Blood Brothers

As Aquila descends into a fit of laughter, Raum’s brain twangs like a snapped cord. Aquila, get it together! Is it stress? Are you stressed? There’s a situation going on, and there’s people…!

Aquila only laughs, more mild this time, and composes himself with a vaguely amused, vaguely guilty smile. There is no situation.

The cord in Raum’s brain twangs. What. Nnnn? What?? Water isn’t wet? Feathers aren’t light? Hold on, is 2 + 2 = 5? Wait, no, but…

Seeing Raum’s mind creaking under the dissonance, Aquila’s demeanour falls more serious. He reminds Raum that he had designed a pretext to move him into the Cardinal House. As such, here it is.

The pressure straining Raum’s mind in a tug-of-war loosens a slight. Okay this was a plan by Aquila. Wait but no then how… that. Out the window?

Aquila beckons Raum over and reveals, hidden in a cabinet, the silver gauntlet he had used to bring rain in Joliet. It is stuffed with white feathers, which peek out from its bottom, and floats a few inches off its shelf in defiance of gravity. Only after staring at this image for a full minute does it click that Aquila has taken a few of the extraneous feathers that form his ‘coat’, and shaped them into a hand that may operate the gauntlet, which Aquila has remotely manipulated to summon and puppeteer fires. Half of Raum recoils in squicked disgust that Aquila made a disembodied hand, the other half questions in astonishment if the gauntlet is seriously that powerful.

Aquila says that it’s technically the gemstone inlaid in the gauntlet that carries any power, but yes, it is. Along with the holy blood and the blessed sword Renderdall, it is one of the three divine relics granted to Fidel Asphodel, the founder of Asphodel, in his fateful delve of Nix. Though the rock is less fashionable, it’s equally strong.

That said, there is only so much air Aquila can combust before he starts running out of material, so this better get wrapped up within the next, say, thirty minutes. Which, well, should be plenty of time.

Digesting that, Raum’s brain flips again. But what about all the demands, the people held hostage…

Aquila emphasises again that he has orchestrated all of this situation and everything that has happened in the past fifteen minutes is entirely a production of smooth words and waggling fires out of a glove. There are no demands. It is theatre.

Finally, slowly, Raum starts to comprehend. Aquila’s confessing those emotions he had shown during his ‘talk’ with the ‘Tyrant’ had been false. But of course they were false. If Aquila’s openly emoting in public, that’s false. The logical if bitter observation sobers his mind into clarity, and his perspective shifts into a more accurate one of the present dangers.

Aquila is trying to sell that Phoenix will kill Raum if he is named heir. In essence, he’s holding the position of heir itself hostage.

Extremely close, says Aquila. The Tyrant’s intentions shall specifically be an entitlement to the throne by blood right. He will smite not just any heir that Aquila names, but any lord that tries to take dominion over the ‘Tyrant’s’ lands above himself or Aquila. To prevent the Tyrant from claiming jurisdiction over the country, Aquila will be forced to remain in the seat of monarch for as long as Phoenix lives.

Clever move, Majesty.

But not foolproof, Raum thinks. Couldn’t the Tyrant just kill Aquila and take the country, by that logic?

Technically yes, says Aquila. But it would not be in his character. Aquila has built the Tyrant over many many decades; one of his most pronounced traits is cowardice paired with delusion. He fears a repeat of the circumstances that brought him such ruin, and the loss of his lingering humanity to the more careless position of ‘god’. He cannot simply be this nation’s ruler; he must be known as a just one. Aquila has not done anything so publicly egregious that his assassination would be just, and without Toreas, the Tyrant has no agent through which to bend public perception. Of course, without a path to rulership, he will in desperation choose violence.

Extremely clever.

How does this get Raum in the Cardinal House?

We will concede a diplomatic solution to the present threat and submit you to him as a dignitary, says Aquila.

Wait, wh—

—people will buy that? That’s going to look like Aquila’s submitted to the Tyrant, or if Raum’s still heir that he’s selling the country out to a guy who is going to get mind controlled. The commoners won’t trust him, the nobles will flip…

Indeed. It will appear such. There will be pains, in the short term, says Aquila. But this is a long-term solution, to establish a framework that ought last for centuries. Commoners will calm after a year or two given their quality of life remains stable, while nobles will be penned with the threat of unleashing the Tyrant. The dignitary position shall become a seat of office tied to the heir, and as such Aquila must not leave the throne. Although I do expect the nobility’s games will need some new outlet…

Regardless. Aquila hops down from the table. He best see his advisers now. You are presently undergoing a sanctification that allows you to survive the voice of the Tyrant. Aquila rings a small bell; a servant opens the heavy door. He flashes one last smile to Raum before the mask of suppressed worry and dread falls over his face again. Toodles.

The door shuts. Raum sighs.

Geez!

Now that he’s gone, Raum regrets not bitching the guy out more for giving him a heart attack with that fire show. He gazes out the window, over the lawn of terrified onlookers. Though guilt slashes through him, by consoling himself that indeed nobody is hurt, and nobody is in real danger, Raum tampers his misgivings down.

Though…

Raum withdraws his radio from his jacket. Something is keeping him on edge. Well, it’s around his usual time for ringing Phoenix, and that usually helps him calm down…

What is Aquila going to do if a noble actually tries seceding, for example. Is he seriously going to smite them with fire? And if the position’s tied to the heir, is Aquila saying Raum has to have… kids? Though these are worries he could get lost in for hours, he finds it’s not the one itching at him presently.

Raum traces his thumb over the transmission button, but does not press it. In the contemplative quiet, the servant that was bugging him rises in his mind. Fuck. He forgot to mention it to Aquila. Raum taps the radio under his chin, lowers it, and exits the room. Has anyone seen that guy?

Though Aquila’s speech and the arrival of the Tyrant have distracted others as much as they distracted Raum, people have seen him. Raum orders a guard to track that guy down and bring him over, or to simply throw them in the dungeon if Raum isn’t available. Meanwhile, Raum stations himself outside the advisers’ room, to wait for Aquila to finish up and exit.

He taps his thumb against the side of the radio. Minutes pass and the guard does not return, but with himself in place to supervise Aquila, Raum doesn’t find that all too concerning. It’s probably a good sign that there’s no tumult going on. But then again, the most successful murderers…

Raum crosses his arms and stares at the door. One-one thousand, two-one thousand. The hard edges of the radio press into his palm.

Aquila exits the room and receives Raum with faint surprise. Raum, remembering the ostensible threat of the Tyrant, forces himself not to naturally flash a reassuring smile as he clips in his radio and falls into step beside him. The halls back to the balcony stretch on, spotted with passing servants and armoured guards outside every doorway.

Raum lowers his voice to ask how the meeting went, glancing back at the string of advisers now shuffling nervously out of the room.

Acceptably, Aquila replies, then asks if something’s happened.

There’s just this guy hanging around that’s been bugging him. Already sent a guard after him.

Aquila nods. Their description?

It’s just this very average looking man in his forties, maybe fifties, a little sallow around the eyes, long curly hair, had this beaky raven nose. It’s just, the way he was watching the speech wasn’t engrossed so much as analytic, like a spy in the corner of a tavern, eavesdr…

The faces of similar men flash into his mind from Ecqoi. Raum’s stomach drops.

Simultaneously, the clanking of armoured footsteps peals from the hall behind them. Raum and Aquila turn, and there is that exact curly-haired beaky-nosed manservant, wide-eyed in the grip of a fully-armoured guard. The guard bows lightly to Aquila and Raum, while the servant squeals, “Sires! Dear sires, said by your summons, this sir with great force apprehends me. I fear, I fear, what have I done wrong? I swear it, I am no enemy…"

To the dungeons, orders Aquila. We are occupied.

Again the guardsman bows, and the servant squeaks, “D-d-dungeons!? Sire! Please no, Lord Sire, I cannot go to ther—ack! Do not yank me! I am bruised! The sir bruises me! Owowow, I cannot, I cannot, I do not belong there, sirs mercy, mercy please sirs no, no—auuh!" He wrestles against the guardsman’s hold, pushing, scrambling, putting up quite the resistance and attracting the whole hall’s attention. The guardsman is stronger and will win, but…

As Aquila, shrugging, goes to turn back to his business, Raum stops him halfway and tells the guardsman to take off his helmet.

After the Tyrant’s arrival, whether for comfort or from battle-readiness, many guards do have their visors down like him. All the same.

The guardsman bows low, then reaches fluidly up to his neck, over his shoulder, where there peeks a pommel…

A sharp note of metal sings through the air.

Raum, without thinking, surges forward.

The bow and the slash of the guardsman’s black, unsheathed blade blend together into one swift motion. Guards posted around the hall rush forward—but their starting line is simply a few steps too distant. Aquila flinches in shock, pivots to face the blade, and swoops backwards like a kite in a gale—but for his unearthly speed, the arc of the blade during his retreat is just long enough to clip his chest.

Had Raum not interceded, and caught the blow instead, that would have been the end of the King of Asphodel.

Shouts ring through the hall—the servant breaks free—Raum can focus on none of it. His mind tunnel visions as he tackles the guardsman, and though the blade skims between his ribs, the agony of it fails to break though the euphoric blaze of adrenalin. Raum and the guardsman topple to the floor. In the tangle of metal and limbs, another slash nicks along Raum’s stomach.

Raum, arched over the guardsman, flips up the visor.

Revealed is the furious red face of the man he met in Deram, who had back then been Aquila’s confidant. It confirms this is Mason Whitewood, Raum’s capable if roguish father.

Why do we have to do this?

We can work something out, just…

Caught for even a moment in these thoughts, Raum’s muscles slacken just enough and focus breaks just enough that Mason can kick Raum back onto his heels and flick himself onto his feet. Raum, panting, sweating, struggles to think. He grapples on to Mason’s legs, buries his head in his crotch, in what is really more of a hug.

He might be an asshole, but Raum really does owe a lot to this man. It’s nice to see him again…

A force yanks Raum onto his feet, shoves him away, he stumbles a couple steps backwards. Before he can gather himself, an impact as strong and abrupt as a hammered nail spears through Raum’s midsection, his insides shlucking wetly as the tip of the sword punctures out of Raum’s back.

His mouth tries to scream, but his strained throat only squeaks. Heedless of his body’s complaints, and too tunnel visioned to recognise how severely he’s injured, Raum snatches Mason’s wrists to keep him pinned until someone else can properly restrain him. Mason eases the blade down and forward. The force guides Raum to lie on the floor, still impaled.

Though adrenaline still fogs the pain, Raum’s mind hazes as if smothered in opium. All the sights before him are blurring. Gravity weighs down his raised arms like barbells. But as long as he keeps this hold on Mason’s wrists, everything is okay. Even as his cheek grows wet with blood, that’s okay. Even as the taste of iron wells in his throat, that’s okay. He still has those wrists. Everything’s okay.

Mason kneels down. One hand shakes off the hold — but Raum still has the other, it’s okay. That free hand then rifles through Raum’s clothes, checks through his pockets, splays open his coat, yanks his waistcoat to rip away its buttons… all the while, Mason’s gaze stays locked at something at the end of the hallway. Where Aquila went.

A froth of blood leaks from Raum’s mouth, bubbles rattle in his nose. It’s getting harder to breathe.

He’s looking for one of Aquila’s feathers, Raum dully realises as a hand sweeps down his chest. That’s what he’s checking for.

Raum’s hands slump to the floor, too weak for anything else. The corner of the radio digs into the butt of his palm. Raum doesn’t have a feather. Mason isn’t going to find one. Still, seeing the intensity of Mason’s stare down the hallway—not fearful, not desperate, just irritated, just methodical—a sober zen falls over Raum’s mind.

It’ll always be like this. He doesn’t care what he could gain or lose.

Raum weakly grasps the radio, and as if lifting an iron statue, brings it to Mason’s mouth.

His thumb hovers uselessly over the transmission button. Even as he is dying, Raum cannot bring himself to knowingly kill a human being. Everything in him screams, no! His body, of all things, heats with tears.

Mason notices Raum’s raised arm, goes to grab the radio.

Your call, Phoenix, Raum decides. Whether you let these reach you.

Raum cannot, as Mason’s hand closes roughly around his, tell whether it is his own thumb, or Mason’s palm, that clicks down on the button.

A snippet of Mason’s breathing transmits across the airwaves. Despite claiming radios too dangerous for him to approach, and ostensibly never checking in on Raum’s transmissions, in truth, Phoenix is listening. As with the majordomo, and as with some six-hundred civilians yesterday, Mason screams as he contorts himself inside the armour, snapping his own limbs, and his soul bursts out of his body in splinters. His corpse slumps aside.

Raum’s moment of mental clarity, that had brought him to raise the radio, fogs over now that it is done. Voices blend together, shouts echo, lights flash, shapes move, blurry mounds drag him and scuffle. A swath of red is painted down the opulent hallway. Calls for medics thunder through the air, a fountain of blood spurts upwards as Kingslayer is removed from his stomach.

The image that rises in Raum’s mind is that of Reyl, in Desiree’s hideout, puddled in her own blood.

From some faraway dimension, a familiar voice echoes: “…Raum Whitewood, heir to the Throne Efflorescent, and envoy to the Archon, Phoenix Valens."

Hearing those words, Raum blacks out.