#atging

It will not kill me. 

It will not kill me. 

It will not kill me. 

A steady mantra. One that you repeat in your head over and over again. It’s not quite successful at dismantling your fear. 

The clear poison sits in a small glass pot, sealed shut by a wooden cork. There is no more than two ounces in the container, but you have a sinking feeling that such an insignificant amount could drown you if you let it. 

You grasp the top with your hand, apply even steady pressure, and pull. The cork pops off without much resistance.

Your speeding heart accelerates until it twists into a feeling not unlike a heart attack. Sweat rolls down your forehead in beads as you brace yourself. With hands far from stable, you turn the vial to its side, letting only a singular droplet fall from its rim and onto the wooden spoon below. Such a small amount could so easily be mistaken for a drop of rainwater. Unassuming and deadly. 

Your hands are still trembling even as you bring it to your lips. Your heart thunders in your ears and your face flushes as you try not to hurl. Time stretches to what feels to be an eternity, but is likely only a few seconds. It is a miracle that you are able to even lift the spoon to your lips with how badly you are shaking. 

3… 2… 1…

The crystal liquid touches your tongue.

Fire runs through you. Burning, searing, excruciating. You collapse onto the stone floor, mouth agape as you draw in heaving breaths. It is torture. Your innards are ablaze. Melting from the inside out. 

Holy shit. 

Holy shit. 

Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit—!

The pain is so unbearable that words and sound refuse to come out of your mouth. All you can do is writhe in silent agony, your mind screaming for the torture to stop. 

It eventually does. The relief is so welcome…so sweet that you feel your entire body, weighed down by exhaustion and drenched in sweat, physically relax. You lay on your side for a little while more, taking deep, full breaths, before your mind fully clears. You are still fatigued, but it seems you have recovered from the worst of the physical trauma.

You shudder. The strange mixture of poison is potent, yes, but you never anticipated such visceral pain. You dread the following weeks, your body already tensing in fear at the thought of having to experience it again.

But it must be done. Every agonizing drop is one step closer to an almost unattainable goal. A goal that you must achieve, no matter the sacrifice. And a hefty one it shall be. 

You glance at yourself in the mirror and balk at the person staring back at you. God, your skin…pale couldn’t even begin to describe it. It looks like every ounce of blood was drained from your body. Undertones of blue and purple mar the translucent surface. You run a hand along your wrist, up your lower arm. The veins are so prominent. It’s a wonder you’re still awake. The harsh bags under your eyes definitely don’t help your case. The weeks of restless nights are quickly catching up to you. 

“I really couldn’t have found a less painful poison, could I?” 

When no one but the empty silence answers, you sigh and stash the bottles away. 

Thankfully, Dazai is gone for the next few days on an expedition. Without any distractions, you can properly recuperate. Your body is still experiencing some of the aftershocks of the poison. Other than the fact that you feel like absolute shit, your hands also haven’t stopped trembling. Your mouth is strangely dry as well, and you’re positive you feel a migraine coming on. 

With a shaky inhale, you slowly trudge your way to your soft, incredibly inviting bed and practically collapse onto the cushions. Within seconds, you’re out, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. 

You are jolted awake by loud banging sounds. Someone’s at the door, and it seems they are desperately trying to break it down with how hard they’re hitting it. 

“Y/N! Open this door!” 

Dazai?

He shouts your name again and the door shakes in protest at his strikes. The noise. It’s all too much. Your head is ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing—

“I will kick down this damned door!”

“Just wait!” You call out, coughing at the scratchy pain in your throat. Your voice comes out weirdly hoarse as you try to stop his yelling. Your vision is swimming. 

“Now!”

Fuck. 

You drag yourself out of bed and groan at the sudden motion. The whole world is swimming, actually. 

Another loud bang. 

You are genuinely going to kill him. 

Thankfully, the curtains are closed, staving off the brightness of either the moon or sun—you aren’t sure which. You had a strong feeling the light would have made the pain in your head even more unbearable. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Just give me—!” You barely have the handle turned all the way before the door is violently flung open. You stumble, the momentum lurching you forward as the door swings out. 

Dazai stands before you, surrounded in a cold fury that is freezing the air.. It quickly wakes you up. 

“What in the hell are you doing?” 

He stares at you, eyes roving across your face as he inspects you. Whatever he is looking for, he does not find. With a sharp breath, he sweeps past you and into the room. A wave of his hand brings forth three Kingsguard; tall imposing gentlemen clad in shining battleplate and deep red ornament. Two of them come to stand by your side, hands resting on their encrusted scabbards, forming a flank. 

“Find it,” Dazai commands. 

The third guard walks forward… and rips open your cabinet doors. Papers fly into the air before falling haphazardly to the floor, making a mess of your desk. 

You’re struck with a bolt of sheer panic. 

“What? You can’t do that. Hey! You can’t do that!”

“Guards.”

The two men beside you shift to block your advancement. They each have a hand on your shoulder, solid but gentle. 

“You piece of shit. How dare you?” You hiss, venom dripping from your words. 

“Search the room. Everything. Bring me what you find.” Dazai’s voice is cold. Strange. He looks genuinely angry. 

He can’t do this. 

“No! Let me go!” You shriek, struggling against the bulky arms clamped around you. The men prevent you from moving even an inch forward. 

Dazai doesn’t look at you. His attention is too focused on what he is searching for. 

The poison. The vials. 

No no no no no no no….

If he’s looking for poison… if he finds it—

A guard hurries up to Dazai, holding something in his palm. The vial. The white belladonna.  

No. 

Dazai nods. The knight hands the bottle over and he inspects it, twisting it between his fingers. Dazai stills, watching the liquid splash against the glass case. 

A tense second passes. 

“Continue searching.”

The guard nods and scurries away, placing the vial on a random shelf before continuing the hunt. 

Your knees almost buckle from relief, but you catch yourself and manage to steady your breathing. 

Dazai steps up to you, face inches from yours. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” You answer, exasperated. Your breathing is heavy and in bursts, unlike Dazai’s controlled coldness. You want to break that composure down, piece by piece. 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, his eyes flit across your face, probing for any hint of deception. You are all too confused. He finds none. Dazai steps aside, head dropping backward as he stares at the ceiling for a moment to gather his thoughts. He lets out a long exhale before waving a hand, dismissing the guards. 

The instant they let you go, you storm up to Dazai, fury rolling off of you in heated waves. It takes all of your control not to snap his neck with your bare hands. Your breathing is short and laboured. If anger was visually palpable, there would be steam curling from your skin. 

There is not a hint of remorse in his expression. 

Oh, propriety be damned. 

With one swift movement, you whip out a small dagger—the one hidden in your boot—and fling it towards Dazai in blind anger. The blade flies past his face, barely missing his eye, and sticks into the wooden panel behind him. 

You curse your wobbly aim. The sick effects have not yet fully subsided. 

Dazai blinks. You merely stare back at him, anger not subsided in the slightest. Wordlessly, he turns, plucks the dagger from the wall, and inspects it with interest. 

“How violent.” He twirls the dainty thing between his fingers before turning to smirk at you. “I like it.”

Your hands are shaking. Out of anger? Adrenaline? Anxiety? A mix of them all, most likely. 

“What a pity you moved at that last second. So scared of losing an eye?” 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Would one measly eye truly satisfy you?”

“No. I deal with equivalent exchange. An eye for an eye…” You tilt your head, gaze blank as you mentally push away unpleasant memories. “And a head for a head.”

Dazai shifts. A flash of sadness cuts across his face before he looks away. 

You straighten, jaw clenched. Unprepared and unwilling to face his emotions. Whatever he feels, whether it be guilt or confusion or delight in manipulating you, is none of your concern. 

“Are you going to apologize for what just occurred?” You ask, effectively changing the topic. 

“The door was locked.”

You don’t even remember locking it. You must’ve done it before ingesting the poison. 

You raise your arms and sweep them wide, gesturing at the space around you.“And? It is my room.”

Dazai’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Do you not…?”

When you merely stare at him in blank confusion, he throws his hands up and begins to pace the floor in agitation. 

“You have been asleep for an entire week! You have been locked up in here, unchecked upon—I swear I will deal with those traitors shortly—and unresponsive to over an hour of my calls!”

Your right eye twitches. “And that gives you the right to invade my privacy?”

“I was concerned,” he answers plainly. 

“I have no need for your concern. It is misplaced.”

“No it is not,” he responds sharply. 

You rub the back of your neck and sigh. There’s no point in attempting to argue with him—not when his stubbornness could bore a hole through steel with its sheer will. 

“What were you looking for then? You owe me that answer, at least.”

Dazai hesitates. “It…” he frowns and his brows crinkle, as if he was trying to formulate his thoughts. 

You stand there, arms crossed, waiting. “Well?”

“A certain…substance.”

You blink. “Drugs?”

He hesitates again. “…Yes. I was searching for a drug.”

—

Dinner is interrupted by the screams of dying men. You are halfway through your second flute of champagne and getting increasingly irritated at Dazai’s tardiness when the world outside explodes in a kaleidoscope of smoke and flames. At first, you are unable to grasp the situation when the attacks strike, but as you slowly turn to the looming floor-to-ceiling windows sprawled across the wall to your left, you swiftly become all-too aware of the current reality. The glass panels act as a clear, unfiltered lens to the horrors unfolding. Each succeeding blast is powerful enough that their tremors breach the palace walls, splitting open the floor tiles. In just two minutes time, you count three in total. 

Dazai still has not arrived for dinner. 

BOOM!

Four in total. 

The city—no—the Kingdom is on fire, and terror spreads across the land. It is so dark, so palpable, you can feel its heavy weight in your veins. All you can do is sit and stare through the safety of the palace, nestled on a hilltop miles above the carnage ravaging its nation’s people. 

The servants gasp and shriek, panic blinding them to reason. Warning bells ring in cacophony. The explosions do not stop. 

Five. 

A gentle but firm hand grips your shoulder. “Your Highness, we must leave. It is dangerous–!” The butler never finishes his sentence. One moment he is urging you to action, the next he is frozen. The elderly man gasps, and it is the last thing he does before dropping to the floor. Dead. 

You shoot out of your seat, hands trembling. Blood seeps from a huge gaping wound in his chest. From it, a large hunk of metal juts out. A mere moment ago, the object had flown through the window so fast that if not for its size, you would have mistaken it for a hunting arrow. But an arrow it could never be. The horribly large instrument’s identity was clear to you. The butler had been killed by a stray fragment of shrapnel.

Blood-curdling screams echo across the room. The servants, faced with the corpse, all scramble out in fear and disgust. You are the only one left in the dining hall. Well. You and the dead man, together in the dining hall that no longer resembles its namesake. Glass litters the floor, rained down when the debris broke through. Meals and flutes of wine have found new homes on the ground, the latter mixing with the pungent iron puddle pooling around the butler. It is a disaster. Carnage. Violence in its rawest form.  

Six. 

You start to feel sick. 

The door bursts open, just another background noise in the midst of chaos. In a daze, you reach for a table corner to steady yourself, not bothering to check who had just rushed in. You don’t need to. The footsteps are all too familiar—Dazai has finally arrived. 

“[Name]. You’re alright. Thank god.” Dazai’s tone slightly wobbles, but the panic in his eyes subsides when he sees you. “Come with me. There is a safe passage–“

Dazai reaches out to you, a gentle hand resting on your shoulder, but you wrench yourself out of his grasp. 

“No.”

He shakes his head. “[Name], I have no time for any stubbornness you may–”

Again, you refute him. “I’m not being stubborn! How dare you accuse me of such a thing in this situation.”

“Then what will you call this?” He gestures to your stillness, unmoving even as Dazai gently tugs on your arm. “Just…orderly defiance? Disobedience? Pure and utter rebellion? Should I go on?!”

“I do not need nor want to enter whatever safe house you have conjured up for emergencies such as this,” you scoff. 

“Are you even hearing yourself? Yes, precisely! An emergency. Which means you have to evacuate somewhere safe!”

Safe? A man has just died in front of you while trying to help you. The earth is giving way to explosives; craters forming underneath fresh footprints and innocent flesh. There is nowhere safe. 

“Leave me be. Go attend to your people.”

Dazai falters. “Are you joking?” At your serious expression, he steps closer. Incredulity colours the sharp planes of his face. “Did you hit your head?”

“With what motive would I have to joke in these circumstances?”

“Then why are you asking for such a ridiculous thing? We must ensure your safety. I must.”

“My safety? Despite…” You wave your hand at the body on the floor. “This? My safety is not a priority. It should not even be a concern.”

“What on earth are you talking about? You are the throne’s–”

“I am one person! One. Meanwhile, hundreds of people are dying as we stand here and argue. Your people. I may despise you, but I won’t take that hatred out on civilians. I will not hide away in a corner while others are suffering. I refuse to.”

Dazai’s demeanor softens. Just a tad. “What exactly do you expect to do?”

“To investigate. To aid the injured and frightened. To help in any way possible and end this madness.” You run a hand through your hair, the sounds of assault has stopped, but the screams from the aftermath still echo the skies. Every moment stood arguing with Dazai is another moment lost. You itch to run. 

“That is beyond your capability and not your responsibility.”

You ignore the slight dig from the first part. “Then what is? Am I not one half of the crown? Partial to this nation’s leadership?”

“You are, but–”

“But what? What could possibly–”

“You are not one of us! You are…”

An outsider. 

You take a step back. “I never claimed to be one of you.” It is not something you’d ever desire either—to belong to a traitor's nation. 

“[Name]. That’s not what I meant.” Dazai reaches out, but freezes at your retreat. His arm lowers and he sighs defeatedly. 

“Is it not? You’re right. I’m not one of you. I am from the Empire—from enemy lands. An invader. Not even a polished crown and fancy title could erase that, could it?”

“That is… besides the point.” You both know it is not. “You cannot go out there.”

Your foot taps against the hardwood floor, impatient and driven by nerves. “And why not?”

“Who do you think is attacking us?”

“I…” you falter. A moment passes. “I don’t know.”

For almost a millennia, the Kingdom has had no enemies other than the Empire, but the nations had eventually come to a peace agreement. That was the entire point of your marriage to Dazai.

“The people here have lived under the cloak of war for decades. Years and years of devastation have turned them against the Empire. In their minds—even if it’s untrue—your nation is the perpetrator. As it always has been to them. Even if we are allies on paper, the victims of the past will not forget such brutalities. If you go out there…”

Shit. He’s right. 

You sigh, relenting. “I’ll likely be torn to shreds just for the blood running through my veins.”

He winces. “Unfortunately.”

You slump into a chair behind you, hands rubbing against your weary face in an attempt to weather away the fatigue. “Then if not my father, who is responsible? You must have a guess, at least.”

Dazai’s eyebrows scrunch together like they always do whenever he thinks. “I… yes. Yes, of course. It is most likely a rebellion group acting against the royal lineage. One of the four noble families’ doing. I will assign someone to investigate immediately.”

You swallow, unconvinced. There is no indication that Dazai is lying, but for whatever reason, doubt stirs unsettlingly in your gut. You push it down in favor of gaining more information. 

“The head houses of the nobility? They oppose the crown? I thought they were pillars of the monarchy—there to maintain your throne.”

Dazai lets out a sharp bark of laughter, humorless at best. “My father’s throne. Not mine.  These days, those vultures will do anything to pick away at my reign until there is nothing left. Then, they’ll swoop in, laying claim to the country and its fortunes.”

You shift uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond or react to his sincerity. So you decide to change the subject instead. 

“We’re wasting time. The attacks have stopped, but the people still require… your help.” 

Not mine, you think. They would sooner accept my death than my aid. 

Dazai opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but is interrupted by the frantic call of another. A short soldier with sullied armour rushes inside, chest heaving from exertion. 

“Sire!” The young man closes the distance with short but swift strides, straw blonde hair matted to his forehead from sweat and grime. 

“Kenji. Report.”

“Six devices. Each manually detonated.” The soldier salutes. 

The news falls upon you like a sack of stones. 

“You’re telling me…?” 

Kenji grimaces at the low snarl his liege makes, and perhaps at the fury in your eyes as well. “Yes, sire. The explosives were set off by suicide bombers. They were all in public, high-traffic, civilian areas.”

Oh god. Oh god!

“How many?” Dazai sounds murderous. 

Kenji looks down, the soldier seeming much younger in that instance. A child. One that has no business in battlefields and suits of armour. “Four-hundred and thirteen. That we know of.”

“Capture?”

“One. Tried to bite his pill, but we got him in time.”

“Cellar B?”

“Correct, sire.”

Dazai nods slowly. “Send Fukuzawa down to meet me there. Tell him it is High category.”

Without another word or glance to anyone, the king turns and walks out, leaving you to wade in a deep, numb tension that seems to want to engulf you in its misery. Kenji hurriedly scurries after him, and the moment you are alone, your knees hit the floor. Deep breaths turn into strangled heaves, and a familiar despair overwhelms you. 

With your head in your hands, for the first time since arriving, you let yourself weep.

—