#HARRISON SPINS BACK AROUND??? PARDON

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

“A favour” - Seventh Virtue

Sharing this because it’s super gay I was re-reading some of this book for funsies and I’m now losing it over this interaction & need to scream into a void!

An excerpt from Seventh Virtue. Adult contemporary fantasy.

Is this a reversal of “Is this why you needed me?” PERHAPS.

Text transcript under the cut!

Harrison nods, clutching the pliant trim of his jacket. “Do me a favour,” he says, trying to find the best way to phrase his request. Then he finds Lonan’s eyes again, and nothing about him is nervous, but determined. “The next time you’re feeling unsteady, tell me. I don’t care if it’s a look, if it’s a word, if it’s a paragraph. Just tell me. We can talk if you want to talk or not talk if you don’t want to. But if you need me, I want to know.”

Lonan considers this for a moment, and then drops his face into his palms. Instinctively, Harrison takes another step closer, like he might’ve done when they were still a couple, when they still slow danced to no music in Lonan’s cramped bathroom, when in dewy morning light, the most certain thing in each of their lives was each other. Something pangs in his chest, and it takes him a moment to identify the emotion as the same grief he experienced in the infirmary hallway. How terrible, to be in front of a stranger you recognize.

Harrison lifts his fingers to his mouth, chews on his nails. The bathroom is beginning to strangle with heat, and despite his attempts at also being steady, he’s ready to flee this room, this property, this life, all of it as easy to destroy as a bleak line of dominoes. He turns.

“I need you,” comes Lonan’s voice.

Harrison spins back around.

This time, when their eyes meet, there’s something aflame there, something cerulean, exposed, urgent.

“I need you.”

[lu-undy]

(This is my second time requesting after you opened your askbox, but you wouldn't know that :)) Lu and Medic play a violin and piano duet together (or Demo plays the piano and Lu sings) and Mundy kinda has a bruh moment wherein he realizes he loves Lucien

Hey there! Glad to see you come back :D !! Here it is, Spy sings like a God, hope you enjoy!

"So, what did you prepare for tonight, fancypants?" 

"Scout, ask me one more time and what you will need to prepare for tonight is your will." 

"Alright, alright…" Scout sighed. "You party pooper…" He mumbled to himself.

Sniper smothered his chuckle. Around the dinner table, the mercenaries were enjoying their dinner, their dessert to be more precise.

"Pardon?" Spy asked menacingly in his native tongue. 

"N-nothing…" Scout hid behind his yogurt, scared. 

"So, tonight is Spy's turn, right?" Engie asked, to brighten things up.

"Oui. I asked Demo for some help."

"You yelled at me for the entire week, mate. Please, Engie, never let him rehearse his stuff with me, send anyone else but me!" Demo took a swig of his beloved scrumpy. 

"I only pushed you to give your best for our performance tonight." Spy simply answered and he saw Sniper roll his eyes with a smile. 

"Alrighty then, if we're finished with dinner, you guys go and get ready, we'll come in about half an hour."

"Very well. Demoman, I will not wait for you." 

[Très bien.]

"Someone please save me from him…" Demo exaggerated his plea.

"C'mon, mate, how hard can it be?" Sniper said to comfort him. 

"Well, very hard! Next time, you go and work with him!" 

Sniper blushed as Demo and Spy left the room. 

It was a habit now. Every couple of nights, one mercenary would prepare something to entertain his colleagues. It could be a movie, a game of whatever to play or watch all together, anything. They had put that in place in order to spend less dull evenings in that harsh winter. Being the only building for miles around in the blizzard meant that they were stuck for the entire winter there. 

Pyro and Scout finished washing the dishes while people slowly gathered in the training room. It had been turned into a second living room with seats and a TV screen, if one could forget the boxing ring and other sports accessories and installations. 

"Right, I think we're all here. Sniper, the lights, please?" 

Sniper nodded and flipped the switch before taking a seat at the back of course, given how tall he was. The main light turned off and Pyro switched on a spotlight. 

Silence fell for a moment and then, footsteps. Spy appeared, better dressed than usual, which Sniper thought was barely even possible. He was wearing a black tuxedo and black and white polished leather shoes. His eyes shone beautifully under the spotlight. 

Suddenly, a few piano notes. A second light switched on and showed Demo on the piano behind Spy. The latter propped himself up to sit on the piano and grabbed the nearby microphone to start singing as the piano carried his voice. 

{To the reader: the song is "Windmills of your mind" as sung by Noel Harrison}

"Round, like a circle in a spiral,

Like a wheel within a wheel,

Never ending or beginning

On an ever-spinning reel."

Sniper's eyes snapped wide. Spy was speaking more than he was singing and it was so pleasant to hear… His accent helped to make it more true somehow, more mellow.

The notes on the piano accompanied the Frenchman's voice beautifully, coming and going again, in an endless and cyclic arpeggio…

Spy was saying the words like he would declaim a poem, his voice ever so slightly flowing on the notes, the syllables stressed as they should be, the rhythm impeccably followed. His brow would furrow at times, and relax at others, and if at first he started with open eyes, by now, his eyes were shut and he was drinking the meaning of the words he was saying as if it was the air he needed to breathe.

Suddenly he elegantly dropped down from the piano and stood proud in front of his audience. He held the microphone a bit further from his lips and opened his arms, revealing a vest that Sniper had never seen him wear before. Black with satin cashmere motifs that glimmered under the spotlight...

"Keys that jingle in your pocket,

Words that jangle in your head."

Spy's voice was slightly more powerful, it was only a small difference in volume, but Sniper felt his ribcage and his knees tremble. He shook his head to shoo those feelings away and took a deep breath.

"Why did summer go so quickly?

Was it something that you said?

Lovers walk along the shore 

And leave their footprints in the sand. 

Is the sound of distant drumming

Just the fingers of your hand?

Pictures hanging in a hallway,

And the fragment of a song,

Half remembered names and faces,

But to whom do they belong?"

Spy opened his eyes and Sniper's snapped wide open. His long, dark eyelashes seemed different, were they wet? His light blue, almost grey irises were glistening…

"When I knew that it was over,

I was suddenly aware

That the autumn leaves were turning

To the color 

Of his hair."

Spy's keen eyes never left Sniper's half mesmerised and three quarters thrilled ones. The poor Aussie felt as if he was the only person in the audience to a concert that suddenly became very private. His heart was pumping fast, unlike Spy's rhythm which slowed down. He was back to whispering, a gloved hand on his heart, and said, much more slowly this time:

"The autumn leaves were turning 

To the colour

Of his hair."

Demo concluded with a few bars on the piano and then came to a halt. Spy nodded to him and new chords rolled in the air. The rhythm was a samba's, much more lively and light-hearted. Spy snapped his fingers in rhythm.

{To the reader: the song is "So Nice" I recommend the version by Sangah Noona}

"Someone to hold me tight,

That would be very nice,

Someone to love me right,

That would be very nice.

Someone to understand 

Each little dream in me,

Someone to take my hand,

To be a team with me.

So nice,

Life would be so nice, 

If one day I find

Someone who would take my hand and samba through life with me." 

Soldier started rocking left and right on his seat, dragging Engie with him. Medic joined them and Spy, seeing that his rhythmic song was dragging everyone in a good mood, started smiling. Not only did his lips purse up but his eyes were expressing genuine delight somehow. 

Sniper was smiling too, a dreamy grin as he rested his chin on his hand and his elbow on his armrest, slowly melting on his chair. 

"What the hell…." He mumbled to himself as he straightened his back on his chair and tried to resume a more normal posture.

The music accelerated as Medic dragged Heavy to swinging on his chair too. 

"Someone to cling to me

stay with me right or wrong,"

The Aussie couldn't believe it. Spy was dancing. The man with a sense of humor as big as a green pea was dancing. And God those hips! He was swinging them almost seductively and Sniper's heart skipped a beat… How come the Frenchman was so flexible with his hips?! 

Sniper opened the first button of his polo shirt as a sweat started breaking on his brow.

"Someone to sing to me

Some little samba song!

Someone to take my heart and give his heart to me,

Someone who's ready to give love a start with me!"

Spy winked at Sniper who blushed and looked left and right to see if it was for someone else.

"Oh yes, 

That would be so nice."

Sniper now breathed heavily, the room was hot, way too hot.

"Should it be you and me?

I could see it would be nice!"

He removed his hat and carded his hair, feeling some fresh air flow through it to cool down his scalp. Sniper was blushing way beyond his ears. He looked down for a second, as Demo improvised on the piano and when he raised his head up again, Spy had disappeared from the improvised stage. The rest of the mercenaries had stood up and were dancing to Demo playing. 

Sniper was panting. The image of Spy, his piercing eyes riveted on him, dancing slowly, swinging his hips was carved on his eyes as if it was marble. And that wink...

He shook his head again as he started to realise why he was sweating like that, why he had enjoyed every second of Spy staring at him even though he would never admit so...

A whistle caught his attention. 

Sniper turned his head. It had come from the door. He barely saw a silhouette slip away. Without thinking, he stood up and followed it. He pushed the door and exited the training room. The sound of the music and dancing was deafened by the closed door now and Sniper focused on knowing where that shadow went. 

The corridor was very dark. He reached for a switch but didn't flip it. Something told him that it was better that way. 

The whistle again. 

Sniper went to find its source but as he came to find it, he heard the base's main door shut. He went there and exited himself. 

The night was pitch dark and the wind was howling. Sniper looked around him and saw nothing. But he heard the slam of a metallic door that he instantly recognised. Whoever he was following, they had entered his van. Sniper followed suit and found himself inside in no time. 

It was pitch dark inside but there was a tiny orange glimmering light and the smell of a menthol cigarette soon found his nose.

"I see you enjoyed the show." The voice with the French accent said. 

The orange light came from the end of Spy's cigarette. 

"Yeah, well, it was pretty good."

"Good enough for you to follow a shadow all the way here…"

"Yeah, it was decent."

"...without this." Spy finished his sentence and Sniper felt something land on his head. His pupils shrank as he realised he had forgotten his very hat.

"Y-yeah well… I had to make sure it was one of us and not… an intruder or something."

Spy spotted the bad lie as he would an elephant in a porcelain shop.

"How would anyone come to the base through this blizzard? Even the Mann Co. supplies have stopped coming. The roads are blocked, airdrop is impossible. No intruders can come here, by no means."

"Y-you never know." Sniper answered. 

"Non, but you did." 

"What?" 

"You knew it was me you were following. You didn't know where I was going and why I kept whistling at you for you to follow me, but you did and here we are: in that ridiculous dwelling of yours that you dare call a home."

"Oi, my van's the perfect place." 

"For what?"

Sniper felt Spy get closer to him. They were face to face in the dark and Sniper saw Spy's eyes reflect the faint lights coming from the base.

"You tell me." Spy answered with a smirk that Sniper heard somehow. 

"What d'you want?" Sniper asked. 

"An honest answer." 

"What's your question?"

"Why do you think I chose those songs to sing to you?" 

Sniper felt hot as he was put on the spot. 

"What d'you mean?" 

"I sang for you, that, you have noticed. But why those songs in particular? What was their message?"

Sniper sighed. He moved to sit on his worn out couch. 

"I-I don't know, okay? And that's a lot of questions. J-just go and leave me here." 

Spy sat next to him. 

"Let me ask you something else then, how did you find my suit tonight?" 

Sniper's eyes snapped wide when he felt Spy's hand on his forearm. It soothed him as much as it made him anxious. 

"Elegant, beautiful, classy." 

"Thank you." Spy said with a smile. "I did try to make an effort."

"Y-yeah, I noticed." 

"Did you notice my mask?" 

"N-no, I mean… It's the same one as usual." 

"Not exactly." Spy answered. "Switch on the light, you will see it better."

Sniper stood up and flipped the switch. When he turned again to face the Frenchman, he choked on his saliva and coughed multiple times. He put a hand on his eyes and another on his chest to ease his cough while Spy chuckled. 

"Mon pauvre ami… I half apologise for this."

[My poor friend]

"Oh, Lord, Spook…" Sniper said between two fits of cough as he still hid his eyes behind his hand.

Spy giggled. 

"You did have your mask back there, right? I didn't just imagine it?"

"I did have it. I removed it as I entered your van. You may look if you want." 

"B-but, isn't that against your rules or something?"

"My rules?" Spy repeated, amused. 

"Yeah, I don't know, whatever rules or codes or whatever you Spooks have."

Spy chuckled. 

"There are no such things, Sniper. If I hide my face, it is because I would rather people not see me and recognise me. It is better that way." 

"Then why show me your face?" Sniper asked his hand still hiding his eyes to not see his friend.

"Because I am still a free man and I do what I want."

"And you want to show me your face?" 

"Why not?" 

"Spook, I swear… You're a whole new level of complicated."

Spy put his hand on Sniper's and pulled it away, slowly. Sniper couldn't help but stare. It seemed as though he was discovering a whole new person. It wasn't Spy, it was… well, someone else. 

"Do I have something on my face for you to stare like this?" Spy teased.

"Well," Sniper felt himself sweating again, "I'd say you're missin' something on your face, but eh, who am I to say?"

Spy chuckled. 

"Would you rather I put the mask back?" He cheekily asked. 

"No - I mean, if you're more comfy with it, put it on but…"

"But?" Spy pushed his luck. 

Sniper was staring at his hair. It was mostly black but there was a front grey tuft and the temples too betrayed Spy's age.

"But I-I don't know… Thanks, I guess." 

"For what?" Spy asked. 

"For feeling like you can show me your face. I guess that means you think you can trust me - oh."

Spy had taken Sniper's hand off his face but he wasn't letting go of it. Non, instead he laced his fingers through it. 

"And now?" Spy asked. 

"And now what?" 

"Now, do you know why I chose to sing these songs for you?" 

Sniper blushed. 

"I-I don't know… I'm not sure. Can't you just say it? It'd be a lot easier for the both of us!"

"For you, oui, for me however, it would be quite difficult." 

Sniper rolled his eyes. 

"How hard can it be?" He asked. 

"Almost as hard as what I'm about to do is foolish…" Spy closed the gap between the two of them and pushed his lips against Sniper's. 

Sniper froze. His muscles froze, his blood froze, his heart stopped sharp, like a watch stops at the time of death, Sniper's body burst alive all at once. His hands flew forward to hold Spy closer, his eyes rolled and closed, and his eyebrows slowly rose and relaxed. Spy's naked hands slid up to Sniper's cheeks and he stayed there, hanging from Sniper's lips with his own.

Eventually, they broke the kiss. 

"Woah… Spook, I didn't know you, uh…"

Spy raised his light blue, almost grey eyes to Sniper.

"Did you even realise that you held those feelings for me too?" 

"M-maybe." 

"Sniper…?" 

"Right, yeah, I realised it when you sang today. I-I just felt weird and I knew…"

Spy smiled sweetly, as he brushed Sniper's cheek with his long and slim fingers. 

"I'm glad you feel the same." Spy said. 

"As if you were surprised… You look gorgeous with that suit on and now, without the mask, you're just…" Sniper's eyes darted to every detail of Spy's face. 

He bit his lip and suddenly pulled Spy's head to him again. He kissed Spy with such force and passion that Spy lost his legs. Thank God he was sitting down and Sniper was holding him, or he would have flowed down to the floor like a liquid. 

[rambling-at-midnight]

A Handmaiden’s Lies: Part 3

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Tom’s honestly shocked when you show up at the camp the next day. It’s quite impressive you were able to find your way back through the thick trees and brush. The girl with the white hair scowls as she trails after you, but you’re back to being a statue as you stride past bigger, bulkier men without batting an eye. They all watch you go with barely concealed resentment bubbling in their eyes. Tom made it clear that you were not to be touched, and nobody’s going to go against Tom, no matter how much a few of them might want to.

Tom won his position as leader fair and square, no matter how bloody. Nobody wants to be the next stain of red on his hands.

The sun is high in the sky and shade hard to find. Scarce a wind blows to challenge the heat. Tom pauses in sharpening his sword and lifts his sweaty curls off his forehead, relishing the feel of fresh air on the overheated skin.

Midday patrol was just sent out, though Tom doubts they’ll find anything. Only other rogues and bandits ever occupy the forests, and most parties know not to mess with Holland’s gang. The rest of his crew mills around the camp. He knows they’re murmuring, resentful he’d called off their crusade of destruction. He tries to keep the majority happy, but they also need to remember that he is leader and that what he says goes.

If they want to challenge him on it, they can.

You don’t gloat or anything when he catches your eye. Without a change of expression, you step over a pile of horse droppings smoothly. Tom appreciates the good grace of that while simultaneously cursing the poop boys for not staying on top of their work. Behind you, the blonde has less grace; her nose wrinkles at the sight of the mess.

You stride right up to Tom. At his side, Paddy tenses. Last night Tom’s inner circle was informed of the situation, and Paddy took it as well as could be expected.

“What do you do for fun?” you ask without preamble. Behind you, the girl rolls her eyes.

Tom blinks. “Pardon?”

“Fun,” you repeat slowly like he’s not right in the head. “What do you enjoy, apart from robbing civilians and destroying property?”

As if he can’t help himself, Paddy has to open his mouth: “Better question is what you do for fun. Watch paint dry?”

Your lip curls as you look at the younger boy. “I’m sure you meant for that to be a much more cutting insult.”

Paddy flushes.

“What I don’t do for fun is insult my friends and family,” Tom says pointedly. Your eyes slide to the ground before snapping up. “And to answer your question, I enjoy riding and dueling.”

Your eyes light up at the mention of dueling and it dawns on Tom that this is your olive branch. He’d nearly rejected it by telling you off but thankfully he’d saved himself.

“Duelling looks like a useful skill,” you say.

Tom nods.

“I was never allowed to learn. It’s considered improper.”

“Everyone should be taught how to defend themselves,” Tom says. “What if you have to protect the queen?”

The girl with the white-blonde hair clears her throat and you kick her. It’s such a moment of warm familiarity that Tom has to smile. “Sorry about Henrietta,” you smile. “She considers it improper as well.”

The girl, who must be Henrietta, casts her eyes to the sky. Tom can recognize the look of someone praying for patience; he’s seen Haz wear that expression often enough to have it memorized.

“Well, you should learn,” Tom informs you.

Henrietta laughs after a brief moment of awkward silence. Your eyes widen a little as you stare at Tom, obviously waiting for him to say something, but his mind is blank. What’s neutral territory here? If he changes the subject it’ll be obvious but not as awkward as the silence. Do you want to continue talking about duelling? Is there a coded message in your abrupt question and trailing sentences? Why are you making Tom’s head spin? He’s never been this nervous around girls before.

Paddy mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Dear Gods.” Then, louder, he says, “Y/N, would you like Tom to teach you how to duel?”

Tom’s eyes widen as you smile and nod—almost shyly? He hadn’t considered you would ever be bashful about anything. “Yes!” he exclaims. “Uh, Pads, take Henrietta to, uh… Zendaya. I’m sure they’ll get along great. And, Y/N, we can go… duel. Together. With swords,” he finishes stupidly, internally cringing but unable to stop himself.

“Mmm-hmm.” You clasp your hands in front of your body and follow Tom to the makeshift armory. Most camp members just carry their own weapons, so the armory doesn’t have a wide selection to choose from. They’re all spare weapons.

Tom picks up a thick sword about the length of his arm and tests it. It’s heavy—probably too heavy for someone that’s never wielded such a weapon in her life. Life in the castle tends to have such perks.

Tom stashes that sword and pulls out a slightly shorter and thinner sword. You should be able to wield it.

Tom unsheathes his own sword from his belt and demonstrates how to hold the weapon. You take his instructions easily and sometimes anticipate them. Your eyes may be untrained in duelling stances, but they’re still sharp, keen to focus on every little difference between Tom’s stance and yours.

You’re not good at duelling. Not at first. Tom can tell you don’t want to admit you’re struggling but the sword trembles when you hold it up. Your muscles obviously aren’t used to such exertion, which makes you slow. Tom suggests a break after a while and you seize the opportunity for a rest. You’re obviously not the type of person to admit to weakness.

After the break you return to practice with renewed vigor. You practice a basic parry in slow motion until you’ve got it and only then do you instruct Tom to speed up.

It takes hours (and a few more breaks) by the time you’re able to parry at a speed remotely close to the speed of duelling, but you look so pleased with yourself Tom can only applaud you.

He can see you applying that unholy determination to any skill in your life. Tom can’t imagine you’re incapable of doing whatever you set your mind on.

“Can all of your men duel like you?” you ask just as the sun begins to set. The trees are already casting long shadows on the ground.

Tom shakes his head. “The skill variety is wide. What swordsmen do reside in the camp are impressive as well, though none have trained as long as I have.”

“Do you not tire of not having a home?” you ask again, reminding Tom of those leading questions about duelling before. He narrows his eyes slightly, wondering where you’re going with this, but replies easily enough.

“I do have a home.” He looks to his tent.

“But a permanent one,” you press. “Your skills—all your men’s skills—are impressive. Surely there are positions for men such as you in the kingdom?”

“What, so eager for me to stay now, is that it?” Tom teases. There was no home for Tom when he was a child here. Why should now be any different?

“Become a soldier for the queen,” you urge.

Tom just stares at you.

“A war is coming,” you add. “The only thing more dangerous than being a group of rogues scant forty men with no allegiances travelling between kingdoms is being the leader of said group whose soulmate is influential in a castle. Your group cannot fight off Thanatoia alone. You’ll be slaughtered. Or worse—you’ll be tortured with the hope that I’ll give up valuable state secrets for you.”

“Yes, because you wouldn’t, would you?” Tom asks bitterly, sheathing his sword.

“I’m trying to protect you,” you snap back, eyes slits of anger. All traces of comradery brought on by sparring are gone.

Tom ponders the treeline until you sigh and dash the sword to the ground, perhaps petulantly. Without even a good-bye, you take your leave.

Tom doesn’t watch as you do.

~~~

He doesn’t sleep.

Is Tom really prepared to serve a kingdom that threw him away as a child? Is he prepared to take a final side in the budding conflict?

Is he prepared to be away from you for a whole year again—maybe longer, if war is declared; barricades can be constructed, hostages taken, innocents murdered.

Is he prepared to leave his men behind?

No, Tom decides in the morning, he’s not. He won’t leave his men. He also won’t leave you without the guarantee that he’ll see you again. If his men truly decide that they would rather wander than enlist, he’ll go with them, but not without you. He’ll kidnap you if he has to. Sure, you’re stubborn and loyal to the queen and you’ll probably hate him at first. But you’ll get over it, and even if you don’t, at least Tom will know that you’re safe.

~~~

“We’ve lived for years like this!” Anthony argues. “Thantoian troops won’t dare to find us in the woods in our own territory.”

“Deesee is neutral in this budding war!” a short, squat boy with a hundred pounds on Tom chimes in. Beady little eyes peer at his leader with resentment from underneath thick eyebrows and a protruding forehead. “Worst comes to worst and we could stay there. They’re not about to drive us out.”

“And hide from the fight like cowards?” Sam argues back.

“It’s not our fight to begin with!”

Tomas swears and spits on the ground, drawing his sword. The familiar shink of metal on metal has everyone backing away. Everyone except Tom. He clenches his jaw, hand resting on his own sword.

“What are you doing, Tomas?” Harrison asks cautiously, one hand held out as if it’ll help diffuse the situation.

“I’ve had enough of Holland’s pansy ass leading,” Tomas declares, leveling the point of his sword at Tom’s chest despite being a good ten feet away. “Fight me like a man, unless you’re too much of a bitch.”

Someone in the crowd laughs nervously.

“Are you sure about this, Tomas?” Tom asks slowly, drawing his own sword.

“‘Course I’m ready,” the other boy scoffs. “Ready to skewer you.”

“I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me,” Tomas laughs, “I won’t be the one getting hurt. And after this, I’ll take the bitch that suggested this stupid idea to my tent.” He leers.

Iron meets iron in a clang that makes a few people flinch. Tom’s eyes narrow at the other boy’s strength as he pushes against Tom’s sword. Tom takes a step back, testing the waters. As expected, Tomas follows him.

“You know what I’m going to do to your bitch, Tommy?” he taunts.

Criminals. Tom keeps the best of them in line, but a few dishonourable rogues find their way into every camp. He grits his teeth and smashes the hilt of his sword to Tomas’ hand, relishing the other boy’s grunt of pain. “I don’t imagine you’re going to do anything to anyone after this, Tomas.”

Tomas lunges, his sword missing Tom’s chest by a hair. Tom barely jumps to the side in time. Before Tomas can rebalance, his arm is gone from his shoulder.

The crowd sucks in a gasp. Tomas screams.

Tom doesn’t like to leave loose ends, so he runs him through with his sword.

“Would anyone else like to complain?” he asks, eyes blazing. Tomas is dead now, but his words—what he’d said about you—they run around his brain, echoing and echoing and he wishes he could kill Tomas all over again for even thinking them.

No one says a word.

~~~

You arrive at the camp a little past high noon. You march in with a scowl on your face, obviously ready to fight even if you don’t know how, but what you see stops you in your tracks. For a brief moment, pure shock flits over your face as you stumble and your fists unclench.

The whole camp is silent. Those who had quarreled during the discussion don’t dare to do more than glare after Tom had officially shut down the debate. Little more than ten tents remain erect. All the boys and girls with rolled-up tents sit on their packs, eyes glued to your form.

The winter had been harsh and they’d lost a few men to the cold, not to mention the worry about the upcoming war that had plagued the camp, but Tom hadn’t expected quite this many people to agree to work in the castle. Not a single camp girl refused the invitation. Only the bitter men, content to suffer only to spite the kingdom that threw them out, refused. Anthony, one of them, spit on the ground by Tom’s feet and called him a traitor. It stings.

In the middle of it all is a boy lying face down on the ground. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that he’s dead. You don’t balk at the sight or even doubletake. Your eyes seek out Tom’s and he almost wants to drop the gaze, expecting shame or disappointment, but you’re inscrutable as always.

He almost feels dirty when he remembers what Tomas had said about you. Those words will always be etched into his memory, much as he doesn’t want them to be. What would you say if you knew what one of his followers said about you? What would you do if you knew that some of the men you’re taking in might have been Tomas’ friend?

If you had been expecting more or fewer men, you don’t let it show. You don’t even hesitate before calling out, “In exchange for the queen’s protection, land, food, medicine, and all other services, will you agree to be a worker in her castle? Will you clean, cook, and fight without complaint?”

“Yes,” Tom says after that anticlimactic ending. He’d expected a few more words and you’d even hesitated at the end like you’d been searching for more to say.

Harrison takes his lead: “Yes.” Soon enough, everyone that has packed has agreed and you nod, satisfied.

“The queen will go hungry before you will,” you add. “All she requires is your loyalty.” And with that, you turn to go. Tom scrambles to catch up.

“The queen won’t really…” He trails off awkwardly. That’s simply not how royalty works.

You shoot him a glare out of the corner of your eye. “The queen is connected to her kingdom, Holland. You’ve just become a part of it. She protects her own.”

“But she wouldn’t starve to death to let a soldier eat,” Tom presses. “Not without leaving behind an heir. And she’s younger than me. There’ll be no heir for a long time.”

“She has a younger brother. He’s prepared to take the throne as well,” you point out.

Tom shakes his head. He thinks you’re exaggerating your queen’s greatness a little bit, but he has to trust you. Right?

“You forget the queen’s curse.”

Tom scoffs. “That magic myth? She’s connected to her kingdom or something?”

“Not a myth,” you say softly. “You also forget that nobles are representatives of the areas they govern. Whatever the majority of that area decides on, they must support or be replaced. Marvel is not as Deesee or Thanatoia.”

Tom has to admit he doesn’t know much about how Marvel is governed. He didn’t live in the kingdom long enough to learn. He’d just always assumed it was similar to its neighboring kingdoms. Of course, resentment had kept him from studying Marvel whenever he came to ransack and destroy.

Properly chastised, he closes his mouth.

You sigh dramatically at his side and reach into the pocket of your skirt. Out comes a delicate handkerchief.

Tom’s stunned when you take his face in your hands and wipe it gently. The handkerchief dips down to his neck before you retract, showing off the red smears on the once-white surface before shoving the ruined object back into your skirt.

You say nothing about the blood or the body, but Tom knows that you know what he did. He just doesn’t know how you feel about inviting a killer into your palace. He doesn’t know how you feel about your soulmate being a murderer.

You are frustratingly unreadable.

A Handmaiden’s Lies Taglist:

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Forever Taglist:

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