#frayse and wymond

[mosmorem]

The Public Spectacles (part 1)

''What could I do, I had to take you, you looked so bored..."

He knew. He totally knew. Frayse was going to kill his boss—which was ironic since his boss employed him specifically for that task. Killing people. Well he wasn’t going to kill anyone tonight, that was for sure.

Boots hitting the wooden flooring of the ballroom in rhythm with the music, the youth tried to focus on dancing correctly, and not on the fact that the hands holding him had killed way, way more men than him.

The fiddles did a thing, and he was forced to dip low, spine arching, a strong hand down his back the only think keeping him standing.

And the worst thing; even upside down, he could see that all eyes were on them.

He was going to kill his boss.

Fuck, what was he even doing here?

"Don't be scared, please... We're just dancing! Why so tense?"

The fiddles calmed down and he was brought back up, too quickly to do anything else than basically crash into a firm chest, richly dressed and covered in medals.

One for each grand victory.

Stabilized, he lifted his eyes, and met one, green. General Wymond, as it stood, only had one eye, having lost the other in a fight with...

Well he honestly couldn't remember. Some warrior from another country surely. Frayse wasn't particularly worried about keeping up with was stories.

He knew, however, that Wymond was considered the most successful—and bloodthirsty—soldier on the continent. This was one of the numerous parties he regularly threw in his manor in the capital since his return from the war, a year ago.

Frayse had been tasked with killing him. And it was not going well.

He had dressed finely; his cover tonight was the simple and effective one, an invitation from a friend in high society. He never planned on killing anyone tonight; first, ha had to play bored and observe.

And he did. For a while. Until The General walked to him, took his hand with a flourish (totally taking advantage of the youth being too surprised to refuse) and led him to the dance-floor. The surprise made him late to react, but he had no choice but to follow. Everyone was looking at the general all the time, especially at his own party.

So he had let himself be led amongst the crowd of costumes and dresses, a hand in his, the other on his shoulder, one large hand at his waist. They didn't talk right away; Frayse had felt observed, appraised, assessed. It was not a good feeling. Then, on a spin the dance led them into, when his back was leaned against Wymond's chest, he had felt a breath at his ear:

'I know what you are here for

The plan had been simple actually. Come here, because his boss insisted he at least try; leave, tell his boss it was too hard a target (which was true), and go back to his life, Wymond none the wiser.

Big mistake. A soldier like this always knew how to spot another killer.

"Are we just going to dance in silence until the end of the night, or will you tell me your name?"

He glared. "So you can find me after? Yeah, no thanks".

Wymond smiled, with an inch of cruelty, and the hand at his waist gripped him tight enough he had to hide a wince.

"I don't need a name to find someone, but if it reassures you, you can give me a false one."

That was not reassuring at all! He was so going to die.

"Don't worry, I won't do anything to you."

Nevermind then.

"Are you here to try and kill me? Come on, I don't bite. Give me something."

This was the worst.

"I don't plan on killing you, no."

He spun in place, following the music and the general's hand's guidance, if it could be called that. He took the opportunity to quickly look at the crowd around them. Everyone was giving them a wide berth, how nice. It made a decent distraction from the way that, as he spun, the hand at his waist stroked him all around, following the movement.

"I don't plan on dancing much longer either," he continued when they resumed waltzing, bodies way to close for his liking. The general's hand lingered, and it gave him shivers; not the good kind.

"Really? How sad... but I don't think you will have a choice. My apologies."

"What?"

He only had time to inhale sharply, ready for counterattack, when he was wrenched to the side.

A small noise of air friction brushed against his ear, and his eyes widened. In an instant, he was behind the general, hand above the place under his vest where one of his dagger was hidden, eyes looking among the balconies surrounding the ballroom from above. A commotion was starting, but all he could hear was his blood pumping in his ears.

Wymond chuckled. Startled, Frayse turned towards him, ready to plead his own cause: that couldn't have been him. He wasn't even supposed to dance with him.

But the general was already looking at him, eyes narrowed in obvious pleasure and satisfaction. Not a common reaction seconds after an assassination attempt in his own house, against himself.

This did not bode well. He leaned in, and Fraysed tensed—even more.

"Play along" he purred, "or I frame you."

Well, at least he knew he was innocent.

"What's your name? The real one."

"Fuck you, it's Frayse..."