Fallen

by Roselynn Cannes

  * * * *

  Despite what she had told the general when she’d asked for the privilege, those working in the palace were fiercely loyal, and did not need much by means of supervision. They kept things running smoothly and efficiently on their own. The tours Persephone made around the palace under the guise of supervising had always been more about interacting with and getting to know them than offering any actual regulation. Sometimes her mother joined her, but for years, Persephone had taken on the task of oversight in the palace and typically made the tour without her.

  Persephone had surprised the general yet again when she had insisted on completing her tour of the palace prior to her bath, while still wearing her pieto. It was something she’d always done because it seemed to help those working there to feel more comfortable around her. They were less likely to stand on protocol and typically spoke more openly, which was her purpose in presenting herself that way. Though not a daily occurrence, Persephone made sure she routinely spent time with them. Learning each of their names. Speaking with them of their families. She did not believe in slavery and wanted this to feel like their home as much as possible.

  She knew that she should be doing everything possible to minimize the oddities the Perdomans had undoubtedly picked up on about her, give them less to leverage against her, but she felt so guilty about not including the palace slaves in her bargain that she refused to distance herself further. They deserved to know that even if she could do nothing for them, she hadn’t forgotten them.

  The general had not believed that this had always been her way until her mother had confirmed the fact. When one of his men had gone to collect her, it would seem she had verified that wearing a slave’s garments was not unusual for Persephone, but had declined to join them for the palace tour, claiming that she did not feel well. Persephone suspected that her mother felt fine, but knew Persephone would prefer to do this alone. She knew how hard Persephone had fought to advocate for them over the years, and could likely guess how devastated Persephone was at her sudden helplessness.

  Well immersed in their meeting, she never passed any Council members, and for that she was grateful. Persephone was having a hard enough time maintaining her composure as it was without also having to fabricate an excuse for why she was dressed as a slave or pretending to be one.

  He’d not offered a reason, but although the general had finally consented and allowed her to wear her pieto, he had refused to allow Seraphime to make the tour with her. Persephone half-wondered if it was his own way of checking that the slaves in the palace would recognize her even dressed as she was. If that was it, he got what he was looking for almost immediately.

  “Look.”

  “The princess.”

  “She yet lives.”

  The words followed her through the halls and into the different rooms. The adoration and hope she heard paired with the bruised faces and tormented eyes of their speakers had been too much. Persephone wasn’t sure if she might cry or vomit. Both seemed equally likely. Over and over she repeated to herself that she just had to keep it together a little longer, that she could break down later. It was a lie. The same lie she had used on herself for years when she was younger. The truth was, she never allowed herself to crack and this time would be no different. She lied anyway. It was all that sustained her.

  When she reached the kitchens, Para found her gaze immediately. She wore twin black eyes and a split lip. Persephone’s breath seized in her lungs at the sight of her. With too many mouths and not enough resources, Para’s family had sold her when she was yet very young. Persephone had always held a special kinship and affection for her.

  “Princess.” With tears filling her eyes, Para’s voice shook as she dropped to her knees, pressing her forehead against the tops of Persephone’s feet.

  A little longer, she reminded herself fighting tears of her own. Not caring that the general and his captain watched her closely, Persephone carefully knelt next to Para to rub her back and stroke her head reassuringly.

  “I am so sorry.” It was insufficient, but it was all Persephone could manage. Forcing those few words past the growing lump in her throat had been an achievement.

  “I am so relieved that you yet live,” Para said, sitting up.

  How could she still feel that way? Persephone was sure she didn’t deserve it; she had, after all, made the decision to abandon the girl to her fate. A choice she was about to repeat. There had to be a special kind of torture reserved for people like her in the Underworld. Then again, perhaps this was her punishment. Needing to look the people she had forsaken in the eyes day in and day out.

  Unless there were guests in the home, leaving her no choice in the matter, Persephone had never required the slaves in the palace to stand on formal protocol with her. Whether it was in her distress, or that she did not consider the Perdomans guests, Para’s tear-filled eyes held Persephone’s gaze unwaveringly. Persephone could not find it in her to turn the girl away or chastise her for the impropriety, despite the implications the general might draw from it.

  “I want you to start taking valerian,” Persephone whispered. Para’s lips parted in question, but before she could say something or react too strongly, Persephone continued, “It will help make it so that you do not care anymore. Do you understand?”

  Para nodded subtly. As Persephone stood to leave, she had to put a hand over her mouth and pray it would be enough to hold down the self-loathing rising up at the gratitude in Para’s eyes.

  On the way to the bathhouse after leaving the kitchens, Persephone focused on her breathing. Measuring the length of each breath on the way in and out. She had to pull herself together.

  As if he’d been waiting for a vulnerable moment, the general – who had been silent the entire time – finally addressed her. “Have you always made it a habit to interact so personally with your slaves?”

  Persephone flicked her eyes his direction before returning them to the hallway in front of them. If she refused to answer, he would undoubtedly press further. She took a slow, deep breath to center herself. “When it suits me to do so,” she said blandly.

  “Why?”

  “Because it suits me to do so.” She resisted the urge to smirk at his exasperated huff. This was exactly what she needed – a fight to distract her.

  “I do understand your affection for Seraphime, Persephone, but the others? Slaves are nothing –”

  That did it. “People, General,” she interrupted coarsely while turning to plant herself in front of him, effectively halting their entry into the bathhouse. “They are people.”

  “Not by Galilae’s standards,” he responded unapologetically. “Standards you were raised with. I am merely trying to understand, Persephone, not start a fight.”

  “It is not necessary that you understand, and I do not feel compelled to explain myself to you, General.”

  “I’ve told you, I would prefer you to call me by name,” he reminded her, ignoring everything else she’d said.

  “I do not give a shit what you prefer,” she hissed at him, leaning toward him as she said it before withdrawing again. Persephone felt the angry flush coloring her cheeks. “How about this, General, I will call you by name when you learn each of theirs and begin to treat them as sentient beings rather than commodities to be used.”

  Persephone knew what she was doing was foolish. Knew that she should be placating him to keep him happy rather than antagonizing him at every turn, but she was fast approaching her breaking point. Maybe she’d already passed it if her current behavior was any indication. Experiencing the aftermath of the siege, seeing the desperation in the faces of the people living under her care and, worst of all, hearing the reverence they still held for her had nearly undone her. These people had relied on her, had trusted her to protect them, and she had turned away from them. She hated herself. Hated that she hadn’t fought harder for them. Hated that they didn’t hate her. Perhaps it would be easier to live with herself if they did.

&
nbsp; “I know what you are doing, Persephone.” The general crowded her as he spoke, pinning her against the door.

  “Is that so?” she drawled skeptically.

  “Tell me, do you like it when I hurt you because it allows you to continue to brand me a monster?”

  “I need no further reasons to brand you a monster. You’ve done a spectacular job all on your own.” Since she couldn’t physically initiate an altercation, she could only hope her words would be enough to provoke him to hit her.

  Ignoring her interjection, he continued, “Or because it helps you to feel better about yourself?”

  It would have hurt less if he’d hit her. She couldn’t even think of anything clever to say in reply. No words to brush it off or contradict him passed her lips. Not even a denying shake of her head.

  “Just as I thought.” He brushed his thumb gently against the bruise on her cheek. “No more.”

  Persephone wasn’t sure if he was ordering her to stop or telling her that he would not be playing this game with her any longer. It didn’t matter either way. He was taking her one recourse away from her.

  If he’d expected a response, he seemed unbothered that she hadn’t supplied one. “I will see you later. In the meantime, behave.”

  She clamped her teeth down on her tongue, biting back both the retort that tempted her and the tears that threatened to fall. Moving back, he allowed her the space she needed to turn and open the door. As was expected, Seraphime was already in the bathhouse waiting for her.

  Persephone almost turned and walked out. She didn’t have the energy to have what was essentially the same conversation in such a short span of time. During their promised stochasmos, Seraphime’s eyes had immediately strayed to the torn and bruised flesh along Persephone’s back, though she’d not said anything about it then. As the guards stood further away from them while they bathed – offering a semblance of privacy – Persephone doubted her sister would hold her tongue much longer. Not wanting to remind her or encourage the conversation, Persephone ensured her face did not advertise her discomfort when the hot water stung her frayed skin. It didn’t matter. Seraphime needed no reminder.

  “What did he do to you?” Seraphime hissed at her under her breath. “You look worse for wear every time I see you.”

  Persephone refused to have this conversation, even with Seraphime. Or, maybe, especially with Seraphime. So rather than answer, she shrugged carelessly. “Others in this place endure far worse.”

  Rather than her hair, as usual, Seraphime had started by washing Persephone’s body so she could still look her in the eyes as they spoke. Shame flashed at the censure she saw there.

  “So you antagonize him on purpose? Is that it?”

  Yes, but Persephone wasn’t about to admit it aloud, nor could she effectively lie to Seraphime, so she remained silent.

  “Have you gone mad?”

  Shushing Seraphime, Persephone turned her back on her, undoing her own hair, as it would seem Seraphime was content to continue putting it off.

  “I prefer the pain to the guilt,” Persephone admitted quietly when she no longer had to look at Seraphime as she did so.

  “You always have. In spite of the fact that you have nothing to feel guilty over. How many times must I tell you?”

  “You need not tell me at all.”

  “For all the good it does, I may as well not,” Seraphime muttered angrily. “There are many in this place – myself included – who would die for you. Stop treating yourself like a throwaway.”

  Seraphime was wrong, though. The gods had cast Persephone aside many years ago. She had finally just come to accept the fact.

  Chapter 6:

  Poison and Wine

  It is a lie to believe the past holds no sway over the future.

  – Cade Numitor, Captain of the Nex Division

  Seraphime found herself once again awaiting the general’s inquisition, a scenario that was becoming all too familiar. He’d personally escorted her to stochasmos this morning. On the way, he had demanded to know when Persephone’s last moonblood was. It wasn’t a wholly unreasonable question, given the circumstances, but the suddenness of the inquiry and brusque way he’d asked had surprised her. Unable to think of any reason Persephone might need her to lie about it, Seraphime had told the truth. He hadn’t said anything, but he’d seemed satisfied and hadn’t asked her further questions. She’d known it was optimistic to think it might be the only question he might have for the day.

  So, for the second time in one day, Seraphime was alone with the general. She had been summoned to the king’s study as soon as she had finished helping Persephone to bathe and dress. The general was seated comfortably in the usurped seat behind the desk. Seraphime had closed the door behind her as instructed, but stood near it, hoping for a quick escape.

  Eyes downcast, she could feel his scrutiny.

  “Sit,” he ordered brusquely.

  So much for a fast exit. She sat in the chair furthest from him, perched uncomfortably on the end.

  “Have some wine.” He was already pouring.

  She knew the only wine in the room had not been not watered down, something she had little tolerance for on the best of days. Seraphime had no doubt what his intention was and opted to treat the statement as an offer rather than the command she knew it to be. “Gratitude, General. But I must decline. I have much to do, and I fear it will make me drowsy and slow in my duties.”

  “I did not ask whether you wanted it.” He slid the cup across the desk, toward her. “Drink.”

  Keeping her face still, she bit her tongue to prune the argument waiting on her lips. She could hardly oppose him twice on the same issue and expect to avoid repercussions. “Of course, sir.” She took the smallest sip possible, keeping the chalice in her hand so it would appear that she would continue to drink as they conversed.

  “We will not begin in earnest until you have finished. How long would you like to sit here with me, Seraphime?”

  Her heart beat faster. Undoubtedly, he would ensure she was quite intoxicated no matter the amount of time, so she might as well get it over with. If lucky, she might be able to talk fast and get out before the wine’s full effect took root. Suppressing a sigh, she tipped the chalice and drank it down. Unused to the potency, she couldn’t stifle a cough when she finished.

  “There, that was not so hard, was it?” His tone sounded of the smirk he likely wore, though it was impossible to say for certain as she stared at a point between them on the desk.

  “Gratitude, General.” Holding a hand to her chest at the discomfort, she coughed once more, swallowing the others that hoped to follow. “Quite a treat.”

  “Look at me.” It was not a request. So with her chin tilted down submissively, Seraphime lifted her eyes. When she would have dropped them again, he interrupted, “I want to see your eyes while we speak.”

  Jaw clenched, she ground out the most respectful “Of course, sir” she could manage. Her head was already beginning to feel foggy from the wine – not a good sign – and it would be more difficult to school her expressions under its influence. Hoping it would encourage him to hurry, she shifted in her seat.

  “It makes you uncomfortable to hold my gaze for a full conversation.” He framed his question in the form of an observation. Something she noticed he did frequently.

  “It is unconventional.” Not an outright disagreement, but a vague response.

  “That was not my question.”

  “Apologies.” The reaction was automatic, despite the fact that she felt no remorse.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to say more. She didn’t.

  “You are almost as good as your sister at evading questions.” Another observation.

  Was he waiting for a confession? Instead, she continued to watch him silently, refusing to acknowledge his accusation.

  “In some ways you may be better because no one expects a slave to have anything to say.”

  “Do you, sir? Expect a slave t
o have something to say?” Later she would blame the wine for the imprudent question.

  “No.” A cold answer from a cold man, but at least he was honest.

  Leaning forward conspiratorially, she held his gaze far more brazenly than she should have. “Then what a complete and utter waste of your time.” The wine was definitely having an effect; slaves were beaten to death for smaller offenses.

  He chuckled humorlessly and mirrored her by leaning over the desk. “You are not merely a slave.”

  “You are wrong, sir.” Telling him he was wrong? Was she trying to get herself killed? “There is nothing special about me.” Seraphime did her best to sound subdued, accepting of her lot in life.

  Actually, Seraphime had always accepted her circumstances. It was not in her power to change them, so she did not dwell on spiteful or bitter feelings. No, Persephone had always done that on her behalf.

  “Oh, I disagree. And I suspect your sister would disagree as well.”

  He was right, of course, but Seraphime was hardly going to tell him that. In addition to feeling muddled, her fingertips were tingling and her limbs were beginning to feel rubbery and heavy. She had already said far too much, enormously overstepping the bounds of her role, and he knew it. They both did. She needed to get out of this room, and quickly.

  Knowing he wouldn’t tolerate a non-answer, but wanting to speak as little as possible, she smiled slightly in reply, keeping her lips firmly clamped to cage her errant tongue.

  “There are two things that tell me you are more than a slave,” Augustine continued. “Would you like to hear them?”

  No, she didn’t. Seraphime lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

  “Lost your voice?” he asked sardonically. “Answer the question, Seraphime.”

  “If you would like to tell me, sir.”

  “You are hairless, like your mistress. I did not think slaves were afforded that luxury.”