EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN

[Toffee 2843]

 

 

 

Hundreds of candles sent a smoky haze to the ceiling of the basilica. The Basilica of Saint Joren and the Broken Chains. The King of Edel, kept in iron shackles by his own brother for years until he was finally freed. His wife, too, Saint Tara of Paradisus, imprisoned and chained but never wavering in her faith. It came that Joren Son of Horen found a wife of virtue and dignity… 

 

Would Erika warm the halls of the Kastell Lesanov as Tara had warmed the halls of Joren’s keep with her kindness? Did her destiny even lie in those towering red walls? I would have your duties play to your many, endearing talents, Karl said. The library, her ballroom; alchemical knowledge, her throne. 

 

I truly do believe you have a brilliant mind, Eri. I would be sad to see your mind and creativity captured by the stressors of queenhood.

 

“Eri?” Primrose’s soft voice broke her from her reverie. The candles sharpened into focus, no longer a single blaze of light but individual pillars, wax dripping in excruciatingly detailed rivulets. “What are you thinking about so deeply?”

 

Something you once said to me. “Nothing.” Erika smiled weakly, running a hand down the front of her wedding gown. The intricate swirls and spirals picked out in diamonds and pearls scraped against her palm, rough, grounding her. “Only how you used to braid flowers into my hair when we were girls. How could we know that you would one day be fashioning my bridal crown?”

 

Primrose laughed in that quiet, chiming way of hers, filled with endless joy. “We should have known from the petals. The petals never lie, you said. Do you remember?”

 

Erika remembered. That day they cast the petals with Duncan Baruch, hers had floated on the surface of the pond, still and serene, symbolising stability, peace, and contentment. Happy to be exactly where she was, no more and no less. Despite Lord Duncan’s thoughtful gifts, bushels upon bushels of her favourite blue flowers, his easy smiles, the way his eyes lit up when she complimented his tartan… He was not her future, even if she could see it clear and sparkling in her mind’s eye as if through the facets of a pristine gem. Long days in Ayr where the River Dules split in twain, a modest garden by the water’s edge, the sounds of the Crothstadt a constant song in the background. And yet, her petals remained still, barely stirring even as the brook feeding into the pond cast ripples across its surface.

 

Not like her second casting, when the petals clustered together even when the fierce current of the Lahy threatened to tear them apart. She would never forget her mother’s gasp, hands flying to cover her mouth.

 

“What does it mean?” Princess Milena demanded. For a woman of Oracle blood, she put little stock in peasant divination, but to Erika and her mother, there could be no clearer augury.

 

Her mother rallied herself, hands slowly lowering. “Floating together, the petals indicate a forthcoming union or the deepening of an existing relationship.”

 

“I could have told you that without the petals.” Princess Milena scoffed, the rubies on her bracelet flashing in the evening light as she waved a dismissive hand. Still, her eyes, usually stormy and dour, gleamed with a rare happiness. “I have never seen him come alive as he does with you, child.”

 

You would still have us pursue this bond we share even on the risk I might be unworthy of you and undeserving of something so pure? I am a hard man to love, even without the crown. 

 

Air and earth, the Wind and the Wanderer. No life without death, no freezing without burning, no agility without impediment. In all things, equivalent exchange. Even this. That was what she told him, that together they found balance.

 

There was another she could have balanced, born under the sign of the Hero, the other air-aligned zodiac. The Duke of Vidaus. Dmitry. She had diagnosed him with an excess of yellow bile resulting in a choleric demeanour and prescribed a thorough leeching and regular doses of lavender-infused tea. Of course, as she grew older and more learned, she realised that what he truly needed was an emetic to induce vomiting and purge all the yellow bile from his system. Perhaps that would render him more phlegmatic and less angry all the time. His terrible smoking habit did not help.

 

“All your teeth will fall out,” Erika clucked disapprovingly, nodding to the cigarette drooping from the duke’s lips.

 

He pulled it away slowly, blowing out a long stream of smoke. Frowning down at it between his fingers, he sucked in a thoughtful breath through his teeth before flicking it onto the tavern floor and dashing it out with the heel of his boot.

 

“And will you not age as well? You will lose your beauty.” He looked up at her, folding his arms across his chest. A broad chest, and strong, but his eyes were so flinty, the set to his mouth hard and cruel. “For your sake, and my own, I hope we end up with somebody who loves us for who we are.”

 

Somehow, Erika’s feet carried her up the aisle. The long train of her wedding gown dragged behind, heavy from her shoulders. Primrose would have held it aloft, were it not for the matrimonial blade resting across her palms. Erika’s heart thudded, heavy and dull behind her ribcage, the rising rhythm of it pulsating through her ears, louder and louder. Gone were the subtle mutters of the crowd, the rustle of fabric as people shifted. There was only her and her racing heart.

 

Loves us for who we are. She had lamented to Lady Manon, once, that Karl would never be able to love her wholly, because his first love would always be, should always be, the kingdom. Some may have thought the life of a king was that of rulership and glory, but it was really that of servitude. Karl was shackled as surely as Saint Joren had been.

 

I do not want to hurt you but neither do I think I might be happy without you.

 

How could Erika deny him his happiness? To deny him would be to deny herself. The first time he had smiled at her—truly smiled, not the bland, vacant twitch of courtly politeness—her breath had caught in her throat. Snatched from her, captivated by the way his entire face could change. His smile lightened the deep purple shadows under his eyes and brought warmth and levity to a usually serious expression. Karl the man smiled at her. King Karl the Fourth bore the weight of his crown with solemn grace. The crown, the armour, the rigid etiquette… All for appearances, though not with her. With her, he needn’t pretend.

 

Closer, closer, the dais crept. She didn’t have Andrei with her, chaperoning her as he had countless times. After today, she would need no chaperone. He would be her brother, the Knight Paramount, protector of her body and life, not her honour. 

 

The basilica stood still and silent, drenched in gemdrop colour, sunlight streaming through the stained glass high above and casting softly shifting patterns across the back of Karl’s red cloak. A shaft of bright light glittered golden off his crown. The crown he had torn off his head to kiss her, so that she might see him, and only him. Erika smiled at the memory. A flush of heat rose to her face; she would surely be incandescent, glowing as if with inner light, such was the fierceness of her joy. Even the thin, shivering guilt at the sight of Irena vas Ruthern in the crowd couldn’t dim this sparkling in her chest.

 

Irena wants to be Queen, Dima’s voice whispered at the back of her mind. You want to marry Karl.

 

Erika didn’t believe that. If Irena had seen even a glimpse of the real Karl, she would be just as helpless as Erika. Helpless, but happy for it. I want for both of us to emerge from this without a broken heart.

 

Sound returned in a sudden rush when she reached the altar, clamorous until the Patriarch’s voice cut through, clear and steady. “Light Everlasting; bear witness to your faithful gathered beneath your grace. Illumine Erika and Karl, for on this day they profess unto you and your flock. Grant them your audience; grant them your blessing. Amin.”

 

Amin.

 

Karl took her hands, his touch warm and familiar, the promise of forever shining in his eyes. So close, the scent of him enveloped her, a sharp, clean fragrance softened by the warmth of skin, and underneath it all, blood and damp earth. Rot.

 

The decay spread quickly. His hands turned to brittle twigs in her grasp, the skin flaking away like dead leaves. His arms, his chest, his face. Once flush with life, his flesh paled and tightened. His cheeks hollowed, eyes sinking into darkening sockets. 

 

No, no… 

 

Taut and dry, his skin clung to the outline of his skull, cracking. Parched earth under a merciless sun. His form withered and wilted until he was naught but a skeleton draped in the remnants of his finery and then, with a sound like a mournful sigh, he crumbled completely. The crown slipped from his brow and struck the floor with a resonant clang. It rolled down the aisle, the metallic song of it horrifically cold and empty in the vastness of the basilica, coming to rest against Prince Joren’s boots. 

 

Erika stood alone at the altar, hands still outstretched, grasping at nothing but the cruel wisps of a future turned to ash. It took a moment to realise the high-pitched ringing in her ears was the echo of her screams.

 

“Erika, Erika!” 

 

A firm hand shook her awake. The pressure around her neck and shoulders was not the weight of a wedding gown but the bed sheets strangling her. She threw them aside and bolted upright, gasping for air. The velvet darkness of her bedroom splintered around the striking of a match, her father’s face coming into flickering focus. When had his beard become so flecked with white? Her nightgown clung to sweat-drenched skin, a poor imitation of the pristine wedding dress. 

 

Familiar shapes loomed at the edges of the circle of candlelight—her vanity, the armoire, the ticking clock on the nightstand. Mockingly mundane. The phantom scent of decaying flowers lingered in her nostrils, even as the racing of her heart gradually slowed, its frantic rhythm giving way to a dull, aching throb.

 

“It hurts,” she whispered.

 

“I know, little heart.”

 

I would not be able to stay composed if anything were ever to happen to you, and the kingdom needs me. It needs us.

 

One of the last things Karl had ever said to her. How were either of them to know that it would be Erika who needed to cling to her composure? 

 

The kingdom would have to wait. 

 

With a sudden, violent motion, she lunged towards her vanity. Her fist connected with the mirror, the glass exploding out in a glittering cascade. The brief satisfaction abruptly gave way to a sharp, searing pain. Erika stared at her bloodied knuckles, watching with detached fascination as crimson droplets rolled down her wrist. 

 

Her father gently, but firmly, grasped her wrist before she could break anything else. He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed, struggling down to one knee in front of her with the help of his cane, as he had done when she was a little girl with scraped knees and tear-stained cheeks. With the carefulness of someone tending to a baby bird, he cradled her injured hand, examining the damage with a soft sigh through his nose.

 

“You are forged from the same steel as the great queens of our House,” he said without looking up at her. “Your pain, this anguish you feel—it is not weakness, my heart. It is proof of your capacity to feel deeply, to love fiercely.” He looked up at her at last, reaching up to brush her tears with the back of his knuckle. “You are stronger than you know, stronger than any nightmare or heartache.”

 

“I do not feel strong,” she said with a cracking whisper. “I feel like I am breaking.”

 

Her father, her namesake, reached for the gold locket on her nightstand, its pendant wrought in the shape of a heart. Even in the dim light, the ruby at its centre flashed a deep red. He carefully pried it open with his fingernail, revealing the miniature painting of a white bull beneath an open night sky.

 

“Dearest Erika, may your heart always be yours and free,” he read from the inner inscription. “My sister gave this to you.”

 

Erika nodded. “For my Hauchmetvas.”

 

Karl had given her an entire crate of herbs, knowing her love for alchemy and botany. Plucking a leaf from a stem of amberiddle, she had pinned it over his heart in a small, girlish token of her affection.

 

He had worn it every day.

 

“Your heart is still yours.” Her father clasped the locket around her neck, where it sat, comfortable and familiar, against her sternum, the metal still warm from his touch. “It will heal, just like your hand.”

 

The pain in her knuckles bleated. The skin was split, leaking blood, but it was a sweet pain. Nothing like the gaping chasm in her ribcage. Was this the Alkahest? Disassembling, separation. Collapse. The breaking of her flesh, bliss, her nerves burning up, a delicacy. The first step towards the Azoth, if she could ever put herself back together again.

 

“The alchemical lens is supposed to be our way of understanding the world and our place in it. Isn’t everything a reagent, to be analysed, extracted, and made anew? Even ourselves?”

 

“No, my darling. Everything is the fragmentary touches of God, to be loved, understood, and nurtured. If you experience the world with only your head, you will not experience it at all.”

 

“But experiencing everything with your heart… That will just lead to hurt, won’t it?”

 

“It will just lead to hurt. It will just lead to joy. It will just lead to 

 

everything 

 

in 

 

between.”

[ncarr 2806]

Once naive and kind, Irena had become distrusting and deceitful amidst such a time of emotional turmoil that were the past six or seven years. In each moment of silence, she was elsewhere. Had her time with Karl been as menial as it was made it out to be? The short moments they shared, the dance at Erika’s Hauchmetvas, their rendezvous in the gardens or the chapel, they meant so much to her but were they truly for naught? 

 

She knew what the court thought of her, their favor for Erika stung like nothing had before. The words of her own aunt; “It does not do you well to seem so desperate for his attentions.”, remained heavily in the air around her for months. 

Irena knew what they’d said about her, this was obvious, but those moments with Karl, that is what allowed her to remain steadfast. Their dance, when the whole of those in attendance had made a match between Erika and Karl but he danced with her. Perhaps she was foolish to think it meant much at all - perhaps she’d not changed from that naive girl she once was.