My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER NINE

ix. the ambassador

witness
// silk drips from his thin arms, and memories hang underneath his unkind eyes. at night, his mind walks, and the ghosts of the shadows in his room open their dark, bottomless mouths to devour him.

————

King Johan III was a polite, hospitable host. That much Nivai would give him—would ever stoop to offer a man so foolishly trusting.

So destructively trusting. Like a child. A boy who'd never been wronged. Who didn't know the danger of the unknown; who'd never been warned of the insidious desires of strangers—of men like Nivai.

Of men whom Nivai had known.

Men and women—strange and familiar. Different in so many ways and yet alike in aspects just as numerous. How easily they had torn apart his kingdom; how readily they had abused the trust of their great, righteous king.

But Nivai was younger than King Johan III. What more could he know of the world? What more could his eyes have seen? What thoughts festered in his mind—haunted his waking hours, but not the king of Alaimore's?

But he didn't want to think of them—to be reminded of memories that had already stolen so much of the night from him. He didn't want to remember the time before King Orelus.

The chaos. The violence.

The blood.

It was hers.

Nivai closed his eyes—screwed them shut as tightly as he could. But that was wrong, and now he could see her. Her face—her eyes. She lived behind his eyelids—curled up in the back of his head, sleeping. Lying dormant in the shadows of his thoughts. Waiting. For the night to fall—for him to close his eyes so she could live again.

So she could breathe—

Idiot.

He forgot.

Idiot—idiot.

He forgot.

He opened his eyes—forced them as wide as they would go. But she was still there, swallowing his vision like the darkness of slumber—devouring his other thoughts. Like a sickness. Like a parasite. Living in him—off of him. Breathing the air in his lungs—warming herself with blood from his heart.

Everywhere—everywhere. Oh gods, oh gods he could smell it—

He grabbed for something—something hard; something real. So he could remember—so he could see something else besides her.

The palms of his hands pressed against something firm, and his shoulder fell against a surface just as hard. He clung to the solidity—to the reminder of a world outside of her—and then he started grabbing at his thoughts, jerking them away from her—tearing them out of her tight grip. They weren't hers anymore; they couldn't be hers anymore.

Where was he? He had to remember—he knew but he just needed to remember.

Remember that she wasn't there.

He knew where he was—he knew he knew he knew.

The castle—he was in a castle. He was in a castle, but it wasn't their king's—his king's. It belonged to another man. Another king. Who was he? He'd offered Nivai a tour on his first visit, but Nivai had declined because—