Work Text:
Consciousness seeps in, thick like fog and precariously lasting. She's vaguely aware of being somewhere damp and warm, with a secondary awareness afforded to being, thank the gods, exactly where she'd fallen asleep.
"My Queen-"
Euterpe's voice. Vaguely muffled and faraway, but there still.
The secondary awareness is also helpful enough to provide that her back hurts, and that she was cold.
Then, like opening one's eyes, the secondary awareness becomes the only awareness. Sound is made clear, sight replaces darkness, feeling becomes interfused. And so, here is the world, just as she remembered it from the day before.
Euterpe stands over her, hands folded respectfully behind her back. She'd learned the hard way that the best way to wake her charge was verbally, rather than physically. Though she bore no scars from the incident, only a long-healed bruise and the memory of a rather profuse apology, once was enough to learn better.
"Whatissit?" Queen slurs, metaphorically blinking as she tries to shake the fog from her mind.
"There's a ship approaching."
"...Mm'kay."
She raises a hand to rub at her face, to be met only with heat and the faintest movement of air. Something in her recoils at the sensation, a sudden and bitter reminder of things she’d rather forget. Things that didn’t matter, now. Grasping hands and cold, damp, floors. Pain, the scent of blood mingling with that of the rain. Frigid iron around her wrists and hunger clawing at her insides, given reprieve only by sleep.
They didn’t matter. There were greater things at hand.
The Queen sighs, fully sitting up. The morning’s chill had sunk into her flesh, a stark contrast to the warmth of the night previous. The Island was seldom cold, more often than not best described as muggy, but the surrounding sea and the draft from the broken wall made mornings chilly at best. The floor is colder yet against her bare feet, another sensation she resented more than usual, these days. However, it does help to clear some of the lingering exhaustion.
Euterpe shuffles her feet.
"...The wind is in its favor, I should mention."
A moment for the Queen to dim her sight, as she hadn't any eyes to close anymore. It was one of few things she'd learned how to do, being… this. Whatever this was. She hadn't a name for it, nor was she sure she wanted to know it.
“Allow me… at least, to get dressed. Please.”
“Apologies, your Majesty.”
“No need for them." She says, louder now as the haze of sleep fades. "It needs done.”
The Queen stands properly now. She stretches in an attempt to shake the stiffness from her limbs. The chaise lounge was certainly better than the floor, but there was only so much comfort that could be afforded by something with a base of solid wood and only its cushions serving as a stand-in for a mattress. That was to be said, it was a far cry from a proper bed, but it was better than nothing.
A yawn builds in her chest, something in her mind still compels her to move muscles she was no longer in possession of.
The Queen looks over at Euterpe.
“I imagine Calliope and Kleio are out?”
Euterpe nods. “Hunting, yes.”
The Queen hums in acknowledgement, crossing the room to pick through the trunk pushed up against the other wall. The lid thunks against the brick when she pushes it open. In terms of possessions, the Queen didn't own much these days, and that included clothes. It was already hard enough to find a tailor- a human one, anyway -willing to work with someone who was quite literally ten feet tall. Or anyone that had any percentage of giant in them that showed, for that matter.
It was a wonder at that rate, that somehow her great-great-great-great-great-great-great… she lost count of the greats, ten times great uncle had found someone willing to craft him armor of all things. The material alone would have been enough to armor and arm the entirety of the royal guard twice over, perhaps more.
The Queen wonders if he's well.
…Probably not, if she was being honest with herself. The current state of the kingdom didn’t give her much hope.
Regardless, it was quite difficult to find a tailor willing to work with someone of her stature. More so, now that all the tailors she knew were more than likely dead.
She peels off the chemise she'd thrown on the night previous, once it had become clear that the lighthouse would see no visitor that day. The cloth is cool and damp with the sea air, and being rid of it is a welcome release. It would go to the line downstairs to dry out, once all was taken care of. For now, though, it would live on the back of the trunk's lid.
Behind her, she can hear Euterpe’s boots scrape against the floor as she turns away out of respect. The irony in it was somewhat amusing to The Queen. Privacy became less of a concern when you’d shared a space with someone for long enough. Even less, when they’d seen you in much worse states than simply undressed.
Reaching back into the trunk, she catches sight of a mark encircling her wrist. Half of a pair and part of a set. Another sight she didn’t care for, but one she’d been forced to grow familiar with. It wasn’t possible to escape one’s own body after all. There was another, the largest in her possession, if you didn’t count the burns. It was a long, clean, line that ran the length of her torso. It mingled with other scars, some barely older than itself, and others as fresh as the day before last. The latter’s sources were numerous, arrows, blades, scratches and bites from a few different animals, flames, magic, while the former were unfortunate gifts from her captivity. This one, however, made itself of note by being one of few she didn’t remember acquiring.
They didn’t matter, she reminds herself. They were just scars. There was seldom a person on this island without at least four, in current times.
Now sitting against the wall, she finishes pulling on her second boot, moving on to reach for the breastplate sat beside her. The metal is cold in her hands as she puts it on over the gambeson she’d managed to sew in her first few weeks here. It had been a project of necessity, and a welcome distraction. Something to pour her time into, rather than dwell. Admittedly, she was rather proud of herself for it. The Queen had always enjoyed sewing; it was a skill she’d been perfecting since she was old enough to be trusted with a needle and thread. And while she’d never actually made a garment before, she liked to think she’d done well, for a first attempt.
Embroidery had always been what she’d excelled at, with a few miscellaneous projects here and there. Cloth dolls for herself and her younger cousins, small pouches and other little, inconsequential, things. And, when she was a teenager, to add pockets to her own dresses, once or twice, when nobody was looking.
Her tabard was next in line, slipped easily over her neck and secured in place with a belt cinched around her midriff. Once she’s stood up, her coat goes on, hooks done up and fabric smoothed until she was satisfied with the look of it. Then, she delves into the trunk again, for just one last thing.
The necklace jingles as she lifts it from the bottom of the box, metal and jewel alike shine in the early light. It had seen some wear now, but that was to be expected of favorites. It had been a gift, and there’d seldom been a day she’d not worn it. A little damage wasn’t about to make it any less treasured.
Queen slips it on, and with only a second longer spent to make sure it was unlikely to slip off, she’s ready.
Crossing the room back to the chaise lounge, The Queen grabs her sword from where it had been set against the back of the sofa the night previous. It’s scabbard is cold against her palm as she turns to make for the stairs. However, as she passes through the door, her foot clips something on the ground. It skitters across the floor, coming to a stop as it clunks against the wall.
A chunk of marble, once carefully sculpted into a familiar likeness, now nothing more than rubble and dust.
Her grip tightens on the scabbard in her hand.
She'd been trying to forget that… outburst, she'd had a few weeks ago. She was angry, yes, but it was not worth getting angry at a man who was, at this point, almost certainly dead. The Malaise was not merciful, it didn’t know what mercy was. If somehow it did, it did not and would not heed to it. The King was dead, and though her anger was rightful, it was far from worth indulging.
She hadn’t seen him since she’d left for her shrines. After he’d done his best to keep his voice even as he’d explained the plan. He’d known, and she’d known it as well. The King had never much cared for her faith, but tolerated the shrines for her sake and only that. The Queen was no fool, and she loved her husband, but he’d always been awful at keeping a straight face. To send her there willingly, with not even a hint of distaste in his tone, meant that something was wrong.
There was no arguing. She was to leave Highpeak Castle, both for her own health and safety, and that of the kingdom. They had no children, and in the event that something should happen to The King, she would be his most obvious successor. A cruel irony it carried now, something that felt as though it were becoming a theme with her. Dead queen of a dead kingdom, both left with nothing but ruin to their name.
And if by some miracle- no, some divine intervention, her husband had lived this long, she hoped she would never see him here. Were that to be the case, she knew what he’d want, and she couldn’t let him have it.
Just like him, some bitter little part of her pipes up, weaseling his way out of responsibility one way or another. And here she was, doing damage control. As always.
Another part speaks, chiding the bitter one for being too harsh. Despite everything, it was still him. Still her darling husband, who she missed so. Still the man she’d written so many letters to, when they were young and relatively carefree. Separated by an ocean, having met only once for a night, both having begun to tire of the endless formalities and too-polite company. The rest of the party’s duration was spent slipping away from the crowd, for once feeling as though they were alive, rather than going through the motions. Free of the expectations and niceties and pressure to simply just behave for their parents’ sakes.
He’d tried to send her a flower, once. After she’d in passing mentioned an interest in gardening, if she remembered correctly. It’d been pressed between the pages of a book and carefully tucked into a little paper sleeve along with the usual letter. And while sweet, it had ended it’s journey as little more than a stem laid in a grainy pile of disintegrated petals.
She’d kept it anyway. Carefully poured the powder into an empty vial and stopped it off. If nothing had changed since she’d left home, it would still be in her jewelry box. Tucked in the back of the second drawer down alongside an ordinary pebble from the shoreline below the castle and a number of other little bits and pieces. He’d never been very good at gifts, but monetary value and vanity were furthest from the point.
Some gift that this whole mess was, that was for s-
The Queen silences both parts. Neither of them were wanted, and both were intruders on the task at hand.
“Euterpe?” The Queen calls after her, tearing her gaze away from the rubble.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“If you would stoke the fire in the main room, it would be greatly appreciated. I'll be down in a moment."
“Of course.”
Without another word, The Queen continues on, up the stairs to the top of the lighthouse.
Shadows lie long across the wrecks, a splintered amalgamation of a thousand ships, coalesced into her fortress. Old sails, bows tipped skyward and tangled rigging rise from the fog-shrouded heap, like hands grasping out from their graves. The sun bleeds light into the early morning sky, staining the world a deep, burning, orange that glints off the waves churning among the discarded hulls and shattered masts.
The Queen steps to The Crown’s edge, a boot placed firmly on the barrier between it and open air as she unsheathes her weapon. She scans the horizon for her target. Yesterday, it had been a carrack, none of whom’s insignias she’d recognized. However, the construction had looked like that of a few kingdoms further west. Either it was a pirate vessel, one traded, or an entirely new empire had risen in the duration of the island’s isolation from the rest of the world. All three possibilities were equally likely, for all she knew.
…There it is.
It’s a long and sleek thing, gliding effortlessly across the water. A new ship, given the lack of wear and tear. Young, fresh, unmarred by the sea. As far as The Queen could make out from this distance, it’s hull bore nary so much as a barnacle. It was close enough now she could at least make out some of the markings. An interlocking pattern held in a ring, with no defined start or end. It was a ship from-
A ship from-
From…
From home.
She wonders, quietly, if her parents are well. And if they were, if news had reached them of The Island's fate. And if it had…
Did they regret it? Letting their only child go? Allowing her to cross the sea to marry for love? Did they wish they'd listened, when others had called her naïve and implored them to change their minds once again? Did they wish they’d kept her? Their precious daughter, who they were blessed to have in the first place?
It never would have been different. Her parents had known her too well; she was ever sure of herself, whip-smart and stubborn to match. Their daughter would have gotten her way, and there was no stopping her even if they tried. The throne of her own kingdom would pass to one of her cousins, a prospect neither of her parents had ever dreamed of in a million years. It was what they had raised her for, what she was meant to do. Meanwhile, she would go on to…
Her mother had cried. Her father had given her no words- he was never one for them - and nothing more than a hug that she’d had to kneel to allow him to give her. He hadn’t been able to reach her shoulders since before she was a teenager.
She tries very hard not to wonder if they’d even recognize her now. If they’d still accept… this, as their child.
The statues adorning the crown seemed to loom over her. A silent jury of watching gods from whom she was forever awaiting a verdict.
The Queen raises her blade.
It sinks all the same. Slips quietly below the waves. Another to be swallowed up by the sea, either to rest in her silent depths, or to be absorbed and made part of a monstrosity, should it be so unlucky as to wash up among those that came before it.
She watches the ship for a long moment, before finally the last trace of it has vanished below the surface, as though it were never there in the first place.
When she finds Euterpe again, it’s by the fireplace in the main room, as promised. Knelt on the floor in front of the flames, feeding them salt-brined kindling taken from the ships nearest to the shore.
Euterpe looks back over her shoulder when she enters, tossing the last piece of kindling on, before dusting off her hands.
“What was it this time?”
“Merchant vessel.”
“Where from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hm.” Euterpe hums, pushing herself into a standing position to join her charge where she’d settled on the rug in front of the hearth. “You’d think they’d stop trying after a while.”
“You would, yes.” She responds, staring idly into the fireplace. “But I’m sure if news of the kingdom’s defunct status has reached other shores, there are those willing to attempt to capitalize on it.”
Euterpe nods, allowing the conversation to drift to silence for a moment.
“So… other than this, how has your morning been?”
Euterpe shrugs. “Same old. Beat Kleio at darts. Again.”
“And Calliope?”
“Calliope didn’t even want to try. She’s still mad about last time.”
“Mm-hm.”
“It’s not my fault she can’t aim. Kleio can’t either, but she at least can hit the center of the board sometimes.”
“She’s not as used to needing precision, I’d imagine.”
“...Yeah, I guess so.”
Euterpe props her head up on the heel of her palm, setting her mask slightly askew.
“Other than that, I’ve just been cleaning. Nothing all that fun. The cobwebs higher up in this place are a pain to get at.”
“I could take care of them, if you’d like.”
Euterpe looks over at her charge, and while she knew that her servant wasn't surprised by the offer, The Queen could tell she was being given some sort of look.
“It would simply be easier, wouldn’t it? I don’t mind cleaning. Enjoy it, actually.”
Euterpe takes a second, before nodding. The Queen had always been extremely particular about her personal spaces. The second sister remembered quite vividly how she’d refused to so much as allow the castle’s staff so much as sweep the floor of her and The King’s shared quarters. Rather, she insisted that she be allowed to handle it herself. As far as Euterpe could tell, she’d always been that way.
One of the women assigned to her before herself and her sisters had said that the princess could be difficult. Stubborn, brash, independent, sharp-tongued, and so on. So the three of them had found, that wasn’t quite the case. Stubborn, independent, sharp-tongued, yes, but not in the way it had been described to them. Perhaps though, it was the fact that the other woman- Melpomene was her name, if Euterpe remembered correctly- had been on the guard since even before their time. The older and more traditional sorts never found any fondness in those traits. Sought to quash them, rather than work around them. Nobility and those who spent too much time with nobility were nearly always like that. Their way, or no way at all.
Granted, Euterpe’s own charge was different, in that respect. All three had found that it was best to just leave her to her own devices when it came to unimportant things. Allowing her to clean her own room or prepare her own dinner how she liked wouldn’t kill her, after all. Plus, it was less work for Euterpe and her sisters, and gods knew that The Queen needed the distraction. Either way, it left them more time to focus on what was important.
They lapse into silence, both idly watching the fire as it slowly eats away at the driftwood it had been provided.
Half an hour later, the front door creaks open, and the remaining two sisters step through the threshold. Calliope first, Kleio behind her.
“Calliope, Kleio. Good morning.”
“Good morning, your highness.” Kleio greets, while Calliope trudges past her carrying… whatever the hell that thing was. …Ah, whatever it was, it was going to be breakfast. The Queen couldn’t be bothered to care anymore. Just so long as it wasn’t stale bread and rainwater, anything but that. Hell, so long as it was food, she’d take it.
Calliope descends the stairs, while Kleio takes a moment to very, very, carefully shut the door.
“I see the hunt went well.”
Calliope nods. “There were more, but one should be plenty for all of us.”
Kleio descends the stairs behind Calliope two at a time, nearly tripping down the last two, before managing to catch herself in a roll.
Calliope doesn’t look back at her, far too used to this sort of behavior from her youngest sister.
“You can go down the stairs normally, you know.”
The Queen could quite vividly imagine the pout behind Kleio’s mask.
“But that’s no fun! You’re no fun!”
“Mmhm. So I am.”
Euterpe stands to greet her siblings, only to have whatever beast it was that the two had hauled in shoved very roughly into her arms.
“Hold this.” Calliope drones, more a command than a request.
She struggles to keep her hold on the thing for a moment, while Calliope goes to remove the bracers that chained her weapons to her forearms. The chains clink and metal clatters as she drops the first bracer on the ground, then the next. Then, just as forcefully, she wrests the beast from her sister’s hands, hefting it back over her shoulder.
“Thank you.”
“Hello to you too, Calliope.” Euterpe grumbles, shaking some mystery substance off her hand. It was too thick to be water, and too clear to be blood. Whatever the case, it probably wouldn’t be a problem once the thing was cooked and prepared.
“Hello.” She replies, the vaguest hint of humor in her tone as she makes for the stairs up to the kitchen.
Kleio follows, and it’s clear Euterpe wishes to follow suit, lingering by the doorway, glancing between The Queen and the stairs.
“Go on,” She permits, “They’ll need you.”
“And yourself?”
The Queen doesn’t skip a beat in her response.
“I’ll be just fine.”
Euterpe hesitates some, before turning to dash away and catch up with Calliope and Kleio.
The fire pops, a few sparks settling on the stone before it. The Queen stands up, picking a few pieces of driftwood off the pile to feed into the fire.
Somewhere above her, Kleio laughs. Euterpe exclaims something or other. Calliope, meanwhile, stays relatively quiet, as was usual for her. Presumably, though, she says something, given the uproar from her sisters that follows what had seemed to be a beat of silence.
The Queen sits alone downstairs, still gazing into the flames. She wouldn’t be joining them. It wasn’t her place. It wasn’t smart. The Servants were dedicated to her safety above all else. They were the first line of defense, if her life were to be threatened, and should the situation call for it, they would give their own for her wellbeing. And they had done just that, time and time again. Died for her.
…They were good women, their company was pleasant. In another time, she would have almost called them friends.
That was the past, though. Now, she couldn’t afford such things. It would only make things worse, when the inevitable end came. When below her, one shrieked, and her sisters called her name. When one by one, they fell silent, and the interloper would ascend to the crown. Or when one of their number wouldn’t return from downstairs, or those cycles when only a single sister would ascend to join her. When she’d wordlessly hold the survivors’ hands as they waited for the reset. A kindness, that, despite everything, it would be more than cruel not to at least offer.
…She’d never been brave enough to go back downstairs, after her opponent had finally gone still for good. Crawled from their broken body and slipped away over the barrier. Off to… somewhere. Where, she didn’t know, and didn’t care to guess. She didn’t like thinking about the whole thing, anyway.
They had bested her only a few times, but they’d done it. Gotten the better of her while her guard was down. Each ending with her being cast into the flames.
The Queen never remembered what happened next very well. Only the smell of searing flesh, heat and light. Pain, fear, and then nothing.
And then fear. The floor collapsing out from beneath her, existing in freefall.
When she’d found herself on the floor, in some lower room consumed by the inferno, the ceiling had been higher than it should have been, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t feel her limbs. Meanwhile, in the back of her mind, something shrieked and cried for her to move. Seek out… something lost.
Briefly, her thought process touches back to the interloper. They were… the same sort of being, right? Did that mean that- was that what had happened to-?
The thought is dropped just as quickly as it was picked up.
She felt ill.
…Perhaps some fresh air would be good for her. Help clear her head. Lack thereof. Whatever.
She forces herself to take a deep breath, where before her breathing had been trying to increase in pace, her pulse along with it. The air around her begins to warp as she makes herself focus. Moving though reality wasn’t hard, when you knew what you were doing. All it took was concentration.
The feeling is as if someone had shoved her forwards. Her surroundings bleed together, until finally the main room of the lighthouse was no more. The shore was before her now, the horizon beyond.
A breeze crosses the shore, ruffling her clothes, putting wind in old sails that would never again see open ocean. The Island’s shorelines were jagged things, comprised mostly of rock, with very little sand. It had made coming into port dangerous, even in the old days when the beacon was still tended to by the keepers, rather than herself.
She remembered seeing the lighthouse for the first time, a shining torch on the horizon. It was sanctuary, a sign they’d made it after weeks at sea, longer certainly. At the time, she’d thought little else of it, other than the imposing silhouette it cast across the rest of the island around it.
The Queen had never once thought she’d ever step inside, much less be living in the godsforsaken place. Even less, fight for her life and die there.
It was necessary, though. The Malaise could not leave the island. It would not leave the island, not if she had anything to say about it. By force if necessary, and necessary force had become. Nothing would enter, and nothing would leave, herself included, until…
Until something gave out. The Malaise, or herself, and the latter was unacceptable. Even if she’d been bested, something had sent the interloper back. That meant that there was still a reason to keep trying. It wasn’t over yet, far from it. The Queen just wished that their stubbornness didn’t match her own, like it unfortunately did.
The tide laps at her shoes as she walks, keeping her pace steady, arms folded behind her back. There was no reason to get worked up over the matter. She couldn’t afford to get worked up over the matter, over any matter, in fact. There were greater things at hand than what she felt. Her own, personal, feelings didn’t matter. Only what was right. What was right was that the beacon stayed unlit, that she stayed here, and that the rest of the world would not suffer her kingdom’s same fate. Wouldn’t be brought to ruin and decay, left to rot as nothing but a shell of it’s former self. Wouldn’t know hunger and cold floors and frigid rain and searing pain as a blade was set to their body, as tools poked and prodded and cut. Wouldn’t know the creeping embrace of death, fading into oblivion, light as air yet still chained by some unseen force. Wouldn’t endure agony from which even death would not be reprieve, wouldn’t know the loneliness of a tower by the sea or the anger and grief to which she woke every morning, wouldn’t-
Something hisses as it hits the water at her feet. An ember, cast off her flame. Another follows. Her heart pounds in her chest, breathing turned shallow and quick.
She’d given up on hoping that she’d simply wake up one morning to the nightmare being over. To it never having happened at all. To be in her own bed, in her own room in her own home, her husband beside her, already awake and already having been awake for two hours before her. To go about her day as normal, as a completely normal person doing normal person things. Not living in some cold and drafty tower watching some godsforsaken beacon to keep some selfish fool from lighting it and escaping The Island only to doom everyone else in the process. To… to not have…
Her limbs feel numb, hands fold together in an attempt to quell their shaking as she tries to press onwards down the beach.
███ had lost everything. That was the truth, plain and simple. She wasn’t even sure she could call herself that name. ███ was dead, she’d died in that dreary room somewhere on the coast. Or, at least, it felt that way. If a ship had been rebuilt, bit by bit, replaced with new parts and new pieces, was it still the same ship? Or one built anew in it’s place, bearing it’s old name? That was the old hypothetical, wasn't it?
To fall only to one’s knees was better than outright collapsing. When you could go on no longer, to take defeat with grace was the least that could be done. In the distance, The Island’s coast rises from the sea, dotted with a series of islets suspended high above it’s shores.
The more and more that fell, the more numbers The Apostates had gained. They'd turned the fallen against their peers as nothing more than puppets. More bodies to throw at the temples' defenses. People she knew for sure had never lifted a weapon in their life wielded blades like masters. Newly appointed archers loosed arrows with almost supernatural precision. And those they’d slain joined their number, muddying the lines between friend and foe.
She remembered, in unpleasantly vivid detail, one young man from among her peoples’ number. His hood had fallen away when he’d been brought back to his feet, staring dead-eyed and expressionless into the distance as his hands found their way around the hilt of the very same dagger he’d fallen to. Wrenched it from his own flesh and sunk it into that of his fellow beside her.
The Queen hadn’t known him very well, knew only his name, spoke to him once or twice, but a name and a few pleasantries were enough for her to remember him. Even if they hadn’t been, he’d been one of her own. Her people, those she was meant to guide and protect…
The Apostates had overwhelmed them not long after that, herded them into some corner of the temple with strength and numbers alike.
And then it was over.
The static in her mind rises, screams out alongside her as her fingers curl against the rocks, their jagged surface taking skin. One of the embers catches on a patch of scrubgrass pushing it’s way up through a crack in the rock, causing it to shrivel and blacken as it’s consumed.
A sob wracks her body. The static rises further, consuming whatever thought it could find, turning it to a racing stream of incoherent snippets awash with unpleasant memories.
…After some time, it passes. The static quiets, heartrate slows, breathing evens. Her hands still shake, limbs feel numb, mind light and foggy. She’s vaguely aware of the smell of smoke, but pays it little mind. Smoke was like air, these days.
…
Get up.
She had to get up.
She had no choice but to get up.
The Queen takes a breath, letting it out slowly, before forcing herself to her feet. She stumbles a little as she takes her first few steps back towards the lighthouse, but manages to catch herself. Her absence would be noted eventually, and it was likely she’d been gone longer than she should have been already. There were things to be done and only so much time to do them. The exhaustion she felt made no difference in that fact. Shaking hands didn’t mean there weren’t floors to be swept or cobwebs cleared. A tired mind and blurred sight didn’t mean there wasn’t a horizon to watch. So on and so forth. Her presence was needed, required, even. And, that aside…
Breakfast would be ready soon.