#servant liveries

[undiscovered-horizon]

Who am I to complain? - Nikolai Lantsov x Reader

[emotional and verbal abuse, unhealthy parent-child relationships]

SUMMARY: When your parents come to visit, Nikolai finally understands why you've never been keen to talk about them. Being the King and your husband, he isn't afraid to defy them.

WORDCOUNT: ~ 4.5k

>>Grishaverse-inspired playlist<<

"Have you listened to anything I've just said?"

Nikolai shakes you awake from being lost in thought. You look away from the insanely interesting skirting board you had been staring at for the past ten minutes. He’s watching you with raised eyebrows, awaiting an answer.

"I…” you hang your voice. At first, you wanted to just apologize and ask him to repeat himself but then a sense of dread sprouts in your abdomen - one you can’t quite put a finger on but it takes over your entire mind. “I'm sorry, Kolya. Please, don’t be mad at me, I’m sorry,” you plead, gradually speaking faster.

“I’m not angry,” he states firmly. “But I am growing concerned for you, love. What’s going on?”

“I just keep thinking about my parents' visit,” you confess while rubbing your forehead. “Ever since the letter arrived, I can hardly think about anything else."

"Yes, I've noticed you have been a bit absent for the past few days. I assumed you were going to talk to me when you're ready. Are you?"

"They're not bad people," you begin in a strange tone that makes Nikolai doubt your words right away, "and they've only done their best to give me a good life. Despite that, they have a tendency to bring out the parts of me I've grown to dislike." 

“Isn’t that what every family does?” he jokes in hopes of easing your visible discomfort. But his good humour is gone the moment you look away with a sombre expression stuck to your features.

Nikolai always considered himself exceptional at self-control but something about your sadness makes him gradually abandon reason. As you forlornly stare into the darkness of your shared bedroom, he’s ready to stick feathers to his clothes and pretend to be a peacock just to make you laugh.

“Love,” he calls out softly. His hand rests between your shoulder blades. “You’re the queen. If you want, we can call their visit off right away.”

“That would be a little rude, no?” you ask in a meek voice.

“It’s a lot more crude to make you cry.”

“I will be alright, really,” you reassure him. That miserable look on your face is slowly creeping away. “It’s just three days. Maybe they’ve changed or they’re a lot better than I remember. I’ll be okay.”

Nikolai is unsure whether you’re trying to convince yourself or him but he doesn’t push. Despite not believing your clumsy words of reassurance, he trusts you - he’ll step in only when things really get out of hand.

Nervousness and excitement often feel the same and one might even fool themselves into believing that the mortifying tension in their muscles is actually an impatient thrill. Today, however, you don’t even try playing a little trick on yourself. The more you think about your feelings, the more you’re convinced that it’s not even nervousness but fear. Still, you don’t quite understand why exactly your parents’ visit elicits such awful emotions from you.

The door to the throne room opens and a man in a white and gold livery steps inside. He quickly walks halfway to the dais with the throne. 

The servant bows as deep as he can and clears his throat before loudly announcing: “Presenting her most royal Highness’s, the Queen’s, mother and father.”

Only then do your parents emerge from the hall, walking hesitantly through the spacious throne room. Two guards are following them and your father spares them a confused glance every few steps. But the armed men only usher him to keep walking and not turn his back to the king until allowed to do so.

Feeling fear exploding in your chest, you grip Nikolai’s shoulder even tighter. Sitting on the throne, he has to look up to meet your eyes.

“Calm down, it’s going to be alright,” he says quietly. A reassuring smile curves his lips. “You said it yourself.”

As though he is a Heartrender himself, his words make you relax. You take a deep breath and let go of his shoulder. At that moment, Nikolai stands up to greet your parents as their son-in-law first and only then the king of Ravka.

Right then, your mother quickly runs up the few steps leading to the dais. Her face is red and a deep crease now separates her eyebrows.

“I have to wait to be announced to see my own daughter?” She’s barely containing her outrage. “Nonsense!”

“I’m royalty now, mother,” you explain calmly. Your voice almost doesn’t shake.

“And I’m still your mother, the one that gave birth to you. Do I not get any benefits from that?”

Maybe some people don’t actually change.

“I’m afraid you don’t.”

“Is this gold?!” your father exclaims in shock as his hand reaches for your heavy necklace. “So because of you most of Ravka is starving?”

Too occupied with the jewellery, your parents don’t notice the palace guards stepping forward to arrest them for such an accusation aimed at the queen. Nikolai spares them a meaningful look, waving them off. In his heart, he agrees with them.

“Actually, this is a gift from a businessman in Kerch,” you say quietly. Suddenly, you remember why you’ve never visited them since your wedding.

“Still, don’t you think this is a little distasteful?”

Your mother places her hand on your father’s shoulder. “She’s always been vain, darling,” she reminds him.

You’re not a queen anymore - at least you don’t feel like it. All of the gold, silk and jewels are gone and you’re back to being a scared, little girl with hay stuck in her hair. Tears sting your eyes.

Whatever you do is wrong. All of your efforts are underwhelming. Maybe they’d be happier if you weren’t there.

"You're crying?” your father asks with a hint of disgust in his voice. “Oh, don't be so sensitive, you know we’re only joking!” He’s still holding your necklace in his fingers, admiring the glistening crystals. Standing so close to you, he lowers his voice significantly to appear inconspicuous but Nikolai manages to pick up his calloused words. “Pull yourself together, this is embarrassing.”

As she usually does, your mother brings the attention back to herself. “She can be a bit much at times, so I hope you’re a patient one!”

The guards exchange questioning looks, silently asking one another if they should intervene this time. Most of the time they follow Tolya and Tamar’s steps but they’re left to their own devices on this day as Nikolai ordered the twins to take a day off. Perhaps it’s for the best - they’d surely escalate this already uncomfortable situation but it’s only because they care.

“I’d say it’s quite the opposite,” Nikolai answers, unaffected. Despite his speaking to your mother, he’s looking into your eyes. “I can never get enough of her.”

“For most of her life, I thought she’d never get married!” your mother continues. She’s gripping your arm with much more strength than her appearance suggests. “Men don’t like them independent, stubborn and opinionated.”

Nikolai’s polite smile doesn’t falter. “Three qualities of an excellent Queen.”

Your mother laughs obnoxiously. “Just wait a few years, dear.” She pats his shoulder. The guards look between themselves again. “You’ll be quick to send her off just like we were!”

Both of your parents laugh wholeheartedly while you and Nikolai exchange knowing looks. Now he understands why you have been so uneasy lately. This is going to be the longest three days of his life.

The perplexity continues as your mother suddenly places her hands around your waist, examining your torso in great detail. A sour expression forms on her face.

“Oh, honey, you’ve let yourself go,” she says in a worried tone. Her eyes trail the curve of your physique up until she looks at your face. With a serious glint in her eye, she advises you under her breath: “You can’t get fat and slobby if you want to keep the king.” 

The man who announced your parents appears again but this time he walks all the way to the stairs leading up to the throne, although doesn’t dare climb them. His facial expression borders on emotionless and serious as though he’s more of a marble statue rather than a servant.

“Your most royal Highness.” The man bows deeply. “The room is prepared.”

“Excellent.” Nikolai uses the opportunity to cut the awkward conversation short in a diplomatic way. “Escort our guests to their chamber.” 

“Right away, мой царь.”

When the butler disappears around the corner with your parents apprehensively following him, Nikolai looks at you with a grim expression. 

“Are they usually like this?” he asks, disapproval hiding between his words.

“They’re worse at home,” you answer with a shrug. A lot of terrible feelings and thoughts you were convinced you had left behind are coming back and you’re unsure how to handle that.

“You’ve put up with this kind of disrespect for your whole life?”

“It’s not disrespect, just…” you hang your voice looking for the right expression, “tough love. They don’t mean any harm.”

“Don’t mean any harm?” he repeats in disbelief. “They’ve been here for fifteen minutes and they are yet to say something nice to you. Neither of them even asked whether you’re doing alright.”

A short, troubled sigh leaves your lips. Your fingers trail the golden embroidery decorating his kaftan. “I’m married to a dashing, handsome king and live in a palace. I think they know I’m doing well.”

His hand gently grabs yours, keeping it against his chest. “As much I like flattery, especially coming from you, you can’t pull wool over my eyes, love. It’s not a matter of knowing but principle. Remember our wedding? The guests kept asking how you’re doing so much, you kept saying you’re perfectly fine before they even got a chance to ask.”

The memory elicits a chuckle from you. Yes, everyone seemed to be preoccupied with making sure you were happy and satisfied. It came to such a point, you yelled at Nikolai’s cousin ‘Yes, I’m fine!’ before she gave you a weird look and asked if you wanted some vodka mixed with your champagne. Truly, the only royal thing about Marina is her ungodly fortune but maybe that’s why you’ve grown to like her a lot - she’s down to earth and easy-going.

Nikolai squeezes your hand in a gentle, reassuring manner. “Just say the word and I will personally throw them out.”

“Kolya!” You gasp at his offer but it quickly turns into laughter. “They’re my parents and your in-laws!”

“They also refuse to show care and respect towards my beloved Queen.”

That mellow, loving look in his eyes nullifies any annoyance you might feel at his stubbornness. You pull your hand out of his grasp and place it on the side of his face. Consciously or not, he slightly leans into your touch. “I appreciate your concern.” Not minding the guards in the room, you’ve grown used to their constant presence, you peck his lips shortly. “But they have just arrived. You’ll warm up to them.”

Nikolai doesn’t answer at first. He only reconnects your lips, kissing you deeper, more desperately. When you feel his hands coming up to your waist, you lean away from him. For a moment, you swear you can see a grimace of dissatisfaction on his face.

“Be decent,” you reprimand him but the wide smile you wear so well rids your words of all seriousness.

“You started this.”

“And I will finish if you play nice.”

Nikolai takes a rather long step back, away from you,  just to make a point. He’s standing with his hands behind his back, an excited grin on his face. “You make an exquisite diplomat, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

The time for dinner came faster than you wanted it to. Anxiety bubbled inside your chest again. Still, you continued trying to soap up your eyes with thoughts that maybe when they sit across the table from a king, they’re going to withdraw their little jabs at you. As they say: Hope is the mother of all fools. And you’re about to learn that.

Nikolai raises his cup with wine. “A toast to our beloved Queen,” he announces in an official tone. Out of the corner of his eye, he spares you an adoring look. “Without her, I’d be a lonely, perplexed king. May we not know the world without her.”

To your horror, your father decides to join him. “May she get a grip and come to her senses.”

The dry wine tastes even more bitter as you take what’s supposed to be a celebratory sip. What if he’s right about you? It’s only the beginning of the evening and you already wish you can miraculously vanish or, worst case scenario, just run away. 

You’re about to take a bite of the roasted pheasant on your plate when your mother looks at you with raised eyebrows. She points her fork between you and the plate. “Should you really be eating all of this?” 

You don’t answer her. Whatever you say will only egg her on. Get a grip, you scold yourself and clench your fist to push fingernails into the sensitive skin of your palm. The pain is distracting, grounding.

 "You know, sweetheart, you're not getting any younger,” your mother continues. She always does that - throwing poignancies one after another and seeing what sticks. Now, when she’s literally the mother of the queen, she’s even bolder than before.

“Mother-”

“Don’t interrupt me.” She points her knife at you. “All I’m saying is as a wife, especially the queen, you have only one duty and you shouldn’t wait with it. Things will only get more difficult as you age.”

Nikolai gives your mother a bright smile. “Have no worries,” he cuts in. “We’re not waiting.”

You almost drop your fork. Flustering people is definitely one of his strategies but must he really involve your sex life in his word games? Although mortified at his bluntness, you must admit it works - your mother’s face is about the same shade as the roasted tomatoes on her plate. She casts her eyes downwards, poking at the food in front of her.

The air is filled with awkward tension but Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind in. In fact, he looks quite proud of himself. You, on the other hand, aren’t as good at putting up a believable front.

“So,” you begin in hopes of easing the atmosphere”, how are things back in…” You hang your voice. You were about to say ‘home’, only to realize that it would be an honest lie. The little town where you grew up hasn’t been home in years. “...Tamboyevka?”

“Oh, you know,” your mother says as she makes a dismissive wave with her hand. “Same old, same old. Cattle and field, nothing interesting to someone of your sort, I presume! There’s never been much use of you anyway.”

Listening to your mother’s condescending words, you push your fingernails further into the skin of your hand to distract yourself from the feeling of shame that continues to grow inside your stomach and pull you down with it. Maybe the marble floor will swallow you whole in the next few minutes and all of this will be over.

Then you feel Nikolai’s warm hand sneak between your palms, breaking up your painful distraction. He leans towards you ever so slightly and whispers:

“I’d much rather you pinch and scratch my hand than hurt yourself.”

You look at his concerned face. Words of reassurance, ‘Don’t worry, I’m alright’, nearly push past your lips when your father chimes in, continuing the conversation.

“But your brother, he bought some land down south,” he announces with excitement.

“More land?” you ask. “Ha barely manages with what he already has.”

The memory of your brother’s tired, grey face flashes before your eyes. Every time you see him, he looks even sicker than before as though he never sleeps or eats, only works in the field. He even collapsed on one July day and your parents kept saying that this is a sign of an honest, hard-working man but you weren’t as quick to call a man throwing up everything he eats ‘healthy’.

“You know how he is, always helping others.” Your mother is beaming with pride as if she’s the one doing the farming. “His crops feed two villages and it’s not nearly enough for him! Said he wanted tomatoes and citruses.”

Then it hits you. It’s not a revelation in any way but rather something you don’t think about too often - most of Ravka doesn’t get fruits in winter, especially the ones growing in warmer climates near the Shu Han border. And you not only can easily get it even when snow covers the grassy fields but you’re essentially fed it. Like that one time, you shared a tangerine with Nikolai while sitting in front of a fire, talking about unimportant things.

Despite your mother sitting right in front of you, her voice echoed in your head as though she’s a phantom haunting your thoughts and not a real person: Selfish. Spoiled. Entitled. Ungrateful. People starve because of you.

You focus on Nikolai’s warm, rough hand that’s still holding your own. The pleasant sensation is gradually grounding you, pulling you out of your head and into the present moment.

“What for?” you ask as casually as you can, not giving in to the spiralling thoughts. It still feels like you’re underwater, desperately gasping for air as your lungs burn. Squeezing Nikolai’s hand, you break the surface of the vicious tides trying to drown you in panic and shame.

Your mother, on the other hand, appears completely oblivious to your plight. “Some child told him they’d like oranges and he couldn’t say no. He’s wonderful, truly. A living Saint! What a blessing to call him my son. You should take a serious cue from him, young lady.” She waves the tip of her knife in your direction again. “But enough about your brother. What do you do when you’re not wasting time? Lay around and smell nice?”

“Well,” you swallow nervously, already knowing that she won’t be satisfied with your answer, “I meet a lot of people, take correspondence, travel across the country or read if I find the time.”

Nikolai must notice the telling crease of disappointment between your mother’s eyebrows. He joins the conversation under a skilful facade of a proud, boasting husband. “Don’t sell yourself short, love. Our Queen,” he puts strange stress on the title, “has started a scholarship for disadvantaged children, takes the time to teach young girls sewing, foreign languages and arithmetic.”

“That’s quite useless, isn’t it?” your mother looks between you and your father, not acknowledging Nikolai’s presence. She keeps stabbing the roasted pheasant on her plate with a fork as though there’s still life inside the poor poultry. “Shouldn’t you try harder?” she hisses at you. “If you continue being this lazy, the whole kingdom will fall apart! What will our neighbours say then?”

Nikolai suddenly gets up. He’s still holding your hand but you can’t be sure whether he’s doing that on purpose or if it’s just an unconscious reflex. The candlelight from the crystal chandelier cascades off his face, pronouncing the clenched muscles of his jaw - he’s angry and barely holding it in.

“Our meeting at this table is adjourned,” he announces in a firm voice. “This is beyond unacceptable. I have overlooked your transgressions simply because of your affinity to my wife. Still, I am disheartened and disappointed with the way you address your queen in her own home. The guards will escort you back to your chambers.”

You hear your mother and father trying to argue and protest, saying something about you being ‘too proud’ and ‘forgetting your place’ but you’re so dumbfounded you can’t make out the details. The guards lead them out of the dining room through one of the tall pairs of doors. When they close behind them, everything goes silent - the brick walls muffle any turmoil your parents might be causing.

Suddenly, your throat constricts. It’s hard to take a breath. Has it always been so hot in here? The tips of your fingers tingle, blood never reaching them.

He threw them out and you didn’t say anything. If they didn’t hate you before, they surely do now. You’re a disappointment, not their child. They haven’t done anything wrong, after all. You’re no good, useless, ungrateful, dramatic.

Suffocating with panic, you run out of the room through a different pair of doors, across the dining hall from the ones behind which your parents had recently disappeared. You hear Nikolai’s footsteps behind you but they are muffled by the noise of bloodflow ringing in your ears.

“Hey, talk to me,” he calls out in a soft voice. You turn around to look at him. His hand is almost at the height of your shoulder but it momentarily drops as though he just backed out from touching you. “What’s going on?”

For a man as smart as him, that’s a really stupid question.

“Why did you do that, Nikolai?” you snap at him.

His eyebrows furrow slightly. A gasp of disbelief brushes past his lips - he clearly thought the two of you were on the same page. “They were insulting you over and over again. I couldn’t just sit and listen to that.”

Truly, you should have expected that. He’s been adamant about standing up to your parents from the very beginning. Still, you’re angry that he just had to be stubborn and do the one thing you explicitly asked him not to do.

“What happened to laugh at insults? Isn’t that your own advice?”

“It is.” Nikolai finally finds it in himself to place his hands on your shoulders. “But I found myself unable to remain collected when the bitter words were aimed at you.” His palms brush against your dress and the skin of your neck until they’re cradling your face.

“I can,” you state firmly. “You should have let me handle this, I’m used to this.”

You escape his loving grasp and he lets you. Walking forward away from him, you’re not quite sure where exactly you’re heading. ‘Away’ would be a lovely direction but quite impossible when you’re confined to those four walls of marble and gold.

“You shouldn’t be,” Nikolai calls out after you.

Suddenly, you halt. You look at him around your shoulder. “What?”

“You shouldn’t be used to being treated like this,” he says in a defeated tone while walking towards you again. “They just keep putting you down, humiliating you. You’re not even slightly upset about that?”

“Of course, I am but…” you hang your voice, finally questioning your own feelings towards your parents. “It’s unfair for me to be angry with them. Ungrateful. I never went hungry or cold. They gave me medication when I was sick and made sure I went to school. Every year they’d give me something for my birthday. Neither of them has ever raised their hand against me. They’ve done all they could to give me a good life. Who am I to complain?”

“You’re the Queen,” he drones the word. His hand holds the side of your face again, thumb lovingly brushing your cheek. “People say your name in the same breath as the names of all the Saints. When I don’t know what to do or what decision to make, I always ask myself what you would do. And I’ve never once regretted that. There are important people who have agreed to my invitation only after hearing that you’ll be there too. You change everything. So you get to be angry when someone refuses to see that. I know you can take a few mean words but I don’t want you to.”

For a moment, the two of you stand in comfortable, intimate silence. Your absent gaze is stuck to the floor as you’re pondering his words. Whenever you’re about to accept that maybe, just maybe, you’re doing something good and important, the voice of your mother echoes inside your head: ‘Vain’. But Nikolai wouldn’t lie to you, would he? At least not in those circumstances.

“Can you keep a secret?” he speaks up quietly, bringing your attention back to him.

“Don’t tell me you put a wild racoon in my parent’s bedroom,” you joke, surprising yourself at your newly-found humour.

He scrunches his nose. “Alright, can you keep two secrets?” The echo of the empty halls carries your bright laughter. “To be honest, I wanted to marry you the moment you argued with me about stealing that merchant frigate in Kerch.”

“I could tell,” you answer with a slow nod. “You had a really stupid look on your face, all dazed and absent. In fact, you wore the same one on our wedding day.”

Nikolai’s lips turn into a playful smile and he’s about to say something definitely smart and smooth but a servant interrupts him:

“Your most royal highness,” she says nervously as she curtsies, “your mother wishes to see you. She seems thoroughly upset, if I may say so.” Judging by her fearful, wide-open eyes, she must have gotten a taste of your parents' hurt ego.

Anxiety once again floods your mind. Maybe you should go, apologize and pray they won’t go on a tirade about ‘raising you differently’. But then you hear Nikolai inconspicuously but meaningfully clear his throat.

‘You’re the queen’, his voice echoes in your head. A queen doesn’t cower and bow her head, does she?

“Tell her I don’t take visitations tonight,” you order the servant.

“Right away, моя царица.” She can’t hide the waver in her voice. Judging by her already fearful demeanour, she can guess quite well what will happen the moment she relays the information.

Yes, you will have to warn your parents that they actually can’t hurl insults at your servants. It’s going to be challenging, yes, but this newfound confidence is a ferocious beast, driving you to own up to the title of the queen - not in the way your mother and father want you to but in a way that you need to.

“Oh, one more thing.” The girl immediately stops and turns around at the sound of your voice. “Make sure they don’t leave their wing until either of us says so. I don’t want them wandering around my home.”

“Of course, my Queen.”

The servant bows again and leaves the two of you in a rushed step. Nikolai waits until she disappears around the corner to let his hand drop to the small of your back. He leans in close, indecently so. “I love it when you get all commanding,” he whispers against your neck.

An airy laugh leaves your lips as he pecks the soft skin behind your ear.

____

мой царь [mo-ee tzar] -> my tsar/king

моя царица [mo-ya tsa-ree-tsa] -> my tsaritsa/queen

[bookshelf-in-progress]

For Love of the Princess: A Sleeping Beauty Retelling

The court was leaving. A colorful parade of nobles in richly-embroidered robes, with bright banners flying, were abandoning the palace with the king and queen.

And leaving Princess Aurora behind.

"We've no choice, dear," the queen had told her daughter in tears the evening before. "The whole palace will sleep when the curse falls. We've a duty to our people. We can't abandon the kingdom for a hundred years."

Princess Aurora, who'd been fairy-gifted with grace and compassion, had sweetly said she understood.

Margaret, who had no such gifts, thought the queen deserved to have her eyes pecked out by birds.

All of Aurora's ladies-in-waiting had talked late into the night--had been working over the problem for weeks as Aurora's sixteenth birthday drew ever closer with no chance of averting the curse. They had planned and theorized, but all decided at last that there was only one thing to do. They were, to a woman, going to stay with the princess. A hundred years would pass while they slept. They would wake to a strange world where everyone they knew was dead and gone. But not for all the gold in the kingdom would they abandon Aurora to face such a world alone.

Now they stood together at the palace gate. Anne, the eldest of them, with strands of gray in her hair, who had been lady to the queen before coming to serve the princess. Lydia, younger even than Aurora, fair and tall and full of energy. Celia, little, sweet and copper-haired, only a year older than Aurora. Margaret herself--tallest and most practical, with wisps of golden-brown curls fluttering in the wind. And exactly in the center, Princess Aurora, with her fairy-gifted beauty that outshone the sun itself. Margaret had come to view these girls as sisters, but as they watched the courtiers leave, she suddenly realized they were all the family she was going to have--that any of them were going to have--for the rest of her life.

When the last face, the last horse, the last banner, disappeared over the horizon, all five of the women stepped back inside the palace walls.

And were immediately faced with a problem.

"Which one of us is going to close the gate?" Celia asked, gazing up at the wicked-looking portcullis. None of them had ever touched the winch-and-chain that moved it. Who knew if they'd even have the strength to? Five women staying alone in a castle for a hundred years could not leave the palace gate open for any passing brigand to come through.

With a groan and a rattle, the chain moved, the portcullis lowered, and the metal bars fell to the ground with a bone-rattling thump.

All of the women screamed.

Had the curse come upon them already? Were they to be trapped here for a hundred years, never to escape? Margaret's heart raced--she hadn't realized how suffocating the palace would seem.

A man stepped out of the guardhouse. He wore the livery of the palace guard and had the first whispers of a mustache on his upper lip. He bowed to the princess and her ladies.

"My apologies, ladies," he said, in a baritone that sounded surprisingly deep for one who appeared barely old enough for that facial hair. "I did not intend to startle you."

He looked young and strong of limb. He carried himself with the dignity and grace of a much older man--had something in the eyes that made him seem wiser than his years.

Aurora gave a deep royal nod. "We thank you for your service. If we could know the name of our servant?"

He bowed crisply. "William of Avenroth, your highness."

Aurora gave her sweetest smile. "We are pleased to know you, and we beg your forgiveness for our outburst. We had thought ourselves alone in the palace."

"You are alone, your highness," William said. "Everyone left, save for me."

"You did not wish to escape the curse?"

William bowed again. "I have a duty, your highness, to protect the princess. All other considerations fade before that calling."

"Some would say such devotion goes far beyond duty," the princess said.

Serenely, he said, "Perhaps it does, your highness."

Aurora opened her mouth, then closed it. She bowed her head. "I am grateful for your loyalty, William."

She turned back toward the palace, and her beautiful face was pensive.

As Margaret and the other ladies followed Aurora back toward the palace, Aurora asked, "Ought I to send him away?"

"Send him away?" Anne yelped. "Why?"

Aurora hushed her, looking back over her shoulder. "I can not ask him to risk the curse for my sake."

"You haven't sent any of us away," Lydia pointed out.

"You all know me well," Aurora said. "He barely knows me."

How little Aurora understood her power. She was princess of the realm, fairy gifted, bright and shining. No person who saw her ever forgot her.

"He has served you from his boyhood, highness," Margaret said. "Though you do not know him, he is quite familiar with you."

Anne said, "He chose to stay, just as we did."

"It is not fair," Aurora said, "for all of you to give up your lives because of my curse."

Margaret said, "It's not fair that you were cursed. You did not choose it--but we can choose to love you. Let him make that same choice."

Aurora stopped, tears in her eyes. "Never has a princess had such true friends. I am afraid I can never be grateful enough."

She embraced each of them in turn, all of them caught between laughter and tears. Then she turned back toward the guard and invited him inside for supper.

#

In the Great Hall--now echoing and cavernous in its emptiness--they made a merry birthday supper, rejoicing over the coming of the princess' sixteenth year, and not letting themselves think about the doom that came with it. The king and queen, though not staying to celebrate the day, had left a celebratory meal behind them--roasts and fruit and cakes and punch.

Margaret had been afraid that the guard William would be out of place among them, but he blended in with ease. He was quiet, respectful, courteous, seeming to enjoy being in their presence, not minding being on the outside of their shared jokes. He helped to serve the meal, even brought some of Aurora's favorite treats from the palace stores, pointing out that they would not last the hundred years. Aurora was gracious, and, as the night went on, genuinely warm. She smiled at William with the smile she reserved for her friends, even drew him into private conversation once or twice.

Despite her assurances to Aurora, Margaret couldn't figure out why William stayed. Margaret had noticed him at the palace, had seen him serving with distinction. He was loyal, dutiful, diligent--but a man didn't become the only guard in the entire palace to risk a hundred-year curse out of duty.

It puzzled her, but she had to admit that she was glad for his presence. Having another person there made the world seem not so small.

The next day was a tense one. No spindles had been seen in the palace since the day the princess had been cursed, but curses had a way of making themselves come true. Margaret and all of Aurora's ladies stayed with her, trying to keep up her spirits and keep watch for any stray spinning wheels. William kept watch at the gates, hoping that he could fend off any evil that might try to approach from outside.

The sun was nearly below the horizon when Margaret and the other ladies followed Aurora into her room in the castle's highest tower. They all sat beside the window, watching the sinking sun, waiting for the moment when the day would end and the danger--so long feared--might pass by forever.

The last sliver of sun sank below the horizon, and all the ladies gave a sigh of relief.

"Could it be over?" Celia asked, with suppressed joy.

"Perhaps the king's plans worked," said Lydia.

Margaret could not shake a sense of foreboding. "The sun is gone, but there's still light in the sky."

Anne rose angrily. The shawl she'd been desperately knitting all day fell to the floor. "We've only a few minutes! What more could happen?"

The ladies began to quarrel--everyone's nerves were tight after the tension of the day.

Aurora rose--quietly, gracefully, but her movements attracted every eye. "Girls, let's not quarrel."

She reached beneath her bed to pick up the ball of yarn that had rolled away from Anne's knitting. "Oh!" she said in surprise, drawing her hand back. "I think I found your knitting needle, Anne."

She drew back the ruffle at the base of the bed. Beneath, they saw, not a knitting needle, but the shining, wicked point of a drop spindle.

Aurora fell onto the bed--lost in a deep sleep.

There were tears, gasps, shrieks--but they fell to work. Margaret could already feel sleep pressing down upon her, but she urged the girls to move quickly. They lifted Aurora fully onto the bed, arranged her limbs to lie flat, put pillows under her head, and covered her with blankets. If their beloved princess was to sleep for a hundred years, they could make sure she was comfortable while she did it.

Celia was the first to drop, falling to the floor in a deep swoon. Margaret placed a pillow beneath her head, and then did the same for Anne when she fell asleep at the foot of Aurora's bed. Lydia fell almost on top of Aurora, and Margaret moved her so she was stretched across blankets on the floor.

All this time, Margaret's eyelids drooped, her limbs became heavy, and her head split with yawns. She fought the curse as long as she could, trying to arrange a hundred years' worth of comforts in a few moments. But at last, even her will could not overcome the magic. Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, with half her body draped across the foot of Aurora's bed.

Her last thought as she fell into a hundred years of sleep was that she'd have such a backache when she woke.

#

Margaret woke to a world covered in dust. She scraped it off her face, shook it off her hands, brushed it from her dress and hair. Around her, the other ladies were waking with similar ablutions.

Aurora's chairs, wardrobe, dressing table, even Anne's abandoned half-finished shawl, were all covered in dust. The windows were covered with rose bushes, so Margaret couldn't see what a century had wrought upon the world outside. On the bed, the other girls were clearing the dust off of Aurora--but Aurora remained fast asleep.

"I don't understand," Celia said, as the hours dragged by with no sign of Aurora's waking. "We're all awake."

"The hundred years has passed," Margaret said. "But the princess has to be woken by a kiss of true love."

"Where's that supposed to come from?" Anne asked. "Any suitors the princess had will be dead and gone by now."

"Maybe one came from this century," Lydia suggested. "It's possible some brave prince grew up with the stories and came to save the sleeping princess."

That seemed as good a theory as any, so after they'd tended to their ragged old dresses as best they could, Celia sat at Aurora's bedside, and Margaret went into the halls with Anne and Lydia, in the hope they could point some wandering prince in the right direction.

The rest of the palace was as dusty and decayed as Aurora's room. Tapestries were moth-eaten. A kitchen's worth of food had decayed to nothing. Suits of armor were covered in rust.

When they found no princes inside, they decided to head outdoors. With all three of them pulling together, the kitchen door came open with a shriek of rusty hinges.

The doorway was completely blocked by a wall of roses and thorns.

Margaret's throat tightened. They had nothing to break through those branches. They were alone in a palace with no food. If Aurora didn't wake soon, they'd all starve.

Looking at their stricken faces, Margaret could see the other girls were coming to the same conclusion.

Then they heard rustling in the branches. The thick wall showed gaps of sunshine. There were flashes of silver, the sound of a man's groans. At last, the branches parted before a blade, and William burst into the kitchen.

His mustache had darkened a bit over the decades, but he still looked as young and dignified as ever. Though his face and hands were bleeding with a thousand scratches, he bowed with his usual courtesy and a hint of a smile. "Good morning, ladies. I trust you slept as well as I did?"

"What's it like out there?" Margaret asked.

"Overgrown," William replied. "The entire palace is covered in roses--a precaution of the fairies, though I'm not certain whether it came from the good or the bad ones."

William cast his gaze across the room, and suddenly became solemn. "Where is the princess?"

"Still asleep," Lydia said, near tears. "It's awful! There's no one to wake her!"

The look of selfless devastation on William's face made everything clear.

"William," Margaret said. "You love the princess."

This unflappable young man blushed and looked at the ground. "It is not my place--"

"You stayed a hundred years for her! Of course you love her!"

"I could never be her true love. I am only a guard--"

"It's been a hundred years! Some other king rules the kingdom. There's no one alive who'd object. You have to kiss her awake!"

William turned white and his jaw fell. "I could never take such liberties!"

Margaret put her hands on her hips. "Look, if Aurora was drowning, you'd jump in to save her, right? Even if it meant touching her without asking permission."

"Naturally."

"This is no different. If you don't try, Aurora will die."

William thought, then bowed. "I will do what I must to serve the princess."

Margaret seized William's hand and led him toward Aurora's tower.

#

Celia jumped to her feet as they entered the room. Her eyes brightened as she saw the guard.

"William! Have you found the prince?"

Margaret and Lydia pushed William toward the bed. "He's right here," Margaret said.

William stood beside Aurora, looking down into her serene, flawless face. "What if she doesn't welcome such an advance?" he whispered. "How could she care for a man she barely knows?"

Anne said, "Why don't you ask her when she wakes up?"

William bent over Aurora--then stood up. "This might not work."

At once, all four of Aurora's ladies said, "Kiss her!"

Ever so gently, with impossible tenderness, William brushed his lips over Aurora's.

Aurora's eyes opened. "William?" she breathed.

William bowed his head. "Forgive me for taking such liberties, your highness--"

Aurora threw her arms around his neck. "I'm so glad it's you."

Caught in her embrace, William stood flabbergasted.

"Your highness," he said. "Under the circumstances, I do not expect you to return my affection--"

Aurora pushed him away and looked in his face. "How could I not? You stayed true to me when every other man in the world abandoned me."

"You do not know me."

"I know that you stayed. I have a whole new century to get to know everything else." Aurora sat up on the edge of the bed. "If we decide that marriage suits us, I have plenty of bridesmaids."

#

With laughter, all of Aurora's ladies embraced her in turn, sharing stories about their hundred years of sleep.

Margaret went last, holding Aurora tight.

Aurora said, "I can't thank you enough. All of you, so true. You gave up a whole world for me."

As Margaret looked around the room at Anne laughing over her ruined century-old knitting, at Lydia and Celia teasing William--the women she loved like sisters and a brand-new brother--Margaret felt justified in saying, "If I lost a world, I got a better one in return."

[inky-duchess]

Etiquette of the Edwardian Era and La Belle Époque: How to Dress

This is a new set of posts focusing on the period of time stretching from the late 19th century to the early 20th Century right up to the start of WWI.

I'll be going through different aspects of life. This series can be linked to my Great House series as well as my Season post and Debutant post.

Today will be focusing on the rules of clothes with this time period.

A Cut for Every Occasion

As you may know, the wealthy elite and their servants lived extremely regimented lives and every aspect was governed by careful rules. They would be expected to wear the right outfit at the right time, every minute of the day. Any misstep would be noticed at once and be subject to scruntiny.

In the circles of the elite, one would be expected to change for every occasion. One simply wouldn't wear the same outfit they've been lying around the house in to attend tea at somebody's house. Fashion in this era was dictated by the clock and by the event diary of the wearer.

Ladies

Women of the upperclass would be expected to change at least six times a day. When she would rise for a morning of repose around the house, she would simply wear a house gown or a simple blouse and skirt. If planning a morning stroll, she would change into a walking suit which is a combination of blouse, skirt and jacket along with her hat usually of tweed. If running errands or paying a visit to friends, she would wear another walking suit. If riding, she would wear a riding habit and a hat. If hosting tea or taking tea in her own home, she would change into a tea gown with is a lighter more airier gown more comfortable for chilling in. If attending a garden party, one wears a pastel or white formal day gown accompanied by a straw hat and gloves. For dinner, she would change into an evening gown which would be more elaborate and show off a little more skin than her day wear. After dinner and ready for bed, she would change into her nightgown.

Female servants had an easier time of it. A housekeeper and lady's maid would simply wear a solid black gown for the entire day. A cook and kitchen maids would wear a simple day dress for working with an apron. Housemaids would usually wear a print dress with an apron and cap, changing into the more formal black and white attire you would associate with a maid.

Gentlemen

The gentlemen had an easier time but they too were subject to changes throughout the day. Men were expected to wear a suit. The most popular day time suit was a sack suit. These were comprised of plain and loose fitting jackets, worn over a starched shirt with a high collar, waistcoat and straight trousers with ironed creases. These suits were exclusively wool with cheaper ones made of a wool and cotton blend. Grey, green, brown, navy were usual but sine younger men preferred louder colours such as purple which was a trend for a time in the 1910s. These suits were worn about the house or in the city accompanied by a coat. Men would change into tweed if shooting or walking. For garden parties, a gentleman would wear a light coloured suit, usually white and a straw hat. For dinner, a man had two choices: his tails or his dinner jacket. A dinner jacket was for less formal suppers say if dining at home. This was a collection of a jacket, trousers, waistcoat, a bow tie, a detachable wing-collar shirt and black shoes. Lapels of these jackets were edged with silk or satin. Tails were worn at a formal dinner party, at White Tie events. This was made up of a tailcoat, white piqué waistcoat, a starched dress shirt with a pique bib and standing wing collar with a white bow tie. Trousers were lined with trim to hide the seams.

Male servants were soared changing. Footmen would wear their livery around the clock which would resemble white tie to a certain extent or mimic court dress of palace servants. Butler's would wear a variation of a gentleman's evening suit throughout the day. When a male servant is dressed, he usually stays that way. However, a valet or a footman may be taken to pick up during shooting parties where they would wear tweed walking suits.

Jewellery

Jewellery was an important sign of status in society. Upperclass women of this time has access to untold caches of sparklers but there were rules concerning their use and meaning. Earrings were usually clip ons as women of high status would not pierce their ears. Simple, understated earrings were worn during the day with more ostentatious sets were worn in the evening time. Broaches were popular at this time, usually worn at the throat of a gown or blouse or walking suit or affixed on hats. Large stoned rings were worn over gloves while slender bands were worn under. Jewellery was intricate and understated amongst old money whole the nouveau riche went for chunkier stones and larger settings. Tiaras were only worn at White Tie events, held after six pm and almost never by unmarried girls. One would not wear a larger tiara than that most senior lady present. Men would wear tie pins, cufflinks and pocket watches to match any occasion be it for a jaunt on the town or at a formal evening party.

Hats

Hats were a staple in this period. Anybody respectable from any class wouldn't venture out of the door without a hat.

Men would wear hats when heading out but always remove them when entering a building, and never wear one without removing it for the presence of a lady. The bowler was seen as more a servant's headwear while a top hat was reserved for gentlemen. Flat caps would be only seen on gentlemen at shooting gatherings or in the country, they were popular among the common class for any informal occasion.

Women had more stricter rules concern hats. Hats for women were more a day accessory worn while out and about. A woman would not wear a hat in her own home even when entertaining and nor would any of the other female occupants if joining the gathering. A woman would not remove her hat when attending a luncheon or tea or any activity. Hats were held in place by a ribbon or sash tied under the chin or by a hat pin, which is essentially a large needle thrust through the hair. This was the period where women's hats became more ornate and rather large, leading to some critisism. Among servants, housekeepers and lady's maids would not wear a hat while indoors and working but a housemaid or cook or kitchen maid would cover their hair with a cap with housemaids changing into a more elaborate one come evening time. Male servants would not wear hats unless travelling or outdoors.

Gloves

Gloves are a staple in this period and worn only at the opportune time. Among servants, only footmen would wear gloves and usually only when serving. Butlers would never wear gloves. Female servants did not wear gloves.

Men did wear gloves, usually woollen or leather while outside or riding gloves when out on horseback.

Women wore gloves whenever outside. Day gloves were usually wrist length, with evening gloves stretching to the elbow. During dinner, evening gloves would be removed at the first course and laid across the lap, replaced at the last course when the ladies leave for tea and coffee after where the gloves are then removed again. Gloves are always worn when dancing and at the theatre or opera. If one is sitting in ones box and sampling some chocolate, one can remove their gloves for that.

Hair and Makeup

Make up was a no-no amongst the upper crust and for their servants in England and America, as it was seen as licentious but in France, the use of rouge was accepted. Perfume and cologne were acceptable but excessive use was frowned upon.

Hair was dressed by one's lady's maid. Bouffant updos were popular in this time period for married women. During the last years of this period, women began adopting the 'bob' but this was seen as radical and sometimes scandalous. Unmarried girls could wear their hair down, often with accessories like a bow to adorn their tresses. Servants would always tie up their hair and never be seen with it down or uncovered (though this depended on their job).

Men would comb their hair, slicking it back for dinner. Most men were clean shaven but if they wore beards, they were usually well groomed. Hair was kept short for grown men and teenagers but young boys may wear their hair longer whilst in the nursery.

[victoriansecret]

Servants and Upward Mobility

This is focused on paid servants in England in the mid-late 18th century. One thing I find fascinating about the structure of domestic service roles was the existence of what essentially we might call a career ladder today. It was not uncommon for a servant to start their career near the bottom of the hierarchy as, say, a boot boy who cleans the shoes and boots of the household, or the scullery maid who does all the dirty kitchen work like scrubbing iron cooking vessels or plucking chickens, but progressively move up the list to better positions.

Part of why this was the case was that it was typical in England to hire servants for one year terms at a time. Often they'd be hired at festivals on the quarter days of the year, which as part of the festivities would often include what today we'd call a job fair. For some reason, Michaelmas (September 29) seems to be the most common as far as I can tell. I had never really thought about why that might be until I started planning this post, and I now wonder if it might have something to do with that being right around when harvest time usually comes in England. I could easily imagine people, especially young people, being on the cusp of another labourious harvest and thinking that maybe they could find another job instead. Related tangent: There are a number of remarks in the period that servants from the northern parts of England were considered to be much more respectful than servants from more populated, urban areas. Those communities were (at least considered to be) a lot stricter about remembering one's place and respecting your social 'betters', and their behaviour as servants was believed to reflect that. Some people would actively have their agents look to hire people from those rural areas, and apparently it was easy to attract potential employees: there are a number of remarks about how when a fancy carriage would drive through a small town, with the fancily-liveried footmen riding on the back, it would bring young people to stare in awe and want to be part of that. Which as someone whose interest in domestic service started in part because of my obsession with livery, I can understand. Anyway, back to the main point: because they often served one-year terms, there was an annual chance for both parties - the servant and the served - to review and determine how to move forward. A servant who was favoured might negotiate for a new position in the household, at least one step higher on the ladder (if not more), and they had leverage because they could leave the field entirely or possibly go off to a new household and find a higher position there. There was also a practice of asking for your master or mistress to provide a "character", essentially what we would today call a reference: a letter to show potential employers detailing their behaviour and skill in their role. Certainly there were times that some employers refused to give a good character, and sometimes that was explicitly because they wanted to keep the servant because they were a valuable asset to their household, but it was considered part of the obligation of the master class to be honest in these.

And it is not at all uncommon to find people who have served many different people/households throughout their career. The most I have seen is 28, although that's slightly misleading: that was a man who decided he wanted to travel, so hired himself to gentleman going on journeys for the duration of the trips, many of which were only a couple months. (The book he published, which he wrote about his travels and the "exotic" places and people he encountered, is interesting, and for my purposes super helpful because he turned out to be a narcissist and wrote a lot about himself, including his career as a servant. It's the only quasi-memoir of a paid servant from this time I am aware of. I might write a post about it/him sometime. I digress.) [continued in next post]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

upon his grace 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: friday!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved. 

The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood. 

“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through. 

There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her. 

The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.  

The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.” 

The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all. 

“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?” 

“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds. 

“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp. 

“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.” 

Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.” 

“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another. 

“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims. 

“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession. 

“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend. 

As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title. 

“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees. 

“Farmland,” the right says. 

“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply. 

“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.” 

You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can. 

“Many thanks, your highness.” 

The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.” 

You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?” 

Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child. 

You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter. 

“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming. 

“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab. 

“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.” 

“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering. 

“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer. 

“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.” 

“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.” 

You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught. 

“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?” 

“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.” 

“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.” 

“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound. 

“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.” 

You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease. 

“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.” 

Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe. 

👑

Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant. 

You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book. 

Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece. 

“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.” 

He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause. 

“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.” 

Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known. 

You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence. 

“There you are,” she mutters. 

“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly. 

“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.” 

“The measure? They were all quite friendly.” 

“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.” 

You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?” 

“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.” 

“The dowager?” You echo. 

“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?” 

“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!” 

“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?” 

“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through. 

“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.” 

“She did?” You frown. 

“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.” 

You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary 

[cazzyf1]

My favourite quotes from Niki Lauda's book: "Reden wir Über Geld'

I expected him to spontaneously give me the finger - p6

I hate it when I go through security at the airport and the coins clatter around again. For this reason alone, the comparison with Scrooge McDuck, who likes to swim in money, is completely nonsense - p9

My mother regularly drove me to a Dentist behind the Vienna city hall, where I was tormented for years with regulations. I was more of a wimp, or as they say in Vienna: a slob - p13

My grandfather lived more like a real millionaire. He was the country's model industrialist and lived in a palace on the Ringstrasse with liveried servants who wore black uniforms and white gloves. Hans Lauda was the general director of the Veitsch Magnesitwerke. The Nazis dismissed him in 1938, but he returned to his post after the war. As president of the Austrian Industrial Association, he was one of the pioneers of social partnership and the economic miracle. He was also president of the Red Cross until 1974 and was therefore personally acquainted with Princess Grace Patricia, who was the president of the Red Cross in Monaco. In 1956 he organized aid for thousands of Hungarian refugees. I was only seven at the time, but I know from stories. - p14

Still in my pajamas, I heated up a toy steam engine. Beforehand, I mixed the water in the boiler with iron filings. Which of course wasn't such a good idea. There was an explosion and the hot steam burned my right thigh. My parents were done. I mostly argued with my brother Florian. To this day, we have no common interests, just the fact that we are brothers. One time I was lying in bed when Florian climbed onto the bedside table and tried to jump on me. I tipped the table over with my foot and my brother hit the floor. Then my father came and gave me a slap. Sometimes we played fire brigade together. To make the whole thing a bit more authentic and challenging, one day I brought a canister over, poured the petrol out lit it and ordered Florian to put out the fire. Although the hoses were ready, the fire briefly got out of control. The garage almost burned down and a few fruit trees were singed. - p15-16

I never dreamed of flying, and I certainly didn't see flying as a worthwhile hobby. I wanted to be faster. I wanted to save time. Because I was already earning a decent amount of money at the time, I had brought a Cessna Golden Eagle, had my own pilot and learned the practical side of things by flying with others. I became a student pilot and my preferred route was Salzburg-Bolgona. That made double sense. That's how I got into flying, got one license after another and four years later I founded an airline as the first Formula 1 driver and professional pilot. - p28

I also wanted to coax a private Ferrari out of the Commendatore, but he only gave me a Fiat - p34

I usually carry around 300 to 400 euros with me, 500 at the most. If there are several notes, I hold them together with a money clip. I've never had a wallet. I avoid coins in everyday life. Not that I don't value small change, but it's too heavy in my pockets and I don't like the clatter - p36

Max and Mia also like to play 'police' they drive wildly through the house on their astic scooters and I have to say: "Stop! You were driving too fast. That will cost you thirty euros." They then count to thirty together, in English. - p37

Brigit once asked me to take the bus because the twins like doing it so much. "Sure!" I said, "I'll do it. How do you pay?" In the end I let it go. - p38

I loved spinach even as a small child, because of popeye the sailor - p39

In Spielberg I once asked him: "Lewis, do you see anything about me that needs to be improved?" He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that moment. Then he explained to me: "You should throw away that brown sweater immediately! That is the worst color for a man. And you need different pants! Not always the same ones and besides, they just don't fit." I enjoyed listening to that and thinking about it. But then I came to the following conclusion: Why should I change anything if everything is fine for me? "Thanks for the input", I said to Lewis, "but even if my blue jeans are down to my knees hang down, I just feel so comfortable in them." - p39/40

It was also Forghieri who came up with the idea of suggesting a sponsor for my red cap. "Watch out," he said one day, "there is a salami company that now wants to get into milk production, which would be interested in advertising." - p43-4

I crossed the finish line in a first Grand Prix, with Clay Regazzoni behind me, so it was a double victory for Ferrari, a true triumph. That night, they played Blue Danube Waltz in the disco in my honour. - p45

When I sit in the cockpit, for example, I notice every speck of dust. As a farewell gift, employees of LaudaAir gave me a man size brush as a nod to my cleanliness obsession - p52

Willi Dungl wanted to find out whether I had suffered trauma from the inferno. He once lit a fire in the fireplace at my home in Salzburg and said, "look at that Niki!" I looked inside, but nothing was moving. I also couldn't care less about the fire in the accident photo - p57-8

I had waited my whole life for a guy like Attila Dogudan - p91

Is Attila Dogudan my friend? I don't want to say anything wrong now. My perception of friendship around this is that people meet in the evenings and spend their hours talking about their worries. The only person who sometimes notices my worries is Birgit - sometimes she whistles at me! -p95/6

I would describe Atilla as my long-term companion - p96

If he didn't answer I would send him an SMS: "I'll cancel the entire catering if you don't call in five minutes." Of course he calls back immediately - p97

My brother Florian, who is 18 months younger than me, is a Buddhist - p107

But the main issue was a heart operation for a three year old boy called Soumitra. That cost a few thousand euros, which we transferred straight away. We then received photos of the child before and after the operation. Since then, when I meet Claudia, I always ask her; "how is my heart?" I mean the heart of this little Indian boy, who has been able to live a normal life since the operation. P109

Fourfiveseconds by Rihanna is such an incredibly great song. Lewis Hamilton, who now makes music himself, sometimes goes with me to promotional events. He is always amazed at the songs I have saved, like an old idiot. 'Some nights' by fun, or George Ezra'a Budapest. I have hundreds of songs like that saved on my iphone and listen to them over and over again - p114

When Birigt wants something from me and I'm feeling defiant, I play her, 'Hero' by Family of the year - p115

When we have a little tangle I play her 'Blame it on me' - p115

Sometimes Birgit, who loves red wine, jokes; "drink another glass of wine, my kidney needs it!" I then sip the glass because I just don't like red wine - like alchol in general - p117

In 2000 I came up with the idea of flying into space. There are several programs running for such flights. I already tried it out in a simulator in Houston, Texas - p122

Later on I explained to my boys that there are also people with two ears. We laughed together. - p143

When Lukas was 15, I took him to a strip club. Sex education. I was shocked myself at how close women were to him. They danced around and took off one thing after another. Lukas watched it all. When it was over he stood up, took off his shirt, and put it around the dancers shoulders so that she wouldn't freeze. It was a really caring gesture. Then I knew: that guy not only has manners, but also heart. Lukas wanted to invite her out but I advised him against it. - p143/144

Sometimes Marlene went crazy when she found out about one of my escapades but she never said a bad word about me in front of the children - p144

In her boundless generosity, Marlene would have taken Christoph into our family, but his mother didn't want that - p145

[lebedame-wegelagerin]

And here, as promised to the dear @vinceaddams come a lot of extant Garments from my recent Visit at the German National Museum in Nuremberg. I am trying to give as much Information about each Picture as I can though unfortunately not all of the Pictures were taken by me and I could take Pictures as extensively (including Info Signs) as I would have wanted, lest I be abandoned in the Clothing Section. Also the whole Section was awfully dim, which made it rather difficult to read some of the Signs. The last three Pictures were taken in a different Section, thus the more pleasant Lighting.

Servant Livery, bavarian Court, mid 19th Century (left); Servant of the Count of Cannotreadhisname, first half 19th Century (right)

Woman's Folkdress, Lötschental/Wallis (Switzerland), Museum dates it 1830/1905 which is an awfully broad Range, but maybe it was altered later; shows wonderfully how late 18th Century Styles were preserved in european Folkdress that came to be in the 19th Century proper

Various Men's Garments throughout the 18th Century, as there are Closeups of each, the respective Detailinformation will be provided further down.

Men's Spencer, c. 1810s-1820s, Linen and Cotton, the Sign didn't say it explicitely but due to it's Placement in the Exhibition and comparable other Pieces I have seen, I think this is more of a common Man's Piece of Clothing.

Three Men's Shirts, various Shoebuckles, a cocked Hat, a Periwig and what I assume to be a Hair Bag. This Display Case had a rather badly illuminated Sign, so sadly I have no further Details about the Pieces.

Justeaucorps, c. 1695, Wool, Silk, Metal Trim.

Waistcoat, c. 1695, Silk, according to the Museum it was worn together with the Justeaucorps, which seems to be a nice Colour-Combination.

Breeches, 1790-1800, Silk. Very pretty Pair, but the bad Lighting doesn't really let it show.

Habit à la francaise, c. 1790, Wool, Silk, Embroidery (What a Material Specification...). I really like the Combination of those subtle dark on dark Stripes and the Embroidery.

Tailcoat, c. 1790/1795, Cotton, Silk, Linen, really peak 1790s Look honestly.

Very wide Court Panniers, with Pocket Hoops and Crinoline in the Background. Alas no Detail Information for this and the next two Pictures.

Frontal View of the Pannier. I suppose I have to get one of those at some Point, if only for how extra they are.

Three Pairs of Stays, two from the Front, one from the Back. Sadly I don't feel confident enough to Date those and I have no Pictures showing the Info Signs well enough.

Lots of pretty Dresses that were exhibited in another Section of the Museum. The right one is a Robe à l'Anglaise, but that's all I can tell.

Another beautiful Anglaise, notable for being preserved in its Entirety with original Ruffles.

More pretty Dresses. Unfortunately due to Time Reasons I have no Pictures of the Suits displayed across the Dresses in the U-shaped Display, though I have to say one of them had a very much not authentic Lacebib hanging from the Neck...

That's all the cool Clothing Pics I have, at some Point I will return and take loooots more Pictures from all the Angles too. Also at some Point I might write to the Museum about the Lighting, there surely is a better Solution when having your Objects barely visible with unreadable Signs while still protecting them from UV-Rays.

Bonus-Pic 1:

Me, in historical Dress, c. 1750 (minus the Shoes), standing in a historical Kitchen.

Bonus-Pic 2, for the Boat-Crowd:

Beautifully detailed Modell Sailing Ship, early to mid 17th Century if I remember correctly. Interestingly enough all the little Sailor Figurines on it were very much early 19th Century in Style, so I assume the previous owner had those added at some Point, before the Museum acquired the Model in the late 19th Century. (The Incongruence sadly wasn't addressed on the Info Sign, so I might contact them about this too.)

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 88

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 88: Cursed Child

AO3 - Masterlist

The Council Chambers fell silent as her father, the Hand of the King, stood and began to collect his parchments. With each movement, Alicent’s heart sank deeper, burdened by a sense of impending disaster. She could hardly bear to watch, turning instead to gaze out the chamber windows, where the city sprawled out beneath the shadow of the Red Keep, blissfully unaware of the darkness growing within its red walls. 

When she turned back, her gaze fell upon her son. He was watching Daenera with the intense focus of a boy fixated on something he had been denied–something he believed was his, something he would fight for. The possessive longing in his eye stirred a deep unease within her. Stepping forward decisively, she intercepted, placing herself between them. 

Alicent reached out for Daenera, her fingers brushing against the younger woman’s before she could retreat. Grasping her hand firmly, Alicent spoke with a voice of measured calm. “I will be going to the Sept. Join me.”

A frown tugged at the corners of the young princess’s brow, her blue eyes mirroring a mix of unease and suspicion as she regarded Alicent with weariness. Alicent understood her hesitation; after all, she had been vocal in her opposition to the marriage and her terms for freeing her men. Yet, the decision had been made–regardless of her personal reservations, the union was to proceed. Alicent now resolved to speak with the princess alone, hoping the sanctity of the Sept would lend gravity and sincerity to their discussion. 

Turning her gaze to her son, Alicent dismissed him with a sharp look. Aemond’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching as he scowled. He briefly sought Daenera’s gaze, which she deliberately avoided, seemingly focusing on the dust motes swirling in the light. With a low hum of frustration emanating from deep within, his gaze hardened and he turned from them. 

Daenera met Alicent’s eyes, gently pulling her hand away. “I fear I have exerted myself today. I should return to my chambers.”

Alicent stepped closer to Daenera, grasping her hand with a firmness that brooked no argument. Her voice, unwavering and commanding, suggested, “A visit to the sept might do you good, not just for your physical well-being, but for your soul as well.”

Linking Daenera’s arm securely with her own, Alicent led the way out of the Council Chambers with an air of determination, brushing aside the young woman’s reluctance. As they emerged into the hallway, where Mertha and Oliver awaited, Alicent’s gaze fell sternly on Mertha. If the older woman had kept a tight grip on the princess, she mused silently, they could have avoided the day’s complications. She steered Daenera forward, leaving no room for protest, her expression a mix of resolve and subtle disapproval. 

As they moved into the expansive grand hall, the atmosphere subtly shifted, filled with the low buzz of conversations among the courtiers clustered throughout. These groups congregated not only in the hall itself but also at the first landing of the grand staircase, where they could observe the comings and goings within the Red Keep. 

The servants, threading their way through the nobles, stood out in their new liveries, a change from the traditional Targaryen red to a more subdued forest green, marking a new era under a different reign. Their movements were brisk and purposeful, a sharp contrast to the leisurely pace of the courtiers. 

As Alicent and Daenera advanced through the hall, each courtier paused to bow before them, offering hushed, respectful greetings. The titles of 'Queen Mother' and 'Dowager' felt like ill-fitting garments to Alicent, new and uncomfortable additions to her identity that she reluctantly bore. She had always been addressed as 'Your Grace,' a term that resonated with her regal authority as queen, a role now relinquished to her daughter. These new designations grated not only on her but on her entire family—her son, her daughter. Each of them was encumbered by these titles that marked a transition in power and responsibility. Despite the initial discomfort, Alicent knew they must adapt, bearing these titles with the dignity and grace expected of their station, until they became a second skin.

The stone beneath their feet transitioned from the cold, smooth rock of the Red Keep to the rougher cobbles of the landing, and eventually the gravel and dirt of the courtyard. The sprawling courtyard, framed by the towering red walls of the Keep, was alive with the early afternoon activities of the castle. Guardsmen patrolled the peripheries, their armor glinting in the waning sunlight, green cloaks fluttering in the wind, while servants hurried across the open space, carrying messages and materials.

The air was filled with the mixed scents of the nearby gardens–late blooming flowers and the earthy dampness of freshly watered soil, adding a soft, almost sweet fragrance to the stench carried on the breeze from the city below. 

Royal Sept’s spires reached towards the sky, its stained glass window catching the light of the sun, transforming them into vibrant mosaics of light. Alicent guided Daenera up the steps of the Sept, it’s grand oak doors standing as imposing as those of the throne room, adorned with ornate carvings smoothed by the passage of time. They pushed through into the serene quiet of the Sept, where the sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, scattering a mosaic of colors across the marble floors. While Alicent had always favored the subtle grandeur of the Grand Sept, she could not deny that there was a lavish beauty to the Royal Sept. Its opulence, though excessive, held a majesty that commanded respect and reverence.

Under the light of a grand stained-glass window, the statues of the Seven stood like silent sentinels, their faces etched in solemnity as they watched over the sacred space. Each figure cast a watchful eye from its alcove, bathed in the fragmented light that spilled across the floor. At the base of these idols, small altars lay adorned with candles of varying heights, their flames gently swaying in the still air, each light offering a silent prayer. 

And in the center of the sept, a robust circular altar of rough-hewn stone drew the eye. Its sides were carved meticulously with the depictions of the Seven, encircling the structure like guardians of old. This central altar was crowned with hundreds of candles, their soft glow casting a serene light that filled the chamber, yet struggled against the pervasive chill that seemed to seep from the marble itself. 

This coolness lingered stubbornly, undisturbed by the warm flickers of candlelight that danced across the walls and floor. It wove through the air, intertwining with the draft that occasionally stirred the flames into a dance of light and shadow. The air fragrant with the scent of incense that mingled subtly with the lingering aroma of polished wood and wax from the candles that lined walls and altars. 

As they entered, the septas bowed their heads in deference and quietly exited through a side archway, descending to the lower levels where they attended to sacred duties. The Royal Sept, now devoid of other souls, enveloped Alicent, Daenera, and Mertha in a cloak of silence. With Mertha lingering discreetly at the room's edge, Alicent led Daenera down the central aisle towards the rounded altar. Their footsteps echoed softly, the sound a gentle whisper against the serene quiet of the vast, sacred space. At the altar, Alicent released Daenera’s hand. Her voice was soft as she watched the flames dance in reverence on the altar. “When I was younger, I often sought comfort in the Sept, and still do, though my preference has always leaned towards the Grand Sept…”

The words hung in the air, resonating in the hallowed silence. Alicent mused that perhaps her fondness for the Grand Sept stemmed from its location outside the walls of the Red Keep–it offered her a semblance of freedom. There, the darkness was a solace, the vast space barely lit by candles and dim light filtering through the distant windows–just enough to break the enveloping shadow but not enough to banish it. The Royal Sept, in contrast, while dim, dazzled with its opulence and vibrancy. 

“The gods deserve reverence in simplicity,” she reflected aloud, her gaze drifting to the stained glass. “Nothing should overshadow their presence.”

Alicent gracefully adjusted the fabric of her gown and settled onto the cushioned bench surrounding the altar–the Great Sept had no such luxuries as cushions, and would often leave her knees bruised after long prayer. She took the taper from the holder, her movements steeped in the comfort of familiar rituals. Lighting the taper from an already glowing candle, she watched the flame flicker to life, her voice softening with reflection. “When your grandmother, Aemma Arry, passed away,” she said as she used the taper to ignite a candle in remembrance for the Queen that came before her, “Your mother found herself at a loss for how to grieve. She loved her mother dearly, as all children love their mothers. She became isolated, distancing herself from those who cared for her…” 

Alicent had loved the Queen, Aemma, although she had not been particularly fond of her in return–she had treated her with kindness and courtesy, but there had always been a wariness to their relationship. Aemma’s death had struck a profound blow not only to Rhaenyra but also her father. In the quiet moments that followed, Alicent had often found herself contemplating what her life would have been had Aemma Arryn survived childbirth and born Viserys a son. Would she have married a kind lord? Would she have found love? Might she have clung to the remnants of her childhood a bit longer? These reflections served little purpose now. 

The wax from the candle dripped onto the altar, joining the layer of dried wax that had accumulated from years of devotion. Periodically, this wax would be scraped away, the altar restored to a pristine slate, seemingly erasing all the prayers and meditations once poured onto it. Yet, the cycle would repeat: new layers of wax would build as new prayers were whispered and old ones renewed, a testament to the enduring reverence for the gods. 

Alicent spoke softly as she continued her reflections, “The void that forms from losing a loved one deepens when one is uncertain how to properly grieve. To face such a loss alone, without recognition or comfort, it cools the heart… brews anger… and from anger, often comes folly…

“I thought bringing her here might comfort her as it did me when I lost mine own mother,” Alicent murmured, her voice low but clear in the quiet of the sept. She paused, her gaze lingering on the newly lit candle as she brought the taper to it’s wick. Alyrie Florent. “The gods are a comfort in moments like these, and we should take comfort in knowing that those we lost are at peace…”

Alicent’s gaze settled on Daenera, who stood a few paces away, her hands clasped before her. The flickering candlelight played across the princess’s features, casting her face in a warm glow that seemed to kindle the unshed tears in her eyes, giving them a shimmer like that of the flames themselves. “Come, sit with me…”

There was a moment of hesitation, Daenera's eyes fixed warily on Alicent before she carefully gathered her skirts and knelt beside her. As she settled, there was something almost childlike about her demeanor, her gaze captivated by the flames. She almost resembled a daughter at Alicent’s side, her dark hair styled similarly to Alicent’s own, delicate earrings swaying gently, and her dress of soft green fabric wrapping her figure. Yet, the reflection was not so complete—Daenera's eyes, blue and alight with an icy flame, marked the difference. Alicent turned her attention away from the young woman, focusing instead on the warmth and dance of the candle flames before them.

Alicent’s voice held a solemn timbre as she spoke, “The Stranger will claim us all..” She paused, her gaze fixed on the candlelight. “But death is not the end. The gods pass judgment on every soul. Should we seek absolution and repent for our sins, there may yet be peace for us in the next life, even if it eludes us in this one.”

Her thoughts drifted as she silently recited the prayers she had often whispered here, a litany of hopes and supplications: for forgiveness, for alleviation of fear and pain, for a son to fulfill her father's expectations, for a child she could call truly hers, for strength to endure, for recognition of her suffering, and for her sacrifices to be acknowledged and rewarded by the gods. 

It almost came as a start as Daenera’s voice cut through the silence. “Do you repent for your sins?” The princess asked, her eyes cold with judgment as they met Alicent’s. “Is it absolution you seek by bringing me here?”

Alicent’s breath caught in her throat, her heart thudding dully, each beat echoing the heaviness that settled when her son had returned from Storm’s End a kinslayer. She blinked, turning her eyes from Daenera’s probing gaze, her eyes finding refuge in the flickering candlelight. Was she guilty for what had happened to the poor boy? In her heart, Alicent knew she couldn’t escape some measure of blame–she had sent Aemond to Storm’s End, and it was her son who had committed the dreadful act. It was never meant to end in bloodshed. And with Aemond showing no sign of remorse, she felt compelled to shoulder the burden of penitence herself–if he would not seek redemption, she would implore the gods on his behalf, beseech them for mercy and forgiveness. 

“I have repented for my sins,” she answered, voice a whisper of conviction. “The gods have seen what is in my heart. They understand my regrets, and I believe they will offer forgiveness…”

Alicent drew a deep breath before speaking, as though shaking off the princess’s words. “Do you know why we light candles?” She didn’t need to glance at Daenera to feel her attention shift towards the flames–she felt her gaze leave her, felt it as profoundly as stepping out of a shadow and into the light. “We light them so that our prayers are brought into the light before the gods–we light them so the gods might hear us…”

Holding the taper to another candle a new flame came to life. She watched the drip  of wax grow closer to her fingers, a reminder of the taper’s fleeting existence. “We light these candles not only to elevate our prayers but also to honor those who have left this world…” She said, her voice softening as she mentioned the next name with a pause, thick with emotion. “Viserys Targaryen.” 

In the quiet solitude of the Sept, she often found herself reflecting on her life, and her marriage to Viserys. Despite the resentments she felt–resentments stirred by the sacrifices she’d made for him, the opportunities he had permitted Rhaenyra and her children to snatch from her own, and his failing as a husband and father–she mourned him. Yet amidst these resentments, there had been companionship. 

Duty had tethered Alicent to Viserys, a binding force that connected them as surely as their vows. She had embraced her responsibilities without protest, molding herself into the queen and wife expected of her. Yet, while duty was a sharp-edged thread that had often cut into her, Viserys had borne it as a man of his station might: with a sense of entitlement and a certain heedlessness. She had been left to shoulder the weight of their shared obligations largely alone, bearing the brunt of their duties with a stoic grace that belied the sacrifices she had to make.

She grieved him not only as a wife who had lost her husband but as a queen who had lost her king. Her sorrow was intertwined with the implications his death brought for both her and the realm. She did mourn him genuinely–for everything he had been to her, but somewhere, within that grief, there was a profound sense of relief. 

“May it guide him to the warmth of the gods’ light…” she added quietly. 

Alicent paused, the taper held above another candle. Wax dripped onto the wick as she hesitated, reflecting on the weight of her next words. Finally, with a somber resolve, she lowered the taper, its flame kissing the wick to life. “And for Lucerys Velaryon.”

Holding the taper aloft for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, allowing the silence of the sept to envelop her. In this sacred stillness, she recited silent prayers for the departed souls, beseeching the Father for his just judgment and imploring the Mother’s warm embrace to shelter them eternally.

As her eyes settled back on Daenera, she noticed the princess focused intently on an unlit candle, her gaze sharp enough to ignite it through sheer force of will. Her posture was rigid, her jaw set tightly as her eyes burned with a faint shimmer of tears that threatened to spill. She seemed almost like a child then, fragile and unsure.

Offering the taper, Alicent watched as Daenera took it, her scrutiny of the small flame turning to hesitance. Finally, with evident reluctance, she accepted it, her hand shaking subtly as she reached out. The candlelight cast a soft glow on the girl's face, accentuating her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, giving her an almost haunted appearance. She held the taper unsteadily, poised just above the wick of the awaiting candle.  

Hoping to offer some comfort, Alicent spoke with soft sincerity, her hands clasped before her as she looked up at the faces of the gods. “I had hoped you might find some solace in knowing that your brother is with the gods now…”

The taper stilled before it reached the wick, nothing more than stub now and growing precariously close to Daenera’s fingers. Her voice came as a fragile whisper, “My brother isn’t with the gods.”

Alicent faced Daenera, taken aback by the intensity of the young woman’s gaze, alight with scorn. Daenera brought the taper to her lips and extinguished the flame with a deliberate puff, then set the spent taper aside. “What remains of him not scattered across Shipbreaker Bay,” she said in a chillingly calm voice, icy with disdain, “Is left buried in a pile of shit somewhere.”

A disquieting heaviness settled in Alicent’s stomach, her heart uneasy. The child-like countenance she had observed moments earlier seemed to burn away in front of her eyes–turned into something darkened by resentment. Her glare, heavy with judgment and accusation, bore into Alicent. 

Her voice softened as she addressed Daenera, attempting to convey genuine sympathy to alleviate the young woman’s suffering–hoping to dispel the accusations lurking in her gaze. “I am deeply sorry for your loss. We have all suffered too much already… I–I never thought Aemond would… I never thought he would do such a thing; it was a grave mistake. I condemn it.”

Daenera’s expression only hardened, her eyebrows knitting together as a scornful scoff escaped her lips. She briefly averted her gaze, shaking her head in disbelief. When she looked back at Alicent, the flames of the altar burned dangerously in her cold blue eyes, filled with such unsettling intensity that it made Alicent’s heart tremble. 

“Your condolences means as much to me as the dirt beneath my heels,” Daenera spat at her, voice trembling with emotion. She rose to her feet, her dress whispering against the floor with each agitated movement.

Alicent exhaled sharply, her eyes seeking the divine faces of the gods, silently pleading for the strength to endure this confrontation. “It was never my desire for things to turn out this way–”

“Did you not?” Daenera retorted, voice thick with anger as tears trailed down her cheeks, quickly brushed away by her fingers. “You nurtured his resentment, you shaped his thirst for vengeance. He is but a hound, and you, his master. If he bites, it is only because you failed to teach him restraint–his actions are a reflection of your failings!”

The sting of Daenera’s words whipped across Alicent’s conscience, shaking her at her core. She had counseled Aemond to exercise restraint–that he was not to be the one to draw first blood in this war. And yet, he had not only ignored her advice but rebelled against it. Was she truly to blame for his defiance? The blame was Aemond’s to bear but she felt its weight on her own shoulders. She had hoped her son would heed her counsel, but Aemond had always possessed an inherently obstinate and willful nature–traits that at times overshadowed his sense of duty.

She recalled the instances of his rebellious spirit: his secretive ventures into the depths of the Dragonpit in search for a dragon to claim and the audacious way he had claimed Vhagar under the cover of night, the dalliance that had grown between him and Daenera continued even after her explicit command to end it. 

Her second son had always had the capricious temperament of a dragon. Perhaps of all of her children, he was the most Targaryen in nature–inherently willful with a fiery impulsivity. 

Alicent’s gaze hardened, the sting of accusation resonating deeply. With a firm voice, she answered, “My son is not a dog. He is a man. His actions are his own–”

“And my brother was just a boy of four and ten–a child–when he was slaughtered by your son!” Daenera sneered back, her voice cutting through the quiet of the sept, seeming to ring out in the high arched ceilings. 

The weight of those words settled heavily on Alicent. Had her own son not also been a victim, forever marked by the violence inflicted by another? “And what of what my son was owed?” She straightened, hands clasped tightly in front of her. “He was scarcely more than a child himself when your brother maimed him. Where was the justice for him?”

Daenera’s reply was sharp, her scorn palpable. “You cannot hide behind old grievances. Losing an eye doesn’t grant him the right to murder my brother!”

Alicent’s voice was soft, the word burdened by a weight. “No,” she agreed solemnly, “It doesn’t. I repudiate his actions with all of my heart. It was never my wish for things to turn out this way. All I wanted was for my son to get what was owed to him, what was his rightful birthright. This bloodshed, this war… none of it was what I desired.”

“Then you were blind,” Daenera stated decisively. “The moment you began to plot for Aegon to take the throne, this war became inevitable.”

“Be that as it may,” Alicent answered, her voice tinged with weariness. Was it foolish to have believed things might have unfolded differently? Was she the fool to hope that Rhaenyra would have accepted the terms they had offered? Was it folly to still hope for a resolution to this without any further bloodshed? And amidst the chaos, was she a fool to hope that Rhaenyra might forgive her for it? “But if the gods hadn’t desired Viserys’ son on the throne, they would not have blessed him with one.”

She had often mused on the cruel play of fate–how different their lives might have been had Rhaenyra been born not as a daughter but as the son and rightful heir to the throne. If Rhaenyra had been a son, perhaps her own path would have been different. Instead of being wed to Viserys, she might have found her hand promised to his son. Her life would have been different then, and yet much the same; she would have found herself burdened with similar duties, with similar sacrifices–but perhaps there would have been love and happiness. Such a twist of destiny might have spared the realm the looming shadow of war. 

Yet, the gods had different plans. They had made Rhaenyra a woman, and they had made their will known in the form of a son–her son. And Viserys had willed it by declaring Aegon his successor with his dying breath. 

Alicent couldn’t deny him that.

“The gods were, perhaps, cruel in making Rhaenyra a woman,” she mused, fingers intertwined tightly in front of her. “But that is their will, and they still saw fit to bestow Viserys with sons.”

Daenera’s words were sharp, laden with a note of skepticism and heavy with contempt. “The gods’ will has no part in this. This is by your hand–you and your fathers. Viserys declared my mother his successor–he chose her, a woman, ahead of your sons. If he truly wished for Aegon to rule–”

“He did,” Alicent cut in sharply. 

Daenera pressed on relentlessly, “Then he would’ve changed the succession long ago.” 

A deep, weary sigh fell from Alicent’s lips, her eyes briefly closing. “Viserys was a kind-hearted, amiable man. He loved your mother deeply,” she said, opening her eyes again to meet Daenera’s incredulous gaze. “I believe he wanted to spare your mother the disappointment–”

“You believe,” Daenera echoed, head shaking.

“Viserys always sought to please,” Alicent continued, voice softening. “He would avoid conflict at all costs. He wouldn't have wanted to cause a fight with your mother over it.”

“And yet he chose to plunge the realm into chaos by changing the line of succession with his dying breath?”

“He did, Daenera,” Alicent snapped. “He did. With his last breaths, he named Aegon–declared him The Prince That Was Promised. He said that he would unite the realm.”

A crude, humorless laugh escaped Daenera, reverberating over the smooth stone floors and resonating in the arched ceilings, lingering in the air even as it faded. She shook her head, scoffing, “And do you truly believe Aegon capable of that?” 

“I do,” Alicent affirmed, maintaining her stance with unwavering certainty. Aegon had potential. He might be fickle and capricious now, but he was still young and still malleable. With time, as the novelty of ruling wore off and he had gained experience, he would mature into a competent ruler. She held this belief close, convinced that with the proper guidance, Aegon would indeed become a great ruler. 

“Then you are either delusional or a fool,” Daenera retorted coldly."Had Viserys truly desired Aegon as his successor, he would have shown more care and guidance, teaching him what it means to be a king." Her lip curled. “Aegon is only a puppet for so long as he doesn’t realize the true extent of the power he holds, and once he does, then we shall all surely pay for it.”

“You may see it that way,” Alicent responded, her voice steady with conviction. “But I have faith in the gods and their will.”

She held onto her faith with a quiet desperation, believing resolutely that the gods had a plan–a divine will that justified all her sacrifices, all her suffering. To doubt this was to question the very foundation of her actions, rendering them all meaningless. 

As she watched Daenera, all she could see was the girl's resemblance to her mother–the echoes of Rhaenyra haunted her, the same defiant stare, the same haughty demeanor, the same sense of entitlement. The girl’s insolence and dishonor seemed to be the same as her mothers, something inherent–evident in her proud posture and the dark, unruly hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She was born of dishonor, a daughter of selfishness and entitlement. 

Neither her or her mother understood the true essence of sacrifice, nor the burdens of duty and honor. 

It seemed to her no surprise then that Daenera might scorn the gods–she was born of sin and immorality. Before her stood not merely a grieving girl but an adversary, a constant thorn in her side, someone who threatened to unravel everything–someone who’d see the destruction of everything she had sacrificed and suffered for, someone who would destroy her and her children with her dark curses. 

The girl was a demon sent from the seven hells to torment her. 

Alicent faced Daenera fully, her heart thundering within her chest as she held the young woman’s gaze as it burned with the intensity of the flames of the seven hells–and they would, wouldn’t they? It was her nature after all. A cold resolve grew within her as she approached the princess, the soft echo of her steps punctuating the hushed walls of the Royal Sept. The light from the candles flickered across her face, casting shifting shadows that danced over her stern features. The cool air of the Sept mingled with the scent of incense, enveloped them as he spoke with a quiet intensity, “I am not the monster you believe me to be.”

“No,” Daenera answered, voice as cold as the draft. “You are the mother of the monsters.”

“I am a mother, and yes, my sons are… imperfect–difficult even and cruel at times,” Alicent said as she reached out, clasping Daenera’s hand firmly. Despite the young woman’s instinctive flinch, Alicent’s hold remained gentle yet insistent. “But they remain my children.” She held the younger woman's hand between both of hers, her thumbs gently caressing the cool, delicate skin. “And they are not the monsters you think them to be.”

Daenera resisted, her dark brows knitting together in a frown, seemingly bewildered, the inner corners arching in silent questioning. 

“My sympathy for you has its limits,” Alicent persisted, her grip on Daenera unyielding. Within her chest, her heart pounded—a fierce, irregular rhythm that was both foreign and oddly familiar. It echoed the same fervent cadence it had adopted years ago, when she had grasped the dagger from Viserys, driven by a fierce resolve to seek justice for her son. The memory of that resolve flickered in her eyes, a silent testament to the lengths she would go to protect her own. “There’s darkness in you–I see it–and it seeks to infect everything you touch, it seeks to destroy.”

As Alicent's grip intensified, her fingers dug into the yielding flesh of Daenera's hand, her nails embedding slightly into the skin. A wince crossed Daenera's face, her brows drawing closer in discomfort as she made another attempt to free herself. "I will not allow your darkness—your corruption—to reach my children. I will take any measures necessary to protect them and to secure their rightful place in this world.”

“Let go of me–”

“I want you to remove it,” Alicent's demand cut through the solemn quiet of the Sept, her voice so sharp that it seemed to carve a place for itself in the high arches of the ceiling. She pressed her thumb deliberately into the bandaged wound on Daenera’s palm, the action calculated and precise. 

“I don’t–”

“You are not as discreet as you thought,” she snapped, a sneer on her lips. Despite her best efforts, a sliver of contempt slipped into her tone, and the shame of it settled in her stomach like a rock. “You were seen and heard. I know of the curse you laid upon all of us–upon me,” she sneered angrily, “upon my sons.”

Fear and dread had visited Alicent the night before, settling heavily upon her and refusing to lift. She had fallen in and out of sleep, the weight of her anxiety pressing down on her even during the council meeting. Now, it seemed to claw its way out, baring its teeth at the princess before her. The very notion that someone within these walls would go to such lengths to see her family destroyed terrified her. That someone would consort with dark magic to bring about their ruin was unthinkable. To invoke such curses, she must have truly turned from the gods.

The fear had gnawed at Alicent, intensifying with every passing hour. The council's deliberations had offered no respite, and now, face to face with Daenera, the terror took on a life of its own, desperate to confront the source of her anguish. The idea that Daenera would use such malevolent forces, that she would abandon all sacred beliefs to enact her vengeance, filled Alicent with a profound sense of dread.

“I want you to remove it,” Alicent said, refusing to let her go. “Undo it, Daenera.”

“I can’t. Once done, it cannot be undone,” Daenera retorted, voice wavering. A spiteful glint flickered within the blue of her eyes, burning–burning cruelly, wickedly, condemningly. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

Alicent felt her heart sink and abruptly released Daenera’s hand, as though her touch had scorched her. Daenera staggered backward, barely managing to steady herself, steps ringing in the hollowness. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in a disheveled manner, framing her eyes–blue and penetrating, burning with anger and incredulity. 

Alicent stared at the wretched girl, eyes wide with disbelief. “You would curse the man you love?”

“I would curse the man responsible for my brother’s death,” Daenera answered, straightening. “But you needn’t fear for my curse, as no man is ever so accursed as the kinslayer.”

Alicent’s hand clenched tightly, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm as a wave of apprehension coursed through her. Her heart pounded with an increasing rhythm, the grip of fear tightening around her chest.

“If you believe yourself righteous and that this is the will of the gods, then mere words whispered in the night should be of no consequence,” Daenera said, her voice icy and unwavering. “Your gods will protect you.”

Adopting a facade of calm rationality and unwavering faith, Alicent steadied herself, even as her insides churned with unease. She regarded Daenera with a stern, unflinching gaze. “My faith in the gods and their will is absolute, and I trust that they will protect the righteous and good from the blasphemy of the unfaithful.” Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, Alicent’s tone grew sharp, “It appears your mother has failed you in teaching you to respect and revere the gods. It is not surprising, given her… questionable morals.”

“My mother’s morals have not made a kinslayer of her son,” Daenera retorted, her eyes burning with the intensity of a funeral pyre. 

Alicent’s eyes shifted toward the entrance of the sept as she called out, “Lady Mertha.”

The woman stepped forward, her footsteps echoing as she emerged from the shadows. Her dark hair appeared almost black in the dim light of the Sept, save for the streaks of silver that caught the occasional glimmer. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her face was set in the stern, unforgiving expression Alicent had come to recognize.

“Your Grace,” Lady Mertha said, her voice steady and respectful.

Alicent’s gaze shifted back towards Daenera, who wore an expression of insolence, clutching her injured hand against her chest, the silk bandage stained with blotches of fresh blood–a pang of shame welled up inside of Alicent, but she swallowed it down. “The Princess seems to require a re-education in the ways of the Faith,” she declared firmly. “I trust you can instruct her appropriately. Begin with the Seven-Pointed Star and continue until its teachings resonate with her. And restrict her movements to her chambers and the sept only. She should not be allowed in the gardens. Perhaps needlework might help keep her mind off frivolous ideas.”

“I’ll see to it that she is properly educated and cared for, Your Grace,” Mertha assured her. 

“And should she prove insolent, as is her nature,” Alicent added, her tone hardening. “A firmer approach might be necessary.” She fixed Lady Mertha with a stern look. “Take her to the Traitor’s Walk. Ensure she understands the consequences to her actions.”

Lady Mertha inclined her head in acknowledgement, her eyes flickering to Daenera with a look that promised no leniency. The shadows of the Sept seemed to deepen around them, the weight of Alicent’s decree hanging heavily in the air as she walked towards the doors. 

“Your Grace…” Daenera’s voice rang out, halting Alicent mid-step. She turned, her gaze wary as she looked upon the young woman. Their eyes met, tension crackling in the air between them.

“Do you genuinely feel remorseful over my brother’s death,” Daenera continued, her tone sharp and probing, “or is it merely what you tell yourself to ease your conscience, knowing your son has made himself a kinslayer?”

Alicent’s expression tightened, the weight of Daenera’s words pressing heavily upon her. She stared at the girl, her brows furrowing as her heart pounded unsettlingly within her chest. The accusation startled her, twisting its way between her ribs like a dagger. Of course she felt remorseful for Lucerys’s death, how could she not—he was but a boy. Her sympathy was genuine, but the words died on her tongue, left unuttered and swallowed.

She was sorry not only for the boy's death but also for what it heralded—the onset of a war that promised more bloodshed and a realm tearing itself apart. And, more dreadfully, for what it meant for her son's soul. The gravity of these thoughts weighed heavily on her, rendering her momentarily speechless, her gaze locked with Daenera’s in a silent, anguished confrontation. She turned, and walked away.

In the hallowed silence of the sept, only the Queen Mother’s retreating footsteps echoed through the stone chamber, leaving Daenera alone amidst the somber glow of candlelight. Her heart ached with a burning pain, her stomach feeling as though filled with stones. Should she walk into the sea, she thought that she would sink swiftly. She might join her brother then, amongst the waves. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.

Her throat tightened painfully, the air thick with the cloying scent of incense that stung her lungs and lingered at the back of her throat. Daenera’s gaze were once again drawn to the flickering candles on the altar, each flame a silent prayer–each flame a soul to be remembered. One of the flickering flames was dedicated to her brother. To Daenera, the ritual seemed hollow, a mockery. Alicent's grief did not extend to her brother as a person; her concern was merely for the implications of his death—the looming threat of war, and the grim reality that her own son had defied the gods she revered, becoming a kinslayer.

Daenera felt the emptiness of the gesture weigh heavily upon her, tainted by the knowledge that Alicent mourned not the man, but the chaos his passing would unleash.

 What comfort could these small flames offer when her brother’s body was forever lost to them? How could these flickering lights provide solace when he was denied the funeral rites he deserved? She wondered if the gods would even accept him, or if he was doomed to roam the earth, a restless spirit haunting those he loved. 

Could the simple act of lighting a candle dispel her overwhelming guilt and shame? Would lighting a candle in his name carry her deepest regrets to her brother in the after life? She wondered if the gentle glow would carry with it her apologies, her longing for things to have been different–how she wished he was alive in her stead. The quick flicker of flame seemed too fragile a vessel for such a heavy burden of sorrow and remorse–it almost seemed more a vessel for rage and retribution. 

Anger caught flame inside of her and she wished for nothing more than to grip each candle and hurl them across the room, indifferent to the scorching wax that might sear her skin or the flames that could catch the long sleeves of her dress. She did not care that the sept might burn down around her, she’d let it burn, cursing the gods for taking her brother from her–cursing them for burdening her with a heart that had come to betray her, haunted by its love for a man who had slain her brother. 

A throbbing ache pulsed through Daenera’s hand, a reminder of Alicent’s forceful grip, which left the wounds on her palms weeping. Cradling her injured hand to her chest, she felt her heart’s erratic pounding against her ribs. In her view, Alicent would be better off addressing the reckless actions of her own sons–one a drunken fool, the other a kinslayer–rather than concerning herself with what Daenera had whispered in the cover of night. 

She had spoken the truth: curses, once made, could not be unmade. Once such things had been given life, they would linger like shadows and lay in wait to fulfill their purpose. Yet, the rational part of her dismissed these curses as mere vistinges of despair and rage–nothing but words lost to the wind, an old-wives tale told to children before bedtime. What power did she truly hold over such things as curses? What magic could she possibly wield to breathe life into them? She was merely a girl, no witch, no sorceress, nothing divine. Her curses were powerless, empty threats cast into the darkness. 

Despite not believing in their power, uttering the curses had brought Daenera a semblance of control, soothing something deep within her. The gods did not answer her prayers, why shouldn’t she turn to something darker?

Daenera took a quiet satisfaction in knowing Alicent was aware of the curses. It was gratifying to see the fear and discomfort flicker across the Queen Mother’s face, to watch her sling desperately her cloak of piety and righteousness as if fearing it might unravel and expose her true nature beneath it. Even if neither truly believed in the potency of the curses, their mere utterances were enough to unsettle. 

“Princess,” Mertha’s shrill, snappy voice shattered the heavy silence, abruptly pulling Daenera from her reverie as she gazed into the flames. The sharp sound of footsteps echoed across the marble flooring of the Royal Sept, and soon Mertha was at her side, fixing her with a scornful look, thin lips twisted in a scowl of displeasure. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman spun on her heels and strode towards the doors, her movements charged with an air of expectancy. Daenera bristled at the tone, her eyes fixed on the back of the old woman’s head with a smoldering glare–if only her hair would catch fire from it. Reluctantly, she followed. 

Outside, the sky had turned overcast and sullen, with a gentle breeze carrying the promise of impending rain. Mertha stood just beyond the sept’s doors, her posture radiating impatience as she waited. At the foot of the steps, Oliver Norry stood, leaning against the handrail, his hands hitched at his belt, his gaze weary as he looked up at them. 

Daenera followed, the weight of her emotions still like stones in her stomach, as they moved through the bustling courtyard. As morning shifted into afternoon, the pace quickened among the servants, who moved briskly in an attempt to clear the courtyard before the impending rainfall. In the center of the courtyard, the knights of the Kingsguard trained. Dressed in their distinctive white padded gear, they stood out against the dark soil and the pale red of the surrounding walls. They wielded their swords with precision and intensity, the sound of steel against steel hanging in the air. Each step they took, cast up a small cloud of dust, the ground dry and begging for rain. 

They walked around the perimeter of the Red Keep, passing into the shadowed expanse of the curtain wall. The corridors here were dimly lit, interspersed with errant rays of light coming in from window slits and cracked doors. It retained a lingering chill within the stone, the air damp and filled with the scent of cold stone and muddied footsteps. As they ascended the wooden stairs, each step creaked and groaned beneath their steps, the wood worn smoothe from years of use. They climbed to the second, then third level, eventually emerging from the tower’s archway onto the landing between two flanking towers. 

Before them, the outer wall of the Red Keep loomed, presenting a perilous drop from the landing to the base of it. Below, the distant barking of hounds echoed up, and the pungent stench of rot wafted through the air, mingling with the stench of the streets outside of the wall. The sounds of the bustling city below seemed to scale the walls, the clamor of distant conversations becoming indistinct and muffed as they reached upward. 

From their position on the landing, they could gaze up at the stretch of gray above the curtain wall, the light harshly outlining the spikes mounted at its top…

Daenera’s heart plummeted as her gaze rose to the gruesome sight of her men’s heads impaled on those spikes–Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Darvin Crooler, both beyond recognition, yet unmistakably identifiable, if only to her. The sight was harrowing: Ser Kevan’s once-vibrant red hair, now lifelessly fluttering in the breeze, and Ser Darvin’s beard, distinguished by a silver streak, both served as bleak identifiers. Maggots and flies feasted upon what remained of their flesh, with crows having stripped their cheeks and eyes down to the bone. 

Next to them, the heads of Ser Sithric Greenfield and Ser Edam Varner exhibited a similarly ghastly state, their flesh swollen and translucent, the remnants of their features marred by the brutality of their fate. The birds had not spared them either, leaving their eyes hollow, the soft flesh of their cheeks picked at, noses and years black with rot by then. 

And lastly there was the head of Ser Eddin Follard–a young man once known for his sweet tooth and easy smiles. Now, a solitary crow perched atop his head, picking relentlessly at one remaining eye, greedily consuming the moisture and nibbling at the surrounding flesh that had yet to bloat and rot. His skin, plate from blood loss, mouth slack, held a ghostly semblance to the life he once carried. He had been alive only hours ago–his execution must have been that morning, as she stood outside the Council Chambers. 

“Take a good look at them, Princess,” Mertha’s voice was as soft as gravel scraping against stone. She shifted from the edge of Daenera’s peripheral vision, stepping closer to the ledge. Her murky gray eyes lifted to the ghastly spectacle above, filled with unmasked contempt. “These are the men who chose to follow you…”

Daenera’s stomach churned, her heart felt as if it had sunk to the very pit of her stomach, resting heavily among the stones she felt she had swallowed. Tears stung her eyes as she pressed a hand to her bodice, drawing in a labored breath, the sensation nearly overwhelming her to the point of nausea. 

Mertha turned to face her, eyes hard and unforgiving, a smug satisfaction lurking beneath her stern demeanor. “These are the men who trusted you. Fathers, sons, brothers,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that echoed the gravity of ehr words. She took a step closer, her lips slightly pursed, her eyes narrowing. “These are the men who lost their lives for you…”

Her accusation hung heavily in the air as shame and grief tightened around Daenera’s throat, making it ache painfully, as though she was choking on it. She fought against the urge to cry, to let her emotions spill forth controllably. She refused to cry, and instead, she held Mertha’s steely gaze, her own eyes growing resolute. 

“These are your consequences,” Mertha continued, her voice icy and devoid of any trace of humanity or sympathy. “And yet it was they who paid the price for it.”

Clenching her teeth, Daenera stood tall, her posture unyielding. This harsh truth was not unfamiliar to her; she had been acutely aware of it ever since Sithric and Edam were hanged for her defiance at the Dragonpit–how she had wished then that Rhaenys would have unleashed Meleys’s fire upon all of them. She had known the rotting faces of her men, had endured the stench of their decay, and had stood vigil over them until the Hightowers saw fit to remove their bodies. Yet, despite knowing the cruelty of her enemies, she had thought that they would show some decency, that they would grant the men a dignified burial or return their bodies to their families. Instead, they had severed their heads and displayed them on the walls for all to see, a brutal reminder of the cost of loyalty. 

“There will be no tears for these traitors,” Mertha declared, her steps measured as she approached Daenera. “They made their choice–they chose to serve the False Queen and her bastards.” She halted just in front of Daenera, the murky gray of her eyes brimming with disdain. “Look at them closely, commit their faces to memory–remember their fates. Their blood is on your hands, and one day, you too will confront them when the gods pass judgment on your wretched soul.”

Her wrinkled hand shot out, gripping Daenera’s jaw with surprising strength, her spindly fingers pressing into her flesh painfully. “You should be grateful to Her Grace for taking an interest in saving your soul. Where the decision mine, I would have had you hung for the curses you dared cast upon the royal family.”

Daenera wrenched her face free from Mertha’s scornful grasp, feeling the imprint of her boney fingers on her skin, the pressure almost bruising. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the thought of seizing the scornful crone by the shoulders and thrusting her back, tossing her off the ledge to meet her end in the blood-stained sands below. However, even withering old crones like her could serve a purpose, and Daenera was not willing to risk the delicate agreement she had reached with the Lord Hand. Taking such actions could endanger Fenrick’s chance at freedom–and she needed him free and far from King’s Landing.

Her gaze returned to the most recent addition–the newest consequence to her actions. She had always known there would be consequences–understood that it might cost the life of one of her remaining men in the dungeons. Despite this, she had proceeded, unsure whether it was out of callous disregard or a calculated sacrifice. Even now, as she watched the crows squabble over Eddin’s eyes, she knew she wouldn’t have chosen differently–even if it had been Fenrick up there, or Patrick. But she was much relieved it was neither, and dreaded it at the same time. Perhaps it would have been easier that it had been the boy’s head up there. 

What would become of her soul by the end of this war? Daenera pondered the growing tally of those she would lose or sacrifice, casualties wrought by the hands of others as much as by her own. How many more names would she be forced to condemn? How many more faces would visit her in the stillness of night? And perhaps more hauntingly, how long until her heart became numb to the loss? How long before the names and faces of those she had loved and lost faded from her memory?

A part of her had already grown cold, she thought, the innate darkness within her seeming to take root and thrive in this newfound chill. The death of her brother and the ruins Aemond’s love had made of her heart, had changed her. Or perhaps more ominously, it had merely unveiled a cruel, ruthlessness to her nature that had always lurked beneath the surface. 

With a steely resolve, Daenera locked eyes with Mertha, her voice tight but clear. “If you believe in the weaving of curses, I would tread carefully if I were you. Who’s to say you’re not the next one to find yourself cursed?”

The slap came quick and unforgivingly, its impact searing against Daenera’s cheek and sending a ringing echo through her ear. Clutching the stinging skin, she lifted her gaze back to Mertha, whose expression was a volatile mix of anger and fear. Mertha’s eyes, with the fervor of unshakable faith in the gods, also betrayed a trembling apprehension of someone who feared for their soul. 

“Your curses have no power, they are an affront to the gods themselves and you should pray for their forgiveness,” Mertha sneered, hand shooting out to roughly grip Daenera’s arm, fingers digging into the soft, malleable flesh of her upper arm with enough force that it would undoubtedly leave bruises. “But do not worry, I will teach you the grace of the gods, so that you may yet be saved.”

[polutrope]

Amrod threatens Elrond and Elros by @runawaymun

Illustration for my fic And Love Grew commissioned by my dear friend @melestasflight. I am so grateful to them both for this chillingly beautiful, emotional piece that truly captures the horror of the scene.

Snippet below the cut.

A former follower of Amrod speaks to Maedhros and Maglor of what he witnessed on the cliffs near Sirion:

“My lord, he flung his sword about with such abandon, such hate, that I thought he might slay one of us, or himself. But it was thus stumbling into the night outside the city that he caught sight of a small group mounting the hills in the distance. Suddenly returned to himself, Lord Amrod commanded, ‘After them!’ We gave chase, but Lord Amrod ran so swiftly, as if driven by a fire within, and the men with us were weary and injured, so that all but myself fell behind. I was with him when he caught up to those we pursued, where the hills begin to rise and drop steeply into the sea, where you saw...”

Orfion paused, working his jaw around his next words.

“It was the Lady Elwing with her children and a woman-servant and their guard. I knew him for a warrior of Gondolin by his livery. He turned to engage us, but Lord Amrod paid him no mind. Swift as a hawk, he had snatched the children before the Lady or her servant were aware of him. And dropping to his knees and holding both terrified boys to his chest he held his sword to their throats.

“‘Hand over the Silmaril and they will live,’ he said. One of the children squirmed and a line of blood bloomed wet on his throat. There was no feint in Amrod’s voice. None dared to move or speak for a long moment. Then the servant spoke first, denying that her lady had the jewel with her. Lord Amrod laughed. ‘Of course you have it,’ he replied. ‘In that box you are clutching. Was it that very same in which you smuggled our birthright out of Doriath, where my brothers died in vain? Hand it over or I will slit your children’s throats.’ But Elwing had already silenced the other woman, and she drew the necklace out of the box. I thought she might hand it over, but she clasped it about her neck.

“Its light, my lord — I could scarcely breathe for the beauty of it, and the terror of the Lady wearing it. There were tears on her face that had been hidden by the darkness, and they now shone like little streams in the moonlight. I have never feared darkness before, my lord, but I did then. I fear I will evermore shun the night, having seen that light.”

Tears had gathered in Orfion’s eyes, and he sputtered to a halt. “Please forgive me, lords, I am not one prone to weeping, but the memory— it is impossible not to weep. I do not know why.”

“I do,” said Maglor. Compassion for the simple soldier who had become entangled in their doom warred with envy: it ought to have been him there, and Maedhros, looking upon the Silmaril’s light. Maglor would not have let it slip through his hands.

Orfion collected himself. “Even Lord Amrod was struck dumb,” he said, as if in answer to Maglor’s guilty thought, “and in his moment of faltering the children nearly escaped his grasp. Elwing lurched forward then, but he clutched them closer. He bared his teeth. ‘Hand it over!’ he commanded. She did not speak. She gazed long at her children, as if speaking to them mind-to-mind. She touched the Silmaril on her breast, and for a moment I thought she would remove it. Then a fell cold light washed over the Lady’s face, and she spoke, quiet but hard, in the tongue of Men.

“And then she turned and raced to the cliff’s edge. She leapt, and as she fell she loosed a horrible cry. The light of the jewel glowed along the precipice — and then it was gone.

“All was a confusion of shouts and fighting. The woman-servant screamed her Lady’s name and ran to the cliff’s edge. The guard commanded her to stop, and there was a struggle between them — I saw little of it, for Lord Amrod had risen to his feet and held again the edge of his sword to the throat of one of the children, who stood altogether still. The other wailed, and Lord Amrod drew his dagger and swung it at him. Rising and holding both blades aloft, he cursed them, saying that he would take them both with him. And then suddenly he dropped his weapons and crouched down before them and embraced them, and he murmured that he would save them, that he would spare them the burden— the burden of living.”

Orfion choked back the last words. “Then the guard leapt at Amrod, and dragged him to his feet — but as he did, Amrod drove his dagger deep into his thigh, and the man stumbled, and Amrod dropped the dagger and seized him by the neck. ‘I do not want to kill you, old friend,’ he spat. ‘Stand down, Galdor. This is not your fight.’ Then he threw the man to the ground. Amrod turned on the children again and then — my lord, I was certain he would slay them, and I could not bear it.

Read the fic on AO3

[madockisser]

balekin greenbriar and his relationship w humans/jude theory

i was reading qon, and jude thinks of something abt what balekin said and it had me thinking.

“i have heard that the feeling of falling in love for mortals is very much like the feeling of fear.”

balekin had tons of human servants, they’d come and they’d go, he probably enslaved them himself just bc of the vow/glamour of obedience the mortals have to give in order to serve specifically him.

“they could’ve been palace mortals” his servants wear his livery, w his crest on them, so maybe some of them come and go from the palace, but balekin was very cautious, so i doubt he’d wants his brothers and fathers servants all up in his house.

anyway, balekin loves power. like a lot, probably almost as much as he loves himself.

so i wonder if he’d long been aware of humans and their tendencies to mix up the feeling of love and fear, and got off on that power trip.

the same way cardan hates courtiers for their fake admiration, balekin may feel the same way, and so, he seeks the “admiration” from humans that are actually just afraid of him.

and so, he travels to the mortal world (or mortals are brought to him) and forces them into a bargain, probably freakishly obsessed w the way that they fear him, in a completely different way that faeries fear him. since he thinks that mortal feelings of fear are like their feelings of love.

and it’s 10x worse thinking that those humans probably find balekin terrifyingly beautiful all the while he’s abt to ruin their lives. and he knows it too.

the power trip that balekin can find by looking in the eyes of humans he’s about to destroy, convincing himself that they just might adore him, that they will come to serve him, just makes him all the more of a sick and twisted asshole.

it checks out, the way that he treats jude in the undersea. forcing her to kiss him, maybe bc jude’s too tired to be afraid of him? maybe bc balekin wants to feel the power trip of seeing jude afraid of him, convincing himself and glamouring her into adoring him. into wanting to willingly serve him.

the way he also treats her in hollow hall after they’re free from the undersea. “tell me you’re my creature” as though he’s speaking to a lover. disgusting.

also looking back on how he made that guard slap her in twk, like he’s trying to find weak spot in her armor, like he wants to see her afraid.

it’s like a game to him. wanting to see jude afraid, time and time again. his whole life he had taken advantage of humans, but then jude gets one over him and takes his place in power. it’s like he’s trying to get one over her, by making her fear him, by making her serve him.

like he needs constant reassurance that he’s the first born prince and that he deserves love and admiration and servants, bc he was denied his birthright of being king.

looking WAY back, how balekin was the one to find eva and justin, makes me think he may have felt that twisted way abt them too, since they are the only few humans w any semblance of power in the high court. but they didn’t serve him or i would even say fear him(they had protection), so maybe he took it personally and sought out their demise?

that also makes me think abt eva and madoc, and how he might’ve felt abt their relationship. probably initial disgust, but overall jealousy that he didn’t have anything over eva. he was probably so smug when he found them out and told madoc abt them. he’d finally had something over them. and his point of humans and love and fear had been proven. maybe he thought eva feared madoc throughout their marriage, and that she convinced herself it was love.

maybe he thought that he and madoc shared that sickening power trip over humans, which is why he was so sure madoc wouldn’t betray him when it really mattered. he also called madoc a coward after the fact, so maybe he felt that madoc feelings towards humans got in the way of madoc backing him completely. (just speculating)

also the way he regards val moren after killing val morens lover, forcing him to crown him. sickening tbh. he just loves making humans suffer ig

or even in tcp, his coronation. he turns to jude, knowing that he’s a big fat narcissistic asshat, and probably thinks that the only reason that jude is there is bc of him, bc he had her parents offed. and he wants to take advantage of that, by granting her a boon (making her a faerie) so that jude can further owe it all to him. so that maybe she would want to willingly serve him, or maybe he wants to grant her a gift as a way of paying her back for getting her parents killed, since it’s the faerie way yk.

anyway, even if most of this is just speculation, we know he enslaved humans, just the added fact that he just might get off on it is so much grosser.

but do feel free to add on!! this is super interesting and i hadnt thought of this before but it really adds layers to his character.! 🫶

[specialagentlokitty]

Thomas barrow x deaf!reader - we’re both different

Hey, is it possible to request a Thomas Barrow x deaf!reader where the reader is also a servant and Thomas is the only one who bothered to get to know her and communicate with her? Thank you. - Anon💜

A/N: italics will be sign language

Sitting at the table, you looked at the book in front of you as you ignored the dinner in front of you, completely unaware of everything else going on around you.

“Put down your book and finish eating before it’s too late.” Mrs Patmore said.

Thomas glanced up from his own plate, and he watched as everybody looked at you.

Your book was taken from you and you looked around confused, brows furrowed and Daisy pointed to your plate.

You looked at Thomas.

Why did she take my book?

He gestured to your plate and you nodded, picking up your knife and fork.

“Give me the book Daisy.”

“Of course.”

She beamed brightly as she brought it over and he snatched it back from her, just like she had done to you.

You hadn’t done anything to deserve the way they treated you, and now they were teaching Daisy and any other new servant that joins to do the same thing to you.

Thomas didn’t agree with it, just because you were different to them.

He was different to them.

You ate your dinner, watching as your plate was taken away from you and he watched as everybody else left.

Walking over, he sat next to you, handing you your hook back and you grinned brightly at him in thanks as you opened it again.

After a few minutes you felt a tap on your arm, and you turned around to face him.

Put the book down for a moment.

You nodded your head, turning your attention fully to him.

Do you understand why they do what they are doing to you?

Because I’m different. I know.

He sighed, nodding his head.

It’s okay, I’m used to it. Everybody always treats me different.

He leant back in his chair, lighting a cigarette.

Does it bother you?

You shook your head, smiling softly at him.

No. I have you. That’s enough friends for me.

We are not friends.

We are the best of friends.

Thomas rolled his eyes as you, and turned around so he couldn’t see you signing anymore and you smacked his shoulder.

He carried on ignoring you and you walked around him only for him to turn around once more.

Reaching to the table you too his tin and shook it so he knew that you had it.

He spun around and you put it up your sleeve was he wasn’t able to grab it back from you.

Don’t turn your back on me that’s not nice.

He held out his hand, waiting for you to return the tin to him.

No you don’t deserve to smoke. Smoking is bad anyway.

He picked up your book, tucking it into his liveries.

Come in!

He rose a brow in question, and you rolled your eyes, repeating the words a little slower this time.

Sometimes you forgot that Thomas was still just learning how to sign, he knew a bit when you arrived, and over time he picked up more from you.

Give me the tin and I will give you the book.

You huffed, crossing your arms.

Really? You are going to ignore me?

You turned to the side so you could still see him out the corner of your eyes, but you didn’t have to look at what he was saying.

Thomas scoffed a little, shaking his head as he picked up his news paper.

You weren’t exactly quiet when you moved, so when you tried creeping up on him he knew straight away.

You tried to grab the paper and he held it to the side, when you went that way to get it he stood up and held it up in the air so you couldn’t reach it despite how much you jumped for it.

Thomas smirked a little, looking at you as you huffed again and stopped, looking at him.

He held out his hand and you reached into your sleeve, holding out the tin and he set the paper down, taking it.

He took out a cigarette and walked away while you followed him.

When he was outside you hit his arm.

He smirked a little, pretending that he couldn’t see you.

You sat down next to him, knocking your shoulder into his a few times until he did the same thing, making you rub your shoulder where you collided with him.

Thomas tapped the back of your hand and you looked at him.

“You’re so childish.” He said slowly.

You are mean.

He reached into his pocket, handing you your book back.

“I know.”

You grinned brightly and took it.

Thomas rolled his eyes as he watched you run back inside to go carry on reading.

You weren’t a bad person, and he knew that, but in a way he was glad the others couldn’t use sign language like he could.

He could talk to you about things nobody else needed to hear about, and you always kept them to yourself.

You knew about him, who he was and why he was different and you were just happy to have a friend, you couldn’t care less that everybody else would find him revolting.

He knew what it was like to be persecuted for being different, and maybe that’s why he was so protective over you without realising it.

You were young, and it wasn’t your fault you were deaf, it just happened, and you needed somebody to watch over you and that’s what he would do

[booksandchainmail]

I think the single funniest case of "focus of narration reflects POV character's perspective" (ie certain POVs noting architecture, or clothes, or other setting details in ways other POVs don't) was Practical Guide to Evil, where it gets revealed about 5 books in that every single time the narration goes into lavish physical description of a character, that reflected the main character checking them out in a way she thinks is subtle (it is not)

Catherine limped in ahead, eyes considering as she took in the sight of the full roster of the Blood as well Princess Rozala. Liveried servants offered refreshments that all refused, and Hakram noted with exasperated amusement that his warlord’s eyes were lingering a little longer than necessary on Rozala Malanza. Half the Blood too, though he was surprised that among the men she seemed to prefer the almost orcish frame of Yannu Marave to Razin Tanja’s, who was much closer in age. As she was less than discreet he wondered if offence might accidentally been given, but if he was reading the expression correctly Lady Aquiline Osena looked more flattered than anything else by the roving eye. He met Vivienne’s eyes in shared aggravation behind Catherine’s back, though he figured at least they should be pleased she’d not been undressing the First Prince of Procer with her eyes. That might go over poorly, he thought.

[isabelleneville]

𓅃 ANNE BOLEYN WEEK 2024 𓅃

day four | favourite Anne motto

“Ainsi sera, groigne qui groigne”, which translates to “Let them grumble, that is how it is going to be”. Anne made use of this motto for a few weeks in around late 1529/early 1530. Anne had the motto embroidered on her servants’ livery ... Anne may only have used to for a few weeks, but a piece of embroidery featuring the motto has survived. The piece, which is thought to have been a cupboard cloth, has an oval design with the motto displayed in its border .. in the middle is of Anne Boleyn’s white falcon pecking at a pomegranate, the symbol of Katherine of Aragon ... The falcon is also perched on a stock, or tree stump, a Plantagenet badge, from which red and white roses spring, symbolising Anne bringing fertility to Henry VIII’s previously barren stock. The motto and the accompanying image give us insight into how Anne Boleyn was feeling at the time, her frustration at the situation, her impatience, her defiance at those who were painting her as a usurper and wh*re, and clearly her anger towards Katherine of Aragon. - Claire Ridgway, The Anne Boleyn Files

AINSI SERA GROIGNE QUI GROIGNE (LET THEM GRUMBLE; THAT IS HOW IT IS GOING TO BE)

[queenmelancholy]

Guys, I have written my first fanfic ever! And it’s about Thomas Barrow! Yayyy! This is the AO3 link. Please read it if you have time and tell me what you think :)

Title: "I'm Home."

Summary: It was July 1930 and Thomas was revisiting Downton Abbey. He had been homesick for a while in America under the pressure of being half exposed to the limelight and found himself missing his family back at Downton. He dealt with his belonging issues and nostalgia during the journey.

Characters: Thomas Barrow, Guy Dexter, Charles Carson, Elsie Hughes, Beryl Patmore, Daisy Mason, Anna Bates, John Bates, Phyllis Baxter, Mary Crawley, Robert Crawley, Cora Crawley, George Crawley, Sybbie Branson

Word count: 2807

Thomas wasn’t sure about how he should feel as he walked down the stairs to the servant’s hall for the first time in two years. He wasn’t wearing his livery anymore. Deep down he was thrilled to tell everyone how much he had seen in America. But he felt ashamed of boasting to those who used to work alongside him. After all, he was the most bitter about Branson and Gwen when they found happier lives with their socially superior partners. Thomas knew that Guy saw him as equal, but still, the similarities laid bare. He felt awkward about this. 

Guy repeatedly told him not to worry. They were his family and there was no reason why anyone would not be happy for him. But Thomas reminded himself that it was not true. It couldn’t be. How could Mr. Carson give him a warm smile he so craved like he wanted from his own father, when this man thought Thomas deserved to be horsewhipped? How would Mr. Bates congratulate him, when he violently smashed Thomas against the wall and called him a filthy little rat? How could Mr. Moseley care a bit about how he was doing now, when he seemed so annoyed by Thomas when he was struggling to even face himself? People just wouldn’t be easy on him, even after all these years. And Thomas knew himself was the one to blame. 

Although people said they were his “family” for twenty years, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He owed them a heartfelt apology for what he had said and done. They owed him their apologies, too. Thomas didn’t know why he couldn’t just say sorry to them the day he left the house. Things would’ve been much easier if he did. But he wasn’t sure whether they’d do the same if he had said then - it was probably why he didn’t say it in the end. Deep inside, he was still angry with them. He had been angry all along. 

Perhaps some things were just destined to be wrong and left unresolved. Why would he expect anything different now? 

During the two years in America, Thomas had followed Guy everywhere to film and do publicity. Guy’s friends were all very nice and welcoming. Thomas got close to a few of them through their cricket matches every week. He enjoyed spending time with this small circle of friends as well as his private time with Guy in their house. 

Nevertheless, Thomas was very much aware that the journalists had suspected his relationship with Guy from the start. It was true that America was an open society and most people were friendly towards them, but Thomas wasn’t very comfortable with being in the limelight. Newspapers would make up fake stories about him and Guy for gossip, and he disliked it. Every now and then, he would see his face in some local tabloid, and passers-by would sometimes give him the side-eye. He felt judged all the time, like his private life was put on the table for everyone to see, and they only saw him as that. Thomas found himself in this peculiar situation where he had to keep his mouth shut about an open secret, one that was known by millions of people. He didn’t even know how to behave in public anymore. 

Surely he loved Guy a lot, and he knew Guy loved him as much, if not more. But sometimes he just felt a bit tired of hiding behind the name of a dresser. And all these people who didn’t really know them would talk about them behind their back, saying things that weren’t true. Although he had Guy with him, Thomas just felt more lonely being surrounded by all these strangers in the strange city.

Thomas’s depression was slowly taking over him again. Sometimes he couldn’t sleep at night. He missed home. He wanted to talk to Mrs. Hughes about the things that were troubling him. He knew she would pat him on the shoulder and say no worries, all things would be fine. He wanted to open up to Phyllis about his insecurities and she would give him the wisest advice; he wanted to chit chat with Daisy about the silly little things, argue with Mrs. Patmore, play with the children, and many more things. He even missed Bates as his sparring partner. Thomas just needed someone who actually knew him, from when he was that spiteful young boy and watched him grow into this mature man. 

He knew the people back at Downton wouldn’t hurt him, not anymore. They were his family. He was safe with them. He knew it at last, but it might be too late to admit that. 

One day, Thomas just couldn’t hold it in anymore. In tears, he told Guy he was homesick. Guy was very worried if he was not doing enough to make Thomas feel at home. But Thomas reassured him that it was not his fault - in fact Guy was the only reason why he hadn’t fallen apart till now. Thomas blamed himself for being a coward who just knew how to run away from his problems, like he did during the war and many other times. He didn’t even have enough determination and perseverance to make a new life of his own. 

“That’s not true,” Guy told him, “Look how far you’ve come already. You have been through a lot. I know. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever known. If anyone had told me that there’s this nice bloke named Thomas Barrow who had been put through the wringer like this, I would think they were writing the protagonist for their upcoming production.” Guy laughed a little and pretended to contemplate, “Hmmm… if so, that character would be so challenging to play.”

Thomas kept looking at the ground. He blinked his eyes in silence before he mumbled, “Then that film would be a blockbuster. But I bet you couldn’t play the role.” He slowly smiled, “And you’d have to be really lucky to get a ticket for it.” They looked at each other and giggled.

“Yeah, that character would certainly be a legend. And I’m glad to know him,” Guy replied satisfyingly.

Finally, he persuaded Thomas to go back to Downton for a week to catch up with the Crawleys and their staff. Guy’s filming schedule was packed so he couldn’t travel with him. Out of guilt, Guy offered to pay for the travelling expenses and bought Thomas his commercial plane tickets. Thomas was reluctant at first but he eventually gave in to the temptation to fly for the first time in his life. Before he boarded the plane, he once again thanked Guy for what he did for him and promised to get better soon. 

As he flew across the Atlantic, Thomas couldn’t help but think about Richard’s words, “Fifty years ago, who’d have thought man could fly?” Well, he was flying now. And he felt simultaneously happy and sad about it. What would Richard be doing now? Did Jimmy finally get settled down? Was Edward watching from heaven and being happy for him? Thomas looked out the window and tears ran silently down his cheeks. 

Soon he arrived in London and travelled north to Yorkshire by train. The scenery gradually changed from city to countryside, and Thomas became more relaxed as he was surrounded by nature. The wind blew through his face and loose hair. He could smell the freshness of the grass and see the blue wide sky. It was a beautiful sunny day.

Once Thomas planned to visit Downton a month ago, he wrote to Mary as a courtesy. He didn’t want to make it a big deal to the downstairs lot so he kindly asked Mary not to tell anyone else. Mary understood that and agreed to keep it secret. Thomas knew that in fact she was excited to see everybody’s surprised faces when he appeared out of the blue. Yes, Lady Mary would be so. Thomas thought to himself and smiled a little. 

His ride back to the Abbey went smoothly and everything along the road was familiar, only that he no longer needed to walk the long way on foot. Time seemed to have paused in the village. Thomas could almost see his younger self stepping out of the post office after sending that telegram to Philip. It was like yesterday. How could these places still look the same while so many things had already changed? He thought of William and Matthew, as well as Ethel and Lady Sybil. He felt sorry for them. “I’m the one who got away.” “Gives hope to us all.” The days when they were here were long gone, but had they ever really left? Thomas suddenly felt overwhelmed by his complicated feelings towards this place he called home. Perhaps part of him had never left, too. 

When Thomas arrived at the Abbey and rang the bell, it was Mr. Carson who opened the door. They were both stoned and stared at each other for longer than usual. Thomas surely expected Carson, but he wasn’t prepared to see this tight-lipped wrinkled man with a head of grey hair standing in front of him. Was Carson this old when he left? He couldn’t remember clearly. Carson was equally shocked. The troubled man that he once supervised suddenly turned up as a guest to the house he managed. Didn’t he finally get rid of Thomas after he met the movie star? Carson shrugged as he recalled that. But he had been reminiscing about the downstairs life with Thomas’s cheeks lately - it was too peaceful without the naughty boy in the servant’s hall. It was somehow boring. Carson was surprised that he would find himself missing Thomas Barrow - like a strict father missing his difficult son. At times he would tell himself that maybe Thomas had found his happiness out there, so there was no need to worry. 

“Mr. Carson, it’s nice to see you.”

“You never fail to surprise us, Mr. Barrow.”

They stood at the front door, both a little unsettled. “Who’s that?” Asked Lady Grantham from inside. “We have been visited by an old friend, My Lady.” Carson raised his eyebrows as he couldn’t believe these words came out of his own mouth. Neither could Thomas, who remembered clearly how he was greeted last time he entered through the front door as acting sergeant. Carson and Thomas nodded politely at each other before they went into the house. Thomas exhaled a deep breath of relief. 

Both Lord and Lady Grantham were very much amazed by Thomas’s visit. They were eager to know how their former footman-turned-butler had been doing these two years. So they had a short conversation about Thomas’s life in America, and Robert seemed a bit too excited as he told Thomas about how it reminded him of his Eton days. Carson couldn’t control his eyebrows, while Mary cheerfully watched on and gave Thomas knowing looks at certain points. 

It was afternoon, the servants had been working on their chores at different corners of the house. So Carson went off to summon them all before Thomas entered the basement. He wondered what Carson would have told them.

Meanwhile, Thomas used the time to revisit his old room in the attic. No one used it after he’d left. He noticed how humble his room was compared with the luxurious room he shared with Guy. The furniture was still in place but it had lost its warmth as there were no traces of living any longer. A layer of dust had formed on the surfaces of his old cabinet and desk. Thomas felt strange. He remembered Dryden Park, the run down estate of Sir Michael Reresby. Would this room ever be used again? Was he its last occupant? What would it become in a hundred years’ time? Thomas sighed and took a last look at his room for eighteen years. He said goodbye to it and closed the door lightly behind him.

After a while, Thomas found himself descending the stairs to the servant’s hall. He felt his heart beating faster as he got closer to the bottom. When he was almost there, Thomas caught a glimpse of the framed writings hanging above the entrance to the servant’s hall - “Watch and Pray.” He was relieved that it was still there. He changed it when he was the butler. Thomas remembered how for fifteen years he walked past the former one every day that said “Trust in the Lord,” and couldn’t help but feel betrayed by God and everyone. He was furious then. But now Thomas was glad that he had grown into a better man and there was no need to be bitter anymore. 

Suddenly Thomas heard Anna’s voice from the servant’s hall, “Be quiet! Mr. Barrow might hear.”

“Oh, I can’t wait! Mrs. Patmore, just come and sit down!” Daisy was apparently in an exciting mood, and what on earth was Mrs. Patmore doing?  

“I just want to make sure it looks perfect.” 

“It’s very beautiful, Mrs. Patmore. I’m sure Thomas will appreciate it.” It seemed even Mr. Bates was here to welcome him. Thomas thought for a moment about what snarky things he could say to Bates. No, he wouldn’t do that, not today. 

“Mr. Barrow may be here any time soon. You get ready now,” Mrs. Hughes said softly. Who was she talking to?

Thomas had anticipated this moment for a month. He kept thinking of his guilt and how to make apologies. Things might have improved, but at the bottom of his heart he still thought they didn’t like him as much as other servants. And he could not fully embrace them for how they treated him in the past. Their misunderstanding towards him could perhaps never change. How could he truly belong here? Or anywhere? But the strange conversation just now might hint that things were not as bad as he’d thought. After all, they were the only people in this world who really knew him. So Thomas plucked up his courage and stepped into the servant’s hall. 

Three shadows rushed forward and hugged him around the waist. “Mr. Barrow!!!” The children shouted with joy. “We missed you a lot,” little George said softly as his big blue eyes looked up at Thomas. Oh god, these children had grown so much. George was almost reaching Thomas’s shoulders. Sybbie was already a young lady and Thomas could see Lady Sybil in her. Marigold was with her parents in London, but Thomas missed her nonetheless. The third little one was Johnny, who was always joyous and nothing like his father, much to Thomas’s delight. It was great that the children had not forgotten him. In fact, they couldn’t be happier to see him. 

Thinking of it, Thomas’s eyes began to well up and his face turned red. “Alright now,” Mrs. Hughes said to the children, “let go of Mr. Barrow or you will choke him out.” They laughed and Thomas noticed something on the dining table. It was a beautifully decorated chocolate brownie cake - Thomas’s favourite. “It was intended for the family’s afternoon tea today. But I asked if we could use it instead and Lady Grantham kindly agreed,” Mrs. Patmore explained. 

Thomas couldn’t believe it all. Why? Was this their apology after all these years? Had he been wrong about them all along?

He couldn’t look up at them but smiled shyly, “Thank you very much. Thanks for this warm reception. You don’t need to do this. I’m not worthy of it.” 

“Don’t say that, Thomas,” Daisy said, “We’ve all missed you. And your mischief, of course.” 

“I really don’t deserve any of this…” Thomas could no longer contain his tears and started to cry. The children couldn’t understand what was happening. They grabbed his hand and looked with worried eyes. “Why are you sad, Mr. Barrow?” Sybbie asked, “Tell us and we will find ways to help you.” Thomas cried even harder. He couldn’t control himself. 

“Mr. Barrow is just too happy,” Phyllis tried to explain it for him, “He has missed us as much as we missed him. So he is very happy to see us all at once now. Aren’t you, Mr. Barrow?” She approached him and offered him her handkerchief. 

“Yes, I am,” Thomas said as he wiped his tears, “I’m just too happy to see you all again.” There was no need for other words. 

Everyone’s eyes slowly turned teary as they smiled with contentment and joy. One thing was sure - Thomas was very much missed and loved here around the servant’s table. They didn’t know it before, neither did he. But now the big boy had come home.

“Welcome back, Thomas.”

Thomas smiled and replied softly, “I’m home.”

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 51)

Prologue/TOC | Previous (50) | Next (52)

Content Warning: Blood and gore, violence, death

Word Count: 2.4k

------ Chapter 51: Hunting Expedition ------

Candy feared that the king was legitimately going to murder her in a fit of rage. His violence was escalating, to the point where he came close to mangling her beyond repair on a regular basis. The servants, along with his family members, avoided him as best they could, lest they become the unlucky target of his wrath. Nobody wished to be beaten—or worse, executed—for a petty error.

After being thumped hard on the skull when the king lost his temper, Leon suggested that he go hunting to blow off some steam and sate his bloodlust. To his relief, King Richard agreed with enthusiasm. He summoned Sir Maneater, his squire, and the dog trainer to his study and ordered them to prepare for a hunting expedition. Joey and Martin saddled up all the horses, collected their weapons, and set out into the woodlands surrounding the castle with the king.

The king, despite the sharper edge in his words and gestures, was in high spirits at the prospect of hunting. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the kill. Unlike some men of higher station, he relished the opportunity to personally skin and gut an animal, to soak his hands in blood. Ajax, riding alongside him on a gargantuan coal-black stallion, carried the king’s gilded bow and hunting knife for him.

Hardon chattered on to Martin about hunting techniques and the best game, with the knight giving brief and polite responses in turn. Joey rode on Martin’s right in silence, unsure what to say or if engaging in the conversation would be rude—not that he wanted to speak to the depraved king anyway. Ajax scanned the trees like a hawk for potential threats. The dog trainer urged the army of greyhounds ahead of the horses to seek a game trail.

“I’m hoping to snag a few red foxes,” the king prattled on. “They have such lovely pelts, perfect for lining a new coat for the upcoming winter.” As he spoke, he idly scratched at his chest inside his shirt and plucked out Candy, chained to his necklace. “I want to keep my little darling warm, after all! Assuming she makes it another season without pissing me off!” He snarled and snapped his teeth at her, eliciting a shrill shriek that made him laugh wickedly.

“Of course, I wouldn’t mind hunting rabbits or deer either. They make the most delicious stews. She could always stay warm in my belly too!” He chuckled while Candy turned dreadfully pale. She glanced over at Martin with pleading, watery eyes. He averted his gaze with shame. There was nothing he could do for her.

Candy broke inside, seeing the handsome knight of her dreams dressed in the king’s livery of silver and purple—the colors of the enemy, complete with the sable wolf adorning his breast. He wasn’t on her side, and he was never going to help her. She choked out a sob, prompting the king to squeeze her with irritation.

“Enough of that nonsense now. Unless you want me to give you a real reason to cry,” Hardon growled. He was growing weary of Candy’s near-constant melancholy, so different from Millie’s cheerfulness. She bit her tongue hard, struggling to hold back the rising tide of grief. Luckily, loud baying from several of the hounds distracted her tormentor. The dogs surged forward in a stampede; the riders spurred on their horses in excited pursuit.

“Tally-ho!” the king exclaimed gleefully. “Ajax, my bow!” The guard passed him the weapon with an arrow already in position and the king took a shot. The fox, its red fur standing out among the brown and green brush, darted to the side and dodged the arrow. Joey sent an arrow of his own in swift succession, piercing the fox in the nape of its neck. The creature squealed and collapsed on its side, thrashing and panting.

“Ah, a direct hit!” King Richard shouted victoriously. “Let me finish it!” The dog trainer stayed the hounds and the king leapt off his horse with a bloodthirsty, triumphant leer. He drew his knife and approached his dying quarry with confidence.

“Be cautious, Your Majesty!” Martin warned as he dismounted his own steed. “That fox will fight to its dying breath!” The king ignored his warning and approached recklessly. The fox yipped and feebly scrabbled at the dirt with its paws, but couldn’t get away fast enough. The giant crouched over the fox and raised his dagger to plunge the blade into its flesh.

The fox lunged forward at the threat, in a last-ditch effort to defend itself. Hardon recoiled in surprise. Candy screamed as the giant animal’s maw, bristling with sharp white teeth, rocketed towards her as she hung in the air from the king’s neck. The huge jaws snapped shut inches from her toes, barely missing her, as a strand of thick saliva splashed on her calf. The giant kicked the beast into submission and stabbed it in the gut with a splatter of garish crimson.

“Gotcha!” he gloated, dragging the blade up the creature’s belly to its collar as it barked in agony. A spray of scarlet sprinkled his hands and torso, including Candy. She wailed in an earsplitting tone, horrified by the carnage and still reeling from nearly being bitten in half.

The king winced. “Ugh, Candy. Do you have to make such a racket? That’s really annoying.” Candy tried to stop, but her body was wracked with heaving sobs. She choked and cried and gasped in a most undignified display, unable to hold in all her feelings and fluids any longer.

Hardon groaned. “Uggghhhh. Stupid human,” he muttered. He turned to Martin, who happened to be wading through the vegetation towards him. “Hold this whiny little rat for a second.” He unclipped Candy from his necklace and tossed her at Martin, who scrambled to catch her in shock. His breath hitched in his throat as he held her in his gloved palm. She looked terrible, with flecks of blood and saliva on her sickly skin, and snot and tears running down her puckered face. Her body was dotted with purple and gray bruises from the king’s violence.

When she realized she was sitting in Martin’s hand, her cries stopped. She sucked in a sharp breath and gazed up at him with desperation. She was too upset to speak coherently, but her eyes spoke for her. Help me. HELP ME. HELP ME PLEASE!!!

Martin’s heart stopped. He'd obsessed over this woman’s lamentable fate, schemed about stealing her away from the king, regretted his decision not to help her every night, and mentally flagellated himself for his powerlessness and ineptitude. And here she was, by an extraordinary stroke of fate, sitting in his hand: unguarded and ripe for the taking. He glanced over at the king, who was preoccupied with slitting the fox’s throat and tearing out its entrails. His back was to the knight, oblivious to the frantic machinations in Martin’s head.

Martin slowly backed away from the king, step by step, as he closed his hand over Candy protectively. He knew he was throwing away everything he had worked so hard for in a flash, but he had never been so certain of a decision in his life. He tried to act casual and inconspicuous as he mounted his horse. He stuffed Candy into one of the pouches on his belt to keep his hands free, in case he needed to fight. Joey tilted his head in a questioning gesture, not comprehending what Martin was plotting. Martin urged on his horse and trotted away.

At the sound of horse hooves, the king spun around, still clasping the fox’s liver in his hand. His eyes blazed with outraged recognition when he realized what Martin was doing. “Ajax! After him!” he bellowed, pointing towards the knight. Martin, hearing his order, spurred his horse into a gallop. Ajax kicked his own beast into pursuit. Joey froze up, eyes wide.

“You too, you damned fool!” the king yelled at him. The squire, flustered, hastened to catch up. The king swore explosively as he threw away the liver and wiped off the blood soaking his hands.

Martin leaned into his horse with desperation. The trees flew by in a blur as he rapidly crossed through a grassy clearing. The heavy hooves of Ajax’s steed pounded behind him, getting closer and closer, as loud as his own hammering heart. Joey brought up the rear, straining to catch up. He drew his bow and aimed it with a steady arm. He was not, however, pointing it at Martin. His arrow, hungry for blood, was fixed on Ajax, at a chink in his armor.

Joey let loose the arrow. His aim was true, and the projectile sailed directly into the flesh of the massive guard’s back. To Joey’s shock, the guard flinched slightly from the impact but otherwise was unaffected. The squire shot another arrow, this time into his neck, and the guard absorbed it like nothing more than a bee sting. He ignored Joey and continued his pursuit relentlessly.

Ajax was gaining on his prey. Martin glanced back to behold the terrifying image of the guard with an arrow tip sticking out of his throat, completely unfazed as a river of blood ran down his chest. He urged on his horse, but the trees were growing thicker and the horse was forced to slow down. Leaves and branches slapped at Martin’s face, obscuring his vision. He heard the cracks of wood breaking from behind him, dreadfully close.

A thick branch whacked him hard in the torso and knocked him off his horse. His skull collided with the ground, causing his vision to explode into a kaleidoscope of stars. The horse whinnied and darted off into the trees, disappearing in seconds. Martin groaned, dazed and winded, as the hooves of the gigantic stallion clomped down next to his head, followed by huge leather boots. Martin’s hand strayed to the pouch attached to his belt; fortunately, Candy hadn’t been crushed in the fall.

A beefy, hairy hand grabbed his shirt and hauled him into the air. His legs dangled uselessly beneath him. Martin tried to retaliate, but the world spun around him at a nauseating rate, and his head lolled down to his chest. He grunted incoherently and flailed his arms like limp noodles. The guard, with his singular eye, stared at him impassively before turning his attention to the approaching gallop of hooves.

Joey’s horse careened through the trees close behind. He saw the menacing shadow of Ajax’s figure standing through a veil of leaves. At first, he hoped to trample the man with his horse, but he was forced to curb his momentum when he saw Martin hanging from his hands before him. His horse stumbled over a thick root and Joey flipped backwards over its hindquarters, smacking into a tree trunk. He crumbled to the ground, but clumsily recovered his footing as his enemy lunged at him, tossing Martin to the side.

The squire heard the smooth schlink of a sword sliding out of its scabbard. He managed to draw his own sword just in time, narrowly parrying the blade thrust from his opponent. Ajax’s blade slid across his with a squeal of metal and impaled the tree behind him with startling force, sinking into the bark almost completely to the hilt. The giant strained with tremendous muscle to rip the sword out in a flurry of splinters.

He jerked back, momentarily off-balance. Joey saw his opportunity and darted in with intent to kill. He landed a direct hit in his broad midsection, stabbing him brutally below the sternum. Ajax didn’t slump over or scream, merely glaring at him coldly. Joey twisted the blade savagely, but despite a hot gush of blood, the guard still failed to show any indication of pain. Joey gaped, incredulous.

With a roar, Ajax retaliated and swung his sword. Joey hopped back, relinquishing his weapon to his enemy’s body, but he failed to evade the vicious slash that cleaved him diagonally from hip to shoulder. He cried out in pain as he lost his footing and collapsed against the split trunk behind him. Ajax raised his arm to deal the killing blow.

Martin jumped him from behind and wrenched back his muscular arm with a feral cry. Knife in hand, the knight swung it wildly at the guard’s face, hoping to perhaps blind him if the other fatal wounds wouldn’t stop him. He missed his good eye, instead thrusting his dagger into the empty eye socket covered by the eyepatch. To his surprise, his knife contacted an object inside the skull with a gravelly crunch, something very unlike flesh and blood but rather stone. The guard convulsed violently and dropped to the earth like a puppet with cut strings.

Martin pulled his knife from the guard’s eye socket with confusion. Stuck to the other end of his blade was a glowing runic stone, cracked in the middle. The blade tip had caught in the carved symbol and distorted it, diluting the magic within. Martin pulled the stone off his knife and threw it away, then rushed over to his loyal squire, who was lying on his back.

“Joey! Oh God, Joey!” Martin exclaimed, examining the sizable gash. Ajax’s sword had cut through his clothes and roughly cleaved his flesh apart. The wound oozed blood, saturating the torn fabric.

“I’m okay,” Joey gasped. “It’s not a fatal wound, and it’s not as bad as it looks. It’s a shallow cut. It just... really hurts.” He grimaced. “I don’t think I can move...”

A shroud of horror darkened over the knight as the howling of hounds sounded off in the distance. “Oh no! C’mon Joey, we need to go!” He wrapped his arms around the squire, fully intending to carry him.

“NO!” Joey protested. Martin recoiled at the vociferous protest. “Go without me! Now!”

“But Joey-”

“I’ll be fine! I’ll survive! I was chasing you, remember? Following the king’s orders.” He sucked in a sharp breath as a spasm of pain shook his frame. “The guard is dead. Nobody will know that I betrayed him. But you... if you’re caught...” He gritted his teeth as the excited barks and baying waxed closer. “There’s no time. GO!”

“Alright.” Martin brushed Joey’s sweaty face with his glove. “Thank you, Joey. If I never see you again… just know, I’m proud of you. You’ve blossomed into a good man.” Without any time to spare, he ran.

Chapter 52

Tag List: @yummynomms @maybeiamdownbad @tinycoded360

[shadowglens]

like kerosene (on a flame of doubt)

fandom: read dead redemption 2 warnings: canon typical violence, blood and gore characters: alma mcarthy (oc), john marston, dutch van der linde, arthur morgan, assorted original side characters word count: 7,826 overview: alma mcarthy joins the van der linde gang, circa 1891 BEFORE READING: please open in a new tab as it's very long and tumblr formatting is terrible on dash 😭

1891, Wyoming

“I want those stalls all mucked out before lights out, you hear?”

Alma rolled her eyes so hard she thought they might disappear into her skull. “I ain’t your servant, Jeremiah. Do it yourself.”

“Listen, girl.” The slapping of his boots through mud bounced between the walls of the livery as he stormed towards her. “While you are under this roof, taking my gold and tending my horses, you will do what I goddamn fucking say.”

Evening was drawing near. Distantly, if she strained her ears over the sound of her associate’s - sorry, boss’ - incessant droning, Alma could hear a pair of coyotes calling to each other in the nearby hills. One of the horses in the stall closest to her stamped it’s foot with a huff, whether at the threat of wildlife or Jeremiah, Alma wasn’t sure. She absently reached to hush it as the man’s squelching boots finally brought him to stand before her. 

His cheeks were crimson, a vein popping on his forehead and disappearing all the way up into his receding hairline. The horse, a beautiful roan mare, was now at the front of her stall and huffed sharply enough that Jeremiah’s neckerchief fluttered. “Wasn’t I fucking clear, girl? Pick up the goddamn rake and get to work.”

Jeremiah Owens wasn’t a particularly kind man, in the grand scheme of the things. He only knew how to yell or curse, smelt not-so-faintly of manure, and Alma was fairly sure he had never bothered to remember her first name. Girl this, girl that. Still, she fought the urge to stamp her foot like a petulant foal. He had never laid a hand on her, for starters, and shouting aside, he had given her free use of the small loft space above his office. Right now, he was the only thing separating her from the warmth of this livery and the rain-soaked emptiness on the horizon outside. 

“I’ve gotta do up the papers for those mustangs,” she snapped, biting down the fire in her gut. “Mr Darlington was due to send one of his boys tomorrow mornin’ for them, or did you forget?”

That was the other reason she liked Jeremiah. When she’d turned up on his doorstep just under nine months ago, looking like a starving rat no less, he hadn’t just offered her a job - he’d brought her in on the less-than-reputable side of his operation. More than that, he’d let her help with it. Storing and feeding horses was one thing, but a horse fence was an entirely different beast. A lucrative one, too. She knew he had a few hundred gold stored somewhere in the basement of his house, she was sure of it. 

“I ain’t smooth-brained, girl.” Again, she rolled her eyes. Again, he glared. “The papers are already organised. Just muck the stalls out.” At that, he stormed back the way he’d come, no doubt to the comfort of his small house up the way. 

“O-kay boss,” she sing-songed, mostly to piss him off. 

To his credit, he didn’t bother turning back around. 

In truth, Alma didn’t mind the cleaning. It was mindless, sure, and it left her muscles aching every night in her sorry excuse for a bed, but at least it kept her busy. Didn’t give her too much time to think. If she had time to think, she started remembering, and that led nowhere good. 

She worked her way through the stalls as the daylight finally slipped away below the horizon. The roan mare was a legit purchase on Jeremiah’s part, currently the only one in the livery. A group of men had brought in a trio of mustangs a few days ago, beautiful beasts captured from somewhere over the mountain, and then there was the stallion. 

He was a huge Thoroughbred, proud, a striking blood bay colouring. Alma was sure he’d been nicked from one of the local ranches, but it wasn’t her or Jeremiah’s jobs to ask those kinds of questions. Either way, she’d be sad to see him go, even if he would fetch them a fortune. He was magnificent. 

Alma had reached his stall, and was about to sneak him a sugar cube, when something clattered to the ground at the opposite end of the stable.

The stallion jerked away from her hand, startled, as Alma too spun on the spot. 

Her hand went to her hip on instinct. Her revolver, as always, was holstered. Jeremiah had fought her on it for about a week before a wannabe gunslinger had held them both up over ten dollars. She’d been armed while working ever since.

The livery was deathly silent. 

Most of the lights were off by this time of night, only one illuminating her end of the stable and one in Jeremiah’s office. The office where the sound had, undoubtedly, come from. Alma crept in that direction, keeping her shoulder tight against the stall doors and the shadows they cast. There was only one place Jeremiah ever was at this hour, and it for sure wasn’t working. Lazy bastard.

A shape darted past the office window. 

Fury, at being robbed, at being stolen from, gripped Alma, and before she could think of any common sense she was sprinting for the door. 

The hinges were always loose and creaking, and even her slight frame sent the door slamming open as she barrelled into it. The shape turned out to be a person as the door also slammed into them, sending them careening into the far wall with a shout. Alma twisted, revolver drawn.

It was a man, scrambling to his feet while one hand gripped his nose. There was blood covering his chin and throat. She couldn’t see much of his face through his curtain of dark, greasy hair, but she could hear him cursing under his breath.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Alma snarled, gun aimed between his eyes where he was leaning back against the far wall. 

“You broke my fucking nose!”

She took a step towards him, gun still up. “You were trying to steal from us!”

He shifted, spat a glob of blood in her direction. He spoke like a street rat, kind of looked like one too, but his clothes were just a little too nice to be one of the petty thieves Alma was used to seeing around town. The leather of his boots, though now muddied, was clearly well looked after, and the holster for his own revolver looked well made. Maybe he was from a gang? Jeremiah had grumbled that there were a few that rode through every so often, but usually they brought good business to the livery.

“What do you want?” she snapped. Back in the stables, she could hear the mustangs cracking a fuss at all the commotion. 

He scoffed. “Your money. What, are you simple?”

“Fuck you!” Alma glanced quickly at his gun - still holstered. “Give me back anything you’ve taken. Now!”

Despite the gun pointed at his forehead, he had the audacity to laugh. “Or what? You probably don’t even know how to use that thing.”

Oh, this greasy fucker. 

The Alma from five years ago would’ve baulked at even holding a gun. Her Pa had taught her how, of course, but she’d been a proper little girl back then, with parents who loved her, and a warm home to run back to if things got too hard. 

Five years was a long time.

The man’s left arm, the one not gripping his broken nose where it was still streaming blood down his face, twitched closer to his holster.

No you don’t.

Alma shot him.

“Fuck!” he screamed as the shot rang out through the office and livery and the land surrounding it. The horses cried out, an owl scattering from the rafters and into the trees beyond at the sudden noise. His body slammed back against the wall, broken nose long forgotten as he clutched helplessly at his shoulder and the rough line the bullet had drawn through his skin. He was lucky she’d only grazed him and not put it between his eyes.

Alma stormed up to him, lunging, and before he could react she had his revolver in her free hand. “I said, give me back anything you’ve taken!”

She could hear Jeremiah shouting for her up at his house.

The man dropped to the ground, one shaking hand held palm-out as the other tried to stem the bleeding. Alma was close enough that she could see the sweat on his brow and the wide-eyed look on his face, like a startled filly. It was barely a flesh wound. He really hadn’t thought she’d shoot him.

Belatedly, she realised he was barely older than she was, maybe even the same age. More a boy than anything. Just like she was barely anything other than a girl.

“ - all of it!” he stammered. She hadn’t realised he’d been talking. “Get away from me, you psycho!”

He’d emptied the small satchel at his hip, sending an assortment of trash and stolen goods scattering to the floor. A few wads of cash, a stack of fraudulent papers that Alma had hand-written herself, a pack of cigarettes, a few twigs and rocks, a tin of gun oil that looked like it was nothing but dregs, and a little pocket knife. She took the cash and papers, thought for a moment, then pinched the cigarettes too even though she didn’t smoke.

She glared at him, raising both guns again. “I’m the psycho?”

“You shot me!”

“You deserved it,” she said, backing up to slam everything back onto the desk. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the drawers all sitting wide open. Subtle. “Now get -” she started, breath caught at the adrenaline coursing through her veins, “now get the hell out of here before I really shoot you!”

The man - the boy - just stared at her. His nose, thankfully, had stopped gushing blood all down his front, although now his arm was stained russet too. His shirt was well and truly ruined.

Alma marched over to the window he’d apparently crawled through and slammed her hand against the frame. “Are you deaf?! I said go!”

That seemed to shake him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. She tracked his every movement across the office, guns still razed, and simply glared as he awkwardly tried to clamber back out the window with only one good arm. She slammed the butt of his own gun against his back as he went, sending him tumbling into the mud outside.

He cursed, stumbled and slipped, before righting himself and sprinting for the edge of the property. If she squinted, she could make out the shape of a horse hidden just beyond the treeline. 

“And don’t come back, you bastard!” she screamed after him. 

Jeremiah chose that moment to burst into the office, door slamming open the exact same way it had moments before. “Alma!”

She leant back against the wall beside the window, a gun still gripped in each hand, and raised an eyebrow at her boss. “So you do know my name.”

“What happened? Did I hear a gunshot?” He eyed the leather-wrapped revolver in her right hand. Alma almost laughed when she realised he was only in sleep pants. Maybe the old geezer did care after all. “Where did that come from?”

“A gift from a thief. Don’t worry, I chased him off cause, unlike you, I care about this business.” 

Jeremiah just gawked at her. “You shot him?”

“Would you rather I let him take all your cash and papers and everything not nailed down?”

“Well, no, but …” he only then spied the blood smeared on the wall and floor. “Hells, girl. How many times did you shoot him?”

Alma scoffed at him as she inspected her new revolver. “Just once, barely. I’m not a monster.”

...

One of Jeremiah’s cousins, Gregory, came by the next day to help shore things up in the wake of the attempted robbery. The man was Jeremiah’s opposite - tall, rotund, intimidating - which Alma supposed was a good thing. It’d hopefully scare any other would-be thieves off, at any rate. 

Not that they had to worry. The next few days were entirely uneventful. Mr Darlington sent a few boys down to pick up two of the mustangs, and paid triple what they were realistically worth without batting an eyelid. Jeremiah had made her hide the Thoroughbred out back before their arrival, just in case their suspicions rang true.

Alma had also convinced Jeremiah to let her man the fence after her little display the other night. That’s where she was that morning, perched on a stool behind the cut-out in the wall with her head propped up on one hand, when a man on a beautiful white stallion came trotting down the path. Even from a distance, she could tell she wouldn’t like him. The moustache alone put her off.

“Why, good morning to you miss!” he cawed. In the morning sunlight, the red of his waistcoat shone like rubies. “Fine day, isn’t it?”

Alma just stared at him. “I suppose.”

“Quite an establishment you’ve got here.” He hitched his horse by the post at the livery entrance, then waltzed over to where she was perched around the side. For a new customer, he sure knew his way around. 

“It ain’t mine, sir,” she said, fighting to smooth her brow against a brewing frown. “Can I help you?”

He was right before her now, smiling with too many teeth and his silly slicked-back hair. “Forgive my manners. Dutch van der Linde.” The hand he held out was tanned, roughened, yet adorned with rings of all metals that glinted as he moved. An unusual combination. When she simply looked from his hand to his face and back again, the man - Dutch, apparently - simply smiled and shifted to clutch at his gun belt with a hip cocked. “I was hoping to discuss a proposition with you, if you’d be amenable?”

Oh boy. “Unless it’s to sell that pretty horse of yours, sir, the answer’s no.”

“Now, now miss, don’t be so rash.” Alma felt herself tense, toes curling in her boots where they were hidden behind the counter. She could image Jeremiah in her ear, insisting that she be amenable to all customers lest she drive away business. She forced herself to breathe as Dutch kept yapping. “I’m here to propose an offer to you, specifically. You see, one of my boys said he ran into you a few days back, said you had a bit of a … disagreement?”

Any pretence of her being a good salesperson flew out the door at that. So the greasy fucker was back to haunt her then. She pulled her revolver from the holster at her hip before she could stop herself, jumping off her stool in the same moment. Trust her luck that the moment Gregory was nowhere to be seen was the moment she needed him. 

Dutch, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. Instead, he held up both hands in surrender. Still smiling. Still too many teeth. “Easy miss, I’m not here for what you think. Like I said, I have a proposition.”

Alma scoffed. Kept her revolver raised. “My mumma didn’t raise no fool.”

“I can see that. But I truly mean you no harm.” Dutch breathed out a laugh, or maybe it was a grimace? Alma could quite read the way his face twisted. “From the looks of John’s nose and shoulder, she apparently also raised quite a fighter.”

Was this the boy’s - John’s - father, then? Uncle? Alma supposed there was a bit of a resemblance with the dark hair, but it had been nighttime. Maybe she was misremembering. “Yeah well maybe you need to teach your boy some proper manners. Didn’t you hear it’s rude to accost a lady in the night?”

Dutch laughed properly then, glancing to his feet for a moment as if to collect himself before lifting his gaze back to Alma. His brown eyes assessed her. “Now, there is fire in you, miss. I knew I’d like you. ”

“The feeling’s not mutual.”

Another laugh shot from him, short like gunfire. “Hah! Now, where was I? Oh yes, I came to thank you for not killing John on sight, the boy was foolish to steal from such a … reputable establishment such as this one.” He waved his hands at the livery in question with an eyebrow raised. “I’d also like to offer you a job, of sorts.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m already gainfully employed, if you couldn’t tell.” Alma glanced behind her, hoping fruitlessly that one of her associates would actually be found in their place of work when she needed them. Alas, all that greeted her was the beautiful Thoroughbred with his ears perked in her direction. She kept her revolver gripped.

Dutch, apparently oblivious to her distraction, or perhaps not caring, soldiered on. “But does this place truly bring you satisfaction? Purpose? You’re clearly an intelligent young lady and have a mind for business and horses, and I just happen to find myself in need of someone with such talents.” He reached into a pocket of his coat, slowing as he saw her grip on her revolver tense, before producing a few pieces of paper. He gently placed them on the counter between them. Alma couldn’t help but gape a little when she recognised her own handiwork. “I’ve seen how you operate. Smart idea, faking the papers to get a higher price. I bet you’re making a killing out of the rich fools around here.” He paused again, for dramatic effect or to assess her reaction, Alma wasn’t sure. “Wouldn’t you rather put your skills to better use? Me and mine can offer you that and more.”

Alma fought the urge to ask where he’d got the papers from. “Let me guess? By ‘better use’, you mean scamming people for you, rather than this business? You must think me a proper idiot, just like that John of yours.”

It was an insult, and she’d meant it as one, but Dutch only kept smiling. Something in his eyes had sparked. “Think bigger! The government would see us civilised, chained up, would see our freedoms taken away. The rich folk around here no doubt deserve to lose some cash to you, sure, but a woman with your talents could be doing more than taking coin from a few oblivious ranchers. You and me and the others in my community? We can make a real difference.”

Surely he was a fool. The government? His community? Alma had seen how the law and the government treated people who didn’t fit in, people who lived outside the confines of society, and it weren’t pretty. As much as she hated the system sometimes, she had no desire to slide back into the fear she’d only just managed to crawl out of. 

Then again, what had her parents gained by being dutiful citizens? They’d been happy, for a time she supposed, but what were they now other than six feet under with no gravemarkers for Alma to visit? They’d done what they were told, had tried to live the great American dream, and it had torn them up and spat them back out like they were nothing. 

Worse than nothing. 

Still. Going in guns blazing surely wasn’t the solution either. No matter how many big, pretty words people like Dutch used to decorate it.

Gregory had apparently decided to finally do the job his cousin had asked him to, and Alma could hear him trudging through the stable in her general direction. She forcibly shook herself from her thoughts and perched back on her stool. “If it’s all the same to you, I’m mighty fine sticking to scamming the rich folk around here. Thanks, but no thanks.” She rested her revolver on the counter between them. “Now, if you don’t have a horse to trade, I think it’s time you left, sir.”

If Dutch was disappointed, he didn’t let it show. He simply smiled and held his hands in mock surrender, rings glinting again. “Well, if you change your mind, my associates and I will be in town for the next few days. We’ll be in the saloon, or nearby at the very least. You have a good day, Miss …?”

Alma bit the inside of her gum. Threw caution to the wind. “Alma McArthy.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss McArthy.” Dutch started walking backwards to his pretty horse with his pretty waistcoat and perfectly styled hair, and smiled. “Think about my offer?”

“Don’t count on it,” she called after him.

Gregory was beside her now, leaning over her shoulder to glare at Dutch’s receding form. His horse was small, fast no doubt, but he took his time trotting back up the path and over the rise. Alma kept her gun out until he was fully out of view.

“He give you any trouble?” Gregory grumbled, arms crossed. They were as thick as small trees.

Alma sighed, rubbing at her forehead. “Nah. Just … wanted to sell me something. I told him to sod off.”

“Hmm. Good.”

...

Alma was tossing and turning up in her loft above Jeremiah’s office, as she had been for the past few hours, when the gunfire started.

She tumbled from her cot, landing with a thud while her eyes adjusted to the near-pitch darkness. 

Another gunshot. Glass shattering. 

She fumbled across the small space for her gun belt, her revolver and the boy’s still tucked in their holsters. Lunged, then, for her coat where it hung on a hook haphazardly nailed into the far wall. The off-white of her sleep shirt near-glowed in the dark; even with her coat tugged on, her knees were still exposed. 

Another gunshot, another, another. Screaming. The horses were whinnying. 

A bullet shot through the wall of her loft, sending a spray of splinters towards her. Alma threw herself backwards on instinct, heart a drumbeat in her ear, and almost tripped over her boots where she’d left them scattered at the end of her shift. The whole livery was writhing as if in pain, had come alive with screams and gunfire. 

“Serves ya right!” someone - not Jeremiah or Gregory - was shouting over the cacophony. “Thieving scum!” 

It had been a relatively quiet few days, besides that boy trying to rob the place. Surely Dutch hadn’t returned? He had been a pompous ass with a stick a mile up his ass, but he hadn’t seemed to have any ill-feelings towards her or the stable. 

Alma went to make for the door, thought better of it, and tugged open the window instead. It was still at least a few hours before sunrise, the sky more stars than anything, and her eyes were still stuck with sleep. She couldn’t spy movement in the nearby treeline, but from this angle she could see figures darting about towards the front of the livery. 

“Come out here, you fucking coward!”

“Burn the place to the ground!”

“Flank them!”

It wasn’t too high of a drop, maybe a few metres. 

Another spray of bullets cut through the loft floor.

Alma jumped.

The grass and mud cushioned her fall enough that she didn’t snap both ankles on impact, and she never thought she’d be praising mud in her entire life. She made to run, slipped, fell flat on her front, and her sleepshirt was well and truly soiled now. Her mind unhelpfully supplied an image of the boy as he’d fled, bloodied and muddied as he’d been, as she now half was, and she cursed at herself. She could taste manure.

“Get the fuck outta my property!” That was Jeremiah. Alma raced to peer through a ground floor window, the glass shattered by bullets, and spied him crouched behind a stall with his rifle gripped in shaking hands. He was in the same state of undress as she was. “You good for nothing inbreds!” 

The remaining mustang was rushing its stall, as if in hopes of breaking free, and Alma could hear the roan mare crying out at the top of her lungs. Movement caught her eye towards the entrance, and she caught sight of the Thoroughbred’s tail disappearing out the stable doors with someone atop him. 

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Alma left her window behind and crept further along the outside wall, until she could just make out one of the men that had been decorating the livery in bullet holes. He was tall, criss-crossed with scars and looked as if he too had slipped in the mud at some point. Even through the grime and the black dots of her panic-riddled vision, she would recognise the family crest stitched into his coat collar anywhere.

The Darlington’s.

Well, shit.

The quickly-receding outline of the Thoroughbred disappeared over the rise. Alma wanted to punch something, shoot something, wanted to set the whole damned lot of them on fire. It was their own faults for being so complacent in guarding their property. Now, not only had a couple of hundred dollars worth of gold just run out of the livery, but it had left a trail of bullet holes in its wake. 

“ - pay for this!” The Darlington’s, those who weren’t in the process of also stealing the remaining horses, were still exchanging gunfire with Jeremiah. The mustang was giving them more trouble than it was worth, but a duo of fools were trying helplessly to muster it into submission while also avoiding getting a bullet between the eyes. 

“Darlington’s just lucky his whole goddamned stable isn’t here!” Jeremiah shouted. “Ain’t my fault he can’t keep his own things nailed down.”

“Speak for yourself, asshole!”

The roan mare was halfway out the door now, a rider grasping for her mane as they hoisted themself atop her. The swarm of gunmen was actually less than Alma had initially thought. She pulled her revolvers, crouched, aimed for the nearest idiot’s forehead.

Gregory was tackling the man into the muck before she could fire.

The two men went flying. Gregory was twice the man’s size, if not more, and easily had his opponent straddled with a fist flying towards their face before Alma could even blink. Once, twice, he slammed his fists down, spit and blood flying with every impact. Once, twice, she heard something crunch. 

Alma shifted her focus to one of the men trying to tame the mustang. Breathed. Fired. Unlike with the boy, she aimed properly this time, and the man crumpled satisfyingly as her bullet tore through his chest. The mustang reared back at the sudden freedom, sending the other man scattering away to avoid a hoof to the temple. 

Jeremiah seemed to be gaining ground too, his rifle picking off another Darlington. Alma should try to flank, get behind - 

Screaming.

Distantly, she recalled a gunshot. 

When she twisted, Gregory was looking right at her. He was still straddling the now-twitching corpse beneath him, his fists mangled messes, and his entire front was drenched in crimson. Not from his victim, though, she realised. Alma jerked forward on instinct, her body no longer her own, as she watched half his internal organs pour out of the newly-carved hole in his gut. She wasn’t sure if she was screaming. It didn’t matter. The thud of his body toppling to the mud forced her to her knees.

“You fucking bastards!”

Laughing. “Payback’s a bitch, Owens!”

“You fucking bastards!”

Hooves thundered past. The mustang, maybe. Alma forced herself to move, to throw herself behind the cover of a stall, as the gunfire kicked up again. Jeremiah was still cursing, still shouting, still firing.

She shouldn’t care so much. She’d known the man for barely a day. Her fury built, threatening to swallow her whole. He’d barely said two words to her. She wanted to kill something.

All at once, the sound came rushing back to Alma. The livery felt as though it was falling down around them. She spat out the taste of bile that had thundered up her throat, adjusted her grip on her revolvers, before standing and picking her next target. Most of the Darlington’s had fallen back to the stable entry, what with all the horses now having been properly stolen. There were still enough of them to be a threat though. Alma managed to clip one man’s shoulder, almost got another in the chest before he dived for cover, sent one falling back with a hole between the eyes.

Jeremiah cried out, deeper in the stable. Alma spun; despite the carnage, she could just make out his balding head through a hole that had been blasted through the stalls. A shadow was looming beside him. Seconds later, she could fully make out the man that had crept through the back door. 

The gunfire stopped as Jeremiah clearly struggled against his attacker. Alma, any hope of stealth long abandoned, sprinted for the pair. Gregory’s corpse. The rancher’s corpse. Her parents' corpses. Gregory’s corpse. The rancher’s -

She’d almost made it to them, had her revolvers raised, when someone slammed into her. 

Manure came rushing up to her, and for the second time that night she was rolling in it, hay and shit caught in her hair and coat. The bare skin of her legs tore against the debris of the livery floor. Her attacker, a wiry man with copper hair, immediately flipped her. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died before it could erupt from her throat as he slapped her hard enough that the stars were suddenly inside the stable.

“Now, now, who’s this, Owens?” the wiry bastard asked, smiling as he grappled with her flailing arms. Not again, not again. “She’s a little young for a whore, ain’t she?”

Jeremiah had slumped back against the stable wall, but the fury in his eyes could have burnt them all to the ground. “Get off her, you sick inbred!” 

Her wrists were now pinned above her head. Alma could feel the cool evening air on her legs as her sleep shirt rode up. Someone else had moved to grab her feet where she had been kicking them. Not again, not again.

The man that had attacked Jeremiah now leaned over her boss. He had a bloodied knife in one hand. “I was gonna put this little lady out of her misery, but I think I’ve changed my mind. After all, who’s gonna keep this place running, once all that blood catches up to you, huh old man?”

Alma screamed, writhing, and earned herself another slap. 

The man with the knife wandered over to Alma then. Dark hair swung in his face as he crouched beside her and held the butt of his knife to her temple. His breath smelt of tobacco when he said, “We’ll be seeing you mighty soon, little lady. In the meantime, lights out.”

Darkness.

...

By the time she woke the next morning, her head was pounding so hard she could barely see straight, the livery was burnt to its foundations, the horses were all long gone, and Jeremiah was a cooling corpse laid out beside her.

...

Everyone stared at Alma as she burst into the saloon.

The place was quiet, which she supposed was to be expected given it was barely midmorning. Too early for the nearby ranch hands, too late for the drunkards. A small gaggle of men were half-heartedly playing poker in the corner; the sight of her dripping blood and stinking of manure in the entry grinded their conversation to a halt. 

She wasn’t sure if she recognised anyone. She didn’t care. This town, and these wretched people, would soon be lost on the horizon behind her.

“Jesus,” the barkeep shouted at her across the room, “get lost, girl, before I throw you out myself.”

Alma ignored him.

She hadn’t bothered to change out of her soiled sleep shirt. Couldn’t, not with the livery burnt to the ground along with any of her belongings. They’d left Jeremiah’s house standing, for some reason, but the place was better left to be the mortuary it now was. The rifle slung over her shoulder was the only remnant of the place she’d had the heart to grab before making the long walk into town. Her hair was a matted mess down her back, and her knees were still lazily oozing blood where they’d been scraped raw on the stable floor. A drowned, beaten rat likely looked better.

Her heart was still pounding in her chest. Alma was sure her jaw might snap in two at any moment with how hard she had been clenching it since waking up a few hours ago.

It wasn’t the first time she’d been forced to flee after a massacre. Any respectable, well-mannered girl of society would scarcely be seen in public alone, or at least without a good reason, lest it bring scandal. For Alma, she felt almost called to it, like a compulsion she just couldn’t shake. Always catastrophe. Always running. Always one. One day she was sure she’d run out of horizon to swallow her up. Either that, or her own fury would do it for her.

“Did ya hear me, girl? I said get lost!”

She had the rifle pointed at his forehead before he could blink. “Shut up,” she snapped, even as the sound of guns suddenly being drawn ricocheted through the saloon, “before you make me lose my goddamn fucking temper.”

“Put the gun down!” one of the patrons yelled.

The barkeep raised his hands, leaving his dishcloth to fall forgotten to the floor. “Woah, easy there missy.”

Alma chewed on her gum to still her raging thoughts. “There’s a man in town, said he’d be nearby for the next few days. Dark hair, moustache, fancy clothes. Goes by Dutch. You know him?”

The other patrons were still shouting at her. The barkeep’s eyes kept dancing between her, the rifle, and undoubtedly the guns pointed at her own head. “I ain’t answering no questions with a gun between my -”

“Do you know him?” A piece of her spit landed on his cheek.

“Who’s asking?”

Alma risked glancing to her right, towards the back of the saloon, and there in all his pretend finery was Dutch Van der Linde. The pomade in his hair was still stiff as bricks, and his outfit remained largely unchanged from when she’d seen him a few days ago. His boots were muddied at the edges, but at a quick glance he didn’t seem any worse for wear. Definitely not like he’d been involved in a major shoot-out or arson attack. 

Dutch’s gaze was cold where it landed on her. One of his hands was gripping his gun belt casually, although she didn’t doubt he was quick on the draw. It took him a moment, his eyes bouncing around her face, before they sparked in recognition. “Miss McArthy, is that you? By God you look miserable.”

“It’s been a long day.” Alma glared back at the barkeep, her nose scrunched, before begrudgingly lowering the rifle. “I’d say thanks for the assist, but I figure you probably deserved the bullet.”

The barkeep, for his part, seemed less phased without a gun in his face. “I weren’t lying, girl. Get the fuck out of my establishment. You ain’t welcome here no more.”

“Or what?” she spat, Dutch forgotten for the moment. “You’ll call the sheriff down on me? That good-for-nothing asshole couldn’t even jerk himself off if he tried .”

Someone coughed out a laugh by the stairs.

“Now, now, what Miss McArthy means to say,” Dutch said from where he’d suddenly walked up beside her, “is thank you for your incredible hospitality. We were just going, weren’t we my dear?”

“Don’t put -”

Dutch gripped her forearm. “Weren’t we?”

There were too many guns surrounding her, and she wasn’t a total fool. She’d have to find someone else to beat her anger onto. Maybe Dutch and his perfect little waistcoat would do. The look he was sending her made her insides boil enough as it was, but she eventually relented and let him drag her towards the back door.

They passed the stairs and another soft laugh escaped one of the two figures leaning there. Dutch wasn’t even looking at her as he led them outside, but called over his shoulder, “Come along, boys.”

“Real charmer you’ve got there, Dutch. I’m surprised you two didn’t get along better, Marston.”

“Oh fuck you.”

Alma waited until they were outside proper before wrenching her arm free. She still had the rifle gripped in one hand, and spun with it loosely gripped to glare at the trio. Dutch had stopped to assess her with his arms crossed, hip cocked as usual, and despite the commotion inside there was the ghost of a smile on his face. The young man beside him was as tall and broad as an oak tree, with hair like dirtied sand and a healthy spray of stubble across his jaw. He was in the process of jabbing a younger man beside him, who was all wiry limbs, dark hair and - 

“You?!” Alma shouted, stomping a step forward. 

The boy - John, if she remembered Dutch correctly - flinched back on instinct, which just seemed to make the tall man laugh. 

“Stay the hell away from me!” John shouted in the same moment that the tall man laughed, “Watch out, Marston, or she’ll skin ya alive.”

“There will be no skinning,” Dutch said with a sigh as he stepped between them all, and Alma wondered again if he was the boys’ father. “Miss McArthy, this is Arthur Morgan.” He indicated the tall man, who was still laughing under his breath. “And we all know you’re well acquainted with young John Marston.”

She just glared at them. John glared right back. Alma didn’t miss the way he rubbed absently at his shoulder.

Dutch apparently took that as an invitation to continue. “Introductions aside, I must ask, Miss McArthy, what brought you to be in such a state of disarray? I’m understandably thrilled that you’ve come to discuss what I offered but, I’ll admit I wasn’t convinced I’d ever see you again.”

There wasn’t any pretty way to describe a slaughter, she knew that from experience. Judging from the copious weapons strapped to the three men before her, she figured they weren’t squeamish. Still, she’d rather not think about it. “People change. It’s human nature, in case you weren't aware.”

He laughed. “That fire’ll sooner get you into trouble you can’t fight your way out of, miss.” He took a step towards her, hands in his pockets. “The truth?”

She glanced at John and Arthur, but they were both leaning against the back of the saloon, spectating. Fabulous. 

“You said you and your ‘community’ were out to make a difference. That you help people, take from the rich, that kinda thing.” She swallowed the bile and fire in her throat. “Turns out those oblivious ranchers you were talkin’ about weren’t so oblivious after all.”

Dutch, for his part, did look genuinely struck as the truth settled in his mind. “The stables?”

She shrugged, indicating her ruined form. “What’s left of it is standing right here.”

“I am sorry, miss. Truly.”

Alma scoffed. Began to pace, rifle still white-knuckled in front of her. “I ain’t here for your sympathy. I came for your help.”

“Dutch is many things, Miss McArthy, but he ain’t a god.” Arthur leaned forward as he spoke, his face half obscured by his hat. “Can’t turn back time, I’m afraid.”

She fought the urge to walk up and hit him. “You think I’m simple? I’m no fool.” He held up his hands in mock surrender as John snickered beside him. She turned her gaze back to Dutch, who hadn’t entirely dismissed her. “I know who did it. I know where they live. You help me settle this debt, I can make it worth your while.” 

“As sorry as I am to see you in such a state, Miss McArthy, my people and I don’t operate on revenge.”

“Bullshit you don’t!” she snapped, stepping so close she could smell Dutch’s cologne. “You’re outlaws, aren’t you? A gang? Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you lot are. ‘Community’ my ass.”

Arthur took a tentative step away from the wall, the line of his shoulder suddenly sharp. Dutch simply held her gaze, and when he spoke his voice dripped of barely-contained venom. “You’re walking on mighty thin ice, miss. Best you don’t stomp too hard.”

“I ain’t judging you. We all do what we need to get by. Hell, I’m not saint.” Alma indicated her blood-stained clothes. “I know what you are though, what you do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest despite the way he towered over her. “You said you like sticking it to rich folk. Help me do that and I can guarantee you coin for your trouble.”

The little patch of grass behind the saloon was quiet for a long moment. John had started pacing a little, still scratching at his shoulder. Arthur was watching Alma’s hands where she was gripping the rifle.

She knew she had Dutch hook line and sinker when he tilted his head, all predator. “How much coin are we talking, exactly? And from who?”

“At least a few thousand, probably more.” Arthur whistled at that. “The Darlington’s own a big ranch west of town. Follows the river, has the big fuck off homestead planted in the middle. You’ve probably seen it. They took all our horses before sparking their matches, and I’m sure there’s a few more on the property worth pinching. Their Thoroughbred stallion alone would fetch you seven hundred.”

Dutch raised an eyebrow at her with a hand on his hip. “So you expect us to not only break into a heavily guarded ranch, but also walk out of there with multiple horses that we’d then need to resell? And the establishment where we’d do such a thing just got burnt to the ground.”

John was looking at her like she’d hit her head.

“You’re outlaws, aren’t you? Surely you do this sort of thing all the time?”

“Not exactly,” Arthur said, but he was scratching his chin in thought. “I know the place, Dutch. Hosea got talking to one of the ranch hands yesterday at the store. Could be worth our time.”

“Of course it’s worth your damned time!”

 “I’ll be the one who decides that, thank you miss.” Dutch planted a hand on her shoulder. “After we do this, and it pans out, what do you say about my offer? A young lady like you would be wasted on the streets in a backwater dump like this, and I’d hate to see you suffer.”

The man was as slimy as a snake and half as pretty, but Alma wouldn’t pretend that the offer wasn’t … tempting, especially given her current circumstances. Her mumma had always warned her away from trusting powerful men, especially those with only illusions of it, but what choice did she have? She’d been burned before, and she’d likely be burned again. If they didn’t do it, she’d surely just do it to herself.

His questionable company and fashion taste aside, Dutch didn’t seem entirely insane. Arrogant, prideful - sure. At least in that regard he was honest about his intentions. Jeremiah had been a weak man, at his core, and Dutch seemed as far from weak as you could physically get. Arthur, too. John … well he didn’t count.

Alma looked at Dutch and sighed. “So you’ll go to the ranch?”

“Let’s just say you’ve sold me on the idea,” he said with a smile, squeezing her shoulder where it was still gripped in his hand. “Besides, you were right. I do like knocking rich folk down a peg or three, especially when we profit from it. It’s good for my soul and pockets.”

A chill wind rushed between the buildings. Alma remembered her state of undress, and ached for warmth and a home that no longer existed. When she met Dutch’s eyes, she saw burning. 

“If it pans out. We could all be riddled with bullets in a few days.”

“That’s the spirit, Miss McArthy!” Dutch laughed, clapping her on the back. “Arthur, see about getting the young lady cleaned up and fed, won’t you? We’ll head back to camp and start talking out this plan.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” John shouted, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re letting this psycho stay, just like that?”

Alma spat back, all venom, “Says the greasy rat who smells like he crawled out of a gutter. What are you good for anyway, besides annoying everyone?”

Dutch just rolled his eyes and walked off, calling after John over his shoulder. Arthur met Alma’s eye with a smirk, before turning to ruffle John’s dark hair where he still stood, gawking. 

“Oh, little Johnny Marston here is good for lotsa things. Failures of plans, entertainment, target practice -”

“I hate you both,” John grumbled as he stormed off after Dutch, who had already disappeared around the corner. 

Alma couldn’t really find it in herself to laugh, not crusted with blood and manure as she was, but in another life she would have. As it stood, she just slung the rifle back over her shoulder and winced as the movement caught on her bruised side. The pain made her remember Jeremiah and Gregory, slaughtered and left to rot in the sun, and she had to swallow bile for the third time that morning.

If Arthur noticed, he thankfully didn’t say anything. “I think you and me are gonna get along just fine, Miss McArthy.”

In the almost-midday sun, the blue of his eyes glinted. “I wouldn’t be so sure, not with the company you keep.” He laughed under his breath. “And … just Alma is fine, if it’s all the same to you.”

He waved a hand in the general direction of the main street, and Alma down a nearby alley beside him. His shadow engulfed her. “‘Course. Let’s get you cleaned up and pretty before we all get shot by your ranchers tomorrow.”

“Don’t blame me for being realistic. And they ain’t my ranchers. I’d sooner see ‘em gutted like pigs for what they did.”

Arthur looked at her with a raised eyebrow, shaking his head, but kept pace with her as they headed towards the local hotel. “Miss Grimshaw is gonna love you.”

...

Two days later, Alma was fleeing the Darlington ranch with a few hundred dollars in her pockets and a freshly stolen mustang mare underneath her. A week later, she was halfway across the state with a gang of outlaws known as the Van der Linde gang. 

And that, as they say, is that.

...

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