Rhema I: A Jester's Throne
The Eleventh Day of the Ninth Moon, 872 AD
Anaria, Western Teleytaios, Klironomea.
"The hour grows late, and you have yet to move."
The young Prince looked out of the window and snorted. It was the early morning, hardly what one would call late, but then he supposed that he had never really been one for attending meetings and the like on time. He shrugged at the woman who had turned to look at him.
"I got lost on my way here?"
The words came out more as a suggestion than a statement. To be honest he didn't care what Marshal Crowe thought, the woman had made it clear that her support belonged to him no matter his own actions. In a way it was comforting to have someone skilled in the martial arts so close to him. By all means, he trusted in his own abilities to protect himself if it all went to shit, and he knew Seventh definitely kept a few tricks, and knives, up their sleeves, but he wasn't sure if he could protect everyone else he was supposed to either. Her though... well, there was a reason she was the first woman in Teleytaios to reach the rank of Marshal-at-Arms. If anyone could get someone out if it went to shit, it was her.
"-my Prince?"
He blinked twice, his gaze refocusing.
"Hm? My mind ran away from me again. Why were we meeting?"
Her eyes softened somewhat, clearly misinterpreting forgetfulness for madness, but there was no other indication that she cared to pursue that thread, or Angels forbid, pitied him. When he saw the pity in his brother's eyes after he slipped up on the night of their reuniting it nearly broke him, though his willingness to move past it was one of the ways Rhema could reaffirm that he wasn't any less himself for his bouts.
Nights like that always tasted of fresh grapes and fine wine.
A hand was laid on his shoulder, calloused and heavy but surprisingly gentle.
"Come, Hieromonk Auldwyrm and the Seer await our arrival. Events are moving faster now than ever before. Have you heard the rumours from the south?"
The south? They were in the south right now, and he had yet to hear of any happenings. Well, he had yet to listen in any Inner Council meetings either, so he couldn't be completely absolved of blame there. It wasn't his fault that all the meetings were so boring! Wait, did she say-
"Hieromonk Auldwyrm? As in, head of the Drake Church?"
She nodded, rebuking him while she did so.
"If you refer to the Cult of Ampithere-Worship as such I doubt he will be so friendly towards you. They may be a minor sect of the faith now, but they are venerable and proud."
"Too proud. The dragons have been gone from the world for as long as anyone knows. If there is any basis in their beliefs, it's long since lost relevance. And their insistence on only using High-Klironomean in their iconography, liturgy and literature is infuriating and endemic of that pride. Honestly, the Drakotheous Agiathos? Come on, it sounds cool but so do the names of all of the major sects when spoken in High-Klironomean. Archaearchonian Agiathos, Anoikos Idonistikos Agiathos, Athorybe Agiathos Aenethar-"
Marshal Crowe must have realised he had lost his trail of thought, and cut him off before he could continue, eyebrow raised.
"I wasn't aware you paid attention in your religious studies. Forgive me for the assumption, but I could never imagine you paying attention to scripture."
He shrugged noncommittally. She wasn't wrong, he hadn't ever paid attention in the lectures he'd been subjected to, he much preferred studying in his own time, or else with a friend. He'd hyperfixated on the Church of the Saint in all of its variations for a while after his madness had first started manifesting, hoping that it would lead to his 'salvation', whatever the fuck that even meant to him anymore.
The arrogance of his religious lecturers brought back old feelings of anger when he walked. He must have partaken in dozens of methods to satiate his madness throughout his life. What right did the clergy have to condemn his vices? When he was younger, he had spent more time praying each day than most did in a month. He would confess, he would light candles, he would listen to the sermons, sing the hymns, walk amongst processions of flagellants, all of it for nothing. When he knelt before the stone carving of the crucified mother and the stained glass depicting the hanged son, he poured his soul out to them, and they ignored him. He had never trusted the church since then, never willingly set foot in a holy place. How could he, when he knew he was not wanted by the divine? He wondered if his brother had ever had that same feeling of aloneness, of being cast adrift amidst an inky-black sea. He hoped not. He didn't deserve to feel that way. He couldn't think of anyone who did.
Once, not that long ago, he had a nightmare in which he stood before not a statue of the crucified mother, but the crucified form of the young Seer in his retinue. The young servant looked terrible, as though they were hours from death, with tears of blood leaving pink trails from their eyes to their cheeks, hair matted and suck to their head with sweat and ichor. He still remembered the way Seventh had gasped between, slow, shallow breaths.
"My Lord, My King, My God, forgive them, they don't understand what they're doing."
He remembered waking up and immediately throwing up afterwards. Ever since nightmares had always tasted of sweat and fear. When he had seen the same image again while scrying it had sent him into a nervous breakdown that had lasted the rest of that day and the next, and neither he nor Seventh felt comfortable scrying for some time after that, the sight of one of his closest friends dying a death as slow as that dampening any enthusiasm he had for dream-magics for weeks, especially seeing as their abilities painted them in a very negative light in the eyes of the overly-zealous idiots that made up the more radical followers of the church.
He sighed as they came to a stop outside his private quarters. It would do him no good to get stuck in the past at the moment. He could indulge himself in happy memory after happy memory as much as he liked when the grand performance was through and the curtains drawn.
"After you."
Came the voice to his left as the door was opened for him.
He braced himself for dealing with another zealot, letting out a resigned sigh.
"Fine."
As it turns out, he needn't have worried. Hieromonk Auldwyrm, despite looking older than any man he had met before and styling himself as the highest authority for the Drakotheous Agiathos was actually a very salt of the earth, respectable man. He didn't ramble endlessly about piety, he didn't shout and wave his fist around, and most importantly, he was smart.
When Rhema first entered the room, he was pleasantly surprised to find the old man engaged in polite, perhaps even friendly, conversation with Seventh who was sat opposite. Both were drinking nettle and cow parsley tea and the old man seemed not at all put off by the blindfold Seventh insisted on wearing constantly. There was a part of him that wished that Seventh could have arrived a few days earlier, if only to have met with Lyk. He imagined Seventh awkwardly standing in place as his brother looked him all over like some kind of fascinating experiment. An obsession with the occult must have run in the blood, somewhat at least. He broke himself from his humorous reflections as the old man rose to greet him.
"Your Highness! It is wondrous to meet you at last. There are several things to discuss, but most importantly, you have my support in the coming weeks. Whether you stake your claim or back down, we will follow your lead."
He looked at the man, saying nothing. Eventually Marshal Crowe must have felt too awkward just standing there, and elected to continue the conversation herself. To be honest, Rhema was just surprised at the man's seeming inability to find anything startling. He was in a room with a Prince with a reputation for madness and butchery, the only woman he knew of who held a high military rank and a blindfolded mystic. The three made for quite the odd group, but then this was a man who worshipped the memory of long-dead monsters that had once devoured armies and torched cities on a whim. Looking at it that way, Rhema supposed that maybe this wasn't a man able to make rational judgement calls.
"Our Prince thanks you for your support. We understand that there is much contention over the throne after the tragic death of King Cordan, and the backing of an organisation as prestigious as yours will surely help our cause."
Rhema held back a scoff. Prestigious? A handful of disconnected, scattered hamlets and the occasional village of adherents were all that remained of the Dragon Church, most of them even more insular and inbred than the usual remote lowborn settlements in the Heptarchy. He saw a small gleam in the man's eyes. I guess he isn't completely immune to pride and sweet talk after all.
He stopped himself from saying anything reckless and endangering his plans when he spoke, trying to find something to bring up to lessen his own awkwardness having not said anything this whole time.
"What were the two of you talking about when we entered the room?"
"Ah, I was explaining to the young Seer here the difference between the various subspecies of dragon. Whilst High-Klironomean sees them all as the same, the lowborn dialect knows well to mark the differences between them, such as the lack of legs on an Ampithere, or the lack of wings on a Drake."
The Prince nodded, pretending to be interested. Such flights of fancy had once had him view these creatures as the most interesting things he had ever learned of, but as with most things, the hyperfixation left as soon as it arrived. Still, here was a man willing to risk unofficial persecution and harassment to travel here and proclaim his support for him in person. A snub or rebuke would be rude and counterproductive here, especially since the Hieromonk was nice to Seventh. If he wasn't then Rhema would've had no qualms with being petulant, but that didn't matter at the moment.
"Well then." He clapped his hands together. "Let's get started!"
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When the talks concluded two hours had passed in relative peace. Hieromonk Auldwyrm parted in good spirits with a promise to bring a thousand men from across the realm to the northern district, just as Rhema asked him to. All that was left was to speak with Crowe.
"Your Highness. You keep something from me. I have controlled my curiosity thus far out of respect, but if something important is being withheld from me I would like to know if at all possible."
He squirmed in his seat. He couldn't care less about keeping information from her, but when she looked at him like that, he felt like a child being chastised again. Do I tell her? It would allay her fears and she deserved that much from him at least, but that raised risks by itself. Should he-
There was a small flash of a gentle blue light from around Seventh's blindfold, and another cryptic prophecy made itself known, using the young Seer as a mouthpiece.
"Horse and rider, longship and wings,
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
blood and tears from the death of Kings,
the maker awakens, entombed in stone,
his dreams lie shattered, save his throne."
Marshal Crowe looked at the young servant with something approaching timidity, or as close as was possible for someone as remarkable as her to feel. She sighed as she made her way to the door.
"I will see myself out on that note. Please, if there is something I should be made aware of, let me know."
Seventh turned to him when the door latched shut. Rhema smiled back, though they couldn't physically see it.
"Well, that saved me from that predicament. Thank you."
"I had no control over that, as you well know. I still don't understand why you don't tell her. There're few people you can trust more than her, so why leave her in the dark?"
There was a knock at the door.
"Brother? I come with a proposition. I ask for an audience."
Rhema grimaced at the prospect of talking to her, but knew it would have to be done at some point if he ever wanted to see his plans come to fruition. He nodded at Seventh, who stood to open the door. Before he reached the door, Rhema bid him listen one last moment.
"In order to fool your enemies, you first have to fool your allies. If my own advisors believe it..."
"Then she will too..." He saw Seventh let out a grin to rival his own, seeing what the prince was getting at. "Understood, my Prince."
"Your Highness."
In an instant Seventh had reverted to the perfect image of courtly manners. Their bow was poised and perfect, their tone equal parts respect and deference.
It was enough to throw Roma off her own courtly act for a moment.
"Ah yes... you. How very..." Rhema watched as his sister's face struggled to find a polite term for "unnerving". Eventually, she settled on one. "... unexpected." That got a laugh out of the prince. Unexpected? Who was she expecting to find if not the person who had spent the last two years as his shadow, the Angels-Damned Patriarch?
"Your brother has had a long day so far. What is it that brings you here, your Highness?"
His grin grew, threatening to split his face. She had never liked his little Seer, hated hated hated their pagan magics and foresight. Watching her attempt to remain civil as they spoke to her was almost worth having to put up with her by itself. She looked over to him, her smile clearly strained. Looking at her false smile caused his own grin to drop. He hated that smile, it always tasted of perfume and poison and deceit. Still, he had a part to play in this grand performance, and play it he would.
"Oh come now sister, they're only curious as to your reasons for coming here. After all, you do have a reason for being here, don't you?"
He laughed at the thought of her willingly speaking to him, thought of the disgust she must be feeling, having to ask him of all people for help, causing more laughter to peal out before gradually descending into a hacking cough. Roma took a deep breath and sighed, seemingly composing herself.
"I do. I have a great deal to discuss with you in the wake of father's passing. Come, let us talk."
She offered him her hand. He sneered internally. Why would he go to an area where she held the upper hand when he could stay right here.
"On the contrary, there is little to discuss, elder sister of mine!"
He enunciated the last part of his sentence, over-dramatising his actions.
"After all, our woefully outnumbered brother will surely be found soon enough, won't he now?"
He bounded over to her and took her hand, pulling her towards a table and some chairs. As his back was turned to her he grimaced. If looking at her false smile tasted like poison, holding her hand tasted of blood blood blood-
He let go of her hand as Seventh pulled a chair out for her, giving him a kind smile, which he tried to return. Not that it would matter, the blindfold they wore most of the time stopped them from seeing anyway, so it wasn't like they could actually tell if his smile was genuine.
"I was hoping to speak with you in private."
She looked straight at Rhema, never breaking eye contact. It was remarkable, he thought, that she was able to meet his gaze when she wanted something from him but never at any other time.
"Fine I guess, Seventh, would you mind heading to your quarters?"
Seventh dipped into a deep bow and walked out of the door, electing not to speak but instead nodding once at Rhema, letting him know that he could do this. He scoffed. Of course he could deal with her, he had for years now, and even though he hated having to speak with his sister he knew that she hated it far more, and that spite would fuel him here. All he had to do was hold himself together enough to not snap and spill everything.
Hours. They had been sitting and talking for hours. If she mentions the benefits of combining our forces once more I'm going to do... he thought for a good few seconds about what he'd do, before gently exhaling and refocusing. He needed to hold himself together, his brother needed him to hold himself together-
"And that is why I believe that you should sit the throne."
Now that caught his attention. Did he want the throne? Fuck no, he'd read enough horror stories about the reign of Arwald III to know that he would slip down that same dark path, and he would not be a second manic King thank you! But still, he was an actor here, and he knew his part. He forced another grin to manifest on his face, teeth bared and eyes focusing back onto Roma.
"And what would make you put aside your claim to seat me on the throne."
He watched as the ghost of a real smile passed across her face, no doubt because she thought he had taken the bait.
"Well, you are the only trueborn son of the last King. By common convention, that makes you the heir to the throne."
His false grin became real. Now he knew for certain that she was bullshitting him. She would never bring up 'common convention' if she was being truthful about her intentions. She could win over the rest of the court with honeyed words and perfumed actions, but he could smell her shit from a mile away.
"Well, far be it from me to turn down such a magnificent blessing. Say dear sister, do you think the Church will be offended if you crown me?"
She looked genuinely surprised by that statement. He relished in her look of confusion, her hand pointing at her own face as if she were speechless, and pictured how good it would look once she realised what was really happening.
"Yeah, you! After all, it'll show the court our unity and solidarity against our brother."
It physically pained him to hold in the manic laughter building up in his gullet after saying such ridiculous shit out loud. Unity? Solidarity? Angels above, the only way they would stand together willingly would be if a Second Age of Silence befell them.
"Yes... yes, that should be acceptable, even to the stoutest of church-primacists. I would be honoured to bestow your crown upon you. Thank you, brother. I shall send for your little... thing we sent out earlier. Good day."
She patted his shoulder and gave him a predatory smile before walking away. The taste of bile rose in his throat, he wasn't betraying his brother, he was acting, he needed to remember that, he wasn't actually siding with her, Lyk would understand, surely, he-
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When he awoke, he felt the back of a cool hand pressed to his forehead, and let out a whine. He tried to open his eyes, but immediately snapped them shut again. Too bright, he thought to himself, way too bright. The cool hand withdrew itself, causing him to whine again. The hand moved his arm out of a puddle of something wet, and he felt the scars on the palms.
"Seventh?" He croaked out the name as he came too, opening his eyes far slower this time. He looked at the table he had passed out on and looked at what his arm was in. Eeeewww, okay, now that is gross.
"Here, your Highness. Or is it your Grace now?"
Rhema shook his head as Seventh cleaned the vomit from his arm. It was mostly just bile, thank the Carpenter he'd not eaten before the meeting.
"What happened, Rhema?"
He shook his head gently at the other's prodding, putting aside the last however long he'd been passed out.
"Our plans are uncompromised, everything should be going just fine. We just need to play for time and fuck up as much shit as possible."
The young Seer raised an eyebrow, the blindfold raising with the gesture.
"Such as excluding the church from your coronation ceremony?"
"Yep! That'll rile up those old bastards and lie-peddlers!"
"Whilst also allowing your brother to claim that you are not legally King, since the church will not sanction such a turn of events no matter what her Highness claims."
He nodded, only half listening. He was trying, but it seemed his latest episode had taken a lot out of him. He moved to sit at the head of his bed.
"Hey, can you do the thing again?"
The Seer looked at him, concerned.
"Are you sure? Is there anything in particular you want to try and see or are you just looking for an escape?"
He looked away sheepishly.
"A bit of both, to be honest."
A gentle sigh filled the room, and Rhema watched out his window as the sun began to set on the horizon. He felt the bed shift as Seventh sat at the foot of the bed. He watched as Seventh removed their blindfold and gently lay it to his side on the messy bed, their eyes blinking open and shut repeatedly as they adjusted themselves to seeing properly.
"I can never get over the mess your room is whenever im here."
"Trust me, it's way worse when you're not here to clean up for me."
They laughed a quiet laugh. It tasted of peaches.
"Ready, your Highness?"
The Prince nodded once, and locked eyes with the Seer. Their eyes were inky black, broken up only by sparks of light blue that formed, flickered and faded in an instant. He latched on to those sparks, the sensation tasting of autumn and winter and dreams, allowing himself to forget who he was, fully focusing on those sparks.
He looked around, finding himself in a black void, and immediately looked for the closest spark. As he approached it, the spark took form as a quick series of images flashing across his vision; he saw a crown of gilded flowers in the mouth of a winged stag, before the image transformed into a room of red and green snakes, hissing and bowing before a shapeless figure as a serpent hissed in the blackness. Seventh's voice spoke a dozen times at once, echoing in the void.
"I see a Kingdom, sevenfold,
a crown of flowers, a brow of gold,
one whom death has yet to claim,
another, scornful, rendered tame."
He laughed at that. These prophecies were always had such needlessly complicated wording. Couldn't he just see one without having to concentrate on translating dream-magic into useful information? He sighed, closing his eyes, and willing himself to wake up.
Waking again was a chore, but then it always was after seeing those visions. The hour was far later than it had been; though he felt as though he'd only been there a minute, it was now easily four in the morning. Seventh was still at the end of the bed, though their eyes were shut and they were peacefully sleeping, curled into a ball with their blindfold sort of draped over their face in an effort to cover their eyes. The prince rolled his eyes and removed the blindfold. So what if a few people went mad when meeting their gaze? If anyone came in here and woke them up from their rare actual sleep, then Rhema couldn't give a shit if they went mad. He was fine, and he'd looked into their eyes for scrying a hundred times. If they couldn't handle it they were weak-willed anyway. He closed his eyes again and willed himself to sleep, pulling Seventh up the bed to hug them. He smiled. Seventh would be fine with it. Probably. He did the closest he could to shrugging in his position, deciding that it didn't matter.
Today was stressful, his friend would forgive him for taking a little bit of comfort, and it would also be really funny when they tried to get up early to do their chores and found themselves stuck. He chuckled quietly, as he drifted off back to sleep.
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Eight days had passed since his dealings with his sister, and the day of the coronation was nigh. It was rushed, half-assed and bare, in no small part thanks to the fact that armies were already moving around the Kingdom, and with no small amount of displeasure the Church were voicing their dissatisfaction with the soon-to-be-monarch, further riling up the lowborns in the northern and eastern districts of the city who already tended to support his brother. He surveyed the crowd of assorted noblemen, all looking at him in disdain, a few faces wearing grins to match his own in the crowd, almost all supporters of his faction at court. He scoffed. The hemlock faction was useless at court now. He needed his men in the northern district for the next part of his plan.
He pushed the thought to the side, allowing the grin back onto his face. His sister didn't seem too phased by his rapidly shifting facial expression and unease. He supposed she was just used to it by now. As he walked down the centre aisle of the throne room, he caught sight of Seventh stood to the right behind the throne, just as some knight he didn't know stood to its left. He was certain he'd seen the Knight before, but he'd be damned if he remembered him. Seventh gave him a rare smile, their stoicism melting away in a moment of reassurance as Rhema approached the throne. He sat, lounging in the sacred position of power as all expected of him, and smiled at his sister. He breathed in and out like Seventh had taught him, inhaling, holding, and exhaling at a four, seven, eight rhythm. He took in the scene in front of him and tried not to be overwhelmed. I'm not a traitor, I'm doing this for him. I cannot be a traitor, because I'm not the true King.
His breath hitched as the crown was lowered onto his head, and he froze in place. If anyone else in the room recalled that day, he knew that they would remember seeing him without his trademark grin, and he knew that that was bad for his part in the grand performance. He forced himself to grin, screaming at himself internally to just smile, smile, just keep fucking smiling, and heard the crowd recite their oaths to him. With a forced smile in place and his arms stretched out wide, as though he meant to gather the whole courtroom in his arms, he stood up from the throne and unsheathed his sword, holding it so it pointed down the centre aisle, and watched as the crowd knelt. As he stood there, they chorused, albeit reluctantly, the words that would mark him as a traitor to all those who didn't know of his plans.
"Long May He Reign."