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It's humid at this time of year. Even during the hottest months the floors of the Hall are heated by the magic of the court, so he's almost overheating despite being in only the underclothes of his armour. There's very little furniture here, so he's sitting on the floor as he presses his fingers into the censer, pressing his magic until the runes start again, burning to life. He grabs the Summer incense at his side and sprinkles it into the flames. A warm, woody scent floods his nose, sweet and rich, and he relaxes into it, pressing himself against the cool stone wall. He breathes, in, out, in, out, ignores the smell of blood sticking to his hands, his hair. From here he can hear the distant bonfires and hollers of the crowd, loud even from a distance. It's died down quite a bit from this evening, and he wonders how many of his father's ministers he'll be replacing, how much reworking he'll have to do. His armour lies beside him, torn off by his own hands and warped by his own fire. He'll have to replace its ties. He wonders if he'll get that money from the coffers of some Lord still screaming out there. Probably not. He still has to pay for the renovations the House will need from this mess.
The grave sits at the middle of the Hall, surrounded by trees that he's only ever seen in various shades of red and orange, but here are as green as can be. When he finally gets up and steps forward, it takes only a few steps to feel dirt under his feet, and only a few after that to duck under the branches. The tomb is there, the stone for it set into the floor, a pitch black marble. The old language of Autumn is carved into it but the words have almost worn away. He has it memorised still, seared into his brain after so many lessons, and he squats so that he can trace his fingers across the grooves, ignoring just how hot the stone is. He can feel the sweat still left on his hand evaporating quickly until his skin is painfully dry. It's comforting, somehow.
“Guardian of the House,” he mutters, “Guardian of the Lands…”
The smell of the incense grows and grows, something grazing against his senses. He lets it, relaxes into its clutches. It feels like the rivers that run through the house and the oldest trees in the forest and the wheat in the fields. It feels old, arrogant, and vain. It feels proud of him, the chorus of mineminemine ringing through his head again and again, wordless yet not. The magic of the court flows through him, hot as it pulses through his veins, pooling in his gut. He lets himself fall onto the plaque, ignores the sting of his knees hitting marble and presses his cheek against the stone. For a moment he can feel weightless hands cradling his head like a newborn, joyful, sated.
victoryvictoryvictory, it chants, minewinminestrongminebestmine—
“Your Grace?”
It takes him a moment to process he's being called, and he turns. Hamide is there at the door to the Hall, door slowly closing behind her as she walks forward. She's smeared in blood too, her armor glinting in the fire light of the incense burner. There's something uneasy to her, mouth scrunched in concern and eyebrows knitted together as she looks at him and he looks her over on instinct, checking for punctures in her armour, new wounds. Nothing is off, the only new addition is something gripped loosely in her off hand, a mass of black threads all tangled together. It's hair, hair he recognises, and he feels his mouth turning up. It hurts his face to do so.
“Diodore?” He asks, voice hoarse.
Hamide nods, slow and steady. She raises her hand, and now he can see the head properly. Eyes just like Hamide's glazed over, set into a face completely drained of blood, grimacing. He gets up, just a little shaky as he closes the distance between them. When he reaches a hand out and presses his finger into Diodore's skin, it's still warm, still soft. The slice at the base of the neck is clean enough that he knows it only took one blow. Diodore fights— fought like a cat from hell, hard to strike let alone cut through so cleanly, and a strange sort of pride burgeons in him. Hamide – soft, unwanting Hamide, everwatching bystander Hamide, simple, unambitious Hamide. A fighter now. A minister, a lord at his hand.
Her sire's blood is on her hands now and all for his cause, his throne, him. There's something growing inside of him – burning hot, rising into his throat – and his fingers are drawn to check her hand, prodding gently. Bruised, her pulse thudding through her veins, but no bones broken. She lets him, eyes focused on his face. She must see something she likes, because her eyebrows relax just a fraction. Such an easy face to read, his cousin has. He wants to carve it off her.
minegoodminewarriorminevaliantminebeautiful—
Hamide slowly pulls her hand back, taking his uncle's head with it. He looks her over, looks at the bruise forming at her brow, her tired eyes, her split lip. He grasps her forearms, holding tight. The armour is hot at the wrists where her flames had licked at it, and it feels like it's burning him. He ignores it.
“I will not forget this boon.”
That sounds more… stilted then he wants it to, strange, but Hamide nods anyway, a small smile inching its way onto her face. It looks a bit strange on her, cheeks almost too tight to do it, and yet he feels lighter for it.
“I know.” She says, voice low, soft. She means it fully. She always does.
mineoursmineoursyoursmine—
He steps forward and plants a hard, closed kiss to the edge of Hamide's mouth, forceful enough that it hurts his teeth. She does not flinch back, hands coming around to hold him as he pulls off her and crushes her against him in a hug. She smells of sweat, blood and the distant orange blossom of her favourite perfume. His fingers dig into her scalp, holding her tight. Her armour digs into his ribs, and he welcomes the sting of it.
“Good.” Soheil Beron says, and for once he means it, “Good that you know.”
‘Good that you're here.’, he doesn't say out loud, but from the way she squeezes him he thinks she hears it anyway