#dumitius

[helenecalore-blog]

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send me △ for my muse to get trapped in a small closet with yours

send me ♡ for your muse to drunkenly confess feelings to mine

After nearly tearing her chambers apart looking for it with no luck, the princess came to the conclusion that the book was missing, and that there could only be one culprit: Domitius. Fortunately for her (and unfortunately for him), the crown prince was rather preoccupied—with something he was obligated to attend for no other reason than the fact that he was the heir, probably (if there was one good thing about not being born with the crown dangling over her head, it had to be that). The blonde took full advantage of his vacant chambers and barged in, taking a sharp left just before his bedroom and stopping abruptly before a rather plain door.

The only purpose of the closet was to store things he didn’t want to be found; he’d gotten much more use out of it when they were young, and since he hadn’t hidden anything there in years, she could only assume he thought she’d forgotten about it. She could only hope that had been his train of thought. If it hadn’t been, she wasn’t sure where she’d look next.

But her older brother had taken it, that she knew for a fact. The book, given to her as a child by their recently deceased uncle, was among her favorites, and only the prince would be brave—or foolish—enough to steal it. 

The blonde unceremoniously opened the door and stepped inside, squinting up at the shelf she’d been too short to reach when this had been his favorite hiding spot.

Those days were long gone; she was only a few inches shorter than him now, and she could see the various objects scattered about the shelf with relative ease in the half-dark. 

The warm light that peeked in through the crack in the door suddenly vanished, and the blonde glanced back at it just in time to watch it click shut behind her. Alarmed, the princess stepped forward to retrieve her beloved book from the shelf and let out a surprised gasp when her foot made contact with a hand. The volume—small though it was—slipped from her grasp, and flames sparked to life at her fingertips.

He’d scared the sparks out of her, but she could just as easily play it off as needing light.

“What are you doing in my brother’s closet?” The burner hissed, her blue eyes settling on none other than Augustus Samos, his face lit up with an orange hue from her fire. 

“What are you doing in your brother’s closet?” The man returned evenly, his voice unnervingly calm for a man who’d just been discovered in his sovereign prince’s chambers—the closet, of all places.

“Taking back what’s mine,” she said pointedly, her gaze falling to the book, which the magnetron had taken upon himself to pick up.

“’The Art of War.’ What need do you have for this, little princess?” He read the title aloud, his eyebrows raised. A hot—but no longer flaming—hand tore the book from his hands, and, having had enough of whatever this was, she turned to leave, only to find the doorknob locked in place. 

“Not funny. Open the door.” The nineteen year old growled, trying it a few more times for good measure. Nothing. She situated the book between her side and elbow and, when she tried again, the knob moved freely but the door still wouldn’t open.

“Godsdamnit, Augustus, open the door!”

“It’s unlocked. Are you that hellbent on staying with me that you’re pretending it won’t open?”

The blonde rammed her shoulder into the door, gritting her teeth when it didn’t budge. “Don’t flatter yourself. There’s something stopping it.” Although Lord Samos was clearly far from a genius, it didn’t take much thought to pinpoint who’d done it.

“I’m going to kill him.” Ever persistent, the princess threw her weight against the door again, and when she was met with still more failure, she picked her way to the side of the closet that the man wasn’t occupying and crouched. 

“Domitius. They should’ve named him Dumitius for all the brains he’s got.” It was big talk coming from the sister he’d just trapped in a closet—unbeknownst to him—with the elder brother of one of the Queenstrial frontrunners, but Helene paid no mind to her own hypocrisy; any sin she committed, in her mind, was a byproduct of her father’s glorification of the twins—especially her brother.

It took intense concentration for the flames on her fingertips to stay there, and she fell silent, both focused on keeping the fire contained and considering letting it devour the man across from her. When he pulled out a flask, she rolled her eyes but held out a delicate hand nonetheless.

“You wouldn’t like this.” The man drank from it, eyeing her hand warily.

“I don’t like you, yet here we are.” Helene said bluntly, her fingers curling up slightly. When the magnetron surrendered the flask, she tipped it back and made sure not to make a face when the bitter liquid slid down her throat. 

They passed it between them for a while, and when the little princess spoke again, her head felt a great deal lighter and her stomach was much warmer. “Why are you here?”

She flipped open her book and scanned the page, one hand positioned a safe distance above it. When the man was slow to offer much of a response, she released a long sigh. All warfare is based on deception.

And Augustus Samos, try as he might, was a bit of a amateur when it came to subtlety. She swore she could smell the alcohol on his breath, but she was still sober enough to acknowledge that it very well could have been her own.

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles,” the willowy woman read, her accusatory gaze flickering back up to him when she paused.

“You don’t know me.” His words were a bit slurred.

“I’m also not the enemy, aren’t I?” A smirk had found its way onto her pale lips. Augustus Samos didn’t know her either, but he didn’t need to. Whose chambers had he been sneaking around in, after all?

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”