Talori 606: Sheep's Blood

Antiope moved forward in the crowd slowly, her commanders and her soldier fanning out through the spectators, creeping toward the front. With a shabby cloak falling around her body, clumping strangely over her wings and the item she carried, she was unrecognizable. The burden she moved with gave her gait an ambling quality, and she kept her head low, bright eyes invisible as she weaved through Klaudius's audience like a snake.

She risked a glance up at the new Defender, and felt her jaw set. He stood in glistening gold, groomed to an artificial shine, his face smug and sanctimonious. The vision of him gloating over her wounded body in the dungeons flashed through her mind. He'd been clean then, too, and a safe distance from where she'd been chained, well out of harm's way.

Seeing him carrying a sword today was funny. She didn't remember him fighting any battles.

As the Empress spoke, continuing Talori's long-held tradition of ritual pageantry, Antiope came to a halt. She couldn't risk being detected the Guardians at the foot of the stage, and hung back while her soldiers crept as close as they dared. Keeping her head low, she rested the item she carried on the ground with careful slowness. Despite its awkward weight, it barely made a sound.

Antiope let the ceremony go on for a bit. The crowd around her offered polite applause, the Council smiling on as the Talori empire's newest killer was knighted. Antiope had dreamed of the sweetness she would feel this day while she'd starved in a Seroran prison, but the taste in her mouth now was bitter, like bile. The way the Talori carried on made her sick.

All the power of the Talori rested on facade. Illusion was potent -- Antiope knew it. The monarchy, the sacrifices, the status quo had all gone unchallenged because of the Talori's skill in cloaking terror as religion. The Flight had only stopped the sacrifices by pulling the mask off, and Antiope was not about to let the rest of the empire's crimes be painted over by Talorian brushes too.

No. She had a spectacle of her own to make.

Antiope took a breath, reaching her teke down to take the handle of the urn she'd brought with her. In the middle of the Empress's presentation, Antiope threw the ragged cloak from her back, revealing her dazzling coat of iridescent feathers and, in a sound like thunder, was gone.

She reappeared with a deafening crack in the air above the dais, wings buzzing as she hovered, her ivory tail unfurling like a bridal train. Antiope upended the urn in her grasp, dumping a stream of red and sticky lamb's blood and offal onto the Defender, splattering the scene with gore that had gone sour in the heat.

"MURDERER." Her voice rang out over a crowd that recoiled in recognition, and her gaze found Milo among them, a silent signal while eyes were on her. She threw the urn to the stone ground, and it shattered at Thalassa's feet.

Antiope swung her spear loose from the strap about her withers, and pointed it out at the gathered audience. "ALL MURDERERS."

Ever since the end of the Flight's occupation, Eve had been a scarce sight among her flock. Rescue had come at a bitter cost, and the weight of her wings nearly matched the weight of her mistakes. She was drowning beneath them, soul stripped bare to the vulnerable meat. Too ashamed to face them, Eve had evaded her people for months, sequestered within the deepest halls of the Temple.

It had been Nagisa who convinced her to attend the ceremony. Her words had been eloquent, kind, and logical, but it wasn't words that convinced her. Thalassa and Rycaron had on separate occasions discovered that encouragement wasn't enough to pry the Divine from sanctuary. Both times she had sent them away with a refusal, and burned their disappointment into her heart - another failure, one more well-deserved ache. But Nagisa mirrored a pain with deeper depths than her own, and so Eve had come, too ashamed to hide while Thaumas' widow stood as a pillar of strength for her herd.

And so she arrived, draped in gold and ivory robes of an attendant's choosing. It hid a fitted breastplate seamlessly. The Divine had once trusted in the security of their borders and the goodness of the people within it. She saw ill intentions everywhere, now. Nonetheless, when she stood wedged between her Empress and Rycaron, her heart settled for a steady - if quick - tempo.

The ceremony began. She watched Klaudius descend the steps.

Her mouth felt full of ashes.

It was strange how someone's absence could become a tangible weight. Thaumas had been family - a brother, for all intents and purposes. She'd never had the chance to grieve his death. Not truly. And though she had witnessed the loss of many Defenders, Sages, and Emperors across the centuries, they had never been ripped from her so suddenly. So violently.

Would she ever see Thaumas again? Hawkeye? Bethel? The River of Time flowed steadily onward, but a terrible death would cast the soul into the Shallows, where they became stuck, unable to resurrect. It was a dark line of thinking, and she toed the precipice of spiraling deeper until Rycaron shifted to lean against her wing.

Instinctively, as though the feathers were riddled with disease, the wing twitched to avoid him. The foolishness of it struck her immediately: he accepted her new form more than she accepted it herself, and so she let it rest against his shoulder without further fuss. His presence was grounding.

To Klaudius they bowed their heads in tandem, though the Divine did not choose to speak. Thalassa had far prettier words, and as her voice rose to address the crowd Eve listened with two attentive ears. Her eyes, however, strayed to the spectators.

Most faces were happy. She didn't know if it was Klaudius' personal popularity or the relief of returning to normalcy, but either way the crowd's energy was a positive one.

Nonetheless, something was wrong.

It was a sudden realization, accompanied with the familiar tickle of clairvoyance. The vision was just out of reach, dancing on the edge of her perception, but she didn't have to see it to feel the terror to come.

She opened her mouth to speak, or shout. She wasn't sure. It didn't matter, for already Antiope was storming the stage, dumping soured guts and blood upon Klaudius' head. Eve watched it unfold in slow motion: the blur of the woman's wings, the blood as it poured from the urn, the flinch of Klaudius' mighty shoulders as it splashed lukewarm across his face.

She blinked, and Klaudius wasn't there. Thaumas stood in his place, except it wasn't  Thaumas, not anymore. The glow of Kaia's vile necromancy bubbled across his flesh, animating a corpse that had not yet cooled. She could still hear that Onean ambassador apologizing, his voice lost to the shouting and the whistle of artillery. She blinked again and the two scenes bled into one another, memory and reality becoming difficult to distinguish. In either one, there were screams.

"Rycaron," She called, before another splash of gore painted her coat red. Eve flinched before growing still, peering at nothing in particular as the blood dripped from her feathers and chin. The smell was overwhelming. The sight was worse.

It was too much. Something within her shattered, and Eve screamed.

In hindsight, Klaudius would come to regret many things throughout his life. He’d regret his inability to prevent those damn terrorists from infiltrating his beloved country once more, and he’d regret being unable to protect those he swore his life to from their assault.

Most of all, he’d regret not killing that wretched bitch when he had the chance.

His eyes had been closed, concentrating on the words his Empress spoke as she began the ceremony. Head bowed and knees bent, Klaudius surrendered himself to the title bestowed upon him, breathing deeply as he began to rise.

He never got to his feet.

The stallion didn’t know what had happened until it was too late.

He’d live to regret that, too.

Blood — hot and heavy — cascaded upon him, blinding him and infiltrating every sense he possessed. The smell was foul, the sight revolting. He could feel the gore upon his bare skin, slipping between the cracks where his armor did not shield him. All he saw was red.

Gaze turned upward, he locked onto Antiope, lips curled back in such a way that could only be described as feral as he rose to his feet, shoulders shuddering.

Screams of the civilians arose around him, as did the thundering of hooves as those present scrambled to escape. It was the same scene that occurred months ago, replaying once more into his mind, searing another dreaded memory into the back of his eyes. Naasir began to shout commands, and his guardians sprung into action.

He opened his mouth to begin his own slew of orders, but the shrill cry of his Divine cut him off before he could even begin, piercing his soul and leaving him ice cold.

The thought that followed was immediate, instinctive.

Where was Nagisa?

The question seemed to answer itself, for within a moment time itself was altered. The heat of the blood disappeared from his body, and he did not hesitate to shift away, not sparing a glance as the liquid was released and splattered to the pavement below.

Nagisa managed to hold their attention momentarily — though Klaudius struggled to quell the panic that swelled in his breast when she addressed them directly — and in that time he glanced over the ensuing chaos, honing in once more on his soldiers with lethal accuracy.

“PROTECT YOUR EMPRESS!” He bellowed while simultaneously leaping before the rest of the officials present, creating a shield between them and the Flight that were hovering before them. Antiope’s lackeys all gathered around her, flying just far enough to stay out of harm’s way.

Cowards.

Behind him, the Conapris screamed definitely at one of the Flight, though Klaudius could not focus on the words, eyes immediately going back to the iridescent pegasus.

Klaudius emitted a vicious snarl and unsheathed his sword.

Klaudius did not speak. His chest rose and fell steadily as he listened to the words around him, watching as Commander and Conparis alike stepped forward at the defense of the Talori. He stiffened as the corrupted grew closer, a pathetic attempt to confine the officials as they continued to spew their insanity.

Discussion.

Thaumas’ heart was pierced with their blades.

Negotiation.

Eve was tortured and still bore the scars of her horrors.

Peace.

They had driven a stake through his Emperor’s skull.

This war would not end with a truce, and their lies made his blood boil. This war would only end with bloodshed, with both sides bathed crimson until only one was victor.

He looked up at the hovering mare, meeting her stare and remembering when she stood snarling at his feet, just out of reach from tearing his throat out. He knew exactly what she was, and he knew she would never settle for this bullshit her people professed - and neither would he.

“No.”

He uttered, and without a second to blink his shield was flung at her.