smooth_as | Seven Devils (for littlemother)

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who: porenn (littlemother)

Seven Devils (for littlemother)

"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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He's punctual, almost bordering on early. Anyone else might have been surprised. Anyone else might have thought he'd put it off as long as possible. But she probably knows him well enough to recognise the burning desire to get this over with as quickly and relatively painlessly as possible in the restless wandering of his hands, the determined set to his expression. This is undoubtedly going to be unpleasant, but anticipating it is worse.

The knock is a formality, a rap on the doorframe even as he's already letting himself in. The silence in the well-appointed chamber is oppressive as he crosses the carpeted expanse of floor on quiet feet.

His eyes pass over the table, the bottle of wine sitting on it, and a fleeting hint of something strange and unreadable flickers across his face. He gives a humourless smile and sits down in the other chair and, for what feels like the hundredth time that day, forcibly composes himself. The little nervous twitches stop instantly and completely.

"Well then," he says, embracing the facade of calm so wholly he can almost believe it. "Do your worst."

Porenn does not flinch. But just for a moment, she sighs, her gaze almost doleful. "You act as though I'm out to hurt you," she murmurs, but more to herself; she knows that it's all too easy for Kheldar to see it that way. That's what makes this so difficult. For all that they know each other so well, for all that they ought to know better, this is an injury and an insult to him.

She makes no gesture toward the wine. Kheldar will help himself when he feels the need. Her gaze settles back on him, on his gaunt face in the dim light. He has hardly ascended the throne, and already it does not suit him. When Porenn speaks again, her voice is soft, painfully gentle.

"Don't you think we ought to have had this conversation years ago, Kheldar?"

He looks away but doesn't respond. He doesn't doubt that she would never be intentionally hurtful. But intent only counts for so much when that can be the only possible outcome. He's never had it in him to resent her for it - what would be the point when he's all too aware that he is the only one at fault here? In any case, it's so much easier and more appropriate to resent his own stubborn, masochistic heart.

He seems faintly puzzled by the question. "No," he replies with a small shrug, calmly matter-of-fact. "Why bother? It was never going to change anything." After all these years it's a phantom pain, almost reassuring in its constancy for all that it hurts. He's resigned to never being fully rid of these feelings, and has long since accepted that in turn, she will never reciprocate them. What is there to discuss?

Porenn and Kheldar are alike in many ways, but there are a few key differences -- fundamental contrasts in personal philosophy. Both of them know that there are things in the world they can change, and accept that there are those they can't. But they see the light of the world through different lenses. Porenn simply doesn't believe that resigning himself to this was his only option.

But then, it's the easy way out, isn't it? Not everyone would see it that way, but Kheldar's unwillingness to confront the issue only demonstrates to Porenn that he is far, far more afraid of the honest truth than anything else. And that she has known about him for years.

He can't seem to meet her eyes for more than a minute at a time. That stings more than anything, although she can't quite place her finger on why. And at the same time, some small, dark part of her in the silent depths of her heart feels a swell of triumph, an acknowledgment that she, here, has the upper hand. But for all that Porenn might revel in every shred of power she manages to claim -- if only because she has had to fight for every bit of it all her life -- she has never reveled in the opportunity to hurt someone she loves so dearly.

"How long?" she asks, softly. She won't confront his conviction on the immutability of his heart, and she can't ask how she could have possibly missed it until it was too late to smooth things over. That's not something she can ask him.

In the quiet that draws out after her question he reaches for the bottle of wine, uncorks it, and— pauses, for just a moment. It's tempting to use it like spirits poured over an open wound, numbing the pain for long enough to carry on. But the possibility of blunting the sharp edges enough to speak unguardedly flickers through his mind, and every inch of his soul cringes. He swallows hard and pours a conservative half measure before he can think better of it. His eyes are gratefully focused on the task and his hands determinedly steady as he fills the second glass as well before setting the bottle down, taking up his own, and sitting back in his chair.

Remarkable, really, how little buying time to think helps. The wine doesn't do much to steady his nerves either, but it's a pleasant distraction at least, a rich and sweet tolnedran red which speaks of a place that couldn't be more different from the windswept moors of Drasnia. Once again that caged feeling crawls over the back of his neck.

It feels like forever, is the honest answer; a constant of his life so fundamental that the shape of the man he's become grew around it like a tree that twists its way through gaps in a stone wall. He takes another measured sip and gives a small shrug, not quite meeting her gaze. "Since the Academy," he replies. It's strange now to think about that time, infinitely long ago as it now feels, before they'd been so thoroughly trained to trust no-one. They'd been children, even if they hadn't felt it.

Perhaps that's why he's never been able to shake this. That gap in his defenses; the small, tender place in behind the walls of wit and misdirection that he keeps between himself and everyone else on the face of the earth...it's worn so perfectly to her shape that it's hard to imagine how anyone else could ever fit there. Even if these feelings were somehow to finally fade, all that would be left behind is a hollow emptiness. Perhaps even a constant ache is better than nothing at all.

He gives a thin, self-deprecating smile and forces himself to look her in the eye. "I supposed you were unfortunate enough to slip in before they sealed the gates." There's no need to elaborate; they went through the same training. More than anything else, he's mystified by the way that after all of it she's been able to keep her heart open, to build a life with roots as a wife and mother. If there was ever a version of him who might have done the same, he's scarcely more than a memory now.

The only surprise that registers on her face is a small parting of her lips. It feels like a lifetime ago, those days she’d determinedly carved out a name for herself at the Academy. It was, she knew, the only way to get every man around her to see her not as the charming little daughter of one of Rhodar’s intelligence advisors, but as a mind to be reckoned with. And as stubborn on their notions about women Alorns can be, in the Drasnian Intelligence Service, results are results.

It’s when he pours her a glass, oddly enough, that she feels like they can see this conversation through to the end. If we must do this, we might as well do it together — that’s what she’d like to hope for, anyway. She picks up her glass, lightly swirling it in her hand, and for the first time today, a soft, tiny smile touches her lips. Visible for only a moment, as she follows it with a light sip of the wine.

“I used to think you were teasing me.”

Once upon a time, at least. She’s not sure she can pinpoint the exact moment at which she acknowledged that she knew just how he felt about her, but she knows that by then, it was too late. Could she have ever disabused him of the notion to begin with, if she had only realized it sooner?

He’s looking her in the eye, and this time it’s she that nearly finds it difficult to meet his gaze — because she understands now, all too clearly, that even if she weren’t complicit in his heartache before, she surely is now.

She was a sight to behold, back in the Academy days; smiles and sweetness hiding steel, choosing when to play on others' underestimation of her and when to puncture it. Really, he defies any man who'd witnessed such a thing in his formative years not to be thoroughly enchanted by it.

"Of course I was teasing you, your majesty," he replies, light and breezy. "I certainly don't recall that I'd stopped." He gives her a shadow of a grin, and for all that it's just as hollow as any other he's mustered today, there's no helping the trace of genuine fondness that curls around the edges of it.

Funny now, in a mirthless sort of hindsight, to think how long he'd let things linger in the hazy realm of plausible deniability. He's never been shy in any other circumstance about making a straightforward pass at someone, nor has he otherwise had any particular difficulty in shrugging and moving on with his life when rejected. But if he's honest with himself — a vice he does toy with occasionally in the privacy of his own thoughts — it's been easy every other time because it didn't matter.

It had always felt like there would be more time. And then, quite abruptly, there wasn't.

He rolls the half-empty glass of wine in his hands, feeling the weight of it shift in the same absent, reflexive way he'd test the weight of a dagger. "It doesn't matter." He drops his gaze, looking into the swirling liquid in his hands, and takes a slow, steadying breath. "It doesn't change what needs to be done." In an odd way, thinking about their time in the Academy does make the concept seem infinitesimally less unbearable. They were ruthlessly drilled in how to maintain a charade, how to set aside whatever they might think or feel and do what had to be done. Perhaps this is just...another lie he can learn to live.

"No," Porenn says, as matter-of-fact as she can muster right now, "it doesn't."

She takes another sip from her glass, fuller this time, letting the rich flavor permeate her tongue and bring her buzzing thoughts to rest for just a few moments. For all her composure, she's still only human; her day didn't stop at enduring a seemingly unending funeral procession with her composure intact and comforting her grieving daughter, far too young to have to lose her father. In fact, it still hasn't ended, now conducting this conversation with Kheldar, coaxing him into a difficult subject because to let it lie any further would only leave them a tangled mess. She glances in the direction of her bed briefly. Porenn is a woman of remarkable restraint, but the notion of simply climbing into bed now is a powerful one.

But his smile means something. It warms her just slightly, gives her hope that he won't be swallowed whole by the magnitude of the task placed before him. She needs him to survive for her, for more than one reason.

"For what it's worth," she says, her voice still hushed, but she has somehow banished the sorrow, leaving behind only an iron conviction and the fondness in her voice, a voice that somehow belongs more to that girl he'd fallen in love with in their Academy days than the brave-faced Drasnian queen she's become. "I'm glad it's you, Kheldar. I know we — I have made you a prisoner of your own country. I never wanted that for you. But, if I must do this at all...at least it's with someone I can trust."

Because he must know that she trusts him, insofar as a Drasnian queen can trust anyone — not the trust born of great deeds, but of a shared immutable past.

He keeps control of his expression, just, but his throat still tightens painfully at the sentiment. He buys himself a moment with another slow sip of wine, swallowing it all down until he feels as though he can trust himself to try and speak again. "I think you might well be the only person in all Aloria who is," he replies dryly. Just about everyone else seems to regard his involuntary ascenscion as a crisis of only slightly lesser magnitude than the one it averted.

Himself included. Torak's scorched fucking skull, he'd rather be anywhere other than where he is. Once again he curses Rhodar for not taking better care of himself. They could have avoided all of this if the old scoundrel had held on long enough to father a son. He might still have found himself roped into helping in some advisory capacity, but at least it wouldn't have come with...all the rest of it.

He drains what's left in the glass and eyes the bottle longingly. Part of him desperately wants to drown his sorrows until he can't quite remember what they are any more, and find what solace he can in unconsciousness. It's how he usually deals with being trapped back in Boktor, after all. But then usually he's well on his way again by the time he sobers up, and the headache is easier to bear with a fast horse under him and the road winding on to the horizon. Not many things sound worse than dealing with this sober, but dealing with it hungover is one of them.

With one last reproachful glance at the glass, as though the whole situation is its fault, he sets the dregs of the wine aside. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I suppose I had my fun. I always thought Belgarath poaching me out from under Javelin would spare me any other responsibilities, but apparently not." He scratches contemplatively at his jaw, eyes on the mid-distance. "Maybe I'll get lucky and some other quest of world-ending importance will come up."

Porenn watches him make that conscious decision to stop drinking with a strange light in her eyes, like watching light refract through a prism. For a fleeting moment, she almost thinks she can see all of him — every charade, every facade, every other person he's ever become to do his work and sometimes just avoid it — but that moment collapses in on itself, and all she sees now is Kheldar, dear Kheldar — the man he's always avoided being the most. She has, she knows, trapped him in many more ways than one.

At that last comment, she makes only a thoughtful noise and sips from her wine; despite her apparently prim little sips, she has nearly drained her glass. She sits forward then, a few strands of fair hair coming loose from the elaborate braiding apparently demanded by an occasion of such gravity.

"I'll grant that it isn't outside the realm of possibility," she muses, "but if you go off on some grand adventure, who will help me disassemble the Bear-cult's presence in Drasnia?"

She sets the glass down on the table and clasps her hands in her lap, her eyes glittering in the dim light. "And I am very much looking forward to taking them apart."

She smiles again, girlish despite the weariness. "We haven't collaborated on an operation since we were in the Academy, Kheldar. I could use your insight."

Maybe it'll make it easier for him to frame it like this, to treat it all like a mission. But beyond that, she must afford herself some levity, at least in private company, if she is to have the strength to carry this on. She does not relish the knowledge that the comfort and safety he provides is only rewarded with pain, nor does she want to cry in front of him just now.

As attempts to play him go it's rather transparent. Deliberately so, he imagines. Still, it's the first idea anyone's put to him in the last week that hasn't sounded like an ironic punishment from some vindictive deity, so really he's in no position to take exception to the bait being dangled quite so blatantly. A part of him that's been scratching frantically against walls of numb shock like an animal in a trap ever since their little succession crisis crystallised abruptly falls still and scents the air, warily curious.

Looking into her eyes, bright and impish and framed by the hair falling loose from her uncharacteristically severe coif, for a bittersweet moment he feels almost as though he can catch a glimpse of the world where they were nothing more than old Academy friends, able to approach the task ahead of them in good humour as the grand cosmic joke it is. A better world, most likely. Certainly one that would be easier to live in.

A trace of a whimsical smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he spreads his hands and inclines his head, a gesture towards the florid bow he'd be giving if he could face the thought of standing. "I am at your command, my queen."

Porenn lets out a soft laugh at that. Not her usual silvery little laugh; something warmer, closer to relief. She suspects this will be the most relief she gets for some time, and she wishes to savor it.

Transparent she may be, but she's glad it seems to have worked anyway. Everyone treats this as an obligation for Kheldar, and in a sense, it is — but Porenn understands, perhaps more than anyone on that council of Alorn kings, that it is more than anything a sacrifice. The very least she can do is make it easier for him.

"Just don't let Anheg hear you say that at the next council meeting," she murmurs. Not that Anheg should be under any illusions about who will actually be running this country, but Chereks can be so...Cherek.

Silk shrugs. "Maybe a little shock to the system will be good for him," he responds languidly, waving an airy hand. "Invigorating. It wouldn't do to have Aloria grow complacent, after all."

Small danger of that, under the circumstances; anyone of any political standing is watching the situation unfold with great wariness. Really, he doesn't know what they think he's going to do. There have always been bad kings: weak, stupid, self-serving. Belar's teeth, Riva managed just fine without an arse on the throne at all for centuries. He'd have to actively set out to wreak havoc to do much at all to redirect the inertia of millennia.

It's a thought that could be reassuring under the right circumstances, but in the moment it's as depressing as anything else. The best case scenario is that he marks out his years unremarkably enough to be a historical footnote.

He sighs and finally moves to stand. "In any case, I should leave you to your rest, your majesty," he says, giving a shallow bow. "It's late, and I'm sure tomorrow is going to be every bit as irritating as today was."

Porenn, for all her composure, cannot help a roll of her eyes.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure I'll be called to meet with the Council of Kings after tomorrow's ceremonies have concluded, where they'll present this carefully considered solution to me as though they don't know that I already know." A trace of irritation, then amusement glints briefly in her eyes, "I wonder who will have the nerve to speak first."

But Kheldar is right — she is tired, and it's starting to show, her mind exhausted and her heart weary. She begins to pull out the pins holding her hair in place, one by one, and waves a stray wisp of hair away from her face. Yes...yes, she ought to rest. She begins to comb her hair loose with her fingers, rising from the chair, and smiles faintly.

"Goodnight, Kheldar."

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Seven Devils (for littlemother)

IT IS ABSOLUTELY NOT OKAY. I AM NOT OKAY ;_;

lies down slowly......

/weeps forever

crawls into the cry pile

Coming back after a completely normal amount of time

there is no statute of limitations on psls

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