#decimo lemione

[vampiresuns]

The Rising Tide

For @arcana-echoes​ day 9: First Loves. I decided to post this one day early after spending two days straight working on it.

This is the story of Anatole and his first boyfriend. It is not a happy story. I could write an entire series about Anatole’s first loves: Vesuvia, Himself, Navneet Kaur, one of his best friend’s older brother. However, this is a story about Anatole’s vulnerability and I suppose it is a love story about himself.

Title: The Rising Tide - The Killers

CWS: Discussion of abuse, implied assault (though nothing is explicitly described). Anatole gets called ‘limp-wristed’ but he punches the guy who does so. Mentions of blood and wounds which draw blood.

Words:  4,740

Anatole was sitting on top of some crates, the sea breeze playing with his hair and his notes long forgotten. The ship was going from beyond the strait of seals to Firent, where he was supposed to board another ship and go directly to Vesuvia. Stopping by at Firent didn’t thrill him in the slightest, though it had nothing to do with Firent itself, and everything to do with the ship he would board there. 

He wouldn’t even have Milenko and Amparo there with him. Milenko was taking another ship to Venterre before he made it back to Vesuvia, and Amparo was staying in Firent. 

Amparo who was sitting one crate below Anatole, reading a novel she shut with a thud. “Speak.”

“I thought I was on a speaking ban,” Milenko replied. 

“Not you. Toly.”

Anatole pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, rubbing. He ran his hands over his face, and groaned loudly into them. “What is there to say.”

“Here we go,” Milenko said, rolling his eyes with an affectionate smirk. Anatole hit his head with his notebook. “Hey!”

“Speaking ban.”

“You’re not on one, so spit it out, you’re brooding like a lobster.”

Milenko mimicked lobster claws with his hands, clicking his mouth as a sound effect. 

“How do you know lobsters brood?”

“I do.”

“Okay, merlenko.”

“Rude.”

Anatole accepted the claim and sighed, resigning himself to speak. “The only ship which can take me back to Vesuvia on time is Admiral Lemione’s.”

Milenko perked up, sitting abnormally straight, and Amparo paled. “Is there anyone else, are you sure?”

“We’re dead sure.”

“Oh, fuck. Toly, I’m so sorry.”

Anatole snorted, grabbed his notebook, his pen and climbed down from the crates. “Yeah, well, it’s not your fault,” he said, angry and curt, stomping away like he would push anyone who would dare talk to him, or worse show him pity, out of his way.

Later he would realise Amparo was not pitying him, she was worried, as was Milenko. He would apologise then, but right now all he wanted was to scream and be left alone. 

***

Navy Admiral Emmanuel Parakevas Lemione, Baronet, was an orderly man, who liked things in an orderly manner, disliked unruly crowds and didn’t let his sailors play too much music or play too many games as they were “mundane distractions ill-timed with duty.” He had married Lady Alba Dommina Aspi in an arranged marriage when he was 25 and she 21 — a marriage resulting in six children, all of them men: Emmanuel, Terminus, Parakevas, Adeodatus, Nereus and Decimo. 

He disliked the Colosseum only because he disliked anything that resembled commoners reminding anyone they existed, and while he thought gambling was foul, he supposed it was an adequate end for criminals and the like. 

While land-owning, rich and old, the Lemione family had impoverished itself to the point of only keeping two properties: the ancestral seat at the outskirts of Vesuvia — dilapidated and in disrepair — and a minor, unremarkable Palazzo which came endowed with Alba when she and Emmanuel got married. A series of poor alliances had left them with almost no allies, no money, at risk of losing everything and in great debt.

Emmanuel, stern and impassive could think of nothing worse than losing all chances to win an even better title, and leave nothing to his sons. Elitist and removed, Alba could think of nothing worse than being ostracised from good company, and having to work to earn their living.

So they had agreed a good change in directions was needed, if their comfort was to be retained. 

The new Count, while trite, foreign, flashy and undeserving of the position in their minds, did enjoy expansive foreign policies which were always a nice environment for war, which suited Emmanuel — he didn’t have to like the Count if they both had a mutually beneficial relationship. A Navy fleet was quite useless without a war in sight. 

The other thing they needed was acquaintances or alliances which would serve as proof that they had changed, a way to reposition themselves back in the Court, and enjoy all the privileges they once did. Create the feeling they were dependable once again, so people believed things of them depending on whom they went with. 

The Cassano weren’t the kind of family they had in mind — they were nothing further from the Lemione, with their self-won importance, people-leaning tendencies and their lack of Nobiliary tiles; but they had the Consulship, and had held it for the last 500 years. Them ruling the Council of Vesuvia undisputed was no rumour, it was reality: they had taken the second most important political office in Vesuvia to their name, and by interacting with, and considering, people from all ends of life, they had acquired unprecedented status. 

Even if they were too eccentric for the Lemione tastes, and their families had never merged, it could be seen as a move of cooperation. Besides, they did rule the Council and they did have money. 

Decimo Lemione becoming enamoured with Aelius Anatole of the Cassano, who was rumoured to take the Consulship after Valerius (unless the Consul himself married and had children, which seemed extremely unlikely) was simply a stroke of luck.

***

Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva, of the Cassano of Vesuvia was as beautiful as he was intelligent. He had looked striking in a suit almost as blue as Decimo’s eyes. 

Decimo hadn’t even bothered with the other two: Milenko wasn’t a Cassano, and Amparo, while beautiful and a Ravella on one side, which was most advantageous, did not glow golden in the ballroom lights like Anatole did. His father and his mother had always told him to seek advantageous pairings and acquaintances, something which Decimo tried, he really tried — yet sometimes all the stories one of his aunts used to tell him as a child overtook him.

He was 18, he was no longer a child. He longed to prove himself worthy and useful, a man through and through, so he pushed down the old fairy tales and decided that the boy whom everyone who was anyone knew was Valerius’, Consul of Vesuvia, favourite candidate to succeed him, would be good enough for his parents, so he let himself follow him around, starstruck at his bright mind and charming words.

Decimo didn’t account for how all that one repressed, still sought an outlet. His fairytales slipped through his fingers, weaving in his head a story of how Anatole would love him for reasons only right to him, and they would get married like his parents had, and the children of the future Consul would be his children, and therefore Lemiones. It would work for in his mind the stars wanted it that way. 

Him and Anatole dated for six months, six months in which they saw one another not as much as Decimo would like — in reality, nothing was much like Decimo would’ve liked. Anatole seemed well adjusted, but was as eccentric as the rest of his family. He danced on ships, and talked to people one wasn’t supposed to talk to. He read authors who had dangerous ideas, and sometimes he almost sounded like his brother Nereus. Anatole was not easily dissuaded, intimidated or dismayed. His ideas were bright beacons of possibility, and he was ready to pursue them all when the time was right.

He talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, and talked. Mostly about his dreams, and he wanted to know Decimo’s opinion on topics he had no idea what to think about beyond what his parents had told him, or what his family thought, which was never enough for Anatole. He had heard his mother once talk about how the Consul was too preoccupied with arts and cultural festivals, and not enough with proper aristocratic rule, so he would’ve had to be broken in more — a flaw of youth, as young Consuls, in Alba’s idea, didn’t do. Decimo imagined Anatole was the same, but with ideas of justice, equality and democracy, words which seemed all to foreign for him to even want to accept. 

Anatole wasn’t even Vesuvian, he was Balkovian. Decimo, set on his fairytale, decided his weird ideas would have to do with the fact Balkovia was a Democratic Federation: he wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed in real life, but he knew it was a Sovereignty which was ruled by its people, and not by birth right. That couldn’t do, it wasn’t their fault people resented them for having a better origin and therefore being entitled to finer, better things. Therefore, to Decimo, the solution was simple: Anatole, like his uncle, had to be broken in, never accounting that Anatole’s spirit was not one to be dominated by anyone or anything. 

Breaking down a Cassano, or a Radošević, took years, and it took people (or entities) stronger and wilier than Decimo will ever be, and Anatole was both. 

Decimo’s aspirations went three towns further from Hell when one Vesuvian Summer, his father officially laid on the table the possibility of an arranged marriage in the future, given the boys have taken to each other and it would seem most beneficial for the families and the boys happiness. Valerius’ — head of the Cassano family as the Consul in seat — and Anatole’s parents’ ‘No’ were so automatic Admiral Lemione thought it was a joke at first. 

The second set of ‘No’ was final and emphatic; the rest of the evening was a complete disaster.

The list of things Decimo never accounted for was long: he never accounted for Valerius and the Cassano being so starkly against marriage offers. He never accounted for Anatole’s parents being nothing if not an unified front when it came to protecting their son’s dreams, feelings, integrity and aspirations. He never accounted for the Cassano to see straight through his father’s intentions and distrust his lack of principles. 

He never accounted for Anatole’s feelings, his opinions or all of the times Anatole asked him to back off, said ‘no’, or said anything really. Playing pretend he was older and more important than he actually was, it wasn’t that Decimo didn’t pay attention to Anatole, it was that he thought his ‘weird ideas’ were temporary, his ‘no’ finite. He never accounted for the fact Anatole’s patience, politeness or ‘civility’ (how his father called it) would run out, and were in fact were very limited when they came to Decimo.

All that his father had told him on the matter was: “You’re a fool, boy. Unless that boy comes crawling for you, I don’t want to hear about him ever again.”

“But—”

“No buts! Do you think I have forgotten how he speaks to people who are higher ranking and older than him? Do you think I have not listened to that son of radicals and agitators masked in fine clothing speak? What is worse, Decimo, is you never even realised what you were getting into. That boy is a lost cause and he would eat you alive in three seconds because you are not firm enough.

“Him and his family are a plague upon good people like us. A Baudelaire would’ve been better, for no riches will ever make Aelius Radošević anything other than what he is: a disgrace.”

His father paused, walking to the nearest window and looking out on it. “At least he is smart. Too smart, alas. He was right in telling you you are too young to know what love is. I should’ve never let your aunt Amani tell you all those stories as a child, you clearly haven’t outgrown them.” 

Decimo was going to say he had a plan, that it would work, if only his father and Anatole would see, but the Admiral turned to him and Decimo felt his voice die in his throat. “Let me teach you something right here, right now, Decimo: the only thing Love is useful for, is as an excuse.” 

***

Anatole has always been fascinated by statues. When he was a kid he used to look at statues of men and think how one day he wanted to be like them, but living. Walking. Breathing. They meant an imprint in the world of whom you had been, but at the same time, it was someone else’s interpretation of you: someone else moulded you to whom you thought you were. Anatole looked up at them, cheeks growing hotter at those he found the prettiest and thought how much he would like for them to become alive and tell him how they thought themselves. 

No heroes commemorated by the memory of others, but by their own hand.

He had never liked the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea for that reason. How horrid must it be to be idealised as everything you were not, of having your identity and your existence handed to you. He had never liked people who did that, and Decimo was one of those people.

He had liked him once, but not anymore. He had liked him when he relaxed and his blue eyes became unsure and poetic, but had stopped when he had pushed what made him different, what made him himself down to resemble his horrible father. He had liked him when he listened, making him feel like those dreams he kept under his pillow weren’t big enough for him — that he’d grow and grow and grow until he fit them — until he realised Decimo wasn’t listening.

He had liked him when he felt sorry he had lost his brother Nereus, who left after a fight with his father a year prior, moving in with one of his aunts. He hadn’t when he saw Nereus’ wish to be himself as an act of cowardice, instead of an act of bravery. Decimo could be very bright and very gentle, but he always had a but. For Decimo to be everything he could be, he would have to stop living in the Admiral’s shadow; as sad as it could be, Anatole didn’t know if Decimo had it in him to stop. 

His airs of self importance, and how he acted like love was an act of disposition made him intolerable in Anatole’s mind. Everything nice Decimo had once had, was been swiftly changed with the image of him telling him there was no need to fight his father when one day Anatole had been invited for dinner (and he couldn’t find any way to excuse himself). Parakevas, who had stayed for dinner, told Decimo Anatole had simply disagreed, congratulating him for it. 

“For the sake of the Gods, Decimo. Let him. What worth is youth without some disobedience.” 

“Father wouldn’t like that.”

“Is father here? No he is not,” Parakevas took a drag out of the cigarette he was smoking. “And I would tell him what my opinion is right to his face anyway, I don’t live in this decrepit old house any more.”

“I think it’s a nice house,” Decimo insisted.

“Well, I don’t, and I’m not arguing about it, it is simply my opinion. You’ve been travelling for less than a year with the Navy, you haven’t seen enough of the world yet.”

Anatole thought Parakevas was right. Decimo had seen nothing of the world. He lived right in Vesuvia, with its different cultures and people, and he still thought difference was only tolerable when performed by the right people — a copy of his father.

That had been months ago. Now he was lying in his bedroom in Firent, looking at the ceiling and thinking too much, too loudly. Everyone in his family had told him there would always be people who thought his mere existence was an affront to theirs, people who would like to mold the world into something familiar and people who, as he became more notorious, would want things out of him, painting him to their own convenience. Anatole had always had enough of a presence, enough of a strong, noticeable personality to know what that was like from a young age. 

The world, in its diversity, changes and differences was beautiful, and there were always people who would want to make it all the same, per secula seculorum. The more himself he became, the more apparent it was. The Lemione would always dislike people who used their power for others, instead of for themselves.

What Anatole feared out of all of it was he would sway to them: that one day he might not be strong enough to carry forward, that he would not be enough. That their words and opinions might swallow him whole, and his strength vanish.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but the scene replayed in his head over and over again: in the Vesuvian summer, he had asked Decimo why was his father talking to his parents and Valeriy. Decimo had explained, rhapsodising about a plan and a future which involved nothing of who Anatole really was, casually insulting everything he wanted to be. He had said no, and this time, Decimo wasn’t so gentle about it; instead he became abrasive, demanding to know why it was that Anatole refused to see that he was right. 

You could repeat a wrong thing one thousand times, and it would not make it any less wrong. Decimo held Anatole by his wrist. 

“Decimo, let me go,” Anatole hissed, pulling his hand away. 

“But, but I have written to you, and I have travelled with you, and I have fallen in love with you—” Decimo kept listing things, trying to prove something by its appearance rather than by its substance. Anatole’s patience ran out.

“Decimo you’re months older than me,” he interrupted him. Decimo stared at him with a half open mouth. Anatole no longer looked beautiful, the anger in his eyes and the sarcasm in his voice made him look terrifying; to Decimo, he had suddenly grown to occupy the entire room. 

“You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, you jerk. You don’t know a thing about anything and you never listen to me. You parade me like a pretty little thing you found in need of patronage, as if you were anything else than a guy my age.” 

“Anatole, I love you,” he insisted. 

“No you don’t, you don’t know a single thing about what love is, and maybe I don’t either, but at least I know I’m not a self-entitled jerk.” 

With tears clouding his vision Anatole turned off the candles in his room with a flick of his hand. In the darkness, overwhelmed and afraid, he cried.

***

His cousins hugged him goodbye before Milenko went his way (his ship sailed earlier); Amparo hugged him once again for good measure. 

“You’ll see us in a couple of months, and you can tell us how terrible it was in person, if you haven’t already in letters.”

“I think I’ll need both after the sour aftertaste. Break a leg, Lele.” 

“I plan to break both.” 

His cousin’s bright smile stayed with him as he armed himself with courage to board the ship. His head tutor asked if he was okay, to which he said yes, but before he could say anything else they were separated as she was needed somewhere else and Anatole was led towards his room. 

He didn’t have the chance to settle down when someone came to retrieve him: the Admiral wished to speak to him. Of course he did, the disgusting man. 

The Captain was in the navigation room, where a Cartographer who was around Valeriy’s age was working as well, along with an apprentice of theirs. They looked up when Anatole stepped in, the Cartographer’s face brightening — he knew Anatole from before. His name was Cassius Ravella, one of the Cousin’s of Amparo’s parent, Iris. The Admiral interjected before Cassius had any chance to speak. 

“Young Aelius.” 

Gods (of whatever religion, Anatole was not picky), he hated this man. “Admiral.” 

“It is a pleasure to have you on board,” he began, amiable enough for Anatole to distrust his words. “I have already met with your head tutor, who has informed me you would be focused on your studies so you should not interfere with Navy business.” 

“Yes, that is correct,” as long as you leave me be, Anatole didn’t add. 

“Then I expect you not to interfere, and accept the olive branch that was handing you your own quarters after—“ he paused, “you may go. Please remember the ship rules for the Navy man’s duty never ends.” 

Anatole blinked at him, frowning. “But I’m not a Navy man.”

The conversation didn’t end there, but for all purposes it did; Anatole had no wish to cause trouble, but he had no intention to let this man order him around. Whether he wanted it or not he was going to be on the defensive the entire way to Vesuvia. At least it was apparent Decimo was not on the ship, a blessing on itself. He wouldn’t try to antagonise the Admiral too further, even if he wanted to — right now was not the time to blow his chances, nor he wanted to give anyone the pleasure to get a reaction out of him. Maybe Decimo wasn’t on board, but Adeodatus — whom Anatole disliked the most out of the Lemione brothers — and one of his friends, Joa, were on board. 

His safe haven on the ship lasted ten days.

For ten days he had replied as intelligently as he could, tried to set boundaries, or not replied at all to all sorts of commentary and taints from Joa and Adeodatus, while feeling like he was constantly being observed. Still he had tried his best in his lessons, and spent as much time as possible not around. However, per the Admiral’s insistence (or wilful lack of cooperation) his fencing lessons had to be with the rest of the younger navy people, whatever their rank was — Anatole did not care. 

He hadn’t been paired with Adeodatus or Joa, but they found him anyway. The exercise was rounds, and Anatole had won all of his; so had Adeodatus. On the fifth point in their spar, Adeodatus made an unlawful move.

Anatole took his face guard off, holding it under his arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Jeez, don’t take it so badly Nana,” Anatole looked at him deadpan, “we have to train for war.”

“You’re training in a martial sport, and even war has rules.”

“Rule of the strongest,” Adeodatus laughed. Joa high fived him.

Anatole rolled his eyes as the fencing master declared the point nule, but Adeodatus said something unspeakable about Anatole’s Uncle and Anatole himself, and the world fell silent around them. The fencing master granted him a black card, but Antole didn’t even notice. He wasn’t just angry, he seethed, his face disfiguring with anger making Joa’s mouth fall open.

“Say that to my face, slimy, rat bastard.” 

“I said—” 

Anatole dropped his face guard completely, closing the distance between them. Without him noticing his brain already decided for him: he’d have a better chance at doing anything if he went for Adeodatus midriff. He was considerably taller, but jaws were hard and his brain decided to minimise his hand damage by punching him on the solar plexus. 

Adeodatus coughed, Joa yelled at him, so did the fencing master. Anatole paid no mind to it. He had a limit, this was his limit, but he should’ve thought it was a bad idea to punch someone as prideful as Decimo’s brother: Adeodatus who had always lived in the shadow of his brother Emmanuel, not because of anything that Emmanuel did, but because he had none of the good qualities Emmanuel had. Adeodatus was a cocky, mediocre bully who had just been punched by someone six years younger than him. 

A six years younger than him ineffectual, limp-wristed fool, like he had said before Anatole punched him. 

Anatole almost fell on his back scrambling for his own sword as Adeodatus lunged forward. He was taller, stronger, definitely more violent than Anatole. One thing was Anatole being in the headspace of a fight, where he made up for his lack of height and his fairly average strength with stamina, wits and velocity. This was an actual fight, a scenario he had never found himself in before. Adeodatus hit his cheek with an elbow, as someone — Anatole didn’t notice who — futilely tried to separate them. 

Everything ended when Adeodatus took his sword to Anatole’s face.

“Adeodatus Lemione!” the Admiral yelled, drawing everyone out of it. Anatole took his hand to his cheek, it stung, and blood was starting to go out of the cut on his left cheekbone, his fingers touching wet, fresh blood. 

He advanced and didn’t give Adeodatus peace until he disarmed him.

***

Everyone who was anyone in Vesuvia, where gossiping was the local sport, knew the Lemione and the Cassano couldn’t stand each other — however everyone assumed it was for the usual reasons. Very few people knew Decimo Lemione and Aelius Radošević had dated, with a failed marriage offer. More people knew about  Adeodatus Lemione scarring the cheek of the Consul-to-be after insulting him, the Consul in seat and his family, and the subsequent scandal it had caused. 

They didn’t know it from Decimo Lemione, though. Decimo Lemione refused to talk about Aelius Anatole Radošević in any capacity, out of what most people assumed was respect. In reality, it was fear. He was terrified of his ex-boyfriend. 

A couple of years after the sword incident, when Anatole was 23 he saw Decimo face to face for the last time. They had crossed paths on a Palace function: Anatole was even handsomer than Decimo realised, foolish as he was he decided to approach him. 

While he felt fear when the ever insisting Decimo placed an indiscreet hand on his leg, it was the anger in him which won. As calmly as he could he told Decimo they should take this somewhere else. When he was away enough, Anatole unshielded his rapier, pointing it directly against Decimo’s chest. 

“Now you will listen to me, and you will listen to me well, you absolute fucking coward. Do you know what the penalty is for these and further offences in Vesuvia?” 

“Nana, put that down.” 

“It’s Radošević De Silva to you. You do know by the look in your disgusting eyes. Do you really think anyone will listen to the no one son, of a no one Admiral, against the claim of a Cassano of Vesuvia? When I have a rightful claim? Think about that when you decide to put a hand on me ever again.” 

“There’s no need to exaggerate— I wasn’t—“ 

“Do I need to remind you of your own words to me?” Even if his hand shook, his voice did not. “Do you know what your brother called me when he put a sword to my face? That I was an ineffectual, limp-wristed fool. And yet— and yet.” 

Decimo tried to back away but every step that he took was a step Anatole advanced. 

“You could’ve at least tried this when I wasn’t carrying a sword with me, but you’ve always been an idiot. I swear on my mother, Decimo, that if you ever dare to put a hand on me, there will be no corner of the world you’ll be able to hide. Put a hand on me again, speak to me again, and I will make your life so miserable you’ll have nowhere to hide because everyone will know the kind of asshole that you are.

“Do not try me, Decimo.” 

Later that night, Anatole would cry in the arms of his parents who were visiting Vesuvia with him, just like he had cried after he had fought Adeodatus, only this time he wasn’t alone. He would shake and cry out of fear and hurting, so many of his fears and doubts joining one another in one screech inside his head. 

However he had been right: Decimo was a coward. Maybe he had never truly listened to him, but he had listened enough to know Anatole was stronger than he let on, in body and spirit. Anatole never saw him again, and Decimo never spoke of what had happened between him and Anatole to anyone outside of his family. 

[vampiresuns]

I have so many feelings about Milenko at any given time so gimme 19, 30, 41 for him pls 🥺

Because all hours are Milenko hours

Character solidifying questions - Accepting

19. What were your character’s deepest disillusions? In life? What are they now?

Does fear count as disillusion? Because in life, few things beat Milan up more than realising that he is whole untranslatable, wholly incommunicable. That he is somewhat doomed, somewhat destined to float down rivers unnoticed, and no matter how many words he uses, no one will ever understand or see him. Not that people won’t notice, no, but that people will misunderstand. There is nothing worse in this life than being misunderstood. What a sad way to realise you were never loved correctly.

If I had to speak of a particular disillusion in his Arcanaverse arc, I would have to say Asra. Don’t get him wrong, he loved, has loved, and loves Asra very much still. He has tried his hardest not to judge him and doesn’t wish to judge him. That doesn’t mean he was heavily disappointed to realise that they ended up completely apart, because life happened, and their choices would’ve never collide.

If he could’ve, he would’ve given Asra everything.

30. Are they holding on to something in the past? Can they forgive?

Milan will never be able to forgive abuse and unbridled selfishness. Milan ascribes to not judging others, first and foremost. A man without a single violent bone in his body, he can disagree and state his disagreement, but at most the only thing he can do is act according to what he thinks its right from a place of love, no matter what other sentiments come with it.

He can disagree, but he doesn’t know if he can judge. This, however gets completely overridden by two people: one of them is Lucio, the other is one of Anatole’s ex boyfriends, Decimo Lemione (you can read about that in The Rising Tide but know this piece will get eventually reworked, though the premise won’t change). This also tends to get extended to the courtiers, and anyone who exercises such a level of despondent tyranny.

41. Is your character aware of who they are? Strengths? Weaknesses? Idiosyncrasies? Capable of self-irony?

Oh, he is. He has the smallest ego of them all and takes himself very much in stride and not that seriously. Sure, he has self-respect, but who hasn’t erred on the side of doing one’s own pet-peeves now and then?

He can see himself most unadorned of ego, personal biases and the like, and he likes who he is, having no desire to change that, even if sometimes he ends up feeling like I explained for question #19.

However, he isn’t one for making jokes at his own expense. One or two comments maybe, but part of taking himself in stride also includes not really joking about it as, for him, joking material (like self-irony is) implies a further something that he doesn’t have that much.

Ironically though, if he hasn’t realised he is or does a certain thing, his first reaction will be “What? Really? No, I don’t— Do I?” until the shoe drops. He’ll either be a little embarrassed, or just laugh.

[vampiresuns]

✨ Navigating Jules’ Arcanaverse ✨

As you might have noticed, I have a bit of a lore heavy arcanaverse, and I understand it can be hard to follow sometimes. Here’s a way to navigate it!

Jules’ Vesuvia follows the various generations of the Radošević-Cassano family. The R-C is a family created around my original Arcana apprentice, Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva (that’s his full name, but Anatole does the trick).

On one side, the Cassano are an old Vesuvian family, with no nobility titles, who despite this have held the Consul’s office within their ranks for give or take 500 years. On the other, the Radošević are a Balkovian (fantasy land inspired in former Yugoslavia) family of people of the arts and sciences.

They have a very specific vision of how things should be done. You can learn about them here. 

Both families have had ties of friendship for generations until those resulted in two marriages: The marriage of Anatole’s biological grandmother (a Cassano) to his biological grandfather (a Radošević) and the marriage of the former’s cousin (a Cassano too) to Anatole’s great uncle (a Radošević). The first marriage resulted in two children: Vlad Radoševic, Anatole’s father, and Valeriy “Valerius” Radošević, also known as Consul Valerius, as I headcanon him to be Anatole’s uncle.

The two brothers, however, weren’t raised by their parents but by the second aforementioned marriage. This is because their parents died when Vlad was 14 and Valeriy 4, in a partying accident.

The current generation the Julesverse follows is that of Anatole, Milenko Radošević-Tesfaye, Amparo Cassano, and Artemisia Cassano [bio pending].

Here’s a quick rundown of some names which come up the most:

Anatole, and his parents Vlad Radošević and Louisa De Silva, a latina doctor who was exiled from her country out of political reasons.

Anatole’s great uncle and his husband, who act as his grandfathers: Mircea Radošević and Florentino Cassano.

Milenko, and his mothers: Violeta Radošević and Aurora Tesfaye, a botanist and garden designer and an former archaeologist now consultant. Along them you may find Atanasie Radošević and Blasio — the former is Violeta’s twin brother and Milenko’s uncle, while the latter is Milenko’s grandfather and father of Violeta and Atanasie.

Violeta, Atanasie and Blasio are muslim. Aurora is jewish. Milenko was rised as both.

Amparo, and her parents Cassiopeia Cassano, a member of the Council of Vesuvia, and Iris Ravella.

Artemisia, who is Amparo’s sister. Hers and Amparo’s grandparents: Anzano and Atlia are sometimes mentioned.

The former Consuls: The consulship title post game is held by Anatole, whom inherited it from Valerius, who got it from Iovanus Cassano, his grandfather, who got it from Vitale Cassano, his father.

Valerian Cassano or Valerian Valperga, these are the same person. He is the widow of Iovanus Cassano, a necromancer, and former actor. He is past his 100s and is often featured as a guide for many of these characters.

I also have a headcanon list about how I imagine the Vesuvian Court to function, which you can find here. I worldbuild around it a lot.

The only non Radošević-Cassano who currently has an active storyline, is my OC J. C. Sanlaurento, aka Julianus ‘Jules’ Cleopatra Sanlaurento who exists exclusively within the intersection between my arcanaverse and @/apprenticealec‘s arcanaverse, as they are shipper with Saoirse, one of her pirate OCS. You can read the Jules x Saoirse series: Secrets of an Ancient Moon here.

Are there Any Other Radošević-Cassano related OCs I should know of? ✨

Because in this life we all have friends, there are some OCs who exist as secondary characters in the Vesuvia of the Radošević-Cassano, these are:

Paris De Silva, Louisa’s younger sister, aunt of Anatole, and former owner of ‘The Shop’. Hers was called The Moonstone and Jasmine.

Leonore Kaur and Medea Pryce — they were former apprentices of mine who no longer connect to the main Arcana storyline, but who remain in the universe as two of Anatole’s best friends. They met while they were at University. Leonore is a therapist, while Medea works in the Vesuvian Court, as part of it’s staff [see: Court Staff in this post]

Octavia Rey Dos Santos, a playwright by night and Coffee wench by day, she runs The Sphinx Coffeehouse, simply known as ‘The Sphinx’, which is owned by her family and is a meeting place for various artists and intellectuals of Vesuvia, such as Amparo’s, Anatole’s and Milenko’s combined friend circles. Octavia has a sibling, Sabine Rey Dos Santos, who is sometimes mentioned.

The rest of the Kaur family: Devdas (father) and Rajni (mother), and Leonore’s siblings, from eldest to youngest: Navneet, Sashi, Althea his twin sister, and the triplets: Isha, Vaishnavi and Ashok.

The Lemione Family, featuring as antagonists in Anatole’s youth, you can find Decimo Lemione, Anatole’s first boyfriend in the fic The Rising Tide, and you can find a later story about Emmanuel Lemione, Decimo’s brother here.

Know my inbox is always open if you wish to ask any questions about my Arcana verse.

If you want to know more about my OCs, I have a masterlist here ✨

If you want to Read about my OCs, you can find everything I’ve ever written separated by character and categories here ✨

I’m currently working on Anatole’s Apprentice Rewrite, which you can find here ✨

Thank you for reading! I and the Radošević-Cassano thank you for your time and your attention! Please remember to like and reblog my fic if you engage with it; writers are fandom content creators too!

[vampiresuns]

Interlude 1: Do Not Stand Over My Grave And Weep, Part 1

☽ PART 1: CARALUNA ☽

2.3k words. In which Milenko mourns Anatole, and a ghost that is not really a ghost runs into him in the Palace’s gardens.

CW: Death and discussions of it, allusions of drowning (no one actually drowns nor is in real danger of it).Feelings of depression, feelings of abandonment and displacement/diaspora. Me, once again, going berserk about non Christian theology.

The title comes from Caraluna by Bacilos. You can find the translation of the lyrics online, but I don’t like those.So if you’re feeling bold enough, you can ask me to translate if you don’t speak Spanish.

What to catch up with this series? You can do that here.

That Milenko’s magic worked beyond his full control didn’t mean he didn’t understand how it worked. He did.

First of all, not because he was clairvoyant it meant his magic was prophetic. He knew God had not made him a prophet — God really, really hadn’t. This was something he could do, that was all. Some people could cook, some people had language magic, some people were alchemists, some people called magic the science they could not explain yet. All Milenko had here was an Intuition and Imagination he could tap into like other people could not.

His granparent, Ilnya Radošević, could do it, his mother, Violeta, and uncle Atanasie could do it, he could do it. The only difference was his was channelled with water. It was, at best, a way to anticipate some things. It did not change the future, it did not gave him for control. The world spoke to him through the water, just like it spoke to everyone else through daily occurrences. The world spoke to him through water, like it would to anyone who learnt how to pay attention. 

Secondly, even then, not everything he saw was something that would happen. Sometimes the water just showed him things. Things that weren’t real but bloomed into his eyes, like a living canvas of his imagination. Water allowed him to focus, water sometimes allowed him to transport himself to a world where words were at arm’s reach. He didn’t control when the water would call him, but he could induce it, sometimes. He had learnt how to write this way. 

If he was asked to theorise about it, he would say that when it came to his imagination, the water absorbed it. It created a bubble where he could interact with it more vividly, seeing not water, but what his mind had conjured to later put into paper. The water never hurt him physically, he didn’t need to breathe, or worry about currents — because if he was in danger, the water and his magic would take him to his gate, and from there back to safety. All he needed to do was to see and to trust. 

That took him to his third and last point: Whether he liked it or not, water was tied with his subconscious. Sometimes water wouldn’t show him events to come, things he had made up, or keys to understand things. Sometimes the water would just show him what was locked into his mind and he would otherwise be unable to reach.

Usually, Milenko found a way to pour that into something else, like his poetry. A way to explore what he could only see in the water but had no way to verbalise without it. Moments and feelings his brain or soul kept from him, tucked away until they were released into water like little vessels which grew, and grew, and grew once submerged. 

It was a dangerous thing for a man who was mourning. 

He would never forget the day he knew Anatole was dead, the water delivering the news to him. It was the only time he had struggled to come up to the surface, a sob catching in his throat before his magic could guide him back it. Ursula, his familiar, had had to drag him by the neck of the shirt, to the sight of his terrified mothers and his uncle, because of course Violeta and Atanasie just knew that Milenko was in danger.

When he managed to speak again, all he could repeat was “He is dead, he is dead,” as he cried, clinging to his mothers like he did when he was a child.

He had then locked himself in Anatole’s morning room, his head against the closed case of his cousin’s piano. That had been where Amparo found him, in late hours of the evening. 

It was a nightmare. Their families were all living together in the Palazzo during the plague, even if in separate wings with their own disinfecting stations for when they came from the outside. They had decided it was better to stick together, and because the Radošević-Cassano thought of their friends as the family you chose, they had invited those of them they knew they could house. Milenko’s room-mate Octavia and their sibling Sabine, a young herpetologist who had begun to work as a Court magician and was strangely fond of Anatole, as Anatole was of them. They had also extended that to Leonore Kaur and Medea Pryce. Aside from Asra, they had to be Anatole’s closest friends. 

How do you tell someone their friend died? Milenko wasn’t as close to them as Anatole was but he was close enough to know what he meant to them, and them to him. They were some of the few people who knew what had really transpired between him and Decimo Lemione, Leonore was with Milenko when the water told him Anatole was in danger, that night they had found Anatole threatening Decimo to never touch him again, that night he had told everyone the truth. They already knew, of course, Leonore and Medea.

In that moment Milenko realised how much he owed them for his cousin’s healing, and now, someone had to tell them Anatole had died. That was only the beginning. The house was a stack of private griefs. It was mistaken to say some were more justified or greater than others, they were all different. You do not mourn a son in the way you mourn a friend, because you don’t love them the same anyway, even if it’s all love. 

However people thought it was lesser. Not Vlad and Louisa, of course, but people, in general. What did they they know? How could they know? How could they know the grief that came with losing the one person Milenko thought would ever understand him, even when Anatole didn’t really understand him?

Who else if not his cousin to understand what it was like to inherit wars you did not fight, about people who still hated you? Who else would understand feeling your blood boil up from the Earth like a Geyser, coming to you from mismatched corners of the world? Who else would understand that feeling of existing in a liminal space? 

Who else would understand Milenko when he asked how did one go back to a place one wasn’t born in, when the place follows you anyway? How do you go back to places which should’ve been home but turned into living hazards for people like you simply because you exist? Or raise your voice? How do you go back when a foreign city that’s not really foreign, since it’s seen you grow and has housed you safely? But still is a City that’ll never be all that you are?

Perhaps this was why the two of them ended up in Vesuvia, aside from Milenko being born there. How else do you connect ends which no one could foresee meeting if not through a zigzag City where the water ran like carrying new life into dissonant architecture? 

When Anatole, his wonderful cousin, who had put himself between the world and Milenko so many times when the world decided to be unkind to him, proclaiming he was not the great grandchild of a partisan, and the son of his mother, for him to have to stand through the world unheard. It was an echo of Milenko’s own heritage: Anatole saying those words and living by them, was Milenko saying he was not the great grandson of a partisan for him not to have earned the right to be joyful. Joy was his birth given right, and he would live by that. By joy and by love.

But how could you be joyful again when grief had made itself a place in your heart? An even bigger place at that. They said the Radošević were angry because they were full of grief, satellites amid a sea of people. Milenko had never understood that — righteous anger he did, but grief which turned to anger was not something he understood. Until Anatole died.

He still remembers one day when Anatole was 10, Milenko himself a little older, and they were playing at a park in Vesuvia. Some playground bullies had decided to pick on him, with his daydreamy quality and oddities pouring out of his mouth. Anatole had stepped between them without hesitation, despite being younger, despite being at the very least, a head shorter than all of them. 

Milenko had asked him about that years later. Anatole’s answer? “I guess it was my way of comprehending then, that you had been through enough violence in your life for you to have to stand that. No offence, Merlenko, but you wouldn’t hurt a fly.” 

He wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t entirely right either — Milenko might have not had a violent bone in his body, but he wanted to forget he didn’t when Decimo Lemione came through his mind. That was an exception, not the rule. Even if Count Lucio has steadily won a place beside that son of a bitch. 

After Anatole died, he had spent two days simmering in his own grief before he decided to take a bath. The water would wash his sorrows away so he could remember Anatole’s life had been a blessing, so his memory would be one too.

The water had other plans. Milenko didn’t notice he was zoning out with the sound of running water until it was too late. Given it was only a bathtub and not open water, Ursula did not make any fuss about it. When Milenko, zoned out to the rest of the world, walked into the bathtub with clothes, submerging himself in it, the water showed him Anatole. His cousin was everywhere. He came out of the water being unable to breathe. 

Then it happened again, and again, and again: every time Milenko zoned out looking at water, or walked into it, he’d see his cousin. Sometimes not at first, but he’d always show up. It had been the same for four years — four years where people continued to die, where he knew he should eventually move on, let go, seek someone to talk about it, but he couldn’t. Milenko already felt like all clocks should stop, like no dog should bark or wag its tail, that the world should stop moving so his grief might stop too. 

He knew that was not possible. He knew that would not be honouring Anatole’s memory, so every day he tried: he tried his best to snap out of it and live, but how was he supposed to live and write and create when the water that had previously channelled his creative energy, showed him his dead cousin all the time? 

Now he had seen him. Alive and breathing and made of flesh. It really had been his cousin standing by the fountain and talking to someone over it. He went over it in his head until he couldn’t think any more. There were no traces of his magic, he knew that. He knew how it felt to be drawn to the water, to feel one of messages coming and he felt none of that: one moment he was marvelling at the night he walked through, a gift of fragrant breeze, and the next, he was seeing an apparition. 

He got home before Octavia and when she arrived at their shared flat, she found him drinking. Milenko gave her a tired, sad look as she looked hesitant standing across the kitchen island he was sitting at. She leant forward, looking with the tenderness of friendship into his troubled brown eyes.

Milenko looked at his glass —he saw it swirl, even if for anyone else, the glass did not do anything. He put it away, and ran his hands through his curls. “You want to tell me something… where’s Sabine?”

Her hesitance resurfaced. “Talking to Medea, with Leonore… I do want to tell you something, but—” she said, elongating the ‘u’, “you’re drinking alone. I’ve only ever seen you drink during celebrations, and you don’t look like you’re celebrating anything.”

Milenko paused for a long time, offering the rest of his drink in the meantime to Octavia. She was right. Milenko drank in moderation. He had always believed life was made to be enjoyed, and wine was a way to gather friends around. Even then, he never allowed himself to get drunk, and he wasn’t, but he was still drinking for no reason. Well, sort of. 

“If I told you I saw someone I thought was dead, would you think I was crazy?”

Octavia took his hand. “No more than I already think you are, and that’s complimentary... is it the water again?”

She sounded like she knew something. “It wasn’t the water. I– Octavia, I saw him, as alive as I remember him, not having any clue of who I was.” 

With the confession, a dam broke. Milenko began crying inconsolably as Octavia held him, rubbing his back as he spoke, tripping over his words about seeing Anatole again, lamenting on how this was not how it was supposed to be. The water was not supposed to turn against him, the water was supposed to keep him safe. 

“It’s been four years. Four awful years, I should be over it—”

“No,” Octavia interrupted him, “you’ve carried forward to the best of your capacity, bearing with something most people do not have to deal with. We don’t treat Amparo poorly when she has bad days because there’s too many dead tethering to her, do we, Milan?”

He sniffled. “No.”

“Milenko— I need you to listen to me: I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but you’re not crazy. You aren’t seeing things. Milenko, your cousin is alive.”

For the first time in four years, the distant sound of the canals in the City brought Milenko answers instead of torments, even if he had already half figured it out.

“I know how.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. 

“Asra.”

[vampiresuns]

Ooooo could I possibly ask for a letter from Anatole to Valerius? But one that never gets sent? Something he had second thoughts about after he wrote it and locked it away kind of thing 👀

[ Vesuvia, dated 5 months before the beginning of the game ]

Valeriy,

I do not think it is necessary to repeat anything that had already been said between us. It is useless. I will not tire you with what you called an “unsuitable emotional reaction from a future High-Ranking politician” — mostly because if you cannot remember who stands in front of you, then that is your fault and your fault alone.

Unlike you, I don’t forget. I am constantly aware, every day of my life that it is my own uncle, the brother of my father, the one who lies to my face with no discretion, who shits, yes, shits, on every project we ever had together because you use the poor excuse that Vesuvia is not a suitable place for them, that the people are ignorant and unprepared.

Whose fault is that?

I will not have you run the soles of my shoes down through the city for you to shut me up in front of anyone, let alone for you to completely forget your duty to the city, and the modicum of respect you should have for both myself and Aunt Cas.

Moreover, I will not let you utilise my feelings of affection towards you, my looking up at you, or my fears against me. You were the one who told me there was a certain exquisiteness in power, as it allowed you to command your own destiny, to make your own rules. You might have become an hypocrite who fed himself a delusion, one where you tell yourself you know what you’re doing, that you have any sort of control over any situation what so ever. You do not.

I, however, am not you. I have some semblance of self-respect still in me, and I will not pretend to go after you like a kicked puppy because you now decided it was a mistake to make me your successor. How fucking could you, Valeriy — yes, I will repeat the name over and over again, Valeriy Radošević, Valeriy Radošević, Valeriy Radošević, Valeriy Radošević, until we’re both sick of it. You cannot hide from me, you cannot hide from any of us, and sooner or later I will find out what is that you’re planning with the rest of the court, and I will make you regret it.

I know you enough to come up with some elaborate reason for it, but know now that the reason is simple: I do this for the City. I do this for the districts you and the rest of the Court have failed to aid, for the people you have lied to, and for all the ways which you have hurt me. Do not kid yourself thinking that Vesuvians will listen to you rather than to me. Do not kid yourself thinking that because I am young and I care you have the right to underestimate me.

You have already destroyed all my happiness, not only by making a ridicule out of me in front of the Court, but also by condemning my Ilya to die for something we both know he could have not committed.

I do not forget. Do not expect me to forgive. I will never forgive you for condemning the man I was in love with to what you did, and do not have the audacity to tell me there was nothing that you could do, because we both know that is a lie.

I will tell you the same thing I told Decimo Lemione one day: try me once more, and I will make sure there is no place in the world where you can hide from me. Betray me once more, Valeriy, and you can kiss your successor goodbye.

Do you really want to bet Cassiopeia and I cannot sway the Council against you?

One more time, Valeriy. One more.

The paper almost torn away in some places, with the force of the quill which wrote on it. However, the letter gathered dust in one of the drawers of Anatole’s bedroom desk, to remain unsent.

[vampiresuns]

Nothing To Prove

♠ NOTHING TO PROVE ♠

1.4k words. The Lemione make a comeback after The Rising Tide. Set 5 years before the start of the game, Commodore Emmanuel Lemione, eldest brother of Anatole’s ex Decimo, has an encounter with the Pirate Queen and her Quartermaster.

Saoirse and Meredith belong to @apprenticealec​. This fic was brought to you by the fact I cannot stop thinking about Saoirse.

Thank you, Dani, as always, for having created such a wonderful universe.

Being a Commodore, Emmanuel Lemione was the highest ranking officer in his ship. A ship he knew well enough had been sent on a suicide mission. The power-hungry Count apparently knew of a creature, Emmanuel did not know any better word for it, which travelled along with the Pirate Queen who had great power, power vaster than any of them could imagine.

Emmanuel did not think the idea had come from the Count. Not only did he not think him capable enough to know about this creature. Emmanuel only knew through stories of stories once lost, told to him by his Aunts when he was a child, having kept his eyes open enough to allow himself to wonder if they were real. He also couldn’t recognise the Count’s behaviour in the order, mysteriously cast upon his ship. 

He was not surprised when his crew met terrible fates, nor was he surprised to see the weariness in their faces, the anger and discomfort when his brother Adeodatus, a Lieutenant Commander, now acting as Commander as Emmanuel’s had died in one of the crew’s misfortunes, edged them on. He was powered by their father’s last letter, where he told them that they achieved this conquest would be fundamental for the future of Vesuvia, and the elimination of piracy of the waters.

Adeodatus believed it, or rather, he had no problem enacting it, because he had no problem amassing power he did not understand to advance in life. Emmanuel, however, disagreed and the more he spent at sea, the more he did so. He didn’t like pirates, except for their romantic sense of adventure, but piracy was often solved by the elimination of poverty and other kinds of social measures which prevented people from turning to crime in order to secure their living, or their freedom. 

He was absorbed in yet another discussion with Adeodatus, who thought he could ignore his orders simply because he was his brother, when the Pirate Queen and her Quartermaster found them.

“You can’t turn away and set course to Vesuvia, Emmie—”

“Unlike you, I would like to get back to my fiancé alive. If the legends are true—”

“Legends? What are legends and fairy tales to men—” Adeodatus threw himself into a tirade in the navigation room, Emmanuel’s own Quartermaster and one other officer there standing uncomfortably in the middle of the argument. His brother heed him warning by calling him by his title once, twice, but he did not shut up, until Emmanuel raised his voice.

“Lieutenant Commander. Shut up.”

“Oh, that’s mature Emmanuel, you know I’m—”

“It’s Commodore Lemione to you, and if I hear one more seditious idea from you, I will lock you up in your room for the rest of the way back.”

A crash was heard and the ship moved in a direction it was not being steered. The crew yelled and someone came to find Emmanuel, disconcert reading on their faces. 

“Commodore, we here hit by something like a harpoon—”

Colour drenched out of Emmanuel’s face as he ran on deck, followed by his Quartermaster, who took out his spyglass along the way.

“Oh, heavens.”

“Sir,” said Rhys, the Quartermaster, “I think the Pirate Queen found us.”

Emmanuel felt his thoughts raise in his head, sighing with resignation at last. “We will talk to her. Show proof we are a Vesuvian ship, if my estimations are correct, she should let us go.”

“I hope the heavens hear you, Sir.”

“She’s friends with the Count.”

“What? Sir, I don’t think it’s the moment to joke.”

“I’m not joking, Rhys. She is friends with the Count.”

“But how?”

“He was a condottiero. How do you think I doubt the order to capture her ship came from the Count himself?” 

His Quartermaster looked at him, confusion in his face before he reached the same conclusion Emmanuel had had on his own, but was still too afraid to voice. “If not the Count, then who? Do you—”

“Don’t say anything, I am not strong enough to say it yet...keep an eye on my brother.” 

With a nod, the Quartermaster set himself to his purpose while Emmanuel instructed the crew. He told them he was aware they were tired, and unless they were provoked, he would not make them fight any more fights, tonight, they would set way to Vesuvia for good with their lives intact. Commanding them to wait, he set an advice about seditious words, anyone who did not value the lives of their crew more than personal glory, was no true Vesuvian. 

“You may not believe it, but trust me by this, on my word and care for you, my friends and family away from our home: we are about to face something bigger than all of us, even if it doesn’t look like it.”

They waited, being tolled and Emmanuel prayed. 

He remembered the stories: of a being so old and so vast it was confined to where no one could find them, because all demons and creatures which roam this earth were afraid of them. He remembered the legends of its freedom, and wild women who feared the sea under their protection. He remembered the stories and feared; anyone who had been at sea enough knew from the sea itself there were things they would never understand, things that would snap the spirit of those not strong enough to face them, and leave a lasting impression in those whose temperance allowed them to make decent sailors out of them. Storms bigger than what mother nature could herself create, beings with sharp teeth and forgotten humanity, and things they were all too unable to comprehend. 

Upon meeting the Pirate Queen, Emmanuel realised one could look to her Quartermaster with no problem, directly in the eye, but there was something terror inducing about a hair as golden as the sunlight in High Noon when they turned their heads. 

He could feel his brother recoil at the shade of blond in their hair, for reasons entirely different — or perhaps the same. He didn’t know, he didn’t care. 

“We are a Vesuvian ship, which has been through many hardships as we were sent on a false trail by our superiors. Pirate Queen Meredith we mean you no harm.”

“Where are your colours?”

“Flaming there, over the quarterdeck. We cannot repair the pulley without sacrificing sail rope. If… if you need a token for our passing, I cannot offer you anything of my crew, but I can offer you this.” 

Had he been a different man, his hand would’ve shaken when he took out a golden locket from underneath his shirt, taking it off. Finely made and glistening, Emmanuel opened it, taking some hair out of it — he took out a handkerchief to protect the hair, before trying to hand the locket to Meredith.

“It’s my fiancé’s,” he explained, not knowing why. “They’ll understand.” 

His words fell flat as the ship was still searched. He ordered his crew to be helpful, and the ordeal would soon be over. As he looked over them, he felt someone or rather something stand besides him.

“Did anyone find anything?” Meredith asked

“Vesuvian ships never come this way,” Saoirse said, “that’s what I found.”

He cleared his throat. “We were sent on a mistaken path.”

“And none of you realised?” Meredith’s voice cut through, and the Quartermaster lost all interest in Emmanuel. 

“No,” he lied.

“Your locket will do. There truly isn’t shit in this ship. Tell your Count to get better sailors.” 

Emmanuel nodded, not intending to do any of the like, but glad they finally left so his ship could make its way back to Vesuvia, hopefully unharmed. 

As they resumed their course, Emmanuel watched the Pirate ship sail way. 

“My father will not be happy about this. You keep disappointing him.”

Emmanuel knew exactly what he was talking about — his fiancé, whom he had decided to marry despite his parents wishes, as other matches would be better, and he was left alone only when they realised he would marry them anyway, with or without their consent. Such a scandal, another son forswearing the family was too much for his parents, especially if it was someone with enough social cards as Emmanuel. 

He ignored his brother, silently looking at the way in which the Pirate ship had gone until Adeodatus gave up and left. Only then he spoke. “I have nothing to prove to my father.”