Cataclysm War | Chapter 17: Uncomfortable Truths (First Draft)

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Please leave some with your thoughts. This is a greatly extended version of the previous Chapter 16 ending.

Here we go!

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Wednesday, July 20, 4 S.E.

Leonidas stared at the doors for a long moment after they closed behind the departing Princess, and then shifted his attention back toward Ceruviel, his embarrassment already flaring into anger as he turned to his Mentor—and then blanched when he realized she had stood up, and was standing naked in front of him without a hint of shame.

“{Do not look away from me, boy,}” Ceruviel growled when he turned instinctively. “{Look at me, Leonidas.}”

“{Ceruviel! This is ridic—}”

“{No, this is necessary. I am not seducing you. We have no desire for one another. Show some damned courage, Achilles. Look at me!}”

Her words carried command, but it was her presence that compelled his obedience—not literally, not through force or coercive pressure, but through sheer authority and presence. Slowly, and with a bracing inhale, he looked at her—focusing somewhere above her shoulder to the best of his ability.

“{You are a fool, Leonidas,}” Ceruviel said without remorse, and stepped toward him through the water, the bubbly liquid just high enough to hide everything below the last line of her abdominal muscles. “{You can face down a Hydra two tiers your superior without blinking, but the sight of breasts turns you into a blithering idiot.}”

“{I do not care about—about your anatomy, Ceruviel. It is the intimacy of it that—}”

“{I am a woman, Leonidas,}” Ceruviel cut in, and patted her chest indicatively. “{Aylar is a woman. You were born of a woman, you will wed a woman, and you will have daughters of your own. Will you refuse to care for them when they are weak, because of what they were born as? Will you refuse to render them aid when wounded, for fear of seeing them nude?}”

“{It is different!}” Leonidas shot back immediately, his face heating despite himself as he looked away. “{Those would be my children! You are—}”

“{Your mentor,}” she said flatly. “{We have no glimmer of a sexual relationship, Leonidas. I am your teacher, you are my student. That boundary is forever immutable, as you well know.}”

He looked back at her when she spoke, recognizing the truth in her words, and once more tried to look at her without seeing a woman exposed—fighting the ingrained fidgeting panic that arose whenever his mind insisted that such a display had to mean something else, something intimate.

Ceruviel lifted her hands and shrugged with emphasis, moving her body as she did.

“I fuck, Leonidas,” she said in English, voice as cold as frosted steel. “The indulgence of pleasure does not make me solely an item for pleasure, and it does not make you noble for refusing to acknowledge I can do that and not be defined by it.”

Ceruviel lowered her arms and settled them idly at her sides.

“You, my dear boy, are so hung up on your conflation of nudity and intimacy that you are very nearly about to lose everything that you need to establish a sanctuary for your people, and those from Altera, all because you are averse to what you perceive as intimacy.”

Ceruviel’s tone took on a more authoritative air, and she assumed a parade rest, somehow managing to appear entirely martial—and take the edge off of her nudity in the same moment. It seemed suddenly less important when she stood like the soldier she was. Any illusion of intimacy vanished into nothingness.

“I dislike doing this,” she said more quietly, her voice more empathetic. “I dislike that I have to discomfort you, to push you in this way. I have respected and tolerated your avoidance throughout our time together, but now your traumatic aversion to interpersonal connection is imperiling everything we are working toward. They are just tits, Leonidas. Sacks of fat. Flesh and tissue.”

Leonidas grimaced at the crass nature of her words, but his mentor wasn’t done—not by a long shot.

“You treat a woman’s body like it’s something forbidden,” Ceruviel continued with a stern, but not unkind gaze. “Something to fear. Something you’re not allowed to touch. You keep calling it propriety, but it isn’t. It’s your mind flinching at vulnerability. You armor yourself behind etiquette and ceremony, and pretend you’re being honorable, when really you’re just hiding.”

She kept his gaze by force of presence, eyes sharp and tone direct.

“Your insistence on this aversion and being so dramatically overwrought by it, when compared to your nigh-impervious tolerance for spilling blood, is one of the greatest contradictions and bewildering idiocies I have ever witnessed.”

“It isn’t the same! You are a self-titled hedonist, Ceruviel, and—”

“Yes, I am that, and I am not ashamed of my indulgences,” Ceruviel cut in flatly. “What of you, Leonidas? Why are you ashamed? Why do you fear this?”

“It—I was raised a certain way, it isn’t fear, it’s just—”

“Conditioning,” Ceruviel interrupted again, curtly. “Stupid, idiotic, backwards conditioning—no more than an excuse you cling to, desperately, to hide from what truly bothers you. You can crush a goblin’s skull and butcher people without blinking, but you cannot look at a naked woman? Have you never considered the reason for that?”

Leonidas threw his hands up in aggravation and looked away, reaching up to run his hand through his hair.

“Why are you pressing this? It’s mortifying,” he said in a plaintive, desperate way that made him want to cringe at hearing it spoken.

“Why should it even be a problem, Achilles? I am naked. So what? So what? Am I less of an Archon for my nudity? Do my tits define me?”

“Of course not!”

“Then grow up, Leonidas! You came here to ask me advice about pursuing Synthra, did you not? Your mind was obsessing over it loudly enough that I barely had to skim the edge of your awareness to learn that. Foolish boy. You worry so much about what is proper that you do not consider what is right.”

“What?” he asked when she spoke, and turned back to her, nudity momentarily forgotten—something he barely noticed with immediacy. “What does that even mean?”

Ceruviel stepped closer again, water rippling as she moved, and though she was still naked, the impact of it was less present—smothered beneath the atmosphere of mentorship and command she had effortlessly created.

Her nudity did not change what she was, who she was. It had no bearing on the Duchess—the Archon before him—and the fact he had believed it ever might was suddenly embarrassing, and mortifyingly juvenile.

“You wear propriety like a barrier to keep others at a distance,” Ceruviel continued, tone level and informative, and wholly absent compromise. “You hide behind it. We are not courting. It is improper. I must not look,” she said in a mocking imitation of his voice. “You dress your fear, repression, and trauma in etiquette until you can pretend it is a virtue, like a shield. That is not virtue, Achilles. Virtue is what you do when the rules fail you—when there is no clean solution and no tradition or nobility to shelter behind. Right is not always proper.”

Her eyes narrowed on him with unyielding steel, glowing faintly.

“Proper, the way you hold to it, is very often cowardice with better manners.”

“But Aylar and Synthra—”

“Are women, Leonidas. Not things. People. Thinking beings with agency. If they want to show you their bodies, to share them with you, to trust you with that intimacy—it is not your place to decide it is improper. You may reject them. You would be a fool to do so, but that is your right. What you cannot do is dictate their sense of propriety. Who the fuck are you to tell them what is and is not acceptable by their standards? I am not saying you have to consent to some degenerate forcing themselves on you, but we both know that. I am your mentor. Aylar and Synthra will soon be your companions, and potentially, your wives. You must address whatever this is that is trapping you in a cycle of fear, and you must overcome it.”

“Wives?” Leonidas asked reactively. “Plural? Come on, Ceruviel, that’s ridic—”

“We already discussed the Royal Harem, Achilles,” she said in a warning tone. “Do not force me to correct your avoidant stupidity by force.”

Leonidas sighed at her verbal killstroke and cursed. He turned then, and strode over to where an elegant robe hung in waiting—fetching the silk garment before striding back to her.

“Okay. I get it. You’ve made your point, so can you please just—”

He jerked the robe indicatively, and Ceruviel snorted, but turned and extended her arms while effortlessly rising from the bath on a swirl of Psi that was visible to his senses. The robe left his hands and settled on her body in one smooth motion, and she tied it closed while turning to drift with masterful control onto the marble before him.

“I am proud of you in many things, Achilles. You have made more than one of my dreams possible—but this fearful reticence of yours will doom everything before it starts, if you do not confront your… troubles. We will speak more of Synthra, Aylar, and all that delightful mess entails later. You said you had something else to discuss, and I’m sure it isn’t the two gorgeous women who want to bed you. What is it? Tell me what happened this morning to churn your thoughts so violently. I’m getting a headache by proximity.”

Leonidas breathed out a sigh of relief when she refocused.

Desensitization-by-exposure had worked, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t happier with her clothed.

“I went to the Guild to purchase something,” he said to her a moment later, relieved by the change in topic. “While I was there, I…”

Ceruviel listened attentively while he spoke, and her expression shifted from cold focus to a slow, pleased smile as he detailed what had happened, and more specifically, what he had acquired.

By the time he was done, the glint in her eyes was downright ecstatic.

“You have not yet grafted the pinions. Good. It would have been downright foolish if you had attempted such without me,” Ceruviel said imperiously, and marched toward the doors. “We will see to it immediately. This is an imperative advantage, and you were wise to select them as your purchase.”

“Really?” Leonidas asked in mild disbelief as he followed his robed mentor toward the doors, fighting the still-present instinct to look away from the detailed outline of her body beneath the silk. “I thought you would’ve preferred the [Crown of Displacement] or [Sky Step Boots], honestly.”

“Ordinarily, they would be fine choices—but the Crown would intercede with your [Psionic Amplifier], and the boots have too many diminishing returns in the long-term. Your choice of the [Manastorm Pinions] is not ideal for your current tier, no, but in the future they will make you quite potent.”

“Do you have anything like them?” he asked curiously as they entered her apartments, and Leonidas couldn’t help but notice the distinct lack of Aylar within them with a traitorous pang of disappointment.

Well, you brought that on yourself, didn’t you? Idiot.

“I do,” Ceruviel said as if it were evident, “but I do not have cause to use my grafts, not in the current state of Dawnhaven’s affairs. Some weapons are best kept hidden, and my normal powers more than suffice in place of such things, regardless. You, however, are not me—not yet, and not for a while to come. This addition will be quite beneficial to you.”

Leonidas nodded in understanding and idly looked around the spacious apartments the Duchess held for herself, resplendent in deep purples and silvered adornments, and tilted his head.

“You know, on Terra, we’d call this Royal Purple,” he noted idly. “It’s usually reserved for royalty. I always thought it was a strange intersection as a Duchy’s official color.”

Ceruviel glanced back at him, and then directed her gaze to the room, loosing a small ‘huh’ of consideration.

“Yes, I suppose it may look that way from your perspective,” she accepted calmly. “You did not know my bloodline on Altera. House Latherian are royal, Leonidas. We trace our lineage back to ancient Alteran Kings, before Eldormer united the disparate city-states into the Kingdom it is today.”

“Not an Empire?”

“Empire, Kingdom, Principality—all that matters is the authority it holds. The definitions are entirely irrelevant,” she said in her blunt, matter-of-fact way. “Altera has always had Kings, so Eldormer was a Kingdom. If you want to make Dawnhaven an Empire, go right ahead. ‘Emperor Leonidas’ does have a nice ring to it, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Leonidas said wryly. “Though I don’t— CERUVIEL!”

The Duchess paused at his scandalized shout, looking back at him from where she’d dropped her robe and was standing stark naked in the room. She turned then, placing her hands on her hips and staring at him with withering impatience. “Are we still not past this idiocy, boy? I desire to change, and I am not going to be held hostage by your hangups. Besides, you should enjoy the view—it’s about as close to bedding a creature of my pedigree as you’ll ever get, you insufferable prude.”

Leonidas averted his gaze with a growl of annoyance and reached up to rub his eyes with the fingers of his right hand, grimacing as he did.

“You’re kind of a bitch sometimes, you know that?”

“And proud, my dear Squire! Proud, I say!” Ceruviel called back cheerfully, while the sound of her uncovered feet on marble heralded her departure back toward the closet. “You can see I wasn’t lying, at least.”

“About what?” Leonidas grumbled. “Being mad?”

“No, though that is a fair point. About Haelfenn women. We are naturally smooth, as I said.”

Leonidas groaned again at her words, and his mind flashed back to the recent reveal of Aylar’s water-slick body as she stood at the door, sending another rush of heat to his cheeks. “You’re insufferable, Ceruviel.”

“The best Mentors are, Achilles,” she said from within her spacious walk-in closet as she moved hangers around. Apparently, Altera had invented them too, though Ceruviel’s—and his own, he’d discovered—were made of some form of silvered metal. “You should grow used to this regardless. If we are on a campaign trail in the future, you will no doubt see many women nude as they go about their ablutions. I accept that you will not overcome this ridiculous aversion quickly, but you will overcome it.”

“Can’t I just have my own tent away from everyone?” he asked in irritation.

“You could,” Ceruviel allowed as she re-emerged, now wearing a pair of form-fitting denim jeans and holding a purple blouse in her hand, while her torso remained exposed. “But a King should never be too distant from his people. It makes them feel unwanted.”

“I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with Aylar walking around camp nude, Ceruviel, and I don’t know why she’d feel any different if we were together.”

“I can concede that point,” his mentor said while shuffling on the blouse with entirely too much body movement for his liking, “but you are not married yet, and you will need to be open to the idea of women that may benefit your reign.”

“The harem, again?”

“You make it sound so sordid,” Ceruviel said with a sniff, and blessedly finished with the blouse, though the lack of a brassiere and her proud choice of cleavage made it less than wholly concealing. Her hands reached up behind her, and she flipped her hair free to spill down across her chest and shoulders with an ease and grace he suspected would infuriate most women.

“Terra put aside the concept of harems a long time ago, Ceruviel. Most people don’t even like reading about them, let alone seeing them in action. I could never get into webnovels that featured them heavily.”

“Probably because you were reading pornography, Leonidas, not logical escalation. Do you know why a harem is imperative for a King?”

“Heirs? I dunno, enlighten me,” he said wearily.

“Heirs is part of it, though only your children with Aylar would be considered valid to inherit. It’s the Eldormer blood that makes them heirs, not your fathering them, no matter your title,” she pointed out, and then glanced at her wrist with a click of her tongue and went back to find what he presumed was jewelry of some description.

“Wouldn’t that mean that every child of an Eldormer King can inherit? Isn’t a Harem just asking for a succession crisis?” he asked while gesturing idly. “Look at Aylar and Braedon.”

“It would be, if not for the Rite of Ascension, and the fact that the reigning monarch chooses who is permitted to undertake it,” Ceruviel called back while rummaging through drawers. “It helps avoid situations precisely like Dawnhaven’s, as you pointed out. Besides, heirs are the least important part of a harem. Stop getting distracted.”

“Right,” Leonidas said with a sigh of sufferance. “Go ahead.”

“Ah, yes. These will do nicely,” Ceruviel said just barely loud enough for him to hear, and then spoke up again. “The reason a harem matters, Achilles, is because of Alphas. To restrict your progeny to a single octet of possible inheritance is not just foolish, it’s downright suicidal. The Kings of Altera relied on their uncrowned siblings to protect them when all else failed, and powerful Alphas go a long way toward that.”

“I don’t see Braedon protecting Aylar after all is said and done,” Leonidas pointed out as Ceruviel returned, now wearing several elegant ear piercings, a jewelled, chained silver waist-cinch, and vambraces—all inlaid with amethyst gems that glowed with Psi to his eyes.

“No, I don’t see that as likely either, but that’s why you need to re-establish the precedent, Achilles. A Monarch has to have protection they can trust above all else. For a Queen, it’s her King as the last line of defense. For a King, it’s his Royal Guard—and his children or siblings, or both. Traditions can be odious things, I know, but some of them make perfect sense.”

“I suppose if you have a system like the Rite of Ascension, it does…” he conceded. “Though what does the Rite actually do?”

Ceruviel gestured idly for him to follow and led the way out of her apartments, adjusting her vambraces as she did. “Well, that’s simple, Achilles: it creates System-enforced authority. Without the Rite, a Monarch cannot command the Dominion upon which a Kingdom is built, nor the sub-dominions that it controls. The System, my dear Squire, is the ultimate arbitrator—and the ultimate guard against usurpation, barring one method, of course.”

“Assassination?” Leonidas ventured.

Ceruviel chuckled and shook her head as they left her rooms and started down the halls toward her office.

“No, Achilles,” she answered wryly. “Conquest.”