#trickedd are becoming Friends y'al!

[loopyhoopywrites]

It’s fake dating time, y’all!

In which Trickster makes the most of their fake marriage, and Llanedd starts to have fun.

Their plan to ‘case the joint’, as Trickster had so eloquently put it, had been halted in its tracks before it had even gotten off the ground, derailed by the first of what would turn out to be many bored guests who – here to be seen rather than out of any genuine May Day enthusiasm –immediately gravitated to anything, or anyone, new. Whilst the questions had innocently started at ‘So, where do the Gilwynnes hail from?’, they’d then proceeded to linger for a while in ‘Exactly how much land do you own?’, spent an uncomfortably long time in ‘Do the two of you plan on having children, you’d make such adorable offspring?’, and eventually spiralled into ‘Won’t you please tell us every single juicy and/or embarrassing detail about your definitely-not-fake relationship?’.

Happy to stand back and let Trickster take the reins whilst they stood back and tried to look down their nose at people, Llanedd found – despite their moral objections – that for once they were glad Trickster was such an exceptional liar. And as it turned out, not only was Trickster an exceptional liar, he was also an inventive one.

“My darling spouse only recently inherited their title,” Trickster told a gentleman sporting the longest moustache Llanedd had ever seen, “from their mother, who was tragically killed in an unfortunate trouser press accident.”

Llanedd, whose mother was very much still alive and well and had never used a trouser press in her life, covered their snort of laughter with a cough. Trickster winked at them when the gentleman wasn’t looking, taking Llanedd’s accidental amusement as the only encouragement he needed.

“Oh, it was so romantic,” he gushed to a middle-aged woman carrying a tiny three-headed puppy in her handbag. “My little sugarplum got down on one knee right in the middle of our estate being burglarised. The dastardly thief was so moved by my snugglebug’s interpretive dance that she immediately gave up her life of crime and devoted herself to teaching homeless orphans how to tango.”

“Eight wonderful years next month,” he rhapsodized to a young duke in an eyesore of a suit that rivalled Llanedd’s dress in terms of ugliness. “Alas, we spent three of them cruelly torn apart by the brutal and terrifying Flutterby Wars, my poor Alvehz still has the most terrible nightmares, but we wouldn’t change a single day. Isn’t that right, my beautiful butterbean?”

With each person that asked, Trickster’s response grew more and more elaborate. Yet, somehow, his audiences were lapping it up. Llanedd would have even sworn they saw one noble shed a tear as Trickster recounted the story of how they’d met, which apparently included a mob of nine-foot tall bananas, three and a half dragons, and a barrage of corrupt suitors who’d cornered Trickster in a dramatic duel to the death. Llanedd, predictably, was cast as the damsel-in-distress.

It slowly began to dawn on Llanedd that these people were so far removed from reality that ‘Lairde and Lady Gilwynne’ could say absolutely anything and their gossip-hungry audience wouldn’t even think to question it. Perhaps things like that did happen in these sorts of circles, who knew? Either way, now fairly confident they weren’t suddenly about to be discovered as fakes and thrown into the duke’s dungeons to rot, Llanedd couldn’t help but seize the opportunity for a little revenge.

“Oh, we would love to,” Llanedd said the next time one of them had the gall to ask if they were thinking of ‘starting a family’, “but I’m afraid my darling Bephanie has the most awful allergy to children. Contact with anyone under the age of fourteen sends him breaking out into hives, it’s so sad.”