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“Sit on the throne,” Ouken says.
Desha looks around at him. Ouken is staring at their father’s corpse. His expression is unreadable. He might drop his armor or break out with laughter at any moment. Ouken slides his arm off Desha’s shoulders, staggering on his first step, heading towards the throne.
“You shouldn’t push yourself,” Desha says.
“I’ll prepare it for you.” Ouken says, and Desha can only see his back but it sounds like he’s smiling. “We did it, Anija. It’s over. You’re the king.”
His words send a dead thumping chill through Desha’s body, racing from the top of his scalp down into his legs, making his feet tingle. He’s the king. The most powerful. Stronger than his father. Stronger than everyone. The stench of blood is almost overwhelming.
Ouken grabs their father’s shoulders - he unceremoniously pulls his corpse off the shattered throne. The crown doesn’t fall off his head. Ouken drags the body slowly off to the side, his armor clanking with every labored move. It must still be warm under his hands. He leaves a thick, heavy trail of blood behind. Everything is drenched in it. Desha and Ouken too.
Ouken drops the corpse. Its weight lands with a wet noise against the sticky tile. He turns and looks at Desha expectantly. He is smiling. The innocence in the curve of his lips doesn’t belong on the battlefield.
Desha sits on the throne. The seat has shattered and shards of stone dig into his pants. Everything is covered in blood. He almost feels like he might dry stuck to the throne if he sits for too long.
Ouken turns back to the corpse - he takes the crown off Satun’s head and holds it in both hands. It seems like it’s heavier than he’d expected by the way his arms drop slightly, burdened - of everything in the room that crown is the only thing without a spot on it. It gleams innocently like Ouken’s smile - golden, precious, and unaffected by war.
Ouken walks up to Desha and stops. His armored boots make clanking sounds with each step. He kneels in front of Desha, in front of the throne, in front of the new king, and offers the crown to him with both hands - his spoils of war, his prize, the greatest burden he’s ever seen. Desha is suddenly aware of how unburdened the top of his head is at this moment.
“Congratulations,” Ouken says, still beaming like Desha has won something. There’s blood splattered and smeared on his face. “King Desha.”
Desha looks at him for a moment. He steadies himself with one hand on his knee. The throne is slightly too large for him. He reaches out and takes the crown from Ouken, kneeling like a white knight in the bloody throne room of the new king. It is heavier than he’d expected. His arms falter slightly like Ouken’s had. He settles the thing on his head, and the unfamiliar pressure makes him afraid to move too much, as though it’ll fall off if he shakes his head.
“It suits you,” Ouken says.
Desha chuckles. He can’t do anything else. He’s just killed their father.
“Thanks,” he says.
Ouken bows his head. There’s just the two of them in his throne room. The new Captain of the Knight’s Order bows his head to the new king. Ouken doesn’t seem pressured at all. He seems happy. He’s smiling. He’s the image of a loyal, kind, strong knight. Somehow Desha feels the sight of Ouken, his unconditional supporter, his love and loyalty and faith so powerful it’s almost toxic, bolster his strength.
The crown is heavy on his head. He’ll get used to the weight soon enough.