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The current boy by the Emperor's side is the latest in a long string of consorts to warm his bed. Their ages range; so long as I have known him and been close enough to him to be aware of his bedroom proclivities he has never been the one to care if the one he beds is a boy or a man.
Day after day and night after night I stand outside of the Emperor’s doors, the wooden structures as tall and imposing as he is. Well – perhaps that is an inept comparison. The Emperor is not extremely tall, not so far as some of our other Garlean brethren, and certainly not compared to the elezen and au ra males that sprinkle through our armies and the citizenry.
But his presence is enough to make a man believe that he spans seven fulms, if not more. The doors are like he is: intricate, carved with a deliberate hand, and strange amongst their neighbors. The rest of the palace is stone, as are any of the structures here in the capital; the buildings in the forum and even the playgrounds for the children standing proudly in their parks. But the doors are wooden, and a warm mahogany color. They stand out, as the Emperor does from sheer power alone.
I am not old enough to remember when he was still a legatus. So long as I have been alive Solus zos Galvus has been the Emperor of our nation, but I imagine him to have had a more commanding presence than even my Captain in the palace guard.
The Emperor has left the door open. It’s not much, but it is enough of a crack for me to not only see, but to hear through. He does this on occasion. I do not know if he forgets to close it or if it is intentional – for me or whichever one of my comrades stands at their post to slip inside and subdue an enemy should one of his bedwarmers be an assassin. Either way, I never shut it, as I am never ordered to.
The boy in his bed tonight looks to be in the younger half of his second decade; his face does not carry the wrinkles of one who has served or one who has worked with his hands lifting stone or any other form of manual labor. These hands have not held a weapon, but I can see splotches of ink crowding his fingernails. He writes, or perhaps transcribes. And on his face: a devious smile. He carries himself with confidence, and his laugh is high and clear. He is witty and sharp.
I do not know his name, and I am not sure if the Emperor does either. He is Garlean, his third eye visible between the way his bangs part and fall over his forehead, greasy from where he pushes them back as he flutters his eyelashes. Like all of the other consorts to grace His Radiance’s bedchambers, the hair that cascades over his naked back is at least long enough to not be considered short, and a striking shade of lavender.
Though this one is, His Radiance does not seem to care if these boys are Garlean or not, but he does seem to care that they have this hair. If it is shoulder length, he runs his fingers through the short strands and murmurs, “you should grow this out, I think,” in a way that brokers no argument. The want of an Emperor may as well be written into law.
If the consort’s hair is long, though, he runs his fingers through it and braids it with an uncharacteristic softness.
“This suits you,” he says, and the consort will come back with their hair braided every time. Nothing intricate like the ladies of the court – the fond look on the Emperor’s face will turn sour with all the quickness of iron left under moisture for too long. Soon enough they will learn as I have: exactly how he likes them to look. Or how he likes their hair to look, if nothing else. One long braid, tossed over their shoulder.
These boys never last for long. Some of them are lucky, and they are simply not invited back.
I have a poor feeling about this one. He has laughed too many times, and the Emperor has wrinkled his nose in distaste each time he does, but the boy has not noticed with his head thrown back in faux ecstasy. Most of these boys are submissive and eager, wanting to please His Radiance’s every whim. It is understandable, of course, and when you do not know the Emperor as I do, you may think that this is what he wants.
The laughs turn to moans quickly enough. Solus zos Galvus is not a patient man, and I can hear the tell-tale groans punctuating the erotic sounds that indicate something is inside of the man’s ass, be it fingers or a cock or a tongue. It is not likely to be a tongue – I have only heard that twice before, with two of the boys that have lasted the longest.
“This feels so good, Your Radiance,” the boy murmurs, the words scratchy where his voice had been clear a few moments before. A cock is inside of him now, undoubtedly, for him to sound so full that I can tell from the tone of his very voice.
Then again – and the voice in my head which with I think this thought is as dry as the sand in Corvos – I do have a lot of practice discerning such a thing.
“Do you know that the guard outside the door can hear us?” the Emperor murmurs by way of an answer. “How does that make you feel? Do you enjoy that thought?”
From the yelp that comes through the gap in the door, he does not.
“He can? Shall I…shall I get up and close the door, Your Radiance?”
It is the wrong thing to ask. I know this before the poor boy has even completed his sentence, because this routine is as well known to me now as the dents in the buttons on my uniform, marred by falls and combat and weathering yet another Garlean winter.
“Do not act like you didn’t know,” says the Emperor. His voice has taken on that haughty tone now, nasally and ending on a high note even though he is not asking a question. “His soul is clear as day, he is standing so close.”
“His what, Your Radiance?”
Oh, it is the wrong thing to ask. My eyes close and the inside of my nose burns from the sharp inhale that I take, my stomach tight from where my abdominals clench in wait for what will happen next. I do not know what answer His Radiance is looking for when he asks these questions about souls – I do not know what the Emperor can see that us commonfolk cannot – but I certainly know what he does not want to hear.
The Emperor sighs deeply. He sounds a thousand years old.
“Pathetic.”
“I – what are you doing?”
The lurch of the consort’s voice is always one of the most difficult parts for me to hear. The rail line, newly installed, is prone to faults and delays, particularly during the morning commute. It will pause, and we will all relax in the stillness, slackening our grip on the poles that line the cars, slinking back in our seats. And then all at once, without warning, the train will start up again, moving forward with haste, far faster than an automobile.
I cannot help it: no matter how many times I have experienced the sensation, my stomach drops with the motion. And that is what it feels like now: no matter how many times I have watched the Emperor kill one of his consorts, I cannot help the sick, metallic feeling in my mouth, or the constricting in my lungs.
Still, there is a morbidly curious part of me that always turns to watch. I find myself lucky that nobody spends time in this wing during the days; the Empress is occupied as she always is at these times, and guards not assigned to this post are not permitted to be here. The Emperor’s young grandson has already learned not to walk through the halls wherever he very well feels like, and his children are all preoccupied with their posts in the military.
So there is nobody to see as I turn my head and watch.
Sometimes there is a knife, other times a gun. Sometimes there is blunt force trauma and servants called immediately to clean the blood out of a bedpost, a laundress called to wash and change the sheets.
Today, there is a hand around a throat.
“I did not presume you would be interested in this sort of thing, Your Radiance,” laughs the consort nervously. He is a silly boy, still trying to salvage this situation. This one was a bit too precocious, and if I am being truthful with myself, he was dead before he even entered the bedchamber.
“Shut your mouth,” orders the Emperor, and he does. I am not close enough to see the boy’s eyes. They were a pale grey, if I remember correctly, though I only saw them for a moment when he walked by to enter the room. The Emperor sometimes lets the boys go if their eyes are as lavender as their hair, but it is obvious he does not wish for them to ever return. I suppose he is content enough with knowing they exist somewhere, so long as it is not where he has to see.
I have never dwelled too long upon this fact – not like I watch the curl of the Emperor’s fingers around the delicate flesh covering one's neck as I do now. His Radiance’s knuckles are white, and were I to get closer, I am sure I would find his nails a strange duotone, red toward the beds where the blood gathers and pale at the tips from the pressure.
When the body is collected, there will be a bruise in the shape of fingerprints. I am no coroner, but even a child would know what had happened. But this body will not be taken to the coroner, of course. I do not know what happens to them – I do not even help dispose of them, for am I am not to leave my post until my shift comes to a close – but I know that there is nothing ceremonious or official about it.
I am not close enough to see the boy’s eyes, but I can hear the Emperor’s grunts as clear as I might hear raindrops against the large glass windows in the Entrance Hall. And I can imagine as the life drowns out of them, of the way they are enlarged and as round as the shocked ‘o’ of his mouth.
The last breath the boy draws is ragged, and the Emperor’s mouth and lungs mirror it. He pants like a dog. It is undignified, and I have never told anyone this. I do not know if the other guards watch when this happens, and not one of us have ever spoken of it.
Sometimes I think I hear His Radiance crying, but I never think he is mourning the body that lies next to him on the bed.