misereres (misereres) wrote in usurper, @ 2011-12-27 00:25:00 |
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The circlet of copper suns about her forehead felt as though it might weigh her down, Elia thought, as she made her way towards the chambers that were her brother’s. But if she turned around and the night passed, resolution would fade (even though anger rode high within her, even though the decision that she made was as much to give her brother space to breathe as to punish him), for to send Oberyn away was to send part of her heart away.
Her fingers trailed over the carved doorframe as she closed her eyes for a moment, committing the pattern of vines and pomegranates to memory. But there was only so long that she could stall -- finally the princess gave the barest of knocks and entered without being bidden, as was her habit; the symmetry of the visit was not lost on her, and nor was the fact that her words would change just as much as Oberyn’s act of anger (and of love) had. Perhaps more.
The nausea of fear had not abated since he had been dismissed by Rhaegar. It was not, however, the fear of Targaryen repercussion that gripped Oberyn, but rather that of Martell displeasure. Doran’s wishes were as clear as they could possibly be (ironically, a miracle, for his brother’s plans were known by close friends and family to be wrapped in any number of layers meant to misdirect), whilst Elia’s had been uttered to him in this very room. And beyond her desires was his own vow to her: I won’t touch him.
Not quite a kinslayer (yet), Oberyn knew he was now an oathbreaker -- and a liar twice over if he kept his silence, which he intended to. And prayed that Rhaegar would as well. And so, through the persisting unease, the face he presented his sister with when the sounds of her unannounced arrival rang through the room was one of mild interest shining through a mask of generalized dissatisfaction -- the mess of parchment and discarded quills told their own tale as they littered the table -- as he stood in greeting. Quentyn, freshly returned from Dorne and sporting a deepened olive hue courtesy of the famed light of Sunspear, likewise sprang from his seat, hands glistening with the juice of blood oranges.
“Hullo.”
Her brother’s greeting went ignored, as Elia gave Quentyn the slightest of smiles, which did not quite reach her eyes. “Was home good to you, Quentyn? I hope that it was. Could you give us a moment, please? Let no one come listen in.”
Turning then to her brother -- Elia was not sure whether she truly wanted to slap his cheek, or draw him close and obtain promises that he would never again do something so suicidal -- she raised a brow and indicated that he should sit again with the slightest nod of her head. “Hullo, Oberyn. I think you might have something to tell me.”
No, nothing -- the desire to blurt out this falsehood as though a guilty child rode high in his throat, and Oberyn, with a swallow, looked away. His fingers tightened on the armrests of his chair as he sat back down again, ankle pinned to his knee in a picture of casual repose.
He waited until Quentyn’s narrow frame had slipped through the doors, and that they themselves had been shut, before answering. “Give me a hint, sister. If this is about anything Doran has said...” A gesture was thrown towards the table. “His letters can be quite long.”
“Do not play the fool with me, little brother.” Elia sat in a chair opposite Oberyn, her stiff posture a stark contrast to the image of calm that he presented. “I am giving you the opportunity to be open. There is your hint.”
She turned slightly to glance at the parchment that he had indicated as she continued, softly: “I am sure that Doran has been writing you very long letters. He seems inclined to brevity, with me.”
He spares you the statecraft. But the words died on his lips -- another lie; Doran’s rhetoric was matched only by Doran’s brevity, and that latter was reserved for his siblings -- as he understood her hint for what it was. And there was the nausea again, pulling the color from his cheeks as his stomach flipped in on itself.
“Sister...” He dug the heel of his hand into the ridge of his brow. “He told, did he?”
“If it makes you feel any better, my brother, he was pushed to it.” Elia placed an elbow on the table, resting her chin upon her hand as she took note of his pale cheeks and the tension held in his face as she continued in Rhoynish.
“You would have let me continue ignorant, I see that. Twice betrayed -- thrice, if you include Rhaegar’s. Is yours the better because it was done in part out of love, Oberyn?” Though her words were quiet (aware, as always, of those who spent their days listening within the walls of the Red Keep), the tension behind them would speak volumes to those who knew Elia well -- and none knew her better than her brother. “As a learned man, perhaps you will be able to tell me.”
“No amount of learning will keep my temper from me,” was half a whisper. Unable to look his sister in the eye, Oberyn’s gaze settled on the floor just beyond her feet. Elia knew of the temper of which he spoke: not something that snapped white-hot at the slightest provocation, but one which simmered and brewed and was given its spark at just the right time. Rhaegar and his damned book were at the right place, at the right time -- but then Doran’s letter had come and he had been forced to see reason.
“What will you do?”
“That temper is part of your birthright.” Her own (a sibling to his, different but no less a Martell trait) was tightly reigned, but her grip upon the polished wood of the table made clear the control used to keep her tone even, and words moderately calm.
“What will I do? You must go, Oberyn.”
There was nothing left of his temper, only a hollow space in his chest where the sound of those four words seemed to collide harder with the curl of his ribs than the very beating of his heart. An apology now would ring false; instead, as his gaze jerked up to meet hers for the first time, a plea: “You can’t.”
“You sought to act for me, Oberyn, now you must be bound by my wishes: you will go. Home.” Elia stood, then, stepping towards the window where the night’s breeze cooled her, and where the tears that threatened to spill over would not be seen. “That is my will.” Go where you can breathe, dearest brother, for a time.
You can’t. You can’t. “I must nothing --” he began, but the snarl, never having made an appearance, remained utterly absent from voice, which emerged instead as plaintive as a boy’s. He’d wronged, he knew this, but to be exiled from his sister’s side was far and beyond what he thought would be his punishment.
He pulled himself up to his feet, almost sluggish in his movements (shock dulled everything, made him slow, muffled the entire world save for Elia’s voice). “I won’t.”
There was a long silence before Elia replied, her voice distant to her own ears. This was how heartbreak felt, she realised, a different kind from that she had suffered in Harrenhal, but no less painful. A mortal blow, from my own hand now.
“Have I ever ruled you so before, Oberyn? I would have you free in all things.” A beat. “And yet by our own laws, I have the right.” The true laws of home, not the northern veneer placed over them by the Iron Throne. “You will.”
Oberyn could -- and did -- sneer at the same northern laws that would make his sister queen, but when held to Dornish doctrine, his resolve -- such as it was -- to defy her once more was bled from him. Listening to Elia execute her right of rule over him was enough to leave him standing in choked silence if not for the fact that he had fallen to his knees to press a kiss into the hollow of her ankle.
And then, speaking to the floor: “As you say.”
Her hand settled -- lightest of touches -- upon his shoulder. “Believe what you will, but know that I love you, Oberyn. Always and forever, my second self. But it is not for you to decide how I might be free of my burdens, to act in anger without blessing or knowledge, and you have terrified me as much as you hurt me.” The king asks after you, the walls have eyes. “I do not do this to wound you, though I know that it has. You are choked here.”
“That is not for you to judge. You are the only air I--” He cut himself off, letting the silence stretch beyond comfort, fingers curled in on themselves lest he be tempted to reach for his sister and shame himself further with useless pleas. Elia’s love was not in question; appealing to it would not help him.
Leaving the Rhoynish -- its sweet words would move him to tears too easily -- he finally said: “Only Maester Mikael knows what he’s about.” And: “Would you have me convey anything to Prince Doran?”
“Then Maester Mikael will be the only one I see.” Elia turned to her brother then, gesturing for him to rise (for if she joined him upon the floor her tears would fall, her resolve waver, and all would be undone). “Give Prince Doran my love, as always.”
And then, as though she could not bear to speak another formal word in the common tongue, she returned to Rhoynish: “It need not be long, Oberyn. You will ever be in my thoughts, each moment; sand spirits strike me down if I lie.”
If Elia could be cruel, so could he; Oberyn stubbornly clung to the common tongue, distancing himself from the risk of further opening this fresh wound as he distanced himself from her, pushing back onto the soles of his feet before rising and stepping away. “Well, at least I’ll be in your thoughts,” was toneless, brittle.
And then, fingers biting into palms as he turned from her -- “Goodbye, I suppose.”
The blade that she had taken from his hands into her own with her decree now turned back upon her again, Elia was not too proud to reach out to her brother. Her hand caught at his sleeve -- an attempt not to rule him, but to draw Oberyn into an embrace, if he would have it. To press her kiss against his cheek. “No goodbye between us, Oberyn, not like this. It will not be long.”
Oberyn would not be drawn into her embrace, but rather than reject her outright, he paused mid-step, turning just enough to draw his thumb across the high plane of her cheek. A measure of softness in his voice as he said: “Not like this? You cut me and then claim it’s for my own good.” His own kiss was too faint, too quick against her skin. “Go now, so that I may.”
The softness of his dismissal felt harsher, somehow, than any anger or agitation would have been. Rising upon the tips of her toes, Elia pressed a kiss first to his right cheek and then to his left, not the benediction of a ruling lady obeyed but a leave-taking. Silence would be best now, and yet -- “I’m sorry, I am. I’ll live now in hope that you forgive me for this, one day soon, as I have forgiven you the tears.”
She stepped back then as requested, towards the door, hands gently clasped to hide their shaking (to avoid reaching out to him again). “Will you kiss your daughters for me?”
Standing upright and unsupported seemed, suddenly, a feat requiring more energy than he currently possessed. Lips tightened into a featureless line, Oberyn splayed his hand out on the surface of the table, head bowed so that his gaze would not be drawn back up to the figure of the sister who was casting him out, if only for a time. Best beloved.
“If I make it there. Perhaps the Gardens will not be my destination.” I don’t know.
“If you hate me, Oberyn, I live but half a life -- less. But if they had killed you for this, if anything were to happen to you... I would die. No other thing, no other love holds me here as you do.” A shrug then -- her own doing, this, the nausea that filled her stomach, his pain. Her own choice.
“How will I write to you?”
Then why do you send me away? But he knew the answer and would not sully the air with his stubborn refusals and childish pleas again. It was easier to hide his face -- and the broken expression of shock -- from her, easier to offer up some measure of distance. “Ellaria Sand. Or Doran. Send your letters to them.”
“As you wish, then. I will.” Fingers pressed to her lips to keep silence and hold her tears back as best she could, she turned away. Each step towards the doorway was a self-inflicted wound, the door heavier than it had been on entry, the corridor outside (empty but for one) far colder.
Leaning across to her brother’s squire -- they were of a height now, some detached part of her mind saw, had so much time passed since she last took notice? -- her final words were Rhoynish, whispered so soft as to be almost inaudible. “Look after him for me, please Quentyn. Write to me of him and I will be in your debt.”
Sun-browned fingers caught her wrist in a quick and easy grasp so that the youth could place a kiss across the back of her hand. “Princess,” he began in the same tongue, dark eyes made darker with concern (this would not bode well, not for Oberyn, not for his sister, and almost certainly not for him once he stepped back inside the prince’s chambers); “there is no debt. Only -- only be mindful of yourself.”
Her lips pressed lightly to his forehead, there and gone. “I promise. I do not forget who I am, or where.”
She squeezed his fingers briefly before stepping back, turning towards the long corridor that would take her to her husband, though she was sure that there would be no sweet rest this night, no peaceful drawing down. “Farewell, Quentyn, until you return.”