Be Eridan Ampora.
You sat forward on your throne, jaw clenched so tightly that it ached. Your expression, already one filled with murderous intent, kept growing darker as your personal servant read the report of the damage Makara and his cronies had caused.
"… seven market stalls burned, half of one storehouse, twelve slaves dead, one indigoblood dead-"
"The fire killed them?" you cut in. The servant raised his orbs to look at you, then quickly looked at the floor and dipped his head as an apology for the disrespect.
"No, my lord. They were bludgeoned to death." The servant didn't jump or cringe as you swore and slammed your fists on the throne's arms. You supposed he had come to expect such outbursts from you over the sweeps that you'd been together. When your curses and bellowing subsided, he cleared his throat.
"Would you have me continue, my prince?"
You leapt up, gold-embroidered cape flying, and snatched a crystal goblet from the table beside you. The servant watched impassively as you hurled it against the wall; it burst into a hundred shards and rained onto the marble tile.
"More?!" you raged. "You tell me that clown trash burned half my city market and killed an indigo, and there's more?!" You kicked the table over and smashed a glass pitcher against the floor. "He's makin' a fuckin' fool of me!"
"I mean no disrespect, your majesty, but seven stalls certainly isn't half the market."
You whirled around, gander-orbs flashing with fury, and then paused. The servant was staring respectfully at the floor, as cool and collected as ever. You studied the much smaller troll, the primal and darker parts of you wanting to find something combative in the servant's demeanor, but, as always, you found nothing. Your favorite servant was always so calm, so unafraid of you. You had hated the other troll's austerity and lack of fear at first, but eventually had come to realize that you could rely on his level-headedness for sound counsel and, if you were honest with yourself, a sort of emotional anchor to keep your temper in check.
And boy, did you have a temper.
Despite the long sweeps you had spent together, you still weren't able to recognize the way your servant's shoulders relaxed slightly when you let out a breathy chuckle and shook your head. "Oh, Karkat," you muttered, "you're right. How is it you're always right? And look at me; I'm makin' more a fool of myself than the clown. Cruel irony." You moved close to the other troll and brushed his cheek with bejeweled and gold-ringed fingers, hoping that he would dare to lift his gander-orbs.
"Permission to speak freely, my lord?" Karkat said, his gaze still firmly on the floor. You frowned a little and pulled away, immediately missing his warmth. A wave of your hand and you moved back to sit back on your throne, closing your orbs and trying to rub away the ache that had started up in your temples.
"Go on."
"Perhaps it would be wise to take the Condesce's advice," Karkat said. "A moirail from your court, or a matesprit, could do a good deal to make him more obedient and rational. I mean, even you might-"
Your orbs snapped open. You stared at Karkat for a moment before roaring with laughter. "Me?" you cried. "A clown's moirail? Or matesprit?" The absurd notion had you in such stitches that you doubled over in your seat. The Condesce might be able to pail a clown, but, gog, Makara was no Grand Highblood. You wiped violet tears from your face with the back of your hand, laughter fading to a soft chuckle.
"Someone from the court, then," Karkat said finally. "You must create a stabilizing link between you and Makara, my prince, otherwise he could end up burning the whole city down. And who knows how long it will take him to find the rebels, if he ever finds them? He could be here for sweeps."
Your nutrition sack churned at the thought of the damage the crazy cultists might do to your city, at the damage they had already done. You didn't necessarily care about the mass-slaughters of lowbloods or the peasants' stalls and houses burning, but more about how fucking bad it made you look in opinion of the other nobles. Brine-sucker can't keep a handful of clowns under control, you could hear them whispering. Pretty soon, they might actually think you so soft and incapable as to deserve another assassination attempt.
Or Makara might just club you over the head in your sleep. You wouldn't put it past the crazy fucker.
"Vetina Nessin," Karkat said, and you looked up at him in surprise. "She would make a good moirail for him, or matesprit."
"Nessin is useful," you muttered, picturing the violetblood's pretty, if snub-nosed, face in your pan. "It would be a waste-"
Karkat dipped an apologetic bow as he interrupted. "Your majesty, Nessin is rational, loyal, and, above all, patient. She would make a good liaison between the Church and the court... my prince."
You watched the servant lift his orbs when you didn't say anything. Your blood-pusher ached a little when you locked gazes, and you yearned to tell Karkat that he could use your name.
Like you did when I buried myself in you so deep that you screamed-
You pushed the thought away before your body betrayed you. "You really think it would work?" Karkat nodded.
"The Condesce thinks so, too."
"And you truly believe that Nessin is the best choice?"
Karkat nodded again.
You sighed and gestured for the warmblood to come close to you. Karkat obeyed, as always, stepping up onto the dais and pushing his short red and gold cape aside to kneel before you. On a whim you raised a hand, and Karkat stopped as he was about to drop onto one knee. You stood up, and Karkat lowered his gaze.
"My lord?" he said softly, confusion in his voice as the toes of your gold boots touched his own.
You reached forward and gently took the other troll's face in both of your cool hands, drawing a soft gasp from him that made you want to pap his cheeks and push your tongue into his mouth at the same time. "I trust you, Karkat," you murmured, your thumbs brushing over his soft skin. "You've always served me well, better than any servant I've ever had. Somethin' like that deserves to be rewarded… don't you think?" Karkat's gaze flicked away with your last words, his face flushing bright red. When he looked at you again, his expression was unreadable.
"I only do as I should, your majesty," he said simply. You looked deeply into his gander-orbs, your face so close that you knew he could feel your cool breath on his skin. Your pusher ached and ached as you searched for something pale, flushed, or hell, even pitch in there, but you found nothing.
Gog damn it.
Karkat stumbled on the dais step as you pushed him backward and slumped onto your throne. You dropped your face into your hands and muttered for him to get out. He moved away without saying a word, and that made you want to scream more than anything.
Be Mipree Joclai.
What was taking him so long?
You sat on one of the window seats in the palace's royal halls, bouncing your knee and tapping your fingers together anxiously. The halls were empty, save for the occasional guard passing by, and so the only sound that reached you came from the ocean waves crashing faintly on the rocks a thousand feet below. It should have been a soothing noise, but your nerves were too shredded to find anything comforting. Even food was sickening to look at, so you had skipped your last three meals. You had gone to the mess for dinner, of course, but only to keep from looking so suspicious as you hung around the royal halls off-duty. You knew that being in the royal halls at all was suspicious-looking, but you couldn't help it. You had tried, but you just couldn't sit and wait in your respite block for whatever was going to-
One of the heavy double doors, the old-fashioned kind that you had to push, opened at the end of the hallway. You jumped upright, intending to make yourself scarce, when you saw a small figure step outside and close the door behind him.
It took everything in your power to stand where you were and wait for him to come to you.
The other troll walked right past you at first, but only to check an adjacent hall to make sure no one was around. When he was satisfied, he came back.
"What in grub-sucking fuck are you doing here?" he whispered harshly, his orbs enormous. "Has anyone seen you?" You didn't answer him, just scooped him up into a hug. To your surprise, your moirail offered none of his usual resistance, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing his hot little body to yours. You frantically pressed kiss after kiss to his face, so relieved that he was alive and unharmed. When the prince had called for him last night, you had been certain that it was the end, that he'd been found out and that they were going to torture him and that you were going to be next even though you hadn't done anything-
Karkat papped you, hard enough to make a tiny slap sound. You realized you were shaking, and you took a deep breath to steady yourself.
"Shoosh, you fucking pansy. I can't fucking believe you're in here. Shhh shhh."
"I can't do this anymore," you whispered into his neck. "I almost lost my fucking mind worrying. I thought you'd been caught-" Karkat papped you again, and you stopped. When you pulled back to look at him, his expression was hard-set. If you hadn't known him better, you wouldn't have seen the pain in his face.
"You don't have to," he said, his gritty little voice as flat and serious as it could be. "I told you in the very beginning that you didn't have to be part of this, but I do. I have to fucking do this."
"If they find out-" you started, but Karkat cut you off.
"I know the punishment for treason, Mip. I've sat through enough fucking judgements to know. But I'm not going to get caught, and even if I fucking did, I wouldn't breathe a fucking word about you. You'd be safe…" He put a warm little hand on your cheek. "You don't have to do this," he whispered. "If you want to back out, just say the word. It won't change anything between us."
But it would. If Karkat was ever caught working with the rebels (gog forbid), you would be arrested and tortured alongside him for your affiliation as his moirail, even if they couldn't connect you to the rebellion itself. If you were going to back out of helping the rebels, you might as well break up with Karkat.
Your pumper gave a miserable pang at the thought, and you hugged him to you again.
"No," you whispered. "I can't leave you." Karkat gave a little chirrup at your words and kissed you on the lips, then jerked away and looked up and down the hall. When he was satisfied that no one had seen you, he unwrapped your arms from around him and stood at a distance that would be respectful for a troll of his station addressing a highblood. You immediately wanted to press against him again, but you knew that there would be plenty of time for that soon. Karkat always made up for his distant behavior behind closed doors.
"I went with the fucking plan," he was now saying excitedly, but softly, still looking cautiously over his shoulder every now and then. His orbs sparkled. "I convinced him to give Makara Vetina Nessin, that bulge-sucker. Hopefully it'll stop the mindless raids and murders. Plus, it'll get Nessin away from the court." You blinked, not understanding, and Karkat sighed in irritation before explaining. "The other court members will push her out when they hear she's a cultist's quadrant. They'll call her 'unfashionable,' but they'll really just think she's fucking gross. Which she is."
"Oh," you said. You didn't have the best understanding of court life, or the Church, or any relationship in between. Even as a purple-blooded high-guard, your job never lead you to step foot in the throne room where the court gathered, and you didn't know any members of the violet-blooded high-nobility personally. It was just the way the hemospectrum dictated things, which made you realize something…
You didn't usually ask many questions when it came to all of this; you'd rather not talk about it at all, but a thought kept nagging at you and you couldn't push it away.
"Won't Nessin refuse?" you murmured, as if by speaking the words you were waving a rebel flag. "I mean, she's a violetblood… Makara's beneath her." Karkat gave you a disapproving look for talking that way, but it was a difficult habit to break. You gave a little shrug as an apology.
"Eridan's a prince," Karkat said. "Whatever he fucking says goes. And she's power-hungry, I've told you. She'll fucking jump at the chance to make Eridan happy, even if it means losing her phony fucking friends and pailing a clown."
You would have smiled at the nasty thought, but you had heard far too many rumors about the Makara cultist to find it funny. According to your fellow guards, and Prince Ampora when he bellowed loud enough from his throne room, the clown was out of his think-pan worse than most of the cultists; you knew that he and his kind used the blood of trolls for paint, but rumor had it that Gamzee actually drank it.
Plus, he seemed to have a strong distaste for highbloods that kept quadrants with trolls beneath their rank…
You must have gotten a worried look on your face, because Karkat reached up and papped you again. You grabbed hold of him and nestled down into the crook of his neck, rocking back and forth and kissing at his hot skin despite his protests. The anxiety that had been gnawing at you melted away with his heat, as it always did, and was replaced by that wondrous comfort and ease that only pale love could offer.
It surprised you in the most pleasant way when Karkat reached up and took one of your horns, smooth and curving back over your pan, into his warm little hand. You leaned down for him without hesitation. Karkat never did horn-rubs outside of your block or his; getting caught doing something like that would give your moirallegiance away faster than anything.
But there was no one around now.
A rumbling purr started up in your chest as he rubbed and kneaded the smooth surface of your horn all the way down to the base, his fingers threading briefly through your hair before moving up again. His touch, so warm against your coolness, was one of the most glorious things you'd ever felt, and you would have done anything to let it go on forever. His scent, like spiced honey, turned your sponge to mush when you took a deep breath.
"Don't stop, love," you whimpered, leaning harder into him when he made to pull away. It had been too long since you'd been together like this, and you wanted more, needed more. Karkat murmured something about you being "fucking ridiculous" and "an enormous and embarrassing sap," but he didn't stop. "Pale for you," you whispered, your orbs glassy and so full of love that he finally relented and pressed a sweet, warm kiss to your lips.
"Pale as fucking stars," he whispered back. His chest rumbled briefly against yours, and your blood-pusher throbbed furiously when you realized that he had rattled of a little purr. You instinctively reached for his horns, wanting more than anything to coax that sweet, elusive sound out of him again.
A door slammed open nearby, and the speed at which Karkat disentangled himself from you threw you off-balance for a brief moment. Armored guard boots clomped heavily and echoed across the marble tile, all the way up to the vaulted ceiling, and you straightened up to stand at attention even though you were off-duty. The troll that came around the corner wasn't anyone you recognized, however.
It was a clown.
The painted troll didn't give you or Karkat so much as a glance as he went by, though he passed closely enough that you could smell something sickly sweet clinging to him, something familiar. Your gaze couldn't help but follow his tall, wiry figure as he strolled leisurely toward the throne room, looking for all the world like he belonged here as much as you did. He had a broad set of shoulders and a mass of unruly hair that desperately needed a trim. His horns were long and spiraling, almost twice the length of yours, and studded with bits of iron; the tips of them glinted in a way that suggested they had been sharpened, a painful but common practice among the Subjugglators. He wore the lightweight, purple-dyed armor that all the clowns did, and a studded and stained club holstered on each hip. You were shocked that the guards outside hadn't taken the weapons from him before an audience with the prince. You were allowed to have your bow and a boot-dagger in the royal halls, but you were also a high-guard.
You and Karkat watched the clown more or less throw the throne room doors open and swagger right in. You heard Prince Ampora shout something, something that the cultist laughed a gritty laugh at, but it was too far away to make out. Karkat murmured, and you were so focused on whatever was going on in that room down the hall that you had to ask him to repeat himself.
"That's him," Karkat said. "That's Gamzee Makara."
Be Gamzee Makara.
"The motherfuck is up?" you said, strolling yourself right on up to where the prince was sitting and gaping at you. He hesitated a split second, his squawk gaper hanging open like a scaly finbeast's, and then he was up and on his feet and spitting all kinds of blasphemousness at you. You laughed, and it only made him curse harder.
"What the fuck were you thinkin'?!" he screeched. "Burnin' half the fucking market?! Killin' a fuckin' indigo?! Have you no fuckin' sense?!" You felt another laugh bubbling up in you at the way his face was turning all pinky-purple and shit, but you kept it down and promised the Messiahs that you would atone for the blasphemy with some righteous scripture.
"Whoa, whoa," you said, holding your hands up and smiling all peaceful. "Up and chill the motherfuck out. It was a motherfuckin' accident, s'all-"
"An accident?" Prince Ampora whispered, his violet orbs too big for his face all the sudden. "A fuckin' accident?" You held your hands out again and shrugged, and the prince's orbs looked like they were going to pop out of his pan. Instead of screaming at you, though, his face suddenly got all calm-like. He stepped down the dais toward you, his sparkly-pretty cape slipping after him. You thought of how prissy and gaudy that shit looked.
"You know what I think, clown?" he said. That got your attention sure enough. The violetblood stopped moving, leaving a careful five-foot distance between you. You took the opportunity to study his height and the length of his arms, both shorter than yours. "I think the only accident here is you. You, and all the other zealot abominations are-"
"Motherfuckin' watch yourself, wader," you growled, your smile gone and your hands settling real gentle-like on your clubs. "Ain't no good to up and talk about the motherfuckin' family like that."
Ampora whisked his rapier out of its pretty little scabbard and held it level with your sight-bulbs. "What? Don't like bein' told what you are? A bunch of painted-up, deluded freaks?"
You didn't think, just lunged at him, tearing your clubs from their holsters and bringing them down in a hard arc. Ampora darted sideways in a flash of gold, and your weapons crashed down onto the floor with enough force to crack the marble.
You jerked away when you heard the whistle of a thin blade coming in quick, and you were glad as shit that his arms weren't as long as yours; the rapier thrust ended just short of you, giving you time to bring your clubs back up and knock them together a little. You grinned as sharp as you could grin at the pompous fucker as he backed away, a scowl on his pinched face. Blood pounded in your ears, and fuck all if you didn't feel like the motherfucking Messiah Raging.
You charged him again, keeping one club low and other one behind you. The brine-sucker didn't fall for your trick, though, and you ended up swinging wide and barely avoiding the little sticker-blade again. He laughed, an awful, filthy sound that tore at you, and you gritted your teeth.
"Come on, dirt-licker!" he hissed. "I've waited so fuckin' long for this!" You snarled. Blasphemous brother wouldn't have to wait any fuckin' longer.
The motherfucker watched you make another dash at him, one club balanced back and the other low. The smug grin never left his face as he threw himself away from your wide swing, never guessing that you were actually tossing the weapon away to grab at his gaudy-ass cape. Your claws sunk into the glittering fabric, and you heaved him toward you. Ampora, thinking he would have another easy chance at jumping away and poking you between the ribs, stumbled and missed wildly with his rapier's thrust. You took the opportunity to fling your low club up and into his rapier hand. Hard.
Ampora cried out in agony as his arm was bludgeoned upward and back. He immediately released the rapier's handle, betraying his lack of combat practice, and the weapon arced over his head to clatter on the floor behind him.
And yet, he wasn't left defenseless.
Multi-colored lights exploded before you as his fist connected with your unprotected temple, and you reeled. Messiahs, you had forgotten how tough waders were; he might as well have hit you with your own fuckin' club. You had let go of the cape, and you could hear the heretic dashing for his weapon. Even in your semi-conscious state you had the sense to bring your club up, and you felt more than heard the rapier's thin blade snap against your own iron-banded weapon.
"Fuckin' freak!" a voice shrilled at you, all distant-sounding. "You gogdamn fuckin' freak!"
Your vision was coming back, but it was blurry as all hell and you couldn't make out just where the motherfucker was, so you kept your club up and took the defensive. Just you wait, motherfucker, til I can see you and your broke-ass little croakbeast sticker-
"Don't move,"a voice said from right behind you. At the same time, something cold and sharp pressed into your throat.
You threw your pan back hard, smashing into the motherfucker's nose and making them yell. Then, in a beautiful testament to your laughsassin training, you ducked down and away, lashing out behind you with one long leg. You felt the armored heel of your boot connect with whoever it was, and heard their gasp as the breath was knocked the fuck out of them. Ampora screamed something, and you barreled in that direction, club up and jagged teeth bared. You'd tear the fucker in half with just your fangs if you could get hold of him-
Something hissed by your pan before you took five steps, and you slid to a stop across the tile floor. What the motherfuck now? You could clearly see Ampora finally, standing not ten feet away from you, his fins all flared up and his orbs burning red. The room was still swimming a little, but not so badly that you couldn't make out the figure of another troll, much shorter, standing beside him. It was the heretic-sister from outside, the one who thought you couldn't see her staring. She held a bow, another arrow already notched to the string and ready to let fly.
Recognizing when you'd been beat, you lowered your club.
"Drop it," the girl snapped, and you could hear military in her voice. Palace guard, you figured, a high-guard if her blood had anything to say about it. A heretic all the same.
"Not a chance, motherfucker," you told her. You heard the bow creak further back at your words, but you holstered your club anyway. She wouldn't shoot you, not even to protect her prince. She wouldn't chance the Church's wrath coming down on her if she killed one of their elite. You smirked at her when you went over to get your other club. The girl narrowed her orbs at you in a way that she probably thought was terrible mean, and you were half-tempted to show the little heretic what a mean look really was. But you had a bigger heretic to deal with.
With your weapons strapped loosely on your hips, you turned to the blasphemous wader prince and smiled real slow. You lifted your chin and held your hands out like the Grand motherfuckin' Highblood at the pulpit, rage and bloodlust pulsing through you in a miraculous rush. "You insult the motherfuckin' family," you told him, "you insult the motherfuckin' Church. You up and fucked yourself, you brine-suckin' motherfucker." And with that, you sent the broken half of the rapier blade skittering across the floor with a kick, turned on your heel, and walked right the fuck out of the room.
Be Mipree Joclai.
You sprinted to Karkat's side the second the clown stalked away. He was sitting upright now, but his breathing was labored and his nose was broken and bleeding badly. His face and neck were splashed candy-red with blood, and you snatched off your short guard's cape to mop it away, papping his cheek gently as you did so. Karkat tried to take a deep breath to speak, but his air sacks weren't ready to be filled up quite so full so soon, and he coughed hard. In that moment you forgot your secret, how hard you had worked to keep it from the world, and you crooned softly to him: sweet love, shhhh shhh.
A shadow fell over you both, and you started to see Prince Ampora hovering over you. You expected to find concern for Karkat in his gaze, or a look of approval to you for your quick actions, or even surprise at your now-obvious relationship, but none of those things were there. Instead, his sight-bulbs were burning a hotter red than they had been when he was looking at the clown.
And he was looking right at you.
"You fuckin' whore," he hissed, and his voice and gaze were filled with such dark intent that you were stunned.
"P-Prince Ampora?" you stuttered, confused and terrified as he loomed over you. You let go of Karkat and spread your hands wide in a gesture of submission, struggling to explain yourself. "My prince, I-"
The other troll snatched you up by one of your horns so viciously that you cried out. Your first instinct was to defend yourself, but the violetblood was as fast as he was strong. With his free hand he punched you twice, the first one easily breaking your nose and loosening a few teeth, the second one blacking your left gander-orb. Then, with a wrench of his arm, he hurled you off your feet and away from Karkat. You hit the floor several yards away, rolling a few more before you stopped and were able to scrabble upright.
Prince Ampora was coming toward you by the time you were standing, and the look on his face promised death if you didn't run. You sobbed Karkat's name and stumbled for the open doors, blood slicking down your face. The prince reached the doors just as you threw yourself out and into the hallway. A sound like a thunderclap reverberated through the hall as they slammed shut behind you.
You rested on your knees and forearms, just as you'd fallen, and sobbed. Your nose gushed like a fountain, one of your teeth had fallen out, and you felt the sting in your orbs as more blood streamed from the cuts Prince Ampora's rings had left. The pain in your hemo-pumper was the worst, though, as you imagined your sweet Karkat still sitting on the floor with his busted nose and that terrified look on his face. You moaned, a long mournful sound that ended in a choked sob.
"'And the motherfuckin' heretics shall up and suffer the most wicked of pain, and their motherfuckin' pain will be our mirth."'
You raised your face from the floor and saw a pair of plated boots in front of you. Following the boots upward, you found yourself staring up into the smiling face of Gamzee Makara. His gander-orbs glinted with a strange light from within the dark smears of face-paint, and you stopped thinking about Karkat just long enough to fear for yourself.
You instinctively raised up onto your hands as the much bigger troll crouched suddenly and dabbed his long fingers in the pool of purple blood beneath you. "Hilarities 2:16, my sweet sister," he said matter-of-factly. "One of my motherfuckin' favorites." He leaned forward, moving onto his hands and knees, and brought his face so close to yours that you could clearly see your terrified reflection in his too-big pupils. He smelled of blood and that sickly sweetness that you now recognized as sopor slime.
"Want to know a motherfuckin' secret?" he said softly, his lazy smile spreading wider; his fangs were sharp beyond what nature intended. You didn't reply, horrified as you were while you thought of why his teeth were filed like that, but he moved close to your pan anyway. His breath ghosted across your ear as he spoke: "My favorite color. It's motherfuckin' heretic… purple…"
You stared straight ahead, your body rigid and paralyzed with new terror. There was a soft, wet sound from beside you, and then the other troll groaned low and deep and animalistic in his chest. He leaned forward until his body was pressed against you, the side of his pan resting against yours, and then whispered into your ear as flushed as a needing matesprit:
"Messiahs, lil' mama… you taste like motherfuckin' miracles."
You shoved the clown away, and he laughed as he rolled nimbly backward and jumped upright. His lips were smeared with your blood as he lolled his tongue slowly, lewdly over his fingers. You struggled to your feet, slipping once in the puddle under you, and then ran for all you were worth, the clown's crazed laughter echoing after you.
