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Post by Elcie on Jun 11, 2015 15:36:55 GMT -5
This is a place for us to post our Courdon-centric fics that don't directly have to do with the revolution (mostly taking place before or after). Homecoming - January 1349 Several years after the end of the slave rebellion, Cassian Alaric takes the throne. He decides to return royal titles to his half-brother Gerard, who has been living in Kyth with his wife Muriel. Gerard and Muriel journey to the royal palace in Rakine, not quite sure what to expect from the brother Gerard hasn't seen in years.“They should be here by now.”
King Cassian Alaric cast his eyes toward the ceiling, as if he could somehow see through the roof of the throne room and into the sky where his brother and sister-in-law would soon arrive by gryphon. Clad in full red-and-gold ceremonial attire, heavy and stiff with embroidery and gold braid, Cassian cut an impressive figure, but the jewels and silks couldn’t hide his nervous frown.
He still couldn’t quite fathom that Gerard was coming here. Cassian hadn’t seen his half-brother since he had fled the palace to join the rebellion, all those years ago; there’d been a time when he was frankly glad to be rid of him. But things were different now with Oliver gone, and he had decided to reach out to his lost brother to offer him back his title.
He’d been surprised, and terrified, and fiercely glad when Gerard had accepted.
Now he paced. His wife, Melisande, looked up from soothing their fretful youngest child, still small enough to nestle in her arms. “Calm down,” she said quietly. “You’ll wear yourself out. They’ll be here soon, I’m sure of it.”
“But if anything’s gone wrong…” Cassian clenched his teeth, mentally running down the orders he’d given his guards. An escort was to meet Gerard’s family at the border, and would carry them by gryphon to the capital to ease their journey. But perhaps his timing had been off? Perhaps it took longer than he remembered to reach the border from Medieville - or shorter? Oh gods, maybe they’d been at the border days ago and no one had shown up to meet them--
Gently Mel put a hand on his shoulder. “Cass. It will be okay.”
He glanced at her, fear briefly stealing into his blue-green eyes. “It’s been years, Mel, what if--”
But his fears were forestalled by the arrival of a guard at the door, bowing deeply. “My king, your brother has arrived.”
Cassian’s back went straight. “Show him in!” he said, glancing down the line of his own family. His children, standing more or less in a row. His heir, seven-year-old Titus, was slouching with boredom, and Cassian took hold of his shoulders. “Stand up straight,” he said. “Rhia, straighten your brooch. Mel--”
She squeezed his shoulder bracingly. “It will be fine,” she murmured, as the doors swung open.
If the king’s family was dressed to a polish, the ragtag group standing on the other side of the doors was most certainly not. Comprised of a man, a woman, and four young girls-- the oldest of them no more than nine or ten-- the exhaustion that permeated them was immediately evident. It wasn’t just apparent in the bags beneath their eyes or the marked slump to their postures, but in every facet of their being: their rumpled clothes, their wind-whipped hair, even the subtle way the children almost clung to the adults as if they were awake a long way past their bedtime.
As the royal family apprised him, the man amid the group turned with a sigh toward the woman close at his side, shifting the dark-haired toddler who was nestled in his arms as he did. “Don’t be nervous,” he murmured into the woman’s ear. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
Muriel stared warily at the lavishly dressed royal family. “Are we supposed to bow? Or… kneel?” she muttered to him. “I was expecting…” She trailed off, and shook her head. “I don’t know, but not this.”
Fortunately, this decision was forestalled when Cassian himself made the first move. Breaking ranks from his family, the king stepped forward, smiling broadly. “Gerard, brother! How good it is to see you.” Approaching him with arms outstretched, Cassian seemed about to embrace the man, only to shift at the last moment to clasp his hand-- a gesture that caused Gerard to bobble the toddler in his arms as he hurried to clasp Cassian’s hand in return. “I’m glad you’re here,” Cassian said, and turned to look at Muriel. “And… this is your lovely wife? Mariel?”
“Muriel,” she corrected, smiling thinly. “It’s… a pleasure, your majesty.” Her Low Courdonian speech stood out strikingly against the king’s high dialect, made all the more unusual by her distinctive Kythian accent. It seemed to give Cassian pause, but he made no comment on it, recovering quickly and giving Muriel a nod of acknowledgement.
“It’s good to see you again, your majesty,” Gerard said, hushing the toddler as she let out a small whimper and, at the stranger’s close proximity, attempted to burrow deeper into his hold. “It’s been far too long.” His eyes fell to the careful assemblage of Cassian’s wife and children. “My queen,” he greeted Melisande. “You look resplendent-- and gods, is that Rhiannon? She’s grown to be so big. She wasn’t much older than the one in your arms the last time I saw her.”
Mel smiled graciously, inclining her head. “Say hello to your uncle Gerard, Rhia,” she said.
“H-hello,” Rhiannon said uncertainly, and delivered a curtsy.
“Yes, you know my oldest, of course,” Cassian said, striding back over to join his family. “This is my oldest boy, Titus… Bryony, Markus… and little Gabriel, our youngest.” There was an almost practiced air to Cassian’s speech, as if this was exactly how he would present his children to a favored enki during a diplomatic visit. “And my beautiful queen, Melisande.” He put an arm around her waist and Melisande smiled again, leaning in towards him.
“I think this may be a little much for Gerard’s little ones,” she whispered, taking advantage of the opportunity. “They look exhausted.”
Not hearing Melisande’s comment, Gerard smiled tersely at the king, dipping his head into a brief, polite bow. “A fine family, indeed,” he said. “And we’re so grateful that you’ve received us.” The toddler once again squirmed, and Gerard gritted his teeth as he sought to still her. “This ah… well, Muriel’s already introduced herself, but the girls… well…”
“Papa,” the toddler whined suddenly, her voice cutting into his. “I want Mama.”
Gerard grimaced and patted her gently on the back, the smile still frozen between his lips. “Mama’s holding the baby, Amalia,” he said gently.
“Mama hold me,” the girl insisted.
Muriel sighed, shifting the baby in her arms so she could reach out and give the girl a brief, reassuring touch. “I’m right here, sweetheart,” she said. “Your majesty, ah… our children, Aislin, Corbin, Amalia, and Elodie.” The introduction was unashamedly rushed, which may have had something to do with the fact that Elodie was starting to fret in Muriel’s arms. “I apologize… we’ve had a long day, the children are tired and we all probably need something to eat. So--”
Gerard gawped at his wife as she, for all intents and purposes, blew off the king. “Um-- Muriel,” he started, before looking back toward Cassian with a too-bright, “We mean no offence, of course, your majesty; we’re so very honoured that you’d greet us so… grandly.”
“Papa.” The willowy strawberry blonde girl standing next to Muriel frowned at Gerard as she pressed a cheek against her mother’s sleeve. “Mama’s right. We’re hungry.”
“Aislin.” He outwardly winced. “Don’t forget your manners, please--”
“Oh- oh, of course, I imagine you must be weary from the journey,” Cassian said quickly. “But I imagine the banquet will be ready by now, and just in time, by the sound of it.” He smiled at them, clearly pleased; no one could have guessed how anxious the King of Courdon was in that moment, hoping everything would go according to plan.
“Banquet?” Gerard asked, freezing. “You-- you’ve prepared a banquet? At this time of night…?”
“Of course, I--” Cassian’s smile faltered slightly. “I… wanted to be sure you were greeted with all the honor a prince of Courdon deserves.” He was, he’d reasoned, not merely greeting the brother he hadn’t seen in years, but welcoming royalty back to his rightful place. The fact that Gerard didn’t seem to have expected this threw Cassian off balance. “So I had intended for you and your family to sit and dine at the high table with us…”
“That’s… very…” Gerard forced his wits back to him, fighting to keep his voice from betraying the dread that filled him as he said, “You’re very thoughtful, your majesty. A banquet is… is…”
“Is a banquet like a party?” Aislin asked, still adhered to Muriel’s side like a fish to a hook.
“A bit,” Gerard agreed, shifting again as Amalia continued to squirm in his arms, the toddler’s patience for the exchange quickly wearing thin.
“But… I don’t want a party.” Aislin balked, her lip suddenly trembling. “I-- I’m tired and I just want soup, or… or--”
“Manners, please,” the prince reminded-- again. Gods, this was not going well.
“Well, I’m certain they will feel better after a good meal,” Cassian said, more brightly than he felt. He didn’t have to look at Melisande to know that her expression was slowly freezing into that polite, demure smile that hid her firm disapproval. And Amalia was not the only child losing her patience; Titus abruptly slumped against his mother’s skirts, and Cassian had to take hold of his shoulder to coax the boy upright again.
Muriel couldn’t help but note the young prince’s impatience with grim amusement as she reached down to smooth back Aislin’s hair. “It won’t be long,” she said softly. “There will be soup, and some good things to eat, and soon we can go to our quarters and rest, all right?” Her eyes flicked back up to Cassian on those last words, as if daring him to contradict what she’d told her daughter.
“But I told you, I don’t want to go to a party--” the girl started, looking close to tears.
“Aislin, please.” Gerard forced an apologetic smile toward his brother, his voice dripping with forced goodwill as he said, “Shall we head to the great hall then, your majesty? We wouldn’t want the food to get cold.”
Cassian led the way to the great hall, which was resplendent with fine tapestries along the walls, rich red and gold carpets, and a positively lavish spread of food. Privately the king was beginning to question his decision to serve multiple full courses, but there was no backing out now. He could only guide his brother’s family to the high table, beaming with pride as he ushered Gerard into a place of honor at his right hand.
“The bread of my table is yours, brother,” Cassian said. It was, perhaps, more formal a greeting than would have passed between most siblings, but there was no denying the honor that carried coming from the king.
“Thank you for your generosity, my king,” Gerard replied, settling Amalia in the chair beside him as he took the revered seat beside his brother.
Within moments of the two families sitting down, servants hurried out from the wings with platters in arm and began serving the boisterous room. Cassian had, Gerard noted, seemed to have spared no expense-- or invitation; the grand hall was bursting not with just musicians and entertainers, but the who’s-who of Rakine’s well-to-do: barons, lords, merchants dressed in rich, colorful silks, all of them eyeing Gerard’s family with something between curiosity and suspicion. The second eldest prince of Courdon rather felt like a dressed bird-- plucked bare of his feathers and then laid out for all to see. Gods, how long had it been since he’d attended a banquet like this? It seemed like an entire lifetime ago, the activity of the silly boy he had been, rather than the man he’d since turned into.
His throat was hard as he exchanged a look with Muriel, seated several chairs down from him. “Pickled quail,” he mouthed to her, as a plate of just that was slid before the high table’s occupants. It was a decadent dish-- and decidedly Courdonian, with the small, carefully cooked bird bathed in a cream sauce so thick it might have needed cutting with a knife.
“How… nice,” Muriel managed, and found herself instinctively looking to her oldest with the distinct sense that they were at risk of causing an unpleasant scene. Several seats down from her, Cassian was happily oblivious, prattling on to his brother about the chef they had hired and his exquisite talents.
As Gerard listened politely to his brother’s boasting, Aislin, seated between her younger sister Corbin and Muriel, stared with something near horror down at her plate. Prodding at the dish with the tip of her knife, she whispered to Muriel, “It’s got wings.”
“I know,” Muriel whispered back. “Try to be nice, your uncle… ah, the king… went to all this trouble. Want me to cut it up for you?” When Aislin nodded mutely, Muriel leaned over with her own knife and fork and attempted to surreptitiously cut the quail into pieces that the girl could stomach. It was not as surreptitious as Muriel had hoped, partially due to the fact that Elodie was still seated on her lap and had to be balanced precariously in the crook of the woman’s arm. She could feel the stares from a couple of noblewomen who had noticed her. Oh, ‘Woo, as long as the king doesn’t look over here.
Cassian didn’t, but Gerard stole a glance at his wife and could only barely tamp back a devilish grin as he watched her hacking at the bird as a one-armed soldier might whack at a practice dummy. With the wings shorn, Aislin prodded once again at the unfamiliar dish, shifting the pieces around on the plate.
“I can still see the wings, Mama,” she murmured. “And… you said I could have soup.”
“Soup?” This was Corbin, the red-haired girl’s head whipping toward her mother and sister. “I want soup. This tastes like feet.”
Her voice a shade too loud, Gerard instantly turned again to his wife and children. Mouth open in horror, he stammered half to Corbin and half to Cassian, “This quail is lovely, honey. A traditional Courdonian dish, you know.”
“But it has wings,” Aislin rejoindered, her tones growing shrill. “Papa, you and Mama said I could have soup, and instead it’s got wings--”
“Shh, sweetheart, don’t be rude,” Muriel said hastily, her own voice somewhat louder than she’d intended. “Just - just a couple bites, to be polite to your uncle? We can have soup later… maybe…” She hoped. ‘Woo, was there anything in Rakine that the girls would be willing to touch? She cast Gerard a slightly desperate look, and tried - mostly unsuccessfully - to mask it with a smile.
Cassian, down the table, was gradually becoming aware of the commotion among his brother’s children, and realized he did not quite know where to look. He hadn’t realized that their tastes would be quite so… Kythian. Did his chefs even know how to make Kythian food? But he couldn’t very well serve that at court, it was so plain… Not knowing what else to do, he smiled brightly at Gerard and pushed a small serving bowl his way. “Ah- try the sauce, as well, it’s exquisite.” He wasn’t looking at Melisande, but he could swear that he felt her gaze boring into him from his other side. He had to salvage this somehow.
Gerard obediently took the sauce dish, ladeling a healthy serving onto his already-coated quail. “Exquisite,” he agreed as he took a small bite. “What’s that in it-- saffron? Or is it nutmeg or...”
The prince’s voice fell as he noticed servants sweeping back out from the wings, their footsteps echoing against the grand hall’s marble floors as they carefully transported the meal’s second course. It was so intricate as to require them to move in pairs, one each clutching to either end of oblong silver platters, atop which rested...
The moment Gerard registered what, exactly, topped the platters, the man flinched like he’d been struck. He turned sharply toward Aislin and Muriel and opened his lips to speak, but before he could, his eldest child let out a sound that was halfway between a squawk and a cry as she, too, realized what the servants were carrying.
“Mummy.” Her green eyes went nearly as wide as the platters. “Are those… are those baby pigs?” Her voice growing more frantic, Aislin added, “Why’re they carrying dead baby pigs?”
“Shhh!” Muriel tried to hush her out of reflex, but she knew already that the damage was already done. “It’s- ah - you don’t have to eat any, just wait for the next-- just try to be polite, Aislin, please, we don’t want to offend your uncle or the nice servants who made this for us…” At this point, she was frankly not all that keen on sparing Cassian’s feelings, and it was only the thought of Gerard’s horror that prevented her from taking any further action. He was trying, and so should she, but then again he wasn’t the one sitting beside Aislin having to prevent her from making a scene. She shot him another harassed look, even more poorly disguised than the first.
He returned Muriel’s look with an apologetic grin of his own, but was only barely able to veil his sense of dread as several of the platters-- indeed featuring roast suckling pig, the eyes replaced by glinting marble likenesses and the bodies dressed by a tomato-based sauce that was, perhaps crudely, red as blood-- were set upon the high table.
“Ash,” he said gently, “you’ll be fine. You don’t need to eat it. But you do need to sit politely as everyone else dines. I don’t want any more whining out of you, do you understand?”
“They’re staring at me,” she responded simply, tears pricking in her eyes. “I just-- I just… first there were wings, and now the pigs are staring at me, and I…”
“He’s not staring at you, those are just glass,” offered Corbin, the younger girl studying the glass-eyed pigs with something between delight and morbid curiosity. Turning to face Muriel, she added brightly, “Mama, do they serve the real eyes next?”
“Corbin,” Muriel said sharply. “Not now.” With some difficulty she reached a hand out to pat Aislin’s shoulder; Elodie, catching on to her sister’s agitation and Muriel’s stress, was beginning to squirm fretfully in her mother’s lap. “Be brave, Ash, I know you can do it. They’ll be gone soon, and…” She trailed off weakly, finding herself completely unable to promise that the next course would be less outlandish.
Aislin, however, seemed beyond consolation. As she watched a servant carve into the pig closest to her, the girl’s lip quivered, and she abruptly stood. Nearly getting tangled in the ornate tablecloth that dressed the high table, she shoved her chair back, her voice at once wavering and defiant as she said, “I’m going home. I don’t like it here.”
“Aislin!” Gerard snapped at her in horror, as his eldest child then turned as though to leave the table. Looking to Muriel, he added, “Stop her, please.”
Muriel’s hand shot out to grab Aislin’s arm. “Sit down, Ash,” she said, her voice now more pleading than scolding. “You cannot just get up and leave!”
Near panicking internally now, Cassian reached out and pulled aside one of the servants. “Dessert,” he said tersely. “As soon as possible.”
The servant stared at him, bewildered. “B-but your majesty, we’ve three more courses prepared--”
“I know. Skip them. I’ll-- figure out what to do with the rest of the food later, just--”
Perhaps unnerved by the agitation in Cassian’s eye, the servant stepped back and bowed low. “At once, your majesty,” he said quickly, and hurried off.
Melisande took another small bite of her suckling pig, eyes cast demurely toward the table. She only glanced up at Cassian briefly, but the exasperation he saw there made him cringe inwardly.
“I’m… sorry,” Cassian said to his brother, belatedly realizing that Gerard must have heard at least some of his frantic exchange with the servant. “A full banquet would have been appropriate for the occasion of your return, of course, but…”
“You don’t need to worry about impressing me, Cassian,” Gerard said softly, for the first time calling his brother by his given name rather than his honorific. As Muriel pulled Aislin back down into the chair, the prince-- almost impulsively-- reached out and set a hand on the king’s arm. “There will be time for banquets,” he went on. “All the time we could ever need. Don’t worry so much, okay?”
Surprised, Cassian met his eyes, and then gave a small, rueful smile - an expression that looked far more genuine than the bright, animated facade he’d worn earlier. “I, ah… thank you,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I… overdid it. But I wanted to make it quite clear you are welcomed and honored here.”
“Point well made,” Gerard said dryly, a note of humour creeping into his tone as he added, “But suckling pig, Cass? Marinated in red sauce?” His eye fell to young Bryony, who looked nearly as enthused about the dish as had Aislin, the child’s face painted with an impassive scowl. “Even we would have been horrified by it at the kids’ ages.”
Not, of course, that Cassian or Gerard would have ever dared express such horror aloud. With Oliver watching, such a thing would have only ended painfully for both of them, and as Gerard seemed to realize this, he sighed. All these years apart from his brother had done nothing to erase their shared, twisted childhoods, nor to vanquish the dark memories that flickered in them both.
“Please just tell me dessert isn’t jellied figs?” he asked, awkwardly shifting the topic. “I don’t think Ash can handle anything that jiggles right now.”
The corner of Cassian’s mouth twitched. “Cream custard,” he corrected. “Thank the gods I decided against anything jellied.”
He’d called him Cass. No one here used that nickname except Mel, and as Cassian smiled with his brother over his selection of desserts it hit him suddenly how very strange this felt. To simply speak with his brother normally, as peers - as if they hadn’t spent a majority of their childhood guarded, on edge, as if Cassian himself had not taken on the task of extending their father’s cruelty to Gerard.
He looked away as servants arrived with the dessert, an impressively towering concoction of fruit and cream. It made a welcome distraction from his own thoughts. “Have your girls ever tried passionfruit?” he said. “I understand it’s more difficult to get up north.”
“They haven’t ever had it, no,” Gerard replied, before calling over to Aislin, “It’s good, sweetheart. Please try it before you balk?”
Aislin frowned, prodding at the dessert with the tines of her fork for a moment before she dared to take a bite. Gerard fought back a cringe, half-expecting her to spit it right back out, but the girl merely swallowed it with a grudging shrug of acceptance and then moved in for another mouthful. Thank the gods, the prince thought.
“She’ll get used to the food, I hope,” Gerard said softly, to Cassian. “Kythian food is much… simpler, I think, and up there we didn’t have the budget for the fancier stuff, anyway.” He sighed. “Corbin’s adventurous, at least… in every meaning of the word. But Ash, she’s… she’s…”
His voice trailed off as he studied the girl: so much fairer of complexion than were Corbin, Amalia, or Elodie, her hair a pale, strawberry blonde and her eyes the distinctive green often found in the ranks of the Alaric family. She resembled Cassian here and there-- in the sweep of her brow, the curve of her jaw, the honeyed bronze of her skin-- but compared to Gerard and Muriel, she might have been a stranger. Gerard knew full and well what it had meant for Cassian to take the leap and agree to title her in his court alongside Gerard and Muriel’s natural daughters. What biases and ideals it had required him to overcome, in an effort to demonstrate to Gerard that he had changed, that he had matured, that he wasn’t just the cruel, spoiled crown prince Gerard remembered from his youth.
“She’s a good girl, Cass,” Gerard continued, his voice so faint that his words were clearly intended only for his brother’s ears. “I know she’s not made the best impression thus far, but… she won’t cause any problems. I think you’ll like her, really.” He paused. “She’s not… she’s not like him.”
Cassian, too, found that his gaze had drifted over to Gerard’s eldest daughter. His first thought, seeing her blonde hair and the shape of her face, was how remarkably she resembled his brother Matteus.
And Mattie had always been the spitting image of their father.
“No, I… I’m sure you and your wife have raised her well,” Cassian murmured. “My Rhia is about her age… perhaps they will get along.”
He paused, looking back to his brother with his brow slightly furrowed. “When I heard that you had adopted her… who she was…” Cassian trailed off. He could not quite give words to the truth; it was easier to think of her as his niece. “But I’m… glad, Gerard, truly. She will have the upbringing that any child of House Alaric deserves to have.”
“She doesn’t know,” Gerard murmured, watching almost forlornly as Aislin continued devouring the creamed custard. “Not yet. I mean, she’s aware that Muriel and I aren’t her natural parents, and that I’m her big brother, but beyond that…” The prince sighed. “It means a lot, Cassian. For you to include her in… this. Thank you for it.”
Cassian had to look away, returning his gaze to Aislin again. “Yes, well… I haven’t always done right by my siblings, have I,” he said, his voice very quiet. “It’s long since time I corrected that.”
At this, Gerard couldn’t help but smirk. “How is Matteus enjoying his castle, by the way? Awfully lofty correction, that one. Although at least Mum’s probably happy, that one of her boys can carry on the Duval name and Jisam won’t fall into ruin.” He paused, sobering. “She does mean to see me, doesn’t she? I mean, I can understand why she’d not want be involved in this… lovely… banquet, but eventually…” His voice trailed off, as though he was considering for the first time the prospect that his mother didn’t intend to see him or his family-- not now and not ever.
The king sighed. “Mother is…” He hesitated. “I’m - I’m sure she will see you. When it’s… on her own terms. You know how she is.” Cassian stared down at his custard, mouth twisted slightly. “She barely reacted when I told her you were coming, only nodded and thanked me for the information as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. How she actually feels, she… hasn’t said.” He shook his head. “But then, I was never as close to her as the girls and Mattie. She doesn’t share these things.”
Gerard gave a short, knowing nod, a hitch to his voice as he leaned in closer to Cassian and said at hardly more than a whisper, “Has she been… okay, Cass? Since Father, well…”
Since his father what? Gerard couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. He’d heard of Oliver’s death a year and a half ago in Medieville, but beyond the plain fact that Oliver was dead, Gerard knew little else of it. So far north, details had been sparse and apocryphal, more rumor than anything else, and Gerard hadn’t known what to believe. Depending on the source, either his father had taken sick, or fallen off a horse, or killed himself in despair over losing the war. Or maybe, some of the more salacious murmurs went, he’d been murdered his own court. By his own kin.
Suddenly regretting that he’d brought Oliver’s death up so abruptly, Gerard shifted in his chair. “Sorry,” he said to his brother. “I didn’t mean to, well… ”
Cassian shook his head, looking pensive. “No,” he said. “It’s…” He trailed off. This was not the place to have this conversation, even assuming he was certain he wanted to explain things to Gerard. Has she been… okay? The question conjured up not images of the funeral, or the days after, when Zaria had worn the appropriate mourning garb and secluded herself in her chambers… instead he found himself remembering that night. How she had locked eyes with her husband and coolly, deliberately smiled.
“...Mother is fine,” he said finally, unable to think of a better response despite the fact that the statement explained precisely nothing. “We’ve… well, we’ve managed.” The half-shrug that accompanied this statement was perhaps too casual, but he’d long since shied away from showing much emotion about his father in public. His anger was still too close to the surface, his grief too transparently false.
“I’m… glad to hear,” Gerard said, though now the prince was frowning.
As the servants returned from the wings to bring out a second dessert dish-- ginger cake, as was traditional to close out a formal banquet of the court-- he turned away from his brother and back toward Muriel, wondering how much she’d overheard… and, more acutely, hoping that she’d not picked up on the terse, unspoken themes underlying the latter part of his and his brother’s conversation.
“How’s the custard, Muri?” he asked her with a forced smile. Gesturing toward Aislin’s nearly empty chalice, he added, “At least we know there are some Courdonian foods Ash doesn’t hate, huh?”
Muriel sighed. “Yes, thank ‘Woo,” she said. “Custard for dinner… well, it’s better than her eating nothing.” Leaning a little closer to him, she added in a lowered voice, “Did he say how much longer? The girls may be fine now, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. They need sleep.”
“That”-- Gerard pointed down as the servants lifted the custard chalices and placed the plates of ginger cake in their stead-- “is always the last course. So, not much longer.” So that his brother couldn’t hear, he leaned across Amalia and cheekily whispered into his wife’s ear, “As long as Cass doesn’t decide we need a grand tour of the palace, that is.”
Muriel turned her eyes skyward. “‘Woo preserve us,” she muttered. She smoothed down Elodie’s hair; the little girl was getting sleepy, beginning to nod off against Muriel’s chest.
The next seat over, Aislin’s streak of enjoying Courdonian food had ended at one; after one small bite of ginger cake, a look of disgust flashed across her face. Fortunately, the girl didn’t make a break for the exit this time, rather sitting quietly (though sullenly) as the rest of the banquet’s attendees finished off their meals.
As the banquet wound down, Cassian turned to his brother. “Might I show you to your quarters, brother?” he said. “You seem tired after the journey.” After their earlier moment of uncomfortable honesty, he seemed to have retreated to acting as a gracious host, though at least his manner had become less bombastic.
Down the table Muriel had to resist a strong urge to roll her eyes, with a sleeping toddler slumped against her and a quiet, sullen child at the next seat. Cassian suddenly noticing that they seemed tired was an understatement.
Gerard nodded, gently pulling the slumbering Amalia into his lap and smoothing her short, dark curls. “Which of the apartments have you chosen for us?” he asked his brother. “One of the guest suites in the western wing?”
“I’ve had the apartment across from the royal quarters prepared for you,” Cassian said, smiling at him. “It’s one of the larger residences, you and your family should have plenty of room.” The king stood, pushing his chair back, and Melisande quietly did the same. “Shall we?”
“The family suite that Father usually reserved for his siblings when they visited? The one just a few steps from your own?” The shock was apparent on Gerard’s face, but he quickly shoved it away and rose, too, to his feet. Gods, he thought, Muriel is not going to like this.
“Papa,” Aislin said as she watched her father stand. “Am I getting soup now?”
Gerard only sighed, shifting Amalia in his arms. “No, honey. But Uncle Cassian is going to show us to our new apartment, so that you can get some sleep.”
“But…” The girl faltered, her lips pouted. Glancing toward Muriel, who’d also yet to stand, she said, “I’m still hungry.”
Muriel sighed, hoisting up Elodie in her arms as she stood. “I know, sweetie, but you have to be patient. Won’t it be nice to have beds of our own again after all that travelling?”
“But they’re not our own beds,” Aislin retorted. “Our beds are back in Kyth. Everything is back in Kyth. My friends. Our family. Everything!” Seguing then into Kythian that was far more venom-laced than one might expect to hear dripping from a nine-year-old’s lips, the girl hissed to her mother, “I didn’t want to come here. I told you and Papa, I didn’t want to come here. And you didn’t care.”
“Aislin, if you want to talk about this, we can, but not here,” Muriel said sharply, slipping easily into Kythian as well. “Your sisters are tired and your uncle’s going to show us to our rooms, and I don’t want to have to drag you there. I know you’re upset, I know you’re hungry, but this is not the time to throw a fit, understand?”
“I’m not going,” the girl snapped back. By this point, most of the eyes in the room had listed in the high table’s direction, the noblemen and women who filled the room trying-- and failing-- to appear as though they weren’t straining their ears to hear the argument taking place at their king’s side. Either not noticing them or merely not caring, Aislin crossed her arms and continued, “You made me come to stupid Courdon, but you can’t make me do anything else. I won’t.”
“Aislin.” Adjusting his hold on Amalia again, Gerard told a warning step toward his oldest child. Responding in Courdonian although still Aislin was snarling in Kythian, he growled, “Not another word. Now get up, and we’re going to our rooms.”
“And if I don’t?” The girl pursed her lips. “What’ll you do then-- ruin my life? Too bad you already did that.”
Elodie was starting to stir in Muriel’s arms. ’Woo, please don’t wake up. If Elodie woke up, she would almost certainly start crying, and Muriel didn’t really think she could handle that right now. The way Cassian was standing stiffly next to Gerard, watching his brother as if he was pretending not to be aware of the tension, somehow only made it worse. “Enough, Aislin!” she said, raising her voice. “You heard your father, get up.”
“No.” She slumped back in her chair. “I won’t.”
Still a few paces away from her, Gerard clenched his jaw, furious. Gods. As if this reunion with his brother-- with Courdon!-- hadn’t already begun awkwardly enough… as if things weren’t already strained and precarious… of course his usually docile child had to have a literal meltdown in front of Cassian’s entire court. He’d been vaguely worried before today over how Corbin might act-- the younger girl had enough flame in her to light a forest ablaze-- but Aislin? He’d not even considered that she would cause problems, let alone something of this magnitude.
Painfully aware that everybody in the grand hall was staring directly at him, Gerard forced a deep breath and tried not to tremble with rage as he turned back toward his brother. What he was about to do was far from anything he ever wanted to do, or had envisioned himself doing in his homecoming to the palace, but the situation had left him with few other alternatives, given that it had become abundantly clear that Aislin would not rise from her seat of her own volition and Muriel’s arms were full.
“Cass,” he said to his brother, keeping his voice low so that none of the guests away from the high table could hear his words, “can you please take her? Amalia?” He nudged his chin down toward the sleeping toddler in his arms.
Cassian was clearly startled by the request, but he nodded. “Of- of course.” Carefully he reached out and took her in his arms. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he’d raised enough children by now that supporting her came automatically. Unfortunately for Cassian, the movement disturbed Amalia enough that she began to stir.
As Gerard dealt with Aislin, Amalia’s eyes fluttered open and looked up at the man who now held her. Cassian tried to smile, but it didn’t stop Amalia from starting to whimper, her face screwing up. She twisted around in his arms, fitfully trying to reach to her father.
“It’s okay, Amalia,” Gerard said soothingly, a false smile plastered on his face. Praying to the gods that the toddler wouldn’t burst into tears, he walked quickly over to Aislin and reached down toward her, locking his fingers tightly around her arm. “Get up,” he warned her, “or I will haul you up. Do you understand?”
Aislin seemed to debate with herself for a few moments, her lips still pursed, and his patience already worn to the bone, these few moments were more than enough for Gerard; without another word to her, he dragged the girl bodily to her feet, already painfully aware that this disaster of a homecoming to the royal palace was sure to be the utmost item of gossip in the court for the foreseeable future.
“Let go of me,” Aislin whined, still in Kythian, as she reached up as though to claw her father’s hand off of her. Looking to Muriel, she added, “Mummy. Tell him to let go.”
“Not until you stop misbehaving,” Muriel said sternly. Discipline did not come easily to Muriel at the best of times, and right now she felt she should congratulate herself for not simply running out of the banquet hall screaming. Despite everything, she steeled herself and added, “And if you give him any more trouble, you’re not leaving your room tomorrow.”
Amalia, meanwhile, had not stopped squirming in Cassian’s arms, and while the king was attempting to calm her down as he would one of his own children, she was having none of it. He winced as her grabbing hands seized hold of his hair and pulled, knocking his golden circlet askew. It seemed to distract her, and Cassian was soon unsuccessfully trying to prevent her from latching onto it instead. He was reduced to standing in resignation as she pulled it off his head, clinging as if for dear life to the shiny piece of metal. Behind him, he was fairly sure he’d heard Melisande snort with quickly-suppressed laughter.
With Aislin’s arm firmly clutched in his hand, Gerard could only grimace as he turned back toward Cassian just in time to witness Amalia foist the king’s ornamental circlet. “I… I’m sorry,” he said, with his free hand massaging at his suddenly-throbbing temple. “But we should be good to go now. I… I…” As if he didn’t know what else to do, Gerard inclined his head into a bow so deep that his chin nearly touched his chest. “Thank you for your patience, my king.”
Startled by this reaction, Cassian reached out to grasp his brother’s arm, gently pulling him back up. “You’re family,” he said quietly, and then, with the trace of a smile on his lips, he added, “I’ve children as well, you know.”
Stepping back, and ignoring Amalia chewing on his circlet with a sort of dignity borne out of desperation, he glanced to Melisande and nodded. At last, the royal family left the banquet hall, even if it was far from the grand exit Cassian had imagined earlier. Not knowing what else to do, and eager to break the silence that Aislin’s sulk was lending a sullen air, Cassian pointed out interesting features of the palace as they passed them as if Gerard and his family were visiting dignitaries. When his back was turned, Muriel leaned in close to Gerard.
“Didn’t you grow up here?” she murmured dryly.
When they reached the apartments that Cassian had prepared for his brother, he hesitated at the door. He’d wanted to show Gerard the improvements that had been made, everything he’d had brought in for their comfort, but based on the current state of his brother’s family it seemed best to make his exit. He passed Amalia carefully back to her father, after wresting his circlet from her fingers with some difficulty. She’d started whimpering again, mourning the loss of her shiny plaything.
“Here are your chambers,” Cassian said. “I hope everything is to your liking… if you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to alert the servants. I’ve told them to obey your orders as if they were my own, Gerard.” He smiled, almost nervously, as if he was hoping the disastrous banquet experience had not turned Gerard against him.
“Of course.” Gerard gave a short, exhausted nod, with Amalia balanced in one arm and his other hand still gripping to Aislin. “Thank you, Cassian. I… I know this might not have been the reunion either of us was picturing, but it’s good to see you.” He paused, glancing around the stately apartment that stretched behind him-- so many times nicer than his and Muriel’s tiny cottage up in Kyth, left behind only a few days ago even if it already seemed like a lifetime. “And it’s good to be home.”
Cassian nodded, his eyes softening. “Welcome home, brother.” With that he turned to leave, bringing Melisande and their children along with them.
As soon as the door to the apartment had closed, Muriel slumped against it in exhaustion. “What was that?” she said, tilting her head back and squeezing her eyes shut. “Is he always like that, Gerry?”
“I…” Gerard finally let go of Aislin’s arm; the young girl immediately took a sharp step back from he and Muriel both, her face painted with pure rage as though she was mere moments from launching into a tirade. Before she could say anything, however, the prince continued to his wife, “I don’t know. I want to say no? But… it’s been so long, Muri, I just…” He shook his head. “I’ve never known Cassian the king. Only Cassian as my father’s shadow. And obviously that’s not who he is anymore-- otherwise he’d never have invited us here, and he certainly wouldn’t have merely stood by as Aislin threw a tantrum or as Amalia stole then drooled on his circlet-- but… I… I… beyond that, I have no idea.”
“And now, we’re royalty.” Muriel slid down the door to sit down, cradling Elodie in her lap. “I don’t… I don’t know if I’m cut out for this, Gerry, I…”
“We can go home,” Aislin said, her bottom lip trembling. “To Kyth. Mama, tell Papa that we can just go home-- and--”
“This is our home now, Ash,” Gerard cut in, not unkindly but with a certain sharpness to his tone nevertheless. “And I know it’s a lot to take in, but Cassian… he’s family. This is where I grew up. We’ll make it work. We will.” Brushing around Aislin to reach his wife, Gerard kneeled down and set a hand on her shoulder, Amalia still balanced in his other arm. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, Muriel. If you can survive some of things you’ve been through-- that we’ve been through-- then the royal court of Courdon?” He quirked a small, rueful smile. “It should be child’s play. And you’ll do great. I know you will.” Glancing back toward Aislin, he added, “We all will.”
Muriel gave him a tired smile. “We’re together,” she said. “And we can face anything together, right?” She glanced over at her oldest daughter. “I know it’s hard, Ash,” she said. “I’m going to miss Kyth, too. But there will be things to like in Courdon, I promise. It might not feel like home yet, but we’re going to make it a good home. Together. All right?” She reached out an arm to the girl, invitingly.
Tears pricking in Aislin’s eyes, she merely shrugged down at her parents, not moving toward them. “Will there be better food?” she sniffled. “Without wings and eyes?”
“Maybe next time they’ll cut off the piggie’s head,” Corbin, previously a silent observer to her family’s spectacular meltdown, supplied. Beaming, the younger girl added, “Or maybe next time it’ll be a cow!”
“Corbin Adelice.” Still crouching, Gerard couldn’t help but wince and snort all in one. “Yes, there will be better food, Ash. It might not be quite what you’re used to, but I promise you, not everything here has wings and eyes. And no, they won’t be serving any whole cow.” As Amalia fidgeted in his arms, the prince stood once again, before turning toward the doorway at the end of the foyer. “Now,” he said, “shall we take a look around? Corby, Ash, you can pick out your bedrooms-- if I’m remembering right, this apartment has at least a half dozen to pick from. Mama and Papa get the biggest, but otherwise you two get next choice, okay?”
Muriel stumbled to her feet, feeling the full weight of her exhaustion. “I can’t believe how big this place is,” she murmured. “We could fit our house into it at least three times over.”
Gerard smiled. “And you’ve only see the entrance, Muri. There’s an upstairs, too. And a private patio, and several of the bedrooms have balconies.”
“A balcony!” Corbin practically bounced at the idea, her green eyes glimmering. “I want one with a balcony!”
Sharing a suddenly bemused look with Muriel, Gerard sighed and said to his daughter, “You know what, Corby? Maybe Mama and Papa will pick out your room. Now, come on-- the sooner we get to the bedchambers, the soon you all can get to sleep. And”-- he glanced deliberately at Aislin-- “I’m sure that a good night’s rest will have all of us feeling much better, okay?”
Muriel nodded. “We all need some rest,” she said.
It would take some getting used to, all of it. She’d technically been titled in Kyth growing up, but her upbringing had been nothing like this. And the girls… Muriel could only hope they would adjust. Somehow, though she’d known Gerard was a prince since she met him, she’d never really considered that this would be where marrying him would lead - living in a palace, raising their children in the Courdonian court.
And yet - she couldn’t regret any of it. Marrying him, raising a family with him… it was still, even now, the best decision she’d ever made. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward and followed him further into the apartment.
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Post by Avery on Jun 20, 2015 21:29:16 GMT -5
Imprints of the Past - Mid-1350 At this time, Elin and Xavier live in a small house in Rakine as they each hold active roles in the Courdonian court as per the treaty at the end of the slave revolution four years prior. Aislin written by Avery, Elin by Gelquie. (Content Warning: Self-harm) A sharp sound cutting through the night air startled Elin from her sleep. She blinked through the darkness, wondering if she had misheard before deciding that there was no mistaking the sound. It was too sudden for her to make out exactly what it was, but she wasn’t sure what it could have been. It definitely came from somewhere in the house. But where and why? It couldn’t be Xavier; he was away for a few days on business. The only other two people in the house were Aislin and Corbin. Their parents had agreed to let them stay over at Elin’s, both to keep her company and as a special trip. It had to be one of those two. Unless it was an intruder…
There was only one way to find out. She threw the covers off and forced herself out of bed, walking barefoot in her nightgown out of the bedroom. She slowly opened the door trying not to make a sound and peered through the crack, looking for any sign of an intruder before striding out. She didn’t hear any footsteps in the house. She strode quietly for a bit, looking for the entrances, but she found no sign of forced entry. So it had to have been one of the girls. But where were they? Were they okay?
She turned and strode towards a closed door, wherein she had set up sleeping provisions for the slumbering children. If they hadn’t been awakened by the sound, she didn’t want to be the one to wake them, but she had to make sure they were okay.
So gently, she turned the knob and peered through the doorway. But inside, rather than the two children she’d tucked in several hours ago, there was only one girl left in the cozy double bed-- Corbin, dead asleep and with her head half-buried beneath a pillow; clearly she’d not been the one to cause any noise. The space at her side was empty, only mussed sheets left in Aislin’s wake.
Elin gulped, glancing through the room once more in case she missed Aislin before relenting and quietly shutting the door. She hoped that Aislin only got up to use the chamber pot and knocked something over in the process. But then why hadn’t she returned yet? Frowning, Elin strode from the bedrooms, walking to the other side of the house. The entrances didn’t look broken into, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other places she hadn’t checked.
Her search eventually led her to the kitchen. It looked mostly undisturbed, but she briefly noticed that some of the kitchen utensils had been tampered with, spread out. Particularly knives… Elin gulped and picked up the pace, crossing the kitchen and opening the door to a small parlour.
A candle flickered in the corner of the room, set atop a weathered oak desk… and sitting on the floor beneath its glow, wedged between the desk and the wall, was a small, fair-haired girl. As she heard the door open, she snapped her attention toward it, nearly yelping as Elin stepped into the room, “No!”
Elin let out a gasp at the sight, at first uncertain if she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. But as she moved closer, there was no mistaking the glint of the knife that Aislin held in her hand, nor the wet blood upon that winked up from its blade, catching against the candlelight. The root of the blood, too, was clear: the pad of Aislin’s prone right foot looked as though a butcher had taken a cleaver to it.
Without any further hesitation, Elin quickly strode over to Aislin and kneeled down, attempting to pry the knife from the girl’s hand. But Aislin pulled back, her grip on the hilt tightening.
“No,” she repeated, her voice trembling. “I need to finish-- I-- you can’t take it yet, I need to finish--”
“Aislin, no.” Elin’s voice was firm as she reached her other hand to grab the girl’s wrist, pressing just enough to make it easier to free the knife from the girl’s hands. This time, Elin succeeded, freeing the knife from the girl’s grip. She switched the knife to her left hand before holding it behind her, keeping it out of Aislin’s reach. She couldn’t help but cringe as she looked down at Aislin’s foot again. Between the bloody marks, there was evidence of the gryphon-like scar still scoring the bottom of her foot.
Worry etched deep into Elin’s face as she tried to meet the girl’s eyes. “Aislin… What are you doing?”
“Give it back,” Aislin bleated by way of reply, tears pricking in her pale green eyes. “I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t done.” She slumped forward, hardly noticing as the hems of her sleeves dragged in the slick of blood that was pooling on the wood floor beneath. “You weren’t supposed to wake up,” she continued. Then, more desperately: “You weren’t supposed to wake up!”
“You shouldn’t be hurting yourself,” Elin retorted, although not unkindly, her voice etched with worry. “Aislin… Why are you doing this? Is… Is it because of the brand?”
“I know,” the girl replied miserably. “Mama and Papa always told me I shouldn’t worry about it, that it means nothing, but one of the guards told me the truth.” She shuddered in pain. “He told me about my papa, too. My real papa. Did you know he was the king?” The tears were flowing steadily now. “And did you know he’s the one who scarred me?”
“I… Yes, I knew,” Elin said more quietly. She set the knife behind her, as far as she could reach before reaching down and ripping off a segment of her nightgown. She then leaned forward and took hold of Aislin’s foot, wrapping it around the wounds she had inflicted upon herself. “But Aislin, listen to me. I’ve met your real father; I’ve had to deal with him when we were signing the treaty. I know enough of him and plenty about you to know that you are nothing like him.” She looked up at Aislin, trying to catch her eye. “That scar now though? It’s something left over from when Courdon still held that horrible practice. But now they don’t. It doesn’t mean what it used to mean. You’re free.”
“It meant that I was his,” the girl hiccupped. “That’s what the guard said. But… why would he do that to me? If he was my dad, why would he burn me?” She shuddered again, pressing a bloodied hand to her forehead. “Mama always says that her and Papa took me in because they could take care of me better, but that’s not true, is it? Because… if my real papa was the king, then that means he was like Uncle Cassian, right? A-and so… so he should have been able to take care of me, but instead he burned me, and…”
Elin couldn’t help but wince slightly. She felt like this was the conversation she should be having with Muriel and Gerard, with them helping to lead the way. But if she held off now, she knew Aislin would only continue to be miserable, and probably try to hurt herself again. Elin couldn’t do that in good conscience. She kept one hand on Aislin’s foot to apply pressure but placed her other hand atop Aislin’s shoulder. “It is true what your mama said; that they could take care of you better. Back then, what people like your real father would do otherwise…” She scowled, but almost immediately tried to shake it off. “I’m sorry, but your real father was not a good man. And back then, before the rebellion ended, things were… Different, how they treated people with brands. ...But it’s not that way now. The rebellion’s made sure of it. And you have a mama and papa and a family who love you regardless.”
“I’ve seen them on peoples’ arms and collarbones before,” Aislin murmured. “Like on Grandfather. But I didn’t think it was the same thing, because the ones I’ve seen are bigger and…” Her throat quavered. “The rebellion is like when I was little, right? And we lived in Emryn, and there were always soldiers around?”
“Yes. You lived in a rebel base for a bit while your mama and papa helped. You and… You were one of the people we rescued, and they took you in. You have a smaller one on your foot because before we got you, you were too young to have a bigger one on the collarbone. Thank ‘Woo and all the gods that we got you before then.” Elin paused. “The rebellion was fighting to give people with those marks the freedom they deserved. And we succeeded. So now you don’t have to worry about the brand.”
“I don’t want it, though,” Aislin whispered, her eye falling almost longingly toward the knife tucked well out of her reach. “I know Grandfather has one but… no one else in my family does. Not Mama or Papa, or any of my sisters, or Uncle Cassian or Titus or… or anybody.” Sniffling, she added miserably, “And the guard said no princess has a brand. That it means I’m just pretending.”
“But you’re not pretending, and none of your family thinks you are. The king calls you princess, doesn’t he? Just because it hasn’t happened before doesn’t mean it’s not true now.” Elin took her hand free from Aislin’s shoulder and gently stroked it against the girl’s cheek. “I know you don’t want it, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you. And you shouldn’t hurt yourself to rid of it.”
“I could have gotten it off,” Aislin said darkly. “If you hadn’t come in…” She looked down at the wrapped wound, the makeshift bandage already soaked through with blood. “I’ve been waiting for weeks to do it. I couldn’t at home, because someone would have caught me, but I thought that here…” She shook her head. “Are you going to tell my parents?”
“...Yes,” Elin admitted. “Because I think they should talk to you about this. There’s so much more they can tell you. They’ll be kind to you, I promise. I also think you should talk to your Grandfather, when he comes back.” A sad look appeared on Elin’s face again. “And none of them would want you hurting yourself either, especially not for something like this. You shouldn’t go this far.”
“They’ll make me go to the healer’s,” Aislin said. “And they’ll heal up the cuts, but then afterward, I’ll still have the brand. And all of this will be pointless.” She wiped at the still-flowing tears. “I still have to see the guard, too. It’s not fair.”
“You shouldn’t have to go through this in the first place, especially not the pain,” Elin said gently. “And the guard… Tell me his name. I can go talk to him or have someone else talk to him. That’s not right of him to say such things to you. As for the healer’s…”
A pensive look appeared on Elin’s face before she nodded, as if agreeing with herself. There was now a focused look on her face. “...How about we save ourselves a trip? Hold still.”
Elin removed the makeshift bandage with her left hand and stared intently at the cuts, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pointed her fingers at the wounds. She took in a slow, deep, and measured breath, but as she did, Aislin suddenly balked, scooting away from the older woman and flattening herself against the wall.
“Please,” she murmured. “Let me finish first. I… I was almost done, I--”
“No,” Elin said gently but firmly. She scooted closer to Aislin, putting her left hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I’ll have to explain this to your mama and papa anyway, and I’m not going to tell them that I let their daughter cut her own foot. Now please, hold still.”
She reached her right hand out and attempted to focus again, her fingers hovering over the cuts. She took in a practiced breath again, and as she slowly breathed out a whispered ”Episky,” green magic started flowing from her hands, closing one wound at a time. In spite of Elin’s practiced look, she couldn’t help but wince. This method was always more taxing to her, and it burned her hand as she worked. Although her youngest daughter had been working to make the method easier, it was still imperfect, and in any case, Elin still didn’t entirely understand it herself. Ivy had always had a better handle on the magic than Elin ever did.
Aislin stared mutely down as the mimicked healing magic worked its way over her butchered foot, the bleeding gashes slowly knitting back together again. The look on her face was equal parts defeat and despondency, self-admonition and self-consciousness. As if she couldn’t quite believe that she’d gotten caught, and hated herself for not completing the macabre deed beforehand.
“Papa’s going to be so mad at me,” she said as Elin continued to work. “He’s going to lock me in my room forever. And I bet he’ll tell Uncle Cassian, too.”
“It won’t be forever,” Elin murmured, keeping her focus on her work. She winced and changed the finger leading the spell, as if to shift the burning sensation to a less damaged part of the hand. “He’ll be worried for you, just like I am. Rightfully so.”
Elin didn’t say much more than that, instead continuing to work, focusing on healing the last of the girl’s cuts. Eventually, she sealed the last of the wounds, and she let out a sigh of relief, shaking her hand before bringing it to her torso, taking in another deep, measured breath.
“I don’t want to do that again,” Elin admitted. “But I will if I have to. I don’t want you hurt. Please Aislin… I don’t want you to try that ever again. You don’t have to cut it off. Nor do you have to go through this alone. Your mama and papa may be upset… But they’ll talk to you about it too.”
But Aislin only shrugged, her bloodshot eyes fixed on her lap beneath as she whispered, “So my real papa didn’t want me. But… I had a mother, too.” She paused, despondent. “What happened to her, Grandma? My… my real mother? Did she not want me, either? If what you say is true… and there’s nothing wrong with me… then why did nobody want me?”
Elin paused, a frown on her face, as if she was trying to decide how--or if--she should answer the question. After a moment, she looked up trying to catch Aislin’s eyes, her left hand squeezing Aislin’s shoulder. “...That’s… Something I think your mama and papa should explain to you. But I will say this. She thought your parents could take care of you better than she could. She wanted you to have a better life. Trust me, it wasn’t because of anything wrong with you.”
For a long moment, Aislin said nothing-- only stared down at her blood-caked foot with something close to longing. Then, finally, as if she no longer had the stamina left to say anything else, the girl muttered, “I’m all covered in blood. And I didn’t bring anything else to wear to bed.”
“I’ll help you get washed up,” Elin said, offering the hand previously on the girl’s shoulder to help her up. “As for clothes… I’ll scrounge around. You might have to make do with something big, but it’s just for tonight.”
“Okay,” Aislin said, grimacing as she wobbled to her feet, leaning against her grandmother so as to bear the brunt of her weight on her uninjured foot. “Could… I sleep in your bed for the rest of the night? I just… I don’t want to wake up Corbin, and…”
Elin drew an arm across the young girl’s shoulders, holding her close. “Sure. I’ll be right here.”
Elin led Aislin from the parlour, firmly shutting the door behind her and moving a small box in front of it, as if to discourage entry until Elin could get to cleaning the blood in the morning. She then brought the girl to the washroom, where she proceeded to help the young girl wipe off all the blood, prior to hiding the bloody cloth to keep it from being easily found by Corbin later. Later, in the bedroom, Elin indeed didn’t find any clothes of Aislin’s size, and had to settle for a nightdress that was far too big for the girl. She made a mental note to keep childs’ clothes around just in case of things like this.
“Sorry Aislin,” Elin said as she offered the nightdress to the girl. “This is the best I have.”
“It’s okay,” Aislin said softly, accepting the garment into her hands. Turning away from Elin to change, she added, “It’s so hot out, something big is nice, anyway.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Elin said, trying to smile, although it came out small and with worry. She was thankful that Aislin couldn’t see it. As Elin waited for Aislin to change, she couldn’t help but dwell over what had happened. She doubted that Aislin would try anything rash again tonight, but there was little way to be sure. But then she would be with her tonight, and she’d be there to make sure nothing had happened for the rest of the visit. But it didn’t stop her worries of what she would do tomorrow, and how she could possibly explain this to Gerard when he came to pick the girls up and keep him calm while facing Aislin.
Eventually, Aislin finished changing, and Elin tucked her into bed before getting into bed beside her. She brought one arm around the girl and held her in a close hug, and after fidgeting for a few moments, Aislin settled and stilled. From her shallow breathing, it was clear the girl had not dozed off, but at least she seemed to have resigned herself to the fact that there would be no more attempts at removing her brand tonight.
Elin stayed close to the girl for the rest of the night, trying to keep herself awake until the girl had dozed off. Her wakefulness from the worries that echoed through her head about Aislin battled with her fatigue from being woken up and from her earlier use of magic. Still, she contented herself with Aislin’s presence near her and beneath her arm. If anything else happened, she’d be right there.
And so slowly, but eventually, the two of them dozed off to sleep.
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Post by Avery on Jul 3, 2015 12:54:58 GMT -5
A Visit to the Market - Summer 1355 Gerard and Muriel's daughter, Corbin, is about twelve and a half at this time. Corbin only wanted to buy a knife.
Just one knife. Not even a nice one. She only cared that it was sharp and it was hers, something she could wear tucked into her boot without any fear of someone asking after it and then taking it back away. After all, she’d lately grown very tired of the same old exchange with Titus, the one that had played out between them too many times to count: him discovering yet another blade missing from his collection and confronting her over it, and her lying to him until he threatened her, at which point she always caved like a kicked, sullen dog. She knew it was only a matter of time until he made good on his threats. Until, like he insisted, he grew tired of her antics and told his father on her-- not just about what she’d done, but why she was doing it.
And if her uncle Cassian knew why she wanted a blade…
It seemed much more prudent to finally acquire one of her own.
As she hurried along the tangled web of streets that made up Rakine’s main marketplace, the Labyrinth, Corbin kept her veiled head bowed and her arms crossed firmly at her waist, her hand curled into a tight fist over the small, jangling pouch of coins she’d palmed from the bureau in her parents’ bedchambers. She wasn’t supposed to know about the money-- or the dozens of others purses identical to it that were littered about her family’s apartment in the Gilded Palace, tucked away here and there like spent arrows on a battlefield. She would have long ago asked what they were for had she not been keenly aware that such a question would not earn her answers, but merely a stern reproach for snooping. And anyway, her parents not knowing that she knew about the money was better for her.
It meant they wouldn’t suspect her when they noticed a sack missing. Not like Titus with his daggers.
The princess refused to make such a mistake again.
Still, she felt very conspicuous with such riches pressed between her fingers, and so while usually she reveled in her illicit journeys outside the palace walls, savoring each moment of the freedom, today Corbin was decidedly on edge. The weapons’ booth she’d been eyeing for months was set at the far eastern edge of the Labyrinth, and through all the visits she’d made to it before, it had never seemed so damnably far away as it did right now. As a passing drunkard bumped into her, jostling Corbin so that she nearly lost her footing, the girl swallowed hard and picked up her pace even further. Her father’s voice from the last-- and only time-- the royal family had caught her on one of these jaunts seared through her mind like a wind-swept flame: Do you know how dangerous it is, Corbin? You could have been killed! Are you out of your mind?
She’d thought he might hit her, then. Even if Gerard had never resorted to such measures before, neither had her uncle Cassian up until that point, and he’d already struck her that day. And so at the look of fury in her father’s eyes… at the way he’d gripped to her as a constricting snake might to its prey…
Corbin shook the memory away. She could not afford to get distracted now.
When the weapons’ booth finally came into view before her, she could have cried from relief. Instead, she forced a neutral face and strode up to its edge, trying not to betray the excitement that rose in her as she glanced up at the display of blades that hung from the wooden eaves of the stall, dangling in the wind as might laundry clipped to a line. In the hot breeze they clanged together, creating a grating cacophony of scraped metal and wood, and Corbin’s heart skipped as she realized that soon, one of these daggers would be hers.
“Just looking again?” the stall’s owner asked her, as he watched the princess gawp.
Corbin’s gaze danced to him, and she forced a polite but tempered smile. She didn’t know the man’s name, but she’d come to recognize him by sight over the past several months as she’d made at least a half-dozen visits to his booth. He was always cool toward her but courteous enough, sighing loudly when she told him she was only there to browse but never going so far as to kick her out. In a way, Corbin suspected he pitied her, this plainly clad girl who fawned over his shabby knives as if they were puppies. Weapons were about as unsuitable for a proper Courdonian girl as were dueling or politics-- something that Titus had reminded her of time and time again, when he’d caught her with yet another blade filched from his collection.
“Actually,” Corbin said to the merchant, as she rubbed her thumb over the silk exterior of the coin pouch, “I’d like to buy today.”
“Oh?” The merchant raised a thick, tawny brow.
“Yes,” Corbin went on, being careful to stick to the low dialect. “I’d like a knife. A small knife, but sharp. I want to use it for self-defense out here in the city.”
“And how,” the merchant asked, “will you be paying for this knife, young miss?”
Corbin uncurled her fist, showing the bulging pouch to him. “I’ve thirty silvers in here. What will that get me?”
“Thirty silvers?” the merchant echoed. Now he was the one to gawp, and Corbin’s heart skipped a beat as she wondered if she ought to have been more reserved. If he wasn’t going to fleece her now that she’d shown him her hand, selling her a blade for far more than it was worth.
She closed her hand back around the pouch. “For that price, I want a curved handle,” she said, remembering the nicer of Titus’s knives. “And a smooth blade. Not serrated.”
“That’s a very lofty request.” The merchant frowned. “You’ve come to the Labyrinth, girl, not the royal armory.”
Corbin’s heart fluttered, even as she insisted to herself that the man was merely being sardonic. That he didn’t know who she was. That he couldn’t. “What about that knife?” she asked, pointing toward a wooden-handled beauty that glimmered beneath the hot afternoon sun like a winking jewel.
“That’s serrated.” The merchant cocked his head. “I thought you said you wanted smooth.”
“Oh. Um.” A beat. “I… well, I suppose serrated wouldn’t be bad, if it’s well made…”
“It’s out of your price range, anyhow.”
“I… but I thought you just said this is the Labyrinth, not the royal armory. Thirty silvers should buy me anything here, shouldn’t it?”
“Have you ever bought a knife before, girl?” the man asked.
“Well, no. But--”
“I hardly think, then,” he continued brusquely, “that you ought be educating me on the proper prices Especially not when you’ve been loitering for months-- pawing over my wares without paying a single copper, when clearly you’ve had the means to purchase all along.”
“But… I didn’t… I…”
“That is a silk pouch, my dear,” the merchant said. “And thirty silvers is more than most wretches in this godsdamned city earn in a year. Do not lie to me.”
“I’m… sorry,” Corbin said, taking a hesitant step back. No matter how much she tried now, she could not get her father’s scathing lecture out of her head. His dire warnings of how people out in Rakine would take advantage of her. The way he’d then, as a punishment, suited both of them up in servants’ clothes and dragged her to Rakine’s biggest slum, the Narrows, as if by showing her the festering miasma that lurked outside the palace walls, she’d never dare slip outside of them again. It was a lesson that had, in the end, only served to dissuade her for a few shorts weeks, as she’d resolved to herself that she’d simply avoid places like the Narrows.
That surely the rest of Rakine couldn’t be so bad.
“I have half a mind not to sell you a blade at all,” the merchant spat. “Charge you the thirty silvers as a looker’s tax, and teach you a lesson about taking advantage.”
“I… but…” She gulped. “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve taken advantage, sir.” Gods, it was hard to maintain the low Courdonian grammar and feign at its accent beneath his furious glare. “I didn’t mean to, and I’m not lying when I say I didn’t have the means to purchase until today. And I just… I just want a knife for a fair price. That’s all. Then I’ll never bother you again.”
“That’s all?” the merchant mimicked. Glowering, he reached forward and, before Corbin could side-step away from him, seized a hold of her wrist. As he did, she clenched her fist harder around the pouch, her fingernails digging into the smooth, blood red silk.
“Let-- let go of me,” she sputtered, trying to wrench free of him, but he only pulled her closer.
“Give me the pouch.”
“No.” Frantically, Corbin scanned the area, looking for anybody who might intervene, but it was a slow part of the day in a far-flung part of the marketplace. The only other soul in sight was the haggard old woman who ran the seedy apothecary across the alley, and when she saw Corbin looking, she merely turned away, clearly uninterested in becoming involved in whatever spat her fellow shopkeeper was involved in.
“I said, give it.” His dark, beady eyes shone with rage. “It’s mine.”
“It’s… it’s not yours,” Corbin choked out. “You’ve done nothing to earn it!”
“I say I have.”
“But you’ve not! Just because I browsed several times before I had the money to buy doesn’t mean you can charge me for the past visits! If you hadn’t wanted me to look, then… then you should have kicked me out. You can’t steal from me down the line to make up for it!”
“Steal?” The merchant’s face froze for the briefest of moments, as if he’d been punched, before a dark, insidious smile ticked at the corners of his lips. “That,” he went on, “actually makes a fair deal of sense.” Gripping her so hard now that Corbin was sure it would leave bruises, she could only grimace as he leered, “After all, it’s not every day a little girl who’s been ogling at my weapons for months suddenly comes into enough money to buy the whole bloody lot of them. What good fortune for her. What luck.”
As Corbin realized what he was insinuating, her mouth fell open, and she sharply shook her head. “I didn’t steal this money,” she said, even as somewhere in the depths of her mind she realized that technically, his accusation was not so far off base. “I… it’s mine,” she insisted. “I’m not a thief.”
“Oh? So if I drag you to the city guard, they won’t have a report lodged of some poor visiting nobleman or dignitary having his purse cut from his belt?”
“No,” Corbin said. “They… they won’t.” Although that would hardly be the biggest of her problems if indeed this man took her to a city guardsman.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s the truth. I… I won’t buy a blade, I won’t ever bother you again, but I didn’t steal this money, and you can’t have it.” Her voice broke, and she realized with a violent churn of her stomach that at some point she’d lapsed into a chaotic pidgin of high and low Courdonian, the grammars twining around each other like two strands in a mismatched braid.
If the merchant noticed, though, he didn’t say it. Instead, he simply used the hand that wasn’t clutching her to pry at her curled fist, attempting to ease the money pouch out from it. Corbin bucked against him again, trying to shimmy free, but to no avail. Gods. Changing tacks, she launched a kick toward his groin, but he easily dodged her. She kicked again, and he growled, abruptly dropping his hold on her wrist-- but only so that he could instead make a wild grab toward her hair, roughly yanking down the veil that covered it before he snatched on to one of the bright braids concealed beneath.
“Give it,” he snapped, “and I’ll let you go.”
“It’s not yours--”
“Well, it’s hardly yours, either!”
“That’s enough.”
Both Corbin and the merchant froze at the new voice, each of them turning sharply toward it. As they rounded, the merchant’s hands fell free from her, and Corbin didn’t miss a beat: she scampered back from him, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process, and took automatic shelter behind the newcomer.
“Thank you,” she gasped, her hand trembling.
“You’re welcome,” he said, gazing down at her. He was a tall, reed-thin man about her father’s age, with a mop of honey-blonde hair and pale blue eyes that could have cut through steel. He wore tarnished clothes that made the servant’s dress she’d swiped look like court silks, and she couldn’t help but settle her stare on the jagged scar that cut across his chin, serrated like the blade of the knife she’d proposed to buy.
“You,” the merchant spat, menacing forward, a finger jabbed accusingly at Corbin’s rescuer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Merely stopping you from harassing children.” The man’s voice was deceivingly light, with a rolling accent that reminded her of her grandfather’s.
“She’s a thief.” The merchant stiffened.
“What did she steal?”
“Silvers.”
“From you?”
“Well, no. But--”
“But nothing, then. If she’s not stolen from you, then it’s hardly your concern.”
For a moment, the merchant seemed to consider arguing with the man further. But then, almost casually, Corbin’s rescuer set a hand down upon his waist, his fingers hovering above the hilt of a blade.
As the merchant saw it, he gaped. “Are you… threatening the owner of a weapons’ booth with a knife?”
“Of course not.” The man smiled serenely. “But I think the young miss and I will be going now. Have a good day, sir.” His hand still lingering about the dagger, he set his other on Corbin’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said to her, and her heart still vibrating like a hummingbird’s wings, Corbin could only mutely nod and fall into place beside him.
They walked in silence for a good, long while, threading their way through a series of winding alleyways. Her rescuer moved as if he had a map written in his head, his stride quick and confident in a way that Corbin might have envied had she not still been reeling from the encounter. She had no idea where they were going, but he clearly seemed to, and with a sour lurch of her stomach, she decided that anywhere was better than the Labyrinth.
“The silvers,” he said to her finally, as they filtered into yet another narrow, desolate alley. “Did you steal them?”
“No,” she murmured. Then: “... Yes. Or… I don’t know. It depends on how you look at it, I guess.”
He smirked down at her. “What would the city guards say? Would they hang you for it?”
Corbin shook her head. “They wouldn’t.”
“Then it’s hardly stealing at all.” His eyes fell on the pouch, still clenched in her hand as if her life depended on it. “Nice purse,” he commented. “Silk, is it?”
“Yes.”
“And how many silvers inside?”
“I…” She faltered, her earlier mistake still eating into her like acid. “I don’t know.”
“Where’d you get it?” he went on. “I mean, I can’t help but be a little curious. You stole it, but you didn’t. You don’t know how much is inside. And it’s made of some of the finest bloody silk I’ve ever seen. I’m sure there’s a stellar story behind it.”
“There is,” she agreed, a sick feeling creeping back into her gut. She didn’t like these questions. Gods, she didn’t like them. True, this man had saved her from the merchant, but Corbin realized very suddenly and very starkly that this hardly made him her ally. Her friend. “I… I’d prefer not to share it,” she said.
“Oh, come on.” He smiled down at her, his gums black and his mouth peppered with rotten teeth. “I saved you back there, girlie. The least you can give me is a story.”
Corbin paused in place, a lump rising in her throat as the man paused beside her. “I… I’m glad you saved me,” she said. “But I… that doesn’t…” She took a step back from him. “I think I should go now,” she continued. “Home.”
He cocked his head. “Oh? Is that so? And where is ‘home’ for you, pet?”
“The Narrows,” she blurted. The first thing that came to mind.
He laughed. “Is it, now? Then why’ve I never seen you?”
“There are a lot of people in the Narrows. You can hardly remember everyone you see.”
“True,” he conceded, and for a taunt of a second, Corbin thought he believed her. But then he went and added, “Except for you. That hair. I’d remember that hair.” He took a measured step toward her, and only quirked a brow when Corbin matched it again and shrunk even further back. “Oh now, come on,” he leered. “Don’t be like that. Tell me, pet. Where are you really from? Maybe I’ll even walk you there. Make sure you don’t run into any city guardsmen who’ll grill you about that nice purse in your hand.”
“I… I told you.” Contradicting herself would only make the situation worse, she decided. “I’m from the Narrows.”
“You are not.” He scowled. “And if you’re lying about it, then I take that to mean you’ve something to hide.”
“I have nothing to hide,” Corbin said quickly. She tried to take yet another step back from him, but had no place else to go, rather finding herself with her back to a crumbling stone wall. “Thanks again f-for saving me,” she continued. “But… I really need to go home. So just um… if you could tell me how to get to the Narrows from here…”
He laughed at this. A manic bark of a laugh. “Aw, girlie,” he said. “You really want to know how to get to the Narrows from here?”
“Yes,” she managed.
“Well. First step: look down at your feet.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“You’re in them, pet.” His grin grew, and lightning quick, he dashed out a hand and curled his fingers around Corbin’s arm, much as the merchant had not long before. “Tell me,” he drawled, boxing her in against the wall. “Tell me, girlie, where it is that you’re from, and how you got that nice, pretty purse. Because I’m starting to think your story’s even more interesting than I imagined.”
“It’s not,” she insisted.
“Aw.” He ran a thoughtless finger down her cheek. “Don’t lie to me, pet. We don’t like liars in the Narrows.”
And with that, just as Corbin started considering trying to elbow him in the gut, he whipped his knife out from where it was sheathed at his hip. In an instant he had the dented blade pressed against her throat, the jagged edge of it digging into her skin, and Corbin cried out in shock. She wanted to thrash against him but quickly reconsidered, afraid that if she did he would cut her neck open like a slaughtered goat’s.
Her father’s voice seared through her head-- You’re going to get yourself killed, Corbin!-- and Corbin frantically shoved it away. She was not going to die. Was not. Was not.
“Tell me,” the man hissed. “Where are you from?”
“Balfour,” she lied. It was a tony neighbourhood not far from the palace; many lords from across the kingdom had estates there for when they visited the capital.
“What’s your family name?” he demanded, and only then she did realize she perhaps ought to have picked a district not quite so nice.
“I… it…” She racked her mind.
“If you have to think about, it’s a lie.” He pressed the knife harder, and Corbin let out an undignified squeak as it drew a small, dark bubble of blood.
“I… I’m sorry,” she burbled.
“Don’t be sorry, just tell me.” His pale eyes flashed with rage. “Because frankly, girlie, I don’t like liars. I don’t like putting my own neck on the line to save little girls from aggressive merchants, thinking I’m doing some poor wretched thief a very nice favour, only to find out she’s some lordling’s whelp.”
“You can have the money.” Tears pricked, and Corbin blinked them back. “I… it’s thirty silvers. You can have it. I won’t tell.”
“Thirty silvers?” If anything, this further incensed him. “You have the gall to walk about this city in rags and claim you’re from the Narrows, while you’ve thirty silvers in your purse? Do you know how many families that could feed? How many lives that could change?”
“I… it’s yours,” Corbin says. “All yours. And… I… I could even get you more, if you wanted? If you’ll just let me go, I could… I could get you anything, my family will get you anything.”
“Will they, now?” the man leered, and once again Corbin cursed her mouth for being faster than her brain. She felt like vomiting as he turned the knife over so that it was flat against her throat, spitting, “Who are you?”
“I’m… nobody,” she lied. “Just… a merchant’s daughter. But my father’s got money. And if you… if you let me go, I’ll get it for you. Anything you want.”
“Last chance.” He twisted the knife again, this time so that the tip of it pressed into the beat of her rapid pulse. “Tell me who you are, or I will cut your throat, take your purse, and leave you to bleed in this alley.”
“Please,” she choked out. Then: “You won’t believe me, anyway.”
“Oh?” He dug the knife deeper, drawing blood again. “Try me, girlie. Let me be the judge.”
“I’m… I’m not from Balfour,” she said.
“Then where?” he demanded.
“The Gilded Palace. I… I live in the Gilded Palace.” Blood beading down her neck, she drew in a hollow breath and once again met his light, furious eyes. “My family name is Alaric. My uncle is the king.”
For a second that felt like hours to Corbin, the man said nothing-- only stared at her as if she’d just claimed to be a manifestation of the gods, alive and walking the earth. She thought that he might cut her throat, and she wondered if this was the moment she ought forget about the knife and try to fight him anyway-- ram a knee into his groin, or drive an elbow into his gut, as her mother had always taught her during their self-defense lessons.
But then, sharply, he laughed. Grinned and laughed, as if what she’d just said was the most amusing thing he’d ever heard in his life. Easing the knife back by a hair-- just so that it no longer pricked into her skin-- he reached up with his other hand and, almost tenderly, wiped the blood away from her neck.
“I think, little pet,” he said, his voice hazy and soft, like a veil smoke, “that I’ll be getting far more than thirty silvers out of you.”
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Post by Avery on Jul 11, 2015 16:59:10 GMT -5
Burning Words - Summer 1355, roughly a month after A Visit to the MarketTakes place in the aftermath of previous fic, back at the Gilded Palace. Beneath the stream of light that flowed in through her chamber window, the small, red-haired girl looked so small-- so fragile-- that she might have been but a porcelain doll. Sitting cross-legged atop the grandiloquent bed in the center of the room, with the bright silk coverlet that dressed it crumpled thoughtlessly beneath her, she stared straight at the wall ahead, her green eyes not blank so much as unfocused, her lip bit so hard that it glistened wet with blood. Such a wound, however, seemed to be the least of her worries, but a trifle compared to the bruises that covered her bare arms, or the still-raw stump on her left hand, only dead air now inhabiting the place formerly inhabited by her pinkie finger.
When the sound of somebody knocking on her chamber door echoed through the room, the girl flinched as if she’d been struck but gave no reply, as though she hoped that by ignoring the person on the other side, they’d soon give up and go away.
But she had no such luck; moments later, they knocked again, and when still she offered no response, they turned the doorknob rather than leave, the hinges giving a low groan as the door swung inward and open. When the girl’s gaze fell on the person who entered thereafter, she didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or both.
“Grandma Elin,” she murmured, her throat quavering. “W-what are you doing here?”
Her grandmother shut the door behind her before walking slowly towards the young child, her dark hand resting on the side of the bed as she looked up at the girl, her worn eyes filled with sympathy and worry.
“I came to see how you were doing, Corbin,” Elin said softly. “...Though just looking at you answers my question.” The aged woman sat down on the edge of the bed and gave a soft look, inviting her to inch closer.
Corbin, however, remained in place, crossing her arms almost defensively at her chest. “I wanted to lock the door,” she said, “but my parents won’t let me. They had a guard replace the handle so it won’t lock at all.” She paused. “I keep telling them I just want to be left alone. But they don’t care. Nobody cares.”
“Of course they care; that’s why they replaced the handle.” Elin slowly moved herself and her legs more on the bed, grunting with effort as she turned to see Corbin better. “Corbin… I know you’re suffering. But you don’t have to endure it on your own. It’s worse that way, actually; then it’ll just stay and hurt inside you. You deserve better than that.” She extended a hand, offering a hug.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Corbin gave a stark, miserable laugh. “I don’t deserve anything, Grandma. Not after what happened because of me.” Backing sharply away from Elin, her voice was caustic-- like lye eating through flesh-- as she hissed, “He killed everybody. Because of me.”
Elin winced at the words, her worry not leaving her expression, but her eyes hardening at the thought. “It’s that, then, isn’t it… Corbin, don’t get me wrong, it’s terrible what happened. And I’ve been trying to talk to him, but…” She let out a sigh, shutting her eyes tightly for a moment before turning back to Corbin. “But you didn’t give the order. And you’ve been through a lot yourself, things that should never have happened to you.”
“At least you admit it’s wrong,” Corbin muttered darkly. “My father won’t. He says it was worth it, what he and Uncle Cassian did. If it meant rescuing me.” She blinked hard, as if fighting back tears. “I wasn’t supposed to be there still, when it happened. That’s his excuse. As if that’d make it better. As if that’d make all those people any less dead.” She brought her left hand, still bandaged at the missing pinkie, up to her forehead. “They burned alive, Grandma. I heard them screaming. I heard them.”
The royal knights had denied it, of course, as they’d dragged her from the seedy flat where she’d been held hostage for the past three and a half weeks, ever since her abduction during a clandestine journey out from the palace. As if they thought she was stupid, this little, bloodied princess with a missing finger and bruises stippling her body like brushstrokes on a canvas.
But Corbin had known better. Had viscerally understood what was happening, even as her rescuers covered her eyes and whispered hollow lies into her ears, the situation quickly escalating out of their control.
After all, you couldn’t fib away the sound of dying screams. Nor could you mask the scent of burning flesh, acrid and raw, as the careful blaze Cassian’s men had meant to set-- intended only to consume the flat where her abductor had lived-- caught first the rest of the street, and then out and beyond, until soon the entire neighbourhood glowed red. They’d only barely gotten her into a carriage and hurtling back toward the palace before the inferno grew out of control… and by then, it was too late for her to even begin to believe their palatable though baseless stories.
Now, sitting on the bed and reflecting on the situation for what felt like the thousandth time since her rescue, a shudder traveled Corbin’s body. Her stomach pinched. She let out a small, involuntary whimper, hardly able to keep herself upright as her entire body went sick and cold.
Elin couldn’t help but lean closer, bringing her hand closer, but she stopped herself short, as if trying to hold back. “I’m so sorry. I… I hate it too. I hate it so much. We all wanted you rescued, for you to be safe. But it doesn’t excuse what happened to everyone else, the ones who weren’t even involved. It doesn’t excuse the shortsightedness; there were ways to rescue you that didn’t involve… What happened. And I wish so much that I knew what I could say that would make your father and uncle care for those lives. ...But you care. And that even by itself means so much.”
“What’s it matter if I care?” Corbin murmured. “Caring doesn’t fix things. Nothing can fix things. I’m the reason hundreds of people are dead, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Elin’s mouth curved into a sad frown. “...No, you can’t bring them back. As much as I wish to ‘Woo that we could. But caring at all is the first step to doing right in the future, making things right where you can, and ensuring it never happens again.” She let out a small sigh. “...You’re still so young, though… And you still need time for yourself, so you can recover and be ready. Take it from me, dear, that’s important too.”
“I don’t want to recover. I don’t care about getting better, I just…I just… ”
Bringing her hand away from her head, she gestured at the room around her-- so large it might have dwarfed an average peasant’s house, with its luxurious decor and furnishings worth more than most in Courdon saw in a lifetime.
“I don’t want this, Grandma,” Corbin said. “Any of it. I didn’t ask to come here, to Rakine; I was fine in Kyth-- I liked Kyth!-- and… things were so much simpler there. I didn’t have to wear such fancy clothes, and I could play in the woods with my cousins, and there weren’t any guards watching everything I did.” Bitterly, she added, “And there wasn’t any king who’d smack me for going out into the city, but then kill hundreds of people in my name.”
Elin let out another sigh, interrupted by a sudden wince as Elin reached and grabbed her side. But quickly, with a glance towards Corbin, she shook it off, pretending it hadn’t happened at all. “You know… I prefer it in Kyth too, and you living in Kyth, away from this huge castle and its towering walls and strict formalities. ...But that’s not my choice; there’s a point where I had to let your mother take charge. And you should talk to her about that. But Corbin… We do want you to get better. I know what it’s like to power on, to not take time for myself after something terrible. Later, I had to pay for it. And that doesn’t help anyone.”
“Do you think they’d let me go back?” Corbin asked. “To Kyth? I mean… I could live with Uncle Ciro’s family, or… or I don’t know, but somewhere that isn’t here. And… I could still see my parents and my sisters sometimes, maybe, it wouldn’t be like I’m gone, I’d just be… I’d just be…”
The princess’s voice cracked, as if she knew all too well that, despite the desperate, hopeful slant to her words, there was no chance her family would ever agree to such a thing. Finally slumping to lean against Elin’s familiar form, Corbin could no longer keep the tears from flowing, nor her jaw from trembling like a banner in the breeze.
“I don’t get how I’m just supposed to move on, Grandma,” the girl stammered. “As if those people didn’t hurt me, and Uncle Cassian didn’t retaliate like he did, and… and…” She forced a jagged sip of air. “I don’t want to be this person. I don’t w-want any of it, but no matter what I do, I can’t make anything change. I’m stuck here, in Rakine. Trapped in this palace. Trapped with these people, and I… I don’t know what to do. I don’t.”
Elin wrapped her arms around the young girl, allowing her to press close to her body. For a moment, she was quiet, allowing Corbin to cry. But she eventually spoke. “One day,” she said quietly. “When you’re older… You won’t have to stay if you don’t want to. But for now, your parents need to watch over you… Although I’ve tried talking to them about Kyth, but… You may have to wait. I’m sorry.” She smoothed Corbin’s hair. “All of this… It won’t be something you’ll forget. But you’ll eventually find out how to move on, how to keep people from suffering like that again. But it takes time and thought. No one has ever found the answer right away. And no one should expect you to.”
“I’ll never be able to just leave,” Corbin murmured. “Even my mother and father can’t just leave, not without telling Uncle Cassian.” She sniffled. “It’s not fair. I wish I could have grown up like you did. On a farm, and with no one around to control everything, and… no kings to kill people because I made a stupid mistake.”
“I never understood that myself; your Mum and Dad are both adults.” She sighed. “Being on a farm… True, it may not be as controlling as here, but it is a hard life. And there was always a higher authority that determined what taxes you were paying, and thus how much you could eat, if you could eat. No one is ever fully free of control. In a way, not even the king, if he angers his populace too much and they rebel... The question is how much control is okay. And what happened in the Narrows… isn’t.”
As Corbin gulped again, still fighting back against sobs, both her and Elin’s eyes snapped toward the door as the knob suddenly rattled. Unlike Corbin’s grandmother, this newcomer didn’t knock, in a moment the door pushed open as a third person strode into the room.
When Corbin saw them, she balked, leaning away from Elin as she scooted back on the bed. “I thought you and Uncle Cassian were in a meeting with his close council, Papa,” the girl said, almost accusingly.
With a soft smile, her father shut the door behind him and padded over toward Elin and Corbin, which only caused the girl to scamper back further. “The meeting got out early. I wanted to check on you,” he said, pausing before the bed but electing not to take a seat on top of it. Then, to Elin, he added, “Did Aislin let you in? I’m sorry neither Muriel nor I was here to greet you. I think Muri’s down at the healer’s with Marisa… poor girl’s got a cough she just can’t shake.”
“She did,” Elin replied cooly, unable to force a smile for Gerard. “And that’s too bad about Marisa, and I hope she gets better soon. But I came here to see Corbin. After all that happened...” She couldn’t help but feel accusing as she said it, and although Corbin had scampered further away on the bed, Elin did not move from her spot, as if waiting for what Gerard would do or say next.
“Corbin’s been recovering slowly but surely,” Gerard said, his voice so neutral he might have been giving a political speech, not speaking to his wife’s mother. “She has good days and bad days, but you’re doing so much better than you were, Corbin. Right?”
“I’d be doing better if you’d put my lock back on my door,” the girl murmured, her lips pursed. At Gerard’s arrival, she’d forced back the tears that had been flowing, but the remnants of them remained, her eyes bloodshot and cheeks glistening wet. Miserably, she added, “Grandma thinks it’s wrong, too. What you and Uncle Cassian did. And that you make me stay here even though I hate it.”
The dark looked that flashed across Gerard’s face was potent and instantaneous. His brow furrowed, his voice was so thick as to be stifling as he said, “Oh?” He locked eyes with Elin. “Is that what you’ve been telling my daughter, Elin?”
“She was the one who said it first, Gerard,” Elin said coldly, returning the look. “If you’d listen to her and realize what all of this has done to her, both living at a castle and having hundreds of people not even involved in the kidnapping die needlessly to bring her back, and not showing any sympathy for those people, you’d realize that too.”
“I do not need you undermining me to my child.” Gerard thrust a finger toward the door. “If you want to argue with me, by all means do. But not in front of her, Elin. Wouldn’t you agree she’s been through enough? So unless you’d like a personal escort to the door, well…” He glowered. “Show yourself to it.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Corbin growled. “I can hear you. And I don’t want Grandma to leave.”
“That is not your choice, Corbin.” Still pointing to the door, he said icily to Elin, “Do you need that escort, or not?”
Elin pondered, glaring at Gerard, but occasionally staring back towards her grandchild, examining her eyelids swollen and red from the tears she shed. “...No, I should talk to him more privately. But Corbin, I can come back later, if you want.”
She then turned back to Gerard. “For the record, all those things I said? It was your daughter who said them first. Not me. This is just brushing off her feelings again. And you’re not going to help her feel any better that way.”
“I expect such brooding comments from Corbin,” Gerard said simply. “I had hoped you, however, would have more… maturity… than a traumatized child.” With that, the prince turned toward the door. “Shall we, Elin?”
Elin glared at Gerard but turned and reached for Corbin’s hand, squeezing it in assurance before moving to slowly get up. Once again, she clutched her side, wincing in pain, but quickly shrugged it off, moving to follow Gerard. The moment the door closed, Elin turned to Gerard again, but kept her voice low, both to keep Corbin from hearing and for more intensity to enter her voice. “Showing remorse,” she said slowly. “Over hundreds of peasants dying or losing their homes because of a handful of people, is not immaturity for anyone. Nor is listening to someone in need. I thought, as a rebel lieutenant and a parent, you would know that.”
“I was referring,” Gerard said, as he led Elin through the flat’s meandering corridors and into a small office, whereupon he snapped the door shut behind them, “to you feeding into her fantasies about up and leaving the palace-- and her godsdamned family-- behind. Those are not healthy for her to foster, nor should anyone be encouraging them, least of all her own grandmother.” Taking a seat in one of the heavy oak chairs in the center of the room, which were fringed around a gleaming coffee table, the prince snarled on, “Don’t you dare question me as a parent, Elin. Cassian and I did what we had to do in order to get her back. It’s unfortunate that those people died, but you will not make me regret the choices we made, and gods help me if I let you come into my home and fill my daughter’s head with even more guilt over what happened. As if she’s not broken enough.”
“I’ll make you regret the choices you made with the fire because it was wrong,” Elin snapped. “I was fine with everything that happened up until that moment. Hell, I’m even fine with you executing the kidnappers; I’m not happy at all with what they did to Corbin either. You wanted to make a point? Fine. Tear the whole house down; you could even burn the remains once it was ensured that it wouldn’t spread and kill others. What happened was shortsighted, and innocents paid for it; the least you can do is be sorry for that. If it was your family who lived in the Narrows and burned, maybe you’d be more understanding.”
She scowled, taking a few steps towards the chair but not yet taking a seat. “As for Corbin, I wasn’t suggesting she run away and leave her family behind, not at all. I told her that she had to stay and wait till she was older--with her parents--before she could think of going anywhere else. But I wasn’t going to completely dismiss her wants because shutting her out on that entirely and not giving a listening ear when she’s traumatized is not going to help her heal.”
“It is not your place to make decisions for this family,” Gerard returned acidly. “Cassian and I made a choice that, at the time, seemed like the best option. We hardly meant for the fire to grow so wild; that was the royal guards’ error, not ours. And Corbin was hardly supposed to see-- and hear-- the whole godsdamned Narrows go up in flames.” He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees. “But nothing you say will make me regret it, Elin. Not after what those animals did to my child. What happened in the Narrows… it was not intentional. And as I’ve already said, it’s very, very unfortunate. But at least everybody in this entire bloody kingdom will now recoil at so much as the thought of raising a finger against this House.” As if Elin could forget, he added bitterly, “Your granddaughters’ House. Your daughter’s, too. Or do you still carry on ignoring her married name, as if pretending that she’s not Lady Muriel Alaric will make her any less of that person?”
“I see and love my daughter and granddaughters for who they are,” Elin said simply. “Even if it wasn’t intentional, it’s not like the populace knows that, and that they won’t be angry about it, especially if they lost someone in that fire. And how was Corbin not supposed to see or hear? She’s not blind or deaf.”
She paused. “In any case, the fact you have power is even more of the point; that all it takes is one misguided order for many people to die. This is exactly what I’m talking about when I complain about nobles and the power they wield.”
“The guards were supposed to put her in a carriage and send her back to the palace before they set anything ablaze,” Gerard replied. “And let the population be angry. Perhaps that will make them think before they act in the future. Perhaps that won’t spur an entire building’s worth of people to sit idly by with their fingers stuck in their ears as their upstairs neighbour held my child prisoner for weeks. Beating her. Cutting off her godsdamned finger. Do you think she was quiet throughout, Elin? Do you think she never screamed? Do you think nobody knew? The city guard was tearing Rakine apart looking for her, and yet still no one said anything. They’re so corrupt-- so cliquish-- in the Narrows that no one dares breathe a word to the authorities even when there’s a royal child being held hostage in the flat up the stairs. But I daresay now that no one would ever make such a mistake again. Not a soul in this city now lives under the delusion that they can play with fire-- play with children of this court-- and get away with it.”
Sharply then, the prince stood, sweeping past his mother-in-law as he stalked back over to the door. Wrenching it back open, he turned and growled, “You came into my home today as a guest, Elin. But I think you’ve well outworn your welcome. Shall I see you to the door?”
Elin’s glare didn’t abate. “That won’t be necessary. Don’t think this will keep my away from my family, though.” She briefly rubbed her side, but walked closer to the door. “I don’t know why they didn’t say anything; I’m not them, and I’m not saying that was right of them. But maybe that comes down to fear again.”
“Fear is no excuse for what they did,” Gerard replied levelly. “And perhaps I ought help you to the door, anyway. I wouldn’t want you to get lost, after all, and find yourself back in my child’s chambers.”
With that, Gerard took a pointed step out into the corridor, Elin following at his heel. A stifling silence crackled between the two as they walked, so thick it was like a tangible weight hanging in the air. Moving briskly past Corbin’s bedchamber, the two reached the spiral staircase separating the upper level of the flat from the lower one, and Gerard’s feet thudded hollowly against the wooden steps as he made his way down.
If he’d been hoping to escort Elin out of the apartment without any further complications, however, such plans were instantly dashed when, in the sitting room that sprawled at the base of the stairs, he and Elin came across Aislin. The teenager was sitting cross-legged on a settee, a needlepoint project in her lap and her eyes squinted in careful concentration, but at the sound of her father and grandmother’s footsteps, she looked up and glanced toward them.
“Leaving already, Grandma?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” Gerard replied thinly before Elin could so much as open her lips. “She has business elsewhere, Ash.”
“You can’t even stay for supper?” Aislin frowned. “We’re just eating in the flat tonight, I think. Not even with Uncle Cassian. And you haven’t even seen my mother yet, have you? She should be back from the healer’s with Risa soon.”
Elin glanced down at Aislin, giving a subtle look as if to indicate that it was not, in fact, due to business elsewhere. “I’m sorry Aislin, I don’t think that’d be a good idea right now. Not with things how they are. But maybe I’ll see your Mum on the way back; I can say hi to her then. Maybe there will be another time for supper.”
“How things are?” Aislin echoed. “What do you mean by--”
“Ash,” Gerard cut in tersely. “Enough. She needs to go, and now’s hardly the time to play question and answer.”
“Who stomped on your toe today?” Aislin grumbled, clearly picking up on the tension in the room.
“Aislin. I said enough, and I mean enough--”
“Don’t take it out on her,” Elin cut in to Gerard. She gave a rough sigh. “Sorry Aislin. I’ll see you some other time.”
“Bye, I guess,” the girl said reluctantly, but from the dark flicker in her eyes, it was obvious the exchange had left her unsettled, her focus not returning to her needlework even once Gerard started toward the front door again and beckoned for Elin to follow him.
At the entryway, Gerard paused for a moment before the door, his hand poised over the heavy brass handle. “I am not a petty man,” he said starkly, “and I would not think to do such a petty thing as to bar you from seeing your grandchildren over one poor exchange. That said”-- his eyes latched on to Elin’s like a hook grasping a fish-- “if you ever undermine me to my child again, or dare to fill her head with further guilt, doubts, and fears, I would no longer see such a thing as merely petty. Do you understand?”
“Crystal clear,” Elin said, unfettered. “That said, I suggest you really listen to what Corbin’s saying about this, and her doubts.”
With that, Elin made her way out. Gerard watched her go, his gaze digging into her back as a palace knight led her down the corridor away from his and Muriel’s apartment, the two of them eventually disappearing around a corner. Once she was out of sight, he stepped back and shut the door again, the hefty metal bolt turning into place with a satisfying click as he engaged it.
“She doesn’t have business, does she?” a soft voice asked from behind him. Gerard’s throat dry, he turned slowly around toward the teenaged girl who had, it seemed, silently followed he and Elin from the sitting room into the foyer. “Aislin.” He sighed-- before wincing as something occurred to him. “Did you hear…?”
Aislin nodded, her lips pursed. “I don’t know what she did, but… you wouldn’t really ban her from seeing us, would you?”
“I don’t know, Ash,” the prince admitted. “I wouldn’t want to, but…”
“But what? She dares to challenge you sometimes? She doesn’t just roll over at everything you and Uncle Cassian say?”
“Aislin.” He grimaced again. “That’s… not it, sweetheart.”
At least, he told himself that wasn’t it. That such a thing couldn’t be it, his harsh words toward Elin borne not of ill-placed pride, but of a desire to protect his child, no matter the steep cost. And anybody who challenged such a thing…
Swallowing hard, Gerard shoved away the thought. “Go finish your needlework, Ash,” he said, sounding almost defeated. “What happened between your grandmother and me… it’s… it’s not something you need to worry about, okay?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Aislin said, a bitter edge to her tone. “I forgot, Papa: you’re the only one who’s allowed to be worried.”
And with that, the teenager spun on her heel and stalked away, leaving Gerard in the foyer alone.
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Post by Avery on Jul 19, 2015 15:21:31 GMT -5
Downfall Begins in early January, 1347 This arc is... a long time in the making. Like, since nearly main-game in the making. It starts about six months after the treaty signing (one of the stipulations of which was that the rebels return King Oliver's son, Matteus, and niece, Julia, to his custody). I'd say more, but I don't want to spoil anything. It will likely be about 7-9 parts, when all is said and done. Collab between Elcie and myself. Prologue:In retrospect, Cassian thought he should have realized sooner that something was off. Titus was quiet, but then Titus was often quiet; Rhia seemed subdued, but perhaps she was not feeling well. When Cassian picked up his son to put him to bed, however, the boy flinched from him in a way that suggested pain, and worry twisted at his gut.
He settled the boy in bed and sat down on the edge of his bed. “Titus,” he said softly, “did you get hurt today?”
Titus squirmed, avoiding eye contact with his father. “I’m sorry, Papa,” he muttered.
Cassian frowned. “You’re not in trouble, Titus,” he said. “But if you got hurt, Mama and I need to know about it, so we can get you to a healer.”
“Grandfather said I didn’t need to,” Titus said in a small voice. “He just took Rhia.”
“Rhia?” Cassian echoed, and then, his heart beginning to hammer uncomfortably in his chest, “Why did your grandfather take Rhia to the healer?”
Titus shied away from the question, his eyes downcast. “I‘m sorry, Papa,” he muttered. “I was bad, I’m sorry…”
His reaction confirmed all of Cassian’s fears. Anger suddenly flared hot in his chest, and he tried as hard as he could not to show it lest Titus misinterpret his reaction. “Ty, you’re not in trouble, I promise,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I just want to know what happened. Can I see your back?”
Titus nodded silently, and turned around so Cassian could lift up the back of his shirt. For just a moment, his fury was such that he almost stopped breathing. Raised, red welts striped the little boy’s back, marks that Cassian knew beyond a shadow of a doubt had been left by a belt. He pulled Titus’s shirt back down and pulled back. After taking a couple of deep breaths to control himself, to keep his voice calm, he asked, “Did Grandfather hit you there?”
Titus rolled back over, now looking wretchedly up at his father. He nodded. Cassian’s throat tightened. “Did he… did he hit Rhia, too?”
The boy nodded again. “We… we were playing hide and seek,” he whispered. “We snuck into the library, I know we’re not s’posed to, but…”
“He shouldn’t have punished you like that, all the same,” Cassian said. “And I will not let him do it again. Titus, if Grandfather ever hits you… you can tell me, or Mama. We won’t be mad, I promise.” At least not at you. It took all of Cassian’s self-control not to let his fury show in his face, to keep his expression calm and neutral for Titus’s sake. Oliver had always ruled his children with harsh, iron-fisted discipline, but Cassian had never in a thousand years thought that he would extend that same discipline to his grandchildren. Seeing his quiet, sensitive son rendered this terrified made Cassian want to shake his father senseless.
Titus peeked nervously up at him. “You’re sure I’m not in trouble?” he said.
“I’m sure,” Cassian said, and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. Unexpectedly, Titus wrapped his arms tightly around his father’s neck.
“I love you, Papa,” Titus said, and Cassian took a moment to return the hug.
“I love you too, Ty. Now go to sleep. Big boys like you need their rest.”
As he left Titus’s room, his hands were clenched tightly into fists. Melisande, leaving Rhia’s room, saw him and looked concerned. “Cassian, are you okay?”
“No,” he spat. “Mel, do you know what that… what my father did today?” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t respond, and Cassian went on, “Apparently, he decided that it would be appropriate to beat the hell out of my son and daughter because he caught them playing where they shouldn’t be,” he snarled. “Titus has welts. He’s terrified, Mel, he thought I was going to punish him too. I could kill Father!”
Mel’s eyes were very wide now. “Even Rhia?” she said hesitantly. “She… didn’t act as if she was hurting…”
Cassian let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Because he took her to a healer to keep it from scarring. It’s what he always used to do with us, you know. Gods, I just never thought he’d…”
Melisande’s face was white. “I suppose we must warn the children to be very careful around him,” she said. “If he’d hurt them like that…”
“Like hell,” Cassian spat. “He has no right. I’m not going to let this happen again, I am going to make that very clear.”
“He’s the king,” Melisande said worriedly. “Not to mention your father. Do… do you think he’ll actually listen to you?”
“Oh, I highly doubt it,” Cassian said, a grim smile on his face. “But I’m not a little boy anymore. He can’t expect to make me roll over for him anymore. My father raised me to be a king, Mel, not a slave. Maybe I should show him exactly what that means.”
With that he turned on his heel, headed for the door into the rest of the royal residence. “I’m going to have a word with my dear father,” he said. “Don’t wait up for me, I expect this may take a while.”
Melisande was left staring at the door he’d slammed shut behind him, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. “Just be safe,” she whispered.
When Cassian reached his father’s office, he was too angry to bother knocking. He flung open the door and marched inside. “Father,” he snapped, “we need to talk.”
Oliver, seated behind the polished maple desk in the center of the room, glanced up sharply at Cassian. “Have you ever heard of knocking, Cass?” he demanded, his green eyes glimmering with irritation. Gesturing to the stack of parchment fanned before him, he added, “I’m working.”
“I only wanted to speak to you about something,” Cassian said coolly. “Did you… discipline my children today, Father?”
Oliver furrowed his brow. “I caught them running amok in the archives,” he replied, “where I know they’ve been told they aren’t allowed. So when I found that they’d snuck in anyway?” He shrugged, almost casually. “Yes, Cassian, I punished them. I don’t see what there is to speak about. Now, if you could shut the door on your way out...? I’ve work to do.”
“I’m not finished,” Cassian said darkly. “Titus had welts on his back, Father. Rhia was sent to the healers.” He stepped forward until he was directly in front of Oliver’s desk, leaning on it with his hands curled into fists. “I don’t need your help disciplining my own children. And I certainly didn’t ask for them to be beaten.”
“They’re merely welts; I didn’t break the skin, and they won’t scar.” Oliver snorted. “And clearly you haven’t a proper grip on your own children, Cassian, if they’re flagrantly flouting the rules. I assure you that neither of those kids will ever again so much as think about sneaking into parts of the palace where they’re not permitted-- rules that, should I remind you, are you in place for their own safety.” Locking his eyes on his son’s, he finished acidly, “Now step back, Cassian, and leave me to my work.”
Cassian didn’t move, though his jaw tightened at Oliver’s expression, as if steeling himself for a blow. “He’s four years old, Father, there was no call for beating him like that,” he said tersely. “And Rhia…” He faltered, a terrible thought entering his mind. Gods, Rhia was that much older, and so much less shy than Titus - could this have happened before?
He shook it off, glaring. “My children are my responsibility, Father, not yours,” he snarled. “And I don’t want them being terrorized.”
Abruptly, Oliver stood, his shoulders square and teeth clenched. Menacing over Cassian, who was still leaning across the desk, the king spat back, “And you are my child, Cassian-- did I raise you to speak to me like that?” Thrusting a finger toward the door, he ordered, “Get out. Now.”
Cassian’s eyes flashed. Slowly, he straightened. “Yes, Father, I am your son,” he said, his voice dripping disgust. “Not a slave you can order out of your presence. And I will not allow anyone to raise a hand to my children.” Voice shaking, he added, “Did she bleed, Father? Is that why you sent for the healer - to stop the scarring, just like you did with me, because gods know you were always so concerned with appearances--”
Oliver’s hand lashed out so fast against Cassian’s cheek that the crown prince didn’t even have time to flinch, let alone dodge away. “Never speak to me like that,” he hissed. “I am not just your father, Cassian: I am your king. And I will not tolerate you storming into my office without permission and then lecturing me. Now get out! And gods help you if you ever dare talk to me like that again, Cassian.”
Cassian’s head snapped to one side with the force of his father’s blow, but almost immediately he looked back up again, far from cowed by a slap like he had been as a child. Though he took a step back from Oliver’s desk, his eyes were still locked on his father’s. “You can do what you want with me,” he said softly. “I’m your oldest son, I suppose that’s your right. But don’t you dare lay hands on my children.”
With that he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his heart pounding. His cheek stung where Oliver had hit him, and a corner of his mind was paralyzed with terror at the thought of the disrespect he’d just delivered to his father’s face. But none of that really mattered in the face of the hot, protective fury that had risen in his chest at the sight of Titus’s welts, and still flared whenever he thought of what his father had done. Gods help anyone who dared hurt his children.
Even his father. Part One:Two days after his confrontation with Oliver, Cassian found his cousin Julia in the palace gardens, a book open on her lap. A quick glance around confirmed that none of the guards were close enough to hear, and he’d be able to see from here if any of his family was approaching. Good. With a deep breath, he stepped toward her and sat down on the bench beside her. There was, he suspected, no tactful way to approach this; it was not exactly a subject that could be approached from an oblique angle. On the other hand, he certainly couldn’t come right out and say it. So instead, looking at Julia, he asked her, “What are you reading?” At Cassian’s sudden presence-- and far too casual question-- Julia froze as if she’d been slapped. Blinking several times, like she couldn’t quite believe that Cassian was here and talking to her, she swallowed hard and scooted not-so-subtly away from him. It took her several moments to gather the composure to turn her head in his direction, and even once she did, it was several moments more before she could wrangle her disjointed thoughts into any semblance of coherent speech. Cassian… Woo, since her miserable return to the palace last July, he’d said a grand total of maybe a dozen words to her, if that. She saw him only at family meals, and even then they never conversed. And she liked it that way. She’d always wanted as much to do with Oliver’s shadow-- his prize-- as Cassian had seemed to want to do with her in return. So whatever this was… him swaggering up to her as she sought solace in the garden, which was one of the few places on the grounds of the Gilded Palace where she could truly be alone… and then asking about what she was reading like he’d have any reason to ever care… It couldn’t be good. Julia knew this instantly and innately, like a mother knows her child’s cry. Not daring to let her voice tremble, she said to him, “It’s a book about the Bleeder’s Night feast. The history and origins of it, all of that.” As though it were an afterthought, she added quickly, “Your highness.” He nodded thoughtfully as if he found this interesting, though his mind couldn’t have been further from Bleeder’s Night. There was nothing for it, he supposed, but to say it, to take the leap of trust he’d come here to make. Although perhaps it wasn’t really about trust; all he needed to know with certainty was that Julia hated his father as much as he did. The answer to that was easy; Julia hated Oliver far more than that. He lowered his voice. “I came out here because I needed to speak to you about something, in private,” he said quietly. “Because my… father… I suppose I could say that I’ve come to some conclusions recently about his reign, and they are not happy ones. He isn’t good for Courdon, Julia.” For a very long, horrified moment, Julia gave no reaction, merely gaping at Cassian like she wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t misspoken-- as if she half-expected him to backtrack and clarify at any moment. When he didn’t, she finally let out a laugh, soft and strangled and miserable. “Did he send you?” she whispered, slamming shut her book. “Is that what this is? He doesn’t trust me, so he’s trying to lay some trap so he can whip me some more until I’m finally submissive enough for him?” She couldn’t help it now: her voice was quivering, with fear and fury both. “Tell the king that I’m perfectly obedient. That even six months later my back still sometimes aches from the flogging he gave me when I came home, and I’m eager to never repeat that again. Can you remember that all, your highness? To tell him? Or ought I rip a page out this book and write it down for you?” Cassian’s eyes widened, and he shook his head emphatically. “No, that’s not - I meant what I said. Father knows nothing of this, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.” He smiled slightly, crookedly, a rather ruthless gleam to his eye. “I know you don’t like me. But I also know you must hate him, after how he’s treated you. And I’ve a feeling we might be able to help one another. You must see it, Julia, I know you’re not as broken as you’d like my father to believe. No one who spent six years in the Branded Lord’s army could be so easily cowed.” “What does he want from me?” Julia hissed, her green eyes flickering with something between despondency and rage. “What does he get out of this-- testing me, trying to make me fail? And what in all the hells do you get out of helping him? Last I checked, your highness, you’ve done more than enough over the years where you’ve nothing left to prove to him. So why do you keep on with it? Do you like seeing people hurt? Is that it?” Acidly, she finished, “Did I not bleed enough for you last time, when you watched him whip me unconscious?” Cassian flinched, but his eyes flashed angrily. “ No. I’m not like him,” he snapped. “He beats my children, Julia. He left my four-year-old son’s back covered in painful welts and whipped my little girl until she bled. And I think just for that, I could kill him.” He swallowed hard, forcing back the anger now causing his heart to beat rapidly in his chest. “But it’s not just for that. It’s taken me far too long to notice that he’s bent on dragging this kingdom down with him, and I’m no longer going to follow at his heels like an obedient hound while he does it. But I can’t fix it on my own. The problem’s too big for just one mind to puzzle through.” “That’s surprising to you, that he’d beat your children?” Julia let out another bitter laugh. “I’ve always thought you were cruel, Cassian”-- she’d dispatched now with his honorific, as though she couldn’t stomach it any longer-- “but I didn’t think you were stupid.” Sharply standing, with the book tucked underarm, she said, “I, however, am not stupid. As I said, tell the king I passed his loyalty test with flying colours. And next time he tries to lay a trap, might he at least be more creative with it? This was just pathetic.” She took a pointed step away. “Julia, wait.” Panic had edged into Cassian’s voice now. If this, his one gambit, failed, then what chance did he stand against the king? “Let me prove to you that I’m in earnest. Father did not send me, I swear it.” She paused, rounding back toward him. “Prove it?” Julia’s voice was nearly shrill. “Fine, Cassian-- how do you mean to prove it? Go ahead. I’m riveted.” “I could help you, I--” Cassian’s mind raced. How could he help her in a way that would prove his intentions? Then it hit him. Something his father would never allow. “I can arrange for a letter to be sent to my brother in Kyth.” Seeing that this statement held her attention, he continued on more cautiously, “Father doesn’t allow you to correspond with him, does he? I know he forbids Matteus. He’d be furious if a member of his family contacted Gerard. He’d be furious with me if I allowed it.” Cassian smiled grimly. “So, Julia, perhaps I should.” For the first time since he’d approached her, the expression written across Julia’s face shifted from pure rage and disbelief into something far, far more tangled and complex. Her brow furrowed, she hesitated, her voice soft as she said, “This could just be another layer of the trap.” A beat. “How do I know you’d even really send it? That you wouldn’t just… carry on as though you’re letting me write to him and then you and your father have a good long laugh over it before he beats me again.” “I’ll go with you,” Cassian said, although he was already wondering how he was going to pull this off without his father’s knowledge. “I will see to it that you are able to hand the letter to a courier yourself, and Father will be none the wiser. Would that satisfy you of my intentions?” “And I can write anything I want in it?” Julia asked, before amending this to: “You won’t read it first at all?” “Not so much as a glance,” Cassian promised. “You have my word.” After a moment’s thought, he took off his signet ring and held it out to her, open-palmed. “A sign of my good faith,” he added. “Not even my father’s spies would dare open a letter with my seal on it.” Julia’s mind screamed for her to say yes. To accept this opportunity and never look back, because only Woo knew if she’d ever get such a chance again. And yet, in spite of this, she hesitated, taking a good, long moment to study the crown prince of Courdon instead. Searching his face for some sign that he was lying-- or, perhaps, that he was telling the truth, for that was still the far more unbelievable option. But she found nothing. No tell, no twitch, no mild smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. He looked… earnest. Even desperate. So different than the usual Cassian she’d come to know from afar-- and revile. “If this is a trap,” she said finally, accepting the proffered ring, “then tell him just to kill me, Cassian. I can’t handle being beaten again. Not with what I know he’ll do to me, after last time.” “He won’t hear of it. He’ll never know,” Cassian said, hearing the almost pleading note in his own voice and hating it. It was no way for a prince of Courdon to speak. But he had no choice. If he couldn’t win Julia’s trust - couldn’t circumvent his father just enough to let her send a letter - then he would never be able to rid Oliver from the throne. “Fine.” Julia swallowed hard. “You have me listening, Cassian. If I can get a letter sent to Gerard… then I’ll hear what you have brewing in that wicked blonde head of yours.” She paused before grimly continuing, “And if you’re just tricking me, well… I hope you die along with him, when eventually he goes. Because your soul’s just as rotten as his is.” She shrugged. “I’ll be back here at sundown with my letter. Meet me here so we can send it, or else I suppose I’ll know that you were only lying to me all along.” And with that, Julia turned on her heel and strode away from the crown prince of Courdon, soon disappearing around a bend in the cobbled garden path. Cassian watched her go and swallowed hard. There was no turning back now from what he’d just done, and the enormity of it was only now hitting him. He’d taken the first step, however small, on the path to killing a king. No, not just a king: his own father. The crown prince closed his eyes, and silently prayed to the gods that he was not making a mistake. ** “I didn’t even know this part of the palace existed,” Julia said some three days later, dusting off her skirts as she slipped into a small, dank room in one of the palace’s far-flung wings. Shutting the door behind her and twisting the deadbolt into place, she added without looking at the man who sat upon a faded loveseat in the corner of the room, “Although I suppose that’s probably why you picked it. And it is much more secure than the gardens, at least. Wish I’d known about it back when Gerry and I, well…” Julia’s voice fell as she realized that she might be saying too much. Instead, the woman crossed her arms at her chest and glided across the room, her leather-soled shoes gently striking the cold stone floor. She still couldn’t entirely believe that she was in a situation like this: having a secret meeting with Cassian in a hidden palace room, a meeting during which, if her suspicions were right, she and the crown prince might be plotting treason. Even now, days after he’d approached her in the gardens, it seemed so very wrong and strange that such a series of events was unfurling. That he’d propositioned her at all, and that so far it hadn’t shown any signs of being a trap. As she’d watched the letter to Gerard fly off in a pigeon’s talons, the niece of Oliver Alaric had felt a sort of numb, cold shock. Since then, her assessment of the situation hadn’t grown any warmer. Only more… complex. Like a massive puzzle that made no sense but which nevertheless was being assembled right before her eyes, as unfathomable as ever. “So,” she said, swallowing back her unease, “you sent my letter. And I’m not dead or whipped yet, so I’m guessing Uncle Oliver doesn’t know.” Sitting down in a chair opposite him, she forced herself to meet her eyes as she finished, “Tell me why, Cassian. Tell me what you’re planning, and why the hell I should get myself involved in it.” Cassian leaned forward, watching her. There was no point in beating around the bush. “My father needs to be removed, Julia,” he said. “I’m not going to sit by and watch him run this kingdom into the ground. His own men don’t trust him, we’ve already lost Roth and Thylle, and the rebellion… well… I can’t risk another civil war if they lose much more patience with him. I want my son to still have a kingdom left to inherit.” He steepled his fingers, frowning. “I’ve had enough. And I imagine so have you. You were the only one I could be certain of, the only one who wouldn’t go running to my father or try to use my own plans against me.” He smiled grimly. “And unless I’m quite mistaken, you have very little to lose. No marriage prospects, no future, not even any contact permitted with the one person in our family you are friendly with - tell me, Julia, would you rather have a lifetime like that under my father’s thumb? Or would you like to help me stop him?” “Oh yes, Cassian, obviously my life is miserable because I can’t be married off to whichever enki your father most wants to curry political favour with. A pity, that.” Venom flared in her pale eyes, more similar to the king’s than even Cassian’s were. “So, you’ve suddenly seen the light about Uncle Oliver’s darling practices in politics and child-rearing both. Fantastic. I’m glad for you. But that’s not a plan, my prince.” She paused, studying him for a few moments, as though hoping to see a flicker of something deeper-- brighter-- beneath the hard expression on his bronze face. But she found nothing there, no tells that he’d thought more thoroughly on this at all. He wore only a frown and inscrutable eyes, his cheeks drawn in tight and brow starkly furrowed. “Gus-- um, Lord Altair, of your father’s close council-- assures me you’re not stupid, Cassian,” the king’s niece said finally. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly gushing rainbows about you, but… he tells me that at least you’re not a blithering idiot. So far, however, you’ve given me no reason to believe him. So for Woo’s sake, stop waxing poetic about your father’s wrongs for five seconds and tell me what the hell you’re actually planning here. Because hate to burst your bubble, little princeling, but he’s not exactly going to just give you the throne.” “Of course he won’t,” Cassian snapped, nettled. The blunt, acidic words were like nothing he’d heard from her before, far from the subdued, silent girl he was used to. “I’m going to kill him, or have you not put that together yet? Here I thought you were at least clever enough to understand what we would have to do.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “I didn’t realize you were on such… familiar terms with Lord Altair. Is that a regular habit, cousin, running off to discuss my intelligence with a traitor?” A second after saying it a part of him wondered if he’d gone too far. Julia herself had spent as much time with the rebels as Altair had, if not longer. And Augustin Altair was, officially and legally, no less a noble of Courdon than he had been before; he was one of Oliver’s advisors now, his noble birth making such a position acceptable. But the rebels were the real reason he’d been appointed, placing a man to represent their interests in the king’s inner circle. Cassian hated that, had not fully found it in himself to forgive Altair and others like him for betraying their kingdom, their birthright. It was deplorable. But of course Julia sympathizes with him, a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You think she cast off all previous allegiances the second your father dragged her home?The thought sent a shiver across Cassian’s skin, this idea that he was sitting across from not his timid, harmless girl-cousin, but a rebel every bit as experienced and hardened as a man like Altair. It was not what he’d expected. Julia let out a thin laugh, before it seemed to occur to her that her cousin was being serious-- about killing Oliver and her association with Augustin Altair both-- at which point the sound abruptly died in her throat. “You’re going to kill the king?” she asked, quirking her brow. “That’s so… fascinating, Cassian. Oh, tell me all about it, how Oliver’s little shadow who thought that approaching me out of hand in the gardens like a swaggering fool was a good way of scheming is going to murder the king of Courdon and get away with it. I’m all ears!” She leaned forward sharply, her elbows digging into her knees, as she stared dead red at her elder cousin. “And funny that you call Augustin Altair a traitor, Cassian, when you’re sitting here plotting high treason, regicide, and patricide all in one. I daresay that you and Gus might actually have a lot in common where being a traitor is concerned! Although on second thought, maybe that’s an insult to poor Gus.” “ I am no traitor,” Cassian hissed, his hands clenching into fists. “You think this is a game to me? That deciding to murder my father was some sort of… passing fancy? What I do, I do for Courdon. I owe it to my kingdom, my people, to remove my father from power. And you’re quite right - the only way that can happen is by his death. I am not the one turning on my own nation, trying to uproot its very foundations. I’m trying to preserve it. And if that involves the death of a king, then so be it. I have no other choice.” “Why should I even care, Cassian?” Julia pursed her lips. “Why ought I help you kill your father so that you can take his place? What, do you think that you’re somehow better than him?” She laughed again, this time one of just barely strangled hatred, before she continued: “When I was first brought here back when I was fifteen, I counted, you know. Every time someone struck me. Every time someone hurt me. I’m not sure it was the healthiest activity, but then again, nothing in this palace is very healthy.” She shrugged. “Six times, Cassian. That’s how many times you backhanded me before Gerry and I ran away. Once so hard that my nose bled. And you shoved me against a wall once, too, with your arm against my throat, for the grave offense of snorting under my breath when you tripped over your own shoelaces, before you personally handed me off to your father so that he could belt me. And that’s not even including the times you grabbed me, or threatened what you’d do if I dared say another word out of line, or…” The woman forced a deep breath. “You are not a good person, Cassian. You’re still bitter over losing the war; if you could reinstate slavery today and get away with you, you’d do it in a heartbeat. He beats your children, but you’ve willingly beaten his children. Your own siblings! And you sit here calling the rebels who brought change to this kingdom-- good change-- traitors. So tell me, mighty savior of Courdon: why the hell should I want you on the throne over him, let alone help you plot regicide to do it?” For a moment Cassian sat in stunned silence, barely able to process the venomous tirade hurled at him by this scornful, bitter woman he now scarcely recognized. The woman he had, yes, slapped and shoved for disrespect, the one he’d watched his father brutally whip without so much as batting an eye in sympathy. Gods. Part of him wanted to shout at her, hit her, make her take back the things she dared say about him - this stupid slip of a girl, she really had no idea-- It was precisely what Cassian’s father would have done. Suddenly, in a wave of disgust, he felt sick. Instead of saying anything, Cassian leaned back and silently rolled up his sleeve, revealing a long white scar along his bicep. “I was sent to serve with a battalion in Teral during my year of military service,” he said. “The brigadier in charge was a good man, a loyal soldier. His men respected him. And we were ambushed once, not far outside the city where I was stationed… it was ugly. I have no doubt I would have died if he’d not been there. I was still left with this.” He gestured to the scar. “My father panicked, I think. He called me back a full four months early, before I’d fulfilled my duty. I was angry, I resisted, but I got over it. I was a good, obedient son and I didn’t question his word. Once I’d recovered from my injuries, I asked after Brigadier Cowles, because I wanted to thank him for what he’d done for me. And do you know what I discovered?” Cassian’s voice shook with anger. “He was dead. Not killed in battle, oh no - executed for treason. Because never mind that he’d saved my life, that he was braver and fairer a commander than most of my father’s favorite generals - in my father’s mind, it was his fault we’d walked into that ambush and my sword arm was injured. And he had to die.” The prince stared down at the floor, his knuckles white as he gripped his scarred arm with his other hand. “That was a side of my father that… well, I suppose I had never seen it for what it was. And I realized something. I’d thought, all my life, that my father was trying to raise me to be a good king.” Cassian laughed bitterly. “He wasn’t. He didn’t care about that. He was raising me to be him. So I suppose that’s what I have been, all these years. I didn’t just let him hurt you and Mattie and poor Safira and Sabine, I helped him. Because - because I thought as long as he was pleased with me, I was doing the right thing.” His eyes blazed as he looked back up at Julia, his mouth hardened into a line. “I don’t want to be my father, Julia - the man who’d beat his own child bloody for disrespect, the man who’d execute a loyal soldier for something that wasn’t his fault. Not anymore. Not now I finally understand what he’s like.” “Brigadier Cowles?” Of everything contained in Cassian’s rant, the prince’s cousin latched only to this. Her voice practically a squeak, she said again: “Brigadier Cowles? Brigadier Donovan Cowles? That’s your loyal, noble soldier who tragically lost his life because of your father’s cruelty?” When Cassian nodded, his eyes narrowed, Julia shook her head, as though in disbelief. Wringing her hands in her lap, the woman’s lips turned up into an incredulous smile, her green eyes flickering with something between contempt and horror. “ Good,” she snarled. “I’m glad he’s dead. He was a butcher. He’s the one who ran the battalion that found me, you know. Back in Talvace, when I was fifteen. And he’s the one who gave the order to slaughter over a dozen rebels who were unarmed, restrained, and providing absolutely no resistance. Some of them were barely more than kids, Cassian. The only offense they’d ever committed simply the misfortune of being born into bondage and then running away from their vile masters.” A furious flush to her face now, she continued, “Cowles was a monster. And when you were in the army, Cassian, I’m sure you were, too. That’s what you don’t understand: the problem isn’t just Oliver. It’s not just one rogue king. This whole system… this culture… these rigid social classes and rules even now that slavery is gone… all of it is what’s wicked. You are upset because your father is a particularly petty tyrant. But tell me, Cassian-- say your father was dead, and you were on the throne, and I went and told you that I wanted to say… marry a former slave, or hell, even just a run-of-the-mill peasant, what would your response be? Would you let me?” “Of course not,” Cassian snapped back, without even thinking. “You’re an Alaric, why would you--” He stopped short, narrowing his eyes. Before, the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but he felt at this point nothing she could say would have surprised him. “You’re not intending to marry a former slave, are you?” he said, frowning. She wasn’t, but something in her cousin’s furious, disgusted tone veered her away from an outright denial. Instead, the dark-haired woman pursed her lips and said, “What would you do to him, Cassian? If you found out I were… oh, I don’t know, sharing my bed with a former slave, would you beat him? Kill him? Make him suffer?” “If a commoner was dishonoring you, Julia--” Cassian began darkly, but then he stopped himself, shaking his head sharply. “No. That’s not the point. I’d do my duty by you, as would any king of Courdon, you already know that. So why the hell are you asking?” Voice slightly pained, he added, “If that’s what you’re after - if having a former slave as your husband is what would convince you to help me kill my father - then…” Julia laughed. “I’m not having an affair with a former slave, princeling. And you’re right: that is what any king of Courdon would do. And therein rests the problem, even if you’re so bloody desperate for my help that you’d ignore it this one nice time.” Abruptly, she stood, crossing her arms as she angled her body back toward the door. “Obviously you haven’t much of a plan, other than the broad stroke of killing your father. And you’ve told me nothing that makes me want to help you, especially not when it means risking my own life. So... no, I don’t think I’ll be helping you.” And with that, Julia took a step toward the door. “Julia, wait.” Cassian jolted upright and grabbed for her wrist. “Do you really think I’d be no better than my father? After everything he’s done?” His voice shook. “You won the war. What I think of the rebels, of slavery - that doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? But my father, he’s still here, still hurting people, and I…” Cassian swallowed hard. “Julia, I’m… I’m sorry for what I let him do to you. For… what I did to you. It wasn’t right. And I swear, on my honor as the crown prince of Courdon and the eldest son of House Alaric, that it will not happen again. Whatever you may think of me, I won’t let my father simply use people as he pleases… and especially not my own kin.” “Show me, then,” Julia said, her throat dry. “He hits me often enough, doesn’t he? So if you’re going to be so much better than him, Cassian, prove it. Next time he moves to hurt me-- any time he moves to hurt me… well, after you’ve done that, maybe we can talk.” She met the crown prince’s desperate eyes with her own, before with a sharp jerk wrenching her wrist free from his grip. Acidly, she finished, “And don’t you ever lay a hand on me again.” “You have my word,” Cassian said quietly. He clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re the only person I can trust with this, cousin… I want to prove to you that you can do the same.” A dark, almost malevolent smiling unfurling between her lips, Julia reached out toward Cassian, taking a hold of one of his arms and guiding it gently forward. He didn’t resist her, and her grip so light she might have been clutching a delicate egg, she touched her finger to the signet ring he wore-- the very one he’d let her borrow to seal her letter to Gerard. “I wrote another letter, Cassian,” she said softly. “One I didn’t send. It’s dated and sealed with your mark. If you ever change your mind about this and think to throw me under the carriage wheel-- if you’re planning somehow for me to take the fall for you…” She let go of him, turning back toward the door. Cassian had gone very still. “I won’t betray you, Julia, and I don’t intend to put you in harm’s way,” he said. “But gods help me, if you drag my family into this - if anything you’ve written will put Melisande in danger…” His voice hardened. “Then I suggest you tell me, before things get very ugly.” “I’m not a liar, Cassian.” Her back still to him, Julia strode to the door and unlocked the deadbolt. “And unlike you, I would never hurt a woman or children.” Without waiting for his reply then, the prince’s cousin exited the room, quietly shutting the door behind her. Cassian watched her go, his pale eyes filled with unease. He could well believe now that she was fully capable of destroying him; she’d gained the upper hand so easily. Trusting her was no longer as simple a thing as he’d originally thought. And at this point, he had very little choice but to continue. At the same time… However much she hated him, and however much she disturbed him with her accusations and her veiled threats, there was no doubt that she would prove a more than capable co-conspirator, if he could only win her cooperation. Cassian smiled thinly as he walked toward the door. It was a dangerous game he played, he’d known that from the start, but if Julia could prove a danger to him then she could also be a danger to his father, one that Oliver would never anticipate. He’d make this work, he would find a way to turn her to his advantage. At this point, his very life depended on it. Part Two:Four days later, most of the royal family stood in the foyer of its private residence, King Oliver pacing impatiently back and forth as he waited for the final member-- his youngest son, Matteus-- to arrive. As per religious tradition, the grand feast in honour of Bleeder’s Night was slated to take place in the great hall at sundown tonight, and although no one would dare begin the celebrations before the king’s arrival, Oliver-- fully bedecked in elaborate, uncomfortable court regalia-- seemed almost offended by the thought of dawdling much longer.
“I swear he delights in making us wait,” the king huffed, the heels of his shoes clicking against the tumbled marble floor. “Gods, by the time we get to the feast, the children will be nodding off to slumber.” He nudged his chin toward Rhiannon and Titus, who were standing several feet away from the king on either side of Melisande. “Might as well just send them up to the nursery with Bryony and Markus”-- these were Cassian’s youngest two children, although whispers had begun that Melisande was once again pregnant-- “and not bother with it.”
At this, Rhiannon, who was feeling quite proud to be going to something as grown up as a feast, straightened up quickly. “I’m not tired, Grandfather,” she said. “Right, Ty?”
“Uh-huh,” the boy murmured, but he was still clinging fairly close to his mother. Cassian watched him, frowning slightly. Titus had always been shy and sometimes had trouble with all the pomp and circumstance of occasions like this, but ever since discovering the welts on his son’s back Cassian had been watching his behavior with the rest of the family with a somewhat different perspective. But then, Titus usually was shy of his grandfather, so perhaps nothing had changed.
Tearing his eyes away from the boy, Cassian glanced over his shoulder. “I wonder what’s keeping him,” he said. “I’m certain he’ll be here soon…”
“He’d better be,” Oliver menaced, before pausing as something caught his attention through the corner of his eye: Julia, who was waiting idly in between the king and Melisande, the dark-haired woman slumped back against the wall with a thoroughly bored expression on her face. Clad in an ornate dress of vivid Alaric gold, its skirts as voluminous as a peacock’s feathers at full spread, she instantly straightened when she saw her uncle looking, but it was too late; his voice was sharp as he demanded of her, “Are you trying to wrinkle your dress, Julia?”
“No, sir,” she replied quickly, bowing her head in submission.
“And your hair, too.” He gestured as though in disgust. “When you leaned your head, you knocked one of your braids askew. And we’ve hardly time now to fix it.”
Her fingers danced up toward her intricately done hair, as though to confirm that she’d sullied one of the several dozen thin braids that criss-crossed it, but before she could touch it, Oliver took a sharp step toward her, glowering. She paused at once, her expression drawn tight and her throat visibly quavering.
“Are you trying to ruin it more?” the king snarled. “So that you come to the feast in front of my entire court looking like a haphazard drunkard?”
“I…” She kept her chin firmly tucked, so deeply that it was nearly touching her chest. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean--”
“I don’t care what you meant.” He took another step forward, his hand suddenly raised as though he meant to slap her, grab her, or both.
It was a scenario that had played out in various forms many times before. Zaria looked merely bored, her expression unchanged; Melisande barely reacted, her eyes downcast as if to avoid the king’s attention. Then Cassian moved, stepping quickly around his wife so he could place himself between his father and his cousin. “Enough,” he said, his outward calm belying the fact that he was inwardly terrified at his own boldness. “It was an accident, and is this really the time?”
Melisande’s head jerked up and she stared at her husband, raw horror on her features for a fleeting moment. Even Zaria looked up, her eyes narrowed as boredom gave way to a certain detached interest. She did not think she had ever seen her oldest son give voice to anything that was not loyal solidarity with his father.
Oliver’s eyes leapt from Julia to Cassian like a lion in the throes of hunting a rabbit suddenly noticing a much juicier meal. “Step away, Cassian,” he said. It was clearly not a request.
Cassian swallowed. “You’ll only hit her if I do,” he pointed out, his throat dry.
“I said, step away,” the king growled. Roughly, he lashed out a hand and curled his fingers around Cassian’s bicep, which was covered by a delicate silk shirt sleeve in vivid blood red. His voice ice, the king added, “I will not be happy, Cassian, if I have to haul you aside and muss your clothes, as well.”
Behind the crown prince, Julia’s head was still tucked into an almost defensive bow, her arms crossed and trembling. He was doing it. Woo, he was really doing it-- just what he’d said he would, back in the dusty room where she’d told him she had no interest in helping him kill his father. Even watching it unfurl before her, part of Julia still couldn’t entirely believe it. How many times before had Cassian stood by, impassive, as Oliver had struck her? And how many times had he struck her himself over similar petty things? For him to be defending her now-- in front of his children, no less, and Woo knew they’d not be wholly safe either if Oliver went on a furious warpath-- seemed… impossible, almost. Like a scene from a fantastical other life.
Cassian seemed to twitch when his father grabbed hold of him, nearly a flinch - but not quite. He narrowed his eyes, his expression icy. “This doesn’t seem quite the right moment for a beating, Father,” he said thinly. “You’ll only ruin this shirt, and before I must go and show it to the entire court, no less.”
Without another word, Oliver let go of Cassian’s arm-- but only so that the king could slap him, his palm connecting with his heir’s cheek. When Cassian quickly recovered, jerking his head back straight, Oliver backhanded him across the other cheek, the blow landing with an audible crack. Like a fountain suddenly springing a leak, blood flowed from Cassian’s nose, a spot of it almost immediately landing on the gold silk trim of his tunic.
“I suppose you’ll have to change anyway,” the king snarled. “So I hardly think it’s prudent to backtalk me any more, Cassian, do you?”
Melisande made a sound like a strangled yelp as the king struck her husband, her hands pressed to her mouth. Heart pounding, Cassian forced himself not to look at her, his eyes fixed on Oliver instead as he reached up to wipe blood from his face with the back of his hand. “I’m a grown man, Father,” he snapped, pressing his hand to his face to stop the bleeding. “And I’d rather not be the type of grown man who cowers and backs down at the first harsh word.”
Oliver gaped at his eldest son, indignant, his lips opening as though to seethe further at him. But before he could get another word out, all eyes in the foyer snapped to the left at the sound of footsteps clicking against the marble floor. Moments later, Matteus stepped into view, the look on the teenaged prince’s face flitting rapidly from unease into fear into outright befuddlement as he apprised the state of the room: Oliver menacing, Cassian bloodied, Julia cowering, the children clinging to Melisande’s skirts like they wished they could disappear clear into them.
“I…” the prince started, before faltering, as though he hardly knew what to say. After a moment’s pause, he tepidly continued, “Am I… am I late or…”
“Yes, you’re late.” Oliver turned sharply toward his youngest son. “Although Cassian has to change now, so we shan’t be leaving soon, anyway.”
“Oh.” Matteus swallowed hard. “I… well, okay.” His gaze fell to Zaria, standing a few steps away from him. “You look… pretty, Mother,” he said, clearly trying to break up the tension that filled the room like a smothering smoke. “Is um… is that a new dress?”
Zaria gave a short, terse nod. “I had it made for the banquet,” she said, though her voice was flat and she was clearly not thinking about the dress at all. Putting her hands on Matteus’s shoulders, she drew him closer, and both of them a step further away from the rest of the family. “Come here, Matteus, let me make sure your brooch is fastened correctly.”
Matteus gave a short nod, and as he did, Oliver let out a heavy sigh. “Go change, Cassian,” he ordered, pointing toward the hall. “And make haste of it-- we’re already late enough.” Before his son could oblige, the king looked over to Julia. “Since Cassian’s made us wait anyhow, I suppose you ought go fix your hair.”
“It took the servants hours to braid it,” she whispered, looking only at the tops of her shoes. “I don’t know if I can fix it so quickly, sir.”
“Cover it, then,” the king huffed. “Go get a veil from your bedchamber. Red, so that it looks like a complement to the dress and not an accidental afterthought.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking a deep breath before she started toward the hall.
Cassian gave his father a shallow, cursory bow, though the anger in his face made it look far from respectful. “At once, Father,” he said, the words clipped and flat. Before Oliver could say anything further, the prince turned on his heel and strode off toward the hall after his cousin, fists clenched tightly at his sides.
Gods, his heart was beating so hard and fast it was a wonder the rest of them couldn’t hear it. Confronting his father when he’d been near blinded with anger over Titus and Rhia had been one thing, but stepping forward on Julia’s behalf when he’d never found reason before… Part of him was terrified that Oliver would figure it out, that he would notice they were colluding. But he was distracted by the very real anger left in the aftermath of the confrontation. He had not expected to feel such indignation on her behalf when he was merely setting out to prove a point.
Once they were up several winding staircases and out of earshot from Oliver and the rest of the royal family, Julia stopped, turning on her heel toward Cassian. Keeping her voice low merely out of precaution, she said to him, “Are you okay, Cassian? He’s lucky he didn’t break your nose.” A pause as she stared at said nose, still leaking copious amounts of blood. “... Unless you think he did? Woo, is it broken?”
Cassian gave a half-shrug. “I don’t think so. I’m fine, it’s not as bad as it looks.” This was mostly a lie, not only because of the way his cheek and nose were still throbbing but also because there was no way he could give voice to how shaken he still felt. Not to Julia, anyway. He gave her a sidelong glance, feeling for a handkerchief in one of his pockets that he could use to staunch the bleeding. “And you?”
“He didn’t touch me,” she said simply. “Thanks to you.” Watching as Cassian, shaking in spite of himself, fiddled with the handkerchief, she sighed and reached out toward him. “Here. Let me help.”
He shook his head. “You’d better not. Gods only know what his reaction would be if you came back with blood on your dress.” He was silent for a moment, pressing his handkerchief against his nose as it slowly grew damp with blood. “Do you believe me now?” he said, his voice dry but not unfriendly. “That I… that I really want to be better than he is?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Then: “You have a close council meeting tomorrow, don’t you? At high noon, over how to proceed with House Kyros attempting to stake a claim over Jisam?”
The prince shot her a startled glance, brow furrowed. “Yes,” he said. “How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Julia shrugged. “Just… during the meeting at some point, you need to make a comment about the January rains. Say it like that-- the January rains. And then on the way out… stall. Stand up, but don’t move for the door. When the advisers get up and start out, one of them should bump into you. He’ll apologize profusely, of course, but…” She took a deep breath. “You might feel something fall into the pocket of your overtunic, Cassian. Don’t betray that you’ve noticed. Don’t look in and see what it is. Not until you’re alone.”
Cassian’s frown only deepened at this, staring at Julia as if she were a stranger who particularly perplexed him. “And when I’m alone,” he said evenly, “what am I going to find when I look into that pocket?”
“Knave’s knot,” she said simply.
“Knave’s knot,” he repeated, dumbfounded. Once again, he felt that niggling sense in the back of his mind that in involving Julia, he’d somehow found himself out of his depth. She only continued to surprise him. “I don’t suppose it will do any good to ask you how you managed to acquire that,” he said, and shot her a sharp look. “And how did this adviser just happen to find out I’d be needing some?” he added darkly, lowering his voice. “If anyone else knows I’m planning to murder my own father…”
“He is your ally, Cassian.” Hardly a denial. “And if you hurt him, I’ll bring everything to Uncle Oliver. I’ll die, sure. But so will you. You’re in far too deep to be able to deny it, my prince. The dated letter sealed with your mark… the way you so nobly but suddenly leapt in downstairs tonight to defend me when you’ve never batted an eye before…” Julia turned away from him, toward the hall that led to her bedchamber. “We should probably part now, I think. Don’t want the king to get too antsy. But after you’ve got the knave’s knot tomorrow, bring it to me. I’ll be waiting for you where we met before. And you need to be quick about it. Knave’s knot has to be kept in very particular conditions, or it’ll start stinking to high heaven. The adviser who’ll be giving it to you knows how to coddle it, as do I, but I hardly suspect the same goes for you.”
Cassian had to fight back a reflex to snap at her for talking to him that way, as if she was giving him orders. He’d asked for her help and for better or worse, he was getting it. “...All right. I’ll signal your… ally tomorrow. If this goes the way you say it will…” He hesitated; he still had so many questions. How she’d pulled together a plan like this so quickly, and how in the gods’ names had she learned this much about poison - he shoved the thought impatiently out of his mind. She was quite right, they couldn’t linger long enough to arouse Oliver’s suspicions. He could only hope there would be time enough to question her later. “We’ll have a lot of planning to do, won’t we?” he finished, raising his eyebrows at her. With that he swept away, down the corridor toward his chambers.
Julia lingered for only a moment longer, watching her cousin as he disappeared around a corner. There was still a part of her that couldn’t quite believe he’d really done it-- just as there was a part of her, even only moments after offering him the code she’d agreed upon with her ally, that couldn’t believe she was really doing this, either. The thought of what would happen if Oliver caught them…
Fighting back a shudder, Julia turned and started away. Whether or not she’d yet to fully absorb it, she and Cassian were in this together now.
She could only hope that she would not live to regret it. Part Three:“Do you have it, Cassian?” Julia demanded the next afternoon, the words tumbling from her lips practically the nanosecond Cassian shoved open the door to their meeting place and then shut-- and locked it-- behind him. “And I hope you didn’t touch it barehanded,” she added. “I should have told you that last night, that it gives most people a reaction when they touch it-- a rash--”
“Actually, I didn’t so much as glance at it,” Cassian snapped, not mentioning how hard his heart had been pounding after he’d left the meeting. He’d been too nervous to check the inside of his pocket. “So let’s hope it’s actually what your friend said it would be.” Her friend. He’d rather suspected it would be Augustin Altair - who else would know Julia, let alone collude with her? - but he’d still felt a strange jolt of surprise as he’d looked up to see the ex-rebel’s face. Gods, he was collaborating with rebels to kill his own father. It was not a happy thought.
“Give it to me,” she demanded, taking a step toward him. “Use a handkerchief to draw it out. He should have put it in a pouch, but I just want to be careful.” She paused. “And I don’t appreciate your tone, Cassian. Augustin went through a lot of risk to obtain it at all, let alone sneak it to you. The least you could do is have faith in it being what I claim it is.”
“You may trust him, but it doesn’t mean I have any reason to,” Cassian said, pulling his handkerchief out of his other pocket. “Though at this point I suppose I’d better just hope you’re entirely sure of him, considering what you told him.” Carefully, with the handkerchief covering his hand, the prince drew the deceptively common-looking bundle of sprigs out of his pocket. “I’d have told you I wanted this to stay between the two of us, but I didn’t think I had to.”
“Woo, why didn’t he put it in a pouch?” Julia grumbled, as though she’d heard nothing else the prince had said. Snatching the handkerchief-wrapped plant from her cousin’s hand, Julia promptly shook the knave’s knot loose into her hand, so that it lay flat in her palm. “Doesn’t give me a rash,” she said, almost brightly. Then, holding it up toward his nose: “Smell that? Like honey. Tastes like it, too. Unless you let it go rancid, of course. Then it smells like death and tastes even worse.”
“You know rather a lot about this,” Cassian said uneasily, staring at her palm.
Julia laughed, tucking the handkerchief back around the poison and slipping it into the bosom of her dress. “You could say that,” she agreed-- hardly a clarification. “So, we’ll need to smuggle some wine into here. I imagine you’ll have an easier time filching a bottle than I will. But we can’t work with the knave’s knot dry.”
Cassian frowned, not at all reassured. “I suppose once we’ve doctored the bottle, I can take it to the table at supper. Although… even if I can think of a way to ensure he’s the only one who drinks it, it will probably draw suspicion when he begins to show symptoms.”
“Doctor a bottle?” Julia shook her head. “Cassian… no. That’s not how knave’s knot works. The acid in the wine will negate any of the effects after only a few hours. It’s not simply a poison you can drop in and leave for days or weeks or months, biding your time.” Studying her cousin, as though shocked by his naivete, she added, “And you’re right. If he’s the only one who gets sick, it’ll be suspicious. We don’t need the wine to doctor. Not yet. We need it to… practice.”
“Practice?” Cassian echoed, his brow furrowed in mingled confusion and growing horror. “You’re not suggesting we… give it to anyone else? A trail of illnesses, or… or deaths would only lead straight to us, and I don’t see the benefit.”
“Of course not.” She gawped at him. Woo, for the crown prince of Courdon-- a man callous and cold enough to plot the death of his own father-- Cassian truly had no clue about how subterfuge worked, did he? “We’re going to take it. Beforehand. Slowly. Not enough to kill us, of course, but over time, we’ll build up a resistance.” As though it mattered, she added hurriedly, “I’ve seen it done before. It’s not a pleasant process, but it works. Then, once we’ve got a high enough tolerance for it, we can rig it so we end up drinking from the same bottle as he does, and we’ll get sick, too, but--”
“No,” Cassian said flatly. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you put yourself at risk like that, it’s too dangerous. One mistake in that process could kill you, or at the very least make you ill enough to draw attention before the time is right.” But the plan did make a certain kind of sense. Cassian’s mouth tightened. Oliver’s death would draw suspicions if his heir escaped unscathed, and Cassian would be trapped. He couldn’t risk that, particularly not with how much his wife and children stood to lose if he was executed. “...I’ll do it. It only needs to be me. Even if you never take a sip, no one would suspect you, but me…”
“Oh yes, clearly if I take the poison, that’ll be the first instance of my putting myself at risk. Because the rest of this scheme is so safe aside from that.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine, Cassian. We’ll build up the resistance together.”
“Don’t push me, Julia,” Cassian told her sharply. “I said no. Whatever else this plan entails - I cannot allow that. If I let you get yourself hurt so I can take the throne, I’d be as bad as he is.” He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t forget I am your future king - in case you’d forgotten the purpose of this venture.”
“Oh, of course,” she said thickly. “As if I could forget. I apologize so terribly much for the disrespect, my king, as we stand here plotting high treason together.” A terse pause, before: “Why do you pretend like you care what happens to me anyway, Cassian? You approached me because you thought I’d be an easy person to convince, not because of any concerns over my welfare. You only stopped the king from hitting me yesterday because I told you to in order to prove that you were serious… not because you cared if I got hurt. And yet you still carry on behind closed doors like you’re looking out for me. Like you seriously care about protecting me. Why, Cassian? Who do you think you’re fooling?”
“I’ve told you why.” He fixed her in his gaze, eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen how my father operates. I don’t want to be like him. Is it so hard to believe I’ve come to understand that beating women and children is a poor way to take care of one’s kin? I have a responsibility. Not only to the kingdom but to my children, to Mel, to you. And yes, I came to you because I believed you had the most reason out of anyone to want him dead… but… that doesn’t mean I can’t also try to make up for how my father has failed you.” Cassian looked away, uncomfortable. “I’m your cousin, and I will be your king. I should be taking care of you.”
“When I was five, Cassian, my own father turned a blind eye as his brother tried to murder me,” Julia said slowly. “My mother was dead by the time I was fourteen, and people I’d trusted to look out for my welfare, well…” She laughed grimly. “Let’s just say I was naive, they were calculating, and it ended with me nearly dying in a field at the hands of your beloved Brigadier Cowles. In the war, after Gerard and I ran away-- and yes, Cassian, we ran away; no matter what your father says, he didn’t coerce or abduct me-- I forged my own path.” She swallowed hard, her voice a blade as she finished, “I don’t need anybody taking care of me, Cassian. I can do that quite well on my own.”
“Regardless, my responsibility to you is the same,” Cassian said, by now frowning ferociously. “All the more so, if your own family has failed you before. I’m your family, Julia, and I’m going to do what is right.”
“Wine,” she said flatly. “As soon as possible. It’ll take a few months to build up your resistance to the point where you won’t keel over and die when you put the lethal dose in the bottle you share with him, so get ready for the long haul. We can’t meet in a pattern, though, or somebody might figure it out. So once we get the initial process started, and I explain to you how to dilute the knave’s knot enough not to kill yourself, much of the rest of this will be…” She paused before smiling a little too brightly. “We’ll call it self-study. I just do hope you trust my instructions, little prince; after all, I’m but a helpless woman, and who knows if I’m capable enough to do something like this?”
Cassian huffed a sigh, clearly unamused. “Fine. I’ll be able to take a bottle without much trouble… if I’m noticed, I can say I’m bringing it to my quarters to share with my wife.” He glanced up at the room around them, dusty and in disarray compared to most of the palace. “I haven’t seen anyone else come near this place in years, but… even so, we should probably keep the, ah… ingredients in a safer location.”
“I’ll handle that,” Julia said. “I can pass you what you need as you need it. Otherwise, don’t concern yourself with the storage.” She stared him straight on, as though daring him to challenge her, before adding, “And for the love of every god there is, Cassian, at no point in this process are you to grow cocky or innovative with the dosing. You need to follow what I tell you exactly, or you will die. And trust me when I say that death from knave’s knot is no pleasant experience. Do you understand me?”
He frowned. “I’m not a fool, Julia,” he said. “I understand caution. Gods, you think I like the idea of filling my body with poisons?”
“And no citrus on days you dose yourself,” Julia added. “Lime in particular. It reacts volatilely. If you have too much, it’ll amplify the effects.”
Cassian nodded brusquely. “I’ll remember,” he said shortly. “And if that’s all, I should be leaving. We wouldn’t want anyone to question my absence.”
“Of course.” She sighed, glancing back toward the door. “The sooner you can get the wine, the better. Then we can get this bloody plan actually started instead of just talking about it.”
“Agreed.” Something in his eyes hardened. “The sooner, the better. I’m growing tired of waiting.”
Without waiting for a response, he slipped out of the door, his expression smoothing over as he seamlessly stepped back into his role as Oliver’s loyal son and heir. He’d spent long enough as his father’s faithful shadow - far too long. Part Four:Over the next several weeks, after Cassian successfully filched a bottle of wine from the royal family’s stores, the prince and his cousin started with their careful though dangerous plan. After guiding Cassian through the first several doses, Julia trusted him well enough to continue at least partly on his own, slipping him precisely portioned allotments of knave’s knot as they passed in the hall, or bumped shoulders after a family meal, which he’d then fold into wine or gin and knock back on his own.
Part of the woman still thought this was all too good to be true. That there was something going on over her head, or some massive sign that she was missing, and soon this foray into treason would end with her head roundly pounded onto a pike. Each time Oliver interacted with her now-- each time he slapped her, or snarled at her, or even spared her a pointed glance-- Julia was convinced that he knew. That it was over. It was just like the weeks before she’d run away with Gerard all those years ago, only this time so much worse. The stakes so much higher. The plan not one of freedom, but of murder.
And Woo knew, she didn’t trust Cassian nearly as much as she’d trusted Gerard.
Cassian, for his part, still could not quite believe he was trusting his cousin enough to regularly, intentionally ingest poison at her direction. Still, incredibly enough, he had not fallen seriously ill - not beyond the occasional spell of nausea, or the bouts of dizziness that made him fear drawing attention to himself by stumbling when he stood. It was still difficult not to look at Julia any differently in public, now that he knew what she was capable of. When he had brought her into his confidence he had expected a timid and pliable girl, not this hardened rebel woman whose breadth of knowledge about subterfuge honestly scared him.
And yet even though she could end him with a word, or just the slightest wrong dose passed to him in a corridor, he found to his surprise that he was growing to like her. Julia had always been beneath his notice before - his father’s concern, not his, and too wary of angering either of them to make any significant impression on the crown prince. Now, unexpectedly, she was beginning to truly feel like kin of his. Maybe it was only the fact that she was the only person in the palace who knew his deadly secret, or the mutual desperation which had pulled them together - but whatever the reason, there was a bond with Julia he couldn’t deny.
It was inconvenient. He’d had the vague notion, before, that she was at least more expendable an ally than someone like Matteus or, gods forbid, Melisande. Now that seemed as unconscionable to him as the thought of passing his own brother to the executioner’s block.
About a month after he’d first begun taking the knave’s knot, Cassian sat down at the table with the rest of the royal family, hunger gnawing at his gut so that waiting for servants to bring the first course seemed unbearable. He didn’t dare show any signs of his discomfort; it would have been difficult to explain how little he’d eaten earlier in the day, when he’d been tormented by the particular rush of nausea that tended to only strike when it was least convenient. And there were times he thought Melisande was growing suspicious; she was perhaps the only person in the palace familiar enough with his moods to pick up on his growing anxiety and unusual behavior. As she sat down beside him, he smiled at her, trying to show that nothing was wrong.
“You look pale, Cassian,” Oliver droned from the head of the table, the king scowling as a servant delivered the first course-- steaming hot turnip soup-- to the table. “Are you ill?”
Inwardly Cassian felt a lurch, but remained composed enough to look to his father and shake his head. “I’m perfectly well, Father,” he said. “Perhaps a little tired. It has been a long week, after all. All those meetings with the delegation from Seguier.”
“You should get more sleep.” Oliver frowned, before inclining his head toward Melisande. “You, too. You’re pregnant, Melisande-- you should hardly be running after those children as you do, when there are perfectly good nurses about to tend them.”
Melisande lowered her head respectfully. “Of course, your majesty,” she murmured. Cassian, swallowing a mouthful of soup, frowned.
“Even so, she’s been in excellent health, Father,” he said lightly. “Our healers have been doing a fine job of caring for her. This pregnancy has been a gift from the gods, I pray it will stay that way.”
Oliver nodded shortly, but his frown didn’t dissipate, the dining room lapsing into a terse if not unwelcome silence as the royal family went about finishing its first course of the night. Seated toward the end of the table, in between Melisande and Matteus, Julia didn’t dare let herself spend too long studying Cassian’s face, which was indeed pale. Although he’d proven himself capable of dosing thus far, sometimes she still worried-- that, in spite of his assurances, he’d grow cocky or brash, that he’d take too much, that this plan would unspool from the inside out when the crown prince showed blatant signs of having been poisoned.
“Did the meetings with the delegates from Seguier go well, at least?” Matteus said finally, cutting into the quiet as the servants cleared the emptied soup bowls from the table and hurried to replace them with the meal’s second course.
Cassian nodded. “I believe we’ve reached some agreements that will benefit the crown and House Owain both,” he said. “And Mel had the chance to visit with Lord Alwin, isn’t that right?”
She nodded. “Yes, it was… it was good to have news of home.”
The servants placed down the next course, a sweet, elegantly prepared fruit dish. Cassian wasted no time in taking a mouthful. It was difficult not to eat too quickly, but for a moment he let himself indulge. Aside from his hunger, he reasoned, having a full mouth would save him having to answer any more of his father’s questions for the time being.
Across the table, Julia took one glance down at the dish, and promptly her always-fair skin-- a trait courtesy of her Langean father-- went white as a snowflake. Frantically, she flicked her eyes up and over toward Cassian, trying to catch his attention, but the crown prince was thoroughly enraptured in his meal, taking another hearty bite as she watched him.
Oh, Woo. Swallowing back the heavy knot that suddenly twisted in her throat, Julia shifted in her seat, loudly clearing her throat as though to catch Cassian’s attention. But this still did not work, only earning her a curious glance from-- of all people-- Oliver, who raised a brow at his niece.
“Something the matter, Julia?” he asked, his tone a perfect measure of neutrality.
“No,” she said, before outwardly wincing as Cassian, oblivious, took another bite-- at which point the dark-haired woman gulped again and said, “I mean um, yes. Or… I don’t know.”
Cassian’s eyes flicked to his father and cousin, eyes narrowed, but he didn’t let himself linger on them for long. He looked back at Melisande instead, hoping to pull attention away from Julia. “A shame,” he said quickly, “that Alwin was unable to bring his children this time, eh? I expect they would have enjoyed the capital.”
“Ah… yes,” Melisande said, though she was frowning in faint confusion as she looked back at her husband. “I’m sure they would.”
“Oh, yes,” Julia agreed through gritted teeth, hardly able to stop herself from screaming out as Cassian took yet another bite. “Children adore the palace. All the… artwork. And fountains.” Her eyes latched firmly on Cassian, she added thickly, “And the food. Right, Cassian?”
“What is wrong with you, Julia?” Oliver snapped, the king suddenly bristling.
“I just… I just…” Oh, Woo, she couldn’t just sit here anymore. No matter the consequences of what she was about to do-- no matter how much trouble it might cause her... The woman forced a deep breath. “You’re eating like a pig, Cassian,” she said, not daring to let her voice shake. “I mean, haven’t you any table manners? You’re cutting into those limes like a savage.”
Cassian’s head jerked up, and for a moment he simply gaped at her. Gods. The limes. He’d forgotten, but his cousin clearly hadn’t, and now-- Daring a glance at his father, Oliver’s rage was as bad as he could have feared. Worse, he was no longer looking at Julia. He was looking at Cassian, expectant. Waiting.
It had to be a split second decision. Steeling his jaw, the crown prince rose, stepped around Melisande, and lashed out at Julia, striking her across the cheek.
Julia’s head snapped to the side as one of Cassian’s rings caught the corner of her lip, splitting it. The pain was harsh and immediate, a bubble of blood welling up and then dribbling down her chin like a raindrop across a windowpane.
“I…” She forced a deep breath, her eyes latching on to the prince, who still towered over her. “What-- why--”
“You-- you’re asking me why? After you spoke to me like that?” It was difficult to force anger into his voice when all he felt was horror and fear, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Oliver watching intently, and knew there was no backing out of this. Desperately he stared at Julia, as if he could make her see the truth in his eyes, hiding behind his harsh words. “Now be silent.”
And Julia knew then, the realization of what was going on here slamming into her much as had Cassian’s palm. But, just as viscerally, the woman understood that she couldn’t. She could not just be silent and submissive, could not merely bow her head and burble out an apology. Not given the fact that Cassian had just wolfed down half a dozen slices of sugared lime, which would start wickedly interacting with the knave’s knot in his bloodstream if he kept it in his gut.
He needed to get it out. And now. Or else by night’s end, he would be convulsing and unconscious on the floor, and all of this Woo-cursed planning would be for naught.
Still, her stomach roiled as she forced her gaze to stay on his; she tried her best not to notice sidelong the king’s own stare, eating intently into her. “You were,” she made herself say, her throat dry. “Eating like a pig, I mean. It’s just the truth, Cassian.”
Cassian seized her in a vice grip around her arm and dragged her to her feet. “Clearly you need to learn some respect,” he spat, and glanced across the table back at the king, his heart pounding. “I will deal with her, Father,” he said, trying to keep his voice cool and neutral. “I… apologize for the interruption.”
With that, he left, pulling Julia behind him and leaving the table in stunned silence. Only the queen moved, taking another small bite of candied lime. “You were saying about your brother, Mel dear?” she said, her voice flatly neutral.
Oliver said nothing, only watched with stone eyes as Cassian hauled Julia toward the door and shouldered through it, shutting it with a definitive thump behind him. Neither the prince nor his cousin spoke as Cassian proceeded to drag her through a series of winding corridors, his grip on her iron all the way, as though he didn’t dare let off the mask of his fury before they were someplace safe.
Only when they’d reached a quiet, unoccupied wing of the palace did he release her, jerking away from her as if he’d been burned. “Julia, I’m sorry,” he gasped out, stepping back a few paces. “I didn’t know what else-- he was watching, and--”
Her lip still bleeding, Julia reached out and shoved him, her hands pressing against his ribs as she thrust him against the wall behind. “You idiot,” she snarled. “You have one Woo-cursed rule: no citrus! How hard is that to follow?”
Cassian didn’t resist her, wincing as his back slammed into the wall. “It- it slipped my mind,” he admitted. “I know, I just- what do I do now?” He could almost imagine that he could feel the effects of the poison already, though it was just as likely to be his terror and racing heart from their close call.
Stepping back from him, Julia considered for a moment. Then, her voice cool as ice, she shrugged and said, “Nothing, Cassian. It’s too late. The knave’s knot will take its effect, and that will be that.”
Cassian’s bronze skin went chalky, his eyes wide. “Th-then…” He shoved away from her, stepping back a few paces. “We should get back. Quickly, so you’re not alone with me when I…” His voice was shaky. “You might be suspected,” he managed, his mouth dry.
At this, Julia couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, for the love of every god there is, Cassian,” she said. “You ate the bloody limes less than ten minutes ago. Just throw them up.”
For a moment he simply stared at her, uncomprehending, then the expression turned into a glare. He took a step forward again, shoulders squared aggressively. “Y-you think that’s funny?” he snapped, his voice still shaking. “Gods, Julia--”
“Quiet,” she cut in. “Do you want some guard to overhear us and come snooping?” Her devilish sneer grew as she added, “Sometimes I wonder about you, Cassian. You haven’t a lick of common sense--”
Face taut with fury, Cassian grabbed her, taking tight hold of the collar of her dress as his other hand raised halfway to eye level. Then he froze, as if warring with himself, his eyes still locked on hers in a furious glare. “I- I swore I wouldn’t lay hands on you again, and I meant it, but sometimes - sometimes you--”
For a moment he honestly thought he might hit her anyway. But then he lowered his arm, jerking back away from her again. “Wait for me while I… take care of the poison,” he said in a low voice.
“Of course, Your Highness,” she said, her voice cutting. “I wouldn’t want to disobey a command from my future king who’s daft enough to nearly kill himself, after all.”
Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Look,” he said sharply, “I know this was my fault. And I’m sorry I hit you, all right? You saw him watching, I didn’t have a choice. So I could do without being torn to shreds by the only ally I’ve got in this cursed place.”
“Go throw up the lime,” Julia said shortly, not even acknowledging his apology, let alone accepting it. “I’ll be waiting here. Perhaps my lip will have stopped bleeding by the time you get back.”
Cassian shot her a sullen glare but didn’t respond, storming off and out of sight down the corridor. His heart was still pounding, this time with the anger that was still hot in his chest. It was hard - far moreso than he’d expected - not to storm back there and hit her much harder than he had at the dinner table. But he couldn’t - he owed her that much, and at this point it would mean giving in, acting the way his father wanted. He had sworn he would not be that man anymore. No matter how much she needled him, how much she got under his skin.
Out alone in the hall, Julia turned and slumped back against the wall she’d shoved Cassian into only a few minutes ago, a thoughtless hand pressed against her fat lip. It had been worth it, what she’d done, and Julia knew it-- but that did little to dull the pain that plagued her now, nor to sate the slightly sick feeling that still churned in her gut over what had just happened. Woo, the panic she’d felt when she saw Cassian tearing into those limes-- the thought of this entire month of plotting crumbling over something so stupid, so careless--
When the crown prince returned a few minutes later, flushed but pale, she straightened. “Shall we go refill that stomach?” she asked dryly. “By now, hopefully they’ve cleared that blasted dish. And hopefully you won’t ever be so reckless as to make that mistake again. Because you’re just bloody lucky that I was there, Cassian, or else you would be dead-- or very close to it-- by night’s end. No doubt.”
“And believe me, I’m grateful for it,” he said grimly. He felt like something his father’s hounds had dragged through the dirt, and the thought of going back to the table made him feel ill. Still… he fixed her in his gaze, frowning. “He’ll know something’s up, Julia,” he said softly. “If we go back there after what you said, and you’re unhurt…”
Julia took a reflexive step back from him, her face suddenly frozen and her pale eyes widened in what could have only been fear. “Cassian…”
He held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quickly. “Truly, I don’t. But we can’t just… he’ll expect I’ve beaten you half to death, it will seem strange if you walk back in as if nothing had happened.” Cassian hesitated. “Perhaps if you return to your quarters? As if you were… hurt too badly to come back with me. He wouldn’t question that.”
She wanted to nod. Wanted to readily agree and then turn on her heel and flee to her chambers like a spooked deer from the point of the hunter’s bow. But then the voice in her head spoke up-- dour, but right. Woo, how she hated that it was right; her throat was trembling as she said, “He’ll ask if you got a healer for me, Cassian. And if you lie and say yes, and he thought to verify...”
Cassian knew this was true, and wished it wasn’t. His voice was almost desperate as he said, “I don’t want to hurt you, Julia, please believe me. But if - if he grows suspicious now…”
“His first thought would hardly be that you’re trying to kill him,” Julia said-- before, much more softly, she added, “I don’t have a choice here, do I?”
“I don’t want to force you,” Cassian blurted out. “I- gods, Julia, I promised, and I meant that, and - I’m not just going to grab you and make you go through with it, but--”
“But what, Cassian?” Julia asked. “Do you want me to agree? Is that it? Do you want me to nod my head and give you permission to hurt me?” She wilted. “Fine. Do it, then. I won’t fight you. I…”
His hands were shaking as he took off his belt. “I’m sorry, I truly am,” he said wretchedly. “I… I’ll make this quick, I won’t drag it out.” He nodded wordlessly toward a door in the wall, promising some modicum of privacy.
Her throat quavering, Julia took a step toward it, in front of him. “My right shoulder blade,” she said. “When your father beat me unconscious after I came back to the palace-- he… he whipped it completely raw. It still hurts, sometimes. Please, just… if you could… a-avoid it or…”
Cassian nodded, his throat tight. “I will, I’ll try,” he managed. Standing back as she stepped through the door, he added in a low murmur, “You… don’t deserve this, you never did.”
And then he stepped through after her, closing the door behind them.
Part Five:A few days after that disastrous dinner, Cassian still had not had the chance to exchange more than a few words in passing with Julia. It was mid-afternoon and he had slipped into his quarters to change out of the stiff, uncomfortable clothes he’d worn for a meeting with his father and the council of advisors.
Midway through taking off the richly embroidered overtunic, Cassian paused, feeling something in the folds of fabric that had certainly not been there before. Digging into one of the pockets, he pulled out a slip of paper, carefully folded in half.
A message? He recalled now how, on exiting the chamber, he’d brushed up against Augustin Altair, much as he had a month prior when he’d originally been given the knave’s knot. He didn’t think there was anyone else who would try to communicate with such subterfuge.
It was not what he’d expected.
Touch her again, the note read, and you are done.
The writing was small but clear, in even if scratchy hand, the quill that had written it pressed so hard against the parchment that it had almost pricked holes clear through at points.
Cassian froze, his heart suddenly beating faster with a flash of anger. How dare he threaten me? For a moment it seemed absurd, almost laughable, that Altair should think he had the right to intrude - but just as quickly his fury faded into fear. Altair knew everything; there was no way he didn’t know. He could do exactly what he’d promised.
The prince gripped the note hard with one hand, crushing the paper against his palm. Then, entirely forgetting the change of clothes that had brought him to his chambers, he swept out again, heading purposefully through the royal family’s residential wing in the direction of his cousin’s chambers.
Sitting at the vanity in the front room of her suite as a pair of palace servants plaited her long, curly hair-- always an hours-long process-- in advance of a banquet that night, Julia froze at the sound of somebody knocking on her door. Or perhaps pounding was the better word.
She knew it wasn’t the king; he wouldn’t have bothered to have knocked at all. But that still did nothing to ease the lump that knotted in her throat as she called out, “Come in.”
Cassian stormed in, the note from Altair still clutched in his fist. “You’re dismissed,” he snapped to the servants, who scattered as if he were a predator on the hunt. Scowling, he stalked closer to Julia, waiting until they had gone before he showed her what he’d found. “I need to talk to you.”
Clearly sensing that things were about to go bad-- and quickly-- Julia shouldered around her cousin to shut the chamber door. “Huffing into my rooms like a dog with its paw burned?” she asked as she turned the deadbolt. “What, Cass, did you forget whether or not today was a dosing day and now you’re afraid you’ve poisoned yourself again--”
He thrust the note at her, now crumpled and slightly damp from his tight grip. “Your friend Altair passed this to me today,” he snapped. “Read it.”
As Cassian flung his hand in her direction, Julia recoiled automatically, flinching. Even if the rational part of her head knew that he’d not strike her again-- at least, she thought wouldn’t strike her again-- her back still stung from the belting he’d given her, and him moving so sharply toward her…
Forcing a deep breath, and shoving the memory of the beating out of her mind, Julia took the slip of parchment into her hand. “Oh, Woo.” As she read it, she flinched again, this time not at Cassian, but for him. “I’m sorry. He… um. He shouldn’t have done that.”
Guilt hit Cassian once again at the sight of her flinching from him, and he pulled back almost immediately as she took the note, trying to control his rising temper. It wouldn’t help, and his anger wasn’t really directed toward her anyway. Still, there was a sarcastic note to his voice as he replied, “Oh, really? Because you did tell me he was my ally, and now he’s making threats with what he knows…”
“He is your ally,” Julia insisted, offering the note back to her cousin. “He’s just… he’s protective over me. And so when he’d heard I got beaten-- by you, when I’d assured him up and down that we were on the same side…” She sighed. “I’ll talk to him about it.”
Chastened by another reminder of what he’d done, Cassian took the note back. “I truly didn’t want to,” he said, perhaps more for his own sake than for hers. “And I still wish there’d been another way. So if you could tell him that--” He paused, frowning as something occurred to him. “How will you tell him? Because I can’t imagine Father would like you hanging around a former rebel, even if he is one of his advisors.”
At this, Julia hesitated. “We… have methods.” A beat, before she added, “They’re indirect. Tweaked from covert communications methods we devised for the rebel army back during the war. We don’t get to speak one on one, as much as both of us hate it, but… we make do.”
“You helped devise them?” For a moment he looked almost impressed. “Having a way to get around my father must be useful. What are your methods?”
But Julia just shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s… that’s not something I’m going to just share with you.” Running a nervous, thoughtless hand through her half-plaited hair, the woman added, “It’s private. You haven’t earned it.”
“Haven’t earned it? By doing what?” Cassian demanded. “I thought I’d already proved I am in earnest.” Frustrated, he added, “Do you still not trust me? I’ve been nothing but honest with you - I certainly haven’t threatened one of your allies--”
“I had a life, Cassian,” she cut in simply. “I spent six years with the rebellion outside these walls before your bloody father refused to take my name out of the treaty, and I didn’t just spend it twiddling my thumbs. Whether or not I trust you isn’t the relevant issue here. Just because I’m back here under the king’s thumb-- under your thumb-- doesn’t mean I can’t have things that are just… mine.” She crossed her arms at her chest. “It’s all we have left together, okay? Me and Gus. I can’t give it to you. I can’t.”
Cassian let out a short sigh, stepping back a pace. “How long have you known him?” he said, studying her face curiously. “You talk of him as more than simply an old comrade.”
“Five and a half years,” she replied softly. “Since the summer of ‘41. He’s from Talvace, you know, and… we had a camp on his family’s lands, and he…” Julia sighed, as though loath to recount the entire story of her and Gus’s initial meeting to Cassian. “We were both highly educated, which wasn’t a common background in the rebellion, as you can imagine, and so we ended up largely responsible for encoding correspondences and a lot of… precise subterfuge in general. How do you think I learned so much about poison, Cassian? It certainly wasn’t by spending the war marching on the front lines.” She shrugged. “Gus and I became friends. Working in such a high stress environment, and with such dangerous materials, it… tends to breed solidarity. Bonding.” A beat. “At least, at first we were only friends.”
“At first,” Cassian echoed, his brow furrowed. He couldn’t say it was much of a surprise; he’d long suspected that the rumors surrounding her and Gerard had been false, even before Gerard had married the Branded Lord’s daughter. And it was certainly not the worst match Julia could have selected for herself, Cassian’s personal opinions of the man aside. It was a strange, uncomfortable realization, all the same - the reminder that yes, Julia had had a life outside the confines imposed by House Alaric, that there was still much about her that Cassian wasn’t privy to.
“We had a twining ceremony,” Julia murmured, her gaze falling to the floor, as though she didn’t quite want to see her cousin’s reaction to this. “A few months before Gerard’s oldest daughter was born. I mean… I know it wasn’t legally binding, and so it’s hardly a formal marriage, but…” She let a sad, dark smile creep between her lips. “He got us rings. I don’t know how he got them in the middle of the war, let alone ones so nice, but he did. He still has mine. He keeps it in the chest pocket of his tunic. So that it’s close to his heart.”
Startled, Cassian stared at her, unsure how to respond to this. “You and Altair…?” he said slowly. Gods, no wonder he’d sent threats. The note still clutched in Cassian’s hand no longer seemed like such a breach of propriety; it must have been torment for Altair, knowing Julia had suffered a savage beating and unable to do anything about it. He could only imagine how he’d feel if that was Melisande.
“You must miss him terribly,” Cassian said quietly.
“And everything else,” she agreed. Abruptly, tears pricked at Julia’s eyes, but the woman blinked them immediately back. “I can only see him in person, even from afar, at full court banquets. And I can hardly risk catching his eye then, nor he mine. Because if the king ever got reason to look closer at Gus… and his life...” Her voice cracked.
“What about his life?” Cassian said. “You mean… the twining ceremony? That you and he…”
“No. There’s no way for him to find out about that. It was in the middle of a rebel camp, and there are hardly any records of it.” Her voice shook. “Cassian, I…” She forced herself to meet the crown prince’s gaze. Tremulous. Agonized. “There’s a baby. A boy. Gus told the crown that his mother was a soldier who’d died in childbirth.”
Cassian stared at her. He moved toward her, reaching at first to put a comforting hand on her shoulder before the memory of how she’d flinched at him earlier made him stop short. Instead he simply held his hand out, palm up, as if it was an invitation. “We’ll fix this,” he said simply. “When my father is gone, when I’m on the throne… you’ll have your family again, I swear it.” He gave her a slightly rueful smile. “I owe you that much.”
Slowly, tepidly, she set her hand in his. “They’re the only reason I didn’t just… end things… when the rebellion came to the gradual realization that your father wasn’t going to take my name out of the treaty. Otherwise… without Gus… without Dorian…”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You won’t be under his thumb much longer,” he said softly. “And you’ll be able to see them again. Soon, Julia.”
“You should go, Cassian,” she murmured. “We wouldn’t want anybody to start wondering why you’ve been in my chambers for so long.” With a dour sigh, she pulled her out hand back out of his and gestured to her hair. “And if the servants don’t start again on these braids soon, they won’t finish in time for the feast tonight. And Woo knows, it wouldn’t be a feast unless the entire family’s in perfect presentable form, rouged up like porcelain dolls.”
Cassian snorted softly. “Of course not,” he said. “I’m sorry for intruding.” He hesitated at the door, his hand resting on the knob. “And… what happened the other night, Julia, I…”
“I won’t say I’m not angry.” Julia shrugged. “You were careless, and I was the one who paid for it, Cassian. And I’ll correspond with Gus to talk him down, but at the same time… if you ever do that to me again… well, he’s my husband”-- it felt strange saying this word aloud within the crown prince’s earshot, even after all of what she’d admitted just now--“and I told him that we could trust you. He has a hard enough time knowing what the king does to me. So that someone he thought was on his side would whip me like that…” Sighing, she swept past him toward the door and disengaged the deadbolt. “Remember that we’re dosing every other day now. Up to once a day next week, for the two weeks that follow, and after that a twice weekly maintenance dose to keep up the resistance level in your bloodstream. And after we’ve reached that point, well…”
Stepping back from the door, she turned toward him and smiled grimly.
Cassian’s smile mirrored hers. “It won’t be long now,” he said. “You’re going to see your son, Julia.” With that, he left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Once he was gone, Julia stared at the door for a good long moment, knowing perhaps that she ought open it again and call the servants back in to finish her hair but making no such move. Woo, Dorian. She couldn’t believe that she’d directly confirmed to Cassian her relationship with Augustin Altair at all, let alone admitted to him about their son. Such information… to Julia, it was in many ways even riskier than if someone were to find out about her and Cassian’s plot of treason. Because if Oliver discovered that his heir and his niece were plotting to kill them, then true, each of them would die.
But if her uncle found out about Gus… about Dorian…
She imagined her young son-- hardly two the last time she’d seen him, the night before she and Matteus were brought back to Rakine at the end of the war-- held in the king’s untender grasp, as Augustin’s head rested on a pike atop the palace wall, and a sick feeling promptly twisted in Julia’s gut.
It won’t be long now, Cassian had said.
Even still, over a month into this dangerous, convoluted plan, Julia wasn’t entirely sure if her cousin was simply optimistic, or if he was on the contrary badly over-confident.
But oh dear Woo, how she hoped that his words were true.
Part Six:Although hardly a week passed at the Gilded Palace without some feast or another taking place within its walls, only once or twice a month did such an event call for the presence of the king’s whole court. The celebration in honour of spring equinox, in the last rainy weeks of March, was one such occasion, the grand hall bedecked in silk banners and the tables set with the finest cutlery as the nobility of Rakine set about welcoming the new season with more food and wine than the average peasant of the city probably saw in an entire year.
By this point, Cassian’s painstaking course in building resistance to the knave’s knot had reached a plateau, the prince now fully conditioned to take a dose that would knock most elephants dead. Now the only matter that remained was finding the time and place to put the plan into action, a feat that was considerably easier thought about than actually done.
The obstacles were multi-faceted and, it seemed at times, nearly impossible to work around: the king had tasters at proper meals; he and Altair had to arrange strategic close passes during meetings so that the adviser could pass the prince more of the poison whenever Cassian and Julia’s cache ran low; the knave’s knot took a few minutes to dissolve in wine but, if left in a drink too long, ceased to be effective; Cassian couldn’t keep the raw sprigs on hand at all times or they’d go rancid in the heat of his pocket. Julia could see the crown prince growing impatient, and sometimes she worried that, in spite of the fact that she constantly attempted to reassure him that this wasn’t something you could rush, that he had to wait for the right moment instead of simply a moment, he might do something foolish.
So when, as each of them sat at the high table in the middle of the spring equinox feast, and she noticed her cousin’s hand casually skimming over the pocket of his ornate court overcoat far too often to be merely a coincidence, Julia’s heart sank. Oh, Woo, no. He couldn’t be considering it now. Not with quite literally hundreds of eyes occasionally listing in the high table’s direction, and knights posted every which way, and-- perhaps worst of all-- the great hall filled with any number of Oliver’s enemies who would most certainly fall under suspicion if he up and died in their presence, but whom Julia could not fathom allowing to take the fall for the king’s assassination.
Augustin wasn’t there at least-- in his last encoded message to her, received the previous morning, he’d said their son, Dorian, was stricken with a flu and so Gus planned on staying home with the boy instead-- but others who’d once heralded the rebellion and now held positions in Oliver’s court were. There was Adam Carrow, one of the rebel army’s former major generals, who’d come to the feast with his wife and young son and who looked about ready to fall asleep in his soup. Arden Sinclair, who once upon a time had headed the unit Julia had fallen in with on her initial arrival to Courdon, sat several seats down, indulging lavishly in the sweet, endless wine.
But it wasn’t Arden and Adam who concerned Julia; they were rebels, true, but hardly convenient scapegoats in the same way as were the other two members of the rebel army who graced the grand hall tonight: Xavier Lynn-- the Branded Lord-- and his wife, Elin. Particularly given the fact that at the beginning of the feast, the Branded Lord had, as was customary, come by the high table and exchanged formalities with the king, thus placing Xavier in very close proximity to Oliver’s wine goblet, Julia knew that if her uncle keeled over tonight, there was a high chance that Xavier Lynn would fall under suspicion.
And, by all the gods in the entire cursed sky, she could not let that happen.
Cassian, meanwhile, spared not a thought for the Branded Lord. The rebel leader’s presence seemed a paltry detail next to the opportunity that now placed itself before him. As was customary, he sat at Oliver’s right hand, well within reach should he need to quickly slip something into his father’s wine goblet. The king was well distracted by the dignitaries present at the banquet, as well as by the impressive spread of food and drink prepared by the kitchens. And, Cassian supposed, there was probably any number of people here who would be happy to see Oliver and himself removed from power. When the dust cleared, the royal guard would have any number of suspects to interrogate - and the crown prince who had only barely escaped with his life would not be one of them.
It was perfect.
He did not dare spare a glance for Julia, but he wondered if she realized what he was going to do - if she was, as he was, both tremulous with excitement and near sick with nerves. If the crown prince was short on looks for Julia, however, the same did not go for the inverse: as the meal progressed, and Julia watched him fondle his pocket as if it were a puppy, she shot him a whole library of stares-- first ones of unease and disbelief, followed by annoyance, and eventually falling into something near desperation, as the courses progressed and Julia knew she was running out of time to stop him.
“Are you okay, Julia?” Matteus, who was sitting beside her, murmured into her ear.
Julia frowned, looking not at her cousin but rather toward the Branded Lord and Elin, who were currently having what seemed like a jovial conversation with Arden Sinclair, although of course from this distance Julia could hardly hear their words. “I’m fine,” she replied thinly, before shooting another aggravated look toward the oblivious Cassian. The crown prince sat several seats down from her, with Matteus, the queen, and Oliver separating them, but by Woo still, it ought not be this hard to catch his attention.
“Why do you keep looking at Cassian?” Matteus’s voice was so low that only she could hear it. “And Lord Lynn?”
“I’m not,” she lied. “Just focus on your food, Matteus.”
With a tightly curled frown, the teenaged prince’s gaze fell back down on his plate-- but Julia’s attention did not return to her own. Rather, as with another quick glance at Cassian she found him once more fiddling with his pocket, she let a frustrated hiss out from between her teeth. Suddenly, her stomach lurched, the desperation in her brain seguing into something near panic. She was running out of time; this much was clear.
But what to do about it? It was as she once more look to Elin and Xavier that the idea occurred to her: signal them. After all, the rebellion hadn’t made it through a bloody nine-year war without, along with its written ciphers, developing a very intricate system of nonverbal communicate. Hand signals. Quick gestures. Even blinks, although from this distance she knew the Branded Lord and his wife would catch nothing of that sort.
She… couldn’t tell them to run. Such a thing would only make things worse. But she could alert them, at least, to be on edge. To stop partaking in mead and wine and keep their defenses up. She owed them that, at least, didn’t she? Given that through her choices, it was well starting to seem as if she might lead them toward charges of treason over something for which bloody Cassian Alaric was the mastermind.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Julia bore her gaze into the party of rebels, waiting for one of them to notice her. It didn’t take long-- not like with Cassian, Woo-cursed Cassian-- before Xavier’s eyes flicked to hers, his expression neutral enough that it might have been a passing glance, but lingering long enough that it clearly wasn’t. Julia wasted no time then, her movements slow but deliberate as she carefully raised her left hand and began to crook her middle three fingers--
-- until, sharply, she felt the smothering grip of someone else’s hand closing over hers. She flicked her gaze away from Xavier and back toward Matteus beside her just in time for the younger prince to wrench her hand down, out of sight of the Branded Lord. The prince’s eyes were dancing with something between incredulity and confusion, and it hit her cuttingly that her younger cousin knew the rebels’ signaling system just as well as she did. The look on his face said it all: He knew all too well that she was about to try something, but without knowing why, he hadn’t wanted to risk letting the communication through.
“What,” he hissed to her beneath his breath, “is going on?”
“Nothing.” She looked frantically back toward Xavier. “Let go of me.”
The rebel leader’s brow was furrowed, his eyes still trained on Julia’s face. And Cassian, his attention finally caught by the minor commotion between his brother and cousin further down the table, turned to catch Julia’s eye.
She knew she only had a split second, then-- that with all of these eyes now falling toward her, Oliver’s own stare would soon follow. “Don’t,” she mouthed to the crown prince, Matteus’s hand still snared over hers.
Several seats down, Cassian could only stare at her, too far away to demand an explanation. This was a perfect opportunity, and if she continued drawing attention to herself then this window would pass. He probably only had a few seconds--
But it then hit him like a weight in the stomach that several times now she’d seen danger where he hadn’t, and perhaps she was seeing it again. Cassian, for his part, could not think what it might be. Aside from the rest of the family’s attention being drawn to her now, nothing else had been amiss during the evening. Was there some reason he couldn’t put an end to this right now?
Maybe that wasn’t the question. Did he trust her?
And staring at his cousin’s wide, nearly panicked eyes, he found that he did. Cassian’s head jerked in a nearly imperceptible nod, his gaze locked on hers. Relief flooded Julia instantly, the woman jerking her hand free from Matteus’s grip just as Oliver’s gaze finally listed in her direction. Her uncle’s eyes were iron, and the woman quickly looked away. Avoidant. Submissive.
The rest of the feast, mercifully, passed without any hiccups, although Julia found that she’d largely lost her appetite for the remainder of the succulent courses set before her. She ate just enough not to draw suspicion, and afterward in her chambers, there was still a vague knot of unease lingering in her over how close Cassian had gotten tonight to ruining everything. And beyond that, over the fact that even now, after months of working with him, there was still a part of her that didn’t entirely trust her cousin.
After only a few minutes of her maids fussing to take apart her intricate plaits, Julia sharply dismissed them and went to untangling the braids herself. Woo knew she had enough nervous energy to expend, and part of her was afraid that if she spent much longer around people tonight-- any people, even servants who’d never dare question her-- she’d burst from all the fears and secrets lurking in her core.
Only a few minutes after the servants left, Cassian stopped in front of his cousin’s door and gave it a sharp rap. He waited, tense; not near as agitated as he’d been last time he stood here, but unnerved all the same. He wasn’t about to go back to his quarters without finding out what the hell had actually happened tonight.
At the sound of the knocking, Julia sighed and struggled back an outright cringe. She knew who it had to be, and Woo, how she hated it. Sometimes Julia still felt as if, in spite of his broad claims and promises, Cassian didn’t truly understand the stakes here. What would happen if Oliver got wind that something was different between them. How quickly things could fall apart for both of them, like a dry creek bed suddenly flooded.
Even so, she doubted he’d slunk all the way to her chambers without catching somebody’s attention, and so the damage was already done. And if she turned him away here… well, that would only cause more rumors and problems. Instead, she called out to him, “Come in.”
Cassian slipped into the room, plainly tense, though not as explosive as the last time he had visited her quarters. He didn’t bother with any greeting, only watching her a moment before asking bluntly, “Why did you stop me?”
“Why did I stop you?” she echoed, incredulous. “Are you… really asking me that, Cass? Truly?”
He raised a brow. “We had a perfect opportunity,” he said. “Father was distracted, and he’d been speaking with no end of people who have every reason to want him dead. So what did you see that I didn’t? Why didn’t you want me to take it?”
“That room was full of rebels,” Julia replied. “The bloody Branded Lord himself strode up to the high table and was within inches of Uncle Oliver’s wine goblet. Who do you think would have taken the fall?” Rising from her seat, she pointed an almost accusing finger at her cousin. “Forgetting the fact that I care about the rebellion’s leaders and would gut you if you let them take the axe for you, Cassian, do you want to start another war? Because if the Branded Lord were to be accused of murdering the king but nine months after the treaty…”
“Of course the Branded Lord would have taken the fall, I’m not stupid,” Cassian snapped. “But I have enough of an interest in keeping myself - and you - away from the executioner’s blade that I’m not about to get sentimental about a rebel warlord.” He paused, frowning. “He… has plenty of supporters, I’ll grant you. And if he were executed…” The prince trailed off with a sigh, shaking his head. “No, you’re right. I underestimated his importance, and I can’t risk alienating the rebel supporters. My father has done a fine enough job of that already.” Her reasoning was sound enough that he could have let the matter drop, but he paused, studying his cousin’s furious face. Whatever else she said, this was not a matter of cold political logic. Not for her.
“...Would you have stopped me if it was someone else from the rebellion?” he said finally. “Not the Branded Lord, someone less vital, someone his supporters wouldn’t start a war over.”
“You’re not framing my comrades, Cassian,” she said. “I fought, lived, and nearly died with some of those people. This is your plan. Our plan. Not theirs.” Julia turned away from him, her face painted with a stark, cool fury. “He’s going to know something’s wrong,” she said after a moment. “The Branded Lord. Matteus grabbed me before I could complete the hand signal, but… I was afraid I wasn’t going to be able to catch your attention in time, and so I… started one, and--”
“You did what?” Cassian gaped at her, aghast. “The Branded Lord, of all people - Julia, how the hell did you think that was a good idea? He doesn’t even have to know the details to be dangerous - and if my father knew you’d been communicating with him, what he’d do to you, I--”
“Calm down!” Julia hissed, rounding back toward him. “Do you want someone to hear you screaming? It’s not like I bloody well told him that he was about to be framed for regicide, Cassian! I just started a caution signal. The sort we might have thrown in the field if we got a bad vibe-- if we wanted our fellow soldiers to be on alert--” She cut herself off and forced her voice quieter. “Matt knew,” she continued. “That’s why he forced my hand down. Your father didn’t see. I’m sure of it.”
“Julia…” Cassian sighed, rubbing at his temple with one hand. “What makes you trust them so much? Not in the rebellion, I mean now. I’m certain you don’t need me to tell you that your comrades aren’t especially fond of me. I’m the crown prince, an Alaric, the very embodiment of everything they were trying to tear down. And whether you like to think about it or not, cousin, so are you.”
“Don’t you dare sew us of the same thread, Cassian,” Julia said. “We’re not alike. No matter how you-- or your father-- might view me, I’m not merely some object of the crown that belongs to you like a piece of silver.” Shrugging heavily, she considered for a good, long moment before going on, “Do you know how I grew up, Cass? What my life was like as a child, after my mother ran with my brother and me from Lange?”
Cassian recoiled. “I never said you belonged to me,” he said, nettled. “That’s not--” He forced himself to stop, considering what Julia had said. “I know you grew up in the north of Kyth,” he said, defensiveness still tinging his voice. “A rather… wild place, isn’t it?”
“Some would say the same of Courdon,” Julia replied sharply. “But yes, I grew up in Kyth. Bern, to be specific. The capital.” She paused, her voice dropping to near a whisper as she finished, “The castle. Destrier Castle. But I wasn’t part of the nobility, Cassian. None of us were. We served them, the ruling House.”
“You were trying to survive,” Cassian said. “I imagine you had no other choice.” It still set a bitter taste in his mouth, the idea of kin of his living under the rule of Kythian nobility. Serving them. Lila and her children had deserved better.
“No, Cassian,” Julia said. “My mother did have a choice. If she’d wanted to leave the Grand Duchess’s employ, she could have. But here, in Courdon? Before the revolution? The slaves had nothing; their masters could literally kill them with zero repercussion. And that’s not right.” Swallowing hard, Julia let her gaze fall to the floor below. “Sometimes when I was little, my brother and I would talk at night when we couldn’t sleep. About all the things we’d do once we were grown. The lives we would make for ourselves. We were servants, but we had hope, Cass. Even the day I left, he and I… he was upset with me, I think, for leaving him behind, but… still, all the mattered was that I could leave. And that’s why I trust the rebellion’s members, even now. Because they brought so many people hope, who’d never been able to have it before. I don’t think you could say the same thing about yourself, could you?”
Cassian opened his mouth, then closed it again, frowning. Instead of answering, he said, “I… thought your brother had died before you left Kyth.”
Julia’s face fell, as her eyes danced back up toward Cassian. “I had to tell him that,” she said softly. “The king. If he’d known Paul was alive in Kyth-- in the bloody Grand Duchess of Bern’s castle, no less…” She shook her head. “I don’t think,” Julia finished slowly, “that would have led to anything good, Cassian. Not once your father started prying. And I don’t mean just for my brother.”
“I suppose that you’re right,” Cassian said slowly. “If he’d known…” He shook his head. “You could still see him again, you know,” he said. “Your brother’s as much a child of Courdon as you are. And it will be safe for him to come here, I think, once my father is no longer on the throne.”
“That’s where you and your father are alike,” Julia said, before slipping into a Kythian that was far more affected by her Bernian brogue than usual: “He doesn’t belong to the crown, Cassian, and that he’s kin of yours doesn’t make him yours. I was never a child of Courdon, not until I was literally beaten into one. And I’m sure Paul, who’s spent nearly his entire life in northern Kyth, has no desire to be Courdonian.”
“Is it such a terrible thing to be Courdonian?” Cassian demanded. “I’m not trying to own you, Julia, or your brother. It’s about - it’s about what you deserve. The honorable way I should be treating my aunt Lila’s children after what my father did to her. I’ve no desire to force your brother to claim his birthright, but it doesn’t change the fact that it is his.”
“If you want to honour my mother, then honour her choices, Cassian. Leave Paul alone,” Julia said. “Don’t contact him. Don’t invite him here. My mother could have come back to Rakine all those years ago, and she didn’t. And there were reasons for that. Good reasons. Even if I didn’t entirely grasp them when I first came here.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t want this, Cassian. Any of it. The title. The birthright. I still don’t want it, not really. If Gus and I could just… take Dorian someplace very far away from here-- Kyth, probably, or perhaps Lyell-- and never have to deal with this wretched court again--”
“You’re a member of this court, Julia,” Cassian said sharply. “You can’t just run away from that.”
“Of course not, my king. I’d hardly want you to have to waste the knights it’d take to find me and drag me back to this palace where I’m certainly not being kept against my will, after all.” Her voice was equal parts glass and steel, at once tremulous and furious. “You should go, Cassian,” she continued. “Before anyone starts to wonder why you’re spending so much time in my chambers. We wouldn’t want people to talk, would we? Not when we’re so close to finishing this.”
Cassian’s mouth thinned, and he pulled back from her. “No, certainly not,” he said. The prince turned to leave, and paused with his hand on the door. “When I saw you signaling to me tonight, Julia, I had no idea why you wanted me to stop,” he said quietly. “But I did, because I trust you. You’re not chattel, you’re… you’re my ally. And I don’t expect that to change after I become king. There’s few enough people I can really trust around here, and fewer still whose judgment I can rely on. So just think on that, cousin.”
With that, he left, pulling the door shut behind him without waiting for a response. Part Seven:As the weeks wore on, Cassian found himself growing more impatient than ever. Even if he had been willing to disregard Julia’s wishes and set up one of the rebels to take the fall for Oliver’s death, no opportunity like the banquet had presented itself. He was starting to wonder if it ever would. Oliver was too well-protected, too consistently watched. Melisande had begun to notice his agitation, and it was getting harder to pretend that everything was fine.
Anyone else who noticed his anxiety tended to assume that the crown prince was worried about his wife’s pregnancy, and Cassian did his best to encourage this. It was not even entirely a lie. She was carrying their fifth child, and the pregnancy had thus far been uneventful, but it didn’t stop him from hovering nervously when the midwife came to check on her. As the days lengthened and the heat of summer swept through the palace, Cassian found himself distracted more and more by Melisande, his mind drifting to her and to their unborn child more than to the deadly poison he still often carried in his pocket. Sometimes he met eyes with Julia across the supper table and all his urgency came jolting back, but he had not had the opportunity to speak with her alone since the banquet. If she was wondering what was taking him so long, she didn’t have the chance to ask.
The child came without warning, late one sweltering summer evening. After being ejected unceremoniously from his chambers by the midwife - not even a crown prince would dare interrupt this most sacred of women’s work - he paced restlessly in the corridor for what seemed like an age until at last, the wail of a newborn pierced the night air. Melisande had borne her fifth child, and Cassian was father to a healthy baby boy.
It was late, but that didn’t stop Cassian from wanting to break the news. As Melisande rested with newborn Gabriel, the rest of the Alaric family gathered in the parlour for a private celebration. Three-year-old Bryony, woken by the commotion, sat sleepily on her grandmother’s knee as Zaria peacefully stroked the little girl’s hair. To Zaria and Bryony’s left on the sprawling couch lounged Matteus, looking like he would much rather be asleep than spending time with his entire family, and to the queen’s right sat Oliver, a pleased smirk between his lips.
Perpendicular to the couch holding the king, queen, prince, and young princess, Julia sat on a smaller though just as plush loveseat, framed on either side by Cassian’s two eldest children, Rhiannon and Titus. Titus looked nearly as close to nodding off as his little sister, but Rhiannon was bright-eyed and excited, clearly energized by the rare indulgence of staying up so late. “Mama had a baby!” she told Julia, not caring that everyone in the room already knew. “He’s really little, and I didn’t get to hold him yet, but Mama says I can when he’s a little bigger. He’s maybe this little,” she added, holding her hands out to illustrate.
“Don’t pester her, Rhia,” Cassian chided, but he was smiling.
“She’ll be tired enough as it is,” Oliver added, although still the king was jovial as he glanced toward Cassian, who sat beside him. “We should have a drink, Cassian,” the king announced. “To the boy’s health.”
“Are you not already having one?” Matteus asked, gesturing to the generous spread of wine pitchers and goblets laid before the royal family.
But Oliver just waved his hand. “Not what I meant, Matteus. You hardly celebrate the birth of a healthy prince with the same cups of wine you’d swill at an average dinner.” He was practically beaming at Cassian. “We need something special,” he said. “Brandy, perhaps. Or rum.”
“Of course,” Cassian said, grinning back. “This is my son--”
And then he stopped. It was here - here, of all nights - that the opportunity was finally presenting itself. A private, celebratory drink with his father - no one else had to taste it, no one else had to see where it came from…
His children were here, and the thought put a stone weight in his gut, but he still hesitated only a moment. They were why he was doing this. And little Gabriel, asleep at his mother’s breast - one day he, too, would be old enough to have welts left on his back by the grandfather who was celebrating now.
Cassian stood up. “Shouldn’t I have the honor of selecting the vintage, Father?” he said brightly. “This is my son we’re celebrating, after all - wait here, I’ll choose something for the occasion.”
“As you wish.” Oliver shrugged, then reached out an almost lazy arm and draped it around his wife’s shoulder, drawing the queen-- and the squirming Bryony-- close to him. “The ladies, however,” he added thickly, “ought probably stick to the wine. Wouldn’t want to put too much fire in their blood, no?”
Across the room, Julia was suddenly very pale.
Cassian forced a laugh. “A toast for the two of us, then,” he said. “I’ll see if I can find anything strong enough for the King of Courdon.”
He could barely pay attention to what he was selecting when he reached the liquor stores, grabbing almost at random for a bottle of brandy that looked both rare enough to properly mark the occasion and strong enough to effectively mask the taste of knave’s knot. It was but the work of a moment to dose the liquor, rendering it deadly.
And when he returned he forced himself to grin again, matching his father’s jovial attitude. Dimly a part of him registered how accomplished he’d become at donning the mask that Oliver wanted to see. No one save perhaps Julia could possibly know how hard his heart was pounding, how he nearly felt sick already before even a drop of the poisoned brandy had passed his lips.
“Shall I pour, Father?” he said, holding the bottle up so Oliver could see it clearly.
Oliver gave a short nod, his arm still dangling over Zaria’s shoulder. “Not a bad choice,” the king said. “Strong, though. I hope you’ve made no promises to return and check on Melisande before night’s end. I hardly think you should be seeing anything but the backs of your own eyelids after a few glasses of this, Cass.”
“I expect she can manage without me tonight,” Cassian said, pouring a glass of the brandy and passing it to his father before pouring another for himself. He raised the glass. “To Gabriel Alaric, may the gods bless him,” he said, meeting eyes with his father.
“And may the gods protect him,” Oliver finished, his own glass raised.
And with that, the king of Courdon downed the brandy in two fell gulps, his bronze cheeks flushing red as he instantly moved to pour himself another cup. Across the room, with the exhausted Titus half-slumped in her lap, Julia watched her uncle with a look that bordered terror. Oh, Woo. She’d hardly seen Cassian slip the knave’s knot in, but still, the woman knew. Viscerally, harshly, she knew.
This was it.
This was it.
“Burns, doesn’t it?” Oliver asked glibly as he went about draining the second glass. “Not a fool’s liquor.” He sneered as he watched Cassian take small sips from his own cup. “Stop nursing it like a fine wine, Cass,” the king scolded. “If we run out, there’s always more in storage.”
“And how much longer will that be true, hm?” Cassian said, grinning at his father and wondering if anyone else could see how hollow the expression was. He dared to take a more generous swig, knowing despite his continuous sips that he’d barely ingested any of the poison. He had to pace himself, as much as Oliver would allow without growing suspicious.
A few minutes passed, and then several dozen more, the bottle slowly emptying as Cassian and Oliver-- albeit the king far outpacing the prince-- threw back amber glass after amber glass. Knave’s knot, after all, was a slow-acting poison; even at this pace, it’d take at least some time more for either Cassian or Oliver to begin showing signs of having been poisoned.
To Julia, now stroking Titus’s hair as the boy started to drift off with his head drooped in her lap, it might as well have been a lifetime: at once too short and all too long, each second simultaneously an agonizing drag and a meaningless blink.
“Burns less now, eh?” Oliver asked brightly after a while, a slur settling over the king’s words. Finally removing his arm from Zaria’s shoulder, he shot a hazy glance toward Matteus. “Why so dour, boy?” he demanded. “We’re all celebrating, and you look like you’d rather be reading scripture in the library.”
“I’m not dour,” Matteus said, stifling a yawn. “Only tired. It’s late, Father.”
“You’ve hardly had anything to drink.” This almost seemed to be an accusation.
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Or perhaps you’ve just not tried the good stuff.” Sloppily, he reached toward the bottle of brandy on the table. “Here,” the king announced. “Cass will pour you a glass.”
Cassian’s smile was frozen on his face. “It’d be wasted on him, Father,” he said quickly, pulling the bottle toward himself. “He’s too young to appreciate a good brandy like this.” And though his glass was not quite empty, he refilled it and took another deep swig, as if he could somehow drink the remainder himself before Matteus had the chance.
Her hand frozen in Titus’s hair, Julia could only watch on in abject horror as Oliver brushed aside his son’s refutation and picked up a fresh glass himself. “Nonsense,” the king declared. “How’s he to begin appreciating fine brandy if he’s never any to taste?” His hands wobbly, he poured his youngest son a healthy serving. “Take it slow, Matteus,” the king advised as he held the brandy out to the boy. “You’re hardly an old hat at this like Cassian and me.”
Warily accepting the cup, Matteus sniffed the contents before taking a hesitant sip. “Gods,” he spat as it burned down his throat. “It tastes like fire.” A pause. “Honey and fire.”
Julia could barely watch. Could only clench her jaw as she fought to restrain herself from standing and marching over to her cousin and slapping the glass from his hand. Trying desperately not to betray her rapidly ballooning anxiety to the others in the room, she let her gaze fall on Cassian. Beseeching. Desperate.
For a split second Cassian’s eyes met hers before he looked to his father, forcing a laugh and reaching to grab the cup out of Matteus’s hand. “What did I tell you, Father?” he said. “Too young to stomach it. He’ll never learn to appreciate fine brandy if you start him on something this strong.” The crown prince took another, longer swig out of Matteus’s cup. “There won’t be any left for me if I’m not careful,” he said, trying to let his words slur as if he were more drunk than he was.
As Julia watched Cassian knock back Matteus’s allotment, the woman was starting to realize just how much of the brandy her cousin had ingested so far. Oh, Woo. They’d been over dosing dozens of times, if not more-- but now, in the heat of the moment…
Gritting her teeth, she forced a neutral voice and said, “You’re looking flushed, Cassian. Are you alright?”
“He’s fine.” Oliver smirked. But quite suddenly, the king was looking not so fine himself: There was a sickly sheen to his forehead and a hazy film glazing his pale green eyes. “It’s just strong, that’s all,” the king added, bringing a hand up to massage his temple. “Don’t worry yourself, Julia.”
“I’d be suspicious of any man who didn’t look a touch flushed after a few glasses of this,” Cassian said, and glanced at his father. Though his tone was light, his eyes were intent, now studying Oliver closely. “Right, Father?”
Zaria was now looking at her husband as well, rather than to all appearances pretending he didn’t exist. “You’re sure it’s only the brandy?” she said, her voice biting. “You’re sweating, Ollie.”
“It’s warm in here,” the king retorted, although he moved then to loosen his collar, his hands shaking as he fumbled over the polished bone buttons. “This bloody parlour’s always too warm.”
“It’s not warm at all,” Matteus said, narrowing his eyes. “And you’re trembling, Father.”
This declaration seemed to at once draw the attention of the royal guardsmen in the room, who’d previously been standing in silent watch over their charges. One of them took a hesitant step forward, a look of something between anxiety and concern floating into his eyes as the king’s skin paled an even further shade, so that it was now nearly as white as Julia’s.
“My liege?” the man asked uncertainly. “Should I fetch a healer for you?”
“Hardly necessary.” Oliver blinked, now slumping slightly against Zaria beside him. “I just drank too fast. That’s all.”
Zaria didn’t move, only stared at him, her blue eyes like chips of ice. “Overestimated your tolerance again, did you?” she said flatly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Watching her, Cassian at first couldn’t tell if she knew something was amiss. She was always detached, but there was something unsettling about the impassive way she was watching Oliver now, as if her husband’s labored breathing was of no more than mild interest. Far from looking worried, there was a faint, calm smile on her face. As the expression didn’t change even while Oliver visibly worsened, Cassian shivered. He suddenly had no doubt that Zaria knew.
But he found couldn’t spare the energy to puzzle out his mother’s reactions, because his head was beginning to throb, and he knew it was not the alcohol. He resisted the urge to put a hand to his temple. He had minutes, perhaps, before the symptoms started in earnest, and then-- Cassian tried not to think about that. Tolerance or not, he’d had far more than he’d intended. When his father collapsed, he knew he would not be far behind.
It did not take Oliver much longer-- after exchanging a few more dismissive words with the increasingly worried royal guardsmen, the king tremulously announced that he sought to return to his chambers and proceeded in turn to rise. But he’d hardly made it two steps to the door before lurching, then pausing, a hand scrabbling up to his throat.
On the loveseat with Rhiannon and Titus, Julia’s heart was beating in her ears. Sensing that things were about to go very poorly, very quickly, she reached out toward Rhiannon and looped an arm around the girl, drawing her close.
“Come here,” she murmured, pressing the child’s head to her chest so that Rhiannon could see only the folds of Julia’s dress rather than her grandfather.
Across the room, the king of Courdon crumpled to the ground.
Amidst the panicked fervor that suddenly exploded in the room as the king’s twitching body thudded against the tumbled marble floor, Zaria was an island of calm. She didn’t move, only held Bryony close as the child began to fret and cry, her cool eyes fixed only on her husband’s convulsing body and her smile as cold and distant as ever. Cassian, feeling hazily that he ought to at least try to take some action, hauled himself to his feet and took a couple of wavering steps toward where Oliver had fallen. He was shaky on his feet, more than he’d expected, and his own breathing suddenly sounded very loud in his own ears.
Zaria’s eyes flicked to her son and her eerily serene expression instantly sharpened into something akin to panic. “Cassian,” she said sharply.
As she watched Cassian lurch, Julia’s grip over Rhiannon tightened. Woo. He’d had too much, then. There was no doubt. He’d gotten bold and dangerous on the dose already, leaving no room for error, and once he’d had to foist away Matteus’s glass…
As she watched several guards shouts orders over the king’s violently thrashing body, and several more swoop to the crown prince’s side, Julia could barely keep her own breathing steady. As if she too had knave’s knot surging through her blood, although of course she knew she didn’t.
Cassian made as if to wave the guards away, but before he could take another step he felt his legs giving way beneath him. Unable to catch himself in time, the crown prince was sent crashing into the floor a few feet away from his father. Gods, he hadn’t expected it would hurt like this, or that it would be so darned hard just to catch his breath. His muscles were starting to spasm and it felt like fire; growing panicked, he tried to turn his head to catch sight of Julia and his children but his vision was already too blurred.
And as her oldest son began jerking and convulsing on the floor, Zaria screamed, surging to her feet with a wailing Bryony clutched tightly against her chest. “Cassian!”
Tucked against Julia on either side, both Rhiannon and Titus struggled to turn their heads toward their screaming grandmother, but the woman clamped down tight on them. “Shh,” she said, her voice hollow, not daring to let the children see how panicked she was, too. “It’s okay, sweethearts. It’s okay. Don’t look. Please, don’t look.”
As Oliver and Cassian convulsed in tandem on the floor, something new seemed to dawn upon the scrambling royal guardsmen: Matteus. Although the boy had hardly swilled as much of the brandy that had quickly been deemed the probable culprit as had his father and brother, he’d still taken and swallowed a sip.
Sharply, one of the men turned to Matteus, who heretofore had been gaping down at the unfolding chaos like a frozen deer steering down a charging wolf. Taking a rough hold of the boy’s arm, the knight dragged him up off the couch, seeming not at all to care that normally such harsh treatment of his royal subjects would see him flogged, if not worse.
“Throw it up!” the knight snarled, hauling the blonde-haired prince toward the corner of the room. “Now!”
The idea that she might well lose both of her remaining sons seemed to hit Zaria then, and she turned wild-eyed to the knight who’d pulled her youngest son to the edge of the room. She barely seemed to notice that Bryony was still crying, squirming in the queen’s arms against what had become an uncomfortably tight grip. “Do as you’re told, Mattie,” she said, her voice shrill. She’d gone rigid in the middle of the room, caught in place between her two sons.
“I-- I-- what the hell--” The boy’s voice was stark and quavering. “I don’t understand--”
“Throw it up!” the knight rasped again, pressing down on the teenager’s back with such force that the boy automatically doubled over. “Right now!”
“Do it, Matt.” The strength of Julia’s voice surprised even herself, as she continued to shield Cassian’s children’s eyes from the calamity at hand. “Stop wasting time and do it!”
On the floor, now surrounded by at least a dozen royal knights-- and with more still streaming into the parlour, the entire palace now on high alert-- the king of Courdon had suddenly stopped thrashing. His skin was no longer shining with sweat, but waxen. Ashen.
A bubble of froth dribbled from his mouth, his lips parted open into a frozen ‘o’.
“Matt!” Julia snarled again. “Throw up! For all the gods’ sake, just do it!”
The teenaged prince finally obliged. Tears pressed at his pale green eyes, and the boy didn’t bother to blink them back.
Pushing Bryony into the arms of a startled guard, Zaria knelt at Cassian’s side, taking hold of his wrist. The crown prince’s skin was clammy, but his heart was still beating, his muscles still spasming uncontrollably. Zaria’s head jerked up, glaring at the knights around her as her fingers still clutched tightly to her son’s wrist. Cassian didn’t appear to notice the touch. His eyes had gone glassy. “Where are the godsdamned healers?” the queen snarled.
“They should be arriving imminently, Your Majesty,” one of the knights replied. “And they’ll need room to work-- if you’d step away from the prince--” He began to reach down a hand, as though to take a hold of the queen and pull her away, but at the venomous look that flashed in her eyes, he quickly reconsidered.
The healers were not nearly so timid: They took one look at Zaria, clinging to Cassian like a slipping man to the edge of a cliff, and at once demanded she move aside. Matteus, his stomach cleared-- the knight had, for good measure, already made him vomit a second time-- seemed to anticipate the snarl that might soon fall from his mother’s lips and took a preemptive step toward her.
“Mother,” he said, his throat raw, as one of the healers made a beeline for his side, shoved an ampoule of clear liquid into his hand, and demanded he swallow it down at once. “Stand up. Please.” Not yet downing the potion, he looked to Bryony, the toddler still squalling in the unfamiliar knight’s arms. “Take Bry. She needs you. She’s scared, and she needs you.”
Stiffly Zaria rose to her feet, stumbling back a pace from Cassian as the healers swarmed around him. Almost mechanically, she reached out to take Bryony into her arms again and retreated to stand next to Matteus, hovering next to him fretfully.
“Drink your potion, Mattie,” she said softly, her voice flat and her eyes still fixed on Cassian, who was now scarcely visible as the healers leaned over him.
“Of course, Mother.” Popping the wooden cap, he downed it in one scowling gulp; it went down tasting of bitter regret. “They’ll… be okay, I’m sure,” the boy supplied after, reaching out an arm and draping it around his mother’s back. “The healers will help them. That’s their job.”
But from the tremulous hitch of Matteus’s words, it was patently obvious that the young prince was trying to convince himself, not his mother.
It was clear that Cassian was no longer conscious as the healers took him out of the room. Zaria watched, helplessly rooted to the spot, before she turned to her younger son. “Are you feeling okay?” she said, shifting Bryony so she could put a hand to the prince’s forehead.
“Just peachy,” Matteus replied thinly. Then: “Why aren’t the healers moving Father?”
On the couch, Julia knew the answer to this, but she hardly wanted to draw suspicion on herself by voicing it out loud: The king of Courdon was dead. Not merely unconscious and twitching like Cassian but dead without a shadow of doubt, his skin grey as ash and waxy like a candle’s stem.
She didn’t know why her stomach flipped so violently at this thought. Or why her palms, still slung to shield Titus and Rhiannon’s eyes, sweated so much. She’d known this would happen. Had known it for months. Had spent so many nights dreaming of it-- savouring in an imagined picture of this moment-- marveling over what it would feel like, to finally see the man who’d brought so much misery into her life crumble as he so rightly deserved--
But now, as her cousin’s children sobbed in her arms, and Matteus and Zaria stood watching the all-too-idle healers like shocked survivours of some horrible disaster, Julia could not bring herself to feel anything other than a gutting anxiety and horror.
She had done this.
She had done this.
Rhiannon had stopped trying to struggle away from Julia’s grip, instead clinging to her as tightly as Titus. “I want Papa,” she said plaintively into Julia’s dress. “Where’s Papa?”
Zaria’s gaze had shifted to her husband again, her expression calm and considering. Then, without answering her son’s question, she walked across the room to where Julia was sitting. “Help me put the children to bed, Julia,” she said matter-of-factly. “We should probably all get some rest.”
“Excuse me?” Julia gawped at the queen, floored as she’d ever been. “Get some rest? Are you… um…” She shot a desperate look toward Matteus, beseeching the prince for help.
Matteus, however, looked equally as stunned, his mouth agape as he took a step toward his mother. “Um,” he started. “Mother? What do you mean by get some rest…?”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be glad of it tomorrow, believe me,” the queen said. “The death of a king is never a quiet affair. The poisoning of a king… well.”
But her eyes softened as she leaned over the children, still weeping and clinging to Julia. “I’ll look after them tonight,” she said quietly. “I would not want to disturb their mother’s sleep tonight, and over a thing like this…”
Julia did not quite trust Zaria to tend a pot of water right now, let alone Cassian’s hysterical children. “Actually, I can watch them,” she said delicately. Nodding to Matteus, she added, “Take Bryony, why don’t you? We can bring them all to my bedchamber. Perhaps you can stay vigil instead for news of Cassian, Your Majesty.”
“That seems like a reasonable idea. And once I’ve settled the children with Julia, I can wait with you, Mother,” Matteus agreed, a knot in his throat as he took Bryony from his mother’s arms before the queen of Courdon could refute the idea. Smoothing his niece’s blonde hair-- and not daring to let his eyes list again toward his father’s unmoving body across the room-- he went on, “I’ll have the healers bring a potion for you, Mother. To soothe your nerves.” Although quite technically Zaria outranked her son, this was clearly an order, not a request.
Across the room, if there’d been any doubts before about the king of Courdon’s vitality-- or lack thereof-- it became unequivocally apparent as a new pair of knights arrived to the room. The healers, previously crouching, stood as the knights proceeded to lower a white silk sheet over the king’s prone body.
Pure, unblemished white.
The colour of a Carriconic funeral shroud.
The deadened look in Zaria’s eyes as she listened to this alternative plan was probably not encouraging to either Julia or Matteus, but at last she nodded. “Very well, Matteus. And have the healers send for me should Cassian’s condition… change.” Her voice faltered on this last word, the only waver in her otherwise flat pronouncement.
“Of course, Mother,” Matteus said. “I’ll tell them that you’re to be the first to know.” Hushing the still-despondent Bryony, the prince took a step toward the door. “We should all go now,” he said. “Away from… here.” He couldn’t bring himself to look at his father’s body.
“Yes,” Zaria said softly. Unlike Matteus, her eyes fell to the king’s body and lingered there as she stepped forward to join him. When she looked up, there was the faint, serene suggestion of a smile about her lips. Without a word she took Matteus’s arm, as if he were about to escort her to a stately banquet. “There is no need to dawdle. Let us go.”
As they left the room, the queen of Courdon did not once look back.
Epilogue:That night Julia didn’t sleep a wink, Cassian’s despondent children nestled into her bed like a baby rabbits in a burrow. After a good long time of them crying and clinging to her, they finally nodded off, but the woman partly responsible for their hysteria didn’t-- couldn’t-- follow suit. Images of Cassian convulsing on the floor flared through her head like an inferno raging through dry brush, potent and unshakable. Was the prince-- no, she realized starkly, the king-- of Courdon dead or alive? Had the healers managed to coax him back from death’s door, or was he too far gone for that? She hated all the not knowing. She hated that it was her plan-- her knave’s knot-- that had put Cassian in this state, and yet she had no control over whether or not he lived. She hated that even in death, Oliver was still hurting people. She hated the smile Zaria had worn, still impressed into Julia’s mind’s eye like a festering brand. Cassian’s fate remained unclear the following morning. He was still unconscious, though no longer convulsing, his body clammy and swept with occasional tremors. And in the royal apartments, which were considerably emptier than they had been the night before, his wife woke to a hushed palace that seemed to be holding its breath. Melisande, now queen, was distraught. While her infant son slept, she visited Cassian in the infirmary, but he showed no reaction to her presence, not even the faintest twitch of an eyelid as she clung to his hand and tearfully pleaded with him to live.But the tremors stopped not long after that, and in the evening Cassian’s eyes fluttered open for the first time since he’d collapsed. He was not quite lucid and did not remain awake for long, but his breathing was easier as he slipped back into unconsciousness, his skin no longer so pale. There seemed to be a collective sigh of relief among the healers, and they were soon confident enough to send to his wife and mother with the news. Cassian Alaric would live to be called King. When Julia heard that Cassian would survive, it took every bit of her willpower not to go running to the infirmary and speak with him. After all, no matter how relieved she was by the new king’s survival, she knew that such a thing would look suspicious. They’d never been close, and they could hardly start now. Not while everyone in the court was still carefully trawling around for suspects, fingers flying every which way-- but not, so far, at anyone within the royal family-- as they attempted to figure out who was to blame for Oliver and Cassian’s poisoning. Zaria remained eerily calm, keeping close to her youngest son as if to protect him - or be protected. When she emerged from her chambers in the morning she was already dressed in mourning garb, but apart from this she would have seemed entirely unaware, or unconcerned, that her husband had died the previous night. But on the news that Cassian was recovering, she seemed to rouse from her stupor, imperiously commanding the servant who’d delivered the message to take her to her son at once. She remained at Cassian’s side for several hours while he slept, an uncharacteristic tenderness in her eyes when she looked at him or reached out to smooth down his hair. Two days later, Cassian was well enough to sit up and take a meal, although the healers would not yet allow him to leave the infirmary room. After Oliver’s death, they were not taking any chances. Cassian was beginning to find the coddling irritating, but he allowed it, if only because of the look in Melisande’s eyes when she visited. She was still badly shaken, and he couldn’t even tell her why. When he’d consented to the chief healer’s strongly-worded request that he stay in bed, Melisande had looked visibly relieved. In any case, perhaps it would be good to have the rest before he was launched into his new responsibilities. They would have to hold a coronation ceremony soon, which would require substantial planning, and there were the various diplomatic meetings and administrative tasks that had been put on hold while he was ill. He was still not quite used to the healers and courtiers bowing to him and calling him “your Majesty.” At times he had to resist the urge to look around the room for Oliver. Hearing that Cassian was not just surviving, but conscious and cogent, further spurred Julia’s urge to visit him. But still she didn’t dare. She couldn’t think of any good way to broach the issue, any reason she could spin that would justify her desire to sit poetic at the new king’s bedside, when before-- at least, as far as everybody but the two of them was concerned-- they’d only barely tolerated each other, at best. Cassian had wondered at first why Julia had not been among his visitors, but he quickly came to the same conclusions that she had: it would be too suspicious for her to show too much concern for him now. It was Melisande, however, who finally gave him an excuse to see her; as she sat at his bedside to keep him company during supper, she mentioned that Julia had looked after the children on the night he collapsed. He raised his head, looking thoughtful. “I must thank her,” he said. “Mel, if you see one of the servants after you leave, tell them to send her in?” Cassian felt another pang of guilt as his wife accepted this without question or suspicion. “Of course,” she said warmly. “I have thanked her several times myself. When I think what the children must have been feeling that night…” Melisande trailed off and swallowed hard, reaching out to take Cassian’s hand. He folded his fingers around hers, frowning down at his meal. “I know,” he said softly. When a servant fetched Julia not long later and told her the king had requested her presence, the woman dared not look too relieved. Instead, she gave a short nod and started toward the infirmary room, her heart suddenly beating in her throat like a hummingbird’s pulsing wings. The knights posted before the king’s doors parted readily for her, and Julia forced a frozen smile toward them, hoping they’d not stop her when she duly shut said doors behind her upon entering. This was a conversation meant for no one but her and Cassian’s ears. Cassian straightened as she entered. “Julia!” He sounded relieved. “So you received my message.” With a slightly crooked smile, he added, “I am supposed to be thanking you for looking after my children on… that night. And all pretenses aside, I truly am grateful, Julia. So thank you.” His children. Woo, still there was a vast part of Julia that couldn’t quite believe he’d dare do what he’d done with three of his small children in the room. Even now she couldn’t get the sound of Bryony’s wails out of her head. “You’re welcome,” she said, taking a hesitant step toward his bedside. He looked… better than he been, but pale still. Sickly. Hardly a king at his prime. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Julia went on. “I really am.” A beat, before she blurted: “But that was risky, Cass. I… what you did… when you did it…” “I know,” he said quietly. “But I… I had to take that chance. Even with the children there, and Mother…” His jaw tightened. “I still can’t quite fathom that it really happened. I keep expecting him to come in through that door.” “Do you realize how close you got, Cassian?” Julia dropped into the chair beside his bed with a heavy sigh. “To dying? Because I’m pretty sure it’s only by the grace of every bloody god in existence that you’re here right now. You… ignored everything. All the lectures I’d given you about not overdoing it. Every bit of temperance.” She shook her head, still incredulous. “They’re holding off on the funeral until you’re better, but lords are already starting to arrive. I think there’s practically an inquisition as the royal guard attempts to figure out who’s responsible. And your mother… your mother...” She let out a strangled laugh. “It’s a mess, Cassian. Our mess.” Cassian stared at his hands. “I was reckless,” he said bluntly. “Part of me was convinced I was going to die then and there. But Julia, when he passed that glass to Mattie…” He ran a hand over his face. “We always knew there would be consequences. But… gods. I’m king now, aren’t I? It’s my responsibility now. I just didn’t expect it would feel this… this…” “You made a bed of thorns, Cassian,” Julia said simply. “You can’t be surprised when it pricks you.” Leaning over him, she briefly placed a hand on his forehead; it was still too cool, too clammy. “I hope they’re keeping you hydrated,” she said. “And you need to eat. I know you’re probably feeling wretched, but if you don’t, it’ll only slow your recovery.” “Between my wife and the healers, I’ve been quite well reminded,” Cassian said wryly. He looked up at her, appraising. “Are you okay?” he said. “You may not have taken poison, but this whole… this whole mess, it can’t be any easier outside the infirmary.” She shrugged. “I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But I’m okay. Paranoid as all be that someone is going to figure it all out, but okay. And I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of your children screaming, Cassian. Not for as long as I live.” “They should never have been there,” he said softly. He looked up at Julia, frowning. “After all this is over… after the coronation, perhaps, when the mourning period is over… I’ll see to it that you can reunite with your son. That… that’s the least of what I owe you.” Julia couldn’t help but smile, an excited flutter bursting in her stomach as she envisioned meeting with her son again. How much would he have grown? Would his hair still be pale and blonde like Gus’s, or would it have begun to darken with age, creeping toward black like her own locks? Woo, would he even remember her? But then, a much darker thought occurred to her. The flutter turned into a twisting knot. “I… won’t be able to claim him as mine, will I?” she asked. “It’d raise too many questions. It’d bring too many watching eyes.” Cassian sighed. “No,” he agreed. “But you can still be a mother to him, Julia. And he can know the truth.” “And what about Gus?” Julia’s smile had fallen into a frown. “I’m not legally married to him, Cass. I never got the king’s permission. I… can’t just move off with him into his house, can I?” He cast her a surprised look, and reached for her hand. “You have the king’s permission now, Julia,” he said gently. “Yes, you would need to have a legal ceremony, as a formality, but you’ll have no opposition on that. You will be able to live with him openly, as his wife.” Lacing her fingers over his, Julia nevertheless bit her lip, as if she still feared there was a catch to this. “And I can live with him, Cassian? Away from this palace? He has a cottage in Balfour district. Small, but nice.” She sighed. “Or at least, he tells me it’s nice. I’ve obviously never been.” Cassian nearly hesitated. He had not quite expected her to leave the palace, and Rakine was not the safest of cities. Away from him and the iron-walled safety of the palace-- Where she’s never been safe before, a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him, and inwardly he winced, remembering the marks he had once left on her back. No, he couldn’t take this away from her now. “If that is what you want,” he said, “then yes. The Balfour district.” She nodded at this, gratefully. “He says Balfour’s nice, Cass,” she told her cousin, as though to reassure him. “I won’t be in any danger. And… maybe after we get to know each other again, and get used back to being together… we could go someplace else.” She drew her hand away from the king’s. “Talvace, maybe, which used to be Augustin’s home. Or Bern. Which… used to be mine. I wouldn’t mind Dorian growing up knowing my brother. Or playing in the snow.” Inwardly Cassian felt a chill at the thought of Julia leaving Courdon. With what she knew, who she was connected to here at Court - even if he trusted her, even if he knew Altair would protect her with his life, there was no guarantee… “Perhaps so,” the king said softly, looking away from her and hoping she would never ask. “You should get some rest, Cassian,” Julia said. “So that you’re not falling over your own feet at the funeral. And… make sure to dispose of any knave’s knot you might have left. I’ve already gotten rid of all that I had, and while I don’t think anybody is looking at us, we want to make sure it stays that way.” Cassian nodded. “I’m glad no suspicion has fallen on you,” he said. “Just… be careful. And when I am well, I’ll need to make a good show of searching for the killer…” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Time enough to worry about that later, I suppose.” “You have all the time in the world, Your Majesty.” Daring a smirk, Julia stood and turned toward the door, but after taking but one step in its direction, she hesitated. Considering for a moment, she glanced back at Cassian, a contemplative note creeping into her tone as she said, “I once thought you weren’t any better than your father, but you’ve shown me that I was wrong. He tried to mold you into the same man he was, and you did a lot of stupid, horrible things because of it. But you caught yourself. You realized it was wrong before it was too late to fix yourself. To make amends. And… I hope it doesn’t end with just apologizing to me, Cass. That you don’t think this is an end-- that now that you’re on the throne, you can carry on as if the past is just the past, ready to be buried along with Uncle Oliver. You’re a better man than that, King Cassian. And you owe it not just to the people you’ve hurt, but to yourself, to prove it.” Before he could quite formulate a reply, she turned to leave. The king watched her go, his brow knit in a pensive frown. She was right, of course; she was not the only person he had wronged. He was king now, and that meant that his father’s responsibilities now rested on his shoulders. Not merely the political, but the personal - to protect his family, to provide for them. And while he knew he could not come close to mending what his father had done to his family… perhaps he could at least mend what he himself had broken. They deserved that much. **
Cassian was no longer bedridden by the time of his father’s funeral, a quiet and stiflingly formal affair. He’d remained silently stoic through much of the mourning period, not trusting himself to show a display of false grief; fortunately, no one thought it odd that the new king would try to make himself a rock of support for his grieving mother. Cassian knew quite well that Zaria did not grieve, but one would not have known from looking at her; far from the detachment she’d shown on the night of Oliver’s death, she was now the picture of a tragically bereaved wife. It unnerved Cassian nearly as much as the lack of emotion she’d shown before. He had not intended to wait until the end of the mourning period before allowing Julia to reunite with her husband and child, but on his recovery Cassian had been thrown into an ocean of new responsibilities. The day-to-day tasks of running the kingdom were not entirely foreign to him, but it took longer than he’d expected for him to regain his footing and turn his attention to the promise he’d made his cousin. Perhaps it was for the best; enough time had passed now that surely no one could think anything odd of their association. The message Julia received, a little over a month after Oliver’s death, said nothing of Cassian’s intentions, only that the king had requested her presence for tea in one of the smaller royal receiving rooms. When the servant delivered the summons to her, Julia’s stomach gave a short flip. After everything, she trusted Cassian, she did. But still there was a part of her-- and probably there always would be a part of her-- that couldn’t think of him without thinking of the man he used to be. The one who’d menaced her. Struck her. Terrified her with a mere glance alone. Shoving the burst of anxiety away, Julia threaded through the royal family’s private residence-- so much quieter, and the air filled with so much less tension, now that Oliver was gone-- before coming to a halt outside the indicated receiving room. The door was closed, and she forced a deep breath before she raised her hand to knock. Cassian leaned forward in his seat. “Enter,” he called out, his eyes trained on the door. Julia obliged, pressing down on the door handle so that the door yawned inward. Inside, her eye fell at once toward Cassian, who was seated before a small, circular table that was set with a full spread of teapots, biscuits, and scones. “You wanted to see me--?” she started. But then her voice abruptly died in her throat as she realized who else was in the room, opposite Cassian. Julia froze in place, her green eyes going as wide as the tea saucers on the table, and she clapped a stunned hand over her mouth. “Hello, Julia,” Augustin Altair said, his own lips glowing with a bright smile as he rose to greet her. Hello, Julia. The first spoken words he’d said to her in over a year. The first greeting not smothered in esoteric written ciphers and codes. “ Gus,” she breathed, and she couldn’t suppress tears then as her attention lurched next to the small boy clutched in Augustin’s arms, asleep against his father’s chest. Dorian. Her Dorian. Oh, Woo, how he’d grown. Cassian watched them, smiling. It was perhaps the happiest he’d seen Julia, ever - the only time since she’d come to Rakine that he’d seen her light up with such affection and joy on her face. “I thought,” he said softly, “that you might like to see them, Julia.” Julia nodded, a knot twisting in her throat as she willed her legs to work again and glided across the room. As she approached, Gus shifted the slumbering Dorian into one arm and held his other out toward his wife, drawing her in close to him the moment she arrived to his side. He leaned his lips in toward hers before it seemed to dawn on him that the king of Courdon sat only feet away, at which point he awkwardly shifted to pecking Julia’s cheek instead. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured to her, adding after a moment, “So has Dori.” Julia swallowed back the lump, her hand shaking as she reached out and stroked a tremulous finger through her sleeping son’s curly blonde hair. “D-does he even remember me?” “Of course he does,” Gus said. “I talk to him about you all the time.” Glancing over his shoulder at Cassian, he went on, “And King Cassian says you can come to live with us just as soon as we settle all the legal formalities. Which shouldn’t take more than another week or so if I’m remembering correctly, your majesty?” Cassian nodded. “It won’t be long. You’ve waited long enough, I believe - all of you.” He took a moment to scrutinize Gus, his face stern, but his voice softened as he added, “Take care of her, Lord Altair. I trust you will do a fine job.” He hesitated. “Better than I have, I imagine.” Gus nodded solemnly. “Of course,” he said. “Julia will always be safe with me.” An almost impish smile ticking at the corners of his lips, he added, “I ought just keep her away from the knave’s knot, no?” “Gus.” Julia winced, but her admonition was half-hearted. “He’s a good man, Cass,” she said to her cousin. “You have nothing to worry about.” “I know,” Cassian said quietly. “I trust you. And I suppose,” he added, glancing at Gus with his brows slightly raised, “after what’s happened, I must trust you as well.” “Murder makes for strange bedfellows,” Gus agreed. “Even if I’d tend to call what we did closer to a mercy. For us. For Courdon.” He paused for a moment, somber, before a smile crept back to his lips. Shifting Dorian again on his hip, he pulled away from Julia and used his other hand to dig through the chest pocket of his tunic, quickly drawing out from it a small, glinting ring, its band a twine of silver, bronze, and gold. “Kept it, just as I promised,” he said to his wife. “Polished to a shine and everything,” Julia marveled, as he handed it to her and she slipped it over her finger. It was, as it always had been, a snug and perfect fit. Cassian watched them a moment longer before he rose from his seat with a sigh. “I suppose I should take my leave,” he said lightly. “I’ve just remembered some documents I need to look over before I meet with House Peregrine. But I hope both of you will stay and enjoy the tea so it doesn’t go to waste.” He smiled brightly, and paused beside Julia as he walked toward the door. The king placed an affectionate hand on her shoulder. “I’ll speak with you later,” he said, an uncharacteristic warmth to his voice. “Later,” she agreed softly. Then, as he started toward the door: “Thank you, Cass. Thank you.” Cassian nodded, pausing with his hand on the door to look back at them. “You deserve this,” he said simply, and meant it. Hers was not the only family Oliver had broken, and she was far from the only person who had suffered under his rule - but seeing her like this, happy and whole beside her husband and child, gave Cassian heart that perhaps some things could be fixed. Not everything stayed broken. He did not have to carry on his father’s legacy when he could begin to mend it. And that, Cassian thought as he closed the door behind him… that was something over which he could one day be proud.
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Post by Avery on Sept 6, 2015 15:27:13 GMT -5
Collab with Elcie that we should have posted forever ago but didn't because we did not want this to be Cassian's introduction to the world. :'D This actually takes place during the revolution, immediately after Gerard and Julia run away to join the rebellion - so late April of 1340. The royal family is... very healthy and not dysfunctional, yes. Content warning for violence!Behind Palace Walls When he entered the room, silence fell, carved into the air like a blade slicing through flesh. It was always this way, a quiet borne of the unknowns that always clung to the king of Courdon as might prickly burs. Would he be in a pleasant mood or a foul one? Had he a mind for pleasant conversation or a scatching diatribe? Would his tongue-- and hands-- be sharper than usual, or duller? Until such mysteries were settled, it was much better to err on the side of caution. On the side of silence.But on a balmy evening in late April, as a thunderstorm crackled outside, the silence did not last for very long. The king of Courdon had hardly made it three strides into the royal family’s private dining room before he’d snapped his gaze to the empty chair in between his daughter Safira and his son Cassian’s wife, Melisande. “Where,” Oliver demanded then, as he plunked down in his own seat, “is Julia?” When no one instantly volunteered a response, the king glowered. “No one knows?” he snarled. Still for a moment silence reigned, as if nobody wanted to be the one to risk incurring Oliver’s wrath by volunteering an answer he might not like. But, perhaps knowing things would only get worse if the king didn’t receive a reply at all, Safira finally took a deep breath and volunteered, “I’ve not seen her since yesterday, Papa.” “Yesterday?” Oliver echoed, frowning as a slave filled his wine goblet. “What do you mean, you’ve not seen her since yesterday?” “She… wasn’t at breakfast,” Safira ventured on, her pale blue eyes swimming with apprehension. “Or lunch.” “Yesterday,” Oliver echoed again, curling his fingers around the wine cup. His eyes slowly trailing down the length of the polished table, his frown deepened as he came upon a second empty seat. “And what about Gerard?” he asked, staring at the empty place where usually his second eldest son sat. “When did anyone last see him?” Again, the royal family played a game of silent refusal, with this time the youngest child, nine-year-old Matteus, drawing the short straw. “Yesterday,” Matteus whispered, fidgeting with his silverware. “He’s… gone.” “Stop muttering, boy,” Oliver growled. Then, pausing to reflect: “Gone? What do you mean, he’s gone?” As if realizing he’d said something very, very wrong, Matteus swallowed hard and planted his gaze firmly on the table beneath. His long, dark blonde hair forming a curtain to shield his flushing face, he stammered, “I don’t know where. He just… I…” “ Tell me.” Sharply, Oliver stood, nearly knocking over a passing slave in the process. Not even seeming to notice, the king leaned forward and hissed to his youngest son, “Look at me, Matteus.” The boy reluctantly dredged up his gaze. “What do you mean that Gerard is gone?” “He… told me was going. I… don’t know where, I’m sorry, I… I--” This, it seemed, was enough for Oliver. In an instant he’d stepped back from his seat at the head of the table and started toward Matteus, the heels of his boots clicking against the polished marble floor. As his father neared him, Matteus looked desperately toward his mother, seated several chairs down from him. “ Mama,” he bleated, cringing when Oliver reached his side, took a rough hold of his sleeve, and hauled him bodily to his feet. Standing at their king’s flank, one of the royal guards shifted, clearly uncomfortable at the way their monarch was manhandling a child who hardly reached his chest; but of course, there was nothing they could do about it. “ Please,” Matteus burbled beneath his father’s crushing grasp. “I…” “Stop sniveling,” Oliver barked. Pulling Matteus away from the table, the king whipped his head toward his eldest son and heir, Cassian, who was still seated at the table. “Come with me,” he ordered. Confident that Cassian would oblige, Oliver started toward the dining room doors without even waiting for Cassian to react. Dragged along in his father’s untender grasp, Matteus let out a short whimper. As he passed by Zaria, he locked his gaze briefly on hers but did not call out for her again. Seeming to know that she would-- could-- do nothing for him, even if the fire dancing in her eyes told him at once that she wished otherwise. She always wished. But wishes, he knew, would not stop his father from hurting him now. Frowning slightly, Cassian rose from his seat, part of him wondering what had gotten into his father. Privately, he reflected that if Gerard really had gone, then there wasn’t much point in making a fuss about it. Good riddance. Cassian’s younger brother did nothing but cause trouble, always making his father angry -- but Mattie-- Could Gerard really do that? Just walk off and… leave? Apparently, Cassian thought darkly, he could. “What’s going on, Father?” Cassian said, hurrying to catch up so he could walk in step with Oliver. “Did he really… he left?” He was unable to help casting a questioning glance at Mattie. The boy looked terrified, and given their father’s current temper Cassian couldn’t blame him. “That,” Oliver snapped in reply, shouldering through the dining room doors out into the corridor beyond, “is what we’re going to find out.” The three proceeded in a tense silence then toward the king’s private office down the hall. Oliver practically shoved Matteus inside before stomping in himself, and once Cassian too had hurried in, the king brusquely slammed shut the doors. Matteus swallowed the frog in his throat as he watched his father make quick work of the locks, securing the brass bolts with an over-dramatic flourish. Once the room was locked up tight enough for the king’s tastes, he directed his attention back down on his quivering child. Hand still snared around Matteus’s arm, he dragged the boy to a stiff wooden chair in the corner and forced him down into it, not even showing a glimmer of sympathy as Matteus let out a small, pained yelp. “You have exactly five seconds to tell me everything,” Oliver said flatly, looming over the child like a lion above its half-bled prey, “before I beat it out of you, boy.” “I… I…” Matteus shot a frantic glance at Cassian, still standing near the doors. “I… well… he… Gerard...” “Just tell him,” Cassian said tersely, coming up to stand next to them. His fingers curled over the back of Matteus’s chair. “What did Gerard say?” He did not want to stand witness to his youngest brother receiving a beating from their father - particularly not when it wasn’t even the boy’s fault. It was Gerard who’d run off, who’d apparently dragged young Mattie into this. Cassian’s fingers clenched on the wood of the chair as a surge of anger roiled in his gut. If you make Mattie take the fall for you, Gerard… “He just… he said he had to go,” Matteus warbled, his eyes flicking desperately between his father and brother, and flinching with each word that he spoke as if he expected Oliver’s lashing hand at any moment. “Last night. He… came into my chamber, as I was falling asleep, and told me he had to go. That he’d… miss me, and that he loved me, but everything would be okay.” Hurriedly, he added, “That’s all he said, Papa. I swear.” “Did he tell you where he was going?” Oliver demanded. “N-no,” Matteus stammered. “And when he told you this, boy, what did you do?” “W-what do you mean?” “I mean”-- Oliver leaned in even closer, his face mere inches from his son’s-- “did you think to tell anybody? A guard? Cassian? Me?” “I… no.” Matteus’s lip quavered. “He said it had to be our secret, I…” Oliver’s hand cracked out so fast that Matteus had no time to react; the boy could merely let out a small squawk as his father’s palm smacked against him like an arrow fired from a crossbow. He gasped, tears pricking in his eyes, and reached up to rub at his throbbing cheek-- but before he could, Oliver caught his son’s wrist and yanked it back down. Involuntarily, Cassian flinched at the sharp sound of the blow, gritting his teeth. He’d been on the receiving end of blows like that before; his own face seemed to sting in sympathy. Rather than risk meeting his brother’s eyes - or his father’s - Cassian stared resolutely at the floor. “You know not to keep secrets, Matt,” he said quietly. “Especially not-- you should have told me, I’d have taken care of it.” Taken care of it. Of Gerard, in other words. Cassian felt no particular sorrow over his departure, but at the moment he dearly wished to have him back, if only so he could pass on that slap that Oliver had delivered to Matteus. “I’m sorry,” Matteus murmured. “I just… I…” “No excuses.” Oliver reached toward his son again, and Matteus recoiled automatically; but the king did not hit him again. Rather, he traced a nearly gentle finger beneath the boy’s tear-brimmed eyes, wiping away the moisture in what might have counted as an affectionate gesture had it not been for the malice still painted on the king’s face. His voice iron, he went on, “So Gerard left. What of Julia?” “I… I don’t know anything of Julia,” Matteus said. “And Gerry didn’t say anything about her.” “But you’ve not seen her today?” Oliver asked, and when Matteus rapidly shook his head, the king turned instead toward Cassian. “What about you? When did you last see her?” Cassian frowned. “Perhaps yesterday. I haven’t seen her today, either, though that’s not entirely unusual.” The girl tended to stay out of sight more often than not. She’d seemed so tense around him, around all of them, that it wouldn’t have surprised him if she’d been deliberately avoiding them-- Tense around all of them except Gerard.“You don’t think they left… together, do you?” he said in a low voice, lifting his head to meet his father’s eyes. “No,” Oliver said quickly. But as he thought about it more, his lips curled into a frown. He’d forbidden the two from speaking some time ago, and as far as he’d seen and his guards had reported, Julia and Gerard had followed the decree. And his niece had not said another word against him about her impending nuptials to Lord Sutter Erling, who was set to arrive from Ruom before the week was out; any flash of fire in her about the matter had been quickly snuffed out by one short slap in her chambers weeks ago. She was a simple thing, soft and pliable and meek, and the idea of her willingly running away from him… She didn’t have the stomach for it. After only a moment of mulling, the king of Courdon was certain of this. But that hardly meant Gerard hadn’t taken her. Sharply, Oliver spun and stalked back over to the door, unfastening the bolts he’d just slid into place mere minutes ago. “We’ll have to launch a search,” he said over his shoulder to Cassian. “Every inch of the palace grounds, and if that turns up naught, the entire city. Gerard will not get away with her. Not with Sutter arriving in a matter of days.” Fury rising in him, he pulled open the door and spat, “How dare that ingrate thinks he can steal what’s mine? He will bleed for this. Gods, will he bleed.” Cassian looked up. “Let me go after him,” he said. “I’ll track him down, Father, I won’t let him get away with this--” “That’s not your place,” Oliver cut in, as the guards posted outside the door snapped to attention, awaiting their king’s orders. “Fetch me Commander Joachem,” he said to them, his voice an icy blade. “Tell him it’s urgent.” In an instant the guards had scrambled away, leaving Oliver to linger beneath the doorway as he awaited the return of Commander Joachem, the head of his royal guard. It would be Joachem in charge of assembling the search parties to ferret out his runaway mongrel, and smugly Oliver thought the swine would have no chance. Gerard would be lucky to have his head still resting atop his shoulders by the end of the night, and as for Julia, well… by the time Sutter Erling arrived to Rakine, she’d be safe and ready for him. Gods, the king hoped Gerard hadn’t hurt the girl when he’d stolen her away; that would hardly do. Sutter had been promised a fresh, shining jewel, after all, not a ravaged, bedraggled wretch. As Oliver waited, he turned slowly back toward Cassian and Matteus, the latter of whom still cowered in the wooden chair. “Once the Commander arrives, I’ll be heading off with him, since gods know I want to be the one to find that vile thing.” He could have been talking of a muddy shoe. “Since I’ve no idea when I’ll next have the time to handle Matteus, you ought do it, Cassian. Do not let him off easy. Liars do not deserve mercy.” His eyes settled on his youngest boy, who was rubbing with a grimace at the weal on his cheek. “Do they, Matteus?” “No, sir,” Matteus whispered. Cassian tensed. “Of… of course, Father,” he said, his face impassive. He didn’t turn to look at Matteus, lest any trace of sympathy surface on his face. If Oliver thought he needed to be taught a lesson, then… The Commander arrived soon after, and Oliver left. Cassian turned to his youngest brother. “I’ll get it over with quickly,” he promised. He didn’t say I’m sorry; that would have been soft, and his father despised softness. Matteus gulped. “It’s not fair,” he said, his voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to lie, Cassian. I just… I didn’t think to tell. That… isn’t that different than a lie? It has to be different than a lie. And so… you don’t need to punish me because… because I didn’t lie, I just… I didn’t lie...” “I know,” Cassian said, trying to keep his voice calmer than he felt. “I… you kept it from him, though, you shouldn’t have, Father doesn’t like secrets--” He broke off. It wasn’t fair, because it wasn’t Matteus’s fault that Gerard had chosen to saddle him with that knowledge, had run off and left him… “It’s Father’s decision, Mattie, you and I both know I have to,” he said quietly. It was as close to an apology as he could bring himself. “I should have asked to go with him,” Matteus murmured, before rising shakily to his feet. In front of his elder brother, he looked impossibly small, like a fragile mouse in the cat’s massive claws. “I hope he gets away,” he whispered, jutting his chin in something between pride, defiance, and fear. Cassian’s jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t let Father hear you talking like that,” he said coldly. “I’d advise you to forget about him. He’ll be back soon enough, and it’ll be in chains.” The thought of what Oliver would certainly do to Gerard then was not a pleasant one. But he deserved it. He’d always deserved it. Matteus didn’t, but that made no difference now. Steeling himself against the expression on his brother’s face, Cassian raised his fist. Matteus closed his eyes, bracing as it cracked against him. He wanted to scream out but swallowed it back, knowing it would earn him nothing. At least his brother’s blows weren’t quite so hard as his father’s might have been, but this was a very small consolation as, with a second strike, the force nevertheless sent him toppling to the ground. Cassian knew exactly what his father wanted of him, but it was difficult to keep his hand from trembling as he undid his belt. The prince had a strong arm, but even so he knew that the blows that landed on his little brother’s back weren’t nearly as forceful as they would have been coming from Oliver. Nor did he carry the punishment on as long as Oliver’s often did; after several strikes more he had to toss the belt aside, starting to be afraid that he would seriously hurt Matteus. He knelt beside the boy, holding a hand out to him. “It’s over now, it’s okay,” he said quietly. Despite his caution in carrying out the punishment, the fact that it undoubtedly had not been as bad for Matteus as it could have been, he could still see that the buckle had drawn blood. His other hand clenched into a fist. “Don’t touch me,” Matteus hissed, refusing his brother’s hand. Inhaling jaggedly, he propped himself up by his elbows. His pale eyes were filled with tears, and his throat ached from stifling back screams. And still the little prince meant what he’d said: he hoped-- gods, how he hoped-- that Gerard would get away. After a moment of terse silence, he took another breath and, still not looking at Cassian, muttered, “Would he really hurt Gerry, do you think? Just for… leaving? It’s not like he’s a slave, is he? He… can go where he wants. I don’t understand.” Inwardly Cassian winced at that choice of words. It was too close to the truth. And maybe that was the entire problem - that he was a slave, reckless and wild, torn loose from his proper gods-ordained place in the order of the world. “Gerard can go to hell for all I care,” Cassian said, more harshly than he’d intended. “He betrayed Father, don’t you see? Of course he’ll have to pay for that.” Maybe if it wasn’t for the matter of the Langean girl, Oliver would have let Gerard’s departure go, but Cassian doubted it. Gerard’s lack of worth didn’t matter - no one was meant to defy the King of Courdon. He pushed the thoughts back. There was one thing, at least, that Oliver hadn’t given him orders about. “Let’s get you to a healer, Mattie,” he said, his voice hoarse and tired. “The sooner you go, the easier it will heal.” “I don’t want a healer,” Matteus said sullenly. “If you’d wanted it to heal easy, then you shouldn’t have used the buckle.” Stubbornly then, he stood, lurching to his feet with the poise a drunkard might maintain whilst staggering up from a particularly deep gutter. Bracing himself against the wall to keep from tumbling right back down, the prince finally dared meet his brother’s cold, scrutinizing eyes. “I don’t care if Gerry betrayed Papa,” he announced. “Gerry’s better than Papa ever could be. And he’s better than you, too.” Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Fine, then,” he said coldly. “Do as you please. But he’ll do worse than I did if he hears you talking about that wretch like that, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” “Aren’t you a saint?” Matteus snapped, a fire to his voice now. “I’m going to go find Mama. At least she doesn’t beat me and then pretend on like she cares about me.” And with that, he pushed around his brother toward the door, limping out into the corridor beyond. Cassian opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, but he hesitated a moment too long, and Matteus was gone. In the privacy of his father’s office, the crown prince ran a hand over his face wearily and squeezed his eyes shut, but the moment didn’t last long before his back was straight and his expression composed. He’d done what he had to. With luck, his father and the guards would find Gerard and drag him back, and this would all be over by morning. ** Through the blackness, he should feel her stare, her cool eyes digging into him like the point of a blade. For several minutes the king of Courdon ignored it, hoping that if he didn’t acknowledge her, she’d give up and turn away. But she didn’t. And finally, he’d had enough. “Is there something you want?” he snapped at her, sitting sharply up. The silk sheets of he and Zaria’s massive bed crumpled beneath him, and with a scowl Oliver smoothed them down. It was well past midnight, the candles in the bedchamber burned down to waxy stubs, and hours of his guardsmen carefully searching the palace grounds had turned up no signs of Gerard or Julia. The enormous effort had now spilled out into the city beyond, and Commander Joachem had assured the king that the prince’s bid for freedom would swiftly come to an end. “By morning, my king,” he’d said repeatedly, words that Oliver was clinging to like a life preserver in a violent sea. “ Speak, woman,” the king snarled when his wife didn’t immediately supply an answer to his demand. “Gods know, you’ve never normally any reservations about running your godsdamned mouth.” Zaria stared at him a moment more. There was no point in saying half the things she was thinking. How Mattie had cried to her, her overwhelming disgust at her eldest son - who, she noticed, had kept far away from her after the events at supper. There was no point, even, in mentioning her displeasure at the fact that that one of her true sons had been punished for the actions of the half-slave mongrel. But what irked her really went deeper than any of that. She couldn’t quite place it. So finally she asked him, shortly, “You didn’t find him, did you?” “Don’t you think I would have told you if I had?” he snapped in response. “Gods, woman. Sometimes I wonder about what goes on in your vapid little brain.” Glaring at her through the darkness, he added, “Why do you care, anyway? What comes of him is of little concern to you, Zaria. You’re merely lucky I let him live this long. And hell knows do I regret that right now. If he hurts Julia…” “Why do you care?” she shot back. “You’re rid of him, and now all you can think about is dragging him back. Give orders to your men for him to be killed on sight, if you like, but you’re wasting your time.” She shook her head in disgust. “I never understood your fixation on the Langean child, either,” she added acidly. “If you wanted a little dark-haired toy, I could have bought you one.” “I care,” Oliver growled, “because he’s taken every iota of favour I’ve shown him these past seventeen years and slapped me with it. He’s defied me, and he’s defied the crown, and I cannot stand for that, Zaria. And as for the Langean child, she’s not a toy. She’s my kin. And she’s valuable to this kingdom. And so I’d truly suggest you shut up and go to sleep before you cross any lines you cannot leap back from, my queen.” He huffed this last word rather than said it, as if it tasted foul to his tongue. “Fine then,” Zaria spat. “It’s your time you’re wasting, not mine. Entertain yourself hunting down a worthless ingrate and a weak little girl while the kingdom burns around your ears. See if I care.” Gods, her father must have been rolling in his grave. Talvace in shambles, his former slave laying waste to the kingdom, and their so-called king only clutching ineffectually at anything he could grasp. She could almost hear him complaining that this would never have happened under Oliver’s grandfather. “Careful,” Oliver hissed again, scooting deliberately in her direction. “Some might say you’re speaking ill of your king, Zaria.” With a practiced, deliberate hand, he reached out and draped his fingers over her prone wrist, smiling to himself at the fast beat of her pulse. “Your boy’s just run off with Sutter Erling’s bride. You wouldn’t want anybody thinking you’d helped him, now, would you, my pet?” “That thing is no son of mine,” Zaria snapped back, her face stiff with rage. “You should know that.” “You’re the one who wanted him to live, Zaria,” the king said simply. “And it is your blood that fills his wretched veins.” Like a constricting snake, he tightened his grip on his wife’s arm, his fingernails digging into her soft, naked flesh. Eyes narrowing, Zaria tore her arm away from his grasp, ignoring the sting as the sudden movement caused him to scratch her. “My only concern is for my real children,” she hissed. “And now he’ll poison their minds no longer. No good can come of a slave that thinks it’s a prince.” “No good, indeed,” Oliver said coolly. Then: “Go to sleep, Zaria. Before you say anything else to get yourself in trouble.” He paused for a moment before adding, “And do not coddle Matteus any longer. I know he ran to you after his punishment tonight. It’s not helping him any, Zaria. He needs to toughen up and take his licks as he earns them. If I catch you fussing over him again...” “Attending to the children is a woman’s work,” Zaria said, flatly. “Surely you have more important things to deal with, my king… but I wouldn’t dream of interfering. Your word is law, as always.” The words bore only the faintest resemblance to sincerity, but it still galled her to say them. And yet scathing flattery was all she had. Sharply Zaria turned her back to him, pulling the sheets up to her neck and resolutely shutting her eyes. From the sting, she was fairly certain her arm was still bleeding, but she let it be. She’d had worse. Little Mattie certainly had. Through the inky blackness, now Oliver was the one to watch, his eyes digging into his wife’s turned back. Resisting the childish urge to slap her, Oliver waited until her breathing had leveled off before he dared wrest his eyes off of her. His last waking thought that night was a pointed, wistful: I should have smothered them both.** “I don’t understand,” the king of Courdon growled two mornings later, sitting at a massive maple table in the palace’s foremost war room, “how one measly mutt can outrun the entirety of my royal guard.” Sharp eyes landing on Commander Tylus Joachem, who was fidgeting in his chair several feet away, Oliver barked, “You promised me that you’d find them, Commander. And you do know how I feel about empty promises, don’t you?” “O-of course, Your Majesty,” Joachem warbled. “But it’s not an empty promise at all. We merely need more time. The city is very large-- we’re still sweeping certain quadrants and--” “By now, they’ve probably fled the bloody city.” “We just need more time,” Joachem repeated, his voice cracking. “And time,” Oliver snapped, “is the one thing I don’t have. Not with my niece’s betrothed set to arrive in the capital on the morrow. What am I to tell him, Commander? That his bride has been stolen away by my wife’s mongrel? That will surely earn us the badly needed loyalty of Ruom province, won’t it?” “We may need to expand the search to the province,” Cassian said grimly. His half-brother was no fool; he highly doubted that Gerard would have remained in the city this whole time. At this point, though he’d never have said it, his father was chasing at ghosts. “Perhaps if we notify army garrisons by gryphon. We could stall for time with Erling, tell him… the girl needed to travel to the temple of Carricon at Martine for a vow, or…” “We can’t spare gryphons.” That was Percival Dunry, one of the king’s oldest and most pragmatic advisers, who’d reacted to Gerard’s disappearance much as a soldier would react to a papercut in battle: it appeared to worry him very little to not at all, and he seemed essentially incapable of understanding why everybody else was so panicked about it. “It’s wartime,” Dunry went on. “The gryphons are needed at the frontlines, not combing Durach for runaway princelings. And I mean not to speak out of turn, my king, but frankly, any more resources you expend on this than you already have seems to be a truly frivolous waste of--” “You do speak out of turn,” Oliver cut in sharply. “And I care not for what you find frivolous, Percival. I am the king here. Not you.” “Of course, of course.” Percival smiled dully. “I, of course, would never think to question your judgment, sire. I merely mean to stress the gravity of the present situation with the rebels. We cannot afford to divert manpower from the army, Your Majesty. Not without it hurting us severely. And surely you’d not want Gerard to have that sort of power, would you-- his disappearance hurting our brave and godly troops?” “Perhaps not,” Oliver agreed, but the king was frowning, and his voice was still a lance as he continued, “Excuses will not work with Erling. He’s too sharp. He will arrive to this palace expecting a bride, and if you want to talk about hurting us severely, Percival… well, if he finds himself with no pretty girl to take home to Cesthen…” “With all due respect, Father, she is not my only cousin,” Cassian pointed out. “And you have other eligible nieces. Surely one of them would be pretty enough to satisfy Erling - we could still walk away from this with an alliance well in hand.” For a moment, Oliver brooded in silence, as if mentally sorting through all of his marriageable nieces. “Only Lacey would work,” the king said finally, talking of his sister Cleo’s daughter, who’d just turned fourteen. “The rest of Cleo’s girls are promised already or too young, and Tyson’s…” His voice trailed off at the thought of his younger brother, cut down by the rebels three years ago along with the rest of his family. Regaining his composure, he continued stiffly, “Anna’s are all much too young; Sutter wants a bride now, not five years from now. And Lacey is already technically underage, so Cleo and her husband would resist it.” “Well, they wouldn’t much have a choice, would they?” Percival mused. “No,” Oliver agreed. “But they’re all down in Kajas, anyhow. I could hardly get Lacey here by tomorrow, and so Sutter would know something was wrong.” He shook his head. “I cannot appear to be in disarray. The change of his bride must seem deliberate, not haphazard.” “There must be someone closer,” Cassian said, frowning. And it occurred to him suddenly: there were. His own sisters, Safira and Sabine… Sabine was rather young yet, but-- the prince glanced at his father, unsure if he wanted to voice this newest idea aloud. It was reasonable, it would certainly not meet with Erling’s disapproval, and a marriage for the good of House Alaric was to be Safira’s future anyway - but the idea of sending his little sister off alone to Ruom, particularly in wartime… “You have not yet arranged a betrothal for Safira, Father,” he heard himself say coolly, the hint of a question in his voice as he looked to Oliver. “I have not,” Oliver confirmed. For a moment, the king’s frown lingered, but once the idea seeped into him deeper, the corners of his lips slowly turned upward. It… wasn’t ideal, not particularly; he’d been planning on bartering for Safira’s hand with one of the far northern lords-- the son of Lord Pipp, perhaps, in the Northlands, or Peregrine in Emryn. But perhaps by then he’d have back Julia, and if not, well… Sabine would be of age sooner than later. And he could always call Lacey to court, too, if worst came to worst and he badly needed to solidify an alliance. It was just as Cassian had said moments ago: the king of Courdon was in no short supply amongst his kin of marriageable girls. So what he needed now was merely somebody to placate Erling. And Safira fit the bill as good as any. Hell, Sutter would probably even be pleased-- arriving to Rakine with the expectation of marrying the king’s niece, and instead making away with one of his daughters. “She’s not of age, either,” Oliver said. “But that’s merely a… trifle. And I think Sutter would like her. She’s very…” He considered for a moment before finishing thinly, “innocent. Sweet.” It felt like something was stuck in Cassian’s throat. “She’s a lovely girl,” he agreed. “And she was brought up here, in Courdon, not some backwater province of Kyth. She knows what’s expected of her.” But perhaps had not expected it quite so soon. She won’t be happy. Neither will Mother.“We ought tell her as soon as possible,” Oliver said, the idea growing more palatable to him by the moment. “So that she can be… dolled up nicely. Washed, groomed, made every bit the bride Sutter will be expecting.” He flicked his glance back down the table toward Commander Joachem. “Continue the sweeps of the city, and if you find Gerard, inform me at once. If he’s not in your custody by nightfall, we’ll meet again to discuss a change of tactic. As for now…” The king stood and turned toward the door. “Come, Cassian,” he said. “We’d best be informing Safira that her husband’s arriving to the palace tomorrow.”
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Post by Avery on Oct 3, 2015 14:57:48 GMT -5
Takes place in Rakine - December 1349. Collab with Gelquie. Legitimately lighthearted and not awful. \o/ A Prince for Dinner: Part One Ominous stormclouds loomed overhead, inky black against a silver sky, and the wind blew as a steady rain lashed against the sprawling cityscape beneath, dampening the twisting cobblestones streets until soon they gleamed like pebbles at the bottom of a rushing stream. Such dreary weather was not uncommon in the Courdonian capital of Rakine in the cool months, but it nevertheless had a way of driving the usually bustling metropolis into a lethargic lull, as if it were a squalling child dosed with a sleeping draught. The riverfront borough, usually crawling with shippers and traders, flowed silent; the upscale Balfour District, its wide boulevards rarely without heavy foot and horse traffic, might as well have been an ill-used country road; and the city’s central marketplace, in which you could often find loitering crowds even in the dead of night, puttered anemically, the normally boisterous symphony of merchants’ voices dulled to a listless jingle.
Prince Elias Alaric, however-- youngest brother of the late King Oliver, and uncle to his successor, Cassian-- rather liked it this way: fewer people around meant fewer potential enemies amidst the crowd. And it made it easier for his knights to clear a path for him, the prince’s two escorts hardly having to lift a finger as the trio listed from the Gilded Palace toward Rakine’s main market, Elias’s head ducked and a heavy oilcloak pulled over his shoulders to ward against the beating rain.
“You wanted to purchase a silver dagger, correct, your highness?” one of the knights asked, the raindrops pattering against his mail as the group reached the fringes of the sluggish bazaar. “To gift to the king at the New Year’s festival?”
“Correct,” Elias confirmed coolly, his near-predatory green eyes sweeping the road ahead. Even if it was a quiet day, the prince knew Rakine well enough to know that one could never wholly trust it. Not ever. It was like a slumbering attack dog: benign for the moment, but it needed but one wrong prod to startle it awake-- and into malice. “Something showy. Heavy in the hand. I doubt I’ll find anything nice enough pre-forged, but I can have something commissioned. I’ve time enough, anyway-- the new year is still a month away.”
“Do you have a maker in mind, your highness?” said the knight.
Elias shrugged. “I’ll get a few quotes. This market’s hardly in short supply of crafters.” He barely flinched as a bolt of lightning slashed against the horizon, followed a heartbeat later by a boom of thunder. “And it’s been raining like this for what now-- three days?” the prince added. “They’ll be antsy for business. I can cut a good deal.”
“Shall Sir Sadler and I wait outside?” suggested the knight. “Lest our livery inflate the price.”
“Perhaps wise,” Elias agreed, as the group roamed deeper into the marketplace’s belly, and still the crowd grew no denser. “Gods,” the prince mused, giving a wide berth to a muddy puddle. “You’d think it was blizzarding out here, no?”
“People dislike the rain, your highness,” Sir Sadler said neutrally. “They find it uncomfortable.”
Elias quirked a smile. “I think it’s invigorating,” he said. “It’s--” The prince’s voice suddenly died in his throat, the man freezing in place as his eye fell on something a few dozen steps ahead. Or, more accurately, someone. In fact, several someones.
Flanking him, the knights’ hands immediately leapt to their holstered swords, their gazes following their charge’s, and Sir Sadler’s voice was underscored by urgency as he said: “Is something the matter, your highness?” He studied the group that had attracted the prince’s attention, furrowing his brow as he did. “Do you… know them, my prince?”
“Yes.” Elias squared his jaw. “I do.”
“Are they a threat?” He moved as though to draw his blade.
But Elias quickly shot his hand out, stopping the knight. “No,” the prince said. “Not a threat.” He let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Confusing as all hell, but… most likely not a threat.”
And with that, the prince started forward again, his eyes still magnet-focused on the trio of people who’d made him falter. There were three of them, a woman and two young girls, their backs turned to Elias as they pored over the contents of a wooden bin at the fringe of a greengrocer’s cart. They were all clad very plainly, and the woman wore a hood, as did one of the girls, but the second child’s hair-- a pale strawberry-blonde-- was exposed, hanging in a sodden braid behind one of her shoulders as her own hood puddled unused beside it. Hair such a shade was unusual in Courdon, but it wasn’t in and of itself enough to stop Elias dead in his tracks as he had. No, that honor fell to the floppy ribbon that secured the child’s plait: a satiny gold trimmed with a maroon fleur de lis border.
Elias knew that ribbon.
He’d bought that ribbon-- not even two weeks ago, for her tenth birthday.
“Aislin,” Elias called, pausing a few steps short of the trio. “What are you doing?”
The girl spun on her heel, so swiftly she might have been a mannequin on a swivel post. “U-Uncle Elias?” Her green eyes-- nearly identical in shade to his-- went wide. “W-what…” She looked behind her shoulder, toward the hooded woman, before adding hurriedly, “I’m… I’m here with my grandmother.”
For a moment Elias half-thought she meant the queen mother, Zaria, but he quickly discarded this notion as absurd. Zaria would hardly be out without an escort, and anyhow, he’d seen her just before his departure from the Gilded Palace, clad in a lounging dress and clearly harboring no intention of going out in the miserable rain. So then-- gods, Aislin had to mean…
“Lady Lynn,” the prince said, as Elin Ryer-Lynn, rebel general turned controversial noble of the Courdonian court, turned to face him. “It’s… been some time, no?”
“...It has,” Elin replied cooly, one arm laid with a variety of vegetables from the cart and her other hand placed upon the other girl’s shoulder; as the child, too, turned, Elias found himself gazing at another familiar face: that of six-year-old Corbin, his nephew Gerard’s second eldest daughter.
“Didn’t expect to see you here in this weather,” Elin continued. “But you needn’t mind us; we’re just shopping for vegetables for dinner.”
“Shopping?” Elias echoed. “Alone?” The knights drawing to a silent halt at the prince’s flank, the man cocked his head, incredulous.
“Mama dropped us off for a sleepover!” Corbin announced, the girl brightening as she recognized her grand-uncle. Pointing to the bundle of vegetables balanced in the crook of her grandmother’s arm, she prattled on, “We’re making soup! The bones are simmering but we didn’t have enough onions or carrots, so Grandma said we could buy more.” She bounced on the tips of her toes, seemingly impervious to the rain that drummed against her. “We’re gonna try and find turnips, too!”
“I… see.” Elias smiled thinly at the girl, before looking back to Elin. “Tell me, Lady Lynn-- does their father know that you’re taking his children into the market alone?”
“No, but I didn’t see the issue,” Elin said bluntly. “I’m just taking them vegetable shopping while the crowds are down, after all. And it’s good for them to get out like this, even with the rain, which I gave them raincloaks for. Besides, we’re not alone. They’re with me, and if anything happens, I’m here with them.” Elin would’ve shrugged if not for the vegetables in her arm. “Corbin, Aislin, why don’t you find me some turnips while I talk to him?”
Elias merely frowned, his eyes following the girls as they obliged their grandmother, striding a few paces away to root through another teeming barrel. They were still so close the prince could have lunged out and touched them, but the beating rain obscured-- or at least, he hoped it obscured-- Elias’s lowered voice from the girls as he hissed to their grandmother, “You are not a proper escort, Lady Lynn. And I am nearly certain that Gerard would agree with me.”
“And how am I not?” Elin retorted, narrowing her eyes. “I’ve raised three kids of my own and brought them to market by myself sometimes. After that, I helped lead an army throughout Courdon. I think I can keep track of two grandchildren and keep them safe on a trip to a vegetable stall. We won’t even be long.”
“You are a woman,” Elias said flatly, as if Elin was somehow unaware of this fact. “In your fifties, no less. And lest you forget that I was a general on the other side of that coin, I’m entirely certain you did not lead the rebel army all on your lonesome.” The prince clenched his teeth, his gaze trained on Aislin and Corbin as the girls pawed through the tub. “Where do you live?” he asked. “How far from here?”
“Balfour district,” Elin answered shortly. “Just across the bridge. Not really that hard even for a less fit woman of my age. Sure, I may be older now, but I’m not dying yet. Nor have I forgotten any of my experience in battle or my experience as a general, which I’m sure you understand was still quite demanding. And in this case, I still know how to keep watch.”
“Please, do not twist my words, Lady Lynn,” said Elias. “I hardly implied you were on your deathbed. Merely that you are little match against any assailant who might wish you or the children harm. As you can well see, even I do not traverse this city unaccompanied.” The man forced a saccharine smile as Corbin, finally producing a turnip from among the slew of vegetables, pranced back over to her grandmother and great-uncle. “What a good job searching, Corbin,” he said.
“It’s big!” The girl petted the vegetable as if it were a puppy. “We can chop it up into lots of pieces!”
“Is it enough, Grandma?” Aislin asked, drifting behind at her sister’s heel. “Or should we look for more?”
Elin’s glare towards Elias was interrupted, and she tried to produce a smile towards her grandchildren. “Yes we can, Corbin,” she agreed. “Another one to add to the soup! We still need at least one more for what we need, though it can be small, and then we can buy these and go home, okay?”
Corbin nodded earnestly, the girl reflecting for a moment before she held the turnip out toward Elias. “You can hold it while Ash and me keep looking,” she instructed, pressing it into his hand. “Don’t let it get too wet!”
“Of course.” With a humoring look, Elias slipped the turnip into the pocket of his oilcloak and watched Aislin and Corbin flounce back toward the barrel. Then, noticeably bristling again, he said to Elin, “I’m walking you back. To Balfour. And their father will be told about this, Lady Lynn.”
Elin only gave a hard look back. “That’s not necessary,” she said. “It’s only across the bridge. You underestimate me; don’t treat me like my experience means nothing.” She brought her free hand up to push a grey lock of hair out of her eyes. “Not that I can stop you from telling their father if you want, I just don’t think it’s necessary.”
“You misunderstand me,” Elias said. “My accompanying you is not a request. If you wish to stroll about Rakine by yourself like a swaggering fool, then that is your impetus. However, once you involve my kin, our interests intersect, Lady Lynn.” He flicked a hand toward the pair of knights behind him. “We will be your escorts back to your home. If indeed it’s as short of a walk as you say, then we’ll hardly be a bother, no?”
Elin frowned, but for a moment said nothing. “...I suppose not,” she relented reluctantly. “Just remember, they’re my kin too, and I would never put them in danger.”
“You already have, Lady Lynn,” Elias said.
The royal and rebel fell silent then, each wearing impassive scowls as they watched Aislin and Corbin riffle through the vegetables. It was Aislin who eventually came up with the second turnip, the little girl wearing a triumphant look as she brushed a smudge of dirt off of its marbled purple-and-white skin.
“A little lumpy,” she said, she and her sister bounding back toward Elias and Elin. “But it’s pretty big.” She pursed her lips. “Even bigger than the one Corbin found, I think.”
“Nuh-uh!” Corbin countered. “Mine was way huger!” Her jade green eyes darted to Elias. “Give me mine back.”
“Not if you’re going to speak to me like that,” Elias returned.
The girl huffed a sigh. “Could I have mine back, please, Uncle Elias?”
“You may,” Elias agreed, withdrawing the turnip from his pocket and tossing it to his grand-niece; she caught it with a grin, which promptly faded when it turned out that, indeed, Aislin’s find was larger.
“Well, mine’ll taste better,” Corbin said. “‘Cos it’s purpler! Right, Grandma?”
Elin smiled at both of them, brushing a lock of hair out of Corbin’s face. “They’ll both taste wonderful,” she assured them. “Now could you help me bring them up to the merchant so we can pay for them?”
They did, and Elin took her time helping the two girls count through each of the stock and then the money they owed the merchant, as Elias watched on with an impatiently creased brow. The prince had to wait for some time as the girls helped, but eventually they finished, and they handed the money over to the merchant.
“You need a bag, miss?” the grocer asked as she passed Elin back her change; as she spoke, the woman had to fight to keep her gaze from drifting toward Elias, the woman looking thoroughly perplexed and disquieted by him and his escorts. After all, even if Elin had spoken to her in the low tongue, and the prince himself was clad plainly, the knights were in full livery-- immediately recognizable by anybody who lived and worked in Rakine. “It’s… free of charge,” the woman added hurriedly. “For a good customer such as yourself.”
Elin had to bite down a frown as she saw the look between them. “...Yes, I could use a bag,” Elin said. “Thank you. But are you sure? I can pay, it’s no problem at all; you probably need it more than me.” She left the required change in her hand just in case.
“Positive, miss.” The woman handed over a burlap sack, damp from the rain. “Thank you for your patronage.”
“We’re making soup!” Corbin announced, the girl’s flawless utilization of the high dialect making the merchant’s eyes narrow further. “And a pie, too, I think, but that’s for dessert.”
“What a nice dinner.” The merchant smiled humorlessly.
“Uh-huh,” Corbin said, helping Elin pack the bag; once it was full, the child glanced behind her, at Elias. “Is Uncle Elias coming with us?” she asked. “Back to your house?”
Elin’s focus on the tense conversation at hand was broken as Corbin called for her attention, and she turned back down at her. “Well… If he insists on walking with us,” Elin said, trying to hide her resignation to the fact at hand before hefting the bag up.
“I do,” Elias said firmly, with a sweeping hand moving to pull up Aislin’s hood. “Your cloak’s got this for a reason, Ash,” the prince chided, fastening the ivory button beneath the girl’s chin. “Your hair’s going to be wet all night now.”
“I don’t like how it feels,” Aislin murmured.
“Don’t take it off,” Elias ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument. Then, to Elin: “Are you ready, Lady Lynn?”
Elin frowned before sighing. “Yes, I’m ready. Aislin, keep it up for now so you don’t get wetter. You can take it off when we get home.”
With that, the group-- now twice as large as before-- began to walk off, letting the children walk ahead of them. As Elias called after Corbin not to stray too far, Elin paused briefly to look once more at the merchant before putting a copper on the small counter anyway, giving an apologetic look before moving after the group, not giving the woman a chance to protest. The grocer, hesitantly picking up the coin, merely gaped at the party as they disappeared into the distance, seemingly as confused as ever.
The rain picked up in intensity as the sextet wended through the market toward the river, Corbin deliberately trodding through ever glimmery puddle she came across and giggling when the water seeped through the soles of her shoes. Elias, thinly humoring of this, was less tolerant when the girl repeatedly skipped too far ahead, only drawn back to heel by very sharp reproaches. After she quite nearly darted off into a shadowy side alley in chase of a mangy tomcat-- which she squealed was “adorable!”-- the prince gritted his teeth and scooped her into his arms, tucking the child firmly against his side.
“If you can’t obey on your own two feet, then you lose those feet,” he told her, adjusting the hood of her cloak.
“But I don’t want to be carried,” the girl whined, batting his hand away.
Elias caught her wrist. “Don’t give me lip, Corbin.”
“Elias,” Elin warned before turning to Corbin. “You shouldn’t be wandering far from us like that even if something does catch your attention like that. How about you hold my hand while we walk?” She looked up to Elias. “She wouldn’t be wandering either way.”
“Okay!” Corbin trilled.
But Elias didn’t release her. “I don’t believe, Lady Lynn,” the prince snapped instead, “that I granted you permission to address me by my first name alone?”
“And I don’t believe it’s a big deal, or that I need permission,” Elin said flatly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “I call many by their first name, it’s nothing personal.”
“Grandma’s first name is Elin!” Corbin supplied with a sage nod, still squirming in Elias’s grasp. “And Grandpa’s is Xavier, but he’s at the palace today, meeting with Uncle Cass about boring stuff, and--”
“Hush, Corbin.” Elias shifted her in his arms, so that his hold was nearly vise-like. “And stop writhing. You’re a princess, not a puppy.” He looked back to Elin. “You ought be careful with that tongue, Lady Lynn,” he said softly. “I’d hate to see something happen to it.”
Elin narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure that would make the children,” she gave a glance towards the writhing Corbin, “Very upset. I’m sure neither of us wants that.”
“Then surely you’ll take all means to be temperate.” Elias flashed a predator’s smile, patting Corbin’s back as the girl flinched at a sudden jolt of thunder. “No need to be afraid, honey,” he said. “It’s only the gods brooding.”
“I’m not afraid.” Corbin pursed her lips. “It’s just loud.”
“I don’t like it,” Aislin murmured, her arms crossed tightly at her chest as the group finally emerged from the labyrinthine marketplace, and the swollen river came into view up ahead. “It hurts my ears.”
Elin took a moment to spare a cold glare at Elias before turning to the children. “Sorry dears, I wish there was something I could do about it. Best to keep going back to the house so we can get inside, then it won’t be so bad.”
Soon the party reached the curving stone footbridge that spanned the river, leading from the market quarter into Balfour District. Aislin hugged the marble balustrade as they crossed it, her fingers skimming along the soaked, slippery surface, and Corbin looked quite mournful over the fact that, still clutched in her grand-uncle’s firm grasp, she could not join her sister in the endeavour. When they reached the Lynns’ quaint cottage a few minutes later, and Elias finally set the young girl down as Elin unlocked the front gate, Corbin smiled broadly, stretching her arms as she reveled in the regained freedom.
“Oooh,” she said, her gaze falling on a particularly massive puddle in front of the house next door. “It’s like a swimming pool!” She prodded Aislin’s shoulder. “We should jump in it, Ash. Before we have to go back inside.”
“We’ll get wet,” Aislin said, as if they weren’t already.
“Uh-huh!” Corbin agreed. “It’ll be fun!”
“Come now, you don’t want to get too much wetter, or you’ll just spend more time drying off,” Elin gently berated them. “Besides, the soup is waiting for us to finish cooking it.”
As Elin ushered them in, she turned to Elias as she stepped to the other side of the gate. “Thank you for your escort,” she said without any sign of appreciation on her face. “We’re here now, so we’ll be fine; you can be on your way. I’m sure you have other things to do.”
“Aww, but can’t Uncle Elias stay?” Corbin needled. “He can taste our soup, Grandma! And our pie, too.” She stared up at her great-uncle. “You’re not busy, right? That’s why you were shopping!”
“That is why I was shopping,” Elias agreed lightly, not moving away from the gate. “I was meant to go hunting with your papa today, Corbin, but we canceled on account of the rain.”
“So your whole day’s open!” Corbin beamed.
Elin attempted to repress a frown, instead holding a stiff half-smile. “That’s too bad about the hunting trip. But I wouldn’t want to cut into your shopping trip, and I’m sure you have some plans for dinner already. Besides we only have so much, I’m not sure how much we’d have to go around after Xavier gets back. I’m sorry.”
“Last I heard of his meeting with King Cassian, it had gotten rather… terse.” Elias shrugged. “I wouldn’t expect Lord Lynn home any time soon enough for supper.”
“So Uncle Elias can stay!” Corbin said. Tugging on her grandmother’s cloak, she added, “Please? It’ll be fun.”
Elin’s half-smile only stiffened more. “Oh, I don’t know… Even if he’s not home in time for supper, I’d hate if there wasn’t much left to eat after he got back. Besides, it’s their special sleepover at their grandparents’; I’m sure you understand.” Her head leaned forward slightly at this, as if to attempt to make her message clear to Elias.
From the amused twinkle in Elias’s pale eyes, it was clear that he well understood that the woman did not want him here. But it was just as obvious that he didn’t care, the prince still making no effort to move away from the open gate: in fact, he took another step forward, straddling the line between the street and the muddy front pathway that led up to the cottage.
“Ah, yes, far be it from me to intrude, after I found you wandering the market with two unescorted royal children,” he said. His focus falling back to Corbin, he added cloyingly, “You wouldn’t want Uncle Elias to impose on your special dinner with Grandma, right, Corby?”
“It’s okay!” Corbin chirped. “We have a big pot of soup simmering, so it’ll be enough, and--”
“Can’t we just go inside?” Aislin interrupted, wincing as yet another clap of thunder shook the air. “I’m cold. And wet. And I want to change.”
Elin’s mouth curved into a small frown as she seemed to ponder. Her hand was moving on the gate slightly, as if ready to slam it into Elias’ face, but she hesitated as she glanced back towards the children.
“Are you absolutely sure you want him with us tonight, with so much still left to do for dinner and with so much shopping for them to do?” Elin asked them.
“Uh-huh.” Corbin nodded eagerly. “It’ll be lots of fun. We can show him all around the cottage!” Reaching around her grandmother, Corbin laced her fingers through Elias’s, urging him through the gate. “Me and Ash get to sleep in the same bed-- it’s so cool.”
“Is that so?” The prince quirked a brow, but he did not move forward, rather staring Elin straight on as he said far too sweetly, “May I, Lady Lynn?”
For a moment, Elin could only stare back, unable to keep her eyes from narrowing. Her fingers still lingered on the gate, but eventually, she looked down at Corbin. “...I suppose if the girls really want to spend dinner with their uncle, and if they’re sure that it won’t intrude on your routine or their sleepover.” In spite of her efforts, she couldn’t hide the tone in her voice that indicated that she did not want this to be happening at all.
“It’s fine.” This was Aislin. “As long as we can just go inside? Please?”
Elin hesitated a moment longer before letting out a sigh. “Alright,” she relented. “But only for dinner. They can wait in the living room.”
“Yay!” Corbin practically glowed, not letting go of her grand-uncle’s hand as he finally passed through the gate, the knights trailing behind him like shadows.
A Prince for Dinner: Part Two Inside, Aislin yanked off her cloak and immediately made a beeline for the guest bedroom, where she had dry clothes waiting. Corbin, meanwhile, pried off her sodden shoes and wrung out her dark red curls, which had gotten damp in spite of her hood.
“You can put your cloak right there, Uncle Elias,” the girl said, gesturing to a bin near the door. “So it doesn’t get the floor all wet!”
With a brief glance at the tiled floor beneath, which was already wetter than many riverbeds, Elias smiled in amusement. “Of course-- wouldn’t want to sully the floors,” he said, tugging off the cloak to reveal a silk tunic beneath. It alone probably cost more than Elin, Corbin, and Aislin’s entire outfits put together. “What a lovely home you have, Lady Lynn,” he commented, dropping the oilcloak into the basket as ordered. “How… down to earth it is.”
“Thank you,” Elin said, ignoring the implications behind his words as she set down the sack of vegetables and took off her own cloak. “That’s just what I had in mind when I was looking for a home. Something small and comfortable.” As she set down her cloak, she motioned towards one area of the cottage. “That way is to the living area. You and your knights can wait there.”
“Can’t I show him around first?” Corbin asked. To Elias, she tacked on: “It’s not that many rooms, so it won’t take too long!”
“Oh, I suppose you could,” Elin said. “But I imagine he and his knights are very tired, and may need to sit. Besides Corbin, you need to go to your room and get changed out of your wet clothes first before you do anything else.”
“But--”
“Mind your grandmother, Corbin,” Elias interjected.
The girl pouted her lips. “Okay. But after I’ll give you a tour!”
And with that, Corbin flounced off after Aislin, leaving Elin, Elias, and the knights alone. Still wearing a wry twinkle in his eyes, Elias motioned for his escorts to proceed to the living room as instructed, but when they obliged with matching “yes, your highness”es, the prince did not trail after them. Rather, he raked a hand through his damp blonde hair and then crossed his arms at his chest, in his finery looking as awkward in the modest space as a shih tzu amid a pack of hunting hounds.
“Corbin’s a very spirited girl, eh, Lady Lynn?” he said lightly.
Elin only stared back before speaking back quietly. “Yes, she is. And probably the only reason you’re standing inside right now and not still out there.” She reached her hand over to her arm and rested it there. “So if you’re going to be here, you’re going to be on your best behavior. This is my house, after all.” With that, she reached down to pick up the sack of vegetables again, ready to take it to the kitchen.
“Need any help with that, Lady Lynn?” Elias asked, as if he hadn’t just stood by without offering aid as she’d hauled the lumpy bag for nearly a mile and a half. “I’m quite convinced you bought enough for a dinner party, not merely a single pot of soup.”
“Oh, I bought a bit extra for a later day too. I…” She trailed off for a moment, her eyes sparking with a thought before a half-smile appeared on her face, and she nodded as she stood up again. “Why sure, I could use the help carrying that to the kitchen. Unless it’s too heavy for you, of course.”
“I think I can handle it, my lady.” Stepping forward, Elias’s shoulder grazed against Elin’s as he hefted up the bag as if it were made of dandelion fluff. “Lead the way? I’d hardly want to go wandering unbidden through your private home, Lady Lynn.”
“Of course, we wouldn’t want that,” Elin agreed before leading him to the kitchen. It wasn’t a big kitchen; large enough for one person to work comfortably, and large enough for more people to work in if needed, but small enough that the kitchen would be crowded and nearly full if everyone in the household chose to stand around in it.
Elin indicated to an empty counter. “You can set the bag there. And if you want to be even more helpful, you can start taking out the vegetables and lay them out on the counter until the kids come back.”
Elias blinked. “Set them out?” he echoed. From his puzzled tone, Elin might have spoken to him in Lyellian. “You-- you want me to unpack the vegetables and set them out?”
“Why yes,” Elin responded. “I was going to have the kids do it, but it’s really something anyone can do. It should take no time at all for you, right?”
“Right.” Elias set the sack down, dipping a hand into it so gingerly that it appeared as if he were reaching into a bag of live, writhing snakes, not onions, carrots, and turnips. Glancing at the cast iron pot in the corner, which was cast over a hearth and simmering with broth, the prince added, “Shall I just… set them in?”
“What?” Elin sounded sincerely befuddled. “No no no, they have to be chopped first. You don’t eat soup with whole carrots in your bowl, do you? Just set them on the counter.”
“The counter.” Elias nodded astutely. “Yes. Right.” He hesitated. “You… have the girls do… tasks like this? When they’re over?”
“Of course,” Elin said proudly. “All the better for them to learn now and really learn to appreciate it. In fact, they’re going to help us cook tonight too as soon as they’re done changing.”
“I see.” Elias began to unpack the vegetables one by one, cradling each in two hands as one might a delicate egg before gently setting it down on the counter. “I ah-- do hope you don’t trust Corbin with anything sharp?”
“Only when I’m really watching her,” Elin said, waving a hand. “So probably not today. But Aislin will be helping me chop.”
By the time the girls sashayed into the kitchen a few minutes later, Elias had finally unpacked the vegetables, and was staring down at his handiwork like a king on his dais overseeing his kingdom. As Aislin brushed by him, he reached out to playfully tug her soggy braid straight, tempering a smile as she pawed his hand away.
“You like the ribbon, Ash?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.” She picked up one of the onions. “Amalia keeps trying to steal it, though. I swear she has a hoard of them. Even though she never wears her hair in a braid.”
“Ammy’s not allowed to come to sleepovers,” Corbin said brightly to Elias. “‘Or Elodie, neither. Cos they’re too little still.” Palming an onion of her own, the girl went on breathlessly, “Did you know Mama’s gonna have another baby? It’s in her tummy!”
Elin couldn’t help but quirk a smile at the thought. “That’s right she is. Another baby brother or sister for you.” She let the smile linger for some time before turning her attention to the vegetables again before picking out a few and putting them away in a nearby cupboard for another time. “Okay Corbin, why don’t you start washing some of these vegetables? Aislin, once the carrots are washed, you can start chopping them, just like I showed you. I’ll be here if you need any help.”
As the girls obliged, Elias watched them warily, outright wincing when Aislin palmed a large, sharp knife from the drawer as instructed. “Isn’t she terribly young for something so dangerous, Lady Lynn?” the prince asked pointedly. “When you said she’d be chopping, I had presumed…” He shook his head. “Well, I’m not sure what I presumed. But certainly not something so… impressive.”
“I’m okay, Uncle Elias,” Aislin said. “I help Grandma cook every time I come over. She showed me how to use knives right. I’ve never cut myself.”
“I was speaking to Lady Lynn, Aislin,” Elias chided. “Not to you.”
The girl’s gaze plunged to the ground, deferential. “Sorry,” she murmured.
“She’s fine,” Elin chided Elias. “It’s just as Aislin said. She knows how to use them right. I always make sure they do before I let them do this on their own.”
As she spoke, she organized the kitchen to leave enough cutting space for three people, then set aside an onion before turning to Corbin.
“Corbin, could you hand me a carrot when you have it washed?” Elin asked her.
“Uh-huh!” Corbin, her arms full of vegetables, toddled toward the side door, which led out to a hand-operated water pump. “Maybe I could just wash them with the rain!”
“No Corbin,” Elin said, “It’s right by the house and it’s faster to fill it and then bring it inside so you don’t have to stay out there too long. Just leave the vegetables here and take the bucket out to the pump. Take a cloak; I’d rather you not get wet again. And if the pump gives you trouble, let me know, and I’ll go out and help.”
“Aw.” Corbin set the foodstuffs back down and hefted up the bucket. “I wanted to bring ‘em out with me.” She stuck her tongue out at Elin. “Not bringing my cloak, though-- I like the rain!”
Before Elin could respond, let alone stop her, Corbin had flounced out the door, letting it thud shut behind her with a rattle. Elias, thoroughly bewildered, blinked twice, before the prince, too, made a move for the door, his brow creased in consternation.
“You… let her go outside alone?” he demanded, a hand hovering over the handle.
Elin gave Elias a perplexed look. “It’s just the backyard… And it’s gated.”
Elin walked over to the door, and as Elias opened it, she called out: “If you get wet again, you’re changing clothes again!”
Corbin, standing by the water pump precisely five feet from the door, beamed. “But I didn’t bring enough changes of clothes for that!” she called back.
“She’s barefoot.” Elias frowned. “And she’s getting mud all over her feet.”
“Then you’d have to wear something that wouldn’t fit you; you’re still changing clothes if you get too wet!” Elin called out to Corbin first before turning to Elias. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. That can be washed right off before she comes inside.”
Elias practically harrumphed, but indeed the mud was easily splashed from Corbin’s feet when the girl skipped back inside a minute later, the bucket swinging in her hands. The prince proceeded to stand by awkwardly as Elin and the children dropped into an efficient rhythm: Corbin kneeling on the floor and merrily washing the vegetables before passing them to her sister and grandmother to chop. After a few minutes more, however, Corbin-- seeming to notice the way her grand-uncle was shifting uncomfortably in place, wearing a scowl that would make most teenagers proud-- cocked her head, the girl’s green eyes flickering with thought.
“Wanna help me, Uncle Elias?” she asked. “You can throw the veggies down from the counter for me when I need more!”
Elin paused for a moment in thought before turning to look at Elias. “...It’s a good idea, Corbin. After all, everyone in the kitchen should help somehow. ...But I have a better idea, for when he’s not passing you vegetables.”
She grabbed an onion from the counter and handed it to Elias, a barely-hidden smirk on her face. “Here. You can husk this, just of the outer wrapping, not any onion itself. Then you can dice it for me. We have an extra knife, after all.”
“Husk it?” Elias faltered. “But…”
“It’s easy!” Corbin chirped. “You just peel off the see-through stuff.”
“That’s right,” Elin affirmed, smiling at Corbin before turning back to Elias. “If you’re having trouble, maybe she can show you how.”
Elias looked like he was about ready to slap Elin, storm out of the kitchen, or both. Instead, the prince gritted his teeth and prodded at the onion skin with his fingernail, his motions tentative as he began to shuck it off. Chopping a carrot beside him, Aislin fought back a smirk as she watched her grand-uncle work, Elias looking as comfortable with the task as a fish might have visiting a desert.
“Do you need me to demonstrate, Uncle Elias?” she asked-- politely, but there was an underlayer of wryness to her tone.
“Of course not.” He chucked a sliver of skin into the nearby wastebin. “I helped to run the king’s army, I hardly think I should require a child’s help peeling an onion.”
Still kneeling, Corbin grinned. “Ammy can do it faster. And she’s four.”
Elin had to suppress a laugh. “Never hurts to ask for help, my prince, no matter where it comes from. Now, be sure to stop when you start to see near-solid white, that’s the onion itself.”
“I know what an onion looks like,” Elias grumbled.
“Are you sure?” Corbin giggled.
“Corbin.” The prince bristled. “Would your father or the king like you speaking to me like that?”
The girl wilted, turning her attention back to the half-washed turnip in her hand. “I was only joking.”
“Come now, be nice to her,” Elin reprimanded before turning back to the vegetable she was chopping.
They spent some time chopping, which Elias fortunately seemed to find more palatable than peeling, the prince putting his deft blade-skills to work until soon the onion was cubed into dozens of little pieces. To his chagrin, however, even after he had suffered through the entire rigorous process of husking and cutting the fist-sized vegetable, Elin decided to give him more to chop, saying that he “needed the practice”. But eventually, they made it through all of the vegetables, which they all helped to put into the pot before Elin let one of the children stir it.
“Great,” she said with a smile. “ Now we only need let it simmer for a while, and then we’ll have soup! Thank you so much for your help. I’m sure it’ll taste wonderful.”
Much to Corbin’s delight, after much wheedling Elin bade her permission to give Elias a tour of the cottage while the soup cooked. Meanwhile, Aislin helped her grandmother assemble the rhubarb pie that was to be served for dessert, the girl painstakingly latticing the pie crust so that it would bake in a fleur de lis shape, just like the pattern on her ribbon.
“Do you like it, Grandma?” she asked, admiring her handiwork as Elin moved to set the pie in the oven. “It’ll look pretty once it’s golden.”
“I love it, Aislin,” Elin said with a smile. “You’ve got a good eye for this.”
Aislin smiled. “Thank you. Papa says I’m good at art. Did you know he bought me paints for my birthday? He even got purple. I thought Mama’s eyes were going to come out her head.”
Elin let out a small chuckle. “Did he? Well, purple is a more expensive color, is probably why... But it sounds like a good present, especially if you want to get better at art. Do you?”
“Uh-huh.” Aislin dunked her hands in the water bucket to rinse the flour off her skin. “I mostly do needlepoint. With Grandmother Zaria. But I like all kinds. My tutors are always cross with me because I draw in the margins of my scrolls.”
“Aw, I don’t think that’s anything to be cross about.” Elin leaned over to rinse the flour off of her own hands. “You know, I’ve always been a bit of an artist myself; used to do charcoal drawings all the time. Would you like me to show you some while we wait?”
Aislin readily agreed, and as Elin disappeared to fetch her sketchbook, the girl drifted from the kitchen into the living room, startling at the two knights who stood there; she’d nearly forgotten about them. The men snapped to attention at the royal’s presence, but Aislin only cocked her head.
“You’ve been standing this whole time?” she asked.
“We were not given permission to sit, your highness,” replied the one.
“Oh.” Aislin furrowed her brow. “I’m… sure it’s okay if you sit.” Craning her neck to glance behind her shoulder as Elin-- trailed shortly by Elias and Corbin-- padded into the room, the girl added, “It’s… okay if they sit-- right, Grandma?”
“...You mean they haven’t been?” Elin’s eyes widened for a moment before she shook her head and turned to the knights. “I… Yes, of course you can sit. Any chair you want. Sorry about that.”
The knights obliged with short bows, and as the soup and pie cooked in the kitchen, Elin paged through the sketchbook, showing off the charcoal drawings to Aislin and Corbin both. Even Elias seemed mildly impressed, although his silent approval did little to thaw the strained atmosphere in the room, which was far too small to comfortably fit six people, even without the added impediment of two of said occupants loathing each other.
The dinner table was no less awkward, and Elias’s voice was thin as glass when he complimented the “humble” dish-- before dumping so much salt into it that he might have been better off merely nursing a lick of it, like a horse. The girls, on the other hand, ate heartily, seeming to appreciate the relatively simple flavour profile of the soup as compared to the heavily spiced dishes that usually graced the tables at the Gilded Palace.
“Is Uncle Elias going to stay for dessert?” Corbin asked afterward, as she gathered the empty soup dishes to bring them into the kitchen. “We’ve got pie,” the girl added hurriedly. “Ash and Grandma put it in the oven while I was showing you around the cottage!”
“Ah yes, your very thorough tour,” Elias replied with a chuckle. “I am now an expert on every speck of dust beneath this roof.”
Corbin grinned. “Uh-huh!” She looked to Elin. “I showed him my horse figurines! The ones you and Grandpa bought me and my sisters for the Giver’s Feast. And I told him all their names!”
Elin aimed her smile at Corbin. “I’m sure they were happy to meet him. And we’ve kept them in good shape just for you.” She then straightened in her seat. “And Corbin’s right, we do have pie. Aislin helped me put it together. We should go get it out. It’ll be a nice end to this dinner.” Her glance briefly turned to Elias at the word ‘end’.
“I can get it out!” Corbin breathed, taking a step toward the kitchen. “I’ll use the cloth and everything, Grandma. So I don’t burn myself!”
“That’s a good girl,” Elin said with a smile. “If you’re sure you’ll be careful, go ahead. You know where the cloths are, right?” She paused. “I can come with you too.”
“I can do it myself.” Corbin jutted her chin proudly. “You let Ash cut things, I can get a pie out of the oven!” She batted her long, glossy eyelashes. “Please, Grandma?”
Elin paused in thought. “Oh… alright. Just like I showed you; both hands, each with a cloth, straight to the table. Holler if you need help.”
Corbin was gone in another instant, the girl’s long, frizzy hair bouncing at her back. The table settled into a terse silence, Aislin gnawing on her lip as Elias and Elin both played an intense game of not looking at each other, only punctuated here and there by the sounds of Corbin moving about the kitchen: the chink of the ceramic soup bowls as she set them down upon the counter; her bare feet slapping against the floor as she walked then to grab a cloth; the scrape of the metal pie dish against the oven’s wooden bottom.
And then came the scream, followed in short order by the sound of something clattering against the floor.
Elias Alaric was on his feet in an instant, nearly upending the dining table in the process, as Aislin’s eyes widened into saucers and Elin moved as quickly from her chair as possible.
“Corbin!” the prince called, hurrying through the doorway. His jaw squared, and hand hovering over his swordbelt as if he thought he might find an assailant with their hands around his grand-niece’s throat, Elias practically tumbled into the kitchen, his green eyes wild with adrenaline.
But he found no intruder there. No bogeyman come hither. Instead, Corbin crouched on the floor, a damp dishrag fallen at her side and the pie Aislin had spent so much time tenderly latticing in spattered pieces across the tile. It didn’t take the prince more than a moment to realize what had happened: rather than use a proper cloth, the girl had merely grabbed a thin hand towel. A wet hand towel. As Elin hurried in at his heel, heading straight for Corbin, Elias swore beneath his breath and lunged toward the girl, hauling her bodily to her feet.
“Gods,” he hissed, dragging her to the water bucket in which she’d earlier diligently washed the vegetables. Plunging her blistered hands inside, the prince gritted his teeth. “What were you thinking, Corbin?”
“I… I…” The girl blinked sharply, tears pooling in her eyes as Elias held her hands beneath the water. “I used a cloth! Just like I’m supposed to!”
“These cloths,” Elin corrected, pointing some of the thicker cloths sitting on the counter near the oven. “Not the rags; those are too thin, and you never use wet ones.” She sighed, hurrying over to Corbin. “I’m sorry, I should’ve gone with you. Keep them in water. You can wait for your grandpa to get back to heal your hands, or… Or I can try. Are you gonna be okay?”
“I dunno.” Corbin whimpered. “I guess.”
“This,” Elias said thickly, “is why children should not be trusted with dangerous tasks.” Crouched beside her on the kitchen floor, the prince-- still bearing down on her so that she’d keep her hands submerged-- used his other hand to stroke a tender hand through her ruby red hair. “I’ll take you home,” he told her. “We’ll have a palace healer fix you up. A professional.”
“No,” Elin said immediately, staring Elias dead in the eye. “Xavier’s a fine healer. And I may not be much, but I can still heal her burns. It’s my fault for not accompanying her, and I’m sorry for that, but it was an accident. Give me a minute with her, and her hands will be just fine.”
Elias scowled, a retort clearly on his tongue, but before he could respond, his attention was diverted by Aislin finally padding into the kitchen. Wearing an anxious frown, the girl’s green eyes went first to Elin, who was closest to her, before they drifted toward Corbin and Elias at the water bucket-- and then beyond the pair, to the ruined pie, at which point her tentative frown morphed into something far more potent.
“It’s… ruined,” the girl said. “I… I spent all that time making the crust pretty, and now it’s ruined!”
“Aislin!” Elias gawped. “Your sister is sitting here with blistered hands, and you’re upset about a pie?” The prince creased his brow. “Is that any sort of reaction?”
“Don’t make it worse,” Elin hissed to Elias before turning to Aislin. “Aislin, I’m so sorry, I know it would’ve been beautiful. But I need to deal with Corbin’s hands right now. She burned herself pretty badly.” She walked closer to Corbin so she could get a better look at her hands.
Elias allowed Corbin, who now had tears flowing freely down her cheeks, to briefly bring her hands up from the water, revealing to Elin two reddened and badly blistered palms. Seeing the extent of the injuries, Corbin whimpered again, more loudly this time, and bit down hard on her lip as Elias rubbed gently at the small of the girl’s back.
“It’s alright, Corby,” he said. “You’re going to be fine.”
“It hurts,” the girl sniveled.
“Good.” The venom in Aislin’s voice was searing. “It should hurt!”
“Excuse me?” Elias snapped his head toward the older girl.
“She ruins everything!” Aislin retorted. “I literally can’t have anything nice, because Corbin will find some way to screw up! She’s always--”
“Aislin,” Elin snapped, briefly glancing towards the girl, her words suddenly even and serious. “This is not the time when your sister is hurt; we can talk about that later. Besides, it was an accident.” She turned back to Corbin. “I’m going to heal them one at a time, so you can leave one hand in the water.”
As Corbin obliged and plunged one hand back into the water, Elin took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wracking her mind for memories of healing burn wounds, the exact incantation and method from the times she’s seen it before, before opening her eyes and casting green light from her hands onto one of the first blisters. Her facial expression was strained, but she was focused-- or at least, she was until Aislin let out another huff, the girl’s face contorted in fury.
“Just leave them burned,” she rasped. “Maybe then she’ll actually learn something for once.”
Seemingly satisfied that Elin had a handle on Corbin, Elias abruptly stood, the prince carrying himself very straight and very tall as he took a warning step toward Aislin. “Another word out of you, Ash,” he said, “and I’m going to be dragging you back to the palace by your ear. Your sister is hurt. It was a pie-- a pie that would have been sliced into half a dozen pieces two minutes hence anyway! Mind your tongue.”
Elin cringed at the commotion, hesitating on continuing the spell. “Mind him, Aislin, I need to concentrate,” she said shortly, her mind attempting to hold on to her train of thought as she continued. She reached her free hand over to her casting arm, grasping it to steady the spell.
Aislin quailed as her great-uncle glared at her, crossing her arms staunchly at her chest. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. “I can’t have anything, not even a stupid pie, without her messing it up--”
Elias was at her side in an instant, the prince’s movement swift as he reached out to give the child’s ear a sharp yank, silencing her at once. “Be quiet,” he told her again. “I will not ask you another time, Aislin.”
Meanwhile on the floor, Corbin bit down on her tongue to keep from crying out as Elin continued to tease the burns away. The child’s eyes were bloodshot now, her nose running. But eventually, Elin managed to make it through the first hand, and she exhaled, her hand clenching her casting arm tightly before she asked Corbin to take the other hand out of the water. She took another deep breath and started casting as soon as the other hand was out, her face set with strained determination.
Eventually, Elin healed the last of the burn, and she slumped back as soon as she did, pressing her arm against her torso, a weary look in her eyes, before she looked up at Corbin. “Better?” she asked quietly.
Corbin nodded, sniffling. “Uh-huh,” she said; the blisters were gone now, replaced by marks that looked no worse than a mild sunburn. “T-thank you.”
Elias, a terse arm drawn around Aislin’s back as Corbin’s elder sister gazed resolutely at the floor, sighed loudly. “Do you understand now that sometimes, it’s okay to ask for help, Corbin? That you mustn’t merely assume you can do everything on your own?”
“Y-Yes, Uncle Elias,” Corbin whispered.
Elin nodded. “Good. And you’ve learned what else to do for next time?”
“Uh-huh,” Corbin said.
Aislin, however, only snorted indignantly. “Right. Just like you’ve learned every other time you do something stupid--”
“Aislin,” Elin cut in. “The pain of that burn is lesson enough, I think. Besides, it was an accident. I’m not happy about losing the pie either, but fretting over it while someone is hurt is never okay.” She pressed her arm closer to her chest. “And it’s especially not good to fret while I’m trying to cast like that; it could’ve broken my concentration entirely.”
“It’s just not fair,” Aislin whispered.
Elias tightened his grasp around her. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat, Aislin.”
“Whatever’s happened, whatever’s been going on between you,” Elin put in. “When there’s something bigger happening, we take care of that first. If someone’s hurt, that comes first. Everything else is settled after. Do you understand?”
“Whatever,” Aislin muttered.
“Clean the pie up, Aislin.” Elias squeezed her arm none too tenderly. “I’m sure your grandmother has-- a mop or… something appropriate. And then once it’s clean, you’re coming home. With me. I’m certain your mother and father will be pleased to hear about your behavior.”
“But--”
“Aislin…” There was a more wondering tone to Elin’s voice, a frown on her face as she contemplated. “Yes, please help me clean this up…” She paused longer, considering the weight of her words. “...And I still need to think about it. But your behavior just now was not acceptable. Even if you’re mad at Corbin, you should never be so mad at her that you want her hurt. If you’re going to keep acting this way for the rest of the stay, then I’m sending you home.”
“Fine,” Aislin snapped. “I don’t want to sleep in a stupid bed with her, anyway.”
Still sitting on the floor, Corbin looked genuinely hurt. “But… it’s fun, Ash,” she said. “Like when we lived in Kyth. And we only had two bedrooms, so you and Ammy and me all shared.”
Aislin averted her gaze from her sister. “It’s not fun,” she said stiffly.
Elias gritted his teeth. “Clean up the pie, Aislin. And while you do-- Corbin, do you want to go get Ash’s things for her? So she can take them home.”
“I guess,” Corbin muttered, finally rising. “Since she hates me anyway.”
Elin sighed, her brow furrowed in concern as she looked between the two kids. “I’m sure she doesn’t,” she said to Corbin quietly. She then spoke louder. “But alright. I… I suppose you can go home with your uncle. And I hope when you’re home, you think carefully about how you acted.”
She looked down at the mess. “For now, Aislin, please clean this up. I’ll get you started. Corbin, could you go get Aislin’s things? Please be careful with them. And…” She looked up at Elias and sighed. “Go get the knights ready.”
They did as they were told, and Elin helped Aislin pick up the pie from the floor, salvaging what could be saved from the pie and putting those messy remains onto a plate before they (with much reluctance) disposed of the rest. They got a mop and Elin helped Aislin get started before she left her alone to it, first checking on Corbin to see if she was dealing with Aislin’s things carefully before wandering through the house. Through this, she eventually found herself in the living room with Elias and the two knights, at which point she stopped. She was silent for a long moment, her hand clenching the side of her torso as she stared before she let out a sigh.
“Hey, uh…” she started. “Thanks for the help back there. With Corbin... and with Aislin. I really did need to concentrate; I wasn’t just saying that. So thank you also for helping quiet her while I healed Corbin.”
Elias nodded shortly. “It’s no problem,” he said. Hesitating for a moment, he added, “I… know we are far from friends, Lady Lynn. That our worlds are, ah…” He shook his head. “Well, I’ll just say that we have… different perspectives on things. But I love those girls just as you do. They’re my kin. And I want what’s best for them-- always.”
Elin paused, but slowly nodded. “I know. I can see it with how you act around them, the way you helped Corbin when we found her. Even if you are…” She shook her head. “They’re my kin, and they always will be, and I’ll always do what I can for them and help them. But I know you’re their family too.”
“Indeed.” Elias sighed. “And on that subject… while I doubt you meant any harm by taking them into the market alone, Lady Lynn, I will still be telling their father. Rakine… it’s…” The prince shrugged. “It’s not a place for unaccompanied women and little girls. And I think that Gerard-- and your daughter, for that matter-- has a right to know.”
“...I won’t stop you from telling them,” Elin relented. “I guess I’ll deal with them later. But I still don’t see the issue as long as an adult’s with them and the dangerous places are avoided. Careful experience makes them better prepared. Besides, not everyone can afford to have an escort to the market like all the nobles can.”
“And not every peasant in this kingdom can afford bread for his family’s table,” Elias said. “That hardly means those who can ought not feed their children in solidarity. And given your vast experience in war, I think you’d know more than anyone that there is no such thing as a place truly free of danger.” The prince sighed again. “But I see no point in arguing with you, Lady Lynn. We come to the conservation from different tables. We can snarl at each until we’re blue in the face, and all we’ll achieve is fury. I think our energies are better spent elsewhere.”
A frown appeared on Elin’s face, but she eventually sighed. “Maybe so. I can see you’re not changing your mind. And maybe there are other things to fight over. I’ll only say one more thing. Danger can be everywhere, yes, but that’s no reason for the children to fear everything down to their own shadows. Same for anyone else. It just builds more fear for no good reason.”
“If you want to see good reason to fear Rakine, Lady Lynn, then go down to Friar’s Square on a Tuesday or a Saturday,” Elias said softly. “Watch the cutthroats and bandits hang. I’m sure their victims wish they’d had a lot more caution. A lot more fear.” The prince’s eyes snapped to the doorway at the sound of padding footsteps, Elias forcing a strained smile as Corbin shuffled in, Aislin’s knapsack slung over the little girl’s shoulder. “You get all her stuff packed up, Corby?”
“Uh-huh.” Corbin passed the bag to Elias. “But I didn’t fold it. Because if she hates me, then I’m not going to fold it.”
Elin looked ready to speak again, but stopped at the sight of Corbin, looking down at her. “Corbin, I’m sure she doesn’t, she’s just mad.” She paused. “But maybe it would help to tell her it was an accident and that you’re sorry for ruining her pie. Sometimes an apology is just the thing that can help.”
“But--”
“I think your grandmother’s made an excellent point, Corbin,” Elias interjected. “I know you didn’t mean it, but you were careless, you were cocky, and you ruined something your sister had put a lot of effort into.” Handing Aislin’s pack off to one of the knights to carry, the prince added, “And that hardly means she won’t have to apologize, too. Letting anger fester is never a good thing. Not between family.”
Corbin pouted her lips. “I don’t want to apologize.”
“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do,” Elias said. Glancing behind his shoulder, toward the kitchen, he finished firmly, “You’ll both exchange apologies. Before I leave with her. I imagine she’ll be done cleaning up soon.”
Elin nodded. “It’s something you both need to do, Corbin. I know you like her, really. And this is how you make things better between you.”
“And it’s not optional,” Elias added, giving Corbin a hard stare as, finally, Aislin slunk into the room, the girl’s arms crossed at her chest and her head held low. “Ash.” Elias turned toward her. “Did you finish cleaning up?”
“Yes,” Aislin murmured. “It’s all clean.”
“Good.” He held a hand out toward her, and despite her earlier insolence, Aislin seemed to know better than to balk now; her lips pursed, she allowed him to lace his fingers tightly through hers. “Now-- Corbin, your grandmother, and I were just talking about apologies. Lady Lynn and I both agree that each of you ought be issuing one.” He flicked his focus back to Corbin. “You first, Corby.”
Corbin refused to look at her sister. “Sorry, I guess,” she whispered vaguely.
Elin put a firm hand on Corbin’s shoulder. “Like you mean it,” she insisted.
The girl bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she said again, louder this time. “That I broke your pie. It was an accident, and I didn’t mean to, and I’ll be more careful now.”
Aislin didn’t respond to this, and with an exasperated look painted across his face, Elias squeezed her hand. “Ash?” he said. “Don’t you have anything to say in response?”
“Sorry I got mad at you,” the older girl said. “And that you got hurt. I wasn’t being nice. And I hope your hands feel okay now.”
Elin nodded in approval, her hand on Corbin’s shoulder lightening, but she gave it a gentle squeeze. “Good. Now I hope we can all move past this.” She looked to Aislin and sighed. “And now it’s time for you and your uncle to go home.”
“So it seems.” Still holding to Aislin’s hand, Elias took a step toward the doorway that led into the foyer. “And you’re buttoning your cloak and putting the hood up, Aislin. No arguments.”
The girl only shrugged, dejected. “Okay, Uncle Elias.” The knights moving to trail after the prince and the princess, Aislin looked one last time to her grandmother and sister. “I… am sorry, Corby,” she whispered. “I was just mad. I shouldn’t have said those things. And I don’t hate you.”
“It’s okay,” Corbin murmured. “I don’t hate you neither.”
“Well, then.” Elias paused at the doorway. “Goodnight, Corbin. And you as well, Lady Lynn.”
Elin nodded. “Goodnight, Aislin. And you, sir.”
Fortunately choosing not to quibble over his demotion from a royal to a ‘sir’, Elias left without another word. After a few moments of rustling in the foyer as the group sorted with their cloaks, the front door opened and then shut again, the prince, Aislin, and the knights heading off into the rainy evening. Alone with her grandmother, Corbin gnawed on her lip for a moment, seemingly deep in thought.
Then the girl announced: “I wanna go play with the wooden horsies. ‘Cos I only get to play with them while I’m here. Will you come, Grandma?”
Elin had been staring out the window, letting out a sigh before watching with a frown on her face as the duo departed before she looked down at Corbin’s request. After a brief moment of silence, she let out a smile, weary both from the spell that taxed her more than she was willing to admit and from spending the day entertaining an unwanted house guest among her grandchildren.
“Sure thing, honey,” she said. “We have some time before bed. As long as I get to sit down while we play.”
“Okay!” Corbin agreed brightly, taking Elin’s hand as the pair started for the guest bedroom; once inside, the child made a beeline for the toy bin, withdrawing from it an armful of small, intricately crafted wooden horses. “I told Uncle Elias all their names. Do you remember their names, Grandma? If not, I can tell you again!”
Elin let out a small chuckle as she graciously took her seat on the bed. “Not all of them,” she lied. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me again?”
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Post by Avery on Oct 6, 2015 13:50:56 GMT -5
Takes place after the events of a A Visit to the Market and before Burning Words. Summer 1355. Content warning for implied violence. Ashes to Ashes The child’s screams rent the air like a knife through flesh, piercing as they echoed off the walls of the usually orderly healer’s office on the lower level of the Gilded Palace. The shrieks were so strident—so animal—that it was almost hard to believe they were coming from the lungs of the small girl who sat on the cot just inside, her knees drawn up to her chest and her emerald green eyes glossed with tears. She trembled as she flicked her gaze back and forth amongst the assemblage of people who stood in front of her, blocking her path to the door. “Princess Corbin, please,” one of them—a burly man clad in the red-and-gold livery of the Alaric royal guard—was saying. He forced a frozen smile as the girl scooted back further on the cot and flattened herself against the wall behind. “If you’ll just let Healer Eran look at your hand… It’ll only take a moment.”
“No,” the child, Corbin, hissed in return, clutching the indicated hand to her chest. In her present state, she looked much younger than her twelve years, and hardly anything like a princess. Her dark red hair was soiled and snarled, and her left eye was ringed black. She wore the tattered remains of a dress that might have once been luxurious, but had since been tarnished into little more than a rag (even its original colour was unclear). Bruises stippled her dark bronze skin, in a rainbow of macabre hues that indicated various stages of healing. There was one on her jaw that looked particularly fresh. Only hours old, if that. It was her left hand, however, that was particularly concerning, and onto which all desperate eyes in the room had settled since Corbin’s arrival to the healer’s office some ten minutes before. The skin of it was filthy and spattered with long-dried blood, most of which seemed to stem from an injury at her pinkie finger. Or at least, what had once been her pinkie finger: but a mangled, swollen stump remained in its place, the digit cleaved clear off after the first knuckle and then left to heal poorly. Even from a distance, one could see the horrific swelling and smell the pungent tang of infection; it was obvious that the wound needed immediate medical attention. But the girl didn’t seem to care. She was baldly refusing to let anyone touch it, shrieking like a banshee when even one of the three royal guards in the room drew near, let alone the healer or his assistant. Still, no one in the office seemed content to accept her hysterical refusals. With a gusty sigh, the healer, Eran, took a step forward, slowly, as if he were approaching a quite possibly rabid and most certainly feral dog he’d found along the side of the road. “It won’t hurt, I promise you,” Eran said. “And I won’t do anything without telling you first. I just want to take a look, okay?” When this meted nothing from her, he added desperately: “Please?” “No,” Corbin snapped again, clenching her jaw. “I don’t want anyone to touch me. I told you that already. So leave me alone!” “Princess,” he pleaded. “I won’t even touch it yet. I just want to look at it more closely. Can I do that, at least?” She shook her head. “I said no.” “You’re hurt—” “I want my mother,” Corbin hissed. “Your mother will be here as soon as she can be, Princess,” said one of the royal guards. “But it might be a few hours. She was with your father at your grandmother and grandfather’s house when you were found, and we had to send for her, and Healer Eran does not want to wait that long to take a look at that hand—” “I want her now.” A fresh wave of tears sprang in Corbin’s eyes, and she didn’t bother to fight them back. “And I want all of you to go away. Please, just go away.”
“I’m sorry, Princess Corbin, but I can’t do that.” Eran took another step forward, so that now he was merely inches from the cot. “Get back,” Corbin growled. “Princess—” “I said, get back!” Corbin’s voice was a blade, white hot and furious, and she was about to open her lips to repeat the shriek again—as if Eran and the others could have missed it the first time—when the sound of rushing footsteps diverted her attention. The child jerked her head toward the door, craning her neck to glance over the adults’ shoulders as a newcomer stormed into the room, moving as fast as a hunting dog let loose after its quarry. Almost instantly, all heads in the room snapped into automatic bows, as if wrenched down by invisible hands. All heads, that was, except for Corbin’s: the child stared straight ahead, needing but one look at the new arrival before she flung herself off the cot and surged forward. “Uncle Cassian.” With a miserable sob, Corbin shouldered between Healer Eran and one of the royal guards to gain access to her uncle, the king. In a moment she had her head buried against his ribs, her wet eyes darkening the delicate silk of his ornate gold-hued tunic. “Don’t let them touch me,” she moaned, slumping forward. “Please, please, don’t let them touch me.”
The king froze in place as his niece pressed herself against him, his arms half-raised in an awkwardly aborted embrace. “Corbin--” Tentatively he placed one hand lightly on her back, as if he were afraid she would break if he pressed any harder. “Corbin, you’re safe now. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a grim, deadly undertone to Cassian’s words; the king meant what he said, and would back it up with violence if necessary. His fury, abated somewhat when he’d received word that she’d been rescued, flared up hotter than ever at the sight of her mangled hand and bruised face. With one arm still loosely folded around the girl, he glanced up at the healer. “Has no one seen to her hand yet, Eran?” he snapped.
“I-I’ve been trying, Your Majesty,” Eran stammered, his head still deeply bowed. The trembling healer had gone as pale as milk. “She screams when I come near her. She won’t let me look, and I… d-did not wish to force her, circumstances considered.” Hastily, the man added, “But if it is your wish, my king, I will tend to it. I-if you could just hold her still for me.”
Pressing herself harder against her uncle, Corbin let out a strangled whimper. “No,” she pleaded. “D-don’t let him t-touch me. Please.”
“Corbin, you must,” Cassian said, quiet but still very firm. “You need a healer. Now show me your hand.” He reached down to wrap his fingers around the girl’s wrist.
She tried to twist away from him, but to little avail, the child merely choking out a sob as Cassian pried her hand away from where it was clutched against her chest and held it out toward Eran. The healer kept his gaze trained on the floor as he took a few short steps forward, not daring to look at the king dead on. Corbin, meanwhile, regarded the reluctantly approaching magician as one might a charging wild beast, her green eyes flickering with a smoldering fear-laced fury.
“Don’t you dare come closer,” she growled.
Eran froze dutifully in place a few paces away, although he was not speaking to her but to Cassian as he said: “Your Majesty, do I have your permission to touch her hand?”
“You do,” the king said calmly. As Corbin trembled in his grasp, he allowed himself to tighten his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “It’s all right,” he told her. “I’m right here. You don’t have to be afraid of him.” Awkwardly he stroked at her back in a vain attempt to comfort her, as if the light touch could make her forget the close grip he had on her wrist with his other hand.
As Eran nodded and finished his approach, Corbin thrashed sharply against his uncle’s hold, but this only caused him to clamp down harder. Physically, she was no match for the imposing king, and could only let out a squawk of panic as Eran gingerly took her hand to get a better look at the gory amputation. His face was grim thereafter as, with his free hand, he drew his wand and pointed it toward the wound; with the king’s intent gaze bearing down at him, one could not miss the slight tremble to his usually-expert hand.
“I’m going to cast a spell, Princess,” Eran said. “A painless assessment spell. Just to see the extent of the damage, and determine exactly what’s going on inside. From there, I’ll probably cast a few general spells to aid with the likely infection and--”
“No,” Corbin interrupted. “Let go of me.” Desperately, she wrenched her gaze up toward Cassian, towering over her. “Uncle Cassian, please. Please. I j-just want to go to my room. And change my clothes. And g-go to bed, or…” She inhaled a jagged breath of air. “A bath,” she said. “I want a bath. S-so I can stop smelling the burning.” She paused for a moment as something occurred to her, whereupon she wrenched again, more violently this time, as she desperately tried to free herself from her uncle’s hold. “You burned them, didn’t you?” she asked shrilly. “All of them. You burned all of them.”
“Corbin, stop,” Cassian pleaded with her, struggling to keep his grip on her without tightening it too hard. “I-- you’re safe here now, you needn’t dwell on that any longer.” His stomach had plummeted at her words. Smelling the burning. He’d given the guards orders, they’d had express orders to use only minimal force until Corbin was safely out of the way, but if she’d seen that-- He shot a sharp glance at the guards, clearly displeased. Only Corbin’s presence prevented him from saying anything; he couldn’t trust the tone of his voice not to frighten her.
As Cassian tried to calm Corbin, Eran muttered an incantation under his breath, looking as skittish as a hare in a hunter’s net as the light from his wand arced toward Corbin’s mangled finger. True to his promise, it didn’t hurt, but Corbin still froze and tensed-- which only gave Cassian a chance to adjust and further secure his grasp over her.
“All the buildings caught,” Corbin rasped as the healer continued to work. “The guards were screaming. Then everybody was screaming. All I could see was smoke. People were jumping out windows.” She finished darkly, “They were burning alive. You burned them alive.”
Cassian kept his hold on her, trying to stroke her hair as if that would calm her down. His mouth was dry. “You- you were never supposed to see that,” he stammered, tearing his furious gaze from the guards and leaning over her. “That wasn’t how I planned-- but Corbin, you have to understand, those people hurt you. They couldn’t be allowed to get away with that.” His voice shook slightly. Gods, they’d come so close to losing her - Cassian didn’t know how he could have faced his brother if the worst had happened.
No, he didn’t regret that the fire had gotten out of control. He’d have burned a thousand districts like it to bring his niece home safe.
“No,” Corbin said. “Only a few people h-hurt me. But you burned all the Narrows. All of it.” She watched through tear-filled eyes as Eran cast another spell, his hand still wavering as he tackled the raging infection. “T-they didn’t even die. The people who hurt me. They were already in chains. And the guards said they’ll b-be hanged. So you just killed people who had nothing to do with it. That’s all.”
Drawing the wand away, Eran inclined his head, pretending as if he hadn’t just been party to the strained exchange between Cassian and his niece. “I’ve taken care of the worst of it, Your Majesty,” he said. “It still needs to be cleaned and dressed.” He dared a glance at Corbin’s bare arms, latticed with mottled bruises. “Shall I heal those as well, my king?” He swept her quivering form, eyes lingering on the soiled dress that covered her from collarbone to ankle. “As well as any additional injuries she has. Beneath.”
“Don’t,” Corbin squawked quickly, wrenching again as though to make Cassian finally let go of her wrist. “They’re just bruises. And beneath is only more of them. B-but nothing worse. I swear.”
Cassian let go of her wrist, though he kept one arm wrapped around her back. “If the worst has been addressed, then I think that won’t be necessary.” He glanced down at Corbin, though he still spoke to the healer. “I believe Lord Lynn will be coming here with her parents… if he is willing to do so, he can check her injuries when he arrives.”
“Of course, my king,” said Eran, taking a step back from Corbin and then pausing to await further orders.
The king sighed. “So if you’ve finished, Eran, you are dismissed,” he said shortly. Frowning, the king’s cold sea-green eyes swept the room, and the guards gathered there. Too many strangers. The girl needed family. “You are all dismissed,” he added, his voice several degrees chillier than strictly necessary.
The assemblage did not need to be told twice, filtering quickly out from the room and their footsteps soon disappearing down the hall outside. Alone with her uncle, his arm still tight around her, Corbin bit down on her lip and let her gaze fall to the floor beneath, her healed hand clenched into a fist. She took a deep breath but regretted it when her right rib twinged, likely from a blow that had been delivered there by one of her captors several days ago. She did not, however, dare let herself wince. After all, she hardly wanted to give reason for Cassian to change his mind and summon Eran back for further healing.
“Am I in trouble?” she whispered instead, hollowly. The king’s act of sending everybody else away, and that he was still holding to her so firmly, sent alight in the child’s head rather dark possibilities.
“Gods, no, I’m not going to punish you,” Cassian said hastily. He stepped back, putting his hands on her shoulders and leaning down to look her in the eye. “You’ve been through enough. Do you understand now why your father and I didn’t want you out there by yourself? How dangerous that was? If we hadn’t found you in time…”
“I wish they’d just killed me,” Corbin murmured. “They said they were going to. S-soon. And send you my head.” Despite her stammer, she was otherwise speaking so plainly that she might have been discussing her plans for an upcoming holiday. Furtively, she added, “M-maybe then you would have just caught them. And not burned everybody else, too.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened, enough that his teeth audibly ground together. “Don’t say that,” he said quietly. Burning the Narrows had been an accident, but had Corbin been killed he was certain that he would have made an example of the entire district in a far more thorough way - and he didn’t think his brother would have tried to stop him.
Still. He forced the gruesome thought from his mind. It hadn’t happened, and he did not think it would reassure Corbin to hear. “You are not responsible for what happened in the Narrows,” he said. “The guards set a fire that got out of control. It was an accident, Corby. The important thing is that you’re here, and no one will so much as lay a hand on you again.” The stance of his body as he gripped her shoulders suggested that anyone who tried would have to get through him first.
Gods, he was still furious. He didn’t think the anger would subside until he personally witnessed the hangman’s noose choke the last breath from the kidnappers’ lungs.
Corbin, however, seemed to want little of her uncle’s seething promises. “I want my mother,” she said to him only. “Where’s my mother?” One of the guardsmen had already answered this for her, but the girl didn’t care. Cassian could burn down entire quadrants of the city; surely he could make Muriel arrive more quickly than the nebulous ‘few hours’ the guard had quoted.
“Your mother will be here soon,” Cassian said. “I am sure she will come as quickly as she can. I will stay here with you until she arrives.” He had no doubt that Lady Muriel would waste no time in getting to her injured daughter, but it was still not quite fast enough. Cassian knew quite well that an uncle was no satisfactory substitute for Corbin’s mother.
“Do you… do you want to sit here and wait for her?” Cassian gestured to the cot. “I’ll make sure no one enters until she is here.”
Corbin shrugged limply, sidestepping out of Cassian’s grasp to pad over to the cot and plunk down onto it. “Was there no one else here?” she asked, her throat dry. “To wait with me? Aunt Mel or… Uncle Elias, even, or… anybody?”
“I was closest,” Cassian said simply. “I was the one notified.” Never mind that was only true because he’d ordered it, that he’d commanded his guards to come straight to him with any news. It had not occurred to him, not until now anyway, that perhaps his wife would have been better at handling the fallout. He went to sit down beside Corbin, looming protectively close but not quite touching her. “Corbin, you… you know you can talk to me, right?” he said. “You’re safe here. With me.”
“Talk about what?” She wouldn’t look at him. “There’s n-nothing to talk about, Uncle Cassian. You burned people alive. And you’re not even sorry. You murdered hundreds of people today. Is that supposed to make me feel safe?”
“I just want you to know that you don’t have to be scared of me.” His jaw tightened. “I would do anything to keep you safe, Corbin, and so would your father. I will not apologize for doing as any patriarch should.” Tentatively and a little stiffly, he reached over to pat her back. “Maybe you should rest, Corby. You’ve been through a frightening ordeal.”
She flinched away from him. “Any time I close my eyes, I see the fire.” She forced a deep breath and cringed as her bruised rib twinged again. “You… you didn’t burn them to keep me safe. You burned them because you were mad. Because you could.” Miserably, Corbin slumped back on the cot. “I’d rather wait alone. For my mother.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. It was true, in a way, that he’d only done it because he was angry. And no matter how much he said that it was an accident… well, he had not exactly taken precautions, had he?
But it wasn’t something he could regret. He wasn’t allowed to regret it. He’d almost been angrier than he could ever remember being, and that anger was a weapon. He trusted that anger, he used it to protect his family. Cassian could not regret what had happened. He only regretted that Corbin had been there to see it.
He pulled his hand back away from Corbin. “I’m sorry you saw those things, Corbin,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have seen them. That I am sorry for.”
Cassian stood up and moved toward the door. Despite what she said, he couldn’t leave Corbin alone in this state, but perhaps it was best to give her some space. Her mother, perhaps, would give her an explanation she could accept. Corbin, seeming to know better than to argue, merely sighed as she watched Cassian still again at the doorway, the king clearly harboring no intentions of actually leaving her in peace altogether.
“I don’t think you know what it means t-to be sorry, Uncle Cassian,” the girl said finally. “Not really. Not where it counts. Not when you’re allowed to do anything you want, and nobody ever stops you.”
Cassian was silent a moment, then turned away from his niece so she could not see his jaw clench. “Maybe I don’t, Corbin,” he said quietly. “Maybe a king can’t know that.”
Corbin didn’t answer, and Cassian didn’t try to press her. Instead he leaned wearily on the doorframe, keeping his silent vigil until the girl’s parents arrived to claim her. Corbin met his silence with silence, unable to bring herself to even look at her uncle. Even if the king did not know the true meaning of regret, the same didn’t apply to the young, broken girl: her entire being thrummed-- suffocated-- with remorse. For daring to venture outside the palace, even after having been so stridently warned. For practically waltzing into her abductors’ clutches as she had. For not fighting harder to get away from them.
And while Cassian might claim he wished she had not seen his retaliation-- that she wasn’t meant to have watched as the Narrows went up in a plume of smoke and flame-- this… this was the one thing Corbin did not altogether regret. If her uncle would slaughters hundreds-- thousands?-- in her name, because of mistakes she’d made, then she deserved to see. To have the innocents’ dying screams echoing through her head, and the scent of their burning flesh lingering in her nose.
When her mother finally came, Corbin practically catapulted herself into Muriel’s arms. Pressed her head against the woman’s chest, and dared shut her eyes as tears pricked at them. Against the canvas of her eyelids, however, rather than blackness, she saw only flame. Ruin and ash and flame.
The girl did not let herself open her eyes.
She could have guilt enough for her and Cassian both.
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Post by Shinko on Nov 29, 2015 17:04:53 GMT -5
Playing With Fire A two-part collab with Avery, featuring Oliver and his younger siblings- and bringing to light one sibling in particular who has a very interesting story to tell. Part OneLaid atop the marble devotion dais, the boy’s father was wrapped in white. The silk burial shroud engulfed his body like a constricting snake, shimmering slightly beneath the rainbowed skylights that stippled the ceiling high above. While outside it was a cool day, with a light, pleasant breeze blowing about, within the sanctuary it was stuffy, nearly stifling. The air was still and stale, smelling vaguely sharp, like copper—the scent evident even over the incense sticks that burned at the altar, sending up plumes of spiced, fragrant smoke. Finally wresting his eyes away from the corpse before him, the boy let his eyes drift slowly upward and watched, stock still, as the smoke tendrils drifted and curled toward the light above. The columns were hazy—grey-white—and pallid as a creeping mist. He wondered if his father was so pale beneath the bindings. He wished he could peek; he knew that he couldn’t. Not without disturbing the careful swathing, which must have taken the clerics hours to perfect. They’d have skipped no ritual, no prayer, no superstition. After all, one didn’t play around with a king’s soul—even if the monster who’d brutally slain the little boy’s father had seemingly fostered no such reservations. “Elias.” At the sound of a man’s voice, the boy spun on his heel, a panicked expression unfurling across his face. But just as quickly the look vanished, as he realized that the speaker was not the one whom he’d feared it would be. “Uncle Medar,” the boy, Elias, said. He swallowed hard. “What… what are you doing in here?” “I ought ask the same of you,” replied the man—the child’s maternal uncle, Medar. The sultan of Mzia had come north from his own domain shortly after the king’s death in order to help his sister—Elias’s mother—sweep up the bloody pieces left in the wake of her husband’s assassination. Medar had spent the days since skulking about the Gilded Palace with crossed arms and a perpetual scowl, his bronze complexion quickly taking on a sallow hue and his amber eyes going wary. Exhausted. “The funeral isn’t until tomorrow, Elias,” the sultan added after a moment. “You’ve no reason to be in here—especially not alone.” Elias looked away. “I’m not alone,” the little boy whispered, his voice fragile as raw silk. “I’m with Papa.” “Oh, Elias.” Medar strode quickly forward, closing the distance between himself and his nephew. “I’m so sorry.” He slung one arm around the boy’s shoulder, drawing him close as, with his other hand, he stroked tender fingers through the child’s sandy blonde hair. “I’m here on your mother’s behalf. To make sure everything’s set for tomorrow. But…” He hesitated, holding Elias at an arm’s length as he studied the little boy’s face. “Are you… okay, Elias?” “Okay?” Blinking hard, Elias cocked his head. “W-what do you mean?” “I mean…” Medar considered very carefully. “Are you— alright? … Here?” “In the temple?” Elias murmured. “No,” his uncle said. “In… in Rakine.” Elias understood: in a flash, the child understood. Even if he wished he didn’t. Even if it made him sick that he did. “I’m okay,” the little boy whispered, again averting his gaze. “I… I…” “Look at me, please,” Medar prompted, gently but firmly. The child did, albeit with reluctance, fear flickering in his mint green eyes like a pulsing flame. “I-I’m okay,” he said, his tone not at all matching his words. Medar sighed, lowering his hand to thread his fingers through the child’s. “Let’s get you back to your mother, Elias,” the sultan of Mzia said. “Before she notices you gone and panics. Gods know, she’s having a hard enough time already.” *** “Uncle Medar knows,” Elias whispered that night. The young prince was one of four children curled beneath a nest of blankets on an iron-framed bed, sandwiched between his twin, Anna, on one side and his older siblings Lila and Ezra on the other. Ostensibly this was Ezra’s room, but in the past week since the children’s father’s death, the littlest Alarics had spent more nights camped here than they had in their own chambers. Wholly distracted by a host of more pressing issues, none of the adults had yet attempted to separate them; Elias was immensely grateful for this. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to sleep alone. “Knows what?” Lila murmured, stifling a yawn. Lila was eleven to Elias and Anna’s eight, a gangly waif of a girl with wispy hair the colour of honey and eyes the same striking green as were Elias’s (and Anna’s, for that matter). “’Bout Oliver, I think,” Elias said “He does not.” Anna wrinkled her nose, adding, “But it wouldn’t matter even if he did. Ollie’s gonna be king now.” “Uncle Medar’s a sultan, though,” Elias pointed out. “That’s the same as a king.” “But he’s not sultan of here,” Lila said. Then, softly, miserably: “No one can protect us here.” “ I’ll protect you.” The speaker was a boy, not much older than Lila at thirteen years of age, with pale brown hair- and unlike his green eyed siblings, he’d inherited his father’s pale blue gaze. Ezra, the boy whose room this was, had a determined look on his face. “How?” Anna demanded. “Oliver’s just a coward and a bully,” Ezra replied sagely. “He only tried t’ hit me once, and when I tattled to Papa he never did it again. He just pushes around people he doesn’t think will fight back.” “But there’s no Papa to tattle to anymore,” Lila retorted. “No one to tell. He can do whatever he wants, Ez. And you can’t stop him.” “He can do what he wants, but that doesn’t mean we have to give him what he wants,” Ezra pointed out. “If he tries to hurt us, but we don’t act all scared, he’ll have to stop sooner or later. What’s the point? But-” he hugged his younger sister. “I don’t want you to get hurt. So if he’s going to hurt somebody, he can hurt me. I don’t care- I’m not scared of him.” Elias turned over so that he lay flat on his back, staring at the dim ceiling above. “Do you think we should tell Uncle Medar?” the boy murmured. “He… asked me today. If I’m o-okay. Which is why I think he knows. But I… I was scared, and I lied-- but I could still… I could still…” “Uncle Medar has to go back to Mzia after the coronation,” Anna pointed out. “What… what can he do? If he could help, Mama would ask him to, right?” “Uh-huh,” Lila agreed. “There’s no using telling him. All it’d do is make things worse. Once Oliver finds out you ratted.” “I miss Papa,” Elias said simply. Ezra reached for his younger brother’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “We all miss him, Eli.” Dismally he murmured, “We all miss him.” *** The king’s funeral was an ostentatious and drawn-out affair, lasting nearly half the day and with almost every single Courdonian lord of importance in attendance. Elias sat in between Ezra and Anna in the front pew of the sanctuary, the little boy keeping his eyes cast down on his lap for the majority of the service, unable to quite bring himself to glance up at the complicated rites that were being performed on the altar before him-- or at his father’s shrouded body on the dais. Seated two down from him, Lila was crying, and their mother was, too. But Elias wasn’t. For some reason couldn’t bring himself to. As if to do so would be an admission of the finality of all this: an acceptance of the fact that Rafe was dead, soon to be interred in the hard earth below, and in his place would rise Oliver. The thought of it still made the young prince very, very sick. Twisting his stomach into tangles, then knots. Oliver the king. Oliver the king! It was-- wrong. So terrifying. Like a nightmare come to life, escaped from the locked chest of Elias’s darkest, deepest fears. It was storming by the burial, rain slashing from the sky in horizontal sheets. The knights held umbrellas to shield the mourners-- and the royal family in particular-- but it was like trying to plug a gaping wound with a single scrap of cloth: everyone still ended up soaked. Afterward, as the funeral attendees began to drift out of the royal cemetery and back toward the shelter of the palace, Elias fidgeted with his white mourning clothes, which had gone damp and transparent, the fabric clinging to his skin and as itchy as pox. “Do we still have to go to the mourners’ banquet, Mama?” he whispered to Rhiannon. “I’m cold. And--” “Elias.” Rhiannon’s voice was terse. “I know you don’t want to, but… you must.” She sighed, sweeping a tentative hand through her son’s damp blond locks. “What if you go back to our quarters and change first?” she suggested. The widowed queen glanced to her other children. “If-- if any of you want to change, go and do that now, okay? At least then you’ll be dry at the feast.” “Okay. But… are you going to change, Mama?” Lila asked, the girl’s lips pouted. “No.” Rhiannon shook her head. “I’m alright, sweetie. Just-- make sure you’re still wearing white, okay?” “Okay,” Elias agreed, turning to look at Ezra. “You come with?” “Sure,” Ezra replied, his voice subdued after the funeral. Forcing cheer into his voice, he shakily added, “Gotta make sure you lot aren’t slowpokes about it, r-right?” “Right,” Rhiannon agreed. “Please, don’t dawdle too long. I’d like you at the banquet as quickly as possible, okay?” “Oh, don’t worry.” Standing at the fringe of the collection of royal family members, the rising king Oliver smiled serenely. “I can escort them, Mother,” he continued. “Make sure they don’t procrastinate.” Almost abruptly, he reached for Lila’s hand-- as though daring the girl to startle away; she didn’t. “Come on. No use wasting time.” He beckoned with his free hand toward Anna. “You coming, little pet?” Anna went pale as milk, and shrunk against Rhiannon’s leg. “I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice scarcely audible. “I w-wanna stay with M-Mama.” “Of course, sweetie.” Rhiannon wrapped an arm around the child’s back. “Well-- anyone who wants to change…” She glanced between the rest of the family members who’d not yet lodged an answer: her son Tyson, Oliver’s wife Zaria, the sultan Medar, several of Rafe’s siblings who’d come in for the funeral… but none of them took the bait. “Right.” Rhiannon smiled thinly. “I’ll see you four soon.” Oliver pulled Lila closer to him, as if she were a favoured toy he didn’t want anyone else to get ideas about. “Don’t start things without me, Mother, yes?” Rhiannon turned away from him. “Of course not, Oliver.” The siblings were silent as they trod back toward the royal family’s residence, the rain still spattering from the sky in fat, angry droplets. Oliver held tight to Lila, and Elias nearly clung to Ezra, as if attempting to ward off any attempts his eldest brother might make to snatch his hand, too. Inside, they all pried off their muddy shoes, and as Oliver finally let go of Lila, the girl reached up to wring the water out from her sodden hair. “Alright.” Oliver crossed his arms. “We’re changing as fast as possible. I want you all back here in the foyer in… ten minutes. No more. Understood?” “Sure, Ollie,” Ezra said, starting with Elias and Lila towards the rooms that the younger Alarics dwelled in as Oliver began toward his own chambers on the opposite side of the flat. Ezra stopped at the door to Elias’s room, letting the younger boy slip inside to change clothes, before guiding Lila on to hers. While Elias and Ezra changed quickly-- well within the proscribed ten minute limit-- when the boys knocked on Lila’s door before setting off back toward the foyer, they found the young girl far from being ready to present herself at a formal mourners’ banquet. Though she’d stripped off her drenched clothes, she’d yet to replace them with a suitable alternative, rather standing in front of her vanity in only a light cotton undershift. Her hair had been plaited before, in two long stalks over her shoulders, but for some reason she’d wrestled it out, so that her soggy locks now frizzed loose and wild. While Elias knew Rhiannon had brushed it for Lila only this morning, from the looks of it now, the rat’s nest might not have been combed in weeks. “Lila?” the youngest boy murmured, pausing in the doorway. “What… what are you doing?” Lila whirled on her heel to face her brothers. “I dunno. C-changing, I guess.” “Why’d you take your hair down?” Ezra asked, sounding more puzzled than anything else. “We don’t got time to fix it back, Ollie wanted us out in the foyer in just ten minutes!” “I dunno,” Lila said again, her throat trembling. “W-when I took my dress off… one of the r-ribbons got jostled, so I tried to fix it, but it just made it worse, and then…” “Why’d you put on gray socks?” Elias furrowed his brow, pointing at his sister’s feet. Indeed, the child had peeled off her soggy white socks and replaced them with a heathered gray pair. She shrugged, blinking hard. “My feet were cold.” A beat, as she inhaled jaggedly. “M-maybe I can just stay here. And… miss the banquet. I d-don’t feel good anyway.” “You can’t,” Ezra objected. “Mama would be cross if we didn’t all come back.” He bit his lip. “Gimme your brush, I’ll help you get your hair combed out so at least it’s not all ratty even if we don’t got time to fix it. Eli, you go ahead, least Ollie won’t be mad at you for dawdling.” Elias nodded mutely, shuffling back out into the hall as Ezra strode toward Lila and the vanity. Part of the youngest Alaric had hoped that he would beat Oliver to the foyer, but he had no such luck: the rising king was already waiting for him, tapping his foot impatiently against the marble floor as he did. When he saw that his brother was alone, Oliver’s blond brows shot up, and his lips curled into something near to a snarl. “Where are Lila and Ezra?” he demanded. “They’re almost ready,” Elias replied, forcing himself to meet his brother’s simmering gaze. He immediately regretted it, his voice strangled as he added, “Just a few more minutes.” “Do they not understand what it means to make haste?” Oliver growled. “They… they…” “That was a rhetorical question, Eli.” The king took a sharp step forward. “Stay here. I’ll go fetch them. And gods help them if they’re not both ready when I arrive.” Elias opened his lips, as though to respond, but before he could eke out a single syllable his older brother had stormed away. Oliver’s steps were borderline violent as he stalked toward the children’s quarters, his jaw clenched so tightly it was a wonder he’d cracked no teeth. He stopped first at Ezra’s room, found it empty, and swore beneath his breath as he skulked onward toward Lila’s chamber. The door was already ajar, but that didn’t stop Oliver from quite literally shoving it the rest of the way open, so that it banged-- hard-- against the wall. “I do believe,” he snapped as he stepped inside, “that I told you ten minutes? I--” The rising king’s voice fell abruptly silent as he apprised the scene before him: Lila seated at the vanity as Ezra stood behind her, dragging a comb through her sopping wet locks. This alone would have been enough to gall Oliver (he’d said to meet in ten minutes, and by gods, he’d meant it), but no it was far worse than that, with neither sibling in any state to be hauled out imminently to the mourners’ banquet. Not when Lila was still in a state of half-dress… and the sleeves of Ezra’s fresh tunic had gone visibly damp as the teenager wrestled with his sister’s drenched hair. “What the hell?” Oliver demanded. “ Why aren’t you dressed, Lila? And Ezra-- what are you doing?” Ezra had jumped when the door slammed the wall, and clenched his jaw at his older brother’s tone. “I’m helping her brush her hair. It’s all messy after it got wet, and she said it got messed up more when she tried to change. I know there’s not time to fix it back, but I thought if I could brush it, maybe we could cover it up with a veil or something.” “Oh yes,” Oliver rasped, “clearly her hair went from braided to a loose, tangled disaster through a mere changing accident. Dear gods!” The look on his face was nearly murderous as he stomped over to his younger siblings, yanking the brush out of Ezra’s hand. It was then that he noticed Lila’s socks. “What the hell are those?” “Socks,” Lila whispered, not daring to look at him. “Yes, I can see that. Are you being fresh with me, Lila? You know that’s not what I meant.” “She just has ‘em on while I’m fixing her hair,” Ezra lied- Lila had never indicated one way or another if the gray socks were intended to be temporary or not. “Her feet were cold and they’re the warmest she’s got. Please, I’ll help her get fixed as fast as I-” “Shut up, Ezra,” Oliver snarled. Slamming the brush back down onto the vanity, he closed a rough hand over Lila’s arm. “Up,” he ordered. “Take those godsdamned socks off. Put on proper clothes.” “B-but… my hair,” Lila whimpered. “It’s still--” “I said, up!” Seizing her other arm, Oliver hauled the girl bodily to her feet as she just barely fought back a yelp. “Oliver, you don’t have to grab her!” Ezra objected angrily. “If she changes while her hair is still a mess she’ll just get the new dress all wet anyway. I’ll help her, just take Eli, we’ll meet y-” “Ezra!” Oliver hissed, letting go of Lila then-- but only so that he could backhand his brother, hard, across the cheek. His strike landed audibly, one of his heavy gold rings catching against the young teenager’s lip, but Oliver either didn’t notice or-- more than likely-- did not care. He grabbed onto the collar of Ezra’s tunic, pulling the boy toward him. “You do not give me orders, do you understand? Ever! I am to be your king now, Ezra. You are not allowed to use that tone with me! And when I give commands, you do not negotiate-- you follow them!” Ezra could taste blood in his mouth, and his lip was already swelling, but the look he gave Oliver was not one of cowed submission, but fiery anger. Sullenly he muttered, “You aren’t king yet, your coronation isn’t until next week.” In an instant, Oliver had smacked him again. “ Enough. Be silent, godsdamnit!” “He’s… he’s bleeding.” Standing but a few inches over, tears were pricking in Lila’s pale green eyes. “Ollie, he’s--” “Yes, he is,” Oliver interrupted starkly. “And if you don’t want to be bleeding, as well, Lila, then I’d suggest you shut up and follow the orders I gave you. Now.” The girl didn’t hesitate, only choking back a strangled sob as she scurried toward her bureau, as Ezra clenched his teeth hard. He glared daggers at his older brother and spat a globule of blood onto the floor below. The boy clearly hadn’t directed it at Oliver, but the look that crossed the older Alaric’s face was so baldly furious that one never would have guessed otherwise. As Lila fumbled on a new dress, the soon-to-be-king glowered down at his younger brother, potent anger a raging flame inside him. “Let me make one thing very clear, Ezra,” he hissed. “Any limits you think exist? That have existed? Anything you think you can get away with because at the end of the day, you can hide behind Mother and Father? None of that exists. Not anymore.” Oliver touched a finger to his brother’s throat, almost delicately. “Father was a pathetic excuse for a king. He let people trample all over him. But I will not. My people will respect me. They will obey me. And that includes you, little brother. Do you understand?” Ezra’s blue eyes were blazing with fury, but he seemed to think better of saying anything else. He just looked away sullenly, submitting for the moment- but it was blatantly obvious from his expression and body language that he was far from intimidated by Oliver’s threats. And Oliver seemed to know it. “You--” The older Alaric hesitated, his eyes flicking rapidly between Ezra and Lila, before he started again: “ Both of you-- you’re staying here. The banquet can happen without you.” “B-but…” Lila’s voice shook like a blade of grass in the wind. “But… Oliver, Mama said--” “ I am your king,” Oliver spat. “Not Mother. And…” He took a menacing step toward the girl. “Ezra’s… insolence, what happened in here-- it stays between the three of us. No need to upset Mother, yes? She’s already so despondent.” “Y-you just don’t want us to tell her because she’ll tell Uncle Medar,” Lila whispered. “And then--” “And then what, Lila?” Oliver asked. “Do you think Uncle Medar would do anything? Because let me tell you right now: he wouldn’t. This is my kingdom, just as Mzia is his. He has no right to interfere with my decisions, and he knows that. He would never dare.” He sneered. “Especially not over a sniveling little brat like you.” Still Ezra said nothing. However, he silently walked towards his sister and pulled her into a hug. As the younger girl crumbled against him, sobbing now, Oliver only scowled. As if her hysterics bored him. As if she were but an unreasonable toddler crying over a spilled water glass at the dinner table, throwing a tantrum over imagined slights and problems. “Do not tell Mother,” the eldest of the siblings said again. “Or you will regret it. Badly.” And with that, Oliver strode back out the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Ezra waited until he heard the door at the front of the flat slam shut with equal force before turning to his sister with a wan smile. “At least you can keep your warm socks on now. And you don’t gotta go to the banquet.” “Maybe this is all just a bad dream,” Lila whispered, harrowed. “Maybe… maybe…” Her older brother glanced away sadly. His lip was throbbing, and he could feel blood drying and crusting on his swollen chin. It definitely wasn’t a dream. It was a living nightmare. But hells if he was going to let it consume his younger siblings. “I’m here, Lila,” he said softly, tightening his grip around her shoulders. “I promise, I’ll do everything I can to protect you.” *** Though Ezra tried to keep his promise, it proved a difficult vow to maintain. Particularly once the coronation-- a lavish event even by Courdonian standards-- took place, and the visitors, Medar included, departed back for their homes, it became clear that the new king had meant his threat: he was not to be trifled with… and anyone who tried almost immediately regretted it. Including-- perhaps especially-- his own kin. Where Rafe had ruled his household with a gentle touch, Oliver lorded with an iron fist. He accepted no backtalk, no disobedience, no defiance. He expected his commands to be obliged at once-- and without complaint-- and retaliated swiftly when this prospect was not met. While at public events he put on an elaborate show of poise and good grace, smiles and diplomacy, behind closed doors he didn’t bother with such a mask. He didn’t seem to care if his family saw his true colours, bright and raw: after all, without Rafe now to temper the worst of him, what did it matter if they knew? He was the king, his power absolute. And his family’s obedience was his right, gods-given. Just because Rafe had been too much of a coward to demand it didn’t mean that he, Oliver, would fall into the same trap. He was correcting his father’s blunders. And he would not let petty sentiment get the best of him like Rafe had. … Which didn’t, of course, stop certain members of his family from trying his patience. The littler ones-- Anna and Elias, and to a slightly lesser extent Lila-- were easy to cow, soon wincing at a mere sharp look from him. And when they did go wrong, they accepted their punishments without resistance or histrionics, submitting to his power and authority. They were putty: flexible, and easily moulded from the soft, pathetic creatures Rafe had nurtured them into. Buts some of the others were not so simple to reshape. Like Oliver’s mother, his godsdamned mother, who’d spent some twenty years softened and perverted by Rafe’s saccharine way of things. She was like clay long left to harden in the sun. Its malleable qualities gone crumbly, rigid. And Ezra-- he, too, was not a simple project. His first flash of surliness that day in Lila’s bedchamber not merely an anomaly, but a foreshadowing of further insolence to come. And by gods, his mother and brother drove Oliver crazy. How he hated to discipline Elias for backtalking-- and then find the little boy nestled up in Rhiannon’s bed two hours later, seeking cuddles and comfort. What fury it sent blistering in him, when Ezra tried to step in between one of the other children and Oliver’s raised fist. Threats didn’t work. Beatings didn’t work. It were as if no matter what Oliver did, Ezra and Rhiannon didn’t care. The mother and son simply drawing satisfaction from the fact that they were getting under the king’s skin. Grimly delighted in the reality that no matter how much Oliver tried to control things, in the end, he could not touch their grit and will. Such an impertinence finally came to a head shortly before Lila’s thirteenth birthday, a little more than a year after Oliver’s ascension to the throne, when the king announced over breakfast one morning that his younger sister was to marry soon. “To a tsarevich,” he said between bites of custard tart, speaking so casually that he might have been discussing his plans for the upcoming weekend. “His name is Evgeny. He’s, ah-- the third son of Tsar Kasimir, I believe? Of Lange.” Across the table from her son, Rhiannon abruptly dropped her fork, her mottled hazel eyes going wide. “Oliver.” Her voice was strangled. “If this is some sort of punishment for when I--” “Of course it’s not, Mother,” Oliver interrupted. His tone, however, spoke the opposite in spades. “A punishment? What sort of petty man do you think I am? Really, you should be happy, Mother. That your daughter should help to forge an alliance with a notoriously reclusive kingdom--” “She’s only twelve,” Rhiannon croaked. “The marriage age in Lange is fourteen,” Oliver returned. “And anyhow, I won’t be sending her for a few months yet. You can’t travel to Lange safely in the wintertime, Mother. And of course, I’d hardly want to risk the little pet’s safety.” “You are damning her, Oliver,” Rhiannon hissed. The rest of the children at the table, Lila included, only gaped. Their eyes flicking back and forth between their mother and brother in panic muddled with a healthy serving of disbelief. “ Please,” the queen regent pleaded on. “Please, please, honey--” “You are speaking out of turn, Mother,” Oliver said calmly. Too calmly. “And last I checked, it’s your majesty. What sort of person dares call their king honey?” For a long moment then, no one said anything; a suffocating silence filled the air like smoke. Rhiannon stared across the table at her eldest son with tears brimming in her eyes, and said son duly ignored her, simply polishing off the rest of his custard tart. It was Lila who finally dared to speak, her eyes latching onto her brother’s leering face as she whispered, “I don’t want to go to Lange.” “Are you questioning my authority?” Oliver said crisply. “No. I-I just--” “Let me stop you right there,” Oliver drawled. “The only proper answer to that question is ‘Of course not, your majesty’. Anything else I would be forced to see as defiance, and well…” The king cocked his head. “Do you truly wish to be defiant with me, Lila?” “Of course not, your majesty,” the girl murmured. “I thought so.” Oliver smirked. Ezra, who still had a purple handprint on his right wrist and bruising across most of his back from an episode three days prior where he'd made the error in judgement of trying to come between Oliver and Anna and had been slammed into a wall for it, gritted his teeth. Oliver was no king- he was a petty, cowardly, insecure bully, terrified of anything and anyone he could not control. "Not even the king is above the gods. And Carricon demands that men protect their kin, not hand them over to be eaten alive by foreigners," Ezra choked, outrage warring with powerless despair in his young body. Seated two down from her son, Rhiannon inhaled sharply, a look of panic flashing across her face as she watched Oliver absorb Ezra’s comment. “He-- he doesn’t mean it, your majesty,” the queen mother stammered, her voice cracking. “Oh, no, Mother,” Oliver snapped, eyes glowing hot and furious as stoked coals. The king rose to his feet, clenching his hands into fists at his side as he did. “He did mean it. He always means it. Disrespectful brat! To question my authority and my godliness all at once? How dare you, Ezra?” Oliver took a step toward his brother, nostrils flaring. “Apologise to me. Now.” Ezra knew he was about to get it. Anna was looking at him with her jaw clenched desperately, while Lila’s eyes had settled firmly on her plate; the rest of the people at the table seemed just as horrified and dread-filled, their gazes cast anywhere but toward Ezra or Oliver. But in spite of this, and in spite of the obvious panic in his mother’s tone, Ezra did not apologize. He couldn’t. Not to this monster who was going to consign his little sister to a miserable life in the frozen north before she was even of age. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. But it was not at Oliver he was looking. It was at his mother. At Lila, and Elias, and Anna. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” “You can’t what?” Oliver rasped. Ezra looked up at his brother, blue eyes to green, and he glared. “I can’t apologize when I wouldn’t mean it. I can’t look you in the eye and smile and say ‘yes your highness’ because you told me once your subjects would respect you, but you don’t know what respect means. You’re not a king, you’re just a bully.” A more furious expression might have never been glimpsed before as Oliver nearly flew toward his brother, the heels of his shoes clicking loudly against the marble floor. In an instant the king’s fingers were lacing around the young teenager’s tunic collar, as Oliver hefted the boy bodily to his feet, dragging him back from the table. In the seat beside Ezra’s, young Elias let out a small whimper, his green eyes flashing with fear, while Rhiannon pressed an agonized hand to her forehead, as if she were in corporeal pain over what she knew was next to come. Ezra’s entire body tensed, his jaw locking and a flash of panic lighting in his eyes before he forced it back down to glare at his older brother. “You,” Oliver growled, “do not speak to me like that, Ezra. Not ever!” And with that, the king’s fist went flying, his knuckles connecting squarely with his little brother’s jaw. Ezra’s head snapped sideways with the force of the blow, his silken tunic still in Oliver’s hand ripping audibly as the young boy stumbled backwards. One of Oliver’s rings, an ornate piece studded with three bright rubies, caught on Ezra’s chin, tearing his face open jaggedly from the bottom of his jaw to his lip. Stunned momentarily, Ezra hung limply by the torn segment of his shirt that Oliver was still holding, his breath shallow and raspy with pain. If the king was bothered by the wounds on his brother’s face, however, he didn’t show it. Instead, as if Ezra disgusted him, he let go of the boy abruptly-- and then hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking back and forth between the bleeding teenager and the rest of his family members seated at the table. Most of them were still playing an intense game of pretending-not-to-notice what was happening before them… except, that was, for little Elias, the child seated only inches away from his elder brothers, and his wide eyes trained on the pair of them in something akin to panic. Disbelief. Horror. “What are you staring at?” Oliver snapped at the young boy. “I… I-- n-nothing,” Elias choked out, his jaw quavering. “Is that so?” Oliver cocked his head, seeming to deliberate for a moment. … And then, with a brief glance toward Ezra beside him, a sneer curved at the corners of his lips. “Did you just roll your eyes at me, Elias?” the king demanded. Elias had done no such thing, and shook his head quickly. “Nuh-uh,” he sputtered. “I d-didn’t!” “Oh, no,” Oliver snapped. “I think you did.” He motioned at the child. “Stand up. Right now.” Ezra, who had regained his senses enough to realize what was about to happen, sat bolt upright. “He didn’t do anything, leave him alone!” “Shut up, Ezra,” the king snarled. He reached for Elias’s arm, hefting the boy to his feet. “You rolled your eyes at me,” Oliver said again. “That’s not acceptable, Elias.” “I… I didn’t,” Elias bleated again, blinking back tears. “I promise, I didn’t!” A few seats over, Rhiannon looked like she was about to scream, the queen mother’s hands clenched so hard her fingernails had to be biting into her palms. Lila was visibly shaking, and Anna had turned nearly white under her bronze complexion, looking like she was about to be sick; nearly everybody at the table seemed close to losing at their game of pretend. Oliver, however, did not seem to care, a leer still etched across his face as he began to tow Elias toward the door. The king’s eyes, though, were cast not at his littlest brother, but toward Ezra on the floor, as he said, “I hate to interrupt breakfast, but this needs to be deal with. Do go ahead-- you can finish without me.” His voice was sugary sweet, almost cloying, as he added, “Don’t bleed on your plate, Ezra, hm?” Ezra watched Oliver drag Elias away, the cut and growing bruise on his face completely forgotten. His expression was one of horror, anguish, and wracking guilt. His blue eyes burned and blurred, and he made no effort to stem the tears that flowed over from them as he briefly met Elias’s eyes. The child stared back, crying now, only able to let out a small whimper as Oliver stepped out into the hall with him and slammed the dining room door shut behind them. Once they were gone, a silence hung in the air for several moments, thick as a fog-- until finally, Rhiannon broke it as she rose sharply to her feet and padded to Ezra’s side. Crouching, she set a delicate hand on her son’s back and brushed her other through his light brown hair. “Are you okay, baby?” the queen mother whispered. “Look at me. Let me see your face.” “He’s evil,” Ezra whispered back, his nose starting to run as he obeyed. “He’s a monster.” “I know, my love, I know.” Rhiannon swallowed hard. “And I’m so sorry. I…” She let out a frustrated hiss. “I wish I could take you to the healer’s but Oliver would know and--” She drew the boy close to her, planting a kiss atop his head. “You need to be more careful, honey. Please. About… about what you say to him, and…” Ezra choked on a sob. “Elias is gonna hate me. He’s gonna hate me. I said I w-would keep him safe, him and Anna and Lila and I got him h-hurt and-” “ No,” Rhiannon cut in. “He won’t hate you, Ez. I promise, he won’t. But…” Very, very gingerly, she turned the boy’s face toward her, so that their eyes met. “Promise me, Ezra. That you’ll… you’ll be more careful. Because I’m afraid that n-now, if either of us defies him, he’ll just…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the words that screamed through her head: He’ll just hurt the littler ones in retaliation. Ezra said nothing, but the defeat in his demeanor was plain to see. He slumped against his mother’s chest, quivering and sobbing, not seeming to notice or care that he was staining her dress with his blood. Across the table, in a voice that sounded near to tears itself, Anna asked, “Is Ez ok-kay Mama?” “Ez is okay,” Rhiannon lied, stroking her son’s hair. “Everything’s okay, Anna, I promise.” “I c-can’t go to Lange, Mama,” Lila whimpered. “ Please, d-don’t let him send me to Lange.” But to this… to this, the queen mother couldn’t force out a lie. Could only fight back a wrenching sob of her own as she murmured, “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.” Ezra wanted to howl his anguished rage, but he knew it would serve nothing. As the king, Oliver had no checks on his power. No one looking over his shoulder to make sure he never did anything cruel. He could, and would, do anything he wanted, for next to no reason. Any illusion Ezra’d had that he could protect his family was just that- an illusion. But if he couldn’t protect them, maybe he could still support them. Like his father had. Remind them that even if Oliver was cruel and petty, that all the world wasn’t- couldn’t- be like that. Give them hope to cling to. It wasn’t much. But it was all he had. Part TwoTime passed. As promised, Lila was duly sent off to Lange-- a grim occasion for all but Oliver, the king watching with an impertinent face as the rest of his family members and Lila bid each other teary goodbyes. For his part, Ezra was despairing, despondent, and bitter as all hell. But he fought the emotions back, forcing himself to focus instead on the family he still had- his mother, and his remaining siblings Anna and Elias.
Somewhat to Ezra’s surprise, Rhiannon had proved correct in her assessment that Elias would not blame Ezra for his punishment. The little boy, for better or worse, had not seemed to correlate his beating with Ezra’s actions, upset with Oliver for delivering the unwarranted punishment but harbouring no ill will toward Ezra. On the contrary, as time passed, the younger boy clung to Ezra more than he ever had, taking solace in his older brother’s comfort, his kindness, the way he fawned and fussed over him as Rafe had once upon a time. While Ezra was no substitute for a proper father, he was as close as Elias-- and Anna, for that matter-- had, particularly once Tyson married shortly after he came of age, and quickly moved with his new wife to an estate elsewhere in House Alaric’s lands.
The older boy didn’t at all begrudge Elias and Anna for clinging, glad to be able to give them some measure of comfort. The loss of his idealistic notions that he could in any way fight back against Oliver left Ezra with little comfort of his own; the idea that he could at least look after his brother and sister was all he had left.
Any notion that Oliver might ease his grip on the reigns once his family had fallen in line was swiftly disabused as the first year of his reign turned into two. The family soon learned to avoid him as best they could, defer to his orders and rages when they couldn’t avoid him, and accept whatever punishments he doled out without comment or complaint. Eventually, every member of the Alaric family had acquired scars on their backs or bottoms, though only Ezra was “blessed” enough to have a scar from his brother’s iron fisted discipline anywhere visible- two lines of puckered red-pink from his chin to his lip, where Oliver’s rings had caught his face during their confrontation over Lila. The wounds had never been given any treatment, and had left ugly permanent marks.
As the third year of Oliver’s reign neared, it brought with it another momentous event-- at least, for Ezra: the boy’s sixteenth birthday, when he’d officially come of age. Although he held no amity toward his brother, Oliver was never one to miss a lavish feast, the king inviting the whole court to wine and dine in the young prince’s honour. The main banquet hall was packed to the nines, decorated lavishly and with food and drink aplenty, and the king sat Ezra next to him at the high table, in the place of honour at his right hand.
“Are you enjoying the banquet, Ezra?” the king drawled midway through the night, as he took a sip from his wine goblet. He waved his hand, indicating the grandly decorated room around them. “As you can see, I spared no expense for my dearest brother.”
“It’s quite decadent, thank you,” Ezra replied levelly as he cut into a hearty serving of pork steak heavily seasoned with peppers, cinnamon and ginger and then all but drowned in plum sauce. “You do me an honor, your majesty.”
Ezra no longer dared to address his brother with anything other than the honorific, or in adventurous moments “my king.” He’d long learned better-- and every time his title dripped from his brother’s lips, Oliver still just barely refrained a pleased smirk. As if this were a sign of victory over Ezra. Proof that he’d won against his younger brother’s defiance, his insolence, his will.
“Speaking of honours.” The king smiled; the wine stains on his teeth could have passed for blood. “You are of age now, Ezra. You can hardly just spend your days in lessons like a child, no?”
The teenager felt a muscle in his back knot up as he remembered how Lila had been sent to Lange. Tyson’s impromptu marriage to the Kythian princess and eviction from the palace. Was Oliver going to find some way to remove Ezra as well? If he did, who’d look after Elias and Anna? Or Rhiannon for that matter.
“I… I suppose not,” he replied cautiously. “I must serve Courdon in some way, as is proper for a prince.”
“Of course,” Oliver agreed, his eyes glimmering drolly. He clearly knew he was making Ezra uncomfortable-- and was delighting in every moment of it. “Courdon comes first, after all.” The king pursed his lips. “And how,” he continued, “do you think you ought best serve Courdon, little brother?”
“I had not thought about it, your majesty,” Ezra replied- the truth. He’d been preoccupied with a dozen other things, and thinking about the future was hard when all he could see ahead were more bleak years under his brother’s thumb. “I… am Father’s third son. I am not much a lure for an alliance marriage. I am too young and inexperienced yet to serve a position in the court directly. I suppose I could apprentice as… a reeve, or a diplomat. Unless you had something in mind?”
Ezra was certain Oliver did. He wouldn’t have broached the subject in such a public venue otherwise.
Indeed, the king’s smile grew, predator-like now. “Ah,” he said, mock-solemn, “but if we sent you off to be a reeve or diplomat, then who would be here to play nursemaid to the little ones?” Oliver chuckled; the seemingly benign comment was clearly anything but. “I was thinking,” the king went on, “of what sort of posts might best suit your… strengths, dear brother. And after much deliberation, I came to a conclusion.”
Well at least it seemed that the king wasn’t sending his brother away from the palace. But Ezra didn’t like how his older brother’s leer made him feel like a rabbit watching a hawk wheel overhead, knowing it was going to stoop but not sure when the stoop would come. He set down his eating utensils, looking Oliver right in the eye with an expression of polite interest in spite of the way his nerves were humming. “Oh?”
“Oh, yes,” Oliver prattled on. “You see, watching you with the little ones made me realize what a caring person you are, Ezra. And so we wouldn’t want to squander that, would we?” The king beamed. “And so, I thought to myself: Why, how can I cultivate that talent in a position of the court?” He cocked his head. “Any guesses, brother?”
Daring to let a bit of dryness into his voice, Ezra remarked, “Well I hadn’t heard anything of you turning out Cassian’s nursemaid, so I’m afraid not. Unless you had some sort of marriage lined up for me after all.”
“Not a marriage,” Oliver said. “Only an appointment to an esteemed post.” A beat, as the king nearly quivered with wry anticipation; his voice was syrupy sweet as he finished, “How would you like to be the Master of the Horse, Ezra?”
Ezra blinked, caught very much off guard. Hesitantly, he said, “Ah… that would be the courtier responsible for… the stables of horses and gryphons, mews, kennels and maintenance of the House carriages, unless I misremember?”
Master of the Horse was, generally speaking, a very low-ranked position within the court, reserved for cadet line sons of minor nobles. Ezra very vaguely recalled the job being held by an uncle of the current lord of House Paige, which was a minimally influential House with holdings directly south of Alaric lands.
It was not a job for a prince.
From the grin on Oliver’s face, though, one hardly would have known such a thing. “You remember correctly,” the king agreed. “Won’t it be lovely, Ezra? Given your propensity for the care and keeping of living things.” He laughed, as if there were no real difference between their little siblings and animals. “I think it’s a post that’s just right for someone like you, brother. Don’t you agree?” There was a note of threat to this last question.
“Of course, my king,” Ezra replied automatically, though he was looking down at his plate now and not meeting Oliver’s eye. “You are most considerate to put so much thought into this on my behalf.”
Petty jerk more like it. I should arrange for a hound to find its way into your bed to show my gratitude.
“Excellent,” Oliver intoned. He took another sip of his wine, eyes still glinting. “Tonight, of course, is for celebrating-- but tomorrow I’ve arranged for you to spend the day being shown about the kennels and mews and such.” He flicked his gaze briefly toward Elias and Anna, seated several chairs down. “Why, perhaps you can even show the little ones your new little ones. I’m sure they’d enjoy a tour, Ezzy. Petting the ponies and all those fun things.”
Anna ducked her head, murmuring something that might have been a thanks for the “generous” invitation had it been in any way audible over the din in the banquet hall, while Elias only gave a short nod of his head, daring to meet Oliver’s eyes for only a moment before he averted it again. Ezra forced a smile.
“I’ll be glad to have them along,” he said lightly. “And I truly hope that I may prove myself the equal to the faith you have in me.”
“A toast to that,” Oliver returned, raising his wine goblet and holding it out toward Ezra. “To your sixteenth birthday, little brother.”
Ezra lifted his own goblet, letting it clink against Oliver’s. As he sipped the wine in his glass, he reflected on how in his childhood he’d occasionally enthused about being a minister like his father’s siblings, or an advisor of some kind. Now, thanks to his brother’s pettiness, he was in a position that no doubt would have baffled and horrified Rafe.
And yet, if only just to spite the king, Ezra was determined to make the best of it.
The following day, somewhat to Ezra’s vindication, he left for his tour with Anna and Elias as Oliver was ordering a slave to fetch a headache potion from the healers.
“Seems our dear brother imbibed a little too much wine in his ‘triumph’ last night,” Ezra remarked under his breath in grim satisfaction as the siblings emerged into the courtyard that would lead to the stables.
“At least he’ll probably spend all day shut up in his chambers,” Elias pointed out. “And he won’t bother us.” The boy grinned toward Anna. “Maybe we can play out in the gardens. After Ez shows us his ponies and puppies.”
Anna gave a shy smile of her own, green eyes glimmering. “Maybe. After all we can’t go with him when he tours the mews and gryphon stables, we’re too little still.”
“That’s right, you are,” Ezra said, holding his nose high with exaggerated haughtiness. “I am a man now, and that means you children must behave yourselves if you want the privilege of playing outside today.”
Elias snorted, offering his brother a shallow bow. “We’ll be really good, your highness,” the boy chirped. He jabbed playfully at Ezra’s arm. “Or should I say, Master of the Horses!”
Any attempt to simulate adulthood was lost when Ezra stuck his tongue out at his younger brother. “Could’ve been worse, I guess. He could’ve actually made me Cassian’s nursemaid. Or appointed me to the new kid Zaria’s dropping in a few months.”
“Aw, I bet the new baby will love you,” Anna said with a giggle. “You’re the keeper of the cuddly puppies!”
“At least you get to stay here,” Elias added. “At the palace. With us. Not… not like Cleo. Or Tyson. Or…” He sighed. “Or Lila.”
Ezra paused midstep, looked down at his brother sadly. “Yeah. And… I am glad about that. I thought for sure he’d send me off as a diplomat to Thylle or something to get rid of me for a minute there.”
“He might still send me to Thylle,” Anna said glumly. “Once I’m older. He’ll marry me somewhere horrible, I just know it.”
“M-maybe he won’t,” Elias murmured, swallowing hard. “You could marry someone nice. Who’ll treat you good. And… and let you visit still, sometimes.”
Anna didn’t look at all hopeful, but she muttered a soft, “Maybe,” regardless. Ezra winced, reaching out a hand to his sister’s shoulder.
“Hey, you don’t turn sixteen for another four years still- don’t worry about it too much. I really don’t think Oliver would be so stupid as to send the only sister he has left for a political alliance away to a foreigner before she’s of-age. He’s petty, but even he has to realize keeping his lords happy is more important than being a jerk for the sake of being a jerk.”
“Uh-huh,” Elias agreed. “You’ll get a good husband, Anna. I know it.”
At this point, the trio had rounded the corner to where the royal stables were maintained. The complex was a huge one, with the stables themselves, large paddocks for riding, feed barns, and housing for the staff. Waiting outside was Lord Paige, who took the royals on a tour of the premises before leaving them to their own devices as he departed for the kennels- telling them to meet him there once they’d finished up a “personal inspection.”
“Y’know,” Ezra remarked as he stood outside the stall of a piebald shire horse that was used to pull the house carriages on long trips, “I suppose it really could be worse. This is a dumb job, but… I do like horses.” He reached up to rub the piebald’s nose, and the young gelding whickered down at the prince, leaning into his hand.
“And you get to play with puppies,” Elias chirped. “When the hounds have litters. And you’ll know all the dogs, so you can pick the best when we go hunting!”
Ezra laughed. “I doubt I’ll be playing with the puppies much- a lot of my job will be tallying accounts for supplies and checking on new purchases and all that. And it’s the Master of the Hunt who picks the hounds that go out hunting. I can advise on that score but I’m not the final authority.” He ruffled his brother’s blonde hair. “There’s a reason Oliver was so smug about giving me this job- I have next to no real influence over much of anything.”
“Well at least you can spend time with the animals,” Anna said, offering a carrot to a grey mare in a nearby stall. “Horses and hounds are way better company than a lot of the courtiers.”
“And better company than being with Oliver,” Elias muttered. He drifted toward a roan gelding nearby, mindlessly reaching up and offering it his hand; the horse sniffed him, its tail swishing, then turned away. “And the gryphons are cool,” the boy added. “Maybe you can take ‘em flyin’ sometimes. Just for fun.”
“Maybe,” Ezra agreed. “I prefer horses to gryphons, they’re nicer, but flying is fun.” He chuckled. “Y’know by the time I’m twenty and I have to do my obligate year of military service, I’m going to be so good with horses and gryphons that I’ll be a demon in the cavalry.”
If Ezra had expected Elias to grin at this, however, the older boy was mistaken; instead, his younger brother’s face abruptly fell, the child biting down hard on his lip as he murmured, “Y-yeah. I guess. That’ll be… neat.”
Ezra blinked, letting his hand fall away from the piebald’s nose and turning to face Elias. “...Eli? What’s the matter?”
“I dunno.” The littler boy shrugged. “I just… I…” He met Ezra’s eyes, reluctantly. “You’re gonna… leave,” he said. “Once you’re twenty. And… a couple months after that, me and Anna will turn sixteen, and… and she’ll probably get married, and she’ll leave, too. And then it’ll be me. Just me. H-here.”
“Oh…” Ezra swallowed hard. He hadn’t even considered that, but Elias was right. All Courdonian noblemen were obligated to fulfill a year of military service at twenty- it was the law, and not even royals were exempt from it. But while he was away for that year, it was a year Elias would be completely on his own, with no one but their mother and Oliver.
A chilling thought.
“Eli…” Anna murmured, putting a hand on her brother’s shoulder hesitantly. “It’s… it’s awful, but… at least it’s only for a year, right? Then you’ll have Ezra back again.”
Elias shrugged. “I g-guess. But… a year is-- a l-long time. And Oliver… Oliver is…”
“You could come with me,” Ezra said suddenly. “If… if you wanted.”
“Go with you?” Anna repeated. “B-but he’d only be sixteen!”
“So what?” Ezra retorted. “You don’t have to wait until you’re twenty to join the military, that’s just when you legally have to. If you want, you can join up as soon as you’re of age. And… and I could stay past just a year. Until Eli is twenty-one and has finished his legal requirement year.”
“I… I could, couldn’t I?” Elias smiled softly. “And… he couldn’t hurt either of us there. When we’re away. And he can’t e-even be mad about it ‘cos-- ‘cos it’s honourable, it’s… it’s noble and-- if he pitched a fit about it, it’d be shameful. People would talk.” The boy giggled. “And you know Ollie hates when people talk.”
Ezra smirked. “If he tried to stop us, or drag us back, it would look cowardly. Like he favors his own family members over the better good of Courdon.” His smile faded and more seriously the older boy added, “You don’t have to decide right now, of course. It’s just an idea. The army’s not exactly a fun vacation, if we stay for a long time we’d probably end up seeing a lot more action than most nobles do. They’re not gonna shelter us because of our family names forever. But… we could still pull strings. Make sure wherever we’re stationed, we go there together. And we wouldn’t have to be alone.”
“Anywhere is better than here,” Elias said. “And… as long as we’re together…” He took a few steps back toward his brother, setting a ginger hand on Ezra’s arm, before he glanced sidelong at Anna. “We’ll all get away. Anna c-can get a good husband, and me and Ez will go to the military, and… and we won’t have to be here anymore. With him.”
“What about Mama?” Anna whispered. “She’ll be all alone.”
“We should probably talk to her,” Ezra agreed. “If we decide to do it. But… I think she’d be glad, in a way. If we could get out of Oliver’s reach. Like Cleo and Tyson.”
Elias nodded. “Uh-huh. Mama… Mama just wants us to be happy. And… if we got away from Oliver, I think that’d make her relieved. ‘Cos he can’t hurt us anymore.”
The girl’s throat quavered, and abruptly she hugged both of her brothers. “You’ll… you’ll visit me, right? Wherever I get married? After you’re in the army.”
“Uh-huh,” Elias promised. “You’re my twin, Anna. I’ll always visit you. As much as I can. I promise.” He looked to Ezra. “And Ez, too. We’ll always find ways to be together. All of us. I know it.”
Ezra nodded, hugging his little sister in return. “Papa would’ve wanted us to look after each other. So that’s what we’re gonna do, no matter what. We can’t stop him, but we… we can keep him from breaking us. Like he wants to.”
“He can only break us if we let him,” Elias whispered. “And I won’t. Not ever. I’m-- I’m gonna be a soldier, and… I’m going to be happy, and… Ollie can’t stop me. No matter what he does.”
Ezra nodded firmly, then suddenly grinned. “And hey, maybe I can arrange for you to get some extra time with the horses- and the gryphons once you’re a little older. So when we do finally go, you’ll be just as much of a demon in the cavalry as me.”
Anna giggled, pulling away and poking Elias. “First he has to learn to take a jump on a horse without his knuckles going white from gripping too hard.”
“You talk like you could do it better,” Elias snorted, jabbing her back.
“I don’t have to,” Anna retorted. “Mama would kill me if I did trick riding, I’d muss my skirts.”
Ezra laughed. “You can play with the puppies, Anna. Elias and I will do the horses and gryphons.” He smirked. “Ollie thinks he got the better of me, but instead he gave me a way for us to escape. He’s not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.”
“No,” Elias agreed. “He’s not. And… no matter what he does, w-we’ve got each other. And that’s what counts. Right?”
“Yeah,” Ezra agreed. “You’re right Eli. Even if Oliver doesn’t know what it means to be a family, we do. And that’s all that matters.”
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Post by Avery on Dec 4, 2015 17:26:37 GMT -5
Redemption - Late 1347 (collab with Elcie) Matteus Alaric was not quite sure when the idea first occurred to him. Certainly not that night, as he’d watched his brother and father both convulsing on the parlour floor. Nor in the days that immediately followed, with Cassian hovering so close to death, pale and fragile as a skein of silk as he lay unconscious in bed. Maybe the first inkling came at the funeral. When Cassian blinked as if to stifle back tears, making a convincing show of it from afar-- but Matteus, only inches from him, could clearly see there was no moisture in his brother’s sea green eyes. Not a single drop. And if not right there, then perhaps afterward: at the coronation, when cool and suave Cassian trembled-- only briefly, but trembled all the same-- as he knelt and the crown was gingerly placed upon his head. Or a few weeks after that, when the new king suddenly and brightly announced that Julia was to marry-- of all people-- Lord Augustin Altair. Matteus knew about Julia and Gus, of course. Had been there at their wedding, and held their small son, Dorian, but days after his birth. But Cassian should not know. Nor would he ever have orchestrated such a match all on his lonesome. Which was when the gears began to churn in Matteus’s head, shifting like a house settling in the cold. He remembered, suddenly, the feast where he’d caught Julia attempting to signal the Branded Lord. And the way his brother had-- where he’d never dared before-- begun that past winter to interfere when Oliver tried to strike Julia. Julia, who’d never before meted so much as a raised eyebrow from Cassian. Julia, who’d dabbled in subterfuge throughout the entire latter half of the rebel’s war. Who knew more about ciphers, and deception, and all ilks of poison, than had nearly any person else in the Branded Lord’s army. Then Matteus recalled the way Cassian had snatched the tumbler of brandy out of his hand that night, just before everything went to hell. His older brother smiling lightly. His brow stippled with sweat. His words breezy, but in retrospect, something furtive underscoring all that he said. And then Matteus knew. Like a flash of lightning suddenly illuminating the bleak horizon that had been hiding there all along: Matteus knew. ** As the king of Courdon, Cassian was rarely alone. Courtiers, servants, knights: some arrangement of company always trailed the monarch as might shadows, so that his ear was seldom just his ear, his presence hardly ever just his presence. The usual exception to this rule was when the king had a backlog of paperwork, which he preferred to tackle in peace and solitude; but even so he’d commence this activity with guards posted outside his office door, the men commanded to refuse any visitor who might attempt entry. Matteus was well-prepared to argue with these guards. The prince, only seventeen, balled his hands into anxious fists as he approached the pair of sentinels, his blond brow knitted and his lips flattened into a tight, thin line. At his presence, the guards dipped their heads into brief bows but did not step aside, Cassian’s orders-- as always-- overriding any that Matteus might issue. “I need to speak to my brother,” Matteus said anyway. “Now.” “He’s requested privacy, your highness,” replied one of the guards, politely but still very firmly. “I don’t think you understand,” Matteus rebutted. “I’m not asking to see Cassian. I am telling you that I’m seeing him.” He squared his jaw. “Now let me in.” “Your highness--” “I’m not joking.” “Yes, but--” “Step aside.” “I can’t--” “You bloody well can.” Matteus took a step forward. A warning step-- --and had to bite his tongue to keep from flinching as, the moment he did, the door to Cassian’s office was wrenched open from inside, banging against the wall behind from the sheer force of the pull. “Did I not make it perfectly clear that I was not to be disturbed?” Cassian snapped acidly, though the anger on his face softened to mild irritation as his eyes fell on his brother. “What is it, Matteus? You know better than to pick a fight with my guards.” Matteus bristled. “I need to talk to you,” he said, brushing between the guards, whose heads had instantly snapped into deep bows at the king’s presence. “Alone. Right now.” As though he half-expected an argument, he added after a moment, “And no, it can’t wait, my king.” “Could you not have chosen a time when I wasn’t already occupied?” Cassian said, rather peevishly, but he stepped back, allowing Matteus access to the door. “Very well. Step inside and we’ll talk.” Wordlessly, Matteus obliged, shouldering into the room before, with a sharp kick, he edged the door shut behind him. It was a heavy door-- oak, with intricately carved panels bearing fleur de lis carvings-- and the guards would never dare press an ear against it to eavesdrop, but still once it was closed Matteus strode away from it, heading towards Cassian’s desk on the opposite side of the room. For a moment he paused as though to sit but then quickly decided better of it, instead turning on his heel to face his brother. Their eyes met, and Matteus jutted his chin, a new hot flare of rage sparking in him. “You killed Father,” the young prince said. “You and Julia. Didn’t you?” Ice seemed to flood Cassian’s veins at the words. How Matteus had found out, he could not begin to guess, but he couldn’t afford to confirm the boy’s suspicions. It was too dangerous, even now, for his brother to know anything. “I realize you are upset,” he said coldly, his face a frozen mask. “But that is no reason to make such treasonous accusations, Matteus. I trust you remember I am not only your brother, but your king.” “Are you threatening me?” Matteus laughed. “Cut the verbiage, Cass. You killed him. You did it. Don’t bloody deny it like I’m some idiot who’ll just roll over and slink off with my tail between my legs! I’m not afraid of you, Cassian. So let me try this again.” He was nearly vibrating with rage. “ You killed him. You and Julia. Didn’t you?” “I am not discussing this with you, Matteus,” Cassian said, his jaw clenched. “This is not something you need to concern yourself with--” “Fine.” Matteus laughed, shrilly. “If you want to play this game, then I can play, too, Cass. You don’t want to discuss it with me? Then I’ll go discuss it elsewhere.” Sharply, he took a step back toward the door, then several more, attempting to brush by his brother. “Perhaps to the court personnel whom you’ve appointed to find Father’s assassins! I’m sure they would love to hear!” Cassian started after Matteus, grabbing for his arm. “You’re being foolish,” he snapped. “This kingdom - this family - is fragile enough after all that has happened. Do you really want to make that worse, spreading--” He faltered, not quite able to call it spreading lies. It was one thing to hide the assassination plot from his brother, but it was far more difficult to glibly deny the truth with Matteus’s furious, accusing eyes locked on his. The king struggled to keep his composure. “Tearing me down will solve nothing, Matteus, and I think you know that.” “Let go of me,” Matteus snapped, attempting to wrench out of Cassian’s hold. But his brother was much stronger, and the king held firm, if anything his grip only tightening. “So what, Cassy? If I tell, you’ll kill me, too? After our father, what’s one more relative, right? As long as you can have the godsdamned throne for your selfish, insufferable arse.” “Don’t you dare,” Cassian said, his voice so low it was nearly a growl. “It was never for me. Father was poison to Courdon - to his own kin - Mattie, you know. He hurt every godsdamned person he could get his hands on. Can you honestly say you’d want that back?” “ He hurt everyone?” Matteus laughed again. Miserably. Incredulously. “Are you serious right now, Cassian?” With his free hand, the prince shoved his brother’s chest. “Growing up, I was just as terrified of you as I was of him. You’ve slapped me! You’ve beaten me! I have scars because of you, Cassian. And you think I’m… I’m supposed to be comforted by the fact that you murdered our father? Dear gods, you’re just as crazy as he was! But at least he didn’t pretend like he was virtuous, or doing anything for my own good!” Cassian nearly flinched. “I- I’m not trying to deny that,” he said, holding his brother’s accusing gaze with some difficulty. “I wanted to be like him, I aspired to it. But when I finally saw what he was, what he was making me…” The king’s expression hardened. “Hate me for it if you want. Gods know I may never be able to atone for everything I’ve done to my own kin. But Father - what I did…” He shook his head. “Remorse means nothing on its own, Matt,” he said softly. “I had to act.” “At least that’s a start of an admission,” Matteus hissed. Tears were beginning to burn in his eyes now. Angry and miserable and raw. “But I want you to say it, Cass. Say it. What you did. And that you’re sorry for how you’ve treated me. Treated everyone.” “...I killed him.” The blunt confession weighed heavily on Cassian’s tongue. It was surprisingly difficult to finally voice aloud. “And I - I can’t apologize for that, but I am sorry for what I did to you, Matteus - you, Julia, Saf…” Slowly, hesitantly, he took his hand away from his brother’s arm and stepped back a pace, praying the prince would not run after all. Then he knelt down, as if he were not king at all, only a lord swearing fealty. “I’m not going to hurt you again, Matt,” he said softly. “Whatever else you do, even if you hate me… at least believe me on this. You have my word.” Matteus blinked sharply, a leaden lump strangling his throat. “I trusted you, Cass. Did you know that?” he asked. “When I was little. The first time you belted me…” The teenager shuddered, as if even now the memory spurred in him physical pain. “I didn’t get it, Cass. Why you would do that. And-- it wasn’t even that you did it. It was that you didn’t even seem to care that you were doing it. You showed no remorse. You… you gave me no comfort. I was five-years-old, and I was sobbing on the floor, and what did you do? Did you hug me? Soothe me? No. You glowered down and told me that only babies cried.” Shakily, the prince brought a hand up to his damp cheek. “Guess I’m still that baby, huh, my king?” “No,” Cassian said, his voice oddly strangled. “No, that was never your fault, I… gods, I was never much of a brother to you. To any of you.” The king stood, and after a moment’s hesitation wrapped his arms around Matteus and pulled him into a fierce hug. He could not remember having ever embraced his younger brother like this, and the realization was somehow crushing. Would it have killed him, proud fool that he was, to have shown his little siblings some affection? To have wiped away their tears, or comforted them when they were hurt? “I’m sorry,” the king of Courdon whispered, his hands shaking slightly as he held his youngest brother in a long-overdue embrace. “I’m so, so sorry, Matteus.” Matteus stiffened, stunned. Cassian-- gods, had Cassian ever hugged him before? Part of him wanted to shove away. Knee Cassian where it hurt and snap at him that he had no right, to embrace him like this after all he’d done. What gall the king had. What selfish, shallow, callous gall-- Instead, Matteus found himself choking back an outright sob. His chest heavy as lead as he leaned forward, burying his face against the king’s elaborate tunic. “Do you even understand, Cass?” he stammered. “Do you even know what it was like for me? You were Father’s favourite. His prize. And I… I was just… just…” He laughed again. “I felt safer with the rebels than I ever did in this palace, Cass. With you.” “I was a fool,” Cassian said bluntly. “I… worshipped him. All I ever wanted was to be just like him.” He gave a short, choked laugh. “And it never even occurred to me that he could be wrong, Matt. He told me to beat my five-year-old brother bloody and I did it, without question, like a slave. Blind, arrogant fool!” His voice was harsh and bitter, and despite himself Cassian felt his eyes begin to sting. He squeezed them shut, bowing his head over his brother’s shoulder. “So what, then, Cass?” Matteus whispered. “You… you killed him to protect me? Because instead of just saying sorry like a normal person, you-- murdered our father and nearly killed me in the process, then left me terrified afterward as I thought there was an assassin lurking the palace? Who’d seemingly tried to kill you, too? Who might hurt me next?” He looked up at his brother, his entire expression smoldering even as Cassian still held him close in the hug. “Were you ever going to tell me? Did you not stop for a second throughout the entire time it took you to the plot, or this time after, to think I had a right to know?” Disgust suddenly surged through him as something else occurred to the prince. “Your… your children were there, Cassian. Your children! I held your screaming toddler in my arms!” Cassian winced, and at the mention of his children he looked away. “It was far safer for you not to know,” he said. “The fewer who were involved, the better - and I was not about to put you at risk. It could have gone too badly wrong. It did go wrong, for all we succeeded.” He sighed, still unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “I… didn’t want the children there. Or you, or Mother. But it was the best chance I’d had, Matt. Gods knew when I would get another one, or how many welts Titus would have earned by the time I did.” Anger crept back into his voice with these last words. Finally pulling out of Cassian’s hold, Matteus swallowed hard. “I could tell, Cassian,” the prince said softly. He didn’t seem to mean this as a threat, or even a warning. Merely… a fact. Like that it was raining outside, or lemons were sour. “I think I could make a good case for it, too, couldn’t I? Without even having to implicate Julia. It… makes a certain kind of sense. And-- if you were shown to be an assassin… you’d be stricken from the line. Titus, too. All your boys. Which would leave… well, it’d leave me.” Even as Cassian refused to look at him, Matteus stared his brother straight on. “Tell me why I shouldn’t, Cass. Convince me that you’ve changed. That you’re not the same insufferable monster who beat your five-year-old brother bloody and yelled at him when he lay crying on the floor.” It was the challenge Julia had given him all those months ago, but a thousand times more dangerous. Cassian swallowed, and forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes. “How?” he said softly. “I want you to trust me, Matt. More than anything. I want to earn that. But I…” He could not deny that he had not earned it yet, and could only guess at what it would take for his younger brother to let go of his well-deserved anger. He had never been good at this. “You can do whatever you want, you know,” he added. “I’m not going to try and control you. And I will do my best to stand behind you, whatever it is. If you wanted a position in court, I…” The king paused, something else occurring to him. “Or an estate of your own,” he said slowly. “Talvace… the inheritance still hasn’t been settled, and you’ve a claim through Mother. You could have a future, Matteus. Be more than a cadet son - I could help you do that. I will, if you’ll allow me.” “ I have a claim?” Matteus countered. “Not really, Cass. I’m not next in line for it. And I think deep down you know that.” Smiling grimly, the young prince went on, “You want to show me that you’re different, Cassy? That you want to treat your siblings better? Then prove it to me. Offer Talvace to the person who really ought be next in line for it. The other brother you tormented all his life without remorse. And who even now you’re letting live as a peasant in a foreign kingdom rather than make amends.” A smoldering beat, before Matteus tacked on: “His son died recently. Did you know that? Or were you even aware he had a son? His name was Robert. He was a year and a half old. Drowned. Horrible accident. Your baby brother has been devastated. And I doubt you even knew of your nephew’s existence.” Cassian sucked in a breath and then let it out slowly, his brow furrowed. For a moment, he couldn’t answer. He had not really thought about Gerard since the end of the war, after the Branded Lord had refused to hand over the renegade Alaric. It had been a relief, in a way, to let Gerard’s existence slip out of his awareness. He’d once been convinced he hated his half-brother. With a start, the king realized he was no longer quite sure if that was true. His son. He had a son. And though Cassian wanted to protest that this was none of his concern, he could not bring himself to say it. “It’s… different with Gerard,” Cassian said, slowly and carefully. “He chose to leave, Mattie. And he’s not really…” “Not really what?” Matt insisted. “He’s your brother, Cassian. Mother’s son. And”-- the prince jabbed a finger at the king’s chest-- “ unlike you, he was a good brother to me, growing up. That day you beat you me bloody when I was five and yelled at me for crying-- after you’d swaggered off, do you know who it was that finally picked me up, Cass? Who kissed my forehead and told me it was going to be okay, that I was a good boy, that he loved me? He let me fall asleep in his room. Stroked my hair until I finally nodded off. What were you doing then, Cass? Knocking back brandy with Father? Strutting about the palace with a smug smile on your face?” Cassian’s mouth thinned into a taut line. “I doubt he would want to hear from me, in any case,” he said. “He has a new life now, a new family. He has no reason to speak to the half-brother who helped Father make his life hell.” “You really don’t know him at all, do you?” Matteus accused. “ All he ever wanted in life was to be accepted by our family. To be loved. To get just an itty bitty taste of all the kinship rhetoric the priests at temple services were always preaching about. He never felt like he belonged, Cassian. Ever. He was miserable, and lonely, and--” The prince had to cut himself off to keep his voice from growing shrill. “He went to Kyth because he was terrified that if he stayed in Courdon, he’d end up with his head cut off sooner than later. And as you said, he has children now. A family. He couldn’t risk it. But you’re truly the selfish prat you claim you aren’t if you pretend like you’re not contacting him on his own behalf. No, Cass. It’s not for him. It’s because you’re a bloody coward.” The king bristled at this, his body tensing. “You come dangerously close to overstepping your bounds, Matteus,” he snapped. But instead of advancing on his brother, he took a step back, running his hand over his face. “He was… right, you know,” he murmured. “What Father would have done to him if he’d gotten his hands on him…” There was a time when Cassian himself would have done the same. Now, it seemed pointless. When had Gerard ever been a threat to him? “I don’t want him dead,” Cassian muttered. “And I’m… glad, I suppose, that he’s wound up safe in Kyth. But if I reached out to him now - Matt, what could I possibly say? That after all these years, I suddenly want to be friends? Even when we were children, I could never let him forget he was only my half-brother.” It pained him to remember, how bluntly he’d used that fact against Gerard. Even when it was not laid out in the open it sat like an invisible wall between them, unspoken but undeniable, until Cassian could see Gerard in no other light. “He’ll think I’m lying, trying to trap him, and honestly? I wouldn’t blame him.” The king let out a bitter laugh. “He has even less reason to trust me than you do.” “Then tell him you’re sorry,” Matteus hissed. “And show him it’s true. That he’s your brother, no godsdamned qualifiers added to it.” The king’s younger brother paused for a moment, as if deep in thought, before gazing down at his hands. The fingers of both were studded with glimmering rings. “He has three daughters. And his wife’s pregnant again. Those are your nieces, Cassian. Just as much as Saf’s kids, or Sabine’s.” Slowly, Matteus reached out toward his brother, tapping the heavy House ring the king wore; like his own, it sported the likeness of a crown-wearing gryphon. “Royal Alaric. Male line grandchildren of a monarch. Do you know what it would mean to Gerard, if you acknowledged that?” Cassian let out a long breath, his brow furrowed. “There’d be talk, after all this time,” he said pensively. “Though nothing I could not manage. We titled the godsdamned Branded Lord, after all, it’s not as if Gerard is…” He stopped short, the words he hadn’t spoken aloud weighing heavily on his tongue. Gerard was not a slave, and yet Cassian had often treated him as if he were little better. As if he were not, like Cassian himself, a royal-born son of Queen Zaria Alaric. And suddenly Cassian found that he’d made up his mind, without even quite realizing it. “I’d have to prove to him I was in earnest,” the king said. “Something to show him it’s not a… a cruel joke, at best.” His eyes dropped to his own House ring, glittering on his finger. It could be a start. “He has three daughters,” Matteus said again. “And a fourth child on the way. You know what their blood entitles them to, don’t you, Cass?” The prince pursed his lips. “Those are your nieces.” A beat. “Do you even know their names, Cassian? Or how old they are?” “His oldest girls are… Aislin and Corbin,” Cassian said slowly. That much, at least, he knew; their early lives had been spent in Courdon, during the rebellion. He did not say that the entire reason he knew was from military intelligence, his father’s spies piecing together information about the Branded Lord’s family. “His youngest-- no. No, I don’t know.” His mouth twisted, as if he’d bitten into something bitter. Gerard would probably be glad to know that his older brother knew so little of his family. “Of course I would have to title them as well, if I restored Gerard’s position. And his wife. If… if he accepts it.” That, of course, was the biggest if. Whatever Matteus said, Cassian could not quite imagine why Gerard would give up his safe haven in Kyth to return the family that had done nothing but hurt him. Perhaps if he were on his own, but with a family… The idea that Gerard would trust Cassian around his daughters seemed laughable. Not after what Cassian had done to his own brothers and sisters. “And Aislin?” Matteus returned. “Do you know about, ah-- her background, Cass? If you were to restore Gerard’s title… would you have issues with her? Because if you did…” He shrugged. “Well, then I guess you’re not such a different man than you used to be, right?” Cassian frowned. “She’s… not his, is she?” he said carefully. It was all speculation, but he knew that his brother’s oldest daughter was fair when both her parents were dark. It was highly unlikely that both of them were related to her by blood. Beyond that, he couldn’t say; the child, kept safely sequestered in cities controlled by the rebellion, had not been terribly important to the crown’s military intelligence. “She was born in late 1339,” Matteus said. “Gerard didn’t join the rebellion until 1340.” He narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing. “No, Cass. She’s not his, not by blood. Aislin is-- blonde. Dark blonde, almost strawberry blonde. Much fairer of complexion than either Gerard or his wife.” A pause, deliberately cut. “She has green eyes. Same shade as mine.” The king’s brow furrowed, considering what that might mean. The color of Matteus’s eyes, the same as the late King Oliver’s… “She’s… kin of yours?” he said slowly. “Of ours?” “She’s Father’s,” Matteus said simply. “So by blood, I suppose that makes her our baby sister, Cassian. Though of course, she’s too little to understand the… full intricacies of her paternity. She sees Gerard as her papa, and his wife as her mama. She’s as much their daughter as are either of the other girls.” Cassian’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, understanding what Matteus meant, why his brother had given him that sharp look at the mention of his oldest niece. Aislin was not merely illegitimate; she was the child of a slave, like Gerard himself. Worse than that, really. Alaric blood ran through her veins, but it was blood that could never be acknowledged. That would be unthinkable. At least, it would have been to Oliver. “If Gerard is my brother,” Cassian said slowly, simply, “then I suppose that makes her my niece.” It didn’t mean there wouldn’t be talk; her coloring meant there would undoubtedly be speculation about her true parentage, and there was likely a child’s brand still imprinted on the sole of her foot. But gossip was something Cassian had already accepted as an inevitability - there would be those who objected even to Gerard alone, let alone his family - and it was not something he particularly feared. If there was one thing he ought to be able to do for his family, it was to give them the status their blood merited, to protect them from the abuse Gerard had suffered growing up. He was too late to change what he’d done to Gerard, but at least Aislin could have a good life as a princess of Courdon. “Yes,” Matteus agreed. “She’s your niece. All those girls are. Show Gerard you understand that, Cass. Prove it to him.” “I will,” Cassian said, meeting his brother’s eyes steadily. He meant it. “I’ll send him a… a token of my acknowledgement. House rings for the girls, I suppose, that is long overdue. And if he responds--” The king paused, and swallowed hard. “He’d still have every right to refuse this, you know,” he murmured. “I don’t really expect…” “Maybe he’ll refuse it.” Matteus shrugged. “Maybe he won’t. What matters is that you make the effort, Cass. That you leave the choice up to him, instead of deciding for him.” He thought for a moment. “Send a letter, too. With the rings. Apologize to him, as you’ve done to me. It won’t be as good as an in-person apology would be, but… it’s something. And it’s more than he’s ever gotten from you.” “He deserves more,” Cassian murmured. “But… I will make amends with him. I’ll try. If he lets me.” He swallowed, his brow furrowed as he looked at his brother. Tentatively, the king put one hand on Matteus’s shoulder. “And Matt… I’m… I’m sorry it took this long. For both of you.” “I’m sorry, too,” Matteus said. “But… you’re making amends now. And-- as long as you stick with it, Cassian… as long as you prove to-- to Gerard, to me, to all of us that you’re different now. For the long run…” The prince looked his brother straight on. “You can’t change what you’ve done in the past, Cass. But you can be better in the future. You owe it to everyone. To yourself.” Cassian managed a wan smile at this, Matteus’s first concession that perhaps the king did have a chance of changing. “I hope so,” he said softly, letting his hand drop away from the boy’s shoulder. For a moment he was silent, looking pensive. “I’m not expecting forgiveness, Matt, or even trust,” he said finally. “All I ask is a… a chance. Anything more - only let me earn it.” Here, Matteus let a nearly teasing smile creep between his lips. “Of course, my king,” the teenager drawled. “Your wish is my command.”
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Post by Avery on Dec 25, 2015 16:38:11 GMT -5
Reunion - March 1348, Medieville (collab with Shinko) The Pearblossom Inn was buzzing with activity.
Shortly before sunset on a cool April day, only a week or so after the final drifts of snow had finally melted from Medieville’s roads, the lodge’s well-appointed dining room was heavily filled. A mix of travelers and city residents occupied the maze of rustic wood tables, casual diners and overnight guests chattering animatedly amongst themselves as they chowed down on steaming bowls of pottage and washed back frothing mugs of ale. A fiddler played near the head of the room, a tip jar positioned at his feet, wearing a gap-toothed smile as he cut a jaunty song. Several of his strings were out of tune. They grated squeakily with each stroke of his bow, like a boot-heel rubbing against a newly polished floor.
While most of the patrons were variably flitting their eyes between the musician and the other guests who were seated around them, the tall, dark-haired man who sat at a booth in the back corner of the room was staring elsewhere. As a drunken Bernian woman called out for the fiddler to “play something better, ye sorry lout!”, the dark-haired man’s gaze was settled firmly on the dining room’s entryway, his lips pursed and his brow furrowed. Each time somebody new entered, his Adam’s apple bobbed, and something strange-- almost hopeful-- flared in his dark brown eyes before he abruptly blinked it away. There was a tureen in front of him, filled with pottage and a spoon handle peeking out from it like a flag planted on a battlefield, but from the looks of it he hadn’t touched the dish once.
“Papa.” The young girl who was seated beside him, her strawberry blonde hair plaited over her shoulder in one long stalk, scowled as she glanced over at his bowl. “You’re not eating. Why aren’t you eating?”
He averted his eyes from the doorway just long enough to spare the child a wan smile. “Sorry, Aislin. Papa’s distracted.”
“It’s getting cold,” his daughter pointed out; her own serving of pottage was almost halfway devoured.
“I’ll eat in a bit, Ash,” he assured her. Then, after a hesitant beat: “After they get here.”
“They’re already late,” Aislin said sourly. “I wish they’d come already.”
As though to punctuate her remark, at that moment a small group padded into the dining room-- travelers, from the look of their wind-blown cloaks and tired faces. A young man, no more than seventeen or eighteen, stood at the head of the ensemble, his dark blond hair tied away from his face with a leather band; slightly behind him stood a woman perhaps five years older, with cascading curls the colour of jet and eyes that shone a clear, crystalline blue. Rounding out the party was a second man, who seemed to be around the woman’s age, with locks like rust and eyes gray as steel. He had a hand on the woman’s arm. Familiar. Protective.
At the booth, Aislin’s father clenched his jaw, and his breath hooked in his throat. Anxiety flared anew in his eyes, and this time he couldn’t so easily force it away. Them. It was really them. He didn’t know whether to smile, scream, or both.
Not that he had time to decide: the moment she spotted the group, Aislin acted for him, the little girl beaming wide as she leapt up to her feet. “Uncle Matteus!” she trilled, bounding forward before her father could stop her. Threading nimbly between the warren of tables, the child came to a halt just before the blond man, her green eyes-- the same shade as his own-- radiant as she wrapped his arms around his waist. “You’re here!” she breathed. “You’re really here!”
Startled for a moment, the man, Matteus, stiffened-- before, as he recognized the child who’d assailed him, he grinned and returned the hug. “Aislin. My gods, you’ve gotten big, haven’t you?” Holding her back at an arm’s length, he studied her freckled face. “What are you now… seventeen? Thirty-nine?”
“I’m eight,” she informed him solemnly. “Almost eight and a half!”
“And a half?” Matteus gasped, still grinning. “Why, you’re properly ancient, honey. And--” He ruffled her hair, knocking her braid askew as he did. “Since you’re so old, I can’t imagine you get to wander around unescorted, hm? You might get lost! Which means…” He glanced over her shoulder, skimming the room until finally his eyes fell on Aislin’s father, who’d at last managed to regain his wits enough to stand up at the booth, and had begun to hurry to his child’s side. “Gerry,” Matteus greeted amiably as he arrived. “It’s been much too long. I can barely even believe it-- that the treaty was signed nearly two years ago.”
“Mattie.” Gerard had to swallow a knot in his throat as he resisted the urge to hug his baby brother as Aislin had. “You’re looking well. And…” Forcing a deep breath, he made himself look beyond Matteus, his eyes falling on the man and woman at his brother’s flank. His voice was audibly wavering as he continued, “S-Safira. It’s lovely to see you, as well.”
“Gerard,” his sister regarded, her tone holding none of the warmth that Matteus’s had, her blue eyes chilly as ice chips as she leaned closer to the auburn-haired man at her side. “And,” she continued crisply, “you’ve met my husband once, right?”
Gerard nodded. “Y-yes. Of course.” Stepping around Aislin and Matteus, he extended a hand toward his sister’s spouse, willing it not to tremble. “Lord Dirk, yes? Of… House Vastcher. The new heir to Ruom, or so I’ve heard through my letters with Matteus and His Majesty.” He smiled delicately. “It’s… nice to meet you, Lord Vastcher. In a more-- peaceable setting than our previous encounter, shall we say?”
Dirk reached back towards Gerard’s hand with his, the man’s expression one of calculated diplomatic neutrality as he replied, “A pleasure, of course.” He seemed to be wavering on saying something more, but his eyes flickered to Aislin and instead he finished only with, “I apologize for our tardiness. Apparently either it is a local joke to give foreigners bad directions, or the individual we spoke to recognized Lord Duval’s accent and took affront to us.”
“Ah-- I’m sure there was no malice meant to it,” Gerard said, his heart humming in his throat. Although he knew that Matteus had recently been installed as the new enki of Talvace province, it was strange hearing him addressed as such. Lord Duval had always been Gerard’s grandfather, Rodin, and then after that his cousin, Rylan. Not Matteus. Sweet, young Matteus. “I… hope your journey here was problem free in general? No issues along the road?”
“We took gryphons to the border,” Matteus said. “Then horses from there. It was… lengthy, but calm enough. As you know, Cass wanted us to travel-- low key, I suppose, so as not to attract attention. After all, this is a personal visit, not a matter of a state. And so we had a minimal escort. Unmarked clothing.” He gestured toward his bland travel ensemble, the clothing finely made but otherwise unadorned; he looked like a merchant or well-off peasant, not Courdonian nobility. “In a way, it was sort of nice, honestly. Less-- pomp and circumstance than usual, I guess.”
“I’m glad to hear it went well.” Gerard glanced behind his shoulder, toward the booth where he and Aislin had been sitting. “Ah, shall we take a seat?” he suggested. “You can get some food, if you’re hungry.”
“The pottage is good,” Aislin chirped. “It’s got some chicken in it!” She smiled sheepishly toward Safira and Dirk. “Papa says you’re my auntie and uncle. Just-- just like Uncle Matt and… Uncle Ciro and… and...”
Gerard set a hand on the girl’s shoulder, almost protectively. “Come on, Ash,” he said. “We can talk at the table, okay?” His gaze flicked back to his sister and her husband. “I’ll-- order us all a round of ale, how’s that sound?”
He hoped it sounded good. He prayed it sounded good. Even now, with Matteus, Safira, and Dirk standing but inches in front of him, Gerard still couldn’t entirely believe that this was all real and really happening. That his older brother, after being crowned king the summer before, had truly reached out and contacted him-- apologizing for all the wrongs he’d committed against Gerard, and asking for both his forgiveness and his return to Courdon.
It had been slow going since. After the initial shock and suspicion had worn away on Gerard and his wife’s part, next had come a flurry of letters exchanged between Cassian in Courdon and his estranged brother up in Kyth, where he’d fled to after the treaty signing for his and his family’s safety. Cassian, impulsive as always, seemed ready and eager for Gerard to return, well-- whenever. But Gerard fostered considerably more reservations.
He was a traitor prince, after all. A rebel. Would he even be safe back in Courdon with his title restored? What about his children? His wife? And what if Cassian had an ulterior motive? Or what if he didn’t, but things still combusted immediately, the pretty idea of returning to life as a prince not anything like the reality of it?
Eventually he’d suggested that he meet with Cassian first, before he agreed definitively to anything. But this idea was soon discarded as impractical: the king of Courdon could hardly swagger up to Kyth without serious strings attached, and Gerard refused to head to Courdon before finalizing the details of a permanent and proper homecoming. Which had then led to an alternate solution-- Matteus and Safira. Two of his other siblings. They could come to Kyth with far less complications than could the king. Meet with Gerard in person and discuss the true realities of his potential return to Courdon… as well as clear any tense air between them, which Gerard knew might be an issue with Safira in particular. The last time he’d seen his sister, after all, she’d been in hiding in Ruom and he’d been a rebel soldier with the ability to get her, her young daughter, and her protectors all killed. It had not been a happy occasion.
Thinking about it even now made Gerard’s stomach pitch, as he gave his sister and Dirk a friendly smile and added, “The ale here is actually pretty decent. Less watered down than you’d imagine for a place like this.”
“After military rations, I think I can stomach anything,” Dirk replied dryly, his eyes again flicking towards Aislin. He gave her a thin smile, though there was an odd light of something akin to confusion in his grey eyes. “I’m impressed a place like this can afford meat in the pottage, hm? Quite luxurious.”
Gerard gave a soft chuckle as he turned to lead the party back toward the table. “The barmaid said it’s the owner’s birthday, so he’s feeling generous.”
“It’s got potatoes and onions in it, too,” Aislin supplied, slipping into the booth after her father as they arrived back to it. “Better’n Mama can cook.”
Matteus smirked. “I’m surprised your mama didn’t come with tonight, really,” he remarked, taking the seat next to his niece as Safira and Dirk sat opposite. “She busy?”
“She’s…” Gerard’s smile faltered. “Well, we’ve got a three-week old baby, you know. And so she’s tired. And…”
“Oh gods.” Matteus’s green eyes widened to saucers. “You didn’t tell her we were coming, did you, Gerard?”
“Seriously?” Safira’s voice was venomous. “We came all the way from Courdon, and you didn’t even tell your wife? What the hell--”
“Saf, little elephants have big ears,” Dirk interrupted, his eyes again flicking towards Aislin. To Gerard he added, “Though they also have big mouths. Your secret is unlikely to stay a secret, you realize?”
“I do,” Gerard said. “But… I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” As the barmaid flounced by, the former prince ordered a round of ale for the adults at the table. “For now, why don’t we just focus on… talking? Um.” He swallowed hard. “You-- you got married recently, Mattie, didn’t you? My congratulations.”
“Emma’s already pregnant,” Matteus confirmed. “It’s all going very fast. Sometimes I still have to pinch myself.”
“Mother’s quite pleased, I think,” Safira said, warmth seeping into her tone as she spared her baby brother a small smirk. “Her little boy taking over the Duval name and lands.” She looked to her husband. “She seemed pretty chipper when she came and visited us last month, didn’t she?”
“I have to take your word for that,” Dirk replied with a slight upward quirk of his mouth. “She was… diplomatic enough at least. And Cyd seems to adore her.” Glancing at Gerard he added softly, “He took her, you know. When Safira was ah… found out? Cydney spent six months in Rakine.”
Gerard openly winced. “I’d… heard that, yes.” His eyes locked on his sister’s. “I’m so sorry, Safira. She… she didn’t deserve that.”
Safira shrugged, averting her gaze. “Your people agreed to it, though, didn’t they?”
“I… I wasn’t in support of it,” Gerard said fervidly. “But it wasn’t my choice, in the end.” He gulped. “Is she alright now, I hope? Cydney?”
“Took nearly a year to fully get her past it,” Dirk said, his voice etched with bitter sadness. “Some of the things that he said to her, just to… toy with her I suppose.” The Vastcher heir again looked down to Aislin and seemed to restrain himself. “Things no person should say to a five year old, let’s put it that way. But she’s bounced back, thanks be the gods.”
As if sensing that Dirk was holding back on Aislin’s account, Gerard sighed and glanced down at his daughter. “Ash,” he suggested, gesturing to the self-serve pot that was simmering in the opposite corner of the dining room. “Why don’t you go get pottage for Aunt Safira, Uncle Dirk, and Uncle Mattie?”
The girl gnawed on her lip. “‘Kay.”
“Thank you, honey,” Matteus said, standing briefly to let her out of the booth. Once she was gone, he smiled thinly at Gerard. “She’s still sweet,” he told his brother.
“She is,” Gerard agreed with a soft, sad sigh. Then, to Dirk and Safira: “I really am sorry about Cydney. I… I never wanted that to happen to her. If I could have prevented it…”
“She was covered in fresh stripes and welts the night my father fetched her from Rakine,” Dirk said softly. “And she told him that King Oliver warned her we wouldn’t want to bring her home if she was ‘bad.’ Later on she told me that he’d also said once Safira and I had a child, Saf would want to just… send her to Rakine. Get her out of the way.”
He looked up at Gerard, his face unreadable. “She’s a very shy child. Demure. Agreeable. There was no need to say such things to her or resort to such extreme disciplinary methods.” His eyes narrowed. “You swore to us the rebels wouldn’t intentionally do anything to hurt a child. But I find it very hard to believe the entire high command of that army was unaware of what sort of man they were casually passing Cydney off to.”
Gerard flinched, watching sidelong as Aislin fell into the sizable line that stretched in front of the cauldron of pottage. “It… it would have looked like we were trying to hide something,” he murmured, his voice laden with regret. “Refusing to turn over a five-year-old to her maternal grandfather? My father, he… he would have pitched a fit, it would have jeopardized the entire treaty--”
“He beat her, Gerard,” Safira hissed. “Just like he did us. He whipped her with his belt buckle, he--”
“Saf,” Matteus interjected, softly but firmly. “It wasn’t Gerard’s choice. You can’t blame him for the actions of others. I-- I was living with him when that decision was made, he was ardently against it.”
“And ratting me out to the rebellion?” the woman countered. “How do you justify that, Gerard?” She clenched her jaw, pressing a hand against her husband’s arm as though to seek physical comfort from the only person whom she perceived to be on her side. “You could have gotten Dirk and his entire family murdered. All of them. When I got found out, one of your men started snarling that they should have cut off Dirk’s father’s head.”
Dirk nodded, his expression grim. “It was probably only Safira’s intervention that kept them from making good on their snarling. She said if they hurt us that she would claim they hurt her to the king’s officials. It was only after that they finally backed down.”
“I… I had to tell about you, Safira,” Gerard said, his voice outright cracking now. “Or Father never would have signed that treaty. Not when he thought you and Cydney were dead, and that the rebellion had done it. I had to. And I spent many, many sleepless nights over it once I did.”
“You betrayed your family, Gerard,” his sister snapped, unassuaged.
“And so did I, Safira,” Matteus reminded her. “I ran off, too. And you don’t hate me, do you?”
“It’s not the same, Mattie. You were eleven, you didn’t know what you were doing--”
“I knew what I was doing. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Matteus looked toward Dirk. “Gerard telling about Safira ultimately led to the war’s conclusion-- without it, peace talks might have fallen apart. And then do you think any of you would have been safe, Lord Vastcher?”
Dirk sighed softly, leaning forwards a bit on his elbows. “Rationally, I understand why it would have been the most prudent decision strategically. But after my service year in Talvace I saw things that made it very hard for me to swallow all the rhetoric about liberation and equality and humane treatment for all the rebellion was espousing. After Safira’s brother lied for our sakes, and the man in charge of the Urvane occupation brought his healer to save my brother and cousins when they were ill, I actually started to doubt myself. But the way we were treated like criminals and threatened with our lives for protecting our kin as is our duty? It just reinforced everything I saw back then.” Dirk shrugged. “In the end, my opinion is not the relevant one here. It never is. My family were only ever an afterthought, a convenience, despite what we risked. It is Safira you need to convince, not me.”
“No,” Gerard said. “That’s not true, Lord Vastcher. Because if I come back to Courdon…” The man glanced again toward Aislin, who was steadily working her way toward the head of the line. “You’re a high lord. Your perception of me-- the general nobility’s perception of me…” He shook his head. “I have a wife. Four young children. You’re recently a father yourself, aren’t you? To a little boy?”
“I am,” Dirk confirmed. “His name is Dante. He’ll be a year old in June.”
“So you understand,” Gerard said. “Why I have… concerns. Uprooting my entire family to come back to Courdon will be difficult no matter what. And being… unpopular-- that I can deal with. But…” He swallowed hard. “If the nobility’s hatred of me would make things dangerous? If my wife and children would be at risk? That… that would be another matter altogether.” The former prince met the Vastcher lord’s gaze. “I know you don’t like me, Lord Vastcher. I understand and accept that. But as one father to another… based on what you know from being thrust into the highlord politics as of late-- does it go... beyond that? Would my family be in danger based on what I’ve done?”
Dirk quirked an eyebrow. “The Branded Lord freely comes and goes from the Gilded Palace,” he pointed out dryly. “If he can be safe within the Courdonian court, I don't see why you couldn't. Besides the fact that after the king was murdered, I don't think anyone would be stupid enough to offer open malevolence to a royal Alaric.”
“And Aislin?” Gerard said softly. “I… saw how you looked at her, Lord Vastcher. What confusions must be swirling through your head.”
“She’s too old to be yours,” Safira said, her voice so cutting it nearly seemed to be an accusation. “Eight and a half-- that’s how old she said she was. Meaning she was born… gods, before you even ran away, Gerard.”
“She was,” Gerard agreed. He pressed a hand against his forehead. “She’s not mine. Not by birth.” He smiled grimly at Dirk. “But I know that’s not the only reason you looked at her strangely, Lord Vastcher.”
Dirk shrugged. “Hearsay. How much is true and how much isn't I don't know. But if you’re asking what I think you are, let me echo the oft expressed sentiment your men lofted at me- she’s a child. I’m not a monster. Nor, despite what the ex-rebels think, are the other enkis.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Will there be gossip? Very definitely. Unfriendly comments? I can't promise not. But I seriously doubt anyone will hurt her.”
“She’s my daughter,” Gerard said simply. “No matter who her natural father is-- she is mine and Muriel’s, no one else’s.” He looked toward Safira. “She’s your niece, Saf. Kin.”
“I suppose.” His sister frowned.
“I… know I did a lot of things that you hate me for,” Gerard went on. “And I don’t expect your forgiveness overnight. But… Saf…” His eyes met hers, pleadingly. “I did everything I could to keep you and Cydney safe. I swear that on my life. And… if I come back to Courdon… I-- I don’t want you to hate me, Safira. To pretend I don’t exist. If it’s at all possible, I want to earn your trust back. Be your brother, not your enemy.” Shifting his gaze toward Dirk, Gerard added, “And the same goes for you, Lord Dirk. You protected my sister and niece at great personal risk. And now you’re her husband, and you have a son together, and… and that makes you kin of mine, too. I don’t wish for us to be frosty strangers, let alone enemies.”
“You ask more of me than you realize,” Dirk said, his gray eyes averted. “Far be it for me to deny Safira a relationship with her brother if she wants, or our children to know their uncle. But I have seen and endured things that were never acknowledged nor answered for, except to be met with snide derision. I am not in a particularly forgiving mindset.”
“... What sort of things?” Gerard cocked his head, sparing the barmaid a shallow smile as she finally arrived with their ale. Once she was gone, the former royal added, “None of the rebels at your manor hurt you, did they?”
“No,” the Vastcher heir said. “But I already told you that I fought during the war as per my legal draft at twenty. On the frontlines in Talvace, in 1343. There was a rebel officer stationed there who went by the name of Arnaud Marti.”
Gerard’s entire body stiffened. “You encountered Marti?”
“Is that…?” Matteus furrowed his brow, his green eyes glinting with confusion.
“Chelsey’s superior officer, yes,” Gerard confirmed tartly.
“Chelsey?” Dirk echoed. “So then, was that her name? Marti’s pet mage?”
“I suppose you could call her that,” Gerard conceded. “Chelsey, ah-- well, I suppose she was going by Barrow then. Same as her father.”
Dirk’s mouth thinned. He slid down the vest he’d been wearing over his tunic, and then undid the laces on the tunic collar and peeled the neckline away from his shoulder. Though still concealed to the room at large, to the occupants of the table came clear an angry red scar across most of his shoulder, that extended down his arm and to his back. The scar was peculiarly shaped, like the forked branches of a tree that had lost all its leaves in winter.
“She did this to me- some sort of spell that hit me with a bolt of lightning. I was told later it was dark magic, designed especially to resist healing spells. I nearly died that day- and the men the rebels captured in that battle? Most we never saw again. The ones they sent back to us had been skinned alive with magic. We were only able to identify them by the insignias on their uniforms.” His eyes narrowed. “One of the ones that was sent back? He was a cobbler’s apprentice. Barely seventeen. Never owned a slave in his life, never touched one, guilty of nothing but being grabbed up by the king’s draft. He was still alive when we got him, but he didn’t last the night.”
For a moment, Gerard said nothing, a decidedly unpleasant look settling on his face. Then, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Lord Vastcher. Genuinely, completely sorry. That sort of treatment shouldn’t be imparted on anyone. Ever. And there’s no excuse for it.”
“Marti was handed over in the treaty, wasn’t he?” Matteus added, taking a sip of his ale.
“He was,” Gerard confirmed. “Executed, I believe. We had no objections to surrendering him. Not after what he’d done.”
Dirk tilted his head. “I wasn’t aware his crimes were even widely known amongst the rebels. When I brought the name up to your general she didn’t seem to have a clue what I was talking about. Colonel Barrett mostly just sneered at the scars and asked me sarcastically how many slaves I’d whipped and scared.”
“He was dealt with once his actions came to our attention,” Gerard replied. “Stripped of his officership. And, as I said, when my father put his name in the treaty as one of the rebels he wanted turned over to crown custody, there were no objections levied. No one condoned the things he did. He did them without the knowledge of the leadership-- let alone their permission.” He sighed as Aislin finally reached the front of the line and picked up a bowl to begin allotting three servings of pottage for her aunt and uncles. “Chelsey, too,” Gerard added.
Dirk seemed to ponder this, glancing sideways at Safira. “I see. So was Chelsey also turned over to the crown?”
Here, Gerard hesitated. “No. Chelsey wasn’t an officer. She was, in a convoluted sense, only following orders. But the moment her actions were discovered, she was strictly ordered to cease with all dark magic. She complied.”
“Her father agreed to watch out for her,” Matteus added. “And make sure she didn’t… stray.”
Dirk narrowed his eyes. “Hm. I don’t suppose her being a mage and thus valuable to your war effort had any bearing on that decision?”
“I won’t lie and say it had no bearing,” Gerard said, watching as Aislin began to fill a second bowl. “But largely, no. If she’d been in a position of leadership, had those been her orders, had she not stopped when she was commanded to-- then we’d have turned her over. I have no doubt about that. But as it stood?” He shrugged.
“So, Dirk has scars for the rest of his life, and this Chelsey gets to live free and happy,” Safira said darkly. “That’s just lovely, Gerard. A happy ending for all.”
“I don’t like Chelsey any more than you do, Safira,” Gerard replied. “I’m horrified by the things she did, just as you are. I’ve met her once, and to be honest? She scared the hell out of me, too. I’m only explaining why the leadership didn’t agree to turn her over. I’m not trying to defend what she did. Far from it.”
“So- you don’t think that it’s justified to torture an enki out of just retribution for what he might have done to his slaves?” Dirk pressed.
“No,” Gerard said. “She had no proof of what anyone had done. She was simply drunk on self-righteousness and power. There’s no excuse for it. None. And you seem to forget, Lord Vastcher… for as much as I dedicated myself to the rebellion, I had a vast amount of kin on the other side of the coin. Siblings, of course. Nieces and nephews. People who’d probably hurt slaves before. The thought of them being tortured in revenge, especially if they weren’t resisting? That’s not the way to right a wrong. I nearly murdered with my own hands the man who hurt Noa and Arianne Pike.”
Dirk actually let slip a ghost of a smirk at this, glancing sideways at Safira. “Given who we were sheltering in our manor for three years, and how much more limited our resources were, I can’t say I was surprised or sorry when I heard that Lord Anson met the business end of a sword when he tried to fling himself at the protection of the lords of Kajas.”
“Those girls are my cousins,” Gerard said. “Their father deserved every bit of suffering he faced for leaving them like that.” As Aislin finished filling up the final bowl, her father sighed. “I don’t think we’re so different, Lord Vastcher-- you and me. Not in… a lot of the ways that count.”
“I suppose not,” Dirk conceded. “In the end, it will take time for you to earn back to trust you lost when you turned your coat. You can say you are loyal to Courdon and wish to mend bridges until you are blue in the face. But it’s when you show it that things can start to change.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I speak only for myself, however, and as best I can for the general mood of the highlords. Your sister-” he actually grinned at Safira. “She is a very tough nut to crack, and in this you are on your own.”
“I’d expect no less.” Gerard dared a soft smile toward Safira. “I love you, Saf-- you know that, right?”
She pursed her lips. “You have a funny way of showing it. Running away to join a rebellion? Leaving me and Sabine and Mattie behind with Father and Cassian?”
“I’m sorry, Safira,” Gerard murmured; a bowl in each hand and one balanced in the crook of her arm, Aislin was padding toward a bin with utensils in it. “I’m so sorry that I just… left you like that. But I-- I’d like to make up for it now. Be a part of your life. If… if you want me in it. And I’d like you to be a part of my my life, too. The lives of my daughters.”
“I won’t object to it, Gerard,” Safira said, shrugging. “If that’s what you’re worried about-- that I’ll run home and immediately send a message to Cass demanding he rescind his offer… I won’t do that. But I need time, okay? To… think about everything. To adjust to the idea of, well-- you.”
Gerard only nodded, before forcing as chipper of a smile as he could muster as Aislin finally arrived back to the table. Allotting the bowls out to Dirk, Safira, and Matteus, the little girl beamed back, her green eyes glimmering brightly.
“There!” she announced, slipping into the booth beside Matteus as he scooted to make room for her. “I made sure to get all of you pieces of chicken. Even though I had to dig a bit with the ladle!”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Aislin,” Dirk said with a polite smile. He took a spoonful of the pottage, blew a bit on it, then ate the mouthful. “Quite good for inn fare, thank you.”
Aislin’s cheeks flushed. “I think it’s good, too. I like all the vegetables in it, especially the onions-- they make it taste better. Even though my little sisters throw a fit whenever Mama and Papa try and get them to eat anything other than potatoes or carrots.”
“Corby still doesn’t like veggies, hm?” Matteus mused.
“Nuh-uh. And Ammy’s not much better.” Gnawing on her lip shyly, she glanced toward Safira and Dirk. “Papa says you’ve got a baby. I like babies. They’re cute. Even though they cry a lot.”
“We do,” Dirk confirmed. “His name is Dante. We also have a little girl named Cydney.” Glancing at Safira he noted, “Just a little younger than this one.”
“They’re… they’re your cousins,” Safira added after a moment’s hesitation. Then, with a deliberate look toward Gerard, she added, “And I’m sure you’ll get to meet them some day.” She finally let through a genuine smile, albeit a wavering one. “Dirk has a baby brother about your age, too, Aislin. Maybe one day all of you can play together.”
“Really?” the girl asked. “That’d be fun. Th-thank you.”
“Of course,” the Vastcher heir replied. Glancing towards Matteus he added, “And Lord Duval is expecting his own baby in the coming year- so you can look forward to that as well.”
“Lots of family to meet,” Gerard agreed.
For a beat, Aislin said nothing. Then, very quietly, she murmured to Safira and Dirk, “Can… can I call you Aunt and Uncle? Like-- like I do with Uncle Matteus?”
Dirk seemed caught off guard by the question. But he tilted his head, quirking an eyebrow. “Well we are your aunt and uncle. Saf?”
“Right,” Safira said, her upbeat tone not at all matching the expression of hesitation on her face. “Of course, Aislin.”
“Thank you,” Aislin said again.
Tenderly squeezing Aislin’s arm, Gerard gave his sister and her husband a small, grateful smile. While he knew that in the scheme of things this was only the very beginning, and that there’d still be many challenges to face in Courdon upon his return, at least it was a step in the process. The massive boulder that had been weighing down his stomach at the start of this meeting had lightened into a mere pit. His throat no longer felt quite so strangled. Could this really work? Was going back to Courdon a true and genuine option, rather than a dangerous dream?
“You’re staying in town for a while, right?” Gerard asked.
“Yes,” Dirk agreed. “It was a bit of a long trek to leave again tomorrow.” He took another bite of pottage, then noted, “Though perhaps you should let your family know we’re here. Otherwise it would be rather inconvenient for you, dancing around them for days.”
Gerard sighed. “You’re right. Muriel won’t be happy that I didn’t tell her already, but…”
“Maybe they could meet the baby,” Aislin suggested, quickly clarifying for Dirk, Matteus, and Safira: “She just turned three weeks old! Her name’s Elodie, but Mama calls her Elly.” The girl grinned impishly. “She squawks like a chicken when she’s mad.”
“That would be nice, Ash,” Matteus agreed. “And I’d love to see Corbin and Amalia, too. I’m sure they’ve gotten so much bigger than the last time I saw them.”
“Of course.” Gerard raked a hand through his jet black hair. “I’ll… speak with her tonight. And perhaps we could do, ah-- supper tomorrow? At our house. If… if you’d like.”
Dirk smiled thinly. “Sure. Given the elaborate feasts that the king seems fond of hosting, I imagine it will be the first of very many shared meals- if you chose to accept of course.”
“I can’t guarantee Muriel’s cooking will be anywhere near as good as a palace banquet, but at least the clothing ought be more comfortable than court regalia, eh?” Gerard joked.
“Mama’s good at burning things,” Aislin said cheerily. “And Papa’s even better at it!”
Matteus chuckled. “Perhaps we can be gracious guests and pick up some bakery bread on the way. Show off our lordly diplomacy skills.”
“That would be well appreciated,” Gerard replied. “I… I look forward to it. I can meet you back here at say-- sunset tomorrow? So that I can walk you to my house. And you don’t risk getting any bad directions from well-meaning but useless Medievillians.”
“Probably for the best,” Dirk agreed. “I should hate to start things off on an awkward foot by being late.” He hesitated a moment, then added to Safira, “Perhaps our offering can be a cake for the children. We are at a disadvantage as the estranged loyalist aunt and uncle, so we need every leg up we can get.”
“Oooh!” Aislin breathed. “A cake would be awesome.”
Her father chuckled. “A cake would probably make you very popular with my little ones, yes. That sounds great-- thank you. I’m looking forward to it.”
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Post by Shinko on Jan 9, 2016 17:32:28 GMT -5
Alright guys, here we go- this is a fic that has been in plotting/progress for some months now, the fic that Playing With Fire was setting up for. While it might be helpful if you've read Playing With Fire before you read this one, you shouldn't strictly need to- everything relevant from that fic is explained again in this one. So, without further ado, Avery and I present the intriguing story of Oliver's younger brother, Prince Ezra Alaric. Enjoy! In the King's Shadow Part 1"Burned" - Begins February 1331Chapter One When Elias Alaric lifted his gaze toward the pale silver sky above, and spied against the horizon a trio of descending gryphons, at first the prince of Courdon thought very little of it. After all, gryphons were hardly a rare sight in these parts, with the town of Arsenius, in far western Teral province, housing more king’s army soldiers than it did permanent residents. The sprawling military base-- fully encircled by a towering wall even though the town itself was walled off, too-- took up the entire western chunk of the city, its expansive grounds a warren of barracks, armouries, and training yards. Elias and his elder brother, Ezra, were presently among the highest-ranking officers garrisoned there, the pair rooted at the site for the past several years; in a strange way, it almost felt like more of a home to Elias than his true home, the Gilded Palace northeast in Rakine, ever had. Then again, Elias had also learned long ago that there was far more to security and comfort than gold-plated fountains and feathered pillows. Sometimes, appearances could be very, very deceiving. “Those aren’t ours,” said a hesitant voice. Elias snapped his gaze toward a young corporal who was standing a few feet over from him, the boy-- and really he was no more than a boy, maybe seventeen at most-- gawping upward rather than polishing armour as he ought to have been doing (and as the rest of his unit was doing nearby to him, their gritty cloths making scraping noises as the soldiers abraded them against dull metal). “ What aren’t ours, soldier?” Elias returned, not bothering to bite back a scowl. “The… the gryphons, Colonel,” the corporal squeaked, his polishing rag limp in his hand. Elias’s piercing green eyes whipped skyward again. What in all the hells did the boy mean, claiming the gryphons weren’t theirs? Whose else would they even be? Sure, the well-armed militia north in Ruom had a slew of them, but those beasts would hardly be flapping about in Teralian skies. And while nobles from around the kingdom did possess gryphons for their own personal convenience, it would have been sheer idiocy to send their prized and pricey steeds soaring over a king’s army military camp without advance notice. Elias couldn’t fathom anyone being nearly so dense. But then, as the gryphons came into clearer view, Elias realised with a twisting stomach why the soldier had made such a pronouncement: the gryphons stationed at this camp were uniformly armoured in a red-and-gold livery that was striped down the middle with a prominent violet-and-teal patch-- the colours of Courdon’s ruling House intermingled with those of House Pike, which headed Teral province. These gryphons, on the other hand, wore only the Alaric hues. Which meant they were from Durach. And-- oh gods. Eyes squinted against the faint winter sun that lolled at the horizon, Elias’s heart skipped several beats as he made out the likeness of a monarch’s crown painted across the gryphons’ chest-plates. “They’re… not ours, right, Colonel?” the mousy corporal needled. “Silence,” Elias barked. “Get back to polishing your armour, soldier.” And with that, the prince whirled on his heel, stalking away without another word. *** Elias found his brother, Ezra, in the base infirmary, where the elder prince was glowering down at a pair of careless sergeants who’d gotten into a scuffle that morning with a group of civilians in town-- and who were now, almost embarrassingly, sporting black eyes and split lips for their trouble. Needless to say, it was clear from his scathing tone that Ezra was not pleased, and as Elias padded up behind him, he regretted that he’d soon be dampening his brother’s day even further… and by spades. “Major General Alaric.” The blond man stilled at Ezra’s flank, hands clasped respectfully behind his back. “If I may have a word?” Ezra bristled a little, instinctively, at the voice that was interrupting him from from his disciplining, but as he glanced around and recognized the face of his younger brother, his shoulders smoothed. He quirked an eyebrow very slightly, then turned back to his charges with a scowl. “You boys can enjoy two week’s latrine duty,” he said tartly. “And I don’t want to see those marks off your face before they heal on their own- our healers have better things to do than attend to the injuries of idiots who can’t keep their tempers with civilians. Have them cleaned so they don’t become infected, but not healed.” He gave both men one last glower, then spun on his heel and strode out of the infirmary, making a small gesture with his chin to indicate Elias should follow him. “Gods preserve me, those two have no common sense,” he grumbled once he and his brother were out of earshot of anyone else. “So- what did you need, Eli? I imagine you wouldn’t have interrupted if it wasn’t important.” Elias smiled thinly, trying not to betray how hard his heart was beating against his ribcage. “I really hate to sour your mood any more,” the prince started, “but… a trio of gryphons just touched down on base about five minutes ago. They’re, ah…” Elias pressed a hand against his temple. “They’re palace gryphons, Ezra.” The older prince tensed, his blue eyes wide and his jaw tight. “What in all the hells does Oliver want? If… if he needed to commune with the army, he’d have sent his messenger to Lord Anson, not to the base directly. Which means…” “They’re here for us,” Elias finished grimly. “And that cannot be good.” *** Twenty minutes later, after being flagged down by a ruddy-cheeked private who looked somewhere between terrified and nauseous, Elias and Ezra found themselves being led toward the plain wooden building that hosted the base’s various war rooms. Given that these spaces were usually reserved for closed-door meetings between high-ranking officers about confidential issues, and the fact that as far as Elias was aware there’d been no such conferences on the ledger for the day, by the time he and his brother arrived, the younger prince’s stomach was doing impressive acrobatics, and his palms were sweating heavily. “Gods, you don’t think he’s here, do you?” Elias hissed into his brother’s ear, the two of them trailing behind the jittery private as he showed them up a narrow staircase. “I can’t even remember the last time we had cause to use on the upper chambers.” These were smaller and more heavily secured than the rooms on the lower level. Ezra, no less nervous than his brother, bit the inside of his cheek as he tried to swallow down the taste of bile building in his throat. “I can’t imagine he’d haul all the way out here himself. He’s far too self-important for that. But whatever’s going on is big. Very, very big.” “H-here we are, Colonel, Major General,” the private warbled, freezing at the landing of the steps. Up ahead of him, guarding a closed door, stood two men in full royal Alaric livery. Knight’s livery. “I’ve b-been ordered not to go further than this.” “Right,” Elias made himself say, apprising the knights as one might feral dogs. “You’re dismissed, soldier.” The young man didn’t waste a moment before scampering away, and once he was gone, Elias shot a dour look toward his brother. “Shall we see what’s behind the mysterious door, Major General?” he asked, far more lightly than he felt. “No sense putting it off,” Ezra agreed. “After all we know how much our dear brother hates dallying. Wouldn’t want him to get a bad report on our conduct.” The two princes approached the door, the knights parting for them as Ezra stopped briefly to knock once. A voice from inside called out within moments, saying only: “Enter.” Whoever was speaking hadn’t said nearly enough for Elias to begin to puzzle through whether he recognized them or not, and he half-felt like a prisoner being led to the gallows as Ezra pushed open the door and he followed his brother inside. A small, orderly meeting room sat beyond the threshold, a weathered maple table with a fringe of matching chairs taking up the bulk of the space. As Elias pulled the door shut behind him, his eyes fell swiftly toward the room’s sole occupant: a short but muscled man with a thatch of silver-blond hair and eyes that flitted the queer middle ground between blue and green. He was dressed in red and gold, his silk tunic tailored perfectly to skim his form, and there was not a bristle out of place on his thin mustache. Not Oliver. Thank the gods, it was not Oliver. But any relief either brother felt over the fact that their visitor was not the king quickly fell away when they realised who it was in his stead-- their paternal uncle, Alexander, younger brother of their late father Rafe. And for the palace to send Alexander of all people to come speak with them… “What’s happened?” Elias blurted, in an instant too panicked to feign at diplomatic pleasantries. “Why… why are you here?” “Elias,” Alexander returned, gesturing toward the vacant chairs across from him. “Ezra. Sit, please.” Ezra glanced sideways at his brother before obeying his uncle’s words. “I trust you aren’t here to pay a casual visit to your favorite nephews,” he remarked dryly. “No,” Alexander agreed, sighing heavily as he watched his nephews settle in their chairs. “I really wish I had a better way to say this, but unfortunately, I just don’t think that’s possible.” He steepled his fingers, pausing for a moment. “There was a rather severe cough passing around the palace near the New Year. I think more people caught it than didn’t. And… your mother. She-- she was one of the people who came down with it.” “... Oh?” Elias suddenly felt as if he might vomit, faint, or both. His gut prickled as a miserable thought shoved its way into his head, lingering there even as he tried to push it back. “Back in January, then? That’s… quite a while ago, no? It’ll be March next week, Uncle Alexander.” Ezra’s hands clenched into fists, and under his dark complexion- naturally Courdonian bronze and tanned almost to brown by the sun- he felt the himself going pale as blood drained from his face. “She… she’s not recovering, is she?” he asked, his voice very, very soft. “I’m so sorry, boys,” Alexander said simply. “The healers tried everything-- everything-- they could. But… your mother wasn’t responding to it. She continued to weaken. She…” Their uncle gulped, eyes flickering with sympathy. “She passed away two days ago. On Thursday afternoon.” For a very long moment, Elias couldn’t breathe, the air hooked in his throat like a fish on a line. His veins ran hot, then cold, then numb altogether; tears pricked in his eyes, blurring his vision in an instant. “ No,” he hissed. “No, no, no.” “I’m so sorry, Elias--” “She’s dead?” Ezra cried, his voice spiraling up in pitch. “She’s been ill for two godsdamned months and no one thought to let us know about it until she was already gone?” “I’ve been in and out of court,” Alexander stammered, wincing as his nephews’ patent anguish. “I wasn’t aware how sick she’d gotten--” “And no one else could have told us?” Elias cut in. His head felt very light, his lungs very heavy, each breath coming out wet, raspy, and broken. “ Oliver couldn’t have told us? Or-- or Uncle Victor, or… Uncle Daniel, or… anyone?” The young man let out a laugh, strangled and manic. “Our mother’s been dying for two months, and no one godsdamned told us?” “Of course not,” Ezra spat, his eyes clamped down on tears even as his face twisted into a scowl of unrestrained fury. “That would entail our dear darling brother having an ounce of human compassion. You know how he always spoke to her, how he bloody berated her for calling him by his name instead of your majesty despite the fact that she’s his mother. He probably doesn’t even care!” “Ezra, calm down, please,” Alexander pleaded. “I know you’re upset-- I understand, but raging at me… it’s… it’s not going to help, it’s…” He winced, massaging his temple. “I went to tell Tyson first, since he lives closest. You two were my next stop. Anna is, ostensibly, closer than you were but… I… I thought it might be best if I wasn’t the one who brought the news to your sisters--” “Oh gods, Anna, Cleo and Ty didn’t know either?” Now Ezra’s voice sounded less angry and more despairing. “Mother… Mother died without getting to say goodbye to any of her children except Oliver? I almost understand us, he never liked me and could excuse it with that he would be tearing us from our duties but Ty’s in Durach and the girls…” He gritted his teeth. “We’ll tell them. W-won’t we, Eli? I can go to Cleo and… Anna’s your twin, she’d take it better coming from you.” Elias nodded shallowly, using his sleeve to wipe at his flooded eyes. “When’s th-the funeral, Uncle Alexander?” “Two weeks hence,” Alexander said gently. “I’ve already arranged your leave.” “Thank you,” Ezra said softly, leaning back against his chair limply and shutting his eyes again. “I’m… I’m not mad at you, not really. Just… I want to bloody smack my brother more often than not, and even I still forget sometimes how cold he can be.” “Be careful when you’re at court, Ezra,” Alexander said, worry lines etching his face. “You can talk like that with me, but… if the wrong person were to overhear you…” “Believe me, I know,” Ezra said, tapping his chin meaningfully. There were two jagged, diagonal scars there, from the underside of his jaw up through his lip. Scars he’d gotten when he had, at fourteen, tested his older brother’s temper too far. The prince was no longer a child, and under no delusions what would happen if he offered Oliver open defiance now. “I can’t promise I won’t bring this up, but I know better than to cross any lines. It…” He swallowed hard, his voice wavering. “It isn’t what Mother would want. She never liked it when I challenged him. I promise, I won’t get myself or anybody else in trouble. F-for her sake.” *** Anna and Cleo took the news every bit as hard as Ezra and Elias had known they would, and after the siblings all reconvened at the Gilded Palace, the mood was grim amongst Rhiannon’s children. Even Oliver seemed somewhat upset, although this may have been primarily a byproduct of his children’s moods, with the youngest Alarics borderline inconsolable over the loss of their beloved grandmother. If the little ones wanted comfort from him, however, Oliver seemed to draw the line at this point, immediately waving them off to their mother’s arms whenever they showed any signs of distress. And, the king warned, he wouldn’t have them ‘sniveling like fools’ at the funeral. “I swear to the gods, if you don’t sit quietly and respectfully, you will badly regret it,” the monarch huffed at supper the night before the service. “I’ve given you weeks to cry your hearts out. You can spend a few hours acting dignified tomorrow. You’re princes and princesses, not ill-bred peasants.” Though the royal family knew far better than to baldly object to Oliver’s comment, instead merely gaping at him in something between fear and revulsion, late that night in his and Ezra’s joint guest suite, the king’s youngest brother couldn’t wholly bite back a glower of pure, unadulterated disgust. “He’s making veiled threats to beat his children if they cry at a funeral?” Elias lamented, pacing the chamber like an agitated lion in a cage. “They’re children. They’re upset. They should be allowed to cry!” “It was the same when Father died, remember?” Ezra said with tired bitterness. “We were threatened with unspecified dire consequences if we ‘made fools of ourselves’ at the funeral. Oliver didn’t even let me or Lila attend the mourners’ feast.” Lila. Elias’s heart gave a small tug, as it always did when someone mentioned her, a bubble of nausea rising in his throat as he realised that his mother had died without ever knowing for certain what had happened to her precious daughter. Just another thing Oliver had caused, ruined, inflicted upon the people he was supposed to love. How many lives had he ruined? “At least we had Father,” Elias said. “For a time. Oliver’s kids? He’s all they’ve known.” He tugged at his tunic collar, loosening it with fumbling fingers. “I feel like I’m going mad, Ezra. My head’s pounding. My chest is tight. I keep thinking if I shut my eyes, I’ll wake up and find out that these past few weeks have only been a horrible dream. Except that they’re not. Gods, they’re not!” “She was the only one left in the palace that made it tenable,” Ezra agreed miserably. “I can’t believe she’s gone. And… and we never got to…” He choked. “Dear gods, how those kids must’ve died a thousand deaths watching her waste away to nothing over two months. But I’m willing to be she spent every scrap of energy she had left comforting them, sparing nothing for herself. Just like… she always did for us.” “And now they have Oliver for a father, and Zaria for a mother. And I… I know Zaria loves those kids, but she’s-- she’s--” Elias wanted to vomit. “He’s broken her, I think. Oliver. She’s not the same spoiled girl he married all those years ago.” The prince raked a hand through his tousled blond hair, then took a lurching step toward the chamber door. “I need air, Ezra,” he told his brother. “I feel like I’m going to suffocate in here. I know it’s not hot, but my cheeks are flushed, and my palms are sweating, and…” “It’s fine, I could do with a walk. Get out of these walls,” the older prince agreed, pushing himself up. “I think the willow garden with the gazebo in the center is about ten minutes from here- would be a nice place for a little privacy?” “Sure. Of course.” The pagoda, located in a lesser traveled part of the palace’s expansive gardens, had often served as a haunt of theirs in their youth, especially after their father’s death. It had been years since Elias had thought of it. “Let’s just grab a lantern. We hardly want to be stumbling in the dark.” The torch cut a flickering arc of light across the cobbled garden paths as Elias and Ezra made their way from the royal flat toward the gazebo, the moon a shining sliver at their backs. It was a cool night, but without any wind, the air smelling of fragrant hyacinth and iris blossoms. To Elias, the scent was at once nostalgic and miserable-- a reminder of both the happy days of his childhood prior to Rafe’s death, and the years of pain that had followed it before he and Ezra had made their escape by joining the king’s army upon the younger boy’s sixteenth birthday. Neither he nor Ezra had spent a spring at the palace in the more than five years since. “It feels weird, doesn’t it?” the younger prince murmured, the lantern swaying in his hands as they neared the copse of willow trees. “Being here. Creeping through the gardens at night. Wearing silks, not our uniforms.” “Like a memory of a different lifetime,” Ezra agreed. “Then again everything about the past few weeks has felt surreal. I almost-” He broke off as, through the trees, a small thump rippled the still night air. Both princes froze, Elias’s hand at once dancing to the dagger he always wore at his hip as Ezra fell into a defensive crouch. The older prince glanced towards his brother, making a small hand signal that they’d both learned in the military. Investigate? Or reinforcements?Elias only shook his head, taking a small step forward. Drawing his dagger very, very slowly, the young man edged a toe onto the narrow dirt path that led through the drooping willow branches up to the gazebo steps. Flank me, he signed back to Ezra, gritting his teeth as the metal lantern creaked in his hand. Ezra nodded, slowly drawing his own dagger and falling into step behind and slightly to Elias’ right. Elias knew the lantern dashed any prospect of sneaking up on whoever was making the noise, but he didn’t want to blow it out and resign himself and Ezra to the blackness of the night, either. Instead, the young man supposed their best option was probably to burst through the trees like cats pouncing on mice; that way, if there was indeed an enemy lurking, at least they could use the element of surprise to their advantage. Still, his heart was humming in his ears as he and Ezra neared the terminus of the path, growing close enough now where if they moved any further, the beam from the lantern would be visible to anybody in the gazebo. Cover me, Elias signaled to Ezra. And then, without any further deliberating, the blond prince sprung through the last of the trees, vaulting his way up the pagoda steps. In an instant, a pair of shrieks rent the air, accompanied by several echoing thuds as two small forms pitched themselves from sitting upon one of the pavilion’s padded wicker divans to ducking behind the ottoman that abutted it. Elias blinked sharply, dagger pointed outward, his soldier’s instinct taking over as he dropped the lantern to reach out and wrench their makeshift shield aside. “Hands!” he snarled, his voice a wash of venom and might. “Show me your hands!” “Don’t hurt us, please!” a trembling voice bleated back. A child’s voice, and another quickly added: “We’re sorry, please!” Elias froze, his jaw falling open as he stared dumbly down at the two quivering figures crouched before him. For a fraction of a moment, he thought that perhaps he’d stumbled upon renegade slaves, little children crept from their barrack far after curfew. But then it occurred to him that the children had cried out in the high tongue. And then, with another hard blink, he recognized them both. “ Safira?” he murmured, resheathing his dagger as Ezra came up behind him. “Gerard? Dear gods, what are you two doing out here at this time of night?” Ezra, upon hearing the names that fell from his brother’s tongue, looked down sharply at the two children. Sure enough, quivering behind the ottoman were two children dressed in fine wool cloaks over silk nightclothes-- one a young girl with hair like the midnight sky at new moon and deep blue eyes, the other a slightly older boy with a very dark complexion and even darker eyes. “Gods,” he breathed. “You scared us, kids, we had no idea who was out here so late.” “Are… are you going to tell Papa?” Safira bleated, crossing her arms tightly at her chest. “Th-that we’re out here?” Elias shook his head, though his heart was still thrumming as he picked the lantern up again. “No, we won’t tell your papa. But you two should not be out here, it’s nearly midnight. How did you even get out of the apartment?” Gerard shrugged, his black-brown eyes cast firmly on the ground. “At n-night none of the guards are at the door from Mama’s sunroom. ‘Cos it only opens fr-from the inside.” Ezra frowned, folding his arms and glancing at Elias. “A door that opens from the inside can still be kicked in by a determined intruder. Sounds like discipline in the guard has gotten slack since we left. We should probably talk to someone about that. Not,” he added quickly, “Oliver, but someone.” “Right.” Elias sighed heavily, beckoning for the children to stand. “Up, now.” Safira and Gerard silently obliged, neither of them daring to look their uncles straight on. The young girl instead fidgeted with her rumpled nightdress, as her brother gnawed on his lip and tucked his chin so tight to his chest that he could have passed as a bowing, terrified slave. Both of them looked impossibly small. Fragile. Like skeins of gossamer silk. “Why did you come out here?” Elias asked them. “Do you know how dangerous it is to wander the palace grounds in the dead of night?” He glanced briefly at their feet. “Gods-- you’re not even wearing shoes.” “Shoes make more noise when you walk,” Safira whispered. Ezra frowned, kneeling in front of the children and gently reaching towards them, turning their chins so they were facing him. “Your Uncle Elias asked you a question, little ones. What are you doing out so late?” “It’s quiet here,” Gerard said, eyes alight with fear as he met Ezra’s gaze. “W-we like to come here when we’re… we’re…” “Sad,” Safira finished for him. “‘Cos n-nobody can hear us here. If we talk. If w-we cry.” Elias winced, the children’s words feeling like a lance to his heart. What kind of hell had Oliver wrought, that two generations of his kin were utilizing the same far-flung retreat to escape from his cruelties? “Are you sad tonight, honey?” he asked the girl. “Because… because of your grandmother?” “I’unno,” Safira said. She hugged herself, fingers flush against her ribs. “I didn’t wanna sleep. It hurts too much to sleep.” “It hurts?” Ezra echoed, his heart dropping like a stone. Gently, he moved his hand so that it was cupping the little girl’s cheek. “Did… did your Papa do something, honey?” “I-I’m not s’posed to talk about it.” Safira sidestepped out of Ezra’s hold. “‘Cos I’m bad. And Papa says if I talk about it, then everyone will know I’m bad.” Ezra’s blue eyes were bright with painful empathy, and he shook his head. “Gerard, Safira… Let me show you kids something. Okay?” Slowly, Ezra reached down, and tugged his shirt up from where it was tucked into his trousers. Once the silken garment had come free of his shoulders, he turned so that his bare back was visible in the light of Elias’ lantern. It was no back one would expect to see from a prince, but one more befitting a slave. Pocked with jagged scars down the length, some of which were wide, some slender, but all clearly painful and evidence to years of horrendous abuse. The children’s mouths both fell open as they studied the marks, neither of them speaking for several long moments as they flicked puzzled looks between one another and their uncle’s back. Then, finally, Gerard dared whisper, “A-are those from the military? ‘Cos you’re a soldier?” “No,” Ezra replied softly, pulling his shirt back on and facing the children again. “Your Papa did this to me. All of it. The scar on my face too- that’s from a time he punched me and his rings cut my lip open.” Automatically, Gerard’s hand danced up to his own face, his fingers tracing along a crescent-shaped scar just beneath his eye. “H-he did that to me, too,” the little boy said softly. “The night Mattie was born. It bled. It bled a lot.” Elias wanted to scream. “Why did he hit you like that, Gerard?” What in all the hells could an eight-year-old have done to incite such fury? Even Ezra had been a teenager when he’d acquired his own facial scar. “I-I don’t know,” Gerard said. “He hits me a lot. Just… just ‘cos. When he’s mad. When he’s frustrated. When I d-don’t get out of his way fast enough, or… or I look at h-him ‘funny’ or....” The little boy blinked hard, letting out a small, choking sob. “Grandma was the only one who cared. Who’d t-tell him to stop. Mama d-doesn’t, but Grandma did. And now she’s gone. And I wish I was gone, too.” “Oh gods, Gerard…” Ezra felt his stomach lurch. In an instinct that had developed out of years of supporting Elias and Anna through Oliver’s abuses, the older Alaric reached towards his nephew and pulled him into a gentle but firm hug. At first the boy stiffened, as though in shock; another moment later he’d arced his back, using his palms to push back against Ezra’s chest. It was like he was a feral kitten picked up for the very first time, so startled by his uncle’s tender embrace that he had no idea how to respond to it other than to thrash and flounder. Ezra, however, half expecting something of the sort, just kept a firm hold, whispering, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I miss her too. More than you can imagine.” “It’s not fair,” Gerard whimpered, struggling for one last second before the little boy went limp, collapsing like a ragdoll into his uncle’s hold. Cheek nestled against Ezra’s tunic, he warbled, “She’s all I had. Papa hates me. Mama hates me. Grandma was all I had.” “That’s not true, Gerard,” Elias said, a strangling knot in his throat. “It’s--” “But it is,” the boy snarled, anguished. “E-everybody hates me. ‘Cos… ‘cos I’m not really Papa’s. Th-that’s what Cassian told me. The night Papa’s ring caught on my eye. I a-asked him why Papa would do that to me, and he said it’s ‘cos I’m not really his. Not like h-he was, or… or anyone else.” Gerard’s breaths were fractured, shaky. “Grandma was the only one who didn’t care. The only one who loved me.” “Gerard, I love you,” Ezra put in softly, stroking the little boy’s back with one hand while the other kept him supported. “I don’t care if you’re really Oliver’s or not. You’re still my nephew. My kin. You still deserve to be loved, doesn’t matter who your father was.” “W-we’re going to leave,” Safira said darkly, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. “The next time Papa goes out of town, we’re--” “ Saf,” Gerard choked out, bucking once more against Ezra’s hold to level his sister a smoldering, teary glower. “You c-can’t tell anybody about that, shut up!” Ezra felt like he was about to choke. “Kids, no, you can’t, you’re too young and you’ve never known life outside the palace, you wouldn’t last five minutes on your own.” Not that he didn’t understand, far from it. Wasn’t escaping Oliver’s untender mercies why he and Elias had joined the military in the first place? But now, that place of safety, that escape that had preserved his sanity for the past five years, felt like a coward’s hideaway. “Listen,” he said, his voice thick. “I know you two don’t know me very well. That I’ve been away a lot in the army. But… b-but if you’ll trust me, I promise, I’ll make sure that your lives here at the palace aren’t completely miserable. Your grandma may have gone to the gods, but that doesn’t mean you have to be alone.” He turned Gerard’s head again, forcing the nine year old prince to face him. “I’ll resign my position in the army, Gerard. I’ll stay here in Rakine. I can’t stop your Papa, you saw the scars on my back, I’m as powerless against him as you are. But I can be here for you, and love you. And your brothers and sisters. If you want me to.” “I just want to leave,” Gerard whimpered. “I… I don’t want to be here any more. I’m t-tired of Papa hurting me. And everyone else.” He hiccuped. “T-tonight Papa gave Safira the belt just ‘cos she told him she wasn’t sure if she could sstop herself from cryin’ at the funeral. And he said it w-wasn’t a request, that she had to, and she said she couldn’t, and… and he said she was back-talking, and…” “I’m so sorry, Gerard. Safira.” Elias’s gut was a churning, oily slick. “But you can’t just… just run away. I’m so sorry, but you can’t.” He gulped, pressing a hand against his forehead as all his future plans crumbled like ash in his head. Gods, he couldn’t just run back to Teral, could he? Not unless he wanted to be as callow and selfish as the monster he’d spent so long reviling. “Uncle Ezra and I will both stay here,” he went on. “At the palace. We’ll be here for both of you just like Grandma was.” Ezra’s stomach flipped when his brother gave that promise- he hadn’t volunteered Elias specifically because he didn’t want to force the younger prince to stay if he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t have blamed Elias for going back to Teral. But he turned towards his brother, blue eyes meeting green, and as their pupils latched, Elias gave Ezra a soft, sad smile and nod. Ezra had spent so long protecting his younger siblings. Now it was time for Elias to join in the venture, to bring at least a ray of light to children who spent their lives in mortal fear of the man who should have been their foremost defender. “C-could we stay out here?” Gerard whispered, tears still flowing steadily from his dark eyes. “In the gazebo? J-just for a while more?” “Sure,” Ezra agreed softly, shifting himself so he was sitting in a more comfortable position as he gently drew the despondent child into his lap. He hesitated a beat, then in a very soft voice began to croon a slow, somber song. However, the song wasn’t Courdonian- it was Mzian, a lullaby his mother had sung for him and his siblings when they were small. Standing a few feet behind his brother and the children, Elias had to squeeze shut his eyes to force back tears of his own; Safira was not so lucky, the girl’s soft crying segueing into outright sobbing as she crumpled to her knees, keening for a moment before Ezra reached out to her with one hand and drew her to his side, one arm tucked over her shoulder. “S-so we can’t leave then?” The little girl sniffled, burying her face against Ezra’s sleeve. “E-even if we plan it real good?” “I’m sorry, little ones,” Ezra said softly. “But even if you did manage to get away, your Papa would find you again before you got very far. And… you know how he is. He doesn’t like it when he loses something he thinks is his.” He stroked the top of her head, looking towards Elias sadly. “Besides, who’s going to protect Sabine and Matteus if you both go? They’re too little to run away. Brothers and sisters should look out for each other, always.” Gerard sighed, reaching up to rub his bloodshot eyes. “S-sometimes it’s nice to imagine, though,” he said. “How things would be if we went somewhere new. Somewhere without him. Where he c-couldn’t hurt us even if he tried.” “Maybe when you’re older,” Ezra suggested. “That’s why me and your Uncle Elias went in the army, you know. because then we could be away, where he wouldn’t hurt us. But we waited until Uncle Elias was sixteen first- a grownup- so we could leave without having to be sneaky. I know it’s hard, trying to be patient and wait in the meantime. Believe me, I know. But until then, I’m here for you.” Hugging both of the children, he amended, “Both of you. And Uncle Elias is too, right?” “Right,” Elias confirmed. “We’ll be here for you both no matter what.” Chapter Two The late July sunlight beat down on the top of Ezra’s head as he trailed after the royal party through the packed, and consequently even more sweltering, streets of Rakine. Long used to marching in all weather conditions, he gave no evidence to his discomfort despite the beads of sweat that were dampening his pale brown hair. The same, however, could not be said of the youngest Alarics. All of Oliver’s children save for Cassian-- who was banished to his chambers with stripes across his rear after talking back to his father over breakfast that morning-- half-looked as though they were melting as they ambled along with their father and his brother, sweat beading their brows and their fine silks clinging uncomfortably to their skin. It probably would have been much easier to take a carriage, but the king had blithely quashed this idea, dismissing the suggestion as the children merely being “spoiled complainers”. “It’s a shame Elias couldn’t come,” the king mused as the contingent of royals-- and their accompanying knights-- crossed a stone footbridge to pass from the tony Balfour District into the riverfront market area. “But I’d hardly want to take him from his very important duties.” Since his return to the palace over three years ago, Oliver’s youngest brother had been serving as the court’s Minister of Coin-- a rather dreary role that saw him spending much of his time hunched over ledger books, attempting to keep straight the tangled morass that was palace finances. “But at least you could come, dear brother,” the king purred on. “I was so very pleased when I realised you didn’t have any meetings this afternoon!” “Things have been rather quiet since you licensed those privateers to deal with the pirates off the coast of Seguier, and Lords Pallas and Nicholas finally squashed those bandits flitting between Emryn and the Northlands,” Ezra replied. Having been the higher-ranked of the two brothers, when they’d decided to remain in Rakine, Ezra had been appointed to the post of Minister of War. This meant that most major points of conflict within the country were his problem, and he conferred directly with Oliver and the generals of the Courdonian army in dealing with them. Not altogether an awful position, but it involved a great deal more of filing paperwork and 99% less actual combat than Ezra was used to. “And you know I’d never miss a chance to bond with my family,” he added, glancing briefly down at his nieces and nephews before meeting Oliver’s gaze again. “Of course.” Oliver beamed, reaching out toward his youngest child’s hand and drawing the boy, Matteus, close to him. “It’s almost a late birthday gift for you, isn’t it, Matteus?” the king asked. “Getting to go to a real slave auction with Papa, Uncle Ezra, and your siblings.” The little boy pursed his lips, green eyes cast downward. “I guess,” he whispered; he’d turned five last week. “Are we gonna even buy anything?” asked his nine-year-old sister, Sabine, fidgeting with the long, black braid that hung over her shoulder. “Or are just watchin’?” “Sabine dear, don’t be fussy,” Ezra chided gently. “We might buy something if there’s any slaves worth buying, but we don’t need to spend money just to spend the money. We’ll see when we get there, right?” “Okay.” Sabine sighed, reaching up to wipe the sweat from her temple. “I hope there’s shade there. It’s hot.” “Maybe we could go swimming when we get home,” suggested her older sister, Safira. “In the cold baths.” “Only if you’re good,” Oliver said flatly. From his lips, this couldn’t have been interpreted as anything but a warning, the king leveling a glower at-- of all people-- the final child of the group, Gerard, even though the young boy hadn’t said a word so far, let alone one of complaint. “We are in public,” the king added. “I expect all of you to be on your absolute best behaviour.” “W-we will be, Father,” Gerard said, forcing a tremulous smile. Now twelve-- and growing like a weed-- the black-haired prince was scarcely recognizable as the small child whom Ezra and Elias had found in the gardens three years ago. It wouldn’t be long before he was taller than Oliver was. “Promise.” “Gerry’s always on his best behavior, aren’t you kiddo?” Ezra put in with forced cheer. Winking in Matteus and Sabine’s direction the king’s brother added, “Now that Ezra, I’d watch out for him, I hear he’s a troublemaker. Prone to eating bugs and making faces in public, hm?” His father’s hand still snared around his, Matteus chanced a wavering smile. “You’re silly, Uncle Ezra,” the little boy declared. “And you best not forget it, either,” the child’s uncle replied affectionately. The Alaric party proceeded through the city until they reached the amphitheater that was often used to hold slave auctions. There was a small section set aside for use by the royals when they deigned to come, with comfortable seats and even a canvas awning- but it was still sweltering. Ezra found himself absently wishing that they’d brought along a slave with a palm fan at the very least. As the first lineup of slaves was brought forward- all bearing fresh bruises and stripes that marked them as the low-price troublemakers whose owners just wanted them gone- Ezra turned to the kids with a wan smile. “I could go for a nice chilled custard when we get back to the palace, how about you? My treat for everyone who is very good today.” “Ooh, could we have berries in it?” Safira chirped, fidgeting in her seat. The girl was scarcely paying attention to the auction that was taking place before her, instead flicking her pale blue eyes between her family members and the lively crowd that filled the amphitheater away from the royal box. “Mama told me that the kitchens have got blackberries,” the girl added. “Juicy ones!” “We could mix strawberries in, too,” Sabine suggested. “And nuts.” “I don’t like nuts,” Matteus said, running a hand through his sweat-matted blond hair. “They make my lips tingly sometimes.” “We can tell the kitchen staff to not put any nuts in yours,” Ezra said, his heart lurching. Tingly? Why had Matteus never mentioned this before? “And I’ll let them know to not put any nuts in your food from now on, alright, Matt?” “‘Kay,” Matteus said, smiling softly, as beside him his father narrowed his mint green eyes. “Why did you never tell us about the nuts?” the king asked. “I… I din’ wanna bother no one,” the little boy replied. Oliver scowled; Matteus shrunk down, drawing his shoulders in. Meanwhile, up on the auction block, bidding was getting heated over a burly raven-haired slave. Though his bare back was mottled with lash marks in various stages of healing, his prominent muscles, in conjunction with a very low starting bid, seemed to have blinded the crowd to his flaws. “They’re overpaying,” Oliver grumbled, any concern over his young son already seemingly forgotten. “He’s going to take a heavy hand and lash to manage-- why in all the hells would you spend five silvers on him? I wouldn’t take him for a bloody copper.” Ezra had to refrain from rolling his eyes. “No nuts in your food from now on, I promise, Matt. Gerry, what about you? Do you want anything special in or not in your custard?” “I’m okay with anything,” Gerard said. He winced as the slave on the block refused the auctioneer’s command to turn around, earning a hard smack for his trouble. “Berries, nuts-- I’m good with whatever,” the boy added. “Th-thank you, Uncle Ezra.” “Of course,” the boy’s uncle replied with a sad smile. While most of the children had opened up to Ezra over the past few years, Gerard remained largely reticent. Ezra couldn’t blame the boy for his reluctance to trust, but it still made the older prince want to punch Oliver in the eye for turning the child into such a skittish mess. The royal family fell into a silence then, as the auctioneer made quick work of the rest of the ‘damaged goods’ before moving on to more palatable lots. It was here that the king perked up, green eyes bright and inquisitive as he slowly scanned the slaves on the block, a smile ticking at the corners of his lips as his gaze finally settled on a lithe young woman with hair like wheat and skin as pale as milk. “What do you think, Ez?” Oliver asked, smirking sidelong at his brother. “A good addition to the palace barracks?” Ezra followed the king’s gaze, a small frown ticking at his lips. “That one, your majesty? She’s…” He glanced back at his brother, the frown deepening at the unmistakable leer in Oliver’s eyes. “With all due respect, your children are watching. Isn’t this sort of purchase better made… in mature company?” Oliver chortled. “Oh, dear brother, you worry far too much. The children hardly know what is or isn’t meant by a purchase.” As if to punctuate this point, the king draped an arm around Sabine’s shoulder, tugging playfully on the girl’s long, silky braid. “What do you think, Sab? Should Papa buy the yellow-haired lady?” Sabine gnawed on her lip, blue eyes uncertain. “If… if you want to, Papa,” she ventured. “You can even lodge the bids for me,” the king added cheerily, handing the girl the chunky wooden block the royal family had been handed upon their arrival, the number CXXVII carved onto its face; flashing it to the auctioneer would mean a bid entered at the going price. “Just hold it up whenever I say,” Oliver told his daughter. “Alright?” Sabine nodded reluctantly, the block awkward in her small hands. “Yes, Papa.” Ezra couldn’t help but give a soft, slightly exasperated sigh. “As you will, your majesty. Though perhaps while you are bidding, I could take Gerry or Matt with a few of the knights to get some juice for the kids? A treat for them and a treat for you seems fair.” “If you wish to play nursemaid and servant, then by all means, do,” the king drawled. “Gerard, Matteus-- go with your uncle, hm?” “Yes, Father.” Gerard was on his feet in an instant, the dark-haired boy smiling down at his baby brother as he offered Matteus his hand. “C’mon, Mattie. You can hold my hand.” “‘Kay.” Threading his fingers through Gerard’s, Matteus stood. “Could… could we get somethin’ to eat, too, Uncle Ezra?” the boy asked hesitantly. “Walkin’ so much made me hungry.” “Sure,” Ezra agreed as he gestured for two of the accompanying knights to follow them and led the boys back out onto the street. “I think I saw a stand selling candied fruits a little ways off, and if I remember right there’s a bakery nearby that might have some jelly buns. I think cherries are in season now too, we could probably find a fruit seller somewhere close that has some- you like cherries, don’t you Gerry?” Gerard nodded. “Uh-huh. They’re my favourite fruit.” He grinned down at Matteus. “And Mattie likes ‘em, too, right, Matt?” “I can spit the pits real far,” Matteus agreed. “‘Cept… not when Papa’s around. ‘Cos he gets mad.” “Well, Papa’s back in the stands, so it’s okay,” Gerard soothed. “You don’t have to worry, alright?” With his free hand, he playfully tweaked his little brother’s nose. “Bet you can’t spit them as far as Uncle Ezra could.” Ezra laughed. “Such uncivilized young demons, talking about spitting cherry pits! Certainly I would never indulge such filthy habits.” With a wink in the boys’ direction he added, “When I was Saf’s age, I hit your Uncle Daniel in the back of the head once. He was furious. I was grounded for a month.” Matteus giggled, leaning closer against Gerard as the royal party headed into the heavier crowd that pulsed in the marketplace’s teeming center. “I’m good at aimin’ em, too. Gerry says I’d be real good at archery. But Papa says I’m not old ‘nough yet for lessons.” “He’ll be an ace shot,” Gerard said, glancing fondly down at the boy. “Better than I am. I’ll go to swordsmanship lessons any day, but gods, I hate the bloody bow and arrow.” “It’s certainly a weapon that takes a patient hand,” Ezra agreed. “Perhaps you’d have better luck with a crossbow? Then at least you can focus on aiming without also having to keep your grip firm and keep just the right amount of tension on the string and let go in just the right way so the arrow flies instead of just falling… I prefer crossbows to longbows any day.” “I think I just like swords,” Gerard admitted, smiling a bit sheepishly. “When I’m thinking about footwork, or blocking, or-- or anything like that, I can forget about everything else. For a while.” “He’s real good,” Matteus said. “Better’n Cassian is.” “Maybe if Cassian’s tutors gave him a challenge instead of treating him like glass because of what your Papa might do,” Ezra remarked dryly. “I got a lot of bruises in swordsmanship training at his age and I’m a much better swordsman for it. If you keep getting a bruise on the same spot on your leg because you keep leaving an opening there, you very quickly learn to guard that spot better, neh?” Gerard nodded. “Uh-huh. And it’s not like your enemies will go easy on you in a real battle. So there’s no point being timid in training.” He tugged Matteus’s hand as the royal party neared a stall hawking pressed juice. “Look, Mattie. I think they’ve got melon juice.” “Oooh.” The younger boy brightened, his green eyes twinkling. “And slices of melon, too! To eat with it!” “Melons sound lovely on a hot day like today,” Ezra said with a fond smile. “We can get some for your sisters too, I can’t imagine sitting with your papa and bidding on slaves is too much fun for them. I wonder if we should get some for your Papa too…” “Probably.” Gerard sighed-- before a mischievous smirk curled between his lips. “Cantaloupe,” the boy said. “We should get cantaloupe. Father hates cantaloupe. But of course, how were we supposed to remember that?” Ezra snorted. “Sounds like a plan to me- I personally like cantaloupe, so if I get some for me too he can’t complain about it or accuse us of anything.” The older prince ruffled Gerard’s hair. “Just remember not to grin when we give it to him.” Indeed, Gerard managed to maintain a level face when the royal party returned with the treats, impassive as a monk as Ezra doled out the juice and melon slices. Oliver scowled-- as Gerard had known he would-- and rejected the proffered snack, although fortunately he did not complain further. Instead, as everyone else began to partake in the food and drink, the king merely announced that he’d won the auction for the blonde-- and declared thereafter that he was hot, and their box was “uncomfortable as all the hells”, and so that after the next few lots, he wanted to return to the Gilded Palace. “Can… can we swim once we’re back, Papa?” Safira asked. “‘Cos we’ve been good?” “I suppose.” Oliver shrugged. “But only for a little. I want you presentable at supper tonight-- Lord Peregrine is due in from Emryn near nightfall to give his final report on his and Lord Pipp’s resolution of the bandit situation, and we’re having a small feast to welcome him. I won’t have you showing up rumpled and soggy.” “I suppose my presence will be required upon his arrival?” Ezra asked, feeling a twinge of regret at that. He would’ve liked to spend more time with the kids, but realistically knew he shouldn’t. “Oh, no, of course not,” Oliver leered. “Why ever would I wish for my Minister of War to welcome the man with whom he’s been corresponding for six months?” The king rolled his eyes. “Truly, Ezra, need you ask such obvious questions?” “ Sorry,” Ezra said, irritation prickling in him. Gods, Oliver never changed. “A simple yes was all I needed, your majesty.” Oliver jerked his chin toward his brother, venom flashing in his eyes; nearby, the children all shrunk down as if by reflex, bracing themselves against whatever was next to come. “Is that the tone you take with your king, Ezra?” Oliver hissed. “Because if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were speaking flippantly to me. In public, no less.” Oh yes, you can be a sarcastic prat all you like but I make one comment and suddenly we’re right back to veiled threats. Ezra thought waspishly. Nonetheless he bowed his head, muttering, “Of course not, my liege. I would never dream to give offense.” “That’s what I thought,” Oliver said thickly. “And you’d best be careful with that tongue around Lord Peregrine, Ezra. I’d hate for him to think poorly of my dearest brother’s manners, after all.” The prince said nothing, only inclining his head further. Once Oliver had turned back around, however, Ezra leveled a venomous glare at the back of his head. Sometimes he wondered how he managed to keep his temper with the king. It was like every day Oliver found new lows of selfish depravity. At least there were the children. Ezra could always take comfort from them. *** Over the next winter, trouble started in the north. It began quietly, almost anemically: small batches of slave uprisings and insurrections, most of them easily quashed, along with largely unverified rumours of a slave who had escaped to Kyth long ago now returning to Courdon to spread propaganda and salacious messages, urging his brothers still in fetters to fight back and shed their chains. As far as Oliver was concerned, there was very little to be genuinely worried about-- a sentiment he repeatedly delivered in meetings with his councilors and ministers when court personnel touched the possibility of the king’s army sending reinforcements to help the northern lords combat the occasional unrest. “Slaves can’t hold a candle to trained knights,” the king huffed, waving a perpetually dismissive hand. “The lords can handle it on their own. It’s not worth diverting our resources and troops.” Ezra, for his part, didn’t like what he was hearing from the north. Even if the rumors weren’t true, talk in and of itself had power. If there was one thing he’d learned in the army, it was that morale was equally as important in a battle as skill or superior numbers. Slaves who heard the story would get the taste of a very powerful, very dangerous emotion in their mouths- hope. But he only had to bring this up once with his brother to quickly realize that such advice was lost on Oliver. The king was intractable, insistent, the idea of sending the king’s army to respond to disobedient slaves apparently unthinkable to him. There were better things to do with his soldiers-- and surely any enki worth his bootstraps could quell untrained, surly chattel without needing the crown to hold his hand. And then one morning in early May, about a year and a half into the occasional revolts and spells of violence, Ezra was awakened shortly after dawn by a frantic pounding on his chamber door. The prince lurched upright, his military instincts seeing him fully awake and bolting towards the door immediately. He yanked it open so hard it slammed the opposite wall audibly, and to Ezra’s astonishment he saw not a knight standing outside, not a servant, but Oliver. The king looked like he’d just walked out of a living nightmare: his eyes bloodshot, his hair disheveled, wearing only a nightshirt and thin trousers. He had on no shoes; he wore not an ounce of jewelry. “ Ezra,” he hissed, shouldering into his brother’s chamber. “Oh gods, Ezra. We have a war. We have a war.” “ What?” Ezra yelped, a split second before his military training kicked in again and his brain powered into overdrive. “What’s happened, your majesty, who’s the enemy? What do we know about the situation so far?” “The slaves,” Oliver warbled. “The godsdamned slaves! The ones from the north!” The king inhaled jaggedly. “They took Jisam, Ezra. The castle! Rylan Duval is… is dead. Micah, too. They’re dead, and the bloody rebel slaves have the castle!” Ezra’s blue eyes widened. “Jisam… Jisam has fallen? The lord and his heir both dead? Gods- do we know about his wife and younger children? Are they hostages? Have the insurgents issued any demands?” “I don’t bloody know!” Oliver snarled, pacing about the chamber like an agitated, feral dog. “I just got the first pigeon half an hour ago. I-- I don’t know, I don’t know anything!” He gritted his teeth. “We need to send troops. Now. Take the godsdamned castle back. We… we need to wake up everyone. Every advisor, every able body who can work to start sending out marching orders. We won’t let those slaves keep Jisam, Ezra. We won’t!” “All due respect, we can’t just lunge at this blindly, your majesty,” Ezra objected. “If the slaves were able to overcome Jisam’s defenses, infiltrate the castle and murder members of the Duval family, they are clearly far better organized and possess better resources than we could have guessed. As you said, this isn’t just an uprising anymore, this is a war. Yes, we need to wake up the generals and military advisors, but not to issue marching orders with no plan. We need to gather information, and we need to approach this tactically.” “Fine.” Oliver laughed, and it was not a cheerful sound. “Fine, Ezra. Fine. You’re my Minister of War, and by all the gods, you have your war. Win it. Send all those rebellious slaves down to the hells where they belong.” Ezra gritted his teeth, nodding jerkily before he moved to find his boots and trousers. He had a feeling he was going to come to very much hate this job before not too long. Chapter Three Within weeks the crown had taken back Jisam, but from there it was a free fall, the rebellion burning like a wildfire lashed about by a roaring wind. Soon the entire northern swath of the kingdom was heavily entrenched in warfare, the rebel army’s numbers growing steadily as the king’s army fought in vain to still their advance. And while Rylan Duval and his son, Micah, were the first lords to fall, they were hardly the last-- or the closest to the royal family: the king’s third brother, Tyson, had soon been slain alongside his entire family, a massacre that sent Oliver so furious that his grief almost seemed as though it were borne out of genuine love, rather than the fact that he was losing control. Had lost control, as far as it seemed. And gods knew, the king had never done well when everything wasn’t falling neatly into his proscribed lines. Once it became clear that the war would not be settling anytime soon-- and filled with raw grief over the loss of Tyson, his wife, and his children-- Elias quickly volunteered to resign his post as Minister of Coin to return to an officership in the king’s army. The desperate needs of wartime saw him vaulted from his last rank of colonel to his brother’s old status: major general. It was something that Elias would have once been proud over. Now, however, in light of the context, it only made the blond-haired prince feel sick-- and he was sick, too, over the fact that Oliver was baldly refusing to allow Ezra to return to the army alongside him, the king insisting that their brother was better served in his existing position as Minister of War. And so Elias was sent to the battlefront while Ezra remained behind at the palace, the two brothers separated for the first time that either of them could remember, with Elias only returning to the Gilded Palace in uneven bobs and stretches in order to give firsthand reports of the battlefront to Oliver. Watching his brother go off to fight on the frontlines while he was stuck on a leash back at the palace made Ezra want to scream. Even now, it was often only Elias that kept Ezra from tearing his hair out from frustrated helplessness at the disastrous mess of their lives, and watching his brother fly off without being able to follow felt like a piece of his own soul had been carved out. Logistically the prince knew that Oliver was right- changing the kingdom’s Minister of War on the brink of what was already promising to be a very bloody war would be monumental stupidity. But looking at it from an emotional standpoint, he felt like he was drowning. And the rapidly deteriorating situation in the north certainly didn’t help matters. At times Ezra felt like he was trying to bail a leaky boat, shoving rags into the holes to stop them and helpless to do anything but watch as those rags were soaked and the flooding continued almost unimpeded. It became a common sight around the palace for Ezra to be walking the halls with eyes black-rimmed and bloodshot from lack of sleep, and massaging his temples as the stress gave him near constant headaches. It was on one such occasion-- a little less than a year and a half into the war-- that, as Ezra was blearily staggering back toward his flat after a long morning of meetings, he found his path suddenly impeded by his older brother’s swaggering form. The king seemed to be in a rather chipper mood-- much cheerier than he usually was these days-- as he paused in front of Ezra, his green eyes twinkling like jades and a small smile between his lips. “Ezra,” he greeted, his voice nearly singsong. “You busy, little brother?” Ezra couldn’t help but voice a soft moan. “No, I was just… on my way for a nap, but it can wait. What do you need?” “I have something I want you to see,” the king replied. He tilted his head, studying his brother’s weary face. “I think it might perk you up, really. You’ll like it.” Oliver beamed. “My flat, Ezra. Go to the empty bed-suite next to Sabine’s. There’ll be a guard in front of it, but tell him I sent you and he’ll let you in.” Ezra lifted a tired eyebrow at his brother’s cagey response, but with a shrug turned his course to obey. It wasn’t an insignificant trip from the halls where his flat was to the main royal chambers- he and Elias had deliberately chosen to live together in one of the more distant, quiet parts of the palace for the sake of privacy and safety from Oliver’s temper. But he finally made it, and after explaining his errand to the knight standing guard, was admitted entrance to the room beyond. The bed-suite was comprised of three rooms, a compact lounge in the center flanked on one side by a dressing room and on the other side by a sleeping chamber. Both of the lounge’s plush sofas were empty, the windows’ curtains drawn, and a brief glimpse into the dressing room revealed that it, too, was unoccupied. The door that led into the bedroom, however, was ajar, the beam of light that crept out from within it indicating that someone there had swept open the shades. Ezra padded in the direction of the room, knocking gently and calling, “Ah, hello? Is anyone in there?” “I… I…” A wisp of a female voice wafted out from inside. “Yes. I’m… here.” Badly confused now, Ezra gently pushed the door open, peering inside. If he’d expected to find somebody familiar there, his hopes were quickly dashed as he discovered a complete and utter stranger-- a girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, with pale ivory skin and tumbling jet black locks. She sat in the center of the room’s large feather bed, clad plainly in a white nightdress, her feet bare. More alarmingly, however, were the marks across her face, bruises in various stages of healing littering her light skin as might freckles. Her left eye was ringed entirely black; her lip was so swollen it could have passed as a bee sting. “Oh… gods,” Ezra breathed, feeling a sick horror in his gut. He came further into the room, stopping a few feet from the bed to kneel on the floor. “Who are you? Did… did the king do this to you?” “I… no, he d-didn’t give me the bruises. Sir.” Though she spoke in the high tongue as had Ezra, her accent was nothing like his, underscored by something… lilting. Foreign. “I’ve-- h-had those. For a wh-while.” She gulped. “Did he send you? The king?” “Y-yes but… he didn’t tell me… Gods, I don’t know what he thought I would like about-” The prince cut himself off, shaking his head. “Sorry, I’m just. Confused. My name is Ezra; Prince Ezra Alaric. The king is my older brother. He sent me in here to see you, but didn’t tell me why.” Tilting his head, Ezra repeated his earlier question. “Who are you, young miss? Why has the king got you locked up in here?” “Prince… Ezra,” the girl echoed, some ghost of recognition flashing across her face for a moment before she shoved it away. “I… I’m…” She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again. “You look just like her,” she whimpered. “Her nose. Her l-lips.” “Like her?” Ezra echoed, now even more confused. Who did he look like exactly? As he examined the girl and tried to figure out what she was talking about, he realized something that made his eyebrows snap upwards. “Your eyes…” he said softly. “They’re… they’re Alaric eyes, aren’t they? Pale green. So you’re an Alaric? Or related to… W-wait-” He looked at the young girl more closely now, his fists clenching. The accent he didn’t in the least recognize, eyes like an Alaric, Oliver’s bizarrely cheerful mood when he spoke of this girl… “You don’t,” he said, his voice very slow and hesitant, “know anyone named… Lila, do you?” The girl let out a sound that was partway between a moan and sob. “I did,” she murmured. “My… my mother. She was-- she was my mother.” She shifted on the bed, clenching her hands into fists in her lap. “You’re her brother, aren’t you? Ezra. Sh-she talked about you. She talked about you a lot.” Lila’s daughter. Ezra felt his eyes flooding with tears, and he squeezed them shut. “Y-yes,” he said thickly. “I… I’m her brother. I-” A thought seemed to occur to him, and he looked up at the girl again with befuddlement written all over his face. “But… but if she talked to you about me, and you remember… I was told she d-died over ten years ago, k-killed by the Langeans during a court purge. You can’t be older than fourteen or fifteen, h-how…” “We got away,” the girl whispered. “My paternal grandmother, she helped us get away. M-my mother. My brother. Me.” She let out a shaky breath. “We went to Kyth. Northern Kyth. N-no one knew who we were there. We went by false names.” “Sh-she’s… she survived?” Ezra asked, gaping. “She… but no. You… you said ‘was’ didn’t you. So she’s…” “She died,” his niece said, tears springing to her eyes. “Last year. Her and my br-brother. And now I’ve made a mess of everything. I’ve made a mess of everything.” She leaned briefly back against the headboard, winced at once, and lurched forward again. “It w-would have been better if I’d died, too.” Ezra’s heart lurched. His sister had been alive all this time, and he’d never known. Guilt had eaten him alive for years, since that day at the breakfast table he’d lashed out at Oliver over the decision to send Lila to Lange and been scarred for it. Guilt that he hadn’t been able to save her somehow. And to find out that until just recently, she’d been alive in Kyth of all places… The young girl’s wince jarred him out of his despairing thoughts, and he started towards her on impulse. He’d seen that gesture far, far too often in his lifetime not to recognize it for what it was. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry, you’re still hurt, aren’t you? This really isn’t the time for me to be interrogating you.” The prince hesitantly moved forwards, so that he was kneeling at the foot of the bed. “I… I don’t know who did this to you, or why. And I won’t ask just now. But… can you at least tell me your name, honey? Please?” “Julia,” she said, daring to meet his gaze. “I’m… Julia. I-I’d give you a surname, but… I don’t even know which to give. Irbis, or Murphy, or…” Her teeth chattered. “H-he’s not going to hurt me more, is he? Everything a-already hurts so much. I feel sick. Woo, I feel sick.” Ezra was startled to hear the girl invoke the Kythian Woo, but all things considered it probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Not if she’d been raised all her life in Kyth. Ezra swallowed hard, his expression bleak. “I… I wish I could honestly say not but… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I imagine your mother never contacting us to tell us she was still alive was a very deliberate decision.” The tears he’d been fighting since Julia revealed her real identity spilled over, and Ezra didn’t bother to fight them back. “I tried to protect her. Lila. I try to protect the children in the palace now. But I can only do so much. I’m… I’m so sorry, Julia.” “I didn’t understand,” Julia whimpered miserably. “W-why she was so insistent that I never, ever come to Courdon. I didn’t… didn’t really understand. But now…” She crumpled forward, burying her face in her hands. “I’ve ruined everything. In so many ways. Woo, I should have just let those soldiers kill me.” Ezra still didn’t know what Julia was talking about, or how in the world she’d come to be in Rakine from northern Kyth, but when the teenager started to cry, he reacted with over a decade’s worth of instinct. Lurching to his feet, he sat down on the bed next to Julia and, after a moment’s hesitation, he drew her into a hug. “I don’t really understand how you got here, Julia,” he murmured. “But I’m sorry. I really, truly am.” Julia stiffened for only a fraction of a moment before the girl collapsed into Ezra’s tender hold, burying her bruised face against his chest. “Sh-she loved you so much, you know,” she breathed into her uncle’s tunic. “You and… and her sisters and…” Julia sniffled. “It never seemed… real. Any of her life in Courdon. And now… now it’s… it’s…” The girl’s voice broke off, anguished and empty. “I never stopped missing her,” Ezra admitted, gently smoothing Julia’s hair. “I never stopped feeling like everything that happened to her was my fault, because I couldn’t change my brother’s mind about sending her to Lange. I’m… I’m glad she could at least remember me fondly. Even if I never got to see her again. And Julia, I know you don’t really know me, and you have no reason to trust me, but I’ll do what I can for you. I can’t stop him from hurting you, but if you want, if you come to me once he lets you out of this room, I keep a salve that dulls pain. I use it for all the little ones here, so they don’t have to hurt so much without being obviously healed with magic. And I… I’ll always be a sympathetic ear if you need one.” Julia nodded mutely, the girl falling silent for several long moments before she finally whispered, “D-do you think he’s going to keep me here, at the palace? D-do you think he’d ever let me leave again? Eventually?” Ezra winced. “I… do you want an honest answer, Julia? I think you deserve an honest answer, but you probably won't like it.” “You can tell me,” she replied softly. “I-I can handle it. I promise.” “Oliver- the king- is very, very controlling,” Ezra said, his voice equally hushed. “He doesn’t like to let go of things he sees as his. And since you’re his sister’s daughter, he’ll see you as his. So no. He’s not going to let you go. If I had to take a guess? He’ll probably title you a princess, and take you on as an orphan ward of the royal family. Then once you’re of age he… he’ll probably arrange a marriage of state for you to one of his nobles.” Julia visibly winced. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I… d-don’t like it very much. But thank you for telling me. For… for not thinking I’m too-- young or st-stupid or naive to know the truth.” “The young grow up very quickly in this palace,” Ezra said sadly. “It’s better to be honest than to sugar coat the truth when the lie will inevitably be proved to be just that.” He hugged her a little tighter momentarily, though he was careful not to press on the wounds he knew she had to have on her back. “And I… I’m so sorry about your mother. If it’s any consolation, I know that pain. Far, far too well.” “Thank you,” Julia said again. “It’s been… h-hard. With her gone. And I’ve… not been making very good choices, if it wasn’t already obvious.” Between her tears, the girl laughed grimly. “I h-haven’t been a princess since I was five-years-old. I don’t even know how. And I know h-hardly anything about Courdon. Other than what Mother told me. I grew up in the snowy mountains of Bern.” “I can imagine that’s going to be an adjustment,” Ezra agreed. A thought seemed to occur to him, and using lessons he’d not called upon in years, he added in heavily accented Kythian, “Though if this language is more comfortable for you, you can use it if you’d like. Not in front of the king, I doubt he’d care for it, but well, I’ve never been involved in foreign diplomacy so might as well use those lessons I was forced to slog through as a child for something, right?” “I bet you’ve n-never heard anyone speak Kythian with a brogue before, have you?” Julia replied, segueing flawlessly into her most natural tongue. “M-mother always found my accent, well-- I think charming was the word she used. She… never r-really got m-much of a native inflection herself. She always sounded...” The girl shrugged. “Well, Courdonian. Like you.” “Admittedly, no I haven’t,” Ezra replied, a touch of humor edging into his voice. “I’ve only met one person from Kyth before myself, one of the highlord’s wives, and she’s from Corvus, not Bern. It’s a very different inflection.” “Personally, I think it’s j-just everyone else who talks funny,” Julia joked tremulously, pausing then for a beat before she added, “W-will you come see me again? If… if he doesn’t let me out of this room for a while? You’re… nice to talk to. Nicer than anyone I’ve met in… in a long while.” She swallowed hard. “I c-can see why my mother liked you.” “I’ll see about talking my way in at least once a day if I can. Oliver- ah, his majesty rather, it’s not wise to use his given name- he doesn’t really like me, and gets snippy with me coddling the children.” Ezra smiled thinly, but there was gentleness in his blue eyes as he added, “But I promise, I’ll try.” “I’d like that,” Julia said, sighing heavily as she finally eased out of Ezra’s embrace. “Th-thank you, your highness.” Ezra let the girl pull away, edging away to give her some space. “You’re welcome- and you don’t have to call me by title if you don’t want to. Just Ezra is fine.” Quirking an eyebrow he added, “I suppose technically I’m your Uncle Ezra, but I know you just met me so I won’t ask you to call me that if you’re not comfortable with it.” “Uncle Ezra,” she echoed. “I… I-- if you’re sure, then alright. I th-think my mother would be happy. With me calling you that.” Ezra smiled, blinking hard against the tears that were threatening at his eyes again. “I hope she would be, Julia. And while I’m deeply sorry things are… as they are, I’m glad I got to meet Lila’s daughter. I promise, I’ll do my best for you.” *** Oliver released Julia from her makeshift prison cell after only a few weeks, and it was not long before Lila’s long lost daughter found herself fully stitched into the palace fabric. True to Ezra’s prediction, Oliver formally titled her and adopted her as a ward of the royal family; she was given a permanent bedchamber in the royal family’s main apartment, appeared with them at public events, and had to ascribe to the same sort of rules Oliver set for his own children… and the same sort of punishments. As he’d promised, Ezra tried to be supportive toward her, but one kind figure amid a sea of hostile or indifferent ones left Julia largely quiet and withdrawn, scarcely interacting with anybody else in the family but for Ezra... and Gerard, with Oliver’s perpetual scapegoat quickly striking up a friendship with his foundling cousin. Fifteen-years-old when Oliver took Julia in, Gerard had grown into a polite but impossibly aloof teenager, especially when adults were concerned. While he continued to dote on young Matteus, and he tried to be kind to his sisters as well, he avoided his parents and brother Cassian as if they were a virulent plague, seeming to have fully learned that nothing good ever came out of interactions with them. The only grown member of the Alaric family he remained on mildly pleasant terms with was Ezra, their relationship not quite close but at least benign enough-- Gerard would carry on a conversation with his uncle if prompted, chattering about his thoughts and interests, and sometimes Ezra could even eke a rare smile out of his nephew. This was how Ezra knew something was wrong two springs after Julia’s arrival, when seemingly overnight Gerard expanded his standoffish bubble to include his uncle. A few days, or even a week, of evasiveness might have passed as a teenage moodswing, but when after nearly a month the boy’s caginess didn’t wane, Ezra began to get annoyed and not a little worried. He finally made the decision to talk to his nephew about it, after a little bit of work managing to eke out a free stretch from meetings in the middle of the afternoon to lie in wait for Gerard on the route between the training yards where the royal family learned weapons work and the entrance back into the palace. The prince positioned himself so that he was leaning against a tree, the plan shielding him from the view of anyone on the path. As Gerard approached, sweat-drenched and clad only in the underclothes he’d worn beneath his training armour, the teenager nearly walked right by Ezra without seeing him-- but Ezra pushed himself upright with a soft cough and a chipper, “Hello, Gerry.” “Uncle Ezra.” Gerard froze, immediately furrowing his dark, heavy brow. “... Enjoying the fresh air, I see?” “It does me well to get out of the palace from time to time,” the older prince remarked, walking up to his nephew. “If I had to spend all my time locked up in the war room with my brother I’d go stark raving mad. Spending time with my nieces and nephews out and about helps me destress. I haven’t seen much of you lately though; something wrong, Ger?” “Nope,” Gerard said, sparing Ezra a shallow smile. “Just heading inside to wash up.” He took a step forward, as though he expected his uncle to jump out of his path. When Ezra didn’t, the teenager added with mock cheer, “Blocking lessons are over for the day, Uncle Ezra. Mind if I get around you?” “Gerry, I know you’re lying,” Ezra said softly. “You’ve never particularly trusted me, and I can respect that. But you don’t usually flat out avoid me like you’ve been doing. Something’s on your mind, and I wish you’d tell me what. If I’ve don’t something to upset you, I’d like to know so I can fix it.” “Nothing’s wrong,” Gerard said again. “And I’m not mad at you, promise. I’m fine, alright?” He took another step forward, angling toward Ezra as if to shoulder by him. Ezra stepped forwards as well, angling himself back into Gerard’s path. “Then why are you in such a rush to get away?” he demanded. “If it’s not that you’re upset with me, what is it? Something you don’t want me to find out about?” “Gods, what are you, the palace interrogator?” Gerard returned, clenching his jaw as he tried to shimmy through the small gap now present on Ezra’s opposite side. Ezra scowled, putting out an arm to block Gerard again. “Now you’re being blatantly obvious,” Ezra said cooly. “Little tip, when you have something you want to hide, you act natural. Suddenly changing your behavior is a blatant red flag to anyone that’s paying attention. It’s just fortunate I’m the only one who’s noticed. Please, tell me what’s going on, Ger. You’re not going to just squirm out of this by playing the snappy teenager angle.” “I’m not squirming out of anything,” Gerard huffed, brown eyes flaring with aggravation. “And last I checked, we didn’t have mandatory share your feelings sessions in our family, Uncle Ezra. So if I could please just get by so I can wash up?” “ Gerard Gabriel Alaric,” Ezra snapped, his shoulders bristling. “I may not ask to be kowtowed to like your father, but I do expect a certain level of respect. You are only digging your hole deeper by acting this way, so I suggest you cool your temper.” “You’re the one who’s cornered me demanding to know what’s wrong when nothing is, and I’m the one who’s got a temper?” Gerard snapped his teeth together, frustration oozing from him. “Fine. Whatever. I don’t want to have this conversation with you. And if you’re going to block me that way, I guess I’ll just take a different path.” He began to whirl on his heel, facing back the way from which he came. “Have a good afternoon, Uncle Ez--” Ezra reached out, quick as a snake, his military training firing up at the sight of someone he was trying to talk to stalking away in a huff. He grabbed Gerard’s shoulder, knocking his foot into the taller boy’s just enough to unbalance him and whirl him back around. With venom in his tone Ezra hissed, “Don’t you ever try to walk away from me after being so blatantly disrespectful, Gerard. I may not hold a candle to my brother but I am ex-military and I bloody well would not have tolerated that behavior from my men. You’ll get the same they got if you don’t stop acting like a spoiled, sullen brat. Now look. We can play the cat and mouse game all day long and it won’t get you or me anywhere. Or you can at least promise me whatever it is you’re hiding isn’t going to get you hurt. Can you give me that much?” “No,” Gerard hissed, at least knowing better than to fight against Ezra’s iron hold. “No, I can’t give you that much. Because I have no godsdamned idea what will or won’t get me hurt in my life. I never have. But-- what I’m hiding from you, it’s something that gives me hope. Hope that I’ve never bloody had before. Ever. And if you take that away from me-- if you tell my father--” The teenager inhaled sharply, the look wrought on his face one of what seemed to be physical pain. “I don’t even remember the first time he beat me. Did you know that? I think I must have been… three, maybe four. I have no idea what I did to set him off. I’m not sure what he hit me with, or how many times, or-- any of that. All I remember is lying in my bed afterward, sobbing. And my mother pausing in the doorway. She saw me. I saw her. And then she walked away from me. That’s what my life is, Uncle Ezra. All pain and fear and loneliness. But… now I have hope, okay? Even if it’s just a little, it’s there. Please don’t take it away from me. Please.” “Gerard,” Ezra said thickly. “You think I don’t know all that? You actually think you have to plead with me not to talk to your father? After everything I’ve tried to do, everything I’ve tried to be for you and your siblings? When I was fourteen years old, I defied him. I called him out for the abusive, miserable coward he is. And after he punched me and tore open my face, you know what he did? He didn’t beat me. He went after Elias. Elias, who was only bloody nine at the time. He beat him, and made it clear to me that every time I put a single toe out of line he would go after someone smaller. Someone weaker. That’s the only reason I haven’t done more than I have against him, Gerard. The only reason I never actually came between you kids and him. If it was just my pain on the line, I’d have done it in a heartbeat, every time. But if I try to stand up to him, Safira would get hurt. Or Sabine, or Matteus, or Julia. All I can do is mitigate the damage, and that kills me. You think I would sic him on you, like some sycophant?” Ezra let go of the boy’s shoulder, his blue eyes shimmering with anger and hurt. “I hate him, Gerard. He has made all of our lives living hells. I would never turn his wrath on someone intentionally. I would have hoped by now you’d realize that.” “If you hate him,” Gerard said, “then let me leave right now. Pretend this conversation never happened. Don’t hold me hostage until I tell you more. Please, just let me leave.” Ezra rubbed his face, looking pained. “All I ever wanted was to make your lives better. Elias and I had our escape. We were free of him. But we gave it up, for you and your siblings. Think on that a bit, Gerard. Next time you want to snarl at me like I have something to bloody prove.” Turning away, he added softly, “And whatever it is you’re planning, please be careful. You can hate me all you want, but I’ll always love all of my nieces and nephews. And that includes you, regardless of your paternity.” “I’m being careful,” Gerard said vaguely. “Don’t worry about me, okay, Uncle Ezra? I’ll be fine-- promise.” Chapter Four But Ezra was right to worry, for not even a month later, Gerard was gone: disappeared from the palace like a raindrop evaporated from a windowpane, slipped off of the grounds without any notice or warning, with seemingly only the clothes on his back-- and Julia. Oliver’s scapegoat had made off with Julia. Needless to say, the king was furious… particularly as the enki to whom he’d recently betrothed Lila’s daughter, Sutter Erling, was imminently due to the palace to wed his young bride. At once upon learning about the disappearance he ordered Rakine combed, scoured, vowing that he would bring his son and niece back and make an example of Gerard. Turn the teenager into ultimate warning of what happened to those who defied the crown. Who defied him. But by the morning after Gerard and Julia’s disappearance, despite the royal guard raking through the city for any signs of the renegade prince and princess, the teenagers had not been found; it was seeming increasingly likely that they’d made it out of Rakine’s confines altogether, into the vast wilds beyond. And with his elder brother raging up a storm, Ezra simply found himself feeling hurt and conflicted. On the one hand, he did understand why Gerard would want to leave. The young boy’s life was hardly anything that he should have many reservations about leaving. But given who he’d taken with him, his parentage and the consequences, and the current state of the kingdom, Ezra had very little doubt where Gerard had gone. To the rebels. To the people who would have gladly watched the entire Alaric family slaughtered. To Ezra, who had sacrificed his own life to helping protect his kin from Oliver, who gave everything of himself and asked nothing in return, this sort of betrayal was a knife in the heart. Wholly uninterested in listening to his older brother seethe with no more concern than he might have had if a platoon of gryphons had been stolen, Ezra had retreated into his own rooms not long after Gerard and Julia came up missing, ordering his meals be brought there. No one saw him at all that night, nor at breakfast the morning after, and it was as he was taking a solitary lunch in his private dining room that next afternoon that a red-and-gold liveried guard appeared in his doorway, bowing deeply to the prince. “Your highness,” the man said. “I know you’ve ordered to admit no visitors, but Prince Matteus has come around thrice today, asking to be given entry. He’s requested I ask you if he might be granted admittance.” Ezra looked up, startled. Matteus? Matteus wanted to see him? Then Ezra remembered; Matteus had always been the closest of all of the children to Gerard. The man bit his lip, a trickle of worry for the little boy threading up his spine. “By all means, let him in,” Ezra ordered. “Tell him I’m in the dining room, he knows how to find it.” “Of course, your highness.” The guard turned quickly on his heel and departed back for the front door, and a few minutes later, light footsteps sounded against the polished wood floor as young Matteus, only nine, slunk into the room. The little boy had certainly seen better days, his green eyes underscored by heavy black bags and his blond hair rumpled-- and a prominent bruise, fairly fresh by the looks of it, swollen on his jaw. Rather than the carefully tailored tunics and breeches he usually donned, he was dressed only in an oversized shirt that hung down to his thighs, and thin pants that were probably meant for sleep, not day-use. His arms were crossed at his chest, hesitant; he looked more like a cowed slave than Courdon’s youngest prince. “Thanks for letting me in,” the child whispered, giving Ezra a wavering smile. “I didn’t want to bother you, but…” “Oh gods, Mattie, what happened?” Ezra demanded, immediately sliding out of his chair to kneel before the boy. “I can go get the salve, I’m so sorry. I should have told the knights to let you kids in if you came by, it wasn’t you I- nevermind. Come on, let’s get these looked at.” Matteus, however, quailed, taking a step back from his uncle. “I d-don’t want you to touch them,” he murmured. “You can put the salve on the bruise on my face, but…” The boy shrugged languidly. “I-it’ll hurt worse if you touch my back. E-even just to put on the salve.” Ezra’s brow furrowed, his heart lurching. “Hurt worse? Why?” “‘C-cos,” Matteus said vaguely, fidgeting with his chin-length blond hair. “It j-just will.” Ezra frowned. “Matt, let me see,” he said softly, turning the little boy gently but firmly so that his back was to his uncle. Before Matteus could protest, Ezra lifted the oversized shirt, and inhaled sharply. “ Please, don’t touch it,” the child whimpered, sniffling as Ezra gawped at the raw, swollen marks covering his back-- not inflicted just by a belt, but a belt buckle, the metal snapped against the boy’s tender flesh until it had broken his skin. “I c-can just wear loose shirts. ‘Til it g-get better.” “Matteus, why wasn’t any of this healed?” Ezra demanded, his hands shaking. “Your father always has you kids healed when he breaks the skin, he hasn’t…” Hasn’t let bloody marks scar on anyone except me, Gerard, and Safira that once, Ezra finished silently, his throat thick with nausea. “He h-had Cassian do it,” Matteus whispered, tears pricking in his eyes as he squirmed away from Ezra, his shirt falling back down as he turned to face his uncle again. “And… and Cassian wanted to t-take me to a healer-- he was acting all… all concerned, l-like he wasn’t the one who’d just hurt me, and I… I…” The boy hiccupped. “I said I didn’t wanna go to the healer. That if he cared s-so much, he shouldn’t have h-hit me with the buckle.” “Mattie…” Ezra wanted to throw up. Ever since Cassian had started to beat his siblings on Oliver’s behalf, it had been a terrifying confirmation that the damage Oliver had wrought on the Alaric family would not stop with him. No, of course Oliver was training his heir to be an exact mirror copy of himself, terrorizing his siblings and no doubt eventually his children- just like Oliver did. That bleak, black hopelessness made Ezra want to scream with despair for his family. “Look Matt,” he said, forcing back his own anguish. “I know the salve will make the cuts sting a little at first, but I promise after a minute or two they’ll feel a lot better.” Gently running a hand through the child’s mussy blonde hair he added, “You trust me, right?” “Y-yes,” Matteus stammered. “B-but I… but I trusted Gerard, too. And he… he left, he just… he left.” The boy let out a wracking sob. “Why didn’t he take me with him? H-he got to leave, if he loved me why wouldn’t he take me with him?’ Ezra winced, his eyes filling with tears at the raw anguish in the little boy’s voice. “M-Mattie, I’m… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know why Gerard left you. I wish I did, but I don’t. I don’t really understand what he was thinking. He’s always loved you, Matt. Always. And I want to believe he still does. Even if he n-never…” The older prince sighted, shaking his head. “Even if he never loved or trusted me. He did care about you.” “Papa’s so mad,” Matteus whimpered. “He’s so m-mad, and Mama’s… Mama’s pretendin’ like nothing is happening, and I… I just…” He crumpled forward against his uncle, burying his face against Ezra’s shoulder. “C-could I st-stay here? With you, just for a l-little while? They won’t even c-care I’m gone. As long as I-I’m out of Papa’s way, he… he won’t even care I’m gone.” “Of course, Mattie,” Ezra said softly, stroking the back of the boy’s head and carefully hoisting him up under his bottom to avoid hurting the lashes on the child’s back. “We can sit on my bed a while. If you want I can tell you some more stories from when me and Uncle Elias were soldiers. Would you like that?” “Uh-huh,” his nephew managed, nestling into Ezra’s hold. “Y-you won’t leave me? Promise?” Ezra kissed the crown of the boy’s head. “I promise. No matter what, I’ll always do everything I can to protect you.” *** When Oliver announced a few days later that he’d found an alternative bride for the still-missing Julia’s intended by way of the underaged Safira, the rest of the Alarics were duly shocked and horrified-- but Ezra was by this point so emotionally exhausted from the events of the past few weeks that he couldn’t even muster up the energy to enter into what he knew would be a fruitless argument against it. Instead he contented himself with shooting his brother poisonous looks whenever they passed, which Oliver blithely pretended to not notice, the king only returning the glares with insipid, nearly menacing smiles. During the intimate, no-frills wedding that followed the week after, the king was all diplomacy and false cheer, seemingly impervious to the rest of the family’s just-barely contained dour moods. He offered no comfort to Safira, not even a reassuring hug when the morning after her nuptials, the girl tearily departed back for the Ruomian capital of Cesthen with her new husband, who was nearly twice her age. Ezra could only watch as the gryphons carrying his niece faded into dots in the midmorning sky. Much though he wished he could continue his self-imposed exile from the rest of the palace, continue to mourn the loss of his nephew and two of his beloved nieces, Ezra knew he couldn’t. After all, he had a godsforsaken war council to attend. Though the gap left by Safira, Gerard, and Julia’s absences was palpable, life in the palace eventually settled back into something of a rhythm, the war serving to never make things quite normal, but at least… steady enough. Another year passed, the rebellion still encroaching steadily south, and the king’s army losing ground and headway by what sometimes seemed like the hour. The rebels began snapping up entire smaller cities, slaves all across the northern half of the kingdom shedding their chains to fight back against the upper classes who’d long oppressed them; Elias, now a general in full, spent the duration of his progress report visits back to the palace grim-faced and sullen, often outright wincing as he found himself delivering yet another batch of bad news to his oldest brother. No horrific update from the front, however, quite prepared the royal family for the hell that suddenly came hither to their gates about a year and a half after Julia and Gerard’s disappearance. What began as a series of alarming but scattered reports of the rebellion marching south through Durach eventually materialized one morning with a massive company of rebel soldiers encamped outside Rakine’s city walls-- and then, after breaching them, making an immediate beeline for the Gilded Palace. Ezra, being Minister of War and a trained soldier, found himself in a position he’d not been in for nearly a decade- giving direct orders in a situation of immediate combat. While the rest of the royal quickly fled to the various safe rooms that studded the palace, Ezra fell back only long enough to don the armor he’d not worn in far too long before assuming command of the palace defenses. The battle was a long, confusing mess, the labyrinthine halls of the Gilded Palace making it difficult to tell where advances were being made when and how the royal defenses should be set. Before long the marble floors were slick with blood, and in some places halls and courtyards were near impassible because of the bodies that blocked the way through. Ezra had to cobble out orders from confusing reports and no small amount of misinformation bred by panic-- and in the end, while the battle was far from a well-oiled machine, the royal guard, knights, and mustered king’s army soldiers solidly prevailed over the rebel advance, the enemies tucking tail and withdrawing after it became abundantly clear that pushing forward would only lead toward them getting further slaughtered, rather than taking control of the Gilded Palace as they’d seemingly hoped to do. Afterward, the battered royal forces scampered to set up a triage and infirmary, and the leadership paused to take a breath as they surveyed the carnage, Ezra nursing numerous bruises and scrapes as well as a badly lacerated arm that he would need to see a healer for before too long, but feeling oddly satisfied with himself. His first real military action in nearly a decade, and their first solid, major victory against the rebels. Once he was certain that the enemy forces had been cleared out, and set some of the men to mopping up the carnage left behind, he gave the order that the royal family could safely emerge from their seclusion- though that they should avoid certain areas of the palace that had been subject to conflict. Only half an hour after he’d given the command, however, Ezra was sitting in the infirmary waiting for a healer to see him when Oliver stalked into the room, the king’s face alight with something akin to panic. “Ezra,” he snapped. “Do you have any information as to what safe room Matteus was in during the siege?” Ezra’s head snapped up, and his hand clenched down on the rag he’d been holding to staunch the bleeding of his arm. He immediately regretted the action as the room around him spun, making him wince- he’d lost a lot of blood and it wasn’t doing him any favors. “M-Matteus? Last I saw him he was trailing you and Uncle Daniel. I didn’t give the directions for who would go where, that was… that was the head of the royal guard, I think? That’s usually his job. Wh-why, has he not come out yet?” “I thought he would be with Zaria,” Oliver said, gritting his teeth. “But Zaria thought he was with me and Sabine. And Daniel says he spent the entire battle alone save for Alexander. Nobody’s seen Matt. I’ve had all the safe rooms checked, and he’s not in any of them.” The king pressed a hand to his temple, eyes smoldering. “ Gods, I’m going to kill him once he surfaces.” Ezra’s heart lurched, and he suddenly felt even more nauseous than he already had. “Your majesty, the castle just endured a battle. It was chaos. I… I think you should give an order for a search. Not just of the safe rooms but the palace. The city.” “The city?” Oliver froze, the aggravation that seeped from him replaced in an instant by what might have passed as genuine fear. “You… you don’t think he could have… could have…” The king’s entire body tensed. “They couldn’t have taken him, Ezra. The rebels. Could they have? I mean, he… he knows better, he would have gone to a safe room, he…” “He’s eleven,” Ezra retorted, his teeth clenched. “Would an eleven year old be able to fight back against soldiers trying to take him hostage? The rebels wanted royal blood. They wanted royal hostages.” “He’s fine,” Oliver snapped, panic pulsing in his eyes. “He has to be fine. We’ll find him. We will. And once we do, by gods, I’m going to throttle him.” But within a few more hours it became quite clear that there was no Matteus around to throttle; with every bit of the palace scoured, still there was no sign of the eleven-year-old prince, and as frantic search parties fanned out into the city beyond, it was starting to become just as obvious that Ezra’s fears were more than likely true: no one had seen Matteus since the battle’s commencement, and there was no trace of him now. He was gone. Just gone. Like a snowflake melted beneath the sun’s warm rays. “We’ll find him, Ezra,” assured the man’s uncle, Alexander, as he watched his nephew fret after an entire day and night of searching had turned up nil. “And he’s a scrappy kid. Smart. He’ll… he’ll find a way to get away. Wait for an opportunity and take it. I’m sure of it.” Ezra, pacing like a caged lion, shook his head. “Will he, though? Gerard is with the rebels, Uncle. He’s an officer. I wouldn’t put it past them to get him to coerce Mattie in some way. Matteus loved him. He was torn up for months when Gerard ran off.” “Just remember-- the rebels have no use for Matteus if he’s hurt or dead,” Alexander said gently. “I’m just as sick over this as you are, Ezra, but Matt is only valuable to them if they keep him alive. They wouldn’t hurt him. They can’t.” “But I was supposed to protect him!” Ezra exploded, spinning around and slamming his fist into a nearby wall. “I was in charge of the palace defenses, the walls were breached on my watch! What the ever living hell am I good for anymore?” “Ezra.” Alexander winced, setting a firm hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “You’re only one man. You can’t hold the entire world on your shoulders. You are not the one who’s bungled this war,” he added, lowering his voice even though Oliver was not present, the king presently stalking up a snarling storm elsewhere in the Gilded Palace. “You aren’t the one who ignored the rebel threat until it was too late to stop them. It is not your fault what’s happened to Matteus. Tell me you understand that, Ezra. Please.” Ezra covered his eyes with one hand, his shoulders shaking. “My entire life has been a neverending string of failures. I try to protect the people I care about, and it’s not enough.” Softly he murmured. “It’s never enough.” “You are only one man,” Alexander reiterated. “There’s only so much you can do, Ezra. If… if I hadn’t accepted that a long time ago about myself, I think I’d be a broken mess. You can’t do this to yourself, son.” Ezra’s uncle sighed. “I think you should go to your chambers, Ezra. Wash up. Lie down. Get a good night’s sleep. It’ll do you a world of good right now.” “He’ll summon me for something,” Ezra noted dully. “He always does when I think I have a bit of time to rest.” “He’s a manic mess right now,” Alexander said. “Distracted as all hells. He won’t bother you, Ezra.” The man narrowed his blue-green eyes. “Please, don’t make me hook you under the arm and haul you off to your chambers like you’re a stubborn ten-year-old again, Ezra. Because I’d rather not go that route, but gods, I will if I have to.” That actually goaded a ghost of a smile from Ezra, and he sighed. “Alright, alright, you win, Uncle Alexander. I’ll go.” He turned, heading towards the door, before pausing and adding over his shoulder, “Thank you. I’m sorry.” “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Alexander said. “Just-- promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Ezra, alright? I know Matteus is your nephew. That you love him. That you’re worried. But, please remember…” The older prince smiled sadly. “You are my nephew, Ezra. Take that to mean what you will.” Ezra smiled sadly in return, nodding. Then he turned, rubbing an arm that still ached slightly as he went to wash himself up. Chapter Five Despite every effort of the king’s army, the crown did not recover Matteus; it were as if the young boy had disappeared into the void, the only knowledge the royal family had of his whereabouts the vague, conflicting intelligence reports that occasionally leaked in from the warfront. While these accounts confirmed that indeed the rebels had custody of the boy, they helped little with any effort to rescue him, the child as unreachable to the royals as were Gerard and Julia. He could have been still in Durach, or up in Emryn, or east in Seguier; some rumours had him held in a camp in the Northlands, while others posited that he’d been taken to Ruom. And eventually, with resources already drawn thin, Oliver simply couldn’t spare the manpower to send targeted search parties after his son. Matteus was very much gone, and there was no telling when-- or if-- the royal family would get him back. And anyway, there were soon other massive issues to distract the king. Over the next year, both Emryn and the Northlands fell entirely to rebel control, with half the provinces’ nobility either slaughtered or missing; Seguier fell not long later, its lord scarcely putting up a fight; and then, just when it seemed as if things couldn’t possibly get worse, rumours started creeping out from Roth that Lord Iskandar Talfryn, disillusioned by the king’s bungling of the war and terrified of the advancing rebel front, was planning a secession. “He’s going to do it,” the king growled over a war room meeting a little more than two years after Matteus’s disappearance, his posture stiff and jaw clenched tight. “All the reports are the same: that bloody traitor’s going to do it. He’s calling back his troops and planning to sic them against ours if we oppose him.” “He still has Lord Rylan’s wife and children,” Ezra said, his teeth clenched. “If he goes, we don’t just lose Roth. We lose any hope of restabilizing Talvace as well.” “I shouldn’t have let him take them,” Oliver huffed, as if this were perfectly reasonable, and as though he would have had any right to the late Rylan Duval’s wife, Cait, and her surviving sons and daughters… even though the woman was originally born of House Talfryn, and was the reigning lord Iskandar’s younger sister. “Letting the rightful lord of Talvace take refuge in Roth? Under his brooding uncle’s control?” The king scowled. “We need to salvage this. Salvage Roth. Placate Iskandar and convince him that the crown is his ally, not an adversary.” “And how do we do that?” Alexander, seated across from his nephew, raised a weary silver brow. “With all due respect, your majesty, Lord Talfryn’s nephew was murdered after the king’s army failed to take the rebel threat seriously. His sister fled with the rest of her little ones with only the clothes on her back. And since the war’s official start, you’ve filched nearly ninety-percent of his province’s mages for your forces. He has good reason to be bristly.” “Micah was my nephew, too,” Oliver retorted, his voice nearly a whine. “I hardly wanted him killed!” Hastily, he added, “Or… or Rylan, either, of course.” “Your majesty, raging at us isn’t going to fix this,” Ezra pointed out as he rubbed his temple. “We all need to calm down and think of a solution. Something that assures him we’re taking this situation seriously and not just milking Roth for magical resources without concern for the region’s well being.” “Don’t lecture me, Ezra,” Oliver seethed. The king clenched his fists on the war table, green eyes teeming with aggravation. “What if we-- gave him something?” the monarch suggested after a moment. “Something valuable. Precious to us.” “I don’t think Lord Iskandar will be assuaged by jewels or gold, your majesty.” Alexander just barely stifled an eye roll. “He’ll see that for exactly what it is: bribery.” “Perhaps I didn’t mean material things,” Oliver retorted. “What else were you thinking of, your majesty?” asked a flaxen-haired advisor, smiling tremulously at the king. “Perhaps allowing him to take back some of the province’s magicians for his own use?” “Of course not,” Oliver snapped; the advisor shunk in his seat like a scolded child. “I won’t weaken our army further to stroke Iskandar Talfryn’s godsdamned ego.” The king pursed his lips, contemplative. “A bride,” he said finally. “For his heir, Maxon. A high-ranking bride.” Ezra bristled. No, Oliver couldn’t possibly mean… “Anna’s girls are underage,” he said thickly. “And Cleo’s daughters are already married or underage. You can’t lay claim to any of the other highlord’s children, not without alienating them as much as Iskandar is.” “Then how fortuitous it is,” Oliver drawled, “that we’ve an unmarried princess right in this palace.” The king titled his head, his eyes latching on Ezra in a warning stare. “Sabine is nearly seventeen. Well old enough to marry-- I’ve simply been saving her hand for the right situation.” Alexander went stiff as iron. “Sabine?” he asked. “You’d… send Sabine off to marry the heir of a province that’s threatening to secede, your majesty? Forgive me if I sound impudent, but doesn’t that strike you as a terribly risky gambit?” “It would show Lord Iskandar that I am serious about wishing to remain his ally,” Oliver countered. “What better way to show solidarity than to wed my daughter to his son?” Ezra gaped openly, his face twisted in a mask of disbelief and revulsion. “You would be handing the Talfryns a hostage,” he bleated. “A valuable, royal hostage that they can hold against us to stay our hands from stopping their secession! That isn’t showing them solidarity, that’s showing them desperation and lack of foresight, which is the opposite of what we need!” “Are you shouting at me?” The look on Oliver’s face was downright lethal. “Because I think you ought know better, Ezra, than to speak to your king like that--” “He’s merely surprised, your majesty,” Alexander cut in, desperately trying to allay the situation before it spiraled out of hand. “I’m sure he meant you no disrespect, yes, Ezra?” Ezra squeezed his hands into fists, glaring right back at his brother without looking in Alexander’s direction. “Of course not. I merely do my job as his majesty’s Minister of War to advise him against a singularly counterintuitive course of action.” “Your input is noted and duly discarded,” Oliver huffed. “You speak in sentiment, Ezra, and sentiment will see Iskandar Talfryn seceding. Sabine will marry Maxon--” “Oh, you mean like how I spoke in sentiment over Lila?” Ezra snarled, his back ramrod straight. “How Mother and I both told you that you were sending her into a viper’s nest that would eat her alive, and lo and behold we were bloody well right? Maybe once in awhile you should listen to voices besides your own instead of dismissing them as sentiment!” “ Ezra!” As all the others present in the room gawped in complete and utter shock at Ezra, the king vaulted to his feet. “Not another word out of your miserable, diffident mouth! I will not be spoken to like that!” He jabbed a finger toward his brother, quivering with rage. “ Apologise. Now!” “Gerard is gone. Julia is gone. Matteus is gone. Rebel soldiers are marching towards Cesthen and Safira. Cassian and Sabine are literally all you have left, and you’re going to merrily hand Sabine over to a man threatening high treason? I will not bloody apologize to you, Oliver!” Ezra snapped, lurching to his feet as well. For a long moment, Oliver said nothing, his nostrils flaring with fury. Then, his entire body an oozing morass of unadulterated anger, he took a step back from the table and toward the chamber door. “ Come with me,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for rebuttal. “Now!” “Your majesty--” Alexander started, the only one in the room who dared to speak. But there was little point in it, Oliver merely waving a sharp hand to cut off his uncle. “This meeting is over. You are all dismissed.” He glared at Ezra. “ Come.” Ezra’s eyes sparkling with rage, he wordlessly followed his older brother out into the hallway. His breath was coming quickly, his pulse hammering hard, and yet for the first time since Gerard and Julia’s defection he felt an odd sense of release. An outlet for the despair and rage he’d been bottling for so long- and he was not done saying his piece. “You have destroyed House Alaric, Oliver,” he hissed. “And now you’re going to cut off the legs of the hobbling, crippled creature that remains of it.” “You’ve never known when to shut your mouth,” Oliver snarled back, “but now you’ve gone much too far, Ezra. By gods, if you know what’s good for you, then you will shut the hell up. Now. And apologise to me formally at our next war meeting.” “Bite me,” Ezra hissed. “You miserable wretch,” Oliver growled, squaring his shoulders as he raised a fist and sprung it toward Ezra’s face. But Ezra, half anticipating something of the sort, reacted with instincts pounded into him during his years in Teral, instincts that had kept him alive during the siege of the palace two years before. He sidestepped neatly, Oliver’s fist connecting only with empty air and the king stumbling forwards a step as his momentum carried him on. “You seem to forget I’m not a helpless fourteen year old anymore, brother,” Ezra said cooly. “I’m a soldier. I’ve faced down men far more terrifying than you, and come out of it alive. You can’t just beat me into submission anymore. And in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re fresh out of children to use as hostages against my good behavior. They’re all gone, Oliver. I’m the only one left. Yet despite all you’ve done to me, to us, I’m still here. I’m still trying to bloody help you salvage this mess. Think on that.” For nearly a minute, Oliver only stared at his brother, furious as he’d ever been. Then, abruptly and without warning, the king spun on his heel, bootheels snapping loudly against the marble floor below as he stalked off down the hall, leaving Ezra only to gape at his back. The prince swallowed hard, anger still thrumming in his veins, and after a moment’s indecision stalked off for the training yards. He needed to hit something. *** The king announced Sabine’s official betrothal to Maxon Talfryn not even a week later, and by month’s end the girl had been wed and sent off to Roth, her father beaming at her small, tense wedding just as he’d beamed at Safira’s three years prior. Ezra, however, spent the entire ceremony and reception with his heart aching, knowing full well that he was highly unlikely to ever see his niece again. He made it a point to give Sabine personal well-wishes, and a small silken sash with gold thread inlay to remember him by, and the girl accepted it with a trembling smile, her absolute terror over what was to come potent as any. The Talfryns left back to Roth with her only two days later, and the mood that settled over the palace thereafter was-- unsurprisingly-- quite somber. The queen, Zaria, was almost beside herself with grief, and Ezra wasn’t much better, the prince lingering alone in his quarters except for when his presence was absolutely required for something pertaining to the war. He gave the knights strict orders to admit no one. After all, he hardly had any more children who were likely to seek him out for comfort. So it was a surprise then when he awoke one morning about a week and a half after Sabine’s departure to the sound of somebody creaking open his chamber door, and footsteps padding against the tumbled marble floor. No slave or servant would have dared breach Ezra’s bed-suite when he was asleep, and he sat bolt upright in his bed, grappling quickly toward his night-table as though to wrench a weapon from within its drawers. “Woah, easy there.” A bemused voice sounded from the corner near the window as a hand mindlessly drew back the curtains, sending sunlight flooding into the room. “I haven’t survived all these years on the warfront for my big brother to stab me in my own flat, Ezzy.” Ezra blinked for a moment in dazed confusion, before recognition slammed him like a hammer. “Eli? Oh gods, Eli, I…” the older prince went limp, his face in his hands. “Thank the gods you’re here, I just… I swear, I’m going to go crazy, I can’t do this with him anymore, I can’t.” Elias paced quickly over to his brother’s bedside, frowning as he sat down beside him. “I heard about Sabine,” the blond said softly. “I nearly puked. If I hadn’t been stuck in the middle of mopping up the aftermath of the rebels slaughtering the enki of one of Talvace’s minor Houses-- and his wife and kids just barely escaping with their lives-- I’d have been here in an instant. So that I could have said goodbye, at least.” He swallowed hard. “But by the time Oliver gave me permission to come, it was too late. She was already gone.” “They’re all gone, Eli,” Ezra moaned. “All of them except for godsforsaken Cassian, and we both know he’s near as bad as his father. I… I’m such a failure, Elias. All my life, all I’ve wanted was to do something, anything to help my younger kin, and I’ve just had to watch them v-vanish like mist, one at a time. Even you, he hurt you because he was angry with me, and I just, I…” He choked, bile rising in his throat so that he had to double over to keep his gorge down. “Ezra, breathe,” Elias urged. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. Why do you keep blaming yourself for the things that Oliver does? You can’t stop him. You can’t control him. Nobody can. That doesn’t make you a bad person, that doesn’t make you negligent, that doesn’t make you anything but as helpless as the rest of us.” He sighed dourly. “He wants to talk to me. Oliver. I don’t know what about, but there was a note waiting on my pillow when I got in last night. A closed door meeting. Just him and me. I don’t even know what to think.” Ezra tilted his head, frowning. “That sounds ominous. I don’t envy you that. My last private conversation with him ended with him trying to punch me.” “Ah, just like old times,” Elias said bitterly. “I’m hoping he just wants to whine my ear off about how to fix things. As if this flaming mess is at all fixable. As if Iskandar Talfryn is going to magically decide against secession now that he has Sabine, and the rebels will all give up, and the kingdom’s not falling to ash at his stomping feet.” “He’s like a toddler more often than not these days,” Ezra agreed dourly. “Screaming and hitting things because he can’t have his way instead of addressing his problems like a rational adult.” The man sighed, rubbing his forehead. “My head is killing me. I don’t think it’s stopped aching since he announced he was engaging Sabine.” “I need to freshen up so I look presentable at my meeting with His Royal Majesty,” Elias said, “but let me grab you a headache potion on my way back here afterward, alright? I can tell you all about his manic rantings, and his latest plan of absurdity.” “I will be in your eternal debt,” Ezra said with a tired smile, flopping back against his pillow. “I should get up and do some paperwork, but I think it can wait five more minutes while I decide if I still feel like existing today or not.” “I’ll have a slave bring you some tea.” Elias patted his brother’s arm, then stood. “I’ll see you in a little bit, Ezra.” *** By the time Elias returned to the flat about two hours later, Ezra had drudged himself out of bed, eaten, and settled into the small study in his and Elias’ flat to attend to some of his neglected paperwork. He ordered a slave to bring up a wine service for when Elias returned, which was sitting on the corner of the desk. However, when Elias stepped into the study and gently shut the door behind him, the look on his face announced at once that the prince was in no mood for sipping wine. “Ezra,” he murmured, turning the deadbolt. “We need to talk.” The older prince’s head snapped up at this, and he winced a bit as it was set pounding again. “What’s wrong, Elias? What did he want now?” “Lower your voice,” Elias said softly, dragging one of the armchairs up beside where Elias sat at the study’s desk. “And perhaps,” he added, segueing abruptly into their late mother’s native tongue, Mzian, “we should speak like… this. In case any passing knight or slave were to overhear.” “Good gods, Eli, what did he say to you?” Ezra demanded in a hushed tone, his heart beating so hard against his chest he thought it might fracture a rib. “You’re white as a sheet.” “Ezra,” his little brother murmured, his voice cracking, “before I tell you this-- can you… promise me you won’t react… impulsively? Because if you do, I’m… afraid it won’t end well. Not for either of us.” “I… a-alright, if you say so,” Ezra agreed, his palms growing sweaty. “What’s happened, Eli?” “Oliver,” Elias said simply. “Oliver, he-- well...” The man forced a steadying breath, his eyes flickering with anguish. “He wants me to kill you, Ezra.” For a moment, Ezra only stared, his mouth hanging open in stunned disbelief. Then, a soft, almost hysterical laugh emerged from him, and he leaned forwards on the desk, face buried in his arms. “So that’s it. Almost the last family he has left that’s loyal to him and he wants to turn us against each other.” He laughed again, and it turned into a sob, his hands clenching into fists. “He wants to kill me. J-just like he killed Father. Getting someone else to do it for him because he’s too much a bloody coward to do it himself. I… Gods, Elias, I just…” He seemed to want to say more, but not another coherent word emerged. Only a quiet moan, and a muted sob. All the stress of the war, losing his nieces and nephews, and a lifetime of dealing with his brother’s cruelty collapsed in on Ezra at once, and he was not proof against that weight. “He spent an hour and a half yammering my ear off about how… how you’re a liability,” Elias said miserably. “How you’re undermining him to the court. How you’re… a threat. A risk to Courdon’s future.” The blond prince was fighting back tears of his own. “He told me that I should understand why I had to do this. That as a loyal general, someone with Courdon’s best interests in mind, I’d have to see why this was necessary. That he knew it would… hurt me, but he trusted that I would put the kingdom first.” “And if you d-don’t, he’ll find some trumped up charges and b-brand us both crown traitors, somehow,” Ezra guessed dourly. “But if I’m doomed either way, I won’t have you dying with me. I… Elias, I’ll do it myself. It’s…” He choked. “It’s not like I have anything left to live for anymore.” “ No,” Elias said instantly. “I’m not going to let you do that to yourself, Ezra. No godsdamned way.” He gritted his teeth together so hard that his jaw clicked. “We’re going to figure this out. A way to-- to get around it. Around him. I won’t just let you die.” The younger prince was losing his battle against the threatening tears. “He’s taken everything from us, Ezra. Mother and Father, Lila, Tyson… Sabine and Safira, Mattie and Gerard-- the list of names goes on and on, and it all starts and ends with him. You are all I have. And godsdamn, I’m not going to let him take you, too.” “ How?” Ezra’s voice was a void of yawning despair. “Nothing works, Elias. I’ve spent my entire godsdamned life trying to get around him. To undermine him, any small way I could. This is the result. He’ll get what he wants. He always does.” “The coward’s giving me some leeway,” Elias replied. “Creativity in-- in how. So that he can feel like less blood is on his hands, I suppose.” He shook his head. “And I can… I can figure out a way. To make it look like I did it, but then… then you could-- flee. Go into hiding somewhere. Run from this court, and never look back.” Ezra finally looked up, his expression incredulous. “Run away? I… wh-what about you? What about our family? I… I’ve always tried to protect everyone, I…” “You’ve spent most of your life trying to protect me, Ezra,” Elias said, reaching out a hand and setting it on his brother’s knee. “Please, let me have a turn. Let me do this. Figure something out.” He blinked hard, crying freely now. “And… if it goes wrong, th-then it goes wrong. But at least let me try. Please, Ezra, please, I need to try.” Ezra clenched his teeth, reaching for his younger brother and pulling him into a hug. “Alright, Elias. I… I don’t have any fight left in me. I can’t do this anymore. S-so… so I’ll trust you.” He squeezed harder. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” “You have nothing to be sorry over,” Elias murmured. “You never have, Ez.” He returned his brother’s embrace. “I love you. Please, no matter what happens-- if this goes wrong, if y-you don’t make it, if I don’t make it… I love you so, so much.” “I love you too, Eli,” Ezra whispered. “No matter what happens. That’s one thing he can’t take away from us. Not ever.” Interlude"Last Man Standing" - Early 1343Chapter Six “Is it done?” the king asked, his voice little more than an anticipatory whisper.
Elias, his hands clasped behind his back to keep them from shaking, nodded once. “Yes, your majesty. It is.”
“And the body?”
“I’ve taken care of it, your majesty,” Elias replied. “Just as you requested. It will seem like an accident. Not an assassination.”
“Don’t say that word,” Oliver hissed, as if he and Elias were talking in the middle of a crowded banquet hall, not in the king’s private office behind several sets of locked doors. He took a step forward, a blistering mockery of a smile glinting between his lips. “I knew you could do it, dear brother,” the king murmured, reaching out to set a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “I never doubted you.”
Elias fought the urge to recoil. “Of course, your majesty,” the blond prince said, a rock hard lump growing in his throat. He would not cry. Gods, he would not let himself cry. “Ezra was… was a problem. A liability. I had to put Courdon first.” Then, very softly: “Even if it hurt.”
“I should have taken care of him years ago,” Oliver said wistfully. “He was always much too… bold. Disrespectful.”
And a far better person than you could even dream of being, his brother thought, but did not say. Instead, Elias made himself smile. Made himself act like a dog lapping up praise, so very pleased to have satisfied his cruel and powerful master.
“Well, at least he won’t be a problem any longer,” Elias said.
“Indeed,” Oliver agreed. “Good work, brother. You serve your king well.”
“Thank you, your majesty,” Elias said. “I am, of course, but your faithful subject.”
“And how well you’ve proven it,” Oliver crooned. His hand dropped away from his brother’s shoulder, and he turned away, waving off Elias as one might an unwanted slave. “You are dismissed. Take the rest of the day off, hm? You’ll be busy starting tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Elias swallowed hard, a slick of nausea coating his gut.
“Yes,” Oliver went on, turning back to glance over his shoulder. His predatory smile had given way to a smirk. His green eyes glinted. His brow was quirked. “After all, we’re in the middle of a war, Elias. And since my Minister of War just suffered a tragic accident…”
Elias could have screamed. “You… mean to install me in Ezra’s post, then, your majesty?” the prince asked softly.
“Well, you’ve certainly proven your aptitude for the position, don’t you think?” Oliver chortled. “So yes, Elias. The job is yours. And let me be the first to offer you my congratulations.”
“Of c-course. Thank you.” Blinking back tears again, Elias took a step toward the door.
But Oliver, it seemed, still was not done with his brother, calling over his shoulder, “Oh, and Elias?”
“Yes, your majesty?”
“Remember to wear white starting tomorrow. We’re a court in mourning, after all.”
“Of course, my king,” Elias said. “Your wish, as always, is my command.” Part Two"The Farrier" - Begins April 1343Chapter Seven “I’m sorry, Madam Lafontaine,” the apothecary said, “but I can’t lower the price by more than half just because you can’t afford it. I have a bottom line to meet.” “But she’s sick,” the blonde-haired woman replied, her jaw clenched as she desperately sought to soothe the toddler who was fussing in her arms. “She coughs all day and night, and when she’s not coughing, she’s crying. She’s in so much pain, Master Huston. Please—I’ll give you everything I can, I just… I need something to help her. Anything.” “Madam Lafontaine.” The apothecary creased his brow, not without sympathy, but his tone remained impassive. Intractable. “Times are hard for all of us these days. If I start giving away my potions for more than it costs me to make them, I can’t feed my own children.” “What about a down payment, then?” the woman pleaded, her marbled gray-green eyes filling with tears—which she promptly blinked away. “I’ll give you two coppers now. And… and the rest once I can come up with it, just as soon as I can come up with it, I swear it on my life—” “ Madam Lafontaine,” the apothecary interrupted, though after another moment his voice softened, and he gently amended this to: “Dominique. Please. I wish I could, but I just can’t. I’m so sorry, but I can’t.” “Fine.” Dominique swallowed hard, stroking a hand through the toddler’s ringleted hair as the girl let out a small, pathetic sound that was halfway between a cough and a whimper. “I suppose I’ll just have to keep forcing hot water down her throat and praying. The gods haven’t answered my prayers in years, so I must be due, right?” Dominique whirled on her heel then, as though to march back out the modest shop, but before she could, the apothecary called after her: “Wait.” She quickly spun back to face him, daring to hope. “Changed your mind?” “No.” He winced at this, regretfully. “But—we just got a whole new batch of refugees in, Dominique. From the south. They arrived in a convoy yesterday. Along with the wagons full of this month’s rations.” “I’m aware,” Dominique replied tartly. “I had to wait in line with the lot of them this morning at the village hall when I was picking up my provisions.” She patted the toddler’s back as she coughed again, more violently this time. “But I don’t see how that helps me with Gillian.” “Because the town is packed to its bursting point, Dominique,” Huston told her. “Gods, I think if we tallied it up, the refugees now living here would outnumber the locals. We’ve nowhere left to put them-- Octavia Baudin told me a few hours ago that some of them have begun camping in patchwork shanties out in the clearing between the river and the Bayers’ ryefield. Because they have no place else to go, and no means to travel further.” “And?” Dominique demanded. “That still does nothing to help me with Gillian’s cough. Unless you plan on telling me that one of those refugees is a healer who’s willing to work on Gillian for free?” It was a preposterous suggestion, but even still Dominique had to fight back the burst of fraught hope that flared in her at the thought of it. Gods, she’d take anything. If it helped her baby, she’d take anything. Huston, however, merely shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. No healer. But… I’m sure some of those refugees would jump on the chance to live in a proper house, Dominique.” A beat. “They would pay for it-- a roof over their head.” “... A boarder?” Dominique asked, kissing Gillian’s feverish forehead. “You-- think I should take on a boarder?” “Find someone with a little bit of coin on them,” Huston said. “Demand the first month’s rent up front. It’ll help you build a bit of a coffer. So you’re not living so close to the brink.” He glanced down at the cough suppressant she’d been haggling over, the pale lavender liquid shimmering from within a small glass jar. “I’ll keep this on hold for you,” the apothecary promised. “As long as you need, Dominique. And-- gods, the ingredients run me four coppers, so if you can… if you can pony that up, I’ll give it to you at cost. I promise.” “Four coppers?” the woman echoed. It was more than the two coins in her pocket, but at least it seemed attainable. A branch hanging just over her head, rather than twenty-feet high at the canopy of the tree. “Alright. Fine. Four coppers. I… I can do that. I think.” “Wonderful. I’ll put it aside for you then.” Huston smiled softly. “And for what it’s worth, I am sorry, Dominique. That I can’t just… give it to you. But… I just…” “I understand,” Dominique murmured-- and this was true, even if the words tasted like bitter ash on her tongue as Gillian let out another feeble sputter. “War is hell for everyone. And we… we all have to put our own children first.” She sighed, rocking her daughter gently in her arms. “Come on, Gilly,” the woman whispered into the toddler’s mop of chestnut hair. “Let’s go find us a boarder.” *** The quaint town of Marlis wasn’t walled, its borders defined not by a fence but merely the gradual thinning of structures, a well-appointed market district ceding way to a ring of modest cottages around it, then larger farmhouses and croplands beyond, before the landscape morphed finally into rolling, untamed pastures as far as the eye could see. Ask anyone in town quite where Marlis ended and the Northlandian wilds began, and most of them would have shrugged. The rest, however, would have quickly pointed to the ryefield tended by a family called Bayer, which ended abruptly in a flat, open clearing that featured a snaking river at the other end of it. Past the river, there were no signs of human settlement for miles, and most of the village residents seldom had reason to travel out even this far, let alone beyond it; as Dominique ambled down the narrow dirt pathway that bisected the ryefield before reaching its terminus at the clearing, the woman couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been out this way-- and when she finally reached her destination, she scarcely even recognized it. Now in her late twenties, Dominique had lived in Marlis since childhood, and as far back as she could recall, the craggy patch of land by the river had been barren, even desolate, featuring little more in its confines than dirt, rocks, and anthills. Now, however, it had been transformed, with makeshift tents and shanties studding the expanse like holes in a sponge. Several dozen people-- more than Dominique could count-- milled about, women beating laundry on the riverbank as bronze-skinned children played nearby, their shrill giggles making Gillian perk up slightly in her mother’s arms. Even if the toddler hadn’t been so sick, though, Dominique hardly would have turned her out to play. Gods, in the past the woman could have gone weeks without seeing a stranger in Marlis. Now? Beyond a few stray people whom she’d glimpsed in the rations line that morning, she didn’t recognize a single face. “You lookin’ for someone, dearie?” a silver-haired man asked, his dark eyes narrowed as he skimmed over Dominique’s slender form. “If you give me a name, I can point you in the right way.” He recoiled slightly as Gillian coughed again. “Aye-- is she sick? Why you bringin’ sick babes here?” Dominique stiffened, her grasp on the two-year-old tightening. “I don’t have a choice,” she replied crisply. Gods, as if it were any of the stranger’s business even if she did! “And no,” the woman added. “I’m not looking for somebody in particular. I’m just--” “Just hankerin’ to get us all sick?” the man cut in, tilting his head. “I hear you locals talkin’. Huffin’ complaints ‘bout the outsiders, as if we want to be here any more’n you want us here. But that don’ mean you gotta be bringing catchin’ babes into our camp! That don’ mean--” "Leave her alone, Jess," a new voice interrupted tiredly. "If you won't let the poor woman get a word in edgewise to explain herself, it's not fair nor going to make a good impression of us to the locals to interrogate her." The speaker, approaching from a cluster of people nearby, was a tall man who looked in his mid to late thirties, with pale brown hair and bright blue eyes winking over a short, scraggly beard. He was dressed in a shirt and breeches that might once have been decent quality, but were by this point threadbare and torn in numerous places. There was an air of sadness and exhaustion about the man that made him seem far older than his years, but when Gillian coughed again his eyes softened. "Poor little one, you're not feeling at all well, are you?" he asked of the child, his voice carrying a strange, almost singsong lilt to it when he spoke. Looking up at Dominique he asked, "It's a chest cold isn't it? With the gunk in her cough? My little niece had that when she was eleven. Poor thing was miserable." Dominique nodded shortly, fingers curled protectively over the small of Gillian’s back. “She’s had it for weeks. Caught it from my older daughter, but Alicia got better quickly. Gilly hasn’t. She just keeps getting worse.” The younger man nodded sadly. "I see. Have you tried dribbling some warm honey down her throat to ease the cough? It helps sometimes." “Can’t afford it,” Dominique admitted. “I’ve been giving her hot water, but… it’s a battle getting her to drink it, and…” The blonde shrugged. “‘Least you ain’t raisin’ the babe in a tent,” the older man, Jess, huffed, still scowling as he watched the sluggish Gillian cough again. “Why don’ you run ‘long home with her, dearie? ‘Fore she catches this entire gods-cursed camp.” The younger man frowned, giving Jess a hard look. "In these times, compassion will serve us better than snapping at one another. We're all victims of this war." He looked back to Dominique, biting his lip. "I... I don't have a lot myself, but I can't like watching the poor girl suffer. If you like, I could try to help? I'm a farrier, so occasionally the villagers give me work, though admittedly a lot of them still don't trust me." He chuckled thinly. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't either." “A farrier? With work?” Dominique had to resist the urge to cry out in relief. “So that means… that means you’ve got money, sir?” She forced a deep breath, adding, “Two coppers, perhaps? Have you two coppers?” “You gon’ take a refugee’s money?” Jess groused. “You gon’ paw at his pocket--” “I was not speaking to you,” Dominique interrupted, her desperate hope-- mixed with a heaping of blistering aggravation-- overriding any proclivity she might have usually had toward social niceties. Shifting Gillian in her arms as the little girl fussed at her mother’s sudden outburst, the woman added to the farrier, “I don’t wish to just filch your money, sir. I’m not a beggar. But I… I could offer you something. In exchange for it?” Before Jess could comment with any salacious, ill-reached conclusions, she tacked on shrilly, “A place to sleep, sir. In my house. We haven’t a spare bedroom, but there’s space enough in the living area. F-five coppers a month, though I’ll take a deposit of two for now if you haven’t the whole amount. Just two. Only two.” Please, gods, let him have two. The man looked very much taken aback by the offer. "I… do have two coppers, and… I would appreciate that tremendously ma'am, but are you certain? Your husband wouldn't object?" Dominique once again adjusted her grip on Gillian, so that the farrier could see her fingers plainly-- all of them bare of rings, including the space where there ought to have been a wedding band. “No husband to object,” she said softly, her throat catching. “Not anymore.” She kissed the top of the toddler’s tightly coiled hair. “Just myself and the kids now. Gilly, Alicia, and… and my two boys. I-- I hope you like children? They’re good kids, and I’d make sure they give you your space, but-- the house is only a few rooms. So there wouldn’t exactly be space to spread out.” The man actually cracked a smile for the first time since he'd approached. It was a sad smile, one that spoke starkly of old pain, but a smile nonetheless. "I love children," he said with soft sincerity. "And I'd be more than happy to help your little girl- Gillian, you said?- get back on her feet.” He reached into a small leather pouch at his side- it sagged in a way that spoke starkly to the lack of contents, but he did manage to produce the requisite two coppers. He held them out to his new landlady. "Simon Farrier," he said, gesturing to himself with his free hand. “Dominique Lafontaine,” the woman replied, nestling Gillian against one hip so that she could reach out and accept the proffered coins. She smiled gratefully at her newfound tenant, a lump of relief knotting in her throat. “It’s very nice to meet you, Master Farrier.” Though Jess, still standing nearby, was openly scowling at the course of the exchange, Dominique couldn’t bring herself to care, a smile blooming between her lips as she turned back toward the ryefield. “If you want to follow me? I… I have one stop to make first, but then I’ll show you to my-- pardon, our-- house, Master Farrier. It’s-- it’s not much, but it’s got four walls and a roof and a hearth, and…” She took a deep breath. “And while I can’t pretend to have ever been a landlady before, I’ll do my very best, okay? Until you’re… back of your feet or-- however long you wish to stay.” "Thank you, Madame Lafontaine," Simon replied warmly. "And I'll do my best to be a helpful and unobtrusive tenant." *** After a quick stop back at the apothecary to buy the cough potion for Gillian and immediately tease a dose of it down the little girl’s throat, Dominique showed Simon back to her small cottage just outside the market district. It was unremarkable to outward appearances-- unfenced, with a weathered wooden exterior that had seen far better days and sunbleached laundry flapping in the front yard on a line that was tethered between two spindly birch trees. The interior was hardly more impressive, but at least it was well-kept, a cozy living and cooking area separated by a curtained doorway from a bedroom to the rear. A second, smaller sleeping area jutted off to the side-- an addition built after the rest of the cottage, from the looks of it-- and it was here that Dominique deposited Gillian after giving Simon the ‘grand tour’, cocooning the sluggish toddler in a wool blanket and gently telling her to try to get some sleep. Gillian, the cough syrup kicking in already, merely yawned in return, her eyelids fluttering. “Sleep well, love,” her mother said, kissing the girl on the forehead. Then, she stood, brushing off her skirts before she paced back out toward the main room, beckoning for Simon to follow her. “My eldest three ought be home soon,” she told him. “I’m guessing they went to get more water-- I told them it’s important that we don’t run out, with Gilly sick as she is.” Indeed, within half an hour the front door to the cottage creaked open again, and in shimmied three older children. The eldest was a wiry boy of perhaps ten or eleven, with golden brown hair and eyes like pale, smoky quartz. There was a much younger boy-- he couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than Gillian-- balanced against his hip, the child gnawing contentedly on a chunk of what looked like very stale bread. Rounding out the group was a girl in between her siblings’ ages, her butter-blonde hair tied back in a frizzy ponytail as a bucket of water sloshed in her arms. “Mama!” the girl chirped. “We got water. And-- and look!” Setting the bucket down, she grinned at Dominique, revealing a smile that was missing two top front teeth. “The other one fell out! The one that’s been all wiggly.” The child cocked her head as she seemed to notice Simon for the first time. “Who’s he?” “Be polite, Alicia,” Dominique chided, though her voice was not without warmth. “This is Simon Farrier. He’s a refugee, from the south.” Or at least, Dominique presumed he was; she realised suddenly that she hadn’t even asked her new tenant for his story. … That was probably something she ought to do sooner than later, given that she’d just invited him to live with her-- and her young children. “He’s going to be staying here for a while. Since he needed a place to live.” And Mama would like her pockets to be a little less empty, she thought but didn’t say. “Oooh.” Alicia’s dark green eyes twinkled. “Hi Simon! I’m Alicia. And-- and this is Remy--” she pointed toward her older brother-- “and that’s Vern!” The girl considered for a moment, her brow creased in thought. “You’re from the south? Do you know Mama’s sister? Auntie Maudie lives in Talvace, but Mama hasn’t been able to talk to her since the war started, and--” “ Alicia.” Dominique winced. “Polite, remember? And there are a lot of people from the south. I don’t think Simon knows Aunt Maudie.” Simon gave a gentle smile, kneeling before the children to meet their eye level and giving Alicia’s nose a gentle tweak. “I can’t say I’ve met your aunt, sorry kiddo. I’m from Durach, not Talvace. But it’s very nice to meet you, Madam Alicia.” Turning towards Remy with a small wink, he added, “And you must be the man of the house.” The young boy puffed up his chest importantly, smirking. “Uh-huh. I’m real ‘sponsible, helping Mama with chores and with keeping Alicia from drivin’ all the neighbors crazy.” He stuck his tongue out at his sister. “But she just likes to say I’m not her Papa so I’m not in charge. ‘Cause she’s annoying.” “Remy.” Dominique cringed again. Dear gods, the kids were going to scare Simon out just as soon as he’d arrived. “Be nice, please.” She glanced at the water bucket Alicia had set on the ground. “Why don’t you put Vern down and make yourself useful, yes? Get some of that in the pot over the hearth. So we have warm water on hand for when Gilly wakes up again.” Remy flinched a little, looking sullen. “Sorry, Mama,” he muttered, setting the toddler down and taking the bucket from the floor. Simon watched him walk towards the pot with it, his brow furrowed a bit as if in confusion, but whatever was on his mind was interrupted by a slight pat on his knee. The man looked down to see that the deposited three year old was trying to get his attention, and upon receiving it the little boy grinned. “Hihi.” “Hello,” Simon said in return. “You’re friendly, aren’t you?” Dominique chuckled, reaching down to scoop the little boy into her arms. Fondly ruffling his blond hair, she said, “Vern is Mama’s little social butterfly.” She kissed her son’s cheek, watching as he finished off the remnants of the bread. “Did Remy give you that as a reward for being good, baby?” she asked brightly. “He didn’t try’n wander off at all,” Alicia said. “Remy only hadta pick him up at the end. ‘Cos he was tired of walkin’ and started to cry.” The three year old shook his head emphatically. “No crying! No crying!” Simon pushed himself upright again, an amused expression on his face. “Oh weren’t you, now?” “Nuh-uh,” Vern replied. “No crying. Not a baby. Fwee an’ half!” “Ohhh, you’re three and a half?” Simon said, an expression of mock astonishment on his face. He reached out and ruffled the little boy’s hair. “Well, at such a wise and enlightened age, I imagine you never cry at all, do you?” “‘M big boy!” Vern said proudly. “Ah, yes, how dare Alicia spread such wicked lies about you.” Dominique smirked. “My poor little man.” She glanced playfully at her daughter, voice light as she said, “How could you, my dear? Wounding your baby brother’s reputation.” Alicia giggled. “But it’s true, Mama!” “No, no, it can’t be.” Dominique’s marbled eyes glinted with good humour. “And I think I shall have to give you a serious punishment, young lady. For a horrendous lie such as this!” Bouncing Vern in her arms, the woman lowered her voice to a mock-solemn whisper as she finished, “Alicia Lafontaine, I hereby sentence you to… taking the laundry off the line.” She flicked her gaze toward Remy, who was still carefully pouring water into the pot. “And help her, please, Rem?” “Awww, okay,” Remy groused cheerfully. “Can we have a break from chores after? Tilly and Jackson down the street got a new ball and we wanted to play with ‘em with it.” “Alright,” Dominique agreed. “But be home by dark. And if Jackson once again attempts to convince you that it’s the ‘most fun’ to play out in the Beckerts’ pasture, your answer will be…?” “‘No, ‘cause it scares the sheep and the ram has a nasty streak,’” Remy replied, as if this was something he’d heard many times before. “And also ‘cause I like gettin’ my dinner.” Simon seemed to wince a little at this comment, an odd light in his blue eyes, but Dominique seemed unfazed. “Correct,” she said. “Now run along. The sooner you get done with the laundry, the sooner you can play.” With matching nods, Remy and Alicia scurried from the house, the front door banging shut behind them. Once they were gone, a soft smile lingered between Dominique’s lips for several moments, before with a sigh she set Vern down and paced over to the cauldron of water, glancing down at the crackling hearth beneath it. “Gods, I’m going to need to chop more firewood tomorrow,” she said, almost absently. “Hopefully Gillian’s doing better by then. I hate leaving her when she’s so miserable.” “I could do that for you, if you like,” Simon offered, coming up beside her. “You shouldn’t have to leave your daughter alone when she’s ill, and if I’m not on a job I may as well make myself a useful tenant.” He shrugged. “Anything you need help with, really, Madame. I’m in your debt.” “Are you sure?” Dominique quirked a brow, clearly surprised. “I’m taking you on as a tenant, not a servant. You don’t need to feel obligated, Master Farrier.” Watching sidelong as Vern skipped toward the living room and plunked down on the faded rug to play with a set of ancient-looking wooden blocks, the toddler’s mother added, “And-- sorry again if the house isn’t… much. I know it’s a bit of close quarters.” He chuckled softly. “When I was in my early twenties I served in the army- after military barracks, anything is roomy. And of course- I’m a grown man, there’s no need for you to wait on me when I’m fully capable of doing my share of work. Honestly... I would prefer to feel like I’m contributing something. Helping someone in at least some small way.” The humor had faded from his face and voice, and the sadness was back in full force now. “Right. Well-- if you’re certain, I can’t object to having more help.” With a grateful smile, Dominique paced over to the cluttered kitchen table, taking a seat and gesturing for Simon to sit opposite her. He did so, tilting his head curiously, and once he had, the woman took a deep breath. “So,” she said. “You’re, ah-- a farrier, yes?” When he nodded, she went on, “And you said were from Durach. Were you, ah--” Dominique pressed a hand to her forehead. “Forgive me, but there’s no unawkward to way to ask this: Were you a free farrier, or…?” He smiled thinly, reaching for the right sleeve of his shirt and drawing it up. Though far from unblemished by scars, his shoulder was completely clear of any sort of slave brand. “I was, yes. I’m not a runaway slave, just a man who rather didn’t wish to stick around the burnt out remains of his family’s farm.” “I see.” It was impossible to miss the relief in Dominique’s voice. “I… can’t blame you there. From what I hear of Talvace and Durach these days, they’re-- well, as bad as it was here a few years ago. Before the king’s army gave up trying to hold us.” She smiled grimly. “Never thought I’d like the Northlands being a lost cause, but it’s better than it being an active battlefront, I suppose. I can let the kids out to play again without fretting about them getting hurt.” “They’re sweet kids,” Simon said softly. “They deserve to get… as normal childhoods as they can.” Dominique nodded. “I think they know a lot more than they let on. But-- I’ll take what I can get with them.” She sighed. “Do… you have children, Master Farrier?” He hardly had any with him now, but Dominique was the first to know that war had a way of carving up families. Quickly, she added, “You just seem so comfortable with mine that I have to wonder.” “I helped to raise my older brother’s children,” Simon explained. “He had five. And I suppose you could say I quasi-raised my younger siblings after our father died when I was thirteen. But no, I have none of my own.” He gave a self-mocking smile. “I suppose I was never enough a catch to draw a wife. Such is life. I loved my nieces and nephews to death, but…” Dominique winced at the mournful note to his tone-- and she hadn’t missed the way he spoke of his nieces and nephews only in the past tense. She wanted to pry but knew that she shouldn’t. That some things were far too intimate and painful to share with near-strangers. “Well,” she said instead, “I’m… glad you managed to get away from Durach, Master Farrier. To someplace safe.” She gulped. “And-- thank you for defending me to that lout in the shantytown. Earlier. I probably should have known better than to show up on my own there, but… I suppose desperation has a way of blinding you to what is or isn’t a good idea.” Simon actually rolled his eyes at this. “I was only there for two weeks, and I very quickly learned that Jess is one of those people who’s only happy if he has something to complain about. Granted, his concern was a valid one- illness spreads very quickly among unhealthy people in cramped quarters. But he didn’t need to be so abrasive about it.” The man seemed to deliberate with himself a moment, then added, “And the way he was interrogating and berating you without letting you get a word in edgewise reminded me far too much of my older brother. He… had a similar attitude.” “I won’t go back there, that’s for sure.” Dominique shrugged. “I don’t blame people for fleeing north, but… it’s changed things, too. Maris used to be so-- quiet. Peaceful. Everyone knew everyone. Thinking back on it now, sometimes it all feels like memories from a different life.” “I know what you mean,” Simon agreed softly. “The war’s… changed so much about Courdon. Nothing is like it was.” He hesitated, then asked softly, “And… your husband? Was it the war, or…” Hurriedly he added, “You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want, gods know I’m a stranger to you and I hardly want to pry unpleasant memories.” “It’s alright,” Dominique said. “And it’s hardly a secret. My husband was snapped up in the king’s army draft when I was pregnant with Gillian. The Northlands was a bloody mess, then, and the army took-- gods, every able-bodied man they could. Or at least, that was what it felt like.” She bit her lip, eyes drifting wistfully toward Vern as the boy built a tower out of the blocks. “He left when I was six months along. Promised me he’d be back as soon as he could. It was over a year and a half before I got any word about him, after a neighbour of ours limped back from the front with a missing eye and bum leg. He told me my husband had died only two months after leaving. That he’d been dead before Gilly was even born.” Simon bowed his head, looking aggrieved. “I’m sorry. It… must’ve been hard, with four children and no husband to help support them. I… I’m sorry.” He looked away sharply, his expression somewhere between despairing and angry. “No need for your apologies,” Dominique said. “Hardly your fault. And, gods-- at least I still have my children. My home. I can’t even imagine having to flee like you did. Leaving behind everything I’ve ever known.” “My home wasn’t much of a home anymore,” he replied dismally. “Even before it was burned. I’d already lost most of my siblings and nephews in the war. It was just me and my oldest brother really, and…” He gave a mirthless, tired laugh. “He was a monster.” “Oh?” Dominique furrowed her pale blonde brow. “I’m… sorry to hear that. I can’t pretend to know what that’s like, other than to know that I wouldn’t like it very much.” She smiled gently. “I’m glad you made it away safely, Master Farrier. You seem like a good man. And while I can’t fix all that’s happened to you, at least I can provide you with a roof over your head. It’s not much, but… I think this war has taught me that sometimes it’s the small comforts that can make a world of difference.” Simon turned back to Dominique and smiled. “Thank you, Madam Lafontaine. And you’re right- these days a safe place to put my head at night is priceless.” “Dominique,” she said. “You can, ah, call me Dominique. If you’d like.” He looked surprised, but then smiled and nodded. “If you don’t mind. And if I’m to be using your given name, then please- call me Simon.” “Of course,” Dominique replied. “Welcome to my home, Simon.” Chapter Eight With steady doses of the cough medicine, Gillian slowly recovered from her illness over the next week, until soon the little girl was a chipper, bubbly toddler again, rather than the limp and feverish babe whom Simon had met half-asleep in her mother’s arms. The little girl, along with her older siblings, quickly adjusted to the refugee's presence in their home, delighting in the blue-eyed stranger who helped their mother cut firewood, and sometimes went with them to fetch water, and told them exciting stories about his time in the army (even if Alicia sagely announced that he must be exaggerating some of his yarns, because “no one’s been so much cool places!”). While Simon had found a niche in the Lafontaine home, however, the same could not be said for many of the rest of the displaced southerners. The shantytown off the Bayers’ ryefield continued to flourish, and the rebel soldiers in charge of Maris announced that the already-slim monthly rations allotment would be thinned even further henceforth. This immediately set off swirling rumours, the town’s residents positing that all the good food would dwindle early in the day during the next provisioning-- and grimly suggesting that stragglers might end up with nothing at all (even if those in charge adamantly denied this). “I’m thinking of heading out around dawn,” Dominique mused as she cooked a meager supper the night before the rations were to be doled out at the village hall. It was one month to the day since she’d taken in Simon. “Though I worry everyone else will have the same idea. And-- gods, if I’m waiting for a long time, I’ll have to bring Gillian with me. Or she’ll get hungry.” “I could go?” Simon offered. “I don’t have any jobs lined up since I finished filing that mule’s hooves today, and if I go you can stay here with Gilly.” Glancing at the children presently engaged in a game of jacks on the floor, he added, “Though I might still need to bring Remy or Alicia along. So they don’t think I’m trying to hoard more than my share by claiming I’m with your family now.” Remy brightened at this. “Ooooh, to the village hall? I’ve never been inside before! Can I go, Mama, please?” “It’ll be at dawn, Rem,” Dominique pointed out. “If you want to go, sure, but no whining when you’re tired later in the day.” “I wanna go, too,” Alicia said. “And I won’t complain. I like mornings!” Dominique shrugged. “Up to Simon if he wants to mind the both of you.” Simon grinned. “Hmm. Well, maaaaybe. But only if you both promise to be very good.” “We will, Mister Simon!” Remy promised emphatically. “And if Alicia is a butt I’ll cover her mouth so she can’t yap.” He demonstrated with a smirk, sidling behind his sister and placing a hand over her lips as Alicia thrashed, the girl letting out muffled sputters of protests for a few moments before Dominique leveled a stern glare at the children. “Let her go, Rem,” the woman chided. “And be nice.” Turning away from the pot of watery stew she’d been stirring with a wooden spoon, she wagged the utensil at him. “Or else.” Simon stiffened a bit, looking away sharply. Remy, however, only chirped, “Okay!” and released his sister, giving her hair a muss. “I was only fooling, Mama.” He glanced at their tenant curiously, his expression confused. “What’s wrong?” Simon shrugged, his expression absolutely neutral, as Dominique quirked a confused brow. “You alright there, Simon?” she asked. The man smiled, but it was a tremulous expression. “I’m alright. Sorry, just… bad deja vu.” “... Alright.” Dominique frowned. “Well-- if you’re fine watching them both, feel free to take them with you tomorrow. And don’t let them wheedle out of helping you carry the rations back. Contrary to their occasional claims, they do indeed both have working sets of arms.” She smirked playfully at Remy. “Don’t let your baby sister outcarry you, my dear.” “Never!” Remy crowed. “I’m not gonna get outcarried by a girl!” Simon seemed to relax a bit, his smile becoming more sincere, albeit clearly confused. “I don’t imagine you will. But Alicia, are you just going to take that one lying down?” “I’ll carry so much things.” The girl giggled. “And I bet I can walk faster’n you can, too, Rem!” “You’ll have to give me a full report afterward,” Dominique said. “I’ll be waiting here with bated breath.” The next morning, however, as a cloudy dawn broke over Maris, neither child seemed to be in much of a mood for sprinting as they began from the Lafontaine cottage toward the village hall in the center of town. Alicia didn’t bother to stifle a massive yawn as she ambled next to her brother on one side and Simon on the other, the girl shivering at a gust of cool wind that sent her light hair rippling. “I want it to be summer already,” she announced, rubbing her hands together. “And isn’t May usually warmer than this, anyway? I’m freezing.” “It never gets this cold in Durach,” Simon noted. “Or in Teral where I was in the army. So I don’t know.” He smiled, holding out an arm. “I could carry you until we get there. You’d be warmer at least, if your poor dignity can stand it.” “Nuh-uh, Remy would never let me forget it.” Alicia stuck her tongue out at her brother. “I’m eight, y’know. Not two like Gilly.” She jutted her chin proudly. “Mama says I’m taller’n she was at my age. And I’m taller’n Tilly Salomon, too, even though she’s almost nine!” “But you’re still shorter than me,” Remy put in, plunking his chin down on his sister’s shoulder as he walked behind her. “Be nice, Remy,” Simon chided. “And don’t walk like that, you’re going to make yourself and Alicia trip.” The young boy’s expression turned sulky, but he muttered, “‘Kay,” and stood up straight again. He grinned again a moment later, pointing. “Look, there’s the village hall! ...And woah, the line is long.” Alicia, following her brother’s finger, frowned immediately, her jade-green eyes going wide. Remy wasn’t exaggerating: the queue already stretched out the door, impatient locals and refugees guarding their spots as one might precious jewels, all of them wearing expressions that no one in their right mind could have described as friendly. “But we came early,” Alicia said, her voice almost a whine. “Mama said if we came early, we’d be okay!” “She also pointed out a lot of people would probably have the same idea,” Simon reminded the girl gently, as he sidled into his own place at the end of the line. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can pass the time somehow.” “How long’s the war gonna go?” Remy complained. “Mama says it was easier before.” “Until either the king or the rebels gives up,” Simon said sadly. “So… I have no idea. They’re both very, very determined to have their way.” “I like the rebels more’n the king,” Alicia said. After hesitating a moment, the girl leaned her cheek against Simon’s sleeve. “‘Cos at least the rebels aren’t the ones who made Papa leave. They bring people here, ‘stead of takin’ them away. And Mama doesn’t like most of the strangers, but… still better’n everyone havin’ to go away. And never comin’ back.” Simon bit his lip. “I imagine it is scary. Everyone going away and not coming back.” With a shaky smile he said, “My nephews had to go away you know. For the war. I still don’t know what happened to them, and I miss them a lot.” “It’s okay,” Alicia said, reaching for Simon’s hand. “I miss people, too. Papa, and… and Auntie Maudie, and Tilly’s papa had to go away, too, even though he was real nice and used to take us swimmin’ when it was summer. But…” She tilted her chin to study the farrier’s bronze face. “Mama says that even though sometimes people hafta leave us, it’s alright, ‘cos new people’ll come into our lives, too. So all that matters is stayin’ strong. And not lettin’ yourself get too sad.” Simon blinked in surprise, looking down at the little girl quizzically, accepting the offered hand. “You’re very wise, Madame. Are you sure you’re just eight?” He grinned, tickling her neck. “Certainly not. You must be a hundred.” “Old lady Ali!” Remy whooped, tickling his sister as well. Alicia giggled. “Well if I’m old, Rem, then you’re ancient!” the little girl retorted. She bounced on her heel as the line crept forward by a hair. “Oooh! We’re moving!” “Don’t get excited, runt,” grumbled an old man who’d come up behind them, his eyes black-rimmed and bloodshot. “We’ll be here a while yet.” Remy glowered at the man, opening his mouth as if to retort, but Simon hurriedly put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and shook his head. “Leave it, no sense getting worked up.” Alicia, however, seemed to disagree. Letting go of Simon’s hand, the girl spun back to the face the heckler, her lips pursed and green eyes narrowed. “That’s not very nice,” she informed him primly. “You gotta ‘pologise!” The man glared down at the girl, his eyes flicking up to Simon with no dearth of impatience. “You let your daughter be so cheeky to people, sirrah?” “He’s not our papa,” Remy interjected. “He’s just a tenant!” “Kids, stop it,” Simon said, his voice sharper now. “I don’t want you starting fights with people we’ll probably have to stand in line with for an hour.” “But I’m not fighting,” Alicia whined. “He’s the one who was mean to me, Mister Simon.” Kneeling down, Simon put a hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiled sadly. In a low voice, so the belligerent man couldn’t hear, he said, “Sometimes people will say or do mean things, but yelling at them doesn’t help, honey. You have to learn to let the ugly comments roll off your back, like water. It may not feel nice, just like being wet doesn’t always feel nice, but soon you’ll dry up again and forget it ever rained.” Alicia pouted her lips. “Fine,” the girl said dourly. “But… but if he says more mean things--” “If he does, I will make him stop,” Simon interrupted firmly. “Let me handle it, Alicia, okay? I promise, I’m not going to just let him keep saying mean things to you.” He hesitated a few seconds, swallowing hard, then smiled and reached for Alicia’s hand again, giving it a squeeze. “Trust me, okay?” “‘Kay.” The girl sighed. “I trust you, Mister Simon.” Fortunately, the rabblerouser seemed content not to raise any more of a ruckus, and slowly but steadily over the next hour or so, the line inched forward. Both Alicia and Remy were fidgeting with impatience by the time they and Simon reached the inside of the village hall, seeming to have realised far too late that waiting in an enormous queue to collect food wasn’t exactly an enjoyable activity. Alicia, though, at least perked up again as they neared the head of the line, her eyes skimming greedily over the canvas rucksacks of food that had been carefully arranged for easy transport and were being monitored by a group of soldiers wearing badges that marked them as members of the rebel army. “I wonder if we’ll get fruit this month,” Alicia said eagerly. “‘Cos last month we didn’t. But the month before we did.” “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Simon replied cheerily, though he was glancing at the rebel officers warily. “Even if not, it’s the planting season and things are warming up, so hopefully there will be more things that are fresh and less preserved foods, hm? That would be nice.” “It would,” Remy agreed. “I’m so tired of dried everything.” The party of three reached the front of the queue a few minutes later, Alicia smiling broadly up at the rebel officers as they gave Simon and the two children a cursory scan. “Family name?” said one of the soldiers then, his tone disaffected. Bored. “Lafontaine,” Simon replied, his expression and voice neutrally polite. “And I’m Farrier- I’ve been boarding with Madame Lafontaine and her children.” The soldier nodded once, running his finger along the vast scroll of parchment that was unrolled on the table in front of him. After a moment’s silence, he replied, “That would be… six members of the household, then? Five Lafontaine, one Farrier.” “That it would be,” Simon confirmed. “Alright. Give your hand to Corporal Rassen, please, Master Farrier.” He gestured toward the black-haired soldier to his side; the woman was holding a pot of ink in her hand, the end of a stick daubed into it. “She’ll draw your mark. And…” The man glanced briefly at Remy. “The Lafontaine boy is underaged, yes?” “He’s eleven, yes,” Simon said. “His mother is home with the wee ones, didn’t want to have to drag them fussing out of bed this early.” “Understandable,” said the soldier. “Corporal Rassen will give you two marks, then-- one for yourself, the other on the behalf of the Lafontaines.” He turned, sorting between the various sizes of canvas sacks for several moments before he seemed to find the one he was looking for. Hefting it into his arms, he added, “Potatoes in here. You’ll also get a bag of bread, ale, and assorted sundries.” “Thank you,” Simon said with a polite nod, holding out his hand. Once it had been marked, he turned to the children with a grin. “You kids ready to see who can heft the rations home the best?” “Uh-huh!” Alicia chirped. She grinned at the soldier. “I can carry that!” The man couldn’t help but smirk. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, dear, but maybe you can take the second bag, okay?” He nodded toward Remy. “You think you can handle this, young man?” “Uh-huh!” Remy said proudly. “I’m the man of the house, I can do it!” Simon had to hide a smile behind his hand, and the rebel chuckled. “Well, I can’t argue with that.” He offered the sack of potatoes out toward Remy. “Hold ‘em from underneath, alright? And…” He flicked his glance toward Simon. “Don’t be ashamed if you need some help halfway home. I’m sure Master Farrier would be glad to assist, right?” “Of course,” Simon said instantly. “Just let me know if it gets too heavy or if you get tired.” “I won’t get tired, Mister Simon!” Remy objected as he accepted the sack. “I can do it, I can! I wanna be big and strong like you are- Mama says you chopped more wood in two hours than she can do all day!” Alicia laughed as the soldier plucked up a second, lighter bag and nestled it carefully in the girl’s waiting arms. “I betchya Mama can chop wood faster’n you can, though,” the girl teased, turning to leave as the rebels gave the group a final nod and wave of dismissal. “She won’t even let me use the ax at all,” the boy sulked. “She says I’d hurt myself with it.” “Maybe when you’re older, Remy,” Simon said, leading the kids back out of the village hall. “And you really are the man of the house.” “Would you teach me, Mister Simon?” the boy asked eagerly. “When I’m older?” Simon looked caught off guard. “I, uh…” “He could teach you how to shoe a horse, too!” Alicia prattled; if she’d noticed the man’s hesitation, the girl didn’t show it. “Our papa knew how, didja know that? He was a blacksmith. ‘Fore he had to go be a soldier.” “Your Mama told me that, yes,” Simon agreed, as they padded out through the sunlight back towards the Lafontaine place. “She’s been letting me use his old tools, since a lot of my best ones were left behind when I had to run.” He gave the children a warm smile, some of the sad tiredness that never seemed to leave his face easing a bit. “I’d love to teach you kids, one day. Hey, if you want, maybe next time you can watch me while I work, as long as the horse is gentle and well broken in.” “Oooh!” Alicia beamed. “That’d be real neat. Mama never lets us come to work with her.” When she could scrape out the time, Dominique cobbled together money by performing odd jobs for the friendlier merchants in town-- though it was clear that she hated it, confiding in Simon a few days ago that she feared the wealthier citizens of Maris only agreed to employ her out of pity. “We’d be real good,” Alicia went on. “And not bother you while you’re tryin’ to concentrate. Promise.” “Uh-huh,” Remy agreed, beaming up at Simon. Hefting the bag of potatoes a bit as it started slipping- prompting Simon to dart a hand out to support it until Remy had it firmly again- the boy added, “It’s more fun with you livin’ here. Mama’s busy a lot since Papa’s gone, looking after the little babies. But you’re nice.” “And we get more food with you than we did before!” Alicia added brightly. “Even though Mama says they cutted back the rations. ‘Cos of all the new people.” The girl adjusted her grip on the sundry bag, glimpsing down inside of it. “Ooh. I think we’ve got bread with nuts in it this month! ‘Stead of just the plain flatbread we got last time.” Simon smiled warmly, glancing over Alicia’s shoulder. “So we do. That’s exciting, huh?” He put a hand around her shoulders and gave her a light squeeze before letting go again. “I’m glad you kids are happy with me living with you. You’re good friends.” “Hey, look!” Remy chirped as the Lafontaine cottage came into view up ahead. “Mama’s putting out the wash. Hi Mama!” Dominique, indeed standing outside the house with her arms full of laundry as Gillian and Vern played in the grass nearby, smiled warmly at her eldest son. “Good morning to you, too, Rem,” she called. “I see you come bearing treats.” “We got bread with nuts in it!” Alicia confirmed, grinning. “Did we, now?” Dominique asked. “That’s exciting, love.” She glanced behind her shoulder, toward the cottage’s front door. “Why don’t you set the provisions inside, kids? Then you can rest for a bit while Mama starts the wash-- but I want you back out here in say… an hour… to help me get through it, okay?” “Okay,” Remy agreed with a nod. As he started towards the house, he paused to add excitedly, “Mama, if we’re really good can we have off from chores next time Mister Simon has a horse to work on? He said we could watch long as it's broken enough.” Simon gave an amused smile and a shrug. “I may have said that, yes.” “Well, if you’re sure they won’t be a bother.” Dominique shrugged, setting the laundry down. As Alicia and Remy exchanged excited looks with one another before disappearing inside the cottage to deposit the rations, their mother added softly, “You… really don’t have to humour them so much, Simon. If you don’t want to. I won’t pretend it doesn’t make me happy to see them so happy like that, but-- I know they’re sort of… a lot. Sometimes. And I don’t want you to feel obligated to entertain their fancies.” “Frankly? I’d probably spend a lot more time brooding than is good for me if they didn't keep me company,” Simon replied. “I don't mind in the least. It’s… nice. To spend time with them, talk about commonplaces and forget the war for a little while. I think I enjoy their company as much as they seem to enjoy mine.” “They like you,” Dominique said, sighing as she crouched down in the brittle grass to begin sorting through the pile of dirty clothing and bedding. “All of the kids do,” she added, sparing a glance toward Gillian and Vern; the littlest two Lafontaine children were carefully attempting to stack pebbles they’d collected into a wobbly tower. “It’s been nice, honestly. Having another adult around. I know it’s not your job to tend them, but… I think I’d just gotten so used to doing everything alone that it’s a good change being able to breathe a little. Having someone else to fall back on sometimes, instead of everything starting and ending with me.” “I can relate, in a way,” Simon said softly. “To feeling like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, and there's no one you can turn to for help.” He smiled, his blue eyes shimmering in the early morning sunlight. “Thank you, as well, by the way- for letting your crazy tenant borrow your kids. And for being accommodating in general. Anything I can do to make things easier for you, Dominique, you just have to name it.” Dominique nodded. “Well,” she joked, “if you happen to have a secret passion for laundry…” Her tenant laughed. “I can try? Admittedly I haven’t done laundry since I was in basic training some… gods it must’ve been more than fifteen years now. Maybe closer to twenty, am I really getting that old?” He shook his head with a lopsided smile. “At any rate, I could try to help if you don’t mind giving me a bit of coaching. Or I can just stand sentinel over the drying line and try to look stern so that the neighbor kids don’t drag your clean sheets through the creek like they did last week.” “I was only teasing, Simon,” Dominique said. “You’ve already stood in line for me-- no need to work yourself ragged over my chores, alright?” “If you’re sure,” he said with a shrug. “I won’t lie, sitting for a bit would be nice after standing in that line. But I can at least keep you company out here, hm? If you don’t mind.” “Of course,” the woman replied. “That’d be nice. Thank you, Simon.” *** “Hmm.” Simon looked up towards Dominique as he bent over the kitchen counter, a slight frown ticking at his lips. “I think we’re going to have to go out to the market sooner than later. These candles are burning awfully low and when I gave Vern his bath this morning the soap was as thin as paper.” Dominique, standing in front of the kitchen table with Gillian perched at the edge of it, the woman wearing a no-nonsense expression as she raked a wooden comb through the squirming girl’s ringleted hair, sighed. “I’ve been putting it off,” she admitted. “Trying to save up a bit more first.” “It’s okay, Mama!” Alicia chirped as she stirred the pot of thin stew that was simmering over the hearth. “We can just not take baths for a while.” The little girl batted her eyelashes. “The creek’s all cold anyway. I wish I was still little ‘nough to fit in the laundry basin like Gilly and Vern.” “At least it’s warm enough out now that you dry off quickly,” Simon pointed out with a slight smirk. Summer had finally come to the little town, with the mid-June temperatures nowhere near as high as they’d be in his native Durach but still plenty hot enough that the wet did not stay wet long. “And no, you are not going without baths, little miss. Not when you play with Jackson and Tilly all afternoon and come back sweaty. I don’t think your Mama appreciates the whiff.” Alicia pouted her lips, mock-sullen. “Can I ‘least come with to the market?” the girl wheedled. “Please? I’ll be real good. And I won’t ask to buy nothin’ we can’t ‘ford. Promise!” “I won’t have time to go until tonight, Ali,” Dominique replied, stilling Gillian as the girl jerked her head away from the teeth of the comb. “And I don’t want you out after dark.” Once upon a time the woman wouldn’t have wholly minded, but with the vast amount of strangers now calling Maris home, times had changed. “Sorry, love.” “I could go now?” Simon offered. “I’d just need to lock up the barn so no one filches my tools.” “Ooh, can I go with you, Mister Simon?” Remy put in eagerly, from where he was just dumping a dustbin of sand and potato peels out the front door. “I finished all my sweeping, Mama, I swear!” “Alright,” Dominique agreed. “You can both go with Mister Simon if he’s okay watching you. But promise me you’ll keep your hands to yourself. No whining, no fawning over trinkets we haven’t the coin for.” Finished with combing, the blonde woman scooped Gillian up into her arms, nestling the toddler against her hip. “And let Mister Simon do the talking, please. Mama is always happy to hear you chatter, but some people are far less eager being babbled at by little children, alas.” “Okay, Mama,” Remy agreed chirpily. Simon chuckled, standing up straight and heading toward the door. “Both of you get your shoes on,” he instructed them. “I’ll lock up the barn and meet you both back here.” After locking up the barn- which was really more of an old toolshed, having been used by Dominique’s blacksmith husband to store his extra equipment and repurposed by Simon into a place where he could work on horses- Simon, Remy and Alicia headed out into the village square where most of the merchants in town conducted their work. The street was heavy with foot traffic, some of them Maris locals whom the children recognized but the vast majority of them refugees like Simon; more newcomers were still arriving to the once-peaceful village on a near weekly basis, the shantytown off the Bayers’ ryefield grown to almost a second village unto itself. As Simon and the Lafontaine children plunged into the din, Alicia swallowed hard, reaching reflexively for the man’s hand, and he gently folded his fingers around hers with a reassuring smile. “It’ll be midsummer soon, right?” Remy asked as they threaded the crowd of refugees and locals. He too stuck close as a tick to Simon, though he did not condescend to reach for the man’s hand. “I wonder if we’ll even celebrate it this year.” “Hard to say,” Simon replied sadly. “That sort of thing takes a lot of money. But people could do with a break, I think.” His eyes flicked around, and he finally sighted the soapmaker’s stall. “Ah, there we go. Looks like we’re waiting in a line again, sorry kids.” “Awww,” Remy scowled, for sure enough there was a decent queue in front of the soapmaker. “Always with the lines.” “Mama said not to whine,” Alicia pointed out prissily. “So you gotta be quiet, Rem.” “Don’t boss your brother around, Alicia,” Simon said with tired patience as he took a place in the line. “I want you both to behave, alright? No squabbling.” “I wasn’t squabbling,” Remy retorted. “She started it!” “And don’t get lippy either,” Simon said, tweaking the boy’s ear so that he yelped. He fell silent, scowling, as Alicia just barely bit back a triumphant smirk (but wisely did not comment further). The trio fell into a silence then, merely tapping their feet as the lengthy queue slowly inched forward, the villagers in front of them haggling with the raven-haired soapmaker over prices as the wrinkly-faced woman tried valiantly to hold her ground. Her patience, however, was clearly ebbing as she encountered more and more stingy customers, and by the time the scrappy refugee who was standing in line directly in front of Simon and the children reached the head of the queue, the merchant was wearing an open scowl. She took one look at the man-- clad in a threadbare tunic over holey breeches, his feet bare, his blond hair so filthy it looked almost brown-- before letting out an audible huff and flattening her dark brows. “Two bars, please, madam,” the man said, smiling thinly at the soapmaker in spite of her patently unfriendly expression. “Of your most basic soap.” “Alright.” The woman tilted her head. “That’ll be four coppers, then.” “Four?” The refugee looked puzzled. “But… you charged the lass in front of me two.” “Aye. Because I’ve known that lass since she reached my knee.” “I… haven’t got four, though,” the man said. “And I-- I’ve been savin’ up for weeks, madam. Promised my wife I’d get the soap today. Our children, they… they’re filthy, and--” “And it’ll be four coppers,” said the merchant, intractable. The refugee bristled. “That’s not fair. You can’t charge me more for no reason, you can’t--” “I can, and I will,” the woman retorted, clenching her jaw. “You southerners think you can just swagger into town and buy up all our supplies, and camp like animals on our land.” Her steely eyes fell on the man’s bare bicep, where a scar winked out beneath the hot summer sun-- a brand, in the shape of a dove with its wings outstretched, marking him as the former property of House Perron in central Talvace. “As far as I’m concerned,” the soapmaker sniffed, “you haven’t any right to be holding money at all, sir.” “But--” “I’ve changed my mind,” the woman cut in, over him. “I won’t be selling you soap at all.” She glanced toward the next customers in line: Simon and the Lafontaine children. “Next,” she announced. Simon winced, doing his best not to meet the eyes of the man in front of him as he gently towed the children forwards. “Ah, r-right, four coppers was it for the basic soap?” “Well, let’s see.” As the former slave stood slack-jawed a few inches to the side, the merchant smiled down at Remy and Alicia. “Hello, dears,” she greeted. “Getting soap for your mama?” Alicia nodded, biting her lip as she flicked her gaze uncomfortably between the soapmaker and the rejected refugee. “Uh-huh, Missus Travert,” the girl ventured. “Candles, too. After this.” “So nice of you to help her like that.” The merchant looked toward Simon. “And,” she added pointedly, “it’s nice to see a refugee actually making himself useful. Unlike some.” A beat. “Let’s call it two coppers, alright?” “Oh, ah, well if you’re sure,” Simon said, looking relieved. “That should leave us more for the candlemaker, hm kids?” “Uh-huh,” Remy agreed with a tremulous smile. “Can I give Missus Travert the money, Mister Simon?” “If you like,” Simon said, fishing the coins out of his belt pouch and offering them to Remy. The little boy accepted eagerly, presenting the money to the soapmaker. As Madam Travert reached out to accept the money, however, the slighted refugee gnashed his teeth together. “This is madness,” he spat, taking a menacing step back towards the stall. “I’ve every bit as much of a right to buy soap as they do! For the same price as you’re giving them!” Travert bristled. “ Git,” she huffed. “If you want soap so much, then run back to your godsdamned master, I’m sure he’d be glad to have you back!” “I have no master.” The refugee squared his shoulders, the look smoldering in his hazel eyes suddenly lethal. “I’m a freeman, just like everyone else in this village, you miserable cow--” “Sh-she’s not a cow, she’s n-nice and-” Remy warbled, flinching his hand back to his chest. “ Shut it, brat!” The ex-slave whirled toward the child, nostrils flaring. “I wasn’t talking to you!” “He’s just a little boy, there’s no need to take this out on him,” Simon said cooly, drawing Remy close to his side. The look he gave the ex-slave was cool and authoritative, and there was no mistaking the steely anger in the farrier’s eyes. “You said you were a father? Then act it, and don’t snarl at innocent children.” “You’ve no right to order me about,” the refugee snapped. “And I wouldn’t be snarling if this godsdamned wretch would just treat me like she does every other customer!” He took another, sharper step forward, furious eyes latched onto Simon’s. “You’re a refugee, too, she said. Don’t you think it’s wrong, what she’s doing--” “He isn’t a slave,” Travert cut in, glowering as she pointed a thumb toward the farrier’s unbranded arm. “Now I said, git!” “I will do no such thing!” the man snarled back. “Not until you let me buy what I’ve come for!” Remy squawked, burying his face in Simon’s tunic, and the farrier scowled. He put a hand on the former slave’s shoulder. “You’re scaring the children, now will you-” “Don’t touch me!” Jerking away from Simon’s hold, in an instant the bedraggled man had raised a hand, shoving it sharply against the farrier’s chest. As Alicia, huddled against Simon’s side, let out a gasp of shock-- her green eyes going wide as dinner plates-- Simon dug in his heels, the former slave only managing to push him back by an inch or so. Jaw tight, the farrier pushed Remy and Alicia behind himself. Then, quick as a snake, he grabbed the former slave’s wrist and shoved him away. “Don't test me,” the farrier hissed. “You will not like the result.” “Let go of me,” the refugee growled-- and then, before Simon could blink, let alone react, he vaulted his free hand toward the man’s face, his fist connecting squarely with Simon’s eye. The farrier gasped sharply, stumbling. Then, his head snapping back around and his expression full of venom, he yanked the wrist he was still holding so that the former slave was pulled forward. Then, wrenching him around, Simon twisted the man so that his arm was locked behind his back, with Simon’s other arm gripped around his throat. The refugee could do nothing but sputter, his eyes bulging wide as he flailed in vain against the farrier’s iron hold. Only a few steps behind the ruckus, frantic tears had begun to trickle down Alicia’s cheeks, the little girl letting out a sharp cry of “Simon!” as she clung to Remy’s hand and the little boy hugged his sister close as tears began to spill over from his own eyes. Travert, for her part, after gaping for a moment had decided on a far more active approach, the woman whirling on her heel and furtively scanning the crowd that thrummed around them… and when she spied across the market two uniformed members of the occupying rebel army, calling out to them: “Over here! Now!” The soldiers, both women, snapped around, eyes narrowing when they caught sight of the ruckus. They made an immediate beeline for the soapmaker’s stall, one of them grabbing Simon’s upper arm roughly and the other making a threatening reach for her sword. “What is going on here? Let him go, now.” “He attacked me,” Simon hissed, glaring as best he could with one eye rapidly swelling shut. “And he was threatening these children!” “He’s telling the truth,” Travert groused, taking a step around the stall to set a comforting hand each on Alicia and Remy’s shoulders. “This slave was being an aggressive lout--” “Because you wouldn’t sell me godsdamned soap!” the ex-slave hissed. “I’ve every right to choose who and who not to serve!” Travert retorted, squaring her jaw. “Let. Go,” the rebel soldier repeated firmly, her eyes narrowing. After a moment’s hesitation, his visible blue eye smoldering, Simon did so, and the rebel pulled the former slave away. Turning to Travert she said, “If you don’t want to start fights, perhaps you shouldn’t play blatant favorites. Especially if you’re then going to turn around and ask former slaves to help you fix the mess you got yourself into.” The woman turned towards the refugee in her grip, her expression now less angry and more tired. “However, the merchants have the right to deny service to anyone they please, and you can’t start street brawls over it.” “He touched me,” the former slave huffed. “You still can’t punch him,” Travert snapped. “And he only touched you after you started menacing children, you ingrate.” The soldier who was holding Simon’s arm took a deep, slow breath, then let it out. Turning to Simon she said, “We’ll deal with this. Maybe you should take the children home.” Simon looked like he wanted to protest, but one glance at the terrified, teary eyed Lafontaines changed his mind. Wordlessly he knelt, picking up Alicia out of Remy’s hold and hefting her onto his hip before taking Remy’s hand in his own. “Come on,” he said softly. “I’ll get the soap another time.” Remy nodded, walking so closely to Simon he might’ve been tied to the man’s hip, as Alicia sniffled and buried her face in the farrier’s shoulder, the little girl still crying softly. By the time the three of them got back to the cottage, most of the right side of Simon’s face was consumed by a black-purple bruise, and not five seconds after he opened the door Remy released his hand and bolted for Dominique with a squeal of “ Mama!” At her son’s frantic pitch, Dominique spun to face the boy, her marbled eyes widening. “Rem,” she said. “What’s wrong honey?” She glanced toward Simon, still hovering in the doorway with Alicia in his arms. “Oh gods. What happened to your face?” “The soapmaker was refusing to give service to one of the refugees that used to be a slave,” he said softly, stroking Alicia’s hair. “The man got angry, and started snarling at Remy. I thought it a very clever idea to try and get him to back off. He opted to hit me instead.” “He was scary, Mama,” Remy bawled, clinging to his mother’s skirts. “Dear gods.” Dominique wrapped her arms around her son, planting a kiss atop his amber hair. “Are you-- are you okay, Simon? You look…” Horrendous, Dominique thought, but instead settled on: “Injured.” “He got punched,” Alicia whimpered, turning to look at her mother. “Real, real hard, Mama.” “Aw, this?” Simon said, sitting down on a chair and nestling the girl in his lap. “It’s nothing, honey. Trust me I’ve had way, way worse.” Looked up to Dominique and biting his lip he added, “I am sorry I was so stupid though. I really should’ve just taken the kids and left. Instead I got cocky and ended up terrifying them.” Dominique raised a brow. “Why are you apologising, Simon? You just got a shiner defending my kids-- I should be thanking you. You should not be apologising to me.” “I wouldn't have needed to defend them if I’d been less of an idiot,” he said dismally, the old tiredness back in his eyes. “Now they’re scared, and we didn't even get any of the things we went out for.” “So someone else picking a fight is your fault?” Dominique looked positively puzzled as she released Remy from the hug, smoothing the boy’s tousled hair again. “You seem to put an awful lot of responsibility on your shoulders, Simon. Without ever being willing to take praise in return. That’s not a very good way of living, is it? You deserve better than that.” “You kept me an’ Remy safe,” Alicia whispered, draping her arms around Simon’s neck. “Even though we’re not your kids. You coulda just let that man be mean, but ‘stead you kept us safe.” Simon hugged Alicia back, his eyes distant. “I’ve… never really thought about it. I mean I can handle a little stress if it means making a difference for someone else. Making… someone else’s life a little better.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “Though I seem to mess that up more often than I succeed.” “But you’re fun,” Remy objected, looking confused and concerned. “And nice. And you got the mean guy to stop- he only hit you once ‘n then you pinned ‘im.” “It’s like I tell my kids,” Dominique said. “Everyone makes mistakes. It’s how you learn from them that matters.” She smiled, bemused. “If I let myself feel like a horrid person every time I made a choice that wasn’t the absolute best, then-- gods, I’d be a miserable pool of self-pity. You’re only human, Simon. You can’t hold yourself to an impossible standard, then get down on yourself every time you don’t meet it.” Simon looked surprised, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face. “Y’know, my uncle used to tell me that. My baby brother too. I guess I always just… didn’t want to admit they were right. Because it felt like giving up.” “Being realistic isn’t the same thing as giving up,” Dominique said firmly. “You’re a good person, Simon. I mean, gods-- even the day you first met us… one of the first things you did was offer some of the paltry amount of money you had on you to help Gillian’s cough. Without expecting anything in return, even though you didn’t even know her. Meanwhile the town apothecary-- a man I’ve known since I was a child, who I grew up with-- wouldn’t give me the potion at less than cost. You are a much, much better person than you give yourself credit for, Master Farrier.” She paused, eyes intent, before they softened a bit as she added, “Probably one of the best people I’ve met in a long time, if ever. And certainly the best I’ve met during this gods-cursed war.” Simon was clearly taken aback, and for a long moment seemed at a loss for what to say, and it was ultimately Alicia who spoke next, the little girl frowning slightly as she leaned back out of the hug and studied the farrier’s face. “Are… are you cryin’, Mister Simon?” she whispered, reaching a tentative hand out and drawing it across his face. “Are you sad?” “I…” Simon swallowed hard. “I just… I guess that’s the first time anyone’s said that to me.” He smoothed Alicia’s hair reassuringly. “I’m not sad, sweetie. Just… relieved, I guess. It feels like there was something heavy on me that got lighter.” “Then why are you crying?” Remy queried. “Does your face hurt? Mama, you should fix it!” “Sometimes people can cry for other reasons than being sad, Rem,” Dominique replied. “But-- I do agree that we ought fix something up for his face.” She sighed. “Rem, hon, are you too shaken to run out to the creek real quick and find some aloe? It won’t be as good as anything the apothecary has, but…” “I can get it,” Remy replied immediately, turning towards the door. “I’ll be back really quick, so it doesn’t have to hurt so much.” “Thank you, Rem,” Simon called after the boy just before he vanished. He reached up a hand to the uninjured side of his face, trying to rub away the tears. “Ha, I must look like a blubbering idiot. But… thank you, Dominique. I… think I needed to hear that.” “You just got punched in the face,” Alicia said knowingly. “It’s okay to cry, Mister Simon. I would cry, too.” Dominique laughed. “Well, I can’t argue with that logic-- that is a nasty bruise you’ve got forming, Simon.” He chuckled, kissing Alicia on the top of her head. “A fair point. But I’m sure your mama will have me all fixed up in a jiffy.” Chapter Nine Two and a half months later, during the muggy first week of September, the Lafontaine cottage was in a state of disarray-- and Dominique was positively harried. Her pale hair was tied back in a frizzy bun as she paced back and forth across the main room one evening, illuminated only by a few flickering candles and the snatches of moonlight that snaked in through the kitchen window. “Aye, I’ve half a mind to lug the imps out of bed,” she huffed absently to Simon as she nearly tripped over a ragdoll that had been left in the middle of the rug. “How hard is it for them to clean up after themselves?” The woman pressed a hand to her forehead, teeth clenched. “Toys all across the floor, and--” she flicked her gaze at the counter, which was piled high with chipped dinnerware “-- I’m fairly sure Alicia didn’t wash those like she was supposed to, and I’m nearly certain if I dare to glance out into the front yard, the laundry will be still flapping on the line instead of taken off and folded as I told Remy to do this morning. All day he promised he’d do it ‘in a bit’, but did he follow through? Nope.” “Neeka,” Simon said with an amused smile, using the nickname he’d started addressing Dominique by. “It’s fine. It’ll all happen one way or another, no need to get so worked up over it. I think you need to sit down for a minute, you’re wearing a hole in the floor.” She sighed, snatching up the orphaned ragdoll and depositing it in a nearby basket before she plunked down heavily onto one of the kitchen chairs. “You’re right, I suppose,” she admitted. “It just never seems to stop sometimes, you know? Always another pot to scrub, or floor to sweep, or shoes with holes worn through them that need replacing. And I know the war’s making things hard on everyone, not just me, but…” The woman shrugged dolefully. “Maybe it’s just time making me remember things too fondly, but I don’t ever recall it being quite like this before, well-- you know.” Simon smiled sadly, sitting down across from his landlady and reaching towards her to give her hand a squeeze. “Hey, I get it. You’re entitled to being stressed and frustrated- just because other people are too, that doesn’t mean your anxiety is invalid.” His smile suddenly turned a great deal more mischievous, and he said, “Though I might just be able to make your night a bit better.” “Oh?” Dominique asked. “I’m not sure whether to be excited or scared.” She poked his wrist. “You’re smirking like a cat, Simon.” “Saved up for a month and a half for this,” he said cheerily. He reached inside the pocket of his tunic, and pulled out a small, paper wrapped parcel. Pulling off the paper, he revealed it to be a punnet of fresh, ripe strawberries. His grin widening, he added, “Remy said these were your favorite.” The woman’s eyes went impossibly wide. “ Fruit? Fresh fruit?” Their rations only ever included jarred-- and even then only during good months. “My gods, Simon, you shouldn’t have. How… how much did these cost you?” “I’m not telling,” he said cheekily. “I want you to enjoy them, my dear landlady, not sputter and squawk about how I shouldn’t waste my money.” He put the punnet down on the table, adding, “Happy birthday, Neeka.” A soft smile curled between Dominique’s lips, but her tone was rippled with confusion as she asked, “My birthday? How… how did you know it’s almost my birthday?” She certainly hadn’t told him. “Alicia let it slip that your birthday was ‘at the start of September,’” Simon explained. “Remember that night a while back when I took her out to look at the stars? I was telling her about how different stars are visible at different times of year, and so she pelted me with questions about which ones were visible on whose birthday. Not that I knew but. I figured if she was going to hand me the information I might as well make note of it, hm?” “And… and you’ve been saving up ever since?” Dominique shook her head, incredulous, before daring to pick up one of the strawberries, her touch so ginger she might have been handling a delicate piece of crystal. “Gods, Simon. I… I-- thank you. I don’t think I’ve gotten any kind of birthday gift, since… the start of the war, maybe even before then. I’ve barely even noticed the day at all over the past few years.” “Well then you’re long overdue,” he said gently, reaching a hand out to squeeze her shoulder. “Consider this pricey gift my way of making up for all those missed birthdays. You’ve been a very good friend to me, Dominique. I know you let me stay here because you needed help, but I’m still grateful for it. And I’m grateful that you let me feel like I belong, instead of just being the boarder who you try not to trip over when you get up in the morning.” “Of course,” Dominique murmured, taking a generous bite of the strawberry. “When I took in a boarder, it was because I was… desperate. Beyond desperate. I wasn’t expecting much of anything, But you’ve been…” She blinked hard. “You’re kind, you’re helpful… you don’t just humour my children, but you actually like them. You’ve been like a dream, Simon. After so many years of stumbling through a nightmare all on my own.” “I was miserable when you found me,” Simon admitted. “Gods, I felt… like an empty husk. There were so many times when I was travelling north I was tempted to just… stop. Sit down somewhere and not get up again. But… Alicia said something to me a while back. That… that losing people hurts, but meeting new people makes it worthwhile to keep on with your life.” He grinned. “She told me you said that to her. And I think it was very wise of you.” Dominique nodded, smiling sadly. “I… told her that after we found out about her father. She and Rem, they were just despondent. And so afraid. Their papa was gone, I couldn’t-- still can’t, even-- get in touch with my sister and her family down in Talvace, half the town’s men were missing or dead after getting plucked by the king’s draft…” She forced a wavery breath. “I knew I couldn’t make it better for them. That words wouldn’t… fix what had happened. But godsdamned if I w-was going to let them give up hope.” The woman blinked again, harder this time, but it was in vain as a slow trickle of tears began to leak out from her eyes. She raised a swift hand, as though to wipe the moisture away, but before she could Simon noticed the tears and instinctively reached out a hand, his fingers brushing her cheek to catch them. His hand was warm, and it lingered a few seconds against Dominique’s cheek as his clear blue eyes fixed with her marbled grey-green. Dominique shuddered softly, hesitating for a moment before she draped her fingers over the farrier’s bronze wrist, so lightly she might have been stroking a feather. “What are we doing, Simon?” she murmured, her voice catching. “P-playing house… you fawning over my kids, and my kids adoring you in turn. And… and m-meanwhile, after this is over…” She lowered their hands, drawing them down together and snaking her fingers through his. “This war won’t last forever. Gods willing, it won’t. And then… then you’ll head back to Durach, won’t you? Tr-try to pick up whatever broken pieces are left of your family? Gods-- the way you talk about your nieces and nephews… I still don’t know exactly what happened to them, Simon, but if any of them are possibly alive and out there… I c-can’t imagine you just-- leaving that. Not forever.” He closed his eyes, a pained look flashing across his face. “N… no. I have nothing to go back to. My nieces and nephews… most of them left of their own volition, because they hate our family. Me included, because… disassociating is hard, I guess. The ones who don’t, they’re as good as dead to me. Went to… stay with relatives. In Roth.” Dominique winced; even this far north, rumours of Roth’s secession back in spring had trickled up months ago. “I’m… I’m sorry, Simon,” she said, meaning it. “I can tell how much you love those kids, I…” She used to free hand to wipe again at her still-flooded eyes, falling into silence for several moments. Then, very, very softly, she began again, “Two nights ago when I was putting Gillian to bed, she was… fussing, as she often does. Asking for water, for stories, for anything that would delay it. Eventually, sh-she asked me if Papa would come tuck her in first? I was confused. So confused. Her father died before she was even born-- there’s no way she remembers him.” The blonde gulped. “But then I realised, Simon. She w-wasn’t talking about my late husband. She was talking about you.” Simon’s blue eyes spread wide, and his mouth fell open. “She… she thinks I’m her papa? I… Gods.” He squeezed his eyes shut, tears now threatening him as well. “Dominique I… I do love those kids. They’re sweet, and innocent, and… and they deserve to have a good life. You deserve to have a good life. The kind of life I never had.” He looked up at her a note of pleading entering his voice. “I’m not going back to Durach after the war. I can’t. My family there is all gone, Neeka. And it’s… it’s not just the kids.” He swallowed hard, meeting her eyes squarely. “I love you, too.” “You… love me?” Dominique whispered, her voice trembling hard as an earthquake; the punnet of strawberries resting on the table between the pair had gone entirely forgotten. “Simon, I… I…” Faltering for a moment, she reached tentatively across the table, taking a hold of his other hand. “I-- d-don’t think I’ve ever… been in love. Not really. My husband and I, we were… arranged. He was a good man, but I never… felt much toward him. Beyond duty, I suppose. But…” Through her veil of tears, she made herself meet his eyes. “Whenever I think of the way things were before you showed up, my stomach twists a little. And every time I wake up in the morning to find you… putting water over the hearth, or sweeping, or-- or entertaining Gilly and Vern so I got to sleep in for a while longer, I find myself so happy. And for a moment I forget. About the war. About my empty pockets. About the fact that after all of this ends, you might leave, and I might never seen you again. But then right after that, I remember. And I try to imagine my life going back to what it was before you. And I… I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.” She smiled wistfully. “When I envision my happy life moving forward, it’s always-- always-- with you in it. And if that’s not love… then I’m not sure what is.” Simon answered Dominique’s smile with one of his own, slowly, gently sliding out of his chair and drawing her into a hug. “I… I’ve never been happier in my whole life, Neeka. Than I have these last few months, with you and the kids. Even if I could go back, the thought of leaving you and Remy and Alicia and… all of the little ones, and everything we have… I couldn’t. It would break me. I’ve already lost so much, I don’t want to lose you, too.” “I want you to stay, Simon,” Dominique said. “Not just for the war, but… forever.” She squeezed his hands. “We… can’t keep on like this, though. You feigning as just-- just a boarder. N-not when my two-year-old is calling you ‘papa’, and my heart flutters every time I look at you, and…” She averted her gaze, as if she were afraid she was about to ruin things. “People already talk, Simon. In town. A widowed woman with an unmarried man living in her house, toting her children around town…” He swallowed, nervousness and giddiness apparent in his eyes. “If… if we’re going to… stay on together, we’d have to make a more serious commitment.” He shivered a little. “I would be honored, Dominique. If that’s really what you want. To… to marry you.” Her cheeks warmed, and her stomach lurched. “I… I would like that, yes,” she said softly. “To b-be your wife.” Simon hugged her close again, a watery chuckle emerging from his mouth. In a joking tone, he said, “I am definitely buying you strawberries more often.” “I suppose since it’s probably poor tact to charge your fiance rent, you’ll have more money to buy fruit,” Dominique agreed, unable to stifle a teary laugh of her own. “But, then again, a wife and four kids is going to cost you much more than five coppers a month, Master Farrier.” Hesitating for a moment, she tilted up her chin and kissed Simon’s cheek. “I love you, Simon. And… thank you. For everything. I can’t even picture what my life would be like right now if I hadn’t gone to the clearing that day.” *** It was the next morning that Simon and Dominique sat the kids down over breakfast and informed the children that they had news. Dominique couldn’t wholly refrain an excited smile as she studied her children’s expectant faces, the woman only chuckling softly as Alicia-- her mouth full of bread-- cocked her head and said: “News, Mama? What kinda news?” “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Ali. And-- it’s good news,” Dominique replied, cutting apart slices of fried potatoes to feed to Gillian, who was perched in her lap. “I think you’ll like it, all of you.” “Are we getting a new ball?” Remy asked. “Like Jackson has?” “Not that kind of news, Rem,” Simon said, smirking a little. He tweaked the boy’s nose. “Your mama and I did some talking last night. And we decided something very big, and very special.” “... Do we both get a ball?” Alicia suggested, eyes glimmering eagerly. “‘Cos not even the Salomons each got their own!” Dominique laughed, more heartily this time. “Even more special than that, my love.” “Your Mama and I have been talking,” Simon said cheerily, “And… we decided I’m not going to just be a tenant anymore.” Alicia flattened a blonde brow, clearly confused. “But… but then what are you gonna be ‘stead?” She gnawed on her lip, a bit of anxiety edging into her voice as she asked, “You’re not movin’ out, are you, Mister Simon?” “You can’t leave!” Remy blurted, looking distraught. “You still gotta show me how to chop wood and pick horse’s hooves and, and-” “Easy, easy,” Simon said, reaching out and putting a hand on both of the kid’s shoulders. “I’m not leaving. Far from it. I’m not going to be a tenant anymore because I’m going to be family- your Mama and I are getting married.” “ What?” Alicia’s tone was borderline accusatory, as if the girl didn’t believe a word that had just dripped from the farrier’s lips. “You… you and mama are gonna get married? Like-- like Mama and Papa were?” “Uh-huh,” Dominique confirmed, her cheeks warm and flushing. “Just like that. Simon’s going to be my husband. Just as soon as we can get together enough money for a proper twining ceremony.” Remy gaped up at them, seeming at a loss for words. Vern, however, brightened, leaning on the table and saying, “Cake?” Dominique snorted. “Sure, we can have cake to celebrate, baby,” she said. “But not ‘til the wedding.” The woman ruffled little Gillian’s curly mop of dusty-brown hair. “Isn’t this all exciting, Gilly?” she sang. “Simon gets to be your papa for real now.” Gillian beamed up at her mother, the toddler’s eyes gleaming. “Papa?” she trilled. The little girl pointed toward Simon, repeating: “Papa!” Simon flushed, a warm smile spreading across his face. He knelt down next to Dominique’s chair and kissed the top of Gillian’s head. “That’s right, honey. Very soon.” “S-so… so you’re staying?” Remy wheedled. “Forever?” “Yes,” Simon agreed, tilting his head at the little boy. “I’m going to stay here forever, even after the war is over, and help your Mama look after you.” “Does… does that mean I can call you ‘papa’, too?” Alicia asked tentatively. “‘Stead of calling you Mister Simon?” Simon’s eyes softened and he stood and offered the little girl his hand. “Of course you can, honey. If you want to. I would like that very much.” Alicia smiled, taking the proffered hand. “‘Kay. Th-thank you… Papa.” Remy watched this, his expression wavering. Anxious. Uncertain. He looked towards Dominique, murmuring very softly, “P-Papa… our papa… he wouldn’t… be mad would he? If w-we…” The boy inhaled sharply, looking about to cry. “If w-we got a new Papa? If we l-love Mister Simon? ‘C-cause I was named after him and wh-what if he was mad, b-but Mister Simon is r-really fun, and, and-” “Remy,” Dominique cut in softly. “It’s alright to be nervous-- it’s a big change for sure. But--” Her voice grew much firmer. “Your papa loved you kids very, very much. And more than anything else, he wanted you to be happy. Safe. Loved. He would be glad that you’ve got someone else acting as your papa now. That Mama’s not raising you and your siblings all on her own. Nothing will ever replace him, Remy, but it’s okay to love new people, too. I promise you, Papa wouldn’t be upset at all.” Simon said nothing at first, his expression sad and a little distant. Then, he knelt beside Remy, the little boy still breathing raggedly. “Remy, listen,” the farrier said softly. “My papa died when I wasn’t much older than you are. I know just how you feel. Sad, and lonely, and… like you have to be strong, because you’re older and your little brothers and sisters need you. Your Mama needs you.” His blue eyes filming over, Simon added, “I don’t want to try and replace your papa. I know that nothing and nobody can ever replace somebody you loved. But I do want to help you. So you can be a kid, and you don’t have to try and be the man of the house all the time. So I can teach you things your mama can’t. If you want me to.” Remy gave a loud raspy sniffle, then abruptly threw his arms around Simon’s neck, startling the man. As Dominique watched on with unexpected tears suddenly pricking in her eyes, Simon slowly put his arms around the little boy in return, hugging him close. “Shhh, it’s okay Rem,” he hushed. “It’s okay, buddy. I’m here.” “Mama,” Vern whimpered, his brow creasing. “Why’s Remy cwying?” “I think it’s because he’s happy, sweetie,” Dominique said softly. “Because Simon’s going to be a part of our family for the long haul now.” “That’s right, Vern,” Simon said, looking up from where Remy was huddled against his chest with a smile. “I’m staying with you all, and being your Papa from now on. And I promise to love you all very, very much.” *** The man who had for the past seven months been going by "Simon Farrier" was distraught. On the one hand, he knew that he had spoken nothing less than the absolute truth that night he'd given Dominique the strawberries. He loved her, with all of his heart and soul. She'd found him when his life had ceased to be worth living, and given him back the sense of a loving, stable family he'd not had since he was thirteen. He felt like he actually could protect her children, instead of watching helplessly while they were tortured and terrorized. For the first time in a long time, he was happy. And it was all founded on a lie. "Simon" knew that to share the truth with anyone was to effectively put his life in their hands. Even if he trusted Dominique implicitly, all it would take was one wrong word to listening ears, and he would become the rebels' most valuable hostage at best. If he was less fortunate... The king would be sure of things this time. And it wasn't just the faux farrier's head that would roll. Anyone and everyone who had helped him would also be in the firing line. But that was also reason why he should come clean. Just by being around him, Dominique and her children were in grave danger. She deserved to know that, to have a chance to back out before it was too late. The man called Simon came to this decision about two weeks after he and Dominique had agreed to marry. He waited until Remy and Alicia were out playing with neighbors and his fiancee had just put Vern and Gillian down for a nap before he approached her. "Neeka?" he said softly. "Could... could I have a word? Alone? It's important." Dominique, sweeping the curtain to the children’s bedroom shut as she stepped back out into the main room, nodded. “Sure. Of course.” But then the woman paused, her patchwork eyes going instantly narrow as she read the grim, anxious expression on Simon’s face. “What’s the matter?” she asked, freezing in place. “Are… are you okay?” He gave the woman a tremulous smile that in no way dissipated the anxiety in his eyes. “I’m… fine. I just need to talk to you. Somewhere that no one will overhear.” “Alright.” Brow furrowed, Dominique paced toward the kitchen table, taking a seat and gesturing for Simon to sit opposite her. “Ali and Remy are all the way at the Salomon place, and unless you’re worried about sleeping toddlers eavesdropping… hopefully this is private enough?” Still studying his face, she frowned. “You look green, Simon. Are you sick?” He swallowed hard. “Dominique, I… I love you. So, so much. But if… if we’re going to marry, there are some things you need to know about me first. Things I haven't been entirely honest about.” Gods, he was shaking already, and he had barely begun. Dominique went ashen. “Things you’ve not be… honest about?” She tilted her head, placing her elbows on the table so that she could lean forward and gape in befuddled scrutiny at her fiance. “I don’t understand. What… what haven’t you been honest about, Simon?” “W-well, that for starters.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “My name isn't Simon Farrier. That’s just a… pseudonym my younger brother and I concocted in our army days, when we wanted to visit the town without any noise or fuss. My…” He was shaking harder now, his face white as a funeral shroud. “My r-real name is Ezra. Prince Ezra Alaric. Third born son of the former king, Rafael. King Oliver is my older brother.” For a very long, strained moment, Dominique said absolutely nothing. Only gawped across the table at the man whom she’d known for nearly six months as Simon Farrier, a refugee displaced from Durach after his family’s farm was burned. The man with whom she’d shared so many smiles, and conversations, and hopes and dreams and fears. Simon. Her Simon. Her fiance, the person she was due to marry just as soon as they could scrape together enough money for the religious accoutrements they needed for a proper temple twining ceremony. … Abruptly, Dominique laughed. “Have you gone… mad?” she asked, her voice low. “Talking like that-- gods, Simon, that could get you killed.” “I am aware,” he replied, his voice slipping smooth as butter into the high tongue; at the sound of it-- a language so infrequently heard in a village like Maris, especially these days-- Dominique stiffened in her chair as though she’d been slapped, stock still as the man went on, “Why do you think I’ve spent so long going by a false identity? If anyone, the rebels or the crown, found out who I was, I would be killed. And so would my baby brother, who helped me get out here.” He swallowed hard, shifting back to the low tongue. “I’ll explain. I promise. But it’s…a long story.” “You sound like… like…” An enki, Dominique thought but couldn’t bring herself to say. She wouldn’t have been able to pull off such a perfect iteration of the high tongue if she’d spent weeks-- months-- practising. “I-I don’t understand,” the woman murmured, jaw trembling now. “If… if you were a prince, why would you run to a rebel-occupied village? Pretend to b-be a farrier? Move in with a peasant widow and her children, and… and agree to marry her?” Starkly, desperately, Dominique added, “No prince would do that. No way.” “I’m not a prince anymore,” he answered, his voice despondent. “Legally, Ezra Alaric is dead. Because… I told you once my oldest brother is a monster. That was nothing less than stark truth. He became king when I was thirteen. And since then he’s lorded over House Alaric with fist, belt buckle, and cane.” The man turned, pulling off his tunic to show Dominique his back, and the woman needed but once glimpse at the heavily scarred surface before she inhaled sharply, her already paled complexion going white as fresh snow. She studied the old, latticed knots for a moment or two, something between disbelief and anguish flickering in her eyes, and then the blonde woman looked abruptly away. Tears pressing. Throat quaking. “Tell me things,” she whispered. Nearly whimpered. “Th-things that only a prince would know. Things that… that Simon Farrier wouldn’t. C-couldn’t.” Ezra frowned as he pulled his shirt back on, apparently thinking. “My father was Rafael, firstborn of twelve children of King Malik. He had seven kids- Oliver, Cleo, Tyson, me, Lila, and twins Elias and Anna. Oliver married Lady Zaria Duval, Cleo married Lord Remus Argall, Tyson married a Kythian princess named Karma Ascension, Lila married a Langean prince whose name I’ve never been able to pronounce correctly- Ivengy?- anyway, my littlest sister Anna married Lord Anson Pike. Elias and I are unmarried.” Dominique, feeling suddenly very dizzy, pressed a hand against her forehead, fingertips digging into her temple. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she murmured. “ Gods. I… I…” Her gaze lurched back to Simon. Or was it Ezra Alaric? “Wh-why would y-your brother want you dead? Even if he’s a monster… th-that’s… that’s… despicable. That’s-- beyond y-your average monster. So far beyond.” “That’s a large part of why I was as… broken as I was when you met me,” Ezra replied tiredly. “Oliver never liked me. He’s an obsessive control freak, and I was… defiant. I protected the littler ones, as best I could. Got to the point where he would beat my younger siblings and nieces and nephews when I misbehaved, to get me to fall in line. But it came back to bite him. His son Gerard defected to the rebel army with his niece. He gave his daughter Safira to the Lord of Ruom, and his son Matteus was kidnapped during a siege of the royal palace. Eventually he only had two kids left; his heir Cassian, and his daughter Sabine. When the Lord of Roth started threatening secession, Oliver announced he would placate the man by marrying Sabine to Roth’s heir. I… was livid. I shouted at him. He tried to hit me, and for the first time I didn't let him.” Ezra choked, burying his face in his hands. “He... h-he ordered Elias, our baby brother, m-my only friend in the world, to assassinate me.” “Oh, my gods.” Dominique looked as though she might faint. She wasn’t entirely sure which option was more terrifying: that Simon was a lying loon, all this time madness lurking just beneath his lovely surface… or that he was telling the truth. Such a horrific truth. “So-- w-what, then? You ran here instead?” A thought occurred to her, and her stomach pinched. “But… if you were raised a prince-- I’ve seen you with h-horses, Simon. You are a farrier. And a good one, too. Not t-to mention, you speak the low tongue-- a prince wouldn’t speak the low tongue.” Ezra choked back the sobs that were trying to overwhelm him as he dredged up all of his deepest hurts and darkest secrets. Without lifting his head from his hands he warbled, "I l-learned the low tongue when I first started pretending to be Simon Farrier- in the army. My brother and I would go out into the city in disguise, so we could have fun without drawing attention, and one of our fellow soldiers coached us in it. As for being a farrier… Wh-when I was sixteen, Oliver thought it very hilarious to mock my nurturing nature by putting me in charge of the kennels, stables and mews at the palace. Technically my job was just paperwork level things, but I liked learning the intricacies of caring for the animals in general. I held that position for four years- I'm just as good with gryphons, hawks, and hounds as I am with horses." Finally looking up at Dominique, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, he added, "Th-that's how I got away. When he decided to kill me. Elias pretended to lure me out on gryphonback, and sabotage the saddle so that I fell to my death. But I worked with gryphons for four years as Master of the Horse in the Gilded Palace, and six more in the army. It's probably not an exaggeration to say I'm the best gryphon rider in House Alaric. I kept my balance despite the faulty saddle until we were over a lake. To all appearances I fell and drowned, but I was able to swim to shore and... make a run for it." “Oliver,” Dominique murmured, wondering over the name like a cat over a beam of light. “Gods. The k-king. It feels so strange, someone just… just calling the king Oliver, as though he’s a p-person, familiar, and not just… just…” Just the person who’d taken half of the men of Maris for his draft. Just the person who, by all appearances, was bungling this war effort so badly that his army no longer seemed to stand any chance against the powerhouse rebellion. “You meant it Simon, didn’t you?” she whispered finally. “When you… when you s-said you couldn’t go back to Durach. Not ever.” “I did,” he agreed, his eyes downcast. “Even once the war is over, I’m still supposed to be dead. My dear, darling older brother would find some trumped up reason to accuse me of treason. Probably charge me with deserting in the face of the enemy or some such. And not just me either- he’d k-kill Elias too. For lying, defying him, saving my life. Whatever I grew up as, I’ll live the rest of my life as Simon Farrier; Ezra Alaric is dead to Courdon forever.” “I’m so sorry.” For a moment, this was all Dominique could think to say. Then, very, very delicately, she asked, “And… y-you want to marry me? You… you’ve lived most of your life as a prince, and you-- want to marry me?” Her throat felt dry. “My f-father was a swineherd, my children’s father a blacksmith-- and not even a particularly good one. I’m nobody, Simon. I doubt any of the m-merchants in Maris would think me a suitable bride. Even before I was a widow with four children. Let alone… let alone a prince.” “Dominique…” Ezra sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Yes, I grew up a prince. I was raised in luxury and privilege beyond most people’s wildest dreams. And I was miserable. I spent almost my entire life on tenterhooks, never knowing from one minute to the next if I was going to say or do something that would get me or someone I loved savaged. I made myself into the rock of support for my siblings, my nieces and nephews. I let them lean on me when they were scared and in pain, and asked nothing in return- and got nothing in return. Out of all of them, every last one, the only member of my family that cared about me, as a person, that ever tried to see to my welfare instead of just letting me be a living emotional crutch, was Elias. I didn’t even realize how much I was killing myself that way until I came here. Until I met you, and the kids, and… and actually got some of that support back. Felt like my existence m-matters, like my absence would mean something, instead of just being a convenient emotional bandage to use and throw away.” He was crying again. The prince-turned-farrier’s entire body was shaking, and it was clear he’d been holding these thoughts in for a long, long time. He swallowed hard, murmuring, “I love you. I don’t care what you are, or what I am. You make me feel important, Neeka. Wanted. Like I can make someone else’s life better just by being there, and being myself. And all this time, all these years… that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” For nearly a minute, Dominique didn’t speak. Just studied her fiance across the table, a slick of nausea roiling her gut, her entire body feeling cold as ice. Her head pounded. Spun. Whirled at lightning speed. A very big part of her wanted to scream. Sob. Stand up, turn on her heel, and storm out the door, collapsing outside in the cool autumn breeze as she tried desperately to make sense of this new version of reality Simon had just presented to her-- one that was so spectacular and horrendous all at once. Instead, however, when the woman finally wobbled to her feet, it was not to the door that she fled. Rather, she padded around the table to Simon’s side, her entire body shaking as she crouched down and draped her arms around his broad shoulders. “B-beyond my children, Simon,” she whispered, leaning her cheek against his chest, “you are the best thing in my life not just r-right now, but in… in a long, long time. If y-you don’t care who I am, then… then I don’t care who you are. Who you were. I don’t just… want to marry you. I need to. Because I can’t imagine my life without you in it. Not anymore.” Ezra, felt like a boulder had been removed from his chest. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and returned Dominique’s embrace, leaning his chin against the side of her head. “I’ve never been really, truly, unreservedly happy until I came here. When I was in the army I at least felt… content, secure in the knowledge that my brother couldn’t reach me there. But happy? I didn’t know true happiness until I found you. It would kill me to lose you now. But I… I felt like I owed you the truth. My trust, without reservations.” He sighed softly. “Thank you. For listening. For taking me as I am, the broken, exiled prince.” “You’re not broken,” she told him, gently but very firmly. “The king is the broken one. Not you.” Dominique swallowed hard. “I think that... that if I try to scrabble t-together some extra odd jobs in town, we could get the money together for the twining ceremony within the next week, maybe. We just need enough for the wedding bands, and-- and the offering, but I could talk to all the neighbours with livestock, see if they won’t sell me something cheaper if I… I offer to pay them back over time. Or…” She dared a tremulous laugh. “You could try to trap something. A rabbit or bird. You’re pr-probably pretty good at hunting, aren’t you? And I doubt the r-rebels care like the nobility did about peasants poaching.” “I might could manage,” Ezra mused. “I’ve set snares before. Or, if we wet some crumbs of bread with ale or beer, and threw it outside, we could catch a pigeon that way.” He winked, humor creeping back into his demeanor. “Have you ever seen a drunk bird trying to fly? It is very entertaining.” She smiled unsteadily. “No. I-I haven’t. I’m sure Carricon would be impressed with our creativity.” Ezra chuckled, gently stroking her head. “Just… promise me one thing?” “What, love?” He hesitated, biting his lip, then said softly, “No matter how angry we are with the kids, no matter how badly they misbehave, we never belt them with the buckle end. Ever.” Dominique tilted her chin up, so that her eyes met his. “Of… of course not,” she agreed, and her tone was rife with hurt for her fiance as she finished, “I would never want to hurt them like that. Not ever. And I’m… I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Simon. That y-you had to watch children you love go through it. But…” She touched his cheek, fingers trailing along his scruffy beard. “You’re away from it now. From him. You’ll never have to watch somebody you care about hurt like that again.” He gave her a watery smile, putting a hand over hers. “I have scars, you know. On my chin. He punched me there once, and his rings cut my face. It’s why I grew out my facial hair, to hide the extremely distinctive scars.” He hesitated a beat, then gave her a featherlight kiss on the forehead. “Thank you. For everything. I look forward to seeing the… our children grow up happy, healthy, and safe.”
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Post by Shinko on Jan 18, 2016 18:17:22 GMT -5
In the King's Shadow - Cont. Part 3"Vindication" - Begins Autumn 1346Chapter Ten “Papa, Papa!” came the trill of a young girl’s voice, as the patter of excited footsteps crackled against the blanket of pine needles that covered the brittle November grass. Crouched over a damp woodpile with a blunt axe swinging in his hand, the brown-haired man called Simon Farrier whipped his gaze over his shoulder just in time to see a willowy blonde girl tumble out of the woods that fringed his family’s cottage, the child breathless as she skidded to a halt at his side and chirped, “You won’t believe what I found!” “What is it, Ali?” he asked, lodging the ax into the stump he used to chop firewood on before turning fully to face his daughter. “A nest of baby hedgehogs again?” “Or maybe it’s hidden bandit treasure,” piped a little boy of seven from his place on the ground nearby, where he’d been quietly nursing a cup of juice while he watched Simon chopping wood. “Like in stories!” “Nuh-uh, Vern,” Alicia retorted, grinning bashfully at her little brother. “It’s even better than hedgehogs.” She looked back toward her stepfather. “It’s a gryphon, Papa,” she breathed. “A real live gryphon! All tied up to a tree!” If Alicia had been expecting Simon to share in her delight, however, the eleven-year-old was badly mistake. Instead, in an instant, the man had gone deathly pale and snaked his hand around her wrist. “Are you sure, honey?” he demanded, his blue eyes wide and anxious. “Are you absolutely positive? Did the gryphon have any colored things on it?” Alicia’s face fell. “I’m not lying,” she insisted. “I saw a gryphon, I did!” She pouted her lips, her jade green eyes flickering with what might have been wounded pride. “He had on a saddle. But I didn’t get close enough to see him real well. ‘Cos I didn’t want him to bite me.” The girl hesitated a beat, then added, “I can show you him, Papa. Where he is! ‘Cos I’m telling the truth, I swear--” “I believe you honey,” he said softly, his face going from white to nearly green. “But we really shouldn’t go near the gryphon. Come on, let’s… let’s get inside, I need to talk to your mother.” “But it’s nice out,” Vern objected, his lip protruding in a pout. “And I wanna see the gryphon too, Papa-” “Vern Farrier, are you sassing me?” Simon demanded, and the little boy glanced away. “No, Papa.” “You don’t wanna see him, Papa?” Alicia needled again, trying-- and failing-- to tug her wrist out of Simon’s suddenly viselike grasp. “I know right where he is.” “Ali, please,” he said, turning towards the cottage with a gesture that brought Vern to his feet and trudging after them. “It’s really not safe to go near gryphons. They can be… testy. Trust me honey.” Once father and his two sullen children were safely in the house, Simon called, “Neeka? Are you in here?” “Hi Papa!” came a voice that cracked from lowish to much higher in pitch, as a teenaged boy poked his head out of the bedroom. “Mama’s in here with the bottomless pit.” “And I’ll sweep like I’m s’posed to later, I promise!” put in the small, chestnut-haired girl who was sitting at the kitchen table, gnawing on a slice of bread that was slathered high with jam. “And,” she added quickly, “Mama said I could have a snack, I din’ just take it, not like yesterday, I promise!” Simon’s eyes flicked towards the five year old, but he didn’t teasingly question her right to the bread as he normally might have. Instead, he looked back towards the teenager and said, “Rem, can you come out here and keep an eye on your siblings, please? I need to talk to your mother alone.” “Oh, uh… Okay, Papa,” he said, looking somewhat perplexed. “Gillian really did ask for the bread.” “I believe her, it’s not about the bread,” Simon replied, smiling thinly as he released Alicia’s arm. “You kids be good, alright? I’ll be back out in a few minutes.” “‘Kay.” Alicia sighed gustily, crossing her arms at her chest and flopping down on the rug in front of the burning hearth as Simon paced toward the bedroom and slipped inside. Dominique was sitting cross-legged on the large, hay-stuffed cushion that served as her and Simon’s bed, a wool blanket spread across her lap-- and a chubby-cheeked, yellow-haired infant, perhaps a year and a half old, clutched to her chest. “Simon.” She smiled as her husband snapped shut the curtain that served to divide the bedroom from the cottage’s main living space. “You done chopping wood already?” He sat down beside his wife, drawing a hand across the one-year-old’s downy hair so that a pair of bright blue eyes, identical in shade to his own, flicked towards him briefly. His eyes trailed from the child to his wife’s middle, which even beneath the blanket was swollen noticeably with another child on the way. Simon swallowed hard, looking his wife in the eye. “Alicia told me something that rather distracted me, love,” he replied in a very hushed voice. “In the woods. She says she saw a gryphon. Saddled and tethered.” “ What?” Dominique’s pale, gray-green eyes went wide in mixed fear and shock. “A… a gryphon? But… no one has gryphons, not except nobles and…” The woman swallowed hard, her grip on the baby tightening. “Oh, my gods. You don’t think…?” “I don’t know,” he admitted. “As far as I’m aware I’ve done nothing to draw attention to myself. But… but we’ll have to be on guard, just in case. Especially around anyone we don’t recognize. I don’t know what that gryphon is doing way out here, but-” The man’s low murmur was abruptly cut off by the sound of someone knocking-- loudly-- against the cottage’s front door, the thump echoing through all the reaches of the tiny house. For a moment, both Dominique and Simon froze, hearts skipping several beats and eyes dancing toward the curtained doorway that led back out to the main room. Then, just as Simon took a hesitant half-step forward, another noise floated through the air: Alicia’s singsong voice. “I’ll get it!” the little girl chirped, in another moment her footsteps audible to Dominique and Simon as she started toward the front door. Simon’s stomach pitched, and he shot out the curtain snapping, “Alicia, no!” Before the girl could respond he added, “All four of you, in the bedroom with your mother. Now.” Remy looked up at his step-father in bewilderment, frowning. “What’s… what’s wrong, Papa-” “I’ll explain later, but do it now,” Simon hissed. “But I wanna finish my bread,” young Gillian whined, not rising from her seat at the kitchen table. “I’m not ‘lowed to eat in the bedroom, and--” Another knock sounded at the door, and Simon visibly flinched. Turning smoldering eyes towards Gillian, he snapped, “Gilly, do as you’re told. Now. Do not make me say it again, young lady, or you will badly regret it.” Remy gnawed his lip, looking confused and concerned. “C-c’mon Gilly, you can finish later,” he said, reaching for his baby sister’s wrist. The child sighed but did not resist, dolefully placing her half-eaten slice of bread back down on the table and letting her brother lead her into the bedroom; Alicia and Vern, reading Simon’s patent panic and clearly knowing better than to argue any further, trailed reluctantly behind, sweeping the curtain shut behind them. Once the children were gone, Simon swallowed hard, turning towards the door. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest, his palms and the back of his neck sweating. He couldn’t shake the absolute terror that this was the end- his idyllic happy hideaway of the last three years about to be shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. But he couldn’t keep ignoring whoever was knocking- they’d certainly have heard voices inside, and if he didn’t answer and it was who he thought it was, they’d just beat the door down. And then there would be hell to pay. So, despite the voice in his head that was screaming for him to barricade the door and find some sort of makeshift weapon, he paced towards it and, after taking a deep breath, turned the knob to pull it open. “Hello?” he said, blinking against the early afternoon sunlight. It was only a few moments before the figure of a man came into focus, wearing a heavy wool travel cloak to ward off the late autumn chill. A set of green eyes, pale as mint, peeked out from beneath a drawn hood, latching onto Simon at once and raking the farrier up and down. In an instant, they flickered with recognition. A soft, wavering smile ticked between the traveler’s lips. “Ezra,” greeted a very, very familiar voice. “Oh gods, it is you, isn’t it?” Simon- the man who had, in what felt like an entirely separate lifetime, been known as Ezra Alaric, prince of Courdon and younger brother of the king- gaped at the man outside. “E… Elias? E-Eli, you’re…” Elias Alaric’s smile segued into an outright grin, the blond prince quashing any further attempts Ezra might have attempted to make to articulate his thoughts when he abruptly enfolded his elder brother in a crushing hug. “My gods, it’s been too long,” Elias breathed, his hood falling away and tears pricking in his eyes. “I swear, Ez, drafting a list of fifteen potential towns and villages you’d settle to aim in if you survived the fall seemed a lot simpler back before I had to actually comb through them.” He gulped. “This… th-this is village number twelve. I nearly fainted when I asked around the market if anyone knew a Simon Farrier and actually got an affirmative response.” Ezra, squeezing his eyes shut against the sting in them, hugged his little brother back with equal strength. “I’m j-just glad you found me,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead against Elias’ dark blonde hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to give you the runaround. Not exactly like a farrier can send letters to a prince and expect them to get through, eh?” Elias let through a tremulous laugh of his own. “No. And it’s not like a prince could go spelunking through firmly rebel-held territory until after the treaty’s signing.” He held Ezra at an arm’s length, studying his elder brother’s face-- at once so familiar yet now so foreign to him. “Oliver’s had me dealing with the mess in Talvace since the armistice.” The war had finally come to an end about four months ago. “And I’ve been slipping off whenever I can. Searching the list we agreed on. I… I’d just about given up. Thinking that it-- it--” He gulped. “Well, that it happened just the way I told him. Y-you falling. Drowning. Gone.” “I’m sorry,” Ezra whispered again. “But… it didn’t. I’m here, Elias. I’m alright. More than alright.” The older Alaric’s smile suddenly turned smug, an impish light in his blue eyes as he brushed a hand through his hair- deliberately showing off a small ring of twisted oak, cedar and pine. “There are some people I’d like to introduce you too, if you have the time.” “The hushed voices I heard chattering inside?” Elias teased, eyes not leaving Ezra’s face. Gods, how natural this felt-- bantering with his brother. Smiling at him. Being with him. “You been imposing on a nice, unsuspecting Northlandian peasant family, Ezzy? I hope you’ve been a gracious houseguest. Putting those courtly manners to use.” “Mm-hmm,” Ezra agreed. “So impressed were they by my courtly manners that the owner of the house went and seduced me. She’s quite a firecracker- I think you’ll like her.” “Seduced you?” Elias laughed, as if he thought Ezra was joking-- before he finally seemed to notice the wedding band on his brother’s finger. His expression sobered immediately. “Oh, gods. You’re… you’re serious.” He froze for a very long moment-- then grinned as brightly as a sunbeam. “And here I’ve been worried you’re dead or miserable, Ezzy. And meanwhile you’ve taken a wife?” He looked behind Ezra, glancing into the cottage. “Well, what are we waiting for? Introduce us, brother.” Ezra chortled, turning towards the cottage. “Dominique! Kids! You can come out- there’s somebody here I’d like you all to meet.” Remy was the first to emerge, his head poking out from the curtain quizzically-- before Alicia, far less hesitant, shouldered around her brother, lips pursed as she stepped into the main room and turned her gaze on her stepfather and the stranger. “Who are you?” the eleven-year-old asked, her brow furrowed. “Be polite, Alicia,” Dominique chided as she followed out after her daughter, baby still cradled in her arms and Gillian trailing like a wraith at her mother’s skirts. The woman added with a wan smile and knowing look toward Ezra, “Everything alright, love?” “It’s fantastic,” Ezra replied cheerfully. Gesturing to Elias, he said, “This is my little brother- the one I told you about,” he added with a meaningful, pointed look. To the kids he added, “I haven’t seen him since I had to run during the war. This is your uncle kids- Robbie Farrier.” To Elias he added, “This is my wife, Dominique, and the kids are,” he indicated them as he listed, “Remy, Alicia, Vern, Gillian, and…” A soft smile ticked at Ezra’s lips as he pointed to the one year old blinking curiously from his mother’s arms. “That little one there is Eli.” Grinning lopsidedly upon hearing the name Robbie Farrier-- a moniker he’d not used in decades, not since his and Ezra’s days as teenagers in the army-- Elias’s throat immediately caught thereafter as Ezra introduced the children. Eli. His nickname. Something that only those very, very dear to him had ever used. It was far too personal to be a coincidence. “It’s… n-nice to meet you,” he forced out. As he surveyed the children and seemed to tabulate their ages in his head, he added gently, “Eli’s, ah-- your… your natural son, then, brother?” “Yes,” Ezra confirmed. “The rest of the kids lost their father in the war, but I like to think I do a decent job with them, hm?” “Papa taughted me how to brush horses!” Vern put in, rocking on the balls of his feet. “An’, an’ guess what? It’s not just Eli, Mama’s got another baby in her! The midwife said so!” “Simmer down, Vern,” Dominique said with a soft chuckle. Then, to Elias: “It’s… nice to meet you, Robbie. I’ve heard a lot about you.” “Oh?” Elias lifted his brow, and though it was clear there was a questioning lingering on his tongue, he swallowed away, merely replying, “It’s very nice to meet you all as well. Though…” His gaze fell back on Ezra. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay for very long. And… there are some things I’d like to discuss with you before I go, Simon. Private things. If you’ve got the time?” “Of course,” Ezra agreed. “We can talk out in the barn. Kids, you stay here- Remy’s in charge, got it?” To Dominique, with a meaningful glance at Elias he added, “You can come, if you like, Neeka.” “S-sure,” Dominique murmured, handing Eli off to his eldest brother. “If it’s… alright with Robbie.” Elias only shrugged. “If it’s okay with Simon, then it’s okay with me.” He turned back toward the still-open door. “Shall we, then?” Out in the barn, none of the three spoke for several moments-- not until Dominique, a knot in her throat, solidly shut the door behind them and twisted secure the lock. Even still, silence crackled in the air for a while longer, as if no one quite knew what to say first, anxious glances passing amid the trio much as honeybees might flit among flowers. It was Elias who finally spoke, the prince’s voice very soft as he asked his brother: “She knows?” “She had a right to,” Ezra said simply. “My identity could’ve gotten her family in a lot of trouble. I couldn’t ask her to marry me without her being aware of what she was getting into, Elias.” “I’m not mad,” Elias backtracked. “I just… wanted to be sure. Before I said anything else.” He gulped, then spared a gentle smile toward Dominique as he transitioned into his more comfortable langue-- the high tongue. “It is very nice to meet you,” the prince said. “And… and your children. Ezra’s children. My brother… he’s always loved children, and I-- I can’t describe how happy it makes me, to see him with a family all his own.” Dominique nodded quickly, though she was unable to stifle a twitch of unease at Elias’s flawless use of the lord’s tongue. A prince. She was talking with a prince. While of course she’d known for years now that Ezra was a member of the royal family, he’d never quite felt like one. Not really. Not like this. And it was strange, too, having a relative of his before her. For so long, Ezra’s past had been an untouchable, nebulous part of him, confined to the locked box of his memories that was buried so deep beneath the surface that she thought it would never reasonably rise up again. She’d known the people he spoke of were real, certainly-- the king, Elias, his nieces and nephews, his siblings-- but even so, she realised now that there was a difference between knowing and seeing. Between mere stories and real, breathing people. “You were a g-general, weren’t you?” she made herself murmur, unable to bring herself to meet the prince’s eyes. “In the king’s army?” Elias nodded. “I was. Which is why I couldn’t come searching sooner. Not until after the peace treaty. And even then, I had to do it on the sly. If Oliver found out…” He shook his head. “Things have already been quite… strained. In the court.” A beat, before the blond man turned his gaze back to Ezra. “He got them back, you know. Mattie. And… and Julia. And up until recently, he had Safira’s daughter, too. Cydney. She’s five.” “Saf’s still alive?” Ezra gasped. “Gods, I’ve been relying on rumors and hearsay for news and last I heard the rebels had sacked Cesthen and wiped out the Erlings. I… I thought for sure Safira was dead, I was distraught when I heard. Matt and Julia are okay too, then? What about Anna and Cleo, I heard rumors that scared me to death about the rebels savaging Noa and Arianne, but nothing at all from Kajas. And what about Gerard, I can't imagine Oliver took him back, and-” The former prince cut himself off, wincing. “Sorry, I’ve just… been a virtual wasteland of concrete news. Poor Neeka’s had to endure me talking her ear off about all the people I’ve been terrified for.” “It’s alright,” Elias said. “I’d probably be going mad if I were you. Not knowing about so many people.” He sighed. “Safira is okay-- she and Cydney escaped the siege that killed Sutter, and minor lords gave them shelter under false names. Mattie and Julia are fine, too. Or… fine as they can be, back in Oliver’s custody. And Gerard is perfectly okay; the rebels refused to hand him over.” He cringed, adding, “Though Matteus is, ah-- missing an ear. And… Noa and Arianne were… e-every bit as bad as the rumours sounded. They’re alive, they’re healing, but… not without serious damage. And Cleo… Cleo lost some of her sons. Her husband, too, but… I can’t say I’m mourning him.” “Oh?” Ezra frowned. “That sounds ominous. What happened? After Anson abandoned our nieces, I’m not sure if I should be impressed or disgusted that Remus managed to do something you’re making dramatic pauses about.” “Remus… lost it. When the rebels closed in.” Elias shrugged, as if he’d long steeled himself to all the unpleasant realities the war had wrought over his family. “He’s only lucky he didn’t get Cleo and their littler kids all killed, too.” “But… they are okay?” Dominique asked. “Your sisters? Simon-- s-sorry, Ezra… he’s been mad with worry.” “Anna and Cleo are both alright,” Elias agreed. “They’ve been through a lot, but they’re alive at least. Recovering.” He smiled very, very sadly. “When Oliver summoned Anna to palace after all the ugliness with Noa and Arianne… I-- I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen her happy to see him, Ezzy. She cried. And let him hug her. W-without even flinching away.” “So much for them to go through…” Ezra looked down, wrapping his arms around his chest. After a moment’s pause, he murmured, “They think I’m dead, don't they? Gods, Cleo was always so much older I didn't have much to do with her, but Anna…” He swallowed thickly. “She must’ve been crushed.” “I’m so sorry, Ezra,” Elias said gently. “I wanted to tell them when I saw them, I did, but… even I didn’t know whether you were alive or not. And I couldn’t put them through that. The prospect of… of thinking you might be alive, then possibly losing you all over again if it turned out you weren’t.” “Could you tell them now?” Dominique prompted. “I’m sure they’d still love to know, wouldn’t they?” She looked toward Ezra, encouragingly. “They’d probably be so happy to hear, love.” “If it’s at all possible?” Ezra asked, desperation plain in his voice. “After everything they’ve been through they deserve at least some good news.” “Of course,” Elias said. “I’ll tell them just as soon as I have an opportunity. I promise. And… Mattie and Julia, too. If you’d like? They’re, ah--” Here, the prince had to chuckle softly. “Let’s just say they’re not in Oliver’s pocket. Julia hates him. Hates him. And Matteus…” He shook his head. “He avoids nearly everyone. Except for Julia and Zaria, and sometimes myself. I’m not sure if the rebels merely brainwashed him, but… he claims he was never abducted, Ez. He says he wanted to go. And he was less than pleased to be included in the treaty. To be returned to Oliver’s custody.” If Elias had been expecting his brother to brighten at the prospect of Matteus and Julia learning he was alive, he would've been surprised at the light of pain that kindled in his older brother’s eyes. “Would… would they even care, really? I’ve been wondering since I came out here, just how much did they like me really? Before he left, I spoke to Gerard, and he berated me. Told me off about how I didn't understand how much pain Oliver caused him, and begged me not to tell Oliver I was suspicious of Gerard’s recent caginess. Like… like I actually ever would have done such a thing.” He blinked hard. “I loved those kids more than life itself. But one by one, they all just walked away. Did it matter to them at all?” “I don’t know about Julia,” Elias admitted. “She… doesn’t talk to me. Not really. She never has. But Mattie…” He met his older brother’s gaze straight on. “That kid loves you, Ezra. He’s always loved you. One of the first things he asked me when the rebels passed him to our custody-- my custody, at first, since of course Oliver sent his perpetual errand boy to fetch both him and Julia-- was if it was true that you were dead? I had to tell him yes. And he burst into tears. He told me he wished it was his father who’d died instead of you. That he didn’t want to think about what his life would be like at the palace without you there… and that he would never forgive himself for not being able to say goodbye to you.” Ezra gaped wordlessly for several moments. Then, he closed his eyes, shoulders shaking visibly. "Mattie... Oh, gods, Matteus..." He impulsively scooted closer to Dominique, pressing his arm against hers as if to take comfort from her nearness, and at once she leaned against his shoulder, twining her arm around the crook of his elbow. Ezra took a deep breath, pressing his chin against the side of her head for a moment before he finally looked up at his brother again. "Next time you're at the palace, tell him I'm alive," Ezra said softly. "And... that I'm sorry. That I can't be there for him anymore. Julia too, if she'll talk to you. Tell them I love them both, and I miss them. Tell... tell Julia in Kythian. She'll know it's really from me that way. And tell Mattie that he tried to visit me three times, the day after Gerard and Julia left, before the knight I posted at the door for privacy let me know he was there." “I’ll tell them,” Elias promised. He sighed. “Gods, I’d love more than anything to stay for days and just… spend time with you, Ezzy. And your family,” he added, sparing a glance to Dominique. “But I’m already flirting with danger, slipping away as I have been. And hate it as I might… I should probably head back to Talvace.” “Eli…” Ezra’s voice cracked. “Will… will I ever see you again? A-after things quiet down some perhaps?” “Of course,” Elias said quickly. “I’ll come and see you whenever I can break away from things, Ezzy.” A lump in his throat, his eyes flicked toward Dominique’s swollen belly. “I have to meet my next little niece or nephew, after all, don’t I?” “The midwife says late February or early March,” Dominique said, hand falling instinctively over the bump. “We’re hoping for a girl this time. Have to keep the numbers even, after all.” She chuckled. “Alicia would never let us hear the end of it if we gave her another gross brother,” Ezra agreed with a smirk in his wife’s direction. Sobering, he gently prised his arm out of Dominique’s grip and walked towards his brother, throwing both arms around Elias’ shoulders and hugging him as tight as he could. “I love you, baby brother,” he whispered softly, using the high tongue for the first time in the conversation. “Thank you. For not letting me give up when I thought I’d lost everything. For saving me when I lost the will to save myself.” “I love you, too,” Elias replied, returning the embrace. “Always.” *** The baby-- a girl, indeed-- was born in the first week of March: a squalling, pleasantly plump infant with ash blonde hair and steely gray eyes, whom Ezra and Dominique named Janet, after the latter’s late mother. The Farrier family doted over its new addition, even if her presence made the already-tight cottage positively cramped, the house that had once seemed merely cozy at times now feeling as if its walls were closing in. It didn’t help that Janet suffered frequent bouts of colic, the baby screeching at all hours of the day and night no matter how much her parents tried to soothe her. Soon Dominique couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gotten more than a few hours of shut eye in one burst, her eyes constantly underlined by heavy black bags and her head seldom not throbbing. “She just won’t stop,” the woman murmured to Ezra one day in early July, as her husband slipped into the cottage after a morning spent reshoeing the horses that belonged to a local landowning family. Pacing back and forth across the main room as she bounced the miserably squawking Janet in her arms, Dominique added, “I sent Remy and Alicia to get water hours ago, and I don’t know where they went-- probably got sidetracked, gods, I’m going to smack them both-- and I dragged blankets out into the backyard for Eli to nap on because it’s not like he’s getting any sleep, either, and he’s a cranky mess, and--” Ezra, who hadn’t even gotten the chance to remove his boots yet, sidled up to his wife and gently plucked Janet from her arms. “My turn, I think. You are going to tear your hair if you don’t get a breather.” As he carefully balanced the infant on one arm and used the other to drop a coin pouch from his belt onto the kitchen table nearby. “Six coppers for this morning’s work on all those horses. Take whatever you want, and buy yourself something nice.” “Mama, maybe you could get a diff’rent baby!” Gillian, who was sitting on the rug carefully folding dry laundry, suggested brightly. “Who doesn’t cry so much.” “Gilly, be nice,” Ezra retorted sternly. “The baby only cries because she doesn’t know how to explain what’s wrong with words. She could be having tummy troubles, you know.” “When’s she gonna learn to talk?” Vern griped from his place at the kitchen counter chopping vegetables for their later lunch with an ancient, dull knife. Ezra’s frown deepened. “When she’s older. And you two can stop making things more annoying by complaining constantly.” “Be good for Papa,” Dominique added, sparing her husband a wobbly, grateful smile before she picked up the coin purse and tucked it into her bodice. “Thank you, love. I’ll be back in a bit-- maybe I’ll stop by the apothecary while I’m out. See if there isn’t anything he can suggest. I’m willing to try absolutely anything at this point. If it might help.” As she paced toward the door, she added wryly, “And if Remy and Alicia come back while I’m gone, pass on my aggravations, yes? And don’t take any excuses from them. By gods, it doesn’t take two hours to fetch a pail of water.” “Trust me, they are going to sorely regret their life choices,” Ezra promised dryly as he kissed Janet’s forehead, the babe still squalling. “And I’m going to see if I can’t get her down for at least a brief nap- even half an hour’s peace would be a boon at this point.” Remy eventually wandered home twenty minutes later, with the requested water and a telltale dreamy expression that advertised plainly what had delayed the now fifteen year old boy. When Ezra demanded to know where Alicia had gone, and the eldest of the Farrier boys honestly didn’t know because he’d been so distracted flirting, he was promptly cuffed for his idiocy and confined to the cottage and grounds immediately around it for the following week… and when Alicia crept in not long after that, muttering beneath her breath that she’d thought it would be okay if she went to play with Tilly Salomon, for her trouble the girl was given a stern paddling and scathingly admonished lecture against wandering without so much as a word to anybody. At least Janet finally did loll off into sleep, the cottage mercifully quiet when Dominique returned from the market with a small phial of liquid from the apothecary in hand. If the woman was relieved over having procured a possible means of relief for her colicky baby, however, it was impossible to tell from the impassive look on her face, something nearly grim flickering in her gray-green eyes as she set the vial down upon the counter and then immediately turned toward Ezra. “Simon,” she murmured, watching as he wrangled a comb through Gillian’s hair-- which was curly as ever, but now far longer than it had been when she was a toddler, cascading in frizzy ringlets all the way down to her midback. “I need to talk to you. Alone.” Ezra looked up in surprise, and after a moment’s hesitation nodded. “Take over for me?” he said, passing the brush to the much subdued Alicia. “‘Kay,” the girl muttered sullenly, not looking at her stepfather. “Want me to put it in a bun, Gilly?” “Nuh-uh, a twist,” Gillian replied. “With the green ribbon. Not the white one. And-- and… could you tie the ribbon all pretty? In a special knot, like you did last week…” As Gillian continued to chatter at her older sister, Dominique sighed and started back toward the door, Ezra trailing behind her. Even once the couple was outside, however, the woman didn’t pause, the look on her face growing darker as she led her husband from the front yard into the barn where they’d spoken to Elias over six months ago. It was dark inside, shadowy, and Dominique’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard and pushed the door shut behind them, locking it. “I heard something at the market, Simon,” she said then, with no preamble. “Something… um… big.” Ezra frowned, leaning against the wall of the barn and crossing his arms. “What is it?” “It’s… it’s about your brother,” his wife replied. “The king. He… he, um…” “Oh, gods above, what has that loathsome wretch done now?” Ezra demanded, sounding somewhere between exasperated and resigned. “He hasn’t done anything,” Dominique said quickly. “He… um…” She steeled herself, meeting her husband’s gaze. “He’s dead, Simon. Someone… someone murdered him. And he’s dead.” For a moment, Ezra just stared at his wife, his expression blank, entirely unable to process what she’d just told him. Then, very slowly, he queried, “Oliver… Oliver is dead? Assassinated? He’s… he’s dead?” “Last month,” Dominique confirmed. “I… guess it just took a while for the news to trickle to someplace so… rural. And…” She reached out toward him, tentatively, offering her husband her hand. “I have no idea how true it is, but the rumour mill says your nephew was hurt, too. Cassian. He’s alive-- and… king now, actually-- but it was close. He nearly died, too.” “I… Gods, Neeka, I just…” He reached for her hand, his own shaking, and twined his fingers through hers. “For as long as I can remember, even before my father died, Oliver has been this… this monster that loomed in the shadows. The nigh-untouchable demon none of us could fight or escape. To think that he’s… he’s dead? Someone actually killed him?” The man gave a near-hysterical laugh. “He’s certainly not lacking for people willing to carry it off, but that someone actually managed to do it, to kill the demon-god squatting on the throne of Courdon…” “Apparently, they haven’t caught the person who did it,” Dominique said. “Not yet. Though… I can’t imagine his list of enemies is short. Not give the rebels now in the court, and… and the way he’s treated everyone during his reign.” “No, he has alienated just about everybody around him. Oliver has no friends, just sycophants,” Ezra snorted softly. “It probably sounds… callous to say, but I can’t really bring myself to feel any grief. Not after everything he’s done. And honestly, Cass isn’t much better. Oliver sequestered him from the rest of us and made sure to mold the boy into a near perfect image of himself.” “Monsters don’t deserve grief,” Dominique said firmly, squeezing her husband’s hand. “He tried to murder you, Simon. He tormented people you loved. I’d be more confused if you were upset. That man did nothing to earn your grief.” For a time, Ezra was quiet, seeming to be lost in thought. Then, very softly, he said, “You know… it’s ironic. That Oliver would go by assassination. I never told you, did I? My father, King Rafael. He was assassinated too- and it was my dear, beloved brother who did it, impatient to take the throne because he thought our father too soft to rule.” “It doesn’t surprise me.” Dominique sighed. “Not based on… on everything else you’ve told me about him.” Gently, she raised a hand, trailing her fingers along her husband’s scruffy cheek. “I love you, Simon. So much.” “I love you too, Neeka,” he said, tilting her chin up to kiss her forehead. “Thank you for telling me. It’s nice to know that Father and Lila and… everyone who’s been hurt because of him finally has some justice. Even if this is going to leave things very unsettled for a long while in court- a king killing is not a quiet affair, I can tell you that firsthand.” “I just hope it’s not too awful,” Dominique replied. “For… for everyone you still love at that court. Elias. Matteus. Cassian’s children.” “I hope so too,” Ezra agreed. “If nothing else, I know for a fact Elias can hold his own against Cassian. And Cass can’t hold it over Elias’ head that he ‘murdered me.’ I imagine my baby brother will be breathing a good deal easier from now on.” Chapter Eleven Ezra waved goodbye to one of the local farmers as the man led away his plowmule- its hooves freshly ground and filed- and pocketed the coins that the man had given as payment. A stiff breeze cut through his tunic as the man turned towards the cottage, and he shuddered. It was starting to get cooler in the Northlands, October having recently begun, and Ezra made a mental note to recruit Remy to chop some firewood with him later in the afternoon.
Once he got back to the house, he opened the door with a relieved sigh. “I’m back, Neeka, sorry that took longer than-”
Ezra’s voice died in his throat as his eyes fell on the scene ahead of him, and his brain tried to reconcile what he was seeing. Dominique was standing in front of the hearth, a teapot heating over it, as Alicia stood beside her mother cutting up a loaf of crusty bread. Neither of these things were at all unusual, the strangeness rather derived from the arrangement of people who sat nearby, all the seating surfaces in the cottage-- chairs, a stool, even an ottoman-- dragged up to the kitchen table to host a very tight party of seven: Remy, Vern, and Gillian on one side, as across from them, with a baby nestled in each of their laps, sat…
“Uncle.” Matteus Alaric, sitting next to his other uncle, Elias, beamed broadly as his eyes fell on Ezra. Bouncing seven-month-old Janet on his knee, he added teasingly, “Nice of you to join us.”
Ezra gaped openly in silence, his eyes flicking between his brother and nephew, sitting together with his family and smiling in his direction. His voice emerging as a high, hoarse whimper, he stammered, “M-Matt?” Tears pooled over in his eyes, and the man made no effort to stem them. “Is that… really you?”
“It is,” he agreed. True to Elias’s warning a year ago, the teenager was missing one of his ears-- a craggy stump all that remained in its place-- but otherwise he looked… healthy. Vibrant, even. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, Uncle.” With a playful grin toward the Farrier children, the prince added, “Wouldn’t want your papa to lose his fearsome reputation now, would we?”
“Ah, that would be a true shame,” Dominique agreed, tempering a smirk of her own.
“Uncle Robbie and Uncle Matt broughted us presents, Papa!” Gillian chirped. Standing from her seat atop a wobbly stool, the little girl skipped up to Ezra, hooking her arms around his waist. “Tea,” she clarified as she nestled her cheek against Ezra’s stomach. “Real good tea! They say it’s from-- from-- Miz-uh!”
“D-did they, now?” Ezra asked, quickly rubbing his face with one hand and squeezing the girl around her shoulders with the other. “That was very thoughtful of them. Were you sure to say thank you?”
“Thayoo!” Eli chirped from his place on Elias’ lap, beaming up at his namesake.
His uncle laughed, ruffling the little boy’s butter yellow hair. “What a good boy!” Elias crooned. “Manners already, hm?”
“Oh, you should see him when he wants more stew after he’s already had his share,” Dominique joked. “Then he gives toddlers everywhere a bad name.”
“He can scream real loud.” Gillian giggled, pulling out of the hug to reach up for her stepfather’s hand. “Didja shoe the mule today, Papa? The ugly one?”
“C’mon, that’s not very nice, Gilly,” Remy joked to his sister. “The mule isn’t ugly, he’s just the most poorly bred creature in all the province, with bones too big for his skin and one lazy eye.”
Ezra chuckled, taking Gillian’s hand in his and ruffling her hair. “I didn’t shoe the mule sweety, I just gave his hooves a filing. Like how you have to clip your nails so they don’t grow too long.” Glancing around, he pursed his lips in mock indignation. “Looks like all the available seating surfaces are in use, sooo-”
Abruptly, Ezra flopped down onto the floor, sitting with his legs crossed and dragging Gillian down with him. The six year old found herself being plunked down into the fold of his lap, one arm behind her back as he grinned down at her. “There we go, now I can get off my feet finally, and there’s even a seat for you, Gilly.”
Gillian giggled again, squirming wildly. “But I already had a seat, Papa!”
“But not one nearly so squishy,” Dominique teased. “And if you’re not careful, Gilly-love, he might tickle you, too.”
“What cruelty!” Elias smirked. “As your uncle, little one, I think it’s my job to make sure you don’t endure such a horrendous fate. And fortunately...” Shifting Eli in his lap, the prince reached into the pocket of his plain travel tunic, pulling out from within it an unadorned if hefty purse. “Word around town is that you kids like treats.”
Vern, who was sitting immediately to Elias’ right, perked up immediately, his eyes all but glowing. “We can go shopping? Really?”
Ezra looked at the coin purse, startled, but then he realized what was going on- after all, he could hardly catch up with his brother and nephew properly with all the kids around, dancing around the truth of their royal heritage. He still wasn’t entirely sure how Elias had managed to get Matteus along for this trip- certainly it would never have been possible while Oliver was king- but perhaps Cassian was simply less tightfisted and controlling than his father. Ezra smiled, shaking his head. “You’re going to spoil my kids rotten, brother.”
“You can each pick out something nice,” Elias said-- hardly a denial. Shaking a palmful of coins out into his hand, the prince held them out toward Remy. “Can I trust you to be the steward, young man? Hold onto these for yourself and your little siblings?”
Remy nodded eagerly. “Sure, no problem! I’ll make sure they don’t spend it all in one place on something silly.”
“Do the babies gotta come?” Vern asked dubiously as he eyed Eli and Janet. “‘Cause if they get fussy the merchants will throw us out.”
“They can stay all snug with their uncles,” Matteus said, kissing the top of Janet’s pale, wispy hair. “Don’t worry about them-- have fun, okay?”
“Okay!” Alicia beamed, depositing the sliced bread on the table before she smoothed her skirts and took an eager step toward the front door. “Thank you, Uncle Robbie. Uncle Matt.”
“You’re welcome,” Elias replied with a fond smile. “You’ll have to show me all your good finds once you get back, alright?”
“We will!” Vern promised, and with that Ezra’s four adopted children left the cottage. As soon as the door shut behind them, the prince-turned-farrier stood, making a beeline for his nephew and enfolding him into as tight a hug as he could manage around Janet.
“Gods, Mattie, I never thought I’d see you again,” he breathed into the young man’s undamaged ear. “You’ve gotten so big!”
Matteus chuckled, his cheeks flushing as he returned the hug, one-armed so as to not to lose his grip on Janet. “I think you’ve gotten bigger than I have,” the teenager returned. “Gained, oh…” His gaze flicked between Eli and Janet. “What, fifty pounds?”
“‘M two!” Eli objected. “Not fiddy!”
“Two and a half, even,” Dominique observed dryly, removing the whistling teapot from the hearth. “Don’t lose that half, buddy-- it’s very important.” Smiling at Ezra, she gestured to the seats the older children have vacated. “Shall we both sit, love? I imagine this might be a… long conversation.”
“Hopefully longer than the twenty minutes we got last time,” Ezra agreed, releasing Matteus and taking a seat on one of the now empty chairs; Dominique, setting the teapot down, quickly sat beside him. “I’m surprised Cassian let you lark off, Matt. What excuse did you have to feed him?”
Matteus only smiled thinly. “A breather away from the chaos of the court,” he said. “Not that Cassian can, ah… control me?” Here, the prince’s mint green eyes twinkled. “You lose a lot of leverage when half your family’s got blackmail against you.”
“Matt.” Elias winced. “A bit less cavalier, yes? This isn’t anything to joke about.”
“I’m not joking,” Matteus retorted. “Only observing.”
Shifting Eli in his lap, the older prince reached out and pinched Matteus’s good ear. “Yes, well, less observing.” He shifted his gaze back to Dominique and Ezra. “Sorry. I’m sure both of you are well acquainted with the joys of teenagers.”
“Has he started making moon eyes at everything female yet?” Ezra asked with a wide smirk. “I swear it’s like Rem’s brain pours out his ears whenever a pretty girl is around.”
“I’m right here, you know.” Matteus rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to talk about me like I’m not.”
“Easy there, Mattie, we’re only poking fun.” For a moment Elias seemed amused… before quickly a far more somber look crept back across his face. “It’s, ah… not untrue, though,” the man said hesitantly. “What Mattie said. About the blackmail against Cassian.”
Ezra frowned, leaning forwards on the table and pouring himself a cup of the tea. “I was wondering. What did you mean by that, exactly?”
“Well…” Elias sighed, further reluctance underscoring his expression as he looked briefly toward Dominique. “Perhaps,” he suggested after a moment, “this might be best discussed… just between us, Ezra?”
“If Dominique doesn’t need to know, I don’t need to know,” Ezra said, his voice becoming instantly steely. “She is family, just as I am. And you’re not pulling a rank card when these days I’m no more noble than her.”
As Dominique gave her husband a grateful smile, Elias nodded half-heartedly. “Alright. If… you’re sure.” He took a deep breath. “It’s-- about Oliver. And how Oliver died.”
“He was murdered,” Dominique said softly. “That’s what we heard. The news that’s been spread across the kingdom. To us… common folk.”
“He was murdered,” Matteus agreed, sounding at once resentful and oddly bright about this fact. “The day Cassian’s youngest son was born. Most all of us were there-- Mother, Father, Cass, Julia.” He clenched his jaw. “Rhia and Titus, too, as well as Cassian’s daughter Bryony. She’s three.”
Ezra sucked in a sharp breath. “Gods. And I thought it was traumatic when my father was murdered in a closed council chamber and none of us saw it. If there were that many witnesses and the killer wasn’t actually caught… poison?”
“Knave’s knot,” Elias said. “Wicked little herb; it was folded into brandy. Cassian got a not-insignificant dose of it, too. Enough to knock him out for… days. It was touch and go for a while. We almost had a five-year-old on the throne.”
“I had a nice sip, as well,” Matteus added, bitterness now edging into his tone. “When Father collapsed, the knights forced me to vomit. Repeatedly. So I stood there in the corner, throwing up as Father-- then Cassian, too-- convulsed on the floor, and the little kids screamed, and… and everything went to hell.”
Dominique inhaled sharply, her complexion going ashen, as Ezra gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. “So not just an assassin, but a darn careless one. Whoever it was is lucky they weren’t caught.”
“Oh, but that’s the beautiful thing,” Matteus said. “I know exactly who it was. I didn’t at first, of course, but over time, I put the pieces together. Uncle Elias did, too.”
“Oh?” Dominique murmured, her voice trembling.
“Cassian,” Matteus went on. “It was… it was Cassian.”
Ezra clenched his eyes shut, resting his face in his hands. “So. I guess Oliver did a much better job molding his heir into a perfect copy of himself than he realized. Like father, like son.”
“I don’t think he meant to nearly kill himself, of course,” Matteus said, pausing for a long, furious moment before he added, “Dragging Julia into it as a coconspirator, though? Now that had to be deliberate.”
“Wait, what?” Ezra bleated, looking up at his nephew in askance and making Eli’s gaze snap towards him in confused concern.. “Julia? How did that happen? Why in the name of all the gods would Julia ever trust Cassian with something like that? She has scars because of him!”
“I have no idea,” Elias admitted. “Neither of them confided in me. Or Matteus. But I suppose they found a common enemy in Oliver. And… Julia got something out of it in return: an escape.” The prince placed a tired hand to his forehead. “There’s a rebel called Augustin Altair-- Lord Augustin Altair. I’m sure you heard when he fled from his family’s lands, Ezra? It was back when you were still Minister of War.”
“I remember that vaguely yes,” Ezra admitted. “Though he was far from the only enki to defect. What about him?”
“Julia fell in love with him,” Matteus said. “During the war. They were married.” A beat. “They had a son. A son who Julia didn’t dare tell Father about when he took her back. Because she knew what that would have meant for Dorian.” He swallowed hard. “Julia didn’t get to see him properly for over a year. Not until Father died. And then, like magic, Cassian announced her betrothal. To Gus. And… that was when I figured it out. What she had done. What he had done.”
“He’s… changed,” Elias said. “Cassian. He isn’t the same man you knew, Ezra. I think he finally… woke up. To what Oliver had turned him into. He looked up and saw the puppeteer’s strings. And he realised he was tired of dancing along to them.”
This seemed to take Ezra by surprise. “He did? Really? How did that happen? He spent years beating Gerry and Saf and… gods, everyone smaller than him in the palace on his father’s orders. He worshiped his father blindly even though he got belted just as hard, and-” The man cut himself off, sighed. “Sorry. Just… you know what I was like when we were kids, Elias. The sorts of things Cassian did…”
“I was just as incredulous as you are,” Matteus said, shrugging. “I… I even threatened to turn him in. For what he’d done. But…” The teenager bit his lip. “He is different, Uncle Ezra. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. S-since Father died.”
“Which is partly why we’ve come,” Elias added gently. Squeezing little Eli tight so the child giggled, he added, “Beyond, of course, to fawn over your babies.” The prince squarely met Ezra’s gaze. “I haven’t told Cassian about you. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that, not without asking your permission first, Ezra. But… Oliver’s dead. And Cassian is trying to make amends to everyone both he and Oliver hurt. That includes you, older brother.”
If Ezra had been surprised before, now he looked positively thunderstruck. He glanced sideways at Dominique, but the woman’s face was flat, inscrutable, whatever emotions she was feeling hidden deep within her.
Elias continued, “He’s already reaching out to Gerard, Ez. Gerard. Apologising. Offering to… to restore his title. To title his children.” Smoothing little Eli’s hair, Ezra’s younger brother said, “You shouldn’t have to live like… like this. In hiding. Your pockets always fringing the line of empty, and eight people stuffed into a cottage no bigger than our dressing room back at the palace. You did what you had to in order to survive, Ezzy. And I’m so glad you’ve found happiness. A wife. Children. But…” He took a deep breath, as if he’d been practising this speech a great many number of times in his head. “We’re finally free of him, Ez. We can finally be the sort of family we always wanted to be. Safe. Happy. Y-your children can grow up in luxury, without the fear we always felt at their ages. Living the life they deserve.” Elias smiled sadly. “Male line grandchild of a monarch. This little one in my lap shouldn’t be growing up with his hand to his mouth, Ezra. Not when by rights he’s Father’s grandson. A prince.”
“I… I…” Ezra blinked hard. “Elias… what about the others? Remy and Alicia and… they’re not mine-”
“They are yours,” Elias said firmly. “You’re married to their mother; that makes you their guardian. And you love them as your own.”
“Gerard has a daughter,” Matteus added. “Only she’s… not really his daughter. Not by blood. He adopted her during the war, but her natural mother… well, her natural mother was a slave.” There was a lot more to young Aislin Alaric’s true parentage, of course, but the teenager knew that now was hardly the time to parse out such juicy gossip. “Cass knows. And yet he’s so eager to make amends that he’s agreed to title Gerry’s daughter, anyway. A slave’s child by blood, and Cass is willing to make her a princess.”
The estranged Alaric bit his lip, hard. “The court would eat them alive, Matt. Remy is sixteen in three months. He’s lived his entire life in this village, he doesn't know any other life.” He put a hand on Dominique’s shoulder, adding, “And I’m… I’m not sure if I could do it anymore. All the pomp and circumstance, all the political drama, the noise. Elias, you saw me in the waning years before I had to run- the stress was killing me. I was all but broken by the time I fell in with this family.”
“You hardly have to return to the palace,” Elias pointed out. “Cadet princes have long branched out elsewhere, Ez. You could take up one of our smaller estates. Live a… quiet life, by royal standards.”
“An estate?” Dominique murmured, the word sounding almost foreign on her tongue. “What do you mean by an… estate?”
“We’ve a vast amount of land.” Elias shrugged as if this were commonplace. No big deal. “Dozens of houses. In the country, in the woods, by the sea. Any sort of landscape you might like. As a high-ranking member of the royal branch of House Alaric, Ezra is entitled to use of them.”
Ezra looked distraught, conflicting emotions waring behind his blue eyes. “I… I never, ever thought I could return to being royalty. I’d made peace with that, even if it killed me that I could never see… Anna or Saf or any of the others ever again. Gods, to be with them and be a family again, it would be like a dream. B-but to uproot my family here, thrust them into a life they’ve never known…”
Dominique reached out a hand, setting it on her husband’s wrist. “Do you mind,” she murmured to Elias and Matteus, “if we step out for a moment? To… to talk in private?”
“Of course,” Elias said, smiling softly at her. Bouncing Eli, he quipped, “We can entertain the little ones for as long as you need.”
“Th-thank you.” Swallowing hard, Dominique stood and took a step toward the front door, Ezra following mutely, not sure what his wife was thinking about all of this but knowing that he needed to find out before he tried to sort out his own feelings any further.
Outside, Dominique shut the door before pacing several feet into the brittle grass, her arms crossed tightly at her chest. The wind rippled her long blonde hair as she thought for a moment, her face rife with concentration, her gray-green eyes flickering with some furtive. Almost sad.
Then, the woman turned back toward Ezra behind her and reached both of her hands out toward him, invitingly. “You know how much I love you, right?” she whispered.
He drew her close, twining his fingers in hers. “Of course, Neeka. I could never doubt it.”
She smiled tremulously. “Alright, Simon.” A beat. “Ezra. Then that’s why… I think you n-need to say yes. To your brother’s idea.” Very quickly, before he could object, Dominique prattled on, “The king was your monster for so long. But he’s gone now, Ezra. He’s gone. And… and now you can know your family, and love them, without having to worry about them getting hurt.” She gulped. “You gave so much, and now you can finally… take. You can live the life you always deserved. That you always should have had. You’re a pr-prince, Ezra. Even if that will never not feel a little strange to me. You shouldn’t have to live the rest of your life in the role that Oliver forced you into. Under the identity you assumed because you had no other choice. He controlled so much about you. D-don’t let him control this. Not anymore.”
Ezra swallowed hard, his eyes burning and blurring. “The kids… the kids don’t even know what I am. I’ve been lying to them all this time, a-and they have friends and lives here-”
“And?” Dominique cut in softly. “They’ll adjust, Ezra. They’ll be shocked at first-- just like I was. But they love you. And they’ll adjust.” She squeezed his hands. “Not to mention, maybe it’s… selfish of me, but… I don’t think I’d m-mind it, either. It’ll be a big change, and it’ll be scary and new, but… Ezra? I’ve spent most of my life with only a few coppers in my pocket. There were times during the war, before I met you, that I was genuinely scared my kids and I would die. Either by getting caught up in the violence, or starving to death, or… or something else awful that I could do nothing to prevent. And I hate that the kids have known that. I hate that they’ve gone to bed hungry, that they’ve suffered through illnesses without medicine, that they’ve been through such loss and pain. I want better for them. For… for me. For all of us.”
Ezra closed his eyes, seeming to deliberate within himself for a moment. Then, he smiled that soft, gentle smile that had won the hearts of Dominique’s children all those years ago, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “You’ve always known what I need better than I do,” he mused, squeezing her hands gently. “And you’re right. The kids shouldn’t have to know hunger or want, not when I have the means to spare them from it.”
Dominique’s brow creased at her husband’s use of the high tongue, the woman clearly surprised. … Surprised, but not displeased, the corners of her lips turning subtly upward into a wavery ghost of a smile. “I am not,” she said after a moment, humour creeping into her tone, “calling my children ‘your highness’, though. And they’re still getting furious lectures when they’re naughty. And not too many gifts, because we don’t want them spoiled, either.”
Ezra tweaked his wife’s nose. “My love, you have no concept of how very differently royals interpret ‘spoiling a child’ than peasants do. And I’ve told you how huge my family is- that is a lot of expensive presents on birthdays, and of course we can’t tell them no because then they’ll worry the kids think they don’t like them.”
“I suppose I have a lot to learn, then.” She laughed softly as something occurred to her. “Gods, you’re going to want to change our last name, aren’t you? To… to Alaric.”
“I think it has a nice ring to it,” Ezra said teasingly. “Her royal highness Princess Dominique Alaric. Your swineherd father would be proud.”
Chapter Twelve Elias agreed that he would talk to Cassian once he and Matteus arrived back to Rakine, in order to make sure everything they’d discussed was tenable, and after fawning over the various treats the children had picked out at the marketplace, it was with many hugs and promises that they’d see one another again soon that Elias and Matteus departed back for Durach. And although the four eldest Farrier kids were aflutter for several days to come over their uncles’ exciting visit, soon life settled back into a steady rhythm for the family, the pigeon from Elias confirming that he’d spoken with Cassian and hashed out the details of Ezra’s ‘resurrection’-- and subsequent return to royal life-- not arriving to Maris for nearly another month. It required far more paperwork, it seemed, to revive a prince than it ever had to murder him. And so, then, only one issue remained… and it was a sizable one: telling the kids. Both Janet and Eli were far too young to understand, but it was Dominique’s older biological children-- who’d spent nearly five years knowing Ezra as Simon Farrier-- who presented a larger obstacle. They had been lied to, misled, the truth deliberately withheld from them… and now it was to all be sprung upon them at once, along with the reality that very soon-- after the winter was over, Dominique and Ezra had decided-- they’d be uprooted from the quiet lives they’d always known and thrust into the royal court. Even if Ezra and Dominique planned for them to live primarily outside the palace itself, it was still a vast world of difference. A completely separate Courdon from the one they knew-- from the swanky jewelry right down to the ubiquitous use of the high tongue. For children who’d never been more than few miles outside Maris, it would be like the disparity between swilling muddy pond water and priceless wine. “Why do you two look so nervous?” Alicia asked with a furrowed brow on the evening that Dominique and Ezra finally mustered the courage to come clean, about a week after Elias’s confirmation letter arrived. The couple had settled their four eldest children at the kitchen table after putting Janet and Eli down for the night, a beam of pallid moonlight creeping in through the front window and giving the cottage a nearly ethereal glow. “You’re sweatin’, Mama,” the twelve-year-old pointed out. “Are you sick?” “No, I’m not sick,” Dominique said, which was true. She wasn’t ill-- only anxious, her stomach churning and thrashing like a storm-battered sea. “Papa and I just need to… talk to you kids. About something.” “Are you havin’ another baby?” queried Gillian, her eyes narrowed. “Is it gonna be a girl again? ‘Cos I want it to be a girl--” “Not a baby, Gilly,” Dominique cut in. She inhaled shakily, reaching for Ezra’s hand. “It’s… about Papa, actually. And his--his life before he came here. To Maris.” Remy tilted his head, a slight frown pulling at his lips. “Come to think, you haven't really told us much about your life before you came here, have you?” He asked, looking at Ezra. “Just that you’re from Durach and you had to run after your family farm was burned in the war.” “No, I haven't,” Ezra agreed. “And a lot of what I did tell you… wasn't the truth. I am from Durach, for example, but I didn't have to leave when my farm burned. I don't even have a farm.” He sighed. “It’s a very long story- and before I go into it, I want to make one thing absolutely clear: none of this changes me, or what I am and have been for all of you. Just… the context. I love you, and I couldn't be happier or prouder to be your father.” “Are… are you in trouble, Papa?” Alicia asked, the concern on her face expanding further. “‘C-cos of something you did back in Durach? Something bad?” “No, he’s not in trouble,” Dominique said quickly. “I promise, Alicia.” “... But then why did he lie?” the twelve-year-old murmured. She looked Ezra straight on, verging the line of panicked now. “If you’re not in trouble, why’d you lie?” “I was in danger,” Ezra said sadly. “Not really because of anything I did, but because of a very powerful person who simply didn't like me. He wanted me dead, and I had to run away and fake my own death to escape him. But he’s gone now, and it’s finally safe for me to stop lying.” “You’re being cagey, Papa,” Remy said flatly. “What’s cagey?” Vern asked, the young boy gnawing his lip and glancing between his father and mother in confusion. “It… means he’s avoiding answering questions.” Dominique sighed. This was going every bit as awkwardly as she’d feared it might… and gods, they hadn’t even revealed what the truth was yet. “But-- I want you guys to understand that Papa only lied because he had to. It was to keep all of you safe. Not to… to hurt you, or mislead you. And the stuff that matters, that’s not a lie at all. How much he loves you-- that’s all been true. All is true.” “Just tell us.” Alicia pursed her lips, eyes furtive and glossy. “St-stop talking in circles and just-- tell us.” Ezra looked at his stepdaughter sadly. “Alright. The truth is this- my real name isn't Simon Farrier. It’s Ezra Alaric. Before I had to run away, I did live in Durach- specifically, in Rakine, the capital. I was a prince, the younger brother of the king that just died, Oliver. The new king Cassian is my nephew.” Remy gaped at his stepfather, and Vern and Gillian looked positively bewildered. It was thus Alicia who was next to talk amongst her siblings, the girl’s expression suddenly smoldering-- and her voice vitriolic-- as she snapped, “That’s not true.” “Alicia.” Dominique winced. “Please, don’t use that tone with us. I know it’s shocking, I do, but--” “It’s mad!” The preteen gritted her teeth. “Papa’s not a prince-- that’s ridiculous! And… and…” She inhaled very sharply. “We met your brother, Papa!” the girl snarled on. “Robbie. And your nephew. They weren’t princes, either!” It wasn't Ezra who answered her, however, but Remy. “Ali… the day we met Robbie the first time. You said you saw a gryphon in the woods, right? And then Papa freaked out. And… and the tea. From Mzia. How would farriers have money for tea from Mzia?” Ezra nodded. “Rem’s right. Robbie, my brother, is actually named Elias. He found me here because he’s the one who helped me escape when my life was in danger. But I was afraid at first the gryphon belonged to my enemies, the ones who wanted me dead. And my nephew, Matt? The nickname is short for Matteus, and he is King Cassian’s youngest brother.” “I don’t believe you.” Tears had pricked in Alicia’s eyes, a furious stream leaking down her cheeks. “I-it can’t be true. And i-if you love us, you wouldn’t have lied for all those years, you wouldn’t have--” “ Alicia Farrier.” Dominique’s voice had gone pointed. Lethal. “You’re allowed to be upset, sweetie. I understand perfectly if you’re upset. But it is true-- I promise you, it’s true. And no matter how angry you are, you are not allowed to talk to Papa and me like that.” “Alicia,” Ezra said, his eyes glittering but his expression firm. “I do love you. All of you. I never did all of this because I didn't love you. But the man who wanted me dead? He was my older brother. The king. He was a cruel, abusive man who hurt me, my younger siblings, and his own children. Beat them bloody when they misbehaved. And he hated me because I tried to stop him. Eventually I got so angry at him that I yelled at him in public, and he decided to order me killed.” Ezra swallowed hard. “If you had known the truth, it would have put you in danger. Oliver never had mercy for anyone. Not even children. I didn't tell you so that if I was ever caught, and you were questioned, you could honestly say you didn't know. It was to protect you. Because I do love you.” “What about you?” Alicia asked, indicating Dominique. “H-how long have you known, Mama?” “A… a while,” Dominique admitted. “Since a little bit before Papa and I were married. But I wanted to keep you kids safe, too. And it w-was safer if you didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Alicia, that it had to be that way, but… it was because we love you that we didn’t tell any of you, okay?” “So… so Papa’s a prince?” Gillian, fidgeting with her long braid, finally dared to pipe in. “D-does that mean h-he’s… he’s gotta leave us? ‘Cos w-we’re… not royal?” “ Never,” Ezra insisted immediately. “I’m not leaving you. Actually, it's the opposite. Now that Oliver is gone, my nephew King Cassian has asked me to come home- and to bring all of you with me.” “You… what?” Remy gaped. “The king w-wants us? B-but, we’re nobody-” “You’re my children,” Ezra said firmly. “And if I accept his offer to take my title as prince back that would make you all members of House Alaric. Royal, as is your right.” “Royal?” Alicia was still crying, harder now. “We’re not royal, though. We’re j-just peasants.” “No, honey,” Dominique said. “You belong to Papa, and… and Papa’s royal. That means you’re royal, too. From now on.” “Alicia, honey-” Ezra said, his voice very soft. He came around the table, kneeling next to her chair and putting a hand on her shoulder. “You have every right to be upset. And I’m so, so sorry I had to lie to you. But that’s over. I’m finally free, and we are all finally going to be safe. So… anything you want to know about me, my past- anything at all. All you have to do is ask, and I’ll tell you. And I promise this time, it’ll be the truth.” “Would we have to leave?” Alicia asked, sniffling. “If-- if you took the king’s offer, would w-we have to leave Maris?” The exiled prince closed his eyes with a sad sigh. He’d been afraid of exactly this. Meeting Alicia’s gaze again, he nodded. “Yes. And it’ll probably be a little scary at first. But Cassian has given us a lot of options for very nice houses the royal family keeps where we can go.” Standing up, Ezra hooked Alicia under her arms and hefted her- not an easy task since she was quite big by this point, but manageable for a former military man who spent most of his present days restraining skittish horses and chopping logs. Then he sat down in Alicia’s chair, plopping her in his lap and drawing her close to his chest. “Mama and I haven’t picked which one we want to take yet. Because we wanted to ask you kids for your opinion first.” “We get to pick?” Vern queried. “Really?” “Mmhm,” Dominique agreed. This had been her suggestion, as Ezra had explained to her the differences between the various estates Cassian had offered. It was a way, she thought, to give the children agency over a change that was otherwise so far out of their control, and so disruptive to life as they’d always known it. “Papa and I narrowed down the list, but we want your opinions before we decide for sure.” Alicia sniffled again, reluctantly resting her cheek against her stepfather’s shoulder. “Th-they’re all in Durach?” “They are,” Ezra replied. “That’s where the Alaric holdings are, after all. There are four manors we narrowed it down to that we wanted you kids to tell us what sounds good to you.” He held up his fingers to tick down the list as he went. “There’s a manorhouse in the woods, which is nice and quiet. There’s one in a trade city that has a lot of really interesting markets throughout it where you can see exotic goods and people. There’s out in the countryside, with a huge, expansive garden and lots of space to run and play. And the last one is in a port town, on a cliff by the sea.” “By the sea?” Vern repeated, his eyes bulging. “Like… the ocean? We could go swimming?” For the first time during the conversation, Ezra actually smiled at this. “As long as Mama or me is with you, yes. There’s a staircase that leads down the cliff to the water. I used to go there all the time when I was young, the royals use it as a summer getaway most of the time.” Which was why Ezra had been rather flabbergasted the manor was even on the list of places he could take. If he assumed residence there, the other royals would have to ask his permission to stay when they wanted to vacation by the sea. It seemed that Elias and Matt had not been exaggerating about Cassian’s determination to beseech forgiveness of his estranged family. “Is… is it pretty?” Alicia whispered, the girl hesitating for a moment before, very gingerly, she snaked her hand down toward Ezra’s, hovering her palm over his wrist as if she hoped that he would take a hold of her. He gently took her hand in his own, nodding. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “All the furnishings in the main areas done up in red and gold, the house colors, but the bedrooms all have a different color scheme. You kids could each have your own rooms, if you wanted. All in different colors.” “Are there toys there?” Gillian asked, her lips pursed. “‘Cos… ‘cos I don’t wanna leave my toys, Papa. I like my dolly, an’ th-the jacks, an’ our blocks.” “You can bring your toys along,” he assured the girl with amusement. “And there will be plenty of new toys too. More than you could ever imagine.” “Would we get bread with nuts?” Vern asked. “And jam? All the time ‘stead of just when it’s a good month?” “That and so, so much more,” Ezra promised, laughing outright now. “All the food you could dream of,” Dominique added, smiling crookedly at the idea. “Meat, too. And fruit. Fresh fruit, not just preserved.” Vern gave a wide, a beaming grin, bouncing in his seat happily. Ezra couldn't help but smile in reply to the little boy's joy, glad that something about this conversation was finally going right. However, when he glanced towards his oldest stepchild, his expression wavered again. Remy's brow was furrowed, his hands clenched on the table, and he's spoken very little during the entire conversation. "Rem?" Ezra said coaxingly. "You're awfully quiet. Talk to me, what's on your mind?" Remy closed his eyes. "You're a prince. So... So you're not really a farrier. But how did you learn to be one? Princes normally have other people do that sort of thing for them, right?" Ezra blinked, taken off guard by the question but answering readily enough. "When I was right around your age, the king appointed me Master of the Horse for the Gilded Palace. It was a job that put me in charge of the horses, hounds, hawks and gryphons that belonged to the royal family. I learned how to do farrier work- as well as lots of other useful things- while I held that job. Why?" Remy looked up at his stepfather with a stark expression. "I'm almost of age. I need to start thinking about the future. And I… I wanted to be like you, Papa. A farrier. I wanted to learn how to do what you do. But if… if you’re going back to being a prince, and we’re going to be royal, I wouldn’t be allowed to be, would I?” Ezra bit his lip, his arms tightening around Alicia. “Rem, you’re… you’re of age in two months. What you do with your life is up to you, you know that right?” He shook his head rapidly. “That’s not what I meant,” he insisted, his voice cracking a little. “I d-don’t want to stay behind, I don’t. I already lost my… my birth father, I don’t want to lose everyone else too.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, then said, “I just… I figured, if there was some job that you did that helped you learn how to be a farrier… maybe I could do that job. If, if you think I’d be allowed.” “Remy…” Ezra was very much taken aback, but after a moment he gave his stepson a gentle smile, and nodded. “I’d have to see about teaching you to read and write first. And more than the bare minimum arithmetic you know now. The job involves a lot of paperwork. But if you really wanted…” “Please?” Remy said softly. “I just… we aren’t your kids. You had no obligation to be our dad, and to love us and look after us and teach us things but… but you did it anyway. And more than anything, I want to-” he swallowed thickly. “I want to live up to that. And b-be a son you can be proud of.” Ezra reached towards Remy’s hand with one of his own, putting it over the boy’s clenched fist. “I’m already proud of you, Rem. But if this is really what you want, of course I’ll help. I can teach you everything you need beforehand, and talk to Cassian about apprenticing you with the current Master of Horse once you’re ready.” The young boy blinked hard, and nodded. “Okay. Th-thank you.” He glanced towards Dominique, adding, “Mama… that’s okay, right?” “Of course,” Dominique said. “That’d make me happy, love.” She smiled at her eldest child. “And your birth papa would be very proud, too.” He smiled in reply, looking immensely relieved. Vern, piping up again, asked, “How long? ‘Till we can go swimming? And get the good bread and toys and everything.” “After winter’s over,” Dominique replied. “So… March, maybe April.” “‘Fore my birthday?” Gillian queried; the girl was turning seven the first week of April. “Ooh!” she added after a moment. “Maybe my present could be goin’ to swim in the ocean once we get there! Please?” Ezra laughed, nodded with a small, relieved smile. “Sure, Gilly.” Looking down at Alicia, still nestled against his chest, he added, “That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?” “I guess,” the girl conceded, the flow of tears diminished to a lazy trickle. “You’re going to like it there, Alicia,” Dominique promised. “I know it’ll be a big change, but… you’re going to be with Papa and me, and your siblings, and it’s going to be good for all of us. You just need to keep an open mind, okay?” Her gaze skimmed the rest of the children. “That goes for all of you, really.” Remy nodded, looking nervous but determined. Vern was practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes bright, and beside him Gillian was smiling broadly. Ezra hugged Alicia close, surveying all of his stepchildren with a benevolent eye. “It’s going to be so good for all of us. And… I can’t wait for you to meet my family. Not just Matt and Elias but everyone. I’m sure they’ll love you as much as I do.” *** “Look there, on the horizon,” Ezra called over the rush of the wind, leaning forwards so that his mouth was right next to Dominique’s ear, his arms wrapped around her so that he could grip the reins of the tawny feathered gryphon they were both mounted upon. “See it? That line of blue there?” Squinting through her riding goggles, and fingers clutched over Janet, who was affixed to her chest with a tight sling, Dominique nodded. “I think so,” she said. “Is that it, then? We’re nearly there?” She couldn’t help but smile, crookedly. “Gods, it’s crazy to think. That we’ve made it from the Northlands to the Durach coast in just a few days. I don’t even want to know how long it’d take by horseback.” “Over a month,” Ezra supplied, amused. “Normally we wouldn’t even get here this fast by gryphon, but we didn’t want to have to fly with Eli and Janet for too long, so we’ve been pushing the beasts harder than normal. The manor should come into sight within the next ten or fifteen minutes. It’s a big stone keep on a cliff, walled on the side that faces the town, you can’t miss it.” He kissed her cheek, adding, “Our new home, once we’ve got everything ready and we bring the kids up with us.” “I hope the older ones aren’t feeling left out,” Dominique said, sighing. Though they’d explained to the eldest four children why it made the most sense to travel in two batches-- safely tending a one-year-old and three-year-old in the air was a highly involved affair even without several additional young children present-- Dominique still couldn’t help but worry. “Maybe we should have taken Gilly, at least. Or Vern. What if Remy’s struggling to mind them all on his own?” “He’ll be okay, Neeka,” Ezra soothed. “He’s a responsible lad, he’ll manage. And I’ll be leaving the morning after next with Elias to relieve him. I think leaving Gilly and Vern with the threat of not getting to swim when they arrive should forestall any monumental outbursts of sullenness.” Dominique nodded. “You’re right. I just… worry, I guess. I’ve never been away from them before.” She kissed the top of Janet’s downy, ash blonde hair, before flicking a reluctant glance toward the trio of gryphons that was flying in formation behind her and Ezra. One of the beasts was piloted by Elias, with young Eli strapped into the saddle behind him-- and a royal knight flanking the toddler, arms snug around the boy as an extra safety measure-- while the other two held a pair of knights each. Knights. Royal knights! Gods, the very concept still felt so foreign in Dominique’s head. She was a swineherd’s daughter, a farrier’s wife. … And now she was flying through the skies of Durach with an escort of royal knights. “Give me a warning before we start to land, love,” she murmured to Ezra. “So I can brace myself for the descent.” “Of course,” he replied, momentarily taking a hand off of the gryphon’s reigns to make a few gestures over his shoulder- military code-signs he and Elias had learned in the army. All well?All well, Elias confirmed, smiling at his older brother. Soon enough the manor did come into view-- a towering stone behemoth perched on a vast basalt cliff-top, iron-gated on three sides as the fourth opened up to the sea, foamy waves frothing against a private slice of beach. The gryphons circled overhead a few times, the escorting knights touching down first as a standard safety precaution before first Ezra’s mount, then a few seconds later Elias’, landed in the courtyard. A small contingent of servants and groomsmen were waiting just a few yards away, and they immediately bowed as the nobles came to earth. “Your majesties, welcome,” one of the men intoned formally. His eyes flicking between Ezra and Elias before settling on Elias, he added, “I have taken the liberty of seeing the bathhouse prepared for your arrival. A hot meal and fresh change of clothing is waiting for you once you’ve finished.” “Right, of course.” Elias didn’t spare the servant a first, let alone second, glance as he dismounted his gryphon, removed his goggles, and immediately set about freeing little Eli from the latticework of strappings. “You have fun, buddy?” the prince prompted, smiling down at the boy. “You were such a good boy for me-- I think you’ve earned a nice treat after your mama and papa get you all washed up.” “Weeeee!” Eli replied excitedly, his blue eyes bright and exuberant, prompting Ezra to cover a grin as he set about unstrapping Dominique. “Go on th’ birdie ‘gain, Unca ‘Lias?” “We’re done with the birdie for now, alas.” Scooping up his nephew, Elias turned toward his brother, sister-in-law, and niece. “ Love the way those goggles look on you, brother,” he teased. “The whole disheveled flying peasant gambit you have going on-- I think it’s bound to catch on at court.” “And yet I am still a better pilot than you,” Ezra retorted, switching from the low tongue- which he’d been using alone with Dominique in the air- to the high dialect now that they were in front of the servants, and prompting startled looks from a few of them. “Such wicked lies.” Elias smirked. “I shall have you know I’m a retired general, Your Highness. Whereas you, if I do recall, are only a major general.” “There was also that little stint as Minister of War,” Ezra drawled. “Minor thing. Unimportant really. And then those years I got to be in charge of every gryphon in Alaric custody, but hey who’s counting?” “As the present Minister of War, I shall concede to you its vast unimportance. But even I couldn’t denigrate your storied reign as Master of the Horse, brother.” Chuckling, Elias turned toward the manor house that loomed before them. “Anyway. Shall we?” Before Ezra could agree, however, Dominique-- who’d finally climbed off the gryphon and pried off her goggles as the brothers had bantered-- quailed, heels digging into the hard ground below. Voice little more than a whisper, she asked, “Do we just… go in? It feels… st-strange. To just go right in.” “Well if Cassian had been given his way likely there would have been a fete waiting for us when we got here,” Ezra replied with a sympathetic smile, hugging her around one shoulder. “But I figured you might appreciate something more low-key.” She nodded, stroking the sleeping Janet’s back. “R-right. Well… if you’re sure.” “Don’t worry so much, love,” he said gently, kissing her cheek. “This is your home now. You belong here every bit as much as I do.” Inside, as Ezra and Elias gave her the grand tour, Dominique had to struggle back frequent gasps of surprise. She’d tried to prepare herself for this, had told herself that things would be much bigger-- grander-- than she was used to… but there was no way she could have wholly anticipated the splendours of the family’s new home. Not when she’d never once in her life seen anything remotely so luxurious: the floors variably marble or gleaming wood, the walls painted in gorgeous jewel tones, the vaulted ceilings overhead etched with intricate murals. All of the furniture was heavyweight, a single dining chair probably costing more than their entire cottage was worth back in Maris. And that was without even beginning to take account of the artwork that stippled the warren of rooms and halls-- paintings, statues, gold-plated fountains that bubbled in an interior courtyard in what Elias cheerily mentioned was a smaller version of one of the Gilded Palace’s displays. By the time the Alaric brothers declared the tour completed, Dominique was nearly light-headed from awe. There was an entire bath complex that had been prepared for the royals’ use, but as Elias made a beeline for one of the many saunas, Dominique told Ezra that she just wanted the simplest pool they had, and he obliged, showing her to a warm bath that was kept heated by enchanted tiles below. Even it was still elaborate by most reasonable means-- the size of a small pond, with dozens of varieties of soap stocked on a stone shelf just outside the water-- it was quiet, at least, and private, with a sliding door separating it from the tangle of other pools and thick walls serving to muffle any noises from beyond. “Go swimmin’, Mama?” Eli chirped, a huge grin splitting his face as he stared at what looked nothing like any bath he’d ever sullenly suffered through previous. He set a tentative toe in, withdrawing it with a squeal. “It’s warm!” “Don’t go in until we’re ready, Eli,” Ezra chided gently. Scooping up the toddler he said, “Here, how about you pick out a soap for us to use, hm?” “Then go swimmin?” he needled, earning a kiss on the top of his head from his father. “Yes, then we can go swimming,” Ezra confirmed. “Not in your clothes, though.” As she began to pry off Janet’s rumpled dress, Dominique had to chuckle in spite of the lingering sense of overwhelmed awe that was clinging to her like a heady perfume. “And,” she added, glancing into the pool, “stay on the step or in Papa’s arms. It’s deep, love.” Soon the four of them had climbed down into the pool, Eli splashing excitedly from the security of Ezra’s arms as the newly restored prince scrubbed his son’s back with the peppermint and tea tree scented bar of soap the child had selected. It wasn’t tallow soap, like they’d used in Maris, but goat’s milk soap, soft and gentle on the skin. “This is the most happy I’ve ever seen him about getting a bath,” Ezra noted with amusement. “It’s a world of difference from the laundry basin, huh?” Dominique smiled, settling on the step with Janet clasped to her chest, both of them submerged up to their shoulders. “Though now Gillian and Vern can’t use the excuse that they can’t take a bath because it’s cold outside, Mama. They’ll be devastated to learn.” “Not that they’d be able to anyway,” Ezra said, turning to face his wife with a broad smile. “It never gets cold in Durach. Not really. Now summers can get downright sweltering, but that’s what the cold pools are for. They’re also good for if you want to soak in the heat for a long time, you jump in a cold bath every so often so you don’t overheat.” “You’ll have to show me the ways of the royal bath complex, I suppose,” Dominique said. “And… everything else. We’ve only been here half an hour and my head’s already spinning.” While Dominique was fairly sure her mind would continue to whirl for quite some time to come, at least it would do so from a body that had been thoroughly scrubbed, the woman feeling clean as she ever had by the time she emerged from the bath. After drying herself-- and the squirming children-- and dressing them all in robes, Dominique and Ezra agreed to part for a little, so that she could put the overtired little ones down for a nap while he finished grooming himself (“Finally going to see you with a less scraggly beard, hm?” his wife joked). Settling Eli and Janet, however, took more time than Dominique had anticipated, the infant going down easily enough but her older brother defiantly insisting that he was not tired, Mama. It took him nearly thirty minutes to give in, by which time Dominique’s wet hair had half-dried into a frizzy mess all down her back, the plush robe gone damp beneath it. The woman sighed as she paced out of the nursery and toward the master bed-suite down the hall, pondering to herself whether any of the clothes that were laid out for her would fit. “Oh, sorry.” Dominique’s cheeks immediately flared red as she pushed open the door to the right bedchamber-- or, at least, what she’d thought was the right bedchamber-- and found herself staring at a stranger, the man dressed in a fine silk tunic and matching breeches as he stood near one of the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “I must have gone in the wrong door, I must have--” Her voice fell away abruptly as she dared give the stranger a second look… and wave of recognition bowled over her. “... Ezra?” she murmured, eyes going wide. “Oh my gods, is that you?” The man who had lived as Simon Farrier in Maris for five years, the one whom Dominique knew best, had kept his golden-brown hair in a tail down to his shoulderblades, a short scruffy beard covering most of his chin. As was befitting a refugee turned village farrier, he’d generally worn plain leather or flaxen clothes in cheap earth tones of brown or green, and the only jewelry that ever graced his person was his wooden wedding ring. This man, though he had the same golden-brown hair, had cut it so that it was cropped close to his head. The beard was gone entirely, revealing a mostly smooth chin that was marred by a parallel pair of jagged scars from just under his jaw up through his lip on one side. He’d put on a sleeveless baby-blue tunic of silk that shimmered in the light from the room’s windows, with white trim and a pair of navy trousers that brought out matching shades in his blue eyes. When he turned to face Dominique, his every movement was accompanied by a soft jingling as an almost garish assortment of necklaces, rings, bangles and earrings clinked gently against each other. He blushed at Dominique’s stare, rubbing the back of his head with a bashful smile. “I was surprised to find that some of the baubles actually are mine- from before I had to flee. Elias must’ve stashed them somewhere, the sentimental sap.” He coughed, his flush deepening. “So, ah, how do I look?” “Like… like a prince,” Dominique said softly, a knot budding in her throat. “Oh, my gods, you’re really a prince.” Part of her felt silly voicing such a sentiment aloud. After all, she’d known this fact about him for years-- and had just flown more than halfway across the kingdom with him and a royal escort, before being shown around a house that could have swallowed dozens-- hundreds-- of cottages like theirs back in Maris whole. And yet it wasn’t until now, as she stared at him in full princely dress, that it seemed entirely real. That she wholly reconciled Simon-the-farrier and Ezra-the-prince as the same person, her person. Her partner for life. Father to her children. The one who’d appeared so unexpectedly in her life, like a beacon of light against an otherwise black horizon, and helped to bring her back from the hellish brink. Ezra tilted his head for a moment, then with a lopsided smile he walked over to Dominique and trailed his fingers through her damp blonde hair. “It’s just clothes, Neeka,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’m still me. I haven’t changed. You know that, right?” “Y-yes,” she murmured. “I know. It’s just…” She shrugged. “It still feels like a bit of dream. Who you are. Being here. A-all of it.” Ezra let his hand drift down to her chin, gently tilting her head up to kiss her. After a moment he pulled away and asked, “Is it at least a good dream?” “My hair smells like lavender. My babies are asleep in padded cradles. And… and I’m married to the best person I’ve ever known.” Dominique leaned her cheek against her husband’s shoulder, inhaling deeply. “Yes, Ezra. It’s a good dream. Better than anything I could have ever imagined.” He gave her a warm smile, and wrapped his arms around her. “I think so too. Let’s never wake up.” Something seemed to occur to him, and he reached into his pocket. “Here- fortunate I still had your size from when we bought our wedding bands. This is from Cassian, for you.” He held up a minute object that winked red and gold in the palm of his hand, its face engraved with the likeness of a crown-sporting gryphon. “... A ring?” Dominique murmured as she tentatively allowed Ezra to slide it over her finger. Then, as she recognised the sigil’s significance, she added, “Oh, gods. Th-this is a House ring, isn’t it? A royal Alaric House ring.” “It is,” he replied with a nod, showing her his right hand, which sported an identical ring amidst the others he’d put on. “Confirms you as an official member of the royal branch of House Alaric. A princess.” “Right. A… a princess,” Dominique echoed. Breath hitching, she nestled deeper into his hold. “W-we should really say a prayer for that old lout, shouldn’t we? Th-the one from the shantytown, in Maris. Who yelled at me for exposing everyone to Gillian, on the day you and I met. Because if it weren’t for him, I… I might have walked right by you that day. I might have never even seen you.” The blonde woman shut her eyes, listening to the sound of Ezra’s pulse beating against his neck. “Th-that day, when I invited you to live with me… I thought I-I was just doing it to save Gillian. I was desperate, and I would have done anything to save Gillian. But… it wasn’t just Gillian you saved that day, Ezra. I think you s-saved all of us. From the miserable void we’d fallen so far into that we’d stopped noticing that we were drowning in it at all.” He hugged her tightly, pressing his chin to the top of her head. “You saved me as much as I saved you, Dominique. For all of this luxury and extravagance, I was so miserable and lonely that I was one bad day away from ending it all. As much as I cared for my siblings and my nieces and nephews, I never, ever knew what a real, loving family was like until yours took me in. Until Gillian started calling me ‘Papa’ and I realized I wanted you to marry me and… I will always hate Oliver for all the things he did to me, and his family. But you and the kids, and the happiness you’ve brought my life, are worth the broken road it took me to find you.”
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Post by Shinko on Mar 5, 2016 18:04:19 GMT -5
Collab with Avery. Time and Tides“Gods, it is nice to be among people speaking a language I can understand again,” Dirk Vastcher remarked fervently. With a smile, he leaned over and kissed the honey-blonde hair of the small girl in his lap. “Your papa got very tired of everyone around him speaking gibberish while he was in Kyth, let me tell you.” As the child giggled in reply and nestled further into the lord’s hold, Dirk looked to the other side of the inn room bed that he and the girl were perched upon, adding to the woman who sat there, “So then, tomorrow we should be arriving in Aquilinus, right? To see your Uncle… Ezra was it? The one who was supposed to have been dead all this time? I was never entirely clear on what happened there.” His wife Safira nodded tiredly, her hands slow as she worked her long, jet black hair loose from the tight braid she’d worn for travel. “One of my father’s more charming moves,” she said. “I was already in Ruom when it happened, but I understand that it… wasn’t very pretty, to say the least.” She smiled thinly at the little girl, gesturing to the child’s own plait. “Cydney, hon, can Mama take that out before we sleep, please?” “I’m comfy,” the child replied firmly. Stifling a yawn, she leaned her cheek against Dirk’s chest. “I’ll just sleep like this.” Dirk chuckled. “I’ll take the braid out, if you promise to stay still, how’s that sound?” To Safira he added, “I admit I’m interested to meet this fellow. He’s the first of your relatives besides your mother and Matteus you’ve expressed interest in seeing without someone prompting it first.” As Cydney nodded in agreement, turning her head so that Dirk could reach the braid in question, Safira shrugged. “He and my uncle Elias were two of very few people in my life when I was a kid whom I ever felt entirely safe with,” she said. “I knew they couldn’t stop my father from doing whatever it was that he wanted to do, but at least I could tell that they loved me. And I knew that they would never hurt me. Not like… he did. Or even Gerard ended up doing when he ran off, for that matter.” She laughed grimly. “Gods, I never thought I’d reunite with Gerry before relatives I actually care about.” “They way Lord Duval tells it, he was pretty cut up having to flee like he did,” Dirk remarked as he untied the cord at the end of Cydney’s braid, then carefully began to pry apart the stalk of hair, combing through each layer with his fingers. “Cydney, you said you met Elias, right? When you were at the palace?” Cydney stiffened. “Uh-huh. He’s… he’s the one who Mama and me met in the field. Where I got taken away.” She squirmed a little. “The one who took me t-to Grandfather.” “I see,” Dirk sighed. “I’m sorry Cyd. But I’m sure he didn’t want to have to do that. And you don’t have to worry, your grandfather can’t hurt you ever again. Promise.” “I know,” Cydney murmured. Pausing for a moment, the girl ventured, “D-did you and Mama have fun meeting with Uncle Gerard, ‘least? Up in Kyth. I wish I could have come.” Safira gave her daughter a strained smile, thinking for a while before she dared answer. She ought to have expected such a question was coming-- after all, Cydney was a curious child, and her parents’ journey to reunite with Gerard in Kyth marked the first time they’d both been away from her at once since way back when she’d been in Oliver’s custody-- but that hardly made it any easier to answer. The meeting with Gerard… Gods, how had it gone? Not quite as badly as Safira had half-thought it would, but that hardly meant it had gone great, either. Nor that a miasma of warm feelings had bloomed between the long-separated siblings, all the jagged shards of their past neatly smoothed. Hell, it wasn’t until she and Dirk had arrived to this inn a few hours ago, in southern Talvace, and reunited with Cydney-- whom Dirk’s uncle Kyland had brought from Ruom so that the girl could accompany them on their visit to Ezra before they finally headed home-- that she’d felt anything close to happy. As if she could breathe again. As if all the painful memories of her childhood weren’t pressing to the surface, long-buried bitterness baring its venomous teeth. “It was all right, sweetie,” she said finally. “But I don’t think you would have had much fun-- no one speaks Courdonian, and it was a very long trip. Much longer than the trip you made with Uncle Kyland here, or the trip we’ll make tomorrow from here to the seaside.” “I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun on this trip though,” Dirk put in, gently sliding the girl back around now that her braid was free. “Your Uncle Matteus says that Uncle Ezra has some kids of his own right around your age you can play with, like Amicus. And Ezra is supposed to be lots of fun too, right Saf?” “Mmhm,” Safira agreed. “You’ll like him, baby. And the ocean’s nice-- you can play on the beach.” “I wish Uncle Mattie was coming,” Cydney said. “‘Cos you got to go on a holiday with him to Kyth, but now he’s gone before I could see him. Even though he’s fun.” Safira had to chuckle at this, lightly; they’d separated from her baby brother a few hours outside the town that held this meager inn, before reuniting with Cydney, Matteus diverging toward the capital as his sister and her husband went southeast. “Sorry, sweetie. But Uncle Mattie has some stuff he needs to do in Rakine, with Uncle Cassian. Political stuff. He couldn’t spend any more time away.” “I’m sure we’ll see your Uncle Matt again soon enough,” Dirk soothed the child. “After all, we’re both highlords now, so any time we have to attend an event at the palace he’ll be there too. Your Mama and me are just taking a little more time off after doing this favor for the king so she can have some fun with someone she hasn’t seen in a long time.” Flicking his gaze up Dirk added, “And if I’m at all a third wheel, just say so. I don’t mind letting you and your uncle catch up in private.” “You can always spend time getting to know his newfangled wife,” Safira added wryly. “Word has it she’s a peasant. So you’ll obviously have so many common interests, right, Dirk?” “I managed to make polite conversation with Gerard’s peasant rebel wife, I think I can hold my own with this woman,” Dirk replied with a bemused smile. “Though hopefully I don’t frighten her with my gorgeous scars- I have given up keeping track of how many people take one look at me and squeak in horror.” “But you got your scars being a brave soldier, so no one can say mean things about them,” Cydney supplied with a sage nod. “And I don’t think they’re horrible, Papa. They’re just scars. Everyone’s got scars.” Dirk gave the girl an affectionate smile. “You are very wise, aren't you Cyd? Maybe we should appoint you as Grandpa’s advisor.” Ruffling her hair he added, “Then again maybe not. You let Amicus talk you into mischief too often for that. You can be Papa’s advisor instead.” “But,” Safira put in, “all good advisors need their rest.” She patted the empty spot beside her on the bed. “C’mon. Time for sleep, love.” Cydney pursed her lips, not moving from Dirk’s lap. “Could I have a story first?” she asked. “A good one. That I haven’t heard before.” The girl’s step-father tweaked her nose. “Fine. But only if you sleep after. No more wheedling.” He frowned in thought, then grinned. “I’ll tell you the story of how House Cantour chose the Kudu as their emblem- I think you’ll like it. It begins on a snowy mountaintop, several hundred years ago…” *** For what felt like the thousandth time, Ezra Alaric’s entire body went tense as a drum- then sagged slightly with disappointment when the distant dot he’d spotted in the sky turned out only to be a flock of seagulls. His family was sitting at a wrought-iron table on cushioned chairs in the gardens outside their seaside manor, waiting for their guests over a round of tea- however, all of Ezra’s attention was on the sky overhead. “Papa,” Vern groused, tugging at the hem of his silken tunic idly, “why’re you so jumpy? You don't get like this when Uncle Elias comes to visit.” “He’s just excited, love,” the boy’s mother, Dominique, responded with a wan smile. “He hasn’t seen your cousin Safira in a very long time-- not since she was only a couple of years older than Alicia is.” Bouncing her youngest child, one-year-old Janet, on her knee as the girl gnawed on a heel of rye bread, the woman added, “They should be here soon, though. Not much more waiting, hopefully.” “And if you keep fidgeting, you’re gonna rumple your clothes, Vern,” thirteen-year-old Alicia put in. “You wanna look regal, don’t you? Like a real royal.” She fiddled absently with the heavy gold chain necklace she wore, running her thumb over the gryphon-shaped charm that hung from it. “I hope they’re nice. And they don’t think we all just… I don’t know, look like we’re playing dress-up with some noble’s clothes and jewelry. I know we’ve been here almost a month now, but sometimes it still feels… weird. Like a game of pretend.” Ezra turned his eyes away from the clouds to give the young girl an affectionate smile. “I think you look lovely, sweetie. Like a true princess- because you are one.” “It’s still a lot to adjust to, though,” remarked Ezra's sixteen year old eldest son Remy, who was watching sidelong as his baby brother Eli toddled around in the grass. “I feel like I have an extra two pounds on me in jewelry. And everyone still looks at me strangely when they first hear me speaking the high tongue.” “At least the king was nice,” Vern put in, dropping his hand from his tunic. “He promised to ‘member all our birthdays and get us presents!” The final child, Gillian, grinned. “And he did, too!” she exclaimed; the girl had turned seven only the week before. “I love my kitten.” Dominique just barely refrained a sigh. Most people would have asked a child’s parents before presenting them with a pure-white snowball of a cat, the creature probably worth more than the entire house the family had lived in back in the Northlands. Cassian, however? “Your kitten is very nice,” the woman said. “You settled on a name for her yet, Gilly?” “Nuh-uh,” Gillian said. “Me and Vern are still talking about ideas. ‘Cos I want the perfect name.” Remy gave his little sister a slight smirk. “At this rate no matter what you name it, we’re all still going to call it ‘hey, cat!’ out of habit.” “It’s Birdie!” Eli chirruped brightly from his place playing in the grass, earning a frown from Vern. “No, it’s a kitty, Eli,” the older boy corrected. Eli bristled slightly, puffing out his cheeks. “ No,” he insisted. “Birdie!” He turned, pointing up at the sky. “Birdie!” Ezra’s head snapped around, and he realized that his youngest son was not talking about Gillian’s cat. High overhead, several shapes were bearing towards them- shapes far too big to be seagulls, coming directly towards the manor instead of wheeling aimlessly in the sky. “Oh gods, they’re here,” he breathed, a bright, eager smile stretching across his face. Dominique laughed softly. “Not excited at all, are we, love?” Rising to her feet with Janet balanced at her hip, she added, “If you grab Eli, we can go greet them in the front courtyard. Give them the full-scale welcome. So long as you don’t think a mob of children will scare them all the way back to Ruom.” Ezra chuckled. “Large families are par for the course amongst nobles; I’m sure they’ll be greeted by even bigger gaggles of children in purely political settings soon enough assuming they haven’t already.” Striding towards his son he called, “C’mon Eli, up you get.” “Wanna walk!” the boy objected grumpily, but nonetheless he held up his arms and allowed his father to lift him. “You can walk later Eli, for now Papa’s going to carry you,” Ezra returned with a crooked smile, absently straightening the little boy’s costume jewelry- he was too young yet for anything expensive. “Now, let’s go say hi to your cousin, okay?” Ezra led the party of Alarics out to the tile landing court, where they fanned out in anticipation of the distant flock of gryphons. Vern started fiddling with his clothes again, earning his hand a light slap from Remy, who had gone pale and looked about to throw up. Ezra shot his family one last reassuring smile, but the gryphons spiraling down for a landing precluded him saying anything more than, “It’ll be alright.” The gryphons touched down then, and the first to dismount was a man with shoulder-length auburn hair, and steel grey eyes. His eyes flicked over Dominique and the children, as if taking them all in, before settling on Ezra. “Your highnesses,” he intoned formally, bowing. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Lord Dirk Vastcher.” Straightening, he gestured behind him, where Safira was helping her daughter to climb down from her gryphon. “I believe you already know my wife, Safira. And of course, this is our daughter, Cydney.” “It’s good to meet you, Lord Vastcher,” Ezra replied with a thin smile, just barely keeping his excitement in check to observe the niceties. “I am Prince Ezra Alaric, and this-” he gestured to Dominique. “Is my wife, Princess Dominique. The children-” he pointed to each of them in turn, “Are Remy, Alicia, Vern, Gillian, Eli, and Janet. Say hello everyone.” “H-hello, Lord Vastcher, Ladies Vastcher,” Alicia said with a trembling smile, the girl dipping into a very overwrought curtsy. “It’s nice to meet you.” “And you as well, princess,” Safira replied, Cydney’s hand still clutched in hers as she returned Alicia’s smile with one of her own. “That’s a very pretty dress you’re wearing-- did your papa have it made just for you?” Alicia nodded coyly, eyes plunging to the garment in question: a gossamer silk number in Alaric gold, its bodice trimmed with lace ribbons. “Uh-huh. H-he had a tailor take measurements. I like it, too.” “An’ it matches your jewelry,” Vern put in chipperly. “All yellow and shiny.” Ezra quirked an eyebrow. “Vern. Manners.” “Oh, uh-” the boy grinned sheepishly towards the visiting nobles. “Sorry. Mama ‘n Papa always say I talk too much. Hi!” Fortunately, Dirk didn’t seem offended, only amused. “Hello there, youngster. It’s nice to meet you.” Taking in the rest of the family he added, “All of you. Cyd, do you want to say hi?” “Hi,” Cydney murmured, curtseying timidly. Her mother chuckled, towing the girl forward. “Oh, don’t be shy, love. This is family.” Her blue eyes falling on Ezra, she said lightly, “Shall I curtsy, Uncle, or would a hug do?” He grinned broadly, passing Eli to Remy and spreading his arms wide invitingly. “Perhaps I should be the one bowing to you, Saf. Gods, you’ve grown into a beautiful young woman, haven’t you? I can’t believe it’s really been eight years since I saw you last.” Letting go of Cydney’s hand, Safira fell into her uncle’s embrace, laughing again. “It certainly feels like a lifetime. Gods, it’s so good to see you alive and well.” Drawing back from him, she glanced down at Cydney. “Say hi to your uncle, sweetie.” “Hello,” Cydney said, though the girl was clearly uncomfortable, her lip bit as she fiddled with her long hair. She added after a moment’s hesitation, “Mama’s been real excited to see you again. She… she says you’re nice.” Ezra gave the girl a gentle smile, kneeling down in front of her. “Hello there, Cydney. I’ve been very excited to see your Mama again too. And to meet you, little miss.” He winked. “Just ask my kids- I cannot let a young relative of mine go unmet and unhugged, though we can hold off on that until later if you don’t feel comfortable now.” “It’s true,” Vern chirped. “Papa’s like, super cuddly.” “I-I can have a hug later,” Cydney said hesitantly. She briefly glanced behind her shoulder, where Dirk and the Vastcher knights were passing the party’s gryphons over to Ezra’s staff, before flicking her gaze back toward her uncle. “I didn’t meet you when I was at the palace. Or… or at Grandfather’s funeral. Even though everyone was there.” Ezra winced, glancing up towards Safira. “It’s… a long story, little one. Your grandfather didn’t like me much.” “Oh.” Cydney gave a small nod. “He didn’t like lots of people.” “That’s right, he didn’t,” Safira agreed, reaching back for her daughter’s hand. “But it’s all right, because everyone here likes everyone else, Cyd.” Glancing toward Ezra’s kids, she added, “And you’ll have so much fun playing with your cousins while we’re here.” “We can show you the beach!” Gillian chimed. “And you can play with my kitty cat that the king gave me. She’s real fluffy. She sleeps on my bed!” “Swimmin’ in the baf!” Eli chirped, grinning hugely. He looked towards Dominique “Swimmin’ in the baf, mama?” “Cydney doesn’t really like swimming,” Dirk put in with a wince. “She… had a bad experience a few months ago. But I’m sure she’d love to meet your kitty, and to play with all of you as long as water’s not involved, right Cyd?” “Uh-huh,” Cydney said. “And… and we can still play in the sand on the beach.” “That sounds lovely,” Dominique replied. “And I’m sure you’ll all have lots of fun together.” Readjusting her grip on Janet, the woman looked to her husband. “For now, Ez, shall we show them inside? I imagine they’re beat up from the road.” “I’m thirsty,” Cydney agreed. “The wind made my lips all chapped.” Ezra chortled. “We’ll get you some juice, how’s that sound? Then I can show you all your rooms, and once you’ve had the chance to change into something less traveled in and bathe if you wish, we can have a nice lunch.” “I hope you still have the same favorite foods you did when you were fifteen, Lady Vastcher,” Remy put in with a crooked grin. “Papa may or may not have asked the cooks to prepare them.” Ezra blushed, looking sheepish, while Safira only smirked. “It’s certainly going to be scores better than the inn food Dirk and I have been downing for weeks now,” she said. “Papa had the cook make honey cake,” Gillian piped in brightly. “And-- and plum pudding. And spiced figs, even though those are gross--” “Alright, I think we’ve made fun of Papa enough,” Ezra cut in, still looking embarrassed despite the fact that he was grinning along with the children. “Let’s get some juice for our parched travellers, then you lot are dismissed until the servants ring for lunch, okay?” “Aww, okay,” Vern groused cheerfully. “Can we talk to them some more after? ‘Cause you’ve been really excited to see Lady Vastcher and you didn’t talk about anything else for days so I bet she’s lots of fun and-” “ Vern,” Ezra cut in, covering his face. “Inside,” Dominique said firmly. “And if you want to taste anything beyond soap when you’re chattering later, Vern, I’d recommend tightening your tongue, all right?” Vern ducked his head, muttering, “Yes Mama.” Dirk glanced sidelong at Safira as the Vastchers started to follow the Alarics inside, an amused smile on his face. “Kid reminds you of Amicus, doesn’t he?” the Vastcher lord mused. “All energy and enthusiasm.” “It’s nice to see, really,” Safira agreed. “Kids acting like kids.” But here she swallowed hard, a melancholy expression flashing briefly across her face before she schooled it away. “It’s a good change,” she added at a murmur. “I’m happy.” *** Ezra and Dominique did their best to corral their younger children so that they wouldn’t overwhelm the shy and demure Cydney- a task made challenging by Gillian’s exuberance and Vern’s outgoing personality. They wanted to show her the kitty, and play in the gardens, and play with all the cool new toys they’d gotten after being ennobled, and tomorrow they could go make sandcastles at the beach- and while shy at first, after a few hours Cydney did open up; by night’s end the three children were thick as thieves, and after much wheedling, both sets of parents agreed that the trio could sleep over in Gillian’s room (just so long as they promised to actually sleep, that was). After tucking them and the rest of the kids in for the night, Dominique suggested that the adults take advantage of the significantly quieted manor to share a pitcher of wine in the sitting room that was closest to the sea, the ground level chamber featuring floor-to-ceiling windows as well as a set of double doors that opened up to a spacious patio. Since arriving to the estate the month before, this had come to be one of Dominique’s favourite places within it, and she smiled softly as Ezra poured them all glasses of wine and she cracked open the windows to let in a steady flow sea air. “It’s so calming, isn’t it?” she commented then, as she sat down beside her husband on one of the plush sofas. “The sound of the waves. The smell of the ocean.” “Mmm.” Ezra agreed. “I sometimes find when I’m putting Janet down for a nap that opening a window for the sound of the surf soothes her.” “I wish I had something like that for our tiny baby,” Dirk mused. “Dante turns one year old in a few months. He’s not fussy particularly but he is a big baby and insists on being held and walked around with until he is completely unconscious. That gets very tiring with a baby as heavy as he is.” Taking a sip of her wine, Safira smiled thinly. “At least once he does sleep, he sleeps. Not like Cydney. When she was a baby, I swear she’d wake up if you just breathed too loudly.” “That was Janet for the first few months,” Dominique said. “Couldn’t get her to sleep, and once you did she wouldn’t stay asleep. Thank the gods she outgrew that. I don’t think any of us slept all of last summer through her screaming.” “Gillian kept complaining that she wanted to take the baby back and get a new one,” Ezra said with a chuckle. “So the two youngest are your natural children, right Prince Ezra?” Dirk asked. “And the older four are from Princess Dominique’s previous marriage.” “They are yes,” Ezra confirmed. “Though Vern and Gilly don’t really remember their birth father- Gilly wasn’t born until after he’d already passed. But I assure you, they are all as much my children as if I’d birthed them. I love them equally.” “You hardly need to get defensive with me on that score, your highness,” Dirk said quickly, putting up both hands quickly “I know exactly what you mean, trust me.” “Cydney doesn’t really remember her natural father, either,” Safira added. “Sutter died when she was very small. Dirk’s been in the picture for her… quite a bit longer than he ever was.” Dominique smiled sadly, her face etched with empathy. “I suppose the war wasn’t kind to any of us. Thank the gods it’s over now. And all of us can move on.” “I never really did think I could return to royalty, even after the war ended,” Ezra admitted. “Not after… everything.” His eyes flicked towards Dirk, then settled on Safira. “How much does he know?” “He knows that Father was a monster,” Safira said simply. “And he was there when Mattie told me about what Father tried to do to you.” Setting her wineglass back down, she shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. “I was… shocked, honestly. And then, after second thought, I realised it made far too much sense.” Ezra sighed. “Losing all of you one at a time broke me down little by little. When my brother announced what he planned to do to Sabine… Gods, poor Sabine, it’s like Lila all over again.” Dirk glanced sideways at Safira. “Lila?” “My cousin Julia’s mother,” Safira murmured. “Father’s sister. The one he sent to Lange when she was only thirteen.” Her eyes falling toward her lap, Safira bit her lip. “Just another person he hurt, I suppose.” “Saf, what’s wrong?” Dirk pressed. “You’re… usually fairly blunt when you talk about this. Caustic even. You’re usually not this… uncomfortable.” “Sorry,” Safira said. “It’s just…” She shook her head. “It’s… strange. Being here. At this house. It… it used to be our vacation house, you know. B-before Cass gave it to Uncle Ezra. When I was a kid.” Dominique creased her brow, looking somewhere between confused and concern. “You’ve… been here before, then, Lady Safira?” “Just Safira is fine,” her niece responded. “But… yes. N-not for a long time now, but yes.” “... Oh,” Ezra winced, his eyes growing wide. “Saf, I’d… I’d forgotten, gods I’m so sorry. I should have realized.” Dirk looked momentarily befuddled, then understanding dawned on his face as well. “A manor by the sea. With a cliff and stairs leading down to the ocean. That’s… what you described isn’t it?” “I’m sorry,” Dominique said, “but I… I don’t understand. What’s wrong? What happened here?” Safira didn’t respond for a moment, the woman only letting out a heavy sigh as she once again fidgeted in her seat. Then, very softly, she said, “If you were to look at my bare back right now, you’d find it covered in scars. They’re from when I was ten. And I… I got them here. At this house. When I was on a holiday w-with my family.” Dominique winced. “Oh, gods. I’m-- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I--” “It’s all right,” Safira cut in, hesitantly leaning her head against Dirk’s shoulder. “You couldn’t have known-- very few people do.” She laughed then, very bitterly. “Gods, I think the only person who’s alive right now and knows the whole story is Dirk. I… didn’t exactly share it around at the time. Not even with Uncle Ezra.” Ezra swallowed hard. “I saw the scars on her back; when my nieces and nephews were younger I’d give them a balm for their pain when Oliver belted them. But when she refused to tell me what had happened, I didn’t pry. I didn’t want to force it.” “I only found out because… well we’re married and all that entails,” Dirk replied, putting a comforting hand around his wife’s shoulder. “I… I really do owe you my thanks, Lord Vastcher,” Ezra said softly. “You and your family. You protected Safira. Something I was never able to do.” “No one was able to stop my father, Uncle Ezra,” Safira said. “He… he did what he wanted to do. And trying to stop him, well…” She shut her eyes for a moment, sighing again. “It never ended well. Not for anyone.” “That’s what I try to tell Ezra,” Dominique agreed. “That he can’t blame himself for what King Oliver did. That he did the best he could, given the circumstances.” Ezra sighed softly, nodding with reluctance. “Trying to stop him when I was a child is what got me most of my beatings. And the one time I did it after I was grown, he ordered my brother to assassinate me.” He gave his niece a tired smile. “Still. I loved you all very much, and I wish I could have done more for you. Kept you from suffering as my siblings and I suffered.” “I’m just glad we can make new memories,” Safira murmured. “Without him. That… maybe one day, I’ll remember this house as a happy place, not just… somewhere else he ruined with his cruelty.” She smiled shakily. “I meant what I said earlier. That it’s nice seeing kids act like kids. And… seeing royal kids who haven’t been at all ruined by him. Who aren’t living in fear.” Ezra gave his niece a shaky smile. “I didn’t even realize just how badly he’d… ruined my perception of how families worked until Dominique took me in after I ran. I used to jump every time the kids did something that my brother would have construed as misbehaving. The one and only time Remy did something bad enough to warrant a belting- antagonizing a neighbor’s bull and almost getting himself and a friend gored- I only got three stripes in before… before I…” “He got sick,” Dominique finished. “Flashbacks to… what his brother had done to him.” Safira cringed. “I… can’t blame you, Uncle Ezra,” she said. “Gods, when Dirk and I got Cydney back, she was… a different child than the one we’d turned over. Father had only had her six months, or even less, and what he’d done to her in that time… I c-can’t believe I spent my entire childhood living like that.” Dirk nodded grimly. “I’m just glad we got her back soon enough to undo some of the damage. And for what it’s worth, I think living in an environment like that would skew anyone’s perceptions. But none of your children at all act like Cydney did for that first year or so after we got her home.” He grinned. “Prince Vern always been that chatty?” Dominique could only chuckle and roll her eyes. “He learned to talk very young-- and hasn’t quieted down since. He means well, he just has no concept of thinking before he babbles.” Ezra smiled as well. “Though from the sound of it, you know that joy yourselves. You mentioned someone named Amicus earlier?” “My kid brother,” Dirk confirmed. “He’s just a little bit older than Cydney. And he is… Saf, how should I put it diplomatically?” “I think your father calls him ‘spirited’,” Safira replied. “He’s never had a naughty idea he didn’t love at first thought.” Ezra laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like he would probably get along well with Vern, though I shudder to think what wild mischief they would cook up together.” “I don’t know how we’re going to keep up with him once we formally move to Cesthen in August,” Dirk said with a wry smile. “The small size of Cantour manor is probably all that keeps him manageable.” The prince chuckled again, then gave Safira a warm smile. “I’m glad to see that at least this time Oliver betrothed you to someone with a sense of humor. Lord Dirk seems a good man.” “Thank you,” the young lord quipped. “And you haven’t done so bad for yourself, either, Uncle Ezra,” Safira said, her voice finally lightening. “Father most certainly wouldn’t approve, and I, for one, think it’s wonderful.” Dominique blushed. “Well, thank you. I’ve been really grateful for how accepting everyone’s been. I was so afraid that despite Elias and Matteus being friendly, everyone else would be… less so. I’m glad to say I’ve been pleasantly surprised.” “I think most of Courdon is ready to put the hostilities of the past few years in the past,” Dirk mused. “We’ve spent nearly a decade in fighting, and from what Safira has told me House Alaric spent even longer in misery. You seem to have been a positive influence on Prince Ezra’s life, based on what he and Lord Duval say, so I imagine his loved ones wouldn’t wish to hold your background against you.” “If they did,” Ezra put in cheerily, “I’d yank their ears just like I used to when they were being surly brats as children.” Safira snorted. “I’d love to see you try that with Cass. The mighty king of Courdon brought down a peg.” “Nah,” the prince said breezily. “I relinquished my position of trying to keep Courdonian kings in line when they go on power trips. Elias can have fun with that task, I am happily retired.” Dirk smiled. “You just get to keep your six children in line instead.” “Oh, but see, that’s easy,” Ezra retorted, smirking. “You can’t just yank your sociopathic older brother’s ears when he misbehaves. But the kids? Much easier to keep them in line. Even if Vern never quite knows when to stop talking.”
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Post by Shinko on Mar 16, 2016 17:13:40 GMT -5
Collab with AveryRebuilding Bridges“Oh my gods, everything here is enormous,” Remy warbled as he trailed after his adoptive father, running a hand through his golden-brown hair. “I thought our manor in Aquilius was huge, but this place is like an entire city unto itself. You seriously grew up here?” Prince Ezra Alaric chuckled wearily. “I did. Sorry, I guessed it might be overwhelming, but I really should’ve tried to prepare you better. I came once with your mother about eight months ago, to formally introduce her to the court, but I figured you kids could use a little more time to adjust to just being in our seaside estate before I brought you to the Gilded Palace.” He grinned sheepishly. If he’d been given the choice, Ezra would not be here even now. Not since a very prominent change had occurred within the palace the past January. But he wasn’t here for himself. He was here to fulfill a promise to his son. “Is that the kennels then?” Remy asked, pointing to a building up ahead. “Gods, they’re as big as everything else around here! Who needs that many dogs?” “The king does,” Ezra replied with amusement. “Everything has to be bigger and better when you’re royal. You’ll learn that fast living here.” “I hope I learn fast,” Remy said dismally. “Otherwise this place will eat me alive.” “Don’t be so glum,” his father returned, putting a hand on the teenager’s shoulder. “This is family, I’m sure they’ll all be more than willing to help you find your footing. You’ll make a fine Master of the Horse here one day, I know it.” As the two of them drew closer to the door of the kennels, however, Ezra was surprised to find it hanging slightly ajar. He frowned; the door was never left open, a security measure that kept any loose hounds from making an escape. He leaned closer in inspection— but if he’d expected to find there an errant kennel-hand, such thoughts were quickly dispelled as his light blue eyes came to rest upon the figures of two young children, crouched in front of a kennel that contained a litter of month-old puppies. And, Ezra swiftly realised, they weren’t just children but girlchildren, their hair draped in matching plaits that hung down to their mid-backs, the hems of their silk dresses puddled in the dirt below. The larger— and presumably older— of the pair had her hands clasped behind her back, as though in anxiety, while the smaller girl’s fingers were threaded through the kennel slats, the child giggling as one of the chubby pups licked her with uncontained zeal. “They shouldn’t be in there,” Ezra muttered to Remy, who was looking through the crack just over his head. “The kennels are off-limits to kids unsupervised, and I’m pretty sure those young girl’s fathers don’t know they’re here.” “Who are they?” Remy hissed back. “They have jewelry on- so are they princesses?” “Maybe, but I doubt it,” the older prince replied. “More likely they belong to some visiting noble. Or they could be one of my uncle’s grandkids, but those are too far removed from my grandfather, King Malik, to technically qualify for the title of princess.” He rolled his eyes with a crooked smile. “Kids will be kids, but we really should still stop them. Here, follow my lead.” Without another word, Ezra pushed the kennel door wide, allowing a flood of sunlight into the room and causing it to creak loudly. The two girls startled at once, the elder one rocketing to her feet as the younger whipped her gaze back over her shoulder, eyes widening. When they seemed to realise the newcomers were strangers, however, they both sagged with relief, and the littler girl’s movements had taken on a languid air as she stood and turned to face Remy and Ezra. “‘Lo,” she said, smiling thinly. She was missing both of her bottom front teeth, and her bronze skin was dusted with freckles; she couldn’t have been older than five or six. Fiddling absently with a strand of curly hair that had worked itself loose from her braid—her locks were molten red, a stark contrast to her dark complexion— she added, “You… you comin’ to look at the doggies?” “Hello,” Ezra replied amiably. “I was coming to show my son the dogs, yes- he’s going to be apprenticing with the fellow who is in charge of them, as well as the horses, hawks and gryphons.” Ezra gestured to Remy, who gave a half-hearted wave, clearly nervous of the two noble girls. “What about you two? Last I was aware, the kennels at the palace were off limits to young children unless they had a parent with them.” His eyes flicking to the older child he added, “You look rather young to be playing the part of a chaperone. I would guess you’re about ten maybe?” “N-nine,” the child replied, averting her gaze. While the way the two girls stood shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning into each other, implied a certain intimacy, it was hard to make sense of how they might have known each other— the elder girl pale bronze where the younger was dark, her hair a milky strawberry-blonde to the younger’s vibrant dark red, their eyes both shades of green but on such opposite sides of the spectrum that one would have been hard pressed to call them similar. “Sh-she wanted to come see the puppies,” the nine-year-old tacked on hesitantly. “But it’s okay, ‘cos we were just going now.” “Were you?” Ezra asked. “It didn’t look like it to me. I’ve been standing outside the door watching you two for the past minute and neither of you seemed in a hurry to go.” He quirked an eyebrow. “You know if you leave the door hanging open like that one of the doggies could get loose, right? And then we’d have knights forced to chase it all over the place. While that might be funny, it’s a bit of a waste of their time and I doubt they’d be very happy with you.” He folded his arms. “What are your names, girls?” “Um.” The younger girl crossed her arms at her chest, considering. “It doesn’t matter, really. ‘Cos— ‘cos like my sister said, we were just goin’ now. So if you wanna see the doggies, you can have the kennels all to yourselves, and—” “Either you can tell me your names,” Ezra cut in bluntly, “or I can have the knights tell them to me. I’ll find out no matter. Surely your Papa has taught you it’s not polite to refuse to introduce yourself when someone asks?” The little one opened her lips again, as if to further retort, but before she could get another huffish word in edgewise, her older sister spoke over her. “I’m… I’m Aislin, enki,” she murmured, her throat wobbling. “And… and this is my sister. Corbin.” “And,” Corbin added helpfully, “we live here! At the palace. So it’s okay for us to be in here, enki. Promise.” Ezra winced. Corbin and Aislin- he knew those names far too well, having read them in military spy reports as well as having heard them from his nephew Matteus and brother Elias. These were the children of Gerard, Ezra’s estranged nephew recently returned to the palace. The reason that Ezra had been unenthusiastic about coming even if he knew how much it meant to his son. “I see,” the man said. His mouth thinned, and he quirked an eyebrow. “So it seems the rules at the palace have changed since I used to live here. Back when your Papa was a teenager, and even before.” The girls exchanged an uncertain glance, silence filling the air for a few moments before Corbin dared say, “You… you lived here? But…” “Your ring,” Aislin murmured, her mint green eyes— the ones so common in the ranks of the Alaric family— settling on the chunky House rings that both Remy and Ezra wore. Like the much-smaller versions she and Corbin had on, the men’s rings were impressed with the likeness of a gryphon rampant, a crown nested atop its feathered head. The royal Alaric crest. “You’re… an… an Alaric.” “Prince Ezra Alaric,” he agreed. “And my son is Prince Remy Alaric. Your papa and the king are my nephews. Your Uncle Elias is my little brother.” Aislin’s face fell as if she’d been slapped. “We’re sorry,” she blurted— almost bleated. “We were only in here for a couple minutes, I promise, and— and I only let Corby touch the puppies, not any of the grown-up dogs that could bite her, and… we really were gonna leave, we were!” She forced a jagged breath. “D-don’t tell our papa or Uncle Cassian. Pl-please?” “Papa,” Remy hissed in his father’s ear, “do we really have to tell on them? I think you’ve scared them enough for them to get the message.” “Somehow I doubt it,” the older prince replied in a whisper. “From everything Mattie’s told me about Corbin, she’ll just do this again if I let her off. Trust me, I’m not eager to get them in trouble either, but I can’t just let this go.” Turning to the girls and adding more audibly, “Sorry girls, but rules are rules. I don’t think my nephews would be entirely happy about me keeping secrets from them, especially about close girlchild relatives.” As Aislin let out a small whimper, Corbin pouted her lips, looking more petulant than cowed. “I just wanted to see the doggies,” she said. “I wasn’t gonna let ‘em out or nothin’ like that.” “Corby,” Aislin hissed, elbowing the littler girl sharply. “Don’t talk back, you’re just gonna make it worse.” “Told you,” Ezra said dryly to Remy. To the girl he said cooly, “Shall I also inform your papa that you were sassing me, young lady?” “Nuh-uh.” Corbin finally drooped, her emerald green eyes plunging to the ground beneath in defeat. “I… I didn’t mean to sass. I’m s-sorry. Please don’t tell Papa I was talkin’ back? He’ll scrub my mouth. With soap.” “I’ll consider keeping that between us, then,” Ezra agreed gently. “If you both come with me without kicking up a fuss. That sound fair?” “Yes,” Aislin said, reaching for her sister’s hand. Corbin didn’t resist the move, only letting out a dramatic sigh, and as Ezra and Remy proceeded to lead the children back toward the palace proper, the girls were as somber and silent as marchers in a funeral procession. Ezra didn’t tell them precisely where he was taking them, and neither Corbin nor Aislin asked— though this didn’t stop Aislin from letting out another small whimper when, as they reached the heavily restricted corridor that led to the assemblage of family quarters and accommodations, Ezra ordered a nearby servant to fetch Gerard for him. With a deep bow, the servant scurried off to oblige, and about a minute later the group of royals reached the front door to Gerard’s expansive apartment, located just across the hall from the king’s own flat. “Is Lady Muriel in?” Ezra asked the two knights posted at the door, naming Gerard’s wife- not coincidentally, also the daughter of the infamous Branded Lord. “She’s out in the city with her youngest two children, your highness,” replied one of the guards, bowing low. “Visiting her parents.” “Mama didn’t take us with ‘cos Ash had lessons that just got out, and I was bad during breakfast,” Corbin announced glumly. “She said if I wasn’t good then I didn’t earn the trip to see Grandma and Grandpa. Even though all I did was kick Ammy under the table when she was leanin’ into my space.” “And I thought Alicia could be lippy sometimes,” Remy remarked with vague amusement. Ezra, however, was far from amused. He’d been hoping that if Muriel was in he could just hand the girls off to her and avoid an awkward meeting with his nephew. No such luck. “We’ll wait for Prince Gerard then,” Ezra said, more calmly than he felt. His gut was tying itself in knots at the idea, but there was little else he could do. Glancing down at Corbin he added, “And hopefully the young miss will tighten her tongue in the meantime.” “She’s sorry,” Aislin murmured, her face grim. “Right, Corby?” “Uh-huh,” Corbin echoed absently. The four of them waited in silence, Remy looking distinctly uncomfortable as he stuck to his father’s side like a tick. It took some time- the palace was huge so Ezra wasn’t especially surprised- but at length the sound of bootheels clicking against the floor heralded the arrival of his nephew. The expression written across Prince Gerard’s face was decidedly annoyed— presumably toward the girls— but the moment his dark eyes hooked with Ezra’s, some akin to fear washed over him. His caramel-coloured skin went pale, his jaw slack. “Uncle Ezra,” he said, his voice catching and so very, very frail. “Gods, it’s been… it’s been…” “Nine years.” Ezra’s voice was soft, distant, and there was a noticeably mournful light in his eyes. Gods, what even should he say? He wanted to be able to greet Gerard warmly, as he had Matteus and Safira, or even with the same sort of polite if awkward diplomatic banter he’d managed with Cassian. But when he looked into Gerard’s brown eyes, the old hurt of his nephew’s cruel accusations just before his departure seemed to strangle the older prince. Finally he managed, “I don’t believe you’ve met my son, Remy? He’ll be living at the palace from now on, apprenticing under the Master of the Horse.” Gerard nodded. “Of course. Prince Remy.” He inclined his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are… are you looking forward to taking up your post? It must be very exciting.” Remy looked between his adoptive father and Gerard, clearly confused. “I’m… nervous, admittedly,” the teenager replied, enunciating his high dialect very deliberately but still not able to in the least mask his low accent. “Everything here is humongous- I grew up in a house not much bigger than the foyer of Uncle Elias’ apartment. I always kind of assumed I’d take after Pa- erm, Father, and become a farrier. Until I found out he wasn’t one.” “That must have been a lot to adjust to,” Gerard said. Though his words were neutral, even friendly, the tension that permeated him was clear as polished glass. “But you’re doing very well with the high tongue, I see. I’m sure you’ll feel at home here very soon.” “The palace has become a lot friendlier than it was when last either of us lived here,” Ezra noted absently, unintentionally falling into a military at-ease position to keep himself from fidgeting. Before he quite had the chance to bite it back, he added, “Once upon a time I’d never have felt comfortable turning a pair of troublemakers over to their father.” He winced hard, his eyes shooting downwards as he realized what he’d said. Godsdammit, that was the last thing he’d wanted to bring up. Indeed, Gerard stiffened further, settling a hand each on Aislin and Corbin’s shoulders. The girls, meanwhile, looked only confused, their gazes rapidly flitting between their father and their grand-uncle as Gerard said, “My children mean the world to me. You’re right— things are different here now, Uncle.” “I’m glad,” Ezra replied, squeezing his eyes shut. “As I’m glad you’ve found family you can truly love and care for. I’m sorry that I was never able to be that for you.” He turned sharply, gesturing to the badly confused Remy. “C’mon, we still need to finish your tour.” “Wait.” Gerard swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I… I’d like to speak with you, Uncle. Later. Alone. If it’s— if it’s all right.” Ezra froze, confusion and disbelief sending a shudder down his spine. Gerard wanted to talk to him? Why? Was it just guilt? Or… After a long, tense moment of silence, Ezra looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Alright. When and where?” “You’re staying at your old flat, right?” Gerard said softly. “Where Uncle Elias lives?” “Yes,” Ezra agreed. “He’s offered to let Rem live there for a few months until he gets used to the palace.” “I’ll meet you there, then?” his nephew offered. “Tonight, after… after the kids have gone to bed for the night. Say— nine o’ clock?” He gave his uncle the tentative ghost of a smile. “I can bring wine. If you’d like.” Ezra’s demeanor relaxed just a hair, and he nodded. “Sure. I’ll see you then, Gerard.” And with that, the man turned down the hall again, Remy following close at his heels as they vanished around a corner. *** The sun had fully set outside, and the moon was well up by the time a knock sounded at the door to the flat that Ezra had once shared with his younger brother, one that Elias now occupied alone most of the time. The elder prince glanced at his brother, sighing softly. “I hope this doesn’t go as poorly as my last conversation with him.” “Take a deep breath, Ez,” Elias replied gently. “It’s going to be okay. I bet it goes much better than you— or he, for that matter— thinks it will.” He moved toward the door, hand closing over the handle. “Don’t look like you’re being marched to your execution, all right, brother?” The older prince smiled grimly, then ran a hand through his hair. “Alright. Sorry, it’s just… I’m nervous. But you’ve been right about everything else so far- I trust your judgement, Eli. Better than mine these days.” Elias said nothing further, only shooting his older brother one last reassuring look before he swung the door open. “Gerard,” he greeted, moving aside to let the younger prince into the flat. “How are you doing tonight?” “I’m all right, thank you,” Gerard replied softly, his arms crossed at his chest like an anxious child’s as he stepped into the foyer. Dark eyes glossy with trepidation, he glanced to Ezra, adding, “Uncle. Thank you for… for agreeing to talk with me.” “Of course,” Ezra replied, nodding. “Far be it for me to turn away my own family.” He glanced at Elias. “I’ll see you later then, brother?” Elias nodded. “You can have my office,” he said. Ezra nodded, standing slowly and leading the way to the office in question- reflecting dimly that once upon a time it had also been his office. The room where Elias had told him a lifetime ago about the previous king Oliver’s plan to have the younger brother murder the elder. Hopefully this conversation would not end so bleakly. Ezra held the door open for his nephew, and once both of them were in the room he sat on one of the cushioned armchairs in front of the desk, while Gerard took a seat opposite. Hands clasped in his lap, it was clear the younger prince was immensely nervous, his entire body rigid. Dread-filled. “You probably have a lot to say to me,” he murmured. “And probably none of it good.” “Getting right to the point, hm?” Ezra noted softly. “I suppose you’ve probably had similar conversations with everyone else in the family already, except maybe Matt.” “It hasn’t all been warm hugs and smiles,” Gerard confirmed, a wistful note to his tone. “Not that I blame anybody for that. I have to earn forgiveness— it’s hardly obligated on anyone else’s part.” “Gerard, for what it’s worth, I never blamed you for leaving,” Ezra said, looking his nephew dead in the eye. “I’ve told you before, I ran away too, in my own way, when I joined the military. I understood why you’d be willing to do nearly anything to get out from under my brother’s thumb. I was angry that you threw in your lot with the army that would’ve happily seen the palace burned to the ground with our entire family trapped inside- nearly succeeded at that once as I recall- but that’s not why my personal grievance runs so deep.” “Why, then?” Gerard asked. “Because whatever it is, I… I want to mend bridges, Uncle. That’s all I want. To apologise and fix things, whatever things I can.” “But can you mend a bridge that didn’t exist in the first place?” Ezra asked, his blue eyes bright with hurt. “I loved you. You and all of your siblings. But you Gerry? You never loved me. You didn’t trust me, you barely tolerated me. And when it came to a testing, when I was worried about you being standoffish with me and trying to get you to at least promise me you’d be okay…” his eyes narrowed. “You really don’t remember do you? What you said to me that day. It was so thoughtless, so automatic, you didn’t even commit it to memory.” “I was afraid to love anyone,” Gerard said softly. “Afraid that if I let myself be vulnerable, I’d only end up getting hurt. My father had be convinced that I wasn’t worth loving. That no one possibly could care for me. Not when I was… I was…” He shook his head, letting out a hiss of frustration and contempt. “What did I say, Uncle?” “You accused me of preparing to take our conversation to your father,” Ezra retorted, his jaw tight. “You snarled at me about how I didn’t understand your life and your pain, and begged me not to tell Oliver that I was suspicious of your behavior.” “He would have killed me,” Gerard murmured. “Logic— who you were, how you’d treated me— none of that mattered in my head. Not at that moment. The prospect— however remote— of getting caught was a living beast inside my mind. Hanging over me, always.” He closed his eyes, briefly, then opened them again. “But I understand how much that must have hurt you. Given how you’d always tried to be kind to me. I’m sorry, Uncle. I’m so sorry. And… I’m sorry for what my father did you, too. He should have treated you better. So much better.” “He did try to kill me,” Ezra said, his voice brittle as cracked glass. “And he’d have succeeded, if he hadn’t overestimated how afraid Elias was of him. When I found out, and Elias told me to run, at first I didn’t want to. Even if it meant my dying at my own brother’s hands, I wanted to stay. To try and protect what little family I had left.” He clenched his hands on his trousers, eyes glimmering. “I was broken, Gerard. So broken. I had given up a life I was contented in for my nieces and nephews. And one by one, they walked away, except for Saf and Sabine, who were sent away. I had nothing left. And you know? When the war ended and Elias offered to tell Matt and Julia I was still alive, I almost told him no. Because after what you said to me, after everything that happened, I honestly didn’t think any of them really cared. I tried so hard to be a positive influence on your lives after my mother died, but it felt like none of it made any difference in the end.” “I’m sorry,” Gerard said again. “It did matter to me. Your kindness. You mattered. But my father, he was like… a haze of smoke over everything. Choking me. Depriving me of air. Affecting how I saw everything.” The man let out a soft, sad breath. “I was a broken, broken person then. Immature. Angry. And I hurt people I love because of it. People who didn’t deserve to be hurt. But…” He met Ezra’s gaze squarely. “I’ve grown, Uncle. I’ve seen more of the world than my father’s prison of a palace. And I know I can’t expect your forgiveness, but… I am sorry. Truly, truly sorry.” A beat. “I love you, Uncle Ezra. And looking back— the kindness you showed me meant more than I ever knew then. You were a sip of air when I was smothering. One thing that kept me from just… giving up. When things got bad.” Ezra inhaled sharply, blinking hard. “It’s funny. I didn't even realize it until the woman who became my wife pointed it out to me, but all these years… That’s all I wanted. A little reciprocation. Getting back some of what I gave. For someone, anyone to tell me that my existence mattered.” He laughed dismally. “I’m pathetic and needy, but well…” “It’s not needy,” Gerard said. “It’s human, Uncle Ezra. It’s… it’s what families should be like. What ours can be now, with my father gone.” After hesitating for a moment, he reached his hand across the desk in a silent invitation, his palm open. “You’ve always meant a lot to all of us— you were everything my father wasn’t. You were… safe. Comforting. Kind. I’m so sorry that I let my father put blinders on me. That… that I let him convolute my head like he did, to the point where I saw shadows even in friendly faces. You didn’t deserve that.” Ezra hesitated a moment, then gave a soft sigh and smiled ruefully. Taking Gerard’s hand in his own he remarked, “I just hope your little imps don't hate me too much. Would ruin all that sentiment about being one big happy family if Corbin and Aislin decided to resent me for being a snitch our very first meeting.” Gerard gave a watery chuckle. “Corbin was born with a never-ending supply of bad ideas,” he said. “And unfortunately, Ash is well used to getting dragged into her little sister’s shenanigans. If they were to hate you for your telling me they were naughty… they would also have to hate Cass, and Mel, and my mother, and their other grandparents, and… well, everyone.” “Ah, but those worthies had the advantage of a better first impression,” Ezra noted. “I shall have to make up the slack by spoiling them rotten next time you let me spend time with them.” Gerard squeezed his uncle’s hand. “I’d love for you to get to know them, Uncle,” he said. “To get to know all of my children. I promise, they’re not all quite as, ah… spirited, shall we say?” He dared a small smirk. “And moving forward, you’ve my full permission to tweak Corbin’s ear if she’s being a brat. Or dragging her siblings and cousins into trouble.” Ezra laughed, squeezing his nephew’s hand back before he drew it away. “She’ll be so disappointed. At first she was trying to pull rank on me you know. Thought I was an enki, and was instructing me on palace rules.” He smirked back at Gerard. “Four months at the palace and already trying to throw her royal weight around. Meanwhile my little ones still fret themselves to pieces over not being prince or princess-y enough after over a year.” “We should get them together some time,” Gerard said softly. “You’ve… you’ve got a whole host of little ones, don’t you? I’m sure they and my bunch could have a lot of fun together. Get into lots of trouble, too, but— hey, kids are kids, right?” He gulped. “... Only if you want to, though, of course. I… I don’t want to pressure you. If you’re not… ready.” “I have five more besides Remy,” Ezra confirmed. “Alicia’s fourteen, a bit old for your brood, but Gillian and Vern are seven and nine- just about right to play with Aislin and Corbin. They’re already enthusiastic pen pals with Safira’s Cydney- I’m sure they’d love more friends. And I think Eli and Janet would make good playmates for your younger set. How old were they again?” “Amalia’s nearly four,” Gerard said. “Elodie’s one.” “Eli’s right about the same age as your Amalia then. Janet’s two.” The older prince smirked. “Serendipitous, isn't it?” “I’m sure they’ll become fast pals,” Gerard said with a light smile. Then, his voice taking on a more serious note, he added, “I… hear you’ve taken up residence in Aquilius. At the old vacation house? I’m sure my girls would love a visit to the sea— and their cousins. If… if that’s something you’d like, Uncle.” “Provided I can wrangle a mage to set wards on the cliff staircase, lest dear Corbin’s feet set her wandering where she ought not be again,” Ezra said. “That would be nice for everybody, I’m sure. And you could meet my Dominique. Just, ah, go easy on her? She’s still getting used to all of this, and you've a bit of a presence after your army time, so Mattie tells me.” “Of course,” Gerard agreed. “I know just as well as anyone that noble life is… a lot to adjust to for an outsider, to say the least. Especially royal life. I wouldn’t want to make things any harder for her than they already are.” He gave his uncle a crooked look. “Congratulations, by the way. For everything— the marriage, your kids… all of it. I know how happy it must make you.” “I never thought my brother trying to assassinate me would be the best thing that ever happened to me, but the gods work in strange ways, hm?” Ezra chuckled. “Congratulations to you as well. I may have married a peasant, but snagging the branded lord’s daughter- I never could quite reclaim my title as Oliver’s least favorite relative after you entered the competition.” Gerard quirked a dark brow. “Well, I did play my hardest,” he deadpanned. “Started from birth, really, aiming for that top slot.” “Whereas I really only had age thirteen and on to work with,” the older prince agreed. “Though I suppose him trying to kill me has to count for something.” Ezra tilted his head. “Matt told me that you smelled a rat when you heard about my ‘accident’.” “It seemed too… convenient,” Gerard confirmed. “Orchestrated. And just the sort of thing my father would do.” “Good thing he didn't have your insight,” Ezra said shrewdly. “Or it might have occurred to him to wonder at how very convenient it was that I ‘died’ in such a way as to make it impossible to recover my body. Though, if he had your insight he likely never would have picked Elias as his co-conspirator. I think even Mattie at eleven could have told him that ploy was doomed to fail.” “My father always was too cocky for his own good,” Gerard replied. “He thought he was the pinnacle of intelligence. Of manipulation. But I don’t think he could see the forest through the trees. Or tell what people really thought of him. What they’d do to him, if given the opportunity.” Ezra gave a soft, sardonic laugh. “I can’t say I wasn’t glad my own father’s blood finally got some long overdue justice. And somehow or another, I don’t think anyone’s quite so afraid of our new king, whatever he may once have been.” “No one in the family, anyway,” Gerard said. He pursed his lips. “Cassian has made it quite clear that he intends to mend my father’s broken legacy. And the one he’d begun carving, as well. Before.” “Got that off to an ironic start, considering the aforementioned comment about your grandfather, but yes.” Ezra quirked an eyebrow. “I’d check up on him around the time your little ones have their birthdays. He thought it very generous to get Gillian a purebred kitten for her last birthday, but in his eagerness for it to be a surprise never bothered to ask me or Dominique if we minded having a cat.” “That’s Cass for you.” Gerard gave a bemused sigh. “I mean, gods— when my family first got to the palace after over a week of travel, with four cranky children in tow, know what he did?” “Something well-meant but ill conceived, no doubt,” Ezra replied. “What did he do?” “A full court banquet,” Gerard said. “With all of Rakine’s prime nobility present. And he thought that a wonderful main course for my children who’d been raised thus far as peasants would be whole suckling pig. Bathed in red sauce.” “Oh gods,” Ezra covered his face. “I think if I offered my younger kids whole suckling pig even now they’d probably burst into tears. I think I probably wouldn’t have taken it well either at your kids’ ages, though at least I might’ve been diplomatically trained well enough not to say anything out loud.” “Let’s just say the night ended with Aislin throwing a tantrum,” Gerard confirmed. “But… that’s how I knew for certain that he’d changed, too. Cass. When he seemed truly regretful and wanted to help me with the kids, instead of huffing about how they were making fools of themselves. Instead of… of… hurting them for simply being children. In a way, it was a comfort.” Ezra’s expression softened, and he smiled. “It’s been a world of relief. Seeing Alaric children who aren’t afraid to be children. Afraid of breathing in the wrong direction and being savaged for it. Who can get their ears tweaked for being naughty, then cuddle with the papa who did the tweaking ten minutes later once they’re done being sullen.” “It turns my stomach to think about how one person could have so badly affected the lives of so many others,” Gerard said. “How much power he held over all of us. But…” Here, the younger prince smiled, almost impishly. “In the end, he was just a man. One man. And he fell as all men do. Thank the gods.” Ezra returned a smirk of his own. “I don’t think I ever told you did I? What exactly I said to him that got me the decking that scarred my face. It was just after he announced he was sending Lila to Lange. I told him that he may have been king, but not even the king is above the gods. And that according to the gods, it was a man’s duty to protect his family, not to use and abuse them. I like to imagine that Carricon is giving my dear brother exactly what he deserves for failing in his most basic holy duty so spectacularly.” “I’d like to think so, too,” Gerard said. “He can get a taste of his own cruelty. And I hope he knows, too, how happy we all are without him.” He laughed, softly. “It would drive him mad, wouldn’t it? Seeing your wife and kids. Mine. All of them safe and loved and valued— and dressed in Alaric red and gold.” “He would have screamed and stomped his feet and hit things, like the mature four year old he was,” Ezra agreed. “Would make him gnash his teeth to see Julia too, with her little one that she made sure never got into his grasp.” “Ah, yes, knowing that Lord Augustin’s son was kin of his all along.” Gerard’s dark eyes glimmered. “Funny, isn’t it? How much he couldn’t control, in the end. He tried to hold his family in irons, but people still fought back where they could. Whenever they could. His grasp wasn’t nearly as rigid as he thought it was.” “Someday you should ask Elias or your Aunt Anna to tell you stories about when we were all children in the palace,” Ezra remarked. “Back then I was the grand champion at doing the opposite of what Oliver wanted me to, until he figured out beating up those smaller than me was an effective way to keep me in line. Even so I did my best to go against the grain where I could. Even if it meant doing something as small as taking you and Matt out to get fruit in the market for fifteen minutes away from his glowering.” “It did mean a lot to us,” Gerard said. “The little things you did. And I’m so happy, Uncle, at the idea of that being our family legacy moving forward. Not my father, but people like you, and Uncle Elias, and— and even Cassian. It’s like a dream. Such a wonderful, wonderful dream.” “My wife said something to me when I was deciding if I wanted to return to royalty or not that stuck with me for a long time,” Ezra said, leaning back in his chair. “She said that with Oliver gone, and Cassian giving us our titles back, we could have the life we should have had all along. The life that is entitled to us as sons of royalty; privilege, happiness, and security.” He smiled crookedly, the affection in the expression plain. “She’s very wise. I think you’ll like her.” “Is that an invitation to come visit, Uncle?” Gerard teased. “Because if so, I shall have you know I expect the full royal reception. A banquet, live entertainers, the whole gamut. And don’t you dare forget the suckling pig.” Ezra snorted. “I shall have to see what I can fit into the budget. I wouldn’t want to let you down, dear nephew. Though that reminds me, keep your little raised-peasant kids well away from any coffee until they’re a good bit older. Dominique made the mistake of leaving a full pitcher of the stuff out where Alicia could get it and well…” “Ended poorly, did it?” Gerard snorted. “Duly noted. Gods know, Corbin needs no extra energy. She’s enough in her for all four of my children. Plus Cassian’s. And yours, probably. That’s why she’s got the red hair, you know— the gods were warning us that she had a fire in her.” “I’d expect nothing less from the Branded Lord’s granddaughter and the child of Oliver’s runaway son,” Ezra mused with a smile. “Really you should’ve seen that coming. Meanwhile Eli is constantly bugging me to ‘ride the cat-birdie Papa!’ The apples didn’t fall far from their trees. We need to make sure we get them good and exhausted during that play date.” “Worn out Corbin is my favourite version of Corbin,” Gerard agreed. “I look forward to it, Uncle Ezra.” Then, much softer: “And of course, I look forward to seeing you again, too.” Ezra gave a gentle smile. “I’m sorry Gerry. For not trying to talk to you sooner. I just… didn’t think you wanted anything to do with me. I convinced myself you just come back for your siblings.” “I’m sorry, too,” Gerard said. “That I didn’t seek you out. I just… didn’t think you’d want to see me. And I didn’t want to force you into anything. But…” He swallowed hard. “What matters now is the future, not the past. The solid, loving family we’re going to carve now, instead of the broken one my father made.” “A better family for ourselves and our children,” Ezra agreed. “It’s not going to be easy to undo all the damage that was wrought- but it’ll be worth it.” “The important things always take work. But that just makes them all the more satisfying in the end.” He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for the path ahead. “I love you, Uncle Ezra. I always have— and always will. And… thank you. For all you’ve done for me. It meant more than you ever knew.” The older prince blinked hard, smiling. “You’re welcome, Gerry. I love you, too.”
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