there were many times when he had lived in the oasis that he had noted the cracks in the earth and the smoke that rose from them. not once had he made the journey to investigate.

today he lurks there with intention, weaving in and out of the rising smoke, watching it mingle with the mist that still blankets the lands. alaric had none that had gone missing due to the anomaly and so he does not mind it much, finding the protection it offers a benefit to one with a price on his head.

he stopped alongside a particularly large rift, and there he loosed a call for @Aidoneus, hoping he might lure her out from her desert home. he missed his friend, but he was not fool enough to show up on the oasis borders where he was likely not welcome.

THE THUNDER OF THE DRUMS

table by sentinel / art

Aidoneus understood the clandestine nature of his approach, understood there to be a fracture between the worlds they lived in. Loyalty held high in her husband’s heart, as it did in her own. And while he’d had his chance to meet their former gentry at the negotiation table, the Queen had yet to have her opportunity to exchange words.

A delicate predicament he’d placed them in, and though she felt it would invoke Seneca’s ire by going, there were many a thing still in her heart that bade the woman to do as she pleased. Pausing a respectable distance, as she found him between the billowing of smoke and mist, she felt a thundering at her chest. He’d been there to help stave off serious injury to her person, they’d shared in many a hunt. And while his ambitions, like Rielus’, worked to wound Andal’s position, she still felt some notions of loyalty to her friend. Some remnants of that affection, and respect. Drawing in a heavy breath, she worked loose enough bravado to greet him in good spirits.

Scared are we? She accused, lacking no amusement in her expression. Poised, with that common grin and fixed humour, the question smacked between them, though in the way an old friend would jab another in the ribs.

Make it last forever

table by sentinel / art

Alaric was not sure she would come, in fact he rather expected her to ignore his call entirely. A wife’s loyalty was first to their husband, after all, and second to their pride — both of which Alaric had managed to insult. Seneca through his alliance to the Rike (tumultuous and threadbare as it might be) and the Oasis through his own ambitions.

Ah but then there is a shadow from the corner of his eye, a shape emerging from the mist, and if he was a weaker man he might have run to her. Aidoneus was a sacred creature and more than most things he mourned the loss of her. For once not because she could warm his bed (as he saw most women) but because he saw her as an equal.

“Petrified,” he rumbled back with a grin, amusement crinkling the skin at the corner of his eyes. “I’d rather keep my blood inside my body,” he added on, and while joking it was not far from the truth.

“You look well,” and this was added with sincerity, bright eyes levelled on the striped queen.

where innocence burns in flames

i'm frozen to the bones

image by yumpy, code by corvus

Oh, how angry her husband would be. Before the world could splinter the pair from one another, she’d been at least owed a moment of celebration for her friend, and the opportunity to bid each other a proper farewell.

That is why he came, wasn’t it? That is why she was summoned?

Crumbling inwards by the thought, by the heft of its truth. No matter what Seneca had said, or what had been exchanged between the pair of Kings, greedily, the woman was in her right to mourn the loss of this shred of patch-quilt family. Things, she knew, could not be the same. The comradery sliced, ruined by the will of men and notions of proper family. She knew the sins that cost Seneca his child, could not bear the idea of suffering the same. But all the same, she knew it not to be Alaric’s hands to have done the deed. Nor, she supposed, would it matter if he condoned it or not. The damage had been done.

Aidoneus had thought she’d escaped these staunch convictions of loyalty.

She thought she’d be spared of these games.

There had been an idyllic imagine in mind when building her life in Andal Oasis—for her children to know good and strong loyalists, of chosen uncles and aunts, and those of blood. To be known and greeted as kin by those who’d only shared company beneath a banner. There came no predicting the wants of those her husband had trusted; that their hunger and avarice would have them pursue things outside of their Oasis. Could she blame them, any of them? For wanting more for themselves, for their own legacies? These were not lost on her, though they’d never been desires of her own choosing. She liked and appreciated the simplest of comforts. Scarcely, could she ever imagine Seneca would place upon her head a crown, authority. To seat her upon a throne, even if she were to be servile to him. No, while they weren’t the dreams she’d had, she scarcely could begrudge others for having loftier goals. As wounded as she was by their choices to pursue it. She wanted peace. She wanted not the war of egos, or blood vendettas.

She simply wanted to exist, to thrive, to love and be loved.

Watching @Alaric then, taking in the shift of his grin and glimmering brush at the eyes, she softened, fighting against the convolution of emotion that threatened to breach her shallow joy in their reunion. That bad, yeah? A tremble, a fissure, cracked the voice. Gathering—recouping—poise, she forced a broadened grin. Snark touched her cheeks, adding a hint of edge to her mischievous eyes. I could say you’ve looked better.

With a sniff, she adjusted her posture.

So—a King now, look how far we’ve come. From paupers to princes, royalty. Sharing then in the twisted, writhing, harried game of politics and diplomacy. Aidoneus had yet to find her footing, the ground on which to build a sense of authority and ability. Still so fresh, and green to the rites of passage in which they’d both bounded across. And in spite of everything that had transpired, she could not help but give a winking, lofty expression of pride. A rather ragged one, but a King all the same.

Make it last forever

table by sentinel / art

Alaric is a selfish creature. Though he thinks, briefly, of how this meeting might impact her in the long term -- how angry her husband might be -- he does not dwell on it. His time in the Oasis had fostered a relationship with the queen, one of the only relationships with a woman that he had that was not built on lust, but respect.

Idly he wondered if Slaine would prove to be another of those, even if their first meeting had been decidedly more passionate than his first with the striped desert monarch. Despite his upbringing he had found some measure of respect for the saphire woman, even if he was thoroughly entertained by the string of suitors in her wake.

Selfish, yes, because he wanted them all, respect be damned.

They were cut of different cloth, him and his hunting partner, yet together they had found a sliver of camaraderie among the chaos. Initially he had not imagined a throne, had thought only that he might live out the rest of his days in quiet, with a meek little wife and a gaggle of children. Plans changed, clearly, and a small part of him imagines how much easier it would have been had they not.

Leadership comes naturally to him -- leadership here, where the politics are a thick woven web, does not.

Her taunting pulled his gaze down to his mud-splattered paws, to the muck that clung to his fur no matter how many grooming sessions he endured. At first he had minded it more -- now he cares little for it. An inkling of pride, it would seem, that would lead him to defend the home he had earned, mud and all. "Makes me look more rugged, no?" He laughed, then, a hearty chuckle as she nearly echoed his words.

"Ragged, then, if you insist. But a King all the same. And you a Queen still and hopefully for many years yet." If it was what she wanted, the weight of the crown on her head, then he would wish it for her.

But then he gets to the meat of the meeting, the mirth fading from his masculine features -- "for what it's worth, I'm sorry for any strife I've caused you." It was a sincere apology, and it sits oddly on his tongue -- Alaric was not used to such words. He means them all the same, and hopes she will not take offense to them.

THE THUNDER OF THE DRUMS

table by sentinel / art

Ragged, rugged—that is what they’d become. Aged by the strife, touched by the malaise of the soul—none clean, none without guilt. They were all capable of immoral acts, were they not? It never occurred to Aidoneus she invaded a marital bed, had no notion to dissuade her from the belief she’d been a reason Seneca’s elder daughters were stripped of a parent. In the deep quiet of the night, she could not help but wonder in her wanderings just how harrowing of a climb she’d made in Andal. Firstly a passing fancy for their king, one more interested in the hunt than lording over others. Had others only seen her as the bed-warmer? She’d never met Seneca’s first wife, but it did seem rather suspicious she were to disappear so suddenly around the time Aidoneus took up a place in his life.

She was learning quite abruptly that were few clean hands in this world, especially Amaryllis.

But, at the very least—she had a husband whose eyes were only for her, and children that had become the center of her orbit.

At the very least—their pride enjoyed the leisure of good loyalists.

At the very least – she had had a friend in @Alaric.

However brief these chapters were becoming. And how very untrue these facts revealed themselves to be. There had been many moments of delight, hadn’t there? In the hunt, in the companionship, in the glories of utterly simple exploits. There’d been no war when she came to Amaryllis, had been no children taken or embittered egos to tend to. No family expectation, no traditions to observe. No Fickle hearts to spoil and nurture, scraped knees to kiss, warm beds, small faces to be greeted by, and laughter to fill the contented evenings. Oh, how it made her weary, to know that to appreciate all the many good she’d had, there would always be a bitterness to endure.

Rugged. And Ragged.

That was them.

Rugged, and oh, so ragged.

Don’t fret – it improves to your mystique.

A laugh, a soft and melodic sound, a reassurance he certainly still had something going for him. They both did.

Age, maturity, responsibilities—Aidoneus had then realized, only came with disillusionment.

If she could, she thought for a moment, she would turn the tides and pull the many months back.

Many years… She began, a churning of thoughts. Scarcely been one. A shade frightening to think the strife can stretch even longer than that. The humour drained, pulled out from beneath her—her composure slipping, her façade of poise traced with hairline cracks. A porcelain mood, shifting as he guided it towards sincerity, touching of genuine remorse. The impulse came to firstly greet it with that immobile sense of humour, to slacken the tension beginning to wind its way about them, fettering the last notions of kinship between the pair. Constricting, strangling—at the very least, their friendship could find a respectable end, with a smile and a laugh. I was of the belief King’s shouldn’t ever apologize.

A smirk; never malignant, but that imp’s look, one that swatted with a wink.

Soon then, bristling against all whim to continue to jest and parry his earnestness, Aidoneus found her eyes fortified to hold his. Near predatory, lacking abject fear, what came was spoken firmly, and resolutely. Though it was his friend standing before him, the side that spoke was one of a mother. Mother first, Queen last—that was the way it needed to be. That is the way it would always remain. I worry for my children, Alaric.

She worried of the Miroslav name, of the Andal, of what future awaited her sons and daughter, and whatever other children would spring from the aether. Childish, she knew, but she mourned the simplicity, and resented all the complications she’d invited into her happy little existence. And there were so many complications that had come to exist, and others that lurked in the distant future. To say she felt unprepared for it all was an understatement. She could scarcely see a future with her as Queen for any length of time – the future was too murky, too uncertain. And Aidoneus was woefully lacking in desire to imagine it, to plan for it. With her children and Seneca’s missing still, she couldn’t help but fear how much more their hearts could manage to bear. I won’t deign to pretend to know all that’s been going on, she paused, considering the possibility that he or his were culpable, she firmed her eyes. And the mouth found an uncharacteristic tightness. Not spread by glee or delight, but stanchness. But, I do not want any more harm to come to children.

She could not imagine her friend to be cruel, to be a monster; could not fathom Seneca condoning extremist injury to newborns and elder children; could not begin to believe herself capable of accepting that those she trusted were just as morally gray as herself. She thought them better, better than herself; cleaner, and it was a fool’s errand, she knew. But to know they had failings meant her own sense of judgment too was faulted. And if she could not trust herself, what in the world was left?

Love?

Her only recourse then, was to shed the ties to the dramatics between families that weren’t hers—to shrug from debates of who was right, who was wrong, who deserved penance, and vengeance. No, those weren’t hers to ponder or explore.

Hers was simple.

Her focus, for the sake of her sanity, for the sake of her marriage and the preservation of her children’s futures, would have to exclude that all. Happily, she decided then, would to let Seneca worry about his dance of diplomacies and politics. She’d no mind for any of that anyways.

Fortified by this decision, those lips slipped into an perturbed and humourless smile, Especially mine. Seneca’s errant daughters included. Her eyes fell from him, eclipsing the emotion she had tried to evoke. That fear clambered up, and the regrets of suspicion, that maybe his wife’s family had played a part in it. The mist felt too preternatural, to beyond the measure of her comprehension of the world and all of its’ many miracles. She knew nothing of Gods or Magic, knew nothing of ghosts stealing children.

The world from which she came in had monsters, and those monsters tended to look exactly like her.

My daughters—my Léonie and Genya’s Diantha—are missing.

She swallowed, pained to think it could be true—wounded by this impulse she had to ask, to demand.

Would her family have anything to do with it?

Make it last forever

table by sentinel / art

Alaric reflected often on how different a creature he had become in Amaryllis. As if molded by the land itself he had been forced to adapt, to adjust, and to consider that his lifestyle would be forever altered. This place was a far cry from where he had been born and raised -- more refined, perhaps, though Alaric would be inclined to argue that it was merely more complicated. Tangled in the web of politics he often longed for a simpler time, and he did what he could to cling to those remnants of himself that still existed.

Aidoneus had what most in the world longed for -- security, love, family -- and one might note that he had all the same things. As hard as the climb had been he had made it to the top, but at what cost?

Somehow he had managed to hold on to this tenuous thread of friendship, this string that stretched between him and the Oasis queen even now. It was a delicate thing, frayed and worn, but he found relief in knowing that she did not completely fault him for the steps he had taken. With war brewing on the horizon they had chosen opposite sides, but here where there is no battlefield there is a shared remembrance of easier times.

"That's what I was going for," he lobbied back at her, with a mock-charming grin, "mysterious, not muddy." He struck a pose before her, leaning heavily in to the humor and friendship strung between them, recognizing the looming shift that would find them. Short-lived though it may be it was important -- more so, in fact, because it would not last forever.

How did the saying go? Nothing gold can stay.

Ah and there the plug was pulled from the humor and he imagined he could see it draining away, even as they both sought to fill the hole and stop it from escaping. "The crown never comes easily," he mused and it was evident that he spoke with the experience of the past weeks, "but you wear it well." Searching, always, for that lightening mood, his gaze roved obviously over her. What started in jest ended with a glimpse of something more, a hint of what if that flickered in the poisonous green eyes of the wheat monarch. Buried, quickly, out of sheer respect for the woman before him, and a lingering strain of that for the King she walked beside.

"Only to you," donning the cloak of charm, in jest, with only the threads of truth among them. It is easy to pretend with her, to act the part and know that it will be taken in fun. He is lighter, with her, more at ease than with any others. It is a side of Alaric so rarely seen, for the sharp sarcasm is replaced with blunt jabs, a gentler form of teasing.

Then the tone shifts completely, a one eighty, and the man draws himself up before her. Not to intimidate, never, but to ensure she knew that he was giving her his full attention. I worry for my children. It was something he knew well -- more than she might expect -- and his voice is surprisingly soft when he responds quickly -- "and I for mine." Did she know he had children? Not likely. Some had seen Erna in her pregnancy but she had barely been showing at the challenge, and he was not sure how fast the news had spread of the uprising. Knowing Amaryllis he expected they would have heard by now, especially since she wore a crown and was thus a key player among them.

Mother, queen, father, king -- they were not much different, were they? Though he imagined that Aidoneus gave her cubs the affection and tenderness that was common with mothers; the kind that his own wife was hardly capable of. Alaric was the softer of the two, which was saying something if you had a glimpse behind closed doors. Charming in the public eye, silver tongue and honeyed words, and yet once his hooks were in... I'll break your leg if i have to.

They danced around the truth of it and he found himself wondering if she would ask him. Would she be so bold as to confront him, straight up? "I fought for my pride for my children, they are of the utmost importance to me." His children, primarily, but the days of cub-killing were but a stain in his past. It was a different world, there, and in Amaryllis there was no reason for him to slaughter the offspring of the leaders before him. Not unless he wanted a death wish. It was a promise, of sorts, an assurance that her children were safe from him and his.

Even the Sigrun children -- whom he saw as a plague on this land -- were safe from his claws. And Erna? Well, Alaric was not fool enough to think that the same rule applied to her, and he knew well the thoughts of her family.

Missing children, his chest thumped at the thought, knowing well what the loss of children felt like. Once upon a time he had watched his own be slaughtered while he lay half-dead in the wake of a hunt that had nearly killed him. Poor timing or fate, whatever it may be, bringing the rogue to his home so soon after his flesh had been rent apart. Alaric had fought, drawing on whatever reserves he had had, but it had not been enough. He had not been enough.

The memories swirl through his mind and he imagines he can hear their cries even now. Bile rises to his throat and his own masks slips, a flash of age-old trauma briefly visible on his face. A scramble to fill the cracks, to pull himself back together, and focus on what mattered. They could still be found. Alaric was on the verge of saying so, of offering his help wherever it could be use, when she questions him.

Would her family have anything to do with it?

"No," he answers quickly, unthinkingly, even as his mind rolls the question around and examines it from all angles. There was no reason for Seneca's children to be at risk, though, and as the seconds tick past he is more confident in his response. "No, I am certain of it." They were not Sigrun children, and thus he can imagine no reason that the Rike would be involved.

Returning to his initial impulse he adds -- "if you need my help, @Aidoneus, is it yours."

In an alternate reality? I am yours.

THE THUNDER OF THE DRUMS

table by sentinel / art

She wanted this too much, she realized. She wanted this moment to drag, and to fill every hour of every day. Trepidation loosened by the ease of his company, by the charm of his gestures and subtle curls of his expressions. She wanted to bask in their moment, to swim, to drown in it. It troubled her, knowing it couldn’t last, and perhaps, to her demise, that it may never come again. Aidoneus wished to see the future, wanted to blow away the murk and mist, the tangles of road they were meant to follow. She wished to straighten divinity, to call upon the stars to erase everything that ever dared to darken her mood, her world.

Still selfish, still childish.

His words were balm; a salve to the wounded pride and the crippling of her sense of security. It was shaken, after all, by him in that moment, and he owed her peace. He owed her this kindness, and this make-believe dream in which they stood. This was her mirage, this was her moment of paradise. And she would have it.

I always thought you could do with a bit more colour, Cheekily, those rosy lips pulled at her lips. Broadening that façade of hilarity; that terrible absurdity of would-be enemies breaking bread. What was expected of her now? She felt guilty, felt remorse to break faithfulness with her husband in playing a part in her reunion with Alaric. Had it been better to turn him away? To avoid him? She was summoned and she had come. Happily. Skipping, almost. Perhaps not a frolick, but guilt had a way of altering perception, didn’t it? She tilted her face at Alaric, turning her cheek as though assessing his entire look, his fashion and style. A discerning eye, to cake the wares with an appreciative and approving glint. Perhaps not red, but a bit more colour.

No, not blood. Not the violence he and others like him so chose.

Was she trying to guilt him for his passions? For his ambition?

Now that would have been too unkind, too unlike her. Perhaps Amaryllis had done more than simply alter the path she had meant to walk. Maybe it too, had taken from her heart and placed there seeds of sin. Perhaps that intruder on the sands spoke something closer to truth. Maybe she were something to be smote, something to be punished and ruined. Perhaps her mother, Hercyna, had been right to choose her daughter to sacrifice to Hades and their dark divinity. The Cult had been right to ask Hercyna for her only daughter, and Aidoneus repaid their generosity in ways expected of her. In methods she had always wanted to avoid.

Who. Who was left in Amaryllis was left with clean hands? That confident thought returned, knowing she was not spared the twining of sin. She had killed too. It wasn’t done with talent, or desire. But she had done it all the same.

Life, she knew, was not meant to be easy.

But it didn’t stop her from wanting it.

Is there anything left in the world that comes easy?

Easy.

Being there felt easy. The progression of their banter, was easy. It was everything else in the world that ruined it.

Only to you.

Don’t—she wished to say.

Don’t make this any harder than it already is.

The lies she told herself in that moment could only do so much, work only so much magic. The mirage was slipping, and she felt her heart bruise. Wounded by want, bereft of joy. There was a faltering to her expression, and a dismissive roll of her shoulder.

Oh, I would be a fool to think myself special. Winding, writhing; she hated this.
Hated him. Hated the Rike. Hated the Sigrun. Hated Amaryllis.

She hated it all.

Her eyes grew wet, wet with tears she did not want to shed.

Esmerée is gone, to where? She had thought maybe the woman had followed Alaric, joined him in the mire, became his wife. They’d been so cozy, hadn’t they? What a sight her little tribe must have made at the Hollows. How long ago that felt. A lifetime ago, an eternity. Her, him, Amaroq, Gauthier and Esmerée. It was, outside of the birth of her children, where she last felt complete. She had it all, yet nothing truly. But it was enough. Her friends, her place. A purpose. Friends. And where were they all now?

As well as Elvira. Lonesomeness panged; her mind spun at these brief tidings of sorrow. It took little, but it was enough, for Aidoneus to realize how much she loathed misery. There was no sun in misery, there was no gilt embrace of warmth. It all felt contrived, she could not help but think it. Doubting the sincerity of the feeling, for she’d never had friends before Amaryllis. She never had family in the sense of this, and now she understood why. Family meant hurt. Friends meant losing something in the end. Something was quickly beginning to feel like everything, but she wasn’t ready to dwell on that. It was all too dramatic for her liking and she swept it away with that imp’s smile.

Now you’ve gone too.

She felt the impulse to rush him, to jostle his shoulder and broach the distance between them.

To embrace him.

To be held.

She wouldn’t.

As much as it shocked her to feel these things, once more, for someone else outside her marriage.

She wanted to.

Maybe it was me chasing you all off.

She forced a laugh, conjuring the illusion nothing had changed, nothing at all. There was no war, there was no Sigrun or Rike feud splintering their worlds, there were none disappearing without notice. Here one moment, and gone the next. No—nothing, nothing at all had changed. A delusion she wished to cling to, to bring back with her into the Oasis. That they could continue to thrive and bask, where malicious eyes were spared their flesh. Safe. Serene. Solitude.

Oh, if only.

In another world. In another world.

But she could not help it, could she? Too brash, too impulse—too hungry for answers to questions she’d no right to ask. And she knew this was grappling with the tepid fragments of their friendship. She knew this might go a shade too far. She thought of Eulalia, the one she’d met, the one who’d threatened. The one who left her with one prophecy that had yet come to pass. The next beast you cross may not be so kind and generous.

Watch your tongue.

Oh, she learned to watch it all right. Watched it dance her into predicaments.

When, she wondered, when would she learn enough was enough, and not every thought needed to be said? Listening to him, hearing Alaric’s words and feeling them as though they were own, she still could not help it. Could not stop it. Could not, or would not—it didn’t seem to matter. She was piercing, she was just as avaricious as any, if not more. There was no role cast for her in what appeared to be a classic, age old tale. Yet, there it came. The setting, oh fair Verona, landing flat upon where she stood.

Why—why Seneca’s child? threadbare tether, but one all the same. Any piece of Seneca had managed to become a piece of her.

They existed not in a vacuum of serenity, but at the mercy of calamitous galaxies of wayward fate and unkind destiny. A thin line separated Aidoneus now from the crimes of passion committed by those she’d never met nor could have the intention to meet. It was unfair, punished by the choices made by others—childish, she knew, but Aidoneus never claimed to be matured in her thinking, in her beliefs. The flip-switch toggle of her perspective went fickle, tampered by that loyalty and love for her husband, and the remnants of her youthful naivety. She’d been wizened to the ways of the world in many ways; but since arriving there in Amaryllis she realized there were still a many large thing she’d need to learn, to know. One of those things, was how and why they had the propensity to be so callous. How could any see a child and seek to injure? To slay? These weren’t the ideals she held to heart, but even her own parent fell into that shadowy realm of morality. Even her mother was pushed to choose: her child or herself.

A pound of flesh.

She knew that lesson all too well.

Everyone could be in want of that. Revenge. Retribution.

Their lives had become currency, they were naught but commodities to swapped and bartered, diminished to pieces of the same burden. So, there came no use in imaging the why it was done. Certainly, she too could imagine herself wanting to wound those that wounded her, or her family—that preacher and his apostle, came to mind. But, a child?

Grief tightened her throat, wondering if their ties to Seneca’s allies swept them beneath the purview of Rike wrath. What would she do, if they struck Seneca’s children again? Could she stand idly by while her husband grieved another of his progeny? She knew the extension of their family was loose and turbulent, knowing that there was a thinning of the aether between what was simply hers, and what was his.

Would she act for him? For Saga’s brood? For those of their allies?

Immediately, she knew there would be no end to the lengths she’d go for her children, for Seneca’s. With Diantha and Leonie still not yet found and brought home to their Oasis, she felt the billowing of anger. Lightly dusted by the swiftness of his reply, of the decisiveness of what he believed. The Rike had not harmed them, had not played a role in their absence. Her eyes pulled towards the smoke surrounding them, the cacophonous mist that lingered and mocked their plight. Was their fruitless searches all for naught? Were they chasing ghosts? She had hoped, darkly, briefly, regretfully, that maybe the Rike had struck again. It was easier for her to understand, to accept. That was a tangible evil that could be brought to heel, easier to get her pound, her vengeance.

How does one fight mist?

The mist ate her.

No, no sweet Promaetheus. Mist did not have a mouth, but lions very well did.

And how can you be so certain it stops there?

It was pointed, imploring—she wanted to know why, why Rike, why Erna? How could he have left them for one so villainous? One so unclean. She couldn’t besmirch her friend for wanting what she’d had, what Seneca had given her. But why this entanglement? Why this mess? A firm, yet pensive frown swept the grace from her face. The brows peeled from their light expressions of faithfulness and benevolence, tightened deeply into concern, trepidation. Dread dulled the glimmer in each eyes, as her heart began to sink.

In another time, another place—we’re free.

What help could he bring? What more could @Alaric do?

Her mouth softened, rent immediately from the muted ferocity. Grief-stricken, childlike, small.

She did not feel like any Queen.

She felt like a lost lamb.

I need— what? A miracle?

She needed to know how to fight, to defend herself, to defend their children. Though she trusted her friend to believe all that he’d said. But, she remain unconvinced. It solidified the notions of earlier, that there was trouble looming across the horizon and there were preparations to be made. She needed to do more, to act. A pleading look overwhelmed her countenance, slackening as she returned her eyes back to Alaric’s. Fixed there, unmoved. Poignant and hungry for the right answers, for all the things one were in want from trusted friends, from those who’ve shared meals and homes and triumphs and losses. I need to know if my family will remain safe. She paused, weighing what was right of her to ask, to want. What would still be proper, and yet respectful to her own feelings of greed. If you see my girls, you will keep them safe for me—won’t you? Even from her? Even from your new family?

Make it last forever

table by sentinel / art

It was one of those rare moments where he imagined a life different than this, in a world tucked away and separate from this war-torn place. A paradise, a haven -- upenda, if you may. From the day he took his first breath he had known only the need to be strong, to fight and train and be prepared to defend. To earn his way through blood and sweat, tooth and claw, securing a future for the ones he loved most.

Alaric had never not known brutality.

He had watched his father murdered when he was barely old enough to survive on his own, had had the sense to flee with his siblings before the ire of the new King had been turned on them. For months he had roamed, rangy and thin, surviving on sheer will alone. Growing, gaining, learning, until finally his day had come.

A crown, then, so vastly different from now, but defended just as fiercely. Fight after fight, challenge after challenge, marked with stolen moments of quiet in between. With his first children those thoughts had wormed their way in, of a home where he would not have to fear falling to claws that would in turn tear his future to shreds. Scar after scar, win after win, and still he had stood proud before them. A king in his own right, an earned position, with few days of peace in between.

And loss -- bitter and heavy even now -- that altered the course of his future so completely.

Perhaps not red.

But if not red, then what? Red was all he knew, all he had ever known, and the wheat king licked his lips as if he could taste it now. The copper flavor was not his favorite, but he would spill it again and again if it meant just a few days of rest. He would spill it again and again if only to prevent that loss from ever touching him again.

Is there anything left that comes easy?

This question he can answer, and the words fall as quickly from his lips as the last denial. "No," and a huff of air with the two letters, "nothing easy is worth having." Love, she might argue, was easy. But was it? Could one simply fall in love and live happily ever after, skipping off in to the sunset? Ah but that was a thought, wasn't it? Why, then, was it crimson stripes in his mind's eye and not bear-ish brown?

"I wish it were, though," this is a quieter admission, a glimpse behind the mask that he never takes off. A hint of the gentler creature that is buried far beneath the layers of brutality and instability.

His gaze on hers is hot, then, burning with the words he cannot say, or will not. Burning with the desires that are forbidden, the dreams of a world beyond this one where happily ever afters did exist. A world where there was no tangled web of alliances and fueds and they could simply be.

"You are," because he cannot hold his tongue, not completely, "special." A long enough pause that he can see the glimmer in her eyes and he grows weak. Weak enough that he acts with impulsion, drawn to her like the proverbial fly to honey. Or perhaps he is the moth and she the flame, for he has little doubt that she is capable of burning him to ash.

He moves as a friend would, seeking to brush his nose across her cheek before attempting to wrap his neck around hers, to pull her to him with a nudge of his chin. An embrace, a comfort, if she would have it. Because no matter what they were in this world they were friends, and Alaric would not stand by when she had diamonds in her eyes.

"I am right here," because damn the rest of them. Esmeree he missed -- even now he remembered the way they had fallen together with this same ease -- but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He was here and he wanted her to know it. He aimed to pull her closer, to tuck her against his chest if only for a moment, breathing deeply and slowly and reminding himself over and over that she was not his. Respect -- it was not a thing he felt often for the fairer sex, but it is here in droves.

So, reluctantly, he pulls back, his eyes earnest as they seek to find hers -- "if one thing could have kept me in the Oasis it would have been you." Not because he loved her (did he? no, that was impossible) but because she was his first friend, here. Because in @Aidoneus there was a kinship he had never thought he would find again, not after...

But he holds her gaze, or he tries to, with intention. See, Aidoneus? See the impact you have? See the gift you give the world?

He would have held her again if he could have. If the line did not exist (the one he had already crossed, without thinking of it) he would have held her again and listened to her fears, her worries, her woes. Alaric imagined that seperate world where he could lay with her for hours beneath the stars and be whatever it was she needed him to be, even if that meant they were only friends.

But that world is not here -- that world does not exist -- and though he mourns it he does not push his luck.

Why -- why Seneca's child?

It is a bucket of ice water thrown over him, a stark and harsh reminder of who he was and who she was. A King and a Queen but not of the same land, of kingdoms at odds and lines drawn in the sand. He wants to erase them, desperately, but they are etched deeply. Beyond the sand, then, and in to the very crust of the earth. This island they have found, this little corner carved out together, will eventually sink back in to the fiery river below.

Will they ever find it again?

Why does it hurt to think that they may not?

"Not Seneca... Saga." How much had the Oasis King told his wife? What of their conversation did she know? Alaric would have assumed everything, but perhaps Seneca is not so different and guards his wife from some things. "Seneca was not the target. The child bore the Sigrun name." He speaks quickly as if he might be done with this conversation, as if it is an icky thing that he wants nothing to do with. Still, he hopes she finds some peace in it, even as he doubts that that is impossible.

How do you find peace, here? Here where war is snapping at every doorstep and raising its head at every challenge?

"The one who did it is dead," did she know that? Would it be any comfort? "From my understanding she was decidedly unhinged and not well liked." The Rike were not often so bold and risky, though he knew his wife had taken too many steps in that direction, too. Would she end up like Sunniva, then? Dead on the sand, with Sigrun teeth on her neck? As Eulalia had? The former Jarl had not seemed so wild, so frenzied, and as much as Alaric regretted his death could not find it in himself to regret Sunniva's.

How can he be sure? "I cannot." He would not lie to her, he would not mince words. "I can only go by what I know. The Rike are not all as she was, and I have seen no indication that they will turn tooth or claw on any but the Sigrun. The feud is old, with death on both sides..." It was not his war -- but it was. Alaric would not seek to kill the ocean-faring family, but he would spread word of their beliefs and seek to stem the near-worship that he had seen. They were far spread, wide-spread, and he wondered how they had gone so long without the truth being known.

"They drown their children, Aidoneus."

It is a bomb and he knows it, so he pauses. There is a lull in the aftermath of his words and briefly he wonders, again, if she already knew. Did she know? Would she care? From what he had seen of her -- the Mother -- she would. Was he a hypocrite for chosing a side that had killed children because the other side drowned them? From what Alaric knew it was not common for the Rike to fell the young -- it was insanity -- and yet the Sigrun drowned every single one of theirs. Twice.

Have you seen it? How do you know? How are there so many of them, then?

Alizabeth had questioned him, once. Would Aidoneus question him now? He knew only what he had been told, Alaric recognized that, but wasn't most of their information secondhand? Surely she had never witnessed a Rike murder a child, just as he had never witnessed a Sigrun drown one of their own. The ones he stood by had, though, and while he knew the story could have been twisted in time (morphed in to something frightening to scare the little children) he did not think so. "They worship a god in the sea and when their children are born and when they come of age they drown them."

He frowned, knowing how it sounded, knowing damn well that it made no sense that so many of them lived. Unless you believed in Gods and their powers and their ability to pluck a body from the waves. "Every single one of them." He emphasized this and there was a clarity in his voice that spoke of his certainty. Even if he had not seen it himself, Alaric felt it in his very bones to be true. The Sigrun had sunk their hooks in to Amaryllis, had acted the part of the good and the just, but were they truly so much better?

There, then, is the question -- are there any hands that are clean in Amaryllis? Is the entire land drenched in the blood of those that had come before? His homeland was, and maybe it was not so different here after all. Maybe the woven web of alliances were a new piece on the board, but maybe they just disguised the fact that this place was just as blood-soaked as the one he had come from. Here the blood sank deeper and quenched the thirst of the ancients; here they needed reason beyond power and he did not know if that was better or worse. Was it better to want the simple things? A home, a bed, a wife, a family. Or was it better to fight for power and friends and beliefs?

To be godless or guided; which was the lesser of two evils?

I need ---

He needed, too. More than he understood or knew, even now. A clear written path that he could follow? Was that why they did what they did?

Her. Alaric might have laughed, because how ridiculous was that? For him to need her was a laughable thought, wasn't it? Nevermind how his heart banged against its cage of bone and the ever-present tension leaked from his very pores. Nevermind that she was his best friend, his partner.

There is no laughter, though, when he answers her. There is a solemn promise, a truth so deeply seeded it cannot be denied. "I swear to you, Aidoneus, your children will see no harm from me or mine." As long as there was breath in his lungs he would make sure of it, no matter what came of them.

"I will protect them," I will protect you "as if they were my own."

And that was the best he could do.

THE THUNDER OF THE DRUMS

table by sentinel / art

Nothing easy is worth having. But she wanted it all. She wanted to be so selfish, to be rid of these newer intricacies of life. How had she become so bound to honour? So willingly drawn into the mess? She thought themselves better—and knew it all the same how much of a folly that was. She hated this sense, this comprehension. How she prayed for the newness of youth, the remarkability of pleading innocence. They knew better.

She knew better.

Nothing easy is worth having.

She was easy. She knew that. Easy to please, easy to keep. Ailing, she forced warmth into her voice. A biting jibe following the turn of the lip. A crude sneer. Meant to challenge.

That doesn’t mean everything else is worth the effort. What had she mean exactly? Even her own intents lay unclear. Snark simply for the sake of snark. To push a button, to scratch a nerve. She knew not why (though soon it would be clear), she wanted to invoke his ire. She wanted to fan his temper. She wanted him to not want her near.

But his softness called to hers, but his confession of wishes were far too wonderful to ignore. Almost dreamily, wistfully, she cleaved from her expression that coldness. Her chin lifted back, raising her eyes to the sky. Exasperation slipped in her breath, it thinned her sight. Me too.

Oh, how she wish everything were easy.

He struck her. Oh, not with his fists but something far worse. Something terrible and unforgivable, something crueler than a kiss. His words lit the air, and pulled at that secret place. That girlish sensibility. Words, words any would be in need of, in want of. Words never quite said by anyone else, alluded to but never spoken with such reverence. It was a prayer, a prayer he slipped in the tattered web between them. And he meant it, she knew he meant it in the way he soon filled it. The way he nourished her ache, the way he held her to his chest.

His words? She could not find a shred of evidence it could be true. She did not believe the words, but the action wound the mind, made her dizzy drunk on its suddenness.

She could not help but—she could not stave it.

Those thoughts.

That gilded cage, of which she both loathed and loved—her children, her marriage, her throne. Smothered, trapped; happily, contentedly. There lay no doubt in her mind each of these things brought her happiness. It brought her wholeness, and pride. But what else? It took something from her too. It stripped her of adventure, it held her to obligation and duty—things she always thought she would avoid. In a flash, she forgot. Forgot them. Forgot them and sank willfully into the embrace. One might expect rage, or indignation. One might expect wrath and revulsion—trust encroached, respect tarnished. Instead, one must remember—she was not infallible.

She too, sinned.

She too, had flaws.

And so she sank, her smallness allowed to be buried in black fleece.

It was wrong—but she clung to it.

Offended by her own weakness, her own willingness to cling to the company of someone who gave her what she always wanted, always needed. Such a small treasure. But one so revered, so cherished. All she could ever want in the world was to be wanted. To be seen.

See? She was easy.

And so gods be damned hypocritical.

Please, through a sniffle, I couldn’t bear the thought of you lying to me now.

Special.

No, her mind sang. Don’t.

No, he finishes it with a truth she did not want to hear. Did not want to know.

Here.

That he could or would have stayed. Would she have asked him that? Would she do to him as her family had done to her? To hoard, to covet? To keep for the sake of keeping?

They weren’t star-crossed, and it became farcical to her how much she wanted them to be.

And there—almost, but fleetingly—she was so willing.

She knew, right then and there, she knew if she were to do it, to reach and wrench away that line she could. She could have him. She could keep him. She could dream into being all these many things.

That she too could commit an evil.

She could be cruel, so blithely selfish. To what ends? By what means? To hurt her Seneca? To wound their children? To wound @Alaric's family? To reign havoc upon a throne for othering reasons? It was too nefarious, too close to the diabolical and better left unsaid.

He retreated, and because it went against her every instinct of devotion, she did not follow.

But his receding warmth called, the spice of his scent beckoned. It touched her heart, and held it in the smoothness of an artful palm. They could not forget themselves. It was far too dangerous a sport to pursue, too crude an act for them.

She smiled, charmed and pacified.

In another world, her hand would have reached for his.

But in this, she remained eerily still.

So—children, a shield—a barrier, a reminder they’ve lives to live. She lifted it, keeping it between them. Calling upon herself enough sense and enough self-respect to keep such torridity at bay. Tell me of yours.

Tell me of your darlings, of your family—tell me of the things that should keep me from you.

The pauses were brittle. The moments passing in the aching moment were everlong and reviled. She hurried them fast, spinning the seconds in hopes there would not be more of the darkness. A sun-starved blood, she was turned to him in hopes of the sun. Instead, instead it was gloom. It was brewing cacophony, and Hades himself. The words burst the levy, filling her with great and horrible thoughts. Evaporating sense of faith, swallowing that brief flash of good they’d had only moments ago. He spoke of something unforgivable. She almost laughs at the illogicality of it. It all had to be lies, didn’t it? Who could believe such nonsense, who could willingly be drawn into a watery circle of Hell?

Ice climbed her veins, weighing these things, but what’s more reflecting. Her eyes drawn inward, her wounded soul then smothered in the blackness of that forgotten well. Elysium was a lie.

Their Hades was a lie.

But what he’d said? Nothing easy was worth having. Did that mean happiness in the beyond? Did that mean reaching paradise? There was logic in that, there had to have been if so many were so open to falling into certain harm.

Conflicted, she sat with his knowledge—drawing out the silence, not certain of herself. But, it came again—that compulsion to let the thoughts be released into the world. For truths to work themselves loose. She’d neglect her sense of privacy, of all those wants to forget.

My mother’s clan-- she winced. It was not lost on her that he’d be only the second she’d ever revealed this too; that bared this truth, stripping herself. Made vulnerable. She hated visiting it. She hated giving that part of her life power. And influence. Still, it could affect her mood and pollute her own power of choice. Her breath stiffened, and she felt her tongue pressing hard against her teeth. They threatened to come again. She could not give him a clear answer on where she fell on that line of morality. But the very least, she would illustrate how she understood. They were like that. Dogmatists. Extremists. Disgust.

Revulsion came immediate, fierce.

Bile tinged her mouth, bit into her breath as she remembered the things she needed to forget. She wanted him to be a liar. She wanted it to be untrue. Lies to condone their crimes. Lies, so to justify their malice.

But then – its’ him, it’s honest. She could not think those things of him. She could not doubt it.

She believed him.

She stood horrified, and troubled. Smacked with something just so brutal it had to be true. Conflicted again, and so appallingly In want of his arms once again. In want to burnish the waning comfort that had been there only seconds before. It faded too much, weakening her resolve and sapping her of conviction. Want came again.

Want.

A pulse. A glimmer. It was there—that candlefire hope. Poorly mimic of sun, but it breathed against the darkness of it all. Want. Want of him. Want of an escape. Want of reasons to be free of everything.

Let’s forget.

Let’s forget the world for a while.

Let it be, just you and me.

No crowns — no kings, or queens. No kingdoms. Nothing.

Her heart lurched, dreaming of a world where she'd have the audacity. Where she would be capable of wounding her husband, in a world where she took everything she could be in want of instead of simply waiting for it to come. Instead of endless devotion, instead of this broken yearning: kisses, she would give him. Kisses enough, until they were both clean. Baptized in the whim of purity (and trueness of scandal), wholesome, welcomed.

Kisses enough, where they both could forget and simply, utterly, passionately be.

If only.

But that was all in another world, and this one was this.

Poised, and silently tortured.

Separated by fate.

What a fine mess we've found ourselves in, yeah?

Maybe they really were star-crossed.

Make it last forever

table by sentinel / art