I do not own even the tiniest bit of Golden Sun. And even if I did, I wouldn't share it with any of you! It's mine, all mine I say! D:
Promises
When Veriti was young, she had been told that there was no greater joy than bringing a life into the world. It was those words, spoken by her own mother, that had given her comfort when she discovered she was both with child and without a wedding band. She had believed them with all her heart, just like she had believed in him.
Alex had promised her everything. Breathless secrets whispered between bed sheets in the dead of night; impossible tales of distant lands, visited by the masked man. It had been thrilling, and she had believed every word.
He would take her away from this dying city, and they would travel the world together. He would take her atop all four of the lighthouses, where she could watch the world churn below. ("Just like the goddess you are," he'd told her.) He would take her to the frozen North where he was born, and to the foothills of Mount Aleph, where he had died. He would take her to the last great cities, where Alchemy still flowed beneath the streets. He would take her everywhere and she would see everything – whatever her heart desired. And she had believed him.
She had believed every damn word.
When he told her that he had to leave, she had accepted it, and when he told her he would return for her, she had trusted him. It never once occurred to her at the time that he might have been lying. She had fallen too deeply in love, and in her blindness, assumed the same was true of him.
She wasn't quite sure when the reality of Alex's betrayal struck her; it had been too subtle. But like her gently expanding stomach, whose changes were far too minute to notice on a day-to-day basis, pregnant doubt grew in an abandoned corner of her mind until one day, without warning, it birthed a fit of violent rage and sorrow.
She had tried to deny it, hiding reality beneath stacks of excuses and piles of empty promises. They had gathered themselves in neat little bundles, conveniently covering the painful truth, and spreading to hide the ugly bruise when her dubiety grew. But pretty little lies could only conceal fact for so long, and as weeks turned into months with no sign of the adept, the truth became clear: Alex had left her, and he was not coming back. In hindsight, it was painfully obvious. She had just been the means to an end, and the only thing standing between him and the Alchemy Well. She had been used.
That realization had started with screaming and tears, and ended with a blade at her throat.
The servants who'd brought her breakfast that morning didn't understand the cause of the princess's sudden tyrant, and were powerless to stop it, their soothing words wasted on the hysterical woman. They could only wait, their backs pressed against the wall and their eyes averted, for her to stop sobbing and ranting, wincing every time she hurled one of the delicate plates at the walls. When it became clear that she wasn't going to calm down, they ran to fetch Paithos.
By the time the young king reached his sister's chambers, she had a fruit knife pressed against her neck, a thin trail of blood painted down her delicate throat. The remaining servants pleaded with her, but the blade stayed in firmly in place with shaking hands. It was only when she saw her brother, only when they locked eyes, that she dropped the knife, and fell to her knees. She never spoke of what had happened and he never asked; he just stayed by her side and comforted her until her sobs turned into whimpering, and her whimpering into an exhausted slumber.
She asked her brother – begged him – to allow her to terminate the pregnancy. But the damage had already been done: the people were expecting a miracle, propagated by Paithos' words. Veriti had no choice but to deliver.
And so there was little to do except wait for the child to be born. She was to be accompanied by a court physician at all times until she gave birth; her brother feared another fit, despite her assurances that it would not occur again. Initially, her grief had been a flood, fueled by the weight of her realization, drowning her senses and muddying her judgment. But now, pain had tapered into anger, a sharp, refreshing stream that cleared her mind and directed her rage towards one person: the man whose child she now carried.
She hated Alex more than she had ever hated anyone; hated him more than she thought possible. She hated the mere mention of him, and she hated that emotion that still felt too close to adoration when he entered her thoughts. She hated him for making her believe, and she hated him for breaking her heart. But what she hated the most was having a part of him inside her, in the form of their unborn child. She counted the weeks, the days, the hours, the minutes, until she would be rid of the parasite that grew in her womb. Rid of Alex.
When she finally went into labor, it was almost a relief.
Almost.
It was not an easy birth. Veriti was slender woman, and she was far too weak to perform the task her body demanded. With every spasm and fresh wave of pain, she cursed the child, cursed Paithos, and cursed Alex. But she didn't cry. She absolutely wouldn't cry. She refused to give Alex the satisfaction of hurting her again. After fourteen hours, her torment ended and Veriti gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby boy. The crown prince Amiti, heralded as a miracle of Ayuthay, and beloved by his people just hours after his birth.
And she couldn't stand the sight of him.
She had told herself – convinced herself – that if the child looked nothing like it's father, if she had a girl, if it wasn't an adept, then maybe, just maybe, she could bury her resentment, and come to accept, even love it. But she had no such luck. Perhaps the gods were laughing at her, because the child she gave birth to was nothing less than the spitting image of his father.
Her mother was wrong. There was no joy in bringing life.
So that night, she took her own.
A nursemaid found her the next morning, silk sheets wrapped around her slender neck. As if playing some final twisted joke, she wore the same dress she'd worn the day she met him, when she'd been summoned into the throne room to guide the masked foreigner through the city. The day everything ended.
There had been a note, nothing more than a scrap of paper really, torn from a nearby book and tucked neatly into her son's crib as he slept. Just six words.
Promise you'll tell him the truth.
Under Paithos' command, no one was to speak of what had happened. The few who knew the truth - the whole truth - fell silent upon their king's order. Officially, Veriti had died from complications after childbirth. Better for the people to think that their beloved princess had died bearing the God-child, than in a fit of despair and bedlinens. Better they believe in Veriti's divinity than know just how crippling her humanity had been.
Better for Veriti's son to never learn that his father's broken promises had left his mother a broken woman.
Better to break one last promise, than to know the truth.
Yeah, I really need to stop playing The Path at 2 in the morning. Gives me depressing plot bunnies.
For a bonus bummer, imagine Veriti was mistaken, and Alex actually did intend to come back for her. It just took a little bit longer than he thought it would. Say, nine to ten months?