#hlam

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"You did what?"

Khepra was never one to physically lash out.  For all of her ferocity on the battlefield, for all the fear she instilled in those enemies who managed to escape her fury in combat, those personally acquainted knew her to be remarkably even-keeled and generally pleasant.  But right now, right in this moment, her hands ached terribly with the restrained urge to rip out her political advisor’s throat.  



And he knew.  Her brother, ever insufferably calm and pleasant, showed no obvious reaction to her cold rage, but it was clear her tone had given him pause.  The slight upward twitch of his lips, the shift in his stance.  He was steeling himself against her.  “I have taken the liberty to find you a worthy suitor.  He and his family will be here within the week.”

The grinding of her teeth was almost audible.  She bristled and turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose.  “We have already discussed this.  I have no time for your petty political formalities.  If we are to quell the dissent it will be through more direct methods, not—“



“I see in hindsight ‘suitor’ was probably not the best word to use.  I rather outright extended your hand in marriage and it was all but accepted.  I have already ordered the preparations to begin.”



She pivoted.  Her feet carried her back towards him, fists clenched.  Hlam retreated steadily.



“I know you are partial to your ‘direct methods’, but in this case they would be truly unwise.  You forget how terribly ‘direct methods’ worked for the Caorthann Scáth.”


“I have no intention to sink to their level.  You know that.”



“But do they?”



Khepra stopped short of her brother, gaze even with his, but she did not speak and Hlam took advantage of the opportunity. 

“Any such ‘direct’ action you have in mind would only fuel their resolve to see the Dawnsworn subverted to what they see as our rightful place beneath them.  The uncomfortable truth—the truth you need to accept—is that we will never be rid of them.  They will never be content to leave or accept our rule.”



“And your solution is to…what?  Give them some grand ceremony and a week-long celebration and pray to the Lightweaver they drown themselves in ale?”

Hlam’s rolled his eyes.  His facade gone.  “No, dearest sister.  Are you truly so dense?”  He tapped her forehead for emphasis.  “I mean, that is part of it, but it’s really not about the ceremony.  It’s about precisely what all noble marriages are concerned with: alliances.  We have precious few of them, and while that is to be expected of a clan that’s only just established its footing, we have reached a point where developing and nurturing political ties is essential.  And then, the Caorthann Scáth dissenters will have more than us to reckon with.”  He paused, brows knitting in feigned indignation.   “Really, I thought you might appreciate it for all of its glorious and banal directness, but as usual you scoff at my every effort to please you.”

And, well, he wasn’t wrong. His plan was far more direct than most that he schemed up, it was just direct in a way she didn’t particularly care for. It had never been her intent to lead an entire clan but it was nonetheless a role she had grown into, a hefty and ill-fitting suit of armor her body had somehow molded to fit.  It struck her that she had been a fool to be blindsided by an arranged marriage in the first place—after all, it was but one more unspoken responsibility that accompanied her station.



But she heavily doubted Hlam had done this to please her.


Deflated, she averted her gaze.  “Dammit.  You’re right.”  Her voice was barely a whisper.  “What’s his name?”

“Alias Sartorius.  If it helps, I hear he’s quite easy on the eyes?  I mean, if you won’t have him, I suppose I could find it in my heart to take one for the clan—”



Khepra groaned.  “No, that will do.  But I’ll want to speak with you on this matter further before day’s end.”  A pause, then, “Don’t pull this shit again.”

“Act first, beg forgiveness later.”