Chapter Text
Her father lies on the bed, as cold and unmoving in sleep as he was in wakefulness. No—maybe he’s warmer, even, more pliant. In his slumber, he does not shove her away, does not speak cruel words. In his slumber, she can hold his hands and speak to him, and nothing bad happens.
But Athanasia does not allow herself that, not too much. There are too many other matters for her to attend to.
The court clamors for her, constantly. Everything needs approval, needs management. Decisions need to be made, laws must be enforced, and the empire has to keep running.
Despite nothing but doubts from all sides, she takes to ruling like a fish to water, apparently. It isn’t a boast, but a fact they must each come to accept. Even though she can feel the pressure weighing upon her, even though she questions each stroke of her quill, even though the anxiety seems to crawl up her throat and spill from her lips, her approval-starved eyes catch the relief marking each courtier’s face.
Athanasia has been thirsty for approval her whole life. No matter how hard they all try to hide it, she’d recognize it anywhere.
But she must not get complacent. She must be better, work harder. They are all waiting for her to fail. The first slip could mean—Well, she’s not really sure. Death, maybe, except she doesn’t think she’s all that afraid of it anymore. It can’t be worse than living an empty, colorless life.
Alone at night, at her father’s desk, still working with sore hands and blurry eyes, she decides she’s far more afraid of proving them all right than dying. They still question her, all the time; they want Jennette to rule instead, because surely she’d be preferable, right? Her father would want it to be Jennette.
Except, despite everything, there’s no proof of that. Athanasia is, by legal technicality and despite everyone’s immense disbelief, still Claude’s heir. He left no instruction regarding the matter of his successor, and so they can only default to tradition. And furthermore, Jennette herself refuses to contest it. Like a trickling stream, she sits by their father’s side and weeps and snivels and does little else. Sir Alpheus and Countess Rosalia wring their hands and coax her, but can only watch their power-hungering schemes shrivel with each day Jeanette squanders.
Athanasia doesn’t believe in justice, in people getting what they deserve, but there’s something about that that tastes a little sweet.
Sometimes, there’s a question on her lips when she sits down with her sister, these days.
What was it that you wanted so badly, if it was not the throne?
Athanasia’s father’s love?
Well, for her sister’s sake, she hopes that wasn’t the case. Because neither of them will be getting that now.
But she does not ask. Instead, she finishes her tea quickly, squeezes Jeanette’s hand, bids her father goodbye, and gets back to work.