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industria-adastra · 1 year ago

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[WMMAP] - Magnum Opus: It's sad to be at the bottom of life, right? (4/5)

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Summary: It's amazing, really, how quickly love can turn to hate. Or maybe, it hadn't been love after all.

Note: Recently, I've gotten into Hazbin Hotel again. I ended up adding more stuff to the latter half of the original chapter 3 that I cut. I hope you like it, intended audience of maybe two people.

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There is a man who is always present in these events. A man who always hangs about on the fringes of the ever-increasingly elaborate parties in Jennette’s name, observing within the shadows. Athanasia finds him to look disturbingly similar to her father, even if she brushes off their similarities time and time again. And like her father, as she discovers in an accidental bump, he reeks of the magic that the Obelian royal family seems inexplicably chained to.

She goes searching within the records, and already, his face appears only a generation away. Yet, Anastacius de Alger Obelia had been long dead, hadn’t he? But Athanasia has long learned to not believe in coincidence. Something strange is afoot. Will he become a test of what she’d do for her family?

At another ball, another celebration for Jennette, his dark gaze turns to her, and his eyes flash jewel blue, and, oh, Athanasia understands now.

(She’s never tried spilling blood with her own hands)

Stiffening as he leisurely walks over, Athanasia’s mind rushes through potential actions she could take. On one hand, she could alert everyone within the vicinity, especially Lord Robaine, about her uncle truly living up to his name. On the other hand, remembering the bitter twist of his lips, staring at Father and her sister, Athanasia stalls.

(Perhaps it is a good idea, with the pressure of twisted magic she hadn’t truly noticed the strength of before. Something's wrong.)

Her vision blurs, watching him steadily walk over, the light clicks of his shoes like a war drum against her ears. His clothes don't seem to fit, a strange, ever-changing amalgamation of fluttering robes and crisp formal wear. His hair is neat and carefully tousled, and his hair is shaggy and unkempt.

(There is something deeply wrong about this man)

“It’s annoying, isn’t it, not being the golden child everyone loves?” It’s as if two people are asking this of her, with a strange mix of amusement, cold pity and understanding within his (their?) eyes.

(Something about him is wrong, wrong, wrong)

Athanasia opts not to reply, shifting her gaze elsewhere. It’s a question loaded with enough weight to topple an empire. She’s quite sure that what that man means by ‘annoying’ is not as light as it sounds.

“I see,” his eyes move to catch her gaze.

Before he moves to turn away, they give some last few parting words that render Athanasia stock stiff in her heels.

“I can’t wait to see what happens when you break alongside your ghoul of a mother, my dearest niece.”

"Dearest descendant of mine."

The phrases overlap together, and before she can even blink, before she can let go of a tense breath, a body moves into her field of vision, blocking her view. Athanasia stumbles forward, hand outstretched to politely shift it away. But when it moves, they are already gone.

(It's as if they've vanished into thin air)

After that fateful encounter, Athanasia never sees him appear at another ball ever again.

She wonders if she should have ever told her father about this meeting.

Then again, with his constant state of apathy and ennui during their regularly scheduled tea times with Jennette concerning anything relating to her, Athanasia wonders if it’ll simply pass through his ears like white noise.

Ever since the first one, the tea parties Jennette tries to host for the three of them are always painfully awkward. This one is no exception. Athanasia is eighteen now, and all that’s changed is Jennette’s choice of tea and snacks—this year is chamomile and imported sweets from Siodonna.

The overpowering taste of sugar accompanies the taste of rose. Paired with the chamomile, it verges on being too sweet.

Without a need to contribute to the current conversation (consisting of Jennette rambling and her father barely even looking like he’s paying attention—he looks perpetually drowsy these days), Athanasia finds her attention turning to Bluey’s recovery. He keeps shedding feathers all over the place, and sometimes his muscles lock together involuntarily. Sustaining a life is harder than keeping it in stasis. She can’t push too much magic in, and neither can she give too little. Yet, there is no predefined value to sustain—there’s an unknown sequence yet to be found. She needs to find it soon.

“Just yesterday, I went to see Ijekiel—”

Clank. Athanasia’s teacup strikes its saucer perhaps a bit too harshly, rudely cutting off Jennette’s words. Because of that, she offers an awkward, sheepish smile to her audience of two.

“My apologies for that, but I’ve suddenly realised that I have some rather urgent matters to resolve back in the Ruby Palace.�� As she speaks, Athanasia moves out of her seat, ready to leave. “Please, have a wonderful rest of the day.”

(It isn’t as if they’d notice her anyway)

“O-oh! Of course, we will! Right, Father?” At that, Claude only stares at her silently, yet all Athanasia can see from his eyes is apathy—a passive gaze with nothing attached. “I hope it’s nothing too serious…”

By then, Athanasia had already started to walk away.

(She wonders why she thought they’d call after her)

It all happens in a flash. Jennette, chatting with her amiably about the latest fashions and Ijekiel’s latest romantic gesture. And to clear her throat, she takes a sip of tea. But as she opens her mouth to speak again, her blue eyes widen, her mouth forms an “o” in surprise, and Jennette coughs up crimson blood before she collapses to the ground. The sound of breaking porcelain resounds as it crashes onto the ground.

Not even a second passes by and Athanasia has already rushed towards her, heart pounding in her ears. How will she explain this to her father? How had she been so lax in her vigilance? How had she been so blind as not to notice poison? Why Jennette? Why her? Her mana rushes out in an attempt to heal Jennette but she can’t properly do so if she has no idea what has been affected. What had Jennette ingested within the tea? Athanasia’s hands shake in terror as she scoops Jennette into her arms.

“HELP!” She screams, heavy breaths coming out as tears start to flow. “HELP! SOMEONE, PLEASE! ANYBODY! THE FIRST PRINCESS HAS BEEN POISONED!” Fearfully, Athanasia's eyes dart around, catching the eyes of a nearby maid, whose mouth is wide open in shock.

"What are you doing?! Go! Go get help now!" Athanasia so rarely ever raised her voice, but right now, she’d scream herself hoarse, scream herself mute if it’d save Jennette.

Luckily for the maid, she quickly runs off toward the royal doctors. But now, there is nothing to do but wait, nothing to do but watch as the blood trickles down from Jennette’s mouth. Sweat is already building on her skin, and all Athanasia can do is hold her close and make sure Jennette doesn’t unconsciously choke on her blood. Jennettee’s eyes are still open, but Athanasia thinks that she cannot bear to close them, even for Jennette’s later comfort. As her heart continues to race, Athanasia finds that the only thing she can do is silently lament to her mother, and pray in her heart that all will be alright.

There is blood on her clothes.

When Jennette is taken away to be treated, Athanasia finally collapses from the stress of it all. Yet when she wakes up, she sees neither the old, yet comforting walls of her room. What she sees are the grey stone walls; what she smells is the rotten stink of excretion and urine; what she hears is the rhythmic clanking of metal armour and the scurrying of rats. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that she’s in the dungeons—as unfamiliar as it should be.

There is still blood on her clothes. There is still blood on her hands. It’s brown and crusted and stinks of iron and Athanasia thinks she hears a woman weeping. Her gaze darts around, trying to see if her mother is here. If she was, Athanasia could get an explanation. If she was, Athanasia could have some comfort in this sudden new insanity.

But her mother is not here, and Athanasia is alone. There’s not much else to do but sit and wait.

And just a few moments later, her answers come in the form of three individuals. Duke Alpheus, Countess Rosalia, and last of all shadowed by the badly lit rooms but still standing out so strongly—the Emperor, her father. The three of them stare down upon her dirtied form with closed expressions (and what she can always recognise as barely hidden disdain).

Athanasia decides to focus on her father. Not that it was hard to.

“Your Majesty?”

No reply.

Athanasia tries again. “Is Jennette alright? Is she safe now?”

Instead of her father’s even monotone, it’s Countess Rosalia’s sharp, nearly squawking, shrieking vocals which answer her. “Jennette is safe from you, Your Highness.” She spits those words out venomously, almost triumphantly.

It doesn’t take a one-in-a-million genius to understand what has happened.

Still, Athanasia tries to keep her calm, “What do you mean, Countess? You, of all people, should know that false accusations towards royalty are tantamount to treason.” Better to be blunt and be done with it.

This time, it is the Duke who speaks, looking down upon her between narrowed eyes, “Your Highness, there is no need for any more pretence. It has been found that you were the one who poisoned Jennette.” Prim and proper in his shiny white clothes and his always meticulously coiffed hair; in the depths of her heart, Athanasia couldn’t understand how a man like Ijekiel could be his son.

“And what evidence do you have to prove your claims?” Athanasia has learnt to smile like how Raven bares his teeth; sharp and quick, a warning to go no further. If there is anything else she’s learnt from Ijekiel’s friendship, it is that a smile grants both mystery and versatility. “Proper procedure states that I have the right to be subject to a fair trial, and a right to know upon what grounds you base such accusations on.”

She watches the countess artfully swing her fan up into a waiting hand, only to snap it open with a violent elegance. “Your Highness, there is no need for such tedious procedures when your guilt is crystal clear for everyone to see.”

Like a part of a two-headed snake, the Duke adds his venomous spit to the mix, “Out of jealousy, you dared to poison your own sister for your own shortcomings.”

“This is more fact than fiction—countless witnesses can prove to you that I had no idea what would happen to Jennette.”

“And countless witnesses can also prove that you’ve always harboured such envious hatred for your own sister. How wicked you are, to take away her fiancé—to take away my son—and now to take away her life.”

Still, Athanasia continues to stay calm. Her father would surely intervene at some point, wouldn’t he? “You must be mistaken, Ijekiel and I are merely friends. He is my future brother-in-law, and it would make no sense to alienate myself from him. And I care dearly for Jennette. I would do no such thing when it would only bring her pain.”

“But your actions speak louder than your words, Your Highness. Such pretty lies may come easily to you, given your blood, but we both know that you purposefully seduced him. Just like that crass, low-class whore you were born from.” The woman sneers, edging threateningly closer.

Athanasia snaps. She rushes to the bars, slamming into them with a strength and speed all too abnormal for a girl her size and age. Taking advantage of their foolish arrogance, she takes the opportunity to grab at their disgustingly extravagant clothes, bringing them eye to eye, and knocking their heads painfully on the steel bars.

(They tell her to not let go, to keep moving, to keep shaking. Until they are but bloodied flesh and broken bones and as filthy as their tongues are. Better off as fodder, better off to be used for something grander than they could ever be.)

“Keep my mother out of your mouth! How can you be so sure that such a miscarriage of justice will—!”

“Be silent.” Finally, he speaks. His mana collapses onto her like that of a dying star, forcing her to let go, forcing her back onto the ground. But while it is painful, it is more bearable than the knowledge that her father simply did not care.

Ignoring the bodies quickly scrambling behind his protection, the Emperor simply comments, “Have you finished your petty tantrum?”

For the first time in her life, she gawks at him, at his apathy and unchanged expression. From the look on his face, Athanasia knows that he will never change his mind. He will never change his mind for her because he does not care.

She’s known this for so long, and yet, and yet it still hurts.

And just like that, her verdict—her guilt—is decided just like that. She has blood on her hands because it is the word of the Emperor—Sun of the Empire, a ruler before he is her father (as it should; as it shouldn’t be so). Athanasia bites down harshly on her lips, casting her gaze on the stone floors, and nary a sound is allowed to escape. She wants to rage, wants to scream, wants to reach beyond the steel bars and tear at the cloth near her father’s feet—to beg for an explanation, to defend herself, to harshly refute her claims.

Who had she loved dearly all this time? Who had she worked for to the bone to gain just the slightest bit of approval and notice? Who had she idolised as perfection even as it was so clear that he was nothing but a statue carved out of ice? Her father—

(The child will die. He will kill her, like he slaughtered them, watching them breathe their last. She is her child my child our only child. She must live.)

Her mother’s cold hands tether her to reality, and Athanasia does none of that.

“Breathe,” Diana says, right on time, pressing atop her, enclosing Athanasia within her arms. “Not in front of the Duke and the Countess, Dear. Later, when it’s safer, Mama will be here. You know Mama will always be here for you.”

Right.

She has always had her mother. Always had Lily and Raven. And now she has Jennette and Ijekiel.

It is enough. (It must be; She wants a father.)

Athanasia forces herself to hold it in, to stare straight into her father’s eyes and say, “Your Majesty is as efficient as always. Will there be a further investigation into this incident? After all, Your Majesty, efficiency without accuracy is just another way to describe sloppy work.” She smiles, ignoring the subtle shock and outrage—the lovely confusion—on the Duke and Countess.

“...You are the primary suspect. It will be enough to make an example of you.” Always putting in the most minimal of effort when it came to her.

“I see. Then may I know if you have settled on a date for the execution?” Even now, she couldn’t let herself look any less insanely perfect in front of him. Even now, she still loves him—but perhaps no longer like that of a follower and their god. After all, gods cannot be flawed.

Unreadable as always, her father so graciously lets her know when she’ll die by his hand. “The dawn of the 8th day.” Cold, clipped—he doesn’t even seem to register that it’ll be her birthday. By the sun, moon, and stars—what a joke. This is the most attention he’s ever truly given to her.

After that, he’s already turning his back on her, moving towards the exit. The Duke and the Countess cast her cold, calculating looks before they scurry after him (like the rats they were).

When they finally leave, out of sight, out of mind, Athanasia finally allows herself to collapse into her mother’s ready arms. She shakes, she sobs, and she cries—but Athanasia still does not let a single sound escape. How unfair it is, to mourn something she never had from the start.

There is blood on her hands, but it is because of someone else.

(Athanasia doesn’t want to die.

“You won’t,” her mother promises with a whisper. “We’ll make sure of it.”)

“How far will you go for Diana’s—my child?”

“Anything for Athanasia,” the nanny’s sea blue eyes look straight ahead, resolute.

“Even your life?”

“If it must be so.”

On the second day of her imprisonment, Raven brings him a thick, tattered book. It is hard to hide large secrets, but having grown up as an Alpheus, hiding them is but second nature to him.

Drunk off his victory, his father grows sloppy—perhaps even mad, judging from the strange one-man dialogue he occasionally hears coming from his office. (Before…everything, they had conversed about noise-cancelling magic before.) His father’s lack of care is a boon when Ijekiel knows his actions will tear into the tapestry of success his father had so carefully woven.

He remembers being told that to love is to wish for someone’s success and happiness—to do all you could to ensure their dreams would come true.

Ijekiel thinks that to love is also to do all you can to stop someone from going past that line in the sand, the precarious precipice of no return.

Then again, he muses on the seventh night, sorting through all the information about guard rotations, patrol routes, floor plans and the like—it’s not even the most damning action of his right now. Ijekiel raises a hand to press lightly against his sternum, feeling the heavy weight of the key, the rough texture of the iron, even though it’s buried underneath all the layers of his clothing.

A haunting birdsong trickles in the open window, and Ijekiel stops to turn and gaze at the moonlight.

He thinks that, perhaps, also, to love is to be willfully ignorant.

Ever since her verdict had been so kindly handed down to her by her father, Athanasia’s days are now spent in the dungeon, rather than in the comfort of the library or her room. There are no books to read, so she spends time talking to her mother, practising the spells stitched into her memories. However, without Raven, they’re weaker, barely sparks yet still clearly noticeable. Strangely, no guard ever seems to be able to perceive any such practice; eyes glazed over every time. Nor are there shackles on her limbs, binding her down like an animal. She won’t question it, instead preparing for a hypothetical scenario in which she’s free.

(Mother had promised her.)

She’s sure that the guards all think she’s mad from shock. They look at her with disgusted pity and gossip about her as if she can’t hear at all. But their loose tongues help her hold onto the outside world.

Jennette is in a coma. For all their talk of family, she surmises that the most precious child of both the Countess and the Duke is power. Her father spends most of his time working. Athanasia supposes that there’s much to do when you’re executing a direct member of the royal family. Morbidly, she wonders if the Black Tower magicians would want her body for their research. Lily is that “crazy palace maid” who begs to be heard every day (no news on how her father reacted to it—but such a case is one where Athanasia sincerely prays that her father’s apathy will outweigh any annoyance, that Lily’s noble family will take her out of harm’s way before the worst can come to pass).

Raven and Bluey are both missing (something’s coming). And Ijekiel… Last she heard, he’d been the picture-perfect fiancé, periodically visiting Jennette like clockwork every day.

At the same time, Athanasia gets a single stem of flowers each day. She wonders if Duke Alpheus knows about them.

Goldenrod, purple heliotrope, blue verbena, pink gladiolus, blue periwinkle, an iris suspiciously dusted with fur and downy feathers.

When will it be the hour of their flight?

“Wait and see, it’ll be like a fairytale,” her mother says, dancing all the while. “In the meantime, show me how you weave your magic again, Athy.”

It is cold within the dungeons. Athanasia will surely die tomorrow if nothing short of a miracle occurs. And yet, there is no worry in either her heart or her soul. Her mother had promised her, and to love, for Athanasia, was to devote and believe—to have utmost faith.

(She wonders what her father’s idea of love is—indulgence? A passive acceptance not too far from apathy? At least she knows that her mother’s love is undying, from beyond the grave. Lily’s love is steadfast and loyal, always trying to make the best of things. Ijekiel’s is inherent in every action, every move. Jennette’s is puppy-like, endearing.)

Athanasia hums as she finishes the final touches on her flowery bracelet, sliding it over her wrist with a sense of pride. The flowers are ill-suited to be bound this way, but such perversions of reality and logic are what magic is for. From behind, her mother gently combs out the knots in her hair with deft fingers, plaiting and pinning until all of Athanasia’s golden hair is safely pinned up.

“The midnight hour comes soon, Dear—Eumiellia’s always said that it’s the perfect hour for some…mischief.” Her mother says in a sing-song tone, drawing her up on her feet and guiding her to watch the way the light on the dungeon corridors starts to change and grow. In the depths of the Empire’s bowels, the echo of the nearing footsteps rings louder and louder in her mind.

Someone is coming.

“Is it time to go now?” Athanasia asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I already said it’s the perfect hour, Athy.” So they wait. It doesn’t take long for Athanasia to realise that alongside the light footsteps, another pair of feet pad forth as well. Excitement bubbles in her chest—she’s heard those footsteps before.

Athanasia sees Bluey first, the stitched bluebird squeezing between the bars to nuzzle into her awaiting hands, before leaping into flight once more.

Raven is next, her book grasped firmly in her mouth. Already, Athanasia can feel the electric rush of mana, from a steady trickle to rushing rapids. Were it not for the anti-teleportation wards, she probably could be free already.

“I hope you don’t mind the lack of white horses, Your Highness.”

All of a sudden, she feels lightheaded, warm. “Ijekiel?” She breathes out, staring disbelievingly at his hooded figure, the glint of his golden eyes. He smiles back at her, taking out a key from underneath his collar.

“The one and only, Athanasia.” Her door unlocks, and he reaches out to tug her forward into a tight hug, holding her so tightly and so closely that Athanasia can feel the skin of his neck, and smell the scent of his skin. “Did you like my message? I learnt it from the book about Obelia’s flower language we read together every February.”

“I didn’t expect—”

“That I’d be doing this in person? I don’t trust anyone else with your safety. After all, you’re my…friend.”

Athanasia finally hugs back, squeezing her arms around Ijekiel tightly. Her eyes squeeze shut with unshed tears. “I’m glad you’re my friend too. But what I meant was that I didn’t expect you to mean you were going to conduct a jailbreak.”

“Well, a nobleman should always have many skills.”

“Jennette is lucky to have you.” She feels Ijekiel tense momentarily in her arms, The break in conversation appears to drag on, long and uncomfortable, before she hears him let out a sigh.

“She’s lucky to have you as well,” he says in return, before seemingly tacking on as an afterthought, “as a sister.” At those words, he releases her from his grasp, pulling away, only to come close once more to wrap a dark cloak around her shoulders. His hands rest on her shoulders, and Athanasia isn’t sure if he realises how tightly he’s gripping her.

“We should get going now. The guards won’t stay out for long.”

“Are you coming with me?” They both know it’s a stupid question; both know what the answer will be; both know that she will never truly mean it.

Ijekiel doesn’t reply, but his wistful gaze is enough.

Athanasia smiles, and it is small, almost sad, as she makes a request of him, “Take care of her for me, and for her own sake, alright?” Gripping the front of the cloak, she looks off into the dark distance, the unknown of her impending freedom. “Politics was never her strong suit.”

“Of course, as Her Highness asks.” Ijekiel chokes out the words, and he lets go of her shoulders, turning away and towards the dungeon’s exit. “I’ll escort you to that place—as long as you can get out of here, you’ll be able to leave the palace, right?”

“Yes.”

And so out they go, past the numerous cells and past the unconscious guards, from the darkness, to the moonlight. The night air tastes of freedom; walking on the stone paths, past the patrolling guards, feels like a kind of liberation. Her magic wraps around them like a shield as they make their way to the place where they’d both realised they’d fallen in love with the sun.

As they stand below the tree, Athanasia finds herself reluctant to truly say goodbye to him.

So she doesn’t.

“Tell Lily I said goodbye, please?” The magic swirls around her feet, building, building to a crescendo, changing the colour of her hair, the colour of her eyes—held high in the air by a single thread of hesitation.

Ijekiel cannot tear his eyes away from her. It’s only through sheer strength of will that he holds back from reaching out once more. “If it’s you, there’s no need to ask.”

Athanasia smiles, bright and true, and she turns away. “I’m glad I met you, Ijekiel.” Her magic swallows her up, leaving not a trace, not even a spark.

It’s as if she were never there in the first place.

He speaks to the empty air, hand outstretched. “I’m glad I met you too, Athy.”

Athanasia jumps from inn to inn, hiding in plain sight, making sure to cycle through a number of features wherever she goes, obfuscating the Imperial guards’ search for her. Above all, she likes it best when her eyes are either pink or blue; when her hair is blonde or brown. Through it all, her heart crashes about in her chest, thrashing about in her ribcage even as she refuses to think about how she’s being hunted down like a criminal by her own father. Money (golden and shining and reliable in a way her father never truly was) is never tight due to her magic. Still, Athanasia is starved of genuine interaction with anyone but her mother. Yet it’s all too risky even to fathom making an acquaintance when she knows they’ll all bind her in chains if they ever know who she is.

Her mother helps as best as she can, whispering in her ear about the innkeeper was starting to become suspicious, or what rumours were being circulated here and there—helping her avoid areas where people are most keen to turn in the abominable villainess who’d harmed their beloved Princess (never her, never Athanasia, it was always, always Jennette who’d be so loved and accepted by all). Athanasia is oh-so careful, living as if she were dead, waiting, waiting, waiting as she always did.

Until she sees the body strung from a rope in the town square.

Horrifically injured, it is covered in a damaged maid’s dress, and matted brown hair covers its eyes. But Athanasia recognises the bend of those limp hands, the careful embroidery lining the apron and the skirt, the unseen tie so horribly torn and broken like her heart. Her breath feels uneven, all too loud for her ears in an environment that seems to press down on her. Mother’s ghostly arms pull at her as gently firm as can be, but Athanasia cannot bring herself to move. There is a scream stuck in her throat, and it claws with an animalistic ferocity to be let out.

Faintly, she thinks that Ijekiel would’ve labelled this as the protagonist’s tipping point.

Lily is dead.

Mama confirms it too, with all the coldness and stiffness of flash-frozen water, the absence of spirit, her soul.

Not even days after she’s started running away, does she see the still corpse swaying in the air in front of her eyes. It’s already started the process of decay, the white pallor that marks her as gone having already overtaken her skin. Not to mention the unmistakable hole in her chest, the browning stains of blood on her always impeccably clean uniform, the doll-like stiffness of her body, and Lily cannot be dead because her Father hates her so but he is not a madman bereft of morals (as long as it does not involve her) he is a cold but stiff, still just ruler (as long as it does not involve her) because because because—

It had been fine as long as it was only her who bore the weight of such cruel apathy.

Claude de Alger Obelia, emperor of Obelia, tyrant of Obelia has, had, killed Lily.

Her mama lays her hands upon her shoulders, ice-cold and sub-zero degrees burning Athanasia’s skin like a hot iron brand. Memories gleaned rush into her mind

And he would pay.

He would pay for it. He had to pay for it. There were consequences to every action, everything you took from the world. Whether it was forcing the creation of your imagination into life, speeding up natural processes of growth, or ripping away a life unfinished. There was always, always, a price to pay. Equivalent exchange. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. A life for a life.

And Athanasia would become his debt dealer. His Thanatos, pounding, clawing at his door.

She could fix this. Athanasia was a fool and a horribly, terribly blind idiot with a brain rotted with desire but she could fix this because if her Mama could come back to her so could Lily, and then she could apologise for being such a stupid stupid child. Everything would be back to normal. Back to the imperfect (no, they were perfect and unblemished) days of simply lazing around as a true family.

Lily wasn’t gone yet.

And Athanasia would make sure that she stayed, for good. Forever.

All she needs to do is prepare the stage, erase a few eyesores and tidy up this mess.

(The light of the torches cast long shadows as she took one step and another forward)

For that, her first order of business is to take back Lily’s body.

Early morning comes with the herald of the confusion of the masses.

(Poor, ignorant souls who have yet to realise what will be wrought upon their world)

The body of the example, the unremarkable maid of an unloved princess no longer hung from the noose. Only a snapped rope, roughly cut off from the rest of it, lay hanging from the wood.

Someone had taken the body, but who? Who would dare defy the order of the Sun of Obelia, Emperor Claude de Alger Obelia?

And within the shadows, a girl began crafting. Smoothing over blemishes, re-building foundations, and making once wrongs become rights. She fixes and repairs and improves because it is all for Lily’s sake. Lily must not come back in pain. She must come back to a body that knows no pain and will never know pain ever again.

But because it must be perfect (it must be, it had to be because she had to make up for it somehow and she knows it’s not enough but—), because she will accept no flaw, Athanasia needs practice. More practice than little animals and plants in various states of decay. Better practice than that. She needs people.

(People who will surely, surely join her, who will always live up to her expectations. Because they will be reborn and reshaped to fit them.)

Athanasia always works hard for those she loves. Will always work hard for them and those she has yet to love. Because she is a starving child, and she will devour everything even if she’s full. So in return, she’ll do anything.

She gently thumbs the closed eyelids of a most remarkable maid, knowing that beyond them are dull blue eyes. It isn’t right for them to be such a colour. Her hand goes to her face to trace soft lines just below her jewel-blue eyes. That colour is a physical connection of “family”, an invisible thread tying them together.

He didn’t deserve to have such a colour. Its beauty—wasted on him.

It’s a colour that Lily deserves so much more than him.

And Athanasia knows she can fix it.

She has to.

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