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eliza-makepeace · 5 years ago

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Murtagh pt.3

Thorn was alone this time. It was hard for him to not have Murtagh around, even if they were always connected with each other. It was funny, he supposed, knowing that Murtagh always felt calm when he was nearby, when Thorn knew he himself only felt truly comfortable when his Rider was with him. He knew how strange this symbiotic relationship must look from the outside, but as time went by they became even more reliant on each other than they had been before.

The dragon knew Murtagh wasn’t helpless. He had survived such horrible and complicated situations, way before he had even hatched, so it wasn’t as if Murtagh couldn’t do without him. Perhaps his Rider didn’t need him to keep him safe, physically speaking, but he knew he had become indispensable for Murtagh from the moment their eyes had locked with each other, and from the moment that silver scar had appeared in Murtagh’s palm. And Murtagh had become Thorn’s vital force. He was sometimes hard, and bitter, but Thorn understood those characteristics were learnt, and not something Murtagh was intrinsically. They were the product of what his life circumstances had forced him to become, of a life being unfairly treated, betrayed, and taken advantage of. And yet, despite that, Thorn could see a brighter light in his human Rider than in plenty other people with lesser hardships.

Most of the times, however, Murtagh showed himself to be what he truly was: a kind man who went out of his way to help people. Every time Murtagh went into a hate spiral, Thorn made it his duty to remind him of that fact, and Murtagh shrugged it off with an “anybody would do the same”. It angered Thorn. How could he say something like that, knowing as well as he did that it was entirely untrue? Specially, since his only reason to say it was to discredit himself. Thorn understood these tendencies, for he had them almost the same. He was born to immediately become a pawn in somebody else’s control, seeing the one person he loved being hurt because of standing for his beliefs, and then, see him stripped of his agency, possibility of choice, and his most intimate memories lay for the egg breaker to see and use for his own benefit, just to stop Thorn from getting hurt. Thorn had always known Murtagh’s selflessness, but it was taking Murtagh himself a longer time to own up to having that quality.

So Murtagh had gone to the closest town, and Thorn was afraid. Afraid of what? Perhaps of somebody recognizing him, and him getting into trouble. Perhaps of how Murtagh for the most part became melancholy when coming back from these trips, getting to see how common people lived their lives, so different to his own. Either way, Thorn was left uneasy every time he saw the dark cloaked figure of his Rider disappear between the trees. And with every passing second, he grew even more restless.

His red eyes caught Murtagh’s unmistakable silhouette heading back to their camp, and a guttural sound came from his throat, urging his partner to inform him of whatever had happened.

Murtagh sighed and sat next to him. He looked alright, as far as Thorn could see, so things hadn’t gone as badly as other times. “Town was busy,” he mused, softly. Thorn knew what that meant. Busy meant markets, markets meant news. And news… well, news for the most part weren’t kind to the son of Morzan.

What did you hear? he asked, knowing it was better off for Murtagh to vocalize his frustration and disappointment than keep it to himself.

“Nothing nice”, he responded. “Nothing untrue.” He opened a bag he’d carried with him and took out some ink and paper. “Got what I wanted, though”.

Thorn snarled, and made a strong move of his scaled head. I don’t like it when you change subject, you know that.

“I didn’t”, Murtagh replied, slightly set aback by Thorn’s sudden aggressiveness. “I’d just rather not dwell on how people hate me. Instead of seeing this trip as lemon juice dropped on a wound, I’d rather see it as a trip that got me some nice sheets of paper and ink.”

I would have no problem with it, if only it were true. But you do dwell on it.

Murtagh took a deep breath. Seemed like Thorn wouldn’t let it slide. “It hurts. How couldn’t it?” He stood up, and started pacing, like a trapped lion in a cage. “I wish… I wish I didn’t give a shit about what random peasants think of me, but I do. I do care. All my life… All of it, I’ve wanted to fit in, to be accepted, and now it seems like that is more far away than ever before.”

It is not your fault.

“Who cares about that?” Murtagh asked, raising an eyebrow, and staring right into Thorn’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter whose fault it is, as long as people have someone to put the blame entirely on. Galbatorix doesn’t do the job. It’s only relatively satisfactory to blame someone who’s dead. But they aren’t wrong. Despite everything, I really was his right-handed man.”

You were what he made of you. Like your mother was for Morzan.

Murtagh huffed, rolling his eyes in exasperation, as if they’d already had a conversation like that before, even though they never had. “I cannot believe you’re comparing the two of us”.

Why not? You are more alike than you think. She’s as misunderstood as you are. Who knows who she truly was? There are rumors about her, the same as there are about you. Despite what you may say, you know at least half of what they say of you is not true. Who’s to say what we see and know isn’t just a small percentage of who she really was?

The Wanderer shrugged, feeling the conversation to be ridiculous and nonsensical. “So, what? Nobody cares. For all they know, she was Morzan’s Black Hand, and that is the way she will go down in history. Even if she clearly did plenty more.” He shook his head, and bit his lip. “History is not written fairly, Thorn. History has always meant taking the truth and adapting it to your narrative, no matter who you step on.”

History can be rewritten. The right people can be honored, and the villains properly vilified.

“I don’t want to be honored.” He said, almost a whisper, more to himself than to Thorn. “I just want to feel like… like someday, I will be in a place I can call my home, surrounded by people who care for me. For Murtagh. Just Murtagh. Not the son of Morzan, not the Wanderer, not Tornac of the Road. I don’t want to spend the rest of my theoretically immortal life pretending to be somebody else.”

You know you have a home. Eragon told you himself. You have a place in Carvahall, which is your inheritance just as much as Za’roc was. You have family there, your cousin Roran.

“Please, Thorn. Eragon was just being kind. Carvahall could never be my home. Those people wouldn’t accept me, and Roran less than anybody, no matter how related we may be. I don’t even know him.” He covered his face with his hands, his long fingers pressed against his temple. “I wouldn’t blame them. They do have reasons to hate me.”

I am sure they would end to understand. They know how hard wars are, they know how tricky being thrust upon one is, and hopefully they’ll have learnt that sides aren’t as black and white as they seem.

“I feel you are too hopeful, my love,” Murtagh said. He didn’t say it mockingly, but with admiration. Thorn had an incredible quality, which was being able to see things brighter than they were, him included. Murtagh was different. He knew the monsters were there no matter where he looked, and it took a longer time than sometimes it was worth it to prove to him that what seemed like a good person really was one. So, he understood the general contempt for him more than he would like to admit. If he hadn’t been himself and had been some farmer who’d seen the fearing sight of the Red Rider over his head, he would have wished him dead.

“Sometimes I envy them,” he admitted, lowering his head, as if owning up to it made him feel embarrassed. “I envy that they can have easy lives, that they have a house, parents, siblings, a life with them, friends they’ve seen since they were born and now, as grown men, get to meet up at the usual inn and talk about their wives and harvest and kids.”

I don’t think the life of a farmer is the life for you.

Murtagh couldn’t help but smile at that. “I don’t either. But sometimes I wish it were.”

You have a chance to do something meaningful, Murtagh. These people do not. You are educated, intelligent, prepared, and fit to help change the course of the world. You cannot hide away forever, and you know it. Once you heal enough, you will have a choice.

“I’m afraid.”

I know you are. That’s why you should do it.

“You mean, teach them? The new Riders?” He frowned his eyebrow, deep in thought. “I don’t think I would do such a good job. Besides, what kind of parents would accept the son of Morzan to teach their children?”

You wouldn’t be Morzan’s son. You’d be Eragon’s brother and one of the saviors of Alagaësia. Anyone would love their children to be taught by you.

“Well… Even if it worked like that, and it doesn’t, I wouldn’t be half as good a teacher as Tornac was. I wouldn’t know how to do with those children what he did with me.”

Yes, you would. In fact, you already have done something of the like.

“You can’t possibly mean Essie. I was just trying to be nice, and help her feel less alone.”

That is exactly what a good teacher should do. It’s not just about knowledge, it’s about how you see them, and treat them. You made Essie feel validated, and appreciated. And you would do the same for your students, if you had the guts to give yourself a chance.

Murtagh gave it a moment’s thought. He wouldn’t deny he found it appealing, to an extent. Essie did seem to have liked him enough. But the problem was she’d seen him as Tornac. She hadn’t been judgemental because she had thought there was no reason to be judgemental. But if he showed up as Murtagh? Things should be very different for that to happen. In truth, for the first time in a long time he was slightly excited about what the future held.

#murtagh morzansson #murtagh #murtagh x thorn #murtagh tornacsson #my fics

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jeyned · 4 years ago

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heya everyone ! i wrote a really long intro / backstory which i’ve linked below, but in case you’re lazy like me i’ve also put a little tl;dr under the cut with the cliffs notes. there’s also a bunch of plot ideas in case anyone is interested ! like this, drop me and IM, or message me on discord ( do you like yuice ?#6373 ) if you want to plot !

⤷ the courts offer bread and salt to jeyne whent née lannister of house whent. many say that the twenty - seven year old ruling lady of harrenhal is known to be lively and insightful, though ill tongues whisper that she is condescending and selfish when her name is uttered , one is reminded of a pretty smile hiding bloodied teeth; the hiss and raised hackles of a cat that thinks itself a lion; a languid and velvety darkness; heartbeat made of war drums. may she be blessed and protected in this war of crowns. ( fc: caitlin stasey )

full backstory / statistics page / development tag .

trigger warnings for ; death & murder, illness, forced marriage, misogyny & misogynistic slurs (1), war.

basics.

name. jeyne whent née lannister. nicknames. the little lioness. age. twenty-seven. traits. + clever, intrepid, lively, protective, insightful, tasteful. - hypocritical, cruel, condescending, proud, selfish, spiteful. titles. ruling lady of harrenhal, heir apparent to lannisport. loyalty. [ lana del rey vc ] money, power, and glory. also the starks of winterfell, i guess.

tl ; dr .

jeyne is the youngest child and only daughter of the lord of lannisport and his wife. well - raised, courtesied, if admittedly spoiled. even as a little girl she plays pretend at being a king. her father teaches her what words like wartime and loyalty and ambition mean ; the sacrifices she must make for their family name, for gold and glory.

the ironborn raids come to the shores of the westerlands and both her brothers are sent to fight. the younger dies first ; there is no body to bury. her mother falls ill with something they can only call grief.

jeyne is married not long after, a rose in bloom at nineteen. when she first hears, she weeps and begs and rages. her father reminds her of her duty, of the joy it would bring her ailing mother. jeyne knows then what must be done, and plans.

when her first husband dies just shy of two years into their marriage, jeyne is irreproachable. he dies in winter, already ill ; goes to sleep coughing and doesn’t wake up. jeyne isn’t even in the castle when it happens, although unfounded rumors fly of witchery and murder.

nine months pass, and she plays the part of mourning widow exceptionally well. it helps her mummer’s farce that news comes from the war : her remaining brother is dead now too, and her mother’s health is failing. without her brothers, she’s the ostensible heir to lannisport ; her father’s displeasure with this is made quite clear to her. he even suggests she isn’t his ; bearing too many of her mother’s features, not enough of his.

she is remarried quickly to lord lucas whent, without a fraction of the pomp and circumstance of her first wedding ; now a widow, with a reputation tarnished by unproven but incessant whispers, the newest match is rushed, necessary but insignificant. she doesn’t cry or beg this time, just goes coldly.

she hates him before she even meets him, hates the harrenhal the moment she sets eyes on it, hates the cold and the rain and the gloom of the castle and its people. spends all her considerable energies complaining and making life generally miserable for anyone around.

word arrives that her mother has died ; her father remarries quickly in the hopes of a new male heir, and draws in his nephews and nieces. weighing his options. jeyne prays to the stranger to take them all.

she resents the lot of them ; her father for using and betraying her, her brother and mothers for leaving her, the ironborn for killing her brothers, the starks for suing for peace and making their deaths worthless, her husband merely for existing. mostly, though, she resents herself, not clever enough to find a way out of the cages she’s been locked in.

plots.

enemies. the very best plot type and you cannot convince me otherwise. gimme intimately plotted hate-your-guts-smile-to-your-face frenemies who overthink everything the other says and press each others buttons incessantly. gimme ‘our houses have fought each other and i blame your family for this or that’. gimme petty jealousies and annoyances and people too much like her for them to get along. gimme people who think she’s a traitorous, murdering bastard and a whore to boot, and aren’t even wrong to think so.

close friends. i don’t imagine she has a lot of these ; those not deterred by her reputation often are dissuaded by her personality. still i love the idea of her having a few lords or ladies with whom she gets along quite well, the kind of people you only need to meet briefly to know you understand each other. can be from pretty much anywhere ; stuck at harrenhal i imagine jeyne to be an avid letter-writer.

cousins. i’m also considering sending in a wc for this, but gimme all the family plots ! could be paternal cousins, potential contenders for inheriting lannisport, & probably childhood companions. could also be maternal cousins ! i listed her mom as being a westerling but i’m more than happy to change that to another house for plot reasons, it doesn’t really matter ! her father could’ve also had sisters who married into other houses, there’s lots of options.

failed betrothals. i can imagine her father made a lot of offers, both when she was first getting married and after she was widowed. and i can imagine a lot of reasons why someone might reject that ; she’s a lannister, she’s not .... great as a person and her reputation isn’t phenomenal either. after the death of her first husband, too, i can imagine her prospects were pretty slim. still, the lannisters are ambitious and would have sought out as good as match as they could have.

family of her late husband. yea, i specifically didn’t pick a house for her first husband to be from because i wanted to leave ‘em open for other applicants but also because i wanted to leave it open in case it’s a plot anyone would like to take up ! most of the story around that is also very vague so as to fit with pretty much any ideas/plots someone has going on. would be really fun, tho ; possibly they can even have been co-conspirators and this person inherited jeyne’s late husband’s title and lands ? or they absolutely hate jeyne and think she’s a murderer which .... she very well might be.

sister in law. the widow of jeyne’s older brother, irwyn ; i hc that they had a daughter but tbh that’s just flavor text and i am open to changing pretty much anything i’ve got going on. i may send in a wc for this at some point too ? anyway, whether she stayed at lannisport or returned to her family home or anything, idk. seems like an unlikely connection to get picked up but it’s definitely out there if it happens to fit for someone.

brothers’ connections. again kind of vague ? would probably work best for men from the northern kingdom who may have known them or trained with them, or else fought alongside them against the ironborn. could also be ladies with pretty much any kind of attachment to either of them idk ; jeyne doesn’t have a whole lot of family left so this is my way of trying to have connections thru her family anyway.

childhood friends. idk how many characters from the westerlands there are around rn, but bring them to me pls. would love some childhood friends for jeyne ; whether they fell out of touch, or still write each other monthly letters. them being a ward at lannisport, or jeyne being a ward at theirs for a time is also a neat option !

allies. not quite friends, but potential partners whose ambitions align with hers. she has connections to the wealth of lannisport and the might and strategic position of harrenhal ( though harrenhal is truly weaker than she’d ever admit ) and honestly would support just about anyone if it meant she got lannisport. she’s power hungry what can i say ?

former flings / secret lovers. firstly these can be of any gender as jeyne is ... peak evil bisexual tbh. yes i’m queercoding my villain and i think that’s very sexy of me. these are also just pretty vague ideas, and absolutely do not need to be particularly romantic ; they could have had a more lengthy affair or just hooked up at a wedding or a tourney or something.

travellers. both lannisport and harrenhal are pretty common places to pass through. on a sea journey on the western coast one is likely to stop by lannisport, and harrenhal stands practically at the center of westeros, which is a fun opportunity for jeyne & your muse to have met even if they live very far way or are unlikely to have met in other ways ! especially considering harrenhal’s size it’s a good stop over for travellers with a larger retinue. idk i just want an excuse to plot with everyone.

#broken.intro #⧽ always half hidden ∖ development .

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mvrcutios · 5 years ago

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— INTRODUCING:

➺ Alexandre Preston as M𝔢𝔯𝔠𝔲𝔱𝔦𝔬

Hi everyone! I’m Olivia, 24 from the pst timezone !! I love romantic foreign films and every incarnation of Skam ever created. Also, tik tok. Way way too much tik tok. This is my interpretation of Mercutio (loml tbh), Alexandre! A pretty boy with charm and brains and you bet your ass he knows it. Portrayed by the beaut that is Maxence Fauvel, i’m genuinely filled to the brim with muse for this boy so, without further ado, time for the main event! (as he prefers to be lbr )

name: alexandre henri preston

age: 21

birthday: July 28th, 1998

gender: male

pronouns: he/him

degree: double major of business & music composition (father currently aware of the 1st)

zodiac: leo.

languages: fluent in french & italian, attempting to swear in russian and japanese.

hobbies: piano, cello, running, sex, parties, reading

vices: whiskey, gin, socialites, card games, fast cars, midnight symphonies, menthol cigarettes

pinterest is here !!

the aesthetic: Dom Pérignon, lipstick stained shirt collars, blue eyes with darkened circles, menthol cigarettes, 2am melodies on a piano down the hall, bruised knuckles, hotel balconies, strobe lights and heavy bass, macarons flaked in gold, lips pressed to cheeks, 3am club invitations, lingering eyes, too bright smiles, bitten bruises soothed with a tongue,shattered mirrors, ripped fingernails, screaming into the silent night, laughter whispered into skin, pills pressed to tongues, platinum amex cards, chewed on pens, eyes growing distant, texts left on read, ink over his heart for his maman, naps under campus oak trees, flasks sipped in a lecture hall, hands on hips, backs, and his own throat.

➺ but what is in a name?

➺ { Alexandre } : The french translation of Alexander. Defender of Man. The irony of a name is not lost on him, nor the man who’d held it. He was named for his maternal grandfather, a man who had sold his soul (and his eldest daughter) for money, power, name, all under the guise of the importance of family. A name meaning man of honor. Certainly a strong name for a boy who’d been born to rule a soiled throne, but content to find ways to sneak sweets from the kitchen, trick a smile from his mother as she stared out the window yet again. But defenders are not born, no.They are made, and from the moment blue eyes opened for the first time he was destined to be just that. Made. Into his father’s visions, his mother’s dreams. And Xandre is no fool. All he wants — no, rather. All he desires from life is simple. Everything.

➺ { Henri } Ruler of households. Once again nothing but irony for a boy who grew up wanting for nothing in life, but knowing the expectations were to be just that. A leader. Who would be the one to tell him that the throne he was set to rest upon was built on the blood and bones of the lesser fortunate? More importantly, who would teach him to care?

➺ { Preston } Meaning priest, settlement, enclosures of God. Carried to England from Normandy after the great conquest. A name befitting to the family who in some circles considered themselves holier than most. Gods among men. Who turned whiskey to gold, words to bank notes, and blood into power. If you were a Preston, people knew it. And what could be better than that?

➺ for he is the devil in every detail

➺ ( + ) He was a boy of pressed shirts and dark windswept waves. Blue eyes that sparkled of mischief and peels of laughter that echoed down marbled halls. He was Alexandre Preston, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the world at his feet. Who when he smiled, his entire face lit from within and led to that hint of the devil sparkling just so from that gaze of his. Who smelled of citrus and whiskey and a bite of mint. Who adored beauty, in life and what it had to offer him. A man who’d grown into his looks and was taught by a wise mother just how to use them, a well placed kiss to a cheek or brush of skin, eyes meeting across a room enough to give them what they desired and more than ever, what he craved. He was tall, dark and oh so handsome, and knew how to get just what he wanted. Born with his father’s intellect and drive for more, padded by his mother’s beauty and ability to wield it for the weapon it could be. It made him anything but a bore, a useless first son too afraid to grasp what was before him. No, Xandre knew his fate. But in the meantime, he lived his life how he chose. If dearest dad was none the wiser, well. What’s the harm?

➺ ( + ) But let’s go back to the beginning, shall we? Born on a warm evening in late july, Alexandre Henri was destined to be the only child of Simon Preston and Violette Dupont. A product of two passionate individuals and a loveless marriage, Xandre’s mother was the eldest daughter to a man of debt. The Dupont family had in name what they lacked in capital and with a marriage between Violette and Simon, had everything to gain. Xandre’s birth was a bright burst of fleeting color for a mother who felt caged into the world she’d sold herself to, doting on the little boy and doing what she could to leave him with a part of her, a piece of her own waning soul. Where Simon was boastful, she was wicked, demure. Where he was aggression, she was soft sighs and whispered curses. Two sides of what lead to be a machiavellian son. Destined to rule with a gilded fist and fleeting, passionate heart.

➺ ( + ) He was put into lessons as a boy to dwindle that energy that thrummed with his every step, sports and arts and languages but they were fleeting moments of time, hobbies cast aside once the obsessive grip of his mind released them. But his mother’s love of piano rang true to his blood, picking up the instrument even with some difficulty. It bothered him so, to have something he couldn’t master with minimal effort. It required a honed drive, a passion and ethic to create something magnificent through nothing more than hard work. It fueled him, the boy almost manic with the late hours he spent alone in the sun room, fingers dancing along keys and cursing with every missed note. As he grew, so did the realization that it was not something you could master. The great composers themselves went mad with trying. It was a never ending race, and one he still holds steadfast this very day. It is as much a part of him as anything could be. Alexandre is meant to be a leader, Alexandre blows thousands on parties and card games, Alexandre needs music like air to rattling lungs. His current double major at Ashcroft is a direct result. If he’s to live out this new version of day to day, he’ll do as he pleases. As long as his father remains where he belongs, ignorant as the rest are.

➺ ( + ) if music was a stronghold, most everything else in his world was a passing fancy, aimless ways to spend time and money and have fun in this life he was so destined to lead. High school meant parties and fun, learning the intricacies of the body and passion as girls and boys alike came and went from white rumbled sheets. For his mother had taught him to wield beauty for what it was; a weapon. And oh, did he learn with the best. A university career begun at Oxford (if only to spite his father), where the real fun began, nights spent in club after club until the sun rose again, liquor fueled nights of passion and fun, barred from certain clubs and embraced at others, heavyweight card games and street races with a bottle of dom in hand. Started a gambling ring in his dorm hall until the RA caught wind a year later. (But he eventually joined, so no harm no foul) He was at an all time high, never fearing the inevitable crash to follow. He welcomed it like an old friend, navigated the highs and lows with a long learned finesse. Now in Edinburgh, he chases the residual high with his normal vigor, finding drinking buddies to waste an evening with, occasional bodies to slip into his too high thread count sheets.

➺ ( + ) The very definition of love ‘em and leave ‘em. Xandre doesn’t do true relationships, has never truly given his heart to someone in any form. He doesn’t believe in it, the type of love that makes people do such foolish things. He does foolish things just fine on his own, heart be damned. He can be passionate, charming, attentive lover at the best of times, possessive fool at the worst of times. He loves to feel desired, wanted, needed even. But never aims to be someone’s entire world. That type of need, that type of love does nothing but wound. And every wound he will ever have will be of his own creation. Has had more than a few flings, even reoccurring instances of women or men a few times in a row. But the connections are shallow, surface deep. You don’t need to witness his soul to get into his bed, afterall.

➺ ( + ) It was all a beautiful distraction from the blood that stained every letter of his name. His cousin was allowed to live in blessed ignorance of the family means, but Xandre, he was thrown headfirst into the lion’s den and came out grinning, the truth of it never leaving past blood stained lips. He isn’t resentful of that fact. A part of him feels it was always meant to be this way. If his cousins were the sun, he was the endless night, the whispers of shadows and secrets meant to withstand. For he could take it, surely. Right?

➺ ( + ) while his fate may be anything but up for debate, he is anything but a too willing participant. Being at Oxford meant enough distance to gain a bit of the freedom he craved. The night his father was arrested, Alexandre was doing what was normal, even on a tuesday evening. Partying at a local hotspot four bottles deep in champagne and whiskey, pills pressed to lips in between fevered kisses of a woman who’s name escaped him the next morning. Sweetened black coffee in hand as he watched his phone buzz over and over, the news blaring the headline of what he’d always known would come to fruition. But his father was still kicking, and so the heavy head who bears the crown was not yet his own. So he went about his day, his week, his months. Until, octavia.

➺ ( + ) his cousins were the siblings he’d never had, and for a man who doesn’t truly believe in intricacies of love he loves them with all he has in him. Wolfie the brother he’d craved, the two stirring trouble with every laugh as they raced down the cavernous halls of their homes. Days spent listening to his whispered dreams, his own a hollow echo in response to the passion that thrummed from his cousin’s. The lectures of his poor influence never bothered him, his role had always been rather set after all. The shadow to the sun. Was he ever to be a leader? Possibly. But he was never born of the responsibility and dreams that lingered over his cousin, never expected to amount to anything rather spectacular beyond the built business reputation and blood that soaked the name Preston. He was too impulsive, too passionate to have it beaten from his bones, just always a little too much.

➺ ( + ) And Octavia – she held a special place in his heart. Daddy’s little girl, it was easy to see how she could bat her lashes and smile her smile and let the world fall at her feet. He admired it, respected it even. Game always has to appreciate the game. She and her brother leaving for Ashcroft was a blow he hadn’t anticipated, for they’d always had one another, the two musketeers and the girl who fought to be anything but a shadow. It was an unfamiliar ache, missing them. And with Octavia now gone, that ache has grown tenfold. Morphed into anger for what he knew she was up to, for somehow somewhere, she’d pissed off the wrong people to where even the Preston name couldn’t quite save her soul. But her essence is everywhere, haunting the halls and whispering in ears. It’s all so very dramatic, so very her. He’d pour one out for her if he didn’t think she’d simper about his distaste for wasted wine. Her spirit was a mild comfort, a balm over a roughened wound. a bigger amusement than anything, a middle finger to those who’d ended her bright existence. A Preston knew how to fuck you over, that was made all the more clear with each report of her sightings. And god, did he love her for it.

➺ ( + ) and that at the very crux of it all, is what has brought him to ashcroft. A new scene for parties, new faces, and a remaining cousin who could use a shoulder to lean on. & those all look lovely on paper, but the fine print? Always read it carefully. For the smiles and charm are all Violette without a doubt. But the danger that lingers, the passion and fire that fuel his soul and border on the precipice of mania? Alexandre is Simon Preston’s son, that was never to be denied for long. And someone has wronged them all, taken things they had no right to take. Someone he considered to be a part of his heart. He doesn’t take kindly to such things, and so to Ashcroft he’s come. He is passion, recklessness, a hidden grief fueled by fleeting love wrapped in a shiny veneered package. He’s here to revel, to discover, to maybe even punish. If deemed necessary. Blood will always be blood, and for a man who’s always willing to go a little too far? It is all that remains.

➺ ( + ) as for what has qualified him for such a prestigious society upon his enrollment well, that is a mystery to some and a hard headline to others. His family’s connections? His relation to Wolfie? His letters of transfer from his classical composition professors back in London? As far as Xandre is concerned, it’s nothing more than a certain Oberon Ashcroft seeing he has a role to play, and one he plays rather well. Unassuming at first, a disarming charm soothing the blunt edges of his words. He says what he feels, and what he knows must be said. And due to that, he knows his worth, what he brings to the table. Knows how poorly it would look if he hadn’t been inducted. He brings a good time, a laugh, a chance to rebel against the societal norms and oppressions that leak from every pore of Ashcroft. But he also brings a weighted name, a wicked ability to decipher through the purple prose people can preach, to the truth at the core of it all. And he plays a mean Chopin, what can he say?

➺ ( + ) there is no way to wrap up all that he is, to summarize a man who is nothing short of a dichotomy, a symphony in fractured parts. Perhaps a jekyll and hyde of his own making, two heads of the same beast he wielded within his soul. for there was something to be said of being seen, eyes drawn to your every move, to feel the power of being adored, desired, craved. He is the devil on your shoulder, crooning saccharine words and screaming in triumph in a breadth. A gleam of mania tinging those baby blues when he pushes just so to get his way. He is that very symphony, a concerto who’s pace continues to drive faster and faster, upward and onward until its very PEAK, a cacophony of beauty and agony as notes ring out, clash, COLLIDE. and then, the briefest moment of silence. He has discovered the distractions his body can wield, but also the power to be found in stillness, in silence. At his lowest he craves it, aches to be surrounded by masses just once more to drown out the roaring in his mind, to draw it to ecstasy, to blissful silence. All leading up to the final, ringing note. Before the applause, of course. never deny yourself the applause. That had always been Lesson One.

➺ A LETTER TO OCTAVIA:

Tavia —

Where do I start? You always knew how to make an entrance, tav. should’ve figured your exit would be the same. But…why the fuck wouldn’t you call me? Why wouldn’t you tell me the extent of just how bad shit had gotten so quickly? You knew no matter what I said, or how I complained or warned you off to be careful I would’ve been there in a heartbeat. You didn’t have to do this alone. I should’ve seen that and come the first time you called. Don’t haunt me for that. And that police chief mentioned a baby, Tav. You never– me of all people would have understood. You were the only one I ever told about Clara, how my dad paid her off. You never judged me for him, you understood. Let me get wasted and cry it out in that shitty suite in London. We could have made a club of it, you and me. Poor little Rich kids with secret kids. Poetic, no? Poetic justice is bullshit in hindsight. And I just really, really miss you.

I’m sure everyone in these letters are telling you the reasons they adored you, how they’ll never forget you, the wild memories they’re sharing with you, that they say they’ll never forget. I don’t need to say all those things. You know I do, and you know I won’t forget. You’re a part of my heart, as battered and shriveled as we liked to joke it is. But apparently death makes us sentimental fools, so here’s this for you, because it’s 4am and the memory won’t leave my mind no matter how many times I close my eyes. That summer we spent, all of us, vacationing in that house on the riviera. Remember? I spent the day running around the grounds with Wolf and we’d laugh and tease like elder brothers do when you’d seek us out, pouting those lips and crocodile tears until we included you in our games. But when the sun set and dinner was long gone, you’d drag me into the tea room with that baby grand in the corner and demanded I play. You always were a determined thing, you brat. But you’d smile that smile and even I couldn’t fight the urge to sit and play your favorites.You sang along and danced and danced and danced until you were breathless with it. Only you could make dancing to britney fuckin’ spears look like an artform you know? You’d call me your co-star, and never let me hate myself for the mistakes, never laughed if I stumbled on a note. You were my biggest supporter that summer, but I was only one of your many adoring fans. That’s how it was supposed to be. That won’t change, I promise.

( A few tears stain the edges of that previous paragraph, angry, bitter droplets that he wipes away and slips the paper further to defend the onslaught of them. He sighs deeply, clears his throat. )

And look at you now, huh? Haunting your friends and your brother with the best of ‘em. Leave it to you to find a way to remain the star of the show even in death. I can see how it’s unravelling them. The ones who look too pale to be innocent, everyone here has a fucking secret. Thanks to you maybe we’ll see them all sooner than later. And what fun that’s gonna be. But do me a favor and haunt some hot freshman for me, will you? Whisper sweet nothings of my beauty in their ears, make it a good one. I’ll owe you one. You know I’m good for it.

I’ll watch over Wolfie. Of course I will. I’ll get him piss drunk at that club you mentioned last time we talked, bring a few lines and a bottle of dom all just for you, gorgeous. I’m here now for him, for you. I’m here for what I should have done from the beginning. If you had to leave him —had to leave us, it won’t be for nothing.

I miss you, cherie. Visit me tonight in my dreams, alright? You can dance for me, I’ll play you a song.

We’ll make it a happy one, for old times sake.

-Xandre

#spectreintro #𝔞𝔩𝔢𝔵𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔦 𝔭𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔫 ╱ 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺 .#if you read this whole thing ur a god and i am sorry

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