Chapter Text
Scott flinched awake at the sound of footsteps echoing down the staircase. His heart leapt to his throat, every muscle in his body drawing taut, but he didn’t move just yet. As though by being still, he could make them go away. The click of heels against the cold, damp stone was unmistakable, even without the light of a lantern to cast shadows. There were only a handful of people who knew he existed down here, and none came to visit him.
None but for one.
The prince of Rivendell shifted and sat up, his chains jangling loudly. Instinctively, in his grogginess, he tried to stretch his wings, but the bindings encircling them only allowed just enough movement to jolt painfully. He winced, cursing himself for his foolishness.
Through the bars of his cell, Scott watched as the demon wearing his brother’s face came into view, as perfectly groomed as always. Their hair, an ugly shade of black so different from Xornoth’s purple, was combed back from their face into a single stiff braid. Their clothing had not one wrinkle. Jewels adorned their every appendage, and they walked with their back straight and their hands clasped behind them, like a proper king.
They were not a king.
They crossed the short corridor in a matter of moments, staring down at Scott with a horribly smug smile. They enjoyed this. They enjoyed seeing the champion of their brother brought low before them. They enjoyed watching Scott’s face twist in anguish as they used his brother’s mouth to spit horrible, vitriolic words at him like acid. They took pleasure in reminding Scott of everything they had taken from him.
“Hello, brother,” Exor purred. (Exor, not Xornoth. Never Xornoth. It was getting hard, these days, to differentiate between the two). Scott flinched, but didn’t correct them. Not like he would have done in the earlier days. Decades before, when Scott still pleaded for Xornoth to hear him and break free, to resist the god’s control and save him.
Instead, he lowered his head, and didn’t say a word.
“It’s been a while, has it not?” Exor continued, examining a gloved hand. “What has it been… two years?”
Scott honestly didn’t know. It was impossible to keep track of time down here, so deep below ground that no sunlight could ever reach, and too cold for even the rats to survive. The only marker of time he had was when he was fed, once every three or so days, but even that wasn’t consistent.
After a few moments of silence, Exor’s smile dropped into irritation. “Come now, little owl. Don’t you have anything to say? Usually you’d be begging me for something by now. Food, water. Your brother. ” Scott’s hands curled into fists. Anger welled in his chest, but he refused to let it slip past his teeth. He bit his tongue.
He hadn’t begged anything of Exor in years. He’d learned long ago there was no mercy in the god’s heart, no humanity to which they could appeal. It seemed their only source of joy in life was tormenting Scott, taunting him with everything he could’ve had, everything he used to have, and lost.
Exor waited another moment, before making a disgusted noise and rolling their eyes. They muttered something undoubtedly insulting under their breath, pinning Scott with a glacial stare. “Don’t you at least want to know why I’ve lowered myself to visiting you after all this time?”
Scott stubbornly remained silent. He’d rather be left alone. Exor rarely came to see him anymore. In the first decade or so of his captivity, they would visit him nearly every day, often for no reason at all other than to mock him. He’d been beaten within an inch of his life, burned, scarred, left screaming and crying out for a brother who was no longer there. So long as he held on to his last shred of life, nothing was off the table.
But it seemed that eventually, he had grown boring to the false king. It had been remarkably quick, for beings with lifetimes such as theirs. Scott had long theorized that they must have found some other poor soul to focus their malice onto. He would feel selfish for being glad for that, if he still had it in himself to care.
Exor looked terribly disappointed with his continued refusal to speak. Scott allowed himself half a moment of satisfaction as he watched Exor’s displeasure grow through his eyelashes. He knew the kinds of consequences irritating them would carry, but for just a split second, it was almost worth it.
After a few tense moments, Exor sighed. “Rivendell has nearly lost the war.”
That got Scott to look up. His head snapped to meet Xornoth- to meet Exor’s gaze, horrified. He searched for any sign that the god was lying, another cruel joke, but he found none. A scowl had firmly settled onto Xornoth’s features, as though they were immensely displeased with what they had disclosed to Scott. Scott had never seen them look like that, at least not since the possession, and never in such a dark context.
“The Rivendellian forces were decimated in a battle for the Swamplands. I give it a week before the Ocean’s army arrives at the gates of my empire. We’ll be overrun before the month is out.” They said it all as though it were nothing more than an annoyance, a minor inconvenience. Like the buzzing of a fly they couldn’t stamp out.
Scott, on the other hand, could barely breathe. The Ocean Empire and its allies had long been at war with Rivendell, even longer than Scott had been imprisoned. Their nations had been at odds with one another for as far back as history was recorded. This war was merely the latest in a long series of conflicts, the origins of which not even Rivendell’s rulers were sure of. Till now, they had all ended in fragile truces and bitter stalemates. They had never scored a decisive victory, but under the guidance of his ancestors, Rivendell had always protected what was theirs.
And now, in the thirty years they had sat on their stolen throne, Exor had managed to bring it all to ruin.
Scott hadn’t seen Rivendell once in those thirty years. He’d been down here, helpless to save anyone from their enemies, both from without and within. The thought of his home overrun by the axolotl soldiers of the Oceans terrified him. The queen of the ocean’s wrath was infamous. There were legends of her wiping entire empires off the face of the continent. What would happen to his people? What would happen to him, if they ever even found him?
“No…” Scott whispered, and then cut himself off sharply, locking his jaw shut. Gratification sparked in Exor’s eyes, some of their disdain replaced by terrible amusement.
“Fortunately for my people,” they continued, lifting their chin. “I’ve managed to negotiate a peace between our empires before that can happen.”
Scott had barely a moment to be relieved before Exor sneered down at him, and then a horrible, malicious grin spread across their face. Scott felt a pit of ice cold dread open up in his stomach. Whatever “peace” Exor had managed to provide would inevitably come with a devastating cost.
“You,” they nodded to him, looking and sounding far too proud of themself, “are to marry the prince of the Ocean Empire, for the good of Rivendell.” The floor dropped out beneath him. Exor looked delighted. “Your union will ensure the safety of the elves for generations to come, as well as assure the Ocean Empire of our noble intentions.”
Scott could have laughed at the thought of Exor doing anything “noble,” if not for the terror that plunged into his heart. Blood drained from his face, and once again he foolishly hoped for a sign that the false emperor of the mountains was joking. Once again, he found nothing.
The Ocean Empire despised Rivendell. Even in the interims between clashes, during those tentative periods of armistice, they’d made it clear they held no intention of being amicable. Sending him to live with the enemy in the delicate and fragile peace following a decades long war was as good as a death sentence.
But of course, that was exactly the point. Exor had long looked for a way to dispose of him, unable to kill him themself with the prophecy dangling over their heads. If Scott’s life was taken by Exor, or anyone acting as an agent of Exor, then both champions would die, and Exor would have to wait another thousand years before beginning their plans anew.
This had kept the cycle in balance for as long as the elves had existed. But it was far from a foolproof system. If he were to die by the hands of someone else, unaffiliated with Rivendell or Exor, or of some natural cause outside their control, then the prophecy would remain unfulfilled, and whatever champion remained would be free to reign without opposition.
Scott was under no illusions that his marriage to the prince would mean anything to either nation. When the peace was broken, and it would break, he would be the first elf within reach. He would be the one they turned on first. He would be the one to suffer the consequences for Exor’s actions. Exor would reign supreme, and Xornoth would be trapped in their own body forever.
“No,” he rasped again, this time louder. Scott gripped the bars. Exor stopped looking pleased, and gave him a raised eyebrow. Their eyes warned him to choose his next words carefully. “No, you can’t-” but they could. He swallowed drily, feeling his hands start to tremble. His pride had long been broken, years of humiliation and pain and degradation crushing it to nothing. Yet some small remnant must still have remained, because it hurt to force his next words past his lips. “Please. You can’t send me there. I’ll do anything.”
His existence here was miserable. He had not moved from his cell in thirty years, bound in so many chains he could hardly lay down. His body withered and ached from so much time spent wasting away in the dark. He longed for the sun and his childhood room, both faded, tattered memories. But at least here, he was alive. As long as he remained here, Exor couldn’t kill him. The cycle had not yet been completed. It was the closest thing to safety he could remember feeling.
Not even that could be guaranteed once he left.
Exor smiled. “This is not up for debate, little brother,” they said. “For far too long the Ocean Empire has been a thorn in our side. Now they will no longer be a problem. This is a good thing, Scott. Don’t you want to protect your people?”
Scott could have screamed. Guilt settled heavily over his shoulders, his mind whirling with the fear and anger and sorrow and grief that had weighed on his heart for decades. It was cruel to use his people against him. Crueler still was the fact that Xornoth was right . Scott was still a prince of Rivendell. Disgraced as he was, he still loved his empire, and he still had a duty to its people.
There was nothing he could do to change the god’s mind. No matter how much he begged. As long as he lived, he was a threat. Nevermind that he was powerless. Never mind that his mind and spirit had been broken, likely beyond repair. Scott didn’t care about the prophecy anymore. He didn’t care about the battle of light and dark. He’d never wanted to die for it in the first place. All he wanted now was to survive
He glared up at the god. Sensing his defeat, Exor stepped closer. “I’ve arranged everything,” they said in a falsely gentle voice. “You leave in two hours time to meet with the royal convoy of the Ocean Empire at the Spawn Point. You will have to be made more… presentable, of course, before your departure. The very least you could do for our new allies is not look like the ragged, pathetic creature you are.”
Two hours!? Scott would be leaving his beloved empire, his home he had not seen in thirty years, for the very last time in two hours? It was such a short time. In two hours, his entire life, the memories of his childhood, the shreds he clung to even as he starved, frostbitten and forgotten, all remnants of it would be gone. Everything seemed to go a little fuzzy around the edges.
Exor reached into their belt and removed a strip of fabric. They tossed between the bars, and Scott held out a hand to catch it before it could fall onto the moldy floor.
“Tie that around your eyes,” Xornoth instructed. Scott blinked, glancing back at them suspiciously. They scoffed. “Unless you want to go blind as soon as you’re taken upstairs. Then be my guest.”
Scott tried to take a deep breath. He stared at the blindfold, inspecting it carefully. Nothing was smeared onto it. There was no telltale glow of enchantment. A quick sniff deduced no chemicals he could smell. As far as he could tell, it was just a blindfold. But he had long since learned not to trust appearances.
Even if there wasn’t anything wrong with it, the thought of losing his vision, even temporarily, frightened him. He had very little left to lose, at this point. He’d lost his home, his family, his hope. He’d been kept from his empire for so long he was starting to forget what it looked like. He couldn’t stand the thought of not even being able to see Rivendell for the first time since Exor’s coup. This was the last time he would ever set foot in his beautiful homeland. And he was expected to spend it blind?
But what other choice did he have? a voice asked. That he be blind permanently? His eyes had known nothing but darkness for ages. Rivendell’s brightness would sear through him in an instant.
He looked back up at Exor, but the demon was already walking away. Scott bit his lip and scooted back until he hit the wall. He winced as his feathers jostled against the cold stone, and brought his knees up to his chest, hugging them tightly. The burning sensation in his eyes returned, so he squeezed them shut before the tears could escape. Frost crept out from beneath him, coating the cobblestones blue. If not for the dampening enchantment on the manacles, he was certain he’d have covered the whole corridor in ice.
He wasn’t sure how long it was until footsteps once again sounded from the stairs. This time, the heavy clank of armor heralded the arrival of two of Exor’s followers. Knights of Rivendell. Scott’s wardens, and the only other people he had seen during his imprisonment.
Scott sighed, whispered a quick prayer to Aeor, as little good as he knew it would do, and tied the blindfold around his eyes. The footsteps grew closer, and then he could hear the jangling of keys, the click of a lock, the creak of the door being swung open. He jerked away from the hands he felt on his arms.
“Calm yourself, Your Highness,” one of the guards said in a monotone voice. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
The other one snickered and muttered something too quiet to hear. Scott didn’t give her any reaction, used to it by now. There were more keys, more locks, and suddenly the weight of the chains on his legs were gone. The chains encircling his wrists shifted as they were disconnected from the wall, and slid into a knight’s hand.
The hands came back, gripping him under his shoulders and hauling him to his feet. The touch burned, even through the thin layer of his shirt and the leather of their gloves. It spread like fire from the unfamiliar palms up and down his arms. It was firm and unyielding, just shy of too tight, and yet, it was the gentlest touch he’d felt in years. The only one he could recall that didn’t hurt. He didn’t know whether he should lean into or away from it.
He was led out of the cell, and slowly down the hall to a spiral staircase. Though the walk was short, it seemed to stretch on forever. The staircase was long and treacherous. He was unused to such movement, and his muscles burned with effort. By the time they reached the top, his lungs were gasping for air, and his legs threatened to give out beneath him. Each step felt like agony, pins and needles stabbing his bare feet as blood rushed through his veins like they hadn’t in ages. Only the knight’s grip on him kept him from falling.
Even through the blindfold, light assaulted his closed eyelids as a door creaked open. As he stepped forward, he felt carpeted hardwood beneath his toes, instead of the freezing stone of the dungeons. He froze. A gentle breeze blew across his face from an open window, and suddenly his throat closed up.
He was in the palace. His home. For the first time since Exor’s hostile takeover he was outside his cell, in the halls where he grew up. He wanted to laugh. A choked sob escaped him instead. Tears stuck to the blindfold, gluing it down to his face as they dried.
The chains to his still bound hands were jerked, and he stumbled forward. The second guard, the one who’d been holding him, caught him again, and they continued their shuffle forward. Scott tried to go as slow as they would allow to soak in the moment. He didn’t know if he would ever see this place again.
It took a long time, but eventually they reached a room. Someone took hold of his wrists, and then the chains disconnected from his manacles. Then, he felt tugging on his wings. He panicked. Instinctively, they tried to flare out, but pain lanced through the damaged tendons. He wasn’t quite able to suppress a scream.
And then… it was gone. The thick leather bindings that had kept his wings pinned for so long were gone. He breathed out disbelievingly, unmoving for a long few seconds as he basked in the euphoria of the moment. His wings were free.
He tried to stretch them, testing his newly rediscovered mobility, but he was swiftly cut off as his muscles seized up, unused to such wide movements. The two guards, in their heavy armor, clanked out of the room, and several more, softer feet shuffled in.
He was stripped of what was left of his clothes and all but thrown into a bathtub. People he assumed were servants poured water over his head, scrubbing his skin raw until it stung like a thousand wasps. After so many years of agony, his body was a map of scars, not all of which the staff were mindful of. He did his best not to make his discomfort too obvious.
Hands took hold of his face and wiped it down with a washcloth. Floral scented shampoos and soaps were massaged into his hair, then rinsed out carefully, taking care to avoid the blindfold. It reminded him of how he used to bathe when he was still a proper prince, but now it was hurried and rough. He barely had time to orient himself before he was being pulled out and dried.
The clothing he was dressed in certainly weren’t his rags from before. He didn’t have to see them to know they were fine. The silk was smooth and soothing against his ragged skin. He ran his hands along his torso, feeling the intricate stitching and detailing of the outfit. His wedding outfit, he remembered, feeling vaguely ill.
There were too many people touching him. There were hands in his hair, attacking thirty years of matting with a brush. There were hands on his face, applying layers of powder to cover up the signs of being left to rot in a dungeon. There were hands on his body, adjusting his outfit, pulling him in every direction. There were hands on his wings, cleaning the feathers and straightening them back out, sending hot sparks down his back with each tiny movement.
It was all too much. Every light brush of fingers against his skin sent unpleasant shivers down his spine. His head was swimming as he slowly drifted away from his body, feeling himself go through the motions of preparing for a sudden engagement, without really being there at all.
His mind turned absently to his fate, desperate for a distraction. His lessons on the other empires of the world were but a faint memory in his mind. It felt like it had been a lifetime ago.
He couldn’t quite remember the prince of the Ocean Empire’s name… Tim, maybe? A bit of a recluse, if he recalled correctly, not unlike Scott himself had been during his parents’ reign. Not much was known about him to begin with, except, Scott remembered, that almost no one had ever seen his face. He kept it well covered by a mask in the likeness of a fish. But the queen’s reputation he knew well enough.
Queen Elizabeth, Grand Empress of the Oceans, Goddess of the High Seas. An ancient being, older than Rivendell itself, perhaps even older than elves, and of unknowable, insurmountable power. A terrifying opponent to face in war, for she led her soldiers on the battlefield herself. She was unyielding, commanding, and decisive, but also cunning, manipulative, and underhanded. She always got her way in the end, no matter how unreasonable her demands.
What would the Ocean Empire be like? Would anything be familiar to him there? He’d never even left Rivendell in his childhood, and now he was moving to the middle of the ocean to live with and marry someone who probably despised him. A minefield populated by people who would kill or reimprison him at the slightest provocation.
Aeor, what was he going to do?
He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d been moved again. But suddenly, the blindfold was ripped off his eyes. Scott recoiled, blinking and holding up a hand to shield his vision. It took his mind a moment to catch up, and to realize that he was in a different room. The lights had been blown out, and the curtains all drawn shut.
Exor stood in front of him, holding something in their hand. Scott squinted at it, and recognized a necklace. It was simple, a short silver chain attached to a small red crystal. The crystal emanated the smallest amount of light, the only source in the otherwise completely dark room.
“Obviously, you can’t be kept in chains when you are delivered to your husband ,” Exor delivered the last word in a mocking fashion. “But we can’t have you causing any incidents in a foreign nation, now can we? This,” they held up the necklace, “will keep your unstable magic from… flaring up, shall we say. I’d advise you to keep it on. I will know if you don’t.”
Of course they would. Everyone on the continent would know if Scott removed the necklace, because the entire fucking world would be covered in ice and snow. His magic had already been unpredictable in the years before Xornoth’s possession, and that was before it had been repressed for decades.
Frost started creeping out from beneath his feet, freezing the carpet around him. Exor looked at this with disgust, and motioned him forward before it went any further than that.
Scott had tried to take advantage of what little magic he could access between the barrier of the manacles before. He’d tried to use it to break free, or to send a message to Aeor, or even one of the neighboring empires. But it was never enough. He’d never done more than freeze over his own cell in a thin layer of ice, and even that had been enough to enrage Exor.
Some of his feathers had never fully grown back in from where they’d been ripped out.
Scott stepped forward and lowered his head. His newly washed and cut hair, tied back with a silk ribbon, slipped over his shoulders. Xornoth fastened the necklace around his neck, surprisingly gentle, in an echo of something resembling the tender care he’d once been treated with. Scott’s heart lurched, but when he looked up, there was no warmth in Exor’s gaze. No sign that Xornoth was still in there at all.
The necklace settled on his chest, uncomfortably warm. He could feel the effect immediately. His stomach twisted as his magic began pulling from deep in his soul. The room began to spin. Bile rose in his throat. He felt a hollow space emanate from the place where the crystal met skin, as though he were being drained . He swayed on his feet.
“Be good, owlet,” Exor said, and placed a hand on Scott’s chin. Scott bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snarling. That name is not yours to use. He should have been used to it by now. Used to the god mimicking his brother, pretending they and Xornoth were one in the same. Used to knives to the heart in the form of carefully chosen words.
He didn’t think he would ever grow used to it.
Xornoth called for the guards and threw the blindfold back in Scott’s face. He barely had time to knot it loosely before the door opened and light poured in. Hands were on his wrists, and then the manacles clicked open. Scott gasped, thrown off balance by the sudden lack of weight. He could feel his magic pouring back in, only to be sucked away by the crystal moments later. It was a sickening sensation.
He couldn’t see his wrists, but he could imagine the damage. Deep bruising, scars left by the chafing iron, wounds that weeped with unidentifiable liquids. They were briskly cleaned and wrapped in bandages, too loose to really be effective, but not so much that they would fall off. Then the hands were back on his shoulders. He wondered if all touch would burn him this way for the rest of his life.
He was led out of the study, which once upon a time had belonged to his father, and down many long corridors. It was exhausting. His body was unprepared for so much walking, but he was offered no reprieve. He tried to keep track of all the twists and turns they took, perhaps to construct a map in his head of where he was. But Rivendell’s palace was intentionally designed to be maze-like, and he quickly gave up.
He could tell when they stepped outside, though. The temperature dropped, and a chilled breeze hit his face. Scott gasped softly, tilting his head back and feeling delicate snowflakes land on his cheeks, melting into tiny droplets of water. His throat tightened. He’d forgotten when the sensation felt like.
He didn’t get to enjoy it for long. He was all but carried to the carriage, since fumbling around for the tall, metal steps and breaking an ankle in the process was no way to start an engagement. The door was slammed shut as soon as he was settled, and Scott heard the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking. Cautiously, he peeked out from the blindfold, and was relieved to find that there was no light. That relief quickly turned to dread as he realized that there were no windows. No hope for escape.
There was a ring on the wall, supposedly where chains could be latched to. This wasn’t the type of carriage a royal on their way to meet their husband would expect. This was the carriage of a prisoner riding to their execution. Scott supposed that’s what he was.
Reaching up to the back of his neck, he felt around for the chain of the necklace. As he ran his finger along it, he realized there was no clasp. It felt as though the metal had been welded shut between two links. Panic briefly flashed in his chest, and the crystal glowed brighter. The sick feeling in his gut multiplied. His stomach churned, but there was nothing to empty.
The carriage jolted, and he nearly fell out of his seat as it began to move. He righted himself, and slid the blindfold back over his eyes. The white fabric caught the tears before they could ruin his perfectly powdered face.