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- Red London -
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The sickly sweet smell of flowers hit his nose the moment he stepped through the door. The unmistakable scent of Other London. Kell's London.
Holland coughed, eyes watering at the perfumed air. He adjusted the pin at his throat, loosening it, as if that could somehow help him breathe easier, taking a moment to gain his bearings. The trip through the door still disoriented him, even after years of making it. The sudden burst of color was a shock to eyes accustomed to the faded whites and greys of his London. The cloying floral smell itched a nose and throat used to breathing in iron and smoke.
He then set off along a path that would take him to the palace. Like the other Antari, Holland had his own preferred ways of coming and going — though he kept them much more varied and unpredictable than Kell. He sometimes thought if Kell had ever been his protégé, he would have taught the boy so many more useful things than the Sanctuary priests ever did. But in a way, he supposed, that gave him the advantage over the younger Antari, keeping all of his secrets so closely guarded.
The way Holland chose today ran beside the river. His mismatched eyes squinted at the crimson water and the ever-present glow that emanated from it, even at night. He thought of the river back home, its murky waters always so eerily still, even as he'd watched his own blood dripping into it from the cut on his palm. The water would darken and ripple, drinking in his offering, only to become colorless and unmoving moments after.
Holland paused and turned his feet toward the bank. He crouched at the river's edge and cupped his hand, dipping it in. The water looked clear against his palm, but the moment he touched the surface, he felt it.
Power.
Thrumming through his fingers, racing up his arm. Power, like his, and yet...
Was this what the people in his world felt when they were near him? Was this what Athos and Astrid felt when they —
No.
He shoved the thought away. Though Antari were fast healers, the cuts on his arms had been deep the last time. The ribbons of red had lightened day by day to a faded pink, soon to be pearly white against his pale skin — until he was commanded to do it again.
Stop wasting time. You have a job to do, Holland. The voice in his head. So like Athos' now.
Holland stood. With a flick of the wrist, he flung the water from his hand and made his way to the palace.
.
.
He was shown into the throne room, flanked on either side by two royal guards. The king and queen were seated. Their son, the prince, stood beside his father, head bent in quiet conversation. Behind them, Kell waited like a shadow.
Holland's eyes immediately sought the other Antari's. The young magician seemed to be giving the backs of the chairs a thorough study, gaze eventually sliding up as Holland approached.
With a blink, Holland looked away, attention drawn to the king and queen.
"Your majesties," he said with a bow.
Maxim and Rhy finished their discussion, the king's amber eyes now trained on the otherworldly messenger. Only the subtle shift in his brow betrayed the surprise at Holland's arrival. The prince, on the other hand, stared openly, mouth curving up a fraction. For a fleeting moment, Holland knew that smile was meant only for him.
"Master Vosijk. Is it time for letters already? I thought you weren't due back for another week."
"Apologies, sire. But the queen insisted on my earlier return." Holland reached a hand inside his cloak, feeling the guards beside him tense as he produced a rather thick envelope.
The slightest frown creased Maxim's brow. He rose, gesturing to an antechamber to his right. Holland made his way toward it, followed by the king. And Kell.
In the room stood a sideboard, a desk, a few chairs, and a settee. King Maxim went over to the sideboard and poured himself a drink.
"What news from Makt?"
"I believe his majesty will find all the answers to his questions in the letter I've brought."
"Indulge me, Master Vosijk."
Holland sighed, though to anyone watching it was nothing more than a slow breath of air. "Very well. The king and queen entreat his majesty to reconsider his position regarding reopening the doors between our two worlds. They feel they have been more than accommodating with your" — demands hung on his tongue, but Holland managed to swallow it just in time — "requests."
Maxim smirked. "Is that all?"
"Yes. All they would tell me, anyway."
The king studied him a moment, as if searching for a lie. But after nearly seven years in the hands of Astrid and Athos Dane, Holland had learned how to keep his face inscrutable, his motions undetectable. Had learned not to take up any more space or air than what was necessary.
Maxim held out his hand for the letter. Holland obliged.
"My stance on this has been firm," the king said, weighing the thick envelope in his palm, gaze never wavering from Holland's.
"The king and queen are aware of that."
"And what makes them think now will be any different?"
The corner of Holland's mouth gave the slightest twitch, as if frowning in thought. His voice was low, almost rasping when he answered. "I believe your majesty is more than familiar with the...unique situation my world faces — the position we are in. A buffer, between your world and the dark one. It drains what little resources we have. Things have become...desperate."
"Aren't they always?"
Holland kept his gaze impassive. Behind the facade, however, it was as if an icy hand had plunged into his chest and squeezed his heart. He had been anticipating the king's dismissal. Every time he delivered a letter, it was the same thing. The king asked for indulgence in a bit of conversation, and no matter how prettily Holland spun his words, he was always met with the same rebuff. But there were times when the king's words could cut even deeper than the blade Astrid and Athos forced to Holland's hand. Memories of Vortalis and the time before the Danes sang to him. Haunted him. Mocked him. Because Holland had known, then, what it was to hope. And he would be lying if he claimed not to cling to even the slightest shred of it.
Satisfied the Antari had nothing more to say, Maxim broke the seal and began to read.
The air in the room was just as perfumed as the rest of Arnes — perhaps more, or so it seemed to Holland. The chamber was small — small, and occupied by two powerful magicians, their scent made stronger by the close quarters. His eyes began to water. The itch at the back of his throat grated.
Holland coughed.
The king looked up at the sound, hardly more than a muffling of air in the quiet chamber. Again Holland adjusted the pin at his throat, fingers lightly pressed to the notch in his collarbone.
"My apologies, Master Vosijk. I did not mean to keep you. Kell will bring my response later this week."
"Your majesty, I'm afraid the king and queen have become rather impatient regarding this matter."
Maxim's jaw tightened. "I see. Master Kell, why don't you show our guest the Winter Garden? I believe the oracle roses are in bloom."
Holland gave a half-bow, knowing the king's patience was waning, but he had been ordered not to leave without an answer — though he knew what that answer would be. Maxim did not respond well to pressure. His moniker — The Steel King — not only referred to his prowess with metal, but also his strength of will. Stubbornness. His heels were firmly dug in on the matter, and nothing the Danes said, nothing Holland said, would change that.
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The Winter Garden almost reminded Holland of home. Almost. The air was crisper, the colors not as vibrant. But the floral scent remained. Holland tipped his head skyward as a light snow fell. The illusion would end, he knew, the moment they left this seasonal place. The rest of Arnes was nearing summer.
Beside him, Kell snapped his fingers. A flame danced to life on the tip of his thumb. He touched it to a roll of tobacco at his lips and inhaled.
A stream of smoke drifted by Holland. He breathed it in — but it, too, like everything else in Arnes, smelled too sweet.
"How has your tutoring been coming along?" he asked, stooping to examine a deep purple rose.
The other Antari made a noncommittal sound.
"Not well then, I take it?"
"No," Kell muttered. "And I wish he would stop deluding himself. Rhy has far too many other talents to be proud of, except..."
"Except for the one he wants."
Kell nodded and finished his tobacco.
"We call these hellebore where I come from," Holland said, indicating the rose. "They're reputed to cure madness. But too much can kill a man."
"Tieren says the mad speak in a language we do not yet understand, like the ancient oracles."
Holland's expression darkened. "Does he?" He wondered what the Head Priest would think of the mad after spending an hour with Athos and Astrid Dane.
"The ancients believed if a person drank a tea made from the rose's petals and suffered no ill effects," Kell continued, "then they were blessed, and the gods would speak through them. Hence the name oracle rose."
Holland straightened. "Tell me, how long am I supposed to pretend to admire poisonous plants, Master Kell?"
"A guard will come for us, when the king is ready."
"So no chance of stepping out for a drink, then?" Holland asked, a wry smile curving the corner of his lip.
"No."
Kell's mouth was set in a firm line, but his eyes indicated he had more he wished to say and was debating whether or not to say it. Holland turned back to the roses, bending a knee to the ground. His hand cupped the velvety petals. Frost spread from his fingertips, turning the rich purple into something grayer, muted.
Kell shifted his feet. "The king does not like being caught off guard."
"Which is why a ruler ought to always be on it." Holland withdrew his hand and stood, facing the other Antari.
"Do not think your unscheduled arrival or your waiting around for an answer will force the king's hand, Holland."
"Oh, I know it won't. But unfortunately, the king and queen of Makt are mistrustful of any advice that has been given willingly. Even if that advice comes from me. I am here under orders." Holland pulled at the pin securing his cloak.
Kell's eyes caught on the metal. He glanced up at Holland, then just as quickly away. The other Antari cleared his throat and let his hand fall.
A small crease knit Kell's brow. He looked at Holland again, seemingly on the verge of speaking, but was halted by the appearance of a royal guard.
"His majesty is ready for you," the man said, addressing Holland.
The Antari nodded and followed the guard. Kell trailed behind.
They were shown into the same antechamber just off the throne room. The king was seated at the desk, dripping red sealing wax on the back of an envelope. He pressed a ring into the crimson pool, imprinting the Maresh chalice and sun in the hardening wax. He handed the envelope to Holland and rose.
"I believe your king and queen will find my answer quite...incontrovertible." Maxim smiled, his eyes watchful.
"I have no doubt, your majesty," Holland said with a deferential nod. He tucked the letter in an inner pocket of his cloak, noting how noticeably thinner it felt compared to the missive he had earlier delivered.
A clock on the desk chimed. Maxim looked at it in feigned astonishment. "Is that really the hour? Time is slipping away from us, it seems. Master Vosijk, will you join us for dinner?"
"Thank you, sire, but I ought to return."
"Nonsense," Maxim said, waving Holland's comment away with an airy gesture. "It is getting late, and you must be hungry. I believe your king and queen can spare you for another hour or so."
Holland swallowed. Visits to other worlds usually played out in one of two ways: either quick and easy or long and diplomatic. And it seemed this visit was turning into the latter. Athos and Astrid had attempted to gain the upper hand through Holland's unexpected arrival, deliberately flouting whatever agreements had been drawn up in the past. It was a taunt, a teasing show of power. And in turn, Maxim was doing the same, his dinner invitation nothing more than a subtle reminder that he could keep their Antari as long as he wished now that Holland was in his realm.
There was a game Holland used to play, in the London that had no magic. Chess. It was the one thing the king there ever asked of him, to play a game of chess. Holland always obliged. Because in that London, a game of chess was just a game of chess. Innocent. Honest. Not a veiled power struggle. And in that moment, as Maxim watched him, waiting for his answer, Holland could not help but feel like little more than a pawn.
"As you wish, your majesty."
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- White London -
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Evening was passing into night by the time Holland returned to Makt, the sky darkening from hazy blue to charcoal. He slipped into the stone garden and from there, transported himself straight to his own chamber. A basin of water and towel stood on the small dresser across from his bed. The cut on Holland's hand was already healing as he dipped both hands in the basin and brought the water up to splash his face, cooling his forehead, his neck. Holland let his eyes slip closed, carefully rearranging his thoughts.
A whisper of air against his hand told him he was no longer alone. Holland's eyes opened. Athos Dane stood behind him, reflected in the dresser mirror, mouth curved in a leering smile.
"You've been gone a long time, Holland."
Fingers grazed up the back of his neck, curling through his hair. Ripples of sensation broke across his skin. And Holland hated it. His traitorous flesh, how easily his body could betray him.
Athos drew nearer. "Mmm. You still smell like them."
Holland's neck tensed. Water dripped from his chin into the basin below. He reached for the towel to dry his face, but Athos' hand was already on it, moving it just out of reach. He looked up at the Antari, a ravenous glint in his eyes.
Holland swallowed, keeping his head level. "You ordered me not to leave until I had an answer."
Athos lifted a hand. The corner of Holland's eye twitched, though the rest of him did not flinch.
Athos' smile widened, the hungry look in his eyes momentarily sated, as he traced a bead of water along Holland's jawline. "Then I trust you have one?"
Holland reached into his cloak, gaze never leaving Athos, and took out the letter. The king plucked it gingerly from his hand, smile becoming something more predatory as he considered the thin envelope, tapping it against his palm.
"Join me in the dining hall."
"Thank you, sire, but I haven't much of an appetite."
"That was not an invitation, Holland."
Athos made his way to the door, into the hall. Holland's feet followed, compelled by an invisible force, like a strong wind blowing against his back, pushing him along. He cursed inwardly, blaming the Arnesian wine Maxim had plied him with at dinner for his momentary slip, for mistakenly thinking Athos Dane would ever show him a modicum of consideration.
.
.
A bunch of grapes dangled lazily from Athos' fingers. For every one he ate, two were tossed at Holland, hitting him in the chest, the neck, the cheek, before bouncing off and rolling away somewhere. But Holland did not flinch or even try to swat the thrown fruit away. He couldn't. He had been ordered to stand still, beside the king, just within arm's reach. Athos delighted watching the struggle in the Antari's eyes, seeing him trying to will his body to move, to react.
The king's lips, stained a faint red from the juice, had not lost their predatory grin, though the novelty of his little game was waning. He was growing bored, and the fight in Holland's eyes had turned to a dull look as the Antari directed his frustrations inward.
Athos slouched down in his chair, throwing a booted foot up on the table. The letter remained beside his plate, unopened, as he picked at his food.
They were alone in the dining hall, Athos and Holland. The sound of low, pained moans echoing through the castle meant the queen was too preoccupied with other matters to join them at the moment — for which Holland was grateful. He stared at the table, remembering a time when he once had a seat there, beside his king, Vortalis. There had been chairs around the table then — not the crude benches on either side the Danes preferred. The benches left more of your enemy open and exposed, easy to attack. The high-backed chairs were reserved only for the king and queen. Even in Arnes, he had been given a seat, and though it was nothing more than a power play on Maxim's part, it allowed Holland a chance to observe. And he saw the warmth in the king and queen's eyes as they regarded their sons, saw the vague distance Kell held up as a shield against it. If the boy only knew what he had. You fool, Holland thought. His eyes then drifted over to the prince and the faint lines of want, of envy, creasing Rhy's brow as he watched Kell reheat his cold tea simply by holding the cup and willing it. Not for the first time, Holland wondered at the prince. How could one so powerless ever come to rule a world where magic was plentiful?
The sound of moaning stopped, leaving a deadly silence in its wake, dragging Holland back to the present. Soon the slow, even footfalls of someone entering the dining hall could be heard.
Astrid.
"Well, well," she purred, eyeing Holland. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Athos pushed himself up, the lupine grin returning to his face.
The queen sauntered behind her brother's chair, draping her long, pale arms around Athos' shoulders.
"We have a response, sister," he said, handing her the letter.
Astrid held it to her nose, breathing in the floral scent. With the flick of a sharp nail, she broke the seal and began to read. Holland watched her, her eyes narrowing a fraction, the pouting twist of her lips — like a spoiled child that had finally been told no by its parents.
"It seems the kingdom of Arnes derives great pleasure in rebuking us yet again. Or perhaps" — Astrid tossed the letter down onto Athos' plate and swept over to Holland, tilting his chin up with a sharp finger — "our little bird didn't sing prettily enough."
Holland felt the tip of Astrid's nail bite into his flesh as she pressed his chin back further. "What do you think, little bird?"
Over her shoulder, Holland saw Athos pick up the letter and skim it, saw Athos' face darken from amusement to indignation.
"Holland! How can you be so rude?" the king suddenly demanded, rising to his feet. "Offer your queen some refreshment!"
Holland tried to push the words down as he swallowed, but they clawed their way up and out of his throat, the question barely a rasping whisper. "...Would her highness care for something to drink?"
Astrid let go of his chin with a cruel smirk. "The usual, if you please. And make sure it's deep."
Holland's eyes flicked over to Athos. The king made an impatient gesture. "Well? Get on with it. Cut yourself."
Holland produced a knife from under his cloak and rolled up his sleeve. The pink scar shone against his pale skin. He steeled himself a moment, mind fighting body, then drove the blade in.
Crimson spilled out of the wound, running over his arm. Astrid picked up a goblet from the table and held it under the gash as Holland's blood filled the cup.
He curled his arm up close to his chest when it was done, ready to wrap it in the hem of cloak.
"Leave it," the king commanded.
Holland's arm fell to his side, feeling the warm, steady trickle run down his wrist.
"What are we going to do about these Arnesians, my queen?" Athos asked, coming to stand beside his sister.
"I think we should ask our little bird." Astrid lifted the goblet to her lips, eyes never leaving Holland's. "He likes to watch from his cage, when he thinks no one else sees. Collecting secrets the way a crow collects trinkets."
"Shall I make him sing for you, then?"
Astrid smiled. Athos' hand shot out, vising around Holland's injured arm. "Don't scream."
Athos pressed his fingers into the gash. An animal sound tore at Holland's chest, his throat, but his mouth remained firmly shut as pain flared up his arm. He sank to one knee, Athos' fingers still digging in.
As much as he pretended otherwise, Holland was not hollow; he was not immune to pain or sensation. He was not like the castle guards, emptied of everything by the king and queen's own hands, save for their manufactured obedience. In moments like this, Holland almost envied them. Like him, they had no will. Unlike them, however, Holland's mind was still his own. In a way, his punishment was far worse. Trapped in his head, only able to watch as his body acted under the will of another.
"Tell us, bird," Athos cooed, "what secrets lie under the gleaming kingdom of Arnes, hm? Their river may run red with power, but something taints it, yes?"
The hold around his arm relaxed and Holland sank to the side, catching himself with his other hand. Athos crouched in front of him, bringing their eyes level.
"In all the years you've served this crown, in all the trips through your little door to their world, tell us what you have discovered — what weaknesses you have found." Athos' grip tightened around the gash again. "And do not lie."
Holland grit his teeth. The scream he could not utter tore at his throat, his breath ragged, as he glared into the king's maliciously grinning eyes.
"Well, Holland?"
"The — the prince!" Holland rasped. "The prince is the key."
The king released his hold. Holland jerked his arm away, holding it close to his chest. Athos glanced at his sister a moment before looking back at the bleeding Antari, his look of cruel pleasure replaced by an eager hunger.
"And why is that?" Athos asked.
"Because," Holland panted, "he is the progeny of two of the most powerful magicians in the kingdom — and has no magic of his own..."
Athos' eyes gleamed.
Holland's head gave an almost imperceptible shake, the corner of his eye twitching as his mind warred with his tongue, desperate to hold back the last bit of it.
"Tell me," Athos breathed.
Holland's head snapped up. Behind his eyes, he saw the prince — the subtle smile as Holland had entered the throne room that afternoon; the shy glances across the table at dinner; those warm, amber eyes...
Holland swallowed as he stared back into the king's wanting face, as the words were pulled from his lips. "Magic...is the one thing...he will do anything for."
The lupine smile stretched across Athos' lips. Slowly he rose and turned to his sister, Astrid's face a perfect mirror of his.
"You've done well, Holland. Return to your room and stay. Get yourself cleaned up."
Holland stood on shaking legs, his head dizzy from the still bleeding cut on his arm, and stumbled from the dining hall.
He sank onto his bed moments later, pressing a damp cloth to his arm. He wanted to go — to leave and warn Arnes — but the king had ensured he would not. Return to your room. Stay. Such simple, little words — and yet they bound him to this place as surely as his body was bound to Athos' will. Betrayal weighed heavily on his shoulders, but all Holland could do was stare blankly ahead. He closed his eyes, lips silently repeating the names of everyone who had died by his hand. Soon that list would grow. And he hoped — as he always did — that one day Athos and Astrid would be among the many there.
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A/N: yes, I head canon the floral smell of Red London gives Holland allergies, try and stop me XD. Also, fun fact: "oracle rose" is actually a common name for hellebore. Traditionally around Christmas, twelve hellebore were picked, each representing a month for the coming year. If the flower bloomed for that month, it signified good weather. Conversely, if the flower failed to open, it indicated poor weather.
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed my first ever fic for the Shades of Magic series :)