#abea

When she finds herself yearning for dry heat and desert sands, Ming’er sits with her birds and thinks of home. 

Listening to their chatter; deafening and cacophonous, she journeys beyond the horizon. Past the forests and the mountains and the deserts; towards her palace, her courtyards, her chambers. Towards the aviary where she spent so many days listening to sweet birdsong. 

“They’re not as dumb as they look.” Second Brother once told her, after she’d gently mocked her doves’ vacuous gaze, “If you took one of them far away and freed it, it would find it’s way back here. No matter where they are, they’re always able to come home.”

Sometimes, when her melancholia weighs too heavily and she considers the sharpness of her hairpins, Ming’er frees a dove. 

When the dove disappears into the skyline, Ming’er remains, wistfully imagining it making the great journey to a familiar aviary within a familiar garden. A small piece of her to inhabit a home she may never see again.

Ming’er loathes this place. She hates him, with his pitiful gaze and misplaced paternal instinct. That he has not yet found his death at the bottom of a bottle. 

Ming’er loathes his son, as blameless as he may be. Resentful that his childhood was preserved and cherished, while hers was put to an end, sudden and unmourned. 

She loathes his mother, with her tutting at the emptiness of her womb. She loathes the etiquette that confines her to chaste courtesy. That prevent her from informing her dear mother-in-law of truths she gravely needs to hear.

(Ming’er can see herself standing over the Empress, the delicate features she so treasures twisted by disdain, unmasked and unbridled. She sees herself sneering through grit teeth. That she cannot conceive if her son does not touch her. Does not look at her. Does not think of her as a man should his wife.

That he will die, drunk, and heirless. That she hopes he dies, just so she can be free of him. So she can return to a place she should have never left.)

The bastard brother, she loathes less, if she does at all. 

There is a strange comfort, in the way that he looms over her, his toothy smile never quite reaching his eyes. In the way that those eyes burn not only for the throne but for her. In the way that he holds her-kisses her as if to etch his touch into her skin. 

In the way that, in the dark, forgotten halls of this grand bastille, she is not a child, to remain untouched and pitied. Not an exotic beauty to be marveled from afar. Not simply a vessel for heirs, or a stepping stone toward a higher purpose.

Here, with her duplicitous lover, Ming’er is a woman. To be held and cherished; loved and desired.  

It is all she needs, she thinks. 

Until, the fool, hidden with her in a long-forgotten corner of his garden, whispers his intention of assassination.

A realization comes to her, then. This, all of this, cannot end without tragedy. 

Or, maybe, it can. As the future is uncertain, so is Ming’er.

Perhaps, Vezian’s dreams of fratricide will come to fruition and she and the throne he so desperately craves will be his. That even in the most wicked of deeds, Ming’er will find some contentment. Or, perhaps, she will find that Vezian is best enjoyed as a lover than a husband, and will grow to hate him as well.  

Perhaps, her husband will finally drag himself from the depths of his alcoholic misery. That it would be as her father said, and some affection will blossom between them. Or, it will be that his back finally snaps from the weight of so many unnecessary burdens placed upon his shoulders.

Or, widowed or not, she will find some way to find beauty and joy in this foreign land. That the homesickness threatening to rend her asunder will dull to a nearly forgettable ache. 

Or, freeing her doves will cease to be a balm and she will finally appraise the sharpness of her hairpins. 

Or, the whole of Essenia will sink into the sea and they’ll all perish. 

Who’s to say? All the soothsayers here do not use bones and she does not trust them.

What is assured is that; when the disquiet edges towards intolerability and her yearning for the desert sands sets to undo her,

Omens can be found in the simplest of places. 

The dropping of a hand mirror. Entering your home with the incorrect foot. Malalignment of the veins in the liver of a sheep. A dead dog bearing your name. Dreams, even, were believed to foretell prophecy. There seemed no end to the amount of inconsequential circumstances that could bring ill fortune upon one and all that share their blood. 

From childhood, Launcelin had been educated in how to appease fickle spirits that anger over the smallest of deeds. Which weeds should be worn for headaches, which oracles and temples to consult should the birds fly the wrong way, or, the wrong star rise in the night sky. A lifetime of amulets for luck and protection wrangled around his neck or stuffed into his pockets. Of augers, listening to bird calls or examining the organs of slaughtered beasts for predictions of the future. 

All this training, and he is not wary when his mother calls him to her chambers. The halls of his mother’s palace cloaked in shadow, the crackle and roar of a storm raging outside. If Launcelin were a superstitious man, he’d claim to see the faces of the dead in their eternal vigil over the living.

He finds the Empress lounging on her klinē in her sitting room, lush and luxuriant. 

“Do you still study the Nazhutai language?” She asks him, absentmindedly picking at a bowl of honeyed figs.

An unsettling start; Launcelin steels himself, “I do, Mother. Why do you ask?”

Dread grows with his mother’s smile. It settles in his stomach like a rock as she instructs Meriald to bring ‘it’ in. 

“It” is a portrait in the Nalaantai style. At the center of blank parchment rests a child, a girl no older than eleven summers. 

Sat in a gilded chair, her shoes peek out from under her finely embroidered garbs. Pearls hang from her ears and decorate her forehead, cheeks, and temples. Her hair is arranged in a complicated style, adorned in hairpins and combs set with precious stones. The girl’s eyes look past him, her placid gaze settling somewhere over his shoulder. Launcelin’s own gaze shifts from her bejeweled head to the writing near the edge of the parchment. 

Dobaan E'zhing Mingsuuma, Princess Mingyu of Nalaantai.

So this is what she wanted.

“What do you think of her, dear son? Isn’t she quite lovely?” 

Launclin’s attention snaps from the painted child to his mother, who has risen to gaze at the portrait beside him, “She is pretty, Mother; like a budding flower.” 

Ignoring him, she hums in agreement. “Isn’t she? Or, at least she probably is. This portrait is rather old.” 

His mother playfully pouts, “I had requested a newer one be made for you, but King Yuwa hasn’t sent it. He doesn’t seem interested in having a new one painted. You know those people, don’t like too many strange men around their daughters.” 

Unease peaking, Launcelin shifts on his feet. When he was young, his mother’s sitting room had always been a place of comfort and safety, and her presence within a balm for any ailment. Now, this place that seemed warm and inviting so long ago, has grown cold and hostile. What comfort and joy that could’ve been found here gone with his childhood.

If his mother is aware of his discomfort, she does not show it, “She would be a good addition to the court, would she not? A fresh beauty to liven the place. I have heard--” 

“Mother,” he interrupts, his toga pulla weighing heavily upon his shoulder, “Seluua has not been allowed any time to rest.”

His mother only stares at him blankly; he continues. “Would it not be...unseemly to enter another betrothal so quickly? Especially with a girl so young?” 

Frowning, she raises a delicate hand to grip his shoulder, “Your apprehension is understandable, my dearest. Young as she may be, Mingyu is the eldest, and only, princess Nalaantai has.” 

Looking back to the portrait, the Empress does not see how his jaw clenches, “I suppose you could decline, and he could be allowed to marry the princess. Nalaantai may be particularly discerning, but not enough to condemn her to spinsterhood. Yet, if that were to happen; there would be no protection for us; for your sisters, or for little Ouren.”

Launcelin allows his head to hang, eyes fixed on the marble floor. He does not want to be here. He does not want to talk about this. All he wants is to be allowed to mourn his Seluua -his poor, suffering Seluua- in peace.

“Do you think he is not trying, dear one? Where do you think he’s been all of these months? Sitting patiently underneath his mother’s skirts?”

Amusement by her own imagery, she scoffs, “Though I would not be surprised to find him there. Along with half the men in court.”

Amusement dissipated, her focus quickly shifts back and she continues, unrelenting, “If he is the one to be betrothed to the princess, we all might as well lay in our graves and wait for the assassins.”  

Moving her hand from his shoulder, his mother steps to his front. Cupping his cheeks, she tilts his head up, forcing Launcelin to look her in the eyes, “My dearest son, you know this to be true. Seluua, may her soul eternally rest, would understand. If she truly loved you, she would forgive you; she would know that you need to do this for your family.” 

Would she? Would she understand? How can his mother be so sure of how his beloved Seluua would feel? For the short time they had been married, he cannot remember a single time she’d spoken kindly to, or of her. For all his mother knows, Seluua could be rolling in her grave--

“I know, Mother.” He answers, tone clipped.

Once the epitome of Essenian beauty and elegance, his mother’s features were now marred with pity. “It pains your mother to see you suffer so, beloved. I would take your place; if I could. I would protect you from this. Protect all of us from this.” 

She sighs heavily, “Alas, we can only do what our stations allow. And this, my sweet boy, is what you can do- what you must do.”  

Her worry fades from her face as quickly as it came, and she looks at him sternly. If she wasn’t holding his head, Launcelin would still not be able to break from her gaze, “Will you do this? Will you bear this burden to safeguard our family from those who seek to destroy us?” 

As much as his mother’s hold on him allowed, Launcelin nods. Satisfied, his mother offers him a weak smile, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. A small gesture that, had he still been a child, would’ve abated him--should’ve abated him.

It pains him when it does not. 

--- Some End Notes!---

If you’ve read so far, thank you! I would be happy for any criticism, or suggestions on how to make my writing better :)

And, if you’re Locria, thank you for creating such a compelling game/setting! I look forward to every update it receives. 

Omina and the superstitions mostly come from the Romans. I “tried” looking for some juicy Byzantine superstitions, but they were markedly less superstitious.

For some examples of what the MC’s dowry portrait would look like: I based it on two Song Dynasty portraits of Empress Zhu and Empress Wu. 

Toga pulla- mourning clothing worn by men in the Roman Empire, made of darkly dyed wool. I also “tried” looking at examples of mourning clothing from the Byzantines/HRE but I couldn’t find a lot that I liked. There really are just no good references for Byzantine clothing :/

Klinē- a type of furniture used in Ancient Greece and Rome, that you would recline on. For the Empress, I think hers would look something like this.