a monkey in a long line of kings

“Me,” Rafaela confirmed, regarding him. She stood, dropping the knife and the wood carving she’d been working on, on the desk before moving closer, though she didn’t come too near him. Didn’t feel welcome to. And it hurt. It made her eyes sting and her hands shake and her throat dry. And she balled her hands into tight fists and forced it all back behind the careful composure she kept. The mask of a mother, who didn’t want to see her children unnecessarily concerned with her wellbeing, who only wanted to see them happy.

It echoed in her mind. Too late. Too late. Too late.

“Because I don’t pity you enough to let you be put out of your self-proclaimed misery.” It was harsh, extremely so, but it was the truth. “Would you have left your mother to suffer from the loss of not one, but two sons?” She turned and reached for the chair, dragging it closer to the bed before once more taking a seat. These were Maddox’ quarters, but she’d asked her quartermaster to take care of ship matters while she waited for Hamish to wake. “Your leg,” she said after a long moment. “I trust it hurts less? It was infected—gods know that place was full of filth, it was bound to happen.” How could they leave anyone down there? “Our ship’s doctor managed to bring down the swelling. You should be able to walk on it, soon, I believe—with some help.”

#convo #c: rafaela #abuse cw #internalized ableism cw #suicidal ideation cw #...my bab is so messed up rn sorry :(

His jaw remained clenched - in anger, in grief, in gods only knew what else - but there was an odd flicker of wistful curiosity as her wood carving landed with a thud onto the desk. He used to wish he could be so creative as that, used to wish for the ability to carve beautiful things or sculpt life’s likenesses or forge something more durable, more long-lasting, than a frail, broken human body could ever be.

Hamish had never told anyone that. Not even Antony. And now he would never get the chance to.

Rafaela’s words hit him like Zion’s fists had, once upon a time - and this time there was no Antony to shield him from the brunt of it, no Antony to protect his little brother. Though Hamish did not quite flinch, the look in his eyes grew skittish, almost wild. Watching her warily, he wrapped his arms around himself as she seated herself closer to him. He knew all too well that the appearance of calm concern could be deceptive, all the more when it came after balled fists and harsh words.

For a long moment he resolved not to reply at all. Only a moment. Zion had never taken it well, after all - either being ignored or being defied. And if a king didn’t, then surely neither would a woman who claimed to be a queen. If she truly was this pirate queen of the rumors, angering her might be very foolish indeed. Then again... hadn’t he been told, time after time, that he was a witless fool?

He spat out: “I do not care about my leg. I would think I made it apparent that I do not want your help. I don’t want your pity either. I don’t want anything from you. All I wish is that you had left me to die!” Hamish stared at her, once again breathing hard. As if in reaction, his leg throbbed. His hands fisted into the sheets. When he continued, his tone was plain, almost conversational. “Do not speak to me of my mother’s suffering. Do you truly believe that she is not wishing, right this instant, that Antony could have been saved in my stead? Do you truly believe that she is glad it was me you rescued? If given the choice, she would have chosen him in a heartbeat.”

His grip on the sheets had tightened. His knuckles were white. “And so would I. I do not blame her. Everyone knows he is- is-” Somehow, he choked back the sob threatening to escape. “He was the better son. The better brother. I am barely even a man; just a useless, broken cripple. There is no point to prolonging a life as worthless as mine. So do what you will. Whatever it is you may intend with me, I assure you that I will only be a burden to your purpose.” Leaning back into the cushions, he turned his head away from Rafaela and whispered hoarsely, more to himself than to her: “I am nothing without him. It should have been me who died, and he who lived.”

The Balor lord considered demanding a guard to open the door so Coleman could put those rumors about him to the test, but it seemed like a waste of time. Instead, something else came up. “I should leave, before I will have to actually lower both my standards and my intelligence in order to deal with your sad, witless attempts to unsettle me. But first…” And then he did call the guards.

“Seeing as the prince loves to wallow in self-pity, I’d like you to make sure he will have something which will truly suck the hope right out of him. Try to be creative—I’m sure he’d be happy if you accidentally skipped a meal for him.” He patted the guardsman who he’d spoken to on the shoulder and cast one last glance at the prince. “Ave atque vale.” It was enough that Coleman understood.

#yes this is more than okay! ♥#convo #c: coleman #reblogging for archival purposes

fin.

elinor-ptolemy

Her hand fell away from her eyes at the sound of his standing, her skin smelling of rust from the iron bars. She watched the shadows shift as the sounds of his movements came close to the weak light from the torch. Shuffling, painful steps echoed in the darkness, and she grew frantic at the thought of the prince doing himself further hurt trying to move closer to her. (Why? Why was he coming closer?) But then he was in the light, and she gasped when he fell against the bars and crumpled part-way to the floor. She followed him to the ground, kneeling by the bars and watching him with parted lips and fearful eyes as the small bounty she had brought with her sat unused in the box beside her.

Their hands touched, and she started a bit, eyes wide and wet. It had been so long since someone had touched her in kindness, instead of clinical diagnosis. It made her tears fall even faster. She did not hesitate, then, to wrap both of her hands around his one, pale fingers wrapped around his wrist and pressed to his palm, all in comfort, an anchor to something better than the truth. And what was more, she listened, heard the hatred in his voice, all of his bitterness and the lost years he’d been forced to live. Her tears did not stop, and she decided to mourn this man, who was going to be put to death for loving his brother too much. “Your Highness, you were not always as you are now. You were a child, loved by your family, and you were a young man, and a loyal one. You are loyal stll, and that is why…” Her words choked off into a sound of quiet pain, and her thumb swept over his knuckles in a little nervous habit more than an attempt at comfort. “I am so sorry, Your Highness. That you should have had such pain, and have even more now. I will weep for you, because that is all I can give you.” And while she was still horribly embarrassed by her tears, it was not just about exhaustion anymore, but for the prince, to give him something to show he was not abandoned. Distant kin or not, he had been kind to her. He deserved her tears, and a thousand other things more worthy than those.

She startled at his touch. Of course. Who would wish to be touched by such a wretch as he? But as he instinctively pulled back his hand, she surprised him once again by wrapping both of her hands around his. His eyes were wide as he met hers. A few of her fingertips came to rest against his wrist; he wondered if she could feel his quickened pulse, the rapid beat of his heart fluttering with panic and something else.

He would hate it, usually, would detest having someone else know how truly vulnerable he was. (How scared.) Yet somehow, as her thumb traced itself across his knuckles in an oddly soothing gesture, he found he did not mind too much.

Hamish inhaled sharply, his breathing still too ragged. It hurt. Gods, he hurt. And she was kind and sweet and good... and that made it ache all the more. “What is loyalty worth when it is to an unjust cause? What is loyalty worth when it is always one-sided? What is” - he swallowed, though his voice was remarkably even - “loyalty worth when it only made King Zion consider me with contempt? Do not be sorry, Lady Ptolemy. My life was irredeemable from the very beginning.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a few moments. Just to rest. Some part of him was already kneeling before the headsman’s block, bracing himself for that last fatal blow. “Your tears mean more to me than you can ever know,” Hamish finally said softly. “But you needn’t force yourself to provide me comfort. Such a precious gift is wasted on a man whose own father could not bring himself to love him.”

And then he did nearly weep, not because of the admission that Zion must have never loved him - he had known, he had always known, how could he not? - but because Lady Ptolemy had assumed that he was worthy of it. He made himself smile instead. “I am glad you came. However, I only wish one thing of you. I just- I wondered... did you receive the book?”

#convo #c: elinor

“Glad I could be helpful,” he almost sounded like he was having a pleasant conversation over a cup of tea, but his face said something else entirely. He wasn’t sure what he was doing here anymore—he’d come because he enjoyed seeing the Vitellos on their knees ( finally! ) but the sight was awfully disappointing, awfully unfulfilling. The prince, Coleman thought, was reckless due to knowing he didn’t have long anymore. Too late for that, Hephaestus. “I would be sorely disappointed in myself if tediousness is the greatest expectation people have of me. Luckily, I seem to be known for something quite the opposite—care to find out what precisely they whisper about me, Hamish? All you’ll have to do is finish that sentence you just started.” The smile was gone, and in its stead was only pure cruelty.

#convo #c: coleman #omg hamish pls shut up before you get your ass killed

“Terribly altruistic of you,” Hamish said evenly. His heart, however, had begun beating faster at the sight of Lord Balor’s highly wroth expression. The anger plainly visible on his face was enough to make Hamish believe most of the fearsome rumors floating about the Keep. But if he couldn’t be brave when he truly had nothing to lose, he would be even worse of a coward than he’d already thought.

“Oh, yes. I am well-aware that I am a disappointment to anyone who ever bothered to care for me. So what does it say about you that a pathetic wretch like me can get such a rise out of you?” Hamish smiled thinly. “Perhaps you ought to leave, Lord Balor, before you embarrass yourself even further.”

coiledriver-blog

“Dead. You’ll hear it a dozen times, so you best start believin’ it, little lord.” Pietra never liked it when people cried around her. It made her uncomfortable — more uncomfortable when she couldn’t very well tell him to get over it. She cleared her throat, trying to think of what Rafaela would say in this situation. ( Something far wiser than whatever shit was about to leave Pietra’s mouth, no doubt. ) She gently punched his arm in as an affectionate manner as possible. “You’re alive though, eh? FIghtin’ through all the shitty times takes real courage, so there’s somethin’. I’d suggest forgettin’ the past, and keep your eyes on the future.”

#convo #c: pietra #much pep #much talk #(honestly it's awkwardly sweet??)

His face crumpled. When Antony had been pulled past his cell by the guards, Hamish had known what would come to pass, had known there was no happy ending possible for any of them, whether his brother or Alycia or Mother or even himself. He had known. But to hear it spelled out so plainly made it more painfully real than anything else could have. “Thank- thank you for telling me,” he said dully, surreptitiously trying to wipe his eyes. He would not weep in front of a stranger. He would not.

The punch against his arm was oddly affectionate, the kind of careful punch Antony might once have given him to tease. It was... inexplicably comforting, as much as it was annoying. His eyes flicked up at her face. Distantly, he noted that she looked like a lady pirate from a bawdy song, short-haired and covered by ink like a man; he had never seen a woman like her before.

“There was no courage involved in my survival. Just... luck,” he said bitterly. If one could call it luck, surviving when better people had not. Hamish swallowed, remembered once again the haggard look on Antony’s face as he was led away. He always used to think of Antony as the bravest man he knew, a hero whenever Hamish was not. And yet, at the end, his brother had been scared too. He took a shaky breath. “Who- who are you anyway?”

hypxtiavitello

The sliding doors that connected the cabin Hypatia had been placed in with her sons, flew to the side so violently that it banged and almost slide back into place. Hypatia entered, the short stride from the door to her sons bedside was covered in two footfalls. She dropped to her knees by his head and smoothed her hand over her sons wet brow. “Hamish.” Hypatia choked out, tears forming in her own glassy green eyes. “My love….my boy, Hamish wake up….” When his eyes did open, Hypatia licked her lips “A dream my love….a dream is all.” Only it was no dream. At the mention of her lost child, Hypatia’s heart was lead heavy and sore. The tears she shed graced the cheeks of her last living child when Hypatia leaned in and kissed his head. “it is but you and i now my sweet.” Hypatia murmured, smoothing his golden hair back. Curls….so like her Antonys. Hypatia breathed in a deep, choked breath. “….you and i….”

#convo #c: hypatia #gif doesn't fit entirely in that hamish is more lying down but #i needed to use it ;u;

“A dream?” he muttered, still slightly dazed. For a wild, disorienting moment he mistook the gentle rocking of the ship on the waves for a memory, long ago - when he was still a little boy, still his mother’s cherished son, and she used to lovingly cradle and rock him in her arms. Long ago. Before he had failed and disappointed her.

And now he was the only one left to her. The dream had become nightmare. His mother’s tears were warm on his cheeks as they mingled with his own, her kiss soothing in a way he now remembered he did not deserve. His brother was gone. Antony was gone. She only had him now. (As he only had her.) “I am so sorry, Mother,” he breathed. Hamish swallowed, and then he was reaching for her, head collapsing against her shoulder as he cried out: “I am so sorry.”

Boots propped up on the desk, a knife in one hand and a solid piece of wood in the other that was slowly finding itself being shaped into a miniature castle by her skilled hands. Rafaela didn’t do it often, only considered herself decent at carving, but she supposed it was an acceptable way to pass the time. She sat, watching, waiting until the former prince’s fever broke and he’d wake up. Every once in a while, she’d look at him and at some point she realized he was having a nightmare. Some part of her wanted to wake him up, but another realized that dreams were a way of the mind to cope with the things that have happened to a person. Nightmares were horrible, but sometimes they were necessary. Sometimes, you needed your own strength of mind to be able to break away from it.

She supposed she should have prepared herself for it, but how could she have? She didn’t say a thing, the name rang in her ears and hurt her so. Did she have the right to? She hadn’t known Antony, after all. But she’d known Ares, and Ares had been magnificent, powerful, admirable. And she knew what it felt like to lose someone like that—she’d lost them all, once. And here was one of the few remaining of her family, and she didn’t know how to help him in his grief—she was lost in grief, herself. “I was too late,” she only whispered, and her boots hit the floor with a loud thud as she bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”

#realm.starter #open to anyone on the atlantis #takes place after all of his currently on-going threads

The sound of a boot hitting the floor made his head snap up, his vision spinning madly for a moment. Oddly, the movement barely hurt. For once, he barely hurt. His breathing immediately quickened. Hamish hastily pushed himself up in a sitting position, glanced in a panic at where he feared a stump would be - but no, the outline of his leg was still there, under the sheets. Thank the gods.

Only now did her words reach him. What a vain, selfish fool he was. How could he worry about something as fucking useless as his stupid crippled leg? How could he, when Antony was, when Antony was… (the one who had stepped in between his little brother and the healer with a bone saw and fiercely ordered, no brother of mine shall lose a leg, the one who had protected him, the one who had saved him, the one who was now-)

“You,” he snarled. The woman from the prison. Rafaela, she had called herself, and told him to have faith. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut again, like some foolish child hoping to hide from the monster under his bed. But there was no hiding from the truth he had already known in the marrow of his bones, even before she spoke: his big brother was dead, and nothing would be alright, ever again.

“You are sorry?” Hamish laughed, sharp and brittle. He remembered now. Her men had come for him, had carried him when he could no longer walk. He dimly recalled reassuring words, a gentle hand on his forehead, just before yet another lance of pain had arced through his leg and darkness had claimed him. Too late indeed. Too damn late. “You should only be sorry,” Hamish spoke through clenched teeth, “for saving me from that accursed place. Why would you do this to me? Why?”

#convo #c: rafaela

I’m sorry. “Antony!” he screamed as his hands uselessly clenched around the iron bars. “Antony!” I’m sorry. In this too, he was powerless. “Antony!” he screamed as he watched them drag his brother past. I’m sorry. “Antony!” he screamed as his brother fought to turn, face pale and eyes scared, and opened his mouth-

Hamish’s eyes slowly blinked open. Tears clung to his lashes. His hands were fisted in the sheets, his hair flattened against his forehead with the sweat of a broken fever. “Antony,” he whispered in a hoarse, nearly inaudible murmur. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, brother. “Where’s Antony?”

“And that must be why you are behind bars and I am not,” Coleman shot back dryly. Foolish words and actions would only meet foolish consequences. He had to admit he was surprised that the prince even met his gaze at all, nevermind so strongly. “I am terribly sorry to disappoint.” It was said through gritted teeth, and clear annoyance slipped through the cracks of his facade. He didn’t care—after all, he was known for his rage, his anger. Wasn’t that what the people feared? “I only adjust to the company that I’m in.” It was a low blow, and because of exactly that, he smiled.

“Thank you for informing me. I was not yet aware,” Hamish replied, equally dryly. He raised an eyebrow at Lord Balor’s obvious annoyance, surprised that he had apparently gotten under his skin. Scoring a hit in any kind of battle - whether by word or sword - wasn’t something Hamish was accustomed to. He might have found Lord Balor’s contempt discomforting, but what was his disdain to Zion Vitello’s? Nothing. “Ah, but tediousness is expected of me. In that sense, one could say I have simply met expectations. You, on the other hand...”

#convo #c: coleman

“Good to know I’ve been captaining a rumor for over sixteen years now,” Rafaela said, dismissing his words with those few words. She supposed she should be happy she’d managed to keep somewhat of a mysterious aura around the Atlantis, in this part of the Realm. Some part of her would have enjoyed seeing the surprised realization on his face, though. Then again, she hardly looked like a captain right now. Rafaela Flowers, captain of the bedtime stories. Perhaps she’d gone a bit overboard with making sure the people here didn’t know about her.

“I hate him, too,” was all she said. And she wasn’t even lying. She despised him, despised the god who’d taken her children not once, but twice from her arms. Despised the god who made them forget who she was, who had sent them down here just to meet horrible ends. She hated him for making her love him still.

The pirate parted her lips, but eventually said nothing. Years of self-loathing would not be healed by a mere few words, she thought, however much she wanted to help him. Instead, she waited until he gathered himself together. A smile like a secret quickly crossed her features and she pulled her hand back. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” Was that mischief, hidden in that spark in her eyes?

Then the question came. How could she explain her motive; he’d call her mad. There were days where even she questioned it—was there any use? There must be, there had to be. She was spared from answering, however, as steps sounded down the hall and she was on her feet in a moment. It was luckily only her quartermaster, who’d stood guard for her just down the hall. “Change of the guards, captain,” he said, barely sparing the prince a glance, and she nodded. “Aye.” She bent down to take the burlap sack once more—she could not leave any evidence of her having been here, after all. Then her gaze returned to the blond prince. “I shall tell you everything—soon, should you wish to still know by then. Have a little faith, Hamish Vitello.” And then she was off, before she could be discovered.

#convo #c: rafaela #reblogging for archival purposes

fin.

Rafaela supposed it was a good thing that no recognition sparked in Hamish’s eyes upon hearing the name. She had tried to be anonymous as much as possible, tried to be no one so that she could gather the information she needed without suspicion. And she wasn’t so well-known here. Not yet, she thought as she watched him think of who she could possibly be. Was he supposed to know it? If not that name, then perhaps her other. It lay on the tip of her tongue, ready to be put into sound, but—a fear held her back. What if it didn’t matter? What if it changed n o t h i n g? She shook her head. “Perhaps, perhaps not. It all depends on what rumors have reached your ears—or, really, which have not.” She pursed her lips for just a moment. “Does the Atlantis ring a bell?”

If only you knew just how wrong you are, Rafaela thought with a smile that showed no mirth. “Oh, the god watches—he laughs as we crawl like ants and perform the chess moves he has already predicted,” she spoke of him as if she knew him in person—and if anyone did, it was she. His wife. Once upon a time.

Rafaela waited for his anger, expected it, only slightly narrowed her eyes when the words started to leave his mouth, only to just… Cease. And her heart started to ache. “You were not the way they wanted you to be,” she murmured—and she was speaking of Hepheastus, of how they refused him all, her golden children upon their golden thrones. And how they had learned they needed him. “And that was their foolish mistake.” You were always too good.

Only when Hamish spoke once more did the pirate queen look up. “You do know,” she said softly, sweetly. Motherly. “Or you would not feel that which you are feeling, now.” She reached out a hand through the bars, palm upturned. “Don’t hold it back, Hamish. Let it be. See it. Acknowledge it, and then… Let it go. Let it go, and raise your chin. You will need strength of mind for the days to come.”

“The Atlantis? That is just a rumor. Only some silly, made-up story, really,” Hamish scoffed. Once upon a time, he would have loved hearing such a story, would have loved to dream about secretly heroic pirates, exotic locales, and courageous battles. Once. To a a shy, fifteen year old crippled boy, stories were much more comforting than his bleak reality.

But stories, Hamish had learned, were about as useful as the gods. “If any such god exists, if he does relish in watching our suffering, then I hate him,” he choked out, thinking of Zion’s cold disdain whenever he watched Hamish make a fool out of himself. “I hate him, I-” will always crave his love. The hand pressed against his mouth was not enough to quell the sobs rising in his chest. Hamish squeezed his eyes shut, nearly as ashamed of crying in Rafaela’s presence as he was of crying at all.

“They aren’t foolish,” he whispered. “They aren’t foolish to loathe me.” Weak. He had always been weak, and everyone knew it. Hamish took a ragged breath, roughly wiped a hand across his eyes. A prince should not weep, even when he was a weakling.

Only when he had blinked all his tears away and forced his embarrassing display of emotion to a halt, did he take notice of her outstretched hand - not that he was capable of reaching it. “Which days?” he bit out. “The few days I will spend locked in this prison until they decide to either execute me or let me rot here until the end of my miserable life? There is no point.” There was no point to any of it. Hamish curled his hands into fists. “Yet you act as if you know me.” As if she cared about him. “Why?”

#convo #c: rafaela

elinor-ptolemy

She watched him with wide, wet eyes, bracing herself for grief or fury or fear. But he showed her none of those things, not violence or spite or sadness. He seemed…resigned, perhaps hollow. It was somehow worst than anything else could be, like a broken horse who is no longer afraid of a whip. And she could only stand there helplessly, unable to think of a single word to comfort him.

Elinor flinched at the word ‘execution,’ and made a horrified sound that she tried valiantly to smother with a hand over her mouth. She would likely be able to hear the crowd from her rooms, the shouts when this kind man’s head rolled from his shoulders. She felt sick, and sicker still when he asked about his family. “Th-The same for your Lord brother, and his Lady wife, a-and…y-your Lady M-…” His frantic question broke into her thoughts, and she swallowed thickly past the taste of bile in her throat. “Th-They are…safe. W-With the former king and queen.” Her lips shook, and a haggard breath shook her shoulders as she suddenly gripped the bars and felt herself go light-headed with guilt and emotion and exhaustion. “I would n-never have wished to be the one to tell you such things, Your Highness. I c-came only to thank you for your kindness, and now…” One hand tore away from the rusted bars to press over her eyes and hide the hot, shameful tears that burned in her eyes. “Forgive me, forgive me for hurting you with such news.” She did not know why she cried, if it was from lack of sleep or from the darkness in her mind or simply because she felt the tragedy and doom hanging thickly in the air between them. Either way, the tears could not stop, once they had begun.

#convo #c: elinor #idk wtf this is and yet #and yET IT IS SO LONG #(i'm sorry)#uh #suicidal ideation cw #internalized ableism cw

The strangled noise emanating from her told him enough. Yes, they would execute him. Perhaps, he thought dully, that would be a blessing. Perhaps he had earned it. If complicity was a sin then Hamish was certainly the worst kind of sinner: someone who had not engaged in evil himself and yet had done nothing to stop it but watch. So he would die as he had lived. Unloved, alone, and with no greater point to it.

It would be a public affair, presumably. Nicely symbolic, of course. The spectators might even laugh at the stupid cripple needing to be helped up the steps to the scaffold and to his death. But after that they would forget him, for even in death he would inevitably fade into insignificance when compared to Antony.

Gods, Antony. Antony and Alycia. Hamish used to secretly long for their humiliation, used to wish on them just a mere fraction of the shame he had suffered at their hands. But he had not wanted this, had never wanted this. They, at least, deserved to live. Hamish thought of little Peyton and Antoinette, thought of Antony’s bright smile and the trust shining from his eyes as he asked Hamish to be Antoinette’s godfather. Bile rose in his throat, along with the odd urge to weep - not for himself, no, but for those children who would soon become orphans.

(He could not even contemplate the death of his own mother.)

Yet his eyes remained dry. Lady Ptolemy wept in his place, perhaps. Wept for him, though he neither understood why nor deserved it. He was grateful nonetheless; she needn’t have come. “There is nothing to forgive,” Hamish said, and some of the numbness in his chest receded. If she hadn’t brought him the news, who then? Mayhaps he would not even have known until he was dragged from his cell to the sound of excited jeers. No, he was not upset with her. He was... grateful, and his heart ached to see her weep over it when she had only done him a kindness.

Taking a deep breath, Hamish pressed his hands against the cell’s floor once more and pushed. His gulps of air echoed through the cell. He took a limping step forward. Another. His jaw was clenched so tightly together to keep from crying out that it hurt - a mere inconvenience in comparison to the agony burning through his twisted shin, his shattered knee, his gnarled calf. Just a few steps more. A few more, a few...

Hamish fell against the bars. “Lady Ptolemy,” he rasped. As his legs buckled, he sank to one knee but managed to keep his other leg, the bad one, from crashing against the ground as well. His vision went black, just for a second; a hiss of pain escaped through his teeth. Even after he had blinked several times, spots continued to dance before his eyes. Had any of his healers been here, they would have been aghast, would have muttered frightfully about crippling his leg even further.

No matter. He would die soon regardless. Tightly curling one hand around the bars to keep himself upright, he reached out with the other and gently, very gently, clasped her hand in his. “My lady. Don’t weep. It’s- it’s alright.” As he looked up at her, he attempted a smile - even though he suspected it came across as more of a grimace. “Mine has been an existence that is nothing but crippled and broken anyway. It’s alright. It’s...” He swallowed thickly. His eyes burned, yet the tears still did not come. “Don’t weep for me, please. It’s alright.”

Oh, Coleman could be charitable. Knife, mace or whip, he would ask, a wicked smile on his lips, and he’d let them pick the weapon with which he’d deform them for whatever crime they’d committed against his family, against him. “Such pessimism…” He commented.

Coleman looked down at the young prince with disgust as he spoke. You know nothing, little boy. You don’t know suffering. You don’t know confines made of adamant, darkness and madness and screams and nothing at all, at the same moment. You don’t know pain until your other half gets torn from your side, and now you cling to each other at night and you try to live with the memory, the unbearable thought that you will inevitably be torn apart once more, whether by death or whatever else. “I am going to pity you for the weakness in your heart. I am almost starting to doubt you are even worth the effort of killing, at all.”

“I would call it common sense,” Hamish said grimly. Everyone at court knew him to be witless, but he was not yet so much a fool that he did not know there was no happy ending for him on this road. He met Lord Balor’s gaze head-on, surprising himself once again. He had been insulted many times before, both in and out of his hearing, both by total strangers and those whose affection he craved the most. What were Coleman Balor’s words but yet another unnecessary reminder of his worthlessness? They barely stung anymore, Hamish told himself. “You are turning out to be embarrassingly fickle. Frankly, I had not expected you to be so... tedious.”

#convo #c: coleman

kaylaxtedfort

“I am nobody too, does not…” She furrowed her brows. “Does not mean I don’t deserve respect. Nor you either, your grace.” Luka reached into her bag and pulled out a small canteen of water, it wasn’t much but she always carried it with her in case Lady Ashlynn decided to go on spontaneous adventures. “Here,” she said, slipping it between the bars.

A corner of his mouth quirked. It wasn’t a smile, not quite. “Then if we are both nobodies it only makes sense to call each other by our names, does it not?” Embarrassingly eager, his eyes followed the water canteen’s movement. Hamish only looked up again when she slipped it through the bars, still woefully out his reach. “Could you...” He cleared his throat. Resisted the urge to clench his jaw. “Could you throw it over to me, perhaps?”

#convo #c: luka

silver-tongued-piper

Piper chuckled softly. “I can hardly call this suffering; I’ve endured worse. Small acts of kindness can’t be undone by the acts of usurpers and those who got us locked up in here.” On his next words, she shook her head. “Sure you do. You are more than you believe you are.”