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Religion was never really a Nortan thing.
In most cases, religion was considered something uncommon in Norta; with nobles preferring their worldly riches over the spiritual enlightenment that religion and worship promised. There were no churches, no holy grounds, no religious books. Of course, there were citizens that did worship deities: most of those being Red refugees from other lands that came to Norta in hopes of a potentially better life. Exactly the reason why there are so few religious sites in Norta.
Since when had Silvers ever cared for Reds in any regard?
It made sense, in a bitter way, that Norta lacked religion almost entirely. Nortans are proud of their nation, of their abilities: and when you believe yourself strong enough to defeat any enemy, you don't need to ask a god for anything.
A tale as old as time.
Maven's father, the late King Tiberius, always used to say that the real reason why the Lakelanders clung to their beliefs and still worshipped their gods despite their power was because they were afraid. Afraid of the might of Norta, afraid of the war, afraid of life and what it could bring: and that that was what made them weak. Though often these rants of his came from drunken revelling, and Maven never cared for what his father said while drunk.
Whenever he drank, he became a different man. A man who ran his tongue like there was nobody out there who'd nit-pick every syllable.
Whether his father was the sole reason why Maven avoided alcohol like the plague, he wasn't sure. He didn't like to think that his father would've had so much influence over his choices, though.
But despite his hate for drunken revelling, his banquets and parties were never boring: quite the opposite, really. He ensures every party he holds is greater, grander and more Silver than the last. He'd sit upon his throne, staring at the people below and around him. Watching them drink their livers to the limit. Watching them distract themselves from life with alcohol and novelties.
There was power in that distraction. Keeping the court drunk and docile kept them from questioning him and his decisions. And keeping them from questioning him, kept the crown on his head for another day. Kept the risk of a large-scale civil disagreement as low as possible. Perhaps one could call it a trap of sorts. But he called it giving his court a way to lean back and watch the world pass by.
But what happens when not every noble around him falls for it?
Iris sat beside him on the throne meant for the Queen, watching the revelry with a somewhat bored expression. Her hands were folded on her lap: her finger tapping a repetitive rhythm against her hand. She always managed to look so effortlessly regal in everything she did, even if she was so obviously bored. Most days, Maven isn't sure whether he likes it or hates it.
Then again, he can't tell a lot of things when it comes to her.
He decides then; shifting and leaning on his side, closer to her. "Are the drinks not to your liking?" he murmurs, studying her closely, trying to gauge whatever she must be thinking. He respected her in some regard, seeing as they were to be married, but he could never bring himself to fully trust him. At least, not yet.
She says nothing in response, merely offering him a shrug.
"No?" he hums quietly, leaning back in his seat. He leans his head against his hand, his arm resting on the arm of his chair. "And why is that? Is it the taste, or does your religion forbid you from drinking at your husband's dinner banquet?"
"Fiancé. You aren't my husband yet."
He shrugs. "Close enough, no?"
She offers him nothing in response to his quip, and with a sigh he leans away and simply goes back to sitting there menacingly: something he feels is all he'd been doing as of late.
"And for the record, my religion doesn't forbid me from doing anything, but rather, provides me with avenues to remain honourable."
If Maven were in one of his usual moods, he'd probably have thought up a witty (albeit somewhat cruel) response to her words that likely would've silenced her entirely for the rest of the night. But for some ungodly reason, tonight, he was in the mood for conversation.
"Does that insinuate that we Nortans are not honourable?" he challenges with a murmur.
Iris shifts, slowly turning her head just slightly to study his expression. It wasn't often that he actually tried to uphold a conversation with her for longer than a minute. Usually, they exchanged a hello and a goodbye and that was the most they'd speak a day.
"...I suppose it depends on who you ask." Iris murmurs, shifting to face him just slightly. "Every Lakelander considers Nortans differently. Religion tends to be a spectrum most times--"
"How deep and poetic you are, my lady," he hums. "Perhaps you could offer some tips to my musicians?"
Her face tightens at his sarcastic remark, turning away and looking across the hall in silence again. Maven ignores it.
"I could never understand you." Iris mutters after a few minutes of silence. "One day you're a cruel, vindictive, manipulative bastard, and the next you seem capable of maintaining a genuine conversation."
"Such vibrant adjectives you've used to describe me."
He had assumed that was the end of their little religious discussion. Maven wasn't accustomed to being outwardly curious about anything: curiosity often felt like a plague to him. An unnecessary pull, something that distracts him from his real objectives. Being interested in Iris' life gave her something to jangle over his head; albeit something so insignificant.
But it wasn't quite over.
It was after the banquet, near one in the morning, when he was sat in his office, bent over paperwork that he couldn't force himself to care about. The ink and the words seemed to blur into one another the longer he stared at them. Exhaustion was tugging at the corners of his eyes, but he ignored it for the sake of pushing on and getting it done before it became bigger of a problem than it already was.
It was late, and he wasn't expecting any company: which was why he was so surprised with the Guards told him that Iris was seeking entry. Despite his better judgement, he agreed, and within moments, she was standing across from his desk, alone and hardly as regal as before.
The Lakelander Princess had made it a point up until now to avoid late night discussions with him, unless there was a social gathering or event being held. They were fiancés, not yet married, so she took rumour control quite seriously. Something Maven couldn't quite blame her for: the ladies of the court could be vicious if given too much room to speak freely.
She stepped up to his desk, studying him closely. He suddenly felt embarrassed: he was hardly dressed like a King at the moment, and he despised looking anything less than regal.
"Do you need something, Iris?" he asks stiffly. He didn't exactly appreciate this unexpected visit.
"I do, actually. As much as I struggle to tolerate you, I understand the importance of us upholding somewhat of a mutual relationship with one another. For the sake of the court and our sanities, if nothing else."
Maven stared back in her in silence, registering her words. They had only known each other for a few days, and Maven assumed he had gotten a grasp on her. That she was quiet, tight-lipped and eager to stay out of his way: which he preferred, in all honesty. He didn't like it when people got in his way. Especially people who couldn't afford to get rid of.
"Bold of you to assume my court is so easy to be appeased by a late night interaction." Maven replies slowly.
"Don't joke with me tonight, Maven." she retaliates immediately, startling Maven. She'd always had a quick-witted response to anything that he said that she didn't like, but never had she delivered it with such venom. Before he could defend himself, she spoke again.
"Let's have a meaningful discussion. For once in your life, you'll sit there and talk to me instead of just standing there awkwardly."
"I do not stand anywhere awkwardly," he says incredulously. "And what do you suppose we talk about, hm? We don't exactly have much in common by way of conversation."
As she slowly sat down in the chair across from him, she searched her mind for something to talk about.
"The question you asked me at dinner." she murmurs. "Whether we Lakelanders consider you and your people dishonourable because you do not honour our customs? I thought about it more, and I would say yes, we do. But I can't tell you whether it is truly because you do not follow our religion or just because we hate you."
Maven blinks, studying her as she sat there and stared right back. We hate you. Of course, he knew that much. He wasn't stupid in any capacity to think the Lakelanders even tolerated him. They simply wanted an end to a useless war as much as he did, even if that meant working with him in the smallest of capacities. But still. The way she spoke it was so very blunt, that he didn't know what to say.
Then again, hate towards him is nothing new. All of his fiancés, current and ex, hate him.
"I'll entertain you then," he decides, setting his pen down atop his desk, and leaning back in his seat. "Does your religion dictate most of your autonomy, or do you have freedom to do as you please?"
Somehow, Iris had managed to infiltrate his life at the exact perfect moment to allow for an actual connection to take place: something so very few people have managed to do. It's almost impressive, really, that in such a short amount of time that she had known him and he had known her that she managed to find a crack in his armour and get a glimpse inside. He entirely forgot about the work he was so insistent on finishing tonight and the exhaustion that weight him down lifted, and he focused intently on all the information she was presenting him on a platter.
Nortans didn't know a great deal about Lakelanders, and vice versa. Whatever they did know had to do with spies and the war effort: nothing personal like this. Nothing real and spiritual.
It felt nice to relent to his curiosity without fear for a change.
"So you believe in a heaven and a hell?" he snorts. "How does that even work?"
"If you're good you go to heaven and if you're bad, to hell." Iris replies with a shrug, smirking slightly. "Not that hard to understand."
She was relaxed now, having leaned into the conversation the same way Maven did, and it made her look entirely different. Almost softer. He didn't know how to feel about it.
"One man's hell can be another's heaven," he points out. "Would this paradise be subjective to each person who enters it, or the same experience across the board?"
"I suppose it could be. I'm not sure. I mean, I learnt from my mother and our scriptures that hell is subjective, but it doesn't talk much about the good part."
"Subjective how?"
"The torture." she studies him for a moment. She was so used to being surrounded by people that knew this information by default that she wasn't sure if she was wording everything correctly. "Whatever your weakness is by way of your ability. Since your a Burner, your punishment would be endless water."
He nods slowly, storing the information away somewhere in the back of his mind. He never really cared for religion, and he still doesn't, but it was an interesting topic to consider.
"You ask many good questions." Iris says quietly. "You'd make a good scholar."
"Please." Maven scoffs. "Don't insult me."
"It's hardly an insult, I'm calling you smart, not a nerd. And I reckon it's the nicest thing a Lakelander has ever called a Calore, so take it."
Maven can't help the small smile that grew on his face from that comment. He shakes his head with a quiet chuckle before nodding. "Okay. Fine. I take it. I thank you for the gracious compliment, my lady."
She rolls her eyes, and within moments, they fall into another silence. Though this silence isn't anything like the silences they shared in the eyes of the public: cold, stiff and terribly artificial. This silence was... comfortable. Unfamiliar to Maven, really.
"What about you, Maven?"
He pauses for a moment, shifting in his seat. "What about me?"
"What do you... believe?" Iris asks quietly. "I know Nortans don't have many beliefs, you told me so yourself: that most just believe life ends and goes black and that's that. But... if you would entertain me. If a paradise does exist, and it is subjective like you offered, what would yours look like?"
Maven fell entirely silent, staring back at her like she grew three heads all of a sudden. It was a question that, for the first time, he didn't immediately have an answer for.
What did his paradise look like?
"I think that my paradise would be peace," Iris murmurs. "No war. Just... enjoying life day by day. Minding my own business and everyone else does the same. I know it's kind of vague, but it's just what I've always pictured."
Maven was barely listening to what she was saying. His mind was racing with potential answers. With people that he would've wanted in his paradise.
His mother. Healthy, and healed, and in one of her better moods personally: when she truly felt like a mother instead of an instructor. Mare and his brother and his father--
Thomas.
As if on cue, a piercing headache tore through his scalp, though he didn't let it show on his face apart from the tightening of his jaw. And with it, came his mother's voice.
She's buttering you up, and then making you spew your heart out in front of her so that she can take it and destroy it, his mother hisses. They are Lakelanders. They don't care for you or our kingdom. They don't care about paradise. What they care about it sneaking behind your back and closing your eyes so that you don't see what they're doing.
Iris had gone quiet, having noticed the sour turn in the mood. She opened her mouth to speak, but he spoke before her.
"It's late. Nearly three in the morning." he says tightly. "I believe it best if you go. I'm sure you have much to do tomorrow, and sleeping late won't be an option for either of us."
Iris wanted to say something. God knows she did, and he could tell. She had that look in her eye that said we are not done here, but she didn't act on it. She realised that in her attempt to understand him more she dug too deep. Uncovered wounds that are yet to heal.
"Fine." she says tightly. "I will leave you to your work then."
He said nothing, turning back to his work and tapping the tip of his pen atop the papers on the desk before him. As Iris took the doorhandle, pushing the door just slightly ajar, she spoke again.
"I appreciate that you allowed me to have a conversation with you."
As she stepped out, leaving the room quiet and almost colder, he ruthlessly pushed down the part of himself that almost crawled out from behind his defences. For a moment, Iris wasn't talking to the King.
And he wouldn't make the same mistake again.