Hi, thanks for reading, hope you will like it, please comment. This chapter consists of Elyon meeting new relatives she didn't know about before, and Phobos's less-than-rational thinking (excuse me, planning) in prison. From next chapter more action and worldbuilding will start. Again, also can be found on AO3.
''Your Majesty... Thank you so much. I will try my best to prove deserving of this honor.'' Young woman knelt before Elyon, mousy brown braid swinging around, as she tried to cover the stain on her white robes.
''You already did, Lady Mirella.'' Elyon said, biting down instinct to drop protocol and to comfort young woman. But Lady Mirella paled and fled at any hint of familiarity with queen, terrified of breaking some obscure rule. Still, despite all anxieties, Elyon was sure she would make fine Mage.
After two years, they had new one. Finally, another step towards restoration.
There had always been a Mage on Meridian. Since Meridian became organized kingdom, there had been Mage. It was title and office that bequeathed a great responsibility and power. The Mage guarded Infinite City, which hid numerous secrets in it's bowels. And aside from being part of Royal Council, and traditionally Meridian ambassador to Kandracar, she led all of Meridian's thaumathurges.
Thaumathurges weren't same as sorceresses, just as botanists weren't same as gardeners. They weren't more powerful or wiser or important ( though some certainly thought so), simply dedicated to magic in more academic way. Those were women who weren't content with just doing magic and never questioning why it worked, who delved deep in study of metaphysics, who calculated how much energy you would need for certain spell to work, who wanted to find out whether eye of newt or milk teeth worked better for that potion, who argued on differences between folds and portals.
Therefore, they needed an authority that would manage and guide them, allowing life on meridian to progress and prosper, while stopping them from conjoining dimensions or unsealing ancient evils. Somebody with healthy dose of common sense, as well as self-preservation. And given Mirella possessed impressive track record of never blowing up her laboratory, she was obvious choice.
After Elyon's mother, queen Weira passed away under mysterious, never explained and utterly obvious circumstances, sorceresses and thaumathurges started disappearing. Anybody who could challenge new reign was eliminated. Few hid away, continuing to aid rebellion from Infinite City, or hideouts across whole world, hidden away in swamps and mountains, tundras and deserts. Getting them to reorganize and establish business and academy had been priority ( but then, everything had been priority, given that it seemed there was no end to destruction her brother could wreck, nor lows he would sink to. Burning down villages was apparently way for him to pass time, when he was feeling like going easy on his subjects, once in blue moon).
''Here is newest data on energy supplements in soil, Your Majesty.'' Mirella said, taking out a dozen or so papers from who knows where, and presenting them to queen, who nodded and took up report. Mirella waited around for some time as queen read through papers.
''Oh. I forgot. You are free to go.'' Elyon said, and watched newest mage bow in gratitude and scamper off. She missed days when people didn't wait for her to order them to tend to basic needs and comforts. She was quite sure that if she demanded people slit their throats, they would, all for sake of her smile. Thought chilled her, in darkest of nights, in deepest dreams.
(It is the worst nightmare, worse then ones in which she is helpless, trapped by vines or jewels. Elyon in those dreams has hard eyes and empty smile, heart colder then ice and harder then diamond, and she shines with brilliance so bright it melts eyes, and people worship her, give their children as offerings. And she knows them all, knows their deepest secrets, because she is Heart and Light and she is the Meridian, and they belong to her.)
She threw those thoughts away. This was time for work.
For thirteen years, land had been sapped of it's energy day and night. The life of planet itself had been threatened and preyed upon. Even return of world's Heart, even two years of peace couldn't help that much. Damage had to be actively treated. It would require transplant of energy to ground itself, an ongoing process to heal the earth. Which, among other things, meant Elyon had to educate herself on agriculture, because magic combined with anything resulted in disastrous consequences if not handled properly. And monstrous cursed wheat was least they needed right now.
''Elyon...'' Her father called out, entering her office. Unlike his wife, he had dispensed with his disguise over years. It had taken time getting used to him being a Galhot, but so did it take time to get used to everything.
''Dad? Is something wrong'?'' he didn't look afraid, or magically controlled, though you could never be sure. But he did look confused and awkward, and most of all unsure.
''You have visitors. They asked to be received.'' He said those words as if he was confessing some crime.
''Who?'' She didn't have any more meeting by today's schedule. Unless she forgot some again.
''Relatives.'' Elyon's mind went blank. And Meridian fell silent.
Seven minutes.
Everything was dark and green. He liked that. That must have been why he was put here, another mockery. Just as he made Elyon's stay pleasing, so she chose this place for those. Bare and cold and dark and green, everything sharp and shining. That was pleasant.
But she didn't put any plants here. It was good idea, such that he wondered whether his sister really came up with it on her own. She was foolish and soft and weak, but still, they were kin. Perhaps he managed to light a spark of cruelty and reason within her.
Or maybe she hadn't even realized what she had done. That seemed more likely. He supposed Earth Guardian might have faced similar dilemma, but then how could she have known? People were often too stupid to notice the obvious. Perhaps she thought greenspeak was providence only of those connected to an Auramere.
He had to wonder, how they remained sane. How could they stand the silence? How could they walk past trees, bushes, flowers, fallen leaves, seeds, and not hear anything. How could they live without constant whisper at back of their minds, informing them about quality of soil, worms wriggling in dirt, how long ago rain fell, from where wind blew, how bright the sun was? Here, imprisoned in these halls of stone, he felt as if he was suffocating, as if life and awareness were drained out of him, as if slowly world became less solid and lost colour and everything was shaking and spinning...
His roses lived. His Whisperers remained. he knew that, and that was only important thing.
Sixteen minutes.
New Mage was installed. He saw her once or twice, only in passing. A clumsy, anxious woman, who looked at her ring every few minutes as if she was afraid she would lose it. Probably recent graduate of thaumathurgic schools, tutored by dozen or so third-rate magicians, hedge-sorceresses that survived wars against him. She had quite the shoes to fill in, her predecessor(s) had been rather remarkable. Dee-At had been wise and resourceful, if far too much optimistic and soft hearted, and Nerissa... She had no vision, too caught up in her misguided altruism, but she was powerful, and genius. She was, he realized, one of main reasons he fell. Bunch of children and peasants would have never managed to trouble him so much without her guidance.
And this slip of woman, with her dirty robes and unsteady grip on her staff, was supposed to guard him. To lead all sorcerers of Meridian, and advise queen. She would break soon, and once he got out he would perhaps chop her fingers off, with ring on them.
Half of hour.
The Infinite City... It proved very useful. Made sense how Rebellion survived for that long. A city stretching through entire Meridian, hidden by earth and magic, with passages hidden in most unremarkable places. He knew now that they hid it's gates in slums, trash dumps, rotting and abandoned taverns... He even knew addresses of few entrances. When he got out he would scour them, and then he would find others. He would take Infinity City, and use it properly-what secrets did it hide, what sort of magics and weapons did dwell there. And it would be useful place for his armies, freeing surface for other things. Especially since amount of Meridian's residents would go down very much once he was freed. It would make nice laboratory, prison, a fortress..
If only he could replace all of people with his Whisperers. But then it wouldn't be half as fun would it- he would never hurt Whisperers.
Thirty nine minutes.
He counted hours that passed. Sometimes he would lose track, in this place of shadows and pale light, where there was nothing but polished stone and running water, and so he would listen to guards, would start counting again once they slipped the hour or date. It was easy to lose count here, not at all helped by grumbling of all other prisoners.
Cedric and Miranda were quiet. They won't be so quiet once he got out, alongside with Raythor.
Forty six minutes.
More then two, almost three years passed. It must be late summer by now. Guards mentioned preparations, perhaps Elyon's coming of age?
Well. Lovely, really lovely. Kill her on birthday, sixteen years too late. But well at least he won't have to bother with preparing celebrations. She would throw party for him.
Hour and two minutes.
''What do you mean?'' Elyon's mind seemed indecisive whether it should just halt and crash, or run at full speed while burning. As result, inkpots and vases shook and broke, and shards remained suspended in the air. Alborn suppressed wince at sight of that, knowing it would stress Elyon later, but was secretly grateful.
Escanors were always connected to land, especially those who sat on throne. As far as those things could go, this was minor. Under her brother's rule skies were always dark and clouded, and when her mother reigned , storms came and passed in accordance to Queen's moods. His great-grandmother claimed that in time of Weira's predecessor, day and night, phases of moon and seasons themselves changed in matter of seconds, reacting to Queen's feelings. Some older accounts- which were always result of bloated legends and actual truth- spoke of Queen's whose face expressions moved mountains and rivers.
(They were powerful, those Queens of old. And they had been mad. And once upon a time, they had been normal girls, and then they grew up in something that could never be human again.
Elyon's fate will be kinder, says, prays half of him, the one that became Thomas Brown. She is still just a child, says older, buried part of him, one that watched Weira conjure cities from nothing, her smile dispelling thunderclouds and cold.)
''They aren't really close relations. A great-grandchildren of your mother's aunt. You might have heard of them. Kaethe and Miach Durathar. They were members of Rebellion.'' Elyon thought over that for moment. Yes, she could recall names, vaguely, from thousands of reports she had read during following years. They had led rebel cell in one of southernmost provinces, famed for extensive guerilla tactics and great military strategies, but few fighters, only enough to steal from few wagons of army once a month.
Great-grandchildren of mother's aunt. Well, it had been big family. All she wanted, not so long ago.
''Why didn't I know about them before? And why are they showing up now?'' She tried to seem calm, to not let any rage or fear show, emotions that seemed to be constant part of her now. Relatives she never heard of before showing up, her parents hiding things from her... It was uncomfortably familiar.
''To be honest, we learnt of their survival relatively recently. As you know, information doesn't travel fast here, and communication network is very fragile.'' That made sense. meridian was after all world stuck in Medieval stage. They didn't even have indoor plumbing, much less internet or phones. Elyon worked hard on rectifying that.
''Survival?'' She asked. She knew that was what Rebellion fought for before her return, before Guardians, a barest chance to live tomorrow, yet way her father said it, with caution and sorrow in his voice, made chill go through her.
''Your bro... Phobos wanted to be sure that there would be no one left to contend his claim on throne. Disposing of his own relatives had been highest priority. Most of them were captured and executed immediately upon his ascension. Others ran all over meridian, and joined Rebellion. But still, they were hunted, until almost all were gone.'' His eyes remained dry, but something in them shrunk and trembled. Thirteen years in an unfamiliar world, and when they were finally free, when all should have been good and happy, he found out that his friends, people he knew his whole life, who he was sworn to defend, were gone.
And yet, he told her nothing. Because he didn't want to worry her, and because he didn't want to sadden her, and it made her mad. It made anger spike in her, bitter as pepper and hot as molten lead, because she knew that she would have taken it bad despite not knowing people in question, because her parents again hid something from her, and because... because that scum she shared blood with ruined more lives, destroyed his own family, and for what? To be able to torment his subjects some more. To starve and ruin them and laugh while he drained his very domain of life.
Oh gods. Were there children...
''Why did they come now?'' Where were they before? Where were they when she was being misled in castle, when Phobos tried to steal her power, when Nerissa succeeded. Where were they when she wanted to learn about Meridian's culture, when she stumbled over language, when she wandered strange halls of her castle and wondered what portraits and drawings meant?
''They were busy with repairing the province. It suffered much before your return. They wanted to meet you, but state just stabilized some time ago.'' Alborn said, as if reciting, and it sounded as excuse, and she knew she had no reason to be angry, but she was. She was nobody to them, and province they lived in did suffer much- resistance had been large there, and retribution swift. Villages burned and earth salted, water supply tainted and children taken away.
''They said that they understand if you don't want to meet them. That they would be honored to be introduced to you, but that it is your decision in the end, and that they apologize for imposing on your time.'' And something battled in Elyon, a girl-queen who was confused and still didn't process what happened, who wondered how and why, and earth girl who secretly envied siblings and grandparents and aunts and cousins of her friends, and both of them saw worry in Alborn's eyes.
''What is it? There is reason why they came today, right?'' She asked, softly. It still sounded like accusation, given how he winced.
'' They... they were always nice children. Brave. Polite. Enthusiastic. Very loud too. Their mother, Lady Deirdre, was good friends with Miriadel.'' And she looked at him, his little girl, and he hated how his words sounded, like a guilt-tripping, but her look demanded for him to tell truth.
''Today is anniversary of her execution.'' Elyon recalled reading about death of Lady Deirdre Durathar, who stole bread for villages under her care. It had been long and public and horrible and she laughed and spoke about return of true heir until they ripped out her tongue, and sparked public outrage, which led to five villages being utterly burned down.
'' You don't have to...'' Alborn said, but Elyon already stepped out, and shards fell to floor.
''It's ok. Lead the way.'' Her cousins deserved to see face of girl their mother died for.
So they go, through winding corridors and wide halls of Meridian Palace. Her parents, Caleb, and all servants claim that there is easy way to memorize how to go where, a logical way they explained several times over, that still makes no sense to Elyon. She feels like fish that is trying to climb.
A queen, and she doesn't even know how to find way to her own room .
It takes them approximately twenty minutes ( Earth ones, because despite all lessons, Elyon still can't get used to Meridian time, just as she can't properly read old books without help, though she is starting to figure out months), until they come to one of smaller conference halls ( there are dozens of them, each for varying purpose dictated by ancient protocols. Elyon still can't memorize everything that dictates who should be hosted where and when.
Most of people she hosts are commoners though, so they have no idea either. That's how it goes when most of nobility is dead or in prison. )
Room they enter is of medium size, and shining white, barely decorated. There is round marble table, and some refreshments upon it. Faded, torn tapestries hang around walls, and Elyon is aware how poorly maintained and lazy everything looks. Queen who can't take care of her own castle, but there was so much other work, villages to build, city to remodel, food to distribute, prisoners to release...
Still, that is no excuse. Queen should be capable of crafting plan to help everybody, especially when she had hordes of loyal servants and friends, and godlike power, and two years at her disposal. her parents and friends assured her she was doing amazing, but she saw portraits of time when her mother ruled, and she saw glazed look in their eyes when they came across ruined room that meant much to them, and hesitation when they said it's nothing important when she inquired about it.
Her cousins must already feel unwelcome.
There they were, a man and woman, seemingly around thirty, both taller then most humans around. Taller then her- Escanors tended towards being higher then most populace, but gene obviously skipped her. She wouldn't have guessed they were once nobles at first sight, they dressed like poorer members of Rebellion. A man wore washed out orange tunic and breeches and seemed to be trying to hide mended parts of his clothes without much of success. The woman seemed to wear a leather armour, and was wrapped up in some form of furs.
''Um, hello. Kaethe and Miach, right? Nice to meet you.'' She didn't like how they were staring at her. They had soft grey-blue eyes, identical to hers, blown wide at sight of her face. They had handsome faces, with strong and sharp lines, kind you only see in movies, Kaethe's covered with giant scar over nose and freckles, and Miach sported a cool ginger beard, not as big as Julian's but much bigger then stubble. His mouth hanged open, and his sister's lips trembled. And were those tears in their eyes?
Oh gods, thought Elyon, as two of them sank to floor, kneeling, heads lowered, and Elyon could see stitches on their clothes, and how rough and calloused their palms were, and they seemed to be shivering, trying to make themselves smaller, as if they were trying to placate some giant, hungry predator.
''Thank you for this honor, Your Majesty. We apologize for disturbing your peace and imposing on your time, but our conscience couldn't let us hide away anymore.'' Spoke Kaethe, taller and bulkier out of two, in voice that seemed far too soft and gentle for such tall woman, who looked as if she skinned bears and wore their hides for fun.
''We have come to ask for your forgiveness. And should you not grant it, as is your right, to accept your judgement.''
Three hours.
Sometimes he almost can't feel his magic.
There is power inside him. he had been born with it, as did all of Escanor lineage, a spark, a candle flame of mystic energy, which he had fed and nourished until it became so much more. Once, when his thorns dug in ground of Meridian, he had inferno inside him, and now reduced only to his life force, it was just a pyre. Strong and powerful, of course, but not as much as it was, not brilliant Sun his sister hid inside herself.
(It hurt, for first few months. Sometimes he still feels it. He had been feasting on a planet's energy for thirteen years, and now he is going through withdrawal. He remembers how his skin seemed to flay, how his flesh twisted and crawled, how his bones ached, how he wanted to curl up as his organs seemingly ate each other, how he longed to bite insides of his mouth, to chew off his flesh. How his hands shook until he dug nails in his wrists, how his frame felt far too heavy and clumsy, how his body soul ached empty and his mind was hot and chiming and his vision blurred. But he got used to it, and he never showed it. He wouldn't give those peasants something to laugh at.
Besides, he was prince. And princes were always hungry. He chews on his hair, makes it slicked and stained with his saliva, and bites through, strands like straw onto his teeth.)
Three hours and seven minutes.
It is there, but it is buried, repressed. As if they bound his hands with iron manacles and wrapped chain around his neck and gagged him with dirty rag. He can't access it, so over time it spills out, atrophies, grows stale and weak, worms of time eating it away. It shouldn't be possible and yet- a cell in city of myths, formed by his sister's will, by Mage's knowledge, by fallen Keeper's strength. Each day he feels power slip away further from his grasp. It starts to feel foreign, alien, like something that doesn't belong to him, or at least, like something that once was his before he outgrew it.
He feels his abilities shrivel and diminish. As if his blood is frozen and bones filled with lead, each day he finds it harder to listen, to attune himself to energy around himself. As if very potential, possibility for power is taken away from him. If this continues, he knows, someday he won't be able to produce a sparkle, won't be able to pull even from his own life.
Three hours and twenty three minutes.
But it will never come to it, no matter how determined and experienced his sister gets. He ruled for more then a decade. He had already escaped twice. Where strength isn't sufficient (for now) the cunning will prevail. And he is far more slippery then all of them put together, though Guardians pulled admirable stunt on him last time. But they are children, and so limited by their paltry morals... There is always somebody out there who will listen, somebody who is greedy and scared enough to aid him. He just needs to find right person, and for that he needs magic. And he ahs knowledge and he has power, he has his hatred and spite enough to spare. The best magic comes from it, from holding your bitterness and rage like livid steel and wielding it to reshape the world to your needs.
(And always, there is blood and roses.)
It took time to figure that out. It took time for withdrawal to pass, for his hands to be steady, and for anger to abate, from smoking, uneasy feeling to that mechanic, natural hatred he felt for Elyon before she was even born. Mull over failure, analyze, where he went wrong? Trusted Cedric, of course, allowed him some of his power, listened to his advice. Took back Raythor, allowed him to make decisions, didn't check on soldiers enough. Spared the girls, the rebels, instead of killing them right then and there.
Three hours and thirty four minutes.
Really didn't kill enough people, now he thinks it over. Was too generous with his subjects. Didn't drive in how desperate their situation was enough.
Three hours and thirty five minutes.
Still, he will fix that next time. For now, he must find a way out. That too takes time, takes at least year of attempts and speculations, as he pours over what spells might be built in cell, how deep and wide Elyon's will covers. And there is the shock, the heaviness of fighting cell's magic, of screeching, tearing pain and tremor that went through him as he tried to grasp his magic, and how it didn't respond, how it slipped like water through his fingers, how it refused him. He felt that if somebody else controlled his breathing, it would have been easier.
He hoped that pain Elyon underwent, will undergo, when she lost her power to his brambles was worse. If not, he will ensure that this time.
Three hours and fifty two minutes.
In time, he figures out loophole. It takes tests and guesses a plenty, but finally he is sure. Cell prevents him from striking out, from escaping, but not from working magic on, for himself. Oh, he can't change his shape, or strengthen his body, but some other things become possible with patience and correct usage.
Everything in Infinite City is polished as a mirror, and clear as tears. He waits and steadies his hands, chews his hair, stops curl of his lips at sight of his face, and stops smile once a vision comes to him. Farther, beyond Vathek's face. Farther, beyond the waterfall. Farther, beyond entrance. farther, beyond the city. Farther, beyond the castle kitchens. Farther, beyond mountains.
Five days, seven hours and nineteen minutes.
There.
''Uhh, I'm sorry, but can you please hold on?'' Elyon asked, barely stopping her voice from screeching. Because she had no idea what to do, and her brain started burning and grinding to halt, because she was just a naive normal girl who got a whole world to rule out of nowhere, and she knew nothing about it's society, about her own family's history, and just now she had apparently stumbled into some ancient family feud or had somehow implied she wants to punish them (maybe she should have been one to look out for them? Maybe people thought that because she didn't ask after surviving cousins or contact them, she had implied she wanted to punish them, but for what, oh gods what did she get herself into)?
''Why would I be forgiving you?'' And those were exactly wrong words to say, because confusion on their faces (because she used Earth sayings, and of course they didn't get it, they must be thinking she is babbling nonsenses) was replaced by resigned fear, and it cut her heart apart because they had obviously been expecting that, and oh she must have used wrong tone, and oh why could nothing be simple with her family.
''No! I mean, I wanted to ask, I don't know what I should be forgiving you for. Dad?'' She asked Alborn, who looked just as confused and tense as her cousins, and Elyon knew she looked nothing like queen, but as that stupid, awkward teen in ugly sweaters with bad hair who fell for sweet lies because she thought somebody treated her as special for first time.
'' I am afraid I am just as confused as you. Lady Kathe, Lord Miach, could you please explain? Why do you think you need forgiveness?'' He dared not mention judgement. He composed his face as he looked at them, and calmed down his heart as he recognized how much older they were then last time he saw them, how much older they were then they should be. Stopped shivers as he took in Kaethe's scar, as if somebody tried to split her face, the numerous mends at their clothes, how quiet and still they were, children who were joy whenever they visited because they brought laughter and chattering to castle ( Weira's home had never known laughter of innocent children, as she forbid children to be used as labour, only weak breaths of daughters born sick and slithers in shadows).
And he thought not of Deirdre, sharp and brilliant and shining as edge of sword, Deirdre who was politician and warrior and thaumaturge and friend and who risked her life to carry back food to poor, Deirdre who was killed on stage, who had hundred monuments and no grave. Who was at best ash on wind, if they didn't throw her to pigs.
''Because we failed you.'' Said Kaethe, and she was still kneeling, and her words were plea and confession and pure fear shone in her eyes, and something inside Elyon trembled at seeing this mountain of woman lay herself down like prey, like offering in front of her, just as other liked, that part she kept locked up somewhere dark.
''Um, how so?'' She hoped she sounded reasonable and calm, not dumbfounded and irritated and scared. That she didn't sound like somebody who was preparing knife to slit their throats, like little girl who would break down after receiving bad news, because then and there she was everything, she was it all, and it made her scared, and it made her angry, and flowers in vases put as decorations blurred and faded in smoke.
It was familiar thing, she supposed. didn't mean it still didn't hurt.
Oh you have family you never heard of before!
And guess what? They harmed you, they put you in danger when you were baby! Surprise surprise!
''We- or line, our whole family- didn't provide protection when you needed it. We weren't there when tyrant made his move, we weren't able to aid with your rescue, we didn't manage to claim any worthwhile victory while he reigned. We weren't even able to see his plans, though in hindsight it was obvious what would happen.'' Said Kaethe, voice soft and trembling, as if she was rabbit cowering in front of tiger, as Elyon's eyes grew wide.
''Should have been drowned at birth.'' Murmured Miach, and Kaethe made movement to kick him, but he wiggled away, and Alborn almost smiled. Comment made Elyon wince, because on ideological level she understood that it was bad and such line of thinking led to dangerous paths and self-fulfilling prophecies, but she could also understand very well where they were coming from.
She wouldn't kill her brother herself, wouldn't call for his execution, but if he perished of illness or accident or stroke of luck in cell, well she wouldn't be very much bothered.
''We have dishonoured ourselves, and brought shame on our house. We have failed you, our Light and Sovereign. We have failed people of this world, hiding in shadows and leading small gangs to attack wagons of food, changing nothing. We are sorry, and we know it changes nothing, and so should you desire to take our lives, they are yours.'' Elyon felt sick. She felt something heavy and awful sink in her stomach, felt need to cover her mouth, felt that boiling, rolling anger light up, at herself, them, at world, at him.
'' No. Nope. Not a chance. I won't be talking anybody's life, especially when you did nothing wrong. How old were you anyway?'' She said, and it came out much more forceful then she intended, Leaving her cousins gaping.
''I, I was sixteen. Miach was eleven. We know that is no excuse, and should you posthumously dishonor mother...'' She went on, and Elyon felt anger bristle and turn cold and weak.
''Wait. What do you mean by that? Dishonour her if she is dead?'' She noticed how two of them flinched at mere notion, heavy fear and sadness in their eyes, how her father grimaced.
''It is one of your rights as queen. You can proclaim somebody has acted dishonourably against you and exact recompensation, even if they aren't alive. You can forbid building of tombs, strip all of Deir-Lady Deirdre's titles, curse her name, make it taboo to speak, ask priestesses to send doom upon her soul, take away all her estates from family...'' He continued, and Elyon felt awful at very thought of it all, as if she was going to puke, as if they shoved moth balls down her throat.
'' No. There won't be any of that. How could you think of something like that? to desecrate a dead woman, to punish you all for doing your best-'' They would have allowed her to that. They would have been grateful. She was queen, she was their Light, and they lived to serve her.
Only now did she realize how cultish whole thing was.
''Our best wasn't good enough.'' Said Kaethe, and Alborn knew she had seen things he could never compare to, even with his imprisonment in Cavigor, had seen people dubbed sympathizers of rebellion for complaining about hunger sent to mines, saw food stolen and villages burned, saw children beaten and elders enslaved, shrines ruined and school ransacked.
''It was. It was better then you could be expected to give. Even if you only survived, that was great. And you fed poor, you fought soldiers, from what I heard?'' Elyon said, remembering old reports, talks with hundreds of rebels who said those same words.
''It was least we could do. There is nothing worthwhile in that. It was necessary.'' Kaethe spoke, with conviction of priestess who heard Hallowed Dead speak to her, with certainty even Kandrakar couldn't match, with subtle note of outrage, as if she couldn't believe there was somebody who wouldn't do same.
''It was. Everything any of you did was incredible, and I'm grateful for that, and I won't forgive you because there is nothing to forgive. And I don't want to hear things like this again. And that isn't order, but plea, from cousin to cousin. Got it?'' Slowly, two of them nodded, as if they couldn't believe this wasn't a dream actually.
''Dad, please find them a room. I... I need to go calm down.'' And with those words, she departed, and when doors closed and she knew nobody was seeing her, she teleported to her room in flash of light, because there she could rage and panic like normal girl, and leave uncomfortable situations to adults.
Three days and twenty four minutes.
He didn't sleep a lot. It was habit started years ago, because his room was next to mother's, who had admirable habit of staying awake until she finished all work (and thus, Phobos had to stay awake, to spy on her, because it was fun and because you never knew when some interesting information might slip, and because then he had been stupid and naive enough to think he would also be such dedicated ruler to his people), and unfortunate tendency towards being very friendly and attractive person (even when one forgot all practical advantages of getting involved with Queen), which led to incredible amount of fools spitting awful poetry, saccharine jokes and certain other activities that only stopped when he knocked on wall and Weira hurriedly threw her lovers out, afraid of mentally scarring child.
She should have invested more effort in making sure he never got hang of poisons and stabbings instead.
Then when he became ruler- officially, a first male regent- there have been numerous attempts at assassinations while he slept, which made his sleep much lighter for practical advantages. And it had been interesting, few things were as lovely as assassin's face when tyrant woke up and just blasted them. Said advantage and sensitivity to disturbed silence, foreign footsteps, creaking of curtains eventually became annoyance, so Phobos took up sleeping in his gardens, laying on ground and in hollows of trees, guarded by his Whisperers.
Therefore, sleeping in prison came to be rather hard. There was always some rattling, something happening. Prisoners whispering, roaring, guards chatting, the waterfall crashing down. Over time he adapted, so that he took several fragile naps a day, closing his eyes and letting his body rest for a while, hanging between sleep and waking on a thin thread. It had been tiring in it's own way too, and left him dizzy and feeling as if he was seeing everything through veil, but at least he was always alert, never missed gossip of guards, never allowed one to attack him in sleep.
(And he never remembered his dreams, and that was best of all.)
Three days and two hours.
A guard, young Galhot and newcomer by looks of it, rambled about some nonsense to older Lurden (and this was surely another insult, or sign of incompetence, or both, to have a child and old man guard him) who was silent and nodding whole time, but actually seemed to be listening with interest, which either showed remarkable ability to find something worthwhile in such nonsense, or worrying lack of intellect to consider that silliness important.
Anniversary of grandparent's deaths. Bah, what waste of time. Excuse for families to get together and pretend they missed old fools, and that life wasn't easier fewer relatives you had. And reason? To pretend there was some special reason why they were feasting like pigs and drinking themselves into stupor, with traditional food and drinks prepared for that day weeks if not months ago. Offer to ancestors. Bah, why would dead care for what living ate and drank? If anything, they should get offended- watching others indulge in what you can't partake of must be horrible.
Three days, two hours and seventeen minutes.
Despite claims to contrary, he doesn't hate or or find his family unworthy. Well, he does feel those things towards Elyon, and felt same for all other relatives he had misfortune of knowing, but as concept, he doesn't hate his ancestors. He doesn't mean to dishonor or mock them- it is simply that he believes that past should stay in past, and that it's purpose is to inspire newer generations, and that histories of those that acme before are meant as lessons and warnings. They are meant as guidelines, and best way to honor ancestors isn't by drink and food and candles and incenses, but by surpassing them.
And it isn't as if he doesn't respect them. They were all remarkable women ( nobody writes histories of princes and consorts, only mentions them in genealogy books), and some of them he outright looks up to, even if they have almost nothing in common. Queen Medissa had been incredible individual, with such fascinating if unconventional ideas about intersection of theory and practicality of magic. If Phobos was lesser man, who lacked his own initiative and originality, she would have been his role model.
Truly, it was such tragedy her palace had been torn down. Then burned. Then earth it sat on salted and exorcised approximately seventy times. Then her daughter scattered ashes of her mother's body and books all over world while damning her name with every curse known to Meridianites and then some. But ah, since forever only few possessed true vision.
And great-great-great-great-grandma Sylviana was just, ah... He didn't have words good enough to express his admiration. You just had to respect woman when mere mention of her name caused everybody in vicinity to get tense and admonish you for talking about her centuries after she (Probably-maybe- we hope so) died.
Three days and four hours.
He doesn't check on Elyon.
She is naive, and disgustingly sweet, and painfully oblivious, enough to allow that awful hag to get close and earn her trust in two different guises ( fact that he failed to notice former Guardian during thirteen years of his reign is something he doesn't consider), but she is powerful, though she doesn't deserve it, and she is connected to all magic on Meridian. It comes from her, goes back to her once it is used up, for she is shining source of it all, she is Light of Meridian, she is it's mystic heart.
She would have felt him, would have noticed his magic, possibly even who it belonged to ( for blood called to blood, and it wasn't so long ago that Light inside her belonged to another, and it would remember fruit of Weira's womb), and she would be able to reach back, to cut off any chance of escape he had, steal his power, pluck out his eyes.
So he stared at walls of cell, and ignored hissing of those next to him, ignored creaking of water, ignored his reflection and saw things in his mind, saw abandoned castles and burrows under earth, and saw green and growing and lush forests, and concentrated.
Three days, seventeen hours, forty three minutes.
They said men didn't have magic.
It was ridiculous thought, as Phobos demonstrated, as various wizards and sorcerers all over Known Worlds demonstrated, yet people in Meridian believed it. Magic was simultaneously hard and easy- all you needed was correct knowledge (which could get complicated, and thus was often privilege of nobles), appropriate emotions (that you had to reign in), willpower (that you could never let waver)- and your own life force. For those not blessed to be connected to great source of magic, such as Hearts and Aurameres, you had to lean off your own energy, fuel spells with years of your life, accomplish wonders at cost of your vitality, trade health for success. It required discipline, seriousness, intelligence, restraint and propensity towards abstract and metaphorical thinking, which was why even those who knew men were theoretically capable of magic didn't believe they could or should take up craft.
Phobos made mistake of letting family know his wish. They laughed, all except mother who was gentle and understanding and explained to him it wasn't done, and Zaden, who was confused. And when he showed off success, bought by spying on his cousin's lessons, stealing books from library, bothering thaumathurges and his own dangerous experiments, it seemed pathetic and twisted, because it was abnormal for prince to think of anything but marriage and producing daughters (running sister's harem, going to convent and becoming warrior was permissible), and because of course he would seem weak when he was son of woman who could bring world to knees with snap of fingers. So he needed another source of power- Light of Meridian was preferable, appropriate one, but others would suffice. Draining world of it's energy was quite nice solution, if unlikely to sustain him for long.
But before it all, a boy went to roses, and offered himself to their thorns.
Four days and thirty seconds.
She can't describe how teletransporting feels.
It is far too fast to describe, to notice difference. She doesn't know if it is because she isn't observant enough, or because she isn't poetic enough, or because she is Heart and thus far more effective because she has plenty of energy to spare. There is no loss of consciousness, no dizzy feeling, no darkness behind eyes, no travel through strange planes. She wishes to go somewhere and there she is, for she is Queen of Meridian and it's laws, legal and natural both, are subject to her whims.
Ok, she should stop that train of thought. That is how you become evil overlord and start craving other's powers. Which Elyon would never do but still... It rattles her, sometimes, realization of all things she could do, all terrors she might invoke ( her parents say that means she is good queen, because she is aware of her power, and wouldn't use it, because she knows meaning of responsibility, but still)...
She in her room. Room that is actually hers, chosen and designed by her, not room she was given, sent to when she was brought (kidnapped) to Meridian. It is giant and lavish, and probably dream of every little girl and well, every not so little person, because everybody likes bit of luxury (ok, a lot of it), and often it makes her uncomfortable but now it seems too small. She needs sky and air and stars, and she rushes to balcony, breathing in the smell of summer evening. It fills her up, cool and fresh and soft, smelling of smoke from city's chimneys, of nice meals and of grass cut by scythe.
(She knows that if she wanted, if she tried, she could reach out with her mind and see through eyes of every woman and bird and bug in Meridian. That she could stretch her essence in very air and earth and sky of meridian, so nothing escapes her knowledge.
She knows that it is horrible, awful, creepy invasion of privacy and disgusting level of tyranny and absolute oversight that puts Big Brother to shame.
She knows that few queens tried it, and died mad and broken and lost as result, their consciousness stretched too tight until they dispersed.)
This is her world.
This whole planet, from hottest deserts to coldest tundras, from deepest valleys to highest mountains, belongs to her. It is dream of every crooked politician (and is there one that isn't) on Earth, of every petty king and tyrant and dictator. To have a whole world serve you, recognize themselves as your subjects, define their culture around serving you...
And that's just the tip of iceberg. The Meridian itself belongs to her. It feels awful, to think so, but something in her bones recognizes awful truth, recognizes legitimacy of her claims. Wide skies and depths of oceans, blooming fields and burning core of planet belong to her, obey her every wish. Her whim could erase cities, could turn vulcanoes in rivers. Beasts and woods bowed to her (all but cursed ones in gardens she never visited, though they too had to obey), acknowledged her, were rightfully hers.
Because she was their Light. Meridian's mystic heart. She was their god.
She had to be perfect, infallible, all-mighty queen. Even though she wasn't even sixteen, even though she came to meridian like pawn and prey, allowing her selfishness to blind her to truth. And then again, she fell for a lie, and spent months in jewel prison, starving but living, tired but never dreaming...
And these people, her own relatives, were ready to be punished by her, to have their mother's grave and name desecrated for sake of Elyon's ego. If she asked, would they have barred their throats for her, would they have died for her sake?
Was that normal Meridian behavior, or only something in family? She didn't know which was worse, only that she had to rectify it somehow. It sounded so much like some cult, especially centered around teen girl who barely knew anything...
Her heart almost stopped at sight of Kaethe, of that rock of woman, kneeling and almost weeping, as pathetic as drowned puppy, begging for forgiveness with fear. She was afraid of Elyon, as if Elyon would strike her down, turn her in frog for failing at what nobody could ask of her. She was just a child, hunted refugee, and she blamed herself for not winning war? That was... that was horrible beyond anything she knew.
And truth was, she feared them. She heard words, relatives, Escanor, Meridian family, and something inside her fluttered and scrapped. Because she knew nothing, because everybody loved and missed them and something in Elyon ached for them, she couldn't be sad, couldn't properly long for them, because she never knew them.
All she had was a mad, petty tyrant imprisoned behind bars of light and running water, a liar who wanted to steal her power, steal power of her friends, of his own world, steal it all until he was swollen with magic and might, slouching on his throne while people beneath died in mines, while those who opposed him were parts of his gardens, him and disturbing vision of Weira Nerissa conjured. That was all she got from this family, him and Light she was hunted for.
On Earth, everybody always talked about grandparents, aunts, distant uncles, cousins thrice removed, of great family gatherings and arguments and celebration. Her parents loved her, but it felt lonely. It was as if everybody had tree and she had to make do with one twig. That was how Cedric drove her to Meridian, with promise of giant happy family...
And now, when she got it, she couldn't manage to hold a conversation.
''We are sorry for disturbance, sir Alborn. We had no intention of troubling Her Majesty.'' Kaethe said, pushing lock of auburn hair from steely blue eyes. They had expected queen would be less then happy to meet them, of course. She was well within her rights to have them whipped until they departed from this world.
But they didn't mean to upset her like this-not that they wanted to upset her in any way, of course, but they had to be realistic. She was taken to another world, secretly raised among aliens, while her kingdom almost perished under traitor, who tried to kill her again and again, while they did nothing but hide in backwater villages like most dishonorable cowards.
''I know that, Lady Kaethe, and so does the queen. But please, there is no need for such honorifics. And no protests, since I'm far more stubborn then you.'' He lost right to them years ago. he left his home to be ravaged and ruined, and in the end couldn't even properly protect his princess, his excuse to run away, his daughter.
''Same goes for us. And please, no protests, since you may find yourself horribly outmatched.'' Kaethe and Miach stopped being royalty ages ago, when they fled their home for swamps, clothed in rags and glamours, boarded away on ships carrying refugees with barrels and kitchen utensils. There was no time and place for titles in fight so desperate it was laughable to call it war, when children crawled through mud and elders desperately tried to make sense of the Infinite City, to hide from armies that took their bread and their families.
And Kaethe hid too. Fact she was credited with (minor) success of rebellion in southern provinces was far too much honor then she deserved.
''Please, let's not start that politeness combat. Either stick to forms or drop them all. I am too tired to listen to two of you wasting hours on insisting on being more humble then other.'' Miach spoke, and Alborn almost couldn't believe it, how deep his voice was, how big and well tended his beard was, for shy and snobby little boy of ten years kept appearing in place of grown and strong man that stood in front of him.
''And I'd like for you to show some patience and tact once in your life.'' Kaethe mumbled, glaring down at her brother, who tried to stand up at tips of his fingers under belief he was being subtle about it, and that it would make noticeable change even though his sister towered over him for head and half at least.
''Tough luck. Don't frown like that, you will get wrinkles early.'' Miach said, not acknowledging tired and murderous look Kaethe gave him, which could have stopped hundreds of soldiers, but was completely helpless against inborn foolishness and bravery possessed only by younger siblings, which either defied all weapons and threats or caused said older sibling to go on nearly murderous rampage.
''Don't speak nonsense. Who ever heard of woman caring for something as trivial as wrinkles, anyway?'' Women excelled by sword and magic, by diplomacy and learning, by tenderness and authority. Beauty was for men to worry, if their mothers weren't rich enough to find wife who'd have them. At least it was so in Meridian.
Alborn still remembered first time some annoying salesman suggested to Miriadel to try some cream against wrinkles, and how she stared at him as if he had grown second head (which to be honest was rare but not unlikely thing in Meridian). As did their whole neighbor, to be honest. Not that he was any better-two of them almost blew their cover then and there.
''Anyway, si- mr. Alborn, once again we must apologize for our actions, and our cowardice. Cowardice we have displayed in more then one way. For it wasn't only rebuilding that prevented us from coming sooner.'' Kaethe said, lowering her head like fifteen year old chastised by her tutors for not cleaning up courtyard as she promised, and daring to lie to them about it, so absorbed in her shame that she didn't notice most hated cousin up in tree, combing his hair (but ah, leaves would never betray him, branches would never reveal him).
''Kaethe. Miach.'' Alborn said, breathless and choking, voice as weak as Kaethe's, standing as shakily as Miach, and once again he though of how young they were, of childhood stolen and wasted, and of Heatherfield, where there was no honor that demanded miracles out of downtrodden, that would ask for blood of helpless. World where leaders could do much, but never expect you to offer yourself as sacrifice for failing at impossible, where no code of chivalry and piety bound people tighter then chains. Where there was no master to ask you to die as price for suffering you endured, because it reflected badly at them.
(Weira didn't, she never believed in such things, because she saw it as archaic cocnept that brought only more pain and crushing expectations, and neither did Phobos, though there was blood with him, oh yes, enough blood to turn river that fed capitol red, because in his world there was no honor, no justice, only blood and whims.)
''You heard the queen. There is nothing to forgive. Tragedy, the horror that happened, none of us were able to prevent it. Sometimes, horrible things happen for no reason, or because evil people plan bit too well and get lucky, and we can't allow ourselves to wonder about past and what ifs. We can only survive, and help others. And you have done admirably.
And... And I am sorry we didn't seek you out earlier.'' He heard all about it, once he and Miriadel started asking around, trying to track down friends and families, to pierce what happened, where they were, who survived (were there graves to visit). Kaethe and Miach, only Escanors left, hiding in swamps, leading Rebellion composed of fishermen and farmers since they were children- and surviving despite all.
''We made Her Majesty sad. We didn't intend to upset her like that.'' Whispered Miach, tugging at his much repaired shirt. It was obvious girl would feel bad and conflicted about meeting them, unless inclinations towards monstrousness were laying dormant in Weira's line, but they didn't intend to make her feel awful about herself. That defeated point of arrival, after all.
Ugh, talk about horrible first impressions.
''..Yes, queen Elyon has been upset. This is all still very new to her, and she is also doing her best, as I'm sure you understand very well. But she is strong, as she has proven numerous times. She just needs bit of time to calm down.'' They nodded. They knew very well what it felt to be child, and take responsibility for so many lives on your own, to see your world changed so much, though not to same extremes as young queen's.
Seemed there were some family resemblances they really didn't expect, but which should have been obvious in hindsight.
''Now, let me find you rooms to stay. And don't try to refuse, or I shall let Miriadel deal with you-after she finishes hugging you until you choke.'' There would be time to talk of Lady Deirdre later, he decided, seeing how their eyes shone at mention of their honorary aunt.
''Just so you know, in case rumor didn't already reach southern provinces, she and me are married.'' There was moment of silence, before Alborn found another resemblance.
''WHAAAT?!''
Four days, sixteen hours and seventeen minutes.
He gets the date.
He listens, and waits, and finally finds it. A guard lets it slip, ( Are you getting Marissa anything for birthday/ Oh damn, I forgot. When is it? /13th. Don't worry, you have a week left). Phobos latched on it, a piece of information that was so meaningless yet made something warm and excited grow and spread out in him (aren't you pathetic, how far you have fallen, to find joy in that). A knowledge grasped in secret, with hungry, trembling claws, that was always useful.
He knew date now. He knew month and year and hour and now he knew day. That was good. World was much firmer and and calmer now, everything was so steady and balanced now. A puzzle almost completed. That was good, now if only he could calculate previous days and match them with their dates, and he could, of course, and then he would connect dates with guard schedules...
It was work. It was something productive, something active, because he wasn't beaten yet, he would never be. Because he needs to be awake.
Four days, sixteen hours and twenty three minutes.
He doesn't fear dreams.
He doesn't have nightmares.
It is all nonsense, a waste of time. To spend hours each day, umoving and inactive, unaware of world around you, lost to nonsenses and fantasies... Maybe a greatest flaw of human body's poor design.
He doesn't sleep, and so he doesn't dream of towers piercing the moon, of frost thrown in flame, of effigies drowned, of spears of past, of children screaming in vaults, of bones beneath rivers, of trees buried in shadows, of coffins shattering, of signs and letters carved in rock, of forests torched and dragons chained, of one eyed crows blocking out sky. He doesn't dream of girls unnamed beneath stone, of boys unmourned beneath water, of victims rendered silent and invisible reaching out to family deaf and blind, of stars dancing and incenses building paths as moon keens and cursed souls stir up trouble and crows chant...
Mother, burning blue and white, like opal filtering light of pyre as final breath escapes her. Zaidan, on his knees, hands shaking as magic reduces him to less then dust. Aunt Primrose, eyes sleepy and confused as broken armor drags her beneath moat. Cousin Vivianne, screaming as thorns dig in her flesh, as vines tangle in her hair. Grandmother, among bodies of plague (curse) stricken, blood and entrails spilling around her.
He can go on, he doesn't need sleep, he doesn't fear anything so silly as dreams.
Four days, seventeen hours and three minutes.
His hair had been getting longer.
It always did. Escanors were strange hybrids, of humans and galhots and passlings and all other sorts of creatures, born from womb of women who became one with planet itself. Magic coiled through each tissue, each part of their body, only accumulating and digging deeper in sinew and marrow with each generation. Each Escanor had been born with dozens of small, passive magics, tiny gifts that were basically useless, powers people didn't notice unless they looked very well. Some could climb without tiring, others were immune to snake venom, or had sensitive hearing, far beyond what was physically possible.
Phobos's hair grew fast, and it grew strong. Steel couldn't cut it, blades broken and dulled under platinum strands, and even fire was of little help ( even excluding obvious reasons making it dangerous). It required magic to cut it, or he had to pluck out hairs by hand. Never too much, as it seemed it had violatile reactions to being trimmed too much. Last time he had his hair cut a little below shoulder blades, it had grown overnight until it was six times long as he.
It had required a complicated charm to halt it's growth. A combination of glamour and stunting spells, managing to keep his hair only at hip length. Charm must have been decaying in this cell, worn out by time and wards, or years pushed and stretched it to limits of it's efficiency, as his hair now trailed after his feet, and he was forced to spend most of time braiding it and sitting on bed to keep it from getting dirty and infested with lice. He couldn't cut it, but he had to, because it was far too long to be practical when he escaped. For now, he had to contend with several complicated braids. The newest one was giving him quite the trouble, having to sort it by hand, as it already broke seven combs (and annoyance of guards was only positive thing about that, as well thought that some poor crafters were wasting time and resources on tyrant).
He continued to chew on it, passing strand after strand through sharp white teeth, as he untangled knots.
Four days, seventeen hours and nineteen minutes.
Truth to be told, he preferred sleeping on floor.
His gardens had been most pleasant, of course. Those plants knew him, obeyed him, would keep his sleeping form safe with their poison and brambles. He would lie on bed of grass that sang at his passing, on pillow of fallen leaves that giggled at his touch, cover himself with flowers that whispered him secrets, and dream. Any garden, any forest would be good, but his own garden was special, the most perfect place in world.
But any ground was good. Even laying on mud, despite mess it made, unless one used magic of course, was preferable. Even sleeping on hard rock wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it felt assuring, as if if he stretched himself enough, put enough effort, he could dig in bedrock, like ancient oak spreading out it's roots. But he couldn't do that now, couldn't let his enemies and captors see him in such weak, undignified position, let them gloat.
(When he was on Earth, and shared home with fallen Keeper's former minion, that was part of reason he chose to sleep on his bed, to keep dignity. Other part was wonderful look of utter hate and annoyance boy gave him when Phobos jumped on his bed with shoes still on.
His grandmother always said pettiness was root of power and wisdom, and who was he to ignore advice of elders?)
Four days, nineteen hours and twenty two minutes.
Food was atrocious.
It wasn't as horrible as things Phobos fed his prisoners to, but it was still barely edible. Elyon was at least managing one thing right, there was no point in feeding prisoners if they didn't suffer. It was actually more fun then starving them, looking at their faces as they struggled to swallow gunk they were given, aware only other choice was death.
This wouldn't give him even a little stomach trouble, but it was as awful as cafeteria food on Earth, and that was good. Sweet things, easy things made it hard to keep focus, made you weak and complacent. Trash like this stoked his hatred, warmed his anger, kept his power vital and active.
He drunk the soup, thick and orange and full of fat, ate stale, crumbling bread and chopped up sorry excuse of salad (he grew better ones, in his beautiful garden) and consumed it. He left almost raw, elastic meat that would require chewing for three hours in bowl, alongside yellowish, cold liquid he was given to drink.
Oh, when he got out, he would feed them their own flesh. he would do it with his bare hands, he will tear skin and all underneath it until bone glistened and showed with his bare hands, and he would stuff it raw and dripping down their throats until they choked, and he will make them thank him.
Five days.
Phobos gazes in walls of cell, gathers remnants of magic, and reaches far away with his mind, to lonely and abandoned places where his less significant keeps were. His magic and will push through walls as clear as mirrors, come out of glass and metal in distant towers, cottages, buildings lost to woods, caves...
And far away, a Whisperer wakes up.
Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please comment.
