#The Accuser | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

late-to-the-fandom · 2 months

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In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal might have enjoyed, perhaps even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Read on Ao3 here.

“Sire Denathrius must be stopped.”

The Accuser’s grim pronouncement clattered off the dank stone walls of the Halls of Atonement’s inner sanctum, silencing the uneasy murmurs of the room’s other occupants and recalling their attention to its Harvester.

Until Renathal snorted.

A highly undignified sound, it undercut the Accuser’s echoes; and all the heads in the room, both venthyr and stoneborn, turned quickly to regard their Dark Prince. Regaled in full armor and formal coat, leaning noncommittally against a side wall of the nave, shoulder-to-shoulder with his expressionless mortal companion, he stared back at them in turn, appraising the nervously defiant faces of the rebellion he now knew beyond doubt existed: the Accuser, watching him askance; the Curator beside her, vacantly inspecting his mortal consort; their handful of trusted disciples, none of whom Renathal knew by name, interspersed with Venthyr from other districts - including Tenaval and Dehavia - and what Stoneborn could be persuaded to entertain sedition. General Draven and Chelra the Princeguard stood foremost among this small number, invited by the prince himself once he and his consort had determined to come.

No light decision, that. It had taken Renathal a week to work himself up to this meeting, and another for Elisewin to persuade him she ought to be allowed to attend as well. Every one of them stood to be punished, quite possibly destroyed, if Denathrius caught them here, and Renathal no longer harboured any vain hopes his Master considered him, or his mortal, special enough to spare.

“And how,” he asked, returning his gaze to the Accuser, bitter scepticism oozing from his words like anima from an open wound, “does one even begin developing a plan to stop the machinations of the creator of the realm?”

The Accuser tried a sardonic smile. It fit her pinched face oddly.

“That is why you are here, Prince Renathal.” She gave a little jerk of her head and torso; Renathal supposed this constituted her most deferential bow. “You are our resident expert on the Master. You have existed longest and know him best, and are our most likely avenue for discovering his weaknesses.”

“The Master has no weaknesses,” Renathal replied automatically.

But even as he said it, he thought of Denathrius’ new penchant for podal ambulation, his odd reluctance to use magic for even the smallest conveniences, and the continued absence of Remornia from her Master’s side. Could the Lord of Revendreth himself be feeling the realm’s current anima dearth?

As if reading his thoughts...

“Even the Master requires anima,” the Accuser declared triumphantly. “Regardless of how much he might be hoarding in Nathria, he does not have an endless supply. He will have to ration it carefully, even to himself, if he wishes it to last. We can use that against him. With enough of us together, we should be able to hold him at least, until we can contact Oribos for aid.”

“All ways to the Eternal City are closed,” Draven’s gravelly voice inserted. “To open one would take more anima than all of us have combined, even without the Master and his forces to contend with.”

“We do not need to open a way,” the Accuser insisted. “We only need to get a message across the In-Between. And the Master has methods of communicating with the Arbiter without ever leaving the realm. Does he not?”

She threw this last at Renathal, who thought he saw where she was going.

“A worthy idea,” he conceded, “but impossible to execute without the Master knowing.”

“Even for you?”

One of the Accuser’s thin, white eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. Which delicate aspersion on his abilities Renathal accepted with good grace.

“Even for me,” he admitted, dipping his head in acknowledged defeat. “Denathrius can sense anyone who enters his castle. Even I cannot hope to hide my presence from him there. To reach the room in question and remain there for enough time to make any sort of coherent explanation to the attendants in Oribos, let alone formulate a plan for their aid, without the Master interfering, would require -”

“A distraction.”

Again, the heads in the room turned as one, this time to stare at the prince’s lavender shadow. And Renathal, having already related her conversation with the Sire in its every humiliating detail, knew what they were thinking. He tucked an errant fold of one cuff more securely into its corresponding bracer.

“What if we went to Nathria? " Elisewin continued. "Just Renathal - the Prince, I mean - and I? That shouldn't arouse too much suspicion. Denathrius has probably been expecting it ever since the Countess’ court. I can seek him out in the castle, demand to know more, or - or something like that. And if I can distract him for long enough, Renathal can -"

“Absolutely not.”

The words were a reflex, and out of Renathal's mouth before he had time to prepare the rational supporting argument such a forceful objection would require. Aware of Elisewin’s startled blink and the narrowing of the Accuser’s flinty eyes, he cleared his throat and concluded:

"That is unlikely to work. And perhaps," - on a desperate whim, he voiced the hope that had tortured and teased him since Denathrius’ cryptic confession - "unnecessary, after all. Perhaps, the Master's behaviour is not as nefarious as we think. Perhaps, he is keeping anima for... some other purpose."

It sounded unconvincing even to Renathal's own ears, and he was unsurprised by the susurrating sea of dissent that followed. The Accuser alone of the would-be rebels, however, was willing to challenge the prince outright.

“Even if his scheme were only to hoard anima for himself and a few hand-chosen nobles, it is still corruption and a smirch on Revendreth’s purpose.” She took a step towards Renathal, arms rigid and fingers twitching against her skirts. “But you know it is deeper than that, Renathal. You know something is happening. You can blind yourself to it no longer. The time has come for the Harvester of Dominion to decide whose side he is on.”

Apart from the echo of the Accuser’s brazen ultimatum, the shrouded nave was still and silent for the first time since the seditious rabble had arrived. A stark contrast to Renathal’s mind, in which a clamorous battle raged: conviction versus caution; the demands of his eternal duties against his new instincts and, admittedly, selfish desires.

At last, glaring down his nose at the other Harvester, he declared, “I am on Revendreth’s side. As ever." And, even without his medallion, the words rang with a surety to subdue all doubt.

“Very well, then.” The Accuser’s shoulders relaxed the merest degree as she nodded the group’s collective approval. “We shall hear no more fruitless arguments over the Master’s motives and return to developing a plan. The mortal’s idea is a good one.” Her eyes swept over Elisewin, as if assessing whether her fragile-looking flesh were up to the task, then gave another curt nod. “And if she is willing to help us, I believe she should be given the chance.”

“I am willing,” said Elisewin at once. “I want to help, if I can.”

Renathal’s claw-like nails gouged furious crescents into the skin of his palms.

The next hour was devoted to details – the specifics of Elisewin’s subterfuge, the plea the prince was to make to Oribos should it succeed, where the rest of the rebellion’s forces should wait, and for how long, before attempting a rescue. The Accuser and Elisewin seemed to take it in inadvertent turns to throw respectively shrewd and furtive glances at Renathal throughout. He ignored them. He knew he ought to be contributing, but he stayed conspicuously silent; and remained so even after the assembly dispersed and he and his consort clambered back into his carriage. As far as he was concerned, the meeting could not have gone worse had the Master himself arrived and sentenced them all to an epoch in the Ember Ward.

In a different, not-so-distant time in his history, Renathal mused as his carriage trundled across Penance Bridge, he might have enjoyed, even instigated, such a rebellion; the challenge of outright revolt against the creator of the realm did hold a certain contumacious appeal. Now, however, the thought of pitting himself against his Master inspired a wary dread. And not only because of the beating his effortless deception had inflicted on Renathal’s self-confidence...

His eyes flicked to Elisewin, her smooth, lavender face watching him placidly from the bench opposite, and his stomach clenched. He had never had so much to lose.

"Chin up, your Highness," she said, a teasing lilt to her words. "It really is a decent plan."

Renathal drummed his fingers restlessly against his armored leg.

"It is hardly a plan at all,” he scoffed. “It is a risky gamble, at best."

“No more risk than sitting back and doing nothing while we wait for Denathrius to finally act, or the last of the anima to dry up. Besides…” Elisewin smiled – a sideways smile, all sparkling blue-white eyes and blunt mortal teeth. "Since when is the Dark Prince of Revendreth afraid of a little risk?”

“It is not the risk to myself that concerns me, but to you,” he retorted, claw-like fingernails catching harshly on his tasset’s gold edge. “Should this plan, such as it is, go sour, you will be alone and unprotected. And you can barely hold a rapier. Your chances of defending yourself against even one of the castle’s guards are slim to none, not to speak of the Sire.”

If any of this bitter criticism affected her, Elisewin hid it deftly. She did not blink, or move at all except to sway in time with the carriage, now careening through the Chalice district’s deadly curves.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “There’s no need for it to come to a fight. Apparently,” - she pulled a wry face - “I make a very good distraction.”

“Elisewin.”

There was a note of pain, almost anguish, in the warning way Renathal said her name. Unintentional; and he would have been mortified at the raw vulnerability of it had Elisewin not immediately dropped all attempts at humour, slid to the edge of her seat, reached across the aisle and taken his face in both her hands.

“Renathal,” she said, and infused his own name with a warmth as tangible as the heat from her mortal skin. “Something has to be done about Denathrius. You know it does. And I know you. No matter what you might wish, you will never be able to let this go. Worrying about it will eat you alive. Figuratively speaking.” She wrinkled her nose at the careless metaphor, then hurried on. “You are right to be cautious, but our best chance of success against someone as powerful as he is lies in strategy, and proper use of available resources. Myself included.”

“You are not a resource to be used,” Renathal growled into Elisewin’s face, turning her cheekbones that pretty, heated violet. But she still managed to hold his eyes as she replied, “Am I a friend to be trusted?” and when he could offer no argument to that, continued, “Let me help you, then. Let’s do this together.”

There was something in her voice… a supreme, unbroachable confidence… familiar, though Renathal could not remember hearing it from Elisewin before. And the mélange of feeling it ignited in his chest was familiar as well. Hope. Determination. That electric thrill he associated with battle. Anima effervesced in his veins, vibrating his limbs, urging him to action.

“Well… I suppose,” he admitted, “despite the inarguable danger, executing such a deception under the Master’s nose does sound like a good bit of fun.”

And Elisewin's laugh, her exultant, "That's the spirit, your Highness," and the awkward kiss she planted on his lips despite a sudden jolt of the carriage, drowned out the worries still whispering at the back of Renathal's mind.

"You are to be careful, however," he ordered sternly as she pulled away and resettled herself more safely in her seat. "Assiduously so."

"Of course," Elisewin agreed.

"Very well, then." Renathal indulged in one final dramatic sigh, then peered through the carriage’s narrow slit of a window at the rapidly approaching castle. "Shall we review the plan one last time?"

Its beginning was flawless.

They entered Nathria by the side door from the Bridge of Paramountcy – obvious and unsuspicious, but not so ostentatious as the formal front gate – and set off through the candle-lit labyrinth of staircases and halls, Renathal leading the way. He was aware of the eyes of servants and stoneborn guards on them as they passed; observing their movements, then slipping off through hidden doors to report them to the Sire. All according to plan.

He and Elisewin exchanged only innocuous pleasantries – commentary on various paintings, complaints about the steepness of the stairs – until they reached their destination: the Master’s private library; where Renathal began at once perusing the shelves, pulling down a curated selection of dusty volumes, then arranging himself at a desk with them before requesting, in a casual but carrying voice, his mortal charge visit the kitchens and fetch him tea.

Elisewin’s eye contact was fractionally longer than necessary, her answering, “Of course, your Highness,” a breath too polite. Allowing himself only the briefest parting glance at the back of her scarlet tunic as she disappeared around a corner, Renathal offered a silent prayer to the Purpose that she proved better at distraction than she did at subterfuge, and settled in to wait.

Ten minutes. That was how long they agreed he was to give her before slipping from the library and making his way to Denathrius’ chambers above. Hardly enough time for Elisewin to actually find the Master in the cavernous castle, as would be her story to him or any who challenged her, but plenty long enough for him to find her - the lynchpin on which their whole plan hinged.

And where it collapsed.

Having no timepiece, and the Sire being far less whimsical than his Firstborn when it came to décor, Renathal was relying on instinct alone to judge when ten minutes had passed. He stared sightlessly at the open tome in front of him on the desk and set up a careful count in his head. But he had not made it to sixty even once before -

“Renathal.”

- a rich, resonant, and unexpected baritone almost toppled him from the chair.

“What are you doing?”

Denathrius' voice echoed from somewhere behind him; neither curious nor accusing, but unusually flat, as though reciting lines. Alarm bells clanged in Renathal’s head. Wresting control of his suddenly leaden limbs, he slid from the wooden chair and pushed it under the desk, then turned slowly to face his Master - looming in the library's arched entryway, every regal inch of him preternaturally still.

“My humblest apologies, Sire, I did not hear you arrive,” Renathal began, buying himself time with a bow and a few meticulous adjustments of his coat. He, too, had a story prepared should his presence in the library be questioned, but it would require some ad-libbed additions; the Sire should not have been his audience. “I - that is, we; Elisewin and I - stopped by on a bit of a lark. She has expressed an interest in discovering more about her people - the Shal’Dorei, I believe you once called them? - and I thought such information might indeed prove useful in furthering her atonement. I would have asked your thoughts on the matter, of course, but as you are so busy of late, I preferred not to bother you. It is, after all, of little real importance.”

Renathal paused, wondering if he ought to add more, but a glance at Denathrius convinced him there was no point prattling on. The Master’s face was stern; that carved-in-stone expression Renathal knew only too well hid a brewing storm of anger, and out from which no one, not even the Dark Prince, could talk their way.

But, “Come,” was all the Master said before he turned on his booted hoof and strode away; out of the library and down the adjoining passage, his long pale hair and slashed cape catching the wind of his demanding pace. Not once did he look back to check if Renathal followed – though of course he did, tripping quickly in his Master’s brisk wake. Thoughts of escape, of wending himself into the shadows and summoning the rebellion’s waiting reinforcements, drifted feebly through his mind, but he dismissed them. Elisewin was still somewhere in the castle; mercifully not on the receiving end of the Master’s ire, but one misstep on his part and he knew how quickly that could change. Besides, it was no mean feat extricating his will from the Master’s command. The very fabric of his being tugged at Renathal to obey.

Neither spoke again until they had walked - walked; something Renathal noted significantly and which heartened him even through his writhing nerves - seven flights of stairs and countless halls, finally emerging onto the Master’s rooftop garden. Denathrius crossed this as swiftly, and manually, as he had the rest of the way. His gold and scarlet boots stopped at the very edge of the terrace, and he bent his head to stare through the wisps of blue-grey mist separating the roof from the ground many hundreds of miles below.

Renathal approached more cautiously, wondering if it was the Master’s intention to throw him off. The twilight air around him was thick and foreboding; and sickly-sweet, courtesy of the garden’s indigo flowers whipping about as if caught in some invisible breeze. Revendreth, it seemed, was as uneasy as its prince at their creator’s ominous mood.

“Renathal,” Denathrius said at last, in the same flat voice as before, "you occupy a precarious position.”

He let the words settle between them. Renathal glanced around the terrace.

“I suppose it is rather high,” he said, reckless in his confusion.

But the Master was in no mood for humour. He rotated his neck to stare down at his Firstborn, cowing him with his mere expression, then returned his severe gaze to the courtyard before commanding, "Observe.”

Renathal took another step, stopping at the shallow iron lip that served the roof as balustrade, and, heart pounding superfluously, peered over Nathria’s side. Far, far below, just discernible through the thin mist, three figures emerged from the front gate: two winged stoneborn enforcers half-leading, half-dragging one smaller, slighter being. The sheen of her lavender skin was recognisable even from this height, as were the bared blades the stoneborn clutched in their free hands, and Renathal's heart stopped affecting any beat at all.

“Sire,” he began, voice unexpectedly hoarse, “what are they-”

But Denathrius interrupted him.

“You have a choice before you, Renathal.” And he held out both elegant hands as if to illustrate; lifting one and regarding the upturned palm with solemn reproach. “You may persist in this ridiculous notion that I am somehow capable of corruption and continue down the inevitable path to which such heresy leads..."- the hand clenched into a fist - “...destruction. For you, and all you consider your own. Or…”

Denathrius turned, facing Renathal directly for the first time, and extended his other, open hand.

“You may choose eternity as I have given it to you - complete with every gift and privilege. Because make no mistake, Renathal: every good thing you imagine you possess comes directly from me.”

He paused, allowing the words to hang meaningfully in the heavy, perfumed air, before continuing, his voice more customarily orotund,“There is nothing in this world that is truly your own. Nor have you earned any of it by your own merit. And if you continue to make these poor, poor decisions - prove yourself unworthy of my gifts…” Denathrius glanced pointedly down at the minuscule figures in the courtyard, “I would find myself in the regrettable but necessary position of... taking them away.” He met Renathal’s gaze again and held it; and whatever pretty words he chose, there was no mistaking the glitter of glee behind the sanguine threat.

And with a sudden icy pain in his gut, like the stab of an unseen blade, the Dark Prince of Revendreth believed.

Denathrius was playing with him - with all of Revendreth - and always had been. Every soul in the realm was merely a toy for their Sire’s eternal amusement. All Renathal's half-harboured hopes that this was a mistake, a test perhaps, that his Master had some hidden but justifiable plan, that he might even be impressed by his firstborn's dedication to duty, disintegrated in an instant. He opened his mouth to speak, but could think of no words. He was utterly frozen, from his hair to his boots; impaled to the spot by horror and impotent rage.

Red eyes still lingering on Renathal, Denathrius stretched a hand over the edge of the terrace and gave a careless wave. Renathal's stomach dropped - but the stoneborn below only released Elisewin's arms and sheathed their weapons, granite faces upturned to their Master.

"She is waiting for you, Renathal," said Denathrius, voice silky with condescension. "Go to her. Enjoy her. Enjoy the world I have remade."

An odd choice of words, Renathal noted distantly, but he did not question it. Or any other of his Master’s now-indisputably treacherous deeds. Acting on instinct, or their creator's orders, his legs sprinted him back across the rustling rooftop garden without waiting for input from his shambolic brain. He took the stairs - and the hall beyond, and every floor between him and his unprotected lover - at the same frenzied pace, and did not stop even after he had crossed the castle’s threshold and saw her waiting for him, lavender silhouette standing out starkly against the shrouded twilight.

At the sound of frantic bootsteps, Elisewin turned, and her almost comically enormous blink would have amused Renathal any other time. Now, he felt only relief; and even that, muted - there was little room left in the maelstrom of his mind to register additional feeling. Elisewin opened her mouth to speak as Renathal reached her. A minute shake of his head, like the cocking of a crossbow, killed the words on her tongue. In similarly stiff, silent fashion, he gripped her arm and urged her forward, away from the leering spectre of Nathria and, he was certain, the distantly watching Sire.

They sped through the vast courtyard, Renathal ignoring the curious looks of perambulating nobles and the confusion wafting off his companion in waves; the protests of his legs as he forced them up yet another massive staircase and the familiar shadows of Draven and Chelra swooping low in search of the prince’s signal or report. He gave them neither. His amber eyes were fixed on the growing promise of Darkwall Tower, and he did not speak, did not breathe, did not think again until he had reached it, wrenched the doors open, threw himself and Elisewin inside, and slammed them shut - safe, at last, behind his home's protective wards.

Only… they were not safe, were they?

Renathal dropped abrupt anchor in the middle of his torchlit foyer as he realised, with another eviscerating pain, there was nowhere safe to go. First, his affair with Elisewin; now, his meeting with the rebellion - Denathrius knew everything, and almost as soon as it happened. There truly were no secrets from the Sire.

All the purposeful energy that had carried Renathal from the castle dissipated, leaving a dull, indecisive fog in its wake. Breakfist and his dredger underlings clustered at their master's knees, awaiting commands. But the Dark Prince could only stand, arms limp at his sides, for once, entirely lost for what to do.

It was Elisewin who saved him.

“Breakfist, take your Master’s coat,” said her voice near his ear. Renathal felt the garment in question slipped from his shoulders and firm hands usher him forward. “And have a tray of tea prepared and brought up to his bedchamber,” she continued, moving with him, “then, go and find Chelra and … no, don’t send someone else. You won’t have to go far. I expect she and the General are waiting just outside. Tell them … do not argue. Tell them it didn’t work and we will regroup at a later time. Quick as you like, now.”

The ghost of a joyless smile flitted past Renathal’s lips as Elisewin led him up the tower's winding staircase. She really had become quite free with orders; was surprisingly well suited to them. Her voice brimmed with the same, supreme self-confidence he remembered from their earlier carriage ride - could it really be mere hours ago? - that made unpalatable, even impossible tasks feel effortless. Her hands could do it, too. They coaxed his aching legs up the final steps, down the hall, and into the flickering red candlelight of his bedroom, stopped him by his valet stand and guided his limbs through the removal of his armor, all without uttering a word.

Renathal consented readily. His brain was numb; his body ached as badly as if Denathrius had thrown him from Nathria’s roof. For once, he was grateful to follow someone else’s lead; until, clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers, Elisewin eased him onto the crisply made bed. For one uncomfortable moment, he worried his lover would expect more of him than he could currently give. But she merely piled the silk satin pillows behind him and propped him against them, then toed off her shoes and sat opposite him, legs curled underneath her, hands clasped in her lap.

"What happened?" she finally asked.

The question was gentle; Elisewin's lavender face as she studied him appropriately bland. Nearly a foot of undisturbed coverlet lay between them and no part of their bodies touched, and yet… this felt more intimate to Renathal than many other more adventurous positions they had tried. It drew words from him without thinking.

"We had a ... conversation," he said, voice hoarse after his extended silence.

"You and the Arbiter?"

"Denathrius and I."

Elisewin blinked.

"Oh.”

A knock at the door broke the spell - a dredger servant with the ordered tea. Elisewin shot up, retrieved the laden tea tray, dismissed the dredger, then deposited the tray on the floor by the bed with a careless rattle. Less than a minute’s interruption, but enough time for Renathal to blink away some of his mind's dense fog. He had a choice before him, and only seconds to make it. Any hint of indecision, and Elisewin, resuming her seat, would undoubtedly see.

“What happened?” she repeated, more earnestly this time, her blue-white eyes wide and glowing with a tender concern that made up Renathal's mind.

“Nothing,” he decided. “I'm afraid we were… mistaken.” He paused, pushing back his windswept hair and inhaling superfluously as he cobbled together passable lines. “Denathrius has nothing to do with the drought, after all; beyond doing his best to meliorate the situation. He has deceived us, yes – a regrettable, but necessary position for rooting out where the corruption truly lies. There is nothing we can do. Nothing we need do – except… enjoy ourselves,” - his lips fumbled the Master’s words - “and await the Sire’s next command."

He lifted his gaze as he finished, gauging Elisewin’s reaction. She blinked - as was to be expected - but did not speak. Yet. Renathal braced what brittle mental fortitude the Master had left him for the interrogation that was surely seconds away.

After a minute of laden silence, however, Elisewin only edged closer, knees knocking against Renathal's as she reached for his hands. And it was another full minute of her fingers gliding softly across his tensed knuckles before she finally said, with a hint of wry humour, "You are remarkable at many things, your Highness, but you're a rotten liar."

Another time, Renathal would have taken mild offense - he considered himself quite a dab-hand at duplicity and deception when the situation called for such skills. But he was too exhausted to summon any indignance and too worn for more prevarications. He could only squeeze his eyes shut against Elisewin's watchful gaze and let her fingers work their magic on his hands. Her every touch imbued his cold skin with warm, tangible comfort, the sensation singing its now-familiar song through his anima-starved veins. And, with the third vicious stab of the day, this one leaving him light-headed and nauseous, Renathal realised just how close he had come to losing this - losing her - forever.

Something crumpled in his chest. Quite literally; though he was only aware he had actually collapsed into Elisewin’s lap when his forehead struck her hipbone. Rather hard, if the dull pain in his temple was any indication, but she neither flinched nor pulled away. Her arms closed around him; somehow, everywhere at once - stroking the cramped curve of his spine, his unruly hair, his own arms wound round her waist as if seeking to entangle himself inextricably with her.

“Renathal.” His name quivered on Elisewin’s lips, her rib-cage contracting erratically beneath his clinging hands. “Renathal, tell me what happened. Tell me what he said.”

It was more plea than command, with nothing behind it except what Renathal thought with absent curiousity might be the threat of tears, but he had no strength left to resist it anyway.

“He said…” He struggled for words to sum up everything the Master had said - and not said; the threat in his silence, the warning in his gaze - without having to relive the whole ignominious encounter. “He said ... if we continue to press this … if I continue to press him … he will take you from me...”

A short silence stretched. Renathal wondered if Elisewin had heard him, his voice muffled as it was against her thigh. Then - "Denathrius cannot take me from you," she declared with all her newly adopted self-confidence; both of which Renathal found so offensively ridiculous in this moment, he unwrapped his arms from her torso and pushed off her legs to stare up at her.

"Of course he can!" He struggled to a seat, a sudden renewed spark of anger lending him vigor and vehemence. "He is Denathrius! The Sire! The fangs of the Shadowlands, the Master of this realm! He can do anything here - whatever he pleases, wrong or right. He has powers mortals cannot fathom - powers even I have never dreamed.”

“Why doesn’t he use them, then?” Elisewin asked, infuriatingly calm even inches from the Dark Prince's red-eyed glower. “Why is his realm a disaster? And if he knows about the rebellion, why hasn’t he punished us all already? Thrown us in cages, or the Ember Ward? Or just ended us entirely?”

All excellent questions, and they pulled the rug out from under Renathal’s vitalising surge of rage. Without it to animate him, he sagged again, shoulders slumping against the buttress of pillows Elisewin had erected. She, herself, was there a heartbeat later, hands on his face and forehead pressed to his until her lavender skin and carefully even breaths were all Renathal could see or feel.

“Renathal, listen to me. I love you," she said. It was no lover’s soft reassurance, but a statement of inexorable fact. “I love... everything about you: your beliefs ... your - your dedication ... the way you see reality and your place in it. You are perfect, to me. Probably, you do have flaws, but I can't see them. My love blinds me to them. The same way it blinds you."

She leaned fractionally back on her heels, just enough to meet Renathal’s unblinking eyes. Her hands still held his face, but beneath the gentle comfort was a certain pragmatism; she was not going to let him look away.

"You see Denathrius," she went on, stark and forthright, "through the same lens I see you. You worship him. He is everything to you - good and bad. Even as you hate him, you adore him. But I - I am unburdened by either. I can see him for what he is: a master of lies and manipulation, yes, and certainly not on our side, but… not all powerful. At least, not anymore. Something has weakened him - the drought I suppose. And we can use that against him.”

Renathal shook his head, but threaded his fingers through Elisewin's so as not to dislodge her hands.

"He is merely biding his time," he argued hopelessly. "He does not consider us any real threat. Even at his weakest, he still has more power than all our rebellion combined. If we attempt an open revolt, we will lose. We will lose this." He squeezed her fingers for strength through the selfish admission. "I will lose you.”

“No. You won't," said Elisewin, and there was a surety in her words to give even the Dark Prince pause. “I am not a true penitent soul, am I? And I'm not Denathrius’ creation, to be offered up and snatched back at his whim. He cannot take me from you without force. And if it comes to that sort of fight... well...” she smiled - really, a wistful twist of her lips - and stroked Renathal’s sharp cheek, “that’s why we’re doing this together, remember? Whatever happens, happens to both of us. Destruction or victory.” She leaned into him again, as she finished, “Wherever I go, you are coming, too."

Her mouth, like the rest of her face, was pressed to Renathal's, but neither of them had the stamina to pursue any sort of kiss now. Elisewin's breath was ragged after her uncharacteristically impassioned speech, the harsh inhalations and exhalations fluttering his unruly goatee. And Renathal, drained by the truth in her words and what he desperately hoped would prove true, had no energy left for further fights or more expressive acts of affections. He simply sat, entwined with his lover, savouring each second as they slipped inexorably past, and wishing for a magic that would freeze them in this moment, bind them together forever...

Renathal straightened so suddenly his sharp cheekbone cracked against Elisewin's. This time she did wince, but he barely noticed. A thought had occurred to him that could not wait another of those fleeting seconds to be voiced.

“Soulbind with me.”

“What?” Elisewin asked, prodding gingerly at her face.

“Soulbind with me,” Renathal repeated, the words spilling fast and urgent. “There is a power in that ritual as ancient and timeless as the eternal ones themselves. A magic even Denathrius cannot undo, which is why he does not often permit it. With our souls bound together, he cannot separate us by any means, apart from ultimate destruction. And even that would be much harder to accomplish once you share my power.”

It took Elisewin, still rubbing her cheek, several heartbeats to process this information - her own, mortal heartbeats; Renathal’s redundant muscle dared not move. After what felt to his keyed nerves like an age, she dropped her hand from the new little violet bruise and sighed.

“I keep telling you he can’t, but… if it will make you feel better...”

“Is that a yes?” Renathal asked. "You are... saying yes?" and the hushed, vibrant awe in his voice seemed to alert Elisewin at last to the importance of the question. And the momentous significance of her answer.

Her blue-white eyes met his, their amber fiery with anticipation, and there was no hesitation in them as she repeated, “Yes, Renathal. I’m saying yes.”

Read Chapter 12: Rebels on the Road | Visit the Masterpost

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late-to-the-fandom · 11 months

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"But it was not what loomed above them that made Renathal’s cold skin crawl. It was what lurked below them. The unnatural chill that crept through his veins even before his booted feet touched the ground." Read on AO3 here.

“Discontent is one word,” declared the Accuser. “Though, I would have used another.”

“And what word would that be?”

“Disappointment.”

The Dark Prince resisted the urge to massage his forehead where it ached. Ten minutes in the Halls of Atonement and he had already endured as much of the Harvester of Pride as he could stand. What with his newly appointed duties and the mysteries still preying on his mind, Renathal had quite enough to be getting on with and little patience to spare for the Accuser’s many, many punctilious complaints.

Her last word still hung in the sanctuary's incense-laden air like the final note of an ominous hymn. But there were no penitents in the pews to offer obligatory solemn amens - or from whom Renathal might demand a fortifying cup of tea. Apart from the Accuser looming over the altar and Renathal himself determinedly standing in the aisle, there was only one other Venthyr in the room: the Curator, perched awkwardly in the front row of hard benches.

Renathal made a furtive, and futile, attempt to catch her eye, but the grey-haired Venthyr was preoccupied with peering politely around the nave, as if seeing the ornate gothic architecture for the first time. Lost in thought, supposed Renathal glumly. He heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“I suppose we may all be forgiven some disappointment with the current circumstances,” he said diplomatically. “Revendreth has certainly fallen on difficult times.”

“We have not fallen on anything,” the Accuser argued, slamming her hand against the altar and causing the Curator to jump. “Difficult times have been thrust upon us. The other Harvesters act as though the drought does not affect them. The Countess’s constant little parties-”

“Are necessary to keep up morale,” interrupted Renathal; a phrase he had repeated to this Harvester more than any he could remember. “The Sire’s anima conservation programme allows for indulgence in moderation.”

“Moderation? The fonts in the Chalice District flow at all hours while souls here are sacrificed every day!”

“What?” Renathal grimaced at the slip and quickly reasserted his composure. “That is - surely, no souls have been entirely drained?”

“With alarming regularity.”

The two Harvesters regarded each other in suspicion, as if unsure how far they could trust the other’s apparent concern. Whatever personal animosities existed between them, Renathal knew the Accuser was fiercely protective of the souls within her care, and unflinchingly honest. But… the sacrifice of souls for anima? That was even more concerning than outright rebellion. Could Denathrius know?

“Our Master has, naturally, been informed of the dire situation,” continued the Accuser as if reading Renathal’s thoughts. “But either the drought has dulled even Denathrius’ fangs, or-” She hesitated before pressing on recklessly, “he is part of the hypocritical plot. I send messengers daily to Nathria, but the Master refuses to address any of my concerns: the waning of the medallions, the discrepancies in anima tithes, the souls permanently lost! He hears our cries but does nothing to punish the guilty or aid the souls in need.”

Renathal frowned, sifting through the treasonous diatribe and plucking out the thread he did not understand.

“What do you mean, the medallions are waning?”

The Accuser briefly tabled her righteous outrage to shoot Renathal a withering glare.

“Surely, even you, Renathal, must have noticed that?”

When the Dark Prince’s expression made it clear his patience was fraying, the Accuser sniffed in irritation, tugged a gold chain from a pocket of her dress, and thrust it out for his distant inspection.

“They are devoid of power. Useless.” She shook the chain, and Renathal was surprised to see not even the faintest wisp of trailing anima. “Nothing more than pretty jewels,” she finished in disgust, and Renathal’s fingers reached instinctively for the matching medallion resting against his chest.

It was true. There was none of the usual vibrating thrum of waiting power. How was it possible he had not noticed this before? It was as if his brain were so used to the magic's absence it had not bothered to alert him to its loss. Now he was paying attention, however, Renathal felt almost naked without his eons-old source of power. Realising his hand still clutched the chain, he released it and tucked his cuffs more securely into his bracers.

“It seems you and the Harvester of Avarice have been similarly afflicted,” commented the Accuser grimly.

Glad of an excuse to avoid her shrewd gaze, Renathal turned again to the room’s third Venthyr.

“What is wrong with the Curator?”

“Look at her!”

The words swelled through the sanctuary, fractured against the high rafters, and fell back to the nave in a thousand plaintive echoes. Renathal's eyebrows rose at the Accuser's uncharacteristic passion.

“The greatest archivist in reality, and she hardly knows where she is at any given time! She remembers next to nothing! Her mind is - is - lost.”

The word broke in the Accuser’s throat. Her hand dropped to the altar again, this time in despondence, the sound rousing the Curator, who pushed off from the pew and headed for her side.

“Harriett,” she said soothingly, “you worry too much. I feel perfectly fine.” She slipped an arm around the stiff Accuser. “It’s the drought, I’m sure. Lack of anima makes us all a bit forgetful, I - I think.”

Her eyes slipped out of focus, and Renathal, watching closely, thought it looked more vacant than musing; thought the arm wrapped around the Accuser’s lower back looked like more than a sisterly comfort; thought the panic suddenly alight in the Accuser’s beady eyes had less to do with the Curator’s condition and more to do with fear that Renathal had noticed the slip of her secret name.

He had, but he had not needed it. He had long suspected their friendship of harbouring a more intimate affection. Exclusive relationships, as Renathal well knew, were not often permitted by the Master, so it was no surprise to him they kept such an affair hidden. The only surprise was the Curator’s careless reveal of it.

Renathal wondered if she was struggling under the same scattered malaise he, too, could not shake. And he felt a sudden, desperate urge to unburden himself to his sister; the second oldest Venthyr in existence and the one with whom he had always had the most in common. They had been quite close in their younger years, but - his gaze flicked to the Curator's fingers absently stroking the Accuser’s corseted waist - even she could not be wholly trusted anymore, especially in this thoughtless state.

Swallowing the compulsion - and a flicker of aged envy - Renathal looked tactfully away from the cosy pair and once again busied himself with his cuffs.

“I appreciate what I am sure is a neighborly concern…” The Accuser's thin lips tightened at his delicate stress of the word. “But, as the Curator says, I am sure both her condition, and that of the medallions, are merely results of the drought. However -” He raised a hand to forestall her impending argument, “I will bring these matters to the Master’s attention. Doubtless your messages have been routed to some secretary. Denathrius has been busy - you know of the mortal situation, I trust?”

The Accuser nodded.

“She - that is, the mortal's atonement - is taking up a great deal of the Master’s time. But I will speak with him personally. Today, if possible. And-” Renathal glanced at the Curator, hazy eyes now flitting aimlessly about the rafters, “And I will see that a greater allotment of anima is provided the Archives.”

Even the Accuser could find no fault with these pronouncements. Her sallow face twisted uncomfortably, as if without a critique she was unsure what else to say. Renathal took advantage of her temporary distraction to bid both Harvesters farewell and make a hasty retreat to his waiting carriage. It trundled off through the Cathedral district's many winding cobbled side streets, Renathal in back, staring sightlessly out the narrow slit that served as a window at the passing crypts and confessors, feeling distinctly unnerved. The secretary Denathrius had lent him had assured him the drought was under control; enough anima was being conserved to maintain the regular number of courts and feasts, if at a fraction of their normal decadence. But...

Souls being sacrificed for anima? The thought made even the Dark Prince queasy.

Did his Master know? How could he not? Denathrius said himself, nothing in Revendreth escaped his notice. But it was equally unimaginable to Renathal the Sire could permit such an atrocity to occur. The theological paradox twisted his mind as the carriage rattled its way across Penance Bridge, his anxious eyes wandering over the approaching silhouettes of the Grand Palisade: tall, stately spires on black brick foundations that sank into a sheer, nearly vertical drop. Just below the bridge, the cliffside was wreathed in mist, the thin, stretched wisps painting the smooth grey stone in shades of unbroken blue.

Except - Renathal sat up sharply - for a splash of outborn purple.

“Stop!”

Renathal rapped hard on the carriage roof. The sinrunners whinnied in protest as the driver tugged fiercely on their reins. Before the confused dredger had managed to bring the creatures to a complete stop, the Prince had flung the door open, leaped to the bridge with a clatter and - wincing at the anima expenditure - stepped over the edge into empty space. Tendrils of crimson magic bore him gracefully through the twilit air toward the cliff, and the familiar lavender figure clinging to its side.

Determined not to give his Master cause for any more ‘disappointments’, Renathal had maintained a safe distance from the castle and its mortal occupant since he had caught her climbing down it weeks before. Not that her presence had ceased to haunt him; her dusky skin, her uncommon heat, the laughter he had unexpectedly drawn from her had all featured highly in his private moments. But now, watching her slide a few cautious inches down the steep incline, Renathal was more than a little put out to find her engaged in another ill-advised attempt at escape, in spite of his warning.

He slowed to a stop and hovered just above her right shoulder, the noise of his coat caught in the breeze prompting Elisewin to turn her head.

“Were you to succeed in this endeavour,” Renathal began without preamble, “are you aware where you would find yourself?”

Elisewin blinked at him.

“Hopefully … the Endmire?”

The question was broken by laborious breaths. Her knuckles were white, her arms shaking as she fought to keep her grip on the unaccommodating stone. That same, strange instinct to come to her aid sprang to life in Renathal's chest. He crossed his arms over it firmly.

“There is no escape that way, either.”

“I’m not trying … to escape,” panted Elisewin tersely. “I am trying … to carry out … my task.”

Her blue-white eyes glittered in defiance. It was the most emotion Renathal had yet seen from her, and he detected no hint of a lie. But the statement was so odd he could not help repeating:

“You have been set a task in the Endmire?”

Her reply was an odd downward jerk of her chin. A nod, assumed Renathal, until, following her gaze, he noted the cloth sack knotted tightly around her waist.

“I’m supposed … to be searching … for anima,” panted Elisewin, shifting her weight from one leg to another. “He says Venthyr … can’t go in there.”

She slid another deliberate inch down the cliff as Renathal considered this, her feet finding a narrow crevice and cramming the toes of her soft-soled slippers inside.

“That is true,” mused Renathal quietly, speaking as much to himself as to Elisewin. "One of the Endmire's central dangers is its unfortunate habit of eating away at the soul. To be sent there is the worst punishment a Venthyr can endure, apart from the Ember Ward, and even then, the guilty are only ever interred in cages along its edges. Any unavoidable errands in that place are given to Dredgers who have a trick for withstanding its effects temporarily. But I suppose a mortal might..."

Renathal trailed away, inspecting Elisewin dubiously, as if searching for outward signs of some special, heretofore unrevealed resilience. She did not notice. Possibly, she had not heard any of his explanation. She was busy feeling for handholds in the cliff, nails scrabbling against stone equally smooth and impassive as what Renathal remembered of her signature expression. Not that she wore it now. On the contrary, she looked harassed and distinctly uncomfortable. Renathal furrowed his brow.

“But if your errand is sanctioned, why not simply take the lift down?”

“There’s a lift?”

Stretching out an arm, Renathal indicated the cliff face on the bridge’s other side where, shrouded in mist, the creaking cords of the little-used lift could just be seen. Elisewin groaned. She let her forehead drop to the rock with a muted thunk. Renathal’s mouth worked ferociously to repress a sudden wicked grin.

“As you are on a mission for the Master, I suppose I might offer my assistance,” he said instead, all formal politeness, lowering himself through the air until he was again just above her eye level. “Unless,” he added archly, “you simply enjoy climbing down things?”

Elisewin blew a wayward strand of sweaty hair from her eyes.

“Not particularly,” she replied.

Her accompanying smile, however breathless, breathed life into Renathal’s own. He could feel his lips curl past his fangs as he extended his hand in a mirror of their previous meeting and commanded, "Come."

This time, Elisewin considered for a few, nervous seconds before, at last, relinquishing her grip on the cliff and reaching for Renathal's hand. His fingers locked around her wrist and, with one firm tug, Renathal pried her mortal body from the rock and collected it securely against him. The dark top of Elisewin's head brushed his goatee as she tucked her face into his armored throat, her hands digging into his coat’s fur lapels as desperately as they had the stone. Renathal’s smile edged towards a smirk he was glad she could not see. With minimal effort, he summoned more anima to support them and glided smoothly down.

And down.

Until the shadows of the Grand Palisade disappeared and Penance Bridge became an oddly-shaped cloud in the distant sky. But it was not what loomed above them that made Renathal’s cold skin crawl. It was what lurked below them. The unnatural chill that crept through his veins even before his booted feet touched the ground.

The Endmire.

There was no part of Revendreth its Prince had not at one time explored. But the adventurous exploits of his relative youth were many eons past, and this was not a part of the realm any Venthyr in their right mind had reason to frequent. Already, in the seconds Renathal spent blinking, acclimating his eyes to the denser darkness, he could feel the Endmire start to gnaw at his essence. He knew the longer he stayed within its confines, the more it would strip from him, the weaker he would become, and the harder it would be to escape. Instinct demanded he find higher ground immediately. Only -

Elisewin shifted against him, lifting her head to find his eyes.

“Thank you. Your Highness. Again,” she said, and smiled; but it was weaker, shakier than the one only minutes before, and she had not yet pulled free of his protective embrace.

Perhaps the Endmire had more effect on mortals than the Master anticipated.

Hands still clinging loosely to Renathal's coat, Elisewin's head swiveled in each direction, inspecting their dim surroundings, and the long, thin slice across her cheek Renathal had not noticed on the cliff caught his attention. Unwrapping an arm from around her, he let his fingers trace the air just over the cut, resisting the temptation to touch her heated skin.

“Where did you receive this?”

“What?” Her hand flew compulsively to her cheek, brushing his fingers on the way. “Oh, that. Just a ... dredbat. In the ... Banewood.”

She pronounced the words slowly, as if making certain she had them right. Renathal wondered if the sudden cramping sensation in his stomach was a natural effect of the Endmire or the thought of Elisewin attacked.

“Another task of the Sire’s?” he asked.

She nodded.

"Part of my... atonement."

Pinpricks of some dark colour uninterpretable in the gloom blossomed on Elisewin's high cheekbones as Renathal continued to stare.

“Speaking of which,” she said, extricating herself politely from his remaining arm. “I really ought to get to work, your Highness. You know..."

She gestured feebly at the ground with one hand, the other fumbling to untie the cloth bag knotted to her heavy black skirts. It took her three tries. Her fingers were shaking. And Renathal made up his mind.

If Denathrius had set her an assignment here, he - the Prince - could not overrule it. But the thought of leaving the mortal and her warm, easily-marked flesh to traverse this nightmare on her own was almost as impossible to fathom, whatever her sins.

“Of course,” Renathal agreed. He shook back his hair, smoothed down his coat, and steeled his unsteady resolve. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we may quit this... unpleasant locale.”

The cloth bag froze halfway to Elisewin's shoulder. She blinked at Renathal again.

“We?”

Renathal hoped his nod looked more confident than it felt.

“I am familiar with the Endmire and its perils. As I am here already, and you are yet new to Revendreth, I shall escourt you for as long as is safe, then remove us both.”

Elisewin's mouth fell half open, then hung there, as if she had misplaced the words she meant to say. Without waiting for her to find her tongue, Renathal chose a direction at random and began to trek down the unkempt path.

"This way."

A second of silence. Then, a light patter of footsteps, a swish of skirts, and a grunt - presumably, as she trod on them - informed him Elisewin followed just behind.

The Endmire, true to its name, was a wandering, labyrinthine marsh. Abandoned for epochs, ill-tended for longer, all historic attempts at cultivation and shelter were left in various stages of collapse and decay. The place stank of wet rot and that sharp, crackling odor Renathal associated with the exposure of Revendreth's roots. Here the realm was stripped to base, amalgamous elements, and even when efforts and anima had been invested in the area, something preternatural had always lurked within. Vicious, half-formed creatures had a habit of spawning from the proliferant air, and after only a few steps, Renathal could feel the tell-tale, soul-sucking numbness as the Endmire sapped reality from his very person.

Throwing a would-be-casual glance behind to see how the mortal was faring, Renathal watched Elisewin shiver, despite the many layers of her Venthyr dress. He faced forward again, considering appropriate distractions.

"So," he began, speaking over his shoulder, "the Sire has you searching out anima within the realm as part of your atonement?"

“No," came the answer. "I mean - not just anima. Various things. In the Banewood I was supposed to be looking for some sort of flower. Widow’s... something.”

“Widowbloom?” Renathal raised an eyebrow Elisewin could not see. “For what purpose?”

"He did not share. Denathrius - the Sire, I mean - he's not particularly forthcoming."

Her voice was moving away, and Renathal's boots crunched to a halt on the slimy gravel. He turned to find Elisewin tripping carefully off the path, skirts held high, squinting ahead at the murky, unmoving water.

"He seems to want me to find things," she continued as she walked. "I'm not even sure the things themselves really matter. It's more the searching. Speaking of which," she stooped and plucked something from the mud, "Is this what I'm looking for?"

In seconds, Renathal was off the path and at her side, peering at the item in Elisewin's palm, held out for his inspection: asliver of dingy red glass, from which he could just sense a faint pulse of harvestable power.

"Yes," he concluded. "This is anima in a crystalised form. We refer to them as rubies. Although..." Renathal wrinkled his nose. "This is really a piece of one. Rather too small to be any use on its own, I fear, but... if there were more..."

He looked down, regarding the river with a small sniff of distaste, while Elisewin looked up, openly searching Renathal's face, translating his expression like the cramped script of an arcane tome. She tucked the ruby fragment into her bag and let her skirts' many ruffled hems drop to the mud.

"If you prefer, you can follow along the path, your Highness," she said. "I promise, I won't stray far."

Her tone was mild, but something in the way she pronounced his honorific sounded like a challenge.

"Oh, I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty," Renathal retorted wryly. "Or my boots," and he splashed into the water, reveling in Elisewin's appreciative laugh.

Which pretty sound was the last pleasant thing to occur for the next quarter hour, spent wading through the blessedly shallow but nauseatingly filthy water. In spite of his pronouncement, Renathal was secretly glad of his armor which protected his skin from the worst of the ordeal, and he winced and marveled in equal measure at the sight of Elisewin's water-logged skirts. He knew their weight must have doubled, but she ploughed on without complaint, dipping her hand into the muck every few minutes and withdrawing another dirt-crusted gem. Unwilling to be outdone, Renathal refrained from commenting on the increasingly rough terrain, or the prickling numbness which had enveloped his feet and was inching steadily up his legs.

"There seems to be a lot of this in Revendreth," said Elisewin suddenly as they squelched past the crumbling ruins of some long-forgotten building; a guardhouse, Renathal thought. "Has it always been so... run-down?"

"Not at all," he assured her solemnly. "Once, all of Revendreth was inestimably beautiful. The damage and decay you have witnessed is largely the result of the drought." He paused to clamber over a thick outcrop of sludgy bracken before continuing. "Where once excess anima would have been used for upkeep and repair, the Sire has been obliged to redirect it towards the - well, the bare essentials. That is, the continued existence of the Venthyr and the souls within our charge. He..."

But the rest of his explanation faded as Renathal recalled the Accuser's sinister accusations of earlier. Souls sacrificed for anima...

"I see," said Elisewin into Renathal's silence. "The drought has gone on a long time, then?"

"Yes," he confirmed absently," it has been-"

His tongue froze again. Exactly how long had the drought been? A few cycles? A century? Longer? Renathal's memory felt as sluggish as his legs.

It was the Endmire, he told himself, sapping sense from his mind as well as sensation from his limbs. Already, he was slowing; could no longer force his feet to match their original dogged pace. Nor did this escape Elisewin's notice, either, and for several steps, Renathal watched her watching him from the corner of her eye. Then she stopped.

"Prince Renathal," she said, and Renathal knew his shiver had nothing to do with the Endmire and everything to do with the way she said his name. "I think, perhaps, you should... head back." She winced a little at her own inability to couch this with more tact. She pressed on hurriedly, "I do appreciate your assistance, and your company, but... well, you said yourself, this place is deadly for Venthyr. That was the whole point in Den- the Sire sending me in the first place. And really," She hoisted her half-full bag more securely up her arm, "I can manage. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing the task on my own, anyway."

It was laudably done, thought Renathal; the small, self-assured smile, the expression carefully crafted to appear as impassive as her natural face. Only her legs betrayed her, shaking under her soaking skirts. Whether from fear or exhaustion or the drain of the Endmire on her own mortal body, he did not know and it did not matter.

"I think we have both spent quite enough time in this... unwelcoming environment," Renathal decided. "If I remember correctly, a path up one of the more navigable cliffs lies not far ahead on the left. Past there." He indicated a sharp bend in the valley where an island of wild foliage and twisted trees barred the rest of the grimy water course from view. "We shall make for the path. You may retrieve any further anima you find along the way and then consider your task complete. And," he added as an afterthought, "admirably well done."

His attempt at indulgent, Denathrius-like compliment glanced off Elisewin like a poorly thrown punch. Rather than the smile he had hoped to conjure, she cocked her head and resumed that searching expression, intense and impertinent, as though Renathal's face were a puzzle to be solved.

“Are you always so… hands-on in assisting souls with atonement, Your Highness?”

No, was the answer. Most emphatically not. But the question tread ground almost as dangerous as the Endmire through which Renathal hastily resumed his lagging march.

“I assist very few souls in atoning,” was his evasive answer. “That is not the Harvester of Dominion’s purview.”

"Oh?" Water rippled noisily as Elisewin fought to catch him up. "What is?"

Grateful her line of questioning had taken this safer route, and absurdly pleased at her interest in him, Renathal explained:

"The other Venthyr. The nobles and Harvesters, in particular. It is my responsibility to keep those in power on their path, ensure they adhere to their purpose, reward those who do well and... re-educate those who stray."

"I see," said Elisewin again, and Renathal caught the slightest shudder. "Does that happen often?" she asked, panting a little with the effort of keeping up conversation while slogging through water now well past her knees. "Venthyr straying from their purpose, I mean?"

"It happens occasionally," Renathal found himself admitting for some reason. "Even now, there are rumours of rebellion brewing."

"What? Rebellion? Why?"

Each word was punctuated by a sharp inhalation. Renathal turned to find Elisewin doubled over, hands pressed to her sodden knees, fighting for the breath he abruptly remembered was not an affectation for mortals. Her face, tilted to his, was flushed with the effort, and registered genuine shock. The innocence of it made Renathal chuckle softly. He waded back to her, and, solicitously, offered his arm.

"Oh, Venthyr may rebel for any number of reasons," he said matter-of-factly, enjoying the warmth of Elisewin's hand tucked into his elbow as he helped her struggle on. "Likely the drought - its effects and restrictions - are the current precipitating ones, but-" He clicked his tongue, "Venthyr gravitate to power, and most will exploit any weakness to achieve it. There is always at least one Harvester scheming for a way to attain more."

His eyes flicked to Elisewin's profile to gauge her reaction, and caught her slow blink. Renathal was beginning to associate the gesture with surprise.

They dragged themselves at last from the water onto the wide jutty of dead earth and dense, tangled foliage, and paused, Elisewin to catch her breath and wring out her skirts and Renathal to inspect the knot of tree limbs, lamenting his lack of sword. Cutting through the branches would have been effortless. Barring that, he would have preferred to use magic to clear their way. But, quite apart from the looming thought of unnecessary anima expenditures, Renathal was uncertain he possessed enough anima excess. He knew with grim certainty he lacked the power to glide them both away. The Endmire's relentless corrosion had conquered his lower extremities, and he could feel the numbness prickling up his arms as he began to attack the arboreal snarl.

The path ahead was now their only escape.

Pushing this ominous realisation to the back of his mind, Renathal set himself to his task. A warmth against his shoulder told him Elisewin was near, but instead of assisting, she spoke, voice suffused with unusual consternation.

"I don't understand. I thought Venthyr... are they not supposed to be those souls who have successfully atoned? Why are they fighting each other for power? And shouldn't the Harvesters be the most - I don't know - righteous, of them all?"

"Not necessarily," Renathal replied, her voice near his ear sending anima surging helpfully through his veins. "Denathrius handpicks each Harvester. His reasons are his own. Sometimes, those reasons are mysterious. As you well know."

It occurred to Renathal to wonder why he was confiding such dangerous truths to a mortal he had met three times. Perhaps it was the Endmire undermining his well-trained defenses, but... something about confessing his private thoughts to Elisewin felt unnaturally natural.

“Denathrius isn't capable of corruption, then?” she asked.

And the truth he had been denying even to himself hit Renathal like a wayward branch. He flinched at the thought. Distrust of Denathrius was treason. Which was why it was so concerning to Renathal a secret part of him had been considering it. The mysteries and strange discrepancies the Sire cleverly managed not to address... the Accuser's accusations and the paradox they created... all swelled to a crescendo in Renathal's weary brain, and a sudden desperation to be free of the Endmire and its sanity-sapping air overwhelmed him.

He elbowed past the last barring branches, frantically thinking up a suitable answer to Elisewin's difficult question. But the sight that met Renathal on the other side of the thicket plucked the problem neatly from his mind.

It was not the Endbeast's presence that surprised him. Truthfully, he had expected to see one long before now. The Endmire had always been home to any number of unstable creations; that was half the reason he had chosen to escort Elisewin in the first place. What he was unprepared for was the beast's sheer size.

It towered over them - as large as any dredger giant, and a world more disconcerting - its enormous shadow a blue-tinged blanket flung across the Endmire's black. Almost the width of the ravine's narrow bottle-neck, there was no way around it, no way forward without skirting one of its trunk-like limbs. It possessed arms and legs of a nebulous sort, but where a head ought to have been, only three vaguely circular lumps grew. Each was free of anything like discernable facial features, just a hole in their centers, flickering with eerie blue light.

It was impossible to tell if the thing had noticed him - its faceless heads were each as motionless as its titanic frame. Best to slide back the way he had come and regroup, Renathal decided, just as a low crack from behind him froze the unnecessary beating of his heart. He thrust out an arm to stop Elisewin from following him, but she was already clambering through the hole in the branches, exhaling in irritation every time her skirts snagged. She hit Renathal's outstretched arm and stumbled back with another series of noisy snaps. Then her hand hit her mouth with an audible smack as she stifled her instinctive gasp.

The Endbeast's featureless faces creaked slowly in their direction.

Not a well-timed predicament, thought Renathal, recovering himself, but he had certainly faced worse enemies, even if he could not immediately place what or when just now. The effort it took to call anima to his hands was more concerning than the beast itself, and Renathal took special care with his aim, unsure how long his magic would realistically last. This hit needed to matter. Bracing himself on numb legs, Renathal hurled the coil of anima and watched in satisfaction as it hit the abomination dead center between its ill-shaped heads.

It roared, if the sound could be called that with no mouth or vocal cords to produce it. A high uneven keen split the decay, bone-chilling even to the Dark Prince. A crack appeared across the creature's poorly-formed torso, a spurt of eerie blue flame erupting from underneath. It stumbled back two paces, then stopped, and Renathal watched in growing alarm as the Endbeast steadied its legs underneath itself and launched in their direction.

The ground shook beneath Renathal's already unsteady limbs, and the pang of emptiness in his chest told him all he needed to know about his chances of a second anima attack. The Endmire had successfully leeched all his drought-reduced reserve. There were no souls nearby, nothing in the ground he could harvest. He touched his medallion before remembering it, too, was useless. There was no other option.

Fumbling behind him for whatever part of Elisewin he could reach, he found her hand and said with quiet urgency, "Run.”

If it had been his first course of action, they might have managed it, but Renathal's legs were screaming as he lurched forward and sideways, crossing the ground in two drunken strides and splashing through the ankle-deep water, dragging Elisewin behind him. He was aiming for the gap between one of the lumbering Endbeast's legs and the steep cliffside. The wailing creature would close the space in seconds, but they could make it. There was room. There was time. Calling on his threadbare anima reserves, Renathal put on a burst of speed -

-and tripped. His boot slid through loose earth where the water met the embankment, and Renathal hit the mud face-first with a wet smack. Seething in frustration and panic, he rolled as fast as his armor would let him. And there was the Endbeast's huge, flat "foot" above him. It was already descending. There was no time left to plan.

Something else hit Renathal's chest first. He glimpsed a waterfall of dark hair, then a cloud of sparkling blue. And then he was blinking up at the mist-shrouded sky, the ground beneath him abruptly harder, flatter. A rock dug painfully into his spine. It shuddered underneath him, once, twice, three times as - Renathal turned his head - the Endbeast's lower appendage pummeled the embankment thirty paces to the left, exactly where his body should have been.

Something heavy vibrated against Renathal's chest plate. Ragged breathing fluttered his mussed goatee. He dragged his gaze from the rampaging Endbeast to the mortal being atop him.

"How did you do that?"

Elisewin's expression as she blinked up at Renathal echoed his own confusion.

"I have ... no idea," she panted.

There was no time to explore this mystery further. Another eerie howl, like a malignant wind, made them both cringe and scramble to their feet. The sound of their voices, or some eldritch sense, had alerted the Endbeast to their new location. It twisted to face them, collecting its limbs underneath it, preparing for a second advance.

Renathal glanced hopefully at Elisewin, struggling to straighten her cumbersome gown, but she showed no signs of additional convenient magic. And the beast was pivoting slowly, shifting its massive weight toward them. Its mass was a weakness he could use against it if he just had something. Think. He had to think.

“Here, your Highness!" called someone from behind him, and Renathal spun to locate this new and vaguely familiar voice.

Ahead of them, tucked into the shadow of the cliff, lurked a narrow metal cage. And within, a shrouded figure stretched an arm between the bars, brandishing something in his direction.

"Catch!"

The figure tossed its item underhand at Renathal, who, to his own surprise, caught it.

A rapier. A thinner, lighter weapon than he usually preferred, but well-made and sharp; Renathal sliced a finger on the blade as he fumbled it the right way round. He slashed it experimentally through the air, its weight easy to wield in his weakened state.

It would do.

He turned back to face the oncoming Endbeast. Armed, he felt his confidence return in a vital surge. Defying the Endmire's pull on his limbs, scraping his veins for the last trace of anima, Renathal forced his protesting legs to carry him forward, lifting the sword to meet his furious foe. He parried one swipe, dodged another, planted his feet and let the beast's own momentum impale itself on the well-crafted blade.

The Endbeast's sharp, pained keening threatened to shatter Renathal's eardrums. He could feel its massive weight collapsing around him, and tremors wracked both arms as he fought to keep the sword steady. Something snapped, and it was seconds before he understood it was his leg. Only when he hit the ground did he realise he was falling, crushed beneath the creature's corpse, though, numb as his body was, Renathal could not feel it.

How fortunate, he thought with a last flare of mordant humour as his consciousness began to fade. The last thing he saw before his eyes drifted shut was Elisewin's lavender face, very close to his, and the last thought he had before he succumbed to black was that he rather liked it that way.

Read Chapter Four: Anima Awakening | Visit the Masterpost

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