Kingdom Come (2) Short Series
|simon "ghost" riley x fem!OC| medieval!au| WC: 2.7k| Chapter 2/tbd)Note: I am revamping this. i have the first few chapters written, I will continue to post every chapter I write. So two and three are done, once I finish four I will post. I just want to keep on a schedule and be able to go back and change things before its posted. The intention for this is to be a short series like 10-12 chapters.
Summary: simon and fem!oc are the hands of their kingdom, they are trying to get themselves out of a war and find solace in each other's cruelty.
CW for the series: Substance abuse, war, general talk of violence, some descriptions of injuries, mentions of sex and brief details. (i use a graphic contents for metaphors but often they are not actually present)
The bar shouldn’t be a lonely place.
The sound of a band swirled in the air; a vielle starting the chant, the beats of a barrels following in suit, the lute finds itself in the melody leading the charge. A high energy at the end of a long day.
The stools and booths inhabited by the usual patrons, meaty men covered in coal dust. Their fingernails blacken, soot sticking to the sweat adorned on their skin, a few loud and throaty coughs here and wheezes there.
“Finally my fucking night off,” A younger man with eye bags of someone older pushed down his suspenders with a scoff, he approaches the bar and climbs onto a seat next to a cloak-clad woman, only using the flick of a finger signaling a beer to be brought over.
Only half of his face could be seen in the firelight roaring to the right of the bar. His tunic was stained grey and a putrid brown from sweat. The boots balancing on the bottom of the chair had a few holes but were tied tight, a knot at the front holding them together. A beer was placed down, spilling slightly over the edge. The surface of the bar top was already sticky, the night was young, but .already been born. Patrons have come and gone leaving their residue behind.
The woman drains her cup, cool pink lips holding the edge. In her gloved hands the mug sits empty once again. Like the man’s bruises, above her cheeks she too wears a deep purple. She turns away from the man eyeing her, spun to face the dancers pulling their partners along to the music. Feet drag and hands shake, but still they dance.
“Do you dance?” The man asks, finishing the last of his cup, waving for another.
“No,” She says, her voice just loud enough for him to hear, but is drowned out by the sound in the room.
“Pity,” He says, plucking her mug out of her lap. He exchanges it for a full one, fingering his pockets for a few shillings. She could hear the muttering of worry under his breath as he counts his coin.
“I suppose, I could learn,” A lick of guilt running up her back she turns to him, finally getting a good look at his face. He’s not handsome, but his features are soft and warm in complexion. A pair of soft honey brown eyes, a smile a little jagged but genuine, angles not sharp but smooth. His hair is close cropped to his head, a bit longer on one side than the other, the back even shorter. Gentle hands did not cut it last. She supposes he will do.
He holds his glass out and they cheers to the night, her own smile now returning, her hood falling back as she tips her head to drink. The man reaches over, keeping his eyes on her for any sign of discomfort, unclipping her cloak revealing her dress. The soft browns and blending in with the tavern and it’s people.
She lets him pull her to the floor, keeping her footsteps light, finding the rhythm of the already started song. She falls in line with the others, facing him as she begins to bounce on the balls of her feet, the boots with the hard sols thunk on the wooden floor. Her shoulders give a shake and she feels her hair slightly fall out of it’s braid down her back. The familiarity of the act bubbles in her chest like cider.
The partners meet in the middle arms hooked twirling around each other, the man chuckles, her arm strong keeps her up right. The drink has already loosen her tightly wound muscles. Suddenly he lets go and they change partners, a joyful girl, not even a woman yet grips on to her. They both let out a exclaim of happiness in the form of laugh as one of them trips and let themselves loose the beat a moment. As quickly as they switch she is whisked away, another takes her arm. Now it’s one of the musicians, a instrument in one hand and the other extended to her, they move against one another until she is pulled back to the first and again and again.
She dances for a long time, her hair completely unraveled. The blonde creating an ocean over her shoulders draining down to her waist. It follows her like a cape when she is spun. The crowd claps as the coal miner and her dance each taking each others hands, arms extended swing around the room. At one point she just stands on one foot, her toe pointed down acting as the middle of a spinner and allow her to just twirl in the center as he moves around her.
Her vision swirls and moves like a starry night in front of her but she feels light like a bird. One that is only bound by it’s own will to survive, only dropping down to land to feast. The sky is it’s territory with long soaring wings and eyes sharp and focused. All the problems lay below her as she is able to unwavering rise above it all.
However the dizziness catches up to her and her dance partner requires another drink. She stops, both feet finding itself as her stomach lurches, finding itself in the floor. Her arms go out to catch her but she must find balance on her own. Her fingers run itself through the knots in her hair as she finds the audience returning their attention to their empty glasses.
The hollowness creeps up on her like a wolf stalking a rabbit, creeping low in the brush, lips snarled back, the yellow glint of it’s teeth in the rotting moonlight. She finds herself coughing, something deep within in her lungs finding its way up. She retreats, the steps back to the bar make her feel like her shoes fall through the wood below her.
Her cloak hangs on the bar stool where she left it, the music still drumming in her veins. She swings it over her shoulders but the chill does not leave. She requests a drink but it does not warm her cheeks as it did before. The man reappears beside her, he tucks her hair behind her ear and leans close to whisper something but her stomach doesn’t flip or find itself lingering on his touch.
She lets him kiss her, maybe his open mouth bringing her the solace she looks for. She touches his tongue with hers but he just tastes of cold, sour medicine.
“You said you couldn’t dance,” His lips ghost over hers, his breath threaded with ale.
“I usually don’t, it’s not that I can’t,” She replies, her eyes half lidded as her gaze falls to the wall. He kisses her again which she accepts but the sickness rushes in through the door she left open.
She draws back, giving him a hard to attack claim likes ‘it is late, my family will be wondering about my whereabouts, I should go.’ He attempts to persuade her to come home with him, but she shushing him with a finger on his lips.
She could go home with him, lay in his bed, let him touch her. His hands could roam her body, ignite a fire deep in her bones, make her mind fog once more. She could loose herself in this man, so pliable and open. She could mold him into the perfect night and never see him again.
But the way he looks at her, with wide open eyes. The rich honey brown with shine in them still. There is not a coal miner standing there but a lady, a little shorter than her, with long curly black hair, rosy pink lips, and white dew skin.
She opens her own coin purse, the weight heavy and finds a few too many coins to pay for the night.
The man makes distance when he sees amount of shillings tossed onto the counter. His gaze meet hers and he knows what he’s done. His mouth gapes open, no words catapulting at her, just leaving air sequencing between them.
She turns to leave, the bad feelings melting away with her steps to the door.
The bar survives on and the man survives on.
But Thomas still is alone.
The image of the girl still in her mind, staring up at her with such betrayal. Eyebrows furrowed, a quiver of the muscle above her lips, teeth in a slight snarl. Eyes wide enough where the whites can be seen before and above the iris, eyelids hiding nothing.
Thomas makes it back to the castle, notably still drunk.
Her posture is slumped, her hair grown in size from the humidity, and a sweat shown on her brow. It does not help that her quarters in the damned castle was floors high far from the entrance.
Many moons ago this land had been home to dragons, ones that bonded with the humans of the region and helped them build and conquer the land. Instead of mortar between the bricks, the bricks melt into each other. Maesterly Castle was built of dark stone and forged in fire.
No one knows what happened to the dragons. In the history books they were mentioned until one chapter they weren’t. Her father used to speak of them often, claiming they still existed. That one day, when humans stopped being so evil that they would return to us. Like some sort of long lost messiah.
Thomas was not the sort of person to rely on hope of that kind. Something she could not hold in her hands or see with her eyes. If the dragon’s were truly gone she would not sit and wait for the chance they may return.
The throne rooms lays in the center hall, each side of the chair the West and East staircases. To the West lies the royal chambers, the Duke’s family lives there along with their servants. No offices or meeting room lie in the direction. To the East is the dining hall, various rooms with just table and chairs, a gallery, and the high officer’s quarters.
Duchess Addison took the time to fill the walls with paintings in the past decade. The halls featured many different scenes, of battles, of gardens, of lovers, of families, of tragedies, of miracles. Many emotions displayed themselves, offering their hands, all you had to do was gaze upon them.
During Thomas’s childhood Duke John’s father, Cornelius, was quite the pessimist. He believed that the art on the walls made his children dreamers when instead they needed to focus on the moment or rather that it allowed them to be stuck in one moment unable to move onto the next. The castle was barren of art for many years.
The first painting to go up was behind the throne chair, a portrait of The Duke, his Queen, and their three children. A symbol behind the crown, the one who reminded you this is the most important thing in this room. As time went on as if fruit on a tree the castle bloomed into color.
The East wing was larger than the west, holding many more rooms and spaces. Thomas’s room was at the end in a spiral tower, all the way to the top. A vantage point over the grounds, all eyes and ears open to the area. Thomas had been one of the more recent advisors to make usage of the room. Her mother only used it for a few years until she married her father, and then they moved into his manor. Her childhood home sat down the mountain that Castle Maesterly was built on, taking about a twenty minute trek upwards to reach the gates. Many days were spent traveling up and down that path, sometimes a refreshing time of reflection and other a sprint up to another battle.
Getting to the small door that led to her room had been a miracle in of itself. Her boots kept getting tripped up on her cloak and the world had a distinct tilt to it. She wrapped her gloved hands on the the iron handle, the wood of the door had swelled due to the weather and the frame it sat in was much too small, she needed force to open it. She had to rip it hard leading her to loose her footing and fall back on her behind. Sitting on the plush red carpet, she let herself just lay back, a hiccup escaping from her lips.
The ceiling matches the walls, something Duke Cornelius could not cover up was the paintings done above, centuries old. Deep rich colors like ocher yellow, crimson red, navy blue, rich purple, and forest greens tell the story of Maesterly. Dragon’s forging the stone together, the succession of royal families, the wars and battles that kept their places, and then at the point the fantasy becomes reality.
Her eyes fixate on the one of the soldiers, behind him a grand red dragon, long and large. The color so vivid she reaches her hand towards the ceiling to touch it, to feel it drip down her hands.
Another hiccup signals the nausea and she can feel the bile rising in her throat, she forces herself to stand, getting on her hands and knees, crawling to the wall to help her. Using a tapestry, she pulls herself up, nearly hurling in a vase before making it through the doorway, pulling the it shut behind her.
Another round of stairs, this time much older and steeper forcing her to use her hands to climb up. Her cloak dragging her down, the weight making her feel like their were vines slowing her. By the time she reached the top she just laid in the entrance of her room and fell asleep.
A week passes since the deal was offered to Walencia and the original drunken night to the bar. Since then she had visited again a couple times but each instead of participating she opted to sit in the corner and observe. Sometimes to feel drunk you need to just dissociate into those who are.
She sits at her place in the war room, to the left of the Duke, with a pounding headache trying to read new peace documents with Walencia. They detail how the war will end and who will obtain what spoils. She dips her feather in the ink dotting a line for the Duke to sign, giving a nod of approval. His deep set eyes poor into hers, still angry, or a least resentful. How could he not be? However his gaze moves to his own hands which he clenches only confusing her more.
Soon the rest of the group enter, each taking their familiar spots. They speak amongst themselves, worry sets itself deep in their voices. Like a dog in a corner, their tails are tucked and their teeth don’t hide themselves behind closed lips.
Ser Simon is the last to enter closing the door behind him, his armor clinking and his sword making an awful dragging sound behind him. He has yet to remove his helmet, his stance unreadable. He sits to the right of the Duke, letting his sword rest on the wall behind him the metal matching the color of the dark grey. Today, peculiarly, no red adorns him, no sign of struggle or blood. She had become use to the sign of gore, often a part he was unable to remove himself. Seeing him without it made him seem more of a stranger than normal.
For some reason her chest, begins to swarm with heat one she hadn’t regain since the week prior.
“Welcome everyone,” With the start of the Duke’s words the scribe in the corner begins to write. Sometimes she thinks about how history will remember this day. Will her words be written the way she spoke them. Did the hesitation make itself evident? Will history know how much this pained her, how deep the rot how taken over her. Or like the dragons will the details be left out. A moment she was there until she wasn’t anymore. Will she be a folk tale? Will this all just be a bloody history to look back upon with regret?
“Walencia has accept our peace deal, we are now to agree to the official settlements, and I suppose to plan a wedding.”
Ser Simon removes his helmet to revealed that managed face of his, a smirk upon his scarred lips. With that the warmth in her chest travels up her face to a wide smile of triumph.
