A/N: Everyone talks about Morag/Brighid's initial resonance...and that's epic. Because they're epic. But what about Hugo and Brighid? Enter this 'lil one-shot.
I've had this one written for over a month now, but I neglected to post it. So here it is.
The Fate of the Emperor's Second Son
There was so much blood.
The crimson liquid seeped from every opening in Cathal's head: nose, ears, mouth, even his eyes. So much for his name's meaning, "strong in battle." Hugo's breath hitched at the sight. Had it killed him? Resonating with a Blade was always dangerous, and one so powerful as the Jewel could burn the life away from someone without potential. But surely Cathal wasn't that lacking in aptitude.
One of the royal physicians rushed forward and put two fingers to the crown prince's neck—no, not the crown prince anymore.
"He's alive. Let's get him to the infirmary."
Two soldiers picked up the prince by the shoulders while Special Inquisitor Vill Ethelmar pried the still-dormant crystal from the clenched, unconscious palm. The look on the Inquisitor's face was nearly unreadable, but Hugo could see the disappointment lingering there. Ethelmar's master had failed. He would not be Emperor.
"Lord Hugo. If you will."
Hugo wished they would at least wipe up the blood before demanding he take his turn. But Mor Ardain must have an Emperor. And the succession laws were quite clear: no Blade, no crown.
What if I fail? Then who would rule?
Better not to think about that now. No, he would succeed. He had to. Becoming a Driver had always been a private dream of his. And only in his most secret dreams had he entertained the possibility that Brighid might be his, not Cathal's. Such was the anticipated fate of the Emperor's second son.
It felt wrong, somehow, to celebrate that notion when the drama of the succession ritual hung so thick in the air. No matter what Cathal did, Mor Ardain would now hold him in a lower regard. Even now, Hugo could sense that disdain in the lingering whispers of the nobles and Senators who'd gathered to watch the ceremony.
"My lord?"
Hugo glanced at the crystal in Ethelmar's outstretched palm. Like this, the pale, glowing blue gem looked so harmless. Ordinary, even. He hesitated, wondering if the Blade within would scorch him or accept him.
Nothing for it, he decided.
At first touch, the crystal was cool within his fingers, like glass. But something sparked deep within its center, spiraling warmth, then heat, then burning until the surface was almost too hot to hold. That heat pooled in his palm, only to shoot up his arm. It coursed like liquid fire through his veins.
It took all his self-control not to drop the crystal like a glowing coal. Instead, he clenched it against his chest. The fire—no, the ether, he realized—struggled within every cell in his body. It tried to dominate him, to force him into servitude, testing if he had the strength and will to withstand it.
There was an instinct to push back, to fight against this foreign substance in his body. But what was the use? He shouldn't fight against Brighid. If the resonance succeeded, she was to be his partner. His equal...well, nearly. And fighting against a partner was not a great first impression. So instead, he found himself cooperating with the ether, urging Brighid to manifest herself from the core.
I promise to do my utmost to be worthy of being called your Driver, he vowed—more to himself than to her.
But something changed then; the ether's burn cooled, or at least, it didn't burn so badly now. Another rush of energy followed as the ether withdrew and converged into a singular point. No, a singular figure. And to any Ardainian worth his salt, a very familiar figure.
Brighid, Jewel of the Empire. Jewel of the Emperor.
Nothing about her was a new sight. Hugo had seen hundreds, maybe thousands of depictions of her in art and fairytales. Some of the common folk had even drawn murals of her. And disrespectful though it was to deface public property, those murals seemed a fitting tribute to her, the Blade whose flames had scoured a place for Mor Ardain among the world's strongest nations.
But despite Hugo's familiarity with the sight of her, he found himself gaping now. It didn't feel real. Her surprisingly tall, regal figure; the purple hair, trickling with tails of azure fire; the stern, calculating brow above eyes that couldn't be bothered to even blink; the crystalline limbs that glowed with pulsing ether; the familiar whipswords that manifested in each hand—this was his Blade. He passed her test.
Relief washed over him. He willed his knees not to buckle and made a concerted effort to slow his breathing. He hadn't even realized he was panting from the exertion.
That relief, however, was quickly replaced by the feeling of the spotlight he now found himself in. Everyone in the room—except Brighid—bowed. To him.
"Long live Emperor Hugo."
Emperor? This youngling? Surely this child in front of her was not the ruler of all these people. Who put a country's reins in the hand of someone so innocent?
And yet when Brighid looked at him, her core burned with a thrum of familiarity. Something deep within her knew it without being told; the boy was her Driver. Well, at least being bonded with a child meant she had a decently long life ahead of her.
She spent much of the morning wondering what was going on; she gathered there were a lot of formal, ceremonial things occurring. A man in a uniform was talking to her Driver, putting a winglike-crown over his ear and explaining that a formal coronation would occur soon. And then there was a lot of bowing and congratulating and prattling on—disingenuous flattery, she could tell.
After what felt like an eternity, she and her Driver were ushered into a private room and advised to "spend a few hours getting to know each other." An awkward silence followed. She took that pause to study him a little more intently.
Very petite, even for a boy. Dark, silky hair—she almost wanted to touch it, but thought better of it—and deep blue eyes. Perfectly erect posture with hands always clasped behind his back. And immaculate, opulent clothes.
But still, he looked...uncomfortable. And something told her it was due to the one-sided crown that hovered over one ear. It seemed lopsided. Almost as lopsided as making a child rule.
"You don't look like much of a fighter," she said flatly, breaking the silence.
"That can be remedied with sufficient training, I expect," he replied.
His voice was deeper than she would have expected from such a slight frame. And Architect, such mature phrasing. Maybe there was more to him than first met the eye.
"Just how old are you, anyway?" she asked.
"Fourteen."
"And you're to be the Emperor?"
Hugo winced momentarily, but the pained expression passed almost as quickly as it had appeared. Maybe she shouldn't have said it so directly.
"You're a bit...blunter than I expected," he replied at last. "While you are welcome to speak frankly with me, I must request that you temper your wits when we are in court."
To hear such authority from such a youthful face—it was almost laughable. And yet she found it charming, almost as if there was a little trace of childish spunk hiding beneath the mask of royalty he wore.
She gave him a small smile before responding. "As long as I am permitted to speak my mind towards my Driver, I suppose I can agree to that."
"Is there anything you wish for me to explain to you?" Hugo asked. "Your journals will be retrieved from the archives shortly, though. I believe they will be far more enlightening than I."
"My journals?"
He nodded. "As the story goes, you like to keep a journal. You've recorded stories from your adventures for more than twenty lifetimes already, I believe."
The second he said the words, there was another spark of familiarity. Yes, she did like to write. And twenty lifetimes? The concept of so much longevity seemed unfathomable to her newly-minted memories. She immediately craved the opportunity to read them.
"Ah." It was the only verbal response she could manage at first.
"Back to the matter at hand, however. We haven't much time to talk. Do you have any pressing questions?"
He'd flinched the first time she asked, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. She had to ask again.
"I'd like you to explain why someone so young must lead a country."
His eyes fell, and for a moment, he didn't answer. Maybe this wasn't such a good conversation to have—not so soon after meeting. But he was right; she was blunt. And she wanted to know, because something about the circumstances just felt...unjust. Shouldn't he have a childhood?
"Coeia and Mor Ardain are at war. We have been for years. The Emperor is expected to lead his people into battle. One such battle claimed my father's life...just two weeks ago." Hugo hesitated, taking a few deep breaths. He didn't bother to wipe away the solitary tear that slid down his cheek—the side that bore the crown. "My elder brother was supposed to rule after his passing. But since he lacked the potential to resonate with you, the mantle passed to me. So here we are."
His mood visibly darkened as he explained the event so succinctly. Now she regretted asking.
"My apologies," Hugo said, noticing the uncomfortable look on her face. "This is no way to celebrate our new partnership."
"Nonsense. It was I who brought it up. I should apologize."
"There is no need for it. It was only natural to be curious. My countrymen likely share the sentiment. I only hope that I can allay their fears during my coming years of sovereignty."
"...I'm sorry about your father."
"Thank you."
For the first time, she ignited an ether link between them. Maybe she should have asked permission, or at least explained what she was doing. But that sad look on his childish face—it didn't belong. She wanted to ease his pain. And letting him share his pain with her seemed like the only way to do that.
The second the link was formed, she recognized many of the things he hadn't said. His feelings were mixed. He was proud to have a Blade, to finally be a fighter and Driver for the Empire. And he was excited to learn how to use her power. But he also dreaded the crown on his head. The weight of his new authority loomed over him. And he feared that his brother would loathe him for unintentionally stealing the throne out from under him.
Architect, how could such a tiny human juggle so many emotions at once?
"You don't really want to be the Emperor." It was a simple declaration of fact, not a question.
He gave a simple nod. "Deep down, I've always wanted to be a soldier. To put myself on the line for my people—I can think of no greater honor. But now it seems the Empire has called me to be its leader instead. And that is a mantle I cannot refuse. It would be a disservice to my late father and an insult to my brother, who wanted to rule but can't. And so the soldier Hugo is gone. Now I shall simply be Emperor Hugo."
As she looked at him then, she realized how well the title suited him, despite his youth. To abandon his dreams with such grace and answer the call of duty...he was more mature than he looked. And yet, she didn't want him to abandon his dreams entirely. Maybe that was where she came in.
Yes. That was her purpose. To protect him and his dreams.
"I don't think you have to choose between Emperor and soldier," she said at last.
"Hm?"
"Perhaps with my help, you can be both. An Emperor and a soldier."
He grinned. "I'd like that very much. Let the enemies of Mor Ardain witness the power of Brighid and her Driver."
There it was again—that resolve and maturity beyond his years. And the smile was so genuine, as if her mere suggestion had already eased the burden of wielding the authority he didn't really want.
Serving at his side would be a fulfilling lifetime, Brighid decided.
A/N: I'm still not over Hugo's death, guys. He was such a precious 'lil cinnamon roll. May his soul rest in peace as part of the great ether stream.