there will be war

when everyone knows you're a monster ; you needn't waste time doing every monstrous thing. penned by marie.

[ofvcnguard]

everything below this is archived

[ofvcnguard]

crookedkingdcm​:

—

TARQUIN KNOWS HE IS RUNNING AWAY AGAIN. For all his talk of bravery, this is what he has always done. Tarquin has always run away from the things that had truly mattered ; he had never been able to face his own demons. Tarquin had always believed they made him weak so he had turned his back on them and put as much distance between himself and them as possible. They had always caught up to him though ; all his broken dreams and his mistakes. The thing is he does not know how to face this. The mere thought of Azkaban made his heart seize up in fear. It made him feel helpless - trapped in the dark without a way out. The very idea of letting anyone see him like that is unbearable. 

Tarquin had headed for the roof. It is slightly cold but he doesn’t mind it. The slight chill does its part in chasing the nightmare away. Tarquin sits down against the wall, leaning his head back. It is easier to breathe in the open air ; his gaze steady on the pinpricks of light. His eyes are heavy and yet he is scared to let them fall shut ; sure that he will see the same images again. A part of him is surprised when he hears her footsteps but a part of him always knew that she would follow him. Since when have they left the other in the dark? 

He is torn between wanting to be alone and relief that he does not have to be. 

He doesn’t look at her as she makes her way over, sitting down next to him. He is acutely aware of the distance between them. A few years ago he would not have thought twice before crossing it. Such a simple thing and yet it seemed like giving in. The corner of his lips curve up in a slight smile when she spoke. Tarquin knows he shouldn’t drink but his nerves are still shot to hell and he knows he can trust her with this. He reaches for the shot, downing it in one quick go. 

He looks at her properly when she speaks. Tarquin knows that she means her words ; that she is prepared to meet whatever this is head on but then Amelia has always been his strength. Tarquin knows how easy it would be to lash out. He could easily pick a fight that would leave them both wounded. In a manner, it would be comforting in its familiarity. And yet, he knows that it would cause irreparable damage. Tarquin doesn’t want to hurt her anymore. He knows she is trying. Maybe he can as well. 

He looks at her for a moment before letting his head fall against her shoulder. A single moment passes and then he feels her fingers in his hair. It soothes something inside him. He squeezes his eyes and there is no nightmare lurking behind his lids. There is just the cool of the night and her fingers in his hair. Tarquin is surprised at the ache in his throat. He stays like that for a long moment ; he lets them have this thing before raising his head once more, leaning it back against the wall though they are closer now. “Wouldn’t know where to start-” They are honest words. He would trust her with his life but he doesn’t know how to trust her with this. “It’s-” Azkaban. The word turns to ash on the tip of his tongue. He glances at her, “I have had these-” he tries again but nightmares seem like such a trivial word ; something he should have left behind in his childhood. Tarquin digs his nails in his palm, his shoulders falling in a shrug as a dry laugh escapes his lips. “It’s nothing I can’t live with.”

-----

THERE IS, AMELIA THINKS, SOMETHING morbidly comforting about this. Where once she would give him no choice, would make him unload his burdens on her--where once he would've done it of his own volition, because their insurmountable walls always seemed to leave holes for each other--this feels like something forbidden, untouchable. As long as this trust, this vulnerability, feels foreign between them, Amelia is safe. As long as her heart is not his to hold completely, Amelia is safe. It makes her feel like a coward.

The midnight air is bracing this high up, but the chill chases her traitorous panic away. All her life, she's loved the cold, despite her body's tendency to freeze as soon as the temperature starts to drop. But an extra layer or three is a small price to pay for the focus that comes with a grey morning's chill, with the clarity of a winter's day. As she sits beside him and waits, Amelia lets herself breathe it in, lets herself feel centered enough to distance her own emotions from the matter at hand. It won't do either of them any good, if she is focused more on whether she wants him to speak at all than on anything he actually may have to say.

When the tension breaks, when Tarquin moves, Amelia finds herself caught off guard by the strength of the emotions that pass through her. She meets his gaze as if she is unshakeable, as if she can weather whatever storm may come, but there is a lump in her throat that makes it hard to breathe. Restlessness lies within her bones; Amelia is always moving, always going, an unstoppable machine with no room for a break, but in this moment she is still, steady. In this moment she is nothing but present.

His head is a comforting weight on her shoulder and in the span of a heartbeat all that carefully constructed distance between her heart and his crumbles. Amelia wants to crush any remaining inches between them, wants to face his demons and shred them with her nails, her teeth. She wants to take his hand and face them together. One breath in, one breath out, and her fingers tangle in his hair and she no longer knows if she is trying to comfort him or ground herself, but she knows that this will always be familiar no matter what this man means to her.

When he moves, Amelia finds that she misses his warmth, but this time the thought doesn't scare her. This time, she tangles her fingers with him and squeezes tightly. When he begins to speak, in fits and starts, she remains still and silent and hopes her presence is enough. Amelia wants to tell him that she knows, she understands, but that's not true, is it? Her knowledge of his life during their separation is cold and factual, a list of events with no deeper meaning. As far as she is concerned, she's pretty damn sure she can or does know everything, but she can never truly know this, not really, no matter what he ever tells her. This is one mountain between them that isn't self-imposed.

"Stop being such a martyr," Amelia says after a long beat. At some point, she began running her thumb across the back of his hand; when she realizes, she pauses, hesitates, then continues. "I know you can survive it. I don't need you to tell me that." Although her words are at odds with the quiet of her voice, of the night, for once she doesn't feel too harsh, too off-balance, too sharp for these delicate moments. She knows that he alone can take her brand of comfort. I'm here, she wants to say, but that's not them; he knows she is there without her speaking the words. Instead, she turns her head, presses her forehead to his, presses a kiss to his cheek. "A question for a question," she offers. "I'll even let you go first."

[ofvcnguard]

amelia & tarquin - for i have never known love before

(part two) for @crookedkingdcm

[ofvcnguard]

amelia & tarquin - if i love you is that a fact or a weapon?

(part one) for @crookedkingdcm​

[ofvcnguard]

damien & cyrus - i’ll be damned if we can make it out of this alive

(part one) for @nomcurners

[ofvcnguard]

gianna & aleksi - i’ll meet you in the meadow.

(part one) for @ghostswish

[rcnaissancewrites]

“I lost you” “you never had me” FOR ALINA AND GILDY SENDING ANYWAYS

Gilderoy Lockhart wasn't nearly as tactless as he presented himself to be - every action was considered carefully, from those charming smiles to the golden sheen of his hair. There was part of him that was hardly a person at all, instead a character created to sell novels and woo ill-deserved fans; the part that appeared on magazine covers, attended book signings. The rest of him was indeed human, capable of emotion beneath arrogance, thought behind recklessness, even the capacity to love regardless of his deception.

And he loved Alina Sprout. If asked how that happened - how he was foolish enough to let that happen - he'd have no answer. She challenged him, she teased him, she ruffled his hair and he hardly cared to fix it. The only person he'd ever loved before her was himself, and in her presence, any sense of ego drifted away.

Did she know how badly he wanted to admit his sins to her when their lips met? How he wanted to spill his darkest secret when their hands brushed? It should've come from him - from his words, from his own admission. But that wasn't how she discovered the crimes he committed for his own vapid career. He hunted the world for adventure, just not his own - he'd steal the minds of those with richer lives and use those memories to make him, well, richer. It was harmless when there seemed to be nothing to lose but perhaps his own reputation, if the scandal ever broke.

But Alina was too clever for him - she always had been. There was angry in the tears that flowed down her cheeks, betrayal in her watery eyes. Perhaps his greatest mistake of all was causing her this pain, when all he ever wanted was to love her - the first time he wanted to love someone, so desperately.

" At least you've got your next book then, right? " she seethed, gripping the vial of a poor cursebreaker's memory. Gilderoy flinched as she slammed it to the table, and reached out to her as she walked past.

" But I lost you, " he said quietly, so quietly he wondered if she heard him. His voice lacked the enthusiasm, the bright disposition it usually held - with her, there was no need for that careful act. And now, there was only desperation left in its wake. He grasped her arm gently, as if holding there for just a moment longer would fix something.

Instead, she pulled away again. " You never had me, " she said strongly, but the hurt in her tone was unmistakable.

As the door closed behind her, Gilderoy realized a truth that might have eluded him his entire life - fame and glory were nothing compared to Alina Sprout. And he'd lost her, even if he'd never truly had her

[ofvcnguard]

❛  i  noticed  you  .  how  could  i  not  ?  ❜ or ❛  i  love  everything  you  hate  about  yourself  .  ❜ for oc beasites :wormcat:

It’s moments like this where she lets herself believe. She loves him, she loves him, she loves him, nothing in this world could ever change that, but sometimes she can shove it down, can take what she can get. Those what-ifs hide low below I will do whatever I can not to lose him because she has all of him now and she has no right to even want more. But they sit in her car on a dark winter night as some campy muggle horror film flickers across the screen before them, and she lets herself believe. There’s been more idle chatter than actual movie watching, but Gianna can’t help but notice that, when she’d grabbed onto his hand with a high-pitched screech at some unexpected jump scare, he hadn’t let go. Gianna can’t help but notice that, when they’d turned back to the screen, he’d laced their fingers together and squeezed. She wonders, even as they talk and laugh, if he feels like a live wire, too.

“D’you remember Gildy’s fifth birthday party, when he invited the whole neighborhood? Merlin, I must have sat eating candy that whole time. No one even noticed me.” Gia smiles, shakes her head, laughs, but she can’t hide the tinge of self-deprecation from him, never could. As a child, she’d been a little slip of a girl, always clad in loud floral prints that called for attention she never seemed to receive. Sure, it had been lonely at times, but Gianna is proud of how she turned out, usually. But the silence stretches too long between them, and when she looks over at Aleksi, it is to find his eyes already on her. The moment catches, stretches, pulls like taffy and she watches the emotions play out across his face, an unfettered openness for her and her alone.

“I noticed you,” he says, as if offended she’d ever doubted him, as if it is the only truth he knows. Gianna wants to tell him that she never has, not once. “How could I not?” His hand moves to cup her cheek, and Gia wonders how he can be so steady as her own heart pounds a traitorous rhythm in her chest. When she does nothing, too afraid to move and shatter whatever illusion he's spun around them, she sees a flicker of doubt. As if he doesn't know that the look in her eyes is awe. As if he has crossed some line, as if the truth isn’t that she’s the one trying desperately to keep this in the realm of safe. All at once, her breath leaves her, and she finds she needs this, needs him, needs the intimacy of his palm against her skin. All at once, she raises her hand to cover his.

She is confident and competent; there may not be a drop of magic in her blood but she has carved out a space for herself in the world nonetheless. Not one drop of sweat was given with the intent to earn some fleeting fame or notoriety, and yet. And yet Aleksi breathes I noticed you like it is a prayer, like it is a benediction, and she wants to tell him that if no one else ever notices her, it will be enough that he does. She wants to tell him that there wouldn’t be anything to notice, were it not for him. “Sometimes if feels like you invented me,” she confesses, knowing he’ll understand. Gianna built her own life, clawed her way through an unforgiving world of her own damn volition, and he’s always known exactly how strong she is. What she means isn’t, I am strong because of you. What she means is, I am only ever myself when I’m with you. What she means is, I could’ve done everything on my own but I wouldn’t be who I am today without you. But she keeps those words locked away, buried safe and sound for another day. Soft as a whisper, she turns her head and presses her lips to his palm, then turns back to the movie.

[onceweptarchive]

“ you know i left a part of me back in new york ” OR “and isn’t it just so pretty to think all along there was some invisible string tying you to me? ” for m&m

SHE’S SILENT IN THE FACE OF HIS ADMISSION, staring into the glass of wine with a hint of bitter humor on her tongue. The sudden honesty is not uncharacteristic for him, but in true Malcolm fashion it has come too little too late. She’s not fond of the reminder, but more than that she’s not fond of what it means. It is a healed wound, she tells herself, though the mention stings anew. He has loved her in so many places, and she has loved him the same. Yet they have never stayed anywhere long enough to learn how to do so properly, to do so fully. There are so many pieces of them everywhere, scattered around the world, entombed in what has become a decade of almosts and what ifs. One day they might recover them all one by one, unearthing them for good. But not today.

Months had passed since the last time they saw one another, but the sentiment remains. This is a story they know by heart. It is an honesty that burns. I would have stayed as long as you wanted to, she might have admitted if things had been different. But they hadn’t, and she swallows back that simple truth with a sip of her wine. She had lived so long fighting against restraints, and love seemed the greatest of all restrictions. Still, she would have stayed, and Maggie knows it is naive to believe it could have worked. I left a part of me back in New York, he says. It is a memory encapsulated in a fine mist, his lips on her collarbone a phantom sensation. And just like mist, it dissipates with an exhale, a breathy laugh. It might have worked. For a while at least, it always did.  “  You left more than that, if I recall.  ”

[ofvcnguard]

allremains​:

@ofvcnguard​

Gilderoy seldom visited his family - and how could they blame him? He was Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Smile award winner three years running, he was a best selling author, he was Gilderoy Lockhart. Surely his sisters understood - the muggle world simply wasn’t as busy or interesting as that full of magic and his adoring fans. Yet, with a spare afternoon, he decided he was missing his other half. Gianna truly was the better of the two, with a far purer heart that he would ever understand. Of course, this was a sentiment he buried far below his deep insecurities and contrarily gigantic ego - one he would never share with the twin who was once his best friend.

The golden-haired idiot apparated into her flat with a slight pop. He practiced the skill under he could do it almost silently - stealth was a necessity in his, uh, line of work. It was only a few strides to where she was sat at a desk and he peered over her shoulder, obviously with no concern for her privacy as she seemed to be writing a letter. “ Which meadow? And who’s Aleksi? ”

-----

If there’s been one constant trait for Gianna, it’s her unflappability. She is cool, confident, poised; she’d learned early, after all, that with a mother like hers, she couldn’t let anything get to her. A part of her wonders sometimes whether that’s why she went for doctor in her blind youthful attempt to earn just a sliver of the approval so readily thrown her brother’s way. Of course, she never lets herself dwell on that for long--she will let herself pretend like she is more selfless than she is, just like she will let herself pretend that underneath her unfailing love for Gilderoy, there isn’t just a tiny bit of resentment, too. But none of this matters, of course, because Gia has perfected the art of remaining untouched by the world around her. Which, of course, means the high-pitched screech she lets out at the sudden voice could really only be drawn out by one of two people.

“Merlin’s bloody beard, Gildy, have you ever heard of knocking?” Gia asks, as if they don’t have this conversation every time he decides to drop by. Pressing a hand to her chest, she turns to glare at him and works to catch her breath. After a beat, her cheeks flush red and she flips over her half-written letter, realizing too late that the ink is not likely smeared beyond legibility. “Aleksi was literally at mum’s half-birthday dinner last week, you oaf,” she huffs, indignant in a way she only is around her brother or her best friend. Not to mention the million other times you’ve met. “And I-its not important. Welcome. Do you want some water? Tea?”

[ofvcnguard]

gianna & finn ( @nomcurners​ ) ( flashback )

GIANNA HADN’T REALIZED FREE TIME could be so....boring. It was so rare these days, after all, between the crushing weight of schoolwork and the stringent expectations of her family. It was even more rare that she spent these sporadic moments alone; as much as she loved her freedom, loved her solitude, neither she nor Aleksi ever seemed to pass up on a chance to spend time with each other. But, of course, Aleksi was busy. No matter. Gia had dragged herself down to the seaside for some much-needed god damn alone time--just her, a book, and not a single medical matter in sight.

But the sun wasn’t quite warm enough, and her book couldn’t quite hold her attention for more than a few pages at a time, and when she’d heard the unmistakable babble of a toddler nearby, well, that seemed far more interesting. As the youngest Lockhart with no cousins to speak of, Gianna hadn’t yet become disillusioned with screaming children, even with her brief pediatrics rotation the term before. Okay, maybe watching the toddler and his--father? brother? babysitter? was creepy, but no one had called her on it yet, so she figured she could get away with it for a bit longer.

The tiny child flopped quite impressively to the ground at the water’s edge and let out a piercing wail. Before she could even think it through, Gia was on her feet and navigating her way through the loose sand, feeling a bit guilty and a bit embarrassed for the spark of excitement that went through her at the chance of something to do, a puzzle to solve. “You look like you could use some help.” Amusement glittered in her eyes as she took in the man struggling to calm the very upset child, even as a blush colored her cheeks. “Is he hurt? I’m a doctor--almost a doctor--I can help.”

[ofvcnguard]

"it felt like the sun would never shine again and yet all these years later it has" SCREAMS

More often than not, Damien rises with the sun. It was habit, once, but somewhere amidst bloodthirsty politics and backstabbing and scheming, it became an escape. Everything seems clearer in the morning light; everything seems still, ethereal, divine. The wind whips through his hair, chilling him down to the bone, but he just breathes deeply, drinks it in. With the doors open, he can hear rustling as Cyrus wakes up, he can hear the familiar cadence of his footsteps as he comes out onto the balcony to join him. With the fading moon his only witness, he lets himself smile.

Sometimes, Damien thinks these past months have been nothing more than a dream. Sometimes, he has to pinch himself to convince him that this is real, that this is something he is allowed to have, that they can be more than their last names. Standing on the balcony in the cold, grey light that comes just before dawn, with everything a little hazy, a little distant, he feels almost grounded. This feels almost like peace.

Cyrus stands beside him like a pillar, like something solid and sturdy and reliable. They trade good mornings and easy conversation with voices rough with sleep. They close their eyes into the first rays of morning light and to Damien, it feels like the first time he's breathed freely in months, in years. It's an utterly ridiculous notion, and the impulse to laugh it away, to bury it down, dances through the tap, tap, tap of his fingers on the balcony's rail. This, too, is something he is still learning. Time passes, and Cyrus' words roll off him, effortless and mindless and comfortable--but this comment stops him, makes his breath hitch.

"It felt like the sun would never shine again, and yet all these years later it has."

It seems Damien is not alone in his flair for the dramatic.

And it makes him want to scream, this softness, this honesty, this vulnerability. Damien has made a home of this hatred between them; he is still learning to live without it. He is still learning that love, too, can be a home. In so many ways, Cyrus is his echo, his mirror, but Damien can read those emotions so clearly in his eyes, in his smile, in the hand resting featherlight over his own. There is an openness to him that Damien isn't used to, that he can't quite emulate. He's not entirely sure he wants to--not yet.

Maybe it makes him a coward, maybe it makes him a fool, but Damien can't bring himself to answer, can't bring himself to drum up the words that will keep that light in Cyrus's eyes. He can't bring himself to find the words to put him back on solid ground. But he can still offer him something in his silence. Keeping their eyes locked, he flips his hand over beneath Cyrus's and intertwines their fingers. Squeezes. An anchor. And, as the first rays of sun break over the horizon, he offers his heart up with one simple move. A smile.

[ofvcnguard]

matthias & nina ( @allremains​ )

THERE ARE DAYS WHEN MATTHIAS thinks he’ll never get used to life on the sea. He signed up for this, he knows he did; he’s trained for this since he was a child so suddenly robbed of a family, a home. But when days turn into weeks turn into months on the seas, his dreams turn to the ice of his childhood. Crossing the deck of the ship that’s become more a constant than anything save his men, his captain, he knows it doesn’t matter. Matthias made the choice, and he is a good soldier; this calling of his is honorable, and he will make due with a ship beneath his feet if that is what he is called to do.

Still, as he descends the steps into the dimly lit hold of the ship, it’s the ice he thinks of, the ice he longs for. If his footfalls come a bit harder, if his brow furrows a bit more than usual, he thinks at least he matches his brothers walking alongside him. A corner, then another corner, and then--even in the darkness of the deepest bowels of the ship, it would be hard to miss the prisoners, divided into cells. They’re almost, full, finally; only a few more weeks and they’ll have to deliver the prisoners home. It’s the closeness of home, he thinks, that drives him to do it. Standing in front of the cell, he passes in the prisoner’s rations, his cold eyes meeting hers hot with hatred and distrust. He should turn, he should go, but for some reason his feet don’t move; for some reason, he is pulling his own canteen from his waist and passing it through the bars. “Drink. The rum in your ration will only dehydrate you further.”

[ofvcnguard]

nomcurners​:

THIS IS A PRIZE no one else would have dared to dream about let alone take and yet they had done it. Three of the largest ships in the British treasure galleon and they had brought them to their knees. They had suffered losses of their own but their victory had been decisive - their crews now richer than they could have ever conceived. Evan walks across the thin wooden plank connecting their ships, glancing up at the black raised over the British warships. There is the barest flicker of satisfaction but even victory tastes like ash in the face of the realization that no matter how he makes them pay it will never be enough. He is restless now that the fighting is over and the dust has settled.

Evan crosses the deck of Sinistra’s ship, joining her at the bow. He takes the spyglass from her hand and takes a look but the horizon is clear. In all these years, after everything that had happened, she is the closest he has come to a real attachment. She would slit any man’s throat who called her comforting if only to prove a point but Evan has no need for comfort and he does not bother pretending that he isn’t far more at ease  - far more himself - with her than anyone else. “I will give the prisoners no quarter,” he braces his hand on the bow before glancing at her, “I will hang them from their own ships and leave them for the King to see.” Their attack had been brutal even after the ships had struck their colors and anyone else would have flinched at the sheer violence of it but he knows that Sinistra’s bloodthirst rivals his own.  Evan knows this is a blow that will be felt through the kingdom - that will demand an answer and Evan finds himself looking forward to it. He does not know what to do with himself in the absence of a fight and he knows that this war ends with him dead but he intends to leave a mark. He glances at her. “We should get moving as soon as possible. Secure the gold.”

@ofvcnguard​

-----

THERE IS A THRILL FOUND in the wake of a victory, satisfaction found in the midst of bloodshed. Oh, Sinistra loves the fight, but she loves the win even more--and this has been one hell of a win. They’ve earned their dark reputation, the pair of them, and she relishes in it, revels in the fear in a fearless man’s eyes when they board a ship, revels in the knowledge that their brutality is legendary. That they are legendary. As she peers through her spyglass for any lurking ships, she knows there are none, knows that their victory is all-encompassing, unavoidable. Sometimes, she thinks this alone drives her; sure the gold is a worthy reward, but there is power in ruling the seas, in dealing damage that the British fleet cannot hope to recover from, and Sinistra has always been drawn to power. 

Perhaps that is why she was drawn to him, at first. It hadn’t mattered that their motivations were never quite aligned, hadn’t mattered that no matter how many ships they sank he never quite looked satisfied. Evan held power that she could use -- and what did it matter if he had an end goal besides money, besides power, besides blood? Their methods were aligned, and even if they have together built up enough of a reputation to more than sustain either of them alone, there is something to be said for having a partner who knows you, who respects you, who can rival every monstrous twist of your heart. “They might have information,” she replies passively, a glower thrown his way the only response to him taking the spyglass. It’s a practical suggestion, yet she knows he can read the unsaid in the sharp curve of her smile. The information is secondary -- they could get it on their own. It is the interrogation that appeals to her. Still, she nods her assent. “I’ll have men destroy the masts. Wouldn’t want them to get their ships back in sailing condition.” It’s unnatural for her to defer to anyone’s authority, but she’s gotten what she came for, and she thinks maybe she trusts him, in her own way. As much as she trusts anyone she can still name a rival. “And where will we go to spend our well-earned gold, then?”

[ofvcnguard]

nomcurners​:

—

THREE YEARS WAS felt both too late and too soon to return. He had made his peace with the sea, far steadier on the waves than here on solid ground.  And yet, there had been a voice calling him back home. Back to his city and to his prince. There was little he knew of what home was supposed to be except that he always remembered the way Rhy’s eyes used to light up every time he looked at him, the smile that seemed to be just for him. 

He knows he can slip on the role of a noble just as well as he had played the role of a privateer and he will - he will regale others with story of adventures that would make them both envious and grateful for the safety of their birth all within the span of the same second. Everyone believes that he is back for the tournament and he will be sure to put on a show they will never forget but Rhy is the only reason that matters. 

Alucard had once been familiar with all the ways of getting into the Palace without anyone else being wiser and as he had made his way through the passages, he couldn’t help but recall the last time he had been there. He should have stayed in the palace garden after Kell had told him to leave - he should have spent the night there and asked for an audience with the king and queen in the morning. He should have never gone back to his house that night, should never have given his brother the chance. It is a regret that has followed him all these years ; how everything might have been different had he not made that one mistake. 

The room looks different than from what he remembers but the memories of Rhy’s laughter, of his quick hands and lazy mornings when they had both lingered without ever giving it a name were quick to surround him. He draped himself over a chair, appearing far more relaxed than he truly was when Rhy entered the room. Alucard had been impatient for the sight of him and now that he was here, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. He is lost for words suddenly ; still just entranced as he had been the first time. He wants nothing more than to cross the distance between them but it spans three impossible years. He pulls himself to his feet, walking towards him and then leaning against the table.

Rhy is still touched by gold, as charming as ever but Alucard sees the way his hands shake and he wants to reach out, if only to steady them. He finds himself reaching for the mask he wears so well - it is no trouble to be the unpredictable and spoiled noble when that is all anyone ever expects of him. “Would hardly be the first time he’s tried,”  he waves a hand dismissively, his lips lilting in a smile even though it had seemed that at times the only thing that had stopped Kell from doing that had been Rhy. His gaze fixes on Rhy, “Though it would easily be worth it.” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly, “Madman,” he repeats with a grin, “Hardly my favorite of all the things you have called me in the past.” He reaches for the pitcher, pouring himself a glass before looking back at him. “I could hardly return to society before an audience with the prince,” Rhy was the first person he had come to see. “Would have been the height of impoliteness.”

-----

THERE IS A WARMTH TO RHY, there always has been. Quick to forgive, quick to laugh, quick to open his heart--the world can try its hardest to beat him down, but it never seems to stick. Sure, he will protect those he cares about with his life if it comes to it, but any transgression against himself? There are too many things he's refused to hold a grudge over. Abstractly, that part of him that still dreams of the intimacy of a drowsy smile in the morning, of a familiar touch when the going gets tough, had figured that he could grow to forgive Alucard, too. After all, Rhy was the foolish one; Rhy was the one who pulled Alucard into dark corners and convinced himself those kisses meant something. But this--Rhy's heart pounds, and there are a million feelings swirling through him, and he's not quite sure he can name any of them forgiveness.

He had a word for it, once, these feelings he has for the man before him. It was simple, then, a complicated word for a complicated feeling that had seemed so easy in the moment. Sometime in the last three years he removed that word from his dictionary, carved the very idea of romance from his heart. Rhy is a prince, Rhy is the heir, Rhy has a duty to his kingdom that he knew better than to ignore. Besides, he loves his parents--loves Kell, and even though that's a different kind of love, he sometimes wonders if his heart isn't so full that there's no room for anyone else, anyways.

They are walking a familiar path, playing a familiar game, and he wonders if he should be thankful for it. It's an out, after all; if neither of them acts as if there is a fire, maybe the room won't burn. Alucard's lean is as familiar a move as any of his owns, even still, even now. Rhy mirrors him, lips tilting up as if the whole thing amuses him. "After three years to hone his vendetta, this time might stick." It's a bit like testing the waters, this oh-so-casual mention of the elephant in the room. He can't decide if he's serious about calling Kell in to settle his debts--he can't decide if he wants Alucard to think he is.

The words hit him somewhere deep, and everything in him freezes. Oh, it would be so easy to fall into this. They are too close, Rhy thinks. Having Alucard within touching distance is too dangerous. Affecting a bored air, he turns away, fingers dragging absentmindedly across the table, heading towards the low chaise. Alucard called him nothing more than a spoiled prince, once; if that is the mask he wants, that is the mask Rhy will give him. But Alucard keeps speaking, and something in Rhy sparks at the familiarity. "You forget yourself," he snaps, and he hates, hates, hates how much of a comfort this flash of anger is. "You can travel to the ends of the earth if you want, but that won't make me any less your prince."

Movements stiff, he sinks into the chaise, but his eyes never once leave Alucard. A challenge has been issued, maybe by him, maybe by Alucard, maybe by fate itself. Although he leans back, leg thrown over an arm, the picture of casual grace, tension lines his body. "Why are you here?" He asks sharply, bluntly. Why are you back?

[ofvcnguard]

 RHY & KELL ( @ghostswish​ )

RHY WILL ADMIT IT READILY: he misses Kell. In fact, he will admit it loudly, obnoxiously, as publicly as possible just to make his brother glower. With the tournament approaching, with all the balls and dinners and princely duties, he’s been kept so cruelly busy--and it appears Kell has found himself with just as little free time. Or, at least, that better be the case; if his brother is avoiding him, Rhy will have no choice but to sulk until Kell explains himself. Kell never willingly spends all that much time away from Rhy unless something is wrong; it is simply his duty to do what he must to find out what that is when his surly brother has no real intention of telling him. For whatever inane reason.

And so Rhy pled his way out of dinner with his parents and showed up unannounced at Kell’s room. From where he lounges, sprawled out in an artfully careless manner, he finishes his story with bravado and a wave of his hand. The silence is comfortable between them, as it always is, as it only ever is when Rhy is with his brother. Even still, after a few minutes, he feels obligated to break it. Rhy tosses an almond into his mouth, pauses, then tosses another one at Kell. “You, brother,” he points, head lolling in an attempt to force Kell to meet his eyes, “look even more broody than usual. Will a daring escape into the bar district with a dashing prince cheer you up, or will you actually tell me what’s bothering you?”

[ofvcnguard]

RHY & ALUCARD ( @nomcurners​ )

IN THREE YEARS, RHY HAS heard that cursed name whispered around corners, under breaths, in rumors and in dreams and in nightmares. The king’s privateer was spotted in the North, they say, Alucard Emery always was a wildcard. Sometimes they speak of his arrest; they caught him smuggling black market goods, they say, Alucard Emery always was a wildcard. Sometimes they spin tales of his death at sea, in the gallows, and he will never let it show that these rumors eat at him, but Kell knows, always knows, and soothes him with nothing more than a shake of his head. Sometimes they whisper that he is back, and sometimes Rhy is foolish enough to wish it could be the truth. In truth, he isn’t quite sure what Alucard has been doing in the three years since, isn’t sure what drove him to leave the land behind--to leave Anisa behind. 

( he doesn’t dare question why luc left him behind. it is enough to know he did. it is enough to know that rhy gave his heart so freely to a man who’d never cared to protect it. )

So when he hears the name Alucard on the lips of his courtiers as he charms his way through the winter ball, Rhy does what he always does. The twinge in his heart is shoved down below that bold smile. The mask does not slip. He is the prince, he is beloved, he slips between lovers and does not grow attached. It is what the people believe, after all, and so it must be the truth. It is nothing, then to dismiss these rumors as the gossip of the bored. It is nothing, then, to silence his restless heart. Rhy is resplendent and glorious, the golden prince, and so he enjoys the splendor, the company, the free-flowing wine.

If he leaves a bit too early, no one will comment. A nod to Kell, lingering in the eaves, is the only goodbye he offers; his brother disappears from the room before Rhy even escapes the crowd. There is no magic in his blood, yet as Rhy approaches the door to his rooms, he knows. Somehow, he knows. For a split second, Rhy wants to run, wants to slip into Kell’s room and pretend like his heart isn’t pounding. But Rhy is too bold, too brash, by half; he never runs, not even when he should. He pushes open the doors with all the easy grace of a prince with no cares in the world. And there he is, that beautiful face he can never regret, and Rhy knows it would be so easy to fall back into him just as he knows he can never do so again. There is nothing to fall back into, anyways, he reminds himself.

“My brother will kill you, you know.” Rhy crosses the room as if this is nothing to him. If his hands shake as he pours himself a glass of wine, at least his mask does not falter. “Did you get lost on the way to the ball? You must’ve. Only a madman would break into the rooms of a prince on purpose.”