Elanor heard the footsteps approaching and nearly leapt from her vanity, her heart in her throat. It had been six hours—six! Her uncle had never kept him this long. Something must have happened, something dreadful, something—She couldn’t finish the thought. Instead she waited, ten paces from the double doors, hands clasped in plain sight and eyes on the floor. It was the same way she always waited when Symon was called on to make a public appearance. This time, she couldn’t keep her hands from trembling. When that door opened, what state would her brother be in? Would he be there at all?
Stop that, Elanor, she hissed. Symon is fine. You are fine. You still have time. You’re not dead ye—
“Away from the door, princess,” barked a voice, and Elanor bit back a smart reply. Haughtiness and sarcasm might be satisfying, but they’d earn her nothing but trouble. And she desperately needed to see her brother.
When sufficient time had passed, she heard the locks on the door click out of place. Then, much too slowly for her tastes, the doors swung open. Elanor kept her eyes on the floor.
The guards in the blue and silver of Estelos marched in, resting the butts of their halberds on the floor. Behind them, another two figures entered. Elanor, who could only see their shoes, dared to look up; for a moment she stared. Then she gasped, her mind finally making sense of the scene.
Two knights had escorted her brother into the room. One she didn’t recognize, but the other was Oksana Yurievsky, their guardian and fellow prisoner. Her hair was pinned back into a simple, elegant bun and she wore her dress uniform and no weapon. Elanor realized belatedly that the other knight held Oksana’s scabbard in his hands. Because, of course, Devenroe would never have allowed her a proper lance; not even for show. Still, a sword was dangerous. Though it was not her best weapon, Oksana could do a fair bit of damage with even the dullest blade. No doubt it was made of wood, or the sheath was altogether empty.
But the knight’s presence was not what surprised Elanor. Instead of a sword, Oksana bore another burden: namely, her brother the prince. Symon was draped across the knight’s arms, head lolling, eyes unfocused, skin pallid and sheened with sweat. He looked like he was dying, truly dying, and Elanor’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of him.
“Symon!” The princess managed two steps forward before the soldiers picked up their halberds, blades pointed straight at her.
“Not another step,” growled the unknown knight. Elanor halted, teeth grinding in rage.
“That’s your prince, your traitor—”
“Elanor.” Oksana’s voice was low, strained, but it cut through her outburst as if it were water. Elanor met her eyes, and the knight shook her head.
“He’s fine,” she assured the girl. She must have thought better of it, for a moment later she added softly, “He will be. Now is not the time for panic.”
Elanor swallowed and nodded, retreating with the knight as Oksana carried her brother to the bed farther in. There were two, actually, not counting the cot Oksana slept on in the main room. It was easier to keep them in check if they were altogether, and the bedroom, lavish as it was, was little more than a comfortable cell. Oksana crossed to Symon’s bed and laid the prince down with a gentle hand. Then she turned to the guards, fury flashing in her green eyes.
“Send someone with water,” she growled, “and some clean cloths. Now.” When neither thy not the knight made any reply, she strode toward them, fists clenched. The soldiers snatched up their halberds again at her approach, and even the other knight put hand to sword.
“We are not your—”
Oksana cut him off. “Get them, and get them now, or you’ll have the king’s own wrath upon your heads. If he dies, this little charade of his is over, and the king will have one less life to bargain with.” Her eyes narrowed, and Oksana’s lips curled into a small, predatory smile. “And if the thought of Devenroe’s ire doesn’t scare you, imagine having to deal with mine.”
That got their attention, and all three scurried out, shouting for the servants.
Elanor climbed up on the bed beside her brother, tucking her legs beneath her and resting his head in her lap. She ran her hands over his face—his cheeks, his forehead. Symon’s kin was hot to the touch, feverish and slick with a thin layer of sweat. His breathing labored, her brother faded in and out of consciousness, eyes unseeing even when they flickered open. He seemed to want to say something, perhaps to ask her a question, but all she could make out were soft whimpers of pain and the broken syllables of her name.
Voice breaking, she looked up at Oksana. “What happened?”
Oksana sighed, pulling a stool close to the bed and sitting next to them. She looked absolutely furious, and more than a little concerned.
“Made a sport of him is what he did, ,” she said finally. “Him and his damned dinner guests. It’s bad enough Symon goes through this every time! Bastard has no idea what it’s like, what mungroot does to a person, even in small doses…” Letting the thought die in a half-whisper, the knight laid an unsteady hand on Symon’s, stilling the prince’s own twitching fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a time. Her gaze never left Symon’s face, but Elanor knew she was speaking to the princess as well. “I’m supposed to protect you, but I’m just as much a prisoner as the both of you. I can’t even keep this from happening.” Oksana sat back, letting go with a huff. “I may as well be drugging him, myself.”
“Oh Oks, that’s not true at all!” Elanor exclaimed. “What are you supposed to do, take on the whole Estellan army by yourself?”
The knight snorted. “I did that in Illyria. When I was fifteen.”
“Technically, you only fought one of them.”
“The others were too scared to fight a girl, and thus they all forfeit, to a man. That counts.”
Despite herself, Elanor smiled. It was a favorite story of Oksana’s, and one she knew well. “I don’t think Devenroe is going to forfeit anytime soon. Not when he’s holding all the cards.”
Oksana growled, a low, furious sound. “Mad prince, indeed!” she snapped. “What sort of king—what sort of man raises his own nephew only to steal his crown and poison him for sport?”
Beause that was exactly what had happened. Elanor’s parents, King Neithan and Queen Iridia, had died when she was only eight years old. Their ship, returning from a diplomatic mission in the south, had been caught in a great storm and never come out again. Symon, the oldest and thus heir to the throne, had been too young at eleven to wear the crown, and so Devenroe—their uncle and the king’s brother—had been named regent until Symon was old enough to rule.
It had been a sensible arrangement until late last year, when Devenroe had produced his own heir. With his new son came an idea, temptation too delicious to resist, and their uncle had locked them away and stolen the crown outright.
The ruse was elaborate but well done, and for all Estelos knew the prince had lost his mind. Symon’s supposed madness had set in rapidly. At first, it had been spiked wine at important dinner parties. The prince would act out, almost as if drunk, or see things that no one else could see. His episodes escalated quickly from a matter of moments to nearly an hour. Symon himself could not explain it, and Elanor nearly believed the lie himself. It wasn’t until Oksana had uncovered the mungroot in Symon’s food and nearly blown the scheme wide open that they learned the truth.
Mungroot. Elanor cringed at the name alone. It was a recreational drug, an her bthat grew in the highlands that separated Estelos from her northern neighbors, the Lachirim. “Recreational” was being generous in her estimation; people had died from the stuff, although in truth she didn’t know if it was from the herb itself or as a consequence of its hallucinogenic effects.
And Devenroe had been feeding it to her brother for weeks. He’d almost gotten away with it, too.
Actually, he was still getting away with it; the difference was that now, they were all complicit. Oksana’s discovery had bought them some time, and maybe a little mercy. These days Symon was mostly lucid: his reward for going along with Devenroe’s plot. Unless he was needed in the public eye, the prince was confined to their joint quarters and allowed to be himself, free of the herbs effects. When he did make an appearance, he ingested it willingly and allowed himself to become his uncle’s fool. In turn, Elanor went unmolested and unharmed, playing the role of the dutiful, grief-stricken sister; the princess too young and distracted to properly govern. Oksana remained as their personal guard, but even she was only useful to Devenroe as long as her imprisonment kept her father, the Estellan general, in check.
Sooner or later, their luck would run out. Her uncle would decide they were less trouble to him dead, and that would be the end of it. But for now, Symon’s compliance was buying them precious time. Elanor just wished there was some other way.
“W… wa…”
Symon, still barely lucid, lifted a limp hand. His sister took it in hers, entwining their fingers and giving them a squeeze. He looked up at her, then, eyes squinting against the low light.
“E-Elanor…?”
“Shh. Yes, it’s me,” she answered softly. With her free hand she brushed his bangs back, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “It’s really me. I’m here. Oksana, too.”
“O-oh. Good. I’m… never… sure, anymore…” He lifted their joined hands as if to kiss hers, but Symon’s strength gave out and he settled for resting them on his chest. “…Our room?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re back. You’re safe.” Her voice broke. Weren’t older brothers supposed to take care of their sisters? How had it come to this?
Symon relaxed against her, his breath coming easier now. The drug must have been working its way out of his system. Still, the fever hadn’t subsided, and his grey eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
“Could I… I’m so—”
“Water is coming,” Oksana told him, glowering over her shoulder at the door. The soldiers should have returned by now. “I’m so sorry, Symon. I’ll fetch it myself if they don’t return soon.”
Symon smiled, or tried to; it came out more a grimace than anything. “They forget to lock… the door?” he laugh-wheezed. “No, Oks. Stay. Please?”
The plaintive note in that please was the knight’s undoing. Her expression softened. “Of course, my prince,” she answered. “You’re right. My place is here.”
The answer appeased him, and Symon sighed. “…Hard to breathe,” he said after a moment. “Like a—a—an elephant on my chest. There’s not, is there?”
“No,” Elanor answered, “no elephant.” Normally the question would have made her laugh, but it was such an earnest one that she felt her heart breaking. Symon, oblivious to this, only nodded.
“Oh. Good. I… I didn’t think so.”
The locks on the door clicked once more, and Oksana was across the room before the last clicked into place. A servant girl, redhaired and quaking, entered the room with the two soldiers from before. She carried a tray with a pitcher of water, several small tin cups, and fresh white linens.
“F-for the prince,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously between the guards and Oksana. The knight smiled, taking the tray with genuine gratitude, and that seemed to ease the girl.
“Thank you,” said Oksana, and without sparing the soldiers another look she was at Symon’s side again. As the three left and the locks latched back into place, Elanor wondered if the girl had any idea what was really going on.
Probably not. Nearly everyone thought Symon was mad, these days.
“There, see?” Elanor said, smiling with such false cheer she thought her face might crack. “Water, just like Oks said.”
Symon only nodded. His eyes had drifted closed again, and he seemed to be drifting off. That, or he was focused on his breath, which (it seemed to Elanor, anyway) had become more rasping and shallow.
“Stay with me, Symon,” she whispered, stroking his hair with the hand he wasn’t clutching with all his meager strength. His eyes flickered open, his gaze on the ceiling unfocused.
“Are we… going somewhere?”
“Not yet,” was Oksana’s immediate reply. “Maybe not for a while; but soon.” She passed the princess a moistened cloth and poured him a drink. “When you’re well again.”
Symon’s face scrunched up in response. “Where will we go?” he asked. “Can we… Are we going home? Oh! Can we go see—go see the ships? I miss those…”
“Maybe someday,” answered Elanor. She wiped his face and neck with a gentle touch, wiping away the sweat and soothing the heat of his skin. The coolness seemed to bring him some relief, for he shivered once and relaxed; his breathing eased enough that he sighed, only coughing a little.
“Gods, that’s… so much better,” he murmured. “I’m so—my body is so…. Hot. Tingly.”
Elanor shushed him again. “We know, Syme. We’ll take care of you, I promise.” Taking the cup Oksana offered her, the princess shifted Symon gently and, with the knight’s assistance, sat him upright enough to give him a drink.
At first, her brother refused, and it took some coaxing to get him to drink. He kept murmuring not again under his breath as he shook his head, but finally Symon relented and allowed them to nurse him. After that, he drank greedily, and Elanor had to slow the flow lest he choke on it. The prince fell into an uneasy sleep after that, his head still in his sister’s lap. Elanor wished she could do the same. She felt fatigued as the adrenaline of panic finally left her body, as only exhaustion rushed to fill the void it left behind.
She felt something cool pressed into her free hand, and it took her a moment to realize Oksana had poured her a glass of water, as well.
“Drink,” advised the knight. “It’ll help.”
Elanor nodded, realizing for the first time that she was, in fact, parched. She drained the cup quickly, and Oksana poured her a second without pause.
“Thank you.”
The knight only nodded, and the two of them fell into pensive silence.
Symon was already looking better, Elanor decided. His skin had cooled since they had brought him in, and some of his color was returning. A wave of relief washed over her, and for the first time since her brother had returned, she found herself truly smiling.
After a moment, the princess lifted her head. “Did you mean that, Oksana?” When the knight looked at her quizzically, she said, “About going away soon.”
Oksana set her tin cup on the tray with a light metallic clink and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees as she met the girl’s gaze.
“Every word,” she said. Her voice was like stone, cold and solid and steady. “I don’t know how, yet, and I may need your help, but I’m done being used as a pawn. We are not leverage, and we are not puppets made to dance at the false king’s every whim. I’m done playing on Devenroe’s stage. Symon may not survive the next time, and I cannot let that happen.” She met the princess’s gaze, and Elanor could see the cold determination in her eyes. “I swear to you, princess, we’ll get out of here if it kills me.”
Seeing the girl’s horrified expression, she added, “I’m your guardian, Elanor. Yours, and Symon’s. It is my job to keep you safe, to defend your very lives, even if it costs mine.” Here she smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I want to die. I plan to get us all out of here. All three of us.”
“Then we’ll put Syme on the throne and show Uncle how a true king of Estelos behaves,” Elanor added darkly. Oh, the thought of escape, of throwing Devenroe’s plot back in his face, was so satisfying that she almost displaced her sleeping brother in her excitement. “…Do you really think we can, Oks? Can we beat him?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” answered the knight. She sat back, staring out the barred windows at the castle grounds and her city beyond. “But we have to try. For the country’s sake.”
“For Symon,” said the princess. Oksana smiled, her eyes sad. She reached across the bed, hesitated; then she brushed her fingers along the sleeping prince’s jaw.
Once again, please check the trigger warnings before proceeding, since this story will probably have death, violence and angst and mentions of blood.
Cover made with Canva, crossposted on my AO3 account.
A silent figure walked through the busy streets of Nelaghati. Draped in a simple cotton sari and a few ornaments, she blends in easily with the bustling crowd. She pulled her pallu over her head, partly because of the heat, partly to avoid anyone recognising her.
There will be plenty of time to get back to her later. First, let us have a look around this charming town.
Nelaghati was a beautiful, busy place. Bursting with colour and life, this kingdom was sure to enthrall any who came by.
Now, our 'Silent Figure' was walking in the streets of Nelaghati's biggest marketplaces. The area is buzzing with people. Vendors selling their wares, street performers performing, a suspicious person selling even more suspicious trinkets, and so many more things, but if we stop to list them all we will never get to the point.
She hurried past all the people trying to stop her, to convince her to try their items, to warn her about all those 'other sellers' who won't have such amazing quality or prices, but eventually she escapes them all, and found her way to a secluded spot, where a horse with a velvety brown coat and a black mane was impatiently waiting for her. It neighed disapprovingly.
Now, here's two things about the horse that our reader might find interesting. One, that it belonged to Aditi, AKA our 'Silent Figure'; and two, that it bore the royal seal.
Aditi lowered her pallu and lovingly stroked the horse. She held up a dusty old book.
"Look what I got!"
The horse seemed unimpressed.
"Hey, hey, look, I'm sorry. I came back here as soon as I could."
It seemed satisfied with her - admittedly flimsy - apology and she mounted it in a second, gently squeezing its side with her legs to make it start moving.
They rode for a while, gradually gaining speed , Aditi getting more and more harrowed by the second. They soon reached the small wood that bordered the palace.
The wood was a wonderful resource, and although it was certainly very pleasant, it would take a while to get through, which only increased Aditi's distress.
"Tvarte, tvarte," She urged her horse on as calmly as she could, which was, to be fair, not very calm. "We're running late!"
Somehow managing to get to the palace in record time, she led her horse to the stables, unbridling, untacking and giving it water. She assigned the stable hand to groom it, and after making them swear not to tell anyone she had been out, she headed towards her chambers, hoping to make it there without anybody else seeing her.
"Aditi! Where have you been?!" She heard a familiar voice hiss into her ear.
"Rekha, hey, do you mind not telling anyone?"
Rekha, her handmaiden, rolled her eyes.
"You're lucky no one noticed. Yet. And what's that you're trying to hide?"
Aditi raised her hands in surrender, one hand still grasping the dusty old book.
"You got me."
"Wait, wait, wait. So you sneaked out, even though you knew that you could get into massive trouble for that, all for a Dusty Old Book?
"Yes?"
"... alright. Let's get you cleaned up before someone notices."
Aditi grinned. "You're a lifesaver, Rekha."
Rekha made no reply and simply led Aditi away, all the while chastising her about how much trouble she would have gotten into - to which Aditi could only smile ruefully and utter a quick apology - and quickly scrubbed her down, removing all the branches and brambles and dirt she had managed to get in her hair. She waited as Aditi got dressed in her more 'regal' sari, and royal ornaments, and then gently wove gajra flowers into her silky black tresses, which had been tied up in a low bun.
"So, where did you get the book?"
"Sarva Chowk."
"You're always in Sarva Chowk. Mind telling me what exactly so is so special about that book?"
Aditi shrugged. "I just thought it looked neat."
"Aditi, you know you're my best friend, right?"
"Of course, and you are mine."
"I say this with all the love I can, but that is the dumbest reason I have ever heard for breaking curfew."
"Would you believe me if I said I agree but... it felt like it was holding some kind of power over me. You know?"
Rekha tilted her head sideways in confusion.
"Are you telling me the truth?"
"Now, Rekha, when have I ever lied to you?"
"We're not opening that can of worms. Just... open the book and let's see what's written in it. Not like we have anything better to do anyways."
Aditi nodded, dusting off the book and setting it at her table.
She slowly opened it, as though expecting something exciting to happen. She peeked at the pages, hoping to find something magical, perhaps. She didn't know why she felt like that, to be completely honest. She just felt as though something would happen. Gut feelings couldn't be wrong.
Not being able to bear the suspense any longer, she pulled the book open completely.
She didn't know why she had gotten so worked up.
"Oh, great." Rekha muttered. "It's blank."
Aditi plopped onto her bed in despair. She had hoped something would happen, something different, something new.
Something that would free her from this routine. Something that would change anything.
Much of her rebellious nature could be chalked up to her sheltered life as a royal. The tedious routine, the same thing every day, again and again, like clockwork.
The rigid rules were like chains that bound her, restraining her, keeping her back from her full potential.
No, Aditi, you can't do that, that wouldn't be proper, now, would it? You are going the be the queen one day, Aditi, you are going to need to learn how to behave.
She had been alive for nineteen years, yet she had never once lived.
Forgive her for wanting something, something fun, something dangerous, something new.
Forgive her for wanting to live a little.
Anyway, while we had been delving into Aditi's emotional backstory, Rekha noticed something rather... interesting.
"Aditi... your hair... it's glowing!"
~~~~
Glossary:
Tvarte (sanskrit)- quick
Taglist (let us know if you want to be added/removed):
Was doing some thinking about the Hawke brothers’ parents in their new universe... They’re basically the same, but here’s what I’ve got:
Zeke:
Ethan looks just like him, but Gil acts just like him-- when he’s behaved, anyway
Was an officer in the Levantine army; the two older boys followed in his footsteps
Zeke is pretty self-assured: loud, the center of attention, generally likable and charming, and really good at what he does. He’s the perfect officer. At least when the higher-ups are looking.
Not so much a lady’s man as generally, well... he’s always surrounded by hopefuls (of all genders); he’s actually fairly clueless about it all, unless he himself is interested
Norah:
Neal is DEFINITELY her kid: passionate, fiery, bit of a know-it-all
Actually, she couldn’t stand to be around Zeke at first; she thought he was too arrogant, when he’s really just himself (it’s all a bit Pride and Prejudice, really-- but more on that later)
She’s also the daughter of Zeke’s SO-- ruh roh!
Loves dancing-- it’s one of the few things that bring her true joy. In fact, her dream was to be a performer, which she accomplishes with relative ease
She winds up going on the road for a while. She and Zeke exchange letters while she’s away. (Z’s teased mercilessly for it. He gives no figs.)
Eventually, she starts an arts school in Levant; she is still headmaster, although she dances less every year.
Their Story:
Zeke and Norah met at a military ball-- and by met, I mean watched each other from a distance. It was love at first sight for Zeke. There was no lack of interest on Norah’s part, either, but neither had a chance to talk. Mostly, they exchanged glances and comically missed each other at every turn. Zeke was always surrounded by a crowd but turned down every dance partner; it made him seem standoffish and conceited in Norah’s mind, when really he just has two left feet and hates dancing. He couldn’t quite get up the courage to ask her to have her feet stepped on, and by the end of the night neither had made a move.
Months pass. They don’t see each other again until one day Norah visits her father (Zeke’s superior officer) at work. Undeterred, Zeke determines right then and there to ask her out at the next ball. His friends try to discourage him. Zeke decides to take dancing lessons.
At the next ball, he makes his move. Norah is surprised and a little reluctant but she eventually agrees. It gives her a chance to confront him:
“Why don’t you dance with anyone else?”
“I’m not interested in anyone else. ...And also I can’t dance.”
“You’re doing fine, now.”
“I, uh, I took lessons, actually. I didn’t want to step on your toes.”
He’s clearly embarrassed and seems to be telling the truth, and Norah decides to give him a chance.
The next few weeks are a whirlwind for them both. Norah is always pulling him along, showing him new and colorful things and opening up his world. Later, when they were older, he’d admit, “I used to think I’d seen it all. Then I met your mother, and the floor opened up beneath me and dropped me into a whole new world.”
For Norah, Zeke became a foundation. He was a steady rock, a ground for her wild electric heart. Being a traveling performer is never easy, but Zeke was her confidence, her reassurance, her biggest fan. He encouraged her at every step and held her hand during the hardest times. “He was and always will be my heart’s defender.”
They were married hardly a year later, with everyone’s blessing. Zeke continued to serve, a career military man well into his later years. Norah followed her dreams and joined a dance troupe; she performed well into her 30s (even after three boys!) and only quit after an injury forced her hand. After that, she began teaching out of a little rented building in Levant. This was the start of the Levantine School for the Arts which she still runs to this day.
The Hawkes have seen their share of hardship and celebrated nearly 30 years of triumphs, but their greatest joy has been to do so together.
"Back to the ship, I guess?" Nock said with a sigh. "Then off to a spooky mountain pass that's been abandoned for fifty years!"
"Yeah, well, it's better than sitting around doing nothing," Molly answered with a shrug. "Besides, this was what we wanted, right?"
"Yeah... something more to do than nothing at all," he agreed. "Why can't bad guys ever do things in bright butterfly-filled meadows?"
"Because butterflies are hardly evil," Elanor explained. "Although I don't much like the sound of these night creatures."
"Butterflies can be evil! You haven't been around Mye long enough, that's all!" Nock said, shuddering involuntarily.
Allegra, who had been witness to the smoke butterflies on many occasions, looked at him in confusion. "She uses them for evil?" she asked.
"Attack butterflies," he said with a nod. "Evil attack butterflies with teeth."
"Teeth? They're made of smoke!"
"Yes, and they bite you. Fangs. Here, look!" He rolled up his sleeve, showing her a series of small scars on his arm; Deuce peeked over his shoulder and chuckled.
"You liar. You got those when you broke her favorite tea set. She gave you hallucinations for a week," he said; Nock looked at him in disbelief.
Allegra laughed. "That does sound like Mye..."
"I'm telling you--butterflies with fangs," Nock protested.
