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Sleep clings to Miquella like a lover.
Her gentle fingers weigh down his pale lashes, and her sighs sweeten his pit as he breathes deeply through parted lips. His limbs sink deep into the feathered cot, warm beneath a blanket he does not remember pulling above his shoulders. If it were not for the bell ringing in the courtyard he may have chosen to lie in a bit longer; but the noon call echoes in his ears, and he rises from slumber with a reluctance known to all with taken hearts.
Malenia is gone from her room, though traces remain; soiled bandages piled high by the door, a dented metal helm on her desk, her scent, that distinct curdle sweetness of rot, lingering thickly in the air. Radagon had insisted on separate bedchambers when the Rot showed no signs of stopping, but Miquella’s own room remains orderly and empty across the hall. The servants and perfumers know about the cot, hardly fit for the ‘little lord’ and poorly hidden beneath Malenia’s bed, which means Father must also know – but he has yet to punish them for the disobeyal. Perhaps because of the last incident, where Miquella spent a nightly vigil on the roof to monitor Malenia through the window only to slip on the morning frost coming down.
Mother had healed the ugly cut on his chin and set the bone of his arm without a word, and carried a cot, the cot, to Malenia’s room while he fell behind her long stride. The silent affair took less than an hour. He had not thought to thank her then, tears still brimming from the pain, and she had not waited long enough to hear such anyway.
The bell rings again, insistent, and so he crosses to his own chambers to ready himself for the day. He passes a servant in the hall, and offers them a smile; but they do not meet his eyes and skitter away like a mouse, bowing and tripping and bowing again. He tries not to let the disappointment foul his day so soon – he will get better at it, he must – and begins the onerous task of combing out his hair with slender fingers, wetting the strands with fresh water that had been put out for him in the early hours of dawn. It had warmed in the bowl from the sunlight that now paints his face golden. He welcomes the damp heat and hums a soldiering tune as he braids his hair into three neat plaits and dons a simple robe of white and red. He does not look in the reflective glass before leaving.
The walk is long and arduous, spanning several grand halls and staircases, but at this hour there is only an errant guard or two to witness his legs struggling to keep up with his mind. The path to the stables is ingrained in his memory, so he lets it guide him as he mulls over how best to approach the perfumers for what he needs without arousing undue suspicion. His greenhouse is well hidden from prying eyes, but still; Leyndell leaks, and only cunning can protect Malenia now.
He expects to find his sister on the outskirts of the stalls, watching her ragtag collection of knights tend to their horses from afar. An odd but eager group she’s amassed, simply by virtue of her strength and spirit. He recalls clearly the first two, a mother and son clad in rusted mail, come to pledge themselves to the child of Rot. They touched Malenia’s uncovered hand without fear, and swore fealty under her banner, not knowing such a thing did not exist.
“Your body may rot, but your soul is clean,” the woman had declared, refusing to be dissuaded. The first of the Cleanrot Knights, though not the last, now nearly forty strong and ever growing. Malenia ‘s reluctance is palpable, but she trusts in his judgement. They will need the arms of the faithful if their plan is to succeed. Her knights, yes, but his blades.
It is not Malenia he finds at the stables, however. An eerie silence hangs over the building, devoid of the usual swearing stablehands or neighing steeds. The guards have abandoned their posts. The stifling heat bears down without wind to carry it away, but something cold passes over him, a dread that stiffens the marrow in his bones.
He backs away silently, but his caution comes too late to save him. He collides with something firm and terrifyingly familiar.
“Mother!”
He spins and bows low enough to kiss her feet, bare and grass stained, nails curling over the flesh. He lifts his eyes to hers with great effort, trying not to crumble at her cool placidity. It is easier to look his Father in the eye, to know the man’s sins and forgive them. Harder with Marika, who shows no humility or pride, who stands amidst her own destruction without so much as a twitch of the lip.
“Good, you’ve arrived. Come.”
She brushes past with a beckoning hand, and he follows despite his blood begging to pull him in the opposite direction. He is grateful, at least, to be given her back for a moment. He composes himself with deep even breaths, focusing on the ripple of muscle beneath her thin dress, and odd scar across her shoulder blade. The cut is at the same angle as her short braid.
There is fresh hay in the stalls, but the barn is empty. The royal farrier’s kit lies open on the workshop table and the shovels lie in a heap on the floor, hastily abandoned on the Queen’s orders no doubt. She leads them into the largest stall and he restrains a flinch when the wood hits wood, closing them in together.
“Where is Malenia?”
“Not here.”
He grinds his teeth, fear counting the notches in his spine. She towers above him even with room enough to spare between their bodies, leaning expressionless against the stall door.
“I was supposed to meet her.”
“So you were.”
“Mother, please–”
“Do not beg, Miquella,” she says, voice even.
His fingers itch for the seal tucked in the pocket of his robes. As if sensing this, her eyes make a languid path to his hands. He clasps them before his torso, head bowed, peeking up between pale lashes.
From between her breasts she pulls a small charm, burnished in the low light of the stable.
“Your sister no longer rides with her retinue.” It is not a question, so he remains silent. “She fears the Rot will spread to her steed and the steeds of her soldiers in turn. And you can ride only ponies, stunted as you remain.”
“If the horse were better trained, perhaps I–”
“Do not blame a tool for an incompetent master. You both court knights knowing you can never lead them into battle. I understand their folly, but that does not account for your own. Your father raised you a tactician, not an idealogue.”
“Your husband abandoned us to rot and repulsion. What would he know of leadership?” Miquella mutters.
Radagon has not visited for nigh on a month, and their dinners have become dour affairs dominated by Malenia’s waning appetite and his growing worry.
Marika tilts her head.
“Forgive me, Mother. My mind is not my own, today.”
“Nay, I wager your mind is more your own than ever.” He wonders if he imagines the twitch of her lips. “That is why I am gifting you this.”
She tosses the charm to him, and he clumsily grasps it between his small fingers. It is larger than his palm, a circle that can never meet, ordinary if not for the faint magic clinging to its surface. A whistle, he realizes, though he hesitates to place the metal to his lips.
“Upon my honor it will do no harm to you.”
What honor? He does not voice, and blows a clear high note into the charm.
The spectral steed appears instantaneously, with a sound not quite equine. Miquella presses himself back into the wood of the stall out of instinct; the creature is large and horned and while he can heal any pain he does not relish the sting.
Marika strokes a hand across its snout in a gesture that could be deemed fond. It shakes out its mane and nuzzles close.
“Torrent, I give you now to a new master. Serve him in life and death as you would me, for he is but an extension of myself.”
The beast turns its dark eyes onto him, and after a moment, inclines its noble head.
Its nose is surprisingly warm. Miquella marvels at the softness of its mane, gently exploring its head and horns. Torrent bears the curiosity with grace, only bending down once to nibble idly on some hay.
“Torrent will never buck or bite, and cannot be inflicted with Rot.”
Her eyes are devoid of light, golden in color alone. His are a mirror, he knows. He closes them and breathes deep.
“Do you mean to send us to war on the back of this beast?”
“He asks innocently, even as he intends to wage war against me .”
His mouth moves, but no sound dares crawl out.
“You are less clever than you deign yourself to be, Miquella, and you cannot so easily compel me as my servants.”
She turns to leave. His fingers grasp at the seal in his pocket. She snorts, and he jumps at the unexpected sound.
“Radahn has returned early, and taken Malenia and your knights to the west of the Plateau. If you hurry, you may meet them on their return for supper.”
Torrent huffs at her departure, and lets Miquella use its flank for balance until he stops shaking.
Even without eyes, General Radahn would be hard to miss, his booming voice making the hills tremble and his comrades shake – today from laughter, luckily for all. His high spirits are infectious, and Miquella finds some of his malaise slip away as he gently encourages Torrey on to meet the merry band cresting the hill before the city gates. They ride slow, no doubt to accommodate Malenia as she walks astride the General and his favorite horse. Untalented rider as he is, Miquella still intercepts them before they can cross into Leyndell proper.
“Brother!” Malenia calls upon his approach, surprise hidden beneath the scratchy layers of her voice.
Radahn holds up his hand, calling the procession to a halt. With a fluidity his enemies oft find surprising, he dismounts Leonard in one smooth motion and takes a knee.
“Lord Miquella,” he intones, the gravel in his voice softened.
He feels his face flush at the overt display, and tightens his grip on the reins. The setting sun halos the scene in fire.
“General, please rise. You are among friends.”
The words feel superfluous, as his brother began standing as soon as his own greeting finished. Radahn’s smile is kind though, and he takes both Leonard’s and Torrent’s reins to lead them all into the city.
The fading sunlight glints on golden armor, the lion poised to strike whatever dares to challenge them. It had been months since they’d had time together like this. War beats in Radahn’s blood, and he knows he cannot keep him close without risking everything they seek to build. So Miquella lets him lead without protest, counting the ruby hairs that fall free from his brother’s plait all the way to the castle proper.
A perfumer waylays them before they can depart to their rooms, the rest of Malenia’s and Radahn’s retinue left behind in the lower quarters of the capitol. The messenger fidgets, smoothing sweat slicked palms down his robes between every breath; a new face among the ranks, clearly. Miquella catches his eye and holds it until he feels the poor man’s heartbeat slow.
“Queen Marika expects you all in the dining room at once.”
“We’ve only just arrived,” Radahn argues, smacking a hand against his dirtied breastplate for emphasis. “We’ll need to wash up first.”
“But, the Queen has ordered…”
The perfumer begins to shake, and Miquella smiles until the poor thing settles. Radahn scoffs at the use of his power on something so banal, but Miquella shrugs and speaks with his authority, soprano voice tinkling.
“Of course, we will come right away. Thank you for finding us so soon, Siral.”
Siral bows low, overcome by a lord’s mercy – a lord who knows his name, nonetheless! He waves him off and withdraws from his mind without a trace. Radahn scowls at his back.
“You waste energy on such petty things,” he chastises, hand falling heavy on his shoulder. Miquella leans into the touch, smile never faltering.
“You would be surprised at how often the hearts of the commoners turn the tides of war, General. Let us not keep Mother waiting.”
Malenia chuckles and guides the three down the twisting halls on light feet, rotted fingers barely brushing the walls; an old assurance, no longer needed. She will not stumble here.
“Is this the hospitality afforded to her most decorated General? I will reek and ruin her appetite.”
“Mother doesn’t eat,” Malenia offers quietly. Radahn huffs but lets the matter lie.
It is true that his musk is as loud as his voice, but Miquella would hardly call it unsavory. Radahn smells of damp earth and moon grown weeds; Liurnia beats in his very blood, loathe as he is to admit it.
They are the last to arrive. Three chairs remain empty near the head of the long table, the rest filled by curious eyes and pompous chins, the spread of stews and soups and meats and cheese and delicate vegetables and hardy grains before them all untouched, and now cold.
Miquella offers a quiet apology to soothe the room of ill-tempered dignitaries and despots while Malenia cautiously slides into her seat, careful not to touch a thing. Radahn sits with an exaggerated grunt, removing his help with a flourish and shaking out his glorious mane. A hair lands in the soup of the heir to Limgrave, seated on his right. The man pulls it out with the tips of his fingers, adorned with far too many rings, eyes and lips downturned.
The table sits in waiting. Marika clinks golden spoon to golden glass, breaking the spell. Soon the silence of the room is suffocated by raucous laughter and zealous praise, plates passing hands without complaint.
He serves Malenia immediately, ignoring the look of wariness on the head perfumer's face as he passes back the plate of leeks and mushrooms; they think Malenia should be sequestered in her rooms, left for the sickness to run its course. Cowards, all.
Like his mother, he touches nothing save water, content to monitor Malenia’s tentative bites. Her stomach was growing more sensitive by the day; he knows lessons with the cooks are inevitable if he wants to make sure she ingests more than overripe fruit and sticky porridge with sour milk.
Radahn’s voice cuts through the din of his thoughts, a shield before his ever expanding concerns.
“A fine meal, my Queen! Much appreciated after the rations in the field.”
“If only you’d arrived sooner, General, to taste it fresh.”
“If only I’d known sooner that I’d be invited to dine at your table! Please forgive my tardiness and appearance; I would have liked to clean up beforehand, but I only received summons moments before arrival.”
“The apology is mine then, General. I had instructed Miquella to extend the invitation, but it seems in the future I will need to send such missives by my own hand.”
Radahn’s eyes catch his, hot as coals.
“I apologize, Mother, General.”
Neither of them respond, and he bites his tongue hard enough to taste the copper flush of blood, tapping Malenia’s knee beneath the table to urge her to take a few more bites. The conversation ebbs and flows over his head, all his focus concentrated on Radahn’s restless fingers drumming against the embroidered tablecloth. He wonders if meals in Liurnia were as tense as these ones in Leyndell; perhaps worse, between the excitable derision of Princess Ranni and his Father’s redhot indifference.
He takes great pains not to meet his Queen Mother’s eye – the air is charged, and she lies in wait to take advantage of any weaknesses. Her only form of sustenance at meals such as these; a fortnight ago her victim had been the farming overseer, and the whole affair ended with blubbering tears and flowing blood.
Unfortunately, Radahn gives her an opportunity.
“You and Lady Malenia are oft found on the training grounds these days, General; please forgive me for being so bold, but are wedding bells approaching?”
The heir of Limgrave sips innocently at his wine, beady eyes darting to and fro, eager for something special to report to his Lord father. Radahn laughs hard enough to rattle the glassware.
“Court gossip! Now that’s something that rarely reaches my ears in the field.”
“It would be an inspiring match, you must admit…Liurnia brought once more under golden light and banner–”
“The General holds no sway over the politics of Liurnia,” Marika cuts in coolly, expression never shifting. “Only daughters may take the crown and consolidate power, a fact you would know, Veras, if your father had bothered with proper education. Perhaps you have forgotten, fat as you are on your farmer’s yields and late to pay your tariffs, but Luirnia remains under my banner, regardless of who sits its throne.”
Veras bows his head, stuttering apology caught in his throat, but the snake is not done, fangs yet to sink into her real target. She turns those golden eyes onto Radahn. To his credit, he meets them head on.
“Though I suppose it bears askance – is it Lordship you seek, General, in the hand of my daughter? Is that why you’ve followed my husband into the Erdtree’s light?”
The table goes quiet, buzzing with nerves. Two predators appraise each other at its head. Miquella cannot compel this many people without risking notice; he settles with grabbing Malenia’s hand. She takes another bite of leek, chewing slowly, and squeezes back.
“The might of my father is compelling enough to earn my fealty. Does not Lord Godwyn seek to honor the strength of his own?”
Marika’s cool expression does not budge, even as a perfumer chokes on their wine and spews across the table. She merely tilts her head. Radahn’s smile falters, lips pulling down to expose his lion fangs. Miquella tries to nudge him beneath the table, but his cursed legs will not reach.
“My aim is to serve the Golden Order. If I am called upon as Lord, I will serve with the strength that befits the title.”
“You will never serve in such a capacity,” Marika utters with finality, spearing a mushroom from Malenia’s plate with her pinky, “So you only need worry about the battles you are waging against the Order’s enemies. Battles that have yet to turn in our favor, General .” She pops the slick fungus between her teeth, swallowing it whole. “If I were in your position, I would focus on winning a single battle rather than fantasizing about your glory in the war.”
At that, Malenia spits a tooth onto her plate, black and foul smelling. A molar. The second this week. Miquella frowns.
Marika smiles.
“Dessert now, yes?”
Miquella takes a deep breath before entering the room, the energy seeping in great waves under the crack of the door enough to shake his resolve. It is almost suffocating in its power, and the anger curdles in his small stomach. He pushes past the malaise with some effort.
It is no surprise to find Radahn pacing the length of the absurdly confined space; another blow to his ego, to be put in a room designated for the least important visitors to the capital. His boots scuff the floors in great black gouges, and his head nearly brushes the ceiling.
“She’s made a fool of me,” he growls as soon as Miquella’s back rests against the closed door. “You’ve promised me Lordship, Lord Brother , and instead dragged me down in standing!”
He roars, fist smashing against the wardrobe in the room. It breaks in huge splinters, ripping open the thick skin across his knuckles.
Carefully, Miquella glides forward, arms outstretched. Radahn sits heavily on the bed and lets him heal the wound, golden light obscuring both their faces. The young lord then climbs behind him and begins to brush out the tangles in his hair with lithe fingers, Radahn’s bulk threatening to snap the bed frame.
It is easier to compel him like this, slow and gentle, with the steadiness of the waves against the shore. He does not need to even look him in the eyes anymore, a feat he is most proud of.
“Please forgive me, brother…she is merely threatened by the growing dissent in the lower city and Rykard’s activities in the mountains.” With a practiced touch he separates the crimson hair into three even sections, forever in awe at the brilliance of the color. “You can trust in my plan. My Queen Mother sees treachery in her own shadow, and knows nothing beyond what I allow.”
He does not share what happened in the stables, or his concerns on Malenia’s rapid descent into Rot. Radahn’s shoulders relax by degrees; from Miquella’s subtle magic or his soft voice, it is unclear. He had not compelled Radahn into this plan all those summers ago; their partnership started with an honest plea and childish hope – but it grows harder with each passing day to reassure the man.
Radahn is a warrior before anything else. Sometimes, he wonders if it was not kindness he felt from the General so long ago, but pity, the twisted heart of a man who keeps a lame horse alive rather than killing it in loving mercy.
It is too late for doubts, and he lets them go in a single sigh.
Radahn’s breathing levels as he finishes the braid, a single red plait down the length of his back. For afar, he really does resemble their father; but his face is all Queen Rennala, no matter how much kohl he smudges around his eyes or how much gold he adds to his breastplate.
Before he can move, Radahn turns quick as a whip and catches him by the chin. His thumb and forefinger dwarf Miquella’s face – he flushes to the tips of his ears, not used to being touched so assertively outside of his dreams, even as something fetid curls in his gut under Radahn’s burning gaze.
They merely look at each other, moment drawn taut as a noose.
Eventually Radahn lets him go with a gentle pat to his head.
“Do not forget what you’ve promised me, Miquella. I will not wait forever.”
His march back to his own room is a heavy one, guilt forming lead balls in his feet. Marika’s comments at dinner felt too pointed. If Miquella fails, Radahn’s hope for everlasting glory will be snuffed out. Radahn needs him; it is why his brother is so hard on him, so demanding. He cannot fail him. He will not.
The call of his name as he passes the library is almost a welcome distraction from his churning mind, if not for the one that greets him by the fire.
Marika is resplendent in the light of the flames, limbs akimbo on an ornate chair set close before the fireplace, old tomes stacked precariously high about her. Her hair is down, save for the single shorter braid, and it gives a youthfulness to her face that painfully reminds him of his own. She beckons him with a hand to sit at her feet, and he does, though he hates how akin it feels to nights he had spent researching with Radagon, before – well, just before.
Godwyn told the twins that Marika had a more playful side beneath her cold demeanor. This is the first time Miquella truly believes him, gazing up at his mother’s soft face, toying with something in her hand.
She nudges a tea set laid on the floor with her bare foot. There are fine golden hairs on the knuckles of her toes, and her nails are painted Carian blue. He takes the hint, pouring them both generous cups of steaming liquid. Their fingers brush when he passes hers up; he is surprised at how calloused they feel, despite a smooth appearance.
He does not partake until after her first sip, staring into the dark liquid like it holds some secret just out of reach.
“I did not call you here to poison you,” she comments, tone almost light.
“I know, Mother.”
Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a small drink. The flavor is familiar – a hint of lavender, perhaps? – though he cannot recall ever choosing such for himself. Marika’s eyes do not leave the flames, even as she nudges his shoulder with her heel and offers, oddly jovial, “Trina’s favorite. I thought it to be her joining me tonight. Perhaps the flavor is not to your taste.”
He does not drop the cup, though it is a near thing.
“...who?”
She laughs, then, and the sound is so jarring from her lips that he flinches and spills the tea in his lap. It burns through the thin dress he had donned before seeing Radahn, flesh turning pink and hot beneath the fabric. Like Malenia’s, but not.
“She worries over you, you know. I try to soothe her, but I can only do so much.”
He cannot speak, throat tight and tongue heavy. Marika sips her tea with a satisfied sigh.
“I would not have placed my ascension in the hands of a fool like the General, but you’ve always enjoyed an unconventional challenge. The Rot and the Lion…a curious pair. It will not be easy.”
Miquella licks his lips, mind racing. Trina lies dormant somewhere in his chest, the traitor, the lover.
“You must be mistaken, Mother,” he whispers, hands fisted in his ruined dress, lavender heavy on his eyelids even as his heart races from his breast.
“Ah, is that so? Is your greenhouse also a mistake of my perception, then? Or the missing books from the library, on Death and heresy?”
She elbows the tallest stack of tomes at her side, sending them sprawling before him. He does not need the light of the fire to recognize their covers, no longer safely tucked away where he’d left them.
“You think me cruel. Perhaps I am. Though I have my reasons, the likes of which you cannot comprehend.”
“You are cruel,” he whispers. “So many left to suffer under supposed ‘grace’ – it should not be this way. It does not need to be this way.”
“Trina said much the same, on her first visit.” Marika bounces her leg on the chair, twisting her ankle to and fro. “You’ve no idea what it takes to become a god, child.”
Miquella opens his mouth, but she finally turns her gaze on him, and he is shocked to see tears on her gaunt cheeks. “Kindness is not enough. Nothing will ever be enough.”
She turns away, and lets the salt soak into her skin. The thing in her hand catches the light; a lock of hair, redder than fire or blood. Instinctively, he knows it is not Radagon’s.
“I will not stop you. Not because I lack the means,” she nudges his shoulder, almost playful despite the blade of her words, “But because some lessons can only be learned through fire. This path is a doomed one, Miquella – better to ease your sister through the misery of death than promise the misery of eternal life. But your determination was born of my body and soul, and I know better than to deny myself.”
Marika finishes her tea, and gestures for more. He pours with numb fingers; some spills. She does not reprimand him. Radagon had slapped him for lesser mistakes in this very room.
“Father will try to stop me.”
“Perhaps. I do not speak for him.”
“Do you not?”
She laughs again, but the sound has lost any mirth. “Your father is the chain around my soul and the weight around my ankle.” She twirls it before him, dress swaying where it drapes across her muscular calves. “I speak for him no more than Trina speaks for you.”
“Trina loves me,” he murmurs, he prays.
“You will lose that love if you stay on this course, despite your best efforts.” She clenches the hair in her fist, hiding it from view. “I will advise you take caution around your Lord Father, but I will not be a hindrance to your plans, foolish as they may be. Take this warning as the kindness you find me bereft of, and do not weep when all hope turns to ash on our tongue.”
He sits for a long moment, watching the tears pool in the hollow of her throat. She closes her eyes, turning her head from the firelight.
“Goodnight, Miquella. Sleep well.”
If the guards see him running, they do not call out, even as he trips and cuts his cheek on his teeth, small and soft and he is, even as he enters his sister’s bedchambers with tears staining the brilliance of his face.
Malenia breathes shallowly on her bed, naked save for a thin sheet already soaked with putrid sweat. He pulls it over her shoulders, forced to stand on tiptoe to hover above her head, heart lurching as her features contort in pain.
When he opens his mouth to whisper her name, to offer a confession, his blood drips onto her face. It slips silken and silent between her parted lips. She swallows. She does not sir.
The perfumers find them curled together as dawn breaks across the horizon, the young lord’s eyes bloodshot and drooping, the young lady’s wheezing drowning out the morning birdsong. They leave as soon as they’ve come, door shut softly behind.
Miquella closes his eyes. The reprieve is only momentary.
There is work to be done yet.