Another day, another anonymous body, another ephemeral encounter.
Sometimes it's just what the doctor ordered. Almost literally, as a salve to stave off that inevitable isolation which comes from being the ruler of several thousand planets; his empire in the trillions, holding them all in the palm of his hand and striving to protect them all. It's a ruthless business, and a tiresome one, and an impossibly prestigious one β Cleon XIII, Brother Day, is currently the single most important person in all the galaxy β and yet it is also, truth be told, impossibly lonely.
It's been years since Dawn, the teenager and the youngest of them, was needy enough to fall into his arms for a hug after a nightmare, or when he was feeling unwell. Sometimes Cleon misses those days. Misses when his son β not his son, but the closest thing he'll ever have to a son β came to him, looked to him for closeness, and wasn't self-conscious enough yet to tamp down those signs of vulnerability.
But the clock turns ever onward and today in the imperial capital city of Trantor, in the heart of the cloistered palace, a concubine from the Gossamer Court is arriving.
When the grand door opens and the woman is ushered into Empire's grandiose private quarters (an honour, a rarely-seen place), she'll find a sprawling penthouse with real daylight spilling golden through the windowsβ a rare sight for any of the poor souls on Trantor who labour away in the under-levels beneath the outer shell of the planet, with only a holographic sky to look at.
But when the woman first arrives, Empire isn't even looking at her; he's sprawled in a chaise, chin tipped into his hand, already looking bored. He's in a mood. A line of poetry comes to mind, some ancient thing he memorised during his literary studies, and he thinks: My brother, the god, and I grow sick / Of heaven's heights.
Finally, Cleon shifts his cold hazel gaze, and looks at her, and takes her in.
"You're new," is all he says, the voice low and rich and just a little affected.
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the first meeting.
Sometimes it's just what the doctor ordered. Almost literally, as a salve to stave off that inevitable isolation which comes from being the ruler of several thousand planets; his empire in the trillions, holding them all in the palm of his hand and striving to protect them all. It's a ruthless business, and a tiresome one, and an impossibly prestigious one β Cleon XIII, Brother Day, is currently the single most important person in all the galaxy β and yet it is also, truth be told, impossibly lonely.
It's been years since Dawn, the teenager and the youngest of them, was needy enough to fall into his arms for a hug after a nightmare, or when he was feeling unwell. Sometimes Cleon misses those days. Misses when his son β not his son, but the closest thing he'll ever have to a son β came to him, looked to him for closeness, and wasn't self-conscious enough yet to tamp down those signs of vulnerability.
But the clock turns ever onward and today in the imperial capital city of Trantor, in the heart of the cloistered palace, a concubine from the Gossamer Court is arriving.
When the grand door opens and the woman is ushered into Empire's grandiose private quarters (an honour, a rarely-seen place), she'll find a sprawling penthouse with real daylight spilling golden through the windowsβ a rare sight for any of the poor souls on Trantor who labour away in the under-levels beneath the outer shell of the planet, with only a holographic sky to look at.
But when the woman first arrives, Empire isn't even looking at her; he's sprawled in a chaise, chin tipped into his hand, already looking bored. He's in a mood. A line of poetry comes to mind, some ancient thing he memorised during his literary studies, and he thinks: My brother, the god, and I grow sick / Of heaven's heights.
Finally, Cleon shifts his cold hazel gaze, and looks at her, and takes her in.
"You're new," is all he says, the voice low and rich and just a little affected.