Chapter Text
Malenia’s arm is a steadfast weight around Miquella’s waist, grounding him to the saddle of their shared pony while her other hand grasps at the reins with a tentative sort-of command inherent to general inexperience. Frigid wind bites at what little skin is exposed - his upper face, mainly, everything else bundled beneath layers of gentle wool and soft furs. Malenia wasn’t so nearly as overdressed as him, and Miquella still can’t tell whether it was due to inattentiveness on the part of their caretakers or if she was simply more grown and could thus better handle the miserable conditions of the snowfield.
Miquella squints, the bleak landscape a heavy white hand smothering his view. Malenia’s hair curls in wild scarlet strands at his periphery, her chin practically resting against the top of his head. He’s small enough that he can fit in against her like a doll. In any other circumstances the excessive coddling would make him feel like screaming, but Malenia’s affection feels more like a necessity than condescension.
The attentiveness is warranted regardless of how charitable he feels towards it. Miquella can count on one hand how many times he had been allowed to travel beyond the walls of Leyndell, much less beyond the Plateau. As much as his body is a betrayal, disregarding his frailty would be dangerously foolish. People tend to dislike arrogance written across a child’s face anyhow. He would know, having stared into a mirror.
“Art thou warm enough?” Malenia says from behind him, her breath ghosting out in a white fog.
It’s about the fifth time she’s asked that since their hunting party had entered the snowfield proper, but he disregards the mounting tally in favour of her comfort. “Father had me bundled up like a newborn. I doubt I can move, much less feel the cold.”
She snorts. “I can’t imagine what he would want thee to do either.”
Miquella offers no response other than a grumble, sinking further into the heavy hood shadowing his face. She isn’t wrong. Radagon had been wholly reluctant to let either of them participate in his annual hunting trip, citing both Malenia’s wildly inconsistent health and Miquella’s tendency to get underfoot. Miquella would normally agree that they’re both quite valid reasons had his pride not been stung. Only after weeks of Malenia begging and not-so-cleverly hinting at her capabilities did Radagon finally relent, and where his sister goes, Miquella follows.
“Do not be dour.” Malenia nudges him, squishing him further against her. She reads his discontent about as well as he reads her anticipation. Dependency tends to function much like a crossroads, or a highway with carriages passing side-by-side.
“I am not,” he says, feeling petulant.
“Liar. Thou’rt always complaining about how thou wish that Mother would allow thee more freedoms beyond the city, but given the chance thou always gripe about how much thou would rather be back home.”
Were it not for her iron grip, Miquella would swivel around to glare at her. As it is, all he can do is glower at the view in front of him and hope she can sense it. “I am not upset about the trip, only that I am meant to sit and keep still.”
“So am I. I’ve not the skill with a bow to be trusted to shoot anything other than one of our company. The only difference is that I am not complaining.”
“I appreciate thy optimism.”
With both hands occupied, Malenia resorts to bonking his head with her chin as a reprimand. “At least try to enjoy the ride. I’ve heard tell that it is not so much the hunt that is the main part, but the celebrations afterwards. Thou tend to like that.”
It’s hard to enjoy any celebration when his charm tends to draw people to fawn over him whether he actively exudes it or not, but he supposes he does like other aspects of festivities. The food might be nice. “Who did thou hear that from?”
“Some of the squires in our company.”
“Ah, yes, such a trustworthy source.”
She smacks him with her chin again. Her exasperation makes a grin crack out on his face, despite all his airs of misery. “Would it kill thee to not suck every ounce of joy out from this?”
“Not that I actively try. I just find it difficult to imagine that any celebration could truly be joyous with our Lord Father present. He’s so sullen it would be like trying to celebrate a rainbow in the midst of a thunderstorm.”
“Perhaps he can be goaded into drinking?”
“Willst thou be willing to take the challenge?”
“Absolutely not. Thou wouldst be more suited to convincing him besides.”
Miquella huffs. Radagon does tend to be more receptive to Miquella’s whims than Malenia’s. Bewitchment has little effect, but childish affection is still a tool he wields that can be easily capitalized on. Miquella learned young to take a category of all he had at his disposal, and how efficiently each could be honed into a well-sharpened blade. A curse can be a blessing if one is smart enough to know how to wield it. A rotting block of wood can still become a throne.
Radagon stalls his horse a bit, allowing Malenia ample time to catch up to him at the head of the party. His wolves trot a few yards further up with their heads swivelling eagerly to catch the scent of prey, all of them bright abstractions against the snow like a careless spray of blood. Miquella eyes the golden greatsword strapped to his saddle with some interest. Curious that he would bring such an extravagant weapon on a hunting trip.
“Art the two of thee faring well?” he says, his tone mild. Miquella is acutely reminded of Malenia rehashing the same question not five minutes ago.
“Yes, father.” He sinks a bit more into his hood, his nose tickled by the fluffy fur trim. He knows the question is only out of parental obligation, but the coddling still irks him.
Malenia nods as a counterpart. “As well as can be, though Miquella has been complaining the whole time.”
“Has he? With all his begging I assumed that he would be bouncing in the saddle.”
“I am fine,” he groans, wiggling a bit in Malenia’s grip. “I am only bored, and not enticed by the prospect of riding another three hours in this accursed place.”
‘Well, thou didst say that I am dull. It is only reasonable that this would be dull as well.”
“Thou heard us?” Malenia says, suddenly sitting straight up. Miquella can imagine the comical bulge of her eyes quite well. “Even from all the way up there?”
Miquella wriggles more, turning to hiss at her. “Don’t give us away!”
Radagon smiles, a slight upturn of the corners of his lips that would normally be unsettling on anyone else. “The wind carries thy voices upstream quite well. Unfortunately for us, that means our prey should be harder to find, so thou willst have to bear with this for a while longer.”
Miquella suppresses a groan, unwilling to seem ungrateful. So many things he could be doing right now, all of them so much more productive, yet here he sits, encased by his sister’s strong arm and his father’s bottomless well of patience. Neither are virtues he necessarily possesses.
“Why didst thou bring thy sword?” Malenia asks, covering the blind spots of Miquella’s petulant silence. “I cannot imagine it shall be overly useful on a hunt.”
“These lands are strictly forbidden, save for this one turn of the year. All sorts of blasphemies may yet converge, and there are many creatures that lurk here that wouldst not be so easily felled by a mere bow and arrow besides.”
Miquella feels the motion of Malenia rolling her shoulders, her attention piqued by the implication of action beyond running down a few stags. It occurs to him that their father never did say outright what they would be hunting.
“That is why I say thou shouldst be more alert,” he continues, his normal monotone taking on something of a sharp edge. “Not only would entering these lands at any other point constitute heresy, but there may be dangers unspotted that thou wouldst do well to recognize.”
“Such as what?” Malenia leans in, as if she was listening to a fireside story.
Miquella pipes in. “I heard that there exists a dragon at the heart of the snow, and with every breath it takes it sends flurries gusting across the mountainside.”
“There does exist a dragon in these lands, my little scholar, though there is no reason for us to make it our enemy. No, there are other beasts afoot. Perhaps not quite so legendary, but dangerous all the same.” He fixes both of them with a look. Sharp, but not unkind. “I trust thee, Malenia, to keep an eye out for thy brother’s sake.”
Malenia’s grip against him tightens even further. Miquella makes a show of gagging, which goes unfortunately ignored. “Yes, father.”
The wolf at the head of the party suddenly perks up, seemingly having caught a scent. Radagon motions for the company to slow. After a great deal of sniffing the lead one jets off, the rest of the pack following behind and soon disappearing into the dense blizzard.
“It seemeth thou’rt lucky, Miquella. Thy torture should not last much longer.”
“Will we not lose the wolves?” Malenia asks.
Miquella snorts. “They are red. If thou lose sight of them in this place I dare say there is no hope for thee.”
Taking advantage of the stability of their slow trot, Malenia unwraps her arm from around his waist to pinch his nose. “I did not ask for thy opinion, you little twat!”
Radagon doesn’t laugh at their antics, but Miquella can read the faint glimmer of amusement writ across his face well enough to receive the same impression. “Calm thyself, Malenia. And no, we should not. The wolves shall do a fine job of running down our prey for us. All we need to do is follow the tracks before the wind blows it away.”
Malenia gives Miquella one more pinch for posterity before resuming her fierce hold. “Shouldst we not follow suit?”
“ I shall. Thou shalt stay back with the main body of the party. It was enough trouble to bring thee here in the first place, but I shall not risk thee in the more frantic parts of the hunt.” Upon noticing Malenia’s fairly blatant disappointment, he adds. “Worry not, Malenia, Miquella. I shall call for thee when we reach the wolves. There shall be plenty of glory for thee yet.”
“Yes, father,” they say in unison, Miquella with much more relief at the promise of little action. Malenia deserves far more glory than what is found in a miserable hunting trip that is more for the hounds than anything else, anyhow.
With one final nod Radagon spurs his horse into a gallop, his long braid streaming out behind him like a velvet ribbon. A few other members of the party follow suit, mostly minor royals and other faceless nobility Miquella doesn’t recognize nor care about. Nevermind that - the hunt is both enrichment for the hounds and a chance for his father to curry favour with all the unlovely little ants of the social hierarchy. If looked at less charitably they could still be the same thing.
Obeisances to the throne may be obligatory, but obligation tends to go down smoother if backed with friendly relation. His father’s role as Elden Lord had been a point of contention in the courts for as long as he can remember, his more scholastic approach to the Order not near as deeply-rooted as Godfrey’s long era of championship.
Godfrey was also supposedly far more charismatic. Miquella has obviously never met the man, but he supposes the bar would be on the ground considering his father’s uncannily blank disposition. Not that he doesn’t admire the cleverness of the whole song and dance. He finds it much easier to get what he wants from people when they’ve something of a sense of affection for him. Manipulation becomes a welcome thing in the guise of a passively cherubic smile. Miquella has taken tools from those around him and turned them into needles, miniscule and sharp.
Such is the way of children, or so he’s heard.
“Perhaps we should ride ahead?”
Miquella startles at the question, wriggling around to give Malenia a quizzical glare. “Didst thou not hear father? He said to stay with the main party.”
“By the time he calls for us the prey may as well be already butchered. It would be prudent to ride ahead anyhow, would it not?” She says, earnest in her impatience. Miquella dislikes her recklessness but treasures her genuine excitement, rare and dampened by her rot as it is. It really does gladden him to see her so bright, almost as if she were allowed to act like a true adolescent for the day.
He also has absolutely no interest in whatever scheme she’s threatening to propose.
“And get lost? There is no map of this field.”
She tosses back her hair, a little too haughty for his tastes. “I shall not have it said that Malenia, daughter of Marika, forfeit a chance to strike down her prey!”
“And I will not have it said that Miquella, son of Radagon, was tossed off his horse and buried under five feet of snow!” He snaps, but the words are lost as Malenia kicks their pony into a gallop with a bit too much gusto, the full onslaught of the blizzard flying hitting him and effectively shutting him up.
He shoves his face deeper into his hood as they ride, their increased speed sending the wind to cut at his eyes. Even from his limited vision he can tell that Malenia is riding too fast. Normally Miquella would have more faith in her, but their pace is intense and the conditions are wildly unfavourable. There’s a decent chance that a single misstep could have them both plummeting through the drifts.
Much to his chagrin, Malenia spurs their pony on more. She shouts something in his ear that might be a warning, or an apology, but it’s whipped away by the wind as she moves the arm that was around his waist to grasp at the reins for better control. Suddenly, Miquella finds himself scrabbling at the lip of the saddle for something to steady himself beyond the cage of Malenia’s body. Easier said than done, with his hands bundled in mittens so thick he can barely move his thumbs.
Beyond the instinctive fear spawning from such little stability at so fast a speed, Miquella finds something of a thrill in their wild chase. He had never really been in so perilous a situation. The drop in his stomach as they bound through the snow feels as if he could sprout wings and leave his pathetic body once and for all.
Adrenaline quickly gives way to dread as the tracks they had been following suddenly leads them to a long stretch of frozen river, spanning off into a considerable drop on one side. At their speed, Malenia has little time to react and slow their pony. Miquella squeezes his eyes shut as their consistent motion becomes unstable all at once, the pony skittering across the sheer surface of the river with the full momentum of a charging bull.
What spooks the pony he doesn’t see, but in the same breath that Malenia shrieks he feels himself go flying into the air, his hands scrabbling uselessly for something to prevent his fall. He slides across the ice, the cold seeping in even through the many layers of his cloak. In the moment it feels as irrelevant as whatever bruises he accumulated. The dread curdles. The idea of Malenia hurting herself is so beyond whatever injury Miquella sustained that the very idea steals the breath from his mouth, as if simply being unable to see her put her life in an ambiguous state.
He attempts to push himself up into a walking position, hands braced steadily against the ice as he slowly rises from a crouching position. A tentative relief blooms as he manages to catch a glimpse of her scarlet mop of hair before it’s subsequently snatched away and replaced yet again with the feeling of weightlessness, his legs slipping out from under him and sending him rolling further back, where the steep lip of the hill meets the flatter plains that make up the main body of the snowfield. His fall happens all too quickly to register - one moment punctuated by a quick flash of fear as he slips, the next few spent in a whirling steel-grey vortex as his body tumbles down the hill and into a heavy drift at the bottom.
He rights himself, skin stinging from his faceplant into the snow. The fall had knocked his hood askew, his hair already soaked through. The chill sets in almost immediately. He can barely feel his face, his skin now an unknowable thing on his body like a layer of cold paint. Rationally, he knows he should avoid panic, but logic doesn’t prevent his panicked gasps nor does it stop the tears beading in his vision. Wherever Malenia is now, she is far beyond his reach.
His body made a decent trench in the snow as he fell, marking the direction he came from, but the hill is far too steep to consider clambering back up. He doesn’t know if he can stand - it doesn’t register to try - but if he could he would only be swallowed by the drifts, easily twice his meager height. He has no choice but to stay put, for better or for worse. It would be the best option, making it far easier for him to be found, but the question of how remains.
Through the monotonous howl of the wind, the sound of footsteps cuts through cleanly and snaps Miquella from his brooding. He whips his head in the general direction of the noise, approaching from his left. He can very faintly make out a humanoid shape amidst the whirling snow - a shape with blatant red hair.
Hope is a distinctive emotion that lives in his throat. Miquella keeps his lips sealed shut in the event that crying out for help so soon would let it escape. The figure is too oddly misshapen - neither the towering form of his father nor Malenia’s more slender silhouette.
He had only seen one skulking about the lower alleys of Leyndell once, but the distinct presence of a leonine misbegotten isn’t easily forgettable. Miquella does his best to scramble backwards as it nears, hulking and hungry. Demigod he may be, but his faith at how well he would do in a proper fight fails when he considers he’s never even participated in an informal spar.
The thought of violence makes his stomach turn anyhow, as if raising a hand against anything else would be a betrayal of himself. Malenia long ago swore to dirty her hands for him, but that never extended to anything beyond carrying insects out of his room. What is he to do in the few circumstances where she isn’t around? Cry for help? She wasn’t even carrying a blade. His overreliance on her is as much as a curse snuggly wrapped about his neck as it is a comforting pair of hands. Miquella quite literally can’t stand on his own two feet.
What a pitiful way to go. Miquella, son of Radagon of the Golden Order, massacred by a stray misbegotten at the tender height of his youth. Malenia, daughter of Queen Marika the Eternal, cursed to exist without her other half as her brother died without his.
It approaches slowly, in a sort of feline way. On closer inspection Miquella can see that it’s limping, its right ankle twisted in a way that makes him feel like gagging. Sympathy is a tender flower that blooms in the cold. The agony of dragging itself around the dense snow of the field with such an injury must be unbearable, much in the same way that Miquella can’t force himself to his feet.
“Come now,” he whispers, ceasing his undignified backwards wiggling. He can’t fight, but Miquella wields far more than his claws. “I know it seemeth uncouth, but wouldst thou allow me to help thee?”
It continues its advance, but with a more tentative stride, Miquella’s charm having a fairly strong effect even if it cannot understand his soft words. What good healing it would do for him isn’t apparent, but perhaps healing it is good enough on its own. Miquella understands himself enough to know that the sight of its malformed ankle would stay with him like a splinter if he did nothing to ease it, even if he had nothing to do with its cause.
“I know thy pain, and I know I can relieve thee of it.” His voice sounds pathetic, carried off by the winds. Not that it matters. His words are more to steady his own racing heart than to have the misbegotten be charmed by his wordplay.
It slows only a few inches from Miquella’s little outstretched hand, then stops, the hot gust of its breath tickling his fingers. It truly is fearsome this close, like all the stories of old Lord Godfrey turned abstract in the form of a starving beast. Miquella can’t help himself from shaking even as he curses himself for his cowardice, its red eyes boring into him like twin wounds.
It lunges before he can mutter his prayer. Miquella somehow manages to launch himself backwards out of pure base reflex, its claws digging through the heavy wool leggings at his ankle instead of his throat.
Pain is an emotion without words. Miquella thinks he screams, but the sudden onslaught of fire alighting his nerves robs him of rational thought. He can’t move- can’t breathe- all he can focus on is the agony in his lower leg and the tilting vision of the snowfield around him, simultaneously unfathomably distant and a hard cushion beneath his head.
Funny. He was so concerned with the discomfort the misbegotten must have felt with its own broken ankle. Empathy often has a tendency to manifest as irony. Still, he can’t blame it, any more than he could blame a cat for toying with its prey.
Through the dense film of pain he registers the sound of hooves, shaking the ground. Miquella closes his eyes out of reflex for the incoming blow but is blinded by the distinctive flash of his father’s greatsword regardless, its ethereal form cutting through the air where the misbegotten was a mere second ago. He curls in on himself, a small dead weight in the snow, miserable in his pathetic state.
Despite logic screaming for him not to, he cracks open an eye. The once-fearsome form of the misbegotten is rendered a pitiful thing against his father’s imposing figure astride his horse, his greatsword a bright beacon against snow. Through his pain Miquella reaches a sort of sorrow for the creature’s sad fate, in the same way he wanted to heal it beforehand if only so it could walk.
“Father-!” he manages, propping himself up on a shaking arm. “Please, do not-”
His words fall short, snatched by the wind. No sooner does the misbegotten lunge is it impaled on a golden lightning stake, barbed and unmerciful in its finality. His father had barely moved, save to throw it. Miquella chokes on something resembling disgust as it twitches before falling still, slumping ungracefully to the cold ground in a red-and-beige heap.
He can barely hold back the tears at this point. Biting down on his lip probably only makes him seem more pathetic. He can’t even force himself to look at the state his leg is in, as if visual confirmation would turn it into something real.
A mocking voice sounds in his head, very much resembling his own. Malenia had been rotting from the inside out since she was born. Mother said there wasn’t a moment when she stopped crying, save for when her own tears robbed her of breath and she was forced to gasp for air. A simple gash is miniscule in comparison, like threading a needle in through the skin on the pad of his finger. The own pathetic compulsions of his body continue to follow him, shame manifested in the form of a crow searching for red flesh.
“Does it hurt?”
Miquella looks up. Through the blur of tears his father’s form is a dark thing in his vision, the long whip of his braid a violent flash. Briefly, he wonders if this was the last thing the misbegotten saw as well. Similarities well up in a bid for sympathy. Miquella can only understand others the way he understands himself.
Unbidden, a tear streaks down his cheek, running hot-then-cold in the bite of the air. Radagon kneels down, pulling Miquella close with an extraordinary tenderness in contrast to the violence that took place not a minute ago. Indignation manifests as a reflex at the delicate treatment. Miquella bites further on his lip and tastes blood.
“My budding sapling. It shames thee, does it not?” He says, voice gentle. The mangled remains of his wool leggings are peeled away from the wound, leaving the entirety of the gash exposed to the wind and ice.
Miquella nods. Even his voice betrays him.
“Thou wert lucky,” he continues. “The wolves knew well thy scent and were able to lead me to thee. ‘Tis fortunate that I found thee when I did.”
The warm glow of his incantation is an immediate relief, the torn muscle and skin knitting back together in an unblemished surface. Perhaps Miquella could have done the same for the misbegotten had his charm taken proper hold - had his father not swooped in with such finality. His father, now healing him with the same type of magic that he had formed into a spear to down the beast, expecting it to be a gentle thing.
His touch gives no warmth. Miquella feels as if he’s being cradled by a marble statue, but leans in regardless.
“Why didst thou kill it?” He manages, his voice coming out as a pathetic whisper.
“Wouldst thou rather I let it eat thee?” His tone is soft; his same distinct flat affect that’s a comforting familiarity, but there’s an exasperated edge to it. Almost serrated.
“It was only an animal.” Another tear slides down and seeps into the dark furs of Radagon’s cloak, as if he were an overfull glass. A part of him, aware of his perpetual childishness, shrieks in white-hot outrage at the comfort he’s taking from his father’s touch, even as he is disgusted with the blood on his hands.
“Yes,” he says, firm and final. “It was only that.”
Miquella sniffs. One nostril is clogged completely, the other runny with snot. Breathing is a lopsided task, unfulfilling and manual. He supposes he could breathe through his mouth, but then his lips would chap and blister and add more complications to his already long list of inconveniences. He doesn’t fancy the idea of laying around and gasping like a beached fish anyhow.
He sniffles again, attempting to discreetly wipe his nose on one of the many blankets engulfing him. Malenia hits him with a pillow.
“Enough! If thou dirty my blankets more than thou already have I’ll send thee back to thy own chambers!”
“Yes, yes, I apologize.”
“Here!” A handkerchief flutters down on his face. Miquella presses it to his nose, attempting to dislodge the blocked nostril with little success. “I’ve enough to deal with without thy sniffling.”
“But the handkerchiefs dirty so quickly, and I have no room left to blow my nose without sullying my face. The blanket is far more convenient.”
Another pillow to the face. Fair’s fair. “Thou’rt a healer! Thou shouldst know a thing or two about propriety.”
“Of course, sister dearest. The proper way to annoy thee, first and foremost.”
Malenia huffs, rolling over on her side and fairly purposefully taking the blankets with her. In a strange reversal Miquella is for once the sick one, his stint in the snowfields manifesting as a persistent cold. Easy enough to cure with an incantation, but his nurse was adamant in the idea that his young body would be better off processing the illness as normal so as to build up an immunity. Miquella despised her phrasing but was forced to concede that she had a point. He is still half-human, and his humanity must be tended to, much like a weed in an otherwise pristine garden.
Gardening in this case means huffing the perfumes given to him to ease his headache and clear his sinuses, but he’s really in no place to complain. Quite literally, given that he can barely speak without sounding like he’s pinching his nose.
Malenia herself claimed that she was awfully sore but otherwise fine, her health seemingly cresting on the wave where the progression of the rot up her right arm stays still. What Malenia’s criteria for fine would be in comparison to his own, Miquella doesn’t know. Perhaps much like he’s feeling, irregular breathing and headache and all the other glamourous functions of a cold included.
She at least feels well enough to hit him with a pillow, returning to her regular levels of exasperation with him after the sheer terror of losing him in the snowfield. She clutched him like a doll on the way back to Leyndell, their father firmly unwilling to allow them to ride their pony. Miquella knows her failure still stings, but as Radagon had said, losing him was enough of a punishment for her that any further reprimand would be plainly cruel.
Miquella, for his part, relished in the comfort of Malenia’s grip, at least until he felt well enough to actively be a nuisance, as siblings are wont to be. It should be beneath him, but playing the part of a childish younger brother seems to allow Malenia to fall into a fantasy of a world where she could be the mature older sister without the persistent shadow of the scarlet rot hanging over her like a noose. Functioning as the crux of a delusion is an allowance he’ll make to Malenia, and only to Malenia, because he knows she would do anything for him in return.
The depths of her loyalty scared him at first, much like with his bewitchment, but given time all things gain direction.
Miquella reaches over to the side table blindly, scrabbling at the perfume bottle his caretaker had left for him. He doesn’t bother reading the label - the intense herbal scent alone is enough to identify it as something meant to ease his breathing. His nose flares on reflex, but the sharpness of the aroma seems to lessen the rise and fall of his chest into something less desperate.
“I would like to learn of perfumery,” he starts, wincing at how remarkably stuffy his voice comes out. “I suppose it would be useful, would it not?”
Malenia rolls over, her hair forming a fluffy scarlet nest around her pale face. “Perhaps father could find a perfumer to tutor thee.”
“Perhaps. Or I could find one myself.” He dislikes having to run to his father for every request. Malenia does too, but in his case it simply feels demeaning.
“If thou wert left to thine own devices thou wouldst be as likely to come back with an Omenkiller as thou wouldst one better suited to handling children.”
Miquella sneers at the mention. His father called them a necessary public shame , showing no more remorse than he would for a crushed spider. Shame is welcome in moderation if it helps combat the more desperate nightmares roaming the streets. Much like a foul medicine, or poison in small doses.
Miquella seems to be the only one to feel any true disgust for the lot on principle, no matter how generally disliked they are. “Thou thinketh I wouldst associate with their kind?”
“I am only saying that thou have a tendency to do what thou like.” She shrugs, cheek smushed against the pillow. “Regardless, father wouldst surely be glad to hear of thee pursuing more areas of study.”
“As he would to hear of thee studying at all.”
Malenia flushes. No matter how much she likes to pretend to be stoic, the barest hint of embarrassment tends to bloom across her cheeks like dye in water. “I have my blade, and that is all I need.”
Miquella snorts, but before he can voice the sardonic reply readied on his tongue the door to their chambers cracks open, cutting him off. Godwyn sticks his head in almost sheepishly, a very odd motion on a man of his stature.
“Ah! Thou’rt awake. I hope I didst not awaken thee.”
“Brother!” Malenia sits up, her annoyance shed like a light cloak. “Not at all. It is impossible to get any rest with this one here.”
“Do not sully my image,” Miquella hisses. Godwyn laughs, a polite sound reminiscent of the sun peeking out through a cloud.
Godwyn steps in fully, shutting the door behind him with gentle courtesy. His hair is bound in a thick braid that falls to his waist, conspicuously messy. He must have been out flying, if Miquella’s deduction is correct. Jealousy surges in a brief spark before it’s tamped down with the type of efficiency that only comes with repetition.
“I heard from thy Lord Father of what happened just now. I admit I came in a rush to see thee, worried as I was.”
Miquella exchanges a brief look of surprise with Malenia, discreet in a way that only twins can manage. As polite and upstanding as Godwyn is, his discomfort with his stepfather isn’t necessarily a secret he keeps well. Even Radagon himself, emotionally inept as he is, had caught on and thus made it his business to force Godwyn to endure his presence as little as possible. Most likely it doesn’t help their relationship at all, but what can Miquella say? He hardly knows what it’s like to struggle with any connection, personal or otherwise.
“‘Tis gracious of thee, brother.” Miquella says, scrabbling into a sitting position as well. Malenia fluffs up the pillow at his back, propping him up like a sackcloth doll.
“Thou’rt exceedingly fortunate to escape with all thy limbs intact, Miquella. A leonine misbegotten is a fearsome creature.”
For thee, lies unspoken, hanging in the air like perfume. His father slew it easier than he would bat aside a fly. Most likely Godwyn would exert about the same effort. Miquella, with his soft frame and miniature stature, can barely heft a rapier. He doesn’t know if he could bring himself to wield it regardless, even were he growing into the body nature should have given him. Budding sapling, like a fruit held just above his head. Budding usually entails a promise for growth, yet here he is.
“It was hurt. I would have healed it had it not spooked so suddenly, and so it managed to wound me.” He sighs, sinking a bit into his pillow. Malenia’s hand slithers out to grasp his. He squeezes it automatically. “My father had impeccable timing, so I suppose I am fortunate indeed.”
“That is why thou’rt so dour, it seemeth. Thy bleeding heart shall be the death of thee, though I suppose it is a fine trait to have.” Miquella presses himself further back into the pillow at the comment, manners be damned. “And I suppose it is why thou’rt huddled together like two peas in a pod. Couldst they not heal thy cold outright?”
“Perhaps they could, and spare me my suffering, but I am told to bear with it and strengthen myself instead.”
“Thou’rt terribly dramatic” Malenia mutters. Miquella sticks out his tongue.
Godwyn settles himself in the chair on Malenia’s side, hands folded neatly in his lap. “It is true, thou know’st. When I was young I was riddled with fever for two weeks with nothing but perfumes and herbs to sustain me, and came out the other side better for it.” He pauses, lips tilted pleasantly, before adding “It does sound like something our Queen Mother would enjoy, does it not? To strengthen oneself through adversity?”
“I suppose if it is true, and I dare not doubt our mother, then Malenia shall be the strongest of us all.”
She makes an odd face at the compliment, cheeks nearly the same shade as her hair. The colour deepens further with Godwyn’s bright laugh, petering out like a gentle summer rain.
“Truly, though. I am glad to see thee safe.”
“I wouldst be more glad if I were given a chance to help the creature, rather than lead it to its death.”
“Thou worry too much over such a graceless creature.” Godwyn purses his lips. “I wouldst not upset thyself. Thou shouldst be more grateful that thou escaped with nothing but a cold.”
“Still, the guilt remains that I was powerless to aid it. I cannot help what cannot understand the intent.”
“Thy kindness is honourable, though perhaps misdirected.” Miquella suppresses a scowl at the comment, presumably doing a good enough job that Godwyn continues without acknowledgment. “Didst thou think that it would perhaps leave thee be?”
“I do not know, only that my intent was sincere. Is that not enough to justify my guilt?”
“Of course,” he says, and his gentle tone grates like the serrated edge of a knife. “Though fath- Godfrey considered it a virtue, I, too, dislike excessive violence.”
Miquella raises an eyebrow. “That is difficult to believe.”
“Is it? Warrior I may be, but much like an artist, I know well when enough is enough.” He smiles. This time it’s a tender thing, like a flower blooming. “It is why I have my dear Fortissax by my side, and not strung up in the dining hall as a trophy.”
Miquella tilts his head back against his pillow, this time somewhat chagrined. Of course Godwyn would share the sentiment, limited as his own version may be. He was the one who laid aside his spear in favour of an extended hand to the dragons, after all. “That much is true.”
“Perhaps, if thou’rt so keen on pursuing pacifism, thou couldst ask thy Lord Father for permission to speak with Fortissax.” He makes an odd face, a cross between sheepishness and humour. “Well- see him, I suppose. I do most of the interpretation.”
Malenia whips her head back and forth between Miquella and Godwyn, her hair fanning out wildly. “Oh, I would like to see a dragon! Do not stall on this, Miquella, or I’ll have thy hide!”
“I dislike having to ask father for permission to so much as breathe,” he grumbles.
Malenia scowls, swatting his arm. “Bear with it! He won’t listen to me after my last stunt landed us in this situation.”
Miquella sniffs.
“Speaking of thy father, I suppose he wouldst be sympathetic to thee as well, considering the circumstances of his last marriage. Perhaps thou couldst beseech him to help hone thy diplomacy.”
He barks out a laugh. “Diplomacy, from father? He couldst not convince his own reflection to crack a smile.”
“I’ve enough of thy sarcasm,” Malenia snaps. He ignores her, quite pointedly.
“Thou shouldst have more respect for thy father,” Godwyn says, quite ironically considering he cannot stand the other man’s presence. “It was he who proposed the union of Caria and the Erdtree in the first place. I know he may be odd, but he is wise regardless.”
It is hard to think of his father suggesting diplomacy, considering his penchant for violence and doglike loyalty to the Golden Order, but Miquella supposes he’s had worse surprises. In any case, it should be useful to him.
“I heard the Carian Queen was so beautiful he could not stomach the thought of raising a weapon against her,” Malenia says, not quite wistful, though something approaching it.
“‘Twas simply convenient, an effort to sublimate the Carians into the Golden Order. The Queen went mad from heartbreak when father left to become Elden Lord, thou know’st.”
“Cynic.”
“I speak the truth,” Miquella says smugly.
“The true sequence of events is only known to thy father at this point,” Godwyn cuts in. “It is a remarkably touchy subject, I might add. Even the bards are forbidden from speaking of it in thy father’s earshot. If thou’rt to approach it, I dare say do it with some tact.”
Miquella grunts in affirmation. Acting with decorum around his father may as well be like dancing a jig in a field of spikes given how difficult it is to properly read him. Not that he’s undeterred. If anything, Godwyn’s words of caution only make him more eager to pursue the thread. If he could learn to bridge the gap between the Order and other shunned species, then he can know them. If he can know them, he can help them, and if he can help them then perhaps he could-
Healing Malenia had always been his purpose, for as far as his memory reaches. His mother always did stress the importance of having an ideal to strive for on the few occasions he’s been graced with her words.
“I shall consider it,” he says, as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. “And I’ll be certain not to mention thy name when he inevitably asks who put the idea in my head.”
Miquella receives another pillow to the face for that, this time with Godwyn’s laughter ringing in his ears like a bell.
Graciously, Miquella was allotted some time to spend with father soon after his cold had cleared up. Aside from periodic check-ins on the progress of his health Miquella had little time alone with him to actually voice his demands, with both his father’s free time largely limited and Malenia steadfast at his side. He was told he was impossible to understand with his sinuses so clogged anyhow, and so Miquella turned the inconvenience into a chance to plan his tactics beforehand.
Radagon, despite being impossible to charm and difficult to grasp on the best of days, can still be goaded into playing along with Miquella so long that he tells him what he’d like to hear with the proper amounts of serene childish stupidity. He had three children in his last marriage. His emotional capacity might more resemble a wolf’s than a human’s, but Miquella has found that he carries a predictability that he can turn to his favour.
His sympathy is rooted in understanding. Miquella can only understand what he finds predictable, in the same way that his bewitchment is a dagger pointed both outwards and in.
The light disc dances above the tips of his fingers, the whorling glow dwarfing his small hand. He tosses it across the arena with as much grace as he can muster in his body, though it still comes out looking feeble. As if to drive the point home, Radagon catches it with ease and sends it flying back in a single fluid motion that Miquella had been trying to replicate for the past hour. No such luck, with his short arms and miniature height. He’s always been a duckling amongst swans.
“Godwyn hath invited me to speak with Fortissax,” he starts, with a reasonable amount of casual innocence. “Malenia and I were both greatly excited at the prospect. May we go?”
“It irks thee to ask for my permission.”
It’s not a question. Miquella suppresses a scowl, mostly hidden by the disc balanced precariously close to his face. Chess is a two-person game. His father has a hound’s loyalty and a scholar’s mind, complete with all the virtues and sins of each. Miquella knows well not to forget it.
He tosses the disc, schooling his features into something passive at the same time. “Perhaps, but it wouldst be more troublesome were Malenia and I to disappear in the middle of the day with no warning.”
“In any case, thou may go.” Again, the disc falls on his fingers with all the grace of a bird fluttering onto a branch. “Godwyn is wise despite his youth. Thou wouldst do well to learn from his example.”
It’s odd for him to claim that Godwyn is young, considering that Godwyn is almost certainly much older than him. Another one of his father’s strange bouts of audacity, he supposes.
“My thanks, father. I am sure Malenia will be glad as well.”
Another pass. Radagon’s expression remains as studiously blank as ever. Miquella often wondered whether it was an affected mask or simply inherent. Maybe he should learn to do the same, in the event that it’s the former scenario. “May I ask why the invitation was extended?”
Miquella pauses. The formula of his answer is crucial; enough of the truth so as not to entangle himself in his own lie, but false enough that it will be exactly what his father wants to hear. Despite Godwyn’s mention, Miquella has not yet tested how deep Radagon’s well of sympathy falls, and he doesn’t really feel like risking the opportunity to find out.
There are bogs in the Altus Plateau so ancient that a three-meter reed would not come close to grazing the bottom, unknowable through the dark veil of peat and water. There’s a creeping sinister aspect bred from uncertain depth.
“I expressed with Godwyn my frustration with the pace of my studies. No matter how far into alchemy I delve, I still have little hope of easing Malenia’s suffering. He suggested that the Ancient Dragon Cult may yet provide some answers, and so I hoped to speak with one such dragon myself.”
Pass. Miquella’s wording is concise, even if his throw is clumsy. It’s not necessarily what transpired, but Radagon has enough of an investment in Miquella’s studies that he should swallow the excuse with little complaint. It is what birthed the light disc they throw, after all; a manifestation of genuine gratitude on Miquella’s part for his father introducing him to alchemy in the first place.
Radagon arches an eyebrow, but otherwise shows no signs of disbelief. “Thou have yet to earn the right to be called an apprentice alchemist, and thou’rt yet to master what the Golden Order has to offer thee as well. I shall not condemn thy thirst for knowledge, but a little patience would serve thee well.”
The comment stings. It’s not untrue, but Miquella finds the casual dismissal feels akin to being swept aside with the leaves; his father does not trust his abilities, nor does he think of curing Malenia as something to be striven for with haste. Urgency simply doesn’t register for him - worse, the scarlet rot is simply some type of philosophical meandering to be undertaken, rather than a disease eating his own daughter alive.
His next throw is clumsy, the bout of anger making him lose any sense of pretending at elegance. The arc of the disc goes wide, veering at a sharp upwards angle to the right. Radagon leaps up and catches it with all the effort of a feather in the wind, less of a jump and more as if gravity had simply stopped applying to him. Miquella’s reminded of the few times he’s seen his father in an all-out spar - jumping towards the heavens and pulling down lightning like he was owed it.
The same lightning that cut the snowfield in two, tearing Miquella’s attempts at reconciliation far out of his grasp.
Envy wells up in his mouth, drowning out whatever frustration he had been chewing. For a moment he thinks he’ll choke. He doesn’t strive for whatever violence Radagon embodies - not in the way that Godfrey still has warriors calling themselves lions - but when Miquella pictures himself in his mind’s eye he looks very much like his father does.
Reality is never so kind as a child’s fantasy. It often feels like every dream he’s had for himself is shattered the moment he looks in a mirror.
“Thou’rt the lord of the Golden Order, yet thou have yet to find any recourse against the rot all the same,” he snaps, the curdling mixture of bitterness and envy surging through his teeth like spit. The clumsiness of his comment immediately makes his face flush, but it still elicits no outward reaction from his father. Speaking with him truly is like reading poetry to a portrait and hoping for applause.
“Fire resists the rot, and ice may keep it at bay altogether, yet thou’rt unwilling to neither cauterize the open wound nor keep thy sister in the snowfields, where little remains for her to decay. Thy conviction is admirable, I am fully willing to admit, but thou’rt sorely lacking when it comes time to commit to what thou must do.” He fixes Miquella with a severe look. “Even if it pains thee greatly.”
The sheer casual cruelty of his words causes Miquella to slip, Radagon’s pass of the light disc sailing clean over his head and off into the stone wall of the arena. He coughs from the dust puffing up from his fall, wincing at his skinned hands and knees.
“Thou wouldst not-” He shakes his head. The mere idea of such horrific treatment of his dear sister is almost too much to bear. “I cannot believe that thou wouldst do that.”
To thy own daughter, he doesn’t say, fully knowing that sentimentality is a useless weapon in this scenario.
“Devoid of option, I would.”
Miquella finds himself unsurprised, even if he is disturbed. In the dim lightning of the arena his father better resembles one of his wolves, stalking with a brutal intent. He feels like screaming. Crying might be more useful. He can release his frustrations and remind his father that he’s only a petulant child all at once.
The misbegotten had the same red hair. The similarities end there, though Miquella still feels much the same as he did that frigid afternoon. A matching ankle wound and snow in his eyes and maybe he can try and understand his father, too.
Radagon bends down, offering a hand. Miquella eyes it with the appropriate amount of wariness required when faced with something larger than the circumference of his own throat. “But only then. I would sooner plumb the depths of both the Order and my sorcery combined before resorting to it.”
He wears sincerity about as elegantly as a drunk man dancing, but Miquella has come to know his dull mannerisms well enough to sense its presence. He takes the offered help. A hand smooths out his hair, brushing off the dust.
“”Tis true,” he sighs, feeling meek. “I’ve yet to put what I wish into practice, haven’t I?”
“There is honour in admitting it,” he says, voice gentle. “And honour too in sacrifice, as I hope thou wilt come to see.”
His last wife went mad. Is collateral damage included under the definition of honour, or was it never considered in the first place? A tree’s canopy can’t love unconditionally. Collateral damage has a tendency to build up at the edges.
“Still, I cannot help my frustration. There is talk of amputating Malenia’s arm if her rot grows, and I-,” What? Can’t bear to let it happen? Can’t bear to see his failures manifest as a permanent loss on his sister’s behalf?
He settles for curling in on himself. Actions overshadow whatever sympathy he was hoping to garner with his words. Radagon takes the bait, the dead weight of his hand dwarfing his shoulders in a bid for comfort. He can speak of borderline torturing Malenia whilst comforting Miquella in barely the span of five minutes. His father loves them both, but even the ambidextrous tend to favour a side.
“I understand.” He doesn’t. Can’t. A scholar’s mind with all its sins, treating the rot as if it were a riddle to be solved to benefit his faith. Miquella wants to see his sister smile again. “The failings of the Order’s incantations trouble me greatly, as it does you.”
Again, not untrue, but the difference lies in the fact that Radagon is still wholly convinced that the Order may yet be of use. Miquella has already turned to alchemy, a welcome heresy somewhere between smithing and sorcery. What next? He would even turn to giantsflame were it guaranteed to cleanse Malenia’s rot, and he’s certain his father would not approve of interpreting his words in such a way.
Radagon rises, Miquella shakily following suit. “If it would ease thy distress, I would gladly advocate for thee to have an audience with thy mother. There is no one better to reveal what the Golden Order may offer thee than the one who created it.”
He looks up, eyes wide in both interest and a subtle fear. “Is that not uncouth?”
“Certainly not, if it is on my introduction.”
His brows furrow. If managing to speak with his father alone is a hard-won battle, then seeing his mother is an entire war victorious. Most likely he could count on both hands the amount of times he’s been granted a formal audience with her. Mother often seems to be a word that is more a technicality than a role.
It’s a tempting offer, apprehension aside. It would be remiss of him to avoid such a rare opportunity simply because the thought of speaking with his mother without Malenia by his side breeds an anxiety he can’t control.
“Well?”
“I would be grateful,” he says, bowing his head graciously. It’ll only be another thing he has to master.