#baby callebero on throne

[curiosity-killed]

so it turns out i have more thoughts on fashion in TCP than anticipated (...surprise) and this is really only a small glimpse into norms in one city orz

[curiosity-killed]

cost of survival

:D sometimes it’s fun to make your babies Sad™

word count: 1818

warnings: lot of talk about death, survivor’s guilt

Valyn comes to see him two days after he returns from his parents’ home. Catterik and Jemma are out, and Sirion is alone in the quiet office, still prohibited from working in the yard by both Fran and Jemma. In truth, he’s put up little protest against their order. His heartbeat has a new companion now, ever since they found him. Doubt trickles cold like water down the inside of his ribcage, leaves him second-guessing every judgment. He’s never felt so unsure of himself and doesn’t trust himself to give orders right now. When Valyn steps through the door, Sirion is on his feet, already bending in a painful bow. He’s healing but not quite recovered. “Please, Captain, at ease,” Valyn says as he approaches.

Sirion hesitates before heeding the placating gesture of Valyn’s hand. He sinks slowly into his seat while Valyn takes the one across the desk. He’s never spoken personally with Valyn before, has only witnessed his interactions and never been invited to engage himself. Valyn offers a small smile, almost rueful. “I have never had Caleb’s skill in befriending our soldiers,” he explains, “but now that his crown has fallen to me, I should like to follow his lead as much as I can.” As much as his words and tone are easy, they set Sirion into further discomfort. A social call is the last thing he wants right now. Sirion has only ever known one prince, and the similarities Valyn shares with Callebero make him only more cognizant of how different they are and how easily he could misstep. He has never been part of – nor desired to be – the court’s politics. Others have noted his diplomacy, but it has ever been a tactic of self-preservation, of knowing how to keep himself out of trouble. He can’t conjure cutting replies like Jisel or lean on the weight of his imperium like Callebero. “I am glad to see you recovering,” Valyn offers. “It would be a sore day indeed for Arradine to lose their captain.” “Thank you, Your Eminence,” Sirion signs. Then, grudgingly, he adds, “The Royal Physician and her staff are most diligent.” There’s a tightening to Valyn’s lips at the mention of Fran, but it’s gone so quickly Sirion’s hardly sure it was there at all. “Please, there’s no need for formalities,” Valyn says instead. “You and Caleb were close, were you not?” “I was honored to consider him a friend,” Sirion answers carefully. He can still remember the brightness of Callebero’s grin, the warmth of his dark eyes, the strength of his calloused hands. They were friends even when they did not know what they wanted to be, even when they wanted what they could not have. He doesn’t know how much Valyn knows – he and Callebero ever were close – but he doubts he knows this. Callebero could be infuriatingly close-lipped, and he was loath to show much vulnerability even among his friends. “I wish the same for us,” Valyn says. “As you will,” he concedes with a respectful nod. Watching him, Valyn cants his head to the side as if in thoughtfulness. There’s a softness in his gaze, and when he speaks, his voice is gentler than it was before. “I was told you were with him at the end,” he says. Sirion nods and tries not to let anything else bleed through his expression. “Forgive me, I know it is not a painless request, but I would care to know how it happened,” Valyn says. “Caleb was the closest to a brother I ever had, and to know how he died would offer some – well, resolution, I supposed.” Sirion swallows, and his hands lie still. Those last moments are a blur. His mind had been full of calculations on their odds as well as his own life that he could not now recall if pressed to write them down. He remembered the corpses, remember Irian’s face hewn apart and staring bloodied up at him. He remembers looking for Callebero and finding one arm shattered and held tight to his chest and blood running down his face from where he’d let someone in too close. He remembers the canyon’s cool air, the weight of Callebero’s body against his before free fall took them. “He fought bravely,” Sirion signs, stiff. “He was among the last of us still standing, but he did not fall to our attackers’ blades.” Valyn makes a noise in the back of his throat, questioning and prompting Sirion to continue. “I pushed him into the river,” SIrions says, admits, confesses. “I thought there was a chance he could survive and be found.” The confession feels like a lash taken to the back of his ribs, flaying him open. “I see.” Sirion lifts his gaze at the sound of Valyn’s too-neutral tone. The softness has gone from his eyes, and with it, some resemblance to Callebero. He sits in the chair as if his presence makes it a throne, and there is nothing playful in his cold eyes. “Well, it worked out for you,” he says. In his eyes, there is no forgiveness but condemnation. Sirion’s own guilt stares him down, unwavering. “Tell me, why was it the youngest and least experienced of the imperial captains who rode with the prince?” Valyn asks. “The vanguard is formed from the cavalry,” Sirion answers, uneasy. “They fall under my dominion.”  Now, with Valyn pressing at all his own doubts, Sirion feels half-blind. At the time, he’d thought of asking Jemma to join the vanguard, but the armies couldn’t be left without a commander. He’d been selfish, wanting to keep those few weeks with Callebero for himself. He’d brushed it off as only nerves, the kind that took facing to beat. He’d been sure it would be fine, almost pleasant. A chance for both of them to relax without the weight of watching eyes. With victory and the distance from court, he’d almost hoped that some part of Callebero that had been closed to him since Timarin’s death would be returned. Now, Valyn rises with a cool, impassive look. Shoulders squared, he looms over Sirion with his chin lifted just-so. “The armies are being temporarily suspended,” he says. “To give you time to heal and to ensure a smooth transition.” Even if he’d played at kindness, Sirion would recognize the sentence for exacty what it was. The bright-burning, history-scoring arc of his early career is to be matched with an equally sudden fall to ignominy. “I understand,” he signs, rote. It’s hours later when he finds Jisel, more by accident than intent. Before, they’d inevitably wind up in Callebero’s chambers most evenings. Nominally, Sirion was there as a guard, but guards weren’t often encouraged to recline on the prince’s chaise, to get tangled in their debates. Another instance of selfishness overriding his duty, in hindsight. Now, they’ve migrated to a quiet nook in the library, rarely visited. From her expression, Jisel is nearly as surprised as Sirion to see another person there. The table’s full of books and papers, though Sirion doesn’t bother looking to determine their content. “Oh, Sirion,” Jisel greets. She shakes her head. “Sorry, please join me.” He’d been looking for quiet, but now that he’s here, solitude doesn’t seem so appealing. He takes a seat where she’s cleared space at her right side. “Valyn visited me,” he says before he thinks. Jisel stills, only her gaze lifting from his hands to his face. Her expression is set in a familiar look of determination. “Sirion, whatever he said, this is not your fault,” she says. “He’s doing this to all of us. Hayalen’s being forced to step down as Royal Protector, my imperium as praesidium is suspended – he’s targeted everyone close to Caleb except Catterik.” “You think Catterik has allied with him?” Sirion asks, temporarily side-tracked. Pursing her lips, Jisel frowns and looks away. She gives a little shake of her head before turning back to him. “I think Catterik plays a game that no one but his sister could hope to understand, and I think Valyn is banking on that superseding personal loyalty,” she says. “Valyn is cauterizing the wound he made. Discrediting each of us, taking our power – it puts us out of his way, gives us more immediate things to worry about than causing him trouble.” She’s right – at least about Valyn’s strategy. Sirion swallows, hands curling into loose fists. He needs to say it, needs to utter the words out loud so that he isn’t hiding this from her. She deserves to know. “Jisel, I killed him,” he signs. “I am the reason Caleb is dead.” There’s no pity in her expression, thankfully, but neither is there horror or anger. She looks at him with only a sad kind of knowing. “Sirion,” she says, “Caleb was dead the moment he left Nafyr. This attack was planned ahead, meticulously. You did what was right in the moment.” “I could have let him die in battle, as an imperator should,” Sirion insists. “Then he would at least receive a proper funeral.” Lifting her gaze to some distant point among the shelves, Jisel shakes her head slightly. Her lips are pressed together, frustration and something else in her expression. “Or his corpse would have been mutilated and disgraced by the attackers,” she replies. “There is no dishonor at going to rest in the sea. Caleb loved the ocean; now, he will find his final peace there. It was always going to end like this. One way or another.” He’s never heard her so resigned, so complacent in the face of fate or destiny. Of all them, she has ever been the one defying the plans others tried to impose upon her. He frowns, worry crawling crab-like up his spine. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asks. She laughs, just a quick exhale of amusement at his question. The corners of her lips quirk up as if in a smile, but there’s no humor in her eyes. A bleak kind of desperation glitters there instead. “They found a missive in the saddlebags of one of the attackers,” she says with that uncanny smile, and a chill spreads under Sirion’s skin. “Perfectly preserved, if you’ll believe it, and bearing my seal.” He freezes, the cold setting deep into his bones. No words come to him, no answer to the terror he now sees in her green eyes. He can count the number of times he’s seen Jisel scared on one hand. It isn’t a look made for someone like her, so bold and strong. She gives a little laugh, as if at the inanity of it, and tears well in her eyes. “I am to be tried for treason,” she says, her voice finally breaking. “I am suspected of murdering my best friend, and the only defense I have is my own word – which isn’t worth anything at all.”