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isfjmel-phleg · 3 years

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A Christmas Chapter

Merry Christmas!

This chapter is from the as-yet very unfinished and not-fully-planned Book 3 (and I reserve the right to change and adjust it as needed in the context of the full story later), but all you need to know is that Tamett, Josiah, and Elystan have all been at school together for a whole term, and now the Christmas holidays are approaching, which means going home and a welcome break from each other’s company.

Or maybe not?

Tamett shook out his stiff writing hand and wished, not for the first time, for a typewriter. It would spare his hand but lacked the stealth necessary for composing a clandestine letter during preparation. Like it or not, he must grind out his letter to Uncle Adrend by hand behind his Latin grammar.

“After these beastly—I mean, unpleasant—examinations,” he wrote, “we go home for the Christmas holidays. Except they call it ‘hols’ here. Christmas in Corege is not like it is at home. No one’s ever heard of Candle Night or the Goatfriend or rice porridge. Instead they—”

The sentence broke off in a long blot as Elystan jostled Tamett’s elbow and whispered, “Tell him he needs to invest in a copy of Bellwell’s Guide for the Traveller in Corege. All good bookstores have it. Changed my life.”

Tamett put down his pen. “If you’d rather write this for me, you should just say so.”

“Neither of you should be writing to anyone,” said His Royal Highness from Tamett’s other side, not looking up from his composition book. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but this is Preparation. You might have heard of it. It’s the time of the day when we all come together and prepare for the next day’s lessons. I suppose you remember those?”

“Not if I can help it,” muttered Tamett.

“You still have lessons?” Elystan registered shock. “I thought The Great Intellect knew everything already. They should have sent you home a long time ago.”

“I’d much rather be home,” said HRH. “And by this time next week, that’s where I’ll be. With my family, celebrating Christmas properly, and not having to put up with you.”

“Instead,” Tamett resumed his letter, “they celebrate first on Christmas Eve. Dinner and gifts and that sort of thing. Seems like an awfully—I mean, rather—long time to wait.”

“And,” said Elystan, “missing all the theatricals in Loriston. I’ll leave a box of chocolates in the empty chair in the King’s box, in your memory.”

HRH rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at one of those vulgar entertainments. We will be attending Knopf’s Christmas oratorio, like every year.”

“Perfect. You haven’t been sleeping well, so it’ll be a fine chance to catch up.”

“Elystan,” continued Tamett’s letter, “is going home to his brother the King and their mother. That’s all he can talk about. His Royal Highness doesn’t seem to like hearing about it.”

“König der Könige,” announced HRH, “is a work of genius that captures the essence of the Christmas season in a way no one, not even your Mr. Plackings with his silly ghost stories, has ever been able to surpass. You probably couldn’t even hear it performed in Loriston.”

Elystan yawned. “I wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. I’ll be too busy seeing one of those silly ghost stories as a moving picture. My mother promised to take me. What will you do with your...people?”

Josiah’s pen slowed, but he did not look up. “The streets of Königsstadt,” he said, “will echo with bells as my father takes us home from the concert in the sleigh. Every tree is lit until they look like they fell from the night sky, and each shop window has more mechanical marvels than the last. My father takes us every year. But by all means, enjoy yourself in Loriston with your...people, if you can see anything through the fog.”

Even Tamett understood how much that was meant to sting, but Elystan betrayed no sign of offense. “I have every intention of enjoying myself,” he said, a little too loudly. “My mother always sees to it that I have a splendid Christmas. They write about it in the papers every year. Mother keeps the clippings in a scrapbook I’m not supposed to know about. It takes up a whole society page. All the gifts and the contents of the stocking and the size of the tree. Every child in Corege wants to be me on Christmas.”

“How about the rest of the year?” said HRH. “Besides, I’m not going to be in Corege.”

Elystan gave him a gracious smile. “I’ll see you to the ship myself.”

“Coregeans are very enthusiastic about Christmas,” wrote Tamett, “but it seems to me there’s not enough of it to bother with, and it’s mostly noise. Are you coming to Aunt Editte’s party this year? I hope you come so I can meet you. I’ll be in Noriber next week. Or you could visit our house. Father and Mother won’t mind. I’ll be there. Unless I’m out sledding or skating with the girls and then you’ll have to wait.”

Nothing more remained to say, but Elystan and HRH continued to quarrel over his head. Since only he was separating them enough to prevent a fight, he couldn’t budge. On another sheet of paper, he wrote, “I am not actually writing anything” in his very best handwriting, over and over.

He could, of course, have practiced Latin vocabulary with the same visual effect, but some occurrences are too miraculous, even for Christmas.

The slush sloshed over Tamett’s boots as he trudged through the gate into Oddington’s High Street the next day. By now, a thick coating of crisp, glittery snow would have enveloped his hometown. But Corege couldn’t manage more than this patchy mush mingled with mud. The shops tried to appear festive with greenery over their brown bricks and timbered plaster, but this was as convincing as the bedsheets pinned with paper cutouts that Tamett’s sisters used to hang for theatrical backdrops.

He checked his pocket again for the letter from Emenor that the prefect distributing post had handed him on his way out. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to read it yet. Whatever she’d written, it wouldn’t be the same as the amusing commentary on Oddington that she would have provided if she were with him.

Instead, he had plodded along silently in HRH’s equally silent wake as the Hollingham boys on this half-holiday had walked into town in a cluster.

“Will you require my company, Your Royal Highness?” Tamett asked. HRH glanced over his shoulder and announced that he would not. Before he could change his mind, Tamett dashed off. A mission beckoned.

He had hoarded his pocket money for the past two months—which is to say, he had spent only about two-thirds of it—for gifts for his family. After wandering through half a dozen shops, he found sheet music of popular song for Emenor, a new landhockey ball for Lovisa, a pincushion shaped like a chicken for Cille, and a wind-up tin frog for Zella. Only a few coins were left for his parents’ gifts, besides another coin that wasn’t truly his.

Elystan hadn’t joined the group heading to Oddington but had asked Tamett to pick him up some sweets. Then he had produced a gilded pocketbook that clinked like chimes as he extracted a shiny gold monarch, worth as much a whole year’s pocket money for Tamett.

“Will this be enough?” Elystan had asked.

And Tamett had said he thought it would be.

Now, as he fingered the raised design of the coin inside his pocket, he couldn’t imagine how many sweets it could buy. Elystan clearly didn’t know either. He might not notice if there were somewhat fewer sweets than a monarch’s worth, and the change—well, surely he wouldn’t mind if Tamett pocketed it? Not as theft, of course, but as a sort of tip for purchase and delivery. Tamett could practically hear Elystan’s voice giving him permission. He withdrew the monarch and clutched it at the ready in his hand.

But curiosity overcame him first, and he stopped outside a shop with his feet in the slush, as pedestrians who refused to step aside bumped into him, and read Emenor’s letter.

Emenor wrote enthusiastically about her upcoming recital, the scarf she was knitting for her music teacher, the Candle Day preparations, and what the cook was baking. She chatted about the younger sisters’ various escapades, an encounter with a neighbor’s cow, and most of all, her upcoming first term at the conservatory in Königsstadt.

“I’m so glad you’ll be here soon,” she wrote, “because I’ll have to leave early to participate in the New Year’s concerts. I’ll have to skip going home at Easter for the same reason, and then in the summer I’ll be working in the city, and you’ll be at home, so this is our one chance before next Christmas. Oh, I have so much planned for you! Everything that’s never the same when you’re not here. Don’t bother about the gifts; there’s nothing any of us really need besides a giant hug from you. And perhaps a holiday at the seaside, but—no, just bring yourself!”

Emenor’s voice in Tamett’s head, louder than the imagined permission from Elystan, asked pointedly where the money for Father’s watch chain and Mother’s brooch had come from. Tamett fingered Elystan’s monarch again and tucked it back deep in his pocket.

On the way to the sweetshop, an enticing smell of tea and cinnamon distracted him. He had forgotten Murroe’s was on this route. He had been to the cafe a few times, and he was tempted now to go in and order something. The dining room, seen through the window, swarmed with Hollingham boys fortifying themselves with hot breads and even hotter drinks. Perhaps an acquaintance would stand him something.

A scan through the faces turned up no one recognizable enough to expect such a favor from—until Tamett’s gaze fell on a table in the back, occupied by a boy in furs: His Royal Highness.

The prince sat alone, his only companions a cup of tea and a half-eaten plate of biscuits. He was absorbed in a stack of letters and did not see the face gawking at him through the window.

Breathing in a last whiff of the unattainable delights, Tamett walked on to the sweetshop.

An hour later, panting and achy, Tamett flung open the door of Elystan and HRH’s room. After a two-mile walk and a stampede up the stairs, his crammed satchel had never felt heavier.

Elystan lifted his head from the sofa cushion at the noise and brightened at the sight of his visitor. “Did you get it?” he asked eagerly.

Tamett nodded. “You should have been there.”

“I told you. If I wanted to waste my afternoons tramping all over the countryside, I would have taken up athletics.”

Tamett unwound his scarf. “You know, you really are the laziest chap I’ve ever met.”

“Perhaps, but which one of us spent a monarch without becoming a human icicle?” Elystan flopped back into the cushions. “So where is it?”

Dripping slush across the rug, Tamett approached the sofa and dug a striped paper bag out of his satchel, and another bag, and another, and another...until Elystan was laughing himself speechless at the small mountain lying in his lap.

“You weren’t expecting that much?” said Tamett, rubbing his shoulder.

Elystan shook his head.

“Sweets are two-narry for a quarter pound, and you gave me a monarch. That’s twelve and a half pounds of sweets.”

“Is it?” gasped Elystan.

“You should have seen the look on the shopkeeper’s face.”

Elystan peered into the bags. “Perfect. Exactly what I wanted. Just not these. Or these or these. Or those. You can have them.” He began sorting toffees, humbugs, chocolate limes, acid drops, wine gums, liquorice allsorts, clove rocks, violet lozenges, caramels, and butterscotch into piles and shoving the offenders aside.

Tamett perched on the other end of the sofa, dodging Elystan’s feet, and took a handful of aniseed balls.

“What else did you do?” asked Elystan. “Unless you spent three hours in the sweetshop?”

Tamett gestured toward his satchel on the floor. “Gifts for my people. Mostly my sisters.” He had settled on toffee for his parents with the last of his coins. That left nothing for Uncle Tamett or any of the other relations he shouldn’t offend, which had bothered him for half a moment before he realized he didn’t really care.

“Oh right, you have those. How many?”

“Four.”

Elystan bit the head off a sugar mouse and pretended to collapse in shock. “And they’re all horrid, I expect?”

Tamett shrugged. “They’re not bad kids. This one’s for the five-year-old.” He brought out Zella’s frog and wound it up.

Elystan lifted a disdainful nostril but let the friendly creature hop into his lap while he meditatively sucked the last of the sugar mouse.

Tamett’s ears burned. “It’s silly. But it’ll keep her busy while Emenor and Lovisa and I climb the big hill and sled off. This year we’re going all the way to the top.”

Elystan shoved aside the piled sweets, imprisoned the frog between his crossed legs, and wound it again. “You Noriberrians do know how to live. Rolling around the snow. I hope the thrill of it all isn’t too much for you.”

“We like it,” said Tamett, helping himself to a strawberry drop. Elystan, consumed by more pressing concerns, didn’t notice. “And there’s the snowball war too. Me and Lovisa against Emenor and Cille. Lovi and I are getting back our title this year, see if we don’t.”

The frog had sprung straight into Elystan’s hand. He turned it on its back and watched it futilely try to hop away into empty air.

“But I suppose you’ll have a much better Christmas at the palace with your brother.”

Elystan contorted his face into a tight-lipped smile. “Delclis lives for the opportunity to inform the general public of the properties of Dullplantus evergreenica or the genetics of Hollia whocaresa. Highlight of the season. And if I don’t want to hear him, I can always sit with the mater and discuss my pulse.”

“Your people are odd,” said Tamett through a mouthful.

“They’re not so bad. If you like lunatics. I’m probably the only sane one left—oh hullo! Return of the snow beast.”

A mass of fur stalked into the room. It fixed Tamett with a stony glare and extended its arms expectantly.

At that familiar signal, Tamett jumped up to unfasten the fur coat, remove the hat, and untie the scarf as His Royal Highness stood motionless and glowering.

“Some of us, Tamett,” he said, “don’t have all afternoon to waste. You may consider your leisure time over now.”

Tamett assumed a safely blank expression. “What do you require, sir?”

HRH looked at him with incredulous reproach. “My writing desk.”

The table where the portable writing desk was kept contained tidy stacks of papers, books, and inkwells at right angles, but nothing else.

“Where is it, sir?”

“I don’t know! Where it always is? It’s hardly my place to keep track of these things. So fetch it already.”

Tamett, the furs still over his arm, opened the nearest cupboard to rummage.

“What are you doing taking my coat away? I need it.”

The eagerness with which HRH had abandoned the same coat moments before would have fooled anyone, but Tamett handed it back and resumed the search while HRH retrieved his letters from a coat pocket. Finding Tamett too occupied to stand at his elbow and retrieve the coat, he deposited it on the floor and stood with his arms crossed over his middle and his foot tapping.

“What’s eating you?” asked Elystan pleasantly.

“I’m perfectly fine,” said HRH. “It’s nothing to me if my manservant can’t keep track of one simple item. That’s a great deal to remember.”

“What does it look like?”

HRH scoffed. “It’s a writing desk. What do you think?”

“Is it bigger than a bread bin? Assuming, of course,” said Elystan, “that one has ever seen a bread bin. And I haven’t.”

“Bigger than a what?”

“Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?”

“Look here, if you can’t make yourself useful—”

“Oh, you want me to be useful! Try your bedside table. Forgot you left it there, didn’t you?”

HRH snatched the desk from Tamett and waved a hand at both boys. “You are dismissed now. I wish to be alone.”

Elystan nestled deeper into the sofa. “You needn’t be alone on our account while you write. You’ll need a couple of experts like us to check your spelling. Join us! We were just splitting a bag of mice.” He held out a bag. “Have some. Never mind those beady little eyes staring into your soul. They don’t really feel a thing. I think.”

HRH wrinkled his nose. “No thank you.”

“Are you sure? You never know how delicious vermin are till you try. These are good ones. Melt in your mouth.”

HRH shuddered. “Are you trying to kill me?” he muttered as he stalked out with his writing desk under his arm.

“I think, Tamett,” said Elystan, watching him go, “that we will sadly be obliged to dispose of these between ourselves.”

In moments calling for solitude or relaxation, Tamett sought out his dormitory. Nine other boys shared it with him, but within his cubicle, he had peace he could find nowhere else, for His Royal Highness never followed him into the noisy, crowded, vaguely odorous room. Here, the morning after the excursion to Oddington, Tamett began to pack, as if that could hasten his departure.

He adopted the efficient, if not orderly, method of dumping his personal effects in large batches into his trunk and shoving down the lid until they fitted. The gifts for his family lay between a sedimentary layer of shirts and a topsoil of bent notebooks full of mathematical problems for Cille. He was about to add a stray hat when the boy in the nest cubicle called his attention to a shocking sight.

HRH had entered the dormitory.

Despite the solid evidence, Tamett couldn’t fathom it. Here he was supposed to be free. Here he could peel off the companion role to be simply Lockridge, a boy among boys. HRH had no imaginable reason to encroach on Tamett’s privacy like this.

His first instinct was to shoo him out like a dog who had wandered into a church.

“Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, have you taken a wrong turn? Your room is—”

“I know where my room is, Tamett. I came here to find you since no one in this establishment would fetch you for me.”

That should not have surprised him; even the youngest Hollingham boys knew they didn’t have to run messages for their elders.

Tamett stood at attention beside his open trunk as HRH entered the cubicle. The unmade bed and cluttered bureau top would surely provoke comment worse than that of an inspecting prefect. But only the trunk attracted HRH’s attention.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said, in Liennese.

Since coming to Corege, HRH had resorted to their native tongue only when especially exasperated. Tamett steeled himself.

“You do not need to pack. We are not returning to Lienne for the Christmas holidays.”

“But, sir,” said Tamett, “we are. You’ve been talking about it for weeks. Everyone else is going home—well, almost everyone. Why wouldn’t we go?”

HRH bent to survey the trunk with disdain. “Certain opportunities for further studies have presented themselves, and I have taken them. They require that I remain here.”

“I don’t have any arrangements like that, sir. So I can still go home, can’t I?”

“My father engaged you as my companion and manservant during the time I am at Hollingham. I will be at Hollingham over Christmas. Ergo, you will be also.”

Heart pounding, Tamett stepped between HRH and the trunk, as if to protect it.

“What if I choose not to?” he said before he could stop himself.

“Yes, sir” was the correct response, the one he ordinarily would have given. But this time those words wouldn’t come.

HRH stiffened to his full height. His voice was dangerously calm. “Would you like to write to my father and tell him so?”

Death would have been preferable to direct communication with the King, but Tamett wouldn’t have admitted it to that smug face. “But sir, I am promised certain holidays in this position. Christmas has always been one of them.”

“Consider it the start of a new tradition. And you will, of course, be compensated accordingly.”

“You couldn’t compensate me enough not to go. My family is already expecting me. I have to be there. Do you remember my sister Emenor?”

HRH inspected an audacious speck on his shoe. “The little violinistin? Oh yes. What about her?”

“She’s off to the conservatory before the new year, and she’ll stay in Königsstadt over the summer. It’ll be my last chance to see her before next Christmas. And—not that I’m in any hurry,” he lied, “but she really wants to see me. You know how sisters are.”

Judging from his expressionless face, Josiah’s sisters must have never been in a hurry to see him. “Write to her,” he said. “And tell her she will have to wait. It will do her good. Disappointment builds character.”

“Perhaps you should explain that to her.”

“She’s not my sister,” said HRH. “I owe her nothing.”

“Just because you don’t care about seeing your people, it doesn’t mean I do. Perhaps I’ll leave anyway. I don’t need a guard, so Raskvist can stay with you and I can go by myself.”

“How? You really think they’ll let you on a ship alone?”

“Lots of boys do it all the time. Like Böllingfurt.”

HRH’s expression hardened. “Assuming you could book passage. All the ships leaving next week will be full by now, I should think.”

“How many people in Corege do you think are clamoring to go to Lienne right now? There’s bound to be something. Even third-class if I have to.”

HRH recoiled, as if Tamett had suggested traveling among livestock. “Well, enjoy explaining to your people why you’ve returned crawling with vermin. And even if there were something available, how would you pay for it? I know you spent everything in Oddington.”

“I can...acquire it. Somehow.”

“An honest man need never borrow, Tamett. A loan gained is honor lost. Sooner to sweep the streets than to meet the moneylender. Need I go on?”

“I never said I would borrow!”

“Short of stealing, I don’t know how else you can ‘acquire’ anything. You have no pocket money until next month. I can’t help you. And neither will my father. We will spend Christmas with the other boys who aren’t leaving. Dr. Samwyl entertains them every year at his house.”

“There has to be some way I could—”

“I say we are remaining here, and that is final.”

Tamett recognized that tone, an echo of the King’s, and knew better than to argue.

“You may send your sister my regrets.” HRH turned on his heel and swept out of the room as abruptly as he had entered it.

The boy in the next cubicle poked his head over, hoping for an explanation of the torrent of Liennese he had overheard. Tamett pretended not to notice. He returned to his bureau, pulled out another armful of possessions, and threw them in the trunk.

Tamett pointed to the mound of striped paper bags abandoned on Elystan’s desk. “You said I could have some of these, didn’t you?” The boys had finished one bag between them the day before, until Elystan had grown bored and Tamett became otherwise occupied.

Elystan barely glanced up from his book. “What? Oh. Yes.”

“How much?”

“Take it all. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It wasn’t even the good sort.”

Tamett recalled no objections yesterday, but as long as the inconsistency profited him, he wouldn’t question it.

“Going to distribute it among the sisters?” asked Elystan.

Tamett shrugged.

“Oh, did you hear that Our Mutual Burden isn’t leaving for the holiday after all?”

Tamett said he had heard something about that.

“Can’t say I’m surprised. If I were his people, I wouldn’t want him back either.”

Tamett shook his head. “It was his choice. Something about further studies?”

“Who in their right mind stays at school over the hols to study more? But then, this is The Great Intellect we’re talking about, so…” He rolled his eyes. “Not impossible. Oh well. At least it’ll spare you the agony of having to travel with him, won’t it?”

“Yes,” said Tamett. “Yes, I won’t be traveling with him.” He bundled the bags into his satchel and headed for the junior day-room.

His fellow pupils—the ones with sufficient pocket money, at least—were about to experience a Christmas come early. And, if all worked out, so might Tamett.

If Tamett thought about it any longer, he would lose his nerve. All he had to do was knock and get the ordeal over with. The door wasn’t intimidating, nothing like the one to the King’s study, but nonetheless he shrank from it as if it were a portal to a torture chamber instead of the last barrier between him and the Rev. Dr. Tamhas Samwyl, headmaster of Corege’s most prestigious school. He had seen the Head before—everyone had, if not in passing, then in church every Sunday—but of course had never dared approach him. Like the King, the Head existed only to exact punishment on wrongdoers.

But Tamett’s conscience was clear. Mostly. He had no choice. He raised a shaking hand and knocked.

Briefly the relief of no reply shot through him, but a flat “Come in” soon followed, and Tamett cracked open the door and entered.

As he had expected, the Head’s office was lined with books and free of clutter. The Head didn’t seem to bother much with personal effects like pictures and objets on his nearly bare desk. But Tamett had not expected a pair of crossed foils to hang over the fireplace, and staring at these as he entered, instead of at the man behind the desk, emboldened him to walk in further.

A crisp voice interrupted his observation. “Mr. Lockridge? Do you have a question for me, or are you contemplating a duel? I warn you I am prepared for either, as long as you can keep it under ten minutes.”

“No, sir. Sorry, sir,” gasped Tamett, turning to face the Head. He had expected the looming surpliced figure that intoned sermons from a lofty height every week. But the gray-haired man seated at eye level with him, raising an eyebrow, seemed strangely human, despite—or perhaps because of—the severity of his manner. It struck Tamett for the first time that the face he had been picturing for the mysterious Uncle Adrend was very like the Head’s.

Tamett took a breath and said quickly, “I don’t want to spend Christmas with you, sir, there’s been a mistake.”

Those were not the right words. He knew it as he said it.

The Head frowned. “Oh? Something about my hospitality is distasteful to you? The only mistake is an ungrateful attitude, Mr. Lockridge. But you are welcome to spend the day in your dormitory if that is more to your discerning taste.”

“No, sir. I mean, I’m not supposed to stay. I don’t need to. My family is expecting me.”

“I am not aware that an authorized representative of His Majesty has come to fetch you.”

“No, sir, I need to book my passage, and that’s why I’m here.” The Head opened his mouth, but Tamett blazed on. “I can pay for it. I have—” He poured his store of profits onto the desk. “I have nearly one monarch. I know it’s not enough, but I thought perhaps you could take out some from what they gave you for my upkeep and finish it off. My father would pay it back. Or my uncle. I know we would. Please, sir.”

The Head examined the coins. “This can’t be all from your pocket money. I trust you acquired it honestly.”

“Trade, sir,” said Tamett quietly. He was not ashamed, but Hollingham considered that means of wealth common.

“I commend your enterprise, Mr. Lockridge.” The Head handed the coins back. “But I cannot accept this arrangement. Legally, I cannot send you anywhere without express permission from your guardian. You’ll have to suffer through my presence during your holiday. Mrs. Samwyl already has a series of parlor games planned that will no doubt horrify you.”

“Thank you, sir, but I have a letter from my mother, and she makes it awfully—I mean, quite clear that she expects me to come.”

“Express permission, Mr. Lockridge. Not the implications of a personal letter. Everyone’s mother writes that sort of thing; it means nothing. And of course it was not your parents who sent you here. It was the royal household of Lienne. Officially, you are a ward of King Odren, and it is his permission that you need. Has His Majesty been in communication with you?”

“No, sir. But His Royal Highness told me about the arrangement. He said I had to stay too. That can’t be true. I don’t need to. He’s the one staying to study, not me.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, boy; studying has nothing to do with it.”

“His Royal Highness said we’re staying because he’s had ‘opportunities for further studies.’ Some kind of special tutoring, probably.”

“You must have misheard him. Because His Majesty did write to us—” The Head went to a cabinet and fished out a letter from a file. “He was quite clear. ‘Please be informed that I do not wish my son Josiah to return to Lienne for the Christmas holiday. The head of my household will make the arrangements to board him and his companion at Hollingham as usual during that time.’ He said nothing about special studies. And—unless the staff is keeping secrets from me and I need to make a few dismissals—we do not offer such things outside of term time. This is a public school, not a crammer’s.” He laid the letter on the desk for Tamett to see.

Tamett immediately recognized the bold strokes and thick lines of the King’s handwriting. The emphatic words “I do not wish my son Josiah to return” dominated the message, while “his companion” was so crowded it seemed an afterthought.

“I don’t understand,” said Tamett. “Why didn’t he just say the King didn’t want us to come back? It would have made more sense.”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask him yourself. But if you ask me, he’s the sort who would rather stain your carpet than show you the wound.”

What on earth did that mean? “So there’s no hope of getting home at all?” Tamett hazarded.

“I have been in communication with His Majesty on the matter, and unless there is further word from him, no. There is not. I couldn’t say what the man’s purpose is, besides being a—at any rate, he is not receptive to my advice, and the school must abide by his wishes.”

Tamett’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll have to write to my family,” he said quietly. “My sister won’t be happy.”

“She will recover. So will you. Now back to work. You have examinations to study for, and we don’t want your parents to receive another letter of bad news concerning your report.”

Tamett stole one last look at the foils.

“Yes, I still use them,” said the Head, without looking up from his paperwork. “Only occasionally. I make no promises that they will make an appearance at Christmas, but at the very least you may hear a certain fascinating story behind them.”

“Thank you, sir.” He trudged out, trying not to plan out his letter home, not in front of all the older boys he would have to pass on the way back to his day-room.

Elystan’s rumpled head poked out from the bedclothes and scowled. “As a matter of fact, I am not awake and don’t want to be. So if there are no further questions...”

“You said you needed help packing,” said Tamett. He would much rather have been in bed at seven in the morning too, but Elystan had pleaded and cajoled the evening before until Tamett had conceded that extra work would be a welcome distraction. Four days later the bad news still stung.

Elystan growled and rolled over. “Come back tomorrow.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow.” Tamett stormed Elystan’s wardrobe and tossed hanging garments over one shoulder.

“Honestly, what do you Liennese have against the sight of anyone else sleeping?” Elystan propped himself up on one elbow, ignoring Tamett’s automatic insistence that he was not Liennese but Noriberrian. “Between you and Josiah groaning all night—where is he?”

HRH’s bed was empty and neatly made.

“Must have already gone out,” said Tamett. He didn’t much care what HRH did or where he went anymore as long as he didn’t have to see that liar any more than necessary. HRH had at least had the decency to mostly make himself scarce for the last several days.

“Thank goodness for one thing going right today. I’ll be glad not to have to bother with that for a while, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t know. We’re staying here.” Tamett returned Elystan’s sardonic look with a solemn one of his own.

Elystan raised his eyebrows. “Now, now, Tamett,” he said. “He might stay here, but not you. You’re too clever for that. You’ll find a way home. Have you booked passage for a ship leaving in the dead of the night?”

“No.” Tamett flung a shoe into the trunk with a thud.

“Then you’re stowing away?”

“No.”

“Bribed someone to give you a lift?”

The other shoe missed the trunk and collided with Tamett’s foot. “No!”

“Taking a balloon? Or an aeroplane?”

Tamett reached for the smashed foot and winced. “Look here, I’m not going home. At all. By any means. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Elystan dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Well, who really wants to go home anyhow? All you get is your mother fussing at you and a lot of stupid siblings crowding around. Same old musty ornaments, same old dinner, same old conversations, and only the best parts ever change. Then people give you a lot of stupid gifts and expect you to be grateful for them when the one thing you really want is what they’ll never give you. I think you’re well out of it.”

Tamett deposited another armful of Elystan’s belongings into the trunk with a crash. “That is the most inaccurate description of anything I’ve ever heard.”

“My poor child,” said Elystan, “there’s so much in life you don’t understand.”

Tamett slammed the trunk lid. “I understand I want to see my people. Everyone does. I think you do, even if you won’t say so. So does His Royal Highness. But his father doesn’t want to see him, so we’re both stuck here, so shut up about how miserable you’ll be at home.”

Elystan shrank back. “His father doesn’t want to—really?”

“Saw the letter myself.”

Elystan shook his head. “His own father…” He laughed abruptly. “Well, I was right, wasn’t I? But his father can’t have said anything about you. You can too do something about it.”

“No. That’s just the way things are.”

“Why would you let a little thing like that stop you? People change their minds all the time. All they need is a little nudge in the right direction. Talk to the Head about it. Make him see that having you around all through the hols is the last thing he wants.”

Tamett plucked shirts from their hangers at a pace dangerous to the fabric. “Must be nice to be a King’s brother. To demand things from grown-ups and expect to get them. Companions don’t have that privilege. It’s my place to accept whatever my king requires and…” He wadded a shirt and tossed it in the reopened trunk. “And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Like a good, dutiful servant,” mimicked Elystan. “Oh, Tamett, I thought you were better than that. I thought we had decided you weren’t going to listen to him anymore if you didn’t want to.”

“You decided that. Not me.”

“You’re welcome! Somebody has to look out for you, if you won’t yourself.”

“What are you going to do? Write to the King and order him to bring me home?”

For this Elystan had no answer.

Tamett crumpled up a brocade dressing gown with an intricate ivy pattern, crammed it in a corner of the trunk, and did not pursue the conversation further.

As boys left Hollingham, one by one, bound for carriages and trains and ships, they never noticed, while they waved goodbyes to friends whose good fortune was still en route, that they left school with pieces of greenery on their hats or shoulders. If they had bothered to look up, they would have seen a face peering between the balusters and expertly flicking pieces of the evergreens decorating the bannister at them like resentful confetti.

Tamett didn’t mind being overlooked. At moments like this he preferred his anonymity. Even the boys of his form and dormitory had forgotten him in their excitement. Some of them sat on a bench, swinging their legs and earnestly discussing what they were going to eat first when they got home. There was room on the bench, but Tamett didn’t sit there. Another lot stood in a clump by the fire, comparing sizes of their perhaps nonexistent sleds. Tamett had nothing to contribute to this. Neither did he run out to join the snowball fight outside the front door.

Sitting on the stairs and perfecting his aim on unwitting victims suited his present requirements far better. Böllingfurt was sailing out bestowing his parting greetings with a gracious wave toward his countless warm friends. Tamett had just pitched a pine cone at that peerless creature’s bowler without his turning around, when His Royal Highness trudged down the stairs.

He stopped beside Tamett, who prepared himself to tune out a lecture on the ungentlemanliness of sitting on stairs. But HRH only said, “May I sit with you?”

Unsure what to make of this civil question, Tamett shrugged. HRH lowered himself onto the step beside him and stared fixedly at the book he clutched to his chest.

“Tamett?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Is your house on the telephone?”

“Yes, sir,” said Tamett proudly. The Lockridges would not have had a telephone without his earnings.

“I’m going to send a wire home this afternoon. If you have anything to say to your sister, my sisters can ring her up and tell her.”

Tamett knew exactly the uproar that would ensue in the Lockridge household if the palace telephoned them long-distance and how Emenor would write describing it and thanking him.

“Thank you,” he said simply, keeping his face between the balusters.

HRH did not reply. The step creaked as he shifted in his seat.

“You know,” he said, “the conservatory students perform at Königshaus every summer. I look forward to it every year. Sometimes we bring guests.”

“Oh?” said Tamett. What did that have to do with anything?

“You of course will not be otherwise occupied all summer.”

As Josiah’s meaning sank in, Tamett caught his eye. He wanted to say something appropriately grateful, but nothing would come. If Josiah knew what Tamett was thinking, his face didn’t betray it, so the boys sat in silence, watching more of their schoolmates leave.

Tamett spoke up first. “Going to wire your people on Christmas too?”

“No, I’ll be too busy studying and…”

Tamett unplastered his face from the balusters. “You don’t have to pretend. I know.”

To his surprise, Josiah didn’t seem angry. His rigid posture slackened a little as he mumbled, “Who told you?”

“The Head.”

Josiah’s stiff, expressionless self returned. “My father probably wishes me to further immerse myself in Coregean culture and customs. Which I could hardly do if I were home. I’m not really missing anything. It’s not as if I were Mikaiah and waiting for the Christmas Angel or something.”

“Or the Goatfriend, like my sisters.”

The corner of Josiah’s mouth twitched. “The what?” he said in a strangled voice.

“The Goatfriend. You know, ‘The Goatfriend comes at Christmas Eve; if you’ve been good, fine gifts he’ll leave’?”

“You Noriberrian idiots,” said Josiah from behind his hand, shoulders shaking. If he hadn’t been HRH, Tamett would have suspected him of laughing.

Before such an indignity could occur, the boys were interrupted by a slight figure in a red coat with black fur stampeding up the steps toward them.

“Well,” gasped Elystan, “aren’t you coming?”

“Coming where?” asked Tamett.

Elystan eyed them both bemusedly. “To Rhosemore. With me. Where else would I be going? We’re leaving now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Josiah. “I never said I’d go anywhere with you.”

“You never said you wouldn’t either. So are you coming or would you rather stay here under the Head’s nose all through the hols?”

“And how exactly is spending it with you any better?”

“An old companion like me? Why not? It’s not as if you have anyone else to go home with. And that motorcar isn’t going to wait forever.”

Josiah hesitated, but Tamett said, “We’re coming. Thanks awfully.”

“But—” said Josiah. Tamett grabbed his sleeve and dragged him, still clutching his book, down the stairs after Elystan. “We haven’t packed for this! We don’t even have our coats! We’ll freeze.”

“Oh, you’re practically a polar seal already,” said Elystan. “You’ll be fine.”

Josiah stopped halfway down and refused to budge. “If you really wanted us to come along, you at least could have mentioned it sooner.”

“I didn’t want to bring you home then,” said Elystan airily.

“But why now?”

“If I have to put up with my mother and Delclis for the whole holiday, so should you. And you’ll be staying at Rhosemore. Everyone wants to go to Rhosemore, and here’s your chance to get a little further than picture postcards. That’s where you’d be anyway if you were here as a guest instead of a pupil. Wouldn’t your father rather you hang around the Coregean court than this mausoleum?”

Tamett could have fetched his coat and hat and packed a small bag in the time it took Josiah to reply. “Very well,” he said at last. “But only because it would not be diplomatic to decline your brother’s hospitality.”

And that was how Tamett found himself in a closed motorcar moments later, speeding away toward the station while Elystan assured him and HRH that they could send for their belongings later. Which, it struck Tamett, would also alert the school that they had left the premises without express permission of a guardian.

But that was another problem for another time.

#The Blackberry Bushes #The Blackberry Bushes Book 3 #my writing #Tamett Lockridge #Elystan Liddick #Josiah Callon #Tamhas Samwyl #I've been agonizing over this one for what seems like forever #just officially completed it tonight #and it's still not satisfactory #but this is as close as it can get for now to what plays out in my head #also shoutout to my youngest sister for her improvised Goatfriend rhyme which was:#'Goatfriend Goatfriend give me something good #Goatfriend Goatfriend I'm doing what I should'#I didn't end up using it #but she's hilarious and was a good sport about making something up when asked

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dancemachinetrait · 4 years

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1st September, 1898- Little Windenburg School (Part 2)

As they were the last in the queue, Clem and Honour were the last to enter the schoolroom. The only seats remaining on the girls’ side of the room were at the very front, right in front of Miss Horner. Clem took her seat in high dudgeon. She had hoped that she would be able to keep talking to Honour. She certainly was queer, almost more like a grown-up than a little girl, but Clem liked her all the same. There was something awfully fascinating about her.

When Miss Horner reached Clem in the register, and read out her whole beastly name- ‘Clementine Gillespie’- Honour caught her eye and gave a sympathetic little scrunch of the nose that almost made Clem burst out laughing.

In the lunch break, they sat on the brick steps of the schoolhouse together. Clem told Honour about the farm, her parents, her sister and her dog. Honour was mostly quiet, watching the clouds or the pigeons peck around the schoolyard. Clem became aware that she was talking rather a lot.

‘What are your parents like?’ she asked rather self-consciously. ‘Of course I know your father from church, but...’ In truth she had never actually spoken to Reverend Yates, and found his sermons rather dull. He was such a vague, distant sort of grown-up.

‘He’s awfully kind, but I don’t see him very much. He’s very busy with his charitable work.’ The way she said this last sentence made it sound as though it was something that had been repeated to her many times.

‘And your mother?’

‘Mother is very...exacting. I think it’s because she only has me, you see. I haven’t got any brothers or sisters.’ Honour said this as though she thought it was a terrible failing on her part. ‘So I think that makes it worse when I’m a disappointment to her.’

‘Well, I don’t see why you should be a disappointment to her!’ Clem exclaimed hotly. Several of the girls playing hopscotch looked over at her. ‘You’re ever so much better behaved than I am, and much cleverer.’ When they had taken turns reading out in class, Honour had read out her passage without stumbling. It had seemed to Clem that her low, steady voice was the only sound in the room.

A faint wash of pink tinged Honour’s sallow cheeks. ‘You’re awfully nice.’

‘In any case, I suppose I’m a disappointment to my mother as well’, Clem went on. ‘I know she’d like me better if I liked dresses, and, and pretty things. I do like those things, only on other girls. I look at other girls in pretty clothes and I get a sort of pang. But when I put them on they look all wrong on me, somehow. I can’t seem to be the sort of girl she wants.’ She stopped, a little out of breath, to see Honour regarding her intently.

‘I think you’re an awfully interesting person, Clem.’

Clem felt her cheeks grow warm. ‘I think you are, too.’

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#decades challenge #history challenge #ts4 history challenge #s4 history challenge #decades legacy #gillespie legacy #gen1

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consumedkings-archive · 4 years

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ancient names, iv

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt iv: game of survival

Masterlink Post

Word Count: 4.7k

Rating: M for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop.

Warnings: Language, some “light” religious blasphemy (it’s Far Cry 5), the Seeds being themselves. This is an enemies to lovers (enemies to enemies and lovers?), strong canon deviance from here on out. Mentions of blood/carnage, the frantic energy of people who both hate and are attracted to each other. It goes on!

Notes: Hi guys! I'm so, so sorry it took so long for me to get this chapter up. You know how quarantine-times just be like that where you manically write something for like 8 days straight and then never touch it again for weeks? Yeah, it really DO be like that sometimes.Anyway, this chapter is a bit of a filler, for which I apologize; I wanted some softer John/Elliot moments, at least something that wasn't quite so much "fuck off" and "please go fuck yourself" constantly, but also, that is also kind of Elliot's personality, so. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I promise I will try to be much better at making myself sit down and actually write now that I'm not swallowed up by a black hole of writer's block! Thank you to everyone for your patience and understanding and for all of the lovely comments and kudos; it really means the most to me! I just love getting the chance to interact with y'all.

The adrenaline crash was already happening.

Elliot was familiar with the sensation; as she rifled through the glove box of the Eden’s Gate van, John waited impatiently just on the other side of her while the sound of car doors and voices echoed in the distance. He clearly wanted to tell her to hurry up, and maybe he would, if she took long enough—but she wasn’t keen on these fucking crazies getting their hands on her.

She almost laughed at the thought. Passed from one psycho’s hands to another; wouldn’t that be something? Joey would be absolutely furious.

If she’s not dead, that unrelenting voice in her head echoed, stilling her hands for a moment.

“Deputy?” John asked, when she stopped moving, maybe because he was worried she could hear or see something he couldn’t. That would be nice—John Seed, sweating, for once in his fucking life.

If they didn’t already gut her and plant a whole fucking garden in her.

“Rook.” His voice wasn’t a question now, but a command, and she could hear it in his voice; look at me, tell me what you’re thinking, and her teeth clicked together. She closed the glove box shut, no reward to be found—just loose papers and some napkins—and closed the door beside her. The rattle of the chain link binding their cuffed wrists together reminded her, once again, of the absurdity of their situation.

“Don’t call me that,” she said tiredly, the rush of driving almost head-first into another car at a hundred miles-per-hour fleeing her body, leaving her feeling gutted and emptied out. She coughed into her elbow and the gesture pulled something in the cavity of her chest; now more than ever, she wished that she’d taken the risk of potentially dying and just popped those Tylenol-looking pills when she’d had the chance

John stared at her for a moment. He didn’t respond to her demand, but replied, “You’re still wearing my glasses.”

Elliot shrugged. She pushed the glasses down her nose a little to peer at him over the blue, reflective lenses. “They look better on me anyway.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He looked like he wanted to say something to her—and she certainly expected him to snap at her to hand them over—but he turned away and started walking. He said, briskly, “Let’s not get hunted down like wild animals, shall we?”

“Yes,” Elliot agreed, falling into step with him, sobering her voice quite purposefully, “wouldn’t it be awful if one of those crazy cultists say, drugged and kidnapped us? Absolutely beastly.”

John shot her a look. He looked awfully like he wanted to say something again; that frustrated tense of his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed, these were all familiar gestures to her. She could tell that she was pushing a button he didn’t want her to have access to. That knowledge gave her a giddy kind of thrill and kick-started her system all over again. Good, Elliot thought, minding her business as picked along a barely-used trail and left the van behind them, going further and further into the wilderness. The river was close; if she had to guess, they were somewhere halfway between where John had taken resident and the border into Faith’s territory. I hope that pisses him off.

“We should head back to the ranch first,” Elliot continued, falling into step with John—and not without some puffing. “And would you slow down? Remember how you got me sick? And then handcuffed us together in a temper tantrum? And then—”

“I was there,” John snipped at her. Despite his brittle tone, he did make an effort of less power walking, maybe because he didn’t want to have to drag her unconscious body along once she passed out from billowing her way across the Montana wilderness.

“Just wanted to make sure. Humility is a virtue, as they say.”

“I have to get Faith back,” he said, ignoring her little jab. “I can’t let those fucking nutjobs keep her.”

Elliot clambered over a log, keeping half of her attention on the sound of voices, still distant enough that she wasn’t worried about it. “In case you’ve forgotten this other small detail,” she continued, “they probably also have Joey, which they wouldn’t, if you had just kept your grimy hands off of her. So, you know—let’s keep in mind we have generally the same goal, here.”

“Thank you,” John muttered tersely, “for keeping us goal-oriented.”

“You’re very welcome, John.” Elliot tugged the sweatpants back up her hips; now, in the dying light of golden hour, she was regretting not changing into her jeans earlier that morning. Of course there was no way she could have known, but hindsight was always twenty-twenty.

She felt breathless from talking and walking, but the desire to really dig in was too great, overwhelming her need to take a full breath as she added, “It’s my pleasure, truly. Any time you need me, all you have to do is—”

As they wandered down closer to the river, John puffed out, “Do you ever stop talking?”

“I remember a time when all you wanted was for me to talk to you.”

Just as she finished her sentence, about to tack another jab on just for the hell of it—and another thing—she heard shouts, closer now, in a foreign language that she didn’t recognize. She stilled immediately, instinctively reaching and grabbing John’s arm to keep him from continuing on.

He opened his mouth to ask her what she was stopping for, but before he could she waved her hand frantically at him and voicelessly mouthed the words, shut the fuck up. Just one moment was all it would take; one second for them to be heard and they’d be gutted and flayed open, just like Waylon. Elliot did not have any desire to become a floral arrangement any time soon.

The voices echoed again, closer this time. John pushed her hand out of his face and instead pulled her further along the trail, moving with greater purpose this time; the second she started struggling to keep up, he wrapped a firm arm around her midsection and hoisted her, planting her right in front of him before he ducked them into some brush.

(She reckoned the heat in her cheeks was adrenaline, certainly, and not the way it had felt to have John’s chest pressed against her back, his arm warm and strong against her: because it certainly wasn’t that, but perhaps more like a pneumonia fever or just her body crumpling under the stress.)

Dark, heavy boots stormed through the underbrush, talking to each other now in a more conversational tone; though Elliot could hear them chattering and occasionally laughing at what the other said (in Swedish, or perhaps Dutch?) she could see their feet moving with distinct, sharp precision, stopping in time with each other and starting again whenever one of them said something.

Oh, fuck, she thought with a sick, desperate, sinking feeling. They’re so fucking organized. God, fuck.

It was one thing to kill peggies, to storm her way into a compound and smash her head into the face of one or peel into the parking lot in her Jeep, Boomer having gutted two or three of them on their way in; Eden’s Gate members carried only chaotic, frenetic energy, barely held together by their worship of their leader and his siblings. Whatever structure they upheld was purely because they were told to, and it wasn’t a system they could execute on their own, without direction.

She had never fought something, or someone, organized. She had never bashed her face into someone who had thirty other comrades marching down to kill her, spear her on a stick and stuff her mouth with baby’s breath.

I’m only a girl. It was a startling, violent moment of realization, that she had been bumbling her way through this, working purely on emotion and instinct. She was not a practiced, methodical killer, but one born out of necessity. I’m only a girl, I can’t kill people who have their shit together.

Elliot was vaguely aware of her breathing becoming labored, grinding in her lungs, and only became consciously aware of it when John’s hand pressed to her mouth, his arm still wrapped around her stomach. His hands smelled—tasted—like leather and dirt, and it was almost comforting enough to ground her, because for once John didn’t smell like that stupid fucking cologne that she hated, but she could still feel the dirt against her mouth like she was getting buried face down—

The steps slowed, stopping just in front of the brush. Elliot could see a silhouette cut across the forest floor, dappled by the branches of the thicket John had plunged them into, the branches pulling and tugging at her hair and shirt and skin. But she only barely saw it, because John’s back faced the trail they’d just been on, his arms around her. A shield.

“I think they’re gone,” John muttered after what felt like an entire fucking eternity and the voices had faded off, hunched in the brush and coiled around her like a snake, dropping his hand from her mouth. She tried to quiet the panicked roaring in her ears to listen (John didn’t know what to listen for; he didn’t know what it was like to have to hold your breath and hope your hunters passed you by) but she couldn’t; all she could think was oh fuck, oh God, I can’t do this. They’re going to kill me without a blink. They’re going to kill Joey. They’re going to—

“Rook,” John said, his voice firmer now. He must have been convinced their pursuers had moved on. “Rook, my hand.”

Her nails were digging into his wrist, revisiting shallow wounds she had made the night that John had held her under. But he didn’t wince or yank his hand away; he watched her intently, waiting for the iron-clad grip of her fingers to loosen. Elliot closed her eyes for a second, just a second, to ground herself.

I feel: John’s heartbeat, the dirt, the wind. I heard: John’s voice, leaves rustling, the river down below. I smell: dirt, leather, pine sap, humid river air.

She kept waiting for John to push her again. She kept waiting for him to say something stupid—Earth to Elliot?—or demand she get moving, or something equally insufferable, but he stayed like that; chest against her back, eclipsing out the little bit of sun breaking through the brush, waiting.

“I’m fine,” Elliot murmured. She felt like she was on auto-pilot.Too much, her body was screaming at her, the sickness’ sticky hands crawling through her, leaving fingerprints all over her lungs.You’re doing too much. The adrenaline was crashing hard through her body now, and all she wanted to do was puke and then lay down for a nice, long nap. She loosened her grip on his wrist for a moment before letting her hand fall completely from his.

John didn’t say whether or not he believed her, but he stood up slower than he had moved before, peering cautiously around before picking his way out of the brush. He remained (blissfully) silent as Elliot stepped around him; what he lacked in personal relatability, she thought with a sort of familiar dryness, he made up for when he kept his mouth shut.

“Elliot,” he said, ruining her peace, bulldozing over it wildly like he did just about everything else in her life. There was a question somewhere in the way that he said her name, and she felt the pull of the cuffs linking them together when he stopped.

She turned to look at him. He didn’t, for once, look as though he wanted to say something; instead, he was waiting expectantly. For an explanation, she supposed. Or maybe a thank you. That sounded much more like him.

Elliot said, again, “I’m fine,” her hands on her hips, resisting the urge to double over like her body was begging her too. She had never known when to stop, not really, not without someone else telling her. Her mama liked to call it her Too Much gene.

John arched a dark brow at her. His mouth curved in something like a smile, but it was too bitter, too wry, too knowing to be a real smile. She knew his real smile, even if he didn’t think so. She’d seen it. Boyish and—dare she say—endearing. This was not it.

She gathered up all of her willpower and bit out, “John Seed, if we don’t get moving, we’re going to having marigolds and daisies and what the fuck else blooming right out of our gutted rib cages.”

Whatever had been sitting on John’s face was wiped clean by her words. A good old dose of reality. She tugged on the chain impatiently, and he fell into step again with her, trudging through the underbrush.

“And don’t look at me like that,” she snapped out over her shoulder. “I told you, I’m fine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elliot was not fine.

John would admit —to himself, silently, and never under any other circumstances—that he did not know Elliot Honeysett very well. He did, however, know her enough. The way she’d gripped his wrist, looking for an anchor; the strange, haunted, disconnected way her eyes had flickered from point to point in the nowhere-in-particular when he spoke to her, never quite looking at him. He’d seen those things in her before. He’d seen that look on her face earlier that morning. He’d seen that strange disconnect, a switch of a flip somewhere in her mind, when she’d certainly considered choking one of the guards to death.

All the same, he reasoned as they trudged up a hill, trying to ignore the distant sounds of gunfire that bode poorly and having been walking for what he could only guess was hours now, it was odd. Having her cling onto him. Clutch his wrist for support. It was—

(nice)

—strange, to think about Elliot needing him, in the same way the realization had unseated him when he had understood she’d been relying on him to keep her safe at the ranch.

“Did you take that Tylenol?” he asked absently, an afterthought, still mulling over their odd closeness in the woods, trying to pin down why it writhed and squirmed in the cavity of his chest. The sun was beginning to set behind the mountains, and a slow, uneasy chill had crawled through the air. “Back at the ranch.”

“Do I look like an idiot?” Elliot huffed out, pausing halfway up the hill, to try and catch her breath.

“That was rhetorical, before you consider replying with astonishing honesty,” the blonde snipped out after a moment of breathing.

Her voice sounded raspier now, like she’d picked up chain-smoking. She cocked her head, looking at him for a moment, her hands on her hips; she had Jacob’s old sweats wadded up to her waist—so small, John thought absently, she’s been losing weight like crazy—and an old gray undershirt of his tied in a knot at her stomach. Her ponytail was practically disengaged completely, big chunks of her blonde hair falling into her face and sticking to her cheeks and jaw. She looked feverish, or maybe out of shape, though John suspected it was much more likely to be the former than the latter.

John replied, “I would hate to disappoint your opinion of me.”

“Cute.” Elliot pushed her way up the last half of the hill, cresting the top and finally—finally, because he could tell she’d been waiting to do this—bent over at her hips, hands on the tops of her thighs. They were probably a good hundred yards from the ranch now, in the thickest part of the woods and in the farthest reach from the driveway, which Elliot had insisted on. “Good fucking God, I never want to move for the rest of my life.”

“You’d probably feel better if you took that Tylenol I left you.”

“Hey. Hey, John?” She snapped her fingers at him, not looking at him but waving wildly. “Hey. Oh, yeah? Shut the fuck up.”

“Somehow,” John mused, peering through the trees to see if he could get a glimpse of the ranch, “you are even unpleasant when subdued by sickness, deputy.”

He’d become so accustomed to her casual venom that it was almost a comfort, now. He would know something was wrong with her when she wasn’t trying to bite his head off, but at least for now, bound together by metal, he knew she wasn’t going to try and kill him. It would be too much of a hassle to try and drag his corpse along through the woods.

I have to get Faith, John thought, eyes straining to see through the trees but his body reluctant to get any closer to the treeline. I have to get her. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It’s all fucked, the whole lot of it. They’ve got her on some shit again. Fuck.

Joseph would be so angry; more than that, Faith was certainly going to be scared out of her mind, once the drugs wore off.

“They’re here.” Elliot’s voice shook him out of his thoughts; she had caught her breath, for now, and wandered closer to the treeline. Her brows furrowed together, and for a second John almost laughed at how ridiculous it was to have her face so serious when she refused to give him back his glasses.

Any humor that he might have felt was ripped away when he followed her gaze to see what he saw: the nondescript gray vans, parked in a semi-circle, leaving an exit down the drive. He watched a few of the men in their dark clothes guiding members of Eden’s Gate into the back of the van. Ase, and Faith, and Ase's red-haired executioner man were nowhere to be seen.

“They aren’t fighting,” John muttered as he watched the members of Eden's Gate hand their weapons over. He felt something sick deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, John,” Elliot began, and he thought, don’t fucking say it, but she plunged on regardless, “I hate to break it to you, but you’ve got yourself a brood of followers, not leaders.”

“They’re devout,” John insisted bitingly. It welled up inside of him—perhaps embarrassment, or humiliation—and he swallowed thickly. “They’re just surviving, that’s all. It would be stupid for them to all get killed.”

The blonde shot him a look through the side of her expression, wary. She didn’t need to say anything for him to figure out what it meant. Sure, John. They certainly let me and the others mow them down no problem, but right now, they’re just surviving.

“We can’t get into the ranch now,” Elliot ventured after a moment, stepping back from the treeline. “The best thing to do is wait and see if they leave. They don’t strike me as a home-base type of crazy, but you never know; maybe those weird cell-like rooms you put in the basement will tickle their fancy.”

“What?” John demanded. He trailed after her, indignant. “We’re just going to let them take Faith and leave?”

Elliot sighed. She looked to be working something between her teeth, words she wanted to say to him but that she was taking care to mull over first, and he didn’t know if that relieved him or filled him with more dread.

“Yes,” she said after a moment, and he thought, definitely more dread, I like it better when she talks impulsively.

“Tell me this is a stupid joke,” John insisted. Elliot’s lashes fluttered. A strange flicker of emotion streaked across her face, as brilliant and short-lived as a shooting start, and his stomach knotted when he thought it might have been pity.

“We have to. They obviously aren’t planning on killing her, John; if they were, they wouldn’t have flaunted her in front of your face,” Elliot replied, starting to walk again, carefully picking her way down a small ravine and then following its slope downwards, towards the river again.

John’s feet moved forward, even when he didn’t want to, even when he wanted to turn back around and storm the ranch and demand Faith be returned back to him. Finally, eventually, he willed himself to stop, as though he only just remembered that he was the bigger of the two of them and carried the most weight in their little red-rover chain.

“We can’t leave her with them,” he insisted. “That’s bullshit, deputy. Just because she’s not one of yours—”

Elliot turned to look at him. Her eyes were narrowed, and she pulled on the chain, hard, the way that John had done to her, yanking him forward abruptly.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, John Seed, but I’ve got more experience doing rescue missions for people kidnapped by cults than you do.” Her voice was hard, venomous. “They could have Joseph in there at gun-point and I’d still rescue him.”

John felt the anger blooming in his chest. “I never took you for a liar.”

“I was never going to kill a little fucking girl,” Elliot replied viciously. “And that’s what she is, even if Joseph pumped her full of poison. I was never going to kill any of you Seeds.”

“No?” John demanded. “Then what?”

A moment of silence stretched between them. It welled with something, somethingsoemthingsomething that John wanted to grapple with his hands and squeeze, but that he couldn't.

She said, after a few heartbeats, “Put you in jail to rot, you fuckhead.” Elliot turned on her heel and started marching again. “Death would be too kind an ending for you.”

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

By the time they found a spot to stop, it was nearly completely dark. They had walked in almost complete silence after her little proclamation, enough to make him wonder if that odd moment of closeness had been a figment of his imagination after all.

Elliot picked a spot out for them close to the river, but still kept shadowed by the shrubs, and John didn’t have much will to argue with her anymore; her words kept sliding around in his head like marbles. Death would be too kind an ending for you.

He knew what she was really saying, with that. If I have to suffer with living, her voice said, beyond the words, then so do you.

The blonde was shivering as she loaded John’s arms up with wood (much to his chagrin; he’d already put this Versace shirt through enough, and now she was doing this), and by the time they got a fire going he thought she might pass out from the entirety of the day.

“Cold, deputy?” John asked mildly, watching her untie the knot of the shirt and slink her arms into the over-sized fabric, huddled by the small fire they’d (she’d) made. She glared at him.

“Well—”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he interjected, as though he could hear it already. “I know you’ve got pneumonia, and it's all my fault, as I willed it upon you.”

“Goody,” Elliot replied. There was no bite in her voice anymore; exhaustion was pulling at the edges of her expression, tugging her voice down, and John felt almost a bit of relief at the knowledge that maybe they were done trading blows. For now.

Lit by firelight, she looked softer. There was still an open wound where she’d really dug her words in, and maybe it was still bleeding a little, but John could feel the evening chill sinking into his bones now too, even with the sleeves of his button-up rolled down. So yes; Elliot did look softer, and smaller, and warmer, and John would be stupid to willingly get pneumonia so that they were both huffing and puffing through the woods.

He acquiesced, after a moment of silence and as though relenting to his own mental argument, “It would be warmer if we shared body heat.”

The look she shot him might as well have been daggers. “What,” she quipped, “being handcuffed to me isn’t enough for you?” I suppose we aren't done trading blows after all.

“Look, I’m not dressed for a Montana night out in the woods,” he insisted, “and certainly neither are you. You’re already sick.”

Elliot scoffed and rolled her eyes.

He ventured, again, “You already said we can’t leave the fire burning all night. The smoke would give us away.”

“And I’m also saying that there’s no way in fucking hell I’m letting you spoon me,” Elliot replied, closing her eyes. “If you get hypothermia, then maybe it’s the karmic universe telling you to go fuck yourself.”

“Oh, very nice, deputy.”

He sighed, stretched out on his side and drinking up as much of the fire’s warmth as he could before Elliot would, inevitably, stamp it out and try to get some sleep. The ground was soft and mossy, and while John couldn’t stand the idea of sleeping in the same clothes he’d been running around in, the day had begun to take its toll on him.

“If you change your mind,” John continued, “I can assure you I’m an excellent big spoon.”

Elliot scoffed, again, and he thought, oh, well. Maybe the karmic universe will serve me something after all, but we’ll have to wait and see, and let his eyes drift shut.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he first felt a change. It could have been thirty minutes, or a few hours; Elliot’s sleep schedule was so unknown to him—and certainly changed by her illness—that he couldn’t have wagered if he wanted to. But he was still mostly asleep when he felt the warmth of her body tucked against his, shivering, like a leaf in the wind. There was still a soft detergent scent to her clothes, even after everything, and her head fit just under his chin.

John shifted. He didn’t need to open his eyes to tell it was Elliot, and not a bear or mountain lion trying to find the best way to carve out his intestines; Elliot’s hair brushed along his jaw, and she pulled his arm over her like a blanket.

“Is this my karmic retribution?” he rumbled, half asleep still. Elliot’s teeth chattered.

“Just consider this making yourself useful,” she replied. Her voice was muffled from her face being tucked against his shirt. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

“Yes, boss.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He had expected to get woken up gently, by the rising sun, or perhaps the feeling of Elliot disengaging from their only-for-warmth spooning session.

Instead, John was woken abruptly by the feeling of a cold, wet nose pressing into his face, hot, stinking breath whuffling across his face.

“What—the fuck—”

John swatted the air blindly, the smell of dog breath wafting over his face as he struggled into a sitting position. It took a moment for him to right himself, to get a good grasp on his surroundings; their handcuffs were still linked. Elliot was awake, and sitting up already, and beaming as a Blue Heeler stared at John.

As soon as his eyes landed on the dog, it barked at him. Loudly. All of the hair on the hound’s spine rose, all the way down to the base of its tail, and a low, nasty growl rose in its throat.

“Boomer,” Elliot said, and immediately the dog sat. Boomer’s eyes darted between Elliot and John, wary and uncertain. The blonde, however, looked happier than John thought he’d ever seen her, reaching out and ruffling the dog’s hair until it lay flat again, smiling. ��Look, John, Boomer found us.”

“Oh,” John replied, “your killer beast. Excellent.”

Elliot laughed. It was as though Boomer was waiting for the sound; he barked, happily this time (could dogs bark in different tones, John wondered), tail wagging furiously as he crowded Elliot for her attention.

“Don’t worry,” the blonde said, giving John a sly look, “he only bites on command.”

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mrslittletall · 5 years

Note

For the Bloodborne bingo, can you do "Be careful what you wish for" with Micolash? :>

Fandom:BloodborneCharacters: Micolash/Rom, LaurenceWord Count: 1.667AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18718291/chapters/48983936

Summary: Micolash and Laurence have a drink and Micolash admits to seeingthings…

(Author’s note: I didn’t really know where to go with this, so I worked a fewheadcanons about my friendship of Micolash and Laurence in it. I alsothink that Micolash and Rom once have been a couple, so that is whythe ship tag is there.

I pretty much just wrote down what crossed my mind. I hope it is stillenjoyable.)

Blood vials have already been filled out, Madman’s Knowledge have already been requested/planned. Feel free to send me a prompt and a character for any unmarked prompt to fill out. I have been in a Healing Church mood though, so characters from there are preferred.Written for @badthingshappenbingoAccidentally answered the wrong question! Sorry anon, this was the prompt for hallucinations! I will post the fic for Be Careful what you wish for without the answered question then, argh! I didn’t look closely enough!

As the knock on the door sounded, Micolash interrupted his work and tiredly rubbed his eyes.

After he hadn’t moved from the spot for a full minute, the knock got repeated and Laurence’ voice sounded: “Micolash, are you there?”

Micolash finally moved to the door, spied through the keyhole and indeed it was Laurence standing there, with a bottle of wine. Micolash opened the door a tiny bit and asked: “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to come around for a drink, like the good old times.”, Laurence said.

…Why not? Lately Micolash and Laurence rarely had spoken with each other, the latter being too busy with running the church as a Vicar and Micolash to captured in his own research.

“Come in.”, Micolash said and opened the door completely. Laurence pretty much waltzed into the room and grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard, putting them on the table before pouring wine into them.

“You haven’t changed the layout of this place in five years.”, Laurence said, sipping on his wine, looking around.

“Has it been five years already…?”, Micolash asked. Time seemed to be a strange construct lately. Sometimes it felt like yesterday as they all had been children and played in the lake around Byrgenwerth.

“Yes, indeed. Time really feels like it flies, right? It has been ten years since we discovered the holy blood now..”

Ah, Laurence’ favourite topic. He hadn’t gotten tired of it back at Byrgenwerth, he wouldn’t get tired of it now that the blood practically made Yharnam into what it was now.

“How is the church doing?”, Micolash asked, taking a sip from his own glass.

“Oh, like always.”, Laurence said. “People come to us for the blood ministration, we are searching for funds to keep everything going, which means I have to attend a lot of aristocrat parties and Florence gets upset with me because I drink so much at them, but they are so boring, nobody wants to talk about research there and we have to organize the hunt regularly and still no success in finding a cure for the beastly scourge.” Laurence closed his mouth once all this words had pretty much poured out of him without pause and then took another sip from his wine. “And what about you? How is your research going?” Laurence paused and glanced at Micolash. “And when will you finally change out of this old Byrgenwerth school uniform? It is completely tattered already.”

“I like my uniform.”, Micolash said. “It’s comfortable. I don’t want to wear something else.”

Before he could answer the question about his research, Laurence had already spotted the cage. “Is this what you are working on? What are you planning to do with this?”, he asked.

“I believe this cage can act as catalyst for communicating with the Great Ones.. and even reaching their realm.”, he answered.

“Are you planning to wear this? This must look overly stupid.”, Laurence said. “Besides, we already have the choir for this. Why don’t you join them when your research is practically the same?”

“…I don’t like their methods.”

“Not having a good enough singing voice, huh?”

“No… it’s… the blinding.”

Micolash glanced to the side, wanting to look anywhere instead at Laurence. He never had liked the dark. Too many bad memories from his youth. The choir attempted to communicate with the Great Ones by blinding their eyes, to develop eyes on their brain.

While he agreed that they had to develop eyes on their brains, he preferred another method though. And that is what the cage was there for.

Laurence didn’t knew about this, but he had found a small following and they usually would meet up in the unseen village. Micolash truly believed that his group would surpass the choir at all points. And Laurence would have to admit it too.

Even after all this years, their rivalry had never ended. Micolash had to admit he looked forward on seeing the look on Laurence’ face when they succeeded with their ritual.

“Well.. it’s your choice.”, Laurence said, already pouring a second glass of wine for himself. Micolash was still busy with the first one.

Micolash wondered if Laurence only had come by to tease him, but he felt that his friend seemed to be genuinely concerned for him. He just never had an easy time to admit it.

Maybe it was the time to confess something particular to him.

“Say, Laurence, have you ever… seen things?”

“Huh?”, Laurence asked. “What do you mean?”

“Like.. shadows. Or creatures. Or… gone loved ones.”

Micolash’s gaze was directed at a corner of his room.

He actually hadn’t stopped seeing her for a good while now.

Was he going mad…?

“Shadows, yes, I’ve seen them.”, Laurence replied. “Just hallucinations from sleep deprivation though. Nothing of this is real. It should vanish when you go to sleep.”

“Doesn’t it concern you that we are both seeing shadows?”, Micolash asked, having a hard time detaching his gaze from the corner.

“Pure coincidence.”, Laurence said. “Who even says they are the same shadows? You have to ignore them. They are not real.”

This reply frustrated Micolash. For a man looking for a way to ascend into the stars, Laurence could be awfully rational. He probably wasn’t able to see the great one on Odeon Chapel yet.

And even if, he probably would deny it was real.

And he surely wouldn’t be able to see the image of Rom staring at Micolash from a corner, with her long black hair and her dark eyes.

“Why do you ask? Are you having trouble sleeping lately?”, Laurence asked. “I mostly start to see things whenever I haven’t slept for days. Do you want some medicine to take care of it maybe?”

“No.”, Micolash shook his head. Even sleeping didn’t make the picture go away. He was sure that the shadows and the great one on Oden Chapel were real, but Rom? She shouldn’t even be here. She had stayed in Byrgenwerth… And one day, she had vanished completely.

Micolash hadn’t notice that his hand had started to tremble and he had knocked his wine glass over, the reddish liquid dripping onto his cloak, the glass rolling from the table and shattering on the floor.

“Oh damn, are you alright?”, Laurence asked, getting up. “…How about you dry yourself up and I go clean up this mess?”

“I suppose.”, Micolash said, pointing at a cupboard where he kept his cleaning supplies.

A short while later Micolash’s cloak had been dried as good as he had managed (he still should wash it later) and Laurence had wiped the table and floor and put all the glass shards into a trash bag. Now Laurence was going to fetch another glass, as Micolash stared at Rom again.

Or was she staring at him?

He turned around however when he heard a loud thump and a muttered “Fuck” from Laurence side. Apparently while trying to get a new glass the Vicar had knocked down a crate.

“Sorry.”, Laurence said, intending to put the crate back in place, but froze as he looked into it. He picked up a certain item from the crate and turned to Micolash with a darkened face. As Micolash saw what it was, he froze too.

“…This is the Byrgenwerth seal….”, Laurence spoke. “Micolash, have you been spying on me? This whole time? I thought we were friends!”

He had shouted that last word, gasped, probably at his sudden outburst, clasped a hand over his mouth and Micolash thought he could saw tears prickling at his eyes as Laurence turned around and rushed out of the room before Micolash could even finish saying: “Laurence, wait, that is a misunder…”

With the intensity the door had been slammed shut, Micolash knew that Laurence wouldn’t be able to talk rational to him for now. Maybe he would have calmed down enough the next day so that Micolash could clear up the misunderstanding.

He sat back down at the table and filled the wine glass that Laurence left back to the brim, drinking half of it at once.

“What? Don’t stare at me like this. You are the one who suddenly vanished.”, Micolash snapped at Rom. He had the feeling her dark eyes stared at him rather reproachful.

“..I probably should have expected him to react like this.”, Micolash spoke further. “He broke all bonds with Byrgenwerth and especially Master Willem. It’s true that I wrote to this place, you know this, because all the letters were directed at you.”

So, he was sitting alone in his room, talking with the hallucination he had from his girlfriend. Great, he surely was getting mad.

“Just what happened to you?”, Micolash spoke further. “You seemed to make such a good breakthrough. But the last time I visited you, you were just sitting there, staring into nothing. Not acknowledging me at all. You know, that did hurt a lot.”

Unleashing all his hurt feelings at the hallucination of his dead girlfriend, he had to become crazy. How else could he explain this behaviour?

“…I am sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”, he said. “Master Willem told me that you ascended… this sounded like you died. But maybe he meant it literal? But… if that is the case, maybe you are not a hallucination at all? But a part of you still watching over me? I don’t know…”

Micolash refilled the wineglass and took it over to his night stand, flopping down on the bed.

“I just wish I could hear your voice again…”

Rom stared at him. Her eyes never stopped following him. Did she always had that many? Micolash waited for her reply, but as always, only silence remained. He sighed.

“It seems like you are just a hallucination after all…”

#badthingshappenbingo #hallucinations #bloodborne #micolash #laurence #micolash/rom #fanfiction #littlewritesstuff #Anonymous

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homenum-revelio-hq · 5 years

Photo

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Gracie!

You have been accepted for the role of EMMA VANITY, with your requested faceclaim change to Danielle Campbell! I really loved your application! I particularly enjoyed the personality section and how you mixed Emma’s personality within her life story. I could tell through your application that you really understood both her character and motivations! I am so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: Gracie

AGE: 21

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m a college student so I’m busy. I’m also a music minor which means I have some night classes and rehearsals, but I’ve been balancing this stuff with rp for about four years now, so I’m used to it. If I had to but a number on it, probably a 7.5/10

ANYTHING ELSE: no triggers or squicks to speak of but I’ll let you know if anything changes. I’ve been in a slew of different groups over the last four-ish years, ranging from everything to small town rps to 1920’s Paris, to a TON of HP Rpgs.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Emma Georgianna Evanora Vanity. But it’s just Emma, if you’re a friend.

AGE: 18

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Female, She/Hers, Heterosexual? She’s never really gotten to think about her sexuality. Her life had been mapped out for her long before she’d even been able to form a coherent thought. Not only that but Emma has led an incredibly sheltered life. She’s never even thought about being with anyone except for Antonin Mulciber, so she just naturally assumed she was straight. Now that she’s starting to live her own life and trying to figure out who she is instead of who she’s expected to be, she might be open to exploring.

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Slytherin

ANY CHANGES: Perhaps Danielle Campbell as a FC? She has a TON of resources, and I also feel like she’d fit the same sort of “sweet good girl” vibes that Haley Lu Richardson gives off.

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Emma’s only just really beginning to discover who she really is.

When Emma was very little, she was a spitfire. The young witch was a total handful. She would babble and squeal, running around the family home, terrorizing Mephistopheles- their pet Kneazle- by trying to stuff the poor creature into her dresses, or tying pretty bows around its lion-like tail. Life was good. And then she turned five.

On her fifth birthday, Emma learned several lessons from her mother. The first lesson she was taught, was that absolutely no one liked beastly little girls who badgered and pestered, who demanded endless answers to innumerable questions, who wanted to explore, to run, to fly! - No, that was nonsense and it absolutely would not do. The second was that should she continue to act as crazed and insane as those muggle youths, she would be punished. The third and final lesson was that the best, and only behavior befitting that of a pureblood young witch as herself was one of quiet compliance.

So that is what Emma became. She was quiet. Mephistopheles enjoyed the silence and retired from climbing the walls to avoid a game of dress-up with the young Miss Vanity. Instead, Emma kept quiet. She didn’t think for herself. Instead, she learned to silently nod and agree with whatever her parents told her to believe. Her mother trained her well. She grew into the perfect example of the ideal pureblood daughter. Emma’s mother called her a little doll. And after all, it was fitting, wasn’t it? Emma’s life was a long game of house that she wasn’t in control of. She was just a toy- a pawn in an elaborate game of wizard’s chess.

By the time she got to Hogwarts when most children grew a tad rebellious, Emma remained quiet and obedient. She knew her place. Everyone knew Emma’s place. She was meant to marry into the Mulciber family, to carry on the pureblood line for both families. She was meant to support Antonin in whatever he wanted or believed in. It was how it was.

Emma wasn’t against her impending nuptials at all. In fact, she quite enjoyed the thought. It felt like something out of a story- Antonin would come and whisk her away and then… well, she wasn’t quite sure what she would do then, but if she could make him happy, she would be happy too, wouldn’t she? She loved him, after all. And he loved her. Why else would they get married?

She wasn’t by any means a stellar student. Her grades were horrid. It wasn’t that she wasn’t smart (which drove her professors absolutely mental). Quite the opposite in fact. She was astoundingly clever. But she was far more focused on primping and preening, making sure that she was everything her mother expected of her, everything Antonin wanted of her, the perfect pureblood witch, the popular girl. Her days were a whirlwind of conversations with Antonin’s friends, chattering with the other pretty pureblooded Slytherin girls as they all marched mindlessly along, doing as they’d been trained.

And Emma would have kept right on down that path, had Antonin not been killed.

Those she thought were her friends vanished. She had no prospects, no future. She was a widow before she was even a wife. She was of no more use to them. Emma didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t know if she could feel anymore.

The only thing she felt was lost.

She couldn’t understand how she’d gotten there. How she’d been left without any friends, without anyone to hold her hand and tell her that it would all be okay. She didn’t have good enough grades to turn herself around in time before graduating. Her future seemed impossibly bleak- even more so with the promise of moving back in with her parents for an endless life of silence and solitude. But then, amid what Emma could only describe as a vast expanse of bleak hopelessness, came a flicker of light.

The light, as it would turn out, came in the form of a Hufflepuff girl named Dorcas. Dorcas found Emma, hiding in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and giving the ghost a run for her money. Dorcas gave Emma the gift of being heard and seen for once. And the dam that Emma’s mother had so carefully constructed sprung a leak. Then another, and another, until Emma was spilling her every thought, fear, hope, and dream she’d ever had to the other girl while she sat unceremoniously on the bathroom floor.

And it felt amazing. She’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to be free. To have opinions and thoughts and to not have to hide them away. But Emma was still timid now that she was free of her leash. She hesitated to allow herself to be befriended by this Hufflepuff girl- it wasn’t what proper pureblooded girls did. But Dorcas was persistent, and Emma slowly but surely came to realize that maybe, just maybe, she could decide for herself just what a proper pureblooded girl could do.

After graduating, she promptly moved out, telling her family that she needed some time on her own to cope with the death of Antonin. In truth, she did, but she also needed time to come to terms with the resurrection of her soul and start to figure out who she was and what she wanted. She followed Dorcas into the Order not because she necessarily aligned with their cause, but more because of the need to belong to something. If that was where Dorcas was going, that’s where she would go too. And since she began thinking for herself once more, she’s beginning to piece together just what she had been silently agreeing with for all those years.

She is still soft-spoken and very well mannered. Old habits die hard. She wouldn’t harm a fly, or say a harsh word to anyone, even those who have wronged her the most. However, being the friend of Dorcas Meadowes didn’t come without her consequences. She will fight until the end for her friends. She will also fight for those that she views as trapped in the same cage of societal expectation she’d only just found herself liberated from. She’s truly struggling to find her own voice after being silenced for so long. She still mentally filters everything she’s going to say, hoping to stay in people’s good graces. That being said, she’s beginning to discover that this can be her hidden weapon. The poise, manners, and airs befitting the daughter of a pureblooded family can work in her favor when she’s trying to get information. Oftentimes people don’t even realize what they say to Emma even registers, and she’d like to keep it that way, especially when dealing with those outside of the Order. Perhaps she can gain insight into some of the Death Eater’s secrets by playing the little games set in place by pureblooded society.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Being a part of the Vanity household was not easy.

Viktoria, her mother, ran Emma’s life with an iron fist. Emma distinctly remembers the day her mother changed towards her. After all, five is an awfully young age to have your childhood end. Viktoria would analyze every aspect of Emma, and she would tell her every flaw. Ladies shouldn’t ask questions, Emma. A proper witch doesn’t talk nearly as much as you do Emma, it’s very unattractive. Be silent Emma. Don’t disagree. Make sure you’re presentable. Don’t raise your voice. Don’t. No.

The woman systematically disassembled the bright, happy young girl and transformed her into a living doll. Viktoria’s version of Emma was lovely. Emma would descend the steps, a silent, closed-lip smile with vacant eyes drawn up like a bow on her face. She’d nod. She’d never speak unless she was spoken to first, and even then, she would only utter a few words at most. Viktoria was a control freak, so Emma became slightly neurotic when it came to pleasing the woman. Everything had to be perfect.

Her father was only marginally better, and he was absent from Emma’s life more often than not. Edwin was sullen and silent most of the time. He rarely smiled, and when he did, it was more of a grimace than anything. Emma could probably count on one hand the number of times she’d seen a genuine smile cross the man’s face. He never interfered with the way his wife raised their daughter. Whether or not he supported it, Emma didn’t know. The man rarely made time for his daughter. Emma only ever really saw him when the family went to high society events or soirées. The rest of the time, he’d be tucked away in his study, busy at work, or chumming it up with other distinguishable pureblooded wizards.

And that was how the three of them existed. A picture-perfect family. But pictures can be deceiving.

OCCUPATION:

Her parents would be horrified if they knew, but Emma has gotten a job since leaving the Vanity household. She works as a hostess at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop in Hogsmeade. It’s nice and quiet in the summer months, and she quite enjoys the bustle of the students in the fall. They’re all so cheerful and vibrant and full of life. They’re still young enough to live in blissful ignorance of how truly scary the wizarding world has grown.

While working at the tea shop doesn’t pay incredibly well, Emma is by no means strapped for cash. Her parents assumed that she would just relax until she came to her senses and have given her a more than generous allowance. An allowance that benefits the Order of the Phoenix often.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

Emma didn’t join the Order for any grand reasons or dreams of heroism and grandeur. She joined because her only friend in the world was joining, and she would follow Dorcas into the very pits of hell. The longer she’s a part of the organization, the more grateful she is that she found herself with the opportunity to join something bigger than herself. After so many years without an identity other than being the pretty Vanity girl who was engaged to a Mulciber, she could finally create an identity for herself that she liked and was proud of.

In the face of a failing war, she clings desperately to one of the first gifts Dorcas gave her - hope. Now that she’s tasted freedom, she will not go back to life as it was before without a fight. If there was hope for her, there’s hope that they will all survive this war, and more than just that- there’s hope that they will win.

Being a part of the Dissendium Task Force is a brave new frontier for Emma. It’s one of the first things she’s done on her own without Dorcas other than getting a paying job. She’s starting to see just how bad the world can be for people who weren’t lucky enough to be born into pureblooded family (though she isn’t so sure how lucky she would consider herself). She’s also starting to forge a new identity. She’s trying hard to not just follow the leader and go along with what everyone else thinks. It’s hard, but she is trying.

The illegal aspect of it is bizarrely kind of fun for Emma. After years of doing only what she was told and what was expected of her, the rebellion and rule-breaking is kind of exhilarating for Emma.

SURVIVAL:

Emma has been relatively safe. Despite leaving home, it isn’t common knowledge that she’s a part of the Order. She’s still a pureblooded witch. That carries enough weight that she isn’t bothered, and she’s still able to play that part without raising any eyebrows. She lives in a tiny cottage by herself in Hogsmeade. Living in Hogsmeade has the added protection of being close enough to Hogwarts that Death Eaters don’t come prowling very often. She stays right where she is, hidden in plain sight, using her status as camouflage.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Emma really admires Marlene. The witch seems strong, fearless, and determined to Emma, and she’d like to be able to reach that level of strength one day. She wants to be Marlene’s friend- she needs more of those. And then there’s Benjy. She’d dragged him along to join her and Dorcas, but she kind of regrets it now. She misses it just being her and Dorcas. Now that Dorcas has to share her attention, Emma worries that Dorcas will find him more interesting, or braver, or smarter and that she’ll leave Emma in the dust.

Dorcas was the first real friend that Emma ever had. She might not have ever freed herself if Dorcas hadn’t broken open the bars of her gilded cage. She owed so much to her friend- more than Dorcas might ever know. And yet, while Emma struggles with her sense of individuality, she finds herself clinging to her friend and afraid to let go. She’s holding on so tightly that she might be missing new potential friendships and relationships that could be staring her in the face.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS:

Emma x Chemistry. If there’s chemistry, I’m happy. Emma hasn’t really had any romantic relationships before. There was Antonin, but that was an arrangement made by their parents. While she loved (or talked herself into loving) him, she wasn’t entirely sure if he even liked her. The romantic idea of running off into the sunset with someone seems entirely better now that she’s not bound to someone she didn’t choose.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Emma was born to a life of privilege that she’s only recently becoming aware of. While being from a pureblooded family had its downsides, those downsides were decidedly nowhere near as bad as being anything less than pureblooded.

She’s become aware of her privilege through Dorcas, and through what she’s learned by being a part of the Order and the Dissendium Task Force. The purity of someone’s blood doesn’t matter. She knows that now, and yet she still has to correct herself when her first thought is what’s been ingrained into every fiber of her being since she was a child. The important part, at least to Emma, is that she’s trying to fix herself. She’s trying to correct the mistakes that her parents made in raising her.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?

It has been literally FOREVER since I’ve seen a group that I really, truly wanted to be a part of. I’ve been in groups that didn’t go anywhere, or that closed far too soon, and as a result, I’ve really missed writing. As long as it’s been since I’ve been in a group that I loved, it’s been longer still since I’ve been in a Wizarding World group, and oh my god I miss it so much. This franchise owns my soul, and I love writing in it, whether it’s next-gen, golden trio, marauders- whatever. I always want to write these characters and explore this world.

PLOT DROP IDEAS:

A ball or something where those in the pureblooded community might get recognized by death eaters as order members. Alternatively, I’d love to see a situation where something happens, and Emma is separated from the group and is forced to make her own decisions and be a leader for herself for a change.

ANYTHING ELSE? Nope. I love this group. Mischief Managed <3

#homenumaccepted #marauders roleplay #marauders era rpg #literate roleplay #bio rpg

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birger-wuvs-elsa · 6 years

Text

Okay so I’mma dork, and there’s another excerpt from Birger’s fic that I feel the great need to share with @shardsofarendelle (this is already posted too, so reblog away if you choose ;3).

Just as she heard Kristoff reach her by the door, Anna was already moving, and suppressed a giggle when she heard the man groan. Once she’d made the corner, her eyes widened with surprise as she watched the group scaling their way up the side of the building. The redhead’s hopes plummeted once again; she could hardly climb a rock wall, how was she supposed to climb a building?! Before she could do or say anything, Kristoff had reached her.

“Can you please stop running off like that, Anna?”

Instead of an answer, Anna pointed up at the girls.

Kristoff looked up at the girls, then back to the redhead’s crestfallen face before he sighed, understanding in his eyes. “Ah, I gotcha…hmm…hold on!”

Anna squeaked as she was suddenly on Kristoff’s back, and she clung for dear life as he started up the building. She had to admit, the speed with which the blond scaled the building and caught up with the women was impressive. No wonder he was so hard on her climbing that day on the North Mountain…he was so good at it! It wasn’t long at all before they were nearly to the roof of the inn, the tree’s canopy getting closer with every handhold reached.

It was at this point, Anna made the classic mistake of looking down; the sight of the ground gradually getting farther…wasn’t so bad at all. After all, the princess had climbed to the roof of her own castle, being carried up a three-story building was nothing in comparison. She even giggled as she looked up at the townspeople, enjoying how tinier they were getting. Whether through chance or dumb luck, everyone was too busy to notice six people climbing the side of a building. A sight that would’ve certainly earned them unneeded attention…

Not but a few moments later found the group on the roof; a straight shot down the middle of the building, a good four meters in width, was flat for them to walk on. On either side, the roof slanted downward till it just ended, but luckily the flat portion was sizeable enough the risk was minimal. Once Kristoff had pulled them both onto the flat stretch, he stepped aside for Anna to pass him and meet up with the women who’d already reached the canopy. Just as Anna approached, the four had knelt and crawled beneath the canopy that was all but tickling the shingles of the roof.

The redhead didn’t hesitate to follow, falling to her hands and knees and shuffling her way underneath the branches, and gently pushed aside any she needed to. Anna looked up to see the girls sitting cross-legged before the tree’s apex, and her eyes widened at what she saw…

The tree actually did have a face, but it wasn’t at all how she imagined: its features were not humanoid at all, and instead resembled something like a mix between a boar and a wolf. All of the lines of its face were distinct and ornate, and had an awfully familiar style about them; if Anna had to guess, it felt almost Celtic. The face was embedded in the tree, and was flat instead of jutting out like she’d hope. It made the redhead wish the Ent had a more beastly form that matched its face, for she had a feeling the being would’ve had a mighty visage indeed, had it only been fully dimensional.

The fourth woman, whom Anna assumed was Nikolai, was first and foremost before the tree’s face, with Yuna right beside her. As Anna settled behind Rikku, who sat behind the other two alongside Paine, the blonde turned to smile at her before she looked back to the conversation the redhead only now noticed.

“–id what I could, big guy.” Anna just caught Nikolai speaking to the Ent, “They may call this place ‘The Sleeping Ent’, but it seems it’s only thematic. They don’t actually believe you’re alive…they only think you’re a tree.”

Though she wasn’t exactly surprised that the Ent responded, the rumbling sigh that shook the leaves still startled Anna. Even Kristoff jumped a little and scanned the leaves from where he knelt behind her. Then the Ent spoke, its “lips” unmoving but its voice heard regardless:

“IT’S QUITE ALL RIGHT, YOUNG DRAGOON,” Anna frowned. Dragoon? “THESE HUMANS HAVE DONE THIS FOR SOME TIME, AND TO BE HONEST, I HIGHLY DOUBTED YOU WOULD’VE SUCCEEDED.”

Anna had expected for the Ent’s voice to be gravelly, or to sound like trees creaking or something, but it did not. Though the voice was still a deep bass, that rivaled the deepest voice she’d heard, it sounded no more or less human than her own. There wasn’t even a growling undertone to match its bestial face…it was actually a comforting voice to hear. But there was a sadness in the voice that struck Anna deeply…something was wrong…

Nikolai sighed and shook her head. “Still, I wish I was able to do more to help you…it’s not fair you were stolen from your friend and your tree was taken advantage of so.”

The leaves around them shook again as the Ent sighed, and while the face did not move, Anna could almost feel its sorrow.

“ONCE MORE, DRAGOON, IT IS ALL RIGHT; MY TREE WAS DOOMED LONG AGO. I ONLY STAYED SO LONG…BECAUSE THE ROOTS OF MY HEART RAN DEEPER THAN THOSE OF MY TREE. THOUGH THE HUMANS I CHERISHED HAVE BEEN GONE FOR A LONG TIME, I STILL COULD NOT BRING MYSELF TO LEAVE THEIR FORMER HOMESTEAD.”

Anna fought her hardest to keep from tearing up, but it was hard; a look around at the other girls told her she wasn’t the only one struggling. The princess frowned…if she was correct, then her deductions led her to believe the Ent had befriended humans a long time ago who were taken from it. She couldn’t help but wonder why, since clearly its tree had been planted by the people…but as she heard Nikolai growl, Anna stilled her thoughts.

“That still doesn’t mean I should be okay with not finding a way to help you.”

The leaves around the rustled gently, and the redhead felt a calming aura come from the tree. Anna imagined the Ent to be smiling.

“I APPRECIATE YOUR GENEROSITY IMMENSELY, DRAGOON. WHICH IS WHY, GIVEN YOUR DISPLAY OF CHARITY, I DO HAVE A REQUEST OF YOU.”

Nikolai sat up straighter and nodded, “Whatever you need, let me know, big guy.”

“I WISH TO LEAVE THIS PLACE, FOR I NOW FEEL THE STRENGTH OF MY GRIP ON THIS TREE WANING. WOULD YOU HONOR ME, YOUNG DRAGOON, BY TAKING MY SPIRIT SEED AND FINDING ME A NEW PLACE TO GROW?”

Anna saw Nikolai’s eyes widen, as if surprised. “A-are you sure, big guy? I mean, it would be a long time before your new tree was old enough you could think again, let alone speak. You’d basically be comatose for…for decades!”

Anna frowned, this time in confusion, her lack of knowledge regarding Ents hindering her ability to understand. She would have to ask one of the women about it later, for now she was becoming terribly curious. This must’ve shown on the redhead’s face, for when Paine glanced back at her, an understanding smirk arose. The grey-haired woman leaned back, surprising Anna until she heard her whisper.

“An Ent’s spirit is independent of the tree it grew in, and it can sort of eject itself as a seed to grow again in a new tree. Kind of like reincarnation, should the Ent’s old tree no longer be beneficial for the spirit to remain in.”

Anna’s frown had initially lifted at the new information, but returned as a new thought came to her. She decided to voice it, keeping her speech soft, “But, what’ll happen to the old tree? And what did Nikolai mean by the Ent would be comatose?”

This time Rikku chimed in as she leaned back to join the conversation. “Since the Ent becomes a seed to grow a new tree, it’s kind of like being born again; the Ent will be unresponsive until its tree is old and strong enough to support its spirit. So, in order for the tree to survive bearing an Ent spirit, and for the Ent to survive until that time comes, it has to go into sort of hibernation while the tree grows.”

Anna didn’t think her eyes could be any wider, this new information being too fascinating for her to take in easily. Paine and Rikku shared a sympathetic, understanding smile with one another before they glanced back at the redhead. Paine, though, couldn’t help but chuckle when she looked up to see Kristoff had lost his jaw somewhere on the roof. This of course caused the blond to blush and reclaim it, glowering at the woman before all of the leaves began to shake. It was a different shake than the first few, more like an attention-grabbing clearing of the throat than a sigh.

All eyes turned to the Ent’s face, whose own flat eyes were suddenly staring right at Anna. The princess shrank before the mighty spirit’s gaze, until she heard the rumbling echo of a laugh.

“BE NOT AFRAID, LITTLE RED. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO FEAR FROM ME, I WAS MERELY OBSERVING YOU…I DID NOT NOTICE YOU BEFORE. WHAT, MAY I ASK, IS YOUR NAME?”

Anna cleared her throat before attempting to speak, since she didn’t want the nervous squeak she’d felt to escape. “Erm, um, m-my name is Anna…of Arendelle.”

That wasn’t giving away her title…that counted, right?

But then the Ent’s eyes glowed green. “ARENDELLE…THE CITY OF MOUNTAINS, ICE, AND WATER…WHERE THE SNOW QUEEN RESIDES. IS THIS TRUE?”

Anna swallowed her nervousness and nodded.

“HMM…I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN CURIOUS ABOUT THAT PLACE. I’VE ALWAYS LOVED SNOW, AND I’VE NEVER BEEN A CONIFEROUS TREE BEFORE… HMM, TELL ME, LITTLE RED, WOULD YOU BE OPPOSED TO A NEW RESIDENT IN YOUR LANDS?”

Anna’s eyes widened, and even Kristoff jumped as if startled. “W-wait,” the harvester began, “You want your next tree to be in Arendelle?!”

“INDEED, IF THE GIRL ALLOWS IT, THAT IS. YOU ARE THE PRINCESS, ARE YOU NOT?”

It was Anna’s turn to jump as she started stammering out denials, Kristoff both helping and not helping at the same time. Yuna only gave a knowing smile, which confirmed Anna’s previous concern that she knew. The other three girls seemed completely surprised, on the other hand; Rikku’s jaw had dropped, Paine’s eyes widened, and Nikolai had tilted her head with an intrigued look on her face. The Ent’s expressionless face, however, seemed to be all but smiling despite not having moved.

“NO NEED TO BE ALARMED, LITTLE RED. I COULD SENSE THE QUEEN’S MAGIC ABOUT YOU; NOT AS STRONG AS IF YOU’D BEEN THE WIELDER, BUT STRONG ENOUGH I KNEW YOU WERE CLOSE. BESIDES, HAVING ROOTS IN AN INN HAD ITS ADVANTAGES—MANY TALES OF THE SNOW QUEEN’S FIESTY AND FIERY SISTER REACHED ME. IT IS NOT BECAUSE YOU FAILED TO DECEIVE ME THAT I LEARNED THE TRUTH, LITTLE RED, ONLY THAT I HAD ALL OF THE EVIDENCE TO DEDUCE IT MYSELF.”

The Ent’s go at reassuring Anna worked, if only because the combination of logic and kindness about the being’s tone and words were clear. But then, it made sense to the princess that a tree spirit would only be benevolent, especially when it had no personal qualms against her. As Anna took a moment to think, and to consider the Ent’s request, it wasn’t too long before she looked to its face with a smile.

“I would be more than happy to take you to Arendelle and plant you somewhere there. It would be nice to have a mighty Ent living so close to home!”

The redhead’s agreement brought bright smiles to all of the women before her, especially Rikku. The leaves around the rustled softly, as if the Ent had sighed, happily this time.

“I AM IMMENSELY GRATEFUL TO YOU FOR ACCEPTING MY REQUEST, LITTLE RED. WHILE IT MAY SEEM TRIVIAL TO A HUMAN, I AM SURE YOU CAN IMAGINE WHAT IT MEANS TO AN OLD ENT LIKE ME.”

Anna kept her smile and nodded. “Yeah, I guess moving around is a lot harder for a tree than it is a person, right?” She ended her question with a giggle, an apparently infectious one as Yuna and Rikku echoed it.

Then, to everyone’s surprise…the Ent’s face on the tree moved as it smiled.

“INDEED, LITTLE RED. NOW, BEFORE I GIVE YOU MY SEED, I WILL SAY THIS: PLANT IT WHEREVER YOU SEE FIT, FOR YOUR HEART SEEMS KIND AND I TRUST YOUR JUDGEMENT. ALL I ASK IS THAT IT BE AS BENEFICIAL A SPOT TO YOU AND TO OTHERS TREE AS IT IS TO MYSELF. I SHAN’T BEAR THE THOUGHT OF PUTTING OUT OTHER TREES JUST SO THAT I MAY GROW AGAIN. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, LITTLE RED?”

Anna sobered, drew herself up proudly, and nodded. “I do, and I’ll do my best to find you a good spot, I promise.”

The Ent’s smile remained. “VERY GOOD. THANK YOU AGAIN, LITTLE RED…THANK YOU, PRINCESS ANNA OF ARENDELLE. NIKOLAI,” The women turned to the Ent’s face and hummed in acknowledgement. “WOULD YOU BE SO KIND AS TO GIVE LITTLE RED MY SEED? THERE IS NOT MUCH SPACE UP HERE, AND I WOULD RATHER NONE OF YOU RISKED FALLING ANYMORE THAN YOU CURRENTLY ARE.”

Everyone chuckled, grateful for the Ent’s concern, and Nikolai nodded. Anna watched, fascinated, as the Ent’s mouth actually opened, revealing a brightly colored vortex within that shimmered with every shade of green there was. She was so engrossed in the colorful display in the Ent’s mouth, that she almost missed it as Nikolai reached her hand out just as a seed flew out of the verdant hole. As if deliberate on the Ent’s part, the seed landed perfectly in Nikolai’s palm, who smiled.

Immediately upon the seed’s ejection and landing upon Nikolai’s hand, there was a change in the tree around them. First and foremost, the stylistic face of the Ent faded away like it had never been there at all. Secondly, though the tree seemed just as healthy as it had been before, as she looked up into the canopy, Anna could swear its colors weren’t nearly as vibrant as they had been before. It was as if the Ent’s spirit infused the tree with even more life and strength, and now…now it was simply a tree. Still plenty strong and alive, but now no different than any other tree.

#Frozen Fan Fiction #frozen fanfiction #fanfic excerpt

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