THE CUCKOO: III

Completed August 1, 2021 (♌︎)

Warning: Bad things happen to and around a child in this chapter. There is also a scene involving a dead infant.

It was summer still and Dycedarg dearly loved each short span of the night when they came together: every mid month visitation like the re-imagining of an old Pagan rite. Ruvelia was never to stay again past morning, but as the days grew shorter, an hour in her company seemed a longer and longer affair. Perhaps it was merely habit and practice that made each meeting sweeter? Perhaps it was the desperation of their work? Perhaps there was some charm to bedding a woman who could not be denied: that Dycedarg relished for once House Larg making no pretenses when it treated him as its animal.

It had always been the fate of Gallione's vassals to be hard-ridden and abused; what poor beast wouldn't delight to have Ruvelia Atkascha as a rider?

Dycedarg did his utmost to bear her admirably, and he put forth a great deal more effort on her than he would with a woman fit to greet him by morning. They had not grown closer for any of their couplings—he thought—but they had grown more comfortable. Those first few meetings, softened with wine and spurred entirely by their own necessity, seemed hardly worth recollecting. Now, he hoped with increasing desperation to commit each silent and unseen movement to perpetual memory: the hard press of her thighs around his hips, the tickle of her hair against his face, the staggered shudder of her breath as he felt her clench hard around him.

He'd whispered to her more than once how midwives carry a woman must claim her prize if a babe is to take. She gave him no acknowledgement, but he thought it clear that she seemed to ride him harder for his advice. However little they spoke by night, he discovered more about her in those hours than might the cunningest spy the senate could send, learning bit by bit how to draw out all the different sighs and moans that lived in Ruvelia's cold breast. It was a new victory every time she lost herself with him—each time she shed her reserve to rock hard against him in the pursuit of her own end. He loved best those moments when he could find a space to lie still and let her writhe and buck a top him—when he could bring her to such a pitch of desperation that he need only pull her fast against him for a few thrusts to bring them to the same end. He loved it also when she traced the rough angles of his face afterwards, as though to impress something of him into memory.

He never spoke of her husband for all he considered the comparisons she might draw. He discovered for once in his life that he wanted little to speak.

When September found them, there had been some little upset—she had been a week late in her courses and all involved suffered some disappointment upon understanding that she was not yet with child. Bestrald had chastised her for voicing her hopes too soon. Dycedarg had cheerfully insisted that there must be an occasion for the queen to make a longer visitation to Igros. He told her that the cadets out of Gariland had brought rumors of a white hind sighted about the Siege Weald, and that midwives also held there was many a charm might be made from so rare a creature.

Dycedarg knew Ruvelia put no stock in such legends, but she had ever loved a hunt. He recalled her childhood as being all full of various forms of maiden cruelty that her father pampered and indulged. Zalbag was on the march back from the east as well; word could be sent and all four of them could ride through Gallione's wilderness as though it were still a decade past—as though the war had only endured forty years instead of fifty—as though the imprint it had left upon the four of them was still faint and malleable.

When all was arranged, they waited in a lodge outside Gariland for the word the huntsman charged with the quest, Larg's lymers looking hungry as Riovanese urchins while Dycedarg welcomed his brother back once more into the gaiety of courtly life. It grieved him a little when it became clear that Zalbag was distracted—his thoughts clearly turned toward their father's illness.

He supposed it could not be helped.

The next day at the assembly, Dycedarg made merry as best as he could, even if Bestrald seemed the only one of them disposed to merriment. Ruvelia had awoken looking pale as a greensick girl, and there were whisperings that some new turn in Lesalia had given Goltanna a better claims to Atkascha blood—that some new ancestor had been discovered or invented. When Dycedarg approached her she shot him through with a glance that seemed calculated in every way to remind him what station he held in every part of the world outside of his bedchamber.

The chase was swift, but when they found the hind, shaking as it bayed in a thicket, its coat was dull brown as the mud over which it stamped. The queen, in an uncharacteristic fit of emotion, cried suddenly that they let the poor beast go, but the order came too late.

His brother's spear was already on its course, and the creature ran itself onto its point in a fit of panic.

It was his fourth summer, and Orinus had become good at making himself obedient to those commands given him.

If he was troublesome, it was only when he was left without direction or without any reminding of directions given. It was a flaw to be expected of all children of his years, and it was a shame Orinus was one of the only children in Ivalice who could ill afford it. It had thus been impressed upon him again and again that he was a king and that kings should wait before taking action. He had more than once gotten himself into trouble on account of overzealous curiosity—losing himself chasing the train of a lady's gown or falling into the garden pond as he sought to pet the goldfish. When he was told, again and again on the long ride west, that he was to always be quiet and always be still, he fancied it a test of some sort—that if he was very good this time and did not let his attention wander, the game would end, and he should be brought back to his mother with a bowl of sweetmeats for his trouble, ready at last for the responsibilities of the crown.

It was a difficult game. Lord Beoulve frightened him a little, and he had never had to ride so long or so far without resting. He couldn't help but blurt out a few times that they were just passing some cows or some flowers that he'd seen an aevis overhead. Each time, his escort reminded him to be silent but did not seem angered by the lapse. When they finally stopped at a village to change birds, Lord Beoulve procured for him a thick slab of gingerbread topped with honey, which he took as a sign that he had—on the balance—been good enough. He spent the rest of the push towards Yardow trying his best to enjoy the sweet slowly and neatly, as he had been taught, but it was hard to eat anything with much grace on a chocobo's back. By the time they reached the walled city, his fingers and mouth were still hopelessly sticky—spotted here and there with black lint from where he'd clung to his guardian's cloak.

Lord Beoulve did not seem to mind it anymore than he minded anything else, although he wiped Orinus' face with his sleeve before ushering him into the low-roofed building where they were to presumably spend the evening. Orinus, having never to his memory been anywhere outside Lesalia without at least a half dozen handlers, was uncertain as to much of what was about to happen. He was led into a plain, small room—something like a servant's quarters—and told that he should lie down on the uncomfortable bed there and try to sleep. Orinus quite forgot himself then and protested in a loud whine that the sun wasn't yet gone. Lord Beoulve looked very unhappy. Orinus—who was very impatient after having spent the day trying not to move and not to talk—blurted out that he'd been good and that it wasn't fair to set him to bed early.

He regretted his remarks soon after, realizing that they weren't good—and he did his best not to cry when he went on to ask why his uncle wasn't there with them yet and how long it should be before they saw him. Lord Beoulve said nothing for a moment, sitting on the bed next to him as he balled his hands into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking as he did so. After a moment, he explained—calmly, measuredly—that they were still a great number of leagues away from where he should see his uncle, and that they would both have to sleep before the sun set in order to leave well before it rose again. He told Orinus further that many unfair things could not be helped, and that it was best to endure until you have the power to correct them. He was certain that Orinus would have nights when he could stay up late in the future.

It was not a heartening reply. Orinus was tempted to nag Lord Beoulve for some sort of promise that all should be as he said it would be, but he thought better of it. He did not think he should have any such promises, and he did not think they would help. He was very tired for all he did not think he could sleep. He wished he could have stayed with his mother.

Lord Beoulve fumbled about his satchel and handed him an apple and a wedge of cheese.

"I suppose we should have something by way of supper first," he said softly. "I can't sustain you on gingerbread all the way to Gleddia."

Orinus was not actually hungry (it had been quite a lot of gingerbread), but he did his best to eat anyway. He imagined that it would be good to set out again early in the morning, such that he would not have that long into the day to wait until he saw somebody familiar again. He imagined that if he ate a lot and made himself very sleepy that he might sleep all the rest of the long ride, and that he might awaken to see his uncle—that perhaps he could make him sleep long enough that he should wake up in however long it would be that his mother should come to him.

He wondered if there were any reason people had to wake up at all save that others woke them. He imagined that if everything in the world were quiet enough, he might not have to worry about things better slept through.

Lord Beoulve ate an apple of his own as he looked out the window of their room and about the frame of the door. Orinus did not ask him what it was he was looking for.

"I'm going to sleep here tonight." He gestured to the floor immediately in front of the doorway. Then he drew very close to Orinus, and knelt to look him in the eye. "I know you've done what you can to be quiet today. You've been mostly very good in that regard. Now I need to tell you that if you wake up in this room and see anybody other than you and me, you must be as loud as possible. You must shout for me until I'm awake. Don't be afraid I will be upset with you. It is very important that I know if anybody else is here."

Orinus nodded solemnly, trying to show that he understood. Lord Beoulve was very near to him now, and he felt very strange to be scrutinized so closely.

"What… what if I only think I see somebody?" Orinus stammered out. "I've thought sometimes at night that I see things, but nurse comes and they're all only shadows and bad dreams."

"I won't be upset with you even then—not even if it's only shadows. I'll only be upset should somebody arrive here and I miss them."

"Are you expecting somebody?"

Lord Beoulve sighed.

"I always am."

He moved to where he was to sleep by the doorframe, setting his satchel down to serve as a pillow before lying down and tipping the hood of his cloak over his eyes. Orinus did his best to follow suit, but he could not sleep right away. It was only after some time spent listening for evening birds and counting the stitches on the blanket hem and mutilating the remnants of his applecore that he finally lost track of himself, and when he came back to waking it was dark all except for the moonlight streaming through the wide open window.

He sighed a little as his eyes opened, for he was just coming out of some sort of dream and he was not sure he was awake yet. When he did see a figure kneeling over him, his first thought was that it might be his mother.

"Prince Orinus?" it said warmly.

He shot up very suddenly as he realized again where he was and that this voice was neither that of Lord Beoulve nor one he was dreaming. His breath caught as he felt the quick whisper of something gliding alongside his neck and the sudden press of a hand against his throat.

"Shh… little one," the voice continued, soft, "you'll be back asleep soon enough."

He screamed, for all he was still unsure even then if he really should. He screamed loud enough that he was certain he should wake the entire inn and be scolded for it. His neck suddenly stung as something squeezed it, and he was very frightened to think that he did feel as though he must sleep. He didn't though—he kept screaming even until the sound of the scream ran out, until he saw a shadow move before him and tumble apart into two bodies on the floor.

There was a great thumping around and a sudden strangled cry. Orinus suddenly fixed on a man's face caught in the window's square of moonlight, his features stretched like those of a stage mask as something dark ran over his features like oil. It was terrible to look at, but Orinus kept looking anyway—too stunned with fear to do anything else. He whined as he realized that he was holding his own throat now, his fingers wet as if with sweat or spilled water.

He was crying when he felt hands against him, warm this time with the bleed of what he thought must be magic. He was crying when there was a frantic knock at the door and the sound of a voice apologizing that his ward should suffer from nightmares. He was crying still, his body shaking in a flutter of sobs when Lord Beoulve walked over to the patch of blue light on the floor and broke the face of the man lying there apart with his boot. Orinus listened and watched as he hissed a torrent of oaths—as he kicked the still body again and again—as there came the crack of things coming apart within it—as it seemed less and less that the thing on the floor could ever have been a man.

For however little Orinus understood much of what had just happened, he understood that his guardian was now very very angry, and he wept all the harder for it. He was too frightened to do anything when he was dragged from the room, when he was bundled up in a cloak too hot for the summer air, when he pulled about and once more over a chocobo with the moon still high in the sky. He must have fallen asleep even in the midst of his fear, however, for he woke up to find himself lain out somewhere far out into the countryside, where there was nothing to see of towers or walls any longer. It was very green there, save where the big circle of the sky stretched itself over the ridge of distant trees.

Lord Beoulve was leaning over him, the webbing of his ungloved hand stretched close against the spot where Orinus' neck had stung. Orinus flinched as he smelled something bitter, like fresh-grated gyshal or horseradish, and he realized that there was a damp bandage lying over his throat.

"I thought you wouldn't be upset," he stammered out without really thinking. "I thought you said..."

He trailed off as the man kneeling over him closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if trying to forestall some outpouring of emotion. Orinus did not know what to think when it was followed up with a torrent of what seemed very sincere and grave "I'm sorrys."

It was another summer still. It always seemed summer in the capital—the white glow of so much Lesalian marble making the world bright even in the absence of the sun. Ruvelia never seemed to bear any tragedy by winter, as if the gaiety of the season was meant to mock her in her misfortunes.

To Bestrald, it seemed only a day ago that she had been delivered, that she had been churched, that his latest nephew had been christened: a hopeful Denamda V to follow the failed Omdoria IV. He knew—of course—that it had been far longer than that, but when he found his sister shrieking in her chambers, the body she clasped to her own looked as though it had only inhabited the world a few hours instead of a few months.

It had been an upset they had anticipated. How could they not have? With the Romandan plague still sweeping east, graves were filling up quick as men dug them, and Death more than ever seemed content to make merry with commoner and king indiscriminately. He tried to think back through what he'd planned to say in this course of events—how to move them forward and onto firmer footing for the Omdoria III's inevitable decline. He had thought of something to say. Bestrald knew that much. He had long considered himself the voice of reason between the two of them: forever having to walk his sister through the madness of her married life and to carry her through all her failures to produce the much needed heir. He had long ago gotten into the habit of telling himself that he always had a plan.

When he knelt to put a hand on her back, however—when he tried to speak her name—she offered him no acknowledgement. She kept howling as if he or any other creature couldn't possibly hear her. It was a very ugly sort of sound: a hoarse, choking wail that broke with all of his sister's well-practised reserve. He remembered at one point Dycedarg telling him something about soldiers who cry out in dreams of old battles—about what it's like to hear a scream that doesn't anticipate any listener.

He didn't know what to do. Ruvelia kept ignoring him even when she grew quieter, and as she shook the limp, graying figure in her arms, he recognized that quiet was not a calm. He had never known what to do. Seeing her there, hair sticking to her tear-slick face as she choked and bawled in front of him, Bestrald was struck through with the realization that all this was very far beyond him.

"You shouldn't—you shouldn't worry him, Rue…" he whispered, uncertain as to what he really meant by it. He held her arms to try and keep them still.

"Get your damned hands off me."

Her voice was suddenly very low.

"Ruvelia…"

"You can address me as a queen, Bestrald." He could feel her arms tense around the cold child. "You're the one who made me into one."

Bestrald felt the back of his neck prickle, and he realized that somewhere in the vast marble halls beyond them sounded the echo of footsteps—that beyond the two of them there were still courtiers and errand boys and a thousand ears set to listen.

"Your highness…"

She finally looked up at him, and he was shocked to see her once more a picture of icy reticence save for the disarray left by so much weeping. Something like a faint smile even played on her lips, and it was a cold smile. He considered that it was reflexive: the resting face of a woman used to continual surveillance.

"Did you have something to say to me?"

He took his hands away from hers. He had no idea as to what he might possibly say to a sister who would not permit him to call her by name—not that he'd had any idea what he might say to her in the first place.

"Do you have any fine words to encourage me now, Bestrald? Will you tell me again to think it some fairy story that I should come to marry a king? To tell me of the history I might make for your house? To convince me that I ever wanted to come to this tomb of a palace and away from Gallione?"

Her voice was soft throughout all she said, but it carried with it all the inflection of the wailing that had come before.

"I see, your grace." Ruvelia drew herself up to standing. "Do you know if anyone has sent word yet to my husband?"

He shook his head. The king was in Bervenia. A certain royal cousin had pled hard with him to attend the instatement of Canne-Beurich as the free city's bishop. He had no idea how long it would take for word to reach him of his own loss.

"If you would do us any service, it would be good for you to see that he is informed."

He nodded, and as he came to realize that whatever fit had overtaken his sister was now leaving her, he tried once more to compose all those words he had planned to say. He reckoned that she would need somebody to reason with her when she was once more reasoning.

He told himself that—by then at least—he would have a plan.

As Ruvelia convulsively grasped the dead infant to her one last time, however, Bestrald flinched.

No further words passed between the two of them that day. It was only well into the arrangements for funerals and for prayers that he thought the woman stalking about the palace in mourner's black would heed him as a sister once more.

Author's Notes: The idea that a woman must orgasm in order for conception to occur is a conceit of Galenic medicine. Gleddia is a small island off the coast of Riovanes. Churching refers to the tradition for new mothers to attend a church for a ritual blessing following the post-partum period of lying in. Canne-Beurich—if you've forgotten him—is one of Goltanna's associates who features in game for all of one scene.

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