The Scholar's Tale (Original Fantasy)

Book III, Chapter 10

Mharra was laughing, and Ib loathed that.

Usually, there was nothing wrong with its captain's laughter. If anything, its absence heralded, or highlighted, a problem.

There was nothing usual about this. The breadth of its knowledge stretched beyond Midworld and into the Last Sphere of creation, but in its travels across the endless seas, it had never seen the like.

Poisons, venoms, drugs that maddened the mind and body, those it knew; but those were merely triggers for false insanity, brought about by chemicals.

There were other means to break the soul as well, but those were the tools of rape: physical, mental, spiritual. Utter violation, through the introduction of a foreign agent.

No one was controlling or attempting to override its captain's mind. Oh, the Observers had dredged up the worst phantasms they could find in Mharra's mind, to be sure, but they hadn't invented anything.

The memories were all Mharra's, as was the reaction.

Ib had seen humans, and beings who thought like them, react in all manner of ways to despair, from lashing out to suicide. And, thought it knew it was petty, Ib wondered if it would have preferred a rampage to this dismaying laugh.

Ib had heard sarcastic laughs before. It had seen sardonic grins. Dishonest joy felt alien to it, even oxymoronic, but it knew what it was dealing with.

One of the Audience descended to alight on its plane of existence, a mere shadow of its true self hovering besides Ib. After glancing at Mharra once, it sighed, sounding disappointed, but unsurprised. 'They break so pitifully, don't they? Such an ugly mess...'

Ib's rage simmered, but it had a handle on it now. Still, it couldn't help but be reminded of the first geyser it had seen, and the boulder some islanders had placed atop it, in the hopes it would stop the jet of water. The pressure had made a mockery of their efforts.

With a glance at the flat expression the black-robed creature's white mask had been carved into, Ib returned its attention to its captain. 'Be silent,' it demanded in a harsh whisper. 'They are suffering enough.'

The Mantlemaker made a tinkling sound, like silver bells in the wind. Ib supposed it could have passed for a laugh. 'They are suffering because of themselves. We did not push them to confront anything they wouldn't have had to face in time, Libertas.'

Ib grunted noncommittally. 'Perhaps. But the pleasure you take in these...confrontations, is unseemly.' Ib showed the Observer its fist. 'Stop laughing. Maddened as they are, they might still hear you.' And the Manmade God's poisonous voice was the last thing Ryz and its captain needed to hear now.

'What, are you afraid they'll wake up?' The Observer scoffed lightly. 'Worry not, my surly friend. We can always mend what there is to mend, then start over.'

And risk crippling their minds? Even if Ib had faith in its power to heal them, it would rather not have them suffer that in the first place. 'I think note. A bone, set poorly, must be broken again to heal. I will not let you meddle more than you have.'

The Mantlemaker sighed, a long, thin sound, almost like a hiss. 'Barking at me will neither hide your contempt, nor remove its cause.'

Ib could move fast enough no time actually passed, even for its selves that time flowed around. It took a certain amount of effort to slowly turn to hlare at the Manmade God, rather than whip its head around. 'You know nothing of what you speak.'

'I think I do,' the Spectator retorted in a small, reasonable voice wholly at odds with its pompousness, never mind its monstrousness. 'Come now, Libertas. You know we can see the grooves carved into creation by the patterns of its stories. The fact we make and appreciate our own does not blind us to...natural ones.'

Ib sat down, cradling its crewmates as if they were children as it rocked them. The motion ought to have been enough to anchor them, so they wouldn't get lost in memories, but it was subtle enough not to wake them. 'Cease your prattling, storyteller. There is no pattern around me to twist.'

'I beg to differ,' the Observer said in a tone that convinced Ib it had never begged, or needed to, in what passed for its life. Maybe it would change that, soon. Judging by the oily voice, it was enjoying this mickery even more than the pain of the grey giant's crewmates. 'The manmade weapon, endowed with thought to be the best beast it could be? Broken free through friendship? Seeking to uplift those whose weakness it cannot help but despise? Oh, there is a wealth of patterns around you, Libertas~'

At Ib's silence, the Mantlemaker cocked its head, as if curious. 'Surely you must've noticed? Or are you so dim you have never read such stories? Never heard of such ideas? But all of creation is laid bare before you. It cannot be that.'

'Taunting me is pointless,' Ib replied flatly. 'I have been through enough not to get rattled by your childishness.'

The Spectator chuckled. 'Good for you. Should I pat your head? You whine about your woes so proudly, it's almost like you're proud to have something you can complain about. In this, at least, you are just like them. Does that rattle?'

Ib's substance swirled and rippled as shapes like weapons threatened to break through the surface of its torso. 'You do not-'

'I think I have already proven I know exactly what I am speaking about,' the Manmade God cut it off. 'You can't stand how they go mad when overwhelmed. You cannot bear how they do things just because - why, oh why can't they just approach life rationally?' It shook its head, sniggering. 'And they say we are throttled by our obsessions...but you are so, so strick, Freedom. So demanding. Can't just let things be. Ironic...but we are not surprised. I mean, look at what Positivity gets up in that universe Mendax bumbles around in.'

Ib fought back a grimace as images of sunlight and the nameless colours of emotions were buried under a tide of callousness and cruel hedonism. But it would not become like King Sun. It wouldn't.

'Better a hypocrite than a monster,' Ib snapped. 'You took the dreams of a childlike people and made them into nightmares to ensnare slaves with.'

'Now who speaks without knowing nothing?' the Mantlemaker crowed. 'We did nothing more than they asked us to, and nothing less: we gave their lives meaning.'

Ib laughed bitterly. 'And left them trapped in a cycle of clashing chosen ones and overlords, with empty ages stretching between them. Some meaning...'

The Spectator's mask shifted. 'And that is so different from life outside our reach how?'

'You were never asked to keep that farce of a realm going forever.'

'Libertas...' the Manmade God hissed, closing the distance without moving to grab one of Ib's wrists. The shapeless sleeve that closed around its wrist felt like silken claws. 'Watch your mouth. We put your pets into the crucible they must pass through not just for their own good, but for the sake of all creation. Would you rather we step back so you can dirty your hands? It should look good on that conscience you claim to have.'

Before Ib could retort, the Observer pulled back, letting go. 'You speak of cycles and tyranny, yet forget we live in a dream? The dream of a being that could make it so that nothing has ever been, and not even realise it, because it is asleep? We have put into motion the events that could break that cycle, yet you sneer at us, for...what? Having the gall to take our amusements when we can?'

'You want to free us from the shackles of the Dream only to save your hide,' Ib said. 'Because you do not want to be erased like an afterthought.'

Darkness rolled behind the holes in the Observer's mask. 'What a revelation...how dare we want to save ourselves? Turning its back to Ib, the Mantlemaker's robe flared out like a carrion bird's wings. 'It would be much more moral to stand aside and allow everyone the freedom to ruin each other, no? Don't prattle to me, Freedom. You could turn Midworld, and more besides, into a paradise, if you weren't so concerned with giving them the chance to murder and rape each other, like all free people deserve.'

* * *

Most people's minds were like rivers. The flow, like the twists and turns, was gentle, and the obstacles usually easy to bypass or avoid.

Mharra's mind, despite his seemingly haphazard manner, was more like a lake. The movement of his thoughts was as directed and conscious as that of his limbs. He did not, as a rule, get distracted. He did notice new things, and analyse them; he appeared clownish enough to fool many observers, giving him ample time to think.

As a result, his mind was also rigid, in a way, and what obstacles there were resembled bounds more than anything: borders he struggled to move beyond.

There were dark things, too, in the depths of that lake. Most of the time, Mharra did not remember them, could not think about them unless he chose to.

Sometimes, he was jealous of those people whose memory could be triggered by a familiar sight or sound or scent, allowing them to lose themselves in memories and fleeting fancies.

Remembering his past made quick work of that jealousy, which was why, mostly, Mharra chose to disregard it. After all, desiring what others had or could do was as good a motivation to do and be better as many.

Mharra had never really bought into the idea that doing good things because one was envious, or greedy, or lustful, made one wicked. It seemed like such a ridiculous demand that everyone be good for good's sake...especially in Midworld.

Had it been up to Mharra, he would've left everything buried, just as he'd left it all behind before. This journey to the centre of his mind, however, had not been his choice. Memories he might've never faced had been forced down his throat.

Mharra wondered if he would have put coming to terms with the man he had been off forever, unless forced. He had to admit he might have.

He could mull that over later, he decided. After he was done fighting to hold his breath.

Mharra considered himself a good swimmer. He had to be, as a sailor. Before he'd found a crew, back when he was alone with the Rainbow Burst and its temper, he'd often found himself overboard in the most annoying moments, not that there was ever a good time for swimming while clothed.

As such, he had some experience swimming and treading water in everything from freezing rivers and boiling seas to pools of acid and poisoned wells. But in all of those cases, despite his numb limbs and his skin feeling like it was melting off, he'd been able to - ha - keep his head above the water.

Now, however, he was drowning, and all his endurance was useless, because he felt like someone had tied boulders to his legs. The more he struggled, the faster he sank, as if he were trapped in quicksand rather than underwater.

With an incredulous frown - he had glanced downwards and seen nothing attached to his legs -, Mharra struggled to hold his breath. It seemed to him that, whenever he felt well enough to try resurfacing, some kind of pressure made itself known on or inside his chest.

Mharra wondered if it was simply shortness of breath, or the same invisible force that kept pulling him down. It felt like the former, but maybe that was part of the trick.

Mharra didn't know why confusing him about the case of his death was necessary, unless his would-be murderer was scared of being haunted. But it wasn't like he'd seen anyone...hmph.

Had he been under less duress, or at least in the mood to look inward, Mharra might have realised the lake killing him was of his own making.

As things stood, however, Mharra could not help but wonder where the creatures who had attacked his ship had taken him, and - his crew.

They'd taken his crewmates, too. He couldn't see Ryzhan and Ib anywhere. Why had he only thought about them now?

If Mharra's face and throat hadn't been purpling, he might have flushed.

So. The unseen beings had separated them, and taken him to some lake...at least beyond the horizon. He couldn't see his ship, either, and its shadow should've been visible if the steamer had been floating above him.

Mharra didn't bother trying to elucidate his assailants' motives. Even if he had given a damn, he was on the brink of death, and couldn't afford distractions. He would kill them, and that would be that. They'd attacked with no reason, and would die painfully.

Maybe not before coughing something up, though...

As the thought sluggishly moved through his mind, Mharra let out a small cough of his own, and water, stale and foul, entered his mouth and nostrils.

As blackness began filling his vision, Mharra's struggles slowed.

* * *

Lightning flashes. Thunder booms. The sea rages as it has for the past fifteen years.

And the journey continues.

Mharra has never known anything but the journey, the unending voyage under the black, clouded sky. He has never seen the stars, or the sun. Were it not for the dark skin he inherited from his mother, he is sure he would be as pale as a fish's belly.

As he holds onto the railing, the prince muses that he has never seen the moon, either. Going by the tales of the old folk, he supposes he should be grateful for that.

Still, he cannot help but wonder: the light they receive at night (a division of time still used only because of tradition, and because some walking fossils claim they can feel the day passing in their water; the storm hasn't let up in nearly two decades) is that of the moon, yet it does not madden the mind or twist the body and spirit. Is it the moon itself, not its light, that causes these supposed dreadful changes?

Mharra shrugs. He's seen stranger things, and heard of worse. Enough that he'd rather not find out by himself.

They have enough light to travel, at least, even if it is easy, particularly on uneventful days, for one's eyes to be tricked that nothing is truly moving. Not in any meaningful way, at least.

Very easy, indeed, to believe that the wind and tides are battering their fleet to and fro in such a way that they are effectively standing still, and the stormy horizon does not help. But they have passed enough islands and ships to know better.

The storm started when Mharra was too young to remember, ending their way of life alongside the island they had inhabited for generations. As Mharra has heard it told, it had begun with lightning from a clear sky, cracking their island in half even before the storm proper had arrived.

Rattled, they had made it to the docks in a more or less orderly fashion. More had died getting onto the ships, flung about by gales or splattered by riptides, than when that thunderbolt had broken their capital open.

After that...well. Mharra no longer had to rely on his parents' stories to remember. He had some of his own to tell, if he ever felt inclined.

He knew he had met all his siblings, but only remembered a handful. Many of those who might have held him as a toddler were smoking ash on the sea.

As for those who had survived that...Mharra remembered his brother Nhayre, nearly old enough to be his father, who'd fallen ill despite spending almost all his time inside. When they'd found his corpse curled up on his bed, it'd been warm, with hot, flushed skin, for all that he'd been dead for hours.

Mharra would later learn cabin fever was a metaphor that had nothing to do with that sickness, and in any case, not something that could happen to only one person.

'Unless their mind is very, very full,' his father had deadpanned, before chuckling, only to be admonished by his mother for "dark jokes".

Vrynna and Wrynn, his parents' only twins, had scarcely entered adolescence when they had snapped. They'd been driven mad by the endless tempest and unchanging black sky, perhaps. Mharra had been too young too understand at the time of their suicide. Years later, he was told they hadn't actually gone on a trip.

Not that the "explanation" had made much sense to his childish mind.

Then there had been Fharina, and that was something that, rather than not encouraging, his parents insisted he keep quiet about. His sister - captain of her own ship, as she'd boasted - had cracked one day, too. Not like the twins had, but just as self-destructively.

Mharra remembered watching her through a telescope. The first time he'd used such a tool, and it had been to see his sister's demise.

Fharina, who had become convinced their fleet needed more manpower, had decided that pressing passing ships into service was as good an idea as any. Not unheard of in Midworld, by any means. If she'd succeeded, if she hadn't been so forceful, and thus clumsy, Mharra suspected she'd have even been praised for her efforts.

'The difference between genius and madness, son,' his father, Ailhan, had told him not long after, 'is whether people benefit from the fruits of your mind.'

Fharina hadn't benefitted anyone, though. When her ship had broken off, to drift on the horizon, some paranoid sorts had grown alarmed, but the king and queen had shrugged. The winds were unforgiving. And, besides, as long as she didn't move out of sight...

But then they'd seen her and her crew forcefully board a merchant vessel, before, judging by their gestures (for they had been too far to make out any words), forcing them to abandon whatever their course was to join their fleet.

Flattered by this generous offer, the merchants had lost control of themselves in such a manner, a gunfight had broken out in moments. Cannons and explosives had followed, and, by the time the fleet was even halfway to them, both ships had sunk.

Ailhan and his wife, Bhyrna, had been (so it had seemed to Mharra, even young as he'd been, at the time) more embarrassed by their daughter's downfall and death than saddened. The youth had decided their reactions somewhat understandable, given the circumstances, but that had been before he'd truly seen how deep practicality ran in the blood of Midworlders.

* * *

'Are you winning, son?'

Bhyrna's voice is just as light as her step, but Mharra does not turn, despite the inviting tone.

That, too, is part of the game. A simulation of the distractions one might encounter when hunting.

This game was conceived a few years ago, after they had left the storm behind. As far as they can tell, it is still ongoing, stretching over who knows how many leagues, but that is the problem of those who pass behind them.

The fish grew scarce just as the waters and sky grew clear, like the world's worst joke. Mharra's parents always said Midworld's sense of irony was much more developed than its sense of humour, and he saw little reason to disagree.

Hence, the game.

It could be played with any animal, whether it walked, crawled, swam or flew. The rules were as simple as the punishments were painful: the player attempted to hit and kill their prey on the first try. For every missed or otherwise unsuccessful try, the player cut themselves in such a way that they'd suffer, but not bleed out or be crippled. Their people still needed them, after all.

These reminders of failure had given the Scarred their name.

'Who can say, mother?' Mharra replies, voice just as light, without turning. He knows his mother has her eyes closed, so why should he attempt to meet them. 'I'm still playing.'

Every goose-like bird that falls to the deck only has one pistol round in its head or neck. Mharra's aim is sure, his hand steady. He hopes Bhyrna is satisfied, because he certainly knows she is not proud.

The last in line, and the one to last in time. There is that wretched irony again, to his parents' dismay. Mharra is aware he is a good son, by any estimate; he is dutiful, and obedient, as skilled at preparing an animal as he is at killing one, an expert survivalist and tracker...but he does not stand out, not in the way his parents want, in the way some of his late siblings did.

For one, he is a follower more than a leader. Certainly he does not hesitate to defer to those more capable than him in certain domains, despite his lineage, and while that is only practical, his lack of pride or dislike is concerning.

For another, he has never displayed any of the traits expected of an heir to the Seeker's Crown his mother is currently wearing, and that is even more concerning to the elder royals.

The Crown is a marvel of tinkering, the masterpiece of their ancestors' engineering: once placed upon one's head, it directs them to wherever or whatever they desire, while also informing them of their target.

This is a double-edged sword, however: the information overload - for the Crown fills its wearer's mind with every detail about what they seek - has been known to leave more than one wearer brain dead well before they could pass along anything useful.

Mharra suspects that his family got their metaphorical crowns by breeding children with minds strong enough to withstand the knowledge of the literal Crown they probably plundered from a grave, or tore from some poor bastard's hands.

It is certainly more believable than the old story about how this or that deity gave them the Crown in recognition of their virtue and so that they could guide their people. Maybe it's his cynicism talking, but Mharra likes - chooses - to believe he's being realistic. The yarn his family spins is too damned swell for his tastes.

'That you are,' Bhyrna murmurs, drawing him back to the present. 'You're doing well, Mhar.'

As great a compliment as he can expect, from her. Oh, well. His feelings will just have to survive.

'Thank you,' he smiles, then aims at another bird. This one seems like an angry male, with how deeply it's hissing as it dives at the prince, hooked beak parted to reveal...

...Are those teeth? Mharra hopes it won't be like when they mistook those feathered wyvern hatchlings for eagles.

As the maybe-bird approaches, Mharra puts a round straight through its open mouth and into its skull. Holstering his pistol, he grabs the dying, flailing bird and wrings its neck.

'Did you need something, mother?' Mharra continues, placing the carcass in the bag on the deck, next to the others.

Bhyrna's expression is thoughtful as she nods, but begins to melt into a smile. 'Land...'

* * *

Mharra slams into the tree instead of leaning against it as he planned. Wounded and numb as he is, he hardly registers the bark tearing up his back as his chest heaves.

He has other things to worry about now, and maybe gloat over later. Turning his head, the prince glances at the last of his companions, who lies under the dead beast, legs broke. It is an ugly thing, six-legged like an insect, with tusks as long as its curved horns and long, black fur mottled with dark green, the better to hide amidst the trees.

Vhyrnak's blood is still up, so he tries to laugh off his wounds, but the pain turns his grin into a wince, and he is squinting as if the gentle sunlight the leaves allow through is a harsh glare. Mharra fears he might have damaged something in his head.

'Can...' Mharra gasps, trying to catch his breath. 'Can you hear me, Vhyrn? Are you awake?'

'A-Aye,' the warrior rasps in response, grasping at his shoulder-length blond hair like he's looking for something to bind it with. His usual leather tie has been torn in the fight. 'I hear you...my prince.'

'Good,' Mharra says, swallowing something he hopes is not blood. Just spit, he decides. Just spit. 'I'll...carry...'

But Mharra does not carry his friend to safety, in the end. By the time he comes to, head aching but otherwise clear, Vhyrnak is dead, insides pulped and every bone in his legs dust. His throat is too raw to scream. He fears that, if he does, he will choke on his own blood. Like Vhyrnak may have. Like he almost did before falling unconscious.

Stumbling and crawling, he manages to make it halfway through the forest before his strength leaves him. With a trembling hand, he draws his pistol, sardonically thinking that even like this, he can't miss the sky, and fires.

Mharra's last bullet was meant to end his life, in case the beast killed Vhyrnak and cornered him. He hopes the Scarred will see the shot for the cry for help it is, and send a search party. And if they don't, he wishes his spirit will be at peace enough not to return as a ghost.

The prince is grateful for how silent the island is. His shot has virtually no chance of going unheard. It's a damn lot more bearable now, after it's been cleared of the predators who could drop on you without any bloody warning. Silence was far more annoying during the hunt, when you never knew what to expect, between the camouflaged monsters and the shapeshifters.

As Mharra's vision blurs and trembles, cheek pressed against the cool ground, he cannot help but sneer at his earlier folly. Honoured...he had felt honoured!

The Scarred prince leading an expedition to clear out his people's new island is not unusual. He is, after all, one of the fleet's most skilled fighters. He was even left to pick the warriors he'd lead, with the only condition being to leave enough to defend the fleet, in case of anything.

They accomplished their mission, at least. The deaths will, hopefully, be forgiven, once he tells everyone about the island's native, now hopefully extinct, monsters.

* * *

Mharra plasters a smile onto his face to try and match his seventh wife's expression. She is holding their second child, his twenty-third one, and Mharra inwardly ceinges as he thinks that he does not really feel anything for this one, either. Not as a father should. Not as this son of his deserves.

The breeding program was more of a looming doom to him than a shock. Without any older siblings to sugarcoat the explanation, his parents had given it to him with their usual tact. Mharra, who hadn't even received his first kiss at the time, compared the whole business to being a breeding stud, even if it had been coached in the terms of a harem. He told his parents as much.

'...so we trust you will understand, son,' Bhyrna said, stroking the Crown there was absolutely no need to wear almost absentmindedly, eyes distant. Mharra wondered if she'd started referring to herself as "we".

'I understand,' he replied, voice as affable as his gaze was flat. 'I understand I will be passed around like a dog, or a horse.' Like his wives would doubtlessly be passed between whoever they chose to find comfort in when they grew tired of him. Not that he could truly blame them.

Bhyrna's voice was as sharp as the sting of her backhand. Her wedding ring split his lip as she knocked teeth loose. 'How dare you compare the mantle of princehood to beasts mating! You...' she trailed off, voice growing fainter even as the blows grew fiercer.

Close to an hour later, Ailhan piped up as his soon curled up, bruised and bloodied, on the floor of the royal bedchambers. 'Perhaps we should not discount the comparison, my dear,' he told his wife. 'After-'

'What?' Bhyrna hissed, looking ready to beat her husband half to death too. 'You dare entertain this nonsense? Every worthy heir we had is gone, and what are you doing?' she harrumphed. 'Not making more, certainly. Should I die, you will find yourselves at the mercy of the sea, like any Midworlders.'

'Perhaps,' Ailhan said with a sickly smile, pointedly looking down. 'But do beasts not play their own role in society, lowly as it is?'

Luckily, so to speak, the marriages had started later, and had only been consummated once he'd been deemed ready to sire children. That, as he was told, happened because he was less virile than other youths. Mharra was perversely amused, not sure he should be thankful for his alleged impotence.

He still doesn't know how the researchers had come to that conclusion, coarse jokes aside.

Mharra likes to think he treats his wives well. He is polite, generous, almost always present to please them. He does not love them, but they don't give a toss about him, either, so it evens out.

Most of them are after his wealth, some scared of reprisal if they go against their rulers' orders. Others still are doing this out of some sense of duty towards the fleet, which Mharra finds baffling. He's always been ready to die for his people, but he doubts he'd do this for them, if it was up to him.

A few of the women thought they loved him at the start of the whole farce, but having to share a husband quickly cooled that down. He'd wager some of them are sleeping with each other in secret. After three were caught and sent to have their bodies, minds and spirits cleansed, the rest became more subtle, if their inclinations lay that way. He could not tell, and frankly did not care.

Wasting one's energy with another woman instead of bearing children? Pointless. There was no place for such decadence within the fleet. The Scarred needed all the people they could get. Fharina was right, even if her method was folly.

That was why, whenever he and Xherkan met, Mharra did not treat his lover in a manner warmer than that one's liege might. And if their embraces lasted a little longer than those of most, or their hands lingered on each other, it was only expected. They had been brothers-in-arms before Xher had become his bodyguard.

Mharra shakes his head to banish any thoughts of Xherkan as he takes his son from his wife. The infant is beautiful, hair curly and dark like his, skin pale like his mother's, with rosy cheeks. He looks like a little marble statue.

'What a handsome lad,' Mharra murmurs, looking into the boy's lidded eyes, wondering if he sounds as stilted as he thinks. 'You wouldn't think he's mine!'

His wife titters politely, and Mharra flashes her a grin, giving her the boy and using the moment to read the name embroidered on the grown.

Mharra's wives likely feel flattered that all their clothes are "personalised" like this, but, in truth, it's just a way for him to remember who's who. Turning her back on him, Zharga passes the boy to a nursemaid and takes a seat on a couch, to fiddle with some trinket or other.

Mharra knows she is fully able to nurse him herself, but has as much interest in motherhood as he does in women. For both pf them, maybe all of them, this is just a chore, a role. Or perhaps that's just his inner imposter talking.

'I must leave, my dears,' Mharra says close to an hour later, bowing as he smiles apologetically. 'But I must keep myself sharp. You never know what enemies might stumble upon our fair fleet.'

The women smile and nod as he rattles off more platitudes; those who look at him, that is. Some look as if they haven't even noticed he's leaving, and Mharra wonders, amused, if they noticed when he entered.

As he descends the palace stairs, heading to the courtyard for his daily spars, Mharra vows to do two things.

First, thank Xheran, again, for being so lovely. Without thinking of him, Mharra would've never been able to accomplish his duties as a man. Who ever said "pillow-biting" kept you childless?

Then, find whatever pillock blurted how great it would be to have a harem, and beat them to death with every book on the subject he can get his hands on.

* * *

When they find out about him and Xheran, it's because of something so minute, Mharra finds it nonsensical. He knows for a fact his servants have overlooked far more obvious and glaring offences, despite the evidence. Perhaps he hasn't bribed them enough?

It happens after a storm. Not as bad as the one from his childhood, not that that's a high bar, but fierce enough to cause a flash flood. Houses torn from their foundations and shattered, people and beasts alike drowned to death or crushed against rocks or trees. There are still survivors as the royal relief parties search the islands, so, when Mharra comes across Xheran - only one of his bodyguards remained with him, as all able-bodied folk were called to help rescue others and bring peace to those who couldn't be saved - and begins breathing into his mouth, he draws some looks.

Well, a look. The bodyguard, Zharkyn, is the replacement of the man who tragically tripped and fell on his sword after reporting that three of Mharra's wives were paramours. So far, he has been more savvy than his predecessor.

'My prince,' Zharkyn's voice is confused, disapproving but hopeful. Maybe this is all a misunderstanding. 'What are you doing?'

Mharra freezes. After Xheran let out a hacking cough, eyes fluttering open, he recognised his prince and smiled, a flush on his face that had nothing to do with his brush with death.

Mharra rises to his feet, helping Xheran up as he does so. He tries to school his face into a reasonable expression. Judging by Zharkyn's scowl, he's not sure he succeeds. 'Helping one of your comrades, Zhar. One of my friends.'

Did his lips lay too long over Xher's? Did his eyes betray him? A cold shiver runs down Mharra's spine, and he stiffens, injecting some authority into his voice. 'What are you doing, gawking at us? Either get this man,' Mharra jerks his head towards Xheran, 'to a healer, or go find someone who-'

'Understood,' Zharkyn cuts him off. Usually, Mharra wouldn't mind the lack of protocol, but the finality in the bodyguard's voice has him on edge. Then, almost as if remembering an afterthought, Zharkyn adds , 'My prince.'

Mharra watches him go, and when they meet after nightfall, Zharkyn only mentions the handful of families he helped, not bringing up the incident.

The next day, when Mharra, his parents and their guards are discussing the aftermath of the flood, alongside preparations for future ones, the prince notices his chief bodyguard put a hand on Xherkan's shoulder.

Xher is going helmetless today, to avoid putting pressure on the head wound he received during the flood. The bandage, which still chafes, covers his brown hair, already shorn short, almost entirely.

'Come with me, lad,' the chief guard says, making Xherkan's fair skin turn white as chalk. Then, turning to the royals, 'Your Majesties. My prince.'

But his eyes are on his subordinate, and silently asking if he has any regrets. Any last words.

Xherkan manages to smile as he look at Mharra for the last time. 'I must thank you once again, sir. If you hadn't saved me yesterday, I would've died before helping anyone. Damned waters, eh?'

Everyone present nods in agreement as Xherkan is led away, mouthing "it has been an honour". His misty eyes say "I love you".

Mharra knows. Of course he does. He always did, well before he sired his first damn spawn-

The prince shakes his head, catching himself at the shameful thought. They are good children. They do not deserve a distant father like him, much less a resentful one.

He knows Xherkan loves him. But, starting the next day, he wishes he could forget.

The wretch that was once his lover has eyes as empty as its mind. No manhood, no stones, and no tongue. It does not need them anymore. Such shells are all that is left once people are cleansed of their improper thoughts. They are kept around as reminders, and warnings.

One night, at a feast, Bhyrna notices her son's wandering gaze, which turns sad as it meets Xherkan's walking, emasculated corpse. The prince knows it will soon die physically, too. You can only remove so many things from a man before his body shuts down.

The queen grabs her son's ear, for once glad he is seated next to her, and twists it, as if he were an unruly child. Of course, if she were concerned with shaming him in public, she would not speak her next words. 'You are the last of our line who can be groomed for the Crown, at the moment. Until your children grow up...' She shakes her head. 'A pity that thing will be dead and rotten by the time we have a proper heir.'

Ailhan leans forward, propping himself on his elbows as he smiles serenely, smild half-hidden behind his hands. 'Stop scaring the boy, darling. It's not like you're planning to break him too and sew their remains together. You can't have two shambling dead mean stuck in a kiss. It would be...unseemly.'

'Only because it would be difficult to sew a husk to a pile of dust,' Bhyrna replies.

* * *

When Mharra's parents die by his hands - the Crown no longer responds to the queen, so no one objects too much to her and her puppet of a husband being dicposed of -, there is a brief period of quietude. The calm before the storm. He has not named a heir, despite extensive tests with the Crown driving twelve of his children mad and killing seven, and he knows their mothers are preparing to either assassinate him or whip up a civil war.

Mharra leaves them to it, running away, he is fully prepared to admit, like a coward. But not before leaving his people a gift. He shatters the Crown, and gifts everyone a shard. They still act like compasses, but without the overflow of information. His people will have to take their chances with wherever they choose to travel, like all Midworlders.

The shard Mharra keeps does not seem any different from the rest, at first. Perhaps it behaves so peculiarly because he swallows half of it, and grinds the other half into dust to inject in his blood, but it allows him to make things he wants - small things, only useful for parlour tricks, really - real. The Crown's ability to give its wielder what they want branching off, maybe.

It helps Mharra leave people scratching their heads, at least, and that is all he needs as an entertainer. If he can bring some wonder and joy to others despite the bleakness behind him, that is enough for him.

Sometimes, he asks the Crown shard to bring him to people he can help. At first, he asked it to bring him to people who needed help, and it gave him a seemingly endless list of answers.

Of course. Who doesn't need aid, in Midworld? But still, even limiting himself to people he can help for certain, he finds himself busy. Many come and go to and from the ship he saved from a scrap island, but some remain.

A strange, shapeless grey creature he finds in the ocean, which becomes a giant. A ghost with three bodies, of one mind. A mage...

Who...

* * *

Ib shook its head as it looked down at Mharra. Leaning on its shoulder to both support myself - I was still shaking and sweating -, I say the captain's bloodshot eyes roll into the back of his head, somehow making his rictus of a grin even uglier.

'It's the third time this happened, Ryz,' my friend whispered. 'It hurts.'

I didn't know whether it mean it hurt to watch or if Mharra was suffering. Most likely both. Giving Ib's arm a squeeze, I dropped to a knee, clasping the grey giant's hand in one of mine, and Mharra's in the other.

The captain's fingers began spasming as he gasped, eyes unseeing under fluttering lids. He began dry-heaving, then coughing, choking.

'The lake, Ryzhan,' Ib said, making my brow furrow as I tried to calm the captain. I could feel my friend's power begin flowing into me, creating a link between the three of us. 'You cannot bring him back, but you can give him the choice to.'

* * *

...pt...! ...apt...!

...A-Apt? N-No, I think you are...mistaken. I wouldn't say I'm...good for much.

...tain! Captain!

...Ryzhan?

Damn it, Mharra, are you deaf as well as ugly? I always knew Three had low standards.

H-Ha...don't make me sm-smile, you bastard. It hu-hurts.

I know. But you know only you can make it stop hurting, right?

Y-You...and Ib...

We can make it stop hurting, captain, but only you can want it to.

...I'm so gods-damn tired, Ryzhan...

As anyone would be. I wouldn't want to be stuck in a loop of those memories, let alone live through that.

...

Captain...I won't say Three would want you to go on. I'm sure he'd understand your pain better than I ever will. I won't say Ib and I do, ether, though we do, because that is selfish. But I do not believe you want to, Mharra. Could you truly rest knowing you never met Three again? That everyone whose day - whose life - you could've brightened, never met you?

...Ryzhan...Ib...T-Three...I...I love you...and I-

* * *

You were right, Ib. Not lost at all. He never gave up, never gave in. I know how those nightmares can become reality. But why didn't you say anything?

Who told you I did not, my friend? Listen again...

...Ha. Fair enough. Fair enough, Ib. Why let me say that, then?

Who better to remind a dying man of the things worth living for?