#presents a different woman than what she is inside in favour of being 'diplomatic' and 'moving forward'

[raviollies]

Just who are you, Councilor Medarda?

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

Part 2: The Hand That Binds

READ Part 1: Pride or Clan

When he had settled against the mat, gaze still locked with Miho’s, she rose her voice.

“Everyone out.”

There wasn’t a whisper, not single question or objections. The Li filed out under guard, until Victor and Miho were alone.

“I imagine that was far more painful than taking those arrows still sticking out of your chest,” Miho mused, dropping her formality and approaching him slowly. “Humility is not something your clan is known for.”

“Perhaps not,” Victor responded, tracking her advance until she stood directly in front of him. “But I am not my father.”

“No, you’re not,” she smiled, sitting herself down cross-legged. “And for that reason, I am willing to offer my support. The Li stand upon the precipice of destruction, an end – no doubt – Lucien Xu would love to bring about that same future for all who refuse to bow before him, myself included. I like to think that makes us allies.”

“Allies with a broken clan?” he said – not confused, but skeptical with her word choice.

“So, shall I dispatch reinforcements to your capital?” she offered, completely ignoring his question. “No doubt Lucien is already marching there to complete his campaign against you.”

“While I still draw breath it will never be complete,” he declared, his inhale rasping loudly.

“By the look of things, that may not be much longer without medical intervention.”

“I will rest when my people are safe,” he asserted, his glistening brow twitching.

Before he could drive the arrows further into his body, Miho caught his forward listing body.

“Gavin,” she said quietly, and the ninja appeared as if form thin air. “See the good lord to a state room and ensure he lives.”

 Stretching her arms, Miho exhaled a long breath. Within her private quarters, she could be more relaxed, for those who were allowed inside had her closest confidence.

“It went well then,” Jazz smiled, padding on bare feet from the shadows and touching a warm hand to Miho’s left cheek. “Still a little tense though.”

“A little difficult not to with war on our doorstep and the new leader of a rival clan wheezing bloody lungfuls next door.”

“He is next door?” Jazz murmured, brushing her fingertips down Miho’s neck and across her shoulders as she stepped behind the other woman. “I suppose we shall have to be quiet then.”

“That would be polite,” Miho sighed, closing her eyes, allowing herself to be tugged back toward the futon, onto which she sat. “Are we polite?”

“Me?” Jazz chuckled in Miho’s ear, stripping away part of the Fujiwara leader’s robe. “Definitely. You, not so much.”

“And Liana?” Miho prompted, suppressing a shiver as Jazz began to lightly trace the edges of her fingernails against her skin. “Where is she?”

“She returned shortly after you convened in the hall,” Jazz answered. “And now she is no doubt reminding Gavin what he missed while out following your orders,” Jazz answered, beginning the press of her thumbs into Miho’s rigid muscles.

“His greatest fear – being without her,” Miho laughed, wincing as Jazz put pressure on a particularly sore spot.

“Oh, I think his greatest fear is having to share her with you,” Jazz corrected, softening the accuracy of her ‘therapy’ with the gentle touch of her lips.

“Hmm, yes I suppose it might be,” Miho agreed thoughtfully, huffing a loud breath. “You think I should allow them to be together.”

Not a question, a statement.

“I think their bond is genuine,” Jazz replied diplomatically. “And worth nurturing.”

“Fine,” Miho dropped, getting up to wriggle out of the rest of her clothing. “I do not have time for a harem now anyway.”

When she was naked, Jazz stepped up to swathe her in a delicate night-robe, one much the same as she herself wore.

“I am going to need you to work harder, Jazz,” Miho admitted, taking the pale woman’s face between her hands. “The Xu will finish with the Li in short order, then Lucien will set his sight on our mountains. Strong as I am, as my armies are, if we cannot break through his ability to protect his forces against attack, we shall fail – just like Victor.”

Ever so slightly, Jazz nodded, and with a rare, relieved smile Miho kissed her lightly.

“But for now,” Jazz winked, lacing her fingers through Miho’s and giving her a tug back to the futon, “let us forget about Victor and Lucien, and think only of us.”

A suggestion Miho gladly followed.

 ______________________________________________

The morning was bitter with cold, and Miho had risen before the sun. She checked in with Liana and Gavin, who like her, were early to rise for training – despite how strenuous their night-time activities may have been. There were no excuses, no explanations and no fear from them when she interrupted their sparring session, despite the fact Miho had expected Liana to be present with Jazz the evening prior.

They knew if Miho had an issue with their increasingly frequent liaisons, she would have intervened when Gavin first showed an interest. The head of the Fujiwara Clan had a reputation for many things, running her affairs in the face of many societal norms among them.

Still, they were careful to show no measure of impropriety in public spaces.

“Lord Victor,” she prompted, addressing Liana. “I take it he is still alive?”

“Difficult to discern, My Lady,” Liana replied seriously. “The man is so cold; alive, dead, there does not appear to be much of a difference.”

Making little attempt to hide her amusement, Miho gave Liana a light tap on the arm.

“I need you to assist Jazz until further notice,” she said and Liana nodded without hesitation, though Miho was not oblivious to Gavin’s sideways glance. “And I want you to be Lord Victor’s shadow when he is from my sight.”

“You plan to keep him close?” Gavin queried, a little warily, and Miho waved her hand dismissively.

“Everyone must make sacrifices if the clan is to survive the Xu scourge,” she reasoned casually, wriggling her fingers theatrically in the air.

Her face the very picture of carefree.

“My Lady,” a soldier greeted. “Lord Victor is requesting your presence.”

“Duty calls,” Miho sighed, but pointed at Gavin as she stepped away. “I want to be able track the Xu to the last arrow - every hoof in the dirt, every mouthful of rice.”

“Without fail,” Gavin nodded, and had disappeared as if never there.

 After her arrival was announced, Miho entered one of several staterooms used for hosting visiting nobles. Therein she found Victor sitting upright, his otherwise bare chest bound around and cross-ways.

“I am no physician, but you should be resting,” she scolded, despite the crispness of Victor’s demeanour. “You do your clan no favours plunging headlong into an early grave.”

“No, resting in the den of a…” Victor replied, but cut himself off.

Miho’s eyebrows raised.

“Oh, please do continue,” she encouraged, brightly. “It would seem a single night and the best of my medical personnel have worked wonders for your humility.”

Receiving her message, Victor paused to think over a more diplomatic response.

“My apologies,” he conceded, and Miho sat down at the end of his futon.

“Yours is an unenviable position,” she pointed out. “The Xu aside, war has taken its economic toll on your people. Without assistance their suffering will protract until…”

She spread her hands.

“But people are people, Lord Victor,” she went on. “And I would see the misery of your people no more than I would sit idle and endure the misery of mine.”

“And you would allow them to remain, mine?” Victor probed, slowly this time, carefully.

“Well, I’m not sure a hungry child cares who claims sovereignty over her, but if you’re asking whether I intend to pounce on the opportunity to steal your lands? No,” Miho assured him. “The Fujiwara and Li may not be allied, but we’re not enemies, nor do I or my people require expansion. Lucien, on the other hand, is a malice I have no tolerance for.”

Victor took some time to search her face in the wake of this declaration, hunting for duplicity. The world was cutthroat, and clan leaders carried the weight of so many lives it was uncommon for them to not take advantage of any and all chances to increase their influence.

“You look a little confused,” Miho snickered. “Is humanity really so foreign a concept to you?”

“Foreign, no,” he answered. “It was simply not the way I was raised. Were our roles reversed, I cannot say I would be so magnanimous.”

“Will you look at that,” Miho laughed. “A compliment. Have you perhaps developed a fever?”

“You may take it that way if you wish,” he nodded, adjusting the way he sat with a small grimace. “However, it was intended to express puzzlement.”

“Well, you don’t need to truly understand my motivations to benefit from them,” she assured.

“Perhaps not,” he acknowledged. “But I cannot believe your actions will come without cost. If I am not mistaken, Lucien offered you peace.”

“Some skewed version of it,” she confirmed. “Buuuuut, he won’t be able to bind my clan or me in that fashion now.”

“Through marriage, you mean?” Victor sought in clarification, and Miho nodded.

“Don’t get me wrong, I have great affection for my concubines,” she admitted, “I may even love one or two, but for the leader of a clan and for its future, marriage must be an exclusive proposition.”

“I had heard nothing of you taking a husband,” Victor frowned slightly, while Miho’s smile turned into a confident grin.

“Because I have not,” she declared, then narrowed her eyes on him pointedly. “But I will be.”

______________________________________________

Don’t forget folks, comments and commenty reblogs keep a girl writing! I’m also open to, you know, expanding Miho’s collection of concubines for any who have OCs who would like cameos -grins-

[namjuicyy]

Forbidden - Chapter Three

Masterlist | Requests are open.

Genre: Fluff, smut, angst.

Genre of this part: Not really angst but not exactly fluff either.

Word Count: 1.8k.

Summary: Prince Hoseok had never been told “no” until his father lay on his deathbed. Hoseok was ordered to marry, but his eyes were set on the one woman he wasn’t allowed to have.

WARNINGS: A lotta cheese, if you're lactose intolerant or fluff intolerant best to stay away.

Previous / Next

It was amazing to you how quickly you had managed to befriend Prince Hoseok. You had, in the past and especially since marrying Taeoh, had extreme shyness to overcome which meant it took you a good while before you could truly call someone a friend and open up to them. Eunjae was your only friend – a relationship your husband frowned upon as "queens shouldn't mingle with the staff". But what did he know? He could barely keep his own kingdom alive.

Unbeknownst to you, Hoseok was besotted with you. He was completely obsessed by your grace and beauty. The way you carried yourself was with nothing but dignity and poise and it fascinated him to see such an accomplished, beautiful queen be so shy and introverted. Hoseok was never good at hiding his true feelings or emotions, especially to his younger brother. And just your mere presence had snapped the prince out of his old habits and subconsciously made him want to be better; for you, as absurd as it sounded.

Even Jimin had noticed a change not just in Hoseok but in the palace staff too. The palace was running like clockwork for once given that all the female staff were doing their jobs instead of opening their legs for their prince. Jimin, of course, never blamed the women workers. They were simply doing as they were told and giving themselves up for a man they hoped would love them. They were not to blame for anything. But he still chuckled to himself, especially when his mother came down for breakfast earlier than him, when usually the whole household would have a little while to wait before the Queen finally joined them. But your visit to the palace simply proved to Jimin that his brother was the cause of so many delays, but more importantly that he could change; that he wasn't the lost cause their parents had made him out to be. This gentility and gentleman-like nature that had shone showed Hoseok would be a capable ruler.

Jimin was besotted with you too, but not in the same way as his brother. He couldn't quite pinpoint what it was about you that captivated him so – perhaps it was solely down to the idea that it was you who saved his brother. He just knew that he wanted you to be around for a lot longer than planned. And had suggested as such at breakfast one morning.

"What are your plans after the engagement ball, Your Majesty?" He addressed you gently as one of the servants poured you your morning juice, squeezed freshly that morning from the orange trees in the gardens.

"Whatever my husband wishes." You replied dutifully. You hadn't noticed a deep flicker of something appear on Hoseok's face when you mentioned Taeoh, but Jimin did. "I believe our intentions are to return home to our normal lives."

"Ah, but it's been such a pleasure having you both here, Ma'am." His attention turned to your husband seated beside you, though his conversation addressed you both. "Surely your majesties could stay a few days longer. It would be our honour to host you a little while more."

"Alas, we cannot." Taeoh responded. "I have important matters to attend to back in my own kingdom. Your father," his attention turned to his counterpart, "has given me much to think about."

The King nodded at Taeoh.

"You are all, of course, welcome to stay with us should you ever find yourselves closer to our home than yours." You offered. "We would be ecstatic to share what we have with you."

"That sounds wonderful Ma'am, thank you." Jimin responded.

Hoseok noticed the look you and your husband shared from across the table – or rather, the look that your husband gave you. He was clearly unhappy with the prospect of having to socialise with his neighbours. Though this diplomatic trip had been fruitful, it appeared he'd prefer to be left alone. Hoseok would prefer Taeoh were left alone too, that way he'd have you all to himself. No, he mustn't entertain such thoughts. He shouldn't have dared to want you at all. Yet there he sat at his family's breakfast table, pining over you and imagining a life with you he could never have.

In fact, sat next to you was the life he was doomed to have, the life he'd rather never visited his house at all and was upset to have to touch. Jieun, as beautiful as she was, looked like hell to Hoseok and he made sure he had little to do with her as he possibly could. He took to admiring your profile as his angel spoke to his demons, calmly and kindly enduring the idle conversation about what you were to wear to the ball and listening to what Jieun had planned. You were a saint... a true saint. No one, man nor woman could compare.

"Feeling a little lovesick, Hyung?" Jimin murmured to his brother.

"Of course not." Hoseok lied. Jimin raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Come on, you've got this look on your face. It's gentle and unsettling."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course, you don't – you can't see yourself. I've never seen you so soft, Hyung."

"Jiminie, I don't know what you're insinuating but honestly, there's nothing going on with me. Everything's as it always has been."

"Except you're actually sat with your family for breakfast rather than being inside Mother's hand maid."

"So, Prince Hoseok," your voice interrupted the brothers whispering and drew the attention of the room to you – something you certainly didn't intend on. However, Hoseok was awed by your ability to not let the sudden attention distract you from what you had to say. You were quieter than a queen should be, but even as an introvert you were still able to command the room. "Are you looking forward to the ball tonight?"

Hoseok usually told you the truth. "I am indeed." He lied. Even in the short amount of time you had known him, you knew that this wasn't the truth. You'd hoped there was some honesty in the words he spoke – you'd hoped that he'd make a reference to you attending the ball that night. But his silence went on a little longer than you anticipated, and you felt yourself growing more and more disappointed at the prospect. "I'm excited to be able to spend a night with the few people I hold dearest to me – new friends and old."

Oh.

There was what you wanted – exactly how you wanted it. His charm ever present, and his eyes bearing into you; almost going right through you. You felt exposed almost – heating up with each passing second his attention was on you. You had nowhere to hide or no way to shelter yourself from the intensity, and your breath became shallower and shallower with the racing of your heart. No person had ever had this effect on you – not even when you'd been upset with them – so what made Hoseok so different?

He caught you after breakfast during your routinely stroll around the palace gardens, suffocating you with his charismatic demeanour. You were quickly falling for him and this was worrying to say the least.

"How did you sleep last night, Your Majesty?" Hoseok asked you, his voice dripping with genuine kindness.

"I've told you, there's no need to be so formal."

"My mother would have me lynched if she heard me referring to you as ___."

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"I'm sorry. I'll try harder for you."

"Are you really looking forward to tonight?"

"Yes. I can't believe I'm saying such a thing, but I am. If not for the reason the ball was intended, but for the reason I'll be able to see you."

"You're seeing me now."

"Perhaps for the reason I can hold you then. Without the consequences."

"Hoseok."

"Your Majesty, please. Since you walked into my life everything has changed for me. I'm no longer scared of the future with you by my side."

"I'm married Hoseok, you too are to be wed - we can't."

"He doesn't have to know. No one does." He grabbed hold of your hands and forced you to look him in the eye. "Your Majesty... ___... I am hopelessly, undoubtedly, irrevocably in love with you. You're unlike any woman I've ever met including my own betrothed. I don't love her. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with her. I know you don't love your husband either. Why shouldn't we be happy? Why shouldn't we make time to love one another? Our futures need not be so bleak."

"Hoseok, the world works in your favour. You are allowed as many mistresses as you would like, you can father as many children as you see fit - there are no consequences for you. I would be lynched if the world found out I were carrying on with the future king of our neighbouring kingdom. I'd be punished while you were praised."

"___, please. Being without you – even in my own palace knowing you're a few feet away from me – makes it hard for me to breathe. I can only eat when you're with me and eating too, I'm sure I'd sleep better holding you in my arms. I'd rule better with you at my side, even if it was just a secret. With every fibre of my being, I adore you." You had no idea you were crying until Hoseok wiped a tear from your eye. "I would jump off that bridge under your instruction and fall to my death if it ensured your happiness."

"You shouldn't say such things."

"Why? It's the truth."

He leant forward to kiss you. Or was it you who leaned into him? You weren't exactly sure. All you knew is that your lips were so close to touching, his palms caressing your face while yours encased his hands. His breath tangled with yours as your eyes closed feeling a pull towards him you'd never felt with anyone else.

A throat clearing pulled you two out of the little world you created for yourselves, forcing him away from you with a harsh push only to discover Eunjae standing there staring at the two of you. Her eyebrows were raised, but there was no hint of condescension or berating in her eyes. Just a playful, mischievous glint and a small smirk on her face that told you "I've got your number".

"Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. Your Highness." She said politely.

"N-no intrusion Eunjae." You responded. "Is everything okay?"

"Your husband is looking for you, Ma'am. He is in the King's drawing room."

"Thank you, Eunjae." Without turning, without saying goodbye, you simply exhaled and composed yourself before walking away from the Prince, leaving him the gardens to watch you walk away. This would be the last time you rejected him in favour of your husband – that he vowed.

[mary-tudor]

⊰—:ʟᴀ ʀᴇɪɴᴀ ᴅᴇ ᴄᴀsᴛɪʟʟᴀ:—⊰ 

┆Treaty of marriage between Charles and Mary Tudor concluded at Calais, Chronicle of Calais, p. 6.

❝The xxvij of October there came out of England the bysshope of Wynchestar lorde prevye scale, the erle of Surrey lorde treasurar, and the lord of Saint John's with doctor Weston, all ambassadors; they landed at Temperlto [sic] in Pecardye, and the ij of November, there came to Caleys out of Flaunders from the duke of Burgoyne the erle of Fynes, the lorde of Barowe, and the presydent of Flaunders, with dyvers othar of the contrye, and with them met ser Eichard Carew, live- Octobertenaunt of the castle of Galleys, and syr John Wilshere is comptrowlar of Caleis, and Waltar Culpepar undarmarshall of Caleys, and all the speres and archars on horsbacke and dyvars sowldiers all in harnes, for the strangars feared the Frenche men ; but beinge browght in savetie to Caleys, there the lords on bothe partyes concluded the mariage betwixt the duke of Burgoyne and the lady Mary dowghtar to kynge Henry the Seventhe, where on seynt Thomas day the Apostle. lt was great triumphe made in Calles.❞┆ ───────── ┆Henry VII to the Mayor and Aldermen of London, Halliwell's Letters," i. 194-6. ❝Trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well. And for December, asmuch as we doubt not but it is and shall be to you and all other our true subjects right joyful and comfortable to hear and understand, from time to time, specially of such causes and matters as redound to the great honour and exaltation, universal weal, surety and restfulness of us, this our realm, and our subjects of the same ; we signify unto you that, by our great labour, study and policy, 'this great and honourable alliance and marriage betwixt the Prince of Castile and our right dear daughter the Lady Mary, is now (our Lord be thanked) betwixt our ambassadors and the orators, as well of our brother and cousin, the King of the Romans, as of the said young prince at our town of Calais, accorded, agreed, concluded, and finally determined with a great, ample, and large amity and consideration to the surety, strength, defence, and comfort, as well of us and the said prince, as of either our realmes, countries, dominions, and subjects. And considering the noble lineage and blood whereof the said young prince is descended, which is of the greatest kings and princes in Christendom. [...] so that, by the mean thereof and the other alliance which we have with our good son the king of the Scots, this our realm is now environed, and, in manner, closed in every side with such mighty princes, our good sons, friends, confederates, and allies, that, by the help of our Lord, the same is and shall be perpetually established in rest and peace, and wealthy condition, to our great honour and pleasure, the rejoicing and comfort of all our loving friends, confederates, and allies, the fear and discomfort of our enemies, that would intend or presume to attempt anything to the contrary. [...]❞┆ ───────── The English court rejoiced when the treaty between the two realms was firmed in conditions that naturally favoured both sides. The engagement ceremony was performed before King Henry, her brother, the current prince of Wales Henry, her grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, and all other courtiers of noble importance and others that carried some aristocratic degree running in their veins, including merchants in ascending. Mary was dressing a velvet gold and white gown and had her hair tied underneath a headdress upon that occasion. Followed by Lady Joan Guildford, her trusted lady in waiting and the woman who was like a second mother to her, she stepped inside court with her head held high, conscious of the gazes the courtiers glanced at her. She curtsied before her father, received his blessing, kissed her grandmother's cheek and followed the protocol. Lady Mary stood before the ambassador of Castile and gave the man her hand; words were pronounced in perfect French in a gesture repeated by the man who was representing Infante Charles. Once the ceremony ended, applauses echoed throughout the hall and another ambassador approached as soon as Lady Mary sat next to her father, the king. The said ambassador represented Burgundy, and came to speak on behalf of the Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I. Mary was present when her father accorded with Maximilian's diplomat the date for the marriage by proxy to occur and thus the date where his daughter was to depart to Castille. In truth, the reason why Henry VII wanted to rush the matter of this diplomatic marriage with Spain was partly motivated by the same cause of when Margaret was sent to be married to James IV of Scotland. But Mary had little thoughts concerning politics, despite being aware of how they worked, after all she was educated for a role like that of her late mother. She rather enjoyed the festivities and received permission to dance with the ladies of her age at court; the beauty and charisma, both inherited from her mother's side, captured the eyes of the men at court and inspired every poet there present. Even though the princess is only fourteen years, she was flowering and this much concerned the King's mother for attracting rather unnecessary attention, like that of the duke of Suffolk, for example. She was quick enough to perceive it and was more than willing to cut the evil from the early start. Lady Margaret whispered to her son's ears but Mary was ignorant of the machinations from her relatives for all she cared for now was dancing like the queen she was going to be. ───────── Dover, England. 1509. Some time between her birthday and April, before the death of her father, Lady Mary, as how she was styled due to the position of being the king's daughter, was accompanied by a special commission that were to lead her to Castille. She had been married by proxy to Prince Charles at Richmond Palace following the last Christmas and now she knew was heading firstly to be welcome at the court of Madrid, where her new husband was expecting her, before moving to Valladolid. From that moment on, Mary was now styled Princess Mary of Astúrias. Alongside her sister by law, Catherine of Aragon, she improved her studies in the language and culture of Castille and Aragón. The memories of those times where the two ladies laughed at Mary's attempts in speaking spanish hurt the princess as she was no more at the company of Catherine. Although her father was ailing, he travelled to Dover to see his daughter being sent off. Mary sensed that there was a goodbye from both parts that would have no return. For that, she sniffed more than she admitted to. "My beautiful daughter. Now now, no need for tears, eh?" Henry VII lifted Mary's chin and gave her a fond smile, or what would that be like had he had some tooth. Mary returned the smile but sadness was still perceptible over her features. "You shall fulfill your daughter like your sister Margaret did so many years ago. Duty and love not always walk side by side as stories are told but perhaps you can make your own story there, eh? Your ancestors once reigned over Castille and even Aragon, but now, my child, you are to rule over them both. Remember that you are taking our blood, our Tudor blood, to thrive." "I will do as my lord father commands me to." She obbediently said in response, nodding her head respectfully. "I will make you proud, papa." He smiled again. It was always difficult to send his daughters away, that moment reminding him of Margaret's depart. His heart ached for them both, for his 14 year old Mary even more as she was leaving in a propiscious time. Nonetheless, sentiments were concealed and they said farewell to one another. And that was the last time Mary would see her father again. ───────── Madrid, 15091516. It was an awkward first meeting as she came to find out that Prince Charles did not speak a word at spanish, which much surprised the princess due to the fact she never considered that his education, although far from his birth place, did not include the learning of the language of the kingdoms he was expected to rule someday. Nevertheless, they found some common ground there: french. Both spoke the language as fluent as possible and Mary was more than pleased to see that they at least could communicate. However, the age difference, though barely noticed by a prince who was clearly admiring the beauty of the english princess, weighed on the discomfort of her part in leading with their marriage. As she was to meet the emperor Maximilian I in person, she came to hear that they would not consummate the marriage until Charles was of age. As years went by, a few events marked Mary's life as english royal and princess of Asturias. She was being acquainted with the court of Valladolid when she was told of her father's death. It gave her an odd feeling, that grief that shook her spirits upon knowing that the last memory she collected of him was their farewell. Worse was to acknowledge her absence from her father's last moments and she could not help but weep and spend half of her time at the chapel. Yet, life had to carry on. Although Charles had consolated her, he was still young and Mary was admittedly a bit melancholic. Marrying a young boy, where was the advantage to that? She was not even present to the ascension of her brother, her favourite brother, the one whose company she'd always cherished. Henry VIII and his consort, Catherine of Aragon, were now the sovereign of all England and no letters could appease that sentiment of loneliness. She wondered if that was how Margaret felt in her early years spent at Scotland. "At least I have you with me." Mary confided lady Guildford, who left her home behind to continue to serve the princess. A few other ladies, being the most proeminent the Boleyn sisters, were present too but it was Joan Guildford her favourite. "Should I ask my brother to annul this marriage? That way I can be sent back to England." "I thought you had accepted your destiny very well." Lady Guildford responded with eyebrows raised. "This alliance with Spain must be maintained, Mary. There are some sacrifices we must make for the sake of our kingdoms. You are doing your duty, and must continue to performe it as your father hoped you to do so. Give it time and you shall see things will get better." "He is but a boy! How can things get better?" Mary snapped in disdain; but surprisingly she would see lady Guildford was speaking the truth. As Charles grew older, he sought Mary's company in order to get to know each other better. They continued to speak in France, but Mary reluctantly thought to instigate him in order to speak Spanish and indirectly to improve his relations with the Queen of Castile, Joanna. She tried all that was in her power to be the bridge between mother and son, and though by doing so she earned the queen's respect, she had little success upon it due to her young husband's stubborness. And Mary soon understood that she had no power to interfere in such domestic matters, so she eventually quietened, although she continued to pay the queen some visits. At long last, Charles reached the proper age to consummate the marriage. He was 15 and Mary 19. By then, their relationship had improved and Mary was melancholic no more about being settled so far from home into a stranger place. There had been an attempt on Henry VIII's behalf in breaking the alliance between the two of them, but Mary did her best to save it. And did so by consummating the marriage, otherwise all of her father's efforts would have gone for nothing. "Your brother seems to have a difficult temper" Charles mentioned to his beautiful wife. It was some day of January 1516, weeks before Charles' ascending as king of Castile. They were eating in public, music was being played and courtiers danced. Still, at least for Mary, even if she was besotted with her young husband, she had to measure words carefully. "He had always been so and for that I apologize." She smiled and moved her hand to grip his. "I shall write him more often in order to prevent his attacks of frustrations reach us." "Perhaps we could pay him a visit." The prince suggested gently. "I also think to be fair in seeing my good aunt once more." Mary's smile brightened. The possibility of a visit warmed her heart, but would sadly be postponed. For on the 23rd day of January, Ferdinand II had died. And both Charles and Mary were now the sovereigns over Castille and Aragon, in spite of this latter's pleadge for Joanna's being its heiress instead. "Viva la reina de Castilla!" Mary heard the crowd's cheering upon the news being given. She smiled and thought of nothing but carrying the crown proudly side by side with her beloved husband. "Viva el rey de Castilla!" Charles and Mary gazed into each other's eyes before looking into the horizon. A new chapter of History was being written from that day on and soon the results of an alliance long time ago planned by Henry VII of England would be seen.

[senseandaccountability]

FIC: The light that shrivels a mountain, chapter 1

Pairing: eventually a slow burn Sara Ryder/Harry Carlyle story Summary:  They will need new terms for everything now, a whole new vocabulary for their existence. Sara Ryder and Harry Carlyle try to get their bearings in a new galaxy as they find themselves closer to each other than they ever expected. Read at AO3 or under the cut

Prologue: One for the ages The neon outline of the Silversun Strip almost rivals the lights inside the vast flat where the Milky Way’s best and brightest are hobnobbing tonight. It’s an impressive display put on by - among others - a handful of renowned scientists, eccentric billionaires and a few figureheads like N7 legend Alec Ryder. Big and pompous but somehow still somber enough, just the way these things are supposed to be. And Harry Carlyle isn’t a detective but even so he can spot the trail of Something Else going on behind these carefully constructed facades. Harry once knew Ryder’s wife Ellen but that seems like ages ago now, in another world entirely. She had been a Harlow then and sat beside him during lectures; her mind had been a maze of cleverness and creativity and he had felt inferior to her on several occasions - inferior and impressed because he likes to pride himself in always being able to appreciate brilliance. Now it all feels like a closed chapter. A remnant from when the galaxy had felt fresh and untraveled and people weren’t in all seriousness plotting their escape from it. “Surely there are ethical ramifications-” an elderly man - chief engineer Adams, stationed at SSV Sparta - points out but are cut off by a younger man, one of Harry’s former students. Brenner, he recalls. Morgan Brenner, with ambitions twice as high as his IQ. “That’s always been said for new discoveries!” he blurts now. “The relays, FTL, even spaceships!” “You make careful consideration sound outdated,” Jien Garson says from a few feet away. Her voice is cool, deep; when she motions herself towards them everyone watches. “But last time I checked we still live in a society that favour evidence based theories over speculation.” Harry stifles a sigh. It’s not that the concept itself - an evening of debate and speculation about everyone’s personal obsessions -  is boring, because it’s not. It’s actually mostly the individuals present that are dull. Everyone here is so imbued with greatness, wrapped in an air of arrogant successes and with such an abundance of means that it leaves them with nothing interesting to speak of. It’s an existence without friction, without resistance and it washes away everything besides these smooth, polished surfaces that rivals the facades of the buildings outside. These are men and women of the future; most of them are already halfway there, living through future glory in their own minds. The Andromeda Initiative promises to stroke the egos of the already grandiose personas of their galaxy - he has yet to learn anything about it that is aimed at the less fortunate. There are things that could tempt him when it comes to leaving the Milky Way behind, he’s not going to lie to himself about that. Things, reasons, motivations. One of the major ones is the dead-end of science as they know it. The human mind - the human sight - is ultimately a failed one, clouded by history or regret or faith. Not necessarily a spiritual faith either, which he can at least understand the outlines of, but a conservative faith in old science and outdated doctrines, as though hundreds of years of intergalactic collaborations haven’t altered their arts entirely. That kind of backwards thinking is the one extreme in medicine. The other is represented by individuals such as Alec Ryder himself and that perspective sees no limits to anyone’s reach or claim. If you can, you must. Harry can’t fall in line behind that way of reasoning either, can’t abandon that lingering sense of what’s right and wrong or what ought to be right by all sensible standards. Or wrong. Goodness knows it’s mostly when it goes badly one needs those guidelines in the first place.   He swallows a mouthful of wine. Networking has never been his favorite pastime but even if it had, this is an extreme case of it and only irritation and frustration with current events at Huerta Memorial has brought him here. Looking around this room he can spot at least four or five doctors and scientists with - he suspects, but he was always an excellent guesser - the same set of motivations. With recent discoveries and breakthroughs after the Geth invasion, Harry and his colleagues had somehow assumed their work would follow in line, open up to new schools of thought, but instead they had met heavy resistance among medical bureaucrats and human diplomats alike. Never before has it been made so abundantly clear to him that he has reached a dead end in his research. Ten years ago when he had been climbing up the apex of his career and hosted several seminars at the Citadel, he would never have imagined signing up for something that will, in every way, strip him of all his connections and reputation and spit him out on a remote colony somewhere. A lifetime of hard, dedicated medical work ending on a brave new world. “There will likely be another war here,” Adams says. “Our resources-” “Our resources?” No, Harry thinks. The centuries-old ideal of humanity as a collective certainly seems to have lost impact. “The Initiative is not unmoved by the plight of the Milky Way.” “That’s what you’d like me to believe, isn’t it?” Garson gives a little laugh that sounds sharp against the people in the crowd. “We would hardly invest our time and credits into this project if we wished for anything but prosperity for generations to come.” Adams shakes his head. “Prosperity as a measurement of success, now that is outdated.” Touché, old man. The conversation fades out and becomes soaked up in the noise of the large room and Harry turns away slightly, marking his disinterest as subtly as he possibly can. Which isn’t subtle at all. There’s something about these gatherings that strips him to the bare bones, as if the formal wear only ever serves as a reminder that he still isn’t assimilated enough for the bored exhaustion not to get to him. A simple upbringing is such a cliche but still true for many of them even up here, in the fancy apartments at the Citadel. Not that they’re on top of the hierarchy, far from it, but high enough for it to be a place where people want to spend several hours. At least the drinks are nice and strong and the food is well-suited to its purpose. Removing himself even further from the discussion, he spots a woman standing by the large panorama window; she’s alone and holds a beer bottle in on hand as she tampers a bit with her omni-tool. Oblivious to everyone else or acutely aware, he can’t say from a distance and somehow he’s intrigued enough to want to know. Around him he can hear low voices talk about black-ops, about the N7 program, about Commander Shepard and the Council; there are a large group of medical professionals too and they mainly discuss recent discoveries in xenomedicine and restrains infringed on them. Once, he met his wife at a party not too unlike this one. Wedged in between rambling old scholars and over-eager military strategists fresh out of some SpecForces program, he had spotted her: short, pink-haired, overdressed and striking in all her awkwardness. Judith Krinth, about to become one of the most prominent sociologist of the century and embark on a splendid career in the intergalactic paralegal community. Back then she hadn’t been famous for those things, of course. Back then she had just been a very clever, obscenely funny girl and Harry had fallen in love with her after one drink together. One drink and then twenty years of them. Their marriage - like so many of the marriages in their circle of friends, a quiet little epidemic - ended in a divorce but while it lasted it had continually amazed him.

He had really wanted kids, to start a family; she had really not. It’s far from the only reason but it had been the start of a waning in their marriage that they never properly managed to recover from. So many ups and downs in fifteen years and somehow they usually ended up in bed, or at a restaurant, laughing at something together. Elasticity, someone had called it once. The measurement for healthy relationships: how far you can leap in either direction and still be returned to the heart of it all. But this had been something from which they hadn’t bounced back. Some days he mourns her like he mourns the dead. Tonight, there’s no pink-haired sociologist in the crowd but there’s a woman inspecting him from a few meters away. Pretty, he thinks to himself as he crosses the floor and approaches. But likely too young. For what, Harry? “Sara.” She extends her hand; he takes it. A trace of something crosses her face as their eyes meet. “Hello, Sara. My name is Harry Carlyle.” There’s a certain look at the bottom of her gaze, he finds, a certain edge to her entire being that tells him she’s the kind of person it will turn out to be nearly impossible to establish a personal history for. A wild sort of trait, a lack of confinements that runs deep. It’s appealing and - when he encounters this among his patients - slightly infuriating. “What kind of famous and important fool are you, then?” He feels the corners of his mouth twitch at her bluntness. She really is young, no doubt about it; it’s a young person’s bravado hammering behind every word and there are days when he misses this in himself, other days when he wonders if he ever had it or if he was always intent on success and accomplishment. “I’m a medic,” he offers. “Trained surgeon. Specialized in neurosurgery.” Once, among different people, that used to be impressive. Did it now? Really? These days he doesn’t expect it to awake any kind of reaction besides the one this Sara is giving him now: a brief nod. “And you?” he asks instead, trying to come up with a qualified guess in his head. Not old enough to be anything that demands the kind of extensive education that gets you invited to these gatherings - he sees no other students here, at least - and too sharp to be nothing but a security guard in civilian clothing. “Family.” Her gaze travels over the room until it rests at a young man standing beside Alec Ryder. A young man with a striking resemblance to her own features. Of course, he reminds himself. The Ryder twins. There’s an extensive medical file on her somewhere, even. The biotic twin from Ellen Ryder’s much-chronicled pregnancy. “Ah,” he says. “You know my dad?” “That would be an exaggeration.” Harry tries to summon his most recent memory involving the man in question but fails. Their paths very rarely cross and he can’t say he’s mourning the fact. Lately, word on the street is that Ryder is on the verge of making himself a pariah in more organisations than one, keeping up his stubborn and illegal research like a man possessed. In addition to his already arrogant personality, it's definitely not a winning concept. “We’re acquaintances, at best.” A little smile tugging at her mouth. “That’s pretty much how I feel about him, too.” He wonders if that’s the truth or a comment made in order to sound like something she isn’t, something she’d rather be. Once he might have claimed the same things about his family, the strangely distant mother and the father he barely saw more than occasionally at birthday dinners and holidays. We are shaped by our early years, someone he used to work with echoes in his head and Harry wonders if that is still true, in this age of space and beyond. Maybe it never was, maybe it is now more than ever. “I suppose he’s a man who works hard,” Harry says, steering carefully along the neutral road of this conversation. “You could say that.” She smiles properly now and whatever hard traces he had spotted in her face before have completely vanished. It’s just youth, he thinks. Youth and some disappointment, most likely. Maybe sadness. There are rumors about Ellen Ryder floating about, rumors regarding her health and Harry finds himself wishing they are false, for this girl’s sake if nothing else.   There’s something about her. Something genuine, something misplaced among these people here tonight, maybe in this entire context. Harry himself can’t even begin to fathom all the hidden agendas behind the fancy words of Garson and her ilk, doesn’t even want to start deciphering it because there’s a pull in there, too, an allure in falling for their golden worlds and new frontiers. And there’s something about her that tells him she feels the same way. Or maybe she’s just young enough to still be a full-blood cynic, gods know he was at her age. Either way, she’s got a presence, a slow, steady kind of gravitas. Her dark eyes follows him, he has a sense of her even when he can tell she's watching something else. As though she leaves an imprint in the room. Decades ago Harry knows some people would have suggested it's a result of the biotic energy but common sense and science have dispersed that kind of nonsense – at least most of it, most of the time.

The reality is just that Sara Ryder is Ellen and Alec's daughter and has inherited a streak of intelligent charisma – hers – and a dominant sort of personality – his – and Harry is getting pretty damn drunk to be standing here, waxing lyrical about this kid in the first place.

Now she looks at him again, eyebrows slightly arched. “What?” “Nothing,” he says, offering a half-apologetic smile before looking out over the room again. “Quite a crowd tonight.” “Dad’s been even more obsessed with his research lately. And with this.” She makes a sweeping gesture. “What do you know about the Initiative?” Harry thinks while he sips his wine; there’s a dull headache forming around his temples, like a persistent little reminder to get more sleep. “Not much.” “Yeah.” She checks something on her wrist, possibly the time, but this entire setup reminds him of cheesy old vids and her behavior would belong to a spy in one of those, hired by someone high up in the ranks and programmed to report any Doubter to the powers that be. He nearly smiles. “I don’t, either. Scott, my brother, keeps trying to find out all sorts of things but there’s not much there.”   “Or what’s there is very protected, perhaps.” She nods. “Will you join them?” Them, he thinks, but doesn’t say. He’d have assumed Alec Ryder would make sure his family was on board with the plans before taking them further, but maybe he assumes they are. Maybe he doesn't care. Maybe this is part of his elaborate exile from every unpleasant current situation he’s ensnared in. Maybe this entire thing is so damn full of complications and complexities that Harry will never be able to wrap his head around them all.   “I’m open to the idea,” he concludes after some consideration. It nearly surprises him to hear his own words, at least until he recalls his latest research project and the quest for funding. “Maybe we’ll be sharing an ark in the near future.” Sara flashes him a quick grin. In the corner of his eye he observes a trio of men his age deeply engaged in a conversation. One of them he identifies as Oleg Petrovsky, a man most people have considered long lost to dark ops and fringe groups. There’s a fleeting unrest at the idea of that kind of mark being left on this expedition, but then again why wouldn’t it be? Wherever they go they’ll carry the Milky Way with them.   “No battleplan ever survives contact with the enemy,” he overhears Petrovsky say and then one of the other men makes a disdainful noise. “We’re not planning for war, Petrovsky.” Petrovsky laughs, a quick, hard laugh laced with a lifetime of battle experience. “You should.” Harry lets a mouthful of wine be his focus for a second, pretending to enjoy the taste the way he did back when Judith would drag him with her to assorted wine tastings at the Citadel. He had never achieved the manners of someone as refined as this ideal husband his ex-wife sometimes seemed to search for, but he had at least tried. That counts for something. “You’re going then?” he asks, turning his attention back to Alec Ryder’s daughter. She nods. “Probably. Yeah. Need to make sure Scott doesn’t get himself into trouble.” At every party there are moments where the setting changes, the tone alters and the crowds morph slightly - sometimes not at all - into something barely different. A quiet gathering turns into drunk people looking to dance, a dinner party with sober intellectuals end up as a riveting chamber play and a discussion that originated as a feud transforms into actual, fair debate. Tonight, he feels, he can either remain a cautious bystander or he can finish his wine, get the two of them another set of drinks and they can continue their conversation. He’d actually very much enjoy that and the varied reasons why aren’t something he needs to delve into - not right here and not right now. He’s just about to make this suggestion to Sara when he sees they have company - her brother, by the look of things, seemingly eager to drag her away. She shoots Harry a glance - lingering, but only for a fraction of a second - before smiling. A polite smile this time. What did you expect? “See you later, Harry Carlyle,” she says. And he’s left standing by the staggering view of the Citadel by night, hoping he’ll feel certain of whatever decision for his future he’s about to make.