kingdom hearts -- inexorability
title: inexorability
wordcount: 1260
rating: PG-13
synopsis: Either way, the princeling dies.
notes: If there's anyone among my readers who know Turkish, I hope I didn't butcher your grammar too much. Feel free to correct me if need be!
In yet another far-flung world, she smiles and listens to the whispered sweet nothings of naïve fools who do not know enough to be wary of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Larena, you are the embodiment of all that is magnificent and exquisite. Your effulgent radiance is such that it casts even the sun into shadow, and makes the moon herself blush as she basks in your splendour.
It has been months since she began staking out this world, and already, she has its little princeling wrapped around her finger, ready to give her the sky, the stars, the clouds, everything, if only she asked. She sees the blind trust in his eyes, sees the joy which suffuses his features when he sees her, draped in the vibrant garb of his land. She sees the hope which stirs in his youthful voice, and can only laugh, the harsh sound echoing in her skull long after their illicit meetings have passed.
How much do you love me? she whispers one twilit evening, as they sit just beyond the city walls, far away from the prying eyes of the royal guards, charged to keep the Sultan informed on the whereabouts of his lovelorn son. He is dressed like a pageboy today, trading his elaborate Tashkent silks and jewelled daggers for far simpler garb; he is not surrounded by gold and opals and crystal and garnets, but instead by the earthly aromas of the city-incense, sandalwood, freshly-baked bread and unwashed livestock, the scents intermingling into one intricate tapestry of sensations.
At her words, his breath catches in his throat. More than I love the endless and immortal beauty of this world.
She cannot help but marvel at the way he speaks, the manner in which he can turn every simple phrase into the most exquisite of poetry, the kind she is unused to reading, much less hearing. His answer satisfies her in a way that the meaningless sweet nothings and maledictions of her cohorts and comrades do not; for an instant, she decides this is something she can grow accustomed to, until she remembers. Her eyes harden, cold and glazed like chips of flint-once more, she is not Larena, daughter of a Samarkand silk-merchant, but a woman with a mission, an aim, a purpose.
She bends her head down to meet his, purrs sycophant blandishments to him, prettily-honeyed lies for his ears alone. Sultanim, she whispers into his mouth, and ignores his protests.
Don’t call me that, güzelim Larena. My father is not yet dead, and I am but a mere crown prince, one of several. Don’t blaspheme so-
She leans down over him, steals his breath with a kiss. Seni seviyorum, aşkim.
This can go one of three ways.
Bitanemsin, Larena-he begins, but stops when a tongue of cold steel bears down the column of his throat, a razored edge pressed against his skin. Before he can speak, before he can flick startled eyes upon the fair-haired foreigner with the beguiling blue-green eyes, she flicks her wrist, neatly slitting his throat with a single sweep.
She watches implacably as the light fades from his glazed eyes, as the blood pools on the dusty ground, then wipes her knife irreverently against the folds of her silken shawl. He is dead long before she slides the same blade between his ribs, long before the brief glow of his fleeing heart illuminates the dusk sky.
But it did not have to play out like that.
Bitanemsin, Larena-he begins, tilting back his head to smile at her, in the vapid manner of a besotted youth. For a moment, she remembers past hurts, remembers the pain of knowing she will never be loved. Then, she rests cool, gentle fingers against his neck, on either side of his face, bares her teeth in a mirthless grin-and twists. She feels bone giving way beneath her hands, feels vertebrae scrape and rasp together as she breaks his neck with a single fluid motion.
When she gazes down, she sees his expression frozen into one of surprise, wide eyes gazing reproachfully at her, filled with a kind of betrayal which makes her breath catch in her throat.
Or it could end differently.
Bitanemsin, Larena-he begins, gazing up at her from where he lays, head rested upon her lap. She places a finger on his lips to hush him, then splays her hand, almost as though grasping his head in an eagle’s taloned grip. Her muscles spasm; a jolt of electricity ripples down her arm, discharges across his skin. The princeling convulses once, shudders, gasps, and his heart judders to a stop.
She gazes down at the planes of his face-a handsome face, such a shame-and despite herself, shuts his staring eyes. Overhead, distant clouds crouch low over the horizon, bellies swollen with rain; the iron-grey skies rumble, and when she breathes as deep a gasp of air as she can, she finds it tinged with the smell of ozone, signalling a vicious storm. The air is still calm and warm and still, though she knows it is only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose.
Either way, the princeling dies. Surely he sensed it, approaching him inexorably from all fronts-there was simply no escape from it for the sultan-who-will-never-be. With this, she sets into motion the collapse of the empire, starts the chain of events which would lead to the eventual demise of this world. She accomplishes her mission and will then leave, departing the lives of the people of this world as silently and stealthily as she came into it, seamlessly assimilating herself into its society. She considers herself lucky, though, to have become a part of it so easily, to have achieved her objectives so quickly, even if the methods she resorts to are sure to be deemed as unorthodox by the senior members of the Organisation.
But now, her job is done. It is time to move on, to continue with her life without a backwards glance, like she does, like she has always done.
Özür dilerim, she whispers mockingly to nobody in particular, the howling winds carrying her words out through and across the empty air, where she is certain her condolences will reach the ears of the Sultan. The soft syllables of this alien language roll off her tongue easily, unfurling from her mouth like snakes which stir sleepily within a heated nest. You should have known better than to trust me.
It is only once she banishes the trappings of this world that the enormity of her deed strikes her; for a moment, she just stands in silence as the cool silks and chiffons of her local garb dissolve away into nothing, to be replaced by an expanse of black leather, gold brocade giving way to silvered zippers and coat-ties. Before she turns to go, she completes her final act of triumphant aggression, planting upon the dead princeling’s body a military badge with the insignia of the empire’s enemies.
It is her first solo mission. Her first kill.
Larxene raises her head, chin high, running slender gloved fingers through her hair as she slicks it back, combing roughly through the shock of loose curls this world gave her.
There is every reason for her to celebrate.
*
translations - - -
sultanim -- my sultan
güzelim -- my beautiful
seni seviyorum -- i love you
aşkim -- my love
bitanemsin -- you are my only one
özür dilerim -- i am sorry
back to index.
wordcount: 1260
rating: PG-13
synopsis: Either way, the princeling dies.
notes: If there's anyone among my readers who know Turkish, I hope I didn't butcher your grammar too much. Feel free to correct me if need be!
In yet another far-flung world, she smiles and listens to the whispered sweet nothings of naïve fools who do not know enough to be wary of the wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Larena, you are the embodiment of all that is magnificent and exquisite. Your effulgent radiance is such that it casts even the sun into shadow, and makes the moon herself blush as she basks in your splendour.
It has been months since she began staking out this world, and already, she has its little princeling wrapped around her finger, ready to give her the sky, the stars, the clouds, everything, if only she asked. She sees the blind trust in his eyes, sees the joy which suffuses his features when he sees her, draped in the vibrant garb of his land. She sees the hope which stirs in his youthful voice, and can only laugh, the harsh sound echoing in her skull long after their illicit meetings have passed.
How much do you love me? she whispers one twilit evening, as they sit just beyond the city walls, far away from the prying eyes of the royal guards, charged to keep the Sultan informed on the whereabouts of his lovelorn son. He is dressed like a pageboy today, trading his elaborate Tashkent silks and jewelled daggers for far simpler garb; he is not surrounded by gold and opals and crystal and garnets, but instead by the earthly aromas of the city-incense, sandalwood, freshly-baked bread and unwashed livestock, the scents intermingling into one intricate tapestry of sensations.
At her words, his breath catches in his throat. More than I love the endless and immortal beauty of this world.
She cannot help but marvel at the way he speaks, the manner in which he can turn every simple phrase into the most exquisite of poetry, the kind she is unused to reading, much less hearing. His answer satisfies her in a way that the meaningless sweet nothings and maledictions of her cohorts and comrades do not; for an instant, she decides this is something she can grow accustomed to, until she remembers. Her eyes harden, cold and glazed like chips of flint-once more, she is not Larena, daughter of a Samarkand silk-merchant, but a woman with a mission, an aim, a purpose.
She bends her head down to meet his, purrs sycophant blandishments to him, prettily-honeyed lies for his ears alone. Sultanim, she whispers into his mouth, and ignores his protests.
Don’t call me that, güzelim Larena. My father is not yet dead, and I am but a mere crown prince, one of several. Don’t blaspheme so-
She leans down over him, steals his breath with a kiss. Seni seviyorum, aşkim.
This can go one of three ways.
Bitanemsin, Larena-he begins, but stops when a tongue of cold steel bears down the column of his throat, a razored edge pressed against his skin. Before he can speak, before he can flick startled eyes upon the fair-haired foreigner with the beguiling blue-green eyes, she flicks her wrist, neatly slitting his throat with a single sweep.
She watches implacably as the light fades from his glazed eyes, as the blood pools on the dusty ground, then wipes her knife irreverently against the folds of her silken shawl. He is dead long before she slides the same blade between his ribs, long before the brief glow of his fleeing heart illuminates the dusk sky.
But it did not have to play out like that.
Bitanemsin, Larena-he begins, tilting back his head to smile at her, in the vapid manner of a besotted youth. For a moment, she remembers past hurts, remembers the pain of knowing she will never be loved. Then, she rests cool, gentle fingers against his neck, on either side of his face, bares her teeth in a mirthless grin-and twists. She feels bone giving way beneath her hands, feels vertebrae scrape and rasp together as she breaks his neck with a single fluid motion.
When she gazes down, she sees his expression frozen into one of surprise, wide eyes gazing reproachfully at her, filled with a kind of betrayal which makes her breath catch in her throat.
Or it could end differently.
Bitanemsin, Larena-he begins, gazing up at her from where he lays, head rested upon her lap. She places a finger on his lips to hush him, then splays her hand, almost as though grasping his head in an eagle’s taloned grip. Her muscles spasm; a jolt of electricity ripples down her arm, discharges across his skin. The princeling convulses once, shudders, gasps, and his heart judders to a stop.
She gazes down at the planes of his face-a handsome face, such a shame-and despite herself, shuts his staring eyes. Overhead, distant clouds crouch low over the horizon, bellies swollen with rain; the iron-grey skies rumble, and when she breathes as deep a gasp of air as she can, she finds it tinged with the smell of ozone, signalling a vicious storm. The air is still calm and warm and still, though she knows it is only a matter of time before all hell breaks loose.
Either way, the princeling dies. Surely he sensed it, approaching him inexorably from all fronts-there was simply no escape from it for the sultan-who-will-never-be. With this, she sets into motion the collapse of the empire, starts the chain of events which would lead to the eventual demise of this world. She accomplishes her mission and will then leave, departing the lives of the people of this world as silently and stealthily as she came into it, seamlessly assimilating herself into its society. She considers herself lucky, though, to have become a part of it so easily, to have achieved her objectives so quickly, even if the methods she resorts to are sure to be deemed as unorthodox by the senior members of the Organisation.
But now, her job is done. It is time to move on, to continue with her life without a backwards glance, like she does, like she has always done.
Özür dilerim, she whispers mockingly to nobody in particular, the howling winds carrying her words out through and across the empty air, where she is certain her condolences will reach the ears of the Sultan. The soft syllables of this alien language roll off her tongue easily, unfurling from her mouth like snakes which stir sleepily within a heated nest. You should have known better than to trust me.
It is only once she banishes the trappings of this world that the enormity of her deed strikes her; for a moment, she just stands in silence as the cool silks and chiffons of her local garb dissolve away into nothing, to be replaced by an expanse of black leather, gold brocade giving way to silvered zippers and coat-ties. Before she turns to go, she completes her final act of triumphant aggression, planting upon the dead princeling’s body a military badge with the insignia of the empire’s enemies.
It is her first solo mission. Her first kill.
Larxene raises her head, chin high, running slender gloved fingers through her hair as she slicks it back, combing roughly through the shock of loose curls this world gave her.
There is every reason for her to celebrate.
*
translations - - -
sultanim -- my sultan
güzelim -- my beautiful
seni seviyorum -- i love you
aşkim -- my love
bitanemsin -- you are my only one
özür dilerim -- i am sorry
back to index.