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Tired from the events of the day, Louis returned to his quarters in the Charadrius. To his surprise, there was someone already in there, perusing one of his bookshelves, and when he saw who it was, his heart nearly stopped.
His mother.
There was a distinct feeling of wrongness, seeing her stood there. Like a puzzle piece that had been forced into the wrong image. But he examined the feeling no further - almost as though he was scared she would disintegrate into ash if he did.
"Louis," she said, smiling, "How was your day?"
"Mother," he replied, eyes a little wide, but his face was otherwise expressionless. He wasn't sure how he felt about this intrusion. Typically, if his personal space was breached in such a way, he would grant the invader no mercy. But... it was his mother, and it had been such a long time since he'd seen her. Could he even remember the last time? His mind went hazy as he tried to sift through his memories, as though everything prior to a few hours before was shrouded in a thick mist.
"My day was fine," He said, returning to himself. "Is there anything in particular you wished to discuss?"
"You make it sound like I need an appointment to talk to my own son," she said, a hint of teasing in her voice. She trailed her hand down the bookshelf, then stepped away from it. "I just thought it would be nice to catch up."
"Well then," he said, "Why don't you take a seat?" He gestured at the sofa, and once she sat down, he removed his chestplate and epaulettes, then joined her, although he left space between them as if to accommodate another person.
"You have something on your face," his mother said, tilting her head to the side, then looking in her pocket for a handkerchief. Pulling out a neatly folded white cloth with blue flowers embroidered onto the edges, she leaned forward to wipe Louis' cheek, but he quickly held out a hand to stop her.
"That won't be necessary. I can do it myself." He took the handkerchief from her grasp and rubbed his face clean. When he looked down at it, the handkerchief had been dirtied by small, red flakes. Something must have dried on his cheek.
"Is that all?" Louis asked, and when his mother nodded, he returned the cloth to her.
"So," she said, crossing her legs, "What did you get up to today? Anything interesting?"
"No," Louis lied. He didn't usually like to be so direct in his deception - it felt... unclean. But she would not like the truth. "Nothing more than dull meetings with equally dull people. Unfortunately, maintaining diplomatic relations with people who have nothing but unearned power is a necessity in this life. Still, once they have outgrown their usefulness, there will be no need to keep them around any longer."
Louis' mother frowned, and moved away from Louis - it was only a few centimeters, almost imperceptible, but Louis caught it, and he winced.
"Is that... how you talk about all people these days? Are they just things to drain and discard? Do you even see them as people?"
Louis shifted uncomfortably. He was well used to his every decision being scrutinised, to being put under the microscope as people probed his actions for the slightest hint of weakness, a crack they could tear wide open and use to bring him down - he certainly had no shortage of enemies. But this was different. This was his mother. Other people, they could question his ideas, his character, his motives, and they would all glaze off of him, for why should he care what they thought of him? All he needed was his ideals, and it didn't matter what he had to do or who he had to use to fulfil them. But his mother? That was an emotional bond forged too early for him to ever truly sever, and the disappointed look in her eyes sliced through his armour as if it was nothing more than paper.
"I do what is necessary. That is all. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made."
She laughed, but there was no humour in it.
"You say that as if you think I am unfamiliar with sacrifice, Louis. You know what I do for a living. Every day is full of sacrifices."
Unable to meet her gaze, Louis scanned the room for something to divert the conversation to, for something with which he could shield himself from his mother's judgement. What he'd mentioned offhand was merely the tip of the iceberg. Even today, he'd done far worse than she could imagine. For now, the blindfold she wore hid the worst of him from her, but it was slipping loose, and the thought of what she'd think of him when the truth of what her son had become was laid bare... it was perhaps the only thing in this world that could make him afraid. The boy she'd raised was bathed in blood. He couldn't let her see it.
"Yes, well..." He cleared his throat. "In any case, what do you think of the Charadrius? It's your first time on board, is it not?"
She gave him a look which said she knew he was trying to change the subject, then said, "It's nice. Lots of comfortable furniture - the carpenters certainly did an excellent job - and you have some lovely paintings in here. I think it's all a bit much for my tastes, but it certainly suits the man you've become. And the name is very sweet. I'm glad that you still carry a piece of our family with you, even if you don't use the name for yourself anymore."
For a brief moment, Louis frowned. She was right, of course - it had been a long time since he'd used the name Louis Charadrius - but why? Yet as he tried to question it, the confusion slipped through his fingers like sand, and the inconsistency became lost in the haze of his mind.
"You and father... still mean a lot to me," Louis admitted, folding his arms, "I couldn't leave you both behind entirely."
"You say that," she said, looking down at her feet and smiling sadly, "But sometimes it feels like you want nothing to do with us. You don't use our name, and you hide your heritage behind those horns you wear." She tapped the side of her head where Louis' horns sat on his.
"It isn't like that," Louis insisted, "This is out of necessity, and nothing else. Achieving my goals as an elda would be near impossible, and I see no reason to let myself be trapped with nonsensical barriers when I could slip past them. My actions should speak for themselves - but if I need to be a clemar for people to listen, then so be it. I am not trying to hide. But there are places that an elda cannot reach."
Was that a lie? Was he trying to hide? Was he ashamed of who he really was? He shook his head - no, no, of course not. Why should he be? It was the other tribes that were beneath him, with their arrogance and their false sense of superiority. It was pathetic how easily they fell for his disguise. Tribe was irrelevant - all that mattered were the merits of one's actions. To believe otherwise was folly. They were too comfortable with their place in the world, but soon, he would be in control, and things would be different. Only the worthy would live - those who used their tribe as a crutch would be eradicated, their true weakness exposed.
"I see. I'm sorry, did that upset you?" His mother asked.
"No, of course not. There is no need to get so upset over such trivial things," he said. He'd got a little defensive, that was true, but he wasn't upset.
Louis' mother leaned forwards, examining his face for any sign he was hiding something.
"If you say so," she said, "But it still seems rather like something is bothering you. What are you not telling me?"
"I don't know what you mean." Louis bit the inside of his lip. She always had been the only person that could see through him, the only one who knew what he was feeling - even when he himself did not.
She got up and stood in front of him, lifting his chin to force him to look at her, then cupped his cheek in her hand. The touch made his skin prickle, like hundreds of tiny needles stabbing into his face, yet at the same time, the warmth of his mother's fingers spread through his entire body, tender and comforting. His shoulders tensed. This was an attack, an assault on his carefully constructed defences, and yet he could not deny that it felt... nice. When was the last time he'd received a touch like this? One that brought relief rather than pain? Contact with another had become synonymous with fighting, with nails raking against his skin, fists slamming against his body, cracking his bones, making him bleed. Such gentleness was almost foreign to him. Unrecognisable. He sat there, rigid, an odd pressure beginning to build up behind his eyes, then very slowly tilted his head to the side, leaning into his mother's hand. He could indulge himself this single moment of weakness. It was not as though she would have the strength to use it against him.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" She gently ran her thumb along Louis' cheek, then, with her free hand, slowly pried his false horns from his head - and he did not stop her. It was so rare that he took them off, too afraid that someone would catch him without them and betray him, using it to ruin him. Freedom from the constant pressure against his skull was a relief.
"Ha. 'Sweetheart.' I don't think a moniker like that is well-suited to me, these days. Most people think me a monster."
"And are you?" She ran her fingers through his hair where his horns had been, detangling the knots that had formed over the course of the day. Louis hated how much it soothed him. It felt childish.
"Perhaps. I do what I must - if that makes me a monster, then so be it. I will wear that epithet with my head held high."
His mother stared into his eyes, examined his face. "Hm... Then might I ask something else? That stain on your face when you came in... it was blood, wasn't it?"
Louis' eyes widened, and his insides went cold, like his intestines had wrapped themselves around an icicle. It would have been better for her if he'd been able to keep her in the dark, but there was no way to take back his surprise.
"...Yes."
"Whose? You don't appear to be injured - and you wouldn't be able to hide it from me if you were."
Louis took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Then met her gaze once more. Unflinching.
"The King's. I killed the King."
Gasping, she took a step back, pulling her hands away from Louis' face.
"Hythlodaeus V...? You... you killed him?"
"I thought you were familiar with sacrifices?"
"Well yes, but this... What could possibly have made you do such a thing?"
"He was an obstacle, so I removed him." Hundreds had died in the name of Louis' plan, and hundreds more hated him because of it. Many looked upon him with horror, yet their condemnation meant nothing to him. If their opinions were worth caring about, then they would act, try to stop him. But the weak would never lift a finger, merely watching as he trampled them to pave his path. So why did his heart ache when he saw that look on his mother's face?
"And you don't feel anything about that? Anything at all?"
"Why should I?" Louis folded his arms.
"You say that like he meant nothing to you."
"That incompetent wretch has meant nothing to me for a long time now," Louis spat, "He was nothing more than a walking corpse, a puppet for the Sanctist Church. I did him and this entire country a favour."
"Easy for you to say that, but not so easy for me to believe you. I remember how you adored him as a child." She sat back down next to Louis, filling the space he had tried to leave between them.
"I am a child no more." He tried to move away, increase the distance a little, but his mother put her hand on his arm. Even now, she was trying to comfort him?
"What are you doing?" He asked, the pressure behind his eyes returning.
"It's normal to comfort someone who is grieving, Louis."
"Grieving? Haven't you heard a word I've said? Why on earth would I grieve a man I despise?"
"Perhaps you loathe the man he became. But you cared greatly for him, once. I saw his book on your shelf - somewhere deep in that fortress you guard your heart with, there's a fragment of fondness for the man he once was. Surely you hoped he would change? Realise his mistakes and revert back into the man you once knew? But now he's dead, and the person you once cared for is truly gone."
"He has been dead to me for years," Louis said, but his voice caught in his throat, and his vision began to blur. What was happening?
"Oh dear..." His mother said, then pulled him into a hug. He sat there, frozen, finding himself unable to properly breathe, his face wet. Was he crying?
"I don't... I don't understand," he managed, trying to hold back sobs. What was wrong with him? But his mother didn't reply, only shushed him, and delicately rubbed his back. Slowly, he returned the hug, but his arms were tense and positioned uncomfortably. He didn't know where to put them.
"Why am I... upset?" He couldn't make himself say the word 'crying.' That meant acknowledging it, making it real in a way he was not prepared to - the shame was too strong, permeating every fibre of his being.
"It's alright, sweetheart. Just let it out."
Louis swallowed hard, trying to force it down, but the lid on the box of his heartache had come loose, and nothing he could do would force it shut. Burying his face in his mother's shoulder, he let the dam break, and the tears flowed out of him like a flood that would never cease. Breaths becoming shallow, he gripped his mother tight, clinging to her as if she would cease to exist if he let go for even a moment.
"I missed you," he said between tears. Why had it been so long since he'd seen her? Why did he miss her so dearly?
Then, an odd odour began to fill the room.
Burning.
In his arms, Louis' mother began to feel unusually warm, and he quickly pulled away to look at her, panic beginning to spread through his body.
He couldn't stop himself from gasping when he saw her.
Black smoke leaked from her nostrils, her mouth, and she began to cough, spluttering and flapping her hands around her face.
"Mother? Mother, what's wrong?" Something about the smoke, about seeing her like that made his thoughts stop. He didn't know what to do. Could he even do anything? It took every ounce of his willpower not to hyperventilate at the sight - it was as though the smoke had reverted him back to a child, lost and confused, bewildered in a sea of smoke and flames.
His mother was unable to answer, keeling onto the floor, and he dropped to his knees, grabbing her arm, desperate not to lose her again.
"Mother!" He cried, and when she looked up at him, he saw her skin peeling away, melting as flames burst through, cutting rivulets through her face. Jolting back, Louis took a moment to steady himself, before scrambling for something, anything to staunch the flames. A blanket lay over the back of the sofa, and he grabbed it, pressed it to his mother's face, but the flames had already spread down her neck, her hands, tearing her open. It was no use - she was being burned from the inside out. There was nothing Louis could do.
The fire spread faster than it had any right to, as though his mother's body was made of nothing more than dry leaves. He met her eyes - or what was left of them - they were yellow, glowing orbs now, melting in their sockets. The eyes that had once seen right through him had no sight left, and though she could make no words with her shredded vocal chords, her jaw kept opening and closing, releasing smoke and ash into Louis' face.
"Mother!" He screamed, pulling her into a tight hug, even though touching her was agony, burning his clothes and blistering his skin. He couldn't let go. "Don't go again. Please don't."
Did she even have an eardrum left to hear him?
The entire room was alight now, flames eating everything Louis had - his home, his family. A support beam began to fall from above, and with the last of her strength, his mother pushed him away, then collapsed forwards, the beam landing on top of her.
Desperate, Louis ran forwards, clawing at the beam as he tried to lift it - he should have been able to lift it - but he was suddenly so much smaller than he had been just a moment before, and, looking around, he was no longer on the Charadrius at all. His mother lay in the front doorway of his childhood home.
Where he'd seen her die.
Able to do nothing else, Louis collapsed to his knees and screamed, pounding his tiny child's fists into the dirt, sobbing and wailing, although he couldn't hear himself over the roaring of the flames.
He was still screaming when he woke up, his throat burning and raw.
For a few minutes, he just sat in his bed, breathing heavily and trembling, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking slightly, his sheets tangled around him.
Why did this keep happening to him? Why was he always plagued in his dreams by events dead and buried? What had happened had happened, and those events could not be changed - he had made peace with that long ago. So why did they haunt him still?
Nearly falling out of bed as he escaped the mess of his sheets, Louis stumbled into the bathroom, splashing his face with water as he tried to wake himself up and calm down. He leaned forward against the sink, clenching his fists so tight his knuckles went white as he willed them to stop shaking. Had anyone heard him screaming? He could only hope not - but if they had, they probably would have checked on him. He should be safe.
Looking in the mirror, he was disgusted by the man before him. Pale, eyes red and swollen, cheeks stained with tears, his hair an utter mess and his horns on slanted. Who was this revolting, feeble creature, and how dare it wear his face.
Reaching up with one hand, he fixed his horns. The longer he stared at his reflection, the angrier he felt. The remaining fragments of his conscience had sent visions of his mother to torment him, to try and make him feel guilty for what he'd done. But guilt was an emotion of the weak, and he had discarded it long ago. No matter what images plagued him, what horrible whispers were murmured in his ears, he would never doubt, never falter, never let anything drive him from this path. He was not the pathetic whelp his nightmares tried to contort him into. The crown was within his grasp now. He just had to take it, and the world would be his to reforge. All that stood in his way was the thing in the mirror.
Unable to contain his rage, Louis slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into hundreds of tiny shards. The agony brought him back to himself, buried the last remnants of melancholy back in the corners of his psyche where they belonged.
Blood dripped down his arm, oozing from the wounds that now covered his hand. Carefully, he pulled each fragment of the mirror from his fingers, letting himself bleed, reminding himself what real pain felt like. When he was done, his entire hand was red, blood flowing like tears down his arm and onto the floor. Some of the wounds would need stitches. He could have healed it with magic, of course, but then what would be the point? If he was to give himself the reminder he needed, it would have to be healed naturally, an ache that he couldn't quite ignore until it was drilled into his head. He could not let the past distract him, or the pain inflicted on him would be far worse than this.
Louis took a deep breath. His breathing was steady now, as were his hands. First, stitches, and then back to bed. It was mere hours until the King's corpse would be found - he had to be well rested. It was bound to be a big day, after all.