CW: body "swaps", 10,000 years of drama & trauma, murders, potential mass murder, death, gore, references to suicide, skippable reference to dubious consent Note: quotes from Harrow the Ninth. Full scene dialogue available here
However long you've stood there, however much you've heard, you definitely hear and see through the gap into the next room—
“So what,” says the Emperor, “Gideon—you tossed Wake out the airlock—she and the baby died en route?”
“No,” says Mercymorn thinly. “It didn’t.”
You push out of the robes. Ianthe tries to reach for you; you slap her hand away. It is seven steps out of that little foyer to the centre of the room where the Emperor sits. You stand, breathing hard, your battered two-hander clutched in Harrow's hands (your hands), not knowing what to do with her arms (your arms), and not knowing what to do with her face (your face). There is this huge, insane roaring in Harrow's ears (your ears), like close-up electrical static, and it was like you are watching that body move from outside—as though you and Harrow are both out of the driver’s seat and someone else is in there.
But nobody else has their hands on the controls. It is just you.
Everyone turns to look at you both. Nobody says a word. You stand behind the chair with the dead body in it, a dark hole at the back of its neck. The cigarettes make thin grey ghosts curl up toward the light.
“I’m—” you say.
The world revolves.
“I’m not fucking dead,” you say, which isn’t even true, and you are choking up; everything you've ever done, everything you've ever been through, and you are choking up.
And the Emperor of the Nine Houses, the Necrolord Prime, stands from his chair to look at her—at you; looked at you face, looked at Harrow's face, looked at your eyes in her face. It took, maybe, a million myriads. The static in Harrow's ears (your ears) resolve into wordless screaming. His expression is just—gently quizzical; mildly awed.
Cards on the Table
Note: quotes from Harrow the Ninth. Full scene dialogue available here
“So what,” says the Emperor, “Gideon—you tossed Wake out the airlock—she and the baby died en route?”
“No,” says Mercymorn thinly. “It didn’t.”
You push out of the robes. Ianthe tries to reach for you; you slap her hand away. It is seven steps out of that little foyer to the centre of the room where the Emperor sits. You stand, breathing hard, your battered two-hander clutched in Harrow's hands (your hands), not knowing what to do with her arms (your arms), and not knowing what to do with her face (your face). There is this huge, insane roaring in Harrow's ears (your ears), like close-up electrical static, and it was like you are watching that body move from outside—as though you and Harrow are both out of the driver’s seat and someone else is in there.
But nobody else has their hands on the controls. It is just you.
Everyone turns to look at you both. Nobody says a word. You stand behind the chair with the dead body in it, a dark hole at the back of its neck. The cigarettes make thin grey ghosts curl up toward the light.
“I’m—” you say.
The world revolves.
“I’m not fucking dead,” you say, which isn’t even true, and you are choking up; everything you've ever done, everything you've ever been through, and you are choking up.
And the Emperor of the Nine Houses, the Necrolord Prime, stands from his chair to look at her—at you; looked at you face, looked at Harrow's face, looked at your eyes in her face. It took, maybe, a million myriads. The static in Harrow's ears (your ears) resolve into wordless screaming. His expression is just—gently quizzical; mildly awed.
“Hi, Not Fucking Dead,” he says. “I’m Dad."