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status:Â closed to @calliopevalmontâ
location:Â receiving hall, castle tyrholm.
date:Â three years prior, seventeenth day of the fourth month.
Another restless night, and Feivel found himself roaming the halls of Castle Tyrholm with the company of his faithful hound, Gunport, at his side. It was the sound of the wind whistling outside his sleeping chamberâs window that kept a good nightâs sleep at bay, the sound reminding him of those wind whipped days out at sea that built him into the man he was now. Â He lobbed a ball down the corridor lazily and got some mild entertainment watching the hairy beast chase after it with gusto before bounding back to its masterâs side and pushing the slobbery toy into his hand. But even the momentary distraction couldnât hold back the feelings that he was now more a ruin than a man.
His father had died valiantly in battle, though the skirmish itself could have been avoided by better planning. Even so, his father had died with his reputation intact, ruthless to the end. Feivel himself had quickly built his own mythos around himself, even if it was not as cruel as his fatherâs. He knew the Clan Asturias had gained a measure of renown, enough for King Septimus to know of their accomplishments, and as the captain of the ship Feivel himself was the figurehead of the legend. On nights like this, he would retract his steps and try to pinpoint the exact moment he had gotten too far ahead of himself or too comfortable. He knew what his father would say, that his downfall was the direct result of trusting anyone but himself. Some nights, Feivel felt that conclusion was correct. On other nights, he surmised that his fate was inevitable. For years, he had wondered how legends were brought to their knees. Now he knew he was little more himself than some exotic game King Septimus had cornered and would eventually mount on his wall like the other trophy animals in Castle Tyrholmâs gun room.
The candlelight flickered from further down the hall, and both Feivel and Gunport stood aware, their two sets of wild eyes pointing in the direction of the disturbance. He wondered vaguely if someone else was being kept awake by the ghosts of their past, or if perhaps it might have been the growing sense of restlessness that had been building behind closed doors and in whispered conversations throughout the castle. He had only been a member of the court for a handful of months, but he knew what the early stages of insurrection looked like. This was something he altogether aimed to avoid, more than convinced that the king would be able to put an end to any treason before it truly started.
It surprised him to see the queen passing through the hall, and for a moment he felt his presence was inappropriate. Life in Tyrholm had come with a healthy dose of culture shock, to say the least. He had cleaned up well, this was true, but he knew he was far from noble. His manners had provided ample fodder to mock him in his first months in the court, and the stiff clothing he had been given felt like it choked him. Perhaps it was his station in his office that made him feel most like the butt of a cruel joke, the books that lined the shelves and his pot of ink and paper virtually useless. He had wondered for a while how long King Septimus would humor him after he realized his master of antiquities couldnât so much as write his own name. Luckily enough, he had proven himself entertaining enough to listen to that when he was called upon it was almost exclusively in person. Whenever the need to write was unavoidable, it was no trouble to intimidate a servant or page into writing it for him. It took little more than a menacing glare and the simple lie that he preferred to dictate his response rather than be saddled with the chore of writing his message himself.
As The Empress approached, Feivel bowed. It was practiced to look natural, as if heâd been bowing to monarchy all his life rather than copying the other members of court over the past few months. He also took grain pains to make the motion as fluid as possible despite the strain it caused his lower back. âYour Majesty,â he greeted, âI apologize for disturbing you this evening.â He tossed the ball away again, figuring someone of her stature had little interest in being near such a creature. The dog took off again after the ball, springing clumsily down the long hall.
Sometimes, Calliope fancied herself one of many ghosts that were amongst the halls of the great Castle Tyrholm, looking through everyone as they, in turn, looked through her, haunting and stealing her way down corridors while no one dared a step within a certain radius of her. It was a pointless, sophomoric thought that served little use but to amuse her from day to day, trapped as she was in her lonely tower of thoughts and duty. But it served its purpose, did it not? It tended, admittedly, a tad morbid for the seventh queen of a man who treated wives as irreverently as clothing (things to shed as soon as he thought them wore) to think of herself as a ghost, but it was a tendency she was ill-equipped to lay aside after 26 years of its companionship.
Now, guided by the light of her candle and her whim, she found herself walking the steps down to the reception hall, driven only by the inability to stop, gentle footsteps echoing in the rare emptiness of her husbandâs favored hall, adding to the eerie effect of seeing its usual bustling demeanor muted by nightâs melancholy touch.
To say she was surprised to see the gleam of two eyes in the dark was to understate it; had she any modicum of a sort of presentness of mind in the moment, she wouldâve startled. Curiosity piqued by this unexpected companion-in-haunting, she turned towards the main portion of the reception hall, feet bringing her closer to let the flickering light of her waning candle wash over Feivel and his hound, large and black and looming.
She watched, then, as he dipped into a smooth bow with all the proper airs and titles, almost surprised that he even knew who she was, so sparse was his presence in court these past few months, and so rarely did her path cross with those who werenât family or advisors. âHardly,â she answered softly, a flutter of word in response. âIt seems I am the interloper tonight, Master Feivel,â she said, watching his dog bound down the hall, muscles bunching and shifting under his sleek fur. âHeâs beautiful,â she noted absently, watching the dog pick up the ball and begin trotting back. âWould you mind terribly if I borrowed your twoâs companionship for the time being tonight? I will not fault you if you would prefer not, though. You have my word.â
