atheriontheo:
queenatherixn:
location : madan castle who : anyone
tw: grief
Theodore is no one’s child. He was created, rather than born—and unlike a child, he remembers the exact moment he opened his eyes for the first time. Still, there’s something strangely comforting about the Queen’s presence.
Theodore’s existed over one hundred and fifty years, but she’s lived one thousand. Theodore remembers when the kingdom first celebrated the adoption of her oldest child, but so often, he thinks he’s nearly as lost as he was the first day he set foot in Atherion. Although he won’t age as the Queen has—even if it’s taken a millennium for any of those years to show on her face—it helps to remember that even his one hundred and fifty-three years, while longer than what some of the beings around them will ever get, is only the beginning.
His duty evidently complete, he rises, stiff and slow as always. “Of course,” Theodore says, his affirmative response automatic, even if it is the truth. The amount of effort the Madans and Lochtrees expended tonight is obvious, from the decorations to the music. It would do them a disservice to say anything other than yes to the Queen’s question.
“To the start of spring,” Theodore adds, although he doesn’t have a goblet of his own to toast with. He knows this night is intended to celebrate more than that—but it’s the easiest to describe, in comparison with the far more abstract concepts of community and joy, and he would rather not stumble through a conversation in front of the Queen. He likes spring anyway, as much as he likes anything.
the queen drunk deeply from her cup in concurrence to the young automa’s toast with a warm smile. spring was bound to bring great harvest and bounty to the kingdom. while the bowing automa appeared young, the queen knew this was not the case, for the automa did not wear their age as humans do, similar to the fae their bore their youth for prolonged duration. for as long as the queen reigned, she was forced to watch her atherion children be born and return to dust, for generation after generation.
she found comfort in the automa - in their stagnancy, in their familiar, solemn faces that did not age, blemish or wrinkle the way others did. their faces did not age the way that kala madan’s face did many moons ago, as ayesha was forced into helplessly watching, defenceless to the wicked thief that is time, steal away her most beloved companions.
“- and your hostel, my child... It is fairing well this season?” ayesha made it her duty to remember important details of her citizens and the happenings of atherion, and had recognised the automa, theo as the housekeeper at one of the local hostels. she cared deeply for the welfare of the automa, a group of individuals that are prone to neglect and under-appreciation due to their mechanical nature. but ayesha was firm in her methods, under her rule all atherion’s are due their rightful audit of ensuring affairs are in order and all is more than well.