#in the queen dowagers memories they dance and they laugh | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hiatuswhore · 1 year

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♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥—ᴀ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ɹǝʍoԀ

♕ A/N: I have been having so much fun writing this little mini-series. I have so many ideas and I wish the show wasn’t so new that way I would have more source material to work off. Thank you for all the feedback it’s a great motivator and I love interacting with you all. The Prince and The Street Rat—A Game of Power.

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 5.4K

♕ WARNING: Suicide is touched on in this chapter.

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You keep the necklace hidden with the kitchen knife. Each morning Aemond joins you for breakfast. The first few hold odd pauses and sheepish glances. You often do not see him until later in the evening, if at all.

You note how he casually asks about your day by the second week. You answer plainly, offering no outlet to further the conversation. Weeks turn to moons without the faintest clue of what occurs outside the castle walls.

Aemond makes it his business to provide you with a bookshelf. You find a large portion of the books you once debated about in the past. Others are recommendations or ones he believes you will like. These books consume your days, and the room appears smaller and smaller with each passing second. A hollowness sits in the core of your chest, waiting and watching as pieces of yourself become distant memories.

Your silent compliance earns you strolls through the garden under the watch of guards. You use this time just as the sun rises, the judgmental eyes of nobleman still resting. You curse the servants for waking you at your requested hour the first few times. Still, you rise and bathe before first light breaks. You sit in the middle of the garden as the sky scintillates with rays of gold. By the time the golden rays evaporate into the unrelenting beaming of the sun, you are back in your chambers, breaking your fast with Aemond.

"How was the gardens?" The sounds of silverware hitting plates supplants the silence. You focus on the strawberries on your plate as he stares at you.

"Very nice," You say, scooping a spoon full you grimace, the sweetness souring on your tongue. Reaching forward for you grab your wine glass, taking slow sips, staring off aimlessly. The painstakingly slow morning moves at a snail's pace, and you silently praise the gods when the war council meeting time arrives. Aemond's departures are as torturous as his arrivals. It's clear you provide warmth and humor in your friendship. You watch as he fails to piece together words that will garner a reaction, only earning blank stares and curt nods in acknowledgment. The absence of your efforts speaks volumes, and you are sure the gods laugh at your distant dreams.

"It is not your time," Alicent speaks barely above a whisper. Holding you close, she rocks back and forth, humming quietly. Her shushing mixes with your hiccups filling the room as Ser Criston lingers by the door. You meet his sympathetic gaze as the Dowager Queen cradles you like a mother does their child. You cry until your throat burns raw and tears crust to your cheek.

They will think me mad; they will lock me away. Swallowing thickly, you lean out of her touch, grabbing her hands fervently. A craze dancing in your eyes, the remorse in your raspy pleas consuming the space between you, "My apologies, your grace. It was only a momentary lapse in judgment—I can be better, I will be better!"

"Calm yourself, child. I know. I know," She coos, wiping your tears from your cheeks, staring down at your skepticism with an unknown warmth. You recoil from her touch, scampering to the foot of your bedpost. Shaking your head, you wrap your arms around the leg of the frame. She wants something. Alicent rises to her feet, stepping forward; she halts as you flinch back. "We will talk soon, okay? A servant will stay in your chambers to ensure another lapse of judgment does not occur."

You stay clutching the bottom of the bedpost well past Alicent's departure. The chamber doors do not open again until she returns. A deep sigh leaves her lips at the sight of you. The sharp-tongued girl she met all those years ago now sits before her, unrecognizable, your fire simmering. Alicent orders the servants to run a bath, and she crouches down, gently taking you in her arms. She helps you rise to your feet as you struggle across the room.

Easing you into the wash basin, she hums an unfamiliar tune. You hug your knees in the water as she carefully works a brush through your hair coils that shrink from water absorption. Her fingertips bring a long-forgotten calm.

"Ow!" You whined, grimacing as your father failed and struggled with the brush against your hair. "Pa, you have to go softer! Start at the ends and work your way up."

"Sorry," He murmured. You were not sure whose home you were in and made it your business to not ask questions. "I just have a few more jobs, and we'll have our place. Maybe even your own room."

"Really?" Your eyes glistened with excitement as your father nodded his head. His big dreams and empty promises invigorated your tiny stature with unfounded realities.

"Come on, my girl. We have to finish up," He said. Then, guiding you back, he held you so your hair was consumed in the water. You closed your eyes as he rubbed at your scalp. The water circled your chin and forehead, but your ease faltered not once.

Your body stiffens as Alicent tilts you back. She cups water in her hand, rinsing the soap off the sides of your ears. Your eyes stay wide open as you note her every movement. The water cools as she finishes rinsing and detangling your hair. She helps you into your nightgown and sits on the edge of the bed as you settle beneath the furs.

"You want something from me," A yawn leaves your lips as the words muffle into a sleepy murmur. Exhaustion blankets your eyelids making them heavy. You struggle to stay vigilant as Alicent reaches forward, pulling the fire higher up. Her presence blurs into a foggy haze without a beginning or end.

Aemond arrives the following day, making no comment about what his mother undoubtedly told him. Instead, he knowingly eyes you without letting his thoughts leave his lips. You stare past him at the bottom of your wardrobe. Aemond follows your gaze, his eyebrows furrowing as he drops his fork against his plate, this does not break your stupor, and the room remains silent.

"I was thinking perhaps we could take a stroll through the city," Your head whips to Aemond as your eyebrows pull knit. He bites the inside of his cheek, watching as you eye him closely. After several seconds a sigh leaves your lips.

"Too dangerous. One wrong turn, and we're both dead," You mutter, shaking your head. Reaching for your glass, Aemond's hand takes your own. You stiffen, eyeing his hand on your own as he tilts his head to meet your gaze.

"Is that your desire to be dead?" The question stills the room as you look him in the eye. Pulling your hand from his, you wipe the back of it against your escaping tears.

"I cannot continue like this, Aemond. Four walls and a book to keep me company. This isn't living. It isn't fair. What could I have possibly done to deserve this?" Rising from your seat, you clutch your stomach, a cry leaving your lips as he stands from his own. Aemond stands before you, cautiously reaching out as you pull away from him. "Why are you hurting me, Aemond?"

"I love you more than I—"Aemond takes your hands, flinching as you shove him back with all your might. The despondence in your tone shatters the faux reality of your gilded cage, "You hurt me."

The two of you stare at the other without another word. Your head pounds as the center of your forehead tears in two.

"You hurt me ceaselessly and then have the gall to feign confusion of my distance, my growing ire, my slipping sanity. Tell me, Aemond, why do you hurt me so?" Taking his hand, you watch as he looks at everything but you. Grabbing his chin, you turn his face forward, looking him intently in the eye.

"I—let me fix this. I can fix this," Aemond's resolve crumbles in your touch. He takes your face in his hands, leaning his forehead to your own. "None of it has ever mattered. Victory, glory, title—from the moment you struck me in the street, I have not been able to imagine a life without you in it. You're my pride and joy. I never meant to hurt you."

"So, where do we go from here?" You croak, leaning into his touch, gripping the edge of his tunic. Aemond pulls back, looking down at you with an adoration unlike before.

"Can you give me a few days?" He asks, sighing; you recoil from his touch, but he quickly recaptures you. "I just need time to arrange something safe and discreet. Somewhere I can join you at war's end if you'll have me?"

Your eyes narrow as you pry yourself from Aemond's touch. Shaking your head, you shoot a scathing glare.

"You want something from me. Your mothers' kindness, the garden strolls, and the prospect of freedom. You think me a fool?" You scoff, the incredulous expression consuming you.

"I do not. You are right. There is something to be asked of you. We are in communication with Rhaenyra and her forces. The prospect of a negotiation has been levied. My sister will send my nephew in her stead but will only accept you as our representative," Aemond explains. Your eyes dart to your wardrobe as you process the information. "I am expected to return to the council with an answer this afternoon. They will not take no for an answer, and I know you will not willingly be a piece on their chess board. My offer is not to force your hand but to make this worth your troubles. To begin mending what I have broken."

"I will not aid my captors in their war," You cross your arms, watching Aemond nod his head.

"I cannot stop whatever the council decides to do to force your hand. But they will (Y/n)," Aemond says. Stepping forward, he kisses your temple. Instinctively, you raise your hand, flinching as he catches your wrist in midair. "I will fix us. I swear this to you."

No word of anything out of the ordinary arrives for two days. A servant stays stationed in the corner of your room at all hours. Each eye you warily when you linger by your window. Aemond's offer remains at the front of your mind, his mention of the war council leaving you dumbfounded.

"Lady (Y/n)," The chamber door opening reveals a Gold Cloak standing fully armored. Your stomach flips as he gestures for you to follow him. In the corridor, you note every turn from your chambers as you descend further into the unknown. You do not bother to ask where he's leading you. He will not answer. Stopping at a chamber door, he steps to the side, "You will only have a moment before we attend to your summons from the King."

Your eyes bounce between the guard and the chamber door. Pushing it open slowly, you peer in with prudence. A gasp leaves your lips as Taliya meets your gaze first. Dirt litters her skin as she looks at you with wide eyes.

“(Y/n)! Oh, thank the gods, you are okay. We were beside ourselves with worry when we received word of your capture," Taliya grips you tight before cupping your face. A feeble smile paints her features as she looks you over. You stare wordlessly between her and Daltis as a dizzying wave of nausea shoots through you.

"You don't hate me?" Your words leave you as a whisper. Daltis chuckles as though you tell an old joke, kissing the top of your head.

"Now, why would that be?" Daltis asks. You gasp at the scars that peek out from his sleeves. Ones you know without a doubt were not there before.

"It's all my fault. I am so sorry. He's dead because of me," You shudder as everything spills from you in another mind-numbing wave of emotions. "Cayde, he helped me, and I left him to die. He—"

"Loved you," Taliya finishes, bringing her hand to your cheek. She wipes your tear away with her thumb. "He loved you so much. You made an honorable man out of him. While, oh, I feel faint."

You grip her elbows as she stumbles back, steadying her in your arms. Daltis reveals their two-day stay in the dungeons with little food.

"I will fix this. I swear it!" You say, rushing to the chamber door. You ignore their calls for you, swinging the door open with a newfound purpose. The guard stands, ignoring your grimace as you exit the room. You march with purpose through the halls before stopping in another unknown sector of the castle. The orator announces your name, stepping aside to reveal a grand room. A long table sits in the middle holding familiar and unfamiliar faces. Locking eyes with Otto Hightower, you do hide your scowl. "I'll do it. I'll meet with the Blacks. Release them now!"

Much of the council turns to Aegon, who sits at the head of the table. Your eyes stay on Otto's smug demeanor, telling you all you need to know. The King does not rule; Otto Hightower does.

"You dare approach the council with such disrespect. Who has emboldened you so? Your grace, I will gladly give you her tongue," The nameless lord glares daggers, and your words sharpen like a blade's end, leaving you instinctively, "Perhaps I'll give him yours."

The chain reaction set off by your vindictive words sends the room into utter disarray. Yells for Lord Lannister fill the space as a blur of silver strands stand between you and the easily angered lord holding a dagger. Ser Criston calls for peace with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"So the rumors are true. You would dare destroy the alliance with Lord Baratheon for a bastard. You forget we are at war," Lord Lannister seethes, glaring at you over Aemond's shoulder. Aemond twirls the dagger between his fingers, tilting his head to capture Lannister's gaze.

"You forget you speak to the Prince of the realm. Lord Lannister," Aemond's emphasis on the title stills grimacing man, his resolve dissolving before your eyes. Otto speaks chillingly as he orders the council back to their respective seats. You remain standing in the center of the room, glancing at Aegon, who appears more decorative to the panel than an actual productive member.

"Word will be sent to Princess Rhaenyra and her forces. Lady (Y/n) will leave to meet with Prince Jacaerys in Riverrun on the morrow. Her message will be clear and unrelenting, bend the knee to King Aegon the second and swear obeisance. At the behest of the dowager Queen, all whom act in rebellion will be pardoned," Otto holds your gaze, and the round table remains in silent agreeance no matter their personal opinions. All eyes fall on you. Keeping your chin up, you square your shoulders, raising an eyebrow in mocking defiance.

"And when they refuse? What is my message then?" You scoff as your eyes narrow, earning a hum of disapproval from Lord Lannister. Otto merely chuckles, a faint smile taking his lips. Aemond purses his lips to cover the smile that threatens them.

"Swear obeisance or die," Your back stiffens as though he shares a secret only for you. The rise of his eyebrows makes your eye twitch as he awaits your next move. His message clear, and this time not for Rhaenyra or her forces but for you.

"It will be done," You say, clasping your hands in front of you; Aegon's the one to dismiss you. A pitiful display of power as he sits at the head of the table battling an evident hangover, his mind elsewhere. You turn to the guard in the hall, "I wish to return to Daltis and Taliya."

"You are to return to your chambers by order of the Lord Hand," He turns down the hall, walking without delay. Balling your fists, you stomp behind the guard glaring daggers into the back of his head as you imagine it to be Lord Hightower, that bastard. A strangled huff of frustration leaves your lips as you scowl through the halls. In your chambers, you fail to stop pacing, even at the instruction of the servant who knits quietly in the corner.

"You dizzy yourself. Pacing only furthers your distress," Roslyn says. Unlike the other servants, the raven-haired girl speaks plainly. If word of your previous escape sits within her knowledge, she gives no inkling of it.

"This wretched family has wrought nothing but trouble, and now my dealings affect the very few loved ones I have. Pacing keeps me from going mad, and madness makes me impulsive," You say, hands on your hips as you watch Roslyn pause. Her eyebrows furrow as she looks up at you.

"If I am understanding correctly, you threatened Lord Lannister, who is on the war council, and in not so many words challenged the Hand of the King? It appears impulsivity is naturally in your nature," Her almond-shaped eyes pierce into you with a mocking glint. You cross your arms, smirking at her bold defiance.

"Well, aren't you a brazen one. Do tell, why do you address me with such familiarity?" Roslyn returns to her knitting as though she resides without care. A familiar pattern of blue in her lap as she works with careful precision.

"A Kings Landing bastard obtaining the affections of a Prince. As a girl, I heard the whispers and thought them mere tales. Until I saw you once, flaunting your dalliance through the streets without care. Then you create the most intriguing gossip, a maddening escape that somehow worked. I heard the whispers of your escape and recapture. You have quite many silent supporters. You are a little inspiration for us nameless people in the kingdom. The crown is doing everything imaginable to keep your declining health under wraps," Your pacing halts as your eyebrows pinch. Roslyn continues her knitting, only peaking up at you with a knowing smile. She appears unaffected by the intensity of your stare. Your search for deception proves fruitless. You narrow your eyes taking a step back, glancing at your wardrobe just feet away. "You can certainly reach for whatever will bring you ease. Even kill me in the name of safety. I am a servant who will care? But you cannot stop what is coming."

"And who masters you?" Your question earns a hearty laugh as Roslyn wets her lips. Her eyes on the thin fabric between her fingers.

"The people of the realm. You have given us an opportunity low-borns nearly never have a chance at—power. You were born a bastard. You will die a Princess," Roslyn says, dropping her hands to her lap; she smiles at you like a giddy child. The frivolity in her eyes contrasts the weight she burdens you with. Your lips part but nothing leaves you. "I imagine this is a lot to process. While I admire you, I certainly do not envy you."

The chamber door opens, revealing the next servant to take watch. Roslyn rises, claiming your hands as long-time friends do. She smiles sweetly, almost unnervingly, "Your company is a pleasure here in court. Be at ease, my lady. Many watch over you, men and women, even children. From here all the way to Pentos."

The revelation of her watch on you makes the room turn as your mind Tregaro sits in the front of your mind. His influx of coins and consistent presence in your vicinity hits you like glass against the floor. You grab her wrist tightly as she moves by you. Pulling her in close, you ignore how the servant keeps her gaze on the floor. Roslyn smiles as you speak for her ears only, "Desist whatever machinations you conjure."

"Dread it, run from it, destiny arrives all the same, and now it's here. You will go down in the histories. Make it your choice and not their force," She curtsies as your grip loosens. You stand in the same spot, her words ceaselessly looping in your mind.

You retire to your bed, spent by the days' obstacles. Ignoring the servants' presence in the corner, you burrow yourself beneath the furs. Sleep nearly claims you. Tapping at the chamber door holds you hostage in the conscious world. The chamber door unlocks, and the servant rises, announcing Prince Aemond.

"What do I owe the pleasure at this inappropriate hour?" You do not move from beneath the furs and are sure he rolls his eyes.

"Get dressed. We're going for a walk," He says. Sitting up, you narrow your eyes as he tosses a dark cloak onto your bed. His own cloak covers his telling Targaryen hair.

"It is quite late," You say, glancing at your window. He holds his hands behind his back, raising an eyebrow at your skeptical gaze.

"For a lady of the court, of course. If memory serves me right, you are not. Am I correct in my observations?" A grin sits on his lips as you roll your eyes. You grumble beneath your breath as you rise, ignoring the servant's pleas for you to change out of view of the Prince. The absence of a corset beneath the gown adds bagginess to the bodice. You tie the cloak tightly to remedy the empty feeling. Aemond keeps his hood pulled as he leads you through the desolate halls. You frown as he guides you through a chamber door, the rooms rather bland but larger than yours. Bookshelves decorate almost every open wall beside the space filled by a bed and a desk. You scoff, punching his arm with all your might.

"What in the seven hells was that for?" He questions, meeting your furious gaze.

"You think I am some easy whore you can bring to your bed chamber as you please?" Your ridicule earns an exasperated huff. Turning away from you, he walks to the large painting beside his bed. Aemond opens it revealing a passageway; he steps to the side, gesturing for you to go first. Your gaze bounces between him and the grim corridor in contemplation.

"Do you truly think me a monster?" Narrowing his eyes, disbelief paints his face. Your demeanor softens, opting to walk into the unknown rather than answer his question. Aemond takes your hand, murmuring to watch your steps, the low visibility constricting your movements. You linger back, allowing Aemond to lead the way. The beginning of the city and end of the secret passageway blurs, the torch lights greeting you.

Aemond slows, joining your side as the two of you ease through the crowd. You ignore how he watches you take in the sight, the merchants yelling amid a consistent flow of movement. Your chest knots at the views and sounds before you that appear almost foreign. A play garners a large crowd. They mock the black Queen and drunk King. You both linger toward the back, inhaling sharply as Aemond's name's thrown. Their jeering starts with derogatory comments about his eye. Though his hood hides him, you can see his jaw clench as his gaze fixates on the actors. The reenactment of Lucerys Velaryon's death makes your head whip to the stage. People around you cheer happily as your mind wanders to the sweet Prince. You never did make good on your promise of a second dance. A rather useless thought, but still, it crosses your mind.

"Let's go," Aemond says, re-securing his hood; you note how he walks deeper into the city. You struggle to keep up as he weaves through the side streets effortlessly—a creeping sense of familiarity makes your heart hammer. Stopping in the middle of the street, hell fire sits in your throat as Aemond stops several paces up the road. He looks back at you, the hood falling from your head, revealing the hesitance that plants your feet on the ground. Your center of gravity shifts as you take a shaky step forward. He meets you halfway, taking your arm to keep you steady. You pull your arm away from his hold at the dead end, glaring at nothing in particular. You take a deep breath failing to keep your composure. None of it's right. No Harwin. No Cayde. No dodging Gold Cloaks. No more jobs from Mysaria or coming and going as you please. It's all different.

"We do not have to go up if you do not wish to," Aemond murmurs, leaning forward to capture your gaze. You blink back several times, bringing the back of your hand to wipe away all evidence of your thoughts.

"I likely cannot make this jump anymore anyway," You murmur. Peering at the ground, you fiddle with the strings of your cloak, taking long deep breaths to combat the light tremble of your chest.

"What harm comes from trying?" Your eyes cut up to the worn clay wall. Aemond takes a few steps back, a curt smile on his lips. More chips in the wall sit ever-present; eyeing them carefully, you chew the inside of your cheek. Then, letting the tension in your shoulders fall, you rush forward, your left foot falling short on the wall as the train of your dress blocks your right leg from reaching far enough. Heavy panting covers the obscenities you mutter beneath your breath on your fourth try.

"Okay, I am done! It is late, and this is utterly ridiculous!" You pull your hood on your head, stomping down the road. Grumbling to yourself, the lack of Aemond's brooding presence brings you pause. You turn back to find he has not moved from his spot, his hands clasp behind his back, "Are you awaiting an invitation, your grace?"

"No. Just for you, to scale that wall. You can and you will," His matter-of-fact tone makes your blood boil, marching forward you square your shoulders as you step toward him.

"I can't, and I won't. I'm returning to the Keep with or without you," The sardonic smile on his lips only fuels the flames of your fury.

"You are climbing that wall by order of the Prince of the realm. I command it," You let out a loud huff ripping the cloak from your shoulders. Aemond does nothing as you take his dagger, tearing up the side of your dress. Returning his blade, you turn to the wall, rushing forward. Your left foot finds the divot, but your right knee hits the wall with an aching smack, wincing you step back. With a shaky breath, you swallow thickly as frustration weighs heavy on your chest. "Take a breath and try again."

Ignoring him, you rush forward, your left foot missing entirely, leaving you rushing the wall with a languid jump. You kick the wall leaning your head against it, the coals in your throat growing hotter by the second. Backing up, you use your shoulder to discard the stray tears. Running forward, your left foot sticks perfectly, and you swing your right leg up, missing by hairs, as your arms keep you upright.

"No. No. No!" You cry out, running your feet against to wall as your arms ache beneath your weight. A sob leaves your lips in a mix of frustration and grief as you linger halfway up the wall. You flinch as hands take your waist, lightening the load. Your head whips down to find Aemond looking up at you. His face lacks a distinct emotion, only studying your own to guide his next course of action. Neither of you says a word, the silence louder than anything around you. He keeps you upright as your leg swings over, and you move slowly across before stopping short. Aemond climbs up without issue, lingering behind you as you take in the roof. A new hammock sits with a blanket and a large chalice of wine. The view of the city no longer brings the previous comfort. Despite the loose bodice, your chest tightens into itself with a suffocating squeeze.

"Why are you doing this?" The pressure in your chest explodes, leaving an ache in its place. You fiddle with your fingers as his cloak casts a shadow on his face. The indiscernible chatter comes with a veil of deja-vu. Above, the moon shines full, leaving a glow in the shadows of Kings Landing. "You don't look at me the same anymore. I miss us, the version of us up here. You hate me, and I deserve your ire—your resentment, but I love you. Selfishly I want your love though I do not deserve it."

"So what, Aemond? You think a sentimental night in the city and some sweet nothings wash away all that your family has brought to my life? That you have brought to my life," Your voice cracks, the accusatory tone matching your questioning stare. Aemond scans around you in a desperate search of the words he's looking for—the ones to make you love him again.

Bringing your hands to your temples, a long sigh leaves your lips. Every hug, laugh, and moment of warmth collides violently with the new versions of yourselves. Neither of you moves for minutes, avoiding the other's gaze. Your sniffle breaks the silence as you wipe away all proof of this rooftop's significance. Aemond watches as you snatch the wine and plop into the hammock. Your feet dangle as you unscrew the top.

"You remember those first few times you would visit me? I would insult you, and your entitlement would just spew out of you into the most sharp-tongued insults you could manage," Staring up at the sky, your lips curl into a smile as your eyes crinkle as though you eye something distant. Aemond's chuckle reaches your ears, but still, he remains the silent observer, "Even then, I could not bring myself to hate you. To give you my rage, and believe me, there was a lot, still is."

Your eyebrows furrow as you are met with further silence. Shifting up, you find Aemond shifting on the balls of his feet, holding out the wine; you speak in a breathless huff, "Are you to be a man of the night's watch, or shall you join a poor bastard down on her luck for a drink?"

"Truly did not think this would work," Aemond admits, taking the wine from your hand. You lean back as the hammock creaks from your and Aemond's weight.

"Me either. Perhaps it's rather difficult to not emphasize when brought to the place where you were a teary-eyed lout," You say. A lopsided grin takes your lips as you bite the inside of your cheek. Aemond manages to not spit up the wine that catches in his throat, earning a heady laugh from you. "I guess I am the teary-eyed lout these days."

"I could have your head for that," Amusement laces his words as he keeps his foot planted on the ground, gently rocking the hammock.

"Well, I am your prisoner," You meet his eye, a longing tenderness in his features. You say nothing as he studies you closely. He trails his hand from your wrist down to your palm, his eyes holding a curious focus.

"As I am yours. You know, not of all you mean to me," Aemond says, handing the wine back to you. You take a large gulp, eyes training on the stars. Both of you fall into a quiet daze, pondering the other's words.

"I still despise your family," You break the silence, relishing in the lull of the swaying hammock. Still, neither of you moves to look at the other. A chuckle filling the silence from the brooding Prince.

For a moment, the first time in a long time. Lady (Y/n) and Prince Aemond were nowhere to be found. Just the Prince and the Street Rat, "We could figure it out."

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grumpygreenwitch · 1 year

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The Fairy and the Prince #20 + #21 + #22

Part 1 - Part 2 - Parts 3 & 4 - Part 5 - Part 6, 7 & 8 - Part 9 & 10 - Part 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 & 16 - Part 17, 18, & 19 - Part 20, 21 & 22 - Part 23, 24, 25 & 26 - Part 27, 28, 29 & 30 - Part 31, 32, 33 & 34 - Part 35, 36 & 37 - Part 38, 39, 40 & 41 - Part 42 & 43 - Part 44 & 45 - Part 46 & 47 - Part 48, 49, 50 & 51 - Part, 52, 53 & 54 - Part 55 & 56 - Part 57, 58, 59 & 60 - Part 61, 62, 63, 64 & 65 - Part 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71 & 72

Ahm. Here the story starts getting a little darker. If you’d like to suggest tags for safety’s sake please do so, because I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to tags.

Autumn came, and with it William's seventeenth birthday. Unlike Adam's parents, William's family did want to at least look like they gave a damn about the son they'd placed on the bloody altar of the Dowager Queen's curse. They sent what was needed so he could host a small dinner for whatever friends and allies he'd made, and a gift of a fine jousting saddle. Adam was invited, and found himself the youngest once again; it made him think wistfully on what time he had spent at the palace. They ribbed him about his desire never to come to the crown, of course, and he accepted the teasing gracefully. They wondered why he lingered in the palace, if he truly had no intention of claiming the throne. Adam fully admitted to them that he would stay even after someone took the throne; he wanted nothing to do with the parents who'd thrown him into such a mess. Once there were a King, he'd be free to swear fealty, and perhaps they ought to get hopping to it?

It brought wry laughs because they could all too readily see his plight in their own, and they returned to making William's birthday as memorable as they could.

Full of good food, warmed by strangely unexpected cheer and wobbling a little from too much sherry, brandy, and other rich liquors, Adam found himself unwilling and unable to tolerate the walls of the palace. He found his way to a bench in a nearby garden and flopped down on it with a groan that said he'd learned his lesson well: only two servings of roasted stuffed goose with peach glaze next time. Three, tops.

A crack of thunder woke him up so violently he fell off the stone bench, crashing down to the ground with a stinging impact, drenched by a freezing, torrential downpour that had failed to rouse him even as it chilled him to the bone. He sat up, panting as if he'd run for miles. His head was pounding with the aftereffects of too much liquor, and the food had gone to a stone in his gut.

There was someone walking along the lawn. Adam roused to his feet, feeling sick to his heart. In the light of a lightning bolt he saw it, clear as if it were daylight, indelibly etched in his mind and his memory: someone was walking across the green grass with the jerking, rigid motions of a puppet, pulled and pushed this way and that by its strings. On a second flash of light Adam realized that whoever they were, they were not alone: another figure, lithe and slender, a ghost of fog, a shape drawn in raindrops and wind, was dancing around them.

"Hey," he croaked, his voice strangled by fear and drowned by the rain. He took a few uncertain steps forward.

The whispering voices of the water-spouts called out his name. They were full of warnings.

"Keep talking," he urged them. "Keep calling my name. Please. So I won't forget it."

They sang his name, all of them, an endless echo powered by the violent rain, and Adam gasped for breath, unaware that he'd been all but drowning until that moment. "Hey!" he shouted.

Lightning answered. The swirling thing around the walking figure came to a standstill.

Adam walked. He ran. "Hey, stop!"

The thing of rain and wind and fog began to dance and circle again, and the walker jerked forward. Adam slid on the grass and the mud. "Stop! Leave him alone! Let him b-!" He skid to a halt, mouth open, every thought and emotion gone to a jumble and a knot in his heart.

Prince Rickard stared back at him, and took another step toward the woods. "Adam," the older prince croaked. He'd just become eighteen late in spring. "Adam, help me." Another step.

Adam realized, with the most profound horror, that Rickard was aware. He knew exactly what his body was doing, there in the rain. He was wearing a shirt and pants, but no boots, no coat. He'd been ready to go to bed, likely relaxing in his room, when the Prince in the Woods had sent his emissary to summon this newest sacrifice. And try as he might, and the older prince was very much trying, not all his terror and hate, not all his rage and ruthless determination, not one jot of his willingness to kill for the crown was helping him. His feet carried him one step closer to the woods, looming immense and black before them, alien and menacing as Adam had only once before known them to be.

"Rickard, stop."

"I can't," the prince wheezed.

"Why should you," the thing of rain and fog whispered, and Adam saw her clearly at last, beautiful and deadly, inhumanly so in every regard. She wore a maid's shape, and next to her Arditty would have looked plain and forgettable. She had pale eyes and wind-tossed hair, and sometimes she wore fine courtly clothing and sometimes nothing at all. "Come, prince, my prince. Come. Are you not now a man? Should a man not be a king?" Her lips brushed against Rickard's cheek and the older prince made a high sound of terror and revulsion.

"Leave him alone!" Adam shouted at her, and she laughed at him, high and cold and cruel. "Rickard, stop!"

"I can't." Through the sodden shirt Adam could see that Rickard was truly trying. Every muscle on the older prince's body was standing out starkly, to no avail. He'd taken three more steps already on his way. "Adam, strike me, break my legs, do something. Stop me. Help me, please."

"What's to help, oh, what's to help, prince, my prince?" She tangled up around him as intimately as a lover in bed, running her hands and her too-sharp fingers through Rickard's rain-plastered hair. "Have you not lied, cheated, schemed for this crown you wish to claim? Have you not killed, have you not spilled blood, oh, blood, warm and rich." She licked along the side of Rickard's neck, who closed his eyes tightly and fought his head away. She spun around him in a flash of lightning, laughing. "Is this not what you have always wanted, prince, my prince, my sweet, delicious prince?"

Adam saw the treeline far too close, and shadows like wolves prowling along the edges. "Rickard," he said at last. "Rickard, answer her."

"Help me," the older prince croaked. "Adam, please." Nothing remained of the bully, of the older boy, sure of his strength and his cold machinations. There was only a terrified young man trapped by a power entirely beyond his understanding.

"Rickard, answer her!" Adam shouted. "Tell her! Tell her you don't want the crown! Tell her you give it up -!" He had to throw himself back, crashing down on a heap in the muddy ground when the fairy maid lunged at him, hissing like a blizzard wind, her fingers gone to talons of ice. "They can't take you if you do!"

Rickard fought to drag in a breath. Everything he'd done, everything he'd lost and sacrificed, every part of his heart and his soul that he'd cut away, came crashing down on him like the most terrible of avalanches. He'd thought it would all be worth it if he could only claim the crown. He'd never imagined it had all along been a contest he'd lost before he'd even begun. "I -" His voice strangled, gone to nothing; she'd closed her hands around his throat.

"Cheat!" Adam cried out. "You're cheating!"

The rain cut off as if an ax had swung and murdered it. The wind went perfectly still. The fairy maid gasped and locked her pale white starlight eyes on the young prince. "You dare -!" All her power suddenly came to rest on him, bidding him be silent, bidding him be still.

Somewhere far behind him the spouts whispered his name, and Adam flicked his hair from his face and her power from his mind. "You're cheating," he told her sharply. "He has to take your test, but only if he wants the crown. You can't make him if he doesn't want it, and if you don't let him choose, you're cheating."

"He wants it," she hissed.

"You don't speak for him."

Something, immense and dark and so powerful it felt as if the night itself were speaking, did something at the edge of the woods. Growling, she released her grip on Rickard's throat, and the older prince crashed down to his knees, coughing, breath rasping in and out of him erratically.

"Rickard," Adam said. "Rickard, tell her. Tell her now, because we're here and it's about to be too late. Tell her."

The older prince went down until his forehead touched the mud, and began to weep. "I," he croaked, "do not want the crown."

"Liar." She coiled around Rickard like a snake. "You've killed for it. You've bleed for it. You've done everything for it."

"I do not want the crown," Rickard repeated, straightening up to his knees. "I forswear it. On my heart, on my life, on my blood, I renounce it. Let it go to someone else. I do not want it!" he shouted the last bit at her, his voice raw with all that he'd done and lost for a prize he could never have.

She went to pieces under the force of his voice, or so it seemed. One moment she was there, and the next they were alone in a patch of cold fog, two young men at the edge of the woods. The rain began to fall again, but this time it was just an autumn squall, cold and dreary, already losing strength.

Rickard went down again, hands curled to fists in the mud, and wept. Adam crawled over to him and wrapped his arms around his once-enemy, not knowing what else to do.

***

Prince Rickard went home the morning after, alone on his charger, after giving up his claim before the Dowager Queen. He was ashen and there were shadows like bruises under his eyes, but his voice was steady and his steps sure.

Adam watched him go, and went down to the edge of the woods. The rain had washed them clean, and there were birds flitting through the nearly naked branches, hunting down gifts of rosehips and slugs. "I do not want the crown, I surrender my claim to it," he told the birds and the trees and an errant beetle, and waited.

A wood thrush sang somewhere in the woods. The beetle crashed against his boot and fell on its back; Adam bent down to right it, and looked at the autumn wilderness in exasperation. "Really, now. Do we have to wait until I'm eighteen? I know what I want."

A breeze tore a few leaves from the trees and sent them spiraling down. Adam resisted the urge to stomp his foot in vexation; he was not a baby to be throwing a tantrum when balked. "Fine. Until I'm eighteen, then," he declared, and went to find his friends.

***

The last few days of autumn were marred by Adam catching a terrible cold that the palace's physicians couldn't explain; it wasn't as if the young prince had gone traipsing about in a freezing downpour an entire night, after all. He was left restless and unhappy in his bed, plucking at the blankets that were piled on him in an effort to break his fever. He tried to study, but he could barely focus on food, let alone reading. There was a bit of a nervous moment for his human friends when one of the healers came to give him his hourly medicine and the prince, half delirious, started calling out for people with very inhuman names.

Culli-maid went out to the woods after that, bundled up in a heavy shawl, carrying a basket with honey and bread and figs from the Royal hothouse, and a crispy roasted trout.

She needn't have bothered with the offerings. Linden nearly ran her down when they saw her coming, their fingers tangled up in each other like the knotted roots of a surly tree. Needlemaw had heard from William that Adam was sick, but little else; all they otherwise knew was that Adam had been out on a Hunting Night. Culli's news were far more welcomed, worrisome as they were, than any gift of honey. She was sent back with word to leave one of the windows in the prince's rooms open. Boul looked deeply crestfallen at that; he was a troll, a creature of earth and water. Climbing was one thing he'd never learned, in all his years with his wild friends. Culli-maid solved that by sending Dane down with a wheelbarrow, ostensibly for firewood.

Adam woke up from a heavy, feverish sleep to the scent of linden flowers and a cool hand brushing back his hair. "Would you please," he whispered hoarsely, "thank the water-spouts for me. They helped me more than they know."

Linden couldn't help but laugh. "What were you thinking, what were you doing?"

"I wasn't thinking much," Adam admitted. "I had five servings of stuffed goose and I think I drank half the bottle of blackberry brandy, and never, ever again."

"Well, 'tis a hard lesson learned, that, but a good one to learn," Needlemaw's voice purred low at him, full of wry amusement, as Linden sprawled on the bed next to their best friend.

He told them everything, these two disparate groups that had become the bonds of his life, strange as it was and stranger as it had become. He drowsed once in the middle of the telling, and then picked up the thread again as he woke up, unaware that he'd stopped. He slept again after that, only vaguely aware that the physicians had come back with his medicine; Culli-maid heard much of how the treatment was surely working, making the young prince biddable and meek.

When he woke up again the hearth was banked to rich red coals. Culli's shawl and mending basket rested on the chair by the window, and the nearby study table was covered in books and scraps of well-worn parchment. Adam licked his lips and grimaced at the taste of bitter medicine, and heard a low, familiar chuckle. "You wouldn't laugh if you had to drink it," he muttered, grinning.

"I don't get sick from the rain," Linden replied, their voice low and cheerful.

Adam turned. He felt wrung out and exhausted, but clear-headed for the first time in forever. He gazed at the shattered, many-colored eyes. In the dark, Linden's wild burst of gold-tipped white hair had slicked down, pressed close to their skull, and their features looked sharp and deeply inhuman in the gloom, sun-kissed to the color of a tree's bark. "I'm sorry I worried you."

"Ugh," Linden replied, shifting in the immense bed and seeking out Adam's hand so they could lace their fingers with the prince's. "And you thinking you're selfish." When Adam smiled at that, they went on. "You'll get better now, then?"

"I suppose. Anything so I don't have to drink any more bitter tea."

Linden snorted. "You could have let him go, you know. He's been nothing but horrible to you."

Adam rubbed at his mouth with the sleeve of his sleeping shirt. "Linden, lots of people are horrible to me. Lots more are always going to be horrible to me. That's not my fault, it's never going to be, but I can't be horrible back just because. How exhausting would that be for nothing gained." He licked his lips and grimaced at a lingering taste no rubbing could take away. "You should always start out being nice. I did. I didn't stay nice for Rickard, but when he stopped picking fights I didn't go looking for them. I didn't want to be his friend, I just wanted him to leave me alone."

"Did he?"

"Yes. The thing with being nice right off is, other people end up being nice back. Because they already were, or because they're ashamed, or just because they're tired of being mean, or a lot of other reasons. Rickard being nice was him leaving me alone, and I don't mean the fighting. He could have just made me part of his schemes. He didn't. And... Maybe, if things go the way everyone thinks they will, someone will be there, like I was for him."

"I will be."

"I think that would just scare me more. I'm used to the thought of me being in trouble. I don't know what I'd do if it were you instead." Adam paused. "Are you in trouble now? For being here after dark?"

"No. I told them I wouldn't come back until I knew you were alright, and if they got in my way I wouldn't come back at all."

They laughed at that, their small bits of defiance, unaware or perhaps simply uncaring of the vastness of what they'd accomplished. Adam rubbed at his mouth once again and licked. "Ugh!"

"It's stained your lips, too," Linden pointed out.

"That's probably why I can't get rid of it. Wouldn't have hurt them to put a bit of sugar in it."

#the fairy and the prince #linden and adam #linden the fairy #adam the prince #original writing #boul #boul the troll #boulders-for-brains #needlemaw #needlemaw the redcap #fantasy #fantasy writing #fantasy abduction

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missameliep · 3 years

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SECOND CHANCES - CHAPTER TWENTY: ABSOLUTELY SMITTEN

Book: Desire and Decorum – Modern AU Rating: Teen and Up Word count: ~8K Summary: During a conversation with Yusuf and Bartholomew, Hamid can finally admit his feelings for a certain friend of his, but is he ready to make a move? Meanwhile, Lady Dominique shares her many concerns about Elizabeth's future with Lord Vincent. Characters: Elizabeth Foredale (OC); Prince Hamid; Yusuf Konevi; Bartholomew Chambers; Dowager Countess Dominique; Earl of Edgewater.

Notes: * All characters belong to Pixelberry, except OC. * Yes, they are talking about Halloween and costumes. I know it's July, but let's pretend for a moment it's October, 2018. * In the series chronology, this chapter happens after two one-shots - Anything But Zombies and Netflix and Cafuné. * Non-English words and expressions are translated in the notes in the end of the chapter. * English is not my first language. * I want to thank @princess-geek for being my beta and one of the most supportive people I've known. My friend, you're the reason I'm finally posting this chapter. 😊 * This is a submission to @choicesmonthlychallenge - Day 12 - Dance. Thanks for hosting it @lovealexhunt

I. At Bartholomew and Yusuf’s flat

Click-click-click. Hamid's fingers rhythmically press the buttons on the controller, relying more on muscular memory than his attentiveness to the match.

“London would be much greyer if you were not here…” Elizabeth’s soft voice and words have been echoing in Hamid’s mind in a delightful loop for the past days.

The concern in her tone was so genuine, and even the timid reassuring smiles she offered that evening were more than enough to make his mind race.

“…I’m happy that you came…”

His face lightens up with a smile even more often than usual whenever he thinks about her words. His skin tingles at the vivid memory of their embrace, her small hand enveloping his so tenderly, and if only he closed his eyes, he can almost feel her fingers stroking his hair.

No, not stroking my hair, fazendo cafuné. Cafuné, what a lovely word.

Bartholomew’s enthusiastic cheering brought Hamid’s focus back to the screen, prompting his fingers to press the buttons quickly. But not quick enough.

Hamid mutters a curse in his mother tongue once the rival’s back takes the virtual ball away from the attacker before he could shoot. The play-by-play commentaries praise the nifty executed pass that leads to another attack of the red team – Yusuf’s team –, and Hamid retorts the teasing words that drip from his friend’s tongue. “Yusuf, you know what they say about the rooster that sings too early...”

The other laughs at his remark and, at last, the trio watches the ball flying high above the stand packed with a pixelated crowd after Hamid shoots and more friendly mockery ensues.

Glancing at Yusuf and Bartholomew laughing together, he wonders. If Elizabeth were here watching his poor performance, he can imagine what she would say. He can anticipate the prolonged dude – long, lazy and filled with amusement –, the feather-light smack of her hand in his arm more of a caress than anything else, the wrinkling in her nose from the smile she would not be able to supress. Her shapely lips. The lips he cannot stop thinking about, not at work and not even in the middle of this match.

He forces his attention back and succeeds for a few moments, but the game cannot capture his attention. Not long enough.

Lately, nothing can steer his mind from her.

Tonight, specially, it did not help that Bartholomew showed those pictures of Elizabeth and Sinclaire at the fundraiser. The pictures are all over Twitter and other social medias. It is not her debut at those functions, but it almost seems like it. After the tea with the Queen and the confirmation of her title as the Viscountess of Edgewater, the press follows her with renewed and increasing interest. Beauty and brains, one reporter wrote and set the tone of the flattering words about the beautiful young woman who is also an accomplished Law student – nothing Hamid does not know already –, while another tweet speculated about her love life. According to one tabloid, everyone wants to know if the young woman has won the heart of Ernest Sinclaire, one of the most eligible bachelors in the UK. There was a link to a poll on their website. Hamid did not look at the results and wishes not to dwell on that topic either.

More than their polite smiles or inspirational words reproduced by the journalists, it is the image of Elizabeth’s body sporting the long gold rose dress with sleeves, flattering hugging her curves, that will not leave his mind for a long time.

How can my mind not drift to her?

His tongue involuntarily moistens his lips, and a small smile pulls at the corners of his mouth, in spite of not concluding the play.

I would like to see her in that gown. Up close. I wish I were the one escorting her tonight, to have my hand on her back… Actually, I much rather be the one escorting her back home. The one to unzip her dress... to have her entirely to myself…

A familiar urge stirs inside of him, and he stops himself – a dangerous line of thought considering he is not by himself this time. He briefly touches the burning lobe of his ear. Am I thirteen again? Rolling his lips inside his mouth, he refrains a chuckle.

Bartholomew flops on the couch between the two players and Hamid’s attention momentarily shifts to his question.

“How does it feel to have your ass kicked by my fiancé?”

“He’s got lucky,” Hamid retorts, but there’s no real edge on his annoyed tone.

“He certainly did. But only when it comes to me,” Bartholomew mocks and kisses Yusuf on the cheek.

“I couldn’t agree more, my dear.”

“Allah Allah,” Hamid mutters and playfully grimaces. “I thought we were here to play…”

“So did I,” Yusuf laughs.

A click and the ball is kicked back in game.

Hamid presses the buttons not fast enough and the back fails to tackle the attacker.

“Not again,” Hamid sighs when the pass back leads to the virtual ball falling perfectly into the rival’s attacker foot. Holding the controller tight, his fingers hit the buttons frantically, repositioning the backs. Another dribble and Yusuf grins. The click-click-click of the buttons is replaced by Bartholomew’s loud cheers when Yusuf scores for the fourth time. And it’s only the first half.

“Yes! Into the back of the net!” Yusuf celebrates, throwing his hands up in the air.

“It’s not even fun anymore,” Bartholomew mocks, then raises to his feet to get more appetizers like his fiancé suggested.

Hamid’s player kicked the ball back in the game, only to Yusuf’s middle fielder steal it before the whistle.

“I must be on fire tonight,” Yusuf taunted, “or your mind is elsewhere, my friend!”

“You know me too well, Yusuf Abi.”

Hamid puts the controller down on the coffee table and shifts in his seat to face the other. The corners of his lips pulled upwards rounding his cheeks and baring his white teeth. A smile too wide for someone who is having his ass kicked in the game, Yusuf considers.

“Which of the three Ws is it, Hamid Abi?” Yusuf asks, and his voice carries a laugh, “Work, worry or woman?”

“Is it ever work?” Hamid quips, and they chuckle.

“Judging by the smile on your lips,” he says, holding his friend’s gaze, a wider smile rounding his cheeks partially covered by the thick black beard, and raises his index finger in the air, “there's only one possible answer.”

A low chuckle erupts from the other’s throat and Hamid’s fingers rake his black hair. Propping one elbow on the back of the couch, he nears Yusuf, who continues speaking in a lower tone, “Since I am feeling lucky tonight, I am guessing this is about a particular woman. Elizabeth, perhaps?”

The mere mention of her name and Hamid’s smile grows impossible wider, almost touching his ears, dimpling his cheeks and crinkling the corners of his brown eyes.

“Am I that obvious?”

“Were you trying not to be?”

“I don’t think I can, even if I tried…” Hamid chuckles again.

“You look happier lately. We’ve noticed it.”

“I never felt like this before… which is odd, considering nothing ever happened, but... No one else ever affected me like she does... I just...” he trails off and rubs a hand over his mouth but cannot erase the grin parting his lips. “It is almost unreal how the tiniest and most mundane things make my heart soar whenever it is about her!”

The admission darkened Hamid’s cheeks just a little, despite his belief he never blushes. This fact does not go unnoticed. The amusement pulls the corners of Yusuf’s lips upwards, but he chooses not to mention the unusual occurence.

“It’s a wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Yusuf muses and meets his eyes, “To have someone in your life who puts that kind of smile on your face?” Hamid nods, and Yusuf pats his arm fondly.

The strophe from the top of the charts’ pop song Bartholomew is singing reaches them. Both glance at him and share a quiet laugh. Oblivious to the ongoing conversation, the blonde gently sways at the rhythm of the song and balances the content of the tray as he walks back from the kitchen.

Humming the song, he places the tray over the coffee table and looks around. The absence of clicks and the looks shared between the two in the couch are impossible to ignore.

Raising an eyebrow at them, Bartholomew asks, “What were you two talking about?”

“We are talking about the reason Hamid is still smiling after I wiped the floor with him...” Yusuf throws his fiancé a knowing smile. “Elizabeth.”

“Ooh! Finally! I thought you were going to spill the tea after I showed all those pictures and blabbered about her gorgeousness!” The man wriggles his hands and sighs, “Now I wish I had made popcorn! Tell me everything from the start,” Bartholomew eagerly asks from the improvised seat at the coffee table, “So, did it happen? Did you two finally kiss?”

Amused, Hamid clicks his tongue and flashes a sly smile. “A gentleman never tells...”

Yusuf bites back a laugh, while intrigued by the elusiveness of the reply, Bartholomew’s blue eyes remain trained on Hamid’s brown ones, staring in silent consideration as if working on a puzzle.

Familiar with that look, and being the recipient of it more than a couple of times, Hamid widens his eyes and wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “Did you find anything interesting? Can I cancel my optometrist appointment?”

“Shush! I know that look of yours!” the other insists, “And that smile! You are distracted and in too good a mood –”

“I’m always in a good mood!” Hamid protests.

“That’s true, darling,” Yusuf agrees. “He is not a man to sulk. Not even if he cannot beat me at a match to save his own life!”

“Hey!” Hamid raises his hands and his voice to an outraged higher pitch, “The match is not over!”

“As if you could recover from that...” Yusuf gestures widely at the score in the screen.

“Oh, no! Not like that, my dear!” Bartholomew cuts into the friendly banter. “Hamid’s got the same vibe of Disney Princesses singing surrounded by birds… and that means only one thing!” A manicured index finger is pointed to Hamid’s face and he declares, “You slept with her!”

“What?” Hamid lets out a loud laugh. “How can sex be the only possible explanation for someone’s good mood?”

“The most plausible, at least. Specially when it comes to you… It’s common knowledge a good shag improves people’s moods. It does wonders to mine.” Bartholomew mutters the last words and winks at Yusuf, who returns the gesture.

“And you cannot hide anything from me, sir.”

“He’s very perceptive, Hamid.”

“Spill already! We’ve been following you two like a soap-opera. At least have the curtesy of not leaving us in the dark!”

“I’m afraid you are mistaken this time, my friend,” Hamid replies and looks away almost demurely. “Though in my mind we might have made love thousands of times already, Elizabeth and I are nothing but good friends. Nothing romantic ever happened between us.”

“Yeah, right!” Bartholomew snorts.

“Why would I lie?” Hamid chuckles and leans back in the couch with his hands at the nape of his neck. “If you must know, she cares about me, and it makes me happy. Elizabeth built a home in my head. And I think I never want her to leave, even if I cannot function or work ever again… I feel so...” he pauses, searching for words. “Enchanted? Captivated? I cannot find the right word. How odd! It is like I walk on clouds. It is exciting and odd at once. Almost like I felt at eleven after I first kissed Yasemin.”

“You’re absolutely smitten, Hamid Abi!”

“You must tell her that!”

“That’s a rather silly word,” Hamid laughs.

“But fitting, right?” Bartholomew muses. “Isn’t it what being in love do to us? Makes us all silly?”

And he must be the silliest of all, he thinks, for falling for Elizabeth after she specifically told him she cannot and will not date him. A hand rubs the back of his neck, and Hamid sighs, “Well, I am feeling rather silly right now...”

“No complaints about the word love?”

Hamid smiles and thanks Yusuf for handing him another can of diet coke. “If it was good enough for Shakespeare and The Beatles, who am I to complain?”

“Hmmm… interesting,” Bartholomew says, a meaningful look shared with Yusuf, and he gulps his beer.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, my friend,” Hamid says, a smile that does not reach his eyes, “Nothing happened, and probably never will.”

“Is he doing that thing again?” Bartholomew lowers the bottle and throws the question and a look at Yusuf.

“Maybe.”

Looking from one face to the other in confusion, Hamid asks, “What thing?”

“You know…,” Bartholomew starts, his hands moving in circles, “Raising all those walls around yourself whenever there’s a teeny tiny possibility you like someone… We know your speech by heart: no woman would want to follow you on your ‘adventures’ and it is not fair to ask a woman to commit to a long-distance relationship and all that gibberish we’ve heard over and over…”

“All valid reasons, even if you do not agree with me.”

“Oh, come on!” Bartholomew huffs, the alcohol and the emotions tint his cheeks in a darker hue of pink now. “You keep running away from your feelings, as if falling in love with someone was some sort of anchor to hold you in one place or a bloody curse!”

Bartholomew’s statement hits harder than a punch, stealing all the words from his tongue for a long moment.

Yusuf says softly, a hand on Hamid’s shoulder, “You know he has a point.”

“It’s not me,” he sighs. “It’s her. Elizabeth does not wish a romantic relationship with me. The slightest mention to it and she’ll just shy away. Which just makes me feel stupid…”

“Don’t you think her opinions could have changed these past weeks?” Yusuf asks, “Or might in the future?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Shouldn’t you ask her before deciding it for her?”

Hamid’s gaze lowered to the can while he popped it. The hissing of the gas masks Hamid’s sigh, but nothing hides the grimace that wipes his smile. “Is it even fair to ask her that now? Wouldn’t I be betraying her confidence? I proposed the friendship.”

“By that logic, isn’t it already a betrayal even if you are keeping your feelings a secret?” Yusuf ponders in his graver tone, and Hamid shakes his head.

“Don’t you lawyer me, abi…”

Yusuf raises his hands. “That’s not what I’m doing…”

“I can read the signs. Friendship is all she wants. And I must respect that… She cares about me. Truly. And it’s refreshing to experience this... even if sometimes… Well, it is hard to draw the line... I’m navigating uncharted waters... Sometimes, it almost seems like she is interested too; and during those few seconds it is almost impossible to hold my tongue and not tell her how I feel… The next minute it’s all gone. And she just looks… scared. Like a frightened kitty. Eyes wide and all. As if a sudden move or a mere touch and she would vanish into thin air. All I can do is hold myself.”

“Are you not exaggerating?” Bartholomew snorts with laughter. “It is hard to imagine any woman being immune to your charms... And I’ve seen the way she looks at you. The sparkle in her eyes…”

“You saw us once. Weeks ago…”

“I saw enough.” Bartholomew’s shoulder shrugged and he offered a cocky grin.

“I don’t know… She’s different. I knew that from the start. I proposed the friendship to keep her close and let her know the real me –”

“In the hopes she would fall for you...” Bartholomew cuts him off and Hamid nods, and takes an eggroll from the tray. “But you’re the one who fell. Hard.”

“Do you regret it?” Yusuf asks, “I mean not letting her go after that conversation.”

“Never. I cannot imagine my days without her presence. Since we met, I feel there’s this unexplainable bond between us. A connection. She acknowledges that too, I know... Elizabeth is gorgeous,” Hamid pauses, and his fingertips scratch his chin and the shadow of dark stubble, while he translates the thoughts into appropriate words. “I have no shame to admit I desire her like no other. However, there is also this… this… I have no words to describe how comfortable it feels around her. And her presence brings me peace… If friendship is the only thing reserved to us, I will be happy... Specially after the other night, when she went to my flat and... Elizabeth was genuinely worried about me.”

“Why do you keep saying she cares as if it was the strangest thing?” Yusuf inquires with a frown.

“I mean, I’ve never had any other woman to care like that... I mean, they do not stick around for that part... when it’s not about fun or partying. I’m not used to people other than family and close friends doing that...”

“That’s what happens when you let people in. You care about them. They care about you...” Yusuf points between gulps of the drink.

“But why? That’s baffling. She barely knows me… And she’s got so much going on in her life... That evening, she noticed I was upset and simply went to my flat. And I was so awful to her and insensitive!”

“I can’t see you being insensitive to anyone!” Bartholomew exclaims.

“She recently lost her mother, and I was complaining about mine and my family… Bak! I usually try to be sensitive and measure my words around her whenever the subject comes up… But that day I was upset, and blabbered like a wounded child, without even considering her feelings and the pain… She makes it so easy to talk to her and... to share things I do not normally talk about.”

“This is not a competition, Hamid,” Yusuf says, “You are entitled to your feelings too.”

“Exactly! You don’t have to fill that role of the ever so cheerful. Everybody has ups and downs.”

“Now I cannot stop thinking about my head on her lap and how I wanted to just lay there forever.”

Yusuf smiles at Bartholomew as Hamid tells about the other night and explains the meaning of the Portuguese word cafuné. “Isn’t it amazing to have a specific word for that?” he muses, and Yusuf smiles at his fiancé, a whole unspoken dialogue in their looks.

And they did not interrupt when he started musing, slowly sipping their drinks.

“Words cannot explain how intimate and connected it felt. And I am positive Elizabeth enjoyed it as much as I did. Unlike any other time when it feels like a mere touch could send her fleeing like a scared cat, she stayed. She seemed comfortable too. And she was the one to offer physical comfort for a change, the one to touch me. Repeatedly. And the way she touched my hair. It is beyond explanation. I only wished to lay there in her lap forever...”

“What were you saying before?” Yusuf taunts, “Nothing happened?”

“She was being a good friend.”

“You’re fooling yourself. Sex is not the only thing that matters!”

“If that is not the most romantic thing ever, I’ve learned nothing from years watching all those Julia Roberts’ movies with my mother!”

“You must talk to her. Tell her you like her, abi.”

“I actually said ‘I like you’ once when we were at the park… But... she just stared at me in confusion like I’ve gown a second head!”

“Did you say it right?”

“Bart, is there a wrong way to say you like someone?”

“There’s definitely the wrong time,” Yusuf points out.

“And how one knows it’s the right time?”

“First you never make a move after you make someone cry.”

“Bak! I told you it was hours later. I’ve made her laugh. A lot. If not for that photographer…” Hamid rubs his face and lets out an exasperated sigh he has being holding for a long time. “When it comes to love, you’re the experts –”

The men laugh, and Yusuf rubs the back of his neck. “Always good to start with flattery.”

“– How did you know, when you started seeing each other, that the feeling was reciprocated?”

“How did I know?” Yusuf pondered, a finger raking his beard, lost in his thoughts for a moment while looking at his fiancé. “I think I knew from the start... Like myself, Bart is very straightforward when it comes to show affection.”

“Look at him, how can someone not like him? Yusuf is charming, intelligent, and absolutely adorable!” the man giggled. “I had to make a move before someone else did!”

After a round of laughs and compliments shared by the two, Hamid went quiet.

Yusuf touched Hamid’s shoulder as gently as the words he spoke next, “As you know, people are different, and so are relationships. There is no recipe; no mathematical formula either.”

The mobile pinged on the table and Hamid leaned forward immediately to pick it up. Silently, he examines the notifications: a missed call from his mother, some texts from his sisters and co-workers, and none from Elizabeth. Not that there should be. Yet, he can’t shake off the disappointment. Why hasn’t she sent him a picture of the food to tease him or a silly joke about the ridiculousness of these sort of gatherings? Perhaps she is enjoying Sinclaire’s company. It’s not unusual that unprofessional feelings bloom between work colleagues. With a sigh, he returned the mobile to the coffee table.

“Ah! I remember those days when you’d even forget about your mobile…” Bartholomew muses, “the old thing would be lying somewhere completely forgotten.”

“Are you saying I’m rude?”

“No, I’m saying you’ve changed...”

“You’re already a changed man because of Elizabeth,” Yusuf ponders and offers the tray with goodies to the others.

“Definitely. You could be partying but you’re here with us, sharing our not so quiet domestic bliss... who would’ve thought?”

“It’s Wednesday and I’ll work in the morning.”

“As if it ever stopped you before!” Yusuf nudged Hamid in the ribs, throwing him an amused grin. “Don’t forget Faiza and I were friends long before the two of us met. And she told me all about you.”

“How can I forget?” Hamid laughs. “Thankfully, she prefers to share our embarrassing tales tête-à-tête instead of sharing with the world on that TikTok of hers…”

“Your reputation would not survive,” Yusuf bends with a guffaw of his own.

“As long as I keep my sister away from London, I’ll be fine…”

“You shouldn’t be proud of that reputation of yours…” Bartholomew mutters under his breath and takes an eggroll to his mouth.

With an amused look, Hamid asks, “Why should I not?”

“What does Elizabeth think about the infamous list?” Bartholomew retorts.

“She knows about it and does not mind.”

“Really?” Yusuf asks, “That’s good. But I’m honestly surprised she doesn’t mind...”

“Most people would get insecure seeing the lists, what the tabloids publish… and could wonder if you would just bed them before moving on…”

“I’m not like that! I’m not a womanizer. You know that!”

“We do. But does Elizabeth know? A quick search on the internet tells otherwise and could shake her confidence…”

“You should really notify those sites, Hamid,” Yusuf suggests, “I could handle that for you.”

“They can publish whatever they want, I don’t mind…” he says and gulps the rest of the coke.

“You like the attention, don’t you?” Bartholomew taunts.

“Actually, it’s all very helpful to scare away the women Anne keeps trying to set me up with. One look at that and they’re gone for good.”

“You’re evil,” Bartholomew says and slaps his arm, and they both chuckle.

“Haven’t you considered it might have the same effect on Elizabeth?”

“It’s different with her, Yusuf... She is getting to know me like those other girls never will…” Hamid’s shoulders shrug. “Elizabeth knows I like her. If she felt the same, wouldn’t she have said or done something by now?”

“Are you trully expecting that sweet shy girl to make a move on you?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Hamid chuckles and looks away. “Well, not a move… but… she could at least indicate she likes me…”

“Oh, please! Why would she do that if you said yourself you are both stepping on eggs around each other trying not to cross whichever imaginary lines you might have drawn?”

“Bart has a point, my friend. It’s not easy to make that jump without knowing if the other will catch you…”

“I don’t mind jumping. I never do. I just don’t want to end up hurting her.”

“Does she really know how you feel?” Bartholomew’s eyebrow raise and Hamid ponders, fingers stroking his chin.

“I guess so…”

“Guess is not good enough! You need a big gesture. Something huge to prove you really mean it!”

Yusuf discreetly shook his head, and Hamid made a face. “I don’t think she’d like that!”

“Nonsense. Deep down, everybody expects something grand. Something that says a 100% the other really wants you badly!”

“Very romantic, my love,” Yusuf says, smiling at him. “But don’t you think it could be wiser for Hamid to take his time and consider first what they both really want?”

“Don’t you know what you want, mate?” Bartholomew asks and Hamid smiles. “What is that smile for?”

“My heart wants forever with her.”

“Aw! That’s cute! And another evidence you’re a different man already. You could’ve just said you wanted to tap that ass, but here you are just saying the sweetest things ever!”

“Not once in my life I used that expression, and I would never say that about Liz. No matter how amazing her ass is!”

“See! In love.” Bartholomew joined his hands to make a heart shape. “When you go to the Cotswolds, you should take her to a romantic picnic and just tell her that!” Bartholomew’s eyes sparkle with excitement and he claps his hands. “Even better, you could ask the inn to mix your reservations and you get stuck with only one room. And one bed! Like one of those movies! Ugh! So romantic!”

“Actually, we’re not going anymore. We’re going to Edgewater for the weekend, instead.”

“Still good,” Yusuf says.

“But all her friends are going too.”

“Oh,” the others muttered.

“And her grandmother. Who basically hates me around Liz.”

“That’s not good!”

“Lady Dominique can be quite intense,” Bartholomew says, and frowns. “Hey! But I’ve heard it’s a huge property. You can steal some moments alone with her. Imagine! Big old historical house. You two sharing a moment. Ask her to see the drawing room. Very private. Or to take you to the library. Imagine stealing a kiss there. Against those shelves... Maybe lay in one of those settees… And maybe do more than kiss.” Bartholomew winks at Hamid, and Yusuf sighs.

“Please don’t say tap that ass,” Yusuf begs, but his tone is light and stirred a string of laughter from the others.

“Remember. Be honest. And plan something big!”

“I will have to think about it…”

“Oh, my god! Hamid! If you are not willing to give yourself a chance, I will hit you in the head until sense is knocked inside that thick skull of yours!” Bartholomew flicked his fingers hitting his friend’s forehead.

“Ouch!” Hamid rubbed the sore area. “That’s rather undiplomatic. And I must warn you I do not respond well to threats.”

“Tough love, baby! Get used to it. Next time I’ll hit you harder,” Bartholomew says raising his eyebrows. “You are a good man, Hamid. We know you deserve someone like Elizabeth. She’s such a precious bean. I only know her for a few weeks, but I will stand up for her and will kick your ass, mister, if you only want to mess with her!”

“How can you side up with her? I’m your friend first.”

“There’s no dibs here!” Bartholomew growls and crosses his arms in front of his chest, in mocking annoyance. “Maybe I like her better. Maybe I always dreamed of befriending someone fancy like that, who owns a private library and horses! So chic!” He grins and gulps his beer, and Yusuf giggles.

“Traitor.”

II. The Foredales’s Townhouse – the next evening

After a last peek at the documents piling in front of him and at the notes for his next speech at the Parliament, a defeated sigh escapes the Earl of Edgewater’s mouth, which is purposefully ignored by his interlocutor, unnervingly pacing in front of the massive mahogany desk. Aware the task will not be resumed anytime soon, Lord Vincent puts the pen and his reading glasses down and sits straighter.

With the sort of eloquence who would cause envy amongst his peers at Westminster, Lady Dominque delivers an inflamed speech about image management. Flying from her mouth words that do not match the elderly lady with grey hair neatly tied in a bun, wearing a black and white Chanel suit, who dislikes mobiles and only a decade ago stopped penning letters to friends, succumbing to the appeal of instant messages. And now, in front of him she speaks with certitude about Pictagram, Twitter, algorithms and several unknown details about social media and the importance of the photoshoot Elizabeth declined. Most of the information lost on him...

The troubled and urgent words do not fall on deaf ears, and he nearly assumes the person in question needs to recover from some dreadful scandal, perhaps a personal offense to the Queen. However, reminding his mother is talking about his sweet daughter Elizabeth, whose appearance just the prior evening in the company of Ernest Sinclaire at a gala can only be classified as a huge success, the Earl relaxes. Nothing in the horizon could endanger the survival of the longstanding House of Edgewater, no matter how terrifying the data filling his ears may sound.

When the lady paused to take a breath, Vincent took the opportunity to ask, “What did Melinda advice?”

“To accept it, of course!” Lady Dominique replied with exasperation, “But your daughter did not hear a single one of her words...”

“It does not seem like Eliza to simply ignore anyone. Are you not mistaking her taking a stand to being intransigent?”

“She will not let Melinda do her job. The woman is a social media specialist, and she considers her advice irrelevant.”

Despite not enjoying the idea of having people working for her, the little resistance Elizabeth offered was partly demoted by her father’s advice on the matter and mostly by the perspective of having someone to filter the increasing number of invitations and requests of every sort that started to flood her email account and arrive almost daily at the family’s residence. Therefore, Elizabeth accepted to hire the personal assistant indicated by her grandmother and to allow the family's social media manager, Melinda Scott, who is dearest to lady Dominique, to create and manage one brand new public profile for her on Pictagram and virtually every social media available.

“You must speak to Elizabeth,” Lady Dominique’s exasperated tone demands.

“Why should I?”

“Because she respects your opinions.”

An inquisitive raise of his eyebrow, and the woman averted her gaze while fidgeting with the pearls in the necklace. When her gaze met his again, the admission came out in an almost inaudible tone, “She won’t speak to me.”

“You said you two had settled your disagreement.”

“I thought it was settled... I bought her a Birkin bag. And Cartier’s diamond earrings to match. Then I had Nora reserve a special appointment at Elie Saab’s boutique…” Taking a deep breath, she faces him. “I tried my best, and she’s being nothing but cold and rude to me. I do not know what else can I do. I’m not used to that kind of behaviour.”

“Have you tried actual apologies? It costs nothing and is highly effective.”

“I do not appreciate your tone, Vincent.”

“Sorry, mother,” Vincent coughs a chuckle, and she glares at him. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

Clearing his throat, he starts over in the conciliatory tone that made him a famous negotiator, “Considering the current situation, isn’t it wiser then to let it go? Is it worth to risk an even worse fall-out over this? It’s a mere photoshoot.”

“It’s a powerful statement. Her mother had cancer. Who could be a better spokesperson for the campaign?” the woman doesn’t wait for an answer to the rhetorical question, and concludes, “However, Elizabeth is being stubborn.”

I wonder who she got her stubbornness from... Wisely the man keeps the remark to himself this time, and rubs his face in silent consideration.

“You must speak to her.”

“Let go, mother,” he says softly but firmly at last.

“It would be a tremendous opportunity, Vincent,” she insists.

“Elizabeth can make her own decisions and she already said no.”

“She would become more relevant. Elizabeth needs to be seen. To be heard. Imagine how much her personal experience could inspire people. Also, her popularity right now could increase donations! Which is the whole point of the campaign, and the Royal Society needs it. That’s why I suggested her name in the first place.”

“I understand that. However, like you said before it is her image and her story after all. I can see why she could be uncomfortable with being on the spotlight. And how the subject might still be painful.”

“Her refusal is solely motivated by spite. She is not being rational!”

“I believe she is more than capable of putting her feelings aside in order to make a decision...” Vincent ponders. “Besides, have you considered that she might be respecting her mother’s wishes? Maria never wanted it to be made known.”

“The focus will be on Elizabeth’s experience, not her mother.”

“Once it becomes known, we can no longer control the narrative. The tabloids were cruel with Maria back then... How will they react now?”

“Melinda can work with that. Even bad publicity could be good right now.”

“That’s the opposite of what you said about those tabloids...”

“Being portrayed as some playboy’s mistress is not the same, Vincent.”

“Hamid is not a playboy,” Vincent corrects, and an unladylike scoff escapes her mouth. “I still don’t know why you oppose their friendship so fiercely...”

“I do not trust that man.”

“I don’t understand why. Hamid is a perfectly nice young man, and a good friend to Eliza.”

“He’s a charmer, Vincent. His silver tongue will say anything to win this House’s favour at the Parliament for as long as he needs it,” lady Dominique replies. “Which, I’m afraid, might include misleading my granddaughter.”

“I do not believe he is anything like that.”

Dominique purses her thin lips and takes a seat across from her son. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone, she asks, “Don’t you find awfully suspicious the circumstances of their meeting?”

“What do you mean, mother? They met by chance.”

“Have they really? Was it chance or someone’s doing?” She stares him into his eyes, and continues, “Have you forgotten the unexplained messages to the driver? Sent from your mobile, but not written by you. I have not forgotten.”

“I probably got confused and wrongly instructed James about the airport...”

“Is that what the Countess told you?”

“The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”

“You always had a blind spot when it comes to her deeds...”

Vincent sighed and met her gaze. “Maybe you give her too much credit.”

“One can never be too careful, my dearest. When you nurse a viper in your bosom, be certain it is bound to show its fangs and bite you...”

“I don’t see how Hamid would fit this plot of yours.”

“Can you not imagine the sort of scandal a man like him could bring upon our house?” she says, and they share a knowing look of understanding.

“It’s 2018, mother,” he replies, trying to hold in a chuckle. “I don’t think the plot of Dangerous Liaisons would affect our reputation these days.”

“Right now, Elizabeth is a breath of fresh air. The Queen expressed how satisfied to bestow the title she was. Everyone seems to adore her. But that can change in a moment. You know that. It takes one foolish choice. One picture. One misstep caught on video. Next thing you know, you fell from grace. She’s a woman, Vincent. If they ever want to tear her apart, anything will do. And sex is still the easiest path to destroy a woman’s reputation,” she pauses, “You think I’m old-fashioned, I can see it in your eyes. But our world hasn’t changed as much as you think it did… And the Countess is plotting. Against you. Against my granddaughter. She will not accept defeat so easily…”

Vincent’s hand curls into a tight fist, and he presses it against his forehead. Or maybe it’s his head that is toppling and needs the support. The man takes a deep breath trying to chase away the sinking feeling, and the familiarity of the words he is listening to.

“I don’t see how a scandal of that sort would benefit my father...” he scoffs and corrects himself, “I mean the Countess.”

“If I’m correct, Hamid is just a pawn. Perhaps the kind you sacrifice first on the match... A scandal could make Elizabeth step down, or lost your support. Maybe she thinks you could reconsider your decision if only she pushes the right buttons… She wants her son to be the next Earl. I know her too well: nothing will stop her in this path. No matter who she needs to crush on her way.”

With a frown, Vincent meets his mother’s stare while she continues speaking about the possible outcomes.

“Remember, Elizabeth is young and foolish and grieving. It is our duty to protect her and prepare her for her role the best we can. Even if she does not agree with our methods.”

“My daughter is an intelligent young woman and much stronger than you give her credit for.”

“Perhaps you do not know her that well.”

“Perhaps you fail to see what I see. She is her mother’s daughter. Maria was fierce. And I can see the same strength of character in her.”

“I see a lot of you in her too. She inherited your good heart,” she says, and he almost feels offended by her tone. “It is the sort of weakness some people can take advantage of. It will not be the first time for her. Only promise me you will speak to her. I’ll take care of the rest.”

III. At Hamid’s flat - the next evening

Elizabeth leaned against the wall while untying the laces of the boot, and Hamid set the turquoise slippers on the floor, his piercing brown eyes set on her.

“Still not talking to your grandmother, I see.”

“Why bother? She wouldn’t listen anyway.”

“That’s her loss –” The man throws an arm around her shoulder and leads her to the living room. “– I am interested in every word you have to say.”

“Good to know someone is,” she chuckled the reply and leaned against his shoulder for a fleeting moment. Too quick for his taste. Hamid forces the scent of her hair into his lungs before she moves away from him, already longing for this closeness.

“Many people are, I assure you.”

Her head tilts back to look at him. She cannot conceal the scepticism – or maybe she is comfortable enough not to pretend and act polite in exchange of any compliment he throws at her, a preferable option in his opinion.

“If you don’t trust my word, check Twitter or Pictagram.”

“Unfortunately, I did that on the lift... They only want to know who designed my dress and if Sinclaire and I are banging,” she muttered, “I’m already getting tired of that.”

“So am I.”

Her eyes darted upwards, meeting his.

“For you, I mean,” he tried to explain his previous statement. “I understand how irritating this kind of attention can be.”

Hamid threw her a reassuring smile and she nodded.

Princess Leia meowed and a wide smile curled Elizabeth’s lips at the sight of the cat sashaying its way to her. Hamid looked pleased at the scene, the kind of unexpected domestic joy that warms his heart these days.

Elizabeth’s focus is completely absorbed by the cat demanding her attention, and she sat on the couch. Princess Leia jumped to her side letting out excited meows and trills, a little conversation to which Elizabeth replied mostly with Portuguese words.

“Now I wonder if you come here for my company or to see my cat...”

“I don’t think you’re ready for that conversation, dude...”

Clutching his chest, he pretended to be wound, and she smiled warmly at him. The kind of smile that makes his days so much brighter, and makes being only her friend almost impossible.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Excellent. When you texted, I ordered from that Italian you like.”

“You’re the best,” she says without looking at him, fingers threading through Princess Leia’s long fur, and he wonders who the compliment is addressed... though the blush on her cheeks hint it might not be the cat.

The conversation with Yusuf and Bartholomew still fresh in his mind, Hamid mulls over their advice.

“Do you want to talk about what's bothering you?”

“There's nothing bothering me,” she says softly.

“That was a rather unconvincing performance. Try again.”

“I’m just tired...”

“Maybe I can cheer you up.”

Before she could say anything, he disappeared in the hallway and noises caused by the wardrobe’s door opening and closing came from his bedroom.

“Look what I’ve got for us.” Hamid handed her a large brown paper bag, and joined her on the couch, his body leaning against hers in expectation.

“What is it?” Elizabeth asked peeking inside. “Oh! Briar is gonna be so mad. She specifically said no zombies.”

“Are you seriously afraid of her?”

“Totally!” Her voice carried the giggles she didn’t even try to stifle. “And you should too.”

“Then, don’t worry. This is for another party. We will not ruin her pictures.”

Examining a fake scar tissue, she pulls at the rubber edges. “This looks so ridiculously fake!” She laughs – almost like a child, no intention to cover the mouth or stifle the sound of it – and presses the fake wound against his cheek not missing the way he smiles back at her. “I loved it!”

Zombie is definitely not what he would pick for a couple’s costume, but her smile indicates how pleased she is with the idea, and that is enough for him.

He leans forward, picking a prop of his own - a large and deep cut in rubber with splashes of fake blood - and holds it against her neck. His fingers lightly graze her skin, and she inhales deeply and her cheeks visibly redden.

“Will you be my zombie date, Elizabeth?” His question was accompanied by one of his wining grins.

“Oh! I don’t know…,” she stuttered, putting the props back on the bag, and he wonders if the word date threw her off balance.

“The question is much simpler than your exams at uni... Just yes or no.” She giggles, and he winks. “Of course, yes is the correct response...”

“As much as I’d love to be a gory zombie to my grandmother’s utter disappointment, I need more information before deciding… What kind of party is this? Is it work related?”

“Absolutely not. It’s the sort of party one goes to have fun. Maybe too much fun even. Good music, good atmosphere. Nothing like the boring galas you must attend.”

“I need a break from those... and hanging out with people who either fought on the Falklands or were already on politics to support Thatcher's decisions on the matter.”

“I’d guess more than 70% of the people at the party were not born when Thatcher resigned, don’t know the first thing about the Falklands and probably mistake the Iron Lady for a heavy metal band...”

“Perfect.”

“And I can assure you this party is very exclusive. Full of VVIPs, heavy security... a strict no paparazzi policy,” he stressed the last part and by the way her cheeks rounded with a smile he was positive she’d say yes.

“Just to be clear, you are suggesting we ditch our friends at Halloween and go to that cool party of yours by ourselves?”

“No, not at all. This one is on Tuesday. And it’s the most Halloweenesque pre-Halloween party at London.”

She bit her lower lip and looked at him.

“Yes.”

“Excellent! Then it’s a date!”

Her cheeks visibly blushed, the most alluring hue of pink colouring her face, and she averted her gaze, focusing on the cat lying between them.

“Tell me more about the party,” she asks softly, not commenting on what he said. “Where is it?”

“I don't know yet. The location is kept a secret until a few hours before the event. Last year a text was sent two hours before the event was supposed to start,” he replied.

“Intriguing. Where was it last year?”

“Holloween was at a club at the Southbank –”

“Holloween?” she cuts him off, “As in Felicity's party?”

“It’s not her party. It’s not even her family’s party anymore. It’s a London institution, if I may say so.”

“No way! I’m not going...”

She put the bag down on the couch and crossed her arms. The smile from playing with the props completely gone.

The seriousness of her expression almost makes him reconsider his strategy, but his charms never fail him.

“Come on! It’ll be fun! They always have the best DJs. And did I mention the gift bags?” He nudged her side, instead of returning the gesture, she tensed and didn’t meet his eyes.

“Hamid, I was invited too, but I’m not going. Felicity hates me! And she’s not my favourite person either.”

“There will be hundreds of people. You don’t even have to see her.”

“I know that. That’s why I will be as far away as possible from her party! It zeroes the odds.”

Hamid chuckles and reaches to pat her arm.

“Alright, I will not insist.”

“Thanks.”

“But the party is awesome.”

“I’ll believe you.”

“And I really want to dress as a zombie.”

“So you should. Despite Briar’s beliefs, this is a free country. And go to Felicity’s party too if you want...”

“But I don’t want to go by myself...”

“Then invite someone, dude.”

“That is exactly I’m trying to do...”

“Someone other than me.”

“What if yours is the only company I want?”

She gasped, but tried to collect herself. Even from his seat in the couch he could sense the warmness of her cheeks, and it took a lot of his will to not reach and brush his fingers against her skin.

Clearing her throat, she replied without looking at him, “Stop it. I'm still not going...”

Hamid scratched the cat’s head propped on Elizabeth’s thigh, and mused, “It is a shame. If you have met Felicity under different circumstances, maybe you could’ve been friends.”

“Are you serious?”

He nods, and she considers if he’s teasing her or not before speaking again.

“I can’t see people in such a positive light the way you do.”

“You’ve got things in common. Like yourself, she’s cultivated and you both face similar pressures from society and your families... And beneath that rough exterior –”

“Please, don’t say she’s nice or sweet,” she spats.

“I was not going to,” he laughs. “But she has a peculiar sense of humour. Very dark and a bit unsettling. Which is understandable... Her family is not a walk in the park and the Viscount... Let’s say his parenthood would make Tywin Lannister proud.”

“Hamid, you know I respect your opinion, but...” she started hesitantly, and he offered an encouraging smile for her to share her thoughts, “I mean... everything you are saying… that’s just a sorry excuse for her behaviour... You face a lot of pressure and the prejudice of a bunch of nasty people that don’t even know you, and you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. And Briar! She is working her ass off and not going feral and snapping at people because the world is unfair. And let me tell you, I would not hold it against her if she did that weekly! But Felicity does those nasty things because she is a horrible person who chooses to act like a spoiled brat relying on her privileges and birth rights. Don’t let her off the hook that easily.”

“I believe people can grow and change. But sometimes, they need a little nudge to realise that... What if we could help?”

“Are you suggesting to someone she deliberately hurt to help her?”

“How else will she understand?”

“It’s not my job to do that. Or anyone else she bullied. There are professionals out there if she ever realises how entitled and mean she is and decides to change.”

“I believe in second chances.”

“So do I. But...”

“You believe not everyone deserves one...”

Her cheek hollowed as she bit its insides. “Yes.”

A heavy silence dropped over them like a blanket, and she gnawed at her thumbnail. For a moment, neither seemed to know what to say next, and her shoulders slumped with the tension.

“You think I’m being petty,” she uttered at last.

“I don’t. Sorry if I gave you that impression, Liz.” His hand reached for hers, and she stopped biting on the nail. “Was I insensitive for bringing this up?”

The way she purses her lips answers the question more eloquently than any words ever would.

“Sorry, Liz,” he says, a thumb gently rubbing her hand, “I don’t want to pick a fight with you because of a party or our different perspectives on Felicity Holloway.”

“I don’t want us to fight either,” she says softly. “Fighting is exhausting and I’m too tired already.”

“I brought it up because I thought you could have fun... Perhaps even dance the night away and forget the world.”

She pursed her lips for a long second, and then she smiled and looked at him. Then, she gently moved the cat's head from her lap without waking her up, and for a split second, Hamid thought she would leave, but instead she turned to face him, looking him in the eyes, a timid smile on her lips.

“I’ll propose a compromise, Mr. Diplomat. On Tuesday, I’ll help with your makeup, if you want, and then you'll go have all your fun with Felicity and I will not hold your poor taste against you; and on Wednesday we dance the night away until our feet are terribly sore. How about that?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Miss Foredale,” he says holding his hand out for a shake. She gladly accepts it. “I can’t wait.”

--------------------------------------

Notes:

Cafuné - Portuguese word that can be translated as stroking one’s hair. Allah Allah! – Turkish interjection that can be translated as “good Lord” or “oh, boy” Abi – Turkish word that means brother, is also an affectionate way to address friends. Bak – Turkish word that can be translated as look. Anne – Turkish word for mother. Tête-à-tête – French expression that means private conversation between two persons.

#choices fanfic #desire and decorum #desire & decorum #prince hamid #prince hamid x oc #bartholomew chambers #yusuf konevi #oc: elizabeth foredale #desire and decorum au #second chances #choices july challenge 2021

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chillyravenart · 4 years

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Where Does He Get It From?: Baelon and Alyssa Targaryen

In this post I will be exploring the traits and characteristics of Baelon the Brave and his beloved sisterwife Alyssa.

Baelon and Alyssa were soulmates, an OTP to defy all others, devoted and charming and PASSIONATE. They died fairly young but left a lot of their fire in their son Daemon.

Daemon Targaryen, The Rogue Prince, notorious cad, abominable scallywag, certified badass and philanderer inherited much of his zest for life from his mother and father. The hot-blooded feistiness was all Alyssa, whilst the daring and badassery was all Baelon the Brave. Let us delve into these two beautiful children of Jaehaerys and Alysanne to shine a light into the inner depths of Daemon’s character.

When Aemon was given his first wooden sword to begin his training in arms, Baelon was judged to be too young to join him, but that did not stop him. He made his own sword from a stick and rushed into the yard anyway to begin whacking at his brother, reducing their master-at-arms to helpless laughter.

Thereafter Baelon went everywhere with his stick-sword, even to bed, to the despair of his mother and her maids.

Aemon was taller and stronger, Baelon quicker and fiercer.

You’re telling me Daemon didn’t sleep with Dark Sister under his pillow every night? He treasured that sword above all else, it is known. Baelon’s mastery at swordplay, the drive and energy- along with the sword were evidently imprinted on Daemon too.

Additionally, Baelon adored his older brother so much, a Tolkien-esque bond of brotherhood that just kills me. Daemon may not have had the same devoted love for his brother Viserys, but I’m certain he loved him in his own way... the rascal.

Prince Aemon was shy around the dragons at first, Benifer observed, but not so Baelon, who reportedly smote Balerion on the snout the first time he entered the Dragonpit.

“He’s either brave or mad, that one,” old Sour Sam observed, and from that day forth the Spring Prince was also known as Baelon the Brave.

No, he’s just Daemon’s daddy.

Wherever Prince Aemon went, whatever Prince Aemon did, Prince Baelon would not be far behind, as the wags at court oft observed. The truth of that was proved in 73 AC, when Baelon the Brave followed his brother into knighthood. Aemon had won his spurs at seventeen, so Baelon must needs do the same at sixteen, traveling across the Reach to Old Oak, where Lord Oakheart was celebrating the birth of a son with seven days of jousting. Arrayed as a mystery knight and calling himself the Silver Fool, the young prince overthrew Lord Rowan, Ser Alyn Ashford, both Fossoway twins, and Lord Oakheart’s own heir, Ser Denys, before falling to Ser Rickard Redwyne. After helping him to his feet, Ser Rickard unmasked him, bade him kneel, and knighted him on the spot.

Prince Baelon lingered only long enough to partake of the feast that evening before galloping back to King’s Landing to complete his quest and become a dragonrider. Never one to be overshadowed, he had long since chosen the dragon he wished to mount, and now he claimed her. Unridden since the death of the Dowager Queen Visenya twenty-nine years before, the great she-dragon Vhagar spread her wings, roared, and launched herself once more into the skies, carrying the Spring Prince across Blackwater Bay to Dragonstone to surprise his brother Aemon and Caraxes.

Dressing up as a mystery knight, beating several knights in a joust and being knighted at sixteen? Sounds like something Daemon’s daddy would do! Claiming Vhagar HERSELF as his mount? The she-dragon of QUEEN VISENYA? Yep, just Baelon the Brave things. Its also no surprise that Daemon took that punk Aemond down so SPECTACULARLY after seeing the unworthy snot fly both his father’s and deceased wife’s mount.

Prince Baelon, who dutifully took his brother under his wing, marched him out into the yard, put a sword into his hand and a shield upon his arm. It did not set him right. Vaegon hated it. He was a miserable fighter, and he had a gift for making everyone around him miserable as well, even Baelon the Brave.

Baelon persisted for a year, at the king’s insistence. “The more he drills, the worse he looks,” the Spring Prince confessed. One day, mayhaps in an attempt to spur Vaegon into making more of an effort, he brought his sister Alyssa to the yard, shining in man’s mail. The princess had not forgotten the incident of the Arbor gold. Laughing and shouting mockery, she danced around her little brother and humiliated him half a hundred times, whilst Princess Daella looked down from a window.

Getting his little sister to beat up his brother? Oh Baelon <3

Unlike their father and mother, Baelon and Alyssa did not wait to consummate their union; the bedding that followed their wedding feast was the source of much ribald humor in the days that followed, for the young bride’s sounds of pleasure could be heard all the way to Duskendale, men said.

Great in the sack too, hmmm I wonder where Daemon got it from??? Now we come to Alyssa.

A shyer maid might have been abashed by that, but Alyssa Targaryen was as bawdy a wench as any barmaid in King’s Landing, as she herself was fond of boasting. “I mounted him and took him for a ride,” she declared the morning after the bedding, “and I mean to do the same tonight. I love to ride.”

Your son did too, Alyssa.

But let us rewind a bit and have a look at this little firecracker when she was younger.

... when she was six playing in the yard a whack across the face from a wooden sword broke her nose. It healed crooked, but Alyssa did not seem to care. By that age, her mother had come to realize that it was not Daenerys that she took after, but Baelon.

Just as Baelon had once followed Aemon everywhere, Alyssa trailed after Baelon. “Like a puppy,” the Spring Prince complained.

“Alyssa is for Baelon,” she (Alysanne) declared. “She has been following him around since she could walk. They are as close as you and I were at their age.”

Their older siblings Baelon and Alyssa had become inseparable, and plans were already being made for them to wed.

The fact that Alyssa was besotted with Baelon since she was old enough to walk kills me. The fact that they were soulmates always leaves me crying in the club. How perfect they were. How precious.

The princess did not act like a girl, however. She wore boy’s clothes when she could, shunned the company of other girls, preferred riding and climbing and dueling with wooden swords to sewing and reading and singing, and refused to eat porridge.

Look at this badass. Obstinate, determined and a hater of porridge? Her son made up for her shunning the company of girls, I assure you.

Like her brothers before her, Alyssa Targaryen meant to be a dragonrider, and sooner rather than later. Aemon had flown at seventeen, Baelon at sixteen. Alyssa meant to do it at fifteen. According to the tales set down by the Dragonkeepers, it was all that they could do to persuade her not to claim Balerion. “He is old and slow, Princess,” they had to tell her. “Surely you want a swifter mount.” In the end they prevailed, and Princess Alyssa ascended into the sky upon Meleys, a splendid scarlet she-dragon, never before ridden. “Red maidens, the two of us,” the princess boasted, laughing, “but now we’ve both been mounted.”

My girl wanted to claim BALERION, but ended up with the Red Queen- a red mount, like her son after her :’) She was energetic and loved to race her brothers, easily outpacing them. This daring and ambition was so evident in Daemon too.

Against all advice, his mother clapped the boy in swaddling clothes, strapped him to her chest, and took him aloft on Meleys when he was nine days old. Afterward she claimed Viserys giggled the whole while.

And that was just what he did, for later that same year Princess Alyssa bore her Spring Prince a second son, who was given the name Daemon. His mother, irrepressible as ever, took the babe into the sky on Meleys within a fortnight of his birth, just as she had done with his brother, Viserys.

In case you’re wondering where Daemon got his BDE from... HE GOT IT FROM HIS MAMA!

After a long and difficult labor, she gave Prince Baelon a third son, a boy they named Aegon, after the Conqueror. “They call me Baelon the Brave,” the prince told his wife at her bedside, “but you are far braver than me. I would sooner fight a dozen battles than do what you’ve just done.” Alyssa laughed at him. “You were made for battles, and I was made for this. Viserys and Daemon and Aegon, that’s three. As soon as I am well, let’s make another. I want to give you twenty sons. An army of your own!”

Ok so can we just talk about how SWEET these two were??? We could have had it all... it hurts so much. So SO much. BRB crying.

Though shattered by his loss, Baelon took solace in the two strong sons that she had left him, Viserys and Daemon, and never ceased to honor the memory of his sweet lady with the broken nose and mismatched eyes.

IT’S TOO MUCHHHHHH. I can’t cope.

As charming as he was hot-tempered, Prince Daemon had earned his knight’s spurs at six-and-ten, and had been given Dark Sister by the Old King himself in recognition of his prowess.

Daemon became a knight at sixteen, like his father before him and wielded his sword Dark Sister too, the Valyrian sword of Queen Visenya herself. The charm? The hot temper? Alyssa and Baelon ran deep in that boy... and what a legacy he carved out for himself too.

Thank you for coming to my Targ Talk.

#daemon targaryen #baelon the brave #alyssa targaryen #pre asoiaf #the rogue prince #house targaryen #where does he get it from?#baelon x alyssa #targaryen month #asoiaf #targ talk

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yinxiong · 4 years

Text

heart made of glass (my mind of stone)

muses: ten x winwin

genre: historical au, angst

word count: 1457

notes: something of a cross between the tale of nokdu and empress ki. inspired by tenwin’s lovely performance (bc duh)

Ten knew this was a bad idea. A trap, more accurately, but it really didn’t matter when he was recklessly diving in headfirst anyway.

“My lord.” Sweet words flowed from sweet lips, though he’d be a fool to pretend they were filled with emotions of fondness and desire. “I am honored to have been considered as your new consort.”

“That is a delight to hear.” He nodded curtly, gesturing the figure closer with bejeweled fingers. “You may rise.”

The beauty straightened from the deep bow to peer through curled bangs and lacquered lashes, and he felt his heart tremble at the sight of his past lover’s face.

“Sicheng,” the name slipped out before he could catch himself. “You’re alive.”

The boy— no, man now— visibly stiffened at his mistake, and it took everything to keep himself from leaping off his throne and stumbling down the stairs to kiss the frown off those soft, puffy lips painted the prettiest shade of rouge. Would they taste the same as he remembered?

“I apologize for my rude words, my lord,” he said in that soft, lighter voice tailored to fit his feminine impersonation. “But my name is Lady Liu. Liu Siyang.”

Lies, Ten wanted to shout. There was no doubt that the consort standing before him was none other than the bright-eyed, loud-mouthed fisherman’s son he had met all those years ago on a distant island he could not escape from. Not that he had wanted to escape, especially after falling for this boy who kissed him to sleep every night beneath the moon’s curious gaze. Yet, like all beautiful things, his dreamlike exile ended before he could even confess the most foreign feelings shaking his heart. Kisses turned to tears as Ten began crying himself to sleep behind silk screens and ornately carved doors, seeking comfort in only the morning melodies of songbirds chirping outside his window while a political wildfire raged within. It was only until he had finally secured his position as Emperor that he could take a breath without worrying if someone was going to run a sword through him the next moment, though it did nothing to fix the shattered mess his heart remained.

He had not the slightest idea how or why Sicheng ended up in the capital dressing as a woman, climbing up the Inner Court as a consort, standing in his throne room looking like a flawless porcelain doll, but there were enough wandering eyes and ears in the palace for Ten to know he was in no position to cause a scene.

(A part of him might’ve realized from the start that Sicheng was there to harm him in some way, except temptation pushed that thought to the very back of his mind before he could dwell much further on it.)

“No, it should be me apologizing. I haven’t at all been very welcoming towards you,” he forced an amiable laugh to appease the Queen Dowager he knew was watching closely to his right. “Lady Liu. I do hope you wouldn’t mind if I changed that a bit?”

“I don’t suppose I do, my lord. Though, I did have something to show you myself.” The slightest of smirks and Ten could already feel his breath shorten. Heavens, how was he such a mess already?

He swallowed, praying the nerves wouldn’t show. “You do?”

Sicheng widened his smile, “Yes, my lord. It’s just a little dance— I hope it won’t be too much of a bore if you would be so gracious to let me perform it?”

Dance? The only memory Ten had of Sicheng dancing was from the villagers’ new year celebration— a night of stumbling around the blazing beach bonfire after drinking a cup of wine too many, laughter soaring to the stars as they sang along to chantey after chantey until the island was the only world they had ever known.

And now, Sicheng was gliding across the floor before him, pink robes fluttering about as he twirled a fan with the utmost precision and grace. His face was demure, yet hardly lacked spirit— every twist of his arms, every placement of his foot was accompanied by a soulful expression stained with the slightest tinge of taunting. Not even a single strand of hair was out of place, Ten realized, wholly enraptured and unable to take his eyes off this blooming flower he wanted more than anything the universe had to offer.

When he finally stopped spinning and so did the world, Ten took his first shaky breath since the performance started. A million thoughts were running through his mind yet not one felt right sitting on his tongue, so all he could do was stare dumbly as Sicheng took another bow, looking just as immaculate as he did when he had first walked in.

“Thank you for sparing me some of your attention, my lord. I pray you found it enjoyable?”

Ten managed a brief nod, twisting at the jade ring sitting around his finger as he searched for his voice. “Si… yang, you will not mind if I paid you a visit later tonight?”

The ghost of a smirk on Sicheng’s face was all the answer he needed. “I would not be opposed at all.”

Once the sun sank back beneath the shadows and the moon floated across the sky to take her place among the stars, Ten would find himself standing outside the consorts’ hall, hand knocking gently on the door that would slide open to reveal the one true desire he had left in this glimmering yet dull life of his. No more than a minute would pass for him to make his way in and wrap a hand around Sicheng’s wrist (they were more slender than he had remembered), to push him against the bedroom wall and whisper, “Gods, it’s you, it’s really you, isn’t it?” while drinking in every bit of those perfect, moonwashed features he hadn’t gone a single night without dreaming about since leaving that carefree island. And then Sicheng would reach up to curl his fingers around Ten’s neck, pull him close as he breathed, “Yongqin,” and let him capture his lips that still tasted of peaches and wildflowers. They’d eventually stumble their way to bed, silk robes wrinkling in the struggle to discard everything (why did women’s clothing have so many layers?) covering that body Ten swore rivaled those of gods. Not that he had ever seen the gods, but worshipping Sicheng might as well have been the same.

“Tear me apart,” Sicheng would reply when they stopped kissing long enough for Ten to ask what it was that he desired, “I want you to tear me apart.”

It should unsettle him, to hear such words fall from that swollen, glistening mouth, especially when he still hadn’t any clue why Sicheng had come to him under the guise of a woman. Except none of that seemed to matter, not in the slightest, when those quicksilver fingers would sweep across Ten’s shoulders, collarbones, chest and leave him _gasping _in a matter of seconds. His body has never felt more on fire until then, almost like he was the one being torn to pieces, from skin to bone. Is this what the sun felt like whenever the moon embraced him after eons of being separated by the heavens? But Sicheng was intoxicating, so goddamn intoxicating that all Ten could do was swallow his own demands and fall into those gleaming, secretive eyes like he was an untroubled teenager all over again.

He knew this was a terrible idea, keeping the enigma that was Sicheng too close for comfort. He had questions, too many things to find out for the sake of both his sanity and safety, though whether or not he could achieve everything was a completely different matter altogether. Plus—

It’s been far too long since Ten has felt alive. So long he’d gone without a place to hide, to run away, to fight his fears and find his joy. And if Sicheng had managed to bring him back to euphoria with nothing but a gaze, he really couldn’t give a damn even if he ended up drowning in the crashing waves he had once dared conquer.

So once the night had passed, once the two of them had painted flowers all over their bodies and filled each other up while singing names dipped in starlight, Ten would wake to discover that for once, this wasn’t just a dream meant to break his heart all over again. Smiling, he’d brush aside Sicheng’s tangled hair to admire the ethereal face that was his, press a chaste kiss to his sleeping eyes, nose, lips and finally, finally say,

“Welcome home, my love.”

fin.

#wayv #nct #neowritingsnet #ten #winwin #wayv fic #nct fic #wayv angst #nct angst #ten angst #winwin angst #ten fic #winwin fic #wayv fanfic #nct fanfic #kpop #cpop #au #angst

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firedawnd · 4 years

Text

Dance for Them (Six)

So the Anna/Katherine fic is here! You don't have to read the previous fic (Breathe for Them) to understand this one, but it'll flesh out this universe and touch on some of its themes (eg. relating to Mannox, Dereham, Henry, Culpepper) in more depth!

Trigger warnings for reference to/implied rape.

Katherine had liked dancing when she was younger and merely a lily in the world’s eyes; before her mother died, before she had grown and had the world beheld to her lips.

She dances with herself, first. In her own room; where there was nobody but her reflection in the mirror to dance to. Sometimes, it was with joyous revelries; other times, it was slow, sombre, quiet. Occasionally, she had envisaged a man: of fair proportion, perhaps, well-endowed and strong, that would be a partner to her dance; of a dance that would be all hers.

She would dance, till the sun set and the night reigned; she would dance whenever she could, whenever she had wanted to. She did it because she felt like it, as a four, five-year-old child, without the rest of the world to scrutinize.

(This choice is taken away from her when she enters the house of the Dowager Duchess, and she learns about what the world wants her to be.)

Mannox, music teacher he was, had likened dancing to a form of art. Like you play your lute, or run your fingers over the virginals, or how you blow into flutes; they all crescendoed and culminated into a cacophonous melody, a climax that he had so loved.

Dance, he said, was your art. Katherine was an expert; his little expert, he had said, at it.

She had stopped dancing for her own joy after that. She had closed that part of her; let that part of her fall into the abyss, into an almost-forgotten memory that she would only retain, once or twice, when she needed to comfort herself.

Dereham had often made her think of her memories, when he had asked her to put on little shows, whenever they had time alone. Every-time he would watch her play her role, the mistress Artemis, dance, intently, and he would devour her with his eyes; hungry, ravenous; and she span some more, for she knew what would happen once she lost her beat. Every-time she bit her lip and remembered the times she was back in her room, back in her own world and alone; dancing to no-one that wanted her too—oh, so blissfully herself, blissfully to her own tune.

(She had stopped dancing alone after that. They had always insisted upon a partner.)

Anna of Cleves was a frequent partygoer. So, Katherine had always gone with her, on visits to all corners of England. Surrey, Buckingham, Northumberland, Warwickshire; anywhere there was, Anna would go.

However, Anna had never danced; she had batted away admirers, of nobles and of men. Katherine had always watched from a distance, of Anna’s resilience, of her ability to do what she wanted to; careless, and caring not, for the chivalric code.

Katherine had admirers of her own; those times, Anna would watch her instead, as she danced with them in the shadows, and they had touched her; fleeting, fast, all too cold; where no-one else could see. But Anna would always talk to her after; tell Katherine that, if she did not like it that she could say no; she could resist; if she could not, then just find her—Anna would do it for Katherine.

(There was once, before she was made anything, when Katherine had witnessed Anna of Cleves dance. She had been quick, and graceful, swaying to the band’s Germanic tune. Katherine had not thought that she had seen anything more beautiful.)

When Anna of Cleves falls, and Katherine is raised a Queen, visits, and parties, and all there is to see with her—are no more.

Henry forces Katherine to dance with him. He enjoys it, like he enjoys hunting and drinking and eating. He does it like he's putting on a show for his ministers, for the nobility; he does it every time there is a royal ceremony, a royal coronation, and there is a chance to dance.

He likes it rough. He grabs her by the hips, seizes her by the shoulders. He pulls her towards him, pushes her away, shoves her around in a twirl; he laughs to his ministers: see, look at His Majesty and his skill!

She’s dragged across the floor to his rhythm, to his beat, to the drunkenness in his eyes. Katherine struggles, of course, but the ministers just stand by, and she’s voiceless.

“May I take this dance, please?”

Anna of Cleves’ voice is hesitant. Asking. But her eyes shimmer; and Katherine nods. Anything to get out of his grip.

“Of course,” Henry says. He smiles at Anna, at the King's Beloved Sister, spreading his arms out like nothing’s wrong. Katherine stumbles, slightly, out of his grip.

She dances with Anna. The music delves into a low harmony, a slow song. (She thinks, that if it were Henry instead, she would be feeling his hands dig into her shoulders, her back, leaving his possessive mark.)

Katherine puts her hands on Anna’s shoulders, on Anna’s hips. She’s soft. She can barely feel Anna’s hands on her, and she exhales a little; she is nothing like his grip.

But his linger.

They dance to the beat; to nothing more. They dance until they’re near the gardens, and that is when Katherine stumbles out of Anna’s hands. She steadies herself against the trees, feels the bark dig against her palms. Anything to relieve the feeling of— his hands, grasping her, grabbing her, wherever he wished, whenever he wished. Pain pinches her, and she feels her breaths exhale, quieter and quieter.

Anna hangs behind. Katherine doesn’t realise where she is until her voice enters her ears, a good five feet away from where she was.

“Are you alright, Katherine?”

No. Not as a Queen. Not with Henry.

“Yes,” she whispers, involuntarily. She can’t tell any of that; not as Queen, not even Anna—Anna, who she had been in-waiting to, who she had been closest to, who would understand her struggles for she was once Henry’s Queen.

What could she say? That she didn’t want to be here? As a Queen; that she didn’t want her titles, her honour, her royalty, this dignity? That she did not mean to be raised up-high; that she should not have been at all, for she had Mannox, had Dereham, had men before; had nightmares made of men.

That she feared her King?

Anna of Cleves may understand. Perhaps she would comfort her, tell her a way out; of divorce, maybe, as she had too. Of ways, of tales, maybe, that they could leave this realm; that they could go away, to somewhere far perhaps—back to Anna's home in Germany, or seek refuge in France, in anyplace else. But Anna was still Henry’s honorary Beloved Sister. Anna still had loyalty to England; to Henry.

It was not like before; when Anna would tell her anything; however blasphemous, however ridiculous, and Katherine would listen to the heavens beyond. Everything was different now. It had been different, before.

But, Katherine still adds, as quiet as a whisper, to the Queen that was once before; to a friend, once before: “Thank you.”

After that, Anna is at every party Katherine is in. They exchange the same pleasantries and exchange the same words. It is almost like before because Katherine watches Anna, who, in riches now and living in Richmond Court, now has more suitors than before. Anna still is resilient; and, despite herself, Katherine smiles at the sight.

Anna watches her, as well. She remains quiet, most times, for barely any men approaches Katherine anymore now that she is Queen; but Anna intercedes whenever Henry wishes to dance.

Anna visits Katherine during New Year’s. She arrives at Hampton Court and tries to bow to Katherine, but Katherine doesn’t let her. Anna was close to her—and she was once a Queen as well; she should not have to bow.

They dine together. Katherine talks to Anna about her life; about how she is now Queen (although Katherine often shies from the topic; because of the potential tensions, the latent resentment it may spring—when she reminds Anna of what she has lost. But Anna does not see it so; does not see it so, even when she asks). She talks to Anna about the Court, about how she is working to free Margaret Pole. Tells her about how Elizabeth is doing.

Anna returns in kind; tells her of her life in Richmond Palace, of the treasures and goods she now possesses. She celebrates often, hosts parties in her palace and visits other nobles. Anna invites her; we can dance together, then, she suggests, a slight smile playing upon her lips, shall we?

She tells Katherine of her life, now; free to do what she wishes, to live as she wishes—and Katherine finds herself wanting, almost, of Anna’s life. Dancing, she replies, half-made memories in her head, I haven’t danced in a long time.

Puppies. She gives them to Anna. They were Henry’s. Henry’s gift to her. There is a golden ring, as well, that Katherine slips on Anna’s finger; that she pretends she is the one giving—and not Henry. Not Henry’s, but hers.

Anna smiles. The rare half-smile that she’s only given her. I love them, she says, softly. Thank you, Katherine.

She doesn’t say anything. But her heart rises, just a little when she approaches the dogs. She pats the puppies on the head, hesitantly, and then she enters into a rhythm.

There’s a glint in Anna’s eyes, one so soft she could barely see. Katherine finds herself smiling, a little, back.

His. No longer.

That same night, Anna of Cleves approaches her, amid the revelry music of the night. She takes Katherine’s hand and squeezes. “Would you like to dance?” she asks, and Katherine shrugs, half-smiling.

“It’s okay if not.”

Warmth drops off from her palm; eyes, concerned, hesitant, find hers. You can say no, Katherine hears, I don’t mind.

I’ll still be here if not.

She takes a breath. She looks Anna in the eyes and breathes, once, twice, quietly.

“No. No. I…” and the words feel foreign on her lips, and she tests it, like stepping into shallow water, “… I want to.”

She takes Anna’s hand. She nods, confident, as her heart stutters. Anna’s eyes flick towards her in surprise, but soon, the surprise fades away.

Slowly, slowly, they ease into a beat. There are people dancing, beside them, too; but they fade away into the music, fade away until she and Anna are the only ones left on the floor. Katherine feels Anna’s hand in her hand, and they move to the sounds, as her heart thrums to the music.

They dance for the night. They dance, even after Henry has gone to bed, and the rest of the nobilities have, too. They dance; until they are the only ones left in the night.

They dance, as often as they can, after. Katherine anticipates Anna’s visits to Hampton; she visits Anna when Anna hosts celebrations in Richmond.

Each time, Anna holds out a hand, which Katherine takes. They dance to the music; whether joyous or sombre, whether ecstatic or quiet. They dance, and Katherine feels her life fade away, slips through her fingers and fades and fades; until she is in her room again and she’s watching herself from a mirror: she’s dancing alone, to herself, to the music only she hears.

(Until, of course, Katherine is apprehended; until, of course, she dies.)

Katherine sees Anna again.

She has two dogs. Scuttling around her run-down apartment, with white fur that Katherine remembers being so soft. Anna bends down and ruffles one’s hair, picks it up, turns it to Katherine, but she doesn’t make any move to touch it.

Instead, she takes in the apartment. Everything’s cluttered, in colours red and orange, reminiscent of her and Richmond Palace. There’s random colour palettes, props of pearl necklaces and silver coins, keychains of thrones and crowns. There are lilies beside her windowsill, drooping heads turned towards the slivers of light above.

There’s a laugh. Katherine looks back at Anna and watches as the dog relentlessly licks her hand. There’s a ring on her finger, made with a red band that looks like something out of an arts and crafts store. There are jewels, glittering over the band, that tints slightly pink under the sunlight. It’s no longer made of gold.

“I’ve missed you,” Anna says, softly, after studying her eyes. Katherine chokes back a sob, because—because the memories are returning back again. Of the dances and of the music. Of beats and of hands. Of rooms.

But she doesn’t let herself speak until the sob dies in her throat, and finally, she says, just as quietly: “I’ve missed you, too.”

They go to bars, to places with dance-floors, to parties. It’s the same as the 16th Century was, with just as many people, but with more lights, stronger beats, and much more life. Music thrums in Katherine’s ears, and often, she closes her eyes and loses herself to the world.

She dances with Anna. They go in, hand-in-hand, and Katherine usually doesn’t let go; but neither does Anna, who holds onto her through the music. They dance together, and sometimes if Katherine is brave enough, she lets go and dances—to herself, again.

(She never thought she would before.)

It’s night when Anna approaches her again. They’re outside the bar, beside the pool, inside a garden again. Katherine watches Anna as she slows in her steps, and she stops.

There’s a smile pulling her lips, one that reminds her of the times before; when she’d listened to Anna rant about Henry, when they saw each other in celebrations, when they were together in the bars, when Katherine had watched Anna dance, alone, amid music that was hers.

Her hands clasped behind her, she turns her head slightly to Katherine. They fall back to her side, after Katherine cocks her head at her. Then, softer, she asks: “do you want to dance?”

Anna’s eyes glisten under the starlight when Katherine takes her hand.

“Yes,” she replies, with a small smile. “Yes.”

(They dance together. That is the same night that they kiss under the starlight; and then, the world fades away. Until they're the only ones left again.)

It is a process. There are times when Katherine dances, when Anna can hold her hand, when Katherine can kiss her and feel happy for hours after.

But sometimes, Anna’s hand resting on her shoulders remind her all too much of Mannox, of Dereham, of Culpepper, of Henry—and then she has to move away, remind herself to breathe—to breathe again. Sometimes, she secludes herself; after nightmares, after she feels as if her body has been razed and she sheds her skin like a jacket; gone, not here, not happening to her.

But Anna does not mind. She is her friend, first, during those times. Anna comforts her; cares about her; wants, expects nothing from her. And when Katherine cannot take that—not because she doesn’t trust her but because it feels too much like Dereham, like Mannox, like Culpepper in the moment—Anna understands and keeps her distance. Nothing more until Katherine nods and tells her it’s okay again.

It is a process; perpetual, painful, potent. It is vicious, and she tells herself she will get better. She tries. Some days, it does not. She sees Henry and Culpepper and the rest of them again—and then she can’t be touched, or else they’ll come back again; ghosts, grabbing her by the hands, the hips, the lips. She locks herself in her room and only lets Jane enter during those days.

But some days, it does. Some days, she can go to bars, to places with Anna, and go on trips and do whatever they want together. Sometimes, they kiss; sometimes, they hold each other’s hand, a reminder of each other’s presence together. Some days, she dances in her own room, like she’s four, five again; but now to her own music, to an imaginary stage. To a beat hers.

And the days that it does are enough.

fin.

A/N: Hi again! Please keep reading too :D

I wanted to write this, as I wanted to explore Katherine and Anna’s relationship a little more, before and after reincarnation. Historically: Katherine and Anna have danced together, which is why I’ve centred it around dancing. For the New Year’s scene, Chapuys states, in his letter to the Queen of Hungary, that ”[…] after the King had retired, the Queen and lady Anne danced together…” and it was also written about by Marillac. By a few accounts, Katherine had enjoyed dancing, though she had taken dance lessons when she was younger and was often distracted. But mostly I focused on the dancing as a unifying theme for the story (chronicling K and A’s relationship). I decided to make it mostly subconscious (pre-K's death, with the ring), and manifesting post-reincarnation, mostly due to the era and the 1533 Buggery Act which would've turned this fic into another one (eg. homophobia) entirely, which isn't exactly the focus of this fic.

Which, speaking of: K’s sexuality. It’s really up to your own headcanons, but for me, she’s bi (re: All You Wanna Do), leaning towards homoromantic. Reading her as ace is also totally valid and I’ve written this with that in mind! What are your headcanons for K’s (and the other Queens’) sexualities? (totally not gonna reference it for my upcoming fic... c:)

This is a little lighter than the previous fic, and the next fic’ll be lighter still (coughs, KH+ gayness) (though… it might get a bit too light for this universe, so I might be throwing it out there as a fluffy oneshot). Either way, I’ll see everyone soon! Please tell me what you thought, maybe how it compared to the last fic, and thank you always for reading! :)

#six the musical #katherine howard #anna of cleves #six the musical fanfic #my fics

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queerchoicesblog · 5 years

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A Father’s Daughter (D&D, Annabelle x MC)

Requested by @esteladannishreyakamilah, this is my VDay D&D entry for the February Challenge by @endlessly-searching-for-you. ❤️

Notice that I wrote this fanfic before the “pistols at dawn” plotwtist so consider this taking place after the trip to Grovershire. It deviates slighlty from the canon in the end (I couldn’t remember the original line of Lady Grandmother and I made up another xD).

Frustrated by the latest events at Edgewater, Elizabeth wrote an impossible letter to her father, drawing similarities between their sentimental fate: why can’t their family understand the true meaning of love?

Prompt: Forbidden Love

Word Count: 1128

Perma Tag: @brightpinkpeppercorn @psychopathdreamer21 @abunchofbadchoices @bbaba-yagaa @silverhawkenzie @melodyofgraves

Tags: @kennaxval @kinda-iconic @countessannabelle (hope you like it sweetheart)

_________________________

Dear Father, I hope that this letter you will never receive finds you at peace and finally reunited to your long lost true love, my beloved mother. I miss you both. I know that I hardly knew you but I miss you dearly, cursing all the years we spent separated and unaware of each other. If only you were still here... Since you were gone, things got worse over here in your well-loved Edgewater. Winds of war started blowing and the ominous shadow of a tyrant lingers over us. I'm sure you remember Duke Richards: apparently, Lady Grandmother, the Dowager Countess, fell for his charms and is going above and beyond to make this wedding happen. She still gushes over the Queen's blessing and how rich and noble Mr Richards is. Noble? How can a pompous narcissistic beast like him be even called a man not to mention noble? He may have a gentleman facade but he's one of the meanest people I've ever met. Underneath his accomplished appearance, he hides a big bad wolf and I don't want to be his prey. I will fight until my last breath if need be! He's arrogant and toxic, he belittles everyone he considers inferior to him and the meaning of the word "empathy" is unknown to him. He abuses of his power and even assaulted me! How could I even consider marrying someone like him? Please tell me, Father! I cannot undestand why your Mother doesn't pay the same respect to other men, genuine noble souls, unlike the monster she worships She doesn't listen to my complaints: she "knows best what's good for Edgewater". I'm afraid she will realize the mistake she made too late...

Oh Father, if only I think about our last conversation on your death-bed, what you told me! All you wanted was my happiness: that I marry for love not out of mere convenience. I had a plan to make it happens: good Mr Chambers made me a proposal but Lady Grandmother ruined everything, forcing my engagement with Duke Richards. She would rather see me sacrifice my joy for her greater good -not mine-, her selfish ambition than see me happy with someone I choose on my own. I know it's harsh and I wish I didn't have to speak in such a petty manner of my your mother, but I'm afraid I have no choice. Was she like that with you too when you were younger? I bet she didn't approve mom too. How could you two be of the same kin? She and your Father can't hold a candle to the gentleness and sweetness shining inside of you. They're so stubborn and selfish: I found myself wondering if lady Grandmother actually loves me as her granddaughter. Or anyone else, for the matter. It saddens me that you may have shared similar thoughts when you were among the livings.

I sneaked away to Grovershire, my old village. I couldn’t be in Edgewater anymore, I couldn’t even bare the sight of her and her beloved Duke Richards. Once I reached the places of my childhood, I breathed again. My life was so easier when I lived there...and I will always belong there no matter what the future holds. Mrs O’Malley, our wondrous tailor, the kids, the extraordinary baker who provides the best apple tarts of whole England, Mrs Daly...they were all there. Oh the wave of memories that hit me, Father! And the surprise of seeing that among them there were other familiar and friendly figures, like Mr Harper, Mr Sinclaire and Prince Hamid! They all came there when they heard the news of my “escape”. Miss Parsons immediatly left Hazelvale too. I had to beg my heart to be still when Briar gestured me to look over my shoulder and she was there, gracefully waving at me on the opposite side of the square.

I can’t find words strong enough to describe how I feel about her, Father. The heart beating in my chest doesn’t belong to me anymore, it’s hers, my mind belongs to her as well since I keep daydreaming of her when she’s not around. Her melodious laugh, the sound of her voice, the gleam in her beautiful dark eyes when we notice me looking at her across the room, the soft smile immediatly forming on her lips...these things never leave me, even when we are apart. And, to be honest, they make my life worth living at the moment. She’s my harbour, my love and -Father pretend not to read this if it makes you blush too- my passion. Did you and mom feel the same way back then?

I felt on top of the world when in Grovershire I walked down the street with Annabelle on my arm. Nobody stared maliciously at us nor turned their head away disgusted. They just nodded and smiled as they walked by: my heart almost exploded with joy. It certainly went boom when I danced with my fair lady of Hazelvale in the square with my friends and we were all simply merry, careless. I felt free, Father. And oh, how could I describe the joy that kindled inside me when I was crowned Queen of the Harvest Feast and I got to choose Annabelle, sweet, fierce Annabelle as my King!

That joy faded soon though, too soon. Lady Grandmother found me and my freedom was over once again. She made a beeline towards me through the crowd: disdain and fury were written all over her face while she walked imperiously as if she owned the place. And then her eyes fell on me...and Annabelle frozen in place, still down on one knee beside me, courtly holding my hand. Lady Grandmother’s stare grew cold, probably colder than I’ve ever seen, and she hissed, looking at me: “You truly are your father’s daughter, Elizabeth. You’re coming with me. Now.”. And now she forced me back to Edgewater, exactly where she wanted me to be. Oh dear Father, when you were here, Edgewater was such a lovely place to me: it was where we could be together, it meant you. Now, after your death, it's nothing but a trap, sadly. Its now familiar shape in the horizon turned my happiness into sorrow and made my heart tightened. The mere thought of living under the same roof, breathing the same air, the possibility of accidentally bumping into that hideous man in your house Father - your house, not his! - makes me sick. That snake repels me and I will never understand why for the world he's more suitable for me than Miss Parsons, the rare gem I will be eternally loyal and devoted to. Paraphrasing forlorn Hamlet, "something is rotten in the land of her Majesty", something is so very rotten...

#VDay prompts #february challenge #desire and decorum #annabelle parsons #annabelle x mc #playchoices #choices fanfic

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grumpygreenwitch · 1 year

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The Fairy and the Prince #20 + #21 + #22

Originally posted 11/16/2022. Don’t forget, there’s also an update tonight, in addition to the rerun.

Autumn came, and with it William’s seventeenth birthday. Unlike Adam’s parents, William’s family did want to at least look like they gave a damn about the son they’d placed on the bloody altar of the Dowager Queen’s curse. They sent what was needed so he could host a small dinner for whatever friends and allies he’d made, and a gift of a fine jousting saddle. Adam was invited, and found himself the youngest once again; it made him think wistfully on what time he had spent at the palace. They ribbed him about his desire never to come to the crown, of course, and he accepted the teasing gracefully. They wondered why he lingered in the palace, if he truly had no intention of claiming the throne. Adam fully admitted to them that he would stay even after someone took the throne; he wanted nothing to do with the parents who’d thrown him into such a mess. Once there were a King, he’d be free to swear fealty, and perhaps they ought to get hopping to it?

It brought wry laughs because they could all too readily see his plight in their own, and they returned to making William’s birthday as memorable as they could.

Full of good food, warmed by strangely unexpected cheer and wobbling a little from too much sherry, brandy, and other rich liquors, Adam found himself unwilling and unable to tolerate the walls of the palace. He found his way to a bench in a nearby garden and flopped down on it with a groan that said he’d learned his lesson well: only two servings of roasted stuffed goose with peach glaze next time. Three, tops.

A crack of thunder woke him up so violently he fell off the stone bench, crashing down to the ground with a stinging impact, drenched by a freezing, torrential downpour that had failed to rouse him even as it chilled him to the bone. He sat up, panting as if he’d run for miles. His head was pounding with the aftereffects of too much liquor, and the food had gone to a stone in his gut.

“Hey,” he croaked, his voice strangled by fear and drowned by the rain. He took a few uncertain steps forward.

The whispering voices of the water-spouts called out his name. They were full of warnings.

“Keep talking,” he urged them. “Keep calling my name. Please. So I won’t forget it.”

They sang his name, all of them, an endless echo powered by the violent rain, and Adam gasped for breath, unaware that he’d been all but drowning until that moment. “Hey!” he shouted.

Lightning answered. The swirling thing around the walking figure came to a standstill.

Adam walked. He ran. “Hey, stop!”

The thing of rain and wind and fog began to dance and circle again, and the walker jerked forward. Adam slid on the grass and the mud. “Stop! Leave him alone! Let him b-!” He skid to a halt, mouth open, every thought and emotion gone to a jumble and a knot in his heart.

Prince Rickard stared back at him, and took another step toward the woods. “Adam,” the older prince croaked. He’d just become eighteen late in spring. “Adam, help me.” Another step.

Adam realized, with the most profound horror, that Rickard was aware. He knew exactly what his body was doing, there in the rain. He was wearing a shirt and pants, but no boots, no coat. He’d been ready to go to bed, likely relaxing in his room, when the Prince in the Woods had sent his emissary to summon this newest sacrifice. And try as he might, and the older prince was very much trying, not all his terror and hate, not all his rage and ruthless determination, not one jot of his willingness to kill for the crown was helping him. His feet carried him one step closer to the woods, looming immense and black before them, alien and menacing as Adam had only once before known them to be.

“Rickard, stop.”

“I can’t,” the prince wheezed.

“Why should you,” the thing of rain and fog whispered, and Adam saw her clearly at last, beautiful and deadly, inhumanly so in every regard. She wore a maid’s shape, and next to her Arditty would have looked plain and forgettable. She had pale eyes and wind-tossed hair, and sometimes she wore fine courtly clothing and sometimes nothing at all. “Come, prince, my prince. Come. Are you not now a man? Should a man not be a king?” Her lips brushed against Rickard’s cheek and the older prince made a high sound of terror and revulsion.

“Leave him alone!” Adam shouted at her, and she laughed at him, high and cold and cruel. “Rickard, stop!”

“I can’t.” Through the sodden shirt Adam could see that Rickard was truly trying. Every muscle on the older prince’s body was standing out starkly, to no avail. He’d taken three more steps already on his way. “Adam, strike me, break my legs, do something. Stop me. Help me, please.”

“What’s to help, oh, what’s to help, prince, my prince?” She tangled up around him as intimately as a lover in bed, running her hands and her too-sharp fingers through Rickard’s rain-plastered hair. “Have you not lied, cheated, schemed for this crown you wish to claim? Have you not killed, have you not spilled blood, oh, blood, warm and rich.” She licked along the side of Rickard’s neck, who closed his eyes tightly and fought his head away. She spun around him in a flash of lightning, laughing. “Is this not what you have always wanted, prince, my prince, my sweet, delicious prince?”

Adam saw the treeline far too close, and shadows like wolves prowling along the edges. “Rickard,” he said at last. “Rickard, answer her.”

“Help me,” the older prince croaked. “Adam, please.” Nothing remained of the bully, of the older boy, sure of his strength and his cold machinations. There was only a terrified young man trapped by a power entirely beyond his understanding.

“Rickard, answer her!” Adam shouted. “Tell her! Tell her you don’t want the crown! Tell her you give it up -!” He had to throw himself back, crashing down on a heap in the muddy ground when the fairy maid lunged at him, hissing like a blizzard wind, her fingers gone to talons of ice. “They can’t take you if you do!”

Rickard fought to drag in a breath. Everything he’d done, everything he’d lost and sacrificed, every part of his heart and his soul that he’d cut away, came crashing down on him like the most terrible of avalanches. He’d thought it would all be worth it if he could only claim the crown. He’d never imagined it had all along been a contest he’d lost before he’d even begun. “I -” His voice strangled, gone to nothing; she’d closed her hands around his throat.

“Cheat!” Adam cried out. “You’re cheating!”

The rain cut off as if an ax had swung and murdered it. The wind went perfectly still. The fairy maid gasped and locked her pale white starlight eyes on the young prince. “You dare -!” All her power suddenly came to rest on him, bidding him be silent, bidding him be still.

Somewhere far behind him the spouts whispered his name, and Adam flicked his hair from his face and her power from his mind. “You’re cheating,” he told her sharply. “He has to take your test, but only if he wants the crown. You can’t make him if he doesn’t want it, and if you don’t let him choose, you’re cheating.”

“He wants it,” she hissed.

“You don’t speak for him.”

Something, immense and dark and so powerful it felt as if the night itself were speaking, did something at the edge of the woods. Growling, she released her grip on Rickard’s throat, and the older prince crashed down to his knees, coughing, breath rasping in and out of him erratically.

“Rickard,” Adam said. “Rickard, tell her. Tell her now, because we’re here and it’s about to be too late. Tell her.”

The older prince went down until his forehead touched the mud, and began to weep. “I,” he croaked, “do not want the crown.”

“Liar.” She coiled around Rickard like a snake. “You’ve killed for it. You’ve bleed for it. You’ve done everything for it.”

“I do not want the crown,” Rickard repeated, straightening up to his knees. “I forswear it. On my heart, on my life, on my blood, I renounce it. Let it go to someone else. I do not want it!” he shouted the last bit at her, his voice raw with all that he’d done and lost for a prize he could never have.

Rickard went down again, hands curled to fists in the mud, and wept. Adam crawled over to him and wrapped his arms around his once-enemy, not knowing what else to do.

***

Adam watched him go, and went down to the edge of the woods. The rain had washed them clean, and there were birds flitting through the nearly naked branches, hunting down gifts of rosehips and slugs. “I do not want the crown, I surrender my claim to it,” he told the birds and the trees and an errant beetle, and waited.

A wood thrush sang somewhere in the woods. The beetle crashed against his boot and fell on its back; Adam bent down to right it, and looked at the autumn wilderness in exasperation. “Really, now. Do we have to wait until I’m eighteen? I know what I want.”

A breeze tore a few leaves from the trees and sent them spiraling down. Adam resisted the urge to stomp his foot in vexation; he was not a baby to be throwing a tantrum when balked. “Fine. Until I’m eighteen, then,” he declared, and went to find his friends.

***

The last few days of autumn were marred by Adam catching a terrible cold that the palace’s physicians couldn’t explain; it wasn’t as if the young prince had gone traipsing about in a freezing downpour an entire night, after all. He was left restless and unhappy in his bed, plucking at the blankets that were piled on him in an effort to break his fever. He tried to study, but he could barely focus on food, let alone reading. There was a bit of a nervous moment for his human friends when one of the healers came to give him his hourly medicine and the prince, half delirious, started calling out for people with very inhuman names.

Culli-maid went out to the woods after that, bundled up in a heavy shawl, carrying a basket with honey and bread and figs from the Royal hothouse, and a crispy roasted trout.

She needn’t have bothered with the offerings. Linden nearly ran her down when they saw her coming, their fingers tangled up in each other like the knotted roots of a surly tree. Needlemaw had heard from William that Adam was sick, but little else; all they otherwise knew was that Adam had been out on a Hunting Night. Culli’s news were far more welcomed, worrisome as they were, than any gift of honey. She was sent back with word to leave one of the windows in the prince’s rooms open. Boul looked deeply crestfallen at that; he was a troll, a creature of earth and water. Climbing was one thing he’d never learned, in all his years with his wild friends. Culli-maid solved that by sending Dane down with a wheelbarrow, ostensibly for firewood.

Adam woke up from a heavy, feverish sleep to the scent of linden flowers and a cool hand brushing back his hair. “Would you please,” he whispered hoarsely, “thank the water-spouts for me. They helped me more than they know.”

Linden couldn’t help but laugh. “What were you thinking, what were you doing?”

“I wasn’t thinking much,” Adam admitted. “I had five servings of stuffed goose and I think I drank half the bottle of blackberry brandy, and never, ever again.”

“Well, ‘tis a hard lesson learned, that, but a good one to learn,” Needlemaw’s voice purred low at him, full of wry amusement, as Linden sprawled on the bed next to their best friend.

He told them everything, these two disparate groups that had become the bonds of his life, strange as it was and stranger as it had become. He drowsed once in the middle of the telling, and then picked up the thread again as he woke up, unaware that he’d stopped. He slept again after that, only vaguely aware that the physicians had come back with his medicine; Culli-maid heard much of how the treatment was surely working, making the young prince biddable and meek.

When he woke up again the hearth was banked to rich red coals. Culli’s shawl and mending basket rested on the chair by the window, and the nearby study table was covered in books and scraps of well-worn parchment. Adam licked his lips and grimaced at the taste of bitter medicine, and heard a low, familiar chuckle. “You wouldn’t laugh if you had to drink it,” he muttered, grinning.

“I don’t get sick from the rain,” Linden replied, their voice low and cheerful.

Adam turned. He felt wrung out and exhausted, but clear-headed for the first time in forever. He gazed at the shattered, many-colored eyes. In the dark, Linden’s wild burst of gold-tipped white hair had slicked down, pressed close to their skull, and their features looked sharp and deeply inhuman in the gloom, sun-kissed to the color of a tree’s bark. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Ugh,” Linden replied, shifting in the immense bed and seeking out Adam’s hand so they could lace their fingers with the prince’s. “And you thinking you’re selfish.” When Adam smiled at that, they went on. “You’ll get better now, then?”

“I suppose. Anything so I don’t have to drink any more bitter tea.”

Linden snorted. “You could have let him go, you know. He’s been nothing but horrible to you.”

Adam rubbed at his mouth with the sleeve of his sleeping shirt. “Linden, lots of people are horrible to me. Lots more are always going to be horrible to me. That’s not my fault, it’s never going to be, but I can’t be horrible back just because. How exhausting would that be for nothing gained.” He licked his lips and grimaced at a lingering taste no rubbing could take away. “You should always start out being nice. I did. I didn’t stay nice for Rickard, but when he stopped picking fights I didn’t go looking for them. I didn’t want to be his friend, I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. The thing with being nice right off is, other people end up being nice back. Because they already were, or because they’re ashamed, or just because they’re tired of being mean, or a lot of other reasons. Rickard being nice was him leaving me alone, and I don’t mean the fighting. He could have just made me part of his schemes. He didn’t. And… Maybe, if things go the way everyone thinks they will, someone will be there, like I was for him.”

“I will be.”

“I think that would just scare me more. I’m used to the thought of me being in trouble. I don’t know what I’d do if it were you instead.” Adam paused. “Are you in trouble now? For being here after dark?”

“No. I told them I wouldn’t come back until I knew you were alright, and if they got in my way I wouldn’t come back at all.”

They laughed at that, their small bits of defiance, unaware or perhaps simply uncaring of the vastness of what they’d accomplished. Adam rubbed at his mouth once again and licked. “Ugh!”

“It’s stained your lips, too,” Linden pointed out.

“That’s probably why I can’t get rid of it. Wouldn’t have hurt them to put a bit of sugar in it.”

#the fairy and the prince #linden and adam #linden the fairy #adam the prince #fantasy #writing #fantasy abduction #fantasy writing #my writing #original writing #boul the troll #boulders-for-brains #needlemaw #needlemaw the redcap

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