A/N: This fic is not being updated. I have crossposted it from archiveofourown for organizational purposes. There's a very slim chance I'll be updating this, so, sadly, don't get your hopes up. These three chapters were originally posted January 7, 2016.


The robes he wears are of fabrics from a northern nation, untouched by Shurima's guiding light. They rest loose - yet still so heavy - upon his shoulders, rich sienna that darkens itself in the waning shade of palace walls. They are warm, brought in from where they hung in the sun's gaze. Xerath thinks himself decorated in sunlight, and the idea makes his skin crawl.

Servants request him to outstretch his arms. He recognizes the ones attending to him, pulling on the sleeves to smooth the beautiful fabric, attending to the embroidery that rests on his collar and over his wrists, pulling the loose hanging fabric into tight cuffs, framing thin wrists and thinner fingers.

He meets the eyes of one. Her name is Revana. He feels a hot ball of shame roll inside him when she blinks slowly but does not show her scorn. She is at work; she has a duty to fulfill.

Her eyes remind him of the sadness he hears in the songs of the priestesses, when they sing for the people in the streets who gather around temples - of the sun, of its birth, of the Ascended, of Shurima's children.

There is sadness, and there is anger. She knows who he is, too. She wonders why it couldn't have been her being honoured like him, to throw herself down at the heels of her lords and find favour in them. He wonders, briefly, if she will speak of him to others.

The cuffs graze his skin, chafing the dry surface. There is a burn scar on his wrist from a past punishment. It hurts, especially now.

They are those whose names would be forgotten by any other royal, anyone who could scrape their gold together and never worrying when their next meal might be. Xerath knows them all, raised alongside them by each other's mothers to alleviate the burden of when one would pass. They dress him in robes borrowed from the prince, and braid his hair, and clean his skin, and he feels as if they press their nails to his skin, leaving their marks to remind him of what he is leaving behind.

His hands are brittle. Revana's are, too, yet she holds them and inspects his like she would the crown prince's, revered and respected. She knows, and he knows, there are eyes watching them, so that their tired, thin hands will not steal from the palace.

A voice from the open doorway. "You will be seeing His Highness soon."

Spoken with distaste, hatred in a refined accent for the slave in royal garb, falsifying his worth in silk and cotton.

Xerath curls a hand shut. Even in their grace, he must decorate himself to be worthy of their gaze.