#brb gonna go staple this to kathryn warner's face

[shredsandpatches]

sunday snippet (everyone needs so much therapy edition)

I’ve jumped ahead in the Scottish campaign/murder procedural section a bit, because I’ve had the basic idea for this scene in my head for a while and I thought, since I’ve been a bit stuck lately between a lot of residual shingles pain and a lot of emotional pain because of my job search, I should stop worrying about the logistics of the immediate aftermath of the murder for a bit and write out this scene I can do pretty easily. So far it’s going pretty well, I think.

Also including a content warning for non-graphic discussion of domestic abuse. There’s something of a tendency in a lot of fiction to romanticize Joan of Kent’s elopement with Thomas Holland, and, like, I’m sure she thought of it as her own choice and it wasn’t technically illegal at the time, but given her age there’s really no way to interpret events that doesn’t reflect really, really terribly on Holland. I’m following the lead of @heartofstanding here (and also, you know, general good sense) and suggesting that while their later relationship (they did not resume married life until Joan was older) wasn’t overtly or physically abusive, it messed her up pretty badly in a way she didn’t necessarily entirely acknowledge even to herself—for whatever reason, she did choose to be buried with Holland rather than with TBP. John Holland’s description of his early family life is meant to be based on later reflection rather than his perception of his father at the time, but it also messed him up pretty badly. (Richard, our viewpoint character, only knows a little about it because obviously Joan isn’t going to tell him that much about her past other than to assure him that his own parents’ marriage is perfectly valid.)

--

John is seated in the ancient frithstool, the chair of peace—any fugitive in its vicinity can claim the privilege of sanctuary. At the sight of Richard, he stands abruptly, keeping one hand on the arm of the chair.

“Your Highness,” he says, and bows his head, looking abashed in a way Richard isn’t sure he’s ever seen from his proud, hot-tempered half-brother. His eyes are deeply shadowed and his beard unkempt. He looks remorseful. It’s almost shocking.

“John,” Richard says.

“If you’ve come to drag me out of sanctuary, I probably deserve it,” John says.

“Yes, you do,” Richard says. “That’s not why I’m here, though. Your forty days are almost up anyway. I don’t see you becoming a grithman.”

John gives a little snort that’s almost a laugh. “No,” he says. “I’d be a fucking disaster at it.” His face crumples as he sinks back into the chair. “If you’re here to tell me about Maman, I already know,” he says. “You’re going to blame me, aren’t you? I can tell just by looking at you. You’ve got that damned prissy look on your stupid face again. Your Highness.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Richard says, and it’s even mostly true.

John’s face flushes violently. “Well, why the bloody hell not?” He almost shouts it, in the church and everything.

“You could try to swear less while you’re in sanctuary,” Richard says.

“Jesus Christ,” John groans, not even to Richard, exactly. Maybe it’s the closest John gets to prayer. “I can’t believe someone who likes cock as much as you do is this fucking prissy. I killed your friend. It’s my fault our mother is dead and you’re clucking about my language.”

“She sent five different messengers to plead for you,” Richard says. “I stopped hearing them after a while. Rafe Stafford was my friend, John, and you killed him, for no reason!”

“I had a damned good reason!” John snaps back. “His man killed poor Benet. He was my best squire.” He slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. “God, I was so angry,” he says. “Do you know what it’s like, when you get so angry you can’t even see? I think you do, Richard.”

Richard presses his lips together, squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel his throat tightening and his eyes prickling and he doesn’t want to cry any more. He swallows as hard as he can, to force the lump in his throat away, and it settles somewhere in his chest instead.

“You’re right, though,” John says. “I shouldn’t have killed Stafford. I didn’t even mean to kill him, really. If I hadn’t—I think Maman might still be alive, too.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks up, blankly, around the church. “Christ, why am I like this?” he says, and this time, Richard thinks, it is a prayer.

“She might still have been alive if I’d agreed to pardon you,” Richard says. “You’re still my brother, even though you’re a violent prick.”

John shakes his head. “You’ve got me there,” he says. “You don’t have to take this one on yourself, Richard.” He makes a face, a horrible, twisted half-smile. “I’m the one who’s a violent prick.” He makes a honking, sniffling noise, although he hasn’t actually been weeping as far as Richard can tell. “Do you know what the difference between us is? I mean, besides the obvious ones?”

A number of answers spring to Richard’s mind, of course. He says none of them aloud. John is clearly driving at something, after all. Instead, he shakes his head slowly, his face carefully blank.

“You were never afraid of your father,” John says.

“No, of course I wasn’t,” Richard says. He had been afraid of him, a little, when he was dying, but that wasn’t him—it was death that he had been afraid of. He does not need to tell John that now. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’d have been afraid of my father,” John says. “That’s not anything to do with you, so don’t get all upset about me saying that. I was fucking terrified of him. I didn’t realize it until Maman married the Prince, you know. People say he had a temper—”

“He did,” Richard says. “Not for any of us, though. Maman says—said—that’s where I got it, because it certainly wasn’t from her.”

John snorts. “I hope you argued with her about that one,” he says, and despite himself, Richard smiles.

“Would you have argued?” he says.

“God, no,” John says. “That’s the thing, though. You get your temper from your father and you don’t just fucking stab people when you get angry enough.”

“As shown by the fact that you are still alive,” Richard says.

“Would you let me finish, your Highness?” John snaps. “My point is exactly that. My father was a complete and utter bastard. I’m guessing Maman never told you that. She’d convinced herself she loved him. Probably died believing it. Don’t think he’d ever really laid a hand on her, but that doesn’t matter. I could see how much happier she was with the Prince and I wasn’t even ten when she married him. I didn’t even blame her. I was happier with him too. Didn’t stop me from—” He breaks off, running his hands through his hair again so that it stands on end. “Look, Richard,” he says. “I know where I get—” He flails his hands for a moment. “All of this. My father had us all tied up in knots, and I just finished his fucking job for him.”