#lmao volker's a simp

[locria-writes]

i have no idea how to fit in rosamunde’s backstory into aab, so i just wrote it out lol

The most valuable lesson that her late father ever taught her was to survive.

Survival, he told her, meant being able to blend in wherever and with whomever. Survival meant discarding dignity and honour, and other such lofty notions that had long been ingrained in her. To survive was to simply be alive, to thrive was to be living. Living could come later, but only if one was alive.

Rosamunde had been but seven years old when he told her this, and she couldn’t help but blurt out, “Why aren’t you telling this to Gisbert and Ernst?”

Her father smiled gently, if not a bit forlornly, smoothing her hair without a word. Then he replied, “Because my dear Roeschen is a girl.”

She frowned. “So?”

“People can be cruel and unfair. You won’t have the same opportunities as your brothers should anything happen. They can take up a sword and fight to survive, but you won’t be able to do the same.”

“But why not?”

“That’s a lesson for another day, but you already see it, don’t you? When you study with the Royal Tutor, are there any other girls around? Don’t people give you strange looks when you accompany the princes?”

It was true… People raised a brow at her whenever she studied at the castle. Sometimes there would be unkind snickers, pointed fingers, but she always ignored them. Her grandfather once said that only fools mock an educated woman.

Her father pulled out a silver bangle from his jacket and slipped it onto her wrist. It was old and deceptively simple. The engravings felt like letters, but she couldn’t quite decipher what they meant.

“What is this?”

He kissed her temple. “It’s a lucky charm.”

When she was ten, her family was exiled, stripped of all their glory and wealth, and sent to the bitter northern border. It was a bit hard to leave behind her friends, Prince Volker had hugged her desperately, begging her to stay because he would marry her, but she didn’t let it show. Weakness was a necessity for it kept one from becoming too arrogant, but it was also necessary to keep it hidden from all but one’s most trusted. That was what her father taught his soldiers, and ultimately, he passed it on to his children.

Life was difficult at first – she had grown up surrounded by servants, but neither her mother nor father complained about it, so she decided there was no point in it either. They were alive, they were surviving, and for Rosamunde, that was enough.

Her father was restricted in what he was allowed to do, where he was allowed to go, so he made and sold wood carvings. Her mother was a homemaker and sold her embroidery. Her older brothers did odd jobs around the small village, and Rosamunde helped her mother at home. She didn’t know how, but they scraped by. Their home wasn’t large, but it was clean and functional. They didn’t have a proper farm to earn money with, but they had some animals, and a somewhat fertile garden to work with. It wasn’t the life of glittering wealth they had before, but it was a life she could live with for the rest of her life.

She was twelve when her father taught her his last lesson.

“Roeschen, do you think revenge is a good or bad thing?”

She stopped sewing and tried to gauge her father’s expression. It was dark, save for the flickering light of the hearth. “It’s…revenge comes from hatred, so isn’t it inherently a bad thing?”

“It is indeed.” He was quiet for a moment. “Is justice a good or bad thing?”

“It’s a good thing.”

“Then if a man seeks retribution for his brother’s murder, is it justice or revenge?”

“It’s justice.”

“Is it justice if he takes matters into his own hands and kills the murderer himself? Is it justice if he makes it his mission to make the murderer’s life as miserable as possible without killing him?”

She didn’t know how to answer. Her father laughed quietly as he reached over and patted her head. “It’s all right if you don’t have an answer, Roeschen. You’ll find your own as you grow older.”

The next day, soldiers came with a warrant for her father. Her father didn’t seem surprised, and even laughed jovially at the sight of them. Her mother remained stoic, but Rosamunde could see her trembling as they took Gisbert and Ernst.

A few days passed, and no word came from the capital. Realistically, Rosamunde knew that it would be a while, but she couldn’t bear not knowing. They were a bit big, but she threw on some of her brothers’ old clothing, and rode off to find out what happened.

She was afraid every step of the journey, but she was never taught to fear being afraid. Wise men feared, foolish men feared not.

The capital was abuzz when she arrived, and to her dismay, it was for her father’s execution.

Everything felt numb as she watched her father’s head roll away. He dedicated his life to the Crown, he wanted nothing more than his country – his home – to be the best it could be, yet he was merely labelled a treasonous man and met a bloody and inglorious fate instead.

It was unfair, but life was rarely fair.

She should have cried, should have screamed, should have done something, but all her body could do was stare blankly. Even as the crowd dispersed, she remained rooted to her spot, unmoving and unfeeling. The only solace she found was that at least Gisbert and Ernst weren’t there, but what if they had already died? Or worse? Her poor mother…her poor younger siblings…

“Rosamunde…?”

There was a woefully familiar pair of pale eyes before her, and no she could not feel anything anymore and least of all to a murderer’s son. He tentatively reached toward her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder, and please dear Providence don’t touch her because that was all it would take to shatter her.

She said nothing, but she remembered kicking and punching, lashing out however she could at him and it wasn’t his fault his only fault was to be the Crown’s son, and she fled like a coward.

When she arrived back home and told her mother, the older woman didn’t shed a tear either, couldn’t shed a tear. She fell ill, and never recovered, but was never allowed the mercy of death. Ernst came back after her, both legs broken and barely on the mend, and suddenly she was the only one who could provide for her broken family.

Rosamunde never accepted charity, never liked being looked down upon with pity. Her father taught her to survive, taught her that revenge and justice were in the eye of the judge, and by Providence, she would make her own revenge. His enemies wanted him to fall, wanted his family (she briefly wondered if it was one of her maternal grandfather’s enemies, but the man was a snake through and through, so she doubted there were even any left alive) to suffer, so she would deny them that pleasure. She would survive, survive until she thrived.

It mattered not what job she could do, so long as she could do it. If it were a woman’s work, a man’s work, she would do it. So what if her own life was robbed of her own wishes? If her younger brother and sister could thrive, she would be happy. She sold the silver bangle, albeit incredibly reluctantly, but she wasn’t selfish enough to keep it. One day, she told herself, she’d find a way to get it back.

Dignity, honour, morality, who cared? Did dignity put food on the table? Did honour keep the hearth going? Did morality entail survival? Her father was the most dignified, most honourable, most moral man in the world, yet he was undone by the scheming of others.

It took a long time, but at last, she found some sort of peace with herself, and life was difficult, but not unbearable. At least until they showed up again.

They cajoled her into agreeing to heal Prince Volker’s leg, pestered her until they finally found a crack in the walls she carefully built. She always hated Augustin and expected such impudence from him, but from Prince Volker? He had always been good at whittling her down until she was at her most vulnerable.

“Don’t you want to come back with us?” To his credit, he barely flinched when she haphazardly cleaned the wound.

“I’ve left that life.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t want to.”

He was quiet for a bit. “I meant it back then when I said I wanted to marry you.”

She scoffed. “We were children. It meant nothing.”

“It meant everything.” He grabbed her hand. “I won’t marry the Rosenthal girl…I won’t marry anyone other than you.”

She felt pathetic in that moment, letting his mere touch elicit warmth in her chest. She always liked him when she was a child, he made beautiful and wonderful promises to her, but that wasn’t how the world worked. She still liked him, but it felt like a familiar and nostalgic ache somewhere in the back of her heart now.

“If you think wooing me will convince me otherwise, I suggest you stop now.”

“I’m being serious, Roeschen.” His thumb traced her palm. “You’ve suffered out here…Aunt Elfriede…Ernst…all of you have suffered a grave injustice. Don’t you want to clear Uncle Rudolf’s name? Don’t you want to return to your old life?”

In truth, of course she did. What fool would choose a life of hardship over one of ease and comfort? But she was always taught to never want for things that could not be. She wouldn’t want to return to her old life because it was impossible. She wouldn’t want to marry and be in love with Prince Volker because it was impossible. “If you’re going to continue spouting hogwash, I think you should leave now before I’m tempted to chop off your leg.”

That failed to deter him. Instead, he pulled out a familiar silver bangle and held it before her. “This is yours, isn’t it? Uncle Rudolf gave it to you.”

“W-where…?”

“You pawned it, and I was looking for your family’s heirlooms. Come back to the capital with us, Roeschen. Even if…even if you don’t wish to publicly clear Uncle Rudolf’s name, don’t you want to at least help us figure out what happened? Don’t you want to avenge his indignant death?” He leaned a bit closer and said in a quieter voice, “Don’t you want to see Gisbert again?”

Her father wouldn’t want this; her father would call it a fool’s delusion. He would want her to survive, not to fight over sentimentality, but Rosamunde wasn’t her father. She wasn’t that strong.

She closed her eyes, murmuring a quiet apology. “I’ll go then.”

#aab snippets #aab rosamunde #aab volker #aab augustin #lmao volker's a simp #deadass tho she's too good for both of them dump their asses #dry cough and nasal congestion combo is the worst i swear i threw out my back last night #i just wanna sleep laying down why does my chest gotta do me dirty like that unless i'm at a 60 degree angle smh #i wanna say it's allergies but idk i get this dry cold at least once a year #anyway hope you guys are coping okay and hopefully when i get some good sleep i can finish chapter two bc it's killing me #also won't be answering asks until i can get my second braincell working dw i see it