['Twins are an ill omen' is in fact Harrow's opinion but she's since spent a lot of time with Ianthe "I love my twin and also murder" Tridentarius so she's either chilled out on that or more likely feels that they're evil even more strongly.]
It isn't melodramatic at all. [Literally half her soul is just Ortus, unfortunately, because she ate his, and his half has seemingly fled her.] You sound. . . very lucky, to have had someone who is that for you.
[Anyway, I feel like you're trying to goad me into a specific memshare with that dialogue but I have a different torture lined up for you later so jot that down. Instead, let's talk about Lyctorhood which btw isn't pronounced 'Like-ter' but rather 'Lich-ter' as in 'lich.'
You convalesce on the Erebos, the Behemoth class flagship of the Emperor Undying, in the cool white rooms of its hospital quarter. You go in and out of consciousness, in and out of coherence, constantly, for weeks. Youâre dimly aware of the illness you feel, the broken shape of your body, your hollowness and the rawness of a grief you cannot place. You hallucinate frequently. Some days you are coherent enough to feel shame at the putrid green hospital gown you wear and the bareness of your face and head - someone has shaved your hair at some point. Other days, you stare out the window into the deepness of space for hours on end, or lie in bed clutching your sword like a steel infant. At one point, the nameless attendants try to take your sword from you - you fight them off, bloody and furious, and they do not try again. On the best days you hallucinate the Body by your side - lovely and dead and frozen. Her cold dead hands press against your brow, close your eyes, bid you to restful sleep.
From time to time, the Emperor sits beside your bedside. You ask him if newly born Lyctors always fare so badly; he admits the recovery process can be long but he is non-committal, so you expect your transition has been worse than most, and you suspect you can feel his concern and disappointment.
And then one day you come to on your cot all at once, hyperventilating, the ghost of some attack - a pillow pressed against your screaming mouth - on your mind, but your pillow is behind your bed and perfectly dry.
A chair is dragged close to your bedsideâthe little chair that usually sat by the door, the one you had only ever seen the Emperor occupy âand in it was Ianthe Tridentarius.
Your gazes met. The other nascent Lyctor was clothed in a gaudy, mother of pearl robe that made Iantheâs hair a lurid yellow and threw up all the mustard tints of her skin; her face was blotchy, and her eyes were sleepless pits. She looked like shit. You noticed that the eyes were a curious muddle of colours: her ordinary washed-out purple mixed with the freckled blue and brown that had been Naberius Ternâs, her murdered cavalier, now being consumed within her as your own murdered cavalier was surely now consumed. Ianthe was sitting significantly too near to you, and she lounged too casually on the chair. She also possessed two arms, which was one more than youâd last seen her sporting.
None of that particularly bothered you. What bothered you was that now the Princess of Ida was looking at you with an expression you struggled to remember ever seeing on her face. Ianthe always affected a heavy, artificial tedium, or a faint and glittering malice, sometimes even a self-deprecating and idle humourousness; but she looked at you now with a soft and thoroughly uncharacteristic hunger. She smiled down at you with a frank, overfamiliar expression that frightened you. You cover your bare face with your pillow.
âGood morning, my comrade,â she said. âMy colleague, my ally. I do like your eyes, Harrowharkâlike flower petals in a darkened room. And even I can admit that your eyelashes are delicious. Stop wearing that pillowcase any time you likeâIâve seen your face before, and I know it looks like both of your parents were right-angled triangles. We must work with what weâve got, as the flesh magician said to the leper.â
A livid heat rose up your neck as you pulled away the bedsheet. Lyctoral perception had made you complacent - you could sense the flesh and bones and innards of any of your attendants automatically, but Ianthe Tridentarius was a black hole where no heart could be sensed beating and no brain could be seen sparking. The brain, you knew grudgingly, existed. The heart was an open question.
You considered striking her, when she reached for something in her robes. âBefore you do anything I am quick to reassure you that you will regret,â said Ianthe, who had not bothered even flinching at your planned attack, âI have a message for you.â
She handed you a letter with the name âHarrowharkâ written on it, and underneath To be given to Harrowhark immediately upon coherence.. Both your name and the message were written in your own hand.
âI wish youâd explained to me what coherence meant,â Ianthe complained. You noticed her eyes had changed again; now she was heterochromatic, one eye purple and one blue. âDid you mean coherent as in, I recognise objects and their names? Did you mean coherent as in, I am no longer remotely out to lunch, which means youâre still not eligible? I wasnât going anywhere near you in the first instance of you opening your eyes. Your only settings were powervomit and murder.â
âTell me how you came to have what you are holding,â you croaked.
âYou put it in my own hands, you skull-faced fruitcake,â she said soothingly. âGo on. Take it. Itâs yours.â
You took it. In the bright artificial light of the hospital quarter, you could see that it was your own handwriting, not a forgery. The letters were written in your own blood. And inside, the letter was written in Ninth House script, your own cipher, developed when you were seven years old. There was no question you were the one to write this.
You read:
ADDRESSING THE REVEREND LADY HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS, KNOWN AS THE REVEREND DAUGHTER BY HER OWN DESIRE, NOW HARROWHARK THE FIRST, WRITING AS THE SAME, NOW DEAD.
LETTER #2 OF #24. TO BE READ IMMEDIATELY ON COHERENCE. Harrowharkâ As I write, it has been forty-eight hours since you became a Lyctor at Canaan House. By the time you read this you will not recall the writing thereof, as the Harrowhark of the writing will be dead and gone. Her resurrection constitutes a fail state and must be avoided at all costs. This letter cannot answer questions. What I have done I will refer to as the work, and its character is actively harmful for you to know. I will instead provide guidelines on how to live the rest of your life. As your life may hopefully now extend into the myriads, it is of enormous import that you are not tempted to deviate from them. You are the living surety of promises I have made. Break troth with me, and from beyond my destruction I will brand you Tomb heretic, cut off utterly from that which lies on the frozen altar, asleep and dead; removed from the adoration thereof, and any promise of part in her resurrection.
GUIDELINE #1: STAY ALIVE. You may not end your own life through suicide. You may not end your own life through carelessness. Accidental death must be avoided at all costs and never accepted as an outcome. The work relies upon your continuance.
GUIDELINE #2: YOU CAN NEVER RETURN TO THE NINTH HOUSE. The way home is closed to you. Do not set foot within the House again. Do not allow yourself to be taken there by force.
GUIDELINE #3: THE SWORD WILL REMAIN ON YOU AT ALL TIMES. Wipe it down with your arterial blood nightly. Coat the blade in the ash which regrows. Do not cut flesh with the naked blade. Do not cut bone with the naked blade. Even this may not prove enough. Treat the sword as your promised death, and act according to the first guideline.
GUIDELINE #4: YOU ARE COMPROMISED. You may already suspect this, if youâre not as big a fool as I take you for. I will confirm your access to the Lyctoral well. This battery is, most likely, the extent of your capability. Make up for your inevitable failings through study. Your understanding of flesh and spirit magic is execrable, so start there. Do not aim to only build upon what you already know. It pains me to admit this, but you know piss-all. I refuse to let you build your house on such shiftless & ureal sand.
GUIDELINE #5: YOU OWE IANTHE TRIDENTARIUS THE FAVOUR OF THE CHAIN. This will be difficult to justify. I will therefore not justify it. Tridentarius has made what has come to pass possible. I owe her a debt that you will undoubtedly be paying for the rest of your life. The agreement does end on your death. The agreement does extend into the House, but NOT into the Tomb. The agreement is singular but does take precedence over and above any debt you have sworn to anyone lesser than the Holy Corpse, over and above the Emperor of the Nine Houses. In order to avoid philosophical quandaries she will expect you to re-swear immediately on receipt of the letter, and any failure to do so undoes the whole business. Do not be tardy here. It goes without saying that Ianthe will destroy you if she can. She has helped me ably, but it has cost her nothing and you everything. I have guarded from her full understanding of the work so that she cannot undo it on a whim or by accident. You are in her power. I am in no doubt of her misusing it. You yourself never had power over anyone else but you misused it violently.
GUIDELINE #6: READ THE OTHER MISSIVES ONLY IF AND WHEN YOU MEET THEIR REQUIREMENTS. I have left other instructions in case of new circumstances. Ianthe holds twenty-four of these letters and will give you twenty-two, including this one. They are numbered accordingly. Memorise the requirements and carry the letters on you at all times, ready to act the moment you are required to read them. Follow their instructions without hesitation. I repeat: do not read them otherwise.
To myself: a brief break in guidelines follows, before the last. You will think at this point that II have given you a terrible hand to play the game with. I am not unsympathetic. Nonetheless, understand that I envy you more than I have ever envied anyone, and that I look upon your birth as a blessing. Look upon me as a Harrowhark who was handed the first genuine choice of our lives; the only choice ever given where we had free will to say, No, and free will to say, Yes. Accept that in this instance I have chosen to say, No.
GUIDELINE #7: EXAMINE IANTHEâS JAW AND TONGUE AFTER YOU READ THIS. Owing to her Lyctoral status this will require physical touch. Under no circumstances can you let her know you are examining them. Do whatever it takes. If you suspect either jaw or tongue has been replaced, DO NOT SWEAR THE OATH. Instead kill her immediately.
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1/2 sorry lol
It isn't melodramatic at all. [Literally half her soul is just Ortus, unfortunately, because she ate his, and his half has seemingly fled her.] You sound. . . very lucky, to have had someone who is that for you.
[Anyway, I feel like you're trying to goad me into a specific memshare with that dialogue but I have a different torture lined up for you later so jot that down. Instead, let's talk about Lyctorhood which btw isn't pronounced 'Like-ter' but rather 'Lich-ter' as in 'lich.'
You convalesce on the Erebos, the Behemoth class flagship of the Emperor Undying, in the cool white rooms of its hospital quarter. You go in and out of consciousness, in and out of coherence, constantly, for weeks. Youâre dimly aware of the illness you feel, the broken shape of your body, your hollowness and the rawness of a grief you cannot place. You hallucinate frequently. Some days you are coherent enough to feel shame at the putrid green hospital gown you wear and the bareness of your face and head - someone has shaved your hair at some point. Other days, you stare out the window into the deepness of space for hours on end, or lie in bed clutching your sword like a steel infant. At one point, the nameless attendants try to take your sword from you - you fight them off, bloody and furious, and they do not try again. On the best days you hallucinate the Body by your side - lovely and dead and frozen. Her cold dead hands press against your brow, close your eyes, bid you to restful sleep.
From time to time, the Emperor sits beside your bedside. You ask him if newly born Lyctors always fare so badly; he admits the recovery process can be long but he is non-committal, so you expect your transition has been worse than most, and you suspect you can feel his concern and disappointment.
And then one day you come to on your cot all at once, hyperventilating, the ghost of some attack - a pillow pressed against your screaming mouth - on your mind, but your pillow is behind your bed and perfectly dry.
A chair is dragged close to your bedsideâthe little chair that usually sat by the door, the one you had only ever seen the Emperor occupy âand in it was Ianthe Tridentarius.
Your gazes met. The other nascent Lyctor was clothed in a gaudy, mother of pearl robe that made Iantheâs hair a lurid yellow and threw up all the mustard tints of her skin; her face was blotchy, and her eyes were sleepless pits. She looked like shit. You noticed that the eyes were a curious muddle of colours: her ordinary washed-out purple mixed with the freckled blue and brown that had been Naberius Ternâs, her murdered cavalier, now being consumed within her as your own murdered cavalier was surely now consumed. Ianthe was sitting significantly too near to you, and she lounged too casually on the chair. She also possessed two arms, which was one more than youâd last seen her sporting.
None of that particularly bothered you. What bothered you was that now the Princess of Ida was looking at you with an expression you struggled to remember ever seeing on her face. Ianthe always affected a heavy, artificial tedium, or a faint and glittering malice, sometimes even a self-deprecating and idle humourousness; but she looked at you now with a soft and thoroughly uncharacteristic hunger. She smiled down at you with a frank, overfamiliar expression that frightened you. You cover your bare face with your pillow.
âGood morning, my comrade,â she said. âMy colleague, my ally. I do like your eyes, Harrowharkâlike flower petals in a darkened room. And even I can admit that your eyelashes are delicious. Stop wearing that pillowcase any time you likeâIâve seen your face before, and I know it looks like both of your parents were right-angled triangles. We must work with what weâve got, as the flesh magician said to the leper.â
A livid heat rose up your neck as you pulled away the bedsheet. Lyctoral perception had made you complacent - you could sense the flesh and bones and innards of any of your attendants automatically, but Ianthe Tridentarius was a black hole where no heart could be sensed beating and no brain could be seen sparking. The brain, you knew grudgingly, existed. The heart was an open question.
You considered striking her, when she reached for something in her robes. âBefore you do anything I am quick to reassure you that you will regret,â said Ianthe, who had not bothered even flinching at your planned attack, âI have a message for you.â
She handed you a letter with the name âHarrowharkâ written on it, and underneath To be given to Harrowhark immediately upon coherence.. Both your name and the message were written in your own hand.
âI wish youâd explained to me what coherence meant,â Ianthe complained. You noticed her eyes had changed again; now she was heterochromatic, one eye purple and one blue. âDid you mean coherent as in, I recognise objects and their names? Did you mean coherent as in, I am no longer remotely out to lunch, which means youâre still not eligible? I wasnât going anywhere near you in the first instance of you opening your eyes. Your only settings were powervomit and murder.â
âTell me how you came to have what you are holding,â you croaked.
âYou put it in my own hands, you skull-faced fruitcake,â she said soothingly. âGo on. Take it. Itâs yours.â
You took it. In the bright artificial light of the hospital quarter, you could see that it was your own handwriting, not a forgery. The letters were written in your own blood. And inside, the letter was written in Ninth House script, your own cipher, developed when you were seven years old. There was no question you were the one to write this.
You read: