consider the leeks

Eight was in love.

As much as he tried to deny it, curtail it from taking root, explained to himself in the mirror how many ways this could end in disaster and agonized into his pillows late into the night, he could no more prevent the truth from manifesting in a pit of dread in his stomach as he could stem the world's oceans from colliding with the shore. The very thought of Arcann filled him with longing and shame in equal measure; how could he fall for his enemy? Did he spare no thought to the people of the Empire who now suffered under his oppressive yoke, or had he truly become so selfish that the slightest reciprocated affection was enough to sway him from his mission? Did he really love Arcann, who had imprisoned him and torn him away from his home? Were these feelings his, or a hallucination from months of isolation?

All these questions and more plagued Eight's mind day unto night, until he had grown so haggard that the servants worried he had come down with sickness. But the only sickness Eight had contracted was that of the heart.

He was in love, and he was afraid.

"It is normal to doubt," Cyda, the head servant, had explained as she carefully brushed his hair. She had become a familiar face and much-needed company to Eight in the tumultuous times following the dinner, and Eight found her wise counsel and willingness to answer any and all of his questions a boon. "Senya used to express as much. She could not fathom the depths of our Emperor's love. She questioned whether she could return his feelings, whether she was worthy of him, and if she was dishonoring her station." She had shaken her head. "I will not tell you how her tale ended. But you must follow your heart, as she did." Only you can say whether or not you return our Emperor's affections."

"And if I don't?" He had asked, weary from so many sleepless nights turning the same thought over and over in his mind.

She had shot him a pitying look and said nothing more.

He hadn't much luck divulging his innermost turmoils to the other servants either, who all answered in varying flavors of appeasement that spoke to how little choice he had in the matter. Arcann made them nervous—they could not question him outright, and they had no desire to incur his wrath by dissuading the object of his affections from returning his feelings. Any and all possibility for blame was deflected with cheery optimism, and Eight eventually grew tired of their simpering. Besides Cyda's candidness, the only one he could speak to on the matter was Indo, who had quickly become his only confidante.

Despite his initial wariness, the man wore his heart on his sleeve. The longer they talked, the more Eight came to see his nature was not that of duplicity, although he managed social situations with all the finesse of one trained in such arts. Disregarding his character, Indo was seemingly trustworthy, having kept their initial encounter a secret, and Eight could not be picky about the shoulder he had been given to lean on. It did not help that he was the only other person he could talk to in the Spire who wasn't Arcann or the servants, and Eight was not keen on word of his feelings reaching either of them. Before he knew it, he and Indo began to meet regularly enough that a few eyebrows were raised from their constant appearances together, but thankfully, no trouble arose from it.

At least, for a time.

"Emperor Arcann intends to grant you clemency," Indo drops the news out of the blue one day, barely reacting to Eight's startled expression as he briskly matches pace with him on their daily walk, "He will paint you as an unwilling accomplice to the crime, but your charges against our Immortal Emperor, may he rest in the force, will be forgiven! Isn't that wonderful?" He announces gaily.

"Yes. Wonderful," Eight repeats, unenthused. He crinkles his brow. "If it results in the entire planet no longer wanting me dead, I suppose I should be grateful," He adds, somewhat reluctantly.

"You don't sound very pleased."

"Should I be?" Eight deadpans at the other man, "I already told you I had nothing to do with it." Not that it changes much in the end, he thinks dryly, embittered by his imprisonment and the excuse Arcann had called to instigate war.

"Oh, don't be that way," Indo slings one arm around his shoulders and gently shakes him. "Think of it like this: you'll be less of an unrepentant murderer and blasphemer in the eyes of the people, which puts you one step closer to achieving a happy life with our emperor. No objections, no riots, no protests. Just smooth sailing from here on out." An entrepreneurial glint enters his eyes. "The public might still accept you as consort if we can distract them with enough parties."

Eight pointedly ignores Indo as he prattles on about all the celebrations he'll throw in his and Arcann's honor, his rambling turning into mildly irritating background noise. He tunes him out to focus on this new information, appearing deep in thought. While he had no objections to being forgiven for a crime he had never committed, he held reservations towards the act itself. As far as he could tell, Arcann had no intention of letting him walk free, so a lessening of his sentence was performative at best. As long as Valkorion remained within him, he would never let him go—and that was not even delving into the matter of Arcann considering him "his". Eight was hopelessly and thoroughly entrenched in Zakuul, and he appeared to have even fewer escape routes than he'd started out with.

The pardon was just a formality, then. But for who? Eight stood to benefit the least, and Arcann hardly cared if his reputation became tarnished in his presence. A third faction who needed convincing to accept a criminal Outlander into their ranks was most likely to be the answer, and he had long harbored the suspicion that although Arcann was nigh untouchable as Emperor, he still relied on public support, or in this case, the support of the elite few.

"Indo." Eight interrupts Indo's spiel, and the other man looks at him curiously. "Who is going to be at the pardoning?"

"Why, just about anyone who matters," Indo says matter-of-factly, "A granting of clemency on this level needs to be signed by certain parties after all. You have your ministers, justices, and oh, perhaps some of the nobility. You're drawing quite a crowd," He nudges Eight playfully with his elbow, who simply rolls his eyes in response.

Arcann was moving forward with trying to integrate Eight into his life officially, and with haste. He didn't know how to feel about it, already overburdened by the mental strain of their unconventional romance to properly process this grand gesture. Was he merely a prized jewel to be shown off to the adoring masses, or was this Arcann's way of welcoming him into his arms with pride, of showing him that he could give him a life by his side…? Never mind that! This is your chance to make yourself useful and move up in the hierarchy whether he cares for you or not, his old training whispered, quashing down his dignity. But does he love you, or just the idea of you? His common sense would interrupt, and he would again be filled with uncertainty.

He almost wished it were the latter, if just to cease his heart from beating so strongly at the barest thought of Arcann.

"Indo, I…" Eight trails off, uncertain. His hand touches to his chest. "Does he… love me?"

Indo comes to a complete halt. The reedy blonde looks at him with sympathy, his voice softening. "That is something you should ask him, my friend. It is not for me to answer."

Eight lowers his head. He wrings his hand, suddenly looking small within the bagginess of his servant's garb. "I've never felt this way," He says quietly, surprising himself with his own honesty, "For anyone."

Indo looks at him, concerned. "Does that scare you?"

"Yes," Eight answers, the admittance of fear, of vulnerability so foreign yet freeing on his tongue. His voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I'm afraid of so much, Indo. What if I cannot return his feelings or they are not real? If he tires of me—"

"He will not," Indo reassures him, placing a comforting hand on the small of his back. "He will move the moon and stars if it guarantees your hand. You are overthinking this, my dear. He cannot love you if you do not let him, and you will drive yourself mad if you continue down this road. Is it such a crime, to be in love? Is what waits for you at the end so terrible that you fear something much more wonderful?"

Eight glances away from him. "I've just…" He latches his fingers together. "I wonder if I can make anyone happy. All my life, all I've been is… someone who couldn't. But when he looks at me, I…" He shakes his head. "I don't know what he sees in me. I don't know if I can be what he wants." I don't want to be thrown away again, adds a small part of him that is quickly suffocated and replaced with guilt. What right did he even have to feel this way? Was his happiness tantamount to the suffering of millions? His emotions begin to churn into a nauseating pit in his stomach.

Since when have you cared about anyone else, Cipher? The voice of his bygone Watcher echoes harshly in his mind's eye, this isn't the first time you've betrayed the Empire for your own gain. You may as well seize this opportunity and make use of it.

It's all you're good for.

No…! No, he wasn't… he'd never meant to—!

"Eight?" Indo derails his train of self flagellation, worry crossing his face. "Are you alright? You look unwell," He presses the back of his palm to his forehead, feeling for a fever.

Eight breathes out slowly, his mental spiral dissipating as he leans against Indo. "I'm fine," He manages to speak after several minutes of anxious silence.

The crease in Indo's brow renders him unconvinced, but he accepts Eight's answer regardless. "We'll continue this conversation another time," He says, although Eight can hear the reluctance in his voice to part, "the Emperor will have my head if he discovers I've been stressing your delicate composition with all this talk… but let's not dwell on that. I'll see you to your room."

Eight nods briefly in assent, and Indo offers his arm for him to take. Together, they set off back to his quarters, unaware of the events set in motion by their little exchange… -/-

The next time they see each other is at the pardoning, though he has difficulty finding the blonde in the mob that has amassed within Arcann's royal office. Indo was right: just about everyone in Zakuul had shown up to gawk at him as if he were a fancy new exhibit on display, much to his general discomfort and unease—which was not at all alleviated by the guards flanking him, nor by the peanut gallery of Zakuulan politicians that mutter amongst themselves and shoot him shifty gazes. Even the Scions have joined the fray, to his general dismay. The atmosphere is more than a tad hostile, and Eight longs to return to the safety of his domicile the longer the proceedings drag on, but he manages to hold his head up high regardless.

After what feels like an eternity, Arcann enters with his entourage in tow. The room falls silent with an audible hush, the anticipation palpable as Arcann moves behind the ornate desk at the head of the room.

The signing is a quiet affair. The ministers and justices append their signatures one by one following their emperor, an action that Eight feels is unnecessary and most likely for show given the emperor's power over most decisions in Zakuul, but he does not make these thoughts known aloud. Arcann is the last one to add his designation to the flimsiplast, and it is stamped in golden wax with the emblem of Zakuul.

"As of today, prisoner #2389254 is granted, by the power vested in me as emperor, a partial pardon for all offenses against the Eternal Empire which he has committed or may have committed or taken part in." Arcann declares, and Eight inwardly frowns. Partial? That was to be expected he supposed. Arcann could not continue to hold him should he be given absolute freedom. Still, the announcement sends a ripple through the room, as if the people could not believe their ears. Eight steals a glance at Indo, whose facial expression seems mixed at best.

"He may not leave the Spire or Zakuul unauthorized, or he will be re-tried with full charges. In witness, I set my hand this day and this cycle in the ___ year of the Empire of Zakuul."

A smattering of applause and some vocalized objections erupts as Arcann concludes his speech, and Eight lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, relieved that the event was coming to a close. Frankly, he was tired of being here and paraded around.

Indo seems to sense his dour mood and makes his way through the packed venue towards Eight, beaming all the while. The guards don't attempt to stop him as he grabs his hands and shakes them. "Congratulations, my friend! Well, nothing can we do about a partial, but think of this as a clean start to your new life! This calls for a toast—"

"If I may have your attention please," Heskal loudly interrupts, turning every head in the room with his pompous voice. He bows at Arcann. "My emperor. I understand you have pardoned this criminal, perhaps even… held some affection for him, but you must rethink your decision. We have just gained key evidence that calls into question the true character of this weevil," Heskal points an accusatory finger straight at Eight, who narrows his eyes in response at the Scion. "One that shows who he truly is behind his falsehoods and niceties. If you would permit me to speak, I would expose him to all gathered here."

Arcann's aura turns menacing. "What mockery is this?"

"Mockery? No, it is he who makes a mockery of this court, your majesty, and fosters a great evil right under our noses. We have all been blinded to the truth! Bring in the evidence!" Heskal claps his hands, and the double-doors swing open as two Scions and a medical personnel enter, each toting an article of fabric stained with suspiciously salacious blots and splotches.

"Wait, aren't those…?" Indo stammers out, befuddled by the act unfolding before him.

Heskal sweeps out one arm, gesturing to the dirtied textiles. "Yes. What you see before you, my people, is duracrete. Proof that this Outlander, while still freshly courted by Emperor Arcann, slept with another! And that man, is Indo Zal himself!"

A gasp arises from the throng of people, and Eight blinks in surprise, mirroring Indo's shocked expression, who suddenly pales as he realizes he's holding Eight. He quickly lets go, but the damage is already done: voices become raised in the cramped office until the entire floor is practically shouting above one another.

Arcann slams his fist on the desk. Eight flinches at the sound of splintering wood. "You go too far, Heskal," he seethes.

Heskal dips his head in contrition. "Forgive me, my emperor, but I must make his guilt known," he laments, "for he is not the only man to blame." He waves his lackeys forward. The medical staff member produces a scanner, and begins scanning the tainted articles.

The scanner's light turns green.

"It's a perfect match with the biological samples we have of them on record," The staff announces, only to shrink away from Arcann's glowering.

"There you have it, without a shadow of a doubt! Our future consort and the Magistrate, committing infidelity in private. It is undeniable. This is an extreme breach of trust and taboo—"

"Silence," Arcann growls, and the room falls from disarray into mute obedience. For a moment, he does not speak, and Eight's mounting dread coils in his tightening chest like a serpent in its den.

He must be feeling undue pressure to be humiliated like this before his entire court, he thinks, mind racing. Where did Heskal gain such "proof"? Heskal intended to sow division between him and Arcann, but he wouldn't believe Heskal's lies…would he?

Arcann scans his uneasy audience. "Your claim will be investigated, Heskal," He says begrudgingly, and Eight can hear the weariness in his tone.

His heart sinks.

He does not look at Eight when he utters his next command. "Take them away. We will reconvene in 3 days.

Until then, this matter is dismissed." -/-

Once again, Eight is sequestered in his quarters, prohibited for the next few days from leaving the premises. Arcann's orders were absolute: no company of any kind until the matter was resolved, but he he had not heard any news from the guards or otherwise of the progress of the investigation, if it could be called that—it was nothing but a witch hunt meant to defame him and Indo, and therefore put him at lower standing with Arcann. Clearly he had offended the elder Scion with his intimate and advantageous relations with the emperor, and the old man had decided to knock him down a peg in front of all of Zakuul.

That sneaky bastard. Eight mulls sullenly over his predicament, wishing he could ease the incoming headache he was sure to have from this mess by snapping Heskal's devious little neck. Truthfully, he was not unused to being framed as a bad actor. It was hardly the first time he had found himself in such dire straits, and he would have died from stress a long time ago if he wasn't overly familiar with the way these schemes panned out. A spy was often made to take the fall, and Eight was simply playing with fire by integrating himself into Zakuulan affairs at all. But it was not Heskal that put him ill at ease, and rather, his master.

Arcann had visited him all but once throughout this mishap. He had said very little, merely telling Eight not to cause any more trouble and to stay put; he had acquiesced, unwilling to ruffle any more feathers with pleas of innocence that would fall on deaf ears. Even still, he had reached out asking to talk. Arcann, being in his precarious position, had refused.

"Another time," He had rebuffed him. The long, scrutinizing look he had given him as he left had stung, for within it, he spied a fragment of hurt within that molten gaze.

Perhaps it was just his imagination. Or, perhaps Arcann did not trust him as he thought he did.

Eight was unsure which was worse.

Trapped within the confines of his room, all he could do now was wait for Heskal's plan to succeed. He didn't know how Heskal had done it, but he had manufactured evidence that fooled even a scanner, and he doubted he would've presented it had he not believed it to be airtight. With that final confirmation would come the end of his relationship with Arcann and all his aspirations, and Eight would rot in obscurity for the rest of time. He slides his hands down the sides of his face, feeling wretched. If only he could play a part in clearing his name, then he would take his rightful place by Arcann's side again.

Arcann… The memory of his cold, unreadable stare fills his mind, and he wilts. It felt as if he were being stabbed with a thousand tiny blades, to be looked at so accusingly after everything they'd shared. Did he mean so little to him in the end? His heart heavy as stone, he turns over in bed to click the lamp off and get some shuteye.

He freezes.