#//Might as well sabotage it all himself���at least THEN he knows with utmost certainty it will end failure. Whoops veered off topic

[dutybcrne]

From a very young age, Kaeya held such a fondness for handholding. Whether it was his father clinging tightly to him to make sure he didn’t get lost, Adelinde’s gentle, grounding hand closed over his to comfort him whenever his nerves got the better of him, Crepus’s rough-palmed, firm yet comforting grip as he brought him back home, or, as it was most often of all, Diluc’s warm, yet at times uncomfortably tight hold as he dragged him anywhere, everywhere, determined to always keep Kaeya close and eagerly show him all there was to see, Kaeya treasured the gesture greatly.

Of course, being as shy as he was, initiating it himself was always the harder part. So much so, he would tend to hold pinkies, rather than outright take a person’s hand in his own. Eventually, it would become his most common way to go about the gesture of affection.

[midnightruleswriting]

I fixed it

Fenrose studies the men in front of her, burly, armored, and armed to the teeth, the lot of them. Their heavy furs and  unkempt hair and beards stand out against the regalia of court. She taps her chin with one long finger, lost in thought. The last band of hunters she had sent out had not yet returned, and she’s grown impatient.

           “You believe yourselves to be the best in the business?” Fenrose says evenly, examining her nails. She’s heard this before, from the group she sent out six months ago, and from the one that came before then, nearly two years ago. Boasts of deeds past done do not impress her.

           “Aye—we can find whatever it is yer looking fer,” one man speaks up, his voice low and grinding. He places his hand on his Warhammer for emphasis.

           “How much?”

           “Beg yer pardon?”

           Fenrose takes a step closer, her eyes even and unwavering. “I want you to find Finley, heir to my father’s throne. Capture and return; no killing. Ideally, no harming, either. How much?”    

           “Do you have any idea where—?”

           “I do not. If I did, I would find Finley myself, wouldn’t I?” Fenrose’s voice snaps, silencing the brute in front of her. She hates dealing with these bounty hunters, but she can’t seem to find another option. Not one she’s willing to consider. Not yet.

           “Well, that’ll affect the price then.” The man glances sideways at his four companions, thinking for a moment. “Twenty thousand.”

           “Done. Should you return Finley to this keep, in one piece, I will pay you your twenty thousand gold. I trust you understand your mission must be of the utmost secrecy? Excellent. My servant will provide you with the details—description, etcetera. If you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to elsewhere.” Placing one hand on the pommel of her rapier strapped to her hip, Fenrose turns on her heel and marches out of the room.

           Faylen doesn’t move when the doors to the library slam open, or to the tack-tack of approaching heels. He only looks up from his book when Fenrose throws herself into the high-backed chair across from him.

           “Father is going to throw a fit if he sees you dressed like that,” Faylen says, nodding towards his sister’s tight leather pants and free-flowing tunic. “You know how he gets.”

           “I’ll tell him I was training,” Fenrose says distractedly, staring at the wooden grain of the table. Sweat doesn’t dampen her brow and her long red hair is as immaculate as ever, every last strand braided into place. Faylen knows their father won’t buy the lie for a moment.

           Faylen sighs, narrowing his eyes and closing his book quietly. “What’s wrong?”

           “I just sent another hoard of bounty hunters after Finley.”

           “Again? When will you give this up?” Faylen pushes his book across the table and leans forward, studying his sister intently.

           Fenrose’s eyes snap to meet Faylen’s, and narrow dangerously. “I’m sorry. Do you not want Finley home?”

           “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk—”

           “Of course it’s worth the risk—it’s been fourteen years—”

           “And Finley could be dead.” Faylen rubs their temples. It’s an old argument between the two of them. While Faylen misses Finley—he does—he doesn’t understand his sister’s obsession. If Finley wanted to come home, Finley would be home. “What are you going to do? If these men come back empty handed like all the others?” She had been sending bounty hunters after Finley for four years now, and none of them had returned with any success.

           “I suppose I’ll just have to go after Finley myself, won’t I?”

           Faylen has to consciously keep the surprise from his face. He’s not sure how to process this. It’s not new—Fenrose has said much of the same before, but never with such certainty, such conviction. “You’re joking.”

           “I’m really not.” Fenrose glances around the quiet library. “Where are your tutors?”

           “We’ve decided I learn better without their dithering—don’t change the subject. Would you really go after Finley? Alone?”  

           “What other choice do I have, Faylen?” Desperation creeps into her gray eyes. “I need Finley here, safe.”

           Faylen studies his sister for a long moment, letting the quiet stiffen between them. “Does the prospect of ruling scare you that much, that you would drag Finley back here and force the duty on someone who so obviously doesn’t want it?”

           Her eyes flash dangerously. “Shut your mouth. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fenrose’s nails dig into the wood. She’s angry, but Faylen has seen worse.

           “Don’t I, though? You’re terrified.”

           “That is not why I want Finley home—”

           “Then explain it to me.”

           “I can’t—” The library door swings open then with a thunderous thud, cutting Fenrose off. She casts a furtive glance at Faylen, silencing any protests with only a look. A servant comes into view, out of breath and red in the face.

           “My lord, lady—your father, High Lord of Madiére, requests your presence—”

           “That’s enough, Teigo,” Fenrose dismisses him with a wave of her hand. He bows before backing away. Despite her reservations, Faylen cannot help but marvel at the way his sister commands.

           “Coming, brother?” Fenrose stands, dusting imaginary dirt from her pants and smoothing her nonexistent flyaway hairs back into place.

           “What do you think this about?” Faylen asks quietly, falling into step beside her as she marches towards the throne room. Their footfalls echo against the stone walls. The guards they pass are stoic and silent.

           “Hopefully, not what we discussed earlier.” She shoots him another furtive glance. He knows to keep his silence about such matters. Setting off Father’s temper is a rare occurrence, but a dangerous one. Best to keep secrets between the two of them.

           Guards haul open the heavy doors to the throne room, and the court herald announces their arrival, titles and all. Faylen and Fenrose walk towards their father, standing on a dais, bow deeply, and step back.

           “Father,” Fenrose begins smoothly. “You asked for us?”

           “I did indeed,” his voice booms in the large room, loud enough for all assembled to hear. He allows the words to settle a moment. “I thought it best to formally introduce you,” he gestures to the side with a sweeping motion. Only then does Faylen notice the two young elves standing to the side of the room.

           “My sister was the victim of a plot to sabotage our government, to overthrow our very system of order,” Faylen’s father announces. “She and her husband, High Lord and Lady of House Arndor, were murdered while their children slept, and the assassins slipped away. Our own people, nobles, are being targeted and slaughtered. I will be doubling security on the grounds and within the walls of this keep to ensure my family’s protection. And I, out of the goodness of my heart, have decided to take in my niece and nephew, to raise them as my own, while stepping in as the lord of their province until young Amavain here is old enough to handle the duties of lord himself.”

           Faylen’s father chuckles then, and the sound send chills down Faylen’s spine. “Step forward, you two, no need to be shy! Fenrose, Faylen, may I introduce your cousins? Amavain and Aerlanna.” Faylen takes in their appearance, for a moment, as they step out of the shadows cloaking the side of the room. They can’t be much older than himself. The resemblance between the two and Fenrose and himself is undeniable. Sharp cheekbones, similar noses, and that famous Liebertal red hair. True, it is a few shades lighter, but undeniably a result of their shared blood.

           The young elves look at each other for an uncertain moment before dropping into a bow. Judging by the looks on their faces, Faylen is sure he is not the only one surprised by the news of relatives. While it is not uncommon for children of nobles to be carted off and raised with others their same age, their father had never spoken of his sister, not in Faylen’s lifetime, at least, Finley or Fenrose might have known, and just not thought to disclose it to him.

           “I trust you two will show your cousins around the keep and get them situated? The servants can help set up their bedchambers and move their things. I expect to see you all at dinner.” And with that, Faylen’s father pushes past them, likely to head back to his study and his solitude. He pauses at the last moment, and without turning around, says, “And Fenrose?”

           Fenrose’s jaw tightens. “Yes, Father?”

           “Do dress properly for dinner tonight.”

           With that, he stalks out of the room, his loud steps drowning out Fenrose’s terse, “Yes, Father.”

           The rest of the court officials begin filing out, heading back to their duties. Faylen watches as Fenrose studies the young elves in front of them, before she turns sharply to Faylen.

           “You can handle this on your own, can’t you? I have more important things to attend to.” And much like their father, she turns on her heel and marches off.

           Faylen’s eyes widen in surprise—the only reaction he can muster before she disappears, and takes in the uncertain looks on the elves in front of him. Never comfortable as the center of attention, Faylen shifts nervously, dropping his gaze to the floor.

           “Would you—like to see the keep?” He asks weakly, unsure if he should apologize for his sister’s behavior.        

           Aerlanna and Amavain don’t answer at first, and Faylen’s stomach twists itself into a new knot with each passing second. Chancing a glance at the siblings, Faylen notes a deep scowl settling itself on Aerlanna’s lips, and the uncertainty clouding Amavain’s eyes. Until, finally, Amavain says quietly, “we would greatly appreciate it.”

           Faylen swallows stiffly, and turns away from the siblings—his cousins—and leads them out of the throne room, scrambling for where to take them first.

           Faylen groans as he falls into his bed. He spent the whole afternoon showing Aerlanna and Amavain around the grounds and the keep. Neither of the siblings proved to be particularly forthcoming. They only nodded as the stables and the training grounds and didn’t even react to the library. Finally, finally, Faylen was able to pass them off to a servant who could show them to their rooms and escape.

           He hadn’t grown up around many other children. Fenrose is seventeen years his elder, and Finley nineteen years older than her. Faylen had been only six when Finley disappeared. True, he’d been required to entertain the children of other nobles when they came for extended visits, but Fenrose never abandoned him to these endeavors. She knows his discomfort around others his age.

           He had spent the entire afternoon mumbling to his newfound cousins about different passages to take to get to the dining hall and the library—he had assumed they would join him for lessons and would need to know the way there. He feels exhausted, and would likely nothing more than to sink beneath his blankets and sleep until breakfast.

           A servant knocks sharply on his door then, pushing it open without waiting for his response.

           “My lord? It is time to prepare for dinner.”

           “Diermon, would you please tell my father I’m too sick to attend dinner tonight?”

           “No, sir. Come now, up you get.” Diermon wastes no time in pulling Faylen to his feet and pulling out clean breeches, a fresh white shirt, and a gold stitched green doublet.

           Diermon escorts him to dinner—probably to ensure he actually attends—and disappears once Faylen is seated.

           Their dinner table is long and lit by candles. Torches line the walls as well. Five places are set in place of the usual three. Goblets already filled with wine accompany each plate. Faylen wastes no time sipping on his own. He has a feeling he is going to need it tonight.

           Fenrose is the first to join him, dressed similarly in a gown of green with golden embroidery. “I take it house colors are the theme for tonight?”

           Faylen smiles weakly. “I suppose so.”

           “Delightful.” Fenrose takes her customary seat to the right of the head of the table, and gulps her own wine, draining half the goblet. “I hope the servants are prepared to keep the drinks flowing tonight.”

           “I was thinking much of the same.” Faylen nods then, as their cousins enter, in their own matching outfits of deep blue and silver. Amavain’s hair is freshly trimmed, and Aerlanna’s is swept up into a braided crown, much like Fenrose’s.

           As always, Faylen’s father is the last to enter. He stands at the head of the table for a moment, studying Faylen and the others with his steady gray gaze.

           “Excellent,” he says appreciatively as he takes his seat. “How excellent, to have our family whole once more!”

           Across from him, Faylen doesn’t miss how Fenrose’s shoulders stiffen and her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the stem of her goblet. Amavain doesn’t react—but beside him, Aerlanna grips the edge of the table. Between Aerlanna and his sister, Faylen can practically taste the tension. His father, however, chooses not to notice.

           The servants begin placing bowls of hot soup in front of them, accompanied by fresh-baked rolls. Faylen’s father devours his, pausing every so often to take a sip of wine and lean over to Fenrose to ask her questions about trading. Throughout the first course, his father ignores the two new faces, and keeps the discussion to business. Faylen doesn’t dare speak, lest the attention be shifted to him. Amavain and Aerlanna keep their eyes on their own plates and eat quietly as well.

           That is, until the plates are cleared away and a large plate of venison is brought before them. A servant places the largest cut on his father’s plate and begins serving the rest.

           “So, Amavain, Aerlanna, how was your tour? Did my children take care of you?” Faylen’s father cuts a large piece of venison off and shoves it into his mouth before her finishes speaking.

           The siblings look at each other for a moment. Amavain shifts uneasily under the weight of the lord’s gaze. “We had a lovely tour, sir.”

           “Good to hear. Your lessons will begin tomorrow morning after breakfast. You’ll join Faylen in the library. I’m not sure how my sister ran your studies, but we have tutors here tasked with ensuring you receive the best education. You will inform them of where you left off, and they will resume from there. I assume you have developed some proficiency with weapons as well?” He cuts another large piece off his plate. Juice drips down his chin.

           Amavain nods. Beside Faylen, Aerlanna stabs forcefully at her meal.

           “Excellent. I will arrange for weapons training for you all as well, and I would greatly enjoy if all of you would accompany on a hunt one day—I’ll have someone arrange it tomorrow, maybe for the end of the week—”

           Aerlanna’s fork clatters to her plate. Faylen looks over, surprised to see her hands clenched into fists. She glares at his father, a muscle twitching in her jaw.

           “Our parents are dead,” she says, deathly quiet, speaking for the first time. “They were murdered. We were taken from our home—and all you can speak of are lessons and hunts. Have you no sympathy?”

           Faylen’s father seems unperturbed, but Fenrose’s eyes have narrowed. Faylen can tell she’s calculating, reevaluating. He’d give anything to know what is going through her head right now. To her left, Amavain looks to be chewing his lip nervously, looking anywhere but at his sister.

           “My sister made many mistakes in her life. Getting herself killed was one of them.” Faylen’s father reaches for his goblet, only to find it empty. He shouts to a servant, who rushes to refill it. He drinks deeply, smacking his lips in appreciation.

           “How dare you speak of my mother that way,” Aerlanna’s voice rises. “She’s dead and now—”

           “And now, you live under my roof, and my rules,” Faylen’s father’s hand slams down on the table for emphasis. The resounding smack makes Faylen jump. “You will do well to learn quickly that I do not tolerate such behavior.”          

           Aerlanna tips her head back and laughs, cold and high and mirthless. “Now you lecture me about rules? My parents are dead. My sister is missing, and you lecture me about rules. This is too much, simply too much.”

           “Aerlanna,” the lord says in a tone that chills Faylen to his very core. “One more word—”

           “I’ll give you one more word,” she snaps suddenly. “Where. Is. My sister?”

           “Enough!” Faylen’s father leaps to his feet, throwing his napkin to the table. Spittle flies from his lips and his face reddens as he bellows, “Bed. All of you. Get out!”

           Silence falls, broken only by the heaving breaths of his father bearing over the four of them. Quietly, Faylen pushes his chair back; the others follow, and they traipse through the grand doors and out into the hall. The doors boom closed behind them.

           Fenrose rustles her skirts. “Well. That went better than I expected.”

           Amavain only stares at her, wide-eyed.

           Faylen shrugs, offering him a small smile. “Welcome to our delightful family.”

           Aerlanna is pacing, wringing her hands and muttering unintelligibly to herself. Amavain catches her arm when she passes him, and pulls her close to his chest.

           “Come,” Fenrose says. “We have much to talk about.”

           “I don’t want to talk,” Aerlanna mutters. “I want to find my sister.”

           “I like your mettle, love,” Fenrose says. “But you have much to learn, and sooner rather than later would be preferable. Come.” Not waiting for a response, Fenrose turns and heads up the hall. Faylen can only offer another shrug to his cousins, and follow.