THE CHARIOT

these are not fairy tales / her mother says / we are people of war / women / will always sustain / I have been to their temples / woman means immortal

[robert-hadley]

[luthienne]

Madeline Miller, Circe

[the-final-sentence]

“Go on, spin out, regale The graceless fairies with a tale that’s new — You’ll be the heroine of that one, too.”

— Ellen Kushner, from “Sonata: For Two Friends in Different Times of the Same Trouble”

[megairea]

“In me there is a rage to defy the order of the stars”

— Alice Walker, from Rage

[valeriavalmont]

ladyhierophant​:

“I find that difficult to believe,” Kithri replied, the mild-mannered statement replacing her preferred utterance of bullshit. “You are the King’s beloved kin, after all.” The clear affection Septimus bore Valeria was another factor which eased the mage’s tendency to consider the Princess to be just as much of a sore on Tyrholm as the King himself: there had to be something in Valeria that Septimus recognized in himself, which he apparently did not see in his own two children. “His word is law, but certainly your opinion curries some favor.” Kithri had no power to sway the King’s mind, but she did not doubt that they had some ability to push Septimus towards a certain conclusion. 

“Or perhaps I am completely wrong,” Kithri said, an empty smile briefly stretching across her features before disappearing. “Despite my years in this court, there is much I still do not know.”

When Valeria spoke of loyalty, a muscle in Kithri’s jaw jumped. “All that I am is due to the King,” the mage commented. This was true, if purposefully misconstrued: the anger and thirst for vengeance that roiled in Kithri’s gut was as a result of Septimus’ unending humiliation of not just her, but her kind. “But your words are wise, Princess. How do you suggest I demonstrate such loyalty?”

What was it like, Valeria wondered, to feel so viscerally that you could not tempt fury's shadows away from your eyes? It was the quality Valeria admired most in Kithri, and feared most in themselves. For while Kithri commanded the flames of the kiln and the hearth, she could not quiet whatever scalded her chest and ignited her passion. They were not afforded that luxury; Valeria did not dare relinquish control of their steady gaze or their set shoulders. Though their own cousin and many like Kithri may try to undermine Valeria, they would never betray themselves — nor would they surrender the crooked ways their heart followed.

As if being the King’s favorite ever boded well, Valeria thought. They brushed aside Kithri's naïveté, and posed a question instead: “Do favorites mean anything when your life is threatened?” Certainly not when your favorite plots to kill you.

"There is much you do not know,” Valeria agreed, matter-of-fact and without condescension, “and perhaps your own power is one of them. The King does not make you.” The same could be said for Valeria — you did not make me, they want to spit into their uncle’s face, I make myself.

Their eyes sharpen, as if to point a knife at Kithri’s throat. “Tell me who else might have the ability to burn men and threaten the King's life. You are among the most powerful Inferni. Surely, you have a list of names to replace yours on the King’s list of suspects.”

[valeriavalmont]

when: thirteenth of the tenth month, early in the morning where: the kitchen status: closed for @shadowrcith​

They dream of fingers emerging from a darkness thick enough to slice through with a weapon. Whispers overstimulate their senses; the rumors and gossip throughout Castle Tyrholm flood their ears, cover their eyes, run a spiked nail down their arm. It begs to be noticed, but they cannot look it in the eye. Not yet, Valeria tells them in dreams and in nightmares, it is not yet time.

Always, their refusal calls forth the ghost of their mother. Almost-ruler Sexta stands before them in heavy armor and eyes that shine eerily in the dark. What are you waiting for? their mother asks, in a voice as hollow and empty as Valeria feels at the sight of her.

Calliope takes Sexta’s place in an instant. She is regal, draped in heavy fabrics and a crown atop her head. Beware of power, Calliope warns, No amount of it will bring back the dead. Without warning, Calliope’s figure is drowned in furious red flames; she does not scream.

Valeria wakes alert and on guard, weary of the night for the visions it brings. The halls are quiet, save for the quiet footsteps of a few guards on duty. The sky is empty of stars and, if Valeria strains their ears, they can hear the crash of the sea. This is their compass that guides them back to reality, where their footing is sure and their grasp on what’s true is solid — the sounds of the earth.

A sudden chill whips at their bones, and Valeria ventures from their quarters and slips into the kitchen. The roar of the fire lulls them, and they watch the flames flicker and dance; for fire can be a peaceful thing, when it is not rushing towards their king. It can even be beautiful — though Valeria feels a pang of pity for its beauty that can only be seen when contained.

They sense a presence behind them and say nothing. They hope it’s Wraith. After a nightmare of pure uncertainty, Valeria longs to strike into action and push forward. There is a new edge to their desperation tonight, bold in a way that Valeria rarely embodies during her quest to kill the king. When they turn and finds Wraith watching them, they smile. “Wraith. Won’t you sit with me?”

[valeriavalmont]

emperorvalmont​:

“Well you seem to have taken that responsibility on, as well.” The words taste bitter upon his tongue as they leave his lips, and rightfully so, Reynaud believes. Valeria has taken everything that should be his, after all, and he is not afraid to vocalize his feelings over it, albeit without mentioning the problem directly. Perhaps because that confronts an uncomfortable truth he cannot face. It is a truth that tells him Valeria is favored over him for a reason he cannot understand. It tells him that his father does not love him in the way he hopes so viciously. It tells him he has never, is not, and never will be enough. Blood does not make him worthy. Everything he has done to make himself more like his father does not make him worthy. He runs from that thought, and instead points the weapon of his words at Valeria.

“You make us look weak. I come back with a victory for our kingdom, and you’ve just undone everything we’ve fought for. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, because if anyone decides they can trifle with our kingdom, I will gladly point them in the direction of your door.” Fend for yourself. This kingdom cannot and will not serve you forever, not if I have the final say in it, he does not say. He so desperately wishes she would learn the consequences of her actions, that she will fall finally and have no one there to held her a hand. She had been given too much for a child who deserved absolutely none of it. There is no equity in this home, and in learning that, Reynaud has only been viciously desiring to take all he believes should be his. 

“Listen carefully, because I know that troubles you.” That’s not entirely true, for Reynaud simply isn’t deserving of the respect one requires to lend him an ear, but it’s a fact he’s completely unaware of as he continues to speak. “I will never, even with my last dying breath, submit to you, and I certainly would rather choke than ever beg in your general direction. The only assistance I need if yours is your cooperation in finding the furthest piece of land on this planet and then swiftly absconding to it.”

Valeria’s eyes glaze over as if they are listening half-heartedly. This is their shield and their armor; Reynaud may see only disdain and utter disregard in Valeria. He is not privy to the parts of her that still tremble before his spite and his envy, the gaps in their defenses that are soft and yielding.They will give Reynaud every reason to hate them. At every turn, they challenge him; with no reason at all, Valeria conquers him and smears their name across their pride. But they will never give him the opportunity to be cruel to them gain. This is the game he set in motion, and they will not surrender.

A laugh tumbles from her lips with thinly veiled annoyance. “I make us look weak? Cousin, you are the one who boasts of triumph in war, yet cannot defeat me in a simple tourney. The future ruler of Tyrholm is only victorious when there are countless soldiers to die for him — what a beautiful ballad that will make. What love that will inspire in your people.” Valeria sharpens each word to a fine point, throwing them at Reynaud with precision. It is Reynaud who seeks her out for a bite of flesh; he can blame only himself if she draws his blood and bathes in it, in return. Do not think to wound the lion when you are a mere buck, Valeria thinks with fury — fury borne of hurt, fury that once bore the name rejection.

“That’s where you are wrong, cousin.” They use the word over and over, as if to remind him of what it means: cousin, family, my blood. Once, cousin was more than just a reminder of this bond that Reynaud can never escape, though both of them have tried. By birth, they are connected; they will orbit around one another for years to come, and Valeria once took that to mean they belonged to each other.

But Valeria belongs only to Valeria. Castle Tyrholm and Reynaud have taught her as much.

“You have already submitted to me.” Valeria’s eyes flash as they speak. “Surrender to my blade, and you surrender to my will. With every defeat, you beg for my mercy. Do not forget, cousin, that I have had every opportunity to draw your blood.”

[xshayarsha]

I’m courting chaos in me. But you want to shape it, don’t you?

Alice Notley, from Certain Magical Acts. (via xshayarsha)

[valeriavalmont]

robishop​:

Septimus is as fond of Roland as any huntsman is of his best hound, and so he reckons it wouldn’t be a terribly grueling feat to gain passage to the Receiving Hall on some permanent basis. The Sons, Roland is sure, Septimus would never allow to dine among the blue bloods (they’re too uncouth, his lot, noisy and boorish and foul-mouthed, an ugly foil to the pretty aristocracy of Tyrholm). But Roland’s spent enough time among noblemen to know how to act like one, and he’s certain that if he asked the King his permission to dine in the Receiving Hall, Septimus would indulge him. 

As it is, Roland’s never asked. He has no inclination to keep the company of the King’s humdrum crème de la crème, not in this lifetime or any thereafter. 

He dines with the Sons, or not at all.

Alas, solidarity or not, the sweets served in the Receiving Hall outmeasure those served in the Dining Hall by leagues, and Roland has been known, on occasion, to sneak in and out of the Receiving Hall like a slip of the witching hour’s black night, unseen and unnoticed as he uses pickpocket-hands to steal figs and honey cakes and elderberries and cream, dolling out his loot of the rich sweets to the Sons after a long day of dirty work. It’s during one such expedition that Valeria catches his eye, and since Roland’s never been very good at leaving well enough alone, he grinds to a sudden halt in front of their table of one. 

“Me? Sit? Here?” Exasperated, he raises one eyebrow and knits the other. “Do you hate me so?” he drawls, dark humor flaring in the blue of his eyes. Roland Bishop, Captain of the Sons of Argos, fraternizing with Tyrholm’s gentry without the King’s blessing? “I’d be hanging from the gallows by sunup.” He clucks his tongue and shoots them a “give me a break” look. “I’m fond of your company, Valmont, but I’m fonder of my life.” He braces his forearms aloft the frame of the chair opposite theirs. “To the victor go the spoils, I see,” he says, gaze fixed pointedly on their full plate. He wagers they could eat half his men under the table, and he’s tempted to summon Galen from the Dining Hall and put his theory to the test. 

Valeria’s lips stay firm, but their eyes catch the light and reflect Roland’s mischief familiarly. “Do I not deserve to hate my rival?” For he is, after all, their rival. He has pointed a blade at their throat a million times too many; the sight of his hand outstretched to help them up is commonplace, rather than the sight of him defeated beneath her. They nod again at the seat across from them, this time with a warmth in their voice as they beckon, “Sit, so I may at least best you in drink and in food.” For after all, they are not Reynaud, who confronts loss with spite and entitled fury. Valeria takes loss and victory in stride, with the practiced ease of one who has seen both many, many times.

With an even gaze, Valeria meets his eyes and wonders if he join her, at all. He is one of the few in Castle Tyrholm who treat the king’s permission as a cursory glance and an afterthought. Roland, Captain of the Sons of Argos, cannot be found by tradition and the monarchy. Though he bends to the king’s well at present, she suspects that he moves fit and fro beneath the surface.

She will give admiration where it is due, and the Captain of the Sons of Argos are worthy of her respect — much less her company. What’s more, Roland — and the Sons of Argos — are a fine ally. She first sought him out to see his renown in action and test her own. What began as curiosity became a challenge to best him. Now, Valeria considered the advantages of turning the Sons of Argos against the king. With the guards’ suspicion heightened and the king drawn deeper and deeper into their paranoia, Valeria may need them.

“Thank the Undying God that you may reap the fruits of my company and your life at once. Join me, Captain Roland.” Valeria adds with sincerity, “I prefer to share a meal with you than with another terrified noble.”

mentioned: @emperorvalmont​

[valeriavalmont]

undyingpriestess​:

STATUS: for @valeriavalmont

DATE: twenty-ninth of the ninth month

TIME: noon time

LOCATION: eastern orphanage in lowtown

    She knew far too much about the orphanages of Tyhrolm – though, in her travels, she had visited the overpopulated ones when she could. There were vestiges of the girl she had once been that remained within her still, tainting her with an inexplicable fondness for the runny noses, innocent eyes, and outstretched fingers of the children that were just as unloved as she had once been. Always, she looked for those who exhibited some abnormality. Those ones typically were a little more withdrawn and watchful of Levana – had an age to their eyes that is brought on by the knowledge that their lives could never truly be their own. 

    It was the mark of the Undying, she would often think to herself, an indelible mark that was a curse and a blessing in equal measure. She shifts her weight, the iron casts creaking less so because of the fresh oil and cleaning that Levana had meticulously taken the time to do. The children look at her, wide eyes looking in apprehension and fear as they took in her dark makeup and the intricate designs of the skeleton-like casts that aided her mobility. Children tended to listen to their emotions less than adults did, so some were braver as they looked at her, fingers shyly brushing against the cold metal. Levana did not mind – she enjoyed the company. 

    The majority, however, crowded around Valeria – chattering and following her footsteps like little ducklings paddling after their mother. Levana watched openly, hands clasped behind her back, a subtle curve painting across her lips as she watched the woman handle the onslaught of attention, the coos of adoration, the hollers of random facts. Why they think it’s necessary that Valeria thinks they have a wooden sword, she doesn’t know – she thought that they’d rather have food in their stomach, but it seems, they want excitement. Entertainment. Her eyes cast around the room and she quickly finds the wooden swords that one of the boys was boasting about.

    Levana holds one out for the boy to take ( he quickly shies away, eyes averting from Levana’s ) and another to Valeria. “I am curious to see which one of you will be able to fell the great Valeria Valmont.”

Valeria is not one for children. She does not understand their wild laughs and freely-reaching hands. They pull on her cape and Valeria struggles to keep her spine straight. They shout from every direction and do not seem to mind that Valeria has been silent all the while. Do they see the apprehension in her eyes, the gentle frown on her lips? She looks to Levana; Levana smiles with the eery serenity that Valeria has become familiar with. It is a vulnerable thing, to be openly uncomfortable. Every time she regains control, it leaps out of her hands. The children break through her defenses every time.

A sword is a welcome distraction, wooden or steel. Valeria accepts it with relief. This, she knows; here, she excels. “Show me your might, little one.” She treats the little boy as if he is Aurelia, though he is far younger and not quite as pretty. It’s the only tenderness she knows; the gentlest part of her unfurls and steps forward to bask in the light. The children marvel at the difference; they each bear witness to the true Valeria, with a weapon in hand and a spark in her eyes.

Ask a dragon to hold back its fire; ask a beast to step into chains willingly. They will do their best, but they will fail. Likewise, Valeria begins with slow swings and gentle steps, but they cannot quiet the champion that dwells in her bones. Victory is their legacy and their birthright, both, and once Valeria makes the decision to win, it comes swiftly. Valeria sidesteps a swing from not-Aurelia and taps their sword against the child’s chest lightly. “You are a powerful opponent,” Valeria says solemnly. Their lips do not bear a smile, but there is a quiet warmth in their eyes. “In one year, I will return and you will beat me, yet.”

The way he beams reminds them so much of Aurelia, Valeria decides they are finished. They move to return the wooden sword — a toy in their hands, really — to Levana. “It is an unfair match,” Valeria explains half-heartedly. “I would rather stand with you than teach them what it is to lose too soon.”

[valeriavalmont]

ladyhierophant​:

The King’s favored niece was no welcome sight to Kithri: for all the whispers about court that claimed Valeria to be the worthiest of the three Valmonts for the throne, the mage remained staunchly unimpressed. Any kin of Septimus – and at that, the bulk of the noble class of Tyrholm – were just as bad as the King himself in the eyes of the inferni mage. They all permitted his reign; and in their utter inaction perpetuated the suffering and humiliation of Kithri and others like her. The King had turned her into entertainment, but the court jeered and clapped happily.

 Still, Valeria was the niece of the King – and despite Kithri’s contempt, the mage could not spurn her, lest she confirm the suspicion of treachery that now stuck to her skin. “Princess,” she greeted curtly, turning her attention onto the other woman with a frown. “as you can clearly see, I am not in hiding – nor do I intend to be.” The mage’s brow furrowed when Valeria suggested she employ her allies – Kithri thought to tauntingly ask that the Princess kindly inform her where she might find those allies, but bit her tongue. Instead, she commented: “any who wish to voice their suspicion of me are welcome to do so: I only ask to not be forced to endure any pussyfooting about the accusation.”

“Do you believe I am guilty, Princess?” 

The title princess had never suited them, but it did not boil on their skin like poison until it came from Kithri’s throat. Valeria wondered if they had done anything to deserve it, with a faraway curiosity that would not last. The royal family had a thousand enemies, and they would have a thousand more; Valeria would add Kithri to the list.

It was a shame. Valeria’s fancy caught on the jagged edges of Kithri’s every word. They, too, would fight any accusation laid at their feet. All that wrath and contempt — Valeria recognized it. It only came to visit them in their most private moments, when no guard could see and no friend of the king could hear. Kithri drew it out of them now, this whisper of treason and waft of traitorous smoke.

Perhaps Kithri could be an asset. An ally. Valeria did not dare entertain the possibility of a friend. The spear in Kithri’s eyes promised to pierce through their belly if they even considered it. “It matters little what I think,” Valeria answered honestly. Even for all the trust they curried with the king, they could not protect a soul in Tyrholm from Septimus’ wrath. “The king holds the final say.” Pointedly, they glance at the guards who linger barely within earshot. “You would be wise to show him your loyalty in the coming days.”

[valeriavalmont]

when: fifth of the tenth month, in the afternoon where: training yards status: closed to @achillesgrieves

First and foremost, Valeria goes to the training yard to let off steam after a long few days of being followed. The pursuit of a traitor is far-reaching throughout Castle Tyrholm’s halls, and Valeria can’t be sure if the guards follow them for the scent of a turncoat or to protect the princess who holds the king’s favor. Either way, she will show the guards the folly of believing they can beat her or protect her. The familiar scent of the earth greets her like an old friend, the closest thing to a lover she’s ever had. 

Valeria sees her second reason for coming the moment she arrives: Saif. Her once mentor and now friend, the first person to treat her as less (or arguably more) than a princess. The two are equals now, but once, he was the closest thing she had to a hero after the death of her mother.

“Oh, wise Captain,” they call out, brandishing their lightest sword with effortless flourish. “How does it feel to see your chosen knight fall to your best student?” 

[valeriavalmont]

👀 + What would you do if you were given the throne?

It’s the question they do not dare consider — not for wanting, but the utter lack of it. Valeria dreams of the king’s head on a pike or a platter, but not of the throne holding them high above Tyrholm and its people. Their dreams do not covet the the glare of power or the obligations that come with it. Let them simply kill Septimus, and fight Tyrholm’s battles in negotiations and on the battlefield.

Though — Reynaud is perhaps even worse than their uncle. Perhaps Aurelia is too protected to become a true ruler. Valeria has always known they may take the throne, and they have never shied away from it before. Should the day come that the crown must lie on her temple, Valeria will meet the challenge head-on and answer the call of duty.

“I will do what must be done.” 

mentioned: @emperorvalmont & @aureliavalmont

[valeriavalmont]

❛ War is not for winning. ❜ / ❛ Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. ❜ UWU

❛ War is not for winning. ❜ 

Valeria laughs with equal parts surprise and disbelief. “What is the purpose of war, then?” They lean their chin against their palm, raising their brows with a challenge in their eyes at Viktor. “We fight to conquer. We battle to prevail. Loss is unthinkable when there is a kingdom at stake.” They hope he notices — that they use the word kingdom and not king.

❛ Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. ❜

“Viktor.” They are tempted to reprimand him for his weakness — but their own weakness holds them back. This rare soft spot they hold for Viktor betrays them and their right to come and go as they please. But how do you win a battle you’ve never fought? Helplessly, Valeria leans into their kinship with Viktor and says quietly, “I will stay until you ask me to leave.”

[valeriavalmont]

❛ I have survived, but I have not been spared. ❜

They are quiet as they listen, eyes straight ahead and watching the sea. Wraith speaks the same thing they feel. For whatever crown has been put on their head and the honor bestowed upon their name, they have not been spared. Valeria has been touched by the king’s cruelty and favor, both. “What have you survived, Wraith?” They look to them now with an uncharacteristically gentle gaze. “Let us exchange one story for a story.”

[valeriavalmont]

👀 who other than you is the hottest person at court

“I’m not interested in this question. Is there anything else you have to say before I leave?”

[valeriavalmont]

❛ Someone ought to write a novel about me. ❜

A young Valeria looks adoringly up at their cousin and nods their head so fiercely that they begin to feel dizzy. “I would read it,” they declare, as if making a proclamation to all of Tyrholm. They rise and climb to the top of Reynaud’s bed, until they can look down at him. “In fact, I’ll write it, and dedicate it to your honor!”