Are you taking adow prompts? Because after that discussion about 16th century Matthew “waking up” after all the time walking, I’d love a fic about people trying no to tell him what happened or making comments abou Diana and him being just like wtf
Technically i’m never open for prompts, but I make exceptions now and then. Usually I can just send you over to a prompt blog, but I don’t believe there is one for adow yet. hmm. I guess that means I’ll just have to fill it, doesn’t it?
Five Times Matthew Doesn’t Know What’s Going On and One Time He Does
Matthew doesn’t know what’s going on, but he doesn’t need heightened senses to know something is off. He spends his days spying and keeping secrets, he can tell when something isn't adding up. Except, he's usually the one holding all the cards, the one knowing more than he lets on. It makes him feel wrong-footed to be on the other end of such an arrangement. It’s typically only Phillipe who has the power to make him feel such a way, but lately even his closest friends at the Old Lodge give him the sensation they are hiding something from him.
They’re privy to their own secrets, of course. They have to be in their line of work, but...this is different.
It starts when he asks after Kit in idle curiosity and the room goes silent like a candle flame in a draft, abruptly snuffed out. He’s surprised by the abrupt anger in George’s gaze, the way Hal’s fists clench. Apparently, Kit is no longer welcome among them.
All George says on the matter is that Kit committed some grave offense, something heinous enough that he goes pale with anger just thinking about it.
Shakespeare has neatly filled the vacuum left in Marlowe’s wake and Matthew finds that he doesn’t share his old friend’s opinion about the quality of his rival’s work. William is a deft hand with a quill, even if he does struggle to stay on task, weighted under his many ideas.
Matthew comes upon them discussing women, as they often are. Will is lazily working on a plot, something about a confirmed bachelor and the woman who alters his appetite. He’s sketching out the barest form of the woman, someone who encompasses all graces so completely as to render the man helpless. A demure, perfect thing.
“Nay,” objects Walter. “For then she would hold his attention but for a moment. She must be spirited!”
“And witty, too. Else he would only look on her, but note her not,” George adds.
“She is generous and loving,” Hal offers up quietly.
William looks a bit taken aback by the sudden onslaught of opinion, but is quickly scribbling at his paper. “Go on, go on.”
George nods, smacking his hand to the table. “Yes, and a veritable lioness when confronted with threat. Protective and brave.”
“Is she beautiful?” Will wonders, tapping the edge of the feather to his mouth.
“Of course,” Walter replies, as if Will had insulted them by the very idea of her plainness.
“If she is all these things, why isn’t she married already?” Matthew reasons, taking a seat.
“She is Diana,” Tom speaks, a bit nonsensical, his posture languid as a result of the amount of ale he had consumed. The others stiffen.
Will doesn’t notice. “The goddess?”
“Yes,” George jumps in quickly. “Like the goddess she is beautiful and powerful, but swears never to marry.”
Will looks surprised, but delighted by the idea. “A fitting parallel to the determined bachelor.”
“She is far too clever and disdains marriage to anyone who cannot match her,” Walter replies. “It is not a lack of offers, but rather a waiting on the right one.” His eyes rest on Matthew for a long moment before turning away.
Soon the conversation drifts to William’s current play, a telling of Richard the Third, but the conversation sticks with Matthew. It catches at him like a burr. Eventually, the prickle of interest is softened with wine, Pierre refilling his glass more than usual.
That night he dreams of a goddess with a crown of golden hair that smiles at him and touches him with a gentleness he does not deserve. It fades like gossamer in the morning light. His sheets smell like chamomile.
When he receives a letter from Gallowglass warning of an impending visit, Matthew is pleased to hear it. They haven’t spoken much since they parted ways in the fall nearly three years ago, only letters exchanged.
The man seems larger than Matthew’s memory and there’s a disquiet in his eyes that didn’t used to be there. The same stilted awkwardness that pervades his interactions with the School of Night is present here as well, though muted. Matthew is disheartened by it.
Two days later, Kit is found dead.
Matthew had not seen nor spoken to the man since his sudden and inexplicable departure from their gatherings. No one seems overly grieved by Marlowe’s sudden and violent passing. No one is willing to speak about it, either. Matthew finds himself frustrated by his friends unwillingness to investigate.
He can fathom no reason why his nephew would hold animosity for the playwright, but he has suspicions about Gallowglass’ involvement. The timing is too convenient. His only misgiving is that if Gallowglass had something to do with Marlowe’s death, the scene would have been far bloodier.
Gallowglass leaves a week later with Matthew no closer to understanding. He cites business elsewhere and he’s gotten a letter from Phillipe to give his haste legitimacy. He grips Matthew in a tight hug and meets his eyes and leaves him with these mysterious words.
“You take care of yourself, Matty, you hear? I’m much more afraid of her than you and I’d hate to explain that you’d managed to get yourself killed playing little spy games in Elizabeth’s court.”
Hancock covers a laugh with a sudden cough, but refuses to explain in spite of how much Matthew growls at him.
England has grown too dangerous for creatures and Maman has bid him to come home. Matthew finds himself grateful for it, his friends constant secrecy has put a strain on their relationship and the escalation of political tensions is enough to exhaust anyone, even a thousand year old vampire like him.
His servants begin to pack his things for the journey home. They have been as helpful and stalwart as before, indispensable in their aid. Their naturally discreet personalities makes impossible to tell if they know the goings on, but he assumes they do. Servants always know. Not that he could ever get them to tell.
He catches a bit of whispering between Françoise and Pierre and stops, making his footsteps go silent, pausing his already slow breathing, and listens.
“It will be better for him to return home, I think. He does not say it, but I think he misses it more than he shows,” Françoise is saying.
“Yes, it will do him good to be away from here, breathing the English air.” Pierre’s disgust is much more bald when speaking to a fellow. He would never say such a thing to Matthew.
“Perhaps Phillipe can convince him to go for a hunt. That always brightens his spirits.”
There’s a brief pause in the conversation before Pierre speaks, his voice low. “I didn’t realize how much happier she made him until she was gone,” he says. “He isn’t the same. He does not laugh as often.”
He does not say who she is, but Françoise must know.
“No. He does not smile like he used to.” Françoise sighs and Matthew can hear the snap of sheets being aired. “There is nothing we can do but wait.”
Pierre snorts. The sound startles Matthew a little, never having heard such an undignified sound come from the man before. “We’re manjasang. If it’s one thing we excel at, it is waiting.”
Matthew’s heart gives a dull squeeze and alerts them to his presence. Françoise and Pierre are too poised to be panicked, but their conversation swiftly changes to other subjects and does not return to whomever they were speaking about prior no matter how long he listens.
Matthew had thought Sept-Tours would be a relief, but it is full of whispers that cut off when he nears, townsfolk who look to the empty space at his side with confusion, servants who study his hands with a frown. He knows it has been some time since he’d stepped foot in his ancestral home, but this is unusual, even for an extended absence.
He asks Maman about it, but she doesn’t have an answer for him. She has also been away from Sept-Tours with Marthe, though not as long as him, and notes the odd behavior as well. She pats his cheek and tells him not to worry about it. But he does worry.
It puts his instincts on edge, makes him snappish and irritable, until he’s finally bid to go to the village. Phillipe doesn’t kick him out, no matter what Pierre might say.
Alain accompanies him, a steady presence that soothes Matthew in this sea of perplexity. All goes well until they reach the butcher. Gervaise has been supplying Matthew’s family at Sept-Tours for many years, working closely with Chef. Matthew can remember when the man was just a little boy, crawling over the shop and driving his father mad with worry. Gervaise greets them warmly and everything is going well until he asks after Matthew's wife.
The question yanks his thought process to a halt. “I’m sorry?”
Gervaise’s brow furrows in confusion and he glances over to Alain. The butcher looks concerned, but then his face abruptly clears. “Ah, pardon me, Monsieur Clermont. A mistake.”
Matthew turns to look at Alain as well, who is a moment too slow in wiping the cold eyed expression from his face.
The uneasiness in Matthew’s gut returns. Alain calmly recommends that they return to Sept-Tours and Matthew finds himself quickly agreeing.
Matthew comes upon Phillipe in his study considering a miniature with an intensity that seems unwarranted. The woman is beautiful and young, yes, lush golden locks spilling down her shoulders, but Matthew cannot discern why it's of such interest. Phillipe does not jump or startle, the man is far too canny for such things, but he sets the small painting down with a strange amount of care, his eyes soft.
Matthew doesn’t know what to make of it. He raises a dark brow. “Should Maman be jealous?” he asks.
To his surprise, Phillipe barks with laughter. “No, Matthieu. It is not Ysabeau’s jealousy that I would be concerned with.” His eyes fairly sparkle with mirth. Something like humiliation burns through Matthew, like he’s the butt of some joke he doesn’t fully grasp. Phillipe sits back. “Worry not. You’ll understand someday, when you are mated.”
“I don’t think such an event will ever occur, you might sooner wait for the end of the world,” Matthew snaps.
His words seem to sober Phillipe instead of provoke him. His step-father abruptly looks every one of his many years. “Yes, well. My world may end sooner than you think, Matthew. I am not immortal, after all.”
It is strange and frightening to hear him talk like that. Matthew swallows. Phillipe shakes himself free from his melancholy. He reaches out and touches the tip of a finger to the woman’s face.
“Be patient, Matthew. You will find someone who suits you one day. I know it.”
It is only after they have returned to the present, safely ensconced in the walls of Sept-Tours, Diana walking the familiar halls, speaking with the Alain that it strikes him. Matthew strides forward, steps aggressive.
“You knew!” Matthew accuses. Alain merely regards him with polite difference.
“You knew about Diana the entire time! You met with her, spoke with her.” Matthew is angry without fully understanding why.
Alain blinks. “I did, yes.”
Matthew’s unvoiced question is clear. Why didn’t you tell me?
Alain raises a brow. “And would you have believed me if I spoke about your time traveling mate who is the most powerful witch of the age of whom you possessed no memory?”
Matthew falters. Well, when he puts it like that. “But you said nothing even when I brought her to Sept-Tours.”
Alain turns to face Diana. “It was truly lovely to see you again, after so long, but even lovelier now that you remember our time together.”
“You were invaluable in keeping me sane,” Diana said graciously.
Pierre cautiously approaches. “Madame, Françoise has fetched the material you asked for.”
“Ah, thank you, Pierre,” Diana says. “I’ll be along to look at it shortly.” She fixes her attention on him, finding his irritation amusing by the curl of her mouth. “I trust you will find something to occupy yourself with?”
Matthew then recalls Gallowglass is also partially responsible for his ire and grins with too many teeth. "I think I'll go find my nephew."
