Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“The traitor has, of course, fled.” Kelzalik reported from below the throne, hands behind his back. “I would call him a coward, but Migal has been in the castle long enough for us all to know he’s a schemer, and a charismatic one.”

“Indeed,” Dohalim said. “He is quite charismatic.”

A cloud rolled over, dimming the light streaming through the hall windows. Dohalim felt a veil fall between himself and the others in the hall, diffusing his thoughts.

Migal, gone.

People meant to serve him working against him.

“There have already been a few more desertions, both from the guard as well as his personal circle,” Kelzalik said, “We fear he will call others to his cause, even from a self imposed exile.”

And Migal’s cause was to kill...no, to save…

Wait.

More importantly-

“Have you determined where he is hiding?”

“We believe he is somewhere west of the city, near the mines, but we have yet to find his hideout. The woods are quite dense.”

“I am sure the Guard will catch him soon, especially if you are organizing the efforts,” Dohalim said, after a pause that felt a fraction too long. Had he said this before? The world crinkled at the edges. Dohalim could see everything in the room perfectly well, but also a ghost image over them, like sketchy double image, emotions washing over it in incomplete swatches.

Dohalim showed nothing. It was disorienting, but he was a Lord. Lords were above anxiety, which this was causing, so he would ignore it. His people looked to him.

It could be poison. Even as Dohalim thought that, he knew it wasn’t. Poison wouldn’t suit Migal. And, inexplicably, Dohalim knew that he would be perfectly fine until after dinner, when he would have such mild indigestion that he wouldn’t even mention it to anyone.

Kelzalik’s report continued, and Dohalim responded as he was expected to. When Kelzalik finished, Dohalim requested Kisara stay at his side for the day. This way he would have extra protection, he argued, and it showed that he still trusted her, a show that both she and the other guards needed. They faced a paltry traitor, a scoundrel whose sister would not join him, and his cause so toothless that by her account he had not even tried to convince her.

And Dohalim was not worried about Kisara’s loyalty. He never had been. Even with the world slipping to the side, kaleidoscopic stars periodically bursting in his periphery, Kisara was an unmovable rock. If anything, he became more convinced of her allegiance as the hours passed and new thoughts crowded into his head.

A small woodwind concert has been set up on the green, and Dohalim attended as planned, checking in with the powerful Renan families and most ambitious Dhanans. He smiled. They smiled back. They had light, pleasant conversation after the event.

Dohalim’s mood was rapidly souring.

There were reports on his desk concerning the shipment of food within the realm. He read them, signed off on them. A few short requests that required his attention sat off to the side, and Dohalim looked at the first before signing the rest without looking at them.

He went through them after he finished and found he knew what they all said anyway.

His dessert that night was garnished with half of one of those new strawberry-like fruits Kelzalik had introduced a few months ago. An extravagance, since there were still so few of them. Dohalim liked how they tasted, though they were rarely served whole. Their flavor was such that their best application was to mix it with other foods to bring out the best of what it was prepared with, like a combination of salt and sugar with a light tang.

Dohalim did not eat his dessert.

He made sure to swipe the fruit off the abandoned sweets so no one else ate it either.

#

“Lord Dohalim?”

“Yes, Kisara.”

“Are you all right?”

What a question. He was fine. He had a headache the size of a star. Today had been delightful. Today was a few days before one of the worst days of his life. He wanted to pull out his hair. If he had to hear one more pleasantry he’s scream. The world was folding in on itself and he couldn’t find a single bit of comfort in the solid walls of the palace he had used to spend the last seven years hiding from reality.

When Dohalim turned to her, she averted her gaze. “You have been...subdued today.”

“I, yes, I suppose I have,” Dohalim said. “I have been.. contemplating.”

“About Migal.”

“About your brother, yes.”

“He’s not my brother.”

Dohalim blinked. “Hm?”

Kisara’s face crinkled, twisted in rage. She clenched her hands at her sides. “If he can plot to hurt you, despite all you’ve done for us, then he’s not my brother.”

Oh, Kisara. “...people who are dear to you can do terrible things, and that does not cancel out the care you have for them.”

“I do not care about him.”

“Kisara-”

“I do not!” Kisara huffed. She started to return to a proper stance, but noticed her hands were shaking. She settled for crossing her arms. She looked away. “Migal’s a bastard and deserves what he gets.”

This wouldn’t do, but how could he fix it? “I am not doubting your loyalty in this.”

“I don’t care about him.”

“Alright.” Not a condemnation, not an encouragement. Just acknowledgment. Dohalim squeezed her shoulder lightly, then turned towards his room. “Just know that you are allowed to.”

At the door, he paused. “Thank you for accompanying me today.”

He did not look at her, though he heard her armor clank as she, presumably, gathered herself. “Of course, my Lord.”

“You are dismissed, for tonight. I will see you at the normal time tomorrow.”

She left.

#

Later, after he allowing himself to be bathed and dressed in his night clothes, as he always did, he sat on the bed, looking out the enormous glass windows at the night sky. The Viscint lights glittered, leaving the bottom of the view a pale yellow, dimming the stars. Even so, there was Rena, large and looming, with the smaller Lenegis resting in front.

Rena is beautiful, he thought.

Rena is dead.

Dohalim plopped back on top of the covers and let his mind fully, actually think about the memories that had come to him during the day. Migal. The Fruit of Helgan. A vat of metallic sludge beneath the mines. A man with a blazing sword, who would defeat two Lords and decide to spare him, of all people, the man who had let it happen.

Time had passed, the pain and guilt simmering to a dull ache instead of a burn. The feelings were new, and yet also healed over. These things happened yesterday, months ago, were happening right now. Over a year of change, of progress, either wiped out and reset or otherwise lost.

Reconciliation with his friends.

A wedding.

The twin worlds.

Dohalim cried. Tears slipped silently down his face and into his ears as he laid on the bed and he mourned. He didn’t say anything.

He wanted to. Stars, did he want to. If he could talk it out, even to himself, he’d be able to make sense of this quicker, he was certain. But anyone who heard him putting this puzzle together would think him mad.

And he had no way of knowing if he was alone.

So Dohalim laid in the dark, tears streaming, on his plush, luxurious bed as he pieced together his broken sense of the world. These memories, however painful, were a gift. A chance to save a few more people, at the cost of the possibility of failing both worlds entirely.

Dohalim was sick and tired of responsibilities he didn’t want being hoisted on his shoulders.

At least he’d spared himself an upset stomach.

#

“How long can this continue? Why doesn’t anyone stand up and fight?”

The thought reverberated through Iron Mask’s head, long after he was done talking to Doc. He tried to relax, to feel the breeze, to just let himself be. He did. As restless as he felt, he took it a step further and ran his hand along the rocks, just to really register the motion, the feel of it. He savored his meager dinner. He touched some dry, brittle grass. But even after crawling onto his bedroll, he could not get the idea that someone should stop this out of his head.

People were suffering. People were dying, constantly. And Iron Mask both couldn’t understand how anyone could let it happen, or how he even thought to think there could be another way. It was supposed to be like this everywhere, right? There was nowhere better. There hadn’t been anything better in three hundred years.

But there was no way it could stay like this.

Something had to change.

Iron Mask fell asleep. He dreamed. When he woke up, he felt something about his dream had been different. The woman was, just for a moment, different. Her hair was longer, or her face looked more severe. Or sadder.

Iron Mask shook his head and headed to work.