Chapter Text
TERZIAN
The sky above Fulminir was overcast, with clouds stained red from the fires of industry. Against that bloody sky the tower loomed, stabbing towards heaven. Banners flapped haughtily in the wind, Varr colors unfurling and snapping back on themselves again.
Snow lay heavily on the ground, and our horses sank in it almost to the knee.
I rode at the right hand of Ponclast. His body– black uniform, proud pale silhouette– blocked my view of Lianvis, on his left. That was just as well; I had no desire to look at him. The left side, closest to the heart, I thought, and my chest ached.
Ponclast turned his face away from me to speak to his other companion. “Isn’t it magnificent, Viss?”
I could barely make out Lianvis’ reply, so soft was it, muffled by the layers of scarves and furs in which he’d wrapped himself: “Yes, Lorda.” It sounded like his teeth were chattering.
Weak, I thought disgustedly. It burned me up that Ponclast was wasting his time on somehar so fragile. “Only a warrior can love a warrior,” Ponclast told me all the time. It was how he kept me hooked, twisted ‘round his fingers. I could’ve been in Galhea right then, with Cal. Maybe I would’ve been, if I hadn’t believed Ponclast and his nonsense about soldierly bonds. Now here I was, with him, and he only had eyes for this hothouse flower that was rapidly wilting in the Northern winter.
Before us, the great gates of Fulminir slid open, wrought-iron topped with razor wire parting to let us pass. Upon the spikes, nestled among the thorny silver twines, were mounted several severed heads. They belonged to the defectors, whose flight had prompted our return. The cold had kept them from decay, though the harsh wind and other elements had done them few favors. The faces were partially obscured by snow and ice, like a fuzzy growth of mold. I glanced sideways at Ponclast to see if he was pleased. Indeed, his beautiful lips curved into a small smile.
From within the walls, we could hear the military orchestra striking up his favorite march. We rode towards the noise, through the gates, into the vast courtyard. Varrs stood in formation, lining our path on either side. All saluted as we passed. Ponclast and I returned the gesture, as was only gracious.
The vast doors of the tower itself swung outward. Varrish harlings came pouring out, dressed in vibrant colors, flowers in their hair. They carried palm fronds and bright bunches of roses, red and white. They poured towards us in choreographed chaos, a spectacle of innocent, pure vitality. We reined up as they thronged around us. Two blond babes, rosy-cheeked and holding hands, skipped ahead of the crowd. Just as they were almost upon us, they broke apart. One ran to Ponclast, one to me. They stood on tiptoe to present us with laurel crowns, chubby hands reaching up towards us, tiny bodies vibrating with excitement at their own ceremonial importance.
“For you, Lordra!” chirped the child as I leaned down to accept his bounty. I smiled as warmly as I could and ruffled his downy gold hair. Ponclast went further, swinging his child up onto the saddle to receive a magnanimous kiss on the cheek. A cheer erupted from the crowd and echoed ‘round the courtyard.
The children dispersed. Stable hands came close on their heels. We dismounted and allowed them to relieve us of our horses. I caught my first real glimpse of Lianvis in hours– he was clutching a rose bouquet, looking wan and dazed. There was already frost upon the flowers.
Ponclast unburdened himself of the squirming child and gallantly offered Lianvis his arm. Lianvis leaned upon it heavily and let himself be guided up the broad steps to the double doors. I followed a few paces behind. A sour taste was in my mouth.
Inside Fulminir there waited the warmth of roaring fires, and the dazzling brightness of a thousand smokey oil lights. The hallways echoed with talk, and laughter, and the ring of hobnailed boots on stone. Serving hara took our overcoats and unwrapped Lianvis from his fur. He tried to clutch at it with fragile fingers, shivering in his thin robe. Between all those fireplaces it was plenty hot for me– in fact, I longed to loosen my collar– but apparently not hot enough for a har who thrived in the desert heat. He must be some kind of reptile , I thought dispassionately. His blood is cold.
Then I remembered how he had felt under me, around me. Not so cold then.
I bent and murmured in his ear, “Need a ouana to warm you up?”
Lianvis turned and stared at me wildly, as if he hadn’t understood. His lips were dry from the cold, and they cracked as they parted to speak. A little bead of blood appeared on his lower lip. Noticing, he licked it nervously away and closed his mouth again without saying anything.
All right, I thought grudgingly, I suppose I can still see his appeal.
Ponclast’s head swiveled around. He saw me standing close to Lianvis. His brows drew down, and he fixed me with a cold, warning stare. Part of me wanted to provoke him, to push the limits and see what happened. He hadn’t touched me in weeks. I’d take a beating, if it was all I could get. But no, he was too smart for that. If I angered him he’d probably just ignore me more studiously, freeze me out even further.
I stepped away from his property.
LIANVIS
As we approached Fulminir, Ponclast leaned close to me and murmured, “You come here a free har, but you shall leave here, if you ever leave, a bride,” a sentence that sent an icy chill down my spine even as my heart thrilled at his words.
The place was a vast structure of metal and stone, something built by men and marked irrevocably by war, a fortress, a tomb. It kept what was inside in, and what was outside out. It was a place of clear boundaries in a way, and yet a place beyond all boundaries. So in we rode, to be greeted by a juxtaposition of violence and saccharine displays of sentiment. Harlings with laurel wreaths for the conquering heroes. I rode alongside, but there were no laurels for me. A soume’s laurels are a veil I suppose…. So I’d be getting mine soon enough.
I could feel Terzian’s hatred, his rage at having been made to watch that midnight in the temple, when I had been the one to crown his Lordra with the rank of true Nahir-Nuri. Of course he would be crude. I could truly see the benefits of Ponclast’s protection in this place. He was at the top of the pile, there was no superior who’s insult I would have to bear provided I remained at his side. Not even an equal who it might be unwise to offend. I was the closest thing to that, and it felt far safer under his protection than standing on my own, especially here. After all, no matter my position, Varrs looked at me like I was meat. There was something about this world, the sense of being constantly the object of potentially threatening desire, and yet safe under his protection that was… piquant in a way, the erotic equivilent of being inside during a snowstorm.
I drifted towards Ponclast, in spite of his being further than I liked from the fire. He was talking to a har who surprised me. He wore the leathers of a Varr warrior, but his red-brown hair was worn long, hanging loose to his waist. He was as lovely as any average har, but no legendary beauty… he might have been more appealing if he’d darkened his rather too pale lashes, but he didn’t seem the type to mind. He radiated something with which I was intimately familiar, power and the hunger for more… but not too much, just enough to be good at staying close to a har like Ponclast. Too wise to aim for that higher rung.
His gaze swept over me appraisingly. I was suddenly over-conscious of my chapped lips, and the fact that I had not been given time to attend to my appearance before being swept into this revelry. I touched my hair and moved closer to my lover, and safety.
I couldn’t tell his opinion. Did he find me desirable like so many ouana-Varr, while being too wise to show it? Was he jealous? I looked at him more closely. His features were familiar, and then it struck me.
Gharazel. Here was either a brother or a hostling, no other degree of relation could explain so strong a resemblance.
“Vashti,” said Ponclast smoothly, slipping an arm ‘round my waist, “this is Lianvis. Lianvis, this is Vashti, an expert in… breeding stock.”
Terzian had drifted over in time to hear that remark, and grinned.
“That’s right. Say, Vashti, what’s your verdict on him? A good bearer?”
Vashti looked at him, and I could tell he truly wished Terzian hadn’t spoken, but he concealed his irritation well enough.
“I would not venture to state an opinion on so illustrious a personage as Tiahaar Lianvis Har Kakkahaar, Lordra,” he said smoothly.
“No, I think we’d both welcome your expertise on the matter,” cut in Ponclast.
Vashti looked me over, now somewhat obviously uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.
“Such an… adept has knowledge beyond my ken, Lordra, but based on what I do know, I should say he would do quite well.”
Ponclast seemed pleased at the answer, and I think I could have sworn I saw a look of something like resentment on Vashti’s face. As well there might be, perhaps he had once thought to be where I now stood, though I couldn’t see his desire for the position as anything but mercenary. He would have gained by such an arrangement, I did not. I couldn’t picture this har who wore leathers to attend the Archon fulfilling the role of Varrish consort with any of the grace the position called for. Too… I hated to admit it, but far too harrish to pass muster, harrish in the intermingled, undifferentiated way that made most Varr so uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” I replied, bowing my head graciously as I could. He still scrutinized me closely.
A stunning har whose long raven hair flowed in a silken waterfall down a slender form draped in crimson robes swept over. Now there was a har who looked like a proper consort. He smiled warmly at me.
“Tiahaar Kakkahaar I presume,” he said in a voice as lovely as his face.
“Yes,” I agreed, “and you?”
“Sashtri, Averen’s consort… is he still with your hara?” he asked, a flash of something on his exquisite features, fear. I could understand that fear, Averen’s absence was one thing, but if he were to fail to return… well that would be quite another. Averen seemed kind, gentle even, for a Varr, especially for a Varr of the upper echelons. Sashtri was clearly a clever har, and aware of how blessed he was in terms of a partner.
“Yes, he’s a quick study and learning much,” I commented, finding myself with the curious impulse to relieve his worries, of course, it was simply the intelligent thing to do. It cost me nothing, and it might help me win an ally.
“I am gratified to hear it, tiahaar,” he said with a dazzling smile. I glanced at Ponclast, as if to assure myself I was doing right.
TERZIAN
I watched him flee to his protector, golden hair gleaming in the torchlight, steps as light and graceful as any real varrish soume; but when I realized who Ponclast was conversing with, I could not help following.
Phrases like cat fight came to mind, though Vashti wasn’t really as feline as all that. Still, it ought to be a good show: the hostling of Ponclast’s heir confronts the usurper. It was an archetypical battle, the wife versus the mistress. I did what I could to throw gasoline on the fire. Vashti, slick little sycophant that he is, recovered quickly from my curveball, but that didn’t matter. I watched the two of them settle into a steadily smoldering mutual hatred, and I was pleased.
This lovely little scene was interrupted by Sashtri ex machina. He and Lianvis commenced fluttering prettily at each other in true soume style. Vashti nodded to me, as if cordially. I could see in his eyes that he wanted to kill me, but he could do nothing. I was too high up in the pile, above even him.
I smirked back at him, and raised a wine glass as if in toast. To you, Vashti, and to the charms and carnal talents of your exquisite son. Historically I’m not the best at mind-touch, but whatever the Kakkahaar did to me must have worked. Vashti jerked visibly.
I knocked back some wine, and continued to stare at him, letting him understand as fully as possible what I did with Gahrazel. Here’s to his mouth and his ‘lam and his tight little ass. You must be the best breeding stock of all, Vashti, to have produced such a beauty.
Vashti’s face was expressionless. He is nothing to me. I barely know the child. I did my duty, that is all. His mind- touch was clear and cold.
You did your duty superbly, and to the letter, I sent back, yet now the archon spurns you. Warm my bed tonight, Vashti. I’ll show you the appreciation you deserve.
Vashti’s chin lifted. Thank you. I’ll consider it, he sent back icily.
And then I felt Ponclast’s looming presence at my back, and remembered that it is possible to eavesdrop even on such silent conversations, especially if one happens to be Nahir Nuri.
“Terzian,” said the archon softly in my ear, “Let’s take a walk.” His tone was light and pleasant, so I knew I was in for it. A shiver of fear and of anticipation raced down my spine.
“Yes, Lordra,” I murmured.
He strode from the great hall, out into the corridor. I followed him. Our booted footsteps rang against the marble floors and echoed off the high ceilings. The area was deserted; we passed nohar else save for a servant with a food cart who ducked his head and hurried deferentially past.
When he disappeared around the bend, Ponclast grabbed me by the throat and pushed me against the wall. I wheezed and grabbed at his hand, trying to pry away his fingers, but it was of no avail. Ponclast is startlingly tall even for a har, and has devoted himself to building strength of every kind. Since his recent caste ascension, he seemed to have gotten even stronger. He hoisted me deftly, one-armed, sliding my back up the wall until I was forced onto my toes. He did it like it was nothing, like I weighed nothing and meant even less to him.
Beneath my uniform, my ‘lam spasmed and a trail of warm yaloe traveled down my thigh.
“Mercy, Lordra,” I managed to choke. The way he held me wasn’t fully cutting off my oxygen, it was just putting a hell of a lot of pressure on my trachea. I feared my windpipe might collapse if he didn’t stop.
He snorted softly through his nose. Mercy? He didn’t know the meaning of the word. His face was grim and expressionless as he continued to push up. My toes left the floor; I now dangled supported only by his crushing hand. Airflow was definitely impeded now. My vision began to go dark.
Abruptly, he released me. I fell at his feet, gulping in oxygen. His gleaming tall boots were directly in front of my face; I hoped he might kick me.
He did not. “Terzian,” he said, “you’re up to childish, soume tricks, trying to provoke me to get my attention. It’s unattractive, and it won’t work.”
“I’m sorry, Lordra,” I murmured. My face had flushed in shame, responding to his censorious tone, although I didn’t fully grasp the words. I was intoxicated with being at his feet. I bowed my head to kiss the toe of his boot.
He stepped back with a grunt of annoyance and disgust. Denied the object of my worship, I slumped against the floor. It hurt, to have him reject my devotion, far worse than if he’d ground me under his heel.
“Enough of that,” he snapped. “Listen carefully. I will not give you what you want. If you persist in annoying me, I will turn you over to Lianvis.”
My head jerked up, I pushed myself up to my knees. “Lordra!” I protested. My face was burning with humiliation and rage.
Ponclast looked down his nose at me. “Yes,” he said, “I thought that might get through. And after all, why shouldn’t I? He’s had you before, and we all know it.”
I was silent, caught before fury, fear and undeniable arousal. The thought of letting that fawning soume creature play ouana with me was nauseating, but the fact that Ponclast could decree it, that it would happen if he so wished, made my head reel with sick desire. Lordra, I am yours, I thought, and hoped he was listening, More truly yours than all the rest. I am your champion, your most devoted vassal. I fight for you, I bleed for you, someday I’ll likely die for you. I am in agony waiting for you to take what is yours.
Ponclast was unmoved and unmovable. “Hara like Viss and Vashti find my favor because they try to be pleasing,” he said. “You could take a lesson from them.”
I stood, fuming. “I’m sorry, Lordra. I didn’t realize you wanted me to become a simpering soume.” I’d thought he wanted a har with some spirit to break. The idea that he wanted me perfectly docile made me like him less.
He cuffed me on the side of the head. “I want you to be ouana. Rise above this, Terzian. Stop letting desire control you. Show some fortitude, and I might find you appealing again.”
With this he turned on his heel and stalked off, his gloved hands clasped firmly behind his back. I adored and hated him, with his perfect poise. In that moment, I had the thought that he was everything I should be but was not. I was less than a fleck of dust on his boots.
And he was right– I could never become as he was, as I should be, by pathetically chasing after him.
But how could I help myself?
PONCLAST
The Archon appeared perfectly composed as he strode back into the great hall. In spite of long travel, he was immaculate. The flecks of snow had melted from his uniform, vanishing without a trace. He looked unreal, not like a being of flesh and blood so much as an image from propaganda, a head on a coin.
There was no need to announce his return. The whole assemblage picked up on his presence. It was as immediately palpable to all as a brightening of the lights or a drop in temperature. The archon moved toward the high dining table, and without any other sign being given, all others promptly seated themselves for dinner. They knew their assigned places by heart; nohar had any question as to where he belonged.
Only Lianvis hesitated, unsure of himself. It did not take long for his place to become evident– an empty chair at Ponclast’s left hand could only have been for him. Terzian was seated on the right, and Vashti further down. By process of elimination, there was only one spot at the high table where the archon of Kakkahaar could belong.
He settled himself beside Ponclast, awkward in the stiff, high-backed dining chair. He’d had no time to change for dinner, and so was not looking his best, but it was Varrish custom to feed returning travelers promptly. The cold climate and harsh terrain demanded it. It was rare to see a bedraggled soume at table, but that was only because soume-hara seldom undertook such journeys. Lianvis’ appearance would be, for now, excused– not that he had any way of knowing that.
Ponclast sipped his wine and made conversation with his officials as the meal was brought in. Serving hara rolled in the repast on brushed steel carts. The first course was a tartare of thinly sliced hearts, dressed in a delicate citric sauce. The taste of human organs was no longer novel to the Varrs, and they tucked in as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A soup course followed, rich and heavily spiced, with golden pieces of potato and chunks of tender meat–possibly pork–swimming in the fragrant broth. A brief pause for digestion followed, and then the massive roasts were trundled in, carcasses roasted to a turn, with crisp fingers at the ends of arms trussed back, skins crackled and oozing with fat, eyes blackened and gleaming red apples thrust between teeth. The meat smelled, and tasted, delicious. Har was a rarer delicacy than human, having a subtle herbal note more akin to lamb than pork. The honey brine in which the flesh had been submerged rendered it even more meltingly tender and flavorful.
Ponclast accepted the large carving knife that a serving har handed him, and prepared to ritualistically make the first cut. “Which of the traitors was this?” He asked idly.
The serving har ducked his head. “This was First Lieutenant Phoebus, Lordra.”
Ponclast nodded. “Phoebus,” he pronounced, as if tasting the name. “I don’t think I ever met him.”
With a half shrug, he cut into the carcass. Cheers erupted around the hall. Here and there, hara who had known the defector hid a tear, but they wisely cheered just the same.
Ponclast, with a small cruel smile, pulled the roasted apple from the dead mouth and bit into it.
LIANVIS
At table I watched as the dishes came out. That the flesh was that of humans did not shock me, we had tasted such in Oomar, and occasionally at home; but when I saw that Harrish flesh was also on the menu, it took an effort on my part not to shudder slightly. Still, it was all delicious. I ate gratefully, watching the others and making polite conversation when it was called for. It was interesting to watch Ponclast in his natural environment, to see the way he talked to his hara, kept them aware of his presence and power. He was charming, a leader who made himself loved as well as feared, at least by those who didn’t get close enough to see the pure ice beneath the personable veneer. I ate. It was not the first time I had consumed the flesh of a har, it was the casualness of the act I found peculiar. Among the Kakkahaar such a thing was an occasion, a ritual. Having a har at a feast… as a piece of propaganda, felt somehow crass.
Still, it was delicious, beautifully prepared and exquisitely cooked. I savored the traitor's flesh and wondered if this would be my fate if I were untrue. I felt a hand on my thigh, sliding up, teasing as he talked to one of his generals, not even glancing over at me as he did it. I thought of what he’d said just before we entered Fulminir. When would that be? Surely he didn’t intend to do it publicly, not now, not in the midst of a war, not when my authority over my hara was so desperately needed. Such a match would inevitably cause strife, make hara ask questions about the succession, about the two cultures…. about all sorts of things I didn’t have good answers for. Still I thrilled at the idea. Surrendering to him seemed such a triumph, especially now somehow, now that I saw the barbaric splendor of this, his home, a dark and frigid labyrinth… not so different from his heart, I thought.
I allowed myself to look at him then, to appreciate the beauty of his profile and think of what it was that drew me so to him. He was charismatic of course, his very presence was magnetic, compelling. Physically he was exquisite, and aruna with him was unparalleled for all its violence, but it was more than that. His ruthlessness in the pursuit of power was like my own. His courage and even his blood lust, so unlike the Jarad I had known and loved in Oomar, spoke to me. His flair for the dramatic, his love of spectacle and knowledge of how to use it to good effect… I felt a kinship to him. His very ouana-ness, as he’d described it earlier in our relationship, made me want to serve him as his helpmate, but it felt like more than that somehow. More than ouana and soume, it was about him . Him, whose sufferings I knew better than almost any har. Not even Terzian had seen the surgery he’d needed when I’d first brought him back to Oomar. Terzian might have seen the founding of Varr, but I had known the before, had seen and felt what Jarad had gone through for myself as if it had happened to me. I had seen the birth of Ponclast, had perhaps even been midwife to his coming. I wanted to sit at his feet, and ask him to tell me of his life since we had parted, and the last of Jarad had died. I doubted he would tell me such things, at least not in the way I wanted, but perhaps… perhaps someday when he got into a good or sentimental mood.
TERZIAN
I saw the look on Lianvis’s face, and recognized it, because, although I had never been so soume or saccharine, my own had worn a variation of the same. Still, for all that besotted adoration, didn’t Ponclast see the danger of a har like Lianvis? A witch. A seductress. Even now, looking up at Ponclast as if he was all love and sweetness, he was a serpent.
Did he trust him? Did he love him? I hated him. I didn’t envy him. How could I? The soft clinging vine way he wrapped himself around Ponclast was everything I despised. I’d thought it was everything Ponclast despised, too.
Never had I, or anyhar at Fulminir, known Ponclast to waste so much time on a soume. Of course he had his harem of hostlings, but they were playthings, not companions. Based on what I had seen– and I’d seen quite a bit more than most hara, having privileged access to the archon’s bedchamber– he barely spoke to them, and rarely knew their names.
We’d used some of them together in tandem, or sometimes he’d summon a whore for each of us. Every now and then he sent for one just for me, usually after he’d exhausted himself in my use. On those occasions he’d sit back in his easy chair, smoking, and watch with a small smile as I reclaimed my ouanahood. That was my reward when I’d pleased him particularly well, or when he’d degraded me especially. I appreciated it. It was his way of letting me put myself back together.
The point is that soumes were not people to Ponclast. They were merely the stage on which he and I enacted our prowess. None of his favorites had ever been soume– not I, and not cold, correct Vashti, who I think attracted Ponclast’s notice mainly by his unusual androgyny. He was by far the least ouana of Ponclast’s companions, and even he wore leathers.
I had believed, as many Varrs believed, that Ponclast loved warriors above all. It was a little eccentric, with almost a whiff of human homosexuality, but it was excusable since he fathered sons aplenty and showed not a shred of effeminacy. In a way, it felt most right. He made preferring ouanas seem like the most ouana thing in the world. The army was his true love. It was his bride, as the church had been the bride of Christ.
I wondered if he realized that. I wondered if he knew what a dangerous game he played. If Ponclast took a queen, the entire military would instinctively feel that har to be a rival.
Or was I wrong, and merely projecting my own bitterness?
I sipped at my wine, and scanned the faces of the hara at the table. General Creed was taken with Lianvis– he was quite attentive to the Kakkahaar, albeit in a chaste way that could not raise Ponclast’s ire. That could only be because Creed saw Lianvis’s occult power as a military asset, since the General was never taken with anything else. The other generals and high-ranking officers looked warier. I saw more of my feelings reflected on their faces, and knew I was not alone.
I glanced at Ponclast to see whether he noticed the tension. If he did, he displayed no visible signs.
Sometimes he is dangerously indifferent to what others think of him. It is a virtue he takes to a fault.
I needed him to look at me.
“The traitor is delicious,” I remarked. “I’m almost glad he defected.”
It was a risky comment, but if nothing else, I was still attuned to Ponclast’s sense of humor. He laughed. It was sweet to make him laugh, and for a second, my heart eased.
“Even the enemies of Varr can be made to serve a purpose.” He spoke loudly enough for the whole table to hear, but his head was turned towards Lianvis. I simmered, foiled.
“If only as meat,” I said. “Waste not, want not.”
Ponclast did not turn, but Creed grinned at me. “Words to live by. Consuming our foes is practical as well as ritualistic,” he explained, now addressing Lianvis as well. “It lets Varrish units travel lighter. We don’t waste so much weight on rations.”
“And hunger can be quite motivational,” Ponclast added drily. “The soldier who does not triumph does not eat. They fight harder for their dinners.”
The Kakkahaar was the uncontested center of attention. There was no hope of drawing focus away from him– neither Ponclast’s or anyhar elses. How long was this state of affairs to last? Would I spend days, weeks, or months eclipsed by Lianvis’s slim shadow?
Disgusted, I turned away. In doing so, my eyes met Vashti’s across the table. He pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, and gave me a barely perceptible nod. The expression on his face mirrored mine. He was feeling what I felt– almost all of it, anyway. He did not love Ponclast, and never had, but he loved his position and he saw it slipping from him.
My body relaxed slightly. Here, perhaps, was an unlikely ally.
I raised my cup to him in silent toast, and drained it to the dregs.