In Prospit, it is the king's duty to execute traitors, and John did not pass it on to anybody.
His insurgency had crippled the Dictator's forces; with the addition of the Capricorns they did not stand a chance. The only thing was, of course, their bloodlust. Whenever the enemy tried to surrender, the Capricorns kept right on killing them, honking and braying and telling terrible jokes all the way, and the fighting would start back up again. John looked down at the dice in his hands. He had not used them since conjuring up Vriska's rope, preferring the hammer.
He did so now.
Every single person in the square suddenly developed a beatific grin on their face, as if they had earned perfect happiness, and sat down on the ground. An awful stench like putrid garlic filled the air. Some people giggled to themselves. Others stared up at the sky, still a multicolored torrent of dust, and gaped, slack-jawed, at all the colors. "Miracles," someone muttered. John thought this was a very anticlimactic way to end a war.
All the same, the next few days were hard work, and bloody, trying and executing all of the traitors. Some were brazen about their crimes, others wept and pleaded. Terezi returned from who knew where and served as the prosecution. At the end of the day they ended up building a gibbet because there were too many. They sneered at John, the worst of them, calling him a coward for shirking his duty, demanding that he crush their skulls with his hammer. John would have done it gladly, but they were in no position to make demands of him. But he did pull the lever himself. Some were already calling him King John the Cold Hearted. He didn't mind. He was going to fix Prospit, and they would remember him for that.
Sollux was standing across the street from his tiny, black house. It was the dead of night, and darker than the city had ever been. Sitting next to him was a huge rosewood box of foreign earth. It was the only thing in the house worth saving. He scratched himself under the heavy iron collar. The skin there was sickly pale, developing a rash. Hehe. He was talking like a 'plague-victim'. He knew what it was and it wasn't a plague, unless people can be plagues. The rash was the result of being bitten by a rainbow drinker. What was a little blood whenever she asked for it in exchange for freedom? He owed Kanaya everything. And maybe he'd messed up by blowing up the carriage but he brought her back, didn't he?
Sollux patted the box. He almost expected Rose to move around in there when he did but she'd be out for months with the transformation, being human, and the rosewood bound her in place anyway. His eyes started flashing, alternating colors. His body crackled with red and blue lightning, mingling into purple. Just one more house destroyed, he thought, just one more missing person. If they ever found out he was a traitor, he'd be too far away to swing from a gibbet. He fired a stream of purple energy at the house and it exploded spectacularly. Some of the rubble fell into the undercity; well, it was no secret anymore.
Sollux took his staff in hand, and then he and his box ascended into the roaring Harmattan.
Vriska woke up in the second most comfortable bed she had ever slept in, with hazy sunshine steaming in from the window. Sickly as it was, the sunshine felt delicious on her skin. It was stinging uncomfortably just below the surface layer, but it was a healthy sort of sting, like a disinfectant. "Good morning daughter," said the priestess from the cathedral, standing over her with a rosary. Only the fact that the sheets were stiff with thread-of-gold kept Vriska from thinking that this was all a dream and she'd only just been rescued from the Capricorn. "Why does my skin hurt?" asked Vriska, looking down at her hands. They looked unnaturally pale, like ashes in the morning light. And yet, she felt stronger than ever before.
The priestess strode over to the window and shut the curtains. Vriska's hands began to glow. "What," she said.
"I was unaware that you had decided to join the clergy," said the priestess happily. "And an auxiliatrix at that! Very few outside the jadebloods ever pass the necessary trials. I hear that they are exceptionally painful," she finished expectantly.
"I don't know," Vriska said, slowly and deliberately, as if talking to a child, "what the fuck," she was raising her voice now, "YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT!" And then she was staring the priestess in the eye from a few inches away, surprised at how quickly she'd made the leap from the bed to the window.
"Vriska?" said a groggy voice. Over in the corner, sitting on a chair with a gold-velvet cushion, was John, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and fumbling for his glasses.
"John!" she shouted excitedly, running over to him (she was with him in an instant) and helping him with his glasses. He smiled at her and immediately blushed furiously and looked away.
Vriska rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, don't act like you've never seen a girl in her shift before—" she cut off as she looked down and realized that she was glowing right through her nightgown. She stumbled backwards toward the bed and wrapped herself from head to toe in the blankets. "You can look now," she muttered.
"Um," John began, still not quite looking at her (the priestess giggled), "we found you in a puddle of your own blood, next to a basket with the Dictator's head in it. There was a letter pinned to his forehead. It was addressed to you, I think."
Vriska raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean you think?"
"It was written in Middle Trollish," he said, producing a letter sealed in green wax with cobalt blue writing and handing it to her. She noticed that he had a limp prosthetic arm hanging from his right side.
Vriska took the letter. The handwriting was small and neat, an elegant yet legible cursive, although the first letter of each word was capitalized and in print. And it was written in Vriska's own blood; she could smell herself on it. Translating it fumblingly, not as good at the language as she had let on, she slowly made her way through the document.
I Hope This Letter Finds You Well, Vriska Serket. I Would Hate To Have Killed You; The World Would Be Far Less Interesting Without You In It. Furthermore, I Would Like To Thank You For Your Aid In Recovering My Poor Lost Princess. I Certainly Wish You Had Been Less Rough With Her, But I Understand You Saw It As A Necessity And Am More Than Willing To Forgive It Considering That I Paid You Back Quite Effectively. In The Same Stroke That I Rewarded You For Your Aid Of Course.
You Are Now A Rainbow Drinker If You Have Yet To Figure It Out And Obviously If You Are Still Alive. You Are Also Inextricably Tied To Me. Even Now You May Feel Me At The Edge Of Your Consciousness Depending On How Far From Prospit I Have Absconded By The Time You Wake. The Transformation Can Take Quite Some Time; My Darling Rose Is Still Sleeping As I Write This And Likely Will Remain So For Months. I Promise I Will Not Abuse This Link And You May Choose To Ignore Our Relationship At Anytime You Please. I Do Hope However, That You Will Pursue Me. A Good Kismesitude Is Difficult To Come By.
—Kanaya Maryam
Vriska could, in fact, feel her, somewhere far off. To the north perhaps. It was like a slight tickling sensation at the back of her mind, combined with the touch of a cold finger through a thick layer of fabric. "What the fuck is this crazy broad's problem," Vriska said, crumpling it in her hands. "AND HOW LONG HAVE I BEEN ASLEEP!?" she roared.
John chuckled. "A few weeks," he said.
Vriska felt dizzy. "Oh God," she muttered, sitting down at the edge of the bed.
"So Vriska," said John, "Would you…" he paused for a moment, as if trying to find the words, "like to have breakfast with me?" he concluded lamely.
Vriska's stomach rumbled audibly as if in answer. "Do they still make those muffins?" she asked. John nodded excitedly. Vriska tossed the letter aside and leapt to her feet. "Then what are we waiting for?"
The priestess shooed John out of the room and dressed Vriska in a simple blue dress that ended just below her knees and pair of little red shoes. It made her feel like a little girl. "What is this?" she snapped, looking in the mirror.
"Hush daughter," said the priestess. "You need to sit down so I can brush your hair out."
"That'll take forever!" Vriska shouted, stomping her foot, "And I'm hungry NOW!" It occurred to her that she must have picked up some bad habits from Karkat.
The priestess giggled and put a hand on Vriska's shoulder; she felt a wave of calm flow through her body from the contact. It occurred to her that she was being manipulated. She sat back down. "Don't you want to look pretty for the king?" the priestess asked.
Vriska snorted as the priestess grabbed hold of her unruly mop of hair. "If he doesn't think I'm pretty already it's because of his wonky eye and I won't judge him for his disability," she said piously. "And stop calling me daughter," Vriska mumbled. "We're the same age."
"Oh?" asked the priestess.
"Are you blind?" Vriska asked. "We hatched from the same egg. Obviously." She tried to pin it on the similarity of their appearance and not the fact that she ascended.
"I suppose that makes us sisters," said the priestess. "Like humans have! You should probably stop referring to me by my title then," she muttered as she worked.
"I never refer to you as anything," said Vriska. "And who cares if we're sisters? We don't need to do anything about it."
"Well," said the priestess, "If the king can be black for his pageboy then we can certainly try being sisters." They both giggled. "And of course you refer to me as my title; we're both telepaths and I can hear you thinking it. Call me Aranea, please."
"Okay fine," said Vriska, exasperated. "I'll have to ask John later for some pointers on this sibling nonsense. It's kind of like a mandatory Moirail for life I hear."
"Perhaps after the Princess's wedding," mused Aranea.
Vriska choked. "Whhhhhhhhat?" she coughed.
Aranea nodded. "They wanted to wait for you to wake up first, of course, but being impatient, his Lordship demanded the ceremony be held as soon as you could walk. The cathedral has been ready for days."
Vriska raised an eyebrow. His Lordship? "Joooooooohn?"
"No, Lord Vantas," Aranea corrected. "He was made Lord Captain of the Knights of Prospit, second only to the Lord Marshall and the King himself. They make quite a triumvirate, don't you think?"
"I have no idea who or what the Lord Marshall is," Vriska snapped. "This is so stupid." Well, inside she was happy for Karkat. And she'd never been to a wedding before; she hoped it wasn't boring.
Kankri VII, Patriarch of the Church of the Sufferer, had come in all the way from the Lopah to officiate the ceremony. It was after all, a royal wedding. He was one of the youngest Patriarchs ever raised to the manacles; the ancient iron chains that had allegedly bound the Sufferer himself and were the sign of his station. By many who did not know him, he was known as Kankri the Handsome. By those who did know him, he was called Kankri the Insufferably Boring. Sometimes not even to his back.
At first Vriska had tried to concentrate on the bride and groom. Jade looked so happy, and they'd managed to tame that hair of hers into some tasteful ringlets. Her long white gown was spangled here and there with little green jewels, sparkling like stars, and it was tied around the waist with a big girlish bow, in bright, happy green (Vriska decided to taunt Karkat later with jokes about unwrapping some presents if you know what I'm sayiiiiiiiin'). Karkat himself, in contrast, certainly looked nice in a brand new blue and gold uniform, with an ivory-hilted war-sickle at his waist, but he was so clearly nervous that Vriska wondered if he was about to throw up all over Jade's nice white dress. Vriska was tempted to mind-control him, though she wasn't sure if she wanted to make him straighten up or throw up.
The church was itself decorated with flowers and ribbons in their colors; green and black for Jade, red and grey for Karkat (colors that he had arbitrarily chosen as an afterthought upon being created a lord). Vriska hadn't even known flowers came in most of those colors; they were probably dyed. All the same, everything was beautiful. It was like some kind of fairy tale, except not really, because every fairy tale she'd ever read had a very minimalistic style and she wondered at the origins of the expression.
However, as the pompous troll in the red droned on and on about nothing, Virska's interest waned and she found herself staring up at the ceiling demanding to fall asleep again. She would probably wake up in another few weeks, and this asshole might even be done talking by then, but she wouldn't hold out hope. Looking up through the glass dome of Domina Nostrum de Fortuna for the first time in her life, she could see that the haze was still there, but getting much lighter; the sun was a little golden disc hidden by the flying dust, like a coin at the beach. She watched it move across the sky; it passed right through the golden ring she'd stolen way back when at one point, and it gleamed like a glowing eye for a moment before again growing dim. Most of the dust was yellow today, painting the sky gold just like the city. It was a pretty sight and far more interesting than the Patriarch.
Some people stared at her and emulated her movements; she had glowing skin, so the more pious ones thought she was important. Well, she was also sitting next to the king on a padded pew to the right of the altar, where everyone could see them. John touched her hand. "Vriska," he whispered, "don't worry, I've heard his sermons before; he's starting to wind down," John said.
"Really?" Vriska whispered excitedly.
John nodded. "We're nearing the end of the second church era; he just needs to tell us about the third one and then he'll finally start talking about wedding stuff, then comes the lecture on fidelity—"
Vriska jumped to her feet. "Oi! Preach!" she shouted, "We ain't got your time! Move it along or Iiiiiiii'll just do the ceremony!" The crowd murmured uncertainly to itself while John burst out laughing.
The uproar served to merely stir the bridal couple out of the stupor they'd been in for the past few hours. While at first they had been content to hold hands and look each other in the eyes, wondering how they had lived before this day, it was no longer as mind-blowing as it had been before noon.
The Patriarch sighed. "I hope you don't take this as an abuse of my authority, Madame, as I understand that the auxilatrices played an important role in my ascendancy. In fact, my tetrapartite reprimand of your actions can and must be prefaced by the fact that I am fully cognizant of the following points; one: that I am a guest in this country and despite my superior rank it would be impolitic to offend the gentry and members of the clergy. These shall be referred to as the second and third estate from here on in not only for convenience's sake but also so as to avoid triggering any possible adherents of the Beforan republican system, but I digress. The second point of which implications I am aware is the fact that the twin cities are considered quote-unquote 'holy' in church doctrine (and despite my obvious adherence as actual Patriarch of the church towards said doctrine I use the enclosure talons so as not to offend any member of the other Two Faiths who may not believe in the sanctity of the cities [and now I observe several members of the audience to be beast-men as well, so I shall alter my statement to include members of their religion along with whatever religion the trolls of the purple-blooded caste {'Capricorn' being considered oversimplification bordering on pejorative among scholars as only some purple-bloods are given the Capricorn mark} might follow, and in the admittedly unlikely event that a Cherub {Madame limeblood accompanying the Dersite prince, please stop giggling as I was being entirely serious} or Leprechaun is present in the audience, I will extend this courtesy to members of all possible religions] but I have deviated from my original point long enough; which is to say that the twin cities have historically been very metropolitan) and therefore that my presence here may be, and in fact has historically been, considered interference on the part of the Lopah into the affairs of—"
Jade started hooping on one foot and raising her hand to get his attention. "My knees really hurt, Mr. Patriarch," Jade said with a sheepish smile.
"I totally respect the sanctity of the church and all that jazz but I've been needing to pee for the past hour, ever since it was made a sin to pail with a Moirail actually," Karkat snapped.
The Patriarch clasped his hands with a sigh and looked up at the statue of the sufferer. The green-marble colossus seemed to loom disapprovingly, like a father who's child loves telling stories but takes far too long to get to the point, but he doesn't want to hurt the kid's feelings. "The groom has written his own vows," said the Patriarch, resignedly. One day he would get through an entire wedding ceremony.
Jade gasped. "I didn't! I didn't write anything! I feel awful—"
Karkat grabbed her by the shoulders. "Jade," he began, sounding dangerously earnest, "Listen to me. If I ever hurt you, you take this fucking sickle here and cut me off like a gangrenous limb because I will clearly have proved that I am no good and deserve everything I get. As it stands I don't even deserve you at all," he said, and paused for a moment. "BUT I AM GOING TO FUCKING TRY—" Jade lunged forward and kissed him and the crowd cheered.
"I have yet to conclude the ceremony," Kankri announced. No one paid him any mind. The happy couple's kiss was starting to escalate in intensity. Someone was already ringing the church bells. The king and his…guest, the rainbow drinker, were sneaking out a side door, arm in arm. Kankri fiddled with his miter and turned back to the statue again. "Give me a sign, Holy Father," he pleaded. The Sufferer said nothing and looked on benevolently, as he always had. Kankri quietly declared Jade and Karkat man and wife before sitting down in the corner.
John kissed Vriska chastely on the corner of the mouth and pulled her away towards the back of the building. There was an enclosed courtyard where the reception would be held later; in the corner Vriska noticed the little parish office where Aranea, her sister, had sheltered her all that time ago. Not even three months? It felt like twice that. She'd thought, going in, that this adventure would pass by like a week, but what did she know?
The sun was starting to set and the dust haze was burning a brilliant, burnt orange color uniformly across the sky. Every shadow was dim, and it seemed like the golden city was ablaze with light where before it had been ablaze with fire. Only visible on the ground around Vriska, a dim halo of white light was starting to form as her skin began to light up to combat the growing dimness. "It's beautiful isn't it?" asked John. Vriska smiled at him and saw him smile back, eyes sparkling. His hair was nearly back to normal now and he had shaved. He looked young again, and ravishing in his uniform, royal blue and gold, an outfit that he'd more than earned.
It really is," she said, throat dry and devoid of words. John blushed slightly and looked away. Vriska sighed. Maybe Karkat had been right and they were just doomed to be awkward.
"You're beautiful," he said, getting down on one knee. "And smart, and…" he sputtered. "You're everything I'm not. I—wrote this a long time ago and forgot all the good parts and now it's all jumbled in my head and I'll never get it right again but will you marry me?"
Vriska felt a pang in her heart as shivers ran up and down her skin…mixed with the slightest hint of guilt. She had yet to tell him about Rose. But he looked so happy now… She'd tell him another time, she decided, soon, but first, she grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him up onto his feet; with rainbow drinker strength it was as easy as lifting a feather. Then she pulled him in close and gave him a hard, wet kiss. "You goofball," she said, smiling. "How about we go on an actual date first? One without the Patriarch of Long Boring Speeches involved?"
John's face was stoic but he smelled confused. Between her telepathy and her drinker powers, Vriska felt that reading people too easily was going to become a problem. She winked at him. "I know a great place on White King's Boulevard, if it didn't explode. They have lobster." And she led him away by the arm, out into the streets of Prospit.
Author's note: Holy shit it's over. The feels. I know I said there'd be a sequel but still. This is my longest work now, and my longest complete work ever too. Holy Sufferer.
The constant refrain of how happiness must be earned is probably the element from The Thief of Bagdad that persisted the longest, though even in the third act of this story we were still following that plot, until it became Dracula of course. I am considering calling the next volume of the story "Bram Stoker's Maryam" but that might be too spoilery, what do you think?
I will now of course take the time to thank Douglas Fairbanks, Charlie Chaplain, Bram Stoker, Mary Shelly, Fritz Lang and the German impressionist movement, the idea of cinema, Andrew Hussie, God, and Satan. If I left any of my other sources out they were clearly not important enough.
It has been such a journey my friends. If you have any unanswered questions feel free to ask them and I will try to make up something that will satisfy you because "I fucked up" is rarely an acceptable answer.
Please leave a comment dear readers; this is like, the end of an era. And I think The Thief of Prospit deserves a TV tropes page *nod*.
