#᛭ — [MUSING] trust is a knife at your throat [EARL]

[deathfavor]

GOD I LOVE EARL SO MUCH

sometimes i think about how Earl just SNEERS at this whole thing. Like we see how quick and severely Contamination tends to effect everyone, especially Sinners. But EARL? Earl over here sneering at it, and then he's impaled AND STILL DELIVERS THESE LINES

[deathfavor]

@soulsballad tell me this isn't horo and earl :')

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Yield to me

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: a request from lovely @wildchild2707 Thank you for trusting me to write you a story. I hope you'll like it. It fit perfectly with my mood as I'm giffing S3 now. @thenameswinter99 thank you so much for helping to overcome the sudden block in the middle of writing 💖

Warnings: SMUT 18+

Summary: you and Sihtric are sent to Bloodhair's camp to spy, and apparently there is more to discover than the secret plans of the Danes

Word Count: 5,9 K

You could almost feel it – that piercing, even furious look burning holes in the back of your neck, lips pressed tightly together in a thin line, spitting words with a taste of acid. Yet, you chose to ignore him.

Your fingers continued to toy with the knife, your eyes discreetly scanning the warriors gathered around the different bonfires, the play of light and shadow dancing across their faces, the fire's crackling annoyingly loud. Amidst the clamour, numerous voices speaking in various dialects and tongues wafted through the air, mingling with the smoke. You had no patience for Sihtric's trivialities; your head spun from the cacophony around you.

Distinct dialects of Gaelic, Norse, Gutnish, and Welsh were discernible in the midst of the crowd. This was likely how it had felt at the Tower of Babel, you mused to yourself. Bloodhair had succeeded in assembling Danes and other fortune-seeking scum from all corners of the islands and even beyond the seas.

"Careful now, don't cut yourself," a rough hand suddenly landed on your thigh, a thick, booming voice abruptly wrenching you from your thoughts. It was a reflex, beyond your control, your fingers wrapping around the unfamiliar palm, grabbing the thumb and wrenching it to the side. A short cry and a loud thud, the body crushing against the hard ground, were the only sounds as you found yourself sitting atop a bewildered man, your eyes wide, teeth bared, and with your knife at his throat.

"The only thing I'll cut is your throat," you hissed, eyes scanning your catch. He was not unattractive, you observed, and he smelled good, unlike the majority in this cursed camp. Surely an Earl, you had seen him before, at the main fire with Bloodhair, Cnut, and Haesten. 

A valuable take, this is your chance, don't squander it, you cautioned yourself.

"Hey, easy! I didn't mean any harm," the Dane raised his hands, surrendering.

"Give me one good reason not to cut your balls off," you scoffed, studying the stranger carefully.

"I know a much better use for them," there was no anxiety in his voice, but neither was there anger, and you slowly relaxed your muscles, still scanning his face.

“I want to know everything, every smallest detail,” you had never seen Uhtred so agitated before. Your big brother, though not bound by blood, your anchor, your stronghold, your grounding force in every tempest. You had seen him everything but scared and yet his voice quivered, betraying the angst he tried to conceal, eating him from within like a worm gnawing at an apple. 

“I can handle it without a babysitter,” you sneered at him, disdain evident in your voice. 

It was not merely chance, but destiny that had brought you together - you, Uhtred and Brida. Three children abandoned by fate, bound by love and friendship forged in the crucible of shared pain and suffering. You all had lost everything in that fateful night when the Danes had set their foot on the lands of Bebbanburg, yet you had found each other – an unbreakable bond, a thread to navigate through life and beyond. 

"I want you both to work together. Sihtric is not going there to look after you. Four eyes can see more than two. You speak all the tongues across the islands and beyond. He's considered my closest friend, my right hand, along with Finan. They'll be eager to welcome him and extract all my secrets. It's a perfect combination. I want you to trust him the way I trust him. Can you do that for me?" Uhtred's hands grasped yours, his scrutinising gaze searching for reassurance.

Could you? At the beginning you couldn’t bring yourself to trust him. He was Kjartan’s bastard, the blood and flesh of the man who had shattered your fragile lives for the second time, and he had attempted to kill Uhtred.

You could still recall his feverish gaze, darting from you to Uhtred, his bound hands slightly quivering as he held the blade at Halig’s throat. Just a boy on the brink of manhood, grappling for his chance to survive, yet so determined not to surrender.

You didn’t question Uhtred’s decision, but you couldn’t shake off the doubts that nagged at you. There was something about the quiet and reserved young warrior, something elusive, something you couldn’t quite grasp, simultaneously intriguing and unsettling you.

You had observed him in Dunholm, still half-expecting him to betray you all, to switch sides in the blink of an eye.

The clang of weapons thundered through your ears, nostrils flaring as you inhaled the sour air, thick with the stench of blood and angst. The shouts of the warriors mingled with Kjartan's piercing cry, Ragnar’s sword severing his wrist, denying him entrance to Valhalla. Wild howls echoed through the yard as the same sword swung in the air repeatedly—a cacophony of sounds and images melded into pure chaos, assaulting your senses like ocean waves threatening to engulf you. Yet, amidst the chaos, your gaze remained fixed on one face in the crowd: Sihtric’s.

His expression, contorted by anxiety and anticipation since the first clash of swords, transformed into gleeful triumph and contentment at Kjartan’s defeat, only to sour into disgust and revulsion the next moment. It was then and there that you realized the depth of the shallow and distant gaze with which he often stared into the fire, seemingly detached from the laughter and banter around him. It was as though you had been granted a glimpse into his soul, witnessing all the hidden pain, shame, and guilt reflected in his large, mismatched eyes, unable to look away.

Although Kjartan lay dead, the sword continued its relentless swing, chopping and slicing as if attempting to wrench life from his body anew with each stroke. The large, deep eyes of the boy turned warrior flinched in rhythm with the moving weapon, embracing the liberating truth, while scruple and doubt glistened within them as he struggled to believe, to comprehend that it was over. Finally over. For all of you.

"It should have been me," the words sliced through the silence of the night like a blade, as you found him sitting alone, far removed from the cheerful chatter around the bonfires. His back leaned against the mighty fortress wall, arms resting on his knees. The distant flicker of firelight danced in his large eyes, his gaze sweeping over the buildings with a feverish gleam, as if searching for something, as if seeing something beyond your perception.

“Sihtric, I…” Your attempt to comfort him with a gentle touch on his shoulder was met with a fury, as he shrugged off your hand. He jumped to his feet, feverishly rubbing his eyes with his sleeves. In a momentary blink, the gleam in his eyes revealed itself to be tears, before he stormed away, pushing you aside roughly.

Since that evening, a silent distance hung between the two of you, not by your choice. If anything had shifted on your end, it was the sense of him— the same unquenchable thirst for revenge tightening your heart in the dark of the long, cold nights. Even though you couldn’t see the ghosts of Dunholm’s lost souls, you knew he could. Your suspicion and mistrust had finally dissipated, morphing into something else, something warm and soothing that you couldn’t quite put a name to. 

It was Sihtric who apparently didn’t want neither your company, nor your comfort, avoiding you as much as possible. And so, you remained silent, giving him the space he seemed to need.

So, could you trust him as Uhtred was asking? Yes, you could. You were just unsure if Sihtric could reciprocate that trust. But there was nothing you wouldn't do for your brother. The tender kiss Uhtred had placed on your wrists still burned in your memory.

“Nobody knows about it. Not even Finan, not Osferth. Nobody. You’ll leave like traitors. Both of you,” Uhtred's voice dropped to a silent whisper, and you nodded, accepting the weight of the task placed upon you. You would fulfil it at any cost. You would free your brother from the curse the witch had cast upon him.

You slowly withdrew your knife from the stranger’s throat and stepped back, extending your hand to help him to his feet, an offer he accepted.

“Are you alone? Where’s your clan?” the Dane inquired, studying you with a scrutinising gaze.

“I don’t have a clan. I came with him,” you nodded toward Sihtric, seated at another fire, and returned the knife to its scabbard on your back. Once more, you could feel the weight of Sihtric's angry gaze boring into your flesh from a distance. He still hadn't grasped it, hadn't accepted that you were here on your own mission, that you neither needed nor wanted his protection.

He had choked on his ale, coughing furiously, when Uhtred had informed him you would be accompanying him.

“Lord, it’s too dangerous,” was the first thing he had said. “You can’t send her there.”

You snorted in disdain, stepping forward with fury burning in your eyes. He had witnessed your prowess in battle, seen you take down men much larger than yourself, and yet he doubted you, considering you weak. You were a warrior, your small and fragile appearance deceiving, both a curse and a blessing, concealing the steel beneath the softness of your velvety skin.

“I need neither your approval nor permission,” you hissed through gritted teeth, fixing him with a steely gaze. “Whether you come with me or not, that's your decision.”

And, predictably, he came. He could not refuse his lord’s order. You both departed under cover of night after a heated dispute with Uhtred, freeing the imprisoned Danes beforehand, but the silence between you grew even heavier. You felt like a burden to him, and you didn’t need words to confirm it. The heavy sighs, the silent shakes of his head, his gaze lingering on you before turning away the moment you met it—they spoke volumes. But you didn’t care, or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

“Husband of yours?” the Dane inquired, slight disappointment evident in his voice.

“No, just a travel companion. We both served under the Dane Slayer, but the witch has stolen his mind, and now we are here,” you spat with disdain at the mention of her, your anger and scorn genuine and unfeigned.

Sihtric drew a deep breath, attempting to calm his racing heartbeat. It felt insane. What were you even doing here? What had Uhtred been thinking, sending you into such danger? How could he be so blind, so reckless with your life?

The anger with which he had hurled insults at Uhtred that night before departure had been genuine—the fury that Uhtred, in his bid to save his own skin, was willing to sacrifice everything, even you—his sister, his unwavering companion through all the tumultuous twists and turns of his unruly life, and in Sihtric’s eyes – certainly the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he had fallen in love with you; it seemed as if he had always felt this way, from the very first moment he laid eyes on you next to Uhtred. Your hand steady and poised on the hilt of your sword, your eyes—beautiful, deep, dark, and somewhat sorrowful—following his every move, every breath, while his own fingers quivered, his knuckles turning white from the force of gripping the hilt of Halig’s sword pressed against its owner’s throat.

As he finally dropped the sword, his fingers wrapping around Thor's hammer on his neck to swear his oath to his new lord, the resounding echo of his own words thundered in his ears and his gaze never left yours, pleading and promising.

He knew you harboured no fondness for him, no trust either, and he couldn’t blame you for it. Yet, he had hoped that with time, things would evolve, that he could earn your trust as he had Uhtred’s. Instead, he had only exposed his vulnerability, revealing himself as just a boy haunted by the ghosts of his past, far from the man or warrior he aspired to be for you.

Returning to Dunholm—the graveyard of his dreams and hopes—filled him with dread. Yet, the desire to prove himself to you, to demonstrate that he was more than a frightened boy bargaining for his life, coupled with the ambition to exhibit his courage, loyalty, and perhaps earn an approving smile from the most beautiful eyes on this side of the world, had been overpowering. Only to have those hopes shattered by your pitying gaze when you encountered him that evening after the battle. With nothing left but to retreat and await another opportunity.

The journey to Bloodhair’s camp had become a nightmare of its own. He struggled to conceal his emotions, hoping that the occasional sighs he couldn’t suppress or the furtive glances he stole in your direction—quickly averting his eyes when caught—wouldn’t betray him.

Now, you were trapped here, deep within enemy territory, each day fraught with the risk of discovery and capture. While Uhtred had kept his promise to keep Brida away from the camp, the fear of her sudden appearance loomed like a raised axe; she couldn’t be deceived. She knew you better than anyone, and consumed by grief over Ragnar's loss, she was unpredictable.

Sihtric adamantly refused to let you out of his sight. It was too perilous, and the thought of you disregarding the danger drove him to the edge of madness. He kept a vigilant watch over you, growing increasingly frustrated by the day as you dismissed his concerns. How could he protect you if you refused to acknowledge the peril, insisting instead on separating to gather more information?

You hadn’t expected it to be so easy. A satisfied smile threatened to curl on your lips as the Dane, whom you had nearly beheaded, invited you to join him at the larger fire. He settled beside you, and as the night progressed and the laughter grew louder, you didn’t push away his large palm as it found its way back to your thigh.

“I’ll be straight with you - I like you, wildcat,” he chuckled in your ear as the flames started to dwindle. “You're welcome at this fire anytime, and if you're interested, you're welcome in my tent too.”

You smiled, tilting your head to the side as you eyed the broad-shouldered man. You knew this game all too well. It was a hunt, and like every hunt, timing was everything. Let your arrow fly too soon, and you miss your prey; linger too long, and it'll slip away. It was too early for the perfect strike, but your prey was taking the bait, thinking himself the hunter. You stifled the laughter bubbling in your chest, turning it into a muffled chuckle.

“I’ll consider it,” you replied, not making any promises, just teasing, baiting. Your fingers traced a path from the Dane's shoulder over the fur cloak covering his broad chest, and you saw the trap you had laid out snap in his dark, smirking eyes. He was a worthy adversary, quite handsome even, and above all, you appreciated when men were straightforward.

If playing this game brought you closer to the talks and whispers you were so eager to hear, you were more than willing to participate.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" an angry hiss stung your ear just as you were about to slip into your tent, your hand instinctively reaching for the dagger behind your back.

“Damn,” you swore loudly, spotting the silhouette emerging from the shadows. “You're lucky you're still breathing.”

“I saw you with that brute. You need to be more careful. I’ve told you so many times…” If looks could kill, Sihtric would have dropped dead on the spot.

“You're not my father, you're not my brother, you're not my husband. You're nobody to me, and you have nothing to tell me,” you spat out your words at him, as if hurling daggers. Not that there was anyone in your life who could actually tell you what to do. You were your own master, and it was time for Sihtric to grasp that.

"We both have tasks here, so you'd better start with yours. Besides, I’m enjoying the company of that warrior," you hissed, throwing open the flaps of your tent, eager to vanish from Sihtric’s view as soon as possible. However, you were abruptly halted by an iron grip around your wrist.

“So, I'm a nobody,” a strange metallic tone tinged Sihtric’s voice, a quality you had never detected before, momentarily seizing your attention. You turned your head, and your surprised gaze was met by two deep pools of pure fury. “I get it. You're right, I am. I’ve been a nobody all my damn life. And who are you?”

You attempted to retrieve your hand, but Sihtric’s grip only tightened, and anger slowly churned in your stomach as your other hand stealthily slid behind your back to grasp the dagger.

"A smug and heedless badger digging deeper into its burrow, oblivious to everything happening outside. What have I done to deserve being treated like a dog? Ignored, dismissed at every turn, forced to watch you fawning over that filthy boar."

“A badger?” you snorted, your tone a mix of anger and amusement at Sihtric’s sudden outburst. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, your common sense whispered for you to cease, recognizing you had clearly crossed a line and needlessly wounded him. However, retreat and admission of fault were not traits you readily embraced. You silenced your inner voice with a smug grin, a challenge glinting in your eyes as you met Sihtric’s gaze. “That filthy boar smelled better than you ever did,” you shot back.

Your fingers instinctively wrapped around the hilt of your dagger, swiftly drawing it forth, but your attempt lacked the element of surprise; Sihtric had anticipated your move. Through countless sparring sessions, he had grown familiar with your tricks.

Releasing your wrist, Sihtric deftly parried your armed hand, swiftly yanking it back and leveraging the motion to flip you over, simultaneously seizing the dagger from your grasp and positioning it threateningly against your throat, while pressing your back firmly against his chest.

With a furious stomp on his foot, you exploited the moment of distraction to drive your elbow into Sihtric’s abdomen. He grimaced in pain, doubling over and gasping for breath, giving you the opportunity to sidestep and confront him face-to-face. But before you could act further, Sihtric’s arms encircled your waist, using his weight to shove you backwards, sending both of you tumbling through the tent entrance.

You grunted as your back collided with the fur-laid ground. Before you could formulate your next move, Sihtric landed atop you, straddling your waist and pinning your arms above your head. A primal growl escaped you as you squirmed and struggled against his restraint.

“That’s enough. Cease this. Surrender. I don’t wish to harm you,” Sihtric attempted a conciliatory tone, but the smug smirk on his lips was impossible to conceal.

“Never,” you hissed through gritted teeth, persisting in your furious struggle against Sihtric’s grasp.

With your breath coming in panting gasps and your mind racing, seeking any possible escape route, you initially even failed to register what was happening. The sensation of Sihtric’s lips against yours was scorching, his hands still restraining you, refusing to release their hold. Your eyes widened in astonishment as you momentarily ceased your futile resistance, the anger pulsating within you fading like a dying ember in a gentle breeze.

Though your muscles relaxed and the frantic struggle abated, Sihtric gave no indication of noticing, his grip still firm, his weight pressing you down as his lips fervently explored yours, kissing you with rough, bruising intensity.

You could swear your heart leapt into your throat, its rapid thudding almost deafening, as you struggled to suppress the burgeoning excitement. Yet, your own body betrayed you, a fiery heat igniting in your belly, matching the rhythm of Sihtric’s lips moving against yours.

Your cheeks flushed with heat as a soft whine escaped you, but Sihtric suddenly pulled away, releasing your arms and sitting back on his heels. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of your dagger lying on the ground nearby, just out of reach.

“I’m sorry. I... I didn’t mean to…” Sihtric stammered, confusion evident on his handsome face as he scratched the back of his head. In that moment, you saw your opportunity. With a swift motion, you toppled him over toward the dagger, and in the blink of an eye, you were straddling him, the blade at his throat and a triumphant smirk on your lips.

"Gotcha," you laughed, intoxicated by the feeling of regaining control, not even pausing to consider that the victory might have been too easy.

Leaning in closer until your noses nearly touched, you watched him intently, breathing in his scent — leather, fire smoke, and ale mingled with the sweet aroma of his skin, both warming and exhilarating. A subdued chuckle escaped your lips as you noticed the mischievous sparks dancing in Sihtric’s large, expressive, two-toned eyes, a hint of suspicion creeping in that perhaps your agility alone wasn’t solely responsible for this small triumph.

Sihtric’s wide-eyed pupils tracked your every move, and in the sudden silence, you felt as if you could hear both your hearts beating frantically, breaths hitching in your chests. You pressed the dagger just a fraction tighter against his skin, enough to draw a few red drops trickling down the blade. Despite the slight pierce, not a single flinch touched Sihtric’s face as he slowly tilted his head backward, fully exposing his throat to you, his gaze still locked with yours.

The air crackled with anticipation, both your breaths quickening. Had you paused to consider, you might have chosen differently, but in that moment, your mind was suddenly empty. All that remained was the memory of the warm, thrilling sensation that had filled your core just a moment before. With a trembling exhale, you crushed your lips against Sihtric’s. The muted growl that tore through him sent shivers down your spine as you released the dagger and cupped his face, pulling him closer.

Sihtric’s strong arms enveloped your shoulders, and you gasped as you were flipped over effortlessly, like a feather. Once again beneath Sihtric’s towering frame, pressed against the fur with the weight of his body, you didn’t resist. Your fingers tangled in Sihtric’s hair as you dared not let go, your lips seeking his, parting with a hushed moan to welcome his greedy, heated tongue.

“Do you surrender?” A mischievous smile danced on Sihtric’s lips as he finally pulled away from your red, kiss-swollen lips.

“Never,” you smirked, reaching out to pull him into another passionate kiss.

With a soft whimper, you arched your back against the hard ground, covered only by a thin fur, as Sihtric’s hands began to roam over your clothes. He deftly tugged at the laces, liberating you from the leathers that concealed your skin from his touch. 

Your hands were just as eager, but he was quicker. You had barely managed to pull off his leather jerkin, revealing his incredibly well built upper body to your bewildered gaze, as he freed you from the last piece of cloth, a sharp gasp leaving his chest as his ravenous gaze slid over your naked frame. 

“We’ll see,” Sihtric chuckled while his lips trailed a hot path down your neck, making you gasp for air each time he sucked on your exposed skin, leaving teasing stings on his way to your chest. His skin against yours was warm and pleasantly soft and you found yourself unable to fight against the deep moan swaying through you, as his mouth closed around your hardening nipples.  

“My beautiful unyielding warrior,” Sihtric’s lips continued their travel down your naked body, his low, husky voice sending shivers down your spine, “I’m going to make you feel so good as you have never felt before, I’ll show you the stars, and you will yield to me, willingly.” 

“Oh gods,” was all you could murmur as his hands took hold of your hips, keeping you in place, and his tongue swept through your core. He knew exactly what he was doing, as his lips wrapped around your pearl, sucking gently, a satisfied hum leaving him as you choked on your own breath each time the lap of his hot tongue sent a new wave of shudders through your body, building up the pleasure, that slowly overtook all your senses.

Eyes rolling back into your head, you buried your teeth in your lower lip, in a futile attempt to keep quiet, but you couldn’t. Wild moans rolled over your lips as Sihtric was bringing you closer to the edge. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined the silent and hesitant young warrior being able to bring you to the brink of madness so masterly and so quickly. 

Another deep moan swayed through you as he forced two fingers inside you.

Sihtric grinned in satisfaction, loving the lewd sounds, rolling over your parted lips, drinking in the sight of you - hair wild and dishevelled, eyes half lid and rolling back in your head, breath heavy and panting, hips moving up and down against his fingers - the most beautiful sight he could ever imagine. He had always dreamed of having you buried beneath him like this, yet he had never dared to believe it could actually come true.

You whined loudly as he suddenly pulled away.

“Sihtric, please, I need more,” you mewled in a desperate need to have him back.

“You need more of what?” he smirked, placing a tender kiss on your inner thigh. You shuddered, feeling his breath so close to where you wanted him. 

“I need you,” you whimpered through panting breaths.

“So beautiful, so wild and unruly,” Sihtric hummed as his mouth travelled to your other thigh, “So fucking perfect for me.”

“Gods, Sihtric, please, I need you,” you whined, your voice cracking.

“Are you yielding, my fiercest warrior?” Sihtric asked, delving his tongue in your dripping heat, just to retrieve again. 

“I am, fuck, I am,” you moaned breathlessly, forgetting everything – your pride, your ego, your anger – there was no room for any other emotion as the overwhelming yearning for Sihtric’s touch. With a satisfied hum, Sihtric thrusted his fingers back in your tight channel, starting to pump them in and out, and you were swept away by the new wave of pleasure.

You were already so close to the edge, feeling the warmth, cursing through your body pooling into one large flame. Your fingers dug in the fur beneath you in an attempt to hold on to something, to ground yourself, as your head snapped back, your body went taut and your walls started to clench around Sihtric’s fingers.

“Yes, that’s good. I can feel you, come for me, beautiful,” Sihtric murmured softly, his tongue starting to circle around and lap over your sensitive nub, and there was no way of holding it back any longer. You felt like a tightly drawn bow suddenly released, the tension snapping and transforming into pure energy, as you came on Sihtric’s fingers and tongue, your climax washing over you in waves of pure bliss, your body trembling and shuddering from the intensity of it. 

Sihtric kept fucking you through your orgasm with his fingers, letting you savour the moment and the sinfull sensation, pulsing through your vanes like an inferno, sweeping away everything in it’s way. You were blank, like an empty parchment. Carried away in the current of pleasure you floated somewhere between this world and the other.

“You are mine now, my sweet wildflower,” Sihtric’s voice reached through your hazy mind, grounding you back to earth. “You yielded, and now you are mine.”

You wanted to protest, to reject his claim, but the words forming on your tongue dissolved in the tenderness of Sihtric’s kiss, his fingers delicately tracing your cheek.

“Say it again,” you whispered, locking eyes with his mismatched gaze.

“You are mine,” Sihtric affirmed, his voice low and soft yet resolute, causing your heart to quicken. Whom were you trying to fool here? Wasn’t this what you had secretly dreamed of since that night in Dunholm, though too afraid to acknowledge it fully?

Silence hung between you until you mustered the courage to break it. “I am yours, Sihtric,” you murmured, savouring the weight of your own words. They felt unfamiliar yet strangely satisfying, even liberating. The groan that escaped Sihtric made you grin, as his lips found yours again, stealing your breath away.

You yelped as Sihtric’s strong arms wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground in one swift motion, carrying you to the pile of furs serving as your bed and placing you carefully on top of it. You propped yourself up on your elbows and sat upright, watching Sihtric hastily getting rid of his breeches, a sharp exhale vibrating through your chest at the sight of his hard cock. He was big, and you were not a novice in that matter. The thought alone of him inside you, made your core pulse in pleasant anticipation. 

“You are a big boy,” you mused, as he approached, wrapping your fingers around his shaft and giving it a teasing lick from tip to root, feeling it throb in your hand. You wrapped your lips around it and let your tongue slide over the sensitive tip. Sihtric moaned, shuddering at your touch.

“Do you think you can handle me?” 

You just smirked at him in response, as Sihtric pushed you firmly back on the furs, crawling on top of you, crowding you like a wild beast. There was something wolfish in his demeanour, his tense, perfectly chiselled muscles rippling beneath his skin, his eyes darkening as if fixated on prey.

“I'm not gonna go easy on you,” his husky voice dripped into your ears like sweet poison, thrilling and intoxicating. It made every hair on your body stand on end and wetness pool between your legs, leaving you to wonder whether it was a warning or a promise. You had never seen him like this, and you would be lying if you said it didn’t excite you. There was evidently much more to discover beneath the reserved and bashful exterior of the young warrior, and you weren't just curious—you were burning with desire to explore.

“Sihtric, just fuck me,” you exclaimed, pulling him in for a heated kiss, and Sihtric groaned against your mouth, aligning himself with your cunt. He pushed into you, and you moaned loudly, digging your nails into his shoulders, savouring the delicious stretch as your walls took him in, pulsing around him.

There was nothing gentle in the way he fucked you, and now you understood why he had cared to place you on the big, soft keep of furs. His hips thrusted against you with a crushing power, showing you ever higher up the keep, skin snapping against skin, relentlessly pushing himself into you until the very end of his length.

His groans and hisses mingled with your moans and you were sure the half of the camp had by now definitely heard you, the fabric of the tent not an obstacle for the sounds, but you couldn’t care less. You enjoyed every single deep thrust, every single brush of his cock against that sweet swollen spot deep inside you, that made your back arch and your eyes roll back in your head, the familiar heat pooling into your belly and turning into hot, searing flame.

“Gods, how good you feel around me,” Sihtric hissed between panting breaths and you just mewled something incomprehensible in response too lost in your pleasure for any words or even coherent thoughts.

Having you here, writhing beneath him, taking his cock and moaning in pleasure, your nails leaving marks on his skin, exceeded Sihtric's wildest hopes. He had aimed to earn your trust, perhaps your friendship, but this was something else, something he didn’t dare to put a name to, not yet. 

You had so unexpectedly gotten under his sway, and he desired nothing more than to please you, to immerse you in the most breathtaking sensations he could offer. For despite his longing for your surrender, there was something he craved even more.

“You are nobody to me,” you had spat in anger, and those words cut deeper than any blade ever could. He would have accepted anything from you—hate, anger—but not indifference, not from you.

Sihtric felt your walls start to clench around him, telling him that you were close to the edge. 

“Common, my beautiful warrior, you can give me more,” he growled, fastening his pace, eyes getting glassy and breath rugged, as he was chasing his own release now. 

“Fuck, Sihtric, I … I can’t anymore,” you hissed and after few more thrusts you were there, the pooling heat exploded within you, rolling over you, engulfing you and you let yourself fell into that blissful state where nothing else mattered apart from the indescribable, otherworldly pleasure washing over you in hot waves. 

Sihtric kept fucking you through your orgasm, savouring the feeling of your walls shuddering and clenching around him, squeezing him, until he couldn’t hold back anymore and he came, spilling his seed deep inside you with a throbbing groan.

Sihtric collapsed beside you, pulling you into his embrace, his panting breath hot against your sweaty skin as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck. He wanted to prolong this moment, to stretch it into infinity, as somewhere deep inside him, he dreaded what would come after, unconsciously fearing that there actually might be no after.

Your head still hazy and spinning from the intensity of your climax, you turned slowly to face him. Your eyes roamed his handsome face, pausing at the scars on his forehead and right cheek. His embrace was firm, somewhat possessive, yet simultaneously tender, attuned to your every move, every breath. Like a young wolf resting after a good hunt—relaxed but alert—your wolf, your wild beast, ready to be tamed.

"You okay?" Sihtric asked, gently tucking your hair behind your ear, his thumb hovering over your cheek.

You simply nodded, unable to find your voice, enchanted by the soothing calmness radiating from Sihtric, having no idea about the tempest raging behind that shell. He smiled and leaned in, brushing his lips over yours.

"I might be nobody to you, but you are everything to me," Sihtric's gaze locked with yours, his heart racing in his chest with maddening speed. It was the moment of truth he had always dreaded. He surrendered his heart to you, knowing there were only two possibilities: acceptance or rejection.

"You are not nobody, you never have been. You are mine. I drew your blood, and I claimed you," you stated boldly, meeting his gaze with determination. "You are mine, Sihtric Kjartansson," you repeated firmly, "and I am yours."

A deep sigh of relief escaped Sihtric as he pulled you back into his embrace, his lips affirming your claim with a passionate kiss.

"A badger!" you suddenly laughed, recalling how it all began, leading to this moment of firm embrace you never wanted to end. "You called me a badger!" you snorted, playfully punching him in the stomach.

“My wild, ignorant, beautiful badger,” Sihtric chuckled in response, gently nuzzling your dishevelled hair.

Comment or write to me if you want to be added to the tag list.

Tags: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @hb8301 @zillahvathek @alexagirlie @gemini-mama @verenahx @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @willowbrookesblog @thenameswinter99 @ellabellabus07 @mcbuckyyyy @kirtseinw @siimonesvensson @sigtryggrswifey

[scribbleseas]

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter III: The Royal Pain

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons; guns and daggers, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! Please note that the warnings are subject to change by each chapter. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this part! 

- Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

JANUARY 17TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

 “Her Highness is waiting in the study,” Sebastian said, his polite smile holding more of its predatory depth in his eyes. Ciel Phantomhive could see through the demon’s carefully crafted facade, even with one eye exposed. 

“I suppose I’ve kept her waiting this long,” Ciel mused as he shouldered off his black jacket, the fallen snowflakes were beginning to permeate the material as he handed the garment off to his butler. “Bloody Italians can’t make use of a simple clock.” The last thing he needed was an offended princess spurning him for disrespecting her status and relation to the Queen. 

“I’m afraid you’ve allowed her to believe the same about you, My Lord,” Sebastian smiled, allowing too much amusement to go to his face. His tone was too piqued with their situation, the fact that Ciel has to hold another individual’s wellbeing and contentedness before his own. Spoiled royalty with an oversized rock on her finger...but then again, Ciel would be a hypocrite to complain, seeing as he had his own family ring snug around his thumb. With a disgruntled glance to the side, he ignored his butler and started up the main stairwell. Sebastian didn’t deserve the satisfaction of being right. 

Princess Marie of Germany under his watch, under the protection of his estate. The Queen would have Ciel’s throat if he let so much as a scratch raze the princess’s skin. It was an honor in its own right, even though he’d have to divert much of his attention to weeding out just who would dare threaten the monarchy. What was the point in coveting the head of a princess who was third in line to the German throne? Quite a bold move, it was.

“Your Highness,” Ciel started, his gaze focusing on the back of her head as she sat on the seat across from his desk. The door to his study was already open and he allowed himself to loiter in the threshold respectfully as the young woman in front of him took her time to stand and face him. Her face was neutral as she regarded him, her lips relaxed in a soft frown before the corners turned up and animated her cheeks. It reached her eyes well enough to fool anyone. The family resemblance was there, he supposed, the plethora of fronts evident in just a polite smile. 

“Earl Phantomhive, I presume,” the princess responded, her words forward and curt. Her English was better than he would have guessed, a welcome juxtaposition to Ciel’s challenged German. At least his butler needed not to translate each syllable between the two of them. There was certain alertness in her shoulders, although they were down and away from her diamond drop earrings. 

“Yes. My tardiness is inexcusable. I apologize,” Ciel smiled, the expression automatically uncomfortable, but the gesture seemed to have registered. The princess was more docile than she seemed in comparison to the press. Not long ago, her elated smile was all over the press as she announced her engagement to some other German fellow. Ciel couldn’t recall. She tilted her head, the slight gesture granting Ciel permission to properly enter the room as she extended her hand. Their meeting was more than awkward, but Ciel could take the blame. Being late saw to ruining a conventional greeting. 

“It was unintentional. My grandmother is much too wise to...put her faith in a halfwit,” the princess responded, mocking him under a soft tone and subtle accent. 

“Yes. Certainly,” Ciel humored her with a wry chuckle as he bowed, gently taking her gloved hand. She was as he predicted prior: spoiled royalty with an oversized rock around her finger. The emerald of her family ring glittered, the square-cut catching the light as Ciel pressed a tender kiss on the satin of her glove. He was bent over was his waist, making himself shorter as her skirt became the only significant object in his limited line of vision for the time being. It was sky blue (the cleverly chosen color of trust) and embroidered with white and darker blue eddies. They were so subtle, Ciel wouldn’t have noticed them from the distance he was currently retreating to. He gave the ribbon tied around her wrist a short look before completely letting her warm hand go. The princess quickly withdrew her hand the moment it was released.

Frankly, she seemed to be holding her breath as Ciel righted himself, calming as the contact between them ceased. For a moment, she was still until her gaze returned to him, almost unsure.

He had never seen royalty so uncomfortable in their own skin. 

“Would you care for a tour of the estate, Your Highness?” Ciel asked, breaking the crawling silence. She was a princess, in his case, each one of her idiosyncrasies needed to be handled smoothly, although she didn’t seem to be the type to take offense as quickly as an average woman in polite society.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” the princess said, tilting her head. The gesture was supposed to seem docile, but Ciel could only assume it came from a place of boredom or perhaps, impatience. The young woman was already proving to be more trouble than Ciel would have preferred to entertain. 

“It would be my privilege.”

. . . 

JANUARY 19th, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

 Ciel sat back in his chair as he defied every law of proper posture for a nobleman. The black bow of his monochrome ensemble was tied loosely around his neck, hanging limply around his neck. Sebastian had fastened it that morning, but Ciel had felt the need to loosen it to help him think. 

The envelope from Queen Victoria sat open on Ciel’s desk, signed and delivered days ago. Along with her own depressed pleading was a translated copy of the note sent to Germany.

His uncovered eye skimmed the pristine penmanship of Queen Victoria’s, imploring him to guard her granddaughter- one out of over two dozen. A number that loitered around the mid-twenties, seeing as the Duke of Clarence, Albert Victor had recently passed. The Queen hadn’t spared a syllable in reminding Ciel of keeping Marie safe from whoever had dared to send a letter into the royal courts of Germany. A threat over the head of the princess, if she presumed with her engagement and life in Schleswig-Holstein. It was worded quite brusquely in comparison to Her Majesty’s anxiously penned words.

‘A good princess can learn to appreciate-’ he read, for what felt like the hundredth time before there was a knock on the closed door of his study. Ciel looked up from the paper, frowning as Sebastian’s polite voice spoke. 

“Master, I’ve brought your afternoon tea,” he announced, entering without another moment’s hesitation. Ciel responded with an unenthusiastic hum, although he was content to have a pick-me-up in the form of a warm beverage.

‘A good princess can learn to appreciate what she has such as a-’

“East Frisian tea,” Sebastian said, interrupting both Ciel’s train of thought and his dismissive action of putting the porcelain cup to his lips for a sip. With a sigh, he put the Queen’s letters back on his desk, for the favor of further expecting the contents that he was about to carelessly ingest. “Made of Assam leaves and just a dash of Darjeeling,” the butler continued, fixing his stare on Ciel as he frowned at he black tea. The cream was pooling down the inside of the cup, mixing with the malty liquid, pushing up to create clouds within it. 

“With cream,” Ciel wrinkled his nose as he took a reluctant sip, the biting taste causing him to wince until the cream and sugar combination softened the foreign brew. While he normally preferred his tea with minimal traces of sugar, the cream, in this case, was welcome.

“Yes. I do hope it’s to your liking, My Lord. Our guest seemed to appreciate the gesture.”

“East Frisian, you said,” Ciel gave his cup another look before fixing his gaze on Sebastian. “Germany,” he noted, rather unamused with his butler’s attempt at shying away from cultural appropriation. Sly bastard. 

“Very good, sir. If you look closely, you’ll find a piece of rock sugar at the bottom.”

Indeed, there was a small clump of sugar that stuck out of the tea at the bottom of the cup, and particles of broken sugar swirled around it. Ciel picked up the papers again, straightening out his tense spine. He read over the same line, finally finishing it. 

‘A good princess can learn to appreciate what she has- such as a beating heart and a doting family of blue blood. We know that Marie’s virtue is skin deep. Surely you know where to show her...away from gunpoint- away from her home, and away from her bridegroom.’

“The Duke of Clarence died of influenza,” Ciel stated, the fact as clear as day. It was published all over the press- shops were closed, the funeral was a country-wide grievance. Her Majesty was thrown out of sorts, seeing as she lost a grandson and very well a granddaughter. “It wasn’t staged by the author of this letter.” It was a twisted show of luck, rather than a show of strength.

“I would have to agree,” Sebastian concurred, effortlessly changing his tone from willfully discussing tea to attempting to piece together an idea of a suspect. “The monarchy is made of the entirety of Europe- there could be any number of adversaries wanting to partake in their downfall.” There was also any number of targets, considering the family as a whole was so large- the Queen had nine children, each grown and married, with children of their own. Many of whom were younger than nineteen, making them more viable for ransom, assuming that was the goal here.

“Her Majesty has survived eight assassination attempts within her reign,” Ciel said, his voice at a low timbre as he walked through his own thoughts. Sebastian knew when to interject and most importantly, when not to. Society always paints targets on the back of those who are at the top. That was why the queen herself had the steeliest of nerves and he, the head of Phantomhive, had to install human defenses against consistent assaults. “Sebastian, get me every article of which Her Highness is featured in,” he demanded, slamming the thin stationery down on the surface of the desk in front of him. His gaze was on the sly butler, catching the subtle glow of his eyes as he bowed, his hand back over his heart. 

“Consider it done,” Sebastian simpered as he showed himself out of the study, abandoning the cart that he brought the tea in with. Ciel helped himself to another long sip of his tea, the excess cream gathering at the top of his upper lip before it was improperly licked off. 

. . . 

JANUARY 20TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

Perhaps the most inconvenient aspect of the princess’s arrival was breakfast. Ciel had enjoyed reading the paper in his own quarters as Sebastian brought him a simple breakfast tray and to satiate him until noon, but as a warm host to royalty, it was part of his responsibility to join her for most, if not all major meals. Mornings were Ciel’s preferred times to strategize; Sebastian gave him the paper, informing him of his meetings for the day and laid out the postage for Ciel to sift through. But instead, Ciel’s incoming letters were still sealed, closed, and abandoned as they lay piled on the surface of the vanity- only to be touched after sitting for breakfast.

“You could tell her I had an...urgent meeting that I couldn’t possibly miss,” Ciel suggested as he looked up at the ceiling to allow Sebastian to button his shirt and fasten his tie.  He could feel the demon’s annoyance with him as he spoke childishly. Only his death (or the princess’s) would get him out of his new, unprecedented schedule change.

“This childish moaning is not productive, my Lord,” the demon said, tugging on the tie too tightly for Ciel’s liking. “Unless you wish to be considered a child by the young woman.”

“Watch it,” Ciel hissed, narrowing his eyes at his butler as he picked a dark blue jacket from the armoire. He wasn’t a child, nor anything like one, for that matter. Sebastian knew that better than anyone and yet, he insisted on speaking out with his appropriate conduct. Ciel shouldered the responsibilities of an earl, a successful businessman, and now, a personal guard. If the girl staying at his estate was to be considered a woman, then he was a man, even with a difference of two years between them. Age was a mentality. 

“My apologies,” Sebastian sounded anything but apologetic, his diverted grin pulling at his lips as he guided Ciel’s arm through the sleeve of the jacket. Sly bastard.

“Just finish dressing me, if you can be so bold as to fulfill your duty for once.” 

. . . 

The princess was staring at the dainty butter knife between her fingers- again, her eyes completely fixated on the silver utensil. Her lips were pursed in her inevitable frown as Ciel entered the dining room, bowing under the threshold. “Good morning, Your Highness,” he willed himself to hold his breath until she acknowledged his presence. 

“And to you, I suppose,” she responded, finally picking up her gaze to turn to the frosted window. It was snowing lightly, flakes falling in fat flurries, coating everything they landed on. The draft from the cold was light as it was refuted with the crackling fireplace at the far side of the room. 

This fire was contained.

“You may sit,” she added in lieu of his hesitation. Princess Marie was in fact the most informal royal he had ever been privileged to entertain. To have to wait on her was as infuriating as it was inconvenient. 

“Of course,” he took the seat to her left, pulling out the chair and sitting down. The silence that permeated between himself and the princess was formidable, growing with each second that Sebastian took to enter with the meal. Her eyes were on the knife again, although she put it back in its place on the table setting. For as absent as her expression was, the rest of her body remained quite alert- her back arched in the chair and her posture quite truculent. She could pass for a stoic war general, the only difference being the jewels that decorated her body and the burgundy gown that covered it. 

Since her arrival two days ago, each torturously slow meal would play out in just this way. Not to mention, the assortment of traditional German cuisine that Sebastian unfortunately, never failed to serve with the accompaniment of countless jams and spreads that were already placed between himself and the girl. She was always disinterested until Sebastian and the other servants emerged with the main dishes, although she merely took a measly few forkfuls until she excused herself.

“Please pardon our intrusion. Breakfast is served” Sebastian’s cheeky voice chirped as he entered as he carried two silver platters, each covered. Following him were the rest of the staff; Mey-Rin’s unstable hands pushing the tea cart behind Finny and Baldroy who brought unnecessary sides to the table. After giving their plates to Sebastian, they quickly backed off. Finny seemed squeamish simply from the notion of being around royalty as he fell uncharacteristically silent- at least until he met the princess’s eyes and bowed clumsily, smiling with the boyish charm that he should’ve outgrown years ago. 

“Uh- good morning, Your Highness!” He exclaimed, desperately standing back up as Baldroy gave him a pointed look, linking his arm with his and forcibly dragging him out of the room. 

“C’mon, mate. Sebastian gave us one order. Not to talk to ‘er!” Baldroy whispered harshly as they left with Mey-Rin, causing both Finny and Ciel to cringe. Ciel exhaled, silently pushing out each curse that he wished to bestow on his inept house staff for embarrassing him with more of their incompetence.

“I was just tryin’ to be polite! She was-”

Sebastian cleared his throat, smiling through the anger that bristled in the forced nature of the grin. “Today we are offering lightly whisked eierkuchen, refined with sparkling water and served with quittengelee as well as an assortment of honey- such as acacia, buckwheat, and lime blossom,” he gestured to the main platters he had carried out, removing the coverings to show large, thin cakes. They were much too thick to be considered a crepe and yet, much too large to be a regular pancake. As for the so-called quittengelee, Sebastian had motioned to the orange jam with the thick texture. 

“And for our sides, we have prepared a dish of senfeier- the eggs hatched organically and immersed in an Indian-inspired mustard sauce,” Sebastian continued, rambling for much too long about the products of his overestimated kitchen labor. 

“I understand everything is homemade?” The princess stated although the words were posed as a question. “I find it curious that you were able to acquire fresh quince from Germany at this time of year...they’re out of season.”

Sebastian chuckled as if he expected the question while Ciel shifted in his seat, at a loss for what quince was in the first place. The two before him were speaking in English, although he had yet to comprehend was quince-jam entailed. “Most astute of you, Your Highness. We had them imported from the Crimean Peninsula in accordance with your arrival.”

For the first time, her face softened as she nodded, before turning her attention to Ciel. “Lord Phantomhive, you do have quite an able butler at your disposal,” she said her lips turning upwards in a diminutive smile. Ciel would have appreciated the polite gesture if the compliment had been aimed at himself, rather than his butler who quite literally, came from the gates of hell. 

“He’s a servant, Your Highness. You mustn’t pay him any mind for establishing the Phantomhive standard of care,” Ciel dismissed, perhaps more bluntly than he would have dared, given the situation. 

“Well, the workforce in my own home could never perform to the same caliber,” the princess lifted her shoulders, shrugging with the least amount of movement possible. 

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’m simply one hell of a butler, no one worthy of your praise, as my master said. Although, please do enjoy your meal, on behalf of our staff,” Sebastian said, bowing as he hid the smirk on his condescending face. It was an abomination and before the princess could bother responding, he was gone, leaving one full dining table and specifically, two filled teacups that reached the table without Ciel noticing. 

“He is a tricky one, isn’t he?” the princess commented, watching as the door closed behind Sebastian. Absentmindedly, her fingers curled around the warm teacup that was placed to her right- likely when Finny made a spectacle of himself. 

“One could say that,” Ciel responded cautiously as he eyed that fatuous jam. “I don’t suppose you could elaborate on this...quittengelee?” 

“Did you mean quittengelee?” Her eyebrows were knit as her smile made a brief reappearance. She emphasized the ‘g’ in the word as Sebastian had, as Ciel’s terrible pronunciation had evidently shown her that his German was completely lackluster. 

“I-, yes,” Ciel looked away as he found himself at the position as the butt of the joke once again- a most unusual position for someone such as himself. She took a long sip of tea, the heat of the fresh pour clearly not bothering her. By touching the outside of the porcelain cup, he could feel the intense heat of the beverage.  

Even her eyes were mocking him. 

“Key-ten-gee-lee,” she said slowly after swallowing, deconstructing the word for him- as if he was a child and she was a tutor. If Sebastian had ever dared to attempt teaching Ciel the French language in this manner he would have had the demon tarred and feathered. 

“Key-ten-gee-lee. Yes,” Ciel repeated, unable to hide his frustrated scowl. There was no tarring and feathering royalty, after all. At her dubious expression, he felt the need to defend himself, his intelligence, and likewise. “I can only claim fluency in both French and English. I’m currently studying Latin.”

“Studying a dead language, I see,” and within six words, Ciel was reminded of how vexing the princess truly was. Leisurely, she spooned a few sugared raspberries out of a porcelain bowl and piled them in the middle of the flat pastry on her plate. She picked one of the overly specific kinds of honey to drizzle over them, using a small spoon from her place setting. “Well, quittengelee is a jam made from quince.”

“...Quince is a fruit. It comes from trees all over Europe-especially Germany,” she continued, after realizing that Ciel’s silence was a bid for her to explain further. She dressed her breakfast with chocolate spread that Sebastian had only incorporated for her sake- he was nothing if not stingy when it came to sugar before noon. “Although...no one eats it off the branch, so you will only find it in this form at a table. Try it with a roll,” she suggested. 

Ciel reluctantly obliged as he cut a warm roll open. At the intervention of his knife, poppy seeds fell onto the surface of his untouched eierkuchen while the princess’s pastry was in the process of being rolled into itself, as a lazy crepe would be. She seemed content to cut it into small chunks by cutting it in half and proceeding to cut them into halves. “And I understand they’re referred to as...brötchen?”

She shook her head, causing her earrings to move alongside the strands of her hair that were left out of the braided bun she sported. “Brew-chen. There’s an umlaut for a reason.” He felt his frustrated grip on the knife grow considerably as he spread a thin layer of the quittengelee over the flat side of the roll that he cut into. 

“Brew-chen,” Ciel smiled thinly as he returned the knife back to the small bowl that the spread was in. At least someone was finding amusement in his rare struggle.

“Are you not familiar with the umlaut’s appearance in the Latin language?” On the subject of language, the princess’s English was perhaps too perfect. She spoke in the complicated fluency of a native speaker, her German accent subtle enough to go undetected to an obtuse ear. Ciel took a small bite out of the rye bread, the dryness of it paired well with the sweet jam. The taste resembled the median of a pear and an apple, having the pear’s sweetness and the crispness of the apple and frankly, it wasn’t half bad.

“I have to say, Your Highness, your English is quite exceptional,” Ciel said, changing the subject from his own lack of capability to the princess’s. He didn’t need to hear any more of her passive-aggressive commentary and expect himself to remain civil. “How long have you studied?”

She took her time to answer, picking up a cut of her rolled pastry and chewing it for much longer than it needed. Her eyes were contemplative as she speared another piece and put it into her mouth. “Since I was a girl,” she said, clearly considering the delivery of the rest of her answer before continuing. “My whole family speaks both German and English, it’s our heritage.” It was said that Her Majesty even preferred conversing in German when she was left with her family and private staff, shielded from the public eye. “I was not presented with spontaneous options.”

“I suppose not,” Ciel said, validating her words as a formality and let the conversation go to rest. The princess seemed content to take a final bite out of the eierkuchen, making for a grand total of three pieces missing from the vast majority that was left of her plate. She set her utensils down and despite still being hungry himself, Ciel had to do the same. Polite society dictated that when the individual of the highest rank set their utensils down at the dining table, everyone was to (annoyingly) follow in suit. With a frown, he watched as the handles of both the fork and butter knife faced the bottom right of the plate, confirming that she was indeed finished with eating. 

“Excuse me,” the princess said, standing to her feet after putting her napkin back on the table. Immediately, Ciel stood and did the same because it was also disrespectful to sit while present royalty stood. Her status controlled him such as a puppeteer would control a marionette; forcing him to smile through clenched teeth and speak kindly through bitter indignation

“Of course,” he supplied, offering a shallow bow as she pushed her chair back and proceeded to leave him in the dining room- alone with a table of food that he couldn’t proceed to dig into without her permission- which was a privilege that she didn’t care to extend. Ciel watched her back as she twisted the knob of the door, her petticoats swinging as she walked. At this rate, he’d sooner starve before catching the sender of that threat...not that he could blame their threat of violence towards this frustrating girl.

. . . 

JANUARY 23RD, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

“And this is every article?” Ciel frowned at the looming stacks of grey papers that lined his desk. Most of them were in German, coming from articles that mostly concerned the entirety of the royal family of Schleswig-Holstein. After all, Her Majesty was known as the Grandmother of Europe, seeing as her descendants lived in each corner of the continent- from Denmark, Russia, Romania and even Greece. The royal family held traces of her blood in each throne because of this, and it was passed to Princess Marie and her siblings through their mother- Princess Helena of the United Kingdom, the fourth child of Queen Victoria. However, Princess Helena of the United Kingdom was not to be confused with one of her daughters- Princess Helena of Schleswig-Holstein. The runaway princess that headlined most of the articles on Ciel’s desk. She was the sister and twin of Princess Marie before she was presumed dead nine years ago. 

“Yes. These records are organized by timeline and to fortify your skills in German comprehension, they are left in their initial print,” Sebastian said, his hand over his heart and smile as coy as ever. Ciel scowled in response, an insult lingering in the back of his mind, although he knew that his butler (who unfortunately doubled as his tutor) had no intention to make his life easier than need be. He sat back in the opulent chair after picking up the first newspaper in the hefty stack. This was the oldest in the pile, dating back to May 3rd, 1873- the birth of the twin princesses and the most recent was from two weeks ago, covering the princess’s engagement to Prince Aribert of Anhalt.

“Fine,” Ciel responded, apathetic to the butler’s amusement. Sebastian watched him peer at the foreign words as Ciel wracked his mind to decipher them. “Go find something useful to accomplish. Busy yourself,” he ordered with a careless gesture of his hand. If he needed to, there was a German to English dictionary tucked safely in the drawer on his left.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Sebastian said, the perkiness in his posh accent as pertinent as ever. He was an overconfident demon that enjoyed bearing witness to Ciel’s struggle, which was only further proof that he was a bastard from hell. 

In Sebastian’s absence, Ciel found it easier to focus, seeing as he had only just started studying German over Latin three days ago- after the princess humbling him greatly at the breakfast table. She had no qualms about speaking her mind, insinuating that Latin, his former language of study was a waste of time. The most expression he saw in her face was at the dining table as she poked fun at him and drank scalding hot tea without so much as a flinch.

The large photo on the front page of the most recent paper showed Princess Marie and the Prince beaming at the camera, the girl showing off the new diamond on her ring finger with a smile twice the size of it. Having been face to face with the princess, Ciel could only wonder what transformed her perpetually somber frown? Even that shiny engagement ring was missing when he would have suspected that it was some kind of comfort object that she would have wanted to take overseas with her. The passion in that black and white photograph was missing, not that he could truly blame her. The circumstances could cause any sheltered royal to make a full retreat- she was in a foreign country and in the care of a stranger.

After a few minutes, his long-coveted silence came to an end when there was a hurried knock on the door. It was much too loud and demanding to be from Sebastian and he highly doubted the princess would bother knocking on the chance she left her quarters outside of attending meals. Before he could put the newspaper back, fix his tie, and sit up, the oakwood door was flung open and from it, a girly yell of excitement and blur of salmon pink sprang forward.

“Ciel! How could you not tell me that Her Highness is staying here? With you?” Elizabeth Midford- Lizzie- exclaimed, pulling Ciel out of his chair and into a crushing hug. She wore a beige overcoat, the front was unbuttoned which showed off the vibrant shade of pink her gown sported, the bodice being a slightly darker shade than the top petticoat. He could feel the cold air that she brought up the stairs and into the corridor with her, likely ignoring Sebastian after he allowed her inside. The melted snow permeated into Ciel’s own clothing, making him feel a vague cold. More importantly, her thin arms enveloped his waist, her head pushing into his chest. He finally stood taller than she did.

“E-...Lizzie!” Ciel sputtered dumbly, his arms reluctantly wrapping around her thin torso to reciprocate the hug. She was his fond cousin; too comfortable with invading his personal space and naturally, showing her face unannounced. “How did you-...” there were almost too many questions to bother pushing out in one sentence. He had no desire to explain the massive pile of German newspapers that were scattered over his desk and most importantly, the whereabouts of the princess couldn’t be common knowledge. It was a danger to her safety to which Her Majesty had entrusted him with. The princess had only arrived a week ago- it would be a disgrace to have failed this crucial assignment in such haste. 

“My father,” Lizzie answered, inhaling deeply before pulling away and allowing Ciel to properly look at her. Her pale complexion was colored with bits of pink from the cold, her green eyes amazed as she stared at him. Around her neck was the white velvet choker he had gifted her for her sixteenth birthday. The single pearl that hung from the middle caught the light from the lamps that merely accentuated the natural light of day that flooded through the open drapes. “Her Majesty’s knights were cautioned to watch for suspicious characters because her granddaughter is in town, staying with her loyal Watchdog. Which is you,” she explained, much to Ciel’s relief. Lizzie’s father, Alexis Leon Midford, was the head of the Order of the Garter, otherwise, the knight order that was established in 1348 by King Edward III. “Oh, allow me,” Lizzie insisted, surging forward on her tippy toes to fix Ciel’s tie. As of late, undoing it helped him focus- despite his inability to retie it. 

“Uh- thank you,” Ciel cleared his throat, watching as Lizzie’s thin fingers tied a bow into the black material. She tugged one end of the string to make both of the loops even in size, her smile permanent as it parted her lips. There was an intimacy about a girl touching his clothing, making adjustments as his own mother had done frequently for his father. Surely Lizzie was aware of that sentiment, after all, she proved that she wasn’t completely airheaded years ago on Campania. She was slow to move away again.

“Where is Her Highness? Would you introduce me?” Lizzie’s words were posed as a request, but Ciel knew better. She wouldn’t leave him alone until he at least allowed her to stand in the same room as the cold princess.

“If she’ll-” he started before he was swiftly interrupted. Lizzie had indeed matured in a multitude of ways- spanning from physical to intellectual, but her tendency to speak over others had yet to be properly ironed out.

“Oh, we can take her into the city and take her to a show in the theater!” She exclaimed, impulsively latching on to the fleeting and frankly, poor idea. The point of the princess’s arrival in England was to keep her hidden from the public eye, rather than risk-taking her into the busiest city in the country for a night to wander about. “It’ll be lovely! Oscar Wilde’s new playwright, Salome, is still in the Globe Theater! I’m sure Her Highness would love to go see it tonight!” Lizzie beamed, proud of her idea as she turned to the open door of Ciel’s study. “Well? What are you waiting for? Let’s go ask her!” 

“Elizabeth I don’t-” Ciel sighed, watching Lizzie’s perky blonde curls jump with each energetic step she took. A thin headband kept her hair out of her face as her hair was sectioned off into two high pigtails. She had been allowing her hair to grow out for ages, which allowed the kept curls to end just past her shoulder. He followed her in measured steps as she practically skipped down the corridor.

“Where could she be?” Lizzie mused, looking around with the curiosity a small child would have in trying to locate a cat.

“My assumption would be the library,” Ciel lied since the princess spent her time burrowing in her quarters or rarely, in the main living room, nursing a cup of East Frisian tea. Thus, it was a surprise when he and his cousin entered the expansive room to find the girl reading through a short book. The princess was sitting back on a loveseat, one leg improperly crossed over the other as she squinted at the font on the page she read. Upon hearing the door to her side open and close, she quickly put her leg down and straightened her back. The gesture was amusing in itself, watching her composed nature hesitate for once.

“Lord Phantomhive,” the princess spoke first, arching an eyebrow as he observed him and the starstruck blonde to his side. Lizzie curtsied, lowering her head to the girl. “Who is this?”

“Your Highness, this is my fianceé- Lady Elizabeth Midford,” Ciel said as Lizzie stood up once again. The princess smiled and once again, it hardly reached her eyes. She closed the book on her lap, a gesture that expressed that they had her full attention, even if her ‘full attention’ was normally diverted anyway. 

“It’s simply an honor to meet you, Your Highness! I adore your dress!” Lizzie said, her gaze fixating on the deep red silk of the princess’s gown. The red was an interesting contrast to her emerald family ring that the princess wore every day, similar to the ring around Ciel’s own thumb. The circumference of the band was able to fit around his finger after years of impatient waiting. 

“Thank you. It was a gift,” the princess responded, tilting her head, her smiling beginning to fade. She was only seeing the gullible exterior that Lizzie put out, covering her mastery in swordsmanship and strategy. He couldn’t blame either of them; Lizzie for succumbing to social norms and Her Highness for failing to search for depth in a starstruck girl. 

“Would you perhaps...consider joining Ciel and I to the city tonight? We’re going to see a show at the Globe Theater!” Lizzie chirped, her shoulders jumping with her excited giggling. Ciel pursed his lips in response, seeing as there was no reasoning, much less arguing with the eccentric blonde. Raising his voice would be unbecoming as he introduced his cousin as his fianceé, before a member of his bloodline. Not to mention, she was a noble lady and Ciel had no desire to give the princess more of a reason to give him a snide admonishment. 

“Salome?” The princess mumbled her eyebrows knitting in thought. Her hands wrapped around the book in her lap, though the book remained close to her petticoat. She sat a little taller, her eyes pensive. For once, it seemed that the whole of her regard was in the library with them. 

“Yes! Oscar Wilde’s new playwright. Paula will secure seats in the box for the three of us,” Lizzie suggested, her voice lifting as her own hands clasped together in front of her chest. She still wore her outside mittens, since she immediately rushed to Ciel’s office upon entering the estate, ignoring Sebastian who had wanted to take her overcoat and all other winter gear. If the princess had any criticism about Lizzie’s forwardness, she had yet to voice it. Instead, her leg was bouncing- quickly- up and down, which caused her petticoat to in turn, move. Her heel would have made a soft knocking sound against the wooden floor if there wasn’t a throw rug placed in front of the particular loveseat she sat on.

The princess’s expression was otherwise passive as silence hung in the air once again. 

“I believe the idea is counterintuitive to our objective here, but I would be a poor host to allow a guest to remain completely trapped indoors,” Ciel said, begrudgingly endorsing Lizzie’s plan. “Besides, with Sebastian and isolated seating, I can guarantee both your safety and privacy.” As far as Ciel knew, the entire royal family endorsed live entertainment, starting with Her Majesty who vested sums of money into restoring and improving theaters throughout London. At that moment, the princess’s absent expression and fidgeting extremities suggested that she would have preferred anything over theatrics.

“Exactly! And we’ll have loads of fun!” Lizzie said, “please, Your Highness?” She begged, grinning from ear to ear while the princess’s complexion seemed shades lighter than it was minutes ago. 

“I- if you’re confident, Lord Phantomhive,” the princess said, her accent more prominent as she quickly stood, the book in her hands still. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Midford. Excuse me,” she said, quickly exiting the library before Lizzie could tell her to call her Lizzie. Ciel found it dubious that she was accepting the invite based on her trust in him. In fact, it was news to him that she possessed any in the first place. 

The doors closed again, leaving him alone with his cousin again. Lizzie squealed, “Lovely! I’ll give Paula a ring!”

. . .

The exterior of the Globe Theater was quite romanticized with both streetlights and a quartet playing as guests of all classes entered. The sun was at half-mast in the sky, with hues of purple beginning to hint in the sky and since the crisp winter made sunset come earlier by the day, the three of them had to eat a rushed supper before heading into London by carriage. It was the first full meal that Princess Marie had bothered to stay seated for, rather than excusing herself after taking three diminutive bites off of her plate. 

The carriage came to a stop, halting as Sebastian muttered a command to the horse that pulled them. No later, the closed carriage door opened to his smug smirk as he took the hands of each lady- the princess, Lizzie, and Paula to aid their step down. Lizzie was hardly paying attention to her own surroundings, save for the moony stare she looked at the sky with. “We picked the perfect night,” she commented, the other approaching families and couples catching her attention. Everyone- even the middle-class workers, were dressed in their finest.

Sebastian closed the carriage behind Ciel, his hypervigilance an important asset to making sure that no one could lay a hand on the royalty present. The command was presented as an order, to the extent of Ciel removing his eyepatch and staring at the demon whilst Lizzie and the princess were off looking at the German garments in the princess’s armoire (at his betrothed’s request). “Indeed. It’s far too warm to indicate snow, Lady Elizabeth,” the demon said, although ‘warm’ was nothing but an understatement. The January air was cold with the biting wind only absent. 

“People of all sorts are present,” the princess said, voicing a thought more than attempting to start a conversation. None of her nervous tics had disappeared since the first mention of going to the theater. Perhaps he would have been more considerate of a host to neglect Oscar Wilde’s playwright altogether. 

“What are we waiting for?!” Lizzie asked, linking her arm with Ciel’s as if they were already married, or even in the process of courtship. Immediately, he tensed, finding it difficult to match his pacing with the way her excited skipping dragged him towards the entrance as she ignored Paula’s cautioning pleads. The woman’s presence was mostly to appease the conduct of unmarried ladies needing to be accompanied by a married woman in order to properly be on an outing with an unmarried man. However, the rule said nothing about physical contact being essential and frankly, all Ciel wanted was to recoil from Lizzie’s lasting grasp.  

Thankfully, no one bothered the princess or spared so much as a glance at her. The royal family was so expansive- there was no reason besides residual anxiety to have worried about someone recognizing one royal princess out of dozens. Most of the public couldn’t put faces to the names and titles of Her Majesty’s entire family unless they were made to care by the Queen. Ciel knew nothing about the Duke of Clarence until his face was posted on the front pages of papers for days after he died and after Princess Helena went missing, she could have been identified by anyone on the continent. This relocation of Princess Marie was kept as silent as possible, which ultimately, meant that she could show her face safely, for the most part. 

However, none of that information was likely to ease the princess’s worry, on the assumption that being in public was the cause of her unnatural silence. It wasn’t Ciel’s position to question her.

Their seats were isolated, with Sebastian standing near the entrance of the section. The Globe Theater was open on top with an opulent threshold over the stage where the curtains were drawn. Rows of seats sat in front of the stage, curving in the shape of a semicircle and in sections. Conversations were low and hushed as both the staff and the cast prepared to begin the show, light music from the hidden orchestra starting in order to create as much tension as possible until finally, the curtains were beginning to pull open. 

“Ciel it’s starting!” Lizzie whispered, her arm out of his personal space when they sat down. The moment the princess sat down, her leg began to bounce and naturally, had yet to cease, even as the actors began.

“Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from the tomb. She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things,” the actor said, leaning over the fake balcony on the stage, speaking of the woman below himself and the man to his side.

The other man chuckled, narrowing his eyes at the same woman as she ignored them, silently interacting with other nameless actors on the stage. “She has a strange look. She is like a little princess who wears a yellow veil, and whose feet are of silver. She is like a princess who has little white doves for feet. One might fancy she was dancing,” the actor’s words reminded Ciel of the indelicate, bothersome princess who wasn’t looking at the stage. Instead, she was staring at the darkening sky, the light grey clouds that moved over the theater. Her hands were tucked into her pocket bags to escape the cold and her shoulders were rigid, matching his own. She looked at him, apparently sensing his eye on her, and in response, she raised an eyebrow. He looked away with a long exhale, and instead focusing on the way his breath showed in the air in front of him. 

‘Like a woman rising from the tomb’

. . .

“Tragic. She couldn’t bring herself to love and instead, destroyed others around her,” Lizzie said, her voice quiet with her temporary sadness. They were walking back to the carriage, Sebastian lurking behind them, and Paula linking arms with his betrothed this time. The woman seemed delighted to provide comfort, since it was required of her even less than before and in a way, Lizzie was just as much her daughter as she was of Aunt Alexis and Uncle Francis. “What did you think, Your Highness?”

“The ending was inevitable. All parties were subjecting each other to objectification, and the only way to answer such abuse is death,” The princess stopped walking as soon as they reached the carriage, her hands out of her pockets as she hugged herself instead. That sentence was the most she said at once in the entirety of the evening and Ciel half-expected her to mumble a syllable as simple as ‘fine’ or ‘good’ to answer Lizzie’s question. 

“And you, Ciel?” Lizzie asked, fixing her wide emerald hues on his face, but he pretended not to notice.

“It was realistic. People are only driven by their own self-interest and Salomé merely acted on her own...hypersexuality. She danced for the dinner guests out of her desire to tempt and drive them into sin. It was her obsession that caused her to manipulate Herod to fall at her feet,” Ciel responded, glaring pointedly at Sebastian whose smile twitched in interest as he opened the carriage door. Before Lizzie could chastise his crass use of ‘hypersexuality’ Sebastian beckoned the princess to enter the carriage. 

“Your Highness,” Sebastian extended his hand to the princess to help her into the empty carriage, but she remained still as she had before leaving the estate. Having the highest status allowed her to be the first to enter, but in both instances, she resisted, for the favor of Lizzie and Paula sitting before her.

“I can wait,” she said, gesturing to the pair with her chin. Paula curtsied again, beaming at the girl. 

“You’re quite generous, Your Highness, thank you,” she said, pulling her arm out of Lizzie’s grip to allow her to take Sebastian’s hand and enter first. The princess merely responded with a close-lipped smile, which had minimal effort put into it compared to the smile she wore for their first meeting. Once the two were settled in their seats, the princess (albeit reluctantly) stepped in, followed by Ciel. Now that they were leaving the theater, she seemed to have calmed down enough to not require extensive fidgeting. Instead, her fingertips kneaded the base of her neck for a quick moment, before her hand settled in her lap. Perhaps this was yet another idiosyncrasy of hers. After all, each one was just another inconvenience he’d need to do everything in his power to embrace. 

. . .

By the time the estate rolled back into view, Lizzie was snoring, her head leaning on Ciel’s arm like a child’s would, despite being seventeen. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to push out the visage of the stone mansion being engulfed in flames. It wasn’t on fire, nor was it going to be, but all he could see was bright orange flames surrounding his home, smoke hovering in the atmosphere- drawing closer with every clop of horse hooves. 

‘Mother!’ 

‘Father!’

The walls were burning down around him, his lungs full of smoke as he coughed, doubling over. Everything was so hot, the floor groaning with each heavy step he took towards the main living room. His eyes stung from the smoke, pairing with tears of worry and unabashed sorrow. It was hard to see or feel anything except for warmth as sweat began to fall down the back of his neck and down his shift. 

Unbearable warmth.

Unbearable heat-“

Are we back home?” Lizzie asked, sitting up and yawning as the princess left the carriage, taking Sebastian’s helping hand. “Ciel?” she asked, groggily rubbing her eyes with each hand. Forced out of his stupor, Ciel took in a lungful of cold, clean air, his chest expanding under his many layers of protective clothing. He quickly looked out the window of the carriage at his waiting estate. It stood proudly, the stones that made up the walls shined in the moonlight. There was no fire.

“Yes. Sebastian, contact her parents and make arrangements for Lizzie and Paula to stay for the night,” Ciel ordered arm in arm with Lizzie, who took sluggish steps towards the main door that was opened by Sebastian. Her Highness was already inside, her black overcoat and gloves being taken by an over-enthusiastic Mey-Rin.

“Certainly, My Lord,” Sebastian said, “Mey-Rin, prepare two guest rooms for Lady Elizabeth and Paula, please,” he instructed, before leaving the whole of them to make tea and contact Lizzie’s parents. 

“Alright, Sebastian! I’ll be right there, Your Highness, just you wait!” Mey-Rin exclaimed, quickly scampering up the main stairway to prepare the rooms and tend to the princess’s night routine, whatever that entailed.

“I’ll be retiring now. Goodnight to you all,” the princess said, her complexion having regained some its default tone, although her cheeks were red from walking in the cold from the carriage to the front door. She didn’t care enough to personally address the whole of them, which naturally defied the typical manner royalty had to follow, once again proving herself as the most improper royal he had ever encountered. 

“Sweet dreams, Your Highness,” Lizzie curtsied, stifling a yawn as a red-faced Mey-Rin returned to escort her and Paula to their respective guest rooms, leaving Ciel in the main room and the princess to walk to her room alone. 

Sweet dreams, princess.

. . .

Tags:

[povvertaken]

for @fabletold​ / meme / inbox always open / under cut for length

The Easter feast is abundant. Goderic, ignorant of the best way to manage the food stores, directed the kitchen to produce their best. The High Table is covered in dishes of fine quality: deer cooked with ginger, chicken in a mustard sauce, walnut bread and fresh butter, crushed potatoes and mead soaked carrots and parsnips. The stewards pour out wine, mead, beer, whiskey, and Elfriede tries not to keep track of the cost of it all. This is merely an Easter feast, and Goderic has begun talking of engaging more foreign guests such as the Earl de Rais. She knows it is all his poor attempt to show his strength. How could her brother know that Henri doesn’t spare a moment’s thought about the food served in the court of Wihtwara? Her gaze slides sideways to the man in th seat of honour, on the right hand side of her brother and between the two siblings. This position will matter more to him than all the candied fruits in all the kingdoms combined.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his profile. He is striking, even without the colour of his beard. Striking, and too intelligent to trust. She can predict his moves only by predicting her own. Even as the thought should sicken her, there is a kind of thrill to it; to the idea of an equal. The steward approaches, ready to fill her goblet with wine. She hovers her hand over it, preventing him in a subtle gesture. Its bad enough the expense that’s been lavished on this feast. She will not add to it more than necessary.

She know that Goderic has been told of Alfred’s dream. A united England, without kingdoms. Should such a thing arise, Wihtwara could never hope to stand against the combined forces of Mercia, Wessex, and Northumbria. His plan to curry favour with wealthy foreigners is not a bad one, as such. She sees the merit of it. But Goderic has never been an accurate judge of character. He allows the leaching priests to manipulate him, he seeks the approval of any man with a stronger personality. Henri can see it, plain as day. And he will not be the only one. Goderic is not the ruler to enact this plan. She watches his brother, watches the way he watches an Eadlorman’s daughter. He’d be happier as a Lordling, chasing skirt and hunting. He hasn’t the stomach for ruling.

In one corner of the hall, the musicians start up. Between drinking and feasting, guests will get up and dance. All this celebration for their nailed god, without a thought of why they do it. Tonight, Elfriede will keep to her own faith, and welcome the Spring in a more traditional way. Under the table, Henri’s leg bumps against hers, too heavy and purposeful to be mistaken as an accident. She flexes her hand, refusing to meet his gaze. She cannot deny the intelligence in his choice - to publicly court a princess speaks to her brother’s opinion of him, is a show of power to all the men that eye his position. But she will not give that power to him without something in return. Her favour is worth her weight in gold, and she needs more assurance.

It is only later, when Goderic leaves the table to dance with the Ealdorman’s daughter, that she sits back in her chair and leans her head in Henri’s direction.

“He’s as wet behind the ears as a pup, chasing that girl. If she’s not with Aldhelm’s babe already, she will be within a month.”

She watches Henri, cannot deny the delight she feels as he absorbs this information. Like her, he feeds on information with more eagerness than anything produced for this feast. She notes he has touched little more than the meat he was served, presumably waiting for her brother to insist he indulge in their offerings. Goderic is too fool to play host sober, let alone drunk on wine and women. She picks up the decanter herself, pouring a little wine in her own goblet.

“Can I tempt you, your Grace?”

Without waiting for an answer, she pours a little of the ruby red liquid into his glass. It is not the favour he may have wanted, but it is a gesture, nonetheless. No other man to sit at the High Table has been served by the Princess herself. She knows it, knows that the wine has wet her lips and spread a pink blush across her features. Her eyes glitter as she looks at him, and she inclines her head in a smooth gesture.

“I’m afraid I must retire to my chambers. Might I prevail on you to escort me?”

If Henri held any displeasure with her, an all but open invitation to her bed should soothe his ruffled feathers. When he assents, she stands and takes his arm. There is a fluttering feeling of being trapped, as he holds hi elbow close to his body, and covers her hand with his. It is all so courtly and proper, but she knows something of the man who does it, and suppresses a shiver that ripples down her spine.

As they move through the crowds, she watches Goderic. He is caught in the girl’s beauty. She is pretty in a simple way, all yellow hair and rosy cheeks. Elfriede is surprised by the disgust she feels, the ridicule she knows she could pile on the girl. As they pass, she leans in to Henri and whispers too loudly: “It’s such a shame, but without a mother how is she to know? No man will marry a whore, even if she is the King’s.” She doesn’t look back at the girl, at the impact of her words. She is caught up in the wicked knife of a smile that cuts across Henri’s face. 

Inside her chambers, Elfriede feels like a lit fire. Even Henri’s displeasure over dinner at her lack of attention thrills her. His lack of constancy is a game of wits, and she bears it only so long as they return to one another like this: her chambers, alone, staring at each other like wolves. She discards her circlet, her veil. The heavy braid that hides her long hair is unpinned and released. She watches him, watching her, standing before him like a bride.

“You made a pretty piece of work with that girl. What has she ever done to you?”

She might mistake his tone for a reproach, if she did not see the laughter in his eyes.

“She is a whore for any man who will lie with her, and her father has debts. Aldhelm might have married her, even with no hope of paying them. She will not snare my brother, not even if she bears his bastards. He can find another.”

“Will he?”

They both know her brother is easier to guide without a wife. If he were to marry or take an official mistress, Elfriede’s position as the most influential women at court would suffer. By extension, so would Henri’s. It is in both their interests to ensure that Goderic remains biddable, softened to their suggestions by flattery. Henri had at least managed a little of that before Goderic decided the feast would be best spent mooning after a girl.

“Can he?” She counters Henri easily, as though the conversation isn’t enough to have them executed for treason. As though it doesn’t make her breath hitch and her heart pound. As though she isn’t desperate already to feel Henri’s bruising kiss and possessive grip around her wrist. “He is weak for any pretty face that soothes his ego and laughs at his jokes. It is the foolishness of his sex.” She regards Henri for a beat before speaking again. “A mistake I find you free from, Henri.”

She turns her back on him, unlacing the jeweled, decorative belt around her waist. She drops it to the floor, moving her attention to the laces of her sleeves. As she gently unpicks the cords and releases them, she continues: “I’m unsure what to make of it. If you were to be weak-willed and cow-eyed, I should hate you. And yet I spent the entire Easter Mass and Feast waiting for your attention. Do you look after me as I leave a room, or does some other hold your attention?” The sleeves slide from her arms, and she turns back to face him. Her eyes shine in the low candlelight, and she is acutely aware of the distance between the Earl and her own bed.

“I could never bear a weak man, and yet I find myself wondering: what would it be like, to know a man loves you so truly?”

Henri is fond of poetry, of great heroes and romances. Let him think she is of the same mind, some part of her character predisposed to such foolishness. She has no interest in love. She is enlivened by the idea of a man weak only to her, a solid wall of a man who would lie beneath her and kiss her fingertips in utter devotion.

“What would it be like,” she muses, locking eyes with him, “to have one man be weak for you, above all others?”

Henri takes a step forward, and another, and Elfriede refuses to give up any ground to him until he is before her. In the light, his face is painted red and black as the flames flicker. He reminds her of a wolf, with bloody muzzle, and she licks her lower lip in anticipation. Be wolfish, she thinks. She has no need of a milksop man who will be commanded. She is interested in worship, not childish affection.

“Is this why you torture me? You wish to see me weak?” Henri growls in a register that she feels deep in her bones. She doesn’t bend beneath his gaze, but juts out her chin and narrows her eyes.

“I am a Princess of royal blood. I am entitled to torture who I please.” She breathes shallowly, despite her confident words. “I do not torture you purposefully, though. Never you, Henri.” She reaches out, slides her thumb over his cheek as she cups his face. “I want your devotion, and no other. I want - I want,” she speaks fiercely, drawing so close to him she feels she could climb inside his skin. His pupils are so wide they almost obliterate the colour of his eyes. She looks up at him with her own dark eyes, and presses a kiss to his jaw. “You need not be weak for anyone else. But give me what I desire, and I will be yours, entirely.” She mumbles the words against the column of his throat, and only steps back as he slides to his knees in a fluid, feline movement.

She looks down at him, feels heat pool in her belly, and moves her hand to his hair.

“For you alone, I will be weak,” he says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear.

Yes, she thinks. Yes, yes, yes.

[deathfavor]

@soulsballad points at Horo & Earl

[video-killed-the-radio-host]

Make Your Choice

TW: mentioned and explicate murder; major character death; blood

Nothing seemed out of ordinary when Carlos pulls into the driveway. Maybe he'd have time to make a decent dinner….not that anyone will actually eat it….

He hums to himself as he gathers his coat and gets out. Maybe tacos? If they have everyone over that would be easy and enough. Maybe he should call Cecil and find out if Michael is staying over. Carlos muses to himself as he unlocks the door, but then he's hit with the heavy scent of blood as he steps into the dark living room. Panic suddenly fills him as he reaches for the light. 

"You truly don't want to do that, Mo Eolaí."

Carlos freezes. Nyx's voice sounds cold and different. "Nyx? What's going on?"

"Carlos-" Cecil's voice sounds pained and it breaks Carlos' heart. He hears Cecil's breath catch and hears him whimper softly.

Wait. Wait. "When- when did you get back? How did you escape?"

"Carlos go- hnng!" Cecil yells in pain. 

"It's time for you to stop talking now." Nyx says softly, almost gently.

Against his better judgement, Carlos turns on the light. Almost instantly, he wished he hadn't. There are three bloody bodies on the floor. Their children. He felt like he was going to throw up. His eyes then fall on Cecil. He's still alive but just barely. His beautiful husband was on his knees with a  long dagger in his chest that had clearly been twisted several times. A glint of The blade catches Carlos' eye. Copper. Part of his face was bruised as if he had been hit several times. "What….what did you do? Why?"

Nyx snaps and Carlos finds himself unable to move. He then cards his fingers through Cecil's hair before grabbing a fitful and yanks the older man's head back roughly. "Michael was the easiest you know. Didn't put up much fight. He's so…trusting." He runs his now clawed hand across Cecil's throat. "Eras put up a little fight but Mika was the hardest. They were a fighter. I enjoyed killing them. A bit of delayed karma don't you think?" He reaches down and twists the knife once more and Cecil's face gets even paler as he lets out a strangled noise. "But Cecil here...he didn't even try to find me. Because he chose you."

"I…did try. I did...I'm so-"

Cecil is cut off when Nyx pulls the blade out of his chest and uses it to slit his throat. He gives a gurgle like sound before falling forward, lifeless. 

Nyx picks up the knife and cleans it off on Cecil's shirt sleeve. He then stands and approaches Carlos. "Carlos. Mo Eolaí. I don't blame you." He twirls the shiny blade in his hand. "You were comatose. What could you have done?" Nyx's voice is soft again, almost normal. "So I'm willing to give you a choice."

Carlos swallows thickly, eyes locked on Cecil's still bleeding body. 

Nyx puts the flat of the blade on Carlos' cheek and turns his face so they can make eye contact. "I'm going to give you a choice. You can either die here with everyone else or you can leave."

"Leave?" Carlos asks, just above a whisper. 

"Leave. Leave Night Vale. You won't even remember this."

"But…"

"If you leave, I won't hurt anyone else. Which is a shame. I really had my sights set on Earl." 

Carlos swallows thickly. Roger… "Okay." He whispers. "I'll go."

"Good boy." Nyx snaps his fingers and releases Carlos. The shorter man's knees nearly buckle and he still looks like he wants to hurl. "Go. I'll know if you stop."

Carlos nods and stumbles out, guilt heavy in his gut. He nearly drops his keys as his hands shake trying to put the keys in the ignition. 

-----.-----

About a year after Carlos gets back from wandering the desert, he finally accepts a new team member. He looks up as the door opens. He smiles as he takes the attractive man in. "You must be the new botanist?"

The man smiles. "Yes. My name is Nyx Dóchas. I look forward to working with you."

[deathfavor]

Favorite quotes from or about Earl ( Part 1/ ?? )

“ It’s exactly because you’re here, we can get back up on our feet time after time. After meeting you, I finally began to believe it was worth it to keep fighting for Syndicate. “

“If the only thing you can do is fight, then never stop fighting.”

“You’re the beacon. Go and lead all those who yearn to fight to the battleground. “

“I don’t like dancing around the subject with smart ones either, let me get to the point then. “

“ You should learn to let the gangsters do the dirty work, Chief. “ (scolding Chief yET AGAIN)

This man has an intricate mind. He’ll only seek partnership from someone who can benefit them.

“Quit stressing out Earl. Look at you, you’ve got so much white hair you could be the dad of the entire Legion.”

He’s not going to let you live after the end or act against the Legion.

You know this old fox wouldn’t strike for no reason.

[deathfavor]

changing this post for the sake of TAGS