Chapter Text
Every day at sixteen-thirty, the Lord Marshal is to be bathed.
I kneel next to the bath, setting out the bathing implements in a neat row, and remember the words of my predecessor, Fainche. Four years after her death, her instructions are still writ large in my mind. They order my day, moment by moment. Each task has become as natural to me as breathing. As familiar as the cool weight of the Collar of the Whip set into my neck.
Sitting back on my heels, I wait for Zhylaw. In only a few moments, he will stride through the huge doors. I smooth my skirts in anticipation. He’s been much occupied with the conquest of Helion these last few days. So much so that he hasn’t even granted me leave to visit the surface and gather plant samples for my Garden, the way he usually does in the days after Descent.
Perhaps if he’s in a good mood today, I’ll ask.
I smooth my skirts again. Over the rustle of cloth, my heartbeat sounds loud in my ears. One beat, two. My body, so attuned to the rhythm of his daily protocol, knows something is amiss before my mind registers it.
He’s late.
Slowly, I turn my head toward the chamber door, expecting to see it open. He’s never late. A perfectionist in all things, who demands perfection from all around him, he is punctual to the second.
The door remains closed.
Worry ripples through me, making the small hairs of my body stand on end. Another jolt, sharper. An electric current burns down my spine. Around my neck, my Collar goes ice cold. Frost spreads through my blood, my bone. My muscles tighten. Shock sends me reeling back from where I kneel at the edge of the bath. Sprawled on the marble floor, I look up, seeing not the familiar baths, but the ornate walls and pillars of the Necropolis. A burning spike drives through my brain. I stare up into the bestial glowing eyes of his killer. I feel his horror at Vaako’s betrayal. A scream, a wounded animal howl. It rips through me like a sword, driving me to my feet.
Running, heedless of the eyes that follow me. Heedless of the insult to my station. Running through the Lord Marshal’s chambers, out onto the balcony above the Great Hall, to see the usurper Riddick step away from the still form of my Lord Marshal and stalk towards the Throne.
Every day. At sixteen-thirty. The Lord Marshal. Is to be bathed.
My Lord Marshal lies dead on the floor of the Great Hall. I feel his death, True Death, like a hammerblow against my heart. I grasp the carved stone balustrade to keep myself upright. In my mind, there is only darkness. No door opening, no dark glory that is the UnderVerse. Nothing.
The Lord Marshal is dead.
And I . . . I have failed him.