Shoestring Theory

EIGHTEEN

Eufrates was not in his bedroom, but he had left a mark, indelible and clear.

The room had been trashed, turned upside-down and inside-out. Cyril did not think Eufrates, the man, was dead, but he had committed a sort of self-inflicted brutalisation upon Eufrates the bard prince.

Books of poetry and prose, some of them favourite works, but the overwhelming majority original compositions, were torn and shredded beyond recognition. Pots of ink had been spilled onto years of careful work without a thought to their value. Some looked to have been stomped on. There were broken quills on the ground and a nauseating smell of burning paper still lingered in the air.

His instruments, for Eufrates had many, did not escape a similar fate. A lute he had seen weeks earlier, looking ready for a serenade, lay broken in half, strings snapped askew across the bed. The harp Cyril had loved so much, because he could sit and watch for hours as Eufrates’s calloused hands danced across the strings, so similar to magic he thought himself enchanted, was beaten beyond repair. There was a sword wrenched into a viol. Everything that could even remind someone of art was destroyed, in a frenzied, mad, hateful tirade.

Scattered throughout the hardwood, glittering pieces of a broken full-length mirror dotted where they walked, a few crusted in the deep maroon of dried blood.

There had been portraits hung about the room, decorating the walls. Every single one of them depicting some moment of companionship, or a cherished family member or friend. Every single one of them was smashed on the floor, the split wooden frames littered at their feet. The one exception was a painting of Eufrates himself, small and unobtrusive. A gift for his eighteenth year from a generous artist. That one had been slashed through with a knife, carved as though a cursed object.

Eufrates owned a single cameo of Cyril. Yes, of course, they had posed for portraits together, as he was a dear friend of the family, but Cyril had very few likenesses of himself alone. Eufrates had needed to beg him to sit for a proper portrait, and, unbeknownst to Cyril for some years, he had kept the small, palm-sized artists’ sketch that preluded the full work for himself, in a pocket-frame protected by glass. Cyril knew he kept it in his writing desk, because that is where he had found it the first time and confronted him about it, impish and teasing. He walked over and opened the first-left drawer.

Perhaps Eufrates had just forgotten about it.

The cameo was intact.

“He is not well.” Tigris broke the silence after some time perusing the carnage. Cyril thought this a bit of an obvious observation, but it would help no one to point it out.

“Where is he now?” she continued when he didn’t respond.

“I don’t know. He’s your brother.”

“He’s your husband.”

He realised she was right.

Eufrates had never wished to meld his kingship with his personal pursuits. It depressed him, doing state work and looking through accounts in his own quarters. In their first life together, he had found a room in one of the spires of the palace, reserved for guests but generally deemed too draughty and uncomfortable, that he had set up as a private study.

Without a word, Cyril crossed the room and made for the door. It had been locked. Sealed off, which was not a surprise. He artlessly broke into the pattern of the lock and pulled it apart, causing the doorknob to split in twain on each side of the door.

“Let’s go,” he said to Tigris.

It turned out that the entirety of the east wing had been sealed off, warded against anyone coming in and seeing their new regent’s true nature. It made navigating the area quite easy, but Eufrates’s study was not in the east wing.

He did not know he had the kind of confidence it took to stride into a corridor and completely disregard anyone in it until he did that self-same thing, marching through the palace with single-minded purpose, even as servants and staff tried to call out to him or stop him outright. He did not hurt anyone, he would not dare, but he was powerful enough to keep them at bay.

He only truly met a worthy obstacle in front of the very doors that led up to the spire.

Tomás was one of the younger members of the royal guard who was training to be knighted. He was only a centimetre taller than Cyril, which amused the both of them to no end, and Cyril got along with him fine, as Tomás had been one of the few guards to be somewhat learned in things other than combat drills. He liked Tomás.

Currently, Tomás was the thorn ripping open his side.

“Let me through, please,” he said curtly.

Tomás was looking at him very wide-eyed. Like he was seeing a ghost.

“Young Master Cyril!” he gasped, then steeled his expression. He had a lance held in both hands that he had at a diagonal to prevent passage. “You are… you are not welcome within these walls.”

“I am here to speak to Eufrates.”

“He does not wish to–”

“I did not ask you what he wishes.”

Tomás, with his great big lance, started to push Cyril back. Cyril humoured this, but his temper was boiling over. He did not like using magic on people.

“Master Cyril, I do not know how you got here, but you cannot – I have orders to apprehend you.”

“Not before I see him.”

“That’s not how it works, sir. I’m trying to help, I don’t want to have to – you know.”

“Let me through , Tomás.” His volume rose.

“I can’t!”

“I am going to speak to him. I demand it.” Cyril balled his hands into fists at his side and tried to move past him. “Arrest me later.”

Tomás grabbed his arm. “I really can’t let you do that. You don’t have an audience or the grounds–”

He didn’t think he ever spoke this loudly and this infuriated to anyone in his life. “I don’t need an audience and my grounds is that he is my husband and I can see him whenever I wish .”

Tomás blinked. “I – well, that’s not true.”

“I am the greatest wizard of my time, boy .” Cyril twisted his arm in Tomás’s easy grasp so he could break free. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.”

Then, just as impatient, Tigris took over the reins and jumped directly onto the guard’s face, making him spin madly out of control as Cyril stepped around him and climbed the short spiral steps of the tower leading to Eufrates’s study. He did not bother to knock, or even to turn the doorknob. He blew the doors open and stomped his way inside.

“Eufrates, it’s me!”

“I know,” Eufrates said. “I could hear you from up here.”

At his worst, Cyril had looked like an abyssal creature. Haunting, nightmarish, but withering, brittle and ugly. He had looked like a child’s monster, or a deep-sea animal. A rotten corpse of a man.

Eufrates, though. Eufrates had hit rock bottom with a grace granted only to the very blessed. He stood at a writing desk, palms spread atop it as if he’d just risen from his seat, and, even bathed in the red light of dusk, seeing the whole of him took Cyril’s breath away.

He was dishevelled, unkempt, frayed at the edges. There was a frenzy in his eyes, but he looked like a fallen, vengeful god. His face was still perfect (nothing would ever change that). The aquiline line of his nose, the high, noble cheekbones, the rich skin. Even marred by a darkness under his eyes, an unshaved jaw (Cyril guessed he had not bothered with it since the night they last spoke), unruly hair, he still stunned. There was a preternatural allure to Eufrates, even like this, that made him devastating to look at. That made Cyril’s heart stop as though Eufrates himself had reached out and grabbed it. Inhuman, but not a creature . A deity . He would always be superior to Atticus. Perhaps to any mage, because he did not need any magic to enchant.

It was hardly fair.

“Did you read my letter, Cyril? Or did you see who it was from and burn it, coward that you are.”

“I…” He had so many things to say. He did not know where to start but now, seeing Eufrates again, like this, he was completely speechless. He could not imagine how much suffering he had put him through.

“Perhaps I am right.” Eufrates rounded the desk until he was in front of it, and now they were face to face, a single room apart. He was not in full armour, but he was dressed as though, if there was a battle, he would win. There was a sword at his hip. “If you had read it, you would not have returned.”

“I did,” Cyril blurted, his voice coming in in short bursts. “I read it. Eufrates, I–”

“Aha!” he barked. “You have come, then, to lay your head upon the block. How generous. It is not like you, my love.”

“Please…”

“I will not be merciful, regardless of our shared history. Not when you have insisted on becoming my personal tormentor.”

“Eufrates, listen–” Cyril could not get his voice loud enough. His nerve had all been wasted on that guard.

“I was happy to leave you in that thing you called a cottage. You decided to abandon me, burden my shoulders alone with a kingdom while you get to play the innocent, that is your choice.

“But to drag me back here, to dangle a second opportunity in front of my face and then – and then–” Eufrates carded a hand through his hair, distressing it even more. He was not often at a loss for words. “You are making me relive it. What for? Some sadistic pleasure? A test ? Would I become the tyrant you fell out of love with all over again if I did not have you? The answer is yes , Cyril!”

“No!” he shouted.

Eufrates paused. Recentred himself, schooled his features. “No?” He had been looking at the floor before. At a point just over Cyril’s shoulder. Now, he was looking straight at him, and it felt like being immolated with disdain.

“The answer is no , you have never –”

He unsheathed his sword. “You could not even give me time with my dying sister. You took her away from me! A week after you made me bury the empty caskets of my parents! Why are you doing this to me? Was I such a terrible husband? I am a cruel man, Cyril, but you are a demon.”

“ Please , listen to me–”

The way they advanced on each other could have been choreographed. They were pulled together, like puppets on a string. They spoke over each other. Cyril pleading, stuttering, cowering. Eufrates, angry and demanding satisfaction. Neither could make themselves be heard in the cacophony they were creating.

“There is nothing evil about you, Eufrates! You have always been good! ”

“I don’t understand what you are trying to do coming in here.”

“You are the bard prince!”

“And you have made me into a tragedian.”

“I – yes, but–”

“You are punishing me!”

“No!”

“You are . You could not kill me by that stream so now you have sworn to make me miserable. You have won!”

“I’m sorry! Eufrates, I’m so sorry–”

“Enough tricks . I will cut you down and I will know peace again.”

“None of it was your fault.”

“Shut up !”

“Please…”

“I tried to reason with you before, Cyril, I really–”

“I know.”

“You just kept running away.”

“I know.”

“You’ve taken everything from me.”

“I know.”

“You left me alone!”

“I know .”

“Death is too good for you.”

Cyril was about to repeat himself. I know, I know, I know over and over until Eufrates finally saw that he was well and truly ready to prostrate himself before him in penitence. He would bare his neck to the blade like a caught animal, genuflect on the chopping block, if only Eufrates would let him explain how horribly he’d ruined everything.

Before he could do this, though, he felt a sharp sting on his side, low under where his heart would have been, if he believed he was still in possession of such a thing.

He did not look down. He touched where it hurt. It felt warm and wet, sticky. He was surprised, in all his years, that he had never felt this before. It was not as bad as a broken arm, he thought, in a fit of mania.

“Cyril…” Eufrates said in a soft, incredulous voice. Oh, how he missed that voice. They had not been this close since the dance. Cyril wanted to collapse into his arms. Perhaps Tigris could tell her brother about what they had discovered. His first death had been such a disaster, he did not want to waste this second one, which seemed perfect and correct.

Eufrates did not pull the sword from his stomach, which felt fair. The quicker he bled out, the quicker he would die and that would be too merciful. His hands were shaking. One still held onto the hilt, the other was now on Cyril’s waist, like he wanted to keep him upright. When Cyril looked up, he saw that his husband looked horrified.

Cyril’s brow knit together. But, of course, his true, noble husband would feel no joy from a murder, not even of a creature such as he. He needed to tell him it was alright.

He tried to speak again, but a bubble of thick bloody phlegm swelled inside his throat, and he choked and coughed an orchid of red all over Eufrates’s cuirass. Eufrates flinched as if stung. He was right to. That was disgusting. And Cyril had cheapened the bronze.

“You– you are right,” he finally managed. “You have been right all along. I am a flighty, empty-headed fool. And I am sorry. Eufrates, I am so sorry.”

“Do not speak,” Eufrates said in a very strained voice.

“No, please. I would like your ear once more, as I used to have. You have never been cruel. You are not a tyrant. If I had been able to see it, I would not have gotten you into such a horrible mess. Tig – Tigris, she will… she will explain everything to you–”

“ Tigris? ”

“Shh. Yes, ask Tantie and she will make it so – so you can speak to her. Eufrates, I should not have stolen her away from you.” He tasted another wave of copper on his tongue. This time, he forced himself to swallow it back in, choked as a sob, so it would not tarnish Eufrates again.

“Do not speak,” he said louder, more commanding.

“Let me finish . You will not forgive me, but I am sorry.” Eufrates’s hand was on his back now, cradling him. Cyril ventured to bring his own palms, bloodied as they were, up to Eufrates’s chest. Like this, from a distance, they were lovers again.

“You are not making sense.” There was a tense, pleading note to Eufrates’s tone that Cyril didn’t understand.

“I am sorry. Ah – I’ve said that. How can I say it more? Perhaps you should have stabbed somewhere less fatal. Made it last.”

“It is not fatal!” Pleading turned to a strange, desperate anger, but it did not seem directed at him. Eufrates was trembling. “Cyril, I had not meant to-–“

Cyril smiled and reached up to stroke through Eufrates’s hair. “I know. But for what it’s worth, I would not have had it any other way.”

“Stop it! Stop talking ! Shut up!” The hand that was on the sword finally let go of it to palm at the wound, as though a stopgap. “Gods, you have always been so dramatic !”

When he bucked forward to laugh – a huff of air that instantly turned into another cough – his head collapsed with Eufrates’s shoulder. Perhaps he was right. It was time to shut up. He felt pathetic like this, making Eufrates worry over killing him when it was all he had wanted but an hour ago. He closed his eyes and breathed deep in through his nose, inhaling as much of his scent as he could.

Then, because he could not possibly have a peaceful, quiet death, he felt a scorching in his chest, an overwhelming heat that threatened to engulf him spread all the way to the wound like a cauterizing fire.

Cyril gritted his teeth and bore it. He only opened his eyes when he heard Eufrates scream.

There was a pained expression on his face, scrunched tight and sweat beading on his handsome brow. He gasped and pushed Cyril away as they both collapsed to the floor in front of each other.

Cyril was used to this feeling of being burned alive, so he took it better than Eufrates, who shuddered on the floor, convulsing with his arms over his stomach as though he himself had been stabbed. He wanted to reach out to him, but any movement made him feel faint and dizzy.

As though he were experiencing it second-hand, he vaguely noticed the sword plunged into his side was sliding out of him, still slick with blood. He blinked a few times, and when the pain, the heat subsided, he looked down at the wound.

It was not gone, but it had transformed. Cyril lifted up his shirt to show a soft, toneless midriff and, near his ribs, a flash of deep, white scar tissue, starbursting out of him.

He looked up and noticed Eufrates was looking at the scar too. Eufrates opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, stunning himself back to silence.

Just then, a cat padded in, claws clicking against neat flooring. Cyril turned to look at her, then pointed.

“Oh. There is Tigris,” he said to Eufrates.

Then, he collapsed.