#wylan van eck → gawking

[sprnklersplashes]

snowflakes, sunshine and chance encounters (1/4)

jan and wylan van eck are part of the kerch delegation to the little palace, and a chance encounter for wylan might just change everything

ao3 fanfic fundraiser

The Little Palace. As the coach rattles and rolls down the slope and the first domed roofs rise from the ground, Wylan decides that the descriptions his tutors gave just did not do it justice. 

He leans forward in his sheet, his veins humming in a way that makes him forget the jostling of the carriage. Outside the window, the branches weave and intertwine, scattering the sun’s rays over the ground, before pulling back with a flourish as if to say “here it is”. Ravka is welcoming them and oh, is Wylan receptive guest.

“Would you look at it?” he whispers, scarcely able to believe it. Whatever twist in the universe brought him here, he’ll never be able to thank them enough. The coach door is barely open before he’s jumping out, eyes darting greedily, unsure which detail to land on first. 

Since hearing about the invitation to the Little Palace, the place had become something of an obsession of his, and the hours he would have spent hiding turned into hours in the library of all places, pouring over every illustration of the palace he could find. Eventually, he’d begged his tutor to start lessons on Ravka, and Wylan asked so many questions the poor man was caught off guard. He hung onto every word, asked question after question until he could recite the history in his sleep.

And now that he’s here, that history feels alive. It’s in the wind that ruffles his hair, the gravel beneath his feet, and most of all it’s seeped into the colossal building before him. His father likes to think of Kerch as the centre of the world, from where all commerce and therefore all important things come. And Wylan can admit, there are places in Kerch where he feels that importance pressing down on him with a little too much weight.

Except now he’s standing here, before this magnificent, sprawling palace, surrounded by endless lush gardens, and Ketterdam has never felt so insignificant. How can such a tiny country, little more than a few clumps of land on the water, compare to this? Ketterdam makes him feel suffocated, squashed by the legacy his blood carries. Here, he feels like little more than a piece of dust on a curtain and he relishes it.

Until a hand pulls at his sleeve, and the world immediately constricts. 

“Stop gawking Wylan,” his father hisses. “And for Ghezen’s shake, stand up straight.”

I am, he thinks, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud. He decided when his father first told him about this trip that he’d take the approach of ‘sit down, shut up, smile through it’. It’s either that or risk arguing his way through the next three days, and it feels a shame to ruin such a wonderful opportunity like that.

His father appears in his vision, his brow tight as he fiddles with Wylan’s tie. Sweat prickles at Wylan’s back, the way it often does when his father is this close to him. He fights to keep himself relaxed. His father won’t strike him here, not in broad daylight, with all these people milling around.

“Remember why we’re here, Wylan,” he tells him. His voice is low and cold, a thinly veiled threat wrapped around it. “We’re representing the Merchant Council. And-” The tie jabs into his throat, and Wylan squeaks. “You are representing this family. Don’t let me down.”

“I won’t sir.” Wylan isn’t even sure he heard him. Jan just barrels on, eyes trained on Wylan’s shirt because it isn’t his face.

“You are to let me do the talking. You speak only when you are spoken to and you keep conversation to a minimum and for for the love of everything sacred, do not let these people know about you.” He grabs Wylan’s shoulder. “Maybe we can both make it through this trip in one piece. Understood?”

Wylan gulps. The implication is clear. 

“Understood sir,” he replies. His father smiles then, and straightens the laurel pin attached to his jacket. To anyone else, Jan Van Eck just whispered words of encouragement to his son before fondly fixing his clothes. If Wylan looks a little pale or anxious, his father had simply done his best to ease his nerves. 

Attendants carry their bags across the grounds and are escorted by a pair of maids to their rooms. Wylan really would have preferred to carry his own bag; he doesn’t like the idea of his sketchbook and sheet music in anyone’s hands but his. But they are guests of a King. Royals do things differently, he’s told. 

Almost as soon as their attendants fade out of sight, a palace guard appears behind them, so suddenly that Wylan almost bites his own tongue off. From there, they’re rushed off to meet their hosts for the next few days. Wylan tries to keep a few paces behind his father, as has become their routine. First the father, then the son. However, the guard has a tight trail on them and as they start ascending the low stone steps, Wylan finds himself right at his father’s side. 

As they’re led across the opening foyer, Wylan dares to glance at his father, already picturing the look of disgust at Wylan’s proximity. But to his surprise, his father seems all right. He’s already smiling politely, chest proud and eyes shining, and in that moment Wylan can breathe. It’s okay. He hasn’t messed up.

With a pace so quick Wylan has to try not to trip, the guards walk them through the foyer and a hallway and then a heavy pair of oak doors are opened.

“The Kerch delegation, General,” the guard announces. Together, Wylan and his father approach, their footsteps matched beat for beat. When they come to a stop, just a few feet from the General, its at precisely the same second and Wylan folds his hands behind his back. The smile on his face is perfectly respectful and perfectly restrained, an exact imitation of his father’s. 

(He can’t not think, in that moment, that he could be such a perfect heir if one thing were different)

General Kirigin turns to them. His dark eyes seem to go on forever; they remind Wylan of when he was little and his mother told him the canal had no bottom to it, so if he fell in he’d just keep falling. That had terrified him, and he never leant over the side of a browboat again.

“Councilman Jan Van Eck, General,” his father says warmly. “The Merchant Council is most grateful for your invitation to the winter fete.”

“And Ravka is pleased to see you, Councilman,” Kirigan replies. “We hope this will signal a revived friendship between our nations.” He smiles, but it feels wrong. Something curls in Wylan’s gut, something unpleasant. When his gaze turns to Wylan, it feels as if it cuts right through him. Panic seizes him for a second, because absurd as it is, he feels certain the general can see his ‘condition’ written over his face. 

“My son and heir, Wylan Van Eck,” Jan announces. Wylan takes his cue and steps forward with his hand extended.

“An honour to be here, General,” he says. Kirigan shakes his hand curtly. “I studied the Little Palace in great detail before our arrival, but honestly that didn’t quite prepare me for seeing it myself. The architecture of the Palace is truly remarkable, a brilliant feat, and-”

There’s a sharp poke at his back. The words halt in his throat, his tongue pressed against his teeth. Clumsily, he clears his throat and pulls them back in the way one would an unruly dog. An apology runs to the front of his mind but he holds it there as Kirigan’s eyes glimmer at him. He almost looks amused. Whether he’s laughing at or with Wylan remains to be seen.

Seconds pass, they feel like hours, and then Kirigan smiles.

“A student of architecture, then?” he asks. Wylan exhales, and the rush almost leaves him dizzy.

“I dabble,” Wylan says. “Although the Little Palace truly leaves everything I’d studied behind.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Kirigan replies. “My forefathers put a lot of work into this place. It’s nice to know its still appreciated.” Externally Wylan just smiles and nods. Internally, he’s caught between asking all the questions he’d held in his mind and collapsing on the floor in sheer relief. Meanwhile, Kirigan signals a guard. “Show the Van Ecks to their room and see they’re settled. And please, take advantage of all the winter fete has to offer.” The door opens behind them. “You are, after all, guests of the Crown.”

As they turn to leave, Wylan goes to stand behind his father again, Kerch hierarchies still drilled into his bones. This time however, it’s not the guard that pulls him forward. It’s his father, his hand firm on Wylan’s back. Of course, to everyone else, it’s probably nothing, just a father and son walking side by side. And for a moment, it feels like that for Wylan. But then they pass through the doors and into the hallway. And with only the guards watching, Jan closes his hand around Wylan’s wrist. His nails dig into the skin right above his vein and Wylan holds back a whimper.

“We must thank Ghezen that for once, someone found your babbling endearing,” he hisses. “Next time, keep your mouth shut.”

While his father thanks Ghezen for Wylan’s endearing babbling, Wylan thanks him for giving them separate rooms, albeit connected by an adjoining door. His bags have already been brought up by the attendant and, after a quick check, he finds his sketchbook and sheet music are right where he left them. He brushes a hand over them, feeling the pages beneath his fingers and it slows his heart down. 

He’s done it. He can do it again. Two more days. 

He’s just shrugged off his jacket when his father opens the door and tells him to put it back on. When Wylan asks if they’re going somewhere, he rolls his eyes, and the shame he felt in front of Kirigan now returns tenfold.

“We didn’t come all this way just to sit and look at each other, Wylan,” he says. “There’s a carnival going on outside and the Kerch delegation cannot be seen to be reclusive.” His jaw tightens. “Unfortunately for me, neither can his son. Come. And for Ghezen’s sake, and yours, at least try to act like a competent heir.”

General Kirigan seemed perfectly happy with me, he thinks, but he doesn’t dare speak it out loud. His father might disagree, but sometimes he knows exactly when to keep his mouth shut.

Despite the unyielding presence of his father, the carnival set up in the palace grounds is quite splendid. The sky is a pale blue, the cold air tickles his cheeks and makes his breath appear in small puffs in front of his face. Everywhere he turns there seems to be something new to look at. If he tried to draw the scene, it could take hours and he still wouldn’t capture everything. 

While his father mingles, Wylan takes advantage of his distraction and takes a look around. He applauds the troupe of acrobats performing. He listens with rapt attention as a music trope play Ravkan folk songs. As he listens, he taps the rhythm on his leg. Hopefully, he can commit it to memory enough so that he can write out the flute part later. He’s not given Ravkan songs a try yet.  

After memorising the rhythm, he moves through the rest of the festival, itching to see as much as he can. He gazes up at the ice sculptures, takes a second look at the gardens, even makes polite chitchat with other delegates. One compliments him on his Ravkan, another asks about his studies. He rattles off subjects in near-perfect Ravkan, making sure to discuss his favourites in as much detail as he can. Soon enough, he’s told them more than they needed to know about his research into Zemeni folklore, but none of them seem bored. 

“Accomplished young man!” he declares, clapping Wylan’s shoulder. “Your father must be proud.”

Wylan keeps smiling. It hurts his cheeks. 

Somewhere in his wandering, Wylan finds himself in a maze of games stalls. All around him, young children are dashing and pushing each other over. He’s not massively interested in knocking over glass bottles or throwing balls through hoops, especially when they’re already swarmed by small children. But when he finds a fairly-empty stall for a kind of shooting game, he decides to try his luck. All going well, he can strike up another conversation about shooting with some more delegates.

He hands some money to the girl over the counter and she hands him a rifle. It’s a little heavier than the guns he’s used before, but once the girl has set up the targets, he decides it feels all right. The girl ducks out of the way as he positions himself, right foot forward, leaning into the shot, shoulder back and the gun mounted just slightly upwards. After he nods, the girl pulls a string and the clay targets move slowly across their shelves. 

And really, it’s not bad shooting. He’s a little unbalanced to start with, but he digs his heels and the gun becomes far easier to control. No, he doesn’t win, but by the time he’s done, more than half of the little targets are broken or at least chipped and for that, he allows himself a small, satisfied smile.

Behind him, someone lets out a low whistle. He freezes then, cheeks burning like coalfire. On instinct, he braces himself for the scolding, the mocking comment, or the demand that he leave and get back to where he belongs. 

What he isn’t expecting though, is for the someone to stroll right up to him, leather coat billowing behind them and each step so sure, like it’s in fact his palace and Wylan is his most anticipated guest.

“Nice shooting,” he says. He’s a good foot taller than Wylan, dressed in a plaid suit and a brown waistcoat only half buttoned. The tie is so loose and low it hardly qualifies as a tie, and his top hat sits at a jaunty angle, matching the crooked smile crinkling his brown eyes. 

“T-thank you.”

“You ever shot before?”

“Skeet,” he explains. “My father and I often play at the range in Belednt.”

“Skeet,” the boy echoes. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Wylan squeaks. He’s aware that he’s forgetting every rule of etiquette, but something about this boy’s response struck him. If he’s waiting to see if Wylan will get up and swing back, well, he’s about to find out.

But maybe he didn’t. Because he’s just laughing, as if he just told Wylan the funniest joke in the world.

“I only mean,” he says. “That you shoot like a gentleman. You look like you’re afraid of hurting it.”

“It’s how I was raised,” he replies. “With everything. How would you shoot them?” With a grin that feels almost unfamiliar, Wylan turns the gun around and holds the handle out to him. There’s a spark in the boy’s eye as he takes it, and a similar one ignites in Wylan’s chest. It leaves him slightly breathless.

Wylan watches as the boy saunters to the podium, brimming with an ease Wylan could only dream of having. 

“Five vlacha for three tries.” The boy freezes then. His unshakeable smile cracks for just a second, but then he’s leaning on the table and pushing up the brim of his hat. 

“Don’t suppose you take kruge, do you?” The attendant just raises an eyebrow. If Wylan were in that situation, he’d turn and leave then (or pray for the ground to swallow him), but this boy just grins wider, turns so that half his chest is across the stand, and drops his voice. “Well, in that case… maybe there’s another way I could pay?”

“Oh Ghezen,” Wylan declares. He fishes in his pocket and drops five vlacha on the table. Immediately after he’s done it, he regrets it, certain he’s gone too far. But as the attendant takes the money and arranges the targets again, he just smiles.

“Not jealous there, were you?”

“Mm, not really. Embarrassed though, definitely.”

“Oh really?”

“I felt compelled to save the poor girl from that disastrous flirting attempt,” he goes on. “Do those lines work on the girls at home?”

“Oh, all the time,” he says. Then he winks, “Not just the girls.”  

Despite the cold, his cheeks flush. The boy’s fingers brush his and Wylan’s toes curl.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir,” the attendant says.

Oh right. That.

Wylan takes a step back as he boy twirls the gun with an impressive level of control. In his hand, the gun doesn’t seem like a weapon or even a tool, just an extension of his long limbs. In the time it takes Wylan to breathe, he fires two shots in succession, shattering two targets. Then, with a grace Wylan can’t comprehend, he tosses the gun, catches it and shoots again. Wylan’s heart pounds watching it, the shots reverberating and crackling through his veins.

Then, the boy turns to him, winks, and twirls. His coat billows around him like a small tornado, and the shot fires a split second before he stands still.

Crash Crash Crash. The remaining targets splinter into confetti-sized pieces, small whisps of smoke rising from them. Wylan’s breath is caught in his throat, and his mind practically trips over itself as it tries to catch up with what he’s seeing. 

While Wylan tries to formulate a response, the boy speaks with the attendant, tries to charm her once more, and accepts something placed in his hand. But when the boy turns to him, all that can come out is a small, “Wow”. His response is a small half-bow, high enough so that he doesn’t break Wylan’s gaze.

“Well, I try my best,” he replies. “Here.” His hand curls around Wylan’s wrist. The callouses are rough, his skin is warm, and his grip is just firm enough to keep Wylan from falling. Something soft is pressed into his hand.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” he protests. “You-you won it.”

“I’d have no use for it,” he replies. “Besides, you should have something other than amazing shots to remember me by.” Wylan chuckles. The crackling he’d felt builds and it’s like every nerve in his body is sparking. Especially around his wrist. The distance between them shortens, two puffs of white breath mingling between them. In his peripheral vision, Wylan sees his hand, and for a moment he wonders if he’s about to touch him. Or draw him closer. Oh Ghezen, he can’t even think what he’ll do then, if he’ll turn and run or pull him in.

Thankfully, a small, stern voice makes that choice for him.

“Jesper.” The boy turns and Wylan follows, and a few feet from them he sees a small Suli girl in a blue tunic, her eyebrows raised. “Let’s go.”

The boy-Jesper- slides back from Wylan and lets go of his wrist. He doesn’t look upset about it though. Nor does he look guilty or surprised or anything. He just grins and moves as if he’s just been asked to the dancefloor.

“Of course, love,” he replies, unaffected by the look on her face. That kind of look would have made Wylan faint were he on the receiving end. 

And when Jesper turns to say goodbye, the look on his face makes Wylan want to faint for different reasons.

“Enjoy the rest of the festival then,” he says. His voice is low, barely a whisper, and Wylan is foolish enough to believe that this means something just for them. That when this boy walks off with his friend and does whatever he’s going to do next, he’ll remember Wylan as something other than a rich boy he impressed with his shooting. 

As he watches that coat and that ridiculous hat melt into the crowd, Wylan curls his fingers around the prize he pressed into his hands. He should’ve given it back, but he was too busy thinking about the shape of his lips and replaying those damn gunshots in his head. 

He opens his hands. Inside is a white cloth square, embroidered with a blazing orange and yellow sun. Delicately woven gold silk shines in the background, giving the impression of a real sun pulsing between his fingertips. Behind him, another group take a turn at the game. There’s probably dozens, hundreds of these trinkets there. Who knows how many guests have one.

But he’s holding onto his like it's one of a kind. 

[kazofdirtyhands]

@expertdemos​ from here

“If that person is you, then yes.” Kaz said as he pressed the lockpicks against the keyhole, aligning the pins with a soft click as the door swung open. He was already regretting bringing Van Eck on the job - the kid was passable with demo but he didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut, and he stared in a way that made it obvious what they were doing. “Forgive my language, gawking would be more accurate.”

[crowsvalentine]

Little Crow 1

Masterlist

A lot of different people show up to the Slat looking for a job or just for solitude. The slat offered a home to grown men in trouble with the law and teenagers who have too many debts to pay. When the dregs open the door one day and see a cradle, offering only a note for explanation will their leader take the baby in or throw her back to let Ketterdam have it’s way with her? 

aka a baby shows up at the Slat and Kaz is Shook (probably making this into a series, maybe I’ll leave it as it is, idk)

Dear Mr Kaz Brekker, you are the bastard of the barrel, she is the same. She is just 4 months old, born from a forced hand to a 14-year-old girl who had nothing to her name. This child would not survive this world without your help. She is one of you, I hope you will treat her as such.

     The letter was written in perfect Kerch, clearly not the writer’s native language. The Dregs circled around the wooden cradle as if it held a life supply of gold and jewels, they’d never seen something so rare before. However, their gawking stopped as they moved aside when the thump of a cane came from the stairs, Kaz Brekker following right after it.

“It was just on the front steps, Boss, it was cold so we brought it inside. We didn’t know what else to do.” Someone said. Kaz seemed to ignore them as he made his way to the table. His breath caught at the sight of what laid on top, but he made sure no one noticed.

     In all his years in ketterdam he had never seen something so small and delicate, babies just weren’t a part of this work. People seemed to just be born as corrupt adults. She was wrapped up in rags, her dark skin contrasting perfectly against his own. She was Suli, or Zemeni but her nose was the same shape as Inej’s, he fought the urge to smile at it.

“What do we do with it?” Beatle asked.

“We could drop it off at a pleasure house, it’ll be useful in a couple years,” someone else offered. Kaz ignored the suggestion, only giving the speaker a glance before looking back around the room.

     He wasn’t qualified to make decisions like this, he was a criminal who dealt with money not babies. He needed Nina, or Inej, not a group of rowdy con artists and killers. However, he knew these people, he knew quite a few of them had younger sisters and one even a daughter. Those few looked down on the small bundle with faces that made Kaz sure they’d protect her from the things that made all of them who they were today.

“She’ll stay here, for now. The Wraith’s room is now unoccupied. Someone find her some clothes and food,” he said before walking into his office. He listened to the rushed conversation coming from the main room, confusion being the main theme in it all. Grabbing his coat and hat he walked back out, calling that he’d be back in an hour.

     Marya Hendriks had no place bring in the slat, she was too soft and floaty to be in such a hard place. She earned stares as she followed Kaz up the steps, most confused but others in awe of her. Kaz needed a mother to give input on keeping the child, there may not have been a shortage of them in ketterdam, just a shortage of ones who’d willingly come to Kaz Brekker’s aid. It wasn’t a very inviting invitation.

“Why are we here, Kaz?” Wylan asked from behind his mother. Nowadays he went where ever his mother went and no one could stop him. The boy didn’t have his mother for years and he finally got her back, he had to make sure it stayed that way.

     Wylan got no response as he expected but frowned anyway. Though it was a common routine, Wylan had a bit of hope he’d get something since it was his mother that was involved in the current situation. “Do you know anything?” He whispered to Jesper, the other boy could only shrug in response, of course he wouldn’t know a thing, he’d been with Wylan for weeks without word from Kaz.

     They finally stopped in front of what Jesper knew as Inej’s old room, it almost seemed like forever ago that he last saw the Wraith, especially in her room. She left on her third voyage almost four months ago, her last visit only lasting a few days. He missed her when he stepped inside, it still looked the same as if she’d never left at all. He knew Kaz didn’t let anyone stay in the room, even though Inej tended to stay at the Van Eck mansion when she came back to visit she was still known to creep into the flat on occasion. Kaz just wanted her to have a place to sleep when she did, even if she didn’t spend much time in her own room when she did.

     Kaz turned to look at the three of them, trapping them at the door, his eyes scanned each one as if determining their trust before showing them what was behind him.

“We’ve had an unexpected addition to the Dregs that I don’t know what to make of. I needed Ms Hendriks to help,” he said. Jesper raised an eyebrow and Wylan just nodded, still as confused as ever. Kaz stepped away revealing a lump of a jacket on the bed, but it was what was under the lump that had Marya smiling and rushing towards it.

“A baby, oh look at her, Wylan,” she whispered sitting down next to her. Jesper cleared his throat, the hints of a smirk appearing at the corners of his mouth.

“She looks suli, I didn’t know you and the Wraith were-”

“She’s not mine, you podge.” Jesper hummed and leaned back against the wall. “Someone left her at the door, I didn’t know what to do.” Wylan and Jesper’s eyes widened at that, the great Kaz “Dirty Hands” Brekker admitting he didn’t know what do to.

“It’s much too cold for her here,” Marya’s voice came from the bed where she had taken a seat. Kaz knew this already, which is why he had taken one of his jackets to drape across the baby. “And too dirty.” Kaz hated it but he nodded, she was right.

“Does she have a name?” Jesper asked, but he wasn’t gifted with a soft voice like Marya’s, instead his voice boomed into the room and the baby that had been quiet since she’d arrived now opened her eyes and let out a cry that had everyone scrambling to cover their ears. It was louder than anything Kaz or anyone had ever heard, it had people come rushing upstairs to see what it was. Dregs lined the hall in front of the room trying to peer in. Jesper stood amazed by how wide her mouth opened.

“Shut it off!”

“Make her shut up!”

“Her voice shouldn’t sound like that!” Wylan added which only caused the cries to get louder. 

     Marya was holding the baby up to her chest know, rocking and whispering to her to get her to stop. Kaz was scared she never would, he’d have to invest in some ear plugs for his gang, which was money he didn’t have to spend on such a thing. When her mouth closed the entire building seemed to sigh in relief. Kaz glared at Jesper who moved away from him. Everyone else just seemed to stare at the girl, wondering how a sound like that came from something like her. However, when Kaz turned back to the baby, he didn’t seem as amazed as the others, but more intrigued.

“She kind of sounded like a-”

“Crow.” Kaz finished for Wylan, a smirk rising onto his face.

“We are not calling her Crow, Kaz,” Wylan tried but the smirk never left his face making him sigh. He looked from Kaz to the baby, seeming to be deep in thought.

“What is it?”

“Kaia, the Suli don’t have a word for crow so it’s the word for bird, her name’s Kaia.” Wylan declared, no one opposed him but Kaz rolled shrugged.

“I’m still calling her Crow.” Wylan rolled his eyes and walked over to his mother. “She shouldn’t be in a place like this,” he mumbled.

What’s wrong with here? Kaz wanted to ask but he knew what was wrong, it was cold and loud, too many fights broke out, it just wasn’t an ideal place for a child to be raised. Instead he looked around the room, “any ideas are welcome.”

“There’s Mrs Joya down the-”

“She’ll stay with us, she’ll have a wet nurse and her own maid and all the pretty dresses she wants,” Marya cooed at the girl who had silently woken up again. Kaz couldn’t help but feel weird about the idea of her leaving already but he pushed it aside, he knew it was best for her and he didn’t want to be the reason she didn’t grow up right.

“Okay.”

“That was easy,” Jesper said, “you just got her and Crow is already leaving the nest.” Kaz just looked at him and walked out of the room, leaving the three of them to deal with the baby.