Chapter Text
The bitter, herbal taste of a preserving bolus flooded Malenia’s senses as she approached the great doors to Caria Manor. She probably didn’t need to take another one just yet, but she and her brother were to be the Carians’ guests for the evening and, demigods or not, she didn’t want to take any chances with them. Or their staff, she thought as an Albinauric servant opened the door.
She was a slight woman with hair so pale and skin so light that they blurred together in Malenia’s hazy vision. Like a ghost dressed in Carian Blue. She curtsied before them, “Welcome Lord Miquella, Lady Malenia. Lord Rykard is waiting in his workshop. Please follow me.”
The pair followed her across the threshold and into the courtyard.
“It’s lovely.” Miquella said to nobody in particular. Malenia hummed in noncommittal agreement. It certainly was…green. A lightly floral scent hung in the air amid that of Liurnia’s usual rain-fresh earth. Some paces ahead, a fountain was babbling away. Above them, surrounding them, was the heavy footsteps of the guards doing their rounds on the stone walkways between the buildings that made up the manor. She counted four of them— no, five— and wondered how many were on the ground with her.
What weapons did they use? What were the Carians even known to fight with aside from magic? Rennala had once given her father a broadsword; when she sparred with Radahn he would use any weapon that wouldn’t break in his meaty fists; If only she could get a hint at what awaited her in the workshop!
Miquella’s hand rested on her bodice, bidding her to stop. “We’re at the door.”
“I can see that much.” She snapped. The details were fuzzy to her, but they were, in fact, in front of the giant wooden door of the giant stone building that was the main part of Caria Manor. That she had been too distracted by her thoughts to notice was...irrelevant.
Her brother ignored her and walked up next to the Albinauric, “Wouldst thou give me the pleasure of knowing thy name, miss?”
“M-my name?”
Ever the charmer, Miquella simply smiled and nodded. If he had anything to gain, Malenia would jab at him for sucking up. However, even she had to concede that— sometimes— Miq was just nice with no ulterior motive. Particularly when it came to those beneath them. Condescending ass though he could be, he had no shortage of admirable qualities.
“I am Corinne.” She answered hesitantly, “Thank you, my lord.”
“Pleased to meet thee, Miss Corinne.” He said, walking alongside her for the remainder of their short trip to the workshop.
Caria manor was dark and gloomy, though Malenia supposed anywhere would seem so in comparison to the white marble and gold of the palace of Leyndell. Still, even the glintstone sconces on the walls gave off a blue light, turning Miquella’s hair a sickly green and rendering the Albinauric even more of a ghost than she was outside. It was a relief when Corinne opened the door to Rykard’s workshop and the bright, warm light of actual torches flooded out into the hallway.
The man himself was sitting hunched over a workbench, tightening the bolts on a strange contraption. His head whipped around at the creak of the door. “Why are you disturb—Oh, you’re here.”
“Hello to you as well, my lord brother.” Miquella said, ever cheery and polite.
The scrape of wood on wood rattled in Malenia’s teeth as he pushed his chair out. She quickly turned the grimace into an awkward smile as he approached to greet them properly, “Ah, no need for formality among family, eh?” He stooped down to shake Miquella’s hand. “It’s very nice to see you both. I hope you have been in good health.”
“As much as I can be.” Malenia said wryly.
Rykard rose to his feet again and held out his hand to her. “That is as much as we can hope for, I suppose.” Before Malenia could say anything else, he noticed Corrine over her shoulder. “Leave. Thou’rt done here.”
She stood up straighter and nodded. “Yes, my lord.” When Miquella turned around to give her a proper goodbye, the timid Albinauric was already walking away.
“Right, now that that’s out of the way, come! Malenia, you appear to have a prosthesis already, could I examine it?” As he spoke, he started walking back towards his workbench, motioning for the twins to follow him.
“Of course.” She reached a hand beneath her open coat (One could hardly button themself with a hand and a half, and she would sooner die than ask for help.) and unclipped the harness that held her right arm in place. It came loose immediately, falling from her shoulder and getting stuck in her coatsleeve in an undignified display. “Ah, shit, hold on.” A red to rival her hair rose to her cheeks as she retrieved it. Her lord brothers barely stifled their laughter.
She shoved the prosthesis towards Rykard, shooting Miquella a glare sharp enough to silence him. Rykard...would have to get a pass. If only because he was granting her a favor.
He took the golden limb gently from her hands, examining it with an interested hum. The joints let out small creaks of protest as he tested their limits. “Who made this? I assumed it was the royal armorer, but the ball-joints are more articulated than I'd expected.”
“Me!” Miquella beamed with pride.
Rykard looked down his nose at him. “You? Did Father show you how to do this?”
Did Father know how to build such things? He shared infuriatingly little of the knowledge he gained as Liurnia’s king. Miquella shrugged. “He helped.”
“Of course he did.” Rykard said flatly. He dropped the arm onto his workbench, both twins jumping in their skin at the impact. “Anyway, ‘Lenia, come over here.” As he spoke he picked up the thing he had been tinkering with when they arrived. A gleaming metal object that was somewhat shaped like an arm, certainly.
“What in the Lands is that?” Miquella asked.
“You’ll see.”
Malenia shrugged off her coat, allowing it to fall gracelessly into a pile around her feet. Beneath it, she wore a light tunic and leather bodice, preferring something easy to move and travel in rather than the finery Mother forced onto her inside Leyndell’s walls. Twas just as well that the strap for her arm didn’t have to contend with extra layers or accessories, merely slipping on over the bodice.
Rykard was able to get ahold of her empty sleeve before she realized that he meant to put the new prosthesis on her himself. She jerked back, resisting the urge to slap his hand away. “Get back! Are you mad?” Father had often bemoaned his first set of children treating godhood like a game, but she hadn’t expected him to be foolish enough to touch her!
“What?” Rykard snapped. “This will only take a moment. Surely you can control your curse for that long.”
She took another step back, speaking through grit teeth. “If I could control it at all, it would not be a curse. Now,” Malenia held her hand out, “Give it to me and I shall put it on by myself.”
He rolled his eyes— how stunningly mature— and handed her his invention. “Take care you don’t break it. ‘Tis still only a prototype.”
It fit into place easily enough, despite its bulk. And the fact that it was easily as heavy as both of her arms combined. As she got a closer look at the device, she realized that where it should have become a forearm and hand, Rykard had instead decided to put a long, toothed blade.
She hummed thoughtfully and did a few practice swings. The weight of it forced her to carry through the motion beyond where she should have stopped. Unfortunate, yes, but a bit of strength training might fix that. And with an edge that would not cut her enemies so much as rip them apart, she wouldn’t be fighting long enough to get worn out. “How’s it look, Miquella?”
“Awkward” Miquella said, swinging his feet idly from where he sat atop one of the tables.
“You haven’t even turned the damn thing on yet.” Rykard spat. “Here. Let me—”
Malenia pulled away again, “You can tell me where the switch is.” As she held the strange blade aloft, Miquella caught sight of a metal chain glinting in the torchlight.
“Ah, there!” He pointed— and quickly realized how unhelpful that was. “By your elbow.”
His sister pulled it without hesitation (and without forethought) and the strange prosthetic let out a roar. The teeth of the blade began to move along its length, pulled swiftly by....magic? What was this?
Of course, Miquella could hardly get a better look at it now. As soon as she’d activated it, Malenia froze, holding the shaking blade as far away from her body and her brothers as possible. She eyed it warily, as though it would bite.
Miquella could hardly blame his sister, the thing was shooting steam from a vent on her shoulder, the obvious power source for its strange rotating blade. Even after she let go of the chain, it did not turn off, merely trading its grating roar for a threatening growl, whatever that meant. Twas a mechanical marvel, honestly, but... “Rykard, have you never seen her fight before?”
“What do you mean? She asked for deadly. What could be more deadly than this?” Their half-brother replied defensively. He too must have realized how excessive this design was once she actually turned it on.
“It’s rather heavy...and why does it shake so?” Malenia asked. Rykard took her question as an opportunity to launch into a thorough explanation of the technical process of his ludicrous spinning-blade-arm-machine. At first, she nodded along but, clever as she was, her talents didn’t lie with machinery, and she soon turned to Miquella, brows furrowed in a silent plea for help. Or, at the very least, for a translation into the common tongue.
Miquella cleared his throat, “Um, that’s all rather impressive, but it seems more suited to mount on a carriage rather than one’s arm.”
Rykard raised his eyebrows, “Now that’s a good idea, I should write that down.” he said, mostly to himself, as he held out his hands. “Malenia, you may take that off. I have another prototype for you to try on.”
Two? He’d made her two arms in less time than it had taken Miquella to make one? He turned to his twin, trying to gauge her reaction from her rot-clouded eyes. She seemed excited— and a bit relieved once he showed her how to make the blade’s awful whirring cease.
She handed the prosthesis off to Rykard and he left them alone for a moment to bring back another.
“Are you jealous?” Malenia asked, teased really, a playful smile gracing her normally stoic face.
Miquella rolled his eyes and crossed his arms— and immediately realized that that was something a child would do and placed his hands back at his sides. “I have nothing to be jealous of. It is wonderful that our brother possesses talents that I lack and that he is so willing to share them with you. Truly.”
She didn’t look convinced. “Hm. Well, take heart in knowing I have only asked him for weapons. When I walk about the palace, it will be in your shining gold.” She patted the golden arm she had arrived with, smiling fondly at it. Were it anyone but Malenia, he would think she was just patronizing him.
Its shine was about all Miquella’s prosthesis was good for. It was merely gold-plated, an awkward, inelegant thing with a hand that functioned much like a claw, all four fingers fused together like a doll’s hand. Twas only an improvement in that having it was better than having no arm at all.
And yet his sister wore it with pride. And it lifted his spirits to see that it did help her, even just a little. It was good for a first attempt, but she deserved better. For that reason alone, he quietly decided to split this responsibility with Rykard.
As if summoned by the very thought of his name, Rykard nudged the workshop door open with his foot and returned carrying an arm that looked rather more like a cannon. “I must insist we test this outside. You’ll see why when you do.” Was it Miquella’s imagination, or did his smile seem a bit maniacal as he said that?
After two corrections, Rykard had lost his patience and decided to position her himself, placing her still-living hand over its mechanical twin. Malenia shoved him away. Favor or not, he was starting to wear on her. “It would be easier if you would just tell me what kind of weapon I’m meant to be working with.”
“Tis a ranged incendiary weapon. I doubt they have them in Leyndell.”
Malenia ignored his jargon and ran her hand over the strange contraption. It was certainly less bulky than the first, though the weight still left something to be desired. Liquid sloshed around inside the bicep. Perhaps it was meant to shoot some kind of poison mist? She bristled at the idea. That would be redundant at best (and as Rykard was the most recalcitrant of her Carian siblings, Malenia had learned to never expect the best of him).
Her fingers hit some kind of trigger halfway down her forearm. “Is this it?”
“Yes. Point it away from me and pull it.”
She did as she was told and a burst of fire came forth from the weapon. “A flamethrower!” Malenia gasped, grinning in excitement.
“Oh, so you do have them.” Rykard said, seeming a bit disappointed.
“Yes, but I’ve never used one before.” She fired off a few more test shots, trying to picture using it in the heat of battle. Having to pull the trigger certainly limited its function, and she would have to keep clear of allies. With some modifications and a bit of practice, it may yet suit her well.
“Your aim is a bit low.” Miquella cautioned from his seat at the edge of the fountain. “Take care the ground doesn’t catch.”
“The ground is fine, Miquella, you worry too much.” She tried to do a forward swing, sending out an arc of flame in front of her.
“It’s not a particularly powerful flame either, since I wasn’t completely certain it wouldn’t blow up.”
Malenia spun around to face him, “What!? Have you not tested it before?”
He held his hands up defensively, “I’ve tested it plenty! However, it is still a prototype and those tend to be…unpredictable.” She scowled at him. “Oh, don’t give me that face. You’re a demigod , ‘Lenia. And this thing is full of alcohol. Burns up before it even hits the ground. It’d be like a small scratch.”
Before she could say anything else, Miquella ran over, clearing the courtyard remarkably fast for his little legs. “No, no, no, take that off. I won’t have it on you.”
“Oh, you won’t have it.” Rykard added snidely.
“It is fine, Miquella.” She held the weapon aloft, out of his reach. “And for Mother’s sake, can you two back away? Someone’s going to get hurt and it won’t be me.”
Her brothers conceded, Miquella returning to his seat and Rykard looming at the base of one of the walkway pillars.
Malenia took her sword from her hip and began practicing some of the forms her teacher had shown her. Was there a difference, really, in the flowing of water and the spreading of fire? Would they not be compatible on the battlefield? Sadly the arm that rotted away was her dominant hand, so even without her mentor’s judgment she could tell she was off.
It was hard to mirror moves one had not yet mastered, harder still once she approached the strange living doll that Rykard had brought out for her to test her strength against. It swung at her again and again with a dull wooden staff, easily blocked but not without breaking her form.
She jumped back and awkwardly pulled the trigger on the flamethrower, sword still in hand. She could tell it hit, though just barely, by the hiss of the flames extinguishing themselves on the dew clinging to the doll. That wouldn’t do. Yes, this was just a “prototype”, but how was she to test it for battle if its flames could be so easily snuffed out?
Her sword returned to its sheath and she started— for lack of both a better word and any actual knowledge of the device— to fiddle with her new prosthetic. The trigger seemed to activate a siphon that would fill the forearm-barrel with fuel and create enough pressure to shoot it out. If she could force it to fill more, then would that not create more pressure? More flames? Twas worth trying, at least.
She could feel Rykard’s calculating, near-reptilian gaze on her as she aimed the weapon upwards and held down the trigger. Nothing seemed to happen, but when she brought it down, the weight had shifted. Taking a step towards the doll, she aimed the weapon forwards and pulled the trigger.
A burst of bright orange flames exploded out in front of her. Had the recoil not forced her back, the heat certainly would have.
“Marika’s tits!” Rykard shouted— immediately followed by a small smack. “Sorry— but holy hell Malenia, what was that ?”
“Just trying a new technique.” She smiled. The pitter patter of small feet on the wet grass drew closer. She turned towards it. “Miquella, was that not an awesome display?”
“Are you unharmed?”
Her grin fell. “Yes.”
“Twas magnificent!” Miquella cheered, “It must have been as tall as the both of us combined!”
She tousled his hair and chuckled, “Our enemies will one day quake in fear of Malenia, Flaming Blade.”
“Flaming Blade?” Rykard snickered, having apparently snuck up on the pair.
“Well, um, maybe not that...” The pale scars of rot did well to hide her blush, but never well enough, “I lack a proper title at the moment. Mother says she will grant me one when I’ve completed my training.”
“Are you not Miquella and Malenia, the Twin Prodigies of the Golden Order?” He said with sarcastic reverence.
“Fitting titles for children, but we’ll soon outgrow them.” Miquella said.
“Well,” Malenia could hear the wry grin in Rykard’s voice “ one of y—“
She raised the weapon inches away from his face, her hand on the trigger “What was that? Do continue, dear brother.”
Miquella placed a calming hand on her arm. “Don’t squabble.”
She lowered it obediently. Rykard, blessedly, had no smarmy remarks to that.
“Regardless, it wouldn’t have done anything. After that...” Rykard hesitated, “ magnificent display, I’m almost certain the fuel chamber is empty.”
Malenia pointed it away and tried to shoot another jet of flame. There was a small click, followed by complete silence. “So it is.” she frowned.
The little one’s words seemed to have sapped all the fight out of his rotten twin. ‘Twas almost comical, the way she heeled to him. Only biting back when he became too overbearing. In time, he doubted she would ever talk back at all. Like father, like daughter. Like mother, like son.
Malenia once again did not allow Rykard to touch her. She insisted on removing the arm on her own, making him fear she would break it every second it was not in his hands. As though her last blast of flame hadn’t done enough damage. Rykard took it from her hand, closely examining the barrel.
It was slightly warped— owing more to him not wanting to use costly materials on a prototype than anything she had done— with only a few surface scratches. He supposed even she couldn’t really do that much damage in an hour.
“Tell me, how was it? Simply watching gave me some ideas for modifications, but as the wielder your feedback is more important.” If even a half-trained, half-rotten Princess could fight with his new invention, training an army to use it would be easy. True, he didn’t yet have an army, but he would one day. Thanks to his father and that vile woman, he did in fact have all the time in the world to plan for it.
Malenia began listing her complaints faster than he could write them down. The arm was too heavy. Its shape was not aerodynamic. The trigger was in a stupid place.
“It’s not stupid. Where else am I to put it?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere I won’t need to drop my sword to reach.”
“Perhaps the problem is that you insist on dual-wielding with only one hand.” He watched her face sour with a grin, twirling his pen between his fingers.
“Mock me if you wish, but I do recall you saying you accepted the challenge of doing exactly that.”
Ah, he had, hadn’t he? “I’ll see what I can do. As for the weight...” Their conversation carried on easily when it came to technical details, to Rykard’s surprise. Though it made sense that weapons were the one field where their personalities cooperated rather than clashed. Every soldier needed an armorer, every genius an invention.
When all details were set in stone— and Malenia had been convinced to give the chainsaw another try— Rykard set his notebook down triumphantly. “Fantastic. And we’ve managed to finish before dinner.” As he spoke, he got up and started walking towards the door. “A servant will come and get you when it’s ready. Until then you’re welcome to use our library or throw rocks at each other or whatever you do in your leisure time.” He said, waving them off dismissively.
“Thank you, but we cannot stay much longer.” Miquella said as he picked his sister’s coat up off the floor and held it out for her. His own was already on, donned during his listless pacing while the adults were talking.
“Why not?”
“It isn’t our choice.” Malenia said. As Rykard waited for her to elaborate, she took one of the odd red boluses from a pouch on her belt and popped it in her mouth. No further details then. Got it.
“Seems rather stupid to travel all this way for a day trip, but in any case, as the host I shall see you out.”
Rykard let the door fall closed behind him as he made his way back through the foyer. Standing at the top of the stairs like a gargoyle was his dear sister Lady Ranni. She was silent, broody, until he had almost gotten past her without having to talk.
“Why were they here?” Ranni’s voice was icy as she stared at the closed door, as if she was trying to shoot a spell through it with willpower alone.
“Our baby sister was testing some weapon prototypes for me. Nothing you ought to be concerned about.” He waved her off.
Ranni glared at him through the waning moons of her narrowed eyes. “And the little one?”
“He enjoys ordering her about, I suppose.” He shrugged, continuing up the stairs past her. “Else she drags him around like a security blanket. Something’s not right with those two if you ask—”
She grabbed the back of his shirt, freezing him in place. “I didn’t. Did it ever occur to you that it might be a bad idea to empower our enemies?”
He had to laugh. “You overestimate them. They are children. One of them will never grow beyond that, and the other will only weaken with time.”
“They are demigods all the same. Born empyreans. ‘Tis a power you should learn to respect.”
He rolled his eyes. “Will you be less mad at me if I give you the schematics of the final version?”
“So that I may make my own? How kind.”
“So that you may know exactly where its weak points are.” He pulled her hand off and faced her, holding it as he continued, “Do not mistake me for Radahn. No god will ever have my favor.” He spat the word as though it were a curse.
Rykard would not promise his loyalty to her, and nor did she expect it. They were the same; solitary, cold blooded, loyal only to themselves. But for now, their goals aligned, and as far ahead as either one of them could see, they would stay that way.
He let her go, as she did he, and they continued walking their opposite ways without another word.