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Since the assassinations, the general mood in Rivendell has been weird, to say the least. The people have been respectful to Scott, bowing their heads as he wanders the castle in the all-white robes he’s been wearing since the funeral.
He knows they whisper amongst themselves when they spot him on the balcony, the ravine they owe their name to beneath him. He bows his head there, sometimes, and shoots a prayer up to a silent god. Neither of them are permitted choices now.
So, he’d worn his white robes to the funeral, as is customary and respectful, and had looked like the perfect picture of a mourning son. The people had shown up in white as well, and Scott had pretended not to notice the flowers in their hair, the colourful handkerchiefs stuffed in pockets, and all the other signs of a cooling revolution that had been boiling not two days prior.
Cleo stands next to him, head bowed, and Scott knows her robes are lined on the inside with the brightest reds and yellows she could find. He doesn’t dare show such defiance, not even now, but there’s a line of cyan ribbon right where his top robe hits his spine.
In the morning, Scott visits his brother. He speaks the rites to crown them as Emperor of Rivendell, whispers them under his breath with no soul around to hear. He presses a kiss to their forehead, between where the first stumps of antlers make themselves known, and takes the time to wash his brother’s rapidly growing nails.
Scott’s brother, known as Xornoth by everyone who loves them, will rule Rivendell as Emperor Amajor. Only in name, and never enough. He knows, as he closes the door behind him and takes Cleo’s hand, that he will rule instead, alone.
Now, he faces the balcony doors. They will take him to the plaza where the inhabitants of Rivendell City wait for their Emperor. They will get him instead. There will be scribes in the crowd, he knows, ready to spread his every word to the farthest corners on the empire. He thinks for a moment of the Northern Plains. Then, he steps through.
The murmuring dies down as the doors open, and then starts back up as it’s Scott who steps through. The people were celebrating before coming here, he knows, and they will go right back to celebrating as soon as he is done. Privately, he knows he will join them.
“Good afternoon, Elves of Rivendell,” he starts, hands clutched tight to the papers in his hands. The speech on them was written hastily between forging his brother’s signature on official notices. Xornoth’s first act as emperor is one they would’ve agreed with. It’s the only reason Scott doesn’t feel guilty.
“This morning, Emperor Amajor was crowned and sworn in in a private ceremony held in the House of Aeor,” the lie pulls at his chest a moment, but he ignores it.
“Due to the Emperor’s health, they have elected me to address you in their stead. It is fitting, since we wrote this speech together,” it’s true enough that it doesn’t pull at him. The words are his, sure, but the sentiment is shared between the two of them and all of Rivendell.
“Our mother liked to boast that her blood flowed through all of Rivendell. By this, she meant that every piece of legislature she signed, every guard tower, every last part of her extensive web of power was firmly under her control.”
The murmuring from the crowd rises back up as he steels himself for the next part. There are people in this crowd still who would see him killed for this. Scott, however, currently has no intentions of signing his own death warrant.
“She was right, of course, in saying that her legacy would be one of blood.”
It’s quiet for a moment, just long enough that Scott turns his head to where Cleo is stood, just out of view of the crowd. Then, the shouting starts.
Scott can’t make any of the words out from where he is stood, but he raises his hand to try to calm the crowd. Somehow, they listen.
“The late Empress’ rule will be discussed in history books as a time of bloodshed, terror, poverty, and famine,” he takes a deep breath, hands shaking around his notes, “Her legacy will be one of agony – of universal hatred. Her time on the throne will be remembered as the years spent praying for her death.”
Another pause as Scott straightens his back, looking up from his paper and down at the crowd, listening to him with rapt attention.
“We do not wish to muddle this legacy. The Emperor and I simply wish to be the one good thing she brought you. Her blood ran through Rivendell as it runs through us. What does that make us if not Rivendellians?”
If he narrows his eyes, he can make out some Elves hugging each other in the crowd. They seem happy, above all, and he once again has no regrets – regardless of what this succession has cost him.
“As of this morning, Rivendell has left the Wither Rose Aliiance. Its transgressions against our people should not have gone unpunished and should never have been encouraged.
“Additionally, the Imperial Council has been entirely disbanded. Its replacements will be hand-picked by the Emperor and myself.”
At this, the cheers come to fruition. It takes a few minutes for the crowd to even consider settling back down, more than enough time to shoot a blinding grin back at Cleo, who matches it without hesitating.
On her hip sits Bubs, confused at the commotion. Even he seems happy, though, and Scott supposes it must be infectious. Skizz stands on the other side of the doors, Scar sat on his shoulders. Scott knows the rest of his guards are down by the main door, keeping an eye out should any of his opposition get brave.
He raises his hand up again, and the crowd slowly gets quiet again.
“If you, like the former council and the Wither Rose Alliance, find yourself remaining loyal to the late Empress’ ideals, you are entitled to your thoughts,” he pauses for a moment as the murmur rises again, “You are also entitled to leave.”
“I will not tolerate the purposeful suffering of my people. The Empress’ blood ran through Rivendell. Rivendell’s blood runs through me.”