Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

the snake

part i

Opeli still wakes before dawn. 

It's a hard habit to break. Years of devotion to Justice and her sisters have the routine ingrained into her, and it's been months now but she still rises before the sun like she's still needed regularly at Temple Hill. She has, at the very least, grown used to the warmth of the other body in the bed. The arm draped over her lazily waist is comforting, and it pulls her closer and deeper into the mattress while the faint smell of sand and citrus dulls her senses and threatens to put her back to sleep. 

Soren shifts without waking, his arm bare and heavy with the reminder that she does not need to be at Temple Hill today—or any day, for that matter—and that it is a habit she should break. Those days are behind her now, and her resignation from her position of High Cleric was well-earned. She deserves to enjoy the mornings. She deserves the rest. 

Still, she is awake, and there is a twitch in her system that she can’t shake. She sits up. 

Soren grumbles in protest. “‘S still early, Opeli,” he mumbles, his arms tightening around her middle. 

Opeli chuckles to herself. Soren has always been handsome, but in his sleep, and in the early light, there is an ease in his features that makes her smile unabashedly and sparks warmth in her heart. She brushes his hair out of his face, marvelling at the way it shines like gold at the barest hint of sunshine, and grins. “So it is,” she says. “What of it?”

Soren grumbles again. “Sleep,” he insists. 

“Who will review the security policies you stayed up so late trying to write?”

“Policies-schmolicies. You’re making the bed cold.”

Opeli lets out a laugh at that. “How cruel of me,” she jokes, shifting in his grasp to lean her elbow against his hip. “How ever can I make it up to you?”

There’s a pause. Soren cracks an eye open at her from the pillow, his lips pulling into a cheeky, wolfish grin, one of which she’s grown both very wary and very fond. “I can think of a couple of ways.”

“I’m sure you can,” drawls Opeli. She does not hide her smile, even as he tugs her determinedly back into bed, the twitch growing smaller in her mind all the while. “We’ll never get anything done like this, you realise.”

“I beg to differ,” says Soren, pressing a kiss against her ear. “You’ll get done.”

“ Soren.”

Soren lets out a laugh and pulls her knee to his waist, his palm warm as he runs it hungrily up and down the length of her thigh. “What’s there to do?” he asks, burying his face into her neck, his lips ghosting gently over the place where her pulse thrums under her jaw. Opeli shifts to give him access and tries not to shiver. “Today’s meeting isn’t for hours and the paperwork can wait. Rest. Relax. I’ll take care of you.”

“You are a terrible influence.”

“You don’t mind.”

“Not in the least,” laughs Opeli. She meets him with a kiss, her smile pressed against his, his fingers gentle on her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. The distraction is pleasant and she almost forgets the twitch entirely—until Soren pulls back to study her face.

“Is everything okay?” 

“Hm? Oh.” Opeli chuckles sheepishly, her cheeks warming. “Fine,” she says. “I’m just… restless, I suppose. Old habits. I feel like I should be doing something. Do not say you ," she adds, catching the cheek in his eyes, and Soren laughs and presses her fingers to his lips.

How simple it is. How full of love. Months ago, this was forbidden and unfathomable, and even now, Opeli hardly believes this is the hand she has been dealt.

"I wasn't going to," he says. "But you can't blame a guy for worrying." He sets his hand on her abdomen, still flat, still deceptively unassuming, his touch feather light over his shirt-turned-nightgown, and Opeli's breath shudders out.

It’s been seven, almost eight months since her resignation from High Cleric; longer still since the day she collapsed in the council chambers with blood staining the white of her robes. They don’t like to talk about it. They have, but Opeli is still half convinced it was her fault, even when she’s been told a thousand times over that there was nothing she or anyone could have done. She hadn’t thought it was in the cards for her, let alone that it was something she even wanted , but it was so fleeting the first time that it’s rather easy to be afraid that this will be just the same. 

“How long has it been now?” he asks.

Opeli purses her lips. “Eleven weeks,” she murmurs. “One more to go before…” 

“That’s the end of the danger zone, right? And we can start talking about it for real?”

She scoffs. “In most cases, yes, but…” She takes a breath, still afraid to believe in the reality of it.

“Hey.” Soren touches her hand. “It’ll be okay,” he promises. “No matter what. And, y’know, we’ve already seen everything go to shit and back, before even…" He trails off, but she knows what he means. "We'll manage," he finishes. "Whatever happens."

It’s brighter now. The sun is further over the horizon, and its warmth is a balm on Opeli's nerves. Soren smiles up at her, lopsided, charming, and there's a promise in it that she knows he will keep. Opeli can't help but smile back. She'd thought, once upon a time, that his swagger was all arrogance, and it certainly didn't help that his father exuded that same confidence and disregard for authority—but it is not that. He is a far cry from it, an apple rolled a very long way from the tree.

"We will," she agrees at last, threading her fingers between his and choosing to believe in him instead of the doubts and the fears clawing around in her chest. "Whatever happens. It will be fine.”

The wedding was small. They hadn’t wanted the attention, and there was certainly enough of it—the number of people who look at her, even now, like she is a traitor to the realm is not insignificant. Traditionally speaking, High Clerics do not resign. Phoebe, her predecessor, had passed unexpectedly, and quite young, and Opeli was twenty-one when King Atticus requested that she take up the mantle of High Cleric in Phoebe’s place.

She is forty-two now, too young and too able to just leave the position behind her, but too old to have been an appropriate bride for someone of Soren’s standing, even if her own is one of nobility in and of itself. 

It’s not so bad these days. The royal family has been nothing but supportive, and Ezran has had words with more than one foolish noble about the gossip spreading behind Opeli’s back. Clio, too, is protective of her, having been Opeli’s second-in-command for too long before Opeli handed the hood and circlet over to her. Even still, there are whispers, mostly of disbelief from the older nobles, who don’t or won’t understand, who talk about her like fruit past its prime, undesirable for the crime of being left on the tree for too long.

She wonders how they will look at her when it becomes obvious she is with child.

The week passes without incident. At the end of it, Opeli is still sick in the mornings and has not bled, and the child within her is determined to stay, she thinks, which is both a relief and a terror. The others may say what they will, but she is not equipped to deal with a child so young. Even her sisters did not rely on her so when they were younger.

Still, Soren's smile is reassuring, and he promises her every moment that she doubts it that everything will be okay. And then, when Apollonius gives her the all clear, when he agrees that the child is still there and still thriving and gives her strict orders to take it easy , she takes Soren's hand and requests an audience with Ezran at their next council meeting.

"When have you ever needed an audience with me?" he laughs. "Opeli, come on, High Cleric or not, you're still family."

Opeli smiles, wan but grateful all the same. "This is… rather more formal than your average chat, Your Majesty. I am… requesting a leave of absence from the council."

The rest of the council stills. Callum looks up from his sketchbook. Rayla hushes baby Sarai. Barius raises his eyebrows and Clio, who is part of the council as well now, pauses and tilts her head in respectful curiosity.

"Leave?" Ezran blinks and grins. "Finally taking that well-deserved vacation?"

"Ah, no, Your Majesty." Opeli flushes and looks at the ground. She almost misses the hood and circlet—perhaps this would be easier if she was still formally required on the council and not just part of it on Ezran's request. Then again, she thinks, considering how hard this is even now that it's allowed , perhaps not. Soren squeezes her hand and she takes a breath. "It's—on Apollonius' orders."

Ezran's face falls, his brow wrinkling over his eyes. "Are you okay?"

Opeli hesitates once more, and Soren presses a kiss into her and urges her on. "I'm fine," she says at last. "I'm just pregnant, Your Majesty."

A pause settles over the council. Then everything happens at once: Ezran's face breaks into a grin; Callum and Rayla rise together, their smiles bright; Barius cheers and Clio lets out a delighted laugh, and then Opeli is very suddenly, very gently caught up in the arms of her friends and family and surrounded on all sides by their cheers and laughter.

"Congratulations," says Rayla softly. She was the first to know last time, the only one, and had been the only one whose support Opeli had allowed herself. "Are you okay?"

"Mostly," says Opeli. "It's… a bit overwhelming. A bit terrifying."

"I can imagine." Rayla grins at her and pulls her into another hug.

Clio bows her head and does the same. "How exciting, My Lady," she says, her smile genuine and warm.

"Clio, please, you outrank me now, you know there's no need for such formality."

"With respect, My Lady," chuckles Clio. "You will always be My Lady to me."

Opeli rolls her eyes a little at that, but does not argue. 

"What a momentous occasion!" says Barius. "I'll have the kitchens whip something up. My Lady, if you need anything at all, whatever cravings those might be, please just say the word!"

"When are you due?" asks Callum excitedly. "It'll be so great for this little one to have a friend! Do you know if—"

"Slow down, guys," says Soren. "We're taking it one day at a time. We're in the clear for now, but y'know."

Callum tempers himself, but his grin is still wide. "Right, yeah, of course. Can't blame me for excited, though."

"No," says Ezran brightly. "I think we all are. So, your leave of absence—?"

"Yes." Opeli smooths out her skirts. Her wedding band glints in the morning light, and it strikes her for the umpteenth time today how incredible and surreal this all feels. "I've been told I need to take it easy. I am not the safest age for this, so Apollonius has advised that I take some time off the council starting in a few weeks and I'm afraid I won't be able to resume my duties until after the little one arrives."

"No problem," says Ezran. Opeli gets the feeling he's determined to make it so. "You take all the time you need. We can handle everything. Right guys?"

There is a chorus of Yeah! Of course 's, but Opeli seeks out Clio's eyes and looks at her meaningfully.

"I'll keep them in line, My Lady," says Clio, lips twitching a little. "You trained me well. Please just look after yourself and your little one. We'll be fine."

And it's not as if Opeli doesn't trust them. Ezran is a capable king, and Callum is a talented mage, and Rayla is an exceptional ambassador, and Barius has never once allowed the castle to fall into disarray, and she trained and mentored Clio herself. Soren is as dedicated a Crownguard to Ezran as he is a husband to her, and she has never once doubted him so she knows, she knows that everything will be fine.

And yet…

"We'll be all right, Opeli," says Ezran. "Promise! What could happen?"

They laugh because it's a joke, obviously, but it's a little too tempting for fate, and. Well. 

Ezran should not have asked.

Opeli is twenty weeks and bigger than she thought it would be when it happens. Apollonius had handed her care over to Rowena, the midwife, not so long ago, and even Rowena says it's likely the sign of a healthy child—even if Opeli notices her expression change in curiosity, in suspicion that there might be something… more to consider. She tells Opeli that should take it easy, which is of no surprise, and most of Opeli's last weeks on the council have been spent tying up loose ends and handing over to Clio, who's been doing bits and pieces already on top of being the new High Cleric anyway that Opeli is fairly certain this should be a fairly smooth transition. Rowena has given her permission to do small things: write and proof documents, liaise with the Crow Lord on correspondence with the other kingdoms, oversee Ezran's schedule, but nothing more than that, and certainly nothing more stressful. Opeli is in two minds about it: on the one hand, she wonders what anyone expects her to do in her downtime, but on the other, she knows the risks, and they are not worth any complaints she might have.

"I'll miss it though," she says wistfully. It is the heart of winter and the cold is biting. The cloaks and furs have all come out, and it's a combination of his excitement and concern, Opeli thinks, that Soren dotes on her endlessly these days, but it's getting out of hand.

They are walking along the river bank. The snow crunches under their boots and his cloak dwarfs her but she wears it anyway at his insistence. Soren casts her a sidelong glance, his lips quirked upwards a little in his amusement. "You just don't know how to relax, do you?"

"You've always known that," chuckles Opeli. "I've made an effort though. For you and the little one."

"I mean, you could do it for yourself too, but if we're what it takes, then okay." He grins at her and the winter light feels pale in comparison. "How're you feeling?"

Opeli shrugs. "The same. Less tired which is a pleasant change. I am… growing very comfortable with the idea, I think, which is quite new." She frowns and glances up at him. "Is that presumptuous?"

"That's optimism, My Lady," laughs Soren. "And no, I don't think it's presumptuous at all. I'm glad, actually. This is… kind of everything I ever wanted."

Opeli twitches her lips at him. "Tell the truth."

"Well." Soren snorts a little and runs a hand through his hair, sending the snowflakes collected there fluttering to the ground. "I can't say I would have guessed I wanted this with you, but I thought I wanted to slay dragons when I was younger too. I was a stupid kid."

"Ridiculous, perhaps," chuckles Opeli. "A little foolish. Not stupid. Regardless, I agree. This is… more than I hoped for and I'm blessed to have it with you.” She pauses and purses her lips. “It’s strange, though,” she adds. “It all feels… too good to be true. Like the other shoe, as they say, may drop at any moment.”

Soren lets out a laugh. It’s charming and perhaps a little overconfident, but Opeli relishes the sound like its warmth in the winter chill. “Well, you know what else they say: don’t look a gift-banther in the nose.” 

She presses her lips together, fond, exasperated, the correction dammed up behind them. “You’ve grown too comfortable, I think.”

“So what if I have? Can’t a guy dream about a nice future with his wife?”

Opeli laughs at that. She stops in the snow to look up at him, her smile honest and unburdened despite the risks of being pregnant so late. All the warnings aside, it truly is wonderful to be walking with him today knowing there is nothing to worry about. “You’ll be doing one better in due course,” she says, leaning up to press a kiss against his jaw. “Living it sounds somehow even more pleasant.”

He grins at her, eyes soft and full of warmth. "You know I—"

"Captain!"

His eyes snap up. His smile fades. Opeli's does too when she turns and catches sight of Marcos galloping towards them on his horse, his lips thin and his eyes severe. 

The peace vanishes. It's that quick, gone like glass shattered under the hoofbeats of Marcos' stallion. Opeli feels the dread in her skin and in her bones long before she realises that it's dread to begin with and she tugs Soren's cloak tighter over her shoulder like the furs might keep the omens at bay.

Soren frowns as Marcos canters to a stop before them, his stallion braying and as agitated as he. 

"What's wrong?"

Marcos hesitates. Then he bows his head and climbs deftly out of the saddle. "Captain," he says again. "My Lady. You're needed back at the castle. Something's happened."

"I could have guessed that much," says Soren drily. The humour does little to dispel the tension in the air. "Is Ezran okay?"

"His Majesty's fine," says Marcos, "but it's imperative you head back now. It's your father. He's returned to Katolis."

The air stills. The breath Opeli tries to take catches in her throat. Even the river seems to have fallen silent and, behind her, Soren stares, wide-eyed, breathless, frozen, like Marcos may as well have knocked the wind out of him with his fist.

"That's not possible," he breathes.

Marcos grimaces and offers the reigns of his horse to them. "I saw him myself," he says. "They've put him in the dungeons for the time being, but the king has called an urgent meeting to decide… how to proceed."

"That's not possible ," says Soren again. His voice trembles around the words and the snow crunches beneath his boots as he stumbles back, afraid to take the reigns, and of the truth of it. "I killed him. I killed him myself, I saw him fall, I—"

"Soren." Opeli catches his hand as his knees start to buckle and she mutters a curse under her breath, her mind reeling at the news. The switch is instant: the ease and comfort of soon-to-be motherhood is gone, and Opeli is High Cleric again in all but name. "Thank you, Marcos," she says, briskly, the cool professionalism still like second nature even after these months of disuse. "I'll handle this. Take your horse, we can walk back."

Marcos' eyes dart downwards towards the swell of her belly, too aware of the instructions Soren had given everyone when they first made the announcement, his concern and uncertainty heavy in his eyes. "We were told—"

"I know what you were told," she says sharply. But she glances at Soren, at the disbelief and the horror on his face, and relents. "Go back to the castle. Tell them we're coming. We'll ride back." 

Marcos nods, and Opeli does not wait for him to leave before she turns and kneels in the snow, the cold like daggers on her knees. 

"Soren," she says again, clutching his hands. It's a battle to stay calm, to keep her voice gentle and reassuring when their nightmares may very well be threatening the peace of this new reality. "Soren, look at me."

"It's not possible ," he whispers once more. "Opeli, I killed him with my own sword, I watched him die , and…" He glances up at last, past the folds of his cloak still draped over her shoulders, at the gentle curve of her abdomen. "What if—"

"It won't come to that," she says firmly. Stubbornly. Like if she's adamant enough about it, it might be true. "Soren. It's understandable to be scared. I remember the things that he did. But we need to get back now, all right? Whatever he's here for, however he survived, we need to sort that out now, while he's still in the dungeons and before he can do anything else. Can you stand?"

Slowly, numbly, Soren nods. Opeli let hims brace herself against her, his knees unsteady with the information, and even still, in spite of the way he half stumbles through the snow, he wraps the reigns of Marcos’ horse around his fist, tugs him to her, and motions for her to get on.

"Soren—"

"I need you to not argue with me about this," he says hoarsely. "If my father's back… if that's really him…" He squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't know what manner of dark magic he used to stay alive, but I need you and the little one to be okay. I need you both to be safe. Please just get on."

There's a pause. Opeli studies the wariness in features, the fear in his eyes, and wonders how it's portioned between her and his father; wonders how much of this request is just about riding home.

"Please," he says again, and Opeli sighs.

Here it is, she realises. The other shoe.

The tension is palpable the moment they walk through the castle gates. Every guard on duty is stiff and unsmiling, wary of each other and the rest of the castle staff. Ezran had done his best, those early days, to weed out those loyal to Viren, but it was, and still is, impossible to be sure. Some of the guards who know Soren a bit better personally offer him looks of sympathy as they pass, but he barely acknowledges them, his focus just as much a distraction. They are met in the hall by Claudia, who is pacing and fretting so thoroughly that her hair, dyed black and cropped beneath her chin these days, is haggard and unkempt, likely from the way she's been all but tearing it out. 

"Soren!" she gasps. "They won't let me in! They won't tell me anything! Is dad—"

"I don't know," says Soren, his voice surprisingly level. "I don't know anything. We only just got back. I think we'll be discussing that now."

Claudia's face twists, her agony and grief plain and clear. "What will they do?"

Soren presses his lips shut.

Opeli answers for him.

"Whatever's necessary," she says at last. "Whatever's right."

Claudia scowls at her. "I didn't ask you ," she snaps. "You hated him from the beginning, you'd have him killed for less—"

" Claudia ." Soren glowers at her. He towers over both of them these days but it's Claudia who shrinks under his stare. "Back off. We'll do what we need to."

"So you'd just kill him in cold blood?"

"That's not what I said—"

"He's our dad , Soren! You can't let them kill him! He deserves a trial! He deserves justice !"

"Do not ," snaps Opeli, "make claims about Justice you don't understand. Whatever She deems appropriate will not be denied."

"Whatever you deem appropriate, you mean," sneers Claudia. "What the hell do you know about what Justice thinks is appropriate, anyway?" She jabs a finger at her brother. "Weren't you whoring around with him while you were still High Cleric?"

"That's enough!" Soren snarls, his face livid. He steps between them, his back a solid wall against Claudia's anger and spite. "Don't ever," he seethes, "talk about her or to her that way again, do you understand?"

"Oh, so you'll pick them over your own family?"

"She's my wife ,” growls Soren. “And when has my family ever picked me?" He glares at her, and Opeli had known, of course, that he still held all that hurt within him, but he has never shown it until now. "When have you ?"

Claudia has the decency to look away at that, and Soren uses it as a cue to usher Opeli forward and push past Claudia before she has the chance to say anything more. 

"This meeting is for the council members only," he says darkly. "You'll be informed of our decision when everyone else is. Back off before I have some of the guards escort you." 

The guards stationed in front of the council chambers part their halberds for them without waiting for a response. Opeli waits until they're out of earshot before she sets a hand on Soren's elbow once more. "Are you all right?" she murmurs.

"No," he says. He offers her a sidelong glance and his eyes look years older than they did just this morning by the river. He swallows. "Are you?"

Opeli shrugs half-heartedly. It is not the first time such names have been hurled at her. There are a handful of individuals in the castle who have not been kind about the way things have turned out, and there is a part of her that still feels shame for how she behaved those months before, but she steels herself against it. It is not a priority. Not right now. Not while Viren is here and undealt with. "I'm fine," she says. "We need to deal with this first. We can talk about the other things later."

Soren heaves a breath. The rest of the council hasn't quite yet gathered—Callum is running behind, as always, and Barius is nowhere to be seen. Soren takes her hand from his elbow to kiss her knuckles while no one is looking, his thumb tracing absent circles into the back of her hand. "Whatever happens, right?"

Opeli squeezes his hand. “Whatever happens,” she murmurs. “We’ll figure it out.”

Chapter Text

part ii

The castle is warmer than Viren remembers it. In his youth, it had been a fortress, cold and austere, its stone walls bare and undecorated except for what was necessary. Atticus was a kind king, but he was pragmatic: a man who’d grown up in the war time who had no time for frivolity even if he wished for it from time to time. Harrow had clung to his ideals, and had tried his best to let it show in his rule, so it was he who’d put the banners of the uneven towers on the walls, a symbols of their pride, he said, in their humanity and imperfection.

There are more now: Katolis colours on every wall, flags of the other kingdoms flying in the towers, symbols of Lux Aurea and the Dragon Queen and of the Silvergrove hung up between the boughs of holly and fir decorating the halls for this year’s Yule Festival.

Viren shudders at the sight of it. It is too gentle. Too innocent. Too full of joy.

And he is a monster that does not belong in these halls.

How long has he been away now? He doesn't know. He doesn't even really know why he's still alive. He remembers waking in a human clinic, a wound through his abdomen that he half remembers was put there by Soren, his own son, who’d deserved better and deserved to run him through with his own sword. He’d welcomed death after cheating it, after the sins he’d committed, and he’d lay bleeding and dying in the dirt waiting, waiting, waiting—

And then waking days later, in a cot surrounded by other soldiers, other wounded men and women and elves that deserved the bed more than he.

How he’d tried to end it afterwards. How he’d tried to hide the medication they’d given him, so he could take them all at once and fall back into that darkness. How they’d had to be careful to keep him away from knives and ropes and anything else he might find creative uses for.

They’d had some of the clerics watch over him when hands were short and he couldn't be left alone. Viren had shuddered away from them too, especially the Katolan ones: white robes, trimmed with red, too familiar, too reminiscent of council meetings and judgement from a goddess he didn't really believe in because he’d been arrogant enough to believe he didn't need one.

“Funny,” one had said. She was one of the younger ones, a novice performing her first services, still bright eyed, still naive, but with a sharper tongue than many of the others. She was brown haired, brown eyed, brown skinned, but all he could see in her was a different cleric, one from his youth with the same rigidity and the same sharp tongue. “One might think you’d have a higher regard for the five sisters, given Justice and Mercy are the reason you are here.”

He’d laughed mirthlessly at her. “I think my being alive should be considered proof of their inexistence. What kind of goddesses would allow me to be here after everything I’ve done?”

“Why do you hate yourself so?”

“You would too, if you knew.” Viren had flinched away from her then, from the curiosity in her eyes. How many people had died because of his hubris? How many lives ruined because he was stupid enough to believe the words of an elf imprisoned in a mirror? What had his foolishness cost him? What had it cost the world?

The cleric had only shrugged. “If you insist you don't deserve it, perhaps you should reconsider the gift Justice has dealt you.”

“How can this possibly be a gift ?”

The cleric had snorted. “You wish to die,” she’d said, “and Justice will not let you. She comes to everyone eventually, and she has come to you, just the same. Perhaps she has just deemed you unworthy of the next life. Perhaps this is your punishment.”

Viren had glanced at her then, wary of her stare, of the judgement within it. Perhaps that was part of the punishment too: to bear the shame of his crimes, to face the all-too familiar sneer of a self-righteous cleric younger than he and to know she was right about him all along.

“Maybe you don't believe in Justice and her sisters,” the cleric had said drily, “but consider it before you try to defy them again.”

The thought rings in Viren’s mind now. He had never been particularly devout—that was Lissa, who only grew more so as Soren got sicker while he buried himself in his books and his magic and his hubris, determined to do the things the goddesses of the realm could not. He does not consider himself particularly devout now, but he’d also spent the last eight years finding ways to atone for his sins so he might, finally, be allowed to die.

That is why he is here. 

That is why the halls of Katolis castle, however merry and warm, make him shiver.

That is why this cell feels like such a comfort.

Perhaps Justice and her sisters might grant him mercy at last.

“You know what we have to do,” Callum is saying. His eyes are cold and his voice is steely, and there's a part of Soren that wants to flinch away. Callum has always loved fiercely, has always been the least forgiving of their council, and he hasn't changed or softened, even over the years of peace they've all worked so hard to attain. From a certain standpoint, he understands: they have risked too much, lost too much, and he has a daughter now that he has to protect.

Soren glances at Opeli, who is sitting silently between him and Ezran, at the gentle curve of her belly, just visible beneath his cloak. She regards the rest of the council calmly, as she always does, as she used to as High Cleric, ever composed and proper, betraying no hint of her own opinion and weighing their options the way Justice would, even if Clio is in the room doing just the same.

“What, exactly , is it that we have to do?” challenges Ez. He levels a stare at his brother, daring him to suggest it properly, to put the thought they're all considering into words. 

Callum scowls at him and sets his hands on the table. “He can't be allowed to live.”

Soren does flinch then. 

Ez tilts his head. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’ ?” snaps Callum. “After everything he’s done, you're not seriously considering pardoning him too.”

Something dark flickers across Ez’s face. Too , Callum had said, because they all remember what happened when Claudia came home; how this same council meeting had been called and Callum had made the same recommendation before Ez had vetoed it the same way. “We don't do things like that anymore,” he says firmly. “We don't execute on sight, not without a trial—”

“What trial would he need?” demands Callum. “You know what he did!”

“I know what Dad did too,” snaps Ez. “What Queen Zubeia did. We're not doing that again.”

“With respect, Your Majesty,” says Clio. Her circlet—Opeli’s, once—glints in the winter light. “I don't disagree with Prince Callum. It's foolish to allow him to live when we know what he's capable of.”

“He’s capable of change too,” says Ez. 

Callum snorts derisively. “You don't have any proof of that.”

“Don’t I?” Ez scowls at him. “He’s been alive this whole time, hasn't he? What's he been doing?”

Callum rolls his eyes. “Dark magic, probably! Murder, for all we know! Probably stirring up the masses again to start shit against Xadia!”

“That we didn't hear about? That Corvus didn't see any sign of in his reports over the last eight years? ” Ez gives him a look over the table. “You're being unreasonable. We need to look at this fresh instead of harbouring old grudges that aren't relevant anymore. We can't do that without a trial.”

“A trial wastes time,” snaps Callum. “What if he's here now to take us down from the inside out?”

“That's paranoia.”

“That's caution , Ezran,” snarls Callum. “You might be willing to risk it all but I have things I need protect.”

Ez’s eyes grow cold. “I think we all know what you're willing to risk for the things you need to protect, ” he says darkly. 

The memory passes over them: the cube, Aaravos, Rayla at his mercy and Callum all but dooming the world to keep her safe. 

Rayla flushes on the other side of the table and glances away. “Ez,” she says quietly. “I'm sorry. I can't side with you on this one. Not with this little one here.” She rubs Sarai’s back gently and mutters a comfort to her under her breath. “He can't be here and be alive.”

“That's three on one,” says Callum. 

“Actually…” Barius fidgets nervously across from them. “I'm sorry, Prince Callum, but I think King Ezran is right. I don't agree that he should be executed without a trial. If he's changed, he deserves to prove it.”

“Oh please .” Callum huffs out a laugh, humourless, almost cruel. “You manage the staff, Barius, why do you get a say?”

“Barius is a member of this council and may speak when he wishes,” says Opeli sharply. It's the first time she's spoken since this meeting formally began, and even after all this time, Callum snaps his mouth shut and looks away in shame. “Your opinion is not the only one that matters, Your Highness, and it has not escaped our notice that you haven't asked the only person in the room who's opinion may matter more than yours. Soren?” She looks meaningfully to him, sky blue eyes softening when they meet his. 

The rest of the council turn their eyes to him and Soren’s mouth goes dry. He still has nightmares about it sometimes: the hoards of corrupted soldiers and his father's blood on his hands. Viren had begged him to do it, before the corruption could take him too. It might have been Soren, if Viren hadn't taken the hit for him, if Viren hadn't pushed him aside at the last minute to keep him out of harm's way. 

Did that fix it? Did that make all the things that Viren said and did okay? Soren doesn't know—but he still throws up when he wakes from those dreams. He still sobs into Opeli’s shoulder while she holds his hands in hers and promises him that they're clean.

“I—” he begins, but he falters and steps back, his face pale, his breath caught in his throat. “I don't—”

“Soren—”

The room blurs together, and Soren stumbles away before they can demand an answer.

Opeli finds him in the kitchens later. He’d had a habit of stress-eating when he was younger, which hasn't really gone away, but this kitchen bench has become their place for quiet conversations and cups of tea, and the comfort of that is what Soren needs right now more than anything else. The jelly tarts he’d piled onto the plate are untouched, and he’d made enough tea for two, of course, knowing that she’d find him eventually for the long and inevitable talk about what he wants to do.

She doesn't prod him. She never prods him. She only smiles, if a little grimly, and settles in her usual stool as Soren pours her tea.

“Figures,” he mumbles at last. “My first day off to spend with you in ages and this is what happens.”

“The Fates certainly have not been kind,” she says drily. “Are you all right?”

“I’m really not,” scoffs Soren. “It's all so big and complicated and… I don't really know what to feel right now? I didn't know how to feel when he went down, and now…” He breathes a sigh and fiddles with the handle of his teacup. “How do they expect me to vote on this, exactly?”

“The only person who has any expectations from you is Callum, and we both know he’s out of line for having them at all.” Opeli wrinkles her nose, the disapproval clear on her face. “How you want to vote on this is your choice, Soren, and no one has any right to judge you for how you do it.”

He takes a shuddering breath and stares into the depths of his tea. “I used to wonder what might have happened,” he whispers, “if he hadn’t… if he’d come back before all the stuff with Aaravos went down. If I’d be mad, if he’d changed, if it was as worth… trying again. Is that stupid?”

Opeli laughs and reaches across the table for his hand. “No, my lord, that's optimism.”

Soren chuckles too. “Justice forbid we’re optimistic about anything these days,” he murmurs. “Are you okay?”

Opeli shrugs. “I'm… concerned,” she admits, “that this may be the beginning of another fight amongst our friends. And I'm worried about what it might mean for this little one.” She rubs her belly, and Soren watch's her expression shift from nervous to amused to nervous again.

“Oh, shit,” he says a little late. “That's his grandchild.”

“So it would seem,” drawls Opeli. 

“Which makes you—”

“Yes.”

Soren barks out a mirthless, strained sounding laugh, and Opeli twitches her lips up at the absurdity of it. It's easy to forget, sometimes, that the age difference between them means that she was there in his father's youth. She was younger than Harrow, and Sarai, and Viren, and his mother, Soren thinks—too young to be one of them and too busy with her services to Justice but still there, still old enough to have known his father growing up. 

“He’ll be mortified,” jokes Opeli. Perhaps only half jokes. His father may well be mortified. “He never did like me. He thought my devotion to Justice was self righteous and likely hated that I argued with him on almost everything. Our union might have been what brought him back from the grave.”

Soren snickers at that. He tries to imagine it: his father, twenty-two and an apprentice under High Mage K’ppar, and Opeli, fifteen, and sneering at him already from behind her novice’s veil. She has always been funnier than she pretends to be, but the dryness of her humour is what warms him against the cold dread of knowing his father is in a dungeon below them. His smile fades again at the thought. “How are you going to vote?” he asks quietly.

“However is right, after I've considered every argument,” she says. “I may not be High Cleric anymore, but if Ezran insists I stay a member of his council, then I will vote as I always have: under Justice’s guidance.”

Soren breathes out. The breath shudders past his lips as he curls his fingers around hers and holds tight. “Wish I could have a little of that guidance too.”

Opeli chuckles at him and presses his fingers to her lips. “Just do what you think is right, my love. She cannot guide you more than that.”

The council reconvenes an hour later. They took a break after he left, Opeli tells him, and Justice and her sisters know that they needed one because they’re only just starting up again and Callum looks ready to punch someone if he doesn’t get his way. Callum has never been intimidating, even as an adult, but the way he presses, the way he believes his solution is the only correct solution reminds Soren of Viren at times, and it is not comforting in the least. 

His hands grow clammy when he seats himself at the table, and it is only Opeli’s presence that centres him, especially when the others turn to him expectantly for an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

“Well?” demands Callum.

Soren takes a breath. “You can’t ask me to kill him again,” he says at last, his voice low but steady, even if his uncertainty makes it hard to breathe. 

“So no.”

“So I don’t know,” says Soren. “He’s my dad , Callum, did you think this was going to be easy for me?”

“So what if he was? He’s responsible for the deaths of thousands of people, is that forgivable to you now?”

That touches a nerve. Soren scowls at him, his hands forming fists atop the table. “You tell me,” he says coldly. “You would have been responsible for the same. Isn’t it just so fucking lucky that it worked out for you?”

“Are you seriously trying to make this about me? ”

“It might as well be!” Soren stands then, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the flagstones, and Callum, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. “You would have thrown us all to the dogs to keep your loved ones safe. You did! Where does that put us, huh?”

“I did what I did to keep Rayla safe !” Callum snarls. “I would do anything for the people I care about—”

“And so would he!” barks Soren. “And you have the nerve to demand an execution on sight when you would have doomed the whole fucking world to suit you. You’re just like him, just as arrogant, just as convinced you’re smarter than everyone else.” 

“What bullshit ,” seethes Callum. “How dare—”

“Callum.” That’s Rayla, and she backs him and supports him most days, but her tone is cold and unforgiving. “Back off ,” she snaps. “He has a right to say and vote however he wants, and you’re being an asshole. Besides, he’s right.” She glares at him and he ducks his head in shame. 

“Are you changing your vote?”

“No,” says Rayla, “but I am telling you that you’re out of line.” She turns to Opeli and presses her lips together. “What do you think?”

There’s a pause. Soren turns his eyes to his wife and realises, perhaps belatedly, that they’ve come to an impasse: three votes yes, three votes no, and Opeli has not cast her vote. The council turns to her too, and Opeli regards them all individually, weighing their voices like Justice might weigh her scales. 

“No,” she says at last. “I don’t believe an execution without a trial is the right decision. I think he should be given the chance to speak.”

Another pause. Soren’s heart beats loudly in his ears, because that means his father is safe, his father is not yet condemned, and he can’t tell if he’s relieved or terrified until Clio clears her throat from the other side of the room.

“High Cleri—My Lady,” she corrects herself quickly. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have cast my vote.”

Clio frowns at her. “Years ago, you demanded his execution, and now—”

“Things have changed,” says Opeli, nodding towards Ezran. “We are in an unprecedented era of peace, and the decisions we made in the wartime are not the same ones we would make today. That is four to three. He will be granted a trial.”

“You have no right—”

“That’s enough,” says Ez sharply. “She has every right. She might not be High Cleric anymore, Clio, but she is still a part of this council by my request. It’s four to three. He’s getting a trial. Meeting adjourned.”

“But Your Majesty—”

“Ezran—”

“ Meeting adjourned,” says Ez again. “We’ll make arrangements in the morning. Everyone go before we start yelling at each other all over again.”

The council chamber falls silent. Then, one by one, the others leave. Callum first, shoving his chair back under the table with too much force, followed by Rayla who is sighing and looks exhausted, followed by Clio, who shoots a disbelieving glare at her predecessor. Barius follows them uncertainly, looking between his king and his High Mage like he’s concerned about (another) fight, and then it’s just Soren and Ezran and Opeli in the room, and Soren doesn’t know where to begin.

“Thank you,” he breathes after a moment. “Both of you.”

Ez grimaces as the oak doors thud shut behind Barius. “Don’t thank me yet,” he mutters. “I know I said we don’t do things that way anymore, but even I… don’t know if this is the right thing to do.”

“Admittedly, neither do I,” says Soren. “He’s… my dad. And he wasn’t a good one, but…”

“I know.” Ezran claps his shoulder gently and tilts his lips at them both. “Get some rest. You guys need it. It’s going to be a long trial.”

Chapter Text

part iii

Clio is waiting for them outside. Opeli knows the look on her face because she wore it often herself not so long ago: the stony, unsmiling look of a High Cleric defied and displeased by it. “My Lady,” she says. “May I have a word.”

She does not phrase it like a question, and Opeli presses her lips shut and nods at Soren, who only eyes them both warily before he heads down the hall.

Clio rounds on her the moment he’s out of earshot, her lips twisting into a scowl. “What on earth are you doing ?” she hisses. “A trial? For that usurper ? With respect, My Lady, have you lost your mind?”

Opeli lets out a sigh. “We are not the same people we were in the wartime, Clio. Execution is not the answer here. A trial is fairest.”

“Is it fair to the soldiers we lost when he transformed them into monsters? Is it fair the people of this kingdom to endanger them by letting him live?”

“This peace is hard won,” says Opeli. “It’s not fair to this kingdom to risk losing it if we keep choosing violence. He will get a trial. It’s done.” She turns on her heel to go, but Clio scowls and catches her elbow before she can go.

“And how much of this was influenced by your husband?”

Something about the way Clio says it pinches a nerve. “None of it,” snaps Opeli. “I made my decision as I always have, and as Lady Justice would have me make it—”

“Lady Justice would demand retribution —”

“Lady Justice values life .” Opeli wrenches her arm free and glares at Clio, her temper flaring at the accusation. “I disagree with your decision but I do not claim you made it out of personal interest. Do not presume that is how I made mine.”

But Clio only bristles and stands her ground. “Why else would you have made it?” she demands. “ You , who insisted he should have been executed after he lied to the monarchs of the other kingdoms. You , who clashed with him on every decision regarding the state. You , who saw the danger he posed to the king and to the kingdom, who saw what he did and what he was capable of first hand— you would vote against his demise now ?”

“I won't repeat myself, Clio,” snarls Opeli. “You will not change my mind.”

Clio glowers at her, frustrated, furious, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to understand. “Your husband has compromised you,” she spits. “You would never have made such a decision if you were still High Cleric.”

“Then it's a good thing I’m no longer High Cleric,” Opeli snaps. “Excuse me, Clio, I have places I need to be.” She pushes past without another word, leaving Clio glaring after her in the hall.

“Well, he’s not dead,” says Soren grimly. It’s late, and no one had been in the mood for dinner together. Soren had his quietly in his quarters with Opeli before he sought out Claudia to give her the news. 

“Not yet,” mutters Claudia darkly. She is twisting a scrap of parchment in her hands and watching it tear and tear and tear with every new fold. The library is dim and empty, but this is where she goes when she can't find peace, even from Ez, which is more often than Soren would like. She has been pardoned, and she has done enough service outside of her sentence to atone for misdeeds, but she will never forgive herself for some of the things she did, no matter how much Soren wishes she would. In the end, she tosses the parchment onto the desk and runs her fingers through her hair. “A trial?”

“It’s the best he could have hoped for after… all the stuff that happened.”

Claudia grimaces. “They’ll find him guilty.”

“They found you guilty,” Soren points out. “But you're here and you're fine. Ez doesn't do things that way.”

“You really think Callum’s going to let him get away with giving Dad an easy sentence after the fit he threw at mine?”

“It's not Callum’s decision. He can be shitty about it all he wants, but if Ez wants to let Dad off easy, Callum can't stop him. Give Ez a little credit. I thought you of all people might have more faith in him than that.”

Claudia lets out a bitter scoff and goes back to twisting the parchment, the way it crumples and tears like buzzing in the pressing silence. Then quietly, she asks, “And what did your wife have to say about it?”

Soren frowns at her. “What's what Opeli said got to do with it?”

Claudia clicks her tongue sourly. “Bet she wasn't thrilled they didn't just kill him and be done with it.”

“She's the reason he’s getting one,” snaps Soren. “The hell is your problem with her today? That's twice now you've been stupidly petty over nothing. You owe her an apology and a thanks.”

Claudia says nothing. Soren supposes she doesn't need to. He’s pretty well aware of how Viren and Opeli were at odds with each other during King Harrow's reign; that she'd been the one who ordered his arrest and removal from the High Council after he’d stolen Harrow’s seal from his personal belongings. She’d been right to—Soren would do the same if someone had tried to do the same to Ez. Claudia knows this, and he knows she knows it, but he catches the flicker of guilt in her eyes too and knows that she hadn't meant to be so cruel. This is just hard for them both.

“It came down to a vote,” Soren tells her, willing himself to be patient. “She broke the tie. Four to three in favour of a trial. I mean it, Claudia, you owe her.”

Still, Claudia says nothing, but she offers a tiny nod and Soren knows she’ll sort it out in the morning. “Can I see him?” she asks after a moment.

“Ah, no.” Soren presses his lips together and shakes his head apologetically. “You're too close to this, Clauds. I can't let you go down there until after the trial.”

“I won't even get to witness it, what's it matter if I’m too close to it?”

Soren grimaces. “It's not a great look right now,” he says. “I know Ez doesn't care and he’s let you off the hook for all the stuff that happened, but to everyone else… it's too easy to make it look like you're conspiring with him.”

Claudia makes a face, offended. “I'm his daughter .”

“ And you have a history. And you’re courting the king.” Soren presses his lips into a firm line because he knows Claudia isn't capable of hurting Ez, not now, not after the kindness he’s shown her, but he knows from the way she glances away that she must understand how it looks. There are guards and nobles and members of staff who still distrust her, and if she is seen going down to the dungeons to talk to their father… “It’s not a good idea. Not right now.”

“Then you go. Just tell them that we're here. That we love him and we’ll get through this.”

“I—” Soren ducks his head, and a single feeling comes barreling out of the mess of emotions to settle in his heart. “I can't.” 

The silence between them pulses. Claudia clenches her jaw.

“You can't?” she asks quietly. “Or you won't?”

Soren takes a breath. “Both.”

“ Coward .”

“Yeah, and?” He scowls at her, his temper flaring. “It's different for you,” he says coldly. “ You love him. You're here for him. I have no idea what I’m supposed to feel. He treated me like I was expendable .”

“He saved your life. Twice .”

“Because he loved me or because he felt some obligation to?” Soren shakes his head and gets up. The sound his chair makes on the tiles echoes in the evening air. “You have no idea what it's like to wonder about that every day of your life. You were his favourite and I—” He huffs. “I was just the spare.”

“Soren—” Claudia sighs. “He didn’t think that. Not once. You’re his son. He loves you.”

Soren snorts at how ridiculous it sounds. “Right, yeah, and he, what? Wanted to turn me into a monster with dark magic? Wanted to have me murder Ez and Callum so he could pin it on me if it all came out? Said it didn't matter if I died as long as you brought home Zym’s egg? He loved me heaps. ”

“That wasn't what he intended—”

“Wasn't it?”

Claudia falls silent, her face pinching with the truth. Soren shakes his head at her. He’d hoped that the days when Claudia picked his father over him might be behind them, but growth has a tendency to disappear when the old wounds are prodded.

“I'm going to bed,” he says tiredly. “There’ll be more discussion about it in the morning. I'll let you know if anything important happens.”

“Right,” murmurs Claudia. He thinks he can hear guilt in her voice. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he mutters. He takes his leave and his footsteps echo loudly through the dark.

Breakfast is the same. Callum is too mad at Ez to join them this morning, and though Rayla rolls her eyes at her husband's immaturity, even she can't really look Ez in the eye. When the council reconvenes afterwards, Callum sulks in his seat, taking personal offence at every word that passes over him.

Ez ignores him as they go over logistics and dates and details, and when they're done, Clio asks the question that Soren only just realises he’s started to dread:

“Who’s going to inform him?”

Ez glances over his council, and Soren can almost see the thoughts churning in his head. Callum certainly shouldn't—he’s hostile enough without being down there, and if Viren hasn't changed, if he's still somehow magical and dangerous, antagonising him won't help. Rayla won't because he is responsible for the imprisonment of three of her parents and wants as little to do with him as possible. Barius is intimidated by him and Ezran is the king and absolutely can't put himself in harm’s way, and Clio could but is a stranger to him, and the news would mean nothing unless it was delivered by someone he might recognise, which only leaves him or—

“I will,” says Opeli. Soren’s gaze snaps towards her, a protest on his lips—she’s been told to take it easy, and to avoid anything stressful, and his father is in chains but is still dangerous and she is so obviously pregnant , so obviously vulnerable that Soren can't even fathom the thought of her going down there but—

“He knows me well enough,” she says, shrugging like it isn't such a big deal. “And I am an otherwise neutral party. The news may be best received from me.”

“I can't let you do that,” says Soren quickly. Too quickly. Quickly enough that he must betray his fears to the rest of the council. 

“It's not a question of if you'll let me,” says Opeli shortly. Soren shifts uncomfortably under her stare because he certainly didn't mean it the way it sounded, but he stands his ground anyway, weathering the uncertain glances of the rest of the council.

“He’s dangerous, Opeli.”

“Yes, I know,” she says. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“You're pregnant .”

“And still part of this council until I formally go on leave at the end of the month. I'm not an invalid, Soren, and I’ve dealt with him before.”

There is something final in her tone, something Soren probably shouldn't argue with, but—

“I’ll go.” The words leave him before he has a chance to think about it, but the reality of the suggestion drops like a stone in his gut. Still, he considers Opeli: the way not even his cloak can hide the swell of her belly, the way she struggles to even climb out of bed in the mornings these days, of how truly small she is without the armour of being High Cleric. “I’ll do it,” he affirms.

“You can't,” says Ez apologetically. “We can all see how it's affecting you, Soren, and we’re not going to ask you to go down there to face him when you're obviously not ready. Although…” He tilts his lips at Opeli. “I don't think you should go down there alone either.”

“I’ll go with her then.” Soren grimaces as he says it, knowing it looks pathetic, knowing how obviously scared he looks—and he is scared. He won't deny that. He’s already seen how quickly Claudia has gone back to defending him. What will he become if he has to face him? Will he go back to trying to please him too? But if the alternative is Opeli going down to dungeons in her state alone—

“I won't talk to him,” Soren says, hoping his voice is as steady as he means it to be. “I'll stay in the hall or something. I just—” He looks imploringly at Opeli, begging her silently to understand that this is not because he thinks she can't, but because of the mountains of his unaddressed trauma even she won't understand.

She tilts her head at him. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” he says. No . “Please.”

Opeli looks to Ez for his approval, and Soren’s stomach clenches when he nods. 

“Okay then,” says Ez grimly. “If you're sure.”

But Soren is not sure. Opeli doesn't have to be married to him to know that. They go down to dungeons together later that day, and she can see the way his lips twitch, feel his fingers clutching too tightly around her own, to the point where she wonders if she should pull him aside and give him an out even if she knows he will refuse.

“I’m okay,” he says before she can ask. This is one of their higher security cells: the walls here feel like they press in on them on all sides, and beyond the oak door at the end of the hall is a single windowless cell behind a row of iron bars. There is one way in and one way out and there are guards posted at the end of the hallway entrance, as there would have been here, by the door, before Soren excused them for some privacy. He will wait in their place, well within reach of her if he needs to be, but even that doesn't seem to comfort him. “Are you okay?”

Opeli snorts a little and pries her hand out of his. “I meant what I said,” she tells him. “Your father was a thorn in my side long before he ever came across that mirror and the elf within it. He does not scare me.”

“He scares me ,” says Soren, “and I’m scared for you. And the little one.”

“Mm.” Opeli does falter a little at that. She does not carry the importance of High Cleric anymore, and she knows how it looks, how she looks, without the hood and the circlet, and now with child. “He only has as much power as you let him, Soren,” she says after a moment. “He can’t hurt me. I won't let him hurt you.”

Soren shuffles his feet. “I'm going to worry anyway.”

“Now you sound like me.”

Soren lets himself chuckle a little at that. Opeli offers him a smile and reaches up to touch his jaw, a small assurance but an assurance nonetheless. She understands his concerns. She has plenty of her own. But someone needs to do this and she is better suited for it than anyone else. “I need you to trust me on this,” she murmurs at last.

“I do,” says Soren, catching her hand and leaning into her touch. “I just need you to be safe as well.” He presses a kiss to her brow, right where her circlet used to rest, and gives her a final once over: makes sure the clasp of her cloak can fall away if his father makes a grab for her through the bars, checks that the dagger he gave her all those years ago is still tucked against her hip, just in case. “Promise me you'll actually take it easy after this.”

Opeli chuckles at him, his smile, however rueful, full warmth in the dreary stone hall. “I promise,” she says, pressing one final kiss into his hand before parting from him at last to unlock the door. 

Soren watches her. She can feel his eyes digging into her back, knows that his heart will be pounding in his own ears, but she offers him one more smile before she steps through over the threshold and comes face to face with his father.

He is not the man Opeli remembers. This one is gaunt and unkempt. His skin is sallow, his hair is a ragged greying mess, and his face is far, far older than she remembers. Viren is far cry from the noble he used to be, and Opeli studies him through the bars of his cell as the door thuds heavily shut.

“A life in prison does not suit you,” she says by way of greeting.

Viren looks up. Viren stares. The back of Opeli’s neck prickles uneasily as he regards her, obviously searching for the hood and circlet she no longer wears.

“Opeli,” he says. 

Opeli twitches her lips. “Viren.”

He stares some more. “You're not High Cleric.”

“No,” she says. “I resigned some time ago.”

“You're pregnant.”

“So I am.”

Silence. Opeli suppresses the urge to pull her cloak tighter over her shoulders and stands tall, willing herself to look as imposing as she did when she held her title. 

“Congratulations,” says Viren at last.

Opeli snorts. “I cannot offer the same to you.”

“No, I—” He grimaces at himself, ashamed, disgusted. “The Fates have not so been kind to me in my travels.”

“Why have you returned?”

A pause. Viren studies her a bit longer and Opeli almost wants to back away. For someone who used to have an opinion on everything, his silence is unnerving, and it is the thing that unsettles her the most.

“Are my children here?” he asks after a moment.

“You've come in search of them, have you?”

Viren bows his head. “I have come in search of Mercy,” he says quietly. “But I had hoped to see Soren and Claudia before I surrendered to it.”

“Then perhaps the Fates have offered you some kindness at last.” 

His eyes snap up, hopeful.

“You’ve been granted a trial,” she tells him. “His Majesty is kinder than his predecessors, and you may even be lucky enough that the worst of your sentence might be this.” She gestures vaguely around the cell, but to her surprise, Viren’s face falls.

“No noose?”

“Ezran is trying alternative methods of justice.”

He gets up. Stumbles forward. Opeli does step back then instinctively, even if she knows intellectually that he cannot reach her from behind the bars. “You’re not serious,” he says, his voice uneven. “This is a joke, surely.”

Opeli stares at him. “Why would I joke about this?”

Viren lets out a shaking breath, his eyes trained on the stones beneath her feet. His fingers wrap around the bars of his cell, his knuckles white and bone-like in the gloom, and he rattles at the bars once in his desperation.

Opeli does not flinch in the face of it, even as the sound of iron on iron rings in her ears. “I thought you might be relieved,” she says over the din.

He laughs at her. “Relieved?” he cries, and Opeli spots it: the frustration and disappointment in his eyes. “Have I not avoided my death long enough? Have I not cheated it one too many times? And I come here, I come home , to where your King and your High Mage should have ordered me slaughtered on sight, and you're telling me that even they don't want to let me die?” He laughs again, mirthless and manic. “I suppose I deserve this. All those years defying Justice, and now she insists on defying me.”

“An interesting perspective,” says Opeli coolly, “but I think you may be confused. That is not how Lady Justice operates.”

“She comes to everyone to grant them what they deserve, doesn't she?” spits Viren. “And it appears I am doomed to never to die.”

He laughs some more, and Opeli does flinch this time, his madness difficult to watch. “That is all the news I came to deliver,” she says crisply. “I will leave you.”

She turns, but Viren lunges after her, claw-like fingers grasping at nothing. “Where are my children, Opeli?”

She eyes him over her shoulder, lips thin. “They are both here and well,” she tells him. “Both pleased to know you aren't already dead.”

“I want to see them.”

“That is not up to you.”

He rattles the bars again, louder this time, somehow more desperate, more mad . “Let me see my children!” he cries. “If Mercy will not come to me, then let me see them, please!”

Opeli ignores him. She steps back towards the doorway, but his rambling does not escape her and he shakes the bars so hard that, sturdy as they are, she fears he might tear them from their hinges.

“I came for Mercy!” he wails. “I cannot continue cheating Death, let it take me, please! Let them kill me! Let me die!”

Opeli winces, clapping her hands over her ears and backing up until her back meets the door. It swings open not a moment later, and Soren’s large, warm hands clasp her shoulders to usher her out, but Viren is too quick—

His eyes catch Soren’s, and then he is rattling the bars harder, louder. “Soren! My son! You need to tell them! Let them kill me!”

Something sad crosses Soren’s face. Something anguished. Then he pats her shoulders once and whispers, “Let’s go,” against her ear. 

The door closes shut behind them and all that is left is the muffled clang of iron bars in their frame, and Opeli’s shallow, ragged breathing echoing in the hall.

Chapter Text

part iv

“So even he wants to die,” says Callum drily.

Soren fights a scowl. They've all been on edge these past few days, but Callum, more than anyone, has been looking for reasons to be hostile. This morning's council meeting is as cold as the winter chill and Soren’s mind is stuck, caught on the sound of iron bars clanging and his father begging for death. In theory, this should be easier now: Viren wants to die, so why not simply let him? And yet—

“He is not of sound mind,” says Opeli crisply, as tired of Callum’s ire as everyone else. “We don't let people die because they want to unless there are valid reasons to allow it. That is not how the law here operates.”

“Is being a war criminal not a valid reason?”

“Not when what you're asking for is a punitive measure,” snaps Opeli. “We are no longer at war, and death granted by the state should be a mercy, not a punishment.”

“How quickly our song changes,” sneers Clio.

“As quickly the times, Clio,” says Opeli cooly. “You may have noticed we are no longer at war.”

“Guys.” Ez leans his elbows against the table, fingers massaging tiredly at his temples. “We can’t keep biting each other’s heads off. Opeli’s right. The death penalty isn’t a thing anymore. It hasn’t been since I became King and you all helped me put that into effect.”

 “There can be exceptions to every rule,” says Callum acidly. “And given all the shit Viren did, I don’t think we’re wrong to bring it back.”

“You’d be giving him what he wants,” adds Rayla, frowning at her husband. “And you’re being difficult for no reason. We got overruled. Get over it.”

Callum scowls at her, but Rayla’s glare speaks volumes to all of them, and he says nothing and sulks in his chair. 

The conversation turns. It’s another hour full of bite and snide comments, that, in the end, amounts to nothing. They don’t decide on anything else and only discuss what they already know. They talk about what a trial might entail, if Viren is to be represented by anyone, if there is even any evidence to give of his changed ways. They’ll need to find someone to represent him too, which is something Soren always knew in theory, but thinking about it now, he can’t think of anyone who would agree to do it.

It’s a testament to how few friends his father has left in Katolis: that Opeli is advocating for him at these council meetings, and that no one will want to speak for him in a court of law, even to save his life. Claudia would, probably, and she was the daughter of a lord once, and might have been part of the council too and able to argue for him, but there’s no way they’d allow her to do it. Callum might have another fit.

Soren pinches the bridge of his nose, only half listening to the new argument brewing in the air, and makes a note to find Claudia later to update her, at least on how poorly Viren is doing in his cell.

Beside him, Opeli shifts in her seat, a huff that sounds suspiciously like one of pain slipping from her lips.

Soren glances at her. No one else notices the twitch under her eye, or the way her breath leaves her too slowly, too evenly for the next few seconds, and for a moment, he resents the way his friends somehow keep forgetting other problems exist beyond them. He keeps his mouth pressed shut and waits for Ez to call for order again before he leans over the space between them to say, “I saw that. Are you okay?”

She tilts her lips up, if a little weakly. “Fine. Your child certainly likes to kick.”

“It shouldn't hurt though, right?”

She lets out a chuckle at that and pats his hand. “I’m fine,” she insists. “I’ll see Rowena later if that soothes you. In the meantime…” She jerks her head at the way Callum and Ez are on the verge of another argument and settles back into her chair, but not without shifting again and wincing more visibly.

Soren watches her, the corners of his mouth tugged downwards in concern. In the end, he says nothing, and the meeting drags on.

Opeli goes to see Rowena afterwards, as promised, and Rowena clucks her tongue as she pokes and prods and takes her measurements. Her brow furrows suspiciously at the way Opeli’s belly shifts beneath her hands until, at last, she sits back on her heels and breathes out a self-satisfied huff. 

“I thought so,” she says.

Soren’s heart skips a beat, ready to panic, bracing himself for the worst. “Is everything okay? Is she—is the baby—”

But Rowena only smiles at them both and gets back up. “Babies,” she corrects. “The babies are fine.”

Soren stares. Opeli stares. The word rings between them for a moment before Soren’s knees buckle and he catches himself on the back of the chaise Opeli is sitting in. “Babies?” he breathes.

“Twins,” says Rowena with a smile. “You can feel their heads. Here.” She offers her hands to both of them and silently, numbly, Opeli allows her to show them where to place their hands. Rowena sets Soren’s fingers on the lower half of Opeli’s abdomen, just above her hips, and laughs when the child—children—shift beneath his touch. “Feel that there? That round shape—that’s a head, and the other is here. Judging from the placement, I suspect they’re facing each other.”

The children shift again and it is only then that Opeli laughs too. “Well that certainly makes more sense.”

“I wondered for a while,” admits Rowena, “but I didn’t want to say anything unless I knew for sure. Congratulations, My Lady, Captain—you’re expecting twins.”

“Twins,” says Soren weakly. He actually does collapse then because the thought is so unfathomable and wild and wondrous that he can’t decide which feeling to settle on. Opeli peers at him over the back of the chaise and grins, especially as he reaches up again, his hand searching blindly for hers.

Rowena chuckles at them both, but she frowns at Opeli sternly and sobers them both. “As exciting as this all is,” she says, “I have to ask you again to take it easy. I’ve heard what’s been going on at the most recent council meetings. I’m scared to ask how involved you are in them.”

“Not overly so,” says Opeli. “I attend them as I would normally, but I haven’t been doing anything else.”

Rowena catches Soren’s eye seeking confirmation, and Soren, in turn, narrows his eyes at his wife. “Can we have a minute?” 

Rowena nods, noting the disapproval in Soren’s face. “Of course,” she says. She looks meaningfully at Opeli as she packs her instruments and gets up. “May I be frank?”

“You can always be frank, Rowie,” says Soren. She was Rayla’s midwife too, and they all know each other well enough to drop the pretences and the titles, even if Rowena insists on using them most days. 

“My Lady,” she says to Opeli, “I don’t know what the council plans to do with Lord Viren, and I know it’s complicated, but I am begging you to step back and let the rest of the council handle it. I have no doubt that your twins are healthy, but they’ll need their mother and I won’t tell you how much riskier this is now that we know they’re both there.”

“Mm.” Opeli sighs and nods, her lips quirking downwards just a little. “I’ll behave,” she promises, even if there is a hint of sourness in it.

“I’ll take care of her,” says Soren. “Thanks Rowie.”

Rowena nods and bows to them both, satisfied for now, and takes her leave. Soren waits for the door to shut behind her before he takes her place before Opeli and clutches her hands. 

She wrinkles her nose. “You’re not about to lecture me too, are you?”

Soren snorts at that. “That depends. How much longer are you planning to stay on the council?”

“Only until the end of the month, as I intended.”

“Can I convince you to come off sooner?”

Opeli makes a face. The conflict in it is clear, and they both know what's safer, for her and the twins, but the timing of all of this is unfortunate, he knows what she's about to say long before it ever leaves her.

“How can I come off now?” she asks. “Viren’s trial is in three weeks, and left unchecked, Callum will make sure it's not a fair one.”

Something drops heavily in Soren’s stomach. “You're not saying what I think you're saying.”

Opeli purses her lips. “He needs representation, Soren.”

“Opeli.”

“Who else will do it?” she argues. “Callum and Rayla didn't want to give him that chance at all. Clio wants him executed. Barius does not have the experience to represent someone and Ezran cannot represent him and be his judge at the same time. We agreed as a council to give him a trial but one that is rigged to fail him is not moral or acceptable in any form.”

“There are other people—”

“There is no one else and you know it. No one with enough standing to keep Callum from dominating the discussion.”

“There's me.” Soren flinches as he says it but he means it and stands his ground. “I can do it. He's my dad and I'm part of the council and I can look Callum in the face and tell him to fuck off just as well as you. I’ll do it.”

Opeli smiles wanly at him, pulling her hands from his to brush his hair behind his ears. “I can't ask you to do that, Soren, I know how difficult this has been for you already, and you haven't even spoken to him.”

“You're not asking me,” says Soren. “I'm asking you. He’s screwed me over enough. He's not going to be the reason you, and these two—” He presses his forehead to her belly imagining his children there, curled together and growing within her— “I’m not putting the three of you at risk for him.”

There's a pause. Soren’s breath shakes out as Opeli runs her fingers through his hair, her touch a small comfort in amongst all of the mess.

“Are you certain?” she asks him.

“No,” he mumbles. “But I'm certain about keeping you and the twins safe. Let me do this. I can face him.”

Another pause. Opeli shifts and tilts his chin up with gentle hands. “I don't doubt you,” she says quietly. “I have always admired your chivalry, your steadfastness, your devotion to those you truly love. Will you let me help you, at least? I won't do more than necessary, but you'll need documents and arguments prepared. If you don’t mind me saying so, my love, I’ve done this a fair few times more than you have and you may need the guidance.”

He huffs out a laugh at that. “Sure,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” says Opeli, easing herself up to press a kiss into the crown of his head. 

Small comforts.

He catches Claudia later and finds that Rayla has beaten him to it. They are better friends than he thought they would be, but Claudia is the reason Rayla and baby Sarai are alive and well, and Rayla has been steadfast in her support of Ez, even in the face of Callum’s ire and in her hesitancy around Claudia. Soren thinks it's nice to see both his sisters, biological and adopted, not at each other’s throats for once, but he gets the feeling this peace between them might be short lived because, of course, they are discussing—

“Look, Claudia, I’ve done what I can, but I can't ask them for anything less. You remember what your dad was like—”

“Yours killed King Harrow,” says Claudia sourly. “Ez didn't condemn him.”

“Yeah, but he's not allowed here without extensive security measures. You want us to let Viren walk free.”

“Isn't that what Runaan is doing?”

Rayla groans, reigning in her frustration for the sake of her and Claudia’s tentative friendship, and Claudia, in turn, bites her tongue to keep it in check. Soren chooses then to interrupt, before either of them can forget how to get along.

“So… I guess you know what's happening now?”

Claudia bristles but nods. “Yeah,” she mutters. “Heard you saw him.”

Soren shifts uncomfortably on the spot. “Technically, Opeli did,” he says, glancing away. 

“But you saw him.”

“For a second, yeah.” His throat tightens and he swallows to clear it. “Claudia, he’s not… he’s not super well right now. Not mentally, anyway.”

“He might be better if one of us actually spoke to him,” she snaps. She glances at Rayla, but Rayla only shakes her head and the message is clear. “Can't I just—”

“No,” says Rayla. “Claudia, you're on real shaky ground right now. People still think it's dodgy you're with Ez at all but for you to advocate for Viren—” She grimaces. “I get where you're coming from, really, I do, but you’ve got too much bad history and it's too soon, and that's not considering how pissed off Callum is already.”

“So it's about pleasing him, is it?”

“It's about trying to keep my family together,” snaps Rayla. “I would think you, of all people, would understand that.”

Claudia scowls, but Rayla is right and she knows it. Soren can see it in her eyes. 

“I’ll let you guys talk it out,” Rayla says after a moment. “Sarai’ll be due for a feed soon and she's been with one of the nursemaid’s all morning. I’ll talk to you both later.” She waves a little and turns on her heel without waiting for a response—Soren wonders quietly if she can feel the tension in the air, the frustration that Claudia might feel towards him for refusing to play a more active role in keeping their father alive.

He waits til she's well and truly gone before he runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I heard what he said to Opeli,” he says at last. “I wasn't in there with her but—he’s looking pretty insane right now, Clauds, and I don't know how much seeing us will help.”

Claudia sucks in a breath and slumps against the wall, exhausted from her desperation and hopelessness. “Did he even ask for us?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah,” says Soren. “He said—he said he wanted to see us before he surrendered to Mercy, only by Mercy, he meant…” He swallows. “He meant death.”

Claudia's eyes widen a fraction. “What?”

Soren makes a face. “He came back thinking he would be executed on the spot,” he tells her. “That's why he came back in the first place. And when Opeli told him he’d been granted a trial, he thought she was joking, and that's when he… kind of lost it.”

Claudia's face pinches, her heartbreak palpable in the way she blinks like she's about to cry. “I need to see him, Soren.”

“You can't,” says Soren, his voice breaking. “I'm sorry, okay? People are wary enough about you without this, I'm trying to protect—”

“I don't need you to protect me,” she cries, her walls breaking at last. “I need to see my dad!”

Soren flinches at the outburst. Claudia’s been broken before. She's been angry, and a monster because of it, but here she is a child again, seven years old and unable to understand why their mother left, and why she can't see her father. 

When was the last time he could be that vulnerable? When did he last have a parent that could comfort him? He can't remember, and he knows how hard this is for her because this was him for years and he had no one, even when their father was present, long before their childhood really did come to an end.

He swallows again, worried he might break too, and pulls Claudia to him. Then he lets her cry, because it's the only comfort he can give.

“We're having twins,” he says after a moment, his voice so quiet he wonders if she can hear him over her sobs at all. 

Claudia hiccups. “What?”

Soren twitches his lips. “Rowie told us just now. I wanted you to know.”

“Soren,” she sniffles, pulling away a little. “That's amazing. Congratulations.”

He grimaces. “I'm really worried about them,” he confesses. “All of them. Opeli’s already not the best age for this, and we already lost one. If anything happens to any of them—”

“Nothing's going to happen to any of them,” says Claudia firmly. There's a spark in her eye that reminds him of when she was younger and a mage learning under their father; of the days when she truly believed she could do anything and wasn't afraid to try. “And dad—if he knew—he’d be so happy.”

“I dunno about that,” he snorts despite himself. “But that was the other thing I wanted to tell you. He needs representation, Clauds. Someone's gotta speak for him at this trial, and Opeli was going to but—”

Claudia barks out a laugh that he's certain she hadn't intended. “Was she actually?”

“She was going to, yeah. For me. But she can't. Not with the twins. She shouldn't be doing anything at all. But that means…”

Claudia’s face falls. She's past deluding herself. She knows the truth, and how few people would be willing to stand for him and present a case defending him on his behalf. And with no one to defend him—

“He’ll lose,” she whispers. “Callum will make sure of it. And if the council won't let me even talk to him, he’ll be all alone in this.”

“No,” sighs Soren. “He won't.”

Claudia blinks, daring to hope. “You know someone who can defend him?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me.”

Chapter Text

part v

It's harder than Soren ever thought it would be. This part of the dungeons is windowless and dark. It's cold on its own, but it's the middle of winter, and he can't tell if the furs aren't enough or if it's because he doesn't know how to feel warmth for his father anymore. He still can't really explain why he's trying so hard, but he’s here anyway and the latch on the door to his cell looks too menacing to touch.

“Are you all right?” Opeli asks him. She is here for moral support only, and even though it was his decision to keep his father as far away from her and his children as possible, there's a part of him that wishes she would face Viren with him. 

She would if he asked. Of that, he is certain, and it's precisely the reason he keeps his jaw clamped tightly shut.

“I could definitely be better,” he mumbles.

She twitches her lips wryly and squeezes his hand. “I’ll be here if you need me,” she promises.

He won't need her. He can't need her. But Soren breathes out a sigh anyway, grateful for her presence, for the warmth of her hand, and parts from her at last. “I’ll be okay,” he says. “You should head back up. It's freezing down here.”

“Don't be long then,” she teases.

“Opeli…”

“I'm not leaving, Soren,” she insists. There is clarity in her eyes, a resolve that won't be shaken, and Soren supposes that's part of the reason he’s come to love her: others have left or will leave. Opeli will not. Her smile is grim but stubborn, and she would be doing this in his place if he hadn't begged her not to for her own sake, and for the sake of the children in her womb. There is no convincing her to let him do this alone. “I’ll wait. Go on.”

Soren looses a breath and reaches for the door.

A trial, Opeli had said. Viren supposes he should be relieved, but the only feeling that stirs inside him at the thought of it is mirth. 

A trial, after everything he's done! After all the death he's caused!

Damn Ezran. Damn his kindnes and his naivete. Damn them all.

This cell is windowless, so he cannot know how much time has passed since Opeli’s visit, but he sleeps fitfully on the stiff wooden benches and thinks it must have been at least a day. Food has been brought to him twice by one of the guards, but he’d refused to touch the trays in the hope starvation might end him if the noose won't, but even that plan falls short when he's visited again so soon.

The heavy oak swings open. Soren lets himself in.

There is silence after the door thuds shut. Viren stares at his son, at the man he’s become, and Soren stares back, his face impassive, his eyes as cold as the stones of his cell. 

Time has been kind to him. He is taller now, stronger, his shoulders broad and proud with no trace of the boy Viren had tried to discard. He had always taken more after Lissa, but it's clearer than ever now in the shape of his jaw and the blue of his eyes. His armour fits him better and easier now, and he's not a boy playing soldier, but a knight in every regard. There's even a ring on his finger, a wedding band, and Viren’s chest hollows with the life he has missed.

He has countless regrets already, but that he could not be a better father to the man before him sits heavily up front.

“Soren,” he says quietly. “You're here.”

If that means anything to him at all, Soren does not show it. “Viren,” he says. Not Father. Not Dad. Viren supposes he lost the right to be called either of those years ago, but the disappointment stings all the same. “You are being called to stand trial in the court of Katolis for your crimes against the kingdom.”

“So I’ve been told,” says Viren, recognising the script. He’d had to deliver the spiel himself a lifetime ago. He’d never expected to be on the receiving end of it. He swallows and approaches the bars. “How you've grown.”

Something flashes in Soren’s eyes. Hope. Heartbreak. Disgust. “How are you going to plead?” he asks, like he hadn't heard it at all.

Viren winces like it's a physical blow. “Guilty,” he says. “On all charges. I have no pretenses about what awaits me.”

“What, exactly, do you think awaits you?”

Viren glances away. “Death,” he says. “I've lived too long and done too much. I want it to end.”

“You're not even going to try?”

That startles him. He looks up.

Soren’s face betrays nothing. Viren wonders if he imagined it: the hurt in the question, the wish in it. 

“I didn't think you would want me to,” he says after a moment.

Soren says nothing. Viren wishes he would. He would rather he yell, or scream, or something, because this cold professionalism hurts more than he thought it would, because it means his own son won't recognise him as someone who meant something to him once, even if the once was a lifetime ago.

Viren studies him in the silence, wishing he could see even a hint of the boy he once held in his arms. “My son,” he tries again. “I've missed you.”

Soren steps back, lips twisting downwards. “This isn't a reunion,” he says coldly.

“No,” says Viren. “No, I didn't think it was. But I—Soren, forgive me. Let me—”

“I don't want anything from you,” he snaps. “I don't want apologies. I don't want reminiscing, or explanations. I'm just here to make sure your trial is fair.”

Viren blinks, his chest aching. “That you would do that at all is touching.”

“I'm not doing it for you,” snarls Soren. “I'm doing it so no one else has to deal with your bullshit. Haven't you done enough?”

“Yes, I have,” says Viren, looking away. “I know it, Soren, believe me.”

“Why are you even here?”

“I hoped to die.” He steps forward and closes his fingers over the bars. Soren steps back, repulsed. “I thought, of all places, perhaps Katolis might give me the relief of death, but it seems even your king won't grant me the mercy.”

“Ez did grant you mercy.”

Viren snorts at him. “Living is not a mercy.”

Soren wrinkles his nose in his disgust. “Then your version of mercy is fucked up.”

“So it would seem.” He twitches his lips ruefully at his son and dares to reach for him through the bars. “Soren...”

“Stay the hell away from me.”

Viren falters and pulls his hand back to his chest. “How things have changed in my absence,” he murmurs. “I had hoped…” He shakes his head. “I suppose it's foolish to ask for your forgiveness. To ask for closure before whatever it is your king wants to do to me.”

“That's one way to put it.”

Viren looses a sigh and returns to the bench at the back of the cell. Soren visibly relaxes the further he gets away, and it makes his throat close up in his guilt, ashamed of the things he did to cause his own son to hate him so. He swallows. “Opeli said Claudia was here too.”

“She won't be coming to see you,” says Soren shortly.

“But you would?”

Soren scowls at him. “She isn't allowed to be down here,” he says acidly. “After the things she did, letting her see you feels like a disaster in the making. And don't delude yourself into thinking I'm here because I want to be.”

“Why are you here then?” Viren hedges. 

“Because if it's not me, it's Opeli, and she's got enough to deal with.”

Viren presses his lips shut. He doesn't know what answer he hoped for, but disappointment rings in his gut. “You have no love for me at all, do you?” he asks quietly.

“You never had any for me,” says Soren coldly.

Viren flinches. He cannot deny how poorly he treated his son, but… “I loved you more than I knew how to say,” he whispers. “You are my son, Soren, I love you now.”

“Don't,” snarls Soren. “Don't fucking lie to me. Don't pretend you ever cared—”

“I did! I do! The things I did for you, Soren—”

“SHUT UP.” Soren pounds a fist against the door and the echo rings heavily through the cell. “You fucked me over repeatedly! You would have let me die for a war you started! What part of that is supposed to be love?”

“Soren, please—”

“No,” he seethes. “You don't get to do those things and pretend it's love. You don't get to call me your son now when you’ve never treated me like your son in the past.”

“What would have me do, then?” demands Viren helplessly. “I cannot hope to ever gain your forgiveness, and all I want is to die, to let you live without the thought of me ever darkening your doorstep again, but here you are! Ensuring a fair trial when it would be easier for us both if I simply disappeared!”

“i want you to fucking try!” roars Soren. “Try, even if isn't going to be enough! Try because I matter enough to you for you to make a fucking effort! Try because I don't want to see you fucking die again!”

Silence falls over them. Viren stares at him, at his heaving shoulders, at the way his face twists in the agony of wanting to be enough for a father he shouldn't love. “I'm sorry,” Viren breathes, because Soren is right and there is nothing else to say. “I'm sorry.”

“Save it,” snaps Soren, wrenching the door open. Opeli is waiting for him there, and Viren blinks at the way his face softens at the sight of her. “Your trial is at the end of the month. Be grateful Ez is kinder than you deserve.” 

Then he is gone, and Viren is alone once more.

Incredibly, Callum is the one who finds him afterwards. Opeli had gone in his place to the council meeting that followed to tell them what happened, and Soren had hidden himself away in the ramparts of tower bridge. It’s empty except for the guards at each end, the snow piling in pillowy heaps within the embrasures as his breath unfurls like fog from his lips. Dimly, he remembers how he used to do lunges up the steps here in his youth, his muscles aching pleasantly with the burn of a good work out.

It's all so stupid now. Another stupid thing he did to get his father's attention, another stupid thing to try and make him proud. He was knighted at eighteen, the youngest knight in decades, the youngest Captain of the Crownguard in history, suave and handsome and arrogant, a reflection of everything Viren was, and none of it was ever enough. It was never going to be, and Soren had learned that long ago, so he doesn't know what he expected, or what he hoped would change when he went down to the dungeons to speak with him about his trial, and yet…

“Heard what happened,” says Callum, appearing at his shoulder with a couple of tankards of mulled wine. He presses one into Soren’s hands, still warm from the fires in the kitchens, and leans a shoulder against the bricks beside him.

Soren snorts. “You and everyone else,” he murmurs. “Turned into a hell of a screaming match.”

“You okay?”

Soren shrugs half heartedly and takes a swig of his wine. “Everyone keeps asking me that.”

“Everyone's worried about you.”

“You as well?”

“Me as well.” Callum tilts his lips ruefully and swills the wine around in his tankard. “I'm sorry I've been such a jerk,” he says quietly. 

Soren glances at him from the corner of his eye. “Rayla gave you a talking to, huh?”

Callum scoffs into his wine. “And I'm worried about you. And I really am sorry. Viren… did a lot of bad things. I nearly lost Rayla because of him more times than I want to count, and now there's Sarai and…” He gives Soren a look, earnest and helpless and begging for understanding all at once. “You get it, don't you?”

“Yeah,” says Soren, thinking of Opeli and the twins, shuddering at the thought of his father getting anywhere near them. “But you get it too, right? He's my dad.”

“Honestly?” Callum sighs. “I don't. He screwed you over, Soren, he would have sacrificed you for a dumb war he started. I don't really understand why you would want to give him another chance after everything he put you through.”

“I don't really either,” says Soren with a shrug. “All this time, I thought I was doing okay, and I thought I'd come to terms with it, but… I still want him to love me, I guess? I want to know I meant something to him. And I don't know why I'm so disappointed, I don't know why I hoped he might suddenly choose me but…” He huffs and shakes his head. “I'm sorry too. About all the stuff I said. You're a better man than he ever could be.”

“And you're gonna be a better dad,” says Callum. “Your kids are so lucky they get to have you. They're not even here yet and you're putting yourself through this to keep them and Opeli safe. You're nothing like him, Soren. You’re never going to be.”

Soren scoffs a little at that, blinking his eyes furiously against the cold. 

“I can't promise I'm gonna stop being a jerk,” says Callum. “I’m scared. We worked so hard for this and we lost so much. But you're my friend no matter what, and whatever happens… we’ll work it out, right?”

“Yeah,” chuckles Soren. He sniffles a little, blaming the frigid air for the stinging in his eyes and the dryness in his throat. He coughs and taps his tankard against Callum’s gently. “Cheers,” he murmurs, “before we start yelling at each other again at the next meeting.”

Callum laughs. “I'll drink to that.”

It's against her better judgement, but Opeli waits until she knows Soren is cooling off before she heads back down the dungeons alone. She holds enough sway with the guards as the previous High Cleric that they let her pass without question, and she does not fault the pair at Viren’s cell for frowning at her and following down the passage to the oak door at the end.

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to the Captain,” she says lightly. “He's worried enough.”

“Then shouldn't you—?”

“Some things just need to be done.” She gives them both a look, and they clamp their mouths shut at once and argue no more. She unlatches the door and shoulders her way in to the cell, and Viren blinks at her and stares as the door shuts behind her. His eyes flick to her belly, to the ring on her hand, then to the door. Opeli does not let it unnerve her.

“Back again,” he comments tiredly. “To what do I owe the pleasure this time?”

Opeli glowers at him, her glare just as stern and unyielding as it was when she wore her hood and circlet. Viren shrinks under it, but even then, she slips her hand beneath her cloak and rests it on the pommel of the dagger Soren gave her all those years ago. “I will say this once,” she says sharply. “Soren has been hurt enough by you and your selfishness, so you will forgive me for coming across as rude. Your trial is in three weeks. He is representing you. You will work with him, and at the end of it, you will go.”

“Go where, exactly?”

“I don't care,” snaps Opeli. “You are not wanted here. You will not disturb him here. You will not hurt him anymore than you already have.”

Viren gets up. Opeli’s hand tightens around the handle of her dagger, but she does not draw it. Viren doesn't even touch the bars. “Why are you all trying so hard to keep me alive?” he asks. “You’ve made it clear I'm not welcome here, just let me die.”

Opeli scoffs at him. “The only ones who don't want you dead are your children,” she says. “I don't care what you do. I advocated for you for Soren, but whether you live or die at this point is not my concern. But know this, Viren, if you hurt him again, I will personally make sure you are kept here, fed and watered enough to stay alive with guard to make sure you will never find relief. Your children will grow and they will live their lives, and you will never trouble them again because you will never leave here. And when you do die, old and forgotten, your body will rot here. No rites. No burial. Whatever’s left of your soul can wander around for rest that will never come.”

He stares at her. Then he laughs a hollow, dead sounding laugh. “You know I have never believed in such things.”

“And yet, here you are,” sneers Opeli, “begging for Mercy in the form of Death that Justice will not let you have. How much longer would you like to tempt her? What was it that Claudia said?” She hums, feigning the thought process. “There were certain conditions that were met to make your resurrection spell permanent. How permanent do you think it meant? Shall we leave you here and find out?”

Viren holds her stare, defiant, but Opeli can see the flicker of doubt in his eyes.

“It's been eight years since Aaravos was defeated, Viren,” she says. “Eight years since Soren ran you through with a sword. How many times have you tried to end it? How many times have you failed?”

He looks away, his brow furrowed, counting the attempts, the failures, rethinking the events of his resurrection. Then his face shifts, eyes wide in horrified realisation.

Opeli smirks. “Take the kindness that is offered to you, Viren. There are worse fates than a trial. Don't make this harder for Soren than it already is.”

She turns to leave, heaving the door open with an echoing creak when Viren calls after her.

“It's his, isn't it?” he asks. “The child.”

Opeli shuts the door behind her without a response.