XVIII

Show Me How to Breathe

There was a certain warmth to the water here. The Lyverian people have long since evolved to stop noticing the chill of the ocean floor, but the allure of a spring or warm current never left their historically human nature. Something of a luxury now, the open water has proven more difficult to heat than the air; difficult, but not impossible.

So, those with the means to finer comforts bathe in the higher tides. And one would be remarkable to find themselves without means in the Telliore Palace, glorious home of Lyverian Princess Genevieve Carretero III. When she found herself noticing the chill of the waves, she would drag herself and her company up to the heating room, a practice growing more and more common by the month; the tides were getting colder.

Joining her on this little break, as they so frequently did, were three guests: Lotus, Alexander Midas, and a healthy tuft of kertroot.

Genevieve sat at the left end of the room’s long sofa, leaning back against the arm and lazily balancing a long kertroot pipe between her fingers. Her other hand mingled in Lotus’ hair, whose head laid flat on her thigh. Sitting in the middle of the sofa, with Lotus’ calves in his lap, Alexander gently felt the chill of his gold glove brushing down his own cheek.

The door to the hall was unlocked- there were no less than two guards just outside, that was how it had to be. But this was nonetheless a welcome gift of privacy between close friends.

“I hear de Ledesma threw another fit in the editorials this week,” said Genevieve.

“Oh did she?” Alexander rolled his eyes. “What did she have her cronies whine about for her this time? 'Exposing' the misgivings of clerical healers again?”

“I- cough- I said I heard, didn’t I?” Genevieve shrugged. “I didn’t read that garbage- I’m just saying…”

“I read it.” Lotus said to the ceiling, feeling her high a good bit more intensely than the other two.

“What’d she say?”

“She, um…” Lotus mumbled. “She talked about… uh… she’s menopausal.”

“She said that?” asked Alexander.

“No~” Lotus giggled, pleased with herself. “I don’t remember, hahaha…”

“Tell me if she does, would you?” said Genevieve. “I’d sleep better knowing she won’t have any little heirs.”

“Your Highness-” Alexander pressed a hand to his chest, and spoke sardonically. “Olivia’s children could be angels, and you’d rather they not exist? Unlike you to forget that we aren’t our parents.”

“I am a blessing of circumstance, tip. I can’t expect every noble brat to grow a spine, and go about committing, um... uh- regicide.”

“Ha- you mean treason, Genevieve? Your father isn’t dead.”

“Shh,” Genevieve waved Alexander away. “I forgot the word- the root’s setting in.”

"You remembered regicide, but forgot... uh- treason?"

“Hahaha, you’re stupid~” Lotus poked Genevieve’s chin.

Genevieve snapped her teeth at her finger, and shook her head. “Quiet- like you’re any better. Are you still on the same plane as the rest of us?”

“She’s talking like a schoolgirl,” Alexander laughed.

“What do those sound like?” Lotus rolled her eyes.

“Unbearable and chirpy,” Genevieve teased, pulling Lotus' head up closer with her hand.

“Chirpy!?” Lotus scoffed. “You’re chirpy- ah-”

Genevieve leaned in, and kissed Lotus, catching the dizzy Eelike off guard. The kiss was obviously telegraphed- Lotus was just that hopelessly high.

The two lingered, making out while Lotus clutched the Princess’ shoulder. The heat of each other’s burning faces, the twinge of skin on skin, and the little blips of their voices feeding into their yearning for one another. Alexander watched the venom in Lotus’ nails seep just that little bit into Genevieve's skin, staining the lacerations black. He appreciated the sight of them for a moment, until his eyes drifted up to the pipe in Genevieve’s hand. She was paying so little attention to it, it was practically twirling out of her fingers.

He leaned forward, aiming to slowly snatch it without her noticing. As he got closer, he pressed his hand on Lotus’ stomach to support himself. The touch of his gold glove gave her a start.

She pulled back from the kiss, and gasped. “-Ha! S’cold…”

“Aw, poor thing-” Alexander hummed, turning his attention back to Genevieve’s hand. But, no longer distracted, Genevieve was already looking him in the eye, holding the pipe firm in her palm.

“After something, Midas?” She tilted her head.

His chest fluttered when she gave him that look. That pouty smile, the half closed eyes, the downturned chin. That look- that condescension only came out when she felt she'd outsmarted him. That look was intoxicating.

“Just getting closer, Your Highness.”

“Hm,” She huffed. “At your own risk, boy~”

She pulled the pipe back to her lips, and inhaled. Rocking her head back as she rested the pipe on the seat, she closed her eyes, and held in the fumes for a few moments more. Then she opened her eyes, drew her finger up Midas’ chin, and blew the smoke in his face, pluming a small cloud around them both as the water deepened about their heads.

Alexander breathed it in, pressed his palm flatter on Lotus’ stomach, and kissed Genevieve with enough force to push her fully onto the couch’s arm. They savored the taste of their tongues, infused with the spice of smoke and chemicals. Beauty and power flourished in a cauldron of passion from which both felt they might boil- though none could say which would melt first.

Lotus watched them embrace from inches beneath, her head nuzzled against the wool of Her Highness’ chest, an erotic elation swimming inside her ashy grey skin. But through those electric veins, elation's bane; a restless desperation- not to love from afar, but insert herself, to indulge in them- overcame her.

Lotus rubbed the side of her face against Genevieve’s chest, and guided her claws up to Alexander’s, his open robes welcoming her flesh to sample his. As Alexander and Genevieve hedonised one another, Lotus let her hand wander down, those pointed fingertips exploring the slim chisels of his chest- down to the barely hidden board of his abdomen. Slowly, tenderly, intently- further still-

The hallway door swung open and dragged against the floor. A soldier stepped inside.

“Your Highn-”

All three of them jumped. Lotus punctured her nails into Alex’s upper groin- Alexander headbutted Genevieve- and Genevieve smacked Lotus’ face back down to her lap.

“M- Oh gods- WHAT!?” Genevieve stuttered.

“Her Highness, Lady Amélie Gaztañeta seeks your audience.”

“Sh-” Genevieve grabbed her hair. She hadn’t quite gotten her head back on straight. “She wants my… what? No- tell her I’m busy.”

“Your Highness.”

Genevieve stared at the soldier, unamused. She said nothing, as she was stuck between understanding that she didn’t have to get pushed around by her own guards, and admitting that she had no legitimate reason to turn her cousin away.

Lotus waited for Genevieve to answer, and looked up at Alexander, hoping he’d be the one to break the silence. But it seemed like he was also waiting for Genevieve.

“...Go talk to her,” Lotus said, sensing everyone’s reluctance to be adults.

Genevieve sighed, and nodded her head. Lotus sat up, and let Genevieve stand. 

“Should we come with you, Genevieve?” asked Alexander.

“Oh, don’t bother, I’m sure she’s just bored. You two have fun.”

Genevieve let the guard escort her out of the room, leaving Lotus and Alexander to watch her, disappointment momentarily weighing them down- but they’d soon pick their spirits back up in each other’s company.

Every room of Telliore Palace was a masterpiece; the work of an army of artists and visionaries given the whole world’s wealth as a palette, and the great hilly expanse of the ocean’s sand as their canvas. Much of it sculpted from similar sturdy, glassy compounds to what the Tower of Unity was blown from, Telliore Palace expanded its dominion through compliments of marble and limestone; huge impossible cliffs, curves and angles taking advantage of the liberty water provided from gravity’s chains. The noble demesnes of Seaspring, the residential circlet that surrounded the palace, competed with each other over class and grandeur, some hoping to reach to the sun even higher than the palace itself. But none managed to understand their nation’s artistry enough to stand out as anything more than a plant in the meadow that was Telliore.

Genevieve had grown bored that grandeur. The artistry had faded, be it from the weathering sands of time, or a torrent of unpleasant memories that couldn’t be disassociated from home. She still loved the palace, but it had become a place to her. A statement, which was a far cry from the poem it was erected to be.

Genevieve let her eyes haze over, as she tried to brush away her high on the way to the throne room. She managed to concentrate it down to a quiet buzz by the time she sat on her throne, and welcomed in the guest of significance: Amélie Gaztañeta.

Amélie kept her hair up in a messy bun, and wore a gaudy pink gown that branched out from her stomach with four long leaves, like the wings of a butterfly. Genevieve had picked up on Amélie's habit of adopting Lyverian fashion trends just a couple weeks after they went out of style; she had seen this outfit at a ball the month before. Amélie was a pretty girl, though there wasn't much resemblance between her and the Princess; Amélie looked more like the nobility, with her sharper cheekbones and stronger eyebrows. She always wore a heavy mask of makeup, as without it one could notice scars and blemishes of a face neglected in an unclean environment.

Amélie was an eccentric character, Genevieve found her grasp on proper etiquette lacking; she'd almost have preferred Amélie embraced her quirky mannerisms, rather than try to be polite. Her uneven posture and habits of speech betrayed her efforts every time.

Amélie gave the Princess a deep bow, and winked.

“Your Highness~, how the hell are you?”

“Well enough. Though I’m considering insisting on appointments for visits from nobility. Unless this is an emergency, Amélie?”

“Just a visit from family,” Amélie rolled her eyes. “I’ll write you a letter next time. Ooh, actually, you should buy us a sending stone!”

“Buy it yourself,” Genevieve laughed, leaning on one arm of the throne. “What do you need, woman?”

“I’ve been doing some touristy stuff lately, cousin. Nothing too crazy, just riding the coasts- and I spent an enlightening few weeks in Stillsalt, of all places.”

“Stillsalt?” Genvieve cocked her head. “What’s happening in Stillsalt?”

“Well, nothing! And everything." she started walking in a small circle, pointing in random directions between sentences. "That’s exactly the problem. Stillsalt is a mess of blueprints and studentry the likes of which would blow your mind. But nothing ever moves. It’s a… hypothetical paradise. Unfortunately boring.”

“Well, the circlet’s still in development,” Genevieve said. “Divitae wasn’t built overnight, they’ll find their footing.”

“Divitae was built close to nobility- and not for nothing, in eyesight of the royal family. Not so for Stillsalt- which is why I’m telling you about it.”

“To what end?”

“I think you should boost funding for Stillsalt’s development. Get some grants approved, stir up some trade routes, rub elbows with the Guild! It’s in a good location, it’ll be even better once we figure out the Dead Current.”

“You think we’re going to figure out the Dead Current?”

“Remarkable things Genevieve, I’m telling you!”

Genevieve leaned back, and sunk in her chair. “Hm. I ought to visit it myself sometime. But there’s little I can do, Amélie. If you’ve forgotten, I don’t legislate yet.”

“I didn’t say you had to write the grants.” Amélie put a hand on her hip, and leaned forward. “Ask 'Uncle' a favor.”

Genevieve winced. “...That besides, Stillsalt is not needing for provisions, is it? I’ve been focusing my attention on some of our more struggling regions. Namely-”

“Murkhaven, yes- but all of your circlets need the government’s attention, Your Highness. Helping to bubble Stillsalt’s economy will help Murkhaven by proxy- they aren’t that far apart, after all.”

Rosellia kicked her legs over the throne's arm.

“What’s with the insistence, cousin? Actually- where did you pick up such a political head to begin with?”

“Where?” Amélie scoffed, and flipped her hair. “My blood flows with that of monarchs, doesn’t it? Were I not insistent on matters of leadership, I should trace my mom's diary for any mention of orphanages."

Amélie tilted her head to the side, and shrugged. "Or concubines.

"But if you wanna know where I learned myself: I spent my girl years surrounded by books of that nature. And I got hooked on the autobiographies of great women. Genevieve, and Genevieve, and Lucienne, and Claudette!

“Generations of invaluable wisdom- unreleased and unread by the common woman,” Amélie went on. “And unfinished. Almost all of these old hags wrote books with no endings! They waxed of a developing and thrilling journey, and then they stopped. Sometimes, in the middle of a chapter. Isn't that nuts? Great women never know when to stop writing, do they?”

Genevieve frowned. “...You found company in these spirits, I imagine.”

“You make it sound so lonely,” Amélie chuckled. “Don’t pout over me, cousin- I was not driven mad by solitude. I just came to appreciate its absence.”

Amélie took a step closer to Genevieve, facing her with an unusual and sudden stoicism.

“...I do not offend with my intrusion, do I, cousin?”

Genevieve shook her head and sat up. “Of course not! Amélie, I am sorely lacking in proper advisory. Your word is welcome to me.”

Amélie smiled, and stared at the ceiling. Then, she clasped her hands together, and held them to her breast.

“...You sent your father to exile. And not two months later, set my mother and I free from ours. As my… returning gift, I… I want to see to it that your book has an ending. That is why I come.”

Genevieve smiled, and stood up to get closer to her cousin.

But before more could be said, the two were distracted by a commotion from the hall behind them. The guards standing at the doorway turned to look, but didn’t leave their posts- The Princess and her cousin left the room themselves.

There in the plaza, a small cluster of guards had gathered around an Eelike; struggling to balance on their feet, and holding out his arms to make distance between himself and the soldiers. One in particular refused to keep that personal space, stepping in approach every time the Eelike stepped back.

“Get your knees to the ground, and hands behind your back!” The soldier ordered.

“I’m fine- it’s v- haah- it’s just vertigo, I promise!”

“Hands behind your back! NOW!”

Genevieve tensed up as the Eelike clutched his forehead, hurt by the soldier's raising voice. He stumbled back, groaning loud enough for her to hear. He was shivering.

The guard turned to his coworkers behind him. “Get a muzzle- are any of you equipped?”

“NO!” The Eelike shouted, his eyes sewn shut. “No no no- it’s nnnot yet- please just give it space, I’m okay- I- I-”

“GET ON YOUR KNEES! DO NOT RESIST!” The soldier screamed with rasp. Everyone from every adjacent room was watching.

One guard took advantage of the Eelike’s blindness, and kicked him in the back of one knee. The Eelike collapsed, but screamed at the guard, and lunged for his torso. The guard kneed him in the chin- the Eelike hissed as he reeled back, the guards circling to surround him.

Another guard grabbed the Eelike’s left wrist, and held the back of his neck in place. As another struggled to grab his right hand, the speaking guard was handed a leather muzzle. The Eelike hissed, and strained to break himself free, but the muzzle was placed on his jaw, and tightened around his head.

He was promptly shoved onto his back and caught, with metal cuffs that covered the entirety of his hands. Powerless and restrained, the Eelike spasmed and spouted incoherent noise as he tried to bite and claw his way to freedom. The guards collected themselves, stood the Eelike up, and sent two of them off to escort him away.

The crowd lingered a while, gossiping amongst themselves about the outburst. Amélie crossed her arms, and sighed.

“I thought the twenty-three year olds weren’t allowed in the palace.”

Genevieve glared at Amélie, and almost spoke- but caught the words halfway up her throat. She looked away, and held her arm.

“Some always slip through… that’s what the muzzle’s for.”