Who: Ishmael & Sevda.
When: Last night.
Where: The Hold.
Rating & Warnings: PG.
Katrin was six feet under. That's the sole thing that occupied Sevda's mind during her funeral. It was elaborate, somber, everything that a royal funeral should be -- at least, on the surface. She heard the whispers of relief, the remarks of fate, ill-intentions and a whole slew of mind-numbing words that made no sense to her not because she tried but because they were nothing but words with no meaning. Katrin was dead.
Katrin was dead. Besides the obvious concern of the kingdom and if the king could handle the loss, there was the concern of the sibling's exchange in the dining hall a week prior. Sevda hadn't had the courage to ask either one of them for clarification on what she saw -- because surely there was some sort of misunderstanding, some sort of missing puzzle piece that would make what she saw all make sense -- hadn't wanted to even think about, but a fat lot of good that did her -- and now Katrin was unreachable. She would never be able to ask her aunt why. Just -- why.
That left Ishmael. Ishmael, who was going to wed Lady Vida even thought he didn't want to. For the Bharquite's safety? For Aronine's military force? Again, she didn't want to think about it. Just eating in the dining hall after the funeral made her feel sick, but this -- she couldn't skip out on this. It wasn't unusual for Sevda to leave first most of the time (sitting still in at dinner with nothing to do but relax and gab never suited her), but tonight she stayed behind, staring at the spot where her plate -- untouched, despite Arman's comments to eat -- had been sitting before the servants took it away.
The king was still sitting, as well. She noticed this with a start, and her discomfort rose. She had avoided being alone with Ishmael or Katrin afterwards (not that it was a difficult thing to do); now she felt trapped. This was the perfect time to ask him, though. She knew it, yet didn't want to -- was too scared.
But what was she scared of? Surely Arman would confront their father with what he learned from her the night the bells tolled. Perhaps he already had. She didn't know.
But she had to know.
Swallowing, and feeling as if her heart would burst out of her chest, Sevda tried to sound nonchalant as she said, "Will the dinner with the Aronines be held here?"
Dinners after his sister's death were strange affairs. No one talked much, no one ate much and no one much cared to see the drawn expressions of their remaining family members. Ishmael's quiet guilt allowed him to blend in. To the outside eye, he merely seemed like a man devastated by his own mourning. And why shouldn't he be? His wife had left him behind and now his sister had been brutally murdered.
He'd heard whispers of Katrin's injuries. Whoever had done it must have been a mad man. Unprofessional, touched in the head, bearing a grudge. Ruthless. Certain names were tossed around, but his was not among them. Ishmael didn't feel nearly as relieved as he should have.
There had not been enough time to comfort his children. It should have been his first priority, but then Katrin's death left so many holes in Bharquite rule. Dinner was the only time he saw Arman and Sevda lately. He did not trust himself to speak calmly to Arman and he had no idea what to say to the girls. The less he saw of them, the better.
Sipping at his wine, the king stared at some point a thousand miles away, oblivious to the presence of anyone around him. Sevda's voice took him by surprise and he closed his eyes before turning to face her, willing himself not to jump or drop his cup. "Hmm?" he asked before her question rang in his ears. "Oh, yes. We must show them the proper hospitality in thanks. The wedding will also be at the Hold." Ishmael forced a small smile. "Very simple compared to your sister's. I would not want to outshine her."
Despite her reluctance to look at Ishmael, his being caught off-guard attracted a glance upward. So he wasn't paying her any attention, either. It was a relief, but also left her with a smudge of hurt, not unlike rejection. "In this very room?" That the duchess broke your knee? Unsheathed a dagger? Treated you worse than a servant?
"Yes, the banquet hall. That's customary."
None of Sevda's concerns occurred to him. There were very few rooms he regularly visited in the Hold where Katrin hadn't hurt him in some way. That this hurt was fresh didn't sway him. Ishmael caught his daughter's eye and rumpled his brow. Her expression was strange, almost unlike her. He wondered if she was bothered by the fact that he and her mother had sat at the high table in this same room on their wedding day. Ishmael held out his hand, silently asking his daughter to give him hers.
"She will never be your mother, but she is a kind woman. Vida will be good to our family. I would not marry her if I doubted that."
She didn't really pay attention to what he said about Vida. Her mind was swarming with questions. Why would you tolerate such abuse? How could you dine with your future wife in the very room you were bullied in? What was the missing puzzle piece that made everything make sense again? They raced through her head, over and over again, and watching her words was no longer her concern.
"I saw," she blurted, before Ishmael could finish his last sentence. She hadn't even noticed his hand. Her expression was angry and confused, but in a way that was dilute enough to say that this wasn't the first time the topic evoked such a reaction. "I saw," said Sevda again, this time more quietly, her eyes dropping to the corner of the table.
She'd seen. Ishmael was incapable of reacting for a few moments. His hand hung where Sevda had refused it as his insides turned to ice. The angry look, the hint of fear he'd picked up from her, had they been because Sevda knew what he had done? Ishmael's eyes fluttered as he came back to himself, then he returned his daughter's glare.
"What did you see?" he asked as calmly as he could.
The glare startled her. Of all the reactions she thought Ishmael might have over witnessing their exchange, anger was not one of them. It made her prickly. What right had he to be angry with her? She'd done nothing wrong.
"You would entertain the Aronines in the very room you allowed your title as King to waste?" she asked, glaring back defiantly.
Where he'd allowed his- what? The glare faded quickly into a look of confusion and Ishmael sat back in his seat. "What are you talking about, Sevda? I'm in no mood to play guessing games with you." He ought to have been kinder, but his nerves were so frayed that he had neither the patience nor the energy to hold back.
Her irritation abruptly skyrocketed to indignant rage. She slammed her hand over her dining knife and brought it to her neck, chin up. "She slapped you, threatened you and treated you worse than a dog," she hissed angrily, not at all ashamed of how dramatic her motion was. No, Katrin hadn't brought her dagger to Ishmael's throat, but she might as well have. The knife was slammed down just as quickly as it was snatched up, and now confusion was added to her tone. "Why?"
His eyes widened when she brought the knife to her neck. He was so unsure of this family's stability that he rocketed forward and reached out for it, but didn't dare grab it for fear of accidentally hurting her. In one week, he might have slain his sister and accidentally slashed his daughter's throat. After Sevda slammed it down, he grabbed it and held it away from her.
"Sevda," he growled, face going an angry, splotchy red. "There are things that happen in this family that you have no need of knowing. Your aunt is not the woman you thought she was. At no point in her life was she the hero you painted her." The hero he knew he could never be for his daughter. At the time, he thought it healthier for her to cling to her idol, to have someone strong to look up to. "I know now it was a mistake to mislead you. But you have no idea what happened in this room that day, or what else has happened in this room. And you will never know."
How many times did he have to explain this to her? She wished to control everything around her at twelve? Perhaps she would grow into a monster as well.
Ishmael fought the urge to fling the knife into the corner of the room. Sevda's words stung. The look in her eyes stung. But that she could make such a dramatic gesture frightened him. "And you will never behave like this again," he said, some of his sister's coldness slipping into his voice once more.
She listened to his speech, barely containing the scream that threatened to erupt from her throat. When was the last time she had felt such a potent degree of rage?
Never. Not even Diya and his blatant disrespect made her want to just scream and break something.
"Who was she, then?" she asked through gritted teeth, tiny shoulders trembling with each seething breath she took. "Who was Katrin Bharquite? Who are you?"
Ishmael got to his feet without uttering a word, grabbed his daughter by her upper arm and began to walk her towards the door of the banquet hall. He had no good way of answering those questions. To tell her the truth of what Katrin had done to him since he'd been a child, the way she broke him, trained him, would be self-indulgent and needlessly scarring for Sevda. The king pushed open the door. Just as he summoned the guards to escort his daughter, he wheeled her around to face him.
"I am your father, Sevda. Now, go to your room."
To the guards, he tried to speak levelly, his chest rising and falling visibly with his deep breaths. "Guard the door. The princess is not to leave her chambers until breakfast."
Sevda knew, when Ishmael hauled her out of her chair, that to act anymore out of line would only gather her more of the king's ire, so she didn't struggle, nor did she protest, though the glare she gave off was absolutely murderous. Angry tears were now prickling at the corners of her eyes.
Her fingers curled into fists when he spoke to her. When he spoke to the guards, her nails dug in so deeply there would be red crescent marks the next day. She refused to look at him, or them. As soon as the king was finished speaking, Sevda started to walk briskly away. The guards rushed to keep her at their side, but they needn't have worried -- she would go to her rooms. Directly, even.
Sevda would be too angry to sleep that night, but she would behave. She would go to breakfast. She would give Ishmael the dirtiest glare she could muster, but she would go, and she wouldn't say a word.