He ought not to have been so skittish. This was his home, not hers; and yet, making his way to her now seemed an intrusion of some kind. His family had been charmed by her abilities, treating her like a child with an amusing trick to show them. She had been given a small room on the west side of the castle to perform it for them, but interest had quickly dwindled. Lothric, knowing his uncle well enough to know that he did not associate with common street magicians, could only imagine what had put them off her so quickly. Lorian knew her better than he; she favoured him over Lothric, it seemed, or maybe it was that she found him more approachable. It didn’t bother him. In all honesty, her role was faintly distasteful to him, almost pagan, really. Lorian’s patience was greater than his with such things.
So why was he stealing through the darkness, hiding his face, his hands pulled into his sleeves as he looked for her?
From paces away, he heard her before he saw her. The room she used was in darkness from here, her voice floating out, some soft tune he didn’t recognise. As he approached the doorway, he saw, by dim candlelight, the crow perched on her wrist. It saw him, and its harsh, croaking shriek cut off Velka’s song. She turned as it took off, leaving her to sit, glowering at him, in a corner.
“Ah. Prince Lothric... to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Her tone was neutral enough, but her eyes were already searching. His voice stuck in his throat.
“Come in, will you? It hardly becomes you to lurk like that.”
He took a few steps forward, and the darkness that seemed so much heavier in here swallowed him. Once he was inside, he felt safer somehow, knowing that no one would know he was here.
His fingers emerged from his sleeve and played with the edges of his clothing.
“They say you are goddess of sin...”
“As a title, it is acceptable.”
“And you decide what sin is?”
She only stared at him, idly playing with a strand of her hair.
“How does one decide such a thing? Surely it is not the place of one woman...”
“Is it the place of the King, then? Or the Queen? Or a matter of democracy? In all honesty, personal preference and the thoughts of men have little to do with it. You would be surprised how many claim objectivity as their chief virtue, when in reality, they have not a scrap of it.”
Lothric’s eyes had been reluctant to meet hers; he looked at the floor, then at her feet, then at the hand that toyed with her hair. But as she finished speaking, he allowed himself to look at her directly. There was faint, irritating amusement in her eyes as she looked back at him, one arm hanging over the armrest of her chair, one leg crossed over the other, slumped against the red velvet chair back. Her hair was loose, unlike when he had seen her earlier, and her makeup had been removed, along with her jewellery. All the same, her skin was still flawless porcelain, her eyes sparkling despite the revealed dark circles beneath them. No one could claim she was not beautiful, in a strange, unwelcoming way; but he felt nothing for it. Looking at her was like looking at the work of a particularly skilled painter, rather than at a living object of desire, as so many had given him the impression she was. He wondered if Lorian saw something different.
“You do, then?”
“If I didn’t, I would be incapable of this.” she replied, her hand lazily waving to indicate the room around her, and by extension, it’s purpose.
Lothric’s eyes lowered their gaze to the floor once again. “I... would like to see what it is like.”
Velka’s head tilted. Both twins felt overwhelmingly neutral to her senses, their emotions wiped clean from their minds much of the time, buried under perfected veneers of duty. But now, she felt a spark of something like fear from him. Based on that alone, his meaning became clear, and with some effort, she pushed aside the vague disdain he felt for her and focused on that tiny, barely perceptible tremor.
“To confess, you mean...? You are welcome to, but I question what a child of royals, future lord of cinder, would confess at all...”
An observation, phrased as a question; Lothric sensed that the process had already begun. She rose from the lone chair she sat in and beckoned him toward the back of the room, where blue-tinged moonlight poured in through thin white curtains and partially lit a small table where they could both sit opposite one another.
“It is normal practise for the confessor to kneel,” she said, “But, as it is you...”
Yes. He might well struggle, he knew. His face flushed lightly at her address of his weakness.
“... I would not have Gwyndolin’s nephew bow to me.”
He looked up sharply, confused for a moment.
“Well? How strange it would be. You are almost family to me, after all...”
He would argue that - the line of Lothric was connected to no human bloodline - but he remained silent, and took a seat across from her. She lit no candle, and he was thankful for that; the less she could see of his expression, the better. Silence dragged on, until he looked up and found her looking back at him wearing a faint smile. Expectantly.
“There is no... script?” he asked.
“Not unless you want one. Though, I daresay it will be stolen from the books of the way of white. It can be a useful tool, to encourage one to begin, but I sense you are not in need of it.”
Lothric’s eyes followed marbled patterns on the table-top. She was right. The words were caught behind his lips, held back by fear and uncertainty, but they wanted to be spoken, to be heard by someone who might help him untangle them. As he sat there, it felt as though they were being pulled from him, in her direction, and she became oddly still, expressionless, her presence in front of him marked only by an apparent absence of spirit. She became a beacon for his guilt to follow, and she frightened him.
He lifted a hand to brush a strand of brittle white hair from his face, attempting to keep himself collected, despite the apprehension he felt. His stomach was twisting, the things he wanted to say collecting in his throat and choking him as he fought to make sense of them.
“I...”
Velka remained motionless. Lothric was careful not to meet her eyes, not now, for fear he might lose something of himself in them. In his silence, she spoke for him.
“I sense fear. Sadness. Defiance. Longing. Above all of that, doubt and uncertainty.”
Unable to keep from doing otherwise, he looked up, his grey eyes meeting her violet ones, and at once he was horrified at what he saw, at the awful clarity of her vision and the knowledge that her gaze did not stop at his eyes, that she was looking into him. And suddenly, he was unable to look away.
“You are capable of far higher levels of affection than I realised; but it is not universal, in fact, it is directed. There is nothing for me; some small amount for your family; and the rest is, I can’t see, as if you haven’t admitted to yourself who it belongs to, it appears aimless but feels otherwise... You are not ashamed of it, but you still seek to hide it... How strange...”
She trailed off, and after a moment, her eyes seemed to become human again, though not entirely. She smiled, reassuringly, and shook her head.
“It is no sin to be in love, Lothric.”
The words were hardly out of her mouth before her eyes cleared again, darkening, her expression becoming worried as it mirrored his own; he opened his mouth to speak, to stop her, but he was not certain she would hear him if he did.
“You’re afraid?” she said, “All of a sudden. Were you not aware that you felt it? I see it now - you’re guilty, and terrified, but still that painful tenderness will not leave you - and your guilt does not lie in that, but in your indulgence in it. You torment yourself with it. His eyes are - ah! his! - they show you things you did not know about yourself, his touch makes you ache and you love him, you should not, but you love him...”
She stopped, blinking, her hand to her forehead. Slowly, the normalcy returned to her eyes once more. Lothric was frozen in place; awaiting her judgement. In that moment, he realised why Gwyndolin loved her; she did not exist despite the church, or despite the Lords - she existed outside of them.
“... I...”
“... Yes...?”
“... need a drink.” she finished, sighing as she sat back in her seat, openly exhausted.
Lothric blinked. She saw his confusion and straightened up, leaning her elbow on the table so she could prop herself up on her palm.
“My ruling stands. It is not a sin to love.”
“But...?”
“But what? Hmm? That goes for all. Regardless of the nature of their physical manifestation, if you deem them worthy of such a thing, then they are; unless circumstances change, and your heart takes it back. It is your decision to make; no one else’s.”
“It goes for all?” he repeated, “That cannot be possible.”
“It is.” she nodded, “The only voice you will find objecting to such is that of the churches, and as I said... objectivity. You are correct in that one may feel love for another, and as a result, cause them undue pain or inconvenience, and that may well be punishable. But the feeling itself is not inherently wrong. I would have you remember that.”
The prince’s head tilted at her words. “What concern is it of yours, Lady of Sins...?”
She smiled. “I see a lot of your uncle in you. His own affairs are complex, in all areas, I assure you. But, as you have seen, it is no barrier. You can still be happy. Heavens, child, your life will be cut short as it is; I would encourage you to enjoy it as much as you can before then.”
“But--”
“Regardless -- of all else.”
She knew. She knew. He felt it, the way she had felt the truth in him. And yet, she still blessed him.
He rose from his seat, taking his time to gather himself, feeling a slight tremble in his hands and his legs.
“Eat something,” she said, “It’ll help.”
He looked at her, then nodded. As he made his way out of the room, his attention was called back momentarily by a last piece of advice from her.
“And, Lothric? Off the record... I would remind you that there are some things we do that ought to remain un...said.”
She watched him, his frail figure pausing in the doorway before he ventured out into the night.
When she returned to the room she was sharing with Gwyndolin, he was still awake, sitting in an overstuffed armchair with a book balanced on his lap, tea cup in one hand. Velka sat on the carpet beside him, pulled herself up by the arm of his chair and kissed him when he turned to face her.
“The strangest thing just happened,” she sighed. “Your nephew came to visit me.”
“Oh...? Lorian?”
“Mmh. And immediately after him, Lothric.” she nodded. “... That’s quite enough excitement for this week, I think. I shan’t return tomorrow, we only have a few days left here, and I daresay I’ve seen everyone now.”
Gwyndolin nodded, his eyes unfocused, thoughts on the princes. “Yes... I would agree with that...”
