vielle

Morrigan blinks. “Oh.” She studies him for a moment, the full weight of her gaze suddenly crushing in the silence that had settled over them in a thick blanket, and then shrugs. “Well, ‘used to’, right? We’re all for new beginnings here. If mom trusts you, that’s good enough for me.” “T-thank you.” Samael manages a smile. “Can you—can you teach me how to read? I want to—I want to learn how to be more useful.” He grimaces at the word he had used. “Helpful. Just in case you and Pallas need me for anything.” “I can try!” Morrigan chirps. “I’m still learning about this world myself. We can do that together.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened. “That’s terrible!” She tilts her head, curious. “Where did you come from, anyway? Is mother staying, or has she gone on another one of her trips again?” The first question hits uncomfortably close to home, and so Samael takes his time in answering that one, opting to answer the second one first. “The Empress told me she’d be gone for a few months. She didn’t say where to.” “Oh.” Morrigan sounds disappointed. A pause. He scuffles his foot against the floorboards, suddenly afraid of revealing his true identity. Nevertheless, the empress and Pallas seemed to have accepted him for the time being, and friendship can only be built on the foundations of trust, and he finds he wants to be friends with the Paralios family. He will have to be truthful, then. “And I’m—I used to be a follower of the Lunar Daughter.”

“I’m Samael,” he replies, straightening his spine, “and I’ll be staying here in Taen for the time being. Your mother—the Empress and I made a pact that she’ll protect me if I, um, serve her and her family in exchange. So I—I just wanted to say hello.” “Oh.” Morrigan seems to take the information in stride. She smiles. “Welcome, then! Pallas is busy with ruling, but I’ll be here if you need any help.” She points to her book. “Do you like reading? The library’s lovely.” “Uh.” Samael fidgets, shifting his weight from side to side. “I—don’t know how to read.” It hadn’t been something important, not when they had been on the run and fighting tooth and limb, warrior’s blood in their veins. Ephah had read for him various times before; it had never occurred to him to learn for his own sake.

• • • Samael dutifully follows the instructions Pallas had laid out for him, speaking out loud that he wishes to go to the drawing room—he’s not entirely sure how to speak to a castle, of all things—but then he opens a door and there is the Lady Morrigan, curled up in a futon, a book in her lap. Again, the wave of shyness. “Um. Hello!” The girl looks up. In contrast to her mother and brother, she looks oddly, disappointingly human. Her hair is short - chopped off badly, it seems. Her eyes are brown, filled with nothing but surprise at the appearance of a stranger. “Hello,” she says cautiously. She closes the book, then swings her legs back down to the floor, facing the boy. “Who are you?”

“Oh! That is very useful,” Samael agrees, if only to quickly move on from whatever he had said that might’ve sparked the prince’s dour mood. He isn’t quite sure what exactly had prompted the change in the air, but he’s not looking to anger the man any further than he might’ve had already. “Well, can you tell me where I can find, um, Princess Morrigan?” Pallas closes his eyes for a moment. “Hmm. Drawing room. Make sure to tell her about your agreement, her mind’s not bound to the rest of us.” He waves, an indication that the conversation is over. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to untangle this mess my father left of the cities. Good to have you here, Samael.”

He glances about the room, as if looking for someone else besides the two of them. “The Empress told me you had a twin brother, Lenore? I was, um, wondering if you could point me in the right direction to wherever he is so that I might greet him?” For the briefest moment, Pallas’ expression hardens, a shadow passing over his face. Then he’s smiling again, ruefully now. “Oh, he’s staying in Ursa Madeum now. He’s an Oathsworn helping out in Svanhild. I’ll give him your regards, though.” He taps the side of his forehead. “Being two souls bound together has its uses.”

“Wear this at all times. It’s a direct link to me.” He says this casually, in the same tone one would use to remind a friend to add eggs to a grocery list. “I’ll be able to speak to you and find you wherever you are. If you’re in trouble, let me know. You’re family now, in a sense.” Again, the tired smile. “Mom’s told me about your powers. You’ll certainly be of use around here.” “I—I see! Thank you.” Samael takes the ring, wears it immediately. It glitters in the sunshine. “Also, erm, I should hope so. We’ve made a special pact about it and everything.” He blinks, suddenly unsure whether it’s allowed to joke around with the prince of all people, and then continues. “But thank you, Pallas. I’ll keep all of that in mind.”

“Mhm.” Pallas returns his gaze to the papers before him. “She’s already told you, but you have to let the castle know where you want to go. Kitchen, bedroom, there’s a few gardens. We usually eat together at seven, twelve, and six—you can join us if you want, but otherwise the kitchen’s always full of food. Ask the castle to bring you to the seneschal, Miss Melissa, if you need help getting around or want to leave.” He hands the page to one of the birds, which takes it delicately in its beak, then places it onto another pile. “Oh, and take this.” Pallas turns his wrist, and for a moment, his arm isn’t there—a wing black as ink, feathers in place of fingers. In a blink, the image is gone; the prince hands out an amber ring to Samael. Within the golden resin the thinnest black pinion is enclosed, encircling the ring’s perimeter.

The man looks up from the page in his hand. His eyes are gold, not black—but the cool intensity of his stare is unnervingly similar to the one worn by the empress. The inhuman aura quickly dissipates, however, when he pushes back a lock of dark hair, then sighs as it flops back into place. He gives the boy a tired, lopsided smile. “Hello Samael. Sam? What do you prefer to be called? I’m Pallas. Mom told me you’d be staying with us.” “Er,” he twiddles his thumbs together, and then continues, “Samael is what I prefer but. You can call me whatever you like. I was, uh, just looking to greet you, seeing as I might be staying here for the foreseeable future.”

• • • As what must apparently be the first order of business, Samael decides to seek out the Empress’ family members, one by one. The halls of Cair Loeren all seem to be endless corridors and winding staircases to him, as of now, and so when he finally manages to find someone of the imperial bloodline, he has to lean against the doorway to catch his breath. A young man sits on the floor, in front of an open window that floods the space with pale daylight. On the floor, around him, several stacks of papers are arranged seemingly-haphazardly, but with a strange neatness that suggests a semblance of complicated organization. On the man’s head, on his shoulder, on the windowsill, and on few of the paper stacks, perch a few black-feathered, golden-eyed birds. Samael stands there by the entryway for a few minutes, overcome by a sudden wave of shyness. Still, he cannot stand here speechless forever, and so he tries to casually greet the man, but his anxiety causes his voice to stutter, too-loud in the silence of the room. “H-hello!”

Rozharon presses a finger to her temple, looking tired. “Now. . . I’ll leave you here in Taen. I’ve overexerted myself fighting Ophiuchus. I’ll be gone for a few months, but Pallas knows of our agreement now.” It’s more than what he deserves, truly, but he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, not after the overwhelming stack of evidence pointing to the fact that he is welcome to stay here, as long as he wants. If not for himself, then for his traveling companion. “O-of course. Thank you, your majesty, for bringing me and Ephah here.” Rozharon nods. She strides off, the fragment of a dead god in her hands, and disappears into a doorway.

“Perhaps. But my judgement is sound.” She tilts her head. “We can make it a deal. You use your skills and abilities to serve me and my family, working for the benefit of our empire. We’ll offer you amnesty and protect you from those seeking to harm you for your past, and if needed, mediate between you and others who seek repayment for what you have taken from them.” You can do that, he is about to ask, but then stops himself—he is, in fact, speaking to the Empress of Taen, who definitely can do what she had just offered him. He is silent for a few moments, mulling it over, and then hesitantly nods, bowing his head towards her: subject to ruler. “Yes. Yes, alright. Whatever you will of me. I will serve you to the best of my ability.” The empress holds out her hand. “That’s a deal.” The world seems to dim as he grasps her hand, only a brief moment of hesitation before he does so. When they touch, Samael feels something shift in the air, between the breaths: a knot tied between them, an invisible tether that binds them together. His eyes shine sickly green for a moment, responding to the tangible taste of power in the air, before it slowly recedes into nothingness.

“So did I. More than you did. More than all who’ve walked the face of this world. But I chose to put those lives behind. I move onward. I’ve built an empire, one that offers a new start to all. We are not what we have done—we are who we choose to become, every moment in the present. You can begin now, here, and you can do as I did. The difference now, is that you are free—free of those lunar marks, free of that woman’s delusions. You choose your path now.” (Is it really that simple?) “Free,” he echoes, still unbelieving, still mired in confusion and doubt. Nevertheless, the empress speaks with conviction, a belief so unshakable and ironclad with her words that he almost begins to believe it. “Perhaps,” he finally says. “A-and what about you and your empire? What if they know you're harboring someone like me? They,” he sighs, curls his spine as he hunches his shoulders, makes himself smaller under her all-seeing gaze. “A criminal, a murderer. They must have my face etched all over the news now. They know who I am, where I came from. Will they not speak against you?”

Rozharon sighs. “I understand. Some things are better left forgotten, buried in the past. If you truly wish to seek answers, I can help.” For the briefest moment, her form flickers: wings folding into themselves, the dark receding into her eyes. She winces. “Well, not immediately. But I, and my children, will help you be able to find the answers yourself. But if your desire is to be strong, to be of use—I can give you that. True strength does not lie in the power to harm others, grinding others under one’s heel. It lies in binding a world together, in uniting disparate parts into a whole. You can certainly help with that, in Taen.” She smiles at him. Samael is silent for a moment. “But I hurt people.” He gazes at his hands, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Won’t they be afraid of me?” What help can he possibly offer, him with blood still drying under his fingernails and nightmares ravaging even his waking moments?

The empress must have some hidden power to read his mind, because her next words fuel the underlying doubt in his mind about the mindset that had been instilled in him by his previous caretakers. “Power is important, yes, perhaps. But it is just a means to an end; to pursue it as an end in itself is futile. What were you pursuing power for?” And what are you, Samael? Are you a slave? A servant? A simple boy trembling in despair before the big bad necromancer? What are you, Samael? Is that a death you wish to die? He shakes himself free of the memory, clears his throat as he answers. “I—I wanted to be strong. Be. . . of use. Maybe then I could figure out why I can’t remember my past, and what brought me here.”