Chapter Text
Tomorrow marks a month. He’d buried his parents alone, had stood in white robes as their final rites were read, and had solemnly cut the ties that lowered them down. He’d signed proclamation after proclamation in Xornoth’s name, had nearly caused three all-out wars in his short time on their throne. And yet, somehow, tomorrow is the day he dreads the most.
He hasn’t let any medics or wizards near Xornoth – hadn’t trusted them to keep their mouths shut – only partially because he was in the middle of firing most of them. Instead, Xornoth’s care had fallen to Cleo and Impulse, who has the most medical training out of TIES.
Xornoth is alive, they all know that much. They’re breathing softly in the stale air, chest rising and falling weakly but steadily. Scott sits by them for hours at a time whenever he can, watching their ribcage expand and contract, zeroing in on the vein in their neck beating with their pulse.
It shouldn’t be possible, is the conclusion they all draw, so it must be Exor keeping them alive.
Scar and Bdubs have been told the bare minimum, just enough to not bring up Xornoth or the Empress or her consort. Scott doesn’t know how Cleo managed to explain all that to the boys, but he doesn’t think he can ever repay her for it. His evenings with the boys have quickly become the only place he can escape to.
It reminds him, in some buried part of his heart, of when Muir left – the pitying looks and the too-quiet silences. He plays poker with his guards and glares at Skizz when he lets him win. He goes down to the stables to care for Kenna now that she’s retired, and feels Tessor’s eyes follow him. He could fire her for it, but he doesn’t trust anybody else to be his stablemaster.
Etho’s in Mezalea, thank god. If a single pawn had moved differently, he would’ve been in Crystal Cliffs at the time of Scott dissolving Rivendell’s alliance with them, which undoubtedly would’ve had consequences. As it is, he thinks his guards have been keeping him up to date by letter, if the amount of outgoing owls to Mezalea are anything to go by.
Tomorrow marks a month. Tomorrow, Scott will have to watch Exor reanimate his brother’s passed out body, and sneer at him with the same face that looks at him from the mirror.
So, he carries a heavy bag of shackles up to Xornoth’s rooms after lunch, and sits down on the chair that lives at their bedside now. He breathes in the empty air and nearly chokes on how heavy it sits in his lungs. He hasn’t let any dust settle in the room, and yet the breath he takes is ancient.
Tango and Skizz had worked on a system of anchor points set in the wall, heavy enough to hold a panicked workhorse, and Scott has been managing to look at them without vomiting sometimes. The chains in his hands complete the picture, and he attaches the first one to its anchor. Tango’s waiting just outside, ready to finish locking the chains into place, Scott knows, but he’d insisted on doing this alone.
Slowly, he draws the blankets back from Xornoth’s body, until they’re on the floor. Then, when that causes a keening noise to worm its way out of his throat, he drops the chains. The blankets should be folded neatly, he decides.
When he sits back down, it’s to roll up Xornoth’s pant leg and settle the first shackle into place around their ankle. The sound of it clanking shut reverberates through the air, followed by a sob from Scott, who’s rapidly realizing that he’s crying.
He pulls their clothes back into place, and for a moment he can almost convince himself nothing’s wrong.
The other foot goes much the same way, and Scott has his hands on the shackles designated for their wrists before he even realizes the time has passed. When he picks up their hand, he holds it for a moment, letting its unnatural warmth seep into Scott’s freezing cold ones. Then, he closes the shackle.
After the hands comes the final shackle, and Scott feels as time restarts around him when he picks up the one meant for Xornoth’s neck.
It’s Scott’s face. When he tries hard enough he can convince himself that’s why this one hurts the most. Xornoth really does look like Scott like this, with their eyes – the same deep brown their father had – closed tight. That’s not why – not really – but he has always been very good at lying to himself just long enough to be functional.
He closes the final shackle and leaves, not quite stupid enough to believe this will be even close to enough.
It’s late at night. Skizz is sure the moon is out currently, as it’s cold enough to indicate a clear night. He wouldn’t know, as he stares out at the windowless hallway that leads to prince Smajor’s room. Tango’s supposed to be on guard right now, but he’d managed to pull something in his back while finishing up their work with Xornoth, so Skizz had offered to take over.
Besides, he wants to be here in case something does happen.
One month could mean to the minute, it could mean Exor awakens right as one day turns over into the next. He’s not quite sure of anything.
What he is sure of is that prince Smajor is awake, if the intermittent sounds coming from his rooms are any indication. He thinks he’s heard the same set of drawers open five times in the past fifteen minutes, but he can’t exactly blame the prince for being antsy.
So, he ignores whatever Smajor is up to, staring out into the hallway again. Nobody ever enters it – not this time of night – but his hand still rests on the hilt of his sword.
He’s startled out of his wakefulness by a knock from the other side of the door he’s posted in front of. He takes a step to the side and angles himself in such a way that he can see most of the hallway while also being able to look at the prince.
He looks tired, above all. His hair is messy, he’s in his sleep clothes, and Skizz is pretty sure his eyes are bloodshot enough to be noticeable in the torchlight.
“Could you come in here a moment?” prince Smajor asks, voice hushed, “I need your help with something.”
Skizz slips inside with a nod.
“Lock the door,” Smajor says before walking over to the chest of drawers he’d been fiddling with earlier. He walks unsteadily, like he’d cut his foot on something, and Skizz almost lunges forward to support him.
He stands by the drawers for a while, just staring at the contents. Skizz doesn’t dare to break the silence, though something about it sets him decidedly on edge.
When he looks around a little better – eyes adjusting to the lack of light – he sees a dagger on the desk to his left. He thinks there might be blood on it. Carefully, he picks it up.
“Don’t touch that.” Prince Smajor snaps from where he’s stood, and Skizz lets the knife fall back down to the desk.
“What happened?” Skizz asks. Smajor doesn’t respond.
The prince sighs into the ensuing silence, dropping his shoulders. Skizz can’t help but think that he looks small. There’s a small sob that cuts through the air, and Skizz takes a first step forwards before being stopped by the prince holding up a hand.
“I need you to do something for me, Skizz,”
“Anything,” Skizz replies instantly. It’s mostly the truth.
Then, prince Smajor whirls around, and Skizz catches the gleam of moonlight on metal. In the same split-second, his hand finds it’s way back to the hilt of his sword. He hadn’t gotten that clear a look at the prince’s face out in the shadows of the hallway. He can see him now, and he looks frantic.
The sword in Smajor’s hands is beautiful. Pure silver adorned with details of ruby and topaz. It’s magical, he thinks, strong enough for even Skizz to pick up on. The way it catches the moonlight doesn’t seem quite right – almost as if the moonlight isn’t being reflected, but rather originating from the blade itself.
He doesn’t have too much time to think on it, though, as prince Smajor grips the sword by its blade instead.
It cuts into his fingers, and the not-quite-moonlight is bright enough for Skizz to realize that Smajor’s robes are already bloodied. The ragged mess he’s making of his fingertips now is adding to the carnage, and he takes another shaky step towards Skizz.
Skizz stands frozen a moment longer, voice lodged firmly in his throat, until the prince falls to his knees before him. He holds out the sword, presenting it to Skizz on a bed of bleeding flesh.
“I need you to kill me.” Smajor says, and it’s enough to shock Skizz back to life.
“No.” is the first thing he says, though the does take the blade out of the prince’s hands, if only to spare him from himself.
“I can’t-“ Smajor says into the empty air, voice shaking, “I can’t do it, Skizz. I tried, but he keeps stopping me.”
That admission stops any thoughts Skizz had right in their tracks.
“Neither vessel can live while the other is dead. I-“ Smajor trails off into a sob.
“Major,” Skizz says, and he watches in horror as the prince grips the blade of the sword again before bringing it to his neck, “Major, I’m not killing you.”
“Yes, you are,” the prince argues, and Skizz rips the sword out of his hands in one swift move, tossing it to the furthest away corner of the room.
Prince Smajor makes a pained noise, scrambling after it desperately. Skizz has just enough brainpower so stop him, and he drops to his knees too as he throws his arms around the prince.
He struggles. Fights, really, as he tries to get from Skizz’s arms back to the sword. He thinks he feels the prince’s teeth sink into his arm once or twice, hidden amongst a flurry of nails scratching at his hands. Still, Skizz does not let go.
Finally, Skizz feels the fight slowly leave him, and a sob worms its way out of Smajor’s throat. He sits there for a moment longer, arms tightly around him, before allowing the prince to turn slightly, hiding his face in Skizz’s neck.
“You have to kill me, Skizz,” he gets out between sobs, and Skizz pulls back a little – just enough to wipe the prince’s hair from his forehead.
“Why would I do that?” he asks gently, and Smajor lets out another sob before collapsing into Skizz more.
“You swore an oath to your country,” he murmurs into Skizz’s chest.
“No,” Skizz says gently, fingers carding through the prince’s hair, “I swore an oath to you.”