Chapter Text
When the emperor wakes after a month-long slumber, following the winter solstice. His skin had greyed over, and his face sunken in, deep-set eye bags smeared under his red eyes–he had coughed up blood into the white linen cloth clutched in his hand.
He had dry heaved, though nothing stirred from his stomach. When he first woke from his slumber, the doctors had crowded around him, trying to force medicine down his throat—that of which he could not swallow. The seed of the poppy tickled his throat when they forced his mouth shut and cupped their hands around his jaw until he'd swallowed. He’d coughed and coughed, and then coughed—until he hacked up a clot of oxblood red. He slumps forward, shoulders hunched up like bat wings. The blood waters down as it mixes with his saliva and pools down his chin, smearing across his jaw and the back of his hand as he brings a shaky hand to wipe it away.
His smoky eyes clouded with precognition, he lifts a shaky hand and opens his palm. Tear marks stain his cheeks as he demands a presence with the court.
Despite the spring's upcoming festivities and the royals soon to come out and enter the upcoming season. Despite how many royal families were preparing their ballrooms and gardens, tailoring their new suits and dresses. It also marked a more enriching spring as the wolf moon brought with it the bicentennial of the empire. Much to discuss and much to plan, even without the discussion recently brought to light.
When he sits on the throne, he calls forth the realms' sacred twenty-eight kingdoms to form an audience in the throne room. Despite the outcry, the nobles' indignation–they cup their hands over their mouths. The protest from heir of house Potter, fourth of his name, prince of Parth–one of the three core kingdoms, and fourth to the throne of bone–sounded in the room. To no avail, it had proven to be a hopeless feat.
Prince Black’s lip curls, snarling as he reaches over to comfort his friend. He brings a hand to the other's shoulder, silent.
The two princes share a tense, silent moment as they meet eyes. Brown and white, meet watery greys.
The emperor dons his cloak and steps to the terrace outside. The royals follow in suit, crowding behind the threshold of the door. A tremor runs through the old man's hand as he reaches up and points into the sky as night falls, a shaky finger lines to Polaris.
With a low adverb, he calls the lion home.
Deep in the west, far from the motherland, across a dark sea, down past unnamed valleys and deep past the mountains of Valoria, Regulus falls to his knees, hand clutching the tattered cloth that hangs from his chest. He feels his heart beating out of his chest, the drum of it in his ears.
With a shaky breath, he fists his hand into the coarse dirt beneath him, feeling the grains slip through his fingers. Knuckles going white, he feels the blood leave his calloused fingers. Slowly, he lifts his head, squinting as his left eye locks onto the horizon to the east. The sunset behind him casts a warm glow on the rigid rock of the mountains, which stagger high into the sky.
Despite that, Regulus goes cold.
It takes two months for his arrival at the outer rims of the empire, despite his haste. He had hurried out of the mountains in the outskirts of Valoria with no such leisure. Panicked and lungs short of breath, stumbling across the high peaks of the mountain in a matter of days. He hadn't even found reason to throw the hood of the cloak over his head when he had stepped foot into the bustling crowds like he had when he had first passed through beforehand.
Then, on his way out and thinking ahead rather than the short-term consequences he had run into, he had snagged a horse from a drunken tourist in the last tavern out of the city. Who had stumbled after him, spitting curses and missing by legions when he had aimed his freshly finished bottle at Regulus' head. The burly man had managed to tear the thin leather strap of his satchel when he had yanked on it hard enough, in his last desperate attempt. And though Regulus had managed to keep onto it while he managed his great escape on the back of the steed. It had led to a rather awkward ride passing through the yellowed valley and to the ports on the western coast of the blackened Narrow Sea. One hand clutched around the bags' opening flap and the back. The other gripped tightly onto the reins, knuckles white in his tense grip. Thighs cupping firmly around the horse
Arriving at the ports, he had met the coast, the water a stark dark against the light blue of the sky and the sand dunes off to the side of the docks. Even the metal ships, looked drastically brighter when compared to the water.
Though, at his arrival, he had been promptly been told to fuck right off if he'd had his head so deeply buried in the sand that he hadn't heard of the decreased use of the ferries to cross straight over the sea. After further inquiry, he had learned not even shipments had been sent to cross over and had been delayed by weeks as they'd had to travel south and cross the bridge into Barlian instead. Regulus can figure how ecstatic Evan would be with this kingdom in such good graces at the moment, can picture Evan practically drooling at the mouth when the first trade applied for entry to pass through his kingdom on the way to the core of the empire. So he had stepped into the trading market on his way out of the city.
Mending the satchel had cost too much, with the Valorian prices of the market jacked so high, with the trade across the sea halted for the last month or so. So rather than waste the coin, he had purchased a cheap sack and thrown the leather satchel into it, tying it securely to the saddle of the horse with a thin but sturdy rope, and setting out further west, trailing the coast. Hoping to find a ship en route.
It had proved a fruitless endeavor. Ships had been delayed across the Narrow Sea, and even as he rode up the coast of the peninsula, the ports no matter how close to the tip of it he teetered closer to and therefore the empire—across the water no more than three miles away. Ran no ships to carry anything other than military, with the risk of the rather malicious squid in the recent years. He'd wasted a week alongside the coast, before realizing, rather belatedly, that he'd been wasting his time. It was only lucky, that he had realized the mistake before reaching the end of the land. Standing at the last port on the beachy sand underneath his boots, and looked across the water. Making out the beginnings of the territory with no way to get to it. He had been thankful at least, to not face that. Looking at a map, he had only ventured halfway. So he had filled back up on supplies before circling back to Valoria, and riding south to the crossing bridge. Having to take the long way.
He bypasses Evans' kingdom, having no time to dilly-dally. Cutting through the trees as soon as he crosses over the bridge, rather than following the walls guiding the travelers through the city, which had seemed rather packed. Slipping through the guards with ease after so many years of experience, trying to steer clear of attention.
It does not work.
Dressed in leather and chain, he rides his horse through the outer rings of the farm land. Wooden beads hung in the doorframes, stained-glass panels of diamond-leaded windows. A-frame houses with steel roofs.
The people watch, craning their necks to catch sight of the stark black of his hair against the pale of his skin, a light-toned stripe of blond that of which frames his face–a sure telltale sign of his lineage as he ventures closer to the imperial City. The unpigmented, almost sickly stretch of his skin against the blacken curls had not been uncommon after years of inbreeding. Though the platinum blond streaks had been a new mutation of their genes in the past few generations, though. His cousins, Andromeda, who had left court when he was ten to rule as dukedom in the deep southern farmland, a three-day ride from their kingdom. And Narcissa, three years his senior, along with their mother, had been the only ones who shared the mutation.
Figures blur together as Regulus rides through. The town whispered, murmurs that Regulus could not make out the words of, as he cuts through the wind.
He sleeps in a bunk out in the back of the nearest inn, in a thin bed, scratchy sheets stuffed with hay. In a room that housed twenty others
And he knows the empire knows of his arrival before he has reached the heartland, before he has even stepped into the gates of the Imperial City. A hundred miles away in the outer circle, yet he knows they were alerted the second he had passed the barrier.
Regulus doesn't sleep well that night, sick with worry. He knows not of why now, of all times, that they would call for him. He's twenty-two now, grown. If they had any wondering thoughts of mercy, they would have allowed him back years ago.
Regulus rubs a hand over his heart, feeling, inexplicably, like he's walking into a trap. But there had been no other option, when an emperor summons you, there are few options but to agree to it—Less, you get hunted down and decapitated.
And even so, he had been curious.
He sets back out before dawn, forgoing the matter of sleep when it became obvious he would not prevail and fall back into rest. Despite the very uncooperative, and even less indulgent horse he had tried to rouse from its slumber. Kicked out on top of a pile of hay and sleeping like the dead. No, the horse had only opened an eye when Regulus held an apple up to its nose. Watching as the horse's awareness sharpened at the sight of the red shiny apple just a few inches away, the red skin was as shiny as a brand-new toy. Before pulling back as the old beast opened her mouth and tried to take a bite. Walking farther as she huffs herself up and looks down at him with what Regulus could only describe as puppy dog eyes.
Bribery, it's a tricky thing.
it came with consequences, when the opposite of the recipient had little to give in the grand scheme of things.
Regulus had gone without his breakfast. The fruit sitting in the far more agreeable horse afterward, as his stomach rumbles.
They pass through the second circle before mid-afternoon, the sweat dripping down Regulus neck as the sun hits down on him. The old grey stone wall of the second circle opening into a denser layout. Larger brick houses, stories high. The main street bustling more and more with the folk beside the marketplace. Regulus narrowly avoids them, dodging both men, women, and children alike in the chaos. His stead is overjoyed by the need to slow down, walking at a more tranquil pace and sniffing around her.
Regulus sighs to himself.
But settles as the next stone wall comes into view, made small in the distance, straight ahead. The enormous palace climbing high into the air above it and touching the clouds. Giving the illusion from where Regulus sits, that the stone wall was a pitiful thing. He had known though, from his firsthand experience walking along it when he was a child, that the wall had been a scary height too, dauntingly so when he was six and peered over the edge. Fifty feet high and ten feet thick, the stone slabs strong and formidable. But still made to look so small while compared with the rest of the structure behind it.
No guards stop him when he passes through the last wall.
It's daunting, really.
That they look, that their hand goes to their belt not far from their sword, and yet they do not step towards him. They even nod in greeting, stilted as it is. It's still an odd little acknowledgment.
After so many years gone, the palace that had once been so familiar to him sits like a stranger in front of him. It's odd that he can look at the palace and know his way throughout all of it, yet still be so unwelcome to it.
He might even remember it more than Caélum.
He leads the horse to the stables, clenching his hands into fists as he prepares to walk the rest of the journey himself. Distantly guilty over the fact that he hadn't known her name, he pockets a treat from the stable boy and tosses it in her pen, petting her snout and whispering to sit tight.
He rolls back his shoulders, preparing himself the best he could.
Many had been welcomed to court when the emperor had still been good health. Few had stayed, Regulus finds. Thousands used to roam the imperial court when he was a child, as much family that could be had were sent from their kingdoms to be warded within the third circle. Only visiting home when duties piled up too high to be ignored, and the majority returned as swiftly as they could.
Regulus' family had resided there, too. They had often traveled home for a few weeks every other month, in order for their kingdom to still stay one of the most influential
Thousands had wilted into only one or two.
Regulus can spot the rows and rows of freshly arrived carriages, the wheels still caked with mud. Servants huffing as they struggle to heave carts of luggage through the halls and into presumably freshly cleaned rooms.
Though all—or most, had seemed to come back for courting season, it had seemed rather forced. A long tradition that seemed to last for little reason other than the historical convention and luck that had always been believed to come from it.
Visiting for the summer or not, they all stared when Regulus stepped into the halls. He straightens, walking past them briskly.
When he enters the throne room, they await in a small cluster.
Crowded around a small table set in the far corner of the room.
The throne stood tall in the middle of the room, built up from the bones of the last men who had refused them. Of their predecessors who'd refused to bow down to the sight of true prophecy at the fingertips of a man, old and wrinkled. The emperor had sat on them for the past two hundred years. Digging them up after defending his land from attack from the descendants of such decorations, he decided the grave had not been punishment enough.
The throne, ivory cracked bones stacked on top of each other and carved into a sitting position, jewels glinting off of it as the late sun hit through the windows, sat empty. The emperor had slumped in another chair, the same as any other around the table, at the head of the table.
Death smelled like rot, and not the rot found in fruit left on its own to long, not even the rot of prepared food neglected shared the same smell of a corpse. No, nothing compared in terms of bitterness, sour. The foul stench crawled up your nose high as it could and lingered long as it could.
It’s a soul left to fester with its body, no tradition to remedy it, to put to rest.
Put the body in the ground and let the soil use it to grow.
The emperor smelled of rot.
Regulus wrinkled his nose when he stepped into the room and smelt the decay.
It's not hard to distinguish where the smell comes from, with that.
Skin peels of the man's cheek.
Regulus steps closer, half a mind to hesitate and dart back out the doors. They shut behind him with a thud as he ventures closer to the table, stopping a few feet away.
Regulus doesn't look at anyone other than the emperor, even as his mother and brother sit to the side. The group all stares, wide-eyed and unblinking. As if when they looked away, he would disappear from existence altogether.
For a moment, no one speaks.
"We thought you wouldn't come," The emperor smiled, the stretch of his mouth revealed yellowed, blood-coated teeth starting to wither away. "Welcome,"
Regulus takes in the sight, tilting his head.
"I had been far," He says blandly.
"Your last sighting had been when you were caught in the southern lands, three years ago." The man muses, his fingers tapping the arm of his chair in some pattern Regulus couldn't quite discern. "I thought you'd still be teetering about there even after my decree that you had needed to leave. You never were one to respond to authority, after all."
Regulus just manages to keep his face schooled, a fucking lie that was. Regulus had followed many rules, despite how unfair they were. "I remember apologizing for that, your Majesty. Outside circumstances had caused me to struggle with the borders of the empire." The words start out thick with something a little closer to annoyance before he's able to play them off as informative. He tries his best though, throughout the rest of the sentences. He had sent word apologizing years ago. He wasn't going to do it again. The old man raises his eyebrows, a playful gesture. Regulus wonders if he's going to kill him, if that's why he's here: for them to finish the job. They're tying up loose ends during spring cleaning. "I traveled from beyond the western bounds of Valoria."
The man blinks in surprise, "Oh." he leans forward, resting on his arm. "You made good time then."
"Thank you, your majesty," Regulus says dryly.
"Nevertheless, I've brought you here to offer you something."
Regulus steadies himself, "Oh?"
"Your title, as Prince Regulus Black the second, Infante of the southern kingdom, Caélum. And seventh in line to the throne of bone: Reinstated in full. After ten years, a banishment lifted."
Regulus takes in the words for a moment.
Regulus tuts, rolling his head back. He lifts his chin, “Such a generous offer.”
"You should be glad," Sirius mutters darkly to the right of him.
Regulus keeps his breath steady, clasping his hands together.
He doesn't turn.
"May I ask why?"
The emperor's smile stretches wide and tight, he sighs, reaching for his wine and taking a large swig.
Regulus wonders if it's to wash the blood from his mouth, and if even with the bitter grapes, if the iron overpowers the taste.
"You'll have to earn it." He continues, ignoring Regulus' question. Regulus' eye darts up and down the man's form, before they betray him and flicker to Sirius. Grey eyes boring into him, long swooping hair curling down his back, grown into a man. Sirius nods, urging him to ask for more of an elaboration. He snaps his attention back to the emperor before it can fail him further. He can't trust Sirius. "Through a political alliance."
Regulus' lips part, gaze flickering to the floor.
He takes a breath, exhaling, "I'll have to ask you to explain further."
"When winter hit, I had slept for months. Barely rousing. And I had dreamed of something, of a future nearing, with blood and ash, warfare and strife. Cities across the lands burned, kingdoms hoarding supplies in the mere hopes they'd be the last standing. And with this came the solution."
"And it had involved me?" Regulus asks, his brows knitted. He takes a sweep of the room, guards and officials, with stony faces and straightened backs. his mother with streaks of grey in her hair that hadn't been there ten years prior, her fierce gaze. Three nobles on the other end of the table with clasped hands. His brother, the only one looking back at him. The emperor spoke of a political alliance, but Regulus couldn't make sense of any of it. A prevention, maybe, of the downfall he speaks of. But beyond that, Regulus can't piece together why it had included him, after so many years. "How so? Could I be relevant to the stakes at hand?"
"Someone had whispered something to me while I had watched the doom unfold. A woman's voice, a playful thing. I presume to know it was Morgana herself. She spoke of the answer, brought the prophecy to my ears: A prevention is to be made, unmistakable is the solution. A golden age made clear, a prince with one eye and the other cut and ravaged, grown again with a glowing blue hue, set to marry Parth's delight. And then I had seen it for myself, the two figures overtook the prior scene. Everything else had faded when they had stepped into frame. Their hands clasped together, one able eye on opposite sides. Rings glinting against the rays of the sun, which had risen again. And one of them," The emperor says, "One of them had been you."
Regulus' eyes met another's from across the room, and it felt like a jolt of electricity—an instant, rare connection with a stranger. A thrum of Recognition shooting down his spine. The crowd faded into a blur as a sense of uncanny familiarity swept over him. His pulse quickened with the shock of recognition snapping together—a magnetic pull that sparked.
In that moment, it wasn’t just a meeting of eyes, but a collision of forces—swift, sure, and utterly unforgettable.
Regulus blinks.
Familiar Brown, warmth. But the man’s left eye is white.
This was no stranger.
It had been him.
One of the figures had been Regulus, the emperor had said. The other, had been him.
"You can't be serious," Regulus says, looking away from James and back to the emperor. "This can't be true."
"I slept, and when I slept, I saw into the future. “Bloodshed shall not prevail, in face of duty."
"You think this is fucking dutiful?" Regulus breaths out, a small, shocked thing.
"Regulus," His mother warns, "Speak with grace."
"What else would you call it, Prince Black?" The emperor says, amused. The title is meant to tempt him, to leave him drooling like a dog at the sight of a treat.
It doesn't.
Regulus turns away, closing his eye, he huffs out a breath. A pain in his breath as he breathes.
He tries to conjure the image of what the emperor spoke of with a distant headache growing. He grimaces at the half-baked. botchy, fading of detail image: James next to him, peace between them, and given out to the lands.
It was laughable.
"No," He rasps.
The strap of his eye patch digs into his skin, tight and uncomfortably so. He faces the windows overlooking the grounds. A pretty sight, Regulus had forgotten. He'd once looked out the window in this room, bored and still as he stood along with the other royalty as the emperor made announcements after summoning them. The ivy growing over the wall, the garden hedges
A cough sounds in the room, startling Regulus. A loud, unwavering thing. Regulus cranes his head back and catches sight of the emperor, shoulders shaking, a bloodied cloth brought to his mouth until the wave passes.
"You've mistaken me," He says, turning back fully. "I am not what you seek."
His mother sat in her chair, rigid as a bold lie. His brother stood behind her, getting up from his seat when Regulus had had his back turned, leaning on the heels of his feet, his fingers spidering on its surface of the back of her chair. James had ventured closer to Sirius in that time too, standing a few feet away.
To a one, their bodies were taut scribbles of dread.
They hadn't wanted him back.
"Might you tell me how so?" The man smiles, and Regulus can't help but worry at his bottom lip—a habit he was never quite able to break from.
“My eye is not blue.”
"One is," the emperor tilts his head, looking into his grey eye, which Regulus supposes is correct in a way.
"Quite," Regulus agrees, "But not the other."
"What rests behind that eye patch, then, would you tell me that?"
Regulus looks at James, not quite really looking but more so gesturing with his eye to the perpetrator for a moment, before looking back and saying pointedly, "A hole."
Sirius winces.
“We will need proof of this. If you may, show us?”
“No.” He snapped, appalled at the thought.
Suspicious eyes narrowed, looking back at him.
“It's blue, isn't it?” James says, his voice deep and caustic.
Merlin, he wishes James' voice was still squeaky and high-pitched when he used to try to raise it. Everyone had grown without him.
“It is not blue!” He emphasized, James merely raised his eyebrows as if amused. As if there was anything in this situation to find amusing. “It's red and… pulsating, all puffy and such. It's a gruesome sight—and not one I'd like to share.”
“We will need confirmation.”
“No.” James, the bastard, looked at the king with poorly masked exasperation, nodding at Regulus like he was the problem. “My eye is something very personal to me.“ He tries, but it heeds nothing. "You're the one who took it from me, so I do understand why you must want to see the mess you'd left, but—"
"That's enough." The emperor cuts him off.
"This can not be expected of me." Regulus hisses, turning towards his mother.
Walburga sits straight in her chair, her hair pinned up and dressed in a black gown. A small sliver crown curling around her high bun, the grey bits of her hair stand out against the stark darkness of her clothing and hair against the pale of her skin. She's a world of varying greys, like she lives in her own and one solely without color.
"And yet it is." She murmurs, a flicker of her lips twisting up at the words before it's gone again. The tip of her finger was tapping against the wood of the table.
“No, this is fucking unacceptable!” He slammed a fist, shutting up the many trying to shush him. “He was the one who took my eye away, and now, because of this, I must wed him?” he spit out the words like poison, eye narrowed in fury, fists shakings. "There has been no reparation; there is no such honor in this."
"Mister Black, might I remind you, that you already attempted reprisal. My son has already been scarred from that." King Fleamont spits, his hands outstretched in front of him.
Regulus seethes, it's not enough.
“Yeah, and I should've pulled it out with my fucking fingers.” He spits
“Enough.” The emperor's voice echoed through the halls with authority, but it was as if Regulus didn't hear him at all, he shakes his head with a nasty scowl on his face.
“I would rather take a knife to my own wrists, I would rather jump off the highest tower in the kingdom. Then marry the basta-“
“Watch your language."
“Speak carefully with your next words, Regulus. With them come consequences.”
Walburga and the emperor speak at the same time.
“Maybe you should kill me,” Regulus says instead. What had been a worse consequence than marrying James?
“The decision is yours.” The ruler says instead of agreeing. Regulus hates that. He hates that they manage to keep their composure—even Sirius. And it hadn't even made sense, James and Sirius had been more known for their sensibility. And yes, yes, they might have learned more of politics in recent years. But that did not mean that they could change their natures. Sense had always been more of Regulus' thing, even if he had forgoed it for one night, even if they refused to see him as anything other than that. Even if in their eyes, he'd been stripped of that.
So, it just can't compute in Regulus' mind, that they all stare at him as if he's being incorrigible. When the whole situation is baffling. As if he hadn't been sent away and stripped of his title. As if they hadn't chosen James. As if—
Oh.
“This is a most unusual arrangement, this marriage will hold equal ranking between each other as you both share the same status." But that than not been true, had it? James had been closer in the line of succession. The words had been meant to settle Regulus, to soothe him. But they had been nothing but a sham. Three nobles had stood between them, a wide chasm. Regulus would be well and truly fucked. "Furthermore, the final decision with be based on your say, Regulus. Prince James has already agreed, We have approval from both parents; all left is your consent.”
Perhaps they knew Regulus would never consent, and they are merely doing this to toy with him. It's clear now—evidently, they'd had months to prepare for this. The winter solstice was months before Regulus was ever even summoned—never mind the delay in his arrival. They'd had months to prepare. Regulus is sure they were just as lacking in composure as he had been when they had heard.
It’s one small mercy that during banishment, he hadn't had to see anyone he hadn't wanted to, face anyone from his past. In court, people from your past litter your life like cockroaches, popping out of crevices and scuttling across the dark. Back in the empire, you can’t escape fates cruel crossing. You turn the corner and there is shadowy figures laughing as they drag their eyes over him and tip their drinks down their throat.
If he had come back, it would be all that he would see all around him.
If he came back, the shadowy figure laughing at him
“If you heard about the prophecy months ago, and have only welcomed me back now. Then I suspect the decision has already been made without much need for my input.” Regulus says, as disinterested as he can, as he clasps his hands behind his back. The Emperor jolts back, taking a while to recover from the jab.
“You are correct in this assumption, it took a while for both parties to come to an agreement. But the final decision goes to you.” Regulus huffs, amused, he turns to look at his mother. How on earth could you agree to this? He thinks, looking into her pleading eyes. He scoffs, turning back to the king.
He takes a small step back. Tilting his head to the left as he takes the man in for what would be the last time. It's a lacking sight, disapointment patters lightly in his chest.
Regulus bet he would make a better emperor in his sleep.
Anyone would.
“I think we’d all be better off killing each other,” He snarls. Rejoicing in the gape of James' mouth—hes the first one Regulus looks to after he says it. And he'd have to settle for just the one, he strides to the door, making his exit swift.
Regulus' boots hit against the stone floor, his heart beat in his ears.
They'd come after him, guards would be looking for him soon.
He'd be gone before then.
He stalks further down the corridor, a hand sweeping through his hair.
grabbing at the smooth stone brick at the corner, he pulls him self to the left, opening into another corridor. He straightens impossibly more as he walks straight unto a crowd, a few feet away from him.
His quickened breaths catch in his throat for a second.
He raises a brow before—hesitantly bobbing his head up and down in a swift nod.
He turns his attention to the staircase at the end of the hall he had previously climbed, before he could see if the nobles had returned the gesture. More so, his ego could not handle any more bruising if they hadn't.
"Regulus!"
Regulus hurries past the nobles as the voice sounds behind him in a whisper-shout behind the corner he'd turned.
"Regulus!" The voice is deep, the last time he'd heard Sirius' voice, it would squeak at seemingly unpredictable times. It had leveled out in the years, baritone and smooth.
Regulus doesn't turn; he forces himself forward. The first divot of the stairs, mere feet away, he hurries toward it.
His left foot reaches it, setting itself lower than the right on his next step. His hand grasping around the railing.
"Regulus Arcturus Black."
Regulus stills.
It's a shrill voice, and it's strained—unused to raising.
It's their mother's voice.
Regulus turns.
Why? he wants to ask. Why would you do this to me?
He can't get the words out, looking at her now.
She steps past Sirius, coming closer to him. Now that she's closer than ever, he can see how her face begins to wrinkle and sag. Old—She didn't use to be.
His lips twist, but doesn't speak; He waits for it.
And it comes.
"I know what was told to you in there. But you don't have a choice in this." Something in his chest twists, his brows knit. He catches Sirius over her shoulder, lips parted and face scrunched in sympathy. "It's needed."
Regulus shakes his head, throwing it to the side as he digests the words before it rolls back.
"Why?" He murmurs. Sirius goes to speak, stepping in line with their mother, and Regulus shakes his head again; a smaller, more subdued action before looking back to their mother. "Needed, but how so? Tell me this at least."
His mother tuts, her hands unclasping from where they had sat
"Parth has grown," She warns.
Regulus' head lolls back, and he fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt. "You have the treaty." He can't help but emphasize that word, it's the one they traded him for. And what? It was worthless? They bring him back to sacrifice him into the mitts of another one? He doesn't know if he finds comfort in that or uneasy, perhaps many layers of both.
"That was a prevention, a weak one. We need to reinvigorate it. And even though they have only grown more and more favor—they only have the one heir. One son, and so much burden to carry alone."
"They've taken the islands in the north," Sirius whispers, his eyes on the floor as their mother shoots him a look. He wasn't supposed to say that, Regulus wasn't meant to know that. He takes it as the one bit of truth he's gotten today.
Parth had been in a struggle against the Parkinson families over the domain since the kingdom lands were first drawn and set. They had little claim to the tropical lands, their base had been long and far, and they had very little need. The Parkinsons kingdom had once sat in the lands before it had been destroyed in the war. They had stayed, caring for the land even if falling to ruin. They had always had more claim, even if they were constantly dismissed with their lack of protection. But the Potter family had held on to the grounds, steadfast and wanting.
Regulus never really understood why.
Regulus makes a face, "The emperor allowed them that?"
Walburga scoffs, "He allows them everything, Regulus." She steps toward him, and Regulus stays rooted to his spot. Looking up at her wide-eyed. "Which is cause for intervention. We must step in."
Regulus gapes.
"This, though not fortunate," Hums Walburga. She cups Regulus' cheek, looking into his eyes. His brows furrow at the action. "Can be made as such."
It's a maternal action, Regulus doesn't know how to act in the face of it even if it's calculated.
She knows his weak points.
A pit settles in his stomach.
“Is it not our duty to marry someone eligible to birth children to strengthen the Black line?”He whispers, ignoring that it hadn't been his duty in ten years, wouldn't be if he doesn't tie himself to James.
It's his last counter to fall back on, he can feel himself slowly giving in to them, and worse of all, so do they.
“Oh, please, Regulus, tell us! You must be relieved. Your gaze always strayed far too often towards men when we were younger, Mother had to snap some sense into you if I recall correctly.
“We have plenty of people willing to make up for your absent children. What we need right now is to climb." She says, his hope plummets—the very little that he has. "Blood children have fallen from necessity in newer ages, picking a successor is common in same sex marriage. Adoption, if you will."
It clicks.
"I could approve someone from our land to rule over Parth," He breaths.
Walburga smiles, then. Watching as he finally catches up, lips stretched wide against the flash of her teeth. Eyes crinkling.
"Come," Sirus hums, holding his hand out.
Regulus looks at it for a moment, hand wrapping around their mother's wrist to detach her hand from his cheek.
He doesn't take it. He steps around Sirius, and holds his own. Stone-faced, he clasps his hands together in front of him and surges forward.
Retracing his footsteps back to the throne room.
Sirius yelps out behind him, both he and Walburga attempting to catch up to Regulus.
They don't.
He reaches the doors before them, and even though they attempt to hold him off until they can regain their footing in front of him. He opens the door and they silence.
Heads swivel around as he steps back into the room. He finds James first, mouth parted and eyebrows raised as he cranes his head over his right shoulder.
Regulus looks at the emperor, finding him in the same seat as last time. The old man's eyes gleam, a shine passing through them.
Regulus works his jaw, clenching his hands around each other.
"I accept the engagement."
The emperor smiles.
"A coronation is needed, then."
To reinstate him officially, Regulus finds that the most daunting.
The power that had grown so foreign to him throughout the years.
He nods, a stilted thing.
Hesitant.
The emperor's smile stretches further.