Chapter Text
Two days after his father’s proposal and Miquella is still yet to give him his full agreement. He’s fully aware it’s an avoidance borne more out of pettiness than indecision, considering he had silently made up his mind the moment his father offered. He despises the idea of having to run off to tug at his father’s hair every time he feels compelled to stick his head out the window. Begging is a rite of passage for children, but Miquella has a tendency to count it as an ever-accumulating debt.
Regardless of whether or not he’s being petty, knowing his father’s full lack of deliberation there’s a very large chance he would be kneeling in front of his mother’s throne come the next morning were he to allow him to ask Marika directly. Even the vague idea of speaking with her some time in the future inspires the same type of fear that comes from glimpsing the date of an impending execution. Devoid of option an animal in a trap will come up with different methods of freeing itself. Miquella will gnaw off his leg on his own terms.
Consent disregarded, he still can’t go directly to Marika herself. Empyrean is a title that grants him a good deal of privileges, but speaking with his mother remains a book high out of reach on a shelf. His father can, of course, which is why he offered in the first place. Being Elden Lord and Marika’s consort tends to come with certain privileges that Miquella simply is not afforded - even if Radagon wears the role of consort about as well as a cloak three sizes too big.
In the interest of not having to interact with his father more than necessary, Miquella’s only remaining option is one of the finger-readers that gives his mother counsel. The majority tend to lurk about near the throne, so Miquella drags Malenia off to the Erdtree Sanctuary, strategically at the entrance leading up to his mother’s chambers. Not so close as to be audacious, but well in view to see when one might come down.
“Thou’rt wasting time,” Malenia says, not for the first instance. “Swallow thy pride and ask father.”
“I shall not. I’ve asked him for enough already. Any more and he’ll think I eat straight from his hand.”
“He offered in the first place.”
“Case and point. I shan’t do what he wants.” Miquella picks at a hangnail, a nervous tic that makes Malenia give him a mildly disgusted look.
“So… Thou’rt doing what he wants, but less efficiently?”
“It is in both our best interests if I speak with Marika; that I shall not deny. It is simply having to go through father that I refuse to do.”
The look Malenia gives him is exasperated, but she makes no comment otherwise. Loyalty and pragmatism tend to chafe as often as they interlock. She’ll wait and play guard for him, but Miquella knows that she would simply march in on the throne if the thought of facing Marika did not terrify her as much as it did him.
The sole difference is that Malenia knows how to surmount her fear, or at least not let it show. Miquella’s lays heavy on his tongue and threatens to crawl into his throat with every word.
He tugs the skin off less cleanly than he would like, his reward a small smear of blood. He sucks on it before whispering a quick prayer, and it’s gone as fast as it came.
Malenia nudges him with her foot, leaning down. “There’s thy old codger. Straighten up a bit.”
He does just that. Sure enough the hunched figure of a finger reader makes itself known, the bells on her staff swaying as she walks. “Do thou remember her name?”
“...No? Why would I?” She furrows her brows. “If she is not for my own Fingers then I do not particularly care.”
“Lucia,” he says, walking to intercept. “That is her name.”
“Thou did not make that up, right?”
He ignores her, arranging his features into a passively pleasant smile as they near. “Fair Lucia!” he calls, sweet and bright. Behind him, Malenia sighs.
“My Lord Miquella, my Lady Malenia,” she greets, bowing fervently. The bells swing with her exaggerated movement, the sound like rain sliding down a wall. “How is it that I couldst serve thee?”
Even hunched over she still rises a good few inches above Miquella’s head. Malenia at least towers over her. Miquella doesn’t necessarily want to intimidate her into submission, but he will with no option left. His father would be proud.
“I heard well that thou’rt a treasured counsellor for my Queen Mother, art thou not?” He runs a hand through his hair, swaying in a way that suggests an overabundance of energy. Already he can document her bewitchment, apparent through her body language even if her eyes are two empty husks.
“Indeed, my Lord,” she bobs her head. “Long hath I served thy mother.”
“Fantastic!” He claps his hands together. The more he plays the part of a particularly enthusiastic child the more she’ll register him as something innocuous - or stupid, at the very least. It’s easier to hide that way. There are moths that resemble twigs for the same reason. “Lucia, thou know’st my dear Malenia is often ill. I am terribly worried for her, but my spells seem to do nothing.”
Again, Malenia sighs. He knows that she’s keeping her face placid for appearance’s sake, but her exasperation with his theatrics tends to leak through regardless of the situation. It probably doesn’t help that he’s using her as a crutch. She dislikes being known.
She nods her head again, matching his feigned enthusiasm. “Of course, my Lord. Thy plight is a noble one.”
“It heartens me to hear so,” he giggles. “With one so wise as thee, I am wondering if thou couldst perhaps assist me? It is all for my dearest sister, of course.”
In his periphery, Malenia surreptitiously hides her bandaged arm behind her back. He hates dressing up her condition about as much as she hates being the subject of it. All it tastes like is guilt, heavy and bitter against his tongue. Not unlike the blood he licked off his finger.
He’ll make it up to her. He’ll have to.
“Of course, my Lord.”
“Thank you, my dear Lucia! Now,” he leans in, stretching up on his toes to better face her. “My Lord Father hath told me of the sacred Erdtree incantations. My own incantations have thus far failed, but perhaps if I knew the power of the Erdtree, I couldst ease Malenia’s suffering.”
The most Malenia is suffering at the moment is from his dramatics, but it otherwise isn’t a lie. Despite that the finger-reader stills uncannily, as if Miquella’s request was so untoward it rooted her to the spot.
“I cannot aid thee, my Lord,” she shrinks, her shaking hands wringing at her staff as if the heartbreak of failing him would be enough to snap it in twain. Of course, he expected nothing from her. “I wield not the incantations thou seeketh.”
He heaves a sigh, pouting a bit for good measure. “I thought as much. It is a shame…”
“My Lord, I beg thee, forgive me,” she rasps, bowing fervently as if enough motion would rid herself of the shame. Sufficient amounts of feigned disappointment and she should be scrabbling to help him with his next request. His father brought them fishing on the coast of Limgrave once, back when his memory was still a tender thing. The experience might have faded, but manipulation still feels like threading a worm on a hook.
“There is one thing thou could do,” he says, pretending to think. “If thou hath served my Queen Mother for so long, then perhaps it would not be uncouth to ask if I myself may speak with her?”
“My Lord,” she trembles. “Know’st thou I cannot ask such a thing of Queen Marika?”
He bites on a frown. Her fear of his mother may be a powerful thing, but the finger-reader should still be cradled well within the palm of his hand. “Certainly it couldst not be so horrible. If she has listened to thy wisdom before, then it should be within thy right to ask if her own son may speak with her.”
“I cannot, my Lord!”
Miquella scowls. His mother’s mere mention is so intense that it would deny even his bewitchment. His lacking power frustrates him, which begets more frustration as he’s forced to confront how much of an inconvenience it is for him to try and get what he wants like anyone else.
Malenia steps forward and wedges herself in front of Miquella, casting a shadow over the finger-reader as her hand flies to her side for a blade she isn’t carrying. “Thou would do well not to deny him.”
“Malenia-”
“Please, my Lady! Forgive me!” she shrieks. Miquella winces at the shrill tone of her voice, echoing out over the bridge.
“Perhaps if thou do as he asks I shall leave thee be.”
“I cannot! I cannot!” She howls, sounding very much like a bird with a broken wing. Miquella’s brows furrow. He can understand resistance out of fear, but her continued insistence on his denial seems more like she’s keeping something private.
“What is it that thou’rt so afraid of? I promise I shall beseech her to forgive thee if this is indeed a trespass.”
“Thou cannot understand, my Lord!”
Case and point. Malenia scowls, grabbing her wrist and ignoring her shrieking. “Will thou not listen? Are his concerns not important enough to trouble our mother with?”
She almost looks like she’s about to prostrate on the ground for forgiveness, or that her legs are simply giving out from fear. Normally Miquella would be proud of Malenia for cutting such an imposing figure, but he supposes the finger-readers tend to be on the frail side anyhow.
He crouches down, for once having to sink to someone else’s level. “Calm thyself, Lucia. We mean thee no harm. Canst thou not tell me why thou’rt so afraid?”
“My Lord-” she wails, arm propped up awkwardly in Malenia’s iron grip. Even Miquella’s charm is doing a poor job of soothing her. Despite the hollow sockets indented in her face he can quite clearly picture her eyes bulging in fear. “I cannot.”
“Why? That is all thou have said, but thou’st given me no reason.” He presses a hand to her head, her hair like brittle straw against his fingers. “Fear not, fair finger reader. Shouldst thou tell me, I shall spare thee from any harm that would come to thee for saying so.”
“Thou…” Miquella shoots Malenia a quick look, and she releases her grip. The finger-reader’s hand shoots back to her staff, clutching at it as if she were adrift at sea. “Thy mother-”
“Miquella, Malenia. What is it thou’rt doing?” His father’s voice sounds, cutting off the finger-reader’s words. His shadow casts over the three of them. Miquella doesn’t need to look up to be able to read his exasperation.
“Father,” he says by way of greeting, rising to his feet. He won’t give him the satisfaction of turning around. Miquella enjoys his petty defiances. “Were thou not out with thy wolves?”
“Was I not supposed to return?”
Malenia tucks both her hands behind her back about as casually as she can manage. It isn’t much, considering the finger-reader slumped in a heap at her feet. Miquella shoots her a look, which she returns with about as much odd shame as he’s feeling. The finger-reader seems as if she’s about to scream.
“Of course not. It was simply unexpected.”
“And so thou decided to torment a finger-reader in my absence.”
He can’t exactly deny it. Torment wasn’t his intention, but action has a tendency to extend far beyond that. Besides, Malenia was the one who dirtied her hands.
Radagon steps forward, towering well above the finger-reader. She’s still shaking, her grip unsteady against her staff as if her hands were twin dead leaves caught in the wind. Malenia leans subtly away, side-eyeing the railing in what seems to be a burgeoning escape plan.
“My Lord…” the finger-reader whimpers, practically cowering. He ignores her, instead fully turning his bright gaze onto Miquella.
“Why is it that thou hath cornered this finger-reader so?”
He may as well tell the truth. His father cannot get angry. The worst Miquella will have to suffer is the indignity of being forced into the role of a scolded child. “I was seeking an audience with my mother.”
“Thou made up thy mind. I offered to petition her directly for thee.”
“Yes, well…” He follows Malenia’s example, folding his hands out of sight. Malenia also seems to be slowly shuffling off to the side while Radagon is fully occupied with interrogating him, but he’ll leave her to it. “I wished to do it myself.”
“And make thyself suffer such an inconvenience, as well as harassing one of thy mother’s finger-readers. Thine actions do not endear thee to thy cause.”
“I did not wish to inconvenience thee,” he tries, angling for compassion. Judging by his father’s expression, it falls flat.
“It was not a suggestion.”
He did try. His father seems to operate solely on a yes or no basis; two options that only tend to exist in contrast of each other. No recognition of Miquella’s attempt to play on his well-wishing, even if it is feigned. What is he, really?
“I am sorry, father.” He’ll mark it down as a loss.
Radagon’s hard gaze turns to Malenia next, her awkward shuffle off to the left stopping the moment his head moves. Not that it does much to conceal her new position.
“Do tell me thou didst not brutalize her overmuch.”
She straightens, expression quickly arranged into something bordering apathy. “No, father. I did no such thing.”
“I suppose she fell herself, then.”
“It was for my brother,” she says, tilting up her chin. Miquella hides a smirk in the guise of bowing his head out of shame. “That is all I shall say.”
That leaves only the finger-reader, static and bowing low in Radagon’s shadow. He bends slightly to her level- likely to better see her considering her meek position on the ground.
“My children hath caused thee undue distress. Rest assured they shall be punished for this slight.”
She still doesn’t look up even as he addresses her directly. Her hands continue to shake, nearly clawing at her staff. The bells tremble with the motion, a slight noise in the oppressive intensity of Radagon’s presence. Making obeisances to the Elden Lord he understands, but her level of cowering better resembles a prey animal rather than owed respect.
“Avert not thine eyes, finger-reader. Tell me, just what didst my son request of thee?”
She manages the will to raise her head a smidge, still well-protected within the feeble cage of her arms. “An audience with the queen, my Lord.”
“That is all?”
Miquella shoots Malenia a look. The phrasing is odd, as if Radagon was wholly expecting that she let something slip. She was about to, but yet again was Miquella’s attempt to reach out cut off by his father’s convenient arrival. An overabundance of coincidence in one space and he might think his father was actively trying to stunt his growth.
“I said nothing else, my Lord, I swear.”
“Thy denial was all that left thy lips.”
She bobs her head, the fervor stemming from fear rather than her previous dull-minded infatuation, both of them differing methods of control that tend to achieve the same result.
“My son’s chagrin is telling enough. I shall choose to believe thy words.” He rises, looking down at her hunched form as if she were a particularly audacious bug. “Regardless, I suggest thou make thyself scarce.”
She pulls herself to her feet by her staff, further prompting unnecessary. The speed at which she scurries off is not-insignificant. Almost impressive, but her disappearance means Miquella is forced to bear the full fury of his father’s attention yet again.
Radagon pinches the bridge of his nose, looking well and truly exasperated. “I do hope that thou understand the shame of thy actions.”
“Father-” he starts, but is quickly silenced by the ensuing glare, very much reminiscent of the uncanny flash of a wolf’s eyes in the darkness.
“I shall not deny thee thy audience with thy mother, Miquella, but thy transgressions shall not go unpunished.”
Miquella shrinks, cheeks flush with embarrassment and a decent amount of outrage. All this trouble and he may as well have set himself back further than he was before, now truly cornered into the role of a dumb child. Malenia will outgrow the folly of children, but Miquella will be forever ensnared in the role his body has made him play.
He’ll still get to speak with his mother, at the very least. Small mercies.
“Yes, father.”
“Now go to thy rooms. Thy caretaker shall tell thee of thy punishment later.”
He bows before quickly turning on his heel and walking away, Malenia in tow. Now out of view of anyone he needs to pretend for, he allows his face to fall into the scowl he’d been suppressing.
“Fine idea this was.” Malenia hisses at him the moment their father is out of earshot. “Now he’ll have us pluck every weed in Leyndell before speaking to us again!”
Miquella snorts. Anger and shame do love to coalesce into an emotion that is thoroughly unpleasant. “The Order’s customs dictate that we flog ourselves at the first light of the sun and spend the rest of the day in silent meditation.”
“Thou jest.”
“When have I ever led thee astray?”
“That is besides the point,” she scowls. “Father does not even beat his hounds if they bite.”
“He said so himself. Children are meant to run like wolves,” he sighs. “Though most likely he’ll have us catch every rat in the kitchen and tie their tails together. I believe it’s what the Carians did to ne'er-do-wells.”
“I suppose we shall endure it with grace,” Malenia slumps, picking at the bandages encompassing her right arm before shooting Miquella a look. “Say, Lucia was her name, was it not?”
“Art thou suggesting that I would not learn the names of every one of our dear finger-readers?”
“Yes.”
“For the record, it was not her name.” He smiles, small and private. “But she would answer to anything so long as it was I who called her.”
Miquella receives a formal summons for an audience with his mother three days after his own attempt. The invitation is superficially plain, though the wording is extravagant- most likely in compensation. Miquella finds himself holding it at arm’s length. It wasn’t written by his mother, but the implication of her still lays claim to the paper. Her very idea is a cloth over his mouth that makes anxiety manifest in the pit of his stomach, heavily resembling an intangible nausea. He’s meant to see her the very next morning too.
He wonders what it’s like to have a mother that he doesn’t communicate with exclusively through stilted pleasantries and inspection. Not that he has any real frame of reference, but when he pictures it in his mind’s eye he thinks it would feel like being held against a warm chest, coasting on the rise and fall of the breathing like a body in the waves. Sometimes he pets his own hair to try and get himself to sleep at night.
Morning comes all too soon.
After extensive inspection by several finger readers - Lucia very much absent - he’s permitted to sit before the throne like an odd young flower amidst the leaves of pure gold that litter the ground, trying not to squint in the blinding light of the Erdtree.
Marika sits almost relaxedly in contrast to Miquella’s stiff posture, hands steepled gently in her lap. Her hair is unbound, pooling in her seat and cascading to her mid-calf. It’s easy enough to pick out his inherited features from her own; the arch of her nose, the amber hue of her eyes, the patient smile painted across her thin lips. All things she turns regal via her mere proximity, and yet another reminder of what he might have looked like had childhood not held onto him so lovingly.
“Budding sapling,” she starts, blatantly appraising his small form. Her voice isn’t warm, but it is gentle. Miquella resists the urge to twist his hands in the fabric of his dress. “Long hath it been since I last laid eyes upon thee.”
Normally such a statement would precede a comment about his growth, but that all ceased at the tender age of eight. Miquella knows better than to speak without being directly prompted and instead stares straight ahead, vision trained on the intricately embroidered leaves on her dress in a bid to not look her in the eyes- an exacting shade to his father’s.
Odd. Only now did he draw the connection.
“I admit, ‘tis strange of thee to demand to speak with me, though not unwelcome.” Her lips quirk up, smile small and joyless. “I heard from thy Lord Father of thine endeavors to belay thy sister’s rot. Admirable indeed, for one of thine age.”
He realizes that even if he was given permission to speak he wouldn’t know what to say. Perhaps his tongue would betray him and curl up dead in his mouth. Marika turns air into lead and wraps her hand around Miquella’s throat with a simple greeting. He’s never felt so utterly defenseless in his entire life.
He wishes so desperately that Malenia was by his side, if only to steady him with her presence, or at least draw the intensity of Marika’s gaze away from him for a brief while. The shame of overdependence barely registers. Miquella only functions as one half of a whole.
“Tell me, budding sapling, why seeketh I? I hear whispers that thou’rt a prodigy in whatever thou set thy mind to, thine ambition boundless. Even my Godwyn didst not possess half thy mettle at his age, and yet thou struggle for more.”
Miquella swallows. “Long hath I studied under the greatest minds in the kingdom, and I have pursued many different subjects, yet still any attempts I make to so much as ease my sister’s burden are met with failure. My father suggested that perhaps thou wouldst aid me with the knowledge I seek.”
He nearly cringes at the sound of his voice in his ears, pathetic and meek in contrast to Marika’s words. Something odd flashes in her eyes at his father’s mention, gone in a blink.
“Thou’rt yet young. Even a prodigy requires time to fully bloom.”
“It is not only I who failed. The perfumers were able to only barely delay the progression, and incantations wielded by others made no effect. Even my father is confounded. If the Elden Lord cannot find any solution, then there is little hope for me as it is now.”
She leans to one side, studying him the same way he might study a butterfly. “Thou’rt far more than a Lord, my sapling. Thy father’s ability is but a milestone thou have yet to surpass, but know that it shall come.”
Miquella struggles to keep his expression even. He knows little of his mother and father’s actual relationship, but her tone when she speaks of him is something approaching disdainful.
“Nevertheless,” she continues. “I am intrigued. Tell me thy desire, dearest Miquella, and I shall aid thee if it suits me.”
“I had told my father that the Golden Order had yet to provide Malenia any relief. He shared my worries and instead suggested that perhaps the incantations of the Erdtree would prove more sufficient. Thus I am here, to ask if thou wouldst lend me thy knowledge.”
She offers no immediate response, instead only arching a slender eyebrow. For the first time he registers that he is well and truly terrified- even when he had faced the misbegotten there was at least a sort-of pity for the creature that dulled the fear. There’s none of that now. Marika cannot be bewitched. Marika cannot be read. His father is much the same, but he at least possesses an affection for Miquella that is easy to take advantage of. He cannot ply his mother with gifts and displays of childish love. Marika offers him no predictability to use as a foothold, almost as if she knew she was being read and had mastered the part of playing herself in turn. Whatever may lie beneath is so well-concealed it may as well have never existed in the first place.
He takes a deep breath, hoping it simply comes off as natural. He doesn’t feel natural. He doesn’t feel like anything at all.
“I shall spare thee the disappointment of failure and refuse outright.”
Miquella’s head shoots up. For a moment he forgets who he’s speaking to, a cry of outrage barely held back on his lips. He had anticipated the potential event of her refusal, of course, but to be denied so blatantly still feels as if she had leaned forward and struck him across the jaw.
“Come now, budding sapling. I know my response angers thee.” She rests her head on her hand, imperious as Miquella struggles to contain himself. “Do not think that I wish not to cure thy dearest sister’s rot. I feel thy woe and hers as if it were my own. All I shall say is that even my power shall not bring her the cure thou desirest.”
“What-” he manages, his voice suddenly failing him. “What is it thou speak of?”
“Was it not thy father who suggested to thee the incantations of the Erdtree? He whose preaching has yielded but dust? Neither shall thy devotion save thee, nor Malenia, even if she suddenly wished to devote herself to the life of a maiden. Nay, her curse is far beyond the influence of the Golden Order.” She tilts her head, her expression more smug than sorrowful. “Such is the fate of a pure vessel. It truly hurts me that she must suffer so.”
Despair settles in at his throat, another type of nausea that does not behave as it should. “Thus… there is no hope?”
“Perhaps I could heal the flesh and close the wound, but the knife would still remain obstinately in her body. The rot may also be delayed with fire or ice, but such options wouldst not satisfy thee, would they? This is for thy sister, after all, and thou wouldst not stand to see her aflame.”
It’s an eerily similar statement to his father’s, though in this instance it seems as if Marika is prodding him rather than attempting to crush him outright. In both circumstances Miquella still feels something akin to an insect.
To his horror, she stands from her throne, hair spilling down her back in a wave of spun gold. The Erdtree casts her shadow over him in a cool veil. Miquella tries not to shrink.
“Rise if thou wouldst, dearest Miquella. Perhaps I shall lessen thy disappointment yet.”
He does as she says. The top of his head only reaches her mid-thigh. He’s very used to others towering above him but in this case, with his mother’s form silhouetted against the Erdtree, it makes him feel like screaming.
She presses something into his hand. Reflex tells him that it’s a glass eye about the size of his palm. It glimmers in a light amber colour, nested amidst a delicate wreath of golden vines. The most recognizable aspect of it is her stake carved into the centre, arms flung wide and so worn in that it looks similar to a scab that was never allowed to heal.
“What is this?”
“It was my own personal seal, now one that I bequeath to thee.”
He looks up, shocked. What little he can see of her expression is serene, but serenity often has a sharp edge.
“Know this; even with this thou shalt fail, and thy failures shall pain thee as they shall pain thy sister. Taketh the agony upon thyself, and through it shalt thou achieve the full potential of thy strength.”
She bends on one knee, face level with his. A hand reaches out, brushing a lock of hair that had tangled in his crown. Miquella tries not to flinch.
“Thou, safe in thine untouchable flesh, with thy charm that wouldst compel one to leap before a blade so as not to disturb a hair on thy head; thou know’st no true pain as of yet. Through thy sister’s agony shalt thou suffer, and the ensuing struggle of searching for her cure shouldst surely beget something miraculous from thee.”
She presses a kiss to his head. His hand had been clutching the seal so tightly in his terror that the edge of the scultped vines dug into his flesh. Pain is a distant thing. The sting doesn’t hurt as much as his mother’s lips against his forehead. If anything, it provides a relief.
“Thine adversity shall be sweet, budding sapling.”
Her touch gives no warmth. He can’t lean away.
Like a promise, even the aid of Marika’s seal fails to slow the progression of the rot up Malenia’s arm. Miquella can’t deny that it’s powerful- it does a fine job of healing all the blisters and sores and whatever other minor ailments tailing alongside the rot like ants, but the rot itself continues to stand out like a patch of dead grass in an otherwise pristine field.
Marika was right to deny him the sting of her failure. If his incompetency feels like a hand at his throat then his mother may as well bash his head in against Malenia’s bedside table in compensation for her own disappointment.
Marika called Malenia a pure vessel. He supposes oversaturation would turn into a type of purity, if viewed a little more charitably than it should. He turned his curse into a blessing. Malenia cannot embrace hers, because it would mean embracing a part of herself. She can’t even enter Miquella’s gardens without killing half the plants. The definition of a blessing changes depending on who’s been asked.
Miquella tightens the wrap of Malenia’s bandages, fingers nimble from repetition of the task. Not that it does much in the way of anything practical, but Malenia still wears them as compulsively as she would a pair of gloves.
“It has grown, has it not?” She asks, pointedly looking away, her normally combative tone diluted into something blunt and tired. She didn’t sleep for the past two nights, riddled with a persistent fever that rose and fell like the tide. Miquella knew because all he could do was stay by her bed and curse himself. She claims she’s better enough now, but the exertion of movement makes itself known as a sheen of sweat on her face, her clouded eyes glassy and unfocused.
“A centimetre, yes.”
“I suppose I shall lose this hand. Already have I heard talk of taking measurements for a prosthetic.”
Miquella purses his lips, fingers twisting in the linen. The thought of Malenia so much as skinning her knee is distressing. Talk of his failures made manifest settles on him like oil, or a filthy second skin. “Thou couldst still wield a blade.”
“I suppose. There are many fine fighters that have a prosthetic leg or what have you, though…” She sighs. “It is not the same. I would lack feeling- instinct. It would be a vulnerability. I confess that I fear not the amputation itself, only what remains of my ability after.”
Miquella says nothing. He doesn’t think he can.
“It bothers thee.”
“Yes.”
She ruffles his head with her unoccupied arm, her touch a warm thing on the crown of his head. Precisely what she’s bound to lose. Will there be a day when her body is entirely foreign? Miquella doesn’t think he could stand a future where he could not feel the life in his sister, where she would make the same action and all he would receive is cold metal.
“Thou’rt more concerned than I,” she murmurs.
Say nothing, think nothing- the fact that she doesn’t care for herself is precisely why he’s upset, but what can he do? Accuse her of it? She knows in the way things tend to leave a noticeable gap in their absence.
“Well, perhaps I could attach a blade to the prosthetic. Then I wouldst not have to worry about the disrespect of having a dagger on my person. Wouldst that not be fine?”
“Thou have poor humour.”
“Perhaps,” she shrugs. Miquella scowls as she jostles the arm he’s working on. “I shall teach myself to wield a blade again in any case, even if I must do it a thousand times over.”
“And should I make no progress with healing thee? If they are forced to take thy legs, thine other hand?”
“I shall teach myself to walk, then. To write. I must.”
“Thou’rt concerned only with thine ability.”
“What else should I be concerned with?” she says, fixing him with an unreadable look. A thousand different answers immediately present themselves, all subsequently disregarded. It isn’t what she would be willing to hear, and Miquella refuses to force her to listen.
He finishes her wrap, tugging tight the last knot. Malenia retracts it and keeps it still on her knees, still quite blatantly ignoring it. Enough delusion and he supposes the bandages could just as easily conceal a cut as much as they could the rot itself, an splotchy crimson progression nearly up to her elbow.
“Did thou ever ask father if we could see Fortissax?”
Miquella jolts. Out of all the turmoil of the past week-and-a-half he had mostly forgotten about Godwyn’s offer, and the fact that his father gave him permission.
“Yes, I did. He agreed, though I suppose I should postpone our visit.”
“Why?”
“Just until thou’rt in better condition. Exerting thyself now would be counterproductive.”
“What art thou, my caretaker?” she scowls. “Do not dare pass up this invitation for something so trivial.”
“There is a large difference between postponing and outright refusing,” Miquella mutters. Malenia flicks him on the arm. “Ow! I refuse to go without thee, that is all.”
“And I never said I would stay behind!” Malenia flicks him again. “Think of thy court manners besides! Thou cannot postpone an invitation given to thee by Godwyn the Golden. Compared to thee I’m downright saintly.”
“But thou’rt ill,” he says, rubbing his arm. Her flicks really do sting. “He is still our brother. I am certain he would understand.”
Malenia’s scowl deepens. “If I stayed in bed every time I felt ill I would have never done anything with my life at all. I am going, and that is final.”
And it is. Despite Miquella’s cunning, Malenia still has a tendency to win the large majority of their arguments through sheer will.
They set out the next day. Miquella is silently glad that he did not have to postpone the visit. Godwyn is due to fly out on campaign to the east in a week, gods only know when he would return. Time is a precious thing that tends to go woefully unnoticed. An eternal should have no concept of urgency, but Malenia’s body is a calendar that marks the months through decay. Miquella can’t afford to dither, even if the chance that the Dragon Cult proves to be useful is slight.
Godwyn bid them to meet on the large sloping fields near the eastern edge of the Plateau, so the journey is something of a hike. Malenia is wholly reluctant to even let him near a pony again, forcing Miquella to resign himself to sore feet and a long day.
Unwilling to make himself known to the crowds of nobles that tend to converge on the main avenue of the city Miquella tugs Malenia off to a side path, quiet and comfortably shaded under the large wing of Granssax. It’s largely unpopulated, save for a few knights, and their footsteps ring out under the cool shade like a steady drip of rain into water.
“What pleasantries do thou suppose thou should make to a dragon?” Miquella says, wincing slightly at the echo of his voice.
“Are we supposed to bring a gift?”
“I do not know. It seems rude to show up empty-handed, does it not?”
Malenia shrugs. “I do not spend half as much time worrying about these sorts of things as thee.”
“Perhaps thou should.”
“Why, when I have thou to do it for me?”
“No amount of performance on my part could compensate for thy court manners,” he says, somewhat smug.
“Statecraft is hardly expected from one such as I.”
“Neglect is hardly an excuse.”
“I prefer to stand by thy side and glower anyhow. My idea of politicking is a duel.”
Miquella frowns. “Do not attempt to duel the dragon.”
“I shan't! Thou’rt the one making a fuss of this.” She crosses her arms. “Do thou think he would appreciate a freshly-slaughtered ram?”
“That would be as if thou visited Sir Godefroy in Stormveil and presented him with a raw steak.”
“Twat,” she mutters. “Dragons have different sensibilities.”
“How would thou know? Thou’rt yet to speak with one.”
“Thou’rt the same, and thus thou cannot contradict what I said. I shall ask,” she says, holding her head up with a bit of a haughty air. The slope of her jaw suddenly reminds him of the way Marika held herself, Malenia’s posturing something their mother wears as easily as a veil.
Miquella falls silent, looking out over the stone railing in thought. It’s easy enough to see the lower levels of the city with the layered architecture. From his vantage point Miquella can quite clearly gaze into the shadowed depths, the buildings more clustered and uneven than the pristine streets above.
Movement catches his eye. In the rows between houses a line of chained misbegotten trudge along, caged in by a pair of heavily-armed knights. None of them are so large and ungainly as the one in the snowfield, though all share the same distinctly mismatched features of several animals cobbled together at once.
His face hurts. He finds he’s scowling and quickly attempts to smooth it out into something only slightly displeased. Malenia leans over at his side, quirking an eyebrow.
“What has upset thee so? Do not tell me the question of what to give a dragon still troubles thee.” She looks down with Miquella’s wordless motion, frowning. “That? ‘Tis unsightly, I suppose.”
“Thou knowest they are enslaved from birth? It’s a question that has been bothering me quite a bit as of late.”
“Whether I know, or just that they are enslaved?”
Miquella shrugs. “Does it bother thee?”
“A bit, perhaps. I dislike seeing any creature mistreated, though I suppose I could say the same for hounds bred for nothing but the hunt.”
“They are considered lesser than simple creatures. Father’s wolves live in far finer luxury than them.”
The misbegotten vanish from sight soon enough, leaving the lower streets yet again another quiet little corner of the city. Malenia nudges him to keep walking, though his displeasure lingers.
“They are ugly things, I shall admit, though I still find that no reason to mistreat them so,” he continues. Malenia says nothing, but her silence isn’t necessarily out of disagreement. “I would not beat a dog with a barbed cane even if it were hideous.”
“Is this why thou attempted to heal the misbegotten that wounded thee?”
“Perhaps they are sentient, much like us. I would have liked to see how it would react, though I suppose my will was lacking,” he sighs. Even if it didn’t attack him he still gets the distinct impression that his father would have killed it anyways, the thing punished for the crime of simply existing.
“There shall be a next time.” Malenia ruffles his head. Miquella indulges the touch. “Preferably when I am there, and preferably without thine ensuing injury.”
There’s depth to the promise, but not one he dislikes. He shrugs out of Malenia’s hand and moves on.
Godwyn’s choice of meeting grounds are easy enough to spot from the highway. Fortissax’s gravel-grey complexion is a bone poking through skin. On closer inspection Miquella can see Godwyn resting comfortably in the small alcove formed in the bend of his arm.
He stands as they near, unbound hair stirring in the wind from the rolling blue clouds overhead. Very much like Marika’s- an observation Miquella continues to find both obvious and pertinent, as if his last meeting with his mother was the first time he had ever truly seen her face, and only now could he categorize what features she had laid claim to.
Miquella waves, grabbing Malenia’s left hand and tugging her along. “Hello, brother. I fear we are a bit late.”
“Not at all,” he says, smiling. “I am glad to see thee both in finer health than last we met.”
He tries not to frown. It’s true in his case, at least, but Godwyn hadn’t been around for the last few days of Malenia’s health declining yet again. The only reason she seems fine is because her normal baseline is a constant low. Miquella barely knows what she would be like were she to function at full capacity. He doubts she knows either.
Not that he necessarily wanted Godwyn to bear witness, but the carelessness irks him anyhow.
Miquella cranes his head up to look at Fortissax, an intimidating silhouette against the storm-grey sky. He can barely make out his features from his point of view. He’s fearsome. Miquella had seen him several times before, but never in such a personal context.
“Hello, Sir Fortissax,” he greets, attempting not to sound feeble. “It is an honour to finally speak with thee.”
Fortissax bends his head, his breath gusting hot across Miquella’s scalp. He does the same to Malenia, who manages her own faint greeting, before resuming his position. Malenia looks somewhat in awe despite the feverish glaze to her features. Miquella can’t help but share her excitement. Fortissax is completely alien - a relic from an ancient era. Growing up under the shadow of Granssax’s wing had done little to prepare him for the event of meeting a living replica close enough that it could bend down and pluck him up by the scruff.
Godwyn laughs. “I have never seen either of thee so shell-shocked before. Thou needest not be afraid. He isn’t much for glib pleasantries.”
Malenia shoots him a smug look. He pointedly ignores her. “Does he speak?”
“Not in the way that we might. Dragons are wise and have found little need for words, and so I have come to be fluent in their own form of communication. Worry not - I shall interpret.” he adds upon noticing Miquella’s expression. “I am able, I swear.”
“I did not doubt thee, brother,” he says, still somewhat incredulous. It’s hard to imagine, considering Miquella relies almost entirely on what words he chooses. Dragons were once heralded as the pinnacle of creation. The heresy is blatant, but Miquella often finds that the most egregious of falsehoods have a shred of truth to them.
Malenia leans against him. It’s subtle- they’re standing close enough that it would be hard to notice, but Miquella can read her laboured breathing well enough to understand the intent.
“May we sit? Father refused us a pony and we were made to walk, and now my feet hurt dearly.”
“Of course,” Godwyn concedes with a nod of his head. “It was rude of me to not offer before.”
Unsure of how close they should actually be to Fortissax, Miquella unclasps his light cloak and lays it out a good seven feet away. Near enough to not seem wary, though far enough to not be friendly. He plops down, Malenia gratefully sinking next to him. Godwyn resumes his previous position at Fortissax’s leg, Fortissax curling his tail against him in what could only be affection.
“I am glad thy father allowed this outing. I feared he would not after thy last excursion.”
“Even were he to refuse I would have snuck out anyhow,” he grumbles.
“Regardless, thou seemeth as if thou’rt content to get thyself into trouble more often than not. I heard of thine attempts to speak with our Queen Mother.”
“The rumour mill is quick I see,” Miquella says, scowling. Beside him, Malenia snorts.
Godwyn laughs at his expression, causing him to glower even further. “Do not be so dour. I remember doing precisely the same thing when I was at thy age.”
“Really?” It’s hard to imagine Godwyn as a child, though logically Miquella knows he was at some point. Miquella suspects they would’ve looked much alike, the sole difference being that Godwyn was allowed to progress as nature intended.
“Our dear mother does not make herself known often, and I was always attempting to come up with different ways to catch her eye. Not quite as clever as thee, though I did try,” he says, somewhat wistfully. “Admittedly, her presence is far more scarce in the present than it was in my childhood.”
On closer inspection, Godwyn’s hair is more of a burnt gold than Marika’s cornsilk. It feels like something of a relief.
“I simply wanted to speak with her,” he says. He pulls his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself. “I thought she might aid me in my efforts to help Malenia.”
“From thy tone, I presume it did not go well.”
“I received naught but condolences.” It isn’t the full truth, but Miquella receives the very tangible impression that Marika would not want him to recite their entire conversation aloud, even to her own children.
Especially to her own children.
“Such is the way of the gods. Mother she may be, but I oft find her reasoning to be inscrutable myself.” Godwyn’s expression hardens, an unreadable emotion flickering across his eyes as he looks towards the Erdtree.
Miquella watches carefully. Godwyn’s demeanor mostly tends to be pleasant, almost to the point of facade. If it is true, then he may not be pulling it off as well as he’d like to think, though Miquella supposes it’s more to please the masses rather than his family.
It is his weak spot. He’s earnest. Almost overwhelmingly so. Bluffing clearly isn’t his strong suit, so he has a tendency to mean what he says. It might be a useful trait if Miquella could somehow twist it in his favour, depending on what words Godwyn tends to omit.
He continues, ignoring Miquella’s pensive silence. “We are demigods, ‘tis true, but only that. Our fathers still remain human, and so will a part of us always follow.”
“Such is our fate,” he echoes, more of an attempt to placate him than an agreement. The title of Empyrean grants the luxury of shedding such unfortunate things. Granted, if he can take it, but Malenia shuddered at the thought of the goddess she would become and he’s heard little talk of his father’s estranged daughter, inheritor of a defunct throne that she is.
So that leaves him.
Godwyn’s expression reverts to his default passive smile, eyes turned back to Miquella. “Enough of that dour nonsense. Thou’rt here to learn of Fortissax, art thou not?”
“I told thee of my wish to further communicate with graceless species, and I suppose thou of all people wouldst be the best to give me advice.”
He flushes slightly. “It’s surprising to hear that from thee.”
Miquella furrows his brow. “Why?”
“Well, thou tend to be aloof, and thy praise is not often given.”
“It is true. Thy union with the dragons set a precedent for a more pacifist approach. Even my father considers thee wise.” He tilts his head in thought. “I suppose he would, considering his own union with Caria.”
Fitting that his father would only mimic the actions of another. Lately Miquella has been getting the impression that he hardly even thinks for himself, only ever trailing after the heels of the Order like a starving wolf. He often wonders what would inspire such unconditional loyalty beyond artificial infatuation.
“I- suppose I shan’t deny it. ‘Tis high praise indeed.”
Miquella finds it odd that he would react like a blushing maiden considering a good two-thirds of the population of Leyndell is actively in love with him. “The dragons were reviled as being relics of the crucible, yet thou saw fit to extend thy hand in peace when it would have been just as easy to crush the strongest of them.”
The tip of Fortissax’s tail curls, hitting Godwyn’s ankle. Godwyn looks up in turn, slightly bemused. “He is quite pleased to be called so.”
Fortissax snorts, sending Godwyn’s hair gusting across his face. Miquella suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something private and turns his gaze downward, watching Malenia pull out tufts of grass with her healthy hand.
“It is a far more handsome retelling of the true events that took place, though not untrue,” he says, running a hand through his hair in thought. “Truthfully, it is difficult to recall. I spent the majority of the war so fearful that now my mind simply refuses to relay to me any pure memories.
“It was the first time in history that the walls of Leyndell had been breached. Granssax fell, of course, but the fact of the matter remained that we were not as untouchable as promised. I was no fledgling soldier at the time, but neither did I have the conviction of my Lord Father and I made a fair amount of mistakes that cost our army losses that would have been otherwise avoidable, all in a desperate bid to emulate my father and to regain the certainty Leyndell had lost.”
Miquella leans in. Malenia mirrors the action beside him, her interest finally caught.
“It has been a long time, now, hasn’t it?” he says, looking up at Fortissax. His tone is weary. Borderline pleading. Whatever response Fortissax gives is unreadable, but it seems to provide Godwyn some solace, his shoulders sagging minutely.
“The most clarity I can dredge up is thus; I hesitated on my killing blow. It was a shameful thing at first, when I knew that my father would have cleaved Fortissax in twain, but soon I realized that though I was not my father, I could instead forge my own choice. So I laid down my spear, though wary, and have not once regretted my decision.”
Neither he nor Malenia say anything, rapt with attention. He had never heard Godwyn speak so openly. It feels as if he is watching a chick break free of its egg, or looking at his face through an unclouded lens. Bronze-gold, like the hinge on an old case. Something tangible, or presumably within reach.
“It would have been difficult to convince mother to allow the treaty, I imagine,” Malenia says, her tone hushed.
“Quite so. Neither she nor father were particularly pleased with my newfound pacifism considering how bitterly they fought in the beginning of their age. I cannot remember being quite so terrified of mother as I was then- not that she was violent, but utterly calm.”
Miquella shudders. Knowing that Godwyn made his choice fully aware that it would draw their mother’s derision gives him a newfound respect, one that feels almost entirely selfish. Marika was passive when last they spoke. Pleasant to the point of an unblemished wall. Miquella can’t function without some foothold in the other person. Speaking with Marika was like walking blind.
“They saw reason eventually, though not through any particular charm on my part. I managed to introduce the idea that the benefits of the union might outweigh the total subjugation of the dragons and allowed them to come to their own conclusions. Father was somewhat easier to draw to negotiation, given that he did not wield half of mother’s cunning and therefore did not overthink things as much.”
“So thou simply let them think it was their idea.” He’s surprised. Not that he thought Godwyn was dull, he simply didn’t think he had the capacity for such a scale of manipulation. Acceptance can only be really born of one’s own rationalization. It is why he was so bent on this meeting in the first place. Miquella has whittled himself into an array of knives and can only use what he understands.
“Thou make me sound far more clever than I am, but I suppose it was something along those lines. Mother would have made it into her own idea regardless of whether or not that was my intent.”
Very true, and it’s presumably a side effect that comes with being a god, or at least a benefit. Rationalization eventually becomes another truth to weave into an ever-growing net, cast out wide over the sky like the smothering hand of judgment.
“And thou,” he starts, turning to speak to Fortissax. “What compelled thee to accept Godwyn’s offer, when thou had been such bitter enemies before?”
Fortissax lowers his head to Miquella’s level. From this angle he can make out his features distinctly, most notably the two red eyes sunk into his face like rubies studding a ridged crown. Miquella lifts his chin, trying to appear stately in defiance of his own appearance.
He supposes his own attempt at connection in the snowfield could be called a failed attempt to mirror Godwyn’s own actions, though where Godwyn rose above his father Miquella was very literally below his own. Rationally he shouldn’t begrudge his father for trying to save his life, but still he does, rationality be damned. If Marika can be afforded the luxury of inscrutability then so can he, budding god that he is.
“His pride was wounded, certainly,” Godwyn starts, somehow unspooling Fortissax’s esoteric means of communication. “But in that moment he could either choose to die and damn his kin with his dishonour, or accept my proposal and end the war. In that moment we were far more similar than different, both of us sons unsheltered from the wingspan of our fathers.”
Communication functions both ways. Gods, he never did consider whether the misbegotten even understood him, did he? Infatuation is a universal truth, but only for as long as he can make it so.
Perhaps, one day, it could become a shared language, more or less like Godwyn and Fortissax’s wordless fluency.
“I suppose we were,” Godwyn hums, a tender smile on his face. “I take after my father in most aspects, I am well aware, but I could never bring myself to share his bloodlust. It would be nigh heretical to wonder whether or not he would be proud.”
“It is a child’s duty to outgrow their parents,” Miquella says, his hypocrisy so tangible he feels as if he could chip his teeth on it. He barely knows if he shares Godwyn’s sentiment. He doesn’t know how. Miquella, son of Radagon of the Golden Order, has a tendency to picture himself looking like his father but doesn’t understand what it actually means.
A drop of water hits his head, making him flinch. Miquella looks up at the quiet fury of the grey-blue clouds above and is greeted with a faceful of raindrops, coming down in a startlingly quick fashion. Malenia scrambles to her feet and grabs Miquella’s cloak from under them both, using it as a flimsy makeshift parasol that quickly becomes soaked through.
It stops, the rain suddenly replaced with an overlarge shadow. Fortissax’s wing covers their heads and mutes the onslaught of the storm to a distant languid sound, like footsteps overhead.
“Had I known the weather would turn upon us so, I wouldst not have called thee out so far,” Godwyn says, grimacing slightly. Under the shelter of Fortissax’s wing his voice echoes oddly, even at his semi-whisper. Not three hours ago and he and Malenia were admiring the sliver of blue sky that could be seen under the cage of Granssax’s body. Now the solitude is an almost treasonous quiet.
“No matter. The rain can be outwaited.”
Godwyn sighs, combing a hand through the damp strings of his hair. Outside the bony embrace of the wing the rain pours on, streaming down the ridges into a series of miniscule waterfalls. From their vantage point Miquella can see the entirety of the Plateau, the rays of the Erdtree prying through the cloud cover in a nearly apocalyptic coalition of gold and storm-grey.
“Fortissax told me once of an ancient city in the heart of a storm, perpetually swallowed by itself, home only to beasts and dragons. A graceless city, he said, far removed from the light of the Erdtree.”
Godwyn doesn’t look at either of them as he speaks. The change of conversation may be simply related to the weather, but Miquella can’t help but feel that the tangent is so out-of-character that Godwyn is speaking in some sort of code.
Out of habit, Miquella presses against Malenia in another bid for wordlessness. She squeezes his hand, grounding despite her clammy skin.
He continues. “Graceless, and colourless. When the lightning of the dragons struck it was as if the world had torn in two and knit itself together just as quickly, the gap in the fabric red-white, like a bar of iron straight from the forge. Time breaks on it like a stream around a rock. Long have I known that my footsteps would never stray from where the Erdtree extends its roots, and yet-”
Miquella only has his intuition to rely upon, but he’s seen Godwyn crack far too many times in a day for it to be coincidental. A knife’s blade bears his own reflection.
“Gods, would I like to see it. Just once,” he chuckles, an impersonal plea drenched in equal parts folly and self-deprecation. “My resolve falters all too often, my desires borderline blasphemy. I can hardly bear to walk under the light of my mother’s tree with such wishes in mind. Perhaps it is why I desire the escape so badly, no matter how temporary.”
Ah.
“Brother,” he whispers, leaning in. “Thou needest not keep secrets from I. From what thou sayest, I believe our goals may align.”
Still Godwyn keeps his eyes fixed upon the storm, but his stony profile still belies some acknowledgement. Bewitchment is nothing more than a fly at his head that could perhaps get him to listen, but not wholly agree.
“Thou wish to save thy sister. That is thy goal.”
Malenia suppresses something resembling a flinch at his wording. Godwyn isn’t wrong, which is perhaps what hurts her the most.
“And if I could do more? If I could cure her, then what of the other graceless creatures that walk beneath the light of the Erdtree? Thine union with the dragons brought us a wealth of resources. Other possibilities may yet exist.”
“Thou may as well forgive the rats for bringing the plague in the hopes that their meat might be good to eat,” he says. Miquella scowls. Godwyn’s disillusionment may only be a splinter in his otherwise earnest faith, but Miquella knows how to get what he wants from people.
Forgive thy sister for bringing her rot in the hopes that her hand might still be warm-
“Wouldst thou punish a wolf for acting as a wolf does? Or a dragon for hunting the rams of a farmer’s flock?”
Finally, Godwyn turns his head, his eyes simultaneously knowing and unfocused. Much like Marika’s. Much like his father’s-
Well.
“Suppose that I am a hypocrite, but I do decide to aid thee regardless. What wouldst thou have of me?”
Miquella tilts his head in a bid for innocence as he thinks. In his periphery Malenia fixes him with something between stoicism and a glare. He can’t reveal too much- not that he has any real plan in mind beyond a few inklings, but Godwyn’s sincerity is an awfully dangerous trait to contend with regardless of miniscule the truths are.
“I wish to help,” he says carefully. “I share thy guilt for the graceless. Thine aid in this regard wouldst be a great boon, such as thou’rt beloved of the dragons.”
“How I couldst help I know not, besides council. The dragons are poor diplomats, mind you.”
“I seek to aid. Perhaps it is simple, but I wouldst need thee-” he turns to Malenia. “Both of thee, to see it through.”
“Still I fall short. I hear that thy healing skills already far exceed my own.” He raises his eyebrows, pensive.
“I’ve not the patience for magic,” Malenia says, her brows furrowed. “What is it thou’rt thinking?”
“Perhaps it is below thee, but there are a great many clinics in the city short of hand, if to aid the shunned is thy goal,” Godwyn adds. His suggestion is a humble one, but the look in his eyes suggests that Miquella’s designs are already much higher than a clinic.
It confirms two things at least; both that Godwyn’s clever enough to have some tact, and that Miquella has a potential new ally. He turns his smile into a pleasant little upturn of the lips, for posterity. It’s not even a bad idea. The origins of the great have a tendency to start in the dirt.
“See? Already thou’st given me a fine idea. I think I shall appreciate thy counsel.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Godwyn says, and outside the rain falls with all the finality of an agreement.
Miquella yawns, arms draped in a makeshift cushion on the padded arm of the chair he’s occupying. Radagon sits adjacent with an indistinct pile of dark fabric crumpled on his lap, slowly marking out something of a form in golden thread. Two weeks spent avoiding the eventuality that he would have to spend time with his father and yet at the end of his pettiness Miquella finds himself propping his chin on his hands, struggling to keep himself awake as his father embroiders- something. It looks like leaves, or a wilting garland.
All things converge, eventually. Radagon did make a point of drilling that particular law into his head from a young age. He can’t imagine he meant it in so inane a context as Miquella sitting on the same couch as him after actively dodging his presence for half a month.
“Thou met with Fortissax, didst thou not?” He starts, inoffensive in his prying. His subtlety is about as exacting as the persistent awareness of being stalked through an otherwise empty forest, but Miquella does give him credit for at least disguising it as conversation.
“Yes. Brother was a gracious host, though we were forced to end our meeting early when the storm rolled in.”
For all that he’s concerned, nothing transpired under the shelter of Fortissax’s wing. Godwyn fell into an asinine tangent about the weather. He likes the smell of ozone left after a storm. Malenia said she felt ill and they left and Miquella gained nothing save for another conversation with his brother and more words to omit. A closed box can contain anything until it’s opened. A key can be discarded for posterity.
“Shame. Regardless, it is a privilege to be able to speak with an ancient dragon. Oft they provide wisdom that rarely dawns upon mortals.”
Miquella hums. “Fortissax does not speak. Godwyn said the old dragons had discarded the need for words, though he did a poor job of properly explaining it.”
Fortissax does not speak but says multitudes. Miquella, confined to words like the relics of the primordial age, tries as much as possible to say nothing at all.
“It is difficult to explain what it is like to think in another language.”
“Still, he couldst have been more concise,” Miquella says, watching the delicate form of a leaf take shape in thread. “Perhaps it is body language.”
It isn’t. At least, not exclusively. Half of communication is written in subtle movements and Miquella has taught himself to read it like water pooling. It’s why he finds Radagon as inscrutable as he does, because he carries himself around in a perfunctory practice. Rationality be damned - inscrutability as a godlike trait. His father is- was human. Marika must’ve rubbed off on him.
“Godwyn had a good many ideas otherwise. I was at a loss for what to do with myself, and he suggested that I perhaps take up work in a clinic.”
“Thou think it beneath thee.”
Miquella keeps his expression impassive, even if his father’s attention isn’t fully on him. “Such that any squire would be desperate for knighthood.”
“Thou’rt willing to concede, at least.” He pulls the thread through, the picture of a vine slowly gaining form. “I do agree with him. Thy desperation for knowledge wouldst be well-supported were thou to put it to full action.”
He wasn’t asking for permission, but his father at least thinks it is solely Godwyn’s idea and not one he had quickly morphed into something for his own use. Introduce the bait, pull the line.
“He is quite the pacifist.”
“Hm?”
“Godwyn,” he clarifies, carefully toeing on- what, he doesn’t quite know. A careful first meeting of hounds from different litters. A question steep enough to fall over. “I knew well of his peacemaking, but not quite the extent. Especially for a son of Godfrey.”
Radagon loops the thread around the needle before pressing it through the fabric, forming a knot in the centre of a flower. “Godfrey knew himself through his bloodlust. Even with the beast-regent upon him, his definition relied dearly on who or what he felled with his axe. Thy brother seems to feel otherwise.”
Miquella sinks a bit into the pillow of his arms, attention piqued. “Didst thou know old Lord Godfrey well?”
He furrows his brows a touch, but otherwise he gives no reaction. “I did know him, but I cannot in good faith say that I knew him well.” He pauses, as if in thought. “He was loud. That is the most I can say.”
“I can imagine.”
“His penchant for violence was his downfall, in the end. He forged himself entirely in its image. When the Order began to evolve a more scholastic approach he found he had little direction, and thy mother was quite swift to agree.”
“And she called upon thee in his stead.”
Radagon pulls his needle up through the fabric, wielding it with all the dignity of a holy blade. “Mending was as much a principle of the Order as action. Godfrey devoted himself entirely to the latter. As did the majority of the Order in its early days, I admit, but the laws writ upon the stars hath forever stated that all things shall unite - that all truths might be revealed.
“And thus might be understood,” he continues, his tone approaching a defeated whisper. “Perhaps I was revered as a merciless warmonger in my youth, but still did I admire the nobility of thy brother’s actions.”
For all his father seems to love to preach of mending, he seems to have a nearly-inherent propensity for fumbling what he holds dear. What did his mother say? He would receive nothing in return? Such is the way of unconditional love, he supposes. Curses tend to be one-sided.
The moon settles in through the open window, caught in the gentle arms of the Erdtree. A wash of silver light illuminates the room and casts the shadows in sharp relief. Miquella looks closely at the fabric spread across his father’s lap. In the better lighting it’s apparent that it’s a dress - his mother’s, then, ruled out by size and style alone. Leyndell has a hundred tailors rabid for the chance to mark themselves upon the queen and instead his father takes it as a hobby for himself. It’s oddly tender.
Perhaps he could make this work. Miquella managed to sway Godwyn, after all, in all his borderline-naïve earnestness. If his father purposefully chose to sit there knowing the moon would shine through the window then he may have found a foothold. If the light is an annoyance then he may as well be a lost cause. Another key to be buried. Words, meaningful and unspoken. Synonym for sacrifice.
Miquella adjusts his position on his seat, curling into something more comfortable. “Is that what led to thy union with Caria?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but the bait is plucked with ease. Radagon nods, slow and subtle, as if a full agreement would be handing Miquella too much. “Devoid of any other option the Carian royalty wouldst be long gone.”
So much violence for such a short answer. It almost feels worse spoken in his father’s affectless, gentle voice.
“But thou had an option.”
“I did. Long ago did I put that life behind me, but I am glad regardless that I was afforded a choice.”
Odd phrasing, but not necessarily incongruous. “Never didst I hear of why thou attempted to conquer Liurnia.”
“I thought thou claimed thou were too old for bedtime stories,” he says, a ghost of something fond on his face. Bewitchment might be useless in this scenario, but Miquella can still play into the delusion of his childhood.
“It is history, not a faerie tale.”
“Of course. I imagine thou pestered Godwyn for an exact retelling of his own conquests.”
“I didn’t pester him,” he says, feeling sheepish. “I asked. There is a large difference.”
Radagon loops the thread around the needle, seemingly in thought. Another miniscule flower takes shape on the border of the garland. “I shan’t retell it for thee.”
“But-”
“Thou wouldst not enjoy it,” he says, silencing his protest with a sharp look. “Do not act as if I do not know thee well. It is a dour and violent tale, and both are aspects I am certain thou have nothing but distaste for.”
Miquella’s scowl is hidden conveniently behind his looped arms. Not that it does much, considering that his father can apparently catch the scent of his displeasure. He’s mostly upset that he’s right.
“Besides,” he continues. “I am certain thou couldst recite to me a hundred different variations of the tale.”
“Fifty of them have found exceedingly clever ways to find words that rhyme with cad .”
Radagon says nothing, his only acknowledgement a slight raise of the eyebrow. Words aren’t necessary to communicate meaning. The dragons really are quite wise.
“That shouldst be enough for thee. I have little desire to recall my last marriage.”
Another crossroads thrown in his path. If reluctance is a side-effect of sorrow then he might have a heart that bleeds. If it isn’t- then what? The mask is inherent? Father becomes a placeholder word for something more pragmatic? Miquella operates unconditionally on ifs .
All things united. All things understood- well, he can’t deny his desire for that, as much as his father’s blindness is nigh pathetic. He can only read a book when it’s open. He can only use what’s given. Keys tucked away for a later date and a decision like a branching path under his feet.
If only.
“Thou do not regret it, though,” he tries.
“There are many things to regret.”
“Thy choice.”
He wants something to be there, he realizes. He willingly chose to sit at his father’s side. His earliest memory will always be of being held, his father humming a song he can only recall in a phonetic sense.
“There were many choices,” he says, almost wryly.
“Thou had a family.”
“I did,” he sighs. “Thou’rt right. Still do I have no regret for following my duty.”
The finality of his answer stings, not unlike Marika’s complete refusal to help. He’s not surprised, which is possibly the worst part.
“Thou cannot afford to feel sorrow for every glass thou shatter. Uncontrolled, the grief shall tear thee apart if thou choose to mourn what cannot be undone.” His shoulders sag, embroidery stalled. He nearly seems like a person. “I did love my family.”
Loved, past tense. Better to cut off the limb in one clean swipe rather than to hack at it blindly out of disgust for the action. Miquella can tell when two things are being discussed under the pretense of one.
“The queen still went mad,” he says, the words so treasonous it slips out in a pathetic whisper.
“I am aware.”
“Do thou-”
“Willst thou ask if I regret that as well? Never was it my intent to do such a thing to her.”
“Regardless,” he murmurs. A yawn threatens to break his words in two. Play pretend long enough and the act becomes real.
Radagon sighs, running a hand through his hair. “And so thou see why I shall not allow myself to mourn. There is no good to be had.”
Pragmatism is admirable under certain circumstances, but very rarely does it go both ways. Collateral damage is still damage. A firepot thrown burns down a field regardless of the intent of the one who threw it. Clay shards stick in the dirt. A lifetime is discarded and teeth are chipped on what remains.
“Do not be sullen,” his father prompts. “This marriage is what brought thee into existence. Thou’st no right to complain.”
Perhaps he’s right, but Miquella likes to take what he wants regardless of what he’s owed. Devoid of conversation and lulled in by the steady rhythm of his father’s stitching, his eyes droop, pulled into slumber in the embrace of the full moon.
Touch is an uncompromising thing that encircles him like a second skin, or his oldest garment. Touch is a weightlessness so wholly encompassing it collapses back in on itself, a subtraction of something from its mirror-image. Self-flagellation in the gentlest sense. Miquella’s shadow is devoured in the light. Behind his closed eyelids it’s a shifting thing dyed pink through his flesh.
Crushed sapling, it whispers, a thousand wings rushing in to fill the gaps.
Hands on his face- at his side- touch is drowning, he decides. Touch is a burial in wet soil. Fingers smooth back his hair. When was the last time he was held? Unconditionality is warmth with no direction and takes the shape of what encircles it. Lately being held has been a precursor to loss. He can’t remember his own childhood because his childhood is a creature that bites its own tail. Devoured whole and returned to nothing. A hand against skin and it’s the gentlest thing he’s ever felt. He feels like screaming.
Crushed sapling, it says, a rising note of urgency punctuating the statement like the sharp rake of nails. Where is thy sister?
Panic fills him at Malenia’s mention, or maybe the implication that she was ever lost in the first place. The compulsion for her hand - she last held him and said she would lose her arms. He can’t feel her and can’t know himself in turn and she’s lost the warmth in her veins because of HIM-
He struggles to wakefulness, only half-aware that he was ever asleep in the first place. Touch becomes tangible. An exclamation point of bone shocks him into something akin to lucidity. The familiar sight of the ceiling of his chambers is an oddly disjointed greeting.
“Sleep well, budding sapling,” his mother says, swathed in an abstraction of scarlet.
Her touch is cold.