misereres (misereres) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-10-30 23:25:00 |
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Even on a day of such events, the eye saw what it wanted to see; none disturbed Elia as she made her way from the royal pavilions to the castle in a hooded handmaiden’s cloak -- her pace indicated purpose without any particular haste (a tactic perfected in Sunspear, long ago). The guards at the door to the Dornish apartments, however, had an alertness to their gaze noticeably sharper than usual, and did not fail to recognise the princess’ tread.
And so it was with hood down that Elia approached her younger brother’s door. After half a prayer, her palm resting against the heavy wood (let none come for me now, let this day end soon, let there be safety within the walls of these rooms) she knocked twice, and pushed the door open.
Now you will be sore, his uncle had promised, and Lewyn was always true to his word. The older man’s sense was tempered by a heavy hand, and the neat acts of brutality he’d committed in order to moderate his nephew’s blind and stupid rage left Oberyn with a headache that the liquor he was ordered (by the selfsame man!) to drink did little to quell, a raw lip, and a knot of black anger that hummed and seemed to seep into the very marrow of his bones.
Though his initial instinct was to ram a spear into the soft underside of Rhaegar’s jaw and push it through his skull, the greater one was to seek out Elia. But Elia, he knew, had duties far and above his own now -- Oberyn Martell was a prince in name, but Elia was a future queen and mother of kings. No, he would have to wait for her, and for all that this went against his nature, he did as his uncle bid and exercised patience. (The sort of patience that had Quentyn muffling his cries into a pillow, but still -- patience.)
And now, as the doors swung open, he was trying to compose a letter to Doran that spoke of nothing but cool disdain for the events of the day. The numerous balled up scraps of parchment and the spatters of ink told a story of failure, and there was relief in his eyes when he turned to see who it was.
Elia. His feet hit the ground as he rose from his seat and moved towards her.
She met him half way across the room, her steps measured only by the knowledge that to run was to be undone. It seemed for a moment that words would also be her undoing -- a torrent waited, and yet she could not seem to order them or bend them to her will. She offered thanks to any indifferent deity that might be listening that she had not gone to him from the tourney grounds, had resisted the pull to ask for home: it was a request that her brother would have granted, of course he would have granted it, a path that could only lead to fire and blood.
Closing her eyes, she leant forward to rest her forehead against his shoulder for one deep breath before standing tall once more, right hand reaching for his own. “I am sorry it is so late.”
But her (patient) brother wasn’t going to be satisfied with just a hand on his. His fingers went from her wrist to her elbow, holding fast and pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her in an embrace that crushed their bones together. It was only after a long and breathless moment that he loosened his hold on her -- but even now did he keep her near, a kiss pressed to her cheek as he held her fast. “I’m sorry I did not come find you.”
Her tears -- bottled up ever since the moment when Rhaegar Targaryen had moved his horse past her towards the young Stark, warded off only by an iron grip -- threatening to break through, Elia held her brother as tightly as he did her but did not respond until she felt more certain of her ability to speak a full sentence. “It is probably best for all concerned that we did not meet earlier.” Unspoken beneath that: best for all except the two of us.
“Have you spoken to Uncle?”
“There was a conversation.” The evidence of their discussion was all over his face, and Oberyn smiled -- but not too widely, lest he risk tearing the raw skin of his lip -- though his eyes remained untouched. Having returned his grip to her elbow, he now pulled her to the nearest bench, piled with blankets and pillows. “I think I was his first port of call.”
Settled next to him, she touched a cool finger to the corner of his mouth with a slight wince. “Is he so battered? Is Quentyn so battered?” It was more pleasant to attempt to make light than to turn her mind to the necessity of her uncle’s immediate visit, but there was a flatness to the quip and there was no real pause before she continued with a more direct response.
“Did he obtain the desired response?”
Oberyn caught her hand and held it, folding her fingers over his. The desired response? “I’m quiet in my chambers, am I not?” was his response, and like Elia, making light of it came easily for all that his tone was edged with steel. “Lewyn and Quentyn have effectively saved the realm from a bloody war -- according to Uncle, at least.” A shrug. “I am to speak to you and Doran before doing anything.”
“Remind me that both deserve kisses, on a better day. There would be blood.” She gripped his hand back, meeting his eyes with a level gaze. “Oberyn, we do nothing now.”
With a glance thrown at the nearest wall -- “Of course,” he said, before leaning forward and making the effortless switch to Rhoynish. “That is not satisfactory, Elia. We must do something. Surely even Doran will agree.”
“We do nothing now,” she repeated in the same language, grip on his hand tightening. “Not now. Would you have me watch you burn on the orders of the king? It would kill me, Oberyn, and you know that is a truth. Our brother will counsel the same way.” That their brother would no doubt command she did not add.
Though the beginnings of a malcontent pout pulled at his expression -- denied once again -- he nodded acquiescence. “I won’t touch him,” he said, the words taut, as though they were being extracted from deep within his chest. Him -- Rhaegar. But although his promise was earnest, he could not resist another attempt: “We could leave.”
The three most dangerous words that he had said since she entered the room. With her eyes fixed upon their joined hands and her other hand gripped in a throw to hide the tremors that she was sure he would otherwise see -- “Do not speak of that. I forbid you.” Do not make me lie to you.
He would make one more attempt, however, for Oberyn was used to getting his way. And his way, when held up to the alternative (to remain here, to stay and suffer the existence of this decaying court), was preferable. “Elia, listen to me. We could steal away -- tonight, tomorrow night, when we return to King’s Landing. But we would go. We would take Rhaenys, go east.”
“Stop it. They will come, and they will find us and take us and in Dorne they would spill the blood of our people and fell our trees and salt our land. And I could not leave her, but I am also with child Oberyn -- even if we went alone, they would come and they would burn.”
She was not sure exactly when the tears had begun, only that they were impossible to stop. Elia turned her face into her brother’s neck, free hand moving from the throw to grip at the sleeve of his shirt. “Stop it.”
“Elia.” It was in him to beg, to pull an agreement from those tears -- but the sudden damp warmth on his neck and his sister’s own broken pleading seared the words from his tongue. Dorne had burned at the hands of the Targaryens before, and Dorne had risen from the ashes -- this Mad King had no dragons, only a broken, divided realm -- but Oberyn was nothing if not obedient when it came to his sister.
He placed his hand on the nape of her neck, stroking her hair as he felt the effort that came with each sob. “How far along are you?”
“Two moons -- perhaps nearly three now, I don’t know.” Though she still wept, the flood had subsided somewhat, his hand upon her hair and the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek grounding her in a way that all of her hard won control had not. The other soul who knew her to the bone, who would never betray her, who always knew what she meant. “I told him today. So they will come.”
“I will not let them do it in my name Oberyn, I cannot.”
“I would raise an ocean of spears for you,” was pressed into her ear before he straightened and captured her chin in his hand. The glistening tears were wiped away with the corner of his sleeve before he traced her cheek with the edge of his thumb, making little effort to disguise the additional worry her words had filled him with. Rhaenys’ birth had been no easy thing. What would another child do to her -- especially now, with the added pressure of a realm waiting with caught breath to see what they would do in light of Prince Rhaegar’s folly?
“Sickness in the morning? Have you lost weight?” A squint.
“I know you would,” she replied, her own hand near-mirroring his own to cup his cheek. “But I cannot ask it, or accept it.” The brief flight would not be worth the wrath of the dragons, my brother. Believe me.
Her own worries regarding the child she carried had been more focused upon her ability to carry another to term (easier than to think of another birthing), but she knew that Oberyn’s concerns were better rounded, and deserving of honest answers. “Sickness, yes. Weight -- I have tried not to. You may be the better judge.” Or Rhaegar, she did not add.
“-- I will stay by your side until this child is born.” Shifting as he spoke, gathering one leg beneath him as he clasped both of her hands in his lap. No more Dorne, no more Ellaria and Doran and fierce little Obara, until he was sure that Elia was delivered of the danger another child presented. They could all wait; she could not. “And you’ll tell me if you feel ill. Headaches, dizziness. Bleeding.” His smile was thin, but it was true. “You’ve heard this from me before.”
“It is a long time. Go home now, my Oberyn, to those we love. There will be time enough to go and return to me before the child is anywhere near due. I will write to you daily.” A kiss to his cheek. “You know that I will tell you, always. Did I not promise then, in the desert, that I would never do such a thing again?”
“But then who will be here to stare at your wretch of a husband until he feels uncomfortable?” His short laugh was accompanied by a soft swipe of her cheek, catching the last of her tears. “It is not so long, Elia, and you know I don’t believe a word you say when it comes to your health.” A pause, then, his smile faltering. “I am trying to write to Doran.”
“I’m sure I can manage for a good few weeks.” An attempt at a smile, then -- “and of course you don’t believe me, we have established that you are a wicked mistrustful man many times over now. Go home for me, Oberyn, and then return refreshed.”
She glanced over at the crumpled balls of parchment and back to his hands, a smudge of ink on his thumb. “We can write to him together. You could carry the letter, none would know.” For though the company of her brother would always be welcome, Elia knew the court stifled him even more than it did her (for her solace was her husband -- or had been, though perhaps it would yet be...).
“Maybe later,” was his reply to her request. No question of his leaving -- not yet. Not before he could be assured that Rhaegar would do his utmost to repair the damage he’d caused. “I’ll send Quentyn in my stead, before he forgets what Dorne looks like. You will just have to put up with me, Elia.” Without missing a beat: “What was his excuse?”
“Such a punishment.” Disentangling herself for long enough to shrug off the cloak, it became apparent that she was wearing a night overdress, free from all jewellery. “But Quentyn will be pleased, no doubt, I know he misses it.”
Elia took her time to settle again before replying to the other, more urgent, question, setting her head once more against his shoulder. “A reward for valour. His apology was profuse. Is profuse. I told him that he has done her no favour, but --”
She stopped suddenly, her mind turning in another direction. “I am staying here tonight, Oberyn. If you do not mind.”
A reward for valour? So Prince Rhaegar is like all other men. Later, it would occur to him to wonder what the correlation was between the Stark girl and the prince’s recent interest in books such as the Jade Compendium, but for now, there was only Elia to think about.
“Mind? I demand it.”
“Well, in that case.” She smiled the truest smile of the day. “I accept your demand.”
His question had brought her talk with Jaime Lannister to the forefront of her mind: I think you have finally opened your eyes to the temerity of dragons. That Rhaegar was grieved by what he had done was evident, that he still loved her painfully obvious. But the love of her dragon, whilst consuming, would now ever be coloured in her mind by crowns of flowers and that unbearable silence before her hands had raised themselves to clap.
And yet -- “I love him still. Don’t hate me for it, Oberyn. Please.”
“Love him, then, Elia, for I cannot. For your sake.” With a parting kiss left brushed across her cheek, he stood up and crossed the short distance to the writing table. The sheets of parchment with their half composed letters to their brother were committed to the flame of a candle, then dropped upon a silver platter to burn into ash. “One of us has to.”
“Is it ever thus.” Her murmur was not so much a question as a statement, spoken to the fire burning across the room. “I cannot not. And am angrier for it, I think.”
She thought of their brother in Sunspear, in his seat underneath the light shining through many coloured glass panes and in his favoured study at the Water Gardens where he could hear the laughter of children, the children of his house both Martell and Sand. “If I write on the morrow, will you give it to Quentyn to take with yours?”
“Of course, dear one. I’ll have to write mine on the morrow, same as you -- Lewyn has beaten the fight out of me, and you know how difficult it is for me to communicate with Doran when that is gone.” His smile was wry, flashing too briefly as he put away the surviving parchment. “And Quentyn will do anything for you should you give him that promised kiss.”
“In that case I’ll give him two to see his blush, and then keep him out of King’s Landing forevermore lest anyone get ideas.” There was a glimmer of wickedness in her smile, but the gravity behind the statement sapped the amusement from it and it did not last for long.
“Oberyn, I love you so.” And perhaps do not deserve the devotion, for the choice has been my own. “Never forget it.”
With his first genuine smile of the evening -- “You don’t need to remind me, Elia. I already know.” He held out his hand, beckoning. “Bed? Obara has been writing about all of her exploits at the hand of the spear master. I want to tell you all about it.”
Elia nodded slowly, rising to join her brother. With a kiss to his cheek she took the offered hand, her smile matching his own. “Bed. I want to hear everything and more. She will be reordering the guard by next spring, I am sure of it.”
“Certainly not for a lack of trying.” Keeping one hand loose around his sister’s waist, Oberyn reached for the candle, letting it illuminate the way back to his bedchamber. No need now to describe his plans to make skilled warriors of all of his girls for the sake of Elia’s children, nor to tell her of the details of his conversation with Lewyn. On this dark, sad night, there was only this: the warm embrace of siblings, whispered stories of home, and vigilance on behalf of she whose soul was dearer to him than his own.