Symphony of A Crown // oxo romance // CLOSED

The butterflies continued to flutter about, now not so much curious as comfortable in the Sorceress's presence, even to the point of landing atop her head or on her shoulders, though they avoided the water snake around her neck. Gently, Zarya shifted, withdrawing a small canteen of water from where it had been clipped at her waist. She poured a generous amount out onto her palm, the humming growing to singing softly in her home tongue as the water oddly didn't fall from her hands.

Instead, it rose. First a floating ball of water, and then twisting into shapes. Arcs that moved with her hands, various animals and creatures, the water moved like it was dancing to the entrancing sound of Zarya's voice.

Mishal stepped into the clearing. “What is this?” Suddenly he was in her face, grabbed her wrist, “Keeping secrets from your host? Explain yourself!” He demanded.

Zarya had been so wrapped up in her song, in the magic winding its' way through her veins, that she hadn't noticed the Prince. And then he was there, his hand around his wrist and his face in hers and leaving them both in an awkward position, and scaring off the butterflies that had gathered.

Through some miracle, she didn't drop the water. She did, however, allow herself to get angry, just enough that her eyes swirled like the sea during a storm, sparking with the temper she tried to keep under wraps when she could.

"Explain myself? What, pray tell, are you expecting me to explain?" Zarya fired back, her accent thickening with her anger. It felt almost like a joke, him demanding her secrets like that. She had secrets she hadn't even shared with Amara, secrets she'd been keeping from everyone she knew. And most of them didn't affect the Prince at all. "I am a High Sorceress of the Azarian Court, and I did not get that title with cheap tricks performed by card wielders." Magicians. That's what she had meant. "This is no secret, your Highness." She was, in fact, banking slightly on the hope that he wasn't too well-versed in the magic users of her kingdom, because if he was, he would be able to point out that most others didn't use song and sound like she did.

“You think me a fool! I know this is not common magic! You witch!”

His skin grew warmer the angrier he got, the glowing haze getting thicker and more defined. Did she think he didn’t know about this type of magic? He’d been researching for years, (mostly to make sense of his own abilities) of course he knew!

“How many of your people require song to perform magic? I doubt very many! You come to my land as my guest with your witching trickery! I should have you thrown out, banned, never to return! You better have a brilliant defense!”

Hot. He was getting hot, as in literally, and it send a flicker of panicked memory that she'd done her best to repress flashing through her head. Fire, bright and burning and beautiful but it hurt, and it was hurting her and she could hear Kareem crying, somebody shouting, gods it burned and burned and didn't stop-

"Witch?" She spat, using words as an anchor, focusing on anger over the fear spiking through her chest. "How prejudiced is your country to use a term like that as an insult? Or is it just you? You may be a Prince, but I am Masheudha, and where I come from, how I summon that magic has no bearing in my title. I am not sure what this defense you speak of is, or why I need one, when you are the one in my face, calling me words that are clearly meant to be harsh."

Mishal released her.
“Go.” Though he said it quiet, it was harsh and biting. “Just go.”
He turned away, giving her the opportunity to leave. In that moment he did not care what happened in the morning when the palace would hear of this. He was the Prince, and one day he would be king and not even his father could change that, no matter what Mishal did.

(Hey, I just thought of something that I think would be a cool addition to Mishal’s backstory. Do you mind if I add it?)

((Go ahead!))

Zaria blinked, moving back as soon as she was given the opportunity. She didn’t stand to leave though, just returned the water to it’s container as she straightened, her hands sat properly in her lap. “With all….due respect, I am not going to leave, without a very good reason, your highness. So do tell me. What exactly is so wrong with my magic, that is not the same in my own country.” Her words were careful and neat, like she was handpicking each before she spoke.

When Mishal spoke, he did not meet Zarya’s gaze. He did not face her.

“My sister,” he began, “she was so young. Much younger than me. I loved her more than anything, more then anyone in the world.”

Water babbled in his memory. He tried to push it away, but it was a persistent ghost.

“They took her from me. I will never forgive them.”

He continued to stand in the garden, the incests chirping and cool moon breeze whispering in the air. The old wound on his heart cracked as the memory swirled in his mind like a hurricane of sorrow. He just wanted her gone.

(So the vagueness was just for Zarya so the story could be more compelling. If you want me to clarify where I was going with that, just let me know.)

“They.” Zarya repeated quietly, watching Mishal for a long moment. She stood carefully, the usual straight backed posture she held, like she was wearing an invisible crown, was replaced by a world weary almost-slouch.

“I am not a murderer of children, your highness. If I ever were to tell a truth, it would be that.” The specification that she didn’t murder children, and the lack of mention of adults, was odd, but could easily be passed off as a mistranslation on her part. To anyone who didn’t know just how much time she had spent learning this language.

She turned her gaze up to the sky for a moment, stray hairs slipping from the braid she had her hair in, unbeknownst to her. Then she turned on her heel, the stars aligning for the back of her kefta to slip just enough as she shifted it, revealing a peak at what looked like lash scars on her shoulders. And then she was gone without a word, leaving behind the scent of the ocean and old books and something nameless.

Mishal looked over his shoulder as she turned. He thought he saw something odd when her kefta lifted. Perhaps it was because of the low lighting.
…
It didn’t matter what she claimed. She was no doubt a sirkena, a siren. They were tricky creatures. She probably already enchanted him. How that court could keep such company, he couldn’t know. He could never be a companion to someone like her. Never.

“I know that pain more than he knows.” Zarya murmured to herself, and to the snake curled around her shoulders. Her companion and a familiar of sorts. All Sorcerers in her country had one, an animal that served as their token and their guide when humans weren’t as useful or kind. She had chosen a snake that resides in both freshwater and salt in her country, a versatile creature of many colors and talents. Her inspiration in many ways as well. “But that is not something I plan on sharing with him. Dear gods, Ahban, what kind of mess is this that I have found myself in.”

It was her own fault, really, for so openly practicing and not taking the time to check the history of Sirens in this country. And she knew that. But that didn’t mean it didn’t give her the same sick and crawling feeling she got whenever someone saw her as that and only that back home, on the streets or even in the palace she loved so dearly. That’s all you are, a Siren and a thief. They love to look at you, but they hate to know you exist. She sighed, taking a seat on a bench far enough from Mishall that she assumed she wouldn’t be overheard, partly for herself and partly to give him his own space. “Nothing but a nice looking chunk of meat, is that not what they call me?”

Mishal returned to his room, sulking in the dark. He hated himself for the way he spoke to her. He was terrible and he knew it, but how could he change out of a set of ways he’d grown up in? He wished it were simple, but important things are rarely simple.

He removed his heavy night robe; it was far too warm for that, but perhaps it was just his own heat giving him that impression. Mishal wallowed in his own self pity, disgust, and resulting hatred.

Mishal examined his hand. The warm trim glow of his skin was that magic that flowed in his blood. He was temperamental inside and out; it was inescapable.
With a simple thought, his fingers ignited with an artificial flame. He watched that flame twist and shift, never the same shape it was before. How he wished he could be that fluid. If only he could change on a whim and be a far better version of himself.

He scoffed and extinguished his cursed fire. A gift, they called it, but he knew better. This was a predestined curse. The fates were a cruel bunch, and if Mishal ever met them, he’d make sure to set them on fire.

It took Zarya a good fifteen minutes to get ahold of herself, with Ahban’s help, along with a few prayers to her alqidisn. Her saints. They were the ones that guided her and her magic, the ones that lended her the bits of luck she used to manipulate her lot in life, not quite her gods but her religion nonetheless.

Her footsteps were silent as she made her way through the halls of the palace, her stealth a natural saint-given gift and honed by years of training. It was helpful for going unseen, something that was hard for her to do thanks to her genes.

It was late, late enough that most people were retiring to their chambers, and while that was relieving, it was also slightly worrying to Zarya. Because that meant the entire palace would be quiet. So just do not sleep. Problem solved, until you manage a spell for muffling noise. She was not a…peaceful sleeper, to say the least. Amara was well acquainted with Zarya waking with screams, but this was a new place, one without her rooms that had been spelled to keep the inside noise from disturbing others.

As she entered her room, Ahban leaving her shoulders to coil up on one of the pillows on the bed, she breathed a sigh. At least she had her night routine, and comfortable sleeping clothes. Sleeping trousers and a loose shirt, common in her country if less common with the women. She unbraided her hair with one hand, humming a tune and using her other hand to draw her things from her bag to place on the foot of the bed, easy to reach. A taste of home.

(Sorry, my iPad broke, so I’m using a loaner right now and I’ve been big stressed and busy. I’m kind of stuck rn, so give me at least not her day or two and I’ll get it figured out.)

((That’s alright! I wish you luck!))

When Mishal awoke the next morning, for a moment he didn’t think of the night before. He only thought of the beautiful warm glow of the sun, and how he wished he could stay in bed with the sun like this forever. Then he remembered the coldness of the night and what he’s done. His hatred of himself came back like a stabbing pain.

Why did he act in such a way? Why was he so cruel when others could be so gentle? He couldn’t blame it entirely on outside influence; most of it was his own fault, and he must live with that.

He finally made himself presentable and went to the private dinning room for him and his family. He was he only royal member awake, so he ate his breakfast alone. The silence made his thoughts so loud, deafening. He wished for some company, but knew he didn’t deserve it.

Zarya’s first thought when she woke up that morning, was that it was cold. A mix of being blanket-less and the closed curtains on the windows made the most likely culprits of that. Once she was up and moving, getting dressed and doing her makeup, she warmed up fairly quickly. A different chill settled over her though.

The Prince had been incredible angry to find out about her abilities. Would she be forced to leave? Had she accidentally screwed up her mission, and let down her kingdom? And even more importantly along those lines was the opportunity she had had last night, alone with the prince, only to pass it up just because his skin was warm.

Slipping out into the hall, Zarya knocked lightly on Amara’s door, only to be greeted with light snores. That would give her time to explore and clear her head, at least. She couldn’t lie to Amara, had never been able to, but at least she could limit just how honest she was about unnecessary things.

After a few minutes of general wandering that halls, Zarya gently pushed open a randomly selected door, looking for something interesting at least, to bide her time. Only to be greeted with the sight of the prince, sitting alone at a table and eating. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her. Hoping that was the case, she slowly and quietly began to close the door, a light flush of slight embarrassment just visible on her cheeks.

Mishal looked up in time to see Zarya through the crack of the closing door. He crossed over and swung the door open almost as soon as it closed.

“Miss Zarya,” he said, perhaps more frantically than he meant. He cleared his throat and began again.
“Miss Zarya, please, may I speak to you?”
He gestured to the door, indicating he meant in the private dining room, not out in the hall. He felt the desperation in his eyes. He just wanted to try and make things right, to quiet the demons that plagued him.

"I would be entirely willing to talk with you, if you refrained from adding 'miss' to the front of my name." The words were out before Zarya could help herself, and after that, there was nothing more to do than motion for him to step aside. Once in the dining room, she arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, waiting for Mishal to speak whatever was on his mind. Here it is. You're leaving, and you won't be able to watch out for Amara. "Your Highness?"

Mishal blinked, “Of course. My apologies M—, um, Zarya.”

He sat down at the table.

“I—“ he began, but quickly lost confidence in his initial thought. He did not look at her, instead staring at his lukewarm breakfast.
He took a moment and began again. “I cannot make excuses for my behavior last night. I let my prejudice get the best of me and I treated you so poorly. I…” he wanted to explain further. For some unknown reason, he wanted to confide his most hidden struggles. Mishal doubted she had any sympathy to lend him, and would find his confessions irritating, so he abandoned the thought and pivoted the sentence instead.

“I do not expect you to forgive me; frankly, I do not deserve it. Though, I still offer my deepest apologies and hope you will have mercy on me.”

Zarya stayed standing, until he had apologized, at which point she gracefully took a seat in a chair near his. "Your Highness, I will be quite frank. I am not often known for my mercy. In fact, quite the opposite, where I am from." Not a promising start, but she wasn't finished, pulling something from the folds of her kefta where she had hidden a pocket, feeding it to Ahban, who was curled back around her shoulders. "But this is not a case where mercy is even needed. Perhaps it would have been best for details of my abilities to be sent to you and your court, and perhaps you did overreact just a bit. But there is obviously more to that. So while your apology is appreciated, and fully accepted, do not worry yourself." She lifted her eyes to meet his, smiling, not warmly but not coldly, more just a polite smile gearing towards almost friendly. "There is no ill will in my heart, just understanding."

Mishal responded in only a short nod. That wasn’t what he was expecting, but it was still better than nothing. Though, it didn’t quell his inner voices’ jeering. It only made them louder. She was honest and that’s what Mishal was afraid of, the painful truth.

He didn’t feel like eating anymore, so he pushed his plate away and froze from his seat. He left the dining room, along with Zarya sitting at the table. He hoped their departure would be soon. He didn’t wish to see them any longer.

"Saints, that is one temperamental boy." Zarya mused to her companion, trying to ignore the fact that she had passed up another opportunity to complete her mission. Standing silently from the chair she had taken a seat in, she glanced around the hall, and then to the door. She waited a beat, and then left looking around for the prince. She caught sight of him a ways down the hallway, and started after him, lifting a hand. "Your Highness! It appears you dropped something!" She called, the item she had, in fact, slipped from his pocket, in her hand.

((Feel free to pick the item, I don't know what he would have on him worth going back for))

(She picked-pocketed him, yeah? Also, I have no idea but I’ll come up with something.)

((She did yeah. Don't worry, take your time lmao))

(Lol okay)

(Oh, I have an idea!)

Mishal halted mid-step. He pivoted to see what she was holding. It was a relatively small object. It didn’t seem to be very important or distinct, but to him it was his most crucial possession.

After reaching her, he held out his hand for her to place the smooth black rock into. A feeling in his stomach, like a warm glowing, grew as the seconds passed. A chord of panic struck him, like the moment before you realize you’re falling and have to think quickly to catch yourself, but lasting much longer than just one moment.

He was skilled in concealing these feelings. On the outside, he looked collected, calm, and in control, but his control was slipping away fast. Each second was an hour, a week, a year. Mishal longed for the cool peace the stone would bring.

Most of the Orion lineage that possessed the same ability as Mishal enchanted something to keep the people around them safe. The only exception was the first. The younger brother of the crown prince. Consumed by the burning in his soul, the hellfire curse.