#stole them from their families for a decade and made them serve him without ever explaining himself. you know he could have and he probably | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

purpleswans1 · 4 years ago

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The Sun Hashira

I published this on AO3 a while ago, but just now am getting around to adding it here. Oh well. A while back, this concept drilled its way into my head and didn't stop until I wrote it down, so here we are.

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He only thought about his old battle-brother again after nearly a decade due to Kyojuro. The boy had gotten it into his head to succeed his father as the Flame Hashira, despite his own lack of talent and Shinjuro’s despair. Kyojuro stole the flame breathing books of his ancestors and was still training in secret. This led to a loud argument that only ended when Senjuro - timid, quiet little Senjuro who usually hid in a corner - jumped on Shinjuro’s back to try and pull him away from his brother.

Once Shinjuro had settled down and made it to the bottom of a sake bottle, he realized that it wasn't his son’s fault that he was so impertinent. Tanjuro had retired when Kyojuro was still a baby, so he couldn’t remember what true greatness was. Most of the Demon slayers from that time were dead now. Of those who had fought beside the Sun Hashira, only Urokodaki, Old man Kuwajima, and Shinjuro himself remained in the land of the living. Even the late Ubuyashiki head had finally succumbed to his curse and left matters in the hands of young Kagaya.

It had been so long. Over a decade at this point; they were in the Taisho Era now. It was past time for Shinjuro to visit his battle-brother and possibly forgive him for leaving.

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“Excuse me, but do you know Tanjuro Kamado?”

“Hm?” The shopkeeper in the small village town tilted her head. “Oh, why yes! Kamado-san makes the best charcoal in the prefecture. And his family is so kind! I wish my little Kanime would take after Tanjiro, you rarely see such a well-behaved boy these days.”

So, he does have a family. “I’m an old acquaintance of his and haven’t visited in a while,” Shinjuro carefully explained. “Would you mind giving me directions to his house?”

“Of course!” The lady clapped her hands together. “Just follow the mountain pass over there, past Saburo-san’s house, for about half a day. Actually, Tanjiro-kun just left here, so if you run you may catch up to him.

Unlikely, especially if he’s from that man’s bloodline.

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“You look well, Rengoku.”

Shinjuro couldn’t bring himself to reply with the same greeting. When he’d last seen Tanjuro, the only sign of his debilitating illness had been a frequent cough. Now, the man’s face was hollow, all his muscle tone was gone, and those eyes that once burned with the sun had all but lost their light. According to Kie, her husband couldn’t even walk more than a few steps outside without assistance.

An angry part of Shinjuro wished that he hadn’t come, so he could only remember his battle-brother in his prime.

“...It’s been too long.” Shinjuro finally said, sitting down on the porch next to Tanjuro.

“How is your family? Are Ruka and Kyojuro doing well?”

“...Ruka passed away several years ago. She did give me another son, Senjuro.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Still, I have no doubt that your sons’ are a credit to her memory.”

“Everything that’s good about them came from her.”

Tanjuro sighed. “You’ve always been so hard on yourself, old friend. You may be the eldest son, but you shouldn’t try to carry the world on your shoulders. We are all only human.”

“Some of us are,” Shinjuro muttered.

“Please, not this old argument again.” No matter how many times Tanjuro tried to assure him that there was nothing inherently superior about the breath of the Sun users, Shinjuro refused to hear it.

A young, miniature Tanjuro ran up to the two men. “Father, will you be okay with Hanko and your friend while I help Nezuko and Takeo with the wood?”

Tanjuro smiled at his son. “We will Tanjiro. But before you go, would you mind showing me your Hinokami Kagura? I want to make sure you’re practicing.”

Shinjuro gasped and turned to his friend.

Tanjiro, for his part, looked unsure and cast a glance in Shinjuro’s direction.

“It’s fine,” Tanjuro assured his boy. “Shinjuro is an old friend, he’s seen me do that dance many times.”

This was apparently enough for the boy, who nodded, ran off to the edge of the clearing, and picked up a stick to serve as a substitute for the blade.

“So, at least the legacy of Sun breathing will continue on.” Shinjuro muttered.

Tanjuro only grunted.

Tanjiro moved through the set styles hesitantly, with shaking arms and unsteady feet. Still, Shinjuro could already tell that the boy would master it eventually. He may not be at the level of his father, but that boy would surpass anything Kyojuro could accomplish in no time.He was surely blessed by the Kami.

“That boy will be a great demon slayer someday.”

“No.”

The response was so sudden and unusually fierce that Shinjuro originally didn’t realize that it was Tanjuro speaking. “What do you mean?”

“Tanjiro won’t be a demon slayer. I want him to live a peaceful life, unconcerned with those tragedies. I want all my children to live long, simple lives.”

“You can’t be that naive!” Shinjuro shouted. “That boy has the mark!”

“You’re wrong. That scar on Tanjiro’s forehead is from when he saved his younger brother. Besides, I doubt that even I have the mark you are looking for. If what the records say is true, those around me should have achieved the mark as well, and none of you did. I for one, am glad for that. You’ve passed the age of 25 already, and I’d hate for you to not see your sons grow up.” At the end of his speech, Tanjuro’s voice broke into coughs.

Tanjiro noticed his father’s state and ran up to them. “Father! Don’t exert yourself!”

Shinjuro stood up. He looked down at his old friend, his battle-brother, the man he admired most, and was disgusted. The Sun Hashira was reduced to an invalid, and his chosen successor had the temperament of a nursemaid instead of a warrior. It was pathetic.

“Coming here was a mistake.” Shinjuro said. “I’ll take my leave now.”

He would eventually regret that those were the last words he said to his old friend

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Unknown to Shinjuro, his visit did have an effect on Tanjuro Kamado. That night, he pulled his eldest son aside and showed him a Nichirin blade.

Tanjiro’s eyes sparkled in wonder at the blade. “Father, are we from a family of Samurai?”

Tanjuro chuckled. “No, nothing like that. You may see this as a family heirloom, but it was only forged in my generation. We are a family of charcoal-sellers, after all.”

Tanjiro nodded. He looked a little disappointed, but he was a child of the new Era and didn’t need to worry about legacies from the Edo period.

“Tanjiro, as you are the oldest son you will probably inherit this house once your mother and I have passed on. You will have a new family to care for, and will continue our traditions. However, if the day should ever come when you or your descendants need to leave this place and face great danger, I ask that you please take this sword with you. It is strong and sharp, and you can protect yourself and others with it.”

Tanjiro would remember these words before he left for Mt. Sagiri with his sister, and would carry it to Urokodaki’s house though it never occurred to him to unsheath the blade.

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Several years later, Kyojuro came home and announced that he was the new Flame Hashira. Like that was any great accomplishment. Shijuro became frustrated with his sons, downed another bottle of sake, and decided to do the stupid thing and visit Tanjuro again.

This time, he remembered the way and didn’t need to stop by the village. If he had, he might have noticed how sad they were at the mention of Kamado and might have learned the truth earlier.

Instead, he made it all the way to that little house on the mountain before he saw the graves.

All he could do was pay his respects. Someone had already cleaned the house, but based on the broken door and family history Shinjuro could easily guess how they’d died.

The whole time he stood there, one question ran through his mind: What could I have done to prevent this?

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“Kyojuro said you wanted to speak with me?”

Shinjuro turned to look at the young man in his presence. The current Water Hashira, Giyu Tomioka, was not an intimidating man. His skills were certainly a testament to Urokodaki’s tutelage, and he may have somewhat surpassed his old master, but he was like water. Calm and unemotional, but ready to flow through the path of least resistance.

He certainly did not have the skills to combat someone even a Sun breath user couldn’t defeat.

“I have an old friend who lives in your domain…” Shinjuro described the path of the Kamado household, or at least what was left of it. “...I recently went to visit him, but I found only an empty house and buried graves. I suspect they were killed by a demon. Did you ever run into any demons in that area?”

Tomioka stood there silently for about a minute. Shinjuro got frustrated and started to get up and leave. If the man didn’t know who he was talking about, then there was no point in talking to Tomioka any more.

“...Kamado. That is your friend’s name, isn’t it?”

Shinjuro froze in a half-kneeling position. “Yes.”

“I remember them. It was a little over a year ago now. I received a notice that there was a strong demon in the area, but by the time I got there everyone in the house was already dead. I’m sorry. If I had made it there half a day earlier, I might have been able to save them.”

Shinjuro leaned back again. He couldn’t bear to think that the legacy of Sun breathing was truely dead. He certainly couldn’t bear to think of Tanjuro’s children being brutally massacred. Still, he couldn’t blame the Water Hashira for this.

Tanjuro’s words rang in his head. We're all only human.

“You’re only human. It can’t be helped.”

“...You should know that one of them escaped unharmed. The oldest son was staying in another house that night and wasn’t attacked.”

Shinjuro sat up at that. “The eldest is alive? Tanjiro, right?”

Tomioka nodded. “He had a strong will and showed great battle instincts, so I sent him to my old master Urokodaki to be trained. I suspect my master wouldn’t send him to Final Selection this early, so he’s likely still there if you want to learn more about what happened to your friend.

“... I guess I’ll have to visit Mt. Sagiri.” Somehow, he doubted Urokodaki would know who he was working with, even if he’d been acquaintances with Tanjuro.

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The hike to Mt. Sagiri was hell on Shinjuro’s gout-ridden joints. He was getting too old for all this traveling. Still, he owed it to Tanjuro to check on his son’s progress, and he wouldn’t be able to rest until he was sure Sun breathing was being used again.

When he finally reached that little house at the base of the mountain, the only one waiting for him was Urokodaki.

“Giyu sent a letter after you spoke with him, Rengoku. I suspected you’d come eventually.”

Shinjuro snorted at that and sat down on the floor. “Have you got anything to drink?”

“No, unless you’re referring to tea. Why are you concerned with Tanjiro Kamado?”

“You may be an idiot, but your not that blind or dumb. His name is Kamado.” Shinjuro sighed. “He’s the son of our Tanjuro.”

“And what does the identity of that boy’s father have to do with anything?”

Shinjuro balked. There were no words for how stupid Urokodaki was acting, so he just glared.

Urokodaki sighed. “You know, when I finally realized where I’d seen those hanafuda earrings before I was tempted to send for you. You were Tanjuro’s best friend and should have been the one to guide his son. Now, I’m glad I didn’t. Kuwajima at least took a moment to mourn our old friend before asking if I thought Tanjiro would survive final selection.”

This infuriated Shinjuro. “Who do you think -- “

“Urokodaki-san!” a young voice called out from beyond the doorway. “It’s getting dark. Is dinner…” He froze when he caught sight of Shinjuro.

“Tanjiro-kun, this is an old friend of mine, Shinjuro Rengoku.” Urokodaki said. “Please forgive his intrusion.”

“You… I remember you.” Tanjiro said. “You came to visit father years ago. How do you… how do you know both my father and Urokodaki-san?”

“Hm.” Shinjuro grunted. “I heard about what happened to your family. You have my sympathies.”

“Ah, thank you.” Tanjiro finally entered the hut and sat down.

Shinjuro scrutinized the boy critically. He had grown a great deal in the last few years, and had finally developed some muscle tone. It seems Urokodaki’s training was good for something at least. Tanjiro had also lost his child-like innocence. There was steel in his soul, and he had the eyes of a warrior. Just like Tanjuro used to.

“Tell me boy, do you remember your father’s Sun Breathing?”

Urokodaki sighed in exasperation.

“Sun… breathing?” Tanjiro looked at the other two men in confusion.

“Come on, I saw you do it when I last visited your father.” Shinjuro waved his hand. “He said his usual nonsense about it being a prayer to the gods again…”

“Are you talking about the Hinokami Kagura?” Tanjiro asked. “Are you saying… that it’s actually a sword style?”

Both Urokodaki and Shinjuro stared at the boy in shock.

Shinjuro recovered first. “Yes exactly.”

“But… father never mentioned…”

“Tanjuro retired from the demon slayer corps before you or your siblings were born.” Urokodaki said. “I imagine he didn’t want to pressure you to follow a path he knew was fraught with danger and would lead to an early grave.”

Shinjuro rolled his eyes. “Fat lot of good that did him.”

“Don’t talk about my father like that!”

Even Urokodaki was surprised by Tanjiro’s outburst.

“All my life, Father had a frail body. By the end, he couldn’t walk on his own and could barely get out of bed. Still, he took care of us the best he could. And every new year without fail he’d dance from sunset to sunrise nonstop! So don’t disrespect him!”

Shinjuro was shocked to notice that Tanjiro was starting to cry.

“Father… father had passed away several months before the attack. I wasn’t there, I was peacefully sleeping in another house while my family was being brutally murdered. Still, despite my own regrets, I know that the only person responsible for their death is Muzan Kibutsuji! That’s why I decided byself to become a demon slayer! For their sake!”

Tanjiro was standing up by the end, breathing heavily.

All three occupants stared at one another for a long while, before Urokodaki finally broke the tension. “Rengoku, it’s dark out so I’ll let you stay the night, but you should leave tomorrow morning.”

Shinjuro scowled. “Yeah. I can see that I’m not wanted.”

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That night, while Shinjuro slept in a spare room and didn’t wonder about the closed door nearby, Tanjiro spoke to Urokodaki about his father. For the first time in his life, he learned about how great of a swordsman Tanjuro Kamado had been. How he had risen to the rank of Hashira and killed hundreds of demons in his short tenure with the corps. How he was the man both Urokodaki and Shinjuro admired most.

When Tanjiro finally remembered his father’s sword, he asked for permission to train with it. Urokodaki granted it without a second thought, though he knew the requirements for breath of water sword was slightly different from breath of sun.

“Urokodaki-san, did my father ever battle Muzan directly?”

“No. None of the demon slayers have even seen him in centuries. But, if there was anyone who had a chance, it would have been your father. He slayed 4 different lower moons over the course of his career, and even battled against Upper Moon 3 and survived until they fled with the sunrise.”

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Right after that night, Tanjiro started training to use the Hinokami Kagura beside his breath of water. It was difficult, especially since the spirits of dead children could only help with the breath of water, but he was able to split the largest boulder within a month, half a year earlier than he needed to qualify for the next Final selection.

Tanjiro would feel guilty about getting a new Nichirin blade after final selection when his father’s was perfectly adequate, but when Haganezuka-san was so excited to see how the blade would change color Tanjiro decided to use it for a while. At least, until it broke at Mt. Natagumo and he felt better just asking one of the swordsmiths to sharpen the older blade.

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“Come Father! Come meet my three new tsugukos!”

Kyojuro was as loud as ever. Subtlety was never the boy’s strong suite, and bursting his eardrums years ago hadn’t helped matters. At this point, talking with his son was exhausting for Shinjuro.

“What makes you think you have anything to teach these tsugukos? I heard about your last mission. You’re now blind in one eye!” Shinjuro grumbled.

Two new voices rang through the Fire estate.

“WHAAA---”

“Oi! What are you saying about Rengacho? I’ll fight you!”

The most striking interruption though was a streak of red that rammed into the back of his head.

“Don’t belittle Rengoku-san!”

Shinjuro rolled off the porch and into the garden, finally landing on his back. The blinding high-noon sun didn’t help his hangover and budding concussion. It was almost a relief when a figure blocked the light, until he realized who that red hair and dangling earrings belonged to.

“Flame Hashira Kyojuro Rengoku is a magnificent swordsman! He protected five train cars by himself when we were fighting the Lower Moon One! When that was done, he immediately fought with Upper Moon Three and survived! Sure he lost one eye in the battle, but that hasn’t diminished his fighting spirit!” shouted Tanjiro Kamado.

Shinjuro couldn’t do much more than blink. “... Kamado? Is that you?”

Tanjiro turned away and bowed towards Kyojuro. “Kyojuro-san, please forgive me for being so disrespectful to your father. However, I couldn’t stand by and let this man who claims to admire my father speak so ill of you.”

“Ha! That is no problem, it’s about time someone gave him a good head-but.” Kyojuro laughed. “I only hope your head isn’t hurt too bad as a result.”

“Nope! I have a very thick skull!”

“Ha ha! Oh, you mentioned your father, Tanjiro-kun. Is that who you learned Sun-breathing from?”

Tanjiro nodded. “Yes. I always knew it as the Hinokami Kagura, but after I started training with Urokodaki-san this man came by and mentioned that my father used sun breathing, and I started to incorporate it into my sword style as well.”

“I see. My father frequently mentioned his old friend who practiced sun breathing, but I never had the pleasure to meet him. Still, this is wonderful! Perhaps your ancestry is responsible for your sister’s unique condition.”

“That’s what Urokodaki said as well!”

As Tanjiro and Kyojuro laughed and talked, Shinjuro couldn’t do much more than sit up and look at them. Ignoring the blonde and boar-head in the background, the sight before him was like a blast from the past. Kyojuro and Tanjiro, they were just like Shinjuro and Tanjuro, only better and more at ease.

Kamado, old friend, it seems our sons have surpassed us both.

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Taisho Secret: Giyu took so long to respond to Shinjuro when they were talking about the Kamado family because he wasn’t sure if he should mention Nezuko. In the end, he decided to keep quiet and leave it to Tanjiro to decide. Between this and Rengoku stubbornness, Shinjuro didn’t find out about her until after that last scene.

Note: I‘m not quite sure what butterfly effect would have led to Kyojuro surviving in this AU. Either Tanjiro handled the upper moon one easier and was still in shape to help with the fight or Akaza took one look at Tanjiro, had flashbacks to fighting his father, and ran the hell out of there as fast as he could. It was probably a combination of both.

#kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #rengoku shinjuro #rengoku kyoujurou #kamado tanjuro #kamado tanjirou #kamado tanjirō #myfanfic #my fic #demon slayer fanfic

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robininthelabyrinth · 4 years ago

Note

an au, if you're interested: the Wen Sect annex Qinghe Nie shortly after the Sect Leader's death, and young NMJ and NHS are raised as Qishan Sect cultivators, with all of Wen Ruohan's "gentle encouragement" to ensure it happens. What does the Sunshot Campaign look like, with the Wen wielding the force of Qinghe Nie as?

Nie Huaisang liked to braid his brother’s hair.

Proper Nie braids, the way it should be, no matter where they were or what happened to them – it’s very calming to him, and he liked to think his brother enjoyed it, too. He’d certainly fought hard enough for the privilege.

Wen Ruohan wasn’t very big on privileges, though he made certain exceptions for Nie Mingjue. Outside of formal events, which were an exercise in control and humiliation, Nie Huaisang’s brother could dress as he liked, provided he stayed within the boundaries of the Wen sect colors of white and red; the remaining details were left to his own discretion.

Since then, Nie Mingjue mostly wore white.

Not pretty white with embroidery, the way the Lan sect did, and definitely nothing with the red sun; just sheer unrelieved white.

Funeral clothing.

Nie Huaisang wasn’t sure if it was meant to mourn their father, who’d died so long ago now – Nie Huaisang was too young to remember much about him – or if Nie Mingjue was merely mourning everything that had happened since then. The loss of their sect, of their identities, of…

Nie Huaisang’s hands slowed, and then paused.

After a moment, Nie Mingjue stirred. “Huaisang? Is something the matter?”

“Would it be easier,” Nie Huaisang said, “if you were married?”

He could feel the way Nie Mingjue’s shoulders tensed under his hands.

“I’m not going to marry Wen Ruohan,” his brother said after a moment, his voice harsh. “He killed our father, stole our birthright, and imprisoned us here. I’m not going to marry him.”

“Wen Chao said that he’d probably make you Madame Wen, if you agreed,” Nie Huaisang said. “You wouldn’t have to kill people for him, if you agreed.”

Nie Mingjue was the Wen sect’s saber. He trained the Wen cultivators and led them in battle; wherever Wen Ruohan pointed, he went, and where he went, people rarely survived. That was the deal Nie Mingjue had struck, years ago, when the Wen sect had invaded Qinghe the very day after their father was murdered – a premeditated two-pronged attack, designed to eliminate all obstacles.

Nie Huaisang didn’t remember much from that day. They had been weak, defenseless, vulnerable – the food at dinner had been poisoned, spies from within turning on them. He himself had been one of the most sick, unable to stop himself from constantly vomiting, his veins turning blue as the poison spread through his young body; without the antidote, he would have died that day.

After all, it hadn’t been him Wen Ruohan had come for.

Their father had been right, it seemed, to have gone to such lengths to hide the fact that his eldest son was a misaligned reincarnation, a man’s soul born into a body that didn’t match. It had been a tricky situation: if Nie Mingjue had been a woman, Qinghe Nie would have honored their word to make a marriage alliance with Qishan Wen, direct heir to direct heir, and if he’d been a man born into a man’s body, there would have been no question of any marriage alliance at all.

But Nie Mingjue was neither, and Qishan Wen didn’t recognize misaligned reincarnations.

Their father had decided to live up to his principles: his son was his son, not his daughter, and therefore the marriage agreement was inapplicable. He could always marry off another daughter, if he had one.

They’d kept it a secret for over a decade – but in the end, Wen Ruohan found out. He felt that he’d been cheated, and he was determined to take what he believed he was owed.

Wen Chao had once told Nie Huaisang that the original plan had been to marry Nie Mingjue to Wen Xu. Nie Mingjue would have the position of first wife, as a sop to Qinghe Nie’s honor, but that was all, and never mind how everyone know how badly Wen Xu treated his women, concubine or official wife alike.

That plan had been ruined when Nie Mingjue, sick with poison and grief and far too young, had nevertheless found the strength to lift up his saber and attack Wen Xu in the entranceway to the Unclean Realm – not only to attack, but to defeat; not only to defeat, but to permanently cripple.

He’d been only moments away from claiming Wen Xu’s head when Wen Ruohan had finally condescended to come to his son’s defense.

That fight hadn’t gone nearly as well.

(The only thing Nie Huaisang remembered from that day was this:

Wen Ruohan standing there with his foot on Nie Mingjue’s chest, pressing him down into the floor with a smile as he said, “You’re very talented. I’ll do you the honor of taking you as my own bride, instead.”

“I’d rather die first,” Nie Mingjue had spat back.

“I’m sure you would, stubborn Nie that you are,” Wen Ruohan had said agreeably, and removed a jar from his waist; it had been the antidote. “But how about your brother? Your sect disciples? Would you rather they died first, too?”)

In the end they’d struck their deal. The Nie sect disciples was not put to death by poison and sword, as originally intended, but was instead absorbed into Qishan Nie’s forces, and Nie Mingjue was not forced to marry as long as he served Wen Ruohan as his weapon.

“I gave up on having principles when I burned the Cloud Recesses,” Nie Mingjue said, his voice flat. “It doesn’t bother me any longer.”

That was a lie, and they both knew it. Nie Mingjue might have traded away his principles for the lives of his family, of his sect, but he’d never given them up, not really – or else the Cloud Recesses wouldn’t have had so much time to empty out their Library Pavilion before it was put to the flame.

(Wen Chao said that Nie Mingjue had been friends with Lan Xichen, once. Sending him to do the job was meant to hurt.)

“And anyway, haven’t I told you to stop talking with Wen Chao?” Nie Mingjue added, and Nie Huaisang can see in the mirror the way his brother’s lips twist in anger. “He always tells you bad things.”

That was true, and Nie Huaisang acknowledged it. Still, Wen Chao wasn’t that bad – he had been, before, when he was still the spoiled oversexed princeling who didn’t think anyone on earth had the right to tell him no, but Nie Mingjue had beaten him black and blue over his womanizing enough times that he’d finally started to shape up in sheer self-defense.

Realizing that his father had lost interest in rescuing him had had quite an impact.

And anyway, it wasn’t like Nie Huaisang had many other friends here, especially not ones that were as useless as he was.

There was Wen Ning, who was nice, but he was an excellent archer and his sister had made him a decent doctor’s assistant, probably so that he’d have a reason not to be stuck in the Sun Palace; he was away more often than not, and Nie Huaisang couldn’t hold it against him.

There was Meng Yao, officially serving as his brother’s deputy; he was slippery as a snake, working his way into Wen Ruohan’s favor through all sorts of horrific inventions of torture, but he was efficient and useful enough to almost make up for it. Nie Huaisang knew better than to fall for his gentle smiles.

Who was there beyond that?

Wen Xu was a raving madman, having never recovered from his defeat at Nie Mingjue’s hands, and the only other person of sufficient rank to speak with Wen Ruohan’s wards was Wen Zhuliu – and Nie Huaisang didn’t like Wen Zhuliu.

Nobody did, except maybe Wen Ruohan.

“Without him telling me things, I wouldn’t know them,” Nie Huaisang said. “Like the fact that serving as Wen Ruohan’s executioner doesn’t excuse you from having to serve him in bed.”

The arms of the chair broke under the strength of Nie Mingjue’s fists, but Nie Huaisang’s hands were still in his hair, and they were unmoved. His brother would never take any action that could hurt a single hair on his head, no matter how angry he was, and they both knew it.

“He told you that?” Nie Mingjue said through gritted teeth.

“He did,” Nie Huaisang said. “You lied to me, da-ge. Maybe only through omission, but…you lied. You let me think that being his weapon would be enough for him.”

“Nothing is ever enough for him,” Nie Mingjue said. “The Cloud Recesses was burned, the Lotus Pier was split open like a rotted peach, Koi Tower is all but suing for terms of surrender – and none of it is enough.”

Nie Huaisang knew.

Oh, how he knew.

He started braiding his brother’s hair again.

They sat there in silence, surrounded by the wood splinters that had once been part of Nie Mingjue’s chair, and there was no sound by the soft whisper of heavy hair being moved, the quiet clink of metal as Nie Huaisang wove in the simple decorations his brother favored.

“Do you want me to marry him?” Nie Mingjue asked after some time had passed. He sounded tired. “You and your clever plans – would it help if I knelt before the entire world and bowed to the Heavens and the Earth with him? If I profaned our father’s spilled blood by letting his murderer greet him as father-in-law?”

“I’m not saying that,” Nie Huaisang said neutrally.

“But it would help. In – whatever it is.”

It would.

Nie Huaisang has hated Wen Ruohan for as long as Nie Mingjue had. Wen Ruohan never paid much attention to him except as Nie Mingjue’s weakness, and even less after he’d discovered that Nie Huaisang had a weak natural talent and a disposition to be lazy and useless no matter what punishments it brought down on his brother’s head.

What was the point in paying serious attention to someone like that?

After all, how much damage could some useless person who could barely cultivate really do? The only thing he’d ever done that was remotely interesting was setting up a thriving business in erotic art – yes, it was a surprise that it was so successful, with customers in Yunmeng, in Gusu, in Lanling, in dozens of small sects across the cultivation world, yes, but…really. What a tawdry business, and all of it for no reason other than to bankroll Nie Huaisang’s habit of buying fans – and those came from all over, too.

From Yunmeng, from Gusu, from Lanling, from dozens of small sects.

Nie Huaisang especially liked the ones that Wei Wuxian, currently stationed in Yiling, would put together for him. They were always so very clever.

“He’d want children, if we married,” Nie Mingjue said. His eyes were closed in the mirror, his forehead wrinkled in pain as he seriously considered the idea of selling his body for a plan he had never permitted himself to know the details of. Nie Huaisang had never hated himself more than in this moment. “You know he’s wanted for years to replace his sons; he’s only refrained from demanding it because he knows I’d detonate my own golden core first.”

“They say that Lan Qiren is thinking of holding lectures again,” Nie Huaisang replied, changing the subject – it was true, of course. Wen Ruohan wanted Nie Mingjue to bear him better sons than the failures he had; he wanted him the way he had him during formal events, hair arranged and face painted like a proper lady in a dress to match, and he wanted him like that all the time. “In Hejian, since the Cloud Recesses is still being rebuilt. I never did manage to pass that course, the last time.”

He didn’t say that it would be a good excuse for explaining Nie Mingjue’s change of heart. His brother knew.

Anyone who was listening – and there was always someone listening – would only think that Nie Huaisang was exhorting his brother for his own selfish purposes.

That’s what this had to sound like.

“Besides, a niece or nephew wouldn’t be so bad,” he added, finishing the final braid. “Though I know you’d hate being pregnant, da-ge – they say too much exercise is bad for a child, damaging. You’d have to stop training.”

Stop fighting, he meant. With Wen Xu dead and all the leaders of the army loyal to Nie Mingjue, Wen Ruohan’s army would disappear much faster than the man would expect.

It’d be all for nothing, though, if they couldn’t get someone to drop the Nightless City’s defenses, build up over the past few years with all the treasures Wen Ruohan had looted away from the other sects. That was something no one could do but the master of the city –

Or its mistress.

“I’ll think about it,” Nie Mingjue said, and that was very nearly a yes.

“I’d like to take Wen Ning with me, he’s nice,” Nie Huaisang said. “Wen Qing, too, since he’s so sickly…do you think Wen Chao would like it, if I convinced him there’d been plenty of pretty girls there?”

Wen Chao hadn’t so much as looked at a girl since Nie Mingjue had executed Wang Lingjiao for having disfigured another woman out of jealousy, but bad reputations were hard to get rid of. Still, it was useful, both now and in the future when Wen Chao took the mantle of Sect Leader in Wen Ruohan’s stead.

He’d be terrible at it, of course, but Wen Qing hadn’t wanted the position, even if she agreed to be making most of the decisions behind the scenes; Wen Ning didn’t want anything to do with them at all, his only wish being to move to Yiling to be a mad scientist at the side of his idolized Wei Wuxian.

Meng Yao had been a tricky one to win over, since Nie Huaisang had no intention of letting him become Sect Leader Jin the way Wen Ruohan had implicitly promised him. But Nie Huaisang had found the key in one of his visits to the Cloud Recesses when he’d seen the way the man looked at Lan Xichen with stars in his eyes. After that it had been easy enough to convince Meng Yao that being Madame Lan would be just as prestigious as being Sect Leader Jin, and much more enjoyable besides.

“If you bring Wen Chao along, Wen Zhuliu will go as well,” Nie Mingjue reminded him. “And Lan Qiren has no warm feelings towards him.”

“Who does?” Nie Huaisang asked airily with a shrug.

He’d already promised Wen Zhuliu to the Jiang sect to do with as they pleased – Jiang Cheng and his vicious bitch of a mother both, the two of them seeking revenge for what he’d done to Jiang Fengmian and Wei Wuxian, the latter of which having been officially banished ever since his golden core was melted.

Really, it was all already set up. They would all meet at Hejian, long the Wen sect’s weak spot, and at the right moment Jin Guangshan would die (Meng Yao had volunteered with a grin), Jin Zixuan take his place, and then all four of the remaining Great Sects would rise in simultaneous rebellion against the Wens.

The only part left to be arranged was this.

He’d been desperately trying to figure out a way to deal with the Nightless City’s defenses before Wen Chao had told him the truth about his brother, and even afterwards he’d spent months trying to find another way.

There wasn’t one.

There was only this.

Nie Huaisang was really a bastard, wasn’t he?

He put his hands on his brother’s shoulders and met his eyes in the mirror.

“I really want to go, da-ge,” he said, his voice intentionally childish. “Won’t you help me?”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #nie mingjue #wen ruohan #wen chao #mentions of others #my fic #my fics #darkfic #trans!NMJ #non-con #violence #bad things #spoils of war #Anonymous

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dhwty-writes · 3 years ago

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Chapter 19 - Golden Gowns and Eventful Evenings

I have no excuse, so I will just post this and run

Jaskier and Geralt attend the banquet in Goldfurt together.

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Being the biggest city between Yspaden and Mirt, it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Goldfurt exceeded any and all expectations Jaskier might have had before returning after his twenty-year absence. Being governed by his brother-in-law, Janina’s husband no less, it shouldn’t come as a surprise either that they exceeded them in the wrong direction.

Truth be told, he did not remember a lot about the city from his pre-Oxenfurt days. Of course, they had been obligated to visit the banquet every year, both as neighbours as well as the family of the future Countess, but Jaskier had been barely thirteen the last time he had attended the festivities. The only thing he remembered from that visit was his short-lived infatuation with one of Goldfurt’s squires. It had promptly ended when said squire had basically wiped the floor with him in the training yard during their one and only interaction.

After that unpleasantness he had gladly given a rather wide berth to the city and the castle at its centre. Jaskier had even managed to forestall the unhappy reunion for another year due to a cough at the most convenient of times.

This year, however, there was no excuse in the world that would have made it appropriate for him to stay away. Not with his title, not with his renewed betrothal to Lady Alina. Not with the two newest additions to his household, he was supposed to parade around like a pair of exotic animals.

Jaskier ground his teeth as he tugged at the sleeves of his shirt. ‘Melitele’s tits, I’d gladly attend the dinner if I could leave Ciri and Geralt in Lettenhove,’ he thought bitterly. But that would not only be a grievous insult, it would also rouse more suspicion and rumours than they already did. ‘Best hide them in plain sight.’ And if something unforeseeable were to happen, they could also make a quick escape.

Due to these unforeseen developments, the lack of information had posed quite an obstacle. If there was one particular lesson the twenty years with Geralt had taught him, then it was that ignorance in the face of danger could be fatal. And while one might assume, that a witcher’s lifestyle was much more deadly than a Viscounts, Jaskier would gladly go and fight a dozen ghouls with nothing but his lute, instead of entering the vipers’ nest that was Goldfurt.

Extensive reconnaissance—consisting of squeezing as much information as possible out of his three sisters—had revealed that he might actually have better chance with the ghouls. The silk doublet his servant buttoned up would do little against daggers in the dark or libations laced with poison. Not that he expected his kin and kinfolk-to-be to try and murder him at a dinner party, of course. He expected them to have some decorum at least.

Still, he had entered the city knowing fully well that he was anathema to at least half a dozen invited guests, not least of all their host. On the other hand, which relative of his wife was not anathema to Filip Firkalt? None of them, that was which. It had been one of the primary sources of their entertainment in the past days.

It was no secret that while he and his sisters nursed a precarious love-hate-relationship, the loving aspect was completely lost on the in-laws. The source of that animosity, of course, lay in the title he now bore. The moment his disappearance after his graduation from Oxenfurt had become public knowledge, both of his brothers-in-law had begun vying for what was rightfully his, Kerton with his heir even more so than childless Goldfurt. The fact that he had returned to rob them of what they had already considered theirs, was just another strain on their relationship.

Another of the lessons Geralt had imparted to him, was the importance of a plan. So, not only had the four Pankratz siblings spent their evenings mocking the stupidities they had been forced to endure by the hands of the men in their lives the past two decades, they had also conspired how best to pay them back within the confines of propriety. Two of them, at least. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had only been the appetiser for the main course that was to be served at the banquet tonight.

Or rather, it should have been. For the first vital life lesson he had learned on the Path was that every plan, no matter how good or bad, immediately went to shit upon the first contact with the opponents. Theirs had been no exception to the rule. The memory still made him clench his fist in anger. The disrespect shown to him and his sisters by not riding out to greet them was one thing. But he should have punched Goldfurt in the face when he first had called Geralt a dog. ‘Right then and there, castle peace be damned.’

“M’lord?” the attendant fussing over his cuffs called his attention with a meek voice. “Begging your pardon, but you have to let go of that fist, m’lord.”

“Oh,” he replied dumbfounded as his eyes travelled down to the rings he was holding in his hands. “Of course.” Slowly, he uncurled his tightly clenched fingers, while she slipped the signet ring as well as the embellished buttercup ring in place.

Jaskier stared blankly at his mirror image, fighting the urge to smile at the sight of him clad in Lettenhove ochre and muted autumnal colours. It would be the last time to dress for such an occasion before winter undoubtedly would settle in but a few days. He would be in need of a level head as much as a stoic façade for this evening. No matter how much he wanted to shout out his delight over his delivery from the straightjacket that had been his mourning garb. He wouldn’t have a lute to do so anyways, so there was no point in it.

In any way, there was no bard required this evening. He needed to be the Viscount de Lettenhove instead, protecting all those who had sought shelter at his home and hearth for the winter. ‘Geralt chief among them all.’ The witcher had protected him for nigh twenty years of his life, after all. After all these years of watching helplessly as villagers, nobles, and innkeepers had made Geralt’s life miserable, he was finally in a position to repay him. And it was high time that he did so.

“Will that be everything, m’lord?” the servant asked with a coy smile.

“Yes.”

He bowed obediently, still lingering. “Shall I be waiting for your return?”

Jaskier spared him a short considerate glance. He was quite an attractive fellow, although far too young. “Best not,” he answered, doing his best to keep the contempt from dripping into his voice. It wasn’t directed at the servant anyways. “It will be rather late, I’ll wager.” He certainly wasn’t desperate enough to take a man to ben who might not be offering his companionship for his own volition but because of ill-directed instructions he’d received.

Besides, he had a witcher to get to. The servant bolted from the room and Jaskier quickly followed, but not before grabbing the bundle on his bed.

His witcher had been billeted at a ridiculous distance to Jaskier’s own rooms in quarters which found themselves in a distressingly poor state. Well, nothing in Goldfurt Castle classified as ‘poor’ exactly, but in comparison to the usually upheld standard, it was scarcely better than the rug on the floor he’d been offered at first. The unfairness of it all made his blood boil.

Geralt, on the other hand, remained as unfazed as Jaskier was accustomed to. He had even kept him from running back to make good on his first impulse to bestow their host with a bloody nose. Instead, he had praised the quarters and assured him that he would be just fine, before ushering him out.

‘Maybe,’ a treacherous voice in the back of his head hissed, ‘he’s even glad to get away from you.’

Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip. He couldn’t even fault Geralt for that. His own welcome for his oldest friend had been anything but warm and he was well aware of the coldness freezing the air between them. ‘He still hasn’t apologised,’ he reminded himself. ‘Stubborn mule.’ Instead, Geralt had hurt him even more, albeit unknowingly so. Not that that made it hurt any less.

The same door that had slammed shut behind his back a few days prior blocked the path before him now. Jaskier didn’t allow himself a second thought and swung it open. “Ger—” He was with one foot over the threshold already, when he suddenly remembered and the fear of finding Geralt in bed with Marin stole his voice.

“My lord?”

He appeared to be in luck. Geralt was alone in the chamber. And nearly naked. The only strip of fabric on his person was a towel slung low around his hips and the shirt in his hands, his hair still damp from a bath.

“Uhm,” he said eloquently, while he desperately tried to get his thoughts into order. Unfortunately, he did not manage before his mouth started talking without any cerebral input: “You’re not wearing that,” he blurted of all things.

No ‘Good evening, Geralt’, or ‘How are you enjoying your stay, Geralt?’, or even ‘Fuck, why can’t we go back to how it was before, I’m slowly losing my mind, Geralt.’

No, it was 'You're not wearing that.'

If ever there was a moment for the skies to part and the gods to strike him down with a well-placed bolt of lightning, this was certainly is, right before 'You don't want to keep a man with bread in his pants waiting.' What was it about the witcher that made him so exceptionally stupid? Whatever it was, if the gods could hurry up and erase his existence from this earth, Jaskier would be much obliged, thank you very much.

Unfortunately, nothing happened.

Nothing of that sort, at least, because something happened and that was Geralt slowly glancing down at the towel and up at Jaskier again to deadpan: "I wasn't going to."

"Good," Jaskier's mouth ambled on.

He had to hand it to Geralt, the fact that he didn't so much as raise his eyebrows before moving to put on the shirt was undoubtedly one of his greatest displays of discipline so far.

"You're not going to wear that, either," Jaskier continued, slowly regaining control of his words again.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice impossibly honest. As if there was nothing wrong with the black shirt and breeches, he had worn on the day they’d arrived.

“Because,” he quipped and tossed him the bag he was carrying, “you’re not going as a witcher tonight. This is my brother-in-law’s banquet; we have a reputation to uphold. You're my friend and anyone who knows me, which is everyone here, is well aware that the only way my friend is dressed in anything but the finest clothing would be over my dead body. I'd never allow you to stand out for your tastelessness and considering that you don't appear to have a fashion sense for yourself, I'll gladly provide you with assistance."

"Hmm." Geralt cleared his throat and said: "I need to change if you want me to wear that." He flourished the expensive clothes in his hand.

"Right." Jaskier took a breath to steady himself. But somehow, his feet didn't move.

He raised his gaze with an amused expression on his face. "You need to leave the room, my lord, unle-" The expression on his face changed rapidly as if he was just realising what he was saying.

The barbed retort was already on the tip of his tongue: 'Why, Geralt, are you offering I stay to watch?' But the image of him and Marin kissing was much too present in his mind as it was, so Jaskier bit his lip to keep it from escaping. 'He's not mine to keep,' he reminded himself. 'Never has been, never will be.' "Right," he forced out and turned around, "I'll wait for you in the hallway." He wasn't sure either of them would survive the dinner otherwise.

Jaskier did his best to keep from fidgeting and pacing while he waited outside, which was no easy feat considering the nervousness and hum of energy building within him. Normally, he wasn’t prone to fits of anxiousness. Tonight, however, there was so much that could go wrong, so much that would ruin everything, so much—

Mercifully, the spiral of dread was interrupted by the quiet lock of a door behind him, accompanied by Geralt politely clearing his throat.

“Finally!” Jaskier meant to say as he turned on his heel. What got out was more of a garble: "Hngh." Geralt looked... dashing. There was no other word for it, truly. Well other than 'otherworldly beautiful and I can't decide whether the outfit choice was the best or worst idea I had in a long time and shit, I really should have taken that into consideration; he's not yours to keep, Jaskier, get it together, gods damnit!'

Yeah, dashing was much easier than that. Blue suited him, but Jaskier had already known that. He had chosen the outfit for their last ball together as well, after all. But in contrast to that disastrous outfit, the witcher wore clothes that actually fit him, instead of too small things Jaskier had pulled out of his bag. And on top of that, the witcher had the audacity to smirk. "You approve, my lord?"

"I do," Jaskier managed without embarrassing himself further. "We should go," he decreed. "The Count and Countess will make their appearance soon; it is considered terribly impolite to arrive after them."

"And you're only aiming for impolite?" Geralt teased.

Jaskier frowned and quickly looked down to hide a smile. It was true, most of the meticulous planning by him and his sisters prior to this visit had been to be as impolite as possible while still operating within the socially acceptable norms. Janina and her blood-tear mourning garb had been only the beginning of what would undoubtedly come to a head this evening.

Judging by the quiet snort beside him, he wasn’t quick enough. “Geralt,” he spoke up a few moments later.

“My lord?”

He grimaced slightly. “You probably shouldn’t call me that tonight. It would only… raise suspicion.”

The witcher frowned deeply. “And what should I call you then?”

“Julian,” he said simply. “That’s my name, you know.”

“I thought you resented that name.”

‘I do,’ he thought. “I mustn’t,” he answered and continued on into the dining hall. A large part of the nigh two hundred guests had already arrived and heated the room up nicely, in spite of the freezing temperatures outside. A plethora of voices filled his ears, the kind of pleasant buzz that usually promised an eager crowd Jaskier could sail upon. But he couldn't, so now the mix was irritating, fraying his nerves. And it smelt. Not quite enough to actually stink, but that would come soon enough with the fragrances mixing with sweat and food.

All of the sudden, Jaskier pitied Geralt. He knew the witcher had much finer senses than he did and if he was nearly overwhelmed-

A nigh unnoticeable touch at his elbow made him whip around. He stared directly at Geralt's face. "Are you alright?" the witcher asked quietly, concern etched onto every fibre of his body.

"Quite," Jaskier answered stiffly, letting his eyes sweep over the crowd until he spotted Ciri and Józefa at a table directly beneath the dais. “Let us join my lovely sister and cousin, shall we?” the Viscount announced with a bright smile frozen on his face as he crossed the threshold, a gentle hand on Geralt’s elbow to ensure he would follow.

There was no announcement, no herald making their arrival known, yet at least half a dozen heads turned their direction immediately. A hushed whisper spread through the ballroom with each of their footfalls, like ripples on a still lake during a rain shower that turned into a thunderstorm. A few moments passed, none of the attendants quite sure how to react—Julian Pankratz’ return had been surprising to all, disconcerting to most, and relieving to none.

Then: “Julian Pankratz!” a booming voice cut through the backdrop of murmurs, the crowd parting to let the speaker through. “I didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here.”

Jaskier’s lips curled into a true smile for but a moment when he recognised him. “Dawid,” he greeted his former friend, wincing slightly when he pounded on his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have if I had known you’d be here.”

The knight laughed at that, slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him along. After that it was as if a wall had broken down. The journey to their places was torturously slow, continuously interrupted by former friends and lovers, now married and introducing their heirs, enemies and strangers, who sought to curry favours, or just regular attendants who just wanted an excuse to gawk at him.

They had almost made it, the end of their table already in touching distance, when another petitioner approached. It was a young boy, a squire, Jaskier guessed, dressed in Goldfurt’s livery, who bowed deeply. “My lord, my lord Goldfurt sends his regrets for the unfortunate seating situation,” the boy said with a wavering voice. “I am to let you know that there unfortunately is not enough space to accommodate all of your family as well as your witcher.”

Jaskier did not have to look up at the half-empty dais to know it was a blatant lie. “Unfortunate indeed,” he replied curtly.

“However, his lordship asked me to inform you that you yourself are welcome to join him at the high table, as are the two maidens who share his blood. And that you may rest assured, my lord, the witcher will enjoy himself just fine where he is.”

"I thank you kindly," Jaskier answered primly. "If you would do me the favour of relaying a message to her ladyship, now? Tell my sister, what is good enough for my witcher is good enough for me. I do not wish to add any additional strain to our familial relationship than there already is with our presence, which is why I am sure I will enjoy the festivities just as well down here as up there."

The boy stared up at him with wide eyes. "Lady Goldfurt," impressed upon him again. "If possible, in the presence of Lady Kerton." He nodded hastily and disappeared.

When Jaskier turned around with a sigh he was met with Geralt's dark expression. "What?"

"Do you think it advisable-"

He waved his hand around tiredly, continuing his path to Józefa and Ciri. Fuck, he was exhausted already and the banquet hadn't even started yet. "Do not worry about my wisdom, Geralt, I know more about these affairs than you do."

"It's not your wisdom or intelligence I question, I know you have both aplenty. It's your foresight. I do not know you to be a patient man."

"And I am not, but luckily it is not of the essence in this case. I am aware we tread on unfamiliar territory for you, but I grew up here. I am well aware of how far I, Julian of Lettenhove, can go before truly insulting someone. Lucky for us both, it is much farther that either you, Geralt of Rivia, or I, Jaskier the bard, could hope to. If anything, it will reflect poorly on our host to deny me my designated place over such a petty squabble. It will earn us sympathies!"

"What will earn us sympathies?" Ciri's eager voice asked.

"The fact that you will have to make do with this entirely new place for you, cublet, that is not at the side of the host of such a lavish gathering,” Jaskier replied and bowed with a flourish, taking her hand to kiss her knuckles. She giggled. “Madam, what a joy it is to see you. Truly, you are the jewel that crowns this evening; your beauty outshines the rising sun after a moonless night.”

“Thank you, Lord Lettenhove,” she answered with a perfect curtsy, during which the skirts of her dress flared out. Lettenhove ochre, just like his doublet, he noticed, and her dark hair plaited in an updo that must have taken hours to complete. It left no doubts as to where she belonged. She glanced up at him with a malicious glint in her eyes. "Do you know the best part?" she whispered.

He leaned down to her. "Tell me."

"The skirts are so wide, I could still gut a man in it."

Jaskier blinked in surprise; it was the quiet chuckle form Geralt that got him to finally break into laughter. "And what a good thing that is," he assured her.

"Fiona," Józefa chided softly. "I told you not to say that in nice company."

“Of course, cousin,” Ciri replied with a mischievous grin, “I would never.”

"Thank you," he said, rolling his eyes and winked at Ciri. He couldn't stop the feeling of pride welling up within him, but at least he could stop himself from hugging her by approaching his sister and kissing her hand as well. "You, madam, are just as dazzling as our young cousin. I fear I shall be blinded after this night, surrounded by so much beauty."

Behind him he heard Geralt whisper to Ciri: "What answer?"

"I just insulted him politely," Ciri answered just as hushed, evidently very proud himself.

Józefa huffed and crossed her arms under her chest. She was wearing an expensive red robe with orange embroidery and primroses etched on the edge. "You are a woeful waffler, brother. But you look good, too. Nice and proper."

"Nice and proper indeed," Jaskier replied and straightened his impeccable doublet. "You think I can fool them into thinking I am just as much of a stuck-up prick as my father was and as they are?"

"Hmm," she hummed and cast a quick glance around. "I think you already have. Maybe yell at a few servants or refuse to speak to any of the ladies if the topic is not their beauty if you really want to drive the point home."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Working on it, sister dearest. I'm working on it." He clapped his hands and smiled brightly. "Well, let's get comfortable, shall we?" he chirped and pulled the chair back for his sister and Ciri in turn.

When he turned to Geralt and quirked a curious eyebrow when he still found him standing. The witcher looked back and forth between Jaskier and his two wards before shrugging. Geralt pulled back his seat with the mockery of a bow.

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Thank you, my friend," Jaskier said with a subtle touch to Geralt's shoulder as he sat down.

"You're welcome. Julian," he said, as if he was probing out the taste of the unfamiliar name in his lips. A moment later he grimaced, as if it was particularly disgusting.

Jaskier was almost about to tease him about him when the great doors opened and Lord Goldfurt walked in with Janina on his arm. His sister looked magnificent, if he dared say so himself. While she usually didn't indulge in the luxuries that her advantageous marriage granted her, Jaskier was sure that she was wearing the most luxurious dress she had donned since her wedding. It was in dark and subdued tones, almost dark enough to count as mourning, that screamed "Lettenhove" at the same time.

Jaskier smirked. It had been a brilliant idea on Justyna's part.

The unhappy pair stopped before the dais, Janina stone-faced and Filip with a smile that fooled no-one. "My dear friends," he greeted them, "I am overjoyed that I am able to greet all of you once again at the beginning of this new year. May it bring prosperity and health for all of us. Especially my estranged brother-in-law, Julian Pankratz who has finally ascended to his rightful place as Lord Lettenhove. It's an honour and a pleasure to finally host the famous Pankratz siblings again. A shame that you are missing one of your matching set. What do you say, Julian? A toast of the famous poet!"

Jaskier rose from his seat to the thundering applause and bowed exaggeratedly. Somehow, this was the most calming thing he had done in months. "Thank you, thank you," he placated. " I fear neither honour nor pleasure are the words our hosts usually describe us with." It roused a laugh from the crowd. "But, for the sake of this tradition, we will behave.

"I am thrilled, though I am entirely undeserving of the praise. Here's to my sisters, who are more beautiful than a bouquet of larkspurs. To the Count of Goldfurt, our gracious host. It is my utmost joy to finally be reunited with my family and my home. To Redania! And to his beautiful lady wife, my sister, Janina of Lettenhove."

He could practically feel the temperature drop in the hall as soon as he had uttered the last words, all eyes trained on Goldfurt to see how he might react. He practically didn't react at all, besides begrudgingly raising his goblet to his mouth and taking the tiniest of sips. "To home," he agreed reluctantly, "and my lady wife."

Janina, on the other hand, barely contained her grin and drank a big gulp. "To home," she said as well and the toast echoed through the hall, slowly reciprocated by all of the guests. The toasts were mixed with murmurs of confusion that died as soon as the food started to appear.

The banquet itself was a dreary affair as noble banquets often were, especially if the people at your table were of the quiet sort. And what was Geralt if not the quietest of them all?

Still, Jaskier delighted in pointing out the Counts, Barons and knights to Ciri. Between Józefa and himself they managed not only to call up old history lessons of their neighbours and their connections to Lettenhove, but also a fair share of gossip as the first course was served: fish. Oh, and what fish it was. Platters upon platters of smoked cod was passed in front of them, along with roast pike and fat carps in beer sauce, accompanied with little pastries of perch, trout, and salmon.

It was good. No, divine even. Not as good as Ana's cooking at home, but that was hard to beat. Apart from that it might be the best food he'd eaten in years.

"Did you know," Józefa stage-whispered and leaned over to him, "that three years ago Goldfurt's aunt was found in flagrante with Dergetten's elder sister?"

Jaskier gasped, pretending to be scandalised. "You're kidding. That old bag?"

"What's in flagrante?" Ciri wanted to know and Geralt choked on his food. "Jaskier, what's it mean?"

"Umm," he felt his cheeks grow hot. "You know what? Geralt will gladly explain that to you." The witcher shot him a mean glare that betrayed that, no, he absolutely would not. At this point he decided that it was best to change the topic. "Do you see that old knight over there?" he asked and discreetly pointed at the table across the dance floor from them. "He's supposed to be a dragon slayer."

Geralt snorted disbelievingly, and Jaskier shrugged. "Oh, we all know he's a liar. He's got the dragon's wings hanging in his hall, I've seen them. If you ask me, it's a bat he killed. And not even an especially large one."

Ciri giggled at that and Jaskier happily continued to dish out child-appropriate rumours as the next round of dishes for them to choose from was paraded around. It was poultry next, roast chickens, chicken pastries, scalloped chickens. But also, a dozen herons, little carrot-nests with fieldfares, and truffled capon. And all along the wine flowed freely. Est-Est was brought out by the barrel, as well as dry reds, sweet whites and even the odd sparkling wine in between. Normally, Jaskier would have indulged happily, but he had the feeling that he should keep a clear head for the evening. Besides, he had monitor Ciri's alcohol intake, who readily charmed the servants into slipping another sip into her watered-down wine.

They had just advanced to the main courses—fourteen suckling pigs, two dozen roast veal, eight whole boars, a handful of oxen, with thick gravy, cooked and fried and braised roots and an overabundance of cabbages. White cabbages, red cabbages, pickled cabbage, cabbage salad—oh, how he missed Toussaint in the winter—when some puffed-up peacock playing at being a poet swaggered onto the dance floor. Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms, pointedly ignoring Geralt's bemused stares. 'The bardlet isn't even good,' Jaskier noted and forced himself to stop listening, else he might work himself into a rage over the blatant display of negative talent, that's what it was—

Geralt relieved a servant of her pitcher to refill both their goblets. Upon seeing Jaskier's questioning expression he shrugged. "Might make it more bearable for both of us," he explained and nudged the cup towards him. "This night I won't suffer sober."

He laughed hoarsely and clinked their cups together before taking a large gulp. "To sobriety, then."

"To banquets," Geralt added and glanced over to Ciri, "and no more surprises."

"What are you two talking about?" she wanted to know.

"The last banquet we attended together," Jaskier answered, steadfastly trying to ignore how his heart hurt at the thought. "It's where... we met your mother."

"Oh." She perked up at that, although her eyes seemed to grow sadder. "Was it... was it similar?"

"No," Jaskier said, just as Geralt replied: "Yes."

They blinked at each other for a moment before looking away. Jaskier tried to ignore the curious look Ciri gave him before she was distracted by Józefa again, the gods bless her soul. He was sure the little princess wasn't listening anymore and he was even more sure that Geralt was well aware of it, when the witcher growled: "The music was better."

"Excuse me?" he squeaked. Quickly, he cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he asked again

He leaned over to him and Jaskier eyed him warily. "The bard's shit," he hissed. "Can't even carry a simple tune."

Well. That wasn't untrue. But hearing it from Geralt made him nearly spit out his wine. "You think all bards are shit," he responded as soon as he had recovered from his coughing fit.

"Bull-fucking-shit," Geralt growled. "I like your singing well enough."

He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You called my singing a fillingless pie."

He shrugged. "And I still think that's true. Tasty crust," he impaled a piece of pie on his fork, "no filling." He pointed his fork at Jaskier. "Pretty voice, empty lyrics."

"Oh, so you think I have a pretty voice?" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "Anything else about me that appeals to your artistic eye?"

"Hmm," Geralt answered and raked his eyes over Jaskier's body before quickly hiding his smile behind his goblet. Not quickly enough, though. His cheeks grew hot with the blush and he frowned darkly.

'Stop it,' he commanded himself. 'No use reading meanings into something where nothing's there.' He drained his water glass. He was is desperate need of a clear head, for he was quite aware that the heat coursing through his body was not merely caused by the many people getting drunk in the room.

At least he could distract himself with dessert being served: sweet pumpkin pies and baked, stuffed apples, red berry groats and oat biscuits with honey and cinnamon. Jaskier was quick enough to snatch the cup of mulled wine out of Ciri's hands, but could hardly protest the platter laden with all different kinds of sweets—not when his plate didn't look any different.

He passed the goblet he had just salvaged over to Geralt, who just scoffed. "Oh, now he's ripping off your songs," the witcher grumbled. "Ridiculous."

Jaskier sighed. "Let him." He knew there were enough impostors; he had stopped caring years ago.

"He's not even getting the lyrics right."

"I thought they were empty anyways," he remarked and popped a biscuit into his mouth.

"Not the point."

"Jaskier," Ciri interrupted them, "they're starting to dance."

He frowned as he saw Goldfurt leading Janina onto the dance floor to signify the end of the dinner. He sighed as he caught Lady Alina's eye on the other side of the hall. No doubt he would be expected to share at least one dance with his betrothed, for propriety's sake.

"I suppose you should join them, Julian," Geralt quipped and crossed his arms as they watched Justyna and Damian join them on the dance floor.

"I suppose I should."

"Well?"

He rolled his eyes. "Maybe later. For the moment, allow me to abuse your presence to hide from my duties." He watched his two sisters dance when another thought hit him: "Wait, how do you know that the lyrics are wrong?"

Jaskier could've sworn he saw a blush creep up Geralt's cheeks as the witcher grumbled something unintelligible and hid behind his tankard again.

"Geralt of Rivia," Jaskier gasped indignantly, "are you trying to tell me, you memorised my songs?"

"Don't flatter yourself."

“I—” Jaskier began, only to be interrupted by Józefa: “Julian,” she called his attention. “I believe you should honour the Lady Alina with a dance.”

“Fine,” he ground out and rose to his feet. “I believe I have to surrender you to my sister’s care for a while, so I fear our conversation will have to come to a close for the moment.”

“Pity,” the witcher grumbled and leaned back in his seat, obviously not finding it a pity at all.

Jaskier laughed as if he had just told a joke. “Do try to enjoy yourself, my friend.” He winked, though his heart sank. “I’ll be back.”

He wasn’t quite sure if he should be relieved or not to leave the witcher and his sour mood behind, though he was sure that his own mood grew worse with every step. Eyes and whispers clung to him all along the way, although he pretended not to hear.

He couldn’t deny them their right to gossip; they were landed gentry after all, what else were they supposed to do with their pitiable lives? He’d just prefer that gossip to be limited to him and not the newest two additions to his household.

He had been hesitant, at first, to bring both of them to Goldfurt. Truly the last thing on earth they needed was more attention on Lettenhove. But after some long talks with Józefa they had come to the conclusion that there were rumours anyways. Not bringing the two of them along would look even more conspicuous.

In the end, he wasn’t the one who found his betrothed, for she beat him to the chase. “Lord Lettenhove,” she called for his attention.

“Lady Alina,” he did little to mask his surprise. “You’re just the one I was looking for.”

“Were you now?” She raised her eyebrows. “No doubt for the same reasons as I do.”

“And which might those be?”

“To satisfy my brother’s demands that we socialise, of course,” she replied and raised her fan to hide her exaggerated yawn. “Is there not a question you should ask me?”

Jaskier bowed gracefully. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may.” She barely even bothered with a curtsy before she let herself be led to the centre of the dance floor. The spent about half of the dance in icy silence, before Lady Alina finally spoke up: “So, are the rumours true then?”

“Rumours?” he feigned ignorance.

She snorted. “Do not insult me, Lettenhove. We both know that you are well aware what I am talking about.”

Of course, he knew. The whole society talked about nothing else but Fiona Nowak’s parents. There was a myriad of different stories where she came from and why she was in Lettenhove now, many of which he and Józefa had planted themselves. The most wide-spread, however, was the only one that he had actually tried to extinguish: “If you want to pretend, you’re more stupid than you actually are, fine. Let me be frank, my lord. Is young Miss Nowak your bastard daughter?”

He locked his jaw. “Those rumours are none that I encouraged,” he answered curtly.

“That does not answer my question.”

“And yet it is the only answer I will give on that matter,” he insisted. He had no wish to discuss the matter any further, so he was not quite sure what made him continue talking: “Though it is true that she is very dear to me, as is her safety. I would do anything to keep her safe.”

“How admirable,” she responded drily. “Though again, I would have thought the cleverness of your sisters runs in the family. I am disappointed to see that it doesn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ouch.’ Were he a man easily slighted, he would have taken offence. In reality, though, he was only impressed. “Are you well acquainted with them, my lady?”

“With some better than others. Did you know that I spent a few years in Nowigrad?”

He tensed up and she laughed.

“Of course, you did. You avoided the city like the plague back then.” Lady Alina smiled politely. “Well, Jolanta sends her regards.”

He frowned. She had never told him that she knew his former fiancée.

“She also lets you know that another friend of yours is growing restless with… this.” She made a vague gesture at the gossiping nobles around them.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I could not say, my lord, I am but the messenger.” The music stopped and she stepped back from him immediately. “I believe we have satisfied our duties. Good night, my lord.”

Even after leaving his fiancée in the arms of another, the dancing did not stop. Instead of his feet tracing patterns over the floor, his words took over as he found himself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the deadly dance of deception that was so popular with all nobles. Whenever he spun, trying to step off the dance floor of politics he found himself in the slippery grasp of yet another opponent. Chief among them, of course, were his sisters.

"Despicable old bag," Janina hissed, still eyeing the dowager Baroness he had rescued her from. "She's rotten to the bone."

"A Dergetten through and through," he agreed. "Józefa told me she’s the reason Lady Zibold came down with that horrible stomach sickness two years ago."

"Really, Julek?" She rolled her eyes. "You, churning the rumour mill?"

He shrugged. He had never claimed to be above these petty squabbles; he was landed gentry, after all, what else was he supposed to do with his pitiable life?

He spun away from her, soon to be embraced by another lady. All the while he danced, he could hear the rumours continue to spread like wildfire.

“Did you hear Lettenhove had the witcher bring his bastard to his keep?” he heard one nobleman whisper.

“She’s supposed to be the daughter of some whore,” another quipped.

“Don’t be a fool, Alma, she’s the Countess de Stael’s daughter; remember how she retreated to a temple for a few months a decade ago?”

“No, she has elf blood in her veins, it’s why he hid her.”

On and on the whispers went and Jaskier couldn’t help but roll his eyes at them. Not a single one of them got even close to the truth. He supposed he had to be grateful for that and he couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he saw her. She was hand in hand with Daria, sweeping over the dance floor and disturbing this dancing couples in the process.

He spun a web of lies to evade a landed knight’s curious questions and found himself on the dancefloor again within the blink of an eye, Justyna in his arms.

"I am glad to see her so joyous," he said with a fond smile as Ciri and Daria swept past them again, nearly knocking Janina and Goldfurt over in the process. "Both of them." His smile widened even more when he saw her keeping her husband from reprimanding them. 'You can't hide from me, Janka,' he thought triumphantly, 'she's gotten to you just as much as to the rest of us.'

Justyna hummed her approval. "She's a sullen child, is she not? I feared she might faint during our first meeting."

Jaskier sighed. "She's been through a lot, Konwalia. She's seen so many bad things, worse than anything you or me can imagine, and she's just a child."

He stepped away to bow to her as she spun away from him. When he pulled her close again, she averted her gaze. "Maybe I didn't give you enough credit. Maybe you might be able to understand."

“Maybe I might be,” he agreed cautiously. “Where’s Julek, by the way? I don’t think I’ve seen him in hours.”

"He's— Miss Nina put him to bed. He was... not feeling well."

"He's a quiet boy."

"He is. Easily overwhelmed, too. He doesn't smile a lot either. He's a good boy, though," she assured him quickly.

"That I do not doubt," he said and smiled. She didn't return it. "Justyna?" Her gaze flickered away nervously as she tugged on her sleeve. It was a bad habit their father had beaten out of her even before he'd left. It worried him. “You—I am aware that you think me unable to comprehend your worries, and maybe you are right and I am. However, I hope that you would still confide in me after all these years. If there is anything short of murder and treason within my power to help you and yours, I will do it, without hesitation.”

She kept silent for a few more moments, looking uneasy. "It's Damian," she told him quietly. "He believes him a changeling."

He huffed disbelievingly. “A changeling?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “That’s what he settled for after accusing me of adultery first. He does not believe that a son of his could be this—”

“Inadequate?” Jaskier offered, well-acquainted with that particular paternal sentiment.

“He is not what he wants his son to be. Not courageous, not knightly enough, while Daria is—not enough of a boy to be precisely that.”

“And isn’t that a familiar tune?” Jaskier sighed quietly. “I am sorry your son takes this much after his namesake.”

“I am not.” She raised her chin defiantly. “For I love his namesake, just as I love my son.”

“I am glad to hear that.” The song ended and they both took a step backwards. Jaskier reached down and gently lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Worry not, my lady. For the time being, you are guests in Lettenhove, protected by my castle peace. And I happen to be quite fond of cowards, monsters, and inadequate children.”

Her expression softened. “I know you are. Thank you, Jaskier.”

He squeezed her hand briefly, before excusing himself, in desperate need of a drink—and a conversation with a certain witcher, he believed. The ballroom floor was as dangerous a terrain as it had been the whole evening, but Jaskier deftly dodged those who threatened to converse with him before collapsing in the chair next to Geralt. "Finally," he sighed and gladly took the goblet his witcher handed him.

“Did you have fun, Julian?” Geralt asked him and Jaskier raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“Did I look like I was having fun?” he countered.

“I am sure there was quite a number of attendants you managed to fool.” The unspoken ‘but not me’ hang heavy in the air between them and for a moment he allowed himself to bask in the familiarity of that. Jaskier closed his eyes, the noise and smell and lights draining away with every heartbeat until he could pretend it was just the two of them in a lonely clearing, sharing a skin of sour wine. Just them, just friends, just a witcher and his bard.

The illusion was sundered all too soon by a voice they had suffered all too long for one evening already. "Good sirs, might I persuade you to make a request?” Jaskier opened his eyes again and found himself staring into the young and bright-eyed face of a bard whose hopes and dreams were surely about to be crushed. The boy smiled widely and bowed. “Along with a bit of constructive criticism, mayhaps?"

Jaskier exchanged a quick glance with Geralt and, slowly and deliberately, set down his goblet as he waited for the answer he knew would come: "You changed the lyrics," Geralt stated, "not for the better."

"And how would you know?" the bardling asked with too much enthusiasm and tilted his head to the side. He gave them both a thorough look before gasping with excitement. "Oh, I know who you are! You're the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. And you-" He turned to Jaskier and his eyes grew wide. "Master Jaskier!" He bowed deeply. "It's an honour to meet you, truly it is. I have studied all of your work, sir, I am one of your greatest admirers."

He did his best to hide his pained expression with a smile. "I fear I do not go by that name anymore. I am old and weary; it is time for the new generation to get a chance. Viscount Lettenhove, if you please."

“Of course, my lord. And, if I may be so bold: wise words, wise words indeed,” the bard preened, too caught up in his speech to notice Geralt’s elbow landing in Jaskier’s ribcage or the wheeze that escaped him at that. "Might I humbly request a piece of advice of you? It would honour me greatly, no matter—”

"You may," he interrupted him and shot a glance at Geralt. "Stop singing other people's songs."

"But-"

"Don't interrupt him," Geralt growled.

“Thank you, my witcher,” Jaskier said and twirled his goblet in his hand. “See, young man, here’s the issue: you may be a bard, might even call yourself a strolling minstrel, and yet you are living off another’s hard work. I do not begrudge you for it; repeating songs you have heard certainly is a way to make your living. Mind you, however, that a poet, a troubadour, a veritable minstrel is, first and foremost, an artist.”

“But—” the bardling laughed nervously. “But I do not paint pictures.”

“Evidently,” Geralt grumbled just as Jaskier asked: “Don’t you?” He sighed and took a sip. “I certainly did. My experiences were my canvas, my emotions my paints, my aching heart my brush. Which is why I cannot sing the songs of another. How can you aspire to give a true performance, pour your heart and soul into it, if you don't even know what you're singing? You're still young, so go out into the world while you still have the chance. See if you don't find something that's worth singing about."

"How will I know that I have found such a thing?"

"Oh,” he stared into his goblet, “you will."

"But what is it? Will my heart stop when I spot it? Will—Will I lay my life on the line for it? Is it something worth dying for?"

"No," Jaskier said softly, "your life will stop, that much is true; but it isn't something that ends so much as something that begins. You will know when you have found something worth singing about, when you find something worth living for."

Next to him, his witcher choked on his wine.

#my writing #of witchers bards and broken hearts #OWBABH #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #cirilla of cintra

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allisondraste · 4 years ago

Text

Ambivalence: Chapter 2

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Nathaniel Howe x Female Cousland

Story Summary: It has been just over a year since Nathaniel Howe and Elissa Cousland were reunited, childhood friendship forged into a love that endured a decade apart. However, every love is tested at some point. Presented with circumstances that could either make or break their relationship, Nate and Liss are no different.

Previous Chapter

[AO3 Link]

Chapter 2: Uncertainty

Chapter Summary: Nate and Liss spend some much needed time with Delilah.

Just Outside Vigil’s Keep, Cloudreach 9:33 Dragon

“Come on,” Liss said with a laugh, speeding up her pace and tugging at his hand, “Put some spring in your step, Nate.”

“Why the hurry?” Nathaniel asked, slowing to a stop and watching as their intertwined fingers halted her march forward. She spun around to face him, locks of golden hair flowing behind her and settling on her shoulders as she studied him in amusement. An endearing notch formed between her brows and he couldn’t prevent the chuckle that escaped him, nor the undoubtedly dopey grin that lingered on his lips afterward. “We have all afternoon.”

Liss scowled more deeply at his comment, bringing her free hand to her hip. “It would be rude to keep your sister waiting, especially with a fussy little one about, trying to waddle into the river.”

“I am certain that Aidan is on his best behavior.”

“Aren’t you eager to visit with them?” She took a few steps closer. “It’s been weeks since we’ve all been free of duties at the same time.”

Nathaniel brought her hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “It has also been weeks since you and I had more than just our nights alone.”

“Are you suggesting we abandon Delilah and cavort about on our own?”

“I am suggesting that we take our time in reaching our destination,” he said softly, pulling her nearly flush against him.

Liss laughed and blinked up at him, smirking and biting her bottom lip in that feigned innocence she so enjoyed putting on. “Oh?”

In lieu of a response, he dipped down and captured her lips, tentatively as if it was the first time they’d kissed. In her typical fashion, she returned the gesture with full-bodied confidence, cinching her arms tightly around his waist as she did so. It was an exchange that was truly theirs, a habit, a ritual that offered him security he’d never really known before. When they pulled apart, she smiled at him widely, eyes sparkling with affection, and he truly did not know what he’d done to earn such a boon from the Maker.

With that, they continued on at a more leisurely pace toward their established meeting place with Delilah, arm-in-arm and enjoying casual conversation about nothing and everything all at once. Nathaniel had always appreciated Liss’ ability to have conversation. She was knowledgeable and passionate about so many things, there were times he had to do little more than listen and nod along as she prattled on about the latest book she’d been reading, or the symbology of the family crests for each and every noble house in Ferelden, or the mating practices of common nugs. Being around her was so easy. It always had been.

They were headed toward the bank of an unnamed tributary of the Hafter River, an area not too far from Vigil’s Keep, beautiful and well hidden by foliage. When he and his siblings had been children, the spot served as their own special secret, a refuge from the prison their home had slowly become after their mother died. It never mattered the weather, when they stole away to their little stream, they were able to pretend that they were normal children skipping their lessons and hiding away from tutors and maids. Now, Delilah used it as a refuge from her responsibilities to the Arling, a place to relax, visit with loved ones, and have picnics.

As they approached the wooded bank, Nathaniel spotted his sister straining in an attempt to drape a blanket across the ground with only one arm while clinging to his squirming nephew in the other. Liss had apparently seen this too, as she nudged him with her elbow, released his arm and took off running toward Delilah and Aidan.

“Looks like you could use a hand or two,” Liss said cheerfully as she approached.

Delilah looked up to greet her, letting the blanket fall to the ground as she straightened up and adjusted her grip on her son. “You’ve no idea,” she said with an exasperated laugh. She looked at Aidan and asked, “Want to go play with Auntie Liss for a bit?”

Aidan, who was just over a year old, glanced with drooling skepticism between his mother and Liss who wiggled outstretched fingers at him excitedly. After a moment of furrowing his little eyebrows and an encouraging nod from Delilah, the boy giggled and reached out with chubby arms toward Liss. She scooped him up without hesitation, tossing him up into the air and catching him before propping him on her hip and walking over toward the water’s edge.

Nathaniel had approached more slowly, watching with no small degree of warmth as the interaction took place. It was a domesticity he never realized he desired until it played out right before his eyes. When he reached his sister, she had just begun to pick up the blanket and resume her attempt to spread it out.

“Here,” he said when he reached her, “Let me help.”

Delilah smirked, extended one end of the fabric to him, and teased, “Whatever would I do without my big brother here to help me complete the simplest of tasks?”

“Just because you can do something alone,” Nathaniel replied matter-of-factly as they stepped away from one another, each holding onto ends of the blanket to stretch it out, then lower it into a neat square on the ground, “Does not mean that you must.”

Delilah rose up, hands on her hips, admiring their handiwork before turning her gaze to Nathaniel, an eyebrow raised. “You sound like Lady Elissa.”

He snorted out a laugh, eyes drawn to the woman and little boy presently splashing about in the water with bare feet. “She must be rubbing off on me.”

When he forced his eyes back to his sister, she was grinning widely, clearly having caught his admiration. “I can’t imagine how that happened.”

Delilah lowered herself down into a leisurely sitting position on the blanketed area, then looked up and patted the empty space beside her. “Come on, Nate. Sit.”

He did as she bade and sat down next to his sister, extending his legs out in front of him as he leaned back on the palms of his hands, taking a quick glance at the branches above his head before turning back to examine his sister who grinned mischievously.

Nathaniel scowled. “Why are you smiling like you’ve lured me into a trap?”

“How do you know I haven’t?” She raised her eyebrows.

“I suppose it’s too late for concern anyhow,” he said with a shrug, attention drawn out toward the water’s edge, to Liss once again.

Unlike the last time he’d looked at her, she was crouched down in the shallows of the water, Aidan hovering over her, watching intently as she focused on whatever it was she was doing. It was difficult to tell from a distance. Delilah shoved his shoulder playfully, muttering something about him not being any fun, but he barely noticed.

Liss stood up, and stepped back out of the water, the bottom quarter of her skirts soaked thoroughly and dripping. She sat down on the bank, hands clasped together tightly as she motioned for Aidan to come sit with her. He toddled gleefully over toward her, crawling up under her arms to sit in her lap, waiting expectantly to see what surprise she held in her grasp. She opened her hands slowly, still keeping them partially cupped, as he peered in and squealed in delight.

Liss giggled and asked, “Can you say ‘ frog’?”

The boy looked between her and the creature thoughtfully, then said, “FOG!”

“That’s right,”she exclaimed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “Good job, pup.”

Nathaniel froze, a confusing mottle of emotions surging up into his chest, burning behind his eyes. Pup . He’d heard that particular endearment hundreds of times during his summers in Highever. It had been Bryce Cousland’s chosen diminutive for his own children, as well as for any child whose name he could not remember. He wondered if Liss had used it intentionally, a way to honor her father’s memory. Perhaps she had not even realized.

They’d never discussed it, what pet names she would call a child. In their situation... it had never seemed warranted to discuss children at all. It was not as if they were able to have a family of their own, if that were something she wanted. A pang of guilt speared through him. Andraste’s Blood, he had not even thought to ask her if that was something she wanted. There was a tug at his ear that made him snap around, frowning at the interruption.

“What,” he asked his sister as she blinked back at him with those fierce blue eyes.

“Maker, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you that enraptured,” Delilah teased, chuckling and watching Liss help Aidan hold the frog she’d caught, “She’s so good with him, isn’t she?”

Nathaniel nodded, steeling himself with a shaky breath before speaking. “She truly is.”

Silence fell between them, comfortable yet heavy with his turbulent emotions, insecurities and doubts like a dark cloud looming over an otherwise ideal afternoon. However, if his sister noticed, she said nothing of it and kept her attention focused on her son and the woman who was currently doting upon him. After some time had passed, she looked over to him thoughtfully, raising her brows as she tapped her index finger to her chin.

He snorted out a laugh. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Delilah let out a sigh and straightened her posture as if preparing to deliver a speech. “I know you’re tired of hearing it but—”

“Delilah, I know where this is going and—”

“Is there some reason you have not asked that lovely woman to marry you yet,” she continued her lecture anyway, “The way that you look at her… I know it is not for lack of interest.”

He let his head hang, ashamed at her honest, biting words. In truth, it was something he’d desired for sometime now, asking Liss for her hand. He simply wanted to go about it in the most appropriate way, at the most appropriate time, but it was more complicated than that. Still, wasn’t that part of his mission today? To tell Delilah what he intended?

“Actually—” he began, interrupted by the excited gasp that escaped his sister—”That’s something I had hoped to speak with you about today. I wasn’t sure we’d have the chance, but it seems Aidan has provided the perfect distraction.”

“Nate,” Delilah said softly, hushed voice wavering. Tears glistened in her eyes when he finally looked up at her, “Are you serious?”

He inhaled sharply and let out the breath with force before answering. “I think so. There are still so many things to consider, but… yes. This is what I want. She is what I want, whatever that looks like.”

“That’s so… wonderful,” she blurted, a touch too loud for Nathaniel’s comfort and he widened his eyes at her, “Sorry, I’m just happy for you. It’s more than about time.”

“If I am to be completely honest, I have been having doubts— nothing about her, just uncertainties about the life we live now, whether or not marriage is even appropriate.”

“Do not tell me you intend to second guess a proposal to someone you’ve been in love with since you were ten years old over protocol. ” She wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you dare get my hopes up like this.”

“I just—”

“What did the Warden-Commander say?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“If protocol is something that concerns you, why haven’t you approached your commanding officer?” Delilah was relentless, clearly invested in a wedding neither of them knew would even happen.

Nathaniel let out a frustrated sigh, laughing bitterly as he thought about Lucia with her gentle practicality. “Because she will tell me to do it.”

“So what is stopping you, Nate?” She softened at that, searching his face as if the answer to her question might appear on his forehead if she stared long enough. “You have clearly thought about this enough to approach me about it.”

“I’ve also written to Fergus,” he confessed. “I sent a raven to Highever just this morning. I was actually excited about it.”

“I know this might be hard for you to believe, but—” Delilah placed a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him gently— “It is normal to have doubts.”

He met her gaze and rolled his eyes as he fought a smile. “I suppose you are right.”

“So you’re going to do it?”

“I am… going to do it.” Saying the words out loud was more freeing than he’d expected. To see the joy on his sister’s face, even more so.

“Good,” she said with a nod, “If it helps, you could imagine Father’s spirit in the Fade, fuming over the prospect that despite his many, many efforts, you will be marrying Elissa.”

“It helps if I don’t imagine Father at all,” he stated flatly.

“Fair enough,” Delilah chuckled. “That is exactly what I’m going to do, though.”

They sat conversing for a short while longer, mostly to allow his nerves the time to settle before Liss decided to rejoin them. Then, an idea struck him.

“Delilah?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you might be able to see how Liss might feel about—” he motioned vaguely— “All of this? Discreetly, of course.”

She smirked. “I’ve never seen you so worked up about anything since you found out you had to leave for Starkhaven. It is quite endearing.”

“I am pleased you find my distress endearing,” he said pointedly, “Will you do it, or not?”

“I will.”

“Then I shall go retrieve her,” he said, rising to his feet, “I’ll insist that you two deserve some time alone together.”

“We do,” Delilah admitted with a shrug, “That’s not even a deception.”

Nathaniel made his way slowly towards Liss, who had just lifted up Aidan after helping him to release their frog. He used her distraction to his advantage and rushed forward, sweeping the boy from her arm in one swift motion. She let out a startled gasp that turned into an offended grumble as her eyes fell on him.

“Thief,” she accused with a pout.

“This boy’s mother requires your attention,” he replied, shifting the boy in question to hold propped up on his hip with one arm.

Liss raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “Privately?

“Not in particular.” Nathaniel shrugged. “But I figured it would be easier to gossip about me if I am not present.”

Her eyes lit up with mischief and she laughed. “I like the way you think.”

“Anything for you, my lady,” he said, stepping forward, taking her chin in his hand, and tilting it up just enough for him to press a reverent kiss to her lips, heavy with the secret he would someday share.

When he pulled away, she sighed and blinked back at him with misty eyes. She must have felt it, too. “That was—”

“I know,” he said breathlessly, grinning and kissing her forehead this time, “Now go spend time with my sister. She misses you.”

“Okay, okay fine,” she hissed back at him playfully then looked at Aidan, “Hey, tell Uncle Nate what you want to do.”

Aidan grinned and turned to point a little finger at something over Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Quack!”

Liss giggled and Nathaniel turned around to see a small group of ducks congregated at the edge of the water, several feet further down the stream. He glanced back at Liss, then to Aidan. “Shall we go see the ducks, then?”

“Quack, quack,” Aidan replied enthusiastically, body trembling with excitement.

“You heard the man,” said Liss as she knelt down to pick up her shoes, “I wouldn’t keep him waiting if I were you.”

As he watched Liss flash him one last grin before turning to head toward Delilah, and his uncertainty vanished, clouds of doubt dissipating in her wake. It was all he needed.

#dragon age #dragon age origins #dragon age origins awakening #nathaniel howe #nathaniel howe x cousland #my writing #ambivalence tag

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saxxxology · 5 years ago

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a king’s duty

Sam likes a big family, and he’ll make sure it only keeps growing.

PAIRING: King!Alpha!Sam x Queen!Omega!Reader

WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics, smut

NOTE: Do not save or repost my work without my consent.

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Sam takes his kingly duties seriously. He’s ruled over his kingdom for well over a decade, ever since his father and predecessor gifted he and his brother their own sections of land. Nothing in life could be better; his citizens are happy and prospering, his servants are preparing a festival and banquet for the Easter holiday, and Sam himself is planning to ensure that the holiday bears an announcement to celebrate the day’s purpose.

You and Sam have made a decent family already, six pups over the last nine years of your marriage, but he wants more. A large family means more heirs to carry both his lineage and the throne, and you’re more than happy to give him all the children he wants.

He’s been gone on a hunt with the kingsguard for several days, tracking a herd of deer through the dense forests. When you hear the bellowing of the horns and the commotion coming from the town below, you race to your bedroom window and peer down into the streets. Sam’s on his towering steed, shaggy-haired and dirty from his travels. It’s late in the afternoon, and you know that he’ll be starving for a properly cooked meal.

Sam loves it when you prepare his suppers. Within weeks of becoming his bride you’d arranged for your own private kitchens to keep regularly stocked with the finest meats and vegetables. Even though Sam is a well-liked king, there are still those from faraway kingdoms who despise his rule and the risk of accidentally eating a poisoned meal, albeit slim, is too much for you to gamble with. Your children also only eat from your kitchens, after an incident with rancid chicken and a weekend spent cleaning sick bowls and tending fevers and chills placed the wellbeing of your offspring in your hands alone.

“Mother, mother!” Elizabeth, your firstborn, clutches your skirts, tugging frantically. She’s got her father’s coppery hair and hazel eyes, as do all your children—the only one to have your hair color is Anne, your one-year-old daughter. “Father’s home!”

“I know.” You set a cutting board on the counter and crouch to pull her into your arms. “Go fetch your siblings and greet your father. I’ll have supper ready soon.”

Giggling, Elizabeth races from the room, shouting for her brothers and sisters in the hallway. She’s a rowdy seven-year-old, much louder and more boisterous than the others, and you’ve noticed that her behavior is starting to rub off on your other growing children. Jonathan, at five and a half, is nearing her height and the two often have to be pulled apart during tussels in the hallways over dolls and other toys they’ve found. Katherine and Alexander, your only pair of twins, are more subdued, preferring to draw with bits of charcoal on the stone floors. Mariah is the youngest of the group, and she’s still discovering where she fits in, much less how to talk properly without getting frustrated. Anne is nearing one, and still sleeps heavily in her bassinet between feeds and cuddles from her parents.

A decent pack with almost too many mouths to feed.

Sam enters the kitchens just when you’ve dropped meat in an iron skillet. He’s got Mariah in his arms, Jonathan on his shoulders, and the other four trailing close behind, bouncing on their feet. His beard has grown thick, and you welcome his kiss with a slight grimace as the stubble grazes your skin. He looks tired, and you sigh happily at his warm, musky (if slightly smelly) scent.

“I missed you,” he hums, setting the children down and kneeling to welcome them all into his arms. “And how are my beautiful pups?”

“Your children have been quite the handful since you’ve been gone,” you reply, giving Elizabeth and Jonathan stern looks. “These two got into quite the tussle in the gardens yesterday.”

“Over what?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Snail shells,” Jonathan pipes up, “we were collecting them and Elizabeth stole mine!”

“I did not!” Elizabeth interjects. “I’m just better at collecting them so I got more.”

“Enough,” you tap your wooden spatula on the side of your skillet, “no more fighting while your father’s home, run along and wash up for supper.” You watch your children scamper off, shaking your head. “Those two… always a competition.”

Sam chuckles and presses another firm kiss to your cheek. “They get it from me.”

“Oh, I know they do,” you chuckle, wrinkling your nose. “Sam, you know I love you, but you do smell… please go and have a quick bath. There’s even some lavender soap for you.”

He sighs happily. “Of course, my love. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Your children come running back after you’ve finished preparing their dinner. As usual, you examine their little pink fingers for dirt (you have to send Alexander to the washbasin in the corner for a second cleaning) and allow them to take their places at the table. They squabble briefly for chunks of bread before quieting down, and you wonder with a shake of your head why you want so badly to add yet another child to your ever-growing pack.

When Sam returns, the food is lined on the table, and he serves himself before allowing the children to dig into their own plates. Anna’s woken from her nap, and you seek a brief respite from the chatter to feed her in the quiet of her nursery. She feeds heavily, suckling at your breast with enthusiasm as your sweet milk fills her little belly. Your milk production is slowing, a sign that you’re almost ready to receive another pup in your womb.

The children are just finishing their supper when you return, and you allow each child a small square of chocolate from the market for their dessert before sending them off to their rooms to prepare for bed. Sam waits at the table as you spoon a helping of potatoes, meat, and drop a slice of bread onto a plate and meet him at the table.

“How are you, my love?” he asks, gazing fondly at you.

“I’m well,” you reply, “tired, but well.”

He squeezes your hand, giving a supportive smile. It’s often that you need reassurance that you’re a good mother, and Sam never fails to give you the encouragement you need. “You’ve done wonderfully in my absence, as always. Our pups are growing strong.”

You accept his praise with a flush of heat. “I can only do my best. Elizabeth is growing more outspoken by the day.”

“And your best is more than perfect.” Sam lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing your fingers. “Elizabeth is the eldest, and first in line. She’ll need to be outspoken when she takes the throne.”

You finish eating quickly and pile your dishes at the end of the table for the servants to clean. Sam helps you prepare warm milk and honey in small wooden cups and escorts you upstairs, to where your children are already tucked into their separate beds. After a drink, tuck in, and generous kisses from both you and Sam, they’re left to fall asleep. A quick check on Anna in her nursery proves that your babe is slumbering peacefully, and Sam pulls you into a deep, warm kiss over her bassinet.

Another day, another victory.

In the safety of your private chambers, Sam helps you undress, pulling the ribbon from your bodice and lifting your dress up over your head and leaving you naked. His rumbling growl of arousal echoes in your ears as his hands skim over your sides, trailing around to cover the flat expanse of your belly.

“I miss you being round,” he murmurs, “all big and swollen with our child…”

“I know you do.” You turn around stretching up on your toes to press your lips to his. His growing erection presses against your hip through his trousers, and he allows you to undress him slowly, teasing with soft skims of your fingers and warm kisses on his lips.

He lifts you onto the bed, kneeling forward until you can lie down with your head on one of the soft pillows. He kisses you hard, wedging his hips between your thighs. His weight is welcome on top of you, all warm and firm against your soft, pliant body. You’re already wet, and he uses that to his advantage.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” he whispers, “for days now… filling you up, giving you another pup….”

He groans when you reach between your legs and grip him firmly, guiding him to your entrance. He takes the lead when he feels himself slip into the soft crevice of your folds, and you stifle a gasp against his shoulder when he surges in in a quick, gratifying thrust. You’re tight, clenching wet and hot around his shaft like the night he’d taken you as his bride.

“Let me relax,” you urge him, a palm against his shoulder as you fight the discomfort. It’s easier to take him during your heats; for an Alpha, he’s incredibly well-endowed, and you’re a smaller than average Omega.

You’d made a joke after you’d mated for the first time that if his lordship came down to purely the size of his manhood he could rule the world.

Sam peppers your cheeks with gentle kisses and gently rocks his pelvis, urging your body to grow accustomed to his penetration. When you settle underneath him, heels digging into the backs of his thighs, he seals his lips over yours and gives a steady thrust. You clutch his arms, sighing through your nose at the hot, thick slide. He presses deeper, rocking his hips from side to side, and increases the intensity of his movements, making love firmly and passionately. Just the way you like.

“Oh, God…” you tip your head back, baring your throat for him, and Sam latches on, grinding his hips heavily against yours as his teeth scrape over your sensitive skin and the faint traces of your claim mark at the base of your throat. He growls when you dig your nails into his ass, and he braces his palms on the mattress as he ruts heavily into you.

Sam watches your face contort in the candlelight, brows arching as your mouth stretches into a wide smile. He’s found your sweet spot, and he focuses his thrusts there, grunting and panting like an animal.

“That’s my Omega,” he praises, kissing you deep and wet. “Oh, that’s it… I can feel you, honey love…”

He curls one hand into your hair, thrusting a little harder and faster as you begin to peak. Your body flushes hot, sweat making your skin slippery. You wrap your arms around his back, nails digging into his skin, and Sam swallows your cry of pleasure as you shudder and writhe underneath him with the force of your climax. Your thighs squeeze his waist, and he groans loudly, his knot beginning to swell.

He shoves the girth of it into your cunt with a vicious thrust that has you squealing. Bursts of his seed fill your womb, warming your lower belly as his teeth scrape over your shoulder. He goes lax with a heavy sigh, shifting so that your knees ride higher on his ribcage.

“My beautiful Omega,” he whispers softly, trailing a thumb over your lips. “I love you so much.”

Your reply is stifled by a kiss that has you squirming underneath his weight. He rests his forehead on yours, steadying his breath with a long, slow sigh. “We’re going to have another pup,” you whisper.

“I know we are.” Sam growls possessively and carefully rolls you onto your side, keeping your hips level with his. “I’ll fill you with pups as long as you’ll have them.”

This work was available on Patreon for $3. If you want to read 100+ fics like it, head on over and subscribe!

Comments are appreciated!!!

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#alpha!sam x omega!reader #alpha!sam winchester #a/b/o dynamics #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester reader insert

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Kevin Can F**K Himself Shows Why The Laugh Track Needs to Die

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The title card for the new AMC series Kevin Can F**K Himself isn’t accompanied by a jaunty tune or a wild sound effect. When the title appears on the screen, it’s soundtracked by a smattering of aggressive laughter. Creeping up below the laughter is a distressing screeching noise, meant to indicate the rapidly fraying sanity of our heroine.

So it’s quite fitting that Kevin Can F**K Himself makes a compelling case for why laugh tracks (or canned laughter) need to die a quick death. The series centers on Allison McRoberts (Annie Murphy), a woman trapped in a marriage to the titular Kevin. Kevin is an infuriating man-child. He throws keg parties on his wedding anniversary, spends obscene amounts of money on sports memorabilia, and treats Allison like an accessory. He is emotionally abusive, often making Allison feel worthless by telling her things like she’s a bad driver or that she never finishes things so that he can keep her all to himself.

Approximately a third of the series takes place in lala sitcom land in which the lighting is abundant, the set is clearly facing an audience, and Kevin is always there, chewing up the scenery like Pac Man chowing down on glowing dots. However, whenever Kevin exits, Allison finds herself in a more contemplative and complex (aka: single-camera) existence. The trouble is she doesn’t have much of an identity anymore because her entire life has hinged on being Kevin’s long-suffering wife. The juxtaposition of the sitcom world against a more realistic setting serves to illustrate just how jarring and unnecessary canned laughter is to a TV show. When we watch dramas, we don’t hear people bawling over the sad parts or gasping during the shocking moments. Nope. So why do laugh tracks persist?

As an early millennial, I grew up in a world in which laugh tracks were the norm. From “Must See TV” on NBC in the ‘90s to the vintage sitcoms on Nick at Nite, comedy was always served up with a heaping side of giggles and guffaws. Historically, the sitcom cadence did rely on a call-and response reaction as they actually were often filmed in front of a live studio audience, but it was rare that the responses that made it to the final episode were genuine and uncut.

To be clear, when I’m referring to canned laughter here, I’m not just referring to the prerecorded kind. Sure, that might be the official definition, but even the laughter we hear from live studio audiences is goosed in some way prior to airtime. The practice of “sweetening” the laugh track, or adding in favorable reactions to amplify certain jokes has been in practice for decades, and it’s still in use today. While the creators of a show might be able to proudly say that the reactions came from an actual audience, the reactions are almost always tweaked in post-production in order to punch up the jokes that the creators or network want to land. Therefore, the laugh track on all of your favorite sitcoms is a lie.

An argument could potentially be made that the practice of adding in a laugh track might make people feel a sense of camaraderie or community with others watching. And this is somewhat true. In a 2011 article on laugh tracks, NBC News noted a 1974 psychological study in which it was found that people laughed more frequently if they heard canned laughter following a joke. These types of social cues can make individuals feel comfortable, but they can also promote conformity. Looking back on the history of sitcoms, it sure seems as if laugh tracks have been complicit in keeping misogynistic and racist messaging at the forefront of comedy.

Kevin Can F**K Himself plays with this idea in every frame of its sitcom world. Nothing is actually very funny within the brightly lit walls of the McRoberts’s house. As previously established, Kevin is simply awful. He’s a huge loser. Yours truly wanted to throttle him, Homer Simpson style, during every scene he was in. Yet, since the sitcom land dictates that Kevin is a damn delight, the audience plays along.

(It’s worth noting here that Kevin Can F**K Himself was filmed in front of a studio audience. However AMC tells us that, due to COVID restrictions, the audience was small and far away, so the laughs were not picked up on the audio. Therefore, much of the laughter you hear on the show was added in post-production.)

The dynamic between Kevin, Allison, and the viewers in the studio is an exaggerated version of a tableau that has been unfolding on our TV screens for decades. We see a harried, hot wife play a straight man to a dumpy doofus husband, and we’re all supposed to think it’s simply hilarious. It’s worth noting that Kevin Can F**K HImself cribs its title from the Kevin James’ sitcom Kevin Can Wait, in which the series unceremoniously killed off James’s first super hot wife on the show (Erinn Hayes), only to replace her with his prior super hot sitcom wife, Leah Remini. Because women are oh so very interchangeable in the sitcom world, the laugh track on that show never skipped a beat.

Canned laughter has historically enabled the entertainment world to lift up mediocre men such as Doug Heffernan (Kevin James), Raymond Barone (Ray Romano), and Kevin Gable (Kevin James, again) at the women’s expense. For ages, only a very small handful of white males were allowed to create content as showrunners, directors, and writers at networks. As they had control over the laugh track, they became the arbiters of what was funny and what was not funny. They got to shape reactions according to their worldview, painting the schlumpy dudes as heroes and the women as eager sidekicks.

While there are oodles of examples of the long-suffering wife throughout sitcom history, we rarely think of these women as victims. All in the Family is considered a classic, but Archie Bunker was viciously verbally abusive to his wife Edith in almost every episode. Sure, it was a different era (and Archie surely isn’t intended to be a role model), but take away the laughs, and what’s left is a depressing portrait of a red-faced husband straight up screaming at his beleaguered wife. And don’t even get me started on The Honeymooners classic line, “to the moon, Alice!” Ahahahaha, yes, spousal abuse. Hilarious. Well, the laugh track thought so, anyway.

In more recent years, verbal abuse on sitcoms focusing on husband-wife dyads has given way to a more subtle form of emotional abuse. Often, this appears in the form of financial abuse in which a spouse spends or hides money from the other in order to keep them in their place. In Kevin Can F**K Himself, Kevin consistently spends money without consulting Allison first. In one episode, he even proudly states that a recent purchase cost “more than our wedding, but less than our car.”

This type of abuse has played out in sitcoms forever. Doug Heffernan often hid his spending from Carrie, Raymond Barone invested in a go-cart venture without telling Deborah, and even Fred Flintstone stole money from Wilma’s hidden stash (yep, The Flintstones was a cartoon, but it inexplicably also had a laugh track). These transgressions are generally perceived to be harmless on screen, leading to those canned laffs and a resolution in 30 minutes or less, but in real life, this type of clandestine behavior in relation to finances can be catastrophic, trapping an unhappy wife in a relationship with no means to escape.

Even TV series that didn’t utilize the wife/husband premise – notably Frasier and Friends – often used audience laughter to support misogynistic punchlines. Friends notoriously used the laugh track to support harmful jokes about fat shaming and transphobia while Frasier’s archaic attitudes towards women were often played for comedy. Personally, I will never ever get over how Frasier Crane treated Roz Doyle, slut shaming her at every turn for over a decade when, in fact, Frasier was sleeping with half of Seattle with nary an eyebrow raise in his snooty direction. (Sorry, rant over. But, seriously, Peri Gilpin rules. #JusticeForRoz)

Laugh tracks help normalize these behaviors. If you’re not laughing at the joke when everyone else is, something must be wrong with you. Women have faced this exact dilemma since the beginning of time. Laugh along or be judged as cold and unfeeling. Be in on the joke or be tossed to the side. This truism is even noted in the recent HBO Max series Hacks in which aging comic Deborah Vance (Jean Smart) confesses to a newbie comedienne why she makes fun of herself in her own act. With a wan smile, Deborah says, “I realized they would rather laugh at me than believe me.”

These are the same exact challenges that Allison finds herself facing in Kevin Can F**K Himself. When Kevin is around, Allison tries her best to play the role she’s been given so that he won’t make her life even more miserable. No one believes or cares that Kevin is awful because they think Allison is lucky to even have landed a man at all. The series overtly illustrates that these types of stories have always just shrugged at viewers, telling us, oh well, boys will be boys, while women’s suffering is shoehorned into punchlines instead of taken seriously. Rather than confronting the thorny reality of disentangling the institutions that lift the Kevins up and keep the Allisons down, the sitcom world treats women’s pain like a joke.

After years and years under Kevin’s oppressive thumb, Allison isn’t laughing anymore. She’s full of rage and ready to break free. When we see her in her life without Kevin, there are no prescriptive beats dictating what’s funny and what’s not. And it’s so refreshing. Life can be funny! Sometimes Allison is funny in her real life too! Annie Murphy is also very very funny! And yet, even in the absence of a laugh track, viewers can pick up on the funny. Because in this modern age of entertainment, viewers are savvy enough to know what they feel.

As canned laughter has slowly disappeared, TV has opened up to more nuanced emotion, allowing viewers to discover and explore the highs and lows for themselves. It’s probably not surprising to learn that the few existing series that do still use laugh tracks, such as United States of Al and Bob Hearts Abishola – both airing on CBS and both created by Chuck Lorre – have been critiqued for leaning on racist and sexist stereotypes. Oddly enough, an urban myth has been circulating the internet for years, claiming that everyone on laugh tracks is actually dead because the recordings were made so long ago. As modern audio engineers now update their recordings regularly, this is not true, but the truth is that the laugh track itself is soon headed to an unmarked grave in the entertainment cemetery alongside tube televisions, Smell-O-Vision, and home video rentals.

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With critically acclaimed comedies such as Schitt’s Creek (also starring Annie Murphy!), Fleabag, and The Good Place getting laughs without any pre-recorded assistance, home audiences are getting more savvy as to what’s actually funny and what’s just a cheap shot. In addition, social media and the ubiquitous sharing of memes have effectively displaced the laugh track, as people can now actually be part of an interactive community with others, watching and reacting to the same show at the same time.

In Kevin Can F**K Himself, canned laughter has finally taken its rightful place as a relic of the past. The chuckles and chortles that pepper the series are a knowing nod to a bygone era in which TV series tried to force the funny on viewers instead of letting them find their own way. Finally, laugh tracks aren’t in on the joke; they are the joke.

Kevin Can F**k Himself airs Sundays at 9 p.m. ET on AMC.

The post Kevin Can F**K Himself Shows Why The Laugh Track Needs to Die appeared first on Den of Geek.

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chicagocityfclanspromoblog · 4 years ago

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Miles Agyeman-King → Alfie Enoch → Pumapard

→ Basic Information

Age: 136

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Straight

Born or Made: Born

Birthday: April 9th

Zodiac Sign: Aries

Religion: Animism

→ His Personality Miles is a hard character to place and understand. He seems to have a wide array of personalities mixed in one, which can be explained by his experience with the Hypershift. He is self-contained and doesn’t typically use strong emotions to show what he is feeling. He generally feels uncomfortable around outbursts of emotions. He doesn’t talk about his feelings, but he will act on them and show people how he feels instead of telling them. Miles prefers to keep his thought process to himself. He never brings up the past, whether it’s his or someone else’s, and never relies on people’s personal or historical experiences to tell him who they really are.

Miles is comfortable adapting to the environment and responding to the situation as it changes. He tends to blend into the background when stronger or louder personalities are in the same room. His silent strength however plays very well with the often overly expressive Cats in his pack. Hidden below the calm layer is that same zealous energy that he only allows out during schedule runs with the pack. He’s become known as an impartial calm judge in any arguments that might happen in the pack.

→ His Personal Facts

Occupation: History Teacher

Scars: Marks along his arms and sides from fighting when he was younger

Tattoos: None

Two Likes: Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream and Pwason Boukannen

Two Dislikes: Superhero Movies and Pen thieves

Two Fears: Heights and Hypershift

Two Hobbies: Meditation and Journaling

Three Positive Traits: Observant, Ambitious and Forgiving

Three Negative Traits: Secretive, Elusive, Restrained

→ His Connections

Parent Names:

Roseline King (Mother): She was a fiercely protective mother and taught the boys how to fight for themselves. Her tenacity was up until the very end as Hunter blood was sprayed all around her, she got one last fight in before she died.

Emmanuel King (Father): Miles’s father was a quiet man. He and his brothers were rarely not butting heads with their father’s quiet and gentle behavior. As Miles has grown and reflected, he wonders what his father might think of him today. And if after the hypershift he became the person his father wanted him to be.

Sibling Names:

Arthur King (Triplet): He and Arthur are close, but not like they used to be. They split off after Henry was killed, only meeting up every so often. Arthur tried to settle down once, but the pack kicked him out once they heard of his hypershift. He’s been alone ever since, and has warned Miles that the same thing might happen to him.

Henry King (Triplet): Henry died almost 70 years ago. He couldn’t control his shift anymore and the New Orleans alpha had to kill him. Miles has been scarred ever since that day, and uses it as a motivation to stay in control.

Children Names:

None

Romantic Connections:

Malia Agyeman (Mate and Wife): M² have been together for 5 years but finally married at the beginning of 2019. Miles’ soft spoken nature is a stark contrast to Malia’s strong and outgoing nature, but he is always there to support her in her endeavors.

Platonic Connections:

Noel Crais (Good Friend): At first Miles was unsure about Noel mothering him or showing him genuine concern. She grew on him when she learned to speak Creole and about his culture. While Mile doesn’t appreciate her knowing looks but he does appreciate her not telling whatever it is she thinks she knows.

Kayla Silvestre (Friendly): Miles has tried to become a resource for Kayla as her dad goes into hypershift. He knows the long painful road ahead of the whole family, whether her dad pulls out of it or not, and he hopes he can ease some of that pain for her.

Esther Yoo (Close Friend): By default of Esther being Malia’s best friend, she’s somewhat become his as well. Esther serves as a good mediator when M² is fighting and is the only other person who excels at talking Malia down.

Rebecka Blake (Acquaintance): Rebecka has been trying to plan a hybrid class between history and English. He’s interested, but the planning is taking longer than he expected.

Roy Allen (Friend): Miles finds Roy a calming presence. There never seems to be an expectation from him and he is a good centering point when Miles feels overwhelmed with his secret.

Hostile Connections:

Rhett Colt (Hate): Rhett Colt was the one hunter who escaped after killing his parents. He sees taking a Colt daughter’s arm as revenge.

Churchill Darling (Annoyance): Churchill stole his face a few months after he came to town. His pack members generally can tell, but Malia has taken to punching Church when she thinks he has stolen his face and he’s been punched quite a few times by his wife on accident.

Ben Miller (Dislikes): He and Ben have had some altercations in the past, especially right when he joined. He’s found it’s better to steer clear of the liger to not trigger an unwanted change.

Pets:

None

→ History Miles and his family immigrated from Haiti to the United States during his early childhood. Miles was 3 years old. They spent some time in Florida as crop laborers/farm workers but eventually worked their way up to Georgia then to New Orleans. His father worked as a seasonal framhand and his mother worked as a maid. His family soon met up with the local pack and they settled in. Eventually people began noticing his parents didn’t age. Some accused them of being witches, or of hiring one to keep them young. The townspeople became so riled up that Buford Colt caught wind, all the way up in Jackson, Mississippi. He came down with his sons and they went hunting for witches. Instead, however, they found the cats. Roseline and Emmanuel sent their sons away to get the alpha when they heard the news of a hunter in town. When their sons returned, they had already been killed. Their alpha and the local seethe quickly killed Buford and most of his sons, except for one.

Miles and two brothers quickly became reckless without their parents warnings. They were angry and in mourning and they took to running off their pain. The triplets would go on long runs, sometimes gone for days at a time in their shift. Their alpha told them to slow down, but they had already become too aggressive to really control. It was at this point any warnings were given up, and they were told to just not kill anyone in New Orleans. A few months later Miles, Arthur, and Henry woke up in Texas, next to a man who’d been mauled to death. They buried him, and realized it had gone too far. Their alpha hadn’t mentioned anything when they’d come back, but a part of Miles wondered if he knew. The brothers immediately stopped shifting, but it wasn’t a smooth process. Miles broke down once or twice, but managed to stop shifting for a year, Arthur figured it out a few months after Miles, but Henry succumbed to the Hypershift, and was killed the following year. That almost triggered both Miles and Arthur to begin shifting again, and they had to move away from the town. It was then that Miles began journaling, to keep his temper and cat under control. It was the only way that he could process those emotions. The two remaining King brothers moved to Atlanta the following year, and then split apart. Miles spent decades travelling around in his human form, until finally he made his way to Chicago. There he finally met a pack likable enough to stay.

→ The Present Miles always thought his years spent in hypershift killed off any chance of romance or a family for him. He’d stayed out of the way of most cat shifters to avoid anything that would trigger him losing control again. He expected he’d act the same again in Chicago, but found something that clicked. Especially when he saw Malia cornered that night. It’d been one of the few times Miles had run with the pack and he wondered how that particular bit of luck worked out. He is truly in awe of Malia, and he’s even more in awe that he gets to be her husband. Her tenacity and strength and intelligence has brought a new vibrance to Miles that he wasn’t sure he’d get again without the use of a shift. Miles and Malia are both trying to figure out how to balance everything. Malia put things on pause for them and their wedding and Miles wants to show her that he appreciated what she did and knew the sacrifice she made for them.

Miles has yet to tell anyone about his past, except for Kayla. Not even Malia. He knows what animal shifters and specifically the Chicago pack think of those who have gone into hypershift and he worries about how it would affect his relationship with all of them. Arthur warned him against it the last time he visited, reminded him why they didn’t do packs. Especially not judgemental ones. He’s been dragging this secret around for almost a century, and when he finally could at least somewhat talk about it with Kayla, he felt a little freer. He’s debating telling Malia now, hoping it doesn’t ruin everything they’ve worked so hard to maintain and grow.

→ Available Gif Hunts (we do not own these)

Alfred Enoch (Miles King) [1][2][3]

#Alfred Enoch #oc rpg #fantasy rpg #supernatural rpg #city rpg

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churchyardgrim · 4 years ago

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#2 from the d&d ask meme? it is a fantastic question

before they met their party, what was their main goal?

oooo excellent opportunity to plug my boy’s four page backstory that i just realized i never posted here!

tldr Silas wants to study a perfect immortal in order to defeat death, bc death insulted him once and he never got over it hghdfg

Silas Edelhart has a problem. That problem is death.

He was born to minor nobility, old money making use of their hereditary ambition to generate new money on the merchant routes, and he was lucky enough to not be his father’s preferred heir; he was allowed to take to academia, or else join some priesthood and curry favor with the lesser sons of other noble houses. He chose academia.

He was enamored with it. The libraries! The minds to learn from. The men. The women! The men. The only disappointment was that apprentice physicians did not get invited to many parties, something Silas was hard at work remedying when he was presented with an unwittingly significant patient.

A farm hand from outside the city had been delayed in reaching them for medical care, and his injuries - an accident with a plow, they were told - had gone gangrenous. He was insensible with fever, and would have lost the leg even if his people hadn't taken so long in getting him to the medics; as it was, despite amputation and efficient treatment for blood poisoning, he expired overnight, in Silas's care.

Silas was crushed. He had done everything right, double and triple checked his protocols, and still the man had died. “No one blames you, of course,” one of the senior physicians said to him, “these things simply happen.”

Maybe they ‘simply happened’ to other people, Silas thought bitterly, but he was better than that. He had decided the man would live, and his performance had been flawless! The terminity of a mere natural law to stand in the way of his will was intolerable. Incensed, Silas threw himself at his studies, dead set that it should never happen again.

Resurrection magic wasn't what he was after initially; he only wanted to keep the living where they were. But he found quickly that the popular consensus was that healing magic could only do so much, and most simply accepted its failures as they did any other misfortune. So he hunted out spells to wrench the dead back, hidden and fragmented in books his instructors only grudgingly let him read. Time would tell if they would be enough, however; none of the accounts of their use he had read gave any indication of the effects being permanent. It would be so embarrassing, to put so much work into defying death only to have his prize killed in a careless accident! He would not settle for anything less than complete immunity from death.

His practice only pushed him deeper into this conviction; plenty of his patients lived, much improved from treatment, but a few still died despite his efforts, reigniting his rage at death every time. He began to get a reputation for it, and some of his peers started tactfully funneling away those patients that seemed likely to die with or without medical care, to spare themselves his rants. Many of them thought his anger came from an insult to his skills, but this was all wrong; he knew his skills were exceptional, the failure was not his.

It is the gods’ fault, Silas decided. The gods had set this wretched law in place, to kettle and humble mortal creatures. But... no, the gods themselves are yet subject to death, have died in scores. So, death is a greater power than even them.

But in one book, ill-used and forgotten, Silas found mention of a god returning from death. A resurrection on a divine scale. And once that possibility had revealed itself, the hints between the lines of other books made themselves apparent; someone had performed that resurrection, exercised mastery over death in such a way that it left Silas’s mouth watering. How? How had it been done?

The next few months of frantic research and evasion - the concern from his tutors was enough to warn him that no one wanted him to go looking for this - led him eventually into the university’s vaults. To a broken-legged construct, dormant, containing a withered, desiccated hand. Not the hand of the godly resurrectionist, no, but the hand of someone who, certain books implied, might have been a devotee of that individual. A relic of a necromantic saint.

Silas stole it, of course he did. Made use of a debt owed by an engineer of the local guilds to repair the construct housing, and treated it as a treasured prize. Such mysteries, opening to him now with the artifact’s communion; he graduated quickly from books to practice, retreating into his own rooms to make frogs twitch and test ancient ideas on the animation of flesh. He took on fewer and fewer patients, withdrew from the society of his peers… for the most part.

Sera Mournleaf was brilliant. Sera Mournleaf was intense. And some days, Sera Mournleaf was the only thing that could distract him from his work. An elf with connections, she did him many favors in getting him subjects to work on, meat with which to test his theories, and had an insightful and sparkling mind with which to discuss the less publicly acceptable aspects of spitting in the face of death. So what if she stayed up later than him some nights, reading and rereading his notes. So what if every time she visited her aging human father she came back slumping with worry. He cannot expect things to be about him all the time!

Besides, he had little focus to spare for things not his research, now. He had been forced to take up the shovel himself, more than once, to find fresh bodies that would be more difficult to trace back to him - they keep a close eye on the university morgue, he learned better than to try that more than once. And he had had no small success, stripping corpses of their unnecessaries and stitching the most promising parts to one another, speaking to his prized relic with equal parts demand and prayer.

The results infuriated him at first. Lurching, wretched things, no better than flesh constructs, most of them had to be destroyed; that shriveled hand granted Silas holy fire as easily as it had clues to the resurrectionist arts. But he persisted, and grew to view them as necessary stepping stones towards a greater perfection. He grew more bold, more reckless, and felt himself forever on the verge of a cataclysmic revelation.

It was not to be. He was found out. The right word in the right ear brought the law crashing down on his shoulders, and he watched them burn his experiments with a guardsman kneeling on his back. It was broken, all of it, his research carted away in boxes (fewer boxes, maybe, then he thought there should have been), and Silas himself thrown in prison to scream his rage at the uncaring stone.

The trial was a farce. Somehow, Silas's family managed to find reason enough to pull half the lawyers in the city to his defense, while at the same time making it very clear that under no circumstances was he to darken their doorstep ever again. In the same two hour span his prospects went from life imprisonment to a mere slap on the wrist of exile, and then summarily informed that he had been neatly removed from the last will and testament of his every living family member. It was a very trying day.

At the end of it he was stripped of his qualifications, most of his wealth confiscated, and ejected from the city with his mouth sewn shut with wire; an archaic punishment for heresy, invoked here merely as sorry consolation on the part of the law that they couldn’t execute him outright. In the proper spirit of the thing, he should have left the stitches in place and let himself starve, and in deference to the bare truth of his crimes Silas endured it for three days before getting sick of the whole thing and cutting himself loose.

He had managed to keep his precious relic in its construct housing, the only thing worth bribing a minor official to sneak out of evidence lockup, and he quickly put distance between himself and wretched Misthaven, thinking nothing but bitter thoughts towards his betrayer. Selfish, horrible Sera; she had gotten cold feet, most likely. Come over all moral about what he had been doing, let slip to the magistrate that perhaps she knew who had been plundering the city's burial grounds at night. Well! She will just have to wait and see, won't she. Wait until he can begin his work again, reach as yet unseen heights of resurrection. Then he would return to Misthaven and enact some fitting revenge, on her and all those who had a hand in ruining him.

(Miss Mournleaf could have argued, the better part of a year later, that his unwitting parting gift was revenge enough. Babies scream like they’re being murdered, and the damn thing looks just like him. She left it with the nuns and got on with the business of saving her father.)

And so he wandered, working as a physician in small towns and middling cities, trying his damndest to reestablish his research in some capacity. But his funds never stretched that far, and neither did the patience of his neighbors; more than once he had to flee under cover of night, for misdeeds real or imagined. Most of these were unmemorable affairs, and only irritated him. Once, the mercenary paid to kill him proved a delightful match, in combat and energy, and the man made an affair of running away with Silas, and Silas ended up growing remarkably fond of Cassian Hellier, for all his unrefined brutishness. They still keep in touch, whenever either of them is in civilization long enough to hire a messenger to carry letters.

A decade passed in this fashion before Silas began to hear rumors. Travelers between worlds, fading in and out of unearthly mist, serving a genuine immortal. He seized upon these threads, passion alight again; a near perfect undead, far superior to the wretched things he had managed to raise back in Misthaven, yes. He would follow the travelers, seek out their master, see what, if anything, of the rumors were true. If they are... he would study, and learn, and replicate the results. And if not? Well, the corpse of even a lesser undead would be a beautiful thing.

#dnd #silas #boyo's a death cleric/graveyard rogue and i LOVE HIM #Anonymous

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elane-in-the-shadows · 6 years ago

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Red Queen Fan Fiction - Red Huntress Chapter 1

A/N: Here’s the Farley prequel story I promised!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Find this on Wattpad and on AO3

Diana Farley had always known how to wield a knife.

It was nothing unusual for her, the daughter of hunters and butchers; it was what she was expected to learn. Her mother’s hands had taught her, hands pink, callused and sun-tanned, with nails forever stained red-brown by her trades.

Stains from the wrong kind of blood, Diana noticed as she held her mother’s hand. Both of them were standing on the edge of a large expanse of brown fields, in lines and rows with the rest of their village, assembled to await the arrival of the Silvers.

Her other hand didn’t clench a knife, but a sickle. It would be Diana’s first time to serve in the greeny corvee that took place in her village, Sieverling, every three years.

In preparation of it, the peasants had left the fields before them, a full third of the whole lands belonging to Sieverling, lying fallow for months, for when a handful of Silvers storms, nymphs, and greenfingers came to their petty northern village. Several times, the Silvers were to water the soil, summon blazing sunlight, spread the high-yield custom seeds they brought and make the plants grow in mere hours. And then they’d tell the local Red serfs to reap the crops and perform the other manual farm work, or whatever tasks the Silvers couldn’t be bothered with and claimed the Reds were better suited for anyway.

Diana squeezed her mother’s hand at the thought. She knew it looked childish when she was already eleven and not some infant, deemed old enough to do her share in the corvee. She didn’t care what it looked like, though she appreciated the concerned gaze Mama gave her, a reassurance when she was uncertain what to expect besides the obvious, ordinary drudgery.

No one seemed excited about the greeny corvee and everyone was tense, standing firmer than usual under the glaring midday sun. She admired how her mother kept her face straight while the June heat burned her skin even pinker but lit her braided hair to wheat-yellow. It was already eleven o’clock, late to start any kind of farm work. As Diana tamed her blond, shoulder-length curls in something between a ponytail and a bun, she heard some neighbours grumble at the waste of time, a waste she felt as well. She and the other children could be in school (if their two teachers weren’t among the waiting farm hands today), or doing a few of the endless tasks at home, or she could just, for once, if there was really nothing better to do than kicking her heels, play with her friends. For example with Giselle, the beautiful girl who’d been transferred with her family to Sieverling only a few months ago, a girl that fascinated Diana so much she neither knew to how talk to, nor how to avert her eyes from her.

Even now, she caught herself searching for Giselle among the few hundred people around, and the teeny glimpse of Giselle’s dark brown hair made her heart beat faster for a minute. Diana bit her lip to subdue her ill-fitting smile. But what should happen? There was no Silver lord here yet to scold his Red serfs for daring to feel amusement.

Not even their Silver lord. Isère, the lord of Sieverling and several surrounding villages, who owned the lands and whom the Red serfs owed their tithe and service, rarely showed himself unless there was something for him to take. And he got no share in the greeny corvee either. However the greenies and their companions calculated their numbers, Diana didn’t know, but there was nothing for the local lords. The greeny corvee was a “service” from the High Houses of the Lakelands to the Red peasants, granted by the crown. And the High Houses and the crown had, decades ago, assessed some lists that claimed how much each village was to produce during the corvee. The greenies didn’t care that Diana was a child, like many others expected to work today, that villagers had been conscripted for the war, or how many inhabitants had died in or joined a settlement lately. There was a quota to meet and crops to be delivered to the Silver citadels. And the quota demanded that Diana replaced the labour of her father, who was far away in the south, to fight for the Lakelands in the war against Norta.

That was the true meaning of standing beside her mother, and why she grasped her hand again and again. The moment she fell in line, she was reminded of her father’s absence that was lasting for three years by now, its end – in whichever way – uncertain.

That was a silly notion, in a way. His absence was blatant every day, because it was every day that Mama had to work for two adults because of it. The lakelander army was scant with its pay; it only arrived once a year when Papa was on leave and visited. In the meantime, her mother had to do his work as a hunter besides her job in the butcher’s shop.

It was the same as everywhere: When the Silver lords of the manors demanded their meat, crop, goods and farm hands, the Red serfs had to comply or be sent to prison or to the crown fields; the large expanse of lands where High House Silvers had whichever plants or livestock they wished for grown with every technology available.

The greeny corvee was actually supposed to be supportive in that regard. It made for a few harsh days, but the crop brought in then could be used for the tithe to the manor lord or kept as food – although it was only a fraction of the yield the Reds were allowed to keep. Diana assumed it was hardly a third of it for the whole village, because the biggest share was delivered directly to the crown for “The Allocation of Silver Abilities for Red Welfare,” and the handful of greenies took a similarly large part for their “expenditures”, which Diana guessed meant efforts.

“Why is the greeny corvee only every three years?” she blurted out.

“Diana …” Mama frowned, because she knew that Diana knew why.

“Because of the soil,” said Tava, her uncle Timo’s husband standing to her right. He met her eyes, needing to lean down only a little as Diana had almost his height by now. Trying to be nice despite the day’s bad prospects, he patted her shoulder with his brown hand. She was glad for it.

“The greenies’ seeds are special, and take too much from the soil to be grown frequently in the same place,” Tava explained, his dark eyes showing a warm gleam. “Not without better fertilizers.”

“Better not to have those fertilizers,” objected Anam, the woodcutter and Tava’s cousin. ��You hear nothing good of those or the plant protectants used in the crown fields.”

“From what little we get to hear from the crown fields,” Mama uttered. “Almost no one comes back from there. People toil for the food of the High Houses for years, and if they’re lucky enough to survive their time, they return sick or dying.”

“Clara …” Tava sighed, but the grim set of his jaw told Diana that he shared her mother’s opinion.

“Dad?” Tava’s tautness loosened as Kevin, the orphan he and his husband had adopted, tucked on his sleeve. At ten, Kevin was the only one of Diana’s cousins old enough for the corvee. The rest of the young children, her little sister Madeline among them, stayed at the farms and pastures to look after the few animals. Kevin went on, “all will be better when we win against Norta and take the farm machines they have.”

Clara blanched. “Norta may built machines, but I doubt there’re farming ones among them,” she claimed.

“You know that for sure, Clara?” a peasant woman who’d listened in asked. “Did your husband tell you so?”

Mama didn’t reply.

Diana had figured her mother preferred to remain quiet about Papa’s doings in the war. She thought it was for the ache of missing him they all felt. But more and more, she suspected Mama was decidedly secretive.

It was why Diana had become curious about Norta lately. She was as versed as anyone in Sieverling in the usual but rare news they received, or in their small school’s teachings. The fecund and bountiful Lakelands where no one had to go hungry, fighting the barren Norta whose soil was poisoned and dried out by her burner kings.

Easy to believe, wasn’t it? But people did go hungry, starved, and died in the Lakelands all the time. Because Reds failed to take care of themselves, as the Silvers liked to argue? Or rather because Red peasants had to work the fields with their own hands although better equipment existed, as Kevin had said? Then there were the fields frozen in unending, icy winters. And the floods and droughts destroying crops no nymph kings or queens bothered to protect their people from. Silvers never did anything, not even when hard-working people were killed by small infections and common illnesses a skinhealer – or a simple, but overpriced medicine from the city – could heal in an instant.

If Diana was certain of one thing, it was that Reds did work enough, tried hard enough. But what was that worth if the Silvers still stole the rewards of their work, and gave nothing but contempt in return? And her village was one that held together. If someone couldn’t afford the tithe, another with more would help them out even if that meant less for everyone else, so very few from Sieverling were ever sent to the crown fields, to work off their debts.

Mostly, these few were people already indebted, who had taken loans to buy goods, livestock, machines, fertilizers or seeds to grow more profitable crops. People who wanted more than bare survival. Who took risks with whatever way to improve their lives, and met failure and despair as a result.

Diana didn’t pity, or scoffed at them. She felt with them, because she believed she was also likely to end up banished to the crown fields, since she couldn’t help but yearn for more than this never-changing misery.

She had no idea if Norta was any better. Because nobody would, or could, tell her. She didn’t even have the means to leave Lord Isère’s county, was supposed to stay in the place she was born in like all serfs.

It was afternoon by now, with no sign of the Silvers arriving. People began to give up their stiff stances, and sat down on the ground, some producing canteens and slices of bread.

In the distance, Diana glimpsed a few kids carrying more baskets with provisions. She hoped her sister was among them, and when the next seconds gave her certainty, she brushed her mother’s arm. “Mama, look there’s Madeline – ”

But Clara Farley only shook her head with resigned smile. “What does it this matter? All we’ve done was for nothing. It’s a fraud, as the Silvers aren’t coming.

“They just don’t care about us.”

And, although Diana had thought the same thing, many times so, she felt something shattering in her to hear her mother confirm it. Yet a part of her was glad, because there was freedom in knowing that even if you served perfectly, you’d be left for dead.

A/N 2: If you got until here, thank you very much! ;-) I expect the next chapter to be less info dumpy, so please stay tuned. One more chapter is certain to come, maybe two, and Clara will show more of her character there.

I’d like to point out the “fertilizers” and “plant protectants” mentioned in the story are references to Monsanto’s Glyphosat/Round-Up and other harmful pesticides. And the villagers have few animals since the costs of keeping massive numbers of livestock aren’t affordable anymore. Extreme meat production is out.

@elliemarchetti @lilyharvord @clarafarleybarrow @mareshmallow @marecalrandomstuff @wessanade @redqueenfandom @scxrletguardsdawn @almostconstantlyawkward @sxfik @olivegreenolives @mvaen @abbyboul @sparrow-ceol @choosememaven @maudthebookeater @ifyouholdmebackimightexplode

#red queen #red queen fanfiction #diana farley #clara farley #victoria aveyard #Broken Throne #glass sword #steel scars #war storm #king's cage #shade barrow #house calore #red huntress ch 1 #prequel #colonel farley

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inmournfulnumbers · 5 years ago

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TAGGED BY : stole it from the dash TAGGING : @wintersflower @lathal

— BASICS.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE TALL / SHORT / AVERAGE ? Hodge is shorter than the average man by a few inches, standing at roughly 5′8.

▸ ARE THEY OKAY WITH THEIR HEIGHT ? As a younger adult/older teen it bothered him, he insisted he’d grow just a few more inches until he was about 25 when he finally accepted he’d never get any taller. In some ways he was lucky to be born a mage because it spared him from ridicule from other boys who would think him less manly. He never had to worry about appearing intimidating or brawny because of his role as a scholar, though after escaping the Circle he thought that a couple added inches to his height would come in handy.

▸ WHAT’S THEIR HAIR LIKE ? Jet black with loose curls, Hodge finds his hair difficult to manage. Brushing it out makes his hair go frizzy and look altogether ridiculous, but without brushing it looks like a bird’s nest. A wide toothed comb helps ease the struggles of untangling his hair but he has no clue how to style it. Given how he cuts it himself, its a wonder he looks presentable at all even with years of practice behind him. His hair is also coarse, dry, and thick which only makes the styling and cutting process more difficult. When his mental health declines, Hodge has a very difficult time with self-grooming. During those spirals he’ll often let his hair grow untamed and wild.

▸ DO THEY SPEND A LOT OF TIME ON THEIR HAIR / GROOMING ? Hodge dislikes a full beard on himself, so he’ll trim and shave to keep his growth in check, but he usually has a bit of a goatee (like his faceclaim). When his mental health dips he tends to have more stubble and may have a ragged beard if he spirals long enough.

▸ DOES YOUR MUSE CARE ABOUT THEIR APPEARANCE / WHAT OTHERS THINK ? While he does care about his appearance, it is low on his list of priorities. Hodge has had few chances over the last decade or so to put much effort into his appearance beyond the bare necessities. For years he’s worn stolen clothes and patched them up himself, he’s maintained cleanliness and grooming standards to the best of his ability but when his health takes a dip he struggles with taking care of himself. Joining the Inquisition is the first point of relative stability in his life since before things went wrong in the Circle.

He’s not concerned about whether he’s well liked, to the point that he’d rather try for an opinion of him where people won’t be outright violent towards him. However, he cares a great deal for the opinions of those he already considers close friends.

— PREFERENCES.

▸ INDOORS OR OUTDOORS ? Outdoors ▸ RAIN OR SUNSHINE ? Rain ▸ FOREST OR BEACH ? Forest ▸ PRECIOUS METALS OR GEMS ? Metals ▸ FLOWERS OR PERFUMES ? Flowers ▸ PERSONALITY OR APPEARANCE ? Personality ▸ BEING ALONE OR BEING IN A CROWD ? Alone ▸ ORDER OR ANARCHY ? Order ▸ PAINFUL TRUTHS OR WHITE LIES ? Painful truths ▸ SCIENCE OR MAGIC ? Both. ▸ PEACE OR CONFLICT ? Peace ▸ NIGHT OR DAY ? Night ▸ DUSK OR DAWN ? Dawn ▸ WARMTH OR COLD ? Warmth. ▸ MANY ACQUAINTANCES OR A FEW CLOSE FRIENDS ? Close friends ▸ READING OR PLAYING A GAME ? Reading

— QUESTIONNAIRE.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME OF YOUR MUSE’S BAD HABITS ? Hodge tends to pick at his skin and chew on the insides of his cheeks while he’s thinking, also humming or talking to himself when he’s alone. These fidgety habits can sometimes annoy others. Keeping himself awake far longer is reasonable is a more serious bad and sometimes dangerous habit. While insomnia often strikes him, sometimes he stays up because he doesn’t want to sleep (or more accurately, doesn’t want to dream) which can leave him weak and exhausted as well as compromise his mental health.

▸ HAS YOUR MUSE LOST ANYONE CLOSE TO THEM ? HOW HAS IT AFFECTED THEM ? He’s lost a few people.

Death wasn’t his first experience with loss. His very first experience was when he lost contact with his parents at 11 years old. At first he’d sent a few letters to his parents, but without ever receiving a reply he stopped trying. Even after escaping the Circle, Hodge never attempted to rekindle a relationship with them and he’s not sure whether they’re still alive today. Like most young mages brought to the Circle, he was terribly homesick even years after leaving home.

After that he lost his mentor, Heinrich, in the Circle when he learned that the man was planning on turning him over to the Templars for the Rite of Tranquility. Rather than a loss from physical distance, it was that of shattered trust between the two. Hodge had thought his mentor would understand him, he’d trusted Heinrich to guide him through the his study of magic and to shield him from Circle politics. Instead, he learned that Heinrich had not only lost faith in Hodge’s abilities but that he was scheming behind his back. Already Hodge had paranoid tendencies, but it’s been difficult to discount all of his delusions when some turned out to be true.

It was then that he lost his few friends in the Circle, one of whom he was in a relationship with at the time. His closest friends didn’t believe him when he told them Heinrich and the Templars’ plans for him, and they wanted nothing to do with him when he staged his ‘escape’. He lost them permanently during the Annulment process when they and everyone else he knew in the Circle, were killed. He doesn’t blame them for their initial disbelief, he might not have either if he didn’t see the possibility for cruelty from Templars directly, but at the time it only served to solidify his isolation. Losing them to death was harder than he’d expected. Already they were distant, and he was in the throes of a downward mental spiral at the time, but he didn’t feel the full loss of their friendship until it was too late to ever go back.

▸ WHAT ARE SOME FOND MEMORIES YOUR MUSE HAS ? Hodge has fond memories of home before he was taken to the Circle, and he has a few fond memories from the Circle (working to master his magic, the exhilarating moments of discovery he’d had, moments with friends and... more than friends, etc). Despite the last ten years proving difficult, the pain he endured towards the end of his stay in the Circle, and the dark spots that plague his life, he holds onto the bright spots.

▸ IS IT EASY FOR YOUR MUSE TO KILL ? No. It’s easier if they’re attacking him and he has no other way out of the situation, or if they’re actively harming other people. When sees them as people, people with lives and friends and family, it’s more difficult. Everybody is trying to survive, he has a difficult time faulting people for that even if they must do wrong to accomplish that. However for those who carry out undue harm, for those who are cruel without purpose, and for those who are impinging on others’ struggles for survival he has little mercy.

▸ WHAT’S IT LIKE WHEN YOUR MUSE BREAKS DOWN ? There are two main ‘modes’ in which Hodge might break down.

The first involves a loss of trust and acceptance of his paranoia. For his last years in the Circle his paranoid tendencies kept him alive, so he may sometimes trust his instincts even when they’re unfounded. He’ll avoid people and struggle to take care of himself. Attempts to reach out are almost always in the form of pictures or notes. They might come as warnings to others or other attempts to communicate his jumbled thinking with other people. These breakdowns are difficult for him to escape on his own and difficult for people to help. He hasn’t reached the lows of these breakdowns since being trapped in the Circle and he works hard to avoid this type of breakdown.

Emotional breakdowns present somewhat similarly but to a much smaller degree. Hodge retreats into himself, his paintings become more abstract and rushed. He may sit on the parapets alone at night and he’ll avoid talking to people. The best way to pull him back up from this is to just talk with him, not even necessarily about what pushed him to this point but just make sure he’s not alone.

Actually there is a third type of breakdown which is just... angry. If he’s pushed far enough with someone, forced to stay after the point where he normally would have left, he’ll grow bitter and sarcastic. Hodge doesn’t blow up exactly, but he stops watching his mouth and his tone with people.

▸ IS YOUR MUSE CAPABLE OF TRUSTING SOMEONE WITH THEIR LIFE ? If asked? No. But in actualitiy, yes. For him to give that kind of trust takes great difficult and a long time, though. First and foremost, he considers his life to always be in his own hands. If he gives that control over to someone else then he considers his life functionally lost already. Say he’s dangling over a cliff, and someone else is the only thing holding him over the rocks below: Hodge wouldn’t doubt that they would drop him and he has already either made peace with that fact or tried to come up with a plan to save himself on the way down. It would take proof that they didn’t let his life go (ie. not dropping him) to make him reconsider. On the battlefield, this is liable to happen as he can’t possibly control every facet of his own safety when fighting in a team. He must rely on his teammates to watch his back, just as he’s watching theirs.

▸ WHAT’S YOUR MUSE LIKE WHEN THEY’RE IN LOVE ? Hodge is quiet and he is gentle in love. He’s not very good at openly expressing emotion on his face, but he yearns to show it in any way he’s able. Holding hands and other small touches of reassurance are his go to, as well as being attuned to the needs of those he loves. He’s more open with those he loves and he’s willing to share things that are private and special to him with them, he wants to share pieces of himself. He tries to encourage them to be unabashedly themselves when they’re together and works to prove himself safe enough that they can take down their walls. Whether it takes a listening ear or a shoulder to lean on, a cup of coffee in the mornings or having their back against a foe, Hodge wants to show that he cares.

#;about Hodge #long post

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eyeloch · 6 years ago

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For fun, and to remind myself how to write, I figured I’d write up a DnD 5e one-shot I played yesterday.

How to make this less dry? Well, this here little chunk of words would be how my character for it, Dyne Freeborn, might tell it many years later. Therefore, if I make any mistakes, then they’re in-character and it’s not me being wrong!

Take a glance down the right dark alley, and you’d see - well you’d see nothing, if you knew what was good for you. If you had more curiosity than sense, though, you might spy a door. A grimy door, well hidden, but there nevertheless.

Venture inside, and you’d find a surprisingly-lively little pub. Decent ale and spirits. Good wine - long as you bought it yourself. Or stole it.

Today though, the wine was mediocre at best. More importantly, however, there was something of a celebrity within. Well, perhaps it’d more more accurate to call him an infamous figure. Celebrities typically aren’t on the run from multiple countries. Or, at least, not on the run for arson, prison breaks and inciting violent mobs.

Drunk off cider (and the atmosphere), a certain Dyne Freeborn - the celebrity in question, if you haven’t already guessed - was in a jolly mood. True, he might be laying low in a succession of safe houses yet again, but such was life.

The sooty-coloured hair of the half-elf was now steely with age. Slight crows-feet collected below his dark eyes - often lively with mirth, no matter what troubles life threw at him. If it wasn’t for the soul of the phoenix dwelling within him, he’d probably have been content to just be the life of the party.

Instead, he was on the run once more, and feeling a tad reflective that night. As the bartender refilled his tankard, Dyne began his story...

I’ve always been freeborn by name and nature, mates, but I wasn’t always so selfless. Here he paused for a round of chuckles. Nah, it was back in me youth that I really found me life’s calling. And, like today, it all started in a pub. More or less, at least...

See, I woke up after some drinks, not sure where I was. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up - it has happened the normal way too! ...but see, this wasn't me bein' blackout drunk. Nah, this was me drugged - slipped the old sleep herbs like I was some amateur (though I 'spose I was back then).

So yeah, I wake up tied down - not the first time, mind you - and obviously I try my little magic touch on the ropes. Turns out the rotten things weren't actually rotten - pretty well made, and (unfortunately) a little too damp for me ignition to do much more than make a bad smell.

So, as I'm weighing up the pros and cons of starting a little bonfire under meself (I'll admit - as a Freeborn, I can get a little riled when I'm tied down), I spy someone else, shimmying out of their own bindings! Now, obviously, I call out to them - ask the elf to free the Freeborn - and they're nice enough to oblige. Still, as we made some makeshift tools to break out of the outhouse we'd been stuffed into, I began to realise that this was some kind of copper. Not the usual sort - they're not as acrobatic, and they don't tend to cope so well when they wake up after a druggin' - but a copper none the less!

Turns out, just beyond the door, there was a whole lotta birds! No, no, not the fun kind - well, unless you like watching scavengers pick at a fresh corpse. (Tiamat’s arse, Gerard, you have a problem!)

...anyway, I’m planning me old razzle dazzle on these winged blighters, when the copper - Tíu was their name, if I remember things rightly - convinces me we should just leg it to the other cabin they’d spied. Well, I didn’t need to be told twice!

So, luckily these birds weren’t much interested in prey that’d fight back, and we made our way to the other pile of kindling without much fuss. There we found two things - another fresh corpse and, more importantly, our stuff! The copper, as you expect, does a little digging - and manages to rope me into helping case the joint. I go along with ‘em - hey, Tiala, sometimes we have to - and soon enough we’re going down another path. Not a city path, mates, nor a garden path - but a simple trod load of grass.

Now, not long after that, we come across a lady - fellow half-elf, if me memory serves me right. Nasty old wound she had - right on the cusp o’ death. Now, obviously, the copper tries their best to patch her up. (Yeah Sul, I do mean obviously - some of ‘em are decent sorts, and you should always work out if they are. It makes them easier to manipulate, once you know what they burn for.)

Anyway, since I was feeling in a generous mood that day, I managed to succeed where the law had failed. I knew even less about medicine then than I do now - but I could still tie a decent tourniquet, when the need should arise. Used some of me favourite shirt to do it too!

Having gotten meself a decent read on old Tíu, I spun the elf a quick yarn about how they’d have to chose if their duty was to punish or to protect. Yeah, it could have blown up in me face, but it didn’t! Instead, I used me old quarterstaff - yes the non-magical one, I was decades from getting the one I have now - and a similar branch to fashion a hammock with a spare cape.

So burdened, we strode on. Turns out this particular copper liked to travel between towns - liked their maps and charts - and so he got us safely to a tiny little “village” in the arse end of nowhere. “Westbridge”, if I can remember, was pretty much just a single farming family. A single family who wasn’t too chuffed that we’d wandered in with one of their enemies in a stretcher!

Still, Tíu did what coppers do best, and convinced people that they were really on his side. I wasn’t complaining, though, since I did get a free meal out of it!

So, anyway. He smiles into another empty flagon of cider, waving for for a refill, before continuing his tale. Eventually the half-elf wakes up. Coppers do what coppers do, though Tíu wasn’t the violent sort of interrogator. ...yeah, ‘suppose that’d be counter-productive with someone that wounded anyway.

So, local matriarch, the copper and the now-prisoner talk - eventually they piece together what really going on. And this is where things heat up, if you’ll pardon me pun.

See, turns out we’d been drugged by bandits and dragged off - they’d been going through our stuff, to see if we were worth ransoming while they stole the couple of valuables we had. Simple enough, I’m sure you’ll agree. The twist, friends, was that these bandits had been disagreeing over if they should take a certain deal. See, ‘round those parts - half-a-dozen kingdoms away from where we’re sitting - there were some nobles who loved themselves some hunting. Nah, not the stuff they’d call poaching if we did it. This bunch preferred humanoids.

Horrible, ain’t it. Hunting people, hurting people, that’s one thing. But just for sport? Well. . .it stoked my anger, let me tell you!

...yeah, that was first time I ever went back once I’d fled. First time I ever really lived up to me name.

Just two of us, it was. Just the two of us against two ex-bandits and a bunch of blue-blooded drunkards. We observed the situation from the tree-line, stealthy-like. We knew we couldn’t win head on, and Tíu was so adamant that I not burn the hunting lodge down, that we decided on an improvised plan.

...well, I say decided, but Tíu sort of made the decision for me. Bloody copper.

Basically, he blew his horn. As the only ex-bandit who wasn’t regretting every life choice went-a-hunting, I thought fast and made a bornfire with me blood’s magic. While that was goin’ on, we did a little strategising, and Tíu and I went to go release the horses. Yeah, there were horses - it was a hunting party!

Unfortunately, I wasn’t as stealthy back then as I can be these days. ...yeah, I know I ain’t always the stealthiest now either. Anyway, I got spotted. Things got real dicey real fast after that!

Obviously, I started with me favourite hello - a firebolt launched as quick as a wink. They didn’t like that, but I didn’t like the cut they dealt me in return. I called upon my flames to burn this whole rotten lot to nothing - but by then it seemed to be too late. I’d been dealt a lethal blow.

Here the half-elf stopped to role a sleeve up - showing several old scars, each still discoloured and puckered, unlike the rest of his near-elvishly flawless skin.

Funny thing happened, though. As I wreathed myself in the fires of freedom, I didn’t burn away. Oh, I was definitely dying. But I incinerated nobles, scared away the thug who’d regretted their betrayal (last I hear, they’d settled into a quiet life in some monastery up in Driscol). The horses were released in the confusion -Tíu had come through, it had seemed. In the chaos, though, we were both dying. Tíu had fallen from an attempt to ride a horse - I like to think it was to help me, and not to abandon his erstwhile ally - and found himself beset by a cadre of rich arseholes. They did well - cutting into them with punches, kicks and icy magic - but were knocked down in time. My own flames were sputtering by this stage, but I summoned up the nearby insects to infest that bastard. (No, not the copper, Gerard, what’s wrong with you?)

It wasn’t enough to save the copper - an ally in this moment, despite the natural state of things. At the time, I really did think I’d saved the guy. Turns out I was wrong, though I never thought to check at the time. (He did get a burial, courtesy of those folks at Westbridge. I’m glad for that, at least. ...we might have been enemies had he lived, but he was a decent sort - and people like that deserve to become part of the air or earth. That’s just a little rule of mine.)

With what I thought would be my last breath, I lit fires inside the hunting lodge (as it hadn’t caught alight in the cross-fire of battle, despite my best efforts), and let the screams of burning blue-bloods lull me to my eternal sleep...

...’cept I woke up. Tired, sore, but very much clinging to life. Fucking painful trip back to civilisation that was - not only was I fainting every few hours, but the minor burns surrounding all my cuts started to get infected after I fell into a boggy ditch! Still, I found my way back to my then-current employees, and they nursed me back to health.

‘course, not long after I recovered, I burnt their operation to the ground. Them along with it. Harsh? Cruel? Perhaps. But as I recovered, I realised how selfish I’d been with flames and freedom given to me by birth. Freedom gives me joy. Fire gives me joy. And I realised, then and there, that I needed to give everyone that freedom.

Oh, it’d be years before I could put it to words, but that day - with the druggin’, the copper and the blue-blooded bastards - that day was the day I realised I needed to free everyone!

Yep, Tiala, you’re right - free the wealthy from their cash! Free the prisoners from their chains! Free the slaves from their masters! Free the nobility from their bloated lives!

...I doubt Tíu would have approved, had he lived - but hey, what could a single copper do against The Freeborn?! ...besides, he’s got the freedom of the grave now - it’ll be another century before I get that last freedom, should I be so lucky!

Finishing one last drink, Dyne’s tale wound to a close. Most of the pub’s regulars had left - off to go bludgeon anyone wandering unlit back-allies, no doubt - but his little band of brigands was still surrounding him. Some of the newer recruits, like Tiala, still listened attentively - while seasoned veterans like Gerard were dozing off, used to his old tales.

Truth be told, Dyne did sometimes feel regrets about the path he’d taken. Not all he’d freed found the freedom to their liking - and some simply used new freedom to imprison others yet again. Still, he stoked the flame of revolution, of rebellion, of resentment wherever he could - because it was the way to feed the flames within.

Fire satisfied his senses in a way nothing else could - not even the freedom his folks were named for - but sometimes the resulting screams weren’t so sweet to his ears. Still though, he’d choose this path again in a heartbeat - or perhaps, to be more accurate, he’d chose it again in a spark.

#DnD 5e #dungeons and dragons #oneshot writeup #eye write #my OCs #my PCs #heheh #eye headcanon #(kind of)

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motherstone · 6 years ago

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So, I was looking at your AU (So well developed I must say) and there's this question in my mind, is Emily... dead?? In your Oc universe I mean, no need to answer if you don't want to

Haha! Anon, be prepared for a rant because you have pressed my Hyperfixation Button.

Warning: this rant shows how bias I am towards a character and certain places in Amulet and contains real world opinions and issues that I am Absolutely Pissed about so I retconned a couple of things in my OC world. It addresses issues that is very much happening and if it makes you uncomfortable, well, it’s never meant to comfortable. This contains a lot of sensitive themes and frankly I am still doing research

Technically speaking, the entire Council is gone along with Cielis (although the Surface knows it’s still alive they just ceased contact). Vigo died quite some time ago, along with several of theoriginal crew. Emily and Trellis are what remains of the Council but theresponsibilities are split because Trellis stayed on Alledia while Emily assistsin Space as a fighter (she’s not a leader). Elves age differently here, so Emilyis well in her senior years while Trellis is in his early 20s. Emily found Moze(already having a stone) abandoned as an infant in a wreckage after a fight inGhen-7, and brought him back to Alledia to raise him. Here Trellis actuallyserved as Moze’s adoptive father with Emily as his mom (but they’re not in arelationship, more of QPR because Emily is aroace while Trellis is a demi throughand through).

He’s p reluctant at first and suspiscious where Emily gothim and if she just “stole” him without, I dunno, searching for his parents butultimately agrees because Emily has to be in Space and the safest place sheknows is Alledia and the most trustworthy person she knows is Trellis.Fortunately, he genuinely loved him and raised him as his own despite being differentspecies, even more so as from different planets. The problem is, Emily was kindof… Emotionally neglectful. The only time she ever bothers to visit Moze iswhen she wants to train him and bring him to space so he could join her in herfights but nothing beyond that. Trellis is a bit more affectionate, butconsidering he is recovering trauma from his own abusive childhood, strugglesto communicate properly with Moze and tries to feebly and reluctantlyunderstand and justify Emily’s action.

Unfortunately, this just bred resentment in Moze, as most ofthe time he’s complimented and recognized based on his skill and power, ratherthan his worth as a person. It worsens to the point that he believes that theonly reason Emily adopted him in the first place because he’s a weapon they canuse in their “war” (considering Alledia’s mandatory 500 years of peace is ineffect, Moze interprets that his parents has not yet switched out of their “atwar” mindset. And considering Emily’s actions, it’s quite hard to blame Mozefor drawing up that conclusion). The fact that Trellis is training him as astonekeeper to one day become a Guardian of the Council and didn’t evenconsider if THAT’S what Moze wants…. Moze was in a very claustrophobic anddistressing situation. When he does try to bring it up with Trellis, he’llreceive excuses. When he does try to bring it up with Emily, he gets dismissed.His lack of friends because of prioritizing his training made him deprived of agood support network (which a weakened Ikol took advantage of)

Contrary to what Moze thinks, Trellis DOES notice Moze’sdistress and worries about it, but is torn from defending his best friend ofmany decades to defending his beloved son. After he remembers how he alwaysyearned to be an adult his younger self needed, he goes off to confront Emilyfor her actions. Now I have to tell you, they both loved Moze, but they areindeed terrible parents with flaws they didn’t properly addressed, leading totheir kid suffering for it (considering Trellis has little proper adult guidanceand Emily is also emotionally neglected by Karen… It’s inevitable). That’swhere he realized Moze was just “taken” and Emily never bothered to search forhis parents. Trellis nearly broke down then and there because he realizes theySTOLE Moze. Moze is a Ghensepta (citizen of Ghen-7, it still hasn’t fallen tothe shadows yet), but he was raised Alledian, taught Alledian culture, taughtAlledian history when he already has ONE of his OWN. Moze was forced to take anidentity that wasn’t his and was absolutely isolated from his real culture andheritage. He is horribly sickened by what he and Emily has done and is outragedby it.

(Trellis’s and Emily’s relationship isn’t abusive per se, andit was genuinely a good one from the start but as they spent of the timeseparated from one another and be desensitized and cynical by their traumaticand heavy issues they encounter in their duties in either ruling or fighting…Well, it dissolved to the point that they only bothered to listen to oneanother because of past yearnings and insistence to try to stick of what they wereinstead of accepting the other as now. They still do care one another though,and consider each other family, but the former passion and harmony is long gone.Trellis do ended up going along to what Emily desires instead of protestingback in the good ol days)

Trellis demands that Moze be returned to his home planet butEmily declines, as they are his parents now and Ghen-7 will be safe no longer. Whatkind of parent that endangers their child? Trellis dissents that they are not Moze’sparents and that he doesn’t belong to Alledia and deserved to return to hisreal home and family. The argument heated to point it dissolved to a fightwhere Trellis is nearly crippled from Emily’s attack. Her own actions horrifyher, and in the gist of the moment, Trellis begs to understand, that they didMoze wrong, that he’s sick of always compensating for Emily since the start oftheir friendship, and that she at least don’t do it for him, but for Moze. ThatMoze still loves her, and she undoubtedly loves him, but they need to talk, andshe needs to listen this time. That Moze was hurting and that they failed himlike the adults in their lives failed them. Realizing the truth, Emily breaksdown as well. The thing is, Moze overheard some of their fight, andmisinterprets this as Trellis becoming sick of him, hating him, and desiring todisown him (it doesn’t help that to Moze’s unawareness, that Ikol is amplifyinghis self-hatred)

Utterly heartbroken and crushed, Moze felt sick when Trellisvisited him in his room that night, to tell him that he has to go with hismother for a while. Believing this affirms his worst fears, he promptly acceptsit (Moze prefers Trellis over Emily clearly and loathes spending time with thelatter). Trellis looks like he wants to say something and Moze was about toanticipate it, but he shakes his head, and leaves him alone. The last timeTrellis saw Moze was when he was leaving with his mother

When Emily returns, Trellis is overjoyed to greet her,although surprised they got back early but presumes that they must have quicklyresolved things.

He stops dead when Emily was there alone, with Moze’stattered blue cape.

His whole world shatters when Emily disappears to get Mozeback when he lost control, never to return.

Destroyed by his son’s and best friend’s death within ashort span of time, Trellis fell into depression and suicidal tendencies,abandoning his position and duties as both Guardian and King, leaving a powervacuum and a fragile peace and structure his Cabinet and other offices try tofill and stabilize. Ultimately Riva is forced to shoulder his position asGuardian. The entire world goes into a shitshow when he’s gone for 3-4 years,isolating himself in his home village with only Luger keeping him from killinghimself but it’s clear he’s lost the will to live. He only returns when Gulfenis threatened to be overthrown by a tyrant and start another war again, andonce again usurps the throne to his great reluctance and despair (he hatesruling tbh and would rather live a normal life til he dies but duty has brandedhim to the bone), becoming Alledia’s sole ruler as the only remainingstonekeeper alive (the motherstone is actually still intact but no one knowsthat except him, because they are saving the stones for a new Council once the500 years of peace passed and the cycle of discord becomes anew). However,traumatized with rollercoaster of recovery and relapses and mental healtheducation and treatment virtually next to nonexistent yet, he spent most of hisearly reign with and emotional limp. Navin, last of the original group asideTrellis and his first friends, dies.

Fortunately, he’s REALLY good at ruling and ended upimplementing laws that revolutionizes Alledia, especially Gulfen, but strugglesto implement it in other countries, especially Windsor due to racism and many ofthe country’s authority resisting him, and thus simply left them to their owndevices if they desire to implement it or not. Thus, his power as a Guardian isreduced considerably because of it, meeting resistance and suspicion ineverything that he does, no matter how well-intentioned. Still, believing thefight is not over, Trellis the forms strategies and plans to prepare Allediawhen the shadows return, and that includes warnings of rising fascism and discord.He prioritizes public education, equal rights (be it in gender, sexuality,disability or race), and (mental, physical, and emotional) health oversecurity, intending to help Alledia recover first before preparing for a war.He also tries to unify Gulfen by solving the divide of the East and West after itscivil war, and tries to harmonize and fix the racism that divides the elves andhumans, by allowing elves to reside in more friendly cities, such as Lucien,Ippo, and Frontera. Cielis, hated by the surface due to their actions andabandonment in the war, was dropped as Windsor’s capital and acknowledgesLucien instead. It became Alledia’s first metropolis, boasting as the richestand most diverse city in the world.

With that in mind, he forms the Lufenian Green Cross (acharity volunteer organization that spreads welfare and healthy internationally,its HQ based in Ippo, Lufen’s capital), Frontera Science Prefecture (and whereGulfen’s Space Program members aka the Elvem Resistance operated in secret to assistwith the war in space), and the Alledian Auxiliary, a cohesive paramilitaryorganization that is formed by the remnants of the Elf Army and the HumanResistance (sure enough, early days were bad but over time formed a s trongbond, contributing to the Hamony movement). He’s done a whole lot more but let’smove the fuck on

Eventually, around 23 he started dating Riva (after dating afew people to test the waters. He’s dated only three people before Riva, but he’sdated both men and women, human and elf), and then marrying her after a fewyears. It was a private ceremony, but Alcyone claims it was the only day shenever saw Trellis frown and was happy throughout. Still, he never fullyrecovered from his PTSD and clinical depression and anxiety, often overworkinghimself to compensate. Although as mental health becomes more widespread andrefined, Trellis allows himself to go to therapy, but struggles to recover.Succeses are far and few in between, and healing was hard work on top of hisoverwhelming duties. Nevertheless, he actually manages a happy and healthy marriagewith Riva regardless of his deep rooted mental issues thanks to it. Riva andTrellis never never had any children, as Trellis was far too traumatized and guilt-riddenfrom what happened to Moze, believes himself to be a curse like his father towhoever his child may be. Yet feeling like he owes Riva, they eventually haveRavis when they are around their 40s (in Elf age, so 300 after the events inAmulet).

Trellis didn’t want Ravis to suffer and experience thedangers of Royal life, thus kept the existence of the child secret and keptthem both in Lucien as simple citizens, with him separating personal life and leaderwork, thus he visits from time to time. But he refused to be more active inraising Ravis in his toddler years in fear of hurting him and guilt yet treatedhim genuinely well (he is also scared of loving him, and then losing him). He onceagain experiences a relapse and isolates himself more, leading to a few suicideattempts. When Ravis is around 5, Trellis’s condition worsens, to the point heis frequently hospitalized and isolated to keep him from his self-destructiveand suicidal tendencies (it happened enough times that the staff knows him wellenough, but he’s never hurt Ravis or Riva). Fortunately, after extensivetherapy, Trellis finally chooses recovery and affirms himself that he is worthyof the good life he is trying to cultivate, now tries to be a more active andgood father to Ravis. And sure enough, he did, absolving himself of mistakes hedid with how he raised Moze (but the fact that Ravis and Moze nearly have thesame personality tells that their kind and rather timid nature comes from him)

He does have relapses from time to time, but now he’s relieving himselfof his duties more and more to leave it to his subordinates in order to spend moretime with his family. Besides, it’s just 400 years, they have a century ofpeace. It comes to the point he’s considering to abdicate his throne and dissolvethe monarchy. Unfortunately, the last gadoba (the plant Riva saved in bk 6)warns him that the shadows are returning much earlier to exact their revengeand commit the genocide they intended from the start. Knowing full well theyaren’t ready, Trellis despairs, that why now of all moments, the moment wherehe is now desiring to live did the gadoba ask him to die to sacrifice himselffor Alledia. But Trellis comes to terms to impending death and plans to facethe shadows on the new moon, which is a month later. Father Hope tells him thathis century will only end under the light of the full moon with his son in hisarms.

He does tell Riva all of this, and she despairs as well, buthe tries to reassure her. He then goes on behind the scenes to prepare Allediaonce he’s gone, all the while spending whatever time he has left with hisfamily. Ravis thought their father was feeling sad, and tries to cheer him up, andalthough he does smile, it cant seem to reach his eyes. Thus, when Trellis isaround his 50s, he suddenly disappeared from his chambers in Valcor, the dooropening to his balcony and into the red rocks bellow. They can’t find his body,and the scene was ruled as suicide.

Thus to answer, Emily is dead, and Trellis is “dead”.

#Sorry for long post #ugh tell me if you want me to delete it #as I said bad idea to get me to rant #to say that it's well developed is not innacurate

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whimsical-imagination-blog1 · 5 years ago

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WIP Chapter 1

Please bear with me as this is a first draft! Feedback is welcome!

On a hot summer evening, as the sun sank below the horizon and bathed the world in tones of orange and gold, a man and a woman stood at the border between kingdoms. Behind them, the forest was starting to come alive with the nighttime creatures. Ahead, the grassy hills led to the castle of the royal family, quiet and serene in the distance.

The man was tall and golden-haired. Although he looked to be in his early 30s, he was decades older. He wore fine, yet unremarkable clothes and carried only a plain sword at his side - nothing to give away who he was or which family he belonged to. The woman was short and plain, wearing a homespun dress and her hair in a braid. She looked older than the man, and was in fact centuries older than he, though the only indication of her age could be found in her eyes. They fixed him with a stare as she presented him with the reason for their meeting.

The woman was silent as she handed over a basket to the man. He did not look at its contents. Without a word, he left the woman standing on the hill, heading into the golden fields, the basket carefully cradled in his arms. The woman watched him go, stony-faced and cold. When he was no longer visible on the horizon, she turned and entered the forest.

The man continued to walk until he reached the gates of the castle. Without a word, the guards allowed him to enter, not questioning what was in the basket. The man continued on into the castle and up the mighty grand staircase, entering the private quarters of the royal family. He set the basket down on a table in his bedchamber, his wife coming to look at what he’d brought. He peeled the blanket concealing its contents back from the top of the basket to reveal a newborn baby sleeping peacefully.

His wife looked first at the baby, then at him with cold, angry eyes. The baby had dark hair and tanned skin. She looked nothing like the fair woman staring at her, nothing like the High Elf father who watched her sleep. The princess made to leave the room, stopping at the door to look back at her husband.

“What have you done?”

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Seraphine Lateau sunned herself on the rooftop, only removing her arm from where it lay over her eyes every so often to take a swig from the jug of wine that sat next to her. Though she’d been on the rooftop since mid-morning and it was now nearly evening, she wasn’t drunk. No, thanks to her father’s High Elf blood running in her veins, the wine had only served to take the edge off, barely even making her feel slightly tipsy. Sera supposed that wasn’t a bad thing, although she was certainly in the mood to get drunk. If she’d shown up to the state dinner planned for the evening falling all over herself. Elante would’ve had her head. Perhaps worse, Nirya would’ve tried to make her feel guilty. She’d have failed, but the attempt would have resulted in a spectacular alar blow up, and that was the last thing any of them needed.

Nirya was an empath, and one with considerable gifts. When they were children, Nirya could control the emotions of whoever she looked at by making a face at them. Now, at nearly 30 years old, Nirya could read and control the emotions of everyone in the palace if she desired. Even the father the two girls shared wasn’t immune to Nirya’s manipulations. Only Sera could defend herself from Nirya’s powers. She’d discovered at a young age, much to Nirya’s never ending annoyance, that she could ignore the emotions Nirya wanted her to feel, although she was not able to shield her emotions from being read by her sister.

Their father, Ilkay, possessed only a fraction of Nirya’s gifts. It was just enough to keep discontent from spreading through the Mood Lands, as the Mood Princes before him had done for hundreds of centuries. Nirya, though, would be able to do more, or so their father claimed. With her power, she could keep every one of her subjects happy and subservient. If she so desired, she could even conquer other territories and use her power to ensure no bloodshed while doing so. She couldn’t bend the will of the people around her directly, but she could sway them by manipulating their emotions. Nirya herself had never admitted to Sera that she had those kinds of ambitions. To the best of Sera’s knowledge, Nirya intended to use her power only to keep her land peaceful and prosperous.

The thought of a nation of blindly obedient subjects made Sera a bit queasy. Tomorrow, on her 30th birthday, Nirya would be officially crowned the Prince’s Heir, signaling to the world that she was ready to begin training with her father to take the throne when he eventually stepped down. She wouldn’t actually ascend to the throne for decades still, possibly not even for centuries, but she would become their father’s right hand, begin influencing his policies, making decisions, and generally preparing for the day when she’d rule the kingdom instead. Sera didn’t trust that her father’s ambitions wouldn’t be passed to Nirya, and that one day they might end up in not just a kingdom, but an empire. The coronation made Sera uneasy, not only for what it meant for the kingdom, but because Sera herself wasn’t sure what her place in it would be after tomorrow.

She took another deep drink from the jug at her side and shifted on the rooftop, her boots hanging over the edge. I she had her way, she’d spend the rest of her days doing exactly this. No responsibilities, no one looking after her every move, just days spent lazing in the sun and doing whatever brought her pleasure.

The source of some of that pleasure plopped down on the roof next to her, stealing the jug away and drinking the last few sips. Sera cracked open an eye and glared at the girl who stole her wine.

“I wasn’t finished with that,” she grumbled.

Astayana grinned back at her, sweeping her curtain of shimmering red-gold hair over her shoulder. “How many of these have you had today, Sera? I’m sure you won’t miss a few drops.”

“Three. And if you had a state dinner to attend tonight, you might disagree.”

“I think all this sun is making you cranky,” Astayana said.

“Perhaps you could do something to cheer me up.” Sera rolled onto her side, propping her head up on a fist.

“We don’t have time for me to properly cheer you up. You’re due back at the palace and I have to get to work.” Astayana didn’t look in too much of a hurry to leave as she lifted her face to the sun, closing her eyes.

“I’d much rather come watch you dance than go back to the palace,” Sera sighed.

“That’s because you’re a lecher hiding behind a pretty face.”

Astayana worked in one of the city’s many dance halls, where patrons could come to see beautiful men and women perform exotic dances. Some of the less reputable halls allowed the anchors to sell other sexual services in addition to the private and public dances for which they were known. Astayana had worked in such a house for awhile, until she grew bored of the rich older patrons touching her body. She’d moved to a more upscale hall, and shortly thereafter, she’d met Sera, though Sera had been in such a drunken stupor that she barely remembered most of that night.

While it wasn’t uncommon for female patrons to frequent the dance halls, it was nearly unheard of for a High Elf to even set foot in the Red District. They preferred to keep their entertainment to their own depraved private parties. The High Elf parties were exclusive events, and rarely spoken of outside of those gated mansions where they occurred, except in speculation and rumor.

Sera might not have the coloring of a High Elf, but her unnatural height and deep sapphire eyes, both of which she’d inherited from her father, marked her as something other than the faeries, lesser elves, and other creatures who usually watched Astayana dance. She’d picked Sera out of the crowd almost as soon as she’d arrived, drunkenly stumbling onto a plush velvet couch in the back of the hall. Astayana had a keen eye for the patrons who were high-spenders, and she’d spent most of the night prowling around Sera, both keeping an eye on the girl who was nearly too drunk to stand and earning more than she typically earned in a week in tips in the process. She hadn’t wanted to know what Sera had to drink that night, figuring it was either a special High Elf concoction designed to bypass their bodies’ high tolerance for liquor or she’d had more to drink than any High Elf ought to have. Sera had paid well more than was necessary for each of Astayana’s dances, so when she finally passed out on the velvet couch where she sat, Astayana had paid one of the hall’s bouncers to carry her back to her small apartment nearby, not trusting that the other dancers, patrons, or bouncers wouldn’t take advantage of the pretty girl’s state. The two had been fast friends ever since, and over the few years they’d known each other, they were prone to dabble in something more than friendship.

As if reading Sera’s mind, Astayana leaned over and gave her a deep kiss, her full lips pressing firmly to Sera’s own as she cupped the back of her head. Sera’s teeth grazed her lower lip as Astayana pulled back, playfully yanking one of the dark strands that had come loose from Sera’s braid. The corner of her mouth twitched upward.

“Better get going before we’re both late,” Astayana said. Sera glanced towards the spread of the palace that pierced the sky in the distance. They were visible from every point in the city, those cleaning, beautiful spires. Her home. Or at least, the place where she usually slept at night.

Sera groaned as she got to her feet, brushing the dust and dirt from the back of her brown leggings. Astayana stood up in a single graceful motion. Sera had inherited none of the High Elves’ unnatural grace and composure, unlike Astayana who practically glowed with it. She sighed and turned to where she’d climbed up onto the roof, Astayana trailing behind her. When her boots hit the dust of the street, she gave her friend a hug.

“I’ll come find you tomorrow night,” she said.

“If you’re still standing after the celebration is over,” Astayana said, a small smile on her pretty lips. She was right - after the ceremony tomorrow, there would be a great celebration, and Sera would likely be so drunk she wouldn’t remember her own name by the end. Most of the High Elves in attendance would be in a similar state.

The girls parted ways, Sera headed towards where the glistening spires of the palace stood in the center of the city. She didn’t bother with a hood to conceal her features as she stalked through the slums on the outskirts of the capitol. She no longer cared if Elante or her father knew where she’d been. No one would bother her in this section of the city. She’d spent enough coin there to have bought the loyalty of the merchants who traded in the market and had been in more than enough brawls to prove that she could handle herself amongst the more unsavory characters lurking nearby.

This was the true heart of the city, she thought as she meandered the dusty streets. Shops and stalls lined the sides, and people rushed in all directions, crowding the streets so thickly that it was a struggle to get anywhere in the middle of the day. Now, nearly time for the evening meal, the crowds had thinned some, making walking far more pleasant than it had been earlier that morning. Down alleyways, lesser elves and faeries had erected makeshift shelters. The stench of unwashed bodies mingled with the smell from the river, coating the area in a thick, unpleasant scent interrupted every so often by the smells of spices and other, more pleasant smells wafting out of some of the stores.

This was not the High District that surrounded the palace, with its pristine cobblestone streets and carriages to carry the wealthy High Elves who dwelled there. There were no pretty gardens or washed stone houses lining the sidewalks, growing slowly larger and more grand the closer they got to the palace. No, this was indicative of the conditions in which the majority of the populations of the Moon Lands lived. In dirt and felt and squalor. This was where Nirya would have her work cut out for hr in keeping the people happy and peaceful when she finally took the throne. Nirya, like her parents, had never set foot here.

This was where Sera spent most of her time. Ever since she’d discovered that Elante hated that she came to this part of the city, or really any part of the city that wasn’t the High District, she’d made a point to come here at least daily, knowing that her every move was being reported back to the Moon Prince’s wife. The first time she’d ventured into the Red District, Elante had dragged her before her father to explain herself. Daughters of princes shouldn’t be allowed to run around with the filth, she’d said, sneering at Sera. Even half-breeds like Sera.

Sera had responded that if she was just a filthy half-breed like Elante thought, she’d fit right in down in the Red District. Elante had actually snarled at that, looking ready to pounce on Sera, but Ilkay had just dismissed them both, giving Sera a stern warning to behave herself and Elante a warning not to bring such trivial matters before him again. Sera’s father’s cold indifference towards everyone except Nirya wasn’t frequently a blessing, but Sera found herself quite happy with the situation as he reprimanded his wife in front of her. Elante had seethed with quiet rage for days afterward, and Sera had found herself banned from several rooms in the palace, including the dining room, for a week. She still thought it was worth it.

But beyond using the slums as a way to irritate Elante, Sera actually enjoyed the atmosphere. There were no simpering courtiers or back-handed compliments. Everyone was more genuine, and with the exception of the palace spies, there was no one who wanted to pry into her business for their own gain. The people worked for what they had and weren’t handed anything, and Sera thought it made them more genuine and likable than any person she’d ever met in the palace.

Sera neared the Middle District, the band of houses and shops where most of the palace servants and craftsmen lived. The houses here were modest, the streets still unpaved and largely without carriages or horses, but it was clean and less crowded than the outer bands of the city. These were the homes of the working people, lesser elves and faeries who worked for the High Elves or who provided clothing, food, weapons and armor - goods that required a craft or training to create. They, too, were better people than those in the High District, but more prone to spying on each other and reporting back to whoever lined their pockets with information and the activities of the other High Elves. Sera didn’t trust many of them, but as long as they left her alone, she didn’t mind them either.

Her stomach churned, as it usually did, as she reached the High District, every step bringing her closer to the sprawling palace in the center of the city. She hated the pristine houses, the perfectly manicured gardens, the utter quiet of these streets, As she neared the palace gates, squinting against the low sun’s reflection off of the gold gilding and white marble of the palace, the gates swung open to admit her, the guards recognizing her even under the layer of dirt she wore.

She entered the palace through one of the servants entrances and used one of their staircase to get up to her rooms, trying to avoid dirtying the floors they’d no doubt spent all day scrubbing. Sera’s rooms consisted of a small bedroom just large enough for the bed, wardrobe, and vanity inside that faced the courtyard and a bathing room in the eastern wing of the palace. They were far smaller than any of the royal suites, but they suited her needs, and they were far enough away from the other members of her family that she wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Elante accidentally.

Stripping off her clothes and leaving them in piles on the floor, Sera bathed quickly, scrubbing off the sweat and dirt from the day and washing her hair with her favorite lavender and cedar scented shampoo. It smelled like the forest, like the home she’d never known.

When she wa finished, Sera dressed in a simple olive green dress. It was the closest she’d get to dressing up for dinner, much to her sister’s dismay. The dress was fitted in the bust and waist and flowed loosely around her hips and legs to the floor. It was unadorned, no embroidery or beading, but pretty, and it flattered Sera’s fuller figure.

She used a puff of magic to dry her long hair, braiding it down her back. Sera didn’t have much magic, just enough to do the simplest things like heating a bath or drying her hair. She had the exceptional hearing and sight rof the Wood Elves, but beyond that, she wasn’t sure if she’d inherited any of their other magical gifts. She’d never been permitted to test her magical abilities beyond what a High Elf child would do, and when she’d discovered during those tests that she barely had any of the considerable powers of the High Elves, Elante had nearly fainted with joy. She had tried to use Sera’s lack of magic as an indication that she was not actually the daughter of the Moon Prince after all, but the eyes that Sera and her father shared were proof enough that Elante’s claims were quickly dismissed.

Sera hurried down to the dining room, certain that she was already late for the dinner. She was indeed the last to arrive, she found as she flung open the doors to reveal a room full of nobility who stared at her. She met each of their gazes in turn, daring anyone to reprimand her as she crossed the room to kiss her father’s ring and take her place at Nirya’s side. Nirya merely gave her a tight smile as Sera sat at the high table, reaching for the loaf of crusty bread in front of her and ripping off a chunk.

“Good of you to finally join us, Seraphine,” Elante hissed from across the table. “One would almost think you didn’t care about Nirya’s coronation tomorrow for all the lack of decorum you’ve shown today.”

Sera shrugged. “One would be correct,” she said, her mouth full of the bread.

Elante’s eyes narrowed and she looked ready to bite Sera’s head off, but Nirya intervened.

“What do you intend to wear to the ceremony tomorrow, Sera?” she asked.

Sera shrugged again. “I don’t know. Whatever I have in my wardrobe, I suppose.”

“I have a dress that would be absolutely stunning on you,” Nirya said. “You’ll wear that.”

Sera gave her sister a sideways look. Gifts from Nirya, gifts from any of the High Elves, always came at a price. Elante, mercifully, had stopped paying attention to their conversation, her focus now on her husband and the minister to whom he now spoke.

“Why?” Sera asked.

“Because tomorrow is my day, and I would like my sister to wear something nice,” Nirya said. A tendril of Nirya’s power poked at Sera’s mind. Not to harm or persuade, but to let her know that Nirya meant what she said. Sera batted it away as though it were a fly.

“Fine,” she said after a long pause. Nirya smiled at her.

“Good. I’ll have the seamstress bring it to your rooms tomorrow morning so you can try it on.”

Nirya turned her attention toward the ministers sitting around them, and Sera turned hers toward the meal in front of them, content to ignore everyone else in the room for the rest of the evening. She gorged herself on the roasted meats and vegetables in front of her, and when her father clapped his hands for the desserts to be brought out, she served herself a heaping slice of lemon merengue, completely ignoring the look of distaste thrown her way by Elante.

That was one of the only perks of living in the palace, she thought. The food was exquisite.

Sera ate until she was full to bursting, and then she sat back, surveying the room. Musicians had been brought in and the sounds of the lilting music filled the vast dining hall, weaving between the sounds of the courtiers talking. All of her father’s court was in attendance for such a big occasion. The various ministers who advised him on matters of foreign policy, trade agreements, commerce, military, and other matters clustered as close to him as they could get, open eyes and ears for anything that might grant them a foothold in the court. Her father’s close friends, most of them High Elf warriors from the time he’d spent in the military when he was younger, were also gathered, keeping a close eye on everyone who swarmed their prince. The warriors’ and ministers’ wives tended dutifully to Elante, who entertained them all with cool boredom, looking as though she’d rather be listening to the business Ilkay conducted.

Nirya played the part of the courtier well already, smiling and greeting as many of the ministers as she could. She flitted from group to group, chatting briefly but never staying with one person for too long. She spent the longest amount of time among the younger men who had been invited - unsurprising, given Elante’s recent pushing for her to find a husband. Nirya was a shameless flirt, and thoroughly enjoyed the attention lavished upon her.

Sera made idle small talk with the few people who came to speak to her, mostly younger men who accompanied their fathers. They never had anything of interest to say, so they largely resorted to talking about the weather and whether the crops would fare well that year or what sorts of training they would undertake next in her father’s army or navy ranks. By and large, the court left her alone, no one wanting to be associated with the bastard daughter of their prince.

When Sera’s eyes drooped with exhaustion and the music became softer, she slipped from the great dining room and headed back to her rooms, pausing briefly to glance upwards at the moon, nearly full. She closed her eyes as the light illuminated her face, straining to see if she felt any of the innate power that sang to her father and her sister in her blood, but there was only silence, as though the moon itself had decided she was also not worthy of its power.

Sera opened her eyes again and entered her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

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bunimalsfiberdolls · 6 years ago

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~Early Spring, 1943~

Madonna Maria ibn-La’Ahad crossed her legs, slowly, deliberately, and watched the man seated on the loveseat across from her track the movement with his eyes. She knew that he knew that she never wore anything under her skirts except a garter belt, to keep her stockings up. His eyes went dark with desire and she savored the savage satisfaction that observation brought her. “Tea?” she offered, indicating the tea service an elf had deposited on the low table between them. “Lemon, no sugar, correct? Or would you rather have it black?” “What do you want, Maria? I’m a very busy man,” Grandmaster Mario Auditore rumbled, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowing. He openly stared at her cleavage, the creamy tops of her breasts displayed to him by the wide gapping neckline of her blouse as she leaned forward. She curled her lips into a smile and took her time pouring herself a cup of tea before settling back into her armchair, teacup and saucer delicately balanced on one hand. He did not return her smile. She hadn’t bothered to pour his tea.

“As I’m sure you are aware, my son intends to bring his pregnant young bride for her first visit to Italy during Holy Week-” “Our son,” he corrected her. “Giovanni has been dead for twelve years, Maria. After all this time, can’t you at least privately acknowledge that Ezio is mine?” “So that you can successfully brand me an adulteress and steal this house from me, like you and your mother stole everything else after your fool of a brother got himself and my eldest son killed? No, Mario. Your family has taken enough from me. I will acknowledge no such thing. Ezio and Mari are mine, and mine alone. I will not give you any further claim on them.” “So, is Mari mine as well?” He glowered at her. “All these years you’ve let me think… You treacherous, lying bitch. God damn you, Maria!” She arched an eyebrow at his outburst and took a careful sip of tea. “Don’t pretend that you have ever wanted a daughter, Mario,” she scoffed. “After the difficulty of Mari’s birth left me unable to have further children you were only too happy to write us off to Gio and leave both of us to starve when he died.” She took another sip of tea, carefully calculated to give her enough time to make sure her voice was perfectly cold and even before she continued. “I have accepted, years ago, that I was never anything more to you than another part in your petty rivalry with your pathetic brother. Don’t you agree it’s time to stop pretending otherwise?” “That’s not – you were never – that’s not even remotely true!” he bellowed, lurching to his feet to loom over her. “Falling in love with you poisoned my relationship with my brother, and having you in my bed ruined me for other women.” She sighed, finished her tea, and then set the cup and saucer back on the table with the rest of the tea service while she waited for Mario to conclude his tirade. “You fucking destroyed my life, Maria! I had great prospects before Gio brought you here. Everyone acknowledged that one day I could rise to Al Mualim, and now, now I can never publicly acknowledge my own son without admitting that I cuckolded my brother and risk my position in the Order. Because of you. You and your forked tongue and treacherous cunt! My god, you have no fucking idea how it gutted me, whenever Gio was with you, imagining you moaning like a whore in his arms while I laid alone in bed-” “Hardly,” she tersely interrupted him. “I didn’t ask you here to rehash that tired old argument-” she curled her fingers and nonverbally cast a silence when he opened his mouth to interrupt her – “and I refuse to accept any of the blame for your shortcomings and rampant alcoholism.” He shrugged off the spell and glowered at her. She didn’t bother trying to cast another; Mario was waiting for her to do just that, and she’d already effectively derailed his diatribe. In some ways, her brother-in-law was almost laughably simple to manage. “What do you want from me?” “An armistice.” “An armistice,” he scoffed. “After all this time? Why now?” “Because, less than a year ago, Ezio was so unhappy he tried to kill himself-” her throat constricted with distress at the memory of her son, pale and half dead, after Cesare had pulled him out of the river and Mario’s expression softened, slightly. “I almost lost him then, and now that he’s been transferred to Alamūt, neither of us will see much of him, or his child, if he finds visiting Roma stressful or unpleasant. I want to see my son. I want to get to know his wife and hold my grandchild. And I know you want that as well.” Mario sighed and collapsed back down on the loveseat he had occupied previously. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I want that too.” He leveled a hard, calculating look at her. “I want him to know he’s my son.” She clenched her teeth and glared back at him. From her voluminous correspondence with her family and old friends at Alamūt, it was clear to her that Ezio’s mental state was still fragile, and his current ability to assimilate a revelation of that magnitude was dubious, at best. Once that became clear to Mario, he’d do what would be best for her son, one way or another. From a purely strategic point of view, it hardly mattered who Ezio’s father was at this point; Federico had been the heir to the Auditore estate, while he’d still been alive, as the eldest male issue of Mario’s younger brother, Giovanni. Fredo had loved his siblings completely and unconditionally, learning that they didn’t all have the same father wouldn’t have changed anything for him; they were still all Auditores, after all. When Fredo fell – even after so many years, something sharp and jagged twisted in her chest whenever she thought of her elder son’s death – Ezio legally became the Auditore heir. That Ezio was actually fathered by her husband’s older brother technically made him illegitimate, but the stark truth of the situation was that there were no other potential male heirs to challenge his claim and her mother-in-law, La Donna Claudia, desperately wanted the estate and all other ancestral Auditore holdings to remain in her branch of the family. However, Madonna Maria had absolutely no intention of ever telling Ezio the man he’d always known as his uncle was, in fact, his biological father. His sire. She didn’t think of her children as having fathers – not like how she was their mother – the brothers who’d gotten her with child had never been forced to give up anything to spawn her children, whereas she had been forced to give up everything – her home, her first language, her ability to serve the Order in the only way she’d ever known – years of sacrifice and suffering and training rendered meaningless with the stroke of a pen. “I want – if you won’t say it yourself – I want you not to deny it when I tell him,” Mario continued ruthlessly. He hesitated a moment, scowling at her tea service and clenching and unclenching his teeth, before raising his eyes to hers with a searing look. “And I want to know the truth about Mari, Maria. Is she mine as well?” Despite his numerous other shortcomings, she grudgingly had to acknowledge that Mario had always been good to Ezio and he prioritized what was best for her son above anything else – including his duty to the Order, at times. She always put the Order first, like a true and devoted Assassin; that’s how she and her sisters had been raised. She threw back her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Mari is mine, and no other’s. She has no father.” Mario snorted. “It’s a little too late to take the same line your crazy sister did when people asked about her bastard.” She hated how sharply that decades old barb still stung; Aaliyah’s service to the Order had been absolute, her sister had willingly sacrificed everything at the command of Al Mualim, and only after she had fallen did lesser people – people like Maria’s in-laws – feel secure enough to slander her sister and use that word against her nephew. “Aaliyah was a seraph, a pearl before swine who was murdered by an old man too weak to wield the blade himself,” she seethed. “Don’t you dare speak of her like that.” Mario’s mouth twisted and she braced herself for further insult, but then he heaved a tired sigh and slouched back against the back of the loveseat. “Don’t you ever get tired of hating me, Maria?” he asked, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Gio’s been dead and buried too long for him to still come between us. Can’t we, can’t we at least try to be friendly, for Ezio’s sake?” “I was being friendly,” she informed him, tapping the nail of her index finger against the armrest of her couch. “My invitation was cordial. Any unfriendliness in this conversation has been your doing, Granmaestro.” Mario narrowed his eyes and harrumphed in response. She watched him for a moment, letting the silence between them lengthen, before she reached up to adjust the delicate chain supporting the Roman Cross of pearls she had selected from her jewelry cache that morning. The elf had been skeptical of her choices; that particular pendant was far too heavy for such a thin chain, but she liked how they looked together, and if the chain happened to break during her meeting with Mario, she’d turn that to her advantage. She usually could. Mario assumed a suspiciously benign expression and cleared his throat. “You’re right, of course,” he said, far too graciously to be even the least bit sincere. “I should not have brought up, your sister, or said that about her son. It was, unnecessary, and rude.” He exhaled a slow deep breath and she watched the fingers of his right hand, previously splayed at rest against his thigh, curl into a fist. “I know Ezio is very fond of his cousin, and that Altaïr’s companionship has been a source of great comfort and support to him in these difficult times.” “Yes,” she agreed, tone artfully tempered pleasant. “Ezio has always been close to my nephews, and I know that both Malik and Altaïr love him like a brother,” she replied automatically, before a shrapnel burst of pain across her chest reminded her that the present tense no longer applied to her elder nephew. She must have let something bleed through her expression because Mario’s brows momentarily drew together and he started forward, towards her, before he caught himself and leaned back against the couch. “We have all been lessened by the loss of Malik, and his family.” He offered the platitude stiffly, expression wooden and posture ridged. She gritted her teeth and focused on drawing slow, careful breaths through her nose until she could trust her voice to be perfectly even. “Some of us more so than others. You never liked Malik. Please don’t insult his memory by lying about that fact.” “Don’t play the martyr, Maria. You’ve only got me for an audience.” A hard retort almost slipped past her lips before she thought better of it and twisted her lips into something like a smile instead. “I thought you said you wanted us to try to be friendly, Mario?” He sighed. “Maria…” She deliberately uncrossed her legs, noting the way his eyes again tracked the movement with satisfaction as she stood and made her way over to perch on the edge of the loveseat beside him. His breathing had quickened and gone shallow; Mario had never been as good at suppressing his emotional responses as she was. It seems some things never change. “What are you doing?” he rasped as she reached over and uncurled his clenched fist and smoothed his fingers against his thigh. He could have easily pulled his hand away or pushed her back; he did not. “Being friendly.” She smiled and leaned closer. They’d gone through the steps of this particular dance countless times over the years and her body ached with anticipation. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” “You’re only interested in what I want when it suits you.” “Isn’t that true of everyone?” she parried, sliding her hand upwards along the inside of his thigh. “Besides, we’re both invested in doing what’s best for Ezio, aren’t we?” “We have very different ideas about what’s best for our son-” “My son.” “Our son,” he corrected her. He’d leaned closer during their exchange and his eyes drifted shut as he closed the space between them, brushing his lips against the side of her neck as he inhaled deeply. “Christ, you smell good. They never should have married you to Gio; it should have been me. Think how differently everything would have gone, if I’d been your first, instead of him.” “But you weren’t.” She shifted her thighs apart as his hand slid further up her skirt. Neither of the Auditore brothers had been her first, as they liked to put it, but there wasn’t any advantage to correcting that assumption and it had never really mattered – to her, at least - anyway. “Things are what they are and there’s no point to wishing they were any different.” “Cold-blooded as always, aren’t you, Dolcezza?” he murmured, hand moving from her inner thigh to graze the underside of her jaw before tangling in her upswept hair and pulling her forward to meet his lips. She distractedly noted that the chain of her necklace had broken as the heavy pearl pendant tumbled down her blouse between her breasts. Mario had always kissed exceedingly well; even when sloppy drunk, his lips and tongue were devilishly clever. She sighed and melted into the kiss. He’d be so good at oral sex if he had any willingness to give as well as receive. She broke their kiss and hitched her body closer to his, tracing the seams of his robes with a single fingertip. “You’ve broken the chain of my necklace, Sevgili,” she hummed, brushing her lips against his. His cheek was satiny-smooth to the touch, still softly scented of his shaving soap. He took the time to shave, how telling. She parted her lips in an artfully languid smile, dropping her shoulders and lifting her chin to elongate her neck. “My cross must have fallen. Will you help me find it?” “Why not just summon it into your hand?” His lips curled in a self-satisfied smirk as he traced the curve of her clavicle with the callused pads of his fingers. She would have liked to snap the smile off of his face, it would be so satisfyingly easy with a few sharp words, but she suppressed the urge. Things are going so well, don’t sabotage yourself now. She carefully smoothed a loosened lock of hair back into her coiffure and then rolled her shoulders slightly inward, the movement drawing Mario’s eyes from her collarbones to her cleavage, as intended. “Am I being invited to investigate, Madonna?” “You broke the chain, Maestro, it’s only good manners to help find it.” She could feel a rough edge of the cross snagging the handmade needle lace of her slip and clenched her teeth into a wider smile. “Ezio brought me this cross after a contract in Venezia.” “Then it must be valuable.” Mario slid his hands up her torso over her blouse, fingers splayed ostensibly in search of her pendant, smile widening when he located it against her breasts. Not necessarily. Ezio brought her things he thought were pretty, with seemingly no real thought as to their value. Her sister Aaliyah had had an exceptionally good eye for valuable things, which was rather unexpected, considering how little interest she had in amassing money. Most fidā'ī – herself included, to some degree – sought out contracts based on the value of the contract itself, or the likelihood of acquiring valuables, with an eye on clearing their debt and amassing enough to provide for themselves or loved ones when they were no longer able to actively serve the Order. That had never seemed to matter to Aaliyah. Even after she’d had her son and adopted her daughter, Aaliyah seemed to select contracts for the challenge they presented, to prove a point to their father and the Order, or perhaps because it suited her. She’d taken contracts in Cairo because she’d wanted to take her children to the British Museum there, in Istanbul to visit Doğan or some other friendly acquaintance, or in French Morocco simply because it would be a convenient place to buy a new hat. There was also the inescapable fact that Aaliyah liked to kill. Killing hadn’t especially bothered her, when she’d been allowed to serve the Order as a fidā'ī. It had been a little upsetting, at first. Before too long, however, the shock of taking a life faded and it became merely something that was vaguely unpleasant, although decidedly less so than completing the closing report and attendant paperwork required for each completed contract; somehow, that never became less tedious. It was hard for her to understand why her husband and brother-in-law seemed to feel so much guilt for doing the Order’s work, that they seemed to view serving as a fidā'ī as a burden instead of an honor. She wondered if Mario would feel mostly relief, instead of regret, when he eventually would be forced into retirement as a rafīk. He’ll probably expect me to pack up and follow him wherever he’s reassigned, she thought with a sharp spike of annoyance. She had no intention of abandoning the powerbase she’d constructed from nothing in her exile, and was more than happy to avoid that undoubtedly unpleasant conversation for as long as feasibly possible. “Jeegaretō bokhoram,” he breathed against the side of her throat. She resisted the urge to correct his pronunciation. Somehow, in over twenty years, Mario still hadn’t bothered to learn how to properly pronounce the few words of Farsi he’d managed to pick up. It would have been less offensive if he just used Turkish or Italian endearments with her, but at least he seemed sober; there was no reek of alcohol on his breath. “Gooshe sheytoon kar,” she murmured in response. May the ears of the devil be deaf. Naturally, Mario didn’t understand what she’d said and seemed to assume it was just some answering endearment. Perhaps, in a way, he was not wrong. The particular devil she had instinctively hid the nature of their relationship from had been dead for fifteen years at this point and his successor was mostly a friend. Little did Mario suspect that Al Mualim knew of and allowed her shadow management in Rome, probably in redress for unjustly denying her custody of Aaliyah’s children after her father had fallen. The doorknob rattled just before the parlor door swung slowly open and Filomena entered, apologetically clearing her throat with a demur little cough. Mario huffed a sharply annoyed breath through his nose as she turned her attention to her Solak. “Madonna-” “She’s busy. What could possibly be so important that it can’t wait?” “Peace, Grandmaestro,” she murmured, having caught sight of the black wax seal on the letter clenched in Filomena’s hand. “I think it might be best to continue our conversation at another time, don’t you?” She took the letter from Filomena, tilting it so that Al Mualim’s seal was clearly visible. “Of course, Madonna,” Mario rumbled, smoothing his moustache and straightening his robes as he rose to his feet. “Another time, then.” He wordlessly tipped his chin towards Filomena before turning back to her when she also rose and stiffly offering his arm. “I trust you have time, at least, to escort me to the door.” It wasn’t a request. She forced her shoulders down and back, lifted her chin, and smiled serenely in response as she took his proffered arm. “Of course, Grandmaestro.” They left the parlor in roaring silence and proceeded down the hallway. “What is Al Mualim writing to you?” he finally asked in an undertone as they approached the grand staircase, tone clipped and low. “Is it something to do with Ezio? Tell me, woman.” “How should I know?” She arched a meticulously groomed brow at his rudeness. “I haven’t even opened the letter yet, have I.” She dropped her hand from his arm when they reached the stairs. “My apologies for not accompanying you any further. Good day, Grandmaestro.” He caught her around the waist as she turned away and roughly pulled her body back against his own. Her blood heated in anticipation and she knew he’d noticed her response by the way his hands slid down to her hips and tightened their grip. He would have me now, in whatever way I wish, if I allowed it. She savored the satisfaction that knowledge brought her. “Leave your door unlocked for me this evening,” he hissed in her ear. “Tell me everything you’ve managed to learn about our children and you’ll get your armistice.”

~Summer, 1916~

He’s absolutely perfect, she couldn’t help thinking as she watched her infant son noisily nursing at her breast. Unlike Federico, who had been fussy and frustrating at first, Ezio had taken to nursing immediately. She caressed his head as he fed, running her fingers through his thick fine hair before cupping her palm around the curve of his tiny skull. My perfect, beautiful boy. Federico had inherited her pale complexion; Ezio, apparently, had not. He’ll look more like his father, she thought as she ran a finger up her infant’s chubby arm and tickled his tiny palm with her finger. “You’re playing with fire, Maria-joon,” Cesare commented as he stretched across her bed, where he’d been napping in a patch of sunlight only moments before like an oversized cat. “Those brothers are going to fight over you like two dogs with a bone once Giovanni sees Mario with that baby.” “Gio doesn’t care what I do so long as I’m not interfering with his whoring,” she retorted, casting a quick glance at her older son, still sleeping on the settee beneath the window. Federico had fiercely resisted being put down for a nap. She’d finally resorted to a spell to help things along. Ezio had obligingly slept for an hour or so after being fed, but had just woken up demanding to be fed again, which was fine with her; she loved nursing her son. “No man likes being made a cuckold,” Cesare hummed, settling on his back and lacing his fingers together behind his head. He flashed her a roguish smile as he lazily eye-fucked her. “Especially not with his older brother – positively cold-blooded on your part, jāné del-am.” Ezio sneezed and kicked his legs in distress at the momentary loss of her nipple. She guided his tiny mouth back before he could start crying. “Sometimes, I almost think you might be a little fond of me, Cesare.” She gently stroked the back of her finger over the curve of Ezio’s cheek as he resumed nursing. “Isn’t that silly?” “I am fond of you, Maria-joon,” he chuckled. “You’re so delightfully ruthless and practical.” He slithered off the bed and across the space between them to skitter his fingertips up her thighs. “And impatient for Mario to arrive. I can taste it on you – naughty girl – lusting after your husband’s brother. Tisk, tisk.” He playfully wagged a finger at her before chucking her under the chin. His lips were pillow soft against hers and his tongues were hot in her mouth, heat spilling down her throat to settle in the floor of her pelvis. “Shall I have you first?” “Not in front of my children,” she murmured, watching the incubus lightly caress her son’s small body. “This one is going to be a charmer when he’s older.” He flashed her a brilliant smile. “Un ometto così bello.” Cesare’s accent, as always, was flawless. She hated how much she envied that. “Hopefully not too charming for his own good.” She sighed and glanced over to make sure Federico was still asleep. “Will you summon an elf for me? I want Fredo moved into his room before Mario comes. He’s too young to keep secrets, Cesare.” “He’s going to have to learn at some point.” The pulse of summoning magic he released prickled across her skin and Ezio flinched in her arms at the feeling of it. “Especially in this family. The sooner the better, Maria-joon.” He’s not wrong. She startled at Ezio’s weak mewl of protest and relaxed her suddenly tension-tight grip on her infant son and forced a smile at Cesare. The incubus watched her in the falling silence with a ghost of a smile on his lips, head cocked slightly to the side and eyes glowing. She’d become accustomed to the bioluminescence of his eyes years ago and found it flattering that he no longer made any effort to hide his otherness from her. It was refreshing, and surprisingly comforting, to be around someone with whom there were absolutely no pretenses between them. Something outside the room drew his attention and he momentarily flicked his eyes towards the door. “I’ll take Federico back to his own bed. The elves are taking too long and I suspect it would be better for you if I make myself scarce. Safety and peace be upon you.”

~Autumn, 1916~

“Look at this hair!” her sister Berenice, seated on the couch beside her, laughed as she ruffled her fingers through Ezio’s admirably thick cap of curls. “I thought most of it would have fallen out by now – it usually does, you know – but not only has he kept all the hair he was born with, he’s grown even more! Malik, come see your new cousin.” “Babies are boring,” Maria’s six year-old nephew groaned, shoving a shock of dark hair back from his face. “They don’t do anything, except sleep and poop.” “And cry,” her son, Federico, added emphatically, knocking over a whole battalion of tin soldiers with a sweep of his arm. “Babies are noisy!” “Some far more than others,” Aaliyah observed dryly in Farsi. “Those two are much too loud to ever make it far as fidā'ī.” “They’re just children, let them have their fun,” Berenice scolded and Maria slid a reproachful smile at her younger sister, who was slouched against the leg of a Louis XIV loveseat while she supervised her son as he played with a wooden toy biplane. Aaliyah’s son, Altaïr, was preternaturally quiet for a toddler, watching everything around him with his strange antique gold eyes in almost total silence. She’d never heard Altaïr properly cry, like all children do from time to time. Berenice liked to claim that he howled like an afrit whenever he was separated from his mother, but Maria had yet to witness that reaction for herself; Aaliyah didn’t allow her child more than half a dozen feet away from her, and usually kept him within arm’s reach. “Not in your mouth,” Aaliyah admonished. There were fresh teeth marks on one of the plane’s wings. “Are you hungry, my treasure?” she asked when her son began to fuss – breathless huffs and soft mewling – and tug at the bodice of her robes. “You should encourage him to use words, Aaliyah,” Berenice reprimanded their younger sister, the critical edge in her voice scraping across Maria’s already raw nerves as she watched Aaliyah’s posture stiffen defensively. “It isn’t normal that he hasn’t even tried to talk yet.” “Leave it alone, Berenice,” she said quickly, before Aaliyah had the chance to say something unpleasant. “Once they start talking it’s hard to get them to stop.” As though to underscore her point, Federico shrieked with unabashed delight as Malik scattered another battalion of tin soldiers with a clumsy burst of force magic. “Again, Mal! Do it again,” Federico shouted, bouncing on his heels with excitement. They’re going to wake Ezio. Ezio had been colicky for the last ten days and caring for her usually sunny, easy going baby was getting progressively harder as fatigue and frustration set in. Maria clenched her teeth and cast a silence over her son and nephew. “Maria,” Berenice scolded in an undertone with a cluck of her tongue and a disapproving look. “Our sister doesn’t approve of lazy parenting,” Aaliyah drawled with a sweetly serrated smile as she settled her son into her lap to nurse. “Do you, dear Berenice?” “What, exactly, counts as lazy parenting?” she asked, noting the way their eldest sister’s brows had drawn together and lips thinned as Aaliyah nursed her toddler son and continued to smile, without breaking eye contact, chin lifted defiantly. While she appreciated that Aaliyah was intentionally drawing the full brunt of Berenice’s high-handed indignation to spare her a lecture, it wasn’t necessary. She’d been bickering with their sister for the last four years over child rearing and had plenty of experience making her point, while keeping the peace, which was something for which Aaliyah had woefully little talent. “He’s getting too old for you to still be nursing him, sister dear,” Berenice declared with a sharp smile of her own. At least her sisters were careful to keep their voices low and light, smiles firmly fixed and body language relaxed around the children; her husband and his brother did not. Giovanni and Mario fought like two stallions with their blood up over a mare – noisily and bloodily, thundering against one another and trampling anything unable to get out of their way. She’d learned to draw Federico close and cast a silence over the combatants as she spirited her son away. “I’m making him strong,” Aaliyah retorted, smile stretched thin and brittle. “He hasn’t been ill even once since he left my body. Two years now and not even so much as a cold-” “Peace, my sisters,” she interrupted, pointedly flicking her eyes towards Malik, who was watching them warily. She almost forgot, from time to time, that Malik knew the language they were speaking and would increasingly understand what they were saying. Her own son did not.

~Winter, 1922~

Her sons were still sleeping soundly, the light from the lamp beside her just barely strong enough to outline the features of their beautiful young faces. She reached over and dimmed the light further when she felt the first scalding drop of moisture escape from the corner of her eye to roll down her cheek. Several drops then overflowed from her other eye and she struggled to steady her breathing as grief and pain and frustration and bitter simmering anger poured out of her eyes and down her face. Droplets of saltwater fell on the letter she somehow still had clenched in her hand, barely strong enough to even blur the sharp slanting lines and hard angles of her father’s handwriting. Of course he cast a water resistance charm on this letter. It wouldn’t do if his Very Important Words were to become blurry or illegible because his Over Emotional daughter just couldn’t control herself. “Mari-joon?” he murmured questioningly from the doorway. “Whatever is the matter, jigar talâ?” She wiped the moisture from her cheeks and looked up at Cesare – dark copper hair worn a little too long for the current fashion, flawless butter-pale skin and glittering greenish eyes that always reminded her of the Caspian Sea back home – then drew a shaky breath and cast a silence around her sleeping sons. “There’s been an accident,” she croaked, voice buckling under the strain of keeping it even. “Berenice’s little boy, Kadar.” “What happened?” “They went out to play in the desert – Malik, with Kadija and Altaïr, and Kadar tagged along – there had been rain, which is why they went into those wadis, treasure hunting-” her voice cracked and she gulped a breath to steady it, the stiff parchment of her father’s letter crinkling in her white-knuckled grip “-and they got caught in a flashflood. He never had a chance, not really.” “Have they found him?” She choked down the inappropriate laughter that somehow bubbled up her throat and the effort made her eyes stream again. It took an embarrassingly long time to get herself mostly back under control. Cesare waited, his silence providing more comfort in that moment than any spoken word or sentiment. “My father says, here, I’ll read you his exact words, so you get the full effect.” She swiped a hand across her eyes and cleared her throat. “I have sent fidā'ī to recover the body. If Allah spares any mercy they will find it before the jackals do. Your sister’s widow is behaving disgracefully and requires physical proof to accept that his youngest son has fallen.” She hated how brittle and angry her voice sounded as she read her father’s words aloud. “He didn’t use a white seal on his letter; he cares that little. Losing Kadar is so inconsequential to him that it doesn’t even warrant a proper death notification-” She would have said more, railed against at her father’s cold-blooded callousness, but her voice betrayed her as her throat closed itself with stupid, senseless grief. “Peace, Maria-joon,” Cesare murmured, suddenly beside her and sliding a comforting arm around her shoulders. “As unlikely as it seems, they may yet find the child alive. Perhaps your father also clings to that hope, which is why he used his customary seal on the letter and dismisses Darium’s grief. It is barely three years since Berenice fell and that wound is still fresh for him. He loved your sister very much.” “My father loves his family best after they have fallen,” she retorted. “The dead have lost the ability to bring disappointment or shame, unlike living daughters.” “You should allow yourself to grieve for your sister and her youngest son.” “Why?” she demanded. “Would grieving bring them back?” “No-” “Then what’s the point? Why would I waste my time on something that accomplishes nothing?” “Spoken in your father’s voice,” was Cesare’s sardonic rejoinder, and she hated how much it stung. “Has holding on to so much anger really brought you happiness?” She clenched her teeth and pointedly avoided his eyes. The parchment crinkled loudly in the silence she’d cast around them as her father’s letter finally began to crumpled in her hand. After a long moment Cesare took the letter from her, skimmed his eyes across the sharply sloping script and then sighed, eloquently. “His timing leaves much to be desired, doesn’t it?” “Does it?” Her throat was tight and her eyes were burning again and she hated, hated, hated how much she felt. “I am getting older. I’ve only had two children and they were born years apart. Unless I am able to conceive again soon, it seems unlikely that I ever will. He’s not wrong to chastise me; a tradition practiced in our family for over seven hundred and fifty years will end because I’ve failed to conceive a daughter. Because I’ve failed to do my duty.” “Berenice could have tried harder to have daughters. Aaliyah still lives. I fail to see why the brunt of this should fall upon you, Maria-joon.” Federico whimpered in his sleep and kicked one leg out from under the covers to hang over the edge of his bed, his pale scrawny ankle and bare foot exposed to the cold night air. She’d made him put socks on his feet before tucking him in that evening, but somehow, he’d already lost at least one sock while asleep in bed. “Aaliyah is unmarried, whereas I have both a husband and a lover,” she sighed as she got up and tucked her son’s already cold foot back underneath the covers, then smoothed the blankets over his slim body and pressed a kiss against his temple. She inhaled deeply, savoring the scents of hyssop and rosemary and clean boyish skin. Her arms ached to hold him, but her eldest son always been fiercely independent and he’d wake up cross and defiant if she tried to cuddle him. Federico seemed to have outgrown her arms as soon as he had learned to walk. Sometimes, it felt like he was outgrowing her. “I want to have another baby, Cesare, but I don’t know if either Mario or Gio will give me one.” Cesare hooked a finger under her chin and forced her to meet his eyes, head tilting as he studied her, his expression surprisingly soft and lacking his customary shade of hard-eyed cynicism. “You are tired, and your heart is heavy, whether you will let it grieve or not,” he murmured. “You belong in bed. Let me make you feel better.” She leaned into his kiss, suddenly hungry for his otherness, to feel his tongues and his chin splitting open, desperate to be taken by this man who was not actually a man at all and yet somehow managed to be so much more, and so much less disappointing, than any other man she’d known. He broke their kiss to retrieve the lamp she’d brought to read her father’s letter and then guided her from her sons’ room to her own, leaving her side only to deposit the extinguished lamp on the mantle and light a fire in grate before returning to undress her and take her to bed. “I’d give almost anything to have a daughter,” she murmured softly afterwards, cheek pillowed against his chest. “You could help me, Cesare, couldn’t you?” She sat up and studied his expression, searching out any hint of his thoughts. “If we made a deal, you could ensure that I have a daughter, couldn’t you?” “I could,” he confirmed, eyes narrowing slightly. “What exactly do you want, Maria-joon?” She rubbed her tongue against the inside edges of her bottom teeth as she considered her response, choosing each word with care. “I want a daughter, a Maria of my own, a legacy. I want to see her grown and serving the Order as I should have been allowed to serve. Aaliyah would train her to be great, I know she would. And I want you to protect her, Cesare, protect her from men who would do to her what they’ve done to me. Could you do all this for me?” “You demand many things, Maria-joon,” he finally responded as he slowly sat up and shook his hair back over his shoulders. “Too many things, you mean,” she sighed, making no effort to conceal her disappointment. “I did not say that. You are fortunate that I am so fond of you, Maria-joon; my kin would demand much in return for what you request. Indeed, my sister has commanded much more for far less.” He rubbed the tips of his fingers over the cushion of his bottom lip thoughtfully as he studied her, head tipped slightly to the side as his lips curved into something not quite a smile. “You are not so close to the end of your childbearing years for it to be impossible for you to conceive a daughter without my intercession. Why are you so eager to deal with the Maraas? Most avoid us, and only seek a deal as a last resort.” She averted her eyes, gaze flickering over various objects discernable in the frail starlight filtering through the high mullioned windows of her bedroom – the large, heavily carved white jade jewelry casket her father had given her when she’d come of age, for the spoils you will collect on your contracts, jeegaram; the Chinese cloisonne vase Selim had sent her when Ezio had been delivered, now filled with waxy white Madonna lilies on the cusp of blooming; the muted metallic sheen of the antique astrolabe Aaliyah had sent from some ottoman contract as a belated wedding present not long after her marriage; the last gift Berenice had given her, a handblown glass eagle enclosed in an ornately gilded cage – before settling on her hands as she picked at her cuticles. “I may conceive another boy, only boys, and never a daughter. If I am fortunate enough to have a daughter, she may die young – many children do – illness, accident, malfeasance. I want certainty, Cesare.” “Nothing is certain,” he murmured. “Some things can be certain,” she insisted. “You can make them certain.”

#The Garden #prologue to Season 3 #which I'm still writing #because I work too damn much #writing #personal

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