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Epicrates pushed the door open an inch, peeking in to the slightly darkened room beyond. It was far past dusk. Most of the Tower, including most of the Knights still present, had retired to their quarters or set out on the short walk to the nearest tavern. Just as he had stripped his armaments and prepared several vials to milk venom from the fangs of his serpents, a small note had appeared under his door. Not a demonic whisper in the wall, but something akin to it. He donned a thick leather glove he used for handling his more prickly serpents and lifted the parchment. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to betray him with poison imbued paper. Tilting it towards the candle, he kept it at arm’s reach as he squinted his eyes at some of the worst handwriting he had ever seen:
“Come to the Round Table after everyone else is asleep. We have much to discuss about how this cycle ends – Your Old Friend”
Which is why he was here now, closer to dawn than nightfall, the chill of the Tower permeating his very bones. He had a strange feeling this had never happened before; a reverse deja-vu. Each detail required cautious committing to memory. The smell of embers, the logs burnt down to their final gasping heaves. The groan of the door as it shut behind him, and the clear click of the latch. The steady adjustment of his eye to dim light, as two candles and the remains of the fire failed in their battle against the night. The Sovereign, for he still knew no other name for them, sat on the largest chair at the head of the table. Their head rested on their hands, the linen of their garments falling down to reveal their bandaged forearms. Their mask was just to the side, like a curious dog, and they did not look up as he entered.
In front of them, resting on the table, was a single, massive golden key.
Epicrates stood a little straighter. Suddenly, the evening’s events became clear. A lingering apprehension he hadn’t even noticed evaporated from him as his role in this story settled back upon his shoulders.
“Good evening, your Grace,” he said, his voice steady and knowing, “You sent for me.”
The mask tilted up to look at him. There was a moment where they just stared, like somehow they hadn’t expected him to actually be there.
“I did,” they said, almost too quietly, “Please, be at ease. Sit,”
He chuckled just a little, low and dark,
“Is that an order?”
He had to imagine they smiled, because he heard it in their voice.
“Call it an invitation,”
“I suppose I accept,” he said. The air was a little lighter, but still thick with something he couldn’t quite name. He supposed the appropriate thing would be to sit opposite, at the far end of the table, but this felt like a conversation for low voices. He circled around until he came to a chair to their right, leaving one seat empty between them for the sake of propriety. He sat sideways, facing the monarch directly, resting his elbows on his knees.
The Sovereign still did not look at him. They remained almost motionless, a perfect marble statue beholding the golden key of eld. The scent of embers was almost choking, slowly morphing into pure smoke. The first sliver of cold entered the room.
“So, Epicrates,” they said at last, as though to an audience bigger than himself, “Tell me what you would have me do with this.”
The mask tilted towards him slightly. He tried, and again failed, to catch a glimpse of the real, human eyes under there. He knew, deep down, that the Sovereign was human, but until he knew for certain, how could he eliminate the idea that they were something else?
“For now? Wait,” he said, with a non-committal shrug, “The time isn’t right. The Empire are yet to make their move. When they do, I can tell you more.”
Finally, the Sovereign actually moved, leaning back in their chair with a long exhale. The blank plane of the mask turned to face him fully, as if succumbing to some gravity.
“I had a feeling you were going to say something mysterious,” they said, “You really won’t tell me?”
“If you don’t already know and aren’t testing me, it would be unwise for me to tell you too soon,” he explained.
“Do you think I would react poorly?”
“I think you would have me killed,” he said, “You would not be the first.”
“Would it be a first for me ?” they asked, leaning slightly towards him.
“Perhaps,” he replied, monotonous, “But I am cautious by nature.”
They chuckled at that. This conversation was happening too fast, too quietly. It felt like a secret they were keeping from the tower itself. Outside, nothing stirred. Everyone else in the story was already asleep.
With no warning whatsoever, the Sovereign stood and moved the intervening chair, turning it to face him, and plopped down in it. Their knees were practically touching. There was something completely inexplicable about how comfortable the Sovereign had always been in his presence, like he was a tide that would rise and ebb on schedule. They had known each other a while, that much was clear to them both, but there was something missing at the edges. Some truth that both of them knew but neither could articulate.
“I’m the curious sort, as you know,” they said, voice so low he had to lean in to hear it, “Would it help if I said I would never hurt you?”
“No,” Epicrates replied, leaning back into the cold wood of the chair just for something real, “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
They hummed, processing,
“You’re not the type for sentiment, I suppose,”
“I disagree,” he replied, firmly, “I am a man of strong sentiment.”
The Sovereign’s fingers drummed against the arm of the chair, not impatiently. They were toying with each other, he realised. Playing.
“Sentiment, or conviction?”
“Can it not be both? I fail to see a requirement for such a divide,” he explained, “I have committed myself to the radical empowerment of the ordinary person. I see their humanity and I believe deeply in their right for self-determination. That is not per se pure logic and reason, rather sentiment with conviction.”
It was at this exact moment, mid-counterpoint, that he realised the Sovereign was not wearing their customary chain. All of their attire was exactly as it always was, apart from the wide chain they wore around their neck with the single lock at the centre. Epicrates had always wondered why no one questioned why a monarch would wear a lock around their neck, as though chaining them into their own garb. The malice from the thing was palpable. It rank of foul, demonic magic and poor choices.
“You’re not wearing it,” he said, dumbly. It was rare that something surprised him – ever. Why had this? The Sovereign just hummed upwards in question, reaching up to touch their mask in alarm. The idea that was a thing they could forget somewhat amused him.
“Oh- I. Yes,” they said, suddenly pausing, “You know about that, I assume.”
“You assume a great deal of me,” Epicrates replied. Two could play at this game, “But let’s say I do.”
“It is not assumption, it is belief,” they said, shaking their head before catching on an idea, “It’s about that, isn’t it? The key?”
Epicrates didn’t answer. He let the silence hang accusingly. He couldn’t tell them, not now. He had seen how the wheels of fate turned. If he demanded they resist the Tower’s demonic power, they would certainly use it. If he just let fate move as it would, like a stream flowing to the lowest point, hopefully this would be the path where they listened. The Sovereign processed the silence as if it was an answer in itself, sitting upright in their chair and processing, nodding their head slightly. For a moment they just stared at him. If he were a weaker man, perhaps he would squirm under such a gaze, but he would not. Under that mask was a person. A person who, if the stories held true, once had nothing. There had to be something under there, under all that power, that understood.
“Tell me one thing, then,” they said softly. It was so quiet and they were sat so closely he could hear the words reverberate as they hit the inside of the mask. Slowly, as though not to startle him, the Sovereign removed one thick wool glove, laid it on the table, and took one of his hands. He blinked once, twice. Their hand was bandaged, like his, but he could feel the ridges of scarring even underneath. It was not a delicate hand, like a nobleman. It was stubby, almost. Worn down.
“Do I die at the end of this?”
Epicrates looked at them for one long moment. What little he owed them, he gave them in an unflinching stare. He allowed no pity to cross his features, no anxiety. Just a knowing and resounding look. His throat was barren.
They gave his hand one, firm squeeze and let go. Inexplicably, he missed it.
“Thank you,” they said. They did not move, “You may go.”
He paused for one long second, watching their shoulders slump. All their pain seemed to crawl back into them from the darkness. After all that had passed between them, surely it was nearly dawn, but it refused to break.
“Is that an order?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly.
“Never,” they replied.
As though outside of himself, Epicrates stood, rested his hand on the Sovereign’s shoulder and pressed his forehead to the mask. He stayed there for just a moment, breathing the same air. The candles had burned so low they were almost in darkness. Here in the deepest night, they could keep what the light would destroy. Whatever this was.
“For whatever it is worth,” he said, “I am sorry.”
And he left.