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Miquella always looks forward to midweek prayer.
Not because of the act itself, no; their Father’s stony presence, or worse, their Mother’s poisonous one, is enough to set his nerves on edge for days at a time. The prayers offer little joy as they slide stiff off his tongue, said with less and less feeling each time. Even Malenia’s breaths hurt his ears, labored and loud as they bow on bent knees in the otherwise silent room. Sneaking glances toward her does nothing to ease his heart, for all he sees is her eyes shut tight, brow furrowed in pain, whispering sweet words to an unworthy God that refuses to save her.
So Miquella always looks forward to midweek prayer, but really only for what comes after.
Today it is Radagon kneeling with the twins at the altar, so when the door flings open with a familiar bang, the loud voice that booms out says first, “Greetings, Elden Lord.”
Miquella smirks, small and private. He can practically feel Malenia buzzing with excitement at his side. Radagon is unmoved as ever.
“Sir Godwyn,” he replies tonelessly, rising to stand. Like the good son he used to be, Miquella waits for permission to do the same. His knees ache. “We are still in prayer.”
“My apologies, Lord,” Godwyn says, unapologetic. “My schedule is set in stone, and so I must insist on stealing the young Lord and Lady away now. I cannot possibly wait.”
He does not outright ask permission, which Miquella admires – sometimes, he still finds himself struggling not to ask his Father to merely borrow a book from his collection. Godwyn does not ask, but he does wait for a response, the clink of his golden plate armor echoing in as he shifts impatiently from foot to foot.
“Miquella.” He turns to see his Father’s mouth pressed in a grim, bloodless line. The only color on the man is his hair; he is convinced his Father would bleed gold, if any blade were sharp enough to cut the stone of his skin. “You will commit to an extra three hours of prayer tomorrow, to make up for this time lost.”
He does not spare a glance toward Malenia.
Miquella often wishes he could trade places with his sister. Largely, to take the rot upon himself; it is a desire born of childish folly, to take on her pain so she need not suffer it.
Though now, he wishes he could take from her not the rot, but her raw strength, so that he may rise on steady feet and strike his Father with the full might of the Golden Order. A man too cowardly to look his daughter in the eye, to treat her as his own, a man who will not touch her for fear of the rot, a man whose revulsion outweighs any fatherly instinct. Miquella longs to kick his legs from under him, to hear the hollow ring of his head on marble, to rip open his old scars and make them anew, to teach him the price of such pathetic weakness.
Malenia, who holds both the strength and the patience Miquella lacks, nudges him lightly with the heel of her good foot. He swallows a mouthful of hot spit, filled with all that he cannot say, and replies meekly, “Yes, Father.”
At the man’s cool nod he stands and watches Malenia do the same, focusing with a keen eye on how she shakes a bit; he’ll need to give her another dose of medicine soon, which means another trip to see the perfumers and enduring their pitying coos.
Their woes seem smaller, though, when Godwyn grins conspiratorially at them, blinding even across the room. With a perfunctory bow to the Elden Lord, the three practically sprint from the chamber. Once they are out of sight, he reaches for Malenia’s hand. He feels her hesitate for a moment, before giving his hand a squeeze, light as air. He returns the gesture in kind.
The Golden Prince wastes no time in leading them out of the castle and past the gates of Leyndell proper, waving merrily at every knight and beggar and mother they pass. Miquella struggles to keep up with his long gait; seeing this, Malenia stops and leans down for him to clamber onto her back. He does so reluctantly, only after she makes clear she cares little for his protests of her health. Stubbornness is perhaps the most prominent trait they share.
His short legs wrapped firmly around her waist, she runs and catches up to their older brother easily. Standing atop a small rise on the Altus Plateau, he can see that their horses are already waiting for them below, grazing contentedly under the afternoon sun.
Malenia lets him down next to Godwyn and stands at his other side. The sun burns bright over the landscape, light rivaled only by the brilliance of the Erdtree and the sparkle in Godwyn’s eyes. Erdleaf flowers sway in the slight breeze blowing from the west, and Malenia gently sets a gloved hand atop his shoulder. Miquella feels very small, and very safe.
Godwyn breaks the peace by clapping him on the back, laughing goodnaturedly when he stumbles.
“The extra prayers…poor luck,” he says, this time sounding sincerely apologetic. Miquella can only sigh.
“There is nothing for it. Father is in a foul mood after news of another rebellion brewing in Liurnia. He would have found an excuse to shut us away, with or without your arrival.”
Here is one of the reasons Miquella looks forward to these days – he need not censor his speech, for Godwyn would sooner cut out his tongue than disregard his honor by ‘tattling’ on his young siblings.
“Hm,” Godwyn intones, in such a way that Miquella knows he is thinking, ‘Mine own father would have smited any traitors where they stood, and during his reign no rebellion was left uncrushed by his mighty fist.’
Or, put more simply – ‘Radagon is a failure as the Elden Lord, and unworthy of the title.’
Once, Miquella would have felt rage at such an insinuation; but over time, rage had melted to indignation, and indignation had cooled to indifference.
After all, Radagon had abandoned his first family, and was now abandoning his second in all but name. How could Miquella possibly defend him now? Gone are the days of him and Father designing spells for one another’s enjoyment and enlightenment. Father’s faith remains unshaken; his own has been cast aside for the religion that is research, born of desperation.
“Shall we ride, brothers?” Malenia asks politely, and Godwyn shakes out of his own simmering bitterness to offer a golden smile.
“Of course, dear sister. Let us mount.”
Miquella is far too short to reach the saddle, so with little fanfare Malenia hoists him beneath his arms and places him on his steed, a mottled brown thing closer to a pony than a war horse. Godwyn soothes the beast with a gentle hand until Miquella nods, knuckles white around the reins. Only then do his siblings mount their own horses. Godwyn does so with a whoop, armor twinkling in the light, and Malenia with a grunt, her leg forming a graceful arc up and over the saddle.
Godwyn checks to make sure they both are set, offering a wink to Malenia and and a mock salute to Miquella – and then they are off. The horses kick up a cloud of dirt in their haste, as eager as their masters to stretch their legs.
Miquella grits his teeth and braces himself against the saddle, having barely started and already falling behind. The wind whips harshly into his eyes, blurring his vision; his hair loosens from his braid to stick to his chapped lips. He is no skilled rider, even after months of practice. He is much more suited to sitting in front of his sister as she guides a shared steed for them. But through the wetness of his vision and the jostling of his horse, the reason he so looks forward to these days makes itself clear.
Malenia, smiling freely.
She easily keeps pace with Godwyn, her hair a trail of fire in her wake. Her laughter, deep and hoarse, carries across the Plateau.
He watches with fondness and exasperation as she attempts to stand on the saddle, arms splayed wide in a mimicry of a familiar Order symbol. Unlike the rest of their days together, his heart is not choked with fear for her safety; Godwyn rides abreast of her, ready to catch her if she falls.
She does not – with the grace of a dancer she flips, balancing her palms on the worn leather of the saddle to hold her legs aloft in the air. If she feels any pain, it does not show on her face; there is only room for unbridled merriment on this rare afternoon of freedom. Miquella can see her lips move, and Godwyn’s response in turn, but the conversation is lost to his ears. He does not mind, even when his horse slows to a stop and his siblings far outpace him, taking turns performing impressive feats of agility.
They will always outpace him, he knows. No amount of platitudes from the Golden Order devotees or eager to please perfumers would change what was becoming obvious; he had simply ceased to grow, his health and youth forever stagnant.
Stolen, perhaps, from his sister in the womb – his own youth damning her to the Rot, his own greed damning her to suffer, his own soul consuming what is left of hers.
Radagon had stopped touching him recently, as he had stopped touching Melania years ago. Miquella is no fool. He knows what it means.
Twins are a foul omen.
Still, out here, away from the watchful eyes of Leyndell and the unbearable weight of their judgement, he feels himself relax. His joy is held in the width of Malenia’s smile, and all his hope is held in the strength of her limbs. His sister smiles and laughs and lives without reproach, a gift worth a million sacrifices.
When he had cornered Godwyn months prior, intent on bribing or threatening him to acquiesce to the request of horse riding lessons away from the city, Miquella could not have guessed at how eager the favored prince would be at the idea.
Godwyn, for all the love their mother laid upon his broad shoulders, seems just as constrained in the royal court as the cursed twins. Miquella can understand, to some degree – his own father ousted for a commander who had spent the past years warming his bed with a false Queen of a false Moon, left alone to live up to his legacy in the shadow of that new and lowly Lord.
Out here, the three of them can pretend, if just for a little while; gone are the titles and godhood, replaced by an easy camaraderie. Miquella is, of course, forever indebted to him for this slice of normality.
Malenia, who is far too good for her own good, who never snaps or snips at the poking and prodding of the perfumers or the Finger Reader Crones who wail and curse at the very sight of her, Malenia who swears herself to him as his arm and his blade despite his growing list of failures in healing her, Malenia, the only demigod worthy of any laurels or power, his Malenia, his better half, and the whole of his heart, abandons her fun to join him on the edge of the field.
“Miq,” she greets him informally, low enough that it will not carry to Godwyn, “Have you need of assistance?”
The rot is festering up her neck, dangerously close to her left eye now. If he does not find a breakthrough soon, she will lose it.
He knows she has been training, blindfolded, behind his back. He had trailed her to the swordmaster's hut, watched her voluntarily remove her vision before the rot does it for her, and swing her golden blade in sharp and precise arcs until the air abandoned her lungs and she collapsed on weak knees.
The fact that she still turns those forsaken eyes onto him with such kindness destroys and remakes him infinitely.
“No, I am in good spirits,” he assures her, and smiles so wide that it hurts just to see her mirror the expression.
“We should return soon,” she cautions mournfully, the sun sinking behind their backs. Awash in colorful shadows, the rot is almost invisible on her pale skin, and the wind carries away the sound of her labored breathing. Under a setting sun, he renews his vow.
One day, her health would be no mere illusion. He shall do whatever it takes for them to have an eternity together, free of rot, free of judgement, free.
“Not yet,” he says. “Let us stay like this, for a while longer.”