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Owen pointed over at the king wearing armor at the table. “That one is King Sausage?”
“Don’t point,” Scott said, pushing Owen’s finger down with the end of his fork. “Yes.”
Owen hummed. This sovereign didn't have a guard with him, but his claymore was resting against the back of his chair. It’s a fear tactic Owen could respect, but could not ignore. It was a clear threat. “Mythland,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“And next to him is Queen Pearl.” The Queen in question was whispering something in Sausage’s ear, eyes trained on Scott. “Helianthian.”
“You want a gold star?” Scott said, languid with wine, smirking up at Owen. He stiffened, turning his attention back to scanning the room. “I’m just trying to tell you to relax.”
Owen didn't say how it’s not his job to relax. Owen didn't quip that Scott can get himself killed by an assassin if he wants. Owen didn't remind Scott that his demon brother was on the loose and could appear at any moment. Owen knew when it was his place to argue, and that place was not here, not now. Owen said, “Yes, your royal highness.” Scott looked pleased enough that he dropped the subject entirely.
“Owen,” Scott cried, his voice as lucid as alarm bells. He grabbed onto Owen’s pant leg, and he felt himself relax to parade rest without thinking.
“Your highness,” he acknowledged without turning to look. He didn't really get how Scott’s magic works, but the room had felt cold for about an hour, waves of freeze he'd been successfully ignoring by methodically searching for and pulling threads on the sweater he’d been provided.
“You’re still here,” Scott said, and Owen knew it wasn't a question, even if it sounded like one. He cleared his throat.
Scott sighed, and then stopped moving, still as a corpse, falling back to sleep. Only when his breath evened out did Owen allow himself to look.
“The layout of this castle seems intentionally confusing,” Owen grumbled to no one in particular, trudging up his third flight of stairs for the day. The benefits of their alliance with the Wizard Gem had its benefits, well defensed mountain base among them, but he found that the defenses curled around him like an oyster to a grain of sand. He was not of this world, and the towers knew this, even if her Headmistress promised the Academy meant no harm. It was not his place to question his king’s choice in competent allies. Gem was difficult to ascertain the motives of, but she promised the demon’s head on a silver plate, so Owen grit his teeth and smiled politely through her prodding and infuriating palace.
Telltale smell of flowers – Lady Katherine. His hand went to his quiver first, and his body turned to face her second. “Good day, m’lady.”
“Oh! Smajor’s boy.” She smiled, all teeth, and her eyes consumed him like a hawk’s. “Where’s your king? I find myself lost in these halls.”
“I’m trying to find him, m’lady.” Owen bowed his head ever so slightly, but his hand still itched. “If her highness would like me as an escort, I would be happy to oblige.”
Katherine gave an exaggerated gasp, then giggled. “Sure!”
Scott would work for days on end, and Owen was left with naught to do but wait. Go tend the garden, for all I care, Scott would say on his bad days, throwing an ink well at him, which he would easily dodge. I tire of your presence.
Other days, Scott would beckon for Owen to sit by his side, show him letters from other emperors, show him patiently maps and decrees and front line reports, as if it were a symptom of a larger wanting. Owen would take what he was given hungrily, as if the pit in his stomach only grew without his knowledge.
On the best days, Scott would take Owen out to the yard to spar, and Owen would come inside cold and hot and bloody and sleep for hours on the chaise in Scott’s parlor.
“Trapping the demon is a temporary solution,” Gem warned, “but perhaps it’s better than…”
“The alternative,” Katherine finished.
Scott looked at Owen. Owen’s insides were cold. “Trapping him buys us time. We need time,” he said, not facing his king. “But it is temporary.”
Scott put a hand on his shoulder. Owen shrugged it off.
“And these berries are poisonous, but you can boil them to make them edible.”
Owen frowned. “That doesn’t seem right.”
Scott popped one in his mouth, seemingly to prove a point, if the smug look on his face was to be believed. “They make a wonderful jam.”
“What about the boiling makes them safe to eat?”
“Safe is perhaps a stretch.” Scott offered one to Owen. “It’s difficult to prepare. Takes skill.” Owen took it, and rolled it over in his hand. The skin was softened considerably, and if he pressed it he figured it would pop.
“Right,” Owen said.
“Try it.”
Owen put it in his mouth. The acid burned his tongue, and followed up with a sweet aftertaste.
The Runeblade sat like a guillotine blade next to the bed. Scott ran his hands through Owen’s hair over and over, and Owen laid there, heeling, heeling, heeling. About 50% of his body told him that this was a bad idea; from his shivering skin to his traitorous hands, shaking. Scott was made of the same stuff his brother was. But the rest of him knew that Scott needed this. Scott needed something to hold. They’d lost a city closer to the capital today to the Corruption. He would heel if it meant Scott would use a different blade than the Runeblade to calm his nerves.
“There’s a prophecy,” Scott whispered.
“I know, sire.” His guts churned.
“Twin souls,” Scott said, hoarse.
“Sire,” Owen warned.
“I want it to be you.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“If it does,” Scott said, turning to face Owen, moonlight just brushing his face, “I want it to be you.”
“Yes,” Owen said, swallowing, “on your orders, your highness.”
It would be a temporary solution. He told Scott this. The unspoken words, not yet , sat heavy on his tongue. It wasn’t time to die. Not yet. Not now. It wasn’t time yet. He tried to pretend he didn’t see Scott deflate. He tried to pretend he hadn’t seen him cry in his sleep. It was not his place to argue, and Scott looked pleased enough.
Snow melt in spring was a bizarre look on the Rivendell mountains. Owen’s tenure had been mainly in artificially frozen months, trying to keep the encroaching Corruption out with frost. The green pushed through the dirt like first light at dawn. Scott kept pacing anxiously around the room, muttering about roads and paving costs, and unreliable safe resources for the winter months. Owen couldn’t say he didn’t share Scott’s anxieties. He followed his king with his eyes, watching him walk the length of the room.
Scott pushed the spoon in his face, the smell of good hot food immediately filling his nostrils with a nauseating quickness. “Eat.”
“Yes, your highness,” Owen reported, ceding, and swallowed the soup. “What is it?”
“Lamb stew,” Scott hummed. “With onion. I had it specially made.”
“I’m on duty,” Owen complained. “Not time for eating.”
“Oh, hush, you.” He shoved another spoonful in Owen’s face. Owen obliged. “It’s good. It’s cold out. I know you get cold. Eat.” Owen obliged.
When the Rapture came, it was not called the Rapture, and Owen would never know it as such. It was instead when Scott pushed the Runeblade into Owen’s hands, and Owen would know the cold he had long feared. This was something he long knew. Killing was something he was skilled at. “Aim for the heart.” “Yes.” “Don’t miss.” “Yes.” The blade needed to be sharpened from lack of use. “Aim for the heart.” “I know.” “Where will you send me?” “Where would you like to be sent, your highness?” “I don’t know.” Scott laid on the bed, Owen positioned the blade. “Somewhere nice,” he said, and Owen pushed in as slow as possible, closing his eyes and imagining spring.