Ancel looked at him shrewdly, his eye narrowed. “Are you trying to run away because you don’t want to talk to me? Or because you think I don’t want to talk to you?”
Berenger took a breath, looking past Ancel rather than at him. “You didn’t want to talk to me before.”
“I was angry, before,” Ancel said. “Do you blame me for that?”
“Of course not.”
“Even I can’t hold a grudge for five years,” Ancel said. He smiled, faintly. “I’d get wrinkles. I have to maintain what’s left of my looks.” He gestured to his face.
When I started this fic I had a feeling it might be long, but now I’m 24k words in and they haven’t even left Varenne yet so… no clue when this will be ready for AO3 😭
But here’s the first chapter anyway, a tumblr exclusive! I’ve been calling this the “reverse age AU” because Ancel is 32 in this and Berenger is in his early 20s. Hopefully it still feels like them :)
Marriage Material - Chapter 1
Varenne was painfully provincial. The Lord’s manor, if it could even be called that, was even more so. The place stank of hay and manure and there was only one servant to greet Ancel as he left his carriage.
“Master Ancel,” the ancient chamberlain drawled before bowing with an audible crackle. “My name is Parsins. Let me show you into the main hall.”
“Thank you,” Ancel said, turning back in time to see some grubby stable boy pawing at his luggage.
He shuddered and turned away, hurrying after Parsins.
He reminded himself that this was a highly lucrative contract, especially for a pet his age.
In King Auguste’s court older pets were in fashion, and these days Ancel was wanted more for his expertise rather than his beauty. But beauty was still very much a requirement of the job, and at thirty two Ancel was pushing it.
He’d built up his reputation and his fortune long ago, but couldn’t bring himself to retire. The grandeur and intrigue of court made everything pale in comparison. But he could tell his career was coming to an end, regardless of what he had to say about it.
So here he was. In Varenne.
“Just through there,” Parsins said, motioning Ancel towards a set of heavy oak doors.
Ancel schooled his expression into a pleasant smile and stepped through.
Two men were waiting for him at the bottom of a wide stone staircase in what must have been the entrance hall.
Ancel had only corresponded with the Lord of Varenne by letter, but there was no mistaking the older man standing tall in a striking purple doublet. His face was ruddy and his gray beard unfashionably long. He nodded as Ancel stepped closer.
Beside him was a young footman in a hideous brown jacket and riding boots. His dark hair was unkempt and his knees were muddy. Still, he was handsome in a plain sort of way. But Ancel wasn’t here to ogle the servants.
“Lord Royer,” Ancel murmured, bowing.
“Thank you for coming,” Lord Royer said. “I’m honored that you’ve accepted my contract. I know you’re in high demand.”
“My reputation precedes me, I see,” Ancel said with a smile.
“My son, Berenger,” Lord Royer said, motioning to the-
Well. To the not-a-servant, apparently.
Berenger stepped forward and bowed deeper than he needed to, reaching out to take Ancel’s hand and brushing dry lips over his knuckles. “Welcome to Varenne, Master Ancel.”
And that was… charming, Ancel supposed.
Lord Royer scowled. When Berenger straightened, his father swatted him hard over the back of the head.
Ancel blinked in shock, not sure how to react.
“He’s not a noblewoman, you dimwit,” Lord Royer snapped. “He’s a pet. Your pet.”
“Yes, father,” Berenger said.
“Come, Ancel,” Lord Royer said, stepping forward to take Ancel by the arm. “Let me give you the tour.”
Ancel, still stunned, could do nothing but follow.
Lord Royer led him up the stairs and prattled on about this portrait and that statue while Ancel tried to compose himself. Eventually they ended up in a hideously gaudy study, overstuffed with elaborate trinkets.
“Sit, please,” Lord Royer said, motioning to a burgundy crushed velvet sofa.
Ancel sat, arranging his silks neatly around himself.
“You have your work cut out for you,” Lord Royer said, pouring two glasses of whiskey before sitting beside Ancel and handing one over. “My son needs all the help he can get. I don’t know where I’ve gone wrong with him.”
“Hm,” Ancel hummed as Lord Royer clinked their glasses together and took a large swig. Ancel took a small sip of his own, hiding the resulting grimace. He really preferred wine. “You said in your letters you wanted me to help your son make a marriage match at court. This will be his debut, is that correct?”
“Unfortunately,” Lord Royer said with a grimace. “I’ve tried to take him a half dozen times by now but he always manages to weasel out of it. Last time he broke his leg in a riding accident. I’m half convinced he did it on purpose somehow. As a result he barely knows his ass from his cock.”
Lord Royer polished off the rest of his whiskey and rose to pour himself another. “I’ve tried my best with him, and where has it gotten me? He’s as stubborn as a mule and just as stupid. He’s not fit for polite society.”
“Ah,” Ancel said, fighting to keep the disgust off his face. As far as he was concerned, Lord Royer was the one not fit for polite society.
By his measure, Ancel sat on that sofa for almost fifteen minutes while Lord Royer went on an increasingly angry diatribe about his son’s deficiencies- social, mental, and physical. In that time he managed to finish two glasses of whiskey and had gotten up to pour himself a third.
He returned to sit uncomfortably close to Ancel, his breath reeking of alcohol, and started on Berenger’s sexual deficiencies.
At which point, mercifully, a maid came to call them to dinner.
“Wonderful,” Ancel said, setting his own barely touched glass on a side table before rising to his feet.
Dinner was only slightly less awkward. Berenger was there, so now his father’s ranting was directed at him rather than at Ancel.
Berenger was quite stoic through it all, only adding the occasional “yes, father,” or “as you say, father.”
He remained solicitous throughout dinner, refilling his father’s glass every time it threatened to be more than half empty.
By the time the main course was served, Lord Royer was practically unintelligible as he nodded off at the table.
Berenger motioned discreetly to the servant Parsins, standing unobtrusively in the corner, and before long two footmen arrived to help Lord Royer to his feet and presumably to his bed.
Ancel breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Clearly the reality of the man was not accurately represented through letters. He was starting to realize this whole thing had been a terrible idea.
“I hope we haven’t made a terrible first impression,” Berenger said, his voice even. He sounded bored.
Ancel startled, looking up at him. In that moment Berenger’s eyes didn’t seem dull at all. If anything, he seemed… calculating.
“Of course not,” Ancel lied politely.
“My father means well,” Berenger said. “In his own way.”
“Of course,” Ancel demurred, looking down at his plate.
The food was… not horrible, at least, though it wasn’t to Ancel’s taste. The only thing that could improve his mood right now was an eclair. Did Varenne even have a pastry chef?
The rest of dinner passed in blissful silence. Ancel had never enjoyed dining in silence before, but anything was better than Lord Royer’s drunken prattle.
Finally it was over and Ancel rose to leave. Berenger rose too, coming closer to help Ancel with his carved monstrosity of a dining chair.
“Let me show you to your rooms, Master Ancel,” Berenger said.
“No need,” Ancel said, ready to finally just be alone. “Your father showed me where I’ll be staying during our tour.”
“Unfortunately that room won’t be suitable,” Berenger said. “I’ve had your things moved to a suite in the east wing. It’s quieter there. If you please-“ he held out his arm, motioning towards the door.
Ancel didn’t have it in himself to ask questions. He simply followed Berenger through a set of hallways and staircases to a more modest part of the fort. His luggage was waiting for him in a somewhat sparse sitting room. The bare walls were depressing, the curtains a dingy shade of gray. The furniture seemed like it could use a polish, but at least it was clean.
There was an adjoining bedroom with a bed that looked comfortable enough, and Ancel was ready to collapse on it and pretend that none of this was happening to him.
“If you need anything, I’m right down the hall,” Berenger said.
“Thank you,” Ancel forced himself to answer.
Berenger nodded and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Ancel said, remembering himself.
Berenger turned back to him, his expression a mask of somewhat vacant politeness.
“When and where shall we meet tomorrow?” Ancel asked.
“…meet?” Berenger echoed, less vacant and more confused now.
“Well, yes,” Ancel said. “You debut at court in only a few weeks. We have to prepare.”
“Ah,” Berenger said.
That was all he said.
Ancel raised his eyebrows expectantly as he waited.
And waited.
He wanted to reach out and shake that dull expression off Berenger’s face but managed to restrain himself.
“Noon?” Ancel asked, his voice too sharp. “Perhaps?”
Berenger nodded. “Noon, then,” he agreed. “In my study. Good night, Master Ancel,” he added with a bow and left before Ancel could repeat the sentiment.
Which was just as well. Ancel was already exhausted by both him and his wretched father.
He should have stayed in Arles.
***
Ancel woke up in the morning feeling somewhat optimistic.
He’d had a wonderful night of sleep, not interrupted by drunk and giggling courtiers stumbling though the halls outside his rooms as had been a nightly occurrence in the palace at Arles. When he opened a window for a breath of fresh air he was greeted with cheerful birdsong and warm sunshine rather than hungover grumbling and guards shooing half-naked couples out of the bushes.
Maybe the country had its advantages. Maybe this hadn’t been the most terrible idea after all.
He took his breakfast in the gardens- fresh baked bread and passably poached eggs, bland but otherwise not objectionable. Lord Royer was blissfully absent as he no doubt slept off the copious amount of whiskey he’d drunk the night before. His socially challenged son was also absent, though hopefully with Ancel’s help he wouldn’t remain socially challenged much longer.
After breakfast Ancel strolled the grounds, then took a long but somewhat lukewarm bath. He dressed and painted his face just as carefully as he did every morning in the capitol. Just because he was in some back-woods province didn’t mean he could let his standards slip.
Finally he left his rooms around noon and found a maid refilling the oil lamps in the hall.
“Excuse me,” Ancel said. “Where might I find Lord Berenger’s study?”
“His… study?” the maid asked with a faint frown.
“Yes?” Ancel said. Was everyone slow around here? “He said to meet him in his study today. At noon.”
“I see,” the maid said, looking away. Ancel could have sworn he saw her hiding a smirk, but that didn’t make any sense.
“Well?” Ancel said, starting to get annoyed.
“I’m afraid Lord Berenger doesn’t have a study,” the maid said. “Did he mean his father’s study?”
Ancel grimaced at the thought of seeing Lord Royer again. “I’m quite certain he did not.”
“Perhaps the library, then,” the maid said. “Lord Berenger does spend time there on occasion.”
“The library,” Ancel repeated. “And the library is…?”
“Down the hall,” the maid pointed, “down two flights of stairs, then it should be the third door to the left.”
“Thank you,” Ancel said before leaving.
He followed the instructions to the letter, only to end up in a dusty room full of antique musical instruments in glass cases. Obviously that wasn’t right. He checked the nearby rooms to find some musty guest bedrooms and a spacious linen closet.
He hunted down another servant and received another set of useless instructions. When that didn’t work, the cycle repeated again. For some reason no one seemed to know where the library was.
By the time Ancel managed to find it, two hours had passed and he was furious.
Obviously the library was empty. Of course Berenger wouldn’t have waited for him for two full hours, and now Ancel had to apologize on top of it all.
He’d missed lunch, but at the moment he was too angry to be hungry.
He passed the time until dinner holed up in his rooms carefully unpacking his things. Polishing and arranging his extensive jewelry collection always improved his mood.
But then it was time to report to Lord Royer, who had requested daily updates on Ancel’s progress, and Ancel’s mood soured once more.
He headed to the man’s study and found a young guard standing in front of the door.
“Master Ancel,” the man said with a polite nod.
“I’m here to speak with Lord Royer,” Ancel said.
“I’m afraid he’s indisposed at the moment,” the guard said. “But I could show you to the dining room?”
Ancel thinned his lips in displeasure. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to speaking with the miserable old drunk, but he was annoyed yet another thing was not going to plan.
“I can find it on my own,” Ancel said before turning to leave.
He’d expected to see Berenger at dinner, but the room was empty of anyone but servants.
“Lord Berenger is busy,” one of the footmen said in response to Ancel’s confused look.
“Fine,” Ancel said, sitting at the table to dine alone. “Please send Lord Berenger my apologies for missing our meeting. And tell him we shall meet in the library at eight tomorrow, to make up for lost time.”
“Yes, Master Ancel,” the footman said with a low bow.
The next morning a maid stormed into his bedroom at dawn to throw open the curtains. Ancel sat up with a startled yelp. The maid screamed in alarm. There were several minutes of indignant shouting and sputtered apologies.
Ancel managed to fall back asleep only for the same thing to happen an hour later, with a different maid accompanied, for some reason, by a footman.
Ancel was annoyed and groggy when he rose, but he dragged himself out of bed and managed to make it to the library by eight, at which point he sent a passing servant to bring him breakfast.
He perused the library while he waited for Berenger and breakfast to arrive.
Lord Royer had surprisingly good taste in literature, for a man who only seemed to read the labels of whiskey bottles. There was an entire shelf of classic Akielon literature, as well as two ancient looking scrolls in a polished display case- original manuscripts by Isagoras. They were worth a fortune.
After half an hour had passed, breakfast had arrived but Lord Berenger had not. Neither had the sugar for his coffee or butter for his bread. Ancel ate his disappointing meal surrounded by dusty old books, alone. To say that he was annoyed was an understatement.
He’d already reorganized his jewelry collection twice the previous day, so there wasn’t much left for him to do but wander the eerily empty halls like a forlorn specter. He was so bored he could cry.
It was purely by chance that he ran into Berenger in the entrance hall that afternoon.
Berenger was wearing a loosely laced white shirt and high-waisted riding trousers, along with knee length leather boots. Ancel couldn’t help noticing that he cut a rather striking figure, backlit by the warm afternoon sunlight pouring in through the windows. Maybe there was hope of him finding a decent marriage match after all.
Berenger was speaking to a young guardsman, the same one who’d been blocking Lord Royer’s door the previous night, but he paused to bow politely when he saw Ancel approaching.
“Master Ancel.”
“Lord Berenger.”
“Should I, uh…” the guard said, glancing between the two of them.
“You may go, Piotr,” Berenger said. The guard wandered away.
“You missed our meeting this morning,” Ancel said. He forced himself to be polite. Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding.
“Apologies Master Ancel,” Berenger said. “But I waited for you at the library for half an hour and you never arrived.”
Ancel felt two spots of color burning high on his cheeks as his mouth dropped open in shock. “When?”
“At eight, as your message said.”
“I was there at eight and you were nowhere to be found!” Ancel said. This was getting ridiculous.
Berenger simply nodded. “I’m sure there’s been some mistake,” he said in the soothing tone one might use to calm a tantruming child. “The clocks in the fort- they’re all part of my grandfather’s collection. Beautiful heirlooms of course, but not such reliable timepieces anymore.”
That was the stupidest thing Ancel had ever heard. He grit his teeth so he wouldn’t say anything cutting. “I see,” he forced out. “If that’s the case- we will meet at dawn tomorrow. That way there will be no further mistakes.”
“Of course,” Berenger said. “We will meet tomorrow. Forgive me, but I have some tasks to attend to at the moment.”
He bowed again before leaving.
Ancel had the distinct feeling he was being fucked with. He just didn’t understand why.
“How goes your progress?” Lord Royer asked that evening before dinner. He was sitting at his desk sorting through some packages while sipping a whiskey.
Ancel pursed his lips as he relaxed on the sofa by the fire, wondering how to respond. He could tell the truth, of course, but he didn’t want Lord Royer thinking he was bad at his job. And most importantly, he didn’t want to give the man more excuses to complain about his son.
“Well,” Ancel settled on, swirling the whiskey in his own glass. He hadn’t touched it. Lord Royer hadn’t noticed.
“If he gives you any trouble, you let me know,” Lord Royer said before gulping down the remains of his glass and rising to pour himself another. “I’ll arrange a thrashing for him.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Ancel said, aiming for a joking tone. Because Lord Royer was joking. Wasn’t he?”
“Hm,” Lord Royer said, coming to join Ancel on the sofa. He sat too close and Ancel shifted minutely away. Lord Royer simply grinned at him, unconcerned. He draped his free hand over the back of the sofa, his fingers barely an inch away from Ancel’s shoulder. “It seems a shame to waste you on him. You come so highly recommended. They say you were the King’s pet for a time?”
Ancel’s smile grew fixed. “Yes,” he said. The arm of the sofa was digging into his back, preventing him from moving further away. “King Auguste was my patron for two years. Before his marriage, of course.”
“Of course.” Lord Royer took a sip of whiskey, his eyes already glassy. “How was he in bed, I wonder? Did he lie there like a lump and let you do all the work? I bet you’re good at that, aren’t you.” He leaned forward, his grin turning lecherous as he looked Ancel up and down. “Doing all the work, I mean.”
Ancel flushed with anger and embarrassment, his fingers tightening over his own glass. He wanted nothing more than to fling it into Lord Royer’s face.
The doors to the study opened and Lord Royer turned to look at them with a frown.
“Dinner is ready, my Lord,” said the guardsman from before, Piotr.
“Can’t you see we’re busy?” Lord Royer spat out.
Piotr simply looked at him, his gaze even. “Apologies, my Lord.” He stayed in the doorway, still as a statue. He clearly had no intention of leaving. Ancel could kiss him.
“Shall I escort you, Master Ancel?” Piotr asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Ancel said, rising from the sofa and following Piotr out of the room. He didn’t know if Lord Royer was following and frankly he didn’t care. Maybe he’d skip dinner in favor of drinking alone.
But then he heard shuffling footsteps behind him, so there was no hope of that.
Dinner was a strained affair, as Ancel was coming to realize most dinners would be. Lord Royer grew increasingly belligerent while his son made a good impression of being made from stone, not rising to any of his jabs while refilling his father’s glass at regular intervals. As a result Lord Royer retired barely half an hour later, and not entirely under his own power.
Ancel let himself close his eyes for a moment as he enjoyed the silence.
The fourth course was served, a soft cheese with fresh baked bread and sliced fruit. Ancel looked up at Berenger sitting across the table from him. He was spreading cheese on a slice of bread as though the simple act took all his concentration.
“Perhaps this would be a good time to speak,” Ancel said.
“As you like, Master Ancel.”
That address was becoming less charming by the day. Ancel ignored it.
“Your father mentioned you’ve never been to court, but have you had any other experience with higher society?” It seemed unlikely Berenger had ever attended a ball, but maybe he’d been to some other, smaller gathering of Lords. Maybe he wasn’t entirely inexperienced when it came to socializing with other nobles.
Berenger looked up, his dark eyes unreadable. “I attend the harvest festival every year, if that’s what you mean.”
Ancel pursed his lips. “I mean- do you have any experience socializing with people of… higher station?”
“I maintain regular correspondence with the mayors of the largest towns in Varenne.”
“People of your station,” Ancel said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Lords,” he added, just in case Berenger needed further clarification.
Berenger stared at him blankly.
“I see,” Ancel said. So he would have to teach Berenger how to comport himself from scratch. Wonderful. “What about formal etiquette lessons? Surely-“
“Lord Berenger!”
A young servant burst into the room holding a crumpled sheet of paper and rushed towards Berenger, who’d already risen to his feet. He took the paper and read it, his eyes darting quickly over the parchment.
“Apologies, Master Ancel,” Berenger said with a bow. “I’ve been called away. Please enjoy your dinner.”
Ancel didn’t bother answering.
It didn’t matter anyway, Berenger was already gone.
Any new Berencel in the works? I love the way you write them!
I've got a few WIPs but I'm trying to focus on the soulmate AU right now. Although it's not really a "soulmate" fic in the traditional sense I think lol. Here's a piece of the beginning :)
~~~
Ancel’s mother had been a liar and a whore, but she’d still taught him a few things worth knowing before running off with a merchant’s son and leaving Ancel to fend for himself.
Always get your money up front.
No amount of gold is worth risking the pox.
And most importantly- a soul bond can be faked.
It wasn’t even that difficult, really. All it took was a few tools and a bit of practice.
“The right pheromones will have any man swooning with desire,” Ancel’s mother had said, dabbing her specially brewed perfume to the pulse point behind her ear. “A touch of snake venom on the lips will have him tingling from your kiss. And then all you need is a small telepathic nudge, and-“
She’d smiled into the mirror, meeting Ancel’s eyes behind her. Her lip paint had been a red so bright that he could still see it in his mind's eye, years later.
“Well, it’s enough to fool most,” she’d said with a shrug. “Hardly anyone knows what it really feels like. All they know is what they’ve heard in fairytales.”
“What does it really feel like?” Ancel had asked, enthralled.
His mother had pursued her lips into a frown, a crease appearing between her brows. “It feels awful,” she’d said. “You’ll want nothing to do with it. Trust me, little fox.”
She’d left then to meet her latest suitor and Ancel had crept over to her vanity to look through all the little vials and tins in her chest of paints. All her drugs and poisons and potions, all carefully labeled with neat little drawings.
A sleeping draught for when she wanted her lovers to have sweet dreams of her. Stimulants for when she wanted them to toss and turn, unable to rest. Potions to speed up a man’s heart and potions to slow it, poisons to slowly make men ill or drive them mad. So many tricks, and yet none of them as potent as her telepathy.
Everyone had at least a touch of it, of course, but Ancel’s mother was a rare talent. She could read someone’s surface thoughts from across the room just by meeting their eyes. She could plant thoughts of her own with a brief touch, a kiss. She could even lay down mild compulsions, the rarest of skills.
Ancel, sadly, did not inherit her power. But he could read people, their emotions, their desires. He could manipulate those desires too, and that part came as easy as breathing. It was a talent that served him well when he ended up alone at the age of fourteen.
He joined a performing troupe for a while and learned to juggle and dance, to sing and flirt and play with fire. He was the best at manipulating the emotions of the crowd, the most talented at getting them to open their wallets and throw glittering coins to the performers.
When he grew bored and the troupe leader got handsy, Ancel set out on his own. He worked a string of jobs that took his fancy, but none were so easy as seducing men. Sleeping with them was a momentary unpleasantness, but it paid better than a whole day of juggling on a street corner. And best of all- it came with gifts.
The first time Ancel tried faking a soul bond, he’d only wanted a warm meal and a dry place to sleep. His mark had been an innkeeper, portly and wrinkled, smelling of sour ale. The thought of bending over for him or sucking his cock made Ancel want to vomit. So he used one of his mother’s tricks instead.
He was clumsy, the first time, but it had worked well enough. A slight telepathic nudge and the innkeeper’s lust softened to something warmer, deeper. He was clearly confused as he found himself offering dinner to the wide-eyed young man sitting alone in the corner of his inn.
It was easy to fake a shy smile, to blush and stutter out thanks. It was easy to play the man. He didn’t even notice Ancel meddling with his emotions, and by sunset Ancel was bathing in a cozy room and the innkeeper was still serving customers downstairs, dazed and confused, his emotions a tangled mess of something he believed to be love.
It was easier after that. Ancel put together his own chest of tricks, of potions and poisons and drugs. He moved from one man to another, always striving for better, until he found himself with Louans.
Louans was rich and old and not very bright, overly concerned with appearances instead of reality, which suited Ancel just fine. For a while.
Ancel quickly got him under his thumb, besotted and pathetic about it, and hardly ever even had to fuck him anymore. But Louans was just a third rate merchant, always one or two bad deals away from ruin. Ancel wanted more. He wanted to never have to worry about being safe again, being alone again.
And then Louans took him to a party at Lord Rouart’s villa. It was Ancel’s big chance, the first time he’d be in the same room as actual Lords.
He was nervous before his performance started. It was said that nobles received special training, that they were taught to put up mental shields to resist telepathic influence, and Ancel couldn’t use any of his other tricks, not in the ring.
As soon as he walked out into the center of the hall, all the raw emotions and desires of the Lords washed over him and he had to stifle a laugh. They were even easier to read than commoners, most of them drunk and not even bothering to hide anything they might be feeling. And why would they? They might hide their thoughts and plans from each other, but what did they have to fear from an empath, the lowliest form of telepath in Vere?
Ancel picked out a few men from the crowd who seemed to want him the most, stoking their desire to dizzying heights. Through it all he stared challengingly at Rouart- this was his villa, his party. Surely he was the richest amongst the assembled Lords. He would want to bid on Ancel after this, and Ancel would make sure the price would be high.
Except it wasn’t Rouart who bought his contract. It was Lord Berenger.
Ancel bathed and dressed. He painted his lips bright red and dabbed on snake venom with careful fingertips. He opened the discrete latch in one of his rings and laced the thin needle inside with a drug that would speed up a man’s heart and flush him with warmth. Finally, he prepared himself with an oil laced with a powerful aphrodisiac. Ancel himself had long been immune from frequent exposure, but as soon as his new master entered him, he would be overcome with bliss.
Lord Berenger was about to meet his soul mate.
Ancel was taken through a series of corridors and antechambers, then made to wait in front of a large wooden door, his heart pounding with anticipation. He didn’t bother trying to hide his excitement. Let his new owner see how happy Ancel was to belong to him. A soul bond worked both ways, after all, and Ancel was no stranger to faking desire.
Finally the doors opened and Lord Berenger entered the room.
Ancel’s composure wavered as he stared at the stern dark-eyed man before him. He didn’t recognize the man from the hall, though he must have been there. He looked cold and serious, and there was something undeniably off about him. It took Ancel a long moment to figure out what it was.
He could read nothing of Berenger’s emotions or desires, nothing at all. Even Ancel’s mother, the strongest telepath he’d ever met, let things slip through her mental shields. A wisp of a feeling here and there, a brief annoyance or amusement. There had been chinks in her armor, ones Ancel could sense and sometimes even pry open.
Berenger’s mental shield was a wall of ice, smooth and perfect, so impenetrable Ancel could see no trace of the mind behind it at all. If it weren’t for Ancel’s baser senses, he might have thought he was standing in the room alone.
Ancel forced himself to smile.
“You’re early,” Lord Berenger said. “I told your previous master- you have a week.”
“I was eager to see you,” Ancel purred, stepping towards him.
Berenger simply looked at him, unamused.
If Ancel couldn’t influence him telepathically, he had to get closer to use his other methods.
“I’m sure you were,” Berenger said dryly.
“Did you like what you saw in the ring?” Ancel asked, taking another step closer. He only had to kiss Berenger, and then he’d have him. He was so close, only two steps away.
“No,” Berenger said. “I hate the ring.”
Ancel blinked in surprise, faltering.
“I’m leaving for Ladehors,” Berenger continued. “You will return to my fort in Varenne with the rest of my household.”
He was- was leaving?
“What?” Ancel asked, shocked. “But I- but we’ve only just met! I wanted to get to know you. I could go with you. To- to Ladehors.”
“No. You’re too…” Berenger paused, running his eyes down Ancel’s body.
“What,” Ancel said, bristling.
“Loud,” Berenger said.
Loud. What the fuck was that even supposed to mean?
Ancel scowled.
“Parsins will help you settle in at the fort,” Berenger said. “He’ll see to it that you have everything you need. I’ll arrive there in two weeks. Good night.”
With that he simply turned and left the room, leaving Ancel staring after him in shock.
(I've included oracle cards in this fic. All cards are from the Cosma Visions Oracle deck by James R. Eads. Cosma Visions was inspired by the idea of past lives and explores the journey of the soul.)
