So @sorrygoldfish issued a requests for ficlets about your OC, and how they would react to a big to-do being made about their birthday. And I went a little bit overboard. So here's Rook Mercar and Lucanis celebrating her birthday six months post Ornithomancy.
Lucanis will never be able to get a reservation at Puccini’s ever again. He acknowledges this with a resigned sigh as he slips down into a crouch on the marble-tiled floor and fumbles for Rook’s hand in the chaos. The restaurant is slowly filling with smoke, its patrons surging into a stampede as they press toward the front door. It’s a shame, is what it is. He never did figure out the secret ingredient in their squid ink pasta.
It’s his own fault. He knows that too. He sensed it going downhill from the moment she stepped through the Eluvian this evening, couldn’t help but notice the nervous wrinkle of her eyebrows, the way she kept her lower lip tucked between her teeth.
But she had been wearing that suit he likes — black silk, with her shirt unbuttoned low enough to hint at something lacy beneath — and the heels that meant he had to lift himself up on the balls of his feet to kiss her hello.
“Why am I dressed up again?” she’d asked, returning his kiss more perfunctorily than he’d liked, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her suit jacket.
“Because I’m taking you out to dinner,” he’d told her, slipping a hand around her waist —beneath the jacket, closer to her warm skin — and guiding her down the stairs of the Diamond and out the front door. “It’s your birthday. I promised you something special.”
It’s not as though Rook has ever complained about their usual way of doing things. She’s never expressed anything but appreciation for the meals he cooks for her in her flat in Minrathous, or the evenings they spend exploring his favorite little hidden away spots in Treviso. He likes the way she presses herself against his back when he cooks in her tiny kitchen, hooking her chin over his shoulder to watch what he’s doing. He likes after, when he gets to lift her up onto the counter and lick the habanero burn of her favorite meal from her mouth. He even likes the way Morris the cat tangles around their feet while he does, the interfering little devil.
But it has been six months of keeping her all to himself, and Lucanis had begun to feel guilty about it. Eventually, he knows he’ll have to bring her to an unpleasant dinner with Caterina and Illario. Present her formally as his partner. As his intended, though he technically hasn't asked, and she hasn't agreed. Before that, though, he’d wanted to show her off a little.
He hadn’t considered how uncomfortable she might be walking openly through Treviso thoroughfares. The city is recovering, slowly but surely, the evidence of the Blight cleaned from the canals so that they sparkle in the setting sun. He doesn’t blame her for any of that. Not anymore. But he couldn’t ignore the hunted look on her face as they’d made their way to the restaurant.
He’d thought she’d like it. He really had. Puccini’s makes an excellent pasta fra diavolo, and an even better opera torte. Which he’d had brought out with a candle on top by a coterie of waiters singing an up-tempo, celebratory song.
He should have known when she refused the seat he pulled out for her — the one that would have put her back to the door — and selected its opposite number instead. He should have known when she picked at her pasta and ignored the fried serrano garnish entirely. If nothing else, he should have put a stop to it when the singing started, and her eyes had gone flat and blank but for a single flicker toward the exit.
Instead of pulling her away, however, he’d smiled and said “Happy Birthday, Rook. Make a wish.”
She hadn't said thank you. She hadn’t said anything. Her hands had fidgeted in her pockets, and when she’d blown the candle out, she’d also blown a handful of silver dust into the flame.
It’s one of her core philosophies, to always have a way to make a quick exit. So he’s not exactly surprised when the candle starts to smoke, to fill the space around their table and soon the entire restaurant with a thick, persistent fog.
Lucanis fumbles beneath the table, reflecting on the comedy of errors that has been his first official date with Rook. Then his hand is seized and he feels a forceful tug. Rook crawls on hands and knees as she leads him in the opposite direction of the thundering crowd, through the kitchen and out a back exit.
Once they are free of the smoke, tucked away in a back alley, Rook pushes herself to her feet, takes in a deep lungful of fresh air, and laughs.
“If you ever do anything like that to me again, I’ll set off a real bomb, and not just a smoke bomb,” she says, in between laughs.
“No public birthday displays,” he says, leaning against a wall and staring up at the emerging stars. “Noted."
“Hey,” her hand slips into his like it belongs there. Because it does. “What was all this about? You know me better than to think I’d want a whole song and dance like that for my birthday.”
Lucanis sighs, looks into her face. She’s got a smudge of silver powder on her nose, and her hair — slicked back at the start of the night — has fallen into her face.
“I … May have gotten into my head about a few things.”
“No kidding,” Rook says. “Why?”
“I … I don’t ever want you to think I’m not proud of you,” he says. “Sometimes I worry. I like the idea of keeping you for myself. But not hiding away.”
Rook stares at him a long moment, then she leans in and kisses him. Properly this time. Teeth nipping at his lip, tongue darting out mischievously.
“You just want me to make peace with your grandmother,” she teases, knowing somehow. Knowing him. Impossible woman.
“A cordial dinner might be nice,” he replies. “I might even settle for tea.”
“Alright,” Rook says. “You could have just asked, you know. Without the ritual humiliation.”
“I … Really was trying to give you a nice birthday. Yes?”
“Yes,” she says.
Lucanis pulls her in. Places a kiss on her brow, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth.
“Is there anything you did want for your birthday?” he asks, voice low, just for her.
“Hmm,” Rook considers. “You know, I’ve always wanted to go for one of those romantic gondola rides …”
“Those are for tourists,” he scoffs.
“Yes, and fancy restaurants right off the Street of Coins aren’t for tourists at all,” Rook replies. “Besides, I bet you know some very romantic routes. Off the beaten path, maybe?”
She steps back, shrugs her jacket off and tosses it over one shoulder, giving him a look that never fails to make his pulse spike.
“I might have some ideas,” he replies, voice low, prowling forward, on her scent.
“Show me, then,” Rook says, smile flashing. “I made a wish.”
Just as quickly as Autumn bloomed, Autumn withered. Draco enjoyed the turn of seasons in Edinburgh. He reveled in the blazing oranges and reds as they wilted into grey. Winter would arrive soon, but he didn't mind. He found comfort in the colder months, in the excuses they granted to remain inside. If Summer and Autumn called for togetherness, Winter seemed to beg for solitude.
(I made this caption for Six Sentence Sunday since I'm working on a lot of art right now -- thank you so much for tagging me last week @nv-md! Tagging anyone who wants to post six sentences and share their work!)
I am veeery slowly making progress on the next chapter of Death and the Bridegroom, after way too long, and letting the brain worms pull me through the next chapter of Breath as Hard as Kerosene. So today I'll share a little bit of both!
Tagging in @blightwashed, @khayr, @adejareve and @starcityrebels in case you've got anything you feel like sharing!
Next up in Death and the Bridegroom, Lucanis attempts to teach Rook to swim:
Her breath catches in the back of her throat as he shoots her a wink, then dips beneath the glassy surface of the water.
At first, Rook is unconcerned. Lucanis is a strong swimmer. She doesn’t have to worry about him. but the moment drags and holds. She moves from her tree, taking three unsteady steps toward the water. The surface is eerily still, not even the ripples from his entry remain.
“Lucanis,” she calls.
Silence. Not even a bubble rises from the depths.
Rook pulls at the tie of her dressing gown, letting the silk pool at her feet. Her breath is coming fast and ragged. She steps to the very edge of the spring. She’s trembling.
He pops up to the surface of the water like a bubble in champagne, shaking his head and sending droplets of water skipping across the spring. Rook clutches at her throat.
“Andraste’s tits!” she hisses, tugging a hand through her hair, heart a small, skittering animal in her chest. “What were you doing down there, leading a council meeting?”
Lucanis looks up at her from his place bobbing gently in the center of the spring. There are water droplets on his lashes, shimmering in the moonlight, and his normally warm brown eyes have gone shockingly dark and wide.
Which is when Rook realizes that she’s just standing there, completely naked. It’s not as though it’s anything he hasn’t seen before, but familiarity does not seem to have banked his interest.
She feels the weight of his gaze like a hand running warm across her skin.
“It’s nice down there,” Lucanis says with a little shrug. “Quiet. Spite doesn’t really like the water.”
That makes two of us, Rook thinks.
From my AKOTSK fic, Breath as Hard as Kerosene, it's almost time for a trial by combat:
At his prodding, Ser Glendon rouses a little, raising his head from where it had fallen against his chest.
“Ser Lyonel,” he says, voice weak and trembling. “My Lord. I cannot … I cannot thank you. Enough. For speaking for me. I shall not shame you. In the lists. I shall not.”
The tent, a buzzing hive of activity only a moment before, is silent enough to hear the drop of a pin against the ground. Lyonel quirks his head to the side, then he stalks toward the boy, sinking down on his haunches to look up into his face.
“You listen to me lad,” he says, voice lowered to a barely-suppressed growl. “You cannot enter the lists as you are. You cannot even grip a lance.”
“I must,” Ser Glendon replies. “If I do not … my honor. My life. Ser …”
“There is no dishonor in it,” Lyonel replies, patting the boy’s knee. “They have purposefully injured you so that you cannot fight. Even when they had you chained, they feared you. The dishonor lies with Gorman Peake and his lackeys. Not with you.”
He is right, Dunk can see now. That is why they have focused on his hands so, why they meant to take his fingers if they’d got the time. A knight may always call for a trial by combat. Only they did not consider a poor hedge knight might have anyone else to take his part.
“My life, then,” Ser Glendon says, with a morose finality.
Dunk takes a step forward, fueled now with a purpose.
“Ser Glendon, I will — ”
“One more word from you, and I will have you whipped to weeping, I swear it,” Lyonel spits at him, one finger pointed at Dunk in stark accusation, eyes burning with dark fury. “I have already watched you die in the lists once this day. I shall not be attending an encore performance, I assure you.”
