Post by stardustrial on Apr 10, 2013 14:41:58 GMT 10
Title: The Revolution will not be Vilified
Rating: R
Word Count: 542
Pairing: Kalasin/Kaddar
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Extremely dark AU in which the Carthaki monarchy is inept and toppled by a violent revolution.
Warnings: character death, blood, and implied rape
There is no use in pretending any more.
The screams are too close now – Kaddar can no longer block them out by placing silk pillows over his ears, or forcing the court bard to sing as loudly as possible. A mob is a mob is a mob, and this one is close. This one is angry. This mob has seen too many children die because of bread prices. This mob has seen too many executions perceived to be unfair, and this mob is tired and angry and hungry. You could not pacify them with bread, not any more.
Kalasin slips into his room quietly. There are no servants to announce her – he dismissed them all three days ago, when the rebels blew up the docks and the army defected. Most of them were glad to run. Kaddar does not have stupid servants. They all know how an angry revolution will look at the people who served an old emperor hand and foot.
It is apparent that Kalasin has dismissed her servants as well. Her eyes are sunken with kohl that was never scrubbed off; her black hair is matted and knotted at the edge of her neck; her belt is tied clumsily around her waist.
She crosses the room in three quick steps, and Kaddar thinks that she has never looked more beautiful. Her pale hand slips into his. “My lord,” she says. Kaddar can tell the effort it is taking her to keep her voice from shaking. “I would be honoured if you would permit me to die for your country.”
He smiles, a soft, real smile that simultaneously takes so much effort and no effort at all. “My lady, it would be my honour.” Kaddar folds Kalasin’s hands into his own. “Your courage does this nation proud.”
There is so much understanding in her eyes that Kaddar wants to weep. “We were really stupid, weren’t we?” she says, laughing, almost hysterical.
“I don’t think history will remember us kindly.”
There is blood creeping under the oak doors. It is not what either of them thought the blood of revolution would look like. It is not grand or glorious or red like a rose. It is seeping and viscous and black. It is the thump of a loyal-to-the-last-breath body in the corridor.
Kalasin looks away from the blood and into his face. “No,” she agrees. “Not very kindly at all.”
“The revolution will not be vilified.” The bitterness seeps into Kaddar’s voice like wine. Or blood. This is two ways of saying the same thing, really.
The oak doors crash open. Kalasin presses her hand into Kaddar’s. “It is my honour,” she says. “Always.”
They drag him away – but not before he is beaten and broken and bloody. She is gagged and tied to the bed and Kalasin knows (oh gods, she knows) what they are going to do to her, but she can’t bring herself to care.
In the end, when it’s all over, and she can’t even summon up the energy to scream, they hang her from the balcony with her long black hair wrapped three times around her neck. The half moon shapes of Kaddar’s fingernails are still imprinted on her palms.
Rating: R
Word Count: 542
Pairing: Kalasin/Kaddar
Round/Fight: 1/A
Summary: Extremely dark AU in which the Carthaki monarchy is inept and toppled by a violent revolution.
Warnings: character death, blood, and implied rape
There is no use in pretending any more.
The screams are too close now – Kaddar can no longer block them out by placing silk pillows over his ears, or forcing the court bard to sing as loudly as possible. A mob is a mob is a mob, and this one is close. This one is angry. This mob has seen too many children die because of bread prices. This mob has seen too many executions perceived to be unfair, and this mob is tired and angry and hungry. You could not pacify them with bread, not any more.
Kalasin slips into his room quietly. There are no servants to announce her – he dismissed them all three days ago, when the rebels blew up the docks and the army defected. Most of them were glad to run. Kaddar does not have stupid servants. They all know how an angry revolution will look at the people who served an old emperor hand and foot.
It is apparent that Kalasin has dismissed her servants as well. Her eyes are sunken with kohl that was never scrubbed off; her black hair is matted and knotted at the edge of her neck; her belt is tied clumsily around her waist.
She crosses the room in three quick steps, and Kaddar thinks that she has never looked more beautiful. Her pale hand slips into his. “My lord,” she says. Kaddar can tell the effort it is taking her to keep her voice from shaking. “I would be honoured if you would permit me to die for your country.”
He smiles, a soft, real smile that simultaneously takes so much effort and no effort at all. “My lady, it would be my honour.” Kaddar folds Kalasin’s hands into his own. “Your courage does this nation proud.”
There is so much understanding in her eyes that Kaddar wants to weep. “We were really stupid, weren’t we?” she says, laughing, almost hysterical.
“I don’t think history will remember us kindly.”
There is blood creeping under the oak doors. It is not what either of them thought the blood of revolution would look like. It is not grand or glorious or red like a rose. It is seeping and viscous and black. It is the thump of a loyal-to-the-last-breath body in the corridor.
Kalasin looks away from the blood and into his face. “No,” she agrees. “Not very kindly at all.”
“The revolution will not be vilified.” The bitterness seeps into Kaddar’s voice like wine. Or blood. This is two ways of saying the same thing, really.
The oak doors crash open. Kalasin presses her hand into Kaddar’s. “It is my honour,” she says. “Always.”
They drag him away – but not before he is beaten and broken and bloody. She is gagged and tied to the bed and Kalasin knows (oh gods, she knows) what they are going to do to her, but she can’t bring herself to care.
In the end, when it’s all over, and she can’t even summon up the energy to scream, they hang her from the balcony with her long black hair wrapped three times around her neck. The half moon shapes of Kaddar’s fingernails are still imprinted on her palms.