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He started dreaming of her when he was still just a wiggler.
He was six sweeps old and he spent every morning before the sun rose waiting on the beach for Goatdad to show up, but of course the lusus never did. But that was okay, because the boy knew how to take care of himself by now. He was growing big and fast, and as a highblood, most people didn't try and bother him anyway.
“Some day,” he promises himself, “I'm going to the Grand Highblood, and I'll never have to wait for that old goat again.”
So he goes to 'coon after another unsuccessful wait for his lusus, and he dreams of her.
It's a bit fuzzy when he wakes up, but he can remember a smile, gentle like the warmest moonlight against his skin, and pale skin with lusus-white hair, and strangely, no horns. He'd be frightened of what his mind had shown him, even with the sopor, but he had felt so safe when she smiled, that he couldn't help but smile back clumsily. Affection was a strange thing to him, but he doesn't think she minds.
He dreams of her every day, and soon he becomes distressed. Why did he have to be visited every day by an alien girl in his dreams? It was unfair that she didn't exist in real life, and he wanted to dreams to stop. He tells this to Goatdad on a rare visit, and the lusus shows him a plant to make into tea to help him sleep more soundly.
It doesn't help.
Instead, if anything, the dreams become clearer. He remembers more details, like how her eyes are an off-spectrum lavender surrounded by white sclera instead of the normal yellow. It's weird, yeah, but she never judges him for looking strange to her, so he tries his best to return the courtesy.
He gives up trying to stop the dreams.
♑
When he's eight sweeps, he goes through his adult moult. While he's unconscious, wrapped up in a thick cocoon as he undergoes rapid growth into adulthood, shedding his wigglerhood, she finally speaks to him.
Hello, she says, and her voice is melodic and lilting. Her vocal cords are obviously not made to speak Alternian, with it's deep growls and guttural clicks, but it means every word sounds like song. I'm Rose.
I love you, he says in return, and Rose laughs a musical laugh and reaches up, a slim hand ruffling his hair between his horns, scratching at his scalp with dull claws in a way that doesn't hurt.
I know, she says, but now it's time for you to wake up.
With that, he awakens and breaks out of the cocoon, covered in a translucent purple slime and with a new adult body.
He hits his new horns off the ceiling. “Motherfucking ouch,” he growls, rubbing his sore horn with a hand and glaring at the ceiling as if it's offended him.
He thinks he can hear Rose's tinkling laugh in his ears at that.
Once he's accustomed to his new body, he packs up what little he wants to carry into the city (he's too big for his recuperacoon now, and so he sadly leaves that behind) and takes one last walk on the beach to see if he can say goodbye to Goatdad. The lusus doesn't show, but he's an adult now, so he just squares his shoulders and heads towards the city where all the adults live. If he's crying, he ignores it, and he's certainly not wishing that Rose was here to wipe them away and smooth out the lines of his facepaint that the salty liquid is smudging.
When he gets to the city, he signs up to be a Subjuglator, just as all purplebloods do. That morning, he unpacks his single bag and places things sparsely around his designated flat before curling up on the floor in the respiteblock to sleep. Rose visits almost as soon as he falls asleep.
Are you sure you'll be okay? she asks, hands on her hips. She's wearing bright orange robes, with, brazenly, a sun embossed on the front in yellow. Wow, she's really brave. Maybe her species can withstand the sun? Subjuglation is dangerous.
I'll be fine, he assures her. Thank you for caring.
She almost looks affronted. Of course I care. Look at you, you've grown so tall ... And he has, while she hasn't aged a night since he started dreaming of her.
He spends his days training and doing grunt work, and although the instructors and higher ups are cruel, he doesn't lash out and he works hard, placated every day by Rose, dredging up memories of his dreams of her to keep himself calm when an instructor is screaming in his face that his first blow didn't kill the lowblood. He gains notoriety as efficient and cold, never losing his rationality to rage like so many highbloods do. He rises through the ranks quickly.
♑
It doesn't take much to kill the old Grand Highblood and assume her place. She was nearing seven hundred sweeps, an old age for a purpleblood. He moves all his belongings into the Official High Subjuglator's Hive himself. He looks around the throne room and thinks, This place could use some colour.
He kills the first troll to walk through his door and christens the wall with their blood.
♑
He dreams of her less and less as he gets older, and this distresses him. So he dredges up all his memories of her, of lazy nights spent in 'coon to sleep longer and spend more time with her, and he paints her picture on his wall. She stands as tall as she would if she were alive, and he spends several weeks trying to get her smile just right.
It's so lifelike that when his underlings come to report to him, they do a double take, even when they get used to her being there.
One night, he demands a pot of roses be brought to his throne room. Confused, a Subjuglator in traning, such as he used to be many sweeps ago, does his bidding and he takes it from them, placing it at the painting's feet with such strange gentleness that the trainee can't keep his mouth shut.
“What is it, your moirail? You quadranted with a painting of a fugly alien?”
The Grand Highblood backhands him so hard is neck snaps. He yanks the younger troll's spine out and uses it as a paintbrush.
When he's calm again, he tosses the mangled body out into the street and shuts the door, turning to look at Rose smiling at him from the wall. He sighs and his shoulders relax.
Moirail. It sounds nice.
That night, Rose admonishes him for killing the trainee. Yes, he was disrespectful, but aren't all young ones? ... I'm glad you stood up for me, though. She makes a diamond with her fingertips.
♑
It goes on like this for many, many sweeps, so many he loses count. Every perigee or so, he'll repaint Rose so she never fades like the rest of the blood on his walls do. He has to collect special flowers to get the right colour for her eyes, but he doesn't mind. It's good to spend quality time with your moirail, right?
Several Subjuglators try and usurp him, but he beats their horns in with his favourite clubs, the ones with Rose's sun symbol branded into them and hangs the corpse out the second storey window in warning.
Many hundreds of sweeps go by, sprinkled with culling and two rebellions and dreams or his precious alien moirail, and sooner than he expected, the Grand Highblood is at the end of his lifespan. He slumps tiredly against the wall by Rose's painting, landing heavily to sit on the floor.
“It's been a good eight hundred sweeps, give or take, eh Rose?” he asks, smiling blearily up at the painting. “Not long now ... I've waited so long to finally meet you in person, not just dreams ...” He breaks off to cough violently, frowning a bit at the purple specks on his hand when he's done. “Just, just wait a little longer, I'll see you soon. I promise.”
Just as his eyes close for the last time, he'd swear the picture moves to smile down at him.