An ivory colored envelope, blank of any markings aside from the Alliance Lion Head sealing it shut in cooled blue wax. Delivered by on Sarida Evensky straight to the hands of Maxinora Parkhurst on behalf of Director Kat Hawke the morning following their conversation in the harbor.
Seven pages. Each one a wall of text and legalese, though nothing they had not already discussed the night prior. A standard nondisclosure agreement outlining roles and responsibilities, along with consequences should one breach their contract. Payment details, a generous sum, deposited directly into a bank deposit box in the elder sibling’s name.
A single line on the final page for only one signature and date.
Sometimes we make deals with the devil not because we want to, but because someone else will.
***
Max sank into the plush armchair, expelling the day’s woes in a single sigh. The apartment was dark and dusty, lined with a layer of comforting silence. Tendrils of smoke drifted from the slumbering hearth. It was starting to feel like home; or as close to home as she would allow.
Her cheek fell on the back of her knuckles, gaze drifting to the side table. There, a dense pamphlet lay in anticipation. All seven pages read and digested. It was inexplicably dry. And yet, she penned her name on the dotted line- Maxinora Parkhurst. A name hardly worth its weight with how often it appeared on contracts.
“Gilded cages…” she mused, gaze searching the rafters. The shadows above appeared darker for the hearth’s presence. Warmer. A sight welcomed over that of an open sky. How things never change…
Max slid further into the chair’s embrace. Fished from her pocket a vintage tin. Inside, a row of rolled cigarettes and a matchbook. She stuck a single vice between her teeth, chewing on the pipe for a prolonged moment.
“Augustine,” she finally called, fumbling to strike a match, “Could you fetch me an envelope and my wax stamp, please?”
Come the following morning, the contract would find its way back to the original sender. Sealed with the Parkhurst emblem, it smelled heavily of alchemical ash and smoke. And written in the margin was the Alchemist’s precise script: “A pleasure to be doing business with you.”
Her eyes sear him. Blue like the oceans but sinking into his soul like fish hooks. He wants to look away but he is caught under them.
What didn’t he do? He wants to say. But that is a disloyal thought. A dangerous thought. A Theon thought. And that is why Theon had to go.
His lips twitch and his hollow stomach twists painfully. He doesn’t know if it is due to the fear, or the gnawing hunger. Both are constant, though it is probably the hunger.
“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” he tells her. “Lord Ramsay is a sweet man, a kind man,” he insists, trembling a like weirwood leaf in the winter winds. “He will be gentle to you.”
“Are you going to try and exorcise me again? Burn some cleanser? Stink up the homestead in the name of your peace and quiet?” She eyed Helen again but then turns her eye inward toward the pages of the small book balanced between her hands. Addison begins to skim along the pages before another thought occurs and sh turns her nose away again. “You may as well start early, so we may at least crack a panel in the window and have the room cleared before sunset at the very least.”
“I don’t believe THAT drivel for a second,” Nance said through her teeth. “You were made by some devil’s spawn just the same as I was made by you.” She felt the tears threatening again… “I’m haunted by what I could have been if you had never walked into the workhouse that day.” Good for one thing she thought. But could she ever have been truly good? She had always known what was right or believed she had.
She had thought Mags and her were right when they sheltered girls and didn’t lock them in like Quigley had. But now, with Charlotte dead, Kitty dead, Lucy in debtors jail, Betsy dying of the pox and Violet… god knows where… was what Mags and her set out to do actually right? Or was it just the lesser of two evils? Or was it even lesser at all? That was what really haunted her, not that she would breathe a word of that confession to Quigley.
It was a shit turn of events. Being on the run from the law with Lydia fucking Quigley. Nancy for murder, Lydia for accomplice to the Spartans murders… She felt her belief in the difference between them slipping by the hour. She was losing the sense of how Isabella’s soft lips felt against her own by the minute. Losing the memory of the admiration in Isabella’s voice telling her she was “brave,” to kill. Nancy knew the truth. There was nothing brave in killing.
“Maybe I should turn myself in.” She was guilty after all. She winced and turned away as she thought of what Charlotte would think of her crime. Isaac was not innocent. But he hadn’t killed Charlotte. He hadn’t deserved to die. She continued to beat back tears as she tried to sort out whether traveling the road to the noose would be better than traveling the road with Lydia Quigley.
( @lastxdragon sent in 💀 for my muse to die in your arms )
The light from the hearth reflected the glow of victory and relief on both of their faces. The blood and grime from the battle wiped clean. She had reacted so kindly to him bringing the mulled wine to her chambers, inviting him to sit with her and share in the drink. He was happy to oblige. He knew how it felt to be seen as an outsider. He would still be feeling that way had it not been for Jon.
He lifted his cup to her, “To the Savior of the North,” he said, his eyes shining. He took a sip. The liquid burned down his throat. He blew through his lips to cool down the liquid, but suddenly his lips felt numb and tingly and he found it impossible to control them. He began to sputter and cough, embarrassed when he couldn’t stop. It seemed as though the burning was trailing from his throat directly into his gut.
Poison. Poison the sudden thought pounded in his head as he rose from his seat and batted her cup away from her with his tingling hands. “Don’t drink…” he managed to sputter as the floor came up to meet him and he suddenly felt her arms around him as the relentless tingling spread through his whole body.
How had it happened? He had mulled the wine himself, though he hadn’t kept watch over it too carefully… How was this happening… He had meant to do so much… He had survived the Dungeons of Gulltown, the Wall, the bitter relentless northern winter, the army of the dead only to die on the night after their victory. He would never see his mother… tell her he was sorry for abandoning her. He would never see Oldtown again or feel Jon’s warm lips against his own…
The Queen was saying something to him but the words seemed to come from so far away. He tried to focus on her eyes. Her eyes were like bright purple flames flickering anxiously and then dimming into darkness.
𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙢𝙞 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙬𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙞𝙥, entering the seemingly empty and slightly harrowing so!ar cafeteria in search of food. she’d stayed later than idols with her schedule to focus on lyric writing and talk privately about how so!ar would handle her as a part of legacy’s individual member promotions. the painkillers she’d stowed in her pocket rattled as she dug through her bag to buy a bag of chips and some water from the vending machines lining the back of the cafeteria.
after purchasing her snacks, the sound of shuffling from behind caused her to freeze in fear. she glanced into the reflection of the vending machine glass, scrutinizing every corner she could, in search of a someone or something that wasn’t supposed to be here at this hour. she waited patiently and listened for any other sound, but, as a minute and thirty seconds had passed, she shrugged it off and reassured herself that it was definitely just her freaking out over nothing. exiting the room and chuckling about getting scared over practically nothing, she locked eyes with a dark figure and screamed, clenching her snacks to her chest and backing up against the door.
she glued her eyes shut in fear before opening them slowly and taking a good look at who had frightened her so badly. “hold on, seriously?” she exclaimed, frowning in discontent. “are you crazy? don’t do that to me! you nearly killed me!” she clung to her shirt dramatically before rubbing her temples and glaring.
Their stride is forward, always forward. When steps echo along the cold and damp halls with only the scurry and squeak of hastening rats darting from the hall into their little hearths away from their gaze. The screaming, the wailing, the mournful groans of those clinging only to the wisps of their living by the skin of their teeth; all fell silent.
This was the sound of their arrival; and most of all - their departure.
Silence.
They watched the souls deteriorate, watched these gifts fade into small wisps swirling at his feet. And it would be by each cell of this prison- this device of condemnation, where one beast would sentence another for crimes deemed fit by their ideals. And by each large cage he watched, and welcomed the ailing beast into his arm. Sailors they were once, soldiers, sons, and a daughter. But not she- ‘twas not her time. And so his gaze falls past hers, away from where she lay in her agony and misery.
Until steps come to a halt, and there is but the turn of a gaze, the slow sway of a long mask ‘pon his face. “You love him?”
