A few feet away a tourist turned around, his camera held up obscuring his face. He saw the young man on the ground, writhing slowly, possibly having a seizure, and reached up to adjust the focus on his lens. The camera pointed at the young man like some strange mechanical proboscis and the tourist's finger began to depress the shutter release.
Something woke in the back of the young man's head. Another colour exploded, a shower of tiny green stars tasting of mint, but this time he didn't flinch.
Who are you? asked a voice, and he replied with his name, Nicholas. For a long moment he was surprised that he could remember it.
Why did you come here? asked the voice. Nicholas – Nick, he thought – paused, but the voice rifled through his mind and memories, sorting out relevant images and discarding ones it didn't like. For a moment there was a blur and a smeared sensation of pain, as though all his nerves were jangling in competition, then an image of his sister wearing her graduation gown. The focus on the image changed and he became aware of the background, of the caryatid columns behind her that had somehow all turned to face her and watch. Then the image dissolved in a blaze of static which in turn was replaced with an image of his father's funeral. A coffin was lowered into the grave and handfuls of mud were cast on top. But now he saw clearly; there were no mourner's near the grave, no-one throwing the mud save the earth itself. More images followed, all seemingly of one thing but always the background details resolved into something else, something bigger and potentially more interesting.
Finally the images ceased and his mind felt as though it had been raked through; his scalp blazed with criss-crossing lines of pain.
Thrones are not inherited, said the voice which was starting to sound disturbingly like his own. There was a hint of a tremble in it that hadn't been there at the start, something that reminded him of his own constant struggle to overcome his stutter.
Thrones are earned, said the voice. And you want the Piccadilly throne?
He tried to nod, but couldn't feel enough of his body to know if he succeeded. The voice seemed to understand anyway though.
So what did you bring to substantiate your claim? asked the voice, and again there was a sensation of violation, of things in his head being broken apart without his permission, and then there, front and centre of his mind was all that he'd brought with him.
The vial containing the blood of Anteros.
The shutter release depressed and the tourist took a picture of the young man, millions of photo-sensitive cells recording the instant of ascension.
Nick felt the vial shatter even though it was safely wrapped in cotton wool in a sturdy cardboard box. The voice tried to recoil, but as it had taken on his aspect, so now it was trapped inside his head. The colours around him exploded again and again, harder and brighter than before but to no avail; now they were contained within him, made part of him, gave strength to him.
He sat up, hearing the roar of traffic and feeling it, viscerally, through his skin. The buildings around him felt like part of him; he was sure that if he made the choice he could lift an arm vaster than any of his own limbs and shake the streets and buildings with his power. He had, without a doubt, claimed the Piccadilly Throne as his own.
The tourist turned away, the camera vanishing from his face and into a bag, the act of theft concealed from the only person it could matter to. And though Nick looked around him and saw the tourist, though there was a momentary flicker of recognition, it passed and the tourist faded away into the crowd with his prize.
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