Work Text:
Ultimatum
Summoned by Queen Maghra, Tamacti stood in the center of the empty council chamber, awaiting his sentence. The sentries had retreated to the hallway, closing the doors behind them. Clearly, she wanted this to be formal, yet private, and he imagined whatever decision she had made, it would be for life.
His fate had always been bound to the monarchy. Even when he had an opportunity to break free, he had chosen to remain in service. Because the alternative—some bleak independence—seemed worse.
“He's empty inside. Weak and hollow.”
Though it was spoken by a bitter madwoman, Sibeth Kane's final appraisal had been rather accurate. But it had not always been so. He had been a Holy Warrior, once. Filled with the unshakable certainty that all he did was commanded by God—albeit through his chosen representatives, the Kane dynasty. Long had he understood that sacrifice of conscience was a requirement of his position, and over time, the events of his career built up, like a callus in the mind. Even before he took command of the Witchfinders, the unspeakable had been standard practice in the war against vision. Burning heretics was accepted as a necessary cruelty to ward off the evil of sight. He was raised to protect tradition, not question it, so in the interest of saving humanity, he had lost his own.
But the campaign he had sworn himself to had been nothing more than a pointless errand, constructed around Queen Kane's lies. The leader of their people had cared for nothing but herself, and destroyed everything—including his family—to protect her failing power. The discovery of that brutal truth had nearly broken him, and he was left with little beyond a flagging sense of responsibility to correct his worst mistake. Yet after having deposed Sibeth, his continued existence felt unnecessary—until Maghra had given him a new purpose.
Over time, his concern for her, as a daughter of the king, had evolved into respect for a ruler struggling to do the right thing, and finally, as admiration for the woman who faced tragedy with fortitude. It had not taken long for them to rebuild the trust previously damaged by her sister’s deceit. He had been content with that. Until she made the offer—or perhaps it had been an order—more explicit.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she had said, during the first winter after her husband had died.
That which is frozen feels no pain, but something in him had begun to thaw during that bitterly cold season, and the memory of all he lost grew sharper with each warm encounter. She reminded him of the joy that lurked at the edges of his past, before honor and horror had swept it all away. In doing so, she had brought balance back to his life—something to live for, rather than simply to die for. He had already committed whatever remained of that life to her, without expectation of reciprocity, so it was something of a surprise when she suggested marriage. But the melting of ice is both perilous and transformative: to become something greater, he would have to give up what he was.
He had already proven incapable of being duty-bound both to a family, and the kingdom, and he refused to make that mistake twice. Maghra argued that things would be different this time. But experience taught him when the needs of the kingdom were in conflict with the wishes of its ruler, a choice must be made between the queen and the people. She deserved a husband whose priority would always be her, while the citizens deserved an impartial champion. He would leave it to her to decide which role he was better at.
She had been displeased by the ultimatum, likely mistaking his practicality for indifference, and had grown distant with indecision. Their long familiarity had been replaced by formality, and he had begun to wonder if she might simply exile him for his stubbornness.
It was only this morning that she sent a messenger, informing him that Captain Gosset would be assuming his position. Gosset was a good man, and his promotion was well-earned. Even so, the feeling of relinquishing control was disturbing. It did not matter that he had been longing to let go of his burden for years. When it came to it, it felt like leaping off the edge of a precipice.
The council chamber was still quiet, the outside noise muffled by thick concrete walls. The building had survived the centuries—and the bombing—practically unscathed. The only thing to distract him was the cooing of doves high up by the ceiling. A glass panel in the tower must have broken, allowing them access.
As he thought about the birds building nests above his head, a door opened in the back of the room. He heard light steps, and the swish of silk brushing between the knotted ropes hung floor-to-ceiling, where the throne had once been placed. A slight jingle of rings proclaimed Maghra’s arrival.
“My queen,” he greeted her. While they rarely used titles in private, he thought it might be prudent to do so now.
She stopped several paces away, close enough that he caught the fragrance of a rose she must be wearing.
“I've kept you waiting,” she said evenly, more acknowledgement than apology.
“That you have,” he replied.
“I have not made this decision lightly,” she declared. “We both know you've made mistakes, but I cannot think of anyone more devoted to our people. You held us all together in a time of disaster, and for that I feel some guilt for what I must do.”
He had faced many grim moments in his life, but bracing for her next words was one of the most difficult.
“Tamacti Jun, after long years, your service is completed.”
Having once crossed the threshold of death, he was surprised how final this felt, as if he were giving up not life, but his whole identity. Comparing the two, he found the latter more unsettling.
She closed the distance between them, and he imagined a cold dismissal would follow. He wondered who would protect her, once he was gone. Then he remembered that the last time he pushed her to make a choice, she had bypassed him and given the assignment to Captain Gosset. Perhaps she had made her proposal to him instead. That's what you get for being more pragmatic than romantic, he thought with chagrin.
He felt the pressure of her touch through his leather cuirass, where Sibeth had literally stabbed him in the heart. It seemed improbable that whatever Maghra was going to say would cause greater pain than that, but he suspected it might.
“I won’t thank you the way my sister did,” she said, as if guessing his thoughts. “But you have made this difficult,” she added, taking his hand in hers. Her skin was warm as she flexed her fingers around his.
He stood rigid, unsure how to react.
“On one hand,” she said, “my choice is a selfish one. The army will be at a loss without your skill and experience to guide them. But on the other, I cannot serve my people if I'm lost. I would have fled from this role, had you not believed in me.”
“I don't think–” he began.
“Hush. Your queen does not give you permission to speak.” Her regal tone was almost a mockery of Sibeth. “I have just announced that General Gosset has assumed your responsibilities. The Royal Guard will report to him from now on.”
Empty inside.
He felt hollow as the words echoed in his mind. It seemed the only thing still connecting him to reality was Maghra's gentle grip on his hand.
“So, now that you’re finally free,” her voice suddenly shifted from high-handed to hopeful, “will you marry me?”
His heart skipped a beat in surprise. Having been prepared for rejection, he had no words of acceptance. Instead, he brought her rings to his lips, as he had done countless times in reverence, reminding her of the order she had given.
“You may speak,” she said, with a faint huff of exasperation.
“Well, since I’ve nothing better to do…” he kissed the back of her hand tenderly, “yes.”
“Well, good,” she said laughing, her relief plain.
He had left the choice to her, but as she put her arms around his neck, it made him glad she picked the one she did.