Chapter Text
She wasn’t retreating, Harrow told herself firmly as she stole onto a small balcony hidden in an alcove of the grand ballroom. The Ninth House never backed down; she was just—regrouping, that was all.
(The whirl of colors and people and smells and lights had already been a lot even before the more faded Third House twin had come cozying up, sneering at her shabby, mended dress and rusted diadem and torque.
She had taken solace in the fact that at least she didn’t look like a faded copy of someone else and had simply kept up her best answering icy sneer, and that had worked until the brilliantly sparkling, golden twin came bounding over, all wreathed in smiles and wanting to talk.
She had to get away after that.
It wasn’t as if she was hiding —she was simply standing here so she could gather her thoughts and think how best to appeal to Her Divine Highness on how to better the Ninth House without revealing the decrepit state of her house or coming off as trying to present herself as a viable spousal candidate.
Which shouldn’t be too hard, because honestly, Aiglamene was right.
Unless Her Divine Highness is a brilliant necromancer who also specializes in bones—which she has never heard tell of, and if she was, Harrowhark would still be better—she doubts that she holds much appeal for her, especially given the gorgeous array of people in attendance at this ball.
Not that it matters—that’s not why she’s here.)
There’s a fwip sound, and Harrow turns around to see what looks like some kind of white cloth dangling on the ground behind her. She frowns as she looks up, and her eyes widen as she sees some tall, muscular figure using what looks like a rope made out of bedsheets to scale down from a window high above to the balcony that she is standing on.
(What in the world—
A thief?
What thief would dare to break into the First House?
No—based on the person’s physique and use of a bedsheet ladder of all things—possibly a member of the Emperor’s personal guard or a wayward house cavalier?
Maybe they are trying to sneak into the ball?
Well, that’s unacceptable; no one should be skulking around about this place.
Also, they’re going to give away her hideaway.)
She takes out one of the bone chips in the curve of her ear, and before the miscreant has even noticed her, she’s formed up a towering bone construct that grabs the person from the ridiculous bedsheet ladder and sets them down in front of her.
It turns out to be a girl, perhaps a little older than herself, with dark skin and short red hair and sunglasses on despite the dark, with her hand on the hilt of an absolutely massive greatsword on her back. Upon seeing her, however, the girl stills and stares at her.
Harrow simply quirks up a disdainful eyebrow. “Are you simply attempting to abandon your duties, or are you attempting to badly creep your way into the ball?”
The girl’s eyebrows raise as she says, “Creep my way into—yeah no, uh—the first? Definitely the first.”
Harrow looks down her nose at her, and up close, she can now see a pearlescent, shimmering cloth of First House colors tied haphazardly around the girl’s neck.
(So—probably a member of the Emperor’s personal guard than, rather than a lazy house cavalier.
Far be it from her to question God himself, but—his attention must be distracted by finding his daughter a spouse if his personal guard even dares actions like this.
Still—attacking a member of the Emperor’s retinue probably wouldn’t do her or the Ninth House any favors.)
She begrudgingly loosens the hands of her construct, sending it lumbering back to her side. The guard stands up easily, her broad back flexing as she swings her muscular arms around, peering curiously at her construct and then back at her.
“You should return to your post before your absence is discovered and the wrath of your superior befalls on you,” Harrow says haughtily, her hands itching to pull down her pinned-up veil. Even through the dark sunglasses, she can feel the guard’s gaze rake over her face.
Instead of obediently obeying like any Ninth House thrall, the guard grins crookedly instead. “While my minder is a terrifying soul who strikes horror into all souls including mine at times, I’m willing to take the risk. Black clothes, face-paint, bones, bones, and more bones—You’re Ninth House, aren’t you? …Harrow, was it?”
Harrow draws herself up to her full height (how dare someone she doesn’t even know call her so familiarly) “ I am The Reverend Daughter of Drearburh, heir to the Ninth House and the long line of guardians of the Locked Tomb, Harrowhark Nonagesimus.”
The guard snaps her fingers, “Right, that. Bit of a mouthful though, isn’t it? Suits you, don’t get me wrong—you’ve got the black vestal, shadow cultist thing down cold . Hey—if you’re busy hiding here being mysterious, do you mind letting your construct fight me? Its hands look like swords, it’s really cool.”
“I am not hiding here,” Harrow lies with great dignity, inwardly seething. “And you should return to your duties before my construct throws you off the balcony—”
She hears Aiglamene’s familiar, lopsided step, and before she can even think, she’s already dissolved her bone construct while shoving the miscreant guard forward. When she doesn’t move an inch (she must be made of solid muscle), Harrow simply ducks and hides behind her bulk.
“My lady, pardon my bluntness, but even Ortus is out there mingling around, and your absence won’t do our cause any good, especially since I believe Ortus is now attempting a poetry battle against the Seventh House primary cavalier—oh, my apologies, I thought my—charge was here.”
“No worries, just keeping guard in case of rebel assassins dropping down from the rafters you know,” the guard says cheerfully, not giving her away. “Darn those perfidious assholes.”
There’s a pause, and even without looking, Harrow knows that Aiglamene is raising her eyebrows. “…indeed. Well—carry on and—if you happen to see the Reverend Daughter, please let her know that her primary cavalier is about to recite his poetry.”
As Aiglamene clomps away, Harrow lets out a held breath and looks up to meet the guard’s mirrored gaze.
Despite the sunglasses covering up her eyes, she looks very amused.
“I did not require your help,” Harrow says frostily.
The guard’s eyebrows go up. “Well—you’re welcome. And you’re such a hypocrite—you’re totally skivving off too!”
“I am not skivving ,” Harrow says, giving the word all the incredulity and distaste it requires, “I am simply—taking in a breath of fresh air.”
The guard’s mouth twists in a way that makes obvious how little she’s buying Harrow’s story.
“And avoiding my cavalier’s epic poetry recitation,” Harrow continues doggedly on.
(Aiglamene is overreacting, the worst damage Ortus can cause is sheer boredom she’s sure.
After all, she’s heard his Noniad enough times to even be able to recite most of it—to her horror—and she’s more or less fine, and who knows, maybe the Seventh House will find something picturesque in its sheer length if not its actual contents.)
The guard grimaces, “Yeah, that sounds like a drag. Still—don’t you want to try and attract Her Divine Highness?”
“ I did not come here to prance and preen like some popinjay to attempt to attract Her Divine Highness’ regard,” Harrow says coldly.
The guard chuckles, glancing into the ballroom, “Yeah, they are a bit like birds right now, aren’t they? Fun to watch—and so sparkly, but actually being in the midst of it would be exhausting. Although in that case, why are you here?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Harrow snaps.
The guard sighs and leans back against the wall, “Come on, Reverend Daughter—you’re stuck on a balcony with nowhere to go, and you won’t even let me fight your construct a bit. It’s either we sit here in dreary awkward silence—which, have enough of that at family dinners, thanks—or we make some conversation. Besides, you never know, maybe I could help you.”
Harrow looks more closely at her.
(Her clothes, while plain, do seem to be of very fine make. They certainly put her mended and patched dress to shame—and could even perhaps stand up to the Fifth House’s finery. So perhaps she is—a high-ranked member of the Emperor’s personal guard? She doesn’t look that much older than herself, but her biceps are enormous , so maybe it all balances out.
She doesn’t need allies—she’s run the entire Ninth House since she was ten, so of course she can manage all this herself.
But—if that were true, she wouldn’t be here seeking help for the Ninth.
For the sake of her House, she can lower herself to seek aid.
And perhaps—this is a member of the Emperor’s personal household, surely she holds some insight on how best to appeal to Her Divine Highness for aid.)
“…my House grows old as its blood grows thin, and I would ask Her Divine Highness to intercede on our behalf,” Harrow says, picking her words carefully (it wouldn’t do to let anyone know of how extremely dire her House’s circumstances really were after all).
“Huh. Why not just ask for general imperial aid then?”
“And have the Fifth or Third Houses take over? I think not,” Harrow snaps, her hands clenching in the voluminous sleeves of her dress. “As long as I draw a single breath, I will not allow the colorful flags of another house to fly above Drearbruh. The Ninth and its secrets shall ever be its own, and the Tomb will be guarded and kept safe by those who respect and honor it, not some spirit magicians or God forbid, flesh magicians.”
“No go on, tell me how you really feel,” the guard chuckles then tilts her head. “You love your House that much?”
(Love is not the word for it.
The future of her House was sacrificed to produce her, and she cannot bear to let all 200 and more of those lives go to waste.
Not that anything she could do—even if she somehow managed to beg Her Divine Highness to renew her House and made it greater than it ever was and justified its existence in the eyes of God the Emperor—even if she made her whole life a monument to those who died to ensure she would live and live powerfully—even then she’d be an abomination that the whole universe out to scream at whenever her feet touched the ground.
Nothing would make their sacrifice for her worth it.
It made no difference—and yet, she still had to try.
She didn’t know not how to try—even when her own parents had finally succumbed to their own guilt and fear and killed themselves in the end—still she figured out how to raise their bodies and puppeteer their skeletons about.
She’s not even good at dying—so the least she can do is try to see the Ninth House into glory again, even if she has to lower herself to beg at the feet of Her Divine Highness.)
“Death first to vultures and scavengers and those who would forsake their oaths,” Harrow says finally, meeting the guard’s gaze squarely.
“…nearly everything you say is so ominous, it’s amazing,” the guard says admiringly, grinning at her for some reason. “Your devotion to your house is—admirable. You don’t see that very often.”
“We are the Ninth , not the Third,” Harrow says with a slight sniff.
The guard shrugs, “Oh, I don’t know. The Third’s not so bad sometimes—their primary cavalier is annoying as fuck to fight, but you know, there’s some primo eye candy all over there, so it kind of balances out. A little. Sometimes.”
Harrow gives her a very unimpressed look. “Is that why you wanted to sneak into the ball? To go stare at some members of the Third House?”
“Not at all. I very much want to be lightyears away from the ball,” the guard says fervently. “If the ball was necromancy lessons—if the ball was having to give up my two-hander—if the ball was Mercy, and I was Augustine, it still doesn’t cover how little I want to be at the ball. Why do you think I made a ladder out of bedsheets to get away?”
“Dramatic much?” Harrow asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Says the black vestal who formed a cool giant skeleton construct to grab me,” the guard points out, arching an eyebrow right back.
Harrow shrugs delicately. “What else did you expect from a black vestal?”
“Bones for sure,” the guard replies promptly. “Didn’t expect them to be so cool though—and you’re chattier than I thought a nun of the Locked Tomb would be.”
“So sorry to disappoint,” she sneers (why should that hurt? It doesn’t—obviously it doesn’t).
“It’s not a bad thing!” the guard hastens to say. “I’m—this isn’t exactly how I planned the evening on going, but—it hasn’t been too bad so far?”
(She sounds genuine.
It doesn’t make up for her slacking off from her duties, but—
So far the guard doesn’t seem—terrible.
She was by far better company than all the necromancers and cavaliers and House attendants inside, anyway.)
“Although you know what would make it better? A fight—”
“I am not creating a construct for you to fight just because you think its arms look like swords,” Harrow says, barely refraining from rolling her eyes.
“You absolutely sure you don’t want to bring up your construct again to fight me?” the guard wheedles. “Doesn’t have to be as gigantic as before if you’ve run out of juice—”
“I’m never out of juice ,” Harrow snaps, then makes a face as the guard sniggers. “Stop your puerile snickering—although I could very easily raise the construct again, how do you suggest you fight it on this balcony without attracting outside attention?”
The guard cracks her neck and swings her arms back a bit. “It’d be a challenge, that’s true—I don’t think you want to be caught any more than I do though, so it could count as a test of your ability as well?”
Harrow raises an eyebrow, “Are you challenging me?”
“What? Don’t tell me the Ninth House is all talk, it’ll crush all my childhood dreams,” the guard says with a grin.
(She knows she’s being baited, and yet—
And yet she’s tempted.
After all, the one thing she knows she’s good at is raising constructs and fighting with them.
But—if she’s going to risk doing something rash in the First House, then she wants something in return.)
“I will fight you— if you tell me how to best appeal to and gain Her Divine Highness’ aid,” Harrow finally says.
The guard chuckles. “Oh that? That’s easy—she’s a sucker for helping people anyway. And let me tell you—fighting me? That will definitely get you on her good side. Her Divine Highness loves a good fight.”
Harrow frowns (…that doesn’t sound quite right). “Her Divine Highness is the blessing to our Kindly Prince, the Necrosaint Prime, the Emperor in the long years of his immortal life, and is his greatest, most cherished treasure—and you’re saying she loves a good fight?”
“Oh yeah, being coddled is boring, and it’s not like she gets to fight—see new people fight that often,” the guard says eagerly. “So—you in?”
(She could be lying—and she is far too blithe about Her Divine Highness, but Harrow doesn’t sense any guile from her on this.
Time to show her what the Ninth House is made of.)
“Prepare yourself,” she says portentously as her hulking construct once again rises by her side, and she specifically sharpens its hands to look more like swords.
An absolutely savage grin streaks across the guard’s face as she takes the broadsword off her back and licks her lips. “Let’s dance, Reverend Daughter.”
The guard is fast, not even bothering to take off her ridiculous sunglasses before rushing forward and swinging around her massive broadsword as though it’s nothing, and meeting her construct’s strike with a blow from her sword that would have shattered its arm to pieces if she hadn’t specifically reinforced it to try and deaden the sound.
As it is, it still cleaves into the bone, and Harrow sends the construct’s other arm grasping after her, while sharpening it into hooks to better nab her, but the guard just twists out of the way and kicks off from her construct and used the resulting momentum to wrench her sword up for another strike—
“There you are.”
The guard skids to a halt, and Harrow turns around to see a dark-haired woman with golden eyes who is so inhumanely beautiful that it veers into nearly uncanny .
The guard frowns, not bothering to put her sword away. “Oh come on, A.L—okay, yeah I know I’m skipping the ball, but come on look—giant skeleton!”
The woman glances at Harrow’s construct, blinks once, then turns back to the guard. “Gideon, it’s time.”
(Gideon?
….wasn’t Her Divine Highness’ name—
Oh no.
Oh no.
This was not good.)
“But—uh—” the guard—Gideon (no, Her Divine Highness—should she grovel now? Protocol would suggest that she should, but on the other hand, how would she have been able to tell that this slovenly, viciously fast, surprisingly easy to talk to girl was the Emperor’s one and only child? ) shoots a slightly apologetic look at her, lowering the sunglasses down her nose to reveal her equally golden eyes (was this woman Her Divine Highness’ mother? Besides the eyes they didn’t look anything alike—and she had called her A.L.—). “I’m… busy socializing with the Ninth House?”
The woman gives Her Divine Highness nearly the same blank look Harrow is shooting at her. “Are you now.”
“Yeah! And we’re having a really great time—really getting to know each other and everything—inter-house relations at its finest,” Her Divine Highness babbles on. “So much diplomacy and—and cultural exchange going on here.”
“…through fighting a bone construct,” the woman says flatly.
“It was my idea!” Her Divine Highness quickly interjects before Harrow can even begin to panic. “I wanted to—see the Ninth House’s mastery of bone magic up close and personal.”
“…well, if that’s the case, then you won’t mind leading the Reverend Daughter in the first dance of the evening.”
“Uh—yeah! Sure!”
“What,” Harrow says flatly.
“If you’re okay with it, I mean!” Her Divine Highness says reassuringly, turning back to her, and biting her lip.
(…Her Divine Highness was asking her to dance the first dance of the ball with her?
She hadn’t even bothered to imagine that happening—she and Aiglamene hadn’t even bothered discussing what would happen if Her Divine Highness happened to take an interest in her—she had only learned the ballroom dances so as not to embarrass herself in the off-chance she’d have to dance with her cavalier—
And—what exactly are Her Divine Highness’ intentions here?
Does it really matter though—this is the Emperor’s only child asking, and what other choice does she have?)
“…how could I possibly say no,” Harrow says tonelessly, attempting to smile.
Her Divine Highness for some reason frowns at that, then turns back to the woman. “Hey, A.L., can you give us a sec?”
The woman doesn’t move, just crossing her arms.
“I’m not going to run away—I swear on my sword,” Her Divine Highness says, patting the sword that she has set back on her back. “Come on—even if you don’t trust me, surely you can trust the Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House?”
While Harrow feels personally like that statement should be laughed at with all the derision it deserves ( Harrow wouldn’t trust the Ninth House with anything that wasn’t Ninth House business), but for some reason that appears to convince the woman, who gives her an unsettling glance with her golden eyes before nodding, turning, and walking away.
“Sorry about that,” Her Divine Highness sighs. “A.L. is—A.L.”
“…is she Your Highness’ guard?” Harrow tentatively asks.
“She’s supposed to be my father’s bodyguard, but she’s pretty much my minder too, yeah,” Her Divine Highness shrugs. “Mostly she’s terrifying—but anyway—I know it’s a lot to ask since I know you’re not here for that, but would you mind dancing the first dance of the ball with me?”
“I already gave Your Highness my answer,” Harrow points out carefully.
Her Divine Highness frowns. “That wasn’t really an answer—also stop calling me ‘Your Highness,’ I keep thinking my father is behind me. Just call me Gideon.”
(The fact that Her Divine Highness has a name as banal as Gideon does nothing to make Harrow actually want to say it.)
“If you don’t want to dance with me, you can just tell me,” Her Divine Highness continues sincerely. “I know that—I kind of let you think I was someone else but—I don’t want to come off as some kind of creep.”
“You’re not a creep,” Harrow says before she can stop herself. “I mean—of course you couldn’t possibly be…”
“…because I’m the Emperor’s daughter?” Her Divine Highness lets out a mirthless laugh and runs a frustrated hand through her red hair. “You’ll find that the First House is—probably not what you think it is.”
(Well, she neither knows what that means, nor does she know what to say to that.
But—she does sound genuine about not wanting to force her to dance if she doesn’t want to.
The problem is—Harrow isn’t even sure if she wants to dance with her or not.
On one hand, it was obviously a great honor and a chance to further talk to Her Divine Highness about lending aid to the Ninth House.
And—she didn’t seem creepy—and she could even perhaps feel if her biceps were as enormous as they looked—
Not that she is having any impure thoughts about anyone , much less Her Divine Highness, Harrow is a black vestal after all.)
“…you were quite persistent in trying to get a fight with my construct, yet you’ll take no for an answer for a dance?” she asks, stalling for time.
“That was different,” Her Divine Highness immediately argues, “You obviously like giant bones—hahaha, although I didn’t mean like that —and it was a fun fight, right?”
“…it was acceptable,” Harrow allows.
(If they did it again, she’d need to reinforce her construct’s arms right off the bat, but perhaps lighten the legs a bit for speed—
But she’s not going to get a chance to fight Her Divine Highness again, so why is she making plans like that.
At the very least—they could have a different sort of dance, and Harrow could continue talking to her there. )
“You can make up for its brevity by allowing me the honor of the first dance, I suppose,” Harrow says finally.
Her Divine Highness smiles at her crookedly, looking genuinely happy at the idea. “You won’t regret it, I swear! And yeah, the duel was short, I guess. Still—maybe after the ball—no wait. Hang on. ….I have a brilliant idea.”
Harrow doesn’t say anything, but perhaps she can’t keep her misgivings off her face because Her Divine Highness huffs and says, “Look, the duel was a cool idea, alright?”
“It led your minder straight to us,” Harrow points out.
“She would definitely have found me sooner or later on the balcony—that’s why I was trying to get away further. But not the point—hear me out,” Her Divine Highness says, holding up a hand. “Thank you for the first dance—otherwise I’d probably be crowded by suitors, but what do you say to making it a little bit longer than that?”
Harrow narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”
Her Divine Highness shifts in place a bit. “Like—what if we say that we’ve fallen ass over tea-kettle for each other and that we’re so deeply in love that I’ve already picked who I’m going to be engaged to?”
Harrow is fairly sure that if her eyes widen any further they’re going to fall out of their sockets. “…with me. That you would be engaged to me ?”
“Fake engaged!” Her Divine Highness corrects her, making a hushing sound and gesturing in the direction A.L. had left in. “Just long enough for me to get all the Cohort paperwork in order and ship out, and then you’ll never have to worry about it again!”
(It is unfortunate that Her Divine Highness has apparently taken complete leave of her senses .)
“You are joking,” Harrow says flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. “No one will believe it.”
“Hey, I can definitely act besotted, and I’m sure you can too, if the fate of your house is on the line,” Her Divine Highness points out.
Harrow goes cold. “…you would refuse aid to the Ninth House unless I did this for you?”
“No!” Her Divine Highness scrambles to say, “That isn’t what I meant at all—look, no matter what, I promise to do what I can for the Ninth House, alright? I’ll send you guys what you need—I’ll even ask Gideon the First to go oversee it after this ball.”
Harrow relaxes slightly. “…you would do that—just because I asked?”
“Because I see your devotion to your house, and that should be rewarded,” Her Divine Highness replies, her molten gold eyes holding her own.
(She suddenly feels awfully warm.
The planet of the First House has strange variations in temperature—it really is nothing like home.)
“Then—why do you need a fake fiancée?” she asks. “There is a ballroom of people inside clamoring to marry you—”
“They want to marry Her Divine Highness, not me,” Her Divine Highness grimaces. “And anyway, I don’t want to be married. I want to go fight in the Cohort.”
“…Can’t you?”
“No—father doesn’t want to allow it, and A.L. is watching me like a hawk,” Her Divine Highness explains. “But if I were engaged all of a sudden—well, for ambiance’s sake, A.L. couldn’t keep that close of a watch on me. And if I happen to slip away while visiting my lovely fiancée dark home—who would really know?”
“Leaving me trying to explain Your Highness’ absence when inevitably someone comes calling,” Harrow points out.
“…that won’t be for awhile, I’m sure, and I’ll leave a recording of myself absolving you of all blame and annulling our engagement if you want,” Her Divine Highness says. “Also, I thought I told you already—it’s Gideon.”
“Gideon,” Harrow says somewhat unwillingly, weighing the syllables in her mouth (it has heft—it is not hard to say now that she has actually said it out loud). “This appears to be a ridiculous plan.”
“But it’s a plan that might work ,” Gideon says, “It’s perfect—I can help you with getting more resources for the Ninth, and you can make sure that I don’t have to keep fending off suitors. And when the time goes to split, no one can say that you could have stopped me from running out to the frontlines.”
(She can think of some things the other Houses might say about how the frontlines were obviously more appealing than being married to the Ninth House, but by then—
But by then her house would have all the resources it needs, and what does she care for what other Houses might think of her then?
And there are worse things than pretending to be in love with someone who already understands her devotion to her house.)
“Come on, gloom mistress. My pretend-devotion to you will be as big as a mountain, penumbral lady. I’ll be your avowed fiancée, night boss,” Gideon pleads with her.
“What are you even saying, ” Harrow says with feeling. “If you really go through with this plan—it will be entirely platonic outside of what we will need to show to convince others of this farce, are we clear?”
Gideon beams at her, “Entirely, my tenebrous overlord.”
“ And stop calling me that ,” Harrow snaps.
(Pretend to be in love when she’s never had any experience in that and when the subject is Her Divine Highness.
Well—Gideon is easy on the eyes, at least, and doesn’t appear to be a bore.
It’s certainly more enjoyable than she had thought the ball was going to be.)
Gideon just grins, then nods and holds out a hand, “Then we have a deal, Reverend Daughter.”
Harrow takes in a deep breath, schools her features, and intones, “A deal then, Your Divine Highness,” and clasps her hand in her own.
Gideon’s grin goes crooked at her light touch, then raises her hand up to her face and—kisses it.
“Let’s get this party started then, shall we?” she asks, her golden eyes dancing as she leads her into the ball.
(Her heart feels as though it’s in her throat the entire time, but Gideon is a steady, unflappable presence at her side, chatting on, and leaning in to laugh with her when the glares of the other Houses grow pointed.
They whirl together in a flurry of black under the crystalline lights and Aiglamene’s and Ortus’ astonished gazes, Gideon’s hand a warm brand at the small of her back, and she thinks—
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
She doesn’t believe in fairytales, but this—this is pretty nice.)