#terraverse

Zachariah waited until the evening council had dispersed before sending word to Zegriaus. A short message: My chambers. Tonight.

He stood by the window when they arrived, watching the funeral ship's ashes still drifting in the distant stream. He didn't turn around when he heard the door close.

"You summoned me." Zegriaus' voice was flat, businesslike. "I assume this concerns arrangements for the children's care during the transition period?"

"No." Zachariah's hands tightened on the windowsill. "Close the door behind you properly, please."

A pause. Then the click of the lock.

"I'm quite busy, Zachariah. If this is about-"

"You lied." He finally turned to face them. "When you gave your account about what happened to my wife."

The look on Zegriaus' face didn't change, that same expressioneless expression they always had around him. "I did what was asked of: I reported what occurred. Your grief is understandable, but-"

"Don't." Zachariah's voice was low, but it had an undertone of anger. "Don't insult me by pretending I'm some grieving fool who can't think straight. I have met many liars in the past, I know when I'm being lied to."

"That's quite an accusation to make without-"

"Without what? Evidence?" Zachariah spat bitterly. "I don't need evidence. I could see it in your face."

Zegriaus was quiet for a moment, their eyes unreadable. "And yet you said nothing."

"Because we were standing in front of the entire kingdom!" Zachariah's voice rose up before he caught himself. "Because everyone was already devastated, and the last thing they needed was their prince calling out the hero who saved his children. Because I wasn't about to destroy morale when we're still recovering from an attack." He took a breath. "But that doesn't mean I didn't notice. It doesn't mean I didn't suspect anything."

"I brought your children home alive," Zegriaus said, their tone severe. "That should be enough."

"It's not." Zachariah stepped closer. "Because I've had time to think. And I started seeing all the things I should have noticed years ago."

"Such as?"

"Such as when I asked for your blessing to marry her." Zachariah's voice was steady now, controlled. "Do you remember that conversation, Zegriaus?"

"Of course."

"You smiled. You told me she deserved happiness, that you were glad she'd found someone who loved her." Zachariah watched their face carefully, but nothing changed. "And you promised me something else too. Do you remember?"

A flicker of something crossed Zegriaus' face, too quick to name.

"You promised," Zachariah continued, trying to be brave despite the slight crack in his voice, "that you would always look after her. That you would protect her, that you'd be there for her no matter what. You made me a promise, Zegriaus. You looked me in the eye and swore it."

"I gave you my blessing-"

"Quit lying to my face!" The words burst out of him, raw and aching. "You promised you would keep her safe, and now she's gone and you're standing here lying about how she died, and I-" He stopped, forcing himself back under control. "I thought I imagined the look in your eyes that day. That moment when you gave your blessing and I saw something flash in your face. Anger? Sadness? Resentment? But I convinced myself that I was just being paranoid, because promises are meant to be kept."

"Serenlethity made her own choices," Zegriaus said, their voice lower as well. "She chose to run into that maze. She chose to fight. I cannot be held responsible for that."

There was a moment of silence as Zachariah tried not to burst out screaming, but the tension was so bone crushing that it kept Zegriaus from saying anything first.

"You sent her there, didn't you" Zachariah finally spoke up. "You told her the children were in there. It was all your doing."

"I told her where they were last seen. What evil is there in trying to help?"

"And how convenient that you were the one who found them. That you emerged unscathed while she…" He couldn't finish the sentence. "You kept them alive, and I'm grateful for that, but I've been watching you with them, Zegriaus. The way you look at Trinity and Theo and Whyatt and little Serenity."

"I'm simply not particularly fond of children. That's hardly anything-"

"You look at them like they're inconveniences." Zachariah's hands clenched at his sides, though he wasn't sure if he hadn't already done it multiple times already. "Like they're obstacles. You speak around them, through them, like they're not even there. These are her children, Zegriaus. Pieces of her that are still here, still living. And you can barely stand to look at them."

"Your grief is making you see things that aren't real."

"No, I'm seeing clearly for the first time." Zachariah moved even closer. "I'm seeing how you acted. How everyone else was devastated. And you…" He paused, studying their face, preparing in case he ever needed to dodge a physical attack. "Your eyes looked relieved. Like some weight had lifted. Like you'd gotten something back."

Zegriaus' expression had gone cold, staring into his very soul. "That's absurd."

"It's not," Zachariah's voice dropped to almost a whisper. "She built a life that didn't include you the way it used to. She married me, and had children, and she couldn't spend her days listening to stories of your travels anymore. And you smiled and blessed it and played the supportive friend, but you never actually accepted it, did you?"

"You're inventing narratives." Zegriaus kept staring at the man in front of them coldly, but if Zachariah had payed attention, he would have seen one of their hands shaking.

"Then tell me I'm wrong." Zachariah challenged. "Tell me you weren't relieved when she died. Tell me you don't feel like you got your friend back, frozen perfect in your memory, without a husband, without children, without a life that moved beyond you."

Zegriaus was silent.

"That's what I thought." Zachariah's voice was hollow now. "You get to keep her as she was. Your 'dear friend' who you always spent time with. And I'm left here with four children who lost their mother, with an empire that lost its princess, with a funeral pyre that carried no body because there was never a body."

"I kept them alive," Zegriaus said, and for the first time, there was a dangerous edge to their voice. "When everything was chaos, when the arrows were flying. I found your children and I kept them safe. That should count for something."

"It does." Zachariah didn't look away. "It's the only reason we're having this conversation instead of a very different one. But basic morality isn't the same as keeping your promise, Zegriaus. You saved them because it was the right thing to do. Not because you cared for them, nor because you wanted to protect the family she built."

"I never claimed to-"

"Yes, you never did, and maybe that's the problem. You promised to protect her, but what you really wanted was to preserve her. Keep her as she was in your memory, and now that she's gone…" He turned back to the window, turning his back to them. "Now you got exactly what you wanted, don't you? She'll never age, never change, never grow further away from the person you knew. She's yours again, you psycho."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. He didn't mean to be so insulting, but they had insulted him first.

Finally, Zegriaus spoke. "If this is all you wanted, then I will take my leave. I have preparations to make for my departure."

"Of course you do." Zachariah's shoulders sagged. "When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Zachariah laughed, but there was no humor in it, turning back around to make eye contact. "You're running away. Just like you always do. Traveling to the next kingdom, the next discovery, the next thing that lets you avoid facing what you've done."

"I have responsibilities."

"Then go! Just go!" The words tore out of him again, desperate and broken. "But know that you broke your promise, Zegriaus. To me. To her. To those children who will grow up without their mother because the person who swore to protect her never even meant it!"

Zegriaus stood there for a moment longer. Zachariah could almost feel their thoughts, could almost hear them choosing their words. But in the end, they said nothing.

The door opened. Closed.