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my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction · 2 months

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Blue Blood and Rain [1]

King John X F!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info •ko-fi•

Summary: You meet a stranger in the stables.

Series Masterlist

A/N: I have totally made up servant/nobel dynamics because I wanted to and also let's forget about the plot of the film, yes?

Warnings: kissing, reader is in their early 20s, overuse of italics, typos, power dynamics because he's the king, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 2820

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It wasn’t that going to the royal castle was boring, as much as it was exhausting. And very, very boring, now that you thought about it.

You were the personal attendant to The Dowager Countess of Bowhale, who was visiting the court for the spring festival with her son, The Earl of Bowhale, a man who was only seven months your senior. They were both on average kind, well-meaning people, even if they were set in their own ways, who paid well and certainly granted you with a degree of personal freedom that you knew many servants didn’t even dream of.

Hugo, the Earl, was his mother’s, Edith, only surviving child. A fact that obviously made The Countess fiercely protective, however in the last few years that shielding behaviour had metamorphosed into a safeguarding of a different kind: the continuation of the family name.

Barely a day passed without her bringing up the need for her son to either marry (a complicated matter) or take a mistress.

Which was why she had been hell bent on attending the spring festival to peruse a suitable noble from the court, believing that ‘seeing a young woman face to face is the only way to tell if she would be a good mother to her son’s children.’

You helped The Countess into her dress for the evening, making sure you nodded and said, “yes, my lady”, at all the correct moments as she spoke.

“I think there will be some chance of seeing a suitable suitor tonight, if not tomorrow. I know most of the court is present, but many outer nobles are not arriving until the morning.”

“Yes, my lady.” You adjusted her skirts.

“Hugo needs to seriously consider his future, the legacy of his father’s name.” She sighed. “I spoke to him again this morning.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“He is as insolent as ever. His father was never like this. I do not know where he gets it from.”

You smile, “Perhaps his lordship takes his strong-willed nature from his mother, my lady?”

She looks down at your grinning face and laughs at your tease. “You are terrible my dear,” but she beams and puffs out her chest, enjoying the praise. “And far too kind on him, there’s no way his will could match my own.”

You laugh, and are about to speak when the door to The Countess's rooms open and Hugo barges in.

“Mother, I- Oh,” he gives you a little smile and half bow as a greeting. You nod back.

“So I see she is deserving of a formal greeting and not I?” The Countess scows, but you know from experience that if someone had entered without acknowledging you they would have also faced reprimand.

Hugo pulls a face. “Mother-”

“And what about knocking Hugo? Since we are in his highness’s house, on his highness’s hospitality I do not think that forgoing manners should be our way forward.”

He sighs, but nods, before waiting for a moment to see if she will continue talking.

The Countess nods.

You stand up, watching them going back and forth in their regular verbal sparing matches.

“Mother, is it completely necessary for me to join-”

“You surely are not speaking of the possibility of not attending tonight? Are you?”

“Mother-”

“Because if you were, I would be-”

“It wouldn’t be anything, an Earl can retire to his-”

“An Earl would not insult the hospitality of his King.”

“Mother-”

She held up her hands. “I will hear nothing of it.”

Hugo sighed dramatically, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“And what are you wearing? You are covered in mud.” She tutted.

“I was riding and-”

“Riding? At this hour?”

He nodded. “Some of the knights and other Earls went to the forest and-”

The Countess tutted dramatically.

“I was going to take Stefen to the stable and brush him down instead of attending.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You intended to brush your horse instead of attending? There are servants for that exact duty Hugo.”

He shrugged frowning, you knew how much he enjoyed taking care of his horse. “I do not trust the staff here, they do not know Stefen, they-”

The Countess shook her head, “you are attending. Go, get bathed and dress, Robert will assist you.”

“But Mother, Stefen-”

The Countess turned to you quickly, “Will you do me the favour of going to the stables and getting Stefen ready for the night?” She smiled kindly at you and you nodded.

“Of course my lady.”

“See?” She turned to her son. “Now we have a trusted member of staff to care for him.” She said triumphantly. “Or do you not trust her to look after him here?”

Hugo gave you an apologetic look, he hadn’t meant to lump you with the task. But you smile back, and he returns a weak nod.

“Of course that’s fine,” he said defeated.

You often groomed Stefen, he was a powerful and grumpy animal that tended to only obey four people, Hugo, the two main stable hands at Bowhale, and you. He tolerated others for the most part, but was quite difficult when something set him off.

“Good.” The Countess clapped her hands together.

You finished helping The Countess get ready before you stepped out of her rooms and headed for the stables. The evening light was just starting to dim into twilight.

Hugo caught up with you on the stairs, gently touching your arm to get your attention.

“I’m so sorry.”

You smile kindly, “what for, my lord?”

“Making you settle Stefen in, I,” he sighed, “I could have easily done it earlier, I just wanted an excuse to… not go…”

Your smile widened. “I know, Hugo, please don’t worry, besides, I like taking care of Stefen.”

He gives you a grin, his spirit lifting as they always did when you used his first name. “Thank you, I-”

“Hugo!” The far-off call of The Countess echoed around the castle and you chuckled while he groaned.

“Have fun!” You waved as you continued down the stairs.

He nodded disheartenedly.

You got a little lost on your way to the stables and had to ask a stern looking guard the way. When you arrived and introduced yourself to the head stable hand the poor man looked relieved.

Stefan greeted you happily, and had no qualms about letting you brush and clean the mud and grime from his coat. Much to the other stable hands's shock.

It wasn’t long before the sky was dark and you were left alone in the stables with the horses.

“You need to be nicer to others Stefan.” You scowled with a grin.

He whinnied, seeming to laugh playfully at you as you stroked his neck.

“That’s a beautiful horse.”

The low voice behind you made you jump and you spun around quickly. Stefan sensed your discomfort, snorting and stepping forward to try to put himself between you and the stranger.

“It’s alright,” you hushed, patting his side and calming him. You turned to where the voice had come from, the stranger’s outline was just visible in the low candlelight. “Thank you, it is The Earl of Bowhale’s horse.”

“A fine beast for sure.” The stranger nodded, but did not step closer. “I have heard he has a temper.”

You smile and nod. “He is a little set in his ways, strong-willed,” you stroke Stefan affectionately, “but he is a loyal companion if you earn his trust.”

“And it seems that you have.”

You smile again at the stranger. “I would like to think so, The Earl and I used to train him when he was a colt. He is used to me.”

“You ride?”

“A little,” you turn back to Stefan briefly as he nudges your shoulder and stroke him again, “occasionally I accompany The Earl or Countess when they wish.”

“Hmm.”

“And what of you stranger? Do you ride, or are you just of this disposition to watch horses while they rest and harass servants with questions?” You tease playfully.

He chuckles lightly and waits a beat before he steps closer and leans against the wood of Stefan’s stall. The flame light flickers against his features and dread grips your inside in its icy hold.

You freeze for a second, eyes wide before you bow your head and curtsy as low as you can. “Your Highness, I apologise, I did not realise it was you in the dark.”

Your mind rushes with thoughts, you were going to get punished, put in the stocks, maybe even imprisoned, why wasn’t he at the event? Why was he here seemingly stalking about in the dark?

He wasn’t wearing his crown, his clothing obviously expensive but not the attire for entertaining the court.

King John laughed again, but the sound wasn’t unkind. “You were all for questioning me a second ago, am I so fierce that you can’t even raise your head to look at me?”

You keep your position, looking down, panicking on what to do, how to-

“Hmm?” He hooks his fingers under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. “Has the servant lost her voice?”

You shake your head. “No, Your Highness.”

“Then answer my question.” His voice is low, nearly a growl. The pretence of softness hiding something much sharper underneath.

“You are fierce, Your Highness.” You whisper and he grins.

“And yet, you look at me?” He keeps his touch on your chin light.

“You are making me, Your Highness.” The words slip from your tongue before you truly have a chance to understand them and you screw your face up the second they are spoken.

But he laughs quietly and drops his hand to his side. “There, I wonder what you will do under your own will.”

You pause and swallow, taking a deep breath before opening your eyes and looking back up at him.

His grin widens. He observes you for a moment, the look in his eyes dark, predatory. And for a second you are sure that you made the wrong choice.

“Stand,” he says, his voice still soft and you obey slowly, “much better, I do not need you to stay in a curtsy, my pride is not so vast that I need to have everyone at my feet.”

You stay quiet, biting at your lip and pulling at the skin around your nails, but watch him carefully.

“You are Edith Bowhale’s personal attendant, are you not?”

“I am.” You nod, not wanting to fall short and lose whatever small grace has decided to put you in the King’s favour and not chagrin.

He hums a response, looking away from you for a second and you can feel relief flood your veins as you are out of his sharp glare. The consolation is short lived however, as he quickly stares back at you.

“She was speaking to me about many things, though I have to admit upon seeing you I wished I had been paying more attention.” He smiles, his voice like silk as he takes a step closer.

You pause for a second, your mind slow to catch up with the meaning of his words. “I, wait, I’m sorry, Your Highness, I-”

He chuckles and brushes his fingers against your cheek, a light touch that makes you jump and startle back.

“So skittish,” he teases, “over just a touch.”

“I-”

“A touch from your King no less,” he tuts, “I should be insulted.”

“No, that’s not, not my intention, I-”

Stefan whinnies, seemingly unhappy with how close the King is getting to you and King John uses your brief distraction to his advantage. He grabs hold of your bicep and pulls you out of the stall and swings the wooden door closed.

You can hear Stefan neighing in distress as he pushes you up against the door, his griping your arm tight.

“Calm the horse.” He says softly, his piercing eyes seeming to sink into your very soul.

You swallow, your mouth dry, but tap the door. “Stefan,” you say softly.

The horse calms slightly at your voice.

“It’s alright, don’t worry,” you repeat your words a few times until you hear him start to settle and wish they could have the same effect on you. Your heart races, your breath catching in your throat.

He delights for a moment in your obvious discomfort. “My, my, I have never seen a servant to a Countess so shy.”

You stay quiet, heat rising to your skin. You try to focus on his mouth, but no matter how hard you try you are drawn back to his striking eyes, as if he holds some bewitching magic to keep you under his control.

Slowly he raises his left hand up, giving you plenty of time to see it before he gently touches his fingertips to your cheek, lightly stroking your skin. You still jump a little, naturally trying to flinch away.

It makes him smile even more, taking a deep pleasure in your flustered reaction. He breathed in deeply, as if he were savouring a flower, “aw, what’s wrong? Does the little servant not know how to address her King? How to behave in his presence?”

“I… I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

He grins wickedly at how timid you have seemingly become. “Now, now,” he teases, his voice thick and heavy, “there’s no need to apologise with those words… how about you tell me something sweet instead?”

You frown in confusion, “something sweet?”

He leans a little closer, caging you in. “Something nice.” He languidly runs his fingers down lower, along your jaw and to your neck. Your racing heartbeat drums against his fingers and a giddy thrill runs down his spine.

“I…”

“Something nice,” he repeats, “something that you could never normally say to someone like me, something that will make me smile.”

Once again your words slip out of your mouth as if you had no control over them, his hypnotic gaze seemingly completely destroying your survival instinct, “you’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He freezes the moment you utter the words, your eyes going wide as you realise what you said. The syllables of your sentence seemingly echo around the stable, ringing and repeating clearly in your mind as if you had screamed them from the rooftops.

A faint dusting of pink highlights his cheeks, but thankfully you cannot see it in the candlelight, he smiles slowly, moving his hand up and tracing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Repeat that.” He breaths.

Your heart beats so forcefully you’re sure you're going to faint. “You’re so very beautiful.”

He chuckles, leaning closer until his nose bumps against yours and preening a little at the compliment. “You know such words from such an unexpected source only mean more… thank you.”

He dissolves the last centimetres separating you and presses his lips to yours, swallowing down your little gasp of surprise and licking into your mouth without hesitation. His hand is warm on your neck, his body pressing up against yours as if he expects you to push him away, to run. Instead, your fingers sink into his shirt, pulling him closer as you kiss him back with equal further, a lamb happily going to the slaughter.

He growls, low in the chest when you reciprocate, heat blooming in his lower stomach as he pushes even closer and rubs his quickly hardening cock against your hip.

You gasp a little in surprise, but quickly regain yourself, wrapping your arm around his neck and urging him closer, needing to feel every part of him.

This couldn’t be real, this was impossible, you had to be dreaming. Maybe Stefan had reared up as you brushed him and you’d stumbled and hit your head, it was seemingly the only logical conclusion. You might as well enjoy this delusion as long as it lasted.

His kisses grow more demanding, more urgent and he nips at your bottom lip, groaning at your high-pitched sigh. And then whining himself when you repeat the action on him, forcing your tongue into his mouth and pulling sweet sounds from his lips.

There was-

The stable door slams open, “Your Highness, I have come to-”

King John turns furiously, “What?” He yells at the poor servant sent to fetch him.

It’s like a dam has been broken, your mind snaps back to your senses. What were you doing? What the hell were you doing? Kissing The King in a barely lit stable.

The servant stammers a little, saying something that you can’t for the life of you hear. He is silhouetted in the darkness, unseeable and the King steps closer, giving him a verbal dressing down.

You slip out the side door, and rush back to your room. Thankful for the clouded night sky that keeps your face in shadow and identity hidden from possible prying eyes.

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Thank you for reading!

Taglist: @pleasurebuttonwrites @raven-rk @campingwiththecharmings @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt @cocodiem @oscarisaacsspit @whatthefishh @mbakubabe @romanarose @pimosworld @saturn-rings-writes @boredzillenial @lonelyisamyw-0love @melodygatesauthor @steven-grants-world @eyelessfaces @angel-of-the-moons @minigirl87 @queerponcho

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mrskokushibo · 1 month

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Announcement and Teaser

After a long hiatus, I am writing again. I am excited to inform you that the first chapter of my first ever series comes out at the end of this week.

It is a story I have been holding in my heart and thoughts for a long time now. Namely, my version of the backstory of Michikatsu's failed marriage.

It will be a deep dive into the complicated relationship between siblings, lovers, all in the confines of a time and a culture that did not leave room for emotional expression other than behind closed doors.

This story is important to me, as the Tsugikuni twins and their tragic fate have been an obsession of mine since the very first time I read the manga. I sincerely hope that you will follow me on this journey as the story unfolds.

I will be thrilled to hear your feedback and am open to plot discussions. Just pop in an Ask with a header Burn Up.

When a new day begins, the memory of the moon gets erased by the blazing rays of the sun.

TEASER BELOW (exerpt from Ch 2 or 3)

‘Please sit, y/n. I will only be a moment.’ Yoriichi pointed politely with his large hand toward a stone bench under a large tree.

The sun wasn’t very strong yet and the air was still saturated with the residue moisture of the cooler night. It was a lovely morning, of the day before your wedding. You were glad you could spend it with Michikatsu’s quiet but amiable brother.

As he walked away, leaving you alone for a moment, you got seated in the cooling shade of the large platan next to the fenced-off paddock, your attention turned toward your surroundings. Inside the enclosure, it strolled a shapely white mare. The horse seemed friendly and walked up to you when you stood up and came closer to the fence. It was round at its hunches, with a noble small head and big eyes. The silky straight dove white mane was fluttering in the light breeze.

But, all of a sudden, the horse was startled. In a blink of an eye, it neighed, thrust its head up in the air, and trotted skittishly into the middle of the paddock. You did not understand what would cause such a change in the horse’s demeanor until you looked toward the stables. Out of the wide entrance, came Yoriichi, leading a large raven black stallion. He was holding the horse firmly by the reign at its mouth. The horse was a thing of beauty and you could not take your eyes away from it.

Large, with powerful hunches, black hide glistening like polished ebony in the warm rays of morning sun, huge hooves, covered with feather of black hair, and a long, fierce head with dark chestnut, almost maroon eyes. Its mane and tail were thick, long, and wavy. The mane was blending with Yoriichi’s equally huge and wavy hair. For a moment you had to look away as a faint blush began to sprout on your cheeks.

But then your eyes were drawn as in trance back to the sight in front of you. Yoriichi’s ponytail was swinging side to side in time with the horse's tail. And … what showed itself, you were not the only one blushing. His blush grew stronger, making him look truly adorable, creating such a stark contrast to his large frame and masculine features.

‘I wish to apologise for what you are about to witness, y/n. I did not think before I made the offer to look after you today. But this, well, process, cannot wait. The mare needs to be inseminated today as her owners are going back to their estate this afternoon. I am truly sorry about this.’

He looked down at his feet and turned his gaze to the side, fidgeting uncomfortably with the reigns.

‘Oh, but Yoriichi-sama. I do not mind. This is the nature of farm work and I am no stranger to farming. Please, do not apologise.’

At the same time, in your mind, an apology to the gods was already forming as you felt wetness pool between your legs. Yoriichi’s presence caused you to imagine things… Things a soon-to-be bride of another man, let alone a twin of Yoriichi, should not imagine. It was wrong on so many levels but Yoriichi’s kindness, timid and respectful behaviour were triggering these thoughts in a way Michikatsu’s presence never could.

MASTERLIST

Tagging 💜 @doumadono @muzansfangs @crescentmoontsuki @horror4themasses @cursetopia ❤️

Special thanks to @sorrowful-lover for helping me find the peace and tranquility I needed to be creative again 🙏🩵

Divider by @saradika Artwork: Pinterest

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oh-shinx · 11 months

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any dark types ??

There are quite a few!!!!!!!! But the priority list I was given for the sake of this event has a crawdaunt, a purrloin, a pangoro, a vullaby and a krokorok!!!!!!!

Asuka the crawdaunt was talked about here, but in short she is a young, very proud pokemon who has a few cracks in her shell!!!!!!!!!!!

Kyle the purrloin is a little rascal of a man!!!!!!!!! He could charm his way into a bank vault and leave rich if he was not a doofus!!!!! Kyle was a pokemon caught as a proposal gift gone sour, so he is a priority in adoption so he can get a better life in a more stable forever home!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Jacqueline the pangoro is a very noble and majestic pokemon!!!!!!!!!!! She is always the mum friend no matter what group of pokemon she is around!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Unfortunately, due to a severe leg injury from stopping an attempt at reviving team flare a few months ago, she is not healthy enough to be let free to the wild.

Medoh the vullaby is a good flyer for a two month old pokemon!!!!!!!!!!!!! Her mother unfortunately passed in the care of the shelter, so she is very impressionable at the moment. She has been copying behaviour of all other pokemon around her to the best of her ability!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dirk the krokorok is a lovable pain in the arse. He will convince you to take him to a cafe, he will convince the owner (me) to give him more treats, and he will make everyone feel bad for pointing that out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He does have some breathing issues due to a cut along his neck from past abuse. But even with that, the little shit will sucker you in and you will like it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

#snowbelle shelter fundraiser #pokeblogging #pkmn irl #pokemon irl #pokemon #irl pkmn #irl pokemon #pkmn rp

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multifandomrandomgirl · 3 years

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An Unexpected Order PT3 - Sirius Black's sister!reader

Pt1 Pt2 Pt3 Pt 4 Pt 5

I wake up and everything is at a funny angle.

"You sober enough yet?" I look up, when did Remus get to so tall? I look at him and go to speak but a neighing sound comes out instead. I'm still in horse form.

I transform and stand up, running my fingers through my hair. "What happened? Why was I in my animagus?" I groan, the older man laughs, handing me some water. "Thank you."

"Last night, Sirius mentioned how fun being an animagi was, while you two were both drunk, you agreed with him and we were both surprised, as we didn't know that you were, so you changed even though I told you not to as you were pretty drunk. Then you got stuck in horse form and ran around the kitchen in a panic." Remus smiles as the realisation hits me.

"Damnit, why did I? You know what, I'm not even going to question myself. Drunk Y/N is the worst." I place the glass down onto the table in front of me.

"Thank you." Remus says. "What for?" My face morphs into an expression of confusion. "For coming into the Shrieking Shack every month with us, I remember you helping a significant amount. You carried me on your back through that tunnel that lead to the Hospital Wing."

"Any decent person would have done the same." I shrug it off. "Becoming an animagus isn't easy though Y/N." The man sat opposite me studies my expression.

"True, I mean, it didn't take me a long time to do it. Managed to get it first time around which looking back, is slightly impressive. I was in my second year when I did it." I pick the glass back up off the table and drank some more of the water.

"You know, it took your brother, James and Peter three years to get it. They started in second year but they didn't managed it until our fifth. I tried to talk them out of it as obviously it can be dangerous if not achieved properly. Sirius always joked about getting stuck as a half rhinoceros - half human, he said he hoped that the top half of him would be rhino so he could barge into your mother." The both of us erupt into laughter, Remus' cheeks crinkle as he laughs.

"Morning!" Molly comes through and into the kitchen. "Ah, Y/N, you're back to normal." I laugh as my face flushes a shade of red. "Apologies for last night, this is why I shouldn't be allowed to drink."

Slowly, the house begins to wake up. Ron, Hermione and Harry were the first down, followed by the twins and Ginny. The table began to fill, there was just one seat left.

"Sirius!" I exclaim. "What?" George looks up from his toast. "He's still asleep." I smirk.

"Oh no, you have the Black smirk. Sirius always wore it when he was up to no good." Remus shakes his head, wolfing down his cereal. I grab the table, pushing so that my chair moved back and then I stand up.

"Y/N, what are you doing?" Arthur asks, my smirk grows bigger. "Nothing." I say, changing my expression to one of innocence. "I don't trust you."

Before anyone else could say anything, I make a run for the stairs, going as fast as I possibly could. I race up the stairs, going two steps at a time and make a beeline for my brothers' room.

I came to a halt, I slowly push his door open. Sirius was still flat our, his soft snores filling his room. I tiptoe in, navigating my way across the creaky wooden floorboards which had been there for who knows how long. The house was ancient.

'The noble and most ancient house of Black' I roll my eyes, is it possible to scoff inside my head? Because I just did.

I get closer and closer to Sirius' bed. Once I was right by him, I turn back into a horse and clumsily clamber onto his bed, at his feet.

Neigh

Sirius bolts up, his face panic-stricken. "What in the name of- Y/N, what the hell?" Sirius screams and places his hand over his heart, trying to calm down from the shock.

"Your face." I double over in laughter after transforming back. "Why?" He groans leaning back onto his mound of pillows. "You weren't awake yet, so I thought I'd come and wake you up myself. Come on, let's go and have breakfast." I grab his hand and yank him up off of his bed.

"Alright, alright miss pushy." My older brother laughs, shaking his head at my childish behaviour. We make our way down the staircase and into the kitchen where I had left the others earlier.

"What happened?" Remus laughed as we made an entrance, Sirius' hair was still in a knotty mess as I had pulled him out of his room before he could sort himself out properly.

"Y/N is an evil person." Sirius grumbles, grabbing an apple and sitting on a vacant chair next to Harry. "What did she do?" Hermione asks.

"She bloody turned into a horse and climbed onto my bed and neighed in my face." Sirius sighs, taking a bite out of the apple in his hand. The kitchen erupts into laughter, I glance at Remus, his face crinkles as he laughs which is very adorab- no. No.

"Are you registered by any chance? I don't recall seeing your name at the registry list that I looked at in my third year." Hermione asks, pouring some milk into a bowl.

"What twelve year old has the common sense to register themselves as an animagus?" I say, smiling. "Fair enough."

"I'm disappointed that you didn't register, same goes to you Sirius." Molly shakes her head. "You're both such bad examples."

"But what if I want to roam freely as a horse without the Ministry on my back?" I shrug , rocking my chair back and forth.

"You're such a bad influence Y/N." Sirius rolls his eyes. "If I were the Ministry, I'd have padlocked you up in a stable years ago."

"Thanks Sirius."

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“…Written in the early 1380s, Troilus and Criseyde engages with a growing English cultural interest in and anxiety about interiority, particularly as it was evident within the courtly love discourse of Chaucer’s immediate audience: the court of Richard II. During these early years of Richard’s reign, the evidence suggests that courtly love discourse flourished—both within courtly lyric and within the speech of courtiers themselves—and this discourse was coming to structure what it meant to be a noble man within the court. Through this discourse, royal subjects sought to construct stable, coherent identities by imagining their interior states in relation to an uncontrollable external power—not the monarch to whom they were literally, physically subject but a person to whom they were figuratively and emotionally subject: the female beloved.

Fourteenth-century courtly love was a discourse centered on constructing the interiority of the aristocratic male; the language of courtly love allowed male nobles to express and perform the sophistication of their masculine identities. By the end of the fourteenth century, as Richard Firth Green explains, Since the capacity to experience exalted human love was ... restricted entirely to the well-born, it followed that one way in which a man might display his gentility was to suggest that he was in love; thus the conventions by which this emotion was defined, originally pure literary hyperbole, became part of a code of polite behaviour. By engaging in this discourse—speaking of the overwhelming nature of his love and his unswerving loyalty despite the unattainable nature of his beloved—the male courtier demonstrated his own refinement and nobility.

Courtly love rhetoric was an internalization and eroticization of noble status; the use of such rhetoric was a way of performing the inherent nobility of one’s own interiority. Although a male courtier using the rhetoric of courtly love is explicitly speaking of his own interior emotional response to a particular woman, his performance of such rhetoric is shaped by and for a community of aristocratic men. As is now generally recognized, the rhetoric of courtly love is a social discourse of coercive power, asserting the courtier’s dominance over both the female love-object and men of lesser status.

As Susan Crane argues in her study of late medieval court performance, late medieval courtiers “constitute themselves especially by staging their distinctiveness.” Courtly love is such a performance: courtiers publicly perform a largely set script of powerlessness before love in order to demonstrate their private and unique masculine identities. Part of the performance of courtly love entails a lack of concern for the wider social community—after all, when a noble man is in love nothing else should matter—but, despite this apparent lack of concern, courtly love is always a discourse entrenched in social and political power structures.

In Troilus and Criseyde, Chaucer responds to and addresses the court’s interest in masculine interiority in general and courtly love in particular. Chaucer frequently addresses his court audience as “ye loveres” (I, 22) and, in the prologue, he refers to them, not as subjects of Richard II, but as the “God of Loves servantz” (I, 15). Over the course of the poem, Chaucer depicts Troilus as the embodiment of the typical courtly lover: Troilus falls instantly in love with Criseyde, is overwhelmed by his desire for her, becomes sick and helpless from his love-longing, idealizes Criseyde as the perfect woman, and desires nothing other than to serve her. And, indeed, like courtiers who perform courtly love lyrics, Troilus bursts out into his lyrical, narrative-halting Cantici Troili at three times over the course of the poem.

The poem’s interest in interiority extends beyond love, and one of the ways in which Chaucer emphasizes that courtly love is essentially a discourse of interiority is through his use of penitential language. By drawing on this language, Chaucer emphasizes the extent to which courtly discourse, like penitential discourse, is engaged in self-examination and self-definition. In the fourteenth century, inward reflection on the state of one’s own soul became a prominent feature of devotional texts in general and penitential texts in particular; penitential manuals provided readers with, as Katherine Little notes, “a capacious psychological language ... to think about their identity, identity understood as an inner self and as a self in relation to the larger Christian community.”

The language of sacramental confession encouraged penitents to think of themselves as individuals, individuated before God because of the deeply personal nature and willfulness of their sins. In Chaucer’s poem, Pandarus uses penitential terminology in order to help Troilus establish his new identity as a courtly lover precisely because such language offers a way of defining one’s internal state. Particularly in the opening two books, Pandarus extensively and explicitly uses such language, at one point instructing Troilus to repent his former disdain for love and “bet thi brest, and sey to God of Love, ‘Thy grace, lord, for now I me repente, If I mysspak, for now myself I love.’”

Pandarus’s language here is obviously not sincerely penitential, but he invites Troilus to use such language because it gives him a means by which to regard his internal state as both distinctly individual and fitting into recognizable and coherent identity categories. Since Chaucer centers his poem on Trojan men who are deeply invested in courtly love and their own interiority, Chaucer’s Trojan aristocracy bears a striking resemblance to the court of Richard II. By depicting a court apparently more concerned with its courtiers’ interiority than the wider political world, Chaucer’s poem aligns itself with many of the contemporary critiques of Richard II’s early court: namely that Richard was too interested in display of his own monarchical identity—through love discourse, his personal relationships with his inner circle of young courtiers, and lavish courtly display—and not interested enough in national interests, especially war with France.

In the 1380s in particular, Richard’s court was shedding the character of simply a military household and becoming a court that strove, at least in part, to be a court of love. In her recent analysis of the Troilus frontispiece, Joyce Coleman argues that, although we have little evidence of the court life of the period, the evidence we do have suggests that in the early 1380s Richard II was promoting a culture of Love strongly influenced by and modeled on the Roman de la Rose. Indeed, around 1386, at least three Middle English authors, including Chaucer in his Legend of Good Women, produced allegories in which they depict Richard himself as Cupid, the God of Love. The presence of women at court became more common, and Michael Bennett characterizes Richard II’s court during this time period as having “a rather precious, effete character” because of its emphasis on courtly love.

One chronicler particularly critical of Richard’s reign, Thomas Walsingham, famously criticized Richard’s knights for being “knights of Venus rather than of Bellona: more effective in the bedchamber than the field.” In the early 1380s, Richard’s court had constructed a model of masculinity founded on courtly love discourse and the interior identity of the individual courtly lover. This interest in interiority came at a high cost. There seems to have been a widely held belief among his contemporaries that Richard II was particularly interested in promoting himself as a courtly lover leading a court of love, and that this interest came at the expense of England’s claim to the French throne and England’s military dominance.

Many contemporaries, particularly the members of the established nobility displaced by Richard’s own chosen group of young courtiers, criticized Richard II because of his perceived failure as a military leader of England. In contrast to previous royal courts that centered more on martial and chivalric values grounded in the years of war with France, according to chronicle sources, Richard II wanted to end that war, and was simultaneously promoting a lifestyle that celebrated elegance of dress, subtlety of speech, and sophisticated and perhaps indelicate forms of recreation, innovations that were by no means fully consistent with more traditional conceptions of chivalric virtue.

Christopher Fletcher has recently questioned the truth of familiar claims that Richard was strongly committed to peace with France or allegations that the extravagance of Richard’s royal household made it impossible for the king to afford to pursue war; Fletcher argues that, in fact, the Exchequer severely restricted Richard’s funds, and Richard continued to press for grants of taxation for war. However, regardless of Richard’s own motivations, it is true that Richard’s reign saw greatly reduced fighting with France, and many contemporaries did believe that Richard’s court was extraordinarily extravagant.

Whether accurate or not, there was a growing perception—even before the Wonderful Parliament of 1386 and the Merciless Parliament of 1388 were to bring forth explicit allegations that Richard and his inner circle were overly concerned with their own individual wealth and power—that Richard II’s court was fostering an increased interest in the individual courtier, not the social good. Richard’s ambition was to establish his royal household as an autonomous power, as free as possible from the control of the established nobility. According to Lee Patterson, Richard’s development of the court as an exclusive society wholly dedicated to the fulfilment of the wishes of the king was not simply a matter of personal style. It was also part of a political programme aimed at dispossessing the traditional ruling class of England and replacing it with a courtier nobility created by Richard and located largely in the household.

The structure of Richard’s court placed him as the personal center of the court, with courtiers drawing their power directly from the king’s personal generosity. Richard’s rule made the importance of the individual and individual interiority a matter of political concern. If, as Lynn Staley persuasively argues, in the early part of his reign Richard himself was engaged and interested in “a vigorous, highly charged, and carefully coded conversation about authority,” then we can regard Troilus and Criseyde as taking part in this ongoing conversation. When Chaucer depicts Troilus’s obsession with his own internal state as contributing to the fall of Troy, he warns that the Ricardian court’s current interest in masculine interiority is one that is potentially dangerous to the English kingdom itself.

As I will show, over the course of the poem, Chaucer examines the dangers of an overemphasis on the interior state of the male nobility, rather than national and military interests, and casts suspicion on Troilus for privileging his interior state of love-longing over his military status as a prince of Troy. While Chaucer does not launch a direct critique of Richard II’s kingship, he expresses a deep anxiety about what would happen in a kingdom in which the ruling class set too high a value on their individual interior states at the expense of the national interest.”

- Jennifer Garrison, “Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde and the Danger of Masculine Interiority.”

#jennifer garrison #troilus and criseyde #richard ii #history #late middle ages #courtly love #court #medieval literature #medieval #geoffrey chaucer #english

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fremedon · 3 years

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Brickclub 3.5.1, “Marius in Penury,” and 3.5.2, “Marius in Poverty”

We gloss over several years in these next two chapters: years in which Marius, through difficulty and very hard work, becomes self-sufficient--remarkably so.

This is not a good thing for Marius.

(Everything here is riffing off the discussion @everyonewasabird started in his writeup, so go read that first, it’s quite good.)

The language in which Hugo extols the beneficial effects of poverty for Marius is so much like some of the worst contemporary bootstraps rhetoric that it’s very easy to miss the places where that praise turns ironic. But look at this, from the end of the first long paragraph of 3.5.1, detailing the hunger, evictions, and social embarrassment and humiliation Marius endures:

Awesome and terrible test from which the weak emerge degenerate, the strong emerge sublime. Crucible into which fate casts a man whenever it wants a villain or a demigod.

Marius is becoming a Great Man.

In this book, that’s a terrible thing to be. (And it says something about how radical a message that still is that I miss it almost every time it comes up.)

Hugo continues,

For many great feats are performed in small struggles. There are dogged deeds of valour, overlooked, that hold out step by step in the darkness against the fatal onslaught of destitution and depravity. Noble and mysterious triumphs that no eye sees, no renown honours, no fanfare salutes.

Life, adversity, isolation, abandonment, poverty are battlefields that have their heroes, the obscure sometimes greater than the illustrious.

This is Cambronne at Waterloo; this is the barricade; this is Fantine’s descent, and the narrator means every word here--but between this and the villains or demigods of fate’s crucible, there’s a contrast it’s easy to miss. These aren’t the struggles of great men; they’re the struggles of good men--of people. Being a demigod isn’t a goal in this book. Enjolras starts as one and his endgame is becoming more human and more vulnerable.

And the next paragraph:

In such a way are steadfast and rare natures created. Almost always a stepmother, poverty is sometimes a mother. Deprivation begets strength of soul and of mind. Hardship is the wetnurse of pride. Adversity is a good milk for the noble in spirit.

Marius was offered the chance, two chapters ago, to take the Republic as his mother. And he took the other choice--here, poverty; there, glory and war. Being a great man; pulling himself up by his bootstraps; going it alone, without accepting help or charity. To lend money to his friends from time to time, but never accept anything but Courfeyrac’s old green coat. It’s as much a mistake for him here as for Madeleine in M-s-M.

And to compound it--hat tip to @pilferingapples--he cloisters himself, going out at night so his clothing looks black, and pulling away from social connections to maintain his pride in a way that is also reminiscent of Valjean, in another of the book’s inversions:

Some formality of expression or behaviour that in any other situation would have seemed to him polite, now seemed to him servile, and he bridled at it. He venerated nothing, not wanting to back down. There was in his face a kind of austere flush. He was shy even to the point of rudeness.

In other words, he feels his position of social inequality so keenly that routine social kindnesses or friendly give-and-take would feel like charity on others’ part or scraping on his own, so he avoids them. It’s the opposite of Valjean’s habit, of eating those abasements and feeling proud to the point of hubris of how much of them he can swallow, but it has the same result--both men end up almost completely atomized and alone.

The horrific thing is that Marius probably thinks he’s taking Combeferre’s advice. What could be greater than to be a Great Man? To be free, Combeferre says. And, welp--

He had suffered everything in the way of privation. He had done everything except contract debts. He said in his own favour that he had never owed anyone a sou. To him, a debt was the beginning of slavery. He even told himself that a creditor is worse than a master, for the master is master only of your person whereas a creditor is master of your dignity and can give it a beating.

Hugo goes out of his way to distinguish Marius’s ideas from the narrator’s here, and that’s often a flag that the character has gotten something wrong. Marius isn’t entirely wrong here--for Fantine, debt was the beginning of slavery. He has, correctly, sensed and avoided a pitfall that we have seen swallow Fantine--consumer debt, debts of the sort that Thenardier has fled so thoroughly that Marius can’t track him down in three years of searching (more on that in a moment), would have been a terrible thing for him.

But Fantine didn’t have friends offering her a loan or a place to sleep. Mutual aid isn’t debt--and Marius gets this on some level, because he’s willing to be the source of the rotating ten francs the Amis trade back and forth. He lends Courfeyrac sixty francs once, and he doesn’t think less of Courfeyrac for taking it! But he’s not willing to accept it.

And accepting help, being vulnerable to people who matter to him, is the quest he should have taken. Having been brought up by Gillenormand, it’s not something he knows how to do. But that’s a lot harder and scarier than isolating himself and learning to live on one mutton chop for three days--and, Bonapartist as he is, he’s determined to do everything himself.

And then there’s his debt to Thenardier. “It was the only debt the colonel had left him, and Marius felt honour-bound to repay it.” This debt is his entire patrimony. If human interconnectedness isn’t a matter of debts--if this debt doesn’t need to be discharged--then his father has left him nothing tangible. And that’s also a hard and scary idea, and not one he’s ready for.

(And now we’re back to Marius’s internalization of that word ingrate. I have no doubt that Gillenormand played the patriarch and drummed into Marius’s head constantly how much Marius owed him.)

This got hugely long, so just a couple more short observations:

Marius’s food budget (365 francs/year), when he gets to a low but stable income, is more than ten times his rent (30 francs/year). He pays 36 francs--20% more than his rent--to the concierge for some basic housekeeping and shopping. One of the privations we are told he endures before he achieves this stability is “sweeping his own landing.”

Marius is having his mail sent to Courfeyrac’s address, which presumably is how Aunt Gillenormand keeps tracking him down. I would love to read a fic about Courfeyrac’s occasional conversations with Aunt G.

“While all this was going on he qualified as a lawyer.” Which, for someone with no connections and no professional wardrobe, opens precisely zero doors--he continues to support himself on the basic literacy that’s part of his class inheritance and his self-taught language skills.

“This Rousseau restaurant, where so few bottles of wine and so many pitchers of water were emptied, was palliative rather than restorative.” Nice. Restaurant, meaning ‘restorative,’ was originally the beverage one drank in a restaurateur’s establishment, as one drinks coffee at a café--an expensive, highly concentrated bone broth, which was a health food craze in the 1760s and 1770s. (I am currently reading Rebecca Spang’s The Invention of the Restaurant: Paris and Modern Gastronomic Culture. Highly recommended.)

#brickclub #lm 3.5.1 #lm 3.5.2

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kiivg · 4 years

Photo

.Thank you so much! I’m drawing a lot of different things now because why be consistent haha :)c. I wrote a little drabble type thing below.

.(On another note, I’m using this to separate my Chrisker art binge and to ask people not to judge me for my next ship binge haha (once again I make a tiny ship that has exactly three AO3 fics and basically no fandom), please, I’m very embarrassing, but I’m not embarrassed.).

.Dorian/Blackwall beneath the read more, hints super heavily at Bull/Dorian but like, don’t read it for that because it’s not... like... about them... haha. It’s Dorian/Blackwall >:).

...

They had both been dancing around it for some time, too many words said that Dorian had evidently flipped off in that rather nonchalant way that he always had done. Forever acting like things didn’t bother him, when they so very plainly did. Thom wasn’t the same, he’d stop moping in certain company, and he’d always stop drinking the moment he feared he was slipping from the chatty drunk to the morose one. But he’d never deny to himself that he was hurting, and hurting badly at that.

“You made a mistake; Maker knows I’ve my own share of those.” Dorian whispers, wondering if he should have stopped drinking wine hours ago, wondering if he should have stayed in the tavern with Bull and the others. He knows he could be scrambling over the Qunari’s impossibly wide thighs about now, or perhaps, embarrassingly, holding onto his horns whilst the man takes every inch of him between much too familiar lips. But no, he’s here, with the newly announced Thom Rainier. Not Blackwall. Trevelyan wouldn’t stand for it, too noble to let a name be abused like that.

Thom had left the tavern early as he always did nowadays. Too many people gave him a stare over the shoulder, a particularly spiteful glance in his direction, and the threat of spit in his ale was all too prevalent. Dorian was used to it; he’d had worse in Tevinter. Though, Thom couldn’t exactly throw a stinging hex or send the ghost of a corpse’s hand up someone’s spine in retaliation. Thom couldn’t do anything. And he’d chastised Dorian when he’d made the offer. There was no need to upset them any further; though Dorian had wholeheartedly disagreed with that. One didn’t simply roll over and take punishment unless it was the fun kind.

“It wasn’t a mistake.” Thom huffs, a wetted finger circling the top of his glass; hands too calloused to make it sing. Such lovely hands, Dorian thought. The man had no mind for oils, he didn’t care for the skin that hardened under hilts and old leather gloves. He liked the smell of them, the oils, not Thom’s hands, he hadn’t a clue what stable scent they carried. Dorian had caught him eying up the decorated bottles in the few times they were set to share a tent, smelling the air like an interested dog. Too shy to ask for a sniff of such expensive things; something that would have belied the life he had led before he’d taken someone else’s name for his own.

That was perhaps what started this absurd crush off in the beginning. Not the barbaric nature of the other man, for Dorian knew he had a tendency towards the more ferocious kinds of men; but, rather the way Thom had grabbed his hand as Dorian had offered it. His hands still slightly wet, fingers waggling as if showing precious jewels, massaged with oil that he had shipped from Antiva, smelling of something or other; Dorian didn’t speak Antivan, and he certainly couldn’t translate the scent from the bottle. But Thom had held his hand like he was a fresh-faced maiden, and brought oiled fingers to his face. And, for just a moment, Dorian had thought he was going to kiss his knuckles. It would be the perfect time for a princely joke, Thom had a fondness for them, assuming that Dorian hadn’t a hardship in his life.

Thom had said something, Dorian didn’t catch it even in the silence that suffocated him in that tent, something about what the smell of the oil was. He’d nodded dumbly, and pulled back his hand when the staring lingered for too long. There was a joke about hygiene and basic morning rituals that had Thom laughing and waving him off; settling in bed and ignoring the way that Dorian’s heart thundered loud enough to spark magic in his fingers. Embarrassing.

He had thanked the Maker for the night time darkness that too lingered, it was easier to hide how heated his face became at the thought of Thom kissing across his knuckles and up his exposed arm. All bitten lips and wiry beard, his skin would be cut and rough, reddened for an entirely different reason if anything had come of it. Bar that of a few memories that might prevail in more dreams that he would admit.

“Nonsense.” Dorian says. “You’ve no idea what a mistake is.” He laughs, swirling the wine in his glass like these southern fools often did. He could see Thom’s hands now. Naked they were, for a better grip on the glass.

“Course I do.” Thom hunches over in that sagging way he often does. Hiding away in the padding of his coat, in the width of his shoulders. Dorian could have his thighs around Bull’s shoulders, his hips, the Qunari could be bending him in half right now; oiled fingers and all. Bull must know, Dorian realises in the next swirl of his wine, tipping it into his throat with a hum and trying to swallow that thought along with it.

They weren’t official. They’d never be, they couldn’t be. Just a bit of fun. They both knew that. Bull had tried to stop him once, tried to stop him following the chatty drunk that was Thom Rainier, and letting him drink until he moped and grumbled and huffed and then complained of the headaches that followed him through to the morning. Dorian had waved him off, an overt gesture and whisper of insatiable as he left.

Dorian realised then, that they had run out of wine, his perfectly soft hands were empty, and Thom was still trying to make his glass sing to fill the grim aura that encumbered them.

“If you truly know so much,” Dorian whispers, leaning close, pushing himself into the space Thom had already reserved for himself, “then, perhaps you’ll be able to tell me if I’m making another now.” He’s acting far more drunk than he is, and it’s something he’s done many times before. A reason to excuse such behaviour, to blame that press of his lips onto Thom’s own on the wine they had drank in only the company of each other.

Those lips weren’t chapped, or bitten rough, and his beard was softer than Dorian had imagined it to be. Thom tasted like the wine that had run out, and smelt of something faintly Antivan.

#dorian pavus #blackwall #thom rainier #dragon age inquisition #dai #dragon age #dorian x blackwall #blackwall x dorian #mxm #fanfic #answer #anon

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harrylee94 · 3 years

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The Tournament - Chapter 6

You can find this on AO3!

Summary: The Prince had been there since the first hints of light had touched the sky, Saruk at his side and a large, two handed axe held in his hand. Cobb had been up on the roof for almost an hour by the time he’d arrived, unable to sleep and a blanket around him. He had wanted to jump down, to run to his side to look him over, to make sure he was unharmed, but he knew it wasn’t his place and had to make do with watching from a distance.

Notes: TW: There is an execution in this chapter. I don't go into any real details, but someone it decapitated, and there is blood.

If you feel uncomfortable with this, please see the end notes for a short summary of the chapter.

Chapter 5

——————————————————————

“I, Din Djarin, Prince of the kingdom of Mandalore, sentence you to die" - Cobb

The morning air was cool from where Cobb sat on the stable roof, Peli and Jo sat on either side of him as the sun began peeking out over the horizon. It would be some time yet before it would breach the castle walls, and the night’s chill would take even longer to dissipate, but no one was going to complain, Cobb least of all.

Someone had tried to kill the Prince. An honoured guest, a high born little lordling, had taken the trust Din had given her and crushed it under her boot. It had taken everything Cobb had not to storm into the castle’s prison to demand her head on the spot. Knowing she’d lose it the coming morning had soothed some of his rage, but he had seethed for the rest of the day, something his friends had noted.

Jo had pushed him to direct his anger into something more productive, like cleaning up the stable and practicing in the armour she’d been fixing up for him -- something he’d bought over the years, a mis-matched, slightly rusting set with broken straps though it was -- which Peli had then walked in on and demanded to know what was going on. The explanation had left her grinning viciously, and Cobb’s team grew from two to three.

His armour was safely hidden away in the back of the stables for now, as fixed up as it could have been in the week Jo had to alter it between her apprenticeship and the Armourer having to use the forge herself, but now it was dawn, and Din was stood in the centre of the ward next to a headsman’s block.

The Prince had been there since the first hints of light had touched the sky, Saruk at his side and a large, two handed axe held in his hand. Cobb had been up on the roof for almost an hour by the time he’d arrived, unable to sleep and a blanket around him. He had wanted to jump down, to run to his side to look him over, to make sure he was unharmed, but he knew it wasn’t his place and had to make do with watching from a distance.

As time had passed Peli and Jo had appeared beside him, and more nobles than Cobb had ever seen awake at this hour began to gather. Some servants who had tasks to get on with in the hours before dawn had to skirt around them and keep their heads down, but the crowd wasn’t big enough to cause any real delay. Din hadn’t moved more than a few inches in all the time he’d spent waiting, but he had looked up at Cobb a few times, and he was determined to be there for him.

He’d wanted to have his sword with him, to show his support in more than just his presence, but he couldn’t, else he give himself away, so he brought his makeshift staff instead -- another broken cleaning implement -- and held it across his lap. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Din looking at it and giving him a small, almost hidden smile.

But that was probably a trick of the morning light.

When the prisoner was dragged out and held for all to see, Cobb’s grip grew so intense the wood creaked.

“Not so tight,” Jo muttered, giving him a nudge. “You’re already at a disadvantage with your idiot ass not getting any sleep last night, don’t add splinters to the mix.”

Cobb gritted his teeth before releasing a breath, carefully making his fingers relax their grip. She was right; today was the first day of the Tournament, and he couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

“Veryn of no Clan or House,” Din said, bringing the chatter to silence. “You are here to face the judgement for your crime of treason. Do you have any last words?”

The bitch held herself tall and sneered at him. “You are destroying what it is to be Mandalorian. Someone will stop you.”

Cobb had to take another deep breath to stop from gripping the staff too hard again, twisting it in his hands instead.

Din did nothing for a few moments, then nodded. “So be it.” Cobb winced at how sad he sounded, but then he tapped the butt of the axe against the ground and braced himself. “I, Din Djarin, Prince of the kingdom of Mandalore, sentence you to die. Kneel.”

“I will never kneel to you,” she spat. The guards holding the traitor pushed her forwards, moving her to the block and pushing her down to her knees.

Din picked the axe up as she was pushed down, arms and body tied to the block as she struggled. The Prince hefted the axe, and with one swing it was over.

The axe was brought up again, the blade red with blood, and Din sighed down at the now limp body. The tired look in his eyes made something twist in Cobb’s chest, but it’s gone before the head had stopped rolling, and he turned to the guards.

“Give the body to her father,” he ordered. “He deserves the time to grieve.”

They saluted him, fists over their hearts, and removed the remains. All Cobb could hear though was the echo of Din’s words.

Deserves time to grieve. He was giving the traitor’s family time to do what he had not had the chance to experience. This man had so much kindness in him that it dwarfed even his mother’s, and yet the fact that he still managed to sentence and execute a traitor spoke of a great well of inner strength.

“Cobb, you’re doing it again,” Jo said, and he looked over at her quizzically.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Pining,” Peli said with an unamused look.

Cobb snorted, but didn’t deny it. How could he when Din was so… perfect? “We have to protect him.”

“Ain’t that what we’re doing?” Peli asked.

“Yeah but… Who knows who else is gonna go after him?” Cobb asked. “She was supposed to be competing, could have even won, and then what would have stopped her from-?” He waved his hand towards Din, who was talking quietly with Saruk.

“From what I heard he managed to keep himself pretty well protected without any help,” Peli said with a roll of her eyes. “Stop worrying! He’ll be fine!”

“If you think that then why are you helping us?” Cobb asked, a sharp edge entering his voice that he instantly regrets. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Peli said, then gave his arm a not-so-soft punch. “Ah, forget it. I get it. That kid’s had nothing but hardship these last few years. What you’re trying to do, whether it works or not, is pretty damn noble. Sure, you’re a bit in love with the guy. So what?” She poked him in the chest. “You’ve got a good heart, Cobb Vanth, and I’m gunna make sure you’re getting the right sort of support too.”

“... Thanks, Peli,” Cobb said as he blinked back tears.

“No, don’t you cry on me,” the shorter woman warned, leaning away from him. “If you cry on me you can forget it. I’m jumping off this roof and you can get your help elsewhere.”

Cobb snorted a laugh and quickly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “Aw, I could never turn away your help Peli. I’ll be on my best behaviour, promise.”

She gave him a disbelieving look, but nodded. “Well alright then.”

“Wait, step back a bit,” Jo said from his other side, drawing his attention. “I know you said we had to protect him, but before it was just keeping stuck-up pricks from winning.”

“It’s still that,” Cobb argued, but Jo shook her head.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “You saw how many names on that list were from noble families, and I know that this has damaged your trust -- probably everyone’s trust -- in them. The only name on it that wasn’t from some family that can trace its lineage back at least two hundred years was yours! Even if it isn’t technically your name.”

“Jo, what are you trying to say?”

The smith’s apprentice set her jaw. “You need to win.”

“Win?” He blinked and looked back out at the ward, back at Din who had handed the axe over to Saruk and started to make his way back to the keep. As though he could feel Cobb’s gaze on him, he paused in his stride and looked up at him. The stable hand quickly pressed his lips into a small smile and nodded to the Prince, and his heart swelled when he caught sight of a little smile in return before the Prince disappeared inside.

“Look at you,” Jo said, but Cobb couldn’t bring himself to look away just yet to face her. “The only person competing you’d trust with that man’s life is you, and we sure as shit can’t trust any of the nobles now that someone’s tried to kill him.”

Cobb shook his head. “I can’t win. I’m not a knight. I’m not a lordling. I don’t have any titles. I’m no one!”

“Since when has that stopped you before?” Peli asked, joining Jo in ganging up on him. “If you think it’s gonna be easy then I’m locking you in the stable, but she’s right. I’ve seen you stand up to idiots with wealth and titles a hundred times greater than you. You’ve also been beaten to shit by some folks with wealth and titles too, but you’re still standing, ain’t ya?”

“It’s why you bought the armour, right?” Jo said. “You wanted to show them that you didn’t need titles or money to be able to beat them into the dirt.”

“Well guess what; here’s your chance, tied up with a nice satin bow,” Peli said, patting him on the back.

He shook his head again. “I never signed up to win.”

“But you have to,” Jo said, and Cobb felt her press her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”

Cobb looked over the ward again, down at the nobles who were either milling around and chatting or heading back to their tents or rooms, avoiding the block with blood pooled around it. He thought of all the names on the list, the almost three dozen contestants, and wondered how many of them had signed up because they believed the Prince deserved to be protected.

All he’d wanted, when he’d put the name he’d be riding under down, was to keep people like Ser Jaonar from winning, but Jo was right; how was he supposed to know which were and which were not?

“I’m still not a knight,” he pointed out. “Or competing under my own name.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Jo said with a grin of victory. “For now, just focus on winning.”

“And when you do win you’ll finally take your lovesick looks with you,” Peli said with almost a cheer.

“Oh, but they’ll only get worse,” Jo said, her grin turning into a smirk, and he groaned.

“Please…”

“Being right by his side, day after day,” Jo teased. “Following him everywhere he goes.”

Peli cackled. “He is pining after him , right?”

“Yep.”

The cackling doubled in volume. “Oh you are so screwed.”

“Stop,” Cobb pleaded, ducking his head into his hands.

“He’s bound to notice the eyes you make at him one day,” Jo said. “You’re not subtle about it, if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Stop, please !” he begged, and got their teasing chuckles or it. “I hate you both.”

“Love you too,” Jo said, bumping her arm against his. “Now come on, let’s get some food in you and run you through some drills to warm you up. Oh! And I added a few embellishments to your armour.”

“When did you have time to do that?”

She snorted. “You weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep last night. Now help us down and let’s grab some breakfast.”

——————————————————————

Summary: Cobb watches Din execute the traitor, but Din gives her body to her family so they can grieve. Cobb is touched by this and feels the need to protect him grow. Jo and Peli, who are with him, help him realise that if this is the case, then he needs to win the Tournament before ribbing him about his crush.

Chapter 7

#writing #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #fic #the mandalorian #cobb vanth #din djarin #peli motto #jo (mandalorian)#medieval au #dincobb #pining #tw: execution #tw: blood

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dhwty-writes · 4 years

Text

Chapter 5 - A Broken Princess

This one is angsty like... all over. That was not the plan. I regret nothing. Feel free to shout at me in the notes and in my askbox:)

Also, thanks to @persony-pepper for betaing this chapter!

Summary: Ciri does neither trust nor like Jaskier, so Geralt has to try and talk with his old friend.

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 5 | Part 7

He would lie if he said he wasn't relieved that Jaskier had agreed to him training Ciri. The week before had been nothing short of torture, and Geralt was slowly going mad without any task to set his mind upon. And it wasn't even like the winters in Kaer Morhen where there was always something to fix, always someone to train with, always some creature to hunt. The ancient ruin was a wild place with more than enough opportunities to keep a witcher occupied.

Lettenhove Hall was none of that. It was a well-kept castle with enough servants to see to every minor inconvenience. There were no monsters either and while the guards were friendly enough, they didn't seem to look forward to training with him.

He had found out that there were twenty of them in total, quite a lot for a castle as small as Lettenhove. Besides the occasional piercing glare, though, their interactions were non-existent. He could leave the castle, he had discovered, without so much as a blink from the garrison. 'At least I am no prisoner,' he remembered thinking relieved; but there wasn't really anywhere to go. He had ventured out a few times to explore Jaskier's lands but that had become boring quickly enough. Only once he had been reminded not to stray too far, as the viscount expected him for dinner in just an hour. Generally speaking, Geralt was fine with that. Only bored.

He was in the stables a lot, enjoying the quiet company of the horses and Wiktor. Sometimes the old equerry even asked him to take one of the noble horses for a ride, if the Pankratz siblings neglected them for too long.

Józefa still came by almost every day, trying to seduce him, but he could tell that she wasn't really trying anymore. He almost hoped she would. Instead their conversations had turned to playful banter from her part that he answered with silence, grunts and the occasional barbed remark. It might have been fun if it didn't emphasise the fetterless behaviour he and Jaskier had shared. Being treated quite similarly by his sister, who resembled the bard in everything but looks, made their estranged relationship all the more painful.

So, Geralt was glad that he could train Ciri now. He finally had something to do again, although that had not been his plan. He had hoped that Vesemir could instruct her, and that his brothers would help. That would have been nice. He also already feared the tongue-lashing that awaited him once Vesemir saw all the bad habits Ciri learned from him. It didn’t matter how many years passed since he had left Vesemir’s care and Kaer for good, his old teacher always found things to critique him for.

Now that he had a student for himself, he began to understand it. He had permission to chase her across the courtyard and snap at her for her sloppy poses and weak slashes for the entire morning, from breakfast until lunch — Jaskier had told him in no uncertain terms that he would have no repetition of that first day, though he didn't mention why. Geralt had suspicions, mainly having to do with the fact that Jaskier was very irritated when Geralt berated Ciri harshly. And that he was much more amenable when they didn't cross blades quite as often, reducing the noise to a minimum.

Geralt was fairly happy with standing at the sidelines, although he caught himself embarrassingly often mimicking Vesemir's poses. And his comments. And even his damned tone, Melitele's tits.

To avoid that, he had taken to tracing the buttercup carved into the pommel of his sword, wondering for how long Jaskier had gone by that ridiculous name. He didn’t know when he had started thinking of it as his sword. He also wasn't sure which of the two new habits was worse.

It was his third day of training Ciri. Shortly after lunch, from which Jaskier remained absent, Geralt was just changing into what had deemed his stable clothes when he heard some kind of noise next door.

Geralt sighed and quickly pulled the shirt over his head before knocking on Ciri's door.

"Fuck off," he heard her swear and he winced. The cuss words had been a bad idea; she was taking too much after him already.

"Ci- Fiona, it's me. You better be dressed, ‘cause I'm coming in." He turned the doorknob and cursed quietly when he found it locked. "Open up!" he demanded.

"I don't want to," she answered.

"You're supposed to go riding with Lord Julian."

"I don't want to!"

"He's even gifted you a new riding cloak-"

"I don't want it!" Ciri shouted. "I don't want any of it! Leave me alone."

Geralt sighed heavily and leaned his forehead against the door. 'What the fuck was I thinking?' he asked himself not for the first — and surely not the last time. He had just seen what disaster the law of surprise brought, why the fuck had he claimed it? From the Lioness of Cintra's son-in-law no less. 'If there ever was going to be a bratty child,' he thought glumly, 'it was destined to be this one.'

He took a deep breath and told himself: 'Remember Kaer Morhen. At least it's not snot-nosed Lambert.' That made him feel a bit better.

After a few moments he tried again: "Do you want to... talk about it?" Gods, what was this child doing to him? 'I really love you, Ciri. You better fucking appreciate it.'

There was a quiet sniffle. "You don't do ‘talking’."

"Hmmm," he made. "Not if I can avoid it. Gotta take care of my pup, though. Cub." There was a beat of silence. "I can go get somebody else-" Before he could finish that sentence, the door opened and the air was punched out of his lungs as Ciri dove in for a hug. "There," he said, awkwardly patting her back, "that's better." He looked around for passing servants and when he heard footsteps, he simply picked her up and walked over to her bed after closing the door behind him.

Geralt gently cradled his child surprise in his arms and held her while she cried. She hadn't cried for quite some time now, not since their arrival in Lettenhove, but now the scent of salt-sadness and onion-grief was overwhelming.

He had never felt so helpless as when the concoction had first startled him awake, not three days after finding her. Ciri had just laid on her side, quietly crying into her bedroll and Geralt had had no idea what to do. His first instinct had been to go back to sleep and leave her her privacy but then — and he firmly believed it to be an accident — she had weakly croaked: "Help- Grandmother- Geralt-!" He had never been on his feet faster, scrambling to her side, afraid to get too close, afraid to startle her, afraid to hold her. "What can I do?" he had pleaded. "Tell me, what can I do?" And then, to his never-ending surprise, she had crawled into his arms — 'No, that's wrong, children hate witchers.' — and hugged him close, drenching his shirt with her tears.

Once, after, he had asked her if she was still scared of their pursuers. There had been only one answer: "I'm not scared anymore. You're scarier than all my nightmares." That had been the day Geralt had discovered that he was a coward. He never dared ask why she didn't reek of fear, then.

He had never gotten better at comforting the little cub since that first night. Somehow, she still relaxed faster every time. 'That's wrong,' his traitorous head snarled, 'she shouldn't. No child should feel safe with a witcher close.' Only, this one did. She had never smelt of fear, not after she first set eyes on him. 'Like Jaskier.' And like Jaskier she had wormed her way into his heart way too fast.

After a while the crying stopped. "Are you alright, little cub?" he whispered.

Ciri looked up at him, tears drying on her cheek. "Geralt... do we have to stay here?"

Something in his chest tightened. 'Oh no,' he thought. "We're safe here," he said slowly. "Lord Julian will protect us. Until the snow thaws."

"Hmm," she made. Another bad habit she got from him and he felt his knees grow weak. 'What am I supposed to do when she wants to leave? I can't- We can't- We won't make it.'

"You can trust him," he tried again. "He-" He wanted to say: 'He would give his life for ours.' But then he realised that he didn't know if that was true anymore. "He is a man of his word," he said instead.

"I think he doesn't like me," she confessed quietly.

"Now that's just untrue," Geralt frowned. "Lord Julian adores you. And he's done a lot of nice things for you."

She shook her head adamantly. "I think he doesn't like me because I came here with you. He doesn't like you."

'Oh.' His heart clenched painfully. She was smarter than it was any good for her. He should have known that he couldn't keep it from her. "That's true," he admitted. "At the moment. He'll come around. Eventually."

"Why?" she asked earnestly. "I thought you were friends."

"I-" he faltered. How could he even begin to describe what they were? What they had been? 'What we are now.' He hung his head in shame. "We were. I think. And I've done a bad thing. That I know."

"And he's angry?" Ciri's eyes were blown wide.

"Very," Geralt confessed quietly, "and rightfully so."

"What did you do?" There was no reproach in her voice, no accusation. Only... compassion. Somehow that made him feel even worse.

"It's complicated."

"Did you cheat at knucklebones?"

That almost made him laugh. "No. Worse."

"Did you cheat at Gwent?"

"No, Ciri-"

She gasped. "Did you cheat on him?"

"I'm not- we're not-" He sighed. "That's not it either."

"What could be worse than that?"

"I... I wasn't very nice to him. For a long time. I said mean things. And I yelled at him."

Ciri frowned. "I don't understand. My grandparents did that all the time!"

"Yeah, me too, but- it was different with... with us. I hurt him. I don't think I can explain."

"Can't you try?" she pleaded.

"I am trying, Ciri. I'm sorry." Geralt sighed quietly. "I'll talk to him. Alright?"

"Good." She smiled at him, all child-like and innocent and naive. 'She is all of that,' he reminded himself. "I can hold you when you cry, too, you know,” she said solemnly. “You can't sit in my lap but I can hug you. My arms can fit around your chest, look!” She embraced him to prove it. “If you want to, that is."

There was a thick lump in his throat he didn't know what to do with. "I- thanks. That's very nice." He swallowed, hoping it would make the lump go away. It didn't. "Why uh- why don't you go find Marta to tell her you won't go riding with Lord Julian?"

She ducked her head. "Can you do that? Please? I'd rather be alone for a while." He nodded. That was better. That, at least, he could understand.

"Yeah, sure." Somehow the lump got even worse. "I'll- I'll be in the stables if you need me. I'll see you… later." Reluctantly he got up and placed her on the bed. She took a book from her nightstand — where had she gotten that from? — and smiled at him encouragingly before he closed the door.

It was surprisingly hard to leave her behind to hunt down Marta. Thrice he turned around to go back to her, to make sure that she really was okay and thrice he reminded himself that she would tell him if there was something he could do.

It was in the well house that he stumbled upon Marta, the poor woman in evident distress. "Witcher!" she said and he noted that the smell of fear had gotten less than last time. "I am looking for his Lordship's cousin, have you seen her?"

"She won't be able to go ride with him," he told her. "She is- indisposed."

"Oh." She faltered. "Is she quite alright?"

"I believe so. She just isn't in the mood for company."

"Oh," the serving girl said again. "Then, uh-" The scent of fear flared up again. "I guess I'll better tell his lordship."

"Hm," Geralt made. He could do that just as well. Get the whole conversation over with. Then again, he should probably go and- sort out all about the sorry state he was in. A few hours with the horses should do the trick. He would go talk to Jaskier later.

He shouldered past Marta and quickly slipped into the stables, relieved that Jaskier was nowhere to be seen. He needed some time to himself, too.

The steady work of brushing down the horses granted him exactly that. It was easy for him to slip into an almost meditative state of mind, ignoring the busy stable hands walking about, going after their own tasks.

That was also why he didn't respond to the calls until a hand dug rather harshly into his shoulder. "Witcher," Janina Pankratz hissed, "I am talking to you."

He turned towards her slowly, immediately overwhelmed with the sour stench of fear and hatred like the smell of infected wounds. "My lady? I was caught up in my thoughts."

She snorted. "I could see that plainly."

He looked at her, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he asked: "Why are you here, my lady?" He hadn't seen her in the stables yet, and if he was honest, he hadn't thought she would go inside. No matter how well they mucked out the boxes, the place always seemed a bit too dirty for a lady as she was.

"I wanted to talk to you."

'Gods above, anything but that.' He swallowed the sour grimace down. "About what?"

"My lady."

"Excuse me?"

She pursed her lips. "My brother might let your lack of manners slide, but I won't. You will address me correctly."

He ground his teeth. "Sure. About what, my lady?"

"Gods, can't you even form whole sentences?" she sighed.

"I could," he answered. "But I won't. My lady."

Janina Pankratz sneered and for a moment he thought she was about to raise her hand at him. But then, she took a deep breath and said with a surprisingly calm voice: "Our cousin you delivered to our gates. You get along well with her."

"Yes, I do. My lady."

"How?"

His eyebrows twitched upwards. 'You don't have time for a tale nearly as long, my lady,' he thought. 'Nor do you care enough for it.' But even he knew he couldn't say that. So instead he answered: "I am kind to her, my lady. I do not laugh, nor scowl, nor raise my voice at her. I tell her jokes and stories and smile when she is funny. I listen to her." 'I hold her when she cries.' He didn't dare to say that. "That is all, I think. My lady."

She wrinkled her nose and for a moment it was as if he was looking at Jaskier's mirror image. 'If she smiled,' he caught himself thinking, 'they could be mistaken for twins.' But then again, Jaskier didn't smile either, at the moment. "That is quite a lot," she replied.

'That is nothing,' he thought. "I reckoned you wanted a true answer, my lady."

"Now, I do not have nearly enough time for that," she answered. "I need you to get her to like me. Starting with that she won't swear at me any longer."

He couldn't keep from snorting. "And why would I do that? My lady."

"Because else, I will ensure that your miserable life will be even more miserable from now on."

"His Lordship won't like that."

"His Lordship won't know that."

'Are you sure about that?' he thought and raised an eyebrow. "What have I even done to you? You have despised me from the moment I stepped over the threshold of Ja- Lord Julian's castle."

He felt a tiny bit of satisfaction when he saw her face twist into an offended grimace at the mention of Jaskier's claim over the fortress. "Maybe so," she responded, "the crimes your kind has committed against me and mine are more heinous than any human could imagine." She gave him an once over. "Not too heinous for you, tough, I reckon."

'Ah. That old song again.' He ducked his head obediently. "If you say so, my lady."

"Oh, so you do know respect. You really should teach that girl you have brought with you some," she said coldly, "Before Lord Pankratz will beat it into her."

Geralt paled. "He wouldn't-"

"He would. He knows the effectiveness of that particular treatment quite well himself, after all." She turned on her heel and left the stables the same moment he felt the brush crack and splinter in his hand.

Geralt had quite enough, he decided, as he threw the useless brush away and rushed out of the stables and up to his rooms to get his sword. He needed to put its edge to... something.

Followed only by the curious looks of the guardsmen, Geralt strode out of the main gates, his scabbard slung loosely over his shoulder. He left the road quickly enough, just fleeing from that wretched castle with that wretched inhabitants and that wretched atmosphere.

Just out of earshot, he pulled the steel sword free and swung it against an innocent tree with such a force that the whole trunk quivered. He didn't even know what exactly had managed to work him into such a rage, but at that moment he didn't particularly care. He just was glad that he had found an opponent who would neither complain nor break while he hacked away at it.

He didn't know how long he had been doing that before he was interrupted: "Ho, witcher!" There was the sound of a horse coming to a halt. "Shouldn't you rather use an axe for that?"

Geralt grunted and twirled around, his steel sword pointed at the poor soul that had picked that unfortunate moment to come his way. The guard on the other end seemed unimpressed and simply pressed the blade away. "What is it? Do you regret talking me into letting you in already?"

He blinked stupidly, before lowering the weapon. Of course, he knew the man. It was the guard who had opened the gates to them. Geralt grunted: "Immensely."

"And here I thought you— what was it you said? — 'a friend of his lordship's son'? Has your 'friend' scorned you?"

"We're not- on good terms at the moment."

The guard laughed. "Yeah, we are aware. You're quite the talk of the castle. But you've already been that before arriving." He shrugged. "Never seen Master Julian quite like this before."

"Me neither."

"Apologies. I have forgotten that you've known him longer than I do. So." He clapped his hands. "What has the little brat done now?"

Geralt stared in surprise, taking in the man standing before him. He wouldn't have judged him much older than Jaskier himself but then again, he had never been good at judging the age of humans. "Wasn't him," he snapped.

"Ah." A wicked grin spread on his face. "Lady Janina."

Geralt hummed his assent, wondering how he'd known.

"Don't worry," the guard said gleefully, "we've all been there before. She's not half as bad once you get to know her."

He snorted. 'I doubt that anyone really 'knows' her.'

"There's nothing you can do about it for now. Just take it and suck it up."

Geralt nodded. He knew how to do that.

"I'm Marin by the way." He stuck his hand out and Geralt wracked his brain, trying to remember where he had heard that name before.

"Geralt." He took the offered hand.

"Let me know if you ever want to swing your sword at something livelier than a trunk. I'd love to have fought a witcher once in my life."

The snort was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "I'd wipe the floor with you."

"Bold words for a man who could barely stand upright a week ago," he teased. "Come back to the castle with me and we'll see about that?"

Geralt looked back at the tree he had massacred. Fighting a human guard was no replacement for his brothers in Kaer Morhen but at least he would put up a fight. He shrugged and sheathed his sword, turning to walk back to the castle with him. To his surprise, Marin fell in step beside him instead of mounting his horse again.

"How did you even find me?" Geralt asked.

"Poacher in the area," he answered. "Lord Pankratz asked me to track him down."

He grunted.

"Don't worry, Geralt. There won't be any consequences, most likely. Well, besides a stern talking to and the lad being sent home with a bag full of food for his family." He shrugged. "His Lordship's got a soft heart. Softer than most."

"Too soft," Geralt growled before he could stop himself.

The guardsman shrugged. "Probably. You're good with horses, yeah?" he asked.

Geralt hummed. "Not half bad, I guess."

"You must be. Wiktor won't let anyone ride their majesties. Not even his second in command. I guess I'll have to ask his Lordship for a new one in spring. This beauty won't make it much longer."

"Old?" he asked, trying to mask his surprise. With the fear Marta seemed to possess of her lord, he hadn't expected Jaskier's guards to be nearly as comfortable asking for something as expensive as a horse. On the other hand, most of the people in Lettenhove seemed to regard Jaskier with polite respect — not the blind fear that reigned almost everywhere else.

"And weary," Marin added. "Got him almost twenty years ago, when I joined Lord Alfred's guard, may he rest in peace."

"You've always been here?"

"Pretty much," he shrugged. "I was born up in the Hall, son of a kitchen wench and Old Lord Julian, his Lordship’s grandfather that is, if the rumours are true. And the rumours are always true when it comes to the bedwarmers of the Lord." He laughed. "Well, mostly."

Geralt shot him a look. He wasn't actually interested, he told himself, just polite.

Thankfully, Marin didn’t need much encouragement: "We expected half the personnel to end up in Lord Julian's bed within a moon's turn of his arrival - he’s got quite a reputation, after all. But he leaves the girls and boys alone. Good lad.” There was a slight pause before he continued: “And, well..." He grinned sheepishly. "I think we all lost a fair share of money with your arrival. Borys, the idiot, said you'd fuck him right then and there-"

Geralt felt his ears grow hot and quickly snapped: "We're not like that!" He was definitely not comfortable discussing- any of this, really, with anyone. The thought that there were not-so-secret discussions about them-

"Really?" The look of surprise on Marin’s face was genuine. "Could've fooled me. Well, I've got my bet still running, I said-"

"Marin..." he growled menacingly.

"Right," the guard answered and the tiniest smell of fear wavered off him. "Taking the hint..." They stepped through the gates and he handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy.

"Welcome back, captain," one of the other guards greeted him. 'Ah,' Geralt thought. 'Fuck.' "Any luck with the poacher?"

"Not yet, Borys" Marin answered and turned to Geralt. "So, about that spar..."

He shook his head. "Gotta talk to Lord Julian before," he answered. "Any idea where to find him?"

The captain of the guard made a gesture that Geralt roughly interpreted as 'fuck if I know' and shrugged. "His study?"

His study was usually a good place to start looking for Jaskier. He was there, mostly — no matter what time of day it was. It was quite worrying, if he was honest, how late the viscount still worked at times. And work he had to, for Geralt was now certain that no one in Lettenhove Hall shared his bed.

That was one of the many things that had changed since Geralt's return. Jaskier's unmistakable smell — as well as his apparent new-found aversion to frequently changing bedfellows. As long as Geralt had known him, the bard had smelt of honey-sweet happiness and cinnamon arousal and not much else. He hadn't caught a single whiff of that yet at his home.

When he stepped out onto the courtyard again, it was Borys who called to him: "Witcher! His Lordship's on the rampart if you're looking for him. Doesn't want to be disturbed, though."

Geralt ignored that council — he had made Ciri a promise after all and climbed the walls, taking two steps at a time. No one tried to stop him.

It took him a while to walk around the battlements, but he found Jaskier eventually on the west side facing the setting sun. He sat between two merlons and the sight of him dangling one leg over the side made Geralt's heart skip a beat and his feet tingle, his body burning with the pressing need to pull him away from the edge. But then the air carried over Jaskier's scent and for a moment the overwhelming scent of honey was like a punch in the gut.

Geralt almost turned around to leave Jaskier to his moment of bliss — he knew that there were not nearly enough of those in the viscount's life at the moment. The thought alone hurt much worse than any wound he had ever been dealt. Jaskier, the ever-laughing bard, who knew more ways to make Geralt smile than anyone else combined, who had spent hours pestering him for just a little bit of relaxation (not happiness, that would be too much to ask), who never failed to make anyone laugh until their sides hurt, whose smile was like sunshine on a rainy day — his bard Jaskier, had forgotten how to be happy. Who was he to destroy that precious moment of contentment?

'I promised it,' he reminded himself again and moved forward. He made sure to make the heels of his new boots clack on the floor (they had just appeared in his room one morning, the perfect size and fit as he preferred it, without explanation, and Jaskier had been absent for the entire day) to announce his presence.

"My lord," he greeted him, "is there room for one more?"

The effect of his words — his presence — was instant. Jaskier didn't even have to look at him, in the blink of an eye all the honey was washed away, instead replaced by salt and bitterness. 'The taste of tears and willow bark.' Jaskier opened his eyes, and for a moment, he thought there were tears on his cheeks. 'Please, no, Melitele have mercy. I can't go through this again today.' But then, his not-friend made an inviting gesture and the glistening in his eyes grew lesser.

Geralt leaned against the merlon facing him, observing Jaskier’s placid expression. "I see you are enjoying the quiet, my lord," he said after a while. "I never thought I'd see the day."

"I'm not quite sure if I would call it enjoying, witcher." He closed his eyes again and shivered visibly when a gust of wind blew over the wall. 'He hasn't even brought a cloak,' Geralt noticed, vowing to bring a blanket the next time. "But I have to admit it has a certain crude charm. Just like the woods. I have grown fond of the wild it seems."

"And yet you have exchanged it for a cozy castle."

"I was under the impression the wild did not return my affection." The bitter taste of willow bark-pain grew stronger.

Geralt grunted to hide the anguish that flashed through his body. 'I never wanted to,' he thought, foolishly wishing for Jaskier to be able to read his thoughts again.

"Talk to me, witcher," Jaskier commanded. "I fear the quiet has lost its appeal."

"About what?"

Jaskier waved his hand dismissively. "Think of something. A story, perhaps. What did you do today?"

"Trained your cousin," he answered dutifully, "Been to the stables. Been threatened by your sister. Ciri as well. Your new horse is a bit slow, my lord."

“Oh, she will regret that…” he murmured. Then, after a while he said: "You have ridden Pegasus?" Jaskier cracked one eye open. "Wiktor won't let me go near him!" The indignation in his voice made Geralt sigh a breath of relief. He was always glad to see the remnants of the person he had known for so long under the stoic facade of the viscount.

"Well, you can ruin a new horse if you don't know what you're doing."

He opened his other eye, too. "Are you saying I am a bad rider?"

'I know you aren't.' Jaskier was a frequent face in the stables, either to sneak the horses too many treats while the stable boys stood uncomfortably to the side, unsure if they could reprimand their lord for missteps that would earn them a good beating from Wiktor, or to borrow one of the horses. He knew that Jaskier didn't have any real preferences besides always shunning his father's steed, Titan. He also knew that he liked to ride fast. And Geralt knew that his heart skipped a beat whenever he saw Jaskier leap into the saddle and speed out of the gates. He was, however, also fairly certain that Jaskier had no idea what to do with Pegasus while he was not broken to the bridle yet. "I am saying that you need to know how to train a yearling to ride a yearling."

"And you know how to do that?"

"Do you think horses just come trained not to fear most monsters and to follow a whistle already?"

Jaskier nodded. "Colour me impressed, witcher. Who would have thought a liar as atrocious as yourself could keep such a secret from the man who followed his every step for over half of his life?"

Geralt grunted, fully aware of the not-so-hidden reproach in his words.

"Use your words, witcher."

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment."

Jaskier sighed heavily and the scent of sadness grew so thick Geralt thought he must choke. "Neither am I..."

Once Geralt had collected himself, he asked casually: "How's your cousin, my lord?"

Jaskier very nearly pouted. "She doesn't like me."

He snorted. "Funny. She's saying the same about you."

"What am I doing wrong?" He frowned. "She's a very frightened child, yet you and Józefa get to talk to her."

Geralt smiled softly. "Do you want my honest advice?"

"In this case, I fear I am in desperate need of it."

"Just be yourself. She likes... nice things. I thought you might bond over that."

"I tried that. But whatever I do, she is not overly impressed."

"Hm," he made.

Jaskier didn't answer anything for a while. But what he said then, made Geralt very nearly lose his footing and make him tumble over the battlements: "She doesn't like me because she thinks I don't like you." The viscount turned his face towards him. "Isn't that right?"

"Hmm," Geralt made. 'That is pretty spot on,' he thought. "When did you become so good at reading people?"

"Long before I met you." Jaskier looked over his lands again. "You were the only person I was ever wrong about."

"How so, my lord?"

"From the moment I saw you, I thought you to be incapable of hurting anyone wilfully." A sad smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Never have I regretted a misconception more in my entire life."

Geralt swallowed around the thick lump forming in his throat, unsure what to say or if Jaskier was even waiting for a response.

Evidently, he was, for he sighed a short moment after and got to his feet. "Good night, witcher," he whispered before vanishing down the stairs.

"Good night, my lord," he echoed into the lonely evening. What on earth was he supposed to do with that?

#My writing #of witchers bards and broken hearts #OWBABH #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #cirilla #geraskier fanfiction

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lily-of-the-eyrie · 4 years

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🎓🔍 Scene Commentary: Colonel Edition ③

Notes for [SQ3-3] Circumstances [video here]. Come join me as we talk about more theories surrounding the Colonel’s manipulation skills, hints about his history before Shay met him, and Gist being charmingly sassy.

Highlights this time include: 　❗️The Colonel's Finances 　❗️Gist and the Colonel

Without further ado, here we go:

[SQ3-3] Circumstances

― Part I: Heading to Albany ― Shay, having retrieved the Morrigan, follows Gist's advice to set sail for Albany, where the Colonel's waiting.

　The Colonel himself isn't present while Shay and Gist are on the way to Albany, but on the flipside, we got this great opportunity to see these two gossiping about the man.

　Gist opens the scene pondering out loud what the Colonel might want them to do next. Now this bit is mildly amusing because he said "I wonder what he has in mind for us to do next"―did Gist just...slip up? Shay naturally went wdym-"us"-👀 at him over here, because he's pretty sure he hasn't signed up to be part of their team...

　Still, Gist doesn't even trip over his words as he follows up with how he's really just all giddy about doing his part in making the Colonel's ideals a reality. Aside from the impressive save he pulls here, another highlight of this section is that Gist frames "the Colonel's ideals" in extremely concrete terms: "secure borders, prosperous farms, fair trade". These are very specific large-scale implementations of the Freedom From Want theme compared to what we heard from the Colonel himself two chapters back, which was more on the philosophical/ideological side.

　Next up, the Morrigan docks at Albany, where the Colonel's waiting. I just have to say that it's incredibly cute of the Colonel to address Shay as "Captain Cormac" following Gist's example after seeing the Morrigan.

　The issue on the table for their meeting this time is the French forces' movements into British territory, which is likely to break out into a full fight between the two kingdoms' armies. Now watch how Shay wound up working with these two again despite the question of him agreeing to run for more of the Colonel's errands was left hanging at the beginning of this scene: the moment the Colonel mentions that "New York could burn" if they don't do anything about the French forces encroaching upon British territory, Shay throws his weight in with them.

　We've already established that Shay's the kind of person who cares about the little guy, so this isn't all that unnatural; especially now that he's a good friend of the Finnegans', not doing anything when New York's at risk is going to sound unreasonable to him.

　However, the audience isn't the only one who understands this―at this point, so does the Colonel. After what happened at the Greenwich gang HQ and Fort Arsenal, he knows for a fact that Shay isn't going to turn his back on a chance to save innocent people. Did he, then, strategically bait Shay by presenting the fact that New York is in terrible danger and joining him is the best way to save all those townspeople? Or was it just something he said because he's also the kind of guy who's concerned for the safety of New York etc., and by saying this he's also trying to communicate to Shay that their goals are aligned? The trick to this is that of course these two possibilities don't have to be mutually exclusive―I'd say the Colonel feels that he knows Shay well enough at this point that he'd want to both get Shay to help him out while also letting him pursue what seems to be his calling.

― Part II: Gathering Supplies ― Shay and Gist, having reunited with the Colonel, head to a nearby French outpost to gather supplies and thwart French expansion into the River Valley.

　In order to dislodge the invading French forces, Gist then suggests that they raid a nearby French outpost for supplies. The trio covers a range of interesting topics during their time sailing to that outpost, chief among which is Shay's skepticism towards the Colonel's intentions behind all his seemingly charitable actions. This is an important bit for two reasons:

(1) Despite all they've done together so far, Shay doesn't stop questioning Monro. He's cooperative with the Colonel, sure, but just because he kinda sorta trusts that he's not a bad guy right now, that doesn't mean he's going to do whatever he says until he gets to the bottom of why he does it.

(2) The Colonel, again, calmly faces off against Shay's doubt by being straight with what he wants: that the colonies become "a place of safety, development, and purpose". Now this is something literally every one of us recognizes as a Templar Line™, even if Shay might not (did he? Hmmm). In any case, the most important takeaway here is that it strongly links the Colonel's concern for the common man with core Templar tenets, giving us a clear look into his personal take on how the Order's beliefs were meant to be applied to the world. He's not part-timing “being a Templar” half the time and “being a benevolent authority figure” in the other half, those two things are one and the same for him.

　On a random note: I’m just gonna mention here that Gist being cheeky as hell with the Colonel's noble "money is only a means to an end" talk in this bit is hands down my favourite part of this scene.

❗️The Colonel's Finances

　On a more serious note, the Colonel's comment on how he's "not a rich man" did get me wondering about his financial situation... I mean, obviously he's not dirt poor, and while there's that idea that Templars tend to be loaded, he doesn't look like he's just rolling in gold, either.

　Realistically speaking, being a military officer in the early 18th century can be a rather pricey career―the pay's far from great, and with all the spending for supplies and equipments, it can be quite a while until even the officers could expect to turn a profit from their job (one exhaustive source about the economics of the 18th c. British Army I’ve read pegged it at around the time they get promoted to Captain). And while the Colonel did come from what you might call a respectable family, it’s more of a modest than aristocratic one.

　However, assuming he's a long-time player in the field of renovating cities, a.k.a. the sidequest that, in the long run, gives you way more money than you know what to do with in Rogue, I guess his finances are quite stable. Now the question is, how much of those renovating gains he put back into more renovating... 😂

― Part III: Taking Down the French Fort ― Having obtained their supplies, Shay & co. sail the upgraded Morrigan to the French fort and take it down.

　With the party ready to take on the French fort, we see the Colonel show a pacifist streak as he reins in Gist, who was being a little too excited about the prospect of throwing fists with the French. Really, these two have such amusing interactions.

　Next, he shows a strategic side as he agrees with Shay's suggestion about taking out the fort's commander to force the French to surrender; he may not be against pitching a battle when necessary, but he also seems to be a big fan of minimizing the overall casualties.

　One really paltry but personally highly interesting thing I picked up in this scene is how the Colonel, commenting on how the French soldiers in the fort would put on an aggressive defense under pressure, said they'd just "dig in like a wounded bear", which does sound like an uncommon expression... I mean, "like a wounded animal" is something anyone can say, but him specifying "bear" over there just makes it sound like he'd gone up against one himself before. Considering he’d likely not have met a bear before he got to the colonies (bears had been extinct a long time in Britain and Ireland), if he did have a bear encounter, it must’ve been after 1750... Did you get chased around by this fuzzy creature in the frontier's wilderness at some point before you settled down in New York, Colonel? 😂

❗️Gist and the Colonel

　Since the amount of interaction the Colonel has with Gist is second only to his interactions with Shay, analyzing how things are between these two can tell us quite a lot about the Colonel's personality.

　First, it's obvious that these two are close friends―the kind of relaxed bantering they have on board the Morrigan sounds pretty much on par with what Shay's got going on with Liam, which isn't all that surprising considering Gist and the Colonel had known each other (and presumably worked together) for 6 years at this point.

　Still, while the Colonel may be the older and higher-ranking of the two (ie.-He is Gist’s senior in both the military sense and the Templar one), therefore putting a clear superior-subordinate dynamic at play here, you don't see the Colonel trying to roast his colleague for stepping out of line (which he clearly does all the time, judging by his behaviour in this chapter), and what he does when Gist gets a little too rowdy is to gently but firmly prod him back onto the proper path. Maybe it's just his brand of leadership, but he displays similar tendencies when dealing with Shay, who has his default setting set to "unruly" most of the time. He’s clearly skilled at handling people much more hot-blooded than himself, and has a good hang of how to be an authority figure while still standing on the ground with his subordinates instead of putting himself on some distant, overbearing pedestal—honestly, a pretty good way to end up with their respect and loyalty.

　Another highlight is Gist's adoration of the Colonel's ideals. Now I think we all know that the Colonel's utopian take on Templar ideals is one of his greatest charms, but what I'd want to bring up here is the fact that, if Shay followed the Colonel because he was inspired by the man's idea of making a better world, he wouldn't have been the first―Gist had been there before, citing how he used to wonder if he’s doing the right thing, but “not since [he] met the Colonel” . I'm not saying that the Colonel's deliberately going out there to steal people's hearts with his brand of Templar beliefs, but judging from his success at inspiring Gist (and presumably Finnegan Jr.) into joining his fight, his winning Shay over to his side isn't a one-off thing.

#⟪Monrology 🎓⟫#⟪Headcanon Hour 💭⟫#⟪✠ Honour and Loyalty ✠⟫#⟪Cutscene Commentary series⟫#cheeky Gist is life

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shipmistress9 · 5 years

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FTLOAP: Chapter 45: The Time Will Come When You'll Have To Rise

Fandom: HTTYD

Theme: Hiccstrid - Medieval-style AU - Romance - Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Reduced to little more than a stable boy, Hiccup, despite his noble birth, has few prospects for more in life. But when he meets a girl who came to look at the horses, being a stable boy might not be enough anymore. Together, they have tough choices to make and great risks to navigate if they want to survive and be together.

Rating: Explicit

FF-net - AO3 -

Discord-server for discussions and questions

Part 1: Prologue; Chapter 1; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter 10; Chapter 11;

Part 2: Chapter 12; Chapter 13; Chapter 14; Interlude 1; Chapter 15; Chapter 16; Chapter 17; Chapter 18; Chapter 19; Chapter 20; Chapter 21; Chapter 22; Chapter 23; Chapter 24; Chapter 25; Chapter 26; Interlude 2; Chapter 27: Chapter 28 ; Chapter 29 ; Chapter 30; Chapter 31; Chapter 32; Interlude 3; Bonus 1; Chapter 33

Part 3: Chapter 34; Chapter 35; Chapter 36; Interlude 4; Chapter 37; Chapter 38; Chapter 39; Chapter 40; Interlude 5; Chapter 41; Chapter 42; Chapter 43; Chapter 44

Alpha/Co-author: @athingofvikings

tagging @drchee5e @hey-its-laura-again @thepixiedustfactory

. – * – _ . o O o . _ – * – .

AN: Woohoo! I actually managed another chapter, hard to believe, I know...

I think at this point, it would be more sensible to remove any scheduled updates, and I just post the next chapter when it's done. Fair warning though: November is fast approaching now and with it NaNoWriMo. I'm not going to participate in that this year, but my alpha-reader does. So I don't know how much time he'll have for editing and helping. And after NaNo, I'm very close to my delivery date already, so no promises about updates then, either. However, I solidly plan to at least post one more chapter before that! Afterwards, I don't know how quickly I will get back to writing. If you have questions though, you can always contact me through PM here or through the ATOV Discord server. And without a regular update schedule, I now have a tagging list here, so if you want to get included there, just tell me. 😊

I feel positive about this other update because a good part of it is already written as I'd originally planned to have that scene in this chapter. But as it is, the chapter got pretty long already so I split it again. This time, the ending feels much more solid than the last time I had to do that, and I hope it feels that way for you, too.

This week's title comes from the song Warriors again by Imagine Dragons. After splitting the chapter, I again had to come up with a new title, and after a bit of thinking, this one felt exceedingly fitting. 😇

. o O o .

Throughout the following few days, Astrid kept pondering over it all; Eret’s accident and everything that had happened afterwards. It wasn’t entirely by choice; she much rather would have thought about Hiccup and how they could be together instead. But she was at a loss there, only having Hiccup’s renewed optimism to hold on to, and repeatedly going through the same pointless plans wasn’t exactly productive. Thinking about other problems instead wasn’t necessarily more pleasant, but it was still… easier.

And thinking about those incidents certainly had a grounding effect. The more she mentally reviewed the attempted stab in the back against Eret, the more certain she was about one thing – from the fierceness and aim of his attack, the now-dead nobleman had intended for it to be a killing blow. It was a hot topic of gossip among the nobles, with many supporting her opinion – without her ever having stated it openly – and being outraged on her and her future husband’s behalf, aided by more witnesses speaking up about their view of the man’s dishonourable attack. Tournament or not, melee or not, stabbing a man in the back was seen as low and cowardly. Some had even called for action against the man’s family, such as fines or other punishments. But as he was already dead, the King had dismissed the idea, saying that they’d been punished enough. However, the entire topic, with the number of witnesses essentially corroborating Astrid’s opinion, was enough that even Eret and Dagur had to admit that it probably hadn’t been an accident at all.

At first, accepting that fact had made especially Dagur’s anger at Snotlout grow even hotter, though not for long. Snot hadn’t gotten through that fight unscathed either, despite initial impressions. The hit against his head had caused a mild concussion, and the kick to his side had cracked a rib. If he’d lost on purpose somehow, then he’d made an incredibly bad bargain.

Both Eret and Snot had been confined to bed rest on the healers’ orders for the following few days, making Astrid anxious for both of her brothers. No matter how irritating Snot’s behaviour lately had been, she still cared for him. But now, two days later, Master Mulch had been willing to state that he was relatively certain that both ducal heirs would fully recover. Eret had even insisted on riding out for today’s hunt again; not to actually participate, but at least to show that he was recovering, that he was still there and the place at her side not vacant again.

And no matter how much Astrid – and practically everybody else – had scolded him for this unnecessary show of bravado, she was also grateful for it. Eret could be pretty foolhardy, she knew that perfectly well. But she also knew that he wouldn’t risk his health and life for something as superficial as this. No, she trusted in him, in his assurance that he was doing fine, and let it soothe her enough not to worry about his injury too much. His safety was another matter altogether, but there was little she could do about that. Right now, he was out in the forest, accompanied by Hiccup and Dagur, and probably with a few of her father’s guards keeping a close eye on him, too. That would have to be enough.

Sighing, she turned the next corner. For once, she had nothing to do; with her suitors being out on that hunt and with her governess being done lecturing her for today, she was at loose ends, for a little while at least. But as there wasn’t enough time to go anywhere, she’d opted for a stroll through the castle instead, with Timothy walking a couple of steps behind her.

Well, there was one place she could go, and if things were different, she would have gone to visit Fishlegs as soon as her governess had let her leave. But of course, that wasn’t an option these days. Just thinking about Heather made a bunch of twisted emotions rise inside Astrid. There was the fear that she might expose them, despite her declaration that she would keep their secret. She’d made it clear, after all: she didn’t feel any fealty to them, not when their actions might threaten her own little family. And no matter how much Astrid tried to avoid that thought; she was acutely aware of the fact that, if Hiccup wasn’t a consideration, she probably would have married Eret without question – and thus make Dagur more inclined to focus on his role as ducal heir as well.

But beneath that fear, she could also relate to Heather. The threat of having the future she’d been so sure of ripped away from her, of losing those she loved, and being ready to do everything to keep them… yes, she could sympathise with that all too well. She just hoped that it wouldn’t come to that, that Heather wouldn’t feel threatened enough to take actions against her relationship with Hiccup. Because Astrid wasn’t sure what she’d do then, was even afraid of how far she might be willing to go.

If only they would be able to come up with something of a plan, some way to achieve their goal without tearing anyone else down with them. She just wanted to be with Hiccup, to be able to love him in peace and spend her life with him. Was that really too much to ask for?

To soothe her anxiety at least a little, she pressed her hand to her chest, focusing on and basking in the warm glow of Hiccup’s soul. They would find a way! Somehow… Maybe running away really wasn’t an option, but that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be other ways.

With her hand still resting over her heart, she paused at one of the high windows and gazed out over the land around the castle. It was beautiful, with the lake to her left, the edges of the forest in the distance, and grassland in-between, littered with solitary trees and shrubs here and there. It was still early in the year, but it was obvious that spring was coming quickly now, trees and bushes showing first signs of green and some early flowers growing everywhere.

Yes, it was beautiful… But that didn’t change that it was nothing but a cage, binding and suffocating her.

She was about to turn away when a bit of movement caught her eye. There, on a meadow to the right, a handful of horses pranced over the grass and chased each other around. Some grooms were there, too, watching over the animals, all clearly enjoying the sunlight.

The sight gave Astrid a painful sting. Usually, visiting the stables on a day like this would be an option too, but… but not yet. Someday, she certainly would have the strength to enter the stables again. She was even looking forward to riding and generally being around horses again. But for now, the pain of losing Markor was still too strong. It had all happened so fast. In one moment, everything had been as usual and in the next, he’d just been… gone. She missed him with a dull ache in her chest, one that only worsened when she remembered how she hadn’t even been able to say goodbye in any way and had no way of remembering or mourning him.

Except… that wasn’t really true, was it? she mused with something of a grimace. She still had the statue Hiccup had given her as a Midwinter gift. As a reminder, he’d said... Her lips twitched into a sad smile as she contemplated the irony. He’d meant that it would be a reminder of him for when he couldn’t be with her, and not of the horse it depicted. But somehow, she felt like this was the perfect way to remember Markor: frozen yet so alive in this tiny figurine – as if he was about to turn and run around at any moment. The thought made a lump rise in her throat, but she managed to keep any tears at bay. She would miss him, would always remember him. But no matter how pointless his death had been, endlessly crying over his fate wouldn’t revive him, either.

Tearing her thoughts away from that path, they inevitably landed where she hadn’t wanted them instead. It wasn’t even farfetched, her mind quickly drawing the connection between Markor and Hiccup, of him giving her that figurine, of the nights she’d spend in the stables, so comfortable and optimistic about their future. She still trusted in the Gods, or whatever force had woven their fates together, but even that didn’t really help when faced with the hopelessness brought by rejecting one impossible idea after the other.

Maybe Dagur and Eret had been right after all and approaching Daniel with a request for help might work. But even though he certainly had been fond enough of Hiccup during the winter, Astrid wasn’t sure whether she could rely on just that flimsy hope, especially as he wasn’t to return for at least another week anyway. That would be hitting awfully close to when it would be too late…

She also was aware of a certain piece of parchment that was still safely stored away in her new treasure box. She was ready to use her father’s boon for this; they would probably need every bit of help they could get. But without a plan, she was afraid of revealing her feelings to the King. She just couldn’t predict how he would react. All she knew was that simply ‘requesting to marry Hiccup’ wouldn’t work. The King had made it clear that his announcement of her marrying one of the eligible noblemen currently courting her wasn’t something he could or would take back. And ‘giving Hiccup land and title’ was equally hopeless. Because Hiccup had been right, there was no land even the King could easily give away just like that.

It all seemed overwhelmingly hopeless, but she had to have faith, had to trust that they would find a way. Eventually…

Later, Astrid would be sure that what happened next had to have been the Gods who guided her steps. Meeting the Grand Dukes Oswald and Eret II in the vast labyrinth that was the castle’s corridors couldn’t have been just a coincidence – the timing was too perfect.

At first, she only heard a familiar voice from around a corner, one that made her feel a little more at ease in an instant, thanks to her mind associating it with enjoyable vacations in the South and days spent at Southshore’s sunny beaches. The voice spoke quietly, but as soon as she focused, the words became easily understandable.

“...just received a letter from Lord Gregson. Apparently, it is as I feared.”

“That’s unfortunate,” came Eret II’s muttered reply. “What exactly did he– Oh, hello Astrid,” he interrupted himself as she stepped into view, a fond smile spreading across his weathered face at her sight. “How are you, lass? Are you bored to death by all these tournaments and suitors yet?”

Astrid’s face twisted, unsure how to react to that. Of course, Uncle Eret knew her well enough to know that she didn’t exactly enjoy all this fuss, just like she in return knew that he wasn’t any better when it came to overly formal events. But on the other hand, he’d been in on this plan, so it felt a little two-faced for him to complain about them now. Either way, she couldn’t ignore the fatherly smile on his face and not the usual sense of ease it gave her either. And it again reminded her of how, under different circumstances, she’d be about to join his House, his family, and do so happily.

“You know me too well,” she played along, plastering an indulgent smile on her lips. “I’m just glad it’ll all be over soon.”

“Aye, it certainly will be,” Oswald agreed with a light snort. Beneath his own smile, he seemed troubled though, making Astrid wonder what the men had been talking about before she’d interrupted them.

Cocking her head, she tried to look as innocent as possible. “But enough of that. What was it you were talking about just now? It seems to bother you, is anything the matter?” She wasn’t even sure what kind of answer she expected. But asking couldn’t hurt, right?

“Oh, that,” Oswald waved her off with a forced smile. “That’s just politics. Believe me, you wouldn’t be interested in this, lass. If you really think tournaments are boring, be glad that it’s not on you to deal with such things, too.”

Astrid had to bite back any comment on that. It was so typical that the men wouldn’t tell her anything.

Eret II grunted in agreement and shook his head. “Yeah, this really is nothing you need to be concerned about. But it’s good that we met here. I wanted to ask whether my son is already settled in his new rooms. I hardly get the chance to talk to him these days, he’s always so busy.” He chuckled and winked at her.

Because of… reasons, Eret had been made to relocate into other rooms, reasons that made her have to hide a smirk. “As far as I know, he’s relocating today,” she replied as calmly as she could. “A group of servants should be transferring his belongings to the new room as we speak. At least I’m supposed to meet him there for a private dinner later – with a whole entourage of chaperons, of course.” She forced something of an amused grimace onto her face, hoping that it was an appropriate reaction. Deep down, she was glad over this development, though. With having made her unofficial choice at the ball came a few privileges that certainly were to her liking. Like being allowed to spend time with her future husband in a more private setting, with only her warder or maidservant and Sir Eret’s squire as chaperons.

Apparently, her reaction had been what the men had expected from her as they both chuckled fondly at her comment. Even Timothy behind her couldn’t stay completely quiet, covering up his laughter as coughing. Of course, his amusement had an altogether different reason, but that was something the Grand Dukes didn’t need to know about.

“That sounds about right,” Eret II eventually commented, sobering up again. “Then we better not delay you, wherever you were heading to. See you soon.”

The men nodded at her with something of an insinuated bow – more of a polite nod with a bit of a bend at the waist – which Astrid dutifully returned with a curtsy of her own before she took the obvious dismissal and continued on her way. The fact that she’d again been excluded from any political knowledge bugged her though, so when she reached another junction only a few steps further down the corridor, she went there, giving the Grand Dukes a last friendly smile as she turned around the corner. As soon as she was out of sight though, she made a step to the side to hide in a doorway, indicating Tuff to be quiet and follow her lead. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn something about the political situation of the Kingdom after all.

And for once, she couldn’t believe her luck.

“So, what was it Lord Gregson wrote to you in that letter?” Eret II said, picking up their conversation.

There was a low, unamused snort from Oswald. “Basically, that he’s giving up. He used so many fancy words that I think he asked one of Frigga’s Gythias to help him compose it. All of these wonderful, florid turns-of-phrase, on and on. About how honoured he felt that we put such trust into him and how he’d wanted to give his best to live up to these expectations and so forth.”

“Aye, I know the type of report,” Eret II said. “I think I’ve even written a few in my time, back when we were younger.”

“I know. I helped, remember? But you were drunk at the time, so I’m not surprised that you don’t,” Oswald said tartly but fondly. The pair of them walked past the doorway, and Astrid gave Tuff a look of dire threat if he so much as blinked loudly. Outside, Oswald continued. “But it all boils down to the fact that he doesn’t feel up to the task of rebuilding County Ravenledge. And at this point, it doesn’t even matter whether it’s because he feels as if the people there deserve better after all they’ve been through or whether he just realised how much work that would be and is too lazy to stand his ground under such circumstances. At least he’s honest enough to admit that he doesn’t feel up to the challenge. But that means that we have to find someone else to take it on, and I fear that the reasons for Lord Gregson’s pull-out will become publicly known sooner rather than later. Which also means that in a week or two, it’ll become increasingly difficult to find a replacement. Everyone is hungry for titles, yes, but that’s because they’re all spoiled brats who want to live like, well, nobles, not have to work with me looking over their shoulder.”

"Yes, I see your problem," came Eret II’s reply, his voice getting lower and lower as the distance between Astrid and the Grand Dukes grew. "I wish we could spare Osmond this problem in addition to everything else, but he has to know about it."

"No doubts about that. But maybe, this can even come in handy." Oswald laughed harshly. "Although, while it would make for a great white elephant, it’s getting the poor sap to accept it that’ll be the tricky part. We…"

The voices grew too low for Astrid to understand more, but she felt as if she'd heard enough anyway. Stunned, she stood in her doorway and stared at Tuff, unsure whether she was ready to believe what she'd just heard. But in his eyes, she spotted the same excited gleam that was buzzing in her mind as well, and tentatively, she let hope take roots inside her.

County Ravenledge… the name alone was enough to make her cringe at the reminder of Harold, of his foul breath on her skin and his filthy hands on her body. But he was the past and that wasn't what truly was on her mind anyway.

The man her father and the Grand Dukes had instituted as new Count Ravenledge had resigned his office. And now, it was back in the hands of the Crown, free to be distributed to whoever was deemed fit or worthy of the job.

Astrid's heart was pounding rapidly against her ribs and she was incredibly glad for the hard wood in her back keeping her upright. This was it! This was what they'd been looking for, the solution to their problem, the way out. If Hiccup became the new Count Ravenledge, then he definitely would be of a high-enough rank for her to marry him. Nobody would dare to object to such a choice.

"I assume you want to meet with Eret as soon as possible?" Tuff needlessly asked, emphasising the name to let her know that he knew who she really wanted to see. Astrid could only nod, her mind whirling with countless possibilities. "Then I suggest we return to your rooms and Ruff and I see whether we can help to get his new rooms ready. The sooner you all can talk this through the better.”

. o O o .

The reason why Eret had to move into other rooms was the source of a wide range of emotions to Astrid. It had all started with some whispered mutterings on the morning after the ball, whispers Astrid herself hadn’t learned about until a day later. Apparently, some people thought it was inappropriate for Eret, the soon-to-be-but-not-yet-husband of the Princess, to spend his nights in such close proximity to her. After all, he inhabited an entire suite of rooms in the family wing of the castle, only separated from his future wife by three corridors. Why, behind two sets of thick oak doors, all sorts of... things could happen in his bedroom!

Yesterday, when Astrid finally had heard them from Eret, she’d initially laughed before another thought had struck her, making her irritation smoulder. Apparently, people were serious about the insinuations against Eret’s character. Eret had slept in that suite for months now, ever since he’d arrived in the capital last fall. And back then, people had already believed them to be a ‘couple’, and had for years. But now it was a problem? Just when things were heating up to the point that Eret was surviving attempts on his life?

It was an obvious smear campaign, and her fury had started to kindle–

–Only to vanish like smoke in a high wind when Tuff had burst out laughing at her indignation and Ruff had, after fighting her own mirth, explained that she and her brother had started the whispers. But even this confusion – and granted, Eret’s and Dagur’s as well – hadn’t lasted long.

The rumours and public demands for decency had apparently all been part of their plan; a few comments down in the kitchens and washer-rooms and elsewhere had spread like a wildfire on open grasslands. With the castle still being unusually packed from the celebrations, there weren’t exactly many other places for Eret – and Hiccup – to move to. House Jag’r’s townhouse certainly was an option, but with Eret still healing and having to participate in the events again as soon as he was recovered, it was more sensible for him to stay at the castle. So, after some discussions – discussions in which the twins were included, in their positions as Eret’s apparent-betrothed’s personal servants – it was decided that Eret would relocate to the so-called haunted rooms.

At that, Eret had merely raised an eyebrow, and Dagur had made an encouraging gesture, all of them waiting for Ruff to continue in her explanation.

“The ‘haunted rooms’ are what the staff call the Greatpine Suite,” Ruff explained. “Two floors down from Astrid’s suite and on the other end of the building. Everyone thinks that they’re haunted because there’s this eerie whistling that everyone who stays there hears.” She met Eret’s eyes with a smirk. “So you’ll trade with the men currently barracked there; they’ll be happy to get out, even though your current suite is smaller. But surely a brave knight like Sir Eret of House Jag’r won’t mind, right?”

Laid out in his sickbed, Eret gave her a dubious look that made the twins burst out in even more laughter. Slapping her knee, Ruff gasped, “Don’t worry, there’s no draugr buried under the floorboards or anything else that people say about the rooms.”

“In fact, be honoured that we’re telling you,” Tuff snickered. “Because it’s a secret.”

“What is?” Astrid demanded.

“Why, the secret passage, of course!” Ruff said innocently.

Astrid blinked. “Secret passage?”

“Yup. The one that ends behind that particularly warty painting around the corner from your rooms, Princess,” Tuff said cheerfully. “It was probably meant to be an easy escape route in case of an attack, but hardly anyone knows about them by now.”

Astrid gave another blink as Eret protested. “But you two can’t be the only ones that know about them. Secret or no secret, it’s really hard to hide a whole passageway, even in a building this big. Someone else will make the connection and complain – and it’s too big a risk to use them, if the servants use them, too!”

“But the servants don’t use them,” Ruff emphasised.

“Present company excepted,” Tuff corrected, grinning. “They’re too small,” he mimed a space only a bit wider than his shoulders and lower than his head, “and filled with cobwebs and... gunk.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “And you use them for prank getaways?”

“Milady!” Ruff exclaimed, faux-scandalized. “Such accusations!” She smirked and said, “Besides, even the ones that do know...” She shrugged and looked at Astrid and Eret. “They’re all caught up in the romance of it all. I know at least one cook gave me a wink when I made the suggestion.” Spreading her hands out helplessly, she looked between the two of them. “They know what’s up and are rooting for you two.”

“Greaaat,” Hiccup drawled.

“It is, because it means that we can smuggle you in without a problem,” Tuff said, crossing his arms. “So say ‘thank you.’”

They had thanked the twins for their work. And now, two days later, all Astrid felt was a deep sense of gratitude and a good amount of anticipation, giddiness, and nervousness. If everything went as planned, Hiccup would spend this night with her again, and in her bed no less! Oh, if only it was that late already! She couldn’t wait to feel his hands on her body again, to kiss him and to lose herself in his touch.

But it was only mid-afternoon, with Astrid sitting at her decorated tea table, drinking tea, and nibbling at some light pastries as she waited for the hunting parties to return and for her private dinner with Eret to begin. And before she could enjoy feeling Hiccup’s closeness again, there was something else she had to do anyway.

Aside from making sure that they’d all made it back unharmed and wanting to be close to Hiccup again, she also couldn’t wait to tell them about the conversation she’d overheard. A part of her warned her to be cautious, to not get too excited yet. The idea of Hiccup becoming a full Count in only a few days, of him legally joining those participating in the tournaments and hunts to court her… it felt too good to be true.

Nervously tapping her fingers against the porcelain cup between her hands, she tried to imagine the reactions to her officially and openly changing her mind and choosing Hiccup instead of Eret. Would it be possible for her to ask her father to excuse Hiccup from participating in any fights, just to keep him safe? After what had happened to Eret, that certainly wasn’t an unreasonable concern, right? But would the King even support such a request? Would he support her choice at all? Or would it be better if she only made her choice public at the very last moment, not giving anyone even the slightest chance to take action against Hiccup?

For hours, her mind circled around those same thoughts, over and over, until a knock on her door drew her attention. Astrid heard a servant girl delivering a message to Ruff and it made her heartbeat quicken almost unbearably.

“Are they back?” she asked as soon as Ruff approached her and got up from her seat, unable to sit still any longer.

Her maidservant smirked. “Yes, they’re all back, unharmed, and Sir Eret awaits you for your dinner in about half an hour,” she replied in a ridiculously formal voice. Astrid’s lips twitched but she didn’t say anything and simply let Ruff dress her for the occasion, waiting impatiently for her to be done.

Walking along the corridors and down the stairs to Eret’s new rooms seemed to take forever. She knew that this distance served a purpose, one she supported wholeheartedly, but right now, the prolonged walk was driving her insane in her impatience. Eventually, Tuff halted in his strides though and turned to knock on a door to their right. As Eret’s only servant, it was Hiccup who opened them, the sight of him enough to somewhat calm Astrid’s unquiet mind. He was clearly happy to see them, his eyes nearly flowing over with love as they met her own. But there also was a certain tension in them, in his every movement, and after he’d closed the door behind them again, it became clear that Eret and Dagur were just as tense as he was, the atmosphere overall enough to make her forget everything else.

“What happened?” she asked anxiously, looking around from one man to the other. In a corner, she spotted a table set for two even though it was laden with enough food to last at least twice as many people. But where before she’d been looking forward to this informal meal with her brothers and Hiccup, she now couldn’t even think about eating anything.

“Nothing, really,” Eret eventually mumbled, looking up from where he sat on his bed’s edge. Astrid wanted to scoff at this obvious lie, but he lifted his hand to directly ward off her protest. “Nothing that changes anything, at least. It’s just been… let’s say, it’s been a rough day.”

Astrid still wasn’t inclined to let the topic drop, but before she could demand a more thorough explanation, Dagur already jumped in.

He was sitting backwards on a chair, his arms crossed over the backrest, but she suspected that he was still ready to jump in case Eret needed help. “A new rumour was spreading like wildfire during the hunt,” he grumbled, shaking his head in annoyance. “The rumour that… well, that Eret and I are more than just close friends since our childhood and that the whole betrothal is nothing but a charade to cover for us.”

Astrid could do little more than gape, her eyes wandering from Dagur to Eret and back again. They both looked heartbroken, hunched over and with their arms defensively crossed in front of them.

“Okay, but why’s that a problem?” Tuff commented after a few more uncomfortable seconds had passed. “I mean… it’s true? And it’s not as if that’s unheard-of; we have Freyr’s male Ástir for a reason, after all.”

With a heavy sigh, Eret raised his head to look at Tuff. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be much of a problem. But that didn’t make this day any easier. Every time we encountered some of the other men in the woods, they made comments about how I should be ashamed of myself for leading the Princess on like that. That I should openly stand to my preferences and tell her the truth, decline her choice, and leave her to someone who can truly satisfy her.”

“That’s a nice way to describe their insults,” Dagur scoffed angrily, but Eret just shrugged.

“It’s what it all boiled down to,” he replied, sounding tired. “And they’re right. I mean... Aside from Hiccup and this charade of a betrothal not being real anyway… It could have become real. And they would’ve been right; you’d deserve better than that, Swanja. Better than me.”

With the lump forming in her throat making it hard to say anything, Astrid made the few steps to cross the distance between them and sat down next to Eret on his bed. She wasn’t sure whether she was even capable of comforting him right now, but she at least had to try.

“Hey, don’t say that,” she said softly, reaching to squeeze his hand. “I… When I agreed to marry you, I knew about all this, remember? So whatever they said, it’s nothing but bullshit. And no matter how things are now… I rather would have spent my life with you, as my partner and best friend, than with any of those idiots who only see me as a trophy to be added to their glory.” Imagining a life where Hiccup didn’t exist felt weird. Wrong! But she also knew that what she’d just said was true. If it wasn’t for Hiccup, she would have gladly married Eret.

She wasn’t sure whether her words were able to help him though, or whether they would only make it worse instead. But after a short pause, Eret squeezed her back. “Thanks,” he muttered with a weak smile. “I just… well, I just hope that whoever Father might eventually pick as my wife will think the same. So maybe it’s even good that this cat is out of the bag now. It means whoever it might be will know what to expect right from the beginning.”

To that, Astrid wasn’t able to say anything. It was because of her that this was something to worry about again, and there was nothing she could do to help him there. But instead of letting the awkward silence linger, Eret shook his head and put on an almost scarily dark expression.

“But that’s not really the problem here,” he went on in a far graver voice than before. “The question is who started this ‘rumour’. And why now?” He motioned for her to sit down at the set table, gladly accepting her help to get up himself without straining his bound chest too much.

“Could it have been Heather?” she asked as she sat down on her seat, her worries over the other woman and how much harm she could do resurfacing again.

But Dagur vehemently shook his head. “That wouldn’t make any sense. That was a secret she would have wanted to keep, in her own interest. With everyone now knowing that I’m not interested in women, me producing an heir to get her and her child off the hook became just that much more complicated.” He sighed. “And I have no idea who else could be behind this, either. I mean… we tried to not let anyone know but it certainly wasn’t an ironclad secret either. Everyone could’ve found out.”

Astrid wasn’t entirely convinced though. “Are you sure? There were quite a few people who knew, after all. Could anyone–”

“Maybe,” Eret interrupted her, though directly contradicted himself by shaking his head. “But I don’t think anyone here started that rumour, and I can’t see why Cami would do so, either.” He paused, taking a deep breath, before he continued in a darker tone. “And I don’t want to suspect Snot. He’s acting weird, but… we still know him, right? And I don’t see why he’d do it anyway. Certainly not to separate us; he knows that you know, after all. No, I don’t think he would go behind our backs like that. Especially not with him still being not allowed to get up anyway. He didn’t even have the chance to spread such a rumour without it being too easy to trace it back to him. Anyway,” he went on, noticeably aiming to change the topic and mood to something more cheerful. “People know, and we’ll have to deal with it from now on. Which doesn’t really change anything; it’s just annoying.”

Dagur huffed. “Yeah. Just as annoying as your grandfather making the effort to come and meet you this morning only to yell at you two. I’m just glad this circulating rumour hadn’t reached him yet. But who knows? Maybe he’ll have a heart attack once they do. That would make so many lives easier.”

At the mentioning of his grandfather, Eret winced and threw an apprehensive and apologetic look to the side – or, more precisely, to where Hiccup was leaning against the wall next to her. Astrid turned too, and easily spotted the pained grimace that crossed Hiccup’s face. Their grandfather… As far as Astrid knew, this had to have been the first time Hiccup even met the old goat with the old man also knowing who Hiccup was. And judging by his reaction, it hadn’t been a pleasant meeting.

Without even thinking about it, she reached for his hand, letting her thumb glide across his knuckles in a way to comfort him. “What did he want?”

Hiccup seemed to appreciate the gesture, squeezed her hand in his and even let something of a weak smile tug at his lips before he said anything. “He scolded Eret for choosing what had to be the worst squire in history,” he said in a low, but clear and almost emotionless voice. “‘It obviously was the fault of that failure that your armour wasn’t in a good-enough state to deflect the blow like good chainmail should. That idiot might as well have tried to kill you himself and he should get executed for his sloppy mistakes.’” he quoted, and let out a harsh laugh. “He didn’t even deign to look at me or to talk to me directly.”

“And just like the old pigheaded asshole he’s always been, he didn’t even listen when I explained that that had only been my decorative armour anyway,” Eret grunted bitterly. “In opposition to all these noblemen who came here because your Father invited them and who knew about the upcoming tournaments, I didn’t bring my heavy battle armour from Eastervale when we came here last fall. That piece of ceremonial chainmail I was wearing was never meant to withstand such a blow, and we didn’t expect… Oh, whatever. He didn’t even want to listen to any of that anyway.”

“Yeah. You said that it wasn’t your good chainmail, and his response was ‘And whose fault is that!?’” Hiccup added, sounding pained.

“My father’s,” Astrid murmured.

Eret shrugged. “Yes and no. It’s not like we should have expected the armoury here to have chain in my size.” He flexed sarcastically, showing off his physique, and Astrid had to agree with the point; Eret was taller and broader in the chest than most men. “But let’s be honest here. This wasn’t about me,” he continued. “This was about him being upset that all of his dynastic game moves almost got wasted because his last playing piece got a dent. He wasn’t doing it to listen to anybody, just to vent his frustration that we’re not doing what he wants us to do, like good pawns.”

“Well, he never listens, does he?�� Tuff threw in, mirth saturating his voice. “Although I’d love to make him listen, especially if someone told him about you and Dagur. Loki, I’d love to see his face.” He shared a dark grin with his sister, but quickly turned serious again, his gaze shifting to Astrid again.

“Anyway,” he went on, the changed tone of his voice and expression on his face showing that he was about to start an entirely different topic. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell the others, Astrid?”

For a heartbeat or three, she just blinked at him in puzzlement. But then, her mood brightened. “Right! There’s something I have to tell you,” she exclaimed at the reminder. The dark atmosphere had distracted her when she’d arrived, had made her focus on her friends’ – no, her family’s – problems instead of what lay ahead of them. But now, it was all back at the forefront of her mind.

Eagerly, she turned to look at the others again, her hand still holding Hiccup’s squeezing him. “I was lucky this morning,” she began, cheeks heating with excitement. “Tuff and I overheard a conversation between your fathers,” she nodded at Eret and Dagur. “Something about Ravenledge – the county, not the man. Apparently, the man who was supposed to become the new Count resigned – because it was too difficult a job for him, or something – and now, it’s back in the hands of Uncle Oswald and my father. If we can convince them to install Hiccup in that position, then that would be the solution, wouldn’t it?”

At first, all three men just gaped at her. They seemed to need a few moments to wrap their heads around this news, but Astrid couldn’t blame them; she was hardly able to believe in this simple solution either. And that was after she’d already had hours to think about it all.

“That… that could actually work,” Eret eventually muttered after a seemingly endless pause, something like cautious optimism swinging in his voice. “If Hiccup becomes a count, he automatically should become eligible for you, too. The only question is how we can convince them to–”

“I can use my boon for that,” Astrid interrupted him. Her gaze darted up to Hiccup, eyes filled with excitement. He knew that she was more than willing to use her father's promise in his favour. This was the solution they’d been searching for!

Hiccup was looking at her in return as well, but with a somewhat wavering expression instead of the hope she’d expected to see. As if he wanted to let that hope take over but didn’t quite dare to accept it.

Dagur seemed more confused though. “Uh, what boon?”

It took her some effort to tear her eyes away from Hiccup, from assuring him that this could work, and look at Dagur instead. “After… after Harold’s execution, my father granted me a wish,” she explained, grimacing at the renewed reminder. “A royal boon. He said I just need to name what I want and as long as it’s within his power, he’ll grant it to me. And I don’t see why naming Hiccup the new Count Ravenledge would not be in his power. Odin, from how it sounded, they even expected to have trouble finding someone who’d be willing to take this position.”

Eret nodded at her explanation, thoughtfully turning his attention to Hiccup. “What do you think?”

Hiccup’s eyes wandered from one waiting face to the other across the room. He still seemed hesitant though, reluctant even, and Astrid could read his thoughts as if he was saying them out loud. This is too good to be true!

She got up from her chair and turned toward him, heart singing when his hands glided around her waist practically on reflex. Capturing and holding his gaze, she tried to assure him that this was real. There wasn’t much to be misunderstood from the conversation she’d overheard, after all.

For an endless moment, they gazed at each other, silently communicating. Astrid didn’t need words to know what Hiccup was thinking and feeling, his love for her and the growing hope crystal clear in his eyes. He nodded ever so slightly, probably only visible to her, and his expression softened, his lips stretching into a cautious smile. “There was a time where I wouldn’t have felt comfortable with this solution,” he murmured, voice rough with emotions. Swallowing, he glanced past her to where Eret and Dagur had to be watching them. “I openly admit that I’d hoped to gain this title back when it was vacant a few months back. If… if things had been different that night, if I’d known you’d distribute the county right away, then I’d probably come up with some reason to stay. I would have tried to recommend myself as best I could, hoping…” He trailed off, his eyes gliding back to Astrid as he lifted one hand to caress her cheek.

She remembered that night, the first night she’d sneaked out to meet him at the stables. Missing out on those hours they’d spent together that night would have felt devastating back then… but if it had meant that he’d had that title already, it would have been worth it.

“But unrelated to that, I also wanted to gain this title, or any other, with my own means,” he continued in a low voice, his eyes back on her now. “ I wanted to prove myself worthy of you. But now, I know how stupid that was. Now, I won’t turn down such an opportunity. So yes, I’m okay with this idea. More than okay. I’d do anything to be with you, no matter whether it includes gaining a title without my doing or accepting any difficult circumstances that might follow.” He gave her a loving smile. “Because it will be worth it.”

From one moment to the other, Astrid felt as if every bit of space between them was too much, every thought about decency unimportant. Before she could think about it, she’d stretched, her mouth pressed to his and her hands on his back and in his hair pulling him even closer. This was it! They’d found their solution, the way to be together. This was really happening.

And it seemed as if Hiccup had accepted this truth now, too. He was kissing her back with equal eagerness, holding her close with one arm around her back and the free hand at the nape of her neck – still reflexively mindful of her hair as it seemed, but also unwilling to part from her anytime soon. From behind her, Astrid thought she could hear noises of amusement, chuckling and low voices talking, but she wasn’t in the mood to pay the others any mind. All she wanted to focus on was Hiccup, his body pressed so tightly against hers and his tongue dancing along her own, playful, teasing, joyous.

But it seemed as if at least one of those assembled in this room wasn’t quite as optimistic as the rest.

“When you listened in on my father and Uncle Eret,” Dagur asked, apprehensively but in a voice loud enough that it drew even her and Hiccup’s attention, “did they say anything about why exactly Lord Gregson resigned?”

Reluctantly, Astrid parted from Hiccup, though just enough to turn in his arms and give Dagur a thoughtful look. “I… don’t think so,” she said, her forehead wrinkled as she scoured her memories. “Just that there apparently were some reasons to it, but not what those were. Oh, and they said something about an… an elephant, but I don’t know what that was supposed to mean. Elephants are these weird animals in the Southlands, right? Big, with ridiculously large ears and noses?” She threw Hiccup a look and spotted his lips twitching. Clearly, he remembered how they’d looked at that book together, too. Especially the last pages.

“An elephant?” Dagur inquired, his brows furrowed. “That... Was that all they said?”

Astrid shrugged. “I… think so?”

But Tuff shook his head, drawing everyone’s attention when he pushed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. “No, that wasn’t all,” he said with a thoughtful expression. “I remember because it sounded so odd, as if it meant something completely different. So I memorised it to find out later. Lord Berserker said that ‘while it would make for a great white elephant, it’s getting the poor sap to accept it that’ll be the tricky part’.”

Dagur’s face darkened. “That’s what I feared,” he grumbled.

Eret cocked his head, clearly intrigued by his lover’s reaction. “What is it, Dag? Does that mean anything to you?”

Dagur nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. “A ‘White Elephant’ is something of an idiom we took over from the people of the Southlands,” he explained in a pressed voice. “It means it’s a… a trap, you can say. As in, they give the county to some rival they want to get rid off, knowing that the effort of rebuilding it will ruin them.”

From one moment to the other, Astrid’s good mood fell, her stomach feeling as if it was dropping down to her knees, not helped by Tuff nodding and mumbling something like, “When something looks too perfect, it probably sucks."

“So… so it’s not a sensible solution after all?” she asked meekly. All this had sounded too good to be true… did that mean it had been nothing but wishful thinking after all?

But Dagur shook his head, albeit reluctantly. “I… didn’t say that. I mean, let’s be honest, it’s not as if you have much to lose anyway. It’s not as if Hiccup would put some major fortune into this county or risk his high reputation if he wasn’t able to succeed.” He gave a harsh snort. “But I’ve read a few of the reports that came in from Ravenledge over the past weeks. The county really is in a horrible state. You’d have to rebuild the entire main city, along with some smaller ones, and that’s not even counting the long-term damage from the old count’s rule.” He started ticking off on his fingers. “You’d have to do all that without having the craftsmen nearby because they have no place to live or to work yet. And without being able to organise the work, because you don’t have any administration. Not even the Orders can be of any help with organising or manpower, because there are no central temples anymore. And in addition to all that, the people won’t easily trust yet another nobleman who comes to rule over them, especially not after Lord Gregson now gave up.” He shook his head. “I’m not saying it’s impossible, but...” He shrugged, looking grim.

Astrid felt the weight of Dagur’s words pressing down on them, noticeably dampening the good mood from only moments before. But before she could work through them and try to come up with reasonable objections, Ruff beat her to it. “Not trying to downplay the problems you just mentioned,” she said dryly. “But I think Hiccup and Astrid have an advantage your Lord Gregson didn’t have.”

Dagur cocked his head at her, puzzled. “And that would be what exactly?”

Ruff gave a snort. “Astrid is the Princess! It’s not just any other nobleman who comes to these people but the daughter of the King herself. That alone should give the people there a little hope, the trust that, this time, their problems get taken seriously. And I’d be surprised if the King wouldn’t send some more serious help in the form of goods and men and money when it comes down to ensuring his daughter’s future.”

“She’s right,” Eret threw in before anyone else could say anything, a grin on his face now as his eyes met Astrid’s. “And that’s not the only advantage you might have.” He took a moment to look from one to the other, his grin widening. “Remember what we talked about the other night? We might not be able to get Hiccup a title… But once he has one, we’re definitely in a position to support him. We’d still have to talk to our fathers, but I don’t think they’d be against drawing up trade contracts and assurances of support in advance. Hiccup might not have much to offer all on his own, but he sure as Hel has friends in powerful positions.”

Slowly, Dagur nodded. “That would make a difference, indeed,” he agreed, his face brightening. “It still won’t be easy, though. It’ll probably take years before something like normalcy or routine would come back to your life. Are you sure you’re feeling up to such a task and the responsibility?” he asked, his eyes firmly on Hiccup.

Hiccup nodded, though a little tense. “I’m prepared to take that kind of responsibility.” His eyes dropped to her, his lips forming a soft smile. “So yes. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

. o O o .

Oh, wow! Looks like there's an easy solution after all. 😇

Or... is there? *evil laughter in Author*

Next chapter

#FTLOAP #For The Love Of A Princess #Hiccstrid #hiccstrid fanfiction #fanfiction #httyd #httyd fanfiction #medieval au #Hiccstrid Medieval AU #royalty au #hiccstrid royal au #fluff #romance

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johaerys-writes · 4 years

Text

Dorian Pavus/ Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 20: Feathers on Fresh Snow

Being the Inquisitor is a hard and grueling job, but at least Tristan can have people around him he can trust. Or... perhaps not.

Read here or on AO3!

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“Meet me at the gates tomorrow morning. There is… someone I want you to meet.”

Varric’s cryptic invitation had not meant much to Tristan at first. He had just finished unsaddling his horse after they had returned from the Emerald Graves when the dwarf approached him. His voice had been carefully lowered, yet it hadn’t escaped Cassandra’s attention, who emerged from the nearby stall after Varric had left.

“It’d better not be who I think it is,” she had said, grinding her teeth. Her dark brown eyes sparked with anger as she glared at Varric’s back.

Tristan had been intrigued.

He had quickly forgotten about the whole thing – he had far too much to occupy himself with, after all, returning to his Inquisitorial duties after being gone for so long – yet as the hours went by and the commotion of the day melted into the hushed quiet of the night, he found himself pondering on Varric’s strange behaviour, and Cassandra’s even stranger reaction. From her anger, he knew it could only be one of Varric’s friends from Kirkwall. Perhaps even the Champion himself.

Tristan had heard much about him. He was quite certain there was no one in the Free Marches that didn’t know his name, and what he had done. He was particularly notorious amongst the Ostwick nobility, who spoke his name in hushed whispers, as if he were a demon of some sort. To say that his interest was piqued would be an understatement.

Still, his interest alone shouldn’t have been enough to keep him up at night. It had been a tiring day, and a tiring night, albeit in an entirely different way – Dorian had made sure of that – but sleep still refused to come. The golden light of morning now slithered through the window blinds, shrouding the small room in a soft, hazy glow, and his eyes were still wide open, staring at the ceiling.

With his arm tucked under his head, Tristan studied his surroundings. He had never visited Dorian’s room before. It was evident that Dorian had taken great care to make it look inviting, perhaps even homely. The narrow shelf next to the window was stacked with books and vials, carefully arranged in alphabetical order. The dark mahogany desk was neat and tidy, the vase on top of it holding a single embrium flower. There were more vials and books by the window sill, and on top of one of his travel chests was a silver tray, with a set of crystal glasses and a decanter, which was empty now.

The room was admittedly small and somewhat crammed, certainly much more humble than what Dorian was no doubt used to, but Tristan still felt more at ease there than in his own private quarters. Perhaps it was Dorian’s cologne mingled with his deep, earthy scent that lingered in every corner. Or the fact that the room’s window overlooked a corner of the courtyard where orange trees bloomed, instead of the frosty mountain peaks, like Tristan’s did. The glowing embers in the hearth bathed the room in a warm, golden light, whereas his much grander fireplace never quite managed to dispel the damp that still lingered in the dense stone. Tristan’s quarters were grand, spacious, luxurious; and he felt cold and tiny in them.

He let his eyes glide over Dorian’s sleeping form. His back was to him, the blankets moving softly with his breath. His hair was messy from sleep and black as night against the stark white of the pillow, raven feathers scattered on a field of snow. A bare shoulder peeked from underneath the covers, skin like burnished gold under the soft sunlight. Tristan wanted nothing more than to slither close to him, pull him flush against him and get forever lost in his inviting warmth.

Yet, Varric would be waiting for him. With a sigh, Tristan pushed the blanket off him, and rolled out of bed. He pulled on his breeches and his shirt, careful not to make any noise. His dark blue coat had been carelessly tossed on a chair the previous night, and he threw it over his shoulders, not even bothering to button it up. With a last lingering glance at Dorian’s back, he twisted the door latch and walked out into the crisp, cold morning air.

Nhudem’s face greeted him as soon as he stepped out.

“Your Worship!” he said eagerly, bowing to him.

Tristan blinked, as much from his surprise as from the bright sunlight that strained his eyes. He still hadn’t got used to the fact that he was now supposed to have a personal guard wherever he went. Cullen had informed him of that as soon as he had stepped foot in Skyhold the previous day, and had promptly introduced him to the people that would be spending all of their time following him about and standing outside of whichever room he was supposed to be in.

Nhudem, of course, was one of them – it had not been lost on the Commander that Tristan had saved his life at Haven and thus, would be all the more eager to protect him. The others were agents of his that had shown impressive potential, and had been hand-picked by him, as he had proudly told him.

Tristan had grumbled his acceptance, more so because he knew it was no use arguing against Cullen on that. Besides, it seemed Leliana and Josephine had already agreed, and the paperwork on the guard’s new positions had already been filed.

Nhudem now stood at attention before him, awaiting his orders. Maighdin, the other guard, scrambled up from where she had been sitting on the hard stone floor. She was a grim looking woman, with a thin mouth and eyes the colour of steel. She was tall and robust, and strong as an ox. Her dark red hair was cropped short, and the battle scars on her face and arms were testament to her experience. She didn’t smile much, unlike Nhudem, but Cullen had said she had been one of his most trusted and skilled soldiers.

Trusted and skilled soldiers, and now they had spent the better part of the night sitting on the floor, guarding him from what, exactly? Tristan could not know.

“Nhudem,” Tristan said, feeling his mood instantly turning sour, “I thought I dismissed you last night.”

Nhudem gulped nervously. “You did, my lord.”

Tristan waited for a moment longer, then when the man didn’t speak, he turned to Maighdin. “Well?”

The woman stood at attention, her gaze firmly above his head. “Commander Cullen has ordered us to never leave you out of our sight, Your Worship.”

Tristan let out a sharp huff. Of course he had. It had been naïve of him to think that he could have even a moment to himself, without people following him about. Not to mention that everybody and their brothers would have noticed the Inquisitor’s guards standing watch outside of Dorian’s room. If there was any doubt as to how he chose to spend his nights these days, it was long gone now.

Oh, fuck it. They probably all already knew.

Without a word, Tristan marched ahead, leaving his guards to scramble behind him. A stop by his quarters to get his stout black woollen cloak and his fur lined gloves, and off to the stables they went. The keep was largely silent at that time of day - not even the washerwomen or the scullery maids were up this early. Varric had stressed that whatever meeting he was leading him to was one that needed to be kept secret. Yet, with Nhudem’s and Maighdin’s heavy bootsteps ringing across the large, empty hallways, it felt like he was leading a procession of some sort, a loud enough one to alert everyone within a mile of his presence. So much to keeping anything secret in that cursed place.

Tristan gritted his teeth and walked on. Damn him for ever agreeing to this! Damn his fool head!

He was silently seething by the time they reached the stables. Varric was already there, his short roan gelding saddled and bridled. His brows furrowed slightly when he saw the guards trailing behind him, but his frown instantly disappeared when he opened his mouth.

“Blondie!” he greeted him cheerfully. “You’re on time. The early bird catches the worm, eh?”

Tristan’s response was an annoyed grunt as he walked past him and into the stables. A stable boy ran after him, but Tristan sharply waved him away. He didn’t need anyone’s help in choosing his own bloody horse.

The Inquisition’s stables were filled with horses these days, and more were arriving every week. The wooden building with the low thatched roof by the inner keep was for his and his Inner Circle’s mounts only, and even they were slowly getting full. There was no shortage of nobles and wealthy merchants from all over Thedas that would send him expensive gifts for a chance to get in his good graces. Tristan didn’t have much use for jewellery and rare gemstones from Nevarra, or expertly carved golden plates and vases from Antiva, or intricate mechanical apparatuses in the shapes of various animals that moved on their own without magic, straight from the dwarven smiths in Orzammar. They were wonderful to look at, but Tristan soon got bored of them.

But horses – those Tristan would never get bored of.

He walked down the long row of stalls, the horses watching him curiously, until he stopped before the palomino Free Marches mare that a noble from Starkhaven had gifted him. A tall and strong animal, but with a delicate frame and a surprisingly gentle nature. Free Marcher coursers were known to be headstrong – he should know, the Trevelyan mansion stables had always been filled with them – and he himself veered towards lively, spirited mounts, but he had instantly been drawn to her. Tilly used to have one just like her, a gelding with a glossy, buttery mane which she used to call Almond. Tristan had sneered at the name back then, but now he found it quite apt.

Almond tossed her head back when she saw him, and Tristan reached out to stroke her neck. Perhaps Almond wasn’t as formidable a name for the mount of the Inquisition’s leader, but Tristan thought it suited her just fine. Her large, dark brown eyes were watching him calmly, and the milky white spot on her forehead did remind him of an almond somewhat.

The animal neighed softly when he patted her nose, and Tristan smiled. He always did have a soft spot for horses.

Saddling and bridling her was a task that he did with mechanical movements, not even thinking about it. He gently led her out of the stall and into the courtyard, where the others were. Varric’s no doubt very witty jokes had the stern Maighdin smiling, and Nhudem was laughing outright, but they both straightened up when they saw him.

“Will we be going far, my lord?” Nhudem asked, eyeing the horse. “Shall we get mounts, too?”

“No,” Tristan replied dryly. “You’ll be staying here.”

Nhudem blinked at him. “L-lord?”

Tristan rolled his eyes as he placed his foot on the stirrup and hauled himself up. “Varric and I will be going alone.”

“But, Your Worship,” Nhudem began again, his eyes wide just as Maighdin’s were narrowed, “Commander Cullen has said-“

“Do you take your orders from the Commander, or from me?” Tristan snapped at him. Maker, but he really lacked patience that day.

The poor man paled and scrambled for words. Maighdin cleared her throat and raised her gaze to his. “From both of you, Your Worship.”

“Good,” Tristan said, somewhat more mildly. “So, I order you to stay here. I won’t be long.”

“As you wish, Your Worship,” she said, her tone a touch more sour than Tristan would have expected.

He snapped Almond’s reins and let her guide him to the gates without looking back. In all honestly, he couldn’t wait to be away from Skyhold, if only for a moment.

“The Inquisitor’s work never stops, does it?” Varric said teasingly once they were out of earshot. “Ordering so many people about must be tiring.”

Tristan let his lips curve in a tiny, reserved smile. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Varric’s horse fell in beside his as they rode across the bridge. The strong mountain wind hit them square in the face as soon as they were away from the protective magical bubble that surrounded the hold. It was odd, really, how magic could do something like this. Skyhold sat at the top of a mountain, the ice and frozen lakes that lay below it glistening in the sun that did nothing to warm the frigid air, yet inside it flowers blossomed all year round. Very odd, indeed.

An icy gust made his cloak whip about him, and Tristan pulled his hood over his head. It was a chilly morning, and the bright sunlight reflecting on the snow half-blinded him. He squinted as they reached the far side of the bridge, and their horses’ hooves touched fresh snow. He gazed around him, at the life that lay beyond Skyhold and its formidable walls. When they had first arrived there, there had only been a few carriages and tents set up for those that couldn’t stay inside the keep for lack of space. Now, there were rows upon rows of tents and hovels and hastily built shacks that covered the entire mountainside, as far as the eye could see. Smoke from campfires and hearths drifted towards the clear, white sky, and the hustle and bustle of the camp was only partly drowned out by the wind howling through the forest.

A few heads turned towards them as they rode, and Tristan retreated further into his cloak.

“More and more people are arriving every day from all over Thedas,” Varric remarked absently. “Soon, not even the mountain will be enough to hold them all.”

Tristan grunted his assent. It was true that the stream of refugees was never ending, and Skyhold’s main keep had barely been enough to hold all of them when they had arrived, when they were only a few hundreds. Now, the Inquisition’s forces counted in the thousands, and were ever growing. It still struck him as strange that people would leave their homes to travel all the way to a frigid mountain, but such was the way of the world those days.

“As long as there is war and instability, and as long as the countryside is plagued by rifts and demons, the swarms of refugees won’t stop,” Tristan said, thinking aloud. His stomach tightened when a throng of children emerged from between the hovels and gazed curiously at them, their clothes far too big for them and terribly worn. He spurred his horse on, careful not to let his face show. “Thedas is in chaos.”

“You’ve got that right, Blondie,” Varric said. “But there’s no need to be so gloomy. The Inquisition is a safe haven. A beacon of hope, if you want to be poetic about it. That, at least, should count for something.”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. Varric’s words did nothing to appease him. Since his open support of mages across Thedas, a lot of people had abandoned their places and left. Yet, upon returning to Skyhold, Tristan had been surprised to find that the gaps in their ranks had been more than filled by mages. The Templar Order was still a shambles, and the Seekers were hiding behind their fortress’s walls, for all anyone knew. The Chantry didn’t have enough manpower to control the mages in many Circles, so many escaped and travelled all the way to Skyhold, where word had spread that it was somewhat safer.

The Inquisition’s accommodations at that moment were far less than humble, but the complaints that Tristan had expected hadn’t come. It seemed that many mages preferred the Inquisition’s hovels and the icy mountaintop to the relative comfort of their Circle.

“It’s good that the mages are leaving the Circles and coming here. We need as many people as we can get, and the less mages the Chantry has under its control the better,” Tristan said, gazing down the mountain. “Still, we have heard nothing from the Chantry. And that worries me.”

Varric turned to him, his frown obscured by the shadow of his hood. “How so?”

Tristan’s lips tightened in a line. Thinking about the Chantry always made his blood boil and his head ache. “Surely, they can’t be happy with their mages leaving like this to join us,” he said sourly. “We are a threat, bigger than what they have seen in ages. They might not have the men or weapons now to oppose us, but as long as there are people praying to Andraste and filling their coffers, they will always have power. It’s a matter of when they will decide to use it against us.”

Varric nodded thoughtfully. “Words can be just as dangerous as weapons. Sometimes even more so. And you have done more than enough to rile them, that’s for sure. But whatever damage they could have done they’ve already done it. People believe in the Inquisition, and the Chantry cannot shake that.”

Tristan seriously doubted that. The Chantrics were sly bastards, and their venomous preachings spread quicker than wildfire sometimes. They were still a headless order, Divine Justinia’s death having dealt a serious blow to their infrastructure and causing it to almost crumble. But the bite of a wounded and cornered animal was often worse than that of a confident one. Not to mention the possibility of them choosing a new Divine, and one that would come after them with a vengeance. That was, unless he somehow managed to influence that choice, and then…

Tristan rubbed at his tired eyes, already feeling the tightness about his temples taking hold. It was moments like these that he felt completely out of his depth.

They rode through the camp at a steady trot. Varric was shifting on his saddle, his gaze straight ahead of him. Wherever it as he was taking him, he didn’t seem overly eager to get there. The pensive frown seemed slightly out of place on his face, that usually wore a cheerful expression no matter what they were facing. It made Tristan uneasy, but he kept his mouth shut. He trusted Varric. As much as anyone can be trusted these days, anyway.

The thought shot a sharp pang of bitterness through him. He clenched his jaw and rode on, determined not to let the feeling linger.

Soon, they had left the hovels and tents behind them, and were following the narrow, winding road through the dense forest. A tall ash tree came into view as the mountain road twisted and curved, its thick trunk split in two as it reached towards the sky. Varric pulled on his horse’s reins, and it stopped before the trunk.

“This way,” he said, guiding his mount off the road and up the slope beyond the ash tree, but not before a quick glance behind his shoulder.

Tristan followed him, his curiosity increasing. There was no path that he could see, and he simply trailed after Varric, carefully steering Almond around any raised roots and large stones that he could see. Riding a horse through a forest was risky, and the snow and ice made the ground treacherous. He was relieved when they finally stopped before a small wooden building, that looked like an abandoned hunter’s cabin.

Varric dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to a nearby branch, and Tristan followed suit reluctantly, not quite able to hide his suspicious frown.

“You’ll soon find out what this is all about,” Varric told him, noticing his expression.

The old, decrepit door creaked as it swung on its hinges. It was dark inside the cabin, save for the light slithering in through a small window at the back.

“This… is Hawke,” Varric said, standing to the side.

The man that turned around to glance at them was tall and broad of shoulder, the top of his head almost reaching the top of the low roofed building. The greatsword that was strapped to his back looked heavy and well made, the image of a hawk engraved on its long hilt. Half of his dark hair was tied with a leather cord, while the rest fell in messy waves about his shoulders. His dark brown eyes, when he fixed them on Tristan, were cold and examining, but the smirk on his lips looked almost amused.

Tristan had heard a lot about Hawke. What the rumours had carefully left out was that he was quite handsome, if in a somewhat gruff sort of way.

“Inquisitor,” Hawke said, covering the space between them in a large stride. “Aedan Hawke. Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand out to Tristan, who shook it reluctantly.

Varric shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I figured Hawke would have some friendly advice for you.”

Tristan frowned at him. “Advice? What sort of advice?”

Hawke’s smirk widened in a teasing smile, directed at his friend. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

“Let’s… just say I was waiting for the right moment.”

“The right moment to tell me what?” Tristan demanded. He was getting ever more impatient with Varric’s secrecy. “Speak plainly, Varric. I don’t have time for this.”

Hawke gave Tristan a quick look over, as if he were appraising him. Tristan resisted the urge to scowl at him, crossing his arms before him.

“Varric thought I would be able to help you in your fight against Corypheus,” he said. “Considering we’ve already fought the bastard.”

Tristan’s breath caught in his throat. “You what?”

“It’s true,” Varric said. “We did fight him.”

“You knew about Corypheus?” Tristan asked incredulously, fighting to keep his voice level. The look he shot Varric almost had the dwarf taking a step back, but he stood his ground. “You knew about all this and you said nothing?”

“Listen, I know how this looks, Blondie,” Varric said apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I only learned about Corypheus the same time you did. At Haven. And after that… Well, I wanted Hawke to be there too when I told you. It took time for him to come from… wherever it is he was.”

“Oh, you can tell him, Varric. No need to be so secretive. I stayed in Antiva for a few months while I waited for the storm to blow over.” Hawke had a confident, easy smile, and the lines around his eyes showed that he did smile often, but his gaze remained careful and calculating when it was on Tristan. “No shame in enjoying myself with some good wine and even better company, is there?”

“Where you were staying is of no concern to me,” Tristan retorted through tight lips, cutting him short. “You claim you fought Corypheus?”

“We did,” Hawke said, straightening up and regarding him with a serious expression. “The Grey Wardens were holding him in Kirkwall, but he somehow managed to use their connection to the darkspawn to influence their minds and make them do his bidding. We killed him that day.”

“Killed him?” Tristan echoed, not quite able to hide his disbelief. This meeting was getting more and more surreal by the second, and his patience was rapidly thinning. He scowled at both of them. “You must think me an imbecile, to come to me with tales like these.”

An annoyed frown crossed Hawke’s face, but he swiftly checked himself. “These are no tales, Inquisitor. Varric was there with me. He was dead as stone when we were done with him. But he somehow managed to resurrect himself. Maybe it was his tie to the Blight that brought him back, or old Tevinter magic.” He gave him a wide, affable smile. “You take your pick.”

Tristan bridled at his mocking tone. He crossed his arms before his chest and gave him a hard look. “Alright. Let’s say I believe you. What use is that information to me now? You clearly have no clue who or what he is, and how he does what he does.”

If he was insulted, Hawke showed no sign of it. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if stating the obvious. “I’ve heard the Wardens have disappeared. Since we already know that Corypheus can control them, it could be that they are under his influence again.”

Of course. The Grey Wardens. Tristan cursed himself for not thinking of it sooner.

He rubbed his chin, pretending to be sceptical about Hawke’s news, but in reality, he felt like screaming. How much power did Corypheus wield? He had been killed by Varric and Hawke, yet he had somehow managed to defy death itself. He also controlled the Red Templars, the Venatori, and now, possibly the Wardens as well. How could Tristan ever hope to defeat him?

The mild headache he had had when he first entered that cabin was slowly turning into a migraine. He was clearly not cut out for this.

There was a glint of amusement in Hawke’s eyes, no doubt from having made him look like a fool. With a sharp breath to collect his thoughts, Tristan shot him a haughty glance over his nose. “We cannot know that for certain. The Grey Wardens have always been known to have their own agenda. It could be that they’re after some quest of their own.”

“I see your time in Ferelden has rubbed off on you, has it?” Hawke said with a wide smile. “Fereldans have always been wary of the Wardens. How many years has it been since they banished the Order for trying to dethrone that king of theirs? A century? Two centuries?”

“An Age and a half,” Varric replied. “They certainly know how to hold a grudge.”

“This has nothing to do with me spending time in Ferelden,” Tristan said, grinding his teeth. Hawke and his mocking tone were grating at his nerves. “Surely, you cannot expect me to go after the Grey Wardens just because you believe they are controlled by Corypheus.”

“Of course not, Inquisitor. That would be madness. Who do you take me for?”

Tristan resisted the urge to narrow his eyes and scowl at him, and instead stared at him expressionlessly until Hawke’s feigned look of shock and disbelief melted away. “Alright, alright,” he said with a placating gesture. “You clearly have things to do, and I’m taking up your time. I’ve got a friend in the Wardens. His name is Stroud. Last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the ranks. If anyone knows anything about Corypheus’ connection to the Wardens, it’s him.”

“Where is that friend of yours?”

“He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave in Crestwood. I could take you there, if you wish.”

Tristan considered Hawke’s proposition carefully. He didn’t know if he could trust the man, or that Warden friend of his. Varric had vouched for him, but Tristan hardly knew if he could fully trust even him anymore. He had thought of him as a friend, but he had chosen to keep this hidden from him for so long. Who knew what else he was hiding?

The thought stung, deeply and sharply, but he stubbornly brushed it away. This was no time to ponder on the value of true friendship in a world that was tearing at the seams. And in any case, any investigation Leliana had started in order to find more information about the Wardens’ moves had led to a dead end. Trust or no trust, there was not much room for choice now.

Tristan held Hawke’s gaze firmly before he spoke. “Alright. Let’s go to Crestwood as soon as possible. I want to hear what that man has to say.”

Hawke nodded, brows knit in a serious frown. “Good. Varric will let me know when you’ll be setting off.”

Tristan turned to leave, when Hawke’s arm on his elbow stopped him. “Corypheus is my responsibility, Inquisitor. I thought it’d killed him before. This time, I’ll make sure of it.”

He looked at Hawke then, really looked at him. There was no mocking glint in his eyes, no amusement hidden in the curve of his lip. Hawke returned his gaze levelly, determination plain in his features. Tristan doubted a lot about him, but at that moment he was certain he meant what he had said.

Memories of Corypheus flashed in his mind, of his horrible face so close to his, of the sickening glow of the red lyrium in his blood shot eyes. He remembered the screams, the fire, the fresh snow turning crimson as Haven fell under the force of his armies. He remembered Flissa’s lifeless body, buried under a mountain of burning logs, and his blood ran hot and thick in his veins.

“No,” he said, pulling his arm free from Hawke’s grasp. “Corypheus is my responsibility. I’m the bloody saviour this world is stuck with. I’m the one he’s after, and the only one that can ever hope to stand against him. When the time comes for me to kill him, you’ll be nowhere near.”

And with that, he turned away. Neither Hawke nor Varric said a word as he walked out of the cabin and into the bitter cold.

#dorian pavus #dorian pavus fic #dorian x trevelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian/inquisitor #dorian/trevelyan #pavelyan #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age fanfic #tristan trevelyan #a world with you #johaerys writes

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hogwarts-is-frozen · 4 years

Text

Fanfic Update - I Wanna Know What Love Is

Summary: Elsa had long ago made peace with the fact she would never find love. The idea of allowing someone to be that intimate with her had been so frightening for so long that she written off the whole thing completely. That is, until a stranger from a distance land throws her entire world upside down. M for swearing and smut in later chapters. F/F and Kristanna

Word Count: 8,221

Rating: M

Chapter 2 - ‘Formalities’ is up and I hope you enjoy :)

"That. Was. Awesome!" Anna exclaimed punching a fist into the air. "Do you think I could get her to teach me how to do that? Whenever I ask Kristoff to teach me to fight he just laughs at me, and the guards are all too afraid you'd freeze them or sack them if they help me."

Elsa, wasn't listening to her sister, she could only look on in stunned silence as she watched the foreign woman snap at the guards before stomping past without even a backwards glace. For some reason the Queen couldn't tear her gaze away as the woman approached a very expensive looking carriage. This proved the woman came from some form of wealth, a little surprising considering what Elsa had just witnessed.

The woman wrenched open the door with such ferocity, Elsa feared she might pull it off the hinges. The driver didn't even have time to get down off his seat before the strange woman and her companion had jumped inside, slamming the door, and barking something at the driver Elsa couldn't distinguish.

And just like that, she was gone. It had all happened so fast Elsa didn't know what to think. She had never seen someone move with such confidence before, let alone a female. This woman had taken down two fully-grown men, and with surprising ease. Elsa had needed the help of her exceptionally powerful magic and (although she loathed to admit it) Prince Hans, to do the same.

Just who was this mystery woman?

xxx

Nia hissed in pain and swore as she did her best to tighten the laces of her corset, but the swelling in her hand was making it very difficult to curl her fingers properly. Conan whined anxiously from his place at in front of the hearth at the sound of her discomfort.

It had been a full day since her encounter with those two brutes back at the public house and the stinging in her right hand had only gotten worse. Despite this however, Nia was in fairly good spirits. She had found a reasonably nice inn just on the outskirts of Arendelle. A family owned establishment, run by a mountain of a man with his wife and three children. Nia could have afforded to stay at one of the finer inns, but this was closest one to the trails that lead into the wilds and the only one that allowed Conan to sleep in her room.

By the time she had finally gotten dressed and arranged her wild curls, Nia was practically jumping out of her skin to get to the mountains and begin her research. However, there were a few formalities she would have to deal with first.

Grabbing her peacoat for the early morning chill and her notebook, Nia made her way to the main hall of the inn.

"Yoo hoo!" called a man standing behind the counter, giving Nia a little wave of his giant hand. "You need some breakfast, ja?"

Nia smiled at the owner, who still wore a brightly coloured sweater and knitted hat despite it being rather warm inside, and waved back.

"Thank you, Oaken, but I really should get going. I have a lot to do today and –"

His wife suddenly appeared with a plate of honey rolls and bacon. "Nonsense, dear. Eat. You're much too thin as it is," she said, tossing a large strip of bacon down to Conan, who snapped it eagerly out of the air.

Nia laughed. "Helga, you sound like my mother," she said picking up one of the mouth-watering rolls, taking a generous bite out of one and stuffing two more into the hidden pockets of her jacket.

"Then an intelligent woman she must be," Helga replied with a wink. "So what is it that has you hurrying about like the Devil himself is clawing at your heels?" she asked, picking up a nearby glass and cleaning it with the apron she wore around her slim waist.

"I'm planning on traveling into the northern foothills tomorrow to see if the rumors I've heard regarding your herds of reindeer are true and I need to find myself a sure-footed horse to get me there," Nia said around a mouthful of bacon. "But before I do any of that, I need to get permission from your Queen."

Xxx

Elsa had to physically restrain from rolling her eyes at the two men bickering in front of her. She had been holding one of her bi-weekly Court sessions, and had been trapped attending to petitioners vying for her attention on one thing or another all morning. Currently, Elsa was listening to a simple dispute over wages between a farmer and his farmhand and they had been going on for almost an hour now. The farmhand claimed that he was not being sufficiently paid for the amount of work he was doing while the farmer argued they had long ago come to an agreement regarding payment. The farmer pointed out that the only reason the younger man wanted to be paid more was because he'd learned that one of his brothers had been earning more than he had, but the farmer could not afford an increase in wages.

Though the young Queen did her best to keep her attention focused on the petitioners, she couldn't help but let her mind wander the longer they went around and around in their argument. This day, she found her thoughts drifting back to the strange woman from the day before. Elsa couldn't say why, but the odd woman had been never been far from the Queen's mind since her return to the castle. Everything about her had been… curious. From the way she'd handled the two men who had assaulted her, to her accent, to the clothing she wore.

Who was she? Where had she come from? And most curious of all, what was her business in Arendelle?

So many questions and no answers, it was enough to make her head spin. Elsa had asked Kai if he knew of any visiting nobility, but he had assured her that none he knew of had docked in Arendelle recently. Only a few merchant vessels and one or two smaller ships.

The young Queen snapped to attention when she realized the two men had finally stopped talking and were now looking expectantly up at her. She hoped they had not noticed her brief mental lapse.

"I have heard enough," Elsa said, schooling her features into a mask of smooth neutrality, as her late father had taught her. She turned her attention to the farmer, "Do you have a written copy of your agreement regarding wages?"

The older man shook his head slowly. "No, Majesty. T'was a simple spoken agreement."

Elsa nodded. "Then there is no proof of what wages were agreed upon."

The young man grinned in triumph… but she was not finished.

"However, there are many young men looking for work and would be only too happy to accept the amount you are able to afford should this man decide he need the increase." She now turned to the farmhand who was no longer looking so victorious. "You must both come to an agreement over what is fair and have a written contract signed by the both of you as well as one other witness." When the younger man looked as though he were about to argue she held up her hand to silence him. "If you feel that you will not be able to come to a suitable agreement then come back and see me. We are always looking for more able-bodied men to help with the ice exports. Keep in mind that it is not easy work, but you would be well compensated."

In the end, the two men left looking appeased for now, if not overly thrilled about her decision.

She sighed and leaned back heavily on her throne, rubbing at her tired eyes while trying not to smudge her carefully applied eye makeup. After regaining her composure, she signaled Kai to retrieve the next (and hopefully last) petitioner. She had not at all expected what happened next.

"Ma'am! Ma'am, I am sorry, but I cannot allow that animal inside the castle! It will have to stay outside. Ma'am!" Came the sound of Kai's voice, followed by a set of purposeful footsteps.

"I have been waiting all bloody morning! And Conan stays with me. Always," another voice said firmly. "Oh, quit your fretting, man, he is better trained than most of the noble brats I've met."

"I beg your pardon! But –"

Kai wasn't able to finish his protest when the two – or rather three, including the canine – of them rounded the corner into the throne room.

Elsa stood, immediately recognizing the owner of the second voice as the woman from the market, although she looked a great deal different than she had the day previous. Today it seemed she had opted to wear something considered more appropriate to her gender. It was a very finely made violet dress hemmed in the same elaborate celtic knots that had been stitched into her earlier outfit. Around her hips sat a thin, silver chain that ran down the middle of her skirt that swayed slightly as she walked. And in the hollow of her slender throat sat a gold pendant that displayed two hands cradling a heart topped with a crown. It was then Elsa realized why this woman looked so familiar to her.

"Your, Majesty I -" Kai started but Elsa just shook her head before he could continue.

"It is alright, Kai," Elsa said, doing her best to reassure the manservant. "I'm sure her companion will be on his best behaviour. "Also, could you fetch Anna for me? I'm more than sure she has forgotten our appointment with the physician today. I'd check the stables first."

Kai hesitated for a few moments, eyeing Conan apprehensively. "Yes, Your Majesty," he said before nodding and striding towards the exit.

Nia took a moment to assess this mysterious Queen of Arendelle. She seemed so very different than the timid, anxious young woman Nia had met those many years ago. This woman carried herself in a way that displayed both her maturity and authority and yet there was still a fragility about her that piqued Nia's curiosity.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Nia said offering a small curtsey and tilt of her head, to which Elsa returned with a nod. "I do assure you that he does exactly as I tell him. Conan, down," she said to demonstrate, for as she gave the command the canine dropped down next to his mistress, looking up at her as if waiting for further instruction.

"Very impressive," Elsa said smiling her approval. "And I must say he really is quite remarkable. Do you mind me asking what kind he is, I've never seen any breed like him in Arendelle? I admit I don't know much about dogs. I was never very good with animals in any capacity really. I think they sensed my magic and so kept their distance."

"Animals are sensitive creatures, Majesty, they do not communicate through verbal speech like you and I, so they use body language and can easily read emotion. It is much more likely that they would sense fears or anxiety rather than magical abilities," Nia said with a reassuring smile. "I would be hard pressed to believe a wonderful gift such as yours would frighten an animal. And, to answer your question, Conan is an Irish wolfhound. A very common breed where I'm from, often used for hunting and to protect livestock. I raised him since he was a pup, runt of the litter if you can believe it."

The Queen blushed at Nia's compliment about her powers. "I must say I do find it rather difficult to imagine that there are bigger ones than him," Elsa chuckled.

Nia smiled. She decided she liked this Queen Elsa. She was easy to talk to and didn't seem prone to speaking down on those below her station, as so many royals often did. And Heavens, Nia had forgotten how lovely she was. She wore a magnificent soft blue gown that glittered in a way that Nia couldn't distinguish what fabric it was made from. No jewels hung about her neck or ears, she didn't need them, for her natural beauty far outshone any gems. The only decoration she sported was a delicate tiara, nestled neatly among her platinum blonde strands, which looked to be cut from glass and shaped like the top half of a snowflake.

But Nia was not there to gawk; she was there for a purpose.

"Forgive me, Majesty. I don't think I properly introduced myself. Or at least you probably don't remember when my father introduced us at your coronation."

Elsa grinned. "Countess Niamh of Castle Dunmore, if I recall correctly."

Nia blinked at the Queen in surprise. "You have quite the memory, Your Majesty."

The Queen shrugged. "I admit I didn't recognize you at first, but then I saw your necklace," she said gesturing to the chain handing around Nia's throat, "and I remembered asking you about it during our first meeting. The claddage, yes?"

"I'm impressed, Queen Elsa. You are correct on both accounts, or at least mostly correct. I simply go by 'LadyNiamh of Dunmore', now," she said. "I relinquished my claim to my father's lands some years ago."

Now it was Elsa's turn to be surprised. "Did you two have a falling out?"

Nia shook her head with a smile. "Hardly, Your Majesty, quite the opposite in fact. It was all done at my request when I became certain my brother was more than equal to the task. I knew the people would be more content with a male heir anyways. The Irish are much more… shall we say, 'traditional' compared to those here in Arendelle, plus it freed me to do what I truly loved."

Elsa felt herself hanging on to every word that fell from this stranger's lips. Drawn to her like an insect to a candle's flame. Nia was like something out of one of her stories – enigmatic and brash. She was so different from Elsa herself, who was so focused on duty and maintaining control at all times, which only served to make her all the more captivating.

"And what is it that you truly love?" Elsa asked, somewhat shyly, almost as if she hadn't meant to ask the question at all.

A contented smile painted Nia's expression and her gaze became unfocused. "To travel," she said, "and to learn all I can about the things that fascinate me most. Which, I suppose, brings me to the reason for my visit to your lovely kingdom."

But before Nia could explain herself further a loud gasp interrupted her.

"Ohmygosh! You! From the market!"

Thoroughly confused, Nia watched as a young woman with the reddest hair she had ever seen and so many freckles Nia could have sworn she was straight out of one of the storybooks her mother used to read her, skipped over to fidget excitedly beside the queen. Her appearance caused Conan to stand up and sniff her curiously - Nia couldn't help but notice the queen had gone very still at his sudden movement - and to Nia's amazement he stepped forward to push his head under the new girl's hand for a scratch.

"Well I'll be," Nia breathed.

"What?" The redheaded asked – who Nia now recognized as the Princess - happily falling to her knees and letting the canine give her sloppy kisses on the chin.

"He only behaves that way with me. And one other time…" Nia said, trailing off.

"When was the other time?" the Princess asked curiously.

"When my sister was… Forgive me, Your Grace, but you- you wouldn't happen to be… expecting, would you?"

Nia watched the surprise arc simultaneously through both women, confirming her suspicions. "I went to visit my sister and her husband when she became pregnant with her first child and it was like he turned into an entirely different dog. He followed her everywhere and was very protective. He even growled at my brother-in-law once," she said, chuckling at the memory.

The princess laughed, where as the queen still hadn't moved. "Such a clever boy, aren't you! Aren't you!" she cooed. "Oh Elsa would you relax, I can practically feel you worrying from here. He isn't going to eat me… although considering how big you are, you probably could. Right big guy?" the younger girl said winking in Nia's direction, forcing the woman to hold back a snort.

"That's not funny, Anna!" The queen scolded.

"It's a little funny. You just have no sense of humor," Anna teased, resulting in a small flush working its way up the Queen's neck.

Elsa tilted her chin up haughtily and folded her arms in a very undignified pout.

"You would never hurt me, would you, big guy? See, Elsa he's a big'ol softie," Anna said as Conan lay down in front of her and rolled on his back so that she could rub the soft underside of his belly. "You only attack big jerks in pubs who try and hurt your mama, don't you?"

Now it was Nia's turn to be surprised. "How - how do know about that?" she asked.

"Anna and I were in the market yesterday and happened to witness your… altercation," Elsa said, a little sheepishly. She still felt a little guilty for not allowing herself to intervene – despite the fact that Nia had been more than capable on her own.

Her shyness then turned into a small smirk. "I believe both my guards' prides are still smarting a little from your interaction."

Nia simply stood blinking at the two royals as the Queen's admission sunk in and she couldn't help the small flush of embarrassment that coloured her cheeks. Brawling with two men after an afternoon of drinking and cards was definitely not the kind of first impression she'd wanted to make. How was she going to gain the Queen's approval now?

She cleared her throat and bowed her head, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "I apologize, Your Majesty, Your Highness," Nia said. "That was… was unbecoming of me. I – I was…"

"It's alright, Lady Niamh." The Queen interrupted gently. "You were simply defending yourself. I only wish you had never been put in that situation in the first place, and I hope it had not tarnished your view of Arendelle's people."

The Irishwoman felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. "Hardly, Your Majesty. It will take a little more than a couple of common thugs who can't handle losing to a woman at a simple game of cards to soil my opinion of your lovely kingdom." She smiled. "And please, call me Nia."

Elsa returned her smile while the Princess stood up and held out her hand.

"Nice to meet you, Nia!" Anna said brightly, before leaning in and lowering her voice. "But seriously, what you did to those guys was awesome! Could you teach me how to do that?"

Nia's laughter quickly turned into a hiss of pain as she took the Princess' hand. Conan jumped to his feet at the sound, eyeing her with concern.

"Oh my gosh! What is it? Are you okay? I'm so sorry!" Anna said.

"No, No," Nia said. "It's not your fault. It's just my hand, that's all."

The Princess made a pained expression before taking Nia's wrist before she could resist, and examined the appendage. It had turned a lovely assortment of colours and the knuckles had become so swollen that Nia could no longer make a fist. "Yikes. It's from punching that guy in the face, isn't it?"

"It's fine, really," Nia assured.

Elsa stepped forward a little hesitantly. "May I?" she asked.

Nia starred at the Queen's outstretched hand in confusion for a few moments before nodding in understanding.

As gently as she possibly could, Elsa took Irishwoman's hand and held it between her own.

The Queen's hands were soft and smooth – which made sense as everyone knew the monarch had worn gloves almost all her life – and it elicited a response in Nia that she had not been expecting. Gooseflesh raised all along her arms and her stomach did an impressive somersault at the contact.

For a few brief moments the two locked eyes and something passed between the two women that had Nia's mouth suddenly very dry.

She was pulled from her reverie however, when the young Queen suddenly looked away and a soft glow began to emit her palms. Nia watched in rapt fascination as a soothing cold wrapped around her hand and she couldn't stop the sigh of relief that slipped past her lips as the throbbing pain in her joints was reduced to a dull ache.

When the light died away and the warmth returned Nia examined her limb, holding it up to her face and curling each finger experimentally. The swelling had gone down considerably and the flesh felt cool to the touch, as if it had been bound in a healing balm.

"Wow," she breathed. "That's – you're incredible."

The Queen smiled bashfully and simply shrugged. "It's nothing."

"Nothing? It's amazing!"

Elsa merely tucked a loose strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear, clearly becoming increasingly self-conscious under Nia's awed gaze.

The foreign girl didn't even realize she was staring until the Princess cleared her throat loudly, causing both women to look away from each other and shift awkwardly as Anna watched with a sly grin.

Elsa was the first to regain her composure as she stood more upright and folded her hands in front of her lap. "I apologize, Lady Nia. I'm sure you had actual reason for your visit today?"

"Yes, Queen Elsa. I would like to request your permission to travel the nearby foothills," Nia said.

"Oh?" Elsa asked lifting an eyebrow. "And what is it you will be doing?"

"I am hoping to observe one of your unique reindeer herds in their natural habitat," Nia explained. "Also, if you know of anyone who might be able to help me locate… whyyy are you looking at each other like that?" Nia asked as the Queen and the Princess turned to each other with knowing smiles.

"You are more than welcome to explore the surrounding Arendellian wilds to further your research. And in regards to whom I could offer as a guide, I think I know just the man for the job."

#nicole writes #fanfiction #frozen #i wanna know what love is #OC #F/F #Kristanna #queer elsa

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lizzybeth1986 · 5 years

Text

Very Slow Thoughts on TRH Book 1 Chapter 8

• This chapter is meh. It's basically a full chapter of the writers taking the Walker ranch portion of the story, and stretching it like chewing gum at this point. I was pretty much sleepwalking through this one tbh.

• The only interesting bit in this was the Drake childhood scene, but because the initial scenes will always be slight buildup to the actual meat of the backstory - rather than the story itself - its placement in a chapter as dull as this one doesn't exactly do it any favours.

• To avoid seeing these posts on your dash, you can block the following tags: #trh quick thoughts, #trh qts, #trh qt reblogs, #long post

• Screenshot Credits:

Drake: @thefirstcourtesan and the HIMEME YouTube channel

Hana: The Abhirio YouTube channel

I'm sorry I don't have any Maxwell screenshots this time around, since I couldn't find it on YouTube, and I wasn't able to ask permission for screenshots on time. As soon as a video of his route is up on YouTube, I'll try adding the collages with his screenshots up. But I do have a tiny gist of what happens in certain portions of his playthrough, thanks to Tumblr, so I'll put those up as quotes.

• Title: Ride Like The Wind

Alternate Title: There Are Other Things My MC Could Be Riding...But Okay

• We begin with the sisters (yeah Leona and Bianca are back to being sisters now), worrying over how they'll get their cattle to the upcoming auction on time since every ranch hand they'd reached out for help pretty much declined.

• Not only is stubbornness a family trait, but so is the tendency to judge people at face value (I'm looking at you, Leona).

• There are a bunch of parallels between the Walker Ranch situation and the Beaumont house one in Book 1: both for the Regatta and the Beaumont Bash. Only difference is, the writers won't bother to expand much on Beaumont History but throw around every minute detail they can imagine for Drake's family (IIRC, even the mystery in Beaumont House in Book 1 was mostly Savannah related).

• Even in moments of dire need, Leona HAS to slip in snide remarks about people she barely knows.

Slight variation on the third option, if you're married to Drake. The other two highlight either the fact that the MC spent most of her life as a commoner and could think on her feet, and the second establishes that she has at least some riding experience. Leona pokes fun at you for both, but has the sense to not deliver much of her unwanted opinion for the third (besides stating they don't have much of a choice).

• The MC also highlights the benefit of bringing the others along: Hana and Liam have a lot of riding experience, Drake is 'capable' and 'outdoorsy' and for some reason Maxwell is known only for his enthusiasm (even though Beaumont House HAS horses and a stable and the Brothers Beaumont would have had SOME experience at the very least 🤷🏽‍♀ [Didn't the Beaumont Bash involve letting in a couple horses into the house? I doubt those horses would even be there if those two didn't know how to ride and manage them]).

Hands down my favourite line in this chapter (Liam's king voice one comes a close second). I really love this because in stories like TRR/D&D, there's always that divide between nobility vs commoner, aesthetics vs utility...and in dialogues like these you can really see that difference. It reminds me a little of one of my favourite scenes from D&D Book 1, where Briar looks at the MC's embroidery and wonders aloud how a pretty piece like this would be of any use to anyone.

• The suede is fine but there's too much going on with the rest of the outfit for me to really admire it. Our LIs obviously don't agree with me:

Drake and Liam have the same dialogue, Hana and Maxwell have different ones. (in Maxwell's he tells her he is ready to "serenade my amazingly dressed, darlin' wife").

• Everyone gets their horses (Bianca gives King Liam a gentler horse so she doesn't end up indirectly harming a king, and Leona gives Bertrand a rough horse on purpose. Because Bertrand has to be on his best behaviour he agrees despite his initial fears).

• Hmm. Chuck finds out about the lack of help via a rumour. Hmmmm. Bertrand gets as skittish as his horse until the MC and Bianca remind him that they might as well take all the help they need.

• So the task is to ensure that the group reaches the big fair on time (or before) so that the sisters have enough time to prepare for their auction. Since they're short of staff and have a lot of cattle, every minute counts.

• There are roughly 3 tests that can ensure we get there on time if we pass:

- help move a group of stubborn cows from the six dozen we're taking to the auction (you can either say giddyup or scream out silly idioms that they won't understand). If you don't say giddyup, Drake will say it for you.

- Move the herd of cows away from a mud patch on the way. Drake suggests a move he and Savannah used to do as kids called The Cyclone, where 1-2 people get in the way of the herd and the riders come from another side to steer them away. This ensures that they get the cows away from the mud patch. This one is the most time-sensitive of the three, because if we fail this one a lot of time gets spent in getting the cows that fell into the mud patch out of the muck and onto the path again.

- Get a cow wandering through the stream out of it safely using a lasso. The problem arises when the cow starts fidgeting while you're taking them back. Here is where your suede outfit has an advantage, because if you choose "grip the pommel with your hands" and almost fall off the horse, the sturdy outfit will ensure you're safe.

All of this results either in you getting the cattle to the auction way before time with an hour to spare, or so late that they reach after the auction itself has begun. In the second option, Leona is nervous about their chances but Bianca insists that they did better than they could have done alone.

• Some stuff that you learn/that happens on the way:

- Chuck calls Leona Miss Walker, so is Walker really Bianca's surname rather than Jackson's? Jackson is also referred to as Jackson Walker. So whose nickname was it initially?

- Wild West Nicknames:

* Maxwell can either be Mad Maxwell or Maxwell 'Calamity' Beaumont. Both nicknames from the MC speak of his tendency to veer towards chaos, or his boundless energy.

* Liam is simply called King Liam because PB is fucking lazy.

* Drake is called The Lone Ranger by Hana, and Hana is called Lucky Lee by Drake.

* The MC can choose her nickname - Cow Boss, Jewel of the Prairie and Wild [Surname]. The second is a nice callback to both one of Valtoria's House mottos (Jewel of the Earth) and a name that Maxwell gives to a caviar dish for the Beaumont Bash (Jewels of the Sea). Personally I think the second one is a better parallel since the Beaumont House situation was already a precursor to what is going on with the Walker Ranch.

Well yes Liam, on people.

That aside...Jesus Christ is this man adorable.

- Alright, so much as I can't stand Leona? At least she has a legitimate ax to grind with Cordonian monarchy. Why the hell is CHUCK being like her and acting all condescending?? The closest thing to a 'noble' he's been around was Savannah and they barely even had anything together if we go by what Savannah says. What is he, the shit stirrer of Walker Ranch?

I have two points to make about this:

1. Constantine...is a fucking asshole. Most of us knew that. I think TRH just seems to be expanding more on that.

2. Sooo...exactly what was Constantine like before the Nevrakis ppl did what they did coz at this point he sounds like an utter failure in every way imaginable. His wife seems to have serious issues with him at this point, he's too busy fighting to spend any time with his kids (well. at least the one the writers remember), has neglected his friend Hakim, doesn't have good political relations with anyone, screws over the King Guard who he gave a Guardian of the Realm honour to earlier, for saving his life...after the man has died.

3. Leona pretty much doesn't seem to care about anything else besides the money Bianca could have been bringing in. It's the main thing she mentions when we first meet her, and it's the front and center of what she's telling us now. What Bianca was going through, the fact that her kids were left behind in an environment that was seemingly not a good one for them - she hasn't mentioned this so far in any of her more obvious complaints towards the nobility. I mean, is that the first thing you think about when your sister returns to her maternal home after such a devastating tragedy? Really??

4. The other funny thing is...she complains about not getting compensation from the royalty yet forgets that for a whole year or more when Bianca and Leona were not there for her (not their fault obviously, since she likely never told them)...it was a noble family's money that supported Savannah and Bartie. The money of the same Bertrand Leona is now enjoying lording over. I guess she would only know this if she were actually giving her sister's children the time of day, and I have hardly seen her do so, so far.

• Once we reach the fair and the sisters have moved forward to where the auction is happening, we are allowed to check out the rest of the fair. Cue diamond scene!

• I kinda think of this as a Group-LI kind of diamond scene - one where you spend time with the characters, but not separately. In a usual group scene they interact and do stuff together before you get time alone with them, but here, the group interactions are minimal and you get time with each LI in different situations. If you are married to said LI, the dialogues are obviously more romantic.

Drake: Opts for bull riding. He's shocked at the number of waivers he has to sign before participating, has a tough time atop the bull BUT manages to stay on longer than the rest. The rest of the group cheers him on as he comes out victorious, and the MC can either be baffled at his daring, or try it out herself.

The MC who is Drake's wife can opt to kiss him just before he participates and tell him to be safe.

Maxwell: Asks us to join in a tandem pie eating competition with him. The MC and Maxwell can either easily win, or be disqualified for starting a pie fight. Either way, the experience is a blast.

As Maxwell's wife, you get to kiss him after you've won/gotten disqualified, and tell him how his ability to make you laugh and have fun is exactly why your marriage is so amazing. (as Maxwell puts it: "never a dull day and more pie eating contests than you'd expect").

Hana: Has found a dressage-trained horse, and is happily getting the horse to do a perfect figure-eight. What follows is a heartfelt conversation about what home means to her, all the possibilities she can now freely explore, and the changes she has experienced. You can either tell her about her tendency to be competitive (something she apparently did not know herself...uh, yeah, sure), or her love and loyalty towards her friends.

As Hana's wife, you can kiss her, tell her you're falling more and more in love with her each day, and Hana gets to tell you that for her, home is where you are.

Liam: Has learned how to make a lasso from a local at the fair. He speaks of how places like these make him feel like he perhaps may understand his own people better, even if these activities are not what the court would expect or approve of from a king. He can show a few rope tricks to the MC, like catching a chair with a lasso, or be 'captured' by the MC.

As Liam's wife, there's the opportunity to flirt either by using the lasso on Liam, or asking him to tie you up.

• Savannah gives an update from Bertrand on how the cattle drive has gone, and Drake brings along some Texas barbeque. The group love it, but the MC finds it a little too much on the spicier side (bold of you, team TRH, to think I can't handle the seasoning in Texas when I have numbed my tongue on bird's-eye chilis!).

• Gah. The paps again. But this time, we're prepared and able to put a positive spin on our trip to Texas (this is either a romantic getaway to ensure we conceive a child, supporting a local business, attending the wedding of a noble) and the paparazzo runs with it. Chuck comes to our 'rescue' a minute later and Savannah is very appreciative.

• Tensions continue brewing beneath the surface between Bertrand and Chuck. Chuck tries to bond with Bartie, who is naturally a friendly child, and Bertrand isn't able to hide how he feels about this. You get to either deflect the situation by telling Bertrand to show Bartie how a "Beaumont high-five" works, or by telling Chuck not to cut into Bartie's animal petting time.

• Savannah complains. Only improvement is that at least this time she mentions that she's spoken to Bertrand and even then he feels he has something to prove (gee, Savannah, I wonder why. It's not like your AUNT has anything to do with that, for sure!)

• "Whatever's going on with Bertrand, I hope he figures it out before our wedding". 'Because I sure as hell don't care', Savannah forgot to add. Like...the root of his current insecurities is right in front of her. Right in her family. Leona has been rubbing it in that he is a 'useless noble' ever since he's been here (even giving him a skittish horse on purpose) and not once has Savannah ever said a thing - either in front of Bertrand, or secretly to us in all the times she's been complaining about him. That's a...surprisingly cavalier attitude for someone getting married to this guy in a couple days.

• Seeing Bertrand, Savannah and Bartie as a family leads the MC and LI to talk about their own search for a family. Nowadays I generally tap over a scene like this because I personally find the MC having the option to be upset and sorry for herself about not being pregnant, a little annoying. I wouldn't under normal circumstances, considering what this book is about (in fact I would be quite happy) - but I think I'm allowed to feel sore over the fact that the MC unfairly gets the space to feel about this the way others can't. So yeah, for me scenes like these are not worth talking about.

• We're back at the ranch, where the group laughs and reminisces over the last trip some of them (Liam, Drake, Savannah) took to the ranch, and the strongest memory we here about is of Jackson, Drake's father who was once Constantine and Eleanor's security detail.

• In our second childhood diamond scene, we are taken back to their last visit to the ranch, where a rather unwell Eleanor is protected by Jackson, and where the children witness a fight between the king and queen. Drake and Jackson have a conversation in the stables later, where the father evades questions about Constantine and Eleanor from a very worried son, and instead chooses to ask him questions about his future. Here are the things I could glean from the scenes:

- Bianca doesn't get a younger sprite here even though she is present in the scene, and there's a chance that they're maybe saving that for a flashback scene for her (?)

- Eleanor's meant to appear unwell, tired and very unlike herself in this sequence - and even if we've just met her it's quite clear that something is off with her. She is shown looking weary a couple of times, and Jackson says "easy does it" at one point. She shows a lot more frustration towards Constantine than in the last scene, calling him out for his paranoia and asking him if his questions (about her wanting an alliance with Auvernal) are an order from the king rather than a request from her husband. Even Constantine points out that she is not herself.

- Other than Auvernal being her maternal home, what else do we know about her connections there? (besides that telling quote by Bradshaw about Eleanor always graciously welcoming them - which interestingly seems to leave out Constantine). I feel like the upcoming trip there next chapter is going to give us an insight into that.

- There is a heavy emphasis on Liam and Drake's friendship, and Drake's feeling of 'responsibility' towards Liam...which I think is kind of a pointer to the whole question of him returning to court after the assassination and staying with Liam when they're older. Even his conversation with Jackson has the latter mentioning that he would be of the most help if he keeps Liam and his parents happy during their time in the ranch.

- The ending itself shows a significant shift from Drake's attitude towards Liam in the first half (playful, friendly, wants Liam to be safe around his mother's home) to the last (protective, determined to cheer Liam up and more reflective). This scene is clearly a Drake scene through and through and the approach is very different from the first set of childhood scenes. This might be how childhood solo scenes will be dealt with from now on.

- Jackson also mentions not being able to speak openly about the problems between Constantine and Eleanor, and Liam tells us later on that he was kind of a confidant to both of them. Jackson also mentions in the stable scenes that he is responsible for keeping them alive but not for their personal problems. The perfect King Guard. Constantine is an ass for denying his family compensation (but also I wonder if there is more to that story the way they frame it. I hope they don't try to force another of those "it was for the good of Cordoniaaaaa" excuses the writers always keep ready for Constantine.

- If Olivia was so suspicious, why were they leaving her behind?

- There are significant differences between the Drake playthrough and other playthroughs in terms of certain scenes. One lies in the options little Drake can make with regards to his future. The third options in both playthroughs show indicators of his future. If present-day Drake is single in your playthrough, it will focus on his desire for a simpler life. If he is married now, then the flashback will include this:

The other two options are Drake speaking about wanting to be a King Guard like his dad, and wanting to stay Liam's best friend. The King Guard thing obviously doesn't happen, the second one happens because Liam almost died. The third one is more clearly a pointer to Drake's future.

- Another significant variation if you are married to Drake is that you have a conversation with him after the scene is over, about his thoughts on his child becoming an heir to the throne:

Reminds me of the conversation we had at the American bar. On the one hand, I like this because as an outsider in the court and someone close to the security detail at the time, he would think of Liam's life very differently. Kids are impressionable, and ostentatious shows of wealth in front of a kid who cannot afford that much can definitely sting.

- Hmm. Hmm. So Liam's sacrifices only become important to Drake when his own kid might face the same challenges? Until then he will yap about how much luckier Liam is and how everything revolves around Liam? How girls were after Liam and not him (yet the one girl who did like him, he eventually treated like trash)? How he thought of Liam as "leading the MC on" by spending time with her when they first met/during the social season? (that's an actual dialogue he says, in Book 3 Chapter 16). Added to this is the fact that Drake stayed in the palace for free, as Liam's friend, and hardly had to do much (he freely roams around the cities Liam has to visit for diplomatic reasons, he can opt out of court events when he wants, he doesn't even have to dress the way others do - even the MC that doesn't buy outfits has to wear a gown that represents her sponsors/duchy for official events). Now when it's convenient for Drake he chooses to think about the flip side? When that flip side should have been the most obvious to him, the Prince/King's best friend??

• The setup for the next chapter comes in the form of a letter from Auvernal, asking the MC to meet them. Well. It's not Texas, so I'll take it.

General Thoughts:

- I don't have a lot to say about this chapter. There's not much really. It's boring and bland and even the nice Drake childhood scene at the end can't save it.

- Bianca's little line about not wanting to harm a King on her ranch...I feel like part of it may be concern because Liam was after all her son's best friend, and part of it may be wariness because of Constantine? But a lot of this is definitely me reading too much into this one little line 😅

- It does have some decent callbacks though:

* Team TRH FINALLY remembers that Hana has done dressage, which was shown to us as far back as TRR Book 1 Chapter 13. Brava!

* The whole premise of a family struggling with money problems and us offering help and getting the job done, is very reminiscent of the pre-Beaumont Bash sequences where we were scrambling together appetizers, helping with cleaning and setting up the ballroom for the big event. It's kind of ironic because the Beaumonts were in this position once, and now at least 3 books later they are involved in helping the sisters get the cattle drive going.

* The pie fight in Maxwell's section of the diamond scene has some similarities to the food fight in the fondue party scene in Book 2.

* Hana's response to eating barbeque strongly resembles how she approaches eating sloppy joes in Book 1, at the beach party. Back there, she is nervous about sampling the food because it is messy, and here she initially asks about utensils to eat it with, to which Maxwell says "you have ten of them!" referring to her fingers.

* The Jewel nickname for the MC, which we've seen versions of before in Book 1 and Book 3.

* A lighter version of the MC-Drake conversation in the Drake x MC playthrough can be found in the American bar scene in Book 1, where he speaks about how his parents always tried to get him things for his birthday but Liam's parents always went many steps ahead simply because they could afford it.

* Drake being called the Lone Wolf by Hana, which was something the MC could opt to dub herself in her interview at the Derby in Book 1? (a bit of a stretch I know but I'm having fun with this okay 😂)

- Could a kind anon (or not-anon) tell me if there is a reference behind 'Lucky Lee'? In fact behind all the names except maybe the Lone Wolf one for Drake. I couldn't find any hehehe.

- Now that we're going to Auvernal, I think we'll find (paywalled) clues there that might tell us more about Eleanor. Those clues about her changed behaviour and physical condition must have been placed exactly here for a reason.

- Usually Chapters 9 or 10 have been chapters that dealt with some aspect of Constantine and his family (his abdication + news of his impending death in Book 1, discovery of his involvement in the conspiracy in Book 2, and his death in Book 3). So now would be the perfect time to discover the truth about Eleanor and her relationship with Constantine, and what was troubling her.

- One theory I have is that Eleanor's being slow-poisoned, and these may be symptoms of what she is having. @thefirstcourtesan mentioned that pregnancy could be a reason too, and it would be another connecting factor with the MC. One thing that I do feel a little certain about is that this trip to Texas may have been a little while before she died.

- How is it that the narrative has absolutely no memory of the fact that Leo was once heir to the throne? I can imagine him not being very close to Liam-Drake-Maxwell or being a teenager who didn't want to be around his father (esp if that father is acting the way Constantine does in these scenes)...but not even a reference? A mention? You have the time to draw an entire sprite of little Savannah who pretty much has very little to do with this part of the story (or any part of the overall story) but Leo isn't even mentioned? Sounds a little fishy to me.

- I possibly wouldn't have minded Savannah's complaining and lack of proactiveness with the Bertrand situation, if their entire storyline didn't revolve around her being this "perfect angel" Bertrand has to be worthy of, and Bertrand's mistakes repeatedly being pulled up while Savannah doesn't have to answer much for the occasions where she is irrational or hasn't made good decisions. What we're seeing now is just an extension of this particular storyline.

- You can tell that the original epilogue series was meant to revolve around the Walker Ranch coz whatever we're seeing here is probably way way more than we have seen of Cordonia so far. There are frantic attempts to tie this to the overall plotline, but within the larger picture it makes very little sense.

Like I hate the paparazzi in the series and even then I found myself agreeing when he pointed out that it was weird that half the Royal Council was roaming around Texas.

- Speaking of the Council I wonder what the other court ladies were doing while we were at the fair. Sleeping off those hangovers?

- There could be other childhood/flashback scenes coming up. We will need an adult perspective, so Bianca might get one. Olivia needs to be seen as important and relevant to the plot (plus Constantine was shitty to her too), so she will get one.

- I wonder why Bastien had such a loyalty and attachment to Queen Eleanor (as stated in Book 2 by Regina) if he actually wasn't that close to the royal couple then (Jackson seems to fulfill that role here). I'm pretty sure they're probably going to ignore/forget that little detail.

- Will Hana and Maxwell get flashback scenes? They should, and there are ways you could incorporate that even if they weren't involved as much. Maxwell's could (FINALLY) focus on what happened to his family fortunes and you could slip in a little something about the palace there. Hana's could focus on her family and also have Lorelai catch up on Cordonian news/talk to her Cordonian relatives. Liam needs a solo scene of his own too, because after this I'm pretty sure his life takes a turn for the worse. If Hana and Maxwell (but esp Hana) don't get one...that's going to be extremely disheartening because they deserve way more attention than what they're getting now. I'm sincerely hoping we see more of their childhood memories too.

- You know what I'm REALLY looking forward to? Writing TRR 1's Chapter 8 QT. I'm very fond of that chapter and have a whole bunch of points to make about it 😀

- Until the next chapter, everyone!

#long post #trh quick thoughts #trh qts #the royal heir #king liam #hana lee #maxwell beaumont #drake walker #bertrand beaumont #savannah walker

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