Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I have been to your father for business already.” Holland had learned how best to pitch his voice for this, even if it was marred by the permanent gravel. “I come to you for… other things.”

The Maresh princeling perked up, golden eyes shining as he caught on to the familiar game. “And what would those be?”

Even in this moment, it was hard to forget the thirteen-year-old boy he had first met. The eyes were also an uncomfortable reminder of someone else, even if they were too bright a shade of gold. Too Arnesian to feel like home.

“A gift for your twentieth year.” He reached into his pocket, movement slow out of well-ingrained caution that couldn’t be shut down even in this softer world. He held out the silk-wrapped package. “The Danes send their regards, since I will be unable to attend the celebrations.”

The phrasing was clumsy, he could almost hear Athos’ chiding tone. The good mood was souring.

But Rhy stood and approached, and Holland didn’t flinch at the brief touch as he took the package. Rhy’s voice was hesitant even as his fingers trailed over the silk. “Holland, the laws of transference-“

“I know the laws.” The rules wouldn’t matter for much longer. “It was bought at your Night Market, to give you strength.”

That was all it took. The Arnesians could drown in their own hypocrisy, just as obsessed with power as they accused Maktahns of being. Rhy didn’t put it on in front of him but he would soon. His weakness would play right into Astrid’s hands and they would all pay for it.

For a moment, Holland pondered what this castle would look like under their control. Bathed in fresh blood, no doubt. Would they keep the frivolous luxuries for a while or burn it all down?

“Will you stay a little longer?” His voice softened, more coaxing than seductive, but still with the confidence of a prince used to getting his way. Rhy reached for his hand. “Surely you have time to spare?”

Holland shook his head before the prince had even finished speaking. It was not the first time Rhy had offered, nor was it the first time Holland had refused. It never went further than playful words.

Rhy wouldn’t be cruel and he certainly couldn’t force him. But he would see the scars and once he saw the scars, he might start realizing things he couldn’t handle. Holland wasn’t even sure how he would respond to overtures that expected easy reciprocation again. Last time he had sought that, a mere few months ago in Grey London, it had resulted in the Danes adding more blood on his hands. Either way, he wouldn’t let that be their parting memory before everything was ruined irrevocably.

“My king and queen will be expecting my return.” The words tasted like poison but it was enough for Rhy to release him. Holland turned away, briefly unsteady. “I won’t intrude any longer.”

And so the first move on the ost board was made.

Athos was leaving him alone for the night. He was too thrilled about their plan coming to fruition to bother with many distractions, especially after Holland had followed the plan exactly.

That meant, unless Athos changed his mind, he could sleep in a place that wasn’t the castle.

This cottage was at the far end of the Silver Wood, deeper in than he usually went. It was squat but broad, reminiscent of stories of short, feisty creatures hidden among the trees. The ancient stone was half-buried under dead vegetation.

It was in better shape than when he found it three years ago. Stones shifted around into a steadier position. Furniture old enough it was starting to resemble firewood was removed or replaced. Left behind were the hunting traps and baskets hanging from wall hooks. A room to the right with a stove and cooking utensils on marble shelves. The room to the left with a table close to the ground. Moving further in revealed two rooms with a cot and table each. One held the remnants of a child’s crib.

In his more masochistic moments, which apparently included tonight, Holland chose to sleep in the latter.

Piece by piece, Holland shucked off the outerwear. It was a relief, even with the way the cold stone seeped through his wool socks. His fingers found the hairpin, tugging it loose. His hair was getting long again and Athos, because he was dreadfully predictable, would choose an unrelated moment to order it cut. 

Holland was too exhausted to care. He was always exhausted these days. Maybe one day he would fall down and not get up again, wouldn't that be nice?

In this place all of that could be forgotten, even if only for a little while. The mark on the wall would return him to the castle if called. Until that happened, Holland laid under the cotton sheets that were less plush than the palace variety but far more comfortable. As he always did, he reached under the pillow for a small unassuming charm, a silver carp with a tassel of blue thread. A child’s pendant designed to keep evil spirits away, especially from the ones most fragile at birth. His daughter had only briefly worn it as an infant.

This was the last piece of Kosika he carried with him. He didn’t have the blanket anymore, he didn’t even know if Marit had bothered to keep it. Now he only saw glimpses of her dark hair from a safe distance; the Danes hadn’t technically ordered him to do so but he couldn’t let her see him, not as he was now.

Did Kosika know she’d had a father or was it a complete mystery? Did she have any memories of him? A vague figure in the dark like a half-remembered dream?

All he had left was a silver fish pendant in a cottage forgotten by everyone else. However things ended, he would have this. He gripped it tightly as sleep claimed him.

Chapter Text

Holland had slept well, more or less. Dreams too fluid and quiet to be called nightmares. Those had been reserved for his waking hours.

Kell had grown taller but not wiser. All it took was a little pressure from Athos to linger for a drink. Even for a Red Londoner, he should have known better. He didn’t, of course, and that was exactly why the twins were sure their plan would go off without a hitch.

Holland pressed the edge of the scythe (it had been a gift, it was never meant to be used like this) into his forearm, adding another ugly mark to fill the goblet with his blood. Sometimes they didn’t bother with cups. Sometimes they would press wet mouths to his open wounds. It was one of the few violations Holland still almost attempted to fight.

(Aside from delighting in intimate cruelty, they used to do it because they couldn’t escape the cold. Now they drank his blood to keep the dark magic that now infected their veins from burning them out. Like most people, they were afraid of their own mortality.

It felt fitting in some way.)

The other Antari watched. He said nothing.

The conversation went the expected route, dull and monotonous. Plenty of words but without meaning. It meant nothing to the Danes beyond their delight at the irony, a rabbit ignorant of the trap it had stepped into. A repetitive and familiar game. Holland was tired of caring.

They added more bones to the marble floor every year. The fragments were too scattered to identify the number or origin. Sometimes his gaze was drawn to the half-skull in front of the thrones. There was nothing visibly special about it aside from being in the batch collected during the slaughter of their first night. Still, in his worst moments, he wondered.

Holland couldn’t forget entirely even as he tried to lose himself in the pattern. He couldn’t even fall asleep and pass the time that way. He was aware, distantly, of the occasional worried glance the princeling tossed his direction. With the way his gaze would sometimes fall to the cloak's clasp, Holland wondered if he knew, on some conscious level, of the soul seal carved into his skin.

Did Kell understand they would do the same to him? Could he comprehend how easy it would be for the Danes to steal him away? Had he fooled himself into believing he was safe from Astrid?

Kell was smart enough (or selfish enough) to keep his mouth shut. He was still foolish enough to drink the multiple glasses of Rhaask offered to him.

“Holland,” Athos cooed. Amusement ran through his voice. “Why don’t you guide our guest to the entrance? Preferably before he falls over.”

Kell swayed as he stood. Holland gripped his arm to keep him steady. He kept his hold firm but not confining as they made their way out of the throne room, as if that would hide his weakness from the empty-eyed observers.

“You should return home,” he said curtly as he released him. 

At the same time Kell demanded, “come with me.”

His throat went dry. “Pardon?”

“I know they’re…” Kell faltered, as if to speak it now would render all the years of silence unforgivable. He repeated, “come with me, just for a little while. You’ll get a room to rest in and I’ll talk to Tieren. We’ll figure something out.”

Something spasmed in his chest, an ugly thing daring to call itself hope. He strangled it.

They’d had a similar conversation years ago when Kell still counted as a child. He had offered sanctuary he had no right to give. Holland had refused then because he had known it would end in disappointment; Arnes owed nothing to a foreign Antari and wouldn’t wish to upset the White crown. Perhaps he should have tried harder. Perhaps their Aven Essen could have done something useful. It was far too late.

The orders had been clear: Holland was to tell no one of the plan or the Danes’ intentions.

The consequences had been equally clear: a child would suffer for his disobedience. 

He turned away. “You have a family, Kell. Go home.”

He didn’t wait for the boy’s reply.

“What is your name?"

The boy, only barely old enough to be considered an adult, stared back with fearful defiance. His hair was dark and choppy, sticking to his forehead from sweat. His spoiled shirt had been tossed aside, unable to hide his scrawny build. He looked small and fragile against the cruel impassibility of the metal frame, now speckled with fresh blood.

To say there was a resemblance would be an exaggeration, but he knew how Athos could be, seeing things that were apparent to no one else.

Holland didn’t move as he waited. He could wait a very long time. It didn’t really matter. The room was dark and the boy was alone, that was all.

“Beloc,” the boy muttered when the silence became suffocating. “My name is Beloc.”

Beloc, he thought. He committed it to memory. Perhaps the soul seal was weakening for him to attempt to care.

He recoiled as Holland neared but there was nowhere to go. Beloc didn’t make a noise when he cut his hand and laid it against his shredded back. He knew the taste of Athos' whip.

“As Hasari.” Athos would no doubt reopen the wounds later, perhaps even in a few hours. But it would soothe the pain at least for a little while. Suffering without witness had no point. He pulled away as soon as the healing was done. “Why did you do it? Why stand in defiance?”

Beloc’s breath hitched as the gashes pressed together, tension easing after. His voice was almost steady. “Someone had to take a stand. It’s the only way to stop tyrants.”

A blade through the chest tended to be more effective but Holland could appreciate the sentiment. “Do you regret it?”

The boy lifted his chin, a spark of fire in his eyes. “No.”

He didn’t know whether to be angered at the wasted freedom or feel grudging admiration at the calculated risk. He was familiar with that flavor of hopeful defiance.

It had led to becoming a king's knight. It had led to his daughter. It had resulted in seven years of death and destruction.

Holland felt the soul seal tug at his limbs. He pulled away (because he was always pulling away) in silence.

The twins were always cold to the touch. Perhaps that was why they clung so much to Holland, aside from the obvious reasons. Perhaps they enjoyed leaching the warmth out of him. It spoke to how broken Holland had become to sometimes crave even their touch.

“You’ll break him.” Holland stared at the ceiling. The soft bedsheets may as well have been rough wool for they brought no comfort.

“Eventually,” Athos agreed. “I’m hoping Astrid doesn’t let herself get carried away. At least give it a year.”

There was nothing to say to that.

“Don’t worry,” the bastard’s voice dropped into a purr. “You can have a friend again. I might even let you play with him.”

Dark veins infected the marble above them. He followed their ambling path as a cold hand slipped under his shirt. Unlike earlier, he didn’t shudder at Athos’ touch as it lowered.

“We can be kind owners, despite what they think. We certainly haven’t let you starve.”

They were just empty words. If he was asked a question, the seal would pull the answer out of him. It didn’t require him to think or reflect, so it was easy to let the noise fade like the buzzing of insects. Even pain and pleasure could be ignored; they were just sensations and even sensations could meld together into meaninglessness.

Athos startled when the door slammed upon. He sat up with a hissed swear and sighed. “Is this important?”

Astrid stood in the doorway, tightly wound and glaring at Holland. “What did you tell him?”

At least Athos had stopped touching him. “I don’t catch your meaning.”

“Kell,” she hissed out. Her hair was slipping out of its braid, a rare nervous fidget. “He still has the stone. You said this would work.”

Athos clicked his tongue in disappointment. His gaze slid over. “Did you warn him?”

He repeated the conversation, including Kell’s naïve offer. That kind of thing would have delighted the Danes usually; that they didn’t bother with a reaction only affirmed that their plan was spiraling.

Perhaps there had been something in his words that alarmed Kell. Perhaps he was just smarter than the Danes gave him credit for.

“Turn around and stand against the wall,” Athos ordered before returning to his sister. “What do you suggest?”

Any order that let him stand passively out of reach and stare at a boring wall was a preferable one. It was easy to fade into the background this way.

Holland leaned forward and pressed his forehead against the cool stone. At least he had rested some last night. Snatches of conversation slipped through the fog.

“If you had just let me alter the seal on him-“

Astrid scoffed. “Of course, because a hollow Antari would be so useful.”

They were rarely in conflict. Perhaps things were finally unraveling.

Cold fingers slid down his spine, a touch that had brought him comfort in a different life. Athos spoke with a false smile in his voice. “There has been a change of plans, Holland. How does an evening hunt sound?”

Holland made his way down the halls to the kitchen area. Empty-eyed servants glanced briefly at the movement before returning to their role. Some of them were new, gathered from a recent attempted rebellion. 

The soul seal's primary flaw, aside from the vessel being unable to adapt when strict obedience was no longer ideal, was the progressive effect on the body. It wore down mind and form until one day the body just stopped responding, like a broken marionette no longer worth playing with. 

Nasi had the perverse honor of growing up in the Dane-ruled castle, being one of the few residents to retain her free will. Most days she could keep her head down, going from area to area with minimal trouble. Sometimes he even found her wandering in the Krös Mejkt, looking at the faces of each statue.

Holland called her name softly.

The rune tattoed behind her ear boosted her limited hearing. Even if it wasn’t the same as the average child, she knew the sound of her name and the timbre of his voice.

If she wasn’t there…

Then he heard it, the slightest shuffle that sounded loud in the silence.

Knowing she had been heard, Nasi slipped out of her hidden alcove, moving the wood panel aside. She briefly fidgeted with the ruffles of her dress and stood with her back straight, falling back onto the propriety Astrid had pushed into her.

He held out his hand and she flinched.

Of course she did; even if the passing years faded the memory, it must be hard to forget the feeling of a blade near her neck. Holland didn’t have a choice but what difference did that make to a child?

She peaked through honey-grey hair (her mother’s had been a shade of lilac), too-long bangs parting enough to see the jagged scars down her cheeks. Another thing to blame on the Danes. Her gaze never quite met his, more focused on his hands for what they could do or say.

'Stay hidden,' he signed. It was the only language the Danes' translation rune didn't work on. 'Not safe.'

It was never safe with the Danes around. She must have understood the increased danger for him to even say it. This time she followed him. Within the winding hidden corridors she would be safe, relatively speaking. The monsters would struggle to find her.

For a moment, he felt there was more to say. Nothing came out. She flitted out of sight to temporary safety.

The scythe weighed heavy at his side, his fingers briefly tracing over well-worn initials. In one of the inner pockets of his coat, he felt the chill of the child’s charm; for reasons it was pointless to examine he hadn’t left it at the cottage as usual.

With a strange sense of finality, Holland pressed his hand to the nearest mark on the wall. Grey London awaited him.

Chapter Text

Grey London smelled like smoke and sewage, unpleasant in a different way than Kell’s sickly-sweet world. Holland had gotten used to it, more or less. It didn’t do much to cover the trail. Kell had gotten better at hiding the marks his magic left behind. So it was noticeable that Holland caught the faint smell of flowers.

Perhaps he was still drunk and careless. Perhaps he was injured. Perhaps it was even intentional, and he naively thought Holland might come to his aid.

Or maybe he had underestimated him like the Danes because the trail didn’t lead to Kell at all. He got only a brief glance at the face before the figure slipped into the Barren Tide.

Holland hesitated at the entrance but only for a moment. It was just another tavern and he had a job to do. He walked past the less than scrupulous occupants, only a few glancing his way and sensibly looking elsewhere. He knew what they saw, a strangely faded foreigner that used to enter with one of the regulars. Perhaps they wondered why Rohan hadn’t been here in months. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the figure at the bar. Not yet noticed, Holland took a moment to observe. Bony like a bird, a slight softness to their features that suggested nascent girlhood. Choppy dark hair and brown eyes, frowning down at the glass of alcohol. Though the eyes were a little too round and skin a little too warm a shade, there was something reminiscent of home.

Dressed in a man’s waistcoat, a fact that gave him pause. This London was so strange about men and women, how they dressed and acted, especially with each other. It had made those first months of learning their world more difficult; Rohan, as a fellow former foreigner, had provided needed assistance, perhaps the only one he might have considered a friend. For all the good that did anyone.

Perhaps, Holland mused with distant curiosity, this individual might be a dareun like him, or whatever this London’s version was called.

“Are you frightened?”

They flinched, eyes glancing in his direction. Tightly coiled, tense and wary. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t want to frighten them, even if it was counterproductive to his mission. Though they probably wouldn’t be as easily charmed as Rhy. “You’re clutching your drink.”

“Long night.” Short and clipped but not able to hide the softer pitch. A vocal tell he was familiar with, one that he no longer had to worry about thanks to the Danes.

In a different scenario, he might have appreciated meeting someone like him in that way. “And yet still young. Still dangerous, even for competent young men.”

They seemed to perk up a little, eyes now appraising even as Holland looked elsewhere. A cocky tilt like a preening bird before speaking. “That has never stopped me before. You don’t sound like a local.”

“Something like that.” If they thought he wasn’t a threat, he was going to disappoint them. Holland traced the dark wood of the bar, the uneven material soothing in its way. Finally he looked up. “My name is Holland.”

They flinched at the sight of his eye. There wasn’t an answer, tension and sensibility returning.

“And yours?” Holland prodded. He couldn’t keep tarrying.

“Bard,” they said, short and clipped as they pushed the drink away.

With barely any effort, he gripped Bard’s wrist before they could leave. “Where is Kell? He has something of mine.”

He knew from their defiant gaze that this wouldn’t be simple. Just another problem to deal with.

Kell came running because he couldn’t resist playing the hero. Except when he decided it was too difficult. “There you are. You have something that isn’t yours.”

“It isn’t yours either.” An alarmed glance towards Bard who Holland had a firm hold on; they’d done the sensible thing of not struggling once Holland had a gun at their head. The stubborn set of Kell’s jaw conveyed he would be less sensible. “Let her go and we can talk.”

Her. Oh.

That was disappointing, assuming he trusted Kell’s judgment over his own instincts, which he usually didn’t. “Give me the stone, Kell.”

His eyes went to Bard again, then back to Holland. Then, in a manner almost petulant, he reached into his pocket and presented the stone. Even from a distance, Holland could feel the buzz of dangerous, unpredictable magic.

He released his grip, letting Bard stumble away. The revolver was tossed away as well. “Run along, little bird.”

“Lila, go.”

Kell’s mysterious friend ran off. One less problem to feel guilty about.

Holland’s fingers dropped to the hilt of his scythe, briefly tracing the familiar marks before tugging it loose from his belt. The sharp edge dragged against his palm. The runes sang as the weapon attuned to his magic; Catalina was an undeniably talented metalworker, something that was useful to him but would be an exceptional gift to an average magician. The metal heated to the point of sizzling.

"I don't want to hurt you," Kell warned. His uncertainty obvious in how he shifted a step back. One hand reached for his knife, the other squeezing the stone.

"Do you now," he remarked dryly. "Were the Shadows a worthy opponent or did you just cut their throats when asleep? Regardless, it isn't my well-being you should worry about."

Athos liked a drawn out fight while Astrid wanted the plan to be back on track. They wanted the stone but they also wanted Kell, alive or in pieces. They could be watching even now.

"Is this what your king would want?" Kell spoke quickly.

He paused his approach, caught off guard by the sheer idiocy. "Of course Athos-"

"Would Vortalis?"

Vortalis-

Red pouring between his fingers

Unable to speak through blood

I’m sorry I’m sorry I can’t

"Don't you dare." Holland's voice was a low rasp. His hand tightened around the handle, palm burning anew.

But now he saw how smoke curled between Kell’s fingers, starting to reach out, intending to chain him.

Oh you clever little shit. The thought pulsed with rare amused exasperation under the cold fury. He threw the scythe.

Kell sidestepped but failed to recognize the recall spell. It sliced against his bicep on the return. Kell gave a satisfyingly pained yelp, dropping the stone. Fire cauterized the wound and limited further bleeding. It drew out the torture, just how Athos liked it.

The boy stumbled forward, reaching for the fallen talisman. It was easy for Holland to focus on the interlocking bones of his knees, holding him in place for a moment more. It was easy to claim the cursed remnant of Black London. It was easy to conjure chains to pin in his legs against the cobblestones.

"Hesitation is the death of advantage," Holland said. Now he only sounded tired. “You were never going to win against me, Kell, and now I have to clean up your mess.”

Once, when Kell could still be called a child, he had tried to bait Holland into a sparring match. He'd had a dozen more worthy pursuits. It seemed a shameful waste now, denying Kell something that could save him.

"Holland, please-"

Enough pleas, he thought. The stone shivered in his hand as smoke curled around his fingers. Choke on it.

Kell flinched away from the smoke. Closing his mouth wasn't enough as it soaked through his clothes and skin. Then he coughed. Blood dripped out. Then more.

He didn’t think he had seen Kell look panicked before. The boy clawed at his throat, eyes wide as he coughed up blood. Soon he would be drowning in it. Still he tried to speak, as if begging enough would somehow nullify Athos’ orders.

"Stone... it can..." The princeling’s chest spasmed with each attempt.

"Save your breath," he warned. Talking only made the pain worse.

"The seal-" Kell wheezed, undeterred. His gaze dropped to the cloak's clasp. "It can break."

The seal. He... he knew?

Movements stiff and slow like a storybook automaton, he dragged his shirt collar down to reveal Athos' claiming mark. "This seal? It doesn't break. Not until Athos is dead, and he won't let me kill him."

A dozen emotions crossed Kell's face. Pity and regret. Shame and resentment. Desperation and anger. All of them hateful to see, even more so at the lack of surprise.

He knew. He had known in some way for possibly years. He consistently chose to pretend otherwise, and he didn’t even have the decency to correctly identify the type of seal. As if Athos would settle for anything so breakable.

How long? Holland almost asked. Why didn't you try before this? Why only now when you're life is at risk?

And to think Kell didn't even know about the rest of the Danes' plan. A shame he couldn't warn him about Rhy, assuming he even wanted to. It was hard to want anything when it was too late.

The boy grasped for his necklace of tokens in a last desperate escape attempt but it was pathetically easy to snatch it and toss it aside. There was sharp satisfaction in both the clinks as it disappeared into the dark alley and Kell's visible loss of hope.

Kell couldn't possibly understand what it was like. But he would understand it if Astrid got her way. Another Antari pet to be broken and used. Another aberration against nature.

Kell looked up at him with wide fearful eyes, looking younger than his twenty-one years. Not someone that could easily be hated despite his willful blindness. The boy's movements were slowing as blood filled his lungs. He wouldn't be conscious for much longer.

"Are you afraid of dying?" Holland asked. It sounded cruel to say it to someone who didn't understand how peaceful death could be. At least he hoped it wasn't a torment.

"Don't..." Kell swayed a little, gaze unfocused and on the verge of crumpling. On the verge of unconsciousness or death.

They could look so similar. He just needed the boy to stop moving so he could prioritize the primary mission. A dead Kell was no longer a problem. A living Kell could be captured for Astrid later.

"Don't worry." He made a halfhearted attempt to soften his voice, knowing it was a wasted effort. "It's really quite hard to kill an Antari. But I can't have-"

For a very brief moment, Holland became aware of a new presence. Before he could react, Bard swung hard.

He woke into the cold dark, suffocating under chains and water, blinded by animalistic fear. But panic was for trapped animals and he knew better. The training was bone-deep now and it rang through the panicked thrashing.

He was not an animal. He was not in the castle dungeon. He was in the middle of a dirty London street because Kell's thieving friend hit him with an iron pipe.

With those facts, his mind regained focus as he dragged his palm against rough cobblestones, reopening the cut. It took longer for his heartbeat to slow down.

"As Anasae."

The chains around his back and wrists melted into dark smoke and the weight faded. The rawness of his skin lingered and there was mud on his clothes. His hairpin had broken, leaving his hair flat against his collar, plastered down by the rain. Holland was alone. He’d been unconscious and vulnerable, and they had just walked away.

It was the kind of foolish mercy he would expect from Kell but the other one? Bard didn’t even have the decency to put him out of his misery. They could have called it mercy or self-preservation and he wouldn’t have held it against them. Instead Kell and Bard had walked away and thereby chosen to drag this out.

Wet and cold and so nauseous it hurt, Holland dragged himself to his feet.

The scythe had been left where it fell, only a few feet away. It took stiff fingers a few moments to loop it back against his belt. He had to get to shelter. He didn't make it far, stopping to lean against the wall in the mouth of an alley. He waited for his vision to focus again.

Kell's tokens necklace floated in a puddle. He would take it with him, just in case. Once his head stopped pounding.

He hadn't received many blows to the head in his life. Once when Athos had been in an especially petty mood that first year. A couple childhood incidents before the right lessons sunk in. When he was sixteen, a drunkard in a Shal tavern had thrown a mug straight at his head; he'd spent the next couple hours in a relatively safe basement and never returned to that tavern.

Athos could complain all he liked but no hunting dog was reliable in a downpour. The pain and nausea didn't help. It would fade with time. He could wait until the rain stopped. In fact, he wasn’t far from-

Holland shut his eyes. He shouldn’t. He already had enough bad memories to deal with lately. But he needed shelter to wait out the downpour. Just to rest for a little while.

A bed was a bed.

It was only a couple rooms, no bigger than his cottage in the Silver Woods. It was still better than some of the places Holland had slept in. Rohan had admitted during one of their more intimate evenings that he found the simplicity refreshing.

He wouldn’t consider that of the bloodstain, though it had been scrubbed away in the months since. He still knew it was there. It had been quick and clean at least.

Rain slammed against the window as Holland undressed, shedding each sopping layer. Even the short stays had to be undone. Holland bit back a hiss as he did so, his skin feeling more sensitive than usual. Each article of clothing was wrung out and tossed over the table to drip-dry.

The cold made his teeth chatter. He pulled the blanket bedding around him. He held Kosika’s charm in his tight fist, it being just as wet. He had never mentioned it to Rohan, just as Rohan had never pried regarding his scars.

There had been comfort in it, the merchant’s servant with the easy smile and lilting voice who allowed him to forget his pain for a brief time. It was too brief because of his carelessness.

Holland sat there and waited for the rain to end.

They weren't at the tavern. Of course they weren't, why would they keep it simple when he wasted time resting. The owner was there, one that Kell had once identified as Barron.

Holland was angry and tired of it all and the man was in the way. It didn't even cross his mind to stop and reconsider.

The blade went through his neck. Blood dripped down, dirtying the floor.

Quick and clean. Simple as that. Another to the count.

Kell had been right about one thing. Vortalis wouldn't have wanted this for him.

Chapter Text

Many streets away, the royal parade was passing through. Holland avoided it for the usual reason of sensory torment (pulsing colors and noises like nails against granite) but also for the more recent problem. Rhy was most likely no longer himself, Astrid maneuvering his body and enjoying the party in his place. Holland didn’t know if he was conscious during it; it would be kinder if he wasn’t.

Most of the city would be closely following the parade or flocking to the marketplace. Briefly, he had the thought of passing by to get a gac fruit if they had any. Kell had offered one to him years ago (a lifetime ago), a spiky red fruit with a mildly sweet taste. He hadn’t admitted his enjoyment.  

The impulse faded. There was no room for the man that he had been; the Danes had killed him slowly. They wanted their dog to trap the prey.

Holland pressed his hand against the back wall on the outside of the Ruby Fields, blood leaking from his palm once again. “As Pyrata.”

It burned hot and fast, melting through wood and metal. Most people were at the parade, only half a dozen here left to burn. They screamed as they died, burning as thoroughly as Kell’s numerous trinkets. The noise washed over him. He waited for it to fade the way it always did.

Soon there was only silence.

The smell of burnt flesh and smoldering metal hit him sharply then and he did something he hadn’t done in years.

Holland buckled forward, knees hitting the ground as he retched. Nothing came up, of course, because there was nothing in his stomach. He wasn’t sure when he had last eaten, only that his throat burned and his head ached.

"There's no rush, you can take your time."

He shook his head, trying to push away the intruding memory. There was no reason to look back.

"Holland? Tell me what's wrong." 

"Fine," Holland had lied then. "Just feeling sick."

It was nothing. It was nothing because he had swallowed poison, ensuring it could be nothing. Besides, he had bled recently, hadn’t he?

Hadn’t he?

“Antari magic has worked great miracles.” Another memory, Hala’s voice now. “It might circumvent even this concoction given time or intent.”

He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or scream at the absurdity of it happening now of all times. Neither happened. He just sat there in an alleyway next to smoldering rubble with his arms wrapped around his stomach and waited to feel an emotion he could name.

When the calling stone hummed, he answered with a steady voice or at least steady enough that Athos didn’t notice anything amiss.

The long minutes after blurred together.

A flicker of presence that might have been Kell and his friend. The distant part of him always forced to pay attention said cruel meaningless words. He dropped the watch he had taken from the Grey tavern.

None of it mattered. He just wanted it to end.

But it didn’t. There was only silence and sickening smoke.

The landlady was pleasant enough. She had loaned him this room for long enough to know to keep questions minimal, not unlike a proper White Londoner. She would probably have a stronger reaction if she knew the smell of smoke was from burning down a local tavern.

The room was minimal, the way he preferred it. Simple wool rugs, mild wall colors, shuttered windows. Any noise from other residents was muffled. His place to rest until Astrid’s turn on the game board was over. He had made a mistake and now Kell ran free in Red London. Athos would hurt him for it later, assuming Holland survived this fight.

If he let himself survive it.

It was better not to linger on that thought. Just as he shouldn’t linger on the new blood on his hands. But he should, shouldn’t he? It was still his doing.

The lives he had taken. The life he was unknowingly creating.

It was so easy to blame all of it on the Danes as if they were fairy tale monsters instead of cruel but ultimately mortal humans. They only seemed invincible because Holland’s power had made it so. A hundred different choices might have led to their deaths instead.

It all sounded so simple in the stories. Holland wasn’t a savior like the Someday King or an invulnerable Stone Guardian or a slippery trickster like the tanijk. He was just another weapon shaped from a person.

The ceiling above him wasn’t especially high. He could stand on the cot and press his palms flat against the top if he wished. Years before, he had traced a likeness of the Someday King with spice on a whim, a rough mimicry of the many effigies and wall carvings scattered across the Kosik. The stain had been more permanent than expected and it was now hidden under the city map. He was glad he couldn’t see it now.

Those stories had meant something to him once; stories he intended to tell to his daughter. He had shared a few with Nasi in the form of a picture book. He had even told Rohan a few.

In turn, Rohan had shared a few stories of his own. Holland struggled to appreciate it: clever turns of phrase translated clumsily into English and worse into Maktahn. He couldn’t claim to understand the Rashmirathi but he had liked to hear Rohan speak it.

Rohan had never spoken of children.

Two months, maybe three. With his hand on his stomach, he could feel the slight firmness, easy enough to mistake as something mundane. Timing-wise, if he felt optimistic, he could even tell himself it was because of Rohan and not one of Athos’ games.

A daughter hidden away. A child that never was. Another he had no reason to suspect.

The Danes wanted a legacy and what was a greater sign of a legacy than a child? Athos grew tired of all his toys eventually and Astrid would likely have Kell by the end of things. Holland had progressively lost what goodwill he had, no longer as amusing as he had been. They would cement their legacy by destroying what was left of Vortalis; what better way to break Holland than kill the children he was responsible for? If Nasi and Kosika were gone, what was the point of him living?

Holland had dropped the scythe on the desk. He knew it was sharp enough to cut through flesh and the fire rune was ideal to cauterize after. He could remove another thing that had been done to him, leaving behind another ugly scar. But he wasn’t allowed to turn a weapon against himself unless for blood spells and even that was restricted. He could provoke someone into stabbing him but that was a very narrow loophole.

Even if he could cut it out, it wouldn’t do any good. What was the point in causing more harm. All he could do was… end. Let himself fall. Remove himself from the equation.

Without their Antari, the Danes would be weakened; rebels would have better odds. If Kosika was anything like her fathers, then she was a survivor. Nasi had memorized the castle layout and could easily disappear. Kell could kill him, theoretically; so long as he was strong and clever enough and wasn’t aware of the parasite. They would struggle but they had a chance.

There were very few choices left for him to make. But he promised himself one thing: Holland would die before Athos learned about this contribution to his legacy.

(He did not let himself ponder what would happen to his body after.

A body was just a body. He carried Kosika’s charm with him.

He had to believe it was enough to bring his wandering spirit comfort.)

He had his orders. Either they would be fulfilled or someone would stop him.

For the first time in a while, he dared to hope it was the latter.

One last battle. The only choice left to him.

(A mercy before it could know it was a mercy.)

“I can’t let you win,” Kell said with determination but also a note of what might have been pleading.

“Then stop me,” he challenged back. He didn’t bother with the chains around his legs.

No death by your own hand or another's blade. Athos had been so careless those early days.

Holland focused on the dagger, even as Kell’s gaze shifted to something past him. The blade was the obvious threat.

For a moment, he wanted to say more to the boy. He wanted-

The pain was brief.

The world slipped into darkness.

Thank you, he thought. Or maybe, I’m sorry.

Chapter Text

"Did he suffer?"

"He suffered enough. Anoshe."

Echoes of voices that tugged at his mind. Almost familiar. Utterly unimportant compared to the warmth encircling him.

"Holland?"

The bed was warm, touched by the dawn light reaching through the narrow windows. He did not often get to sleep in, old spectors dragging him from his rest.

The sun was paltry compared to the steady form at his back, the amused voice at his ear. "Are you awake, Holland?"

"No." He tried to curl deeper into the sheets.

"Is that so?" The voice purred.

A hand caressed his side and came to rest where the edge of his shirt had slipped up, unmistakable in its implication.

Something nameless squirmed in his stomach.

Too early for such games, he decided. Holland briefly considered throwing his elbow back but was it really worth the effort? Pain was a distant muddy memory.

The irritating hand withdrew, followed by the creaking of the royal bed. Already he missed the warmth.

"Fine, be like that," Vortalis said with mock offense.

Holland started to sit up but his husband was already out of reach. He only watched as Vor got dressed, scars he had traced a hundred times briefly on display before donning the armor of kingship.

I miss you, he thought. It slipped away as quickly as it appeared. An absurd idea when he had Vortalis in his bed every night.

“Are you coming?” Vortalis was looking at him expectantly (he must have gotten lost in his thoughts), now standing by the door. “The children must be wondering where you are.”

"The children," he repeated. His mind was sluggish, a few steps behind. He was supposed to be better than this.

He was tired, that was all.

(He was always tired.)

"Yes, the children." Vortalis was teasing him, he knew. He became like this sometimes, spinning a private joke and smugly waiting to see if anyone would catch up. "The ones you keep acquiring."

Nasi and Kosika, of course.

"Nasi isn't mine," Holland said, slipping his arms into his outer robe so he was somewhat presentable, briefly distracted by his pale, clean hands.

(of course they were clean, why wouldn't they be)

He looked up-

Vor was gone.

The shadow of panic prickled along his skin; he smothered it. There was no danger here.

Despite that, it wasn’t right to get distracted so easily. Holland started to stand but the room swayed in his vision, tipping like he was on the deck of a ship.

He gripped the bedside table, waiting until the spell passed. This happened occasionally, brief moments of weakness that came and went. They began after...

Holland stepped forward on unsteady legs, bare feet on warmed rug-covered floors. He stepped past simple doors and through the wider royal chambers where they played ost.

Verdant vines weaving along the hallway walls, spider-like white flowers bursting from it. Guards in red and gold armor stood at ready. He joined Vortalis at the awning overlooking the castle courtyard.

He looked… healthy. Dark hair, no trace of silver. Solid strength in his shoulders. Golden crown on his head, he looked like a king in his prime. Dark brown eyes met his gaze.

Vortalis raised a brow. “Is something the matter? If you’re still feeling tired…”

Autumn leaves covered the railing, soft under Holland’s hands and fertile as a grave-garden. They didn’t entirely bury the marble beneath and he scraped his nails along it, tracing the familiar black veins ambling through white stone. They had often reminded him of an infection or a curse.

Or a parasite.

There was dirt under his nails, or something like it. He should have noticed it before. Just like how he should have noticed how dark Vor’s eyes looked.

His thoughts were never this muddled. He spoke carefully. “What happened last night?”

“Holland.” The teasing tone returned but sounded off in a way he couldn’t name. “You know what happens most nights.”

He waited.

A sigh, too irritated to be familiar. “We played an ost game, as usual.”

“We talked about the past,” Holland continued. “How we met in a tavern. You wanted me to kill a king.”

A brief pause. “Of course.”

Holland stared down at his hands even as he was embraced from behind, chin resting on his shoulder and arms encircling his stomach.

“You worry too much,” the voice murmured. “You are drowning in it. Let me help you forget.”

He wanted to forget, to sleep, to surrender to whatever this was. It would be so much easier. It was not in his nature.

“You aren’t him,” Holland said quietly through a tight throat. “Even years as a ghost would not make him forget the Silver Wood.”

False warmth receded. Cold, awful reality seeped in.

"It is time to wake, Antari."

Holland slipped into darkness.

When he first breathed in, all he felt was pain. His heart spasmed in his chest, off-kilter and struggling to beat. Each breath was shallow, his lungs barely expanding to get more air. His muscles ached and veins felt empty of blood. Struggling always made it worse.

So he kept his eyes closed and waited for the worst the pass.

(He hadn’t expected to wake up in pain.

He hadn’t expected to wake up at all.)

After however long, the pain plateaued and Holland’s thoughts cleared enough to understand exactly where he was.

Red London smelled like flowers and spices. Grey London was smoke and sewage. Home was metal and blood and frost.

This place was nothing but empty death. Haunting silence. Twisting spirals of frozen magic. Black still waters. A world that had not known life for centuries.

Holland would have forgiven Kell for killing him. Tossing him into Black London might be understandable enough if he was just a corpse, but doing so while he was still alive? He would have expected the other Antari to be kind enough to put him out of his misery first; once again, his mistake for putting his trust in a Red Londoner.

Slowly, Holland forced himself up onto his knees. He only briefly took note of the black stone nearby, now devoid of its terrible magic, and the green growth where his blood had spilled. Instead he focused on what was more understandable but nearly as unexpected.

There was a strange lightness to his body, previously hidden under the pain, as if a heavy burden had finally been dropped. A weight that had been there so long he had forgotten what it felt like to be without it. What it felt like to be a person with a will of his own.

The soul seal was broken.

Athos was dead.

Kell had killed him.

It should have been your kill, a voice whispered. Your hands around his throat and your blade in his heart.

What’s done was done. Athos was dead and the seal was broken. He would never touch Holland again. Holland was free.

Or as free as one could be in Black London.

He reached for the scythe out of habit but his hand closed around air. Glancing around, he was surrounded only by ash. Holland dragged his fingers along dead earth beneath him, a distraction from the lump in his throat.

It had been a weapon that meant nothing; it had been a gift that meant everything. Another loss to weigh on his shoulders.

Desperate to hold onto something that was still his, Holland clumsily searched the folds of his clothes. The cloak and its clasp were gone, as well as his hairpin, letting his hair hang limp and messy. Kell had taken the necklace of charms as well because a dead man had no need of such things.

Then he found the familiar cold touch of the silver fish charm. The blood from his injuries had spread, staining the blue tassel and settling between the carp scales. Spilled blood had a habit of tainting everything; it would be difficult to wash clean. At least it remained intact.

It was a reminder of home but it could not take him home. The walls around Black London functioned as one-way doors for Antari; he had entered by Kell’s hand but the world would not let him leave. Which left him in a dead world with nothing to do but wait to die.

Dead, except for the vibrant green beneath him, a sharp contrast against cold stone and dirt. It must have fed off his blood, finding nourishment in the same act that had earned nothing in the Silver Wood. Sprouting amongst this sterile world, the vegetation became grotesque. A thin trail of green led off into the distance, in the direction of what he suspected was once either the royal castle or a holy site.

For lack of anything better to do (and out of curiosity), he followed the trail.

Realistically, Holland should be afraid. Every child heard the story of the oshoc at one point or another, magic twisting into its worst, most devouring form. Though he hadn’t ever expected to meet a fairy tale monster, it felt fitting to find one in Black London when he was closest to death.

It spoke to his state of mind that the most he mustered was tired unease.

The column was not particularly comfortable to lean against but leagues better than some of the positions the Danes liked to leave him in. He barely responded as the thing spokeOsaron had killed the world. For that alone, Holland had reason to ignore anything it said.

The oshoc caught on to his disinterest eventually. Though it did not move physically from its stone pedestal, he could imagine its eyes narrowing. “You live by my hand.”

“How considerate of you.”

It must be a remarkable feat to leave an oshoc speechless.

(Alox had once told him the story of Koschei the Deathless, a minor bone magician who made a deal with an oshoc for power and immortality. In return for giving away his heart, it made him into a false Antari.

No blade could cut him, no desperate plea could sway him, no passing year would sap his strength. Without his heart, without his humanity, he was almost a god.

It had served him well until Ivanna had found the buried heart and burned it.

The very thing that made Koschei powerful had killed him in the end.)

Still, he was curious. All alone in this place, it must be drowning in boredom and wouldn’t leave him in peace. “What do you really want?”

“I wish to see a new world. I wish to be worshipped as before.” Then the statue seemed to shudder, thin cracks spreading like a spiderweb across its surface. Out of the cracks slipped whisps of smoke. The cracks widened and shell crumbled, ash pouring out at his feet and he barely managed to avoid recoiling as it coalesced into the shape of a man.

The vague shape of a figure crouched in front of him, no crown or fancy robes, just starving shadows. It took on an almost pleading tone. “You have the power to give that to me. All you have to do is let me in.”

Holland knew the stories: magic was a fluid, constantly shifting construct but even oshoc were bound by certain rules; it could not overpower an Antari’s will if he did not welcome it in. The oshoc had burned Black London out. It would do the same to his home if it was released. If it was not controlled.

Holland could just… stop. Just curl up on his side and go to sleep. The oshoc needed his consent before it could control his body. It would only be able to watch and seethe as he ignored it and waited to die.

(How ironic that the Danes managed to come off worse than a demon, though he suspected the oshoc would be no better if it wasn’t bound by its nature).

If Osaron was what was keeping him alive, then it might turn into a twisted game of sorts. Both of them waiting to see which of their wills would break first: if Osaron would leave him to his grave or if Holland would let his body be stolen, a death of a different kind. A quiet, almost boring echo of Athos’ torture.

“You are with child,” it whispered. “It will die inside you. It will become ash.”

“I’m surprised it isn’t dead already.” Holland hadn’t expected to survive his injury either. They were both supposed to die quickly and kindly.

“You reek of guilt and sorrow. You wish to invite more upon yourself?”

Very distantly, a guttering flicker of what might have been anger. Left to die in the dead London and a magic demon was judging him for his choices, the absurd culmination of the misery that had been his life. He could not even be accused of actively removing an almost-child like last time, this would simply be waiting for nature to take its course, or as natural as anything in this place could be.

What other option was there?

His London despised him. His partner and king was dead, as well as all their allies. His daughter was hidden away and a stranger to him. Nasi would find a better, less frightening protector. He had dared to reach out to someone from the Grey world and Rohan had died for it.

If measured on a scale, he suspected his mistakes and their consequences would outweigh what good he’d done. And after all that, the Danes had killed the better parts of him, the pieces that could imagine the story of the Someday King coming true. And yet…

And yet.

Athos (and possibly Astrid) was dead. Athos would never touch him again. Whatever state the Londons were left in, the tyrant was no longer able to enjoy it. So obsessed with his legacy and now he’d never get to see; if life chose to be a little less cruel, it might rot and decay as quickly as his body.

And what of the children? What of his people? Who did he serve by dying here, except his own guilty conscience?

There were no people around to harvest his body. There weren’t even worms to feed from his corpse and no flowers would grow from it. A still body in a world frozen in time; there was no romanticism to be found here.

Holland stared at the black wall past the demon, intricate designs blurring together from tired eyes, and hated every inch of it. He hated himself for these pathetic thoughts, hated Athos for making him this way, and hated Kell for not being competent enough to kill him properly before tossing him into this hell. Most of all, he hated that he was even contemplating another option.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted the pain to end. He wanted to see Vortalis again.

(Would Vortalis forgive him?)

Holland smacked his head back against the column, the pain returning some focus. Unfortunately, with it came understanding. Dying would be the easiest thing in the world but what good would dying do?

No, there was still work to be done.

So, with reluctant acceptance, Holland spoke. “I want to make a deal.”

The shadow stirred, seeming to shiver with excitement. A predator that had caught the scent of blood.

Vortalis had ruled for two years. The Danes had ruled for seven. Both had done so with an Antari servant and both had failed to fundamentally heal Makt. Neither had been in position to bargain with an oshoc.

“Six months,” Holland said. “Give me your power to heal my world within six months and then you will be free to do as you like, within reason.”

Six months was enough time to establish a steady reign and loyal followers; he would search for a worthy replacement among them. Enough time to see life come back into his world and see cruelty fade in place of hope. He could be their Someday King, or whatever made for the most inspiring story.

It was long enough to nurture a garden. Enough time for the… other thing to be out of his hands. Since it was two or three months along now, at the end of this it would be nearly ready if not freshly born. Holland would do his part; if the seedling wanted to live, as it insisted on doing so far, it would have to take advantage of the chance he was giving it.

Holland had no illusions on what kind of ending to expect for himself. He was damned twice over, for both his crimes and the bargain he made now, and he would face the consequences a half year from now. Let the game pieces fall as they will; Vortalis was always the better ost player.

Osaron was still for a moment, likely already looking for a loophole in the deal. Then it spoke with chilly amusement. “I will give you your perfect world.”

He held out his hand and let the monster crawl inside.