Chapter Text
The ceremony stretches on for hours—the excess celebration Westhelm is famous for. There are offerings of grain and gold laid at the feet of marble statues, speeches from Senators whose words blur into monotony after the first twenty minutes.
Spyder’s focus drifts more than once as the sun beats down on him. He’s heard all of this too many times. He watches the people in the crowd, their faces upturned, eyes bright and fervent, hands clasped over their hearts in awe of the power they would never have the privilege to touch.
He used to envy those on this very same dias. But now that he’s the one standing here, sweat rolling down his back, teeth gritted at the facade, he only envies their ignorance.
When the ceremony concludes after several hours, Schpood descends the steps with practiced and careful grace, acknowledging the senators’ bows and the people’s smiles. He uses that cursed smile, the one that Spyder taught him years ago—warm and cocky, yet utterly unknowable and fake.
Spyder takes his place directly behind the Emperor, eyes instinctively darting around the crowd to search for anyone with weapons, anyone out of place. The procession makes its way through the Forum: Senators in billowing robes and content smiles, elite soldiers bearing the Westhelm crest proudly, bright-eyed children scrambling to catch a glimpse of the man they revered as legend. Schpood walks at the center of it all, hand raised, golden laurels glittering atop his carefully tamed curls.
The cobblestone streets are slick with spilled oil and beer, the air thick with incense and oppressive heat. Schpood’s posture is perfect, every gesture rehearsed, but Spyder can feel the exhaustion from the last few nights radiating off him like a fever. There is a pang in his heart as he pictures Schpood’s face—the terracotta paint under his eyes that just barely covers the dark circles, the way his chapped lips crack every time he attempts to smile, the purple vein that swells in his neck when he’s upset.
Spyder wants to step forward, place a hand on his back to steady him, reassure him that the performance is almost over, that he is right here.
The crowd passionately chants the Emperor’s name as the procession passes them.
Schpood. Schpood. Schpood.
It sounds more like a plea than a celebration.
When they finally reach the entrance to the palace, Spyder exhales at the sight of the gleaming marble and stone. Inside the palace, there is still performance, but it is not as heavy. Especially when he is alone. When he is with Schpood.
As the procession walks through the gates, the noise of the city softens into a muted roar. The Senators do not linger, immediately heading for the Great Hall to celebrate with copious amount of alcohol, as if this is truly worth celebrating. They murmur banal congratulations to Schpood as they hastily depart. The guards and soldiers huddle together, faces beaming as they discuss their plans for the night.
Nobody checks on Schpood as he silently makes a beeline for his chambers. Nobody follows him except Spyder.
Schpood walks briskly through the dim halls, the servants in the process of relighting the candles in preparation for the swiftly falling darkness of the night. Several servants bow anxiously to him as he passes, eyes wide at the sight of the revered, golden Emperor.
Spyder hurries to keep up with the man, his footsteps echoing loudly against the stone as he quickens his pace. Schpood recognizes the familiar footsteps of his second in command and slows his gait slightly, ceremonial robe dragging across the floor behind him. When Spyder reaches the Emperor’s side, he immediately looks over at Schpood’s side profile, taking in the obvious discomposure on the man’s face, his breath shallow and uneven as he clenches and unclenches his fists.
It is all Spyder needs to immediately turn towards the servants who are idling in the hall, watching the pair with obvious interest. He dismisses them with a stern look and flick of his hand. They scamper away almost instantly, the heavy oak doors of the hall shutting loudly behind them.
As soon as they are alone, Schpood abruptly stops walking. He immediately strips himself of the facade, dropping his shoulders as he exhales sharply. There is disgust on Schpood’s face as he reaches up and removes the laurels from his head. He holds the golden crown with trembling fingers as he stares down at it with malice.
Spyder stands hesitantly beside him, lump stuck in his throat as he glances between the Emperor’s glassy eyes and the laurels in his hands. He isn’t sure what to say, or how to say it. He knows the grief that Schpood feels cannot be lessened by anyone, especially not him.
Schpood sighs wearily, the hand holding his crown dropping heavily at his side. Spyder shuffles on his feet guiltily as he takes this in, waiting for the Emperor to break the tense silence. After a moment, Schpood finally looks at Spyder, observing the way he is similarly disheveled; blonde curls frizzy from the heat, eyes rimmed with red, hands shaking.
Schpood’s expression is raw as he studies Spyder. He shakes his head briefly before turning his face upwards and closing his eyes.
“Tell me, Spyder. When you look at me, what do you really see?”
Spyder hesitates, heart stuttering, as he observes the Emperor. His eyes roam over the man’s figure briefly, noting the pained expression on his face, the crown dangling loosely from his fingertips, the stained hem of his robes, his dark eyelashes brushing against the flush on his cheeks.
He could take the easy way out and say "The Emperor", or "a leader who has done what must be done." But what Spyder truly sees when he looks at Schpood’s exhausted form is the most beautiful, selfless man he has ever met. He sees a man who is unraveling under the unbearable weight of expectation and duty.
“I see someone who is trying to hold the whole country together with his bare hands,” Spyder answers finally, voice timid and earnest. “And someone who shouldn’t have to bleed for it alone.”
Schpood’s breath shudders as he opens his eyes. He glances over at Spyder, his gaze soft and tender. For a moment, they simply look at each other, the two sides of the same coin. The air between them feels charged, an unspoken understanding passing between the two.
They stand there, unmoving, eyes locked as the last of the daylight fades, the dull roar of the celebration outside turning to static. Spyder can hear his own heartbeat in his chest, and feels the familiar and increasing urge to reach out to Schpood, to bridge the ever-shortening distance between what he feels and what he is allowed to do. As always, though, his hands remain by his sides.
Schpood finally speaks, his voice barely a whisper as he confides, “I’m afraid that I will lose myself in this. I’m afraid there will be nothing left of me but performance when this is over.”
Spyder swallows thickly, his voice coming out more confident than he feels, “I will make sure something of you endures.”
A fragile silence follows. Outside, the bells toll and the sound of fireworks echoes across the city, but it sounds softer now, somehow less threatening. Schpood exhales softly, a sound caught between grief and gratitude.
He nods slowly, eyes warming as the smallest amused smile flickers across his lips. “A week ago, I might have thought that was nothing more than an obligatory platitude.”
The words sting, however true they may be. A week ago, they were performing the illusion of friendship. Now, though, they hold something more between them—something deeper, something dangerous. They are the only people in the world who truly know the other. It sends a selfish thrill down Spyder’s spine to know that this version of Schpood is his alone.
“A week ago,” Spyder admits quietly, “we were afraid of the truth. But now that I have seen it, I would do anything to ensure it remains.”
Spyder meets Schpood’s tender gaze, where something unspeakable is thinly veiled— trust, guilt, devotion. It is a fragile kind of look, one that only exists in the cracks of an empire…or in the slow and dangerous unwraveling of a king.
At last, Schpood smiles softly, turning toward the window, gazing at the city below. The people cheer as torches ignite across the city, voices distant yet fervent.
Spyder stands beside him, content to simply be in Schpood’s presence. He watches the plebeians dancing, their faces ecstatic as alcohol is consumed and fireworks light up the sky. The sight of them being so happy should make him feel triumphant — the ceremony is done, the alliance secured, the people more devoted to the Empire than ever.
But when Schpood purposely brushes his hand against Spyder’s in wordless affection, a sinking feeling of dread forms in his stomach.
For the first time, he realizes that their inevitable downfall will not be born of rebellion or politics. It will come from whatever this is between him and Schpood. This unbearable, wordless loyalty between them—the kind that is too human to survive the weight of an empire.