After two months or three — it was easy to lose time here, Elgar found, with so little to worry about that wasn’t contained between them — the Crown appeared at the estate.
They were noticeably pregnant now, and like them, had come to rest until they were better, because they weren’t feeling particularly great. Their family came with them — Queen Kaara and little toddling Zovri.
Orafin immediately offered to leave, leave the house, which, as far as Elgar was concerned, was easily big enough for all of them, their plentiful staff, and probably three or four families more, for the royal palace in Atcill, so they would have the house to themselves.
»We are better. I should get back to work,« he said as they sat together with the Crown for an afternoon snack. Sweets and the tart tea that grew in the mountains here. The prince’s signs were becoming more and more fluid, although he still missed words every now and again, and with courtiers quickly catching on, he relied less and less on Elgar for translations.
He had yet to dismiss Elgar as useless, though. His affection seemed unchanged, and Elgar was grateful for it.
»You’re not going back to work yet, Fin.« The Crown sat back, absent-mindedly placing a hand on their belly as they scrutinized their brother.
What work did a prince even have to do? They — both of them — were waited on hand and foot. It still felt eerie. Elgar occupied his hands with the slice of orange cake on the fragile porcelain, an import from the queen’s home, before him. Ever since he had mentioned how much he loved it, it had become a regular occurrence. It was so easy. Everything was so easy.
Well, not everything. Especially now that the Crown was here. They had yet to hurt him in any way, but he still couldn’t relax around them.
The prince gave a dissatisfied little hum. »What about you?«
The Crown sighed. »I’m not working either, as you might have noticed.« They looked even more dissatisfied than the prince.
»Not true. You get your mail here. And so on.« The prince reached for his slate, as was becoming rarer and rarer, as if he was going to list all the ways in which the Crown violated their claim.
»Okay, well, I can’t wholly abandon the kingdom.«
Satisfied with their confession, the prince dropped the slate again. »And you’re baking a human.«
The Crown tapped a finger against his chest. »Yes. And you are healing.«
The prince looked undecided whether he should continue arguing, and to Elgar’s dismay, the Crown turned to him. »What about you, Elgar?« Their voice was gentle. »Do you feel better?«
Elgar crumbled what was left of his cake. »Yes, your Majesty. Thank you.« It was true, after all. He felt better. And if the prince decided he wanted to go back to his ordinary life, well, then Elgar was ready to go with him, even though it filled him with trepidation, knowing so little about what that would even entail.
The Crown eyed him a moment, before they turned toward their brother again. They flinched when something bumped inside their belly.
»Are you okay?« the prince asked immediately. Elgar suspected he was glad for an excuse to turn the conversation further on the state of the Crown.
»I’m handling it.«
He looked worried, laying a hand on their sibling’s other before speaking again. »It’s over soon.«
The Crown’s lips quirked. »I think I’ll have to pop out a few more.«
Elgar caught himself staring, but it was the prince who answered. »You don’t have to do that to yourself.«
»There needs to be an heir. And if…« They exhaled softly.
»The others will have children.«
»Still. Five seems like a good number, don’t you think?« They smiled slightly, and flicked his nose. »Where would we be if our parents had stopped at four?«
*
You would have been spared a lot of heartache. The thought sprang into Orafin’s mind unbidden. That wasn’t remotely what Ozriel had meant, he knew that. But it was true — the months of believing him dead, the trouble of taking care of him in the state he was in when he returned, the worry of whether he would ever be okay again, able to attend to his duties.
And now he was — he thought he was — and Ozriel wouldn’t even let him.
It was true he startled from nightmares, sometimes, in which he crawled towards a border infinitely far away, dragging his broken legs, Elgar’s cries of pain behind himself as he abandoned him. He couldn’t even cry into Elgar’s shoulder when he woke from them, choked with shame, like he did on other occasions. It was no mystery where the nightmares came from. It should have been him, the prince, saving Elgar, not the unfortunate, miraculously kind soul risking everything for an uncertain future for his sake.
He should be doing his job, at least now. He didn’t think he could return to the front, and he knew Ozriel would never ask him to; probably even the people wouldn’t call it unjust — he had served, after all. But there was so much work to do: administration, logistics, even charity. He could do something. He should do something.
The warm, loving look Ozriel gave him made him ache. He knew Ozriel would never demand anything in exchange. None of his siblings would, especially after what had happened to him.
But he was a prince, and he had a duty to his people.
Hey! I just wrote a m/m merman human story on ao3. It’s not explicit and is just a little monster romance story for MerMay (almost mermay, anyway lol) I’d really appreciate it if anyone would like to read it or comment! :)
Watch your kingdom die. Betray what’s left to save your life.
Danelor was a peaceful country, a land of poets and musicians. Insignificant. Defenseless.
The merciless invaders swept in from the north and claimed it for their empire. They burned the farms and tortured the survivors for their entertainment. Their cruel soldiers slaughtered every last soul in the royal palace… except Miranelis, a cowardly clerk hiding in a pantry, too afraid to fight.
To Kezul, the disgraced son of the northern emperor, Danelor is a test. If he can keep control of the devastated land, he will not be stripped of his birthright. But he was only taught to conquer, not to rule.
Miranelis, now his captive, may not have the stomach for battle, but they understand the intricacies of rule. But they have no reason to help the conquerors who destroyed everything they loved.
So Kezul will have to give them one.
---
Conquest is no-magic fantasy whump with a royal whumper, a fearful but quietly defiant nonbinary whumpee, degradation, cultural differences, fantasy politics, and an intense and complicated relationship between whumper and whumpee (no romance).
It will also involve major character death, so steer clear if that’s not for you.
This story will be novel-length, with a planned 32 chapters. Updates twice a week. Ask to be added to or removed from tag list.
Chapters
Chapter 1: The Coward
Chapter 2: The Exile
Chapter 3: The Courtyard
Chapter 4: A Valuable Resource
Chapter 5: Bloodstains
Chapter 6: Entertainment
Chapter 7: A Taste of Courage
Chapter 8: Blood Games
Chapter 9: Test of Character
Chapter 10: A Creature of Contradictions
Chapter 11: An Unsolvable Puzzle
Chapter 12: Another Way
Chapter 13: Serving the Enemy
Chapter 14: Negotiations
Chapter 15: A New Form of Madness
Chapter 16: The Unmaker
Chapter 17: Trust and Loyalty
Chapter 18: Conquer This One
Chapter 19: For Your Own Good
Chapter 20: Playing the Unmaker's Game
Chapter 21: A Sick Craving
Chapter 22: All That Remains
Chapter 23: Choosing Defeat
Chapter 24: What Cowardice Looks Like
Chapter 25: A Walk in the Moonlight
Chapter 26: The Pit
Chapter 27: Everything You Ever Wanted
Chapter 28: Perfectly Defeated
Chapter 29: Place of Honor
Chapter 30: Defeated
Chapter 31: Victory
Chapter 32: The Only Job Left
Here from a reblog? Here's the most recent version.
Hi! Could you do a story set during a Reign of Terror-ish social revolution, where a man helps save a former nobleman because he was always nice to him before the revolution? Maybe he lies to his friends initally (like saying “I wanna deal with this one personally” and dragging him off privately) before giving him some fake clothes and hiding him? And the nobleman is terrified?
You want me to write about class struggles? SAY LESS.
Content: 18th-century-inspired setting, mentions of violence and death including beheadings, classism, class traitor if you squint, not so much whump as caretaker and whumpee avoid the worst of it, caretaker POV, historical inaccuracy
The sound of feet on the cobblestone was like rolling thunder as the revolutionaries descended upon Boulevard du Saule. The long street contained a number of manor homes on the outskirts of the city and had been the target of a number of arrests in the past few hours.
Benoît tightened his grip on the sword he'd been issued, knuckles turning white from the pressure. He recognized this home. It was the manor of Monsieur Gerard, a man of minor nobility but nobility nonetheless. The home was decorative more than functional with topiaries littering the front lawn and a fountain at the center of the courtyard.
Sweat broke out along Benoît's back and his shirt stuck to his skin as his unit of men approached the gate. It was locked tight, but hardly difficult to bypass. He'd seen it enough just on the way here as nobles were dragged out of their homes and either thrown into the back of their own carriage to be transported to prison... or executed on the spot.
Alphonse Gerard had been a kind man, to Benoît at the very least. His knowledge of the man didn't extend far beyond that, but it was hard to come to terms with what he must do when he knew the kind smile that wrinkled around his eyes and the gentle pat on his shoulder after a friendly conversation ended. Or how he'd discreetly passed some Francs into Benoît's hand when he needed money for his son's treatment.
"Everything alright, Benoît?" Roland asked as he turned to his friend and comrade, lowering the musket he held.
Benoît tore his eyes from the mansion and forced himself to nod, closing off his expression lest Roland catch on to his second thoughts. He'd beheaded men already. This was just another part of the revolution. A necessary evil. The nobility were a sickness on the nation that needed to be cleansed. Benoît believed that, but none of these reassurances to himself calmed the growing discontent in his heart.
"I want to handle this one personally." he lied. "Alone. I know him."
Roland laughed and slapped Benoît's back good-naturedly as if they weren't terrorizing the whole street with their presence. "I appreciate the enthusiasm, friend, but you're going to need support if he's got any staff left in there. Class traitors, as they are."
Benoît shook his head. "No. This one is far enough from the King that he won't have a big staff, if any are left."
Pausing for a moment, Roland considered Benoît's expression which had hardened into a glare as he thought of other nobles hunting and feasting while the rest of them couldn't afford bread. Then, slowly, Roland held out the musket he carried. Benoît sheathed his sword and took the gun into his hands. It felt heavy.
"Give him a deserving end."
Benoît nodded tersely.
Roland stopped the rest of his squad and moved them back out onto the street, ordering them to support other arrests while he lingered behind and broke the gated entrance with a strike. He stepped aside and gestured for Benoît to go in. "Just shout if you need anything. I'll be nearby."
And with that, Benoît moved in. The front door was locked and too solid to kick in or break with what he had, but a window nearby provided easier access if he were to break it. Sending up a quick prayer for forgiveness, Benoît shattered the window with the butt of the musket, making sure the shards of glass were mostly clear before climbing through.
His shoes crunched on the broken glass as he quickly moved through the salon he'd bust into. It was empty and so was the entry hall. There wasn't any movement at first until a servant rounded the corner and froze when Benoît leveled the musket at her. She exclaimed and raised her hands, dropping the basket of linens she carried.
"Where is he?" Benoît demanded.
The woman opened and closed her mouth for a few moments, clearly terrified and deciding whether to cooperate and give up her employer when a noise came from further down the hall. They both froze.
"Never mind," he dismissed, gesturing with the gun toward the side door. "Get out while you can and grab the others. I am not here for you."
Without hesitation, the servant woman took off down the other side of the hall as Benoît turned his attention the opposite direction and followed the noises, keeping the musket raised in front of him.
Quickly rounding the corner, Benoît came face to face with Alphonse Gerard, the master of the house. The nobleman startled and screamed as he fumbled to reach for the sword on his hip, but Benoit readjusted his posture with the musket. The bayonet on the end of the barrel glinted in the candlelight. It would be hard to miss a shot from this close.
Alphonse raised his palms slowly. "Benoît, my good man, please tell me you are not involved in this mess."
Rather than answer him, Benoît's eyes trailed around the room as much as he dared, taking in the details of the scene. A trunk of overflowing clothing sat discarded on the ground, clearly dropped haphazardly. They were standing in a kitchen; a strange place for a nobleman to be, but there was a back door that hung ajar where Benoît spotted a carriage.
"You were running?"
"Of course I was running! I am not going to stay here and let you behead me in the square!"
Benoît's eyes returned to Alphonse, who quickly withdrew from his defensive posture at the reminder of who held the gun.
"I am not going to behead you."
He stopped aiming the musket, holding it against his side instead and reached forward to grab Alphonse's blouse. The nobleman tried to backpedal but Benoît was quicker. He gripped the front of his shirt and dragged him out the back door before shoving him forward and raising the gun once more.
A gunshot echoed and both men flinched. Benoît cursed under his breath and searched around the back of the manor, the bayonet lowering and giving away his lack of intention to kill Alphonse. He kicked the discarded trunk and examined the pile of clothing. "Do you not own anything even remotely simple?"
Alphonse sputtered in response as Benoît bent down and tossed shirts and breeches aside before sighing. "You'll be spotted immediately if you run now. You were running right into an execution by trying to get away from one."
The ring of metal across metal startled Benoît as Alphonse drew his sword and held it out toward him. "I am not going to be executed. I refuse!"
Despite the strong conviction to live, Benoît could hear the tremble in his voice, see the shake in his hands. Standing and deflecting the sword with the musket's bayonet, Benoît disarmed the noble who fell back onto his ass and scrambled backward in the dirt. He tossed the sword aside out of both of their reach.
"Look," Benoît began slowly. "I could have shot you five times over now and yet I haven't. Can't you see I'm trying to help you?"
"A-and just how was I supposed to come to that conclusion?"
Benoît sighed again and held out a hand for Alphonse. He didn't take it.
"I asked to come alone. If we can find a place for you to hide, then I can come back later and actually get you out of here alive." Alphonse stared at Benoît's offered hand. He moved to grasp it. "But," Benoît interrupted, retracting his hand the slightest amount. "You won't be you anymore. You can't be you anymore. No more nobility, no more excess. You'll be one of us."
Alphonse froze halfway to taking Benoît's hand. His terrified eyes swam with unshed tears before he nodded resolutely and grabbed the offered hand. Benoît pulled him up off the ground and led him to the stables to tuck away in a corner.
"Welcome to the revolution, brother."
The sound of a musket firing echoed before Alphonse was left in silence.
The first time they visit the lake, Vanki is eighteen and terrified of what the visit entails. He grips the reins with trembling fingers, forcing himself forward despite fear scraping at his throat like rising bile. He had begged the King to choose a different place through the days leading up to the trip, his attempts proving futile in the face of determination settled behind the King's eyes. Vanki did not know where the dread came from, but it was there, and it was relentless in its nagging as each day passed, marking the day when the inevitable would happen.
As they ride uphill into the forest, he keeps glancing up at the sky, expecting a dark cloud to descend any moment. His logical side is aware that it is much too soon for her to awaken, but fear recognises no logic.
It never happens. When they arrive, Vanki is separated from his best friends, though Amber's excited chatter is still audible from a little distance. The King leads him along a path around the lake, to a large stone stella - a shape familiar enough for Vanki to freeze. When he notices the engraving on it, he stops dead in his tracks, eyes widening, sufficient to earn a chuckle from the King.
"You have reached the age at which we should honour your origins, my dear boy," the King smiles, gesturing towards the boulder carrying his mother's symbol.
Vanki is too stunned to speak at first, his hand shaking when he reaches out to touch the sun-warmed surface. "It's..." He doesn't finish the sentence, his hand caressing the stone with the tenderness of a child still longing for his mother. He turns back, the question evident in the crease of his brow.
"The King had it retrieved from where she was taken," the Queen explains, then places her hand on her husband's forearm. "Perhaps we should give you a moment alone."
He nods, watching them go before turning back to the stella. He steps closer, pressing his forehead to the stone. He did not know if this decision was the right one, if it would come to haunt them later, but he was glad to have her back in some form. The spring she had guarded had long dried anyway, and here he had a chance to visit her without awakening his grandmother before due time.
Vanki takes a moment to sit down, resting his head against the stone as he speaks of his life. He tells her that he is safe now, taken care of and loved in a way only she had before. He also promises to come see her from time to time, even if she doesn't expect him.
By the time he returns to the right bank of the lake, Sar and his father are splashing in the water, while Amber is struggling, to put it lightly.
“Come on, get in here, cherry,” her dad calls. Amber is standing on the pier, enveloped in a large towel and looking at the water as if it were her greatest enemy. Vanki chuckles, amused at her apprehensive expression. She's drenched from head to toe, and if Vanki were to guess, her clumsy self had fallen into the water.
“Pa, I won’t go back there unless you promise never to do that again.” The statement is full of panic and protest. She can hear her mom and Vanki laughing from the side and narrows her eyes at him with a warning, "You are going to pay for it, traitor."
“I won’t, I swear,” the King is standing in the lake next to Sar, and if she’s honest, the water hardly reaches their chests, and she would have to put in a lot of effort to drown. But they're both having a bit too much fun, with their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and that is triggering Amber’s anger.
“Don’t laugh at me! I’m scared!” She exclaims in disbelief, while Vanki sits next to her mother, eyeing her with an expectant raise to his eyebrows.
“Just trust me, okay?” Her father draws her attention again, motioning for her to step in, and Amber nods, unable to reject him, even if her panic hasn't fully subsided yet. Her brother, who's by his side, waves his hand, inviting her in again with a slightly mischievous expression. “I would never let you drown, I swear. Vanki won't let me live it down.” He claims, as if Vanki's revenge was the only reason to keep her alive.
Amber hesitates, but takes a tentative step in, tossing the towel at Vanki's head in retaliation for making fun of her. He catches it, shaking his head at her childishness before turning his head to the Queen. She offers him a reassuring smile, far too perceptive not to notice the underlying tension in his shoulders. "How are you feeling?"
Vanki shrugs, not quite sure himself; it felt odd yet comforting to have his mother within reach, even if communication was out of question. "I don't know if she can hear me." He confesses, his gaze returning to the stella across the lake, unyielding in its power, yet isolated into a world of its own.
"She can," the Queen assures him, "Trust me. She cannot respond, but she feels your presence."
"I don't want to be like that," he mutters, his voice quiet as he voices his greatest fear. "I don't want to ever be like that, aware but unable to-"
The Queen places a gentle hand on his shoulder, drawing him out of his thoughts. "You don't have to do the sleep, Vanki, nor do you have to shift," she promises, and he nods despite the knot in his stomach foreboding the contrary. "We wanted you to have this as your own water source."
"So, I'm the guardian..?" he doesn't finish, but the Queen understands, confirming his assumption with a hum.
"If you choose and if, for whatever reason, you feel the need, this place is yours to guard and derive power from," she explains, but her soft tone does nothing to soothe his anxiousness.
He gets up, taking a few steps to the edge and submerging his fingers into the water. It vibrates around his fingers, the sense of recognition washing over him in the same ripples that his hand sends through the water. It feels strangely symbiotic to connect to something as if it were an extension of your very being, an integral part of you. His eyes fall shut as he takes in the sensation of the water swirling around his fingers and places his other hand on the ground, allowing the warmth of it to speak to him.
Perhaps he was meant to become the guardian of this lake. Perhaps there was more he'd have to protect. If the connection with nature was his heritage, Vanki could embrace it in a way that his grandmother had failed to do.
More fey with a human? Preferably female as human and fey is male and powerful. Either way I respect your vision.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
"Wow," she said. "That's a pick up line and a half."
She didn't look up, more concerned with the sketchpad balanced across her knees, and capturing the perfect slant of light dappled across the creek.
Brambleton was, decidedly, not where she had hoped to end up in her life. It was in the middle of nowhere. A dud assignment. The only good that came out of it - other then the subsidized rent on the cottage - were the woods that bordered the northern edge of the town. They felt wild. Wild and pretty and not full of backwoods locals.
Well, usually. Apparently that was too good to last.
"A pick up line?" The guy sounded amused. It was a male voice, at any rate. Lovely in the grand scheme of voices. Old-fashioned, though. "Do you normally assume anyone who talks to you is trying to seduce you?"
"Only when they can't take the hint that I'm busy."
"What you are is rude."
She glanced up, scowling, only to pause. The man standing on the edge of the bank was...something. Beautiful, the unhelpful part of her brain supplied. Of course, that didn't change the fact that he was interrupting her, or calling her rude for not wanting to have a conversation with some random stranger when she was minding her own business, but...
Damn.
She paused on his eyes. Heterochromatic. One was a bright, startling forest green and the other the black of a river pebble. They were also...
His head tilted. It was just slightly unnerving, somehow, though she couldn't quite pinpoint why. Her fingers tightened on her sketchpad. She willed herself to stop staring. She couldn't.
"I intended to offer you a courtesy," he said. "You are not from around here. It is obvious."
She felt like she'd stepped in a puddle. Except it wasn't a puddle. It was something that looked like a puddle - shallow, a mildly inconvenient splash - only for her foot to go down into a pit big enough to swallow her whole. Ridiculous.
"Right. And now you intend to...?"
He jumped lightly on a stepping stone to cross over to her side. Had their been a stone there? She looked down at her drawing, frowning. She hadn't drawn a stone. Yet, there was a stone. Her head snapped up again.
He offered her a hand and smiled the most gorgeous smile she'd ever seen. It was actually unfair. "You can call me Jack," he said.
"Ruby," she replied, automatically, though she didn't take his hand. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting to see anyone out here."
"The locals avoid it, yes."
"Are you not a local?"
His smile notched wider, those eyes gleaming. "The most local of locals. My family have been here longer than you can possibly imagine."
It was a pity that a man so very handsome had to sound like such a twat. What the hell was he, some kind of local landowner rich boy?
He crooked his finger and, without him touching it, her sketchbook shot up into his hand. He caught it.
She was on her feet in an instant, heart hammering. She backed up a step, nearly tripping over the roots of the tree sprawling hungrily down towards the water.
Not some rich boy twat. Or not just.
"Careful," he said, attention on her work. Considering.
"What the fuck." It came out raspy.
His gaze flicked up. "Rude," he said, again, soft. "Would you like to trade you some advice for this sketch when it's done?"
"Uh..."
He watched her.
"Did you just..." She was being insane. Surely she was being insane. Maybe she had heat stroke, somehow. People couldn't magically summon sketchbooks. She straightened from her graceless scramble, instincts torn. She didn't want to bolt while he was still holding her sketchbook. She held out a hand for it.
He didn't move.
"Just the sketch," she said. "Not the whole book?"
"Just the sketch," he said.
"...Sure, I guess."
"Rules of hospitality mean you cannot be harmed or taken if you follow the proper rules and etiquette. I find your tongue mildly entertaining, if only for the novelty...the others may find it less so. And I don't believe you need a mouth to paint, if they are so inclined."
"Are you threatening me?"
"No," he said, with that same amusement. "I'm saving your life. Ruby."
She didn't know why his saying her name did something to her. It shivered down her spine, made her knees want to go all wobbly.
Maybe it was worth ditching the sketchbook. She could get another sketchbook.
"Advice two," he said. He stepped closer, using the tip of the sketchbook to tilt her head up to him. "Consider some iron or a necklace of rowan berries, if you intend to trespass here. Watching you this last week has been a bit like watching bunny rabbit nest in a wolf's den. Adorable. Fascinating. But spectacularly unwise."
Ruby laughed. Nervously. She would have stepped back again, but there was nowhere to go. Her brain whirled. Another, more treacherous impulse, whispered for her to get closer.
He really was so very pretty.
"Trespassing?" she managed. "This is a public wood, isn't it?"
"You don't still believe that. Your instincts will have started to itch by now. I'm too close to you for them not to."
What a ridiculous thing to say. Why did it not feel ridiculous?
Why did her head feel like it was swimming in some intoxicating mixture of terror and desire?
He braced his free hand on the tree behind her, and dropped the sketchbook back into her hand. Her breath hitched as his lips brushed against hers.
"Any more advice?" she asked, hyper-aware of the inch between them.
"Don't give your name to the fey."
Between one blink and the next he was back on the other side of the creek, like a dream. There was no stepping stone.
"This is the bit where you say thank you, Jack," the fey said. He sat himself down against the wildflowers on the bank, luxuriating like a cat in a sun spot.
"...thank you, Jack."
"Finish your sketch, love. Then consider running."
warnings: presumed character death, mentions of death and injury, miscommunication, angst, psychological warfare between 2 fools, poor life choices, cliffhanger (?)
-
The human was acting weird.
That in itself wasn’t unusual– almost every human Virgil had ever seen was engaged in some incomprehensible nonsense, and the tales Roman had told him only further solidified his personal belief that beans had only managed to make it this far through a combination of size and luck alone.
Even that simple memory of sharing stories made his eyes sting. He’d been forcing himself to think about Roman more often lately, like he was picking at a barely healed scab. Any time he thought about Janus– no, the human without the proper amount of sickened fury, he ran his mind through the horrible facts, digging his nails in deeper until the wound felt freshly made.
(The facts were as follows: Roman had been caught and caged and killed. Virgil would never see his best friend again. And it was all the human’s fault.)
The injury wasn’t allowed to heal, not now, maybe not ever. It didn’t matter if the human shared his name or treated his wounds or gave him food. It didn’t matter how many little quirks and habits that he noticed, the little things that turned someone from a stranger to a fully-formed person. It didn’t matter because Virgil would never fall for the facade, would never forget that a borrower’s life wasn’t worth anything to the monster before him.
So, he refused to give up a single smudge of ground, his jaw locked and glare sharp. The human kept providing food and medicine and idle commentary, and Virgil kept himself from softening through constant mental reminders.
He wouldn’t need food or medicine if the human hadn’t captured him in the first place. He could certainly live without the snarky remarks and sarcastic flattery, no matter how much he sometimes wished to snap back, and the human’s apparent delight on the few rare instances he did bite out a scathing response. It was easier to keep quiet when he thought about how gullible Roman could be, how easily he might have fallen for simple acts of decency and insincere compliments.
It was harder when the human did things like spend an afternoon building a makeshift bed for him. It hadn’t been a hand-me-down; Virgil had overheard several hissed swears throughout the process, and seen the shiny burns notched across a few of Janus’s fingers as he set the bed down with a flourish. Still, at first he’d stalwartly refused to so much as glance at the wooden frame, its bumpy hot-glue edges, or the soft, hand sewn pillow serving as a tiny mattress.
Oddly, the human never seemed particularly put out by his stubborn refusals to engage. Wryly amused, maybe, but he hadn’t watched Virgil with those cold, hawk-sharp eyes since those first couple of days. The little interrogation session seemed to have reassured him greatly, forebodingly enough.
It was hard to feel good about the schemes that had to be going on out of sight, with Janus indubitably planning to root out the rest of the small colony in the walls, but at least the shift in demeanor meant Virgil was less likely to keel over from stress alone. His instincts had been worn to a thin, frazzled thread from all that intent staring, and he was glad for a break from it.
Still, because he was who he was, he couldn’t help but think about what might happen once the season turned. He didn’t want a human to catch any more borrowers, even ones who had so thoroughly screwed him over, but if summer arrived and the human hadn’t succeeded, Virgil was well within reach, small and injured and easy to take out a fit of temper on.
If the human didn’t believe he was telling the truth, subjected him to a more painful sort of interrogation to try and get the information Virgil just didn’t have, it could prove lethal. One break was bad enough, but if the weak spot was re-shattered? He could be left adjusting to life with one usable leg, with no family or companions to act as a safety net as he relearned vital skills. The life of an outside borrower was harrowing when one did know they were doing, let alone when they didn’t. The first time he messed up, he’d be as good as dead.
If the human did catch the other borrowers, well. Virgil wouldn’t have any more use to him, at that point. If he continued to sit here helplessly, his fate would probably match Roman’s.
(Why had Janus been stupid enough to kill Roman before figuring out what he needed to know in the first place? Had he misjudged his own strength and killed him accidentally? Or had it been an active, malicious choice, made with full confidence that he’d be able to catch more borrowers to replace Roman?
He had to stop thinking about this. He was going to make himself sick.)
So, no matter which outcome, he had to escape before then.
Easier said than done, of course, but nothing in his life had ever been easy, and he was still trying. At the very least, he thought the human’s strangely accommodating behavior could be turned to his advantage. If Janus thought he was falling for the nice guy act, he’d lower his guard, the same way he’d lowered it when Virgil had lost himself to panic and hunger before.
If a snappish prisoner was entertaining to the human, he would stop keeping his replies trapped behind his teeth. He would banter and complain and drop little bits of useless information whenever his captor pried, pretend that he was softening under the improved treatment. He would do what he had to do, give as good a performance as he could through the bitter hatred, if it meant upping his chances.
So be it. As long as this human insisted on pretending to have a heart, Virgil would gladly take advantage of every faux beat of it.
He wasn’t going to just lie down and accept his fate. He refused to give the human the satisfaction of an easy kill. If he couldn’t escape, he would at least go down fighting tooth and nail, vicious and determined all the way to the end.
He thought Roman would have wanted that much, at least.
–
Janus was feeling good about the progress he’d made with his little guest.
Sure, they had gotten off to a poor start, what with the violation of several ethical, moral, and legal boundaries, and certainly, his first impression had been a ludicrously evil one, but even so!
V didn’t spend as much time sulking behind the fake shrubbery lately, had been eating and drinking with reassuring regularity, and after an initial period of resentful silence, had even occasionally deigned to reply to one of Janus’s mostly-cursory questions. All promising signs, though Janus still felt like the olive branch he’d extended was always a mere moment from being sharply swatted away.
That was fine; he didn’t really have to make nice with the borrower he’d abducted, in the end. In fact, he doubted that V was truly feeling as grumpily peaceable as he seemed. The borrower had spent the first week of their acquaintance trying dedicatedly to escape, and his placidity now was likely just a long con.
It didn’t matter. So long as he could retrieve what had been stolen, he didn’t mind at all if V vanished without a trace the very next day. Janus was oozing with charisma and wit. He certainly wouldn’t miss the reticent company of someone so morose and petulant, even if that someone also happened to have a dry sense of humor and a remarkable talent for razor-sharp rebuttals.
Janus suspected that he would have an easier time ignoring his tiny hostage’s sparkling personality if he hadn’t taken to spending at least one meal a day forcing V to endure his presence, but his recent attempts to become a more gracious host didn’t extend that far. He had to take his amusements where he could find them, and lately he’d been finding them in bothering his snappish guest.
It was during one such meal that he was forced to admit, even if only to himself, that V truly had been an innocent bystander.
Janus was an expert at convincing himself, but the evidence was overwhelming— the most obvious being that there were quite a few marked differences between V and the other borrowers he’d spotted.
For one, their knowledge bases.
He’d realized early on that in order to survive in such close quarters with humans, borrowers needed to have excessive knowledge of not only human architecture and technology, but also of humans themselves, particularly the routines, habits, and personalities of the ones they robbed. They certainly wouldn’t have managed to get one over on him without that keen understanding of the layout of his apartment and his schedule alike.
V, on the other hand, had nearly concussed himself trying to hide in faux foliage the first time Janus had turned on the television.
The borrower tended to survey everything with a level of narrow-eyed suspicion, but whenever he was confronted with something he didn’t understand, that wariness was joined by a somewhat comical expression of poorly-hidden bewilderment. Janus had noticed that V even tilted his head sometimes, as though trying to use a different angle to puzzle out the function of a toaster.
(The little gesture was not charming. Not remotely. Janus remained thoroughly uncharmed.)
If V had truly been living in the walls of this apartment with the others, he would have been spotted by Janus long before the current situation. So then, the question became: where had V been living?
To his horror, the answer became more and more clear with every sour response V provided during their mealtime conversations.
Simple offhand comments that went like,
“Something that bright is bound to be poisonous. Do you even know who harvested it? You might be fine making yourself sick, but I’m not.”
and,
“Look, it doesn’t matter if it warms up, not even insiders are idiotic enough to try and move homes during the spring. A single thunderstorm and they’d lose most of their supplies, if not their lives, to the mudslides.”
and even,
“I’m not scared of a little garden snake. It couldn’t eat me if it tried, and besides, I’ve fought bigger beasts as a teenager.”
If Janus had been perturbed by the knowledge of tiny people secretly living in the walls and watching his every move to steal from him, he was outright horrified by the realization that there were some borrowers who lived outdoors, entirely in the elements.
Outside, where they were towered over by squirrels and storm clouds alike. Frankly, he considered it a miracle that V had survived long enough to be pushed into his sink. Maybe he did care if V escaped, if it meant that he would return to living the terror-filled life of, essentially, a wild mouse with thumbs.
Janus had felt the rapid near-buzz pattering of V’s heartbeat, held the weight of V’s life in the palm of his hand, knew that he was so incredibly small and breakable and determined to survive despite it all. To imagine the borrower being snuffed out by something as banal as the life cycle made an inexplicable unpleasant twisting begin in his gut.
Not that he actually cared about the guy or anything. It was simply a shame, and horrifying to think about to boot.
Still, the thoughts were pervasive enough for him to begin reconsidering the terrarium V was currently residing in. It had sufficed as a temporary holding cell for a borrower he planned to release once he’d reclaimed what was his, and he’d added a few small touches for comfort, but it certainly wouldn’t do as a more permanent residence.
If he planned on extending V’s stay past the season’s turn, he would have to come up with something better. Luckily, he had the perfect starting point: he’d recently run into a neighbor a few doors down with a particularly undersized hobby…
hiiiiii everybody, can i interest you in a wkw update, lets all pretend the last one wasn't literally a full calendar year ago 😅
@annablogsposts @whump-cravings @whumpitywhumpwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @favwhumpstuff @the-monarch-whumperfly @iboopsstuff @hellodecisionparalysis and as always, if you want to be added to (or removed from) the taglist, it's easier for me to keep track of messages than asks (and if I missed anybody I'll try and add y'all in a reblog)
TW for: underage whump; captivity/isolation; implied/referenced grooming, manipulation, gaslighting (not sexual just evil) (Morden is offscreen but his creepy vibes are still very much in evidence); broken bones; implied/referenced past child abuse; guilt and self-hatred; Badly Controlled/Unproductively Expressed Anger; skin picking/chewing (pretty mild i think but ymmv).
This is probably roughly simultaneous with the previous chapter.
----
Something is wrong.
There is no clock in Asher’s bedroom. But there are also not many regular events in his schedule. So the one thing Asher is sure of—or—anyway thing he is most almost-sure of is that the Wolf brings Andry to Asher’s little bedroom every seventh day, sometime when the sun through the high narrow window hits the floor between the armchair and the door.
Except now the sun is slanted low enough to splatter on the pocked and dented panel wall beside the door. And Andry isn’t here.
All of Asher’s nails are worn and bitten too low to chew on, and the skin of his thumb is starting to suffer for it. Asher was still small when his mother left, and he doesn’t remember her much. Sometimes when Andry tells him to straighten his shoulders and keep his chin up and get his fingers out of his mouth Asher wonders if their mother stayed long enough to say all that to Andry. He wonders if she said it as gently as Andry does.
The door opens suddenly. Asher drops his bitten hands into his lap and sits up very straight, since the thought of being seen slouching with his thumb in his mouth by either Andry or Crane turns his stomach, though presumably for different reasons.
It isn’t either Andry or Crane standing in the doorway, though.
The way Asher feels about about Crane’s semi-frequent visits is—well. He heard about the White Crane and his Falconers for almost a year before seeing any of them. Now he sees Crane as often as three times a week, sometimes, though other times more than a week passes without a sign of him. Crane brought Asher a fresh set of clothes the day after his first visit, and last week he brought a small stack of books, with illuminated margins and even a few printed woodcut illustrations. In both cases Asher wanted to refuse, but Crane left them behind so casually that Asher could not find the right moment to do so; and Asher had been shivering in his threadbare shift, and—there is little enough to do in this one small room he is mostly not allowed to leave—so—
Anyway. His feelings about the Winter King’s Wolf are a great deal simpler: Asher hates him.
Asher heard stories about the Wolf before he saw him, too, and was almost scareder of them than of the Falconers. Even the strongest soldiers and cleverest assassins could hardly get a glimpse of the Winter King, they said, because of the fearsome Wolf that guarded him; with gleaming silver hair and yellow eyes like no man ought to have, and with all the slavering jaws and blind, bloody loyalty of his namesake.
None of that is true at all, though. The Wolf does have some Faery blood in him, probably; he certainly has silver hair and yellow eyes, and Asher’s first sight of the Wolf’s teeth did make him shiver. But the Wolf is only a boy, really; he doesn’t look any older than Andry, and acts even younger than that. The Wolf seems to have modeled his smile and the proud toss of his head after Crane, but really he has more in common with a too-handsome Courtier’s son than he does with the Winter King. He supervises all of Andry’s visits to Asher’s room, usually perched in the arm chair, occasionally rolling his eyes at them.
And—Asher tries not to think of this too often, because it makes him feel dizzy and shaky and sick with hatred—the Wolf is casual with Andry, laughs like they’re laughing together, bumps his shoulder into Andry’s, leads him with a hand on Andry’s elbow like his other hand isn’t on Andry’s—
Asher can’t think leash without tasting vomit in the back of his throat. Thorne might be Winter’s Wolf, but Andry isn’t a dog.
Anyway. Asher hadn’t thought about it before, but—he doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Wolf look anxious before.
The Wolf throws the door open so hard that it slams into the wall—adding more pock marks for the sun to pool in, later—but then just stands there, in the doorway, panting slightly, like he’s run to get there. His silver hair is standing at odd angles, half out of its usual neat horsetail, and his shirt looks like it might be on back-to-front.
Asher’s heart has leapt into his throat. He swallows it.
“Where is my brother?” he says. He tries to sound angry, instead of frightened.
“Y...yes,” the Wolf says. He’s staring at Asher, like—like—like Asher doesn’t know what. He is still frozen in the doorway, the hand he used to shove the door open hovering lamely in mid-air. Asher can see the two guards posted outside his room exchanging confused glances. The Wolf, as though suddenly feeling their eyes on his back, steps stiffly into the room and closes the door, overcorrecting and using two hands to guide it quietly shut, except that he has clearly damaged it by slamming it too hard into the wall, and now it takes three increasingly noisy tries to get it shut. It would be funny, probably, if Asher wasn’t so afraid.
(Thorne realizes once he is standing in the young Prince’s bedroom that he has had the presence of mind to change out of his blood-stained clothes, but not enough to think about what on earth to say.)
(Thorne takes a brief pause, mercifully facing the halfway-broken door and not the Prince, to wish that he had never been born.)
“The Prince—” the Wolf begins, and then he turns back enough to meet Asher’s eyes again and stops again. He looks, if anything, even younger than usual. “Andry,” the Wolf tries instead, and Asher is suddenly very aware that he has never heard Winter’s Wolf use his brother’s name. His hands tighten into fists in his lap. He feels—as though he has been desperate to hear Andry’s name, to hear someone say it, and also like he wants to snatch it out of the Wolf’s dirty fanged mouth.
“Andry is,” the Wolf says, finally. “He’s—he’ll be alright.”
Asher empty fists tighten hard enough to hurt his hands.
“What do you mean,” Asher says. He doesn’t know what it sounds like, since he can hardly hear anything over the roaring in his ears.
“He’s—there’s—um.”
(There’s been an accident, Thorne wants to say, but that would be such a vacuous, bloated lie that he can’t seem to force it past his tongue.)
“I think he will live,” the Winter King’s Wolf says finally, and then sighs, as though relieved to have finished his job.
Far more than biting his fingernails, the thing for which Andry scolds Asher most often—the only thing, really, which Andry ever really snaps at him for—is acting before he thinks. Mostly he only spills or loses things, or speaks out of turn, and Andry only rolls his eyes; but occasionally, when Asher acts quickly in anger, there is a look on Andry’s face that Asher feels like lead in his belly, because it is too like the way Andry looks at their father.
Asher picks up the heavy oak night table—lifts it easily, somehow, even though usually he struggles even to drag it closer to the bed—and brings it down on the Winter King’s Wolf with every ounce of strength in his body.
(Thorne can move very fast, when the occasion calls for it; more than one arrow meant for his Master has been stopped by the quick blood Thorne inherited from his Faery mother. He has just enough time to see the blow coming and raise an arm to catch it.
Craetan woodwork is often blocky and severe, not to his Master’s taste at all, but even Morden would admit, Thorne thinks as the wood splinters over his wrist and elbow: Craetans can make a sturdy table.)
The heavy oak edge of the table cracks loudly over the Wolf's arm, raining splinters over his head. He stays on his feet, somehow, though he stumbles badly, flailing for the arm chair with his left arm to hold himself up. Most of the table hits the wood floor between Asher and the Wolf with an earthshaking thud, one splintered leg clattering down a half-second later, at about the same time as the sheer block-headed stupidity of what he’s done crashes over Asher like ice water.
The Wolf tries to flex the fingers of his right hand, and his immediate hiss of pain is mostly lost under the sound of the door flying open again—hanging from its hinges at an odd angle, now—and both guards burst into the room, speaking Leisevan in raised voices, with their hands on their swords.
“HOLD,” Winter’s Wolf snarls, and the audible teeth in his voice unhinge Asher’s knees so that he is suddenly sitting on the bed again, with both hands pressed over his mouth.
The guards freeze, looking almost as alarmed at the sudden ferocity of the Wolf’s voice as Asher is. The Wolf barks something Asher doesn’t understand
(“Outside, and don’t move until I tell you!”)
And maybe the guards don’t either, because they just stare at him; and they try to say something in response, speaking over each other, and then the Wolf bears his teeth and roars, more like a Lion than a Wolf. Asher hears the guards scramble back out into the hallway and slam the door as best they can, though his vision has gone white with terror.
The Wolf stands like that for a moment, left arm braced on the armchair and right arm tucked too-tightly against his side, fingers curled into a stiff claw. Asher doesn’t move, either. The Wolf is panting slightly; Asher might be holding his breath. When Asher gathers the courage to meet the Wolf’s eyes again, they aren’t flashing anymore.
“You idiot,” the Wolf says, still panting, but with no real rancor. “That would’ve just about killed somebody who wasn’t me.” The Wolf frowns down at his hand, tries to move the fingers, winces badly, sits down heavily in the armchair. “Fuck. Okay. Hold on.”
Then he reaches his unbroken left hand towards Asher. Asher feels the angriest and the sorriest and the scaredest he has ever felt. He's glad to already be sitting down, at least. He squeezes his eyes shut.
The Wolf’s hand lands on Asher’s shoulder. Asher jumps badly, expecting a blow, and feeling off-balance and frightened by the absence of one.
“Here, Prince,” the Wolf says. “Look at me.”
Asher, in an exercise of great bravery, does.
The Wolf still doesn’t look angry, only—serious, which looks even stranger on his pretty courtier's face. His eyes aren’t flashing anymore, but they do look a little brighter gold than usual.
“He’s going to be alright,” the Wolf says. “He was—hurt, badly, and he’s with the Healer now, and will be for a while. But he’s going to be all right. Okay?”
Asher wants—
Asher wants.
Asher wants to say something steely and brave, or to be angry, or to hit the Wolf again; he wants to keep his lips pressed firmly together and not feel them tremble; wants his eyes to blaze like the Wolf’s do and not prickle and burn and fill up with tears. He wants never to have laid eyes on Morden Crane or the black-coated Leisevan guards or the Winter King’s Wolf. He wants Andry.
Asher’s reaches out and grabs a handful of the Wolf’s shirt. He isn’t sure if he means it as a threat or if he is using it to hold himself up. There are tears burning down his cheeks, so if it’s a threat it’s probably a weak one. He pulls on the Wolf’s shirt, once; the Wolf winces when it pulls where his arm is still tucked against his side.
“Don’t—hurt him,” Asher says, and it sounds the way he means it: half plea and half threat and half promise and half curse. The Wolf winces harder, like Asher’s tear-thick voice hurts him, so Asher says it again, and again after that: “Don’t hurt my brother, Wolf. Don’t hurt him.”
“I won’t,” Thorne says, because he can’t say anything else, even though he knows it’s a mean and stupid and selfish thing to promise, even though he means it to be true.
----
Thorne, knowing as usual very little of Morden’s plans, has several hours in the coming night to fret about how he will explain his broken arm to his Master. He has no desire to implicate the little Prince, and no way of knowing Morden wouldn’t punish Asher if he did. As it is, so much happens so quickly in the next few days that Morden does not learn that Asher is to blame for Thorne’s broken arm for another three weeks, at which point Thorne is much too busy and much too far away to see Morden’s reaction, which is probably for the best since Morden laughs until he cries.
Hey!! Hope you’re doing well!! If you’d like to, could you do a story set during the reign of terror during French Revolution, where a high-up revolutionary officer finds his old friend -an aristocrat!- hiding. The aristocrat is terrified because his old friend clearly is helping The Terror progress, but the revolutionary instead secretly helps his aristocratic friend to escape?
Sorry, I know this is a bit of a weird idea haha . If you don’t wanna write this, feel free to ignore!
The air reeked of smoke, singeing Jacques throat as he marched through the Duc D’Orleans residence. Something about this raid didn’t sit well with Jacques as he saw two of his fellow revolutionaries drag a wailing woman towards a bedroom as she kicked and screamed for mercy. That she had done nothing wrong, that she supported la nouveau regime. The two young men laughed and mocked her as they dragged her further away, her screams dimming the further Jacques got from the chaos.
He had a job to do. He had a job to do. Though it didn’t seem entirely fair. Jacques knew Phillipe from before the revolution. He was a good man, he gave to the sick, to the poor. He opened his doors for the needy and the common people alike, and though he was a Prince de Sang, he voted against his flesh and blood King Louis— Jacques spat at the thought of the king’s name— to be executed.
Now this chaos, all this chaos, this injustice because Phillipe’s son conspired with the Austrians… the damn traitor.
Still, Jacques had orders to fulfil, and he didn’t become a Chef de Batallion by disobeying orders. Even if he didn’t quite agree with them. He could feel the shift, the change that was upon the revolution, turning into something that he couldn’t quite see yet, the full image blurred like the mansion he walked through, obscured with smoke but still visible.
“Major.”
Jacques fixed his gaze forward and from the smog emerged a shadow of a figure that soon took form. His Captain, François Deschamps, stood tall, shoulders back with a musket slung over his shoulder. His tanned face wore a grim expression, lips twisted like he just stepped in cow shit.
“Deschamps, report.” Jacques said, falling into step with his captain as they walked through the halls, stepping over broken furniture and cold, unmoving limbs. The stench of iron mixed with the smoke the further they walked, to the point where it started to smell more like a smith’s workshop than a residence.
“We caught some nobles we thought had fled France, sir, but still no sign of the Duke yet.”
Jacques hummed. “And the riffraff?”
Jacques felt more than saw Deschamps stiffen beside him, knowing he was referring to the common soldiers taking women in the chaos, their screams getting lost in the cacophony of voices and violence.
“Méchant is here.”
Jacques blood ran cold and he stopped, turning to look at his Captain. Now he understood the grave expression, now he understood the brutality of this raid; his raid.
He couldn’t keep the venom from his voice as he hissed, “where is he?”
Deschamps led Jacques through the halls and into the grand study of the Duke’s mansion. Coming up to the doorway they could hear a man’s screams and cries and pleas for mercy followed by harsh laughter and the lash of a whip. Jacques fixed his expression into one of cold neutrality as he threw open the doors to the study and took in the scene in front of him.
A group of common soldiers and lieutenants alike stood around the study, some lounging on dark wood tables with a bottle of wine in hand, some standing against bookshelves looking disinterested in the room’s entertainment, some strewn on seats or standing closer to the fireplace that roared with cackling flames that echoed the room’s raucous laughter.
Some of the soldiers had the decency to look askance when they saw Jacques enter the room, and others jerked to their feet and swayed, their friend grabbing an arm to steady them. Others hid their booze, and a chorus of sloppy “Major’s,” and “Chef de Batallion” sounded in the room.
It wasn’t those men Jacques had his glare set on. It was the men who didn’t move a muscle, who didn’t shift or recognise his authority. Méchant’s men, and the man himself, Hector Bouchet le Méchant, sat behind the Duke’s grand desk, lounging back in the chair like he was posing for a portrait, his booted feet on the desk, ankle crossed over ankle and a bottle of cognac in front of him. He drank from a glass, an imitation of class, and his dark eyes lit up when Jacques burst into the room.
A smirk crawled slowly across Méchant’s handsome features, and he raised his glass and his brows, dipping his head to Jacques in mock reverence.
“Chef de Batallion, you’re welcome to our little show. We were just having some fun with Louis-Pierre here, the Duke’s bastard child, isn’t that right boys?”
A chorus of laughter and agreement rang through the study, jarring as it came back to Jacques ears, and finally the Major turned his attention to tonight’s entertainment.
A young man, no more than twenty, was tied to one of the pillars in the study. His hands bound in front of him with heavy rope and his legs bound around the pillar as well so he couldn’t move. The boy’s wet eyes found Jacques and he whimpered in terror.
The boy’s shirt was ripped open at the back and long, deep lashes marred across his bruised exposed flesh. A pool of blood, some fresh and oily, some coagulated and gloopy, trailed down his spine and stained his trousers, the ground under which he was forced to kneel. The boy’s face was pale, his eyes alert with terror.
“C-c-chef,” Louis-Pierre mumbled, “chef de bat— s’il vous plaît! I’m— We support the revolution, Major, please. Please. It’s a mistake. Please!”
“The boy is wearing common clothes,” Jacques all but growled at Méchant who smiled charmingly back at Jacques.
“He is. We found him changing with some other nobles you may have encountered in the halls, trying to pass themselves off as one of us.”
“No! No! It’s not true! I am one of you, I swear Chef de- ARGH!” One of the men from beside the fire stormed over to Louis-Pierre and the sizzle of flesh filled the study as Louis-Pierre screamed. An iron poker was in the soldier’s hands which Jacques only saw too late.
Deschamps went to grab his rifle, but Jacques stopped him, his gaze returning to the bastard lounging behind the Duke’s desk.
“PLEASE! I didn’t do anything wrong,” Louis-Pierre wept. “I’m a bastard. I’m not noble please!”
Méchant’s weighted gaze never left Jacques’, the challenge clear in the bastard’s amusement. Méchant ranked lower than Jacques, a Captain, like Deschamps, except he wasn’t any captain. He was friends with Robespierre, good friends in fact, which Méchant liked to flaunt and use to do whatever the fuck the bastard wanted. And Jacques didn’t want to see Deschamps’ head rolling from the guillotine.
“He’s a bastard, Hector, just like you,” Jacques said. He didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard, his low timbre carried through the room with ease. One of the soldier’s coughed and spluttered wine, choking on laughter and finally, Méchant’s smirk slipped. Only for a fraction of a second and settled into something more devilish and rogue-like. Jacques tilted his head to the side, a cold smirk of his own on his face. “Should I tie you to the pole next to him and have Deschamps whip you with his belt, too?”
“It would be my pleasure, Major,” Deschamps said with a violent glee.
“Nonsense,” Méchant said, rising from the desk. He moved with a feline grace that commanded the attention of the room, grabbed the bottle of cognac and filled his glass and another before walking towards Jacques. He handed the glass to Jacques who took it, unimpressed. Méchant was taller by an inch than Jacques, a fact he no doubt delighted in as his smiling dark eyes danced with delight. “My father isn’t a traitor to the First Republic, is he? Santé.”
Méchant clinked their glasses together and began to drink. Jacques, feeling the weight of the eyes on him from the other soldiers took a sip of his drink too and then set it aside.
“Our mission is to find the Duke and bring him in,” Jacques said, loud enough so the entire room could hear. “And I see a lot of men in here sitting around doing nothing. Or do you want to disobey our orders and face the consequences?”
A flurry of movement, of footsteps, of bottles clinking against wood and then a disorderly exodus of the room with short apologies from the soldiers as they left would have made Jacques laugh had he not been so pissed with Méchant’s unexpected appearance.
Méchant pouted. “You’re no fun anymore Jacques,” he sighed, glancing around the room and taking stock of his own men that were loyal to him. Jacques took note of it too. The man with his belt still in his hand coated with a red sheen, the man with the iron hot poker, a few stragglers who were strewn across chaise-lounges and chairs. Méchant’s fox-like eyes slid to Deschamps and he grimaced, “I blame farm boy here and all his quaint, country morals.”
Deschamps just glared at Méchant who grinned.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” Jacques said.
Méchant shrugged. “You know Max. It was a big mission, finding the duke, so he thought more men would be of help to you.”
“Yes,” Jacques said, looking pointedly at Louis-Pierre. “So helpful in the search.”
“Now, now,” Méchant said, dipping his head. “I was interrogating a potential witness to the Duke’s whereabouts.”
“I don’t know, I told you! I don’t know!”
“Oh hush. I should have gagged him for all the use he was to me, I bet his muffled screams would have been delicious.”
“Please! Please! I don’t know anything,” Louis-Pierre pleaded, struggling against the ropes tying him down on his knees. “Please!”
Méchant rolled his eyes and downed his glass, shoving it into Jacques free hand. He drew his dagger and walked over to Louis-Pierre whose struggles renewed once he saw the blade.
“No! No! Please—” Méchant walked around Louis-Pierre who begged and pleaded, and grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head up. He smirked at Jacques over the boy.
“Hector!” Jacques barked. “He is to be brought to the Rue de—”
Before Jacques could finish his order, Méchant sliced his dagger over the boy’s throat, his dark eyes fixed on Jacques’ face the whole time. Blood spurted and painted the wooden pillar red and finally Louis-Pierre’s screams and pleas went silent. Eerily so. Only the cackle of the fire could be heard in the study.
Méchant wiped his blade on Louis-Pierre’s ripped shirt and strolled over to Jacques. He took Jacques’ glass of cognac, downed it and handed it back to him, empty, smacking his lips together.
“Oops. Sorry, Major, my hand slipped.”
“You little—” Deschamps began but Méchant spoke over his insults.
“Alright boys. Come on. We still have a duke to find.” Méchant’s eyes flashed at Jacques before he walked through the pair and out of the study, leaving behind the remains of their foul entertainment of the evening. Jacques stared at the boy’s slumped, still form and cursed when the room emptied of all except him and Deschamps.
“Jacques,” Deschamps said, voice light as if sensing Jacques anger boiling to the surface. Jacques’ grip tightened on the crystal glasses in his hands, a storm of fire ripped through him, burning him from the inside out and for a moment he could have sworn that the smoke in the air was because of him, because his blood had turned to oil that was kissed with fire.
He stared at the blood dripping from Louis-Pierre’s throat, a flash of a memory of meeting the boy for the first time when he was only eight, and Duke D’Orleans told Jacques how bright of a boy he was. “He’ll do great things,” he told Jacques, and now he was dead. All his potential either stained across his back and clothes, or drip, drip, dripping onto the wood.
The storm raged and Jacques with it. He threw his arm back and shot it forward, the crystal glass shattered against the opposite wall lined with bookcases, shards twinkling to the ground as Jacques threw the second one harder and yelled out a curse.
Deschamps grabbed him by his lapel and righted him, but Jacques shrugged him away and pushed his hands back before walking towards the fire and glaring into the flames. “I’m fine, Captain. I’m fine.”
“You’re clearly not, Major,” Deschamps hissed and walked around the stubborn man to face him, half blocking the heat from Jacques. “If Méchant or any of the other soldiers saw you like that—”
Jacques’ lips curled back. “Well they didn’t, did they?”
“You’re not listening to me,” Deschamps snapped, and that got Jacques attention. His captain’s gaze was grave and it seemed to cool some of the heat from his blood as he regarded his right hand. “They know you have history with the duke, Jacques. Why do you think you got the order to find him, hmm? Why do you think that bâtard Méchant is here, huh? It is a test for you, mon ami. Be smart about this. You have to do this. You have to do your duty or they will kill you.”
His words were like water poured over Jacques and the man let out a deep sigh, planting his hands on the mantle above the fire place and pushing his weight against it. François was right. If he fucked up again it would only give Méchant and Robespierre the reason they have been searching for to get rid of him. Only the commander was keeping Jacques’ head from the guillotine and not even Robespierre would dare cross the hero of the republic, lest they turn on him too.
“Merde,” Jacques breathed heavily. “You’re right, François.”
Deschamps fixed the strap of his rifle and shrugged. “I know. I am always right, mon frère. Now, come. We must find the duke.”
Jacques nodded but didn’t move. “Go. Check the next floor. I will follow shortly. I just need another moment alone.”
“Of course. Don’t take too long.”
Jacques nodded again. Deschamps clapped him on the back and walked out of the study, his footsteps receding into the chaos of the Duke’s residence. His fingers tightened on the mantle and he squeezed it hard, until his knuckles turned white.
“Just do your job, Jacques,” he whispered to himself, staring, unblinking into the flames, the heat sucking the moisture from them until they felt drier than overcooked bread. “Just do your fucking job.”
He took a breath, stepped back and blinked a couple times, running a soot covered palm down his face before turning and taking in the study. He swallowed hard as he stared at the bookshelf in the corner, just beside the shallow of the wall.
Jacques walked towards it. Deschamps was right. Jacques and Duke D’Orleans had been friends before, close before. Before this mess. Before his son turned traitor, before the revolution turned into bloodshed and lopped heads and terror.
Jacques drew his pistol as he walked to the shallow of the wall. He glanced back at the door of the study before he pushed against the hollow of the wall, unlatching the hidden passageway and pushed against the wall behind the bookcase.
Please don’t be in here, he begged as the door creaked open from disuse. Please, lord, don’t be in here, Phillipe.
He didn’t want duty to force his hand, he didn’t want duty to force him to betray his friend. A man who had only ever shown Jacques kindness.
But the moment he saw the candle burning in the passage way he knew… but it wasn’t familiar long dark hair that met sat atop the head of the aristocrat that waited, still as a mouse within the passage way. Instead, blond hair, the colour of sand and birch wood fell in natural waves.
Jacques swallowed as two frightened, bright green eyes the colour of summer grass met Jacques and it took all he had not to stumble backwards as if he was shot, the breath stolen from his lungs.
“Bastien?” he asked with a gasp.
“J-Jacques, oh merde, oh merde, oh Jacques,” and Bastien was up, slender fingers made for playing the piano gripped him and pulled him into the passage way, closing the door behind him. “Thank god, thank god, you’re here. Jacques the world has gone mad, it’s on fire, they’re— they— they’re raping the women, and they got Louis-Pierre and were torturing him here and I— I left, I just left him there Jacques, I was so scared. I was so scared, and I left him and when I came back there was nothing. No screams, no cries, n-nothing. Oh thank God, oh thank god you’re okay, Jacques. They— t-they…”
Bastien rambled and rambled, breathing shaky as he did, his fingers tightened every so often against Jacques’ major uniform and uncurled as he recalled all the horrible things he witnessed and hurt, babbling like a babe who had a nightmare.
“They’re looking for the Duke, Jacques, can you believe it? Because of his stupid son, that traitorous little wretch, but can you even blame him? They’re killing people in the streets like dogs,” Bastien breathed, his eyes so wide with terror that Jacques was worried if the man didn’t blink soon his eyes would stay in that wide, bewildered look for all eternity. “So much for Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, huh?”
Jacques swallowed hard and carefully, very carefully grabbed Bastien’s wrist and pulled his hand away from Jacques’ jacket. Bastien got the message and stepped back, running his hands through his hair and letting out a breath.
“Of course, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I was just so relieved to see you’re okay, Jacques. The committee is ruthless and they have their entire damn army… searching…” Bastien frowned, his speech slowing as he took in Jacques for the first time. Really, took him in. It was hard to see in the darkness of the passage, hidden between walls. So Bastien leaned down and grabbed the candle holder and lifted it to bathe Jacques in its fickle light.
When he got halfway up, he gasped, a hand flying over his mouth. Jacques froze. He didn’t know what to do, where to look, how to respond. He wished, suddenly, desperately, that he had found the Duke in this crevice, not— not Bastien.
The two froze like that. An aristocrat discovered, a Major stunned. One holding a pistol, the other a candle with a delicate flame that made Bastien’s horror look worse as it coloured his face.
“Jacques… no… not- not you. Never you. Jacques,” Bastien whispered but it didn’t feel real. It felt like a dream, like Jacques was wading through a marsh during storm season and getting caught in the wet mud, hands grabbing at his feet, his ankles, his arms, holding him stuck in place, unable to breathe, to blink, to move. “You can’t be… you can’t—” Bastien’s morphed, brows drawn down casting shadows over his bright eyes, his lips curled back. “You can’t condone this violence, Jacques.”
Jacques didn’t speak. He couldn’t. It was as if the smoke from the flames, the storm of his previous fury had ripped his vocal cords from his throat and tied a knot around his neck.
He couldn’t be here… Bastien… he- he couldn’t be here, he should be— he should have fled. Why was he—?
“Why are you here?” Jacques muttered. “You shouldn’t be here.” He fingers tightened around the familiar, cool metal of his pistol as he lifted it to Bastien’s head. “Why are you here?!”
Bastien swallowed hard, raising his hands to show he meant no harm. “Jacques—”
“You should have fled!” Jacques demanded, pressing the barrel against Bastien’s head and shoving him back into the wall. “You shouldn’t be here! Why are you in— why are you still in France?! You idiot! You stupid, fucking—“”
Jacques’ hand shook, the pistol in his grip exposing him and he yanked it back, cursing and ran a hand down his face. “Fuck… FUCK!”
He turned and shook his head, sliding his pistol back into it’s holster. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbled and turned back and grabbed Bastien by his shoulders and shook him. “You shouldn’t be here! You’re a Valois! A Valois, Bastien.”
“Don’t you think I know that?!”
“You come from royal blood, Bastien, they will kill you if they find you.”
Bastien’s face curled up into a sneer. “Weren’t you just about to do that?”
The words were like a slap to the face. It was as if slugs invaded Jacques’ blood and slithered through his skin, leaving him shivering, repulsed with himself. He stepped back, releasing Bastien and for a few seconds, minutes… The two of them stood in the passageway, their breaths reflecting off the cold air of the cramped space.
“Shit…” Jacques breathed. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting with his legs bent at the knee. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. “Shit.”
Bastien joined him on the ground, placing the candle between them with its meagre light. “Shit,” Bastien agreed. The silence shrouded them like a cloak again, a thick knitted quilt that threatened to smother them both.
Jacques had a duty. He had a duty… and he, fuck, he sent Deschamps away and said he would follow, and as loyal as Deschamps was to him, he was more loyal to the Republic and—
Wait, what are you thinking, Jacques?! He silently berated. Are you actually considering not turning Bastien into the Committee? Other nobles can be arrested and interrogated, but the ones you choose? Hypocrite.
“I’m a Chef de Batallion,” he admitted into the darkness, his voice far more frail than he intended. He could see Bastien stiffen like he’d been slapped and he suddenly, foolishly, wanted to take the words back. He forced himself to look at his oldest friend, forced himself to look him in the eyes when he spoke. “I was sent here to find the Duc D’Orleans.”
“No. Not Phillipe, Jacques. Not… you can’t! He’s a good man.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” He snapped. “Fuck,” he slammed his head back against the wall. “You’re not supposed to be here Bas, they are going to burn this entire fucking estate to the ground. Why didn’t you flee?”
“France is my home,” Bastien whispered. “It is my family’s home. I come from a line of Kings, Jacques—”
“And Kings are getting slaughtered as we speak, Bastien,” Jacques hissed. “Fuck.”
“Chef de Batallion?” The pair froze at the call for Jacques. They went impossibly still as they strained to hear. “Major?”
Jacques lifted a finger to his lips at Bastien. Bastien nodded imperceptibly. They waited for what felt like an eternity, before they could hear faint footsteps recede once more.
Jacques got to his feet, Bastien followed with his candle. “Where does this passage lead?”
When Bastien didn’t answer Jacques snapped his fingers in his face. “Bastien!”
“What?” Bastien asked, dazed, and then he swallowed.
“The passage. Can you get into the main rooms from here?”
“Some.”
“Is there any way out? Can you get to the kitchens? To the servants quarters?”
Bastien shook his head gravely. “Not from this floor. I’d have to go downstairs.”
Jacques cursed. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Once he opened them again, he was back to himself. The tactician took over and his entire self shifted; he stood straighter, taller, his expression morphed into his mask of indifference and he was in control again, not his emotions.
“Okay, this is what you will do. You will search the passages for rooms that are closest to the stairs, and once you have found it you come back here and you stay here until I return. Nobody else on the raid was as close to the Duke as you and I, so let’s hope we are the only ones who know about the passages.”
“And if someone else does?”
Jacques eyes narrowed. He drew his spare dagger and grabbed Bastien’s forearm, dragging it forward and slamming the handle of the blade into Bastien’s awaiting palm. Bastien’s green eyes went wide as he looked at Jacques.
Jacques made sure to keep his friend’s gaze as he said, “it’s you or them, Bas. Don’t let them decide first. You choose if you live or die, understand?”
Bastien shook his head, trying to press the dagger back into Jacques’ hand. “I’m not— I’m not like you Jacques, I’m not… I can’t kill someone.”
“If you don’t then you die, Bastien, and where does your family line go then? Hmm? All that ancestry just to perish in a passageway in a doomed man’s home?”
He sensed Bastien’s relenting and wrapped Bastien’s fingers around the handle again. This time, Bastien accepted it.
“Me or them.” Jacques’ mask fell briefly and he cupped Bastien by the nape of his neck, bringing him into a tight embrace.
“Make sure it’s them,” Jacques hissed. Bastien hugged him back and whispered, “I’ll try.”
Jacques tightened his hold before stepping away and dropping all contact from Bastien. He swallowed the dryness in his throat before he nodded and turned, opening the passage and stepping into the, thankfully, empty study. Jacques closed the passage just as quickly, and walked with purpose towards the study. His posture changing and becoming a major once more, his ruthless indifference fixed into place.
He can give nothing away.
Not if he wants Bastien to survive.
Not if he is to survive this stupid, stupid endeavour… if he is caught— he blinked the thought from his mind. He will be fine. Everything will be fine.
He has a job to do.
*~*~*~*~*
Anna!!! You have some brilliant ideas and they always hit my creative core, it is so inspiring and it makes my brain go brrr— thank you for the prompt!!! It will be continued, maybe a mini series, hope you like it!!!
CWs: aftermath of torture, cigarette burns, painful wound cleaning
It’s past midnight when Vlad hears someone fall into his backyard. If he wasn’t already awake he doubts he would have heard it at all. Immediately, he’s on full alert as he quietly creeps to his back door. He feels electricity build in his palm, ready to unleash on the potential attacker, but it vanishes when he looks out the window and sees a crumpled form instead.
He knows he should still be cautious, but curiosity overcomes him and he steps outside to see what unfortunate being has stumbled into his yard. As he comes closer he can see the person is breathing heavily, seemingly not having registered his presence. He stops abruptly when he sees they are wearing the dirty remains of a superhero suit.
“Who’s there?” he calls out.
“Please,” they croak out. “I need help.”
Vlad jolts. Though it’s hoarse, he recognizes that voice. It belongs to his most annoying hero nemesis.
It did not take long for Vanki to get used to his new life as part of the Duke's family. It surprised him how easily they accepted him. No questions were asked, no hostility or attempts to chase him out.
Since his first meeting with the Duke's children, every morning would start the same way - with Sar knocking violently on his door. Sometimes, Vanki thought that if he didn't open in time, the boy would knock until the door fell apart. Then they'd go to breakfast together, barely managing to finish chewing on their food when Sar dragged Vanki and his sister outside.
His interactions with Amber warmed much slower. She would nod and smile under her nose but never uttered a word to Vanki, even though he had seen her talking to others before. One day, during Sar's nap time, the boy gathered the courage to ask if she didn't want to play with him. Amber shook her head, curls dancing across her shoulders and falling into her eyes. As if to prove her point, she took his hand, not letting go of him until dinnertime.
A few weeks later, she finally said her first words to him. A simple 'thank you', but even that was a start. It had been raining since early morning, so the kids were ushered to the Duchess' chambers. Vanki was shy in her presence at first - but soon discovered that her strict demeanour had no truth to it. When Sar spilt his water all over the sofa (partly due to an impromptu pillow battle with his sister), their mother let out a soft laugh, and ordered them to move onto the fluffy carpet while the couch dried. It took Vanki a minute to figure out there would be no punishment.
And if that wasn't enough, the Duchess decided to join them, announcing rehearsal time. Vanki watched Amber and Sar shriek in excitement as their mom pulled out a picture book and started reading the lines, pausing here and there for them to reenact what played out in the tale. Amber pretended to be a princess, except she was no damsel in distress, more like the cause of distress to the young boys. Sar was saving her, while Vanki preferred to be the evil wizard.
This game would repeat, every so often, during the colder months until, one day, the Duchess declared that they were to exchange roles. Amber chose to be the saviour, and Sar ended up being the cheekiest little villain. He kept giggling to the point that George had to wrap the noose around his neck himself, playing hostage to his snickering kidnapper. That day marked the first time Amber addressed him with a full sentence while claiming she'd save him no matter what. Vanki almost froze at the declaration, forgetting his line until Sar poked his cheek, demanding he look terrified for his life.
The floodgates seemed to open after that because now that Amber was talking to him, there was no shutting her up. So much so that the Duke joked the boy must regret making her comfortable with him. Vanki did not. If there was one thing he liked more than playing all together, it was Amber's constant chattering. He discovered early on that Amber liked to read - a lot.
Every afternoon, when Sar got taken away, they would escape to the library, hiding away in the depths of it, while she told him something new she had learned about the world. She spoke about everything, and Vanki, who was never allowed to set foot outside of his grandmother's den, listened hungrily, swallowing every bit of information she shared with him.
Sometimes, Amber told him about vishaps. They seemed to entice her like no other topic; she could go on for hours, retelling their myths and legends, describing what they supposedly looked like and behaved, why there weren't any in their land and how much she wanted to meet one. Oh, did she dream of meeting one!
"I'm going to visit Vishap territory one day!" She exclaimed one day, turning to face him with a look of excitement in her eyes. "Just like daddy."
"He got a scar out of it," Sar reminded, but if there was one thing Vanki understood from Amber's expression, it was that reasoning with her was pointless. She was determined and reckless, much like her father, despite his gentle nature.
Vanki never told her. Not because he was scared of her response but because he was trying to forget. Erase any memory of his past, his blood, and his heritage. Stay as far away from it as he could. Part of him knew it would come to light one day. Even at his young age, Vanki knew his grandmother would not let him go.
But he had time. While she slept, he had time. Twelve years was long enough for him to find an escape.
If you’d like to, could you maybe do a story where a supervillain befriends an oblivious civilian who doesn’t know who he is. And supervillain really cares about civilian, because everyone else is so terrified of him, that he has no genuine friends.
Then, supervillian has to rescue his civilian buddy from something, and this causes civilian to find out his best friend is a supervillian! :)
A Friend
Warnings: language? I guess that's it.
"What the hell?!"
Civilian all but yells, their expression incredulous. Supervillain does not respond, mostly because they have no idea how to. They check Civilian's head, then grab their hands, turning them around to check for any damage, but Civilian is too busy freaking out to pay them any mind.
"How is this... w-what the absolute hell is going on?" Civilian continues, stumbling over their words, unable to comprehend the revelation. How is this possible? Their best friend, the only person they could trust after the atrocity that was their life, is Supervillain. A criminal. The person who could obliterate the entire country if they put their mind to it.
"Does anything hurt?" Supervillain asks, their voice shaking as the rush of adrenaline subsides in their blood, giving way to unadulterated fear of losing their best - and only - friend. "Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous?"
"I'm fine," Civilian sighs, taking hold of Supervillain's wrist and stopping their hand from feeling over their ribs. "I'm unharmed... uh, Supervillain?"
The way they say it causes Supervillain to freeze on the spot, eyes wide and full of terror. They know.
They know.
That could mean one thing and one thing only. Goodbye.
Supervillain nods, swallowing before they are able to form any words. “Y-yes, that’s me.” They mutter, not looking up.
Supervillain wasn’t one to be ashamed of their past or their impressive underground career – on the contrary, they were proud. They rose from dirt to criminal royalty on their own. All the while maintaining their honour. Was it moral? Perhaps not. But it sure as hell wasn’t as corrupt as the government. They kept the city safe and fair; they made sure no kid ever had to go through the hell they went through, and they protected everyone who turned to them for help. Even if their methods were unorthodox, they only demanded payment for sanctuary in the form of respect and loyalty. Or else they made it rain fire. Quite literally.
“But how?” Civilian questions, gaping at Supervillain, noting their guilty demeanour. They need to make sense of this. “Why? Just why?”
“Why… what?” Supervillain’s voice is barely audible as they dare to look up, meeting Civilian’s gaze with trepidation.
Civilian pauses, thinking for a moment to formulate a decent sentence but failing to do so. “I don’t know.” They let out a short laugh, earning a hesitant smile from Supervillain. A part of them wants to ask why the heartless criminal boss cared enough to walk into a collapsing building to save someone as plain as Civilian.
“I’ll leave after I deliver you to the hospital,” Supervillain sighs, shrinking back into their thoughts, misinterpreting Civilian’s silence for disappointment and anger. “I never meant to deceive you, for what it’s worth.”
“Then why not tell me?” Civilian questions, opening the door on the passenger side and plopping down on the soft seat. Supervillain, as flabbergasted as they are, gets in on their side and starts the engine, stalling. “You don’t trust me,” Civilian concludes.
“You’re the only person I trust,” Supervillain argues. It’s true, too. They went so far as to fall asleep in Civilian’s presence – something they only did in the safety of solitude.
“What was this for?” Civilian asks, surprised at their own calmness. They should be angry, distressed or at the very least disturbed. Yet they felt nothing of sorts. Just curiosity and a pang of something heavy in their chest. “What did you have to gain?”
“Nothing.” Supervillain cuts them off, glaring at the road like it was to blame for their predicament. “Nothing to gain, just to lose.”
“Lose what?” Civilian asks, staring at Supervillain’s perfect profile, struggling to decipher the pained look on their face.
“You.” The response comes short, simple and breathless. Supervillain feels like they are suffocating, their throat closing in on itself. Vulnerability meant susceptibility. Susceptibility meant weakness. And weakness meant losing. The agony they promised they wouldn’t face again. “And now I have.”
“Hm? I’m still alive,” Civilian shrugs, nonchalant as they place their hand on Supervillain’s, steering the wheel to the right – the road that led to their place. “Thanks to you.”
“But now I have to leave,” Supervillain states with a shadow of a sigh. It was ironic, really – they held the world in the palm of their hand, yet couldn't keep a friend.
Civilian quirks an eyebrow at that, their hand still resting over Supervillain’s. “Says who?”
The car screeches to a stop in the middle of the road. Civilian’s house is just around the corner, but Supervillain’s confusion is too far gone to use their brain. “You?” They try, finally turning to face Civilian.
“I never said that,” Civilian shrugs again, the corner of their mouth twitching up in amusement at Supervillain’s obvious panic.
“I-” They take Civilian’s expression in and it finally dawns on them, their eyes turning hopeful. “Really?”
Civilian lets out a low chuckle, shaking their head at the awkwardness of their friend. Criminal boss or not, this idiot was entirely too cute for their own good.
A/N: Hello, love!
Thank you for this request. This one took me ages to actually get to. I'm sorry for that, my inspiration gets moody sometimes xD I hope you'll still enjoy this. I sure enjoyed writing it.
When they reached House Borrim, Elgar was assigned his own bedroom.
It was a strange feeling, standing in there that first night, the door closed behind him, the luxurious bed empty, only waiting for him. He couldn’t quite believe it — that this was his, that he would be undisturbed, left alone.
He had never had a room to himself. He had been locked up alone before, but those occasions just left him waiting for his master to burst in at any moment. And before that, when he was free — if he had a real room to sleep in, he had always had to share it, never able to afford one to himself.
Now he was alone in this big room with the beautiful curtains before the large windows, the painted wardrobe and the desk he had no use for, unable as he was to write, and the bed.
There was a key in the lock. He hadn’t dared turn it.
He couldn’t quite believe it.
The next morning, he appeared at breakfast like he had been told to, and found a prince that looked more tired than he had for the past weeks. As if he had barely slept.
Neither had Elgar. His mind kept playing tricks at him that someone was coming through the door into the room where he lay alone and unprotected, that someone would-
Maybe even the prince.
But of course that was ridiculous.
The prince attempted a smile when he saw Elgar, but it was clear he struggled as much as Elgar struggled to return it.
The prince’s brother — Otira — had welcomed them at the estate and made sure they were settling in, and the prince — Elgar’s prince — wrote a note for him to read to Elgar.
He permitted Elgar to visit him in his bedroom, if he wanted.
When Elgar lay awake again that night, it started feeling like being alone might be worse.
Of course, there was nothing bad about being with the prince at all. He had never tried to hurt Elgar. But with all the power he had now gotten back-
Elgar’s heart was in his throat as he knocked on the prince’s door. A soft squeak answered him, and Elgar felt a brief but intense wave of embarrassment wash over him that he could have forgotten the prince couldn’t answer with a word.
He entered. The prince sat up in his bed, and smiled when he saw him; immediately, he moved over and gestured at the spot beside himself.
»Thank you,« Elgar muttered and slipped under the prince’s covers.
It took him a long time to fall asleep, but eventually, he slept a little better that night.
As the nights crept by, he should have gotten used to it. Should have blindly believed that things would continue the way they were, with the prince next to him chastely holding his hand, or at most lying against his body, perhaps with one’s arm wrapped around the other.
It was comforting, too. It was better than sleeping alone had been. No one could reach him there, in the prince’s bed.
No one, but the prince himself.
He might change his mind at a moment’s notice.
There was no reason Elgar should assume he would, but the thought wouldn’t leave his head. The prince was getting better, more confident and more comfortable in the position that had been his since birth, by the day. Sometimes a simple look or word made Elgar’s anxiety spike so much it took his breath away.
He wouldn’t be able to conceal it forever, and truly, he didn’t want to live like this, not when he had a choice.
For the first time in so long, he had a choice.
Not an easy one. But he had to know.
*
»Do you want to sleep with me?«
Elgar’s voice was so small, his eyes so fearful, that Orafin instantly knew what he was getting at, and once more his heart broke for the man who had reached out in kindness in his darkest hours. Both their darkest hours, really. The thought that he who had saved him would now fear Orafin would take advantage of his position to dig deeper into the horrific hurt he had been subjected to was unbearable.
Orafin blinked back tears — it wasn’t his place to cry, here — and decisively shook his head, seeking Elgar’s eyes. He reached out and took Elgar’s hand into his, squeezed it gently.
Elgar looked up at that. His fear wasn’t quenched, Orafin could tell, and he had to pull back to try and speak.
He didn’t have all the words to say what he needed to say yet, but for all its faults — mostly being so easily talked over, and Orafin having to learn a whole new way of communication well into adulthood—he had found sign language to be quite expressive, and it was easy to convey his intention by speaking soft and gently, like handling a small, frightened animal. »Calm down. I will never, never hurt you.«
Elgar nodded, and swallowed, and then tears slipped down his cheeks.
In truth, Orafin had been impressed with how well Elgar seemed to be handling himself. He, Orafin, had cried multiple times despite his best efforts, but Elgar…
Not until now.
Orafin reached out a hand and, very carefully, took Elgar’s. Squeezed. Only when Elgar squeezed back, Orafin, very carefully, wrapped his other arm around his shoulders.
He was relieved to find Elgar leaning into his touch.
»I’m sorry,« Elgar sobbed as Orafin, very carefully, pulled him into a full embrace. »I believe you.«
It’s okay, Orafin wanted to say. I’ve cried into your shoulder plenty. I know it’s hard. I just want you to feel safe.
But he would have had to let go for that, if he even had the words, so instead, he just held Elgar tighter and let him cry.
958 words | The black prince [WT] (after The tutors)
Content | Anxiety, touch of fantasy racism
Notes | Little timeskip because... hm. I'll write about the language lessons eventually probably
Orafin and Elgar have arrived at House Borrim, the countryside estate they'll recover at. They're too busy to angst much :( Better luck next episode hopefully >:)
As much as the crown had promised the estate would be »quiet«, the prince was receiving guests every day: nobles and other rich or important people, Elgar didn’t know, all wishing to see the prince, make sure he was alright, and that he knew they were all thinking of him.
Sometimes they came »alone«, which was what the prince called it when one of them arrived with only their attendants of lesser status, regardless if there was suddenly a dozen people more in the house. Sometimes they visited by twos and threes, and once a group of five dropped in all at once. The prince had a stern word with the secretary—or whatever his position might have been called—in charge of managing the visits after, and it didn’t happen again.
Even so, it was exhausting.
Technically, Elgar hadn’t been required to stay with the prince during these visits. But he didn’t know what else to do — the thought of running into a visitor, servant or not, on his own somewhere was terrifying, and sometimes even being alone, away from the prince’s protection, made him nervous. And then, more and more, as the prince started to sign at least his greetings and such, he found himself translating for him.
It simply happened, at first. It was too awkward to bear to see the prince sign a warm welcome at another noble and be met with confused looks.
Maybe these people should learn to understand sign. Maybe they would have to. But there were always new ones, so it seemed like it would never end.
And if he was honest… he was glad to be helping the prince out, even in such a little, insignificant way. It felt like he was doing something to earn what he was getting.
»Your Highness! Permit me-«
Today’s visitor was a young man who, compared to the people who had dropped by so far, looked downright bedraggled. Fancy, still, but a bit disorderly, his hair in disarray and his clothes in creases.
But the prince had leapt to his feet when the doorman had announced one Baron Lifan Irozaen, and once he saw him, skipped past any words and threw his arms around him.
»I’m sorry I couldn’t come earlier,« the visitor mumbled into his shoulder, holding him tight, and sounded like he meant it. »I was on the road, down south managing shipments, I came as fast as I could — oh, my Prince, I’m so glad you’re alive.«
The prince patted the baron’s back, and when they parted, there were tears in his eyes. But then, he quickly turned and gestured at Elgar, smiling.
They had agreed on this procedure. The prince couldn’t introduce Elgar, so he had to do it himself.
»I am… Elgar, your, uh… Baron. His Highness and I… escaped together. It is an honour to meet you.«
The baron, exchanging a quick glance with the prince, crossed the distance between them in two long strides, and clasped Elgar’s hands in his own.
»I didn’t think I’d be saying this to a Teeradian, but thank you,« he said. »His Highness has written to me about… your services. Your great courage.«
Words failed Elgar; he had no idea what to do with the nobleman suddenly holding his hands almost like an equal. He threw a desperate glance at the prince, who smiled and nodded at him, but then, sensing his distress, moved in and laid a hand on the baron’s shoulder.
The baron furrowed his brow in confusion, but chased it off with a smile as he let go of Elgar, and followed the prince to a couch.
There they sat, exchanging tales scrawled hastily on the prince’s slate, or caught between the baron’s rapid speech and exuberant gestures.
They were too fast for Elgar to follow, but he didn’t remember ever seeing the prince smile so much.
*
Another day had passed, and it was time to sup and retire. Orafin was starting to get used to it, again. At first, resuming his duties in welcoming guests had felt stressful, but it came more naturally every day.
A few of them Orafin considered genuine friends, and every one had been wonderful to see again when he had almost thought he never would. But hugging Lifan again was on a whole different level. His heart felt warm and alive.
»Who was that?« Elgar asked. He was getting more comfortable just talking to him, Orafin felt — asking questions and even making requests sometimes. The other day after dinner he had, very quietly, entrusted to Orafin that he disliked artichokes, and would prefer not to be served them again. It was such a silly little thing, but Orafin had stifled his laughter. This all had been hard for Elgar, and he didn’t want to ruin the progress he was making towards being as comfortable as he deserved to be.
»My friend,« was all he could sign yet in response, but that didn’t begin to cover it. He wrote on his slate, carefully printing each letter — Elgar was making great progress with his reading, but he didn’t need to make it harder for him. My best friend in the whole world.
Elgar read, his brows knitted together in concentration. Then, he smiled — his smiles kept coming easier, too, although there was a glint of concern in his eyes; Orafin didn’t know what for. »Ah. You must be… I mean, obviously you were very glad to see him again.«
Orafin simply nodded, smiling himself. He’d see Lifan a lot, at least for a while, and that was wonderful. The baron loved to keep busy, but Orafin had no doubt he’d make time for him.
Dr. Shaw paced up and down the room, carding his hands through his hair. “There goes everything. Everything! I’ve kept this project classified for ten years, and in five minutes the whole thing gets blown out of the water!” He banged a fist against the wall. “What were you thinking?”
Chris looked at him for a long moment, his brow slightly furrowed. “I- I wasn’t,” he said finally.
“That’s for sure.”
“I was so relieved that my rusa- that my healing was back. I did not think what would happen if Jesse saw it working.”
“He thinks you have superpowers.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It doesn’t matter!” The hand at Dr. Shaw’s hairline rubbed furiously over his temples. “I know my son. He’ll tell all his little school friends that his father has a superhero in a laboratory, and someone’s going to come nosing around trying to see what he’s talking about, and this entire operation will be blown!” He slumped suddenly into his abandoned chair, his head in his hands.
Chris sat in a chair on the other side of a table, his hands spread out on the tabletop. He kept staring at them, running a finger over the barely-visible veins. He’s only half-listening, Dr. Shaw thought irritably.
Jesse had been bundled away with Mandy, bursting with questions. She’d given Dr. Shaw a look that meant I’ll handle it. He trusted her. Mandy knew how to be discreet.
Unlike some people. He’d always planned to tell Jesse eventually. But when he was older, wiser, less likely to blurt out the secret to all and sundry. Not…not now. Dr. Shaw sighed, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have my work cut out for me keeping this quiet. Jesse and secrets don't mix."
Chris glanced up. "It was not Jesse's fault," he said quietly. "It was mine."
"Oh, I know." Dr. Shaw huffed. "I shouldn't have even risked bringing him here in the first place. I don't understand why he wants to come here so often."
Chris was staring at his hands again, turning them over in the light. "Jesse admires you," he said. "He wants to be you someday." A small smile turned his lips up. "I...I think he also enjoys talking to me."
"Well, too bad for him," Dr. Shaw snapped. "Maybe if I keep him away from here for awhile, he'll forget about the whole business. And of course I'll have to tighten security. Keep an eye on who he talks to...make sure he thinks he only imagined it..."
Chris was frowning.
"What?"
The alien looked at his hands as he spoke. "I don't mean to tell you that you are wrong-"
"Good. Then don't."
"What if you explained the situation to Jesse?" Chris picked his head up, the serious look in his eyes somehow burning into Dr. Shaw. "I have not spoken to him much, but I believe he is very intelligent. I think, if you expressed to him how important it is to you that all this remain secret-" Chris' face did...something at that, a flicker of undefinable emotion crossing it before it settled back into his usual neutral expression. "I think he would understand, and he would be careful not to speak of it."
"Thanks, Dr. Phil." The words were bitter, and Dr. Shaw knew they were bitter, but he said them anyway.
Chris cocked his head. "You are still angry."
"For a supposedly hyper-intelligent extraterrestrial life form, you're pretty slow on the uptake."
A small frown creased Chris’ brow. "You are angry...with me?"
"Dammit, Chris, yes!" Dr. Shaw exploded. "You couldn't have waited until I got Jesse out of there? Or even just turned around so he couldn't see you heal? You know how important this project is. You know how I felt about Jesse being told. And you had to go and give it away!"
Chris laid a hand on his stomach. "I- it was trying to heal, and it could not," he said, looking down. "It...hurt. I could only think of getting the stitches out and letting my rusayat do what it wanted to."
"I think your whatever could have held on a couple seconds."
Chris shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. It cannot. It- it does not just heal me, it sustains me. It is my life force. I cannot push it back. If I had waited, it would have healed over the stitches."
"Yeah, it isn't like we're in a lab with medical equipment everywhere that could deal with that."
Chris rarely fidgeted, but now he dug his fingers into the fabric of his pants, staring down at his lap. "I was hurting, Doctor. But this time I could do something about it. I-I could have waited, but I- I was tired of the hurting." His voice became very small as he spoke, almost a whisper.
"You've got to be kidding me." Dr. Shaw turned to face the back wall, running his hands through his hair. Frustration simmered in his chest, almost boiling over. “You have got to be kidding me. I’ve seen you vivisected, Chris, and you barely reacted. Now you’re telling me a couple of stitches is your breaking point?”
"I am sorry," Chris whispered. "I-"
Dr. Shaw wheeled around and backhanded him across the face.
Chris gasped, reeling from the force of the blow. He caught himself on an outstretched hand, just barely keeping from falling all the way to the floor.
Dr. Shaw froze. The anger drained away in one instant, replaced by cold shock.
Slowly, Chris reached up to touch the blood that had begun to trickle from a split lip. He looked at Dr. Shaw, his eyes penetrating. He did not speak.
Dr. Shaw swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Chris. Hey. I'm- I wasn't- I-"
"Have I misunderstood our relationship, Doctor?" Chris asked. His voice was soft, but space-cold. "You told me that we were friends."
“We are, Chris. I was- I’m sorry. That was...unprofessional. I shouldn’t have done it.”
Chris nodded stiffly. He said nothing else. He just sat there, looking at Dr. Shaw, the side of his mouth smeared with red.
I did that.
Dr. Shaw stammered out a "I'll talk to Jesse" and fled Cell 10 as fast as he could.
He didn't stop until he had made it back to his office, collapsing into the chair. What is wrong with me? he berated himself. I need him to trust me! I've put so much work into being friends with him- how could I strike him? How could I lose my temper like that?
Chris' betrayed blue eyes stared accusingly at him from inside his head. He'd been taken by surprise, not expecting the slap, because Dr. Shaw had never hit him before. Why would he have needed to? Chris was always compliant, he never protested or put up a fuss. He was the perfect test subject, and they weren't just the doctor and the alien anymore. You told me that we were friends. Chris' quiet, icy voice, still stunned from the unexpected blow, echoing in his mind.
Dr. Shaw sighed. It wasn't even that he thought of himself as Chris' friend. The alien was a means to an end, nothing more- but it made it so much easier that Dr. Shaw could talk to him openly. It felt so good to know that an extraterrestrial being talked to him like a friend. Chris was under the impression that Dr. Shaw went along with the experiments because he had to, that he regretted it every time. Dr. Shaw had let him believe that, had let Chris bond with him in that strange not-quite-friends way. He needed the cooperation, couldn't imagine how quickly this project would fall to pieces if Chris ever took it into his head to start fighting.
But he'd broken the trust he had so carefully encouraged the forging of. Chris would still talk to him, he knew. He would sit quietly and act as though nothing was wrong, because that was what he did. But it wouldn't be the same. It never would be. Chris would not forget that Dr. Shaw had struck him. And he would not trust him fully again.
I need him to trust someone enough to talk to them. If not me, then- then-
Dr. Shaw straightened up, the idea coming to him with a suddenness that was almost like a blow. It was simple. Almost too simple. Chris would see it as an olive branch. Dr. Shaw could use it as a bridge.
It had been Chris' idea anyway.
Dr. Shaw took out his phone and put in Mandy's number. "Hi, Mandy. Yeah, everything's taken care of. Listen- I need to talk to Jesse."
909 words | The black prince [WT] (sequel to Lessons)
Content | Just. Anxiety, power imbalance
Notes | Elgar and the royals meet their language tutors!
There's not much in this episode but I'm happy to return to their story c: I actually wrote a much tastier bit too but alas it's from the next arc and I have as yet provided 0 of the context it needs lol. Soon (maybe)
After a few more days of travel, ever further upwards, they reached the mountain pass they had been aiming towards. It was late in the morning, and they hoped to descend from the coldest heights before nightfall.
But for now, a large valley lay draped before them, and, many miles away, upon the river meandering through it, the largest city Elgar had yet seen in Ochuria sat in it.
»Atcill!« the princess pointed out for him, and rubbed her brother across the back. »Almost home.«
At midday, they stopped at a camp they had been expected at; a handful of tents, only one fancy enough to host the prince and princess.
And from it, another Teeradian emerged.
She was dressed in fine Ochurian garb — much like him, Elgar realized a moment too late; it was easy to forget how fancy he must look now — and followed by a much younger Ochurian woman in much simpler clothes.
Both bowed to the royals, but the princess immediately hopped of her horse and hugged the Teeradian.
»Lady Hirias! Glad you could make the journey!« She spoke Teeradian, whether for the stranger’s benefit or his, Elgar wasn’t sure.
The prince next to Elgar dismounted, too, smiling and nodding at the woman; Elgar hurriedly followed.
She was awkwardly returning the princess’ hug, but her eyes were sharp, and they quickly settled on Elgar. Only when the princess let go, she turned her attention back to the royals.
»I am pleased you are well, your Highnesses.« Brief worry flickered across her face as she looked at Orafin, but he was still smiling, and she continued without comment, »This is Zizariu. State your purpose, girl.«
»I am — I am going to teach you how to sign, your Highness, if you’ll have me.« The young woman’s voice trembled a little, and her eyes were darting anxiously between the ground and the prince’s face; it was obvious she was not used to speaking to royalty.
But she was moving her hands as she spoke to demonstrate, fluidly and effortlessly.
»Her mother is deaf,« Lady Hirias explained bluntly. »She serves in the palace; a chef, I believe.«
Zizariu nodded, clearly still a little breathless from the company she was in.
»Thank you.« The princess smiled at her. »Your services — and your mother’s, I’ll say — are much appreciated.«
»Your Highness.«
»And this is Elgar.« The princess gestured at him far more dramatically than Elgar would have liked.
»I figured,« Lady Hirias said, raising an eyebrow and examining him head to toe. Elgar felt like sinking into the ground from the attention. »I hope you’re a bit quicker on the uptake than his Highness here.«
Only the slightest shadow of a smile gave away the playfulness of her tease. Orafin, though, just rolled his eyes and gave Elgar a pat on the arm.
»Lady Hirias will be teaching you Ochurian from here on out,« the princess said with a warm smile; surely his concern must be showing on his face.
»Yes, I — I figured that,« he replied weakly. »Milady,« he added quickly. The etiquette lessons the royals had been imparting on him felt an impossible bar to cross, far too many little rules to ever remember them all, but he could remember stuff like this — things that made some shadow of sense.
She cocked her head, and Elgar immediately realized she could hear, unlike the Ochurians, how lowly and peasant he sounded.
But she said nothing.
The princess chattered on as lunch was readied for them — still three meals every day, and still Elgar felt like it was a dream — and answered the burning question he didn’t dare ask.
»Lady Hirias has joined the intelligence corps when she came here, and now she’s retired, she’s teaching instead. She has rendered this country a great deal of service — kind of like you,« she added in what could only be a joke.
But something in Elgar’s mind clicked at the story. »You’re — you’re Lady Sirvi Hirias. You disappeared…«
Lady Hirias raised an eyebrow. »For a street urchin, you must have been paying close attention to court gossip.«
He hadn’t; everyone had heard of the lady’s disappearance and presumed death. The words burst out before he could stop himself. »You’re a traitor!«
Lady Hirias kept a straight face. »Kind of like you.«
Elgar was already in the process of trying to melt out of sight from the sudden bout of unexpected boldness, and now he had to reckon with being called a traitor.
Maybe he was. But Teeradia had never done much for him. The Ochurian royal family, on the other hand-
Lady Hirias nodded at him, pleased. »You see what I mean.«
The prince curiously looked back and forth between them, and Elgar wasn’t sure how to begin explaining. But then the prince just took his hand, squeezing it; he must have sensed his discomfort; and suddenly Elgar felt silly. It was nothing. What did it matter to him whether the lady had been loyal to the government of a country he had long since left behind?
What mattered was whether his efforts in her lessons would be appreciated, and he just had made it that much harder for himself. »I’m sorry,« he muttered, but of course it was too late.
Lady Hirias’ sharp eyes rested on him a moment longer, then she turned away, and the little smile he thought he caught in the corner of her mouth did not bode well.
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