Chapter Text
The revolution brings healing waters, coolness over his head and back. The pounding headache and uncomfortable pressure in his heart lessens for a few months in the whirlwind of work to be done. Queens to crown, hundreds, if not thousands of old cases to revisit, pieces of his former life to gather and piece back together until it looks right again. It keeps Nahyuta busy, focused, and near-drowning in responsibilities new and old. He loves it. Apollo looks overwhelmed, but even though Nahyuta feels it deep down too, it’s more like a strange seed planted by someone other than himself. This is what he was meant to do, the fate laid out for him in confusing twists and turns by the Holy Mother as a test for her fervid disciple. Nahyuta believes—knows—that he’s up to the task. That doesn’t make it easy, though.
But Nahyuta was never one to complain. There was no use in his doing so when he could focus his energies on solving his problems. Even if he couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel just yet, and knows he won’t for a long, long time, if ever, he picks away at the hard-packed dirt one morsel at a time. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the pressure mounting once the nation began to settle into its brand-new routine. The moment he had time alone to properly meditate, he felt it. A tiny piece of guilt long-lost inside him along with everything else that wasn’t convenient for Ga’ran, everything that made him less than perfect. Apollo tells him it’s time to let himself relax, but Nahyuta knows that the moment he does, the sky will come crashing down on him and the rest of this world.
But he could never admit that. People wouldn’t take to Nahyuta admitting that he was the reincarnation of Atlas reborn as a Khura’inese monk, even in jest. He’s not certain anyone would understand that reference anyhow.
It’s lonely here.
He’s awake from before the sun is up till long after the sun has gone down. It’s a wonder he finds time to sleep at all, though whenever he finally lays his head against the pillow, his brain is too awake to desire sleep. It finds new things to worry about. New things he’ll need to do. New things he’d long since forgotten about and banished to the back of his mind.
There’s always something to atone for.
He’s read this phrase a few times before in his research. The syllables carefully spoken always come out in bits and pieces. Ca-tho-lic guilt. He didn’t understand it at first, this obsession with guilt and wrongness over goodness. The Holy Mother wasn’t so hard on her people, but she expected good things from them all. She expected the most out of him. Nahyuta knew that ever since he’d started studying the faith as a young child. She was watching him. She wanted him to do right. He repeated mantras, counting the repetitions on each prayer bead as he memorized every word and line down to its exact sound. Spiritual as he may be, Nahyuta would be embarrassed to admit the days and nights he spent in his father’s home, curled up in his bed, counting the beads over and over. He counted, she forgave. He counted, she looked out for him. He counted, and counted, and counted even when he no longer heard her voice guiding him. She was quiet after he became a prosecutor. Still, he counted and he prayed and meditated. She was looking for him to find his own way out of this labyrinth of nightmares and dead ends.
Only recently had he finally stumbled out, blinking against the light of the sun, too bright for eyes meant for a beast that crept through the darkness. After searching for the exit for so many years, Nahyuta suddenly craved the comfort of the trap. At least he knew who he was back then. What would Dhurke think of him now? Datz, Beh’leeb, Apollo, they all admire him. They smile when he’s around, loop their arm around his shoulder or the crook of his elbow, and drag him to breaks he doesn’t want to take. Amara and Rayfa look to him for advice. The judge praises his prosecution work, invites him to dinners with his family. Nahyuta doesn’t know what he did to deserve so many people’s trust.
But they’re the only ones who do.
The palace guards don’t let Nahyuta go out alone anymore. Not after the incident. That’s the only way anyone refers to it. Nobody liked to revisit what it was for, what it meant. No one wanted to admit that maybe he had a point. Amara could tell him it wasn’t his fault until she was blue in the face, until her calm façade slipped and she tried to rip those guilty threads out of his body by force. She could sense it even when he didn’t speak it. He begged her not to every time. He covered it up with smiles, smiles, and more smiles and reassurances that she was right, that it was a mere slip of his faith, both in himself and the Holy Mother.
There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think about it before he went to sleep and right when he woke up. Sometimes, it even came creeping in during court. Nahyuta would get the upper hand in his ever-brutal debates with Apollo, and then feel a sharp pain in his side. Surreptitiously, he would feel the scar, a ragged scab running along his belly that was still healing. The bumps and stitches felt like prayer beads. He’d recite the mantras in his head, his thoughts miles away from the courtroom, back in the bazaar.
He didn’t even see the man’s face, just felt the way he cradled the small of Nahyuta’s back with a forceful hand as he plunged a knife into his stomach and hissed, “This is for my brother.” The sharpness made bright spots form in his eyes and took his breath away. It was like a shock of electricity ripped through his body, each nerve lighting with pain. His fingers curled around the man’s shoulders as he gasped. A thousand years passed through the moment he was stabbed and the moment he finally shoved his attacker away. He registered screams, his hearing cutting back in halfway through shrieks from women, children, and men, the sound of feet trampling away from the scene, shouts for someone to come and help. He thought about the Divination Séance that Rayfa would have to perform if he died. He couldn’t bear to imagine it for long. Rayfa couldn’t lose another loved one.
Nahyuta would have died had Datz not been nearby. He was the one to fight off the attacker, and the one to press down on the cut across his stomach until they could get an ambulance. Datz vomited apologies that Nahyuta could barely hear. His entire body was buzzing, his mind fuzzy and faint. Datz tapped his face a few times to remind him to stay awake, then would sheepishly cringe at the bloody prints he left streaked across Nahyuta’s cheek. Although he didn’t hear much, he still remembers Datz pleading with him: “Stay with me, Yuty. Your dad’ll come back from the dead and drag me to the Twilight Realm himself if I let anything bad happen to you.”
For a moment, it sounded nice to see Dhurke again, but he had to admit it: he didn’t want to die. Not here, not like this. There were so many things he still had to do. He couldn’t abandon Apollo while they were fighting to fix this mess of a nation. He thought about his mother, about Rayfa, about everyone. The terror of death felt so distant. Only dull dread remained for all that would be left undone. All Nahyuta could slur out was “I’m so sorry.” Datz didn’t understand what he meant. Nahyuta never explained himself. All he got was empty reassurances that Nahyuta would be fine. He didn’t understand what it meant.
Nahyuta awoke in the hospital some time later, very alive but stitched up, surrounded by the tear-streaked faces of his loved ones. Even when he was awake, everything still felt distant, like a dream. Roaring voices of relief filled his ears, but they did not reach him. Instead, all he could think about, all he heard, was that sharp voice, whispered in his ear as intimately as a lover.
“This is for my brother.”
He turned over the words in his brain like a string of smooth prayer beads, counting each word down like it was its own mantra. This – is – for – my – bro – ther. When he asked for his real prayer beads, he counted the phrase, whispering it under his breath. The prosecutor’s office took no time in bringing him the case file of the attacker’s brother. Nahyuta sifted through the pages of meticulous notes he had himself jotted down over and over again while he recovered. The case was a tale as old as time in Khura’in: a supposed rebel accused of assassinating a judge who was notorious for passing down harsh sentences on Defiant Dragon members. And, just like all terrorists were, he was executed at Nahyuta’s recommendation. He couldn’t stop rereading the case notes like something, anything would change. But nothing ever did.
He didn’t remember the man. He barely even recalled the face. And Nahyuta felt an icy cold bloom spreading in his veins and chest, his heart tightening and his wound sending stabbing pains up and down his spine. To him, the man was just another filthy revolutionary, another martyr to be thrust into the Twilight Realm well before his time. All for Ga’ran. All to keep Khura’in “safe.” He melted into the sea of so many others arrested, dead, executed. But to his attacker, that man was his brother. That man was a son. A husband, maybe, or even a father. Somebody who mattered to the world. Somebody whose body had been thrown into an unmarked grave to be forgotten about by all except the Holy Mother.
And Nahyuta didn’t even remember him.
There was another time that week when Nahyuta had been dozing in and out in his hospital bed. Datz and Beh’leeb had come in while he drowsed, and slowly, he came back to the waking world as they spoke in hushed voices. He could barely make out what they were saying, but he heard just enough.
“What he did was wrong, very wrong,” came Beh’leeb’s soft-spoken voice. It soothed his aching head. “Killing Prosecutor Sahdmadhi won’t bring Ravindra back. Dhurke never wanted us to kill to save Khura’in, and he would never have permitted anyone to hurt his son, especially since he’s returned to the cause.”
“I feel a ‘but’ comin’, and I don’t like it,” Datz whispered back. Beh’leeb sighed, but she did not speak yet, so Datz continued, “Lemme guess… you understand it?”
There was a long, pregnant pause. “…I can’t say I don’t.” He heard the sound of rustling clothes, of her readjusting her hold on her infant. “Datz, please don’t think I believe he should die. He doesn’t deserve what happened to him, not one bit. He’s doing wonderful things, working to fix our broken system and to overturn as many Defiant Dragons’ cases as he can. But you can’t revive the dead.” Datz was silent. “And you know how many of us died at the hands of the law. Of course people are angry.”
“…yeah. I know.”
He’d heard enough. Nahyuta shifted uncomfortably in his bed as if he were just awaking, and the two were startled out of their conversations. On their faces came smiles, big smiles. Big, genuine, sincere smiles. Sincere smiles he could see right through. He’d perfected the craft himself. He could never fall for it anymore. His stomach was in turmoil, caught in a trap of anxiety that he could not escape. Waves of anxiousness hit him over and over, like he was pinned against a rocky cliff and the foaming, boiling surf. They laughed, they chatted, they prayed for his swift recovery.
Nahyuta smiled sincerely.
“…Prosecutor Sahdmadhi? Did you hear me?”
Nahyuta’s spirit comes back to the courtroom and he pulls his hand from his side like he’d touched a hot stove. He puts his hands behind his back to hide the jerky movement and smiles. “Apologies, Your Magistry. I was meditating on the results of our retrial. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
The judge shakes his head. “Not at all, Prosecutor. Do you have any final thoughts before I hand down my verdict for Mr. Ur’gaid?”
Nahyuta’s gaze drifts to the stand. Ur’gaid stood stony-faced, watching the judge across from him. He never once looked away, whether at Nahyuta or at his own attorney. In the gallery, Ur’gaid’s family watched in anxious anticipation. Nahyuta recognizes the face of his boy, a young man who had been put on trial for murder just last year. Nahyuta had not prosecuted that case, but he remembers it distinctly. That was the beginning of the end here.
When Ahlbi notices his gaze, Nahyuta tears it away with a strange guilty feeling. For a moment, he and Apollo exchange glances, and his friend smiles. Nahyuta takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. “No, Your Magistry. I am satisfied with the work we have done today. The prosecution has no objections.”
“Excellent. Then I am ready to pass down my verdict. This court finds the defendant, Mr. Us’dabeh Ur’gaid, not guilty.”
The gallery erupts into cheers. Nahyuta is still not used to that reaction. He recalls the days, not so long ago, that the gallery would react with stunned silence or jeers at the prospect of a not guilty verdict for a rebel like Ur’gaid. The defendant sinks against the stand, bracing himself to avoid collapsing altogether. Nahyuta feels a weight off of his chest. He was holding his breath, and his heart throbs when he finally exhales. The gallery flows out of the courtroom. Nahyuta watches Apollo and the Ur’gaid family enter the defendant’s lobby, and gingerly pushes his way in.
It’s nice to see a family reunited. They rattle off praises for the Holy Mother—and for Apollo. Mr. Ur’gaid is a swarm of limbs and bodies all pressed against him, clutching him with desperation and worry that if they let go, he’ll be gone again. His heart thumps again in his chest. He was never a nervous person until recently. Now, every time he faces a defendant, especially one who’s just gotten their sentence overturned, he suddenly feels breathless, weak, nauseous. But he’s happy for them, so happy. This is what it was all for. This is what Nahyuta wanted for years. When the room takes notice of him, it goes dead silent. Nahyuta tries to smile, but it’s shaky.
“Don’t mind me,” he says. “I merely wanted to congratulate Mr. Ur’gaid. I cannot imagine the relief you all must feel at this moment to have him returned to you after all these years.”
“Nine years,” Us’dabeh specifies quietly. “Nearly ten now.”
“Yes. An incredibly long time… Mr. Ur’gaid, not that I think this remotely changes what was done, but…” Nahyuta takes a pamphlet from his coat and holds it out. Ur’gaid takes it reluctantly. “My family and I are working on a program to pay damages and provide support to those wronged by the legal system under Queen Ga’ran. Please look into this if you feel you could use it—although I know dwelling on this nightmare is far from ideal for anyone.” Silence again. Nahyuta continues uneasily, “I did also want to apologize for what our legal system did to you—and far too many others. It was cruel, and I hope that this wound will begin to heal—”
Ur’gaid leans in close. “Fuck. You.”
Nahyuta’s mouth hangs open. “I… pardon?”
“Mr. Ur’gaid…” Apollo warns.
“You’re nothing but a snake,” Ur’gaid hisses. “They claim they purged the allegiants to the old regime, but you get to stay? You, the ‘Last Rites Prosecutor’?” He scoffs. “That’s too kind of a title. You’re not the Last Rites Prosecutor, you’re the rebel killer and everyone knows it.”
That’s a name he hasn’t heard in a long, long time. Most were too afraid to breathe that name anywhere near Nahyuta. To do so would reveal their rebel sympathies. But it didn’t stop criminals he put away from screaming it at him in court or when he passed through the jails. Nahyuta had always ignored it. Ignored it because they were right. It didn’t do him any good to allow himself to think about it—or think about anything they said. He’d hollowed out his feelings and insides to make room for everything that Ga’ran desired. There was nothing to feel, no reason to further his despair. It was another needle out of the thousand that pricked his soul. Each pinhole bled and scabbed over and bled again when he started picking at them after Ga’ran’s arrest. He feels over his wound again. Thinks about the sensation of the scab getting caught under his nails when he tore it off. He wants to pull the stitches off thread by thread, let it bleed out until his suit is dark red.
There’s nothing to say. But still, his silence will be taken as a challenge, and he knows it. “…I know. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t bring back the dead.”
His family’s eyes all look in different directions now, wishing to be anywhere but here. When Nahyuta looks down, he sees tears welling up in Ahlbi’s eyes. “H- He’s a good man, Papa,” Ahlbi tries meekly. “Mr. Sahdmadhi is- is a Defiant Dr- Dragon! Dhurke—”
“I don’t care if he’s Dhurke’s son, or what Dhurke thought!” Ur’gaid snaps. “He’s dead now, dead because his son turned on us as soon as he got a whiff of power! Dhurke is dead because of him”—Ur’gaid jabs a pointed finger in Nahyuta’s direction, and he flinches—“so we can’t even ask him what he’d think of this now. You can’t tell me he’d be proud.”
“He would be!” Apollo shouts back. His voice comes like a boom of thunder. It could crack the walls if he tried. “I know Dhurke would be so proud of Nahyuta for finally escaping Ga’ran! He’d be so happy to see Nahyuta and I working together to right these wrongs. It’s all he ever wanted! He just wanted to see his child happy and like his old self again.”
“Apollo…” Nahyuta murmurs. “Please, don’t—”
Disgusted, Ur’gaid shakes his head. “Fuck this. I’m sick of looking at him.”
He spits at Nahyuta, and the saliva hits his cheek. The guards come to life, and in an instant, there’s a guard with a gun between Nahyuta and Ur’gaid. “You all, back away from Prosecutor Sahdmadhi, now!”
“L- Let’s take it easy!” Apollo shouts above the uproar. “Everyone, let’s relax, alright?!”
Nahyuta wipes the spit from his face. His dragon tattoo weeps and glistens under it. Ur’gaid and his family all back up. Nahyuta sees the resignation on the man’s face, like he expected this. Like he knew freedom couldn’t be real for him. That the state would find another stupid reason to arrest him. It makes him want to vomit.
“Enough,” Nahyuta says sternly. No one hears. “ENOUGH!”
Even Apollo is caught off-guard by his shout. Has he ever heard Nahyuta scream before, actually? It’s enough to shut everyone up, stunned into silence, all eyes on him again. Nahyuta looks to the guards, then to the Ur’gaids.
“You are overreacting,” he scolds the guards. “It isn’t polite, but Mr. Ur’gaid has not done anything criminal. I’m fine. We do not treat our citizens this way. Not anymore.”
The two guards look embarrassed, like little children scolded by their mother. “B- But, siiiir…”
“Mr. Ur’gaid, I apologize for their behavior. And mine. I do not think you can ever forgive me, and I do not expect you to, but do know that I truly am sorry.”
It’s impossible to read that man, but something about the look in his eyes almost makes it seem as though Ur’gaid is taken aback. His wife elbows him in his side. Ur’gaid sighs. “I… apologize for spitting on you. That doesn’t do us any good.”
Nahyuta raises a hand. “No need for an apology, Mr. Ur’gaid. You have… every right to be angry. Please, don’t dwell on this moment, and focus on the new life you’re about to begin as a free man.” Apollo shoots him an apologetic look, as if it’s his fault any of this happened. As if it isn’t Nahyuta’s fault. “I’ll be seeing you, Apollo. Congratulations.”
“Th- Thanks,” Apollo mumbles. Nahyuta tastes the sourness of the air and knows this happy moment has been irreparably ruined.
He escapes through the door, the heavy wood slamming against the frame as he shuts it behind him. Waves of anxiety roil inside him as sweat trickles down his forehead. He could blame the humidity, but he knows what it really is. When Nahyuta checks his right palm, the spit has dried flaky on his tattoo, and wipes it off on his pants. He looks again, and the tattoo looks a little blurrier.
He wishes he could have forgotten about it, about the attacker, his brother, the execution. Nahyuta keeps the case files with him at all times now. Not just those two, but all of them, even ones he did not prosecute. His living quarters at the palace are stacked floor to ceiling with boxes upon boxes of case files. The ones he’s actively working on dominate his office at work, but he’s pulled more and more files with each passing day until it started to feel as though he was becoming a hoarder. He starts out with just a database of names, lists that barely describe who these people were before they were executed. There’s more detail in the method they used than their crimes or who they were. He could never be satisfied with that, and so he began to pull case files to read over. To what end, Nahyuta admits only to himself that he has no reason to.
There’s no end of names on these execution lists. Nahyuta memorizes each one. He won’t forget them this time. He’ll find a case to put the name to, he’ll study the cases inside and out until he can recite each martyr and innocent like scripture. Another thing to count and recite on prayer beads, his measure of memory, a mnemonic that assures he won’t forget anything ever again. He’s starting to fall behind on his actual mantras by this point. Nahyuta makes up for it by doing a few extra rounds of mantra recitation. The Holy Mother knows he forgot about her. His humble servitude has fallen wayside to selfish, corporeal desires. He remembers the factoid oft-repeated among tourist bureaus: Khura’inese people spend an average of fifteen hours a day praying. He hasn’t prayed nearly enough, let alone meditated or kept up with his religious duties. Prayer beads aren’t enough. He’s a fool for thinking they could be.
“Jeez. It seems like you’re taking a lot more days off now, Nahyuta,” Apollo remarked over the phone. “You definitely deserve it after all the work you’ve done. Maybe I should take a day, too…”
“Nonsense. You’re perfectly healthy. Both my physical body and my spirit have been damaged. I cannot possibly rule Khura’in or give proper attention to my cases without rest.”
“…no rest for the weary, I guess.”
Nahyuta requested complete silence and alone time for this. He couldn’t stop the guards from standing outside his living quarters in case any wayward Defiant Dragons or peasants decided to try something funny, but as long as they were quiet, he could pretend they did not exist. He places himself at the altar he’s set for the Holy Mother, lit brightly by candles and incense, takes a deep breath, and clears his mind. He needs a day of prayer and meditation without work. This was the “work-life balance” Apollo was always complaining about, a complaint Nahyuta hadn’t understood until now. He would rectify that today. He couldn’t forsake the Holy Mother for the concerns of the material world any longer. The courts would have to wait. Khura’in would have to wait.
It was soothing to his burning soul, like a salve for his wound. While the stitched-up wound had burned when he first got into his position, the feeling of pain slowly melted away, and with it, the rest of reality. The inky blackness behind his eyes beckons, and Nahyuta sinks into it, becomes one with it. Before him, the visage of the Holy Mother, her face blank. He strains his eyes. He’s seen her face before, just once, too tempted to stop himself from catching a glimpse of her true face when the Founder’s Orb was finally returned to his family. If he squints, he swears he can make out her face, but as soon as he relaxes, it vanishes from her head without a trace. Another glance makes her face shift to someone he swears he recognizes, but he can’t place. Mannish, girlish, childish, memorable, forgettable.
Nahyuta places himself prostrate at her feet.
What will we do with you?
Whatever you see fit, O Holy Mother, Nahyuta whispers. His voice chokes in his throat. Did those words even make it out of his mouth?
Stand, Nahyuta.
His limbs feel like they’re weighed down by cement. He’s Atlas again, the heavens on his back, but to fail would be to disrespect Her Holiness. Nahyuta shakily pulls himself to his feet, and as he stretches up, his side alights with searing pain that makes his vision go dark, the Holy Mother vanishing into the shadow. His stomach is hot with blood, pouring from his reopened wound. His eyes prickle with tears as he reaches down to press on his wound. The weight is too much. He falls to his knees.
He understands the message loud and clear.
I am lost and helpless without you, he says, hoping that’s what she wants to hear, that she’ll reappear before him, that she’ll take this weight away, that his blood will dry up and be washed away by her presence. I have strayed, but I am still forever your humble servant, and I hope you see me as worthy of your mercy, although I am weighed down by sin…
Nothing. Nahyuta can’t stop his talking, words picking up frantically the more his own voice echoes back to him.
I know I will reach a deep level of Hell when I die. I look forward to purifying my soul through hard work and suffering, and hope that when I am reincarnated that I may rise above my sinful station through your eternal mercy—
Enough.
It’s barely perceptible, but he sees the swish of night-black garments before him. Nahyuta cranes his sore neck up, only to be met with a golden mask. Her necklace of red warbaa’d feathers burns like fire in his vision. Nahyuta’s jaw drops and quivers before he can recollect himself. He thumbs over the prayer beads around his neck.
Lady Kee’ra… I…
I said enough.
Nahyuta shuts his mouth. He wants to apologize, but to speak more would arouse her anger. Kee’ra raises a hand from beneath her robe. She offers him the warbaa’d dagger handle first, her hand carefully pinching the tip of the sharp blade. Nahyuta stares dumbly at her, looks to her for explanation.
Take it.
Nahyuta pulls one bloodied hand away from his side, and cautiously accepts the blade. The dagger feels heavy, and he grips it tightly, the handle slippery from his own blood. He can feel the weight of it, the souls that had been severed from their bodies with the blade in the name of Khura’in. He is not worthy of holding it. He still isn’t sure if he’s allowed to speak. His eyes ask the questions for him. The calm and peaceful expression of her mask twists in the shadow. Her smile looks cruel.
Go on, then, rebel killer.
It feels like she put her dagger through his heart. The warbaa’d dagger grows ever heavier until it brings both of his bloodied hands to the floor like a hundred-pound weight. He’s never felt so small. His willowy, bony limbs shorten. The string of prayer beads dips so far down his torso that they brush the floor. The warm flood of tears pours past his eyes and down his cheeks. Nahyuta stumbles to his feet, the dagger still too heavy for him to lift. The bangs brush over his eyes as he looks around his new surroundings.
Just a few feet beside him, Dhurke lays on the floor. Nahyuta screams for him, but no sound can escape him. He drags himself and the dagger to the unmoving body. He tries to drop the dagger, but he can’t. The blood, like glue, forces his skin to cling to the blade. Nahyuta throws the rest of his body against Dhurke and wails soundlessly, burying his face against the crook of his father’s neck.
I said go on, rebel killer.
When Nahyuta lifts his head, he finds the knife plunged deep into Dhurke’s heart. His limbs move mechanically as though they’re being puppeteered. His arms raise and yank the dagger out of Dhurke’s chest, the bleeding blade held high, before he swings his arms down again with as much might as a ten year-old can muster. The dull thump of the blade connecting with Dhurke’s chest makes the bile rise in Nahyuta’s throat and he chokes on it. It builds in his windpipe, then finally bursts out in a bloom of spirit butterflies that flutter into the darkness. They carve up the inside of his throat as they escape, and his vision blurs under tears. His entire body feels hot to the touch.
“…yuta—”
Nahyuta clamps his tiny hands, finally freed, around his neck. He crushes his own neck in a fruitless attempt to get the butterflies to stop. When they exit his mouth, they drop to the floor, dead.
“Nahyuta! Please!”
He comes to with the feeling of someone’s hands shaking his shoulders as hard as they can. He’s lying face down, crumpled on the floor, his entire body sore yet numb. The candles have toppled over and scorched the fine threads of his prayer rug, but someone must have put the fire out. Smoke curls off of it. Nahyuta watches it from his vantage point, his face smushed against the fabric. Splotches of red dot his surroundings, and when he sniffles, he feels the deluge of blood from his nostrils. He wipes his nose and confirms it; the fresh blood contrasts starkly with his albino skin. He’d be mesmerized by it if Amara hadn’t turned him over and pulled him into her arms.
Nahyuta rattles out a shaky breath, and Amara lets go, reluctant as she is. She cups his face frantically, wipes the blood from his nose with a pale hand, then kisses his forehead. “Nahyuta, my dear, what happened?” she asks. “I thought I should see how your meditation was going, and I saw you’d collapsed… poor thing, you must have bashed your face when you fell, too…”
He knows he shouldn’t, but Nahyuta draws back from her, pulling his limbs close. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying until now, but he feels the tears wetting his face, intermingling with the smeared blood, leaving dark red drops to drip onto his pants and the floor. He swings his gaze around the room; he and Amara are not alone. Behind her are the shadowy forms of palace guards—and in the very back, peeking in through the opened door, Rayfa. Their presence is suffocating, and he feels like a little kid again. He’s too visible like this.
Nahyuta wipes his face of tears, brushes as much of the half-crusted blood off of his skin as he can, takes a deep breath, and sits up straight. “I’m all right. I had a vision of the Holy Mother, and my spirit must have become overwhelmed by the blessing.” He smiles. Sincerely. “I am honored to have had a brief audience with Her Holiness.”
The looks on everyone’s faces tell him they don’t believe what he’s saying for a second. Amara’s look is the worst of all. The look of knowing, that look she always has. She’s like the panopticon; she always sees him, sees right through him like he’s the worst actor in the world. What use is it? He tries another approach.
Nahyuta leans in close to his mother, and he whispers, “Get them all out of here. Please.”
Amara doesn’t hesitate. She stands to her full height, and helps Nahyuta up after. She turns to her guards and smiles. “Nahyuta will be quite all right. Thank you all for your concern, but Nahyuta can clean up the mess on his own. You are dismissed.”
“Of course, Your Mercifulneeeess!” the guards cry, and shuffle out as uniformly as they can.
Amara approaches the door as Rayfa sidles up after the last guard has finally gotten out of her way. Amara casts a glance back to Nahyuta, and his eyes hit the floor. He hears her voice: “Rayfa, my little one, that includes you too.”
“What?! You’re sending me away? Like I’m some… some… commoner?” Rayfa complains. “He’s my—I’m the queen!”
“And a queen must know when the appropriate time for her to leave is,” Amara says coolly. “Go on, then. You can ask Nahyuta all about it later when he’s cleaned up. If you stay, you’ll have to help.”
That was enough to convince Rayfa to reluctantly slink away. He feels guilty, but this wasn’t the kind of thing she needed to be exposed to. He saw the fear and worry in her eyes, although she’d never openly admit that she cared about him. Amara shuts the door, and they’re finally alone together. Nahyuta feels shy beneath her gaze, and he begins to clean up. He cringes in pain every time he bends over to pluck up a knocked over candle and holder, but he doesn’t betray it to her. The tears have finally stopped now that he’s fully awake, and they dry on his face, leaving streak marks he catches in the mirror on his wall. His face looks like a horror scene with the blood smeared across his lip. As soon as he gets the candles up and all put out, he finds a rag to scrub his face of the gore.
Amara stays silent through this process, but he feels her eyes burning a hole in his back as he does. He catches her eye in the reflection. She looks sad. “Nahyuta, talk to me.” She speaks in a soft, soothing voice, one that you’d use to calm an animal or a crying infant. Nahyuta doesn’t turn to face her. He fixes his hair, brushing straying strands from his forehead. His hand drifts down to the prayer beads still faithfully laying over his neck. “Do you remember what happened?”
He takes a deep breath. “It’s as I said,” he replies with more coldness than he intends. He winces at his own voice. “I had a vision of the Holy Mother and became overwhelmed. It has been a while since I properly meditated. It’s only to be expected—”
“Do you honestly expect me to believe that, Nahyuta?”
Every time she says his name, it’s like nails digging into his skin. Before, it always sounded so gentle. She loved saying his name, like she could catch up with all the years that she couldn’t so much as breathe that name to anyone. It strips him bare. He’s naked underneath that knowing gaze.
Even with all the blood cleaned from his face, Nahyuta swears he can still see stray droplets. No amount of scrubbing rids his skin of the imprints. “You don’t have to believe anything if you don’t wish to, Mother. But it was an accident.” He pauses. “I know what it must have looked like…”
It’s his mother’s turn to look sheepish. She glides across the floor effortlessly and stands just behind him, placing her carefully manicured hands on his shoulders. “…I fear to admit that I thought someone might’ve killed you when I first saw you lying there. I don’t wish to make it true by speaking it.”
“I think you’re too late for that, then.”
She smiles sadly. Then it was gone. “I’m scared for you, my baby,” she murmurs. “I’m so scared that if I turn my back, something horrible will happen to you. I know you’re hurting deep down, and I don’t know why, but whatever it is, please—”
“That’s enough.” Her face falls in the mirror, and he has to look away. “Mother, please. I don’t know what I can do to convince any of you that I’m all right. I understand everyone’s worries for me, but I am not afraid. I am not hurt. I have work to do. The attack may have slowed me down for a while, but I will never stop.”
Nahyuta turns around to face her fully. He takes her hands in his with a smile. Sincere. “Please, don’t worry yourself unnecessarily for me any longer. I apologize for frightening you this way. I nearly frightened myself seeing my face when I woke up. I will rest this evening, and it will all be forgotten tomorrow.”
He expects her to smile back like she always does. She doesn’t. She just looks sad all over again. Amara gingerly pulls her hands from his and backs off from him. “…goodnight, Nahyuta.”
“I…” Nahyuta hesitates. She does too. For a moment, she looks hopeful. He dashes her hopes again. “I’m sorry. That’s… all I wanted to say. I’m so sorry. I’m…”
“Enough, my darling,” Amara coos. “What do you have to apologize for?”
Everything, he answers silently.