Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Lords are in the middle of dinner when she arrives.

The musicians feel the change in the room before they see her; the air gets a charge like it does right before a storm hits. The lights dim. Even as the Emperor berates the servants, a lone figure shuffles in.

It’s a small gelfling. Her fuzzy hair is matted and snarled. Her clothes are filthy and her wings are limp. Every step she takes seems to hurt her; her head is bowed and she’s clutching her little torso.

“What is the meaning of this?” splutters the Ritual-Master.

“Ah! Dessert!” says the Gourmand.

Everyone at the table brays with laughter. The laughter dies down when the gelfling lifts her head. Her huge eyes are bright purple. Every vein in her face is glowing.

“What’s wrong with it?” whines the Ornamentalist.

“Garthim!” barks the Emperor.

Silence.

“GARTHIM!” bellows the Emperor. The raise in volume is too much for him; he hacks into his napkin.

“If you’re looking for those beetles,” says the gelfling, “They’re gone.”

“Not possible!” the Scientist snaps. “I engineered them to obey our every command! They wouldn’t leave!”

The gelfling says nothing, just gazes at the Lords with those purple eyes.

“It can’t mean that they’re DEAD, can it?” mutters the Chamberlain.

“Don’t be stupid!” the Scientist returns. But he sounds a lot less sure than he did a moment ago.

“Podlings!” rasps the Emperor. “Seize the gelfling.”

The gelfling turns to the servants that are clustered, trembling, behind the food cart. “Run.”

The servants flee without hesitation.

“Cowards!” screeches the Scroll-Keeper.

A ripple of alarm goes through the Lords as the gelfling stands up straight and unfolds her wings. Every vein on her delicate-looking wings is glowing purple.

The gelfling raises her hands. “This,” she says, “Is for Mira.”

She throws her hands out, there’s a surge of purple light, and the Emperor blows apart in his seat.

Foul-smelling goo rains on the table and his seatmates. The Chamberlain, who was sitting closest to him, vomits. The musicians are frozen, unable to take in what they’re seeing, as the gelfling sends out more glowing purple and the Scroll-Keeper explodes.

Only when the Ritual-Master blows apart do the podlings at the instruments collectively unfreeze. They flee as the gelfling screams names, some they vaguely recognize and others they don’t know: Tavra, the All-Maudra, Maudra Fara, Captain Ordon, the Castle Guard, the Sanctuary Tree. The Lords’ shrieks carry through the entire castle as the podlings sprint to the nearest exits, skirting around puddles of goo that were once Garthim as they do.

As the group races across the bridge, there’s a terrific rumbling. The entire landscape shakes as the castle crumbles in a series of deafening crashes. One of the drummers that looks back is blinded instantly by the purple light.

The musicians meet up with the servants, but they don’t stop for a reunion until they’re all many miles away from what used to be their prison. The sight, sounds, and smells of the Lords and their fortress being destroyed are forever burned into the survivors’ minds.

* * * * * *

As Hup picks his way through the rubble, everything smells like ashes and death.

He finds Deet sitting by the pit of fire. She’s staring at the floating crystal without really seeming to see it, or anything else around her.

Her eyes are still purple. Her skin is still all purple. She looks exhausted, and even paler than usual.

Hup gets as close to her as he safely can. “Deet feel better?”

Deet doesn’t turn to look at Hup. He can just catch her reply.

“I want to die.”