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Once, not so long ago, when the Garden bloomed and the stream's flow was steady, there lived three young Regalians—the Queen, the Heir, and the Soldier—each still finding their footing in the world.
They stood like gargoyles, high in the stands of the arena, stiff and stalwart guardians of the solitary man in the field below. He was a blur of movement, lithe and river-swift, nearly impossible for the eyes to track. Mareth could see no flaw in form, no glaring weakness, no faulty execution. Yet, after countless attempts at improving on what could not be improved, the man would lurch to a halt, let his sword fall and hang his head, drag his hand across his face. And then he would resume his stance and do it all over again.
"Eurydice is trying," Andromeda spoke, after they had watched the cycle repeat thrice. "She has been trying. He will not even listen to her, not for long."
Mareth looked to his bond, then back to the man—Hamnet, who he had the misfortune of loving. Who burned like the last torch in your pack: warm and bright and terrifyingly, heart-wrenchingly brief. The flame had begun to falter, and he was often compelled to hold his breath, certain that it was only a matter of time until the light was snuffed out completely.
He opened his mouth to reply, but did not get the chance to speak before a messenger—a large, speckled flier—approached. "Mareth," he said. "Queen Judith requests your presence at once."
And so it began that the Queen and the Soldier began to conspire, seeking to prevent the Heir from suffocating beneath his mother's endless demands.
"Mareth," the Queen said to the Soldier, three days after they had come to their agreement. "My brother does not seem ever to rest. What must we do to persuade him to take a break?"
The Soldier pondered the question for a long while. Finally, he spoke thus, "My Queen, I believe he cannot resist us both, if we insist. Let us arrange an outing, so that we three and our bonds might retire from the city for a few hours. Perhaps then he will see how desperately he needs to rest."
The Queen nodded solemnly. "I will make it so and have an invitation to a private picnic sent to you. Let us hope that it works."
And so, the next day, the Soldier received an invitation in the Queen's hand, and he presented it to the Heir with as much surprise as he could muster.
"She may be your sister, my love," he said, "but to me she is the Queen. I can scarcely turn down her invitation. Surely you can set aside your training and your meetings for just one day."
The Heir, with stark dark circles beneath his eyes, sighed and ran his hand across his face, but smiled wearily and touched the Soldier's arm with no small amount of affection. "I will see what I can do."
They were only minutes from Regalia when Mareth first noticed the changes in Hamnet's demeanor. He so often sat rigid and regal on Eurydice's back, but the formality bled out of him as the city grew more distant. His brow unfurrowed, his shoulders relaxed, and slowly, the light returned to his eyes. By the time they reached the grand chamber where they were to have their picnic, Mareth thought he almost looked like his old self again.
It was an impressively large cavern, situated along one of the tamer stretches of the Waterway's coast. The waves stretched out endlessly before them, lolling onto the crystalline beach that shimmered with an impossible array of color. Pinks and greens and blues and yellows of every shade spread out beneath their feet as they landed.
In the distance, they could see the Fount in all its beauty. These buildings were not so grand and polished as those in Regalia, nor were they intricately carved. The winds off of the Waterway had worn down the stone, so that the settlement looked rough and aged. Yet, the weathering added to the undeniable liveliness of the place. Many of the homes and market stalls boasted strings of sea-tossed crystals and scraps of brilliantly dyed spinner silk, while others boasted murals in various states of fading, depicting scenes from folktales, legends, historical events, and, here and there, ordinary, mundane life. All of it, together, was a sight to behold. The Fount was originally a fishing colony, yes, but it had also blossomed, in the centuries since its founding, into the preferred home of the Underland's artisans, away from the busy, more militarily-inclined, streets of Regalia.
"It is so peaceful here," Judith said with a smile, as she dismounted from her flier. "One can hardly believe that we are so near to home, when it is so different."
Hamnet gazed at the settlement, humming thoughtfully. "I had not realized, I think, how overwhelming Regalia can be at times."
"It can be hard to get away," Judith agreed, casting a sly smile in Mareth's direction. "It is good we are able to take some time to breathe today. Now, come, let us set up."
They laid out the picnic, spreading hides out over the saccharine-hued stones and arranging entirely too much food: meaty mushrooms stuffed with cheese, grain, and even some wilted greens, doused in a rich cream sauce; hearty bread, still warm to the touch; small cakes laden with spices and soaked in rootsyrup. And along with it all, a bottle of pale wine—wine! Mareth thought he might get drunk off of the heady aroma alone.
Mareth had managed to grow accustomed to a few small luxuries that came with courting Hamnet, but such extravagance overwhelmed him. Was this what it would be like, always to dine with the Queen of Regalia? How far this was from simple meals of fish and porridge and the occasional round of heavy grain-ale shared among soldiers in the barracks. He was truthfully out of his depth now, after days of feigned anxiety, but he found comfort in Hamnet's own startled expression.
"Tell me, dearest sister," said Hamnet, "what in all the Underland is so deserving of all this."
Judith smiled. "What in all the Underland? Why, you, Hamnet. Getting you away from your training for more than five seconds is worthy of celebration, I should think." She paused. "Moreover, it is, of course, long overdue that I should get to know Mareth."
Both Hamnet and Mareth flushed at her words. Mareth, yet uncertain of how familiar he should act, in a setting such as this, was not inclined to speak. Hamnet, however, shared none of his hesitation.
"Do I truly spend so much time training that you felt an intervention was necessary?"
Judith and Mareth exchanged a knowing look.
It was Judith, again, who spoke. "So much so that Mareth and I arranged this outing in secret. We have grown worried about you, as of late, Hamnet. You are rarely yourself anymore, rarely present at all. We miss you. And we do not wish to see you fall."
For an agonizingly long moment, the only sounds were the waves, the distant voices of the Fount, and the breath of those present. Hamnet looked between Judith and Mareth, then at each of the fliers present. His face was impassible, bearing the stoicism they all knew to be necessary when dealing with Solovet. And then he sighed and ran a hand over his face.
"I am sorry," he said, to Mareth's great relief. "I do not mean to worry you. I will… try not to dedicate such long hours to my training."
Judith and Mareth were put at ease by his answer, and the rest of the day passed with little worry. They shared food and laughter and joy, hope for the future bouncing between them like a deafened bat lost in unfamiliar caverns.
As it grew late and the tide slowly began to ebb, Mareth sat on the hides, watching the twins search for smooth, flat crystals that they attempted to skip on the water. The waves, however small, made it near impossible, but they tried anyway, laughing at inside jokes and gently teasing each other. They looked, in this moment, young. Unconcerned with war and politics. Two siblings, not yet old enough to be anyone of note, really. Certainly not old enough to have the weight of the world placed on their shoulders.
Hamnet turned his face to look toward the Fount, and Mareth was struck by the sight of him, standing golden in the light of the torches, breathtakingly beautiful. He hoped, desperately prayed in that moment, that years and years in the future, he would still gaze at the man before him in wonder. That there would come quiet moments spent together, when he would look over at Hamnet and be dumbfounded once again by the sheer weight of his love. And, perhaps foolishly, he shrugged off the feeling that a moment like this one would never come again.
Hamnet caught him staring and smiled. He crossed that small stretch of beach between them and sat beside him, resting his chin on Mareth's shoulder. There was a certain energy to him that always caught Mareth by surprise, in the increasingly rare moments when it rose to the surface. Something vibrant and warm, so bright that Mareth was certain Hamnet could light a room all on his own, if he wished to.
In the early days, that energy had felt like an impenetrable wall of self-importance. An ugly, selfish thing that Mareth had butted up against. It had been melted down since then and forged into something new, something that felt much like a home to Mareth. It was reassuring to feel its presence so strong now. He smiled as he raised a hand to Hamnet's cheek.
"What is going through your mind, my love?" Mareth asked.
Hamnet looked back toward the Fount and its vivid murals. "That they will paint me on their buildings, one day."
"I am certain they will." Mareth let his fingers trail away from Hamnet's cheek and instead fall between them, to twine their fingers together. "In some great battle that you will lead some day." He ducked his head and pressed a kiss to Hamnet's lips. "They will remember you."
Mareth was hardly of rank to attend war councils but, for better or for worse, Solovet had taken an interest in him. She had personally invited him to this one. He spent the majority of it stealing glances at Hamnet, who held himself carefully composed.
It was here, in close proximity to both the General and her Heir, that Mareth began to wonder if perhaps he and Judith had misunderstood the situation. Solovet's eyes gleamed with pride as her son gave reports and suggested strategies. For the briefest moment, he felt his anxieties ease.
Solovet took over the talk of strategy, gesturing to areas of the large tactical map, ultimately turning to those assembled, her features illuminated with ferocious satisfaction. Her next words sent a chill down Mareth's spine. "We will launch an assault on the Garden of Hesperides."
He had but a moment to fully process the statement before Hamnet spoke a single word, firm and unyielding. "No."
Mareth drew in a sharp breath as the weight of that word hit him. The implications of it. He was torn between delight and terror, his entire being overwhelmed by the dissonance of the moment.
Solovet turned her gaze to her son, her expression now icy and impenetrable. "No?" she repeated, her disbelief loud in the slight inflection of her voice.
The briefest flash of panic crossed Hamnet's face, and yet, he held firm. He straightened his back, lifted his chin, and looked his mother dead in the eye. The message was clear. He was done backing down. He would not let her win anymore. "This is not a strategy, this is slaughter. The Garden is not frequented by soldiers and armies, but by civilians and families. We will not attack it. It would make monsters of us all."
Mareth agreed, but it was clear that Solovet did not. Hers was the only opinion that mattered in this room. He could sense a rage so hot within her that her careful expression and even voice had no hope of hiding it.
"It would do you well to remember who is in charge, Hamnet," she said. "I will be happy to give you the space to recall your place in this room." She nodded to the guards standing post at the door. "Take him to the dungeon. He is not to be released until I give the order."
Chaos erupted, but Mareth remained fixed in place, his mind racing to make sense of what was happening, his eyes locked on Hamnet. Hamnet, who would have sprung to his defense immediately if the roles were reversed. But what good would that do them? They would both be locked up. No, Mareth could not move, could not speak up. Not yet. He had to be smart, which meant biding his time until he could alert the one person who might be able to fix this: Judith.
Just as soon as it had all started, it ended, and the room was left in eerie silence for what felt like eternity.
"Well, then," Solovet said, finally, as if there had been only a mild interruption. "Are there any more dissenters among us?"
"My Queen," said the Soldier, panic evident in every inch of his being, "your mother has thrown your brother into the dungeon. What must we do to release him?"
The Queen was taken aback by this question, and took some time to gather herself, but finally she spoke thus, "Mareth, my mother has great power, but I am the Queen. She may have my brother imprisoned, but no guard could deny my command to release him. I shall go to the dungeon and have him freed, and I shall not tell a soul that you were the one to inform me of his presence there, lest my mother turn her ire on you, instead."
The Soldier nodded solemnly. "I will leave from here at once and wait anxiously for news. Let us hope that you succeed."
And so, the Soldier found his bond, and they two made their way to the arena, where they passed their time training and tried desperately to push the Heir from their minds. For three days, they spent every free moment there, waiting for news and receiving none.
The third day was nearing its end when the General made her appearance.
Mareth could not hear her coming, but Andromeda suddenly swooped down to the ground, her ears twitching. She gave a slight nod in the direction of the woman, alerting Mareth to her presence.
He drew in a sharp breath and slipped from his bond's back, sheathing his sword and standing at attention. He hoped the shaking of his hands was not noticeable.
Mareth was a soldier by trade, but he did not consider himself a particularly violent man. He used his strength to his advantage, followed the path that seemed to be laid out for him, resigned himself to the ways of the Underland. But quietly, he was certain there must be a better way than the endless cycles of war and death and anger. He had said as much to Hamnet in the past, once, had even seen it change something in him—something that very well may have led to his imprisonment now.
He would not dare speak such sentiments in front of Solovet. Nor would he feel any inclination to, in this moment, because his blood boiled at the sight of her, approaching him as if walking into a fight she had already won. No, Mareth was not a particularly violent man, but a part of him now wished that he could redraw his sword and rid the Underland of this monster.
He stood still. "General Solovet," he said evenly. "I did not expect to see you here at this hour."
"I could not help but indulge my curiosity," she replied easily, "when I received reports that you had suddenly taken to spending long hours here, beyond your required training. I was under the impression that you enjoy my son's company, so why this, now, in his—" She waved her hand in a vague gesture, as if searching for the correct word. "—Absence?"
Mareth stiffened, struggling to keep the emotion from his face. So she had… what? Come to taunt him? To test him? Perhaps she knew, somehow, that he was to blame for Hamnet's rebellion, in a way. Had Hamnet told her about their private conversations? Was he only being held in the dungeon, or would Solovet stoop lower still? Looking into her eyes, Mareth was suddenly, chillingly aware that Hamnet's life was entirely in her hands. He had no idea what she would do with that kind of power. How long would she hold him in that cell? Would she have him tortured? Made to be an example, so others would not stand against her? He did not know.
The arena suddenly felt smaller. Darker. He was trapped here with the most dangerous creature in the Underland, and he could only hope she would choose to be merciful.
When he did not respond, she smiled. It was not a kind thing, that smile. "Perhaps you are preparing for the invasion we discussed in the war council you were invited to attend? Such initiative does not go unnoticed. A soldier of such dedication should be giving orders rather than taking them. Perhaps there is a promotion in your future, should you continue to demonstrate your worthiness."
Mareth felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. "I have had some—" He took a steadying breath. "—personal matters on my mind, General. The training helps clear it. Nothing more than that."
He could tell she did not care for that answer. Dissatisfied, perhaps, with the lack of effect her promises of power had on someone of such low rank. She had greatly underestimated him, if that were the case. "Personal matters. Of course." Her tone had shifted into something more openly threatening. "Naturally, I am well aware of the nature of your relationship with my son. I cannot say that I approve of his choice to court someone of such a low station, but I have abstained from meddling thus far. If you wish to keep it that way, I recommend you try harder to avoid leading him astray in the future. There has been a change in him recently. It does not take much pondering to pinpoint the catalyst."
An icy cold settled over him as he nodded, swallowing hard. "I understand, General," he said, his voice suddenly sounding weak and childish to his ears. "I will be careful not to overstep, in the future."
"Very good," she said. "Who knows, Mareth, perhaps there will be a promotion in your future after all."
He did not want it. He wanted to be free of this woman, to love Hamnet freely and without fear, to live his life without a constant threat peering over his shoulder. He knew in this moment, watching as she turned and left, that he would never know such peace. His eyes stung with tears and he turned to bury his face in Andromeda's fur, unable to maintain the carefully constructed dam any longer.
The following days blurred together in a haze of emotions too grand and complicated to name. On the fourth day, the Queen summoned the Soldier and informed him that the guards would not listen to her commands, that the General's orders came before even hers. There was nothing either of them could do but wait.
And wait they did. Sometimes together, sometimes apart. Always anxious and uncertain.
Once, Mareth found his way down into the dungeon. Down, down, down, his feet carried him, though he was unsure why he went. The stone here seemed thicker and more stern than all the other stone he had ever encountered. Mareth's whole life had been spent surrounded by rock, and yet now, here, it was suddenly too rigid, too cold, too heavy. As if the whole of the Underland might suddenly cave in on itself and bury him under its crushing weight. He swallowed hard, willing himself forward, forward, forward. Torchlight flickered in sconces on the wall, but the pit in his stomach shouted with every step, telling him that the feeble flames could go out at any moment, doused by the cold, damp dread that blanketed the hall and left a musty taste in the back of his throat. He found that he knew which cell was Hamnet's without being told, without any indication that he could make sense of. It must have been whatever remained of that vibrant energy.
The guards at the door stiffened at his appearance, prepared for a confrontation. He only shook his head.
"I am not here to fight you," he said quietly. "Only to—" Why was he here? "To sit for a while, I suppose." Mercifully, they allowed it. He sat on the floor opposite that cell and stared at that door, trying to imagine the state of its inhabitant. He could not say how long he spent there, but his muscles were stiff by the time he stood, nodding a thank you to the guards and making his way back up, up, up, all alone.
A month passed before the Heir was allowed to walk free again. It was a relief to them all, but none could claim that all was as it should be. The Heir rarely strayed from the side of the Soldier or the Queen in the days following his release. His eyes carried a haunted, sleepless look. He did not often speak in public and only in hushed tones in private.
It was clear that the General would not give him the chance to recover his spirit, as preparations for the invasion of the Garden of Hesperides were in full swing by the end of the week. The Heir did not dare speak against the invasion again and soon returned to hours spent strategizing with his mother.
On the eve of the battle, the Queen and the Soldier spoke once more.
"Mareth," said the Queen, sounding for all the world like a frightened child, "I fear my mother's plans for my brother are far more frightening than anything we ever could have guessed. What must we do to stop this?"
The Soldier was silent for a long while, recalling his conversation with the General in the arena. Finally, he spoke thus, "Judith… I believe all that we can do now is hope that his will is strong enough to resist her demands."
The Queen nodded solemnly. "Then let us hope."