OD 4.16.2002 [11:36 p.m.]

a scene that turned into a mutual short story thing that was never finished:

==

Summer wanes toward its close now as the moon waxes toward full, and these days, these next two moons, are legendarily, scorchingly, and oppressively hot. Every day Atlarion Lightbearer hangs bloated over the horizon and refuses to set. Every night his sister, twin and consort, Elantara the Huntress-Queen, rises a little heavier each night, a little fuller with the burden of her lust to peer through the strange murkish clouds which creep in off the sea when the winds reverse, as they always do, at the end of summer. East to west they gust, bringing heat and sand from overheated landmass, and absolutely no relief from the day's scorch.

These are days when the concubines do not move from their beds for days on end, fanned by sweating servants, lounging in lazy-lidded decadence, when the foodsellers hawks their cuts as aggressively as they can so as to sell them before they spoiled in the heat. These are days when dust raised by thundering chariots hang suspended with heat over the mighty roads intersecting at the Capitol, like mirages of dust; days when the sea shimmers and wavers to the west, too bright to look upon, bright as a blade.

Though the early summer is hot and humid, a wet season, the late summer and the autumn is dry. With the winter the rain will come again, torrents of it, falling well into the spring of the following year, when the days will be shatteringly beautiful - and then the wet season comes again.

Even in these mindcrushingly hot days, the King never sleeps alone. Indeed, he has no private bedchambers of his own. This has been a tradition since the days when the Empire was still young and eking out her place in the world, the Kings rather shortlived, and such tradition necessary to ensure the continuation of the royal line. But there are nights when Thanos would prefer to be left alone, at very least, with his thoughts. Such used to be the nights he would go to Jaione, for she above all would understand when such a mood struck him.

He goes to his wife instead now, the royal bride, the Queen: the one woman truly and fully wedded to the King. Which is to say, he goes to be alone in the chambers of the Queen. She lies asleep upon her couch with her slender back to him, a slightly built woman, frail-boned, biddable and obedient as all wives are expected to be.

On the other hand, he sits awake at her desk, which is too small, too feminine, for him. The scroll he peruses drapes off all four sides of the desk. Dipping pen to inkwell, he begins to set down the bold brushstrokes of his signature when there is a soft tap upon the door.

No frown crosses his brow as he sets the pen down. Rising, he pauses by the window in hopes of a cool breeze from the west, but such things are foolish this time of year. He opens the door to find the guards at attention, the messenger already kneeling, his head bowed low, one hand outstretched with a small, sealed scroll balanced atop.

Thanos takes up the scroll, breaks the seal with his thumb, and unrolls it to skim the parchment. Letting it reroll itself, then, he replaces the scroll in the messenger's hand and turns to one of the four guards - two for him, two for the Queen - positioned without.

"Show the General to the Library. We grant him a private audience in a quarter-hour's time."

==

Thanos is punctual, as he always is. He steps into the Royal library - a small room, as rooms go in the palace, containing a few select scripts and scrolls copied by the finest calligraphers, collected, added to, trimmed from and edited by generations of Dawn Kings. The Capitol's main Library is far from here, and contains many millions of scrolls, but this is where Thanos' favorites were, and where he sometimes came to work.

He finds Vann reading a scroll recounting the old tale of the Snake Woman. They shared a father, and they share their father's eyes, but there the similarities end. Vann is lanky, and his hair is a shade of pale touched by red. His mouth is expressive and easily smiling; his nose straight and noble. He was considered quite handsome in his youth, though he is no longer young now.

It is difficult for Thanos to think of him as a professional butcher of men. It is even more difficult to think of him as a potential traitor, and that is precisely why he is so very dangerous.

The guards depart, taking their places without, and the King closes the door. Across the room, Vann lets his scroll reroll itself and smiles.

"Your Majesty." The formal bow. "May Destiny keep you, and Atlarion smile upon your brethren and kin."

Thanos makes a small gesture of his hand, negating, crossing the room to hold out his arms. "Formalities do not apply here, in private, among brothers. Sit, Vann. Tell me what is on your mind."

And Vann does sit in one of the armchairs close to the hearth, which is dark on this overheated night. There is only the slightest delay before the reply. "Inheritance."

Thanos would groan if it did not give so much away. As such, he merely raises an eyebrow.

"Inheritance, my lord," continues the General of the Eastern Army, "and - forgive me - your lack of an heir. Let me be frank with you, brother. You are no longer young. You have no legitimate son, and it is long past time to name an heir. I am your only surviving blood-kin, Thanos."

So blunt, thinks Thanos, his mood rapidly souring. He shifts the conversation's topic, and non-too-subtly. "Thank you for your concern, Vann. The dilemma has weighed heavily upon my mind of late, as well. But you need not concern yourself with my affairs. You are too generous, brother," he says with a smile, "and will soon worry yourself to death, if you continue at this rate.

"While you're here, I have news for you. You will be wedded to Ariana at the Equinox." His brother's eyes snap up, but he ignores it. "I have made the arrangements. You told me once, she is a lovely girl. I do wish you the best of luck in producing sons of your own to inherit the lands she carries with her dowry."

"You have told me none of this." Ice cold. Ice cold. "I was never informed."

"Consider yourself informed, then." Thanos is impassive; it's something he has had sixteen years to master. "And consider yourself blessed. Ariana's is a powerful family. There will always be concubines."

"Such as that favorite of yours?" Vann's tone is light, but there is tension in his face, tension in his words. "What was her name? Jaione?"

"Yes," Thanos replies, softly, and he tries not to let too much show.

"What did happen to her? There are rumors that you've sent her off. To barbarian Everend. What was her--"

He cuts in, more irritated than he should be. "You have too many questions, Vann."

"And if you paid half as much attention to the Queen as you did this Jaione, perhaps you would have an heir--"

"You should know when you close your mouth!" The words are out before he can stop it, lashing. Immediately, Vann drops from his chair to his knees.

"Forgive me, your Majesty."

And, of course, it meant nothing. An outburst did not win the battle this had become. An open quarrel with his brother...it hasn't happened for years. Eighteen, to be exact. And eighteen years ago, quarrels didn't carry nearly so much weight. An outburst wasn't nearly so important a sign of weakness.

Too much, Thanos thinks; he has said too much. And Vann is looking much too smug. Furious, he bites back his passion and forces his impassivity back into place.

"I believe our business is done," he says. Better to dismiss now than to let Vann walk out on his own. "You are always welcome, my brother, but preferably when Atlarion shines in the sky. Do visit me again before the Equinox. It has been too long."

With that, he stands, claps his brother on the shoulder, and calls for a guard to escort the General from the Palace.

==

Second Solsday of the Midsummer Moon. The Imperial Harbor bristles with activity, for Sariala of the Morning, Imperial ambassador from the Western Continent and younger sister to Thanos of the Dawn, has arrived with the half-year's reports and balances.

For the state, her arrival signifies the beginning of a long chain of emissaries from all the farflung reaches of the Empire which will last until just before Harvest Moon, only to begin again in the frigid Swan's Moon. For Thanos, it's a rare delight, and the first since his favorite departed for the Archipelago, perhaps (likely) never to return. Younger by only a year and the only full-sibling he has left - the boys were all drowned executed at his coronation - brother and sister have long since been close. There are some who would say he is too good to her, too kind, and indeed, she is the only woman in all the governing bodies of the widecast Empire - and one rumored to have the ear of her brother over his own Imperial Duke of the Western Continent.

It's a rumor that causes bitterness to breed in the hearts of some, but none who valued their lives ever speak of it.

The streets are lined with minstrels and cherry petals. A triumphant visitation from the Princess of the City of Seven Gates requires almost more pomp and circumstance than the City could offer. But then again, nothing is impossible for the Dawn Kings, and so amidst the noise and the glitter, the flash of the golden-trimmed carriage and the jingle of eight harnesses on eight matched white stallions, Sariala crosses the city from harbor to palace, where the team of horses stops. The coach door is opened by the liveried coachman; servants fall prone, offering their backs as steps. A minister of the High Court offers his arm and Sariala, a veritable vision in ermine and silk, steps daintily from her coach. Her gloved hands lift the heavy gown from the ground, and a team of preadolescent girls bear her train behind.

The royal entourage sweeps up the great marble steps to the Palace's west gate and is welcomed at the gate by a stern Thanos. The last time he saw his sister was three years past, and the time before that was two years again past.

She stops two arm's reaches away. There is a pause - for effect, of course - and then brother and sister acknowledge one another with simultaneous bow and curtsey: the former shallow but smartly executed; the latter gracious and sweeping nearly to the floor.

Then he pivots, arm rising and crooking. Flawlessly, the Princess glides to his side, satin-white gloves sliding over the dark navy-blue of his sleeve. Close enough now that he could speak without unwanted attention and with his back to the populace besides, his eyes flash briefly to her hand upon his forearm. He murmurs, "No ring."

"What beastly manners!" exclaims the sole Princess of the Empire. It's an art to exclaim without raising one's voice, and after dozens of such meetings, she was getting to be quite good at it. "No worthy candidates, if you must know."

He raises an eyebrow. "Dory of Redark."

"Crosseyed." The reply is instant, effortless, and doesn't even disturb her serene Royalty's smile.

He tries again, "Haconath of Kalpern."

"Penniless."

"Andorin the Dark?"

A delicate snort. "Cousin by third degree. Far too close, Thanos; you should know that."

Thanos grins. "It is good to have you back in the Palace, Sariala." A motion of his hand and the doors behind them are shut. "Your rooms are the way you left them, down to the silk-embroidery of that minstrel you had such an infatuation with--"

He gets no further. The Princess utters an outraged squeal and literally flies at him, rank and breeding forgotten, and for the first time in days, the King's personal guard hears him laugh.

==

heh. man. so overwrought...