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The throne room ceiling is high, high enough to fade off into a blackness that cannot be penetrated by even the sharpest of troll eyes, made to see clearly in even the dimmest lighting. The walls are jagged and rough, their cruelty somehow enhanced rather than softened by color of the tyrian purple stone from which they were constructed. The unevenly faceted edges throw off sharp reflected glares of white light as they create a staggered rise that ever so slowly angles inwards until it is lost to the blackness above.
Though the throne room is above water, the floor is not, covered in several inches of gently undulating seawater. The air is heavy and damp, and rivulets of liquid run down the faceted walls in an endless, somehow soothing trickling symphony.
You do not like to be above water long. But you must attend to the affairs of the landdwellers sometimes.
Your throne is comfortable, well padded with silken cushions that soften the hard golden edges. The seawater air quickly ruins these expensive, delicate pillows, and they must be replaced often. But you are Her Imperious Condescension, and you do not care.
Glass orbs containing various forms of aquatic life are suspended from the distant ceiling to surround your throne. The creatures within them swim tiredly, placidly, around and around their tiny prisons.
You reach up and caress the nearest hanging orb, the gold rings on your fingers failing to flash brighter than your brilliant, sharp claws. The cuttlefish within the globe does not react to the touch. It continues to swim in an endless circle, doomed to do so until the day it dies.
Your black lips curve gently in a smile. You are Her Imperious Condescension, and these creatures are your friends.
There is a tap at the throne room door. It echoes in the large, cavelike space, distorted by the water on the floor.
You do not need to sit up straighter, as you have been trained to sit stiff-backed no matter what the situation, but you do adjust your skirt into a more regal sweep. It falls away from your legs and throne to drag in the water, soaking up enough liquid to make the dark magenta fabric cling to your legs in a way that could be considered indecent.
But you are Her Imperious Condescension. It is impossible for you to be indecent.
“You may enter,” you say, the stiff formal words pronounced as sharply as the shark’s fangs which line your jaw, flawlessly white and sparkling.
The tall, narrow double doors swing open, and four imperial guards march in, sloshing through the water on the floor. They encircle an imperial drone, the creature’s height and black, spiked carapace clearly distinguishing it from the surrounding troll officers.
The drone holds a fifth troll in its claws.
You look on lazily, condescendingly, one might say. You are, after all, Her Imperious Condescension.
“Your Majesty,” says the foremost troll, kneeling in the water so that it submerges him to mid-thigh. He is a seadweller, like all the rest of the imperial guards, and like you as well. But you are spectrums above them, and can hardly consider yourself to be at all equal to them in any way. You are Her Imperious Condescension, Empress of Alternia and ruler of all trollkind, and he is merely one of your many, many subjects.
“Yes?” you reply. You do not have to feign the boredom in your voice – it is entirely genuine.
“Your Majesty, this drone was doing routine hive inspections when it came across this troll living in one of the suburban lowblood communities. It saw what appeared to be some illegal weaponry within the hive, but when it attempted to enter the troll tried to stop him. Naturally, the drone subdued him, but in doing so noticed something rather…odd.” The guard keeps shooting nervous glances back over his shoulder at the troll dangling from the claws of the drone. You cannot imagine what it could be about some worthless lowblood that could get a captain of the Imperial Guard so worked up.
He appears to have something more to say, but you cut him off. “Cull him and get on with your duties,” you say, the words harsh and clipped. “I have no time to waste on the affairs of useless landwellers.” You reach out and brush the back of your hand across a globe containing a miniature aquatic hoofbeast. The gesture is almost fond, but your yellow and magenta eyes are cold and empty. The creature blows bubbles out of its tiny snout at you.
“Your Majesty,” says the guard in the most respectful tone he can muster up out of his inborn seadweller pride, “you really should have a look at this. We…we don’t know what to do.”
You feel a mild flurry of rage that someone dare defy your orders, but the pained, frightened look on his finned face keeps you from lashing out at him. You run a hand through your hair. It is lush, and long enough to drape over the edge of your throne and hover bare inches above the water.
“Fine, then,” you say, unable to keep the sharp bite of anger out of your royal tone. “Show me.”
The captain gestures to his subordinates, and they in turn lead the drone forward. You get a clearer look at the troll held tightly in its impassive claws.
He is not tall, and rather stocky to boot – a typical lowblooded build, designed to withstand harsh conditions and harder labor. His hair is an unkempt, ragged snarl, and with the way his head is tilted forward, with his arms held firmly behind his back by the smaller, vestigial limbs of the drone, you cannot see his face. The horns that emerge from amid his tangled hair are small and rather nubby.
You scoff. You could never injure anybody with pathetic horns like those. Your horns are proud and long and elegantly curved – horns that make every other female troll on Alternia jealous of their perfection and beauty. And anyone who disagrees is immediately culled.
You are Her Imperious Condescension. You cannot afford to be less than perfect.
The clothing of the captive is ragged, although it fits well, and the bottom half of his pants are soaked from being dragged through the watery hallways of your palace above the sea.
You turn your attention to the symbol on his shirtfront. It is gray.
Instantly, you are intrigued. Hiding your blood color, while not a forbidden practice, is a rather foolish one, for any troll who wishes to know what color you bleed need only cut you open to find out. Most trolls, however, are not satisfied with a simple nick on the arm to find this out. Opening the throat is definitely the preferred method.
“I see only a filthy lowblood who is ashamed of the color in his veins, as he has every right to be,” you declare. “Certainly this is not what you meant to show me?”
The eyes of the head guard flicker nervously about the room. “No, your Majesty. You are right that this filth has a right to be ashamed of what he bleeds. But he has more of a reason to be ashamed than most of his kind.” The guard draws a sharp dagger and approaches the captive troll, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back to expose his face.
The captive looks at you with sharp, desperate eyes, his teeth bared in a pained grimace. Though his eyebrows are currently knitted in terror, there are lines in the skin around them that suggest they are usually furrowed in frustration and rage. Dark gray bruises pepper his cheeks and jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his black turtleneck shirt.
“Acknowledge your Empress,” commands the guard, bringing the dagger up to the captive’s throat. A flash of anger spikes through his eyes – eyes that have irises strangely devoid of color – but he complies.
“Your Majesty,” he grates out from between gritted teeth, his eyes locked onto your face.
You do not acknowledge him.
“Make him bleed,” you command the guard, and he does, dragging the dagger across the captive’s cheek in a silver flash. Blood wells in the wound.
It is red.
Bright, brilliant, firey red.
You bare your teeth and hiss, but the reaction is more excited than afraid. “A mutant.” Your tone is delighted – too delighted.
You take a moment to calm yourself.
You are Her Imperious Condescension, and you do not get excited.
“As I said, your Majesty,” the guard says, “he has more reason to be ashamed of his blood color than most.”
“Indeed,” you purr, settling back into your throne. “But why did you have to bring him to me to decide what to do with him?”
The guard is flustered. “Your Majesty, we do not have a policy for dealing with mutants, and we did not want to incur your wrath if you were to discover that we had incorrectly disposed of this heinous fil-“
“Fef,” breathes the captive. His eyes, which have never left your face, are wide. “Oh my gog, Fef. Feferi.”
You lock your hardest, coldest stare onto the mutant troll, tyrian irises burning into his gray ones.
“What, what’s that you’re saying,” says the guard, startled. “How dare you speak to Her Majesty so-“
“Feferi!” he yells, “Fef, Fef, it’s me! Please say you remember me! Please say that you won’t-“
You cut him off. “I do not associate with lowblooded scum.” Your voice is cold and irritated. His is rough and sharp, and the echoes it sends back from the jagged walls are less than pleasing.
“Feferi, it’s me, Karkat, don’t you remember, from, oh gog, sweeps ago, sweeps and sweeps, we were barely more than wrigglers, but I still remember you, please say that you remember me-“
Something cold stirs within your belly and you shift on your throne, golden jewelry flashing in the dim light. You have never associated with mutant lowblooded scum, of that you are certain. The former Empress told you so.
“-you can’t kill me, please you can’t, I know you’re the Empress now but Fef- Feferi, we were friends!” He throws himself forwards towards you, desperately, but the drone holds him tight and he continues to struggle, the echoes of his splashing bouncing back and forth across the cavernous room.
Your gills flick and flutter against the sides of your head and you shift again, suddenly uncomfortable on your golden throne despite all the cushions. You uncross your legs and cross them the other way, getting tangled up in your soppingly indecent gauzy skirt –
A flash of a wall of capital text, solid slate gray, angry words from an angry troll, but he’s not angry at you he’s just angry at the world –
You grip the arms of your throne so hard that your sharp claws dig into the soft gold and your eyes, desperate to evade his pleading face, land on the glass orbs suspended next to you and wonder why it ever compelled you to lock those poor fish up in glass, you should be helping them –
Helping them like you wanted to help the trolls once, but the Empress told you no, she told you lots of things but you can’t really remember –
“Feferi.” He is looking up at you and his eyes are colorless, but the tears streaming down his face are red, red, red, and you cannot look away. “Feferi.”
“I -” you begin to say.
His eyes go suddenly hopeful and everything comes crashing down.
“I am Her Imperious Condescension, not this ‘Feferi’ you seem to have me confused with,” you say.
His face breaks but you do not feel anything. You hardly even notice. You are focused on the captain now.
“I was going to have him formally executed, but his arrogance has changed my mind. Cull him as you would any other useless wriggler.” You flip your hand at the guards to let them know they are dismissed and turn to your pets, trapped in their glass bubbles.
“Your Majesty,” the guards mutter as they leave, the drone still holding onto the now-limp captive.
You expect him to call out your name again, to fight, to do something, but he does not.
You shrug and caress the glass orb beside you. Another freak is going to his death. The tides are changing. Alternia is turning.
You are Her Imperious Condescension, and you do not care.