#Tales from Sorrow Resplendent
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I've been working on the website for my Exalted fic project and needed to make a cover so this old short story would look pretty in the library area.
For those who might've missed it, this story wraps up my Eclipse character's revenge arc from our 2e Sorrow Resplendent campaign and doesn't require much knowledge of the past campaign, as it's a self-contained character vignette at a breezy 3k words.
With so many insurmountable challenges rising to threaten the Circle and Creation, the Circle must get their final affairs in order before their eventual victory or defeat.
For Kalara, only one last task remains – revenge against the Guild Factor who framed her for the murder of her own father and upheaved her whole life into misery.
Will she give in to the vengeance she has been dreaming about for years or rise above the impulse? The former could mean a renewed war within the Guild, but satisfaction for herself, while the latter could sustain the peace between factions she has worked so hard towards.
Only one last connection to her mortal life remains to be cut.
Read here and enjoy:
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#The Uncrucified Stories#Tales from Sorrow Resplendent#Sorrow Resplendent - City of the Free#Kalara Vadras#Night Locust
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as you like it (sequel to romeo ♱ juliet)
↳ gojo satoru/reader
bound by the dictates of the prophecy, the emperor contemplates whether retaining his wife or severing ties with her may be the sole path to fulfill his ambitions. yet, what he may fail to discern, is that the plague in his reign lies beyond what meets the eye
♱ genre. tragedy, revenge, period piece, renaissance au
♱ tags. 26k wc, extremely ooc, tyranny, emperor!gojo, empress!reader, (they are both insane!), unrequited love, religion (especially catholicism), blasphemy, mentions of infidelity, violence, war, rebellion, misogyny, impregnation, smut, disease, gore, death, arson
♱ notes. heavily inspired by anne boleyn's real-life story, and manhwas sister, i am the queen in this life and ten ways to get dumped by a tyrant, as well as shakespeare’s king henry V. direct quotes also derived from the movie the king. finally, the modern english version is here, and it is long overdue T-T
♱ FIRST TIMELINE OF LONG LIVE THE VILLAINESS ♱
EARLY MODERN ENGLISH -> MODERN ENGLISH VERSION
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
SATORU, Emperor of Caelum.
YOU, of the same order.
SUGURU, knight commander of the Imperial Order of Knights.
TOJI, Emperor of Astheryn.
NAOYA, a duke, cousin to Toji.
GENEVA, nurse to the empress.
MAXIMILIAN, advisor to the Caelan Emperor.
NANAMI, a nobleman.
The Pope.
FRIAR MYCHAL, a Franciscan.
A maid.
A physician.
The Oracle.
Citizens of Astheryn and Caelum; kinsfolk of both empires; the Imperial Court, Nobles, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants
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PROLOGUE
In fair Caelum, an emperor reigns,
A throne usurped through blood and disdain.
Beside him, an Empress fair did stand,
Her love unmet, her heart unmanned.
No heir has graced their union still,
Her womb remains a barren field,
His anger thus come veiled in scorn,
To seek another, and secure his throne.
In this tale of sorrow, rage, and might,
Where empires clash and fates alight,
We delve into a world both dark and bright,
Where love and power wage their ceaseless fight.
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THE LATE 15TH CENTURY
ACT I
Only slightly did you loosen up as the sequence of your steps were taken in slow but measured strides. Each footfall had a rhythm that was neither lacking in confidence nor hesitance, with your heels clicking on the marble floors and the sound of it echoing along the spacious hallway as if to remind every person within the vicinity that the Empress was arriving. You held your breath much to the tightness of your corset and tried to keep your emotions intact, taking a halt from walking knowing that your ladies-in-waiting were tailing you closely behind.
Two valiant knights stood by his door, offering a curtsy to their Empress the minute you had crossed their eyes. A knock on the door followed. Then, soon enough, you were granted a step forward inside your husband’s study.
There he was, ensconced behind his desk amid copious piles of paperwork, his attention undivided by the woman who graced his study with her presence. His locks, reminiscent of Arctic snow, were meticulously arranged, accentuated by the resplendent black doublet he donned, and adorned with intricate silver patterns upon the brocade cloth. His eyes, as blue as the sky and oceans alike, declined to meet the gaze of his own wife.
“What is your purpose?” he uttered.
Meanwhile, you made a swift curtsy and motioned for the attendants and knights to depart away, leaving the two of you alone. “I would like to have a word with you, Your Majesty.”
His countenance appeared to congeal as he fixed his gaze upon you for several discomfiting moments. “Of what matter?”
“Regarding the New Year’s banquet, my dear husband. It is due in a fortnight, and preparations must be set into motion.” You stood squarely before him, hands entwined before you. A regal presence. A queenly figure, fashioned precisely to his desires. Such was the image the empire had embraced since your ascension to the throne. Before him stood the epitome of grace suited to that role. “What do you say our theme should be?”
He closed the ledger he had been inscribing on, scrutinizing your features intently. “As you know, I dislike such events, but this banquet is an avoidable obligation.” His gaze shifted towards your gown that was meticulously crafted to complement your form. It was adorned with the same elaborate embroidery as his own attire, and accented by a sizable silver cross adorning your neck like the good Christian you were. “The people are starting to notice how grand our affairs are becoming; therefore, I prefer to avoid any unnecessary extravagance that might cause a stir. Let it be lavish enough to uphold our standing, yet not overly flamboyant,” he paused, “As for the theme, black and silver will be fitting to complement our regalia.”
The Caelum regalia, once bedecked in innocent hues of white and blue, underwent a somber transformation to black and silver upon his ascension to the throne. Behind this alteration lay a tragic tale. Satoru, the man whom you addressed as husband, had first borne the title of Crown Prince before ascending to the imperial seat. His younger sister, the infamous maiden who met her demise alongside her lover, was bound to an ill-fated romance that purportedly quelled an age-old enmity between two ancestral foes.
The forbidden romance between a scion of a Zen'in and a scioness of a Gojou, both of princely lineage, ignited strife between the Astheryn and Caelum Empires. With half a century of animosity between these bloodlines, a lust for supremacy, and an unyielding clash between nations, the discord erupted into a civil strife, ceasing solely with the ratification of a peace accord by the sovereigns of both empires.
Yet before all these tumultuous events unfolded, Satoru’s ascent to the highest throne owed much to you. Though you were not his intended betrothed, you were a lady deeply enamored with the prince; with whom he divulged myriad fervent nights with. As the daughter of a duke whose lineage boasted mastery in the craft of forging fine swords and weaponry, and so well-versed in the art of warfare, he saw you fit to stand as his empress, prepared to reciprocate your erstwhile unrequited love through means of marriage. However, this accord came at the cost of you aiding him in his quest to unseat both his father and mother from their thrones. He loathed his parents just as strongly as he did Astheryn. The rulers preceding him were despotic tyrants, showing scant regard for kinship ties, and they exhibited no sorrow for the passing of the princess, which was a loss deeply felt by Satoru.
Satoru carried ambitions of ascending to the august throne of Caelum from a tender age, and he was unwilling to await the natural demise of his father for ascension and instead, do it by means of force. He was prepared to imbue his hands with his own kindred’s blood to sit at the highest throne, yet such a feat was no trifling matter. The civil unrest presented the opportune moment to execute his plans, spurred on all the more by his sister’s untimely demise. With your military affiliations and strategic acumen, you aided him in orchestrating a coup d’état against his own kin. Ending it all with him, severing his father’s head with a sword, and you, killing his mother with poison. His other oppositions followed, and those who did not support his cause were offered a swift journey to hell through mass execution. Throughout these macabre events, you stood steadfast by his side, currying favor with the surviving nobility to fortify his position as emperor. Identifying traitors, you presented them for his judgment. In due course, you became his most trusted confidante, the sole woman deemed worthy to stand beside him on the day of his coronation, heralding the dawn of a new era for the empire. Thus, a new nation, a new sovereignty, and a new regalia were born.
“As you wish, my liege.” With careful steps, you navigated his study, casting an appraising gaze upon the books lining his shelves before pausing behind him. He should perceive that the banquet wasn’t the only thing on your mind that day. “Please, do not trouble yourself with all this paperwork.” Your lips brushed his ear. “Instead, should I anticipate your presence in my bedchamber tonight?”
He tensed, drawing a deep breath to temper his emotions. You always seemed to know how to push his buttons—in good and bad ways. You played him like a fiddle as always. Indeed, he was well aware that your desires surpassed the scope of mere banquet arrangements. “Very well.”
The distant gaze he cast upon you pierced deeply. Eight long years of matrimony, and only now did he begin to exhibit such aloofness. Only now did such estrangement manifest. What sudden shift had befallen this marriage? You were not privy to the answer, yet you strived to deny it. Nonetheless, for the sake of your peace of mind, did you venture forth with your inquiry. “My liege, I dare to believe that you do not hold a grudge against me.” Your eyes remained fixed upon his saintly face. “Do I speak true? For my failure to conceive during our last encounter—”
“It is futile to hold a grudge over matters beyond our control.” Displeasure thinned his lips. “What gain would I have in chastising you simply because you are barren?”
Pained by his words, you stepped away, quietly but firmly asserting, “...I am not barren.”
“You have not conceived after six years, that qualifies as being barren to me.” He flipped back to the page he was perusing, resuming his writing.
Any trace of happiness that once adorned your mien now dissipated, and was replaced by the shadows of his cutting words. “Then, what plan shall you devise if I fail to bear your offspring?”
Satoru halted in his writing, his quill suspended in the air. He closed his eyes as he spoke, “If you do not conceive in the foreseeable future, I have no choice but to divorce you. No matter the cost.”
Your eyes widened at his decision, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled upon you. His words seemed rehearsed, so well-thought of, as though he had expected this day to come and heretofore looked forward to informing you of this very plan. You failed to catch his reasoning, but succeeded at bearing the pain it had burdened you. What had driven him to this conclusion? Certainly, a mere heir would not lead him to this ultimatum.
“Are you suggesting a concubine, then?” Firm and resolute in your stance was how you received his proposal.
The emperor averted his gaze, allowing silence to stand as your response for several minutes until he finally articulated a considerate reply. “My heir cannot be born a bastard, and so concubines would only complicate matters. I have no plans in that department.” You sensed the direction of his thoughts, and you dreaded his continuation. “Instead, I implore you to abdicate your throne, and I shall marry another lady, whether of royal or imperial lineage, to bear the heir of this empire. It is the only fitting course of action, one which may necessitate a divorce.”
“Step down from my throne?” Your voice quavered, laced with disbelief and anguish. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “Would you cast me aside, discard me like a worn-out garment in your ill-tempered state, all for the sake of an heir? After everything I have done for you.” Your words echoed in the chamber, each syllable heavy with the betrayal you felt.
Your heart, once brimming with devotion, now lay shattered at your feet. All your life, you have loved him. All your happiness and tears, you have devoted to him. You had stood by his side through every trial, every conquest, only to be deemed unworthy of bearing his legacy. The sting of rejection seared your soul, igniting a fierce resolve within your wounded spirit. Yet nothing was his response. No words of comfort did he return for your wifely agony.
With a voice trembling through a mixture of sorrow and defiance, you met his gaze. “Fair enough,” you whispered, your tone laden with a sorrowful resignation. “If it is a concubine you seek, then so be it. But a divorce, I will not accept. And know this, my lord,” you declared, your voice rising with newfound strength, “I am the Empress. The one and only. There is none within this empire comparable to me, for a worthless, lowly concubine shall not depose this Empress Y/N of Caleum you would so readily compromise."
And in that solemn proclamation, you turned away, your stolid mien masking the shattered pieces of your fractured heart.
His countenance remained stoic as he observed your departure, sighing inwardly as you exited his study. Although no longer offering a response, he found himself unable to deny the truth of your words. Nor the power in which you presented them. Your presence lingered in his thoughts, holding sway over him in a manner he could not fathom.
As expected, you were epitome of a powerful empress just like what his mother once was and there ought to be a lot more convincing for you to step down from your post.
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ACT II
“If the oracle speaks the truth, then I fear, my lord, that this empire is destined for downfall.”
It was late in the night, though the castle still brimmed with light from the torches adorning the halls. Most servants had retired to bed by this hour, barring the guards stationed at key areas of the castle. Meanwhile, the emperor remained awake, engaged in discussions concerning the fate of his sovereign. A predestined fate that could only be avoided should he make the effort to fulfill the conditions of the prophecy.
Standing discreetly before him was Lord Maximillian, his advisor—a man who had witnessed his growth from juvenile years to the present moment. He had come to offer the emperor the much-needed counsel regarding the pressing matter at hand.
“Max, what do you say? Tell me, do you think I am incapable?” The man of higher power questioned. “I have discussed the divorce with the Empress. I have outlined my plan in case she fails to bear my heir, and presented it in a way that seems fair to her. Yet, she reacts with such intensity. And she loves so fiercely. Oh, women. Such troublesome, defiant women are the issue! She’s a shrew—that is what she is. For many years, I have given her the benefit of the doubt. Her ambitions outweigh her sense. I am at a loss on how to proceed with her any further. The prophecy demands that I have an heir.”
The old man returned him a soulless look. “If you interpret the matter differently than intended, then may I suggest that Your Majesty consider disposing of her.”
“Dispose?” he queried, as though he had misheard. “Her? My wife? You suggest it best to dispose of her?”
“Yes, I believe it is. In the same manner as your father and mother,” Maximillian asserted, drawing a deep breath. “Please, do not misunderstand my intentions as treason. My loyalty rests with you, my liege. I stand beside you. I desire nothing but the best for you, for this empire has not seen better days than under your rule.”
Silence enveloped the air. Satoru took a moment to gaze at his elongating shadow, gradually shaping itself as he moved farther from the candlelight. In the darkness, his shadow morphed into a menacing silhouette, a specter lurking in the darkness was what had become of him. To become a tyrant was never his intention nor the promise he made to his departed sister, who yearned nothing but for Satoru to embody fairness and strength in rulership. And to be an emperor for the people. She had strived for peace among nations, yet here her brother stood, mirroring the oppressive parental figures he had overthrown. What allure did power hold over him? What such force could sway him now to forsake the very individual who had displayed unwavering marital devotion towards him?
“Have you been in communication with the King of Ellesmere?” inquired the Emperor. “Is it not true that his daughter, the princess, was to marry the late Prince of Astheryn? That prince was the son of that villain. That tyrant. Emperor Toji of Astheryn, my foremost enemy. What has become of that princess, do you know?”
Maximillian stared at him intently. “She is twenty-eight years old and past her marriageable age, yet Princess Katarina remains unwed. Is it her hand that Your Majesty seeks?”
“I say this as the Emperor: it is solely her status that renders her the only eligible woman to be my wife and empress of this empire." His decision was laden with hesitation yet compelled by necessity. “However, for the moment, she cannot be seated until Y/N has been removed from her position. My decision will depend on whether my wife can produce my heir soon. If not, I shall dispose of her.”
His advisor sent him a look of approval. “'Tis a decision that can only emanate from you, my lord. May God be with you.”
“If that is all, then you can leave.” The emperor paused near the western part of the castle, not far from the corridors leading to his wife's bedchamber. “I ask you to be my messenger tomorrow. Write to the King of Ellesmere, briefly and clearly. Before you falsely honor a new empress, know that the long hours of my night are to be spent with the woman currently occupying the throne.”
Eventually, Satoru reached your chambers and noticed that a few candles had been lit, their warm light illuminating the room softly. In the solitude in which you found yourself, seated by the bed and bathed in moonlight, silent in such serenity he hoped not to disturb. The fabric of your nightgown, thin and delicate, revealed the contours of your womanly figure beneath. He, too, was clad in a thin robe that left little to the imagination.
As you turned to face him, you caught sight of the faint scars and marks from countless battles etched across his body, though his expression remained mostly neutral as it always had and you were unbeknownst to the profanity he had spoken of you a few minutes hence. Now, his electric blue eyes looked at you with careful scrutiny, pondering whether this sensual encounter would all be in vain or if you truly intended to fulfill your role and bear an heir this time.
“What hour is it?” You spoke softly, approaching him with a sorrowful glint in your eyes. “I have waited.”
“Apologies. Urgent matters demanded my attention.” Satoru could see the sadness in your eyes, but he tried his best to ignore it. You are barren, and there is little he can do to change that. He should begin his newfound task to detach from you. You brought him no good. You offered him no better fate. You were no longer instrumental for him to attain his long-standing ambition. Nevertheless, with your genuinely loving eyes he found himself conflicted, and that showed in his facial expressions. His brow knit, and he parted his lips as if to speak before hesitating and closing them again. You sensed his inclination to make you feel miserable, to render you desolate, yet he could not muster the resolve to articulate such words. Thus, he remained silent.
While you, you stood perfectly still. Like a porcelain doll displayed as a mere decoration. You wanted nothing but to give him his manly satisfaction that night, hoping that your marriage could still work and that he would not need the betrothal of another lady to give him an heir. With delicate hands, you let the nightgown slip away, falling beneath your feet as the cold air caressed your naked form. This body. All of it belonged to him. “My lord.” You kept your eyes on him. And he, on your shapely bosom. “Please have me as you desire.”
Satoru’s eyes darkened as he stared at you, his voice taking a commanding tone to match his expression. “Turn around.”
You did as ordered. As obediently, as submissively. Like a servant serving her master. Yet, beneath this guise of obedience lay a deeper yearning—to vie for his love once more, and to affirm, if only for one last time, that his words this morning were but a fleeting outburst of heightened emotions.
“I have to admit you are quite beautiful,” whispered him. It is a shame that you are so useless in one aspect.
He walked behind you, enfolding you in his muscular arm, ensnaring you in his robust grasp as his fingers traced a path down your back. You could feel the contours of his toned abs pressed against your back, while he explored the dips and curves of your body with his touch, squeezing the soft mounds on your chest. He then leaned his forehead against your neck, trailing tender kisses along your spine, each one a testament to the intimacy shared between you.
The passionate night continued with the both of you taking turns in granting each other pleasure. The kisses around your neck, his tongue in between your folds, your hand wrapped around his well-endowed member. And before you know it, he was entering you from behind, penetrating the depths of your cavern in pursuit of reaching his high. His grasp on your hips tightened with each thrust, rendering your knees weak as you remained on all fours.
Your intimate session lasted for a while, as he was not satisfied enough at having only one release for the night. He jostled you from the back, to the side, and to the front. All of which left you with the warmth of his seed seeping out of your entrance, and subsequently down your thighs.
If only he did not let his mind speak, you could have deluded yourself that this night was his declaration of utmost love for you.
“You know that I will leave if you do not provide me with an heir soon, do you not?” Satoru did not sleep as he looked at you, his thoughts running rampant as he questioned whether or not he was being too cruel. His heart skipped a beat as he saw a second of your tears, tears that you so rightfully held back, and he was at a loss of words for once. He knew that he needed to stay firm on his decision, but seeing you on the verge of breaking down... it struck guilt in him. Satoru’s face softened, his tone becoming more calm and less forceful. Subconsciously did he do his best to comfort you. “I am not pleased that it has come to this. My words may be harsh at times, but you understand that I must fulfill my duties as emperor, do you not?”
You could not answer immediately and tried to bear the sting it brought to your heart. “How is it that you suddenly find it easy to cast me aside? Is there another lady on your mind?”
“That is not the case.” His guilt was knocking at the door, but he tried to ignore it. “This empire needs an heir, and you have failed me.”
“Perhaps blame the lack of children on yourself.” You bit back as your chest rose and fell from heavy breaths. “So seldom does my own husband grace my bed, as though I am unwed. Blame it, then, on the distance you have imposed upon us! A child cannot be born if we are not intimate.”
Satoru’s eyes narrowed at your words. “Are you suggesting we engage in intimate relations every minute and every second of the day?” A scoff escaped his lips. “I have given you eight years.”
“And yet, for eight years, you have not learned to love me.”
Your gaze remained fixed, each word hanging heavily in the air like a stormy cloud, with the weight of your shared history and unresolved emotions looming between the two of you in a thunderous confrontation. It was as though the very atmosphere crackled with tension, the silence pregnant with unspoken truths and unfulfilled desires. What was his true and most honest intent in forsaking you?
Satoru sat by the edge, ultimately deciding to leave you with yet another night devoid of slumber, alone upon your chamber. “Love? That very love is what killed my sister.”
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ACT III
A fair distance from the Gate of Saint Pellegrino, a homeless woman cradled a baby in her arms. Her other children darted about Saint Peter’s Square while she sang a hauntingly familiar lullaby to her infant—a melody too melancholic for a child, yet so fitting for the occasion. You recognized it as the song created by the Caelan citizens after the war ended. Her dulcet voice would rival the angels of the sky, and amidst the throng of people attempting to breach the ranks of the knights surrounding the Emperor and Empress, she stayed firm in her spot, her haunting hymn weaving through the atmosphere, while her storm-grey eyes bore into you with an eerie intensity to captivate you in a trance.
A rose will bloom, it then will fade
So does a youth, so does a fairest maid
Beneath the stars, they found their place,
In secret trysts, love's tender grace.
But lo, the fates their love did fray,
In bitter strife, they slipped away.
So hush, dear ones, and hear this lay,
Of love that wilted, night and day.
In whispered sighs, they bid goodbye,
Two souls in love, 'neath starry sky.
A decade had passed since the most scandalous demise of the Astheryn prince and the Caelum princess had occurred, where both lovers were discovered lifeless within the somber halls of the Sistine Chapel. Contrary to the common folk’s belief, they were not wed, nor did they meet their tragic end at Saint Peter’s, indeed, as their bodies were in fact found at the nearby Sistine Chapel. The Catholic church acknowledged this romantic tragedy as a conclusion to the long-standing feud between two noble empires, henceforth commemorating the young couple’s demise each passing year with a holy mass.
This year rendered particular significance as it marked the solemn tenth anniversary of their untimely departure. Perhaps, it may be the reason why your husband has been on edge as of late. Every year, his sister’s demise served as a brutal reminiscence for him—a grim reminder of his perished sister and the origin of his tyrannical reign. He bore witness to his parents’ handling of the conflict with Astheryn ten years ago, whereupon they callously demanded the common folk spill their blood in service to the imperial dynasty, igniting civil unrest in its wake. Such ruthless and cowardly deeds left an indelible mark upon him and brought him to the ultimatum of becoming a usurper. You vividly recalled the night he sought solace at your family’s estate, clad in battered armor from countless battles waged. That evening, he wept in your arms, confessing the death of his sister and his burning desire to exact vengeance upon those responsible for his loss. In exchange for marriage, you devised a scheme to orchestrate the coup that would once and for all elevate him to the imperial throne.
Despite the facade of peace ushered in by the treaty between him and the Astheryn Emperor, the truth remained stark: both empires were merely feigning reconciliation. They were only nominally “at peace”. A cold war, by all accounts, defined their true relationship.
The tension could be felt inside the basilica even from the moment you and your husband arrived in The Venera, a microstate on the borders of Astheryn and Caelum, in front of the men of both empires, as well as the members of the Holy Catholic Church. For many years, this sacred state remained a recognized territory of Caelum, despite its official designation as an independent ecclesiastical entity. The Gojou family were openly pious and deeply devout Catholics, while the Astherean citizens were predominantly Protestants. Not all members of the Zen’in clan practiced their empire’s predominant religion, and some suggested that Emperor Toji himself might be an atheist, albeit discreetly so. Rumors also circulated that the mother of the late Prince Megumi was herself a Catholic, which led to intense criticism regarding her marriage to a lineal heir of the imperial family.
Nevertheless, this stark religious divide lay at the heart of the perennial animosity between the two nations.
“Announcing Their Imperial Majesties, Emperor Satoru and Empress Y/N, the guiding stars of our empire, luminaries in the twilight of sovereignty.”
As you walked alongside Satoru, you noticed his usual bright blue eyes turning into a darker hue. His gaze fixated upon the altar, his countenance void of emotion, as you proceeded down the aisle by his side. Since that night, silence has permeated your interactions. And you still had no desire to engage him, especially if it meant enduring relentless pressure regarding an heir or the prospect of divorce.
Yet there, you carried yourself with an air of quiet strength and dignity—a gown of the deepest black with long sleeves ending in delicate cuffs, a silver cross hung by your chest with a gemstone made from blood red corundum, and a flowing black veil crafted from the finest lace, enveloping your head and cascading gently down your back, partially obscuring your features. The veil added an air of mystery and solemnity in your poise.
As for him, the Emperor was adorned in a doublet and hose ensemble, embellished with intricate brocade and tailored to fit his form exquisitely to accentuate his stature and regal bearing. Draped over his shoulders was a lavish cape of rich, dark velvet lined with ermine fur and fastened at the neck with a jeweled clasp bearing the insignia of his empire. Each fold billowed around him as he moved, creating a striking silhouette that commanded attention and respect.
No wonder the citizens of this empire were noticing your extravagance. And despised you for it.
Throughout the mass, Satoru remained stoic, seated alongside you at the forefront of the church, his demeanor suggesting that this day of remembrance was a torment to his very soul. Still, he listened, but you doubted he agreed while Pope Alexandre VI delivered a sermon on the importance of unity and peace among nations, condemning the advocates of warfare and citing the tragic fate of the late prince and princess as a poignant illustration of how the animosity between two empires exacts a toll through sacrifice. Prayers were also offered for the souls of the civilians and soldiers who perished during the war, drawing inspiration from the teachings of the Bible as the mass adhered to the customary order of the Liturgy of the Word and of the Eucharist.
“In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” you recited under your breath, genuflecting before the altar and offering prayers for the soul of your husband’s younger sister, beseeching that she find peace alongside her beloved under the guidance of the Holy Father. And as the mass drew to a close, you remained on your knees in prayer, the sound of approaching footsteps signaling the unwelcome arrival of an unexpected visitor—a presence that elicited a defensive reaction from your husband.
“Your Imperial Majesty, the Emperor of Caelum.” It was none other than Duke Naoya of Astheryn, whose sarcastic presence seemed to have acted as a representative of their highest ruler. Emperor Toji’s absence to this occasion already constituted an affront to Satoru, and the pompous mien exhibited by the duke only intensified the indignation. A decade had passed since the death of Prince Megumi, and the prideful Astheryn Emperor still refrained from setting foot on Caelum’s soil to acknowledge the purported ‘peace’ between the empires. Even more, the subtle curve on Duke Naoya’s lips added an infantile insult to the already festering wound. “Accept my belated greetings. It took me but a moment to recognize you—rumors describe the Calean Emperor’s presence as imposing, yet reality often differs from reputation.”
You rose from the ground, poised to defend Satoru, but he raised a hand to forestall your intervention, maintaining his unruffled composure as he addressed the noble man’s jest. “Ah, well the Duke's wit is sharp as ever,” Satoru replied, his tone laced with equal sarcasm and earning the laugh of the surrounding nobles. “It appears that overseeing a mere duchy affords the Duke ample free time, unlike the responsibilities that come with ruling an empire, which he so covets.”
“Oh, certainly!” Duke Naoya spoke in Calean with a heavy accent, still unfazed as his eyes slowly drifted to you. “They pale in comparison to the burdens of ruling an empire. Yet, surely, it is not as burdensome without an heir.” His implication hung in the air, a pointed insinuation veiled in the guise of courtly banter.
Before the exchange could escalate into a diplomatic strain, Friar Mychal took it upon himself to intervene, exhaling a laugh of unease and positioning himself between the Emperor and the Duke. “Very well!” he exclaimed. “I have received word that those attending the mass will offer tributes for the basilica in remembrance of the tenth year since the passing of the Prince and the Princess. As a matter of fact, there are already numerous flowers adorning their statue that His Majesty Satoru has donated to the museum.”
The museum was just a short walk from the chapel and the space itself was adorned with ornate ceilings, frescoes, and architectural details that added to the grandeur of the surroundings. An array of sculptures lined the hall; of cherubs, saints, warriors, and mythological figures. One of the newer sculptures were of the Prince and the Princess, portraying young lovers in a tender embrace with the princely lad staring at his lady’s face. The sculpture was from a renowned Calean artist which Satoru himself hired out of the pure intention of donating it to the Veneran Museum. The nobles, members of the imperial court, and members of the church were all in awe after the sculpture was revealed to the attendees as such meticulous carvings and lifelike detail could only be done by Giancarlo di Firenze.
“A remarkable piece, indeed!”
“The detail is breathtaking!”
“To capture such emotion in stone… ‘tis as if they are whispering their love story to us.”
Your husband could not have been prouder. Alongside him, other nobles also contributed their offerings. Some notable ones included stained glass art, precious jewels, a pair of lovebirds, and… a particularly intriguing tapestry gifted by the Astheryn Empire.
The tapestry depicts the Astherean prince and the Calean princess lying together in death with the symbolic addition of a bloodied dagger laid atop the princess’ chest, representing the same weapon that Prince Megumi had used to end his life. The imagery not only insinuated that Satoru’s sister was responsible for the prince’s demise, but also served as an insult to the prevailing belief in her innocence surrounding her own tragic death.
“This…” Your mouth fell agape. You need not look into your husband’s visage to perceive his growing ire. “This is preposterous!”
The joy was evident in Duke Naoya’s eyes, yet he endeavored to feign ignorance. “Ah, before I forget, my noble cousin, the Emperor of the Astheryn Empire, sent an accompanying message addressed to His Majesty Satoru.”
In the threads of time, woven with the fabric of our shared tragedy, lies the essence of our 'peace'. As we gather to honor the memory of what once was, I send forth this tapestry, whereupon love and folly intertwine in an eternal dance. May it serve as a testament to the fragility of alliances forged in blood and ink, where shadows of deceit cloak the truth we dare not confront. While you sit upon your borrowed throne, may you find solace in the echoes of your usurped legacy.
With insincere regards,
Emperor Toji II of Astheryn
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
ACT IV
“My liege, this is unacceptable! Astheryn is taunting us.”
An urgent assembly convened at the council chamber, where courtiers gathered to seek counsel from the emperor who was now seated in a position of humiliation following Astheryn’s brazen act of insult. You joined the court session in support of your husband, positioned at the throne beside him, while numerous men, each to their own titles and lordship, stood before you both. The courtiers' visages displayed incandescent umbrage as they protested and vehemently rejected the malignance from the rival empire in defense to the Emperor of Caelum. Yet the subject of the scrutiny himself remained staid and dignified.
“We cannot remain idle in the face of such an insult. If war is what they seek, then we shall grant it unto them!” exclaimed one of the members of the imperial court. A proponent of war he presented himself.
“Indeed, Your Majesty. To allow such an audacious act of disrespect would deem us cowards!” said another one of the men.
Satoru rested his arm on the armrest, a hand on his chin. He appeared to be lost in profound contemplation, yet you have grown long familiar with that expression of his to know that he was fueled with choler inside. “What is your opinion on this, Etienne? War is not a decision made lightly.”
Lord Etienne, as his name was called, spoke his opinion on the matter at hand and acted as an advocate for caution. “I agree, my lord. A hasty decision could plunge our empire into chaos and suffering. Perhaps, we can explore diplomatic channels first. War should be our last resort, not our first impulse.”
“Your Imperial Majesty!” Lord Armand countered. “With all due respect, your name has been besmirched! Is this not blasphemous to this empire and us, its men?”
“Our men are not prepared for war, Lord Etienne,” the previous noble claimed. “And how can we wage war with our forces against those of Astheryn's? Their military prowess is the mightiest throughout the central continent. They are barbaric folks, enemies to peace. We are nothing but simple foes to them..”
The belittling of Caelum’s military strength ignited your ire since that the training of soldiers, weapon crafting, and the establishment of the formidable imperial order of knights were specialties of your family—a legacy that your noble ancestors had established in this empire. It was why your family’s ties to the imperial Gojou family remained strong throughout the years. Therefore, hearing such remarks was derogatory to you.
You held your position and participated in the discussion. “Lord Etienne, do you speak so poorly of Caelum, your country, and speak so highly of Astheryn, your enemy?” For a moment, the court fell silent. “May God have mercy on you! Listen to his judgment. Is Caelum a joke to you? We have strengthened our military might since His Majesty’s ascent, and we are powerful enough to wage war against the entire world!”
“But Your Majesty—”
“Silence, all of you!” Satoru rose from his throne, exhaling in exasperation, and shot you a displeased look. His next words were sharp and his anger misdirected. “Empress, I appreciate your indignation, but this proves that women should not meddle in court sessions. Emotions depart from your mouth before logic enters your mind. You are dismissed from this session. Immediately.”
You could not fathom his sentences. For the longest time, never before had he dared to disrespect you in the presence of his subjects. Never had he dared to deny you of your rightful place as the empress of this nation, knowing full well the pivotal role you played in his ascension to the throne. Why, you could not speak! You were rendered speechless, too stunned to respond as you sank back into your seat, grappling with the sting of hurt and humiliation he had inflicted on you.
And somehow, Lord Maximillian’s eyes were uncharacteristically fixed on you as though they were in triumph at your situation. He did well enough to mask that with indifference withal. What was this hostility? Even the knights who approached you only had regard for the emperor, following his command of escorting you out of the council chamber despite your desire to stay seated. Yet to save face from this abomination, you did it upon yourself to stand up and leave at your own will.
“Nanami.” In your disappearance, Satoru spoke again, this time facing his subjects. “How do you propose we navigate this situation?”
Lord Nanami was more of the voice of reason, expressing his approach on the matter with neither bias towards engaging in or retreating from war. “My liege, I speak in your best interest. Let us convene with our allies, assess our military readiness, and explore all avenues for resolution. Only then shall we make an informed decision. It is most appropriate that we prepare ourselves against the enemy.”
Satoru already knew the answer before the man had spoken of it. Why so? Because it was the same route he would take. Only, it was his wounded pride and disdain towards his greatest adversary that landed him to a much more inhospitable decision. “Along with that blasphemous tapestry, written in his message, did that Emperor of Astheryn disparagingly refer to me as a usurper when I am the true born heir to the throne.” He ground out the words with clenched teeth as he stared at the portrait of his father. His hands balled into fists, his face hot and pinched with resentment. He detested being called a ‘usurper’ as he detested Astheryn and all of the Zen’ins. Regardless of the path he took to claim his throne, he was still a direct lineal heir to the Gojou bloodline. “I cannot let that pass. I cannot let his insult go unanswered. Hence, take down these words and address them to him, who is my enemy.” Satoru stared straight ahead, his face blank and emotionless as he spoke his next words in flawless Astherean language. “Emperor of Astheryn, your words are as venomous as they are misguided. While you revel in your petty insults and thinly veiled threats, know this: the patience of Caelum wears thin. Your tapestry of deceit and blasphemy shall find no place within the halls of our empire. Let it be known that the path you tread leads only to ruin and despair. Should you persist in your folly, Caelum shall meet your challenge with unwavering resolve. Consider this your final warning. The drums of war beat ever louder, and Caelum will not hesitate to answer the call. For this usurper you deride may stay true to that label when I seize your throne and make it mine.”
Following the court session, the emperor retreated to the training hall until late evening venting his wrath against the despot from the rival empire. He devoted hours in the hall, wielding his sword, sparring with the swordsmanship master, and decisively overpowering him to feel a sense of honor for himself. In his mind, each strike was a fierce expression of his imagination, envisioning what that battle would be like if it were Emperor Toji II in his stead. It would have been their second encounter in the battlefield as the first one ended in armistice for the sake of the prince and princess. This time, however, the execution of this battle would be markedly different.
Later that evening, he returned to his study, still in his armor as he met with his most loyal advisor. It was a private counsel to discuss matters unbeknownst to the rest of the empire—the prophecy and, notably, you.
“I fear this as I say this: the prophecy is upon you, my lord.” Lord Maximillian’s voice hinted at unease. His warning, spoken with a mood of paranoia. “The oracle’s riddles are coming to fruition, and this predicament with Astheryn is a clear example of that fact. War looms on the horizon, and it threatens to be your undoing. Now, more than ever, we need the support of another nation like Ellesmere.”
“I see that.” Satoru responded with a heavy exhale, tossing his metal helmet onto the carpeted floor. He made his way toward the expansive window and gazed out at the courtyard below. There, he spotted you, meandering the rose garden alone under the cover of night. You were brighter than the envious moon, coruscating like a fresh tulip amongst the field of wilted roses.
The lord cleared his throat and stood next to the emperor. “You must rid yourself of her, Your Majesty. If the prophecy has taught us anything, it is that the Empress serves as a harbinger of your downfall. The destruction of Caelum is inevitable if you retain her. Abandon all hope that she will bring you a child or luck. I acknowledge the attachment you have formed with her over the years, but she brings ill fate to all of us.”
You stopped at the fountain, seemingly lost in deep thought, and then began an expressive argument with yourself in your solemnity. The sight earned his smile. Satoru could not keep his eyes off you as if they were drawn by your beauty under the luminescence of the moon. How pitiful, truly, that your innocence left you no knowledge of the conversation he was having with his advisor.
“She shall be appointed as a concubine,” he declared, “Ridding of her is a waste; divorcing her offers a suitable solution. She may not have my heir, but she is a strong empress. A true villainess, yes. That, she may be, but she is devoted to me.”
“Which is precisely why you must dispose of her!” Lord Maximillian pressed onto the matter with greater seriousness. “My liege, it is anticipated that you will yearn for Empress Y/N’s loyalty even after your marriage with the Princess of Ellesmere. And her ferocious devotion could only hinder your plans and bring about your downfall. Who’s to say she will withstand the temptation to inflict harm upon the fair Princess Katarina out of jealousy? This, as you know, could turn Ellesmere against us!” His passionate speech then silenced him into a quiet plea. “Please, Your Majesty, consider it deeply. For the sake of this empire.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
ACT V
In the evening, at the hour of eleven did you find yourself wandering the garden. It had become more and more difficult to live each day, unable to grasp why your spouse had been hostile against you for reasons you could not justify. If it were matters concerning your apparent infertility, then he could easily get a concubine just as you had already permitted. All of Caelum’s nobility was well aware of your possessiveness towards him, yet it was you who proposed the idea of a concubine to him. Why, then, does he still entertain the idea of remarriage? Is it to guarantee that his heir will not be deemed a bastard? He possessed the authority to prevent such a label from being attached to the child.
“Oh, how cruel is this fate!” You paused by the fountain, observing your reflection in the glistening water. “You have given me a husband devoid of passion! Am I no longer beautiful? Have I lost my allure and youthful appearance? Has Cupid directed his arrow elsewhere? Oh, he must be insane!”
Tears welled up your eyes, blurring your vision as you looked into the mirrored reflection. You thought of Satoru’s hateful gaze when you closed your eyes and could feel the painful knots in your stomach. He had been nothing but a distant spouse for eight years in your marital union, and as unfortunate as you were, any improvements were farfetched. Every attempt at progress only fueled into a relationship filled with disagreements.
Your monologue resumed. “Could there be another woman? A maid, perhaps? One who sneaks into his bed at night while I sleep soundly. Shame on her! Fie, insolent wench! Or could it be a noblewoman he met at a ball, a coming-of-age ceremony, or anything of the sort? Vile, dishonorable harlot! I shall strip you of your noble status and exile you from Caelum!”
A sigh ended your ranting, leaving you with more tears to shed as you fondly remembered your youthful days of infatuation with him. He was the man you had dreamed of, yet now all he would do was to quarrel, and quarrel, and quarrel. You had become an enemy in his eyes. He may have drowned you with extravagant gifts and the rarest jewels throughout your marriage, but the one you most coveted—his love—was one he could not give.
“My lady?”
You turned around at the sound of the gentleman’s voice, whereupon a knight presented himself to you. No, not merely any other knight, but the Knight Commander of the Imperial Order of Knights. Sir Suguru, Caelum’s most prized possession, a power and battle-fit warrior, who could defeat a hundred armed men by himself alone. He was referred to as a hero by this empire’s people. His commitment to chivalry and service did not go unnoticed as your husband, the very emperor he served, had more than once awarded him for fostering high morale and esprit de corps among other knights.
“What brings you here, and why?” you asked, watching him curtsy before you as he did the standard imperial greetings. His silver suit of armor gleamed, reflecting the stars in the sky, while the black cloak enveloping him mirrored the void of the night. Truly, an intimidating presence for those that knew none of him.
However, his face was a stark difference from the aura he exuded. His eyes curved into crescent moons as he smiled, offering what appeared to be a handkerchief. “I am making my nightly rounds in the palace, and upon hearing Your Majesty’s distress, I had to come forth. Is everything alright, Empress?”
You sighed in lamentation and accepted the linen cloth from his hand. “To claim that everything is ‘alright’' is a wishful sentiment. The state of my marriage troubles me, yet I shall not burden you with such matters, for they are private.”
Suguru acquiesced to your words and nodded in respect toward you, still remaining by your side in silence. Like a personal guard stationed to protect you as it seemed he had no intention of leaving you alone in the courtyard.
“How dare you! Do you not care to leave a woman in peace?” you questioned, a moue forming on your face. The tears had long dried from your cheeks as you spoke to him. “I wish to be alone!”
It was already a rare sight to cross the Knight Commander’s path around the palace, given that his duties did not include serving as a personal guard to the emperor. He was typically present only during official or diplomatic gatherings, and rather trained and oversaw the elite group of guards that would protect the emperor and empress. Nevertheless, with what little interactions you had with him, Suguru had always conducted himself as a respectful and dutiful subject towards you.
“Forgive me. It is quite dangerous to be alone outside at night, Your Majesty. Your vulnerability may pose a risk to your safety.” He moved to unclasp his mantle, draping the large black cloak around your shoulders, a much smaller figure than himself. “And if you permit, the night is cold, and a lady must stay warm.”
There was a strange flutter in your heart as your wide eyes saw the gentility in his intentions. You could no longer question why dozens of noble women would line up to vie for his attention. His actions spoke better than his words ever could. How far, you wondered, would his kindness to you take him? “Are you not a bound subject to my husband?”
“Indeed, I am.” He stared ahead. “I have been his friend since our youth. However, it is with Your Majesty’s kin that I owe the honor of being a knight. It is with the support of your father, the Grand Duke, that I consider myself alive, standing here in this palace as the leader of all knights.”
Not once did you move your eyes away as you studied his sincerity. “Then, if I ask you to commit treason against the Emperor of Caelum,” you spoke with such regal power, “Shall I expect your commitment to me?”
For a while, Suguru did not speak. He appeared to be contemplating his answer as his stance had become defensive. Or hesitant, whichever fit. He did not meet your careful eyes, though he did look down and confess a knowledge that greatly devastated you. “The prophecy governs His Majesty’s attitude towards you. In the dungeon hides an oracle he visits every fortnight. I accompanied him during one of these visits, where the oracle predicted the need for an heir soon and told him that the failure to produce one may lead to his downfall at the hands of a woman not of royal blood. To my understanding, he interpreted her riddles as the need to execute you and wed another woman of true royal lineage. This truth solidifies my allegiance to you, Empress.”
Upon hearing Suguru’s words did your heart sink, and a wave of disbelief washed over you. It felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath your feet, leaving you suspended in a state of shock, desperately trying to grasp the magnitude of what had just been revealed to you.
“Faugh! By’r Lady, that is a grave accusation!” Anger simmered beneath the surface of your composed exterior. You were livid at Suguru for being the bearer of such devastating news, for being the messenger of your potential downfall, and felt betrayed by your own husband, the Emperor, for keeping such a crucial prophecy hidden from you. You wondered why he had never shared this information with you, why he allowed you to live in ignorance while he made plans for your potential demise. But one thing for certain, was that this was the reason for his growing detachment toward you.
The knight could only provide you with a comforting bow. “I am afraid these words are true, my lady. Lord Maximilian conspires with him. Hurry to the dungeons and seek the oracle. She will reveal the truth to you.”
Beneath your anger lay a profound sadness, a heartache that cuts to the core of your being. The realization that your own husband, the man you loved and had pledged your life to, saw you as nothing more than a pawn in a game of power and succession. You felt a sense of profound loss, mourning not only the potential loss of your own life but also the loss of trust, of love, of the future you had envisioned.
Despite the tumult of emotions raging within you, you remained outwardly composed, your mask of regal poise firmly in place. You knew you must tread carefully, that showing weakness now would only play into the hands of those who seek your downfall.
And yet, the devil showed himself. You had been oblivious to your husband’s presence by the window of his study as he stood a great distance from you, watching you engage in an intimate conversation with his Knight Commander down below. He could not gauge where that sudden familiarity came from as he witnessed Suguru draping his cape around you—an action that crossed a territory he should not have sought. The emperor could no longer tolerate watching it, walking in haste along the halls of the palace until he eventually reached the courtyard. His gaze was burning into the back of Suguru’s head as he stopped behind you, waiting for you to notice your husband’s approach before he spoke.
“Empress.” His deep voice startled you.
Your eyes were clouded with resentment, hidden under the veil of a devoted wife. “My liege.”
Satoru stared at Suguru with a fierce look before turning to you. “It is dangerous to be out at this hour. I wish nothing untoward to happen to you, so I came here to ensure your safety.”
“I apologize, then, for causing you worry.” A bitter smile painted your lips and the tone of your voice suggested of feigned concern. “As you see, I have a knight here who is trained to guard and protect me.”
The emperor narrowed his eyes at the aforementioned knight, who elected silence out of deference to the reigning monarchs before him. This very knight was a childhood friend of his, but now Satoru regarded him as a rival, for all the peculiar reasons. “You may leave, Suguru,” he commanded, and yanked the cape from the empress’ body, then flung it toward the knight. “I will take my wife back.”
Satoru caught you sending an apologetic look toward the Knight Commander, which in return caused his ire to grow. What was the conversation you shared with him for you to act that way? In fact, he had never seen you pay another man that much attention. What a devious, little wench. A foxy, scheming jezebel. Satoru threw insults at you in his head as he took your arm in a tight grip, pulling you away from the courtyard. The silence between the two of you was thick with unspoken tension as he led you up the spiral staircase on the eastern side of the castle. His side of the castle.
“Darling.” Your endearment came out as a protest as you tried to pull your arm from his grip. “Unhand me.”
Still and all, he was silent as he dragged you along. It was only a short distance to his quarters, but he did not let go of you even once. You should see in his eyes that he was not amused by the friendly interaction between you and Suguru.
“I said release my hand, at this very instant!”
He remained like a taciturn man while ushering you into his quarters. Once he had locked the door behind him, he released his grip on your wrist and turned to confront you. His eyes grew dark and cold. A shade of blue that reminded you of lightning. “I would prefer it if he did not approach you when I am not present.”
“Ah, now you care!” Scoffing, you glared at him. “He simply offered his best to comfort me. Do not suspect it of anything else,” said you defensively, in a voice backed by your authority. Only now did he realize that the expression on your face had become austere.
“Even if that were true, I have no need for another man—especially a knight—to comfort my wife.”
“A wife? A wife you asked for divorce?” you mocked as his statement erupted a laughter out of you. A loud, boisterous laughter that screamed an insult to his face. “You see me as nothing but a bearer of children. Not as a wife or a person you treasure with your heart.” As you ridiculed him with a hint of humor on your face, your eyes had also grown deranged. “A mere pawn to your chessboard is what I am.”
Satoru was rigid in his stance. “I merely proposed divorce if you were unable to conceive. As emperor, it is my duty to father an heir. If the empress cannot fulfill that duty, I am compelled to find someone else who can—”
“An heir this, an heir that. Out upon it!” You expressed your frustration outwardly, throwing your hands into the air. “Go get yourself a concubine, then, and I will get myself a lover to even the score.”
A lover? Satoru was seething, yet his expression remained unchanged. He knew that you were taunting him, and still chose not to give you the reaction you wanted. “Then, I am sure you will have more success at producing heirs with your lover than you do with me.”
“Certainly!” you bit back, anger rising in each syllable. “In place of my husband, perhaps my lover can give me a child, proving to the whole empire that it is not I who is barren.”
Satoru’s eyebrows shot up in response to the blatant insult to his fertility. His cold eyes narrowed, the rage within him intensifying. “If you have a child with your lover, it will not discredit my fertility at all. It will instead bring into question my choice to have a child with a woman who is unable to be faithful to her husband.”
Your chest rose and fell in heavy breaths. “If you get yourself a concubine, then I will have my own lover. That or nothing at all.”
“Enough! I do not seek a concubine,” he raised his voice, a spasm of irritation crossing his face. “You are nothing but a maggot-pie, crawling in the dirt, serving no purpose for me! Ill-tempered shrew! I have said it many times, and I say it once more. In your failure to conceive, my intention is to remarry another lady and make her the empress, not a concubine! My heir must be legitimate. Stick that to your empty head!”
Satoru could feel the heat of your stare burning into him, but his mind had suddenly wandered back to the previous conversation, and he could not help but wonder whether you would actually have an affair with another man. The thought of it infuriated him, but he pushed it out of his mind as you stared at him in blazing fury.
“Must I remind you that it was I who assisted Your Majesty in ascending to the throne?” A warning shadow crossed your features. “I played a crucial role in staging a coup to overthrow your tyrant parents. If the princess had not perished, would you not be considered a madman? Now tell me, the only compensation I seek is your love, yet have you paid your dues?”
He scoffed at your words. You believe all you did in leading the rebellion was for the purpose of making him emperor? It was in your best interests to see yourself climb the ranks of an imperial power. And it was certainly not love you sought, but mere attention and validation. “My respect should be enough of a reward for you. I took you as my wife as a sign of my gratitude. Love was never a part of the deal.”
“Love is the very essence of that deal,” countered you. “You would be foolish not to think so.”
In his eyes, love and affection were something you should receive only when you deserve it, not when you demand it. In his mind, you had grown too familiar with him, too spoiled by his presence. It was time he corrected this. “You are mistaken to think that love is a condition of our relationship. I have never made promises of love or affection. I only promised you attention and the prestige of being an empress. Have I not fulfilled this promise and made you into an empress in every sense? Love is merely an illusion conjured in your imagination.”
“You are a tyrant through and through!” You pushed him away, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “What devil are you, that you torment me like this? You miserable villain! Usurping knave! Betrayer of blood, who masquerades himself an emperor under a false sovereign! I placed you on that throne you so wistfully enjoy. Your power and authority hold no sway over me.”
The emperor’s jaw clenched tightly as his empress’ words cut through the air like a dagger. His pride was wounded by the venom of your words—words you had not carefully chosen, or perhaps did carefully choose, as you knew what words he despised hearing the most. His eyes flashed with jaundice as he fought to contain the roiling emotions churning within him. He wanted to lash out, to defend his honor and assert his authority, but he knew that such displays of weakness would only fuel the flames of dissent and discord.
Instead, he yanked your wrist again. “Do not forget your place, wife.” And then he grabbed your face with a rough hand, slamming you against the wall. “I may have promised not to take a concubine, but that privilege does not extend to your behavior.” The tightness of his grip caused your cheeks to ache slightly, and he showed no signs of letting go.
“And what will you do?” you spoke through gritted teeth.
“What will I do? I will remind you of your position, wife,” he continued to speak in a menacing tone, “But you may test my patience as much as you like. Go ahead and take a lover as you have claimed you would. Let us see how your arrogance holds up when I force you to bear his bastard child.”
You cussed him under your breath. “Is that jealousy?”
Yet, his countenance proved otherwise. “It is not. You see, I am not possessive of you. You can bear whomever’s child you wish. But you must be aware, that once that child is born, I would never claim my title as the father. It would be deemed a bastard, its blood impure and its existence an insult to my throne.”
“Do not lecture me on matters of infidelity when you are the one desperate to bed another woman.” You were bold enough to send him a look of disgust. “You are an emperor all due to me. Without me, you are nothing.”
In a fit of rage, Satoru exploded like a volcano spilling out its reservoir of hot, scorching lava. “You?! You think yourself the savior of this empire? Not by far!” There was a brief pause before he continued, eyes looking at you in unforgiving judgment. “I would have succeeded in leading the coup, even without you.”
A snort escaped your lips. “Delude yourself to that.”
“The guards are gone. You have no witnesses.” The warning he had issued was laden with the implication of impending punishment, fueled by your defiance and vitriol, driving him to a boiling point. He seized your wrist once more, his grip tighter than before, as he leaned in close and spoke into your ear. “I could hurt you right here and now if I wanted to, yet I show you mercy.”
“I need none of your mercy,” you spat, taken aback as he pushed you against the wall. You could feel his breath fanning your neck as he leaned closer, inches before your face.
Satoru’s laughter rang out as you persisted in your resistance, his eyes narrowing with a mix of intrigue and anger. Your defiance only served to stoke the flames of his wrath as he began to speak, “Darling,” and made a mockery of your endearment, “Perhaps I can ravish you until you are senseless.”
“Vainglorious dastard,” you spitefully replied.
He spoke no words for several moments, his breathing gradually intensifying as he gazed down at you like a toy he wanted to destroy. And for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he was weighing whether to persist or not, but eventually, he made his choice, his voice adopting a more ominous tone with each word. “I will destroy you.”
“S-Satoru!”
He pushed you towards his bed, and himself against you, pressing his body heavily atop yours. His breath became uneven with his anger overtaking his mind. Your whimper of fear filled him with sadistic satisfaction. “Yes, me, as you said. No one else is here with us, and no one would bat an eye if they heard a scream.”
Your decision to pull his hair proved to be a significant mistake, though it was evident from your expression that you derived pleasure from it. You longed for it. You desired this wanton affection. This carnal desire. Lust bathed in your eyes as you observed him hastily tear his clothing, eager to feel the velvety touch of your skin against his. He wasted no time in undressing you as well, ripping away whatever obstructed your bareness, leaving you both exposed under the moonlight, indulging in the passions shared between lovers.
“I despise you,” you declared, a hot moaning mess under him as he rammed his hardened shaft in between your legs where he himself was grunting at the pleasure of your tight entrance. In and out he went, and buried his face on your neck to leave purple marks all over your skin. “I-I despise you!”
“I share those sentiments,” he jested, squeezing your breast in labored breaths before he sucked the rounded mass in his mouth, earning your titillating moans.
By the end of your long passionate exchange, he lay next to you, body soaked in sweat as he watched your sleeping face. The peace in those saintly features. Did you pass out? He could not be certain. Was he too rough? That, he was certain. It showed on the bruises that mapped parts of your body. He could feel a small tinge of guilt within him as he moved to pull the blanket over you, pressing a soft kiss on your lips.
“Is this not love?” He opened his eyes when heard you laughing softly, eyes still shut but with a bitter smile spreading on your face. In a cold tone of voice, you whispered, “Your love is tough, yet love nonetheless.”
He knew it was not love, yet even if it was, you would soon be taken care of anyway. You would be exiled or worse, executed, should you fail to heed his warnings. He had to put his ambitions first and foremost before any form of affection he had of you. And if you truly, unconditionally loved him, you would understand why.
That, that was how he defined love to be.
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ACT VI
The castle’s dungeon was an… unsightly place. Aside from the centuries of brutal torture and grotesque deaths that occurred down under, it also housed the memory of Satoru shedding his hands on his kinsmen’s blood. That was the place where he had slain his father, his rotting head still mounted on the wall as though he was an animal that his son had hunted. A tyrant, undoubtedly. Satoru’s penchant for brutality knew no bounds, but he certainly got it from his father. While you were responsible for the death of a little over a hundred people, his would account for more than thrice that number.
As you descended further into the depths of the dungeon, the air grew heavy with the miasma of damp stone, blood, and decay. A putrid, sickening odor greeted your nose the more you entered. If not for the torches that flickered dimly along the walls, you would not be able to see at all, yet those torches casted eerie shadows that danced and swayed with each step you took. It was a frightening sight and definitely not for the faint hearted.
“Help!” Your senses were assailed by the sights and sounds of the dungeon's grim inhabitants as you ventured deeper into the labyrinthine corridors. Gaunt specters lurked in the shadows, their hollow eyes gleaming with a sinister light as they whispered chilling secrets to one another in sotto voce. Some also cried of agony and despair, some had already fallen unhinged from being held in captivity for so long—it became a cacophony of anguished cries and tortured souls. “Help me, Empress! I beg my innocence!”
“Step back, Your Majesty.” Suguru, who acted as your companion in this macabre trip, unsheathed his sword to protect you from being touched by the prisoners. He threatened to slash their hands with just a simple touch on your dress.
“Empress! Empress!”
You deemed it wise to pull the hood of the cloak over your face, especially as the prisoners were starting to recognize you within these cursed confines. It would be troublesome if Satoru were to arrive soon and they began to scream your name in his presence.
“Empress, this dungeon is meant for souls as tainted as yours!”
That statement proved itself to be spine-chilling and hair-raising, as such accusations could not be denied. Truthfully, your crimes far surpassed theirs. You belonged with the forsaken and the damned. You already accepted that all your sins and trespasses would bring you nowhere near heaven, yet you had blindly murdered people out of love for Satoru. That was how crazy you were at winning him over. And now, this is where it brought you.
But you pressed on and continued traipsing through the dungeon until you could feel the presence of the oracle drawing closer, a beacon of hope amidst the despair that gripped the dungeon like a vice.
Finally, you reached the chamber where the oracle awaited. It was a figure cloaked in shadow at the far end of the room. And upon adjusting your visions, you could see that the oracle was an old woman, her white hair cascading like a waterfall of moonlight around her frail shoulders. Her skin, alabaster. Her eyes, ghoulish and devoid of color, and they seemed to pierce the veil of reality itself as she spoke in riddles and whispers that sent shivers down your spine. It was your first time to encounter such an unrealistic being. They said each word from the oracle dripped with the weight of centuries of wisdom and foreboding. She spoke of prophecies and portents, of trials and tribulations yet to come, her words weaving a tapestry of fate and destiny that hung heavy in the air like a shroud.
“Speak.” You stopped at her chamber, demanding to hear the prophecy she had said to your husband. “Tell me the Emperor’s prophecy.”
Much to your ire, she gave you no response, still staring at the empty wall.
“Speak!” Your patience was growing thin as each passing second would crumble any hope you had inside that Satoru was not a man who would forsake you, or even execute you, in exchange for his ambitions. But it had been twenty or so minutes and still there was no word from the oracle. “Do you not possess a voice? Are you not a fortune-teller?”
Suguru sucked in a deep breath. Should his accusations of the emperor prove to be a lie, you swore to yourself that you would be the one to put him inside one of the iron maidens in the dungeon. Or that daunting Judas cradle if he preferred. “Your Majesty, it takes time to make her speak.”
“I do not have that luxury of time! I cannot be seen here.” You gave him a menacing stare. “At the risk of your own life, Sir Knight, if this turns out to be nothing but foolishness, I will personally disembowel you—”
“Beware! O Empress, keeper of fragile dreams!”
The sudden burst of the oracle’s voice startled you, as they were far from what you had expected from an old lady. It carried an otherworldly quality that seemed to transcend her physical form. They were melodic and haunting, a chilling quality that hinted at the supernatural origins of her prophetic abilities. It was as though you were paralyzed by the time she spoke, like all your senses stopped working and all you could ever do was be forced to listen to her prophecy.
“For the Emperor's gaze wanders far,
As he seeks a lady of royal blood,
Ambition cloaked in the guise of lineage,
And in his thirst for power, lies your peril.”
As you listened, your heart bled terribly, knowing that the answers you sought lay buried within the enigmatic riddles of the oracle’s words. The haunting words of the prophecy echoed through the dim chamber where you stood frozen, in a state of despair and disbelief and every awful thing in the world combined. The truth, once a lurking suspicion, now materialized before you and it left your heart in shattered pieces because you actually hoped that none of the accusations were true. So, how could Satoru do this to you? How could he betray you after all your sacrifices just to be his wife, your efforts just to receive his love, and your crimes just to satisfy his desires? Through your hands, more than a hundred souls had perished. You had shed the blood of many Christian souls for him. You had offered him your chastity and turned back on your reverence by profaning the word of God. You had worshiped him like a divine being. Yet so easily would he cast you away. No, he could not even offer the slightest pleasure of loving you genuinely, without any inhibitions, without anything in exchange.
While your sacrifices were his definition of the “greater good”, his betrayal against you was his definition of a “lesser evil”. It was his “personal gain”, for your demise would have no profound repercussions on this empire.
Undoubtedly, that must be his truest and utmost feelings for you.
Suguru held you in his arms when you fell to the ground, your entire world crashing before you as the oracle revealed your husband’s plans. Your hands were shaking, trembling. You had trouble breathing. He was there to guide you out of the dungeon safely, even if you were to run and weep like a madwoman. But of course, you were not that insane yet. It was simply the ache in your heart that catapulted you into an abyss of pain.
Satoru must not succeed in his plans. He must not come out victorious. The greatest revenge you could think of was brimming in the back of your mind, ignited by the visible spite you felt for him and his web of deceit.
And back alone in your bedchambers, nausea overcame you and had you vomiting all over the floor. You retched the harrowing experience at the dungeons, disgusted by things you saw and heard, especially the treachery of your very husband. You were sick at the thought of him planning your assassination behind your back, like an ungrateful imbecile who only cared about himself and his vainglory.
“Nurse!” you called, coughing out the foul taste of bile expelled from your throat. “Come here!”
“Coming, madam!” Geneva came to your aid as soon as you summoned her and tended to your needs immediately. At the time, you could not make out much of the clatter that was happening inside your chambers as you lay in bed with your eyes shut. It seemed that Geneva had ordered the other servants to clean out the mess you had created, while she took over in putting you to bed and making sure that you were warm and comfortable. She had no single idea about what was going through your mind, and had she had any hint about what it was, you could only imagine how bloody traumatized she would be.
If Satoru wanted to dethrone and destroy you, then you might as well help him with it. He should no longer be surprised to see what good of a show you could offer for everyone in this empire.
“Good madam,” Geneva called gently, after an hour or so, pulling you out of trance. “A physician is already—”
You lifted a hand, stopping her while you tried to get out of bed. “That won’t be necessary.” Despite your queasiness, you had decided that there was no time to waste for this war of love and death against your husband. The sooner you planned things out, the greater your advantage would be. You had to have the upperhand in this. “Nurse, where did my husband go?”
The nurse guided you up and draped a lightweight shawl around your shoulders. “I believe His Majesty is conducting a military inspection. He is accompanied by about ten knights.”
An inspection? It must be related to the discussion at the imperial court. Of course, if Satoru was planning to wage war against Astheryn, he had to review the troops stationed in different regions of the empire to assess readiness, morale, and preparedness for defense. He could deploy an initial 25,000 men in his heavy infantry should he find the need to go on an all-out war with the enemy, but those amount of soldiers would require the emperor himself to arduously test if they were ready for battle. Naturally, the inspection could last four or five days depending on his assessment. And in his absence in the palace, either the empress or the other trusted advisors would usually take on the duties that usually were his.
This was the perfect opportunity to devise your plan; to prune the branches, weaken the trunk, and uproot the tree entirely. The branches began with his loyal advisors, which have already been filtered out as those previously appointed by his parents became his enemies. Enemies that died by his hands and yours, because those enemies were advisors who did not support Satoru in his method of seizing the highest throne, so he could not risk having rebels in the empire who would later work together to topple him from his seat. When he first rose to the throne, he had several assassination attempts aimed at him, typically by means of poisoning his food with arsenic, or hiring highly skilled mercenaries to slay him behind his back—all of those attempts were intercepted by you. And at the elimination of those disloyal to him, Satoru assumed that the current members of the imperial court could hence be trusted since they had not shown any hints of falsity for the ten years they had served him.
The difference between you and Satoru was that he was easily beguiled because the noblemen treated him a lot differently than you. They were ass-lickers, trying to win him over for their own superficial benefits, while you knew who among them were simply supporting Satoru for the sake of not being executed. Out of fear, out of an inherent will to live, out of an obvious lack of choice—there was one noble who stood out among the rest.
And it was the one whose presence was not the loudest.
“Lord Nanami.” Upon mentioning his name, you entered the palace library—a grandeur chamber notable for its high ceilings, expansive oak shelves, and accoutrements—as he stood in front of a wood table, strangely interested in codices. “Nice to see you.”
The blond nobleman curtsied. “Your Imperial Majesty, it is an honor to be in your presence.”
You gestured your hand into dismissing him, cutting to the chase because you were still unwell. And for all the necessary reasons, you had to have this conversation with him or else there would not be an easier opportunity with Satoru’s eyes and ears around the palace. Nanami was his most trusted advisor, not Maximilian as much as he fooled himself to think so. “What is that codex you are reading?”
Nanami spoke cautiously, his eyes fixed on the codex. “Of some medical writings and scientific treatises. Rumors are circulating about a mysterious outbreak in a remote village in Constantia, a city within the grand duchy of Valoria. It seems to be an illness that is spreading rapidly with only a 2% chance of survival. I hear they are calling it the ‘Black Death’ due to the appearance of gangrene. Considering the trade routes, that city lies along the Veridian Sea, which is a path taken by the ship that trades metals and minerals with us. They engage in that route due to Constantia’s involvement with the slave trade, boarding the ship bound for Caelum for the metals and minerals, while ferrying their slaves all the way to Astheryn, their largest buyer.”
As if the gods were with you!
The topic pulled your sudden interest, for it was proving to be exactly what you needed for your plan to be successful. “An illness, you say? What records do we have about its origin?”
“Valorians perceive it as divine punishment for their involvement in the slave trade. Another prevalent theory is the miasma it brings, attributing the disease to foul odors and noxious fumes in the air and in the environment in which they live. Personally, I suspect it originates from a bacterium resulting from interactions between humans and infected animals.” Despite lacking sufficient research to support his hypothesis, you acknowledged that Nanami’s personal theory seemed more plausible. “The symptoms suggest to me that it is not airborne, contrary to what most people assume.”
You kept your eyes on him as he fixed his pince-nez. “What symptoms does it have? And what conclusion do they have there on what they are?”
“Your Majesty, a swarm of dead rats were found in Constantia a month ago,” he first informed, leading you to his suspicions. “Given the escalating tension with Astheryn and our increased need for metal to support our crafting and weaponry, I bade a dispatcher to send a message to Constantia due to their failure to supply us with the agreed-upon metal,” Nanami explained, showing a haze of regret behind in his eyes. “The dispatcher wrote back to me, stating that he is unable to return to Caelum promptly as he was experiencing chills, buboes, and gangrene. I presume he perished within days of arriving there.”
The moue you displayed on your face could not be stopped. “Does His Majesty know of these rumors in Valoria that you speak of?”
“His Majesty, the Emperor, has not yet been informed of the matter.” The blond nobleman looked at you solemnly. “It is my duty to inform him as soon as he returns from his—”
“No, you are not going to do so,” you commanded sternly, surprising him in turn. “You will not breathe a word of this to Satoru. Follow my orders, and you shall be duly rewarded.”
This was good. This was perfect for your plans! If it was true that such illness was spreading in Valoria, it would only be a matter of time until the plague reached Caelum and wiped half its population. You laughed heartily inside your head. It would be an utmost entertainment for you to watch Satoru’s downfall before your very eyes. If Astheryn was no threat to him, then biological warfare would certainly destroy him. No one else had to know of your schemes but you.
Of course, the ever-so-noble Nanami was not easy to convince, especially if it was a clash between his duty and morality. “Empress, I struggle to understand… Such matters could pose dangers to Caelum and its lands. His Majesty needs to be informed, as he possesses the authority to prevent the trade ship from reaching us. Astheryn had already long ceased their slave trading because of it. We must do the same.”
“And do you believe I lack the authority to issue commands as an empress?” You raised an eyebrow at him, and his stance became more apologetic. “Proceed with the trade by any means necessary. I will sign the permit, and the ship shall arrive as planned next Monday. Let us not allow rumors of illness to hinder us from obtaining the necessary metal from the city of Constantia. As you said, we require ample supplies for our weaponry. We must seize this opportunity to bolster our arms. Do not mention this to His Majesty, and if you dare, you shall face the punishment of having your tongue cut out.”
Nanami’s eyes widened. “But Your Majesty…”
You pressed your hand firmly against the table and asserted your authority over him. “I have control over a couple of remote islands near the outskirts of Caelum. Surely, you are familiar with them? I will direct my father, the Grand Duke, to transfer one of the larger estates to you. Furthermore, I shall offer you a quarter of my jewels and 15000 celestas as a deposit. In return, I request that you retire from your position and refrain from conversing with my husband ever again.”
It was a fair bargain. The man was certainly considering that because not only would he secure his own land and riches, he would also be away from the dangers of the plague should it truly spread throughout Caelum and its nearby nations. He would be safe there in his own estate with enough money to retire early. “Empress… whatever it may be that you are planning, this is treason.”
“This or punishment is your only option,” you declared, eyes burning with fire. “Choose wisely.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
ACT VII
The preparation for the New Year’s ball was arduous, and you spared no effort to ensure that every detail lived up to Caelum’s prestige. Because you had a generous budget allocation for this year's banquet, you did not hold back on the display of wealth, power, and culinary sophistication. The menu alone boasted elaborate roast meats, poultry dishes, pies, pastries, desserts, and confections, accompanied by a variety of wines and spirits to enhance the indulgent dining experience. More so, the smell of luxurious dishes inside the grand hall would be enough to water the mouths of the guests.
Invitations were extended not only to the nobility within the capital but also throughout the empire, welcoming all to partake in the feast as long as they came from noble houses. The theme, as initially requested by your husband, was black and silver to match the regalia, although this theme did not extend to the guests. They were free to choose their attire as they pleased, with the only restriction being to avoid the loud colors that represented Astheryn.
It was well-known that Caelum’s nobility enjoyed flaunting their wealth and status among themselves, further highlighting the perception of the empire as superficial and governed by leaders who indulged in unethical opulence. While you may have denied such rumors, the truth remained: such ostentatious display of wealth was a century-long tradition upheld by the Gojou family to showcase the Caelum Empire as the wealthiest and most powerful across the central continent. If there was anyone Satoru should blame for this excessive extravagance, it should be his ancestors. Not you.
As the empress of this nation and the person who oversaw these types of celebrations, you saw it fit to wear an elegant gown befitting your status. You were dressed in a majestic gown of midnight black velvet, intricately embroidered with religious motifs and adorned with pearls and jewels that glimmered in the candlelight. A towering headpiece, resplendent with silver filigree and bedight with twisted crosses and angelic figures, rested upon your head as a symbol of your pretentious reverence for the church. You moved through the banquet hall with regal grace and elegance, a vision of piety and power, with your outward display of devotion masking the darkness of your thoughts inside.
Next to you was your tyrant husband, whose attire was an obsidian velvet of the finest kind. Around his waist was a thick belt of black leather cinching the robe, its buckle emblazoned with the imperial insignia. His chest was bedecked with a chainmail hauberk, a display to his martial prowess and readiness for battle, while a silver mantle was draped over his shoulders, adding to his imposing presence. Upon his head sat a crown of gleaming silver encrusted with onyx and obsidian stones.
“Long live the Emperor and the Empress! May Their Majesties reign be blessed!”
Upon your entrance down the staircase to the Grand Hall, the guests offered their curtsies and salutations to you and your husband to show their deference and recognition to the imperialty. The nobles had their chance at a brief greeting with the imperial family based on their ranking, although Satoru showed little to no care for those at the lower ranks. Nonetheless, those of lower statuses devotedly sought to curry his favor and prove their allegiance to him.
He is nothing but a fool, you thought inwardly as you watched your husband dismiss a mere count. Satoru must not have realized that those he considered of lower ranking were often the most loyal to him. They were driven by their wish to climb the upper echelon of high society, therefore, they would go to great lengths to gain recognition from the emperor. Conversely, if push comes to shove, those of higher statuses would be the first ones to turn their backs on the imperial family, as they already possessed the wealth and status to sustain their own estates and exclude themselves from the rest of the empire.
“Lords and Ladies, esteemed guests, and subjects of my realm,” Satoru spoke with gracious authority as he stood by his throne, looking down on the nobility before him, “I stand before you on this very occasion, the commencement of a new year, to address the empire that rests beneath my unwavering rule. As your Emperor, I look upon the vast land that stretches beneath me, and aim to build great cities, forge mighty alliances, and expand our dominion to the farthest reaches of the known world. Tonight, we gather not merely to celebrate the turning of the calendar, but to reaffirm the absolute authority that guides our great empire.
Let it be known, plainly and honorably, that the prosperity of this realm is intrinsically tied to the strength of its ruler. In my hands, I hold the reins of power, and I shall steer this ship through tumultuous waters with an unshakable resolve. Those who seek to challenge the stability of our empire will find themselves met with the full force of imperial might.
Let this banquet serve as a reminder—a celebration of the empire’s indomitable strength and an acknowledgment of the consequences that befall those who dare to defy it. Raise your goblets high, my loyal subjects, for we embark upon another year under the banner of unassailable authority.”
Satoru might be a terrible spouse, but he certainly was not a terrible emperor. He asserted his authority when it demanded him the most, and he knew well enough how to make his subjects cower in terror at every word he spoke. His speech was a simple warning not only to the nobles, but perhaps also to you, as he believed the prophecy pictured you as a traitor to his reign.
Initially, you could say he was wrong and that never in a million years would you betray the same person you helped ascend the throne. But now that his resolve was to entirely eliminate you in order to succeed in his ambitions, you would not deny such grave accusations of treason on your part. He deserved a taste of his own medicine. It was only too bad for him that he had no knowledge of what you knew, and that was exactly why you were ten steps ahead of him.
The sound of classical music served as a backdrop for the banquet, with the dulcet sounds of flutes, harps, and viols creating an elegant ambiance through the hall. The nobles worked on their usual slobber and socialization, usually reserved for recently debuted ladies to mark their own impressions within high society. The males were often there to discuss lands and politics or to be in search of their bride who would become the next noble ladies of their respective houses. The scene reminded you of your happy days as a once noble lady, a daughter of a duke, who was also the most popular and most eligible bride for Crown Prince Satoru among all of the nobility within the Caelum Empire. Back then, your biggest rivals were Lady Anastasia de Florentine and Lady Serena de Visconti. Both ladies came from esteemed houses and had therefore become a threat to your desire to be Crown Princess. In terms of beauty, talent, and elegance; they were definitely strong contenders. What they lacked was the wit, the cunningness in which you pride yourself with, as you ended up becoming Satoru’s choice as his empress.
You were aware that Satoru spent his years as a prince dallying with other noble ladies, even courtesans, as he himself was fair in the face. And he was aware that the ill-fate that had befallen some of those ladies were due to your own cruel doing. You tormented any lady that vied for his attention. It was not until he gave in and got to know what you offered did he stop fooling around with random whores, deeming them unworthy to stand next to him as they served no purpose for him in the long run. You offered a better role to him than the rest of them, especially with your skill as a tactician and your family’s background in the military and weaponry department, which all came in handy at the time of his usurpation to the throne.
In other words, he knew how evil you could be from day one. And benefited from you because of it.
“What troubles you?” he asked, holding your waist and your hand as you both gracefully danced in pavane. His hair was neatly brushed away from his forehead tonight, with a few stubborn strands dangling on the side. “You are unusually quiet.”
You stared at his bright blue eyes coruscating under the chandeliers, noticing how his gaze wandered to a noble lady. “It is of no concern to you.”
Satoru then narrowed his eyes at your coldness. “It concerns me greatly. What foolish game are you playing?”
“A foolish act of playing the role of your wife,” you replied, brief and stern. “Does this banquet please you? I have invited the empire’s most beautiful and eligible ladies to be your concubines. All of noble birth and of age, so fret not. You may choose anyone to your liking. May the best suit you.”
The offense you caused was evident in his visage. As much as it entertained you, he was clearly enraged and on the verge of losing it. You already knew he would just remind you yet again that he wanted to remarry instead of getting a concubine, but it was too good of a reaction to pass up on. In fact, he stared at you blankly, speechless for a few moments as he processed the implications of your words. “This is the game you play?” he murmurs through gritted teeth, a hint of a scowl forming on his face. Conflicting emotions surged within him, a mixture of anger and hurt, yet ultimately he chose not to give you the reaction you seemed to seek. “I will humor you. Where are these concubines you speak of?”
You scoffed, and then laughed out loud to the point where it gained the curious stares of the nobles. “Search everywhere, and perhaps your eager eyes may find them,” you replied with absolute delight. “But that is all they shall be—mere concubines. If you prefer someone younger than me and a virgin, that is also possible—”
“Do not get smart with me,” Satoru warned, grabbing a tight hold of your chin. The muscles along his jaw tensed. “You are but a petulant wench, a mere ornament beside my throne, lacking the wit and wisdom to grasp the gravity of imperial decree. The issue of remarriage is not a subject for jest. Know your place, woman, and consider the consequences of your impudence.”
“Is that a threat?” You returned his glare, now feeling all eyes on the both of you. The thick air of tension permeated the hall like a cloud of incoming thunderstorm.
The emperor was not one to show weakness in front of public eyes, now displaying an authoritarian mien to his wife as he tightened his hold on your jaw. “Take it as you may.”
In defense to your wounded pride, you shoved his hand away and maintained a rigid poise. “Keep your filthy hands off me, you usurping tyrant.”
As tension crackled through the hall, a hushed unease descended upon the assembled guests. Murmurs rippled through the crowd like a gathering tornado, and uneasy glances were darted between the nobles and servants as they witnessed the brewing disagreements of their imperial rulers. Some averted their gaze, feigning disinterest, while others leaned in with rapt attention, hungry for the spectacle unfolding before them.
Meanwhile, Satoru was forcing a laugh at your chosen insult. Calling him a usurper really hit a nerve, as always. “Watch that foul-tongued mouth,” he warned once more, “Barren wretch!”
Approaching one of the palace sentinels halfway across the hall, you countered your husband’s heavy footsteps by drawing out a sword from a knight’s scabbard, thereupon making a swift turn to point the silver brand directly at his throat. You had not even realized that it was Suguru’s sword that you took. Deadly silence instantly spanned the hallway, and even the tick tock of the nearby clock had stopped because of the rising tension between Caleum’s reigning monarchs.
But with one sword raised at the emperor’s neck, twenty more were directed back at the empress. Satoru’s loyal knights were quick to trap you in full circle to protect their sovereign ruler, forcing you to submit and restrain yourself from moving the sword any closer to the emperor’s throat.
Unfortunately for him, being submissive was no longer in your repertoire.
“You dare commit treason in my own palace?!” Your husband’s venomous blue eyes bore holes into your skull—his mouth thinning in displeasure as you stayed unwavered by his imperious tone. “You are too brave for an empress consort!”
“That is rich coming from a usurper himself!” you countered, satisfied by the spasm of irritation crossing his face. “Have as many concubines and courtesans as you wish, but never disrespect me in front of my people. Do not treat me as if I am lower than a mistress simply because I have not borne you a child. Do not dare to look down upon me, for I am an empress first, before I am your wife.”
What kind of psychopath was that man, truly?
You left the hall as soon as you said those prideful words, no longer wishing to hear what more intelligible things he had to say to you and of the preposterous scene in which you engaged. The more time you spent with him, the more you realized how much you had come to despise every fiber of his being. He was an ungrateful imbecile who would slay his own kin at the price of his ambitions. You may have started the quarrel, but he did not need to escalate it and put his filthy blood-stained hands on you in front of the nobles. His goal might be to put you in your rightful place. However, he chose the wrong person to be his empress. That choice alone was the start of his tragic flaw.
And with that disrespect would soon come his downfall.
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ACT VIII
Satoru struggled to comprehend the shift in your demeanor toward him and the words you chose to speak to him. He found your behavior baffling, as if you had lost touch with reason to be acting such a lunatic. You were out of your bloody mind! What could have driven you to act so irrationally, becoming incensed at every little remark he made? Was it solely because he expressed a desire to remarry for the sake of an heir and requested you to step down from your throne? No, your anger seemed to stem from deeper roots than mere marital disagreements. The hostility in your eyes said so, and it was the kind that mirrored the animosity he had witnessed in his ancestors towards their rival empire. That was the level of rancor you had of him.
Or could this be the dreaded prophecy coming to life?
Maximilian had been warning him that the prophecy was becoming truer day-by-day, and that the only way to ultimately prevent it was to banish you. It should be easy, truly, since Satoru had no problems slaying his own kin and hundreds of men. Why should another soul like yours cause such an impact on him?
Yet, Satoru found himself unable to take that step. The reasons eluded him. What he despised, however, was your increasing defiance. You were no longer the submissive wife he had grown accustomed to. Albeit your inherently strong personality, you had never before lashed out at him, insulted him, raised your voice, or shown him any form of antagonism. You always let him win arguments and understand your place. Extravagant gifts like luxurious silk dresses, rare jewels, and exotic fragrances used to be enough to maintain your compliance. Were his gifts no longer sufficient to appease you? What more did you desire from him?
Love?
How preposterous. Love was no gift.
The emperor cussed under his breath as he slid the robe off his shoulder and stepped inside the tub, soaking his naked body under the warm fragrant water. He raked his fingers through his wet, white hair, leaning his head back as he stared at the ceiling. It never occurred to him that his eyebrows had furrowed as his thoughts of you had consumed him. A small part of him yearned to punish you for your recent behavior, while a larger part of him longed to pursue you. He desired to regain your trust and devotion, no matter how absurd it might seem to others. How else could he manipulate someone who harbored such animosity towards him? You had been easier to control when you saw him past his selfishness, turning a blind eye as long as he played the role of the loyal husband.
Fine, if it was disloyalty that enraged you so, then he would show you. In another way. That the loyalty you seek still possessed him somewhere.
The subject of his plan stood in his privy chamber, assisting him as he bathed that morning. He had long noticed this particular servant’s subtle attempts at seducing him, but had always chosen to ignore her as he never felt tempted to indulge. Instead, he found it somewhat amusing that she would willingly display her body to him in private settings like this. Perhaps, he mused, it was a message to him, indicating her desire to ascend to high society by becoming his concubine. She likely sought to escape her life as a mere peasant and elevate herself to the status of a noble lady. She may have even heard of his sexual escapades back then as a wayward prince who entertained different ladies in his chamber before he married you. That was probably why she wanted to take advantage of the carnal weakness that she thought still lingered within him.
This strumpet. Satoru scoffed inwardly as he watched his personal maid pick up the bottle of lavender oil from the floor. She had purposely unbuttoned the top most part of her attire so that her voluptuous breasts would pop out like two balloons sitting on her chests. Appearance wise, it was clear that she had tried to put on cheap rouge from vermillion or beetroot juice, tinting her lips a brighter red than usual to complement her fiery, ginger hair. Her eyes were lined sharp from the soot, as though she was trying to resemble the empress’ seductive eyes.
“Your Majesty,” she spoke in a seductive voice, finding her seat at the edge of the tub as she poured the fragrant oil on the hot water. She raised her skirt higher as an obvious attempt to show off her legs, and offered a better view of her huge breasts as she leaned forward. Now that she was closer to him, he could see her taut nipples peeking behind her thin layer of clothing. “Do you wish for me to bathe you?”
His lips may have curled upwards into a smirk, but his eyes were as terrifyingly sharp as ever. “Do you want to die?”
Her eyes widened in surprise, feigning her innocence as she received his warning. “No, Your Majesty! I do not wish so.”
“Why do you presume your body to be more desirable than the empress’s?” he challenged, aiming to deflate her pride and turn her foolishness to his advantage. She would serve as the perfect pawn to regain his wife’s favor. “My wife has the most flawless figure I have seen in a woman, and yours is what? Do you boast of your breasts that resemble a cow’s?”
“I…” The servant stammered, clearly offended as she got up from her seat and attempted to mask the embarrassment that appeared on her face. Satoru raised an eyebrow and waited for her response, while she gathered her courage to deny his claims. “Forgive me, my lord, if I have offended you.”
Satoru shook his head in amusement. “What is your aim, then, if not to manipulate me into bedding you? I do not associate with trollops.”
Caught red-handed, she stumbled and bowed her head at the lowest possible level before him. “I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Majesty! I merely sought to assist you in the birthing of an heir. I am not barren like Her Majesty the Empress, and I can assure you I will bear fruit even if you only do me once.”
“Get on your knees,” he ordered, stepping out of the tub and wrapping his bare body with a robe. “Are you certain of that?”
Her eyes pleaded for desperation to become his mistress. “Certain, yes! I am certain, my lord! And I will be a loyal subject to you unlike the empress—”
“Pardon?” As if her words intrigued his ears. In a swift motion, he turned to the servant and looked down at her with his cold, scrutinizing eyes. “Unlike the empress? Repeat your words with caution. You are maligning the most noble woman of this empire.”
It did look like she found her way out of his criticism by directing his ill-temper towards his wife. “Your Majesty, I do not mean to slander your wife. However, it is true that Her Majesty is engaged in an affair with your commander of knights! I saw the empress and Sir Suguru in an intimate embrace some days ago, hurrying through the halls as if they did not wish to be seen!”
The emperor’s expression hardened at the servant’s accusation, his brows furrowing with disbelief and anger. His hand tightened into a fist as he processed the shocking revelation.
“Are you telling the truth?” His voice was low, carrying a dangerous edge that hinted at the storm brewing within him. The accusation struck at the very core of his trust and authority.
The servant's gaze faltered under the weight of the emperor's scrutiny, but she remained resolute. “Your Majesty, I speak only of what I have witnessed with my own eyes. By my oath and by the sanctity of God, I swear upon all that is sacred, it is no lie.”
Satoru’s mind raced with conflicting emotions, but he showed none of his inward thoughts outwardly. Instead, he delighted in this ideal opportunity for him to deal with gaining your devotion again.
“Undress yourself. I want you bare and without any clothing,” he said, his voice cold and measured, “And you shall remain in this chamber until my return.”
With that, the emperor swept out of the privy chamber at once, leaving behind a stunned and apprehensive servant. She believed it to be her sign of good luck. Of good fate. That she now found her place as a mistress to the highest ruler of this nation. She could not believe her destiny as she triumphantly unclothed herself, peeling every fabric off her body with excitement as she imagined the things the emperor would do to her upon his return. She would definitely have to deal with his wrath since he just found out that the empress betrayed her, but she was willing to have him use her body and let his anger out on his adulterous wife. An emperor with a distracted mind would be her ticket to being impregnated by his child. Soon, she would be his concubine, she would be the mother of a future emperor.
She would never again have to suffer as a servant!
Upon the sound of footsteps nearing the privy chamber, the servant provocatively sat at the edge of the tub, displaying all of her body to him and him alone. “Your Majesty, I am ready for you.”
“Are you?”
Horror washed over the servant’s face, her heartbeat increasing tenfold as she saw the empress sending an icy stare into her as she stood by the privy chamber’s entrance. Behind her were her ladies-in-waiting throwing their judgeful stares at the naked servant, surrounded by knights who seemed to have come under the emperor’s orders. The emperor! There he was, appearing behind the empress, kissing her cheek and encircling her waist, whispering to her that the servant had attempted to seduce him and had even accused his wife of infidelity. Satoru’s actions struck the servant as reminiscent of a child tattling to his mother. He adopted an air of artificial innocence, as if his only intention were to win the empress’s trust.
“Send this harlot to the throne room,” he commanded his knights, his voice loud and clear. “Let it be known that there will be consequences for those who dare to deceive their emperor.”
At the throne room, you found yourself seated at the elevated throne next to your husband. This was a place in the castle where the trials of the accused were often held, and now the accused kneeling before you on the lower part of the hall was a lowly maid which Satoru had claimed to have seduced him and besmirched your name.
Did he think you were stupid? You knew what his ulterior motives were. You were aware of his covert schemes, and that his sole attempt at orchestrating this entire spectacle was to use the maid to regain your trust and obedience out of gratitude. He was clearly at an unrest ever since you had been defiant to him and he was doing the best that he could to make you submit to him. He was desperate to show you that he was on your side, believing that by reporting the maid’s advances, he could convince you of his loyalty. Satoru must truly underestimate your intelligence if he thought that such acts would restore his control over you. But for the sake of a good show, you decided to play along.
As customary, the emperor presided over the trial, while the accused maid stood before the imperialty, her eyes downcast, while whispers could be heard through the assembled courtiers.
Satoru announced her sin in a commanding yet measured voice. “Maiden, you stand accused of attempting to seduce the sovereign and spreading slanderous falsehoods regarding Her Majesty’s honor. These are grave charges that strike at the very foundation of our empire.”
The accused maid trembled slightly but remained silent, her gaze fixed on the ground. She seemed to be having a battle in her head, realizing that she was being used by the emperor’s cruel game. What did she expect of him? You rolled your eyes. Satoru was a known tyrant. She would never last a day being his mistress, much less a concubine. You were the only lady in this empire that could handle him.
The emperor then turned to you as he continued with his speech. “As for you, my wife, you have been accused of a betrayal that, if true, would bring shame upon the imperial family.” He paused, his expression grave yet contemplative. “Therefore, I shall leave the judgment and punishment of this matter in your hands. Only you know the truth of these accusations, and it is your virtue and integrity that will determine our course of justice.”
You wanted to laugh at how ridiculous this was. Now he was even entrusting the maid’s punishment to you? His tactic obviously consisted of two things: 1) giving you the authority to impose punishment on the accused would make you liable for the consequences tied to the matter 2) if proven not guilty, you would have to face the shame of your misguided punishment. Because Satoru was not certain that you were having an affair, he was putting you on the spot to decide the punishment you would give based on your conscience.
Either that or he may have simply intended to convey trust in your judgment by allowing you to administer punishment. This could be a gesture aimed at restoring your sense of authority and influence within the palace. However, given the complexities of your relationship and the context of the situation, it was likely that his motives were more layered and multifaceted.
“How do you feel about it, Empress?” Satoru asked, his demeanor strangely calm. “Perhaps we could administer ten or twenty lashes? Or have her confined to the dungeons?”
Oh, did he assume you were not capable of being creative with punishments? You were not one to shy away from brutality like him. In fact, you had something better in store for this servant of his.
The courtiers listened intently, their eyes locked upon you as you spoke. “It is my judgment that the maid shall be subjected to the punishment befitting her transgressions.”
A hushed murmur erupted through the assembled crowd as they awaited the empress’s decree.
“Firstly, the maid shall be paraded through the streets of our capital, stripped of her garments and bearing the shame of her actions for all to see. Let her walk the path of humility, that she may reflect upon the consequences of her deeds.” Your cruel words carried a weight of overwhelming gravity as you announced the first part of the punishment and proceeded to the next. “Furthermore, the maid shall be delivered unto the custody of our executioners, who shall mete out the final aspect of her punishment. Let her be subjected to the pear of anguish, that she may atone for her sins and serve as a warning to all who would dare besmirch the name of their sovereign.”
The courtiers exchanged somber glances, trembling out of fear at the severity of your inhumane judgment. Even Satoru himself was shocked at the lengths you had chosen to take just to punish a lowly maid. Why was he surprised? He, himself, was entertained at the usage of the brazen bull, roasting his enemies alive as a punishment. The pear of anguish was not even as severe as his usual choices, as its purpose was to have a pear-shaped instrument be inserted in the maid’s vagina, and expand it to the point of internal injuries and mutilation.
“No! No! Your Majesty!” she cried, her words choked with emotion. She quivered in terror and fell to her knees. “I implore you, have mercy on me! Spare me from such unspeakable agony! Forgive me for my transgressions and the harm I have caused. Please, grant me the chance to repent and seek forgiveness. I shall never again show myself to you. I beg of you, Empress Y/N, spare me from this horror!”
Her voice echoed through the hall with her desperate plea for clemency amidst the shadow of her impending doom. In the silence that followed, your eyes caught the guilt spreading on Satoru’s face. His blue eyes were, for a second, wide and horrified. But he was quick to compose himself and keep yet again a rigid face.
“Very well.” Satoru gestured to his knights to take the maid away. “Do as my wife says.”
“My liege, this is preposterous!” In the midst of the tense atmosphere, one advisor, a voice of dissent, stepped forward, his expression grave and his tone measured. Lord Maximilian was only intending to address the emperor, completely ignoring your right as the empress. “Your Majesty, the Emperor,” the advisor spoke respectfully but with conviction, “I humbly beseech you to reconsider this severe course of action. The pear of anguish, in particular, is a device of unparalleled cruelty. The punishment is more severe than the crime committed!” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I propose a more measured punishment, one that upholds the dignity of your sovereign without plunging us into the depths of brutality. Perhaps a period of confinement or hard labor could serve as a more merciful yet effective means of retribution. This way, Your Majesty, we demonstrate both strength and compassion that define thy sovereign rule.”
“Compassion?” you scoffed, humored by Lord Maximilian’s little speech. His pretentiousness was truly out of this world. He was obviously against it because he refused to see your authority over the court restored. He had not even a single idea that you were already aware that he had been conspiring with your husband to execute you. “You speak of compassion and mercy, Lord Maximilian, when this empire had seen the ruthless perish of a thousand Christian souls under your counsel to the emperor. Is that not ironic? What about the fate of his lordship, Count Stefano, whom you ordered to be skinned alive? And what of the men whose corpses were speared on pikes by the Tiber River? Now, tell me about that compassion.”
Satoru, stuck in the situation, scanned the throne room and searched for his voice of reason. The man who always stood his ground between good and evil. Lord Nanami. Yet the man was nowhere to be found. “Is Lord Nanami present? Summon him to me.”
“I am afraid not, my liege,” spoke one of the courtiers, “He had left Your Majesty a letter advising of his immediate need to be on a sabbatical. He cited no reasons as to why.”
“Is that so?” your husband’s face contorted into confusion, while you were exchanging glances with Suguru, who seemed slightly aware of your participation in Nanami’s sudden absence. However, he spoke no words about it.
And no one else also said another word, therefore, leaving Satoru to move forward with your decision on the punishment. If he was smart, he should see that your decision was not just a mere punishment to the maid but as a warning from you, that he was not the only person in this empire capable of being a tyrant. That you, as devoted as you used to be, could also be cruel if you wanted to be.
You ignored the maid’s screams of terror as the knights took her away. You kept a dignified appearance and walked out of the throne room, followed by your ladies-in-waiting as they engaged in gossip about the maid and how she had always spoken badly of the empress. You wished you cared, but truthfully, you were far too nauseated as you walked through the hallway heading towards the western wing of the castle, hearing your husband’s voice calling your name.
What did he need? Your gratitude? Your declaration of love? Your pledge of allegiance?
Frankly, you cared none, as your extreme nausea eventually had your visions blurred, and your body fainting on the marble floor.
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ACT IX
Your head ached.
By the time you opened your eyes again, it was already past noon. No, it was evening, was it? You were lying in Satoru’s bed while its owner was engrossed in a conversation with a physician. You briefly recounted the events before you were carried here, remembering the trial at the throne room, and how you fainted while walking back to your side of the palace.
“Are you certain?”
“I am certain Her Majesty is with child, yes.”
“How is that possible? We have tried for eight long years.”
“We owe this blessing to God, my liege. Your desire for an heir has been granted.”
You were… with child?
You could not believe it. As the whispered revelation reached your ears, the news brought you a swirl of emotions, for the delicate life growing within your womb just challenged the very foundations of your plans. A child. A baby. A life was growing inside of you! It was not just any other life, but an heir to the throne! A byproduct of you and your husband!
But what about your revenge?
You had a moment of introspection as you imagined yourself at a crossroad of destiny. Should you persist with your plot to topple your husband’s rule, or should you embrace the newfound responsibility and safeguard the legacy that had taken root within you? The precipice of your decision would depend on Satoru’s reaction to this matter. Your decision would fall upon his level of trust in you.
For eight years, you had always wanted to carry his child. You had always dreamed of bearing his heir. This was the very reason why the prophecy existed in the first place, and now that you were pregnant, should that mean that he would no longer find the need to remarry and execute you? Should that mean that the prophecy was false after all? The oracle was a heretic through and through and he never should have consulted with her to begin with.
“My wife.” The gentle caress of Satoru’s voice soothed your aching head. It only took you then to realize that the physician had already left you two alone, and now your husband was sitting on the edge of his bed, touching your cheek. “To think,” he mumbled, his voice tinged with wonder, “that our union has borne fruit at last. Now, we have an heir to carry my legacy.”
He was joyous. He was surging with happiness which was glowing within him, the kind of joy that you had never seen before as he embraced his beloved wife and shared the news. For a moment, your heart melted and you were ready to forsake the grudge you carried in your heart as he proved his reaction to be genuine. His eyes sparkled like jewels as he placed a soft kiss on your belly, then moving to press his lips onto yours.
You wanted to cry. You wanted to tear up as never in your life had you received this much level of affection from your own husband. He had never looked at you with such adoration and respect for the longest time since he had been with you. No, this was the very first time he had truly acknowledged you as his wife.
“Am I no longer useless to your eyes?” you asked, carrying a hint of sadness on your tone despite smiling at him. “Will I no longer bear the title of a barren empress?”
Satoru solemnly shook his head and kissed your hand, your cheek, and your lips. “No. Each tongue that rises against my wife shall fall.”
You were uncertain whether it was you or him who pulled each other for an embrace, but the gravity that brought you to two together was of mutual force. He held you in his arms tenderly just as you enveloped yourself in his warmth. So this is how it feels like to be loved? You were in complete bliss. You were free from the emotional torment that—
Knock, knock!
The abrupt knock on the door interrupted the intimate moment between you and your husband, diverting his attention to the intruder who dared disrupt the special moment. Satoru, no doubt, was already thinking of potential punishments in his mind as he summoned his attendant to enter. The attendant conveyed that a knight sought an urgent audience with him, but what could be so urgent at this dead of night?
The intruder, to your surprise, was none other than his knight commander, Suguru.
“Suguru?” Satoru faced him with a more lenient countenance, “Speak briefly.”
The knight commander glanced at you before he knelt on one knee and looked at the carpeted floor, delivering a message that required urgent and utmost attention. “Your Imperial Majesty, we have discovered a group of knights clad in silver armor, mounted upon war horses lining the city’s border. My men have identified the potential invaders as the Aurorae Heavy Cavalry of the Astheryn Empire.”
“What?!” Just like Satoru’s explosive reaction, you were also surprised by the news. You knew Astheryn was ready for war, but you did not expect them to move so rashly. Satoru knew he was right to conduct a military inspection a week prior, because now, in spite of his growing temperament, he was also mentally prepared for an all-out war. “Those Astheryn bastards! How many are they?!”
“Estimated at about 1000 units, my liege.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief. A thousand foreign soldiers stationed at the border of the Caelum Empire was undeniably an invasion. The audacity of this act, carried out without any prior communication to Satoru, no wonder fueled his anger like a volcano on the brink of eruption. It was a blatant disrespect to him as an emperor and to his lands as an empire.
“Double the numbers of our infantrymen and dispatch them to the border!” Satoru’s voice carried a low growl, his hand instinctively reaching to massage his temples as he pondered a course of action. “They must comprise our most elite unit. I demand these men be vigilant and alert at all times. Anyone caught sleeping will have their eyes gouged,” he ordered, his tone reflecting the gravity of the situation. His eyes held fury in them as he silently paced back and forth in his chamber. However, just as Suguru made to depart, Satoru’s hand halted him mid-step. “Better yet, remain here and stand guard over my wife,” he commanded, his voice taut with resolve. “I will issue the orders to the army personally and confer with my chief tactician.”
Your husband had already left before you could even stop him. His presence, in a mere blink of an eye, was gone as he stormed out of the chamber, yelling out, “That bastard Toji will die by my hands. How dare he!”
And now you were left with his commander of knights, Suguru, who looked at you in concern as you made an attempt to get out of bed. He was quick to catch you in his arms, guiding you to walk carefully. “Is it true?” you asked, face inches close to him. You could feel his hand on your waist, and the other guiding your arm. “Astheryn’s invasion?”
“Empress, it is of utmost importance that you remain within the safety of His Majesty’s chamber," Suguru advised, his fox-like eyes seemingly enamored by your face. “Your well-being is paramount, particularly at this moment. I understand now why you have been looking so radiant.”
You smiled at his words. "And what might you be implying by that?"
“That our beautiful empress bears the heir to the empire,” he spoke softly. “This is a direct contradiction to the prophecy. Are you happy, my lady?”
As you nodded, you felt Suguru placing a gentle kiss above your hand, still kneeling before you like a true, loyal knight. He looked at you with a gaze filled with the desire to protect. His chivalry was evident in his demeanor toward you, the most beautiful lady of the empire. Unbeknownst to you, Suguru had long been captivated by your beauty. From the moment he first came to your family’s estate to train as a knight, he harbored a wanton desire for you. Yet, he struggled with his feelings, torn between his admiration for you and his loyalty to Satoru, his friend and lord. How could he? He should punish himself for having a mere attraction to the emperor’s wife.
“Suguru, I expect you to be loyal to me until the very end,” you interrupted his reverie, bringing him back to the present. “Can I count on that from you?”
Before the knight could respond, a fit of unhinged laughter echoed through the chamber. There, your crazed husband walked in, his sardonically joyful eyes wide with paranoia. “Ha ha ha! Absurd! Utterly preposterous!” His loud voice reverberated through the walls, his mind now free of the on-going invasion and was instead evidently consumed by the scene before him. “My wife, you jest, surely? Suguru, tell me this is some jest! Loyalty, indeed, I have full faith in your loyalty, but this... the maid’s accusation. It is true after all?!”
Immediately, the knight commander moved away from you and scrambled to kneel down at the furious emperor. You yourself could not hide your growing anxiety, but it was best to keep calm and explain the situation to your husband properly.
“My liege, it is not what you think,” Suguru swore to your husband, who was now laughing maniacally.
“Ah, so you two conspired!” Satoru’s eyes darted between you and his friend. “I see it now, the hidden plots, the whispers in the shadows. My wife and my loyal knight, plotting against me. Speak, reveal the treachery!”
You shook your head, maintaining your composure. “He is telling the truth. There is no affair—”
“Silence, you wicked bitch!” By this time, Satoru was throwing a tantrum, kicking the nearby console table and throwing the first vase he saw.
Suguru rose, his voice pleading, "Your Majesty, I..."
“Get out or I will eviscerate you in front of her!” Satoru’s words cut through the tension, and Suguru, after a moment of hesitation, took a deep breath and left, casting a worried glance at you before exiting. It was clear that Satoru was in a state of manic denial, with his laughter echoing through the chamber like a haunting refrain.
Alone with him now, you observed his demeanor, noting the same scene of past trauma in his laughter. It was reminiscent of the night his sister perished for committing suicide—a portrait of a man on the brink of madness, masking his torment with deranged laughter. Each step he took towards you carried danger. “This... This child you carry is a bastard, isn’t it? That child is not mine!”
You shot him a look of disbelief, refusing to entertain such absurd accusations. “You are talking nonsense!”
Enraged, he seized another vase and hurled it across the room, the sound of shattering porcelain ringing through the chamber, though you maintained your composure despite the sudden chaos. You must not act weak in front of a tyrant. At this rate, he could kill out of impulse, but you were careful not to pull the trigger.
“My wife thinks I am lost in a mire of absurdity?” Satoru’s laugh rang in your ears again. “Conniving bitch! Tell me, what am I to do with this wretched child you carry? Shall I slice open your belly and rip it out myself?”
Slap! A resounding slap, sharp and clear, graced Satoru’s cheek as his words drew tears from your eyes. Despite the welling tears, you mustered enough courage to respond. “If you question the lineage of this child, is that not a questioning of your own fertility? Do you deem yourself barren, unable to sire your own bloodline? If so, you have long scorned me for lacking an heir, yet now you cast doubt upon the child that I carry. Useless, you have called me. Now, useless, you call yourself! A barren emperor, unable to secure his own legacy. Is that what you perceive yourself to be?”
“Hold that tongue, you impudent wench!” With a rough hand, he grabbed your arm and tightened his hold so much so that it would leave bruises. “Here I stand, grappling with a war that has the power to shape or shatter my own legacy, while my own wife wanders about like a wanton whore?”
A whore? You laughed, as equally maniacal as him. No, a lot worse than him. How foolish of you to think that your husband was someone you could trust your life with? You could not believe that you almost let your guard down in front of him after you learned that you were carrying his child. Yet here he was, spouting nonsense like an absolute fool. He only judged what he saw, not analyzed what he was yet to know. This was exactly why Emperor Toji would always be a smarter ruler than him.
“I am your wife, and I have stood by your side through thick and thin. I have shared your lows and highs. I have seated you at that very throne! Therefore, I will not dignify such insults with a response.” Each word left your mouth with gritted teeth. This was your future, peeled off for your eyes to see. No matter how much you cared for him, no matter how loyal you were to him, no matter how much love you offered to him; you were nothing but a woman ready to be thrown at his disposal. It hurt. Truly, it hurt. And because you loved him, you tried holding onto the thin string of hope that he was true to you. That even if he could not love you, he still trusted you. That was the foundation of your relationship from the beginning. Trust. And that will be your ultimatum to him. So, with a shaky voice and tearful eyes, you asked, “I require nothing else from you but this… do you even trust me?”
His answer was a make or break.
His answer would determine whether you would carry your plans out or not.
Because if he said yes, then you would forsake everything and be loyal to him without his unconditional love.
But if he said no, then there was no point at being his wife when your role would always be easily replaced.
Satoru’s stolid mien was an answer in itself, because his blank gaze and unsympathetic expression sent your heart to the ninth circle of hell. “No,” he declared, “I never have and never will.”
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ACT X
Four days.
Or perhaps five?
The days blurred into an indistinguishable haze since your husband’s decree consigned you to the confines of the west tower. Unlike the dungeon, reserved for commoners and lower ranks, the western tower housed nobility and imperial captives. Though superior in amenities, it remained a prison in essence. There was only a solitary window within the cell that offered a scant glimpse of the world beyond. The view was barely within your reach as it was too high up for you to be able to see outside.
You were treated no less than a rebel. Accused of treason. Accused of infidelity. Your reputation as an empress was tarnished, excluded from social circles, excommunicated by the church—at least, these were some of the things you have heard from the passerby, the attendants who do their nightly rounds in the west tower. The attendants and guards themselves no longer respected you, although you could still sense that they were cautious around you. Afraid that if the emperor were to change his mind and release you, that you would remember their faces and get back at them with brutal repercussions.
It was entertaining, truly. It was even more humorous to watch the attendant serve you with soup and bread day and night. Judging by the distinct odor, the soup was laced with arsenic. Someone was definitely trying to poison you, but you were certain that it was not orchestrated by Satoru. Not him. He was too stupid to conjure such a plan as it also contradicted his penchant for more direct and violent approaches. If he wanted to assassinate someone, he would rather crack their skulls or slash them in half. He was too bloodthirsty to kill someone by means of poison.
So that left you with one person: Lord Maximilian.
Your father, the Grand Duke, promptly sent you a letter after hearing that you were locked up in the west tower, assuring you of his efforts to persuade Satoru to release you and clear your name, demanding your innocence be proved to the empire. He also cautioned that it might be a considerable amount of time before your husband could address your case, given the pressing matter of the Astherean army’s invasion on Caelum’s borders. In your head, you knew Satoru was having a hard time dealing with the military conflict without your counsel. It was your mind that staged the coup, leading him to his succession ten years ago. Now, without you, he was faced with difficulty. He did not even have Nanami by his side to guide him through the war.
You laughed. Good for him.
On the seventh day, your father wrote again. This time, he informed you that there was a ceasefire between Caelum and Astheryn. Apparently, Caelum was struck by the bubonic plague. Astheryn withdrew its cavalry out of fear of losing their soldiers from the Black Death, while Caleans were left to suffer from the spreading disease. The citizens were going mad, panic was ensuing, and there was food shortage everywhere. No one knew what the cause was nor how to cure it. He said those who had caught the disease would fall to their deaths in a matter of days.
You laughed again. That is my own doing, father.
Three days later, another missive arrived from the Grand Duke, informing you of his recent audience with Satoru. Your father let you know that the Emperor still held a lingering wrath towards you, but he confirmed that your trial would be scheduled shortly. The letter also conveyed unsettling rumors of your potential deposition, suggesting that Satoru entertained matrimonial negotiations with Princess Katarina from the Kingdom of Ellesmere.
You laughed even more. A remarriage, just as he wanted.
On the fourteenth day, your father did not write. He visited you on the western tower himself, somberly informing you of Suguru’s demise. He revealed that the knight commander had been thrown in the dungeon on the same day you were taken to the west tower, but he was treated more harshly. He was tortured, mentally and physically, until he met a gruesome death. Your father chose to spare you of the details of Suguru’s tragic fate.
At that, you could not laugh. No, in fact, you cried silently in your cell that night knowing that an innocent man died ruthlessly because of you.
What a hypocrite you were!
The burden of introducing the Great Plague to Caelum, resulting in the deaths of countless innocent citizens, rested on your shoulders. Yet, your moral boundary seemed to be drawn at Suguru’s demise?
You found yourself engulfed in laughter once more, disregarding the puzzled stares from attendants and guards alike. They may have deemed you mad, yet perhaps, madness was the only sane response to the chaos of this world. Why? What was there to be ashamed of? Life was but a game of strategy, a grand chessboard where the king, though less agile than the queen, would always be the last man standing.
Seated in a corner that night, your laughter mingled with tears, a mix of raw emotions unleashed, as the echo of approaching footsteps reached your ears. The flickering torchlight casted a shadow upon the wall, revealing the silhouette of a tall man escorted by two knights.
“Y/N.”
When Satoru visited you on the eve of your trial, you never expected him to call your name so tenderly. What you were anticipating was his usual torrent of anger and scorn, and you found yourself bewildered by the odd shift in his demeanor. He then entered your cell and crouched before you, his blue eyes seemed almost softened by sympathy.
“Your trial is scheduled for tomorrow,” he spoke deliberately, though you avoided meeting his gaze. “I have a proposal for you.”
You remained silent.
“Even if you have betrayed me, I will extend mercy to you out of gratitude for aiding my ascension to the throne.” The irony of his words were a slap to your face, hurting your ears as you listened. “I require you to step down from your throne with humility, dispose of the bastard you carry, and live a modest, solitary life in the countryside. An estate awaits you there. You will live quietly and await my visits. You will remain my mistress, though it will not be officially acknowledged.”
As the emperor’s words were spoken, the empress’s laughter erupted with a wild and bitter sound that echoed through the chamber. Your eyes blazed with defiance, lips curled into a scornful sneer.
“Ha ha ha!”
Satoru’s lips tightened a fraction, his body turning into solid ice as you let out an ear splitting horselaugh.
“Ha ha ha ha!”
His eyebrows furrowed in anger. “Empress!”
“Fool!” you spat, your voice laced with derision. “You think to offer me mercy while chaining me to a life of servitude? You speak of gratitude while stripping me of dignity and autonomy. Your offer is just another prison, a way to keep me as your pawn!” Your laughter turned into a manic fervor, fueled by rage and disillusionment. “I will not bend to your will, nor will I accept your false benevolence.”
In the end, Satoru was still a hubristic man. An ungrateful, hubristic man. An ungrateful, hubristic, foolish man.
“Are you aware of your current standing?!” He was livid. Oh, he certainly was.
Yet you? You smiled. You offered him a beautiful, sarcastic smile. “No soul in this empire will love you except for me! All are foes to you, except for me! I alone have loved you for you. Think about that, my misguided husband, for in your quest for power, you have forsaken the one who loved you sincerely.”
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
ACT XI
“We gather today for a matter of great import: the trial of Her Majesty, the Empress, accused of treasonous infidelity.”
As the trial went on, your thoughts drifted back to the day of the maid’s trial. Then, she knelt beneath the throne, facing the scrutiny of the court as she protested her innocence and pleaded for mercy. You, once seated upon the now-vacant throne, regarded her with detached interest. The irony of the reversal was not lost on you. It was true that you would pay the price of your wrongdoings, and be rewarded for your kind deeds. In this life, you let your greed get the best of you. You let your love for Satoru blind you. If you were ever to be reborn, you vowed to never again allow yourself to be ensnared by such folly for it led you to nowhere but misery.
How funny is that? These nobles were all here to watch your trial, while a war and plague were happening outside of the castle’s walls.
“—may our deliberations be guided by the righteous light of truth. Empress Y/N, you appear to be in jest. This trial is a serious matter to thee.”
You received the courtier’s look of disapproval, while the others were judging your sanity.
“Let her be,” ordered Satoru, who looked tired and resigned. You could hear his sigh even if he was a couple meters away, and his eyes glowed in sad blues as he stared at you, as if it would be the last time he would ever see your face.
Perhaps that truly was the case, and you made no effort to fight against it nor did you appeal to prove your innocence. There was no mercy begged for, no forgiveness sought for. It was because you saw no purpose to live this life. He must have sensed your true feelings inside as he watched you from afar, but Satoru still seemed like he was looking for a way to get you out of the situation. Instead of imposing a tyrannous punishment on you, he was clearly attempting to make you innocent. To give you a benefit of the doubt. All of the courtiers and advisors, however, were in complete disagreement. They knew that the emperor held a soft spot for you, but they did not know that his only purpose was to keep using you.
Honestly? Your mind was growing weary. The trial dragged on endlessly as Satoru struggled to mitigate your punishment. Not until…
“His Majesty, Emperor Satoru, has been consulting with an oracle,” you declared, silencing the entire hall with your revelation, “He keeps the old lady hidden deep in the dungeon. Do you all hear me? The emperor of this nation is involved in heresy and must face an inquisition!”
Your accusations, indeed, were grave. An eerie and portentous air filled the throne room as Satoru himself was stunned and wide-eyed. Surprise contorted his features after he was exposed. His lips quivered and his jaw muscles tightened, and anger soon smoldered all semblance of composure on his saintly face.
Caelum was a deeply Catholic nation and the Catholic Church, as an institution, did not endorse or recognize oracles as legitimate sources of divine revelation. Practices associated with oracles, such as divination, fortune-telling, and consulting spirits, as forms of superstition were heretical. These practices were considered as attempts to circumvent the authority of the Church and seek guidance from sources outside of the orthodox Christian belief.
Individuals suspected of engaging in practices associated with oracles, particularly if those practices were perceived as challenging the Church authority or promoting beliefs contrary to Catholic doctrine, could be subject to investigation, trial, and punishment by ecclesiastical authorities, even if they were members of the imperial family.
Thus, in your revelation, Satoru was now subjected to a much more serious, unforgivable crime than you. Because he would be at war with the Church.
And not only would he be at war with the Church, but also with Astheryn, and the Great Plague all at once.
Of course, Satoru intensely denied it and tried to turn things around on you. He was going haywire as your ‘accusation’ caused a commotion amongst the courtiers who whispered and murmured in shock and disbelief. As the emperor, his voice held the greatest authority in that hall, and so he became furious at you, claiming to everyone that you were diverting the situation to seem innocent, denying the existence of an oracle in his castle, and that you were to be publicly executed for the crime of commiting lèse-majesté by slandering the emperor’s name.
Finally, the tyrant was back.
You were sick of his sympathetic gazes.
If your husband knew you by heart, then he would know that your sole intention at declaring his fortnightly consultations with the oracle was because you wanted to anger him, and in turn, get a punishment that would be enough to free yourself from his grasp. That was the perfect approach.
But of course, Satoru might be slow in that department. All he could see right now was a traitorous wife whose malicious intent was to undermine his authority and topple him from the throne. An enemy. That was what you had become to him.
On the day of your public execution, your father cried. And so did your ladies-in-waiting. The rest were eager to see you beheaded, all with keen eyes as you were ushered at the public square, drawing in a large crowd of nobles and commoners alike.
Who would have guessed that you held such notoriety?
The words, “witch!”, “traitor!”, and “evil!” were thrown your way as you were guided by two knights towards the center of the scaffold. With a rosary on one hand, and a bible on the other, you looked at your father. He should be safe. You had written him a letter, telling him to bring the family and the servants to a remote island away from Caelum. As for you, your end was near.
With your head pressed against the block, and the executioner raising his sword, your impending doom was imminent. The imperial sword he carried, you recognized, was Satoru’s personal and favorite sword.
“Your head will be severed swiftly,” said the headsman, “Any last words?”
Your eyes found the sky as your lips curled into a sinister smile. “Citizens of Caelum, I will soon meet your Emperor in hell!”
⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊶⊶⊶⊶⊶♱⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷⊷
ACT XII
A month has passed since your execution.
Instead of having your decapitated head impaled on spikes atop the city gates, Satoru ordered your corpse be buried at the tomb. The location was not revealed to anyone else. The citizens also did not question his choice.
The emperor was secretly grieving the loss of his wife.
Everyone knew. They were all aware that the emperor was mourning over the empress despite her betrayal of him, yet all of them turned a blind-eye on it. They were afraid that the emperor would punish anyone who would remind him of you.
Was this still not an act of love?
In fact, no, not everyone knew. Not everyone was aware that one of your lady-in-waiting swore to him in oath that you never had an affair with the knight and that the child you carried was not at all a bastard, but his. It was Satoru’s heir. It was his own child. His own flesh and blood.
Because of his misjudgment and his paranoia, he lost the only woman who truly loved him.
Now the empire was in shambles. Satoru could not deny that your lack of presence in the castle had a much more devastating impact than the plague that wiped half of Caelum’s population. His advisors were of no use when it came to military tactics. Nanami, the most competent of them all, was nowhere to be found. The soldiers have been struck by the Black Death, lowering his total heavy infantry down to a quarter of its nominal full strength.
The plague had spread rapidly, causing widespread devastation and food shortage, and as the death toll rose and communities were decimated by the plague, desperation set in. There were villages that had more dead people to collect than living beings who survived. It was a state where all were affected no matter what their noble rankings were.
People tried various remedies and treatments, often turning to religious practices such as prayer and penance in hopes of appeasing divine wrath and stopping the spread of the disease. Plague doctors also swarmed the streets with their dark canvas robes and beaked masks, implementing quarantine and treating infected individuals.
Satoru secluded himself in his chamber, both day and night, observing the devastation of his empire from the castle’s highest vantage point. Desperation ran rampant, driving citizens to seek sanctuary within the palace walls. Initially, the emperor permitted entry only to the highest-ranking nobles. However, as word spread of the palace offering refuge, lower-ranking nobles and commoners clamored for entry, prompting Satoru to order the complete fortification of the castle walls.
The stench of burning bodies permeated the air as the castle became besieged by the diseased, seeking entry but met with the fierce flames intended to ward off infection from the emperor and his staff.
“What is the news about the Kingdom of Ellesmere?” Satoru, who had been suffering from high fever, muscle pain, and skin lesions, was accompanied by a state of paranoia as he spoke to Lord Maximilian. “My marriage negotiations with that… that princess. What do they say?”
“My liege.” He bowed, apologetically. “They no longer wish to proceed. As we are struck by the plague, King Kalleon VI thought it would be of no benefit to be in alliance with a fallen empire. Furthermore, there is something that you must be aware of, Your Majesty.”
The emperor looked at his advisor.
“The trade ship that caused the plague to spread throughout Caelum was…” the old man paused, wary of the ruler’s reaction, “It was approved entry by the late Empress Y/N.”
Ha ha ha ha!
How twisted of you, indeed. Where does he go from here? Satoru was sick, genuinely sick, as he heard the clamor of diseased individuals rioting outside the castle walls. Inside the palace, his own people were also engaged in their own chaos. He was at a point where he was too fatigued to react violently at his wife’s crimes. What did Maximilian want him to do, chastise you? You were already gone, and you have left him with the most profound revenge than any punishment he could ever fathom.
Satoru found himself consumed by a maelstrom of emotions. He was seeing red from his visions, and seeing black from his discolored skin. Gangrene. Buboes. Chills. All he could do now was laugh at his misery. He grappled with the haunting question of how he arrived at this wretched juncture. What deeds, what choices, led him down this harrowing path of suffering and despair?
Lord Maximilian made one last attempt at coaxing the emperor. “My liege, the prophecy…”
The mere mention of the prophecy, however, ignited a primal fury within him. His words filled Satoru with a seething rage and he entertained the notion of silencing Maximilian’s voice forever, drawing his sword and executing a swift slash on his advisor’s neck.
That damned prophecy!
That, that was what led to all of this!
In the depths of his suffering, Satoru had experienced the last stretch of the disease entering his body. He was vomiting, crawling on the floor, reaching for the window in hopes of seeing his empire for the last time. But eventually, his weakened body had him submit to his forfeit.
In a matter of minutes, he would soon find death and earn his place at the ninth circle of hell.
In a matter of seconds, he would soon be named the most hated emperor in history, just as you like it.
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EPILOGUE
In the aftermath of the plague and the cessation of war, the once-mighty Caelum Empire lay in ruin, its rulers, named the most evil Emperor and Empress in history, overthrown. The remnants of the imperial lineage crumbled under the weight of their tyranny. Rising from the shadows of despair emerged the newly crowned Emperor Yuuta, the only remaining lineal heir of the Gojou lineage, who returned to Caelum with a fervent commitment to restore and rebuild. Known for his fairness and compassion, Yuuta pledged to rebuild the empire, to heal its wounds, and to usher in an era of lasting peace. With each brick laid and each decree issued, he sought to honor the memory of those who perished and to ensure that the horrors of the past would never be repeated. And so, under Yuuta’s steadfast guidance, the Caelum Empire embarked on a journey of restoration, its future brightened by the promise of a new dawn.
#gojo satoru x reader#gojou satoru x reader#gojo satoru x you#gojou satoru x you#gojo x reader#gojo x you#satoru gojo x reader#jjk x reader#jjk x you#jjk royal au#gojo satoru royal au#gojo fanfic#gojo angst#gojo satoru angst#emperor!gojo#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#medieval au#renaissance au
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The Bereaved Dunes
Summary:
In the Bereaved Dunes, where shadows weep,
A tale of love and sorrow, bound to keep.
Elia, my sun, in your memory I tread,
Through sands of despair, where tears are shed.
I should've taken you far away, my dear,
To Dorne's warm embrace, where skies are clear.
But fate had other plans, a cruel twist of hand,
In the Bereaved Dunes, where sorrows expand.
A/N: I've often wondered, 'How did Oberyn receive the news of Elia's death? How did his mind grapple with such a profound tragedy?' This curiosity served as my inspiration for writing this piece.
It is crucial to delve into the pivotal event that laid the foundation for all of his subsequent actions. This prologue marks the genesis of my upcoming series, 'Whispers of Vendetta,' wherein Elia's death remains canon (and I made use of some famous lines from ASOIAF books), though I've allowed myself creative freedom in depicting Oberyn's reaction and the events that follow.
Big thanks to my sweet, sweet friend @palioom for her unwavering support <3
I hope this piece meets your liking xoxo
Rating: M
CW: angst; canon character death (Elia Martell); grief/mourning; sibling loss; brief description of death/injury
WC: 1.6K
Read on AO3 • moodboard
283 AC
"We cannot simply remain still… spineless, awaiting news of her safety and that of her children!" Oberyn's voice rang out, filled with fervor, as he directed his words at his elder brother.
Doran, vexed by his brother's persistence, hissed back in retort, "I've entrusted four of our most skilled soldiers with her protection, Oberyn! They will ensure her safety. Cease your incessant hovering!"
Oberyn's eyes bore into Doran's, smoldering with anger and worry, "They had better return with her unharmed, or I shall part their heads from their bodies myself!"
Twelve agonizing hours passed without any word of Elia. Silence hung heavy in the air, and Oberyn's unease deepened. He understood that the Dornish princess was not their highest priority, knowing that no one would make her safety their concern—not even her husband, the father of her children.
Her husband, that fucking bastard.
I should have spirited her and her two children away to Dorne the moment she sent for me. The instant he crowned that Stark girl as the queen of love and beauty, forsaking his own wife. I should have sensed the despair in her ever-saddened eyes. She sat there, abased and broken, her belly swollen with his child. Those smudged words in her letter, likely stained by her tears, should have served as reason enough to bring her back to Dorne, where she truly belonged among her people and her land.
Elia was no viper; she was more akin to a dove—gentle, serene, fragile yet resplendent, graceful, and generous to a fault. She was too generous for the rapacious beasts that surrounded her. Here in Dorne, she walked among vipers, none of them would ever harm her. In King's Landing, she had found herself surrounded by dragons and lions… who had torn her asunder, both figuratively and literally.
Every hour drifted by like a languid stream, sowing a tempest of dread deep within Oberyn's core. Why does no one share in my fear? Neither her kin, nor our people dwelling here. Why does the world remain unperturbed? Am I truly the only one who understands the depth of their malice? Their hatred for us? For her?
Oberyn paced his brother's solar ceaselessly, a restless specter, his sword ever-present at his side, primed for any declaration. Doran, seated nearby, muttered words beneath his breath, prayers? curses? who knows; their nature concealed in the shroud of his quiet contemplation.
Suddenly, the reverberation of frantic footfalls pierced the air, accompanied by the panting of a disheveled soldier. "My... My Princes, Your Highness," the soldier stammered, his voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. Words eluded him, his courage shattered. "They have… they've killed the King... they've taken the Princess's life... and her children's." Oberyn lunged forward, seizing the young man by the throat, his rage ignited like wildfire, "I will sever your vile tongue if such words pass your lips again!" he hissed, fury coursing through every fiber of his being. How dare he utter such blasphemy?
Doran shouted at him, a frantic plea to prevent his brother from inflicting harm. Oberyn's grip on the soldier's neck tightened, threatening to snap it in half, "how dare you speak her name with such lies!" Oberyn's face was but a hair's breadth away from the man's.
"Oberyn!" Doran's voice boomed louder now, snapping his brother from the abyss of his wrath.
Reluctantly, Oberyn released the man, who fell to his knees, coughing and gasping, muttering apologies amidst his tears, "I apologize, my prince... I apologize... I apologize," he babbled frantically, his form trembling.
Oberyn stood frozen in place, the world around him becoming a cacophony of muffled sounds. Blood surged in his ears and pounded in his head, rendering his limbs feeble and numb. The frantic movements of those around him and his older brother's inquiries and orders blurred into obscurity, leaving only the sensation of his own scalding skin, burning him alive. He longed to rip his garments from his body, to tear his flesh asunder, as the air grew oppressively thick and sweltering, suffocating him as if he were submerged beneath water. The tingling sensation in his fingertips and the throbbing pain in his right eye pierced his consciousness. It was as though he were aflame from within, feeling the molten flow of his blood beneath his searing skin.
Their shared life flashed before his eyes in an instant. He remembered her fragility, how he cradled her in his arms and heart. Those days when he pushed her wheelchair with gusto, eliciting laughter from her. She was a year his senior, yet her fragility and ailment demanded his physical protection. In turn, she fortified his spirit, offering solace in a world that sought to alter him. He visited her chamber daily, sharing tales of their parents and elder sibling, and she listened, offering comfort and understanding. He was her bastion, and she was his serenity. He was her army, and she was his peace. They were inseparable, and the notion of existence without one another seemed unfathomable.
The sun no longer bathed Dorne in its usual warmth on the day her remains returned to their homeland. That Dornish sun, once radiant, now dawned upon a lifetime burdened by sorrow. She had been his sun, his compass… and he, the unwavering sunflower, had turned to follow her every step. But now, he stood alone, adrift in a sea of grief and rage.
The maesters had begged him to avert his gaze, especially from her visage—or what remained of it, to be precise. They wished to preserve her memory, to shield the image of her serenity from the abhorrent tragedy she had endured. Oberyn, however, bore the weight of her demise squarely upon his own shoulders. He harbored the belief that it was his heedlessness, his momentary acquiescence to his brother’s commands, that had led to her tragic end. And as penance, he needed to engrave the gruesome sight of her shattered skull and broken mandible to his brain, so that the searing memory might forever scar his psyche.
He craved the pain, the unrelenting thirst for vengeance, for it was this anguish that would serve as a relentless reminder. He needed her tragic fate etched into the very fiber of his being, so that if ever a trace of empathy for these monsters dared to creep into his thoughts, the vivid memory of what they had stolen from him—the essence of his sweet Elia—would rip through his soul, leaving him wounded, but resolute in his pursuit of justice.
The absence of a sibling is an ineffable experience… alexithymic; one that defies the boundaries of expression. You see, a person's existence in this world is akin to that of a tree; the parents, the grandparents, and all the ancestors serve as the unwavering stem, the robust trunk that grounds and anchors one's very being. Your children, they are the intricate roots, extensions of your essence that traverse the world, existing as a continuation of you, and you, in turn, live life through them. But siblings... they are the branches.
To lose a sibling is to lose a part of yourself, a limb perhaps, one that may not kill you but certainly inflicts the agony of phantom pain. It lingers, this spectral ache, an ever-present reminder that punctuates your happiest moments, like a persistent thorn in your side, incessantly prodding you to remember what you have forfeited. It leaves behind a lingering melancholy, not potent enough to suffocate you to death, yet substantial enough to hinder the prospect of living life to its fullest.
But how does one even go about living life in the semblance of normalcy?
For a sibling is more than a mere bearer of shared genes; they are witnesses to your enduring connection with stubborn parents, companions in the labyrinthine maze of childhood, fellow travelers through the terrain of trauma. They are the ones who have beheld every facet of your being, every iteration of your existence.
In the years that followed, he embarked on a ceaseless flight, fleeing from her shadow, from the haunting memory of their love. Her name, once a melody on his tongue, now tasted acrid, too laden with pain to be cherished or recollected. His heart, once a sanctuary of devotion, was now filled with a venomous brew of hatred, anger, and an insatiable thirst for retribution. He yearned to hunt down every man across the Seven Kingdoms, to rend their flesh from bone with his own bare hands. Yet, deep within, he nurtured a more profound loathing—for himself, for his own frailty and cowardice.
Her death had sapped his strength, of that he was certain. He could no longer gaze upon the sun without wincing, nor could he behold the graceful palm trees that adorned every corner of Dorne without feeling his gut wrenching, as though it were on the verge of rupture. Even the taste of figs, her favored fruit, had become an agony to bear. And when he cast his eyes upon his own brother, he could not help but wish it had been he who suffered such a wretched fate, rather than his sweet Elia.
On bended knee, he knelt beside her sandstone tomb, on the eve of his departure from Dorne, where he would spend the impending years in solitude, far removed from the land they had once shared. Whispering amidst tears that welled in his eyes and his aching heart, And unbowed, unbent, and unbroken, you must rest, my Sun.
#oberyn martell#elia martell#pedrostories#asoiaf#dorne#game of thrones#oberyn nymeros martell#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfiction#angst#whispers of vendetta#wov#fan fic#fanfic#fanfiction#fan fiction#my writing#aura’s fics
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gonna put it under a cut because it’s a lot of pictures, but I tried to put together a sorta of series of shots to illustrate how Byl’s appearance changes over the course of the MSQ
The fledgling adventurer, newly arrived in Eorzea via Sharlayan, equipped with gear she received as a going away present from her father.
Proper armor and a new axe, courtesy of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn following her defeat of Ifrit.
Champion of Eorzea, slayer of the Dreadwyrm, conqueror of the Crystal Tower. After laying low the Ultima Weapon and her brush with death at the hands of Lahabrea, Bylgrael expanded her repertoire, learning new disciplines and spellcraft. She put the most effort into learning the fighting style of knights from Haurchefant.
On the night of the Bloody Banquet, frustrated and tired by Alphinaud’s efforts to keep distance between them, Bylgrael set aside her armor and weapons for a dress she received as a gift from Tataru and F’lhaminn. Without her arms and armor, Bylgrael could do nothing as the Scions were betrayed by the Crystal Braves.
Deprived of her gear after fleeing Ul’dah, Tataru fashioned her something new, cobbled together with whatever funds she and Alphinaud could provide after receiving asylum in Ishgard.
After Haurchefant’s death at the hands of the Heavens’ Ward, Count Edmont bequeathed Galatine, treasured heirloom sword of House Fortemps, to Bylgrael so that she could use it to avenge her fallen friend and mentor.
Artoirel gifted Bylgrael a shield fitting a knight of House Fortemps, in recognition of her performance in the Grand Melee, and as a friend and sister to him, Emmanellain, and the late Haurchefant.
Having grown weary and bitter over the Doman and Ala Mhigan campaigns, Bylgreal reached her breaking point when the Scions mysteriously fell comatose one by one, their souls torn from their bodies with nary a trace. When Alisaie fell at the Ghimlyt Dark, Bylgrael gave up, flying into a grief-stricken rage that saw her terrorizing Imperial and Eorzean forces alike with her maddened brutality and self-destructive fury. In the throes of despair, her armor wears down and breaks, and even resplendent Galatine is destroyed beyond repair under the weight of her sorrow.
Rescued from the brink of death by Estinien and Aymeric, Bylgrael is ordered to rest and recover while her allies search for a way to revive the fallen Scions. It is during such time that she and Tataru discover the Exarch’s beacon in the Syrcus Trench, and Bylgrael is whisked away to the light-drowned land of the First.
By way of apology and incentive, the Exarch presents Bylgrael with a new sword and armor to prepare her for the journey ahead. That it is already tailored perfectly to her does not escape her notice, and causes her to wonder the truth of the Exarch’s identity.
In the months following Emet-Selch’s defeat and her reunion with G’raha Tia, Bylgrael finds a peace and happiness she had never known before as she lived in the Crystarium with the Leveilleurs, and lets her hair grow out. Much of her doubt and fear has been banished, and her resolve is stronger than ever.
After confronting the Mothercrystal and proving her strength and conviction, Bylgrael inherits Venat’s sword, a token of her fallen friend and proof of their shared belief in the future of mankind. At the same time, she at last puts away the House Fortemps shield, having decided for herself what it means to be a knight, no longer needing to borrow Haurchefant’s ideal to carry herself forward. And finally, to ensure her friend’s success on the terrible journey to Ultima Thule, Tataru crafts Bylgrael a set of full plate in the style of the fairy tale heroes Bylgrael had always idolized and sought to emulate.
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Eros || jim street x victor tan
|| a simple look into streets feelings for tan
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The story of the Greek god Eros goes that he selects his targets and forcefully strikes at their hearts, bringing confusion and irrepressible feelings or, in the words of Hesiod, he 'loosens the limbs and weakens the mind', and while many believe the tale to be just that, a tale, Street has to disagree.
Because as he stands unmoving in the tall grass at his feet, he swears on his life that Eros must’ve just struck his heart with a burning desire.
He’s never been this entranced in his life, never had this much of an enamored feeling so deep in his bones, watching how sunlight seems to be conrustating against Victors face, his eyes shining so bright Street thinks they’d outshine the sun.
And in that moment, the one where Street thinks Eros is laughing at his love struck expression; James swears to himself that he’ll never let any harm come to Tan, he’ll put his life on the line for this unrequited love, he will bleed from the wounds thrown his way in hopes that Victor will be out of harms way, that he will stay in the golden light of the day and not fall into the traps of darkness Street’s become accustomed to.
For Tan has a resplendent beauty to him, even on the gloomiest of days, when the sky becomes overcast in dark clouds filled of sorrowful rain, Victor stays beaming light of love and peace Streets mind can’t comprehend.
How could he? The radiance Tan gives off is something that seems fanciful, impossible, like he’s come straight down from the heavens with the light of an Angel still shining in his blood.
#writing#js#vt#jim street/victor tan#tan x street#can you guys tell I’ve been reading a lot of poetry#I hope this gives off the warm to cold aesthetic I want it to
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“The spiteful, little stars.” goddess liv @ scorpion!
IN LOVE AND WAR, EVERYTHING GOES || @somniaxperdita || accepting
▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || In shadows tenebrous deep and sunlight's resplendent glow, a tale of love between Hanzo and Harumi Hasashi long blossomed to grow and refuses to wilt. Through highs and lows, they have found their way; two hearts connected, like night and day, joint hands together, through the ups and downs. Now with an immortal lover, Scorpion wields them proudly like the golden crown; their love, a bright light through the night, guiding their love's journey on an endless flight. There may be the scars persistent, wrecking the destiny of his mortal days as a respected warrior. But the sacred threads of his vulnerability have long taunted him, as the crack of his slashed, pierced flesh shattered him and his brittled and weathered bones. His world had stared skywards, awaits inevitable.
What used to be a cosmic dance between two celestial lovers known so well that they could trace the steps across the galaxy no longer exists, and yet, how unpredictable fate coincided once more over his heart and soul, desiccating the swathe of darkness draped over his entirety. In this familiar moments of pendulous transition, dawn and sunset makes Scorpion feel a vast array of feelings, particularly melancholic ones. Transition that is brought forth by the change of light, the end or the start of a new day. Light itself used to be a beacon for Hanzo Hasashi's emotions; although even with it, but even when he felt out of place or felt lost, he would always find his way back from the abysmal darkness. As Scorpion, he is used to sinning and staining the purity of peace. But now, his wrath and vengeance remains wrapt around like a leash, for the strongest yet, a rush so certain, is the guiding halcyon light of intensity and intent. The eternal flame of love securing him in an inextinguishable beacon of light; unfading and vigorous.
While Scorpion's forever home is lost - the one to live in until the end of time - he hasn't burn down with it, and with them. For homes are never meant to be permanent, and so do people. Harumi and Satoshi and the entirety of the original Shirai Ryu may have been lost, but they weren't created to become his everything. The ouroboros of his incessant, persistent grief, sorrow, cruelty, and anger had become a metaphorical amputation that took away Hanzo Hasashi's valuable character and humanity, and yet, Scorpion still bleeds hope, strength, and brilliant light. For his hope and resilience is incurable hemophilia; he bleeds, excessively bleeds, and bleeds the passion, vigor, and fire of vivid red.
"Once I falsely thought the stars of Harumi and Satoshi were malicious; blaming their deaths upon me, for I could not protect and save them," how his exhibited sorrow reveals; each painting a new betrayal against the absolute truth, building strokes and shades of grief. Blues, grays, and blacks blurring around him. Were they really blurred, or was it my welled-up emotions threatening to succumb me whole? But there is glistening light reflected upon his alabaster irises. For even the museum of his sadness becomes exquisitely beautiful. And it was everything. Everything that sustains him and gives him indomitable strength and hope to transform into his happiness. Scorpion had to succumb completely to his demons in order to repaint his reason of existence, to burn bright forever in order to have his family in sempiternal reverence. "However, they still could be cruel as they could easily bring me ruination, regardless of how much time has passed." ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ||
#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ hellfire fibrillating beneath his skin (iv)#(that duality will always be there no matter what)#(it's what ruins and sustains him)#somniaxperdita
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@puckish-rogue ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Requested a starter.
YOUR EYES ARE SHINING. This was a space where time lost its boundaries, culminating in a harmonious synthesis of past and present, where the east and west, as well as the lawful and lawless, intersected in a delicate state of equilibrium. Within this realm, the night took on the persona of an eternal mistress, while the beacons remained her steadfast companions, never losing their brilliance.
TENKAICHI’S STREET crimson gate served as a bizarre portal, a threshold to an alternate universe, a realm of decadence and debauchery. It exuded an ethereal glow, analogous to a shimmering ruby kissed by the sun, compelling pilgrims with the allure of a siren’s song, seducing them with the promise of forbidden love. This was the grand stage where life’s actors donned their masks, hiding their true selves behind a facade, where tales of exuberance and sorrow, triumph and defeat unfolded. Certain individuals were attracted to this spectacle purely for the adrenaline it offered, while others were in search of solace from the monotony of their everyday lives. Meanwhile, there were those who were simply attempting to survive the nuances of existence.
Pink Street, on the other hand, was the pulsating heart of this urban beast, a DIABOLICAL spectacle that both intrigued and satisfied. It was the reservoir of desire, the object of unspoken lust. This was the marketplace where merchants peddled their wares, buyers bartered their fortunes, and transactions of all kinds took place. Several human beings were drawn to this location by the promise of HEDONISTIC INDULGENCE, while others were driven by their curiosity and their eagerness to venture into uncharted territory. Positioned gracefully, Lotus Elysium emerged as a coveted gem within the city, enticing all who beheld it. Upon crossing the threshold, a captivating fusion of scents greeted guests ──── the appealing fragrance of exotic flowers, the sumptuous aroma of barrel-aged whiskey, and the subtle trace of premium cigars. Crystal chandeliers, suspended like orbiting bodies, cast a soft, elegant glow that arced upon polished mahogany tables and glinted off the rims of crystal glasses filled with amber liquid.
The hostesses, resplendent in their finery, moved with grace. Their laughter was the chorus that set the night's rhythm, their smiles were an OMEN of an escape from reality. In the corners, whispered dialogues transpired akin to intricate origami, concealed truths traded amidst the subdued illumination. Orihime was a star that shone the brightest, a siren whose song was irresistible. Her reputation as one of the most sought-after hostesses in the area was a testament to her charm. However, on this evening, her company had been taken by a mysterious stranger, a foreign visitor who had journeyed across oceans to experience the city's nighttime pleasures.
Under the guidance of the establishment's manager, she proceeded to the reception area. Her steps were as graceful as a swan gliding across a tranquil lake. “I gather you are the one who has summoned me.” Her voice, as melodious as a nightingale’s serenade, broke the silence. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Inoue Orihime.” With a courteous bow that was as elegant as a lily bending to the morning breeze, she introduced herself. She spoke with a deliberate slowness, ensuring that he could grasp the nuances of her introduction.
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tales by moonlight | 𝕤𝕒𝕜𝕦𝕤𝕒
summary: the love sakusa has for you is so big that it scares him, but he confesses it any way, encouraged by how beautiful you look under the light of the moon.
a.n: for @introloves once upon a time collab! the readers gown looks something like this. sakusa is prince endymion so he looks something like this just without the armor over his torso. c.w: sakusa is sickeningly romantic, but so is the reader. it's all very very sweet. you guys have unprotected sex outside, brief mention of omi wanting you to maybe have his babies. the term princess is used as the reader is a princess.
w.c: approx. 5.4k
(=´ω`=)
prince sakusa kiyoomi, also known as prince endymion, the first crown prince of earth to the people of crystal tokyo, the kingdom he is to one day inherit, also affectionately known as just ‘omi’ to his closest friends and family, steals away to the palace gardens in the middle of a tedious night of socialising and merrymaking. the thick fabric of his garments suddenly felt too warm. his cape and shoulder guards weighed heavy on his shoulders and the vibrating excitement and joy of yet another royal ball had become a little too overwhelming.
it was all just a little too much and so just for a moment, he had to slip away. don’t get him wrong, he loves his parents and their love for celebration. every year his kingdom makes it through another harsh winter without any cause for sorrow or sadness; they show their gratitude to the gods on the night of astraia, a celebration of the warmth spring has so kindly bestowed upon them. it is no small celebration, they invite noble people from all over crystal tokyo, sometimes even inviting friends and dignitaries from neighbouring planets to come and share in the joy that is astraia.
he makes his way towards the palace gardens as he peers up at the sky. the night of astraia is always one of the clearest nights of the year. everything the galaxy has to offer is visible on this night; from the thick sparkling bands of the milky way, to the millions upon millions of stars that fill the sky. it is as if the gods had spilled a bag of gems, a multitude of colours gleaming amongst the velvety darkness. stars shine a little brighter on this night, their twinkle a little sharper, purposefully showing off all their resplendent glory, as if to say look at me! according to legend, it is said that any wish made upon a shooting star on the night of astraia is sure to come true. and the shooting stars are always plentiful on this night with so many people finding good fortune throughout the rest of the year.
the moon, big, beautiful and bright, illuminates sakusa’s path as he strays further into the garden, watching over him like how the goddess selene herself watches endymion sleep. a warm breeze whisks the scent of night blooming flowers past his nose and the familiar scents helps to calm him down. one of the reasons he was feeling so overwhelmed was his parents were talking about him getting married. as prince, he will one day have to take a partner, someone to rule over not only crystal tokyo but all of earth with him. when he was younger, he never gave much thought to love. there were always plenty of parents that would push their kids to get to know him in the hopes that it may lead to some gratuitous partnership in the future. then sakusa met you, princess serenity, the crown princess of the moon kingdom, your given name unknown to him at the time.
even though time moves differently in crystal tokyo, since that fateful meeting as young kids all those years ago, he has earned the privilege of knowing your true name, of knowing you as more than just princess serenity. you have become the special someone he has grown to love, the someone he wants to give his heart wholeheartedly to but the thought of that scares him. to ask you to be more than just his friend, more than just someone he is courting, to be his queen, to be his for the rest of his life and for him to be yours. that’s the main reason he is outside tonight, he needs a moment to clear his head and most importantly to see you.
in fact, he hasn’t seen you around at all this evening. he knows balls and parties like these aren't really your thing, typically finding you hidden away in your family home’s library or his family’s gardens when you come to visit. the palace gardens is one of your favourite places, you told him once. he vividly remembers your response when he asked you why as he knew the gardens on the grounds of moon kingdom to be spectacular, “well it’s easy for me to forget all that is happening in the outside world when im here. when i come here, i can shed myself of the responsibility of being princess serenity, heir to the moon kingdom, and just be me. I can lay amongst the flowers and feel sunshine on my face, stare up at the sky and daydream. have a few moments to forget about everything and get lost inside my own little world. plus, you’re here.” you said with a dreamy smile to which he bloomed bright red. besides the library, the gardens have become his favourite place in the palace as well. he’s sure that it’s because of the sweet memories he’s made spending time with you.
filled with warmth from the fond memory, sakusa makes his way through the night-blooming jasmine flowers, their sweet scents filling the air around him. as he moves farther into the gardens, he takes in the opulent fountain sitting in the middle of the grounds. made out of celestite and moonstone, the fountain seems to come alive under the moonlight, its slow bubble of water helping to soothe his slightly frayed nerves. the massive trellis above him is abundant with wisteria flowers, his favourite. their periwinkle blooms coupled with the twinkling lights make this area of the garden feel like a dream.
sakusa keeps moving, the smell of night phlox seduces him, tempting him to sit down and stay for a while but he desperately wants to find you. and just when he’s about to give up, surmising that you must be hiding somewhere inside the palace, he hears your dulcet voice, humming some sweet little song from your home. apparently, it’s popular amongst lovers on the moon. he continues to follow your soft voice and eventually he spots you and like always, you take his breath away. you’re sitting amongst the tuberoses and sakusa doesn’t think he has ever seen you look so divine.
on the night of astraia, most people wear something blue, silver or white in colour. you are dressed in a diaphanous gown of pale lavender. the shimmering falls suits you perfectly, falling so softly against your skin, twinkling around you like a blanket of stars. bathed in the pale moonlight, he can see your skin has a shimmer as well. sakusa is completely beguiled by you. you look iridescent, ethereal and otherworldly, and in a sense you are, seeing as you are not from his.
he does not want to disturb the small peace you’ve created for yourself out here, but he aches to touch you and so he slowly approaches. quietly kneeling down, he embraces you from behind and a yelp of surprise escapes you before you relax into his hold, his scent comforting you. you would know sakusa by his touch alone, but you love how he smells, always warm and just a little sweet. “hello my love.” he whispers against your temple, his lips soft against your skin. your hands come up to wrap around his arms and you lean back into him, “hello kiyoomi.”
“i was looking for you. figured you would be out here,”you hum in agreement, and with a small smile, “i am happy you found me.”
sakusa holds you like this for just a little bit, and you resume your song, swaying your body against his and he joins you, his warmth seeping through the fabric of your dress. with one last kiss to your temple, he releases you. he moves to sit before you so he can take in how truly breathtaking you look tonight. and he’s stunned. completely mesmerised by you, he just stares at you for a little while before he notices what you have been doing out here.
you fiddle with the small small flower crown in your lap, gently twisting and braiding in flowers before looking up to see sakusa staring at you.
“did you know tuberoses are my favourite flowers?”
sakusa chuckles and nods his head, because of course he did, he knew all there was to know about you.
“do you know what they mean?” you ask. at that, he answers a quiet “no”, watching you finish up the crown of small pink and white flowers, he sees there is another on the ground beside you.
“they symbolise love, wild passion, attraction and lust for someone, sometimes to the point of obsession.” you beckon him to lower his head, and gently place the crown atop his soft dark hair. with a finger under his chin, you lift his head and look him in the eye,
“do you know how much i love you?”
you watch his eyes flutter shut as you lean in to kiss him on the forehead, once on each beauty mark, before moving to place a soft kiss upon each eyelid, his long lashes resting along the apple of his cheeks.
pulling back, you stare at the beautiful man before you. your thumb caresses his lips and sakusa makes no move. he doesn’t open his eyes to see you or move to kiss you himself, the only thing you get from him is the soft sounds of his breathing as you trace his features, your finger running over the planes of his face. your thumb glides over the softness of his lower lip, pressing into the plush flesh for a moment. you suddenly ache to kiss him and so you do just that, placing a tender kiss to his lips. you pull away after a moment and a shy smile decorates his face.
“to answer your question, yes. i do know how much you love me but i doubt it is as much as i love you.” a playful smirk graces your lips, “oh yeah? prove it to me omi.”
it is in that moment he realises there is nothing to be afraid of when it comes to his love for you. he loves you so much that he would spend an eternity asleep like endymion if it meant a lifetime by your side, if it meant you would be his selene. so, he grabs the flower crown that lays beside you and stands. “come with me. i have something to show you.” stretching an arm out to you, and helping you up off the ground.
now seeing you at your full height, he is enchanted by the way your gown flutters around you, how it falls over your body. the delicate crystal moon tiara that sits on top your head gleams like a halo. you look so heavenly that he is not sure he is worthy enough to look upon you. “bewitching in their gaze, often leaving others in a delirious daze,” he thinks to himself. that is how you always manage to make him feel when he looks at you; dazed, his mind cloudy with desire for you.
“i want you to know that you look breathtakingly beautiful tonight.” he confesses shyly.
and the smile that blooms across your face is one that he wishes to see every day for the rest of his life, and he wishes to be the one to place it there. he briefly looks up at the sky and a shooting star just so happens to race across the sky.
“why thank you omi” you say, brushing a stray petal from his lapel. “you clean up nice yourself.” he laughs and the sound is beautiful. you’re so smitten by him. “he’s like a dream” you think to yourself.
“thank you darling.” he says, “now let's go!” he announces and tugs you towards the other end of the garden.
as he guides you along, you talk about miscellaneous things. about how much his parents will drink tonight, and how you can hear yours laughing all the way out here. you were laughing at the terrible outfits kiyoomi’s aunt, and her snotty children had on when sakusa abruptly stopped and spun around, quickly covering your eyes, “omi! what are you doing!?” your arms flailing around.
“relax sweetheart. trust me.” you suddenly hear by your ear.
a few more slow steps and you can hear what sakusa wants to show you before you can see it. “are you ready?” he asks, and at your nod, his hands drop away from your face. immediately, you gasp at the sight before you. sakusa has taken you to a lake, and you’ve seen it before on your travels to his kingdom, but you have never seen it at night; and you have never seen it on the night of astraia. the lake is huge, extending so far out towards the horizon, the moon itself looks like it may take a dip. the water looks like a pool of cool black silk. it shimmers under the moonlight, small ripples disturbing the surface as a couple of white swans lazily swim around. fireflies blink in and out of existence around you and the scent of more night blooming jasmine fills the air.
“what do you think?” sakusa asks quietly, unreasonable nervous for your response. “oh omi,” you breathe, spinning around to face him. “it’s beautiful. it doesn't even feel like we are on palace grounds anymore.”
“yeah, that’s why i wanted to take you out here. where we wouldn’t be disturbed.” he grabs your hand and leads you to a spot under a huge star magnolia tree, its pretty white buds dancing in the wind above you guys. gingerly sitting you down on the soft grass, sakusa grabs your hand, “did you know that any wish made on a shooting star on the night of astraia is destined to come true?”
with a chuckle you answer him, “i remember you telling me that.” he lets out a nervous sigh and you can tell something is weighing heavy on his mind.
rubbing at his hand with your thumb, you try to coax his troubles out of him, “tell me what’s on your mind tonight omi?”
sakusa chuckles, “i don't know why i am so nervous, it’s you. i have no reason to be nervous around you.” and you nod, encouraging him to go on.
“yes. so any wish made on a shooting star tonight is destined to come true and i just so happened to make a wish earlier tonight. do you know what it was?” it makes you shy, the way he is looking at you. there is so much love in his eyes that your chest tightens with giddiness. you could take a guess on his wish, but you want to hear the words from his mouth himself.
“no, i don't. will you tell me?” he lets go of your hands to grab the other flower crown you had made. “i wished that i would be the one who gets to wake up every morning and see your beautiful smile.” he gently tilts your head down so he could place the adornment on top of your head. “i wished that i would be the one who gets to make you smile like that every day.”
mimicking your actions from earlier that night, he grabs your chin, tilting your head back up so he could look you in the eye. tears start to slowly fall down your face and he gently thumbs them away, your eyes fluttering shut at his careful touch. he leans down to kiss you and his lips are as soft as feathers as he whispers against your skin, “i wish to spend the rest of my life with you.” he leaves a soft kiss to you forehead before he moves to kiss both of your eyelids as you did to him before. “i wish for you to be mine for the rest of my life,” placing a shy kiss on the delicate skin of your eye. “and for the rest of your life, i wish to be yours.” leaving a tender kiss on the other, wiping away at the tears that continue to fall from his heartfelt proposal to you.
“my love, will you look at me.” he pleads, and you slowly open your eyes. “you told me that these flowers mean love and passion and intense attraction to someone. do you know how much i love you?” and without giving you a chance to answer, he pulls you into a heated kiss. overwhelmed with affection for him, you throw yourself into it. you grip and tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, and sakusa curls an arm around you, deepening the kiss.
you don't think he has ever kissed you so sweetly. there is so much devotion in the way he is embracing you, kissing you. breaking away from you, he rests his forehead against yours, “i want to marry you. will you marry me?” his proposal shy and sweet, just like him. “my kiyoomi.” you murmur, your hand sliding from his nape to to cup his cheek. “i want to spend the rest of my life with you. i love you so much that it hurts me. i feel like i am going to float every time i look at you. every time i come here, i am giddy with excitement and i am always heartbroken when it is time to leave.” you tuck a loose curl behind his ear, finger tracing the shell of his ear, “so yes. i will marry you.”
sakusa’s smile is radiant, rivalling the brilliance of the moon itself. “i had a feeling you would say yes. but it fills me with joy to hear you say it.” he cheekily says, kissing the palm of your hand.
“now that we’ve done that, i don't want to return to the party. i just want to stay out here with you.” you say.
a wolfish grin takes over sakusa’s face, “i can think of a couple things to do to pass the time out here.” and a cheeky grin unfolds on your face, “oh? and what might that be?” he leans down, kissing up the column of your neck, all the way up to your ear before whispering against it, “i think it's better i show you than tell you, my love.”
he lays you down on the ground gently and kisses you some more. his tongue swipes at the seam of your mouth, asking for entry and your lips part, letting him in. he lets more of his body’s weight rest on you, deepening his kiss with you. you feel dizzy, your head full of nothing but the warmth of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the hardness you feel beginning to grow between his legs. the two of you stay like this for a little while before sakusa pulls away, allowing you both to catch your breath.
“are you ok with this sweetheart?” he asks.
“this will not be the first time we have seen each other in such ways kiyoomi. you asked me to spend forever with you and i said yes. so, i want to give my all to you tonight.” you answer while removing the flower crowns from both your heads and placing them to the side so they don't get ruined. he leans down once more and places a quick kiss to your cheek before kneeling above you and removing his cape, shoulder guards and the top half of his suit, revealing his toned body to you. his skin looks silken and smooth, a milky white under the pale luminescence of the moon. the numerous beauty marks scattered across his skin look like the constellations scattered across the sky above you; they will record the story of what takes place here tonight.
“omi, have i ever told you that you're really pretty?” a hearty laugh escapes his lips at that, “i’ve gotten good looking, handsome, beautiful even. but you would be the first person to tell me i’m pretty. though i'm not as pretty as you.” his eyes darkening as he pulls up your dress, revealing your nearly naked form to him. the only thing covering you up is a pair of lacy panties. as his eyes trail your body, from the top of your head, to the way your pretty heels wrap around your feet, sakusa is in awe once again at your beauty. as you said before it is not the first time he has seen you bare, but it is the first time you two will have each other as a pair who has promised eternity to one another and that makes tonight mean something completely different. he wants to take his time admiring your naked body, worshipping you and revelling in your beauty.
“you’re stunning,” he whispers in awe of you. “god, you have no idea how much i want you.” he moans.
“i think i have a few ideas,” you say, lifting a knee to rub at the bulge in his pants, “but why don't you show me?”
“hmmm my bride-to-be is such a flirt” sakusa remarks, “but i like it,” with a handful of your breast, he wraps his tongue around your nipple, and sucks hard. your hands fly to his head, curling into his hair, and gripping his locks. you spread your legs wider to allow him to fit better between them and you start to roll your hips against him. sakusa groans in pleasure and meets you halfway, grinding his erection against your warmth as well, your wetness beginning to stain his pants.
“omi!” you hiss into the air as his other hand toys with your other nipple, taking his sweet time twisting and pulling and suckling at your buds until they stand swollen at attention for him. at this point your panties are utterly ruined. “omi, oh my god!” sakusa pulls off your breast with a wet pop and sits up, his other hand, still tracing circles around your nipple. he glances up at you and when you catch his eye, the scene before you is downright sinful. his curly hair is ruffled from your hands and his eyes are lidded, clouded with lust. he is the perfect picture of debauchery and he looks like he wants to devour you.
“what is it my love? what do you need?” he asks. you grab his hand and guide it towards where you want him most, “i want to feel you here. i want you to touch me here.” placing his hand over your core, inhaling sharply at the heaviness of his fingers as he presses down slightly. “you’re absolutely drenched. soaked through these flimsy panties and everything. you must really like me.” he teases. “you sure you want me to touch you here?” he asks. and as if the way you gently rock your hips against his hand wasn't indication enough, you cry out “yes! i want you so bad kiyoomi. i want you to touch me, want you to make me feel good.”
arousal pulses through me at the sound of you crying out his name. “ok my love. your wish is my command.” and sakusa trails kisses down your chest and torso, biting and suckling reminders of his lovemaking into your skin. when he reaches the waistband of your panties, he slowly peels them off of you, throwing them to the side. spreading your legs, he stares at your softness between them. his mouth waters at how strings of your wetness split apart at the stretch. he feels himself grow impossibly harder at the sight. he can't wait to get inside you, but he wants to make you come first. after all, you asked him so sweetly.
your voice breaks him out of his reverie, “omi stop staring!” you complain with a pout. “i’m sorry sweetheart” he chuckles, he thinks you look so cute. “you just look divine. i cant wait to taste you.” he laying back down between your legs. with his hands holding you apart, he uses both his thumbs and gently spreads your lips apart, exposing your clit to him. leaning in, he places a soft kiss to the tip of it. you are about to scold him for teasing you when he curls his tongue around it and sucks while at the same time dipping a finger inside you. you cry out in pleasure, your back arching toward the sky as you tangle your fingers through his hair again. sakusa hums in pleasure with you, his hair being pulled sending a rush of blood towards his already heavily swollen cock.
“oh, fuck kiyoomi! god that feels so good!” you cry out breathlessly, like he’s sucking the life out of you. sakusa lifts his head from your wet core and you almost shy to look at him.
if you thought he was the perfect picture of sin before, then the sight before you now might be enough to drag you to hell itself. sakusa’s pupils are blown wide with lust, just dark orbs that shine back at you. his fluffy hair sticking up every which way and that perfect pout of his, swollen and red from kissing you. his lips glisten from your wetness, which also coats his chin. his finger continues to slide in and out of you at an leisurely pace, sakusa taking the time to press at your sweet spot with each drag.
“darling you must be angel because you taste like heaven to me.” he whispers in your ear with a sleazy grin as he teases you with an added finger. you feel like melting, your mind disintegrating and broken down to nothing but the feeling of how wet you are, drenching sakusa’s fingers as he continues to play with you.
“does it feels good honey?” he murmurs, nipping at your neck. “do you want more?” he asks while biting down on your skin.
you mewl in response, your sanity slowly unravelling with each wave of pleasure that courses through you. “fuck! kiyoomi please” you whine, throwing your head back and bucking your hips up at him. now sitting on his heels, sakusa removes his fingers, only to replace them with one more. the stretch you feel is nothing compared to the stretch of his cock, but his fingers are slender and long and it feels amazing. his thumb circles your clit at the same time, and you become unabashed and wanton with your moans. lustful sounds spill from your lips as sakusa watches the way your breasts jiggle with each thrust of his fingers. he leans forward to grab one, his fingers pinching your nipple and you lurch forward, grabbing at his wrist.
“i’m so close omi. so, so close. but i need more. please, i need more.” you beg.
“ok, ok sweetheart” he calms you down, “i will give you what you want.”
his fingers slip from inside you and he hastily removes his shoes, pants and underwear. his cock is so heavily swollen it bobs in front of him, the tip a deep red and leaking. you instinctually clench around nothing at the sight of him. kiyoomi usually takes his time, making you fall apart on his fingers and again on his tongue to get you loose enough before making you fall apart on his cock. but you want him so badly tonight, you can’t wait for all of that, making your mouth grow dry at his size and the impending stretch you will feel.
he kneels back down and grabs your leg, wrapping it around his waist as he leans forward and rocks his hips against yours, sliding his thick cock through your folds and coating it in the wetness that’s been pooling between your thighs. he leans forward some more to kiss you as he continues his agonisingly slow tease and you gasp into his mouth each time his cock catches against your clit. he captures your lips in a breathtaking kiss and your senses are filled with nothing but kiyoomi; nothing but his scent, his taste, nothing but the way his body feels on top of yours and the way he sounds as he softly groans in your mouth.
“tell me again where you want me, my love?” you reach down, wrapping your hand around his cock and guide him towards your entrance, his swollen tip teasing you with the stretch.
“please don't tease me, omi. i want you inside of me.” you beg so sweetly of him.
sakusa places one last kiss on your cheek before thrusting forward, sinking into you. “fuck!” the two of you swear as he pushes into you. you gasp, breath stolen from you as your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of him stretching you open.
“shit!” sakusa exclaims, “fucking divine.” he groans once he bottoms out inside you, and you squeeze tight around him at the incredibly full feeling. sakusa falls forward, his forehead laying against your shoulder, his warm breaths fanning across your skin.
“i did not know my prince was capable of such foul language” you jest.
sakusa just chuckles against your skin, biting your shoulder in response, “it is because you feel heavenly my love. and it is not the first time you have heard me express such pleasure at the expense of your body.” he rolls his hips, grinding into you so slowly, you feel every inch of him, the weight of him on top of you pressing him deep inside of you.
“please,” you gasp, your fingers finding purchase in the cool grass beneath you “please m—” you’re cut off when he pulls his hips back, the slow drag of his cock through your walls sending a shiver down your spine. the air is punched out of you with a scream when he snaps his hips forward, his hips meeting yours with a lewd, wet slap. sakusa sets a slow but deep pace. each thrust is precise, hitting all the right angles, making you see stars. sparks alight throughout your body and your skin feels as though it's on fire while electricity crackles in the air around you two.
your moans grow louder as sakusa whispers filthy nothings in your ear. depraved promises of how he can’t wait to marry you so he can make love to you often because you’re just so tight, he’s got to loosen you up. dirty wishes of how he can’t wait to fill you up with his cum and one day make you carry not only his name but maybe his children. with those words, you clench around him tight, intense pleasure racing through your body. you can only hope you are making him feel just as good as the only thing you can do is jerk hips up to meet his, taking everything he’s giving you.
“omi!” you yell and he groans low and deep as your walls start to flutter around him. you’re so close, and you know he is too. “i need you to touch me. please, ple—”
your breath hitches when he lifts himself up and takes your leg from around his waist and presses it to your chest. with this new angle, he feels even deeper inside you and you feel even tighter around him. it’s too much. it feels too good that his hips falter, his thrusts getting sloppier as he nears his release. “where do you want it?” he rasps, his voice laden with lust, his body hot to the touch, and a blush blooming across his chest up to his ears.
“inside me. please come inside me.” you weakly plead. pleased with your answer, his hand finds its way between your legs, and fervently rubs at your clit. you’re so, so sensitive that his fingers along with his thrusts is enough to send you over the edge. with one last cry your body seizes around him. you drag your nails down his back and sakusa hisses at the sting as you throw your head back, a white hot sensation washing over you as his name spills from your lips.
sakusa grinds himself as deep as he can go into you as he watches you lose yourself to the pleasure. “god, you’re fucking exquisite.” he moans, and his hands trail along your body, coaxing you through your orgasm.
his body suddenly tenses, “oh fuck!” and he doubles over at the ecstasy rushing through him as a he spills his cum inside you. he harshly snaps into you as your body milks him for all he has before you groan and push at his chest from the overstimulation. sighing in bliss, he places a soft kiss to your lips before he slips out of you, falls to your side and pulls your body into his.
neither of you make to move or speak just yet, choosing to lay with each other for a little bit. the only sounds around you are the gentle ripples of the lake, the distance cheers and laughter of the party goers and your heavy breaths as you both come down from your highs. running a finger along your side, sakusa kisses your shoulder and you hum contentedly, melting into his touch.
“that was amazing.” he whispers into your skin and you turn in his hold so you can look at him. pushing his hair out his face, you giggle. “it was.” a pleased smile gracing your face.
sakusa admires you for a moment before turning away from you. “alright, let’s get you cleaned up.” he grabs the handkerchief he carries in his pocket and turns back to you, carefully wiping at the stickiness between your legs and wiping down your chest and body before helping you up and back into your gown, gently placing your crown and flower crown back on your head.
when he goes to dress himself, you gasp at the damage you’ve done to his skin, “oh my god omi! your back! i'm so sorry!” you mutter, fingers lightly tracing the angry marks. “it is nothing my darling. only proof of how good i made you feel. if anything, i am proud of them.” he says with a smug grin as he finishes getting dressed.
you smack him in response, “you dog!” you go to hit him again but he grabs you by your wrist. “help me put this on?” he shyly asks as hands you the flower crown and drops to one knee, bowing before you like a knight would before his queen. you place it on his head one last time for the night.
standing up, sakusa pulls you into one last compassionate kiss. it’s so sweet and so loving, you may start to cry again.
“i’m yours and you’re mine. ok? forever and always.” he speaks this promise against your lips.
with a smile against his, “i'm yours and you’re mine omi. forever and always.” you promise him.
and out of the corner of your eye you see another shooting star race across the sky, writing the union of prince endymion and princess serenity forever in the stars.
#ouatintroloves#nyx's notes#haikyuu sakusa#sakusa kiyoomi#sakusa x reader#sakusa x you#sakusa x y/n#sakusa kiyoomi x you#sakusa kiyoomi x reader#sakusa kiyoomi x y/n#hq sakusa#nyx reads!#haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader#hq smut#haikyuu smut#sakusa smut#sakusa kiyoomi smut
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Holy shit I hit the 1k mark and didn’t even realise. You guys are all bonkers I started this to just keep track of my prompts! Thank you very much!!! To celebrate, have a short story about how writers are awesome and different ways of seeing the world that none of you will probably read, but I hope those who do will enjoy it :)
How Beautiful the World Is
Andy had always admired writers. They were the only people who could manage to make the world sound so beautiful, he thought. The way that even beautiful things could be made more beautiful; the way every sunset blossomed on the clouds the way that sweet, wild clover blossoms in a meadow, hues from burnt orange flame to heather told in soft rolling verse, the way every field was a luscious bounty of daisies and sun-strengthened grass, and every sky was rolling blue like the foam and ice of breaking waves on the winter coast. They had a habit of making each detail wonderfully beautiful, filled with unparalleled splendour.
However, in all actuality, the world was rather dull. Grass was a limp, pitiful green, sunsets were often mild, mostly unnoticed, not worth being looked upon, the sky was grey, clouds floated gloomily like lost, empty ghosts, the night sky was just a dull, navy sort of blue.
Perhaps it was the cold sadness that hung over him that dampened the world into a flattened grey emptiness, an expanse of tarmac and concrete, weather stained and foot-beaten, lacking in any and all beauty, but perhaps books were just optimistic ways of helping children get through the day.
He could still accept that there were certain beauties to the world, there was no denying that, but often the bad outweighed the good. He remembered someone telling him once that everything was made from a pile of good things, and a pile of bad things, and the good didn’t always make the bad better, but the bad didn’t necessarily sour the good, but he thought that even that was being optimistic.
And then he met Jet.
Johnathan Charles Morrow. When he first heard of him, a transfer student who was arriving in a few days, Andy laughed at the name. They speculated as to who the kid was, weaving tall tales about some rich man’s son who had been pulled from some posh private school after his father had lost all of his money to a gambling addiction, or something else that the particularly high-end community would frown upon, who would turn up with an attitude that turned the world around him foul, and who's accent would be so incredulously opulent that it would be an immense source of entertainment for the rest of the time he was in their lives. How unbelievably wrong they were.
When he first arrived, there was one main surprise to him; Jet had had cancerous growths on both of his optical nerves, not that Andy had known that specifically at the time, and had been forced to have both eyes removed at a very young age. He was completely and utterly blind.
The kid had a wolfish grin that he wore on his face almost every second of the day, and accompanying it was a face that smiled with it, all the way from his chin to his hairline. The smile lines of his face stretched from the corners of his sightless eyes like the magnetic poles of the world he couldn’t see, casting shadows across the smooth golden skin of his cheeks. It was infectious. The joy that cascaded across his face leaked onto everyone and everything around him. It was impossible not to be drawn to him.
Andy first spoke to him on the second day he attended school. It was raining, the grey clouds hung like melancholy sorrows, and it was cold enough that his breath danced across the morning air, spinning like a dancer caught in a moment of time, but the air seemed to warm around Jet, around his resplendent smile.
They began to chat, talking about anything and everything, contrasting opinions giving way to arguments that usually would've angered Andy to the point of storming off, but instead it instilled an almost healthy sense of competition in him, and before he realised, Jet had become one of the best friends that Andy had. And then Jet was the best friend that Andy had.
Then one day, one boring, mundane, Thursday evening, as they were making their way down yet another generic suburban road, on their way back to Jet’s house, and Jet told him he thought the world was beautiful.
Andy was so taken aback that he stopped still where he stood, dead on his feet, and it took a few steps for Jet to realise he’d stopped walking. A crumpled look crossed his features like broken waves crashing over rocks. “How? How on earth can you say that? You can’t even see!”
There was the smile again, intoxicating as ever. “Sight is not what makes the world beautiful.”
“I beg to differ. What else is there beyond sight? Corruption? Pollution? People?”
Jet paused, a quizzical look polluting and distorting his smile, Andy felt a twinge of regret coil its way up his throat, which he swallowed back down again, but feeling a little bad for what he’d said.
“When the sun is shining, I feel the heat on my skin, the soft warmth that makes my skin tingle like I am being enveloped in kindness and love. That is beautiful. When I dip my fingers into crisp water, and I feel the brisk, omnipresent coolness, the relaxation of bracing water on your forehead that balances the sometimes stickiness of excessive heat, that is beautiful. I hear the birds chirping in the morning, whistling their own personal symphonies, singing at the top of their lungs, I am safe, I am awake, I am alive. I think that too, is beautiful. When I walk home from school with you and I hear mothers picking up their children from primary school, their children babbling about whatever it is that children find important at that age. That is beautiful.” He paused, putting a hand on Andy’s shoulder, shuffling his stick awkwardly under his other arm and smiling softly. “When I hear the cheerful voices of my friends in the morning, or their laughs, it reminds me that I am not, nor will I ever be, alone with any sadness that I have, and that, above all else is beautiful.”
“But you're never sad, you smile like every day is a celebration!”
Another conflict of emotion flickered across his face. “Just because you can't see something doesn’t mean it's not there. When you go to the seaside, you can't tell what lies in the depths by standing in the shallows.”
“But you're my best friend! You – I,” A strangled sound ripped itself from his lips and he stepped out of Jet’s grasp, letting his arms fall limply in the space between them. “I should know if you're unhappy, Jet.”
“Andy - I didn’t mean anything of it.”
“So, that smile, it's not really a smile?” He folded his arms across himself and rubbed a hand under his chin. “It's a mask? You – you're hiding behind it?”
“Not in the way you’re implying.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jet didn’t add anything to his previous comment, only turned his head away, sucking his teeth. He mumbled something under his breath that Andy didn’t catch and sighed. There was something bubbling beneath his usually calm composure, not quite irritation, but leaning in that direction, it was quite strange, Andy thought, to see such different mannerisms in his friend, and it made him almost uncomfortable.
Jet began to walk away. Andy had always admired that even though the boy lacked vision, he always went in the right direction, never into traffic, or off a pavement, he was surprisingly like a Canada goose in that respect, had an internal compass that was completely reliable, even more so that sight itself sometimes.
Andy rubbed his thumbs against his fists, but before he had a chance to retaliate in any way, Jet turned back around.
“You are stupid sometimes, you know that?”
“Hey-”
“Happiness only comes when you accept that there are some things that you can't change, I learned that a long time ago,” he gestured to his blackened glasses, “and one example of this is that you can never live in a state of complete happiness. There is no such thing as utopia, as heaven on earth, because there is always going to be something with the potential to ruin your mood, your day, or if you're really unlucky, your life.” Andy watched as he carefully removed his glasses, folded the arms and tucked them into his breast pocket. For the first time, he could see Jets prosthetic eyes, they were a rich hazel, like sun shining through a glass of whiskey, staring emptily at the ground in front of them.
“It all depends on whether you let the things ruin you. I have spent my life trying, desperately, to make sure that the things don’t ruin me, so I smile, and I look specifically for the good things about the world. Whereas you, you look for the sadness, and the grief, and the misery, that covers the world like a depressant, forcing everyone into a constant state of frustration that does nothing but make their life a misery, and then you wonder why you can't see the good in the world.”
“So yes, I think the world is beyond beautiful, and I understand that it is also an awful, awful place, but I choose not to dwell on that, because accepting your fate never gets anyone anywhere. You can't change the problems in the world if you’ve already given up. Life can be beautiful if you let it.”
Andy thought about this for a moment, dumbstruck by the fact that a sightless boy saw more beauty than him.
“And even then, not all beautiful things must be seen. Some beautiful things are the small nothingness that you hold close to your heart and make life worth living.”
Andy nodded, awe filtering through him like adrenaline, filling him up. “You’re right.”
Jet sniggered, that signature Cheshire grin splitting his face ear to ear, “I know.”
And maybe, just maybe, the sunset was just a little brighter that evening
#1k celebration#i genuinely cannot believe there’s that many of u guys#i feel like I’ve been hosting a basement party and expected like 2 people to show up and now don’t have enough crisps#short story#blindness#descriptive writing#writing#short stories#my writing#writing prompts#daily dose of writing
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Dawn
Lucy smiles and its like the sun breaking over the horizon. You'd find her dipping her toes into the frigid sea that lies in the shadow of Cair Paravel before her siblings even stir in their beds; greeting the merfolk and breathing in the salty sea air.
She'd collect pearly seashells as she walks along the stretch of the sandy beach and watches the sky turn from silvery pink to golden blue. Sometimes, Mr. Tumnus would join her and they'd frolic with the merfolk, running and chasing and swimming, both laughing madly.
More often than not, however, Lucy would run down to the beach alone, and listen to the world sleep.
Her bedroom has a bay window that houses an impressive collection of seashells, each gleaming in the stream of sunlight like sparkling gemstones.
She'd dance and twirl in the waves at low tide and watches the sea from afar at high tide and laughs as the salty spray of water drenches her hair and her nightgown.
Sea water clings to her eyelashes like tears, her hair falls in a golden sheet down her back and necklaces of coral and seaweed loop around her throat; colours of the sea resplendent against the pure white of her nightgown - gifts of affection and respect from the merfolk to the Queen who always reciprocated in kind.
By the time the sun rises in the sky and her people awake, Queen Lucy the Valiant would be slipping back into her chambers, with sparkling eyes and a giddy smile, ready to take on the new day.
Midday
Peter was, above all else, a great listener. It was hard not to be, what with being the eldest of four chatterbox siblings.
People would assume Edmund to be the quiet brother of the two of them and they'd be very much mistaken.
Peter was not very comfortable on his throne (and who would be- its all twisted metal and sharply cut gemstones and heats horribly in the summers-) but looking at him you'd never know it.
He doesn't lounge, but doesn't sit stiffly either; his shoulders are relaxed and his hands rest easily on the carved armrests.
His gaze is always warm and inviting and his smile is kind and those who come to him for counsel often forget he wears a crown at all.
Fauns and drayads and centaurs from all corners of Narnia come to pay homage to the High King. They arrive in awe and slight fear of meeting King Peter the Magnificent, High King over all Kings in Narnia, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion; but leave cheerful and contented, with the feeling of being wrapped in a warm hug, having met Peter, the friend, the brother, the mother-hen.
There is a skylight in the war rooms of Cair Paravel that lets the overhead sun bathe maps and other assorted weapons scattered on tables in the circular room in a strong, golden light. In these rooms, Peter's whole stance changes.
The friendly countenance and smiling eyes are no where to be seen and the hardened warrior who fought the White Witch blade-to-wand takes his place.
Peter wields his sword like an extension of his own arm. The red lion on his shield glistens like fresh blood in heat of the afternoon sun and Peter's metal chainmail clinks as he goes round and round and round the training field, fending off opponents from all sides.
Fearsome opponents they are too, for Lucy is swift and sure and Susan is as lethal as she is graceful and when Edmund and Philip team up, it is best to stay far, far away; but Peter did not become Emperor of the Lone Islands with luck alone and he is at his strongest with his sword, Rhindon, in his hand and defeats them all easily.
Their laughter echoes against the warm castle walls, joyful and bright, and Peter's is the loudest of all as he wrestles with his brother and playfully glares at his sisters, courtly manners and graces all but forgotten in the balmy summer air.
Twilight
Edmund was a diplomat. He was as trained in the art of wordcraft as he was in the art of warfare.
Peter insisted that all the griping and complaining Edmund did when they were younger was now helping him deal with whiny nobles from Archenland and Galma who did nothing but gripe and complain. Edmund's response was to flip him the bird.
He was cultured, refined and smooth in the company of ambassadors; deflecting certain questions, answering others with brutal honesty. Susan was so proud of him.
He was honest, honourable and humble in the company of knights. He told amusing tales and sang amusing songs in the light of the campfire, he looked out for his knights and heard their worries.
He shared their joys and their sorrows, he played as many pranks on his fellows-in-arms as they played on him, he fought for them and bled for them and they knew he would die for them as they would for him.
He was beloved, not only by his knights, but also by the people of Lantern Waste, and Peter couldn't be prouder.
He slipped into masks as easily as breathing, from King to Knight to Judge to Friend to Symbol to Myth to Lover to Guardian to Warrior, but his favourite was Brother, when he let go off all his duties at the end of the day and simply - fell into a chair with all the grace of an uncooked pancake.
When he could sit in one of the many balconies of Cair Paravel, curl up with his siblings, and watch the sun set in a blaze of colour.
When he could watch the sky paint the sea and the castle in shades of blue.
When everything was still and peaceful and it felt like everyone is holding their breath - just before the first fireflies emerged from the trees, glowing softly, illuminating Lucy's sleepy face.
When he could just be Ed - not King Edmund the Just, Duke of Lantern Waste, Count of the Western March and who knew what else; Ed, brother and friend and current victim of Peter's latest prank, Ed, beloved by his family - and that was more than enough for him.
And when he resists punching Peter in the face for painting his black curls a startling green? Well. That's when Lucy's proudest of all.
Midnight
Susan was an open book. She was beautiful and charming and graceful and clever and everyone agreed she was a perfect lady with perfect manners and perfect posture, just perfect, perfect, perfect.
Heads would turn as she walked past, hair braided with flowers, silken dress whispering against the carpeted halls, and people would come up to her to sing her praises and she would never refute them, just smile gently and thank them sincerely, from the bottom of her heart.
People from other lands would look at her, Queen Susan the Gentle, in all her beauty and finery, so elegant, so pure next to her calloused and scarred brothers and sister and think her the weakest link of the four, and she would smile, all sharp teeth, and let them continue to think so.
She let them see the porcelin doll of a surface and think that's all there is to her, let them never look beyond into the wild storm of deadly claws and broken glass that lay behind her eyes, the always sharp quiver of arrows that lay in her room, the curved bow that rested strung and polished by her bedside, the jagged edge ivory hairpins that hold up her hair even now.
Let them never guess that even a single petal from one of the flowers wound in her braid could incapacitate a fully grown man if ingested; that the shoes she wore under her dress weren't delicate heels but steel toed boots, that her dress was more of an armory than evening wear, that her brothers and sisters may triumph over their foes under the light of day but she did the same in the cover of night.
She was as lethal as she was beautiful, as vicious as she was charming; level headed, with a good mind for strategy, the only one who could beat her at chess was Edmund and oh so very protective of her family and her people.
Lucy once compared her to a mother bear. Susan, sweet, gentle Susan, who knew exactly how to use her looks and her words, who used the title Alsan has bestowed upon her to stay out of sight and out of mind, who had set up the most comprehensive secret police service Narnia had ever known (take notes, White Witch), grinned wickedly and answered that mother bears should be compared to her.
Susan was brilliant and radiant and careful and cunning. She was the most loving and nurturing person her people ever had the pleasure of knowing.
She was as mysterious as the night, and the Narnians, unlike dignitaries from overseas, knew she wasn't an open book at all. Nor was she a puzzle waiting to be solved.
She was simply Queen Susan, their Protector. Queen Susan, who reigned destruction down on those who threatened the land she loved so dearly.
They did not adore her as they did Queen Lucy, did not swear loyalty to her as they did King Edmund, did not feel overwhelming awe and affection for her as they did King Peter, but they respected her and cherished the pages of the short life she shared with them forevermore.
#i love lucy sm#she's my absolute fav#peter is THE helicopter sibling#and i will die on this hill#fight me#edmund is a master actor and thats the tea for today#poor bby enjoys it so just let him be narnia's very own broadway star pls??#thanku#susan is a Spymaster#thats it#thats the essay#also she's a BAMF and i love her#don't mess with susan pevensie or she'll string you up by your guts#and thats the lesson for today folks#the chronicles of narnia#narnia#narnia headcanon#queen susan the gentle#king peter the magnificent#king edmund the just#queen lucy the valiant#the pevensies
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The Importance of First Impressions
Or: How Remus Got Himself Kidnapped, Like An Idiot.
Hoo boy. This is, or rather was supposed to be my gift for @arc-gx for the @sanderssidesgiftxchange for this past Christmas. I’m sorry for taking this long to get it out, I just kept putting it off and putting it off and all of a sudden it’s mid-January like wtf… Anyway, they asked for Logan angst or intrulogical and I figured “why not both?” and here we are. Again, super sorry this is almost a month late, but here you go. This is actually the first fanfic that I’ve ever actually finished, so any tips are greatly appreciated!
Word Count: 1120
Summary: When a royal wedding is disrupted by tragedy, Roman must go forth and rescue his brother, but does Remus really want to be saved?
Pairings: romantic intrulogical, familial creativitwins
Warnings: Homophobia (being forced into a het marriage), unsympathetic Logan (but it’s just acting dw), minor innuendo, major character near-death, general angst (most of it’s just Roman being dramatic tho)
Today was supposed to be one of celebration, of merriment! The crown prince was to be married, and to the princess of an incredibly powerful neighboring kingdom, one which Prince Remus was to rule over, once the day comes. At least, that was the plan. Tragedy had struck, the prince had been kidnapped by a dark mage, and was being held hostage. Naturally, Prince Roman, being the proud and chivalrous young man that he was, immediately volunteered to lead a mission to rescue his brother. It was only now, as he approached the dark tower which had loomed along the horizon for the entirety of Roman’s travels, that he began to have second thoughts about the advisability of this mission.
He had started this quest with 10 of the kingdom’s greatest knights, only for each to either meet his end or turn around and head home, leaving the prince alone in his journey. He tactfully approached the entrance, checking for any sign of magical traps. Thankfully there were none to be found, and he soon found himself standing in the center of a massive entrance hall.
“Face me, magician!” he bellowed into the empty building. Though he was at first only met with a fading echo, soon enough a deep chuckling ricocheted throughout the chamber, the shadows seeming to bend together into a human form at the top of the ornate staircase across the hall.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting yet more royal blood to enter my domain,” the sorcerer’s hands burst alight with blue flame, brightly illuminating the previously dim room, “did you come here, all on your own, in some vain attempt to ‘rescue’ your brother? How delightfully lamentable. Soon you’ll be disposed of in much the same way he was.”
Roman charged for the stairs, only for the sorcerer to disappear once more. Likewise, the shadows of the room began to pool beneath the prince, forming a swirling mass beneath his feet just before giving way, sending him falling through an inky void. Not for long, however, as soon another such portal formed pulling Roman back to the tower, though he now found himself leaning against the parapets for support, easily hundreds of feet above the entrance hall he stood in only moments before. Before him stood his quarry, an indigo staff materializing in his hands, glowing with arcane energy.
Roman leapt forward, driving his sword toward the man who kidnapped his brother, only for the mage to easily deflect the blade with his staff. He deftly leapt backwards, only for Roman to charge forward again, feinting a similar attack, only to thrust his pommel into the sorcerer’s gut and sweep his leg beneath him.
The spellcaster was caught off guard by the sudden move and found himself on the ground with the tip of the prince’s blade pressed against his windpipe before he could react.
Roman glowered at the man before him. “Give me one good reason not to run my blade through your throat, slime.”
The magician’s eyes widened at his words, he made to scramble backwards, only for the blade to follow until his head knocked against the stone wall of the parapets. “I… You- I-” she stammered, gulping.
The prince raised his blade, ready to end this pitiful excuse for a dark mage until a voice cried out from the stairwell into the tower. “ROMAN, NO! STOP!”
The sound of his brother’s voice made the prince drop his blade in shock. He whipped around to see the crown prince, looking just as resplendent as the day he was kidnapped. He ran between his brother and the sorcerer, ready to protect his captor.
“Remus I- wha-” Now Roman found himself unable to form words. “What in the name of all things good and gay in this land is going on?”
“Well, this might take a little bit of explanation...” Remus failed to meet his brother’s eyes for a moment. “I may have… staged my own kidnapping? With Logan’s help?”
Roman looked aghast “You what?” staged his own kidnapping? How- why- so many questions swirled through the younger prince’s head as he fell to his knees. “I- I don’t… understand.”
“It’s quite simple, actually.” The sorcerer, Logan, had stood back up, dusting himself off. “Your brother asked me to deliver him from the castle to, as I believe he put it ‘get out of that damn nasty het marriage mom and dad are trying to force me into for the good of the kingdom or some dumb crap’, and I simply had to play the part of evil sorcerer in order to scare off any would-be knights in shining armor. I must say, it was rather entertaining. Not to mention some of the… other benefits.” the previously stoic man shot the crown prince a sly look.
“Oh my stars, please don’t. I have to put up with that sort of talk enough whenever he’s around.” Roman looked away from the two, his face growing several shades redder. “So, Remus doesn’t want to come back. But I can’t exactly go home empty handed, what am I supposed to say, ‘Oh I’m sorry guys turns out the prince just noped out of here! Sorry, better luck next monarch!’ I mean I might have to take up the crown at this point, and it’s not exactly as if I could pass off as straight or anything. Mom and Dad aren’t gonna be happy, whatever happens.”
“Well, that doesn’t have to necessarily be the case.” Logan’s hands glowed, producing a large bucket filled with ash. “Here’s what you should do...”
“And so, the prince solemnly returned to the capital, bringing back word that his older brother had perished by the sorcerer’s doing. Roman had dispatched the magician himself, but it was too late for the crown prince. In light of his sorrow over the events which took place, as well as his lack of preparedness, Roman chose to abdicate the throne, leading to a succession crisis lasting nearly a decade. The former prince secluded himself from public life, never really seen in public again. Secretly, he had fled the kingdom not long after his abdication, making a name for himself as a valiant knight. As for his brother, he and the magician who he had asked to kidnap him lived a peaceful, happy life together. The end.”
“Jeez bro, you wrote a whole fairy tale fic just to ship me and Logic?” Remus dangled down from the top bunk of their shared bed in the mindscape.
“...shut up” Roman snatched the leatherbound book from his twin, putting it alongside all the other “side fics” that were never meant to see the light of day, even if Remus kept finding them.
#sanders sides#roman sanders#logan sanders#remus sanders#ts roman#ts logan#ts remus#sanders sides fic#sanders sides fanfiction
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Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love
It is a terrible thing to be in love with someone who you will outlive.
[Recommended listening: A reading of W.H. Auden’s Lay Your Sleeping Head, My Love or, for those who like music more, a musical cover by Madeline Peyroux.]
Henrik is so young.
Perhaps not to some, as they may consider fifty to be plenty old enough. Fifty years, after all, is five whole decades, one half of a century. People tend to think that that is quite a long time.
But Norway has lived for a thousand years, watched millions upon millions of humans be born and be snatched away from life, either by the hands of others or by the silent killers that are age and illness. Fifty years is a drop in the ocean to him.
Despite his age, Henrik’s beauty is timeless. It is hard to believe that he, too, is not a nation. His wild mane of golden hair is like the Netherlands’, his piercing blue eyes those of Sweden, his seemingly boundless energy resembling America’s. He seems better suited to be the personification of the Kingdom of Denmark than the current one. The day Norway saw him in Copenhagen, resplendent and radiant in the Royal Theatre, he nearly thought that Denmark himself had a makeover.
But not now. His untamed hair is splayed across the pillow, tickling Norway’s arm whenever he shifts. His sapphire eyes are glazed over with fever. He has never been so weak.
He is beautiful anyways.
Whatever illness is plaguing Henrik has no cure. It will snatch him away soon, stop his heart when he should’ve had twenty, thirty more years. Norway will lose him forever.
The two of them are curled up in Norway’s bedroom, in a tiny cottage far, far away from the city. He has taken each and every one of his lovers here at least once. On this bed, love has been made before, but today it will be lost. Henrik is clinging on to his arm, trembling with cold despite the heavy quilt over him. From the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the room, all is black. The only light comes from a candle, its wick holding a flame as flickering as Henrik’s life.
They have laid like this before, lazy and love-drunk in each other’s arms. This might be the last time they share a bed.
Henrik coughs. His chest spasms. Norway holds him closer and rubs his back soothingly, lips pressed tight to the crown of his head as he shakes. “Easy now,” he murmurs, “take deep breaths.”
His breath is rattling. Henrik curls into the warmth of his chest. “Water,” he rasps. His loud, robust voice has been reduced to this.
Norway hands him a glass and holds him steady as he sips from it. “Do you need anything else?”
“No.” He smiles feebly. Even when weak, he is utterly charming. “Just need you.”
He settles back in bed, his head resting on Norway’s arm. His eyes flutter closed. His breathing slows. Norway’s mind is left to wander again.
He has never had a human die beside him - at least, not one of his lovers. They left him far before it was their time, always choosing another mortal partner over one that stayed eerily, eternally young. Henrik is the only one who was loyal - or would “foolish” be a better word? - enough to stay for thirty whole years.
Some people may speak when they see this middle-aged man holding hands with one who looks not a day over twenty. But the words mortals say are nothing compared to the nations’ silent scrutiny. He isn’t like France, with the lovers he wears through half a decade at a time, but they stare all the same. I’m sorry, England’s eyes say. What a pity, Finland’s sigh. They all know how a relationship with a human will end.
That is still nothing compared to the heavy, defeated acknowledgement that weighs down on Henrik when he is sad. No, no glare from the nations could hurt Norway as much as seeing Henrik reflect on the fact that yes, after he is gone from this world, not a century will pass before Norway will have forgotten him and found someone else. He is not special.
And perhaps that will be the case one day, though he can never be sure; not even a nation like him can see the future. But now, all he can focus on is Henrik, trembling beside him.
Henrik’s eyes flutter open again. That beautiful blue gaze is dulling. Perhaps he will not last the night. But his grin is very much filled with life. Norway brushes his hair away from his clammy forehead, asking “how do you feel?”
“Tired. But I’m always tired now.”
“Does anything hurt?”
He shakes his head slightly, exhaling with a puff. Even the tiniest movements exhaust him now. “Nothing. I want a kiss, though.”
Norway obliges him, pressing his lips to Henrik’s and pretending they are just having another night together despite the air of illness and near-death that constantly lingers now. Outside the window, the sun is just beginning to rise. Day will come soon. Henrik nuzzles his neck. “Wish this could last forever,” he mumbles.
“Hmm?”
“Just you and me. In bed together. Forever and ever.” He has to stop to catch his breath. The fingers that have been clinging to Norway’s nightshirt since last evening grow weak.
For him, it may well be eternal. He kisses Henrik again, square on the lips. To Hell if he catches whatever disease his lover has; he can survive it. His mortality means nothing.
Birds are calling. Henrik groans in his half-sleeping state.
While the night slips away, Norway takes hold of his hand, running his fingers over the thin skin of his hand that is just starting to wrinkle. If only he were not dying.
The only way to save Henrik from the inevitable grasp of death is to rid him of his humanity entirely. A couple decades ago, during the Second World War, Norway heard tales of England refusing to let a boy he thought his son depart from him, and in a fit of desperation christened him the Principality of Sealand so that he would live.
He could do that, make Henrik the personification of Narvik, maybe, or Ålesund, or another small place so he could live forever without the stress of the rest of the personified world. But would Henrik want that?
Sealand, or Peter as he calls himself, hated England after being immortalised, after being doomed to be a child forever. He cursed England for making it so that he’d never grow up, never know how it’d feel to be an adult. What if Henrik hated him the same way?
They have never once talked about that possibility. Now that Henrik is barely clinging on to life, it might be a good time to. Norway runs his fingers through his hair, waiting for the next time he is coherent.
Once again, his eyes flutter open. The light in them is almost extinguished.
“Does anything hurt?” Norway asks again.
“No.”
He sighs. “I wish I could magically cure you.”
“It’s all right.” Henrik’s hand grows limper, fingers barely brushing his nightshirt. “Even if I - if I die, I’ll be happy.”
“I could change you.” He can hear the desperation in his own voice. “I could let you personify a village, a small town, something like that. You could stay alive.”
“No,” Henrik whispers.
“Why not?”
“Y-You deserve better.” He coughs, curling up in a ball. “Better... than me.”
Tears, hot and shameful, blur Norway’s vision for a brief moment. “I’ll never find anyone better than you.”
The smile that Henrik gives him is feeble, fleeting. It is so unlike his smiles from when he was healthy, grins radiant enough to light up the night sky. “You will.”
He lets the tears fall. “But - “
“You make me happy.” His other hand, clutched in Norway’s, twitches. He gently traces his hand with his thumb. “I won’t be happy if - “ he coughs again - “if I change.”
He finally lets himself cry, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. Henrik’s weak hand stretches out to catch some of his teardrops. “Don’t cry,” he pleads. “Not... not over me.”
The slowly-brightening sky is almost blinding to him. He wipes his eyes, feeling a cold, hollow emptiness take over him. How idiotic he must look, crying when he is the powerful, undying one.
Henrik closes his eyes again. Norway forces himself to calm down. If only he were Belarus - harsh, hostile Belarus who despises humankind and refuses to befriend any, let alone love one. If he were like her, he would never have subjected himself to this sorrow over and over again.
He rests a hand on Henrik’s chest. His heart is beating sluggishly, so weak that Norway can hardly hear it. In a few hours, it will stop altogether.
How could he have taken those thirty years for granted? How could he have called his greatest love a fool, teased him for his many whims, when every second they spent should’ve been treasured? Are human lovers like this, too, in which they never care for the times they spend with their partners until it is all over? Or are they the logical ones here? Maybe they live every loving moment to the fullest.
As Henrik lies quivering beside him, Norway thinks of lovers from the times before - Hans and Harald, Oscar and Alfred, Gilbert and Gordon. How easy their love was, in comparison to his! How easy it is to be a man who can only love other men, compared to an immortal cursed to love a human. Better die together than to outlive one’s many loves. Yes, humans with their mayfly years have it easy.
“Nor?” Henrik is awake again, despite having closed his eyes no more than fifteen minutes ago.
“Yes, dear?”
“You should sleep.”
“No, no.” Norway bends down to press a kiss to his cheek, breathing in his scent beneath the stench of illness. “I have to take care of you.”
He shifts slightly, laying his head in the crook of his elbow. His fingers entwine with Norway’s. “You have work.” Henrik gasps, choking on his own breath. Once he can breathe again, he continues, “so you need rest. And I want to cuddle you.” He tries to wink.
He has never been able to deny Henrik anything for long. He slides so that he’s lying down next to his lover and bundles him to his chest. It has always been the other way around, with Henrik squeezing him tight with steady arms. But he will have to be the strong one tonight.
What did Henrik ever see in him? He does not have Italy’s charisma nor China’s beauty, nor Switzerland’s riches. He is a wisp of a man, awkward at best. He never thought he would attract humans.
But he did. And the latest one, about to be stolen away like all the others, is in his arms. Norway kisses his forehead, hums a song they both know and love. Henrik laughs, a pained wheezing sound that sounds like he’s choking. He might be.
The sun is about to breach the horizon. Henrik’s heart, pumping laboriously against his arm, will not last much longer. His breaths have grown shallower, too. He will die before the day comes.
Fighting back tears, he kisses him again. The blanket settles warm and heavy over them. The mattress is soft. Aflame with fever, Henrik is almost too warm in his embrace. His head is buried in Norway’s shoulder; their fingers are still laced together. “Good morning and goodnight, Nor,” he mumbles.
For Henrik’s sake, he forces himself to smile. “Good morning and goodnight, Henrik.”
“I love you.”
I adore you, Norway wants to say. I worship you, I would die for you, I would do anything to see you in good health once more. I live for you and you only. I love you even if I will forget you one day.
But pretty words are worthless now. He kisses Henrik a third time, right on his chapped lips, and whispers, “I love you too.”
He closes his eyes, afraid to open them again, for he knows what he will see.
When Norway awakens, it is noon. The sun is high in the sky, blessing all the world with its golden light.
Henrik is still snuggled into his shoulder. The fingers lacing his are cold.
Norway sits up, slowly easing Henrik down onto the pillows. He brushes his blond locks aside to take a look at him.
Henrik’s eyes are closed. He is smiling softly. He looks so young.
#aph dennor#APH Denmark#APH Norway#aph fanfiction#my writing#aph suffering#hahahahhahahaha#hope y'all enjoyed the p a i n#no happy endings in my house oh no#only pain
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Henry VII's Coronation: The Red Dragon and the Beauforts' Triumph
On the 30th of October 1485, two months after he won the battle of Bosworth, Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond was crowned King of England, becoming the Seventh of that name by the grace of God and all his saints.
The best description of Henry VII’s coronation and unlikely rise can be found in House of Beaufort by Nathen Amin, head of The Henry Tudor Society. Nathen Amin has done a good job reinvigorating interest in Henry VII’s reign by starting off the book with his coronation and from there moving on to the Beauforts. Henry’s maternal family, who were at the heart of every major conflict of the fifteenth century, including the wars of the roses.
“St. Edward’s Crown, resplendent in all its golden glory, was being held above the brown-haired head of a slender twenty-eight-year-old who had, until two months earlier, been a stranger to the country he was no invited to rule. The small blue eyes of this new king of England were focused, his mind resolute that this very day was the will of God. Many in the kingdom, not just the man now occupying the throne, interpreted the victory of his disparate army on a bloody battlefield under the Leicestershire sun as divine judgment. In his left hand he held a golden scepter topped with a cross, while in his right hand he clutched another scepter, mounted with a dove. The former represented his new temporal power while the latter symbolized a monarch’s spiritual authority, both of which were now vested in the royal person of Henry Tudor.
The venerated, if aged hands that held the crown belonged to Cardinal Thomas Bourchier, archbishop of Canterbury and a clergyman who had witnessed the turmoil and tragedy of the previous forty years at close quarters. Due to the cardinal’s growing infirmity, he was ably assisted during the ceremony by Peter Courtenay and John Morton, bishops of Exeter and Ely respectively, and men who had spent considerable time with Henry in exile, establishing close relations with the man they now sought to serve. As the elderly archbishop lowered the crown onto Henry’s head, he was symbolically bestowing kingship upon no fewer than his third English sovereign; Bourchier had crowned Edward IV in 1461 and Richard III in 1483, as well as crowning Edward’s wife Elizabeth Wydeville as queen in 1465. The name of Henry Tudor was now added to that prestigious list.
As would become the standard for Tudor public ceremony over the next century, no expense was spared on the opulent occasion. There was good reason for this; Henry VII had been an unknown stranger to his new subjects before the Battle of Bosworth, and he was keen to ensure he converted any doubters with lavish festivities to mark his accession. From day one, the Tudors readily acknowledged the need to put on majestic displays to conceal any flaws in their claim to the throne. It is unsurprising to later read the king’s court historian Bernard Andre describe the occasion as a ‘most excellent coronation’. The Tudors had arrived.
Throughout the day, the king appeared glorious in the new garments procured for the ancient rituals. Significant sums of money had been spent on items such as a velvet jacket with black and ermine furs, while during the day he proudly bore a surcoat crafted from fine blue cloth. Henry augmented his regal costume with a long gown of crimson cloth of gold and also had robes fashioned from crimson velvet and satin. A luxurious doublet of cloth of gold, as well as another doublet of black satin, had also been tailored for the king, who cut a glittering figure in front of his curious subjects. London’s goldsmiths, embroiderers and cloth merchants had clearly done brisk business in the weeks preceding the coronation.
Apart from the king, the coronation of Henry VII represented the triumph of several other individuals among his affinity. Many had recently been granted estates and titles from an appreciative Henry, and the ceremony was as much their celebration as it was the king’s. Henry’s devoted and resilient uncle Jasper Tudor was one such figure, having been rewarded for rescuing his brother’s son from the Yorkists at the age of fourteen and fleeing to Brittany, then France, where the pair remained until only three weeks before Bosworth. It was Jasper who was given the fitting honour of bearing his nephew’s crown through the abbey, while others given prominent roles included Thomas Stanley, recently created earl of Derby and stepfather of the king, and John de Vere, 13th Earl of Oxford, a skilled commander who had been integral in securing victory at Bosworth. Derby entrusted with bearing the Sword of State during the procession while Oxford was granted the honour of bearing the king’s train.
Throughout the ceremony, the loud lamentations of an anguished woman threatened to disrupt the solemn proceedings. The tearful lady in question was the king’s beloved mother Lady Margaret Beaufort, Stanley’s wife and widow of Henry’s father Edmund Tudor, earl of Richmond. It was apparent the countess had become stricken with fear for her only child, perhaps anticipating a series of threats to his person once settled upon the throne. During the funeral sermon given by Bishop John Fisher after Margaret’s death in 1509, her behavior during the coronation was recalled, with Fisher noting how she would ‘dredde the adversyte’ and that when ‘the Kynge her Son was Crowned, in all that grete tryumphe and glory, she wept mervaylously’. Margaret;s reaction seems extraordinary when one considers the monetous occasion, particularly as her son’s accession would bring her unparalleled influence, wealth and political sway as the king’s mother. What had prompted such a tearful outpouring of dread?
For Margaret, her only child’s coronation represented not only the unlikely triumph of the Welsh-born Tudors, but also that of her own ancestors, the Beauforts. The family traced their origin to 1372 and the birth of Margaret’s grandfather John Beaufort, an illegitimate son of John of Gaunt, the exceptionally wealthy duke of Lancaster and the third son of Edward III.
The Beauforts were, therefore, royally descended, and after their retrospective legitimization in 1397 became loyal adherents to the first three Lancastrian monarchs, amassing considerable influence in the process. By 1471, however, it was Margaret alone who survived as the last living male-line member of her family, a status she wore with brazen pride, a sentiment similarly borne by her only son. It was, after all, Beaufort blood that gave Henry his slender claim to the throne.
On the day of Henry’s coronation, several royal and dynastic emblems were liberally displayed on banners and tapestries throughout London, including generic insignia such as the English coat of arms and the badges of Saints Edmund the Martyr and Edward the Confessor. The new king had been particularly keen to draw attention to three of his own adopted emblems. The first was the red rose, which the king embraced to signify his kinship to the House of Lancaster and his uncle Henry VI, his father’s half-brother. The second was a red dragon, an ancient symbol purportedly borne by the seventh-century Welsh king Cadwaladr, from whom the Tudors claimed descent. The third symbol freely employed by the new king was that of a porticullis. In an era when heraldry was as recognizable as big brands are in the present day, those assembled in the abbey were acutely aware to whom the king was alluding, for the portcullis was an established Beaufort emblem synonymous with the family’s earlier members, including Henry’s grandfather and great-grandfather, both named John. The king would later use the motto altera securitas with the portcullis badge, stressing that his Beaufort ancestry only served to bolster his claim to a throne he had boldly claimed by right of conquest. If anyone at the coronation celebrations remained in doubt as to the king’s pride in his maternal lineage, the substantial figure of 50 pounds was spent commissioning 105 silver and gilt portcullises for distribution during the day. The purpose of this costly exercise was clear: to advertise the throne now belonged to the Beauforts, if not in name, then certainly in spirit.
The improbable rise of Henry Tudor from penniless Welsh exile to king of England is one of the most remarkable episodes in British history, but the role played by his maternal Beaufort relations in the rise is often overlooked. The Beauforts had been born as bastards to a royal duke and his foreign-born mistress to become earls, dukes and cardinals, securing untold wealth and influence throughout the first half of the fifteenth century before losing everything in a series of catastrophic battles between 1455 and 1471. It was the gradual collapse of this mighty family during the Wars of the Roses that paved the way for Henry Tudor to take up the Beaufort cause in lieu of his mother. The Tudor triumph represented the resurgence of the Beauforts.
And yet, in the momentous setting of Westminster Abbey and amidst the unbridled merriment of those present, Margaret Beaufort ‘ryghte tenderly’ wept. Though her beloved son, who ‘from a grave and serious child, had become a gallant and victorious Prince’, now occupied the throne, the tribulations of her family had preconditioned the countess to presume that soaring highs were inevitably followed by crushing lows. As Bishop Fisher summarized at her funeral, ‘whereyn she had full grete joy, she let not to saye that some dversyte wolde followe’.
When one considers the Beauforts’ tumultuous existence throughout the fifteenth century, Margaret’s attitude is perhaps easily understood. Geoffrey Chaucer, a kinsman of the earlier Beauforts through marriage, captured such anxiety perfectly in ‘The Monk’s Tale’ when he wrote,
‘And thus does Fortune’s wheel turn treacherously,
and out of happiness bring men to sorrow.’
From happiness to sorrow; it could almost have been a Beaufort family motto.” ~Nathen Amin, House of Beaufort
It’s deeply evocative. It reads more like a novel than a history book. This is what narrative history is all about. It reignites interest in these historical figures and encourages those who are new to the Tudor Dynasty, to find out more about it.
Additionally, there is something appealing about the Tudors that surpasses interest in any other dynasty. And that is thanks in part to the Tudor wit. The Tudors, more than any other monarch, learned that true power of the pen, proving once again that the pen is mightier than the sword.
Appearance were everything for them. Henry Tudor crafted an alternative tale of the events that led to the wars of the roses with the 'Tudor rose'. White over red, or red over white, it showed the union of two houses which had previously been at war with each other. This dynastic warfare had torn the country apart and it came at an end with Henry's reign and his marriage to Elizabeth of York. But as Dr. Lucy Worsley pointed out in the first episode of her documentary series Britain's Biggest Fibs, the truth was far more complicated than that.
“Henry VII’s marriage to Elizabeth would stir attention away from this …” Dr. Lucy Worsley explains, pointing to the the roll that describes the lineage of Lancastrian and Yorkist Kings, and their ancestors, the Plantagenets as well as the Anglo-Saxon kings and queens before them. The scroll belonged to the de la Pole family who had Yorkist blood via one of Edward IV’s sisters. For obvious reasons they didn’t like Henry and were in cohort with Margaret of York, Duchess Dowager of Burgundy and others, to depose Henry VII. Henry VII did descend from a “servant grandfather” as Dr. Worsley put it, but he did have Lancastrian blood via his mother, Margaret Beaufort. The Beauforts got their last name after one of the castles that belonged to their forefather, John of Gaunt, 1st Duke of Lancaster. Because the Beauforts had been conceived and born before John of Gaunt married their mother, they were considered illegitimate. But they were legitimized by Richard II. After Richard II was deposed however, their half-brother, Henry IV (the first Lancaster monarch) added another clause that excluded them from the line of succession.
Henry VII's union did not end the wars of the roses nor did it lend credibility to his claim.
Dan Jones also points this out in his book "Wars of the Roses: The Fall of Plantagenets and the Rise of the Tudors" (Hollow Crown in the UK). The war would go on well into the reign of Henry VIII, and the paranoia over those with (arguably) better claim than the Tudors, would lead to one of the most horrific executions in English history.
Nevertheless, the rise of the Tudors is nothing short of astounding. The fact that ALL of them managed to defeat all of their rivals, and remain on the throne is worthy of recognition.
In his book Rise of the Tudors (Bosworth in the UK), Chris Skidmore points out how unlikely Henry's rise was, and how it often gets overlooked by modern audiences:
“The reality of Henry Tudor’s ascent to the throne –his narrow escapes from death, his failures and anxieties, complete with constant uncertainty of his situation, and the compromises that he had been forced to make, including the support from France and hiss former Yorkist enemies in gaining the crown- was a far less welcome tale. It remains nonetheless nonetheless just as remarkable; against all the odds, at Bosworth Henry achieved victory that he should have not on”
One of the reasons that Henry VII doesn't get a lot of recognition is because the pendulum has swung to the other side, juxtaposing him in the role that was once cast for Richard. It has become fashionable to see Richard as the hero and Henry as the villain. And while it is great that many novelists and historians have taken a deep interest in the last Plantagenet king, they don't quite get that by painting both of these figures with a broad brush, they are doing the exact same thing that they accuse dozens of chroniclers and the celebrated playwright William Shakespeare of doing.
They say that those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Clearly, Henry did learn from history because he continued with many of the policies that worked during the Yorkist regime, primarily those of his late father-in-law, Edward IV, and did away with those that didn't, making him one of the best administrator and successful monarchs of the fifteenth century to the beginning of the sixteenth century.
At the time that Henry was crowned King of England, there was a lot of uncertainty. The country had lived through many uprisings. Margaret Beaufort herself shared their sentiment when she cried, according to her confessor John Fisher, tears of fear and joy upon seeing her son crowned. She, more than everyone, knew how fickle power was and if her son didn't reign properly, then he would meet the same fate as his predecessor. Time however, proved everyone wrong. Henry died on the 21st of April 1509, after ruling England for nearly twenty four years. He left the crown richer than it had ever been. He was outlived by his mother for a few months who, despite her ill-health and melancholy, refused to die until her grandson was of age and jointly crowned king of England with Katharine of Aragon as his queen.
Henry was buried at Westminster Abbey, in the lady chapel, next to his wife, Elizabeth of York.
His story has been the source of inspiration for fantasy writer George R. R. Martin, who based one of his characters on him. If this wasn't evident before, it has become evident now with the last two seasons of the show which have gone beyond the books. Daenerys Targaryen's banner is a three-headed red dragon who is regarded as a foreigner by many of her would-be-subjects. She lands on the place of her birth, a place that is regarded as mysterious as it is dreary. This is awfully familiar to Henry's return from exile when he landed on the place of his birth, Wales, on Milford Haven, on August 1485. And like Henry VII, she had the odds stacked against her. Unlike her however, he got to sit on the English throne and reigned for nearly twenty-four years, restoring stability to the kingdom and establishing a dynasty whose members were never deposed or dethroned and died in their beds.
Unsurprisingly, Martin has also been inspired by his maternal family story. For those of you who have read the books, you probably know where I am going with this but those of you who don't, let me explain. In his recent book, "The World of Ice and Fire", co-written with Antonson and Garcia, there is a separate branch of the Targaryens known as the "Blackfyres". Their last name is taken from the legendary sword of their founder, Aegon Targaryen, better known as "the Conqueror". They are a bastard line that was nearly legitimized by Aegon IV. After they launched an open rebellion against their legitimate cousins, they were wiped out with only the female members of their line surviving. And while they are not prominent on the show, they play a major role on the books.
Once again, history is the best source of inspiration, but like JRM in The Tudors said, to get to heart of the story, you have to go back to the beginning and the story of Henry's rise doesn't begin with his birth, but with his maternal family, the Beauforts.
#Henry VII#influences in pop culture#history#relation to the world of ice and fire#of george rr martin#targaryen#fantasy#dailytudors
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How can a naked space seem so full? Feelings furnish the stage in the resplendently spare new production of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” which opened on Thursday night at the Bernard Jacobs Theater, and they shimmer, bend and change color like light streaming through a prism.
Directed by Jamie Lloyd — and acted with surgical precision by Tom Hiddleston, Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox — this stripped-down revival of Pinter’s 1978 tale of a sexual triangle places its central characters under microscopic scrutiny, with no place to hide. Especially not from one another, as everybody is on everybody else’s mind, all the time. They are also all almost always fully visible to the audience.
This British version is the most merciless and empathic interpretation of this much performed work I’ve seen, and it keeps returning to my thoughts in piercing shards, like the remnants of a too-revealing dream. I had heard good things about this “Betrayal” when it debuted in London earlier this year, but I didn’t expect it to be one of those rare shows I seem destined to think about forever.
“Betrayal” was dismissed as lightweight by Pinter standards when it opened at the National Theater in London four decades ago, and hearing it described baldly, you can sort of understand why. The high concept pitch could be: “Love among the literati in London leads to disaster, when a publisher discovers his wife is having an affair with his best friend!”
True, the play had an unusual structure, with its reverse chronology. (It begins in 1977 and ends in 1968.) Early critics regarded this as an unnecessary and confusing gimmick. As for all that brittle, passion-concealing wit and straight-faced deception, wasn’t that the stuff of old-guard West End masters like Coward and Rattigan?
With subsequent productions and a first-rate film in 1983 — featuring Jeremy Irons, Ben Kingsley and Patricia Hodge — earlier naysayers began to perceive a creeping depth and delicacy in the work, which for me now ranks among Pinter’s finest. Curiously, despite three starry productions (the most recent led by Daniel Craig and Rachel Weisz), “Betrayal” has never been done full justice on Broadway.
Until now.
Mr. Lloyd’s interpretation balances surface elegance with an aching profundity, so that “Betrayal” becomes less about the anguish of love than of life itself. Specifically, I mean life as lived among people whom we can never truly know. That includes those closest to us; it also includes our own, elusive selves.
The three central characters here are Robert (Mr. Hiddleston); Emma (Ms. Ashton), his wife, a gallerist; and Jerry (Mr. Cox), a literary agent who was the best man at their wedding. Though the majority of the scenes are written for two, Mr. Lloyd keeps all his main characters onstage throughout. (He has also taken the liberty of introducing a fifth, silent character, in addition to the Italian waiter, played with gusto by Eddie Arnold, who appears in the original text.)
That means that when Jerry and Emma are in the rented, out-of-the-way flat where they meet in the afternoons, Robert is present as well — silent, unreacting and at some distance from the others, but undeniably there.
The hoary saying about three being a crowd comes to mind. But then sexual betrayal is inevitably crowded, isn’t it? The absent figure in the triangle is always there as an obstructive phantom, so that no interactions are unconditionally between two people. To borrow from Michael Frayn, whose “Passion Play” is my other favorite 20th-century drama about infidelity, adultery adulterates.
Mr. Lloyd’s “Betrayal” makes us feel this premise all the more acutely, by offering no distractions from the wounded and wounding souls at it center. As designed by the ever-ingenious Soutra Gilmour, and lighted with whispering subtlety by Jon Clark, the set remains a sort of modernist blank slate, like an abandoned contemporary showroom — or, perhaps, laboratory. Nor do the cast members ever change their clothes.
This means the focus is unflinchingly on how these friends and lovers behave, and on the distance between them (wonderfully underscored by a slyly, slowly moving stage). What they say is often as trivial as the most basic small talk. In Pinter, the greatest dramatic weight lies in what’s unspoken, in the darkness of unsorted feelings.
The three principal performers here allow us uncommon access to that darkness. They each achieve a state of heightened emotional transparency. And what we see, in their faces and bodies, and feel — in the less easily described energy that reaches across the footlights — is a harsh and beautiful muddle.
Pinter, like Chekhov, understood that reactions never come singly (though the shrilly opinionated discourse on social media today might lead you to think otherwise). The word “ambivalence” doesn’t begin to cover the thoughts in play in the first scene, when Jerry and Emma uneasily meet in a pub, two years after their affair has ended.
Emma has initiated this encounter. But as played with breathtakingly clear confusion by Ms. Ashton, she can’t explain why she did so. She’s looking for something she misplaced once, or let time carry off, but you know she can’t put her finger on what it is.
As played by the excellent Mr. Cox (best known here as television’s “Daredevil”), Jerry is less palpably unmoored; he would seem to have a thicker skin. And this shifts the center of “Betrayal” to its portrait of a marriage and its corrosive secrets.
As slender and sharp as a paring knife in his dark navy clothing, Mr. Hiddleston’s lacerating Robert seems to live in a state of existential mourning. He can be wittily combative, most memorably in a brilliantly staged restaurant scene with Jerry.
But you’re always aware of the regrets, the uneasiness, the sorrow behind the unbending facade. The scene in a Venice hotel room when he ever so gently, confronts Emma with evidence of her infidelity is almost too painful to watch. What you are witnessing is the conclusive collapse of a marriage’s fragile and necessary structure of illusions.
As a marquee name of films and tabloids, Mr. Hiddleston is the obvious draw here. But it’s the relatively little-known Ms. Ashton (who is also a playwright) who is the breakout star. And her deeply sensitive performance elicits a feminist subtext in “Betrayal.”
Power is a governing dynamic in Pinter. And I’ve seen productions in which Emma, as the only female onstage, emerges as a crushable odd-woman out in a boy’s club society. It’s telling that in this production she is the only major character who doesn’t wear a jacket or, more surprisingly, shoes.
She reads as more vulnerable because of this, but also as more humane and more open to figuring out just what has happened. Emma wants so much — professionally, romantically, domestically. And she’s harrowed by the realization that nothing she thought she had has ever been solidly hers.
More than ever in this version, which features a melancholy soundscape by Ben and Max Ringham, “Betrayal” becomes an elegy about time and memory, in which nothing stays fixed or certain. There’s new resonance to the continuing references to a joyful moment when Jerry threw Emma and Robert’s little girl into the air at a family gathering.
It’s mentioned in the very first scene, when Emma and Jerry meet again. The problem is they can’t agree on where the event happened, in his kitchen or hers.
Ms. Ashton’s Emma tries to conceal how much this small discrepancy upsets her, but her eyes are brimming. She thought she’d always at least have this memory intact — a vision of everyone, together, happy for a moment. It turns out she was mistaken.
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[ Link to the full article in source below. ]
#Tom Hiddleston#Zawe Ashton#Charlie Cox#Betrayal Broadway#bernard b jacobs theater#Jamie lloyd production#Harold Pinter play#Theatre tom#Tom hiddleston stage performance#Tom as robert#Zawe as emma#Charlie as jerry#Broadway debut#The New York Times review#New York City
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How can a naked space seem so full? Feelings furnish the stage in the resplendently spare new production of Harold Pinter’s “Betrayal,” which opened on Thursday night at the Bernard Jacobs Theater, and they shimmer, bend and change color like light streaming through a prism.
Directed by Jamie Lloyd — and acted with surgical precision by Tom Hiddleston, Zawe Ashton and Charlie Cox — this stripped-down revival of Pinter’s 1978 tale of a sexual triangle places its central characters under microscopic scrutiny, with no place to hide. Especially not from one another, as everybody is on everybody else’s mind, all the time. They are also all almost always fully visible to the audience.
This British version is the most merciless and empathic interpretation of this much performed work I’ve seen, and it keeps returning to my thoughts in piercing shards, like the remnants of a too-revealing dream. I had heard good things about this “Betrayal” when it debuted in London earlier this year, but I didn’t expect it to be one of those rare shows I seem destined to think about forever.
“Betrayal” was dismissed as lightweight by Pinter standards when it opened at the National Theater in London four decades ago, and hearing it described baldly, you can sort of understand why. The high concept pitch could be: “Love among the literati in London leads to disaster, when a publisher discovers his wife is having an affair with his best friend!”
True, the play had an unusual structure, with its reverse chronology. (It begins in 1977 and ends in 1968.) Early critics regarded this as an unnecessary and confusing gimmick. As for all that brittle, passion-concealing wit and straight-faced deception, wasn’t that the stuff of old-guard West End masters like Coward and Rattigan?
With subsequent productions and a first-rate film in 1983 — featuring Jeremy Irons, Ben Kingsley and Patricia Hodge — earlier naysayers began to perceive a creeping depth and delicacy in the work, which for me now ranks among Pinter’s finest. Curiously, despite three starry productions (the most recent led by Daniel Craig and Rachel Weisz), “Betrayal” has never been done full justice on Broadway.
Until now.
Mr. Lloyd’s interpretation balances surface elegance with an aching profundity, so that “Betrayal” becomes less about the anguish of love than of life itself. Specifically, I mean life as lived among people whom we can never truly know. That includes those closest to us; it also includes our own, elusive selves.
The three central characters here are Robert (Mr. Hiddleston); Emma (Ms. Ashton), his wife, a gallerist; and Jerry (Mr. Cox), a literary agent who was the best man at their wedding. Though the majority of the scenes are written for two, Mr. Lloyd keeps all his main characters onstage throughout. (He has also taken the liberty of introducing a fifth, silent character, in addition to the Italian waiter, played with gusto by Eddie Arnold, who appears in the original text.)
That means that when Jerry and Emma are in the rented, out-of-the-way flat where they meet in the afternoons, Robert is present as well — silent, unreacting and at some distance from the others, but undeniably there.
The hoary saying about three being a crowd comes to mind. But then sexual betrayal is inevitably crowded, isn’t it? The absent figure in the triangle is always there as an obstructive phantom, so that no interactions are unconditionally between two people. To borrow from Michael Frayn, whose “Passion Play” is my other favorite 20th-century drama about infidelity, adultery adulterates.
Mr. Lloyd’s “Betrayal” makes us feel this premise all the more acutely, by offering no distractions from the wounded and wounding souls at it center. As designed by the ever-ingenious Soutra Gilmour, and lighted with whispering subtlety by Jon Clark, the set remains a sort of modernist blank slate, like an abandoned contemporary showroom — or, perhaps, laboratory. Nor do the cast members ever change their clothes.
This means the focus is unflinchingly on how these friends and lovers behave, and on the distance between them (wonderfully underscored by a slyly, slowly moving stage). What they say is often as trivial as the most basic small talk. In Pinter, the greatest dramatic weight lies in what’s unspoken, in the darkness of unsorted feelings.
The three principal performers here allow us uncommon access to that darkness. They each achieve a state of heightened emotional transparency. And what we see, in their faces and bodies, and feel — in the less easily described energy that reaches across the footlights — is a harsh and beautiful muddle.
Pinter, like Chekhov, understood that reactions never come singly (though the shrilly opinionated discourse on social media today might lead you to think otherwise). The word “ambivalence” doesn’t begin to cover the thoughts in play in the first scene, when Jerry and Emma uneasily meet in a pub, two years after their affair has ended.
Emma has initiated this encounter. But as played with breathtakingly clear confusion by Ms. Ashton, she can’t explain why she did so. She’s looking for something she misplaced once, or let time carry off, but you know she can’t put her finger on what it is.
As played by the excellent Mr. Cox (best known here as television’s “Daredevil”), Jerry is less palpably unmoored; he would seem to have a thicker skin. And this shifts the center of “Betrayal” to its portrait of a marriage and its corrosive secrets.
As slender and sharp as a paring knife in his dark navy clothing, Mr. Hiddleston’s lacerating Robert seems to live in a state of existential mourning. He can be wittily combative, most memorably in a brilliantly staged restaurant scene with Jerry.
But you’re always aware of the regrets, the uneasiness, the sorrow behind the unbending facade. The scene in a Venice hotel room when he ever so gently, confronts Emma with evidence of her infidelity is almost too painful to watch. What you are witnessing is the conclusive collapse of a marriage’s fragile and necessary structure of illusions.
As a marquee name of films and tabloids, Mr. Hiddleston is the obvious draw here. But it’s the relatively little-known Ms. Ashton (who is also a playwright) who is the breakout star. And her deeply sensitive performance elicits a feminist subtext in “Betrayal.”
Power is a governing dynamic in Pinter. And I’ve seen productions in which Emma, as the only female onstage, emerges as a crushable odd-woman out in a boy’s club society. It’s telling that in this production she is the only major character who doesn’t wear a jacket or, more surprisingly, shoes.
She reads as more vulnerable because of this, but also as more humane and more open to figuring out just what has happened. Emma wants so much — professionally, romantically, domestically. And she’s harrowed by the realization that nothing she thought she had has ever been solidly hers.
More than ever in this version, which features a melancholy soundscape by Ben and Max Ringham, “Betrayal” becomes an elegy about time and memory, in which nothing stays fixed or certain. There’s new resonance to the continuing references to a joyful moment when Jerry threw Emma and Robert’s little girl into the air at a family gathering.
It’s mentioned in the very first scene, when Emma and Jerry meet again. The problem is they can’t agree on where the event happened, in his kitchen or hers.
Ms. Ashton’s Emma tries to conceal how much this small discrepancy upsets her, but her eyes are brimming. She thought she’d always at least have this memory intact — a vision of everyone, together, happy for a moment. It turns out she was mistaken.
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A Crown For The Sword
Sequel to yesterday’s prompt. The tale of the Princess and Her Knight continues. Features more Klaroline and the promised happy ending!
Her Majesty was radiant and fierce from her seat upon her throne. In the years he had known her he had seen her soft, silken beauty and her iron will both. Witnessed the shrewd, cunning of her mind. She would be a magnificent Queen he had no doubt.
Thus, he could stand solidly before her, weather the accusations aimed at him. Perhaps it would be his death, but even execution would fall so sweetly from her lips. And if her Will was for him to die, then he would take each of her enemies with him.
As was his duty as her knight.
The resolution seared into his very soul, and his gaze flicked to the visage of the man beside Her Majesty. That wretched cur. It had been his mistake to regard Lockwood as little more than a foolish and arrogant little lordling. Titles that worm also deserved, but he had missed that he was a snake as well, one with venom in its bite.
How he would delight in his downfall.
“Sir Niklaus.” He shifted slightly, his gaze switching from their surroundings to Her Highness.
She was resplendent in blue and gold, her silhouette as graceful as the blooms surrounding her. But an air of unease hung about her and in her gloved palm she cupped a withered blossom. Her fingers traced the wilted edges of the purple crocus, a slight frown on her face.*
“Does something trouble you, Your Highness?”
She said nothing for several moments, her lashes fluttering as her eyes fell shut in a faint grimace. He stepped forward before he could consciously think to, concern a tight fist in his chest.
“I am alright,” she declared as he came to a stop by her side. “It is rather daft of me to be so superstitious.” The flower fell from her hand as she straightened up, offering him a small smile as she turned toward him.
His own voice was solemn as he replied, though he knew his eyes were soft. “Daft? Never, Your Highness. Your intuition is as keen as your mind.” He shifted slightly, reaching around to pluck a honeysuckle hanging behind her.** He moved slowly, knowing his gesture was not particularly appropriate, but she just watched him, a more genuine smile curling on her lips. He tucked the blossom behind her ear. “No matter where you lead I shall follow. I am yours, Your Highness.”
His hand fell away just as her’s rose to brush at the flower. The slightest trace of pink flushed across her cheeks before her expression shifted to something a bit more melancholy.
He parted his lips to say something to her, dismayed by any trace of her sorrow. But his words stuttered to a halt as her palm came up to cradle his face. The soft fabric of her glove tickled his skin as her thumb caressed his cheekbone. He could not help the way he leaned into her touch nor the way his own hand rose to cover her’s.
“My loyal knight,” she murmured, seeming to be talking more to herself than him. “Sometimes I wish you were a bit less devoted. For your sake.”
He had not understood her words then. Stunned into silence as she retreated into the caste, he at her heels.
It had become more clear to him later when the Lockwoods and their entourage arrived. Her recent betrothed. A handsome and wealthy man giggled the maid servants. A powerful boon to the kingdom whispered the Court.
He had doubted any man was worthy of Her Highness and the Lockwood heir did nothing to sway his impression. But he did his duty and stood guard at Her Highness’ back, prepared to arrange a tragic accident should she ever require it of him.
Thus, it was a twisting blade in his chest the first time she addressed him as “Sir Mikaelson” instead of “Sir Niklaus.” Cold, distance seeped into their every interaction and drove the blade deeper each time. He thought he had failed her somehow, and it was with hurt confusion that he wondered about her occasional gentle touch. Glimpses of the past that grew increasingly foreign to him.
And then he understood. The poor page boy deserved better than a public whipping and dismissal from the castle. He agreed that Her Highness was above anyone else in the land, but not even he would take such harsh measures against a callow youth. A slight stutter and a blush from a boy not yet ten and four could be expected even, when said boy first encounters a woman such as Her Highness.
Such thoughts made his wound ache anew. Her dismissal had hurt him.Yet his confirmed failure hurt him more. What a useless knight he was, that he burdened Her Highness as she acted to protect him.
“Your Highness?” He intoned as he knocked at her chamber door. Had it been so long ago that he would have stood with her beyond that door?
“Enter.” Her voice was flat, missing familiar inflections.
She did not look up as he strode in, focused instead on sealing several parchments with wax and her insignia. She placed a few of them away, some in compartments of her desk and others in storage chests. The rest she bundled into a pile on her desk and at last looked up at him.
“You are far above the duties of a page.” She hesitated for a split second, her fingers tracing the cooled wax of the seal, before adding, “Sir Niklaus.” He jolted, hearing his name from her lips for the first time in what seemed an eternity. “And yet those are the duties I task you with this day, for I trust no other the way I trust you.”
The words were a balm to his soul. At last he could once more do something useful for Her Highness.
And if he carried out his orders with perhaps inappropriate fervor no one need know.
Her voice cut through his thoughts.
“You stand accused of sedition and conspiracy. Endangerment of the lives of the citizens of the Realm. Aid to an assault on the royal family. Allegiance with those who murdered my father, His Majesty King William II. How do you answer these charges, ...Lord Lockwood?”
Her Majesty turned her head only enough to aim her severe expression at the stunned lord beside her. What had been poorly concealed smugness turned quickly to shock and then outrage.
“Caroline,” he spluttered ignoring the shift in the atmosphere of the room, as baleful eyes fell upon him. “What is the meaning of this?!”
Her Majesty was unfazed. “We detailed the relevant accusations quite explicitly. If you have nothing to say in your defense, then We shall move on to your sentencing.”
At last he seemed to grasp that this was no jest, his expression hardening even as an entreating note entered his voice.
“Caroline...Your Majesty...surely you do not trust the word of some lowly, nameless knight over I. Your Lord. Your Betrothed.”
Said nameless knight was reveling in the clot’s continuous missteps.
“We find it odd that you make such claims of Our most loyal knight. It was not he who brought forth evidence against you.”
Well, not directly, he thought with a well-hidden smirk.
“Come forth, Lord Augustine, what say you on this matter?”
From the crowd stepped a dark haired man. Niklaus was used to seeing him with an air of mischief and a taunting smirk not far from his face. A bit of a rogue that one. But now there was only solemnity, though a hint of disdain crossed his face when his eyes flitted over Lockwood.
“Your Majesty,” he said with a proper bow and address. “After an interrogation of the Lords Salvatore a most detailed plot came to light.” Lord Augustine then proceeded to outline the entire tale, and it was indeed conspiracy, even treason for some of the named parties. “Measures were taken to verify the veracity of this information. Confirming correspondence was found in the belongings of many of those outed by the Salvatores. Threatened servants came to light to whom I offered protection in return for their services on this matter.”
With each word, a dark pleasure curled in his chest as he watched Lockwood become increasingly pale and panicked.
The Queen nodded. “On account of this evidence We offer probationary pardon to the involved servants and an execution order for one Lord Tyler Lockwood.”
Desperate, Lockwood made to draw his sword on the Queen. Niklaus may have been several feet away from the dais, but he crossed the distance in a flash. One harsh jerk sent the still sheathed sword clattering to the floor below and a shove sent the doomed lord stumbling after it. Guards seemed to materialize out of nowhere, seizing the man’s arms and forcing him to his knees.
He could feel the deadly glare on his face as he glowered at the worm’s audacity. How dare he even attempt to harm Her Majesty let alone in his presence.
“We thank you, Sir Niklaus, and offer you one last order as Our loyal knight. Carry out Our execution order. Remove this threat to Our Kingdom.”
“At once, Your Majesty.” He stepped forward, bending slightly to heft Lockwood’s sword from the ground. Without fanfare he unsheathed it, drawing the sharpened steel across Lockwood’s throat. A quick sidestep allowed him to avoid the resulting blood and the guards dropped the man into the rapidly forming crimson puddle.
The Court was silent as they all bore witness to Lockwood’s final moments. When the man fell still the guards returned to drag the body away. No doubt someone would remove the head and confirm his death.
Niklaus turned toward Her Majesty, kneeling before her throne. Now that the room was settled once more, he was able to process the earlier mention of the word “last.”
“Sir Niklaus you have served Us with honor. You have done a great service for this Kingdom, its people, and Us. You have gone above and beyond your duty numerous times and you have earned Our favor long ago.”
The Queen waved a hand, circulating a familiar parchment along with a similar letter with an unfamiliar seal.
“Sir Niklaus. Son of Esther. Son of Ansel.” He felt his jaw fall open slightly, though he quickly snapped it shut with a click of his teeth.
What?
“…legitimized trueborn Prince of Varg.*** We name you King Consort. Rise, Lord Niklaus.”
He did so in a daze, uncertain if his ears were deceiving him. A subtle gesture had him turning to gaze at the court. A Court that was now kneeling before him.
“All hail, Queen Caroline!” They chanted in unison.
“All hail, King Niklaus!”
Points if you caught the GoT inspiration.
*Purple Crocus represent youthful happiness; its wilting a bad omen.
**Honesuckle represent devotion and bonds of love
***Varg means wolf
#Klaroline#Klaroline Fanfiction#Klaroline Drabbles#My Writing#I hope this ending satisfies you!#thetourguidebarbie
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