Title: Necessity of the Cause
Author: ninedaysaqueen
Beta: openedlocket - Hugs and chocolate hearts!
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of The Thief, The Queen of Attolia, The King of Attolia, A Conspiracy of Kings, nor of any characters, locations, and elephants contained within. All rights of the Queen's Thief series belong exclusively to Megan Whalen Turner and her respective publishers. Also included in this fic are lines belonging to the classical poet, Emily Dickinson. These lines are identified in the ending author's notes.
Spoilers: Books 1, 2, and 3.
Rating: PG-13/Teen - For non-explicit torture. Let's just say, if The Pit and the Pendulum freaks you out, you may not like this fic.
Genre: Drama/Angst/Romance (the creepy kind)
Word Count: 1,300 (approximate) - Excluding author's notes.
Summary: Eugenides and Relius discuss that night in the dungeon.
A *WARNING* to the gentle reader: Though non-graphic and completely non-violent (I don't like to write these things), this story does contain a torture scene more vividly depicted than the allusions made by Megan in her books. I've focused primarily on the emotion of the scene and have kept it aptly brief, but note: this sets the tone of the entire story which is necessarily dark. In other words, prepare yourself for a dollop of Noir churned into a batter of Edgar Allen Poe and his tales of pounding terror.
Enjoy!
Yeah... being a little sarcastic.
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"Therefore it is necessary to learn how not to be good, and to use this knowledge and not use it, according to the necessity of the cause."
- Machiavelli
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"Tell me what I want to know."
The press of cold steel. Words hard and cruel. He's senseless to practically all of it. Lost in the haze of pain, fear, and numbness.
The pressure increases beneath his fingernails.
"Tell me."
He doesn't understand the question, but he knows he would say anything. Just to stop the nightmare unfolding before his eyes. Still he does not scream.
It could never be loud enough.
The pressure increases, and the questions are repeated. He answers best he can, delusional from the push and pull at his flesh. His nerves on fire, bathed in red, boiling oil.
If all the heavens were a drum...
The oddest thoughts and phrases pass through his mind. A spread of images. Of times before – faces, touches, conversations, food, and life.
And being but an ear...
He knows nothing but the pain, a pounding beat beneath his eyelids. Swimming through his veins like a poison alighting ever nerve in his body.
Then it stops.
To be replaced with an ache and a darkness he cannot fathom. He hears words spoken in a hush. He tries and mostly fails to string them together.
Kill him... Stop... Your orders...
Show no mercy.
He knows nothing but the void.
X-X-X
Many months later, he sits by a bedside. The bedside of the same man who, deep underground in the prison damp, caused him to know the darkest hours of his life.
They are, neither of them, simple men.
The talk about books, plays, court dramas, and anything but what stands in the room. Between them both, achingly large and pointedly ignored.
Until now.
"About that night..."
"Relius-" he starts.
"Let me finish."
Eugenides shuts his mouth, but that doesn't mean he wants to listen.
"You understand why?" The questions sits heavy in the air. Its simplicity belying its horror.
Taking a moment to consider, Eugenides answers, "You thought you were protecting the woman you loved, the queen of you country. I can understand that." He shrugs, the bitterness brushed off.
"But at what cost?" Says the man on the infirmary bed, gesturing with his bandaged hand.
"Is there a cost too great?"
"You tell me," answers Relius.
Silence.
Eugenides is the first to shatter it, sighing and rubbing his temple. "You see... I don't exactly remember what happened that night." He leans back and peers at the darkness around them. "Nor do I really desire to."
Both are unmoved.
"Either way..." He leans forward again, forearms coming to rest on his knees. "I cannot grant you absolution. Just know..." A long pause. "She made her own choices in regards to you. It's not your fault what she became. But more..." he pauses to consider, "...but more the necessity of the cause."
The older man snorts. "Necessity of the cause – the real devil of war, famine, and pestilence."
"Are there truer words?" Eugenides agrees with a smirk.
They sit in an easy quiet.
"I suppose an apology would mean nothing to you."
He redirects, "Ah, do not assume the meaning of words to other men, Relius." That gets him a grin.
"Even so..." Relius hangs his head and resettles himself on the bed, "I am sorry for what I did to you. And..." The king shifts backwards in his chair, his gaze off-center and frozen to a point. "Know that she is too."
There is nothing more to say.
"Thank you, Relius. Those are not easy words."
The older man smiles, "Nor are they easy words to hear, I'd imagine."
Eugenides grins and nods in agreement, "Indeed..." Trailing off, an awkward pause settles between them.
"Well," the king speaks suddenly, standing up. "I should leave you to your rest." Taking the candle with him, he turns – a whirl of movement to avoid the thoughts that come in stillness. "Goodnight, Relius."
"Your Majesty?"
"Yes?" The king wheels sharply, the candle flickers in the air; and Relius notes the young man leaves the flame unbuffered. He does not have another hand.
"Thank you."
The king nods and shuts the door.
Alone again, with his thoughts and his memories; Relius recalls the words and actions that might fill the bleak gaps in the king's memories. Images and sentences erased and shrouded by dull pain and all consuming fear.
She didn't want to know then.
Thieves are not the only men who lie.
X-X-X
She knew. Of course she did, when she came back to see the Thief that night, one of many nights she stood hovering by his prison cell. Her face hidden by shadows; a vacant stare masking all. Relius knows his own actions.
Necessity of the cause.
There were never truer words.
"You've would've killed him." She gestures from the hall, her voice low yet smoldering in passion. "Murdered him if I hadn't stopped you." Hissing, she shakes her head in disbelief. He meets her gaze. Unperturbed by her anger.
It is the first time he's seen her this upset. Not when the hanging bodies of the dead were removed from the palace walls. Not when she'd stood statue-like in the doorway, observing his interrogations of captured spies. And not when she sat stolid on her throne, as screaming men were dragged from her feet.
Only now, do her eyes spark with life - a gap in her queenly mask.
"You've gone too far this time, Relius. Whose orders do you follow?"
"Not all of my actions are dictated by your orders, My Queen." He walks on thin ice, and she is the cold embrace of frozen water. Her silence reminds him of a deadly storm, ready to swallow whole ships.
She presses the issue. "What could he possible know that you think is so important?"
"He knows nothing." He speaks shortly, avoiding her eyes.
"That much should have been clear!" Almost shouting in her anger and frustration, she calms herself to focus her rage on the man before her.
"Know this, Relius. You've stood by me through ever threat, through every treasonous act of insolence, and through every attempt on my life..." She steps closer, her gaze ensuring that he understands her perfectly. "But if you ever cross me again..." Both hold their breath. "Understand that I will show no mercy."
He knows.
"Of course, My Queen. I apologize for my transgressions." A weight settles on her shoulders, and she takes a deep breath, eyes alight.
"Get him to a doctor. And get out of my sight." She bites the last word and sweeps past her master of spies. The sound of her steps soon lost down the hall.
X-X-X
Perhaps, he wanted her to know. Wanted her to see the dark, ugly truth of pain, anger, and revenge. How it looks to unclouded eyes, unmasked by duty and right of law. The places he'd felt driven to by so many years of a distant love and haunting screams of pain. His own cries silent.
They were drawn together by the same fire that forged them. One of broken homes and unloving fathers. Chattel in a game of lots; thrown and forgotten.
They swore to never be forgotten again.
He loved her, but it was the sort of love that drove a man to hate, warped his mind and sanity and placed him in a state of abject longing.
They are, none of them, simple people.
Settling down to sleep, the sconces banked and the infirmary cloaked in quiet, he knows peace like he hasn't for decades. If ever, in the strange life he's lead.
It started when he looked into the eyes of a young girl. His shirt caked in mud; his hair tousled and poorly kept. Her smile, one of intelligence and humor, considering the gutter scum that stood before her with acute interest.
He has to let go.
Love defines necessity, but true love... This is not the cause of necessity's evil.
He does suppose...
There were never truer words.
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Author's Note: My mind is clearly a strange place of twisted oak branches and Grimm fairytales gone wrong. Don't say I didn't warn you. :)
The lines...
If all the heavens were a drum...
And being but an ear...
...are from a poem by Emily Dickinson. The meaning is believed to address the speaker's decent into insanity, illustrated by a pounding headache. The poem is not titled but is known by the first line, I Felt a Funeral in My Brain.
The line quoted at the beginning is from Machiavelli's The Prince.
The line, She didn't want to know then, is from The King of Attolia, p245 and is from the dungeon scene in which Relius and Eugenides discussed the night Eugenides was tortured.
Thank you for reading,
ninedaysaqueen