Seven Devils (for littlemother)

[smooth_as]

"No," is the first word from his mouth, flat and disbelieving, when the idea is put to him.

He'd expected the worst when the other Alorn monarchs - and isn't having to preface that collective title with other a horrifying experience - had cornered him in the council chamber. Cho-Hag is inscrutable as always; Anheg is wearing the irritated look of a man who regards the proposal he's putting forward as the lesser of two evils. Garion just looks nervous and vaguely guilty, and with every underhanded instinct he possesses he seizes on the obvious weak link.

The argument goes on for quite some time. The horrible thing is that from a dispassionate, purely political point of view, he can see the sense of it. Drasnia rests uneasy with her king newly buried and no son to succeed him. They're a few short years past one war, with another not far enough for comfort off their eastern borders; the Bear Cult is on the rise again, and now...now is not the time for instability. Now is the time for as much continuity as humanly possible. Now is, in short, the worst possible time for Aloria to look divided. Now is the worst possible time for Drasnia to have a king who clearly doesn't want to be there on the throne.

By the time the argument fizzles out they're just going in vituperative circles, and it's with no excuses and scarcely even an attempt at a farewell that he storms out. Garion follows, catches his arm, only to start in faintly hurt surprise as one of his oldest friends jerks furiously out of his grasp with something that's very nearly a growl.

Infuriated energy propels him as far as a deserted distant corner of the palace gardens where - hidden from prying eyes by ornamental trees and the sheltering darkness of deepening night - he sinks onto a stone bench, buries his face in his hands, and very quietly panics.

He can't do this. That's the one inescapable fact that everyone around him seems wilfully blind to, for reasons absolutely beyond his understanding. Yes, he fully agrees, someone should rule Drasnia. But only an idiot would suggest him for the role and expect it to end anything but spectacularly badly. It's a mystery to him why otherwise intelligent and sane people who a year ago wouldn't have trusted him with their coinpurse are suddenly determined to entrust him with an entire kingdom.

He's never dealt well with feeling trapped, figuratively or literally, and this gods-forsaken mess of a situation is closing around him like a noose. He presses his palms over his eyes and tries just to breathe past the dizzying knot of grief and shame and fear wrapped around his chest and clawing its way up his throat. Someone is probably watching, of course. In Boktor someone is always watching. But he doesn't have it in him to care right now.

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[littlemother]

Porenn had always known she wouldn't have Rhodar long. His age and his health both far preceded her, and she had never fooled herself into thinking she wouldn't long outlive him. But it wasn't supposed to have come like this, so slowly and painfully and yet, still, so prematurely. She has spent every waking hour and then some since his death maintaining an impeccable image of mourning regality, but she can feel herself begin to buckle. Without a son, with no further claim to the throne and Kheldar as its heir -- Porenn loves him dearly, but she doesn't want him on the throne any more than he wants to be there. She knows just as well as he does that he's no king, as talented and brilliant as he might be.

Rhodar, you've left too soon. You were supposed to give me a son...

But Porenn doesn't -- can't -- dwell for long on the should-have-beens. She's a woman of the present, and she'll deal with what's in front of her. They'll find a way around this. Porenn might have been divested of most of her political power by the death of her husband, but come hell or high water, she won't give up that easily. She knows of the plan the Alorn monarchs must have brought to Kheldar by now -- whatever her status, she still has plenty of spies working for her. No doubt they intended not to bring it to her attention until Kheldar had made his decision -- Alorns -- but they'd be fools to imagine she wouldn't already know by now. And at any rate, what Kheldar wants isn't relevant right now. Her own desires, whatever they might be -- her feelings, her grief -- are of even smaller importance. Porenn can see what needs to be done, and for the sake of her country -- her daughter -- she'll make sure it's done.

Finding Kheldar isn't the hard part, she knows. The hard part comes now, as she approaches him with footsteps that fall silent by habit, and she reaches out slowly to put a hand on his shoulder. When she speaks, her voice is soft, gentle, but there lies beneath it an undeniable firmness. She will not permit him to ignore her.

"Kheldar."