Author's Note: This chapter has been long in coming, so it's extra long and extra juicy for your enjoyment. It seems that school finally caught up with me these last two weeks (it's getting closer to finals and every professor knows it's crunch time). Henceforth, Geta shall be known by his right name, Lucius. And yes, the story of Eugenius is modelled after that of Icarus (and, no, I don't own it).
Enjoy this fourth chapter. I apologize, as neither Cid nor young Ffamran will appear just yet.
Chapter Four: The Execution
Everything looked blurry. The torchlight danced above his head. He was zooming through a tunnel, lights flashing passed his unfocused eyes. He felt nauseous. Even with the dungeon master's two cold hands holding either side of his face, he couldn't seem to regain his balance. He was falling, deeper and deeper, into the center of the earth.
"I think that's enough for the moment." Vayne's voice rang cold and hard into the gloom. The tiny crystal of glowing rock was lifted away and Lucius's vision cleared. The dungeon master pulled his hands up, and the strength of the magicks ceased their pull on his heart. The feeling of despair lessened somewhat, but if Lucius focused his sight on any dark corner, he could see the glaring eyes of demons peering menacingly from the underworld. He took a breath and was suddenly aware of how wet he was; his perspiration had soaked through even the heavy leather jerkin of a prisoner.
"Trust you to think of a torture so vile as this one," he managed to spat. Vayne gave him the merest hint of a smile and picked up the small rock.
"You think this a vile torture?" He motioned around himself, the dark magicite glinting in the flickering orange light. "I obviously overestimated your pain threshold." Vayne looked up, his blue eyes deceptively innocent. "Why, Clodius could take much more pain, and he was quite a bit less hardy than you."
The jest hit home, and Lucius struggled violently in his bonds. Vayne laughed, a low cold laugh.
"You are a fool." It was more of a dismissal than anything. He turned to the dungeon master and placed the magicite in his hand. "Use whatever means necessary to get him to confess. We need to stomp out the entire rebellion and we need his information to do it. Those scrolls held nothing of importance." He had started walking away when something else dawned on him. "Oh, and do make sure not to kill him. He is to be beheaded for the pleasure of the court, and I doubt my father would appreciate depriving the court of such a spectacle."
The masked man went down in a low bow. Vayne sauntered passed him, positively radiant with triumph.
So bright… deceptively so. Lucius was led roughly up the stone steps and out of Rogur Ultimus. The courtyard had never looked greener to his eyes, the flowers never so vivid. He wondered briefly if that's always how things looked to people who were about to die; he'd always heard that the world grew darker. He was ushered passed the cool openness of the atrium, the soft tinkling of his mother's favorite fountain a mere trifle compared to the pounding of his captors' booted feet.
Out behind the kitchens, passed the back gate, and into the back of a waiting wagon—Lucius's hands were bound together with iron shackles and fastened to the wall of the coach. He peered blearily through the cracks in the wood.
"Wot's to be done with 'im, eh?" said one of the guards to the other. Wiping sweat from his brow, his companion grunted.
"'E's to be taken to the arena. Lord Vayne 'as special plans for 'is execution." He gave a low, burly laugh. "Summat of a treat, I 'ear." Lucius's eyes went wide. This could be nothing good.
"Anyway, take 'im away," the second said, addressing the driver this time. "Lord Vayne said they were 'spectin' 'im."
The driver obliged, and the wagon set off with a dull creak. Lucius pulled his hands as high as he could muster and bowed his head.
"Gods, if ever you have shown mercy, show me mercy now. Do not allow my death to go unmourned, or my murder unavenged." He brought his hand to his mouth, his teeth set in the soft flesh between his forefinger and thumb, and bit down hard. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and he smeared the little rivulet upon his forehead.
"Upon my blood," he was looking up this time, at the dark wooden ceiling. "Upon my blood, let it be so."
Larsa had been crying for the better part of an hour. Aria bounced him fruitlessly upon her knee. She had tried everything she knew—burping, changing, the hiding game, the blanket game, honey, a warm bath—but the littlest Solidor insisted on raging, for the first time in his mother's memory. Her servant woman Vanessa, a lady from the holy mountain, had tried singing psalms and crushing sweet galbana lilies, but no soothing remedy had yet worked.
"Perhaps it best if we let him tire himself out, Mistress," she said for the fourth time that hour. Too exhausted to snap out an argument, she gave a defeated nod and lay Larsa on his soft blue coverlet. Freed from his mother's arms, the youngest Solidor began thrashing about, screaming, if it was possible, even louder than before. Truly at a loss as to what to do, Aria called the one person she knew might make a difference.
"Send for Vayne," she said to one of her attendants. "Tell him it's urgent."
Not five full minutes later, Vayne appeared, clothed simply in a deep red tunic. The problem was apparent, and he approached the crib cautiously.
"I've tried everything!" Aria blurted in despair. "He won't heed my coos, he refuses milk, he's not dirty, nothing's wrong with him!" Vayne placed a hand on Larsa's belly and the little boy ripped his body away, as if the hand had burned him.
"He doesn't have a fever, does he?" Aria shook her head.
"No, he's perfectly healthy. I had the nurse come in first thing." Vayne picked the child up and bounced him slightly in his arms. Larsa's wails lessened somewhat.
"What are you on about, hmm?" The soft rumble of Vayne's voice seemed to calm him, and he hiccoughed between sobs, his little voice losing some of its force. "There we go, that's right, little brother," Vayne pet his head lovingly. "Shhh, don't cry anymore, Larsa." Aria watched them both, a look of utter disbelief etched on her face.
"I can't believe you calmed him!" She plopped down on the bed, and Vayne sat down next to her. "Truly, I was right to call you." Vayne smiled. Larsa burped.
"Ha ha! You little imp." He held him close, then passed the babe to his mother. "Perhaps a good story will make him sleepy." Vayne leaned his head on his mother's shoulder. "Tell him the one about the foolish Kiltias priest who wanted to fly." Aria rocked Larsa, whose eyes had already begun to close, cleared her throat and began.
The din in the arena was deafening. In the hold beneath the pit, Lucius was still, trying desperately to steady his breathing. The crowd was ready for action. He could hear the coeurls' raging roars as they ripped their prey apart. Petty criminals were always thrown into the pit first. A light shone on his face and he gazed up into it.
"Pull him up and get him dressed." It was Vayne. Lucius could feel his pulse quicken in wrath.
"Now, now, Brother, don't look at me like that." He was smiling. "You must look your absolute best for all your adoring fans." The crowds above gave an appreciative whoop; the coeurls had apparently succeeded in their little game and were moving on to the second wave of criminals.
Lucius's clothes were ripped from his body and he stood, naked, before his younger brother. Vayne eyed him with complete indifference then turned to the head servant.
"Did you manage to procure the Kiltias' robes I asked for?" The man's bald head was shining with sweat, and it glistened when he bowed.
"Yes, Master." He held up a complete set of Kiltias garb.
"Good." Vayne circled his brother, now eyeing his body with some interest. "Yes, they'll just about fit you, I think." Lucius's face was impassive, betraying none of the fury that burned within him. Vayne chuckled.
"You must be wondering what the robes are for, eh, Brother?" Lucius continued to stare straight ahead, mouth resolutely shut. Vayne's eyes clouded, and a curious red flush spread over his face. He moved closer to Lucius, until his mouth was right by his ear, his cold armor pressing into his brother's warm flesh. The blow came quickly, but Lucius wasn't expecting it, and he fell to his knees, coughing.
"You will answer me when I address you, slave."
The words were cold, but Vayne's eyes were even colder. For a moment, the brothers were locked in combat, gaze against gaze, deep blue drowning in deep blue. From the ground, Vayne's head seemed to be crowned in sunlight—a golden victory wreath. Lucius bowed his head with an ironic smile, silently cursing the gods for showing favor to one so unworthy.
The spell broken, Vayne snapped his fingers at the servants and moved away from his brother's crumpled form.
"Prepare him for the arena." He turned back, his face half in shadow. "Good luck today, Brother." With a mock bow, he disappeared down the hall.
"You return at just the right moment." Aria was dressed in a gown of red Bhujerban silk. Her beaded headdress tinkled faintly with her every move; the beads draped across her forehead looked like droplets of blood glistening in the sun. "They've already begun the countdown." Vayne sat to her side and glanced briefly to his right.
"Father's not here? Where in Ivalice is he?" Aria leaned forward a bit, eyeing her husband's empty chair with some concern. She shrugged.
"Perhaps he plans to make something of an entrance, you know, for showmanship's sake."
As soon as the words left her mouth, the royal trumpets sounded and the arena went quiet. A caller announced the emperor's entrance, and out came Gramis, draped in the purple of his office, waving and looking serene. Again Vayne knew this emotionless front was just an act; the tightness of his hand and stiffness of his neck indicated how nervous he was. When he took his seat at Vayne's right, his third son could see the little bulge of his pulse beating out a frantic rhythm at his temple. Vayne raised his eyebrows slightly; he was very anxious indeed.
The emperor leaned over to Vayne.
"I am not going to announce this execution." Vayne predicted as much. With a little sigh, he stood and lifted his left arm high above his head. The crowd stilled again, poised for his announcement. Vayne cleared his throat.
"Citizens of Archades, loyal subjects of Emperor Gramis Gana Solidor, I, Vayne Carudas Solidor, do hereby condemn Lucius Celsus Solidor, first son and heir to House Solidor, to death." There was only a minor flurry of hurried whispers here; this came as no surprise. Vayne went on, his armor glinting in the high noon sun.
"He is convicted of high treason to the royal seat of the Archadian Empire and to House Solidor. Lucius Celsus Solidor was conspiring with Landinian rebels to overthrow the seat of Archadia and, effectively, to launch our country into a war with violent enemies." The crowd might have been hundreds of snakes.
"And so it is, with a heavy heart but a clear conscience that I condemn my brother for his heinous crimes." He raised his right fist to his heart. "May the gods be merciful in the afterlife." The cheers were deafening as he took his seat. His mother placed a warm, reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You did wonderfully."
Vayne merely nodded, fixing his attention on the colorful jester that sprang forth from the bowels of the stadium, pulling out an oversized scroll and clearing his throat loudly.
"Welcome, one and all, on this most auspicious day!" More cheers. "We humbly present to you a farce of the most glorious proportions. We have our tragic hero Eugenius, a Kiltias priest and brilliant scholar, who one day dreamed of—" he gave a theatrical little turn "—something more!"
Lucius was dragged out, dressed in full Kiltias regalia, and forced to act, seated roughly at a dark circular platform that had been set in the center of the stadium. The crowd jeered.
"Eugenius lived high up in a tower at sea with only his father for company. They had lost favor with their king and had been locked up for many years. There were no doors and no stairs, only one long window where they could watch the ocean below.
"One night, Eugenius' father died, and the boy, grieving at his loss, decided that he would find a way to leave that place, for there was nothing left for him in that dark tower."
Lucius mimed sobbing, leaning low over the nearest dead body. It reeked of rotting meat. The crowd was roaring its approval.
"After ten days and ten nights of mourning, young Eugenius got an idea. He would escape his prison. Looking dolefully up at the sky, he sighed and pondered his fate.
"'Oh, if only there was a way to reach the clouds above,' young Eugenius said. 'They look soft, much softer than goose down, and I would make myself a bed with them.'
"Then the young scholar was stuck with a terrific idea. He would make wings and fly away from all his troubles."
Lucius was put to work, a great white sheet spread over his platform, long sticks of the finest wood thrust upon him, feathers, and wax aplenty. Somewhere in the recesses of his memory he remembered the myth of young Eugenius. If only he could remember how it ended…
"Eugenius crafted himself a set of the finest wings you've ever seen, using only the purest white feathers that blew into his tower room. Using wax to glue everything together, he was soon ready to fly."
A large set of wings was carried out to the center of the stadium. Lucius was fitted into them and attached to a wire. His eyes followed the thin black string all the way up to where a pulley extended from the end of a beam. His heart sank.
"He flapped his arms like a bird and jumped bravely from his tower window. The wind caught him up and he floated upon it, truly a creature of the skies. But the feeling was so glorious and the air so warm and bright that Eugenius felt the urge to reach for the very sun itself."
Lucius was lifted, now spread parallel to the ground, holding his arms and legs out stiffly as the servants had instructed him to do. The jeers of the crowd were as the sound of crows cawing to his ears. And they might well have been. Looking out over the sea of heads, he could see no one person, rather a coherent mob that seemed to breathe and move together, like the great belly of a snake.
The young boy had been having nightmares again, and the story of Eugenius always seemed to drive the darkness away. Aria held her third son to her chest, petting his head softly. Vayne looked up to her, his cheeks wet with tears.
"Tell me what happened to him, Mother," the young boy implored. "What happened to Eugenius?"
He had reached the top. Lucius squinted up at the sun. How could he ever have thought it a friendly thing? He spat and cursed at it before going limp, looking instead at the very far away ground beneath him. He shook his head.
"Gods, I curse you for your cruelty!" He felt the pulley's slack loosening, and his body lowered several inches.
"It's a very sad story, my poppet." Aria tucked in her son with the utmost tenderness. Vayne's blue eyes were honest and clear.
"Please tell me. Did he make it out alright?" Aria was silent for a moment before continuing.
"Eugenius became overconfident in his abilities," she began carefully. "And as he rose up, closer and closer to the sun, the wax holding his feathers together came undone and his wings failed him. He fell many miles, very, very far, and landed in the ocean."
Lucius was only dimly aware that they had dropped him before everything went black. The mob shouted its approval.
"There is to be a feast tonight, in your honor."
Vayne hardly registered his mother's words. His chest felt oddly heavy. Aria hurried behind her changing screen, her ladies helping her out of her red gown. She came out in naught but her under-things and went to him, holding out her hand. He took it.
He was only dimly aware of her arms around him, of her kisses wetting his cheeks. He felt oddly numb, and was thoroughly unnerved by it. He held her close to his chest, breathing in her sweet scent. She pulled away and touched his face softly, willing his eyes to meet her own.
"You ought to be happy," she said simply. He looked away again. Her voice turned stern. "You ought not to feel guilty. You were merely carrying out the law."
At this Vayne pulled away from her and threw himself on her bed, a child throwing a tantrum. She smiled a little, recognizing this sign of complacency; he would heed her words and brood no more.
"That's my good little son," she said.
A/N: And that was chapter four. Up next we have the meeting of Cid and Ffamran, Vayne's introduction to nethicite, and the start down a long dark path of ambition and lust for power.