—take root

After getting dressed and using the handbasin to refresh, you step out into the quiet corridor. Faint voices from behind closed doors. The rustle of your clothes. The crackle of lit sconces. The ever-distant echo of footsteps—a pair of guards, near-silent save the clatter of their armor.

“… I know, the king’s been there all week.” You hear—a feminine voice, soft and unfamiliar, approaching from around the corner, accompanied by two sets of feet padding along the stone. 

You press yourself against the wall, straining your hearing. They’re talking about Laios—and you might just get the answers as to where he’s been.

“He’s going to exhaust himself before anything can actually be done,” another voice—a bit deeper, also unfamiliar.

“I wonder if that newcomer has anything to do with it,” the first voice lowers as it nears the intersection of the corridor you’re in.

“I doubt she brought along the attacks,” the second voice counters in a lighthearted tone, “but I have heard her name coming from behind the king’s walls…”

Fire scorches your cheeks and ears, and your heart stammers underneath your chest. The trope of staff gossip mills are true—you’ve spent enough time around housekeepers and kitchen staff to know word travels like lightning—but would they lie about something like that? The image of Laios in his bed, glistening in sweat, the quick-paced bob of something underneath a sheet covering his bottom-half—

“No,” the first gasps, grinning into their voice. “Do tell.”

You couldn’t agree with a stranger more.

“Please,” you choke, barbed wire in your throat as you force your blood-slick hands steady, blinking away the iron-hot tears, “please stay still.”

“I have to—fuck—” he seethes, wincing as lightning splinters from the gushing wound on his thigh. The heel of his boot on his uninjured leg digs into the ground, pushing the pain into the earth. He twitches and writhes, his elbows braced in the dirt, tense muscles and strained breathing, as your fingers work to find the tear in his artery.

“You have to stay still.” Your voice is sharp, scared, begging. “You will bleed out if you don’t.”

He grits his teeth, heel of his boot deeper, deeper.

Your lungs suffocate the air you attempt to suck in—calm down, you can do this—but the blood—there’s so much blood, coming from everywhere, what do you do—

After getting dressed and using the handbasin to refresh, you step out into the quiet corridor. Faint voices from behind closed doors. The rustle of your clothes. The crackle of lit sconces. The ever-distant echo of footsteps—a pair of guards, near-silent save the clatter of their armor.

“… I know, the king’s been there all week.” You hear—a feminine voice, soft and unfamiliar, approaching from around the corner, accompanied by two sets of feet padding along the stone. 

You press yourself against the wall, straining your hearing. They’re talking about Laios—and you might just get the answers as to where he’s been.

“He’s going to exhaust himself before anything can actually be done,” another voice—a bit deeper, also unfamiliar.

“I wonder if that newcomer has anything to do with it,” the first voice lowers as it nears the intersection of the corridor you’re in.

“I doubt she brought along the attacks,” the second voice counters in a lighthearted tone, “but I have heard her name coming from behind the king’s walls…”

Fire scorches your cheeks and ears, and your heart stammers underneath your chest. The trope of staff gossip mills are true—you’ve spent enough time around housekeepers and kitchen staff to know word travels like lightning—but would they lie about something like that? The image of Laios in his bed, glistening in sweat, the quick-paced bob of something underneath a sheet covering his bottom-half—

“No,” the first gasps, grinning into their voice. “Do tell.”

You couldn’t agree with a stranger more.