Sentinels of Her Pain

21st day of the 7th moon, 1162 HC

The rest of the audience proceeds as if nothing's wrong. Mulsae and Damion remain standing at the edge of the crowd like carved marble, unmoving as people buzz around them with their wine and laughter. Dishes clatter. Goblets lift. A tray of honeyed persimmons passes them without pause.

They take no food or drink. The two of them stay silent. Vigilant. Still. Only their minds are in motion.

Mulsae threads gently into their thoughts. Still with us?

I think one of my toes just went numb, Hanna replies. That's exciting.

Damion chimes in, She mocks her own suffering. She's definitely one of us.

Hanna adds, I'm just trying to distract myself from the blood rushing to my head.

Then let me help, Mulsae tries. What do you think Malric does on his days off?

Damion answers, Taxidermy.

Knits tiny nooses for dollhouses, from Hanna

They keep her spirits afloat with nonsense and softness. It's all they can do.

Meanwhile, Zudaeshi makes a slow show of dining beside Garrick. She lifts morsels to his mouth herself, murmuring jokes the audience pretends to laugh at. Every so often, she gestures lazily to Hanna dangling beside him and asks, "Nothing? Not even a flicker?" or "I've learned she's a dancer. Maybe she'd be prettier if she danced for you." Garrick answers none of it.

Eventually, Zudaeshi and Garrick rise and sweep from the throne room without a word. The moment the doors shut behind them, Mulsae strides toward the rig. He reaches for the crank. "Don't," Malric says, stepping into his path. "She's to stay." Mulsae turns to him sharply. Malric lifts both hands. "Orders. Directly from the Harmonarch. I don't like it either."

"She can't stay like this," Mulsae says, low and deadly.

Malric's voice softens, but it doesn't waver. "You know I respect you. You know I mean that. But if I break her out of this on your say-so, it's my hide She'll take, not yours."

Damion speaks up, "So, what? You'll just leave her like this?"

"I'll guard her myself if I have to," Malric says. "All night." He glances at Hanna, still trembling slightly, still holding herself perfectly on tiptoes, and frowns. "But I'll bring in a guard watch. Just in case."

He looks at Mulsae, resigned. "I mean no disrespect." His eyes dart and he lowers his voice to a whisper, "You know this place. You know I can't risk Her ire. I'm sorry." Malric leaves and two guards arrive, stationed at either side of the dais.

The throne room gradually empties. The crowd dwindles. The musicians fall silent. The servants finish cleaning up. But Mulsae and Damion stay. All that remains is them, Hanna, and the two guards. The sounds of their shifting feet echo off the walls in the complete silence.

Hanna still dangles, her toes shifting minutely with fatigue, her face rigid with silent pain.

How long do you think I can keep this up? Hanna asks.

Long enough for us to get ridiculous, Mulsae replies.

Damion is prompt. Have I ever told you about the Jellyfather?

A huff of a laugh that snuck out from Mulsae echoes in the silent room.

Hanna glances at Mulsae and blinks once. What... is a Jellyfather?

Mulsae's mental voice is solemn. A crime against consistency. And possibly fruit.

Alright, Damion says, get ready for this. It all begins with the sap of the Ulululu Tree and a sect of rogue Solar Priests who believe dessert should be worshiped.

Hanna's expression doesn't shift, but Mulsae feels the spark of curiosity blooming behind her grimace.

They talk. Quietly, absurdly, with no regard for sense or structure. Hanna hangs, but not alone. Mulsae thinks that may be the only reason she's still breathing. Time crawls and they fill it with ridiculous banter. Until an escort appears.

The servant does not bow. Just says, "The Harmonarch has summoned you." Mulsae doesn't answer. The silence stretches. His breathing stills.

I can't maintain the pain muting if I go to Her suite, he sends to them, dazed.

If you don't go, Hanna says, more of us may be hurt than just me.

No martyrs, Damion tries.

Exactly, Hanna presses, Don't martyr yourself just to delay my pain. It's not noble. It's cruel.

The escort clears his throat. From his perspective, they're just standing and ignoring him. Mulsae looks at the escort. Then Hanna. Then back at the leash still coiled in his palm. It's just leather and chain, but it feels like a lifeline. A tether to the only thing anchoring him in this room.

You're on the edge, he says, it might break you.

Mulsae, Hanna says gently, I'll be alright. Go.

The escort shifts on his feet, "Shall I tell Her you refuse?" Mulsae slowly turns to face the escort. His heart is pounding so hard it hurts.

Damion, he sends, stay with her. Damion nods, steady as stone.

"I'm coming," Mulsae says aloud. He takes one careful, slow step toward the escort. He turns to Hanna. Their eyes meet. He takes a few more slow steps away.

Then the escort says, "The Harmonarch expects him, too."

Mulsae sways where he stands. His body rebels. His knees won't bend. His heels feel nailed to the floor.

I can't leave you, he sends to the space between them. A raw thought. Unfiltered.

You're not leaving me, Hanna says. You're surviving with me.

Mulsae closes his eyes. Then he takes one step. The pain doesn't come from moving forward. It comes from not turning back. He lets the leash slip from his hand. It falls like a line of chimes collapsing into silence. It's useless now. His hands hang limp at his sides.

Damion breathes out shakily, then joins him. Their footsteps echo, and behind them, Hanna hangs alone in silence.

Damion, Mulsae says, voice as steady as he can make it, Tell us stories.

Damion doesn't ask which ones. He slips straight into the cadence of an old Windborne myth. Back before we had wings or names, there was the Trick of the Four Winds...

Mulsae and Damion move with purpose, footsteps echoing against the marble floor. The knowledge of Hanna hanging there in pain lingers like a second leash tugging at Mulsae's chest. His hands twitch. He listens to Damion's words, but not quite the story. His continuous voice in his mind carries him down the hallway toward Zudaeshi's suite.

The words follow Mulsae even as Zudaeshi opens her door with a purr and a slap. Even as she shoves him to his knees and drapes herself across his shoulders like a stole. Even as the first blow lands. Even as the last one ends in forced breath and trembling restraint.

Damion keeps talking. Mulsae hears him faintly through the floor, through the walls, through the thick film of horror in his mind. ...and when the Moon finally turned her face, the river gods wept. Not because they lost, but because soup would never taste the same again.

Zudaeshi laughs and says something careless about Mulsae's pet. That he can keep her. That she's more use to him than Garrick. He knows it's a throwaway comment. Flippant, meaningless. But it lodges in his chest like a seed. Could it mean... this is over? He dares to hope. The first real hope in forty-nine years.

He is dismissed. Limping. Shaking. A wreck. Clothes ruined. Skin bruised. But something fragile is blooming in his chest, some tiny bud of hope that hasn't dared sprout in forty-nine years.

He cleans quickly. He and Damion both do. They scrub off the blood and shame and get dressed like it's just another appearance in the audience chamber. They run. Back through the halls, back to the audience chamber.

Mulsae is already reaching for her mind. The moment her mind is close enough, he presses the pain muting back into place. They quickly round the audience chamber doors and dash in.

Hanna is gasping. Her whole body jerks like a snapped wire suddenly slackened. The relief is crashing through her like floodwater. Her face twists. Her breath stutters. And then she cries. Silent, shaking sobs that break her posture but not her balance.

They reach her. But they can't take her down. So they stand with her. The three of them, locked in this grotesque tableau. Frozen, quiet, alone in a court that has not yet reawakened.

22nd day of the 6th moon, 1162 HC

Damion hasn't stopped his storytelling. Not once. Not even when they ran the halls. And he stands there continuing his tale as they hold vigil over Hanna.

Now the Jellyfather was not born. He was harvested. From the sap of the Ulululu Tree by the last of the Solar Priests...

Mulsae doesn't speak. But he listens. Hanna listens. She trembles, breath hitching in rhythm to the nonsense. Damion finishes one story and rolls into the next. Again and again, the myths of the Emberai and Windborne interspersed with he and Viri's old silly game, come alive and pour out of him one after the other.

Eventually the audience chamber reanimates. Attendants slip in and begin resetting the space. Musicians tune. People begin arriving in silks and smiles, pretending not to notice the girl hanging on the dais.

Breakfast is laid. Wine is poured. Damion is still talking. ...and that's why you never put strawberry preserves on a worship stone unless you're ready to invoke the Hunger God of Early Spring. Hanna doesn't laugh. But she blinks slowly. She's still with them.

Malric arrives. He blinks when he sees Mulsae. "I hear you stayed all night," he says.

Mulsae gives him a flat look. "She stayed. So did we."

Malric exhales. He actually bows his head. "Thank you for not interfering. I mean it. I respect you."

Mulsae just nods. He's already tuning back into Hanna's pain management. Her foot shifts. The rig creaks softly. Her arms are still stretched past their limit, shaking with strain. Damion doesn't pause his tales.

...and when the sap finally fermented, the Jellyfather rose in all his quivering vengeance, yelling—

Why does he yell? Hanna asks. Mulsae's heart jumps in joy. She's engaging again. She's coping. She's getting through this.

Because no one took him seriously, Damion says with earnest, He was mostly made of pectin.

Hanna blinks again. A long pause. Then, just barely, the edge of a smile. Mulsae closes his eyes. They're getting her through this. This could work.

Music plays. Zudaeshi returns, dragging Garrick along like a purse. She sweeps onto the throne with a grin and declares that none shall depart the audience chamber until Garrick speaks the truth. She gestures to Hanna as if she's an exhibit.

Food arrives. Goblets clink. Time stretches. The trio stays locked. Mulsae watches for even the smallest sign of strain on Hanna's shoulders. Damion keeps telling myths, one after the other, as if his voice is the only thing keeping the spell from breaking.

Lunch comes. Then wine. Then Valena and Maedor.