Chapter Text
In the myriadic year of our Lord — the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!— Harrow Nova curled her body deep within the contents of Ortus Nigenad’s trunk, burying herself within the endless darkness that constituted the cavalier primary’s wardrobe.
The heavy chain of her offhand dug into her hip, and she held her rapier in an awkward grasp against her chest. A bag with the strict necessities was strapped to her back, a change of clothes, some gloves, and a package of porridge in case she got peckish. She was already finding it hard to breathe, the heavy cloth of a robe pressing down on her body and blocking her nose. She adjusted herself just a bit, carving a hollow for her face amongst the belongings.
The shuttle was scheduled to arrive within half an hour. She would be placed amongst the cargo, and once she left the planet, she would plead her case. Ortus agreed with her, she would make a better cavalier primary for these trials, it would be two against one, and the Reverend Mother and Reverend Father would not be around to sway their Daughter’s decision. She was more skilled in every way, the Daughter would be stupid to send Harrow back.
Though the Reverend Bastard was stupid on the best of days.
Harrow was jostled slightly, the chain pressing harder into her leg and almost certainly leaving bruises. The trunk was on the move, and Harrow was hit with the sudden realization that nausea was creeping up her throat. Motion sickness, perfect.
The travel was long, bumpy, and once she was dropped. Her head cracked against the lid of the trunk, thankfully softened by the horrible, weighty robe of Ortus the Ninth. She was eventually laid to rest and she gave herself a moment to dry heave.
Once recovered she pressed her ear to the wall of the trunk, trying to work out her surroundings. There was some clattering of bones, a heavy thud of more luggage, then the pompous steps of the Daughter.
“Ortus, do you have everything?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“You’re certain? We’re not turning around.”
“Yes.” It was weary. “My sword, panniers, your bag of bones.”
Bones clattered once more, skeletons disassembling into fragments. “Bag these up.”
Ortus went to work silently, an obedient beast of burden. The Daughter approached Harrow’s hiding spot, then plopped her egotistical ass right on it. Her voice was much clearer this way, except for when she kicked her leg against the trunk, blocking her words and wounding Harrow’s ears.
“You have practiced drills — the secondary — asked?”
That was simple enough to piece together, Harrow had sparred with Ortus almost daily since the summons arrived.
“Yes, my lady.”
“And — skills have — satisfactory?”
“More than.”
“Perfect. When is the shuttle due?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
There was a gentle crash as the Daughter laid her body across the trunk, a casual and infuriating thing she liked to do. Harrow slowly shifted within the trunk, having to move her hip off the aching pain caused by her offhand. It was slow and annoying, but she didn’t want the rattling chain to be heard.
After a few minutes of silence Harrow could hear the approaching footsteps of a group of at least four. The Reverend Daughter moved off the trunk, likely arranging herself to be more presentable. The group reached the luggage, stopping.
“It is with great pride we send the Scion of the Ninth and her cavalier primary to the House of the First, land of the King Undying,” the Reverend Father said, monotone. “We trust you will bring honour upon your House.”
“I am humbled to be the pride of our House,” replied the Reverend Daughter. It was a load of bull.
“Reverend Mother, would you lead us in prayer?”
“I pray the tomb is shut forever,” began the equally monotone voice of his wife. “I pray the rock is never rolled away.”
The prayer ran its course, the group listening with pious silence. Goodbyes were said, Ortus’ mother in a state of manic melancholy, but hiding it respectfully enough. Few words were spoken between the Daughter and the Parents, so it did not take long for the area to fall into a very Ninth silence.
The shuttle came after a few minutes of this, stirring the group back to life. Skeletons were erected and the luggage was brought aboard. Harrow listened closely as she was taken into the shuttle, praying she wouldn’t end up under any luggage.
Luckily, she was spared.
The cavalier primary boarded, followed by the Reverend Daughter, who spoke a few words of hope and humility to her little congregation. The shuttle door closed with a puff of air, and off the shuttle went.
Harrow could hear the Reverend Daughter collapse upon some luggage, a small burst of air leaving her lips. “Wow, I didn’t expect it to be so instant.”
“What, my lady?”
“Cut the ‘my lady’ crap, we’re off planet.” The Daughter shuffled a bit. “The thanergenic drop, it feels awful.”
“Anything I can do?”
“No.” A groan. “Let’s hope this shuttle is fast.”
“It will be.”
The Daughter took a few moments to apparently settle into the effects of space. She was up and moving after a little longer, pacing a short length along the shuttle. Then she walked right up to Harrow’s trunk, undid the clasps, and flipped the lid up in one fluid movement. The dark robe was ripped off her body, and Harrow squinted at the intrusion of light. She was sure she looked feral, and not at all as professional as she wanted to be. Her hair was sticking awkwardly from static, and she was settled into a position akin to road kill.
“Get up,” grunted the heir of the Ninth.
Harrow sat herself up, balancing her rapier between her legs and flattening her hair hastily with her hands. “How did you know I was in there?”
The Reverend Daughter scoffed, her painted skull twisting into a vision of pure annoyance. “You haven't been able to hide from me since we were little kids. And you may be scrawny, but a whole extra person in a trunk weighs a bit more.”
Harrow rolled her eyes, then shoulders, and got out of the trunk as gracefully as she could, slipping the rapier into her belt. “If you knew, why bring me? Would it not be simpler to leave me on the Ninth?”
“Probably.” She then refused to elaborate, slumping down on the lid of her trunk. She grabbed a canvas bag from the pile of luggage and tossed it at Harrow, the bag smacking her in the chest with a decent amount of force. “Now put this on, you look like you just crawled out of a crypt, and not in the cool way.”
Harrow sneered and ripped open the bag, it was a pile of black fabrics, tubs of facepaint, and strings of bones. “And this looks less sepulchral? This is practically the uniform of decrepit nuns.”
“You may be our best cavalier but you are still shit at taking orders. Just fucking put it on.” The Daughter sighed, worrying her temple with her thumb, shutting her eyes for a moment.
Harrow hazarded a glance at the silent and hulking frame of Ortus, who politely glanced elsewhere. She dumped out the contents of the bag, spent a few moments sorting through the layers of black-on-black-on-black, then got to work dressing herself. A simple black shirt and pants, shiny lace up boots, a padded piece of chest protection, and a heavy hooded cloak that practically devoured her frame. The strings of bone didn’t seem too specific, so she settled on wrapping them around her wrists. By the time the golden eyes had opened again, Harrow was busy strapping on her belt and collecting her offhand.
“Don’t forget the paint.”
Harrow grumbled but picked up the pot of paint, using her reflection in the shuttle window to apply a matte layer over her face, then carve a simple skull design in it with the black.
“Going to explain yourself yet, Reverend Bastard?”
“I shouldn’t have to.”
Harrow whipped around to give her a good glare. “Am I to read your mind? Are your convoluted plans so easy to tell?”
“Yes?” Gideon was quick to glance at her, rubbing her fingers against her short crop of hair. “I’m bringing my best cavalier to these trials. Ortus, bless his soul, is not that. I’m dropping him off on the Eighth to visit family, then we’re continuing on. What is so complex about that? Was that not your plan too, jackass?”
“Well, yes, I just thought there might be any amount of pushback-”
Gideon silenced her with the raise of a finger. “Would you like pushback? Sorry, did you want me to insult you and your skills and let you give whatever speech you’ve been planning?” She stood and walked over to Harrow, leaning over her with eyes like blazing fire. “I am giving you a chance to prove that you are worth the lives of a generation. You should be on your knees singing my praises, not questioning my methods.”
“I will not kneel for you, you yellow-eyed moron. I am not going to thank you for picking the best cavalier to make yourself look better. Do not pretend to be doing this for my benefit.”
“Tch. Well then.” A firm gloved hand grabbed Harrow by the back of the neck, shoving her down in one swift move. Her knees made contact with the metal floor first, then the palms of her hands. The heel of the Daughter’s boot found the soft flesh between Harrow’s pelvis and ribs, forcing a short grunt from her lips. “You’re my cavalier, you’ll do what the fuck I say, when I say it.”
Harrow glanced up, raised a hand, and flipped off the most powerful necromancer of the Ninth. “Die.”
Gideon’s face twitched into a scowl and she punted Harrow again, this time the force knocking Harrow all the way to the floor. Gideon’s boot drove into Harrow’s stomach twice before she was pulled back by Ortus, who was watching the whole scene with his dark and mournful eyes. His big arms were wrapped around the torso of the flailing Reverend Daughter, who despite wearing some of her nicest clothes for the trip, now looked like a feral rat that crawled out of the catacombs.
Harrow pushed herself up, abdominal muscles protesting, and got to her feet to dust herself off nonchalantly. “We are in deep space, Griddle, your powers are useless here. Try using your words.”
The Reverend Daughter, Honour of the Ninth, strongest necromancer of her generation, the Golden Light in the Dark Tomb, spit right on Harrow’s cheek.
Harrow recoiled as if a hot coal had landed on her cheek, frantically wiping her skin with her sleeve, and smearing the half dried facepaint everywhere. Gideon was laughing, a horrible barking sound full of teeth, doubled over and likely only staying off the floor because of Ortus’ support.
“You are a disgusting little cuckoo!” screeched Harrow, cringing and pawing at her cheek. “You live as Ninth royalty and yet you still have the manners of a street urchin!”
Gideon glanced up with a grin like knives, bent over in Ortus’ arms. “Suck it.”
Harrow bolted at Gideon, ready to claw her eyes out, but was stopped by a firm hand to the chest, Ortus holding her away from the golden-eyed creep.
“You two are not children,” Ortus began. “You are two of the strongest the Ninth has to offer, and you are being welcomed to the First for the opportunity of a myriad. Show some respect, for both yourselves and each other.”
Harrow was the first to take the high road, unsurprisingly, taking a step back. Gideon gave in after a long moment of Ortus’ disappointed silence, picking up her body weight and standing. Ortus let her go once he deemed her unlikely to immediately throttle Harrow. Gideon gently fixed her robe and resettled the bone necklace upon her chest.
“Fix your paint.”
Harrow gave a small glare but quietly walked back to the pots of paint, looking back at the window and patching her makeup. It was dead silent while she worked to methodically dab white paint on her exposed skin and clean up the black lines. Gideon shifted to sit back on her trunk, tapping the heel of her boot to snuff out the silence. Harrow bit back a groan.
Once she closed up the paint pots, Gideon turned her eyes on her. “Let me see.”
Harrow sneered. “I can apply paint well, you dolt. I wear it often.”
The golden eyes rolled but Gideon dropped the subject, letting the shuttle fall to silence with the exclusion of her worrisome heel. Harrow tried to watch the stars rushing by out the window, but that only triggered her motion sickness, and she resolved to sit amongst the luggage and try not to throw up.
After a while the Reverend Daughter perked up, shifting to sit up straighter and take a deep breath. “We’re here.”
She pushed herself up and was at the window, looking out at the incoming planet. Harrow hazarded a glance, catching the large and light House of the Eighth. Ortus began to gather his things, just as solemn as he ever was. The shuttle came to a stop after a moment, Gideon coming alive like a wilted flower given water, soaking in the thanergenic energy. Her belt of bones clattered to life, the hands dangling at the ends of them stretching as if they had been asleep.
Ortus pulled his hood further down to help block out some of the light radiating off the planet’s surface, taking a glance at his necromancer. “Thank you for the ride, my lady.”
The bony hand on Gideon’s belt waved him off in a simple gesture, her eyes not leaving the window. “Enjoy your vacation. Don’t get too homesick.”
Ortus glanced at Harrow, gave her a small nod, then opened the shuttle door and descended to the Eighth. Harrow caught the eyes of a few people of the planet, swathed in white, leaving a wide berth for the melancholic man who exited the shuttle. There were hissed whispers, glares, and general hatred radiating from the people of the Forgiving House. Gideon turned to look out the shuttle door, dripping in black robes and bones, sporting the paint of the shattered skull, one of the more grisly icons that gave her the appearance of someone who died a violent death. The Eighth recoiled.
Gideon moved to the door, pressed the button to close it, and then raised the skeletal hands on her belt. As the door slowly closed, the Eighth was treated to a view of the Scion of the Ninth, flipping them a bony double-bird.