So. You know that thing where you sit down to write 300 words and end up writing 3000? 'Cause that's what just happened to me. This is more or less a prequel surrounding Luxa and Aurora. There's this line about how, following her parents' death, Luxa went through a long period where she didn't feel safe on the ground. And I pretty much took that and ran with it. Had I had more time, I would have included a scene where Luxa and Aurora actually bond in, too, but, y'know, didn't have the time, and I think the pacing would have been bad if I'd included that. Also, Aurora may be out of character because, well, she has so little speaking lines that it is kind of hard to gauge what kind of person she is. But if there's one of these drabbles (hah) you are to review, I beg you, make it this one.
The first days after her parents die, Luxa will not leave the palace.
You are the queen, Luxa! You must show them that all hope is not lost!
You are not afraid, are you?
The guards will protect you, Your Highness. Fear not!
From admonishment to false reassurances to goading— everyone who can tries to coax her out, and none succeed.
She barely makes it to the Throne Room for her coronation. She screams as she is dragged down the floors, and it is only once Henry tells her that any gnawer would hear such a scream from far away that she silences.
She does not want to go down.
The lower she moves, the closer she gets to a place where they can reach her.
Them.
The rats.
But no rat can claw its way up the smooth black of the palace walls, her father had told her once. Sandwich had built it as such — a doorless fortress to keep his people safe, with no crevice for evil to enter through.
But then, her father had told her so many things.
And the gnawers took his crown regardless.
She has never been meant to bear that crown — it is the king's, and she is a queen. There is no difference, really, though Vikus says that there once was. That the king's crown was held in greater regard than the queen's.
Well, the blacksmiths ought to forge a new one, now.
Luxa did not see it herself, but she knows — knows what the prophecy said; knows that King Gorger tore her father open like a gutted fish; knows that he wrenched the crown from a crushed skull and would have taken her mother's too had the guards not been quick—
At least she does not have to bear her mother's crown yet. Only the princess' crown, as if she is some strange middle stage — not quite a queen, but far from a princess.
Yet with a crown comes duties — and they demand that she must leave the palace. She must step foot on the ground.
And she— she— she cannot.
She cannot.
She cannot, she cannot, she cannot—
SHE CANNOT, FOOLS!
What fool steps foot on the ground when the ground is treacherous and unguarded and the very playing field of the gnawers? What fool steps foot on the ground when they might have the benefit of the high ground? What fool decides to fight a gnawer twice his size on the ground when he has a flier to aid him—
Alexiares was torn from the air when he attempted to dive at King Gorger, they all tell her, His Majesty had no choice but to fight on his own!
Yet there were hundreds of other fliers in Regalia that day!
When a man has failed his bond, does he turn to another flier to save his own hide? is their answer.
And it does not change anything.
Her father died because he put his feet on the ground, and so did her mother, her mother who should have stayed in the palace, where no gnawer may reach her, but who wanted to stand by her husband's side, and—
Luxa longs to cry.
She cannot.
So she screams and rages instead.
Her behavior is unbefitting of a queen, they say. And she must go to meet her people in the streets.
She will not.
She will not touch the ground again.
"Very well," says Vikus, who spends his days shedding the tears and carrying out the duties she cannot, "but may you fly?"
She may.
She may, and she must.
Even if she is terrified of stepping a foot outside of the palace.
But if she flies, no gnawer can reach her.
Vikus assigns her a golden flier. Her name is Aurora, and Luxa knows her already — she is one of Ares', who is Henry's bond, few friends. But she is so quiet, and Luxa regrets to say that they have never quite spoken.
It is good to have a silent companion to weather Luxa's bouts of rage.
Now, Luxa dares to move outside the palace. She holds speeches for her people, willing her voice not to shake — she is the queen now, and no longer just the princess child — and spies her broken city.
Yet she never sets foot on the ground. The mere thought of doing so makes her more terrified than she has ever been.
Aurora is a good flier — she knows when Luxa's patience has worn thin, when only rage and fear remains. And more than that, she knows not to offer platitudes.
They spend time together outside of Luxa's royal duties, too. Mostly, it is Henry who initiates, dragging the four of them — Luxa, Henry, Ares, Aurora — on odd trips through crooked caves and tunnels. Usually, the guards tail them with vigilant eyes, not willing to let their gaze off them for even a minute.
It should make Luxa feel safer.
Yet she cannot help but think — if the guards are any useful, then why are her parents dead?
She rants as much to Aurora.
Sometimes, Aurora will offer one of her rare sentences — "The guards had not their eyes on your parents."
"But that is what they must!" shouts Luxa.
"They must," agrees Aurora. "But they had not." She pauses. "It is cruel."
"Then how are they worth anything to me?"
"I suppose they are not, then," Aurora says. "They are meant to give you security, yet they do not."
"Nothing will give me security," Luxa spits. "They— they— they were meant to save my father, and my mother, yet they did not. They were meant to protect Regalia, yet they did not. They swear solemnly that they may serve us, yet— yet— even Alexiares did not save my father!"
Something changes. The muscles of Aurora's neck tense ever so slightly. "Nor did His Majesty save Alexiares," she says, yet her voice is stiffer than usual.
His Majesty. Usually, Aurora would have called the king Luxa's father, if only to her face lest the guards hear and think Aurora disrespectful.
"How could he have?" Luxa says. Her voice is wearing thin, exasperation setting in. "How could he have, when he must kill Gorger?"
"That is not for me to answer, Your Highness," says Aurora.
But Luxa can hear it.
She can hear the possibilities.
Her father may have deflected the blow that tore through his bond's wing; he may have struck Gorger's paw, or he may have told Alexiares to fly upwards to evade.
Yet he didn't — for he was the king, and he needed an opening.
And so he lost his bond.
Luxa knows that the breaking of bonds is a terrible thing — even seeing one's bond died and having done what one could is still terribly shameful, albeit not a criminal offense as turning one's back on one's bond is.
For the bond is the person who will save you when you cannot save yourself.
Luxa swallows. She wants to ask, who will save me? She wants to scream at Aurora — and she wants to apologize.
One bond died, and so did the other.
The guards failed — and bonds failed.
"Nothing will give me security," she says weakly. "Nothing. I— even if I set foot on the ground, even if all of Regalia stood as a ring of protection around me— I will never be safe. Never! The gnawers wil find me, and they will kill us, and I— I may as well be dead already."
Aurora only says, "Yes. We may as well be dead already."
—
Luxa makes a vow that night.
If they may as well be dead already — why not live each day as if it is her last?
Yes, that is it!
If each day is her last, then what does it matter? She will know death from the morning — it will never ambush her.
—
The next day, she wakes up and says, "Today is my last."
And if this is her last day, then what does she have to fear?
She must step foot on the ground.
When Aurora meets her in the High Hall, Luxa says, "You must take me to the arena. I want to train with my people. And then—" She inhales. "I must meet them on the ground."
A peculiar thing happens, then — instead of allowing Luxa to climb onto her back, Aurora jerks sharply to the side.
"What? Aurora?" Luxa is alarmed. Aurora never behaves as such. "Are you alright?"
Aurora steadies. She turns back to Luxa, and then, slowly at first, a sound begins to emanate from her chest. It is an odd, humming sound — "huh, huh, huh."
Luxa blinks. She cocks her head. "What— what are you—?"
The sound stops. "Oh," Aurora says. "I was merely— surprised."
"That I am stepping foot on the ground again?" Luxa huffs. "Well, I ought to. The people must think me arrogant, for me to approach them on the back of a flier when I do not even have a bond!"
The "huh huh huh" sound reappears.
Luxa recognizes it, then.
It is a rare sound, but she has heard it before — when Henry and Ares go gallivanting, Henry telling jokes and Ares—
"I— Aurora. Are you— are you laughing?"
Aurora sobers up once more, but there is something… different about her. "I apologize. I did not think you a person with much mirth. Mostly, our conversation is… dark."
"It— it is of no matter," Luxa says. She feels self-conscious. It is true — Aurora mostly hears Luxa agonizing about death and fear. "I— I have decided on something. You said that we may as well be dead already. And if that is the truth, then what is there to fear?"
Aurora is silent. Luxa thinks of how, if Vikus had heard her words, he would have been quite alarmed and likely have told her that there is no such thing as being "dead already."
She does not understand how he can believe so firmly in hope and peace while the prophecies he loves so tell only of death and war.
But Aurora only says, "Very well. Then let us set out for you to touch the ground."
And so they do.
They fly across Regalia, guards following in their wake. In the streets, the citizens look at the sky and wave. Some even shout her name. The city is still ravaged from the gnawers' assault, and will be for long. But it will recover — she will make it so.
The arena is somewhat vacant, but then, so is all of town. Aurora dives towards the oblong patch of green and hovers over the middle. They have come here to train, too — though they are not bonds, it is only fitting that the queen learn how to fight on a flier. And Aurora favors the same lithe, acrobatic maneuvers that Luxa does, so they are a good team.
But Luxa has not trained on the ground since before her parents died.
That will change today.
Today is my last. Today is my last, she chants silently. Whatever jeopardy I may find myself in, it does not matter. I must make the best out of the day.
"Do not set me down," she whispers to Aurora. "I wish to do—"
"A flip?" Aurora laughs ever so slightly. "Do remember that you have not landed on the ground for weeks."
But it is alright. It is alright.
Luxa is not afraid.
She is not.
She stands up on Aurora's back. People are amassing about her, but she shouts, "Stand back!" and picks out a spot on the ground.
And then she leaps.
And she spins.
And she twists.
And she arcs.
She flies.
And then the ground closes in.
And she knows that she will land wrong. Her body is in the wrong angle, her head is too close to the ground, and—
I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I knew when I woke up today that this would be my last day, and I— I—
"I am not afraid!" she bellows.
If she is to die today, then let her die without fear.
There is a flash of fur beneath her.
For a moment, she feels as if she is drifting upwards once more.
Then she is in freefall again, except this time, her angle is right.
And she lands with both feet on the ground.
There is silence.
Then the clapping sounds.
And the shouting.
"Your Highness, Your Highness! Have you come to train?"
"How magnificent, Your Highness!"
"Our queen is both graceful and courageous!"
She is on the ground.
Luxa is standing on the ground.
She is standing in the arena, whole and hale, with both feet on the ground and no sword in her hand.
And she feels great.
As she looks at the soldiers amassed, listens to the cheers in her name, feels the pat on her back by Mareth, the soldier who is in charge of her training, Luxa feels invincible.
Then she remembers the tunnels of the arena — how they lead to caves beneath, and how, theoretically, a gnawer could sneak about and claw its way up to the soldiers, and, and, and and and—
The world is turning foggy.
"I—" Luxa gasps.
Suddenly, every sound is a rat's claws; every gust of air is a rat's breath; every color is a rat's eyes.
There is a flutter against her back. A golden silhouette appears, a wing stretched out.
"Come," says Aurora.
"I— no— I— but— I must—" Luxa's voice is weak and strangled.
"You have touched the ground. You have stood tall. You have been brave. Is that not all you could do?"
"I must— I must— If I cannot even do this, then how may I— how may I—"
"You did," says Aurora. "You spoke to your people. You touched the ground."
"I am afraid," Luxa says. "I— after all this, I am still afraid."
"So are we all," Aurora says. Amongst what sounds like clawing and snarling, her voice is the only clear sound. "Yet even if this day is your last, you still came to meet it. Is that not courage?"
"But I— I cannot leave!"
"It is irrational to stay in the fray when the opportunity of escape presents itself as a much better option. Even on one's last day of life," says Aurora. Her claw touches Luxa's hand. "Please, Luxa. I know you. I know your fear, but I know your courage and tenacity, too. You cannot stay. But if you leave, you may return."
Luxa is so terribly afraid. She is afraid of the rats that are not here, she is afraid of the rats that have been here, she is afraid of sleeping and of eating and of living and of death — even when she has no reason to be, she is afraid.
Her vow and today were meant to change that.
She was meant to have no fear, to greet death with open eyes. And even when she fell, even when the ground came dangerously near, she did not blink.
She did not blink, yet she does now, when death is not even in reach.
She could have died, then. Five minutes ago, she may as well have died. She may as well have broken her head open on the moss, but she did not, for—
"You— you did not take your eyes off me," Luxa whispers. "When I meant to do the flip, and fell."
"No," Aurora says.
Luxa grabs her claw. "And now, even now— even when the guards are likely— likely laughing at my cowardice, yet doing nothing, you— you have not taken your eyes off me."
"I could not."
"Why?"
Aurora's wings flutter slightly. "You are my friend," she says simply. "I would not have let you fall. Not then, nor now."
"Am I— am I not a tedious person to be around? I only talk of death and fear— you are only around me because I cannot— I cannot— I cannot touch the ground."
It is the truth.
"I do not speak much," says Aurora. "Not to humans, nor my own kind. Some find me… lacking in emotion. You enjoy being around me regardless. You, and Henry and Ares. And you have words enough for the both of us. Few do."
Something twists inside of Luxa. She feels hot — but the fear is receding, and anger is replacing it. "Who is it that says such things about you? I find you a better companion than most of the placid fools around here!"
Aurora laughs. "We are in public, Luxa."
The world is coming back into focus. Luxa sees the faces of the people, now — open mouths and wide eyes. They all keep their distance.
"Oh. They did not hear me, did they?" Luxa whispers.
Somebody coughs.
And Luxa — she is still afraid, and she is far from content with the day, but —
She cannot help but laugh. And with every laugh from her mouth, the fear and anger settles — it is still there, but it feels slightly further away than before.
"Thank you," she says. She is still clasping Aurora's claw. The gesture of bonds. "For not taking your eyes off me."
Aurora dips her head. "I would never have let you fall."
"I know," Luxa says. Her throat feels odd. It is a feeling to recognizes from the day her parents died, and that she has tried her best to banish ever since. "I know. And I— I would not let you fall, either. Not in the literal sense, of course. But I— I am glad. That you are my friend."
"Likewise," says Aurora.
They stand in silence.
Somebody coughs again.
Luxa clears her throat. "Uh. I— probably ought to apologize to the foo— I mean, to the people before this whole— thing reaches the council's ears."
Aurora nods. "Yes. Also, Ares said to tell you that he and Henry invite us to a race later today."
Luxa frowns. "A race. And they invite us to their own humiliation?"
Aurora laughs. And Luxa laughs with her.