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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[smooth_as]

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."

[littlemother]

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.

[smooth_as]

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."

[littlemother]

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.

[smooth_as]

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."

[littlemother]

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."