catch up, and the ones present in the room are stunned in their place as mulberry eyes quickly latch onto a singular form.
her chair rattles on its hind legs when Madeleine lurches for the figure previously-peacefully occupying it. she pulls and she pushes, unable to decide what she wants. “Yasmine,” her lips tremble and her nails dig into those sturdy shoulders as if she could borrow the woman’s strength for her own buckling knees. “the Queen, the Queen, get the– you GO!” she turns around to scream her throat raw, waterline burning with contaminated tears that stain her right eye red. it’s her unshed tears that borrow strength. draining it from her own self too, and spilling from a wine-coloured gash on top of her head.
some of the guards scramble, the two who followed her lead a horde with them.
“Yasmine, Yasmine, help me. CYRE–”
that’s… absurd. Her Highness would never allow such impudence to go unchecked! but no one else had a definitive answer as to what had happened—except that one of the finer residential chambers was now occupied—so she’d traded a month’s serving of dessert with one of the chambermaids for a single opportunity to mitigate her nibbling curiosity and serve the Queen’s guests a late lunch.
the inkling of doubt she had was proven correct at the sight of the pair: a man and his consort, dressed down in simple evening garments. she heard they’d knelt before the Queen in her day court like bandits with every inch of their skin cloaked and bloated with lies. Sunny doesn’t recognise avarice in the two and tries to hide her content in a bow of greeting.
they’re a charming couple who request more wine and ask about the stables and their horses. Sunny assures them the grooms will keep them well taken care of and that she can have them ready for his Lordship if he wishes for a lap around the castle grounds. he thanks the Queen’s hospitality through her but declines the offer after a silent gaze at his partner who sits like a pretty picture in front of the dresser. her poise and the gentleness with which she cards the comb through a tuft of hair, reminds Sunny of the grueling hours she watched the King’s sisters put into their etiquette lessons.
the handmaid soon takes her leave but returns later when the skies tinge with a purple darkness and the sun bleeds crimson like wine in a carefully balanced pitcher. not that– she would know how it looks like… but she’s heard! from the boys in the kitchen and friends much bolder than her who abscond their evening duties for trysts higher than the turrets on stocky keeps (and returned to the wrath of red-faced stewards.)
she intrudes on the guests’ temporary living space with a quick succession of knocks at their door and ample amount time to put themselves in order. which– her breath hitches. they don’t and Sunny prays to the late King’s spirit her face isn’t the same dusty bubblegum of the Lady’s hair. the Lady who sits. uh… with her dress flowing down the side of the Lord’s lap in one of the many solo sofas in the room. she’d counted. there were enough.
the guards positioned outside their personal chamber share similar sentiments to the ones caught between her furrowed brows: what an odd couple. how do they still prefer each other’s solitary company when they’re in foreign lands? at the Emperor’s Castle of all places!
“say…” she leans in, covering her mouth with one hand and whispering conspiratorially. her eyes scan the empty hallway as if she’s about to divulge some state secret. “i’ve been wondering all day: which one of them exactly is– uhm, Cyre?” the following silence boils her blood to red vapour on her heated cheeks. with her spine ramrod straight she squeaks, “the Lord! King Ezekiel’s knight. of course, i KNEW that!! good day to you!” they probably hear the resounding fwank! of her metal serving tray smacking her head.
Grr, that was obvious, she should’ve made the connections sooner! why did she think "Cyre" was a feminine name! stupid, stupid, she mutters, quickly pitter-pattering back to her duties.
***
midnight dares itself to douse darker than the Queen day’s attire, quieter than the troubles she drowns in her stony, obsidian pupils. the sultry silence masks the scent of carbon and lead that’s found itself a new home in the castle halls as of today. no, new is not the appropriate adjective to describe the greedy swirls of black, metallic granules sticking to sun-braised skin: a BIGGER home perhaps. one worthy of violence that wants to be known, wants to flush over nearby towns with impossible hearsays.
one of the very many to come begins with pleading cries of “Princess!” guzzled by the stiff fibres of ornamental tapestries and ornate curtains decking the castle walls with the nostalgia of her childhood. nostalgia she has not experienced in the past two decades of her time here; no matter the hour she chooses for her stroll or the ferocity of her steps when she ambles through. nostalgia that nauseates her head now, with her pulse quivering under her fingernails. fingernails hooked under the cool satin of her indigo gown. gown that warms under her steadily overheating palms. she runs and the adrenaline frightens her with debased memories of young giggles and chubby cheeks.
perspiration clings to her like second skin, making her clothing a third. and if she had more capacity in her head for thoughts other than “please, dear God, brother, father, HELP ME.” she would’ve applauded herself for flinging her heeled shoes five corners ago. “WAIT!” she yells and her voice is wet like the right half of her face, and the right half of her pale scalp, and the right half of a sagging shoulder unable to carry the additional weight of sopping fabric.
“Princess Madeleine!” the guards behind her take another breath to catch up, and the ones present in the room are stunned in their place as mulberry eyes quickly latch onto a singular form.
her chair rattles on its hind legs when Madeleine lurches for the figure previously-peacefully occupying it. she pulls and she pushes, unable to decide what she wants. “Yasmine,” her lips tremble and her nails dig into those sturdy shoulders as if she could borrow the woman’s strength for her own buckling knees. “the Queen, the Queen, get the– you GO!” she turns around to scream her throat raw, waterline burning with contaminated tears that stain her right eye red. it’s her unshed tears that borrow strength. draining it from her own self too, and spilling from a wine-coloured gash on top of her head.
some of the guards scramble, the two who followed her lead a horde with them.
“Yasmine, Yasmine, help me. CYRE–”
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Krill
Lurker in Darkness
Yasmine is staring, the guards are half encroaching, half reproaching themselves - each troubled step slipping them in and out as their minds trickle through a dozen peripheral warnings and intonations. Voices are beginning to rise among the crowd, to each other, to the Princess.
"Princess, calm down."
"...should we?"
"Clear the room!"
"Your highness, please -"
The creak of the chamber door is unheard through all the chaos, but the voice that follows, moments later, is felt. Yasmine stands, immediately, to attention.
"What has become of my castle?"
The Queen is bound in smothering, dark garments, a feint wisp of evergreen weaving through the shadows of her dress. One half of her hair is pulled up tight around curls of bronze, glistening with a rich, oily remedy. The other half she combs once while still in the doorway, then tucks it back behind the shoulder and stands, patient, face a glowering mask, awaiting a response.
Some guards have averted their eyes. Yasmine studies papers on the desk.
"Er, ma'am," one guard says, whom the others look to for help. "Your highness. I - the princess -"
"Princess, calm down."
"...should we?"
"Clear the room!"
"Your highness, please -"
The creak of the chamber door is unheard through all the chaos, but the voice that follows, moments later, is felt. Yasmine stands, immediately, to attention.
"What has become of my castle?"
The Queen is bound in smothering, dark garments, a feint wisp of evergreen weaving through the shadows of her dress. One half of her hair is pulled up tight around curls of bronze, glistening with a rich, oily remedy. The other half she combs once while still in the doorway, then tucks it back behind the shoulder and stands, patient, face a glowering mask, awaiting a response.
Some guards have averted their eyes. Yasmine studies papers on the desk.
"Er, ma'am," one guard says, whom the others look to for help. "Your highness. I - the princess -"
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