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In the great hall, where the ring of men sit in thick, lengthy robes that tickle at the ground and hide their slippered feet or, in the case of some, the delicate arches of comfortable heels to lengthen the foot, ascend the figure a step higher, more important as if standing just an inch taller could convey the importance of a hume to his fellows. The Emperor sits amongst them, the wind of rope across one shoulder, the fanning crown upon his aged brow - he is the master of these men, and yet the oldest Solidor heir espies the trickle of sweat in the crevasses of his aged face, the twinge of pain that clings to the edges of his mouth, pulling him thin as he listens to the words the men about him share, each grabbing hold of an end to their beloved Emperor to wring him dry and make his transformation into paper whose only purpose is to be only written upon complete. So far they have paled his ennobled features, drained him of the blood that makes him man -
The Solidor heir looks away from the dogs and their rotting meat.
His gaze, though it has been named cold and he himself cannot find the heart to argue with it, finds itself moved to the ring of Magisters intermixed with the stain of purples and blacks shuffling with their movements, their passions to be heard above the rest. The Judges are always silent, their purpose here to be as though statues, carved to sit or stand in their places, and to fool those who look upon them with the idea of life for they do not sway, no, it must be a wind in the rafters tugging at the fabric of the air, pulling those around them, bending the light to make these immovable fixtures of metal, of earth and power forged in the heart of fire and solidified with the thunderous crash of water, their shapes uncovered for the mortal eye to understand.
Amongst them stands their herald, their unchallenged master - the order of the 9th calls this rooted force their own, and all other Magisters incline to call it comrade.
Vayne has so oft watched these pieces, jumbled when separate but flawless when they are together pretend to move, he is certain he knows the way they are unmade.
To start, the hands must be undone, pulled from the pinky, then the ring and onwards across the span, creaking gauntlets tugged and allowed to sink to the floor, their clatter and sound dulled by blackened leather.
To the neck where the cord is the strongest, where the mantle of Libra’s balance flutters in red, tucking the edges of the hood away as the loops are lost and the silken underbelly of the cape collapses upon the harsher leather, the emblazoned sign absorbed in the dark.
To the arms where the snaps hold the rerebrace and spaulders in place, the fine, winding lines that decorate the polished metal to be avoided lest the edges prove sharp. They are abandoned on the round table, their innards hollow and form fitting, made for the tempestuous force that they adorn.
Not much left now. The princeling can barely breathe, eyes akin to the deadened sky on a cold day where clouds are spiraled like white hairs and infinitesimal.
The bindings that run along the sides, looping straps of leather and plant matter knitting in a pattern forward and back through stiffened metal loops – these he can undo by nudging his fingers betwixt the breastplate and yielding second skin that belies the heat of something pulsing beneath the surface. These too join their fellows, a shaman’s throw of bone and rock could be no less elegant in how the cords drape and clash with the pieces that came before, their meanings secret except to those who spoke with their tongue.
To the shoulders where bindings force the leathers to heed a form, the vest collapses, rent from its place, the snaps upon the front following suit, they only a decoration now to the helm that hides eyes like the embalming heat and light of summer’s day -
“My lord?”
His chest feels tight, each breath coming as though through a tube, his mind stumbling. Back to the world where the table is between them, the Solidor looks to his father and allows the cursory smile to fracture the thoughts where he remembers what touch feels like.
Such thoughts are not for him.