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yandere-wishes · 4 years

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⭐Yandere Joestars⭐

(Parts 1-7 + Bonus Charcter: Joseph and Johnny’s characterizations are based off @dear-yandere ‘s interperations) I tried to write this mostly in the Joestars' POV. Their respective darlings resemble lifelike dolls rather than human beings to further illustrate how out of touch with reality the Jojos have become.

Warnings: Gore, kidnapping, dehumanization.

Edited: By the amazing Peri!! (@tealyjade-libran )

⭐Jonathan Joestar is possessive. ⭐

It's only when you lose something, that you start to cherish it...

It's an old saying, one that Jonathan remembers from an antique storybook his mother use to read him. It didn't mean anything back then, when he was still an infant too young and new, to fully comprehend what "owning" and "losing" was. But as the years ticked by faster than any clock could keep track of, things started to change. What had once been a passing quote in a chivalrous story about knights and dragons, soon turned into the epitome of Jonathan Joestar's life.

Soon love wasn't about saving a princess or impressing the neighborhood girls with his boxing skills. No, all too soon love became about own and guarding.

There may have been a time -long before "Jojo" and Dio met- when Jonathan was just like any other gentleman. Tender and sweet, flirtish at gatherings and charming in ladies' companies...but that was a Jonathan from a could-be-past that had been demolished the minute Dio Brando stepped foot onto the Joestar estate. From then on things depleted all so quickly. Everything Jonathan had come to unconsciously cherished had been so easily stripped from him by his beloved new "brother".

Everything he loved had been killed, destroyed, or broken in some inhuman way. His friends had abandoned him, his lover had distorted him, his father didn't even notice him...

"It's only when you lose something, that you start to cherish it". The second time he hears that phrase, it freezes him to the pavement, his body star-struck like he just received a message from the heavens. Although it's rather peculiar, why "heaven" would convey a message to him in such an unholy place.

With Dio having practically kicked Jonathan out of the mansion and countryside. Jojo had no other place to go but the back allies of London. Sure he still tried to be home for supper and bedtime and any other time his father may get an inkling of his absence. But when there was no need to 'appear' Jonathan took to the London streets away from Dio and his lackeys.

In fate's bizarre game, it's in a backstreet that reeks of days old licker and rotting flesh of paupers that no one has bothered to bury. That Jojo hears that life-defining idiom once more. His dulling sapphire blue eyes follow the mist of those melodious words. Staring until they're practically itching to cut through his sockets and run after those little words. But they stop right before they can leave their eyelets, they stop and stare at the figure that strolls out of the shadows, in such a way, that would make Jojo's father slap him across the face for being "barbarous".

It's luck or fate or maybe even destiny that leads the heir of the Joestar legacy to meet his darling in the slums of England.

"How my heart resonates when I lay my weary eyes on your enchanting face..."

There's an odd sweetness about the naivety that surrounds his little friend. A sort of innocence that comes with not knowing about the hell that he's gone through. It's charming in a moderate way, his darling can't come to despise him if they haven't got a clue who he is. Keeping both his worlds as far apart as possible is really the only option left. Dio and his friends can't hurt his new friend? Lover? Companion? In actuality, Jonathan really doesn't know what you are to him. At first, you're merely a distraction from his crumbling, lonely shell of an existence. A sort of invisible pillar holding up London's bridge before it collapses into the River Thames. Sure he views you as another person, unlike the other noblemen Jonathan has no desire to treat you as anything less than a respectable young lady despite your social statutes.

Dio can have the noblemen and ladies, he can have all of George's affection and favor, Heck Dio can have the whole goddamn world for all Jonathan cares. So long as he has his darling, his sunflower, his only means for living, then he will be content.

Jojo lost everything he once loved, but he swears it to every star in the night sky that'll preserve his darling from the wickedness that runs this cruel world. He'll cherish her while she's still in his arms...

He'll protect her, just like the knights did in the old bedtime stories his mother would tell him.

"...I swear on my honor as a Joestar that I shall never lose you to the likes of anyone, I'll be a true gentleman, a true knight and I'll protect you from any who wishes cause you harm."

⭐Joseph Joestar is Protective and all so patronizing.⭐

Why must Love hurt so much?

It's solitude, pure utter solitude that attracts Joseph to his darling. Oh sure, he must have known them from an earlier time in his life, back when the words Hammon and Ripple just sounded like fancy dessert names. Back when he was still a naive kid wishing on every goddamn star that he could just meet one of his parents for a fraction of a second. Back when life was easy when everything made sense. That's when he first met his darling. Although all so many years ago he probably just thought of them as the little sister he never got a chance of having.

There's a numbness growing inside him now that his life has slipped off its axes, hurling into unknown darkness that plagues him in the form of Pillarmen and red gems.

Everywhere he looks there's a reminder that nothing's going back to the way it used to be. No waking up to Granny Erina's voice calling him down for breakfast, no running around chasing Old Man Speedwagon. Everything is gone, replaced by Lisa Lisa's brutal training and Ceaser's endless taunting.

Day by day nothing changes, but once he looks back every little thing is different. Ruptured and mangled into something unrecognizable.

But then there's his darling. Someone -or rather something- that's still the same. Just like before. Her smile is still the same as ever, bright and cheery as she runs up to him wrapping her arms around his abdomen muttering about how much she missed her "Dear Big Brother".

(Y/N) is a comfort, a familiarity in a strange new world. She's something so frail and vulnerable, not to mention naive. Thrusted into a world where horror writers don't dare venture into. It's so likely that she'd be captured by one of Kar's zombie vampire things or -even worse- charmed by Caesar’s silver tongue.

It's thoughts like these that haunt Joseph at night, keep him up and wandering into her room just to gaze at her sleeping form. He's lucid enough to know how it might look. Like he's the bad guy trying to take advantage of a defenseless little girl. But he can justify his actions, he's her big brother, he has to watch over especially when she's at her most vulnerable. If Ceaser ever tried anything or some vampire freak snatched her away in the dead of night, Joseph would never forgive himself!

But what does he get for all his efforts? What does he get for all his sleepless nights and hours upon hours of worrying? Just a small smile and a fleeting kiss on the cheek. No sincere, "Thank you big brother," or, "You're my hero Joseph!" Nothing, nothing worthwhile anyway.

Now it's a competition, a battle to the death if it has to be -funny how he takes this more seriously than his match against Wamuu.- He's competitive by nature and he's willing to do anything to earn his darling's affection once more. He doesn't care who he has to beat within an inch of their life so long as he can have his darling back in his arms.

There is an aftermath to all of these, once all the fighting has ended and the battle's won. Once Joseph has finally claimed his prize. There's a certain way his darling has to act. She’s got to smile and play the role of the dotting little sister once more. Just so Joseph can justify his actions...

"And your next line is, 'I love you more than anything else big brother Joseph!'...at least I wish it was."

⭐Jotaro Kujo is cold and sadistic.⭐

Never learned how to love...

A lover by Jotaro's book is nothing more than a walking, talking doll. Someone who cooks meals, irons clothes, and kisses him on the cheek before he leaves for the day. Sure they have other uses, in flares of passionate moments, they're something to hold onto, another pair of limbs to get tangled in. Something hot and solid, someone to push down, to weigh his force on.

That's it, that's all there is to it...

A lover and a convenient toy are one of the same.

He knows it's wrong to think about someone that way. To deprive a living thing of all their thoughts and feelings just so it's suitable for him. But at the end of the day who wants to hear idle chatter and gossip or go outside for walks in crowded areas. All too social, it's all so troublesome. All Jotaro wants is a closed-off life, away from the scums of the earth...away from people in general.

It's such an inconvenience to seek out a lover, to hassle through dates and meetups in hopes of finding someone that clicks. Jojo would even go so far as to call it wishful thinking. So it has to be a pure accident that he even meets his darling. They're just someone who gets tangled in with the crusaders. A perfect living perception of 'wrong place, wrong time'. Someone who's life gets blown to bits and shambles just because fate decided to play a cruel joke on them.

And that's what piqued Jotaro's interest. The desperate, depleted look of pain cemented over their face. The sparse dying gleam of determination that blazes within their eyes. Oh, what Jotaro wouldn't do to snuff that little ray of hope. To watch as what little purpose they have is ripped from their arms. What he wouldn't do to see them in pain...

Pain is submission, that's really all Jojo wants. A darling submits, not out of their own free will, but because every little thing they've ever loved has been slaughtered, all that they cherished has been stolen from them.

But it's not enough

It's never enough

Although Jotaro adores the looks of anguish that decorates his lover's face. There's something more satisfying about maltreating them. About leaving marks all over, about leaving bruises that never lose their violet glow. He's claiming his darling, physically and mentally. Not a single day goes that Jotaro doesn't remind his lover who they belong to. From verbal taunts that plague his darling's mind day and night, to punches that break bones leaving them paralyzed on the floor begging for help, to cuts that are just a little too deep to ever heal properly.

Even when his darling is behaving, even when the poor little thing does everything her lover tells her to do, there's still going to be some sort of violence directed at her. Some backhanded remark about how useless they are just because they couldn't follow his mother's recipe. Some sort of blow just for greeting him 'too late'. Trivial things morph into punishments, just for Jotaro's sick amusement.

At his core, Jotaro is an unresponsive man, one with no regard for how others feel. He's distant, it's a trait he can't change. He likes how he does things, how there's no room for slip-ups when it's only him. Even his darling isn't someone he'd consider opening up to. Their opinion of him doesn't matter and their feelings are irrelevant. Most days he's gone until the last possible moment, leaving his darling an endless amount of time to mull over every word and scar.

But here's the catch.

As the clock ticks by, as the nights and days begin to merge into an endless existence, as all hope burns in the pits of hell, darling's mind is also going to stray. Ever so slowly losing its perception of reality.

'Maybe' spiders begin to spin webs of doubt through darling's empty cranium. The isolation begins to bite at her skin like the razor-sharp fangs of frostbite. They start to crave Jotaro's harsh touches, they start to miss the venom-like words. Every insult and slap to the face is welcomed, all the misplaced anger and death threats start to feel like sweet kisses and flowery touches.

Poor darling no longer sees big scary Jotaro as a monster. They've lost the ability to see him for what he truly is.

And what happens when Jotaro does finally come home? Oh, how little (y/n) will ravish in the gut kicks and loathsome words. How she'll take every beating with a sweet sugar-coated smile.

Cause this is her life now. A meaningless existence that revolves around Jotaro and his bleak personality. A life that's only worth living when Jotaro is around.

Is it even a life?

"Yare yare daze you're such a hassle, be glad I keep you around...”

⭐Josuke is obsessive with delusional tendencies.⭐

Maybe I'm the one you'll fall in love with next...

Just like his "father" Joseph, Josuke is stuck in a perpetual state between diaphanous and phantasm.

There's something all too wrong with Morioh nowadays. The narrow streets and verbose buildings have started to feel like a transparent cage. The town has always been small, barely reaching a population of 3,000 despite all the new families that keep moving in.

Nevertheless, everything has dulled, faded, and withered into a monochrome collage. The layers of repetitiveness had finally begun to pick at Joskue's nerves...

And yet somehow, by some diabolical twist of fate. In the mists of the oceans of familiarity, Josuke’s eyes grab onto some shimmering pearl lounged into between the crowd of familiar faces.

Sure he's seen this girl before, but he's never actually seen her. Never stopped to look at the odd way their eyes twinkle like newborn stars or how their skin shimmers with the glow of a thousand suns.

One second is all it took, a fleeting compliment as you passed by Jojo in the peppermint flavored afternoon. Your hair flowing like a tapestry of the galaxy as you disappeared in the crowd of dead pulsars. Not a care in the world, not for him, not for anyone.

Destiny was definitely up to its old cruel tricks again.

He's not stalking. Josuke will swear on his grandfather's grave that he'd never "stalk" a harmless little girl, like some distorted maniac. He just happens to bump into you at the beauty parlor when he's picking up a new brand of hairspray. And it's totally an accident when he meets you out in the abandoned fields! Honest! It's not his fault fate wants the two of you to keep meeting, it's not his fault that you guys are meant to be!

It's not technically a friendship that you two start to build up, it's far from one. Friends don't dream about sugar-filled kisses behind school walls. Or about ice cream that tastes like scandalous touches and candy induced moans. No, Joskue isn't your friend, he NEVER wanted to be your friend. He knows that! He knows what he wants...but with each passing day, he's beginning to doubt that you know that.

He'd never realized he's been so sensitive on you. So entranced by your out of tune voice that muttered rather than spoke. He's seldom been so eager to throw a punch and crack his knuckles on someone's skull, just for saying you looked "lovely today".

Whenever his eyes don't land on you, a rage-filled volcano bubbles in the pit of his gut, uncontrollable anger that festers inside of him, like lava waiting to spill out and burn anyone that wanders too close. His palms itch with the need to hold you, to feel your soft skin rubbing against his.

The jealousy is always there, pricking at his skin like rose thrones. Until they inevitably cut through his flesh and make him lose his composure. He's ready to kick and punch and hurt and kill anyone that comes too close to you, anyone that saunters off their orbit and makes a beeline for you, disturbing the balance of solitude that Josuke so eagerly sets you into.

Sometimes in the dead of night, when the world has finally dozed off, Joskue's mind begins to wonder. He thinks the way he feels about you is the same way an addict feels about his drugs. Maybe to him, you're even more addicting than heroin and ecstasy...and yet he can't quit you, he just doesn't want to quit you. Nothing in this world could compare to your sweet voice that tickles his ear when you lean in, to whisper a secret, or the may your full lips move when you throw another honey-filled insult at him.

He prefers when you're alone when he's the only one you talk to.

Sure there are exceptions like everything in life, although in the end

there's a sort of backhanded irony.

It's those exceptions that are going to hurt him in the.

Josuke trusts his friends, he knows that Okuyasu and Koichi would never do anything to hurt him...

But you're not on that list and to be fair you're surely the only one who can truly hurt him.

You fall for a friend of his. Not him, not the boy that's been driving himself insane just to earn a smile from you, not the boy that let you get away with insulting his hair and poking insults at his look, not him never him, it just can't be him.

"You're like an older brother to me"...Did you wash your mouth with acid before you spat those words at him? Did you intend to lace your words with knives and blades and rubbing alcohol before you stabbed him? It's figurative, sure. But it might as well be literal. No pain, no cut, no punch from any stand would ever hurt so much! You really don't know what you do to him, do you?

"I'm happy for you," it's a lie, blank and simple. Automatic words that he's practiced in the mirror a thousand and one times. He'd rather watch you suffocate on your own blood than in the arms of another man. He'd rather break every bone in your body than watch you kiss one of his friends.

How on earth had he ever come to love you? Someone as cruel and cold. Were you even human? You resembled some ice stand more than a flesh and blood person. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO HIM.

He really hadn't meant for it to become an addiction, he hadn't meant to get all so used to the crunch of bones beneath his foot, and the bloodied lips quivering, shuttering out apologizes for having the gall to utter your name in his presence. But there's only so much a teenage boy can take, only so much torture that he can bury inside with a moonlight smile.

Addictions really do funny things to semi-sane people, huh?

It's a split-second decision, done in the heat of an all so regular moment. It's just a simple half-hearted punch when you beat him at another videogame. Then another

And another

Then a crack, another and another, and before either of you knew it you're on the floor screaming out in pure agony.

Josuke vows he's not being cruel when he breaks your bones so delicately. He can justify every crack, every fracture. Although it's rather repetitive and in certain cases borderline petty.

Five broken bones on your left leg just for "kissing" your new boyfriend. Your right leg is bent at an angle you're sure it's not meant to be. All because you hugged said new lover before going to class.

Josuke's once liquidy blue eyes that held the softness of clouds have been dulled over by a sort of thick mania. His once soft touch is nothing but nails digging into already bruised tissue. His lips wobbling as stray tears flow past his eyes. Muttering apologies and stuttering curses at both you and himself.

It's not really like his darling can leave after that incident. Josuke is known around town as the boy with a diamond heart. There's no way in hell anyone will believe what he did to you. It's just better, safer, to stick close to him, to swallow the indignities and paint a loving smile over your face when you gaze into his depraved eyes.

It's better to pretend to love him, rather than have another limb broken...

"Come on (Y/N), it's just a little crack. If you promise to give me a tiny kiss I'll let Crazy Diamond fix you right up."

⭐Giorno Giovanna is sneaky and manipulative. ⭐

Sono pazzo di te. Sei la cosa più bella che mi sia mai capitata...

There's a sleekness to Giorno, a cunning that's hidden behind layers of charisma and charm mimicking that of his birth father's. It's so easy for him to fool his darling into believing that he's a charming prince from a storybook. He's the good guy trying all so damn hard to make his dream a reality. He's admirable, he's noble, he's Giorno Giovana, the golden boy.

It's not like he ever intends to hurt his darling. He'd never dream of laying a hand on them, he's all too familiar with the wounds that come from endless beatings. The bruises and phantom pains, that get worse as the days slip by. He knows real pain, and unlike all so many others on both sides of his family, Giorno doesn't want his lover to experience an uncia of it.

He'd never repeat what his stepfather and mother did to him. He's going to try and do everything he can to make sure that his darling is safe...

Because isn't that what's important? To make sure the one you love is safe. To make sure they don't get swept off their feet by some masquerading drunkard or taken advantage of by some fanciful sadist.

Giorno will do anything to keep his darling safe, even if it means tampering with their mind a little. Nothing too serious, he'd never even considered changing anything about them. Although isolating them isn't completely off the table and a few verbal threats are fine from time to time. Just for precaution...

Giorno is a rather determined boy, he'll go to any lengths to isolate his lover. Scaring away friends by letting Gold Experience give them a small out of body experience. If they're persistent then he can't guarantee that that out-of-body experience will simply remain an experience much longer. It's not out of malice, but it's what must be done for the sake of his darling, the only other thing he cares about.

There's a shift, a difference between the young naive Giorno Giovanna, the golden boy with starry eyes, and the new boss of Passione, the Mafioso who holds the whole country in the palm of his hand.

Oh sure, as a simple Soldato Giorno was dangerous in his own right. But Don Giorno? He's the sort of monster written about in the grimmest fairy tales. Wearing the appearance of a true king but underneath the luxury suits and priceless watches, he's just another greedy, fire-breathing dragon.

As the Don of Italy's most influential gang, Giorno's manipulation tactics have gotten rather ....hazardous. He doesn't have time to waste getting rid of every single person that poses a threat to his darling. If someone looks their way, he'll send some goons to take care of them.

Although it's so much easier to keep his lover locked away, he even has the perfect excuse now. He's the head of the mafia, he has all so many enemies who jump at the opportunity to hurt him in some way. So he has to keep his defenseless little lover locked away in some mansion that's all so far away.

He's also a bit more violent now. Giorno's more physical, ready to break a bone just for a wrong word or a cracked jaw from a punch for even asking to go outside. He blames it on the stress of running an organization...although it's more likely that all the power from passion has begun to rinse away Giorno's caring side.

"Cuore mio, Resta con me per sempre"

⭐Jolyne Kujo is clingy and obsessive and delusional.⭐

I can't stay away from you...

Jolyne is a rather condescending yandere. Her rough ragged exterior does little to hide the clingy neediness that writhes inside her shattered heart.

She's soft, dependent, desperate at best. Wanting her darling to approve of every tiny trifling thing she does. Needing their words of praise and approving smiles to have the courage to live another day.

At times it seems like the only thing keeping Jojo alive is the "good girl!" and "I'm proud of you!" her darling throws her way. Chanting the words of praise with closed eyes and fluttering smiles of anxiety.

It's difficult to make her sweetheart realize how virulent this relationship is, far too hard to call Jolyne a Yandere. The derogatory term applies to someone who ceases all control from their lover, who locks them in a basement, and throws away the key. It applies to murders and

stalkers and lunatics that roam the streets in the dead of full moon nights. It applies to those who were thrown into Green Dolphin for a reason.

Not to some girl whose life has been demolished over and over and over again.

Not to the girl with a star birthmark that follows her darling around like a lost puppy in the freezing rain.

But even Jolyn has her limits. She's been let down time and time again, abandoned and framed by those she thought she loved unconditionally. From friends to boyfriends to even her own father, everyone leaves, they take what they want, and then they leave.

Flesh like strings, stitched into a web of antithesis and distraught moods, act as a solid, interchangeable reminder of who really holds the power in this relationship. Of how Jolyne can go from needing her darling to controlling her darling in just a fraction of a heartbeat. She loves them, she swears she does...but they need to stay close to her, they need to only think about her.

Her addiction gets worse as the days tick by. It's less romantic, less loving. Morphing into a dependency, a compulsion. Rotting thoughts of her darling suddenly leaving, plague her every waking moment. The once semi pleasant conversations between her lover and her friends, get cut off like a severed limb.

Even Hermes and Foo Fighters aren't "good enough" to be around Jolyne’s lover. She's all so, scared they'll try to take them from her. Stealing the ONLY good thing in her life.

There's a certain degree of control that Jolyne's willing to give to her darling. A sort of freedom to make, revolting appalling choices, so long as they include her. A freedom to boss her around and make her submit. Her darling is free, so long as that freedom revolves around Jolyne.

"(Y/N)~ don't look at them! You should only focus on me! I'm supposed to be your world!"

⭐Johnny Joestar is sadistic and manipulative.⭐

Arrogance disguised as affection...

It's all degradation, all harsh words that sting worse than bullet wounds. Glares from dull wicked blue eyes that might as well kill, cause it's better than the alternative. Smirks that make being alive so damn distasteful. Kisses that engrave the lingering taste of rotting lead into your tongue.

Johnny isn't sweet, he doesn't smile at his little sweetheart. He doesn't pat their head and kiss their temples while uttering sweet nothings into their blushing ear. No, his lover doesn't deserve a honey-coated life. They don't deserve to have what was stolen from him by his so-called "loved ones". Instead, he uses them as a living dart board, for both his acid-laced words and bullet-like fingernails.

There's no love when it comes to Jojo. He doesn't want to waste time on something so frivolous as a "significant other". But he does like having someone -or rather something- to play with, a form of entertainment that bends at his will. Not a pushover, not someone who's too proud either. But a living doll that can take a few verbal spats and survive an armada of fingernail bullets through the stomach.

Oh, sure he wants to break them, having a toy that's so conflicted, that questions their own sanity is so much more fun. But it's the intervals that count. Johnny wants to be the one to break his darling. To engrave the helpless look of distress into his memory. He wants to preserve every scream, every tear. That's the whole purpose of even keeping a darling.

Johnny rarely lets his darling out of his sight. It's so much easier to play with their mind if he's the only one they ever talk to. They'll become so easily dependent on him if he's their only companion. Although sometimes Gyro can get a little too touchy and friendly. And there will be occasions when Hot Pants start to pry into the darling and Jojo's personal life. But the incidents are few and far between. Not like Johnny minds, if anything these minor secondary "meetups" are useful to the paraplegic jockey. They refill his darling with the most precious thing..." Hope". Just so Johnny can beat it out of them all over again.

There's a darkness that resides deep within Johnny. A toxicity that laces his actions. His life is miserable and he's damn well sure it'll always be that way.....

So why not take his lover down with him?

"Don't you love me darlin' ? Cause I certainly don't love ya."

⭐Jorge Joestar is delusional and obsessive.⭐

What if we lost our minds, together?

A love story better than his parents, that's all Jorge wants. Flower field dates, and quick lingering kisses before midnight. Something sweet, that doesn't have a macabre end. A romance without body-snatching vampires and zombies that shed their flesh. Something normal, gentle, lovable.

Although with the family he's been born into and the kind of things that keep finding him. Jorge doubts he's ever going to get such a hopeful love life. He's all so desperate to carve a life for himself outside of his family's shadow, but in the end, it's simply eager wishing.

He's not exactly sure what he's even looking for in a lover. Someone sweet but strong-willed, an average answer. Someone who bears a sort of resemblance to Lisa Lisa. Not physically but rather mentally, he's not a coward, he swears he's not, but he just wants someone who can protect him. A fair exchange in his eyes. His lover will guard him against the bullies and freaks of the island and in turn, he'll protect them from the grim ghouls that run amok through the world. Although when push comes to shove he isn't sure if he'll really be 'protecting' his lover or running away and hiding somewhere with them.

He just wants to fall in love and not go insane, a reasonable request, if he hadn't seen the worst that the world has to offer. It's just wishful thinking, sweet dreams for a boy designed to attract trouble.

He doesn't want to have conversations with his dead lover's head. He doesn't want to wear their skin and waltz around town. He doesn't want any of that creepy, supernatural stuff that destroyed his parent's love.

He just wants normal. But as the years slip by Jorge's grip on "normal" slowly begins to decay.

Normal is something, but what that something is has become a blur. Normal isn't vampires and zombies and ghost clowns that throw nooses around people's necks...Yet on the other hand maybe it is?

He's so far gone that he can't even differentiate between methodical and irregular. His brain's capacity to understand the difference has gotten so altered and broken.

Once he finds his darling he does try to act like the ordinary people of the Canary Islands or England, depending on where he's residing at the time. He tries to follow the mode, just to impress his lover. It's a façade, a bloody masquerade that's bound to deteriorate once he and his lover have settled down.

Although a poetic, domestic life had always been Jorge's dream, he soon comes to learn that it just doesn't suit him. Jorge's paranoia starts to increase. It's comical at first, the way his eyes dart to closed doors, half expecting a killer to emerge. Although the same paranoid tendencies can become rather smothering at times. He's all so certain something is going to jump out of the shadows, some creature with sharp fangs and knife-like claws is going to rip his lover's body to rags.

He's gotten rather umbrageous now that he's the one who's married and living in the Joestar estate. His tendency to run away from any form of conflict has morphed into a rogue-like sense, much similar to a rabid dog barking at anyone who gets too close to its territory. He keeps his darling locked away inside, triple-checking the locks to make sure no one or thing can get in. He avoids the probing disquieting neighbors who still speak ill of his widowed mother and murmurs about the "curses" bestowed on the Joestar bloodline. Sometimes even getting physical when the insults shift towards him and his new lover.

Punches are thrown.

Insults exchanged.

And then the door and windows are locked once more.

Leaving both Jorge and his darling in the chilling company of the semi alive shadows.

It's safer in the basement. It has to be safer down there. After all his mother kept his father's severed head down there for decades before anyone found it. So it's only sensible that his lover will also be safe, tucked away in the darkness of a brick room some few meters under the earth. He's not acting like his mother -and deep down he prays that this isn't something his late father would ever even consider doing- It's a thin line of justification, but he can reason with himself so long as he knows it's not something his other family members have ever done. He does try to keep his darling comfortable down there. Buying them the most luxurious furniture and comfortable bedding. Constantly bringing them new forms of entertainment.

Keeping them in this preserved state is what any reasonable person would do. Not just another insanity driven Joestar.

"It's for your own safety" he's repeated that phrase an umpteenth amount of times, although every time the sculpted words leave his tongue, Jorge becomes less sure of who he's really trying to convince.

Jorge is all so sure that he's doing all of this for both his lover's safety and to erase whatever misfortune follows around the Joestars, like an airy plague. Even his enrolling for the great war is done with this mindset...

Even though in the end it's also this mindset that gets him killed. Leaving his darling a wide window to freedom.

"Darling, what do you think when you look at me?"

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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tuagonia · 3 years

Text

sunflower - mason x f!detective

pairing: mason x f!detective (mia garcia)

Summary: mason thinks about mia at the town’s florist.

rating: T

warning: i think there's like...one swear word.

word count: ~1.7k

note: lol ok since i flopped at getting mason x mia done for the hotwayhaven event.... i have been waiting to write this for a while and the amazing event organisers at @wayhavensummer finally gave me the excuse I was waiting for to fully indulge in this. thanks for hosting and putting in all the great work!! This is for Aug. 18 - Flowers.

They remind him of her.

Large and dangling free from her ears; brightly painted papier-mâché “monstrosities”.

That’s the word he’d used to describe them, making no effort to mask his distaste.

Instead, Mia smiled widely in response, reaching up to touch one at its faux-stalks. It stopped that distracting swing, back and forth with every slight movement of her head. Chuckling, and pride lifting her cheery tone, she told Mason she made them herself.

Lemony-yellow, mossy-green, the burnt-chestnut centre.

All crammed together outside of the tiny flower shop. Dozens upon dozens of them staring back at him; yellower under the blaze of the mid-August sun.

A makeshift sign stuffed among the mass of summer-ripe bouquets reads: “TOP QUALITY. Giant Sunnys £14 per bunch”.

Mason is just looking.

He tells himself there’s no harm in just looking.

And anyway, they’re hard to miss under the hot sun. It’s not his fault they’re in the way of his usual patrol route. Quite literally.

Bundles and bundles of large sunflowers, taking up the pavement. Usually, grey and cracked, now overrun with the sight of them. The florist’s quaint store looks like a child’s plaything next to the dramatic assortment.

He has to blink, thinking the sunshine and its heat has started playing tricks on him. It’s almost as if they multiply; little suns with their earthly centres, drawing him closer.

From the moment he rounded the corner to the main square, he never stood a chance against the brilliance of them.

Mason should have kept moving. He doesn’t have time for this— to stop mid-patrol, to idle in front of flowers.

But they remind him of her.

Not just of the — and his lip curls at the memory — weird handmade jewellery.

(A set for every occasion.

Cakes and candles for colleagues’ birthdays, candy canes for Christmas, glittery hearts the size of her fists for Valentine’s Day. Tiny pieces of reflective plastic shedding onto her delicate neck).

They remind him of the sunshiney smiles. The ones she so easily tosses his way, like they’re never any work, like they could never go to waste. Always patient, always bright, always...happy.

And as he glares down at them, he realises they don’t offend him. The observation renders him sceptical, partly convincing himself he’s stopped to figure out why he hasn’t felt repulsed at the overwhelming powdery aroma.

It’s not floral. No. Instead, it reminds him of...reminds him of… Mason racks his brain and frowns accusingly at the vivid flowers opened up at him.

Mason reaches for one, fingers wrapping around its surprisingly sturdy stalk.

He’s still just looking. He just— he just needs to get a closer whiff to figure this out.

Honey. That’s what it is.

Mason’s frown deepens at the realisation. His grip on the flower shifts, the skin of his palm uncomfortable against the fuzzy stem.

Bright and honey-sweet.

(There’s that memory of her kiss, soft and saccharine as powdered-sugar; should make his teeth hurt.)

The crown of gold petals distracts him, fills him with a warm something that he’s more desperate than annoyed to figure out. He can’t place it, can’t place it, can’t place it— wants to know it.

Maybe it’s the frustration of chasing after the unnamable thing that makes him forget the purpose of stopping, the reason why he plucked the flower to begin with.

...so distracted he doesn't hear when the round-cheeked vendor pops their head outside of the shop, all smiles that he feels nothing for (not her like smiles, though. Nothing like her smiles).

They mention the weather and ask if they can be of any help, but Mason’s attention slides back to the sunflower in his fist. But he shakes his head, unconvincingly but he’ll never know.

It’s the heat, he thinks. The arse-end of nowhere town at the tail-end of an unforgiving heatwave.

But just as he’s about to slot the stalk back into its bucket, the vendor stops him— shaking their head emphatically, their grin growing by the second. They sweep of their hands in a take it, take it, please motion, and send Mason off. They shoot him wink from overly-kind eyes.

Like they might be in on some big secret, and Mason will be the last in this entire godforsaken town to know.

There’s no harm in taking the flower, Mason insists, staring down into its dark-brown centre.

He’ll hold onto it until he can find the next rubbish bin, and in the mean time he’ll try not to think about how it reminds him of the dusting of dark freckles across her nose.

(He gets it now. He gets it when he’s with Mia.

He understands — finally — why everyone before her kissed his freckles like they wanted to taste the stars.

Her galaxies, his constellations. Every time they meet, Mason expects a seismic shift to take them asunder.)

His usual strides have shortened, his pace slower than normal, his senses overwhelmed by the true yellow of its petals.

For a moment, Mason forgets all about the patrol and just...walks.

It’s a quiet and lazy summer day. The sun (high and hot) urges residents to stay in the shade, seeks refuge in cool indoors. The streets are empty. Sleepy. So, he takes his time, the crease on his brow deepening with every side street he takes.

It’s hot inside his boots. That’s the only reason he’s leaning against her tin can of a car, outside of the station, holding this ostentatiously large flower.

A quick detour for some shade. That’s all it is. And when there’s a whisper of a breeze, rustling the leaves of the tree above him and the little crown of petals in his hand, it’s all the more cooler.

Mason can hear her colleagues moving in and out of the station, but pays them no mind as time moves on, still staring down at the flower in his grip. It’s far too large to twirl it with sturdy fingers, forcing him to keep studying it and wondering what exactly about it brings Mia to mind.

Lively, but not intense.

(Her laugh, he guesses. Loud and clear, broken up by giggles. The sound of it never jarring.)

A drop of sunlight, buried underground. Persists and blossoms through cracked earth.

(Her kindness, he ascertains. Not to be mistaken for weakness. As easy as she can dole-out radiant smiles, her sharp tongue can just as quickly follow.)

...like he’s been holding a piece of her this entire time.

The taut pull at his cheeks is foreign, and he lets the corners of his mouth drop.

Pointless because Mason hears a familiar drumming, a quick skip he’s grown used to over the last years.

He looks up just in time to watch Mia push through the station’s glass doors. At the top of the steps, she stops to survey the car park, and he feels a flutter in his chest when he realises those brown eyes are searching for him. He confirms it when her gaze lands on him and...that smile (the beating inside his chest is ten-fold) breaks out across her face.

She shields her face with a hand, squinting against the harsh glare of sun bouncing off windshields. With easy, unhurried steps she walks towards him and he drinks in the sight of her.

That scratchy yellow cardigan that’s become synonymous with Detective Garcia is nowhere to be seen. Probably thrown over the back of her office chair and forgotten, along with whatever work she’s been putting off all afternoon.

Dark curls scooped up and away from her neck, gives Mason a great view to the line of her throat and down her naked shoulders. A sage strappy shirt stretches down her small frame, trying its best to keep her cool in the heat...reminds him of the stalk in his hand.

He tenses.

Mia’s eyes flicker to the sunflower he’s holding and her smile (fuck, that smile will be the end of him) grows and grows.

All teeth (white, and...harmless with the dull edges) and she gives an airy chuckle.

“That for me?” she asks with one eyebrow lifting into a curly fringe.

Pushing off the car, Mason musters up his best grimace and fights back the fear fighting its way up his spine. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know why fear is the first thing that possesses him when she stands this close and gestures to the flower with a tilt of her head.

Before he can respond, before he can let his tongue and fear get the better of him— Mia makes for the sunflower in his grip.

Fear tells him this should be a mistake. This memory must be a mistake; one that he’s sure will be the only one to matter in a dizzying spiral of time: Mia smiling down at this sunflower.

The leaves rustle again, and sunlight filters through, dappling the deep brown of her hair.

She makes it easy, never has to wrestle with the feeling for too long before she distracts him. If it’s not a quip, it’ll be an expression that should not be equal parts funny or cute. Spears Mason somewhere deep, somewhere he doesn’t think he’s touched before— doesn’t know if it could ever be before her.

Mia speaks to the flower, a lone fingertip running over its petals. “It’s very pretty.”

Mason watches her stroke the large leaf at the stalk, leaning in nose-first to catch its scent at the centre, eyes fluttering shut. Dark lashes meet her cheeks, and he follows the line of her freckles (darker in the summertime).

He wants to take his time here too, with the same pace as he did those side streets (seeing parts of Wayhaven he would have never traversed without coaxing).

“Yeah…” his voice is rough and unused, studying as she looks up at the way the branches move above them. Sunlight casting down on her, and that easy smile fixed on her lips. “Very pretty.”

#not proof-read we die like men or w/e #wayhaven summer #rbs whs #twc mason #twc m #the wayhaven chronicles #twc #mason x mia: cigarette with my tea #queue but said like moira rose #tuagonia writes twc

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paddie-ut · 4 years

Photo

Soriel Week 2020 Day 1: Dance More of a subtle reference to the prompt in this one. Yes i’m back at it with the angst on day 1. The pic is just a bonus for the real entry, which is the oneshot I wrote below the cut. You can also read it here on AO3: X (TW for implied blood, death and violence. The usual stuff that comes with references to the no mercy run)

It was cold.

It was cold when he hit the tiled floor, body rapidly going to pieces. And it was cold now. Wherever he was.

Everything still ached. Like acid eating through his bones. The pain was always strangely familiar, expected. But that never stopped it from hurting.

He curled his crimson stained mitten tighter over his ribcage, not even sure if he was facing up or down. He didn’t dare open his sockets, wanting more than anything to slip away from all this into sleep. He was so unbelievably tired.

The sounds of a small child’s body repeatedly slamming into the floor and against the walls kept swimming through his skull, ruining any chance of that. Paired with the hazy visions of a gold hallway littered with bones and awash in great stains of red, it was like a cruel joke. So much for this process being peaceful.

How long had it gone on this time? How many times had he killed them?

It didn’t matter anymore. So he wished his mind would stop asking.

With every moment that passed though, he did start to notice the cold all around was losing its grip on him. Something warm had come to combat it. Something physical… soft. Something… that smelled like cinnamon… and butterscotch?

The oddity of that alone was enough to calm the chaos of his thoughts some, and convinced him to attempt to open his weary sockets. It was more effort than expected, but he managed it.

What met his eyelights then when they were able to focus was… unexpected to say the least.

Soft scarlet eyes stared down at him, set in what seemed to be a sea of white fur. Long creamy white ears framed their face and two horns crowned their head. Strangely, there were also what appeared to be shining specks in their fur, glittering like tiny stars. Those same specks were also lazily floating in the air around them, bright and twinkling against what seemed to be all encompassing blackness in every direction.

Judging from the angle he was seeing them from, he realized they were holding him in their large arms. making him feel utterly tiny… but safe. The monster shouldn’t have been familiar, yet somehow he knew exactly who she was.

“Oh thank goodness…” She sighed with relief before smiling down at him. “I was starting to worry you may not wake up!”

He just stared up at her for a few moments, mind awhirl with questions he was too tired to focus on. But he eventually managed a weak smile.

“heh… well this is new.” Was all he could think to say, thinking aloud more than anything.

He had been expecting his brother. Surely that was who must have greeted him all the other times he’d ended up here. It only made sense. But thinking about it too much would only add a skullache to all the other aches consuming him. So he didn’t bother to question it. Worrying about the logistics of what happened in this place didn’t have much of a point.

Besides… he’d be lying if he denied seeing her didn’t stir the first positive feelings he’d felt in… gosh… how long had it been since he’d saw Papyrus’ scarf half buried in the snow at the outskirts of Snowdin? Whatever… if she was here, he must be here too.

“Greetings, my friend.” She said warmly, though her eyes were still noticeably sad. “It is I, Toriel. I know you may not recognize me, but my voice may sound familiar to you, does it not?”

“yah. nice to see you tori.” He said, finding the words oddly natural.

She blinked in surprise at that, tilting her head a bit in a way he couldn’t help but find endearing.

“Did... did you already-?” She began to question, but he interrupted her with a few shaky coughs.

“heh, don’t worry about it.” He rasped once he could speak again. “i just started connecting the dots over time, i guess.”

It was not a full lie, but not a full truth. He knew that. Though in that moment, he couldn’t have put into words just why that was. It didn’t matter anymore anyway. Not here.

She frowned, as though upset with her past self for potentially giving away her true identity unbidden. But her attention was drawn back to him as he stiffened up and winced from another wave of pain.

As much as he wanted to keep focused on her, the wound he carried that nearly split him from shoulder to pelvis was pretty darn good at demanding his attention. He squeezed the front of his shirt tighter, feeling that it was still soaked. When he shakily lifted his free hand in front of his face, he could see the splashes of dark red staining his mitten.

For some reason it made him want to laugh, but he didn’t know why.

“Do not worry, it stops hurting after a little while.” She assured him softly, giving his arm a consoling rub.

She turned her head a bit then so he could more easily see the scar on her face. A faded, but still noticeable remnant of a gash that stretched from her cheek up to under her right eye.

His breathing went funny for a moment, as something akin to a mix of nausea and anger briefly bubbled up inside him. But it wasn’t long before he forced his weary grin back into place with practiced ease.

“good to know.” He rasped, wheezing out a chuckle. “was worried i might end up as half the skeleton i used to be.”

As if on cue, she laughed that brilliant laugh of hers. The kind that all but left her breathless. And though it was strained with the heavier emotions no doubt pressing down on her, it caused his grin to grow so much it made his cheekbones hurt.

He’d missed this. He did the best to avoid chuckling in turn though, as the action would no doubt further aggravate the gaping slash through his ribs.

Once she had calmed down and returned her ruby red gaze back to him, he shook off his ruined mitten, lifted his trembling free hand to her, and gave the best smile he could manage.

“the names… sans.” He croaked out. “sans the skeleton.”

As usual, he slipped the whoopee cushion he always kept in his hoodie sleeve up into his hand. Maybe the red stains all over it kind of ruined the effect, but he saw no sense in spoiling his routine if he could manage it.

The sound of artificial flatulence sounded somehow more hilarious when echoing through an ethereal void, he found.

She burst into laughter again, and his soul felt light.

...

Shortly after, he found himself being carried by Toriel down some winding, faintly glowing path through the darkness. Everywhere her paws stepped, the “ground” glowed for a few moments in the shape of her footprint before fading away. It reminded him faintly of waterfall, if waterfall also had a bunch of sparkling stardust floating around.

At the end of the path, in what could maybe be called “the distance”, he could see a place that was glowing far brighter, like a city floating in the middle of a pitch black sea. He tried not to look at it, it only made a new pain lash out at his soul.

Instead he looked back up at Toriel, and found that she had been looking down at him too. She played it off and returned her gaze to their destination, but Sans could see the conflicted emotions in her eyes. He debated staying silent, maybe just closing his eyes until whatever came next, but the words seemed to tumble out of him without his permission.

“so... i figure you must of seen what happened, huh?” He asked quietly, feeling the dulling pain of his wound thrumming beneath his phalanges.

Her breathing stalled and she momentarily struggled to look at him. The soft scarlet of her eyes was awash with what he was worried he may see there, guilt.

“Yes… we all did.” She admitted, holding him a little closer and swallowing hard. “Y-you… you fought bravely, my friend. Please just rest now.”

In a move that was all too familiar to him, she worked a smile back onto her face and quickly changed the subject.

“Everyone is waiting for you. Your brother included. Not too far from here.” She said, motioning towards the bright place in the distance. “He is a wonderful monster, so cheery and kind hearted despite all that has happened. I can see why you spoke so highly of him.”

His eyelights must have given away the inner surge of emotions he felt at the mention of his brother, as she added to her statement quickly.

“Oh, he wanted to be the one to come get you of course…” She assured him. “But it seems that since I am among those who have been here the longest, it is easier for me to traverse this place. I… I do not fully understand it myself yet.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, seeing the logic in what she was saying and not bothering to question it further. He was in no shape to imagine how such things worked here, though there was some small part of him that still held that interest regardless. Even if he didn’t want to admit it. He couldn't help but think for a moment about how the other monsters must of reacted to Toriel, their long lost queen, suddenly reappearing to them in this place. Given the circumstances... if they knew all that had led to this... it was easy to imagine the majority of them would be less then pleased to see her.

Perhaps there was more to the fact she'd come to meet him alone than it seemed. If that was the case, and even if it wasn't, he figured the best thing he could do for her was try to keep her smiling.

“what, you weren’t just eager to see me?” He teased, wheezing out a chuckle despite his best efforts when she gave him a playful glare for it. It left his ribs freshly aching, but it was worth it.

“Well, I am very happy to finally meet you in person, my friend.” She said upon regaining her smile. “Just as I was happy to meet your brother and the others… We all have so much to talk about… and all the time in the world now to get to know one another.”

Just as quickly as it had come, her smile faltered again, and he could feel the conflicted emotions from her powerful soul radiate off her. She swallowed hard and let out a shaky sigh.

“I know… it is difficult to feel anything truly positive after all that has happened.” She said, voice noticeably trembling. “But at least… it is over now, and we will all be together. Just try to remember that.”

Sans couldn't be sure if she was really talking to him, or herself with that last bit. In any case, she kept walking, a bit faster than before. She kept her eyes on the path ahead, but he just kept his gaze fixed on her.

“right…” He responded quietly, trepidation beginning to wind tighter around his soul.

He couldn’t just keep ignoring it. No matter how much he tried to avoid the thought, it was growing like a weed and inevitably kept choking out any opposing ones.

He should keep his mouth shut. He shouldn’t say anything. He should just go to sleep and let it happen. He should spare her from this. But...

His gaze met hers again, and he felt like his soul was being squeezed.

“tori… listen…”

The words had barely left him before they both were hit by a powerful wave of... something. Strong enough to make Toriel stop in her tracks and look around in alarm. Sans didn’t know exactly what it was, but he knew what it meant. It felt like all the vitality he had left drained from him in that moment.

“What on earth was that?” Toriel asked quietly, more to herself it seemed.

“nothing good.” Sans replied, internally wincing a bit as she looked down at him in surprise.

Her gaze silently demanded to know what he meant, fear creeping bit by bit into her expression. He sighed in defeat, knowing there was no backing out of it now. He could already feel the tips of his phalanges going numb, and hear a dull whine in the far distance.

“tori, we… we aren’t gonna make it back to the others.” He said, shutting his sockets briefly.

Toriel stiffened, and he could feel the faint prick of her claws against him as they slid out of their own accord.

“Wh-what?” She stammered, clearly hoping he was setting up a joke somehow. “What do you mean?”

The hollow expression on his face no doubt banished any hope she had that this was some poor excuse for humor on his part. Even though her eyes were painful to look at then, he did his best to keep his wits long enough to explain what he could.

“tori... the stuff with the human… it goes beyond just what they did to us.” He said, ignoring the now creeping numbness in his phalanges. “they... they are causing something a lot worse to happen… i dunno what it is. but i’m pretty sure it’s happened before. i’ve uh… seen the data.”

There was no time to explain that last part, and it reminded him too much of his encounter with the kid anyway. He had to get to the point.

“for some reason… everything disappears at the end of this. and i do mean… everything.”

Toriel just stared at him in silence, mouth opening and closing but not finding any words. He could tell she wanted to argue, but surely she was feeling what was coming just as much as he did. And just as it seemed she may finally reply, another wave, stronger than the last nearly knocked her off her feet.

She staggered, clutching him tightly in an effort not to drop him. Once the initial shock had passed, her gaze quickly snapped to the lights in the distance. Sans didn’t have to look to know they’d be flickering, feeling the effects of what was coming as well. The sparkling bits of stardust around them were also winking out one by one, leaving them in further darkness every moment. It wouldn’t be long now.

It was then that it became clear Toriel wasn’t going to question things further. She didn’t fully understand, but she really didn’t need to. The idea had sunk in, as he could sense the weight of it slowly taking hold of her. Despite all her fur keeping her warm from the chill of this place, she began shivering lightly.

“i’m sorry.” He murmured without thinking, resisting a far harsher shudder of his own. “this is what happens when people like me take it easy.”

He didn’t expect a reply to that. If anything he expected anger from her, as she realized just what his failure to stop the human had truly meant. But instead it was that guilt he’d seen from her before that made itself known.

“Please, you must not blame yourself.” She implored in a dazed tone. “You... you fought so hard to stop them in the end… If anything… I am to blame for asking you to protect them…”

He closed his sockets with a soft sigh at that, all while feeling the numbness had consumed his hands and feet entirely. He considered arguing with her further, insisting his lack of earlier action against the kid far outweighed her wanting to give them a chance. But there was just no time. There were better things to focus on in what little they had.

“well... for what it’s worth… i think your heart was in the right place, y’know?” He assured her, resting the side of his skull against her slightly. “you couldn’t have known. and i doubt the other humans were anywhere near as bad as this one, otherwise you wouldn’t have given this one a chance in the first place.”

He knew he couldn’t free her of her own guilt no more than she could free him of his. But he didn’t want her last thoughts to be those of self hatred. Not if he could help it anyway.

He tried to think of some last knock knock joke, knowing it was the only real sort of comfort he could reliably offer her. Pathetic as that was. But the increasing signs of their certain doom’s rapid approach all around them kind of made it hard to come up with any decent material.

It was her who ended up speaking again first, in a surprisingly calm tone all things considered.

“Then... this is it?” She asked, her eyes growing hazy. “Why then… why were we brought here? I..."

She turned her head away, stifling what sounded like a sob.

"I never was even able... to find my children..." She croaked out, the words heavy with despair. "Wh-what was the point of any of this..?"

It was a question he could never answer. It was unlikely anyone really could. But she knew that. The question was rhetorical, but he played along anyway. If only to keep from giving into the icy fear that wanted so badly to ensnare him.

“i wish i knew...” He replied weakly, breath hitching a bit. “guess it’s just... one last dance before the curtain call.”

He meant it to be that last twinge of humor he wanted to get out. But the strain in his voice robbed it of any joviality, making it humorous in a different way perhaps, but not how he intended. Maybe if his funny bone hadn’t just gone numb as well, it would have been better.

Toriel didn’t reply for a long moment, staring at where the bright lights in the distance had once been. Now they were so dull, they were barely visible amongst the sea of black. He struggled not to think of his brother and the others, frightened and having no idea of the secondary and final fate that was bearing down on them. Or perhaps that had already claimed them.

Instead Toriel’s voice brought his wavering focus back to her, as she subtly tightened her grip on him. Her face remained impressively stoic as she spoke, even as a few tears silently spilled from her eyes.

“Will I… ever see you again, my friend?” She asked softly, looking down at him as though trying to memorize every element of his face.

The question was so raw, he wondered if she’d even meant to speak it aloud. His soul got all tight in his ribcage, and he felt what may have been long withheld tears of his own wanting to well up in his sockets. But he kept his usual smile in place all the same. If only for her sake.

Part of him wanted to lie again, to give her some last comfort before the end, but for some reason… he found he just couldn’t. Not with her looking at him like that.

“can’t know that for sure.” He admitted, giving a small shake of his skull. “we don’t have any say in what comes next. but... there’s a possibility that after everything’s gone, things might... start anew... reset, y’know?”

All of his limbs had gone numb now, and his vision blurred to the point he could no longer make out her features. Whether that was from tears or from the world’s imminent destruction, he didn’t know.

“you can be sure if we end up back at the start of all this...” He gave her a wink. “i’ll come knocking again as always.”

Those statements surely must have confused her, but the sentiment seemed to be enough that he could feel that she’d stopped trembling, and a flicker of warmer emotion emanated from her soul. Like a spark in the ever growing darkness.

“Perhaps then… there is at least a chance things will be better next time.” She said quietly, and he felt her chin rest upon the top of his skull as she held him close.

He closed his sockets and pressed a little closer to her in return, feeling his awareness starting to steadily slip away.

As much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t share her optimism. Not after this. But she spoke with that same integrity that had made him soften enough that day at the Ruin’s door to break his personal rule against making promises. And just like back then, despite everything, she was getting to him again.

As foolish as it was, he allowed himself to hold on to that possibility as the last wave hit, eradicating everything in their world along with it.

“yah… maybe next time.”

#soriel #sorielweek #sorielweek2020 #sans #toriel #undertale #my art #my fic #blood tw #angst #no mercy run

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lsbaird · 4 years

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The Devil’s Luck - Chapter Two Preview!

It’s a nice long one today, folks! Maybe snug up with a cup of coffee. If you’re just now joining in, the prologue is here, and chapter one is here! Today’s installment tells us more about Chancelion, the unfortunate Evern, the maybe more unfortunate Frey, why squirrels are bastards, and why you should lock up your books when Etienne comes to visit.

Etienne woke up late the next morning feeling almost cheery. It had been too rainy the night before to do a thorough scouting of the rooftops, and he had retired early. His garish bed made up in feather ticking what it lacked in subtlety, and none of it could be seen in the dark anyway. He had slept like the sainted dead, though he still had to suppress a yelp when he woke and saw the room by daylight. It was that damn cherub.

He opened his curtains onto the gardens—the view was as lovely as promised, if still somewhat waterlogged—and took a deep breath. All would go well. A rocky start did not predict a rocky end, after all, and if he was going to make some flubs on his mission, it was better to make them at the beginning rather than at a more critical moment. He repeated these things to himself until he started to believe them, and turned away from the window to face his first morning at Chancelion.

The tea and soup from the night before had not yet been cleared away. Frey's servants had heeded his order not to disturb Lady Elsa, and even if they had tried, the chair Etienne had put under the door handle would have prevented it. He was pleased to see it had not shifted an inch. Trustworthy staff, Etienne thought, adding the tidbit to his growing list of household details.

His dress was still unpleasantly damp, even after spending the night spread over two chairs by the fire. Etienne had three gowns with him, which was enough for his deception, but any real noblewoman would feel destitute with so little. Etienne padded across the bright carpets to the wardrobe lurking in the far corner. Wearing a frock of his fiancé's choosing was a sure way to his heart, and as Lady Elsa's lady-maid and trunks of clothing were all fictitious, it seemed a shame not to have a look, at least. It couldn’t be as awful as the rest of the room, could it?

Etienne tugged on the brass handles of the wardrobe doors, instinctively braced for whatever horror might await him. But here, once again, Chancelion—or at least Chancelion’s master—surprised him.

Shades of cool green and black washed over Etienne like a refreshing waterfall. In the letters to Frey, which had been concocted by Ephaseus and written by Etienne, ‘Elsa’ had mentioned her preferences when it came to such things: an emphasis on clothes that would be best suited for the concealment of weapons, and for activities where accidents could happen. Every least detail had been taken into account, even her (Etienne’s) antipathy to lavender. All the linens smelled of mint leaves, instead.

She would not be used to the cold, and as a result, there were three handsome wraps as well as a fine wool dressing-gown in Lady Elsa's favorite emerald hue. Pearls were her favorite gem, and the embroidered bodices were stiff with them, no matter the outrageous price they commanded in Easting. She enjoyed riding and hunting with birds, and so a green damask riding habit hung in the nearest corner, along with fine hawking gloves decorated with gold silk tassels. A lady's riding boots occupied the bottom of the wardrobe, along with several different pairs of slippers. An evening dress, suitable for a royal ball, was downright crunchy with its yards of thick gold lace; Etienne mourned that the neckline was far too low for his disguise. Jewel boxes nestled on the shelves contained ropes of pearls, gold chain, and actual emeralds. Etienne at once lost his vain little heart to a particular pair of pearl drop earrings, thinking they would look elegant on Elsa and rakish when worn with his usual black leathers.

Perplexed by his findings, he looked at the room again, as though to make sure its hideous state had not been some fevered imagining on his part, but it was as outlandish as ever. The wardrobe and its contents seemed to have come from some other chamber, possibly one in a different house.

Etienne fingered the soft velvet of a split sleeve. The gown was a simple one for day wear, easy enough to get into on his own, and the already demure neckline could be made even more modest with a fichu hanging nearby. After a moment's consideration, he pulled the dress from its hook and his mostly-dry corset from the windowsill, where he’d thrown it the night before.

Dressing took him time and care; it was, after all, as much his arsenal as his disguise. The pins in his wig could pierce a man's heart, the flutter of lace at his throat concealed a fine length of garroting wire. Poisons he had as well, of various sorts, but one in particular—the powder of the humble grensel blossom, concealed beneath the ruby on his forefinger—was for Etienne alone.

Etienne carefully measured out a tiny portion of the deadly nitoxis powder from the compartment on his ring, swirled it in his half-finished cup of tea from the night before, and drank it down. It tasted like nothing but cold chamomile tea and orange peel, but he couldn't repress a faint shudder. Playing dice with his own mortality was a dangerous business, but his immunity had saved his life six times so far. Of course, the time he failed to keep up his doses the withdrawal almost killed him, but that was a hazard of the job. It was a price he paid for being careless, and he'd learned, very quickly, to never be careless.

His weapons and dress secured, Etienne smoothed the sleeve of his gown to be sure the crimson brand on his wrist was well-covered, and swept out the door for breakfast.

Once again, however, the actors had failed to assemble for the performance. This time, it was the leading man that was missing, and Etienne was in the dining room before he found any of the other players at all.

“Out at the cattle barn, miss,” Tobias whispered, as the maid dished up oat porridge and poached eggs on toast for Etienne, alongside fat sausages and potted chicken liver and fried apples and all the other morning delicacies of the country. “One of the yearlings took ill in the night, and suffers naught but the Master to nurse it.”

“He is good with animals, then?” Etienne asked, napkin balanced on one hand to eat with a young lady's poise. It would not do to give in to his own peculiar habits, such as pouring massive globs of honey on his sausages.

“They take to him, aye,” the butler went on, in his creaky voice. “But the stableman hopes that some of the Master's good fortune will rub off. None he's nursed yet has fared poorly after.”

“Oh, how curious. Is he so very lucky?” Etienne sipped his at his tea like a bird tasting the air of a winter morning. It had been put out for milady’s breakfast on ormolu trays, served in cups of a fine porcelain as fragile as frozen milk, but was weak enough to read a gospel through. Coffee, to Etienne’s abiding regret, had not yet caught on in Easting. With a flash of longing he thought of Ephaseus' comfortable, parchment-scented study, a battered silver pot of black coffee laced with cacao powder at his elbow, and a thick book in his lap, leather armchair pulled up to the fire. Resigned, Etienne contemplated swift murder, and dutifully drank his impotent tea.

“Luck is what the unfaithful call the will of God,” Tobias wheezed, and it was lucky he had his back turned as he attended to the sugar tongs, so he missed the expression that crossed Etienne's face. It was as much for the sanctimony as the weak tea. “But it would seem heaven has seen fit for Lord Reichwyn to be uncommonly blessed in that regard.”

Etienne lifted his eyebrows, and wondered how quickly the uncommonly blessed Lord Reichwyn would sink in a swollen Easting stream after his lungs were punctured with a knife. “When might you expect him back?”

“He asked me to proffer his apologies, my lady, and inquire if you would do him the honor of going for a ride with him this afternoon.”

Etienne's smile was winning, and genuine. There were so many ways one could die, out on horseback in the country. “I should be delighted.”

“In the meantime, he bids you feel free to look around the house and grounds, and hopes you find them to your liking.”

Etienne remembered that Elsa was supposed to have every intention of making Chancelion her future home, and as a result should take an active interest in things like the main hall carpet and the gutters. For himself, Etienne wondered if there was a decent library. He finished his breakfast in spite of Tobias hanging off his elbow like a dried-up dungball, and went off to get a better grasp of the manor's layout.

Excepting the dearth of coffee, Chancelion was a well-appointed estate. Frey, in his two years of holding the title of Lord Reichwyn, had devoted considerable time and effort to converting the neglected property into one of the finest holdings in the north. Etienne spent the morning wandering the halls, not only checking to see which doors and windows were regularly unlocked but, more and more, with a genuine interest in the house. It would have taken all day and some of the evening for a complete survey of the rambling manor, which he fully intended to do, until he was distracted in his reconnaissance by the scent of books.

He was not prepared for the library. Country manors were rarely outposts of learning, and at best one could expect to find an old volume of St. Justicia’s teachings, or an archaic treatise on mushrooms, or doggerel poetry about cows. Or so Etienne supposed, and he was delighted to be proven wrong. It was not expansive, that was certain, only a simple square room with one window. But it was quality. Etienne knew that by the smell of old leather and quality parchment, as well as beeswax, which meant the room actually saw use. Within a minute he had vanished into the library’s inviting shadows, and the rest of the morning slipped by with astonishing speed.

He had just persuaded himself to resume his work, and was heading for the other wing of the house to do so, when there was a commotion from the entrance below him. Etienne gathered up the weight of his green velvet skirts (which had been made heavier with the weight of one or two rare editions that he was sure no one would miss) and peered over the balustrade into the stone-flagged entryway below.

Freyton Reichwyn Landry had just returned from the stables, as muddy and strawy as any cattle-hand, beaming in spite of the state of his boots and coat. His hair was falling out of his queue again, and his good spirits gave him the appearance of a boy returning from some successful caper. He was wholesome enough to make Etienne shiver, as would any explorer in a foreign land when confronted with some strange and innocent animal. Etienne didn’t think they even made them like that anymore. Or ever.

“I think she'll pull through, Tobias,” Frey announced with triumph, shucking out of his waistcoat. Etienne bit his lip and leaned slightly over the railing, watching closely, but Frey kept his shirt on. Even going out to the stables he had it buttoned to the wrists. His neckerchief was modest in terms of ruffle, but he wore it wound up to his jaw like an old-fashioned city lawyer. Etienne let out his breath in frustration as Frey put on his more gentlemanly boots. “But it's coming up another rain, I'm afraid. Touring the grounds with Lady Elsa will have to wait. Have you seen her?”

“Lady Elsa is inspecting the house, sir,” Tobias answered.

“Ah, well, I hope she hasn't gotten herself lost!” Frey pulled on the coat Tobias offered, a somber thing of brown velvet and gilt buttons, more suited for his role as manor lord, trading it for the threadbare tweed he had worn for nursing cattle.

Etienne pondered the advantages of making an entrance just then, but chose instead to retreat backstage to his rooms for the moment. For one thing, he wanted to dispose of his stolen books in his traveling bag, and for another, there was a trap to be laid.

Etienne paused by his dressing-table for a brief dose of powder and perfume, and then went out in the corridor and proceeded to get lost. Not terribly lost, of course, only a little bit lost, just a short way inside the unexplored wing of Chancelion and out of sight. He knew his perfume would do the rest. He also knew, from the sound of boots on the carpet down the hall, that a splendid, fated rendezvous was imminent.

Etienne positioned himself at a cross-corridor, between a suit of archaic tilting armor and a large ceramic urn, and put on his very best winsome and bewildered expression.

For once, the leading man knew his cue. Frey appeared around the corner with impeccable timing, redoing his ribbon and whistling a country jig. His eyes lit up at the sight of his betrothed in the corridor, and he quickened his pace along the landing.

“Here you are! I hope you haven't been too dreadfully bored, have you?”

“Oh!” Etienne said, wringing his hands and turning in surprise, as though he had not in fact been counting Frey's boot-falls, and had not known full well just when to look up to best effect. “Lord Freyton! I'm ever so glad to see you. I'm afraid I've gotten turned around entirely. Is this the way back to the east wing?”

Frey shook his head. “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Elsa. I have been terribly rude to abandon you this morning, without even a guide around the house! I should have sent Tobias with you to show you the lay of the manor.”

“We'd still be in the foyer,” Etienne muttered, and then caught himself with an internal curse as Frey’s eyebrows shot upwards. Elsa would never say that! Not about such a dear, kind old soul! “I mean,” he hastened to add, “He is elderly, and I fear it would be too much strain for me to drag him all over at my pace, and…” Etienne hit on it all at once, and it was so obvious, he was ashamed it had taken him so long. “Well, the truth of it is, I was searching for a room.”

“A room?” Frey echoed, with a careless smile. “Well, there are dozens of them, Lady, you may have your pick. Is your chamber not to your liking?”

Etienne's laugh was a little thin. That had been a close call. “Not for me, My lord. One room in particular has caught my fancy,” he continued. “I have heard a legend told of this place: the great ghost story of Chancelion. In Ivanis City, they say that your great-uncle Evern Reichwyn played a hand of cards with the devil, and lost, and was dragged down to hell for payment. Is it true that the room where they gambled is still locked up, untouched?”

All of the good humor had fled Frey's face. For a moment Etienne thought he had gone too far, and some fast back-stepping would be required, but Frey shook himself and dredged up a smile from somewhere. It was a thin ghost of the previous one, however, and did not reach his eyes.

“Ah, I should have known you would be curious,” he said, sadly. “I suppose even in the south, the misfortune of Chancelion is known?”

Etienne clutched his hands in his skirts, consternated. “Forgive my inconsiderate curiosity, my lord. Of course, it is a family matter here, and a serious thing, not some scandalous fireside rumor told in a salon in the city...”

“Frey,” Frey said, with a touch of his old humor. “Call me by name, lady, and I will grant your desire, any desire.”

Etienne felt his pulse quicken, in spite of himself. He told himself it was only the hot blood of the chase. “So he did play a hand with the devil? There is such a room?”

Frey shrugged. “I wasn't there at the time, so I don't know about the devil or not. But there is such a room, yes, and it is indeed untouched, as far as I know. It's a morbid curiosity, really, and in my eyes it is the sad remnant of a man who went mad and nothing more. But I cannot deny the air of the place, and I've no heart to disturb it. The servants refuse to speak of the room at all, so one can hardly expect them to go in and tidy it up. There is only one key, and it is mine. I am not sure if such a place is suitable for you, even if it is only a legend.”

Etienne's curiosity was now well and truly piqued. So Freyton Reichwyn Landry—who if Etienne’s information was true, was the Devil's Heir apparent himself—doubted the legend of Chancelion, and his own great-uncle's fate? “I assure you, Lord Freyton, I am not prone to histrionics or fainting. I can endure the sight of a dusty chamber with a tall tale tacked onto it.”

“Then I will show it to you,” Frey said, and reached for the ring of keys at his belt. “Provided, of course, that you meet my condition.”

“Your condition?” Etienne echoed, and then remembered. “Ah yes.” He paused to taste the name a little before letting it out. “...Frey.”

His suitor smiled once again, and it was as though the sun had come out, though rain still hammered down like musket-fire on the leaded glass windows. “That is much better,” he said, and swept his arm towards the left-hand corridor. “This way, my Lady.”

Frey knew the passages of his rambling house as though they were the contours of his own bedchamber. Even though he had only lived there for two years, he could recite the date of every tapestry, the tournaments won or lost in every suit of armor, the artist of every portrait. Knowledge of his ancestral home was a matter of some pride for the young landholder, and as he had been unaware of his birthright for most of his life, he took it as both his duty and his pleasure.

Etienne did not have to feign interest on Elsa's behalf; he had a weak spot for history and the halls of Chancelion had their wealth spread out in a tasteful sheen, instead of the overcrowded luxuries of his room. Frey led Etienne across a landing and through a side-passage, then down a staircase of coiled squares, the railing-posts mounted with exquisitely carved hawks.

“They were an addition of his,” Frey said, patting one of the birds on its shiny head. “He liked it a great deal, I've heard. Hawking. You enjoy it as well, don't you? Perhaps tomorrow it will be dry enough to go out.”

“His?” Etienne repeated.

“Uncle Evern,” Frey said. “I never met the man, but Tobias was here at the time, you know. Much younger, of course. He knows everything about the place. I'm a mere amateur by comparison.” Frey had paused at the landing, under an ornate window with stained glass in the pattern of the Reichwyn arms, emblazoned on a shield held by a pair of rampant cats. On a sunny day, it would have splashed them both with blues and golds, but in the rainstorm, it was darkened as though in mourning. The device featured crowns and stars and moons and suns—-the same as Evern's ill-fated round of card suits. Etienne wondered if Frey had picked those motifs when he came to inherit, or if his Great-Uncle had chosen them when he won Chancelion. Etienne shuddered as he turned his back to the window. Perhaps it was only that the Archdemon had a wretched sense of humor.

“This way,” Frey said, once he had finished adjusting a bit of the stair-carpet that had buckled up under its rod. “Bloody thing is always coming up. Someone's going to trip on it and break his neck, honestly.”

Would it were that easy, Etienne thought, but he took note of the step, just in case. Maybe on the way back.

They soon left the refurbished parts of the house, plunging back into older, dusty passages. Bits of plaster had fallen from the walls to reveal bare stone. Crates were stacked against the walls, and moth-eaten hunting trophies glared down at them from the high walls, their glass eyes disturbingly lifelike in their gaunt heads. Frey and his guest had encountered no servants in their journey, and there seemed to be little chance of doing so now.

“I must apologize for the state of this wing,” Frey said, shoving aside an old oak table to allow more room in the passage for his lady's copious skirts. “My predecessors in the title were an unscrupulous lot, though I pray Saint Justicia had mercy at their souls' trial. They ransacked the house and sold most things of value. I've only just gotten the present rooms in a fit state to live in. It's something of an ongoing project—oh, damn.” A suit of armor had collapsed on itself, scattering pauldrons and greaves across the hallway like the wreckage of an upset carriage. Frey reached back a hand to help his lady across the mess. “Mind that spur, it can't be at all nice to step on. In truth, when I took the house, it all looked like this, and there wasn't much left in the coffers.”

“You've done splendidly with the manor,” Etienne murmured. “I had no idea it was in such a state when you came to your title.”

“Well, to be honest, it was worse than this. They were keeping pigs in the great hall, and had burned most of the furniture and banisters for firewood. I'm only glad they didn't touch the library. For one, I doubt they could read, and for another, Tobias locked the doors and claimed to have misplaced the key. Lucky thing he did. You enjoy reading, my lady?”

“A great deal,” Etienne answered, with honest enthusiasm.

Frey was delighted in turn by his bride's delight. “Then you must see our library. Do you know we have an ancient account of the binding of the Archdemon, in the very hand of the scholar D'Grassa?”

“Do you really?” Etienne said, his eyes wide, showing no sign that the leather-bound original D'Grassa was in his traveling case at that very moment. “That's extraordinary.”

“I can't read it, of course,” Frey said, apologetically. “But you mentioned—in your second letter, I believe—that you dabbled in the pre-Justician letters? I'd be honored if perhaps you could go over some of it with me. Some night after supper perhaps?”

“I shall do my best,” Etienne said, hoping his smile wasn't too fixed. He either needed to find a way to smuggle those stolen books back into the library, or to brain his fiancée before the subject could come up again. Though it was a pity, he thought. So few people want to learn the old letters in this day and age. I finally find one who wants to, and I have to kill him instead.

Frey was counting tapestries. “Seven, six... ah. Here it is. The one with the hunt on it.” Faded figures writhed across the wall-hanging, racing their dogs and horses pell-mell into the yawning holes made by age and vermin, all in the determined pursuit of a stained-looking stag.

“Was it always a hidden room?” Etienne asked, as Frey shoved up the tapestry with his elbow, and jangled through his ring of keys in search of the right one. “I mean, doesn't it strike you as a bit odd, that Evern would be playing cards in some hidden room?”

“Oh, no. It wasn't always hidden. This is the old armory. Evern had it converted into a games room, and Tobias tells me he always came here after dinner to play cards or dice with his friends. There were no guests the night of the last hand, but he would dice on his own.” Frey had found the key he wanted, a rather elegant one for such a room. Etienne had been expecting a slab of iron with a rough tooth, the sort for locking manacles. “The room was shut up and covered afterwards, by some superstitious second cousins of mine who inherited next. They weren't here long; the lady of the house went mad and wound up drowning herself in the duck pond. The staff insists her ghost’s been sighted regularly around the grounds ever since, not that I've run into her myself, but we did just have a scullery maid quit a fortnight ago after supposedly seeing her.” The lock gave a surprisingly well-oiled click. “There. Mind the tapestry.”

Etienne held up one arm to ward off the moldering folds of the hunt scene, and followed Frey's gesture into the fabled chamber. The overwhelming impression was one of dust, but that was only to the eyes. There were other senses to be assailed, other messages to heed, and they presented themselves at once, to the detriment of all others.

The moment Etienne crossed the threshold, the crimson tattoo on his wrist burst into pain, burning as though freshly inscribed. Etienne could feel every needle-stroke of the protective seal upon his skin. He put one hand to his wrist, grasping the mark hidden by his sleeve, and struggled to think past the agonizing warning. For Etienne was far more than a common-garden villain and garrotter. He was a sworn and bloodied member of the Order of the Crimson Seal, founded by Vynae himself after the defeat of the Archdemon centuries ago. Etienne was an elite soldier standing against a tide of black magic and foul sorceries. His was a sword of brilliant reason in the darkness, and he was branded and oathed to Ephaseus and his cause.

Frey left the door open behind him, though the tapestry tumbled down after and a few of the hounds lost their snouts in the crumbling threads. “You see, it is truly not much to—” He broke off, in alarm. “Elsa! You've gone white! Are you ill?”

With effort, Etienne pried his fingers off his wrist, and his teeth apart. The air of lingering evil was so palpable in the room, he marveled that Frey could stand there oblivious to it. “It’s—it’s nothing,” he said. “Only some dust in my lungs, it made me quite giddy.” He pulled a kerchief from his artfully constructed bosom, and held it delicately over his mouth as he forced his mind to clear, to focus past the pain. “I should be fine in just a moment.”

“I should not have brought you here,” Frey said, scowling. He had one hand on the small of Etienne's back, to catch his bride-to-be should she faint. “Your bravery is commendable, but there's no need to go further—”

“I'm quite all right now,” Etienne said, tucking his kerchief away, and making a grand show of fussing with his cuffs. “Now, we've come all this way to see this place, I should like to see it! Don't frown so, it was only a spot of stale air.” Etienne put a finger to Frey's lips, teasing, and it was enough to startle a smile out of his betrothed.

Etienne's head was clearing at last, even though the mark of the Order still buzzed like the stings of an entire beehive. The room was small, even cozy, though the air of neglect made it seem that much more empty and echoing. He had always pictured the famous duel taking place in a bare chamber with a splintery wood table and two chairs, like in some hidden dungeon. But this had been a delightful room years ago, one designed for leisure and pleasant pursuits. The high, narrow windows had all been boarded over, but several of the planks had fallen in, letting in a watery light. Dust lay thick and undisturbed on elegant tables and chairs; a settee sat decomposing in the corner, tapestry cushions lumpy grey in the colorless light. The beams of the ceiling had once been painted in bright, lively patterns, now they only looked like faded graffiti. A shadowy portrait peered down over the mantelpiece. Logs still waited in a neat bundle by the hearth, where black ash was scattered around the gnawed rug in tiny trails.

“Squirrels,” Frey said, following Etienne's eyes. “They'll have the whole room nibbled to floorboards in another year or so. I was going to have a grate put over the fireplace to keep them out, but I haven't found any workmen willing to do it.”

“Ah.” Etienne took a few steps forward, his skirts sweeping a clean spot through the dust. “This is the man himself, I assume?” He tilted his head far back to get a better look at the painting, but in the gloomy room—and under the dirt on the paint varnish—Lord Evern Reichwyn was a yellowed ghost, dark-eyed and fair-haired and elusive, sitting at ease with his hand on the head of a hunting dog at his knee. He was handsome, even in shadows, and wore his shirt open. Etienne could see an echo of Frey there, somewhere in his slightly-arrogant face, a whisper of familiarity beyond just coloring.

“I wanted to put him in the great hall,” Frey said, with a little sigh. “But one of the chambermaids swooned at the very idea of it, so I'll have to wait a bit longer to dine with my uncle, I suppose. I can't really blame the servants. They've all become superstitious. I only hope the painting's not ruined by the time I can have it brought out.”

Etienne took a step backwards to see the painting better, but his skirts bumped into something behind him. “Ah! I didn't even see... oh.” The something was a chair lying on its side, on the floor. Etienne knelt to right it again, and noticed the dust heaped up against the toppled legs. The chair had fallen decades ago, knocked aside from the delicate little table behind it. The matching chair on the other side was scooted a short distance from the table, as though someone had pushed it back to rise, maybe to refill his glass. But it was the table that drew Etienne's attention. Almost invisible under a thin film of dust, there were cards scattered on its surface. They had curled with age and one—the ace of crowns—lay on the floor. One corner had been chewed by a rodent. Frey was on the other side of the table, looking down at the three crowns and seven suns that lay there, just to the side of a grimy crystal glass. A bottle was on the table, empty save for some flakes of brown dirt, and the other cup was overturned, cracked and empty. Its contents had made a darker patch, long ago, on the table and the carpet below.

Etienne stood up without moving the chair from its resting place. “This is it, isn't it?”

“It is,” Frey said, heavily. “Sad, is it not? He even laid out another hand of cards and a glass. I suppose the loneliness of the place in winter must have driven him mad.”

“So you don't believe the Devil sat here, and answered Lord Evern's challenge for an opponent?” Etienne's fingertips hovered over the stack of undealt cards in the middle of the table. They had slipped sideways into a heap.

“Don't mistake me, Elsa. Every Sabbath I've a grateful hymn on my lips for Saint Justicia. But this speaks to me more of madness than of a curse. Though I suppose that's devilry enough, is it not?”

“So why the tales?” Etienne said, moving to the other side of the table and trying not to flinch as his tattoo went to pinpricks again.

“Tobias found Evern in this room the next day. Just like this. The wine for two, the cards laid out so, and Evern out of his wits with his hair gone snow white. Of course it went round to the servants in a flash that Evern was yammering nonsense about the Devil and a curse and payment due, and if someone asked him directly what happened, he would only gesture to the cards. He wandered off into the moors the next night. He's never been seen since. All the servants except for Tobias left Easting right after.”

“How awful,” Etienne said sadly, as Elsa would have. “So the curse—”

“Is a myth, of course.” Frey looked up at him, intently. “I know my cousins had hard luck at Chancelion, but they made their own misfortune. I've been here six years now, and it has been nothing but blessed for me. Surely, if there was a curse, I would have been victim to it? No. I show you this to put your mind at ease, Elsa. It is a sad room, but nothing more. No split-hoof prints burned into the carpet, no eternal ring of fire, no ghosts showing up on the anniversary of the game to replay it again in transparent pantomime. You need have no fear of it.”

“I'm not afraid,” Etienne said, though that did not mean he agreed. If there was no curse, then Etienne would not be standing there, tricked out in green velvet, with murder on his mind. If Evern had not gambled away his soul in that room, then why were there no coins on the card table? Even a madman playing himself would know a bet had to be laid as well as cards.

“I'm glad to see you are as brave as you are intelligent,” Frey said, and smiled at his bride-to-be. “And as lovely.”

Etienne turned away, wishing he’d thought to bring a fan with him to hide behind. “You do me to much honor, sir. I am only too curious for my own good, as my Aunt would say. But I thank you for being so honest about the room. Another man would not even have permitted his bride to see it, for fear of making her hysterical or overwrought or some nonsense.”

Frey's hands tightened on the back of the Devil's chair. “Honest?” he asked, as though to himself. “Hardly. In truth, Elsa, I only agreed to bring you here so that for a moment we could be most assuredly alone, and unobserved.”

Etienne's pulse tripped with warning. What was this, then? Surely Frey was not about to make an attack on his lady's chastity? “Oh?” He forced out a laugh, but it rang as hollow as a specter's in the room. “You choose a strange place for courtship, Frey.”

Frey did not warm to the teasing; if anything, he looked more grim. Etienne wondered for a split second if there was a beast under his veneer, one who would prey on an unsuspecting female, but dismissed the idea at once. If anything, it was Frey who should be worried about his bride's intentions.

“Elsa,” Frey said, and his handsome face twisted a moment with dismay. “I have... there is something I must tell you. Tobias suggested I wait until the wedding night, but that is dishonorable, and no lady deserves to be so willingly misled. I would give you the chance to refuse me. I don't think a sensible lady would reject my suit on such grounds, but you deserve the chance to do so.”

Etienne took a step away. For an assassin it was practical: he wanted some distance, something solid behind him if need be, and room in which to fight. But in his gown and wig and paints, it looked perfectly authentic as trepidation. “What are you talking about?”

Frey pushed himself off the chair, and raked back the hair that was always slipping out of its ribbon. “Elsa. Darling. You know I think this curse business is nonsense, correct? I'm a man of faith, believe me, but I will not be dogged by imaginary devils. Nor would I see you live here in fear, when my only wish is for you to bring warmth to this place... and... and children.” His face was flushed with crimson, and to Etienne it was the only color in the entire room. “For the two of us to give Chancelion life again. I never dreamed of achieving such things when I was a fatherless boy growing up in a tavern, playing cards to earn my mother's bread, without even a home to call my own.” He looked at Etienne in something like desperation. “But the moment I came here I have loved this house from cellar to spire. Yes, even this wretched room. It grieves me to see it so. All I have ever wanted was for fortune to shine on this place once more. And for two years, it has. Never have I been more convinced that there was no curse than I was the moment you accepted me as your future husband. It was the most wonderful day of my life, even more so than the day I was informed of my inheritance.”

Etienne felt his heart sinking, oozing down into his belly like the drowning wick of a tallow candle. Frey continued on, as though his confession was being dragged out of him with an inquisitor's red-hot hooks.

“But there is a reason—a trifling coincidence and one I give no credence to—that you might think such a curse exists. I speak not of Evern's madness, or the foolishness of my late relatives. It is something about me, specifically.”

Etienne wished he could loosen his corset. It felt like he couldn't breathe, and his one consolation was that his anxiety must be convincing. “...What is it?”

Frey looked at him, a long, searching glance, and then he took off his velvet coat. He flung it on the back of the Devil's chair, and sent his waistcoat after it.

“My Lord!” Etienne began, forgetting to call him Frey.

Frey did not answer, but his silk cravat unraveled to the floor like a serpent's ghost, and then, with only the barest moment of hesitation, he pulled his shirt off over his head.

Even the dim light of the room was not kind. Etienne's wrist burst into flames of pain, and he put a hand over his mouth, knowing his noise of horror would not be a woman's cry. From throat to wrists, and shoulder to belly, all over the smooth muscles of Frey's torso, tiny red lines writhed across his skin. They twisted and bent and curled like live insects held above a candle flame, and Etienne's stomach clenched with revulsion at the sight of them. He struggled to hang on to his ruse, and in no small amount, to his sanity as well. Elsa would only be shocked at the marks, surely. She would be aghast, but would think them only lines, blemishes.

But Etienne could read them. He knew the horrors inscribed across Frey's skin, and understood the terrible doom they foretold as they burrowed down Frey's ribcage. Death and chaos had been dragged over Frey's body like corpses behind a charnel wagon, leaving bloody paths behind. The letters screamed with rage inside Etienne's mind, the rage of a demon from the depths as he wrenched at the splintering bars of his cage. Those splinters made those awful letters, scribed in the highest tongue of hell. When Etienne could tear his eyes back to Frey's, he found them shining with grief.

“You refuse, then,” he said softly. “Lady. I do not blame you.”

Etienne gulped past the taste of bile in his mouth. “No!” he gasped, but he looked away and could not bring himself to look back again. “I am not so shallow, Frey. But they—what are they?” It was all Etienne could do to feign ignorance. He was possessed with a wild urge to take a blade to Frey's skin, to peel away the marks as one would a rotten spot on an otherwise perfect and luscious peach.

“Birthmarks, I assume.” Frey answered, subdued. “I've had them my whole life, though when I was a child they were mere mottling. My mother told me I looked as though I had been born flayed, they were so thick on my skin. But as I have aged they have thinned, sharpened. It's my hope that some day they will fade away entirely. But save for my head, my hands, and my feet, no part of me is unmarked by them. I believe them to be mere lines, like the strain of a vein broken beneath the skin, but—-tied to Chancelion as I am, they easily seem to take on a more evil meaning.” Frey had pulled his shirt back on, and though the demonic scribbling was still visible at his neck and wrists, Etienne felt a good deal saner without them shouting their horrific threats at him.

Etienne forced himself away from the side table, tearing his hands away from its marble top. His fingers had left damp, sweaty patches in the dust. “I am your betrothed, am I not? I fail to see how that should change. You do me little honor, Frey, to think such a small thing would sway me.”

The gratitude and adoration in Frey's eyes was heartbreaking, even to so small and shriveled a heart as Etienne's. “When you asked to keep our engagement quiet, out of respect to your aunt's endeavors to find you a suitor on her own, I admit, I was grateful. I knew then you could refuse me without bringing undue shame on yourself.”

Etienne drew himself up straight. “Shame? My shame, Frey, would be to refuse the heart of so worthy a suitor.”

Frey took a step forward, arms outstretched, and Etienne knew he must do the same. If he was to continue his role, then he would have to submit to being kissed, and kissed he was. Earnestly, and as chaste as a blushing milkmaid's dream. Etienne’s thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Frey had the marks, and only that confirmation made Etienne realize how desperately he had hoped otherwise. But it was so. Frey was the Heir, his doom was sealed by Ephaseus' decree, and Etienne was sorry. More sorry than he'd ever been for any blackguard nobleman seeking black powers, or for heartless beauties who cursed the lovers who spurned them. Those he had snuffed without a thought, serene in his duty. But once, just this once, Etienne had been beginning to hope Ephaseus was mistaken.

He should have known better. Ephaseus was never mistaken.

Etienne's duty was clear. Frey must die, and quickly, before the fate inscribed on his flesh could be allowed to manifest. And really, what better place to do that than in the hidden chamber? Frey was the only one with a key to the room, in a distant and unused part of the house. No one had seen them pass this way. Etienne could dispose of Frey here, lock the room, and then Elsa could protest that she had not seen her beloved all day. Who would look for him here? In the chaos it would be easy enough for Elsa to take her leave of Chancelion, for good. With any luck, by the time Frey's body was found, he wouldn't be in a fit state to show how he had met his untimely end. He would be another victim of Chancelion's curse, and would follow Evern into legend.

Etienne leaned harder into Frey's kiss, trying not to think about the state that warm mouth would be in, in a few days’ time. He'd sent enough men to the worms, there was no reason to go getting squeamish about it now. He was doing Frey a mercy, though the man didn't know it. The only question was how best to go about it. Poor bastard, Etienne thought. Probably it was best to be quick and painless, so he wouldn't know what had happened. He could go straight to Saint Justicia's arms with his true love's kiss still on his lips, dreaming of all the sons that would not be born.

Etienne put a hand back to the table, as though to steady himself. The other he tangled up in Frey's hair. To Frey, it must have seemed quite an ardent gesture. Etienne, however, was only looking for the best place to clonk him. Evern's empty wine bottle on the table was dusty and cold against Etienne's other hand, and he grasped it. Sometimes the best weapons were already provided. One blow to the head, and then if Frey was still breathing, the gentle pressure of his lady's hand over his mouth and nose would end that. It was perfect, really. As sweet a setup as Etienne had ever dreamed of. Etienne felt his belly tighten, and he brought the bottle up in an arc that would end at the back of Frey's skull.

Death was an eventuality for everyone, Etienne thought. It was only his job to speed things along.

It was at that moment, just when the murder was shaping up so splendidly, that it happened. Actually, it was several things, happening all at once. The first of them was only a tickle, a little tug on the strap of Etienne's ladylike shoe. It was not worth note until it was followed, alarmingly, by the unmistakable sensation of something large and alive wriggling under lace-edged linen drawers and crawling up Etienne's leg.

It was instinct; it was involuntary. Etienne shrieked and the bottle flew out of his hand before it was even a third of the way through its course. It crashed into the fireplace and exploded; the overturned table scattered cards up into the air. Frey started back with an oath on his lips, still quite alive, and Etienne was forced into a frantic kicking jig, at last flinging a bewildered and very much offended squirrel out of his undergarments. It shot beneath the settee and up the chimney, leaving Etienne swearing at it in words that Lady Elsa should by no means have even known, much less dreamed of using.

Etienne caught himself halfway through a tirade involving fornication, the nine fires of hell, and leeks, and whirled to face Frey. Surely, what with that and murder and misfortune and squirrels for the love of reason, Etienne's mission and his ruse were both lost.

But Frey, honest, guileless Frey, was only hanging off the Devil's chair, laughing until he couldn't breathe. For a moment Etienne hoped he might laugh himself into the grave and spare Etienne the trouble, but there was no such luck.

Actually, there was plenty of luck, and all the wrong sorts.

It was not a pleasant evening for Etienne. Not only did Frey tell the story of the squirrel to Tobias as he served the couple dinner, but Frey was only more enamored of his bride for their adventure, and for her presumed acceptance of him. He spent the meal gazing at Etienne in pure, unashamed adoration, and that evening kissed him again before saying good night: a frustrating experience for Etienne as there was no good opportunity for death in it. At nine thirty, he was left in his garish bedchamber with no company but his own frustration and that hideous cherub.

And then, of course, to top it all off, Etienne had to sneak out in the middle of the night and put the D'Grassa volume back in the library.

#the devil's luck #l.s. baird #indie publishing #queer lit #reblog to save a life #probably Frey's

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leefelixs · 7 years

Text

boyfriend lee minho • stray kids

genre: fluff

pairing: lee minho & you

word count: 2306 words

summary: dating minho and all the quirks/aspects of your relationship

note(s): in this house we love and appreciate minho so much.. we miss you so much please come back soon here is the third part of the boyfriend series! as per usual it’s in bullet point format. <3 for all the lovely minho stans! (p.s. this gif was originally created by @hyyunjinn i just can’t seem to find the original post with tumblr’s gif system)

your younger brother jeongin was the focus of your attention most days, you felt it was right for you to take care of him and protect him as he was younger than you and considerably softer compared to most kids his age in terms of personality

as he grew older he had found a passion for dancing and begged your parents to let him take classes at the studio nearby to which you promised you would take him to and from everyday, and the smile on his face when they finally agreed made you set on contributing to your deal

keeping him happy was all that mattered to you but after the first few weeks you noticed your usual cheery brother had grown weary and much more tired, yet managing to force a smile on his face

“it was great” was always his response to your questions about the day but it was obvious in his eyes that he wasn’t entirely truthful

most days you wait five minutes before his classes should end to leave, but that particular day you had been out already and decided even with the extra twenty minutes to spare you might as well start walking and you could just sit and wait for him to come out

as you walk closer to the studio you can see two figures outside and stop behind a tree as you realize jeongin is one of them, his eyes looking at the ground with tears rolling down his face and his fists clenched in embarrassment

“jeongin, you’re doing your best. don’t listen to them. it just takes you a little more but it’s nothing to worry about...”

a boy slightly older than him is rubbing his shoulder with a concerned expression

jeongin hiccups and listens to the boy as he continues on reassuring him he’s doing good and any skills he needs to brush up on he’ll be there to help him throughout the way no matter how long it takes and it’s nothing to worry about

“thank you minho, you’re the best. i appreciate you so much.” jeongin hugs him and the older boy smiles and hugs him back just as warmly

your heart twitches at the sight because jeongin is genuinely so happy and seems so much more relaxed than before and you never knew there was a burden on his shoulders over his ability

minho was his name? minho...you were thankful to him. he was helping your brother out...and come to think of it on your walks back home jeongin had mentioned him briefly, geeking out about how nice and talented he was

jeongin had forgotten to mention how warm and handsome he was though uhm...how fake

as you see jeongin wipe away his tears you decide it’s best to come out now and pretend as if you didn’t see anything to spare him from an awkward forced conversation

“jeongin! how was class?” both boys turn to look at you and his face lights up instantly as he hugs you

minho watches you both and lingers his eyes a little longer on you and wow jeongin had definitely mentioned having an older sibling but failed to mention they were really attractive jeongin what the heck

“uh...” although you pretend not to notice you can feel jeongin shoot the older boy a look who quickly gives a thumbs up and your brother just smiles at you

“it was great! hey, have i introduced you to minho yet?” he eagerly tugs you closer to the older male and wow he is even more attractive up close

it’s a minho thing to be that lethal you know what i mean

minho gives you a warm smile before holding out his hand to shake yours but wow his hands are really soft and you can tell he uses lotion that’s a nice quality right there you trust him

“jeongin talks a lot about you, it’s nice to finally meet the living legend.” his voice is a lot more quiet and calm than you expected but it sounds really soothing and nice

“nice to meet you too, i could say the same thing. thanks for keeping him company, he can’t shut up about you or hyunjin.” and from there the both of you just talk about the classes and jeongin

and the whole time you fail to realize the slightly mischievous look in jeongin’s eyes because yes his plan is working he has waited years for the both of you to meet and speak to each other

not like he had planned to cry or anything to get minho to meet you, but he had definitely made sure to talk about both of you to the other because you’re both his favorite people and coincidentally single and how cool would it be to have his favorite people like each other

after 20 minutes you realize it’s getting a little dark out and reach for jeongin to come closer

“it was really nice meeting you but i think we have to get going since the street lights are pretty dim and we don’t want to get home in the dark...”

“wait! minho...you should give us a ride home,” and you gently smack jeongin’s hand and he gives a little ow and rubs his arm but he really REALLY needs you guys to be together longer

he can feel it his plan is working you’re both interested it’s so obvious please minho don’t fail him

and yes! minho thinks a little

“if you’re comfortable i can drop you both off, i would feel bad taking up your time and letting you both go alone.” and although you feel guilt you eventually agree once jeongin hops into the back of his small car and buckles in (this kid i swear)

the car ride is short lived but pleasant and once you both get down he’s like wait no

and you’re like huh did i forget something? and he blushes a little because he didn’t think this through he has no reason to keep you from going why is he doing that

“i know we just met but i was wondering if i could have your number,” and jeongin just FIST PUMPS because yes it worked it’s happening and you shyly type your phone number into his phone and put a little heart emoji next to your name and he smiles and does the same thing to your phone

once you both go inside you lock the door and look at jeongin with your arms crossed

“i know what that was you little twerp” and he just looks at you innocently with a big grin and shrugs his shoulders, running in to greet your parents

from that point you both text EVERY single hour you have never replied so fast and neither has he

his roommates make fun of him because he’ll leave his phone in his room and wander around the apartment looking for something to do until he hears the ding from his room and speeds back in

every single day you both get a ride home from minho but eventually he’s taking you both to eat, watch movies, do something else

and around five months of the routine jeongin decides he should probably leave you both to do as you please because these “hang outs” are more like dates and he feels like a little baby third wheeling both of you even if you both try to include him as much as possible

especially because around this time minho has moved out into his own little apartment and jeongin is like yeah okay privacy is definitely due here

around the fifth month of this routine as minho drops you both of and opens the door for you, jeongin huffs and slams the door closed

“when are you gonna start dating for real? it’s so painful watching you two awkwardly wait it out.” and he just goes inside and minho starts sweating

there’s a thick awkward silence and he just shuffles his feet as you take a sudden interest in your nails

“i think he’s right.” minho smiles at you and intertwines his hands with yours

“would you like to be with me?”

jeongin takes a quick snapchat of it and saves it in his memories so you can all look back on the day fondly

minho is genuinely one of the best boyfriends a person could have

his heart is so big and he genuinely cares about everyone he meets

before he does anything or plans anything he always makes sure you like the idea or are comfortable with everything

even if it’s a surprise which kind of ruins the surprise but makes the effort a lot more appreciated because he just wants to respect you and any boundaries you could possibly have

he’s so easy going and vanilla too.. he’s right out of a novel

one day you both go to the mall on a date and get frozen yogurt and while he gives you some a little elderly lady gushes over how cute you both are and how handsome your boyfriend is and he just blushes and thanks her

absolutely loves being in contact with you...whether you’re there with him or note he just has to talk to you whether it be through text or snapchats

also the type of couple to have different conversations on every app you use like on snapchat you’re asking how each other’s days were and on twitter he’s sending you memes and maybe on instagram you’re debating conspiracy theories its great

tags you in really..really old school memes like dad material memes...it’s not even funny but you don’t have the heart to tell him

also minho is so good at taking selfies and has such good fashion taste? he loves getting you to dress up with him and try to subtly match

and he takes pictures everywhere you both go and uploads them on instagram

tries to get you to dance to choreo with him and has a lot of patience with teaching you

your mom is always trying to meet him because jeongin adores him and so do you and she’s like i bet i will too

before he kisses you he looks at your lips and then at you like can i,, y’know...sometimes he’ll ask and it’s really cute

“babe have you seen my glasses?” he’s literally tearing up his room trying to find them and you just look up from his blankets and pause netflix because you’re wearing them

“perhaps...right here?” and he laughs and tries to get them but you roll under the blankets and hide

and he lifts the blankets up and you both start play wrestling and you’re pretty stubborn about keeping them

until he starts tickling you and you scream and kick and laugh

he grabs your hands so you can stop moving and after a while your laughter subsides and you can feel the heat rush to your head because he’s kind of...straddling you...and you’re under him and this a very romantic moment

and he’s like omg...i got this..kiss them...it’ll be great

and he leans in

AND SMASHES HIS FOREHEAD AGAINST YOURS and there’s no kiss because you’re both in pain and he ruined it good job minho you tried

whenever you’re tired or grumpy or just in a bad mood he kisses all over your face and plays with your hair to calm you down

he’s an amazing advice giver...he is so good at sympathizing with people and he really does care

oh he loves all music but on the weekends he usually has some type of oldies playing and you’re trying to read something on your phone and he just saunters into view

“dance with me!” and you’re like uh no that’s not happening

“that’s too bad i guess i’ll have to teach you how.” and he just puts your phone down and tugs you up with him

you’re a little clumsy at first but eventually get the simple two step and sway down and it’s so cute and he’s like an actual prince while you’re both dancing

he looks so happy and looks at you like you’re so precious

when you finally have him meet your parents they realize it’s true...he’s perfect. lee minho is perfect everyone

jeongin is like oh yes i told you so

sometimes minho gets sensitive because he’s critical of himself and doesn’t want to put his burdens on you because he feels like he has to take care of you and shouldn’t ask for anything in return

but every time he says that you just hug him really hard and kiss the tip of his nose gently and tell him that’s not true and a relationship has to work on both sides so he has to be open with you

sometimes it leads to arguments between the both of you and it’s really tense but after some hours pass you both realize your mistakes and apologize to each other and promise to try to understand each other more

one day while you’re watching a movie on his couch minho notices how tired you look and gets really affectionate while you lean into his chest and just curl up to him

and he tilts your head up because he really wants to kiss you but remembers what happened last time

“okay...i’m going in” and he kisses you and his lips taste like his mint chapstick and it’s so nice and gentle

and once he pulls away you burst into laughter

“stop don’t laugh at me” and he’s worried you’re laughing because it was bad or regrettable

“i’m laughing because you said ‘i’m going in’, you’re so cute.” and he just gets all quiet because you’re supposed to be getting showered in affection not him

minho really loves when you compliment and fawn over him because he never is kind to himself and when you do it he truly believes it

every day he is thankful to have met jeongin because not only did he befriend an amazing kid but he got to meet the love of his life

#stray kids #HAHA I POSTE THIS ON THE WRONG ACCOUNT I SCREAMED #lee minho #minho #stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #boyfriend minho #scenarios

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foreversillythings · 7 years

Text

roses are red, roses are white chapter three

This took way longer to finish then I thought it would, I hope it was worth the wait! Thank you for reading and Happy Gadge Day!! :)

chapter two

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter three the fool of hearts

The very next day, Madge is woken early by a maid.

“What is it?” she asks, head thudding a bit from too much wine.

“The Duke requested I wake you, my lady, as he wishes you to prepare to leave as soon as possible.”

For a moment Madge is confused. The Duke? Oh. Cold realization washes over her and the maid means Haymitch. Though still Earl of Warwick, marriage to her mother has also made him Duke of Clarence, a far more impressive title, not to mention one with royal connections.

“Did the Duke mention where we’d be going?” she asks, the word Duke tasting sour on her tongue. The maid shakes her head.

“No, my lady.”

Madge sighs and collapses back into bed, frowning into her pillow.

Officially my step-father and still, he is determined to keep me in the dark.

Dressed in her one traveling gown and with her things packed, Madge breaks her fast with her mother, still with no idea where they’re going.

“Has he mentioned to you where he’s taking us?” she asks as she nibbles on bread and Margaret shakes her head.

“I haven’t seen him since the feast last night and he didn’t say a word about leaving.”

Madge is both pleased her mother and Haymitch spent the night apart and beyond aggravated that he won’t even trust his wife with their travel plans. She settles on a mild frown. I suppose I should have expected that this would be no marriage of equals. Her mother sighs tiredly and forces down some cheese, last night’s festivities having clearly taken their toll. Madge bites her lip, worried as she always seems to be lately and then Lord Haymitch himself decides to grace them with his presence. Her mother immediately stands to greet him, Madge following much more reluctantly. They curtsy and he nods to them, a harried look on his face. He seems distracted and Madge wonders what could have him so on edge.

“Greetings, my lord husband,” her mother says and Haymitch’s face twitches.

“Are you packed and ready?” he asks, tone impatient. Madge feels herself bristling.

“Yes, we are both ready to leave whenever you wish it,” her mother answers and he nods again. Madge cannot help but admire her mother’s skill, showing not a single sign of ruffled feathers at Haymitch’s snappish mood.

“Good. You’ll be moving to Warwick Castle immediately,” Haymitch commands and Madge barely restrains her frown. She’d figured he was probably sending them away to one of his properties, but she’d been holding out hope that it would be one of the castles he’d gained from her mother, something at least familiar to Madge. Instead they are headed to the very seat of Haymitch’s power.

“Will you not be accompanying us?” her mother asks and Haymitch shakes his head, just a hint of frustration washing over his face.

“No, there is much too much to do here,” he says and Madge feels her interest rise. “I will join you when I’m able. Marvel will escort you.”

Madge feels her stomach drop.

Not Marvel, anyone but Marvel.

Her mother nods like this is perfectly agreeable and so does Madge, even as she wants to scream. Her step-brother is the last person she wants to spend any time with, and certainly not a long journey followed by close quarters in Warwick Castle with no one else to distract him. As much as she hates London, hates Westminster, she’d much rather stay here and find out what’s gotten under Haymitch’s skin than be banished away to Warwickshire with Marvel as company.

But of course, Madge won’t be getting what she wants.

She never does.

They’re loaded into a litter and Haymitch does not come to see them off, stalks away with murmured apologies, but there’s just so much to do.

Marvel is waiting for them in the courtyard, dressed in fine velvet that must be roasting him in the summer sun. He mounts his horse, his black cape threaded through with silver swinging around him dramatically and his hat, decorated with a bejeweled peacock feathers, glittering. He pulls on his gloves and Madge rolls her eyes. He is certainly overdressed. She goes to settle back into her seat when she sees him, Gale of Salisbury, exiting the castle and moving towards Marvel. She narrows her eyes and watches them converse, her own vow from last night echoing in her ears.

One day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me.

Just as the carriage starts to lurch forward, Madge leans out the window.

“Fare thee well Lord Gale!” she calls, waving her handkerchief at him. He turns to her with wide, confused eyes and Madge smiles as brightly as she’s able. He is used to her being polite when they are forced to interact, but this, her being cheery and friendly when she could so easily ignore him and no one would care, this he cannot understand. He does not answer, probably cannot, but he watches her as the carriage pulls farther away, never once looks away.

It isn’t much, not yet, but it’s a start.

Madge looks out the window at Warwick Castle as they roll through its gates and only one thought comes to mind.

This is not home.

Marvel helps her dismount, somehow managing to pull her flush against him as she steps down. He doesn’t let go, holding onto her for an uncomfortably long time and Madge begins to wonder how to politely extricate herself when her mother nearly trips down the carriage steps, forcing Marvel to release Madge and attend to his step-mother. He takes her mother by the arm and then thrusts his elbow at Madge, something she takes with barely concealed reluctance.

“Welcome to Warwick Castle!” he bellows and Madge looks up at the imposing castle, her blood chilling. “And now, allow me to give you a tour.”

Madge peeks over at her mother, tired and swaying on her feet. She turns back to Marvel.

“Actually, would you mind terribly, my good lord, if we went to rest until dinner? The ride has exhausted me.”

Marvel looks down at her and for a moment she is afraid he’ll refuse.

“Ah yes, of course. Women are so delicate, so fragile,” he says with a smile and reaches out to stroke her cheek. Madge feels a shudder trying to beat its way up her back and forces it down. She plasters on a smile and can feel it twitching in the corners.

“Thank you for understanding,” she manages. He claps his hands to summon the servants.

“Show the ladies to their rooms,” he orders. They do just that and Madge dismisses those who wish to help her unpack. She collapses face first onto the bed and tries, at least for the moment, to pretend she is somewhere safe.

(she can’t help but wonder if she’ll ever be safe again)

The bed sheets are cool, but she knows body heat will change that. As for the rest of the room…She pulls herself up onto her elbows and looks around, the whole place elegant but lifeless, grey and dull. It is clean, but feels unused, everything from the wall tapestries to the finely carved furniture lacking any brightness or warmth. This does not feel like a room she is meant to feel at home in.

It feels like a guest’s room.

She’ll need flowers, lots of them, maybe some new pillows, even some embroidery to hang on the walls, anything to add a splash of colour. She can’t be sure if this is some game of theirs, to remind her of her place, but Madge won’t bow to it. She will make this room her own.

After all, enough small victories and eventually, she’ll win the war.

Her mother takes dinner upstairs and Madge is left to suffer Marvel’s company alone.

They sit across from each other in the smaller, more intimate dining hall reserved for immediate family and Madge tries not to flinch every time she feels his foot brush up against her leg. He takes the liberty of choosing all her food for her and smiles leeringly. Madge commends herself on not vomiting.

“With all the excitement, I‘ve been away from my properties far too long,” he says with an easy laugh and Madge suppresses a frown. Excitement? Because war and bloodshed are just so very exciting.

“But first I plan to stop at my new properties, gifted to me by the Queen,” he says smugly and Madge supposes she is meant to be impressed. She digs deep to summon up a smile.

“Oh,” she says and winces at her lack of enthusiasm. It turns out not to matter, Marvel much too busy nodding to himself to notice.

“Yes, she has just recently presented me with Stourton Castle in Staffordshire and Clare Castle in Suffolk. I must visit them to ensure they are up to my standards. I tolerate only the best.”

Madge smiles in what she hopes passes for understanding. Marvel reaches across the table to pat her hand.

“I shall be leaving in a day or two,” he says and Madge’s eyes widen in surprised relief, “though do not worry,” he hurries to continue, squeezing her hand, “I am sure we shall not be parted for long.”

Madge smiles, torn between relief and the inevitability of what he’s said.

“I’m sure,” she agrees, because as much as she wishes otherwise, she is sure he’s right.

But at least he’ll be gone soon. Thank the Lord for small mercies.

Madge embroiders by candlelight, shining silver bells ringed in red roses to hang on her walls. She is certain the servants will report it immediately to Haymitch, certain he will order them removed and perhaps burned, just like her banner. If asked, she will plead ignorance, that it was merely because the red contrasted so nicely with the silver.

Madge knows it is contradictory to her aim of winning over these Yorkists, but then, as much as she wishes she were a creature of logic, her emotions have always held greater sway. This little act of rebellion might well undermine her efforts, but hearts so rarely listen to reason.

(and anyway, the red is not for Lancaster)

(it’s for blood)

(and rage)

(and heartbreak)

The next day dawns bright and beautiful and warm, but Madge hardly notices. She spends it entirely in Marvel’s company, his presence casting a pall of darkness over everything. She comforts herself with the knowledge that he’ll soon be gone, just survive a little longer. Just a little longer.

He takes her for a very, very long tour of the gardens, which normally would have been enjoyable, except of course, that she has to spend it with Marvel. He regales her with details of the castle, the gardens and grandiose tales of his family’s glory, some of which she most certainly does not believe.

(one she can believe, on the other hand, is that apparently his ancestor once helped to decapitate King Edward II’s lover Piers Gaveston)

(after all, she knows all about their murderous habits)

He sits her down on a bench and recites poetry, though thankfully not his own. She applauds when necessary and keeps a smile frozen on her face, does her absolute best not to cringe when he reads something about love and then winks at her suggestively. He tucks a flower behind her ear, fingers trailing unnecessarily through her hair and then they’re off again, this time for a tour of the castle itself. He talks so much she’s surprised he hasn’t gone hoarse, fills her head to the brim with stories of his glorious ancestors, all the way from the time of William the Conqueror.

At this point Madge has had enough and feigns heat exhaustion, sagging into his arms and pleading to be brought to bed. He carries her to her chambers, assuring her over and over that she will be well taken care of and chuckling about the fragility of women.

(which he seems to believe is a good thing, most probably because it allows him to play the hero)

(Madge is beginning to wonder how he could possibly have managed to support Katniss, what with all his ideas about the inherent weakness of women)

(she is smart enough not to ask)

He sets her down and she allows all her mother’s ladies to fuss about, pressing cold cloths to her head and fanning her, because anything is better than more time with Marvel. He offers to linger but she waves him away, invents some story about not wanting him to see her in so disheveled a state. He nods and agrees, telling her he does not want “to tarnish the image of your beauty I have in my mind”. Madge barely manages not to gag.

At dinner she is forced to descend to the dining hall, but thankfully her mother joins them, dragging at least part of Marvel’s attention away. He tells them all about his exploits in the war, his heroism and daring, how he apparently won the day nearly single handedly. Madge wonders how Katniss, Gale and Haymitch would feel about this particular retelling.

And then finally the evening ends and Madge is allowed to escape. Marvel informs them that he will be leaving in the morning and her heart soars amid all his apologies. She assures him all is well, that she understands how important he is and allows him to slather kisses all over her hands.

Madge falls into bed with a true, genuine smile on her face.

I have survived King Coriolanus

Survived Queen Katniss’ court

And now Marvel

If I can survive all that

I can survive anything

Madge sees Marvel off in the morning, in a far cheerier mood than she’s been in for quite some time.

“I hope you will not be too distraught without me,” he says, entirely serious, and Madge smiles, her joy eclipsing any annoyance she feels at his words.

“I shall try my best to find a way to survive your absence,” she responds and he nods gravely, squeezing her hands.

“I’ve given strict instructions to the Constable, after all, two women alone is a very dangerous situation.”

Madge doesn’t roll her eyes even though she wants to. She wonders if he’s aware that she and her mother spent most of the war alone and managed just fine. He leans in very close.

“Perhaps a token, to carry me on my way?”

Madge, wanting him gone as soon as possible, plucks a ribbon from her hair and tucks into his glove. He grins and pulls her near, their bodies touching in a way that makes her very uncomfortable. He inhales deeply, nose buried in her hair and she closes her eyes, hoping he moves away soon.

“Sweet, sweet sister,” he croons in her ear and then kisses her cheek, his lips pressing against the corner of her mouth. She stiffens, eyes opening wide, but knows better than to say anything. He finally pulls away and mounts his horse, Madge’s good mood strangled somewhere in her chest. She waves to him as he rides out with his retinue, her stomach clenching when he tosses her a wink. The sun is hot on her head and yet she feels cold, the urge to scrub herself clean bubbling beneath her skin.

He’s gone now, she reassures herself, at least he’s gone now.

(he’ll be back)

(of course, there are still Yorkists everywhere)

(every servant is also an informant, every groom and clerk and lady watching her every move)

(there is no freedom here)

(nor anywhere in England)

(at least not for her)

Two days later, Haymitch comes clattering into the courtyard on his horse.

Madge and her mother greet him in the entrance hall, pretend to all the world that they are pleased to see him. He looks frazzled as he pulls off his gloves, hair windswept and frown lines deep in his face. He sighs and then turns to the Lord Steward waiting just a few steps behind them.

“Ale,” he says shortly, the Lord Steward hurrying off to fetch it and Madge wonders if he’s even noticed the two of them.

“Greetings, my lord husband,” Margaret says and Haymitch finally looks at her. Something about him seems older, which is silly, Madge knows, as it’s only been a week since she’d last saw him.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey,” her mother continues and Haymitch grunts.

“I won’t be staying long,” he informs them, “just until tomorrow.”

Madge blinks in surprise, hardly believing such good fortune. Her mother waits politely for Haymitch to continue.

“I must ride out tomorrow to join the Queen on progress,” he explains and everything becomes so much clearer. No wonder Haymitch has been in such a sour mood. A Royal Progress is usually planned out over several months, not the single week Katniss seems to have allowed.

“Will the Queen be stopping here?” her mother asks and Haymitch shakes his head.

“No. She had wanted to, but we can be assured of my loyalty. It makes much more sense to honour those whose loyalty needs to be guaranteed.”

Her mother nods.

“I won’t be back until at least August, that’s why I’ve come now. I need to make sure everything is properly arranged for my absence.”

Her mother nods like it’s not an insult to suggest she wouldn’t know how to run a castle and Madge forces herself not to bristle. The Steward reappears and hands Haymitch his ale, the cup filled to the brim. Haymitch drinks deeply, almost as if he intends to drain it all, and then turns to Madge.

“I’ve brought you back someone from London. A maid, to do your hair or clean your chambers, or whatever it is you need. She’s waiting outside.”

Haymitch turns to leave before Madge can say anything, not that she knows what she’d say. She watches his departing back, something about this feeling off. Why would he bring her a maid all the way from London? If this girl is just meant to clean her things, would it not have been simpler just to hire a local? Madge steps outside cautiously, uncertainty prickling at her nerves and there she is, the new maid dressed in a ratty traveling cloak and a worn dress, her head turned to the dirt below her feet. She has very dark hair hanging down around her face and Madge can’t get a clear look at her, something in her gut tightening in concern.

“Hello, I’m Lady Madge. My stepfather the Duke informs me that you are to be my new maid,” Madge begins, hoping she sounds welcoming. The girl nods timidly, pale hands clenching into fists in the folds of her dress as she curtsies low, her skirt sweeping the dusty ground.

“May I know your name?” Madge asks and the girl pauses, bending even farther forward so her hair obscures her every feature.

“Anne, my lady,” she whispers and Madge leans forward to hear her better.

“Anne,” she repeats and bites her lip. “It’s a very nice name. I had a friend called Anne once.”

“A friend?” Anne asks, voice thin and terrified.

“Yes, or at least, I always thought of her as a friend. I can’t say what she thought of me,” Madge laughs, trying to make a joke but Anne inhales wetly, as if about to cry. Madge’s eyes widen in alarm.

“Is everything alright?” she asks and Anne buries her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry, my lady, I’m sorry. Please forgive me,” she sobs and Madge shakes her head in bafflement.

“Whatever for?”

Anne doesn’t answer, still in tears, and Madge gently pries her hands from her face.

She gasps and drops Anne’s hands, all of her blood freezing in an instant. I know that face… It’s been years, but still, Madge recognizes her instantly.

“Anne? Anne of Oxford?” she asks in horror and Anne shakes her head.

“It is just Anne now, my lady. My father is a traitor to the crown, and thus he has been attainted. I am no one now.”

Madge shakes her head slowly, feeling sick.

“Lady Madge, the Duchess has requested your presence inside,” someone says from behind her but she doesn’t answer, eyes still trained on Anne.

“Lady Madge?”

The Yorkists have to pay.

I’ll make them pay.

In blood.

Madge is a storm about to explode at the dining table, sits through a meal with Haymitch while lightning crackles in her veins.

How dare they? she thinks, Anne’s voice echoing in her head.

I am no one now

The eleven year old Anne Madge remembers was a bit nervous yes, but she’d smiled easily, laughed, looked alive and happy. The seventeen year old Anne of today was pale and terrified and forced into servitude against her will. Madge doubts Anne choose this career of her own volition, doubts too that Anne will receive fair wages or have the choice to leave and seek employment elsewhere.

This is a punishment. But for what? Her father’s sins?

Be careful Yorkists.

Are you ready to pay for your sins?

Madge returns to her chambers and orders that Anne be brought to her. She waits impatiently, nervously, and dismisses everyone else when Anne is finally brought to her, head downturned and eyes avoiding Madge’s. Anne looks frail and gaunt in the afternoon sun and Madge can feel a cacophony of words swelling on her tongue.

What do I say? What can I say?

“How did…how did this happen?” she finally asks and Anne closes her eyes. A dark shadow crosses her face and Madge digs her nails into her palms, so hard she wouldn’t be surprised if she drew blood.

“My father was fighting for the King, I hadn’t heard from him in so long and then…then the Yorkists came.” Anne’s voice is oddly flat, eerily devoid of emotion and Madge feels a knife digging deep into her gut. “They stormed the castle and took me prisoner; they didn’t even give me a chance to change out of my nightclothes. They wouldn’t tell me what had befallen my father, but it was clear the King had lost. I was brought to London and put in a cell in the Tower. I stayed for months, in the dark, with no news, no idea what was happening. Finally, Lord Haymitch came. He told me my father was a traitor, had been attainted and I was no one now. But he had an offer. I could leave with him, to serve you.” Anne’s voice suddenly becomes small, so quiet Madge can barely make it out, “Anything is better than the dark.”

Madge covers her mouth with her hands and has no idea what to say.

“I apologize, my lady. It is not my place to complain.”

Madge feels a hot fire erupt in her stomach, hatred clogging her veins.

“Do not apologize, Anne, not to me. It is the Yorkists who should be begging your forgiveness.”

Anne looks up at her finally, eyes wide and wet.

“What?”

“They had no right to treat you like a criminal, but then, they had no right to any of this.” Madge steps forward and grabs Anne’s shoulders, squeezing them firmly. “You are Anne of Oxford, no matter what they say. We are both traitors’ daughters, but we are not alone. You will always have an ally in me, a friend.”

Anne’s face crumples and she covers it with her hands, her whole body shaking.

“I…I…I never thought I’d see the sun again, never thought they’d let me out of that dungeon. I…I just…thank you, Madge.” Anne pauses, voice struggling in her throat. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Madge pulls her in for a hug, Anne’s arms clinging to her tightly.

“You won’t be Anne, I promise. We have each other now.”

how could they do this?

how?

weren’t they supposed to be liberating us from evil?

liars

Anne’s tears finally run out and she and Madge sit on the floor, heedless of the dust and dirt. Madge rubs her back and Anne fiddles nervously with a thread from her dress.

“Do you…have you heard of any Lancastrian survivors?” she asks, clearly terrified of the answer. Madge squeezes her hand in reassurance.

“Your father is fine. He’s in Scotland with the King.”

Anne scrunches her dripping eyes shut and presses her forehead to her knees.

“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness,” she sniffles and Madge smiles, happy she has good news to give.

“Were there…any others?” Anne asks quietly and Madge pauses in thought.

“Yes…Brutus, the Duke of…”

“Somerset,” Anne supplies, her tone cold. Madge frowns and looks down at Anne’s hands, curled tight into fists. But then she remembers Christmas, that horrid, wicked Christmas and Lord Brutus with his cruelty, the way he’d dragged that serving boy off with bloodlust thick in his eyes.

(perhaps his survival is not one worth celebrating)

“Also,” she hurries to continue, wanting to blot away the memories, “Boggs, the King’s half-brother and their nephew, Finnick of Richmond, are both in Scotland as well.”

Anne’s whole body shudders as she bursts into tears again, Madge staring at her shock.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Anne wails, “I’m just so relived. I was afraid, so horribly afraid. They’re alright. Thank the Lord, they’re alright.”

Madge takes one of her hands and squeezes it, noticing for the first time the ring she’s wearing. Unlike everything else Anne has on, this ring is beautiful and clearly quite costly. It is a gold band with a sizeable diamond in the center and tiny clusters of sapphires on either side. Madge blinks at it and somehow, Anne must have kept it hidden through her months of captivity.

“I’m sorry,” Anne says again and Madge shakes her head.

“You don’t need to apologize, Anne.”

“Annie,” she interrupts and Madge tilts her head. “If we’re friends, you must call me Annie.”

Madge smiles.

“Annie,” she says and Annie looks up, wiping at her eyes. “We are friends, that I can promise. And I shall pray for your father every night, that the two of you will soon be reunited.”

Annie smiles through her tears and Madge cannot help the pang she feels in her heart, because no matter what she prays, her father will still be lost to her. Perhaps Annie can read her mind, for she wraps an arm around Madge, pulling her close until their heads press together. Madge can feel tears prickling her eyes and frowns.

“I shouldn’t be crying,” she finds herself saying, “I’m sorry.”

Annie shakes her head.

“Don’t be. And thank you, Madge. I shall pray for your family too. Perhaps we shall still have our happy endings.”

My father is dead, Madge thinks, I shall never be happy again. Instead of saying it though, Madge simply hugs Annie close and chooses, at least for this one moment, to believe in a better tomorrow.

Annie stays with her all night, the two of them not quite ready to be alone. They lie together under the covers and Madge keeps a candle burning to stave off the dark, Annie still shrinking from every shadow.

“I’m sorry,” Annie breathes but Madge shakes her head.

“Don’t be.”

Madge tells Annie everything then, all about the war, all that has happened since. Annie listens patiently, squeezes Madge’s hand when tears threaten her voice but never shares her own story. Madge does not mind. She might find comfort in telling, but Annie might find it in forgetting. Madge cannot blame her.

(strangely, even though Madge tells her everything, she omits just one fact)

(one day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me)

(for some reason, she keeps that to herself)

The next morning Haymitch leaves as promised, loosening Madge’s shackles, if only a little.

She and Annie take a walk in the gardens, though Madge is careful to let Yorkists spies think it is just a lady and her attendant, at least until they‘re out of sight. When they are, they lie back in the grass and try to divine the future from the shapes of the clouds.

“That looks like a rabbit. Aren’t they lucky? Perhaps fortune is soon to favour us,” Annie says and Madge wishes she could believe it.

“I suppose that looks like a boot,” she offers and doesn’t say perhaps we are soon to be crushed underfoot.

“Mm,” Annie agrees, “I think it does.”

At night they sit in her room and embroider, Madge stitching a memorial to her father to hang above her bed. Annie works diligently at what could be a dragon and Madge looks at it curiously. Annie notices and blushes.

“It’s a wyvern,” she explains and Madge shrugs, having never heard of one. “It means valor and protection.”

Oh. Well, Madge can imagine why she might want that.

They could both use all the protection they can get.

(but will it be enough?)

(could anything be enough?)

Madge stands for the fitting of a new travelling gown, her old one starting to fray at the edges.

The tailor measures and pins while Madge’s eyes sweep over her room, the maids busying themselves with cleaning. Or at least, that’s their stated purpose. In reality, they pull back the covers of her bed, reach hands to feel around beneath her mattress, open and riffle through every drawer and cupboard. In their guise of tidying up, they are really searching for signs of disobedience, of subterfuge, of rebellion. Madge pretends not to care as they shake out her pillows, peer behind every tapestry and frown at the red roses hanging on her walls.

The best defense she has right now is that they think her ignorant of their true purpose. They think they’ve fooled her, think she truly believes they’re just cleaning. Madge knows better. There is nothing for them to find, not really, she has made sure of that. Let them pilfer and search and comb over every inch of her chambers. Madge owns nothing incriminating and even if she did, she would never leave it anywhere they could find it. She is part of no conspiracy, has only vague ideas of vengeance. If she were to ever make solid plans, if she ever did join a full blown plot, they would never know.

Madge has no choice but to be one step ahead of these spies at her side.

So she will be.

(how exhausting it is for England, to live in such a state of utter distrust)

June fades into a hazy July and Madge thinks about the Royal Progress, wonders where the Queen and her retinue are now.

At least they’re not here.

Annie and a few of Madge’s other servants have a chamber adjoining hers, just in case she should need them. Some nights, when Madge cannot sleep, specters dripping blood into her dreams, she can hear tears, wretched, heart rending sobs, the kind that make Madge herself want to cry and bawl and wail.

Sometimes, she simply buries her head beneath her pillow and tries not to listen, but most nights Madge rises from bed and sits on the floor, ear pressed to the door between their two rooms. She knows, without having to look inside, that it’s Annie. Even though Annie never speaks about her time in the Tower, even though she tries so hard to act as if nothing is amiss, Madge knows she is lying. Maybe because Madge herself is a liar, every day, smiling, happy, as if her entire world hadn’t burned down into ashes. She thinks, sometimes, of going inside, of holding Annie until the tears stop, of trying to find some words of comfort. But what could she say?

It’s alright? But it isn’t, none of this is alright.

It’ll be okay? But Madge cannot guarantee that, finds it hard to believe that anything will ever be okay again.

I’m here? You’re not alone? But Annie already knows that and clearly, it’s not enough.

In the end, Madge presses her forehead to the door and swears I’ll avenge you Annie, I’ll avenge us all.

Maybe, one day, it will be the Yorkists crying themselves to sleep instead.

At least once every week Madge receives a letter from Marvel, always filled to the brim with self-aggrandizement.

She sighs as she opens the newest one, Annie peering over her shoulder. It is mercifully short, just a bit of bragging about his new castles, the improvements he plans to make and of course, how he would so love a visit from her. Madge rolls her eyes.

“As Master of the North, it is my duty to have the grandest castles I can. Not that anyone here could ever hope to come close to my splendor, but still, I must always strive for more,” Annie reads with barely concealed giggles. Madge gags.

“He’s certainly something,” Annie says and Madge nods with a grimace.

“The North is a wild land, but rest assured, I have tamed it,” she quotes and Annie bites her lip, a smile threatening her face. Madge tears the letter into pieces. “Be glad you haven’t met him,” she tells Annie.

“Oh don’t worry, I am.”

Annie sweeps up the letter fragments with a laugh and Madge closes her eyes, tries to blot out the final few lines, the ones she’d made sure Annie never saw.

I still have your token, sister sweet, and oh how I yearn for more. Come to see me and I promise, I shall make it worth the journey.

Sometimes, Madge fells like she cannot breathe within Warwick’s walls, needs to escape the eyes watching her from every corner. The gardens with their hidden grooves are her only sanctuary; even the chapel filled with spies cataloguing her every move. Nestled between the hedges, Madge feels a little safer, comforted by the illusion of solitude and she and Annie spend most of their days there, embroidering or reading or weaving flowers into necklaces.

On one such day, Madge looks up at the sky, bluer than anything she’s ever seen, and sighs happily.

“I love summer,” she says and Annie nods, a faraway look in her eyes.

“We used to spend most summers at my father’s castle in Essex, near the coast. I loved the sea.”

Her voice is wistful, yearning and Madge reaches over to squeeze her hand.

“Finnick had a castle not too far away,” Annie murmurs and Madge raises her eyebrows in curiosity.

“Oh, did you know him very well?” she asks and Annie looks up at the sun, her eyes reflecting its glow.

“It almost feels like another lifetime now,” she whispers.

It is another lifetime, Madge thinks, a better lifetime.

Once, just after supper, Madge stumbles upon Annie crying. She muffles her tears into a scrap of fabric and the hand wearing the pretty ring she never takes off is cradled next to her heart. Madge freezes, unsure what to do. Annie has not cried in front of her since that first day, keeps her pain carefully hidden.

Oh Annie…

Madge takes tentative steps forward and lightly touches Annie’s shoulder, not wishing to startle her. Annie looks up at her and Madge notices a wyvern in shimmery thread stitched onto her handkerchief. Annie bites into her lip and ducks her head, Madge taking a seat beside her. Neither one of them says anything, but Annie leans against her, body shaking, and Madge wraps her arms around her, hoping that at least for now, this will be enough.

the Yorkists cannot get away with this, they just can’t

August arrives in a golden glow and it would be easy to forget she was a prisoner, locked up tight behind Haymitch’s walls. Her mother seems healthier, strength returning to her; Annie is here, her friendship a greater gift than Madge could have imagined; and the Yorkists exist only peripherally, far off somewhere on their great progress.

Except of course, she cannot forget.

Warwick Castle still does not feel like home, she must still guard her words, must act like Annie is nothing but a maid when anyone else is near, still has no freedom to leave the castle grounds.

It is a gilded cage certainly, but still a cage. She must never forget that.

(how could I?)

In those long, hot days, Madge begins her fight.

She uses Haymitch’s gold to supply her maids with new clothes and furnishings. Her excuse to the Steward is that they need to look their best if they are to serve her, while proper bedding will give them better rest and thus allow them to work harder. She buys tapestries, supposedly for her own room but then hangs them in the servants’ quarters, picks them flowers from the gardens, tips them handsomely from Haymitch’s coffers. She smiles at every servant, from grooms to clerks to cooks, makes a point to learn all their names. She greets them as they pass, asks after them, is sure to thank and compliment them whenever appropriate.

Madge behaved much the same back home at Bedford Castle, has always despised those who treated their servants with disdain or cruelty. They may be paid to serve her, but they are still human, just as much as she is. She would be kind anyway, but now, in this new England, Madge has even more reasons for her actions.

Firstly, these maids are spies, instructed by Haymitch to keep careful watch over her and Madge hopes to win their affection, their loyalty. Underhanded it may be, but she is tired of being watched. She wants them to know that she would be happy to be their friend, if only they would be hers.

Secondly, Annie has been made a servant as punishment for her father’s loyalties. Madge is determined to make this the most comfortable punishment she can.

Haymitch will not win this game. Madge has generosity as her weapon and she will use it.

Let kindness be their downfall.

“If you could go anywhere in the world right now, where would you go?” Annie asks as she helps Madge dress. Faint morning light shines through the window and there are so many possibilities, glittering foreign courts, exotic locales, but in the end, the answer is obvious.

“Home.”

In late September, they finally hear word from Haymitch.

They are breaking their fast when a messenger comes bearing a letter with Haymitch’s seal, the first they’ve heard from him in months. Her mother takes it and pays the courier, all while Madge cannot help the flood of bitterness welling inside of her. It’s a wonder Haymitch even remembered they were here. Her mother breaks the seal and scans the message quickly, a frown carving deep lines into her face.

“What is it?” Madge asks, nerves tightening.

“Lord Haymitch commands us to move south immediately and to take up residence in his castle of Warblington in Hampshire.”

Madge feels her stomach curdle.

“Why?”

“He does not say, but he orders that we do not tarry.”

Orders? Madge wants to spit in frustration, but knows she can’t. Haymitch’s spies stand all around them, would be more than happy to report any misbehavior on her part.

“Can we not go to your castle of Portchester? It too is in Hampshire.”

Her mother shakes her head.

“His orders are that we go to Warblington, so we will. Be ready as soon as you’re able, darling.”

Madge bites her tongue and nods. This is a cruel reminder, but a necessary one.

The Yorkists are still their masters.

(but not for long, Madge vows, not for long)

Warblington Castle is an austere place. Or at least, that’s how it seems to Madge, this new and unfamiliar prison.

Annie helps her unpack and Madge can’t help but wonder what Haymitch is up to. Why move us from Warwick? Why not tell us why? There had been no message awaiting them when they’d arrived and something about this feels secret, dangerous even. Something’s going on, but what? Why Warblington? Why south?

And then it comes to her.

The King is in Scotland and for months there have been rumors that he was planning an invasion. Finally, half a year since he lost his throne, King Coriolanus must be making his bid to reclaim it. That has to be it. Haymitch has moved Madge and her mother as from the action as he can and kept them thoroughly in the dark, all to ensure they can’t rally anyone to the Lancastrian cause.

They’re afraid of us.

Madge drops to her knees and begins to pray. Annie looks over in alarm.

“Madge?”

“The King has invaded,” she says, hands clutching her rosary. Annie doesn’t question how she knows this, she simply kneels beside her and joins Madge in prayer.

Let Lancaster prevail

Let York fall

Please, let us win this fight

Madge had almost forgotten how horrible it is to wait for news.

Every day she hopes for some word from the front, but there is nothing, always nothing. Devoid of any idea of the state of affairs up north, Madge focuses instead on what she’ll do if (when) Lancaster wins. Annie will surely be welcomed back into the fold without issue, after all, she is being held hostage here, obviously against her will, not to mention her father is still alive to vouch for her. Madge’s situation is far more problematic.

Her mother has married Haymitch, the King will no doubt count that as a betrayal of the highest order. Their only hope is to convince the King that they have suffered greatly, have been forced into this arrangement and abused for it. She thinks about starving herself, burning her gowns, beating her skin until it turns black. The King will not believe anything she says, if she cannot show him she was mistreated, he will never forgive her.

It is not a particular appealing prospect, but if it’s a choice between that and survival, Madge knows which one she’d choose.

News does not reach them until November.

A messengers canters into the courtyard, the punishing rainstorm making it impossible to discern whose badge he’s wearing. He drips a puddle in the entrance hall as her mother takes the letter from him, Madge’s whole body swollen with anxious desperation.

Please, let my prayers be answered

Her mother reads it without a single flutter of emotion and Madge thinks she might vomit, so powerful is the panicked curiosity inside her.

“Mother?” she asks, her voice stretched and stressed.

“We are to go to London. Lord Haymitch wishes us to join him at Baynard’s Castle.”

we lost

why do we always lose?

The only positive Madge can find is that Baynard’s is not a royal palace, belongs solely to Haymitch. At least they’re not headed to court. Madge clings to that thought as their carriage trundles through the countryside, squeezes it between her hands.

(of course, if they’re going to London, a trip to court can’t be far off)

It is a fairly mild day for November when they arrive, but to Madge it feels as if a hulking black cloud has covered the sky, blotting out the sun.

Haymitch and Marvel are awaiting them as they roll up to Baynard’s and Madge knows it’s time to don her mask, smiling and so happy to be reunited. Haymitch helps her mother down and Marvel extends his hand to Madge, his smile curdling her stomach. She takes it and does not wince when he squeezes her fingers and then tucks them into the crook of his arm, pulling her much too close to his side. He leads her inside, just behind Haymitch and her mother and Madge is dying to know what happened up north.

“I have asked you to come to London because my cousins are getting married,” Haymitch tells them and Madge bites her lip. Cousins? Does that mean all the rumors about Katniss and Gale are true?

“Rory is going to marry the Duke of Suffolk’s daughter and Vick, the Earl of Pembroke’s,” he continues and Madge blinks. Oh. They are very young though, aren’t they? They can’t be more than twelve and ten. Then again, maybe it’s better this way. They won’t be expected to live together for several years yet, which will give them plenty of time to get to know each other. If I was married off tomorrow, I’d be expected to be a true wife to him in every way, even if he were a complete stranger.

“How wonderful,” her mother says and Madge nods along in agreement. Katniss is shoring up her alliances, using her cousins to solidify bonds of loyalty.

“Yes, it is,” Haymitch agrees, sounding weary. “Before the wedding though, there will be an investment ceremony. The Queen will be bestowing a title on both of them.”

Madge barely restrains her frown. Back to Westminster already?

“The court is currently at Windsor, so we’ll be heading there in a few days.”

Madge breathes a silent sigh of relief.

“Yes, but that’s not all we’re celebrating,” Marvel cuts in with a boast and this is it.

“More glad tidings?” her mother asks and Haymitch frowns even as Marvel smirks.

“Indeed. Coriolanus is right now in our custody, languishing in the Tower.”

Madge’s mouth drops open and Marvel nods, puffing out his chest.

“He invaded with help from Scotland, but Father and I made quick work of his forces. Now the false king is ours. Those that escaped, including Enobaria and their bastard Cato, have fled to France.”

Madge feels as if she is drifting out to sea. King Coriolanus captured? No, it can’t be.

They’ve cut the head right off of Lancaster.

“Bastard?” she asks, desperate to grip onto something solid. Marvel opens his mouth to answer but Haymitch quickly cuts him off.

“Enough Marvel, this is not talk for women.”

“Of course,” Marvel agrees, properly chastised and Madge can feel curiosity burn in her like the sun. What does he mean by bastard? He can’t possibly… Cato is now our only hope, as horrifying a thought as that is. We need him.

This is a disaster.

Madge recognizes Marvel as her best chance at getting information and duly seeks him out. He smiles when she finds him, eyes shining like two perfect emeralds. He opens his arms.

“Ah Madge, how I have missed you.”

Madge stops short of entering his embrace, curious, but not quite that curious.

“Yes, it is lovely to see you again. But what did you mean about Cato being a bastard?”

Marvel frowns.

“My father was right, that is not appropriate talk for women.”

Madge steels herself and then steps closer, placing a hand on his chest.

“Oh, but I’m ever so curious,” she says, looking up at him. His face melts into a grin and he wraps an arm around her, holding her securely against him.

“Well, there are rumors, ones I’m inclined to favour, that Cato is not actually the son of Coriolanus.”

Madge’s eyes go wide.

“What?”

“It took them years to have a child and one cannot blame Enobaria for being less than impressed with her ancient husband. Perhaps he is not even capable anymore,” Marvel chuckles and Madge frowns.

“But who…?”

“Who else? Brutus, the once Duke of Somerset, of course. He is well known as the Queen’s favourite.”

Madge feels the shock reverberate through her. True or not, the Yorkists will encourage these rumors to flourish. It can only help them if people begin to lose faith in the legitimacy of the line of Lancaster. With the King in custody, Cato will be the focus point of rebellion but if the Yorkists can undermine him without lifting a sword…then what?

The rebels turn to Mother. She’s next, isn’t she?

This changes everything.

Lying awake that night, Madge ponders the future.

If only I could find some way to discredit these rumors or stamp them out, but how?

I don’t want to be heir to the throne. We are too vulnerable as is, we cannot afford any more dangers. But what can I do?

I cannot rely on kings or princes or knights, if I want to make it out of this alive, I have only myself.

(and never has Madge felt quite so lonely as she does right now)

I will win Gale’s heart

He is the Queen’s most trusted man, if I have him, I’ll be safe

(he owes me, they all do)

I will spread rumors of my own

If I can convince the people that Cato is truly the King’s son, they will not think to rally around Mother and me

(he is definitely the King’s heir in cruelty)

I will free the King

If I can get him out, the rebels with have their leader back and the Yorkists will be on the defensive

(but how does one rescue a king?)

I’ll find way, I have to. I don’t have a choice

Madge wears a new dress to Rory and Vick’s ceremony, red velvet and gold silk, determined to look her very best. Annie winds her hair into a complicated set of braids and rubies, glittering jewels dotting her wrists, ears, neck and gown. She slaps her cheeks pink and affects her most charming smile, armed and ready to face her prey.

When they arrive at Windsor, Marvel escorts her to the ceremony, swaggering about as if he owns the place. Madge ensures that she has perfect posture and graceful steps, can’t afford a single mistake. Gale of Salisbury won’t go down easy, she knows that, and he is the very first step in her loose plan to take back England for Lancaster. She has no hope of rescuing the King alone, but if she can charm Gale, if she can win him over, she will have more power than almost anyone in England. He is the kingdom’s Lord Constable, charged with its safety and defense, he knows every one of Katniss’ secrets and he is one of the chief Yorkists. With him, Madge could do anything.

I’m coming for you Gale, are you ready?

(and she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a tiny part of her that relishes the idea of having power over Gale, of someone else being the powerless one)

Marvel helps her to the front of the hall, where the privileged will stand, and Madge smiles pleasantly at everyone they pass. Her mother and Haymitch soon join them, followed closely by Ladies Hazelle, Posy, Primrose and the Duchess Elizabeth. Madge bows her head to them, demurely keeps her eyes down and finally the trumpets sound, the honoured making their appearance.

The Queen leads the procession, dressed in a stately blue gown and a gold mantle trimmed with ermine. She wears a gilded crown and everyone watches as she makes her way to the front of the room, settling in her throne with a stiff back. Then comes the Salisbury boys, Rory and Vick dressed in their very best. Rory looks smart in black velvet woven through with silver while Vick shines in white and gold. Gale follows behind them, his pride making him glow. Madge makes sure to keep her eyes on him as he stands just a step behind the Queen’s throne, hopes her expression is suitably admiring. She doesn’t listen to Katniss’ words, acts as if she is far too enamored of the Queen’s handsome cousin to pay attention. Part way through the ceremony, Gale must feel her eyes on him, for he turns, a confused expression on his face. Their gazes meet for just a moment and then Madge drops hers as if in embarrassment. She looks over at him from the corner of her eye and offers him a shy smile, his brows furrowing.

Gale drags his eyes away when Katniss wraps up the investment ceremony, declaring that Rory is now the Marquess of Dorset and Vick the Marquess of Montagu. Katniss stands, horns blaring again, and leaves, Rory, Vick and Gale following after her. Madge watches Gale bashfully, mulling this new information over in her mind. As Marquesses, Gale’s brothers technically outrank him, even though in practice he is more powerful than any Duke in England save Haymitch. But still, why give the younger Hawthornes such illustrious titles?

Unless, of course, Queen Katniss has something even grander planned for her favourite cousin.

But what?

When she retires that night, Annie is waiting with gossip and rumours gathered from the hallways.

“I’ve heard whispers, that the Queen didn’t just bestow titles on her cousins, but castles too.”

“Oh?” Madge asks, unwinding her hair. Annie nods.

“Corfe Castle in Dorset and Rufus Castle on the Isle of Portland for the new Marquess of Dorset and for his brother, Somerton Castle in Lincolnshire and Gloucester Castle in Gloucestershire.”

Madge bites her lip.

Didn’t Haymitch say something about honouring those whose loyalties were not yet guaranteed? I think this might be doing quite the opposite.

Good

The weddings follow a week later.

Madge dons the same silver gown she wore to her mother’s wedding and knows today will be the perfect opportunity to get a foothold on Gale. He is confused certainly, uncertain of her intentions, but that’s not enough. If she wants him to love her, she must go on the offensive.

It is to be a double wedding held in Windsor’s chapel and Madge takes her seat at the front, sandwiched in between Marvel and her mother. Katniss has a special seat reserved for her, gilded and cushioned with velvet. It reeks of King Coriolanus, this overt display of power and luxury in God’s very own house. Katniss sits in it gingerly and Gale takes the seat right beside her, looking handsome in blue velvet, his chains of office glittering around his neck.

(and that is one thing Madge supposes she should be glad about, that Gale is, without a doubt, a handsome boy)

(if she must woo him, at least he is not ancient or hideous)

Vick and Rory stand at the front of the chapel, awaiting their brides and Madge almost smiles at the sight of them. They wear matching doublets of creamy velvet with fine gold embroidery and white rose badges made up of pearls and gold pinned to the front. They each have a gold circlet on their head, but while Vick looks excited by what’s to come, fidgeting anxiously and bouncing from foot to foot, Rory does a very poor job of concealing his scowl. They’re both so young and she could almost laugh at their opposite reactions. Instead, she looks wistfully over at Gale until the music starts, the two young brides making their appearance.

The Duke of Suffolk escorts his daughter Philippa up the aisle and she looks about Rory’s age, with dark brown hair and a pretty blue gown offset with gold and decorated with jewels. A proudly smiling Earl of Pembroke leads his daughter Petronella, her red hair contrasting oddly with her yellow dress. She might be eight or nine and both girls are handed off to their grooms, the vows they pronounce sounding strange in their child voices. The ceremony ends and Rory kisses Philippa so quickly Madge almost misses it, but poor Vick is so nervous he lands his kiss just beside Petronella’s nose instead of on her lips. His face burns red and Madge winces. Poor Vick.

Both couples make their way out of the chapel and soon everyone joins them, a lavish feast awaiting them. Madge is not given a seat at the head table this time, but she does not mind. This way she has a better vantage point to observe Gale and she sends him many a longing look, hoping the court gossips pick up on it and spread the story as far and wide as they can. Let everyone know just how infatuated I am with the handsome Earl of Salisbury. She can tell by his posture that Gale’s noticed her gaze but he does not acknowledge it until dessert, the servers bringing out individual roses made of marchpane for every guest. He finally looks away from Katniss and over at Madge, who does her best to appear both pleased and nervous. She bites her lip, tucks hair behind her ear and Gale watches her with narrowed eyes, entirely unsure what to make of her.

So far, so good

And then comes the dancing. As usual, Madge suffers through the first with Marvel, his roving hands touching her in all sorts of places they shouldn’t. She tries to ignore it and focuses on the newlyweds, Rory dancing stiffly with a disinterested Philippa and Vick looking down at his feet rather than at Petronella. She smiles faintly before being handed over to Haymitch for the second dance and forces herself to be as pleasant as possible. She dances once each with the two fathers of the brides and then the Duke of Buckingham for the group dance. He is young, perhaps only a year older than her, with a charming smile and very red hair. He is a much better dancer than the Earl of Pembroke and Madge spins around with a laugh, eyes seeking out Gale as she twirls. He is sitting beside Katniss, having only danced the first three dances with his mother and two new sisters-in-law. Madge notices with a thrill of victory that he is watching her and she beams at him, hoping to entice him onto the floor with her.

Vick partners her next, anxious and stumbly and then she’s given to a nervous Thom who refuses to look her in the eye. Madge peeks over at Gale and he’s still watching her, expression inscrutable. Dance with me Gale, dance with me she thinks and maybe he hears those thoughts as he murmurs to Katniss and then stands, heading out onto the floor. Finally! she cheers internally as the dance ends and Gale walks up to her as she curtsies to Thom.

“May I have this dance, Lady Madge?” he asks, voice devoid of any warmth but Madge will not be deterred so easily.

“Yes, of course Lord Gale. I would be delighted,” she answers, suffusing her words with as much joy as she can muster. The music begins and they move well together, their dance not nearly as stiff and awkward as last time. Gale still does not look at her and keeps a healthy distance between them, but progress is still progress.

“I’ve never been to Windsor before, have you?” she asks, somewhat breathless from all the dancing.

“No,” he answers shortly and Madge nods, not at all off put by his standoffish manner.

“I do hope they have a garden here, you know what a big fan I am,” she laughs and Gale continues to look at a point just above her head.

“There is,” he says, “my sister’s dragged me around it many times already. She’s quite impressed.”

Madge gasps and smiles.

“Perhaps you could give me a tour?” she asks excitedly, looking up at him through her lashes. He hesitates, clearly trying to think of an excuse to refuse and Madge leans in a little, their bodies nearly brushing.

“If you’re busy, I could ask Lord Haymitch,” she says with a disappointed sigh, lips pulling down in a pout. He tenses, perhaps the thought of Haymitch reprimanding him for a lack of gallantry filling his mind, and then deflates.

“I suppose I could,” he agrees and she beams, squeezing his hand. He grimaces in his attempt to smile back and Madge is flushed with victory.

Check

Your move Gale of Salisbury

(Gale doesn’t quite understand it, but he finds himself watching Madge of Bedford, his eyes following her whenever she’s in the room. She’s pretty yes, he can’t deny that, but there are plenty of pretty girls at court. Why can’t he look away from her? She’s the enemy, a traitor, a Lancastrian. It doesn’t matter that her dresses always highlight the curves of her waist, it doesn’t matter how well she dances or how she tosses her hair, that bright and shimmering gold.

He hates her, he does.

Often, he finds her watching him back, but she always looks away when he catches her, biting her lip and smiling shyly. He can feel that traitorous tug in his stomach, finds his eyes lingering on her mouth and curses himself. No matter how his body responds, his mind knows the truth. She is up to something, she has to be. There’s no other reason she’d be showing so much interest in him lately. She can’t possibly…she doesn’t, no. It’s impossible.

She may flutter her eyelashes at him and her laughter might be bright and easy, but Gale won’t be fooled. She can smile at him all she wants, can look at him with blue eyes like the summer sky, but he won’t fall into her trap.

Madge of Bedford is dangerous. She has Coriolanus’ blood in her veins, Gale will not forget that.

He can’t)

Madge takes special care the day of her meeting with Gale, carefully considers every item of clothing and the style of her hair.

She settles on her pink dress with the golden rose pattern and Annie does her hair, leaving most of it hanging free except for at the very back of her head, where she weaves in a chain of pink and gold roses. It is cold out but not too cold, so she dons one of her lighter cloaks, the fabric pale purple with silver birds embroidered at the hem.

Annie is clearly suspicious as Madge holds several earrings to her ear before choosing a pair of pretty gold baubles, but Madge does not answer her silent question. She doesn’t know why she’s so reluctant to tell Annie what she’s planning, but it’s like there’s a wall inside of her, forcing her to keep this a secret.

Madge has noticed Gale watching her in the halls, has felt his gaze and she can feel a thrill dance across her skin every time it happens. He does not like her, certainly, but just as she has been forced to admit that he is quite handsome, with his broad shoulders, strong jaw and stunning eyes, so it appears that Gale, quite against his will, admires her looks as well. Madge has never thought of herself as overly beautiful, not even when Marvel waxes poetic about her looks, but Gale’s reluctant interest has kindled a fire in her bones. She is no fool, she knows the surest way to a man’s love is by first capturing his lust and if Gale thinks her pretty, she is that much closer to her ultimate victory. They dab her with rosewater and Madge takes a pair of gloves just in case.

“Well, I’m off then,” she says with faux cheeriness and Annie manages a limp smile. Madge nods and then leaves, unsure why everything about this feels so awkward. Why can’t I just tell her? She shakes her head and heads down to the garden, needs to be focused and ready. She can worry about Annie later.

Gale is waiting for her when she arrives and his posture immediately stiffens when he sees her. Oh Gale, still as determined as ever to hate me, aren’t you? Madge smiles warmly.

“Good day, Sir Gale,” she greets and his face does that odd twitching thing she assumes is his attempt at smiling.

“Hello.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this for days,” she confesses, looking away shyly and he makes a noncommittal noise in his throat.

“Yes well, should we…get started then?” he asks, voice flat as he gestures out at the garden and Madge nods. They head out, a significant gap between them and Madge can’t help but look around in admiration.

“Well…this is the garden,” he offers rather lamely and Madge barely manages not to roll her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she says and Gale shrugs. He points out various flowers, trees and bushes and Madge listens intently, nodding along to his words. She moves a little closer as they walk and Gale either doesn’t notice or doesn’t mind, but either way, Madge feels a flare of confidence.

“What’s this?” she asks, looking down at a stone cat resting on a bench. Gale makes a face.

“It was a gift for the Queen.”

“Oh?”

He lets out a pained sigh.

“Based on her badge, it’s a cat.”

He sounds genuinely offended and Madge bites her lip.

“Well, I suppose that makes sense, a cat for Katniss,” she laughs and Gale frowns.

“She didn’t choose it for that. Cats mean courage, vigilance and liberty.”

Madge ducks her head in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I don’t know much about heraldry,” she admits and Gale presses his lips together. “Though I wish I knew more, it’s so interesting that every badge has a meaning. I think you can tell a lot about someone by what badge they choose. You can see what they value, or at least, what they want you to think they value.”

Gale blinks.

“You really find it fascinating?”

Madge nods and she’s not even lying.

“I do, I always have. My father had a bell and I always wondered why.”

The words came out without thought and her smile drops, that great wall of grief she always feels when thinking about her father rising up within her. Gale’s jaw tenses. Madge closes her eyes, her misery mixing with the knowledge that she’s just ruined this whole encounter. Excellent job, our very first attempt and we’ve already blown it.

“It’s said that bells have the power to disperse evil spirits,” Gale says gruffly and Madge looks up at him in surprise. He is determinedly looking in the opposite direction, but Madge feels a smile on her lips. Perhaps I haven’t ruined anything after all.

“And what does a white rose mean?” she asks, Gale’s posture relaxing just slightly.

“Love and faith, charm and innocence.”

“Hmm. It’s impressive you know all of this by heart.”

Gale shrugs and starts walking again. Madge hurries to keep step.

“Not really, it’s easy to remember. I mean, I’ve always found it…interesting.”

Madge smiles.

“It is that. Alright, what’s your badge then?”

“A two headed eagle.”

Why does that sound so familiar? Oh! Thom was wearing that, wasn’t he?

“And what does it mean?” she asks, Gale slowing his pace to match hers. Good, he’s starting to feel at ease.

“Well, all birds represent home and family. A two headed eagle specifically, means a protector.”

“So family means a lot to you, then?”

Gale stops and finally turns to look at her, the silver oceans of his eyes bright and glowing.

“There’s nothing more important,” he says gravely. “It’s my motto too. For Justice and Family.”

“I like that. Most people’s mottos and are all “Glory!” or “For Triumph!” I like that yours has real meaning,” she says softly, looking down bashfully and Gale takes a step back as if alarmed. He clears his throat.

“Yes well, um…”

“Gale! Gale! Gale!”

He and Madge both turn to see little Posy running through the hedges towards them, her harried nurse hurrying after her. Gale softens all over and grins, striding forward to meet his sister. She flings herself at him with a squeal and Gale scoops her up, settling her on his hip. Madge cannot help but stare. This is the Gale she’s only had glimpses of, the Gale without rage or hatred burning bright and hot in his blood. It’s disconcerting.

“You’re in the garden,” Posy accuses and Gale raises an eyebrow.

“I am,” he agrees and Posy pouts.

“You didn’t invite me,” she says and Gale laughs, tweaking her nose.

“How rude of me,” he says and Posy nods fervently.

“You’re mean.”

Her nurse gasps.

“Lady Posy, that is no way to speak to your brother,” she begins but Gale just laughs again.

“I am a bit mean, aren’t I? Well, you’re here now, will you let me make it up to you?”

Posy thinks about it, still glaring at Gale petulantly and that’s when she sees Madge. Her eyes go wide, her unhappiness vanishing.

“Lady Madge!” she calls excitedly and tries to climb out of Gale’s arms. He sets her down, brow furrowed and Madge smiles.

“Hello, Lady Posy,” she says, sweeping into a curtsy. Posy’s face lights up and she drops into her own clumsy curtsy, cheeks pink.

“I want to thank you for that bouquet you gave me a few months ago. It was very beautiful and it made me feel so much better. I told your brother to thank you for me, but I’m so glad I get to do it in person,” Madge says and Posy presses her hands to her cheeks in glee.

“You really liked it?”

“I loved it,” Madge assures her. “And I’m so glad you’re here, it’s always nice to meet someone who loves a garden as much as I do.”

Posy smiles widely.

“I bet you know more about this one than your brother, care to give me a tour?”

Posy nods eagerly and grabs Madge’s hand, dragging her off and already chattering a thousand miles a second. Madge can feel Gale’s eyes on her as they walk away and she turns back slightly to see him. He’s staring at her, expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. But there’s something else, small and barely visible, that tells Madge she has a chance. There’s a softening in Gale’s eyes, just slightly, ever so slightly, eroding his ever present loathing.

I’ve got you now Gale, you just don’t know it yet

(She’s using Posy to get to me, she has to be.

Gale tells himself that over and over again, until the very thought is imprinted against his skull.

She’s a liar and Posy doesn’t matter to her at all.

But still, there’s that tiny, tiny, tiny part of him that says what if she isn’t? Gale doesn’t bother to answer that part of him, because the answer is obvious.

She is)

(she has to be, because how he could he hate someone who made Posy smile like that?)

(he couldn’t)

“I have a special request to make of you.”

Madge looks up at Haymitch in surprise and quails at the serious look on his face. What could he possibly want from me?

“You may not know this, but currently, the Queen’s only lady-in-waiting is her sister Primrose.”

Madge frowns. She hadn’t known that. That was an odd choice wasn’t it? After all, queens were usually served by the relatives of England’s most powerful men and Katniss, as a new monarch who’d won her crown by war and as the first queen regnant, could certainly use all the allies she could get. But by not giving these coveted positions to the wives, sisters and daughters of England’s leading men, she was pushing away allies, instead of gaining them. What was she doing?

“I have managed to convince Her Majesty to allow you to serve her,” Haymitch continues and Madge’s eyes widen.

“I am honoured,” she says automatically and all she can think is it can’t be worse than being Queen Enobaria’s lady.

(I hope)

“Yes, well, that is not all. I would like you, as the Queen’s new lady, to encourage her to accept more ladies into her household. There are many women from noble families that would serve her very well, if only she would allow them.”

There is an edge to Haymitch’s voice and it’s obvious he doesn’t agree with Katniss’ decision to shut out the ladies of court. Just like Madge, he must realize the damage this is doing to their cause. Clearly, he has tried to get her to change her mind, so why is she so adamant?

“I will do my very best, Lord Haymitch, I promise.”

Haymitch nods and he must be very desperate if he’s willing to turn to her for help.

What is Katniss doing?

Madge takes a deep breath before knocking on Katniss’ door.

“Come in,” the Queen’s voice calls and Madge squares her shoulders before entering. Katniss is sitting by the window while Lady Primrose embroiders and Madge drops into a deep curtsy.

“Welcome, Lady Madge,” Primrose says cheerily and Madge stays where she is, awaiting the Queen’s command to rise.

“Thank you, Lady Primrose,” she replies, “it is an honour to be here.”

“Prim, you must call me Prim. We are family now, after all. And please stand up.”

Madge hesitates for a moment, unsure what to do.

“Yes, please stand,” Katniss says, tone somewhat dull. Madge rises.

“Thank you for allowing me to serve you, your Majesty. I will endeavor to do my very best.”

“I am sure you will,” Katniss says quietly, looking back down at the stack of documents in her lap. Madge blinks. Well, Haymitch did force me on her, it isn’t surprising she’s less than enthusiastic about it. Prim gestures her over and Madge goes, settling down on a seat beside her.

“I am so happy you’re here, it’s a lot of work, being the Queen’s only lady.”

Madge nods, remembering the many ladies Queen Enobaria had attending to her.

“I am happy to be of help,” she says and Prim smiles, reaching over to squeeze her hand.

“We shall make a good team, you and I, I can tell.”

If you could read my mind, I doubt you’d think that

Madge merely smiles in response, her heart squeezing.

(I wonder, would I be the villain in your story?)

A few days later, Madge is alone in Katniss’ chambers when Gale arrives.

“Hey, Katniss are you-oh.”

Madge turns at the sound of his voice. Gale stands half in the room and half out, his hand still holding the door. She smiles and nods to him while Gale quickly tries to turn his look of disappointment into something a little friendlier.

(he does a dismal job)

“Is Katni-” he clears his throat, “Is the Queen here?”

Madge shakes her head.

“She was, but Lord Haymitch had some matter of great importance to discuss.”

Gale frowns.

“We were supposed to go hunting.”

Madge nods and gestures at the outfit she’d been laying out on Katniss’ bed.

“I know. I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”

Gale runs a hand through his hair.

“Right.”

He rocks on his feet, never quite looking at her and it’s obvious he doesn’t want to stay here with her, might leave and wait for Katniss somewhere else. Madge can’t afford to let that happen, can’t squander this opportunity.

“Do you like archery?” she asks, noticing the bow in his hand. He stares at her coldly.

“I wouldn’t hunt with bow and arrow if I didn’t,” he says and Madge barely keeps her smile on. Did your parents never teach you any manners? I really thought we’d made some progress last time…but wait. Maybe we did. Maybe this rudeness is your attempt to compensate for the fact that you don’t really hate me as much as you think you should.

(at least I hope so)

“Perhaps not. I could tell how much the Queen adores it when she spoke of it earlier, it could very well be that you only partake in archery because the Queen enjoys it so.”

Gale turns away to stare out the window.

“I enjoy it just fine,” he says but then his face starts to soften, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Though I’m not nearly as good as she is, of course. No one is.”

Madge narrows her eyes for a moment and can’t help but wonder if those rumors she’d heard about Gale and Katniss had any truth to them. That is a complication she cannot afford. After all, how is she meant to compete with a queen?

“Well, you must be very good or I doubt the Queen would want you as a partner.”

Gale’s face hardens again and he shrugs.

“I don’t much like hunting,” she says and Gale rolls his eyes, “but I think I would like to learn archery.”

He turns to look at her with skepticism.

“You want to learn archery?”

“Is that really so surprising, Lord Salisbury?” she asks with a smile and Gale spends a moment chewing on his words before seemingly deciding it would be wiser to say nothing. See, we’ve definitely made progress. You never would have shied away from insulting me before.

“Will you go hunting again tomorrow?” she asks and he shakes his head.

“No.”

“Too busy?”

“No, I always make sure to have some time off in the afternoon, lest I go insane.”

Madge nods and then looks down, fingers fidgeting in her skirt.

“Would you…I wouldn’t want to be a bother, but…well, would you be willing to teach me?”

Gale blinks at her.

“It’s just the Queen clearly sets good store by your skills and I cannot imagine there could be any better teacher,” she hurries to continue, peeking up at him shyly.

“You want me to teach you archery?” Gale repeats slowly, as if he must’ve misheard. She nods and Gale shakes his head in disbelief.

He’s already told her he’s available tomorrow, to change his mind now would be an obvious slight. A little while ago, Madge is certain he wouldn’t have cared in the slightest about offending her, but things have changed now. Katniss has been trying hard to convince the rest of the world that Madge and her mother are fully entrenched on the Yorkist side, she would not take kindly to Gale threatening that illusion. Furthermore, Madge has been working hard to chip away at Gale’s rage, even if just a little. She knows he does not like her still, knows he does not trust her, but that’s fine. All she needs is for him to loathe her a little less, to see her and think person I hate rather than enemy. Madge is more than willing to play the long game.

He sighs.

“I suppose I could.”

Madge beams and curtsies.

“Thank you, Sir Gale, thank you.”

He grimaces.

“Yes, well, my…pleasure.”

It will be Gale, I intend to make sure of it.

(She is up to something, she has to be.

Madge has wormed her way into their lives, has somehow even tricked Haymitch into nominating her for a position in Katniss’ household. Whatever power she wields, Gale will not succumb to it. The others may have fallen for her beauty and charm, but Gale will not be so easy.

Marvel may be smitten and Haymitch may think her a dutiful step-daughter, Prim might think her friendly and sweet while Katniss finds her competent and Posy may adore her, but Gale knows better. He can see through Madge of Bedford, all her pretty smiles and perfect manners.

She is a Lancastrian and they never change)

(but should resisting her really be this hard?)

Gale stays true to his word and brings her out to the archery fields, the weather crisp and clear. He demonstrates his own skills first and Madge is genuinely impressed.

“You’re quite good,” she tells him and he shakes his head.

“Katniss has me beat, easily,” he laughs, always more at ease when Katniss is the topic. “Do you want to try?

Madge nods and moves towards him.

“Alright,” he says, “have you ever done this before?”

She shakes her head. Gale nods and hands her the bow before moving around behind her to help her position her arms. He is very close, chest occasionally brushing her back, but she does not feel nearly as uncomfortable as she does when she’s with Marvel. But maybe that’s because Gale is merely trying to help and not making any attempt to grope her inappropriately.

“See, you have to tilt it slightly, not too much, just a bit, there. No, no, hand a little higher, bend your elbow. Not entirely, just a little. Hold it…see? Like this. Good. Alright, I think you might as well give it a try.”

Gale steps back and Madge takes a calming breath. Eyes on the target, you’ve got this. She pulls back the string and releases, her arrow going only a few feet before sinking into the grass. She frowns.

“Well, that was awful.”

“It was your first try, it could have gone worse.”

Madge rolls her eyes.

“Oh, well that’s good to hear. I was terrible, but not as terrible as I could have been. What glowing praise,” she teases and Gale looks at her in surprise, eyebrows slightly raised. He laughs, just once, and then stops suddenly as if shocked by himself. Madge smiles.

“Well,” Gale says, clearing his throat. “Maybe you should try again.”

Madge nods and takes her position. She fires and her arrow goes slightly farther, still falling well short of the target. She frowns.

“Here,” Gale says, coming towards her, “you’re grip isn’t quite right.”

Madge nods and hands him the bow.

“Hold this, will you? I think it’s these gloves, my fingers are too stiff.”

She pulls them off and Gale frowns.

“You could get calluses,” he says and Madge shrugs.

“Better calluses than continual failure, right?”

Gale blinks and then almost smiles, something a little like the beginning of admiration in his eyes.

“Right.”

Madge takes back the bow, assuming position and Gale stares at her hands. At first she thinks he’s just focused on her form, but there’s something else in that look, a question he’s unsure if he should ask.

“Am I doing this right?” she asks and he shakes himself.

“Yes, yes, it’s fine. I was just…you’re always wearing the same three rings,” he says and Madge is surprised he noticed, a hot splash of victory crashing inside of her.

“Most ladies change it up,” he continues somewhat lamely, as if trying to justify his observation. Madge bites her lip and looks down at her hands

“Well, they’re the only ones I brought with me when we left home.”

“I’m sure Haymitch would buy you more, if you wanted.”

“I don’t though, want anymore. These three are special.”

Gale is clearly surprised and Madge smiles wryly. Did you think I was some sort of greedy witch, planning on bleeding Haymitch dry? Which is funny, since half his money is mine.

“This one,” she says, indicating the ruby ring on her left hand, “is from my grandmother, Princess Cecilie of Norway. I never met her, she died before I was born. But I have this, not just to remember her by, but to remember my royal roots, the king’s blood running through my veins.”

“I didn’t know about your grandmother,” he says, sounding slightly uncomfortable and Madge almost smiles. Does it worry you, that I’m more royal than your Queen? Madge stares at her other two rings and knows she should make up a story, something fluffy about how she thought they were pretty. The truth could ruin everything, could thrust her right into the fire. Lie, you have to lie.

(she won’t)

“This was a present from the Earl of Huntingdon, Henry,” she says and holds up her right pinky so Gale can see it. He stares at it and blanches, clearly recognizing Henry’s name.

What are you doing? Stop!

“I was going to marry him,” she continues, voice growing a little harder, “this was a token of his esteem. Of course, we never did marry. Rebels made sure of that.”

Gale stiffens, hands balling into fists.

“He chose to fight,” he says, voice taut and Madge snorts.

“He was fourteen and he had no weapon. But you’re right, he did choose to fight. He chose to fight for his King. At least he died with honour.”

Gale steps back, face so shocked she could have slapped him and Madge takes advantage of his stunned silence to keep going, heedless of the danger she’s putting herself in.

“And this one was a gift from my father, when I was a child. It’s all I have left of him.”

She glares at Gale as she says it, his ire climbing with very word.

“He was a traitor! You should not want to remember him,” he explodes, voice savage enough to draw blood.

“A traitor?” Madge shouts back, hysteria mixing in with her fury. “How is it treason to fight for your sovereign? To honour the oaths you made to him and to God? It is your father that died a traitor!”

(Madge is honestly surprised Gale doesn’t strike her, she knows most in his position would)

“How dare you,” he whispers, voice frigid. His whole body shakes, an angry red creeping up his neck. “My father died to free this country of a tyrant!”

“Your father died fighting his king! He broke his oath and plunged this country into chaos. He betrayed us all.”

“Shut up! You don’t know anything! My father was a hero! He fought to save us, would you really celebrate those that wanted to keep someone as evil as Coriolanus on the throne?”

Madge laughs and shakes her head.

“You ignorant fool. You think you hate the king? You don’t know hate.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hate King Coriolanus far more than you could ever. You never walked his halls in terror, you never watched him execute someone and laugh, you never smiled and curtsied all while knowing he held your life in his hands and would love watching you suffer.”

Gale stares at her with a mixture of horror and outrage but Madge cannot stop, feels almost insane from the anger pounding in her ears.

“You never cursed his every breath as you sat in his hall, never prayed the ceiling would collapse on both your heads so you could be rid of him. Prince Cato never beat you to the floor because you dared to suggest going into Sanctuary. The King did not abandon you and your mother to the Yorkist hordes. Did you ever wonder if you were going to Hell for hating him, did you ever cry yourself to sleep because you thought it an utter betrayal to think him evil?”

Tears start to blur her vision, but still she goes on, years of pent up feelings spewing out of her, her voice rising in pitch and gaining momentum.

“I hate him. I hate him for taking my father from me, for ruining this country, for his wickedness, his cruelty, for abandoning us after everything we did for him. I hate him for the murder and the bloodshed and the fear. I hate him, I hate him because I knew him. Did you know him, Gale? Did you talk with him and walk with him and serve his wife? Did he haunt your every dream and waking moment? Did he reach into your home and drag your father away? Did he make your mother sick and frail? Are you suffering now, still punished for his evil deeds? Because I am.”

She can barely breathe, chest heaving and Gale looks at her in complete disbelief.

“And yet, you still think your father a good man? After supporting a king like that?”

“The best of men. He would have fought for the Yorkists, had he a chance. But he did not. How can you blame men for following their oaths? How can you blame them for remaining loyal? It is all fine and well to call yourselves heroes now, but you were the traitors, you were the rebels. The men of England swore before God to support King Coriolanus. How can you hate them for doing just that? If you had lost, they would have died-”

“Better to die for freedom, than live for oppression,” Gale interrupts and he means it, face set and determined. Madge wants to laugh, wants to cry, could almost admire his convictions if her heart wasn’t seething with rage soaked despair.

“And what of their families? The King wouldn’t have spared anyone. They would lose everything and then their wives and children would have died gruesomely, horrifically. For someone who claims to believe so highly in the bonds of family, you are very quick to condemn others for loving theirs.”

Gale opens his mouth to speak but Madge doesn’t give him the chance.

“And what could my father have done? You would not have welcomed us. The King is my great uncle, you would never have forgiven me that. My parents knew it, knew the King was their only option. And yes, they fought for him. Should I condemn my father? Should I hate him for loving me? Tell me Gale, what would you have done, if your father had chosen the King?”

“He wouldn’t have. He never would have.”

“Maybe you’re right,” she whispers, heart aching. “I’ll give you the moral victory, Gale, if that’s what you want. Lord knows that the House of Lancaster is rotted to the core. But I will never, ever give you my father’s memory. He was a good man, a better one than you could ever hope to be. Hate me Gale, report me to Haymitch and the Queen, lock me away in the Tower forever. I don’t care. But don’t you ever speak ill of my father again.”

She can barely see Gale through her tears and Madge turns, rage and heartbreak weaving through her like a million tiny needles, sewing their suffering into her skin.

I hate you Gale, I hate you so much

Madge runs, flees, gasping for breath she cannot find.

I will never, ever forgive you

(Gale watches Madge leave and feels as if the world has tilted sideways.

No one has ever spoken to him like that, not once in his life.

He is supposed to hate her, despise her and yet, in this moment, he thinks he might just understand her. The pain in her voice when she spoke of her father, he can feel it echoing in his bones, mingling with his own still aching grief. What would he have done if his father had chosen Coriolanus? Could he really have turned against him?

He never would have dreamed that she could hate Coriolanus so much, never would’ve thought she would admit to wanting him dead. He believes her too, knows no one could fake that level of loathing, that fear he could still hear as she spoke of him, the fury crackling through her voice.

What the hell is going on?

Madge of Bedford is supposed to be the enemy. She’s a Lancastrian, she supports that monster Coriolanus, Christ, she’s related to him! He cannot empathize with her. He can’t. She is everything he despises in the world, but as he stares at the empty space she once stood in, he is having a hard time remembering why.

She’s the reason Father’s dead.

Is she? She didn’t fight at Wakefield, she didn’t order her forces to mass there and attack. Coriolanus is the enemy as are his lackeys, like Brutus of Somerset. Madge was sitting at home the whole war. What exactly did she do that was so terrible?

She… she wanted Coriolanus to win!

Of course she did, her father fought on that side.

That’s not an excuse, Coriolanus is a monster, any decent person would support his overthrow.

At the cost of their family? Would I have, if I was in her position?

Gale has never known such turmoil. All Lancastrians are evil, he’s always known that. He’s been raised on the stories of Coriolanus’ atrocities, the cruelties inflicted by his supporters.

Madge never supported any of that. She stood with Lancaster because she had no choice, because of blood and love for her parents.

We did the right thing. We’re not the bad guys. We did what we did for all of England.

Maybe, but you know not everyone on our side was a saint. You were horrified when you heard about Henry Holland, weren’t you? You condemned the men that terrorized Ludlow, all the rapes and murder. If we were the good guys but there were still bad apples on our side, doesn’t it stand to reason that though they were the bad guys, there might still have been good people on their side?

For months now, Gale has been looking at Madge and seeing the enemy, a liar, a coward. But what if she’s none of those things? It took courage to shout at him like that, to admit to her anger and hatred. He can’t blame her for wanting to protect her father’s memory, can he? He would do the same. As for supporting Lancaster…maybe she’s right. Would they have accepted her and her family onto their side? Would they have trusted her, as closely related to the King as she is?

You don’t trust her now, so why would you have then?

Just like him, she holds the other side responsible for her father’s death but unlike him, Madge has at least made an effort to be friendly. Maybe she wasn’t up to something all these months, maybe she was trying to move on.

And maybe, it’s time Gale did too)

Madge runs into her room, slamming the door with so much force Annie jumps in her chair.

“Madge?” she questions, sounding worried but Madge ignores her, rushing into her bedchamber and flinging herself onto the bed. She presses her face into her pillow, her tears soaking into the fabric. Well, that’s it then. I’ve officially ruined everything. Gale will certainly never love me now. I’m sorry Mother, Annie, Father. It looks like I won’t be avenging us after all.

“Madge?” Annie asks again, settling down beside her. “What is it, what’s the matter?”

Madge can’t answer, feels the weight of her failure pushing down on her. What was I supposed to do? Let him attack Henry and Father? They were good people, how I could stand by and let him say those things about them?

Madge is so caught up in her thoughts she doesn’t notice Annie leaving, not until she returns, voice concerned.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she says and Madge forces her head up.

“Who?”

“The Earl of Salisbury.”

Madge blinks. Come to insult me some more? She feels a spiteful urge build inside of her and rises, not bothering to clean her face, after all, she has no reason to try and impress him now. Annie looks at her in surprise but Madge moves past her into the next room where Gale is waiting. He turns at her entrance and winces. That ugly am I?

“Would you give us a moment, Annie?” she asks and Annie frowns before curtsying.

“Of course, my lady,” she says and returns to Madge’s bedchamber, closing the door behind her. Madge does not say anything; she merely looks at Gale, wringing his hat in his hands. The silence is painful but Madge is in no mood to be helpful. If Gale has something to say, he can say it.

“I came here to…apologize.”

Gale won’t look at her and Madge feels her eyes go perfectly round.

“You did?”

He nods.

“Yes. What I said earlier, that wasn’t very fair. I realize now that I’ve been blaming you for a lot of things you had no part in. You did not fight in the war; you did not take my father from me. I have spent a very long time hating Lancaster, but you are not Lancaster,” he says and Madge nods.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re right about Henry Holland, I was horrified about what happened to him. He was just a boy. He shouldn’t have died. You’re right to be angry about that, we should all be angry about that.”

Madge feels her heart lurch and squeezes Henry’s ring around her finger. Gale takes a deep breath and nods.

“I understand how it feels to lose a father; I cannot blame you for missing yours. I didn’t know him and I will never agree with supporting Coriolanus, but…I can understand why he might have done what he did. I don’t know what I would have done in his position, but I cannot fault him for trying to keep his family safe. I shouldn’t have said what I said about him, I’m sorry, Lady Madge. I am sorry too, that I have not made you welcome these last few months. I’ve always said that we fought this war to liberate England, but here I am, treating you like a pariah. I can’t take any of it back, but I hope to do better in the future.” He pauses, thinks for a moment and then nods again. “I should thank you for opening my eyes, Lady Madge. I have been very determined to hate you, to blame you, but I realize now I was out of line.”

He bows and Madge bites her lip, her chest feeling uncomfortably tight. How strange to have a Yorkist apologize. I feel like I’m dreaming.

“Yes you were,” she agrees, wiping at the smudges around her eyes. Gale nods, head still downturned and Madge feels oddly light as her rage drains away. “But so was I.”

Gale looks up in surprise as she continues.

“I let anger get the best of me. I hope you will forgive me.”

“I do, I have,” he says and even though it’s strange, Madge believes him.

“I’m sure your father was a good man,” she says and Gale nods, finally straightening up.

“He was, thank you. Perhaps…we could return to the archery field another time? I didn’t finish your lesson, after all.”

Madge smiles slowly and nods.

“I would like that, Sir Gale.”

”As would I, Lady Madge.”

(and if Madge feels any guilt, buried deep down inside her, well, that’s a secret she’ll never tell)

“What was that about?” Annie asks after Gale leaves and Madge bites her lip, emotions still shaking.

“Nothing. We had a bit of an argument, but it’s fine now.”

“About what?”

“Nothing, just…he doesn’t think I’m very good at archery.”

Madge smiles faintly and Annie frowns, clearly not believing a word of it. Why won’t you just tell her the truth? She must hate the Yorkists as much as you do, she’d probably love to hear about them being made to pay.

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Annie asks and Madge smiles, squeezing her hand.

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

Madge sits down and picks up her embroidery, a clear sign that she’s done with this conversation. Annie continues to watch her and again Madge thinks just tell her.

She doesn’t though, keeps this secret locked up tight.

Why?

(because)

The canopy above her bed is dark, shadows dancing across it in the flickering of her bedside candle. Madge stares up at it and wishes she could get comfortable, but there’s something writhing inside of her, an emotion she can’t afford to have.

This is what I wanted, I can’t fold up now

She tells herself this over and over, but still guilt stings her nerves and turns to lead in her stomach. Gale’s apology fills her ears, hacking away at her resolve and he wasn’t supposed to be sorry.

It doesn’t matter. He can be as sorry as he wants, it doesn’t change who he is.

He forgave me.

For what? I did nothing wrong. He did though, he fought in the war, he condemned my father, brought blood and battles to England. I have every right to hate him.

But if he’s truly sorry?

Sorry won’t bring Father back, it won’t remove Haymitch from our lives, it won’t change what they did to Annie. And he isn’t sorry, not for what matters. He’s sorry I yelled at him; sorry he thought I was a threat, when now he thinks I’m just a silly girl who misses her father. But I’m going to make him truly sorry, I swear.

But he’s right, Coriolanus is evil. If he can’t blame me for loving a father who supported a bad king, can I really hate him for fighting against one?

And what about Annie?

He might not have had anything to do with that.

The Yorkists have to pay. And now they will.

(a conscience, Madge decides, is the wickedest thing of all)

Madge heads to Katniss’ chambers, arms laden with a special delivery. The royal dressmaker had just finished a new, glittering, gem encrusted gown and Madge is almost afraid to hold it, like she might ruin or sully it with her hands. It is gorgeous; truly, the type of dress only a queen could get away with wearing. Katniss will look lovely in it, but then again, Madge is fairly certain anyone would look magnificent in such a finely crafted gown.

“This is not a discussion Katniss!”

Madge stops short just outside the door to the Queen’s audience chamber, surprised at the loud, angry voices drifting from under the door.

“I am the Queen, Mother.”

“Yes and Queens have responsibilities! This is not something you get a choice about. You will do this, whether you like it or not!”

Madge gasps at Duchess Elizabeth’s tone and can’t help but wonder what they’re talking about. What is Katniss refusing to do?

“Where are you going? Katniss!”

Madge’s eyes widen and she hurries away, well aware that the price for being caught will be far too steep.

And really, she’s heard enough.

(cracks are beginning to show)

(it will be Madge’s job to widen them)

Gale does take her back to the archery field and there’s an air of awkwardness between them, an invisible barrier wedged between them. Madge wishes she knew how to surmount it, but Gale is distant, not in a rude way, but almost like he’s afraid to upset her, like he’s trying as hard as he can be to be polite. This is no good. He’s traded hatred for fear. Madge watches him as he picks up her scattered arrows and chews on her lip. What do I say? How do we get past this?

“Do you want to try again?” he asks and Madge feels a lump forming in her chest, like a rock has replaced her heart.

“I’m happy we’re doing this,” she blurts and Gale stares at her in surprise. “I know it may seem hard to believe, after what I said, but I really do want us to get along.”

Gale nods slowly and steps back a bit, sinking down onto a nearby tree stump. Madge interweaves her fingers and squeezes.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but so do I. I fought hard against Haymitch’s marriage to your mother, I couldn’t understand how anyone would want that, Coriolanus’ niece as a wife. I know she’s rich, I know she has many lands and a title, but still. I suppose that was another thing I was wrong about.”

“I didn’t want it either,” Madge admits, catching him off guard. “I was furious. But now…I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“I never had a big family and now I do. Haymitch treats my mother well, treats us both well. I will always miss my father, but I’m happy too, to be your family.”

Her voice lowers as she says it, quite against her will and Gale just looks at her, looks at her in a way that makes her stomach tie itself into knots. What’s happening to me? He smiles then, the kind of fresh, young smile that makes her knees feel weak.

“So am I,” he says and she feels that guilt again, like ice in her veins. He’s…he’s the enemy. There’s nothing to feel bad about. The wind picks up and Madge seizes the opportunity to turn away from him.

“Perhaps we should go back inside before we freeze,” she says, fingers starting to numb. Gale nods and offers her his arm. She takes it and her skin prickles all over, straight down to her toes.

“You’re getting better,” he assures her and she manages a grin.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll soon be better than you.”

Gale laughs and Madge knows she should be proud. He despised her only months ago and now look; one might almost call them friends.

this is wrong whispers the voice in her head, sounding strangely like Annie.

the whole world is wrong she whispers back.

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with the Earl of Salisbury,” Annie comments during their nightly session of embroidery and Madge shrugs.

“Have I? Well, we are cousins now, aren’t we? It can’t hurt to get to know him better.”

Annie narrows her eyes but doesn’t say anything and neither does Madge.

(Why? Well, that’s a question Madge doesn’t want to examine too closely)

Defeat though, is always just around the corner.

She has been hitting wall after wall with Katniss, the obvious distrust she holds her in as grating as it is expected. Madge spends every day smiling, pretending, keeping her feelings bottled up and locked away. The Yorkists are nowhere near as kind. While she does everything that is asked of her without complaint and does her utmost to be the best lady in waiting she can be, the Queen rewards her by behaving as if Madge is doused in poison, as if her mere presence is a threat to the entire kingdom. Madge does not expect them to trust her entirely, does not expect them to love her, but they could at least put on a show, could at least make some effort to disguise their dislike.

Katniss never speaks to Madge except to give her orders and even those come through Prim far more often than they come from Katniss herself. Madge is given the most mundane of tasks, from laying out Katniss’ gowns to acting as scribe for generic thank you notes and boring summons. When anything of even the slightest sensitivity comes up, Katniss always contrives of some reason to send Madge away, usually something as ridiculous as asking the cook what they’ll be having for dinner. She is not allowed to even hold sealed letters containing any real information and anyone who comes to speak to the Queen stares at her with hostile eyes, refusing to utter a word until she is shuffled off.

Madge suffers this with as much graciousness as she can muster, greeting every suspicious envoy and minister politely, diligently performing her tasks and never showing even a hint of annoyance as she is sent on yet another pointless errand. I have never done a thing to any of you. You hate me based solely on the actions of my family. My hands are bloodless, unlike most of yours.

Madge is currently on her way to talk to the Steward to ask if any messages have come for the Queen, even though if they had, he certainly would have sent word immediately. The real reason she’s been sent away is because Haymitch had arrived with urgent eyes, clearly harboring information of some importance. Madge had known instantly what that meant. Maybe, one day, if she does everything right, never complains and always smiles, they will decide she can be trusted.

(she is not holding her breath)

Madge turns a corner and stops in surprise. At the end of the hall is Gale, walking hand and hand with Posy. They’re talking, laughing and he may be the enemy (he is, he is), but at times like these, she could almost forget. She smiles unconsciously and heads towards them. Posy is the first to see her and she beams, skipping forward with renewed enthusiasm.

“Lady Madge!” she calls and Gale looks over at her, the faintest of smiles touching his lips.

“Hello Sir Gale, Lady Posy,” she greets and Gale bows his head.

“Gale’s taking me to the stables! I get to see the ponies!” Posy tells her excitedly and Gale smiles fondly down at his sister, Madge’s heart softening just a bit.

“Wow, that sounds amazing. I’m a little bit jealous,” she says and Posy’s eyes go wide.

“You can come with us! Can’t she Gale? Can’t she?”

Madge watches him, wondering what his answer will be. Let’s see how far we’ve really come.

“Well, if she wants to,” he says and Madge smiles brightly. How times have changed.

“I’d love to, but I’m on an important mission for the Queen,” Madge tells them, leaning in like it’s a secret. Posy gasps and covers her mouth with her hands.

“Next time then,” Gale says and Madge looks up at him in happy surprise.

“Definitely,” she agrees. “Enjoy the ponies.”

“Don’t worry, we will. And good luck to you on your mission,” he says and Madge raises an eyebrow. Are you teasing me Lord Gale? Times certainly have changed then, haven’t they? Madge watches the two of them leave, her previous melancholy thoroughly trampled.

Who cares if Katniss doesn’t trust me, I have Gale.

That’s all I need.

December settles in softly and gently powders England in white.

Windsor Castle looks picturesque in the snow, like something out of a fairy tale and Madge tries her best to find joy in that. All she can think of though, is last December, sitting anxiously at home awaiting news, finally hearing that the Duke of York was dead and foolishly rejoicing, believing the war was won. It feels like it’s been so much longer than just one year, decades maybe, a lifetime perhaps, but not a year. What a cold, bitter anniversary…

A soft giggle interrupts her thoughts, followed by a lusty grunt. Madge feels her ears burn and wonders why this keeps happening. First Prince Cato and now this… Judging by the sounds, Madge would say they’re nearby, just around the corner. She knows that knowledge is power, knows finding out just who is moaning nearby could be a potential weapon, but there are some lines Madge is not quite prepared to cross. She starts to turn around, intending to just walk away but that’s when she hears it.

“Faster, Gale, faster.”

Oh.

“God , yes,” is his answer and Madge feels odd, embarrassed certainly, but something else, almost hollow.

Oh.

Madge leaves quietly, feet light as she moves through the corridors and she doubts either of them even had an inkling she was there. That’s good, at least. Madge closes her eyes for a moment and no matter how far away she goes, she can still hear them.

faster Gale faster

God yes

(oh)

For two full days, she and Gale do not interact.

Madge is always busy, always finds some reason not to be in the same room as him, the mere thought of speaking to him making her face burn. Her imagination has become a monster, filling her head with all sort of lurid images. She remembers Cato but now it is Gale she sees, thrusting thrusting thrusting up under someone’s skirts. There are legs around his waist, hands in his hair and he’s kissing someone, her mouth, cheeks, jaw and neck. Madge shouldn’t be thinking anything of the sort but she can’t stop, and worse, she is invaded by other worries as well.

Does he do this often?

Is she his mistress? Does he love her? Or does he just enjoy doing…that with random women purely out of lust?

If I do succeed in winning him, will he continue to rendezvous with women in corners? Will I win this fight only to have to fight against all the other women in his life?

And what of the Queen, is he involved with her? Does he want to be?

What if his heart is already won? Or what if it doesn’t matter? What if he’s a carnal sort of man who cannot resist temptations of the flesh?

What ifs plague her worse than any disease and the thought of Gale with this mystery woman bothers her so profoundly she cannot hope to explain it. She tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter, she must continue on with the plan just as before. Make him love me, so much that no other woman will be able to compete. Nothing’s changed.

(except it has)

On the third day, Madge pulls herself together.

It doesn’t matter what he does or who he does it with.

Nothing has changed.

Nothing.

She seeks him out, finds him just as he’s leaving from a meeting with Haymitch and Katniss. He’s mussed up his hair, always runs his hands through it when he’s frustrated. Madge watches him, with his eyebrows pulled down and his nose crinkled (all his tells for annoyance) and wonders what it was about, wonders what could have bothered him so much. She waits until Haymitch has gone off in another direction, waits longer for Gale and Katniss to part ways and then she moves towards Gale, a jovial smile on her face.

“Sir Gale! There you are, I’ve been looking for you.”

He turns at her voice and tilts his head a bit in surprise, some of his tension already starting to fade.

“You were?”

“Yes,” she says with a nod, “I was hoping you wouldn’t be busy. Are you?”

He bites his lip and looks for a long moment in the direction Katniss left in, so long Madge fears he might say he is, but then he turns back to her with a shake of his head.

“No, I think I can find some time. Why?”

“You did promise me a trip to the stables,” she reminds him with a grin and he starts to smile.

“That I did. But Posy will be disappointed if we go without her.”

“Well, we’d best go and get her then.”

“You wouldn’t mind?” he asks and Madge looks at him confusion.

“Why would I?”

Gale’s whole face seems to lighten and he shakes his head.

“No reason. We’d better go, she’s probably terrorizing her nurse as we speak,” he says and Madge laughs.

“That does sound like her.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” he agrees, joining her in laughter and then he offers Madge his arm. She takes it and they start down the hallway together, Madge’s almost crumbled confidence building itself back up.

It doesn’t matter, nothing’s changed.

(she may be older, but Madge is still naïve)

Madge embroiders quietly while Prim chatters beside her, Katniss staring pensively off into the distance. Madge can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking about, wishes she could peer inside her head. What has you so deep in thought?

“I was just telling Philippa that there was no way-“

Prim is suddenly cut off by a sharp knock at the door, followed shortly by Duchess Elizabeth’s voice.

“Open the door Katniss, we need to talk.”

Katniss’ whole face turns stony.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she calls, “I am terribly busy now, you must come back later.”

Duchess Elizabeth is silent and Prim bites her lip, looking anxiously between Katniss and the door.

“Of course,” comes the Duchess’ icy reply and Madge feels a kernel of hope plant itself in her belly.

Perhaps the Yorkists will tear each other apart and save the rest of us the trouble.

Madge makes her way back to her chambers with heavy limbs.

Even with that potential ray of hope, serving the Queen feels a bit like swallowing glass. Every smile, every kind word, it eats away at her, rubs her raw until she is sure all her bones must be showing through her skin. All these lies, how am I ever supposed to find my way out? Sometimes I think I might forget what the truth even is.

Madge knows she has no choice. This is her life now, whether she likes it or not. It could be worse, she tells herself, repeats it like a mantra. However awful she finds her current life, it could be worse.

(while true, it isn’t exactly a comforting thought)

Madge turns a corner and suddenly it is worse, for standing a few yards away is her step-brother. She thinks of going back the way she’d come but Marvel looks around at the sound of her footsteps and smiles, an oily thing that makes her feel dirty.

“My darling sister,” he purrs, bowing nearly in half. Madge inhales and moves grudgingly towards him, allows him to press kisses to the backs of both her hands. He doesn’t let go, keeps her caught in his grip and she feels something hot growing in her stomach.

“We have not spent nearly as much time together as we should,” he says and forcing a smile has never been so hard.

“The Queen keeps me very busy,” she apologizes and he grins.

“It is a terrible pity, that one so lovely must spend so much time shut away.”

Madge supposes she is meant to blush at the compliment and hopes he isn’t too offended when all her skin does is crawl.

“I do not mind,” she answers and wishes he’d let go of her.

“Well everyone at court certainly does,” he insists and she’s not sure she believes him.

“There is many a young man who would wish to win your hand,” he continues and this she can believe. With her Lancastrian blood, her connection to the Yorkists and her grand inheritance, she is sure many men would eagerly wed and bed her. She’s just not sure the feeling is terribly mutual.

“I have been thinking a great deal on this matter, sister dearest, and I believe I have found the perfect husband for you.”

“Oh?” Madge asks, feeling slightly nauseated.

“Who better than the Queen’s most loyal cousin? I am already Earl of Northumberland, with a grand estate up north and I am the descendant of kings. I am wealthy, young and I promise, I would love you very well.” His voice lowers as he says it, grin salacious and Madge tries hard not to retch.

“I will be Earl of Warwick as well when my father dies, and you would make me Duke of Bedford and of Clarence. No couple in all of England would be a match for us.”

His tone is thick with ambition and Madge cannot find any words to answer. Thankfully, he does not appear to need one.

“The Queen could not possibly refuse. Dispensations would be needed of course, but we have the money and the Pope is eager to make friends with England’s new queen.” He leans in then, breath wafting over her face and heating her ear. “I will speak to her,” he whispers, “and soon, my love, we shall be joined forever.”

He kisses her cheek, lingering much too long and then finally he is gone, leaving Madge feeling as if there is a sword dangling just above her head. She has always known she would be sold off to whomever the Queen wished to reward, but the reality that it could be soon, so very, very soon, has never hit her until now. All her plans, so carefully plotted, could go up in smoke in a heartbeat if the Queen decides the time is now. It may not be Marvel, but it will be someone, some loyal Yorkist who cares nothing for Madge aside from her money. He will be her jailer, ensuring no one can rally around her to dislodge the Queen and he will reap the benefits of her inheritance while she is kept hidden away from court. Her life stretches out before her and she is nothing but a prize for the Queen to give away as she pleases, nothing but titles and land.

She’s not even a person, not anymore.

Madge is meant to be embroidering an undershirt but her hands shake, her stitches coming out messy and uneven. She looks down at her fingers as they quake and abandons her task, a heavy ball of lead weighing down her stomach. Annie’s eyes are on her, anxious and worried but Madge turns to the window and counts snowflakes as they drift past.

“Is something the matter?” Annie asks quietly, coming to stand behind her. Madge thinks of saying no, thinks of pretending all is well but lies have become harder and harder to spin.

(maybe because they come so easily now)

“Yes,” she admits and Annie rests a soft hand on her arm, her reflection in the glass one of sympathy. Madge sighs.

“I know the Queen is going to marry me off and I’m…afraid. Those loyal to York still hate me, have branded me a traitor as sure as if I’d cut down their men myself. I don’t want a husband who’ll want me only for my inheritance, my blood, and despise me for everything else. Is it so wrong to hope for happiness?”

Annie gently turns her around and Madge feels silly for the tear she can feel sliding down her cheek.

“It’s not wrong, hope is never wrong.”

There’s an odd conviction in Annie’s voice, less like confidence and more like desperation, like she needs it to be true, like hope is all that’s keeping her afloat. Madge nods and wipes at her eyes.

“I’m just being silly,” she says and the light catches on Henry’s ring. She runs a finger over it and almost laughs.

“You know, I used to be so excited to get married, I couldn’t wait. And now I’m starting to hope I never will.”

Tears try and build in her eyes again and Madge presses her thumb down on the ring until it aches. Perhaps this is a part of growing up, she thinks, realizing happiness is just a dream. She looks back at the window; the dark sky dotted with white and wonders what it would be like to swim among the stars, far away from all her worries.

“I should be married now,” Annie whispers, gaze distant and Madge turns to her in surprise.

“Really?”

Annie nods, twisting her pretty ring around her finger.

“I should be Countess of Richmond.”

Madge feels her eyes go wide. “You were going to marry Finnick?”

Annie doesn’t answer and Madge bites her lip, gaze drifting down to the ring Annie’s still fiddling with. Is that from him?

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now, he’s so very far away,” Annie murmurs, a lonely, aching sadness dripping from her words. Madge feels a pang in her chest and presses her hands to the fabric over her heart, grief and sympathy welling up inside of her.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes and it feels so inadequate. Annie smiles, eyes wet and shining.

“Don’t be, he’s alive. That’s what really matters.”

Madge nods, tears gathering and threatening to spill over. She doesn’t ask if Annie loves him, knows it can’t do anything but make everything worse.

Oh Annie….

Madge knows there’s nothing she can say, so she flings her arms around her and hopes a hug can soothe the heartbreak in her eyes. Annie doesn’t say anything either, but her fingers cling to Madge’s sleeve, tears wetting the fabric.

Wasn’t the whole point of this rebellion to lift the King’s shadow from England? To give everyone a chance at a happy life?

Why then, are we still miserable?

December continues on, the holiday season inching ever closer.

Madge has not spent a Christmas at Court since she was nine years old and horrid memories start to rise up, blanketing the season with dark clouds. They are at Windsor, not Westminster and it is Queen Katniss’ court, rather than King Coriolanus’, but still, she cannot fight the chill lingering just below her skin. That Christmas, six years ago exactly, ruined her, peeled back the layers and exposed the rotting core of England, stripped away the illusions she’d been clinging to. It had marked the beginning of the end, her first taste of the nightmare to come.

Madge cannot help but fear what this Christmas will bring.

(the end)

(of what?)

(everything)

#gadge #gadge day #gale hawthorne #madge undersee #war of the roses au #historical au #fanfiction #Hunger Games

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