Name: Thai
Title: when compassion is a crime and murder absolution
Story: Blood Princess
Timeline: I continue only to rearrange the timeline. Asma is 12; Astor is Some Crazy Old.
Colors: Rust #19 - it's falling apart; Tyrian Purple #6 - the lying oracle; Alice Blue #19 - off with their heads
Supplies and Materials: Brush: "empirical - adj. originating in or based on observation or experience"
Word Count: 3305
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Accidental suicide, legitimate suicide
Notes: I don't even know where this came from. Blood Princess keeps rearranging itself in my head to mix up times and events. (Can I get a story tag?)  - also, thanks to Nikki for looking it over. I'm sorry if it's horrible, she told me not to change anything. ;________;

He found her curled in the window of her chamber, dangling one leg out in the sun, a book perched on her lap. Though her hand rested on the corner, so the wind wouldn't blow the pages out of order, the pages didn't turn. She slept, head tilted back towards the sun, mouth slightly open.

Astor leaned against the wall, watching her. The princess was growing up - she wouldn't go to the butterfly field with him again if he tempted her, would instead tag along at the Rocmother's side. He wasn't sure what had made her mother's neglect seem like strength to her. Perhaps all royalty were this stubborn.

Her limbs were long and lanky, and she hadn't cut her hair since she was a child. It blew over her face now, the trapped pages under her hand twitching with the desire to move, and the sheer curtains hanging over her bed rippled in the breeze.

Her eyelashes fluttered. Asma leaned forward slowly, brushing her windblown hair out of her face, and squinted down at the book. She'd probably forgotten what she was reading about.

Astor cleared his throat. Asma let out a sharp, squawking noise of surprise, almost dropping the book out of the window. "Astor!"

"Good morning, princess," he said dryly. She scowled at him, leaning back into the room and setting it carefully on the floor. "You know, generally, it's a good idea to sleep at night. Especially for a girl of your age."

"Oh, don't gimme that!" The princess stuck her tongue out at him. "I can decide when I'm sleeping by myself, you know!"

"Really? So you got up in that window thinking 'hmm, you know what would be a really good idea? I'm going to have a nap on a windowsill and possibly fall to my death'?"

Her irritated expression faltered a little. "Well, no, but that's cause I knew I wasn't gonna fall!" Asma hopped back into the room, twirling on her heel. "I have lightning reflexes, don't you know?"

Her reflexes were fine. Even if she had fallen, there was a balcony a few stories down that would have caught her easily - left her with a few broken bones, but it was all part of the learning process. Astor crossed his arms. "Your survival instincts suck."

"You suck!"

"Has anyone told you that you're a little terror?"

Asma's grin was a crescent moon. She hopped from foot to foot, spinning around again. "Nobody has to tell me! But I'm your favorite little terror, so you shouldn't even complain!"

Astor rolled his eyes. He stepped forward to put his hand on Asma's shoulder, stopping her capering - and earning a disappointed look, which he promptly ignored. "We're going somewhere."

Immediately, a guarded, mistrustful look crossed her face. Asma stepped back, folding her arms over her chest. The wind blew again, sending swirls of black curling over her face. "Where?"

"The cliffs."

"Does Mother know?"

Mother, not Mama. He supposed it was a long time since she called the Rocmother that, but it still made him sad, a little. He shrugged, moving to lean against the window. "She's out there."

The implication being she'll meet us there. Asma's arms fell to her side, and she spun in a giddy circle, bare feet kicking up dust from the sandstone floor. "Okay! Do I need shoes - that's a stupid question, it's really hot out there! Does she want me to take anything?"

"No." She doesn't know.

"Okay, so just my shoes." The princess hop-skip-danced across the room, Astor following her progress with his eyes. She would make a fine dancer someday. He needed to talk to the Rocmother about acquiring her lessons. "Uh, is this going to be public?"

"You can leave your crown."

"Really?" With enormous relief, Asma pulled the silver circlet from her head and tossed it onto her bed. That was one part of the Empire she still rejected. "Are Haytham and Janan coming?"

"Part of the way." They're taking us there.

"Awesome. I'll go get them."

--

Haytham gave him a bitter look when they stepped onto the cliffs, but Astor paid little mind. He hoped they were here when they needed to be - too soon, and someone would spot them before Asma had seen what she needed to; too late, and the Rocmother would return, and there went Astor's internal organs.

The young princess slid neatly off of Janan's back, scampering to the edge of the cliff to peer down. "That's a long way down! Janan, have you been here before? Come look at this! The cliff sides are all banded, they're really pretty! They look kind of like the rug you made for Haytham!"

There was a soft hushing noise as Janan's feathers fell; looking more reassured in her human-skinned form, the woman stepped forward to peer down with her charge. "It's very nice. I've been here before, yes."

"Really? Why? Was it like this?"

Astor was distracted from listening by Haytham's hand on his shoulder. The older Roc's eyes, when he turned to look, were piercingly dark - furious, suspicious, annoyed. Astor couldn't resist the smug smirk that curled his mouth. This man was relying on him. He hated to do it - but he had to.

"If she gets too upset," Haytham warned, in a tone too low for even the princess' keen ears to hear, "you'll take her back at once. I don't give a shit about your vow. If you bring us back a broken princess, I'll toss you off these cliffs myself."

Astor's voice was calm. "What we want is a broken princess, don't you remember? It's the first step to a broken Queen."

"Don't shatter her."

"I have no intention of doing so."

"We love her."

"So do I."

They stared at each other for a long moment, long enough for Astor to wonder when this infernal staring contest would ever end, and then their attention was grabbed by Asma's sharp squeak of laughter.

"No, haha, Janan, don't, that's gross - "

"And then he just threw me down on that rug and - "

"You are horrible - "

Astor laughed, turning it into a hasty cough when Haytham turned to glare at him. "Janan, my dear friend, please stop corrupting my pupil," he interrupted, moving towards the two. Asma was curled up on the ground, hands pressed to her ears, practically blue in the face from laughter; Janan looked up at Astor, a mischievous smile on her mouth.

It faded as he gave her a serious look. She patted Asma once on the head, ruffling her hair affectionately, and got to her feet. The princess rolled back upright, shooting Janan a glare that was too giddy to be real.

"Haytham," she called past Astor, "your wife is gross!"

"Why do you think I love her?" was the response, and Asma made a horrified face. There was a soft swoosh from behind Astor, and a silvery Roc swooped low over their heads, wheeling back towards the distant shadow of the palace. Janan bent to kiss Asma's temple.

"We'll be back when you need us," Astor heard, although the pitch of it meant he was really not supposed to; the woman turned, leaping headlong off the cliffs, and another pale avian shape soared upwards. Asma waved, although she knew Janan couldn't see her, and scooted forward to dangle her feet over the precipice.

Janan's leap had startled Astor badly, and he glanced along the cliffs. The angle of the sun meant it was mid-afternoon. They would be here soon.

"What are we here for?"

Asma's question made Astor jump again. The princess was gazing at him with a quizzical, almost irritated expression. "Where's Mother? You said she'd be out here."

"She'll be here later."

"Oh."

He gazed at the princess warily, eying the steep edge of the cliff. Here, her affinity for heights was dangerous. There was no balcony to catch her, no wings at the ready to snatch her from the air. "Asma, come back here."

She hopped up at once, dragging her feet as she trudged back away from the cliff. "So what are we waiting for, anyway, is it just - "

A harsh, cawing shriek split the air. Astor looked up. Dark, immense shapes - adult Rocs - had appeared in the sky, wings spread for an easy glide. They didn't have much time.

He pulled her away from the cliffs, ignoring her squawk of indignation, and yanked her into the shadow from a nearby rock. With their dark hair and dark garb, as long as they didn't draw too much attention, they should be able to remain here without being discovered. When Asma opened her mouth to protest, he swiftly pressed his hand over it.

"Don't talk," he ordered, and Asma subsided.

The Rocs were settling to the ground now, folding their wings behind them. Smaller shapes, distinctly bipedal, slid from their backs. These smaller shapes stood in awkward groups, moving together like caged prey. The Rocs shuffled from foot to foot, some stretching their necks or wings, before shedding their feathers.

"Who - "

"From Masatar," Astor breathed. "City to the north. Younglings and their families. Too long of a journey for the young ones to fly."

The smaller shapes - younglings - were bunched close together now, from their awkward groups to a larger one. One of the adults - Astor focused; it was a young man with a sharp, beaklike nose - gestured impatiently. The young Rocs looked at each other nervously. He gestured again, more angrily - two other adults dove into the group, emerging with a boy with a surprising shock of white hair, squirming in their grip.

"Astor, what are they - "

"Test of flight," he whispered, even lower than before. "Shhh. Watch."

The boy seemed to be arguing with the man, his mouth moving in panicked gibbering motions. Some parts of the conversation drifted towards them; "... not old enough... never even let me... go next... just not first..."

The man was unmoved. With a jerk of his head, he motioned towards the cliffs. He said one thing, distinct enough to be lip-read. "Don't be a disgrace."

The boy spat at his feet, a furious expression overtaking the panic, and tore his arms away from his captors. He strode towards the cliff's edge. Behind him, the group of young ones leaned back as one. At Astor's side, Asma tugged at his sleeve.

"Astor, is he going to - "

"Be silent!"

The boy stood at the very edge of the precipice, toes curled around the edge. His angry expression faded to one of fear as he gazed down at the ground, many thousands of feet below - then he crossed his arms, moved his lips in a prayer, and threw himself off of the cliff.

Asma's shriek was stifled by Astor's hand on her mouth, his arm curling tight around her back to hold him to her. This is what he wanted, what they wanted, for their princess to see the test of flight and understand, understand -

The white-haired boy plummeted down, down - and then, with a great rip of sound, his wings tore forth from him and he soared upwards, claws and beak winking in the sun. The group behind him cheered; the beak-nosed man simply smiled. The boy - Roc - turned, wheeling in a tight spiral before diving back to the cliff. He changed as he landed, awkward gripping claws shifting back into running feet. Astor was impressed.

The first one had passed.

A group of white-haired girls, obviously his sisters, propelled themselves at him as soon as he was close enough. His smile was wide; all of them were laughing, chattering, and one jumped over the heads of her sisters to kiss his cheek. The younglings' anxiety was lessening. Astor saw more reassured smiles now, rather than the anxious grins of before, and when the man made a gesture one of the white-haired girls bounced forward eagerly.

It began with the fourteenth.

There were thirty-odd younglings to be tested, and the white-haired boy and his family had all passed. The fourteenth was a small black-haired boy, paler in skin than the rest of them, and he approached the cliff with great confidence. Asma was grinning, now, arms curled around her knees as if she were watching entertainment put on just for her. The boy stretched, cracking his shoulders, and dived forward off of the cliff.

He knew it was coming from the moment the boy fell, and looked away. The drop was long. Astor wanted to turn Asma's face away from it, the way he had - but she had to look. Had to see. Watching her face, though - the shift from eager, to worried, to horrified, and then -

Devastation. He dared to look back. The splotch against the pale sandstone was almost insignificant - a dark spatter of blue, which the sand blew over almost at once. On the cliffs above, a great cry went up, the entire group of young Rocs surging forward to gaze down at the rocks. At his side, Asma began to shudder.

"Astor - "

"Shhh."

"Astor, he - "

"I know."

"Why didn't he - ?"

"He couldn't."

"But - "

She couldn't say more. He had to, then - had to pull her into his arms and turn her face away, as the white-haired boy, the first success, pulled on his feathers and dove to retrieve the body.

--

In the end, twelve had fallen. Twelve out of thirty-seven. The first to fall was not the last; the girl after him, obviously his sister, hadn't even tried to change. Astor had watched her; her expression remained stony the whole way down, arms curled across her chest as if holding herself together. (It hadn't helped.)

When the sun was making its way towards the horizon, they left, the young ones wheeling and swirling in the sky above the adults. The bodies were held in claws or tied securely to backs; they'd be mourned at home, but were forgotten for the most part. The children played games in the sky while their dead brothers and sisters were carried home.

Asma hadn't spoken since the first boy's death. When Astor knocked at her door that evening, he received no answer. Just before he stepped back to move away, however, it cracked open.

The princess peered out, blue eyes nearly black with an unidentifiable emotion. When she saw who it was, she made to close the door again, but Astor shouldered it open, forcing his way into her room. Asma stepped back, mouth tightening with anger, and for a moment Astor thought she would strike him.

Then she turned away, trudging back to the window, where the book still sat. Night had fallen, but Asma had lit lanterns in her room; they hung from the ceiling, flickering with orange light. In the glow, she was golden. Astor stayed by the door.

"Do you understand why I took you to see that?"

She hopped up into the sill, tucking her knees under her chin. She was getting too old to sit in windows, Astor thought with a pang of regret. Too old to run around the castle and play silly games. Too old to treat everything like a game that she had been taught to play.

He thought she wasn't going to answer, but she shook her head, stiffly. He let out an explosive sigh. "Why do you think?"

"I don't know." Asma's voice was stilted, formal. It shook a little with anger. "You lied to me."

"I never did."

"You said that Mother would be waiting for us there."

"I said she was out there. She was. The Rocmother arrived home a few minutes ago."

Asma whirled, dropping her feet back to the floor. She gaped at him, a mixture of horror and rage. "She didn't know?"

"Your mother didn't want you to see."

"Bright gods, let's think why!" She got up, beginning to pace around the room. "Let's think why my mother wouldn't want me to see kids barely older than me jumping off cliffs to their own stupid deaths because they - "

"You're right," Astor interrupted. His voice was rising. "Let's think why, Asma. This is what I'm here for. I'm teaching you. Why wouldn't your mother want you to see children committing suicide? Why wouldn't your mother want you to see this noble tradition of our race?"

"That's traditional?"

"Yes."

Asma fumbled, now, and reached up to yank her fingers through her hair. "Well," she said fretfully, "Mother knows I can't - she knew seeing that would just upset me - "

"It's not that they can't change," Astor said. "It's that they can't do it well enough for the Empire. That boy, the first one - he probably could change. It just took him a while. And maybe he practiced for hours and hours before the test, changing fast, and maybe he thought 'Well, this is good enough,' but it wasn't. It wasn't fast enough not to disappoint the Empire - "

"What are you saying - "

"This is what happens, Asma!" Astor shouted, gesturing out towards the cliffs. "Most of those children were thirteen - barely older than you, you're right! They're expected to be perfect for the Empire! To their own stupid deaths, you said. Their abilities are not their fault!"

She was crying, now, whether with anger or sorrow Astor couldn't tell. "Why do they do it, then?! When they knew they'd just - ?!"

"Because nobody knows. Because there's a reason it's a test. Because nobody wants to disappoint the Empire, because what happens if they just say no, I'm not going to is a lot worse than a simple plunge to their death."

He moved across the room to her. She tried to hit him, lashing out with her hands curled into claws, but he caught her wrists. "Why wouldn't your mother want you to see, Asma? Why would your mother not even tell you this happened?"

"She wanted to protect me!"

"She wanted to protect herself." He lowered his voice, tipped his head downward. "The Rocmother is the Empire, princess. She knows about this. She doesn't stop this. She wanted to protect you - why doesn't she protect all the children? Why doesn't she stop this?"

"She - she - "

"She would have made you do the same thing if there were the slightest chance she could acquire another heiress," Astor said, clear and cold, and he felt the break.

Asma didn't fight when he released her wrists; simply fell to the ground in a heap, curling her arms around herself. Crouched on the floor, holding herself together, she looked so much like the falling girl that a shudder ran down Astor's spine. He gave her a minute, then knelt; she was crying, still, silent and motionless.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She made no reply.

Astor reached forward. She didn't resist when he pulled her into his arms, only shifted her elbows so they wouldn't dig into his side. Her hair was tangled and filled with sand, and her skin was warm from sitting near a lantern. He touched his fingertips to the crown of her head.

"You needed to know," he said, even more softly. She made no reply. After a moment, thought, she nodded. Her arms uncurled, reaching to take hold of his hand. Astor closed his eyes, pressed his forehead against her temple.

"I didn't want to, though," Asma said a minute later, and pulled herself away from him. Astor watched her go. There was sorrow, yes - and regret for opening her eyes, but there was triumph. He had succeeded. They had succeeded.

She was no longer the Rocmother's princess.