Etho and Bdubs' meeting | Political Intrigue AU
Putting it in a tumblr post because idk if I can commit to a full fic that'll be posted on ao3 yet so I'll share this way
Word Count: 3,715
Content Warnings: Depictions of a staged suicide
The blood moon illuminates the night sky, painting the surrounding clouds crimson. Looking up through the glass roof of the observatory tower, Bdubs knows that today is to be the day he dies.Â
Even before his vision, heâd known, somehow, that the blood moon would signify his end. He was always attracted to it like a moth to a flame. Except moths arenât aware â Bdubs doesnât think â of the fate awaiting them once their delicate wings brush against the harbinger destined to extinguish their life. Bdubs is. He is, he believes, the most painfully aware one could be about their demise. The blood moon calls to him the way a jailer would a prisoner on death row, marching him through that last corridor towards his end.Â
âNo, wait, I think a siren would be a more accurate metaphor,â Bdubs muses out loud, rubbing at his scruffy stubble. He shouldâve shaved. Perhaps he still can. No. Heâs meant to look this way, he knows. Images of his destiny flash in his mind and Bdubs screws his eyes shut in hopes to chase them away.Â
It doesnât work. He takes one shaky breath, then another. His lungs ache. When he opens his eyes again, his vision blurs with tears that he quickly blinks away.Â
After spending over a year aware of the grisly details of his own death, one would expect Bdubs to have come to peace with it. He certainly thought he did. Yet here he is, staring up at the moonlit sky for what he knows is the very last time. Fighting back not only tears but primal fear that screams at him to rattle the bars of the cage fate has sealed him in. His heart gallops in his chest with such force he swears he feels its echoes against his ribcage, all the way up to his throat. His Adam's apple bobs as he forces his gaze downwards, to the workshop heâs built in the main observatory room. To his very last painting:
A landscape - that of the country of Oblivion. Heâd hoped to finish it before his death, but he supposes the least he can do is bring it to an acceptable state. He wonders how much his work will sell for. He wonders if he can ask his murderer to burn it all before they leave.Â
Bdubs picks up his brushes and palette, the oil paints still wet from his last session, and works at the landscape. He paints a tree â thin, spindly, and grey â only to cover it almost immediately. He refines the cliff-face, as heâs done dozens of times, overworking the surface into a mush of dull colors and clashing textures before he throws his equipment to the ground in frustration.Â
His mindâs eye always had trouble focusing on the picture he wanted to bring to life, the shapes blurring together even after spending hours studying references of Obliviate scenery â but now, with the promise of death hanging over his head, he finds it downright impossible to not only focus but also keep his every muscle from shaking. Come on, he wants to tell himself, itâs not like youâre going up on stage to give a speech. Itâs just the day of your own murder. Relax.
Bdubs worries he might puke. Or cry. That would be worse.Â
Another couple of breaths in and out. Shakier than before. Heâs restless, to the point he knows he wonât be able to sleep no matter how late it gets, but also wonât be able to get anything useful done. What is there to do that would be useful mere hours, or potentially minutes, before his death? He could draft a will. He doesnât know how to write one. Maybe he shouldâve learned before he had to go and die, but to be entirely fair to him⊠no, he did know it was going to happen tonight for some time now. Ever since he knew of the blood moon. It just didnât feel real enough to warrant any preparation, somehow.Â
Bdubs looks at the unfinished landscape. The sculk that snakes through every crack of the cliff-face. Itâs too flat, despite how hard heâs worked at it. It resembles the sketches and croquis heâs studied in tomes, but not the feeling they elicit in him. That infinite darkness that threatens to suck him in. He reaches for his paints, but pauses. Gazes up, instead. Up and around himself, searching for that blackness, for that feeling.
It must be here. They must be here. Whoever Oblivion sent to end him. Bdubs isnât stupid â he knows theyâve been following him for a while. Studying his every move, habits, his entourage. Yet heâs never been able to feel the weight of their presence. Not a shadow has ever been out of place. No matter how hard Bdubs has looked, how much he tossed his room upside down. How much heâs raised his voice.
But heâs got to keep trying.
âAssassin,â Bdubs speaks in the Obliviate tongue, struggling with the soft and flat tones it forces upon him. âShow yourself. I know youâre here. You have to be. Youâre here to kill me, are you not? So, show yourself. Let me see my own murderer before I die.â
Bdubs waits. He waits for what feels like a full minute, only to be met with complete, suffocating silence. His lip twitches downwards, but he keeps his chin high, and continues to speak in a register he knows to be far more proper than he prefers to speak in his native Celesti tongue. He shouldâve worked harder on his lessons.Â
âIâm unarmed. I donât deal in violence. I just⊠wish to see your face. Then you can kill me,â Bdubs walks slowly, carefully, to the oak desk covered in loose paper and canvas pressed against one of the walls. His fingers trace over his sketchbook. He lets out a soft laugh, peering back up at the ceiling, looking out for any movement overhead. âI bet itâs not often you get to speak with your victim. I can offer you some critique. Because I have to say, the method you have planned for me⊠Well, itâs a bit too quiet. Itâs likeâŠ.â he frowns, unable to think of the right Obliviate word. âItâs boring,â he settles on the Celesti equivalent, before he switches back to the assassinâs tongue. âIt will make my retainers suspect foul.â
Still nothing but silence, no matter how long Bdubs waits. A long sigh, as he lets go of held breath. He takes his sketchbook, worn at the spine, and holds it to his chest. He turns, raises a foot, intends to take a step â only to let out a roar of terror as heâs suddenly faced with a tall figure come out of nowhere.Â
Bdubs stumbles back, and as quickly as he began screaming he slaps both hands over his mouth to silence himself, letting the sketchbook fall open by his feet. His back hits the edge of his desk, and he waits as the figure stands still as a statue. One, two â his eyes dart to the door, listening for guards, servants, anyone who might have heard the commotion. Only when heâs certain no one intends to ruin his moment does he drop his hands down, letting out a high pitched giggle.Â
âYou scared the life outta me!â he exclaims in Celesti. âI mean,â he corrects himself in quiet Obliviate: âYou scaââ
The figure holds up a hand, and Bdubs stills, before letting out another, softer chuckle.
âRight. You understand Celesti. Thereâs no need to translate,â He insists on continuing in Obliviate, but it does save him some time.
Another stretch of silence. The figure lets their hand drop. They remain still, and though it fills the air with an awkwardness that would normally make Bdubs want to keep yapping â he instead finds himself transfixed by their presence.Â
Slowly, as to ensure they donât take it as an offensive move, Bdubs leans down to pick up his sketchbook. He opens it towards the end, and meets with a sketch of himself laid in bed, arms stretched out at his sides, small rivulets of blood dripping down. The blood moon shining in the window. Heâs transfixed by it for just a moment, his throat closing up.
He flips the page. More angles of his dead body. A few sketches of gloved hands taking hold of his wrist. The fingers are slender, long â one might call them delicate, even as they hold a blade to Bdubsâ wrist.Â
A study of how the blood flows. It pearls at the edge of the cut at first. Thereâs a few attempts at getting it quite right. The amount of blood that begins to trickle, then pour out. The way it soaks Bdubsâ sheets.Â
Then, finally, the main object of interest: The assassin. His sketches become more abundant, but less clear, as he focuses on them. Looking up at the figure standing in front of him, then down at his sketches, heâs happy to note he got their build right: Tall, slender, but not too much. Loose clothes that likely hide solid muscles. Thatâs another thing he realises he portrayed perfectly: Their outfit. The long, dark cloak hiding the near entirety of their figure. The large hood obscuring their head alongside a scarf wrapped around the bottom half of their face. The only part that remains uncovered is their eyes and a few strands of silver hair â easy enough to remember and portray, one would think. Yet it always remained blank both in Bdubsâ memory and sketches.
The surface of some of the pages have been rubbed raw from his eraser. Some have frustrated scribbles all over the assassinâs face. Others have just been left blank. Itâs endlessly frustrating, and if he doesnât get to do anything else before he dies, he hopes to at least fix this.Â
âCan IâŠ?â Bdubs reaches for the assassinâs scarf â only for them to suddenly jerk back before his fingers can even brush against the fabric.Â
Itâs the first movement heâs seen from them, a proof theyâre not just a hallucination. It makes him jump, and he tenses in expectation of a blow that never comes. The assassin just adjusts their scarf securely on their face before peering down at Bdubsâ sketchbook. They point. A silent question hangs in the air.
Bdubs frowns. âCan you use your words?â
âNo.â
Their voice is deep, surprisingly so. Itâs also rough around the edges â the way oneâs voice sounds after waking up in the morning. And a bit muffled by the scarf.Â
âVery clever,â Bdubs grins, reaching to shove playfully at the assassin. They move away. âIt does mean you can speak though, soâ Oh, how do you say in Obliviate⊠you know, like⊠gotcha? Do you guys have a word for gotcha?â
Bdubs swears he hears a quiet, near inaudible snicker from the other.Â
âYou can switch to Celesti. Iâd rather you did, actually,â they say in perfect Celesti. Not a trace of an accent. Not even an intonation amiss, despite how much more melodic Celesti is compared to the flatness of Obliviate. Bdubs could mistake him for a native if he didnât know better, and if it wasnât for the paleness of his face.Â
âRight, yeah, I was tryna impress you, but turns out Iâm real rusty. But hey, I was doing well enough, yeah? Since you came down from your little hidey hole?â
Silence. Theyâre still pointing.Â
â...So, uh, whatâd you want my sketchbook for?â
The silence stretches, until the assassin seemingly remembers itâs their turn to speak. âI want to see.â
Bdubs raises a brow. âNot the most eloquent sort, are ya?â
They blink.
âJust gimme a second, okay?âÂ
Bdubs reaches for one of his charcoal pencils, and holds the book open against his chest. He peeks up at the assassin, then down at the page, lightly finishing up one of his attempts at a portrait. He sticks out his tongue as he adds the outline of lips he can barely see through the scarf, refines the shape of their face, and draws the long, white eyelashes caressing scarred skin. The hint of sculk Bdubs can barely see, pulsing like veins burrowing deep within the assassinâs skin. He goes at it for a moment, before he finally gives up with a dissatisfied huff.Â
âItâs not as pretty as you are in real life,â he holds the sketchbook out to the assassin. âBut have a looksie, if you want. Itâs kind of⊠Ah, well, you can keep it as a souvenir after youâve killed me! Iâm sure in a few decades youâll be able to resell it for some pretty money. I mean, can you imagine?â Bdubs gestures when the assassin takes hold of the book. ââThe prophet princeâs last drawings.â People will fight for it!â
The assassin doesnât seem to find it quite as funny as Bdubs does. They stare at him blankly, jaw slack, before seemingly remembering to look down at the pages, ignoring Bdubsâ grin as they do. He doesnât let it get him down. Instead he watches their piercing grey eyes dance across the pages. He doesnât think he did them justice. He wishes he had more time. They genuinely are beautiful.
Their fingers run over the sketches. As they study the depictions of themselves knocking Bdubs unconscious and slitting his wrist, Bdubs canât help but hyperfocus on their hands. Theyâre like a pianistâs. He wonders if they play instruments. Are Obliviate assassins allowed to partake in hobbies? Arts?Â
âI wasnât sent by anyone,â their voice force Bdubs out of his imaginings. They stop on a page depicting them hopping out of Bdubsâ bedroom through the window and disappearing into the darkness of the night. It was a bit of a challenging pose to figure out. Bdubs is proud of that sketch. He doesnât think itâs what theyâre admiring. âMy actions were planned by myself, in opposition to my orders. You are dangerous, but no one seems to see that.â
Bdubs swallows heavily. A strange calm had settled over him, ever since the assassin revealed themselves â but their saying that turns his blood to ice. Heâs suddenly aware of every inch of his body, and the way they scream at him to run, or hide, or fight â something. Instead, he stays frozen as the assassin circles him, takes in the room as if they hadnât been spying on him for stars know how long.Â
âYou showing me this,â they tap their fingers on the pages. âIt made me realise something I hadnât considered before.â
Bdubs opens his mouth to speak, but the assassin continues before he gets even a sound out:
âIf I choose not to kill you tonight. What happens with your vision?â
âIâŠâ Bdubs looks down at his dead body laid on the pages. Itâs hard to speak. He should stop staring. He canât. âI donât⊠know. Every single thing Iâve predicted has come true, no matter how hard Iâve worked to stop them. I donât know what happens if⊠if they donât. I think it would just push away the inevitable. If you donât kill me today, then youâll do it on the next blood moon. Or the one after. Itâs not the first blood moon Iâve seen since the vision, after all. I could just be wrong on the exact date. Both of us could be.â
The assassin shakes their head. âEven if the date isnât right, I wonât do it like this,â they gesture at the book. âSo it still wouldnât be true. Besides, you knew this blood moon was to be the one. Iâve been watching you for a long time. Youâve never called out to me the way you have tonight. You knew it was today.â
âI just⊠felt it, somehow. I tend to, with my visions. Even if nothing indicates a specific date within the vision itself, I just⊠feel it, when itâs about to happen,â he shrugs. âWith normal prophecies â you know, the one they do all those fancy rituals for? With those, itâs kind of a fifty-fifty as to whether theyâll actually happen. But mine have always, always come true, no matter what. Iâm just too good at this divination thing!â He laughs. It comes out wrong. Stilted. Tearful.Â
The assassin watches Bdubs pace.Â
Bdubsâ eyes find the image of the assassinâs bloodied blade, placed in his limp hand.Â
â...I donât wanna die,â he finally admits, quietly. A few tears roll their ways down his cheeks. âI just know â well, I donât know⊠whatâs meant to, to happen. If you stop it, I mean. I donât know what happens if you donât kill me. If Iâ If I wake up, tomorrow. I donât know what⊠what would happen. Iâm not meant to. Itâ It wonât. It wonât happen. You know?â he looks up, his lips trembling uncontrollably.Â
He feels like a damn child.Â
The assassin is obviously uncomfortable. Their previously relaxed posture grows suddenly tense. Their shoulders are almost all the way to where Bdubs assumes their ears would be. They reach into their coat and Bdubs gasps, sharply. His eyes squeeze shut. He expects the stab of a knife. For all of it to have been a ruse. A way to finally end their conversation and get to the very reason they came here.Â
But nothing comes.
Bdubs takes one, two â up to three shaky, hiccuping breaths, before he opens his eyes again and looks up. What he sees is not a knife, but instead a handkerchief. Itâs held in front of him awkwardly, the assassin staring at him unblinking. Bdubs hesitates, before he takes it and wipes the tears off his face. Except the very act of compassion coming from what should be his assassin makes his tears double, and Bdubs sobs embarrassingly against the cloth.Â
âWeâll find out what happens when a vision of yours does not come to fruition, then. Because I wonât kill you. You wonât die by my hand, prince Bdubs.âÂ
Their voice is so gentle, now. Bdubs nearly chokes on air as he tries to calm himself. As he tries to listen. Take it in. Â
âI was only sent here because we found out about your vision. Before you worry â none within your court knows. Weâve only inferred it through our surveillance. I will report back, explain what happened. Theyâll send another spy to continue monitoring your safety. Oblivion never wanted you dead, so you wonât have to be afraid of them. And it means⊠youâll know: Thereâs a way to stop your visions.â
Before Bdubs can say anything, before he can thank them, they turn away. They take a step to leave. Bdubsâ tears stop in an instant, and he reaches for them. For their cloak. He pulls them back towards him, and wraps his arms around them in a tight embrace, feels the air escape from their lungs as he squeezes.
âThank you,â he says, voice only shaking a little as he clings to the assassinâs clothes. âI donât know how I could ever repay you. I donât even know your name, Iââ
âMyâ My nameâs not important.â The assassinâs voice is strained, as if in pain. They pat Bdubsâ hand in what he assumes is a gentle attempt to pry him off. He doesnât let go quite yet. âWe wonât meet again. Just⊠try to find a way to stop your visions. If anything, for your own sake.â
Bdubs shakes his head. âI wonât let you leave,â he declares. âNot after you saved my life. Not after you did⊠did this. You were sent to protect me, right? So you must be pretty good! Then, I want you to stay. I can write to Oblivion, get them to keep you here. Then you can help me stop the visions from coming true again. Yeah?â
He finally pulls away so he can walk around the assassin and face them, sniffing as he watches them shake their head.
âIâm not a protector. Iâm an assassin. The only reason I was sent here was to neutralise your murderer. Since I technically have, thereâs no reason for me to stay. Especially now that Iâve revealed myself to you. It⊠goes against almost every tenets of the code,â they sigh, reaching to pinch the bridge of their nose. âIt just canât happen. Iâm sorry.â
â... Will they hurt you? For⊠you know,â Bdubs gestures. Could the price of his life be his would-be assassinâs death? Does he want to know? â...If not your full name, can you give me⊠I dunno, a nickname, the first letter â anything? I donât wanna forget the person who broke my curse. Please? Then Iâll let you leave. And Iâll promise not to speak a word of this. To anyone.â
The other furrows their brow, and studies Bdubsâ face. They shake their head again, and brush Bdubsâ hands off themselves. âSlab,â they finally offer. Bdubs recognises it: A clan name. A⊠very prominent one. âAnd what happens to me isnât something for you to worry about. Iâm⊠uh⊠Sorry. For causing you stress.â
Thereâs an awkward pause, then, before they take a step back. Bdubs lets them. He watches them as they climb back up to the rafters, open a window, and leave without a trace.Â
â...SlabâŠâ Bdubs looks down at his sketchbook, hugs it to his chest. Clouds creep closer to the blood moon, obscuring its glow. The observatory is plunged in darkness, illuminated only by the flickering candles on Bdubsâ desk.Â
Heâs alive. His vision has come and gone.Â
He sits at his desk. Opens his sketchbook, picks up a pen, and begins sketching.Â
He draws until the sun rises. A feverish attempt to burn the Slab assassinâs image in his head. Draws until one of his retainers knocks on the door and scolds him for not showing up at breakfast. Until they drag him out of the observatory, force him to breathe the fresh air outside.Â
Heâs free of the burn in his lungs as heâs smothered into unconsciousness, of the blade splitting his arms open.Â
Heâs alive.
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