golden

“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” ― J.K. Rowling a private group & multi-muse blog.

[written--infinities-deactivated]

Who Let Parents Make The Rules?

[treasure-writings]

written--infinities‌:

Blaise wished, on more than one occasion, that there was a god of invincibility so he could disappear every time Zeus even had a thought about him. He didn’t need a father in his life, but the fact his could show up whenever to take an entire day made his blood boil. 

The thing was, Blaise didn’t hate Hades. They got along fairly well, often lamenting over how stupid Zeus was when they had a few glasses too many and Zeus was off ignoring their existences. It was the audacity of Zeus to demand others do things for him when if he spent more of his time being productive and less of his time meddling with humans - 

He exhaled because raging outside of Hades’s front door wasn’t going to solve his problem. It was delaying the inevitable. 

And for some reason Arya had been invited to this charade which meant he needed to at least tamper his anger because she was the last person who actually deserved it. His eyes met hers after she finished brushing off the soot from his shirt. “What exactly did the invite say? I could very much see this as a way of Zeus having a grand old time by dragging you out too. You really don’t need to stay. I’ll be in and out. I just have a message to deliver.”

But Blaise had a strong feeling in his gut, by being married to Arya for a good amount of time now, that Hades would be greeted with two guests instead of one. 

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” she teased, holding up the letter, shaking it playfully. “Here, read it yourself. All it says is that Hades requires my services, so you can imagine I had to visit and assess the potential damage myself.” It wasn’t every day that you called Aphrodite, in person ( in the flesh ), for an appointment. Most of the time, it was typically Zeus storming into her office, completely disregarding the fact that she had a schedule and other clients, before he began his routine tangent about wanting Hera back ( about appeasing her ). It had gotten to the point where her notes on that particular subject matter had turned into doodles, her attention not fully bestowed upon the ruler of Olympus. 

She couldn’t help it, he was insufferable in matters of love and sex. 

Which is why the brunette hoped that he hadn’t influenced his brother, Hades. As far as she was concerned, the God of the Underworld and his queen were a very happy, very faithful couple. Any crack in that reality would cause humans ( and herself ) to shudder with despair. Despite that, Arya did her best to remain composed and professional. It also helped that Blaise had been here, giving her an unexpected distraction to grab onto. 

“Zeus? You really think your father is behind all this?” she wondered, knowing it was always a possibility with whatever happened in Olympus. “Still, I’ll need to go inside in case this is another marital affair gone wrong.” Of course, every fiber in her being hoped that wasn’t the issue, and that it was something as simple as Hades wanting to surprise Persephone with a romantic evening — something which required a grand brainstorming of ideas. 

“Shall we go together?” she suggested, holding onto his arm. “I wonder if Cerberus likes you.” The hound guarding the gates of the Underworld couldn’t exactly be avoided. And while she didn’t mind the dog herself, Aphrodite was curious to see how Blaise would react to a creature that was as hostile as he was soft ( much like the blacksmith himself ). 

[treasure-writings]

wisdomlistening‌:

She supposed she couldn’t hold not knowing what she meant against him. Entertaining others had just about never mattered in her life. “Those who haven’t been part of this court don’t have the time, energy, or resources to worry about the height of their hair. We may not look regal, but if we aren’t starving, then it evens out.” There was not a hint of derision in her voice this time. If he was going to speak to her so sincerely, a pleasant surprise in the court, then she would return the favor.

“I genuinely don’t own anything nicer than this,” she added, gesturing to her dress with the hand he was not still holding. Funny, that. If his hands hadn’t been so warm, she might have forgotten the contact entirely.  “And I bought this just so I could do my work here without being completely out of place - which clearly, I admit, it was not adequate for.” She tossed him a half-smile that said so laugh, because even I know it’s a little bit funny. He didn’t need the lecture about the number of meals she could have gotten with that money. Yet, anyway.

Minerva bit back the diatribe she had ready for his note about titles and choices, too. No one gets to choose where or with what they are born, but some get to choose what they do with what they have. But what would be the point? She didn’t know this man, his status, or his struggles. Perhaps he was a seventh son, destined to get nothing. Maybe he didn’t really care to do much of anything regardless of what he had.

Or maybe he was just a stranger, and she shouldn’t waste time on what she could convince him to do to further her own ideal world, because it was really none of her business.

She watched his expressions change, trying to decipher who he was now that all pretense had been dropped. There was a quick wit hiding under there. He wasn’t afraid to volley his quips right back, or to point out her own myopic understanding of the scene around him. It made him all the more intriguing, though she retained her skepticism. A well-meaning rich man insulated from the outside world’s troubles was still a rich man, after all.

“No perfect engagement for you, then?” She didn’t even attempt to hide the sardonic edge her words took on. She did not want him to think she was flirting just because she was genuinely curious. If he wasn’t worried about securing a wife or an heir or whatever it was marriage was good for here, then what did he spend his time doing? “Have a bumped into Casanova on his smoke break?”

As for his question, though, she could at least continue the honesty. “It’s not an entertaining reason, unfortunately. I was here looking after a patient, and then… I decided to stick around. Observe a little.” She shrugged. “I did notice what you mean about the search for the perfect engagement. I hate to be the one to tell you, but dating out there is barely different from courtship here.” Tossing him an amused look, she added, “There are fewer choreographed dances, though.”

He titled his head, unsure what to make of her. Minerva was interesting, different, given how she carried herself ( and how she dressed ). Perhaps different wasn’t so bad, not to someone who had been hellbent on finding a distraction. The stars could wait for him, his attention being diverted and pulled by a stranger who spoke things that didn’t quite make sense ; and how could they? She was from an entirely unknown world, one he didn’t even know existed outside the confinement of the court. 

“Forgive me, but I don’t … understand,” Claude confessed, looking at her curiously. “If you are not part of the court, you must surely be part of one of the families who is, no doubt, having a lavish time inside. No one joins the court, not really. I didn’t . . . because there was never any other option except to take part in the extravagance of it all.” 

Like dominoes being perfectly lined up, they were meant to fall in sync when the time called for it ; the court was the same. When he was old enough, his father began taking him, even warning him to tread carefully. Claude never understood what he meant by that . . .  and now it was too late to ask for clarification ( far too late ). His father’s passing left any questions unanswered and created a rupture in his daily routine. As of now, the court was the only thing in his life that felt solid, felt tangible, felt real. 

Even if he hated it, he hated having to pretend underneath those wigs and layers. 

Some nights he even hated himself, hated feeling so down when the world was at his fingertips. If Claude wanted, he could’ve easily requested the nobility to give him a break. Instead, the blond indulged in their wishes, not wanting to think too much about his own loss — his own incompetence.  

“You work here?” he questioned, finding himself suddenly drawn to the brunette. She wasn’t part of the court, not yet anyway, so he didn’t feel that suffocating pressure to entertain. To jester the crowd, day and night, until they were so full from wine and laughter. Half the time, he couldn’t understand how they had such endless appetites, not when he hardly felt like eating these days. His father had been the better cook at home.

“If you’re working for the court, you’ll receive the finest dresses,” Claude replied, gesturing to her gown. “It’s what the court does, spoil itself and those loyal to it.” 

During his early days, the spoils were great, addictive even. As time passed, however, they got more and more meaningless ( losing their fictitious charm ). Material goods didn’t last long nor did they matter in the long scheme of things. But the obsession of others never stopped, it only grew hungrier, consuming them. Which is why he thought it better to continue the comedic act, the jester hat suiting him — while hiding him in plain sight. 

He chuckled at her questions. “No engagement, none. No one wants to marry the joker, you see.” 

In hindsight, that was probably a good thing. The last crisis he needed was to be betrothed to some eager mademoiselle. A union like that would permanently bind him here, which wasn’t too appealing given that Claude seemed more content to hide on the balcony than engage with the nobility. He wasn’t sure he could handle the facade of being happily married. And the dark thoughts that unleashed from that possible scenario caused him to gulp, the smile on his face flickering. 

“I don’t smoke, mademoiselle.” 

He stepped closer to her, unable to contain his confusion any further. “Outside? What ‘outside’ are you talking about?” Everything she said felt alarming, even if it drew his attention. Claude liked her, liked her from what little he knew of her, that is. Except if she kept talking in such tones, people might think of her as being crazy. 

And people perceived of being ‘crazy’ suffered painful exiles from the court.

[written--infinities-deactivated]

Who Let Parents Make The Rules?

[treasure-writings]

treasure-writings‌:

For some godforsaken reason, Zeus wanted Blaise to deliver a message to Hades. It would take Zeus maybe an hour of his day to visit his own brother and yet he showed up on Blaise’s doorstep with a syrupy smile and patronizing words. 

“He’s your brother, why don’t you go?”

“I could, but unlike you, I’m actually busy on Olympus.”

The minute Zeus left, Blaise threw a plate across the kitchen and took pleasure in hearing it shatter and watching the pieces crumple to the tile floor. An hour after Zeus left, Blaise was making his way to the alleyway with a door only his kind would see. It would lead him to the entrance of the Underworld. Blaise didn’t have a problem with Hades exactly - they both had been burned by Zeus. He had a problem with being labeled as Zeus’s errand boy. 

Just as his hand wrapped around the metal handle, shaped like one of Cerebus’s heads, something clanged behind him. 

“I swear if you’re following me for your own pleasure,” he began, turning on his heel. “you can kindly f-” But it wasn’t Zeus or Hermes or another God who disliked him. Stepping over a fallen trash can was Arya. He didn’t know if this was better or worse because he was not anywhere near pleasant for a friend, let alone his wife. 

“What are you doing here?”

Arya sat in her office, staring at the mirror on her desk as she re-applied her lipstick. Today, it was red — red like an apple, a heart, a passion. It also matched with the rest of her outfit, the sleeveless top showcasing her collarbones on this fine day. Needless to say, the Goddess of love didn’t have to try hard when it came to looking good. It was part of her creation, part of her domain ; beauty was something she could give, something she could take. 

Love, on the other hand, was a force that was outside of her control. It worked with its own fierceness, its own intensity. 

Which is why when the brunette received a letter that requested her presence at the underworld, Arya felt perplexed. Since when did Hades ever require her services? He was one of the few Gods who actually valued the sacred potency of love. She considered the God of death and the Goddess of spring to be a perfect, successful match. So the fact that they called for her proved to be . . . concerning. Arya already had to deal with so many poor marriages and relationships on Olympus, the last thing she needed were happy couples to be added to her endless list. 

A list that comprised mostly of Zeus and his shameless antics. 

So she grabbed the letter, her purse, and departed from the office. The travel hadn’t been far, not when you were godly and could convince anyone to guide you towards the depths of the underworld. Admittedly, her only regret so far had been wearing heels today. The cobbled stone pathway was not doing her feet any favors either ; especially when she managed to get caught between one of the cracks, ungracefully regaining her balance by knocking over a trash can nearby. So much for making a grand entrance. 

Even more surprising was the fact that Cerberus hadn’t greeted her immediately after such a ruckus —  it was her own husband, appearing irritated as ever. Which meant it was another normal day for him, making it all the more entertaining when she decided to play seduction games with the blacksmith. 

“I got invited,” Arya answered, walking towards him, handing him the letter in question. “Apparently I’m wanted, not that that’s surprising for anyone.” 

“The better question is — ” she trailed off, stepping closer to wipe traces of, what appeared to be, soot off his shirt. “ — what are you doing here, mon amour?” 

[ofproseandmusing]

melodies & measures

[treasure-writings]

ofproseandmusing‌:

Belatedly, Lacha regretted saying anything at all. Fidchell was complicated for outsiders who weren’t blinded by the desperation of wanting to understand and she should have remembered that sooner. Only, it had been quite a while since Lacha had found herself discussing the game with anyone who was both human and uncontracted. 

“Think of it like gladiator games,” Lacha agreed, taking the words from Elise’s mouth and repeating them for the sake of settling the concept. It wasn’t right, it lacked a great deal of the nuance as to purpose, but without explaining the fact that she and Adare made a wager every year on the game’s outcome or that it started after they’d both killed their own daughters for the sake of peace in their realms and the human one, it seemed sort of pointless to correct further. 

Apparently, Fidchell was not the only thing Elise was struggling to understand. Her eyes widened just a little at the query regarding her personal recommendation, wondering just what Elise expected her to say, but any sort of dissatisfaction faded with the follow-up question; it was easier to answer honestly. “Of course you’re allowed. Anyone who can pay for them is welcome to them, Unseelie, Seelie or human.” Still, there was the first question to answer. “As for my recommendation, I’d say… be careful. Using something embued with magic tends to be rather addictive, particularly for humans like you and some of the elixirs are not free of consequence. That said, if you ever feel so drawn, you might like seventy-five. It increases creativity for several hours.” She paused and canted her head slightly as she acknowledged the caveat, “Though it does decrease focus.”

She could go a step further, could give Elise instructions on who to talk to or where to find them, but it had never been her way to sell the elixirs. In an old school way, she thought it beneath her.

And perhaps it was her station too that had her wave a hand at Elise’s apology. Being queen meant it was always at her leisure to dismiss apologies or demand them and despite her frank irritation at the interruption, she’d never expected Elise to apologize. She was too human and unaware for her to come down with the full of her temper. Following the casual dismissal, she shook her head and demurred with, “Not that it isn’t a nice offer, but giving you my music to play would defeat the purpose of me making it in the first place. It stops being mine under such a condition.”

It was as good a last sentiment as any, she figured, before abandoning the piano altogether. As Elise started to play, she smiled slightly, recognizing the music—how could she not when Elise was playing what amounted to a classic?—and settled into the very same booth as Rowan for the interim, speaking softly to her as Elise continued.  

When Elise finished, Lacha volunteered, “You do that well enough,” as a compliment and an interruption of her own to what she assumed was likely going to be the beginning of a long practice for Elise. 

As Lacha spoke, Rowan traced a seven-pointed star in the air with her finger and a portal opened, which Rowan stepped through without hesitance, leaving behind a faintly perceptible gold ring that nearly blended into the floor’s pattern but didn’t quite. Lacha turned toward it herself, but she glanced back at the piano and Elise before she actually stepped through. “Do make sure you lock up when you leave.” Without giving Elise a chance to reply, she stepped into the circle herself, leaving Elise alone to practice, that was unless she got curious enough to follow after them. 

( END ). 

[ofproseandmusing]

melodies & measures

[treasure-writings]

treasure-writings‌:

“Forget it,” Lacha returned as Elise parrotted her own words back at her,  shaking her head quickly. “Politics.” And that was the same reason she left Elise’s comment about the casino being charmed and the rest of it alone. There were a great many things she could say but ultimately from a human morality perspective who was worse, her or Adare? She was pretty sure the answer was her. When it came to humans and their vices taking advantage of their propensity toward odds was probably kinder than what she did: offered a little bit of the impossible without much of care that impossible came with paired with addiction.

Plus, the bit about Fidchell sobered her a little. “More than you know, considering its win or die trying for the players,” she returned, simply, regarding the comment about hunger games, before she shook her head. “Steroids, or what have you, likely wouldn’t make much of a difference, but regardless, we don’t ask anyone to play a second time. Frankly, but for the rare few who ask to be made fey, winners usually can’t get far enough away from our world fast enough.” This, like much else, is delivered like the fact it is. There’s little to no emotionality to it. She’s not particularly sorry for the fact that Fidchell makes them seem like monsters, her and Adare most of all. Better that than have to sacrifice Camellia.

“Elixirs,” she corrected, for no other reason than precision, “and no, he doesn’t, least of all for public consumption.” There were a thousand other nuances she could have added here like how Mal made things for her that no one else got or the finer details like how the elixirs were simply emotions and a little bit of basic magic any fey was capable of suspended. Only what was the point? “The elixirs are wholly separate than the magic marshaled after Fidchell. Anything’s possible with that magic, elixirs—while magical to your eyes—are far closer to mundane to mine.”

“Elise, that’s what you’re not understanding. It’s not a job. It’s…” she trailed off trying to figure out how to explain this to a woman who inhabited a world where even a figurehead sort of royalty was a vague concept across the ocean or a screen’s distance away. “Queen is who I am, first and foremost, above being a mother, above my own desires, above anything else. I exist to steady my court’s magic, I rule so they won’t destroy the realm, kill themselves or hurt each other in the business of living with magic and the rest of it.”

She paused, before suddenly understanding herself and maybe the way to make Elise understand, just a little better. “It’s half why I found your critique so irritating. I favor the truth when due, only I don’t take criticism well otherwise”—this acknowledgment’s made plainly without any trace of embarrassment—“and I also don’t get nights like this often. I don’t play to be perfect, I play—and sometimes compose—because it’s mine. I owe no part of it to anyone else.”

She didn’t know why she said this, didn’t know why she wanted Elise to understand or cared even a little bit what one human who couldn’t even manage to keep her mouth wholly shut though but there it was. And saying it also made her realize something else: she wouldn’t play more tonight, even if Elise left it wouldn’t be the same. So, abruptly, she stood, and stepped around the piano, before canting her head toward it. “Go on, then, Elise.”

Politics. That was one efficient way to sum up the affairs between Seelies and Unseelies. They were practically two different countries, both with different intentions ( and a thirst to advance, to win ). Elise assumed the Fidchell was a weird way to achieve that, to settle this ongoing score which appeared to be bouncing back and forth — like a ping pong match. Of course, it would’ve made a little more sense if the queen hadn’t proceeded to explain that the Fidchell was a death match. Literally. Win or die. She blinked, hoping her expression hadn’t screamed: what the fuck? 

“Makes sense . . . ” her voice trailed off, unsure how to respond. “I mean, human sports are soo different. And feys have all sorts of magic and hidden powers. I’m sure the match isn’t a cake walk or anything. Kind of like the gladiator games. Which were violent, and bloody, and gruesome.” 

Elise seemed to grasping for all the wrong words, her brain too busy processing these sudden truth bombs. How was she supposed to ever joke with Ivy when feys watched weaklings like her die for some fanatical dream? She really didn’t have a clue what she had stepped into . . . the Unseelies might’ve liked music, but they also enjoyed watching humans sacrifice themselves in order to keep a truce between two drastically different parties. The pianist felt like she had been teleported into a fantasy novel, fictional, with little to no romance. Not that it mattered, since the queen was pretty — and now she was really getting out of hand, huh? Good thing no one could read her thoughts ( especially when they were rushing faster than a racecar ). 

“Do you recommend trying any elixirs? I mean, are humans allowed to try them?” 

Maybe there’d be an elixir that would teach her how to calm down and behave poised. Or maybe she should’ve listened to her parents more often, always ignoring the way they wanted her to interact at fancy parties and social gatherings. Frankly, Elise thought that watching upper class society interact was almost similar to watching paint dry ; except the paint was actually colorful and soothing in comparison. Part of her felt compelled to ask Lacha about her powers . . . except she held back, pushing down the thought. It didn’t seem wise, in fact, there was probably no proper way to ask such a thing. After all, would it make any sense to question the queen and her magic? No, no way. 

Hence she proceeded to reassure, “ — ah, sorry! I can’t help myself around the piano, I didn’t mean to bother you. You play really well and I’m glad that music is so meaningful to you! If you have any pieces that you’ve composed and wish to share, I could — maybe — play them? It won’t be as good as you, but maybe the other Unseelies might like it, there’s no reason they wouldn’t.” She was literally their queen, they could sit through Lacha blowing bubbles if they had too. 

Elise focused her attention back to the piano, taking a seat. She clenched and unclenched her fists, trying to loosen up the muscles in her hand. With all this chatting, it was time to showcase that she wasn’t just a running mouth full of questions and silly commentary. Her fingers touched the piano, her mind quickly shifting gears ; no matter who attended her rehearsals or performances, she wanted them to enjoy it. Whether that be the queen or the humans who didn’t know of the magic that laced this place ( this world ). 

Nocturne No.2 in E flat, Op.9 No.2 started to fill the silence of the room.

[treasure-writings]

art of seduction.

[treasure-writings]

written--infinities‌:

The biggest struggle of their marriage was intimacy, not because they had been together so long they had lost the spark. They simply hadn’t found it. Blaise wasn’t ignorant to Arya’s attempts at seducing him. He could tell each time he walked in the door when she had a plan up her sleeve. She was terrible at hiding it - with her drawn out words or slow sway of her hips. She was the Goddess of Love after all. Normally, that came with an instant connection, an instant pull towards her. 

Blaise was the question mark. Being a God made him aware of everyone’s powers and also gave him ways to refuse them. Being ignored most of the time was a huge strategy of his. But it was odd to have Arya want to know him, to put effort into a smile, a laugh, whatever was happening right now. 

And Blaise wasn’t quite sure what he was allowing, why he didn’t mind as she joined him on the chair, settling her weight onto his lap. Maybe a part of him wanted the affection. Maybe another part of him actually liked her but was too damn stubborn to make itself known. It was a trademark of his family. Bullheaded. Arrogant. Annoying to the point of strangulation. He wondered how Arya dealt with him and the dinners that always ended in a spiral of frustration. 

“I never hated your outfit. It looks good, but that’s kind of a given.” He knew she’d take his admission and tuck it away as a win. Blaise wasn’t the complimentary sort. 

His hands settled on the curves of her hips, his fingers playing with the lace of her shirt. He titled his neck, just the slightest, as she nipped at the skin. “I mean…this probably isn’t the most comfortable place, is it?” Blaise met her eyes with a playful smirk. “Where would you like to move to?” 

What was love? 

Time and time again, the humans circled around this issue — around what made people compatible, desirable, lovable. Some chose to bestow their trust upon the stars, the relevance of zodiac signs indicating a potential match made in heaven ( or hell ). Others researched into love languages, distinguishing different ways in which people could express themselves and their affections. It was a question that humanity couldn’t ignore, not with their never-ending love songs and romantic movies. Arya appreciated it, appreciated how they understood such a powerful force ( for even she couldn’t control the feeling de l’amour ). 

In stark contrast, the Gods proved to dismiss such a thing, such a fleeting emotion. They were immortal beings, decorated with their own honors and trademark skills. People prayed to them for different intentions, different outcomes. Why would they ever consider her domain, her alleged messy influence upon relationships and beating hearts, to be serious? The Gods, particularly Zeus, thought it was a game ; a tool to wield against the innocent, having them fall for his charms and zealous nature. Even Hera couldn’t escape it — escape the way he made her feel, made her want. 

Love was poisonous sometimes, addictive. 

Which is why when her fingers traced the slope of his neck, Arya couldn’t help but wonder: was he capable of loving? The thought was persistent, much like her stubbornness to win over his affections. She liked the challenge, the endless pursuit . . . but there must’ve been a light at the end of the tunnel, a grand prize for her taking ( such as his heart ). Otherwise she would be left wondering, for eternity and counting, whether or not he genuinely loved her. Whether or not he could love her, despite the fact that they were forced to marry. 

“Is it?” Arya countered, smiling at the compliment. “A given from others but you are hard to speak for.” 

Despite the questions that haunted her thoughts, the Goddess chose to put those aside for this rare moment. It wasn’t everyday that she got him exactly where she wanted — pinned against her. She could definitely write this attempt as being a success in her journal. 

“The bed,” the brunette mused, teasing. “Unless find the dining table to be suitable.” 

[treasure-writings]

ofproseandmusing‌:

A rare smile curved lips at his answer to her admission. He said it all with disdain, but Elodie was of the sort that the validation, that the truth, even as he didn’t like it, was pleasing to her. She liked that she was a fixture and she didn’t bother to hide it. “Oh, but isn’t it really their place to apologize to me?” It was a self-centered question, but she was careful to say it the way that would make him think less of her rather than the way that spoke to a hard sort of ambition. “They’re the ones who’ve bored me tonight.”

His apology wasn’t one, and Elodie didn’t think he was really so stupid to believe what he said, but she still found her head tilting slightly before she asked, “Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that they’re laughing at you rather than with you?” A pause followed before she cruelly elaborated just slightly, “Laughing at the fool of a son a respected man managed to raise?”

The questions showed an intelligence she rarely betrayed in that it was more insightful than the fool she played, but she didn’t fear showing it here, not when she thought the questions might land and that it might hurt him. There was entertainment in that.

Once Claude said, we aren’t, though, Elodie ignored the rest when he said what she wanted to hear, only waiting for him to quiet enough to make the point she wanted made. “Then don’t call me by my first name.” It was a soft reprimand, gently done all things considering, before a small smile quirked lips. “Unless you’d like to become familiar, that is.”

She knew he didn’t want that, and she hardly wanted it herself, but the offer stood even as familiar remained ill-defined, deliberately so; one interpretation of things could be branded treasonous for her at least to his knowledge.

Only, he spoke of grief and she forced her expression to something softer; she had no sympathy, she didn’t care, but apparently he did, and she couldn’t pretend to be so heartless as she was, even as he insulted her by proxy of the court. “I’m sure His Majesty would offer you temporary absence if you thought it would help.” She paused, looking for the right words to effectively portray something she didn’t feel and her gaze shifted back into the ballroom and the simulacra she’d left on the dais. “You aren’t the only one who misses him,” she said, before turning her gaze back on Claude. “and my brand of amusement doesn’t suit in those quarters either.”

Truthfully, she would be pleased if he took her up on it, pleased to have one more irritant out of her life. Only, she doubted he would because unless she was wrong, he had nowhere else to go.

She shrugged away the quibble about immaturity, figuring it wasn’t a no, and she focused more on the answer he gave, the dare she could issue. 

“But if you’d prefer to play, then jump,” she said, nodding to the balcony and it’s small-ish fall, voice soft and somewhat gentle despite the absolutely inappropriate nature of what she was suggesting. It wasn’t like she was suggesting something that was outright deadly, because it wasn’t, but it wasn’t exactly free of danger either. Perhaps it was the middle ground she needed: bad enough to sate the dark thing, ridiculous enough that she wasn’t betraying herself entirely. 

“They’re the ones who’ve bored me tonight.”

If there was anyone that could talk people into circles, it was definitely the queen that reigned over the court. One minute she was dissatisfied with her own evening, another minute she was pointing the blame onto others as cause of fault ; the moodiness was not endearing. Especially when he wished to be left alone ( to the solace of his own thoughts, his own company ). Still, he had to entertain even the nit-pickiest wolf amongst the sheep. 

“Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that they’re laughing at you rather than with you?”

Claude shrugged, careful to not lean back too much ( otherwise the ground wouldn’t be the softest welcome ). “A laugh at my expense is still a laugh, dear queen.” He had no desire to grow familiar with her ; in fact, trying to imagine the mere outcome of that nearly caused him to smirk. Elodie could keep her web of carefully crafted appearances and politics to herself. As for him? Well, he didn’t like spiders ― preferred to squish those blood suckers before they invaded his territory. 

However, a temporary leave of absence sounded tempting . . . even if he had no idea how to kill time. With his father gone and his brother absent, Claude found himself mulling through the motions of life. The court was the one nightly event that allocated enough time on his schedule ( despite his current distaste for the finer luxuries ). Elodie not being entertained by his jesters wasn’t much of a worry to him, she could find some poor peasant to laugh at instead. But, her offering him a chance to willingly depart? That wasn’t an opportunity he would resist. 

“But if you’d prefer to play, then jump,”

Immediately, the playful grin returned onto his face. His fingers gripped the edge of the railing, the music from the party filling the air as distant background noise. Claude could certainly play this game, this chase. “If you insist, dear queen.” 

Without hesitation, he lifted his legs and flipped backwards ( falling, falling, falling ). The blond managed to perfect his landing, as if he had mastered the technique from an agile cat. His hands brushed against his outfit, his eyes glancing upwards to find Elodie standing above him. This was exactly how much distance he preferred between himself and the queen ; between himself and the frivolous court. Claude curtsied, bowing to finish off his part of the dare. 

“Until next time, dear queen.” 

Without waiting for a response, he ran off. Ran far away from her reach, from her control ( the highlight of his entire evening ). 

[ofproseandmusing]

melodies & measures

[treasure-writings]

ofproseandmusing‌:

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean, Elise.” Lacha returned as Elise tried to accept—and hedge—at the same time, finding nothing particularly endearing or softening in it. “I wouldn’t have offered if I was too busy for it, nor would I even be here. This is my indulgence.” 

A huffed out breath was Lacha’s immediate response to Elise’s observation, amusement curving lips in the corners. “You have no idea.” Head canted though as the implication processed and she gave Elise another considered glance. “But look at you, so self aware.” There was an unspoken question that followed a how or a why, but Lacha left it alone. It wasn’t necessarily her business. Instead, she shifted her thoughts to a previous comment, charmed by the notion of Elise snooping if only to bash their taste in music. “I’d give you the money myself, but that might be interpreted as staking something of a claim over you without the benefit of ownership, which would be somewhat dangerous on that side of town.” Peace only extended so far as the courts themselves and their players. Whatever could be done quietly or discreetly without violating the truce would be.

“Rivals isn’t quite the word I’d pick. It’s more than that. Fidchell’s a replacement for all out war, Elise, and since you asked, last year it was won by the Seelie with a girl named Laura,” she said, answer given with more bite than anything else she’d said this far, expression shifting, fleetingly, to match with a true sort of irritation. “It’s been one of their players the last several years, which is tremendously annoying to me. I hate losing.” She knew this was how things went, that things had been flipped mere years before, but it made losing no less frustrating. Still, she let the irritation fade some. “And before you ask, she wanted a more mundane sort of impossible than being made. A cure for a fiancée’s terminal illness, or something.” There was something callous in her half-dismissal, but she didn’t really care. “I don’t really remember the details.”

Her gaze shifted away from Elise then, though, sliding down to the piano’s keys as she quickly organized her thoughts to try and give the most condensed but feasibly useful version of fey history she could manage to give, now that everything else was responded to. When she figured out where she wanted to start, how she could condense everything down as much as possible, she let her gaze find Elise again.

“Fey, we’ve our own creation story, our own gods, our own several thousand years of history. I won’t bore you with it, it’s a conversation for another time or day, I think. To give you what’s most present and pertinent, Adare and I have been ruling for the last century and half, though to be precise, he has another half century or so besides and I’ve unofficially been queen since my mother died when I was twelve. We don’t get on and we all but used your World War One as an excuse to go to war ourselves, which ended badly for the both of us.” Her eyes found Rowan then, expression unintentionally softening as she noted the way Rowan’s expression had gone tight.  

It was an interruption, but she took the time to softly address her, this time in English. “Rowan, go take a walk.”

In answer, Rowan only shook her head, and muttered something about not needing it. Lacha fleetingly frowned, but she let it go, and turned her attention back on Elise. “We’ve found an uneasy peace since then. We both lost too much to do anything else, lost too much to want to stay in Ireland. We moved our courts to the city not long after, for the sake of a fresh start, but we still don’t get on. I hate Adare most of all for his ego and insincerity while he thinks I’m a bitch.” 

She paused then, letting out another amused breath, before she dipped her head and smiled coolly, “Of course, he’s not wrong. But he and his prefer things to be pleasant and lovely while me and mine prefer the truth of them no matter how ugly.” 

“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean, Elise.” 

Right, that would make total sense ( especially when Lacha had been the head boss in charge ). The pianist couldn’t help but feel impressed by the ice queen’s presence and power. Fey politics were entirely different than the human world ; at least, no politician really lived up to their promises. People said things without meaning it all the time — even Elise had lied through her teeth to get jobs. And now she would have to keep her mouth shut before she managed to bluff or react so badly that they fired her. Or punished her. Or whatever fey do to traitors. 

“Staking a claim?” Elise repeated, confused. “It’s okay, even if you did give me the money, I’d probably end up losing all of it. Ivy said the casino is charmed and makes people go crazy. They must love the wallstreet workers that waltz in by mistake. Those guys are like walking piggy banks, oink oink.” 

A definite bad example, one that made her cringe slightly. It wasn’t that she was supporting whatever the Seelies were doing . . . it was that she didn’t really like all the rich folks. And she was once part of that crowd, that nobility. None of it really made sense to the pianist, not when the rules of decorum were so rigid that pursuing dreams meant having to break bonds. These bankers couldn’t have been all too happy if they were ready to throw all their money away. 

Or maybe they all had deadly vices to battle. 

And hers involved running her mouth for no apparent reason besides sheer nerves. “A replacement for war, huh? Sounds like the hunger games. How many fidchells has Laura played? She’s got to be cheating or something. Using fey steroids of some sorts.” 

Elise couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow at the mention of a cure. Apparently these fey had more powers and medical enhancements than she could wrap her musical brain around ; it was one thing not to age for decades, it was another to cure life-threatening human diseases. 

“Sooo . . I guess Malachite really has serums for everything.” 

Or was it potions? The human wasn’t sure what they concocted ( even if it seemed like a rare elixir ). Elise watched Lacha’s fingers dance across the piano, wondering if the queen wanted to play some more ; the brunette wasn’t about to stop her either. This entire kingdom was under her command and who was she to argue against a little procrastination on her own part? Ivy couldn’t yell at her for not rehearsing when the queen occupied the piano, right? 

Her eyes widened at the mention of World War One, unable to grasp how they were really that old. Rowan being asked to leave only diverted her attention, the human waving her goodbye with hesitation ; the war must’ve been really bad if the fey found it unnerving to discuss. Elise may have been rather hopeless but she knew this was definitely a topic not to trigger. A mental note to keep shelved in the back of her mind at all times — don’t bring up the shitty past. It was probably one of the few things they did have in common ( a painful history ). While hers wasn’t filled with death or chaos . . . she left behind her entire identity to forge a new one from scratch. 

“He thinks — what? Hey, that’s not fair. You’re just doing your job.” And from all the historical movies she’s watched, being queen certainly wasn’t easy for any monarch. Apparently the romantic drama was wild too. Not that she would poke for information regarding that topic. No way. Her own love life was questionably nonexistent. 

“Well . . . that means Ivy won’t hold back on her criticisms. But it’s better to be roasted than live with rose-colored glasses. Music is a tough business anyway.” 

[kiplingwriter]

dancing in my storm

[treasure-writings]

kiplingwriter‌:

The praise didn’t hurt, though there were plenty of times when it got stuck into the cracks of her skin and burned painfully. She didn’t know when it would get better and if it even would, finding all the ways to numb the pain until she rode high enough that nothing bothered her at all. Still, the other’s words were hanging around her shoulders as they passed through the various hallways that led to the stage. It was there that she’d be able to share where Elise would join them on this tour, taking the place of another who couldn’t handle the schedule or Lark’s erratic behavior at times.

It wasn’t the most hectic of tours, seeing as The Rookery would often call her back to her other life and Lorde would fade back into the background and claim to work on her songs for the time being until she showed once more. “Your words are treasured here,” she murmured at the other with a hidden smile as she tapped at her chest twice before sweeping forward towards the stage as she dodged one of the many roadies who hadn’t seen her or them coming. Lark laughed at the look on their face as she passed by, the shock and worry that they’d almost stepped into her path while lugging the equipment but kept on moving past it.

          “If I prepared you, then you wouldn’t be able to feel surprised,” she teased back as the other found the piano while Lark glided around it before landing her backside on the edge as she perched herself with legs swinging while her eyes were on the other. “That would spoil the fun, the surprise, and the first time for you. I can’t be the one to do that.” Not to mention there were plenty of nights when she didn’t feel as if she were even fully present, but the others would be able to handle it and her.

The other’s grin was infectious, feeling the excitement rolling off of her in spades as Lark wanted to sit there and soak it all in with the feelings that could be molded into something productive. With or without the elixirs, her voice would carry throughout the stadiums and crowds to reach even those in the farthest seats away and leave her empty, hollowed out for the rest of the night when she stopped. But it was the before feeling that she craved, the adrenaline pumping through them all as she could reach out and feel what they were feeling rather than feeding it to them.

          “Play me a little something.”

A question, a proposition, but also a desire to feel out the other beyond what had been shown on paper and tapes sent to the management. “No one is around, just the two of us.” If that was a reason why the other might hesitate, Lark wasn’t wanting to let the other slip away without a little something as he leaned forward onto her stomach and smiled over at the other. “Anything at all.”

“Your words are treasured here,”

Elise couldn’t stop the warm, excited feeling the blossomed in her heart ; her eyes were transfixed on pop artist, following Larkspur without any hesitation. There was something about her, something entirely alluring and magnetic. Her boss could’ve asked her to do countless jumping jacks and other ridiculous stunts yet, somehow, Elise wouldn’t mind it at all. Perhaps this was her admiration shining through ( or perhaps it was that silly idol crush ). Either way, the brunette found herself trailing alongside someone who frequently appeared on billboards and magazines. 

Seriously, when would someone pinch her? The energetic high felt too good, too real. Contagious in the best way possible. 

“Huh? Oh, no, I’m definitely surprised. Like, this has been the most life has surprised me in a long time.” 

It truly felt surreal ; being here, being part of the tour. She wondered what her family would think if they found out, if they knew about the opportunities that awaited. Would they finally be happy? Proud? Accepting? It was difficult to not think about them ( think about the family that raised her, introducing her to music ). Except to pursue this pipe dream, Elise had fled from home with nothing but a small duffel bag of clothes and a wallet full of cash. She had been naive to think that would sustain her, naive to believe that the city would welcome her with open arms. 

Despite the financial struggles and poor nights of crashing on friends’ couches, nothing could prepare her for the grand stage. Larkspur moved throughout the vast space with ease, willing it under her control ; like a magician that was full of clever tricks. Elise knew that concerts were special because it was a chance to see an artist perform ( a chance to witness their stage presence up close ). However, part of her couldn’t stop staring no matter how much she tried not to — this was her boss. How much longer could this sparkling, iridescent effect last? Possibly forever. 

“Play me a little something.”

Elise blinked, processed her words slowly. “Oh, right, of course.” Anything for you, Lark. She stepped towards the keyboard that stood in the temporary spot for the piano. They were still trying to rearrange the stage, making sure all the details and grandeur matched Lorde’s excellence. Her fingers dabbled on the keys, playing a few scales to warm up. Despite her dazed, dreamlike state of shock . . . music wasn’t difficult to grapple, familiar with its harmonies. 

“Anything at all.”

Elise felt herself grin, unable to look at the beautiful musician who requested a performance. “I will . . . but you can’t laugh.” Not when her fingers started to play the well-recognized, melancholic tone of Für Elise by Beethoven. An ode to her name, to her past self. The song bringing together all aspects of her life into one singular moment, heard on the very stage that would soon become her second home. 

Shit, this was really too good to be true.  

"I love all music . . . but I always end up back to classical,” Elise admitted, the song reaching its intense peak ; the tone shifting entirely. “Did you know this piece was published forty years after Beethoven’s death? Researchers say that he was never truly satisfied with his composition or that it was written for a lover. Funny, isn’t it?” the way music transcended time. 

[treasure-writings]

art of seduction.

[treasure-writings]

written--infinities‌:

Honesty was a quality most admired and most used by Blaise. Part of his reputation came from a tongue that cracked, that spooled words because staying silent sometimes caused him physical pain. Especially when it came to his parents who could talk as if he wasn’t standing two feet away. He would not be cast aside (until he had) and he’d make it damn well known he wouldn’t dissolve into the background. 

Easy was submission. Fighting back was rebellion.

Now, he found himself in a situation where fighting back would harm someone who didn’t deserve it. Blaise was not an asshole like his father. He didn’t run people over because he gained something from the outcome. Arya’s choice had been taken from her too. She could have anyone she wanted - who would say no to Aphrodite? Up to this point, when the wine fizzled through his body and they were more honest than they had been in a long time, it wasn’t Blaise saying no. It was Blaise saying it was complicated and love was never in the picture. He didn’t know how to be a husband. He barely knew how to be a partner.

That didn’t stop his breath from hitching as Arya moved closer until he couldn’t focus on the way her hair fell, or the softness of her lips, or the glint of mischief in his eyes. This was so much at once and he would be sending a note to Dionysus once this was all over. They were both foolish to believe the wine would be well tempered. 

“Didn’t we just go over anyone who heard me sing would have no ears left?” A smile crept forward, soft, careful, until Arya’s lips were pressed against his. Heat rushed through his body as did a million thoughts, but he silenced them all. He hadn’t been with someone in a while. He hadn’t been with someone who had actively tried for months to seduce him. 

And it was kind of nice.

It didn’t take long for the position to grow tiresome, to feel they both wanted more, Blaise pulled back, waving Arya forward. “Come.”

Any inclination towards conversing seemed to melt, no matter how open they were becoming with their thoughts and personal experiences. Turned out that their reputations were grand as the rumors that were spurred in their wake ; the weight of carrying such burdens alone finally easing a little. Arya was pleased to discover that they had similarities, despite hardly knowing of each other. 

But wasn’t she trying to change that? Trying to weld her rightful place into the heart that he kept heavily locked ( hidden away from plain sight ). It wasn’t everyday that she was able to decode past his intricacies — whereas the wine certainly helped in more ways than one. Especially when her fingers brushed against his jawline, tracing the outline of the blacksmith.

“Come.”

How poetic ; the way he could easily simplify all her efforts and desires into one singular command. Her journals were filled with numerous attempts at seducing her husband. In return, his reactions were always dutifully noted. The research was fascinating, even if she found her patience thinning after some time. 

Such as this very moment ― the way she crawled into his lap, her hands gripping the wooden frame of his chair. Her body fit into his like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, locking together to create a pretty picture. She settled into his lap to the best of her ability, her hands clenched around his shirt as she arched forward. If Arya were to lean back, she would’ve felt the ledge of the table pressing into her spine. Not the most ideal position . . . but she wasn’t about to complain, not when her lips were glued to his ; her eyes closing to savor the moment. 

However, she couldn’t help but stifle a laugh, teasing, “ ― and here I thought you didn’t like my outfit.” 

The Goddess definitely needed to add that tidbit of information into her journal. The amount of progress she had accomplished thus far almost felt monumental, its reward much sweeter than the risks ( and tasting rich like wine ). Eventually, Aphrodite got curious again . . . wondering if she how much more of his attention she could draw out. She playfully nipped his neck, murmuring against his skin, “ . . . you still want to stay seated?” 

[treasure-writings]

ofproseandmusing‌:

His reaction to her presence wasn’t exactly unpredictable both because she’d obviously startled him and because she had at the least an inkling he wasn’t exactly terribly fond of her. That was fine, she didn’t care overmuch to be so wholly adored, nor was she particularly surprised considering the man’s father. There was some sort of expression about children being echoing of their parents and Elodie had always figured it was truer than most people wanted to credit it. After all, her parents had raised her to be a pretty thing above all else and she surely was that, but unintentionally, she’d inherited their ambitions along the way and made so much of them.

Still for both their sakes—though really it was more for hers than his—she pretended she didn’t notice. Or at least she tried to. It was awfully hard not to notice with how he decided to answer her comment, how he decided to respond to her presence.

She played the fool, so did he, apparently. The difference between them though was that Elodie was clever and knew how to keep her damn mouth shut when it mattered.

“Perhaps I am,” she answered first, deciding to own what was undeniably truth. She was bored, only not in the way Claude meant or knew. It wasn’t so much that she was bored of the party as it was being bored of pretending. It suited better this way, she knew, as she wasn’t quite ready to own her ambition so wholly, to reveal the King as simulacra or fake his murder so that she could be herself, but some nights that made it no less tiresome.

Tonight was one where the dark thing in her desperately wanted unleashing; there was no helping that nor the way she could not fully humor it.

“Only, I think you’re being awfully unfair.” It was a petty chastisement, that came accompanied with a slight pout. “I don’t really think I should have to defend myself to you.” And yet, she proceeded to do just that. “I like many things. You just have a habit of erring towards less of them.”

Head cocked slightly and brows drew together just so; it was a pretty picture of confusion, disingenuous in its supposed sincerity, “My Claude, when did we get so familiar?” The court had rules and though she didn’t necessarily care either way for this one, she hadn’t so precisely ever given him leave to call her by her first name. As such, it was the principle of the thing; to let one slide was saying that other such instances might be allowed and she liked rules obeyed. 

Only, she abandoned the thing with that question, the one more warning or chastisement than query, before sighing slightly, as if put upon, though there was a part of her that was pleased he was playing. “Why should I want anything? I told you I was curious. You’ve been disappearing so often without explanation lately.” There was an accusation there, maybe, or the beginnings of one and that itself was dangerous; they both knew that in this court, all that was needed was for Elodie to believe whatever accusation she might make for things to get very unpleasant—at minimum—for Claude. Lips pursed as she gave him a considered glance, before adding on, “It’s concerning.”

“But if I have to want something…” A pause followed before lips curved into smile as she lighted on an idea that was more for her amusement than anything else, not that she really considered much else. “Will you play a game with me, Claude?” It was a genuine question, but she couldn’t help but be curious as to whether he’d even feel he could say no, didn’t know what she’d do if he did say no. “Truth or dare?”

“Perhaps I am,”

He couldn’t help but feel satisfied, her boredom somehow filling him with delight. She had the entire world at her fingertips ; what more could she have possibly wanted? Claude wasn’t sure it was something the court could’ve fulfilled, her lavishes reaching far beyond imagination. His father warned him about her splendor, her way of twisting things into her own liking ( except he never agreed to such things, such order ). 

“I don’t think you should say that,” Claude noted, tilting his head. “You might hurt the feelings of the people who admire you so much.” Not that he was one of them. 

“Well, forgive me. I tend to trifle with manners that might not seem fitting. However, the nobles seem to love it, their laughter always speaking volumes. In comparison, you have always been a tough critic of my work.” 

Far too sensitive for his liking. The amount of times he’s ended up in jail could’ve matched to the number of expensive ribbons that twirled throughout her costume. While her disapproval should’ve caused him enough worry . . . Claude found himself not caring for her opinion. Not when she did so little to appease his own father. 

“My Claude, when did we get so familiar?” 

“We aren’t,” he argued, shrugging. “You appearance at present only adds to my overall confusion.” If she wanted to be entertained for the evening, Elodie shouldn’t have encountered him on the balcony. By virtue, it was all her own fault ; except no one could tell her otherwise. There was no reprimanding the queen, even if he couldn’t help but judge her for such actions. Was she really that naive ( or just hopelessly stupid? ). 

“You’ve been disappearing so often without explanation lately.”

There it was, the accusation. The fault pinned to his back, no matter how hard he tried to appease the crowd. Nevertheless, Claude simply sighed, admitted, “. . . grief is a strange phenomenon. One more complicated than your court.” 

She should’ve known of his father, of his current predicament. There was no explanation to give, even if his overall answer didn’t suit her fancy. He had no reason to sugarcoat his misery to the queen ; this was his reality. Whether or not she accepted it was not his concern. 

“Will you play a game with me, Claude?”

Did Elodie ever give him a choice? He felt his jaw tighten, irritation slowly growing with each passing minute. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? They weren’t particularly close, nor did he have any reason to engage with her. 

“Seems rather elementary for you to participate in such a manner,” Claude noted. 

“Dare.”

[treasure-writings]

wisdomlistening‌:

His request is, dare she think it, rather intriguing, and Minerva cast him a look from the corner of her eye, scanning him again with this new information in mind. He wasn’t not charming when he told the truth. She brought her fingers to the corner of her lips and mimed zipping them shut just seconds before realizing zippers did not exist at the court, and he might not have any idea what she’d just said. Her lips curved up just slightly at the absurdity of it.

The smile was gone just as quickly as soon as he turned the conversation, if it could be called that, to her clothing. Not this again. “Is that all you think about here?” she cut in with a sigh, turning away from him again and looking out into the night. The court was poison, she hardly needed to be there to see. Surrounded by it now, she felt…

Like her skin crawled anytime any actual drunk noble looked her way. Without looking at her balcony companion she let her acid tongue take over. “Not all of us have the means to drown in lace and pearls and- whatever the latest fashion is these days. You realize you’re dancing with women carting steel baskets around on their hips, right? That seems right to you?” But of course it would, because that simply was court life. If she looked at it kindly, perhaps that was all he’d ever known. Or cared to know, the sharper edge of her mind added in. 

Sighing again, this time under her breath, she said, “You concern is noted. Appreciated, even. I just grabbed something that I thought might pass for acceptable. No ankles and all that.” Why she was confessing this to him, she couldn’t say. Maybe his honesty about his state of mind spurred her on. 

“I’ve already offended with it, never fear,” she added as an afterthought, thinking to the Queen and her snide comments. Her thoughts were sidetracked by his plea to her, however; she found herself tilting her head to him, eyes curious as she found him looking back. He reached out and she almost yanked her hand away, only remembering seconds later that this was a normal greeting for him. The next thought after that was I’m glad I added the gloves on after all. They were short, made of coarse fabric, and not at all the court style, but his lips were warm enough to cut right through them. A kiss on her bare knuckles felt… too intimate even for her.

Claude. Hmm. No title or full name in sight. How strange for a sim nobleman. “Minerva,” she said, annoyed that her voice did not come out as commanding as she intended. “The surgeon they’re outsourcing now. I’m not really supposed to be here-” Again with the unexpected honesty! “-but I was… curious, and I still have a little time left on my guest pass.”

Curious, she’d warned him. “Why are you ‘drunk’ and not dancing with some lady wearing her own weight in silk?” she asked almost teasingly, her brows rising as she watched him for his answer. 

“Is that all you think about here?”

An odd question, one that probably made more sense if he had the means of understanding it from the realm outside of the sim. Instead, he sighed, feeling the weight of the court falling onto his shoulders. Claude didn’t know anything outside of these boundaries, outside of the world that dawned itself in laces and expensive jewels. The court was his life, his wits knotted together as they played him as a puppet. Perhaps he was used to this treatment ; perhaps he hadn’t known anything better. Either way, her perspective was interesting. 

“You sound offended,” he noted, glancing at her. “But I don’t really understand why. Those who have been part of the court know this is normal, this is their livelihood. If you don’t show up and entertain, you’re forgotten and easily replaced.” Just like his father. 

Minerva. 

A new name within the ancient court. No wonder he was intrigued, her face unfamiliar amongst the crowd of old riches. He couldn’t quite figure out why he was drawn to the unusual, to a stranger which he had no prior connection. Fate worked in mysterious ways, and perhaps he needed the distraction tonight. Minerva might’ve not been part of the overarching court, but she certainly proved to be unique compared to his other companions. 

She didn’t know him ; she didn’t know the games he played. 

It felt like a blank canvas, his facades stripping away from the honest encounter. What could a surgeon possibly expect from him? From someone who played with the court, engaging them in trivial manners and humor. Claude knew his place in the grand scheme of things ; he knew of his own insignificance. These were the damned cards life had handed to him, the cards the predicted his past, present and future. 

“Why are you ‘drunk’ and not dancing with some lady wearing her own weight in silk?”

His fingers let go of her hand, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Because she’s either married or looking for the perfect engagement.” Neither of which interested him. 

“The court is more complicated than you might think ; not everyone gets to choose their place. Not everyone can escape their title.” 

“What brings you here?” why hasn’t she ran away?

[treasure-writings]

ofproseandmusing‌:

It was hardly the first night where Claude made a spectacle of himself; he had a habit, Elodie had learned even as she didn’t understand it, of showing up early, drinking copiously and doing something stupid. Often that something stupid was enough that she, via her simulacra husband or one of the guards, had him sent to the dungeons to sober up and stay, or rather stay until his father would inevitably show up and play the game well leaving her no other choice but to see to it that Claude was released. The nobleman and she had never liked each other; had been an irritatingly good man ( read: a stick in the mud by Elodie’s regard ), a well-respected pillar who’d known the court in more stable days and loathed her for the wild indulgence she’d introduced and tempted Henri with. 

Once, not long before she’d replaced king with construct, she’d accidentally opened the door on the two of them talking, just in time to hear him say, Henri, I say this as a friend, but you’re thinking with your prick. Put that wife of yours in her place, she is not half so innocent as she acts. She undermines you with a smile and she makes the court both lazy and wild.

She had hesitated, both surprised that he had seen the truth of her and interested to see what her husband’s response would be; if nothing else it would be interesting data to input and use to build out her model. What she heard in answer made her smile because it was confirmation that the man was right, but it didn’t matter, that she had her darling husband wholly fooled; he laughed and dismissed the whole thing saying, true, my wife has a penchant for pretty things, but she’s easily pleased and she has neither the capacity nor the interest to undermine me.

She had opened the door wider than, knocking on it and stepping inside with a carefully cheerful, somewhat vacant smile, to prevent the conversation from going further. Henri gave the other man a reproachful look as if to say see, and the matter dropped just like that. Her husband had been easy, but little else regarding the former nobleman had been. No matter how much she wanted to pretend otherwise, Elodie could not make people abandon their regard for him. 

Some things were, apparently, beyond her and what she could program. Respect for a man who had known and guided the court in less indulgent days was one of them. Murder was not. Vaguely, she supposed she probably was meant to be sorry about that, that she could be accurately accused of murder twice over, but she wasn’t. She was sorry neither man was gone, though the loss had left her to wonder what would happen now with Claude.

This wasn’t the first party they’d had since the death or the first she’d seen him at, but it was the first that she noticed him slip off as he did it instead of belatedly; she’d given him a few moments only, before she shook off the rest of her company and followed after him, watching from the doorway as he went through the process of revealing himself in more ways than one.

“I always did wonder where you disappear to,” she mused quietly as she stepped onto the balcony more properly. “But still seems like an overestimation, Claude, and I do so hate being lied to.”

There was a pout that followed the sentiment and though she didn’t say her words in a way that sounded hard, or gave him the dare so precisely, there was something of one wound into this now: double down, Claude, or own up to it entirely. 

Only, the trouble was, Elodie’s whims were so notoriously flighty ( a skill primarily practiced to hide a calculating duplicity ) that even she didn’t know which outcome she’d prefer. Perhaps it didn’t matter. It was more about manipulating him into playing for her at all.

‘The court is an intricate chess match,’ his father once said, ‘learn the strategy, win the game.’ It was words like that that had kept him awake in recent nights, memories of the old man sometimes haunting him until daylight glimmered through the windows. The villa felt empty without much activity ― with his father deceased and his brother out of town ( out of reach ), life became one large blur. The court provided livelihood and festivities . . . but Claude wasn’t sure he enjoyed it much, not as of late. It had been hard to waltz in, pretending as if he had no care in the world besides debauchery and the entertainment of other nobles. They all laughed at his antics, barely recognizing the grief behind his eyes. 

Claude supposed there wasn’t much that could be done; deaths were normal. Even if his father passed away suddenly ( an accident, they had determined ). The odds against their favor causing the old man to lose his life; funny, wasn’t it? The court, the strategies, and the respect weren’t enough to keep his name on their tongues for longer than a month. Now the son found himself equally forgotten, basking in the moonlight as he stayed hidden from the rest of the crowd. 

Well, almost hidden. 

Her voice caused his muscles to become rigid, her presence not welcome at this moment. But who was in control? Certainly not him, not given her shining title as queen ( even if the crown didn’t seem fitting on her head ). His father didn’t have kind words for Elodie, words that he couldn’t help but agree with. There was something about her, something that felt like an irritating itch. The rest of the court was easily fooled but the queen wasn’t as angelic as her dresses appeared. All the extravagant fabrics and ribbons couldn’t hide the fact that he didn’t like her. 

Especially when she had the patience of a child, always tossing him into the dungeon. Most of the time, Claude didn’t complain about being punished in the dark ( or escaping from the court ). However, without his father to bail him out, things were . . . different. He needed to tread carefully ; or he needed to raise the antics. The court was an unpredictable game and he was currently faced against an unpredictable opponent. 

“I’m flattered how much you care about my lack of presence. You must be bored,” he stated, the smirk on his lips not helping his cause. Claude may not have been as wise as his father but it seemed rather obvious that she wasn’t here for a show. Her motives always masked behind that all-too sickly sweet tone. 

“To be honest, dear queen, I’m not sure you like many things.” Me included. 

He never minded her distaste ; what he did mind, however, was being interrupted from his nightly sulk. While there were no witnesses lingering nearby to claim evidence of this encounter, the moon shined enough for him to match her gaze. 

Challenge accepted. 

“What do you want, Elodie?”

[treasure-writings]

art of seduction.

[treasure-writings]

written--infinities‌:

Olympus spent far too much time on reputations. Before engaging in a conversation with another God, Blaise often saw the calculation in their eyes - a profile being drawn and saved in their minds. He knew they lived for thousands of years and it was only inevitable, but he wished they progressed. Not that he cared much about the mortal world - and tons of humans were shallow and self absorbed - but not all of them were as petty as the Gods. There were dozens of advocates for change. The memory of the Gods spanned before the existence of modern society and they were still stuck in forced marriages and chaos. 

That was part of his disgust with his current situation. That he had become another statistic, another gag of Zeus’s that they would all laugh at in the next century. Zeus didn’t care about consequences. He cared about power. He cared about control. When Blaise was cast out of Olympus and partly relieved, partly pissed the fuck off, the rumors sparked. First as whispers and then roars.

The broken boy. The ugly, fallen, boy.  The boy who almost did not survive the drop. 

Blaise was doing just fucking fine, thank you very much. He didn’t need his family who caused him grievances over any other emotion. He didn’t need the rest of the Gods. If he could disappear without starting another war, he might. His talents resided in his hands and the flames that listened to even a twitch of his fingers. But these were thoughts best left dismissed. His place, for the foreseeable future, was with Aphrodite, who despite all of his grumblings was kind despite her own share of personal Zeus hell.

“The last name I’d ever associate with you is being a jealous whore. Those ruining said relationships are the people and Gods in them.” Though Blaise supposed it was easier to blame external factors. You weren’t the problem. Fate or Aphrodite were. If anyone took a second to speak to Arya, they’d see what kind of God she was and understand they weren’t worthy of her gifts. 

Fuck - what did Dionysus put in this wine? If he had made it stronger on purpose, Blaise would be having a word with him. His head grew lighter and his arms tingled and his gaze lingered on Arya for longer than necessary. 

Did he actually like her? Deep down in the well he hid everything? 

He blinked, refocusing on the conversation and the soft hills of her cheeks and the waves of her hair. “They’re not getting a serenade,” Blaise replied swiftly. “They won’t have ears left. Some don’t sing in the shower because they’re shy or don’t want to be overhead. I don’t sing in the shower because I’ll kill whoever is in a three block radius. Leave that task to Apollo or Artemis who can sing a baby bird to sleep.” 

Blaise almost chuckled, reclining into his seat. His brow lifted at the thought of her coworkers worrying about them. It wasn’t like Blaise would harm her or be cruel. She didn’t ask for this situation. “I’d never do anything to make them worry.”

As expected from any wine recommendation hand-picked by Dionysus, she was beginning to feel its effects sink in; her cheeks were already flushed as warmth spread deliriously throughout her body ( coating over her skin, her heart, her desires ). Her eyes appeared to be glazed over, the worries of the outside world nearly melting away. His words were comforting . . . which might’ve seemed contradictory given that they fell from his mouth ― from Hephaestus. 

“The last name I’d ever associate with you is being a jealous whore.” 

Despite her haze, the honesty behind his statement caused the fire in the pit of her stomach to spark ; an addictive longing. Was this normal? To crave someone she hardly knew? Arya had been trying to understand Blaise . . . but there were too many locks, too many bolts. She wondered if she’d ever find the key to his heart, the one she kept searching for since they stood at the altar. Husband and wife. The titles bestowed upon their shoulders without much choice, the responsibilities of this union forcing them together. 

Arya wanted to be a good wife. 

She wanted to be a normal couple. 

She wanted, and wanted, and wanted ( this selfishness of the goddess shocking her at times ). Perhaps he didn’t fancy her, perhaps he never would. With the relationship between Blaise and his parents already soured, the marriage might’ve been the icing on the cake. But was it foolish for her to still try painting a perfect picture? As if everything was rose colored, spring blooming in the corner of their contrasting house ― shades of blues clashing against pinks. A beautiful mess of sorts. 

She wanted that; she wanted him. To the point where the wine was only compelling her to move closer as locks of silky hair tumbled down her shoulders. She quickly invaded his personal space, her doe eyes filled with mischief. “Not them, me. Serenade me.” I’m your wife. 

“I’d never do anything to make them worry.”

There it was again, the scorching heat of the blacksmith. She felt it blossom, clouding her thoughts as her fingers sought for him, brushing against his cheek delicately. “You know, sometimes you say the sweetest things.” Should I believe them? 

Arya didn’t know . . . but she did know how to distract from these thoughts. Her body left the dining chair ( the wine half forgotten ) as she tilted his face and pulled him in for a long awaited kiss. At last, the heat would devour her.

[treasure-writings]

wisdomlistening‌:  

How did any of them do this night after night?

The glamour, the decadence, the petty gossip and strict etiquette and stifling clothes - Minerva couldn’t fathom the appeal even if her life depended on it. The way the queen’s porcelain smile had nearly cracked at her very presence (never mind her appearance) indicated an untimely demise wasn’t entirely out of the question. Sizing her up was an interesting experience. If she really was Power, Minerva ought to be sincerely afraid of her. She did have a certain subtle command to her presence… Yet, all she could think about was the little girl who’d come by her home the other day, barefoot with a throbbing infection that could have been avoided if only she could afford shoes.

Somehow and only if her hunches were correct, this court was supposed to contain the people who could fix that kind of inequality. Who wielded magic unlike anything the world knew. Who, life after life, brought the world to and back from the brink of destruction. And now they danced their nights away in ridiculous corsets and powdered wigs like nothing mattered but their own fleeting desires.

She had lingered well beyond what was appropriate for her as a ‘peasant’, so they called people like her, but her insatiable curiosity was at risk of being overpowered by her fatigue at courtiers flagrantly boasting about their wealth. Maybe figuring out if these legends she’d stumbled upon were real wasn’t worth it. Not if she had to suffer through… this.

Sighing, she shook the thought out of her head and smoothed the front of her skirts. If only. The world’s demise was more important than any passing discomfort she felt. And besides, she was a little lost in all the grand palatial rooms and still struggling to find the exit. It wasn’t hard to tell she wouldn’t find it when she headed toward curtained windows, but fresh air was better than nothing.

The balcony was occupied, but she only spared her company a glance long enough to register who he was. Claude, perched on the guardrail, bottle in hand. Ignoring him, she leaned her elbows against the railing and looked out into the night, soaking in the crisp air. He spoke and she almost ignored that too as she was supposed to, given her rank relative to him. But then again, what would they do to her if she broke their precious etiquette rules? Ostracize her?

“You’re not drunk,” she said, the observation tumbling out before she could stop it. “You’ve had that bottle full for the last half hour, your balance is fine, your reaction time is quicker than most courtiers even at their most alert, you don’t stink of liquor, and you don’t look even remotely red in the face.” Then she shrugged without looking at him. “Not that it matters to me.”

Ah, shit. The only one who really saw through the elaborate act had been Elodie ( which was a rather irritating truth ). The court was something he knew how to spin, how to play with all its little pieces so they didn’t cast him out. This was his livelihood after all . . . even if it felt empty at times. Most of his life, wigs and extravagant clothes meant nothing. It was all routine, all for the delicate hierarchies of power. What he hadn’t known was that there was a whole entire world out there, a world that would kill for even an ounce of his facade. 

Which is why when he turned to see who interrupted his blissful time alone, Claude nearly chuckled. What was she wearing? More importantly, who was she? He couldn’t stop the wicked grin from blossoming onto his face, the laughter bubbling in his chest swallowed down immediately. No matter, it would be rude to laugh at a lady. Even if her dress robes were something out of a book. 

“Alright, alright. You caught me,” he admitted, raising his hands as if the man were guilty of something. 

Was it a crime to act through life, pretending as if he felt on cloud nine? The court wouldn’t have it any other way . . . but she didn’t seem from the court. Not with the way she spoke or behaved or dressed. All the observations were causing him to shake his head, hoping this encounter wouldn’t land him in the dungeons ( even if Elodie did enjoy tossing him there occasionally ). 

“I’m not drunk, not entirely. Just don’t tell anyone, otherwise we’ll both get into trouble.” 

His feet hit the floor as he hopped off the ledge, walking towards the unknown lady. Hovering around her, glancing back at the ballroom before he chose to lean closer, wondering, “ . . . speaking of trouble, did you really have to wear that?” 

It was a fair warning — the court wasn’t something to be taken lightly. There were egos that were battling for their position at every corner, gossip brewing as liquor filled the rim of each and every cup. Pure indulgence was the theme, an indulgence that was hidden behind an uglier picture. Claude always wondered why they wore wigs, but as he grew older he realized that most people didn’t want to expose how much hair they had lost; such valuable images and reputations lacing through court like poison. 

No, this wasn’t just a game; it was reality. 

“If you want attention, you’ve certainly got it,” Claude admitted, giving her a quick glance. “Otherwise you’ll run into an actual drunk noble who could spin a story of how you’ve offended him by your choice of attire. The rest is history, the dungeons being no place for a lady. Trust me.” 

He knew those bleak walls and cells like clockwork, the darkness somehow always turning into peace after a long night of royal fuss. Sometimes he behaved ridiculously for the sole purpose of being sent there ( especially when he didn’t want to play the game that particular day ). The court thought they controlled everything but Claude liked to think he found a loophole with this technique. As crazy as that sounded. 

“Ah, forgive me,” he stated, finally looking at her fully. The sound of a waltz could be heard vaguely in the distance, the glass doors and curtains blocking out most of its melodic splendor. The beat hummed throughout instead, carrying itself outdoors where he could feel it run between them. His fingers reached for her hand, kissing her knuckles briefly for an introduction. 

“I’m Claude. And who may you be, Miss — ?”

[kiplingwriter]

dancing in my storm

[treasure-writings]

kiplingwriter‌:

Larkspur stared at her fingers after they left the girl’s shoulder, seeing the ways that they shook and twitched the longer that she went without a taste of one of Aster’s elixirs, or a stolen one off an unsuspecting human that bought from Mal. Still, she managed to cover it up and tuck her anxiety away with a twist of her hair as she flicked it over her shoulder with a grin. “It’ll wear off. It always does, eventually,” she told the other with a soft tone of her voice, trying to help ease the other’s nerves that were practically bouncing off the walls of the greenroom. But she wasn’t wrong in having heard the other’s skills, knowing that Elise would be the right addition to the tour group that they needed – even if she hadn’t practiced with them all yet.

They’d take a spin on the stage later, but first a tour as she bounced towards the door and flung it open with a wide grin at the startled look that she garnered from someone passing by while the one posing as her security didn’t even blink. He knew better than to be shocked by anything Lark did, especially considering some of the compromising positions that she found herself in and relied on him to get her out of. Ones that she only did to capture the high that escaped her once she walked off the stage, Lark’s gaze shifting back towards the girl still in the room with wide eyes.

It was as if she’d been painted into the moment, Lark memorizing the way the other looked at everything for the first time with wonderment and thought for a moment that she hoped the other girl wouldn’t lose that look. It was gone before she could capture it, replacing it with a giggle laugh as she backed into the hallway to a few people talking animatedly in regards to the tour that was about to kick off sooner rather than later. She knew that it wasn’t as long as her manager would have liked, or the crew or anyone else who saw it as a big paycheck at the end of the tour but her duties also lay elsewhere. The Rookery called her name, along with her Court, but her double life was meant to be an escape of sorts.

A place where she could figure out who she was, rather than lose herself completely which was more likely as she held out her hands with fingers wiggling to have the other girl follow her out of the room and into the madness that they’d signed up for. “Then let’s take this show on the road. You’ve got a talent, Elise. We should let the world hear it, one show at a time,” she called out as walking down the hall with a bounce in her step as she head towards the rehearsal stage.

“It’ll wear off. It always does, eventually,”

The statement almost caught her off guard, as if she refused to accept it. Truth be told, Elise hoped the magic would never fade — not when she could hardly believe that this was her life! She was going on tour with Lorde, she was finally going to have enough money to start savings, and she wasn’t going to be jobless in the foreseeable future. The brunette hoped the excitement would never slip out of her fingers, good luck finally gracing her after months of hard work. This was all she had wanted ( for her talents to be seen and heard ). They would have an audience at every city, they would share the love of music at every concert. 

How could that possibly ever get old? “I don’t know, you’re — pretty magical. I mean, your songs! They’re all so great and — and I should shut up now. You’ve heard this a million times, I bet.” It didn’t change the fact that Lorde’s music had been too good to ignore ( always filled with wonder ). 

Elise wordlessly followed her boss, waving awkwardly at the security guard. He didn’t seem too fazed by Larkspur, which would make sense. Familiarity would become a thing, as crazy as that sounded. To know an artist that seemed untouchable was . . . really a blessing in disguise. The pianist wondered if Lark ever found herself starstruck — as her gaze trailed over the way the star’s hair seemed to bounce, catching the brunette’s full attention. The hallways were filled with an energy that matched Larkspur, an addictive type of vibe that made her wonder if everyday would be like this? 

If everyday would be something that she never wanted to forget. 

Elise would definitely have to take a few photos here and there, capturing all the unforgettable tour moments ( the biggest gig of her life thus far ). The rehearsal stage caught her breath, a gasp escaping from her lips at how large the venue appeared. Oh shit. This was real, it was happening. And it definitely wasn’t the time to trigger any stage fright. 

“Sounds like a solid plan,” Elise replied, finding herself drawn immediately towards the piano. Her fingers dabbled on the keys, tempted to run a few scales. This would be her spot for the next few months, a place of her own on stage next to one of the biggest trending musicians. If fans weren’t screaming for Lorde, the pianist herself might become starstruck underneath the lights and that voice. 

“Do you have any wild stage stories? Anything I need to prepare for?” 

There was a grin on her face, the thrill gripping her bones. Music always made her feel limitless, as if nothing in the world could stop or touch her. The fans must’ve felt the same way, some doing anything to capture a moment’s worth of attention from a singer on stage. Elise had heard stories of bras and underwear being thrown, although being on the rehearsal stage herself, she found the idea to be very silly. 

Music really did affect people, huh? 

[ofproseandmusing]

melodies & measures

[treasure-writings]

ofproseandmusing‌:

Uncharacteristically, Lacha found herself with an ounce of pity for the poor human. Had Ivy done as she was supposed to, this whole thing would have been less uncomfortable, less shocking for her, but then, sometimes bad timing couldn’t be helped. The only person she ever expected to do everything was herself; Ivy was good but not that good and at the end of the day, seeing to players and attending to training for Fidchell was so much more important to Lacha. She wanted a win badly this year; if she had to listen to Adare’s smug satisfaction again on the subject she was pretty sure her brain cells were going to start dying.

“If you want the history lesson, I’ll give it to you,” she offered with a surprisingly easy shrug. The offer was neutrally made and there was nothing to the delivery that made it sound like she was offering out of obligation, but, there was something in her that was hoping that if Elise said yes she could get away with the cursory primer. Nothing in her was eager to explain why she personally hated Adare or what being Queen cost her. “Don’t know how much it’ll help, but I can. God only knows when Ivy’ll be through with her work and able to do it.”

A sigh slid from her, and she reminded herself to find patience. After all, Elise’s nerves and shock were evident. So was her desire to play the piano, but Lacha wasn’t terribly interested in standing to give up her place, so she ignored that altogether. “That train of thought won’t get us anywhere, Elise. Emphasis on ever-lovely or whatever, belongs to Adare and his Seelie and I’m happy to let them have it. It’s not the Unseelie way, we aren’t made for it.” Maybe that was untrue; with their ability to glamour, they could be more superficially concerned if they wanted to be. Instead, though, her court tended to run more wild and vicious than that. “I meant it when I said music was our only grace.”

Head shook at the question, as she briefly threw Rowan a half smile and shook her head as if to say, humans, because in some ways they were all the same. “To put it succinctly, you play Fidchell. Winner gets to ask for anything they can conceivably think of, including being made. Has to be that way, it’s not a small ask and Fidchell victories unlock a kind of magic that’s near impossible to get your hands on otherwise.” There was a play to semantics in that, because the truth was it wasn’t the victory itself, but the sacrifice within it: kill nine humans and you accumulated enough magic to grant the tenth anything they wanted and sate the bloodlust besides.

“If you want the history lesson, I’ll give it to you,”

Elise blinked, almost wondering if she heard the queen correctly. Ivy was supposed to give her the run-down for the place, brief her with important information except her boss was nowhere to be seen or heard. Lacha offering to give her a lesson almost seemed like a trap; was this a test of some sorts? Because if so, she was never good at those ( at least, not as good as her other siblings ). Talents were usually endless but it seemed her parents valued whatever was on paper the most. Another reason to keep running, pretending as if she had her life under complete control. 

However, the two feys in the room were proving otherwise. 

“Really? I — yes, I would appreciate that very much. If you’re not too — busy?” 

Stupid question: queens were always busy, weren’t they? At least, that’s what all the historical period dramas taught her and half the time she was more focused on the instrumentals than the plot. “Seelies, huh. They’re the rivals, Ivy was clear about that. I . . . I kind of wanted to snoop on them, and their bad music tastes, but I don’t have enough money for the casino. And — they probably don’t even play classical so. Sucks for them.” 

Elise was sure if she kept talking, she would either end up jobless or thrown into the dungeon or whatever fey obedience class they administered. At least her one saving grace was the fact that the pianist had been hired for music, although the pressure to perform flawlessly suddenly seemed to prick her skin. No mess ups. She had worked too hard to fail, fail in front of royalty for that matter. 

“Sounds . . . competitive,” the brunette noticed. “Humans, we’ll do anything when we’re desperate enough.” 

Whether it be chasing after magic or agreeing to perform for fey-like entities that had enough powers to bury her alive. Either way, she was walking on thin ice at this rate ( especially if Ivy found out about her disturbing the queen ). That thought only caused a shiver to run down her spine, already imagining the prolonged earful lecture that awaited her. Great. 

“Who was the winner last time?”