It felt more, the Dark Prince reflected as he led the mortal into Darkwall Tower, like hosting a foreign dignitary than punishing a penitent soul. Read on Ao3 here.
The ride to Castle Nathria was charged with as many layers of crackling tension as the skirts Elisewin had left back at Theotar’s manor. Renathal knew he was not imagining the way the carriage’s other occupant avoided his gaze - there was only so long one could reasonably inspect the same patch of dark upholstery. Not that he blamed her. He made an equally poor traveling companion, busy as he was beating back the temptation to brush accidentally against her newly exposed knees.
And beneath whatever uncertain current ran between each other were the worries about the reception awaiting them both at the journey’s end. With every rattle of the carriage around another hairpin bend, Renathal’s nerves about what Denathrius would say when they arrived together increased. His Master had not expressly forbidden him from interacting with Elisewin, so technically, Renathal reminded himself, he had not done anything wrong. But his Master knew him too well; knew his predilections, his... weaknesses. He held no hope he could hide - as he had never been able to hide - this knot of inexplicably visceral desire from the Sire who had created him.
As the carriage left the Redelav district and entered the outskirts of the castle grounds, Elisewin’s face twitched in what Renathal assumed was recognition of the landscape, as he assumed the pink pallor overtaking her lavender skin had to do with whatever welcome from the Master she also anticipated. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, remembered his injunction against cultivating additional camaraderie, and closed it again. Anyway, what could he tell her? He had known Denathrius his entire existence, and even he could only speculate how his Master was going to react.
But not for nothing was Renathal the Dark Prince and the Firstborn of the Venthyr, and what he did know was the power of a well-choreographed entrance.
Thus he eschewed any of the castle's convenient - and secretive - side doors, instructing his dredger driver to deposit them at Nathria's more public main gate. There, he leapt from the carriage and, in full view of perambulating courtiers and patrolling Stoneborn, offered a startled Elisewin his hand and helped her solicitously down. He switched his grip to her elbow, gentle but firm, as he led her across the courtyard, under Nathria’s high archway, through the castle's empty vestibule, and up the stairs to the Grand Walk beyond.
The Harvester of Dominion returning the Master's wayward mortal. It was a bold, brave approach, calculated to prove neither of them had anything to hide, and Renathal was confident in its prospects. Assuming Elisewin followed suit - left the talking to him and refrained from doing anything suspicious.
“Really, your Highness,” she said - in direct defiance of his unvoiced plan - wincing as her whisper echoed shrill as a scream off the Grand Walk's high stone walls. She glanced quickly at the Stoneborn bats waiting frozen on their pedestals before continuing, “I'll be alright. You don’t have to do this. I can make my own explanations to Den- the Sire.”
“Can you now?” The booming challenge stopped both Renathal and Elisewin mid-stride. “I would be delighted to hear them.”
The unctuous baritone seemed to come from Nathria itself, but Renathal knew instinctively where to turn his head. Sure enough, across the raised and regal dais at the room's far end, a shadow fell, and a second later, the Sire stepped sedately into view atop it. Bedecked in full, glittering red and gold regalia, slashed cloak held aloft by some invisible, subservient breeze, he put the room’s dim torches to shame, eclipsing their light, and throwing the two smaller beings on the ground below into darkness.
“Well, well, well. At last, my penitent mortal deigns to arrive. And where has she been, I wonder..."
Denathrius waved an elegant hand, as if inviting someone hiding behind him to speak. But the room was silent except for the fading echo of his own words, and the hitch in Elisewin's breath Renathal could just hear as she wriggled her arm from his grasp. Before he could stop her, she had taken two steps toward the waiting Sire, craning her neck to meet his gaze, her flat voice betraying neither insolence nor fear.
“I have been in the Endmire, Sire. As you specifically instructed. It was harder to reach than I expected, and..." Her pause was a fraction of a second too long. Denathrius caught it. Renathal could tell by the gleam in his glowing red eyes. "It... took some effort to escape. I returned as soon as I could.”
“So I see,” the Sire replied languidly. “After procuring for yourself mention a royal escort and new, unapproved attire, but not the anima I specifically instructed. Nor anything else, apparently, unless you are hiding something interesting underneath those new clothes.” He made an exaggerated show of looking her black and scarlet ensemble up and down. “No? Well... come then! I am dying to hear your explanations.”
But Elisewin was either too intimidated to answer or had exhausted her prepared store of words. Her arms were rigid at her side, fingers plucking the edge of her tunic, and Renathal fancied he could feel the heat radiating off her cheeks from two steps away. He, on the other hand, felt the cloak of wary nerves he had assumed on the carriage ride fall from his shoulders.
Denathrius was posturing. Renathal was intimately familiar with this grand, orchestrated display. Granted, it fell a bit flat without Remornia’s enthusiastic chorus, but the implications of the performance heartened Renathal all the same. The Sire was wholly relaxed. He felt in-control and unthreatened. Such magnanimous moods generally inclined him to lengthy lectures and elaborate lessons rather than swift, decisive punishments. This was a Master with whom Renathal could reason.
He strode forward, past Elisewin, his own dark coat catching air behind him as he declared with equally dramatic chagrin, “The fault is entirely mine."
The Sire's head rotated in Renathal's direction.
“I discovered the mortal on her way to the Endmire," Renathal explained, choosing each word with care. “I found her claims of an unsupervised errand on your orders rather suspicious, and decided it would be prudent to monitor her movements. I can confirm she did in fact collect a modest amount of anima, however, I was obliged to … requisition it... after an encounter with one of the Endmire’s more deadly amalgations.”
He paused, expecting queries or comments. Denathrius only stared. Instinct of an older, more primal kind crawled through Renathal’s limbs, bidding his knees bend, his tongue confess every truth, half-remitted, half-obscured. He wrestled it down.
“She did offer to remain in the Endmire and recover more anima,” he went on, now focusing on a point just beside Denathrius' ear. “But I thought it best I return her to you promptly - after having her cleaned so she would not dirty the castle, of course. It is my opinion, based on my admittedly cursory observation, that mortals may be ill-equipped to endure such perils as lurk in Revendreth's wilds."
This presumptuous pronouncement hung in the still, shrouded air like an unaccepted offering before dissipating into laden silence. Renathal dared not move. He resisted the impulse to adjust the fold of his cuffs or the drape of his coat. The Master's practiced pose and sanguine demeanor had vanished, replaced by a palpable menace and a grip on the balcony’s iron railing as hard and unyielding as any of the Grand Walk's leering Stoneborn bats.
“Assisting souls in their atonements is not your purview, Renathal,” he intoned, each overenunciated consonant like the slice of a blade across Renathal's prickling skin. “Nor is it your place to stand in judgment of my express commands. If I sent my mortal to search the Endmire, then the Endmire is where she will stay until her search is complete!”
Behind him came the sound of Elisewin's soft-soled boots shifting in place. Renathal, too, felt the urge to run, or to grovel, but stood his ground. His brain was racing. Of all the reactions he had anticipated, this cold, brittle fury was not one. But why the Master's mood had taken such a capricious turn for the worst was a question for another, safer time, and if they were ever to see one, a new approach was required. Fortunately, he had eons of experience in meliorating his Master. But to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness, to agree unconditionally to any demands, meant Elisewin's return to the Endmire, at which that incomprehensible instinct to protect her balked.
Renathal wet his lips. There was still a card he could play. Distraction.
“Of course, Master, my humblest apologies,” he said, a hand to his chest, head bowed; the very picture of contrition. “I merely thought," he lifted his face just enough to see past the loose strands of his hair, "you might find it inconvenient for your new charge to perish under such mundane and... avoidable circumstances. I feared her destruction might be remarked upon - her presence here being such a singular occurrence, after all. Will not someone be checking on her progress in order to escort her back to the mortal realms when her atonement is complete? The Arbiter, perhaps? Or whatever messenger of the Purpose delivered her to Revendreth? I confess confusion on that particular point."
For one interminable moment, the Sire of Revendreth looked speechless with rage, and Renathal straightened, bracing for the blast or the blow, convinced he had gone too far. He took a surreptitious sideways step, attempting to shield Elisewin from view.
Then, Denathrius smiled. Not a cruel smile, or a punitive one. Something had shifted in his face, sliding quick as mercury from fury to fatherly benevolence. He cocked his head, appraising his Firstborn with an almost formal interest, flicked his eyes to the half-hidden mortal, then back to Renathal again. And without warning he was walking, heading for the platform's winding stairs, striding briskly down them, hands folded behind him, wafting a pragmatic, business-like air.
“Walk with me, Renathal,” he commanded on approach, but Renathal could as soon fly; he remained frozen, frantically processing this second unexpected change. At the equally nonplussed Elisewin, Denathrius waved an imperious hand and instructed, "Wait here. Think on your sins.” He added the last as a careless afterthought, passing them both and beckoning Renathal to follow.
Behind the Sire's retreating back, Renathal and Elisewin exchanged glances. She blinked. The cut across her cheek stood out stark red against her lavender skin's pink pallor, but her expression remained impassive, and Renathal’s stomach lurched as he realised this might be the last time he saw it up close. Whatever the Master had in store for him, his earlier resolution remained. The mortal was a dangerous, addictive luxury; one he could not trust himself to indulge in with any degree of moderation. The responsible choice was to quit her, wholly and permanently, and perhaps it was best done this way - no chance for second guessing, no time for prolonged farewells.
Elisewin’s lips twitched at him. Renathal thought she might be attempting a smile. He allowed himself one final, stolen second to memorise its graceful lines. Then, with a masterful exertion of will, he tore his gaze and thoughts away from her, turned, and followed the Sire from the chamber, leaving her warm comfortable presence behind.
They walked single file down the Grand Corridor’s comparatively narrow hall. The sound of Denathrius' heavy plate bootsteps swallowed Renathal's own as they trod the worn stones. Renathal kept a cautious distance, aware the Master's mood might curdle again at any time, but for all his current tumultuous - and treasonous - confusion towards his Sire, it was impossible not to admire his dedication to anima conservation. A promising sign, he thought, that the Master of the realm chose to walk, rather than wend them away to their unknown destination.
Which turned out to be the corridor’s farthest, most sequestered corner. It was several paces past the last of the convenient wooden benches, meaning Renathal was forced to stand as his Master stopped and leaned casually against the wall, but it was also free of echoes, he realised, when the red and gold plate armor met stone with a muted, un-carrying thud.
"Thank you, Renathal," Denathrius began, folding his arms across his chest, and whatever Renathal had expected him to say it was not that. "For returning my mortal guest to me," he continued. "You are correct. Her death would have been an unfortunate blow. I had it on authority from..." He hesitated - an unusual display - his red eyes narrowing as he sought some elusive word. "The parties responsible for her presence," he chose at last, "that she possesses a peculiar resilience to most forms of bodily harm. However, it is entirely possible her reputation has been exaggerated, and it would not do to overestimate her abilities. But tell me," he tilted his head at his Firstborn, "why were you following her in the first place?"
The Sire's voice was level; his tone candid, conversational; everything in his face and posture suggested this was an informal tête-a-tête. A meeting of minds. The two of them, father and son, tackling Revendreth’s problems together. It was such an unusual tactic on Denathrius' part, and such a long-nursed wish on Renathal’s, he could not resist it; could only hope it was as sincere as it appeared.
"It was not my intention," he admitted honestly. "I happened to see her from my carriage as I returned from the Halls of Atonement.”
“And what were you doing there?”
“I had an ... enlightening meeting with the Harvester of Pride. At her request. She has some legitimate concerns."
"Oh?" Denathrius uncrossed and recrossed his arms, but his voice was still perfectly even and pleasant as he asked, “What might those be?"
And Renathal, dizzy from so many rapid shifts in atmosphere in such a short time, found his conversation with the Accuser spilling from him before he could decide if a full confession was wise. Words flowed fast and free like the anima fonts of Revendreth’s glory days: the Curator’s pitiful state of mind, the waning of the medallions, the anima conservation discrepancies and the destruction of penitent souls they were apparently necessitating.
He stopped himself just short of revealing the Accuser and Curator's clandestine affair. It was irrelevant, he decided, shutting his mouth abruptly, disguising his pause as a deep intake of superfluous air. Monitoring Venthyr relationships - and outing them to the Master - was the Countess's purview, not his. No reason to do her distasteful job for her.
"Well," said Denathrius slowly. "This is certainly troublesome news.”
For most of his speech, Renathal's gaze had flicked between the walls, the ceiling, or the narrow castle window overlooking the tops of twilit buildings outside. Now, he focused on his Master, scanning him for signs of disbelief or disappointment or another outburst of cold fury. But Denathrius' face was a perfect depiction of thoughtful concern as he tapped his chin and continued:
"It would appear my new pet project, as it were, has unwittingly caused me to neglect other equally important tasks." He sighed - a great gust of air tinged with a sound like wistful regret - then pushed suddenly off the wall. "A course correction is required."
It took Renathal a moment to recover. Denathrius' equanimity at his own shortcomings was every bit as alarming as his earlier rage. And, while it was the exact sentiment he had hoped for from his Master, it still managed to evade any actual answers.
"Sire," he said smoothly, falling back on basic tactics. "An entire world's worth of responsibilities rest upon your shoulders, and all of them in constant competition for your attention. It is hardly surprising if a few should… slip your notice. And if there is any way I may provide you greater aid, I am, of course, ready to serve. But, may I ask-"
“As a matter of fact," interrupted Denathrius, "I believe there is," and, before Renathal could squeeze in even the bluntest of questions, the Master had turned in a rattle of armor, and clapped his hands.Â
In the distance, a door creaked open, followed at once by prompt, measured footsteps. Awaiting his summoned servant, Denathrius faced his Firstborn again with a beatific smile.
"You have done well, Renathal," he announced with solemn pride, "in investigating this unrest, and in bringing it to me. It is most gratifying to know that you, at least, I can trust in all things." He stretched out an arm and placed a hand on Renathal's armored shoulder. "But perhaps I have entrusted you with the wrong task."
"Master?"
The title fell childlike from Renathal’s dropped jaw. He had barely heard the words, every fiber of his being focused on the feel of his Master’s hand. Denathrius was not given to physical demonstrations of affection. The number of times he had offered his Firstborn an unprompted and unthreatening touch were grievously few. Anima tingled down Renathal's arm as if the Sire were imbuing him with it. And all of his musings and mysteries and carefully constructed queries - so important just a few seconds ago - crumbled away like another of Revendreth’s ruins.
"Yes, Renathal," answered the Sire, though Renathal had not managed to articulate a question. “I think it best if I take responsibility for addressing the drought's ramifications myself. The safe keeping of Revendreth and its souls is, after all, my eternal duty. I should never have burdened you with it. Instead..."
Removing his hand, Denathrius turned to the servant observing the scene from a respectful distance and declared, "My mortal guest is waiting in the Grand Walk. Bring her to me." Then, to Renathal, he finished, “Instead, I will give you Elisewin.”
The servant’s satin slippers pattered lightly on the stone as he hastened to do his Master’s bidding. But Renathal was sure the sound must have obscured Denathrius’ words. He could not possibly had said-
“Give me… what?”
“Elisewin. The mortal. Surely, you remember her name?”
Renathal could only gape. Denathrius’ smile grew sharper and wider, as if preparing to take a bite of him.
“This is the second time you have contrived to return her to safety, and both times she has obeyed your commands. You have a…” He hesitated a second time. “A connection. That, apparently, cannot be easily recreated. I shall use it to my advantage. I refer to her atonement, of course,” he added hastily. “Perhaps she will find lessons in repentance from you more palatable. Or at least easier to swallow.”
A rush of distinctly unprofessional images flooded Renathal’s staggering brain. So vivid and visceral, saturated in base desire, his Master must surely smell them on him. Had it been his intention? Ice crept through Renathal's veins at the thought. Was he being punished after all? Had the Sire's displays of affection - his compliments and confidences and rare, extraordinary touch - simply been another well-crafted performance designed to put him off guard?
Denathrius was watching him closely, waiting on his response. Renathal cleared his throat. His mouth was suddenly dry.
"As you command, Sire,” he replied and bowed his head, hiding his hurt and bemusement behind formality and turning the situation to his advantage; a strategy, he thought heartlessly, the Sire must surely approve. “I assume I shall be vouchsafed her relevant history and her Sinstone?"
“Oh, I doubt you will need them," said Denathrius with a dismissive wave. "I have every confidence you will discover all her remarkable sins in time.”
Heat coiled fast in Renathal's gut. He ignored it.
"But without knowledge of her sins, how will I know what acts of penance to prescribe? It is, as is so often noted, not my customary purview."
“Follow your instincts, Renathal!" The Sire's smile had become an unmistakable smirk. "After all, you have such a well-defined sense of what is needed in Revendreth. I trust your judgments entirely.”
After eons spent savouring his Master's every complimentary crumb, Renathal was surprised how little he enjoyed this generous sampling. But footsteps were echoing up the corridor behind him. Two sets of footsteps, and Renathal’s heart affected a faster pace.
"Ah. Elisewin," called Denathrius. Renathal, not quite ready to turn around, watched his Master shrug on his brusque, business-like manner once more. "A change in your accommodations has been arranged."
"Sire?" came the expressionless response.
"You have been remanded into the service of the Prince," the Sire explained, nodding at Renathal. "He will oversee your further education, and you will obey him as you would myself. I expect to see swift and significant progress."
His words were clipped, and the last had barely left him before the Master of Revendreth spun on his booted hoof and strode away. The billowing tails of his cloak were halfway up the corridor before his Venthyr servant gathered himself to follow. And Renathal, still reeling, turned just in time to catch the slow blink of white-blue eyes he had been sure such a short time ago he would never again see.
If the carriage ride to Nathria had been fraught with awkward tension, the journey from the castle to Darkwall Tower was doubly so. It was shorter, at least. A quick trot across the Court of Harvesters, then a lift ride up, the sinrunners champing at their bits as they endured the ascent.
Renathal fancied he knew how they felt.
His nerves were now a living thing scuttling across his skin, and this time it was he who picked a spot of dark upholstery and fixed his gaze, studiously ignoring the carriage’s other occupant. Elisewin had maintained an impenetrable silence since Denathrius' abrupt exit. She had not asked what occurred between Sire and son, had expressed neither regret nor relief at her unexplained dismissal. Renathal wondered if she was unhappy with her ostensible demotion, but there was no time to entertain such self-indulgent fears.They had already arrived.
Drawing to a halt in the courtyard, the sinrunners were, at last, granted their reprieve. Venthyr servants unhitched the beasts and led them away; a task made cumbersome by their slack jaws and open stares as Renathal helped the conspicuous mortal from his carriage for the second time that day. This time, however, he let Elisewin walk unassisted up the cobbled path. She made slow work of it. Her head swiveled curiously, appraising the modest grounds, and Renathal drew his coat about himself self-consciously as he followed her unblinking eyes. The carved front door swung open as they reached it, and there was Breakfist with a proper greeting for his Master and a professional indifference at the unexpected addition.
It felt more, the Dark Prince reflected as he ushered the mortal into Darkwall Tower, like hosting a foreign dignitary than punishing a penitent soul.
The front door closed firmly behind them, and they stood in the circular foyer, Renathal more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his own home. Taking pains to avoid actually looking at the figure beside him, he cleared his throat and introduced her to Breakfist and his coterie of dredgers as - in imitation of Denathrius - his guest.Â
“And shall I h'ave a coffin prepared for h'er, your H'ighness?" asked Breakfist, his little round chest swelling with pride at every careful H.
Renathal shook his head.
"Our guest is a mortal," he explained. At the chorus of muddy, uncomprehending blinks, he elucidated, "She will require a bed."
That prompted a few curious mutters, snuffed out quickly by the butler's well-trained glare.Â
"O' course, your H'ighness," said Breakfist solemnly. "I believe there h'is still a bed in the guest room across from the Master's soo-eet."
It was Renathal’s turn to emit a low noise of consternation.
Briefly, he debated alternatives and found none of them satisfactory. Coffins were a Revendreth standard for servants and the Venthyr lower class, but Renathal knew from his reading, and the historic reticence of most souls, mortal beings generally found them distasteful. And to move a bed to one of the rooms on another floor would require more dredgers than he kept on staff.
"That shall do," he conceded, unsure if the writhing in his stomach was excitement or dismay at this final blow to his crumbling resolution, or simply a call for much needed anima and rest. "Have the room prepared. It will have been centuries since it was last used."
Breakfist bowed, his round, earnest face free of even the shadow of a sly or knowing expression. Any Venthyr servant worth their place would have leapt to the most obvious and salacious conclusion, and rumours that the Prince and the mortal's beds lay opposite each other's would have run the rounds through all of Revendreth within a week. Exactly why his house was staffed by dredgers, thought Renathal smugly as Breakfist straightened and began barking orders at his underlings who trundled into immediate action.
Renathal allowed one dredger to take his coat and another to retire to the kitchens to prepare a spot of tea, remembering only after it had shuffled away Elisewin's expressed distaste for the drink. Face twisting at his own faux pas, and unable to reasonably put it off any longer, Renathal let his gaze wander to the spot in the entryway where Elisewin had been -
- and found her missing.
Alarm surged through him like an anima current. He whipped around, checking the entrance to the parlor, the kitchens, the front door - surely, surely she would not attempt escape? Not after everything he had done for her. But a splash of lavender and scarlet moving across his vision as he turned full circle cut his panic short.
There - behind his grandfather clock, wrapped in the enormous arms of the winding staircase, Elisewin was craning her neck to peer up at the distant ceiling and its elaborate candle-filled iron chandelier. Light and shadows played across her as she spun slowly in place, eyes following the wind of the stairs and its numerous floors and landings, like so many paneled and wall-papered veins branching from the tower's central artery of dull, dark stone. Not that the base building material of the staircase was much visible. The Dark Prince had seen to that. The walls practically sagged under the weight of the tasteful tapestries, pictures, and paintings he had spent millennia collecting and curating for every spare square inch of his home.Â
As he watched, Elisewin lowered her gaze, examining the voluminous tapestry on display behind the clock. A particular favorite of Renathal's. It depicted the forest of the Banewood, embroidered in moody blues and blacks, complete with delicately stitched fuchsia widowblooms and a frenzy of yellow-fanged, red-eyed bats. She traced the air above one of the creatures with a trembling finger, and Renathal's eyes were once again drawn to the cut marring one smooth cheek. Did the memory frighten her? Or were her wide eyes and shaking hands more to do with her existence's abrupt upheaval? An understandable response, he grudgingly conceded. Unable to remember her own realm or people, Nathria would be the closest thing to a home she had.Â
Elisewin dropped her hand, and Renathal shook off his dispirited reverie. Whether the Master had sentenced her here as punishment for one or both of them, it was no excuse for him to neglect his duties as a host.Â
Gathering himself to his full, not insignificant height, Renathal spread his arms wide and called across the foyer: “Welcome to Darkwall Tower!"
Elisewin looked up swiftly. Renathal attempted his most ingratiating smile. But perhaps he was out of practice. Her face remained unusually clouded. While he waited, her gaze flicked again to the stairs, the ceiling, the tapestry, then back across the foyer as if searching for something. Renathal felt another prickle of self-conscious nerves and busied himself tucking his cuffs more securely under his bracers.
"I know it is not the castle to which you are accustomed," he said more stiffly. "I suppose it will take some time to adjust. Darkwall is certainly smaller than Nathria, and nowhere near as grand, however-"
"No."
Elisewin's voice was soft and distant, barely carrying across the space between them, but the word cut through Renathal's deprecations like a knife.
"It's not... like Nathria," she went on thoughtfully. "It is.. it feels different. I can't explain it. I like it," she added quickly, catching sight of Renathal's face. She stepped hastily around the clock and put a hand on the staircase's carved banister. "I do! It's just... I don't know how to describe it." She cast a final searching look around the room, then on Renathal himself who waited tensely for her verdict. "It feels very much more like... home."
All offense Renathal was preparing to take melted away.Â
"I see," he said, restraining his pride like an eager gargon. "Well, that is... most gratifying. And would you prefer to be shown directly to your room, or shall I give you the tour along the way?"
Elisewin blinked.
"I get a tour?"
"Certainly," Renathal replied. "Darkwall may not be as extensive as Nathria, but there are still enough halls to get lost in if one is unfamiliar with them."
A faint twitch of her lips revealed Elisewin's amusement. She tapped the banister's carved orb finial, remarking dryly, "No one ever gave me a tour of the castle."
"Really?" Renathal lifted an eyebrow in his own surprise. "How did you find your way about, then?"
"I figured it out. Eventually."
Her shrug was careless, but Renathal noticed her grip on the finial had tightened. Perhaps her experiences in Nathria did not engender nostalgia after all. This time the smile curling past his fangs was as easy and thoughtless as his stride across the foyer.
"A creditable approach," he said wryly, joining her at the foot of the stairs. "But suppose we make it a bit easier on you this time."
With the charming ghost of a formal bow, Renathal offered Elisewin his hand, enjoying her warmth as she took it and the colour in her high cheekbones that accompanied her genuine smile.
The next hour was spent lazily perambulating every room of Darkwall Tower. They wandered the kitchens, the formal and informal dining rooms and parlors, the ballroom, the breakfast room, lunarium, even Renathal's private study. The music room was of particular interest to Elisewin - "Do you play?" he asked, indicating the clavier, to which she laughed, "I have no idea," - as was the library, where she spent nearly half an hour perusing the floor-to-ceiling shelves, running her fingers across the ancient books' crumbling spines - to a parallel shiver down Renathal's - until Breakfist appeared at the door with the news her room was ready and Renathal, reluctantly, led her away.
On the landing outside, the dredger butler stood waiting for them, uncharacteristically wringing his hands.
"If the preparations require more time, there is no rush," said Renathal magnanimously, glancing covertly at Elisewin who smiled as she caught his eye.Â
She had done a lot of that in the last hour. And to Renathal's surprise - and weary cheekbones - so had he. Showing off his home to such an interested guest was the most enjoyable thing the Dark Prince had done in longer than he cared to remember, and he was not quite ready for it to end. But Breakfist was shaking his hairless head.
"It... is ready, yer 'Ighness," he admitted, and Renathal raised an eyebrow. If his conscientious butler was dropping his Hs, something was dreadfully wrong.Â
"What is the matter, Breakfist?" he asked, not unkindly, but the dredger did not seem capable of articulating his distress. He only bobbed a series of plaintive bows, begging his Master to follow, and when they had climbed two flights of stairs, crossed a hall, and reached the open door to the guest bedroom across from his own, Renathal immediately understood.
Dredger, venthyr, and mortal stood in the doorway, each one hesitant to enter, as if what they saw inside might be a mirage. Surprises on surprises, it was Elisewin who spoke first.
"This is beautiful!"
It was the most open display of enthusiasm Renathal had yet heard from the implacable mortal, and it went a long way to soothing his current tumultuous state of mind. He managed to shake off the worst of his astonishment, close his hanging jaw, and follow her inside. The room was of modest size and furnishings; a four-poster bed, vanity, wardrobe, and mirror occupied most of the space. A thin layer of dust and cobwebs clung to the higher surfaces the dredgers could not quite reach. But it was not the items in the room that bothered him. It was their distinctive shade.
Had this room always been so purple?
It was an unusual colour scheme - not at all Renathal's style. He watched as Elisewin ran a bare hand along the bed's heavy coverlet, her skin disappearing into the plush lavender-hued faux fur.Â
As if reading Renathal's thoughts, she tilted her head and asked, "Were you expecting me?"
"No," he assured her honestly. "A... happy coincidence."
Which statement was technically true. Elisewin's face flushed with excitement was an exact match for the gauzy curtains behind her. And, on turning and spotting the room's other extraordinary feature, she gasped in unfeigned delight.
"Is that-" She rushed forward, hands outstretched, then stopped, and glanced back at Renathal, teeth tugging her lip. "May I?"
Renathal nodded regally. At least, he hoped it appeared that way. But if Elisewin saw confusion in his face, she let it pass unnoted, her attention focused on the glass-paned doors set into the room's far wall.
They led to a balcony. An impressive one. Had it been anyone else's, Renathal would have had many admiring compliments to impart. As it was, he was too bemused to appreciate its dramatic shape, like the swell and point of a leaf; or the low balustrade, sculpted to obscure none of the glowing Ember Ward's boundless view; or the wind whipping pleasantly about them as if it, too, had somehow been crafted specifically for this magnificent space.
When had he built this? Why had he built this? He already had a balcony on the uppermost floor. This room had been abandoned for centuries, and even before that its occupants were infrequent. Renathal was positive he would remember commissioning - and paying - for something this elaborate to be constructed somewhere so strange. It was a mystery almost as unsettling as the windows in his study. And one equally impossible to comment on without giving his alarming lapses in memory away.
Staring vacantly into the distance, a sound that was not the wind whistled past Renathal's ears. Then a gentle warmth flickered up and down one arm, pooling in his fingers and shoulder. He twisted around. Elisewin's hand was on his elbow, her face just beneath his, peering up in apprehension. Had she said something?
"What?" he blurted, aware as the word left him it was too gruff. He winced as she dropped her hand, the lines of concern in her face rippling smoothly back into impassivity. "My apologies," he added in a more appropriately measured tone, shuffling in place to face her fully. "I... did not hear you properly. What did you say?
Elisewin wet her lips. She was close enough Renathal could see every bead of moisture before her mortal warmth melted them away.
"I just wondered," she repeated tonelessly, "if I would be allowed to use the balcony... whenever I want."
Renathal considered this for exactly half a second before declaring, "Certainly! You are free to go wherever you like within the tower." As her blink and his better sense caught up with him, he hastily amended, "Assuming, of course, you are not engaged in some other set task. Naturally, your atonement must come before pleasure. It is, after all, the reason you are here."
It was the first time the events precipitating Elisewin's arrival at Darkwall had been mentioned, and the memory trampled like a dredger big'un over the last hour's easy rapport. Elisewin shifted a little in place, hunching her shoulders as if cold.
"And, what will those be," she asked warily, "my... new tasks?"
Wind whistled across the balcony, but it was not the cause of Renathal's own unfeigned chill.
Follow your instincts. Those had been the Master's instructions. But the instinct aroused within Renathal was not one in which he could safely indulge. Doubtless, Denathrius expected him to lean in that direction. Sending Elisewin here had most likely been punishment for them both. Only they did not punish in Revendreth, they educated. This was a lesson, the final exam of a class in which Renathal had never excelled. But this time...
The Dark Prince drew himself into a more appropriately royal stance. He crossed his arms securely behind his back... this time he would not fail.
"Your tasks shall be determined on a case-by-case basis," he intoned at last. "But largely similar to whatever the Sire set you before. Domestic endeavors. Assisting in preparations for my upcoming court. Perhaps a few household errands, though not quite so many excursions to the Endmire. Assuming you behave."
Violet pinpricks blossomed on Elisewin's cheekbones. Renathal grimaced. He had not intended the words to sound so prurient. Clearing his throat roughly, he put his back to the twilit view and strode purposefully for the glass doors, Elisewin's footsteps padding swiftly behind.
"You understand," he called over his shoulder as they walked, "this is not a reward, nor a reprieve. You are here in Revendreth to atone for your sins. You are simply continuing your atonement under a different master."
"Is that what you want me to call you, then?"
A last burst of errant wind whipped Renathal's pale hair into a wild frenzy. He retreated into the safe, unmoving air of the guest room, waited for Elisewin to step over the threshold, then shut the glass door.
"If you prefer," he said, without the least trace of flirtation, tucking his hair back into place, impressed at his own masterful control. "However, Your Highness or Prince Renathal are also sufficient. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend to." He gave her a somber nod, then all but bolted for the door." Should you require anything, you may ring for a dredger." A careless wave indicated a little bell on the bedside table as he passed it. "But for the moment your only task is to rest. This has been a long day, even for Revendreth."
Two long strides and Renathal gained the doorway. One last step would grant him the safety of the hall. He lifted his foot-
"Thank you," Elisewin called politely from somewhere in the room behind; it sounded just far enough way he might turn and offer farewell without undue risk. "Your Highness," she added, and Renathal could hear her smile.
He chanced a glance over his shoulder.
She was standing by the bed, her skin such a match for the silk satin pillows she looked like another of the room's permanent and inexplicable purple fixtures. Her face was set in an impassivity Renathal knew by now meant nothing. It was her eyes one had to watch. The indistinct sclera like sheer, drawn window shades disguised the thoughts within he was sure were currently racing to understand his rapid change in demeanor.
"You should get some rest, too," she said, cocking her head as she appraised him. "You look... tired."
"As soon as is feasible," Renathal replied, and closed the door on her before she could glean any more from him.Â
He was tired. He was exhausted. His brain's need for reprieve echoed plaintively in his every tissue and bone. Renathal knew his body would shut itself down eventually, force him to sleep, but a few hours unconsciousness could hardly count as rest. Rest was something Renathal doubted he would ever have again while the mortal he craved just as desperately waited for him nearby.Â
Read Chapter 6: Home Improvement | Visit the Masterpost
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