Throwing myself headfirst out of the moving car that is my many-months hiatus and into the roadside ditch that is writing again, I have challenged myself to write for the @daily-writing-challenge's February prompts every day this week. The goal: remember how writing - particularly finishing a piece of writing - works. These will all be snippets from Prince Renathal and companion's continued adventures in the Dragon Isles (full stories here). Will they be any good? Probably not. But they will be done (maybe).
Day 1: Flirt - 600 words, no warnings
The saviour of Azeroth and the Shadowlands, champion of the Horde, former archmage and famous Maw Walker lay her weary body back against the sun-warmed grass and closed her eyes with a final, defeated sigh.
The Dark Prince raised one eyebrow, unimpressed.
“Not giving up already, are you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Oh, please,” he scoffed, pushing off the railing with a clunk of plate armour and descending the ancient stone staircase toward his motionless companion. “You cannot give up. I know you too well. You are incapable of accepting defeat.”
“First time for everything," was her petulant reply.
Renathal’s wordless disapproval was a masterful sound, full of throaty skepticism and dubiously clicking fangs. Elisewin refused to acknowledge it. Her eyes remained shut, limp arms drowned in the swaying grass, determinedly ignoring the vibrant butterflies fluttering curiously around her wild, windswept fan of dark hair.
Coming to a stop beside her would-be corpse, Renathal tried a different tact.
“An ignominious end for such an illustrious hero.” He announced the words like a eulogy, gesticulating elegantly to his audience of butterflies, who showed no obvious interest. “Imagine - grappling with gods, conquering whole armies, destroying any number of mountainous beasts, only to be beaten by -”
“It’s so stupid,” spat Elisewin suddenly from the ground. Her eyes snapped open in a blaze of blue-white fury. “It’s such a stupid, ridiculous test of an even more ridiculous practice, and I don’t see why I should have to learn it. I was perfectly happy with my old Undercity bat. Slow and steady. That thing -” She twisted her head to throw an accusatory glance at the proto-drake sniffing the bushes at the base of the nearby cliff. “It reacts to the slightest movement! I can’t even breathe without it changing direction. And it goes too fast!”
“I have never known you to mind fast. You usually request it,” remarked Renathal playfully.
Elisewin narrowed her eyes at him instead.
“Don’t flirt with me when I’m frustrated.”
Renathal laughed aloud at that. Mustering all her available dignity, Elisewin turned her face pointedly away from him and closed her eyes again.
“And I mean it. I’m done. I’ve tried sixteen times now, and I'm all over bruises. I am not trying it again. I’ll just walk everywhere.”
Wholly undaunted, Renathal swallowed the last of his laughter and fixed his tone into something that might have been mistaken for sympathy by someone who did not know him well.
“Very well, dearest, if you are certain." He stepped around her studiously still form and headed towards her waiting mount, calling behind him: “You can simply ride alongside me. I am happy to take the lead. I, personally, do not find the practice particularly taxing. Then again, I am much older, with a greater reservoir of power to draw from. You can hardly hold yourself to my standard."
A rustle of grass, a low groan, then a series of furious soft-soled footsteps assured Renathal this last hand had won. He turned expectantly, already holding out the proto-drake’s cracked leather reins. Elisewin snatched them from him. Her lavender glower as she swung one leg over the bulky creature's back only made Renathal smile.
“Ah,” he declared in affectionate triumph, propping himself against the rocky cliffside to watch his lover's seventeenth attempt. “That is the Maw Walker I know."
It was Elisewin’s turn to scoff. She wriggled uncomfortably, settling back into the saddle. Fixing her grim expression on the looming tower at the top of the cliff, she declared to the wilderness around them:
"Volevo dire che io la voglio, la vita, farei qualsiasi cosa per poter averla, tutta quella che c’è, tanta da impazzirne, non importa, posso anche impazzire ma la vita quella non voglio perdermela, io la voglio, davvero, dovesse anche fare un male da morire è vivere che voglio" Oceano Mare -Alessandro Baricco
Succede. Uno si fa dei sogni, roba sua, intima, e poi la vita non ci sta a giocarci insieme, e te li smonta, un attimo, una frase, e tutto si disfa. Succede. Mica per altro che vivere è un mestiere gramo. Tocca rassegnarsi. Non ha gratitudine, la vita, se capite cosa voglio dire.
Day 3 of @daily-writing-challenge February challenge was not the fun, 30 minutes tops, carefree writing warm-up I promised myself these would be, but we got there in the end.
Day 3: Bargain - 1kish words, no warnings
The name of the sanctuary was Eon's Fringe. Another time, Renathal would have found this amusing. Now, he felt unpleasantly humbled. Heavy. His mind weighed down by the day's events and the new future they offered. Or, more accurately, the new past.
Leaving Elisewin safely sleeping, he crept out of the cramped inn and back through the small haven's vined and bejeweled archway. He nodded at the defenders on guard, who returned the gesture warily, and let his feet carry him to the stairs cut into the cliff's edge, just before the temperate autumnal forestland gave way to shifting sand.
He looked up. Truly, there was nowhere else to look. The massive, hovering platform - both too far to walk to and too tantalisingly close to ignore - commanded all eyes. And all Renathal's thoughts, as well. He only realised he was sitting when a stag beetle crawled across his hand, now resting on the smooth stone step beside him. He barely registered either sensation, preoccupied as he was.
This place… that staff… the infinite possibilities… the undeniable risks…
"I know what you're thinking."
Startled from his reverie, Renathal swiveled around and found Elisewin sitting on an upper step, watching him blandly, head propped on one hand.
"I knew you would do this. Knew you wouldn't be able to let it go."
There was no reproach in her words; no disappointment, no anger. Renathal returned his gaze to the conflux and contemplated it for another moment before replying:
"Can you?"
Elisewin did not answer, but Renathal felt the hem of her robe brush against his back as she slid closer. He swallowed - his throat was very dry; exactly how long had he sat here? - then finally spoke aloud the idea that had teased, tormented him all the last day.
"You must admit, it is a prospect certainly worthy of some consideration. Imagine - being able to stop all that conflict, that chaos from happening before it ever began. If I could overthrow Denathrius before he joined forces with the Jailer, just think how much destruction could be prevented - how much ruin undone. All those souls, gone, lost for eternity, and I - I could save them all."
Only the sudden, tentative hand on his shoulder made Renathal realise how loud his voice had risen. He broke off, inhaling sharply and superfluously through his nose, and pushed back the loose hairs that had fluttered across his face during his rant.
"Renathal," said Elisewin unaffectedly, sliding down another step to tuck herself next to him on his, "you know it wouldn't be that easy. If we learned anything from today's events, it's that. You have no idea what the repercussions would be, and that's only if you actually pulled it off. Putting aside the fact the dragons would probably catch you, you don't know when to go back to - how far back Denathrius' betrayal began. And even if you did, and by some miracle you managed it, events would likely still unfold just as they have. There are too many players involved, too many moving pieces. It's - it's just ... too enormous an event to try to change."
Elisewin's tone was patient, her arguments pragmatic. Renathal had to bite back the instinct to serve her some biting retort. She was right, and he knew it; his own better sense had run through all these same irrefutable lines of reasoning. But it made the truth no easier to bear. He remained obstinately silent, eyes still fixed on the looming temporal conflux and its tempting possibilities.
Until Elisewin added hesitantly:
"On the other hand…"
Renathal glanced down at her, surprised to find her own face turned to that enticing gold horizon.
"…I know exactly where I would need to go. And when. The exact date and time." She paused, as if debating whether or not to say any more, then continued in a breathless rush," And nothing of any real importance would be altered. Elisande would still die. It would just - just be a few weeks sooner. Everything else would be the same. No one would even have to know. The only difference would be my - my sister… she would still be alive."
"You think that is an alteration of no of importance?" asked Renathal, a slightly bitter edge to his voice. "Her death is the reason we are here at all. Had she lived, there would have been no reason for you to venture into the Shadowlands. No reason to save them - to save your allies - save me. And, certainly, no reason to stay."
"You don't know that," Elisewin argued. "I might have - there - there might have been… some way…" Her hands clenched against her robes in a sudden burst of frustration. "There has to be a way - a way to do both. To save her and you. To save everyone."
Renathal recognised the notes of desperation from his own impassioned speech. He wondered if his face had looked anything like his lover's did now: almost manic as it reflected the light of the conflux's golden glow. He shifted on the step until he was looking directly at her.
"There is... much we might save," Renathal admitted slowly. "And there is much at stake. If we managed to succeed, we risk... this moment. This existence. Is it worth it?"
He asked the question as much of Elisewin as himself.
A beat of silence pulsed between them, heavy with the memories of the last few, impossibly precious years. Then Elisewin, too, tore her eyes from the conflux and reached for Renathal's hand.
"No," she said fiercely, and gripped him like a lifeline. "No. No, it's not. Nothing is."
Some tumultuous emotion rose in Renathal's throat, and he found himself leaning in just as Elisewin looked up. Their lips met halfway. For a time that mattered more for its meaning than its minutes, they simply sat, anchoring each other to the present.
Elisewin broke first, pulling away just enough to meet Renathal's eyes.
"We need to make a pact," she said hoarsely. "A - a promise. To each other. That neither of us is going to - to run off later and - and try."
Renathal's eyebrows quirked in surprise - promises were something Elisewin very rarely offered.
"I will if you will," he agreed.
It took her a few seconds, and a deep, shuddering breath, but at last-
"I promise," she said.
Renathal nodded solemnly.
"Then, so do I."
Elisewin's smile was shaky, but her hands were not as she reached for Renathal's face and pressed her lips to his again. This was less kiss than confirmation, but no less meaningful for it. Bargain thus sealed, they sat, nestled silently together, breathing in each other's presence and the warm, tree-scented air. Then Renathal, suddenly as exhausted as if they fought some prolonged and devastating battle, stood up, pulling Elisewin with him, and together they put their backs to any other possibilities and began to climb the stairs.
In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal might have enjoyed, perhaps even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Read on Ao3 here.
“Sire Denathrius must be stopped.”
The Accuser’s grim pronouncement clattered off the dank stone walls of the Halls of Atonement’s inner sanctum, silencing the uneasy murmurs of the room’s other occupants and recalling their attention to its Harvester.
Until Renathal snorted.
A highly undignified sound, it undercut the Accuser’s echoes; and all the heads in the room, both venthyr and stoneborn, turned quickly to regard their Dark Prince. Regaled in full armor and formal coat, leaning noncommittally against a side wall of the nave, shoulder-to-shoulder with his expressionless mortal companion, he stared back at them in turn, appraising the nervously defiant faces of the rebellion he now knew beyond doubt existed: the Accuser, watching him askance; the Curator beside her, vacantly inspecting his mortal consort; their handful of trusted disciples, none of whom Renathal knew by name, interspersed with Venthyr from other districts - including Tenaval and Dehavia - and what Stoneborn could be persuaded to entertain sedition. General Draven and Chelra the Princeguard stood foremost among this small number, invited by the prince himself once he and his consort had determined to come.
No light decision, that. It had taken Renathal a week to work himself up to this meeting, and another for Elisewin to persuade him she ought to be allowed to attend as well. Every one of them stood to be punished, quite possibly destroyed, if Denathrius caught them here, and Renathal no longer harboured any vain hopes his Master considered him, or his mortal, special enough to spare.
“And how,” he asked, returning his gaze to the Accuser, bitter scepticism oozing from his words like anima from an open wound, “does one even begin developing a plan to stop the machinations of the creator of the realm?”
The Accuser tried a sardonic smile. It fit her pinched face oddly.
“That is why you are here, Prince Renathal.” She gave a little jerk of her head and torso; Renathal supposed this constituted her most deferential bow. “You are our resident expert on the Master. You have existed longest and know him best, and are our most likely avenue for discovering his weaknesses.”
“The Master has no weaknesses,” Renathal replied automatically.
But even as he said it, he thought of Denathrius’ new penchant for podal ambulation, his odd reluctance to use magic for even the smallest conveniences, and the continued absence of Remornia from her Master’s side. Could the Lord of Revendreth himself be feeling the realm’s current anima dearth?
As if reading his thoughts...
“Even the Master requires anima,” the Accuser declared triumphantly. “Regardless of how much he might be hoarding in Nathria, he does not have an endless supply. He will have to ration it carefully, even to himself, if he wishes it to last. We can use that against him. With enough of us together, we should be able to hold him at least, until we can contact Oribos for aid.”
“All ways to the Eternal City are closed,” Draven’s gravelly voice inserted. “To open one would take more anima than all of us have combined, even without the Master and his forces to contend with.”
“We do not need to open a way,” the Accuser insisted. “We only need to get a message across the In-Between. And the Master has methods of communicating with the Arbiter without ever leaving the realm. Does he not?”
She threw this last at Renathal, who thought he saw where she was going.
“A worthy idea,” he conceded, “but impossible to execute without the Master knowing.”
“Even for you?”
One of the Accuser’s thin, white eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. Which delicate aspersion on his abilities Renathal accepted with good grace.
“Even for me,” he admitted, dipping his head in acknowledged defeat. “Denathrius can sense anyone who enters his castle. Even I cannot hope to hide my presence from him there. To reach the room in question and remain there for enough time to make any sort of coherent explanation to the attendants in Oribos, let alone formulate a plan for their aid, without the Master interfering, would require -”
“A distraction.”
Again, the heads in the room turned as one, this time to stare at the prince’s lavender shadow. And Renathal, having already related her conversation with the Sire in its every humiliating detail, knew what they were thinking. He tucked an errant fold of one cuff more securely into its corresponding bracer.
“What if we went to Nathria? " Elisewin continued. "Just Renathal - the Prince, I mean - and I? That shouldn't arouse too much suspicion. Denathrius has probably been expecting it ever since the Countess’ court. I can seek him out in the castle, demand to know more, or - or something like that. And if I can distract him for long enough, Renathal can -"
“Absolutely not.”
The words were a reflex, and out of Renathal's mouth before he had time to prepare the rational supporting argument such a forceful objection would require. Aware of Elisewin’s startled blink and the narrowing of the Accuser’s flinty eyes, he cleared his throat and concluded:
"That is unlikely to work. And perhaps," - on a desperate whim, he voiced the hope that had tortured and teased him since Denathrius’ cryptic confession - "unnecessary, after all. Perhaps, the Master's behaviour is not as nefarious as we think. Perhaps, he is keeping anima for... some other purpose."
It sounded unconvincing even to Renathal's own ears, and he was unsurprised by the susurrating sea of dissent that followed. The Accuser alone of the would-be rebels, however, was willing to challenge the prince outright.
“Even if his scheme were only to hoard anima for himself and a few hand-chosen nobles, it is still corruption and a smirch on Revendreth’s purpose.” She took a step towards Renathal, arms rigid and fingers twitching against her skirts. “But you know it is deeper than that, Renathal. You know something is happening. You can blind yourself to it no longer. The time has come for the Harvester of Dominion to decide whose side he is on.”
Apart from the echo of the Accuser’s brazen ultimatum, the shrouded nave was still and silent for the first time since the seditious rabble had arrived. A stark contrast to Renathal’s mind, in which a clamorous battle raged: conviction versus caution; the demands of his eternal duties against his new instincts and, admittedly, selfish desires.
At last, glaring down his nose at the other Harvester, he declared, “I am on Revendreth’s side. As ever." And, even without his medallion, the words rang with a surety to subdue all doubt.
“Very well, then.” The Accuser’s shoulders relaxed the merest degree as she nodded the group’s collective approval. “We shall hear no more fruitless arguments over the Master’s motives and return to developing a plan. The mortal’s idea is a good one.” Her eyes swept over Elisewin, as if assessing whether her fragile-looking flesh were up to the task, then gave another curt nod. “And if she is willing to help us, I believe she should be given the chance.”
“I am willing,” said Elisewin at once. “I want to help, if I can.”
Renathal’s claw-like nails gouged furious crescents into the skin of his palms.
The next hour was devoted to details – the specifics of Elisewin’s subterfuge, the plea the prince was to make to Oribos should it succeed, where the rest of the rebellion’s forces should wait, and for how long, before attempting a rescue. The Accuser and Elisewin seemed to take it in inadvertent turns to throw respectively shrewd and furtive glances at Renathal throughout. He ignored them. He knew he ought to be contributing, but he stayed conspicuously silent; and remained so even after the assembly dispersed and he and his consort clambered back into his carriage. As far as he was concerned, the meeting could not have gone worse had the Master himself arrived and sentenced them all to an epoch in the Ember Ward.
In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal mused as his carriage trundled across Penance Bridge, he might have enjoyed, even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Now, however, the thought of pitting himself against his Master inspired a wary dread. And not only because of the beating his effortless deception had inflicted on Renathal’s self-confidence...
His eyes flicked to Elisewin, her smooth, lavender face watching him placidly from the bench opposite, and his stomach clenched. He had never had so much to lose.
"Chin up, your Highness," she said, a teasing lilt to her words. "It really is a decent plan."
Renathal drummed his fingers restlessly against his armored leg.
"It is hardly a plan at all,” he scoffed. “It is a risky gamble, at best."
“No more risk than sitting back and doing nothing while we wait for Denathrius to finally act, or the last of the anima to dry up. Besides…” Elisewin smiled – a sideways smile, all sparkling blue-white eyes and blunt mortal teeth. "Since when is the Dark Prince of Revendreth afraid of a little risk?”
“It is not the risk to myself that concerns me, but to you,” he retorted, claw-like fingernails catching harshly on his tasset’s gold edge. “Should this plan, such as it is, go sour, you will be alone and unprotected. And you can barely hold a rapier. Your chances of defending yourself against even one of the castle’s guards are slim to none, not to speak of the Sire.”
If any of this bitter criticism affected her, Elisewin hid it deftly. She did not blink, or move at all except to sway in time with the carriage, now careening through the Chalice district’s deadly curves.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “There’s no need for it to come to a fight. Apparently,” - she pulled a wry face - “I make a very good distraction.”
“Elisewin.”
There was a note of pain, almost anguish, in the warning way Renathal said her name. Unintentional; and he would have been mortified at the raw vulnerability of it had Elisewin not immediately dropped all attempts at humour, slid to the edge of her seat, reached across the aisle and taken his face in both her hands.
“Renathal,” she said, and infused his own name with a warmth as tangible as the heat from her mortal skin. “Something has to be done about Denathrius. You know it does. And I know you. No matter what you might wish, you will never be able to let this go. Worrying about it will eat you alive. Figuratively speaking.” She wrinkled her nose at the careless metaphor, then hurried on. “You are right to be cautious, but our best chance of success against someone as powerful as he is lies in strategy, and proper use of available resources. Myself included.”
“You are not a resource to be used,” Renathal growled into Elisewin’s face, turning her cheekbones that pretty, heated violet. But she still managed to hold his eyes as she replied, “Am I a friend to be trusted?” and when he could offer no argument to that, continued, “Let me help you, then. Let’s do this together.”
There was something in her voice… a supreme, unbroachable confidence… familiar, though Renathal could not remember hearing it from Elisewin before. And the mélange of feeling it ignited in his chest was familiar as well. Hope. Determination. That electric thrill he associated with battle. Anima effervesced in his veins, vibrating his limbs, urging him to action.
“Well… I suppose,” he admitted, “despite the inarguable danger, executing such a deception under the Master’s nose does sound like a good bit of fun.”
And Elisewin's laugh, her exultant, "That's the spirit, your Highness," and the awkward kiss she planted on his lips despite a sudden jolt of the carriage, drowned out the worries still whispering at the back of Renathal's mind.
"You are to be careful, however," he ordered sternly as she pulled away and resettled herself more safely in her seat. "Assiduously so."
"Of course," Elisewin agreed.
"Very well, then." Renathal indulged in one final dramatic sigh, then peered through the carriage’s narrow slit of a window at the rapidly approaching castle. "Shall we review the plan one last time?"
Its beginning was flawless.
They entered Nathria by the side door from the Bridge of Paramountcy – obvious and unsuspicious, but not so ostentatious as the formal front gate – and set off through the candle-lit labyrinth of staircases and halls, Renathal leading the way. He was aware of the eyes of servants and stoneborn guards on them as they passed; observing their movements, then slipping off through hidden doors to report them to the Sire. All according to plan.
He and Elisewin exchanged only innocuous pleasantries – commentary on various paintings, complaints about the steepness of the stairs – until they reached their destination: the Master’s private library; where Renathal began at once perusing the shelves, pulling down a curated selection of dusty volumes, then arranging himself at a desk with them before requesting, in a casual but carrying voice, his mortal charge visit the kitchens and fetch him tea.
Elisewin’s eye contact was fractionally longer than necessary, her answering, “Of course, your Highness,” a breath too polite. Allowing himself only the briefest parting glance at the back of her scarlet tunic as she disappeared around a corner, Renathal offered a silent prayer to the Purpose that she proved better at distraction than she did at subterfuge, and settled in to wait.
Ten minutes. That was how long they agreed he was to give her before slipping from the library and making his way to Denathrius’ chambers above. Hardly enough time for Elisewin to actually find the Master in the cavernous castle, as would be her story to him or any who challenged her, but plenty long enough for him to find her - the lynchpin on which their whole plan hinged.
And where it collapsed.
Having no timepiece, and the Sire being far less whimsical than his Firstborn when it came to décor, Renathal was relying on instinct alone to judge when ten minutes had passed. He stared sightlessly at the open tome in front of him on the desk and set up a careful count in his head. But he had not made it to sixty even once before -
“Renathal.”
- a rich, resonant, and unexpected baritone almost toppled him from the chair.
“What are you doing?”
Denathrius' voice echoed from somewhere behind him; neither curious nor accusing, but unusually flat, as though reciting lines. Alarm bells clanged in Renathal’s head. Wresting control of his suddenly leaden limbs, he slid from the wooden chair and pushed it under the desk, then turned slowly to face his Master - looming in the library's arched entryway, every regal inch of him preternaturally still.
“My humblest apologies, Sire, I did not hear you arrive,” Renathal began, buying himself time with a bow and a few meticulous adjustments of his coat. He, too, had a story prepared should his presence in the library be questioned, but it would require some ad-libbed additions; the Sire should not have been his audience. “I - that is, we; Elisewin and I - stopped by on a bit of a lark. She has expressed an interest in discovering more about her people - the Shal’Dorei, I believe you once called them? - and I thought such information might indeed prove useful in furthering her atonement. I would have asked your thoughts on the matter, of course, but as you are so busy of late, I preferred not to bother you. It is, after all, of little real importance.”
Renathal paused, wondering if he ought to add more, but a glance at Denathrius convinced him there was no point prattling on. The Master’s face was stern; that carved-in-stone expression Renathal knew only too well hid a brewing storm of anger, and out from which no one, not even the Dark Prince, could talk their way.
But, “Come,” was all the Master said before he turned on his booted hoof and strode away; out of the library and down the adjoining passage, his long pale hair and slashed cape catching the wind of his demanding pace. Not once did he look back to check if Renathal followed – though of course he did, tripping quickly in his Master’s brisk wake. Thoughts of escape, of wending himself into the shadows and summoning the rebellion’s waiting reinforcements, drifted feebly through his mind, but he dismissed them. Elisewin was still somewhere in the castle; mercifully not on the receiving end of the Master’s ire, but one misstep on his part and he knew how quickly that could change. Besides, it was no mean feat extricating his will from the Master’s command. The very fabric of his being tugged at Renathal to obey.
Neither spoke again until they had walked - walked; something Renathal noted significantly and which heartened him even through his writhing nerves - seven flights of stairs and countless halls, finally emerging onto the Master’s rooftop garden. Denathrius crossed this as swiftly, and manually, as he had the rest of the way. His gold and scarlet boots stopped at the very edge of the terrace, and he bent his head to stare through the wisps of blue-grey mist separating the roof from the ground many hundreds of miles below.
Renathal approached more cautiously, wondering if it was the Master’s intention to throw him off. The twilight air around him was thick and foreboding; and sickly-sweet, courtesy of the garden’s indigo flowers whipping about as if caught in some invisible breeze. Revendreth, it seemed, was as uneasy as its prince at their creator’s ominous mood.
“Renathal,” Denathrius said at last, in the same flat voice as before, "you occupy a precarious position.”
He let the words settle between them. Renathal glanced around the terrace.
“I suppose it is rather high,” he said, reckless in his confusion.
But the Master was in no mood for humour. He rotated his neck to stare down at his Firstborn, cowing him with his mere expression, then returned his severe gaze to the courtyard before commanding, "Observe.”
Renathal took another step, stopping at the shallow iron lip that served the roof as balustrade, and, heart pounding superfluously, peered over Nathria’s side. Far, far below, just discernible through the thin mist, three figures emerged from the front gate: two winged stoneborn enforcers half-leading, half-dragging one smaller, slighter being. The sheen of her lavender skin was recognisable even from this height, as were the bared blades the stoneborn clutched in their free hands, and Renathal's heart stopped affecting any beat at all.
“Sire,” he began, voice unexpectedly hoarse, “what are they-”
But Denathrius interrupted him.
“You have a choice before you, Renathal.” And he held out both elegant hands as if to illustrate; lifting one and regarding the upturned palm with solemn reproach. “You may persist in this ridiculous notion that I am somehow capable of corruption and continue down the inevitable path to which such heresy leads..."- the hand clenched into a fist - “...destruction. For you, and all you consider your own. Or…”
Denathrius turned, facing Renathal directly for the first time, and extended his other, open hand.
“You may choose eternity as I have given it to you - complete with every gift and privilege. Because make no mistake, Renathal: every good thing you imagine you possess comes directly from me.”
He paused, allowing the words to hang meaningfully in the heavy, perfumed air, before continuing, his voice more customarily orotund,“There is nothing in this world that is truly your own. Nor have you earned any of it by your own merit. And if you continue to make these poor, poor decisions - prove yourself unworthy of my gifts…” Denathrius glanced pointedly down at the minuscule figures in the courtyard, “I would find myself in the regrettable but necessary position of... taking them away.” He met Renathal’s gaze again and held it; and whatever pretty words he chose, there was no mistaking the glitter of glee behind the sanguine threat.
And with a sudden icy pain in his gut, like the stab of an unseen blade, the Dark Prince of Revendreth believed.
Denathrius was playing with him - with all of Revendreth - and always had been. Every soul in the realm was merely a toy for their Sire’s eternal amusement. All Renathal's half-harboured hopes that this was a mistake, a test perhaps, that his Master had some hidden but justifiable plan, that he might even be impressed by his firstborn's dedication to duty, disintegrated in an instant. He opened his mouth to speak, but could think of no words. He was utterly frozen, from his hair to his boots; impaled to the spot by horror and impotent rage.
Red eyes still lingering on Renathal, Denathrius stretched a hand over the edge of the terrace and gave a careless wave. Renathal's stomach dropped - but the stoneborn below only released Elisewin's arms and sheathed their weapons, granite faces upturned to their Master.
"She is waiting for you, Renathal," said Denathrius, voice silky with condescension. "Go to her. Enjoy her. Enjoy the world I have remade."
An odd choice of words, Renathal noted distantly, but he did not question it. Or any other of his Master’s now-indisputably treacherous deeds. Acting on instinct, or their creator's orders, his legs sprinted him back across the rustling rooftop garden without waiting for input from his shambolic brain. He took the stairs - and the hall beyond, and every floor between him and his unprotected lover - at the same frenzied pace, and did not stop even after he had crossed the castle’s threshold and saw her waiting for him, lavender silhouette standing out starkly against the shrouded twilight.
At the sound of frantic bootsteps, Elisewin turned, and her almost comically enormous blink would have amused Renathal any other time. Now, he felt only relief; and even that, muted - there was little room left in the maelstrom of his mind to register additional feeling. Elisewin opened her mouth to speak as Renathal reached her. A minute shake of his head, like the cocking of a crossbow, killed the words on her tongue. In similarly stiff, silent fashion, he gripped her arm and urged her forward, away from the leering spectre of Nathria and, he was certain, the distantly watching Sire.
They sped through the vast courtyard, Renathal ignoring the curious looks of perambulating nobles and the confusion wafting off his companion in waves; the protests of his legs as he forced them up yet another massive staircase and the familiar shadows of Draven and Chelra swooping low in search of the prince’s signal or report. He gave them neither. His amber eyes were fixed on the growing promise of Darkwall Tower, and he did not speak, did not breathe, did not think again until he had reached it, wrenched the doors open, threw himself and Elisewin inside, and slammed them shut - safe, at last, behind his home's protective wards.
Only… they were not safe, were they?
Renathal dropped abrupt anchor in the middle of his torchlit foyer as he realised, with another eviscerating pain, there was nowhere safe to go. First, his affair with Elisewin; now, his meeting with the rebellion - Denathrius knew everything, and almost as soon as it happened. There truly were no secrets from the Sire.
All the purposeful energy that had carried Renathal from the castle dissipated, leaving a dull, indecisive fog in its wake. Breakfist and his dredger underlings clustered at their master's knees, awaiting commands. But the Dark Prince could only stand, arms limp at his sides, for once, entirely lost for what to do.
It was Elisewin who saved him.
“Breakfist, take your Master’s coat,” said her voice near his ear. Renathal felt the garment in question slipped from his shoulders and firm hands usher him forward. “And have a tray of tea prepared and brought up to his bedchamber,” she continued, moving with him, “then, go and find Chelra and … no, don’t send someone else. You won’t have to go far. I expect she and the General are waiting just outside. Tell them … do not argue. Tell them it didn’t work and we will regroup at a later time. Quick as you like, now.”
The ghost of a joyless smile flitted past Renathal’s lips as Elisewin led him up the tower's winding staircase. She really had become quite free with orders; was surprisingly well suited to them. Her voice brimmed with the same, supreme self-confidence he remembered from their earlier carriage ride - could it really be mere hours ago? - that made unpalatable, even impossible tasks feel effortless. Her hands could do it, too. They coaxed his aching legs up the final steps, down the hall, and into the flickering red candlelight of his bedroom, stopped him by his valet stand and guided his limbs through the removal of his armor, all without uttering a word.
Renathal consented readily. His brain was numb; his body ached as badly as if Denathrius had thrown him from Nathria’s roof. For once, he was grateful to follow someone else’s lead; until, clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers, Elisewin eased him onto the crisply made bed. For one uncomfortable moment, he worried his lover would expect more of him than he could currently give. But she merely piled the silk satin pillows behind him and propped him against them, then toed off her shoes and sat opposite him, legs curled underneath her, hands clasped in her lap.
"What happened?" she finally asked.
The question was gentle; Elisewin's lavender face as she studied him appropriately bland. Nearly a foot of undisturbed coverlet lay between them and no part of their bodies touched, and yet… this felt more intimate to Renathal than many other more adventurous positions they had tried. It drew words from him without thinking.
"We had a ... conversation," he said, voice hoarse after his extended silence.
"You and the Arbiter?"
"Denathrius and I."
Elisewin blinked.
"Oh.”
A knock at the door broke the spell - a dredger servant with the ordered tea. Elisewin shot up, retrieved the laden tea tray, dismissed the dredger, then deposited the tray on the floor by the bed with a careless rattle. Less than a minute’s interruption, but enough time for Renathal to blink away some of his mind's dense fog. He had a choice before him, and only seconds to make it. Any hint of indecision, and Elisewin, resuming her seat, would undoubtedly see.
“What happened?” she repeated, more earnestly this time, her blue-white eyes wide and glowing with a tender concern that made up Renathal's mind.
“Nothing,” he decided. “I'm afraid we were… mistaken.” He paused, pushing back his windswept hair and inhaling superfluously as he cobbled together passable lines. “Denathrius has nothing to do with the drought, after all; beyond doing his best to meliorate the situation. He has deceived us, yes – a regrettable, but necessary position for rooting out where the corruption truly lies. There is nothing we can do. Nothing we need do – except… enjoy ourselves,” - his lips fumbled the Master’s words - “and await the Sire’s next command."
He lifted his gaze as he finished, gauging Elisewin’s reaction. She blinked - as was to be expected - but did not speak. Yet. Renathal braced what brittle mental fortitude the Master had left him for the interrogation that was surely seconds away.
After a minute of laden silence, however, Elisewin only edged closer, knees knocking against Renathal's as she reached for his hands. And it was another full minute of her fingers gliding softly across his tensed knuckles before she finally said, with a hint of wry humour, "You are remarkable at many things, your Highness, but you're a rotten liar."
Another time, Renathal would have taken mild offense - he considered himself quite a dab-hand at duplicity and deception when the situation called for such skills. But he was too exhausted to summon any indignance and too worn for more prevarications. He could only squeeze his eyes shut against Elisewin's watchful gaze and let her fingers work their magic on his hands. Her every touch imbued his cold skin with warm, tangible comfort, the sensation singing its now-familiar song through his anima-starved veins. And, with the third vicious stab of the day, this one leaving him light-headed and nauseous, Renathal realised just how close he had come to losing this - losing her - forever.
Something crumpled in his chest. Quite literally; though he was only aware he had actually collapsed into Elisewin’s lap when his forehead struck her hipbone. Rather hard, if the dull pain in his temple was any indication, but she neither flinched nor pulled away. Her arms closed around him; somehow, everywhere at once - stroking the cramped curve of his spine, his unruly hair, his own arms wound round her waist as if seeking to entangle himself inextricably with her.
“Renathal.” His name quivered on Elisewin’s lips, her rib-cage contracting erratically beneath his clinging hands. “Renathal, tell me what happened. Tell me what he said.”
It was more plea than command, with nothing behind it except what Renathal thought with absent curiousity might be the threat of tears, but he had no strength left to resist it anyway.
“He said…” He struggled for words to sum up everything the Master had said - and not said; the threat in his silence, the warning in his gaze - without having to relive the whole ignominious encounter. “He said ... if we continue to press this … if I continue to press him … he will take you from me...”
A short silence stretched. Renathal wondered if Elisewin had heard him, his voice muffled as it was against her thigh. Then - "Denathrius cannot take me from you," she declared with all her newly adopted self-confidence; both of which Renathal found so offensively ridiculous in this moment, he unwrapped his arms from her torso and pushed off her legs to stare up at her.
"Of course he can!" He struggled to a seat, a sudden renewed spark of anger lending him vigor and vehemence. "He is Denathrius! The Sire! The fangs of the Shadowlands, the Master of this realm! He can do anything here - whatever he pleases, wrong or right. He has powers mortals cannot fathom - powers even I have never dreamed.”
“Why doesn’t he use them, then?” Elisewin asked, infuriatingly calm even inches from the Dark Prince's red-eyed glower. “Why is his realm a disaster? And if he knows about the rebellion, why hasn’t he punished us all already? Thrown us in cages, or the Ember Ward? Or just ended us entirely?”
All excellent questions, and they pulled the rug out from under Renathal’s vitalising surge of rage. Without it to animate him, he sagged again, shoulders slumping against the buttress of pillows Elisewin had erected. She, herself, was there a heartbeat later, hands on his face and forehead pressed to his until her lavender skin and carefully even breaths were all Renathal could see or feel.
“Renathal, listen to me. I love you," she said. It was no lover’s soft reassurance, but a statement of inexorable fact. “I love... everything about you: your beliefs ... your - your dedication ... the way you see reality and your place in it. You are perfect, to me. Probably, you do have flaws, but I can't see them. My love blinds me to them. The same way it blinds you."
She leaned fractionally back on her heels, just enough to meet Renathal’s unblinking eyes. Her hands still held his face, but beneath the gentle comfort was a certain pragmatism; she was not going to let him look away.
"You see Denathrius," she went on, stark and forthright, "through the same lens I see you. You worship him. He is everything to you - good and bad. Even as you hate him, you adore him. But I - I am unburdened by either. I can see him for what he is: a master of lies and manipulation, yes, and certainly not on our side, but… not all powerful. At least, not anymore. Something has weakened him - the drought I suppose. And we can use that against him.”
Renathal shook his head, but threaded his fingers through Elisewin's so as not to dislodge her hands.
"He is merely biding his time," he argued hopelessly. "He does not consider us any real threat. Even at his weakest, he still has more power than all our rebellion combined. If we attempt an open revolt, we will lose. We will lose this." He squeezed her fingers for strength through the selfish admission. "I will lose you.”
“No. You won't," said Elisewin, and there was a surety in her words to give even the Dark Prince pause. “I am not a true penitent soul, am I? And I'm not Denathrius’ creation, to be offered up and snatched back at his whim. He cannot take me from you without force. And if it comes to that sort of fight... well...” she smiled - really, a wistful twist of her lips - and stroked Renathal’s sharp cheek, “that’s why we’re doing this together, remember? Whatever happens, happens to both of us. Destruction or victory.” She leaned into him again, as she finished, “Wherever I go, you are coming, too."
Her mouth, like the rest of her face, was pressed to Renathal's, but neither of them had the stamina to pursue any sort of kiss now. Elisewin's breath was ragged after her uncharacteristically impassioned speech, the harsh inhalations and exhalations fluttering his unruly goatee. And Renathal, drained by the truth in her words and what he desperately hoped would prove true, had no energy left for further fights or more expressive acts of affections. He simply sat, entwined with his lover, savouring each second as they slipped inexorably past, and wishing for a magic that would freeze them in this moment, bind them together forever...
Renathal straightened so suddenly his sharp cheekbone cracked against Elisewin's. This time she did wince, but he barely noticed. A thought had occurred to him that could not wait another of those fleeting seconds to be voiced.
“Soulbind with me.”
“What?” Elisewin asked, prodding gingerly at her face.
“Soulbind with me,” Renathal repeated, the words spilling fast and urgent. “There is a power in that ritual as ancient and timeless as the eternal ones themselves. A magic even Denathrius cannot undo, which is why he does not often permit it. With our souls bound together, he cannot separate us by any means, apart from ultimate destruction. And even that would be much harder to accomplish once you share my power.”
It took Elisewin, still rubbing her cheek, several heartbeats to process this information - her own, mortal heartbeats; Renathal’s redundant muscle dared not move. After what felt to his keyed nerves like an age, she dropped her hand from the new little violet bruise and sighed.
“I keep telling you he can’t, but… if it will make you feel better...”
“Is that a yes?” Renathal asked. "You are... saying yes?" and the hushed, vibrant awe in his voice seemed to alert Elisewin at last to the importance of the question. And the momentous significance of her answer.
Her blue-white eyes met his, their amber fiery with anticipation, and there was no hesitation in them as she repeated, “Yes, Renathal. I’m saying yes.”
Read Chapter 12: Rebels on the Road | Visit the Masterpost
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