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cinaja · 3 years

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Before the Wall part 52

A/N: Wow, this chapter took far longer than I had planned. I'm sorry for the delay. But on a positive note, I think it's about 14k words long, so I guess that's about the length of two normal chapters.

Tw: wanting-to-die (I still don't know if that's a trigger) in the 5th scene.

----

The days after Jurian’s death pass dizzyingly quickly and excruciatingly slowly all at once. Everything feels wrong. It’s like the world got knocked out of its usual course and is now spinning around aimlessly. Nothing goes wrong, exactly, but things certainly don’t go right either, and throughout it all, Drakon feels like he never quite manages to catch his footing.

It seems that there are a million of things to be done. Nephelle and the other cartographers spend the first day after the battle mapping the mountain range, returning with the result that the Callian Pass as such no longer exist. There might be a new pass through the mountains somewhere, but the old one is at least currently not usable for an army, largely because several mountains fell into it. This information gets Drakon a dressing-down by the council for destroying the important strategic location he had been ordered to hold. (“Maybe if you cared so much about that pass, you should have gotten the reinforcements you promised there in time,” Sinna, who accompanied him to the meeting, snaps at that and Drakon’s mind drifts to Helion’s warning.)

They burn their dead – mercifully few, largely thanks to Miryam – on the first day after the battle. Unfortunately, they can’t extend the same decency to the fallen enemy soldiers, since most of them are buried under tons of stone. Drakon feels terrible about it, but there’s little to be done. So instead of worrying about the dead enemies, he talks to his soldiers, tries to reassure them. He meets with his ruling council. He sits in meeting after meeting with his military leaders.

Throughout it all, he can’t stop thinking about Jurian. He still can’t quite believe that he is actually dead, keeps thinking that he’ll only have to winnow over to his camp and be able to talk to him. From when his family died, he knows that it will likely take a while for the truth to fully settle in. After that, it will still suck, but differently. At least that terrible rift between knowing Jurian is dead and not being able to believe it will vanish, and maybe eventually, the pain will become bearable. At least that’s what he’s been told.

Sinna offers that they can talk should he want to, but he doesn’t take her up on the offer. Not because he thinks she would be harsh about it – generally, Sinna makes exceptions in her usual bluntness for things that truly make him upset. No, the problem is that he knows that Sinna isn’t mourning Jurian’s death. She didn’t even like him, at least since him and Jurian had their falling-out. Even though she would try to be sympathetic, it wouldn’t exactly be genuine, and they certainly couldn’t talk about what went down during their last conversation. About the lie he told, and how Jurian died still believing it. Hating him for it. If he’s being honest, the only person he really wants to talk to about that is Miryam.

But unfortunately, Miryam isn’t talking. She does speak – asks after the army, how the clean-up is going – but she refuses to answer any personal questions. Not a word about Jurian or Artax, or the mountain range she blew up. The healers assure him that physically, she will be fine. The injuries were serious but not life-threatening. The only comment Miryam offers is that yes, she is in pain, but it’s nothing she can’t handle.

Drakon does his best to help her, but he’s quickly running out of ideas. Miryam tells him she doesn’t want to be touched, but she doesn’t want him to leave either, so Drakon spends as much time as work will allow just sitting in a chair next to her bed, a safe distance away.

He manages to get his proposal to the council finished in the time, but it is apparently bad enough that Zeku simply hands it back to him upon reading and asks if he maybe wants to rework that a bit before submitting it to the council.

On the way back from Telique, Drakon steps by to visit Andromache. She tells him a bit about the funeral preparations for the evening. Apparently, it is going to be a grand ceremony, over a thousand attendants. All Drakon can think about is that Jurian would have preferred something a little less formal.

“Will Miryam come?” Andromache asks, and Drakon nods.

“Sure,” Drakon says.

She didn’t show much of a reaction when she told him about the funeral, but if Drakon knows one thing for sure, it’s that Miryam wouldn’t miss Jurian’s funeral. Still, he should probably talk to her in advance. Actually talk, that is.

But for the first time in the last two and a half days, Miryam isn’t in her room when he goes looking for her. Fortunately, it turns out that mating bonds are extraordinarily useful for finding people. All Drakon needs to do is to focus on Miryam and then follow his gut feeling. He runs into a dead end once because the mating bond unfortunately doesn’t come with a map of the castle, but on the second try, he finds Miryam. She sitting alone up on the battlements, letting her feet dangle over the plunge below.

“Hey,” Drakon says lightly and sits down next to her.

Miryam just keeps staring down at the pass. Her eyes are completely empty.

Now, Drakon just needs to come up with something to say.

“How are you feeling?” Drakon asks. It is a rather inadequate thing to say, but several days in, he has run out of smart ideas for how to get Miryam to talk.

Miryam shrugs. “I blew up a mountain range,” she says flatly, which is a slight exaggeration and definitely not an answer to his question.

Desperately, Drakon tries to come up with a proper reply. He has no idea what he’s supposed to say to that non-answer, but can’t just not react. Not when Miryam is finally talking. Besides, for all he knows, Miryam might actually be upset about the mountain range. It’s unlikely, considering everything else, but not impossible.

Cauldron damn him, he is bad at this.

“I never liked that mountain range anyways,” he says, if only to get that empty look to vanish from her eyes. He gestures vaguely at the partially-crumbled mountains surrounding them. “It’s much prettier this way.”

For a moment, he thinks Miryam won’t react. But then, she slowly turns around to him. There’s the barest hint of a smile on her face. “What about the mountain goats, though?” She asks.

“Oh.” Drakon buries his face in his hands, although he is far too relieved to actually be embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d remember that. In my defence, I was panicking.”

“I suppose I gave you good reason for that,” Miryam says, glancing over at a mountain that is now missing its entire top half.

They sit together in silence for a while after that, both staring at the mountains. The silence is heavy, but more bearable than it was before.

“I’m sorry,” Miryam finally says, breaking the silence. “I know the way I’m behaving is…” She shrugs. “Shit.”

“It’s really not,” Drakon says. “You don’t need to always act perfectly. Sometimes, it’s okay to simply be in pain.”

Miryam seems to contemplate that for a bit. For a moment, Drakon worries that he said the wrong thing and he will shut down again, but then, she shrugs. “I just…” She winces slightly. “I don’t want you to think… When I don’t want to talk, or don’t want to be touched, it’s not because I don’t trust you, or because there’s something wrong in our relationship.”

“I thought so,” Drakon says. At least he hoped so. “Still, thank you for telling me.”

“One day, I’ll be able to explain,” Miryam says softly. “But not now.”

Drakon nods. At least when it comes to Artax, he already has a general idea of what it might be. With Artax’s reputation and Miryam’s reactions to him, it isn’t hard to do the math. Either way, he is rather glad Miryam erased the bastard from the universe.

He isn’t going to ask further. Even though he hasn’t gotten Miryam to talk, even though he knows he probably should, he simply can’t push her. But it turns out that isn’t necessary at all. Now that she started, Miryam seems to be adamant in her decision to talk, even if she doesn’t want to.

“I don’t know how I’m feeling,” she says. “It’s just… It’s too much. I’m furious and sad and in pain, and there’s just so much that I don’t even know what to feel first. And I can’t…” She shakes her head.

Drakon would much like to hug her, or at least reach for her hand, but Miryam hasn’t given any hint at wanting to be touched, so he remains sitting where he is, a safe distance away, waiting for her to continue.

“I miss Jurian,” Miryam mutters.

“I still can’t believe he’s dead,” Drakon says. “I always thought that if anyone made it, it would be him.” Well, him and Miryam both, but saying that seems like bad luck.

“Me too,” Miryam says. “The last time we met, we said we still wanted to talk. I keep thinking about that.” She turns to Drakon. “Did he ever find out? About us, I mean.”

“No,” Drakon says. “I never told him. And he never knew that Amarantha captured you because of him, either.”

“Good,” Miryam says. “Then at least he didn’t… At least he…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but Drakon still understands. At least Jurian didn’t die feeling guilty over getting Miryam captured, or betrayed because of the marriage. At least from his point of view, things between them were mostly fine. Drakon tries to comfort himself with that knowledge. That while Jurian might have hated him, at least he must have been relatively content with his relationship with Miryam when he died.

“But how did you keep him from finding out about Amarantha?” Miryam asks. “Didn’t you tell him that I’d been captured at all?”

“I told him it was because of me,” Drakon says. He tries and fails to sound nonchalant. “I thought it might be better if he hated me than…” This time, it is Drakon who doesn’t manage to finish the sentence.

There are tears burning in his eyes and he quickly wipes them away. He came here to comfort Miryam, not be comforted by her, damnit.

“I’m sorry,” Miryam says softly. “And I know that probably changes little, but I think that this was a very kind thing to do.”

They fall silent again, then. But after a few moments, Miryam slowly reaches out and takes his hand. Squeezes it.

“Thank you,” she says. “For being there. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Likewise,” Drakon replies.

They remain sitting on the battlements for another few minutes before Drakon remembers that they’ll still need time to get ready for the funeral. Still holding each other by the hands, they walk together through the castle. They only part ways in front of their respective rooms, although Drakon can feel that Miryam is as reluctant to let go of him as he is. It’s like they are both scared that once they leave each other’s sight, one of them will vanish. But neither of them voices that fear or asks the other if they might change together, so in the end, they each vanish into their own rooms.

There is a colour code for funerals. Black is the most common colour, standing for mourning – for anyone thinking to send a message, it is certainly the safest option. Most people use it for the cloth, and so did Drakon. He chose silver embroidery to go with it, the colour traditionally representing respect and admiration for the deceased. It’s a colour only used on rare occasions, but for this, it certainly fitting.

He took a while getting dressed, and when he finally steps out of his room, Miryam is already ready. Once again, she somehow managed to somehow shove down her emotions far enough to appear entirely composed. But her show of self-control isn’t what makes Drakon stop dead in the doorway.

Miryam, it seems, went for a different colour theme than him. The silk of the long dress she is wearing are also black. The embroidery running all over it, though, is red as freshly shed blood. The colour of anger – and vengeance. Declaring to the entire world that while she is mourning Jurian’s death, she is also furious, and she intends to avenge it.

----

Miryam draws quite a few stares as she walks through the halls of the palace of Telique by Drakon’s side. They are early, but many of the guests seem to have arrived already, and most of them are gaping at Miryam like they’ve never seen her before.

A part of it is probably the dress, since red is certainly a bold choice of colour. Going to a funeral basically declaring that you want revenge for what happened is not a usual move, especially for high-ranking politicians. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the smartest choice, but when Miryam commissioned the dress two days ago, she was furious enough that she wanted the entire world to know. Now, she is less angry than sad, but it’s a bit too late to change her mind, no matter how much she might wish she had opted for silver embroidery like Drakon did.

Still, she doesn’t fool herself into thinking that the dress is the only thing that draws stares. Knowing how quickly rumours spread, news of what she did to Artax – and the mountain range surrounding them – had likely made it all around the Continent within hours of the fact. And so people stare.

If Miryam is being honest, she can’t blame them for it.

Three days after the battle ended, Miryam still hasn’t figured out how exactly she feels about what she did. Somewhere in the mess of her emotions, she came to the conclusion that she doesn’t feel bad about what she did, but rather feels bad about not feeling bad.

It’s not that she feels any kind of sympathy for the soldiers she killed. It might be rather cold, but they were voluntarily fighting a war with the sole purpose of keeping slavery going – were likely slave-owners themselves – so as far as she is concerned, they don’t deserve her pity. And as for Artax, he certainly got what he deserved. Possibly deserved worse. But no matter how much the people she killed might have deserved it, Miryam doesn’t want to be the type of person who murders hundreds, maybe thousands of people and doesn’t feel bad afterwards. She doesn’t want to erase a person from existence either, no matter how much he might deserve it.

She crossed a line – she that she once promised herself to always steer clear of – and now, she can no longer say for sure if there are any lines she wouldn’t cross if it became necessary. Really, she can’t blame those people for being scared. She is scared herself.

“Do you want to go to the courtyard already?” Drakon asks.

Miryam nods and links her arm with his. At least now, she can stand the feeling of being touched again without feeling like tearing off her own skin. She actually finds the contact comforting, and right now, she can use any bit of comfort.

As they walk through the palace, Drakon asks, “Are you okay with holding the speech later on?”

“I think so,” Miryam replies. She spent the last sleepless night trying to find the words to express her feelings. She failed miserably, but the speech she came up with is still good enough. At least that’s what she hopes.

“If I can do anything to make it easier, just tell me,” Drakon says.

Miryam doesn’t manage to reply. It’s a kind offer, but that fact just makes her feel worse. No matter how much Drakon might give her a pass for her behaviour, she still isn’t being fair. She knows that he is mourning as well, and by all rights, she should be trying to support him as much as he is supporting her. But no matter how hard she tries, she simply can’t drag up the energy.

Before she can manage to come up with something to say, they reach the courtyard where the funeral will be held. It is the biggest one in the palace, able to take in almost two thousand people, and for today’s funeral, it will be filled entirely. A pyre has already been constructed in its centre, and Miryam quickly averts her eyes.

Instead, she scans the courtyard for familiar faces. Until the ceremony begins, her and Drakon will be expected to talk to some of the guests. Making pleasant conversation is the last thing she wants right now, but there’s no way out of it.

“Zeku is over there,” Drakon says lightly, nodding in the direction.

Miryam follows his line of sight and spots Zeku standing with a group of Fae nobles towards the edge of the courtyard. As if noticing her attention, he looks over. Miryam beckons him over and is gratified to see that he excuses himself with his companions and starts walking towards her.

“I need to talk to Zeku for a bit,” Miryam says to Drakon. “About what happened in the last few days.”

It’s another thing she doesn’t feel like doing, but it’s necessary. Both Andromache and Nakia sent her letters complaining about Zeku’s behaviour during her absence, and Drakon’s accounts matched theirs. There is some kind of problem there, and it would be unwise for Miryam to leave it unattended for longer than necessary.

“Sure,” Drakon says. “Good luck.”

Miryam lets go of him and walks through the crowd towards Zeku. He inclines her head to her.

“It’s good to see you alive and well,” he says. “I had worried we’d seen each other for the last time. My condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Miryam replies. She scans the people around them; no one is close enough to easily follow their conversation. “We ought to talk,” she says, voice lowered to a whisper.

“Now?” Zeku asks.

Miryam nods. “Better to get it over with, don’t you think?”

Zeku’s face tightens. “As you wish,” he says. “Then perhaps we ought to take this to a more private location.”

He offers her his arm, but Miryam declines with a slight shake of her head.Fortunately, Zeku doesn’t seem to take offence. He just puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking towards the edge of the crowd. Miryam quickly follows after him. She expected him to take her to one of the private meeting rooms, but he instead leads her towards the gardens. A public place. They never talk in public places. With a flick of his wrist, Zeku erects privacy wards around them, but they are still plainly visible to anyone who might be watching. She doesn’t like this.

Miryam glances around, but the garden seems empty, but appearances can be deceiving. She turns back to Zeku.

“Have I done anything to upset you?” She asks.

“What gives you that impression?” Zeku asks lightly. Normally, she would have played along, but today, she has no patience for games.

“Don’t you dare,” Miryam says. “After all these years, the least you owe me is honesty. If you are reconsidering our alliance, I want you to tell me outright, not go behind my back in the council when I’m not even around to see.”

Zeku is silent for a moment. He runs his fingers over the petals of a rose blooming on a bush next to them. Presses his finger against one of the thorns lightly, not hard enough to draw blood.

Please, Miryam thinks, trying hard not to let her desperation show, please tell me this isn’t true. Tell me I’m wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Zeku finally says, and Miryam only barely manages to keep her face impassive. “But I’m afraid our alliance will need to end here.”

“And may I ask why?” Miryam asks. She is proud of how even her voice sounds, even though she is screaming inside. His behaviour had pointed towards this outcome, but she had still hoped… This is a disaster.

“You know why.” Zeku still has his attention on the roses. If Miryam didn’t know better, she’d say he was purposefully avoiding eye contact. “The situation you’ve brought upon yourself – it can only end badly. And I don’t wish to be involved in whatever fallout there will be.”

“You don’t wish to be involved?” Miryam echoes. “Funny, that’s not what you said when this alliance was benefitting you. Alliances work both ways, you know?”

Zeku turns around to finally look at her, eyes dark. His long, fanned ears vibrate slightly. “Don’t twist this around to make me into a bad ally,” he says, tone growing tense. “I warned you. I warned you again and again, but you wouldn’t listen.” He glares at her. “No, you just had to keep playing leader of the Alliance. You married your way into Continental royalty. You decided to duel Artax and blew up a mountain range in the process, showing to the entire world just what you are capable of.” He gives her dress a pointed look, but doesn’t comment further on it. “With everything you did, you cemented your position as the future leader of the Continent further – declared that you wanted this position. And so with everything you did, you became a bigger threat to your allies. A threat they won’t stand for forever.”

Miryam realizes she began to shake her head slightly and stops. She glances down at herself, at that damn red embroidery, a symbol that will be takes the wrong way by the entire Fae half of the Continental royalty. She should have gone for a different dress. She should have kept herself in check during that duel. Blowing up mountain ranges and declaring that she wants vengeance for Jurian’s death for all the world to see might be what she wants, but it certainly doesn’t fit with the image she needs to portray.

She didn’t think. Didn’t think at all in the last weeks, it seems, and now, it’s going to cost her.

“Everything I did,” Miryam says slowly, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice, “I did to free my people. You think I am doing any of this for power, for my own gain? All I want, all I ever wanted, is for my people to be free and for this horror to finally end. What do I care who leads the Continent?”

“You really expect me to believe that you don’t want power, do you?” Zeku asks drily. “You started a Continent-wide war. Made yourself into one of the most powerful people on the Continent. Married into royalty. And you say power doesn’t matter to you?”

Of course power matters to Miryam – but only ever as a means to an end. She wants to free her people, and to do this, she needs a certain amount of power. Enough to be able to get people to do what she wants. (If people were more decent, that wouldn’t be necessary, but they aren’t, so there she is.)

“I have no interest in leading the Continent,” Miryam says, and this, at least, is the truth. She does not want to spend the rest of her life playing games, acting pleasant with people who look down on her, pretending she doesn’t care or doesn’t notice that all they care about is their own gain. She is tired of the rules, tired of the stares and the whispers that follow her everywhere, tired of being made to do things she doesn’t want to fulfil other people’s expectations.

Zeku shakes his head. “No one will ever believe that,” he says. “I’m not even sure if I believe it.”

No. No, he needs to believe her. Zeku can’t withdraw his support for her. He is her most influential Fae ally, if she loses his backing, she will be done for.

“Once the war is over,” she says, “I will vanish off the Continental playing field and gladly spend the rest of my life well away from all this. I promise.”

Zeku lets out a low laugh at that. “Once the war is over.” He shakes his head. “You don’t truly think that everything will be fine once the war is over, do you? That all that is wrong with this Continent will miraculously righten itself if only we defeat the Loyalists.” His smile vanishes, and now, he looks sad. “You might be able to end slavery, but you can’t stop prejudices and a sense of superiority many Fae have through war. The only way to do that will be hard work, and I sincerely doubt that there will be many Fae willing to do that. They will see no reason to.” He sighs. “So the only way to get change you dream of to actually happen, to ensure safety and equality for your people, would be by having the power to make it happen. You see where this ends, don’t you?”

Miryam doesn’t reply. She desperately wants to disagree, but she doesn’t know how. Zeku is right. She does like to think that all will be fine once the war is over – this belief is what keeps her going. She cannot look into the future and see only more struggle, one battle following the next in an endless row. She needs to believe that there is hope, some kind of light at the end of the tunnel. But she spent over six years working with the council. Too long for her to still believe they would ever choose the right way over the easy one. And if they really ended up refusing to work for equality, if they ended slavery but changed nothing else… Miryam knows herself far too well to believe she would ever be able to stand by idly.

Zeku seems to take her silence for confirmation. “I’m truly sorry, Miryam,” he says. “Believe me that I did not wish for it to end like this.”

“Then don’t let it end like this,” Miryam replies. “No one is forcing you!”

“I have a duty to my country, to my people who need me to maintain a position of strength.” Zeku doesn’t even look angry, just tired and sad. “For their sake, I cannot reach into a falling blade.”

Miryam is angry now, angry and desperate and it’s making her reckless. “If I had married you instead of Drakon, none of this would be a problem, right?” She snaps. She isn’t even trying to convince him anymore, but she is so furious, so scared. “You are just angry that the position I’m in doesn’t benefit you.”

“I believe you know me better than that,” Zeku says. “And your accusations won’t change my mind. I will still support the treaty Drakon is working on, but you, I can no longer support.” He hesitates. “We’ll win this war,” he adds. It’s almost like he’s trying to comfort her. “There will never be slavery again on this Continent.”

“And I will die.” If there was a threat before, it is now basically certainty. Without Zeku’s support, the other Fae will lose another reason to hesitate with acting against her. He’s as good as signing her death sentence and he knows.

He looks at her for a moment longer, seeming genuinely upset. “I’m truly sorry,” he repeats, then turns around and walks away, leaving her standing alone in the garden.

Miryam stares after him as he walks away, completely motionless. He truly cut off alliances with her. She doesn’t know why it stings so much, why she expected differently. Yes, their alliance included protection, but she always knew that it was limited. Him risking his life for her was never part of the deal. Still, after six years of being allies, Miryam had hoped… She had hoped Zeku would care enough to still help her.

She should have known better.

She looks around the garden. Still, no one else is visible, but surely there is someone watching. Someone is always watching.

Come on, she tells herself. Get moving. Don’t show them you’re upset. Slowly, Miryam straightens. Lifts her chin, schools her face into neutrality. Any spy that is watching won’t be able to report back to their employer on how much Zeku’s refusal to help hurt her. Whatever good it will do, but her dignity, her reputation, will remain intact for the time being.

I’m going to die. The thought keeps echoing through Miryam’s head as she slowly walks towards the palace below. They are truly going to kill her. Her own allies. And she doesn’t know how to stop it.

She spent her entire life playing games, defeating impossible odds, but this time, she is out of options. Backed against a wall with no way out. She cannot convince the Fae that she is no threat to them, and they will not allow her to simply continue on as before. And she cannot defeat them either, not when she still needs their support in this war.

I’m going to die. The certainty of the thought feels strange. She lived a long time with death hovering above her, but she always fought it. Now that all she can do anymore is accept what’s about to come, Miryam finds that she can’t.

She so badly wants to live to see the world she is fighting to create. She wants to live in a world where humans are free, where the shadow of death and slavery doesn’t hang over every step they take. Maybe she’ll even find a way to fix herself somewhere along the way, to leave behind the nightmares in her past. At the very least she wants a chance to try. After all this, she thinks the very least she deserves is a shot at being happy.

You’ll get everything you ever wanted, she tells herself. Your people will be free. So what if your life is the price?

But her life isn’t the price. She won’t die to free her people, or to help anyone at all. She will be murdered by her own allies over a threat that’s all in their heads and it simply isn’t fair.

Miryam reached the palace by now and is walking aimlessly through it, keeping to the side corridors where she is mostly alone.

Life isn’t fair, she tells herself. You’ve always known that. And this one time, you won’t be able to change it. Accept it and move on.

She doesn’t want to accept it, though. She can’t accept it.

Miryam stops walking. Alone in the corridor, she leans her head against the wall. She thinks of Jurian, murdered only a few months away from winning this war he sacrificed everything for. Will this be their fate, then? Both of them dead needlessly and before they could reach the future they were fighting for?

It isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

Miryam realizes there are tears running down her cheeks. She doesn’t even know when she started crying, but now, she can’t stop. No matter how much she tells herself that the middle of a public corridor is the worst possible place to have a breakdown, that she should at least wait until she gets somewhere more private, the tears simply won’t stop. She is sobbing so hard her entire body is shaking and she simply can’t stop.

She isn’t even entirely sure what she is crying for. Jurian or herself or how terribly everything wrong in just a few days… Wasn’t there once a time when she had everything under control? Now, she can’t even control herself enough to stop these stupid tears.

Steps approach from one end of the corridor. Now, Miryam should really get a grip. Being found sobbing uncontrollably in a corridor is the last thing she needs. (Although who know – convincing the council she is completely overwhelmed and losing her grip on herself might just get them to let her live.) But she still can’t get herself under control and she can’t hide, so she at least turns around to face whoever is approaching.

Fate, it seems, has decided to take some small amount of mercy on Miryam, because the person walking up to her isn’t one of the Fae members of the council, but Nakia. The old queen stops in front of her, watching her closely out of dark eyes. Miryam attempts to discreetly wipe away her tears, but she is still crying, so it doesn’t work very well.

“Come along,” Nakia says.

Without waiting for a reply, she puts a hand behind Miryam’s back and starts leading her down the corridor. They only need to walk around a few corners before they reach a guarded door. One of the guards opens it for them and they step into the suite beyond. Nakia’s rooms, it seems.

The queen dismisses the two servants inside with a few quiet words and deposits Miryam on the couch.

“Water?” She asks. “Tea? Something stronger?”

“Tea,” Miryam manages.

Nakia nods. There is a kettle already standing above the furnace, and she pours a cup for Miryam, putting it down on a small table in front of her. Then, she goes rummaging around in one of the cupboards, finally producing an artfully stitched handkerchief. She hands it to Miryam.

“You may keep it,” she says. “I’ve got dozens, since I keep getting gifted with them.”

“Thank you,” Miryam says. She tries to study the handkerchief in her fingers, but her vision is too blurry to make out the artful decorations, so she just clings to it as she cries, crumbling the fabric in her fingers.

Nakia shrugs and sits down on a couch opposite of her. She doesn’t say anything, simply lets Miryam cry.

After what seems like an eternity, the tears finally stop. Miryam wipes away the tears as gracefully as possible, as if being graceful now will somehow keep up appearances. Her face feels swollen, and her throat is scratchy. She takes a sip of tea.

“Thank you,” she tells Nakia, who is still watching her in silence.

“I’m sorry about Jurian,” she finally says, breaking the silence. “He was a good man. Deserved better.”

Miryam nods. There is a new tightness in her throat that has nothing to do with the tears and makes it impossible to speak. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to hearing Jurian referred to in the past tense. If she’d had any tears left, she might have started crying again.

Nakia seems to consider for a moment, then adds, “It wasn’t your fault, you know that, right? There was nothing you could have done.”

Miryam simply stares down into her tea. She distinctly remembers a time when Nakia told her that everything – the war and every risk and death associated with it – was her fault, but bringing that up seems petty now. They moved past that time, and besides, it is impolite to call out other peoples’ empty words of reassurance.

Still, Nakia’s words offer an escape route. Not her fault – and wouldn’t that be pleasant? To simply hand over responsibility for all the terrible things happening around her to someone else. She could probably argue that all this just happened to her, that she had no idea what she was doing. After all, she is only a young woman just shy of twenty-five, in way over her head. No one can truly expect her to somehow be able to fix all this.

But the thing about giving up responsibility is that in doing so, you also give up credit. If Miryam isn’t guilty of the terrible things that happened, then it wasn’t her who achieved all the good things, either. And anyways, pretending she was just an uninvolved bystander, someone being pushed around without plan or agency, would be a lie. She knew what she was doing, and even when she didn’t, she at the very least chose to keep going anyways.

It was her who started and led this war. She was the one who failed to save Jurian. By the end of it, she will likely have gotten herself killed as well. But she will also be the one who brought about the end of slavery, who saved millions of humans and changed the world. And I would do it all again, Miryam thinks, and this, at least, is true.

“I know it likely feels like it, but sometimes, bad things simply happen and there’s nothing you can do about it. Live as long as I have, and you will learn that.”

I won’t, though, Miryam thinks, and for a moment, she desperately wants to say it. Nakia, though not a politician, did this for so much longer than Miryam. Maybe she will know an answer, a way out. She got this far on her own, but now, she desperately needs help, someone to tell her what to do next. And she knows that Nakia, gruff though she might be at times, would try to help her. She would not just abandon her. Even if it meant going to war against their allies, Nakia would help her.

Unfortunately, that is exactly why Miryam can’t say anything.

If she tells Nakia, tells anyone, that the Fae half of the council is currently contemplating her death, it will drive a rift right through the Alliance. Nakia and the other humans would stand with her, that, she is sure of. Humans stand as one, they certainly don’t let their own be murdered by Fae. But if none of that ended up helping, if Miryam still died… it would shatter any hope of peace. The treaties her and Drakon worked on so hard, that hope for a peaceful future, all of it would be for nothing. There might just be another war, more deaths – and Miryam doesn’t think her life is worth quite this much.

She doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to accept it. But if the alternative is another war, more death, and at the end of it possibly the humans losing… well, she can accept that option even less. She will never be able to accept that option. So she simply takes a sip from her tea and doesn’t tell Nakia about how the next big funeral might well be hers.

----

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Andromache asks.

She is standing in front of the mirror, checking over her outfit for the evening one last time. The dress is relatively modest, made from rich, black velvet, with a high neckline and long sleeves. It’s closer to Miryam’s preferred style than to Andromache’s own, but it is certainly fitting for a funeral. The embroidery on it is dark blue, signifying close alliance or personal friendship to the deceased.

“Rhys isn’t doing well,” Mor says from where she is sitting on the couch. She is wearing casual clothes, her blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid. “I really want to check up on him.”

Andromache nods and straightens her silver necklace. In the last few days, Mor only left Rhysand’s side when there was no other choice. He has been sent to some hidden property in the Night Court along with some healers, and from the limited information Andromache gets through Mor, he is in a bad state. His injuries aren’t life-threatening, but apparently, Illyrians tend to react badly to injuries to their wings. With Rhysand, the physical strain seems to be less of an issue than the mental one, so Mor has been trying to be there for him as much as possible.

Andromache understands and approves, and she doesn’t think she ever hinted at having a problem with it. Still, Mor is fidgeting in her seat.

“But if that’s a problem…” She hesitates. Bites her lip. “Of if you just think I should come, I could maybe… I mean, I’m sure Rhys wouldn’t mind if I came an hour later.”

Andromache sighs. “I’m not going to be angry if you don’t come to the funeral, Mor,” she says. “How you feel about Jurian is your matter entirely.”

She still isn’t exactly fond of Mor’s opinion of Jurian, but she decided that it’s best if she stays out of it. It is not for her to judge Mor’s feelings in that regard, and for the sake of their relationship, Andromache can accept that. After all, being in a relationship sometimes means compromise, and since Andromache very much wants to continue this relationship, compromise she will.

Mor looks relieved. “Thank you,” she says. Nervousness gone, she grins at Andromache. “You look stunning in that dress, by the way.”

Andromache smiles back at her and tugs a loose strand behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says. A look at the clock reveals that she has only half an hour left until the funeral begins. She doesn’t have a long way, but it would be inappropriate for her to turn up at the last moment. “I should go,” she says. “Do I see you in the evening?”

“I’ll try,” Mor says. She scrunches up her nose slightly, which makes her look very cute. “I mean, unless there is some big trouble with Rhysand, I should be able to make it.”

“That’s wonderful,” Andromache says and means it. In the last few days, they’ve barely seen each other, and especially with the funeral this evening, she thinks she could use something to look forward to.

With a wave over her shoulder, Andromache walks out of her rooms. It only takes her a few minutes to get to the courtyard where the funeral is being held, and one look at it should that it was a good thing she decided to come early since everyone else certainly did. The courtyard is already nearly full. The council is completely present, although Andromache wonders whether all of them actually care about Jurian’s death or just about their appearances. But there are also other guests, people for the city and common soldiers, most of them humans. Some of them are crying.

Andromache makes her way through the crowd, people moving aside to make space for her, and scans it for familiar faces. She recognizes a few council members and advisors, but she has no interest in speaking to any of them. Finally, she spots Drakon standing towards the edge of the crowd, one of the people closest to the fire. He is accompanied only by four of his guards, Miryam nowhere to be seen. Andromache walks over to him. Both of their guard details break away as she approaches, moving aside to give them some privacy.

“Miryam’s not here?” Andromache asks by way of greeting.

She scans the crowd again, but she thinks she would have noticed by now if Miryam was around. Crowds tend to move around important people in a certain way, and that makes them easy to spot. It’s like they are stones thrown into water, casting out ripples around themselves.

“She wanted to talk to Zeku,” Drakon says. He glances towards the pyre in the centre of the courtyard. “She should be back soon, though.”

Andromache privately hopes Miryam is giving Zeku an earful for his behaviour in the past days. It’s a good thing that she’s back now to deal with it. Andromache and her will have to meet sometime in the next days to get her caught up on what happened in the while she was gone as well as work through some paperwork that remained unfinished in the last days. So far, they haven’t even gotten the chance to speak yet, although Andromache sent Miryam a letter with the most important details. The reply was polite and perfectly neutral, which is generally a bad sign.

“How is she?” Andromache asks, because she doubts Miryam is going to tell her and she really doesn’t want a repeat of the wall-spell-situation.

Drakon seems a little uncomfortable at the question. He starts drumming around on his leg and looks away. Andromache only understands why when he says, “You probably should ask her about that.”

Andromache sighs. Inconvenient as it might be, she does respect Drakon’s unwillingness to share private information about Miryam with anyone else. Even more importantly, though, it means that Miryam is at the very least talking about how she feels, which is more than Andromache expected.

By now, the sun has almost set. The funeral will start soon.

“Will you speak during the ceremony?” Andromache asks, changing the subject away from Miryam.

It is common for those who were close to the deceased to hold little speeches at the funeral. Miryam will go first, as she was closest to Jurian, but after that, anyone who wishes may speak. Andromache prepared a speech herself, and she is sure many of the councilmembers will have done the same – some out of genuine care, more out of politeness.

To her surprise, Drakon shakes his head. “I don’t think Jurian would want me to,” he says. “I would like, of course, but…” He shrugs. “Considering that Jurian’s last words to me were him threatening to kill me, I really don’t think it’s my place. It wouldn’t feel right, don’t you think?”

Andromache flinches. With all that had been going on in the last few days, she hardly thought about that incident at all anymore. If she’s being honest, she hardly thought about how Drakon might feel after Jurian’s death at all, much less about what it must be like for him to know that Jurian, who was once his closest friend, died hating him.

“You did the right thing,” she says. “You couldn’t have known… I mean, who could have known it would end like this? You were just trying to help him.”

“Fat amount of good did that do,” Drakon mutters, and really, there’s no way for Andromache to contradict that.

She briefly considers telling Drakon that Jurian never truly hated him, but discards the idea. Kind as the words might be, but it would be a lie, and she is sure Drakon would know. Jurian did hate him. Unfair and born out of pain it might have been, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Drakon says in an admirable attempt to sound light. He almost manages with his tone, but his eyes betray him. He keeps glancing towards the pyre where Jurian will soon be burned. “I’m doing alright, really.”

Andromache is about to tell him that he is a terrible liar and she doesn’t believe a word, but Drakon already turns away from her and towards one of the entrances to the courtyard. Andromache follows his line of sight and finds Miryam stepping into the courtyard, side by side with Nakia. Nakia is wearing black and silver, same as Drakon, but Miryam…

Andromache turns to Drakon. “Bold choice of colour,” she whispers as around them, people turn to stare at Miryam.

If the stares bother her, Miryam doesn’t show it. Back straight, head held high, she walks through the parting crowd, heading for Andromache and Drakon. She gives Andromache a tight smile as greeting, then takes her place next to Drakon. Nakia, who walked over with her, nods to them both before stopping next to Andromache.

Before any of them get the chance to say anything, a trumpet blast from the battlements cleaves the air. Another joins in, then another, and around them, the crowd falls silent as the doors to the courtyard’s main entrance open.

In the days leading up to the funeral, there had been some discussion on what the ceremony would look like. Nakia had been in favour of a Sythian ceremony, given Jurian’s Scytian ancestry. Her wishes had been honoured in parts – for example, Jurian’s horse had been taken to a farm on the countryside, forbidden from being ridden by anyone else now that its rider was dead – but in general, it had been quickly agreed on that they would need a neutral ceremony, one that all humans could get behind. So the bier that is slowly being carried out into the courtyard now is not being born by riders, as is Sythian tradition, but carried by one soldier from each human kingdom.

The crowd parts to make space for them, the silence is almost eerie. Andromache looks at the body lying on the bier, covered with a white clothe to spare the guests from having to see what was done to him, then away again. She insisted on seeing the corpse without the cloth – a mistake, she decided. It will be a while before she will be able to chase that image from her thoughts.

Finally, the silent procession reached the pyre. The soldiers carefully place Jurian’s body on the wood, then step back, vanishing into the crowd. For a moment, no one moves.

Miryam steps forward slowly. The light of the setting sun catches on the red embroidery of her dress and makes it seem aflame as she walks forward. She stops a few steps away from the pyre and surveys the crowd, then turns to look at the body laid out on the pyre. She stares at the cloth covering it like she can see Jurian’s corpse straight through the cloth. She doesn’t move, doesn’t make to speak.

The silence stretches on too long. With each moment Miryam remains standing there, it seems to become heavier until it’s like there’s a physical weight pressing down on them all. The crowd is becoming restless. No one quite dares to speak, but people are shifting around on their feet, glancing nervously at each other.

Miryam is still standing with her back to the crowd. Her shoulders are bowed and she seems far smaller than usual. With a start, Andromache realizes that she should probably have asked Miryam if she feels up to speaking at the funeral at all, if she knows what she is going to say. People are unsettled enough by Jurian’s death as it is, and it is absolutely vital that the main speech at his funeral eases their concern – Andromache should have considered that maybe Miryam, whose reaction to Jurian’s death was to blow up a mountain range, might not really be suited to the task. But maybe she got a bit too used to always turning to Miryam to fix their problems in the last few years.

----

Miryam is going to fall apart. Sitting in Nakia’s rooms, she tried so hard to pull herself together, tried to get a grip on herself, but no amount of bracing herself could ever have prepared her for this.

They covered Jurian’s body with a cloth, likely to keep from shocking the attendees further, but Miryam still knows what is hidden under the white fabric. As if summoned by her thoughts, the image of is mutilated body rises.

He is dead. For the last few days, Miryam tried hard to avoid the thought, to not think about his corpse lying in that tent, but now, she can no longer push it away. Jurian is dead, and no matter what Miryam does, she won’t be able to change it.

“We still wanted to talk,” she whispers. Her voice is slightly uneven. “There was so much… so much I still needed to talk to you about.”

That’s what her mind keeps jumping back to. During their last meeting, she had wanted to speak to him, to finally clear everything up and find a way to move forward together as friends, without all that weight hanging between them, but Jurian was distracted and her mind was on the wedding, and so that they had decided to talk tomorrow. Only there had never been a tomorrow.

She’d thought they would still have time. She knew, of course, that anyone could die any time, but she never really thought… They should have had time. But now, they are out of time, and they will never get to have that conversation.

Tears burn in Miryam’s eyes and she turns away from the pyre, only to come face to face with a crowd of funeral guests staring up at her. Miryam nearly flinches back from the weight of their stares.

A speech. She is supposed to be holding a speech, damnit. But when she tries to remember the words she prepared in advance, her mind comes up completely blank. The people are still staring at her. Miryam can only stare back helplessly.

She needs to say something. Now. If she loses it in front of the assembled Continental leadership as well as hundreds of other guests, she will be done for. Well, maybe she will manage to ridicule herself enough that no one will bother to have her assassinated anymore, but far more likely is that they will still kill her, just with far less hesitation.

She looks over to Drakon, who is still standing in the front row, and takes a deep breath.

“I think death always feels sudden,” Miryam says, addressing the crowd. She has no idea where she is going with this, but since she still can’t remember what her original speech was supposed to be, she will simply have to improvise. “Even in war, when you know that the odds of everyone making it out alive are slim, you still never quite expect it.”

She straightens, lets her gaze sweep over the crowd. “I’m sure many of you know the feeling. Maybe you lost friends, or family. People you cared about.” She glances over at the pyre, then quickly looks away again. Her throat feels tight and she has to swallow before she can continue. “And many of you, I am sure, feel this way right now, just as I do.”

Now, the crowd has calmed. They are watching in anticipation now, a sea of faces staring up at her, waiting for her next words. Waiting for her to give them hope, to ease their pain or at least describe her own. Miryam just wishes they would go away, that they would leave her alone with her grief and stop imposing on a situation that should be private.

“I lost…” she begins, but breaks off. How can she even begin to describe what she lost, what Jurian was to her? There are no words that could ever come close to describing. “Jurian and I,” she starts over, “knew each other for nearly eight years. We were together every step of the way, fought together to get us to this point.” She shakes her head. “I cannot even begin to describe the loss I am feeling. There are no words… no words that would be big enough, and I refuse to make my feelings smaller for the sake of being able to express them.”

She pauses, not entirely for effect. She just needs to breathe for a moment, to will her voice to remain calm. At this point, she should probably speak of her relationship to Jurian, of what he meant to her, but she can’t put this into words either, and she certainly doesn’t want to share it with these strangers.

But are they strangers, though? She might not know them, that is true, but they are all in this together. United in this war, but also in that moment. After all, didn’t all these people come here to mourn Jurian today, just as she did? And who is she to claim that loss for herself alone?

“But I know that today, we are all united in that loss,” she continues, changing the focus of the speech. Away from herself and towards the broader picture. “Not everyone here might have had the privilege of knowing Jurian personally, of being able to call him friend, but I know everyone here cared about him in some way.”

Well, looking at Shey, who is standing towards the front of the crowd together with the other councilmembers, probably not everyone. But right now, she couldn’t care less about Shey. She will have to deal with him, and soon, but not right now. This moment belongs to Jurian, no one else.

“I think that Jurian was just that type of person. He didn’t only inspire loyalty and courage in the people around him, he also gave them reason to care about him – partially because he so clearly cared about them,” Miryam says. “Those of you who worked under Jurian will know that he treated his soldiers not only as subordinates, but also as friends, and that there was little he wouldn’t have done for them.”

There are murmurs of agreement throughout the crowd. Most of Jurian’s soldiers died in the battle against Amarantha, but there are still many who worked under him for at least a short amount of time.

“But we don’t just mourn Jurian as a friend, a comrade or a commander,” Miryam continues. “He was all those things, but I believe that to most of us, he was more.” She pauses again, collects herself. “Jurian fought this war long before most people even spoke of war,” she says. “And more than most others, he stood for this fight. He was always there, from the very beginning, and I believe everyone here knew one thing for sure: That he would never give up. Jurian would do whatever necessary, and he would see this war through until the end.”

She takes a deep breath. “If there was one person I would have bet on to survive this war, it would have been him,” she says quietly. “And I know I am not the only one here who has a hard time imagining how this war, this future will look without him.”

The sun has set almost entirely now, and Miryam is done. The crowd is still staring at her, expectant, waiting for her to go on, but Miryam doesn’t wish to continue. No matter how much reason these people might have to be here, this isn’t what she wants this funeral to be, and she doubts it is what Jurian would have wanted. It’s a public spectacle, a political act. And Miryam doesn’t wish to lay her pain bare for all to see. It is hers, and the only person she will ever speak to about it, the only one who will ever come close to understanding, is Drakon.

Her speech might not have been perfect, but what does that matter now? She is sure Jurian would understand. He never did like big ceremonies and political games, and he certainly wouldn’t appreciate his funeral being made into one.

She is done. At the edge of the pyre, a torch is already burning, and as the closest living family to Jurian, Miryam will be the one who has the honour to light it once she is done with her speech. She reaches for the torch and turns around, ready to light the pyre. As she does, her gaze meets Andromache’s. The looks panicked.

It’s enough to make Miryam pause. It doesn’t take long to realize why Andromache is so panicked – if she ends the speech like this, she does so on a negative note. More than that. She sounds like she is losing hope, and that could be fatal. Jurian’s death was likely already a blow to general morale, but if Miryam now speaks like it is a danger to the war effort… It will be bad.

Miryam stares down at the burning torch in her hands.

“But I know one thing for sure,” she says, looking back up at the crowd, hating every moment of it. “That he wouldn’t want us to give up. He would not want us to despair or doubt over his death, he would want us to keep fighting.” She lets her gaze sweep over the crowd in a way that tends to make people feel like she is looking directly at them. “And the best way to honour his sacrifice,” she says, “is for us to win this fight he gave his life for.”

With that, she turns around, away from the crowd and the staring faces. There are tears in her eyes again, and she allows them to fall as she looks, one last time, at Jurian’s body laid out on the pyre.

I’m sorry, she thinks. I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you, and that we never talked. I’m sorry I let your funeral be made into some political show, and that I didn’t find the right words to say what I feel.

“We will win this,” she whispers. She isn’t sure if she believes in an afterlife, but she hopes that somehow, somewhere, he can hear her. “I promise.”

Then, she dips the torch forward. The flames lick over the wood, greedily eating it up. Miryam turns away before they reach Jurian’s body and walks back to where Drakon is standing.

----

Jurian isn’t dead. That much, at least, he knows for sure. After all, if he was dead, he wouldn’t be able to think about whether he is dead or not, and he wouldn’t be able to see the grey floor below.

But he isn’t alive either. How could he be alive when he can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe. When he doesn’t have a body.

This is a nightmare. A complete and utter nightmare. Jurian is terrified, but without a body to react, even the fear doesn’t feel quite real. There is no racing heartbeat, no sweaty palms, no physical reaction at all, and so the emotion feels strangely flat, like it is all in his head.

His field of vision moves. The floor vanishes, and for a moment, the room spins around him; then, Amarantha’s face comes into focus in front of him. He wishes he could close his eyes – or rather, his eye, since that’s all he seems to be anymore – but he can’t even do that, so he is forced to look at the monster in front of him.

“Did you already get used to it?” Amarantha asks. She sounds almost curious, as if this is the most interesting thing she’s seen all year.

Jurian obviously can’t reply, but he hopes he at least looks angry. No, he hasn’t gotten used to it, and he doesn’t plan to. This can’t be his future. It can’t be. That’s what he tells himself, how he tries to keep himself from giving in to despair. This isn’t forever.

His allies, his friends are still out there, and they won’t just leave him here to rot. They will come to save him. Miryam will come, and she will figure something out to make him right again. She will. She must.

“Or do you still hold on to the belief that your little mortal will come save you?” Amarantha taunts, as if she read his mind. “She won’t come. Chances are she’s already forgotten you.”

No. No, this isn’t true. His eye begins spinning wildly, startling Jurian who didn’t want to do this, and it takes him a while to get it to still again.

“Why would she lift a finger to save you when she already found such a splendid replacement?” Amarantha asks. Her mouth twists into a small smile. “Oh, that must sting, right? To do anything for that woman, to murder my sister, only for her to leave you for one of the very Fae you hate so much.”

Jurian’s thoughts move wildly. He is angry – or scared? Distraught? Without a body to react properly, he has a hard time telling, but whatever he is feeling, it isn’t good.

Miryam wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t have married a Fae, and she wouldn’t just abandon him. No matter the disagreements they might have had, she simply wouldn’t do that.

“Her and Prince Drakon didn’t even bother showing up to your funeral,” Amarantha taunts. “They certainly won’t bother to help you.” Amarantha’s smile widens and she lets Jurian’s eye dangle closer to her face. “You better get used to this,” she says. “Because this is going to be forever.”

All Jurian can do in reaction is to look around wildly, eye spinning so quickly that he can’t even make out his surroundings.

He isn’t dead. But oh, he wishes he was.

----

The pyre burns down slowly. Drakon stands next to Miryam, so close to the fire that he can feel the warmth on his face, and listens as speaker after speaker steps forward. Andromache’s speech is good, as is Nakia’s, but after that, it quickly goes downhill.

Next to him, Miryam simply stares and stares at the flames as they devour Jurian’s body. Drakon isn’t sure if she is listening to the speeches at all. Sometime during the ceremony, she reached for his hand and is now clinging to it. Her grip is too tight for comfort, but Drakon needs something to hold on to almost as much as she does, so he doesn’t say anything.

The speeches end far sooner than Drakon expected. When his family was burned, the speeches went on for hours, lasting until long past midnight. (Drakon still vividly remembers standing alone by the pyres, trying desperately to hold back the tears and just wanting the ceremony to be over already.) This ceremony isn’t even half as long, and while all of the human councilmembers step forward to say something, Zeku is the only Fae to do so. Drakon almost regrets his choice not to say anything, almost changes his mind, but he can’t shake the feeling that Jurian would hate it if he did. He would likely see it as Drakon trying to claim a friendship that, at least in Jurian’s mind, ended years ago already.

The pyre has burned down entirely by the time the last speech is over. For a moment, everyone stands in silence before the first guests begin to move. Quiet conversation rises. Neither Drakon nor Miryam move. Drakon’s eyes are burning again, but he blinks the tears away.

By the time Miryam finally stirs, most of the guests seem to have forgotten about the actual funeral entirely and shifted their focus to either the food or their political goals.

“It was a good speech,” Drakon says to Miryam. “Jurian would have liked it.”

“He would probably have found it too political, though,” Miryam says. She glances around the crowd. For a moment, her face twists in something like disgust. “Just this once. I wish they could leave their stupid political games aside just this once. Do they have no decency at all?”

Drakon nods, tugging his wings in close to his body. “Maybe we should have insisted on a smaller funeral. Or held it together with the armies.”

“Maybe,” Miryam agrees, looking around the crowd. “Can we go somewhere quiet, please?” She asks softly.

Drakon frowns. The official part of the funeral ceremony is over and they’ve stayed as long as propriety demands. What follows now will likely just be tedious conversations with various nobles. Still, Miryam and him were closest to Jurian out of all attendees, and it seems wrong for them to leave this early.

On the other hand, none of what is about to come will actually be about Jurian. It will just be politics, impersonal and cold. It is not, Drakon thinks, what Jurian would want his funeral to be like. He would likely have preferred something quiet, a small ceremony with his friends or maybe the soldiers he worked with in attendance, possibly a dinner afterwards. He most certainly wouldn’t have wanted his funeral to be anything that involved Miryam being made uncomfortable, this much, Drakon is sure of.

“Sure,” he says.

Together, they walk through the crowd. People stare at Miryam and nearly jump aside to make space for them. Apparently, no one really wants to talk to her today. Maybe because they wouldn’t know what to say – or maybe because what happened at the Callian Pass got them scared.

This way, they make it almost to the edge of the crowd without being forced into any conversations. Unfortunately, their luck doesn’t hold. Just before they reach the edge of the courtyard, one of Drakon’s least favourite councilmembers steps into their way.

“Emperor Shey,” Miryam greets. She gives the barest nod, and Drakon quickly mimics the motion, inclining his head a bit deeper than she did.

Shey returns the greeting. “Your Highnesses. My condolences.” His mouth twists into a slight smile as he glances towards their joined hands. “If condolences are in order, that is."

Drakon tenses. Next to him, Miryam does as well. “They are,” she says, tone far more biting than usual for her.

Shey merely gives her a smile, sharp as a knife. “Quite the speech you gave there,” he says.

“I wish I could return the compliment,” Miryam replies, “but you didn’t give a speech, as I couldn’t help but notice.”

“A purely political consideration,” Shey says, ignoring her tone. “I’m sure you of all people understand the importance of sending a message – after all, you did it so very skilfully in the last few days.”

Miryam tenses further. “That wasn’t a message, at least not in the way you think,” she snaps. “Contrary to your obvious belief, you and any possible messages I might send to you aren’t high on my list of priorities. And I honestly think both our lives would be far easier if you stopped assuming that everything I do somehow relates to you or your political games. Because I can assure you that it doesn’t.”

Without giving Shey the chance to reply, she spins around and stalks off. Drakon hurries to follow after her. He can feel Miryam trembling next to him.

“I need to get out of her,” she whispers once they are out of hearing range. “Right now.”

Drakon nods. They quietly peel away from the crowds. Together, they walk through the corridors to the courtyard from which they can winnow. Miryam doesn’t specify where she wants to go, but there’s really only one place Drakon can think of for them to get some peace and quiet. Cretea.

This time, he doesn’t winnow them to his usual landing spot for visiting the cave. (He needs to visit Ghost again sometime soon, but today, they aren’t on Cretea for him but simply for some privacy.) Instead, he takes them to a spot about five miles south. There are ruins there, hidden in the jungle and overgrown by wines and trees. Drakon discovered them on the way to the cave once, and he was never able to figure out what the buildings were before time reduced them to rubble. Some kind of palace, or maybe a temple, from the looks of it. He always wanted to go explore them sometime, but with the war, he never found the time.

Him and Miryam sit down on a fallen pillar, the paintings that must have once made it beautiful faded beyond recognition and the stone cracked in places. Even with the few steps they walked, there are leaves and twigs caught in the hem of Miryam’s dress and she starts carefully plucking them out.

Drakon lets her finish in silence, giving her the chance to say something should she want to. But she doesn’t say anything, barely even looks at him or anything else, so once she is done, he asks carefully, “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

He feels bad for pushing her so shortly after the funeral, when all he wants to do is take time to mourn Jurian in peace. But there is something going on, that much is clear from the conversation with Shey and the problems with Zeku and the fact that hardly any Fae spoke at Jurian’s funeral – and if even Drakon can tell that there is a problem, then they are really in trouble. For all that he wants to give Miryam time and space, for all that he himself would like to mourn in peace, if there is some big political mess they are in, he needs to know.

Miryam is silent for a moment. “I messed up,” she finally says. “I miscalculated on some things, and I made mistakes, and I...” She shakes her head. “It’s all messed up,” she whispers. “Everything is out of control, and I don’t know how to fix it. I’m not sure if I even can.”

----

Telling Drakon about what happened is far easier than Miryam initially thought. As soon as she admitted that she lost control, that she doesn’t know what to do, the words basically seem to flow on their own. She talks about the conversation she had with Zeku before getting kidnapped and the one earlier today, how the Fae all seem to be jumping at shadows and she doesn’t know how to stop them. Drakon listens in silence. With each word, his expression darkens.

“Shit,” he mutters when she is finished. He runs a hand through his hair, wings trembling slightly. “And Zeku is just going along with this?”

“He’s just trying to look out for his people,” Miryam says. “You can’t really blame him for that.”

With a few hours of time to calm down, she got over her initial anger and realized that she really has no right to feel betrayed. After all, feeling betrayed implies some kind of betrayal, and there was none. Miryam disregarded Zeku’s advice and brought herself into the situation she is in now – Zeku had every right to cut off ties. He didn’t owe it to her to risk his position for her, and actually was rather nice about the entire matter. He could easily have withdrawn support for the treaty they are working on, for all their political goals, but instead, he only cut ties to her personally.

If anything, Miryam should probably be grateful.

Still, feelings aren’t entirely rational, and so Miryam still feels rather like she has been used and then discarded. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t quite shake the feeling that it must have been Zeku’s plan from the beginning to let her take the fall should anything go wrong, that he supported her partially because she was no one of consequence, and, when it comes down to it, replaceable.

This, of course, isn’t quite fair either. Partially because having a back-up plan was well within Zeku’s right, but mainly because Zeku, being a lesser faerie, has always been in a delicate position on the Continent and is just trying to do what he has to to make sure his people are alright. Miryam can respect that. In his place, she might even do the same.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” she says, changing the subject away from Zeku. She can’t change anything about his actions now, so there is little use discussing them. But with how things are currently developing, there is an agreement she needs to make with Drakon.

She has the feeling that he won’t like what she is about to say, but it’s important. She thought about it while sitting in Nakia’s suite and came to the conclusion that this is the only logical next step.

“If this goes badly,” she begins, then stops herself. There’s really no point finding pretty words around what she means. “If I do get killed,” she starts over, “I want you to promise that you’ll go along with whatever story they come up with.”

Drakon, as estimated, does not like it. He twists around to her, feathers ruffling slightly. “What?”

“There will be some kind of cover story,” Miryam says. “An accident, I assume. And you have to pretend that you believe it. You can’t ever question it – not to the Fae, not to the humans, not to anyone.”

“And why would I do that?” Drakon asks. “Assuming you do get murdered by our allies, I’d say the last thing I would want to do is help your murderers get away with it.”

Miryam sighs. She knew this wouldn’t be easy. “I don’t want anyone to find out,” she says, “because this would split the Alliance in half and ruin any chance of lasting peace between humans and Fae. And I don’t want you to let on that you know, because if you do, you will be murdered as well.”

Drakon jumps off the pillar they were sitting on and starts pacing in the grass in front of her. “I can’t believe you are just accepting this,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’m not,” Miryam says. And she really doesn’t. Part of her is still raging against the unfairness of it all. She simply came to the conclusion that she likely won’t be able to change anything about it, so she ought to start planning for that.

“No, you’re right. You’ve skipped right over accepting it and are now coming up with plans to cover up your own murder.” Drakon shakes his head. “This isn’t a fallback plan, or a last option, Miryam. You aren’t even trying to come up with a way to get out of this alive because you are so busy planning for what will happen after your death.”

Miryam winces. She can’t quite deny that Drakon has a point. She did spend more time trying to come up with plans for what to do after her death than with ways to actually stay alive. And yes, upon closer examination, her trying to help cover up her own murder is a bit messed up as well, but she isn’t doing this for fun. She does it because it’s the only way.

“Do you think this is what I want?” She asks sharply, jumping to her feet as well. “I don’t want to die, but I’m backed into a corner and I have no idea how to get back out. Besides, Clythia told Jurian that she had a vision I would die before the war is over no matter what. And I don’t usually believe in this shit, but I’m beginning to think she might have been right, and if she was, I never stood a chance either way.”

Drakon freezes. “There’s a prophecy?” He asks, and Miryam realizes that he actually didn’t know that yet.

“Yes,” she says, “but prophecy or not, I am in trouble and all I’m trying to do is come up with the best possible solution.” She runs a hand through her hair, sighing. “And if I am about to get murdered no matter what, I don’t want to drag this Alliance and any hope for lasting peace down with me.”

Drakon lets himself drop back down onto the pillar. His annoyance seems to have evaporated. “It has only been a few hours, Miryam,” he says softly. “A few hours since you spoke to Zeku, and yet you already seem to have decided that you don’t stand a chance.” He glances up at her. “Do you remember what happened the last time you just decided you would die and that there was nothing to be done about it?”

Miryam feels her cheeks heat. She remembers all too well. After all, the experience of nearly tearing herself apart with her own power is hard to forget – as is the knowledge that none of this would have been necessary if she had just asked for help. (She also remembers all too well that her refusal to talk about her problems back then played a role in eventually ending her relationship with Jurian, which is another thing she really doesn’t want to repeat.)

Maybe, possibly, Drakon has a point.

“I don’t know how, though,” she says softly, letting herself drop down to the pillar next to Drakon. “It’s all just too much. The Alliance, the War, all the things I need to do, all the responsibilities…” She shakes her head. “I really don’t want to die. But I don’t know where I’m supposed to take the energy to keep this from happening.”

She is so tired. So wrecked with pain and anger and loss. Jurian is dead and she is still there, and even seven years in, they still haven’t won this war. She doesn’t know how long she will manage to keep this up anymore, how far she can push herself before she falls apart entirely.

Miryam leans back to glance up at the sky, tries to let the glittering stars comfort her. “Maybe we should run away,” she says with faked lightness. “We could just not go back. No one would ever find us.”

“We could rebuild one of the houses,” Drakon says, immediately jumping on to her line of thought. He glances around the ruins surrounding them. “Well, maybe not this one – it looks more like a palace, and I think it might just collapse around us if we try. But some other house.”

“Doesn��t need to be stone,” Miryam adds. “We could use branches and leaves, maybe clay, and build something from that. That seems more doable without actually knowing much about building houses.”

She isn’t being serious, of course, and she knows that Drakon isn’t either. Neither of them would ever run away. But just for the moment, it is nice to pretend. Just for tonight, they can dream up a future that will never be, pretend they can just walk away and live normally, away from all the struggles that dictate their lives.

“There are plenty of fruits, too,” Drakon says. “I don’t know all of the plants, but I’m sure some of those are edible.”

Miryam grins, and it only feels a little bit hollow. “Would be a new experience for you,” she teases. “Having to find and make your own food.”

“Guilty as charged,” Drakon replies lightly. “At least for the finding part. Sinna did show me how to cook.”

“Really?” Miryam asks. “I’ve never seen you cook.”

“Well, I’ve never seen you cook, either, and since you managed to make it through half of the Continent on your own without starving, I assume you can at least prepare a meal,” Drakon points out. He grins, then adds, “I’m afraid I’m not very good at cooking, though.”

“I can teach you,” Miryam says, grinning, and for a moment, she can actually imagine the life they are making up. Peaceful. Content. Careless.

But then, the image of the burning pyre flashes through her mind. Slowly, her smile fades and she glances out at the dark forest surrounding them. “We could never,” she says softly. Sadly.

Even if Miryam could walk away now, even if she could leave it all behind, she knows, with more certainty than she knows anything else, that she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She has responsibilities, promises she made, things she fights for that are far bigger than her own life. And Zeku was right – even if she managed to end slavery and free her people, she would never be able to step by. No matter how much she might wish for a quiet, peaceful life, she would never truly be content with it while there are people suffering and she knows she could help them.

Drakon sighs. “No,” he says. “We couldn’t.”

Miryam nods. Same as her, Drakon would never be able to leave the world behind to burn. And he would no sooner abandon his people than she would. He wouldn’t be the man she loves if he was so easily ready to shrug off his responsibilities.

“Promise that you’ll try,” Drakon says. “That you won’t just give up. Then…” He hesitates, and Miryam can almost see how he struggles with himself. Whatever he is about to say, he doesn’t like it. “Then I will go along with your plan,” he finally says. “Should it go badly.”

“That’s fair.” Miryam doesn’t know how she is supposed to try, or where she’s going to take the energy, but if it buys her a chance to actually survive this, it’s going to be worth it.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @femtopulsed

#me: 5-6k words a chapter sounds like a good length #also me: writes twice as much #*also* me: 'I wonder why this chapter takes me so long...'#anyways this is basically one big 'fuck you' to the way canon writes the relationship between Miryam Jurian and Drakon at the War's end #miryam and drakon were absolutely HEARTBROKEN about Jurian's death and no one dare say anything else #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

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avacapulet-blog · 7 years

Text

Revelations | Self-Para

Ava hadn’t meant for it to slip out. She’d made a plan. They’d made a plan. She and Sin were going to tell her parents about them together. She’d feel better with him there by her side, more secure with his hand in hers, his presence alone making her feel safe. They’d planned it for before the Feast, the day looming over her like the doomsday clock. But nothing in life ever goes according to plan, she should’ve known that by now.

A fist-fight breaking out between a Capulet and a Montague had trickled down Verona’s grapevine and by the time it’d gotten to her parents, they were more up in arms than ever about the decree, about how horrible it was..and about how horrible Montagues were and Ava felt her patience slipping away. It was when her father made a comment about locking up that trash or just getting rid of him for good that she finally snapped. “He’s not a bad person.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The questions that followed were worse.

What are you talking about?

You know him?

Are you spending time with them?

The last one tipped everything over: You’re not being absolutely ridiculous and thinking of entering a claim with one of them, are you?

“Maybe I am.” Again, silence. But she couldn’t take it back now. She hid the way her hands shook by clasping them tight under the table. “I....mom, dad...I’m dating someone. And he..he’s wonderful. He’s so sweet and kind and he cares about me. He takes care of me. But he is..” She swallowed, letting out a breath, “He’s a Montague.”

“No.” “What?” Ava looked to her mother, frowning and looking at her in disbelief as the older woman continued. “I said no, Ava. You will not--how can you even think to embarrass us like that? No. It’s ending now. You’ve done enough to us with your life already, but you will not do this.”

She couldn’t stop her hands shaking anymore. She couldn’t stop the way her eyes welled up either, but she clenched her jaw a bit, shaking her head, “M’not a little girl anymore, mother. And you can’t...you won’t tell me I can’t see him anymore. I won’t let you do that--” “Ava.” It was her father this time, trying to placate her, always trying to defuse the tension between the two women in his life, but still, she could see the upset in his eyes and she just shook her head, sniffling a bit, “I love him, dad. I’m in love with him. A..And I’m sorry but..but I’m not letting either of you take that away from me. I want to be with him..”

“Get out.”

Ava looked over at her mother, seeing the woman’s eyes glistening as well but the tears were hidden behind a hard, icy stare. The words slipped out of her mouth before she could even think, and Ava could see the bit of surprise in her mother’s expression too, but before the words could be taken back Ava just nodded and moved.

“Ava, no..wait. I didn’t mean--”

But it was too late. The words had come out and there was no taking them back. Ava went over to the closet by the door, pulling out a duffel bag she’d prepared a week ago in case of this very outcome, shocking her parents even more. “His name is Sinna, by the way. And he works at one of the brothels in town. A-And if he ever asks me to enter a claim with him? I’ll say yes in a heartbeat. And there’s nothing either of you can say or do to stop it.”

And with that she opened the door and left, too late to even grab a coat as she headed into the cold evening and towards Sin’s loft, managing to walk a block before the tears finally spilled over.

#para #para: all #para: r #i debated putting this under a cut but idk #if it's too long tho @admins lemme know!

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coffee-loving-cryptid · 7 years

Photo

More art of my fursona, this time trying out some expressions! Gotta say, upset/concerned Sinna (top right) looks more budgie-like than owl XD;

#fursona #owl #art #digital #expressions #bird #avian

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vixtrium · 7 years

Photo

me @ the people giving @sinna-skele-mom BULLSHIT

IF YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH ANYTHING DONT FUCKING BASH ON THEM CAUSE I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU MAKE THEM UPSET YOULL HAVE TO GET THROUGH ME FIRST

THIS TINY BEE WILL FUCK YOU UP

#bee #vixtriumsart

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thealicecapulet · 6 years

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love was an act of defiance

WHO: @montaguevin & Alice Capulet (also a bit of @theposeycapulet and mentions of @jim-ofalltrades-montague)

WHEN: Friday July 27th

WHERE: The gardens of Verona’s Cathedral

SUMMARY: Vin and Alice take matters into their own hands regarding their relationship

Note(s): Surprise!

Alice felt a whirlwind of emotions, so much so that she hardly slept at all last night. Today was a risk. She knew there was going to be fallout from it but....honestly, the pros outweighed the cons. She wanted to be with Vin. She wanted his collar around his neck. She wasn't a child, and she didn't take this decision lightly. She knew the risks and she was willing to take them. She'd take whatever came after, whatever anger and upsets it'd cause in her family. She'd take it all and it'd be worth it. Vin was worth it. So early that Friday morning she found herself at the cathedral with Posey, getting ready in one of the back rooms. "You don't think I'm absolutely insane, do you?" She asked quietly as she glanced up at her, her cousin gently curling the ends of her hair for her.

Posey hums softly as the curing iron wraps gently around the weight of Alice's hair, letting the dark lock spring back into place before moving onto the next, her own hair and makeup done, her lips curving into a soft smile. "...A little, but clearly Lady Bea hasn't seen you together, and I'm proud of you. You're doing what you genuinely want for the first time you know? Like.. Rocking the boat.. You guys are meant to be even though it took you ages to get your head out of your ass, it's .. It's happening. And besides. You're gonna be a Montague... So even if we still get kicked out? You guys are together for better or worse"

Alice watched the way Posey's lips tugged into a smile and she rolled her eyes at her fondly before smiling back and she letting out a breath, slowly nodding at her words. Posey was right. Alice was always one to go with the flow of things...to let others win and to mediate peace. She never really fought for things. But this. This she was fighting for. "It wasn't that long.." She replied teasingly. She exhaled slowly again, feeling jittery and nervous, wringing her fingers lightly in her lap, not wanting to wrinkle the soft, flowy material of her dress before she smoothed her hands over it and nodded again, "Thank you. For being here for me. For everything."

Posey: "People have like ... Half a baby in that time. You could literally grow half a human..." She trails off, before pressing her cheek gently against Alice's, her arms wrapping around her careful not to ruin her hair or makeup, her voice soft but warm. "I wouldn't be anywhere else, you know that. I've got your back no matter what happens. And that man standing in the garden? He's so in love with you. You're doing the right thing.." She rummages in her bag, pulling out a tiny champagne bottle, enough for two glasses before securing them and pouring them out before passing Alice one. "...I can't give a maid of honour speech.. But you're one of my best friends, and you're kind and caring and I'm sorry our Lady decided to use you as a pawn in the ongoing Montague and Capulet claim, but you deserve this more than anyone, and I love you, and I'm proud of you, and I'm even looking forward to seeing you become Dr Alice Montague" before clinking her glass with Alice's and taking a sip and looking up as the knock at the door sounds before asking quietly "....So you're ready to do this? I stole Jim's keys just incase you had a moment of insanity and changed your mind"

Alice laughed softly, shaking her head, "I think you're thinking of Will and Ginny." She teased, even though she knew Vin had been in her life since the beginning half of the year, so she wasn't all wrong. She closed her eyes as Posey's arms went around her and she hugged her back, smiling warmly as she leaned into the girl that had always been like another sister to her. She let Posey go and snorted as she saw the mini bottle of champagne, shaking her head fondly again, "I'm not even surprised you pulled that out of your purse." She teased, reaching for one of the glasses. She listened as Posey began an impromptu 'speech', smiling all the while and feeling something warm settle inside herself at the words. She was proud of her. She was doing something to be proud of. She clinked her glass into Posey's and laughed, shaking her head again as she heard the knock, "I'm not about to be a runaway bride. I'm the one that planned this, remember?" She reminded her as she moved to stand, "And...for the record? You'll still get your speech. We're hoping to still have a reception sometime soon....if Bea doesn't ban the rest of the family from seeing me ever again." Her smile faded a bit as she said that, a little bit of nerves coursing through her before letting out a breath and shaking her head to herself. There was no point in worrying in that. She'd deal with the consequences later. For now... She drank more of her glass and moved to the mirror at the other end of the room, adjusting her hair a bit and her dress and nodding to herself before turning to face Posey, "Okay...I think I'm as ready as I'm gonna get."

Posey smiles at their glasses chink before helping Alice with the last minute details, quickly grabbing the lip-balm and dotting a bit in the middle of her bottom lip, an old makeup trick before stepping back. "...You look gorgeous. I'll head out first okay? I'll see you out there"

Alice smiled at her, letting out a slow, calming breath before nodding, "Okay." She agreed, moving around the room and grabbing her little bouquet ( https://i.pinimg.com/564x/07/3a/3b/073a3bc97f92c390d09a67153d3e705d.jp) and handing Posey's hers as well, squeezing her cousin's hand and then letting her head out of the room and to the garden first. Her heart started to race a little bit as she waited in the doorway for a second to compose herself, and all the while she wondered what Vin was thinking, if he felt those same little nervous butterflies she felt.

Vin is pacing around the small garden. The nerves in his stomach fluttering up a whirling storm, though Jim's steady presence at his side is calming since he's 'got his shit together'. The fact they're going against Beatrice's wishes is a niggling thought in the back of his mind. But he knows himself, he knows Alice and that they've been dating just as long as Ava and Sinna have before they claimed, and honestly? The need to see his collar around Alice's neck outweighs wanting the fiery Domme's approval. He paces again before the door opens and Posey steps out, fiery hair billowing around her before stepping up to the makeshift altar and giving him a beaming smile, one he returns before looking over as the door opens again, and Alice steps through. She looks /beautiful/ there's no other words for it, and any oxygen leaves his body, making him light headed and hyper focused on the submissive in front of him before shaking his head to clear it and just muttering "....Holy shit, I'm so lucky" though the small laughter coming from Posey and Jim has him realising that they've probably overheard him.

Alice let out one last calming breath before she was moving, walking through the doorway and heading outside. She appreciated that they had even spread little rose petals down the makeshift aisle to where the 'altar' was, the Bishop at the head. Posey was on one side, Jim the other, and the Princess was to the side as well, smiling all the while. And then she caught sight of Vin and all her nerves flew away. Any consequences, any anger that would come their way at doing this in secret vanished and all she cared about was the Dom standing ahead of her. He was her future...this was who she was meant to be with for the rest of her life. She felt the dress gliding behind her a bit as she walked, her heart beating quickly but a smile on her face as she made her way to the front, eyes on Vin all the while. "Hi." She breathed out softly, looking him over. He always looked handsome, especially in suits at the various ceremonies they'd attended together. But this? This was something else, and for the millionth time she wondered how she got so lucky, how he actually chose her to be with.

Vin can feel his face breaking into a smile as Alice all but floats towards him. His own suit snug around the shoulders before taking her hands in his as she approaches before echoing quietly. "Hello" unable to take his eyes off her. He briefly wonders how long they've been gazing at one another before squeezing her hand gently, whispering quietly. "...We're actually doing this Kitten. The rest of our lives start right now" before turning his attention to the bishop as he starts talking, nodding along at all the right places, his nerves only swooping slightly remembering that as well as their traditional vows they're going to do a small section of ones that they've written for themselves, his hands still entwined with hers before mouthing to her as the bishop continues talking. "You look so beautiful"

Alice felt a little blush tinging her cheeks as he called her beautiful, her heart skipping as realization set in that he was right. This very moment was the beginning of the rest of their lives. It was a bit surreal. She snapped out of her thoughts as the bishop turned to her so she could say her vows and she let out a breath, shuffling a bit on the spot and squeezing Vin's hands, "Vin, you....you came into my life when I absolutely least expected it. When I'd just stopped looking for love because every other person in my past hurt me. I thought I was just destined to live my life alone, that maybe my work would have to be enough to fulfill my life. But then you showed up..and you became a friend. You became someone I could talk to, I could depend on. Someone whom I felt safe with before I even realized it. I felt safe from the very moment we met--and maybe that's why I felt okay to let a stranger into my house at dawn." She laughed softly, grinning up at him. "You never rushed me into anything, and slowly our friendship bloomed into something more, and for that I am so....so grateful, because my best friend is now the love of my life. I was meant to meet you that morning on the way to work. I was desolate, alone....and the universe finally gave you to me. And that's why I know this is right. It doesn't matter to me how long we've been together, or how quick this is, because it's right. You're the person I'm meant to spend the rest of my life with..the person I want to have children with and grow old with. You're my future. And I want my future to start as soon as possible."

Vin exhales slowly as Alice's words wash over him, each one ringing more true than the last and he lets go of one of her hands to reach into the envelope stashed in his tux, sliding the paper out before deciding to put it back in. "...I tried writing everything down. But nothing seemed to capture how I felt about you. Putting it on paper felt forced, the words seemed shallow and I've never been good with words, but what I am good at? Is action and using my hands. But I can say this. I loved you from the moment I saw you, hazy and through a swollen eyelid and I don't regret how slow we took it at the beginning. Because we got to know each other, those small details that might seem insignificant. And I got to prove myself worthy of you. You never ran from the challenge of what being with me could pose, but rather stood beside me with your hand on my arm and told me we'd take it together, that my name didn't matter to you, that who I am? Is something to be proud of. You've made my life better Alice Capulet, and I promise to spend the rest of our lives making you as happy as you've made me, and for you to never feel inadequate or not good enough again. To stand by your side and be your strength when you feel like you haven't got any, and hold you while the storms pass. And I can't wait to sit on our patio surrounded by grandchildren and tell them the story of how we met, how we came to be. Our story. Where our new chapter begins and Alice Capulet becomes Alice Montague; and I'm the luckiest Dominant in not only Verona, but the world'

Alice watched him take the paper out before sliding it back into his pocket and she blinked up at him as he began to speak, almost immediately feeling tears beginning to spring to her eyes at his words and how they made her feel. He made her feel important- like she was the most important thing in his life, and it was overwhelming in the best way possible, to mean that much to someone. She let out a watery little laugh as he spoke of their grandchildren and she swallowed back her emotions as she nodded, gripping his hand a bit tighter. Alice Montague. It was perfect. "I love you."

Vin The final vows are spoken between them, both parties echoing the bishop quietly and if Vin could focus on anything else, he'd wonder why Posey and Jim were still standing there since it's clear the couple only have eyes for each other, before Jim steps forward with the box containing the collar. https://78.media.tumblr.com/194f0e864f1fe1f87865bb... , it's small, delicate, but enough that she can wear it at the hospital or at Lavinia and still show she's claimed. Collared and he opens the box slowly before intoning quietly. "My collar is a promise. Something steadfast that will be a sign of our partnership, something to ground you, and a piece of me to carry with you. It shows my love, my commitment, and a promise to love, honour and cherish you above all else" before drawing a shaky breath as he finally, /finally/ lifts it out of the box and clasps it around Alice's neck barely breathing until he hears that tiny 'click' of the clasp sliding into place, a weight he didn't even know he was carrying lifted off his shoulders.

Alice felt her breath catch as he opened the box, her eyes zeroing in on the beautiful collar inside, how it nearly glinted in the sunlight. It was delicate, intricate, perfect. She just barely tore her eyes off it as she instead focused on him, listening to him and taking in the words, the promises he was giving her. It was all all she'd ever wanted. She bowed her head slightly, closing her eyes and she felt a little shiver roll through her as the metal touched her skin, her breath catching as she heard the click of it securing in place. It felt like that final puzzle piece of her life had slid into place at the same time. When she blinked her eyes open again there were tears in them and she reached up tentatively, almost reverently as she touched the collar now around her neck and she let out a shaky breath, only snapping out of her thoughts again as Posey cleared her throat quietly and she turned towards her cousin, giving her a watery smile as she took the small box from her and then turned to face Vin before opening the box. https://78.media.tumblr.com/30bcb24d9fa8d25b0f3615... "I bought this for you last month...after my birthday. I didn't know when we'd get claimed but....I knew you were it. I knew we would. And when I saw it I thought it was perfect. And this cuff is my promise to always love you and support you. To always stand by your side. It's a promise that I'll always accept you and all parts of your life. There is not a single part of you that is something to be ashamed of. You should be proud of your accomplishments in life, because I know I am. I'm so proud of you..and I'm proud to be with you. I'm proud to belong to you, and I always will." As she spoke she took the leather cuff out of the box and moved to wrap it around his wrist, her thumb brushing along the inside of his wrist just over his pulse point as she clicked it into place.

Vin lets his thumb brush Alice's hand as the cuff locks into place. They've done it. Short of signing their official paper work. They're claimed. Though once the bishop speaks the words quietly. "You may kiss your claim.” He can't resist sweeping Alice into his arms, letting his lips brush hers, one hand coming up to brush at her cheek, his wrist feeling the collar around her neck before pulling back, eyes bright. His head shakes in disbelief as they're taken to the small table to sign their papers before looking over at her, still in awe. "...We actually did it Kitten. You're mine"

Alice felt like her heart might burst out of her chest. She listened as the bishop finished up and when he said they could kiss Vin was on her, pulling her in and knocking the air out of her lungs and she melted into him, a tear slipping down her cheek and her lips pulling up into a smile as she kissed him back, her hand all the while still curled around his wrist, around the cuff that she'd put there, that signified that he was hers as much as she was his. She let out a little laugh of disbelief as she shook her head, grinning up at him, "We did it." She echoed, unable to stop smiling as she looked down at the papers, letting Vin sign his half before she did the same, taking her time in signing the bottom as Alice Montague before she leaned up and kissed him again, "I'm yours."

Vin looks down as Alice signs her name with a flourish, the final signature being the icing on the cake. His arm around her, the collar glinting on her neck and even Jim beaming from ear to ear has him in a state of happiness he never knew existed before laughing quietly, a finger touching the dry ink. "...So how long have you been practicing that signature hmm?'

Alice leaned into him all the while, just staring down at their names signed on the paper, the final touch to this being complete. She watched him reach down to the paper and she laughed, rolling her eyes as she nudged him playfully with her elbow, "Shut up.." She teased even as she turned in his grasp, wrapping her own arm around him and looking up at him. "I love you." She told him again, love and happiness shining in her eyes as she met his and she knew, she knew this was the right choice. She'd take every single consequence head on, because at the end of the day, she finally found the happiness she's been wanting her whole life.

Posey waits to the side as Vin and Alice sign their names, only stepping forward when it comes time for her and Jim to sign their names on the paperwork before they're free to go, before stepping forward to Alice and offering an envelope, her smile uncharacteristically shy. "...So if anyone asks? Sir Jim definitely didn't tell me about this place and it's not a present from us both.. But we figured since you kind of can't do a proper honeymoon just yet? It's a one night stay.. Tonight specifically at a little bed and breakfast about an hour away... But it's something. I'll handle feeding Cheshire, but you guys.. Just enjoy it okay?" before wrapping both of them in hugs before stepping back. "...Oh Vin's car is out front too. Jim brought it over for you guys to take.."

Alice looked down at the envelope in her cousin's hands, listening to her before blinking in surprise and letting out a happy little noise, laughing as she moved to hug her, "Thank you, Pose." She kissed her cheek and then moved to hug Jim as well before heading back to Vin's side, her hand easily slipping into his, the feeling of his cuff brushing against her skin feeling almost as perfect as the collar around her neck. Tomorrow they could deal with the real world--for now, she was happy to focus on her and her Dom.

#para #chatzy #fun fact: the chatzy was titled 'valice doin the damn thing'#i felt you should all know this #para: vin

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cinaja · 3 years

Text

Before the Wall part 42

Masterlist

----

Two months after Miryam and Drakon decided to attempt a relationship, they are sitting are sitting in Miryam’s drawing room together with Andromache and Zeku. Miryam and Drakon share a seat on the couch while Zeku and Andromache each took one of the armchairs. Between them, papers lie strewn out over a table. They are preparing for the meeting tomorrow, coordinating their opinions and making sure that they all agree on what to do any say.

The four of them are the usual group for meetings like this. Miryam is obviously there, although not in her function as de-facto leader of the Alliance, but as leader of their fraction. (Officially, there are no fractions in the Alliance, but in reality, they very much exist. Miryam’s is the biggest, consisting of all the humans – at least since she put her quarrel with Nakia aside – as well as those Fae who actually care about equality.) Andromache is there for the humans (not technically their leader, but while Scythia under Nakia is in charge of the military, Andromache spearheads politics) and Zeku for the Fae (not their leader at all, but closest to Miryam). Drakon isn’t there to represent anyone, but he wrote the proposal they are discussing, which means he has been invited to these meetings lately.

What they are discussing today is the sixth draft of Drakon’s original proposal, and somehow, he doubts that it will be the last one. They keep quarrelling over territory lines and new power positions, discussing the same points over and over again. By now, they have at least agreed that each of the Loyalist territories will be forced to yield part of their territory proportionally to the human population, allowing the humans to form independent territories. Other points remain less secure.

“Why are there no reparations specified in that contract?” Zeku asks.

“There are,” Drakon says, “Section three. Each freed slave is allowed to take as much they can carry from their owner’s household. And there will be trials for atrocities the enemies committed.”

Miryam shifts through her copy of the proposal. She is leaning against Drakon, he has an arm around her shoulders. In the beginning, they were hesitant about how much affection they could show in public, with only Andromache, Mor, Sinna and Nephelle knowing the truth, but by now, they are nearly certain that no one notices anything strange about their behaviour. (“What did you expect?” Nephelle asked, laughing, when he mentioned it to her. “You two were close enough already that the difference is near-impossible to notice.”)

“Yes, sure.” Zeku picks up a grape from the plate. “But what about reparations paid to the winner? It is common for the defeated party to somehow compensate the other side for the costs of war.”

Drakon sighs. He knew this would come, knew the Fae especially would likely disagree. “There hasn’t been a war of a comparable scale in millennia,” he says. “The entire Continent is in ruin. If we force the Loyalist countries to pay for this, we’ll bankrupt them for centuries.”

Neither Miryam nor Andromache look particularly disturbed at the thought. Andromache shrugs. “So what? Much as I appreciate your generosity, I don’t particularly care if the Loyalists have economic problems after this.”

“You will if you consider the long-term consequences,” Drakon says. He sincerely hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s defending the Loyalists. “I’m not saying this out of sympathy for the ither side, but because I don’t want us to get dragged into another war in a few decades or centuries.”

Zeku frowns at him. “Aren’t you exaggerating a little there? This has been common practice for millennia.”

“And every time the victor when too far, another war was the consequence . Take Akele and Merin,” he says, referring to two territories on the western Continent that have been locked in war for just over a thousand years. It all started when Akele defeated Merin in war and bled the country dry for compensation.

He looks around at the others. “The Loyalists’ economy is built around slavery – without it, it will struggle. If we add huge debts to that, it will collapse entirely.” He looks to Andromache and Miryam, who don’t seem upset at all. “I realize that this may not feel like a bad thing – even I would like to see them pay, and I have far less cause than you do. But any satisfaction this might bring won’t last, because if we do this, we’ll never have true peace. We will need constant military presence in the former Loyalist countries, we will have to keep them down for eternity. Because the moment we relax our guard, they will strike back.”

Miryam and Andromache exchange another look. Now, they do seem concerned. Zeku presses his lips together and looks down at his fingers.

“That won’t be easily sold to the Fae,” he warns.

“Or the humans,” Andromache adds.

Miryam frowns. “Are you sure about this?” She asks.

Drakon considers for a moment, then nods. “We can’t push the Loyalists completely to the ground,” he says. “If we abolish slavery and then let them all fall into poverty, they will always wish to go back to the times before this war. There will be no moving on.”

“It isn’t just the economy, though,” Andromache says. “It’s not like they enslave us out of necessity – “ Drakon flinches and she shakes her head. “Don’t look at me like that, I know that wasn’t what you were saying. But still. The problem is that they think us lesser. And that won’t change if we allow them to keep their economy.”

Yes, Drakon knows this. But finding a way to end bigotry that has been festering in Fae society for millennia seems nearly impossible. He’s just over thirty years old, and he’s expected to solve a millennia-old problem? All he can do is identify the biggest possible pitfalls and try to find solutions, but he has no way of knowing if those will actually work. It’s not ideal, but he doesn’t know another way to approach this than to work step by step.

“Humans will have their own countries,” he says. “If we manage to establish that as the status quo, it will be a solid first step. Then we work on establishing trade between the human and Fae countries. Trading partners rarely attack each other – it isn’t good for the economy. And trade always brings countries and people closer together.”

Many of the Loyalists, of course, wouldn’t be pleased by the idea of trading with the humans. But that’s another thing they agreed upon – the Loyalist countries would be put under Alliance administration for the time being. Rulers would need to be replaced with ones more open to the new course, and the Alliance would maintain a presence until things had stabilized.

Miryam flips through the pages of Drakon’s proposal. “There’s also the section about adding a clause to Continental law that allows full legal protection to all humans,” she says. “We’d just need to find a way to get that law put into action, but otherwise, it should help.”

Zeku nods. He has opened his copy and is studying the lines, frowning. Drakon pours himself a glass of water and takes a sip. These discussions are nerve-wracking. It’s entirely different from having to work out a text for university and then discussing it with the other students. Then, it was only about a grade, maybe his father’s approval. Now, it’s the entire continent at stake. Miryam takes his hand and squeezes, smiling at her.

“I know this isn’t entirely the subject,” Zeku says without looking up from the paper, “But would it be possible to include lesser faeries in that law?”

Drakon bites back a curse. Of course, how could he forget about that? When he was still in university, most of the essays he wrote were about the situation faeries face, especially in countries like Montesere. But now, his focus was entirely on the humans – enough that he forgot about the second group of people who aren’t treated as equal on the Continent.

“Don’t they have legal protection already?” Andromache asks.

Zeku shakes his head. “Not in general Continental law. It’s up to their countries to decide which rights they have, but outside of that, the situation is unclear.”

Andromache frowns. “But aren’t you and Drakon…” She pauses. “Can I say ‘lesser faeries’? It sounds disrespectful.”

“I believe that’s the point,” Zeku says drily. His blue skin darkens considerably. “But if you’d like to avoid that, you can simply say ‘faeries’.”

Andromache nods. “Okay. So, you’re both faeries, not High Fae. You’re still royalty.”

“We’re similar enough in power and looks that they don’t mind us as much,” Zeku says. Drakon nods in confirmation.

Privilege on the Continent has always been largely tied to power. Humans don’t have any, High Fae have the most. Most faeries lie somewhere in between, powerful in their own rights, but with abilities that are largely tied to the land and far more specific than those of the High Fae. Both Drakon’s and Zeku’s people have strong elemental powers, though – more High Fae-like – and most people simply pretend they are High Fae.

“I’ll include something,” Drakon says.

He can’t believe he didn’t think of it himself. He knows about the issues faeries face all over the Continent as well as Zeku does. Both Sangravah and Erithia have laws that grant faeries equal rights and, consequently, far larger faerie populations than most other countries.

“We can include that?” He asks, turning to Miryam and Andromache. “Right?”

“Sure,” Andromache says. “Wouldn’t do for us to win this war and abolish slavery only for these asshole High Fae to turn around and enslave a different species.”

Miryam looks down at the proposal and smiles. “If we get this to work,” she says, “we’re truly going to change the world.”

----

Mor runs a hand through her hair. She spent most of the day sitting in her tent in Andromache’s camp, looking through a book her uncle’s servants dug up from somewhere inside the Hewn City. Ever since the High Lord mentioned the possible uses of her gift to her, she tried to find out as much as possible about it.

Unfortunately, most of the texts regarding the Morrigan powers belong to the private collection of Mor’s family, meaning her father, and ancient contracts forbid even the High Lord from accessing those and the last Morrigan died over a century before Mor was born, and as far as mor knows, he didn’t have any special abilities either.

Truth is deadly, Mor reads, Truth is freedom. Truth can break and mend and bind. The author, Mor has decided, has an unfortunate flair for being dramatic and overly poetic instead of helpful. Pages upon pages and not a single solid explanation of what Mor’s powers do, much less how they are used.

“Stupid book,” Mor mutters and closes it.

“I don’t understand why you’re so fascinated by this,” Andromache says. She’s lying on her stomach on Mor’s bed, papers strewn out over the pillow before her.

“Wouldn’t you be fascinated if you found out you might be in possession of powers like these?”

Andromache purses her lips and shrugs. “No.”

“No?” Mor echoes. “Not even a little bit?”

“No.” Andromache picks up a letter and starts methodically ripping it apart. “Humans don’t have powers, and I, for my part, am perfectly content with it.”

Mor frowns. She heard this philosophy from quite a few humans already, but she never quite believed it. It always seemed more like the kind of thing people would say to console themselves over the fact that they don’t have any magic.

“Besides,” Andromache continues, “I have yet to meet a person who was overly powerful and happy with it. Discounting complete assholes like Artax, obviously.”

“Rhys isn’t unhappy,” Mor says, “And Miryam isn’t either.”

Andromache makes a noise that might be interpreted as agreement, but she remains silent. She turns her attention to the next letter and starts ripping it apart as well.

“And now you want to be like Miryam?” She asks. She still sounds sceptical, not at al like she’s pleased with Mor’s plans.

Mor shrugs. She obviously doesn’t want to be exactly like Miryam. But she genuinely cannot see what is so wrong with wanting to be similar, especially when it comes to power. Who wouldn’t want that? Miryam is untouchable. Everyone likes and respects her. She can walk into the Night Court and simply get a girl like Mor out of there without any consequences. That is what power gets you. If Mor had power, she would not only be safe, but also able to help others.

But maybe Andromache truly doesn’t see it. She’s a queen, after all. She never was as powerless as Mor.

“I simply don’t understand this,” Andromache pushes when Mor remains silent. At least she doesn’t say ´I don’t understand you`. “I’ve never known you to care about power.”

Mor crosses her arms. Somehow, Andromache makes her feel like she’s done something wrong when she really hasn’t. “Maybe I just want to know what I’m capable of.”

Andromache swings her legs over the edge of the bed and gets up. “Then do that,” she says. “Just make sure you don’t end up finding more than you wanted to. Or playing directly into what your uncle wants.” She walks over to Mor and kisses her briefly before making for the exit. “I need to deal with a few problems,” she says. “Good luck with your researches.”

“Thanks,” Mor mutters, looking after her as she walks out of the tent.

She presses her lips together. They didn’t argue, not exactly, but she still feels like Andromache is somehow upset with her. Mor doesn’t want her to be upset, but at the same time, she doesn’t see what she was doing wrong. When Miryam was looking into her powers, no one told her not to. Why is it different for Mor?

Scowling, she looks down at the book. This certainly isn’t going to help her. She had considered asking Miryam for advice, but after Andromache’s reaction, she doesn’t feel confident in that strategy anymore. This leaves her to figure out how to handle her powers on her own.

No books and no help to be had. That means all that’s left is trial-and-error.

----

“What are you so annoyed about?” Yanis asks as they walk together through the camp.

“I’m not annoyed,” Andromache mutters, even though she technically is.

“Sure you are,” Yanis says. “I’m your best friend – you think I don’t notice?”

Andromache smiles and swats at his arm. Unfortunately, Yanis really does know her well enough that he’s impossible to lie to. They’ve been friends since their childhood, both children of advisors to the last queen, who later picked Andromache to be her successor. Yanis joined the royal guard, which means that now, a few years down the line, he is one of her guards.

“I had an…” Not an argument, not quite. “A disagreement with Mor.”

She doesn’t even know why she is this angry with Mor. Maybe it’s because she keeps thinking of how much Miryam struggles with her powers and can’t fathom the sheer stupidity of anyone wanting that for themselves.

Or maybe it’s because Mor’s entire approach to the situation is so distinctly Fae, wanting power for power’s sake, only to further their own standing. If she at least said that she was trying to get more powerful so that she could help them win this war, Andromache might have accepted it, but Mor just seemed to want power, and maybe Andromache is simply too human to understand that.

“Oh.” Yanis makes a face. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Andromache quietly shakes her head. She usually tells Yanis everything that’s going on in her life. He even knows about her relationship with Mor, by virtue of being the one who is currently pretending to be her lover to cover for them. But this is not her secret alone, and she doesn’t even know if Mor is comfortable with other people hearing about it.

“So, do you want to do anything to take your mind off the matter?” Yanis asks. “We could go sparring.”

“I’d love to, but I need to visit Jurian.”

Ever since Jurian stopped talking to Miryam, Andromache made a point to visit him at least once a week. Miryam makes sure his camp keeps running smoothly, and Andromache does her best to keep Jurian company. These days, she seems to be the only one whose company he can stomach. It isn’t always easy with him, but there’s no way Andromache is going to abandon him entirely. (And really, who of them can claim to be easy to be around these days?)

“I’ll winnow us,” Yanis says.

Yanis is exactly one eighth Fae. Physically, there’s no hint of his ancestors except for ears that are perhaps a bit more pointed than normal, and except for the ability to winnow, he has inherited none of their magical powers. The ability to winnow comes in very handy, though. Now, he winnows both of them to the outskirts of Jurian’s camp.

“I’ll go talk to Xeni,” he says when they arrive, naming one of Jurian’s higher-ranking captains.

“Meet you back here in an hour?” Andromache asks and waves at one of soldiers whom she knows briefly from another visit.

Yanis nods and they both set off. Jurian isn’t in his tent, which Andromache takes as a good sign. The days when Jurian is sitting alone in his tent, staring at his maps or drinking, are usually the worst. When he’s out in his camp and doing things, it generally means that he’s having a good day. (Occasionally, it also means that he’s having a terrible day and everyone else is about to as well.)

She finds Jurian sitting at a table with his soldiers, which is definitely a good sign. He looks tired, bloodshot eyes sunken deep into his face, but he’s talking. When he sees Andromache, he smiles, which is a rare sight these days, and waves her over. One of his soldiers quickly moves aside to make place for her on the bench.

“How’s it going?” Jurian asks. He even sounds somewhat cheerful.

Andromache smiles back. “Can’t complain.”

One of the soldiers passes her a mug of ale and Andromache takes it, thanking him. She isn’t overly fond of ale, but she still takes a sip, wincing at the bitter taste.

“And you?” Andromache asks. “Things look pleasantly calm here.”

“Oh, but they aren’t,” Jurian says. He sounds satisfied with himself. “We only got back here a few hours ago. We spent the past two days chasing after Amarantha’s army. We finally caught on to them earlier today and managed quite the ambush. Four hundred of her soldiers dead, can you imagine?”

“That’s great,” Andromache says, but her smile soon fades.

She does her best to remember the assignments for the individual armies, but she can’t quite drag up the memory. Miryam always knows the exact orders for each commander by heart, but Andromache has been less involved in the matter lately. Still, she is sure that Jurian’s army had gotten orders that don’t align with running after Amarantha. (As a matter of fact, Jurian’s orders rarely ever give him free reign to do as he pleases when it comes to Amarantha anymore. Andromache never asked, but she strongly suspects that Miryam is behind it.)

“Hold on,” she says slowly. Now, she does remember what orders Jurian had. “Weren’t you meant to keep watch on Vallahan’s army? To make sure they don’t move east.”

Jurian’s slight frown confirms her suspicions. “We’ve been keeping an eye out for them for days,” he says, shrugging. “They haven’t moved.”

Andromache stares at him for a moment. She is about to yell at him, to tell him what he was thinking, going against orders like that, but then, she remembers the soldiers sitting around them. Jurian is their commander and a councilmember, they hold the same rank – she can’t lecture him in front of his soldiers like he’s a wilful child.

“Of course,” Andromache says with a forced smile. “Congratulations on your victory, that’s great news.” She takes another sip of her ale. “And you’re right about Vallahan’s army, too. I’m sure you sent scouts out to check on them, we’d know by now if they had moved.”

Jurian nods hastily, but from the frantic look in his eyes, he hasn’t heard back from his scouts yet. Andromache tries hard to conceal her ire. She knows Jurian is struggling and that his revenge against Amarantha is all that keeps him going these days. Being angry with him for that always seemed unfair, but it is very hard not to when he keeps putting his private revenge before the war effort.

They sit together for another couple of minutes, chatting idly with the soldiers. Their conversation gets interrupted by a panting man who stops next to Jurian and whispers something into his ear. His eyes widen.

“What is it?” Andromache asks. Now, she can’t quite keep the edge out of her voice.

“Vallahan’s army has been spotted,” Jurian says. “They…” He clears his throat. “They slipped past our defences and are now moving east. Towards your camp.”

Andromache stares at him for a moment, then jumps to her feet. She doesn’t even bother to yell at Jurian who is still staring at her wide-eyed before she rushes out of the camp.

----

Mor stares out at the army stretching out before her, panting. There is blood splattered all over her golden armour, blood in her hair, on her hands. A sword cut through a slit in the armour on her arm, but she barely feels the sting of the wound. She takes a swig out of a waterskin. Only a moment of pause, then she will need to head back into the fray where Andromache is still fighting.

They are losing. Reinforcements won’t be here for another few hours, and by then, Mor isn’t sure how many of them will be left. They need a miracle. Or a very, very powerful magic-wielder, but none of the ones they have on their side turned up yet.

It was said that she could see the truth about anything in this world, that she could make the proudest Fae beg for mercy in the blink of an eye, and destroy entire armies. The power to destroy an army would come in handy now. If only Mor knew how.

Truth. How does one wield truth in battle?

One attempt, that’s all Mor will spare before she returns to the battle. She closes her eyes and tries to feel the power inside her. She already used it, at least fractions of it, but there must be more and now, Mor goes looking for the core.

She is just about to give up when she finally finds it. The power feels strangely cold and a shiver runs through Mor’s body. The power slips her grasp, though. It keeps slipping away from her, remaining just outside of her reach.

“Come on,” Mor hisses through clenched teeth.

This power is hers. Hers. It doesn’t get to refuse her, certainly not in a moment like this. There are people relying on her. She reaches out, stretches her mind to the point where it strains. A cold spreads from her fingers and all over her body. It feels like she is drenched in cold water. Her power feels like ice, cold and unforgiving. Is scares Mor as it shoots through her, but there is still an army for her to contend with.

Mor grips her power tightly. It is there, filling her entirely, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. She never learned to use it against anyone, has no idea how to weaponize a power that seems entirely harmless.

Out, she orders, attack them. Her power trembles inside her body for a moment longer. Then, miraculously, it goes shooting towards the enemy soldiers. Mor can feel it, rushing out of her and towards the enemy army. Then, her vision turns grey. A crack echoes through her mind. She feels herself falling, falling and falling. She should have hit the ground by now, but still, she falls. Then, the voice starts speaking.

Morrigan, it whispers. No, it isn’t one voice but several, speaking all at once. Morrigan, you call for truth and you will receive it.

Mor tries to struggle, to fight her way out of the darkness she is caught in, but her power keeps a tight grip on her. This is all wrong. It was meant to attack the enemy, not her.

But you so love to lie to yourself, the voices continue. You lie when you tell yourself that your cousin is different from your uncle. You lie when you tell yourself that this little family you made for yourself is so close that nothing could tear it apart.

“No,” Mor whispers. Her head is throbbing and her heart beats far too quickly. “No, stop.”

Before her eyes, images rise. She sees Rhys, standing in his army’s camp, whip in hand. A soldier is bound to the flock below him and Rhys’s face is frozen in clod rage as he swings the whip. He’ll be no better than his father, the voice whispers.

And Azriel… His face appears before her eyes, always impassive. Deep down, you know he won’t be willing to move on. And if he ever finds out the truth… You know how he’ll react. He wants you, will always want you. You’re the symbol for the acceptance he always wanted, and he’ll never accept that he can’t have you.

Azriel’s face vanishes from before her and she is standing in a room with Andromache. They are kissing, embracing each other, but they aren’t alone. Shadows lurk in the corner, shadows like the ones that report to Azriel. Her skin crawls like there are thousands of ants running over her body. She’s being watched, always watched.

When he finds out, the voices continue, your secret will come out. He’ll tell Azriel and Rhysand, and eventually, everyone will know.

She’s standing opposite Azriel in a room. He is yelling and even though she doesn’t hear the words, she knows what he is saying. There are people standing around them, watching. Keir is there. Eris. Her uncle.

“Stop,” Mor sobs, “Please!”

But it doesn’t stop. And you lie to yourself when you tell yourself that you and Andromache will be together forever. She won’t want to be with you forever, not when your opinions differ so much. Eventually, she will realize that you are no less privileged than the other Fae. That you may care for humans and all the things she values, but not nearly as deeply as she does. She will realize that deep down, you don’t understand, and she will leave.

“This isn’t what it’s like, I’m not like that!”

But you are, the voice says. You joined the war as a way to get out of the Night Court. You genuinely think that many of the humans have it easier than you do. You like to split your world into good and bad, and everyone who isn’t actively horrible is bad, everyone else is good.

“No!” Mor screams. She tears at her hair, struggles against her power’s invisible hold on her.

I am truth, the power whispers, You cannot escape me.

Mor screams without words. She wants this to stop, wants the voice to go away. She claws at her head, but something stops her hands.

And just like this, it is all gone. Mor’s power snaps back into her. It quivers in her for a moment, then dissolves into nothing. Pain flares through her head.

“Mor!” Someone is shaking her. “Morrigan, look at me.”

Mor blinks. Slowly, the world comes into focus around her. Andromache’s face appears before her, blurry at first, then more clearly.

“Hey,” Mor mutters. She tries to push herself upright, but Andromache gently presses her back into the grass.

“Stay still,” Miryam says. She is kneeling next to Mor, still dressed in her council clothes, a long silk dress with silver embroidery that seems far too thin for the brisk night air. She must have raced here straight from a meeting if she didn’t even bother to change clothes. The air around her seems to shimmer, alight with power. “Are you in pain?”

Mor wants to say yes, but then, she realizes that she actually isn’t. She has a headache, but beyond that, she can detect no physical pain. Her mind is reeling and her chest feels painfully tight, but that hardly counts.

“No,” she says. “I’m…” She chokes on the word fine.

Words keep echoing through her mind, far too loudly, drowning out any thoughts. Her chest feels far too tight, she can barely breathe. Over her, Miryam and Andromache exchange a worried look. The air around Miryam glows with power. Mor doesn’t understand why her power is out, what is going on around them. Are they still fighting?

“The battle…” She stammers.

“We won,” Andromache says. She gently pushes a strand of hair out of Mor’s face, but her face is tense.

“Did you lose control over your powers?” Miryam asks. She glances over her shoulder, then returns her attention to Mor.

She shakes her head. “No, I…” She breaks off. Her tongue feels strangely heavy. “I meant to do this.” She doesn’t even know what this is. But now, she finally understands why her power feels so strange. “It’s fine,” she says to Miryam. “You can give it back.”

“Are you sure?” Miryam asks. “Control can be difficult, especially when you are already exhausted.”

“It’s fine,” Mor repeats. She doesn’t know how to explain to Miryam that she has no trouble at all with controlling her power. She never had. Truth seems to be pleasant in that regard, if in no other.

Still, Miryam only releases her grip on Mor’s power slowly. Bit by bit, it slithers back into Mor’s body. Controlling it is easy enough, though.

“See?” She says once all of her power is back in her body. “All fine.” If that isn’t the biggest lie she ever told.

Neither Miryam nor Andromache seem convinced and when Mor tries to sit up again, Miryam grabs her arm.

“Rest,” she says in a tone Mor likes to call her healer voice. It’s somehow both gentle and firm. “No matter how much control you might have over your power, using that much of it is still a strain and you should give your body time.”

Hearing that from Miryam, who only considers resting when she passes out from pain, is somewhat ridiculous. But getting her to change her mind would require a discussion and now that her head is beginning to clear again, Mor realizes that even though the battle might be over, both Andromache and Miryam likely have duties to deal with.

“Okay,” Mor says. “I’ll just lie down. You two can go, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” Andromache asks, but she’s already looking over her shoulder at the battlefield. She must have lost many soldiers today. Mor can already see the shadows on her face.

“Yes, just go.”

“I’ll bring her back to the camp and return to help you,” Miryam says.

Andromache nods and is off before Mor truly has time to process what is happening. Miryam looks over her shoulder.

“Don’t you dare get a stretcher,” Mor warns softly. “I can walk.”

Miryam sighs. “Alright.”

She holds out a hand to pull her to her feet. Mor sways a little and has to grip Miryam’s arm to stay upright, but otherwise, she manages just fine. Miryam pulls her arm around her shoulders and helps her walk back to the camp. In Mor’s tent, Miryam deposits her on the bed. Mor half-expected her to rush off back towards the battlefield immediately, but she sits down next to her.

“What happened out there?” Mor asks softly.

Miryam arches an eyebrow at her. “That’s what I was about to ask you.” When Mor remains silent, she says, “I only arrived at the very end. But Andromache says that the enemy soldiers suddenly fell to the ground, all at once. She thought they were dead at first, but then, some of them started screaming and clawing at their heads. Some allegedly died on the spot, although that may be a rumour. Andromache’s army had an easy game after that. Your power was all over the place, and you were on the ground as well. As soon as the enemy soldiers were taken care off, I turned your power off since you didn’t seem to be able to do it yourself.”

Mor nods. She doesn’t know if she could have pulled her own power back, how much control she had actually left. She doubts she would have been able to fight her way out of her own mind for long enough to call the power back, though.

“Do you know what you did?” Miryam asks softly.

“I showed them truth,” Mor says. Only now that she says it does she realize that’s exactly what she did. “The truths they hide from, the ones that scare them. The ones they hate.”

“And in return, you had to see your own truths,” Miryam says. Mor nods and Miryam walks over to put a hand on her arm. “That was a very brave thing to do,” she says. “Everyone has truths they’d rather not face; doing so anyways takes a lot of strength.”

Mor doesn’t feel brave or strong, though. She feels terrible. Like a pretender. I didn’t know this would happen, she thinks. If I had known, I’m not sure if I would have done what I did. And that isn’t bravery. It’s quite the opposite. She didn’t face anything. She just ran from it, and she can’t get herself to stop running.

“I need to go help Andromache,” Miryam says, rising. “But if you have any trouble with your powers, if you need help with anything, pleas tell me. We’ll figure something out.”

Mor nods and watches Miryam walk out of the tent. After that, she lies on her hard bed, staring up at the ceiling. She doesn’t know how much time passes. Her mind is empty, save for the voices that keep ringing in her ears. The pain she feels has nothing to do with physical wounds, but she feels it nonetheless. It’s nearly driving her insane.

Outside of the tent, the sun has already vanished behind the horizon when Mor gets up. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be running around, but she can’t take the confines of her tent anymore. She needs some fresh air. Carefully, she pushes the entrance to her tent open and slips out.

“Aren’t you on bedrest?” Yanis asks. Apparently, he’s been waiting outside of her tent.

“Consider me well-rested,” Mor says. “I’m going for a walk.”

Yanis doesn’t stop her as she walks past him and into the camp. All around her, soldiers stop their work to stare at her, whisper with each other. The Morrigan, they call her, voices hushed in awe. It seems the entire camp already knows about what she did.

Mor doesn’t want any of it. Her head is still pounding, the words she heard while she used her power echo through her mind. She can’t shake that voice. Is it now permanently etched into her mind? Will she be forced to hear those words over and over again for eternity?

She can’t stand the whispers. The noise of the camp hurts her ears, the lights of the pyres burn in her eyes. The only person whose company she cares for right now is Andromache, but she is a queen whose first duty will always be to her people, and she cannot abandon them in the aftermath of battle. Besides, she might not be all that interested in Mor either way. Just like the other Fae, a voice whispers in her mind. And so Mor is alone when she sneaks out of the camp, away from the eyes and the whispers, and sits down on a small stone.

“Hey,” Andromache says softly and sits down next to Mor.

She never knew truth could be so cruel. It’s the cruellest gift of all.

Mor gives her a tired smile. “Let me guess,” she says, “Yanis told you where I went.” When Andromache simply gives her an apologetic smile, she shakes her head. “You don’t need to worry about me,” she says, “I know you have duties to fulfil with your army.”

“Miryam is filling in for me, so I’ve got time,” Andromache says. “How are you feeling?”

“It didn’t hurt me,” Mor says. Which is not entirely true, but physically, she is fine.

Andromache puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “When I saw you lying on the ground there, I thought you might die,” she whispers. “I was so scared.”

Mor buries her face in Andromache’s shoulder. For all the horror she experienced today, it’s good that there was at least one person who genuinely cared about what happened to her. It is prove that she isn’t entirely alone. Maybe she can talk to Andromache about what she saw.

“It’s truth,” she says, “My power. And it’s…” She shakes her head. “It showed me things, told me things…” Her fingers tremble. The words repeat over and over in her head, but she can’t bring herself to say them out loud. “It was terrible.

How stupid was she to ever want this? If she thinks about how she spent her day pouring over a book, desperately trying to unlock her powers. What she would have given to be able to turn back time now. She should have listened to Andromache.

“You don’t have to use it,” Andromache says softly. “If you have been able to keep it locked away until now, you won’t ever need to use it again. No one would blame you.”

In a way, this is absolution. They are still at war and Mor’s gift might prove to be invaluable. But what Andromache offers is a free pass for not using it. She won’t be a coward. No one will be able to blame her. It will be fine.

“I won’t ever use it again,” she whispers. “Not in a million years.”

----

Miryam draws a few odd looks as she walks through Drakon’s camp. Her clothes are splattered in blood and mud, she only barely managed to get the dirt off her face and hands. She spent the past few hours alternating between organizing the post-battle work and helping the healers out.

Well over three hundred soldiers dead. The enemy lost their entire army, but their own losses are still high, the highest out of any battle this month. Miryam gives it an hour at most until the council starts demanding answers. Two hours until they find out what happened. Then, they’ll surely summon Miryam, demand an explanation for what Jurian did. As if she knows.

She stops one of Drakon’s soldiers, a woman she knows briefly from past visits. “Where’s Drakon?” She asks.

“I believe his Highness is in his tent, my Lady,” the soldier replies and hurries on.

Miryam sets off towards Drakon’s tent. She expects him to be stuck in some kind of meeting, but he is alone when Miryam enters, sitting at his desk. He’s drumming a quick rhythm on his leg and flinches when Miryam enters. She immediately knows that something is wrong and wants to ask, but Drakon beats her to it.

“What happened?” He asks, looking at her ruined clothes.

Miryam gives the briefest possible explanation. “Jurian went against orders to chase after Amarantha, which means that a few thousand Vallahan soldiers slipped past our defences. Andromache’s army lost a several hundred soldiers and the only reason it wasn’t more is that Mor used some very strange truth magic I’d never seen before to disable most of their soldiers.”

Drakon seems startled. “Is she okay?” He asks.

Miryam shrugs. “Physically, yes,” she says. Mentally, Miryam isn’t so sure. Mor wasn’t in pain, didn’t seem hurt, but Miryam has never seen her this distraught.

Miryam is far from an expert on Higher Arts – she only barely managed not to let hers kill her – but she knows that they are generally weird. Difficult to master and near-impossible to understand. In her private interpretation, they also tend to come with a price to match the gift, although she is sure most Fae would disagree.

“And you?” Miryam asks. Drakon still seems far too tense. “Is everything alright?”

Drakon shakes his head, shrugging lightly at the same time. He’s still drumming around on his leg, tapping his foot on top of it. Miryam walks over to him and puts an arm around his shoulders.

“What is it?” She asks softly.

Drakon picks up a letter from the table and passes it to Miryam, fingers shaking slightly. Thick paper, a seal pressed into red wax. A sun with a crown hovering over it. Ravenia’s seal.

----

Thanks @croissantcitysucks for helping with this chapter! And in general for being the best person to talk to about writing ❤

#miryam #jurian #drakon #andromache #before the wall

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cinaja · 3 years

Text

Before the Wall part 46

Masterlist

Tw: mentions of torture in scene 2 & 3

----

A knock sounds on the door, making Miryam jolt awake. She blinks up at the ceiling, trying to place the artfully carved wood that most certainly does not belong to her room in Telique. A moment later, she remembers where she is. Sajeo, Erithia’s capital. Her new home.

She pushes herself up on her elbows and looks over to Drakon, who is pressing his face into his pillow and seems to be fighting against waking up. Miryam smiles and crawls over to him. (They left some free space between them at night. Since they never spent the night together, before, they opted to take it slow and start by simply sleeping in the same bed with a bit of space between them.)

“Good morning,” Miryam says and presses a kiss on Drakon’s neck.

“Morning,” Drakon says into his pillow, but he lifts his head to kiss her back. He looks cute with his hair all mussed from sleep. Her husband. She’ll have to get used to thinking of him as that.

The knock on the door sounds again, more insistent this time. Drakon picks up a clock from the bedside and groans.

“You’d think they could at least leave us be until midday on the day after our wedding.”

Miryam nods. It’s seven in the morning, which is far later than the time she usually wakes, but they only returned to Sajeo four hours ago. They spent most of the night on Cretea, wandering around the island, sitting by a lake with silver water and talking.

She pushes her blanket away and sits up straighter. “This might be important.”

Drakon sighs. “I’m sure it is,” he says, sounding defeated. (After six years of war, they are both used to short nights, but unlike Miryam, Drakon is actually fond of sleeping.) “We’re coming,” he calls to the intruder at the door. “Just give us a moment to get dressed.”

Miryam is already on her feet, searching for more suitable clothes. Her nightclothes aren’t exactly unsuitable, since they are not so different from some of her day clothes, but she knows that they are nightclothes and that means she needs something else to wear. She finds a tunic, pants and an overcoat laid out on a chair and quickly changes. By the time she is done, Drakon at least managed to get out of bed.

Still barefoot, Miryam walks over to the door, turns the key and opens it. Sinna is already dressed in her armour and stepping from one foot to another in the corridor. When she sees Miryam, she inclines her head.

“Princess.”

Miryam frowns. “Why do you call me Princess?” She asks. “You don’t even call Drakon Prince.”

Sinna shrugs and grins. “Didn’t know if you’d care. Makes it easier that you don’t, though.”

Miryam smiles and steps aside, allowing Sinna to enter. She feels the General watching her – not that she can blame her. Her and Sinna don’t know each other all that well. Most of their meetings have been brief, and Sinna isn’t nearly as approachable as Nephelle. What she knows of Sinna, she respects – and she knows that Drakon considers her family – and she is sure that they will get to know each other better over time.

“Morning Sinna,” Drakon says from where he’s sitting on the bed. Miryam closes the door again and goes looking for her shoes.

“Had a good night?” Sinna asks and musses Drakon’s hair in passing before throwing his wardrobe open.

“Very.” Drakon smiles at Miryam. “We spent most of the time walking around, talking.”

Sinna nods. She picks a tunic and a coat out of the wardrobe and tosses them at Drakon. Pants follow. “You need to get dressed,” she says. “We have a problem.”

Drakon is already reaching for his clothes before she has finished the sentence. Any traces of tiredness are gone in a heartbeat. Standing on one leg, shoe in hand, Miryam pauses.

“What happened?” She asks.

“Ravenia’s army marches north, led by Artax” Sinna says. She keeps her back turned to them, presumably to allow Drakon privacy while getting dressed. “Our forces have been ordered to the Callian Pass to intercept them. We are to hold them back until reinforcements arrive to ambush them from behind.”

Drakon closes his coat and fishes out his boots from under his bed. “Have you already informed the other generals?”

“Yes. And I’m going to join them in a moment.” Sinna taps her foot. “You two are needed in Telique. The council is meeting and your presence has been requested.”

Miryam’s head is whirring. Ravenia’s army on the march, Artax with it. She wonders if this is in response to their defiance, or if she always planned it and had simply meant to wait until after the marriage. Either way, it will mean a busy day. And she had meant to meet Jurian in the morning.

That meeting is already impossible and she knows it. There might have been a time when she could have ignored the council, or kept them waiting, but that time is long gone. If there is a meeting, she has to be there. All that’s left to do is to go see Jurian afterwards and hope that it won’t be too late by then.

She sighs. “I need court clothes,” she says. “Give me a moment.”

The council chamber is buzzing with noise by the time Miryam and Drakon arrive. When they enter, all eyes turn to them, which is generally a bad sign. People only stare like that when there’s a reason, and in Continental politics, those reasons are rarely good. For a moment, silence reins. Then, Zeku steps forward. His face is serious and he doesn’t even bother with an introduction before getting to the point.

“You married?” He asks, looking between them. He sounds nowhere near as pleased as he should, considering that he spent the past months trying to convince her to do just that.

“Yes, I – “

“Now that we are all here,” Shey interrupts from where he is already sitting at the table, “perhaps we ought to begin.”

Miryam and Zeku look at each other for a moment longer, then Zeku inclines his head and stalks over to his seat at the table. Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon, who seems bewildered, then walks over to the table with him. They sit down side by side.

“Before we begin, Drakon and I would like to make an announcement,” Miryam says and reaches for his hand.

He smiles back at her. “I’m sure some of you already heard the news, but Miryam and I got married yesterday.”

Murmurs rise around the table.

Miryam gives the assembles crowd her best rueful smile. “We apologize for not inviting any of you,” she says, although they technically did invite Andromache, “but the decision was made quickly. We found out we were mates and didn’t want to wait. As soon as this war is over, we will hold an official celebration.”

She knew in advance that not sending invites to the other Alliance members would border on a political affront. But the short timeframe would never have been enough to prepare a celebration of the necessary scale. Being able to point to a mating bond should have helped with the fallout – the number of things that suddenly become acceptable when one has a mating bond is stunning – but it doesn’t seem to work. The stares continue, as do the murmurs.

The meeting in itself is unspectacular. They go over the plans concerning the Callian pass again to make it official, then deal with a few other minor annoyances. However, the way the other councilmembers keep looking at her more than worries Miryam. Something is clearly wrong, but usually, she can at least tell why the council is annoyed with her. Today, they are worryingly upset over something that, by all accounts, shouldn’t be that big a problem, though.

The moment the meeting ends, Zeku appears next to Miryam’s chair. “A word,” he says. His tone is clipped and his blue skin looks dark as a storm-swept sea.

Miryam exchanges a look with Drakon who has half-risen in his chair. She is about to ask him to accompany them – now that they’re married, she’ll have to involve him more in her political struggles – but Zeku speaks before she gets the chance.

“Alone,” he says with a pointed look at Drakon.

Drakon seems torn between confusion and hurt, but he nods. “I’ll wait here.”

Miryam is inclined to tell Zeku that he can have a word with himself if he’s going to be so impolite, but she really shouldn’t offend her closest Fae ally right now. She allows Zeku to lead her out of the room and pretends that his grip on her arm isn’t far too tight for her liking. They choose the nearest private meeting chamber. Almost as soon as the door has closed behind them, wards snapping in place around the room, Zeku whirls around to Miryam.

“What were you thinking?” He snaps.

“With what?” Miryam asks back. “Because right now, I have no idea why you are acting like I did you some grievous injustice.” After all, she did exactly what he wanted her to. He really has no right to be this angry with her over it.

“Oh, don’t play games with me,” Zeku snaps. His voice is getting louder. “You married Drakon.” He shakes his head. “Why? Do you have a death wish?”

He is almost yelling, now and Miryam has to fight against two opposing instincts to the situation of being yelled at by a Fae. The first is to cower, try to become as invisible as possible, which experience taught her is the best way to survive situations like this. Unfortunately, her power isn’t one for cowering. Sensing her unease, it stirs and begins to push back against her hold.

Since Miryam neither wants to shrink back before Zeku nor attack him, she suppresses both instincts and straightens. “The only thing I’m wishing for right now,” she says as calmly as she can manage, “is for you to stop speaking to me that way. You told me to marry into royalty, I did.”

Zeku shakes his head, skin turning a greyer shade of blue. At least he seems to get his anger more under control, and when he speaks again, his voice is calmer. “Not Drakon, though,” he says. “Anyone else. But surely you must have realized that it could not be Drakon you married.”

Miryam’s stomach drops. No. This problem was supposed to be over and done with, at least for a while. Marrying Drakon was supposed to get the Alliance off her back at least for a while. It can’t have made it worse.

“Why not?” She asks in a small voice. “I love him. He’s my age, and he’s someone I can actually imagine…” Someone she can imagine spending the rest of her life with. But none of these arguments hold any weight in Continental politics. Only one thing might. “We are mates,” she says.

“And you expect me to believe that?” Zeku asks and shakes his head before Miryam can reply. “You aren’t this blind,” he mutters, more to himself than to her. “There is no way you can be this blind.” When Miryam doesn’t reply, he slumps down on a chair. “You know,” he says, “the impression Drakon gives off.”

Miryam lifts her chin. “I know that Drakon is kind and brave and brilliant. If there is anything else, you’ll have to tell me.”

Zeku shakes his head like she is being difficult. “Drakon is a child,” he says. “Brilliant in his own areas he might be, but he is also naïve and hopelessly overwhelmed when it comes to Continental politics. And believe me, that counts far more here.” He gives Miryam a sharp look. “Most people don’t even believe he’s truly in charge of his country as it is.”

Miryam crosses her arms. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

She hates when people act like Drakon is a naïve idiot. Just because he isn’t violent or particularly outgoing doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of thinking for himself. And just because he chooses to see the good in people doesn’t make him too blind to see the fact that there’s also bad.

“He isn’t stupid,” she adds.

“No, but I’m beginning to think you might be.” Now, Zeku’s anger is back, although it’s less forceful than last time. “What kind of impression do you think this marriage will give off? That of all the people you could have chosen, you pick the one who is youngest and easiest to manipulate.”

Miryam stares back at him. “I’m not - You don’t think that – “ She shakes her head. “You can’t think that I manipulated Drakon into marrying me.”

Zeku shrugs. “Me and the entire Continent.”

Miryam gapes and shakes her head again. People can’t honestly think that. Yes, she may not always be honest, and yes, there is more to this marriage than Drakon and her are willing to tell, but she could never be this cold, this calculating. (Well, if she’s being entirely honest, she probably could, if it ever came down to it. She wouldn’t do it to Drakon, though.)

“You just effectively put yourself in charge of a country, Miryam,” Zeku says. “And you expect me to believe you didn’t realize?”

Miryam, embarrassing as it now seems, really did not realize it. With all that was going on in the past few days, she didn’t exactly wait around and consider the implications of her actions. In all honesty, she still finds the entire problem ridiculous.

“It’s not like Drakon simply disappeared, you know?” She says. “He’s still Prince, with more political power than me.”

She doesn’t even plan to hold much political power in Erithia. She will be expected to be there for a few official functions and Drakon and she assumes she will be helping him with some of his plans. But that doesn’t mean she actually plans to rule. It’s Drakon’s country, Drakon’s people, and while she will not neglect her duties, she doesn’t feel like she has any right to truly rule over them.

“And of course,” Zeku says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “you would never be able to get him to do what you want.” He arches an eyebrow at her. “Or are you trying to tell me you couldn’t.”

Miryam presses her lips together. She hates the direction where this conversation is going, and she hates it even more that the way Zeku asked the question allows only one answer. Of course she could influences choices Drakon makes if she truly insisted on something. But she is sure that he could also influence her choices. It’s called trust, and part of that trust is believing that any advice the other gives is genuine and not manipulation.

“I wouldn’t,” she says.

“So it all comes down to what you would and wouldn’t do.” Zeku smiles bitterly. “I’m sure you see the problem people might have with that. You married into the Continent’s oldest royal family, effectively put yourself in charge of an entire country.” He shakes his head. “If you wanted to prove to the world that you’re trying to set yourself up as leader of the Continent, you couldn’t have done a better job.”

----

“What did Zeku want?” Drakon asks when Miryam returns to the council chamber.

He spent most of the time she was gone sticking close to Andromache and pretending to be involved in their conversation, which is a sure strategy to avoid people trying to start conversations with him. Normally, there are a few other councilmembers he can safely talk to, but today, they all look at him strangely. It’s like they are angry with him over something, but he can’t quite figure out why. Maybe not inviting any of them to the wedding was a bigger insult than Miryam assumed. Perhaps he should apologize.

“Later,” Miryam says softly. She seems distracted, keeps scanning the room over his shoulder. “When we are alone.”

Drakon nods. From how tense Miryam’s posture is, whatever news she received weren’t good, but a room crowded with so many Continental leaders is probably the worst place to talk about it.

“I need to go to the Callian Pass,” he says. “See if Sinna needs help with anything, make sure that the soldiers are settling in alright.” He takes Miryam’s hands. “You probably need to speak to Jurian now?”

Miryam nods. “I don’t want him to hear about us from anyone else.”

“Then I’ll ask one of our soldiers to take you there. And maybe you can come to the Callian Pass afterwards? So that we can announce our marriage to the soldiers together.”

Speaking of their marriage still feels strange. They have been together for such a short time, thinking of Miryam as his wife will take some getting used to.

“Of course.” Miryam smiles. “Then we’ll – “

“If I may interrupt for a moment, Your Highnesses,” Shey says from behind them. From the look Miryam gives him, Drakon is nearly certain that the interruption was not exactly polite.

“What is it?” Miryam asks. That was most certainly impolite.

Shey hands her a letter. “Apparently, Kehne is considering leaving the Alliance. They requested your presence to discuss.”

Drakon frowns. Kehne is a small country in the north of the Continent with little importance to larger political decisions. Its King, Johno, wasn’t there for today’s meeting, but Drakon thought little by it. Not ever councilmember if there for every meeting. (He himself only started regularly going a few months ago, and Jurian hardly ever turns up for meetings anymore.) But if Johno is really considering leaving the Alliance…

“Why would he do such a thing when we are only months away from winning this war?” Miryam asks.

Drakon is asking himself the same thing. Besides, Kehne is closer to Erithia when it comes to political leanings. Drakon doesn’t know King Johno, but his daughter and heir is only a few decades older than Drakon and they met a few times at university.

“The letter did not say. It is possible this is simply an attempt to negotiate better conditions for when the war is over.” Shey shrugs. “I suppose you’ll have to find the details out for yourself.”

“Isn’t Kehne your trading partner?” Miryam glances down at the letter, then back up at Shey. “Perhaps you should be the one to deal with them.”

“They requested you specifically.” Shey gives her a small smile and shakes his head. “Unless you want it to become known that the Alliance lost a member because its leader was…” He nods to Drakon. “…otherwise engaged and refused to go deal with them.”

Miryam tenses even further. Drakon may know very little about the details of Continental politics, but he does know that Miryam can’t prioritize private dealings over the good of the Alliance. And he understands Miryam well enough to know that she would never do anything that could endanger the war.

“Should I cover for you with…” He pauses, glances at Shey. Is it public knowledge that Miryam has not yet spoken to Jurian? “With what you had planned to do?”

Miryam straightens and shakes her head. “No, I’ll do it myself after I’m done with Kehne.” She stands up on her toes to kiss him. “Good luck with the Callian Pass.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Miryam smiles and, with a curt nod to Shey, walks off. Drakon wants to follow after her, but Shey steps grips his arm.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to marry her,” he says. His tone is light, like he is making some kind of joke, but hiss eyes are sharp as shards of ice.

Drakon blinks. “I don’t see how that’s stupid,” he says. In hindsight, it probably isn’t the most intelligent reply to give, but even beyond the first surprise, he cannot think of any reason for why marrying Miryam would be stupid.

“Of course you don’t,” Shey says with a small smile and a hint of irony in his voice. “Well, regardless, you probably ought to be careful around General Jurian.”

Drakon was just about to excuse himself, but pauses at that. The thought of Jurian finding out about the marriage is indeed unsettling, but not for the reasons Shey is implying. Drakon isn’t scared of Jurian, he’s scared of how the news might hurt him.

“After what he did to Clythia,” Shey continues, “you should probably consider reinforcing your guard.”

“What do you mean, what Jurian did to Clythia?” Drakon tries and fails not to sound nervous. He certainly isn’t scared of Jurian, and Shey is an idiot for implying it, but he worries for him. In his experience, anything that involves Clythia is bad news.

“You haven’t heard?” Shey shakes his head. “You should replace your spymaster, Prince.”

As far as Drakon knows, he doesn’t have anyone spying on Jurian. (Unless Sinna went against his wishes and sent spies behind his back, that is.) Why would he spy on his friend?

Before Drakon can decide if he wants to wait around for Shey to answer or find a more pleasant source of information, Andromache steps up next to him, giving Shey the barest nod.

“Interesting conversation?” She asks with more than a hint of sharpness in her voice. She likes Shey as little as Miryam does and usually tries far less to conceal it.

“I was just telling Prince Drakon about how Jurian murdered Clythia,” Shey says, tone far too smug.

“What?” Andromache asks. “Jurian killed Clythia?”

Drakon remains silent. He can’t claim to be particularly shocked by the news. As far as he knows, it was always Jurian’s end goal to eventually get rid of Clythia. It is strange a strange coincidence that he did so on the day Miryam and Drakon married, but Miryam did mention that he was acting strangely yesterday. Perhaps he couldn’t take the game he played with Clythia anymore, finally wanted to bring him to an end.

“He didn’t just kill her,” Shey says. “He spiked her to an ash cross and took his sweet time taking her apart. Left her corpse for Amarantha to find once he was done.”

Something cold settles in Drakon’s stomach. Jurian couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have tortured anyone, not even a Loyalist commander. Killed them, yes. But not this, not Jurian. Drakon barely hears what Andromache says to Shey, but he assumes it is some kind of excuse because she pulls Drakon out of the meeting chamber a moment later.

In the corridor outside, she looks around then says softly, “I need to go speak to Jurian. If this is true, Amarantha won’t stop until she killed him. I need to make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Drakon nods. His stomach is twisting in an entirely unpleasant manner. Part of it is worry, but there’s also something else.

He can’t stop imagining it. What Jurian must have done. He knows Clythia is one of the last people he should be pitying, and he doesn’t, but he can’t stop himself from imagining it. It’s not even about Clythia, but about the fact that it was Jurian who did it.

“That means you need to deal with the council,” Andromache says.

“I can’t,” Drakon says immediately. His stomach is still twisting. He feels sick.

“Well, you have to, because I will be busy with Jurian,” Andromache says, voice tense. “It won’t be that difficult, really. You just have to ease their minds a little. And I doubt the fuss will be big.”

Drakon shakes his head. He starts drumming around on his leg, tries to focus only on the rhythm and not on the thoughts running through his mind. Not to think of burning hot iron and small, vicious knifes. He doesn’t want to think about what it feels like to be burned and cut and for the pain to never end.

“I can’t,” he repeats.

Now, Andromache is annoyed. “Oh, come on, it isn’t that difficult,” she snaps. “I know you don’t like it, but this is an emergency.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Drakon’s fingers are shaking now and he keeps messing up the rhythm he is trying to drum. “I can’t… You know why I can’t…”

Andromache frowns at him for a moment, then, understanding dawns on her face. “Shit,” she mutters. “I’m sorry. Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Drakon says, although he really isn’t. Maybe Miryam is rubbing off on him. “It’s stupid. I know it isn’t the same, I’m not trying to compare, I just…” He just can’t stop imagining it. “Just give me a minute.”

He turns away from Andromache while he tries to compose himself. Takes a deep breath and focuses only on the rhythm he’s drumming for a moment. It’s fine, it’s all good, nothing is happening to him. What Jurian did to Clythia is nothing like what happened to him.

Besides, he doesn’t even know what Jurian did. It’s entirely possible Shey exaggerated the situation to cause this exact reaction. For all he knows, Jurian never even tortured Clythia. And even if he did… As far as Drakon is concerned, torture is never excusable, but what Jurian did is still nothing like what the Loyalists of even some members of the Alliance do. If he snapped under the pressure – after years and years of watching his friends die, of fighting against monsters who want to enslave him and his people – he deserves to be helped, not demonized.

If what Shey says is true, if Jurian was truly capable of doing this, he must be faring worse than even Miryam guessed. They should have tried harder to help him, or maybe truly gotten him away from the war for a while. And now, Amarantha will be after him. She might have hated him before, but if he truly murdered her sister…

Drakon turns back to Andromache. “I’ll go speak to Jurian. Then you can deal with the council.”

Andromache frowns. “You?” She asks. “Are you sure this is smart? Because last I checked, the two of you didn’t exactly get along, and I doubt you marrying Miryam will have changed anything about it.”

Drakon flinches slightly. He has forgotten about that detail. And with Miryam off on a diplomatic mission, she won’t be able to break the news to Jurian. Besides, they haven’t spoken in almost a year, and their last conversation lasted barely a minute. Drakon desperately hopes it will go better this time.

“I…” Drakon hesitates. “I won’t tell him.” Not when Miryam explicitly said that she wanted to be the one to do it, and not when he so desperately needs Jurian willing to listen. “And if you have to stay here to deal with the council, I’m the only one who has a chance of getting Jurian to listen.” At least as long as Miryam is gone.

“And what are you going to say?” Andromache asks.

“Your army is stationed close to his, right?” Drakon asks. “If I convince him to allow your armies to join camps, it would offer additional security. And you could make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Andromache purses her lips. She seems dissatisfied with the solution, but in the end, she nods. “Alright,” she says. “Good luck.”

----

Jurian’s army is ready. The patrols are doubled, everything is on high alert. They have their camp fortified, have chosen the perfect position to defend themselves. When Amarantha attacks, they will have every advantage.

Now, all that’s left to do is wait with bated breath for Amarantha to arrive. Because Jurian is certain that she will come. After what he did to her sister, she will want his head – and he is convinced that the day she comes to get it will be her last.

The first Fae to turn up in his camp isn’t Amarantha, though.

Jurian sighs and leans against the stake he was just ramming into the ground to form a fourth line of defences. “What do you want, Drakon?”

The Prince is stepping from one foot another in the dirt. His white wings are tugged in closely to his body, the tips of the feathers trembling slightly. He seems nervous – as he has every right to be, considering how their last conversation went.

“Can we talk?” Drakon asks.

Jurian is inclined to say no and return to his work. He doesn’t want to talk to Drakon, certainly not about what he did to Clythia, since he is sure that this is what the conversation will likely be about.

“Why isn’t Miryam here?” He asks. “I assumed she would be the one to come.”

It’s usually Miryam who gets stuck with dealing with him whenever he does something the council doesn’t like. Besides, she promised she’d come visit today. They said they would talk. Then, he’ll be able to explain why he had to kill Clythia, that as soon as Amarantha is gone, too, everything will become better.

“She’s stuck on a diplomatic mission,” Drakon says. He started drumming a quick rhythm on the side of his leg and shoots a look at the soldiers around them. “Can we go somewhere more private?”

Jurian rolls his eyes and passes his stake on to the soldier next to him. “I don’t have much time, though,” he says. “Amarantha can attack any moment.” Together, they walk over towards the centre of the camp. “So, let me guess,” Jurian says. “You are here to tell me how absolutely horrible and unforgivable it was for me to do what I did to Clythia.”

Drakon shakes his head. “No, I wanted to – “

“So you don’t think it’s horrible?” Jurian asks. Drakon looks away. Gotcha. “You don’t think what I did was as bad as what the Loyalists do?”

“I don’t think that,” Drakon insists. He actually seems genuine. Maybe he has gotten better about lying in the time they haven’t seen each other.

Jurian snorts. “Of course you don’t.”

Because there’s no way Drakon could ever understand what he had to do. How could he? He never understood that sometimes, you need to do what it takes. Even if it’s ugly. If everyone in the Alliance was like Drakon, they would have lost the war years ago. It’s people like Jurian and Miryam that will win them this war. So why would he care what Drakon thinks of him, of what he did?

“You don’t get to judge me,” he says.

“I wasn’t judging,” Drakon says. He doesn’t even get sharp. Why can’t he ever snap back at anyone? Doesn’t he understand how infuriating this is? “But if you killed Clythia, Amarantha will be after you. You’re in danger and – “

Jurian takes a quick step towards Drakon, making him flinch back. Jurian lets out a joyless laugh. Taunting him is far too easy. “Scared?” He asks.

Drakon squares his shoulders. “Of course I’m not scared of you.”

“Of course not. Just like you are completely fine with my killing Clythia, right?”

He just wants Drakon to admit it. Why can’t he just be upfront and say that he hates what Jurian did? Then Jurian could call him an idiot who doesn’t understand anything and they would be done with it.

“You heard what I did to Clythia, didn’t you?” He asks and stops walking to look at Drakon. “That I dosed her with ground ash wood and spiked her to an ash cross?”

Drakon takes a step backwards. “Don’t do this,” he says softly. (On another day, the tone in his voice might have made Jurian pause, might have made him reconsider, but today, he barely listens and certainly doesn’t think.)

“But that wasn’t enough to send a proper message,” Jurian continues. He doesn’t even know why he’s doing this. He isn’t proud of what he did, it was just what was necessary. “You remember what Tia looked like after Amarantha was done with her, don’t you? Well, I made sure Clythia looked worse.” He smiles humourlessly. “Can you imagine how she screamed when – “

“Yes,” Drakon snaps, cutting him off. Now, he does sound sharp, far sharper than Jurian ever heard him. “I can imagine perfectly well, as you know.”

Jurian blinks. It takes him a moment to understand, to remember. A dark cell under Ravenia’s palace, the way Drakon looked, hanging limply from the ceiling.

And just like that, it’s like the time turned back by a few years. Jurian is back in that cell, trying to comfort Drakon. Back in their camp, some other day, yelling at him for stepping in front of an arrow meant for Jurian. And suddenly, he remembers that they were friends. Ready to kill and die for each other. What happened to change that?

“Drakon,” he whispers and reaches out for him. Drakon turns his head away. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s alright,” Drakon says, although it’s clear from the look on his face that it isn’t. He looks like he might throw up.

“I’m sorry,” Jurian whispers.

It’s his own fault, really. He wanted a reaction, and now he has it. Just not the one he wanted. He can’t stop thinking of that damned dungeon, of the Fae who tortured Drakon for Ravenia. But he isn’t like that. Not at all, what he did was completely different.

“You don’t think…” Jurian swallows. “I didn’t enjoy it, you know I didn’t. But I had to do this, Drakon. I just couldn’t catch Amarantha and making her angry was the only way. And she did the same to Tia and the others, her and Clythia both. I just…” Payed them back, he wants to say, but that will just make it sound worse. He shakes his head, hectically runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not like them, you know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that,” Drakon says softly. He sighs. “I won’t claim that I like what you did,” he says, “but I don’t hate you for it. And while I don’t think I’ll ever understand why you felt it was necessary to…” He makes a vague gesture. “I at least understand that I probably can’t ever fully understand the position you’re in in this war.”

Jurian isn’t sure why hearing this is such an immense relief. He knows that what he did was necessary, he shouldn’t need Drakon’s absolution. He knows that it doesn’t make him like the Loyalists. He shouldn’t need anyone to confirm this to him, least of all Drakon.

“Yes,” he says. “And you’ll see, it will all work out. I know my methods were… unfortunate, but once I’ve defeated Amarantha, it will all turn out to be alright.”

Drakon seems doubtful, but Jurian doesn’t care. He’ll see. And maybe then, things between them will become better as well. The reasons for their falling-out seem so ridiculous now – come to think of it, it was also Amarantha’s fault, in a way. Once she is gone, it will all become better.

“About that,” Drakon says and Jurian tenses. “I actually came here to suggest it might be good to reinforce your army a bit if you truly mean to beat Amarantha. My soldiers are busy elsewhere, but Andromache could come.”

Jurian frowns. The offer is good, more soldiers are always better, but he hasn’t had a co-commander in a while. Not since Miryam, and even with her, there were difficulties. He is sure she only wanted to help, but she kept interfering with his military decisions especially when it came to Amarantha, and he can’t have anything like this happening again.

“My army is ready,” he says. “I think we can make do without help.”

“But wouldn’t it be better to be sure?” Drakon asks. He seems worried, which is actually quite nice of him, even if it is unnecessary. “To prepare for any surprises Amarantha might have prepared.”

Jurian really doesn’t think he needs the additional support, but maybe, Drakon has a point. Either way, Andromache has experience leading soldiers. Unlike Miryam, she will likely understand necessary military choices.

“Fine,” he says. “Then tell Andromache to get her soldiers over here as soon as possible. I’ll make sure there’s room for them.”

----

Looking back, it was probably the smarter choice for Andromache to be the one to deal with the council. She guessed that the news of what Jurian did to Clythia might cause trouble, but she never expected it to be this bad. The council is in upheaval and Andromache cannot for the life of her understand why. She isn’t exactly fond of what Jurian did herself, but everyone else seems to be blowing it ridiculously out of proportion.

“I say we remove him from the council,” one of the Fae councilmembers suggests. “His behaviour has long since been a problem, but now, he has really crossed the line.”

“If that was crossing the line, this council would probably lose a quarter of its members,” Nakia snaps. She is annoyed at being dragged into a second meeting in one day and has been showing it ever since the meeting started. (Even beyond tradition, there is a reason why Andromache is in charge of politics and Nakia of the military, not the other way around.) “Starting with the Night and Autumn Court.”

The High Lords in question glare at Nakia, and many of the others seem equally displeased. Andromache sighs. Ten minutes into the meeting and she already misses Miryam.

“You can hardly compare what Jurian did to questioning prisoners for information,” Shey says. “This was disgusting, and it was inexcusable. There have to be consequences.”

Andromache searches for Zeku’s gaze, hoping he might help her, but the Grand Duke avoids her eyes. Great. Simply great. She presses her lips together. To resolve this problem in a way that doesn’t deepen the lines running through the Alliance, they would need Miryam, who seems to be the only one who is capable of getting this council to listen to reason. But Miryam isn’t here, and probably won’t be for hours.

Andromache can’t help but think that Shey might have sent her away on purpose.

“Aren’t you blowing Jurian’s actions a bit out of proportion?” She asks. “Let’s not forget that Clythia was not opposed to using torture on enemies and any humans she got her fingers on herself. She was a commander for Hybern as well as a slave-owner. I, for one, cannot say that I feel particularly bad about what happened to her.”

“I’m surprised to see you defending torture,” Shey says, blue eyes narrowing to slits.

Andromache levels a flat look at him. “It’s not torture I’m defending.”

“Good. Because considering that your little faction pressed for action against commanders who allowed imprisoned enemy soldiers to be tortured more than once already, that would be quite hypocritical of you.” He gives her a small smile, the kind that seems pleasant but is clearly a taunt. “Or are you others just going along with Miryam’s stance on torture?”

Andromache knows she shouldn’t play along. If she reacts now, she will only create more rifts in this council. Miryam would probably let the comment slide. But Andromache simply cannot leave it unanswered.

“Hypocrisy,” she says, “is my exact problem in this situation.” She looks around the table. “Why is it that all of Miryam’s attempts to actually enforce the ban on torture in the Alliance have only ever been met with indifference, yet now, a single instance warrants a full council meeting?” She shakes her head. “The Night Court armies torture prisoners, as do the Autumn Courts’, and no one ever batted an eye.” She turns back to Shey. “Even your soldiers, Emperor, have tortured prisoners more than once. Where was your enragement then?”

She really should not be doing this. It is an open secret that even in the Alliance, many of the Fae care little for humans and only barely see them as equals. The humans tolerate it as long as they still offer their armies, and usually don’t call attention to it. Andromache’s actions now go against that unspoken rule. Miryam would not like it.

Shey glares dagger at her. “I did not approve of their actions,” he says, tone clipped, “but they were not members of this council.”

“If you say you did not approve but still allowed it to continue,” Andromache pushes, “does that mean you were powerless to stop it.”

Shey’s yaw tightens. “No,” he snaps. “But we were at war. There were more important things to consider.”

“So you did not care,” Andromache summarizes. “And if you did not care then but do now, I can only conclude that it is not the torture that enrages you, but the fact that it was a human torturing and killing a Fae noble.”

Now, the entire table is staring at her. A few Fae shift around on their chairs, Nakia nods with approval. Zeku glares at her.

Andromache idly wonders how much trouble she just caused. Many Fae members of the Alliance aren’t actually so far away from the Loyalists in their mindset, but they certainly like to pretend they are better. Calling attention to the fact that they are not causes only trouble, and Andromache can’t help but feel that she just made Miryam’s job to hold the Alliance together a lot harder.

----

Miryam is annoyed. Annoyed enough that even the beauty of Kehne’s royal palace can’t change anything about it, which is saying quite a bit, because the palace is truly beautiful. It’s carved from ice, walls and towers shimmering blue in the sunlight. Normally, Miryam would not have been able to stop staring, but today, all she can think about is that she shouldn’t be here. She should be talking to Jurian, not dealing with some minor royal who got it into his mind to pressure the council into giving him more power.

King Johno greets her at the entrance to the great hall. Miryam inclines her head. “Majesty. Thank you for receiving me.”

“Thank you for coming, My Lady,” Johno says. He seems tired, face drawn, but he offers her a smile. “May I invite you to lunch?”

Lunch is the last thing Miryam cares about right now. She needs to speak with Jurian, or at least decide on what she will say to him. She needs to come up with a way out of the political nightmare she landed herself in – she hasn’t even managed to tell Drakon about that yet, damnit, she should have found time to tell him. And somewhere in between, she still has to do her day-to-day work with the Alliance, which she has been falling behind on lately. What she absolutely does not have time for is eating lunch with some dissenting noble whose tiny army only barely makes a difference in the scope of a Continent-wide war.

“It would be my pleasure,” she says. “I’ve been meaning to try Kehnese food for ages. I hear it’s delicious.”

Johno’s smile falters slightly, and he quickly turns around. “This way, please. I’ve had lunch prepared in a private meeting room.”

Miryam follows him through the halls of the palace. As they walk, he keeps pointing out artworks to her. He talks almost without pause, only occasionally waiting for Miryam to nod or hum in agreement. Normally, it is considered somewhat impolite for only one person to talk the entire time, but today, Miryam is content with not having to put any effort in the conversation.

As soon as this stupid meeting is over, she will have to go find Jurian. If she is lucky – which admittedly doesn’t happen often – he won’t have heard about the wedding yet. Then she will get a chance to explain and this time, she will start out with what she has come to say right away. If –

Johno pulls open a door at the end of the hallway and motions for Miryam to enter. Inside, a long table has been laid out. Miryam expected to be alone with Johno, but a few courtiers are seated around the table, engaged in vivid conversation. They pause when Miryam enters with their king.

Once the introductions are over, Johno points Miryam to a seat at the head of the table and sits down opposite her. Miryam smiles at the servant who pours her a glass of blue wine, then turns to Johno, who has raised his glass.

“Let’s drink to the Alliance,” he says, “and to swift victory.”

It seems like a strange thing to drink to, considering the reason for this meeting, but Miryam raises her glass nonetheless. “To victory,” she says and takes a polite sip.

The wine tastes unusual, sparkling and clear. Something about the taste reminds her of cold water and ice shimmering on the mountains. Still, she takes only a small sip. She never much enjoyed alcohol or being drunk, and she has no idea how strong this drink is, so it’s better to be careful

“Your daughter won’t be joining us today?” Miryam asks. She knows the other woman briefly from Alliance meetings where she occasionally represents her father. “I was hoping to meet her again.”

“I’m…” Johno clears his throat. “I’m afraid she is busy elsewhere today. But she sends her regards.” He gives her a nervous smile, then turns his attention to his plate.

Miryam hardly knows Johno well, but she doesn’t remember him being quite this skittish. Maybe he already regrets his political power play. If that’s the case, it’s all the better for Miryam. All she’ll have to do is offer him a way out without losing his face, and she’ll be able to return to the Alliance with an easy victory. It might even be enough to somewhat restore her standing.

Servants arrive with plates, offering a snow-white fish and some orange vegetable Miryam doesn’t know as well as green mushrooms. The smell makes Miryam’s stomach lurch. She was at least somewhat hungry until a moment ago, but now, the thought of eating makes her feel sick. She looks around for a glass of water, but finds none. Hesitantly, she takes another sip of the wine.

Speak to Jurian, find a way out of this mess she ended up in. She’ll have to think of a strategy for damage control with the Alliance before these suspicions the other members have against her destroy her position. Or destroy her. Normally, she would ask Zeku for advice, but he’s angry with her for marrying Drakon and she doesn’t know if he will help her now. He certainly didn’t offer.

She is so damn tired. A total of six hours of sleep in the past three days is beginning to take its toll. Her head is swimming and focusing is becoming harder.

“How are you enjoying the wine?” Johno asks politely.

“It’s very good, Majesty” Miryam says and drinks a bit more to emphasize. She would really rather have water, but maybe it’s against etiquette here to offer it with meals. “So, regarding the reason for this meeting,” she says. “May I ask what has caused you to contemplate leaving the Alliance?”

“Well,” Johno begins, smile fading. He takes a bite from his fish, as if to buy himself time. Miryam realizes she still hasn’t touched her food, but her stomach rebels at the very idea. “I’m afraid I have some concerns regarding the way this Alliance is being run,” he continues.

She frowns. Concerns with how the Alliance is run sounds like there’s a problem with her. If that’s a case, and if it becomes public, it might just make her problems even worse. She needs to tread carefully now. But her mind is strangely fuzzy, moving far too slowly and she has a hard time forming a coherent thought. This goes far beyond normal tiredness.

But she didn’t drink that much, did she? Unless this wine is insanely strong, there’s no way she should be drunk. Damnit, this is exactly why she hates alcohol.

“And may I ask what kind of concerns?” She asks, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her head. It doesn’t work.

“Is the fish not to your liking, Lady?” Johno asks instead of answering her questions. Something about the way he looks at her is off, but she can’t quite place it.

Miryam makes herself smile. “Oh, I’m afraid the conversation simply distracted me from eating.”

Now, she really has to eat something. She picks up her fork, but it is shaking in her fingers. The table is swimming in front of her eyes and sweat beads at her temple. What is wrong with her?

“I’m…” she begins, but the ground shifts under her feet and she drops the fork. She needs to get out of this room, now, before she throws up all over the table. “I’m sorry,” she manages, “I’m not feeling well. May I excuse myself?”

She only barely manages to get to her feet, and once she’s standing, she has to grip the back of her chair for support. It’s like she’s standing on the deck of a ship caught in a hurricane. Getting to the door seems impossible. Strangely enough, neither Johno nor any of his courtiers make a move to help her. They merely look at her.

“I’m sorry,” Johno says, still sitting on his chair at the other side of the table.

Why is he apologizing? It’s not his fault that… Pain shoots through Miryam, making her double over. This isn’t the alcohol.

She reaches for her power, but it slips from her grip. She tries to take a step towards the door, but her legs give out from under her and she stumbles. Desperate, she reaches for the chair for support, but she misses it and then, she’s falling. She doesn’t even feel herself hitting the ground anymore.

----

Tags: @croissantcitysucks

#sorry for the cliffhanger #but ig i haven't had one of those in a while #so it was time for another one #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon #andromache

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cinaja · 4 years

Text

Before the Wall part 31

Masterlist

----

It takes the Seraphim hours to bury the dead. There is not enough wood for a pyre, so Drakon decides to have the dead buried. A few of his soldiers look at him strangely, but to his knowledge, most humans don`t care about Fae religions or rituals. Hardly any of them believe in gods or an afterlife the way the Fae do, so it makes little difference to them if their bodies get burned or buried.

The hours blend together, as do the faces of the dead. Drakon does his best to memorize them, but it`s a futile task. But there are, of course, the soldiers he knows. Many of them, after spending years together in a camp. Body after body, each mutilated in a different way. Hundreds of corpses lying in a hole in the ground. Just this morning, they were still people – laughing, making plans for a future they would never have.

Drakon has to pause his work thrice to stumble behind a boulder and throw up. His hands are shaking, but he refuses to stop his work. He owes that much to the dead.

When the last body has been cleaned away, the last grave dug, Drakon surveys the burned remains of their camp and decides that, even though the sun has long since set, there is no way they can spent the night here. How could anyone sleep on this burned ground that is still stained with the blood of their dead friends?

So, in spite of the late hour, they pack their things and fly half an hour further west where they set up their camp by a river. Miryam, who looks dead on her feet, sets up a quick perimeter of wards then returns to Jurian, who hasn`t said or done anything since they found him kneeling between his dead soldiers. Drakon wishes he could do anything to help, but as it stands, all he can do is get his soldiers settled.

It is long past midnight when most of them have vanished into the makeshift tents they erected from whatever they could save from their ruined camp. Drakon doesn`t feel like sleeping, so he sits down in front of a lonely camp fire near the centre of the camp. The images of the dead humans keep drifting through his mind. He knows all too well what their last hours must have felt like.

Soft steps sound behind him and Miryam sits down on the ground next to him. Her dark hair is tangled and there`s ash smeared over the left side of her face. She looks completely drained.

“How is he?”, Drakon asks, putting up a sound shield around them.

Miryam shrugs. “I gave him something to help him sleep. He should be out until morning.”

Drakon nods. He knows that sedating Jurian will not stop the pain for him, just delay it. But at least he`ll get a small reprieve.

“And you?”, he asks.

“I can deal with it. It`s worse for Jurian, he knew them longer.”

Drakon has to supress a sigh. That reply is so utterly typical. “You`re allowed to be upset, you know. Just because someone else has is worse doesn`t mean you aren`t allowed to feel the way you do.”

“How do you feel, then?”, Miryam asks, “Since you also knew them.”

Could her diversion be any more obvious? “I can`t close my eyes without seeing their corpses. Whenever I`m not imagining what their last minutes must have felt like, I keep thinking that we might have been able to prevent this if we hadn`t been so stupid.“ He sighs. “I also threw up. Thrice. And I`m scared to go to bed because I know I`ll have nightmares.” He looks at Miryam. “Your turn.”

“I don`t want to talk about it.”

Drakon honestly has no idea how often he`s heard that of her. Usually, he lets her sort it out with Jurian, who is a bit better at getting her to talk. But this time, Jurian is busy and Drakon doesn`t think that letting Miryam stew over her feelings alone is a good idea.

“Talking is important”, he says and hopes that he doesn`t sound overly preachy. “If you always shove your feelings down, you`ll combust eventually.”

Miryam snorts softly. “Who cares?” She picks up a pebble and throws it into the dark. “There`s no way we`re getting out of this alive, anyways.”

Drakon blinks at her. That`s the most pessimistic he ever heard her. “That`s not true”, he says softly and reaches out and puts a hand on her arm.

“Yes, it is!” She jumps to her feet, brushing his hand away as she does. “We`re already dying – bit by bit, every day.” She makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Even if we win, even if we don`t all get killed… Do you really think we`ll just ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after when this is over?” She shakes her head. “There`s no getting back from this. Not in a hundred years.”

She lost hope, Drakon realizes. Miryam may still believe in freedom for her people, and be ready to fight for it, but she lost hope for herself. He refuses to accept that.

“Come on”, he says and gets up. “I want to show you something.”

“No, I-“

“Trust me.”

Miryam doesn`t look convinced, but she follows him out of the camp. Unfortunately, his idea to get out of the camp alone runs into difficulties. Namely the three guards trailing them. Normally, their presence hardly bothers Drakon, but in the sleeping camp, their presence stands out and destroys any illusion of privacy.

Drakon stops walking and waves the guards over. All three of them bow, and the leader, a round-faced female named Yani, asks, “How can we help you, your Highness.”

“Lady Miryam and I would like some privacy”, Drakon says. He doesn`t add that he asked her to call him by his name more times than he can count already.

Yani exchanges a look with her colleagues. “Forgive me, your Highness”, she says, “But General Sinna gave us strict orders not to leave you alone.”

Drakon knows. When he first became Prince, it was easy to slip away from his guards – if there were any around – but since his time in the Black Land, Sinna drastically increased security.

“You work for me, though”, he says. “We`ll be back within two hours.”

Drakon pretends he doesn`t notice that his guards have to consider his orders first before they fall back. As soon as they are out of the wards` perimeter, Drakon holds out a hand to Miryam.

When she hesitates, he says, “You set up the wards. If anything happens, we`ll be back within seconds.”

Miryam sighs and takes the offered hand.

----

Drakon winnows them to a field just outside of a medium-sized human city. He tugs his wings tightly to his body and leads Miryam towards the gate. The guards squint suspiciously at Drakon, but relax when they see Miryam`s mostly human features.

“What are we doing here?”, Miryam asks softly when the guards have waved them through.

The village doesn`t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Miryam cannot imagine why Drakon would take her here. She`s too drained to care much, though. It`s like someone cut a tether connecting her to the world. She should be furious, or sad, or desperate, but she just feels empty. Except for the power that keeps thrumming through her, only barely controllable anymore.

“I want to show you something”, Drakon says.

Miryam lets him take her by the arm and lead her through the streets towards the town`s centre. She barely notices where they are going until the sound of music makes her perk up. They round a corner and basically stumble into a street festival. Music and laughter fill the air and in the centre of a square, people are dancing in pairs. Miryam stares at the scene, unable to quite process what she`s seeing.

“Look”, Drakon says and nudges Miryam closer. “There are still people who are alive out there. There are people who are dancing and laughing and living. This is what we`re fighting for and we haven`t lost yet.”

Miryam looks away. She can`t take this. There are cracks forming in her composure and she fears that if she loses control now, she won`t be able to regain control over her powers. Her hands open and close frantically at her side.

“And we are alive as well”, Drakon continues, “We are alive and I promise that when this is all over, you`ll also get to dance on the street, or do whatever else you want for your life.”

Miryam`s shoulders begin to shake and she quickly wipes the tears away. The music still sounds, people are still dancing. Humans living in freedom. Drakon pulls his arms around her and pulls her close to him. Miryam digs her fingers into his jacket. She is crying so hard her entire body shakes now, and she thinks if it wasn`t for Drakon holding her, she might just get swept away.

Eventually, the tears stop. Miryam carefully lets go of Drakon. She wipes her tears away and straightens. Her face feels puffed up and her throat is sore, but the pressure inside of her has become almost bearable.

“Thank you”, she whispers, “I think I needed that.”

“I think we can stay for a bit. If you want to.”

Of course she wants to. She never wants to go back. That is not possible, she knows, but at least they`ll get a small reprieve. Miryam nods and follows Drakon, who keeps his wings tucked in tightly to his body, towards the celebration. Her eyes flicker over the laughing, happy people. They seem surprisingly unbothered by the Fae in their midst.

“How did you know to come here?”, Miryam asks.

“My soldiers like to go here on their days off. They told me.”

Without needing to talk about it, they decide not to join the dancing, so they end up standing next to a small booth that sells drinks. A human man presses two cups into their hands

“Oh, thank you.” Drakon reaches for his pouch to pay for the drinks, but the man waves him off.

“First drink is free for Alliance soldiers”, he says, “Besides, you two look like you could use it.” He vanishes in the crowd, leaving Drakon looking unhappily at his still-full pouch.

Miryam, on the other hand, notices the ash staining their clothes. She sighs. They must look like they crawled straight out of a grave. She tries to brush the ash off her clothes, but only succeeds in smearing it further.

“Hopeless”, she mutters.

“At least that way, we don`t need to worry about being recognized”, Drakon says with eternal optimism.

They find a bench at the edge of the dancing floor and sit down on it. They aren`t part of the celebration, not really, just spectators. They might as well be in a different world as those people.

Drakon drains his cup quickly, then puts it on the ground next to him. Miryam only takes a sip from her cup, then winces. Horrible.

“I hate alcohol.” She takes another sip, winces again and hands the cup to Drakon. “It tastes terrible, and it makes you lose control over yourself.”

“I believe the latter is part of the charm for most people.” Drakon takes a sip from Miryam`s cup.

She snorts. “Like you need to worry about getting drunk from this.”

To be fair, Miryam as a half-Fae doesn`t get drunk very quickly either. But the mere possibility of getting drunk is enough to completely ruin alcohol for her. Losing control is horrifying, she doesn`t understand why anyone would risk it for fun.

“I still can`t believe it”, Drakon whispers.

Miryam nods without taking her eyes off the dancing people. Don`t think about it. Think about these people who never watched their friends get murdered. Next to her, Drakon starts drumming a quick rhythm on the edge of the bank. He looks upset.

“So”, Miryam says, voice shaking slightly. She desperately fumbles for a different subject. Only one thing comes to her mind. “You should probably talk to Sinna. Your soldiers can`t take her word over yours.”

Drakon makes a face at her, but at least his tapping slows. Politics may not be his favourite subject, but Miryam guesses it`s still better than the memories of their dead friends.

“Sinna is over three hundred years old and has been a soldier for most of that time. I`m not even thirty.” He shrugs. “I`d take her word over mine, too. Any smart person would.”

He generally has a point. But - “Not when they are your soldiers. And most certainly not this publicly.”

Drakon arches an eyebrow. “So, what is it they are saying about me on the Continent that has you so worried about my public appearance? That I`m incompetent?”

“No, not that.” Miryam bites her lip. Normally, she doesn`t tell Drakon about the rumours, but right now, there seems to be no way around it. “With your essays now public, people generally believe you know what you`re talking about. But that doesn`t necessarily mean they also believe that you`re the one making decisions in Erithia. There`s quite a debate to be had on whether it`s your council, your advisors or your military who make the decisions for you, and your aren`t exactly…” She hesitates. “I`m sorry, but things like your conversation with the guards earlier don`t exactly make it seem like they are wrong.”

Drakon changes the rhythm he was drumming. “I`m not making these changes because I`m being manipulated, though”, he says. “I`m not.”

“I know that”, Miryam replies without missing a beat. When Drakon gives her a sceptic look, she adds, “Truly. You may not be very suited to international politics, but you`re brilliant at running a country. You`d notice if anyone was manipulating you about any of that.” She gives him a slight smile. “I`m more worried about your appearance. If you let people say you are being manipulates, you allow them to invalidate all the work you are doing.”

Drakon looks rather relieved at that. “So what should I do?”

“You can still listen to your advisors and generals”, Miryam says, “Believe it or not, but most rulers do. The difference is that they ask for advice quietly and then present it as their decision, while you just let other people make the choices for you.” She frowns. “Although I suggest you talk about this to whoever you pay to advise you on foreign politics, and if the answers he gives don`t match mine, have him replaced – he`s either incompetent or purposefully trying to jeopardize you.”

She supposes he could also use a bit more wariness in general when it comes to the members of his council. But she doesn`t say that. Contrary to popular belief, Drakon isn`t naïve – he`s seen far too much evil for that. He chooses to still see only the best in people, and Miryam personally sees that as a strength. She wouldn`t want him to change that.

“Seems doable”, Drakon says, then gives her a smile that only seems a little bit strained. “You certainly are good at changing the subject.” Which, of course, isn`t an attempt on his part to change the subject at all.

“I`ve got lots of practice”, she mutters, which makes Drakon huff a laugh.

They return their attention to the street festival. Now, most of the participants have taken each other by the hands and are dancing around in a huge circle.

“You ever wish we could trade places with them?”, Miryam asks softly. “Live a normal life.”

“Of course”, Drakon says. “What would you do? If it wasn`t for the war and… everything.”

“I think I`d still like to be a healer. Live in a small village. An ordinary life.” Maybe that`s what she`ll do when the war is over. If she survives. “And you?”

“I`d go back to university”, Drakon says without hesitation, “It`s wonderful there. You would like it.”

Miryam nods quietly. She allows herself to dream of the life she might have had a moment longer. But then, she thinks back to her people and straightens. “We should probably go back.”

Drakon nods and gets up. Miryam looks over her shoulder at the dancing people one last time before turning around to leave.

“I suppose you can`t have it both ways”, Drakon says softly as they walk back towards the gate. “You`re either the person dancing through the night – or you`re the one who fights so that dancing will still be possible tomorrow.”

----

When Jurian wakes up, it takes him a few blissful seconds to remember what happened. But the memories return soon enough, and when they do, he almost wishes he could take more of that sleeping tunic and fall back into oblivion. He nearly asks Miryam, who is sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him, for one – after all, what does he need to be awake for now, anyways? – but then, he remembers Amarantha and Clythia. The vow he made.

He sits up too quickly and his head starts to spin. Miryam reaches out to steady him.

“Easy”, she says, “You`re safe.”

“You think I give a shit?”, Jurian snaps. His voice is hoarse and sounds off in his own ears. He pushes her arm away and stands up – with the success that he immediately falls back over.

“Give yourself a moment”, Miryam says. Her tone is still gentle.

Jurian lets himself fall back onto the blanket he was lying on. “Sorry”, he mutters.

Miryam shrugs. “I understand.”

Jurian carefully pulls himself up into a sitting position and Miryam moves closer until they are almost touching. For a while, they sit together in silence.

“When we arrived in the camp”, Miryam finally says, breaking the silence, “when we saw it destroyed, I thought…” She rubs her hands over her face. “Maybe it is selfish to say, since so many died, but I`m still happy you`re alive.”

Jurian can almost hear the questions behind her words. But how? How come you survived while everyone else died. Where were you while your soldiers got murdered?

“I wasn`t in the camp when… it happened”, Jurian says. I was meeting with Clythia behind your back. While our friends were slaughtered, I sat and ate cake with a Hybern commander.

But his tongue won`t form the words. He closes his eyes. Tell her! He needs to tell her the truth now, he owes her that much. As of yet, he hasn`t really done anything wrong in that regard – he always meant to tell her once his meeting with Clythia was over. He needs to tell her now, and everything will be fine. But he keeps imaging the look in her eyes when she hears what he was doing.

“I…”, he begins. How can things between them ever be the same again if he tells her the truth now? “I went one a ride.” The words slip out involuntarily, without his permission. “I needed a moment alone.”

His heart races. There`s no way Miryam will believe him, she is almost impossible to lie to. Why didn`t he tell the truth? She`ll find out anyways, and him trying to lie will just make it worse. He lowers his head.

Miryam gently puts her hand on his. “It wasn`t your fault”, she says, “Even if you had been there, you couldn`t have saved them. You would have just died alongside them.”

Jurian blinks, too stunned to speak. It wasn`t even that good a lie, there`s no way she fell for that. And yet… The realization hits like a knife to the gut. Miryam doesn`t catch his lie because she doesn`t even consider the possibility that he might be telling anything but the truth. After all, he never lied to her before.

He wishes she had doubted his words. That would have made it more bearable.

“I should have been there”, he whispers, voice breaking. That, at least, is true no matter what.

Miryam just wraps her arms around him and pulls him close. Jurian lets her.

He doesn`t know how long they`ve been sitting like this when the door bursts open. “Oh.” Drakon stops in the entrance.

“What do you want?”, Jurian snaps. He doesn`t know why he`s suddenly angry.

“Sorry.” Drakon lifts his hands, like in surrender. “I should have knocked.” He throws Miryam a letter. “The council wants to see you. I`d say they are asking, but it`s more of a summon.” He turns to Jurian and adds more softly, “I`m glad you`re awake. And, well, alive.”

“Because that`s the most important thing, right?” Jurian scoffs.

“I`m sorry”, Drakon repeats. “I can imagine how you must feel.”

“Oh, can you?” Jurian pushes Miryam`s arm off and climbs to his feet. “Because your soldiers didn`t get slaughtered. They weren`t even in the camp, were they?”

“Are you blaming me for what happened?”, Drakon asks softly. He still doesn`t sound angry, which just pisses Jurian off more. Drakon and his eternal kindness – doesn`t he realize that they`re at war?

“Just stating facts. Because somehow, it`s never your people who have to pay the price, is it. And if we lose this war, it won`t be your people who end up enslaved, either. You`ll get out of this perfectly fine, right? They`ll probably even let you keep your title.”

“Jur…”, Miryam whispers.

Drakon just stares at him, lips pressed into a tight line.

Jurian laughs. “Must be fun, to fight a war knowing that the results will never really affect you. One of the advantages of being Fae, I suppose.”

“Stop it!”, Miryam all but shouts and jumps to her feet. “What are you doing?” Shaking her head, she looks between Jurian and Drakon. “Isn`t it bad enough already?” Her voice shakes like she`s about to cry. “Thousands of people are dead. We`re all that`s left, and if we start to argue amongst ourselves…”

Jurian stares down at his feet. His anger evaporates, leaving him feeling drained and terrible. Not only did he lose his soldiers, now he also picked a fight with Drakon and made Miryam upset.

“Sorry”, he mutters.

“I`m sorry, too”, Drakon says, “About what happened to your soldiers – and that we weren`t there to prevent it.”

Jurian nods, and that is that. Argument settled, but not really. Miryam looks between them, frowning.

“You need to go to your meeting”, Jurian reminds her.

“Do you want me to come?”, Drakon offers.

Jurian has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something about how he doubts that would be very helpful. Damnit, what is wrong with him? It`s like all that`s left is anger, and without anywhere for it to go, he lashes out at anyone who happens to be close. He needs something to direct his anger at, or he fears he might combust and take everyone close to him down with him.

“I received intelligence about the possible location of one of Hybern`s training camps”, he says to Drakon, without really looking at him. “If we manage to find the exact location, we might be able to pay those bastards back in kind.”

----

Miryam`s formal dresses burned together with the camp, so she still wears her ash-stained tunic and pants when she goes to meet the council. She is early for the meeting and only a few of the other councilmembers are there, but they all stare at Miryam`s appearance. She ignores the looks.

Not finding a set of change clothes was a somewhat risky choice, but Miryam decides it`s fitting. Appearing in immaculate clothes after what happened in the last hours would have seemed tasteless. Miryam is just about to take her seat when a hand closes around her arm. She stiffens – she hates being touched without permission – but makes herself turn around slowly. He magic stirs, but she shoves it back down.

“My Lord”, she greets the High Lord of the Night Court.

“May I have a word, Lady Miryam?” His voice is tense and he all but drags her out of the room without waiting for a reply.

“I would appreciate”, she hisses and rips her arm out of his grip, “a little more common courtesy.”

He holds open the door to one of the smaller meeting rooms for her and lets her in with a mock bow. Miryam glares and demonstratively rubs her wrist, where his fingers are sure to leave bruises. Still, the High Lord doesn`t apologize as he closes the door behind them and sets up wards with the wave of a hand. Miryam tries very hard not to be nervous.

“We need to talk”, the High Lord says.

“If this is about Keir –“

“I know you`re planning to shift the blame for your failure on him. I would do the same, in your position. Still, I`d suggest you take a different route.”

“No.” Miryam takes back a step so that she no longer has to look up at him quite so obviously. “Over three thousand soldiers got killed in a single night, all because your commander went against Alliance directives to torture a group of enemy soldiers and then presented the information he got as sound intelligence. The blame for this lies with him, and I`ll make sure he gets what he deserves.”

“How righteous of you. And how practical that this way, you shift the blame well away from yourself and your friends. Even though it was your fault as well, wasn`t it?”

Yes, it was. But that won`t be the public version. “If Keir hadn`t supplied incorrect information”, she says flatly, “none of this would have happened.”

“And if you make it public, his behaviour will fall back on me.” When Miryam only arches an eyebrow at him, he steps closer. “So don`t make it public.”

Miryam makes herself laugh. “Just like that? You argue against me in almost every meeting, and now, you expect me to do you a huge favour?”

“You don`t want me as your enemy”, he warns.

He`s standing so close now that her every instinct screams at her to run. Instead, she slowly steps back and reaches for the handle of the door. The High Lord`s wards crack under her touch and she pulls the door open.

“So you keep saying”, she says, “but the more I think about it, the more I feel like you are the one who doesn`t want me as your enemy.”

With that, she walks out of the room and towards the council chamber. There, Andromache has arrived by now. She drops all pretence when she sees Miryam and hugs her in front of the entire council.

“Are you okay?”, she asks, “Jurian? Drakon?”

“Yes.” None of them are anywhere near okay, but at least they are alive. “None of us were in the camp when it happened.”

“And I think we`d all like to know the reason for that”, Nakia says from her seat at the table.

“We received faulty information”, Miryam says, taking her seat. Then, she briefly outlines what happened yesterday, making sure to place as much blame of possible on Keir.

By the time she is finished, most of the councilmembers are frowning. Unfortunately, more than one of them seem to direct their ire at Miryam. Zeku softly shakes his head at her.

“Yet I have to wonder”, one of the Fae says, “how none of you noticed the trap.”

“We received the intelligence from the council”, Miryam replies, “We believed it had been verified and followed the orders we`d been given.”

Nakia surprises her by nodding. “No point arguing about it now”, she says gruffly. “The damage is done. I suggest we start dealing with the aftermath.”

In the end, of course, someone still has to get punished – but that someone ends up being Keir, who gets stripped of his army command. His High Lord glares at Miryam. Otherwise, it is decided that Jurian will be put in charge of training new recruits and making them into a new army. After that is settled, they mercifully decide to end the meeting.

Most of the other councilmembers don`t leave immediately, so Miryam also remains sitting for a while. She can`t vanish immediately after each meeting.

Zeku leans against the table next to her. “My condolences”, he says.

“Thank you.”

Zeku remains sitting on the table and watches her. Silently.

“Was there something else?”, Miryam asks when she has enough from his staring.

Zeku seems to consider, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… are you sure you know what you`re doing here, Miryam?”

She tenses. She thinks back to the warning he gave her months ago and tries not to make her worry too obvious. She must have made some kind of mistake – maybe she didn`t shift the blame for their away successfully enough. This is bad. Her standing with the council is all that gives her the power to influence where this war is going. She needs to find a way to fix this, and quickly. If she can manage, with her losing control over her magic more and more each day.

“I`m just trying to free my people”, she says softly. “That`s all I want. All I`m fighting for.”

Zeku watches her for a moment longer, then he nods and jumps off the table. “Be careful”, he tells her and walks off to join one of his Fae allies.

Miryam looks after him and tries to ignore the sinking feeling that she completely missed what he was trying to warn her about.

----

A/N: You probably already guessed it, but things are going downhill from here. There will also be another time jump between this chapter and the next. Oh, and Mor will play a larger role again in the next arc. I haven't forgotten about her, her pov just didn't fit into this arc.

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @sjm-things @clolikescloquetas

#I`ll try to include some more... lighthearted scenes in the next chapters #but the problem is #that this just isn`t a very lighthearted story #which I should probably have realized in advance #before the wall #miryam #jurian #drakon

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