Red is...
The color of love, if those Renaissance and the Romantic people are to be believed. Examining the painting in front of me, I'm reminded of the years spent being educated like a proper princess should be. Poetry. Music. Art. Please write a five page essay on the use of colors and shapes in blah blah blah. Of course navigation and war strategies and crystal mastery (my personal favorite) were a part of the curriculum as well, but father always stressed the importance of being cultured.
As if he was ever cultured. As if culture ever is going to help me rule this Empire, the weight of which he so carelessly transferred to my bony shoulders when he up and kicked it two weeks ago. I despised the old man so, and the fact that I am now Master Cyclonis when I'm definitely not ready for such a responsibility isn't helping much.
So this is why I'm having the throne room stripped of each and every piece of gaudy art and decoration and tapestry from it's smooth, dark grey walls. The Talons, my servants, are toting aside every bust, sculpture, hanging, and gilded doohickey from the room and dumping them somewhere in the dungeons. I really don't care where they go, as long as it's not here. I want it just as barren as Father's pitiful little wife Kittiwake had been. Barren is good, for me at least. If she had been able to have children, Father wouldn't have gone and raped some poor sap from Terra Gale and I wouldn't be here. And if this room still had vestiges of him left in it, I might forget I hated him long enough to mourn his passing.
"Master Cyclonis."
Is it odd that I'm used to that title by now?
"Dark Ace," I respond without looking away from my reflection. This particular mirror used to hang above the seat of power itself. The throne was the only object I decided to keep, seeing as how it was actually built into the room and not some tawdry bit of vanity Father decided to throw in here. It was a dark, massive thing, much too big for me. But countless Cyclonis's before me have sat there, slowly building up this empire I ruled today. In short, I liked it. I liked the history it had. History was my second favorite subject, one the many, many tutors didn't have to shove down my throat. "I see you've returned to me like the faithful man you are. How did the funeral go?"
"It went." The man in the doorway walked further inside; I could hear his metal-plated boots clanking against the hard floor. The plush velvet carpets were the first thing I had removed. "Representatives from Terra Squall wondered at your absence some, but you were not missed unduly."
"Story of my life." I let my eyes lazily trail over the room. "If there's anything in here you want, you're free to take it, you know. Don't think I haven't noticed how much you fancy the bust of your great-uncle." I nod my head to the bust in question, which is of the previous Dark Ace. I can see the familial resemblance to my own current servant: thick black hair, sideburns, long neck. It could have been his older brother, or maybe his father. Either way, there has always been a Dark Ace for at least as long as there has been a Cyclonis. It's a hereditary thing.
Reaching inside the long sleeves of my father's robe, I pull out a red striker crystal. Enforcing my will upon it, the crimson light within bended to my desire, arching out in the shape of a giant hand. It snatches the bust out of the hands of a surprised Talon, gently depositing it into the Dark Ace's outstretched arms.
"Good ole Erasmus," the Dark Ace says, setting the bust aside. "…God, he was nuts."
"Must go with the profession." Even though the one above the throne is already gone, I find myself entranced by yet another damn mirror. What's more, it's somehow plastered to the wall and my Talons are having some difficulty removing it. I've never really liked mirrors. They force me to acknowledge myself; remember my Gale roots. Pitch black hair. Pale skin. Cutesy face. I hate it. My Cyclonian will deserves a more intimidating body. Instead, I look like a child. My hungry violet eyes search my own frame, perhaps hoping that I might break free of this lonely shell and turn into something unthinking and terrible, like a raging storm or the snarling form of a protective gargoyle.
Red.
Startling, red eyes. The Dark Ace is standing behind me, observing his own reflection over mine since he's at least a foot taller than me. I hadn't noticed him getting so close- either he's that silent, or I was more absorbed in my own thoughts than usual.
"Dark Ace?" I ask his reflection.
"Yes, Master?" his voice, so familiar to me, brought me a small measure of comfort. At least I could count on him to not die anytime soon. The Dark Ace could never die.. Right?
"The situation Cyclonia finds itself in now is… dire. The Terras might break away from our hold at any time now that Father is dead." I press my hands up against the smooth coldness of the polished glass. "They don't think a sixteen year old girl can maintain an empire, silly them."
"I know." One large hand envelops my entire shoulder, squeezing it. "But for now, they have a right to. All they see is that the new Cyclonis isn't even an adult yet- they don't see you as the threat you really are, Lark."
Violet eyes cease their wanderings to pierce his reflection with an angry glare. Quiet fury is my thing- not a shouted order for silence that ends up as a screaming match like a certain dead cretin used to do.
"…Master Cyclonis," he corrects himself after a moment, letting go of me as if he had been scalded.
I let the tension drain from my body, eyes cast down in speculation once more. It was certainly interesting to have the Dark Ace at my beck and call like never before. Under my complete control. "Well, I want to make them see it," I say, rolling the red striker crystal around in my long-fingered hands. "I want an example made that no one can ignore or forget, something to terminate any belligerence before it even sets root. I want them all to obey me… the way you do."
"Out of love?"
Does he think that's funny? "Fear, my servant." I reach up, touching the reflection of his face. "Better than being loved, as the saying goes."
"I serve you out of love," he points out. "I served your father out of fear, and I can assure you he never held the complete loyalty I have for you."
"Then you're a very bad Dark Ace. You're not supposed to have favorites."
"It's not a matter of favorites, Lark. You know very well what I mean."
Enough of that, already! I raise my voice, angry. "I am not Lark. I am Cyclonis, and if I ever hear you talking that way about me again I'll rip out your tongue myself." My hand curls into a fist, knuckles against the mirror over the image of his face. "Know your place. Be content with it."
There is a frigid silence. I wait, patient. This is something that needed to be dealt with eventually. He closes his eyes, fighting hard to control himself in face of my outright rejection. The fact that I ever let our relationship get this far was the kind of childish care-free action I do not have the luxury of allowing myself anymore. The Dark Ace must serve Cyclonis without question. If not, the balance of power painstakingly constructed by my ancestors would be thrown into Chaos. And what would happen if we ever had a child? He had no family, distant or otherwise, and neither did I. The next of kin would be our children, and no one person can be both Dark Ace and Cyclonis.
There is a sword.
And there is the one who wields it.
There is no room for love in this damnable world my father thrust me into. Only… obedience.
His eyes, normally red like fire, are subdued and amused when he opens them. "As you say, Master Cyclonis," he agrees, bowing low from the waist. "What mission do you have in mind for me?"
The mirror cracks. Red drips from my clenched fist, smearing the shards that reflect a million facets of my smiling face. "As the Dark Ace who served the former me, I'm sure you know of the Storm Engine project my father attempted?"
"Yes, but the power necessary to generate a cyclone of that magnitude-"
I stop his sentence before he can finish that particular train of thought by whirling around to face him, one bloody finger pressed against his lips. I can feel the steady jump of his veins, much better than a smooth, cold mirror.
"Leave that part to me," I tell him. "But mark my words: soon, a storm will rage across all of Atmos, and only those who swear allegiance to me will be safe from it." I release him, holding my head high, waiting for him to challenge me the way he always would when I was still Lark. Smirking at his silence, I let my red striker crystal hover over the palm of my open hand.
"The Storm Engine was never completed," I say when no rebuttal is forthcoming. "Father abandoned it when he realized, like you did, that there was no way to power it enough for it to have any real effect. But the thing is, there is a way to power it. Father simply had neither the nerve nor the brain to accomplish this."
"And this mystery power source would be…?"
The Aurora Stone. But I wouldn't tell him that just yet- let him stew it over for a while. Surely he'd come to that conclusion on his own. "That doesn't concern you yet," I say instead. "What I need you to do is head for Terra Gale. Father's blueprints are probably hidden in the house my mother used to live in. I know that's where he hid them. Peregrine wasn't half as clever as he thought he was."
"So you're calling him by his name now."
"Suuuure." I let slip a glance at my natural teen attitude, feeling that nothing else was more appropriate for the situation. "Why not? He's dead now, and the name "Father" gives him way too much importance. In any case, you should hurry to Gale before any fighting breaks out. If the Terras rebel against me, I want you at my side. But I'm sure you'll find the blueprints to finish the machine in no time at all, O dearest of servants."
"And if I don't?"
I stare at him in wordless silence, putting up an unruffled front but rather pleased that the fire in him wasn't so easily extinguished. That's what I had loved about him, after all. My answer is cool, quick, and sharp.
"Then don't bother coming back."
There. I had set down the law… for now. Face twisted into a grimacing sneer, he rests his hand over his heart, bows once more, and exits the throne room. What a good boy he's being. I hope next time he'll put up just a bit more resistance to my newfound authority so that I could have the pleasure of breaking it again.
I turn around again to see countless other Larks looking back at me, violet eyes narrowed but expressions deadly calm.
"Get that broken disgrace for a mirror out of my sight," I murmur to the Talon nearest to me. He salutes and skitters off to do my bidding. Soon, the room is stark and clean with nothing but faint illuminator crystals shedding their pale pink glow about the room; in silence, I make my way to the throne itself, settling down with my hands resting on cold stone worn down by other hands from time immemorial.
Soon, I would be busy day and night on the Storm Engine, making my father's invention my own. But for today, I would allow myself to rest. I would have no disturbance until the return of my most dear servant. And I had no doubt he would return.
He is in love with me, after all.
Red is…
The color of his eyes, and the clouds stained by the rising sun. Storm clouds. But the storm, for now, is still brewing deep within the bowls of my Cyclonian Empire.
Waiting.