xl. the king and the caretaker
keeper
// a strange beast, that which gives without expectation of return. love for the sake of it, for the good of that which shall be always adored.
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The queen had left, but her warmth remained—a pleasant ghost, tied to a space much smaller than Orelus's memories. The bedchamber had always been tight, but now it was like a chest, and wood and fabric spilled over its tall edges. A chair in place of a stool; a new bed, and fresher paint, but the window panes were the same, and if he peered out them, the view they'd offer might be familiar enough to call strange.
Molevri slept, and the silence watched.
Edite, too, knew cruelty—knew how to take and twist man's flesh, to force mortals to bow to her whims. What a crafty, clever goddess she was. Slip into the boy's mind; his flesh and bone would dull the press of her divinity. There had been nothing. No pinch—no press or poke or prod. She could have done whatever she'd pleased—said all that she desired and more—and Orelus would have been none the wiser.
For what cause had she hollowed out Molevri's skull? To make bear his king's crime? To turn the queen against her husband?
How petty of Edite—how unsurprisingly trifling. She could not stop the king of Ceorid, and so instead, she made to undermine what little he possessed.
If Edite descended again, he'd kill her.
"Orelus?" The caretaker's voice was quiet, soft as fleece, but the silence lifted its head like a dog, and its yellow eyes fled to the creaking door.
Orelus did not turn to spy the old woman, but he glanced to the side, at the window and the pieces of sky beyond. A hum rumbled in the depths of his chest, and the sound was almost soft. Perhaps his memories had dulled it; perhaps the ghost of the queen's touch had warmed his throat.
The caretaker walked slowly, and he glimpsed the fingers of her hand just as her palm lighted upon his arm. "Do you plan to keep watch all night, dear?" she inquired. The curl of a smile softened her quiet tone, and her grin was as light as air and gentle as a whisper.
Molevri's breaths came even and quiet, and his flank rose and fell without issue. The temple was supposed to allay his nightmares. Such was Edite's blessing: no augur should suffer terror when swaddled in her embrace, but exceptions were like wolves, and they gnawed at the chinks in her stumbling faculties. Credit should be given where it was due, and Molevri had once known worse nights, but was this much better?
Edite kept her temple only at the behest, and need, of its only augur and caretaker, but how much good did it truly work? The queen offered her time and care to it, but would she adore it still, now? After she had borne witness to the unkindness the gods could propagate against the weak?
"Do you suppose I should?" The fear was cold and dark, and the silence curled back its upper lip. Might Edite descend again in the night? Would she dare?
He demanded nothing from her, and he expected only what she had always sworn to give: asylum for the weary, and were the caretaker and augur not exhausted? The gods had stolen so much time and joy from them both. Druasis had given it up willingly—or so she claimed—but Molevri had had no time to make such sacrifices, and still, he suffered.
The gods found their augurs in the womb, and witches plucked ignorant young.
"My sentiments should have no bearing on yours, dearheart." The caretaker squeezed his arm, and then, slowly, she moved to sit beside him. "Molevri's wellbeing does not depend upon you alone."
Orelus watched her out of the corner of his eye. She'd complained of an ache in her knees, and the pain would only grow worse come winter, but she sat without issue, and slowly, his attention returned to the boy. The silence watched the king, and as he leaned forward in his chair and rested his chin upon his hand, the beast stifled a yawn.
"Edite was meant to allay his troubles." Anger roughened the back of his throat, and he narrowed his eyes at the familiar, bitter taste pooling on his tongue. "Not fashion new ones."
Druasis placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "This is an augur's burden, Orelus." Her tone was sweet and gentle, but he had heard this explanation before, and it echoed still like an excuse in his ears. "There is nothing you can do to stop it."
He breathed sharply through his nose, but the frustration in his chest was cold and hard, and though his jaw was clenched and his voice tight and low, the point in his tone was not angled toward the old woman. "I needn't have brought him here."
"You did what you thought right." There was an edge to Druasis's tone, a sternness that she did not often sharpen, and the sound of it sent a shard of surprise through the king. She was frowning now; the line of her mouth was thin and tight, concern lined her brow. "It was good that you brought him here. His mother trusted you to care for him, and you did."
He looked back at the boy, at his young, sleeping face, and yet the anger remained, and the silence glared at the back of his head. There was nothing that could have been done for Molevri's mother. The hands of a slow death had already wrapped its fingers around her neck, and it took her as it had her husband years before her. Perhaps it would have taken Vaelen, too, if war had not claimed him first.
Death always came much too soon, but the gods would not steal away those in whom life was still just blooming. Orelus would not allow it.
"Seren would have done the same." The caretaker's voice was a whisper, but the silence perked up its ears, and Orelus's limbs turned suddenly to stone. His heart had caught upon the former king's name, and the edges of the memory were almost cold in his hands.
Too soon, always much too soon. But death, then, had been a man's fault, and not the gods'.
Death was too kind a fate for a king killer.
"He would, wouldn't he?" A smile tried to press at Orelus's lips, but the taste in his mouth was too bitter, and he cleared his throat. "He deserved his crown and throne." The silence glared at him, and slowly, it curled its lips into a jagged sneer. "I am not his heir."
A good friend. A lost cause. Yet he'd pressed on, anyhow, and he had lived so much longer than his physicians had supposed.
"You are your own man," Druasis murmured, and slowly, she folded her hands in her lap and then leaned toward him. "You've always had quite the knack for protecting your own, and that's a lovely quality for a king." A smile curled her lips, and the shape of it was kind and familiar. "Your heart is good, and a man with a good heart mustn't allow another man's fears to shape him."
Orelus's hands fell from his face, and he sat back in his seat. "None save I move my hand," he replied. His eyes were narrowed, and his voice tight and sharp, but Druasis did not wince. "All that was and is done is so by my design."
Druasis's smile did not falter, and she dipped her head and leaned back from him. "There should be no doubt in your mind, then." She cast her gaze to Molevri, and her eyes caught upon a piece of down clinging to his blanket that she then carefully brushed aside. "You have never taken a decision lightly." She was turned to the boy, but her eyes shifted, and out of the corner of her eye, she watched him. "Why doubt what you have chosen?"
She knew not his deception. She could never suppose all that he planned.
Ignorance was bliss—was a shield against the gods' wrath. They had stolen his mother and Queen Serenna, but they would not take the caretaker.
He rose from his chair, and Druasis turned to watch him stand. The silence gnashed its teeth, and then it, too, rose to its feet and stretched.
"I think I shall go for a ride," he said, but his tone was even, now—even and low. He nodded at Molevri. "If anything changes with him, send for me immediately."
Druasis's smile was soft, but its color was much too somber—too sad—and that, too, was familiar. "Of course, dear."
Hesitation almost stilled his feet, but he left before it could chain his ankles, and as he walked to the stables, his pace quickened. The servants were swift, and once his horse was ready, he took off through the castle gates. His retainers would eventually catch up with him, but solitude was now a want, and even the silence lagged behind him.
The sky was pale and gray, and the sun wallowed, dejected and despairing, behind the autumn clouds. The burial mounds were less than a day's ride, and yet he urged the horse faster—faster. Wind grabbed at his hair and clothes and stole into his lungs, but though its chill was bitter, it could be no more unkind than the weight of standing.
His queen would aid him in his search for Mehreus. She was kind and hopeful, and she had so much love for Molevri that she would place her trust even in the man her very goddess had named a thief. Good. How fortunate; Orelus could have never wished for more.
Luck had smiled upon him again, and was he not glad for it?
She was still his wife, and he would keep her well.
A burial mound rose, tall and sloping, but the lack of sun stole the color from the grass, and the gray sky leeched what brightness remained. Orelus pulled back on the reins, and the horse slowed first to a trot, and then to a stop. The cold was in his lungs, and his horse snorted and then shook its head, but it was still day, and the ghosts remained asleep in their graves.
He dismounted, stood quietly at the base of the mound, and stared up, up at the tall, faraway top, but then he gathered his horse's reins in one hand and began walking. He stepped around the tall grassy knoll, and on the other side, marked now only by their rusting swords, stretched rows of old graves. Some were missing their markers, and others had blades so assailed by wind and rain that they now leaned askew. He glanced at them as he passed, but he knew not the face to every one, and there were even fewer to which he could still recall a name, yet he kept his head bowed and his mouth closed, and he looked up only once he'd made it to the far pond.
A small mound rose before him, the yew tree that sat at its peak spread its branches over an old grave. The sword that served as its marker was as well kept as it could be, but its blade and hilt had once gleamed with splendor, and its master had carried it with pride.
Orelus stopped, and the horse paused behind him. It shook its head again, but no sound escaped its maw, and Orelus patted its neck.
A weight sat upon his chest, and yet he knew the shape of it well. Time had dulled the edges, but he could not be cut by so familiar an ache, and after a short breath, he left his horse and slowly approached the old grave.
The wind rustled the yew tree's leaves and shook its thinner branches, and when Orelus knelt down before the grave, the dull grass cushioned his seat. The breeze sent ripples along the surface of the pond, and reeds and tall grasses swayed, but the world was quiet and calm, and the silence had lost track of him.
The general's old sword had still its pride, and it stood tall and straight before his grave; time had tarnished it, but like its master before it, the elements would not force it to bow. So, without speaking, Orelus removed his scabbard and sword, and then he set them to the side and leaned back on his heels.
The earth was cold, and the wind ran, but there was nothing to be said, and the quiet was not unkind.
He breathed, and his gaze rose to the empty pond and its swaying reeds, all sat so nicely beneath the gray, frothy sky.
Then, suddenly, there came a sound: a nightingale chittering a high, pretty tune.
Fury, cold and sharp, leaped for Orelus's throat, and his eyes shot to the boughs of the yew tree. There the brown-feathered little gremlin sat, twittering its mocking song. A glower pressed at Orelus's lips, and he glared at the cheerful bastard, but before he could find something to lob at it, it stopped suddenly short and stared at him.
There are fates worse than death, cousin.
It took off without another sound, and from behind him, muffled though its footsteps were by the grass, Orelus heard the old curse approach. The horse felt its entrance, and it huffed and pawed at the ground, but there was no impatience to its motions. How right it was: the old ghosts were stirring, and he had overstayed his welcome.