More Rochester Silco from our @constant-fragmentation's fic, 'Bend But Not Break'. Decided to do two versions where you see both sides of them because Silco's eye is super fun to draw.
After the Zaunite Isles take their independence, there is some expectation of a high-born bride to sooth-away the remaining stings of the rebellion.
As a simple maid to a high-born lady, there are some expectations to follow every order given. Even the order to take her place, her name, her face... And her expected-betrothed.
If only there was an order not to fall in love. It would make thing all the more simpler.
Inspired by @designfailure56 lovely art, found HERE
There was no uncertain-part within you, that withheld the knowledge that you were risking doom and heartbreak by following this command in its entirety.
Surely, all those under the rule of the reigning family knew full-well that their loyalty, their dedication was not to be faltering, nor was it to be questioned upon the granting of direct-order.
A part of you, however, still hosted rebel thoughts, and wished you had simply ran, the very-instant Lady Clara of Piltover summoned you alone to her chambers. A certainly rare-occasion, for her ladyship seemed eager to host a certain hatred for all aspects that reminded her of her status; from her loathing of balls, glaring-eye towards lovely gowns, and even having a certain annoyance for the leagues of servants waiting on her hand and foot.
Having been the one on hand-and-feet for your entire life, you couldn’t exactly sympathize with her.
And yet, bound by duty and pay, you came at her call, and found yourself at her door upon her summons. Being summoned-alone was not the detail that aroused any suspicions or dread.
It wasn’t until Clara grinned at you, with a smile sparkling in secrets, did you think to feel the hints of dread at the sight of a gown in hand, and a vial of dye in her other palm, whilst her own attire was inconspicuously common, hair colored in your own shade.
Before that night, when a maid of Lady Clara disappeared, and her Ladyship seemed oddly quieted the following morning, you had always giggled at the coincidence of visage, between proper lady, and proper-pauper.
Half a year after taking her place, you cursed the resemblance you shared with the woman. Sometimes, you even cursed your own face, for this deception would, inevitably, be the doom of you upon its discovery, a fact you felt in constant-mourning over...
"My lady."
You not only mourned the forthcoming loss of your employment. You also mourned the fact that this would, regardless of inevitable outcome, be the final night you could reasonably be-allowed in the company of the man calling for you. A man, who made your heart beat louder upon the simple act of rousing your attention from more anxious-thoughts.
A legendary captain of the local waters. A headache to the high-borns you work for, and who they worked for. A gentleman, in theory, with hands far-more calloused and bloodied than your own, in practice.
A king. The King of Zaun.
The man was a king, and yet, he called to you with all the reverence and respect as if it were you who wore the crown.
"My lady?"
"... Forgive me. I am extraordinarily horrid, being lost in thoughts," You murmur, in true apology, as you reach up to pinch the edge of the solid-gold mask. The masquerade-theme of this season’s ball, had been an idea set in place long-before you took on the more-daring mask of the Lady...
A seemingly innocent fact that made you wonder, how just how long her true Ladyship had plotted this, with your damning obedience and familiar-face in mind.
Soothing the gilded-gold into place across your eyes, you suffered a quietly-sharp inhale, before turning smoothly to your companion.
Your companion, and Clara’s betrothed.
The fact made your heart beat even-louder, and more painfully.
“Good-sir,” Managing a brilliant smile, you raised your hand delicately with the back of your gloved-knuckles extended. Relief blossomed warmly as he took no notice of your lack of hesitation, and instead stepped forward, dipping to brush lips across your hand. “You are quite late. I feared your absence.”
Silco, king of the freshly-independent Zaunite isles and waters, rose slowly back to his full-height, with a barely-noticeable curl on his thin-lips.
Half his face was shrouded in a mask that was entirely scandalous, and partially hellish - a joke, you imagine, but there is more fascination than humor as you study. The deep contours meld in colors of blood, of black, punctuated in sharp-curves and ending with an even sharper-horn near his temple.
His eye, always hidden behind a dark-patch, is barely-visible behind the severe mask and glints like a ruby born from obsidian.
“Forgive me, dear lady,” Silco mused slowly, voice a low rumble that eased deep into your bones, and roused you again from your thoughts. “I had other business that required attendance this evening, though, I know that does not surely forgive my tardiness.”
“I have already decided upon forgiveness for your transgression,” You assured him, smiling as he tilted his head to the side, his own brand of mirth clear in his bright-green eye.
“Are you certain? Such a sin as lateness is not a crime to be overlooked so readily, even by the most gracious and forgiving.”
“Yet you have been a perfect-gentleman in all other aspects. Surely leniency can be offered now, due your prior good behavior.”
The smile widens microscopically on his face, and your heart beats like a drum at the sight.
“Still, condolences are a necessity, in light of my own rude actions,” He notes, turning on his heel, and offering an elbow out to you. The red-eye of his gleams behind the devilish mask. “Walk with me?”
He hardly needed to ask. You’d walk with him every step, every minute, of every life, if you could be allowed to; but by the present circumstances, you knew it was an impossibility.
You knew that whatever fleeting affections you have for him, were indeed required to be fleeting. While the true Lady Clara did not divulge the details of her return, from whatever grand adventure she sought to avoid future-engagement, you knew entirely well that her boredom would return, and then so would she.
What became of you then, was still unknown. Mayhaps she would pay you greatly, and dismiss you even greater-distances away, or perhaps she would desire little evidence of her escape, and only the Gods would know of what became of that poor, missing maid from her service.
You did not think Lady Clara capable of such cruelty. But, still, you would have never thought she was capable of forcing you to play her part in the first place, so your expectations of her were quite out-of-sorts.
Regardless, one thing was clear: The real Lady Clara would return, someday sooner, rather than later.
She would dismiss the betrothal, or she would endure it. Mayhaps her forever-unsatisfied personality would clash with that of the man of Zaun, and the engagement would break on mutual-terms.
Regardless, upon her return, your companionship with Silco would be at its end. A relationship doomed from the start, destroyed the moment you were tasked into removing the mask, not just of the masquerade, but of this entire affair. It was not only expected, but a necessity, to avoid rousing suspicion or risking detection of the scheme, should he see a lowly-servant bearing the same face, same voice of her Lady.
Upon the real Lady Clara’s return, you would never be allowed to walk at Silco’s side again.
With that melancholy thought, you swallowed thick at the lump in your throat, and slid your arm through his elbow, before he grew more concerned at your extended-silences of thought. You already did too many of those. “I shall walk with you, always,” You assured him, smiling with the lie.
He smiled at the lie too, and your heart was beating so fast, you swore it began to crack inside its confines. You would not be surprised, when it did.
Arm in arm, he guided you away from the already faint bustling of the dance-hall, into the privacy of the gardens. This was not the first time such privacy was sought, for you spent many mornings after the imposed-deception out here among the roses and fountains. Solitude was a well-treasured gift, when one is playing imposter, but in the arm of a king, it feels like a twisted-version of a reward for all your efforts.
All the strain, the headaches, panic and worry melt-away as you’re guided further into the gardens, stars-shimmering brightly overhead as the breeze gently ghosts over you both, prompting your body to seek closer-shelter against his side.
“Had I known it would take only the touch of wind to guide you to my side...”
“I pray, my good sir, that you are not attempting to tease me!” You said, incredulous even as you bit back a chuckle. “And so soon after I showed forgiveness...”
“Ah, I am but a scoundrel of the worst-breed, according to the betters of both you and I, my lady. I’m astounded you have forgotten.”
“Probably because you are anything but, at least in my eyes and experience,” You said, tilting your head back to gaze up at him, the light of stars catching on the gold-contours of your mask, and offering a bright-gleam to your eyes behind them. “You have more-often been a delightful gentleman to accompany... a man worthy of a crown, dare I say.”
His footsteps come to a slow stop, his green eye gleaming as it gazes down to you. A simple tilt, and both mismatching eyes look down at you for a long moment, emotions seemingly nonexistent, or too well-buried for many to discern his exact-feelings, but ultimately, there’s a softness in his volume and eyes that is impossible to miss when he speaks to you.
“Do you dare say I am worthy of anything else, my lady?”
Breath catching within your lungs, you inhaled quietly, holding the air trapped within you as you continued to behold his rare gaze of tenderness - reveling in it, for Gods know how much longer you were allowed to be looked-at in such a way.
“I say you are worthy of it all, good sir,” You whispered, breathless. “And I shall pray you receive all that is worthy of you.”
This time, the softness at the edge of his vision could not be imagined, nor could the odd, determined glint that flashed in his red-eye... solidifying of some sort of resolve, mayhaps? What it truly signified, you were unsure, for his arm tightened around yours as he escorted the way towards a marble bench, laden with creeping-vines of concrete and stone.
“Many would disagree with such sentiment, darling.”
“There are not many who know you,” You countered as he sat you down upon the bench. The chill was momentary, for while his arm left you, there was only a beat before his hand was offered, one you took into your own silk-covered palm with a delicate squeeze of your fingers. “Half year’s time is long enough for one such as I to know what kind of man you are, and what you deserve, in my opinion.”
Silco hums, hand warm around yours, with thumb stroking slowly over the ridges of your knuckles. “Would you consider yourself to be a person who knows me well, then?”
“I would certainly hope,” You said, honestly, but assured nonetheless. Again, all meetings between the Zaunite Ruler and ‘Lady Clara’ had been done through masquerade, and through physical and metaphorical masks, of politeness and courtesy. An unspoken clause to Zaun’s independence, the Lady poses as a well-standing, well-suited match to further solidifying the trade deals and strengthening the bond between the nations.
It had been for duty, something which Clara seemed eager to avoid all her life.
Upon introduction, it was clear Silco cared for little-else in comparison. Pleasantries were surface-level, with even that first, cold brush of lips against your knuckles feeling superficial. A dullness in his gaze, a careful shield that you thought entirely impenetrable even with your smiles, more enthusiastic, borderline hysteric efforts to ensure the gentleman enjoyed the company of ‘Lady Clara.’
For the first handfuls of meetings, it seemed fruitless. A man contented at performing his duty and little else, he had only been polite, and you had only felt more and more unsuited for the role-assigned to you.
You didn’t know this man at all, and truly believed that you never would.
Then, he mentioned a daughter.
Offhanded, brief and few-details beyond her passion for tinkering, but you had latched onto that information like a life-line, presenting the hope for salvation in the form of a top-line kit, paid with most of your previous-wages, with a smile as radiant as the sun at the next dance.
Expressing hopes that it would inspire the enjoyment of his tinkering-daughter, it had only earned his silence for the night, and you thought all the efforts were wasted.
But the reward came slow, steadily after. A walk in the gardens the following gathering, discussions growing more personable, less-plain, with even half-hidden eyes gazing at you with a shifting-light in the green depths, and glints of red beyond the mask/
You came to know Silco.
Not entirely, and perhaps you would never fully know the man, but he had come to know ‘Clara’ enough, that only another month of evening-gatherings came to pass, before the treaty of Zaun and Piltover was subtly-solidified when he referred to you as his ‘betrothed.’
“Lost in thought again, I presume?” The stern-edge to his voice was betrayed by the faint smirk on his lips when your eyes flashed back up to him, away from the edge of your ornate-skirt you had been worrying with your free-hand. “You look like you’re struggling with a puzzle in your mind.”
“You are indeed a headache to decipher,” Teasing, your own smirk softening with another slow-passing of his thumb over your knuckles, following an amused hum. “But despite this, I will not retract my earlier statement. Despite the mysteries, I consider you a man worthy of the crown, and all else that should pass. I shall pray it only ever be-good, from this moment on.”
“And what of you?”
Your breath caught; only partially for the subtle tightening of his fingers around your own.
Silco only smiled, leaning down to loom over you, but your heart clenched only for other-reasons besides fear.
“Do you think yourself worthy, sweet betrothed of mine?”
No, was the immediate, and true answer to such a question.
In your heart, as it sits, and wants, and awaits being-broken inside your chest, you knew all-too well that it was honest, despite the deception you had played. No-more were you worthy of him than if you still wore the attire of a maid in-truth - done-away with the gold and finery, and facing him as one amongst the lowest of the low.
That alone was enough to taint your deservingness, the deception-besides only solidifying the fact that you were unsuited, illegitimate to even be in consideration for the role of betrothed.
“Mayhaps I ought to pray for good-things to come to you as well,” Silco murmurs, gazing down into your eyes as his other-hand stretches up. The next-breath is released in a shudder, as his ebony-silk gloves touch at your cheekbone, temple, before soothing back wayward hairs - in the shade of the true Lady Clara - from your face. “If not because you deserve them, then because we shall soon be bound in matrimony. All good things to you, shall be good unto me.”
“Then I apologize in advance.”
“Do not. I am content to take the good, and the horrid, in-stride alongside you.”
Said so plainly, so matter-of-factly... you wondered if he was trying to break your heart, or if it was simply his basic-nature to do so, without even being aware of it.
“Careful, good sir,” You murmur, quiet enough that the sound of your voice-cracking goes unawares. “Or I'd accuse you of loving me.”
“A vile accusation.”
Your face grows cold in the night-air as his palm leaves your face, but warmth returns in abundance, as the man sits at your side. As risque as he dared, gloved hand slipped behind you and around, settling on your waist-side as his fingers splayed at your skin, tapping at one of the bones of your corset.
It brought you closer to his side, and even closer to his lips, as he murmured against the crown of your head, “Vile, but truth is so often an ugly thing, isn’t it?”
Hands curled into your thickly-layered skirts as you tucked your chin down. “Yes,” you whispered, guilt and delight mingling as a single, troubled entity inside you. “The truth is ugly.”
Silence reigned between you. Outwardly, there was peace between you, but inside of your heart was a swirling hurricane, the shrieking of distressed-winds only barely held-back behind your teeth, along with swirls of lies...
You feared its release as the silence drew on, his warm breath stirring at your falsely-coloured hair in the blissful, terrible silence, before he filled the air with smooth words instead, “Are you happy, with our engagement?”
Gods, you would be.
You could be, if it was truly a marriage between yourself, and him. Knowing it was for him and Lady Clara, however, made you anything but. “I am the most delighted,” You assured him, tone betraying the words, but a practiced smile balancing out lies with truth. “Such a union would make any woman pleased, and I, am certainly pleasured.”
“I am glad,” He said, speaking each syllable and letter in a low-harmony, that inspired you to lean closer, perhaps more than appropriate, against his chest. Silco’s hand tightened, enough to make you draw breath at the touch of his fingertips pressing into your side... the air all came out of you in a rush, when next he spoke, “We can marry tonight, should you wish it, darling.”
Tonight. Tonight?
Suddenly his hands felt too warm, and breath, even warmer and smelling faintly of spiced smoke, closed-in against your ear as he spoke in a whisper, smooth and rushed like a wave over what remained of your good-senses, “My ship lies in the harbor - the reason for my tardiness. We could be wed by moonrise, untouchable at sea by dawn, in Zaun by tomorrow’s twilight... and from there, bound for life, then eternity, if we are so lucky.”
Your heart breaks, and comes alive at the mere thought. Enough to reinvigorate you to at least attempt to speak at the wonderful, horrible plan.
“I-”
Fingers soothing over the ribs of your corset, somehow you froze even further when you felt the subtle smile against the curve of your ear. “Grand-ceremony is something neither you nor I desire... Piltovian grandeur is something you-yourself claim to disdain, I seem to recall.”
Only because you knew the work that went into it. The fair-share of Piltovian weddings of high-class were backed by days upon days of labor, sore hands and boneless exhaustion ignored for the sake of grand-ceremony, often lasting mere hours. Always thankless, even under the guise of your Lady, you found increasing discomfort at allowing the maids you worked alongside to do your bidding, something you had confessed in-confidence to the man not long-ago.
He remembered, and seemed to admire you for it. Enough to make concessions on your behalf.
“Y-yes, but,” You swallowed, suddenly feeling light, perhaps even faint. “There... There is the matter of paperwork. And surely the treaty-”
“-Would be satisfied. As I can promise you, you would so-soon be as well.”
You are no longer prepared to faint, but to absolutely swoon at such implications, paired with the hints of a roguish-smirk on the Zaunites face, brushing the tip of your ear whilst his fingers petted lightly at your ribcage.
Still. “My parents...”
“...Do you honestly want them in-attendance? They hardly seem to know you, my lady.”
“Do you still wish for it? To marry me?” Ever confident, always composed, the man without a crown says it almost simply. Any other would think his tone flippant, with what great-ease he exhibits when speaking the question.
And thank the Gods for it, or this deception would’ve been doomed from the very start. Your heart still races, from the fact that you want to say yes, when everything hinges on the fact that you say no.
A slow exhale, shocked-nerves crackling with both dread and want, becoming soothed at the barest touch. “Silco, I...”
But you know him enough that his simple question is far from simple, and his tone, flippant and easy, does not reflect the hesitation you know he truly feels.
You shouldn’t. It was not something meant for you, no matter how appealing it sounded, but- “I... of course, but I cannot-”
“My lady, you are being entirely contradicting of yourself. For your sake, perhaps I would suggest honesty?”
He sounds... entirely earnest. Calming, patient, like a hunter soothing a cornered-animal, which is too perfect an analogy for the way your heart feels ready to race from your very chest, every nerve sparking with the desire to run.
Run deeper into his grasp, or run away - you are unsure, and with his knuckles strumming lightly against your skin, his attempts to comfort you are both a blessing, and a curse to your heart’s desires.
You want him. He isn’t yours to want.
Both thoughts swirl and swirl, turning and turning, on and on - until Silco says your name, and you, like the hunted, give in to the instinctive urge to simply escape.
Not one to keep you trapped, the arm slides from around you, freeing your body from a cage, but entrapping your wrist in a smaller, subtler one when you attempt to stand. “Darling-”
“Forgive me, I-... I know it is in my duty, but I cannot-”
Silco says your name, again, and then, at last, you realize what he said:
He said your name.
He said your name, and not the name of Lady Clara.
When you're reading a fic and it's so good you don't realize you've read several chapters in one sitting. A Friday not wasted, reading with the puppies and a pot of chai tea.
Regency Silco is the new addiction. Thanks @meowsaidmissy for the rec on your amazing art posts!
Plus, me being the Cushing addict I am, all I can see is a live-action Peter/Silco playing the fucking Arcane version of Rochester from hell. I LOVE this character. OMFG. He's mysterious, mean, sinister, brilliant, arrogant, sweet dad, sexy as shit little devil. I love this bastard of a man.
Kudos to this author for combining Jane Eyre and Arcane. Masterful!
