#I really do live for the no1 and graham content if you couldn't tell haha

[captmickey]

Alright, time to ramble about this fic because I keep looking at it and keep going "man I just love this fic so much and the characterization and--" And honestly think that, maybe, it'll be more productive to write why I'm gushing so hard.

This is one of those few fics where I'm sitting here and eagerly kicking my feet to see what happens next. Especially from seeing it in two different perspectives? And knowing (at least from your tags) it won't be a miscommunication thing has me so on the edge of my seat to see how this is going to be resolved considering the intense damage control No1 is going to have to do and Graham not be in his head.

I love, from Graham's perspective, how he just boldly jumped to the conclusion that No1's silence is approval. Like, sure, No1 can be absolutely rolling his eyes under his helmet or even sticking his tongue out for all we know, but No1 is that type of character that can and will keep (most of) his thoughts to himself. I felt so sad for him when he couldn't sleep (hello fellow insomniac....ugh) because of his nerves like, man... I get that, I get that on an all-too personal level. And him trying to put on a mask? Buddy, no... don't do that. Someone is going to catch that mask and it's not gonna be fun.

What I adore especially so was No1's perspective (and coming from me... irony isn't missed I promise haha). I love that his silence is both a diplomatic "I'm not going to confirm nor deny your statements, Mister Mayor" and a "If I speak up now, it Will Not End Well." Of course No1 is methodical in that sense, he's not about to further damn his King... but he's also not going to sit around and listen to the slander and potential usurping. I, for one, LIVE for when No1 stands as tall as he can and gives a professional verbal beat down so this fic? -Chef Kiss- And that visual of him drinking beer... it's not one that is often seen but it's one I often welcome. Especially since he comes off to me as someone who will drink one (maybe two) drinks maximum.

Tea though? Endless.

Which, might I say? For the mayor to be like that? I want to punt him he annoys me but that is just a testament to how you wrote him: someone that clearly loves his position, thinks because of his age he knows more (which.... is not entirely wrong but his answer to Graham is having No1 dictate him is Absolutely Not It) and gets all huffy when called out. You did such an excellent job of him being obnoxious which makes Graham's feeling just chest tightening and No1's reaction so cathartic. Absolutely phenomenal job with that and balancing the two sides!

Also I cannot wait to see how No2 is going to be because based on the last thought of his, he clocked in on what's wrong and is probably already prepping the reparation between Captain and King. Someone please give No2 a medal for catching it as quickly as he did! There shall be no silly miscommunication on the Second in Command's watch!

All in all, I'm super in love with this chapter and I cannot wait to see how this matter is resolved (or beginning to) and how No1 and Graham will be.

Lovely lovely lovely fic!!

King's Quest Fic: "Residue" (Path of Kingship, Pt 3)

Previous chapters here.

Graham woke in the night with a withering thirst in his throat. His aching body begged him to lie still, but demanded water at the same time. He stumbled out of bed, feeling odd in the mayor’s scratchy nightshirt, which was perhaps three times too large for him. His foot brushed the slippers that had been left for him on the rug. No, he could tiptoe more softly barefoot. He suspected he would die on the spot if he had to face anyone before he was out of this house. He turned about vaguely in the dark. Which way was the door, again? And what time was it? He ran a hand through his hair. It was still wet from a fierce but only half successful wash. Better, but still full of paint. 

His fingers found the curly door handle, and crept into the hall.He congratulated himself on the lightness of his tread, considering the way every muscle was making itself known in the worst way. He stole down the staircase, using the same instincts he used to avoid the creaky spots in the lairs of bandits or monsters.

Surely the kitchen would be that way. It felt like ages since he’d slept in an ordinary house. Large and well-appointed as the mayor’s home was, it was no castle. 

He rounded a corner, and paused. Lamplight played under the parlour door, and hushed voices carried to his ears. Maybe it wasn’t as late as he had assumed. He drew nearer, telling himself he only intended to pass by.  The voice doing most of the talking sounded like Hector. Yammering on as usual, Graham thought dryly. 

But just as he was about to turn into the next passage, he heard the second voice more clearly, tired and nasal. “It doesn’t matter. Once the pass is open, we’ll get him straight back to the castle, and I expect the king will delay the rest of the village visits till he’s recovered from his fall.” It was Number One.

Graham did not like to think of himself as an eavesdropper. But he had always been one, and there seemed little point turning over a new leaf here and now. He did not exactly put his ear to the door, but he did put his back up against the wall, and held still. 

“Very wise,” said Hector. “Better cancel the next half a years’ worth of public appearances at least, if you ask me. Give it all a chance to blow over.” 

Number One did not respond.

The mayor coughed. “I was meaning to ask. Exactly how old is the king?”

Graham’s cheeks and ears burned. He swallowed hard.

“Twenty-one,” said Number One distractedly.

“Really?” said Hector, and Graham winced at the surprise in his tone. “Dear me. He’s altogether a bit young for twenty-one, isn’t he?”

“Hm.”

“Oh, don’t take me wrong,” Hector put in comfortably. “He’ll be all right in the long run, with a good dose of firmness. Youth, high spirits, perfectly natural. But the boy needs to be taken in hand. Immediately, I should think.”

It was Hector doing all the talking, but all Graham could imagine was Number One on the other side of the door, not even needing to speak or even nod. Agreeing loudly just by silence. 

Graham seemed to hear Hector’s words slowly somehow, as though they caught in his ears and stayed there. “You know the sort of thing I mean. Squash his pride a bit. Rein him in, knock a bit of adult sense into him. Before he does something he can’t undo. He’ll thank us all a few years down the road.”

He couldn’t stomach more. Afterward, he didn’t remember choosing to leave. Only that he climbed the stairs in even more perfect silence. That he was shaky as he turned the key in the lock of his bedroom door, burning with shame and nearly choking as though something were stuck in his throat. He sat down on the floor in the dark and smacked his forehead with both palms, over and over. If he could have torn himself in half with his bare hands, he would have.

Why was this so much worse?

How long he sat there, raging in silence, he did not know. At last exhaustion forced him back to bed. He lay on top of the covers, since the night was as hot and humid as the awful day had been. He traced circles round his eyes with his fingertips, and worked to slow his breathing. The weight of the new reality seemed to press him deeper into the mattress: as king, he wasn’t even allowed the right to his own mistakes. Always someone else would carry the consequences and have to solve it all. And they’d be within their rights to hate him for it. 

Sleep never came back for him. Calm did, eventually. He lay still until first light. Then he got up, pulled on the slippers, and faced the mirror on top of the bureau. He looked wan and tired, but he unclenched his jaw and plastered on his ordinary face. “You can’t be bitter about any of it,” he told himself sternly. “You just can’t. If you start collecting moments like last night, you won’t stop.”

He was still dreadfully thirsty.

—

“He’ll thank us all a few years down the road.”

More asleep than awake, Number One suddenly realized that the mayor was still talking to him. He tore his gaze from the popping of the foam head on his beer, and nodded at Hector. “Hm? What’s that you say?”

Hector took a long pull on his own drink, and settled back in his easy chair expansively. He smiled tipsily and wagged a smug finger. “That you’ve got to take the lad in hand at once, for all our sakes. Show him just where he stands.”

Number One stiffened. He set his beer down on the bookshelf, and fixed Hector with a level gaze.”You’re saying I should assert authority over him. Over the king of the land.”

Hector stifled a yawn and waved his hand abstractly. “I’m only saying he needs a little growing up. Nobody’s in a better position than you to make a proper man out of -”

“The Twelfth Edict of Daventry,” said Number One coolly, his stare unwavering. “The Treachery Act. In the case of usurpation of the ruler’s right of authority by action, compass, plan, or suggestion, treason is understood to -”

“Oh, bah!” Hector put aside his tankard as well. His smile stretched wider. But he tugged nervously at the cuffs of his housecoat.“Who’s talking treason?”

“You are.”

He faltered under the captain’s unrelenting gaze, casting his eyes down at the empty hearth. “As if I were talking about taking away his authority! You know I didn’t mean it in that sense.”

“No, I don’t.” Number One let the silence sit for a good long stretch, keeping his body language under control only by falling back on long years of training. When he spoke again, his voice was monotone. “And that’s the end of this conversation, I think.”

His eyes widened indignantly. “Upon my life,” he muttered. “Apparently nobody can say anything anymore.” Hector rose to his feet and took the drink in one hand and the lighted candle in the other.Number One stepped into his path, drew himself to full height, and raised his voice ever so slightly, feeling as though he would burst if he did not. 

“Stars above, man, who do you think you are? Who do you think I am?”

Hector’s tone grew more defensive. “We’re officials. And I thought we could talk, as one official to another, about the very obvious -”

“Who do you think he is?” Number One cried sharply, gesturing in the direction he knew the staircase to stand.

Hector glanced about nervously. “Shh!” he said. “The household - the king -”

“Yes. The king,” said Number One more quietly but no less severely. “That man is your king. And a fine showing you made as his official today. You drag him out here to boast about the way you’ve been wasting royal funds on that ridiculous contraption you call a tollbooth. You make him pay to cross his own border -”

“It was a demonstration! That’s what you do at a state visit!” Hector sputtered, drawing himself up too, as though he had any hope of matching Number One’s height.

“Yes, a demonstration where nothing happens and nobody gets hurt when he pays you.”

Hector had the decency to blanch a little, and opened his mouth, but Number One was hardly finished.

“You force him to go up a slick, dangerous cliff. You let him fall right over the edge. Your idiotic “security features” nearly kill him a dozen times. Your paint machine makes him look like a fool in front of the people. You trap him here with no change of clothes, no servants, and a host who likes a little treason with his nightcap. Who exactly needs reining in?”

“But you and I both know the reality - that if the king hadn’t…” Hector trailed off, then muttered sulkily, “I don’t think he’d be best pleased to hear the way you’re bullying me, Captain. You know how much he needs Mannerly Stove and the road out.”

Number One let his voice drop low. “For your sake, that had better not have been a threat. But even if it were,” he barreled on, ignoring Hector’s attempted interruption, “I can assure you that if Mannerly Stove turned against us, we could we deal with you so quickly it would shock you. But more to the point. You know our king is the dragon-blinder. He is more than capable of tearing down a mountain to give us a new way in and out. Good night, Lord Mayor.”

He swept out of the room, leaving Hector opening and shutting his wide mouth.

—

Graham stayed in his room and took all his meals there the following day. The guards left him to himself for the most part, except for Number Four, who reported regularly on the road crew’s progress. The crew worked tirelessly while the sun shone to clear a narrow stretch of road on the Daventry side, broad enough for the royal carriage. 

When nightfall arrived, Number Two knocked carefully on the king’s door.

Graham opened it slowly. “Yes?”

Number Two looked him up and down. They’d provided him with some young villager’s green linen shirt, with a black vest and simple trousers. His hair was still flecked with telltale colours, but he was smiling. A little too determinedly. He had prepared himself to speak with Graham whatever state he might be in - crushed, or haughty, or guarded. But he didn’t seem to be any of those. His face was open, his eyes frank. He smiled pleasantly when Number Two announced that the foreman had pronounced the way safe for the carriage to make the descent into the valley, and even cracked a pun or two about “rubble” and “trouble.” In fact, he seemed like his ordinary self, but almost studiedly so. As though he were testing every word and motion to see if they felt like him before he committed.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” Graham murmured, letting his gaze brush the carpet. “I was pretty stupid yesterday, and you guys had to do all the cleanup.”

“Eh, it wasn’t exactly our brightest day either,” said Number Two with a smile. But he couldn’t help adding, “You, um… you all right?”

“Oh. Yeah!” laughed Graham hurriedly. “I mean, I’m about five hundred bruises at once, but at least we got some rain overnight, right? Temperature was way better today. No, seriously, I really dropped the ball, but I’m good. I’m good. I’m good.”

They didn’t overcrowd the carriage tonight. Numbers Four and Five were to stay in Mannerly Stove to oversee the rest of the landslide recovery. Number Three took the reins this time, while Number Two climbed in next to Graham. Finally, Number One, who had hardly spoken a word all day, took his seat across from the king. Above, Number Three called, “Walk on,” to the snutes, and gave a tap of the reigns. Off they drove into the night.

“Do you wish to go straight to the castle, sire?” asked Number One, clipped and brief.

“Unless we have somewhere else to be?” Graham said, in such an ordinary voice it wasn’t ordinary at all.

“That’s as your majesty judges.”

“Oh. Then let’s go to the castle.”

“Just so, sire.”

Silence fell.

Number Two looked back and forth between the two of them, and back again. “Oh blimey,” he sighed, facepalming.