I thought I escaped the endless abyss that is the Vocaloid fandom but look what the cat dragged in now. Yours truly, ofc. Hi, I'm back with more trash.
Keep in mind that I aged the characters up to 16 years old. Also keep in mind that this is very much un-beta'd, all mistakes are mine and mine alone. And, you may or may not have noticed this, but the character's official name is Riliane. I just… added another l? Because it looks more… idk, Westernized? What am I even saying? The point is, don't take this seriously.
What else, what else. Oh yeah. Blatant, unapologetic incest, incest, incest. You can't even turn your head without bumping into at least ten kinds of incest because honestly what is morality.
Did I say there will be purple proses? There will be purple proses. Lots and lots of purple proses. A whole galore of it tbh; and awkward phrases as dessert. Sounds appealing, no?
Rated T bc there is not even a semblance of a plot here, what are you even expecting anyway
Disclaimer: I don't own anything at all. The quote belongs to Nicole Krauss' History of Love – which means it's still not mine, although I altered it a bit to fit. Title comes from Richard Siken's poem Snow and Dirty Rain, which might just became my favourite.
The story, like all stories do, start with a truth: You are in love with a girl pretending to be queen, gold-gilded and not yet grown into her tulle and lace, incandescent and spoilt rotten and butter on hastily wiped fingertips. You are in love with another girl, blue-green and summer and apple-sweet, honeyed strawberries and cold mint and century-old well that is forever stained with innocence spilled red.
(She is the most beautiful person you've ever seen.)
"I know you are not the princess," Kyle spits in lieu of a greeting, his phrasing more of an accusation than anything, and you know better than to try and deny. One, two strides, his legs carrying him to your place – and there is just nowhere to hide in this dingy, half-lit cell. (Rilliane would throw a tantrum.) His fingers dig under your chin, hard enough to draw blood.
"What can you gain from this?" Questions, questions. It's simple, really. You school your expression into a disdainful smile: even Rilliane herself would be proud, were she to see you.
"I don't have to answer to you."
Kyle's eyes narrow, his grip on your chin tightens.
Oh. You must have struck a nerve there.
"Are you trying to break out?" An ugly sneer. "It's literally impossible anyway, with those frail arms."
You know. You know. It's not your intention, the thought never even crossed your mind.
She sends for you in the middle of the night, tears on her cheeks and blood on her lips.
Of course you come, you devout fool.
Your voice is hoarse, you haven't managed to rub the sleep out of your eyes yet:
"You called me, Your Highness?"
Her voice is trembling, a rare moment of weakness in the daughter of evil. You didn't miss the accusing tone everyone uses when talking about her.
"Why are you still here?"
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Why," she waves her hand, a vague indication, "are you still with me?"
Your confusion must have been obvious, because Rilliane huffs exasperatedly. If it were anyone else, they would probably be dead by now.
"Surely you must have heard how people talk about me, Allen." Her eyes meet yours. "You, of all people, have lost the most; don't think I don't know." Desperation swims in blue blue eyes. She pulls the blanket tighter, making a cocoon out of silk and feather and almost-fear. "So I ask you again, and I expect an honest answer: what are you doing, standing by my side, brandishing a sword at my enemies and assassins when you have every reason to point one at me instead?"
"Did you, perhaps, owe her? Was it gratitude that fueled your actions?" Kyle frowns, his glare scrutinizing. It's a futile question. To misdirect, perhaps? Or to startle some reactions out of you. You both know Rilliane is not capable of inspiring gratitude in anyone.
She stares at you, dour-faced and glass-eyed, her heart on her tongue and strings pulled taut at her fingertips. She stares at you, she doesn't remember, and you can hear heart, yours, breaking in thickened silence. You long to kiss space between her eyebrows, to ease the tension from her shoulders, but she is no longer the sister in his memories. She is not Rilliane, little sister who plucks flowers from their mother's garden and laughs brilliantly, little girl with diamond dewdrops on her fingertip; she is Rilliane Lucifen d'Autriche, queen of Lucifenia in all but actuality, heir to a ruins, and in thousands years worth of history yet to come, whispered by archaeologists over a cementary long forgotten, apocalypse maiden.
She stares at you, and centuries rise and fall.
You love her, of course. It's inevitable, Michaela with eyes the clearest jades ever and laughter like tinkling bells, Michaela of the elves, rose garland in her hair and pearls sewn in her skin and watery soul, who doesn't have a flick of malice in her bone. It's all too easy to imagine her as a princess, dresses to match her beauty and a crown glinting in her hair. She would be a perfect queen, honey and milk to soothe and clean soft kindness to rule.
It could be a fairy tale.
The queen asks for you on a bright day, clear sky and jeweled sunlight on her throat.
Leave no stone unturned, her lips curl, dagger-sharp stare and uneven smile. They have raised her well, you think, sickened to the core; to take lives with an amicable mask worthy of a perfect sovereign. Leave no green-haired maiden alive.
She smiles, and Elphegort burns.
(Here is a secret: You tried to save her.)
"Was it because of money?" and again, no. No. They are broke, the country run to rags by taxes and wars and public executions, heedless of the cries and rages. Rilliane doesn't have money anymore, and even if she did, she wouldn't bribe him. Her favourite way to get things done is to decimate the obstacle, not so oily and life-wise as to know how to use her wealth that way.
You wanted to hate her. You did. Your conscience screams at you to atone for your sin. Your rage demands vengeance for your stepfather, for Michaela, for every girl that you've killed and every soul that you've burned to char.
But she smiles at you, semi-sweet and innocent, so nostalgic that you want to scream, because this is not fair, she can't just tie you to her like this, can't dangle hope in front of you like a treat, a glimpse of Eden you will never reach.
Rilliane smiles. Says, "thank you, Allen," and an intrinsic part of you sings.
You press her fingertips against your lips. Whisper on her skin, breathing hieroglyphs on blue veins.
"You are the one I serve, Your Highness,"
Rilliane flinches at the title. Doesn't scream, but is close to.
"Don't give me that! Say something honest for once, damn you!"
In silence, in dreams, you can hear voices, raw and angered and bare, stripped of pretension. You can see ghosts, curling around her, her skin reeks of blood and butter alike.
(She is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen in your life.)
She doesn't ask for a loyalty oath, but you give one all the same.
"I am yours, Your Highness," hold her hand, warm from your own skin, "My sword," her fingers clench almost imperceptibly, slipping on the heat you radiate, "my life," you charge on. Let her hold your wrist,feel the blood rush, "and my heart," fingers ghost over your skin. The steady beats, the rhythmic lull. You stare into a mirror, "are at your disposal. As they will always be."
This is how you love her: with every fiber of your being. You love her with every breath you take, with every beat of your heart, you love her, you love her, you love. She can have you, if she wants.
(Here is another secret: You could have saved her.)
Torches are lit. Nations are burnt to the ground, a requiem running its course. Rilliane is silent, for the first time in her life; fragile and small, everything you remember, everything you've ever wished for.
Prince Alexiel Lucifen d'Autriche loves his sister, the girl.
Allen Avadonia loves Rilliane, the lady she could have been.
She cups your face. Doesn't cry, because no dignified villain cries when faced with death.
(But she is not a villain. She is just a little girl. She is just a little girl!)
Run, she says. Leave me be. You have done well.
Her eyes betray the underlying fear inside. Unshed tears glimmer, threatening to spill out.
Tattered and dying, Rilliane is still the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
You allow yourself to indulge, just a little. Her lips are ambrosia and nectar, sweet and inviting, surprise rendering them pliant. You kiss her as castles burn and corpses pile up, among revolutions and crimson blood and artifacts of history yet to come.
This is how absolution is supposed to taste like, sweet ichor and fire and decadence, something you would call evil was it not the loveliest thing ever.
Rilliane looks up, eyes hazy, and the most beautiful thing you've ever seen melts, morphs into summer and green and leaves in her hair, palm upward and inviting.
She can have every part of you, can carve your chest open and pull your heart out, and you would put it on a silver platter for her. Every piece of you, she can have.
You bite your lips until blood draws. Swallow, trying to wash away the taste of her. Across the room, the prince – the avenger – taps his feet impatiently, and you say, I don't know.
You don't say, in her name I commit every atrocity known to humankind.
You don't say, I can build a kingdom from all the bones and flesh I've incinerated and bury the world from the ash I left in my wake.
You don't say, I can do anything for her.
(except – the ghosts are staring at you, screaming for blood – yours – to spill, screaming for justice, and you can't even tell them that they are being unjust.
except – your kingdom is now hubris and wreckage, and you don't even know if Rilliane is alive, if she has already escaped, if – anything –
except – you would do this, all of this, again, unapologetic and unrepentant, in a heartbeat; you would do this a thousand times again if there was even an infinitesimal chance for her, always for her, always –)
An obituary:
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he spent his whole life answering.
Footnote (omg no this is not the ending, it's more like me - the author - making fun of this hot mess, but I'm flattered that you thing this has a whole deeper meaning): The moral of this story is… irrelevant, because none of us are monarchs in 18th century France – thank heaven for that. But on the off chance that you are, have a twin nearby, stay hydrated and keep away from guillotines.