The Counterpoise (Discontinued)

I

Armin wakes to sunlight falling across his face. He squints, the light from his window stark in contrast to the darkness of his dreams. Sitting up in bed, he stretches and runs a hand through his hair, letting out a yawn. He doesn't know what time it is, but figures it must be early, as was typical for him. He tended to wake up at half past six, regardless of when he went to bed. It was a strange ability, but being a prince, it came in handy. Getting up early meant getting more work done. More banquets, more meetings, more preparations for becoming king.

As he pulls himself out of bed, there's a knock on the door and he mutters a drowsy come in. "Your Highness," squeaks a young scullery maid. "The King would like to speak with you."

Armin tries very hard to remain calm. "Thank you. Would you please send for my butler?"

She gives a brisk nod and hurriedly shuts the door to go fetch his butler. Armin lets out a sigh, looking to his balcony. He pushes himself from the bed, his feet landing softly on the cool stone floor. He walks to the glass doors separating him from the outside and pushes them open, stepping out and leaning on the railing. The sun is creeping up languidly over the mountains, a brilliant gold against the greens and yellows and blues of the sky. It's early winter and the forest and grass are covered in frost, the first snow imminent in the next few days. Armin had always liked the winter.

But looking at it now, at the scene from his balcony, it doesn't seem as brilliant and beautiful as it usually does. The prospect of his conversation with his grandfather seems to put a heaviness over the delicacy and wonder of the landscape. It's most likely they'll talk about his magic again and Mikasa will stand there with that same look on her face. The one of worry that also seems to contain something like pity. Armin hates that look. Although he has to admit he's been worried too, he still has three days until his eighteenth birthday. That's enough time — surely it is.

A knock sounds from across the room, followed by a Your Highness?

"Come in," he calls over his shoulder and the door is pushed open by his butler.

"What are you doing outside, Your Highness? It's freezing out there!"

Armin chuckles as he returns to his bedroom, shutting the balcony doors behind him. "I wanted some fresh air. Besides, I rather like the cold."

His butler, Fergus, shakes his head, pulling some clothes from his drawers. "I never did understand that."

He pulls Armin over to his changing screen and begins to undress him. "So, the King wants to see you."

Armin sighs, lifting his arms so Fergus can slip on his shirt. "Yes."

"Do you know what about?"

Perhaps it was unusual for a prince to be so casual with his butler, but Armin had practically grown up with Fergus and a little bit of conversation never hurt. "No. Though I assume it has something to do with my magic."

"The King is very worried about that, you realize. Everyone is," Fergus mutters the last part under his breath, doing the buttons of Armin's waistcoat.

"I know. But I'm not eighteen yet. I still have time."

"Quite a late bloomer if that's the case. They're afraid you might be a Comatose."

His point is tacit. They both know what a Comatose king would spell for the sector. He would be weak and unpopular and if he couldn't hold his sector together, it would bring him down with it. That's one of the reasons Armin needs to get his magic in the next three days. That and the fact that he hates making people worry about him. And apparently Fergus is concerned as well. Wonderful.

Once he's fully dressed, he thanks Fergus and heads to the throne room. His boots click as he walks down staircases and corridors, their sound reverberating through the castle halls. He walks rather quickly, feeling nerves begin to twist his stomach sickeningly. He really isn't looking forward to another discussion about what they're going to do, how they're going to deal with his rising to the throne if he's a Comatose. He still has time.

He reaches the throne room and two guards pull open the heavy oak doors to let him through. He enters in deathly silence. Everyone stares at him as he approaches the throne and he feels rather nervous, but tries to keep his gaze firm on his grandfather. He glances to the left of the throne to see Mikasa standing there, proud and solemn as ever, with that same look on her face. This isn't going to be good.

"You wanted to speak with me, Grandfather?" Armin begins, his voice echoing through the archways and up near the vaulted ceiling.

"Armin, you are aware that you are seventeen and still have not received your magical powers."

"I'm well aware," he replies, unable to keep a bit of frozen bitterness from slipping into his voice. His grandfather fixes him with a hard look. "And this is highly unusual. We've discussed this matter on several occasions, but now it is of utmost importance. Your eighteenth birthday is three days away and for a mage to not have magical abilities by then is . . . well, practically unheard of."

"I know. But please, I have three days. I'm sure they'll come to me by then."

"And if they don't?"

Armin opens his mouth to say something, but he isn't quite sure what to say. "You know how risky it is to have a Comatose be King. You've heard the tales of what happened to those poor men."

Memories of war and chaos and bloodshed flash across his mind and he grimaces. "But, Grandfather, can't we just hold out a little longer? I might even get my powers tomorrow and declaring that I'm a Comatose now would —"

"Do you not know the importance of this situation, Armin?" he booms and his voice is no longer as warm as when he was younger. "I cannot remain King forever. I'm getting old and since your father passed, it's even more important that you take the throne as soon as possible. If your father was king, then you would have more time, but that isn't the case, Armin. Please try to understand."

He shakes his head despondently, glaring hard at the floor. "We're doing this to protect you."

"So what?" he asks sharply, lifting his head up. "You're just going to tell everyone I'm a Comatose and try to find a new hier?"

"We must, if that's necessary."

"So I just have to deal with the stigma then."

"Armin."

"No, it's fine," he smiles, but it's obviously fake. "That's fine. I can manage by myself."

"Your Majesty," Mikasa speaks up and the room goes suddenly silent.

His grandfather gives a slow nod and she approaches the throne, speaking softly so Armin can't hear. He instead watches their expressions, though he doesn't get much. Only that his grandfather seems to have reached a decision. Mikasa returns to her place beside the throne and the King clears his throat. "Very well. Armin, you will be escorted into the heart of the Water Sector to see the Akasha. She can further inform us as to the nature of the delay in your abilities. Mikasa will escort you."

Armin looks to her, but she continues to stare stolidly across the room, her grey eyes never wavering from their place.