Chapter Text
Julien's thumb absently traced a small circle against the hilt of his sheathed rapier as he stared down at the body of Thjazi Fang, bedecked with funereal offerings. His eyes were closed and his face almost peaceful, as if he merely slept and could awaken at any moment.
Like when Julien had once beheld him along the blade of a (shorter, lighter) rapier, in a tent in the middle of a rebel camp. (Like years before that, in the Golden Orchard, when Thjazi had chased frogs with him in the shallows of the small brook while Aranessa laughed herself to tears at their efforts, until they both clambered exhausted back up the bank and collapsed breathless on the soft grass beside her.)
His jaw clenched slightly and he squeezed his eyes briefly shut, banishing the memories, before glancing around to see who else's attention was on this part of the room. The deer standing above Thjazi's head blinked back. It had metallic antlers, no doubt Thaisha's handiwork in some way.
Julien and the deer stared each other down for a long moment, before it turned abruptly and ambled away from the body, leaving him fully alone with Thjazi. The muddle of overlapping voices from the rest of the room swirled and echoed around him. The only voice Julien paid attention to was Aranessa's, talking to Hal, occasionally breaking into soft sobs.
Why did you have to ruin everything?
Julien had long since heard the “reasons” Thjazi had refused to explain, the justifications for throwing away everything the Royces had given him—that Aranessa had given him—except, of course, for whatever remained useful that he could contrive to steal away. His guardian pixie. His fae-touched horse. (Raimond Davino's esteem. Lady Aranessa's unfailing love.)
All for a failed rebellion that accomplished nothing but death and destruction and heartbreak.
It had been a foolish, childish thought to think bringing him back would fix anything after the damage was already done. Even at ten, Julien had known Aranessa could not have taken Thjazi back and regained that happiness, but he'd hoped it would at least bring an end to the pain. That either Thjazi would be gone from their lives for good (his brain had shied away from the thought of actual execution, back then) or Aranessa would finally see his betrayal for what it was, and either way she could finally move on.
…Obviously, exactly none of that had come to pass. Twelve years on, and here they were: Thjazi yet again at the forefront of Dol-Makjar news and Aranessa's grief as fresh as when he'd left to fight the rebellion.
And for Julien, years upon years of reminders of his failure and of becoming Thjazi's convenient puppet to end his rebellion.
He vividly remembered the stares and the murmurs after he and Thjazi had crashed to the ground. A ten-year-old chasing a rebel leader on horseback, conveniently right into the middle of the Royce forces? Hardly plausible. He'd been forced to recite the shameful tale of how he'd gotten there over and over to an ever-changing array of incredulous faces: The commanders of the Davinos men-at-arms present, the young Lord Royce once he had finished his questioning of Thjazi, again to Lord Royce and an Elbrendi as further reinforcements arrived, to his father who had arrived at a gallop, driving his horse relentlessly from wherever he had been stationed when Royce's swiftest faerie messengers had arrived to inform him of the trouble caused by his son.
He'd barely set foot outside the Golden Orchard for ages after that. Somehow the account that Julien Davinos—Sir Julien Davinos; they'd actually knighted him for it—had captured Thjazi Fang had been permitted to spread officially, and how would it look for people to realize that the “knight” credited hadn't even hit puberty yet? The Ezir melee had felt like redemption, riding the high of an honest victory and his father's unmitigated pride, but it didn't last. The glow of that victory hadn't even faded on the day itself when a comment had drifted to his ears, barely within earshot, questioning whether he was really the knight who took down Thjazi Fang, and if he were, how could he look so young?
Julien had thrown himself into his training, spending hours, days, months with his dueling instructors and other combat trainers in the pockets of the Golden Orchard where time flowed a little faster. As his father's attitude slowly soured, as the gates to Faerie closed, he honed his skills with rapier and gauntlet and every dirty trick that a “booed and living man” might one day need, determined that one day no one would ever think to question that he could have done what he was credited with.
Neither Aranessa nor his father had ever tried to forbid this, although Aranessa had seemed troubled. He would never forget the odd twist to her face the first time she'd realized he'd taken his blankets out to sleep in that little time-pocket. It was only logical, in his view—why sleep away the hours in the normal areas of the Orchard while nothing was happening if he could spend the extra time training? The next day, she'd ordered the erection of a small but comfortable pavilion in the time-pocket, paired with a minimum schedule of times he must return to the main grounds.
The questions that had started after the rebellion's fall slowly morphed over the years. The skepticism and incredulity that he'd captured Thjazi Fang faded as his age caught up to what people would picture, only to be replaced by questions, occasionally by strangers but mostly by friends or those of his own household, of whether he still hated Thjazi even after so much time: ten, eleven, now twelve years. Even his own father asked, with disgust for the grudge he still held. How few, even of those closest to his house (except Aranessa, who never got it wrong), remembered that for Julien it had not been twelve years, but closer to twenty.
Regardless, his answer was the same: Yes.
His anger at Thjazi Fang had never abated. Twelve years or twenty, his Lady still grieved; his father still disapproved; their Houses remained entangled with scandal and dishonor and shame. Every comment, complimentary or disapproving, about Thjazi's capture, every sorrowful look in Aranessa's eye at a reminder of him (and every time he caught himself thinking back to happy memories of Thjazi), every rebuke from his father, every reminder of the widening age gap between him and his sister steadily fueled the embers of his anger.
Would it have fixed anything if he had simply slaughtered Thjazi in his tent? He honestly had no idea. Perhaps all it would have meant was that Julien would not have had to live to witness the aftermath.
He swallowed, staring blankly at Thjazi's face, surrounded by gifts and lit by flickering candlelight. His saliva seemed to have thickened into a lump in his throat that he had to swallow around.
One last chance to speak to the man who had ruined his life. Words he wouldn't even hear.
“The only shame is I couldn't watch you die twice.”