Chapter Text
This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling, and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm, and the roots of rhythm remain
Saying goodbye to Paul had been hard.
At the gates of the Verlaine estate, Chuuya had cried, and cried, and cried, clinging to his brother’s trouser-leg, as though his tiny hands were strong enough to hold him there forever.
“Can’t you at least come with us to the palace?” he’d begged. “It takes ages by carriage. Can’t we at least have one day more? Even two?”
The Duke Verlaine’s grey-blue eyes are cold with melancholy. “I’m sorry, dear sister,” he says. His voice is quiet, almost cracking with the weight of emotion. “This is the way it has to be.”
“Come now, my lady,” Higuchi says, doing her best to comfort the sobbing five-year-old at her feet. “Isn’t it better to say goodbye here, than to make such a fuss in front of everyone at the palace?” She leans down to pat his head. “You want to make a good impression on Prince Osamu, don’t you? The two of you are to be married, after all.”
This only makes Chuuya cry even harder, and Verlaine pulls him into a sudden, fierce embrace.
“Listen, Chuuya,” he says, holding the back of Chuuya’s head safe in one hand, “You must be brave. Can you do that, for me?”
Chuuya wants to say that he will, that he’ll do anything for his brother, but the tears catch in his throat and he can’t talk.
“It will be hard for you,” Verlaine continues. “They took everything from us, at the end of the last war. They took our sovereignty, our authority. But you must be brave. You must endure it. You hold the legacy of your family, the legacy of your country on your shoulders. Do you understand?”
Chuuya does not understand those words. He is five years old, and he won’t understand for many years yet. But, he loves his brother, the only family he has left, and so he sniffles, trying his best to put a stopper in the flood of emotion for now.
“I understand,” he says, voice thick and choked with the tears he hasn’t shed, “I’ll be brave, okay?”
“Good girl,” Verlaine says. He rubs Chuuya’s back in gentle circles, perhaps as much to soothe himself as Chuuya.
“They’ll need to leave before noon,” murmurs Sir Arthur, who had, up until this point, only stood silently at Verlaine’s side. The reticent knight is often quiet, but ever-present, taking care of the Duke’s every need. “The Duchess is expected at the palace on the morning of the fifteenth.”
Verlaine stands up straight, and Chuuya can’t help himself, he lets out a soft cry of distress when his brother lets him go. Immediately, his expression turns aloof, businesslike. “Are the carriages all packed?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Arthur answers smoothly. “And the gilded royal carriage, the one with the coat-of-arms, is set to lead the procession into the capital, as you asked.”
“Good.” Verlaine’s wry smirk is strangely icy. “Let them all see what the House of Verlaine is worth. They may take my throne, and they may take my sister, but they shall not take my pride.”
Still desperately sad and by now a little scared, Chuuya tugs on the hem of Verlaine’s waistcoat, and he looks down and smiles, once again gentle.
“You’ll show them, love,” he says, pressing a warm kiss to the top of Chuuya’s head. “You’ll show them what we’re made of.”
Chuuya only hopes that he can.
That is almost all he gets, anyway, before he has to say goodbye for the final time.
“But why must I go?” he beseeches his brother, tears in his eyes again as he’s bundled into the carriage alongside Higuchi. “If I am not to marry the prince until I am twenty, then why must I go now?”
The set of Paul’s mouth remains a hard, unhappy line. “I am sorry, Chuuya.” He reaches up into the carriage to stroke Chuuya’s hair one last time. “I did not choose this. I would keep you here with me, if I could.”
“You will get a fine education in the capital, my lady,” Higuchi tells Chuuya gently, trying to keep him from crying. “And you will have plenty of time to come to know your fiancé before you are wed. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“They mean to take her away from me,” Paul mutters, half under his breath. He’s gripping Chuuya’s hand tightly still, but Chuuya gets the impression he’s not speaking to him but rather to Arthur, at his side. “They mean to poison her against me. I shan’t bear it.”
“It must be borne,” Arthur murmurs in response, with a tender hand at Paul’s back, in between his shoulderblades. After a beat, his eyes meet Chuuya’s. “Have heart, my dear,” he adds, “Remember us well.”
Chuuya doesn’t understand. The tears well up like meltwater and spill, hot, down his flushed cheeks.
“I don’t want to go,” he says, “Please.”
“Goodbye, Chuuya.” Paul lets go of his hands as the driver comes around to shut the carriage door, and Chuuya feels like he could scream. “Be well. Be safe.”
“No,” Chuuya says, “No,” but no-one listens to him.
As the carriage pulls away from the gate, the sound of the horses’ hooves on the driveway ringing in Chuuya’s ears, he sees Sir Arthur fold his arms around Paul’s shoulders.
“Let’s wave goodbye, shall we?” Higuchi says, fake-cheery, and Chuuya can only bury his face in the fabric of her gown and cry.
He cries hysterically for the better part of two hours, violent sobs that wrack his small body, hiccupping every time the carriage rocks or happens to hit a rut in the road. Higuchi gives him her handkerchief, and sips of water from a little glass bottle she had in her travelling-chest. He’s still small enough that she can hold him in her lap, protecting him from the worst bumps and jolts of the carriage around them, rubbing his back in slow patterns as he cries. It does little to soothe him, and the tears don’t even begin to ease up until they reach a treeline at the edge of the rolling fields; tall, green pines imposing and shadowy in the paleness of the February sun.
Paul had told him once, on a journey they’d taken together not too long ago, that this forest had marked the border of their former kingdom, before the years of war. He’d pointed out the dark leaves, green and full even in the winter, the sharp tops of the trees that seemed to graze the very sky. From the window of their carriage (the smaller one, the plainer one, the one with the comfortable seats that just about fits Chuuya and Paul and Arthur and a driver up front, and even then only because Chuuya is still little), Chuuya had stuck his head out to marvel at their great size, Arthur’s gloved hands steadying him at the waist.
Chuuya has never been beyond these trees. Not once in his life.
The thought sobers him, more than just a bit, and the uncontrolled sobs give way to frightened, teary-eyed silence.
The carriage falls into shadow as their careful driver steers the horses to follow the road through the trees. In the half-dark, Chuuya lets his tears fall quietly, and wonders what lies beyond the forest at the edge of the world.
It’s almost two full days before he arrives at the palace in his golden carriage. It feels like an age to him, endless hours of rattling wheels on winding mountain roads, jarring his teeth in his skull and giving him a near-constant headache. When Paul had said it was more than a day’s ride, Chuuya had expected that they might stop somewhere along the way – perhaps a warm inn, like the sort that had been dotted around the country roads near their estate, with their cosy-looking thatched roofs and inviting firelight. But, no, when night begins to fall, Higuchi only takes a pair of woollen blankets from her travelling-chest, and suggests that Chuuya try to sleep.
“You must be exhausted, after all,” she says, “I’m sure you must have tired yourself out, with all the emotion of the day.”
He does feel tired, it’s true – his eyes are heavy and burning with exhaustion from the hours of crying, and the ache of it drags him towards sleep despite the discomfort of trying to rest in a moving carriage. They’d eaten their meals on the move, too, cheese and bread and sweet honey from the storehouses at the estate that had almost made Chuuya cry again with the taste of it, at once familiar and strange in this small space far already so away from all he’d known. The food makes him sleepy, as well, but there’s a strange sensation of sickness riding low in his belly; the ceaseless motion, the nervousness, the longing for home, and it infects his body with a strange tension that he can’t shake.
The first night, he isn’t sure if he sleeps. If he does, it’s brief, interrupted, drifting in and out of half-dreams, dizzy with confusion each time he opens his eyes to see a different sort of silhouette beyond the curtained window. The first night blurs into the second day in a wash of grey dawn light, and Chuuya blinks, eyes sore and weariness-worn, as Higuchi draws up the sash to let in the chill paleness of the morning.
The second day is very much like the first, and it passes in a haze of villages and hills and cold, empty blue sky. They take their meals as before, without stopping, although the bread is a little more stale than the day prior. Chuuya wonders if the meals at the palace will be very extravagant. He imagines multiple courses with tiny, delicate silver cutlery, and wide porcelain dishes shining bright as the moon outside the carriage window.
He doesn’t remember dozing off, on the second night, but he must have slept, because he’s all at once aware of Higuchi shaking him awake, and bright sunlight in golden beams that pass across his eyes as the curtains shift.
“Rise and shine, my lady,” Higuchi is saying, somehow bright and full of enthusiasm despite two days on the road. “We’re arriving at the palace! Isn’t it exciting? Look!”
Chuuya sits up, takes a long gulp of water from the bottle Higuchi offers him, and pulls up the curtain on the window on his side, so that he can look out at the view.
The palace looms up ahead, its ancient walls of pale stone rising like massive cliffs from the ground, making Chuuya feel very, very small indeed. It’s so large that he can’t see all of the front of it, even sticking his head out of the carriage’s small window; watchtowers and battlements and red slate roofs, like something out of an old folk tale. Chuuya supposes it is, really – these walls have stood for almost five hundred years, protecting the lineage of the royal family for generation on generation… or so his brother had told him. Five hundred years is a number too big for Chuuya to comprehend, and it hurts his head to think about how dreadfully long of a time that must be. Instead, he looks at the pitted stone as it rapidly draws nearer in his sight, and wonders what kind of life is to be had behind these old and timeworn walls.
They’re greeted at the main gate by a silver-haired servant wearing a monocle, and a huge entourage of neatly turned-out housekeeping staff, the sheer number of which makes Chuuya’s young mind boggle. At his home estate, they’d had only a few maidservants to attend to essentials, plus a gardener and a cook. Most of the men had been drafted into the war and then never came home, but Chuuya had never felt anything lacking in the running of the household.
What do all these people even do? Chuuya wonders, as a page-boy opens the carriage door for him, holding out his hand to help Chuuya down. Are they all busy, all the time? If that’s so, how many people must live in the palace grounds to warrant this many servants?
He’s so busy thinking about it that he almost forgets to make any sort of greeting, but Higuchi, at his left-hand side, nudges him surreptitiously and he dips into a very quick curtsey, as does she.
“Welcome to the outer keep of the Grand Palace, Your Grace,” the silver-haired man says, spreading his gloved hands out wide. “I imagine you must be tired from your journey. I’ll show you to your chambers, and then you may have some time to rest before attending His Majesty in the Great Hall.”
Chuuya curtseys again, lower this time, trying to sift through the mud in his exhausted brain to find everything his brother had taught him about manners. “Thank you,” he says, “That’s very kind of you.”
The man bows in answer, and Chuuya feels his head start to spin with the ceremony of it all. “Please,” he says, “Follow me. My house-staff will bring up your things as soon as possible. If you would like to change clothes, there should be time enough to do so.”
“Thank you,” Chuuya says again. He wonders if that comment means he’s supposed to change clothes, if his travelling-dress maybe looks a little too shabby for royal tastes, or maybe he’s reading too much into it. Higuchi should be able to help him, either way. He’s glad to have her here, the one person from home he doesn’t have to just miss from across the miles.
He and Higuchi dutifully follow the silver-haired head servant – who introduces himself as they walk, a little belatedly to Chuuya’s mind, as Hirotsu – through the wide main gate of the outer keep and into the first well-protected layer of the sprawling palace complex. Walking in awed single file behind Hirotsu, Chuuya and Higuchi can only look around in stunned silence at their surroundings. The wide gravel path that sweeps ahead of them, bright in the morning sunshine as though it were made of solid gold, is set either side with lush gardens of deep green; neatly kept topiary hedges and verdant lawns twisting away into more heavily wooded areas, seeming so far away to five-year-old Chuuya that they might as well have been in a different land entirely, tucked almost out of sight behind the main palace building.
And what a sight it is to behold, that building, as it looms large ahead of them, higher than even the tallest trees nestled alongside it – a vision in shining white marble, towers so tall they seem to pierce the sky like great swords, hundreds of glittering glass windows held carefully like gems within the ornate stonework. Chuuya is struck dumb by it, the incredible size of it, and he hides himself a little behind Higuchi’s skirts as they follow along.
Hirotsu leads them closer to that huge structure, and Chuuya feels his neck start to ache with the constant effort of trying to look up. As they draw nearer, the tops of the towers are eventually no longer visible behind the soaring façade that rises directly ahead of them, and Chuuya reluctantly gives up on trying to see anything else.
He follows Hirotsu still, up a set of stone steps that are almost too large for Chuuya’s small legs to surmount. Although she’s visibly struggling to hold her skirts high so she doesn’t trip, Higuchi nonetheless offers him her hand, and smiles at him as she helps him with the climb.
They arrive, almost out of breath, at the top of the steps, where a pair of enormous wooden doors await them; set so deep into an elaborately carved stone doorway that an adult’s reach couldn’t span the depth. Even the patterns around the entryway itself are larger than Chuuya could have ever imagined – white marble expertly carved into maple leaves the size of Chuuya’s head; a dozen stone wildcats guard the palace against intruders, so realistically fashioned that Chuuya feels more than a little frightened by their sharp teeth and claws.
The doors themselves are so massive that Chuuya has no idea how one might even begin to open them. Hirotsu is a grown man, and relatively tall from a five-year-old’s perspective, but even one of the doors is twice his height and at least four times the breadth of his shoulders.
He pulls a ring of jangling brass keys from his pocket, and puts one into the door – to Chuuya’s great shock, what opens under Hirotsu’s gentle push is, in fact, a much smaller door within the larger one.
He follows Hirotsu through the doorway, stunned. The palace is filled with a number of surprises, evidently.
The false door opens out onto a corridor, long and wide, that branches off into two smaller corridors to the left and to the right, curving in such a way that Chuuya cannot see where they lead. The walls, the vaulted ceilings and even the pillars that line each side are all carved from the same deep greyish stone. In the light of this late-winter, early-spring day, the full length of it is shadowy and foreboding. At the other end of the main corridor, dead ahead of them, lies another set of huge doors, much like the ones they had just come through.
Is there a false door up there, too? Chuuya wonders. How much of this enormous building of ancient white stone is exactly as it seems?
“Ahead is the inner keep,” Hirotsu explains. “To the right are the royal storerooms.” He gestures to their left, the broad sleeve of his outer robe fluttering elegantly. “We shall head this way, and I will show you to your quarters.”
Chuuya is grateful for his explanation, but it leaves him still confused. How is he supposed to remember everything? This place is huge.
Quietly, he squeezes Higuchi’s hand – he hasn’t dared to let her go since she had helped him up the steps – and follows, still.
His boots, made of soft leather, make no sound on the stone floor as they trail slowly up the long passageway. Higuchi’s shoes, though, have a slight heel, and the cork sole tap, tap, taps against the flagstones, echoing around the eerily empty space. It seems to take them an age, and the silence drags on uncomfortably.
Chuuya immediately wants to be at home. At home, the corridors are bright and painted lemon-yellow above the wooden panelling, and Paul and Arthur’s voices resounding within those walls; safe, warm, joyful.
He misses Paul. He doesn’t care if he has to go through the whole gruelling carriage journey in reverse again, he’d do it just to hear his brother’s voice, to see him smile.
“Silly girl, Chuuya,” he’d say, kneeling down to pat Chuuya’s head, “You don’t need me, do you? You’re braver than you think you are, didn’t I tell you?”
The thought of it brings tears to Chuuya’s eyes, and he has to quietly put his hand to his mouth to stop himself from crying.
Why can’t he go home? Failing that, why can’t Paul be here with him? It’s all so unfair. The sudden loneliness grips Chuuya’s heart like a vice. He bites down on the tip of his thumb, chewing nervously at skin and nail, all the way down the long, curving corridor.
Eventually, Hirotsu pauses at a small staircase just to the left, turning abruptly to face Chuuya and Higuchi. The stop is so sudden that Chuuya almost bumps into the back of him, and Chuuya finds himself annoyed by it. Does everyone here expect him to know straightaway where everything is? It’s impossible! He drops Higuchi’s hand and folds his arms, sullen.
“Along that corridor lies the Great Hall,” Hirotsu tells them, gesturing behind him. “We will return there again later so that you may greet His Majesty properly. For now, though – this staircase leads to Duchess Verlaine’s residence. Miss Higuchi, I will show you the servants’ entrance in due course.”
Higuchi nods, ever dutiful, although even Chuuya notices that she, too, looks tired.
The staircase is, to Chuuya’s relief, carpeted; a deep pile of richly woven reds and darker blues and greens. Higuchi’s steps do not echo so much in this stairwell, and the cold does not seep quite so terribly through the soles of Chuuya’s boots. It had been warmer, back at the Verlaine estate, and his toes have been cold since they first descended from the carriage. Chuuya isn’t sure if any of his boots will be thick enough leather for a winter here. He wonders if he might have to ask Higuchi to have some more made.
Hirotsu continues to talk as they ascend the spiral staircase, filling the silence with details about the palace that Chuuya quickly forgets. One thing does catch his attention, though –
“His Royal Highness, Prince Osamu, resides in the tower next to this one,” Hirotsu says, “The two are linked by a closed-in bridge, accessible via the fourth storey. This is traditional, for Royal Consorts.”
“That’s nice, isn’t it, my lady?” Higuchi says to him, “To have your fiancé nearby?” She’s smiling, despite her exhaustion, clearly wanting Chuuya to crack a smile too.
Well, it won’t happen.
To Chuuya, that only sounds scary. He doesn’t know Prince Osamu. He has no idea what kind of person he might be, no idea if he’ll even want to be around him, let alone have him near at all hours of the day and night.
He isn’t quite sure how to articulate that, though, so he only shakes his head, nervously, and brings his thumb back up to his mouth.
As they continue on their way, they pass enormous arch windows with lead panelling in intricate detail, and an expansive playroom that Chuuya shyly supposes might be his.
After three floors of those same, spiralling, red-carpeted stairs, they reach a small, rounded atrium, with a green-painted wooden door to one side, and the open bridge on the other. Chuuya assumes that this is the one that leads to the adjoining tower, and immediately shrinks back a little further behind Higuchi’s skirts.
Thankfully, Hirotsu does not lead them that way, instead taking that ring of keys once again from his pocket, to open the little green door.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” he says, directly to Chuuya this time, “To your new home,” and for the first time Chuuya sees a sort of kindness in his deep violet eyes, feeling at last that perhaps he might be able to be safe here.
To Higuchi, Hirotsu adds, “I shall return in two hours, before the courtyard clock strikes noon, to ensure you are ready for an audience with His Majesty the King.”
Higuchi curtseys. “Thank you,” she says, “You’ve been very helpful.”
Chuuya isn’t sure if he’s supposed to follow suit. He dips into a sort of half-curtsey, tired, cold feet stumbling a little underneath him. “Thank you,” he mumbles quietly, and Hirotsu smiles at him.
“A polite young lady, indeed,” he says. “I am sure you will do very well here, Your Grace.”
Chuuya doesn’t know what to make of that. He nods, shyly, and Higuchi takes his hand to lead him to his rooms.
The green door opens out onto a small alcove, with a second, smaller door to the right and yet another curving stone staircase to the left, sweeping up the outside wall of the tower. The smaller door, Chuuya and Higuchi discover, leads to the bathroom, and up the stairs lies the bedroom.
As soon as he spots the huge four-poster bed against the back wall, Chuuya runs and flops onto it, wholly undignified but too tired to care.
Higuchi smiles at him in spite of herself. “None of your lollygagging, my lady. We shall have to change clothes before we meet the king.”
Chuuya sits up, begrudgingly, and looks around the bedroom. “It doesn’t look like our travelling-chests are here yet, though,” he notices. “I won’t have anything to change into. Can’t I at least rest for now?”
Higuchi checks the room herself, before rolling her eyes, although she’s still smiling. “Very well,” she says, “Just for a short while.”
The stone floor feels cold as ice on this February morning, through the thin soles of Chuuya’s boots.
Higuchi had woken him after what had felt like far too brief of a nap, to change clothes bleary-eyed in the dull winter light, shivering in his underclothes in the middle of an unfamiliar room. He hadn’t even pulled the bedcovers over himself while he slept, and he’d awoken chilled and disoriented, not at all feeling ready to meet the king. Still, meet the king he must – he’s getting used to the idea, at five years of age, that no one especially cares what Chuuya wants or has to say. His actions are pushed into being by adults, by time-worn customs, by laws and treaties Chuuya is not yet old enough to even read.
And so, Higuchi pulls him into a royal-blue visiting-gown, with a trim of white lace. His worn travelling-boots are replaced with newer ones, thinner, made of delicate kid leather dyed in navy to match the dress. Higuchi’s own clothes coordinate with Chuuya’s, too, although hers are plainer – a linen smock of midnight blue, bodice laced neatly over a linen shirt of bright, new white. She’s forgone her usual apron, and Chuuya thinks she doesn’t quite look herself without it.
Together, they descend the stairs, following the seemingly endless spiral back down towards the ground floor. Hirotsu meets them in the hallway, inclining his head respectfully in greeting. Chuuya mirrors him with a brief curtsey, too scared to say anything much at all.
In silence, the three of them walk through the hallway. The doors to the Great Hall loom large, and Chuuya’s heart thuds in his chest.
“I will lead you to the throne,” Hirotsu tells them. He’s speaking softly, but his words resound against the carved stone all around them, and Chuuya hears him as clearly and sharply as though he were a military commander. “From there, you must make your own introduction to His Majesty.”
Chuuya nods to show he understands. He still doesn’t trust his own voice, so he says nothing.
“Thank you for your assistance,” Higuchi says. In the echoing space, her voice sounds reed-thin. Not like Hirotsu’s. Chuuya reaches for her, but she pushes him away with a disapproving frown. “Not now, my lady,” she murmurs, only to him. “Be a grown up girl, just for a little bit.”
Chuuya has to resist the need to cry aloud at that. He’s cold, and he’s scared, and he’d rather be anywhere but here. He knows, though, if he cries, he’ll be doing just what he’s been told not to do. All anyone has told him, ever since he first found out that he would come here, is how important this is. How sacred. What a burden he has on his small shoulders. The price of disobedience frightens Chuuya more than walking alone into the lions’ den, and so he stays silent.
Hirotsu lifts the heavy bolt of the door, and pushes it open. It creaks, like something in a scary story, huge and ancient and thunderous, and Chuuya winces at the noise.
Hirotsu steps forward, and Higuchi follows, Chuuya grasping for her hand, and all at once they are over the threshold, in the domain of the king.
At the far end of the hall, which to Chuuya seems miles away, is a large dais of stone that appears to rise out of the floor itself, with an elaborately carved wooden throne in the centre. Nervous, Chuuya keeps his eyes low, and he notices the detailing of the throne before taking note of the person sitting in it – four snarling black wildcats stand at each corner of a sturdy base painted in stark colour and gold leaf that shines even in the dim winter light; as well as the intricate shapes of leaves, made of wood still but as paper-thin as anything real, that cascade as a natural waterfall from the curved arms down to the floor. The throne itself is furnished with cushioning of lush red velvet upon the seat, back, and armrests, and Chuuya’s throat goes dry as he realises – this is the seat of the king. He raises his eyes just slightly, but their small procession is still too far away, and what little light there is from the window at the back of the hall shafts low, casting the faces of those on the dais into shadow. All he can make out of the king from here is a robe of deepest black silk, winter boots of spotless dark leather, and a pair of legs elegantly crossed at the ankle. The king sits in a casual, relaxed manner, one elbow on an armrest, the other hand resting in his lap. There are two other much smaller, simpler thrones on the dais, too, Chuuya notices, but these are mysteriously empty.
Behind the king stands a tall man, broad-shouldered, with silver hair, green silk doublet resplendent even in the dim light. One hand rests on the hilt of his sword, sheathed at his hip – this must be the king’s own knight and attendant, Chuuya realises. Like Sir Arthur is to Paul. As they approach, Chuuya can start to make out the fierce glint in the man’s metallic blue-green eyes, sharper than a blade. He shivers. The sound of his footsteps on the flagstones echoes in the near-silent hall, and fear spikes, cold, like a vicious icicle, just underneath his ribs. He walks a little faster just to be closer to Higuchi, to cling to her skirts and to the one familiar thing in this strange, huge place made of stone and stony-eyed people.
Ahead of them, Hirotsu reaches the dais, light glancing off his monocle as he steps through the small shaft of light from the window. Before the king, he drops to one knee, head bowed, and announces; “The representatives from the Duchy of Verlaine have arrived, Your Majesty.”
From behind the soft shelter of Higuchi’s gown, Chuuya looks at the king from up close for the first time. He has a pale, pointed face, and dark hair that almost reaches to his shoulders. He is dressed entirely in black silk, the only hint of colour in the blood-red neckband at his throat, and the vivid purple of the gemstones set in the elaborate gold crown atop his head.
His eyes are the same colour as those gemstones, Chuuya notices, a deep violet that’s darkened by the stark shadows that reach their way across the dais.
“Only two of you?” His voice is deep, a little nasal, with the air of knowing his own power so thoroughly that he can, and does, wield it like a weapon. “I was expecting more from the former Kingdom of Verlaine.”
Higuchi clears her throat delicately, not rising to the slight. One hand on his shoulder, she pushes Chuuya firmly, manoeuvring him so that he’s next to her instead of hidden behind her. His heart twists in panic as he realises he’s pinned like a butterfly beneath the king’s gaze, and he can’t shield himself any longer.
Heedless of Chuuya’s rising dread, Higuchi drops into a curtsey so low to the ground that her skirts crumple and fold on the floor all around her. Chuuya copies her, one eye carefully following her motion as he tries to quickly quell his fear and remember all he’d been taught about how he ought to behave before royalty – true royalty.
“I present to the assembled company, in accordance with the Peace Agreement of Year 12 of the reign of our King, Ougai Mori,” Higuchi announces, in a voice that is not overly loud but carries clear as a bird’s cry through the enormous hall, “My mistress, Chuuya Nakahara, the Duchess Verlaine.”
“You speak well,” the king says. His voice is barely more than a murmur, but it, too, is amplified by the strange vaulted ceilings high above them. “What is your name?”
“I- w-well—” Higuchi stammers, at first, clearly not having anticipated any focus at all on herself. Even in the shadows up on the dais, Chuuya sees the king raise one thin eyebrow, and he feels his own heart start to race even faster, nerves climbing to a strange, clashing pitch. Luckily, Higuchi recovers her composure quickly.
“Ichiyo Higuchi,” she says eventually, “If it pleases Your Majesty.”
“It does,” the king answers softly. “Thank you, Miss Higuchi.”
Higuchi flushes at the unexpected attention, inclining her head even lower in acknowledgement. Neither she nor Chuuya rise from their deferent positions, down close to the floor. Chuuya’s knees are starting to ache.
The king clears his throat, before making his own announcement.
“Under the terms of the very same agreement,” he says, “I present my second son, Prince Osamu Dazai, rightful son of the Mori family, in the eleventh generation of this royal line.”
He turns slightly to the left, towards one of the small naves either side of the dais, and makes a beckoning gesture with one elegant, gloved hand.
Chuuya’s throat goes dry. He keeps his head bowed, barely resisting the urge to look to the side.
This is the boy he will marry.
“You may rise, Duchess Verlaine,” the king intones. Chuuya thinks he might detect a hint of a smile in his voice. “Rise, and look upon your betrothed.”
Chuuya risks a sidelong glance at Higuchi, who nods her confirmation, a silent go ahead.
On shaking legs, muscles aching from long minutes spent bent in respectful curtsey, Chuuya stands. In front of the dais is a boy much, much taller than Chuuya, with large, round eyeglasses and neat dark hair pinned back from his forehead. Chuuya blinks in surprise. Surely this can’t be the prince? Hadn’t everyone told him that Prince Osamu was five years old, just the same as Chuuya? This boy has to be in his teens, or fast approaching them, all gangly growth-spurt legs and the hints of broad-shouldered strength to come.
Chuuya is just beginning to panic when he spots a much smaller boy, just behind the taller one, clinging to his legs shyly.
That’s him, Chuuya realises, with a jolt of emotion that hits him heavy as a ten-ton weight, feeling it vibrate right down to the soles of his shoes.
Prince Osamu Dazai.
He’s a little smaller than Chuuya, as it turns out – at least from what Chuuya can see of him, still hiding scared behind the other boy. He seems a skittish, skinny little thing, with unruly brown curls framing his round face and brown eyes that look so dark in the late-winter shadows that they’re almost black. The older boy, the one with the glasses, smiles at Chuuya apologetically and pushes at the little prince’s shoulder with a gentle force, as if to say, go on, don’t be so shy.
The prince stumbles a little as he’s urged forward, out from his hiding place, but says nothing. Chuuya decides, with a slight burn of irritation flaring low in his gut, that he’ll have to be the one to say something.
“You must be Prince Osamu.” Despite his annoyance, he’s still perfectly polite, curtseying low once again. “I’m very glad to meet you, Your Highness.”
The prince just looks at him, those deep, dark eyes indifferent.
“Only my family call me by my first name,” he says, his icy tone ringing strange on such a young child, “And until we are to be married, my only family is my father and my brother. You must call me Dazai.”
Chuuya blinks at him, fear and sick nervousness at last entirely giving way to bewilderment and frustration.
“Very well,” he says. “Dazai it is.”