Ishtar told her night nurse she needed to see her brother; the nurse watched her walk down the hall, lights low, stepping inside the sculpt of the doorframe. Summer waned, winter came, dressed only in her gown and a linen robe, her flat, thin slippers loose behind her heels. She heard her door close.

Ishtar told her brother she needed to see their father. Ishtore stared at her and her second head, but dutifully rose out of bed and reminded her the way. Older, proven, he slept alone. Like her nurse, he did not accompany, rather watching her retreat around the chiseled corner of their villa at the palace. She waited until his door shut, seven counts longer than the nurse took.

For what Father knew, she'd gotten lost on the way to the bathroom, so he took her, hand-in-hand, then set her off around the corner back to her suite. Sleep well, he said, like the stars hadn't disappeared from the sky. I will, she lied.

Ishtar did not include Mother in her plans.

With no one looking at her, she pulled a candle out of the folds of her nightgown. Tome-less magic was frowned upon, doubly so for a child, but she murmured to herself and lit the candle. A sharp, clear mind. (Ishtar's first memory, she is three, laying on the floor of her playroom as Mother says unrepeatable things to a sobbing maid — years later, she could not bring herself to repeat them, but knew their meaning.)

Their villa was on palace-grounds. Should the patrolling Gelbenritter find her, she'd be led back to her room, into the loop of her nurse's arms. She knew their schedules, creeping along the trimmed lawn and paths through the bushes. Friege was quaint, Miletos too new for her to know, but for four summers, Ishtar treated the sprawling palace like it was her own home. She squeezed through the wrought gate that kept guests from the palace apartments.

Palace guards were different — they did not keep fixed schedules. Safer that way. The smiles she once saw on their faces were gone. Her robe was stitched too finely to lie and claim to be a scurrying young servant. She could not be caught, sticking to the shadows casted off the looming spires.

When she was not standing behind her father, chin quivering, who was she?

Ishtar, Princess of Friege.

Little fingers cramping, she moved her candle to her other hand. She would be in trouble if the Prince sent for her, but the Prince did not leave his room after dark. She wasn't suppose to, either, but she did. He could very well be up, but what would they talk about this time of night?

*...*

The crypt was unattended.

Ishtar double, tripled, and quadruped checked, holding her breath. She was the only sound. No silent steps of guards, no clink of their weapons against their hips, poor jokes being told to shut up. Only the thrum of her blood under her skin, now between her ears. She took quick breaths.

Reasonably, it made sense. Who visited a grave this time of night? It was after dinner! But were it up to her, the Empress would be given respect all hours of the day.

Tightening her robe around her shoulders, Ishtar crept in front of the tall, white doors. The handles were above her eyes, while on the average door, the handle came to her chin. A rather unassuming building for a Crusader to rest, she would not know this was where Saint Heim's descenscendents were meant to be if she had not been before. The opulence of the palace, and nestled in it, a white chapel smaller than the one in Friege. Ishtar curled her fingers around the knocker.

She wanted to see the Empress. She had to tell her that she was sorry, that she missed her. She hoped it was locked.

The door silently cracked ajar but stopped. She gave another tug with her one hand, back straining, before mumbling under her breath and setting her candle down. The door could open, now needing to open it a bit further. Ishtar was a slip of a girl — men liked it, Mother said, but she also did it wrong. Father said she was too young to think about men and marriage.

Another pull, and the heavy door gave way.

Looking around, amazingly, she was alone. Moonlight filtered across the grass, but what was the moon without the stars?

Hands red, she pressed them against her dress. The last night she saw the Empress, it was like this: clear skies, low winds, sweet grass in her nose. On the opposite end of the grounds, the palace gardens were full of the Empress' favorites. Ishtar, her second summer with the royal family, stole an orange and yellow bud off the stem — a gift to the Empress from House Friege before she was born — and hid it in one of her journals. No one mentioned it to her, yet the pain of stealing from the Empress made Ishtar weep, refusing to step foot in the gardens her third summer, much to the Prince and Princess' distaste.

Then, as she did, the Empress offered her hand.

She could not do it now.

Ishtar took a deep breath, picking up her candle. The running wax cooled on the sides, lapping at the flame. She would not be much longer. The Empress (in life) listened well.

Before her, the stairs descended, much darker than she expected. Moonlight hit the tall, opened door, casting a sliver of a shadow down the flat, wide stairs, curving around the smooth marbled wall. Nothing to fear from the Saint's kin! She never thought so, but her lit wick barely showed her fingers, let alone the path before her.

Her family visited for a few more days, returning with a more suitable candle, but a child could only disappear once at night before it became a noticeable pattern. Ishtore would ask, then the nurse, before it got to Mother, who always took the truth from her.

The Empress asked what bothered her.

Ishtar breathed again, taking one step forward. Breathing was good. She now knew she could manage her way to the tomb undetected.

Prince Julius was bound to ask her back. Before winter came was unlikely. Snow ruined plans of sneaking around, too cold to creep around in her nightgown, leaving prints. Another step forward, slippers dragging across the stone floor.

She could make it again. The Empress always had time for her. Before they left Belhalla, she decided. It gave her more time to construct a plausible need to leave her room at night, bringing more light.

The Empress.

Her Majesty wanted —

The door's shadow moved, moonlight cut off.

Ishtar breathed in deep, filling her chest. A guard. She left the door open, suddenly grateful the door hadn't been shut on her. He would take her back to her nurse, perhaps telling her father afterwards.

Slowly, she turned around.

A guard was preferable.

"Emperor Arvis!" she said, bowing quickly. He filled the frame, dressed in dark clothes, face thinner than she remembered. Long summers with the twins and their mother did not mean long summers with the Emperor, but his presence was undeniable. Princess Julia (Princess Julia) ran off to find him any time she liked (any time the Prince grew mean); Ishtar did not keep track, but she was not always sent back. She gripped her nightgown, beginning to curtsy. "I didn't expect to—"

He held his hand up. "Why are you here, Ishtar?"

"I wanted another look," she answered plainly. She did not ask why he visited, nor did she need to. "I was leaving, sir."

"Did you get your second look?" Ishtar looked up. The Emperor's face was flat, but she heard his voice: different. He was a man with a reputation, entertaining a child sulking around his home.

She shook her head, then remembered her manners. "No. I…" her sad candle sat in her palm, barely lighting her cuffed sleeve. She swore it was brighter during the day.

"If you follow the stairs, the sconces are lit further down."

*...*

Emperor Arvis led her down. Every one of his steps was equal to three of hers, favoring his right leg. They did not speak as they went round and round the stairs. Ishtar was grateful for the Emperor's company — she saw enough of him that he was not a stranger, but unlike her nurse, she did not know what he liked for dinner.

Her Majesty knew why: the twins were fighting before they were, she picked at her breakfast, she picked at her dresses, she dragged her feet at the end of summer.

Her Majesty knew when: the sun rose, set, the stars were in view, the clouds would part, her carriage back to Friege returned, the Prince got snippy.

Her Majesty knew how: to get the Princess out of her hiding spots, to talk a tutor into waxing about pegasi, to pull her hair back so it did not tug at her skin.

The stairs ended in an empty chamber. Having come before, the Empress' chamber was the closest. Visiting House Friege's crypt, which was packed so tightly one could not breathe, let alone walk, Saint Hein's sparse descendents were a blessing.

Construction was to begin next thaw.

She breathed in, fidgeting with her robe.

Ishtar was Princess of Friege. She was not easily cowed.

Empress Deirdre's tomb was simple — off white with rounded corners, devoid of any decorative embellishments, bearing only her name; if she did not know, it would not be an empress' tomb. Nothing like the light of her portrait.

Leaving the Emperor's side, she unintentionally looked up at him. Mother would know about her middling manners.

Or maybe not. The Emperor broke first. "A temporary resting spot. Deirdre's passing was unexpected." Most deaths were unexpected, but Ishtar kept her mouth shut; she was privy to nothing, grateful to be brought at all. The Empress fell terribly (uncommonly) ill, taken swiftly; Ishtar sobbed for three days under her covers. There were no questions or answers about Princess Julia. "Foolish, but I thought we had longer."

Politely, "I'm sorry, sir."

He smiled. Ishtar claimed to know no one's heart. "Say your peace, so I may return you to your family."

Ishtar froze. Returning at the Emperor's side ran opposite of not being noticed. Visiting children did not bother the Emperor. Visiting children stayed in their rooms. Mother's horror at having her unruly child returned by the Emperor. "Thank you, sir, but I am alright to head back alone."

"You argue with me?"

"No, sir, but -" her voice quivered. "But they don't know I'm here. I don't want them to know."

The Emperor looked long at her. Uncomfortable at the end of his hard gaze, she found interest in her slippers, finely stitched around the toe. His Majesty could do as he pleased with her — she was only a child, incapable of most things. "I am escorting you back. Things sleep in this palace no child should stumble upon. I will not accompany you onto your grounds," he offered, voice firm once more, knowing the Emperor, not the man.

Ishtar was not going to argue with the Emperor twice, nodding. Remembering her manners, Ishtar looked up. His eyes focused just over her. She quickly bowed her head, hands clasped before her. "I understand. Thanks. Thank you, Your Majesty."

He nodded, then stepped out. By his echoing steps, he hadn't left. Ascending the dark stairs alone, after doing so with him, seemed impossible.

The Empress' tomb was close enough to touch, yet her hands remained her own, wound in her gown. Cold stone was not the empress of her heart — Deirdre was warm.

All her needing to be here, she had nothing prepared, throat jammed. What did she need to say that she hadn't already? The Empress heard her cries, whether she made the sun rise in Belhalla or went to the hereafter. Everything an empress could be, Deirdre was.


AN:/ in ascended ishtar's forging bonds arvis - who is post battle of belhalla - says ishtar is a "child" in his world, but he also gives no clues (outside of using his gen 2 death quote) that the twins exist. i, personally, do not think ishtar is so much older than the twins to be noticeable, going off of trends, so assume she's like, 1.5 years older than them in this...

thanks for reading :)