#calliopevalmont

[honor-among-th1eves]

A memory that makes them feel angry.  Asked by @shadowrcith and @vasylia Featuring @calliopevalmont

There had been women before, that was to be certain. At random ports and on drunken nights of revelry. There had been many women before, but none who had affected Feivel to the point of any sort of attachment. Perhaps this was because these women understood the temporary nature of the man’s presence at their shores, or maybe it had been because Feivel was a different being all together in those days.

He had felt so strongly the impression that he had been reduced to little more than a caged animal within the walls of Castle Tyrholm when he first arrived stripped of his wealth, his reputation, and forced to watch the slaughter of his men. The sense of deep mourning and dread had followed him like a ball and chain slowing his mind and body the first several months he had occupied his station in King Septimus’ court. He supposed he saw himself much like the relics and treasures displayed in the grand halls of the castle, something to gawk at, an object to display the grandiosity of everything that Septimus had managed to accumulate.

It was a chance encounter with Queen Calliope that felt like the hand that reached out to help pull him from his living grave. No, he would not call himself a sentimental man, but he was one to recognize the resources at his feet. He wouldn’t say he loved her—that felt a step too far, and something he was significantly unfit to ask to be worthy of. However, the pair did offer one another a respite, a physical outlet colored by a sort of mutual understanding.

Even if Feivel was not brave enough to admit it to himself, the fact that love was not on the table did not mean the affair was devoid of feelings altogether.

Calliope stirred something in Feivel, which in and of itself was more than he had ever hoped to feel after his sudden capture and subsequent appointment within the court. He would not say it, but he recognized plainly from the start that Septimus had been the one to marry upward, out of their league and not the other way around. Feivel himself was a significant step downward for Calliope, even in comparison to Septimus, but still he could not discipline himself enough to stop from sneaking into the queen’s private quarters while Septimus was away on some hunting trip or other indulgence.

Feivel entered the queen’s chambers, his footfalls silent and his breath baited as he checked over his shoulder at intervals to make sure the coast was clear and the secret remained between the pair of them. He called her name only when he was convinced it was safe to assume they were truly alone. He didn’t expect her to come to him, but rather wanted only to announce his presence.

She was at her dressing table when he found her, her long hair cascading down her back in turns as she ran a comb through it. It made Feivel envy her comb for a moment; to contribute to that tremendous beauty, to run effortlessly through that ebony hair finer than the richest silks this world had to offer. The rogue approached her from behind, his hand collecting the thick rope of Calliope’s hair before he twisted it around his rough palm to guide her to tilt her head back. He stooped low to meet her where she sat and brushed his lips against hers revelling in their softness before enveloping her in a deep kiss to sate the hunger that had been building within him across the previous few weeks.

“You’ve been busy,” Feivel stated simply, trying not to sound like some angry animal that had been left to lick its wounds. With his free hand, he lazily dragged a finger along the exposed nape of Calliope’s neck to the curve of her jaw and down along her throat. With one deft, nimble hand he loosened the buttons that had fastened her ornate dressing gown. His lips met with the smooth surface of her skin as he dropped a procession of kisses along the curve of her neck down to her shoulder as he pulled the fabric back from her shoulders. He had scarcely reached her collarbone when something in the mirror caught his eye.

It struck him as out of place, as unimaginable as he lifted his head to stare into the looking glass nearly certain his eyes had played a trick on him. His hand loosened from the thick cord of her hair as he stood slightly straighter, his eyes fixated on the purplish brown markings on her bicep. A moment’s more observation and he put together the pattern of a man’s hand. Feivel adopted a grim silence as he crouched before her and gently removed Calliope’s arm from the sleeve and gingerly examined her skin only to find an additional set of bruises closer to her wrist. The discovery felt like a knife in his heart and a lump formed in his throat almost immediately. He was not an educated man, but he was no fool: no one would have been bold enough to lay a hand on a queen except a king.

Heavy moments passed in silence before Feivel managed to lift his eyes to meet Calliope’s gaze, the expression behind his looking pained. How many times had this happened before? How many times might he have overlooked a welt or contusion?

“What is this?” he asked when the tightness in his throat finally allowed.

Calliope brushed her fingers over the discolored skin, skimming over the back of Feivel’s hand where it rested on her forearm nearby. “Occupational hazard,” she responded vaguely.

The casual nature of her response was a twisting of the knife in Feivel’s heart. It brought to the surface a deep rage that he had previously thought had been extinguished from within him. Had Septimus been present in Castle Tyrholm, he wasn’t entirely sure he would have managed to drown that fire out in the moment. He had no honor himself with which to fight for Calliope’s virtue, nor did he have any true power in the court to leverage in any sort of attempt to protect the woman. He was made to feel completely ineffective and useless in protecting those he cared about months prior as he stood witness to the slaughtering of his crew--and now he stood in that same feeble position. His inability to act to protect the ones he cared for shattered something within him.

Feivel turned his head and pressed a long kiss to the dark bruising on Calliope’s wrist, his eyes closed in a silent invocation to whatever old or undying god that could be tasked with hearing his prayer. After a moment, he released a sigh before framing Calliope’s face between the two of his rough, rugged hands. After a moment of stillness, he pressed his forehead to hers and made a silent vow to find a way to intercede and do what the gods either could or would not.

[francisdaumantas]

when: 6th of the 10th month, evening where: the queen’s chambers closed to @calliopevalmont​

Francis is summoned back to Castle Tyrholm after dinner. By the Queen, of course, because the King has never once requested Francis’ services, and not even an attempt on his life could be enough to change Septimus’ mind about the Undying God. ( All men have the opportunity to step into Undeath’s light, but Francis fears Septimus is too far gone. ) They have a soft spot for the Queen, but that is not why they go; they make the trek from the outer city back into the castle walls, for that is their duty to the Undying God.

The sun has disappeared for the evening when Francis arrives outside of Calliope’s chambers. The guards stationed at her door announce Francis’ presence, and the doors open to reveal the Queen’s lavish living quarters. They have been here before, too many times to count, now, but they are still taken aback by it. Even before they donned the role of Cleric, Francis had no worldly possessions to give up.

“Good evening, my Queen,” Francis greets her with a bow of the head. “I’m pleased to find you safe and well,” they add. It is an obligatory addition, but in this case, it is also true. “I imagine this has been a frightening day for you.”

[honor-among-th1eves]

status: closed to @calliopevalmont​ location: receiving hall, castle tyrholm. date: three years prior, seventeenth day of the fourth month.

Another restless night, and Feivel found himself roaming the halls of Castle Tyrholm with the company of his faithful hound, Gunport, at his side. It was the sound of the wind whistling outside his sleeping chamber’s window that kept a good night’s sleep at bay, the sound reminding him of those wind whipped days out at sea that built him into the man he was now.  He lobbed a ball down the corridor lazily and got some mild entertainment watching the hairy beast chase after it with gusto before bounding back to its master’s side and pushing the slobbery toy into his hand. But even the momentary distraction couldn’t hold back the feelings that he was now more a ruin than a man.

His father had died valiantly in battle, though the skirmish itself could have been avoided by better planning. Even so, his father had died with his reputation intact, ruthless to the end. Feivel himself had quickly built his own mythos around himself, even if it was not as cruel as his father’s. He knew the Clan Asturias had gained a measure of renown, enough for King Septimus to know of their accomplishments, and as the captain of the ship Feivel himself was the figurehead of the legend. On nights like this, he would retract his steps and try to pinpoint the exact moment he had gotten too far ahead of himself or too comfortable. He knew what his father would say, that his downfall was the direct result of trusting anyone but himself. Some nights, Feivel felt that conclusion was correct. On other nights, he surmised that his fate was inevitable. For years, he had wondered how legends were brought to their knees. Now he knew he was little more himself than some exotic game King Septimus had cornered and would eventually mount on his wall like the other trophy animals in Castle Tyrholm’s gun room.

The candlelight flickered from further down the hall, and both Feivel and Gunport stood aware, their two sets of wild eyes pointing in the direction of the disturbance. He wondered vaguely if someone else was being kept awake by the ghosts of their past, or if perhaps it might have been the growing sense of restlessness that had been building behind closed doors and in whispered conversations throughout the castle. He had only been a member of the court for a handful of months, but he knew what the early stages of insurrection looked like. This was something he altogether aimed to avoid, more than convinced that the king would be able to put an end to any treason before it truly started.

It surprised him to see the queen passing through the hall, and for a moment he felt his presence was inappropriate. Life in Tyrholm had come with a healthy dose of culture shock, to say the least. He had cleaned up well, this was true, but he knew he was far from noble. His manners had provided ample fodder to mock him in his first months in the court, and the stiff clothing he had been given felt like it choked him. Perhaps it was his station in his office that made him feel most like the butt of a cruel joke, the books that lined the shelves and his pot of ink and paper virtually useless. He had wondered for a while how long King Septimus would humor him after he realized his master of antiquities couldn’t so much as write his own name. Luckily enough, he had proven himself entertaining enough to listen to that when he was called upon it was almost exclusively in person. Whenever the need to write was unavoidable, it was no trouble to intimidate a servant or page into writing it for him. It took little more than a menacing glare and the simple lie that he preferred to dictate his response rather than be saddled with the chore of writing his message himself.

As The Empress approached, Feivel bowed. It was practiced to look natural, as if he’d been bowing to monarchy all his life rather than copying the other members of court over the past few months. He also took grain pains to make the motion as fluid as possible despite the strain it caused his lower back. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, “I apologize for disturbing you this evening.” He tossed the ball away again, figuring someone of her stature had little interest in being near such a creature. The dog took off again after the ball, springing clumsily down the long hall.