* * *
Stevane
* * *
It's awhile before I have any guests again. I guess that last show of my talents was quite a doozy. I'm glad for the alone time, though, because it means I have time to buckle down my urge to kill people.
I mean, this is a pretty regular thing to have if you're an Akribastes girl. We're known for our, er, fiesty natures. And I've been known to lose it a few times and light someone's head on fire when I'm PMSing or just very angry. Still, this is pretty impressive. I'd murder the next person to step through that door if I could. It's a kind of ire that's been growing over the last few weeks and I really don't know why.
Until, of course, I put two and two together, and then curse myself.
Armed don't receive their Arms until they train up for them, and then Daddy hands them over in a special rite. Nobody talks about the rite of course - they like to make it all sound spooky to the trainees. Even Lute, my most level-headed brother, said he couldn't tell me anything beyond the fact that I didn't need to be afraid of what would happen.
Well, I don't care about any of that mystical bullshit right now. What I care about is that the reason Daddy makes a special little ceremony about all that stuff is because Armed must be initiated in his presence, after training. That's about as safe as you can make it. Whatever happens during your initiation, it almost kills you.
There are such things as Armed who initiate in the wild, who don't recieve training before they recieve their Arms. They don't get to the Armed Hall soon enough because they don't know what they really are. They just... bloom early, I guess you could say. And they die. They die in explodey little bits, because when you get Arms without the Judge around, apparently they don't like it too much, and they take it out on you.
I should have initiated weeks ago. I was so busy looking after Jhe h'Lete that I put it off, and I'm pretty sure Daddy tried to put it off to for whatever reason. Probably so I could keep an eye on Jhe h'Lete for him, because I'm so busy being a Poet, and... well, maybe because Daddy's so busy, too.
I can't go to an initiation now. I'm kind of stuck here, you know? So if I don't try to control this rage that's been building up on me... I will probably literally pop. I will make a big red messy pop and leave an equally messy stain and that will be the end of THAT Armed.
Well, at least I know I'm the real thing now. I had been fretting about that. Lute said that was a normal thing, too. Kind of funny, since Poets also do that all the time.
I sit at the desk, ready a fresh quill, and decide to write. Edward unlocked my collar enough for that, and the Kommissar unlocked it on another level so that I could be free-thinking. Maybe I can write something of worth. If I can't, at least it'll help me focus on something other than killing people. I don't really want to pop. For one thing, I like the outfit I've got on.
Of course, there's the question of whether I'm going to trance-write again like I did when Edward was here. Not my happiest place in the world to be, but I've got few options right now and I need to take care of the pop issue. I'll worry about what dreck I've churned out later. So what I write next, I write with no aim in mind, and no expectation of anything remarkable other than distraction.
* * *
The Kommissar has divested himself of Edward and is walking alone with a swift gait. All of his focus is on what he is approaching as he walks through the halls of Lyiannethe Manor. Even though his are pressing matters, he keeps his stance easy. He doesn't want to appear too urgent to Thelea, after all.
Thelea is retiring in her own chambers, having been fittied with a new silk dress and robe to recline in. She's showered and put on fresh makeup. She looks up to the Kommissar when he enters her room - she obviously has been expecting him.
The Kommissar bows his head and takes a knee, waiting in silence until Thelea bids him permission to rise. He does, then approaches her slowly. He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. Strangely, he shows none of the revulsion for her that he obviously harbored before. As expected, he has incredible control over his outer appearance and his emotions. It's something I can't deny I'm jealous of. He doesn't flinch when Thelea reaches forward and strokes his hair, then his cheek.
"My consort's gone off to herd the poor lambs," she whispers. "I'm all alone here."
The Kommissar chuckles. "Would you like some company, then?"
"Please."
What follows is something I care not to describe, and I don't really have to, so there. Thelea is an icky woman, and the Kommissar is no one that I want to see naked (however much such a thing always draws my attention) and so I try to move my literary eye elsewhere. I consider my brother, but I'm afraid of putting too much attention on him. No... no, something's calling me, tugging me. I decide to follow it for just a little bit. The sour mind on the other end betrays his presence, though - Edward.
Are you writing, 'Bit? Such a coincidence, so am I. Care to join us?
I get the impression of many minds, all joining together on a single project, and I shiver. I don't want to be a part of that. There were similar exercises in the Hall, but... but then it was different, with Jhe h'Lete presiding over us all. I don't trust Edward.
Of course, now all those minds are tugging me at once, trying to draw me in. It's hard to fight the pull, expecially with the collar starting to help them out. I can only fight so much. I'm about to start flailing when I feel a very calm mind reach out to me and divert my path away from them.
I flock to it immediately. I'd recognize Elric anywhere. He feels as kind and warm as ever, though very tired. On my heels, I can hear Edward chastizing him.
Now Jhe Elric, if you're going to refuse to work Poetry for me then you can't very well do it with her--
I pay it no mind, and I feel Elric wrap a mental arm around me.
--okay sweetcake? You safe? Where are you?
Safe, I guess. Not with the Poets here. With the Kommissar. What's going on?
Oh, sweetcake, I wish you hadn't come-- and then he's cut off, and I can feel Edward's anger all around us. Elric's mind flinches back. He's being punished!
Edward bristles at me. Naughty little girl. I ought to have you flogged. I could do it with my mind, wouldn't even have to ask permission from Lady Thelea. But I suppose Elric deserves it more, because he knows the rules and you don't.
I lash out at him, but it's blocked. He laughs at me, leaking self-satisfaction. I glare and then return fire.
Literally.
FUCK! YOU BRAT! You don't set your elders on FIRE! Your Daddy always told you that! There's the distinct impression of someone slapping their own eyebrows. Eyebrows always were my favorite target. Nobody needs them, but they sure do miss them when they're gone.
Daddy always said I could set you on fire whenever I wanted. It hasn't been retracted, as far as I know. I add another glare. You traitor. Shame on you, taking Jhe h'Lete's arts and turning them ugly.
The backlash from him isn't physical, but it's got more emotional heat in it than my little flash-fire in his eyebrows had. I have to duck. Shielding isn't so easy in this collar. At least Edward's not at top form either. I wonder if they did anything to him, too. I couldn't see if he was wearing a collar himself. His uniform covered his neck up. They're my Poets! Jhe h'Logos isn't my King anymore! And he won't be yours! You'll bow to me! And with that, there's a mental pressure of command. He's trying to get me to heel.
Fat fucking chance. I respond with not a push, but a YANK which sends him reeling towards me. He's slow to compensate for it. Weird. I wonder if he's used to our types fighting ba
* * *
Fingers drum along the back of my neck in a way that implies someone could choose to grab it and choke me instead of just giving me a tap. I look up to meet the Kommissar's eyes.
A chill runs down my spine that not even Edward could induce - which is a shame, considering that's Edward's specialty. He must be off form right now. The Kommissar, he's a lot scarier right now. Especially with that slow smile creeping up his face, and his hand starting to get in a better position to grab the back of my neck. He hasn't really choked me, not yet. He's just implying that he could.
Oh great, more chess!
"Is there something amiss?" The quill is still in my hand. I haven't felt Edward fight back any. I wonder if the Kommissar is blocking him. The Kommissar is currently skating his eyes over the words on my paper. Now that I look at him, it appears he's had a recent shower. Probably to wash Thelea's stink off of him.
He narrows his eyes. "You're narrating aloud."
I gulp. "Well, you do smell fresh as a daisy, to be fair."
I see him slapping me across the face and out of my chair. I see that because I see the potential event happening - I'm still in writing mode and so it's easy to be sensitive to what-could-have-been. Instead, he brushes a piece of nonexistant lint off his sleeve and says, "I'm glad you've learned to fight off Thelea's favorite pet. He can be a bit of a brute, yes? It's time now to attend to more important things, however. Come, we will procure you a violin." He turns away, expecting me to follow him. I start to rise, then notice that I'm shaking.
His voice was so calm, so even-toned. His mind isn't very well-shielded, though. I can still see, even now, just how much he wanted to beat me.
I compose myself, rise, and follow him after reaching over and signing my work. I like to close every book I open.
* * *
Again the Kommissar takes my arm as we walk down the halls of Lyiannethe Manor. This is definitely outside of his personal complex, but still tightly warded. The walls are painted in neutral tones, and there's a row of wooden doors on either side. They each have ornate molding, but they have locks on the outside and smaller inset peephole slits near the top. It's like walking down a row of cells. I can't feel out the minds within at all.
"Just think, Jhe Akribastes, you could be dwelling here instead of sharing my company," the Kommissar whispers to me. "Now, do be well-mannered, or my Queen may decide she'd prefer you stay in one of these after all."
I see a smear of blood on the very edge of one door. I feel so numb here. I wonder who's inside these little cells. I probably know all of them. I've practically spent my entire life inside of the Poet Hall, after all. "Does Jhe Edward stay in one of these?" I keep my tone to a whisper.
He chokes back a laugh. "That prick? Not hardly. He's the prize specimen, so he's too good for Thelea to keep in a place like this. Or, so she tells me. Come, they have supplies in here." The hall takes a turn to the right, and then we go through a door into a warehouse room that's utterly lined with instruments.
I recognize a lot of them. Poets travel with their personal instruments, usually ones they made by hand, or else gifts from patrons or other Poets. Sometimes they're gifts from Jhe h'Lete himself. So what's in here is basically a treasure trove. My fingers brush Elam's lap harp, and as the chord sours my blood chills a little. It only likes him. Poet instruments can be like that, after all. Not quite like Arms, just very... personal.
I can hear them whispering to me. They want to be let out, and they're demanding to know why I'm not bringing in their Poets to set them free.
Xen clears his throat, bringing me out of my reverie. I shake my head, then follow him. "I don't know my way around the place, I'm sorry to say. But I do believe they're sorted by instrument. You didn't say you can play harp, so I don't see any reason to dally with one." His tone carries just a hint of reproval.
I bite my lip. "I recognize it. Is he... is Jhe Elam still alive?"
"Jhe Elam?" There's polite confusion on his face - the expression of someone attempting to humor me.
"About yea tall, shaggy light greyish-blueish hair, looks like an unkempt Xaillyndesse, skulks around in libraries, obviously sexually repressed? He has glasses." I pause. "And he's the King's son. Most people remember that first." What can I say? Elam has certain attributes about him that set him apart from the crowd.
"Ahh, Lady Thelea's favorite whipping boy. He's fine, but seems to show a bit of attitude." He says that with a smile that I want to slap off of his face. "He's alive, yes, as long as he doesn't stage any more trouble. He does take after his father in that regard. You all seem to, at that. I don't begrudge Thelea at all when it comes to keeping your kind under locks." His eyes flick over to the corner. "Ah, I see we've found the violins? I don't play. You can go ahead and pick one. Can't imagine Thelea or her pets will miss it - she's not very interested in music, and few of them earn the freedom of keeping possessions." He leads me past a table of drums (I spy Jhe Colin and Sharrel's tamborines, still strung with ribbons) and a rack that includes a dressmaking doll and fabrics. The array of sewing implements is wide, and there's some rich fabrics there besides. I recognize that special set of sewing needles, though. But... Jhe Dougrasse? I thought he was dead! Even Jhe h'Lete did.
The violins are here, at the bottom rack. Above it, though, is something that catches my attention and will not let it go. It freezes me somewhere in the gut, my innards turning icy cold. I make the amateur mistake of checking to see if I've peed myself. No, all girly-fresh.
Good.
"Mmm? OH. I forgot we'd kept those. How odd! They're antiques... really do belong in a museum, don't you think?"
There's a scream building up in my throat, but there's no sound in it. I just sort of breath out for a few moments, let the silent cry expire, and will my hands to stop shaking.
They're instruments made of severed human heads. I can feel the pain coming off of them. The madness. Elric-- no, his people, people like him and Camden. Their hollowed out skulls with stretched scalps for drums. Hair strung for harps. Ribs that double as picks or bows. All manner of crafting experiments, really, in the as-far-as-I-had-assumed-before-now very limited field of decapitation-related musical accompaniment.
There are violins somewhere under there, but I can't take my eyes away from that stuff. I can still see bits of the people's lives before their heads became tools, and the latter bits of those lives were definitively unpleasant. There are tiny instruments too, little maracas that are so small that they'd have to be made from the very young--
"Why don't you sit, Jhe Akribastes? You seem distressed." I'm escorted to a padded stool that faces away from the display. I try to recover my nerves before I keel over. When I'm farther away from those... those things, I feel better. The worst part is that I could tell they'd been played very recently. They were all freshly repaired and strung. They were starting to sing to me, and I'd do anything to get that music out of my head.
Something's pushed into my hands. A violin. My hand automatically seeks the neck. I grasp the bow when it's handed to me.
"One's as good as any other, I suppose?" He pushes me between the shoulders. I rise and walk to the door when prompted. He's wrong, but I don't have the breath in my lungs to correct him. If I open my mouth I will puke. I just want to be out of this horrible room of instruments and their plaintive voices. As we exit, the relief flooding into me almost bowls me over.
