#keeper big bang 2024 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aphelea · 2 months ago

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a merry war (tiertice)

my fic for @keeper-big-bang-2024!!

check out the absolutely incredible art by @purplesoup-lad-le and @kingkrakie: here and here or read on ao3 here

Summary:

Sick of Tiergan and Prentice's rivalry, fiancées Della and Livvy—alongside Lord Bronte and Lord Fintan Pyren—create a scheme to convince each one that the other is in love with them. Meanwhile, Lady Gisela and her unmemorable sidekick are plotting to throw Eternalia into complete and utter chaos—but will Sophie and her friends be able to thwart them before they can ruin Della and Livvy's wedding? or: A Tiertice Much Ado About Nothing AU.

Tiergan knows the second the messenger arrives that he isn’t bringing good news. It’s not through any body language of the man himself, no—Tiergan has simply noticed a pattern with messages that arrive in his presence. He’s a bad-luck charm, of sorts. (Though Bronte would scold him if he heard him say that.)

In this case, the messenger arrives to him, Livvy, and Bronte eating dinner in the dining hall—Livvy, reading over a letter she had received that evening and Tiergan, pretending to be nose-deep in a novel. In reality, he’s attempting to read Livvy’s letter over her shoulder (for, although she won’t admit the identity of her “secret daily admirer,” Tiergan has his suspicions which he would have liked to have confirmed. Much to his chagrin, however, Livvy is one of only two people in the world who knows how to hide from his snooping.)

“My lord,” the messenger says, covered in dirt and grime and dripping like a wet dog all over the marble floors.

Bronte, to his credit, maintains his composure, though his lips do twist into a slight scowl. “Yes?”

The messenger procures a short note with ripped edges from his sack and leaves it on the table. “A message from the war camp, sir.”

“Do they return?” Livvy says, scrambling up from her seat. “When? With whom? For how long?”

The messenger seems vaguely uncomfortable at the barrage of questions, but is thankfully saved by Bronte, who simply states, “Well. I suppose we should prepare some rooms, then.” He frowns, for a moment, then asks, “How many, exactly? Fintan has been frustratingly vague, as always.”

“It’s…rather up in the air, at the moment,” he replies, gaze flitting back and forth across the room. “There will likely be some extra guests coming along. Strangers to Eternalia, I believe.”

And Tiergan suddenly feels the urge to bang his head against the table.

Many times.

Enough times, perhaps, to suffer a head injury that would send him to a physician far, far, away—conveniently for the duration of their guests’ stay. But alas, he cannot, and so he remains seated in silent suffering.

There are indeed plenty of men at the border of Ravagog, protecting from the ever-present forces of King Dimitar. But few would, so soon after a victory, venture so far out of the way as Eternalia. A few containing Lord Fintan Pyren—whose inexplicable connection to the city leads him to visit Bronte at every possible occasion—and those who find themselves otherwise drawn to the young masters of Eternalia.

Drawn, theoretically, to a years-long effort to annoy Tiergan till his heart stops.

“Tell me,” Tiergan cuts into the messenger’s speech on poor weather conditions, “is he coming back from the wars, or no?” He spits out the pronoun like spoiled food, and he frowns much the same.

The messenger furrows his eyebrows. “Who?”

“The Keeper, as he insists on calling himself.” Truth be told, the name isn’t any more ridiculous than Granite, but Tiergan needs something to pick on.

Bronte huffs and readjusts his cloak. “Who on Earth are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about Prentice,” Livvy replies with an amused grin. “Prentice Endal, and their little rivalry.”

Bronte purses his lips. “Right, of course. How could I forget? You two scare away all the animals in this city with your shouting.”

“His shouting. I’m perfectly rational,” Tiergan protests, and turns back to the messenger. “Now, is he coming, or not?”

The messenger glances between them, clearly alarmed by Tiergan’s sudden displeasure.

Livvy laughs. “He’s hardly serious. They’ve got some merry war going on between them, but they like each other all the same.”

Tiergan huffs, but says nothing.

“Well,” the messenger says, apparently choosing not to press the subject, “yes, Sir Endal is coming along with Lord Pyren and Lady Vacker, I believe.”

“Wonderful,” Tiergan replies as Livvy grins widely.

Bronte, ever out of the loop, asks, “Lady Vacker?”

Discreetly, Tiergan flips Livvy’s letter over, hiding its contents, as Livvy hastily responds, “An old friend. She visited often, before…” She doesn’t finish her statement, but it is understood all the same. The days before Tiergan and Livvy had company in their studies and daily lives; the days before the Black Swan and Ravagog had been real, concrete forces. When Granite and Physic had existed in secret before their disappearances, never to emerge from their training.

Bronte’s gaze shifts to Tiergan, eyebrows raised, but Tiergan only shakes his head. He has no way to accurately explain Della and Livvy’s relationship in simple terms; it would probably take a few days, an accompanying slideshow, and primary source evidence to even get the main points across.

“We should begin preparing for our guests soon,” Tiergan says, before Livvy can admit anything too incriminating.

Bronte seems far from keen on letting the subject drop, but he allows it anyway. “Yes, we should. Do try and spend some time with our younger guests while they’re here; I’d hate to bore them after all they’ve been through.”

“Of course,” Tiergan agrees, grimacing internally. “I’m sure that won’t be difficult.”

They arrive too soon, too early, and too many.

Or, rather, two too many.

It’s barely sunrise when the horses arrive, led of course by Fintan Pyren himself, dressed in a long, muddy blue jacket with red embellishments. Not too far behind him are, unfortunately, Prentice and Della, equally as dirty. And hidden in the back are two strangers Tiergan has never seen in his life.

It appears that Bronte has, however, as he gives Fintan such an awful glare the moment he dismounts that Tiergan is surprised the man doesn’t burst into flames immediately. Tiergan, still exhausted from having been dragged out of bed mere minutes before, elects to hide behind Livvy to avoid any conversation. As fascinating as it would be to uncover another piece of Bronte’s shrouded backstory, it’s not worth the potential other complications that may arise.

Alas, even Tiergan cannot always get what he desires.

“Lord Bronte!” Prentice shouts, jumping forward and wrapping an arm around Fintan’s shoulders. “Pleasure to see you again.”

“Good grief,” Tiergan mutters under his breath. Livvy turns to offer him a smirk, and gets an elbow to the stomach in response.

Bronte only nods. “Sir Endal. I’m glad to see you return safe and unharmed.”

“That’s entirely against his own will, I assure you,” Fintan replies, gently removing the arm around him.

“It’s true,” Della adds, sliding gracefully off her horse. “The ogres never feared his traps so much as they feared his ability to get us all killed in the process.”

Tiergan barely manages to suppress a snicker, but Della notices anyway, her eyes shifting toward his hiding spot in the shadows. Thankfully, however, she’s more captivated by Livvy standing in front of him, a blush dusting her cheeks.

“Lady Vacker,” Livvy says, stepping forward to take her hand. “You look beautiful today.”

From Tiergan’s perspective, that’s a blatant lie—she’s covered in mud head-to-toe with a rain-soaked frizzy braid falling apart over her shoulder. But perhaps Livvy sees none of that.

“Not as beautiful as you, milady,” Della replies, bringing her hand to her lips. And, as Tiergan had expected, it takes mere minutes for Livvy to take Della’s arm and remove her from the group under the guise of a “tour of the property.” The very property that Della has already seen more of that its actual lord has.

“So…” Prentice begins, as they all watch the two leave. “They’re married?”

“No,” Bronte says.

“Not yet,” Fintan says.

Might as well be, Tiergan thinks.

Prentice raises an eyebrow. “Hm. A strange choice. Certainly not one I’d make.”

“And you’re the model for respectable choices, now?” Tiergan can’t help but cut in. He’d hoped to spend his morning silent, but there’s only so much of Prentice’s nonsense that he can bear before he has to retaliate. After all, who else will?

Prentice smirks as Tiergan emerges from the shadows, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the Lord of Disdain himself. Still living, shockingly.”

Tiergan scoffs. “My disdain cannot die as long as I can picture your face in great detail.”

“Am I really so memorable? I hear it often, though usually under different circumstances.”

“Yes, well, I imagine audiences rarely forget their favorite fools.”

Prentice rolls his eyes. “Such a pleasure, as always. It’s a wonder your face isn’t marred from all the punches you must be receiving.”

“I’d wonder the same, but truly even punches could not make your face worse than its current state.”

“How is it,” Prentice asks, stepping forward, “that love could possibly be enough for my dear friend to look past the horror of you as a brother-in-law?”

“Ha!” Tiergan replies, matching him. “It’s the folly of love, that everything should seem so rosy and sweet when it is all a waste of time. Though I would think you to be the expert, having experienced it tens of times over.”

“If that were all love, then I would truly be a fool. No, I find myself with a hard heart, with no particular care for wasting my time, as it were.”

Tiergan scoffs. “And thank God for that—you save a whole host of clowns from having to squander more than a day by your side. But in that respect, at least, we have similar thoughts. I’d rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”

“I seem to be interrupting something,” an unfamiliar voice says, snapping Tiergan out of his and Prentice’s shared universe. They both spin around to see Bronte and Fintan—who have clearly held some whispered exchange—and the two unfamiliar strangers that had arrived alongside the soldiers. One is a woman, dressed in a long, purple gown under a silver cloak, completely spotless. A variety of gems are pinned to her hair, though they seem to have seen better days. Beside her is a boy, not much older than Tiergan, wearing a matching outfit to Prentice if not far looser and far dirtier. His hair is blonde and overgrown, covering his eyes and leaving his face entirely unmemorable.

“Good morning,” Tiergan greets, in an effort to revive some semblance of politeness. The woman only tilts her head and stares at him.

“Lady Gisela,” Fintan hurries to say, gesturing to her. “This is Sir Tiergan.”

Tiergan winces at the title, and Prentice raises an eyebrow, but neither corrects him. He nods to the woman, unsure how to approach the boy, who watches in rapt silence.

Lady Gisela apparently notes his discomfort, as she says, “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s rather shy.”

Tiergan doubts that that’s the case, but he’s hardly going to challenge her. In a few days, at best, she’ll leave, and hopefully take the nuisance that is the Keeper along with her. (Although, Tiergan can’t help but admit that he is a little bit excited to return to their battle of wits. Few people here are confident enough to confront him or clever enough to match him.)

“Well,” Bronte says, clearly scowling, “hopefully he’ll feel more comfortable speaking once you are all safely inside your rooms. Which happen to be ready for your use. If you would be so kind as to follow these kind attendants over here…” He practically shoves Fintan toward them, and glares holes into Lady Gisela’s back as she walks away. Only Prentice lingers, just for a moment, mere centimeters away from Tiergan’s face.

He leans in and asks, “Does your sister truly love Della?”

Tiergan raises an eyebrow. “For better or for worse, yes.”

Prentice’s gaze flicks to the attendants and back. “I worry it will be for the worse.”

“Then it will be our duty to prevent that.”

“I suppose.” He leans back, expression still wary. “You know, you’re still much the same man as you were before, Tiergan.”

Tiergan laughs. “And you are frustratingly different.”

“Such is my charm,” Prentice responds with a smirk. And then he is gone, disappeared to the side of Lord Pyren once more.

Tiergan, for the first time, does not know what to think.

Inevitably, Lady Gisela formulates a dastardly plan of escape a mere one hour into their stay at Eternalia.

Ruy is not surprised; he has learned to assume that his boss is ten steps ahead of him at any given moment—though with this particularly humiliating prison, he had expected their grand scheme to take some more time. It does, at the very least, take a large amount of complaining.

“He brings me here like a guest,” Gisela spits, “but I am leashed! We are leashed, and it is obvious to any person who sees us. Again, I am treated like a second to him. He leads the army that I created, that I built with my bare hands and he throws me away like I am nothing. What right does he have, to be shocked that I would switch my loyalty to the only side who values my genius? What right?”

“They’ll never set us free, now,” Ruy agrees. “We’ll be zoo animals forever.”

At this, Gisela laughs, in that perfectly calculated way that always sends shivers down his spine. “Only as long as the zoo can stay in business.”

Ruy stares at her blankly. “...Right,” he agrees, having learned not to question her too much.

Gisela rolls her eyes. “We can tear this city apart from the inside.”

“Of course,” Ruy agrees, still confused. “So…how, exactly?”

She smiles wickedly. “Well, Fintan has kindly delivered us two wonderfully easy targets. It’s come to my attention that the young masters of Eternalia hold a rather secret career beyond their familial duties. And with Fintan’s soldier being so ridiculously in love with the girl despite barely knowing her, it shouldn’t be hard to plant the first seed of doubt. Doubt, perhaps, that Eternalia isn’t quite as loyal as it seems.”

Ruy hums. “And if Fintan believes that Lord Bronte has been harboring a traitor all this time, their relationship will be destroyed. The elven army at Ravagog will crumble.”

“Thus allowing Dimitar a clear path to victory. And me, a clear path to take everything afterward,” Gisela finishes. “It is simple, and it is very little work on our part. It all relies on their own constant panic.”

It’s so classically Gisela that Ruy can only grin. “Perfect.”

Sophie hadn’t been meaning to eavesdrop. But she can’t help it if, in the process of delivering luggage to the guests, she stumbles upon a fascinating conversation. All she can really gather is that the two strange guests believe that a traitor is residing in the heart of Eternalia—but it’s enough to spring her into action.

“Guys!” she calls, running to her shared quarters. “Get in here. I have a mystery for us to solve.”

The wedding is set the following day, although Bronte is still rather confused on how it all came about.

“I’ve been in love with her since the day we met,” Della says, holding Livvy’s hand where they sit next to each other on a couch in Bronte’s office. Bronte and Fintan share the couch opposite, and Bronte is getting rather sick of Fintan’s laughing at his apparent lack of knowledge.

“Nearly four years have passed since then,” Bronte states. “Why on Earth do you want to be married now?”

“The war is, for all intents and purposes, over,” Livvy responds. “Della is safe. I would be safe, as her wife, as she is no longer a spy. And, of course, I have no association with the war myself. None at all.” She chuckles awkwardly, then tries to hide it behind her hand.

Fintan sighs. “Bronte, I hardly see the problem,” he says. “They want to be married, so let them. I’d say their lives could have had far worse outcomes.”

For Fintan, it’s high praise—and Bronte is suddenly inclined to agree. If Fintan is truly unbothered, why should he mind? Livvy and Della are good for one another; they match each others’ attitudes and energies, and speak every word amongst them with pure devotion. Where Bronte himself was not afforded the luxury of happiness with his lover in his youth, he cannot possibly deny it to the girl he has come to see as his daughter. That is not a curse he is willing to continue.

“You have my approval, if you ever truly needed it,” he finally says. “And if you wish to hold the wedding here, in Eternalia, you may.”

Livvy and Della are beaming, with all the hope of young lovers. Bronte remembers that all too well. “Thank you,” Della says. “We wanted to hold the wedding soon, if you’ll allow it. Next week, actually. In order to minimize the chances of disaster occuring before it can take place.”

It is a smart move, Bronte has to admit, although he is entirely unprepared for the stress of planning a wedding. “Alright,” he agrees, “I’ll notify the staff. Although I imagine you’ll want to tell your brother first.”

It’s as if the tension in the room doubles at the mention of Tiergan.

“Good grief,” Della says. “I’m far from enthusiastic to hear Prentice and Tiergan’s next discussion over this.”

Livvy shakes her head. “It’s been a day, and I’m already sick of their nonsense. If they ruin the wedding with their antics, I may just have to exile them until they can find some semblance of optimism in their hearts.”

“In that way,” Bronte muses, “they are rather well-suited for one another. They see the same insignificance in everything but themselves, and each other. What a peculiar kind of hatred.”

At this, Livvy’s eyes light up. “Perhaps that is our goal, then. Show them that they are, indeed, the only existing well-suited people for one another. That their hatred is so peculiar because it isn’t hatred at all.”

Fintan gapes. “You aren’t serious.”

“But I am,” Livvy counters, the telltale lilt of mischief in her voice. “Would it not help our cause if the two guns ceased their constant fire?”

“And they respect only each other,” Della adds. “If each were to discover that the other had succumbed to that dastardly feeling of love, well, then, would they not be convinced to give it a try?”

Bronte understands very quickly why they choose each other as partners in life.

“If this works,” Bronte says, “it will be a blessing for the world. Complete silence, for the first time since their friendship, of sorts, began.”

Fintan snorts. “That is, if they do not kill each other within the first week of marriage.”

Livvy shrugs. “Either way, our goals are achieved, are they not?”

As Prentice trudges through mud to the stables, he contemplates his best friend’s sudden shift from battle-hardened, cold spy to a loving, carefree, wife. It’s something he had never expected to see out of Della. Of course, he’d known that she loved someone, having watched her write and receive letters nightly, but he had never imagined the relationship to be this serious.

Personally, he can’t comprehend why she would be ready to bind herself to something so soon after being free of the Black Swan. Especially something so volatile as marriage.

He’s halfway through the courtyard when he hears familiar, hushed voices from a bench nearby. The lovebird herself, it seems, alongside their host and Lord Pyren. Out of sheer curiosity (and maybe a bit of nosiness), he stops behind a tree and pretends to examine his hair in the reflection of his blade.

“The trouble,” Della says, “will be finding a gift in time for the wedding. I have ventured into the city a few times, but nothing measures up to my standards for Livvy.”

“Such is the trouble with love,” Bronte replies, though he sounds rather pained.

Fintan adds, “Indeed. In my youth I wasted half my money and half my time searching for adequate gifts for my lovers. Alas, they were rather particular themselves.”

The response is a sound rather resembling a choking bird, though Prentice cannot see who made it. How strange, he thinks, as he has never known Fintan to be in love. Perhaps that had been another casualty of the war.

“Right,” Della continues, after an awkward pause. “Well, I count it a blessing that I am not in the most difficult situation possible. I can’t imagine the difficulty Tiergan faces, what with Prentice’s luxurious tastes.”

What?

Prentice’s brain short-circuits.

“So it’s true?” Bronte asks. “Tiergan is truly in love with the boy?”

Fintan chuckles. “I had thought them both to be sworn off of love forever.”

Yes, Prentice had thought so as well. That had been the sole opinion he had believed them to agree upon, but it seems even Tiergan has switched his loyalties now.

“Apparently not,” Della replies. “But it’s a pity that he’s chosen Prentice, of all people, as the object of his affections. The poor boy, in love with someone who cannot see anything beyond his own greatness. A true tragedy, if I have ever seen one.”

Prentice forgets to hide his scoff, but thankfully, they don’t seem to notice. What nonsense!

“I love Prentice, I truly do,” Della continues, “but it’s a blessing to all that he’s so opposed to love. For all of his talents, he’s not at all suited to romance. No smart person would stay in love with him for longer than a week before realizing that the effort is worthless.”

Entirely untrue, Prentice thinks. He rather likes to believe that his opposition to love is a choice—he could love, if he wanted to, and he would be damn good at it if he did. In fact, he had been in love, once before, and though external circumstances had clearly soured that relationship, he’s fairly certain he could have been the perfect husband. No, it’s a choice, now, to stay out of love, no reflection of his talents. After all, he is the greatest Keeper the Black Swan has ever known. Nothing is truly beyond him.

And if Della, Bronte, and Fintan are convinced he cannot satisfy Tiergan, then so be it. Prentice will prove them wrong, as he always has.

Tiergan will find loving him the most enjoyable experience of his life, Prentice is assured of it.

Prentice is acting like an idiot, which really shouldn’t be surprising to Tiergan.

“Hi,” he greets at breakfast, sitting down right beside Tiergan with a pastry in hand. “How are you?”

“I was better before you arrived,” Tiergan quips, expecting another clever remark in response. But when he looks up from his tea, Prentice is simply watching him, silent, with an absurd, giddy smile. “Good grief,” he says, “are you sick?”

“Are you?” Prentice counters, which…is complete nonsense. Both entirely out-of-character for the man and completely fitting.

Tiergan rolls his eyes. “I’m perfectly well, thanks.”

“Indeed you are.” Now Tiergan has no choice but to gape at him, waiting for another, explanatory phrase to arrive. It does not.

Tiergan stands abruptly, slamming his mug to the table. “It’s too early for this,” he mutters, storming out of the room to confused murmurs from the others seated at the table. He swears he hears Bronte giggle as he leaves, but that would be impossible.

As he hurries up the staircase toward his bedroom, however, Tiergan finds himself in the company of furious whispers, coming from Livvy’s bedroom door, left slightly ajar. It’s rather odd; she tends to value her privacy, especially now as curiosity about the wedding grows. But as he approaches stealthily, Tiergan realizes that it isn’t Della inside with her.

“Cyrah,” Livvy says, “I’m truly glad you’re able to visit, even if you’re unable to attend the wedding. You know how much it means to Della and I, I’m sure.”

Tiergan furrows his eyebrows. Since when has Cyrah been in Eternalia? Although the three of them had been childhood friends, years ago, Cyrah had left to travel the world immediately after they had finished their schooling. She does visit, from time to time, but rarely with so little notice.

“Well, of course I’m here for you,” Cyrah replies, “but I have to say I was mostly captivated by the other contents of your letter.”

Livvy laughs. “It’s certainly the most fascinating piece of gossip to reach Eternalia in many years.”

“I’ll say. The possibility of seeing our Tiergan married is absurd. And to Prentice Endal, no less.”

Tiergan tries his best to choke quietly. He fails.

There is a terrifying pause before they continue that leads Tiergan to believe that they’ve noticed his presence, but thankfully, Livvy carries on without remark.

“It’s truly a tragedy,” she says, with a slight laugh, “that Prentice has set his sights on Tiergan. I almost feel bad for him; it’s a hopeless endeavor.” Cyrah hums in agreement. “Yes, but I doubt Tiergan will ever notice. The poor boy’s entirely clueless.”

Livvy snorts. “That, and he’s entirely incapable of being kind to anyone beyond us. His first reaction is always to bite without thinking, to shoot to kill before questioning himself. Prentice has done well to match his strikes so far, but there is only so long that he can hide his affections.”

“Ah, unrequited love,” Cyrah sighs. “Well, I imagine he’ll come to his senses soon enough. He’ll find someone less bitter about life.”

“One can only hope.”

Tiergan is left absolutely reeling. He gapes at her door for at least a minute, unsure what to believe. But it does make sense, he has to admit. Prentice’s…affections would certainly explain his odd behavior that morning, and his offense at Tiergan’s immediate snarky greeting. But why would Prentice be so foolish as to love Tiergan, of all people? Livvy is correct on the count that Tiergan has done nothing but snap at the man. There had been a time, years ago, when Tiergan would have understood such a development of emotions, but now it seems entirely ridiculous.

Perhaps, Tiergan thinks, he could stand to be a bit kinder to Prentice, for once. If only to give him a bit of relief.

When he returns to the dining hall later that day for lunch, he pointedly seats himself beside Prentice, who looks both utterly perplexed and overjoyed. “Good morning,” Tiergan greets, shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

“It’s afternoon,” Prentice replies, and Tiergan raises an eyebrow. “But good morning to you, as well.”

Tiergan pretends not to notice the laughs that Della, Livvy, and Cyrah hide behind their napkins. If they believe him to be too bitter to love Prentice, then so be it. He will prove them wrong, as he always does.

Prentice will stay in love with him, if Tiergan has any say in the matter.

“It has been done,” Ruy announces as he steps into Gisela’s chambers. “The cache has been planted.” He sweeps some dust off his jacket, seating himself on the couch beside her desk.

Gisela nods. “Good,” she says. “Now, we wait.”

From their hiding spot beneath Gisela’s window, Tam, Linh, Marella, Keefe, and Sophie share a wary glance. “These are the people who are trying to catch a traitor?” Linh whispers. “They’re kinda… weird.”

“I feel like we should be concerned,” Tam notes.

Sophie shrugs. “Bronte wouldn’t have let them in if he thought they were trouble. I think.”

“Yeah, but these two seem weirder than the others,” Marella says. “Have you seen how quiet they are all the time? I thought they were just dealing with war stuff or whatever, but this is, like, extra weird. Plus, what’s with that whole scheme thing you were telling us about earlier?”

Sophie pauses. “I don’t know. I thought they were talking about Lady Vacker being a traitor, but now that she’s marrying Livvy, I don’t think that’s true.”

“Livvy wouldn’t marry a traitor,” Linh agrees. “I mean, she wouldn’t marry anyone without checking their entire life history first, I think.”

“But then why would these guys want people to think that Lady Vacker is a traitor?” Marella asks. “That’s stupid. It would ruin the wedding.”

Tam sucks in a breath, prompting them all to turn to him. “That’s exactly why,” he says, eyes wide with realization. “They want everything to be chaos here. That’s what he’s talking about—Bronte’s cache! Something only Livvy, Fintan, and Tiergan know the location of. It’s basically a safe containing classified war documents and plans of Eternalia. They’re not framing Lady Vacker, they’re framing Livvy! And if they act like she’s stealing the cache…”

Sophie pales. “Then everything goes to hell.”

“Random question,” Keefe cuts in, “but do you think I’d be fired if I didn’t deliver someone’s mail?”

They all stare at him.

“Like, intentionally,” he adds. “Kind of like stealing it. But not really. Just really, really, slow delivery.”

Marella snorts. “I mean, I’m all for it, but why?”

Keefe leans over and pulls out a sealed letter from his coat pocket. “Here. A letter from Lady Gisela to some guy at the warfront. Seemed kind of suspicious, so I kept it.” He hands it to Sophie, who handles it as gently as possible.

“Should we…” she asks, almost afraid to suggest the possibility.

“Read it?” Tam asks. “Yeah, obviously.” He takes the letter from Sophie and inspects it, tracing over the nearly illegible name on the front. “But not here. We need to get inside and warn someone before it’s too late.”

“But we can’t do that without proof,” Linh says. “And right now our only proof comes from things we’ve done that are completely illegal.”

Marella sighs. “I guess we’ll have to hope that the letter says something interesting, then.”

And with that, they slip away from their nook, panic setting in.

In the middle of the night, Della is woken violently by a frantic Fintan shaking her, and Prentice at the foot of her bed. “Good morning?” she asks, pushing Fintan’s arm away from her.

“No time, Della,” Fintan says, stepping back, “this is an urgent matter.”

“What could honestly be urgent enough to drag me out of bed the night before my wedding?” She’s both thankful and annoyed that she and Livvy had been given separate rooms, now—at least Livvy can get her beauty sleep while Della deals with her friends’ nonsense.

“Your fiancée,” Prentice states simply, and Della raises an eyebrow.

“Is this some kind of wedding ritual?”

Fintan scoffs. “Perhaps for her it is.”

“You should see for yourself,” Prentice says, and it’s his unsettling calm that ultimately drags Della out of her bed, suddenly shaken.

“Where is Lord Bronte?” she asks as they tiptoe down the dark hallway. “What is happening?”

Fintan shakes his head. “I haven’t spoken to him just yet. I worry that he, too, may be involved.”

Della furrows her eyebrows. “Involved in what, exactly?”

A heavy silence lingers, for a moment, before Prentice says, “Treason.”

Treason. “You believe Livvy to be a traitor.”

“I know for certain,” Fintan replies, voice grim. “I trust Gisela’s judgment on very few matters, but in this case, the proof is indisputable.”

Della feels her own heartbeat, now, racing out of her chest. “What proof does she have?”

“A stolen cache,” Prentice says. “Classified papers, attempted to be mailed. Some of it being…” His voice cracks, something close to tears welling in his eyes, and he looks away. “Some of it being details of your involvement in the war and prior.”

And Della freezes in her tracks. No, she thinks. Livvy wouldn’t. I know she wouldn’t. But after nearly two years apart, how can Della truly claim to know her at all?

They reach Gisela’s chambers, where Della is handed a series of papers and testimony from both Ruy and Gisela of Livvy’s betrayal. Ruy has brought a friend, as well, a young servant named Rayni, who describes her own witnessing of Livvy’s theft of the cache. It’s all entirely sickening, and Della has to dig her nails into Prentice’s arm in order to keep herself from vomiting. Her head is swimming. She cannot breathe.

“But what can we do?” she manages to ask, after everything is presented. “What can I do?”

Prentice and Fintan share a hard look. “There is no choice,” Fintan says, with a deep sigh. “We must end the wedding, before it is too late.”

On the morning of the wedding, Tiergan is all alone—Prentice is, oddly, nowhere to be seen, and Tiergan’s almost disappointed at the lack of a witty morning greeting. He’d been hoping to have someone interesting to speak with during the wedding preparations, seeing as everyone else is more concerned with assembling the brides’ gowns and hair. Tiergan and Prentice, of course, had been banned days ago from assisting directly with the wedding preparations, as, according to Della, they’re “far too clumsy to be trusted, alone or together.”

Strangely, however, Tiergan hasn’t seen any of their guests the entire day. He almost goes to check Prentice’s bedroom, but decides that he hasn’t quite reached that level of desperation yet. And, of course, he wouldn’t want to give Prentice the impression that he returns his feelings. Absolutely not.

He’s almost worked himself into a panic by the time he walks into the marriage hall, worried that perhaps Della has abandoned the wedding entirely. Thankfully, she waits at the podium up front, looking strangely pensive—though he has to admit, she is dressed nicely.

Tiergan scans the rows for Prentice, but he is still, oddly, nowhere to be found.

“Sit,” Bronte suddenly tells him, holding a glass of wine. “Livvy will arrive soon.”

“Where is Prentice?” Tiergan asks, and Bronte raises an eyebrow.

“He and Fintan have yet to arrive,” Bronte replies. “Hardly surprising. Fintan may take years before he is fully satisfied with his appearance.”

Tiergan can’t say the same about Prentice, although he concedes that the man hardly needs to spend time to look nice. Prentice is naturally infuriatingly beautiful, even after sleeping in the dirt or riding for hours through a rainstorm. He could be covered in sewage and that damned smirk would still make him appear heavenly. Tiergan despises that.

The music begins a half-hour later, and every seat except for the other front row across the aisle from Tiergan is full. Livvy strides down the aisle, her gem-studded dress flowing majestically behind her, and Della turns ever so slightly. Tiergan wipes away the tear in his eyes, and he can see Bronte doing the same. He wonders, still, where Prentice is, but decides that he trusts him enough to see to his own whereabouts.

“Hi,” he hears Livvy whisper to Della upon reaching her. “You look beautiful.”

Della’s gaze is trained to the floor. “Thank you,” she murmurs. There is something odd about her voice, Tiergan thinks, but he cannot determine what emotion it is. Perhaps this is love; he can’t say he’s ever seen the feeling through long enough to reach this point. He wouldn’t understand.

An old man steps up to begin the ceremony, but he says nothing. He only stands between the two women, biting his lip and staring at the grand doors at the end of the hall.

“Good afternoon,” he begins, and his voice is so shaky Tiergan worries he may cry. “We are here—”

The doors slam open, and with it a scream: “End this nonsense!”

Tiergan jumps up, hand shifting to his blade, but Livvy beats him to the chase. She holds out a knife, hopping off the podium where Della remains, frozen.

But the man who emerges from the hallway is neither intruder nor ogre.

“Fintan!” Bronte barks, moving to stand beside Livvy. “What is the meaning of this?”

Lord Fintan Pyren struts down the aisle; behind him, Prentice, Lady Gisela, and the blond boy march silently. Tiergan suddenly finds himself nauseous. What does the fool think he’s doing?

“Bronte, my dear friend,” Fintan exclaims dramatically, “you truly believe that Lady Vacker is deserving of this girl?”

Bronte scowls, but stands his ground even as Fintan stalks closer. “Wholeheartedly.”

Fintan scoffs. “Then you are either foolish or a liar, and neither is worth my time.”

“I don’t understand,” Livvy says, glancing between Fintan and Della, who still has not moved. She only stares at the floor, tears welling in her eyes.

Fintan spins to her, a fire growing in his glare. “Don’t you, Miss Sonden? I’m inclined to believe that a spy will always deal in lies. After all, you’ve built a marriage out of them.”

Some of the guests gasp, while most look on in complete horror.

Tiergan steps forward. “Do not insult her,” he spits.

“These are only facts,” Fintan replies. “Is it not true that she has been a spy for the Black Swan since she was a teenager? Is it not true that she has files on nearly every person who passes through Eternalia? Is it not true that she accesses highly classified files on the daily, without the knowledge of any other member of the war effort?”

Livvy stumbles, and Tiergan rushes to catch her before she trips on her own gown. “I…That is not…”

But she cannot deny it, Tiergan knows. Though he wonders what on Earth leads Fintan to mention this now, when Della has done far worse in her equally long lifetime.

Fintan presses forward. “And is it not true that you initiated a relationship with Lady Vacker for the sole purposes of obtaining her incredibly classified records and sending them to King Dimitar himself?”

What?

Tiergan grips Livvy’s hand tighter to avoid doing anything he might regret. He meets Prentice’s eyes, from across the room, and is surprised to find some sort of sympathy. Prentice, unlike the two who flank him, seems strangely unsure of his position now.

“Have you lost your mind?” Bronte shouts.

“Have you?” Fintan replies. “You harbor a traitor in your midst, and you protect her!”

Bronte scoffs. “And where, exactly, is your proof for such a preposterous claim?”

Fintan pulls out a small, metal container from inside his cloak, and holds it out in front of him. “This was found in her room, its contents strewn openly across her desk.”

Bronte sucks in a breath, and Tiergan suddenly understands what this is. A cache. Not only that—Bronte’s cache.

He turns to Livvy, unsure what to think. He knows, as he has always known, that Livvy is loyal. This must be something different. This must be some misunderstanding, he has to believe that.

He looks back at Della, waiting in vain for an explanation he knows will not come.

Della meets his eyes, and then meets Livvy’s teary gaze with one of her own. “This shame will haunt you, Livvy. I hope you will never be free from your guilt,” she states, her voice tinged with disgust.

“I…I don’t understand,” Livvy repeats, her voice weak, and Tiergan’s heart breaks. He holds her tighter, stepping away from the scene.

Bronte turns around, and Tiergan can sense his disappointment. He believes Lord Pyren. Of course, it is to be expected, but Tiergan cannot help but feel betrayal. Once again, it is he and Livvy against the world.

“This is madness,” Tiergan spits, staring right into Prentice’s eyes where he stands, silent. “You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

Then he drops Livvy’s hand and storms out of the hall, anger blazing.

Perhaps following Tiergan out of the hall is a mistake, but Prentice chooses not to dwell on that.

It takes nearly half an hour to find him, given Tiergan’s far better knowledge of the building. Prentice keeps his ears open to the sound of screaming, or glass shattering, but none come—instead, he stumbles upon a grand balcony with its door ajar, accompanied by the noise of muffled tears.

“Tiergan,” Prentice asks gently as he slips onto the balcony, “have you wept all this while?”

From where he sits upon a bench, staring out at the vast blue sea, Tiergan sniffles and replies, “And I will weep a while longer.”

Prentice stares at him, unsure how to respond. He watches as another tear graces Tiergan’s cheek and onto his jacket, disappearing into the deep blue fabric. “That is…unfortunate,” he tries, and Tiergan snorts.

“Luckily, I do not weep for you,” he says. He looks up at Prentice with an uncharacteristic despair in his eyes, something so entirely hopeless that Prentice steps forward and rests a hand on his shoulder in some strange desire to share his sorrow.

“I am sorry about your sister,” Prentice says, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can think. “I mean it. I am trained to follow Fintan’s every order, yes, but I also let my fear get the best of me. I should have trusted you, Tiergan. I know that now.”

Tiergan only stares at him, silent, for a long while. Finally, he says, “I have run out of ideas to help her, myself. I suppose, now, I must seek a friend who can right this mess.”

Prentice frowns. “Is there a way to show such friendship?”

Tiergan sighs. “There is a way, but no such friend. I worry there is no person in the world who is willing to see it through.”

He turns to meet Prentice’s eyes, and for a long moment, they hold each other’s gazes, locked in a cycle of desperation and something distinctively different. From this distance, Prentice sees how much of a mess Tiergan truly is—his blonde hair has nearly all fallen out of its intricate style, and his eyeliner is smudged over his cheeks. His lips, too, have been bitten raw, an old habit of his that Prentice has not seen in years.

He remembers, instinctually, that feeling of rough lips on his own—a feeling he has not allowed himself to dwell upon for what seems like a lifetime.

“Tiergan,” Prentice begins, forcing himself to look away. He cannot bear to witness the consequences of his own confession, even with the knowledge of Tiergan’s own feelings. “You must be aware…I do love nothing in this world so well as you.”

He waits expectantly for an exclamation of reciprocation, but none arrives, and the silence forces him to turn back around and meet Tiergan’s indecipherable expression. “Is that so strange?” Prentice adds, hoping he hasn’t shocked the man speechless.

“Perhaps it is,” Tiergan replies, not meeting his eyes. “Though, perhaps… perhaps it would be stranger for me to admit that I love nothing so well as you.” He stands up abruptly, and begins pacing with such a strange fervor that Prentice almost misses half of his words. “If that were true, I mean. But of course it is, I do not lie. Still, you mustn’t believe me! I confess nothing; I confess nothing at all, do not mistake me…but I deny nothing all the same. I can neither confess to nor deny nor admit to my feelings—these feelings that may or may not exist. For you.”

Prentice raises an eyebrow. “So you love me, then.”

“That is not what I said,” Tiergan huffs, but steps closer to him all the same.

“You said you could not deny that you love me,” Prentice counters. “That would imply that you do.”

Tiergan moves forward, stopping mere inches away from Prentice. “And yet, I recall saying that I could not confirm it, either.”

“And yet,” Prentice mimics, “I am entirely certain of your feelings. I would stake my life on it, even.”

Tiergan scoffs. “Then you should count your days, soldier.”

Prentice steps ever-so-slightly closer, until he can feel Tiergan’s breath, cool on his cheeks. “Strangely, I don’t find myself worrying.”

Tiergan kisses him softly; it is light and quick and perhaps salty with dried tears, or perhaps sweet with familiarity, or bitter with the revival of old memories. It is every emotion Prentice has felt since the day he first met Tiergan wrapped up in a moment; it is their short-lived civility, their years-long personal war, their shared fears of the war destroying them, inside and out.

When they separate, they are both speechless.

“I…” Tiergan begins, but trails off, unable to formulate a word.

Prentice grins. “Is this an admission that the great Granite himself, master of wit, has run out of protests?”

Tiergan laughs. “Or, perhaps,” he says, taking Prentice’s hand in his, “it is an admission that I love you with so much of my heart that there is none left to protest.”

Prentice takes his other hand and falls to a knee, looking up at Tiergan for the first time. “Tiergan, my love, tell me what you wish me to do for Livvy, anything, and I will do it. I swear.” It is more an oath of love, than anything; he does not know what he is expecting in response, but it is certainly not the answer that comes without a moment’s hesitation.

“Kill Della.”

Prentice cannot help it; he scrambles backward, dropping Tiergan’s hands like hot coal. “What?”

Tiergan shakes his head. “It is simple. You asked; I gave my answer.”

“I cannot betray my friend!” Prentice protests. “Just as I cannot betray you, Tiergan. Ask me for anything else, I beg of you.”

Tiergan turns away. “There is no other option. We can claim Livvy’s innocence, but we have no sufficient evidence to counter theirs. If you duel Della, you show that you are willing to risk your life for Livvy’s honor. And your word is far more prestigious than mine, what with the fame you carry from the war, still.”

“Tiergan. I cannot.”

He scoffs. “I see. You love me, but you will not fight my enemy.”

Prentice strides forward, taking Tiergan’s hand once again. “Is Della truly your enemy? Is she truly who you wish to fight?”

Tiergan whips around to face him, a cold determination in his gaze. “She has scorned my sister so greatly that she likely cannot leave her rooms ever again! She dishonors my family and our very name. She is so consumed by fear that she will let it destroy the happiness she has fought for herself. Yes, indeed, Della is my enemy. Because I trust Livvy over the world, and I cannot stand to watch her be slandered.”

“And I trust you,” Prentice says. “I trust you over the world; I would fight for you through hell and back, through the roughest waters and the strongest storms, through the apocalypse and beyond. And so, Tiergan, if you are sure…” He takes a deep breath, unsure what to think about the very words he is about to say. “I will fulfill your request. Della shall face our wrath.”

He squeezes Tiergan’s hand just once, a familiar assurance, before marching away with a new focus. If this is love’s folly, he thinks, then he will die for it willingly—a strange realization, but a welcome one.

When he finds Della, she is in her room with Fintan, furiously gathering her possessions.

Fintan notices him first. “Prentice, finally. We must devise a plan for dealing with this treason. I worry the girl here is not the only criminal.” He spits girl as if it is a dirty word, as if Livvy’s name cannot dare to be mentioned in good company.

“So you believe it?” is all Prentice says in response.

Della laughs, with no humor behind it, only tears. “What is there to believe? There is evidence, and that evidence points to everything I should have expected from the beginning. I am surprised, though I shouldn’t be. I cannot be.”

“You are quick to fear and quicker to discard,” Prentice says, stepping away from her. “Characteristics of a spy, not a lover.”

Della raises an eyebrow. “And you understand the characteristics of a lover?”

“More than you, it seems,” he replies. “If you will not fight for Livvy, then I will take your place.”

Fintan scoffs, and Della’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious,” she says, hand moving to her blade.

Prentice holds her gaze. “I’ll see you at dawn tomorrow.”

News travels quickly among servants, most especially when Marella is involved. It takes only a few hours for every detail of the wedding disaster to reach each corner of the grounds; Sophie, Keefe, Tam, and Linh are lounging in the warm sun when Marella finds them with the story, excitement in her eyes.

“The letter!” Sophie suddenly exclaims, remembering yesterday’s chaos. “We never showed anyone the letter, guys.”

Keefe pales. “Oh, shit.”

Tam pulls the paper out from his pocket, skimming it quickly. “Oh, shit,” he agrees. “Yeah, this makes more sense now.”

Although they had read the letter the day before, it hadn’t made much sense. It detailed some plan of Lady Gisela’s, but none of them had been able to decipher quite what the plan was. And when a day had passed without incident, showing the letter to anyone hadn’t seemed like a priority. (Especially since they could all get fired easily for the stunts they’d pulled.)

“We need to find Lord Bronte,” Linh said, reading over Tam’s shoulder. “We can prove Livvy’s innocence with this!”

Marella nods. “He’s still in the wedding hall, I just passed him. I’m pretty sure Gisela and that blond kid ran, though. Everyone I asked says they haven’t seen them since the wedding this morning.”

“Where’s Livvy?” Sophie asks.

Marella shrugs. “There’s different stories going around right now. Most common one is that they threw her in a cell, for now. No clue what they’ll do after that.”

Tam jumps to his feet. “Then we need to show Bronte this letter, now. Before it’s too late for her.”

Linh hands him the letter again. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Fintan asks as he strides into the meeting hall. Beside him is only Della; Tiergan can’t help but feel a smug satisfaction at the strength of his own numbers. He and Prentice stand with Bronte, and Livvy sits on the stairs in front of them. A group of teenagers also stands with them, who—as Tiergan is told, at least—hold the key to proving Livvy’s innocence.

He watches Della’s steps falter as she notices the exhaustion on Livvy’s face. Good. Her guilt is deserved.

“Who are these children?” Fintan asks, scowling at the servants. “What more could you possibly have to say, Bronte?”

Bronte sighs. “Cease your incessant questioning, Fintan, and listen for once in your life. It seems I am not the one who has been betrayed.”

Fintan stops in his tracks. “What are you suggesting?”

Bronte motions for one of the children to hand Fintan the letter they’ve been holding. Fintan takes it reluctantly, and they all watch with bated breath as he and Della read through it carefully.

After just a few seconds, Della pales, and steps back with a hand over her mouth. “No,” she says, her voice weak.

Even Fintan seems strangely haunted as he looks up from the paper. “Gisela,” he spits, crumpling the paper in one hand. “Of course she would lie. Had I realized she was so deeply involved with the ogres, I wouldn’t have brought her here, I wouldn’t have—” He gestures wildly around the room, while Della remains frozen still.

“Livvy,” she cries, after a long moment. “My love. I cannot apologize enough.”

“No,” Livvy agrees, “you cannot.”

Prentice steps forward, taking Tiergan’s hand in his own. “Della, I did not lie to you in my challenge. I am no hypocrite; I know that I, too, was deceived by Gisela’s tricks and lies. But her schemes worked only because they capitalized on our fears. She knew that Ravagog lives within us, even here, hours away.”

Della looks away, blinking away tears. “I have not lived a day without fear in years. I was a fool to believe I could return to life in Eternalia without complication.”

“We were all foolish,” Livvy says, moving to stand. “Had I been more open about my involvement in the war…”

“There are many things we could have done,” Bronte says, stepping down in front of Fintan. “But it is Gisela who is the fool. She runs to Ravagog, unaware that Dimitar has received none of her correspondence. I sent guards to her the moment I learned of her betrayal. She will not survive long, on her own.”

Fintan nods. “I will write my men as well. She will know no peace anymore.” He and Bronte share an indecipherable stare, silent for an awkwardly long amount of time.

Tiergan squeezes Prentice’s hand. “Well. I am glad, at least, that no secrets remain. Certainly, it’s a weight off of my shoulders.”

He doesn’t expect his statement to increase the tension in the room tenfold.

Della, Bronte, Livvy, and Fintan suddenly all turn to look at each other, a variety of awkward chuckles, pale faces, and wide eyes between them. They seem to communicate telepathically, almost, and Tiergan turns to Prentice with raised eyebrows—but he only shrugs.

“About that,” Livvy says, after a long moment. “There is…something else.”

Her voice is so serious that Tiergan has to laugh. “Livvy, there is no secret of yours that I do not already know. Although I appreciate your valiant efforts at keeping Prentice’s feelings a secret from me, you failed tremendously.”

He turns to Prentice, expecting a sheepish expression, but is met with complete and utter shock. “My feelings?” Prentice asks, incredulous. “You fell in love with me! Lord Pyren said as much—”

The realization hits them both at the exact same time.

Tiergan turns, very, very slowly, to Livvy, well aware that his glare is practically murderous. “Livvy,” he says, “explain. Now.”

Livvy runs behind Della, which Tiergan supposes is deserved after the fiasco of the morning.

“Well,” Della responds, clearly uneasy, “it doesn’t quite matter anymore, now that you two are clearly in love.”

“I am not in love with him!” Prentice protests, and Tiergan scoffs.

“The feeling is very much mutual,” he spits, dropping their joined hands. He glares at Fintan and Bronte, who watch them with barely concealed amusement.

Prentice whirls to face him. “You confessed only hours ago the exact opposite.”

“As did you, if I recall correctly.”

Prentice huffs. “Well, perhaps I lied.”

Tiergan crosses his arms. “Perhaps I lied.”

Prentice moves to add another childish retort, but is cut off by one of the teenagers clearing their throat loudly.

“Um,” the blond one says, shrinking as all eyes in the room land on him. “Well, um, I kind of have proof to the contrary. You know.” He holds up two slips of paper in his hands—one of which is, unfortunately, far too familiar to Tiergan.

The girl beside the blond boy elbows him in the side. “Keefe!” she scolds. “You can’t keep stealing stuff.”

“I don’t know,” says a boy with bangs, “it’s kind of working out for him, isn’t it?”

Livvy runs over with barely-concealed glee and takes the paper out of the boy’s hands. “Well, well, well,” she begins, her grin growing wider as she skims through them. “Let’s see here—”

“No!” Tiergan and Prentice both shout.

“Dear Tiergan,” Livvy reads aloud, and Prentice buries his head in his hands, “you are the king of every sunset and the queen of every sunrise, the stars themselves personified into one, ever-gleaming halo of a person.”

“A true poet,” Fintan notes, and Tiergan can only stare at the man beside him. He cannot truly believe that, Tiergan thinks. There is no part of Tiergan that could be deserving of his words.

“And,” Livvy continues, and Tiergan’s blood runs cold, “My dear Prentice, I will love you forever, even when I am only a memory. I will love you with every part of me that has ever known love. I swear by it.” Livvy raises an eyebrow at him, but Tiergan does not notice. He is too concerned with Prentice, once beside him and now striding toward him at an incredible pace. Tiergan braces for an impact of some sort, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Prentice stops mere inches away from him and takes his hands gently. “My dear Lord of Disdain,” he says—softly, beautifully.

And then Prentice kisses him, and a shaky peace settles on Eternalia once again.

#tiertice #august's writing!#keeper big bang 2024 #fun fact this au exists because when i studied this play in school someone asked me if i thought don pedro and leonato had gay history #and i was like hey you know who that reminds me of?#and here we are

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