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lordoftermites · 4 years ago

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You Never Break ⚜ Part Ⅰ

⊰ ☘ ⊱ Cardan's POV: The Queen of Nothing, from the end of Chapter 13 through Chapter 17. ⊰ ☘ ⊱ A massive, pterodactyl-screeching thank you to my dearest punishment @euridce and the bombastic @figonas for dealing with my bullshit and allowing me to subject them to betaing this (and literally everything else), but especially for being my Hype Train Goblin Queens and not letting me lose to my perfectionism. ⊰ ☘ ⊱ { edit: the wordcount actually turned out to be 3,765 because I added more shit after I copypasta'd here but I literally cannot be arsed to change the graphic lol. }

≼ FIC MASTERLIST HERE≽

Contrary to erstwhile thinking, it is not quite as simple a task to travel at any expeditious speed whilst carrying a half-dead goblin through the biting nighttide—whilst also taking care to keep yourself and aforementioned half-dead goblin undiscovered by those who would very much like to lop your kingly head right off of your kingly shoulders.

And, if all of that is not enough of a juggling act, appending the minor detail that you’ve just taken flight on a steed conjured from the ragwort in your pocket, after leaving your wife below (at her behest and your protest) to fend for herself with naught but a magical cloak and her unspoken, mortal promise to do as you say...

Well. There are reasons you are not lauded for your prowess as a jester, just as your Queen is even less admired for her graces of verity.

Yet, surely by some feat of fortuitous magic, Cardan does manage it; the concealing mists part just enough to allow the flying mount and its travelers to slip through.

Braving a glance over his shoulder, he watches as the fog coils and swirls closed like a protective curtain behind them. It's disorienting—very like taking an overconfident step forward, only to find the ground is not quite as close as you first perceived. Even as one often besotted with wine and other such stupefacients, Cardan does not particularly enjoy that feeling.

Sea fret mingles with the haze of preternatural clouds as they begin a descent. It veils his lips, clings to his wool-spun clothing and weighs down his hair. He shakes the dampened curls from his eyes just as the four isles of Elfhame begin to take shape in the darkness beneath him, and lets out an unsteady breath; he wonders, absently, if he's exhaled at all since leaving Jude on the ground.

He cannot help the inglorious relief that the Roach, in his state, does not hear it.

It’s an odd sensation, to observe your kingdom from such a high vantage point. Perhaps, before now, he disallowed himself to feel the full measure of his obligation; the sobering comprehension that this vastness of soil and sapling and stone, along with all its inhabitants, will thrive, or decay, under his governance. Looking down at the land—his land—brings that realization crashing down upon him with as much force as one of Balekin’s punishments.

Cardan tightens his grip on the animal’s leafy mane against a bout of dizziness, abruptly wishing he had something a bit less insubstantial with which to steady himself.

The Crooked Forest rises to meet them, gnarled limbs twisting upward as if to embrace their sovereign. That seems illusionary, though Cardan does note at once the marked shift in the air; while still cool, no longer does each inhale carry an icy jab to his lungs or bite at the tips of his ears. It envelopes him and his company, gently carrying them above the mossy heads of slumbering root men and women. None of them stir, thankfully, but Cardan isn’t altogether sure his arrival goes unnoticed by them, either.

Welcome home, young King, the wind seems to whisper in his ear. Cardan shivers, and it has nothing to do with the weather.

Alighting just at the edge of the hollow hill, Cardan takes a half-breath to think—and reproaches himself for not doing more of that before they had landed; the Roach’s etiolated complexion, rattling breath, and stiffening limbs are not an entirely promising combination. Then, there is yet the matter of finding Liliver, who might not even be in the palace. And even then, there is the very real likelihood that he is already too late, that the deathsweet’s effects may have already reached its peak.

Cardan has to swallow against the bile creeping up his throat at that unsettling thought.

If only Jude had just come with him. Mistress of strategy and scheming, she would have drawn up a clever plan before they even took flight, as well as a surfeit of contingencies. Moreover, she would know better than he whether or not they held the favor of time; her province of poison is concerningly vast, as she had proven when Cardan himself very nearly shuffled off his immortal coil in dissolution.

Jude had known in an instant, merely by tasting the wraithberry that had stained his lips. How she knew its savour, to say nothing of how she knew it so intimately, Cardan knows not and she has yet to divulge. It is but another closely-clutched secret he must tack onto the growing list of queries for things a man really ought to know about his wife.

In the interim, the High King of Elfhame—and, more regrettably, the Roach—must rely entirely on himself.

Not much of a comfort, that.

Keeping a hand on the Roach to prevent his suffering an unnecessary fall from the horse, Cardan swings himself off of the thing’s back. With care, he lifts the inanimate body of his mentor into his arms. A low, distressed groan comes from the Roach at being jostled—the first sign of cognizance he’s shown since they left Grimsen’s forge. As pained as the sound is, it nonetheless gives Cardan a small hope that perhaps he hasn’t been too late after all.

Its magic spent, the ragwort pony dissolves in a puff of yellow perianths; an indolent breeze scatters some of the remnants across the dark hill, while others continue their aimless drifting to pollinate elsewhere on the isles. Cardan watches a lone petal catch in the wiry hair of the Roach’s brow and without thinking, he brushes it away. He justifies this allowance of rare gentleness with the fact that no one is around to bear witness to it.

As friendship goes, Cardan is all too aware he hasn’t known much in the way of loyalty or for reasons beyond selfish gain. His former companions had desired only what they could glean from him, the immunity his sway as a prince that had granted them the ability to carry out whatever deviant fancy they could dream up. Even Nicasia had had her own contrivances for being his lover, until she had ultimately found more excitement in the stories—and bed—of Locke.

He is not experienced in having a friend simply for the sake of it. In having someone—or a few someones, for that matter—enjoy his wit and cleverness and skills. That enjoy him, Cardan Greenbriar, rather than what advantages the crown atop his head can give.

Perhaps it is dangerous territory for a king to have bonds extending beyond those of mere allies. Perhaps the trust that comes with such friendships is a bit like handing over a blade to your enemy, freshly sharpened, and saying, Here you go, this holds all the ways with which to kill me. I’ll just turn my back.

Even so, when all you have known your entire life is the contempt and malignancy of those who ought to love you, it is not an entirely stunning realization that you would hand over that blade so willingly.

And he had done, in earnest; in his naivety with Nicasia. In his camaraderie with the Court of Shadows. In everything with Jude.

This is doubtless the reason Cardan’s feet begin to move now, carrying him and the Roach in his arms to the palace entrance with some new swell of confidence. Perhaps it is a detriment to believe that these new friends would not be so hastened and flippant as the last to betray him, but he believes it nevertheless. He also knows, albeit by way of unfortunate experience, that when the situation had been reversed, they had not wasted an idle moment in saving him.

So on he goes, through the wall and into the brugh, careful to keep the Roach’s pallid face hidden in the crook of his arm and denying any assistance his guards offer with a firm shake of his head. They move to follow, but halt at once and return to their posts when Cardan waves them off. Of the merits that come with being King, Cardan is especially grateful that denying explanations is one of them.

Even more fortuitously, his journey is not further hindered by any member of the Living Council—who have undoubtedly been tearing at their beards and skirts attempting to locate and descend upon their unruly monarch. Cardan imagines even now they are in the war room or assembled in his chambers, pacing and theorizing and crying out in panic. At the thought of the Minister of Keys pounding his fists on the table and cursing his luck for having such an impudent master to serve, the corner of Cardan’s mouth twitches. If only the wizened Randalin had the sense to make himself more difficult to nettle, perhaps Cardan would try to do so less.

Though the hill is yet alive, with lingering revelers still clutching the edges of twilight and servants clearing the remnants of food and drink, the many tricks of sly-footing he has been taught manages to keep him out of sight from any who might notice; it takes no time at all to slip through the hidden passage, into the wine cellar and emerge on the other side of the new Court of Shadows.

Cardan had hoped to show and consult Jude on the plans for these rooms, including the strategy chamber he had in mind for her—of which he was particularly proud: he had designed it himself—after she pardoned herself and returned to him. That hadn’t gone entirely the way he had imagined, and so they had gone on with the rebuilding without her. Cardan resolves that now, he can simply give her a full tour of them, should she come back posthaste. Should she decide to come back at all.

No, he rebuffs that line of thinking. Jude will return, just as she promised. When she comes home, Cardan will lead her through the rebuilt Court, and she will ooh and ahh and find him so ridiculously clever she’ll be too awed to do anything but kiss him for his prodigiousness.

She will forget she had ever been angry with him—or, at the very least, spare him the full measure of her wrath. She will forgive him for his trickery and assure him again that she had not fed his letters to the fire; she will tell him how desperately she missed him, that the mortal world is awful and terrible and nothing worth going back to. He will kiss her hair and tell her they need never be parted again. They will begin their reign as they should have done the moment their vows were made, and all will be just fine and well and as it should be.

These are all of the things Cardan tells himself as he steps into the main chamber.

He chuckles quietly to the darkness, a sudden incredulity sweeping over him; after all his prior distaste for mortals and those little hopeful deceits they allow, to wish away an awful thing or to make that awful thing seem less terrible, he has caught himself doing just that. He wonders what Jude might say, if he said her mortality was rubbing off on him?

Upon entering the main hall, Cardan is met with a collective gasp—either from the sudden, unannounced arrival of the High King or at the state of the Roach, he doesn’t know, nor does he have time to find out; before he can call for her, Liliver is already there, her dark face paled and taut. She does not seem to even notice Cardan, her frantic, wide-eyed gaze fixed on the Roach.

“What happened to him?” The Bomb demands, seeming to realize Cardan’s presence only as an afterthought, though he does nothing to reprimand her for her tone. The current circumstance, along with the raw fear on the rogue’s face, is enough to cast any necessity for formalities into shadow.

"Darts, poisoned with deathsweet," Cardan tells her, elaborating when Liliver's piercing glare flickers up to meet him. "We... misestimated the cleverness of the traps Grimsen set to protect his forge." The Bomb frowns at that, and Cardan is sure he’ll have much more explaining to do before the night is through and she is fully satisfied, but neither of them need reminding of the more important matter at hand. “Let’s—let’s get him to a bed,” Liliver says. Though her voice wavers, her eyes never leave the disturbingly still body of the Roach as she leads them into a small room carved out from the main one.

She steps aside to allow Cardan to enter and lower the Roach onto the single bed, before seating herself on the edge of it. A bundle of tinctures and salves rest in her lap, from where or how she procured them so quickly, Cardan doesn’t know and isn’t inclined to ask. By the deep-set furrow of her brow and the way she worries her bottom lip between her teeth, she is calculating the situation and he wagers any unnecessary queries might hinder—or annoy—her deliberation. So he simply stands there, silent and helpless, watching her work.

The light emitting from the small orbs hanging above their heads does little to illuminate much of the Roach’s features, but it’s bright enough to view the waxen sheen of his skin, the odd way his limbs lie rigid at his side. He looks as close to death as one could appear, and if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, one could easily believe he had already gone. Cardan swallows and looks away, as if staring instead at the rough stone floor will quash the disquiet he feels.

If the Roach succumbs to the poison, he knows with whom the fault will lie, and there will be none among them to scorn him as much as he will scorn himself.

As Liliver works, sifting through the assortment of small glass bottles in her lap until she picks one filled with a thick, amber solution, Cardan gives her as much detail of the night's emprises as he can in short order: their attempted (and rather unsuccessful) rescue of Jude, of the Roach’s poisoning; of why they had entered the smith’s forge in the first place.

Upon hearing the truth behind the Ghost’s betrayal, the vial slips from her hand and Cardan barely manages to snatch it from the air before it shatters on the ground. The Bomb’s eyes are wide as saucers as she takes back the bottle, but Cardan thinks he catches the smallest glint of hope in them, despite their current predicament.

“You mean, all this time... he was being commanded? Controlled by Locke and Madoc?”

Cardan nods. “Doubtless by my brother as well, though Jude didn’t say one way or another.”

He wouldn’t have considered it debasing of Dain's character to control someone in such totality. In fact, he has no misgivings at all that there was anything, save perhaps a grubworm, that had been beneath his brother. He shakes his head and shrugs, more to his own thoughts than the Bomb's question. “I’ll let her tell us which it is, when she comes home.”

It is too afflictive to imagine she will not, that he has yet again voraciously lapped up a lie she has fed him. He cannot believe that as he waits, Jude is riding off through the air with her sisters back to the mortal world, laughing as she tells them how effortlessly she has fooled the desperate High King of Faerie.

He will have time enough to wallow in his own selfish, agonized reveries; Cardan wills his attention back to the present, back to the Bomb and the Roach, who appears even less on the fortunate side of time since they arrived.

“Will he…” Live, or die. Both words are there on his tongue, but he cannot bring himself to say either and the question lingers, thick and unfinished in the air between the three of them. Liliver doesn’t seem willing—or able to answer, only giving him a small shake of cloud-white curls as she keeps her back to him.

Watching how carefully she wipes the Roach’s forehead with a damp cloth, hearing the hushed, unintelligible things she tells him, the understanding that Cardan perhaps ought not intrude further becomes all too clear. He has completed his task, what he promised Jude he would do. There is nothing more required of him.

With Liliver’s promise that she will send word of any changes, good or ill, Cardan excuses himself from the Court of Shadows.

Cardan spends the remainder of the day in his chambers attempting sleep, because he has proved himself of little use elsewhere, there is nothing else to do, and because if Jude were here she would tell him a High King needs rest if he is to go delegating and answering petitions and doing whatever else there is that good, proper kings are supposed to do.

However, it is precisely because Jude isn’t here that he cannot rest.

Though he does give it an honest effort. He tries lying on his back, drawing forth tiny white blossoms to count as they bloom above his head, aiming to bore himself into a stupor. He counts and counts and counts. The mingling fragrance of several different flowers permeates the room and penetrates his nose. When he reaches six hundred forty-seven for the third time, he gives that up.

Exasperated, Cardan flops onto his side, stretching an arm across the sheets. He stares at the empty space beside him, where Jude had rested the first night they had spent together—the night he had convinced her that becoming Queen of Elfhame, his wife, was the better choice for both of them.

It had all been true, of course: everything Cardan had said to get her to agree. There had been no deception or scheming in his words; he had desired his freedom, as desperately as Jude craved power, and their union had the ability to grant both in absolution.

The Living Council had become insistent on the idea that their King should take a wife anyway, for their own overboring political reasons, and so Cardan had.

The only addendum to all of this, the only detail that he had surreptitiously kept from both the Council and Jude, was that he wanted to marry her. Not Nicasia, as the Council had wanted, as Cardan had once believed he should and could enjoy. Not the hag Mother Marrow’s daughter, who likely would have found some clever way to cause his demise so that she might live on as the sole ruler of Faerie. None of them would have been well-suited for him, nor he well-suited for them. None of them could give him what he wanted, because what he wanted was Jude.

That is all he wants now—to have her home and here in his bed, to fill the space that has been empty since she left. Since he made her leave.

Cardan pushes himself off the bed in a frustrated huff. Deciding he could do with a little less sober thinking, he calls for wine, and when the servant arrives with a fresh decanter and goblet, he fills it to the brim and drinks it to the dregs. After repeating this process a few more times, Cardan rounds the large desk—his father’s desk, he cannot help to remind himself, no matter how many times he sits at it—to continue the speech he’s been writing. He picks up the slip of paper between two fingers and holds it to the guttering candle flame to examine it. It’s already a rather lengthy speech, admittedly, but more important than any he has articulated yet. It is one explaining to Jude that her exile had not been methodically planned, that he thought she would work it out much more expeditiously. He would further explain he had not accounted for the fact she hadn’t worked it out at all, and that he had come to fully regret his own cleverness midway through his second letter.

Of course, Jude had told him she hadn’t received any of those letters.

He cannot help recalling how she looked at him then, the last time they were here in his rooms: skittish and trembling, desperate as a wild animal backed into a corner.

Hardly a fortnight has passed since Madoc had taken her, believing he had heroically rescued her twin from nigh execution. And yet it feels as distant as any half-remembered dream upon waking, blurred on the details and every attempt to grasp the memory only causes it to slip further away. Like a hand waving smoke.

Except a dream is something usually pleasant; smiling faces, a kiss one might yearn for in the waking world and only receive when they close their eyes. Dreams are things of wonderment. Pretty visions and heart’s desires.

No, it had not been like a dream at all—not the way she had looked at him.

That hatred, burning into him like white-hot iron, the fear she could lie away with words but could not conceal from her face, the venom in her voice when she spoke. It was more terrible than any of Cardan’s nightmares.

Everything you say to me, everything you promise, it’s all a trick. And I, stupid enough to believe you once.

He had wanted to reach out to her, to take her hand and tell her his trick had been only that, a hasty plan to keep her out of Orlagh’s grasp. He had wanted to pull her to him and breathe in the comforting scent of her hair, to feel her warmth against his chest. To beg her forgiveness and will away her anger with a kiss.

Then he had seen the glint of the blade in her hand.

Even after Vivi’s flustered explanation of her sister’s capture, after he and the Roach had set out from the mortal world to find her—even after their brief moment in Madoc’s camp just hours ago, when Jude swore she hadn’t thrown in her lot with her betrayer of a foster-father, Cardan cannot rend from his mind the image of her holding that knife.

He passes the paper through the flame and watches it burn until it is nothing but a stain of black ash on the desk.

Waving away the lingering smoke, he rises and goes to dress for the night ahead, without rest, and knowing that no amount of sleep or drink or honeyed words will erase what he has done—or may yet do.

⊰ ☘ ⊱ okAY so this first bit turned out a lot longer than I'd originally intended (legit this whole thing was supposed to just be a oneshot lmfao) but if you made it this far, I'm very sorry but thanks for taking the time to read. I hope you enjoyed it, and as usual—if you didn't, don't tell me about it.

If you want to be added to my tag list, just yeet a reply to this post and I'll add you.

⊰ ☘ ⊱ @euridce @figonas @jurdanhell

#felix's fuckin' fic list #; felix does a write #cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jurdan #cardan x jude #jude x cardan #the folk of the air #the queen of nothing #tfota #qon #holly black #tfota fic #tfota fanfic

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adifferenttime · 4 years ago

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Andrew Ryan vs. Robert House

On almost every House post I make, someone in the notes will reliably reference Andrew Ryan. I totally get it - they look similar, they're based on the same guy, the parallels are so clear that the NV dev team added an achievement for killing House with a golf club - but I think these commonalities tend to engulf both characters, blotting out some of their more interesting ideological/personal differences. It's useful to examine them in relation to one another, but part of that is figuring out what distinguishes them, which is just what I’ve attempted to do.

It's difficult for me to talk about Randian objectivism because I don't think it's sound enough to address on its own terms, but considering this is the philosophy Andrew Ryan has adopted, I kind of have to. What I’d identify as the core premise of Randian ethics is this: altruism is a moral wrong. Some Randians have argued that isn't really what they believe - that the real point is anything resembling altruism is self-interest in disguise - but they're departing from the beliefs of their icon when they make those claims. Per Rand:

The irreducible primary of altruism, the basic absolute is self-sacrifice – which means self-immolation, self-abnegation, self-denial, self-destruction – which means the self as a standard of evil, the selfless as a standard of the good.

The way Rand defines altruism is by linking it to self-sacrifice, which she uses to differentiate it from kindness or benevolence. Aiding others at no cost to yourself is benevolent, but not altruistic, and therefore not evil. Sacrificing your happiness to help another human being is, from Rand's perspective, evil, as is any philosophy that prioritizes the other at the cost of the self. This whole idea has been broadly rejected by most scholars on account of it being really fucking stupid. What justifies the leap from "man is naturally selfish" to "selfishness is good"? If selfishness is moral, wouldn't the most moral behavior be to exploit others through whatever means necessary, favoring force over the market? Rand defines happiness as "using your mind’s fullest power," achievable only when you "do not consider the pleasure of others as the goal," but why is this the only definition? What if your only options are self-sacrificial in nature? How do you weigh them if neither sacrifice is linked to values, individual achievement, or "your mind's fullest power" at all? Rand didn't care because she was too busy trying to ethically justify cheating on her man with her best friend's husband, but nonetheless, this is the philosophy Andrew Ryan’s adopted. He claims that "Altruism is the root of all Wickedness," in what's almost a direct quote from Rand herself.

To that end, Ryan builds a system that doesn’t just accept selfishness but actively incentivizes it. Every other principle he expresses is subservient to the ideas that selfishness rules man, and that for Ryan to act on his own selfish impulses is the highest good in the world. His lesser political principles (individual liberties, negative rights, the creation of a stateless society) don’t matter to him as much as the central precept from which they stem: that selfishness is his moral imperative.

What is the greatest lie every created? What is the most vicious obscenity ever perpetrated on mankind? Slavery? The Holocaust? Dictatorship? No. It's the tool with which all that wickedness is built: altruism.

It doesn't come as a particular surprise to me when he starts imprisoning dissidents or executing rivals or banning theft (standard practice in most societies, but not what an egoist would pursue; if you can get away with taking it, you deserve to have it, or so the thinking goes). I’ve seen him described as a hypocrite, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true considering everything he does is in line with his opposition to altruism. He'll adhere to his other principles only if they don’t sabotage his pursuit of personal power. This is evident in the fact that he only adopts a negative perception of Fontaine when his own interests are threatened, but doesn’t give two shits what Fontaine might be doing to sow conflict and harm people before that point. A guy named Gregory asks Ryan to step in against Fontaine early on before Fontaine's fully established himself as a threat to Ryan's power, and Ryan's extremely blase about it.

Don't expect me to punish citizens for showing a little initiative. If you don't like what Fontaine is doing, well, I suggest you find a way to offer a better product.

Contrast this with how he reacts when Fontaine has risen as a genuine business rival. This is from the log titled "Fontaine Must Go."

Something must be done about Fontaine. While I was buying buildings and fish futures, he was cornering the market on genotypes and nucleotide sequences. Rapture is transforming before my eyes. The Great Chain is pulling away from me.

This double standard is the natural outgrowth of his prioritization of self-interest. If your most deeply-held belief is that you should never give up your interests for others, ancillary rules become flexible in times of personal crisis, and Bioshock makes the case that putting someone like that in charge of a city will leave you with a crumbling, monstrous ruin.

Superficially, House has some similarities. Ryan executes political rivals; House has you blow up a bunker of his ideological opponents. Ryan is the highest authority in Rapture; House is the absolute monarch of Vegas. Their goals and moral codes, though, are almost diametrically opposed. When you ask House why you’re expected to trust him when he’s openly admitting to installing himself as the despot of the New Vegas Strip, he says this:

I have no interest in abusing others... Nor have I any interest in being worshipped as some kind of machine-god messiah. I am impervious to such corrupting ambitions.

Most of his resources are devoted to large-scale, impersonal projects, aimed either at building the power of Vegas or securing his long term goal of “progress” as he sees it. He’s rejected selfishness as a moral good because House is very far from Randian objectivism. He's a Hobbesian monarch.

In that respect, he shares an outlook on human nature with Ryan that I deeply disagree with (that human beings are essentially selfish), but in terms of what that means for the structure of a utopian society, House takes a very different position. From his perspective, human nature breeds suffering, not industriousness, and the only way to stamp out conflict - and, in a post-nuclear age, ensure the continued survival of the human race - is through a strong sovereign. The purpose of a state as laid out in Leviathan aligns very, very closely with the one House expresses.

...the foresight of their own preservation, and of a more contented life thereby; that is to say, of getting themselves out from that miserable condition of war which is necessarily consequent, as hath been shown, to the natural passions of men...

The monarch's successes are reflected in his society and the well-being of humanity as a whole. To subvert his goals is to subvert society's goals, and to doom humanity to the war, death, and suffering that exist in a state of nature. When you destroy his Securitrons/kill him, he doesn't plead for himself or get offended on his own behalf. He accuses you of betraying not him, but mankind.

Single-handedly, you've brought mankind's best hopes of forward progress crashing down. No punishment would be too severe. Fool... to let... personalities... derail future... of mankind? ...Stupid! Slavery... the future of... mankind? What... have you... done?

An important corollary of this idea which again distinguishes House from Ryan appears in Leviathan’s description of the political/moral responsibility of a monarch to his subjects:

...that great Leviathan, or rather, to speak more reverently, of that mortal god to which we owe, under the immortal God, our peace and defence. For by this authority... he hath the use of so much power that, by terror thereof, he is enabled to form the wills of them all, to peace at home, and mutual aid against their enemies abroad.

Hobbes and House give the monarch virtually unlimited power but match it to the monarch's duty, which he lives to fulfill. His obligation is to speak for the people, act for them, and protect them from all threats, internal and external. House generally abides by this, orienting his decisions around his goals for society irrespective of the personal cost (the negative consequences of his actions are a product of his fucked evaluations of what’s best for society, not personal greed). It’s not just a departure from Ryan’s philosophy but a complete refutation of it. He's almost died for what he's misidentified as the greatest good.

Given that I had to make do with buggy software, the outcome could have been worse. I nearly died as it was…. I spent the next few decades in a veritable coma.

This is not the behavior of an egoist. This is the behavior of an extremely arrogant but marginally altruistic (from a Randian perspective lmao) guy. This is some distorted “from each according to his ability” shit if you’ve managed to convince yourself your abilities exceed those of everyone else who has ever lived and that you can get the Mandate of Heaven by being really good at statistics.

The reason these guys develop such similar structures and hierarchies despite the ideological gulfs between them is because both of them are elitists who’ve experienced a massive failure of self-consciousness. They’re unable to conceive of other people as being fundamentally like them. Ryan separates people into the clearly-delineated classes of “producer” and “parasite,” ignoring the fact that everything he’s ever “produced” was reliant on a huge, coordinated effort between workers, architects, accountants, middlemen, and others, all of whom, in conjunction, contributed more to the realization of his dreams that he ever could have alone. Rather than realizing his own position is more parasitic and reliant on other people’s labor than that of anyone else in Rapture, he adheres to his doctrine of selfishness even when it’s not reflective of reality and is ruining the the lives of an entire city of people. He deludes himself into believing he’s a superman among ants instead of one flawed man who is reliant on the goodwill of others to help him survive, as are we all.

House, too, thinks he’s exceptional. Unlike Ryan, he acknowledges the necessity of the worker to a functioning society, but while he’ll accept his reliance on that labor, he doesn’t trust the laborer enough to share political power. House knows he’s invested in humanity’s survival and the creation of a better world, but he refuses to consider that he might not be alone in this goal. He chalks up the existence of the Legion to fanaticism/the ambitions of a sultanistic dictator and attributes everything the NCR has done to greed, without it ever occurring to him that the massive harm these nations have done was partially motivated by the same goals he’s devoted himself to - and that the atrocities he’s committed since his rise to power are, in some respects, very similar. House knows himself to be invested in the well-being of humanity, but he’s too arrogant to ask himself if his methods are wrong or trust other people to build a new path, one that doesn’t necessitate his complete control over the land and people of the Mojave. Ryan and House’s worldviews are distinct, and their flaws, as highlighted by their respective narratives, say some interesting things about how each set of devs view power and the pitfalls of elitism.

Anyway. If you put these two men in a room, they would probably try to murder each other, and I think that’s great.

#Robert House #Andrew Ryan #fallout meta #bioshock meta #fnv #bioshock #fallout new vegas

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erzherzog-von-edelstein · 3 years ago

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what do you think the relationship is like between Austria and prussia is like ? , are they like cousins who can’t stand each other or what ?

On the most general level, I think I take a much more favorable view of their relationship than most people who write about them. Because I see a lot of them hating each other and being unable to stand each other, and that is not how I see it. So, fair warning, long post ahead.

If I can tangent a bit, I think the common image of them comes from the fact that they are the only significant canon German states that we have, so it creates a kind of dichotomy that could be buffered by adding other German states who balance out the dynamic. Because with just the two of them, it becomes more of a “who gets to influence Ludwig” push and pull custody battle. There isn’t really room for them to be on the same side or to work together in the political arena, because having the two set up of such opposing personalities makes it seem like there will inevitably be conflict and there is no one else to balance that out. This is why I have felt the need to introduce other German states in Unification before I wrote more of it and then I got distracted and still haven’t written more.

Also introducing them in canon with possibly one of the worst points in their shared history does not help either. Of course they’re going to look like they hate each other from the perspective of the Seven Years War. Canon does much the same thing by introducing Russia and Prussia’s dynamic through the Battle on the Ice.

So, with all that clarifying out of the way, here’s my take on them:

- First off, I know I have clarified this before, but it is always worth saying. The German states all call each other cousins though they do not know how they are actually related to each other. Cousin is the easiest way to explain it without trying to sort out the specifics. The irony is that Gilbert and Roderich are actually first cousins

- So, to avoid starting at a bad point, let’s discuss the crusades. The Teutonic Knights were founded as a crusading order, so Gil certainly had contact with other orders and with the kingdoms that were involved. And the dukes of Austria were involved in crusading as well as financing the Holy Orders. There is a rather amusing instance of Austria bullying a young Arthur for his lunch money, but I’ll get into that some other time. That would be the point where Roderich and Gilbert met each other. Gil as a young knight and Rod as an ascendant Duchy within the Holy Roman Empire. If I could sum up their relationship at this point, it would be what their position dictated at the time. Gil, the knight, showing proper deference to a lord, no matter how much he disliked bowing to anyone.

- In the years between the crusades and the War of Austrian Succession there is relatively little between them, which makes sense considering their geographical distance between them. There are a few points of interest though:

- First, Austria was generally friendly to Poland, though there was a war when Austria tried to force the election of a Habsburg monarch that was ultimately unsuccessful. I wouldn’t describe Rod as supporting Poland really, he was basically forced out of Polish politics and then decided he had other priorities anyway. This indifference meant that I doubt Gil would really add him to the list of people he hates because they supported Poland, that list is basically just Saxony and Lithuania (though we could absolutely also add Hungary there too)

- Second, it may be a bit of a given, but Austria was part of the massive conflagration in the German states over Martin Luther in the early 17th century. Brandenburg-Prussia was a part of the Protestant side of the Thirty Years War, but in all fairness it was more of a victim as Sweden left a bloody swathe through the German states (the losses in Brandenburg are absolutely staggering.) I hesitate to assign friendships and hatreds based on the Thirty Years War, because the German states basically all ended up bitter at the end.

- Third, and perhaps the best one to lay the groundwork for what comes next, the elevation of the Elector of Brandenburg to King in Prussia was approved and supported by the Holy Roman Emperor, who was a Habsburg at that point. So, Roderich was directly involved in the first step to Gilbert’s rise to prominence. For that period, he was trying to act like a kind of mentor and support to Prussia. Of course, Gilbert viewed this as patronizing, but Roderich was approaching it with some good will.

-The War of Austrian Succession and the Seven Years War are a huge low point for them. It’s when they viewed each other as the greatest adversary. For Gilbert it was toppling a giant to add to his own prestige, and he viewed Rod as an obstacle to overcome. Rod viewed it as a stab in the back and a massive insult after he had supported him before.

- A lot of this feud died with Fritz and Maria Theresa. As much as I would love to imagine Gil playing 4D chess to permanently supplant Roderich as the most powerful German state, that’s not really what happened. In fact, Joseph II admired Fritz and did not carry on his mother’s strongly anti-Prussian campaign.

Look at all the tension in this meeting between Fritz and Joseph II. I mean, there’s a certain kind of tension, but we’ll ignore that.

- Which takes me neatly to the Napoleonic Wars, or nearly. Both of them recognized the threat to stability that was the French Revolution, and combined forces to invade France and restore stability. The French were able to keep them at bay. But, putting this in terms of Rod and Gil’s relationship with each other, they decided they didn’t dislike each other enough to prevent them working together. Rod had a personal reason to intervene on behalf of the queen, but Gil agreed with him because they are actually remarkably politically similar. When it came to liberalism and the threat of Revolution, they were absolutely on the same page.

- The Napoleonic Wars are something of a mess to explain all the alliances, but suffice it to say that Rod and Gil were on the same side for most of it. And when it came to the alliance that actually defeated Napoleon, their ability to work closely with each other was vital. Put bluntly, if they really hated each other they would not have been able to get rid of that little Corsican.

- Aside from a few points of political tension in the Congress of Vienna (Saxony and Poland mostly), they were generally on board with creating a new vision of Europe. If anything, the Napoleonic Wars allowed them to bury the hatchet of their previous conflicts and to move forward together. The German Confederation allowed them a place to take their issues without coming to blows. It was something meant to improve their relationship and prevent war, and for a time it worked.

- I cannot emphasize enough how Prussia was willing to follow Metternich’s general plan for Europe, because it’s the biggest piece of evidence against them being eternal enemies. The Concert of Europe was a group project, and Austria just happened to be leading it.

- Of course, the Revolutions of 1848 kind of blew that up for a time. Granted, though the Frankfurt Parliament weighed them against each other as potential German leaders, I would not say that Rod and Gil saw each other as enemies at this point. They were both staunchly anti-liberal, and neither would have accepted a crown from a revolutionary mob. They saw each others as collaborators in returning the previous status quo.

- One person changed all of this, like the giant of history that he is. Graf Otto von Bismarck. He made a point of strengthening Prussia at Austria’s expense, which ended the political co-existence. But, even then, Bismarck mulled over the necessity of war with Austria, because forcing that kind of direct conflict would ruin the decades of peace between the German states. Fully turning against Austria was a heavy decision. Gilbert mirrored this feeling I think. He didn’t want to hurt Roderich really. Why would he? They had supported each other for half a century, and been relatively consistent allies. But, Roderich was going to be an obstacle to German Unification, and Gilbert couldn’t avoid that fight. Also, I think the English translation of the name of that war makes it was more dialectic than it was. I do prefer the German “German War” or “Brothers War” because that’s ultimately what it was, half of the German states against the other half, not just Prussia and Austria.

- And again, it is clear that Gil didn’t actually want to hurt Roderich with the war, because he elected not to invade Vienna or to make any demands for land. This was an incredibly lenient treaty, especially compared to what Prussia would do to France. The exclusion from the German Confederation, as critical as it was for both of them going forward, was not a particularly spiteful action on Gil’s part. He just needed to make sure he wasn’t competing with someone with a stronger claim to being German emperor (because the Habsburgs had held the title of Emperor of the Germans for a very long time.)

- And in the First World War they were on the same side, and I cannot help but imagine Gilbert immediately going to help his old ally when it was clear that the Habsburgs were floundering. Not that it prevented the collapse of the empire for either of them. Perhaps the greatest irony of it all is that even with all the scheming and plotting, the Habsburgs and the Hohenzollerns fell from power at exactly the same moment anyway.

- After the war Gilbert helped Roderich get back on his feet, since the loss was absolutely debilitating for him. From there they rekindled the rather warm relationship they had in the early 19th century, this time without the political machinations because neither of them were particularly powerful anymore.

And....I was going to use this post to also state my feelings on PruAus as a ship, but since this has gotten absurdly long already I will wait for another ask.

#hws austria #hws prussia #historical hetalia

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sweetestlamb · 4 years ago

Text

Can You Feel The Love Tonight?

Summary: So-Bong stops fighting their attraction following the King's deception.

Author's note: I'm back and so excited to write a consensual steamy night! This continues from Episode 14 👀👀 enjoy my fellow royal pervs. Thank you to everyone who send me good vibes and positivity after Tumblr decided to wake up and choose violence and delete my first draft. I hope you all enjoy this version too you never saw the other version but I was feeling very good about it and this one just isn’t it so I’m being pretty hard on myself. Comments are always loved and appreciated especially in these trying times LOL. More possibly confusing pronouns but I did write from the King’s POV towards the end so the pronouns stop being too crazy.

His breath stumbles out in choked tight puffs, saturated air squeezed from So-young's tired lungs. He feels restless, pacing the short distance of the room before he jumps at the door suddenly sliding open. Affection too strong to temper down washes over their body in a thunderous tsunami wave that crashes all his doubts and hesitations about his feelings for a particular monarch.

"My Queen." The title is stated with all the awe and reverence befitting royalty and before he can second guess himself, he's flying across the room to pull Cheoljong into a tight embrace. The King’s gasp of shock doing little to stop him from holding on tightly, pressing So-yong's face into the thick cord of the King's neck.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I thought she was dead. I really thought you let her die!" Their voice sounds shrill even to Bong Hwan's ears but he can't deny that his emotions are overwhelming, too close to the surface. Still too raw after the heartbreaking ordeal, how dare those bastards even suggest killing a child?

It's not until the King is drawing away, his dark eyes searching her face before his fingers reach up to brush away the tears that are streaming from her eyes. Bong-Hwan feels a tinge of shame in his stomach, embarrassed to be seen this way by anyone but especially the King, but the soft way he holds their cheeks eviscerates all shame.

"I didn't have any time to tell you my plan, I'm sorry I scared you. I would never let anything happen to her, she was just an innocent child and she saved you. I owe her a huge debt."

He allows the King to drag her shaking body further into the room, sitting on the plush bedding, face to face their hands tangled in between.

Listening carefully as he tells them how he placed harmless sleeping powder in the child's cup and in the darkness of night his brother would collect her body and bring her somewhere safe, no one else knew of the plan and would believe the young court maid to be dead.

All of the stress and guilt washes over him again and he breaks down, folding into So-yong's lap as hot tears cascade from her eyes drenching the night dress. The cries ravish her slight body until he's sobbing uncontrollably, finally realizing how heartless this Kingdom and almost everyone living in it was.

Except him.

He'd had no reason to save the young girl, had hardly known her and it did him no favors to spare her life. Yet, he did it because she asked him to.

I'll do my best.

"You kept your promise."

"My Queen?"

So-Bong lifts their head, moist eyes locked on the King's face reaching out to stroke his cheeks, trailing down to his strong jaw. The desire to kiss him surging through their veins.

"You said you would save her and you did. How can I thank you?" Gratitude coats each word as So-Bong crawls closer into the King's space, a breath apart now making his intentions apparent.

A slight blush spreads across the bridge of Cheoljong's nose, he looks beautiful in the dim candle light. Truly a sight to behold.

"You owe me nothing my Queen your gratitude is enough to warm my heart for days to come."

But he wants to, this desire isn't So-yong; at least not her alone. He wants the King. There's no denying it now, not faced with his selfless act. Now remembering the way his heart stopped when the King flew off the stage, bloodied on the ground reaching out for them. How desperately he wanted to shove everyone aside and have the King in their arms again.

Without preamble he grabs the lapel of the King's hanbok, reveling in the look of pure lust that devours his face before their lips crash into each other. He groans at the wet swipe of a tongue at So-yong's lips, opening up immediately to give the King entrance. When a large hand grips the back of her head, he moans deeply licking deeper into the King's mouth, heating scorching through their body like a wildfire.

"Don't get hurt again. Don't leave me." He pants into the King's hungry mouth, grabbing onto him desperately.

Cheoljong pulls away, lips bitten and red, panting now firm chest expanding and compressing.

"I won't. I'll stay with you."

In a move quicker than lightning, the King embraces them before covering her body on the bedding, begging for permission with those seductive eyes at So-Bong's nod he's ravenous, movements wild and disorienting. He tugs the material holding her sleep dress intact and the material falls away, but there are several layers beneath. He skillfully undoes everything, leaving her body bare to his eyes.

"So beautiful." He breathes out, eyes racing down her heaving chest before landing on her jewel, he reaches down to caress her smooth thighs causing goosebumps to raise in the wake.

Without a word he returns the favor, undressing the King with more fervor eager to reclaim the pleasure he'd denied just hours ago. The most pleasure he'd ever experienced in his life.

The King has a breathtaking body, broad shoulders that temper down into thick muscled legs but the thing that catches his eyes, dangles between the space of those marvelous legs. His third leg. It's hard to believe that was ever inside of them, it looks angry and red mushroom like head peeking through foreskin. Precum already oozing and coating the flesh in viscous liquid.

You're beautiful too.

He can't bring himself to say the words out loud, already feeling far too vulnerable.

Cheoljong moves to penetrate, gripping their legs as he crawls forward eyes locked on the prize. And the night comes back to him in a sudden flash, the pleasure had been immense but unfortunately so had the pain. There'd been no foreplay and her wetness had not been enough to thwart Cheoljong's impressive cock. It would be different tonight, it was time to teach their good husband about foreplay.

"Wait."

Instantly the King halts his movement, longing and question in his eyes. He is shaking from his rigid control.

In a move any porn star would be proud of, he brings her legs up locking onto the King’s hips and swiftly rolls them over until they’re on top.

The King gasps in surprise at the sudden reversal but the arousal in his eyes make it clear that he's still on board, the thick cock pressing into her thigh is even more proof.

Reaching back to unbraid her tight braid, he shakes her hair free smirking at the weak moan that falls from the King's lips.

"Like what you see?" He teases, bringing her hair over one shoulder and gazing at the King from under wispy eyelashes, a picture of coy seduction. Cheoljong groans at the action, reaching out to hold her hips and squeezing at the luscious flesh.

"Don't tease me."

He almost laughs at the soft command, having no intention of listening to such a thing.

With a gentle placating smile, he leans down to capture Cheoljong's lips in a peck that transforms into something deeper and wetter. Twisting the King's head to his liking, then groaning at the sensation. While the King's distracted he trails a dainty finger down his body, stopping to caress his hard pronounced abs the tight skin jumping under her fingers. Then he continues his journey until he reaches his destination, without any warning issued he wraps her hand around the King's sword firmly stroking from base to tip, twisting her hand to collect his juices to ease the way.

The King jerks as if he's been struck by lightning in her hold, breaking the kiss to grunt and thrust harder into the grip with a loud roar as animalistic as he'd been their first time. Watching him squirm in pleasure causes more moisture to gather at her center, memories of them thrusting and crashing into each other filling his mind.

"My Queen...what. What in the heavens are you doing to me?

"This is called a hand job. It is a gift a woman bestow upon a man.”

"Like a blessing?" He replies, looking thoroughly dazed as So-Bong continues to stroke and pull at his cock, copious amounts of precum making the motion effortless.

He chuckles at the King's understanding of the word, in many ways a handjob is a blessing.

With her unattended hand he reaches down to fondle the King's heavy balls, distracting him enough to slither down his firm body before he's eye level with the rigid length. Hungry for the burst of salt and skin that will flood her mouth, but still wary at this role reversal. He's received many blessings in his lifetime as a renowned chef he already ever wants for bedroom partners, women typically throwing themselves at him. But face to face with the one eyed beast, he falters tongue heavy in her mouth.

How did I.....do it?

He simply stares at first, at a long vein that cords up the side pumping blood to the thick organ.

Nerves immobilize him before the King finally looks down, helpless stare on his face his bottom lip slightly trembling. He gives a little hump up trying to alleviate some of the pressure and So-bong makes up his mind.

Just start slow. You've seen enough porn and anything feels good when you're horny.

So he starts with a kitten lick barely touching the throbbing organ, unprepared for the bitterness that explodes on his taste buds. It's a new flavor one he’s never experienced before but the King's reaction is enough to make him want to do it again, and again.

Cheoljong stills at first, as tight as the the quiver of an arrow before he breaks free from his stupor and thrusts so hard his cock slides down her throat almost choking them. He's draws off the King, thunderous glare at his appalling blowjob etiquette.

"This is called a blowjob. It's stage two of the hand job, but if you can't control yourself, then I'm stopping."

Immediate panic flares across the King's face and he falls limp on the bedding, staring up with pleading eyes. Looking thoroughly chastised and shamefaced.

"My apologies my Queen. I will accept your blessing. I place myself in your capable hands."

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Nothing in his studies could have prepared him for this immense pleasure his Queen is bestowing on him, a serpentine tongue curling around his most private parts. Despite the various rumors of his prowess and the many times he's been accosted, both in his youth and during his time in the kingdom he's never indulged in the passions of the skin but now feeling this exquisite pleasure he wants to curse at himself, has this been what he's been depriving himself of?

He's been a fool of the highest caliber.

Another part of him is grateful that he's sharing this moment with her, he can't imagine sharing this intimacy with any other. Especially the many women at the brothels that he has frequented, preferring a willing partner.

In his laps his Queen is the devil incarnated, swallowing him in short bursts that leave his body feeling equal parts numb and bursting at the seams. Her kitten like licks at his head make his toes curl into the bedding, until pleasure flashes behind his eyelids so intensely he has to twists away before it's too late; barely escaping in time.

He pants loudly, harsh breaths rushing from his lips.

He jolts at the sudden warmth of her hands on his face, bringing his head back to meet her eyes.

She looks at him softly stroking at his cheeks almost.... lovingly. It's too much to consider. That the Queen could feel even an inch of what he feels for her. It's inconceivable.

"Did you like it?"

"Was that not clear? Where did you learn such sinful techniques?" He questions her but suddenly he doesn't want to hear the answer, not in the slightest. Maybe there's a reason why the head of the Justice Department is so obsessed with her, perhaps they had a relationship that was more intimate than he imagined. Maybe....

"Stop."

He stops looking back at her, trying to squash the jealousy boiling in his blood.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop. I've never had...that in my mouth. Or anywhere else for that matter. If it was good that was because of my natural talent. " She rolls her eyes at him, stern look as she crosses her arms across her tempting chest, ruddy dark nipples making his arousal deepen.

He breathes a sigh of relief and satisfaction, trying his best to keep those emotions off his countenance but her raised eyebrow makes it evident he has hidden nothing.

Slowly she crawls over him, straddling him face looming above his and he can't resist stealing a kiss, a burst of salt overcomes his senses and realization dawns on him.

That's me.

It shouldn't be that arousing to taste his own seed on her tongue but the thought of her tasting like him makes his blood boil hotter.

She lets him kiss her, her body soft in his arms as he rubs a hand up and down her side and he deepens their kiss, lips slotting together like matching pieces of an erotic puzzle.

When she pulls away he chases but a small hands on his chest halts the action.

He stares in awe at her beautiful flushed face, lips plush and inviting, the memory of them on his cock enough to make him groan.

"Do you want to make me feel good too?"

He's nodding before the question has fully left her pouty mouth and he immediately begins to position himself at her warm center, thrusting between the folds of her flower. Eager to be connected with her in the most natural way. But again his plan is halted as she shifts away after a quick moment of grinding back onto him.

He groans, "My Queen, what is the matter? I can't take this torturous teasing. You were hardly this coy last time."

His words are true, just yesterday he'd been shoved into the bed and ridden like a wild stallion, she'd sheathed him with no warning her grimace of pain enough to make him consider stopping before she grabbed his shoulders and arched her back in a manner that couldn't be human.

He'd been lost to the waves of pleasure after that.

"I was drunk out of my mind last time, I'd have let you do anything to me."

His eyes widen at the admittance, too many ideas flooding his mind.

"Stay with me, you sex maniac."

He's not quite sure but what a "sex maniac" is but he hardly believes that he's the only one here who is one. He hadn't been the one to seduce the other after all.

"Remember how I told you there are levels? You need to do that to me."

He stares blankly before finally understanding, running his hand from her hips down to the vee between her legs. Soft hair greets him before he pries between the puffy lips, stroking up through the moistness before pressing one finger inside, barely a knuckle but she's so wet that his finger sinks in easily, until he's deep inside her hole.

She breathes out softly, whining in his arms as if to take him deeper. He begins a languid pace, in and out, wanting to take his time and enjoy every second inside his Queen but she has other ideas.

"Another! Harder!"

She's already bouncing on his lap, all too easily accepting another finger, his middle finger now crying out at the stretch from two digits pounding into her core.

He's sure all the servants can hear their coupling, but it does nothing to discourage him as he grabs her hair pulling her in for a wet kiss needing to taste her moans, the vibrations tickling his mouth. His fingers are sloppy wet and their noises are indecent as she quickens their pace into something brutal. He doesn’t care if he keeps the entire kingdom up.

Always a quick learner, he shoves her down into the bed lifting her legs like a scarf around his neck and after a quick moment of eye contact he dives down to taste her, tongue sliding through her wet pussy with precision and certainty. She wails underneath him, screaming his name loud enough to wake those even miles away. Pride swells in his chest as he licks deeper into her sweetness, using his hands to spread her wider much to her boisterous satisfaction.

He grins when he feels her hand latch onto his hair holding him in place as she uses him, grinding onto his tongue. He's never experienced anything this blissfully erotic, never knew a partner could be this eager. All of his studies have shown women to be rather passive, simply laying as the man gains his pleasure. His Queen his anything but a passive participant.

Before he knows it she's whimpering, twisting and twitching uncontrollably and when she starts to pull away he clamps down harder dragging her back and forcing his tongue impossibly deeper, when he slips in a finger everything is wet, her juices flooding his mouth and he happily drinks it all hungry for more.

He continues to suckle until she pushes him away, hissing at him when he fights her at first.

"Too much."

He gently moves her legs from his shoulder and places them back onto the bedding. She's spent below him, eyes closed and chest heaving powerfully.

He flops down beside her, in a manner completely unbefitting for a King. Not caring in the slightest.

Her breath begins to even out, slowing down and he smiles tightly it seems he'll have to tend to himself. With a sigh he reaches down to wrap a hand around himself but almost instantly his wrist is grabbed.

"What are you doing?"

He turns to face her, almost laughing out loud at the look of offense that mars her face.

"You're spent my Queen, I can care for myself."

She scoffs at him, taking a fortifying breath before sitting up, he watches her lazily awaiting her next move. At first, she merely stretches light popping as she raises her arms over her head. He watches enthralled by the rippling in her taut body, she is a magnificent woman and he's merely a man. Then in a move as fluid as water, she raises to her knees before sliding down onto her arms, then lower onto her forearms. Her body a perfect arch, with her pert bottom in the air. For his position he can see directly into her wet core, he's moving before the action registers in his brain.

He's seen this before, the cow position but then she looks over her bare shoulder and smirks at him.

"Doggy style. You do all the work and you get a great view."

What an interesting moniker for this position but he can agree that this truly does resemble dogs mating as well. His knowledgeable Queen, he will surely have to add this to his dictionary.

He walks forward on his knees towards her until his cock is nuzzled between the meat of her thighs, thrusting once making stars explode behind his eyes.

"I must get oil." He sadly states, despising the idea of being away from her heat for even a second but before he can move she's thrusting back onto him, the head of his cock sliding inside with little effort.

This time his moan fills the room.

"I don't need that. Can't you feel how wet I am? Just fuck me already, I know you want to."

"Fuck you?" More new words, these one sounds filthy despite not knowing the full meaning.

She grinds backwards consuming him the rest of the way, "Yes. Fuck me until I can't walk straight."

He's never been one to back away from a challenge and at her insistence he slams into her, hard enough that she falls forward chest crashing into the floor as her ass raises higher in the air, giving him more access to her sweet wet entrance. He grips her ass pounding harder and harder before pulling her back to her arms. Leaning over her shoulder, he finds a bright red ear.

"Do you know who I am?"

He doesn't give her a moment to reply to his spontaneous question, instead rocking into her again mesmerized watching himself enter her over and over and over.

But after a moment he slows down, barely retreating just slowly grinding into her.

"Who am I?" He demands, bringing a hand around to fondle her breast pinching at the nipples.

"What are you talking about?" She pants out, impatiently trying to get him to return to the frantic borderline painful pace.

He pinches harder.

"Do you know I am right now? Are you in full control of your faculties? Who is fucking you right now my Queen?"

It's unbecoming but a vindictive part of him needs this, desperately wants confirmation that she wants this and is imagining no other. After all their other misunderstandings he couldn’t stand another one.

"You petty bastard!"

He pulls out. Completely. Leaving her empty, her hole twitching at the sudden departure.

"Now, now. Is that anyway to speak to your husband? It's a simple question, who am I? Who do you belong to? "

Seconds drag on and he wonders if he's taken it too far, has he made this uncomfortable? Has he ruined this moment completely?

As fear ravages his mind, he doesn't notice his Queen grinding her teeth before sighing.

She whispers, "My King. You are my King and you are the only one I'm thinking of."

Elation swirls in his heart and he's back inside so quickly she loses her balance, tumbling onto her best again but he gives her no chance to rearrange herself pounding away now, shoving himself as deep as he can go.

He props his strong arms on either side of her thrusting and biting at her neck, marking her for the world to see. Her whimpers are music to his ears as he prays that every man in the kingdom will hear her, and now that she is his woman. No other can have her, ever. Unless they want to taste his blade.

When her legs give out he rolls them onto their sides, never slowing his brutal place lifting one of toned legs to thrust even deeper. Then he feels her hand where they are joined, looking over he sees her rubbing frantically at a small engorged bead glistening above her hole. Knocking her hand away he begins to stroke the delicate pearl rapidly, grunting when her tunnel tightens around him.

She begins to scream, head thrown back as he chases the light blaring in his mind, the emphatic slamming of skin booming in the room until she bends her back arching away from him and he grabs her hips chasing her over the edge, pounding until he explodes inside her his shouts joining hers both deafening in the room.

Everything fades to black.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He loathes to leave her alone after the night they've had but he must check on his brother and their plan to save the young court maid, so he slips from her enticing heat almost undone when she grumbles at his movement reaching out for him. Her little grabby hands reminiscent of a small child.

Alas he must go. He's doing this for her after all. They will have much time to discuss later.

And if it leads to circumstances like these, he's not opposed.

By late morning he has dealt with everything necessary for the young girl, her body being transported to another town where they have created a fake identity for her. He knows his Queen will be sadden by the young girl's departure but this is the only way to keep her safe.

He's racing as quickly as he can to get back to her when he hears a voice behind him.

"Your majesty."

He stiffens immediately guilt riddles through him, the royal consort. He'd hoped to avoid her until he figured out exactly what to say to her, he'd yet to tell anyone but the Queen his true feelings for her. He didn't want to hurt the other woman but despite her many requests he would not be warming her bed. His heart was no longer his.

Slipping on a passive mask, he turns around plastic façade in place.

"Royal Consort, good morning to you."

She immediately closes the gap between them and grasps his hand in her own, he fights the urge to flippantly brush her aside. He knows that would be unnecessarily cruel to do to a woman he'd once been willing to lay down his life for once upon a time. It feels like centuries ago.

"I've missed you. You have been sleeping alone these days."

He hasn't. At all. He hasn't slept alone in days, the Queen's leg a permanent fixture in his back now but he can't tell her that of course.

But another voice sounds from behind him.

"He hasn't been sleeping alone. He just left my bed this morning."

This time he does pull his hands free of Hwa-Jin's tight grip, tighter with the Queen's arrival.

"My Queen." He turns to her apologetically fearing her wrath, imagining his own ire if he'd seen her in a similar predicament with her cousin.

But her eyes are locked on the other woman when he turns, cold eyes and a tight grin. Taking a step forward she stands between them, her back pressed intimately to his front.

Her scent fills his senses nearly making him sway. Sweet jasmine and...cooking oil? Somehow it smells like ambrosia on her skin, intoxicating.

"But I'd hardly say we did much sleeping. There are so many other.... activities. But you don't need to worry about his whereabouts, he is my King after all."

Before he can react to the blatant possessiveness or her jealousy, his hand is taken and he's being pulled away, he only gets to see the affronted look on Hwa-Jin's face for a second before she turns away with moist eyes.

He knows he must deal with this carefully later, but at the moment all he can think of is his arrogant and seemingly possessive Queen dragging him away, shooing away any who dare to approach them. Until after many twists and turns they're back in her room, various plates covering the floor.

"Did you make all of this?" He asks, voiced filled with wonder.

Instead of answering she drops his hand stepping further into his space, instinctively he wraps her up in his arms. Nose nuzzled into her thick fragrant hair.

"I missed you."

She doesn't answer at first then a little hums hits his ear, one of disbelief.

"Yeah you definitely looked like you were missing me holding another woman's hand."

With wide eyes he pulls away, unable to control his mirth now that it's just them.

"My Queen, are you perhaps....jealou-"

A hand slaps over his mouth before he can finish. Scorching eyes glaring up at him defiantly.

"I'm not jealous. Why would I be? You can do whatever and whomever you like."

Laughter bursts out of his lungs and he draws her into another embrace not allowing her to fight him.

"Shhhh, don't be difficult."

She punches in his ribs and he knows asking her such a thing is the equivalent to telling her not to breathe.

He tightens his hold as her squirming intensifies stroking her hair in placating swipes.

"Just as you belong to me, I belong to you."

That makes her still in his arms, arms lifting to finally return his hug but only for a moment before she shoves him away. Inconsistent as always.

"Okay, okay that's enough. I can't take all this sweetness so early in the morning. Let's just eat. When did I ever say I belonged to you? Sex declarations don’t count.”

He chuckles but accepts her offer, grinning more when she grumbles how he should feel special and she doesn't cook for just anyone.

He does feel special, having a woman like this is truly a blessing and as he devours her delicious food he knows that he will do everything in his power to stay by her side.

Anything it takes.

#Mr. Queen #queen cheorin #Kim So-yong #so-bong #king cheoljong #royal smut #someone called eui bin trash bin and that's her name now #tumblr tried to hold me down but we here #no touch princess #mr.queen

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binniedeactivated · 4 years ago

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The King’s Princess. ||soobin 💦

╰─▸🖤❝ @[𝒃𝒖𝒈𝒔𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈.. ] ✎𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒃𝒊𝒏 𝒙 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌!𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 ✎ 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆,𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕¡ ✎ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕; 2.3𝒌

[@𝒃𝒖𝒈𝒔𝒃𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒆] 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇𝒇…

-ˏˋ🖋“𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒆?”. ˎˊ-

“we don’t want to hear it anymore soobin. you’re going to be arranged with someone rich, sweet, skinny and pretty. and that’ll be the end of it”. her sweet yet sassy tone flared among the walls of the house, voice fluttering with beauty yet her tongue was sharper than razor blades. As the Queen it was her every right to be. A frown flickered at her vibrant red lips and her bright brown eyes burned holes into her son’s face.

“mother I just think things should be different”. soobin argued back, shifting his food to multiple sides of his platinum plate. they were all having their nightly feast at the lengthy dinner table, the butlers coming back and forth with servings and refills for drinks. his father straightened his hankerchief in a serious manner, dabbing the corner of his lips like so.

“you cannot always get what you want soobin”. he reminds in his usual monotone.

“that’s for damn sure”. yeonjun muttered just before picking up the wine glass to sip from. he always hated how his younger brother acted when it came to the monarch. almost as if the world revolved around him and him only.

soobin shoots his brother a frustrating look, “no one is talking to you hyung”.

“don’t talk to your older brother like that”. his mother quickly reprimanded. “why don’t you be more like him anyway? even your younger brothers have more self control than you”.

soobin glances at a silent Beomgyu, taehyun, and kai and rolls his eyes. their suits hugging their smaller frames in a way that made them look much more sophisticated than the average teenagers. he hated when she said that. hated it to the fullest. he always had a pocketed feeling that she favored his brothers more than him anyway.

always the pocketed feeling that she wished the second born son was never required to inherit the throne.

almost as if she’d rather have yeonjun take his place instead.

soobin breathes, “I just don’t understand why I can’t just become king and participate in arranged marriage after. I don’t need a wife in order to be king”.

his father glares at him in the midst of his chews of his roasted chicken, “and what are you without a woman by your side soobin? you cannot make all decisions on your own. A woman can see and detect things that most men can’t. without that intuition what would that make of you?”.

“i can make wise decisions without a woman”.

and with that not only did his parents scoff but sparks of laughter was passed around the whole table. soobin just wanted to throw a plate at both of the youngers for even participating in this mess.

“what are the both of you laughing at?”. he addresses clutching his fork in his balled fist.

“hyung you can barely even wake up on your own for school in the morning. what makes you think you can make decisions without a woman?”. taehyun replies matter-of-factly, using his butter knife to gently slice his chicken.

“what does that have to do with anything?”.

“it means you’re not fit to be king. I don’t even know why the inheritance is on you in the first place”. yeonjun snarls.

“because I’m the second born, smart ass”. soobin snarls back.

“you shouldn’t have been born at all”. yeonjun retorts with his whole heart.

“boys that’s enough! yeonjun apologize to your brother”. their mother interrupts angrily.

yeonjun dramatically turns his body around and flashes soobin a fake smile. if soobin didn’t already have a reputation to his name he’d smack the smile off his face. yeonjun cross his legs and places his folded hands atop of his knee.

“i’m sorry that I hate your fucking guts choi soobin”.

“alright! everyone go to your rooms. dinner is over”. their father announced with his loud and obnoxious voice bellowing through the hallways.

“father we weren’t even fighting”. kai whines, referring to him taehyun and beomgyu.

“I don’t care. everyone to their rooms until I say other wise”.

the five boys stood up, each of them sucking their teeth with the exception of kai who annoyingly threw his napkin in the middle of his plate. taehyun rolls his eyes, “thanks a lot yeonjun hyung”.

“shut up”. yeonjun grumbles.

and just like that they parted ways. angry. annoyed. not wanting to speak to each other again, and this was how most of their days went. one of them ruining it for all of them and making them go against each other. soobin being the one most impacted this time, being criticized by his parents about being king and then having his older brother say he isn’t fit to be anything and that he shouldn’t have even been born.

it was normal to say things you didn’t mean when you were angry.

but it was even more normal for the truth to slip out when you were under a fit of rage.

and that’s just what soobin thought about yeonjun’s statement. yeonjun was admitting his truth.

unlocking his door to his room soobin opens the door and throws his suit jacket down on the floor next to his door. he kicks his shoes off in front of the wall, completely disregarding his closet which he could’ve entered had he took the chance to walk further in his room but he didn’t. he was much too frustrated to do anything. he stumbled along his shining marble floors to get under his cardinal colored satin sheets underneath his diamond chandelier.

but he wasn’t expecting company.

with his closet door open there was a girl, slightly bent over, reaching inside his closet to be, what it looked like, organizing his shoes. judging from her outfit--being a skin tight crimson flavored dress with a white apron decorating the front--she was clearly a maid.

soobin could stare at her luscious thick brown thighs for the entirety of the day, but he’d rather not be the perv here. instead he cleared his throat. startled she turned around not even noticing his arrival. she quickly got up off of her knees and bowed graciously. soobin couldn’t stop his eyes from skimming her physique. she was quite thicker than anything he was used to. and her beauty distracted him like a deer in headlights. brown almond shaped eyes, corpulent lips coated with gloss and flawless skin worth dying for. her hair was middle parted and sleek, curly and black stopping only a little past her shoulders. she hadn’t spoken yet but soobin knew just by how straight and white her teeth looked, her smile was going to kill him the most.

“are you a new hire?”. soobin spoke softly. she nods,

“my school tuition needs to be paid. this was the only job open. today is my first day, I was assigned your room. am I bothering you? I can finish later”. she says, the sound of her voice to soobin’s ear was like chocolate to a sweet tooth’s tongue. he wanted more of it and he couldn’t help himself.

“you’re not a bother at all. I’m just surprised my parents didn’t tell me. what’s your name anyways?”.

“indigo”.

and she was just as beautiful as the color, soobin thought.

“I’m choi so--”.

“choi soobin”. she interrupts with a head nod, “I know. everyone knows you”. she informed with a small smile, a dimple pushing into her left cheek. soobin’s heart could just burst.

“oh yeah? are they good things? or bad?”. soobin quizzes, folding his arms with a slight grin. she laughs with sweetness dripping from her lips equivalent to that of honey.

“we all know you’re the second eldest. we know you’re handsome and we all know you’re a spoiled brat”. at this point soobin didn’t know if he was more attracted to her beauty or boldness. maids were never permitted to have more than a 5 second conversation with anyone of royalty. hell, barely even a look in the eye.

“a spoiled brat? I am not. that’s actually quite embarrassing”. soobin admitted with his cheeks turning red. she stands at the tips of her toes and whisks her thumb against his cheeks. any normal human being would know that this wasn’t the way to get rid of a cheek tint but to soobin’s surprise it worked. her hands felt like home against his skin.

“don’t worry. we know you can’t help it. being rich and inheriting the king’s throne has it’s perks huh?”.

“being rich has it’s perks. having your whole family think you’re not fit to be king doesn’t”.

“prove yourself to them”.

soobin scoffs, “yeah and they’ll just laugh in my face again. I don’t even know who they’re thinking about arranging me with. probably someone whose just as bitchy as everyone else in this monarch”. he says, not even realizing he was venting to her.

“god you’re really stressed choi soobin”. she utters mainly referring to the slight vein crawling up his neck.

he peers down at her, “yeah, I am”. the communication between their eyes becoming invincible. a smirk flickered at the corner of her lips and soobin pushes his body closer to hers.

“and if you’d like to help me with that, you’re more than welcomed to”.

she ghosted her lips over his, “but is it permitted?”.

“I don’t care if it isn’t”.

“rebellious boy aren’t you?”. she grinned. soobin smiles, “only a little bit”.

“I guess it all depends on how you want to be helped”.

he grins with secrets in his eyes, “I won’t tell”,

her gloss glistens in chandelier’s glare. “ hm. how do I know that?”.

“get on your knees for me and you’ll see”.

she mutters a small hmph before lowering herself sluggishly, her eyes painstakingly mounting up into soobin’s until she was touching the ground. soobin gifts her a haughty, unflinching stare.

“like this?”. she utters with big innocent eyes. god--she was sexy. and she was well aware of that, soobin could tell.

“seems like you’re asking questions you already know the answers to”. soobin breathes while she drums her fingers on his belt before unfastening it like so. a poignant smirk pierced her cheeks seeing soobin’s length. she tugged his briefs down and let his veiny cock spring free.

“it seems like you’re trying to do things that you know you can’t do”. she replies, wrapping her hands around the base of his dick. soobin tenses before he answers.

“like what?”.

she positions the plushed, throbbing head onto her lips, “like domming me”.

she made those her last words before she sunk his length into her mouth, making sure to hide her teeth and wrap her tongue around it’s shaft. soobin felt his heart race at the feeling of her tepid tongue around the places he was sensitive most.

she hums against his length while a fervid, lewd moan withdrew from her lips. it was careful, yet so erotic that she almost could’ve been mistaken for a pornstar. soobin’s knees turned into jelly at the sound of them. the squelching noises of her saliva filled tongue seeped through the air in the most sinful way. this couldn’t have been her first time.

soobin’s dick was throbbing so hard in her mouth it became too overbearing to withstand.

“f-fuck”. he exhaled desperately, sitting down urgently on the edge of his nearby bed. he watches her plump lips roll off the tip diligently with a protracted spit string to follow. she jerks him off, twisting her hand up to his tip before dragging it back down again.

“is this what you do?”. she questions seductively, and soobin was groaning so much underneath his breath he didn’t even think he had the ability to answer her. “shit--what do y-you mean?”.

“get maids assigned to your room so they can suck you off?”.

soobin sits his head back between his shoulders closing his eyes in the utmost ineffable bliss. “n-no. no I haven’t”. he stutters, just as much as his hips.

she arranges her lips to layer a line of spit along his length and smears it around with her thrusting hand. she taps the tip against her tongue before taking him in whole again, pushing it much deeper into her throat this time. she sucks everything she could reach prior to purposeful gagging, reaping the fruit of her efforts all over his lap. she twirls her tongue around it, lapping her mess in trail from the skin of his lap to the base of his dick.

“fuck you’re so fucking good at this”. soobin glares at her in a lustful daze.

“am I?”. she teases, kissing her way to the beloved tip again. soobin thought looked even sexier with her thighs spreading wider since she was on her knees, the both of them begging to inch their way out of her tight dress.

“fuck yes”.

“will I get a raise for this?”. she snarkily asks with the head of his dick filling her cheeks. soobin’s hips bucks up into her mouth again. the veins in his neck were even more prominent than before just from him forcing down his needy groans. he nods frantically.

“y-yes you can get whatever you want”. he exhales again with oceans of pleasure wreaking havoc in his torso. “I’m about to fucking cum”. she jerks him off once more at an even faster pace, biting the plump juicy lips that soobin wanted to suck off her face.

his hips sputter once more and she immediately sticks two fingers in his mouth while his hot cum darted from his tip. his sheer broken moans vibrated her fingers until he was finished.

she climbs up his lap now straddling him. her relentless eyes met his weary ones, “if we’re going to keep doing this, promise me that I will be the only one making you cum like this”.

soobin nods his head trying to assure her as best as he could. “I p-promise”. she then wraps his hand around his neck,

“you promise what?”.

“I promise you’ll be the only one making me cum like this, princess”.

#soobin smut #txt smut #soobin drabble #txt #txt imagines #txt drabble #drabble #kpop #soobin #choi soobin

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queenetoilewrites · 4 years ago

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Survival Guide For Ladies/Maids in Waiting

So you're a noblewoman at the imperial/royal court, when you and your family receive word that you've been selected to become a lady/maid-in-waiting for the Empress/Queen/Princess by the Emperor/Empress. Problem is, you have an idea of what the job entails, but no idea how to survive and hang on to your position at court. According to @inky-duchess (thanks for the help!), the key is to remember the acronym LOCS: Loyalty, Obedience, Comportment, and Secrecy. Be loyal to your mistress, know how to follow orders and directions (she says jump and you ask "How high, your majesty/highness?"), know how to behave, and always keep your mistress' confidence. Follow these basics of being a lady in waiting and your female character will quickly become a favorite of her mistress and hold her position for a long time.

Know your place: There’s a pecking order for a reason

Even among the ladies/maids in waiting, there’s an established hierarchy that you're required to follow without question, this hierarchy governs who gives orders to who and who has permanent access to the empress/queen. The textbook ambitious lady will use it as an excuse to kick up a major fuss about precedence when she feels that her treasured position as the favorite is being threatened by a newcomer. For example, the hierarchy for the ladies/maids-in-waiting tasked with serving the Queen of France/Empress of the French goes:

Mistress of the Robes

First lady of honor

Dame d'atour

Dame d'honneur/Dame du Palais

Filles d'honneur/Demoiselles d'honneur (maids of honor)

Première femme de Chambre ('First Chamber Maid')

While the mistress of the robes was the highest ranking in the hierarchy of the ladies serving the Queen, the first chamber maid was the only woman in the queen’s household aside from the maid of honor allowed to have the keys to the queen’s rooms and permanent access to the queen. This gave her the opportunity to filter requests of meetings, audiences and messages to the queen and made her a de facto powerful person at court, where she was often flattered and bribed by the courtiers. Any lady or maid-in-waiting worth her salt will know that she has to be clever and useful to her mistress in order to get far at the imperial/royal court, and willing to know when to concede to those above her in the pecking order. Many court ladies in my WIP have received the honor of being promoted to where she directly served the Empress Consort because she either proved herself to be clever or demonstrated loyalty to the imperial family.

Loyalty: Don't be like Littlefinger

A lady/maid must always be loyal to her mistress, otherwise she could experience a major fall from grace, even more so if her mistress the empress/queen/princess is on the exact same page as her husband the emperor/king/prince and she's not his mistress. That means absolutely no following orders from anyone outside of the imperial/royal household, she was hired to serve the empress/queen/princess only. Without royal favor you are just as expendable as anyone else in the service of the imperial/royal family, they can easily replace you with a new favorite if they discover that you've been disloyal, and if you don't like that and have the audacity to try and read the empress/queen/princess then there's being reassigned to lower in the hierarchy under the excuse that you're still technically serving the empress/queen/princess. Loyalty can earn you honors, jewelry, or an advantageous marriage. Being disloyal could earn you being distanced from the inner circle of the empress/queen/princess. Good examples of ladies/maids in waiting (and good inspirations for a loyal lady-in-waiting character) who were loyal ride or dies to their mistress include Catherine Champernowne of Kat (Kat Ashley; lady in waiting to Queen Elizabeth I), Jane Dormer, Duchess of Feria (lady in waiting to Queen Mary I), and Maria de Salinas, Countess Willoughby (lady in waiting to Catherine of Aragon).

Obedience: No, that wasn't a request

A lady/maid is required to obey her mistress regardless of what her mistress asks of her, even if her orders are ridiculous or dangerous, her maid/lady could be asked to jump and her response is required to be: "How high, your majesty/highness?" Your character does what her mistress asks, when her mistress asks it of her. No back talk, and no refusing, otherwise she'll fall from favor. She speaks when her mistress tells her to speak, and she doesn't speak out of turn. Once again unless she's the mistress to the emperor/king, has an influential family that her mistress' husband the emperor/king doesn't want to alienate, or she can't be banished from her mistress' inner circle for a reason (such as the husband of her mistress using her as leverage against her family because he suspects them of plotting treason), she's just a mere lady/maid who can easily be replaced with a new favorite who will obey her orders without any questions.

But sometimes obedience can lead her to the execution block. If her mistress is sneaking a lover into her bed, and she had a hand in getting the lover there to begin with, she had better pray that her mistress or her lover don't implicate her as thanks for her help because saying "The queen (or empress) was the one who commanded me to help her sneak him in and I couldn't deny her request!" doesn't absolve her of her integral part in helping her mistress cheat on the emperor/king and potentially muddying the royal bloodline since people are going to doubt that the king's kids are truly his if his wife had an affair. If her mistress wanted to make her and her fellow ladies into spies whom she slips into the beds of her enemies to gain intel like Catherine de' Medici did with the Flying Squadron, guess what she’s doing?

Comportment: Mind your Ps and Qs at all times

A lady/maid has to know how to behave herself both in public and in private with her mistress. She can be friendly with the royal she's serving, but she can't hang off her or call her mistress names then claim that she was "just joking" when her mistress takes offense to her behavior, being friendly is okay until you cross the line. The Empress/Queen must be respected even by her best friends, especially if they are in public. Think of it as like being friends with the wife of your boss, you can be playful with her, but up to a certain point. While the lady might be a subject to the monarch or his mistress, her mistress is his legal wife and the crowned Empress/Queen (especially if her husband is the type of man to reproach his mistress for flagrantly disrespecting his wife and her position), you have to play nice with her in order to retain the favor of the Emperor/King. Now if the Empress/Queen is a monarch in her own right, this complicates the matter because she’s not just disrespecting her mistress, she’s basically disrespecting the monarch of another country.

Do not let her behave like Sarah Churchill did to Queen Anne (your husband writing in a letter to you that the Queen “should make good political use” of his victory in battle isn’t a good excuse). A lady/maid is not allowed to verbally abuse her mistress or tell her to shut up about jewels and unlike Sarah, she would (and should) know better. Anyone else would have dropped her from her inner circle on the spot the very first time she verbally abused her. She can argue with her mistress, but only to a certain point. It should never, ever elevate to a shouting match for any reason, especially if the empress/queen is ruling in her own right. Any empress/queen who is ruling in her own right can ultimately spell the end of your social and political advancement, seeing as her favor depends solely on the Empress/Queen.

Secrecy: Don't spill the tea sis!

A lady/maid will be expected to keep secrets for her mistress, no matter what the secret is, even if she doesn't approve of it. The empress/queen has just found out that she's pregnant with a son and wants to keep it a secret so her husband's mistress can't sabotage the pregnancy since the son of the crowned empress/queen will be the heir regardless of if his mistress has a son? Is she planning to switch her seven children to the school that traditionally educates the Imperial/royal family because the former best friends of her eldest daughter have all turned on her and the girl behind it all tried and failed to get her expelled? Has she confided to you that she's worried that if the prime minister finds out about her plan, he might intervene in his capacity as friend to the monarch and convince her husband that it wouldn't be in the best interest of the crown prince and his siblings to abruptly transfer them out halfway through the school year over one child having problems with her friends? She had better keep that secret, otherwise the empress/queen can and will hold you personally responsible for the loss of her son and the long-awaited heir to the throne or if the prime minister does intervene with her husband. This involves anything like leaking letters alluding to a love affair (looking @ you, Sarah Churchill; you’re lucky you weren’t around for Henry VIII) between her and her mistress or anyone else.

The trust of your empress/queen is like a mirror, once you crack it you can put it back together with but her trust in you won’t be the same and she will begin to confide in another lady/maid about her personal matters, seeing as her former confidant has already proven that she cannot be trusted. Her loose lips make her a massive liability to the monarch and the state and any emperor/empress/king/queen who is worth their salt will recognize this and put her in a position where she is virtually useless to those seeking intel on the monarch from the get go.

He's not worth it: Don't bang her husband if she's calling the shots

Listen to what I'm about to say very closely: It doesn't matter how hot the prince consort is, or how nice he is to her, not one bit. If he takes her as his mistress and parades her around openly, the reigning empress/queen will not be very amused with her, and will definitely make sure she doesn't progress socially or in regards to precedence. He may lavish her with money and gifts, but he can't do much aside from that without openly insulting his wife. Yes, he's allowed to see her as the apple of his eye, but she's still banging the husband of her monarch. Everyone at court will ostracize her for disrespecting the monarch, even more so if she's being a pain in the ass for the imperial/royal court and kicking up a fuss about precedence and favoritism. Her lofty position as mistress/favorite to the prince consort only lasts as long as he's consort to the monarch. Once one of his children succeed their mother as monarch, they have no real reason to extend their father the money to keep his mistress once they hold the purse strings, unless they stand to gain something from it.

It's even worse for the lady/maid if her mistress is the reigning monarch in her own right and he's her consort, seeing as if her husband is only her consort, she can only get so far on his favor alone since his wife is the monarch. She's the ruler of the country, and he's nothing at court without being married to her. If she's the mistress/side piece to the prince consort, she'll be openly ostracized by everyone at court save for the prince consort seeing as she's being a pain in the ass and openly disrespecting her monarch/mistress by hopping into bed with her husband. The more powerful people at court (who are favored by the empress/queen herself) will not hesitate to throw shade at her family seeing as the prince consort can’t really come to their defense on account of the fact that doing so would be an open/major insult to his wife.

#ladies in waiting #writing tips #writing advice #writing help #writing reference #writing resources

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smokeybrandreviews · 3 years ago

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Smokey brand Retrospective: The Gift and the Curse

Brendan Fraser has seen a resurgence lately and i love every bit of that. Dude has been one of my favorite actors for decades. I’m an Eighties kid who grew up during the Nineties so i was right there when he came onto the scene. I was a massive fan f all of his early work; Bedazzled, George of the Jungle, Encino Man, Airheads, Blast from the Past, and even Monkeybone. Dude hit his stride right around the Aughts and then completely disappeared. We found out later it was because of some really f*cked up sh*t but he made it through and proved he still had with Robot Man on Doom Patrol. I’m so glad this guy got another shot at this movie star sh*t but i wanted to revisit the franchise that put him on the map: The Mummy.

The Mummy

I love this campy ass flick, man. I saw this one in the theaters because, at the time, i was super into CG. It had only been a few years since Jurassic Park blew that sh*t out the water and only a few months after The Matrix made everyone sh*t the bed. The Mummy just missed that window but it was still incredibly enjoyable. This was my Indiana Jones because i didn’t care about Indy for a long time. It’s not that they were bad movies, i was just too young to appreciate them. The Mummy came out right at the time i started to really understand why i liked cinema, what a good permanence truly was, and how beautiful a film could be. The Mummy covered almost all of those bases. Fraser did an excellent job as Rick O’Connor and Rachel Weisz stunned as Evelyn Carnahan. F*cking Evie, man. I was already a fan of Fraser but this movie made me really pay attention to Weisz and she became one of my favorite actresses. It helps tremendously that she is f*cking gorgeous! Rounding out the cast is John Hannah as Evie’s brother, Johnathan and Arnold Vosloo as the titular mummy, Imhotep. Also, i can’t not mention the scummiest of scumbags, Benny, portrayed so effortlessly by Kevin J. O'Connor.

I absolutely adore this film. It’s a not the best example of Nineties cinema, how can it be, and it’s a terrible remake of the original Universal Mummy but it does what it wants to do very well. I love the ideas and the world they built with this campy clusterf*ck. It shouldn’t work, it should be terrible, but it’s one of the funnest films i have ever seen. It has it’s issues, absolutely, but they are minor compared the non-stop action, the incredible cinematography, the dated but ambitious CG effects ,and solid performances from every principal actor. They really let Fraser do his thing and that energy carried over to the rest of the cast. Evie is every bit the bad ass as Sarah Connor or Ellen Ripley but is still a very girly-girl; Something that seems to be frowned upon nowadays. Imhotep id an unrelenting, vicious antagonist who controls powers from long ago, literally willing the seven plagues of Egypt into modern times. This movie is all over the f*cking place but it worse so well and every time i see it, i have as much fun as i did way back when i was a ripened fourteen years old.

The Mummy Returns

Boy, this one suffers terrible from Sequelitis. It does nothing new and is an almost exact retread of the first film but we have new characters and a new villain in the guise of... The Scorpion King! Yes, this is the first film that titular Arachno-Monarch makes his first appearance portrayed by a very young, very beefy, and later, very poorly rendered, Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson! That’s right, long before he was Franchise Viagra, way before he was punching out Dom into a stalemate in them god awful Fast flicks, The Rock got his start here, in the sequel to The Mummy and he’s f*cking terrible! Oh my god, is he bad but it works. His awful, awful, performance fits right in with the utter camp of this ridiculous franchise ans, to no one’s surprise, i loved every second of it. Now, as much as i love The Rock in this thing, i have to absolutely give it to Patricia Velasquez as Meela Nais, the physical reincarnation of Imhotep’s regicide partner and f*ck-buddy, Anck-Su-Namun. I didn’t talk about her much in the entry about The Mummy but that as mostly because she was more a plot device rather than a character. She isn’t much else in this one either but at least we got to actually see her for more than ten minutes. Plus, that fight between her and Nefertiri was f*cking glorious. Sixteen year old Smokey appreciated the f*ck out of that.

The returning cast hits their points perfectly. That chemistry never falters. Fraser, Weisz, and Hannah are exceptional together and Vosloo is, somehow, both far more menacing and hilarious at the same time. There’s this scene toward the end where he is utterly defeated and it’s the funniest sh*t i have ever seen. I also really enjoy both Oded Fehr as Ardeth Bay far more in this one than the last because he gets to do sh*t finally. Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje was also a welcome surprise as the muscle, Lock-Nah. Dude just kinds of stands around and i think he gets into a fight with Fehr that was pretty cool but a little trite. Obviously, as a film from the early Aughts, it has it;s problems. There’s a ton of culturally insensitive sh*t that Zoomers would probably be upset about but, you know, f*ck em. It’s like a sense f humor is illegal nowadays. That said, having Rachel Weisz, as gorgeous and half-naked as she is and was, portray an Egyptian is a little much nowadays. At least Patricia Velasquez is a type of Brown? An attempt was made. This thing is a mess and i enjoy every second of it. The Mummy Returns is substantially worse that the first but, at the same time, just so batsh*t that it is equally as entertaining. But f*ck that kid, though. Every time he’s onscreen all of the good times are thrown right out the goddamn window!

The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor

I gave this one the hard pass for years. It looked like trash. Like straight up dog sh*t. This thing came out seven years after Returns and i just didn’t care. I was one hundred percent in my hipster film snob era and couldn’t be bothered. For a full f*cking decade and some change. Seriously, i just watched this thing the day before yesterday. For the first time. It was the inspiration for this retrospective because, after seeing this train wreck, i went back to check out the first two just to get the taste of dogsh*t out of my mouth. There are several changes made to the formula that immediately take me out of this film. First, and most egregiously, no more Rachel Weisz! She didn’t come back for the third. The reason behind her absence has run the gambit from vanity, to scheduling conflicts, to literally never getting a script. I don;t really care why, all i know is that her absence was felt. Maria Bello did her best but she isn’t MY Evie. Another “choice” was to age up that awful f*cking kid into an awful f*cking adult. That’s right, this is a “passing of the torch flick” and Luke Ford’s Alex O'Connell was supposed to take over the franchise going forward. That didn’t happen because this is Rick’s franchise. The Mummy would be nothing without Fraser and the at was proven when this thing tanked. It wasn’t all bad though. I really liked the new mummy, Han. They did some really fin things with his abilities and Jet Li never once phoned in an action scene. Unfortunately, even with the strength of the brand and outstanding lead performances, this thing still sucks.

I had a time with Tomb but it wasn’t like the time i had with it’s predecessors. I don’t know if it’s because I'm so much older and hardened by life but all i see is the flaws in this one. It doesn’t have the nostalgia goggles like the first two so i can’t enjoy it like i enjoy those. I just see plot holes instead of camp. Bad CG instead of rustic attempt. Poor set pieces instead of Nineties jank. Bad character writing instead of unfortunately hilarious dialogue. Tomb isn’t terrible but it ain’t good wither. It;s mediocre and i know the first two aren’t great but they’re better than whatever this wanted to be. It’s weird to see because there are a lot of great ideas here. I can see the vision that lays outside the margins and it’s frustrating. Fraser does is in his element as Rick and Li’s Han is a physical powerhouse but that’s not enough. As awesome as this movie gets when those two are on screen, literally everything around them is dismissible and i don’t understand how or why. I think a lot of the chemistry was lost when the focus was shifted to Alex from Rick and the recasting of Eve really didn’t do this film any favors. However, even with all of my frustrations, i can’t say i had a terrible time with this thing. It was entertaining, if a little bogus.

#The Mummy #The Mummy Returns #The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emporer #Brendan Fraser #Rachel Weisz #Smokey brand Retrospective

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clansayeed · 4 years ago

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Bound by Destiny II, part 2 ― Chapter 9: The Arrival

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny II, part 2 ⥽

They fled New York with one purpose. Find, hunt down, and return with a way to kill a vampire god. They abandoned their loved ones and survived the City of Shadows; had their trust broken and darkest secrets brought to light. All that... and Gaius still won anyway. But now that they have nothing to lose, Nadya and her friends are finally ready to do whatever it takes to see the King of Vampires overthrown.

They just have to avoid a vampire population eager to gain favor with their new monarch, the ruthless Order of the Dawn, and whatever plans Gaius has that involve Nadya captured and brought to him alive. So... easy-peasy, right? The worlds of both dark and light hang in the balance. The time has come for the Bloodkeeper to embrace her destiny. So if anyone wants to clue her in on whatever that means, now would be great!

Bound by Destiny II and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing reimagining project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

TAG LIST: @googlesentmehere, @cess02, @hellyeah90sbaby, @tayab12, @saratustra4, @imnotdonewiththeelementalists, @thepotatobleh,

*join the Tag List here!

⥼ Summary ⥽

It's the night of Vlad's masquerade ball, the most prestigious social event a vampire can attend. An entire ballroom full of faces and names every vampire in Europe knows... and apparently Nadya is going to upstage them all.

content warnings: language

[READ IT ON AO3]

A pretty big chunk of their plan relies on the staff of the Tepes Estate being just as snobbish and uppity as the man they serve.

So thankfully at least something is both easily predictable and surprisingly convenient.

Staff all around, and none of them pay the pair of them much mind. Beyond the fact that they get told by more than one footman that “guests really shouldn’t be back in the staff corridors” and receive multiple warnings about how “the Count has ensured all guests for the evening, (said while looking down the biggest snooty nose in all of Prague no less) no matter their prestige, will receive adequate time to sup on the serving staff,” and that they “really shouldn’t be allowing an undisclosed human on the premises but will look the other way this time,” Nadya and Cadence are pretty much left to their own devices.

Which means scurrying out of sight before any lone particularly loyal member of the Tepes household decides to go narc and everything ends up exploding in their faces anyway.

Because there’s no way on earth these full-face masques of theirs are providing any damage cover should their plans go KABOOM!

Nadya casts another look up at Cadence as they come across their umpteenth fork in the road. Watching him decide between right or left is starting to feel as nerve-wracking as actually choosing which direction they ought to go.

“You’re sure you know where we are?” You’re sure you know we’re going the right way?

“I’m starting to feel like you have less than zero faith in me, Nadya.” He probably thinks the glance down her way is a reassuring one. But the masque over his face is almost too neutral. It’s just a mask but it feels like it’s trying too hard, you know?

“That’s not it at all. This place is just…” A lot.

He barely remembers to reach back and take her by the hand before he chooses left in a hurry. Who knows how much time they’ve wasted just trying to find their way through this seemingly endless castle.

“It takes me a moment to recall the map Serafine showed me before we left, but I’m… ninety percent sure I know exactly where we are.”

“And the other ten percent?”

“Is trying to keep an ear out for party noises. So if you’ll zip it, thank you.”

Admittedly Nadya would have a lot more faith in this plan if it wasn’t just the pair of them, proven stumbling disasters that they are, relying on the apparently flawless memory of a man who literally introduces himself as ‘the one with amnesia.’ She understands the rationale behind it, just as she understands the rationale behind everybody else going through the front door like an entourage of normal party-goers. They have three prestigious faces and what Jax and Lily lack in clout they make up for in being practically invisible as nobodies to this upper echelon of attendees.

But shoving the two bigwigs of their gang — well, the most recognizable face in any room of vampires and the obviously human girl losing her freakin’ mind amid a cluster of the heartbeat-less undead — through the staff entrance with nothing more than simple masks to disguise them and trusting them not to mess up finding their way among the rest in time for some famed big reveal they still don’t know the full-on details of…?

Well if they live through this long enough to chronicle this part of their journey, nobody is ever allowed to even so much as imply via metaphor that Nadya never trusted her friends wholly and completely.

Actually if they’re talking about chronicling stuff, better they leave these more vague and improvised parts of their master quest to the footnotes. That way they can pretend they knew what they were doing the whole time.

For example Nadya isn’t gonna let anyone write down that she got so wrapped up in her thoughts about what may or may not get written down that she walked face-first into a brick wall.

OW.

Not a brick wall, actually.

Cadence turns around and catches Nadya’s mask just before it falls and shatters on the ground. Thank you vampire super-speed.

“Are you okay?” He asks, wide-eyed and worried, hesitant to give her back her disguise to take stock of how she really looks.

That’s such a loaded question though, so Nadya ignores it and rubs the redness on her forehead instead.

“Why’d you stop?”

The vampire takes a moment to look up and down either end of the corridor and even around the next corner. When he’s satisfied they’re alone he pries his own mask off with a groan; practically peeling his flattened hair from where its been stuck to his forehead the moment he put the darn thing on.

“Because,” with pursed lips he blows his fringe out of his eyes, “I’ve been talking this entire time… and even when I ramble you usually have some two cents or other to pitch in.”

That’s fair. Nadya takes back her mask with a sheepish shrug. “Sorry, got distracted.”

“That much is obvious. Care to share?”

“Not really. Care to keep going?” Not like they’re exactly full of free time, here.

He sweeps his arm in an after you motion, but keeps pace with Nadya’s shorter stride. “I can hear the string quartet by now. We’re close, but they haven’t begun the announcements Serafine told me to wait for.” So maybe they have a bit of free time. Got it.

Only now she can’t stop thinking about what will be on the other side of the big grand ballroom doors.

And Nadya without her set of note cards to at least help her through her dumb speech all because her dumb dress has no dumb pockets.

“You know I still don’t get why they wouldn’t budge about you not being discovered.”

“You don’t see me complaining,” Cadence says with a shrug; and actually now that he points it out…

“No, I don’t.”

He doesn’t need to look at her to know exactly why she says it that way, either. It’s not the first time they’ve had this talk. Probably won’t be the last either.

His sigh sags from his shoulders to his fingertips. “‘Surprise warmonger back from the dead’ might accidentally eclipse ‘reincarnation of the vampire Goddess.’ Can’t have that, now can we.”

“Cadence.”

“Nadya.”

They turn another corner in complete silence. Nadya’s ears strain to hear this quartet of his but nope, not close enough for her poor human ears quite yet.

Finally Cadence seems to decide on something. Gathering himself up all the way to his full height while fiddling with the porcelain in his grasp. “Actually… Serafine and Kamilah gave me the option. When they talked about prestige all this week it was largely assuming I might be able to pretend just enough to add to their collective fame. But they gave me the choice as to whether or not I wanted to try.”

“And you said no.”

“Of course I said no. I don’t envy you, Nadya. You have to do this regardless of whether or not you want to. But for the first time it feels like I’m not in that position, and I want to take full advantage of it.”

His face falls, voice going somber. “Surely you can see why.”

She can. She did, in the flesh, and while he’d been useful at the time she can still close her eyes and remember how easily Cynbel had threatened Jax, hurt Adrian and Serafine; how callous he’d been with her life even though she’d agreed with him at the time… Not to mention all the implied things that come with Serafine, always calm and cool and collected, losing her freakin’ marbles every time he ended up a part of the conversation.

He continues. “I don’t think I could have pretended to be him if my life depended on it. And if you think about it, your life does depend on it in a way. I couldn’t risk you like that. Not after how kind you’ve been to me.”

Her fingers brush over his arm. Cadence either takes it the wrong way or chooses to give a purpose to something so small; he bends his elbow and lets her arm slide into his like a proper escort to a proper ball.

“A lot of people’s lives depend on me pretending to…” Nadya can’t quite say it though, so she swallows it down. “I just have no idea what I’m supposed to do when we get there.”

“Understandably.”

“Seriously,” offering him a wry and dry smile, “that’s all the advice you’ve got?”

He mulls it over for a good and proper think. The effort is more than appreciated even if it doesn’t actually yield results. At least this way she gets to vent it out before messing up royally when the time comes.

Cadence stops first — their linked arms jerk her back and to turn and face him. “I wouldn’t call it advice, per se,” gee—great, “but maybe we both suck at pretending because we ought to be accepting, instead. Accepting who we… were. Possibly, in your case. That way we still have the chance to move on.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but Nadya can’t help the way her nose scrunches up slightly.

“I don’t think that applies to this case, Cade.”

“Fair enough. Can’t say I didn’t try.” And that makes the pair of them laugh, no matter how weakly. Something neither of them knew they needed, nor how badly they needed it.

It doesn’t last long… but it doesn’t need to.

“You’ll figure it out when the time comes Nadya. You usually do.”

Usually.

In wordless agreement she and Cadence don their pretend masques with mutual reluctance. At least he doesn’t have to breathe in his. But it’s easier this time to see what his face really says beneath that neutral doll-like expression.

She smiles at him in return. Like many things these days they can’t quite see it, but the feeling is there.

When they get close enough that Nadya’s ears no longer strain to catch the occasional tittering laughter or melodramatic voice, Cadence diverts them yet again. This time for a staircase he just so happens to catch sight of out of the corner of his eye.

He keeps her close; closer than before. Practically hovering over her like a shadow less than a step behind her the whole way up. She pauses when he pauses, she waits when he waits, and trusts him enough to know her faith isn’t misplaced but some explanation would be swell any time he’s feeling his usual chatty self.

Crouched close to the ground (which is a feat for him, for her not so much) Cadence crooks a finger at Nadya to join him in inching steps along the carpet towards the railing overlooking the main foyer below.

Nadya is, understandably, hesitant. “What if someone sees us?” What if someone smells me, hears me, all-of-the-aboves me?

“Same principle as before.”

“Keep close and your blood will cover me up?”

He nods. Not like she really has any other choice. Well, that and the more snatches of conversation she plucks from thin air the more curious she is.

And when has her curiosity ever not won out?

Cadence’s cloak comes heavy around her other shoulder and all but smothers her. She grabs the edge and pulls it tight while making sure not to jostle it from his shoulders. For some reason she can’t shake the feeling like she’s hiding behind a curtain with her feet sticking out underneath.

But they’re here, so they might as well take advantage of it. So Nadya joins him in peering through the stone balusters to the hustle and bustle happening below.

The foyer had been beautiful already during her visit with Serafine and Jax the other night — Nadya would even go so far as to assume it was nearly completed. That assumption would have been vastly incorrect.

It’s not her contacts; she’s not seeing double. Every bauble and ribbon and glittering glassy gem brought along the entire family. There’s practically no surface without something shiny added in some form or another, and in many cases that shiny thing has a shiny thing has a shiny thing of its own on top.

On their own the decorations probably look gaudy and too-much. But when you fill the room with graceful vampires all dolled up in unique fashions and splendors everything else is lost in the background. Tasteful would probably have ended up the equivalent of a fifty-buck Party Town Supply budget. So at least the Count knows his audience.

She should be looking for their friends… and she is. But Nadya tells herself it’s being a good and thorough secret agent to observe all the other guests along the way. Two birds and all that. But it’s not easy to just sweep her eyes over the assembled masses in search of a few key faces. Not when each masque is a face all its own.

You’d think there are only so many combinations of colors, designs, and styles to make before they start getting repetitive. But that couldn’t be farther from the case. She gets it now, seeing everything and everyone from way up high and afar like this. The importance of not just the masque itself, but having the right kind of masque above everything else.

Masquerade balls are about hiding and blending in; being just another face in the crowd.

Les Visages de la Gloire is the exact opposite. And even that feels like the most watered-down way to put it she can think of.

A gentle weight falls on Nadya’s back and she shudders a gasp. When had she stopped breathing? Not for fear of being caught, but at the beauty of it all that could only be described as—literally—breathtaking.

Faceless in their full face-coverings and headdresses each more ostentatious than the last; not important enough to show who they are but still in competition with each other — still with deeds to announce and reputations to uphold. Half-masks covering the left side, the right side, the top of one and the bottom of another and all of them made uniquely for a single soul and nobody else.

Some vampires have masques that match their costumes. Others clash in a way that can’t be anything other than on purpose. Even from a distance Nadya can see the difference between carefully crafted metalwork and porcelain painted with glossy lacquer; can compare wood carvings with rich varnish and contrast that with the vast rainbow of matte colors on terracotta. Most are adorned with embellishments and jewels heavy enough to make her neck hurt just by looking at them.

Nearly all take full advantage of the fact their wearers won’t end up suffocating on the other side.

And I’m supposed to show them all up without so much as a sheer ribbon over my eyes? Yeah, Nadya’s confidence takes a knife to the gut just thinking about it.

“Over there.”

Not like Cadence’s finger isn’t pointing down to a massive crowd or anything, but that’s exactly the point — forgive the pun.

Though they can’t quite see double doors leading inside the castle from the exterior from their hiding spot, the sudden hush that falls over the idle crowd offers up an equally dramatic entrance.

It’s the kind of arrival that would be filmed in slow-motion. The kind that pans up from the purposeful echo of each expensive step; dragging over the exquisite details of their costumes in one long smooth glide all the way to the big reveal. And what a reveal it is.

Kamilah’s spindly masque may be made of steel but it curls over her sharp features with all the grace of a silken thread. It’s a face covering by only the thinnest margin of definition, with too many gaps in the framework to even pretend to conceal her identity. But after taking in the rest of the crowd… it’s obvious she’s the kind of face — the kind of presence — that simply can’t go unrecognized.

Everything about Kamilah, from her posture to her raised chin to her not-at-all-faked aura of superiority, demands recognition.

On the surface she’s the woman that Nadya knows; that she trusts and cares about so so much. But look beneath, something all too easy to do — like sweeping aside a mist, it’s impossible to miss how she’s so much more.

The Bloodqueen has arrived. And the entire foyer is speechless before her.

Without even moving a muscle the closest groups stagger back several more steps. Dozens of them nearly tripping over themselves and each other in their haste.

It’s no surprise that the space is quickly taken up by the two figures flanking Kamilah’s sides.

Serafine’s masque isn’t so much a mask as it is a scrap of lace just wide enough to earn the collective approval. As if anyone here doesn’t already know who she is regardless. But that’s how she can pull the look off if Nadya is remembering her explanation right.

No one would dare partake in Les Visages without knowing—without introduction—the woman who started it all.

Some final vestiges of their psychic connection tugs Nadya towards her; not physically so much as emotionally. Even without seeing Serafine’s features up close there’s a bittersweet ache in her chest that’s definitely not Nadya’s own.

The vampiress can offer up all the scarlet-lipped smiles she wishes. They are all hollow and fake. The simple act of being here causes Serafine nothing but distress.

And then there was Adrian.

Who, in comparison to Kamilah and Serafine, makes the women nearest him seem positively giddy and gleeful to be here tonight.

He wears his tailored costume perfectly; that wasn’t in doubt. It’s the masque that leaves him stony-faced. Gold rich and dark that catches every little flame on the chandelier over his head that covers his eyes but can’t hide the tension wracking his jaw.

He and Kamilah both wear near-identical rich crimson garnets inlaid just beneath their masque’s right eye. Shared stones for a shared Maker. But along his edges are thin metal spires, short but wicked sharp, that vary from the same gold, to steel, to a coppery hue.

A second glance confirms Nadya’s suspicions; Adrian isn’t the only one with those kinds of embellishments along the edges of their masques. Scouring a few of them from the crowd, the way they carry themselves and mirror Adrian’s ramrod-straight posture answers a question she didn’t know she needed to ask.

If the garnet labels him and Kamilah both as Turned by Gaius, then the spikes are the mark of the soldier. Any soldier; but one worth recognition for their service.

Which is everything Adrian doesn’t want. Everything he had worried over, and was working now towards overcoming in the wake of his past.

Nadya ducks her head hastily to catch her tear before it falls. Thankfully she’s quick enough. If only she could wipe away the reason for it just as easily.

Pull yourself together, girl, she scolds, and it’s just enough to do the trick and pull Nadya’s focus back to everything around them. All the stillness and nothingness and the way a room full of the undead hold their collective unnecessary breath waiting for what will happen next.

Which is exactly the kind of attention-grabbing showstopper the three of them are supposed to be. All eyes turned on the prestigious trio they are together, and away from Nadya and Cadence one floor above.

All focus on who they are, why they’ve come, what they will do; and away from the practically invisible dynamic duo that slips through the crowd towards the closed ballroom doors.

Behind her, Cadence lets out an impressed little “hah” when he finally manages to pick Lily and Jax out of the crowd. “I completely missed them. Did you see them sneak in?”

“No,” answers Nadya, but that’s actually a good thing. That was the whole point.

Without a word Kamilah takes one step forward. Her aura of command acts like an invisible shield that parts the rest; holding them at a respectable distance.

But the sudden shifting of the mass of faces and their masques gets dangerous when it turns right in their direction. If even one wandering eye looks up, they’re done for!

Without a word the vampire pulls Nadya backwards, letting the force of his bulk pull them out of eyesight in the nick of time. That was a little close, huh.

Nadya doesn’t get the chance to thank him though.

The moment she opens her mouth a loud echoing clang rings out below them, followed by the distinct shuffle of something heavy being dragged achingly close to the foyer’s marble floors.

Neither of them needs to risk sneaking a look.

Right on time. The ballroom doors have finally opened, allowing the first wave of prestige to spill forth out to the grand dance floor.

And though the shuffling of boots and sharp tapping of heels fills the vacuum of stunned silence as the attendees start to move, it’s not nearly enough noise to drown out the sudden and familiar exuberant laughter of delight that echoes across every polished surface below. The kind of laughter designed to be projected across adoring crowds; and carefully rehearsed to always seem full of intriguing promise.

What Nadya wouldn’t give to borrow a little of Vlad Tepes’ seemingly endless confidence for her own performance… looming ever-closer and starting to pick up real steam.

“Remember my lovelies! Faceless and no-names, see yourselves inside. New blood and the lucky virginal attendees right beside them!”

Her full-body shiver of discomfort is more than warranted. But Nadya only wishes she could be surprised at his… unsettling word choice.

“I’m suddenly very glad to be up here.”

She snorts at the wide-eyed stare looking out from Cadence’s mask. “You and me both.”

“Yes yes darling, oh you look a treat. And you there — you must tell me the story behind that engraving later, you simply must.” It’s really to their luck and benefit that the Count likes hearing himself talk so much. They can stay far away from the railing and still keep tabs on what gauge of prestige is next to be welcomed into the bal masqué proper.

They just have to wait until everyone—Vlad included—is inside. Everyone but the most prestigious of the lot of them. And when all eyes are (once again) on the Bloodqueen herself… they’ll have no choice but to witness Nadya’s arrival.

Having Kamilah by her side might just give her the kick in the metaphorical pants to do this thing. Not the literal though. There’s no way this practically bleach-white linen getup will survive a boot print, and especially not to the rear end.

Down below there’s a momentary lull; all but shattered by Vlad’s returning laughter now pitched higher than before.

“Why there you are, Serafine! Here I worried I had somehow lost track of your arrival in the excitement.”

His words are followed by two unmistakably wet noises; which Nadya prays are just over-dramatic kisses to her cheeks.

“Surely you jest,” she teases good-naturedly; said with all the humor of someone whose smile can’t possibly reach her eyes, “I see before me you follow the old traditions quite well. Showing the prestigious their due, their arrival witnessed by all who look to them in admiration.”

“Well of course! It makes for the grandest of entrances.”

“Ah, yes,” the elder vampiress croons, “and as the illustrious host yours would be the last, non?”

“Don’t worry darling — I would never claim credit for your centuries of contribution to our dwindling community.”

“Meaning?”

Somehow Nadya just knows Vlad throws his hair back unnecessarily as he laughs again.

“You can enter just before me, of course.”

“Then when, may I ask, might you suggest my blood-kin Adrian and I make our entrance known, old friend?”

Unlike Serafine, who at least pretends to smile while enduring the torture of his conversation, Kamilah’s question is cold and clipped. It rings with all the disinterest of the Kamilah that Nadya had met so long ago — and she’d place good money on the single raised eyebrow hiked high enough to be seen over her masque, too.

But if anyone could render Vlad speechless…

Nadya struggles to hear something, anything, until she catches the faint rustle of stiff and expensive fabric moving with haste. Vlad’s gesture of greeting, no doubt.

Just like she has no doubt that Kamilah and Adrian don’t humor him as long as Serafine has. It certainly explains the flustered, hasty way his next words tumble from his tongue with practically no filter.

“All the best surprises are the ones that sweep one off his feet. My humble gathering of our kind—nay, our family—from the nearest branch to the farthest root is made absolutely resplendent by the honor of your presence!

“Your Majesty, mon cherie —” —a beat, his attention likely shifting to Adrian— “— and Sergeant Adrian Raines, just when I had resigned myself to an evening of only the old and antiquated in renown. Here you stand before me, as handsome as the day we first met.”

Nadya quickly schools her bewildered expression — too long and it might get stuck that way. But that is flirtation if she’s ever heard it. Not good flirtation, but nevertheless.

“Vlad, as… lively… as ever.” Adrian just barely recovers, but now she’s dying to know what he had almost said instead. “Hard to believe it’s been nearly seventy-five years since last we met. Time… flies so quickly.”

“Oh pish posh,” replies the Count, “you wouldn’t know it but for the calendars. My memory of those chiseled features of yours obviously needed a refresh.”

He’s barely finished speaking when he gasps, clapping his hands together delightedly. “Speaking of memory! You’ll have to forgive my fright. As you all know surely, my recollection skills are of world-renown. Yet the sight of you all almost thrust me spiraling into self-doubt.

“And not without good reason! As I could have sworn you — the both of you, that is to say — had… cast aside your former titles.”

It’s just like before. Everything that pops into his head said without a filter all the way up until what he’s saying isn’t as vapid as it was at the start.

It must be so easy to write Vlad Tepes off at first glance. Just look at the public opinion of the guy. Nadya had, she’s humble enough to admit it. But the hard truth is that he is Vlad Tepes; he is Count Dracula.

But whether he’s all the things the myths and legends claim or not it can’t go ignored that he knows what he’s doing (even if it doesn’t seem like it). He knows how to play a crowd, how to stroke an ego. He’s a master of misdirection.

Has nobody pitched a Vegas residency to this guy yet? Seriously?

But if he thinks he’s going to out-wit someone like Kamilah he must have those leather pants on just a little too tight.

She doesn’t address his comment. Brushing it aside proves a much more important point.

“Shall Adrian and I wait patiently here while you and Serafine follow through, then?”

Vlad must be used to playing the ‘host with the most’ card, because he hesitates. But Kamilah wasn’t asking — she was just being polite.

“Yes,” he finally agrees, though surprisingly less strained than Nadya would have expected. “I would not dare nor dream of presuming your prestige. Nor would I separate the grand entrance of the progeny of our King.

“The three of you will have a most celebratory announcement, I give you my word.”

Did she hear that right?

Serafine offers a gentle tittering laugh. “I see no reason why you and I should not enter together, ma puce.”

“We shall.”

Vlad’s words die to the sound of heavy heels across the foyer floor. Too many steps to be one of her friends; but certainly more than enough for them to bring a person across the length of the room to where they are gathered.

Of course something is going wrong. They should have anticipated something going wrong. They had, her brain reminds her, and probably thinks its being helpful by doing so.

She dares to inch just close enough to catch a glimpse down below and spoiler alert — it isn’t helpful at all.

With his head held high, Marc Antony makes a bold statement in taking Kamilah’s hand without it being offered. Then he goes a step further with a half-bow and a kiss pressed to the back — or the ghost of one. He barely manages it before she yanks it from his grasp — in surprise, in anger, that’s not the part that matters.

With everyone fixated on the two oldest vampires in the room, Adrian dares to steal a glance of warning up to the railing. Wide-eyed and with pursed lips, the message when he gives the tiniest shake of his head is clear.

Nadya retreats, practically crab-walking backwards.

Cadence tries to help her sudden shaking panic with an arm over her shoulders. It’s the thought that counts.

“What,” he asks worriedly, “who is it?”

“Antony,” Nadya exhales, and the man goes rigid beside her. “It’s Marc Antony.”

#bloodbound #playchoices fanfiction #playchoices #kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed #bloodbound mc #mc: nadya al jamil #adrian raines #serafine dupont #jax matsuo #lily spencer #marc antony #oc: cadence smith #vlad tepes #fic: oblivion bound #oblv: new chapter #oblv: bound by destiny ii #; my fics

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alteriius · 4 years ago

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Colors

FANDOM: Final Fantasy XIV PAIRING: Krile & G’raha, Scions & G’raha, Mentioned WolExarch WORD COUNT: 1,474 LINKS: AO3

Summary: Krile was going to celebrate G'raha's Nameday, even if it wasn't the one on his birth certificate. All of his friends help.

Written for @writersmonth. Trans G’raha lives in my head rent free.

G’raha Tia had never had much in the way of family. His mother wasn’t around, his father was long gone and Miqo’te traditions were hardly inclusive enough to care for his extended family. Thus, when it came to celebrating anything, Krile had found him sorely lacking. When they’d met in their second year of college, she distinctly remembered him spending the entirety of the winter holiday in the dorms. And he had decided to forgo informing her of his nameday until it had already passed.

Krile had done everything after that to ensure he was included with her own family and though they welcomed him, she was not fool enough to think he’d allowed himself to well and truly be part of her family.

But this year, much had changed. The young lady she roomed with in college came out as trans, had begun taking testosterone, had blossomed in the light of support offered by a rapidly growing group of friends.

And so, Krile had elected to celebrate not the nameday of the young lady she had met years ago, but the young man she’d been introduced to just last year and she had recruited his new friends to aid her in this effort.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten what the lot of them was like.

“It’s not straight.”

“I thought that was the point.”

Krile paused to pinch the bridge of her nose, wondering why Nymeia had cursed her with these two.

“I believe I am the one who’s colorblind, Thancred,” Y’shtola says from her spot at the counter, where she’s finishing up icing the cupcakes, freshly baked by the joint effort of Ryne and Lyna.

“He is gay, too, I’ll have you know.”

He sounds so smug , as if he’s won some battle, even as he does as Krile asks and straightens the banner before taking the hammer from Urianger’s waiting hand to finish his side.

“You weren’t the first he came out to, I’ll have you know,” Krile says, clicking her tongue as she turns to help Tataru smooth the wrinkles from the triple-toned table cloth. She runs her hand across pink and blue and white stripes until they’re flat against the table, a smile easing its way onto her lips as she takes a step back to inspect their efforts.

What had once been Raha’s front room had been transformed into a paradise of pride, swathed in the same pinks, blues and whites that were represented on the flag. The overhead banner, the tablecloth, the cupcakes, even everyone in the room had changed clothes to match the theme.

Not that all of them were particularly happy about their apparel.

“Is it truly necessary for me to wear white?” Y’shtola asks, eerily close to reading Krile’s mind.

“Yes! Blue for boys, pink for girls and white for all those in between, lest you wish to mix and match!”

“It is hardly my color,” she mutters, bemoaning the usual black that she wore. And while she was correct , Krile did not particularly care , not today! “And I am icing cupcakes.”

Oh, yes, that white shirt would be stained with pinks and blues before she was done, certainly. All the better, Krile would say, not that she gets the chance to.

Ryne surprised them both by rushing to Y’shotola’s side to deliver another batch of cupcakes, to await cooling before they could be topped with icing.

“You look beautiful in any color, Y’shtola!”

The smile Ryne wore was hard to argue with, even for their monarch of sass. It proved infectious, melting away Y’shtola’s exaggerations in favor of a gentle smile of her own. But there is no time to offer a response before Ryne rushes back to Lyna’s side, the giddy chatter between the two barely audible to Krile’s pointed ears.

“I hope you’ve a solution for the nameday boy, unless you managed to conn him into wearing blue today.”

Oh, but Krile had done no such thing! She couldn’t risk tipping him off and it was G’raha’s boyfriend that had recommended a solution to her. So she paused to retrieve it from the box she’d set in the bottom of his hall closet, where it would be considerably safer during their reconstruction of Raha’s home.

She lifted the top off the box and could feel the heat of a great many gazes on her back as she brought the object in question out of the closet and into the air to show all its majesty. Bright blue with a hint of white dusting at the top was—

“Is that a paper mache crown ?”

"Oh, yes, yes it is! Lovingly handcrafted by the one and only Tataru!"

Alisaie laughs , doubling over with tears of mirth in her eyes at the dramatics of it all. Alphinaud does not grace her with even a glance in her direction, a wide grin on his face that’s just as polite as is his norm.

“He’ll love it, I’m certain,” he says, even as Tataru turns to explain to him that the time allotted to her for its creation had been limited by how hard it was to coordinate all of this when G’raha was all but outright glued to Krile’s side. Between being roommates and working together, that was no small surprise.

Krile is partway through laughing at their antics when Lyna hushes all of them with a hiss under her breath.

“He’s coming!”

Everyone’s reaction is instantaneous. They scatter, scrambling to find a spot to hide in. They bump into each other, curse, the chair Thancred had been standing on earlier gets tipped over. It's sheer luck that the bouquet that was lovingly prepared by their very own hero was not lost to the destruction.

And oh dear, the haste at which a key gets pushed into the lock and the door swings open when the chair clatters loudly to the ground.

“What in Azeyma’s name?”

As soon they hear G’raha’s voice, a trainwreck occurs. A cacophony of voices begin yelling out of sync. “Happy Nameday!” “Surprise!” Urianger whacks his forehead by rounding the too-short-for-Elezen door frame too quickly as they slowly descend into chaos. Alisaie accidentally elbows Thancred, Ryne nearly slips on a stray bit of icing, Lyna nearly topples to the floor trying to save her from impending doom.

And when finally, finally the moment passes and the room descends into stillness once more, it is G’raha Tia who interrupts it once more. He laughs , tears of mirth springing to red eyes as he reaches for the table to steady himself—and misses.

When he hits the floor, still laughing, it spreads to the rest of them.

Krile bursts into laughter, as do many of the others, bolsters when Twelve only knows who lets loose a snort. It makes helping everyone to their feet a struggle that nearly ends in them faceplanting again, Krile having the hardest time of all. Trying to get a man twice her size to his feet was, well, quite a feat!

“Wha— What is all this?” he asked through his laughter, freckled cheeks already wet from watering eyes. “My Nameday isn’t for months !”

“We’re celebrating G’raha’s name day, not G’rahlia’s!” Krile says, face aching from the wide smile and warm laughter. His cheeks flush and the grin on his face shifts from amused to the familiar, sincere glee that she could still vividly remember from a year ago, when he’d come out to her.

“Thank you, Krile,” he whispers, words heavy with a burden that he had long carried, that he could now share with the lot of them without fear of being judged or rejected or any of that ilk.

Red eyes moved from her to take in everyone in the room that had joined them, from the smallest of their efforts to the largest before settling on the bouquet of flowers that sat on the table. He reaches out to touch one of the pink petals, then the white before finally settling on the blue. At last, he finally looks to the small crowd gathered in his apartment, from his foster daughter that loved him with all her heart to young Alisaie who made a show of being cross with him.

“Thank you, everyone,” he finally says, his grin full to bursting, “For…”

He pauses, gesturing into the air at some of the decorations, unable to find words to convey what he wanted. A pleasant laugh follows when Krile reaches out to hand him the crown, ridiculous as he looks the minute he positions it atop his head.

Krile finds her gaze turning from him to the others in the room, to the family he had crafted with his own hands, without the need for something as trivial as blood.

When he speaks again, watery words are warm with affection.

“I love you all so very much.”

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #g'raha tia #writerspridemonth2021 #Allen writes.#i almost never crosspost to tumblr anymore but yeehaw

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thaonos · 3 years ago

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clear the slate and start over

book: foreign affairs

part: 1 of ?

word count: 3372

As the jet flew above the renown Vancross Institute, Joey couldn't help but contemplate the implications of her arrival. Her brain racked over the countless possibilities her new life could bring. Until now, all she had ever known was certainty. As the First Daughter of Rutherland, Joey's days were meticulously planned out from the second the sun rose to the moment whatever photo op she was to attend that night concluded. Every day was micromanaged by her mother, to say the least.

She wasn't ungrateful. She wasn't. There are worse ways to live. It wasn't as if she didn't enjoy the opulence and riches that came with being the president's daughter and a generally well-known public figure. She's had two terms to grow accustomed to her new life in the public eye. Joey would say she's done well for herself thus far.

Are there nights where she lays in bed, replaying lost memories with her friends back in the city? Does it hurt not remembering the person she was before a world full of flashing lights and cameras? Haven't two terms of presidency weathered down whatever relationship she and her mom might have had after her father passed away? Joey tries not to dwell on it.

"Josephine, we'll be landing soon." Winston, her mother's advisor and close friend, strolled down the aisle. He had momentarily cut off his conversation with someone over the phone to address the blonde. "Melissa won't be able to make it, regrettably. She had to schedule a last-minute meeting with an ambassador."

Joey stiffened. Although her mother wasn't winning any Mother of the Year awards any time soon, it always stung whenever she brushed her off. "This master's program was her idea. She couldn't find the time to see her own daughter off?"

For a moment the air between them consisted only of the animated babbling from Winston's phone. The poor assistant—she's assuming, it wasn't in Winston's nature to ignore important calls—hadn't even realized Winston's attentions were elsewhere.

"I could have helped her with the campaign, you know. Prove to her that I'd be a valuable asset outside of just parading around pretending to be some trophy child. She never even considered that," she finished.

The sympathetic look that she was so familiar with now adorned the advisor's features. "Josephine, she'll find a way to repay you. I'm positive she is as unhappy about this as you are. She's your mother, she loves you."

"Correction. She's the president first, my mother second. Maybe not even second."

"It's not that simple, Josephine."

"I never said it was." Joey deadpanned.

With that, she turned away from her mother's advisor and stared back out the window. Always the observant type, Winston took the hint and walked away to attend to his call. Hearing the footsteps fade into silence as he walked towards the cockpit, Joey cast her eyes down towards the school again. Only now were they about to pass by the school completely. Joey had to admit Vancross was impressive. The institute bested every Rutherlandian university in size, no doubt. Its alumni boasted some of the most influential people and leaders in the world. Vancross offered the best education money could afford. Not to mention, its stellar reputation spoke volumes. Her mother had been overjoyed during the phone call the previous night. Supposedly, Joey's rumored enrollment at Vancross boosted her approval rating by a respectable margin.

Joey flinched at the intrusive memory. The campaign and her mother was dead last on the list of things she wanted to think about. She forced her thoughts away from politics and focused on her observations earlier. She had seen many students in the beautiful pavilion outside a large, contemporary structure. There were people playing frisbee, students scattered around making use of the many benches and tables around campus, residents walking to their dorms. There were friends laughing at stupid joke one of them had said. There were couples sitting next to each other, each lost in their own world studying. Grandeur aside, the sight reminded Joey of any other university she had visited. It was hard to believe that half of them were the sons and daughters of some of the most powerful people alive. They were proof that, if she tried hard enough, maybe she could pretend to be normal too.

A wistful glaze overtook Joey's eyes as a ding signaling the plane's landing rang out through the cabin. Vancross was an opportunity to start fresh, away from the prying eyes of the media. She could find or reinvent herself again. Everything was about to change; she could feel it. Her mind strayed back to the conversation she had with Winston.

Well, not everything.

Moments later, the plane touched down. Winston appeared by her side the instant it came to a stop. He wasted no time, already spouting out today's agenda. "Josephine, the car will arrive any second now. Your new head of security is running a bit late, so we've arranged for him to meet us at Vancross instead. Fair warning, the gates are already swarming with paparazzi. Your arrival may be the only thing our people talk about for the next week or so."

That caught Joey's attention. "Why's that? Vancross has no shortage of politicians and monarchs. I heard the Prince of Ulmeria attended only a few years ago. How am I any different from the other students?"

Winston narrowed his eyes. "Josephine, it would do you some good to be more aware sometimes. All eyes are on you right now. The Peace Summit will be here in the blink of an eye, and it doesn't take a genius to piece together why your mother wanted to send you to Vancross in the first place. These are your metaphorical baby steps in the world of politics. Not to mention, your actions at Vancross could make or break the reelection campaign. Before this, only one other president has served more than two terms. Your mother is about to be the first woman to do so." He made a show of mulling over something internally. "Also, there are two princes of Ulmeria."

"No pressure at all. You're really killing it in the motivational speech department, Winston." Joey deadpanned, rolling her blazer on. "I don't understand what me attending Vancross has anything to do with my mother, though. It's not like me failing my World History exam is symbolic of my mother's inability to deliver tax cuts."

The sound of a car horn could be heard from outside. Winston shouldered Joey's backpack, stepping aside so she could move into the aisle. "That may be so, but politics are tricky. People see you as a reflection of your mother. Not to mention, I wouldn't be so hasty to dismiss the notion. You could follow your mother's footsteps one day."

Joey started down the aisle, closely followed by Winston. "That'll be the day, Winston. That'll be the day."

As they reached the steps and walked towards the car waiting outside, Joey let her curiosity get the better of her. "Winston." The gray-haired man hummed, reaching the vehicle first and opening the door for her. Once she and Winston settled into the limousine, she continued. "You mentioned my mother meets with an ambassador today. Do you happen to know which country sent him?"

Confusion etched onto Winston's face from her sudden interest in Rutherland's diplomatic affairs. He quickly schooled his expression. "Truth be told, I'm not too sure. She mentioned the border skirmishes, so my best guess would be an Ardonian representative." Winston nodded affirmatively to himself. "Yes, that sounds about right. She would have been here if she could."

The strawberry blonde shrugged, picking at the hem of her navy-blue skirt. Truth be told, she hated wearing skirts or short dresses. She felt exposed enough in public. "Don't get my hopes up, Winston." Although she had meant it as a joke, this earned another decisive nod from the older man.

Eager to change the subject, Winston whipped out a notepad and flipped to his notes without even fumbling for the correct page. "I strongly advise you brush up on your knowledge of foreign affairs. Several other countries are sending their own delegates this year. We have it on good authority that Drivosa, Esherstein, Ithanstan, Naporvie, Pavadena, and Ulmeria are sending representatives. Your head of security should have more information on each of them."

The younger woman's brows furrowed. "That's every country in western Europe minus Ardona—not that there are any complaints there, of course. That would be a public relations disaster."

"The task may appear daunting, but this does work in our favor. You're already aware that this is a purely diplomatic move. Their support is essential in moving forward with the Ardonian Accords. Most of Western European Alliance—such as Esherstein and Ithanstan—seem to support your mother in welcoming Ardona and their allies into WEA, but there are people out there who would stop at nothing to prevent Ardona and the rest of the Eastern Powers from joining the union," he hesitated, unsure whether or not he should continue. "Especially after..."

"The war?" Joey finished.

"No." The advisor spared a hasty glance up at the partition. His voice dropped slightly. "The nature surrounding your father's death."

A flicker of emotion briefly passed over Joey's features before she adopted a blank expression. "I see. Which countries are not in support of the Ardonian Accords?" She trained her eyes forward, trying to focus on the conversation at hand. After all, it had been years. She had a duty to fulfill right now.

If Winston had noticed her behavior, he didn't let on.

"For starters, Ardona is only begrudgingly entertaining the idea. They're not happy about being practically forced into a peace treaty. This shouldn't be a problem, though. The prime minister knows what's best for Ardona. Drivosa is still upset about the humiliating loss they suffered in the Battle of Trinket Hill. You may have heard that Pavadena isn't a fan of the Ardonian Accords either. King Serrano was fond of Bleu." At the sound of her father's name. Joey's right hand clenched into a fist around the fabric of her skirt. "Luckily, Ulmeria seems to be cooperative. Prince Philip is eager to forge ahead."

The conversation died as the car lurched onto campus grounds. Joey took a glance at the flashing lights outside of the window and exhaled slowly, preparing herself. Her right hand slowly relaxed its grip. Next to her, Winston threw his notepad into his briefcase and shoved outside into the eager crowd. This routine was one of secondhand nature to the both of them at this point. Joey fixed her hair and adjusted her clothing in the few seconds she had before the door opened. She blindly grabs the strap of her backpack and turns towards the door in the same moment Winston pulls it open. Agents Demarco and Pierre are already keeping the photographers at bay.

"Josephine!" An obnoxious reporter jammed a microphone into her face. "Mike Williams with Stalker Media. Any comments on the Peace Summit looming over us? What does the Rutherland presidency think of the Ardona-Esherstein border clashes?"

Josephine rolled her eyes. Stalker Media might be one of the trashiest news outlets out there. At least the piece about Esherstein's First Son drunkenly crashing that gala the other night was interesting to read about. She was in attendance that night and had nearly choked on her drink when Alexei Vukoja drunkenly strolled in, a horde of cows trailing behind him. She'd have to ask Alexei where he found them.

Demarco pushed the microphone away and the two guards started paving the way towards the gates for Josephine. Seconds passed, and the voices began to blend as she tried to focus on the different media outlets vying for her attention.

"Josephine, over here! Smile, honey." Josephine gave the reporter forced grin as a flash went off. She turned away.

"Miss Fils-Aime! Did you see Lewis Wright's new campaign video? It's good stuff, he might just give your mother a run for her money." She shrugged innocently.

"Josephine! Josephine! Does your enrollment have anything to do with your mom's worsening approval ratings?" She avoided eye contact with that particular paparazzo.

She could see the gates by now. A few more steps separated her and freedom. Just as relief began to flood her system, another question rang out.

"Josephine, we were interrupted earlier! Do you have a moment to discuss the implications of the Ardonian Accords? Why is your mother trying to push for an alliance with Ardona given your father's assassination?"

At that, she couldn't help but whirl around, jaw clenched. She found herself face to face with the first reporter. Mark, if she recalled correctly. He had a smug smirk on his face, knowing she had taken his bait. "Why is she welcoming your rival, who your people believe is responsible for her husband's death, with open arms?"

Josephine opened her mouth to respond. Before she could make a fool of herself in front of the cameras, Winston gently turned her around and guided her towards the gates. "Really? Nothing to say, even about Ardona sending a representative this year as well?"

Joey frowned. Still walking, she looked to Winston for answers. "You didn't mention an Ardonian delegate," she whispered.

"Our intelligence indicated they wouldn't be sending anyone this year. Hopefully your new head of security will be more on top of things," He murmured in a clipped tone.

As the group crossed the gates, Joey was taken back by the contrast in atmosphere. Outside, it was suffocating. Between the cameras being shoved into your face and excessive badgering by the press, it was difficult to even hear your own thoughts. Inside, there was none of that. The tranquility made her teary-eyed. She thinks she may even hear birds. Winston quietly excused himself from the group as they reached the quad, leaving Demarco and Pierre to escort her to her room. Shortly after, the three of them reached the doorstep of her new living space for the next few years.

As the door swung open, Joey let out a small whistle. The dorm was spacious. The homey furniture made the room vibrant yet intimate. Vancross was treating her nicely. She walked in, nearly bumping into the luggage her team had dropped off a few minutes prior to her arrival. Joey slowly took in the sight of the dorm, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

With a toothy grin on her face, she triumphantly turned towards her guards. "This place makes the State Manor look quaint! Jealous, are you?"

The agents cracked a smile at her teasing. They'd worked for her family long enough to recognize that Joey struggled to enjoy herself, even in private. The First Daughter of Rutherland could afford many luxuries but being able to have fun wasn't one of them. They've learned to appreciate the young woman's refreshing personality on the rare occasion she permitted herself to be authentic and carefree.

Demarco's mouth moved to retort back, but a silvery voice rang out instead. "Almost makes you feel like royalty, huh?"

All heads turned towards the bedrooms. A young brunette stepped out from one of the rooms, planked by a burly man. "Of course, I actually am royalty, but all the dorms are this nice. I'm trying not to take it as an insult. You must be the roommate." She extended a hand. "Princess Dionne Mariana Regina Dorada de Rothschild Serrano of the Kingdom of Pavadena. This walking protein shake ad is my bodyguard Murphy."

Joey took her newfound acquaintance's hand, her easygoing smile softening into something less genuine. "Josephine Fils-Aime of the... country of Rutherland? I'm afraid those are all the names I have. I prefer Joey, though. Not sure that helps my case."

Dionne gave a dismissive wave. "Names are overrated, anyways. Luckily for you, I only go by Princess Dionne. For my new best friend, I'll accept just Dionne."

Dionne plopped down onto the couch, gesturing for Joey to join her. "Since we'll be spending an insufferable amount of time together, I thought we could get to know each other. Any dirty family secrets? Long lost half-siblings? Oh, I know! Did your first pet goldfish die as a direct consequence of your neglect and you have never been able to love anyone since?"

"As if any family secret could be kept out of the public eye for this long. Don't think I have any half-siblings, but you'll be the first to know if I find out otherwise. His name was Hugo and I took great care of him, thank you very much," Joey smiled as she received rolling eyes in response. "My mom thought it would be a great idea for me to enroll in the master's program here. She hopes I'll have some epiphany and realize I've always wanted to follow in her footsteps one day. At least I have some time away from the public. It's been a while since that was the case."

Dionne gave her a quizzical look. "I'd figure. You really sell the whole 'perfect First Daughter' image, you know. My parents always gush about how great you are with handling your image and reputation. I'd go insane if I attended the number of galas, conferences, or state dinners you do."

"I try," Joey shrugged, sudden insecurity clouding her features. She glanced around, noticing her agents' disappearance. She briefly wondered when they had slipped out without her knowing.

Dionne took note of the shift in the First Daughter's tone, rushing to amend her statement. "Not that it's a bad thing! It's admirable you're so supportive of your mom and her presidency. You hold your own against the press well, too."

Judging by the lack of change in Joey's expression, Dionne was unsuccessful. Seeing as Joey didn't seem like she was going to respond, the princess pursed her lips and continued.

"Have you taken a tour around campus?"

The Rutherlandian shook her head.

Her roommate clapped her hands together and jumped up. "It's decided, then. I'll show you around! Let me go get dressed."

"You weren't already...?" Joey trailed off as Dionne jogged to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. "...Dressed?"

Silence filled the dorm as Joey awkwardly sat there, awaiting the return of her eccentric princess roommate. Then she heard shouting outside. From the volume, she figured it was distant. Near the gates. If she was a betting woman, she'd guess another high-profile student just arrived. Curiosity peaked, she walked towards the window. She had to strain her neck a little to find the entrance, but as soon as she did, a brown-haired girl strutted through the gates.

Without turning back, the newcomer raised a middle finger towards the paparazzi as she walked away. Joey's eyebrows rose as her gaze traveled down to her ripped jeans and solid maroon blouse. As if her behavior wasn't scandalous enough, her casual attire was a bold statement in itself. Something in Joey lurched forward, drawn towards the woman with an attitude.

As the woman drew closer, Joey's breath hitched. From afar, it was easy to mistake her for anyone else. Although it had been a while since she had seen Blaine Hayes, there was no mistaking those striking green eyes up close. The last she's seen a picture of her counterpart was when Blaine was in grade school sporting a dorky haircut and neon pink braces. Time had treated her well, and, Joey had to hand it to her, those braces definitely worked. The woman she was openly gaping at now was refined, beautiful even. As Blaine and her security detail made their way towards a different building, Joey's eyes trailed the group across campus in disbelief. She must be seeing things.

"There's no way that's..." She began, mumbling to herself. She trailed off as the waving of a flag caught her eye. A fleeting glance at the top of the black vehicle pulling out of the lot confirmed her suspicions.

There was no universe in which Joey wouldn't recognize that sea green and gold striped Ardonian flag, floating mockingly around in the air.

#fic #choices #choices stories you play #foreign affairs #f!mc #f!blaine #pretty much foreign affairs rewritten #chapter 1 #playchoices

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barbaracleboy · 3 years ago

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The Queens and The Claus

So, I got some advice from Psyche on the BF Server the other day to try and write a short story every day, and I had kind of a silly idea in my head, so I thought I’d take those two bits of info and use them to create something I feel is at least kinda funny. It’s not amazing, I wrote it in under two hours and it’s less than 1000 words (that’ll probably be my template for any future blurbs from here on out), but hopefully you guys find it funny too. Expect some more blurbs in the future (which may not all be as comedic as this ;>)...

Also, at the end there’s a doodle!

In the Termite Palace, Queen Layra II and King Hector IV were having a little tea party with the monarchs of the Ant, Bee, and Wasp Kingdoms. After the Wasp King’s defeat, the connections between the four kingdoms strengthened, and at Bianca’s suggestion they decided that meeting in person could help strengthen personal connections between the rulers as well. Speaking of Bianca, she was currently speaking about some concerns she has with the bugs of modern day… Bianca:...And I truly mean no disrespect to anyone, but it is so strange to me just how worked up some bugs will get over an opinion.

Layra: It is so weird, isn’t it? Bianca: It is, and what is strangest to me is how drastic reactions can be, regardless of what is said! One can merely claim some food is or is not delicious, and some bugs will treat them as if they claimed the sky was white, or that grass was metallic, or that Santa Claus did not exist!

Vanessa: W-what?

Bianca: I just feel that some bugs need to understand how different scenarios call for differing levels of-

Vanessa: No, no, about Santa Claus: did you imply it was weird to say he doesn’t exist?

Elizant: Well, she didn’t imply it so much as simply state it, because it is weird.

Vanessa: But...Santa Claus doesn’t exist…

Suddenly the table gets awkwardly quiet. Bianca and Elizant turn to each other, giving a funny look, before turning back to Vanessa with slight concern.

Elizant: Who told you that?

Vanessa: My...my mother? Shortly before my teenage years?

Bianca: Vanessa, I’ve no doubt that your mother was a good woman, but I am afraid she was incorrect. Santa Claus is real.

Vanessa: Wha-no he isn’t.

Bianca: Well, of course he is! We teach our children of him, are you saying that we are lying to them?

Vanessa: Firstly, lying to your children is integral to being a parent. Secondly, he is a character that was created to entice children to behave!

Elizant: Vanessa, if Santa Claus does not exist then who delivers my presents to me every Christmas morning? Vanessa: I-I don’t know! I was under the impression that waking up to Christmas presents was just something children do, and that their parents bring them the presents; did your mothers not tell you this???

Bianca: My mother was usually too busy drinking or generally being upset to talk to me.

Elizant: My mother was usually too busy thinking about The Sapling to talk to me.

Vanessa: Wow...I cannot believe I somehow had a better mother than you both.

Elizant: (In Tears) DON’T TALK BAD ABOUT MY MOMMY!!!!!

Bianca: Vanessa, this is not about our mothers’ questionable methods of raising us, it is about Santa Claus, whose existence is explained with logically sound evidence.

Vanessa: What evidence!?

Bianca: Well, the obvious one is the fact that we get the presents from him-

Elizant: Based on what Vanessa’s saying, I doubt she gets or deserves any presents…

Bianca:-But there is also the fact that Santa Claus has very powerful magic, so what he is capable of is far beyond what we can comprehend anyhow.

Layra: Preach, sister.

Vanessa: Huh?

Layra: I mean, come on, Vanessa: do you really think it makes more sense for parents to bring gifts to kids than Santa?

Vanessa: HUH???

Layra: Like, are you really saying that parents, who may be lazy or biased against certain kids of theirs or financially/physically handicapped, make more sense as gift givers than a magical, all-knowing, neutral party?

Vanessa: Wh-wh-why are you talking about him like he’s a concept that makes sense!? You just said “magical” and “all-knowing” like they’re normal traits!

Layra: They aren’t normal, that’s why he’s Santa Claus, and we all know of a magical bug already!

Elizant: Leif is pretty odd.

Bianca: Indeed, and The Awakening brought about some interesting changes in us bugs: who is to say none with powers like Santa’s could exist?

Layra: Exactly! There is far, far too much evidence in favor of Santa’s existence for me to deny.

Hector, who has been sitting silent for most of the party, was slowly burying his head into his hands as his wife argued with Vanessa.

Hector: Ughhhhh, please, Layra, not again…

Layra: No, Hector! I’ve finally found two more women that believe in my belief, I will not be suppressed any longer!

Vanessa: I cannot comprehend being in the presence of three adults, three mothers, three RULERS that believe in Santa Claus!!!

Elizant: What, do you view us as children now?

Vanessa: Look, I respect all of you, that is why I find this situation so baffling to begin with.

Hector: I’m kinda with Vanessa, you three are acting like huge womanchildren over this.

Elizant: Why are you even here, Hector!?

Vanessa: Yeah, no offense, but why are you here? I thought this tea party was just for the Queens.

Layra: I invited him because I was hoping he could back me up if I got into an argument, but CLEARLY that was a mistake!!!

Hector: Layra, you’re not saying you hate me over this, are you? Layra: I’m saying you’re gonna sleep on the couch tonight.

Hector: WHAT!? OVER SANTA CLAUS!?

Elizant: Santa Claus is a hero whose legacy you and Vanessa are flagrantly disrespecting.

Vanessa and Hector: SANTA CLAUS ISN’T FUCKING REAL!!!

Bianca: Everyone, we are getting too worked up over this. Let us all just take a breath, agree to disagree, and change the subject.

Everyone else: Whatever.

So they all just sit, trying to brainstorm a new topic to discuss. It takes a few minutes, but Bianca finally comes up with one and thus speaks up.

Bianca: I just learned the most interesting thing from one of my children the other day: I learned how to have infinite chocolate!

Vanessa: Infinite?

Hector: Sounds neat.

Bianca: Someone please bring me a chocolate bar, allow me to demonstrate...

#bug fables #writing #bf spoilers #queen bianca #queen elizant II #queen vanessa II #queen layra II #king hector IV #blurb

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tanoraqui · 4 years ago

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[previous]

so right here is probably where you get your obligatory “Wild Hunt follows our hero back to the human realm, forcing them to go on a high-stakes, high-speed chase with their romantic interest as their (fantasy, no cars involved) driver.” Tylweth Tyg Lan Wangji, flying yarrow stalk, clinging tightly together, natch.

their goal is the Duchy of Butchers’ Hill. They probably crash-land in a courtyard

quick history of Butchers’ Hill: a merlin so lowly she had a job in the human world as a butcher, before she saved a monarch’s live and so earned the use of a Hope Chest, and through further service, a duchy. In the face of lingering scorn, she named her new demesne after her mortal career, because fuck you

the current duke, Nie Mingjue, is Tuatha de Danaan through and through, child of happily divorced parents - well, one’s dead, now - because it was an amiable political marriage and his mother had a barony to inherit on a different continent

however his brother and heir, Nie Huaisang, had. Daoine Sidhe mother (everyone knows, though she more or less wandered in one day and left a few years later when she’d stopped her dancing). He has fine Tuatha features, but his hair is the dark dark red of a cursed rose, his eyes are yellow rather than copper, his magic is scented of roses as well as Nie stone. He’s never been able to open a portal. His mother was sickly, they say, and something went wrong in the childbirth; she recovered, but not for long

their goal today is not the duke but in fact his younger brother. “Wei-xiong!” Nie Huaisang says cheerfully, with the air of someone who’s about to get some ~gossip~. “And Lan-er-gongzi! It’s good to see you! You look like you need a drink.”

Lan Wangji accepts tea, Wei Wuxian accepts wine, and takes a deep sniff - not of the wine. He cuts through the burgeoning small talk. “Nie-xiong, your mother wasn’t a Daoine Sidhe.”

(if I was writing this properly, I would’ve foreshadowed this with more recent historical context, with descriptions of everyone’s magical scents at that first confrontation in Glamour Hall. Suffice to say: his magic smells like his grandmother’s)

“...No,” Nie Huaisang says, after a particularly long sip of wine. “She wasn’t.” He leans forward, because if they’re doing real gossip, then they’re doing real gossip. “Neither was yours, right?”

“Ah, busted,” says Wei Wuxian. “So, can you open a Rose Road?

Hold up, you might ask at this juncture. How does he know about that? Did Captain Pete tell him? For that matter, he knew his exact relation to her - Toby didn’t know this stuff, circa her own fight with Blind Michael! What gives?

Well, here’s the story...

Wei Wuxian is already feeling pretty shit, wandering the streets of Yiling with magic overuse ache like he’s been run over by a tractor, which needless to say is the only reason Wen Chao gets the jump on him

the Burial Mounds is an abandoned iron mine. I think Wen Chao shoots him, first, too, with, like, a gattling gun full of shards of iron (please don’t ask about the technology level of this setting). Anyway, it’s an obvious death sentence. A cruel, slow death sentence, iron poisoning with a fun side dose of, like, broken limbs from being dropped down a mineshaft. Wen Chao laughs and leaves; Wei Wuxian lies here in agony and waits to die

Except...he doesn’t

and then he continues to not

or maybe he does, or comes as close as makes no difference, and wakes up again anyway?

the first time that happens, the Night Haunts arrive. expectantly. There’s only room for a couple of them, and they won’t stay long because of all the iron, but they do their duty; they come for the body

But the body is still living

hallucinating, a little

definitely he assumes the night haunts are a hallucination, at first

he starts talking to them, and eventually, they talk back (maybe one who wears the face of one of the Lotus Lakes squires).

it’s not in the night haunts’ nature to aid the dying but it is acceptable to wait with them, and trade stories with them, or perhaps simply give them, as a parting mercy...

but it’s not parting. For three months, the Night Haunts take shifts perching on the few iron-free spots in this hole in the ground and waiting for Wei Wuxian to die, and letting. him coax them into telling stories with memories as old as Faerie. He needs something to focus on other than the pain - and thirst and hunger, when he remember them. He does his best to pick shards of iron out of his skin, passes out and would die save for the power in his blood, and wakes up and picks out more iron. “Liar’s child”, they call him, and enjoy talking to someone living once more.

Eventually, he gains enough strength to start crawling, climbing, falling, pushing himself up and crawling again towards the exit.* Eventually, he breaks into the open air again, rolls over on clean grass and turns his head sideways to spit a last (for now) mouthful of blood.

He keeps some of the iron scraps. He forges them into points for his new trident, the Wens having confiscated his old one. He introduces Wen Chao to it a couple months later.

[fastforward out of the flashback!noises]

“I caaan,” Nie Huaisang says reluctantly, tapping his fingers on his wine glass. “But it’s really hard and I’m not very good at directing them, and you just want to use it to help a Wen.”

(here’s more history of Butchers’ Hill: not long after his second wife passed away, the old duke was elfshot. The poison in it was slow-acting; only after several decades did he start to fail. This turned out to be a mistake on King Wen Ruohan’s part, because it meant Nie Mingjue had had time to grow in his own power and military experience. the Sunshot Campaign began not long thereafter)

(there were arguments for Nie Mingjue to take the crown of Golden Sun, after, but it was Jin Guangshan’s changeling who killed Wen Ruohan, and the Daoine Sidhe are ever hungrier than the Tuatha de Danaan)

“I’ll owe you one,” Wei Wuxian promises. “If you want, I can even shift your blood to one side or the other - I can’t imagine it’s comfortable, being half-plant, half-mammal.”

(it’s an honest offer, not a threat. But also: Wen Zhuliu died in agony, at the hands of the Yiling Patriarch. Rebalancing the blood hurts more than anything in the world, except maybe 3 months of death by iron poisoning.)

“I don’t think so,” Nie Huaisang says consideringly. “I mean, yes, it’s terrible sometimes but...could I claim the favor for someone else, if they agree to it?”

“If you can get me on a road to Blind Michael’s realm and back, sure. You don’t need to worry about aiming me.” He flips a compass out of his pocket,

once again: do I need o dwell on Blind Michael’s dark realm, night without the hope of moon or stars? There’s running, there’s chasing, there’s fighting...rather more fighting than Toby, actually. As established: the Yiling Patriarch isn’t popularly called a Hero (yet), but he is known for his bloody battlefields.

There’s negotiating. Blind Michael is predictably cruel; Wen Ning is sitting at the foot of his throne like a dog, though he hasn’t grown much more than fur and sharp teeth. So far. Wei Wuxian bargains one soul for another and presses rose-wrapped candle and compass into his friend’s already-less-paw-like hands, whispers, “Think of your sister and follow it. Tell her we’re even. Don’t look back, accept any help you’re offered but not ask for it, and you have...” He checks his watch. “About 2 hours.”

He watches Wen Ning go - for a moment. Until Blind Michael calls, “Take him,” and someone hits him very hard on the back of the head, and the empty sky swallows him up.

TBC

#mdzs #the untamed #october daye #my fic

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precuredaily · 4 years ago

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Precure Day 202

Episode: Yes! Precure 5 Go Go! 04 - ��Deliver Urara’s Script!” Date watched: 19 December 2020 Original air date: 24 February 2008 Screenshots Transformation Gallery Project info and master list of posts

Sometimes you get an episode that shouldn’t work, but it just does because of the sincerity of the delivery. You may correctly assume this is that episode. It’s a mundane episode about returning a lost item, but the emotions on display are heartfelt and passionate. Let’s dig in.

The Plot

Syrup arrives at Natts House to deliver more letters from Milk and is startled by Urara tearfully proclaiming she has to leave. It turns out she’s practicing for an important audition and the other girls, especially Komachi, are giving her feedback. Syrup is still a bit confused since he’s not familiar with the concepts of acting or performance, but he watches anyway. After the intro, we go over to Eternal for a few minutes, where Anacondy praises Bunbee’s report writing after the last episode and tasks him with gathering more information, passing him a huge stack of papers. He wanders down the hallway and runs into Scorp, asking him for help in a gag that involves him calling him a different name every single time: Scorn, Stamp, Slipper, Skunk, and even Slump. Scorp is not amused and leaves to retrieve the Rose Pact. Back at Natts House, Coco and Nuts detect the presence of a Palmin, and they go outside with everyone to try to find it, while Urara prepares to leave for the audition. A glance at her script reveals it is absolutely filled with notes, and she gives it a hug. However, she looks up and sees the Palmin, so she sets the script down and tries to snapshot the Palmin when her manager Washio interrupts her.

She hastily grabs her bag and rushes him out the door, accidentally leaving her script on the table. They arrive at the site of the audition, where a dozen other girls are already practicing, making Urara neverous. This is when she realizes she forgot her script, and at the same time, Nozomi and the other girls discover her script. Without hesitation they agree they need to deliver it to her, and they ask Syrup to do so, but he says he only delivers stuff for work. SIDE NOTE: as far as we know, he isn’t paid, so them asking him to deliver something is as much a job as delivering letters to and from the Palmier Kingdom. But whatever. Since Syrup won’t deliver it, the girls drag him along with them as they travel by foot to the audition. They take a “shortcut” that involves them climbing a hill with a ton of switchbacks, and Syrup really doesn’t like that. (BITCH, YOU CAN FLY) Nozomi and the girls explain that Urara will be worried without her script, and that her feelings are very important to them. They press on, despite Syrup’s complaints. They finally make it to the top exhausted, when suddenly Scorp shows up to rain on their parade. They protest that they’re on an important mission but he counters that obtaining the Rose Pact is equally important to him and he’s not moving, so the girls implore Syrup to take the script while they fight Eternal, and be begrudgingly agrees.

He dodges past Scorp and runs off while Nozomi, Rin, Komachi, and Karen transform and fight Scorp’s Hoshiina, which he has made out of the cobbled road itself. They throw it around but it manages to sneak in some hits on them and they lay on the ground, weakened, engaging in a battle of words with Scorp about the importance of Urara’s dream. Syrup reaches Urara and gives her the script, only for her to explain that she already has it memorized, but having everyone’s notes in it lets her feel like they’re right there with her. She picks up that something is amiss and demands that Syrup explain what’s happening to her friends, and he spills the beans but tells her to focus on the audition. It’s her turn to go up, so she enters the audition room and faces the panel of judges, and then.... she says she’s worried about her friends, tears up, apologizes, and runs out of the room.

Syrup delivers her to the battlefield, where the Hoshiina is just about to deliver the final blow. She tells Scorp she won’t let him hurt anyone anymore, then transforms, and the full team of five leaps into battle together, in a wonderfully animated sequence as they lay into Scorp and declare again that their strength comes from their bonds. Lemonade unleashes her new special attack, Prism Chain, where she creates two chains made of butterflies and swings them from behind her to directly in front of her in a pincer move, causing the chains to wrap around the enemy and dissolve them. Scorp dodges the attack but it manages to destroy the Hoshiina.

now watch me whip

Later, back at Natts House, Nozomi laments that Urara had to leave, though she assures her it wasn’t her fault. Washio shows up, telling Urara he heard about the audition, and he understands, he’s not mad, there will be plenty more opportunities for her. As he says that, his phone starts ringing and he takes the call. Syrup is still confused that she only needed the script for encouragement rather than the contents, so Coco and Nuts explain that the girls’ feelings are very important and powerful, they’ve left an influence on each other as well as the fairies of Palmier Kingdom, and they show him pictures that Milk has sent of life in Palmier to demonstrate. Just then, Nozomi notices a Palmin, and Urara captures it to make up for missing it earlier. Everyone gathers around to see what it turns out to be and..... it turns into the King of the Donuts Kingdom, one of the four monarchs!

The Analysis

As I said in the cold open, this episode doesn’t seem like it should work. It’s another cheesy filler plot with no stakes, not really any room for character growth, no impact on the plot (until the end). However, the writer for this episode has a knack for turning mundane premises into strong scripts, and a good director and animation director were tasked with bringing it to life, so it all comes together to be a strong episode.

Although it’s not as much about him as the previous one, this episode is framed mostly from Syrup’s perspective. This means we come into Natts House at the same time as him, in the middle of Urara practicing, and we see his confusion. This is actually clever, because while most of the audience already knows that Urara is an actress from watching the previous series, there’s always new fans who may not have seen the last season, so explaining Urara’s profession from the perspective of another outsider is an unobtrusive way to acquaint, or reacquaint, viewers with her. Furthermore, we stay with Syrup throughout, even when the focus shifts to other characters it’s still largely seen through him. He objects to delivering the script but they drag him along anyway up the cliff. When Urara asks him what happened to her friends, the cut to their fight is also framed such that it could be his vision of what’s happening, while simultaneously being what’s literally happening. And then, once again, the episode ends with Syrup ruminating on Urara’s acting process and the symbolic importance of her friends, as represented by her script. He’s starting to learn what makes the girls special and why their friendship is powerful. It’s a multifaceted framing device.

The real star of this show is Urara. She’s really pouring her heart into this part, but it’s the unquestioning support of her friends that keeps her motivated. This is most directly manifested by her script, but of course her concern for their well-being is incredibly powerful. She is absolutely terrified that Nozomi and co are going to be defeated by Eternal and that supersedes everything else. There’s obviously a tinge of irony that delivering her script to help her out is the catalyst to her leaving the audition. If they hadn’t, or if only Syrup had gone, then they wouldn’t have run into Scorp and Urara probably would have gotten the part. However, all four girls decide without a moment’s hesitation that they have to deliver Urara’s script and so they encounter Scorp, and this leads to her saving them at the last minute. This, as I say sometimes, is peak Precure. Her little speech to the panel of judges where she says she has to leave to save her friends is so emotional. Ise Mariya puts forth a strong performance but it’s the animation that really sells this sequence. She’s teary-eyed, and then the run down the hallway is well-drawn, and it culminates when she steps outside the building. There’s a gorgeous 360 degree turnaround as she scans the horizon for signs of her friends. This sort of shot is hard to do in 2D animation.

vimeo

Also the music swell helps to sell the intensity. Urara’s desperation is tangible. She wants nothing more than to rescue her friends in this moment, and nothing can stand in her way. When she arrives at the battle, her friends are on the verge of defeat, but as soon as she joins the fight the battle turns around. It’s a fast-paced fight with the girls swooping in, beating up Scorp, and then unleashing the finisher. It’s another well-animated sequence and the contrast between how the team of 4 and the team of 5 fights is night and day.

vimeo

Once again you’ve got the continuous spinning camera that helps sell the scene. The distortion of the characters, especially Scorp, actually works in favor of the speed and excitement of the scene. This is what Urara brings, this is what they can do when they’re all assembled. That’s what I mean when I say this episode is better than it ought to be on paper. It’s a threadbare plot but the emotions and the artwork come together beautifully.

The major theme of the episode is support. Nozomi, Rin, Komachi, and Karen support Urara’s goal whole-heartedly. They help her rehearse, giving her tips and people to play off of. They run to her aid when she needs it without a second thought. Even fighting Scorp is a way of showing their support, they’re keeping him from attacking Urara during her important audition while sending Syrup to give her the script. And at the end, Washio is also being very supportive, and I appreciate that. He doesn’t act sad or disappointed or upset at her for bailing on her big audition, he understands that she had her reasons and just says there will be another chance. The support network of friends who have each other’s backs, who care about each other, who are stronger together, that’s what makes this larger team dynamic work well and stand apart from the duo series. There’s obviously something powerful about the two girls who can only transform together, and I love the Futari wa shows for it, but the larger team of heroines who can operate independently if necessary but are exponentially stronger together is also wonderful, and this episode really exemplifies that.

Also a quick note, I wanted to briefly discuss the geography of this town. In the middle of the episode, there’s a gag where the girls are climbing a huge cliffside because it’s the shortest way to their destination.

If you recall, all the sweeping shots of this pseudo-French town have shown it to be fairly flat. For there to be a cliff face somewhere in the middle of it with a bunch of switchbacks is incredibly unusual, and I don’t think this setting has been seen before or since. It’s just there for the gag of them running up this huge thing.

All told, this was a phenomenal episode and I’m glad for it. After a disappointing first couple of episodes, this one really hit the mark.

Next time, on Precure Daily, Karen is taking suggestions for the school! Look forward to it!

Pink Precure Catchphrase Count: 0 kettei!

#Precure #Pretty Cure #Yes! Precure 5 Go Go!#YPC5GG04 #PCD202

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buirbaby · 4 years ago

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The Wardens: The Far East

Rating: M + Mature content, language, and violence

Masterlist | First | Next

"We need to do something about your accent and name," Benjen remarked amidst the preparations. His comrade didn't say much as to where she was from and he hadn't pushed the envelope. They were anomalies, people who shouldn't exist, and whatever past life Tabitha had experienced, she was wary of sharing it. He wondered if she had been a mercenary or a thief, maybe a harlot? No, none of those quite fit. Her mannerisms, while gruff, bespoke the regiment of a soldier--more finely tuned than the majority of his own men and subordinates on the Wall. She had been a soldier, he did not doubt this, and she had the skill in hand to hand combat to prove it, utilizing a grappling technique he'd never seen before. Foreign was the only thing he thought when put the pieces of Flores together.

"What, there's no one in Essos who sounds like me?" Tabitha groused, rolling her attire in a compact and methodical manner--yet another militaristic trait. She placed the garments into her saddle bags and gave him a wry, but tempered look.

"Perhaps," Benjen relinquished, he was not exceptionally well traveled. The idea of going to Pentos made him nervous. A queer, brilliantly colored tropical paradise. The polar opposite of the home he'd grown up in. Tabitha's features would be much less noticeable than his own, but her accent and name would draw questions once they managed to gain an audience with the Targaryens. "But do you have any idea of where that would be?"

Tabitha sucked her teeth. "Fine. What do you think would fit? I don't look like a northerner," she pointed out.

"You could be Dornish or Rhoynish," Benjen proposed. "What languages do you speak?"

"Probably none that are useful. The True Tongue--what Fang speaks, a little High Valyrian, and un idioma que nunca has escuchado , " (a language you have never heard) she spoke in the last eloquently, the slipping of the language foreign and lofty, but he'd heard it from sailors.

"You speak Rhoynish," he realized.

Tabitha blinked. "Wha-Oh, well... I suppose then it's been decided for me. I could be a Dornish bastard, my mother is from Rhoynar. Which means I'll need a new name, Tabitha isn't exactly common," she paused her work to contemplate a name, but drew a blank. "Tabris? Taliya?"

"It's the name you're going to have to go by," Benjen chuckled.

"Oh, you're laughing now as if you're going to go by Benjen Stark," Tabitha snorted, reminding him that the Targaryens most definitely would not look favorably upon his name. "Fortunately for you, you've got fire eyes now, but you still look a bit too Stark."

Scowling, he inquired, "What do you mean?"

"Grow your beard out and cut your hair shorter. You can't go by Benjen Stark. Daenerys is young and impressionable, we can win her over. Viserys on the other hand is a malicious brat who will spew poison into her ears. We cannot reveal your true name until we're established and Viserys is gone."

"Hm, I was assuming we were going to ride in on our griffins and give the girl wedding presents. That isn't the plan?" Benjen quipped, eliciting a frown from the woman.

"Never reveal your full hand," Tabitha sniffed. "We are going to be stopping in Braavos first. Hopefully, I can pick up the language a bit more before we get to Pentos. It's a bastardized version of High Valyrian, but it'll be useful either way. Dothraki more so if I could..." Pausing she narrowed her eyes at him again. "Stop evading the subject, Stark. You need to pick a name too. How well do you know Jorah Mormont?"

Sucking in air between his teeth, he obliged. "I know him enough. Saw him in Winterfell a few times when I was young, but not much since I joined the Watch. I know he was exiled for slave trade. He probably will not recognize me-"

"Unless you make it obvious," Tabitha interjected, jerking a finger in his direction. "I know how you Starks are and you better not glare openly at this man. As much as you distrust him, you can't be obvious about it."

Benjen suppressed a sigh, but knew that she was right. Jorah Mormont could get them killed if he discovered who he was. The flaming irises--more gold than orange--would make him unlike a Stark, but all it took was some well placed knowledge and a snarky jab to begin unraveling the aliases they were building. Tact had never been necessary in his line of work. He dealt in truths, honor, and by the posting he had. Now, he had none of that and if Tabitha was going by a bastard name, it was wise that he did as well. He might've been the better warrior, but Tabitha knew more about politics-a cursed game he'd never wanted to play.

"I'll think of a name," he grimaced, continuing to store his supplies. "What is your plan for gaining an audience with Magister Illyrio?"

"I'll send ravens in Braavos," Tabitha told him. "We'll spend a fortnight there so I can establish my contact in King's Landing. There's a good friend of Magister Illyrio who'd like more eyes and I think I have the right information to convince him to place a bet on us. The relics we're taking with us will sell for a high amount of coin, we'll be able to afford the necessary supplies and a gift for Daenerys after we depart for Pentos."

Thank the Old Gods that she had a plan, because his only one really had been arriving on griffin back and Torrhen wasn't large enough yet. "Who is this contact?"

Tabitha paused, lips curling in that same, wicked manner that sent a chill down his spine. The female looked exceptionally roguish and dangerous, the fire in her eyes dancing brightly. "Varys."

The Spider: a name he'd wished had not fallen from her lips or that he'd not asked at all. He had to trust Tabitha to be clever enough to fool the eunuch, but the rumors surrounding the man were abysmal. He was the keeper of secrets for a reason and the fact that the Spider had interest in the Targaryens to begin with spelled ill for the Starks. He was walking into a dragon's den without as much of a piece or armor or weapon to defend himself. Everything in his body rejected this idea, wishing for nothing more but to return to the simplicity of being First Ranger. But he could not. This second life came with a price and he had to play the game of thrones in order to save his family.

"Don't look so pale," Tabitha scolded, diverting her attention to the bags she'd finished packing. "I'll do my best to find a way to save your family. We have to start by changing Daenerys' perception on them... but your brother is a kinder man than King Robert. He is the one who speaks against assassinating her."

Those words were meant to be comforting, but Benjen was still anxious.

"I wish the king never asked Ned to go south," he muttered.

"Me too, but what we can do is earn a friend. Petyr Baelish is behind the fall of House Stark and his most staunch enemy is Varys."

"Why is that?"

"Baelish wants power. Varys wants what is best for the kingdom, regardless of who rules, as long as the common folk are treated justly. Anything we can feed Varys will help make him more powerful before Baelish's plans come to fruition will help the Starks. Varys likes the Starks," Tabitha explained, but sighed deeply afterward. "Unfortunately, your elder brother is naive and surrounded by enemies. He's also distrustful of Varys and more inclined toward Baelish, which is his first mistake. I'll make certain that mistake isn't repeated."

"How? We can't speak or write about the future."

"No, but I can write cryptically enough that all Varys will have to do is unwravel the riddles. He's clever."

"If Robert sits the throne now, why would he be looking toward the next monarch?"

"Because Robert is fat and a drunk. His health is failing. Joffrey and the Lannisters will inherit, which will begin the demise of Westeros. Having other options available is precedent, especially given the Crown's surmounting debt, circling lions, and the thin line they're riding with the favor of the commonfolk. That can all turn on a dime and Joffrey does not make a good king," Tabitha explained.

"Given what I saw at Winterfell, I'm not surprised."

"You have no idea what a tyrant he'll become. He's sick in the head," she tapped her brow. "Hopefully, we can avoid some of his wrath, but I doubt we'll be able to stop King Robert from dying."

"If we can save Ned and the girls-"

"I'll try," Tabitha insisted firmly. "But this all starts in Braavos. We need to do our part beside Daenerys to gain her favor."

Trying was all he could ask, considering he knew the true fate that awaited them all. For all that they knew, their own fate was not written in any visions or words that they'd witnessed. He did not fear for his own life, but for those he knew were going to be cut short if he failed. But to save some, wouldn't that come at the cost of others?

Benjen had never been to Braavos, but he had heard of the legendary Free City. Balerion had coasted far above the famed Titan of Braavos, bringing them out to a rural location miles outside the city to land unnoticed. The pair of griffins would remain out in the countryside until summoned. The larger seemed thankful not to be saddled with two adults, allowing for their supplies to be retrieved before he huffed and took off into the sky with a much lighter burden. No where he'd been had ever been as sprawling as Braavos. So choked full of buildings that trees were nonexistent, unless purposely planted in the more prestigious areas of the grey city. A plethora of languages were spoken between the canals, many of which he could not identify. Tabitha, now Taliya Sand, a traveling sellsword and linguist, picked out between the Braavosi and found a Rhonyish sailor to garner directions from.

The weather was not too hot, which he savored now, fully aware in Pentos it'd grow warmer and the Dothraki Sea would be unbearable. Wary eyes traced the streets, noticing the flamboyant colors that many bravos wore, proclaiming their profession lest any other swordsman wish to challenge them. Otherwise, most other locals dressed in muted tones of grey, purple, and dark blues. Songs floated like gondolas through the canals. Art and courtesanship prized greatly within every part of the city that they roamed. To him, it was florid, but not unbearably so. He'd trust a Braavosi before any southerner.

Within the Purple Harbor, the stretching market boasted magnificent goods ranging from Lyseni lace, desert gemstones, to Arbor Wine. There were few foreigners selling goods in this area, as only Braavosi ships were able to dock in this part of the harbor. However, Taliya made due, haggling over the rare treasures that had been preserved in the Roost. Shadowskins, golden chalices encrusted with garnets, antique daggers, fine armor that hadn't suited either of them. It had all been dead weight, things they could not carry forever, and the armor seemed to garner the most attention aside from the shadowskins. Benjen had no idea what they were saying, but the merchant before them was raving, tracing the finely hewn details and glancing up, trying to contain his delight as not to overpay for the work of art.

No sooner were their pockets heavy with Braavosi coin, did Taliya insist that they turn in for the night before darkness fell and they became open invitations for duels as they had swords buckled to their belts. They had passed a few fine establishments, but she took him aback by leaving the Purple Harbor and approaching the religious sector of the city. A large bridge led to another island, a temple of red stone looming before them. Upon the great square tower was an iron brazier as wide as the roof, containing a great fire.

To him, it was still difficult to acknowledge that his 'gods' had not saved him and that he was now in the service of the Lord of Light. A god he was not very familiar with and probably would have never cared for if not for the new life breathed within him. Part of him wished he'd died, resigning the simplicity and lack of responsibility as peace, but knew he'd not be able to save his kin had he not been given this chance.

The temple was grand, embellished with scones, braziers, and fire to emphasize the importance within the religion. It was not as decadent as any of the Septs, but was purposeful in its design. Red was an overarching theme, the priests and priestesses milling around dressed in crimson robes. Burning hearts were depicted on banners hanging from the walls, the sigil of the red god. A female paused, drinking them in, before a crisp smile broke across the plane of her features.

"Greetings," she knew they were not local, as evident by their faces.

"We seek lodgings while we are staying within the city," Taliya started, reaching toward the gloves that obscured her hands.

Benjen expected that the priestess might chuckle and direct them toward an inn. What temple would host strangers? Yet, the priestess paused, glancing between them, before watching as Taliya removed her glove and turned her palm over to reveal the Mark of the Warden. A burn emblazoned upon her left hand, just as Benjen had on his.

The priestess did not falter, but her smile broadened. "Yes, there are quarters we can afford to spare for such esteemed guests. The Lord of Light shines upon both of your faces, Wardens."

He was shocked, but why? The Lord of Light had brought them back as champions for his cause, why wouldn't those who served him know of the secret order? Returning her glove, Taliya gave a stout nod and followed closely behind the priestess.

"I must admit, I am surprised to see holy warriors. My name is Oresha and I am in your service for as long as you intend on staying," the priestess introduced, folding her hands into her sleeves as she led them through the halls and deeper into the enormous building as more braziers were lit for the evening fires.

"Then you will know that we cannot speak of our holy mission," Taliya rebuffed, not unkindly.

"As is the way," Oresha acknowledged, unbothered by this proclamation. "We know our duty to the swords of the Lord."

The main chamber led deeper into a monastery where the priests and priestesses dwelled, including those that were still in training. Night was an active period of time for the Red Temple, as prayers would be said as the shadows snuck in, whispering of the terrors that hid within them. Oresha turned a hall and entered an area with many doors, a few crimson garbed figures going in and out of rooms as they passed by. At the end of the hallway, Oresha unlocked a door, revealing a simple room with a set of dual beds. There was nothing ornate or remarkable about it. A fireplace, a brazier, a chest at the foot of each bed, and desks. It appeared to be intended for those living in the monastery and a roommate, but sufficed perfectly for the pair.

"Is there anything I can have sent to you while you settle in?" Oresha inquired.

"Books on Dothraki and High Valyrian," Taliya asserted immediately, putting her things down on the desk. "Parchment, ink... Do you have a rookery here?"

"Yes, of course."

"Very well, I'll require any ravens that fly to King's Landing and trusted contacts in the city that can deliver the letters."

"I shall send the requested materials with a meal to this room," Oresha complied. "I shall always need to send word to Volantis and the High Priest."

Taliya pursed her lips, but gave a nod. "Very well, as long as we are not made outside the walls of the temple."

"We are aware that the Wardens must work under discreet circumstances. You are the secret flames that weave the Lord's will, not heralds," Oresha retorted.

"Thank you, that will be all," Taliya closed the conversation and Oresha took her dismissal.

"How did you know that they'd take us in?" Benjen inquired after the door had shut and a few moments had passed from Oresha's departure.

"Fang," Taliya informed him. "He hinted that the Red Temples would be our greatest resource. Seems he was right. We can trust them. They're fanatics, incredibly devoted to the prophecy of Azor Ahai. With the amount of coin we were carrying too, even the nicest establishment in Braavos would have posed risk. We already drew a few eyes today."

"We could utilize the Iron Bank," Benjen suggested.

"Trust me, considering how much things were in the market, it'll be easy to spend a good portion on a wedding gift," Taliya snorted.

"And you're going to learn Dothraki and High Valyrian in a fortnight?" Benjen inquired, finally setting his belongings down, mildly amused by the woman's ambition.

"I'm going to learn as much as I can, unless you'd like to take that burden, Ben," she emphasized his name, shaking her head at his choice. "How many languages do you know?"

He'd chosen Ben River. It was a common first name and with his shorter hair, beard growing in, and golden eyes--he doubted even Jorah Mormont would connect the dots given the years since either had seen one another. He'd been little more than a boy playing at being a man when he'd seen Mormont. "Hm, you're rather clever with languages. I wouldn't wish to encroach upon your expertise."

"Oh no, you're going to learn," Taliya insisted haughtily. "Maybe not Rhoynish, but you're a stick in the mud if you don't at least understand the dialect of Valyrian most of Essos uses and Dothraki."

He chuckled at her decisiveness, but knew she was right. He didn't understand anyone and that made him anxious. Relying only on common was a severe disability, especially if they had to be clever. Better that people thought him a stupid Westerosi bastard and it turned out he spoke enough of the other languages to follow along. "Enlighten me, wise maester."

Taliya rolled her eyes, jerked out the chair to the desk, and sat down. Just as he was her mentor in swordsplay, she had subjects to school him on. Despite her typical lack of decorum (with him, at least), she was rather perceptive and cunning. Perhaps her harsh, serpentine personality hinted at this, but he originally thought the woman lacked poise. Obviously, he'd been wrong. She only lacked it when there was no need for a facade and between him, a fellow warden, she did not guard herself. He was thankful for that, uncertain how he would have handled his Wardenship is not for a companion who was polar in nature to him. The Lord of Light had intentionally paired them, each stronger in different fields, and somehow aware that they wouldn't be at one another's throats. Perhaps the fact that Taliya was a woman had a hand in his relaxed nature around her or her courage when facing down the Other.

Despite how much the woman could bark, she was true, a trait rarely witnessed in this world. People were fickle, oathbreakers, and more willing to protect their own hide than to buckle down and remain steadfast to a cause.

While a learned man, languages were complex. Over the simple dinner they had been provided, his mind spun as she tried to impress Dothraki on him first as she learned herself. Her own ramblings, she seemed to make sense of it, but he was stuck on the harsh annunciations. Valyrian, he'd heard a few words of before, and found that it was a bit easier to follow. Still, it would be a long time before he was fluent in either. He turned in relatively early, aching from their journey, while Taliya bowed over the desk and began writing letters.

Come morning, he was astonished to find her asleep at the desk, face pressed to the parchment and candle nothing but a stump of wax with no light. Throwing his leg over his bed, he crept up to see that she'd written numerous drafts and that her handwriting was quite atrocious. However, as he pulled out a sheet, his eyes coasted over the content that flowed like rivers of prose. Ambiguous and had nothing at all to do with their plight. How would Varys be able to understand them?

"Not the hibiscus-" Taliya muttered, jolting up, a piece of parchment sticking to her face as she moved. "Oh. Is it morning already?"

"You spent all night writing this?" Ben waved the work, unimpressed.

"Takes a while to create a code and cipher," Taliya groaned, rubbing her neck, peeling off the parchment from her face to reveal a mess of equations and a more deliberately spaced version of the letter he now held. "Look, this is the key which will be sent a few days after the first letter-" she turned the page over and showed him an alphanumeric mess, launching into an explanation on how certain letters within different words corresponded to others and could be utilized to spell out entirely different sentences. The process by which she broke it down was complex, but without the cipher, the letter would just appear to be a gilded exchange about traveling through Essos from a friend.

"And you think he'll be able to crack this without a full explanation from you?" Ben inquired thoughtfully, enthralled with her diligence to get this done immediately. He hadn't considered the letter being intercepted or read by another, but perhaps that was his own naivity of King's Landing and the inner workings of politics. Until they secured a better mode of communication with Varys, it was best to adhere to a code to draw no attention from anyone who might spy the letter before the master of whispers.

"We'll find out. If not, we're going to have a fun time trying to get into the wedding," she chuckled, standing up from her seat. "Shit, I really need to lay down though. Go out into the city if you'd like, but I need a couple of hours."

He wasn't really keen on the idea of going out into Braavos without a translator, but also knew there were few moments where either of them really got to be alone. Securing a small portion of Braavosi coins, he departed from the dormitory. Where the temple had been aflame with activity overnight, it had simmered down to a quiet lull as he passed a few priests and priestesses who gave curt bows of their head, but spoke no greetings. Word had spread like wildfire and yet, as requested, they were discreet.

Sunrise on the city illuminated the grey stone with a warm, amber haze, refracting off the water in the canals and basking the people. There was still a lot to take in, bustle, and queerly speaking people, but Ben tried to relax. Courtesans milled around openly, smiling at passing men, including himself. Some rode on ornate pleasure barges and unlike those in Westeros, were treated like nobility and with care. His eyes did not linger long, but Ben puzzled about the fact that he was no longer bound to his oaths as a man of the Night's Watch.

He had warned Jon Snow of speaking away his freedoms, including enjoying a woman, at such a young age. Ben knew what he had missed, especially after he'd learned of men going down into the Gift to purchase time with harlots to sate their thirst. There had been a time, before the Night's Watch, where he had known women and what he was giving away. But as a Stark, he'd known his place in protecting the kingdom and supporting his brother from the Wall. It was easier for Ned if Ben had no claim, nor had he ever yearned for the title as Warden of the North.

Whatever oaths he had to uphold with the Lord of Light, he suspected given the fact he did not recall them meant that there were no such clauses as refraining from giving in to carnal desires. Yet, as he espied the comely faces of the women dressed in vibrant silks, he felt nothing. Perhaps because he did not know them, lacking rapport or trust, a rather bad taste situating in the back of his throat at the idea of paying for services. But this was Braavos and while he had a disliking for it, the city revelled in their differences from his home.

Ben followed his nose, finding himself breakfast amongst the stands, freshly baked sweet bread and a hot tea to enjoy by the canals. The city still sprawled before him, beckoning to be explored. Despite his wariness for the urban setting, he curiousity got the better of him. He was a ranger, an explorer in his own right. Be this a foreign city, his legs took him through the bridged paths, between the islands, and amongst the shifting colors and faces. Few paid him heed aside from a few smiling escorts, but he'd simply continued onwards, careful to evade shady alleys and remained on the main roads.

A couple of hours turned into the better part of the afternoon, as he'd managed to get himself turned around, searching for the path back to the Red Temple. After finding someone who was willing to give him directions in common, he returned to find that Taliya was awake, the desk was void of the scattered parchment, and she was pawing through the language books. Her dedication was admirable, but he wondered how she could remain holed up in the stuffy room when there was so much to explore.

"Think the priests will mind if we use their courtyard for sparring?" Ben proposed wolfishly.

"We're Wardens, they'll let us do anything short of murdering them all if it's the Lord of Light's will," Taliya smirked.

They kept to the strict schedule of a fortnight in Braavos. As Taliya had jested, there was substance to the claim that the Red Priests would do anything for them. Part of Taliya's plan for Daenerys' wedding went hand in hand with R'hllor and claiming to be religious ambassadors and warriors entering into servitude on the blessed wedding-as was the will of their God. The temple parted with crimson garments for them, burnishing their armor, making certain they had plenty of coin and food for the journey to Pentos. He had not thought that he would have missed the little griffin during their separation, but as they left behind the watery city and trekked back out into the countryside where they'd started in Essos, he found his heart brimming with joy as the griffins touched down and reunited with them.

While Torrhen had grown a bit over the weeks, it was still not enough to ride him. Balerion groused, but in good nature, butting playfully into Taliya as she tried to secure the saddle bags to him, tail swishing around like a cat ready to play. Each passing moment brought them closer to the beginning of their first mission and to say that Ben was anxious was an understatement. What if Jorah recognized him? What if their invitation to the wedding was not solidified and they failed? His doubts and worries did not seem to affect his partner in the same manner. She was difficult to read and aloof, her pensive expression the only inkling that she might be worried about what Pentos had in store for them.

He had to trust in their mission, but his Dothraki was poor and his Valyrian rough. For all he knew, he'd be the fool on the Pentoshi promenade. Even the skills of his companion would not save him from his own ignorance. Gods, the north was so much less complex, even with the Others lurking north of the Wall.

They arrived in the city with a few days to spare before the wedding, allotting them time to get gifts and top of their supplies. Where Braavos had been grey, mild, and riddled with more canals than streets, Pentos was warm, made of many bricked buildings and walled estates akin to miniature castles, and filled with brightly hued residents. Westeros seemed bleak by comparison and Ben was sweltering in his thin doublet, armor, and trousers. While a warm, salty breeze often blew up from the port, the high walls of the golden city often denied them of the luxury of feeling its reprieve.

While the colors of the Wardens had been dark blue and grey, they traded the typical hues of their regal to that of the Lord of Light. Before dawn on the day of the wedding, Ben had settled his wardrobe and his attire. He'd spent the better part of the night polishing his cuirass, emblazoned with the heraldry of the Warden griffin on silvered steel. He did not possess a full suit, only the breastplate, thankful that it was light. The doublet beneath was provided by the temple in Braavos, a deep, garnet red that looked almost black, threads glistening in the sunlight.

His trousers were of a loose fit, as not to make him sweat excessively on the desert plains, though he knew there would be no avoiding it. He had not been crafted to be in Essos. He was a Stark, ice and iron, not heat and fire. The shiny black boots were finer than he would have typically chosen, accustomed to the sublime and mundane as a man of the Watch. What he wore now was a little 'much' for him. Taliya assured him that it was simple, but it still felt rather decadent.

He need only remind himself of the gem hues across the city to feel less excessive. After all, there were men who dyed their beards strange colors and forked them with oils.

Taliya was much more at home in the city than he was. Over the weeks her complexion had warmed to a rich olive, which complimented the tones she wore. That morning, the woman wore a pair of slitted harem pants in a deep, vibrant crimson. An ensemble of gold and cred sashes by her waist secured Fate to her hip, before a thick leather cuirass was fitted carefully over her torso, wrapped beneath sashes that matched the trousers, encompassing her collar and neck and fluttering behind her in scarves. While he knew she had gloves to meet the tight sleeves at her elbows, she had foregone them for the wedding, revealing intricate scrawlings of black and colored ink on her left arm.

Ben had never seen tattoos so ornate or detailed, leaving yet another layer of curiosities surrounded the woman. But as he gazed at her, he had no doubt that she was Dornish, wearing the sunset as she sat astride the dappled gelding that she'd purchased for their journey. Until the dragons were born, they could not introduce the griffins and had to have their own horses to accompany the Dothraki with. Each shuffle of the horse revealed the warm skin of her smooth legs and Ben felt himself watching a little longer than was polite. It was the first time he'd really seen more of the discreet Warden since the beginning of their partnership.

Both of their horses wore blankets with the flaming hearts of R'hllor, pressed to the flanks so that people knew they were embassies of the red god. The wedding was to be held outside of the city, the khalasar so enormous that the city was wary of what the festivities might do inside the walls, given their lack of military protection. Thus, it was to be conducted outside the golden walls and within a field where the Dothraki had made a temporary camp. Running through the lines of Dothraki he did remember, he prayed to any god that would listen that he wouldn't make a fool of himself.

Their trip out of the city and toward the allotted field paused when they noticed an elaborate poliquin gilded with so much golden paint that Benjen was quite certain it could've fed the entire north for a year during winter. Taliya spared him a glance, giving him a quick nod, before nudging her gelding forward to approach the throng of plump Unsullied that were carrying it. With a click, the shutter slipped open and within they could see the greasy face of a very fat man. The man from the visions: Illyrio Mopatis.

"Ah, you must be the swords of R'hllor," he greeted in a honey sweet voice, stroking his yellowed beard that was greasy enough to paint pictures on canvas.

"May the Lord of Light smile on you, Magister," Taliya replied courteously, a staunch difference from the woman he was acquainted with. Still this was not groveling, she spoke as a soldier might to an officer, cordial and polite. "I believe a mutual friend of ours told of our coming from Braavos."

"Yes, yes he did. I am quite surprised that the R'hllor would be so interested in this union," Illyrio simpered.

"The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. We do not question his will," Ben broke in, earning a careful, but impressed glance from Taliya.

"Hm, indeed. There are not many Westerosi who follow the Lord of Light. Given your accent, my lady, you must be from Dorne."

"I am," she conceded simply, but her voice fell flat as she did not smile or lean into the flattering tone which the man spoke with. "And there are not many Westerosi on this side of the Narrow Sea, yet here we are. The paths in which we led to get here were but the will of the Lord... It seems as if it'll be a fine morning for a wedding."

"Tell me, my lady, have you ever been to a Dothraki wedding?" Illyrio inquired lightly.

" Vo, vosma anha shillolat anha tikh allayafi me ," (No, but I believe I will enjoy it) Taliya retorted, the magister's brows shooting up. "Sorry, my Dothraki is still a bit rough, but I believe it'll get better."

"Our friend said you were clever, but I was not aware you were a linguist," Illyrio remarked.

"I'm a bit more gifted in scholarly pursuits than my companion, but he could best me with a sword any day. Perhaps the Lord of Light was aware of this when he made his partners," Taliya concluded before drawing her horse a few paces away. "We shall reconvene with you at the wedding. The night is dark and full of terrors."

"Farewell," Illyrio watched as they departed, skirting past his poliquin and down the beaten path that led to the sprawling plains where a city's worth of Dothraki were dwelling.

"Shit, I need something to sniff, that man smelled awful-" Taliya complained, rubbing her nose as they broke into a small pocket of solitude. "Could you smell it? Even the perfume didn't hide his reek-"

"No, I wasn't close enough," Ben admitted thankfully. "Who knew you could be so well-mannered."

Her infamous temper flared, eyes narrowing at him, as she opened her mouth to lash at him like a viper, "A side of me you'll never have the luxury of knowing."

He barked a laugh. "If you were being polite to me, I'd suspect death was near and the Lord of Light tasked you with killing me."

"Is it that uncharacteristic? I can be nice when I choose to," Taliya grumbled, drawing in a shimmering gold scarf.

"No one here knows you, so to them, they'd be none the wiser," he pointed out.

"But you know," she gave him a sideways glance, a devilish light playing in her fiery eyes.

"I know," he agreed, tucking away a smirk. Months of being beside her, with only her company aside from the griffins (not to include Fang's sporadic appearances), he thought he knew Taliya well enough. Still, despite all that he knew, he knew little of her history or who she was.

Abruptly, the woman reigned in her horse and dropped from the saddle in a puff of dust. Bending down, she retrieved a dagger and began hacking up a shrub of multicolored flowers, assembling a bouquet with a throng of tall grass to tie it together.

"For the princess?" he puzzled, aware that they'd already purchased excellent gifts for the girl. What good would flowers do?

"Mhm," she got back on the saddle. "Would you believe me if I told you I was a gardener in my past life?"

Benjen chuckled, but then realized she was utterly serious. A gardener?

#game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones fanfic #a song of ice and fire fanfic #asoiaf fanfiction #asoiaf fanfic #reincarnation insert #added lore #freeform #the ability to change the future but with a twist #BAMF female OC #benjen stark #buirbaby writes #the wardens

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jaeminlore · 5 years ago

Text

Amor Libertatis | Mark

summary: the freedom of love.

words: 12.4k+

category: fisherman!mark x princess!reader, FLUFF, angst, a lot of wordbuilding i got carried away

warning(s): death mention, war mention, blood mention, mark smells like fish, repetitive writing

a/n: alternate title is The Multiple Confessions of Two Dumbasses Who Don’t Get It™️

The ballroom is a grand flourish of shiny hardwood floors and high ceilings. The firelight of the chandeliers reflects off of blue quartz stones, sending a blue haze around the room. White roses hang from the doors, leaving every guest with a shoulder of rose petals by the time they enter the room.

It's genuinely beautiful, and it seems to put the staff of the palace in good spirits. The cooks set out fluffy miguelitos and bubbly rosé cava over cream-colored doilies. The servants fake-fight with the leftover rose stems, shrieking in laughter when one of them gets pricked.

The guests will be here any moment. You, as part of your coronation celebration, invited every fisherman and sailor in the kingdom for a night of repose. Though many of your noble friends were apprehensive about it, you have found favor with the staff, and together, you worked out a special night for the main exporters of your kingdom.

The royal band is rehearsing in the corner; the sound of a bandurria tuning echoes throughout the room. Someone plays a sour note on their guitar, and it sparks a jolt of laughter throughout the room.

The tall windows are unlatched and open wide, sending the sound of waves crashing and fishermen shouting up into the cliffside castle.

You feel elated, amazed at the joy that runs throughout the room. Looking out the window, you can see a bunch of fishermen bringing their boats into the harbor. The men are joking around and laughing, and you can't help but selfishly think they're all excited for tonight.

"Anna," you call one of the servants over.

She slips her arm around yours and peers out of the window with you. "They look happy."

"Yes," you say, following the form of one small child as he races up and down the docks. "Has the transportation been set out for the families? With outfits from the measurements we took?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Anna sounds almost as excited as you. "By tonight, we'll have a ballroom full of families. The entire west wing has been cleared for the children to sleep in as well, should the parents drink too much calent."

You giggle at her words. "Yes, that's very smart. Remind me to thank the nannies for all they're preparing for the children. Oh, this is going to be so much fun!"

Anne sighs wistfully, eyes locked on the faraway docks. "Do you think any fishermen our age will come by?"

"Are you on the lookout for a husband, Anne?" You quip with a remarked stare.

The girl elbows you gently. She lifts her nose into the air indignantly. "I'm of age. It's proper."

"Oh, it's proper alright," you giggle, hastily avoiding Anne's next, not-as-gentle elbowing to the side.

The castle looms over the docks like an ominous shadow. Mark peers up at it, wondering why on earth any fisherman would feel welcome there. "We're going to stand out like sore thumbs."

"It's for us, you buzzkill," Jaehyun shoves an empty bucket into Mark's arms. "Take this to the lower deck."

Mark can't help but wonder if Jaehyun ever thinks about how bad they smell. He wonders how many royals will be at this ball, and he wonders how many will laugh at him. He ignores Jaehyun's instructions. "Do you think it's a set up?"

Jaehyun sighs and uses the bottom of his already-dirty shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He's obviously tired of Mark's worrying, but he'll never say it out loud. "I think the princess is doing her best to make allies after what the last monarchs pulled."

Mark still remembers it: the day many fishermen were taken from their homes and forced to fight a war that wasn't theirs. They became a navy of untrained soldiers against pirates and merchants with no morale and a lot of weapons. He remembers the last day he ever saw his father and brother. He remembers wanting to fight, too, but being too young. He remembers becoming a fisherman as young as ten years old, because he had to provide for his grieving mother. Then she couldn't handle it any more, and he had to attend a funeral for three people instead of two.

He remembers that no one ever let him grieve, and the castle feels ominous all over again. "I don't know if I'm going to go."

"Aren't you curious?" Jaehyun asks. "Don't you want to see if the princess is going to apologize? Or if she's just as fake as her parents before her?"

Mark wonders if the princess ever got to mourn.

"I don't know if I want to find out," Mark admits. He adjusts the heavy bucket and goes to do the job he is getting paid to do. He turns to shout over his shoulder, "But if you go, bring me back some castle food!"

Mark, of all people, knows what it feels like to be alone. He must be the only fisherman not excited about the party, and it's not all for shallow reasons. Mostly, he's the only one without a family to take.

He thinks of Jaehyun, bringing his brothers, and Kun, bringing his family — a wife and two daughters. He thinks of Lucas' little son, who can't stop talking about the outfit he was measured for.

There is such joy in sharing with others, and Mark knows he'll feel extremely alone if he goes. He'll just burden all of his friends, who want to be with their families.

He checks all of the boats and makes sure they're secure at the harbor. The night is warm and windy. The party is surely starting soon, or perhaps it has already started.

He looks up at the castle. Light pours from the large windows. If he listens close enough, he can hear the sound of music and laughing.

He wants to climb on a boat and sail away for the night, just to forget all of it.

"Are you not going to join the festivities?"

Mark jumps at the noise. He turns around and sees a girl, dressed in turquoise-colored silk. There's a split down each side, so that when she walks, Mark notices the knee-length sandals. That's normally a tell that someone is royal, but then again, he wonders if the princess gave everyone royal-grade clothing. He wouldn't know.

He realizes he hasn't answered. He's just been staring for an odd amount of time. "Er, no. I'm not exactly a dancer," he lies, thinking it's easier than belting out his own personal sob story.

"I can't either," the girl says. She gives him a bright smile. "Something I think that makes dancing more fun."

Mark shrugs. He feels warm, but he brushes it off as the mugginess of the night. "I have to secure the boats, and I smell like fish."

"The entire ballroom smells like fish," she says, and Mark thinks for a moment that she's being insulting. Then, he receives another bright smile. "It's wonderful! It feels like we're right on the docks, dancing and laughing. One of the lovely fishermen is teaching my– er– the ladies about sea shanties. They're rather dirty in verse, but it's fun to sing them! I'm sure we'll be hearing the words down the corridors for weeks to come."

She says everything nearly out of breath. Her cheeks are red, and she seems to always be on the verge of a laugh. Every word that comes out of her mouth seems spoken in prose, so much so that Mark wonders how anyone could find life so rewarding.

"I suppose you're a noble, then," he says.

"I am."

Mark risks another look at her face (though he had never actually looked away) and notices her hair is gathered into a braid. It cascades down her chest and ends with a seashell clipped to the bottom. Her eyes reflect the moonlight.

He feels self conscious all of a sudden. "Well, have fun then."

"Won't you come?"

Mark stills the moment her hand comes into contact with his. She's close now, clasping his hand like it will change his mind. Maybe it will.

"I don't really belong there."

"Everyone belongs," she says sternly, eyes suddenly hard. "I won't let anyone tell you different. This ball is about coming together as equals and apologizing for past grievances. This is a new start. You should be a part of it."

Mark isn't sure why, but he lets her pull him all the way up the cliffs, straight into the castle.

The boy does look out of place, you notice. "Here, let's get you into some regal clothing."

You desperately hope he doesn't ask what type of noble you are, because you would really hate to lose the trust of this young fishermen you've found. Something about his hesitance makes you think he wouldn't want to meet the princess. He wouldn't want to meet you.

You bring him into one of the spare rooms and leaf through the wardrobe. "What's your name, by the way?"

"Uh. Mark."

You toss a black shirt and trousers at him. "Change into these, Mark. Behind that screen."

The top of his head can be seen over the screen, so you focus on his black locks while you wait. "My name is Y/n. It's a pretty common name, I know."

"I haven't heard it before," Mark comments, struggling with a piece of clothing.

When he comes out from behind the screen, his shirt is tucked in and rolled up the fisherman way. You find it adorable, because it's how every man showed up this evening. Still, you can't help but want to see what Mark would look like dressed as a noble.

You approach him and pull his sleeves down, clipping the seashell cufflinks where they belong. Then, you grab a turquoise cummerbund and wrap it around the black attire, tying it in the back so that it's the only pop of color on his body.

You step back and look at him. "Very handsome. Oh! I'll get some oils so you don't feel self-conscious about your smell."

He doesn't smell that bad. Honestly, it's obvious that a fisherman would smell a little funny: it's part of the job. So it's nothing to make fun of, really.

Still, you find some lavender and lemon scented oils in the vanity and sprinkle them onto his shoulder and neck. "Now don't rub it in. Just let it set."

Mark still looks out of place. Not in appearance, he just has this look on his face that says "I don't want to be here."

"I promise you'll have a nice time," you say. "And if not, we can sneak out a jug of cante and get out of here, yeah?"

Mark's face softens with relief and he smiles. "Okay."

"Great! Now let's go!" You grab his hand and pull him down the hallway, into the grand ballroom.

Mark lets out an audible gasp of surprise at the decorations, and the people. "It's... It's really nice."

"Thank you," you say. "It took forever to plan."

"You planned it?" Mark asks, eyeing you confusedly.

The base of your neck feels hot. "I helped, I mean. It's impossible for one person to plan a grand display like this."

"Right. Oh, there's Jaehyun." Mark points to the tall man talking to Anne. "He's my friend."

"He's talking to my friend, Anne. We should go talk to them!"

Jaehyun looks surprised to see Mark at the party. He looks even more surprised to see his hand in yours. "You work fast, don't you, Mark?"

Mark jerks his hand out of your grip. "She uh, she was just helping me find something to wear."

Anne eyes you. "Was she? Were you given no clothes?"

"I found him on the docks," you say quickly, trying to telepathically talk to Anne with your eyes. "I thought he might like to join us."

"I tried to get him to come along," Jaehyun says, smiling. His smile is sweet, soft like fluffy icing. "If I had known all I needed was a pretty girl to convince him, I would've done it sooner."

"Ah, it wasn't like that," Mark says. He fiddles with the cummerbund, hooking his thumb under the seam and running the pad across. "She just said you guys were having fun. So I thought I would try it."

Jaehyun looks like he wants to say more, but he hides his smile behind a gulp of rosé.

Anne greets Mark. "Is it just you?"

Mark bristles. "Yeah," he says, a warning laced in his voice. "For a long time now."

"No wife?" Anne presses, and you notice Mark keeps tensing.

"Anne, that's enough," you say. "I'm going to show Mark around."

You pull the reluctant boy over to the closest table of food and hand him a fluke of pink liquid. "I'm sorry about her. She doesn't mean to be as invasive as she is."

Mark downs the entire thing in one gulp and stares down at his shoes. "Yeah, it's fine. I just. You know, not all of our families survived the war."

Your heart softens, and your chest burns with the sort of empathy one gets when they've experienced grief. "From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. If my— if the king and queen had known what they were truly doing—"

"It shouldn't have even crossed their minds," Mark snaps, cutting a cold glare across the room. "Where is the princess anyway? Isn't she supposed to apologize for their mistakes tonight?"

Your voice feels watery in your throat. "She already did. That's how she opened the night."

"Huh," Mark furrows his brows. "What did she say?"

You swallow down your urge to get upset. He's only asking for closure. "She apologized for her parents' actions. Said she hopes to rule better than them, and never have to put the lower class in danger like that again. She reminded everyone that you are just as important as she is, and that you deserve the same rights as her — you should get to choose if you want to fight."

Mark looks torn. "Okay," he says, and drops the subject for the night.

Mark goes home pretty quickly after that. He feels pain in the depths of his stomach, and he knows he shouldn't take it out on you, so he leaves.

He walks home, since his home is just a simple shack right under the cliffs near the ocean. He unties the cummerbund and rips the cuff links off of his sleeves.

With the moon as his only light, he sits on the beach with his feet in the tide. He watches the moon until it becomes hard to keep his eyes open, and then he goes to sleep, the smell of lavender and lemon still on his skin.

He's on net-making duty the next day, so he sits in the same spot on the beach. His hands burn from the amount of times he's pulled on the ropes, making sure they're tight and secure enough to hold hundreds of fish.

The waves lap at his ankles until midday, when the tide retracts, and he's left hot and sweaty under the sun.

That's when you arrive.

You look different from last night, dressed down this time in a pair of cotton trousers and a simple white shirt. Your boots crunch over the sand and pebbles as you walk over and hand him a package. "I had your clothes cleaned."

Mark eyes the package for a moment before he sighs, drops his net, and takes it. "Thanks."

"Sure." You point to the net. "Did you make that by yourself?"

Mark accidentally lets out a laugh. "Well, nets don't just appear, you see."

You shove his arm, and Mark finds that your hand feels almost cool against his hot skin. "I know that. I was going to compliment you, but I think I'll take it back now."

"Oh no," Mark says. A teasing smile makes its way to his face before he can stop it. "How will I keep going, now?"

You giggle. It makes Mark feel abnormally proud, as if he's suddenly the funniest person on earth. Which he certainly isn't. He knows it's weird, so he tries to bury it down in the same place he buried the memory of your hand in his. "Shouldn't you get back to the castle?" It comes out more harshly then he intends it to, but he really can't be around you for too long without feeling weird things. Odd things.

"I suppose," you shrug. "I don't want to though. I spent all morning helping clean up and I just want to rest now.

Mark feels a blister forming under his thumb. "Sounds rough."

"Sorry," you manage to look bashful. "I know I have it good. I shouldn't complain. Hey, maybe I could help you!"

"I don't need help," Mark says. "Besides, you wouldn't know how to tie these knots."

"I would if you'd teach me." You catch Mark's gaze and hold it until he looks away, shaking his head softly. You begin to plead. "Look, I'm a really quick learner! And I don't make my tutors repeat things! I can help!"

"You have a tutor?" Mark scoffs. "Aren't you learning a lot more interesting things than how to tie knots?"

"I'm learning about foreign policies," you roll your eyes. "And while it's important, it's tragically boring. I think the life of a sailor must be much more fun."

Mark can agree with that. In fact, he plans on one day having his own boat, and spending his enter life on the water, away from people and families and the castle and any other reminder of his loss. "I'm going to sail away one day. No one will ever see me again."

You stay quiet for a moment, and Mark begins to wonder if he somehow offended you. Surely not. You've only known him for a day; you wouldn't care if he left. Then you say, "You're quite sure no one would miss you, then?"

"Why would they? Everyone has their own lives. Everyone has moved on already."

You sit with Mark in silence while he finishes his net, and then you bid him goodbye just as Jaehyun invites him to his house for supper.

Mark sort of wishes you would have stayed, and he could've spent the night sitting beside you.

The castle feels empty more than full most nights. You suppose it's just your heart, reaching around corners for a parent that no longer exists. You remember when they both came down with tuberculosis. You remember not being able to see them during their last few months. You remember living in a little cottage with your advisor as the castle was inspected and cleaned.

Sometimes you think the castle is haunted by the souls of your parents. There have been many nights when you feel someone stroking your hair the way your mother used to. Maybe you're just making it up, but you like to think she's still with you, as well as your father.

You love them dearly. Though everyone says the tuberculosis was karma for sending so many innocent people into battle, you can't help but want to ask what other option they had.

The pirates had been closing in on all sides. The castle's knights were already on the sea, fighting, and they needed reinforcements. Who else could've been chosen? No one else knew the sea as well. And in the end, it worked, and many of the fishermen returned home to their families.

You figure Mark is one of the unlucky ones.

If you could, you'd take it all back. No one would fight at all, and you'd fix it some other way, whether diplomatically or not. Definitely not by sending innocent people into battle. That was never the goal.

You kiss your mother's rosary and tuck it against your chest. Maybe she would be proud of the steps you're taking. Maybe she would desperately disagree with getting so close to the lower class.

But they aren't disposable. That had been proven in just one night, when you met every fisherman and their family personally. They are all important. They are all real. They are alive, and they won't be used as pawns ever again.

Your bedroom is just as empty as the halls. But here, the walls don't echo, so you freely recite a prayer to your mother, asking her how to do this. How to make hard decisions and save people at the same time. How to rule a country without losing your heart.

You don't see Mark until a week later, when he's seen helping sell fish at the market.

There's a scarf tied around his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes, and it's rather cute the way his wavy black hair falls over it. You approach the smelly booth and shoot Mark a wide smile. "How have you been?"

"Me?" Mark's eyes widen, and he uses his gloved hand to point to himself.

"Who else? The mackerel?" You point to a random fish.

"Actually, that's a bream." Mark says with a smile. Then he frowns. "I don't know how I've been. My hands are burning from making nets all week, and all I can think about is dipping them in these ice buckets. But there are fish guts in those, so I've been able to contain myself."

You laugh, catching the eye of another fisherman. "Oh, hi, Jaehyun."

"Hey, Y/n. Come to take Mark away from the torturous life of a fisherman?" He rests his hand on his forehead dramatically.

"Can I do that?" you ask, looking from one boy to the other.

"He always eats at my house anyways," Jaehyun says. "And it's my boat he works for, so sure. Just don't make him use his hands," he winks.

You cough out a laugh, sure your cheeks are just as red as Mark's.

Mark quickly unties his apron and shoves his gloves off of his hands. You notice his palms are pink and raw, and it makes you think of the healers back at the castle. "Hey, I know you're not a big fan of the castle, so I can go by and get it, but I have a balm that can heal your hands a lot quicker."

Mark looks up towards the faraway cliffs, where the castle stands. "Maybe... if we don't take long... I can go back in."

Mark kind of wishes his hands weren't messed up. Not because they would hurt less (though that would be nice) but because now you aren't trying at all to hold his hand, and that makes Mark just a tad bit sad. Okay, maybe a lot more than a tad bit.

You bring him into a healer's room, where the walls are draped in herbs and random flowers that probably have some sort of healing properties. He sees a boiling cauldron in the corner, and shelves upon shelves of vials.

"Ten is quite the hoarder," you say as a way of explanation.

He sits on the cot while you grab the balm and some bandages. Then, you sit beside him and take his left hand first. You place it upturned on your lap and rub the balm into his skin using small circular motions, the way Ten taught you awhile ago.

He hisses in pain, and it's quite obvious that the blisters are infected.

"Should I drain them before I bandage them?" you ask, mostly to yourself.

Mark whimpers, and then he huffs like he's heard Lucas' son do many times before. "It's probably better if you do."

"Just don't watch," you say hastily. "It'll hurt less."

Mark keeps his head hidden in your shoulder the entire time, refusing to look until both of his hands are drained and bandaged. He focuses on the way your skin smells like the sea salt, but in a sweet way. Like you've somehow only extracted the good parts of the ocean.

When you officially announce that your done, Mark looks up. His senses are overwhelmed by both the pain, and the smell of your skin, so when he finds himself nose to nose with you, it's hard not to lean in.

Just before his lips touch yours, he hears the door open.

It breaks his trance, and he blinks, backing up a short distance. He brings his hands back to his own lap.

A man — Ten, Mark supposes — walks in. "Oh, Your Highness. What's wrong?"

Mark almost laughs. Who would mistake someone for the princess? But then your face pales, and you look like you've just been punched in the gut.

"Your Highness?" He says quietly, hoping he somehow heard wrong. "You told me you were a noble."

"I am," you say, folding in on yourself timidly.

Ten sees that he's made a mistake, so he quickly grabs a bundle of rosemary and runs out of the door.

"Princess Y/n? That's your name?" Mark asks again, feeling his bones go cold. He can't like the princess. He can't have almost kissed the princess. He can't fall for the girl who's parents inadvertently got his family killed.

He stands up. "I have to go."

"Mark, wait—" you reach for the boy, but he backs away from your touch, reaching for the door. "I'm sorry."

He opens the door. "I have to go," he repeats, shaking his head and escaping the room.

Your coronation is in two days, and all you can think about is Mark and his family.

You can guess what happened, as it happened to a lot of families during that time. Of course, Mark is one of the only ones who kept the fishing trade after such a tragedy.

You want to go see him, but something holds you back. If he blames you and despises you, he wouldn't want to see you under any circumstances.

But you can't help but think about him and all of the others who lost family due to your parents' poor decisions. Sure, you could throw a ball for present-day fishermen, but that doesn't cover the families of the passed.

They could be struggling or alone, and you don't want any of them to feel lost. You want them to find closure apart from a lavish party.

So you set your coronation back, and you get together with a few architects in the kingdom.

And as soon as the plan is set in motion, you head down to the docks, hoping Mark will be the first to know about it. He may reject you, but you want him to know. He deserves to know, as the one who inspired the project.

You find Jaehyun first, untangling a net at the end of his boat, feet hanging over the side, against the hull. "Hey, Jaehyun. Is Mark here? I really need to talk to him."

Jaehyun looks remorseful. "He left a while ago. Took his shabby sailboat and left for who-knows-where. 'Said he might come back. 'Said maybe not."

"Oh," you say. Your mind feels burdened, but you accept it. You have to. "Okay. Well, if he comes back—"

"I'll send him your way," Jaehyun gives you a pity-filled smile, like he knows what you're both thinking.

Mark probably isn't going to come back.

You focus on the project.

One section of the kingdom courtyard is cleared, and now a tree stands, with a sign in front of it. The plaque reads off the names of all the deceased, and all the families affected. It reads off the history of the decision, and the conscious choice not to let history repeat itself.

You invite every family mentioned and offer them enough resources to keep them afloat for the remainder of their lives. You take the money out of the savings your father held aside for war and your mother held aside for your coronation, wedding, and honeymoon.

Surely, this is more important.

You can't think of why a coronation would have to be anything special enough to hold back resources that should have been gifted as soon as the war ended.

You know firsthand that the scars of grief won't heal completely, but this is certainly a start. This is a step in the direction of closure, and you do your best to prove to your people that you are genuine in this decision.

You sign a declaration stating that no one will be forced to fight again, and all procedures to prevent a war will be taken. War will be a last resort, lest anything happen to your people. God forbid.

That night you fall asleep feeling lighter than you have in years.

You still wish Mark had been there to see it. To see that he has never been alone.

You want to tell him that there's a room in the castle with his name on it, if he wants it. You want to tell him that he can stay here forever, and you'll do your best not to bother him.

Most of all, you just want to know that he's safe.

Mark finds himself on a small island, and decides to stay for a few days.

He'll come back, he knows that deep down. But it's only because he has something to come back to. Someone.

It's impossible to deny that he has some kind of feelings towards you. However weak they are, they're there. However platonic or romantic they may be, he wants to be around you. He doesn't want to go a long time without seeing you; talking with you.

The fact that you're the princess has him at a standstill. Because, yeah, your parents made a horrible decision. But he knows you were only a child when it was made. You were his age. And when the king and queen were overcome by their illness just a few years later, you were left alone to rule.

Mark is beginning to think you know just as much about feeling alone as he does.

He sleeps on the beach beside a campfire. His stomach is only half-full, but he doesn't feel like eating any more of his rations.

He looks across the vast horizon and imagines that you're in the castle, looking out. Maybe you can see the smoke, or maybe he's simply becoming a vapor in the wind.

Maybe you don't miss him, or care that he's gone. Maybe you're angry for the way he left.

Mark figures he should work on the whole impulse thing.

He'll come back one day, he knows. Just not yet.

You are crowned as queen a month later, when the sea is chilly and the air is biting. Your breath turns into frost as often as you breathe, waiting in anticipation for a boat that may never return home.

Days are filled with meetings and discussions over keeping the peace, and while you adore your country, you can't help but wish you were back on the docks that night, meeting Mark again for the first time.

You stay up late, nightmares eating at your mind. Your mother's ghost still lingers around, but she feels less comforting now, and you don't know why. Her presence makes the room cold and dark. Even her rosary doesn't feel as good as it once did.

Still you clutch it, and say a quick prayer to whoever will bring Mark home the fastest.

And when you look up, you can see a small sailboat, making its way towards the light of the lighthouse beam.

You hastily pull pants over your nightgown and throw a jacket over your shoulders before racing out of your bedroom, fingers still clutching your mother's beads.

You forgot to put on shoes. This would be fine, if the cliffs weren't so sharp. So, you slow your pace and pick a smoother path, not wishing to get any serious injuries.

The wood of the dock is cold. It's wet, too. The slimy kind of wet that makes you want to take a bath as soon as you feel it. But still you stand, eyes focused on that little sailboat, hoping it's Mark on his way home.

Your knees are aching, and you're shivering by the time the boat finally docks. But it's all worth it when Mark walks out, his clothes dirty and messed up.

He starts when he notices you, but once he realizes you are not, in fact, a ghost, he quickens his pace until he is right in front of you. "You're not mad at me."

"No," you say. "Are you mad at me?"

"No," Mark breathes. A laugh of relief leaves his lips and he reaches forward to wrap you into a hug. "I'm sorry I did that. I acted impulsively and I shouldn't have."

"No, you shouldn't have," you scold, squeezing him as tightly as you can. "I was afraid for your safety every night."

Mark awkwardly pats your back until you let him go, and then he gives you a crooked smile. "I'm extremely tired. Do you think we could meet up in the morning?"

"You don't sleep in that shack during the winter, do you?"

Mark seems confused. "Yeah, why?"

"You'll get sick," you protest. "Won't you just come to the castle with me? I know you don't like it, but there's a room with your name on it if you want it."

Mark covers his mouth as he yawns. "You know what? I might take you up on your offer. Just for tonight, though."

He seems set on his decision, and you're just thankful that he's alive, so you grab his hand and pull him up the cliffs, excited to have him with you once again.

Mark submerges his head completely under the water. You had a bath drawn for him, and you even filled it with lavender and lemon oils. Though the scents make Mark even drowsier than before, he's thankful that you remembered the scents.

They make him think of that night when he first met you, and that makes his heart warm.

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the fluffy pillows. After being so used to sleeping on the ground, this feels like a cloud.

He gets the best sleep he's had in ages.

You wake up in a cold sweat, visions of Mark caught in a shipwreck wracking your body in waves. Shivers race down your spine, so you sit up and look around, counting the things in your room the way Ten told you to do when you feel on the verge of a panic.

Once the room stops spinning, you get up and begin to dress, excited to show Mark around your home. You want to show him the garden, and the memorial.

You put on a yellow sundress and race out of the door. You knock incessantly on Mark's door until he finally opens it.

The sight that greets you makes your heart flutter worse than the dream. But it's in a different way. It's a positive and lovely flutter that zips all the way down to your toes.

Mark is still in his nightclothes. One hand still on the door, the other goes up to rub his eyes. His hair is messy, shooting up in all different directions. His skin has gotten a lot darker since his voyage, and the stark contrast to his white shirt warms the pit of your stomach. "Morning," he mumbles.

You suddenly want to reach over and kiss him, just to capture that innocent look on his face. However, you mask that feeling with a smile. "Do you want to have breakfast? Or, if you're still tired, maybe we could just hang out here."

Mark looks longingly back at his bed. Then, to the still-dark sky outside the window. "Uh, what time is it?"

"Four in the morning," you say, heart skipping a beat.

"Four?" Mark gapes at you. "Shouldn't you be asleep still? Why are you dressed?"

You pout. "I had a nightmare and don't want to go back to sleep."

Mark rolls his eyes and reaches for your hand. He pulls you into his room. "Get dressed into something comfier and let's go back to sleep."

You find a long nightshirt in his wardrobe, but you don't like the second part of his plan. From behind the dressing screen, you slip the silky fabric over your body. "I don't want to sleep. I'll have bad dreams again."

"What are they about?" Mark questions. He's lying on his bed, arms stretched out behind his head. The shirt he's wearing rides up at the hips the more he stretches, and you nearly get caught staring at the sliver of skin that shows.

"Um. People I care about in dangerous situations," you say, not wanting to reveal that most of them are about him. It's just that your brain can't seem to catch up to the present. Maybe it hasn't caught on that Mark is here, safe, and not lost out at sea.

"But you have to sleep," Mark says. "We didn't get in until, like, midnight. You need more than that."

"I'll just lay beside you," you say, hoping it appeases him. "And we can get breakfast when you wake up."

Mark looks annoyed, but he doesn't say anything else. He shifts into his side, facing you, and closes his eyes.

You mirror his actions, burying yourself under his covers that already seem to smell like him. Like the sea and lavender and lemons. You take a deep breath and watch him fall asleep. You take note of the way his eyelids begin to flutter, and the noiseless mumbles coming from his lips. He's beautiful (and he falls asleep really fast, you notice.)

You reach out and clasp his shirt, fisting the loose fabric. Anchoring yourself to him makes this feel more real, and you hope your brain is finally catching up to the rest of you.

Sometime within the next thirty minutes, you fall asleep. And there are no nightmares. In fact, there are no dreams at all.

Mark wakes up with his arms around somebody's waist, and for the life of him he can't figure out if he went to bed with anybody last night.

What was last night? His mind floods back to him sailing back to the mainland and finding you waiting for him.

It's you. He groggily opens his eyes and sees you, curled against his chest, fingers clutched around the front of his shirt. And his arm is only holding you there, keeping you in his embrace until he wants to let go.

Mark loosens up his arm and settles for lying next to you, listening to the sound of your breathing. Soft snores emit every now and again, and a piece of his heart pinches with endearment.

He's thankful you waited. He can't imagine how upsetting it would have been to come back and not have you greet him. He takes it a step further and wonders how he would have felt if you were betrothed; promised to another. Not that you were ever promised to him, but still.

There's always a future possibility, he likes to imagine.

Though, to be honest, he has no idea what it means for you to be a queen. He wonders if there are rules against favoring a fisherman. Maybe you'll wake up and tell him that the two of you have to stay six inches apart now that you're queen. He has no idea.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" you snap him out of his thoughts.

Mark watches as a sleepy smile paints your lips. "Just... is this scandalous?"

You cover your mouth with your hand and giggle. Your eyes seem to twinkle at him, and it makes Mark glad that he coaxed you into going back to sleep for a few hours. "Don't you know we're a matriarchy?"

Mark gapes. "The line goes through the women?"

"Essentially, yeah," you say. "I can be around men as much as I please, so long as I one day have a female heir. Though that will not be any time soon, I'm very sure."

Mark remembers Lucas and his son, and he wonders what it'd be like to have a little one of his own. It's a comforting thought, like he might one day be able to find a family again. "Oh. Cool."

"Yeah," you say. "I mean, not that I normally find myself in the bed of different men, just... you know."

Mark clears his throat. "Yeah. Er, yeah."

"I didn't have any nightmares," you say. "So maybe it was good that I went back to sleep."

"You do need your sleep," Mark says. "It's important."

You change the subject. "What should we do after breakfast?"

"Well, I really have to go see Jaehyun and ask for my position on his boat again." Mark feels sheepish for cutting his time with you short, but he needs to make an income. "I can visit you soon, though."

"Maybe we could sail together one day," you say. Mark can tell you're masking your disappointment, and it makes his heart clench.

"Definitely," he says, if not just to watch your eyes light up.

Jaehyun kept Mark's spot open while he was gone, hoping he would return. "Why do you look so nice?"

"Oh," Mark runs his hands through his hair and avoids Jaehyun's gaze. "I spent the night at the castle."

Jaehyun snickers knowingly, and when Mark tries to deny whatever it is he's thinking of, he only gets louder. "I can't believe you spent the night with the queen and you want to be humble about it."

"It wasn't like that," Mark says, defending you. "Don't be weird about it. We're friends."

"Fine," Jaehyun rolls his eyes. "If you don't want to be the future king, fine."

"Actually, it's a matriarchy, so I wouldn't even be king. I'd be like, the consort or something." Mark grunts as he lifts a fishing net onto his back. "Which is kind of cool when you think about it."

"You don't want power?"

Mark scoffs, looking back at his friend. "Imagine me running a country. I can't count a million ways that would go wrong. Y/n is better suited, obviously."

"Yeah," Jaehyun matches Mark's stride. "I was kind of on the fence about her reigning instead of a regent, but then she set up the monument and signed that treaty. I think that's the most badass thing I've ever seen anybody do."

"What monument?" Mark shifts the weight of the net and dumps it on the deck of Jaehyun's ship. They begin to untangle it and spread it out to get ready for tomorrow's voyage.

"Are you kidding me? The one inspired by you? I thought Y/n would've told you as soon as she saw you."

"I kind of left as soon as I woke up. And last night we were both so tired..." Mark fiddles with his sleeves. "What is the monument about?"

"It's a memorial," Jaehyun's voice carries a more somber tone. He lost his father in that war, too. "It's literally engraved in stone, the mistakes her parents made, and the promise not to repeat it. And it has the names of the deceased and the affected. It's basically a shrine; people leave things for their loved ones who have passed. It's a great sentiment. Oh, and the treaty. She signed a treaty with the people that she'd never force anyone to fight in a war. She's essentially risking the entire country for the lower class. It's amazing."

Mark's heart softens towards you. "She did all that?"

"Held back her coronation to finish it," Jaehyun confirms. "Then, each family of the deceased got compensated. You know, like her parents promised they would do, and then never did?"

Mark does remember, but he also remembers that being the year both monarchs died. They never had the chance to fulfill their promise. "Wait, so we both got compensation?"

"Yeah," Jaehyun said, dimples showing. "The bookkeeper has yours. I put most of mine into savings, since I don't mind the business I have right now. But I figured you'd want a new boat to take out and live on."

Mark eyes the water, and remembers how lonely he felt being the only one for miles. No one had been there for him, and he wasn't sure he wanted to agree to that again. "I'll put mine into savings, too. For now."

"You could take Y/n on a trip," Jaehyun suggests.

Mark shakes his head. "She wants me to take her sailing, but how do you charm a girl who has everything?"

"Give her the one thing she's never had," Jaehyun says, as if the answer is obvious. "Freedom."

Mark doesn't ask you to, but you bring a picnic basket with you the day the two of you go sailing.

You figure Mark probably only knows how to prepare a small number of things, and it might be nice to bring him something of a royal caliber to snack on. Besides, you have to bring something to thank him for taking you out with him.

Mark's boat is extremely small: just big enough for a crew of maybe six people, but small enough to be controlled by one man alone.

You watch Mark hoist the sails and set the boat towards the horizon, the wind doing most of the work.

The wind plays with Mark's hair, as well as his shirt, and you aren't sure which is nicer to look at. He's smiling towards the sun, the sharp rays casting somewhat of a halo around his face and you realize this is exactly where Mark belongs. He belongs with the wind and the sea.

Mark belongs where he can be free.

He anchors the boat once the two of you sail out far enough. You lay the picnic blanket out and extract the miscellaneous food items you thought Mark might like.

He tastes the watermelon first, and nurses the fruit throughout the meal. "So, uh, Jaehyun told me about the memorial. And the compensation."

"Oh," you say. "Well, I thought they deserved to be remembered."

Mark nods. "Thanks. It meant a lot to visit it and find my family's names. I felt a lot of closure. As if they were finally at rest."

"Good," you take a sip of water. "That's good."

"You know," Mark pauses like he's about to say something troublesome, "your parents deserved to be remembered, too. They deserve to rest."

You glance up, and your head all of a sudden feels heavy on your neck. It's as if Mark said the words you so desperately needed to hear, whether you knew it or not. Heat pricks the backs of your eyes and you feel both a headache and tears coming up. "Thanks, Mark. I think so too."

"I thought we could do a small memorial service here. Just a little one. We can burn a candle and forgive your parents together. Then they can rest."

"Yeah," you sniffle, feeling an unbearable amount of gratitude in your heart for the boy sitting across from you. "Okay."

"We should go swimming," you say, just as Mark blows out the candle.

"It's freezing out here," he says, looking at you like you're crazy.

"I'm going in," you say, backing up towards the edge of the boat.

Mark watches you jump off of his boat, then he hears a splash, and then a joyful shriek. He sighs and rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. He toes off his shoes and socks and stands at the edge of the boat. "How cold is it?" He calls down to you.

"It's super chilly," you yell back, teeth chattering as you smile in satisfaction. "But it feels good."

Mark takes your word for it and dives in head first. His bones chill immeasurably and he feels every muscle in his body wake up for what seems like the first time today. When he reaches the surface, the wind bites at his ears, and he begins chattering, too. "This is a terrible idea," he laughs.

"I know," you say gleefully. You swim over to him, and Mark catches that familiar glint in your eyes. It looks like you're truly happy, and he thinks in this moment that he'd freeze himself a thousand times over again if it kept that stupid smile on your face. "Also, how do we get back onto the boat?"

"There's a ladder on the other side," Mark says. "We're good."

"Okay," you wrap your arms around his shoulders from behind, and hook your ankles together at the front of his navel. "Carry me there?"

Mark dips at the sudden new weight, but it isn't unwelcome. He swims to the other side of the boat, a bit lazy because he really likes the way you're clinging onto him.

He lets you go up the ladder first, and he keeps his eyes on the ocean so he won't accidentally look up your skirt. As soon as you yell that you're clear, he begins to climb as well.

When the two of you return to the castle, you're placed in front of the fireplace in Mark's room by a very angry Ten. The two of you take whatever soup he made to warm your insides, and snicker at the obvious annoyance in the man's face.

"To be fair, it's only because he doesn't want us getting hurt," Mark supplies. He wraps the wool blanket tighter around his now-dry shoulders. The two of you are wearing new sets of clothes, having washed up in lukewarm water like Ten advised you to.

"I know," you giggle, scooting closer to him. "He's just so funny when he starts complaining." You shiver as you speak.

"C'mere," Mark mumbles. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and pulls you close to him, against the warmth of his body. "This is why I said we shouldn't go swimming."

"I'm fine," you say, shivering in his hold. "I'm getting warmer."

Mark runs his hand up and down your arms to try and create some kind of extra heat. Once you finally stop shivering, he checks on you, only to find that you've fallen asleep against his chest.

His heartbeat quickens — for absolutely no reason — as he gathers you in his arms and places you on the side of the bed closest to the fireplace.

You let out a sigh of contentment and curl into the sheets. When Mark tucks you in, he swears he hears you mumble a quiet thanks.

He wonders if he should sleep in here or try to find another room to sleep in. Obviously he's slept beside you before, but he wonders if it's weird now because of how much he likes you. He wouldn't want you to think he's taking advantage.

But then Ten comes in and quite literally shoves him into the bed. "The two of you are getting a lot of sleep, because tomorrow I will have you both up drinking a very disgusting brew that prevents serious sickness. It'll be ready in the morning. So, get to sleep."

Mark obeys, too afraid to explain his predicament to Ten. It's a bit stupid anyway, he figures.

So he climbs into bed and falls asleep under the warm covers.

Mark is untangling nets on the beach, toes buried in the sand. The wind has been picking up, causing his hair to annoyingly waft into his eyes every now and again.

He can hear the shrieks of laughter from Lucas' son as the boy runs up and down the dock. A moment passes where he pictures having a son of his own to teach at the docks. But maybe that isn't the life for him.

He's been spending his nights at the castle, staying up to talk to you. The majority of the time, you both fall asleep together, either intertwined or just in each other's presence.

Mark doesn't want to admit that he's falling for you, because that would mean he's falling for the queen. And while that doesn't sound too bad, Mark wonders how much of his freedom he'll have to give up. He wonders if he'd have to pay a price to be officially wed to you, when he likes the way things are now. He likes just being around you, as a friend, safe at a distance.

But he can't deny that there are times when he would love to kiss you and touch you in ways friends are not supposed to. He tries to keep these thoughts buried with the rest of them. In the things-that-will-never-happen pile.

He wonders if you like him too, and just as much. You certainly seem to enjoy every moment you're with him, but you're also just a generally joyful person, so Mark isn't sure he could differentiate the two if he tried.

He focuses on the net, hoping to keep you out of his mind for at least a day.

The universe has other plans.

"Hey," you sit beside him. You wiggle your toes into the sand and grin at him. "Whatcha doing?"

"Working," Mark says, bumping his shoulder with yours. "I'm untangling nets."

Your face suddenly softens. "Are you going to get hurt again? Maybe you should wear gloves."

"I'm used to it," Mark says, shrugging off your worry. When he can sense that you aren't appeased, he swings his head to the side and gives you a long glance. "I'm serious."

You huff. "Just because you're used to it doesn't mean it has to keep happening."

In the end, you win. Mark begrudgingly puts on the pair of work gloves that you steal from Jaehyun. He has to admit that it feels a lot better, and he untangles the net a lot faster when he isn't trying to avoid getting any cuts. "Thanks, Y/n."

You grin. You follow him as he drags the net up to Jaehyun's boat and help him lay it out. Mark notices the bottom of your dress is soggy with whatever grossness dresses the dock. He also notices that you don't seem to mind, and you do your best to keep up with him as he works.

Eventually, the two of you get into a small rhythm of Mark briefly teaching you, and you picking up the trade rather easily. You help him pack bait, secure knots, and clean the deck of Jaehyun's ship.

By nightfall, the two of you are covered in a thin layer of sweat. Mark is suddenly extremely thankful that you've given him a room in the castle, and he can take a proper bath tonight.

Jaehyun and his brothers are going on a trip for a few weeks, so he won't have much to do on the docks as far as working goes. He wonders if he'll stay at the castle, or feel more comfortable by the sea.

Mark tucks the light brown cotton vest into his pants. It covers the white dress shirt he took out of the wardrobe, and matches the dark brown belt fastened around his waist. He slips his sock-clad feet into his worn leather boots. He sits on his bed and fastens the straps of the boots.

It's raining, hard. There's no way anyone is going down to the docks today, and since Jaehyun isn't going to be there anyway, Mark refuses to brave the harsh rain. Instead, he makes his way to your bedroom door and knocks.

You call for him to enter. He walks in to see you hunched over your writing desk, reading some kind of letter. Your eyebrows are knitted together and your lips are pursed. An upset sigh escapes them. "It's from my aunt."

"What does she want?" Mark takes slow, hesitant steps towards the desk. "Is it bad?"

You rub your temples, looking more stressed than Mark has ever seen. "She wants me to have an heir. A daughter. Which is fine, but I don't need one now. I'm young and I'm unmarried. But she's talking about sending a few suitors over."

Mark's blood runs cold. "Oh? Um, did you agree to it?"

"It wasn't a choice," you say, slamming the parchment down onto the desk. You reach up and grab fistfuls of your hair, resting your elbows on the wooden surface. "I just... I made so much progress, you know? And she assumes it's not enough. She assumes I'm nothing without an heir."

"What happens if you don't get married and have a daughter?" Mark asks, wincing more with every word.

You sigh. Your smile is extremely forced as you look at him. "Well, then she would have to take the throne, as apparently I wouldn't be fit enough to rule."

Mark can see the beginnings of tears in your eyes. "She can't do that, right? She can't keep you off the throne?"

"Technically, since she's the only female on my mom's side with a daughter of her own, she can." You begin to crumple up the letter. "She wouldn't be able to rule this country like I can. She won't have empathy for my people. She won't be gentle or kind. She won't throw parties for the lower class... Mark, what am I going to do?"

Mark wants to remind you that he is only a fisherman who has no idea how royalty works. However, all he can do is look into your eyes and realize that you're all alone. You're all alone and you're looking to him for help; for an anchor; for something to cling to so that you won't drown.

"Mark, please..." and immediately, he pulls you into his embrace. He tucks your head under his chin and holds you close, doing his best to still the violent shivers that run through your body. "I don't want to marry someone I don't love. I don't want to be forced into a union."

"Shh..." Mark runs his palms up and down your back. "We'll figure it out, right? You'll prove that you can rule without an heir, right?"

"I don't know," you sob into Mark's chest. "But I have to do it because she can't be on the throne. I won't do that to you. I can't. Not to my people—"

"Okay, okay, okay," Mark shushes you. "Alright. You do what you have to do. But tonight, let's just rest. Let's just pretend nothing is happening. Can we do that for tonight?"

You look at Mark and nod. You use the ends of your sleeve to wipe at your nose, leaving the skin red and raw. "Can you stay with me?"

Mark sits on your bed, and you crawl into his lap. He feels your forehead press against the side of his neck. Your hands clutch at his now-untucked shirt. You're still crying — he can feel a few stray tears slip beneath his collar — but you're quieter now. Your heart isn't racing as fast.

"Mark," you whisper, almost sleepily. "I love you."

Mark's breath hitches in his throat at your words. He finds that now he's the one with tears, pricking the back of his head like the painful reminder that this is all he'll ever be able to be to you. "I love you, too."

The rain continues to pour outside. Mark runs his fingers through your hair, and tells you quiet tales of the sea until you fall asleep, looking far too small and vulnerable in his arms.

He wonders just how much a queen has to sacrifice. He wonders if he would ever be able to steal the weight off of your shoulders.

For a quick moment, Mark closes his eyes and imagines a world where it's just the two of you, and you mean it when you say you love him. It's not just fever-fueled words.

He kisses the top of you head. "So much."

The coffee is bitter on your tongue, but it's a lot sweeter than your aunt's arrival.

She comes in a carriage far too large for a single person. Her dress is too thick for Ora's climate, and yet she walks with her head held high, as if she can't feel the drops of sweat along her hairline.

Her hair is hidden beneath a large bonnet made of wire and something else. The atrociousness of it all just makes you want to laugh. Though the reality of the situation isn't funny in the least.

Mark is at the docks today, but you take comfort in knowing that he's on your side. Part of you wishes he would confess to you, and the two of you could get married. Wouldn't that be everything you've ever wanted?

Mark is, however, your dearest friend, and you doubt his affections towards you are romantic. He's never really been that affectionate anyway, save when the two of you are sleeping.

Sometimes you wonder how it would feel if he just decided to kiss you one day. If he decided that he loved you, truly. That he is in love with you, and the two of you can carry on in life together.

That's another thing you despise about this decision. What will happen to you and Mark if you wed another? Surely you'll have to stop sleeping in each other's beds. You'll have to spend more time with your husband. The thought breaks your heart.

What a tender and vulnerable love you have for the fisherman at the docks. It's something no one could replace.

And that's when you decide to lie to your aunt. You can't stand a life without Mark. Not now. So you pretend you don't have to. "Actually, I'm betrothed to someone. His name is Mark."

Your aunt purses her lips. Her entire face is puckered like she just ate something sour, and yet she somehow still looks beautiful. It irks you. "Is he of noble birth?"

"No," you say, straightening your shoulders. "but that isn't important, is it?"

Your aunt meets your daring gaze. She sighs. "No, I suppose it doesn't. Will you have an heir, though?"

"I do hope you aren't suggesting infidelity before marriage," you quip.

Your aunt balks. "Now you're just putting words into my mouth, Y/n—"

"Your Majesty," you correct, clasping your hands together. "and I do believe I am asking the appropriate questions. You wanted me to get betrothed, and I am."

There's a fire in your aunt's eyes. She blinks, settles for a calculated grin, and leans on her palm. "Of course. I only think it's peculiar that your people do not know of the engagement yet. Are the two of you waiting to announce it?"

"Well..." You clench your fists beneath the table, "I have been waiting for the right time..."

"I will host a ball." If you didn't know any better, you'd say your aunt is calling your bluff. And if you say no, she's got you right where she wants you.

You aren't letting her have any say in ruling your people. "Wonderful! I'll tell Mark right away!"

The look on your aunt's face is almost enough to make up for the bile that creeps up your throat.

When Mark comes into his room that night, hair still wet from his bath, you're pacing back and forth in front of his bed.

You're already in your nightgown, and your hair is braided with that familiar seashell pendant tied to the bottom. "I did something bad."

Mark watches the way you take your ring on and off of your finger. "I'm sure it's not that bad, right?"

You stop and face him. "We're getting married, Mark."

The air knocks out of his lungs, and he feels as if someone just punched him in the gut. He clears his throat; blinks. "Pardon?"

You laugh incredulously. "I just– she was getting under my skin, and I thought about how if I get married, we won't be the same, and I couldn't let that be a reality, so I just blurted it out thinking she'd drop it but now she wants to throw a ball and announce it to the people and I can't say no because she'll call my bluff—" you pause to take a deep breath. "Mark, I'm so sorry."

Mark thinks the worst part of this entire ordeal must be you thinking he wouldn't want to marry you. He wants to know when his life got so confusing. He manages a smile. "I guess I should learn how to dance, then, huh?"

"Yeah," you manage a giggle, the worry lines evening out in your forehead. "Yeah, but I can teach you."

"Good," Mark says, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. He wonders if you'd be opposed to this being a real thing. He's too much of a coward to ask. "Good."

You've figured out why Mark tied the knots so many times that he received blisters, and why he's always the last one to leave the docks. He's a perfectionist, and he needs everything he does to be done without a single flaw.

This is what it feels like teaching him how to dance. The two of you repeat the same routine over and over again, sometimes seriously, and other times with laughter stopping you in the middle. But each time, Mark insists that he made a mistake. No matter how many times you assure him that he's perfect, he asks to try again.

In the end, it's nearly midnight when he feels somewhat satisfied. The two of you are just swaying back and forth, letting the rest of the record play on. "Are you always so diligent in your tasks?" you ask.

Mark laughs nervously, his shoulders tensing as he shrugs. "I don't like making mistakes."

"You make a lot of them to get where you are, though," you remind him. "You're determined, I'll give you that."

"You have to remember that I'm going to be dancing with the queen in front of everyone," Mark says, eyes searching yours. "They're going to be waiting for me to make a mistake."

"Maybe my aunt," you stick your tongue out in disgust, "but her opinion doesn't matter. As long as we get her out of here, everything can go back to normal."

Mark focuses on your intertwined fingers. He looks solemn, his doe eyes peering. "What exactly is normal? I mean, after we announce a marriage, we can't just take it back. The people will think you're impulsive. It'll ruin your reputation."

Part of you wishes you were back on the docks, the night of that party, meeting Mark for the first time. You still feel the same way; enamored with the innocence of him. An innocence you're ruining with your royal blood. "I don't know, Mark. But I got us in this mess, so I'll deal with the consequences. If you need to break it, I'll help you leave."

Mark dips down and presses his forehead against yours. "Would it be so crazy if we got married for real? Would it be much different than what we're doing now?"

You feel heat rush to your face. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears like the sound of a bongo drum. "I suppose married people do a bit more," you manage to joke.

Mark laughs; shakes his head, and with his face this close, his eyes look like little galaxies. "I mean it. I'm all in if you are."

You nod, liking the way your nose brushes against his. "I want to marry you, Mark."

The night comes and goes; a huge celebration not unlike the one you threw so many months ago.

When it's over, you feel relieved and happy. Your aunt is leaving in the morning, and you're going to marry your best friend. It's sort of a blessing in disguise.

You take off your sandals and get dressed in your pajamas. You step out onto your balcony and feel the wind hit your skin. You sigh. Nothing feels easy anymore, and every decision seems out of your hands. It's enough to make anyone mad, but you hope to hold on to the blessings you've been given.

Specifically, Mark.

You head into his room, hoping to sneak under his covers as usual. Instead of a ready-for-bed Mark, you're greeted with a shirtless Mark.

Time seems frozen as you realize he's just unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it upwards, so that his pants and cummerbund are still intact. He unties the thick sash, and when it falls, you can see the lean outline of his abdomen.

You blink. "Um. Hi."

"Oh!" Mark covers his chest with his hands, which would be quite comical if it weren't for the already-thick tension in the air.

You grab a shirt off of his desk chair and walk over to him. "Here."

Mark's fingers brush against yours when he takes the shirt. Heat radiates off of his naked torso, and you wish he would just put on the stupid shirt already so you can stop thinking things you aren't supposed to think.

Maybe Mark knows what you're thinking. Maybe he's punishing you for getting him into this mess. Whatever the reason, his expression shifts. He takes on a devilish grin and hands the shirt back to you. "Actually, I'm going to keep it off. It's kind of hot in here, isn't it?"

Because he's half naked, you want to scream in frustration. Mark has always been extremely handsome, with his wavy black hair and brown doe eyes. And of course, you've always been curious about what he hides under his shirts, but right now you can't stop staring at him, and things aren't going as you planned at all.

"Should we–" you clear your throat. "Should we sleep?"

Mark hums. He leans his shoulder against the bedpost and looks you up and down, slowly enough for the tension to charge. "Alright," he says abruptly. "Goodnight."

You burrow under the covers and decide not to ever come out again.

The tension is extremely palpable. It feels like a coil, wrapped around the two of you. Neither of you know when, or even if, it's gonna snap.

Mark has tried to focus on his work at the docks, but then Jaehyun is congratulating him, and he's reminded of everything all over again. He wants to ask Jaehyun for help, but he knows he'll sound crazy if he asks how to win his betrothed's heart.

So he tries to do it himself. He attempts to read your expressions when he talks to you for any indication that you're falling in love with him.

Because tension or not, he can't do this if your feelings aren't real. He can't put his heart on the line like that.

Right now, you're safe. Even if the two of you get married, it's still a friend thing. No lines have been crossed, and Mark is afraid that's going to change soon.

But what if it's for all of the wrong reasons?

He ends up sitting on his windowsill, eyeing the lighthouse beam as it shines over the calm sea. He unhinges the latch and opens the window, allowing the ocean air to fill his senses. It's been so long since he sailed away on his boat. Everything has changed.

Mark lets his head fall back against the wall. He closes his eyes tightly and emits a frustrated sigh. Maybe he should just tell you. Maybe it's time to put everything on the line, and if you get weirded out, he can just leave on his sailboat again. Right?

He chuckles to himself. Truthfully, when it comes down to it, he wouldn't change a thing about his predicament. He's thankful for your friendship and love, and he's content enough. After all, your happiness comes first.

You storm in, startling him out of his thoughts. "Someone destroyed the memorial," you say, eyes red from apparent tears.

"What?" Mark manages to stand up. "Who would do that? Why?"

"Noble rebels who don't want me marrying a man of lower class," you hiss, rubbing at your nose. "As if any of that matters when I'm in love with you."

Mark's heart stutters in his chest. Did he hear you correctly? "We— Uh— What do we do?"

"Ugh, nothing," you groan. "Not tonight. Tomorrow I'll address everyone and we'll begin looking for suspects. I'm just... I don't want anyone against us."

"Your aunt is against us," Mark points out.

"Screw her," you mutter. "I wish people saw you the way I did. They wouldn't doubt my decision for a second."

Mark stills when you close the distance with him and rest your palms against his chest. "W-What are you doing?"

"I mentioned that I'm in love with you and you haven't said anything. Does that mean you want to forget it?" A pout forms on your lips, and it takes everything within Mark not to just kiss it off right then and there.

Instead, like an idiot, he stumbles over his words. "I... uh... well..."

"What?" Your eyes are wide and beautiful, but Mark can see the hesitancy in them.

He can see the vulnerability and nakedness. He can feel the coil in his stomach warm when he finally finds his voice. "I've been in love with you since the blisters."

"Ew," you giggle. But still, you drag Mark's face down to meet your own.

He feels your lips on his before he can actually register what's happening. Once his brain catches up, he furrows his brows, determined to give you the best kiss you've ever had.

He cups your jaw and tilts your head just slightly, allowing him better access to your mouth. He feels your fingers trail down his chest and rest atop his hips. The coil in his stomach burns hot, and when you gasp against his mouth, it snaps.

He takes your bottom lip between his teeth and drags it out, ears ringing at the way you whine his name and clutch his hips more tightly than before. He chuckles and goes back to slower, sensual kisses, focusing on the way you feel and taste and sound. When you smile against his lips, he thinks he's found true freedom.

#freedom au #<if i start a series idk #mark lee fluff #mark lee angst #mark lee scenario #nct fluff #nct angst #nct scenario #destwrites #i feel like this doesn’t make any sense BUT i’m getting back into writing scenarios i’ll be better soon!

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