RE: Monarch

My eyes opened slowly, the blur of unconsciousness fading to gossamer curtains shifting silently in the grasp of an unfelt breeze. Soft art decorated the walls, still lives, landscapes, all dyed in fading colors that had long since lost their original color. It all seemed so familiar, but my mind couldn’t be bothered to make the connection. I was still lost in the annals of my soul.

I also hadn’t finished the reconstruction. Shaping a soul was far more of a monumental, arduous undertaking than I’d realized. Destroying was far easier than creating. With the eye’s help, I’d created an initial framework. After perhaps a third of the work was complete, I’d felt my connection to my body fading. It didn’t seem to happen nearly as quickly as when I was transporting myself through the physical plane, but it still left much to be desired.

The physical side effects made themselves known in short order. Tightness in my chest, lungs so bound I had to fight for every inhale. A panicky vibration pressing in at the sides of my temples. Pain, a pervading soreness that permeated every muscle, but that, I welcomed. Almost instinctively, I focused inward, and let the sting radiate. Because as long as I was preoccupied, I couldn’t think about—

—Long nails, longer than they’d ever been. A small smile eternalized on gray, desiccated lips, hinting at a secret that would never be uttered. Worms—

I choked, struggling to breathe. Every gasp ragged and stubborn.

Thoth, cackling at a joke only she knew the punchline to.

My fingers sunk into the soft material beneath my head. The edges of my vision tinged red.

Make her SUFFER.

Mana streamed into me as I unintentionally drew it. It felt different somehow, fuller. At first, I held the confused impression that the mana itself had changed. That it was richer, and I’d been taken to some previously unknown place of power.

But after a moment, I realized it wasn’t the mana. It was me. I could perceive it more clearly now. Pull from it less selectively.

I let it flood me. Breathing became easier. My vision sharpened. The scent of lavender filled my nostrils, so rich and overpowering it was almost nauseating. The texture of the chaise beneath me was still soft, but I could detect a near-minute inconsistency in the feathers that padded it. Before me was a circular marble table that housed a narrow-necked crystal vase. Its opening was so tight it nearly strangled the rose that emerged from it, stem visible through the glass stripped of both leaves and thorns.

I realized where I was, moments before thin fingers stroked through my matted hair.

“Don’t close your eyes.” Her voice was aloof, dreamlike. But it carried a current of urgency beneath the surface.

At the core of my weakness, there was a part of me that wanted nothing more than to stay there. To take comfort in a touch long denied. To weep. I nearly did. But in scant seconds, the weakness burned away, leaving only anger in its wake.

I sat up slowly, removing my head from her lap, keeping my gaze focused on the table before us. “So. You’ve finally deigned to speak with me.”

“The road to recovery has not been smooth, darling one.” Queen Elaria placed her hand over mine. “Yet I could not have walked it without you.”

I wish I could claim the recognition meant nothing to me. That the only matter of importance was her recovery. And it was. But hearing her acknowledge the part I’d played slightly thawed the frost in my heart. “I did little. Maya’s the one you should be thanking.”

“Perhaps. And I have. Yet the infernal diplomat would likely never have entered Whitefall willingly, were it not for the choices you’ve made.”

I laughed then, the noise harsh to my own ears. Because even without my intervention, Maya would have entered Whitefall and eventually made her way into the castle itself. In a very different context.

It was all so gods damned twisted.

Slowly, I removed my hand from beneath hers and stood. The curtains billowed in the breeze, the source a cracked-open window at the far end of the room. She always preferred her rooms to be unbearably cold. “Apologies. I’ve imposed too long on your recovery. I’ll take my leave.”

I moved to do so, before she stopped me, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Tell me about her.”

“Who?” I asked, almost automatically, fearing the answer.

“The friend you lost.”

Slowly, I turned, looking at her for the first time. A long pearl nightgown framed her from the shoulders down. Her blonde hair, while unkempt, had regained some of its previous luster. She folded her hands in her lap, and somehow, she seemed smaller than I’d remembered, almost timid, were it not for the emerald eyes that pierced straight through me the same way they always had.

Again, the ice thawed. Yes, she wasn’t being entirely forthright. Maya herself had described my mother’s recovery as relatively smooth and untroubled, and I knew how good Maya was at her craft. But she broke her absence to watch over me in my darkest moment. And I knew whatever bitterness I felt towards her was likely displaced, a byproduct of the tragedy I was mired in.

“Her name was Lillian. She was an apothecary’s daughter. And the arch-mage murdered her.”

My mother pursed her lips. “I’m sorry.”

Not as sorry as Thoth will be.

“As am I.” I said, hoping a byproduct of my directness was that my mother would let it go.

The analytical look I received said otherwise.

“Yes?” I finally asked, tiring of waiting.

She traced the back of her hand with a finger. “It’s just… you’ve told me the beginning of her story, and the conclusion, but nothing of the middle.”

“What does it matter? She’s gone.” I stated bluntly.

“I’d argue it matters a great deal, dear one.” Her tone was light, almost teasing. “Have you forgotten all the stories we read, as the light dimmed and the hours grew late?”

“Of course. I remember those nights fondly.”

“Then you recall the structure of a good story.” Elaria extended her index finger. “The beginning serves to introduce the characters.” Her fourth finger unfurled. “The ending provides a conclusion for both character and reader, revealing if the tale is one of victory or tragedy.” She added her third with a small smile, the three forming an odd solute. “What purpose does the middle serve?”

“It’s where everything falls apart and becomes tedious if the author is poor at their craft.” I crossed my arms.

“True enough.” My mother nodded. “And if they are not?”

I sighed. “It is where the characters are given heart. They rise from the page, flesh and blood in the mind’s eye. Yes, I grasp the metaphor. What exactly do you want to know?”

Elaria moved her arms to either side and smiled, leaning forward on the chaise. “Everything. How did you meet? That must be an interesting story, yes? The royal alchemist attends the needs of most who live in the castle, so barring a daring trespass, you must have met her in the city somehow. What was she like? How did she come to mean so much to you?”

Her enthusiasm and earnestness was so genuine that I nearly answered.

We’d never been able to talk about Lillian. Because in my previous life, my mother had died before I met her. There was a time I would have paid a king’s ransom to have this conversation. To tell her all about Lillian, the first person to steal my heart. Spend hours boring her with the minutia and specific details that meant everything to me, and little to anyone else. Ask her advice on how to best pursue this relationship to ensure it survived the crown.

Because she was a romantic. Like me. Unlike practically anyone else around me, she would understand.

Come to think of it, perhaps I was a romantic because of her. Because I grew up listening to how she spoke of the unyielding power of love, the way it wove life’s shadows into rich tapestries of meaning. That love always won over evil in the end.

That all seemed so silly now.

And embarrassing, that for a time, I had believed it.

So, I opened my mouth, mind primed with an altered version of the events that brought us together. Only, the words I wanted wouldn’t come.

“Maybe some other time.” I finally said.

My mother shook her head. “The wound is fresh, dear one. As open and raw as it will ever be. Recalling cherished memories, no matter how insignificant or small, balms the loss. Hastens healing.”

There was truth to what she’d said. I’d discovered that the hard way the first time around, drinking myself stupid in Topside and spilling my guts to anyone drunk enough to listen. For a time, that would make me feel better. Just getting the way I was feeling out into the open. Unburdening myself from the weight and turmoil that plagued me until the night was over, staggering home until the sun was about to rise.

But the harder truth was that the wound was not nearly as fresh as my mother believed. It had festered long ago. And now it, and the pain it carried, was part of me. I didn’t want to grieve. Because at the core of it all, grieving meant letting go. Grieving meant getting over it. Accepting this loss as yet another unfortunate tragedy, buttoning up my jacket and moving on.

Perhaps after Thoth had fallen, her soul secured, her body left unburied on some forgotten battlefield.

“I can’t.” I admitted, trying for a smile and failing. “It’s too fresh. And there’s too much that needs doing to mire myself in loss.”

That should have been the end. My mother could be domineering, but one of the key differences between her and King Gil was that she not only respected my boundaries, but encouraged me to set them. She never pushed.

Which made it even more shocking when her demeanor soured. It happened quickly, the light and warmth went out of her like a torch left out in the rain. “Fine. This shouldn’t be surprising. You’ve preferred your father’s counsel, as of late. Scurry off to him. Seek his thoughts on the matter.”

It was the spite that knocked me back. I couldn’t fathom where it was coming from.

“Mother. What the hells are you talking about?”

She rolled her eyes and nibbled on well-worn fingernails, pulling her legs up beneath her. “Of the many qualities the king possesses, “easily impressed,” is not one of them. Yet he’s been bellowing your praises since your return.” Her eyes turned accusatory. “Calling you the son he’s always wanted.”

A myriad of mixed emotions rose to the surface. It would have been difficult enough to parse this exchange if I wasn’t reeling. As it was, it was practically impossible. I struggled still, trying to find the correct response. “Father is a problematic leader. That much is self-evident. But you cannot deny he is a useful and powerful ally. If our interests align, what is the harm—”

“—That you have the boldness to count a wolf among sheep shows how little you understand—”

“He’s done nothing wrong.” I snapped, in a mix of incredulousness and frustration that was only magnified when her eyebrow shot up. “Yes, he committed many atrocities in the past. His method of ruling is steeped in the ancient traditions of our ancestors, and they are methods that fell by the wayside for a reason. This is known. I returned here fully expecting him to undercut and shout me down at every turn. I was prepared to lead a rebellion against him if dire action was necessary. Yet he’s done nothing but enable and support me. I can’t say to what extent or significance, but it’s obvious that he is changing.”

Her mouth tightened. “You see what you wish to see. And in doing so, conflate change with actions of convenience.”

“Then what, exactly, do you expect me to do?” I threw my arms up, fed up with the conflict and the fact she’d chosen to broach it now, of all times. “Perhaps it would be best to state preference directly, since only the gods know when we’ll speak next.”

The queen held her silence. But the murder in her eyes spoke volumes.

My jaw dropped. “You… want me to overthrow him.”

The minor rebellions. The way your lessons just happened to be relevant to whatever situation he’d mired himself in. All the verbal jousting on the rare occasion we took meals together. The way you’d look to me every time he did something particularly damning, making sure I realized the significance of it. Only, in my first life, you got sick. And the sickness drained the fight out of you.

“That’s what you always wanted.” My mind raced, covering too much ground for me to process without speaking aloud. “Why you acted so strange, the night of my return. The reason you refused to see me after. You were probably waiting for him to bring me back, kicking and screaming, ready to capitalize on all my anger at the injustice. Maybe you already had a plan. Only that didn’t happen. Instead of quarreling, we found common ground.”

A hand covered her face. “It was already lost. I could see that you would welcome his aid. And in return, he would turn your heart to hate.”

Something snapped within me, releasing a feral torrent. “Anyone I love is someone Thoth can leverage. Any honor or compassion I show creates a point of weakness she will exploit. You can sit on your tuffet and drink your tea and pontificate on the necessity of goodness in the universe until the end of all things. But the truth remains. Love and honor do not win wars. Kindness will not shove the blade into her throat, nor the thumbs in her eyes. If you are correct, and its father’s intentions to harden me for trials yet to come, perhaps that’s best.” Tears streamed down my face. “If he already had, perhaps I wouldn’t feel this way. Maybe I’d be exactly the sort of person capable of fighting her.”

Queen Elaria rose from the chaise and embraced me tightly. Though her arms were thin and frail, there was a surprising strength there. I resisted only for as long as it took for the words of comfort to reach me. Then returned the gesture, burying my face in her shoulder.

“Look at yourself, dear one, and tell me. Is that truly what you want?”

I turned willingly as she rotated me around, facing me towards a mirror on the wall. My haggard, unshaven visage, the unkemptness of my hair, the wrinkled state of my clothes and general tiredness in my face were all overshadowed by my right eye. Unlike my left, which was still relatively normal, the iris had expanded, growing a much more vibrant blue. And replacing the long dot of the iris was a black slit.

It wasn’t dissimilar to Thoth’s. Save the color, it was almost exactly the same. I cupped my hand over it instinctively.

Internally, I realized that during the argument I’d started channeling more mana than before. I relaxed, and stopped pulling at it, then removed my hand, holding my breath all the while. The iris had receded in size, losing some of its luminescence, my pupil was still slit but also seemed to revert, albeit more slowly.

I’d found nothing productive on Thoth’s eye, though I’d researched the topic and inquired amongst powerful mages intensively. Ralakos was almost certain it was either the product of a demonic contract or a glamour, as it was not uncommon for powerful mages to wear them. I supposed now, I finally had an answer.

Something occurred to me. A dark observation that had likely haunted me for some time, finally making itself known. “I’ll answer your question with a question, mother. The queen’s guard is loyal to you above all others, even the king himself. It’s well known that father spends many of his evenings in your chambers, leaving his honor guard behind. If you were always so convinced of his wretchedness, why wait for my involvement? Why not solve the problem yourself?”

No matter how strong the warrior, or vibrant the magic, a sleeping man had no defense against a well-struck knife in the dark.

I could see in the mirror, from the way her eyes slid to the side, that this was not the first time she’d considered it. Slowly, her hands slipped from my shoulders.

I stepped away from her, resisting the tug of regret as I exited her chambers and retreated down the long hallway. As much as my mother might prefer otherwise, the time for philosophizing and hand wringing was over. I had no intention of overthrowing my father unless he gave me reason to do so, given that there was little reason to divert from the existing plan. But the modifications to my soul had changed something.

And I needed to figure out what it was.