My Current Stories! All still updating, some slower than others.
iPhone Users:
If you use i0s, my blog will be impossible to read for you through the Tumblr app UNLESS you use your browser app and toggle your option to see sensitive content in Tumblr via the desktop version in there. This is due to Tumblr +Apple censoring agreement- nothing I can do, sorry. I have to continue to tag my posts because it still sort of mostly works to filter out people’s common triggers or squicks/nope topics.
I write Fantasy Genre whump, and sometimes a little Modern AU, all with Original Characters.
I’ve intended this stuff for a Mature audience, 16+ recommended, PG-13ish. While there will never be anything outright explicit, a lot of heavy subject matter is handled including sexual content implied.
Each post will have tagged warning for common Triggers.
TW: references to past torture, fantasy religion, references to past consensual relationship, VAGUE reference to possibility of noncon and how it didn’t happen.
There was a brief hissing noise and a whiff of sulfur to Alsander’s left, further into the alley, as a doorway opened in what had been the solid stone of a wall.
With a flicker of red light, a cloaked figure stepped out into the alley, turned, and stared at him. “Harrow—!” Then she was there in front of him, her hood dropping about her shoulders, patting his chest as if to be sure he was solid and real, raising a soft hand to touch his face. “You’re alive, it’s you!”
He caught her hand gently. “Risha… Don’t, please— Not like that— I can’t.“
“Harrow— Nine Hells, what happened to you??” said Risha, tears filling her huge dark eyes. She was a succubus, and in her current form of a pale human woman with ample curves and sheets of blue-black hair; no horns, wings, or tail in evidence now. “I couldn’t find you!! I’ve been looking everywhere, and all I could get was that you hadn’t left this plane, but you were just gone! Where were you? Who did this to you??”
This is a series in the same homebrew fantasy world D&D 5E setting as Harrow and his friends, a world called Tsanet.
Please heed the TWs at the top of each one, this is kinda dark.
If you like Recovery Stories, you can start with Strange Brothers, the second part of this ongoing story. Scroll down!
General TW: Slavery, dehumanization, conditioning, torture, religious abuse, forced cannibalism, non-con touch, non/dubcon/r*pe implied rather than explicit but still
“Martin pushed himself out of the sand, spitting blood. He’d just been hit across the mouth and didn’t like it much. If he bruised, then Mistress Ulet would- Well, that didn’t matter anymore, he was well out of her hands and that was the trouble. The woman who had ruled the pleasure house with an iron fist was no longer his biggest fear.”
(If you haven’t found @redwingedwhump’s Solis series — or any of their writing — yet, then you need to get on it! In fact: you can find the masterlist here.)
The worst part about a hike, uphill, in the snow, while injured, in the dark, was that Saith was doing it with the howls of wolves echoing around him in the foothills. If he could just get further into these hills, where the feet of the mountains really began, he might be able to find some kind of cave or shelter where they couldn’t get to him. And maybe even a place to rest for the night.
Gods, he wanted to rest. Well, to be precise, he wanted to fall down and pass out. But he couldn’t do that yet, not even when every step for the last few miles had been agony on his scarred right knee.
HI! This story is still an ongoing series! With a plot and plans ahead! The Plague had me pretty de-railed from writing steadily, but I AM still writing this anyway!
Lily belongs to @whumpqhs and Tristan to @adarhysenthe and this would not get written without them.
TW: food, fantasy religion, internalized ableism, whumpee becoming accustomed to visible disability and loss of former self image and the strangeness associated, mind control mention, touch aversion, PTSD triggering, panic attack
Tristan spent the next week helping Alsander to eat regular meals and regain a little strength. Lily, of course, continued fussing over San the whole time, but some of what Emmet said seemed to be slowly sinking in. She would still awkwardly change the subject if future plans were ever discussed. Emmet, meanwhile, was being introduced to squire life in the Temple. He still took time out to see the friends when he had his breakfast or luncheon breaks, and excitedly tell them about things he was learning.
Once Alsander could shuffle around upright for longer than a few minutes, they agreed that it was time to see a barber, get San a good walking stick, and maybe even find a ring of mind shielding. His dreams had been quiet since the soul-wound had been healed, and he was improving more rapidly for the rest he’d been getting, but he still didn’t like the idea of Conroy possibly being able to send thoughts to his head. The walking stick was the definite need, first and foremost. The more time San could spend moving, the stronger he’d get.
Tristan shrugged on his clerical robes over his more casual tunic and trousers, then helped to get some boots on Alsander’s feet. “You ready? You can lean on my arm until we get you that stick.”
Made possible by @whumpqhsand@adarhysenthe who are responsible for Lily and Tristan, respectively.
TW: Arguments, murder mention, fantasy religion, very skewed worldview of trauma survivor, aftermath of torture
Tristan went to Alsander’s private room in the Healing Halls, knocking once before he moved to open the door to warn his skittish charges he was coming in. “I’m back.”
At his knock, the door opened and Lily slipped out, looking tired and a little tense. “He’s asleep…"
Halted, Tristan backed up to give her space to get through the door. “That’s alright, I want to talk to you in private anyway. About your…” He touched his own ears.
i’m such a huge fucking fan of having and using magic requiring effort. whether mental, physical, or both. i’m so fond of magic systems that make you sweat, bleed, cry and get your hands dirty when you use them. i love it when powers are earned, not inherent, through years of study and/or exercizing them like a muscle. and i love it when a seemingly effortless display of power is terrifyingbecause of this.
YES!!!!! MAGIC THAT REQUIRES MAINTENANCE! MAGIC THAT DRAINS! MAGIC THAT CORRUPTS BODY AND SOUL!
-Coughing up blood. The good ol’ “cough into your hand and pull it back to see blood” also never gets old.
-Headaches. You keep fighting as your head pounds, desperately telling you to take a break. At first they fade within minutes when you stop using magic, but overtime, they become chronic.
-Fatigue. After a big battle, you stand triumphant, and then just fall asleep on the spot.
-In a similar vein, overuse causing you to straight up faint rather than just fall asleep. Darkness begins to overtake your vision in the middle of battle, unconsciousness abruptly looming over you.
-Any of the side effects happening to another person. Maybe two close characters are connected, and whatever side effects character A would normally endure are transferred to character B. When A uses a blast of magic B screams loudly because holyshitthat hurt.
-Magic gradually deteriorating your mind. Using it too much eventually caused hallucinations and an inability to retain memories, or even larger scale memory loss.
Feel free to add more, I’m looking for some to steal
Summary: King Therrin writes to Saxon Osier hoping for his support. He uses Matteo as bait. The way Matteo is acting, you would think he doens’t mind it. Takes place directly after You Need Not Fear Me
CW: fantasy whump, fictional politics, Matteo is starting to be very deferential to Therrin in questionable ways, power dynamics, kneeling and petting, brief mentions of Therrin/Saxon
The Muirkeep had belonged to Therrin’s family for three centuries, not counting the recent decades it had been the Truly seat of power.
The transfer had happened after a horrifically fumbled battle and a power grab so quick it left room for many varying accounts on the factual sequence of events ever since.
Therrin’s grandfather’s sloppy final years bearing the crown had set the board for such a coup to happen, as well as given bards decades of material to satirize. On the ill fated day of the battle, ambitious young Leonard Truly had put a spear through Therrin’s grandfather’s head like a pumpkin. Ever since, the Truly banner adopted a black spear cutting diagonally across its field of snowy white.
Aside from the shame of his grandfather, the Blackmuir line had produced steadfast Kings all the way back to the first King of the Muirs, another Therrin. Back then Aepoli, the southerlands, and the wayeastern wilds were either sovereign or unincorporated, and not under a central rule. It was that Therrin, his namesake, who had brought them under one banner, under one rule. And it was him who took it back.
His supporters who believed in stars and gods would say it was fated, from the beginning of time.
One day, he would visit those wayeastern villages, and the halls of Aepoli. For now, it would be foolish to leave the seat of his ancestral power even for a fortnight. He had to continue to establish his foothold, to organize and to plan. He had to be King of the Muirs, if he was to stay King of the rest of it. He couldn’t be seen as a southerner, some Osier puppet or pushover turncoat.
Matteo followed him into his chambers solemnly, his head down. He looked something like his brother, sure enough, but their mannerisms had always been night and day. Matteo was softer, and he moved with the court ready manners of an aristocrat where Saxon was only at home with a sword in hand, or a bow.
“Would you like me to call for something to eat?”
Matteo shook his head.
He went to his desk and lit a series of candles, prepared his paper and his ink. He said he would not write anything without Matteo’s permission, and with any luck he wouldn’t need to. Therrin wanted him calm, reassured, and compliant. Not for the first time, he remembered this chamber was undoubtedly where Henry Truly slept, and those first nights Therrin had let him have the bed were likely not the first nights he’d spent in it.
“Would you like to draft this with me?” he asked gently. “Or would you prefer I wrote it and gave it to you for review?”
Matteo came closer, his face half bathed in candlelight. He eyed the ink and the quill. “Can I…may I sit beside you while you write it?”
Therrin blinked at the request. “I— well, sure. Yes. I don’t have another chair, is all.” He began looking about, as if one might have materialized since the morning when he woke in his bed.
“I don’t mind,” Matteo said softly. “I can sit on the floor here for a few minutes. I don’t need to watch you write it. I just… I want to sit here.”
“Mattie…”
“What?”
Therrin searched his face. He seemed so sincere. It was hard to imagine the filthy, wounded thing he pulled out of the cells only weeks ago was this same one in front of him, still not his old self but something changed, perhaps forever.
“Suit yourself.” He took a pillow from his bed and set it on the cold stone floor. “For your knees.”
Matteo looked at him strangely, so briefly he nearly missed it, before dropping gracefully to the pillow. Therrin sat at his writing desk, lighting another candle to stave off the dark that seemed to live in every corner in the north, something the light had to fight to push back even in the early days of May. Most mornings the castle still lay in a thick bank of fog, and the groundfrost had only stopped in the last weeks. He knew if he felt unused to it, Matteo must be even less so.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“I am.” He went to his armoire and pulled out a warmer tunic, slipping it over his head. “Just in case,” he said, and draped a rabbit fur blanket, white as moonglow, around Matteo’s shoulders. It looked like a Truly cloak, he realized too late, and wished he’d chosen the wool.
You’re stalling.
He sat down and this time made himself pick up the quill.
Lord Osier,
He pushed that paper aside and started anew. He only called Saxon Lord in front of their betters, and in bed.
Saxon,
The Truly line has failed. Henry is dead, as is Leonard. Henry was childless, and has no living siblings.
He thought of the copper haired boy he let work in his kitchens, who slept now in a low straw bed in the servant’s quarters and was given three meals a day, a wool blanket and a bar of soap in exchange for his work. ‘Keep your dead enemies bastard children close?’ Was that a saying?
I have, as you know by now, reclaimed the Muirkeep and the crown for the Blackmuir line. I know your father does not see the truth or logic in its legitimacy, or in my claim. I spent eight years hearing the same rhetoric as you…the same stories of those who shaped the world before us.
Therrin felt a nudge against his knee and paused, looking down to see Matteo had inched a little closer, like he wanted to rest up against the side of the chair.
You’re the one who insisted on sitting on the floor, hewanted to say but stopped himself. Matteo had been anxious about this moment for days. He turned back to his letter.
Flattery would not work on Saxon, even if it were true. Telling him he had a sharper and more objective mind than his father would not pull him closer, if he had indeed drifted.
Now it is our story. There is no other in my mind than this: A Muirland and Southerly alliance stronger than any that has ever been. A kingdom that is whole and prosperous and strives in all things to be just. I know we are of one mind in so many things. How many hours have we discussed the way we would do things, given the chance, if our fates came for us? And they have. I want nothing more than to reconcile with you, if it is reconciliation we need. Anything the southlands are in want of, you shall have.
He felt a light pressure on the outside of his knee. Matteo had rested his temple there, then seemed to think better of it. It was odd that he insisted on sitting there at all, when he could just sit by the hearth or on the bed and wait.
He did it again. It was a soft pressure at first, barely-there. His dark hair flattened against Therrin’s breeches, his temple coming to rest on the side of his knee in a gesture that seemed like affection, or affection-seeking. For a moment, Therrin didn’t move.
Was this some last attempt at getting him to not write the Osiers? Was he so ashamed of the betrayal, the imprisonment? The love affair itself? Or was it something else? It had culminated in regicide, in an Osier killing a Truly King and starting a series of events that led to a Blackmuir one. He supposed he had Matteo to thank for that, in a way.
Slowly, Therrin let his hand rest in Matteo’s dark hair. The tension ran from him like water. He leaned more fully, putting more weight against Therrin’s knee. His shoulders dropped an inch. He exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath.
He kept his hand on Matteo’s head. With his right hand, he put quill to paper.
Matteo is alive. I have no way to soften this news, and though joyous I know it will still come as a shock. He was at the Muirkeep when we took it. He arrived with Henry some months before. He’s been helping me collect signatures from Muirland nobility on much needed regulation and laws, in areas they were severely lacking under Truly rule. I am grateful for his loyalty and his help. I do not know if the word we received of his alleged death was intentionally deceptive, but I suspect it was.
Tentatively, he stroked Matteo’s hair by pulling his hand back, just an inch, lifting it to bring it back to the crown of his head. Matteo gave a shaky sigh, and closed his eyes.
Therrin did it again. And a third time. It felt wildly unnatural, like petting the fur of a lightly sleeping puma. The Matteo he’d grown up with would never have asked for this. Nor would Therrin have granted it, if asked. They had been like oil and water.
And yet, as he tried a few more soothing strokes, he felt Matteo’s breathing grow slow and even, and his whole body leaned against the side of his leg. He was well aware it was a deeply submissive pose, with him on the floor and Therrin seated in his chair. A wicked and insatiable part of him got a little thrill from it. Him, King, and vicious little Mattie at his very feet. The irony.
Still, some part of him gentled at the idea that he might offer Matteo a shred of comfort after what he’d been through. It was not the play pretend games of power he’d played with Saxon so many times. This was different from that. It felt more delicate, and more dire.
He dropped his hand to the side of Matteo’s head, and gently worried the cartilage of his ear between his forefinger and thumb.
I want nothing more than to hear from you. Matteo will sign this as well. I believe you will recognize his signature, or his old tutors will. If you send someone to verify my claims, they will be a welcomed guest and may speak with Matteo at length.
I hope it goes without saying he has come to no harm under my rule.
Yours now as always,
Therrin
He read it aloud to Matteo, whose eyes went far away and glassy and would not leave a single spot on the floor, but who listened and gave a sharp nod at the end. He seemed to be grateful of the way Therrin had skipped entirely over the how and why of his presence there. The proverbial elephant in the room was that there was no mention of him being sent home, either. He had enough grace not to mention it.
Therrin put the quill in his hand. The bottom of the letter was signed, if a little wobbly:
-Matteo Osier
It was sealed and sent south by southwest the following morning, in the fog banked hour before dawn.
Summary: Therrin Blackmuir, previously a child ward of the noble Osier family, takes advantage of a volatile political situation to reclaim the throne for his line, the Blackmuirs. He finds an unexpected prisoner in the deepest cell of the dungeons, someone who does not expect merciful treatment from him.
Summary: King Therrin writes to Saxon Osier hoping for his support. He uses Matteo as bait. The way Matteo is acting, you would think he doens’t mind it. Takes place directly after You Need Not Fear Me
CW: fantasy whump, fictional politics, Matteo is starting to be very deferential to Therrin in questionable ways, power dynamics, kneeling and petting, brief mentions of Therrin/Saxon
The Muirkeep had belonged to Therrin’s family for three centuries, not counting the recent decades it had been the Truly seat of power.
The transfer had happened after a horrifically fumbled battle and a power grab so quick it left room for many varying accounts on the factual sequence of events ever since.
Therrin’s grandfather’s sloppy final years bearing the crown had set the board for such a coup to happen, as well as given bards decades of material to satirize. On the ill fated day of the battle, ambitious young Leonard Truly had put a spear through Therrin’s grandfather’s head like a pumpkin. Ever since, the Truly banner adopted a black spear cutting diagonally across its field of snowy white.
Aside from the shame of his grandfather, the Blackmuir line had produced steadfast Kings all the way back to the first King of the Muirs, another Therrin. Back then Aepoli, the southerlands, and the wayeastern wilds were either sovereign or unincorporated, and not under a central rule. It was that Therrin, his namesake, who had brought them under one banner, under one rule. And it was him who took it back.
His supporters who believed in stars and gods would say it was fated, from the beginning of time.
One day, he would visit those wayeastern villages, and the halls of Aepoli. For now, it would be foolish to leave the seat of his ancestral power even for a fortnight. He had to continue to establish his foothold, to organize and to plan. He had to be King of the Muirs, if he was to stay King of the rest of it. He couldn’t be seen as a southerner, some Osier puppet or pushover turncoat.
Matteo followed him into his chambers solemnly, his head down. He looked something like his brother, sure enough, but their mannerisms had always been night and day. Matteo was softer, and he moved with the court ready manners of an aristocrat where Saxon was only at home with a sword in hand, or a bow.
“Would you like me to call for something to eat?”
Matteo shook his head.
He went to his desk and lit a series of candles, prepared his paper and his ink. He said he would not write anything without Matteo’s permission, and with any luck he wouldn’t need to. Therrin wanted him calm, reassured, and compliant. Not for the first time, he remembered this chamber was undoubtedly where Henry Truly slept, and those first nights Therrin had let him have the bed were likely not the first nights he’d spent in it.
“Would you like to draft this with me?” he asked gently. “Or would you prefer I wrote it and gave it to you for review?”
Matteo came closer, his face half bathed in candlelight. He eyed the ink and the quill. “Can I…may I sit beside you while you write it?”
Therrin blinked at the request. “I— well, sure. Yes. I don’t have another chair, is all.” He began looking about, as if one might have materialized since the morning when he woke in his bed.
“I don’t mind,” Matteo said softly. “I can sit on the floor here for a few minutes. I don’t need to watch you write it. I just… I want to sit here.”
“Mattie…”
“What?”
Therrin searched his face. He seemed so sincere. It was hard to imagine the filthy, wounded thing he pulled out of the cells only weeks ago was this same one in front of him, still not his old self but something changed, perhaps forever.
“Suit yourself.” He took a pillow from his bed and set it on the cold stone floor. “For your knees.”
Matteo looked at him strangely, so briefly he nearly missed it, before dropping gracefully to the pillow. Therrin sat at his writing desk, lighting another candle to stave off the dark that seemed to live in every corner in the north, something the light had to fight to push back even in the early days of May. Most mornings the castle still lay in a thick bank of fog, and the groundfrost had only stopped in the last weeks. He knew if he felt unused to it, Matteo must be even less so.
“Are you cold?”
“No.”
“I am.” He went to his armoire and pulled out a warmer tunic, slipping it over his head. “Just in case,” he said, and draped a rabbit fur blanket, white as moonglow, around Matteo’s shoulders. It looked like a Truly cloak, he realized too late, and wished he’d chosen the wool.
You’re stalling.
He sat down and this time made himself pick up the quill.
Lord Osier,
He pushed that paper aside and started anew. He only called Saxon Lord in front of their betters, and in bed.
Saxon,
The Truly line has failed. Henry is dead, as is Leonard. Henry was childless, and has no living siblings.
He thought of the copper haired boy he let work in his kitchens, who slept now in a low straw bed in the servant’s quarters and was given three meals a day, a wool blanket and a bar of soap in exchange for his work. ‘Keep your dead enemies bastard children close?’ Was that a saying?
I have, as you know by now, reclaimed the Muirkeep and the crown for the Blackmuir line. I know your father does not see the truth or logic in its legitimacy, or in my claim. I spent eight years hearing the same rhetoric as you…the same stories of those who shaped the world before us.
Therrin felt a nudge against his knee and paused, looking down to see Matteo had inched a little closer, like he wanted to rest up against the side of the chair.
You’re the one who insisted on sitting on the floor, hewanted to say but stopped himself. Matteo had been anxious about this moment for days. He turned back to his letter.
Flattery would not work on Saxon, even if it were true. Telling him he had a sharper and more objective mind than his father would not pull him closer, if he had indeed drifted.
Now it is our story. There is no other in my mind than this: A Muirland and Southerly alliance stronger than any that has ever been. A kingdom that is whole and prosperous and strives in all things to be just. I know we are of one mind in so many things. How many hours have we discussed the way we would do things, given the chance, if our fates came for us? And they have. I want nothing more than to reconcile with you, if it is reconciliation we need. Anything the southlands are in want of, you shall have.
He felt a light pressure on the outside of his knee. Matteo had rested his temple there, then seemed to think better of it. It was odd that he insisted on sitting there at all, when he could just sit by the hearth or on the bed and wait.
He did it again. It was a soft pressure at first, barely-there. His dark hair flattened against Therrin’s breeches, his temple coming to rest on the side of his knee in a gesture that seemed like affection, or affection-seeking. For a moment, Therrin didn’t move.
Was this some last attempt at getting him to not write the Osiers? Was he so ashamed of the betrayal, the imprisonment? The love affair itself? Or was it something else? It had culminated in regicide, in an Osier killing a Truly King and starting a series of events that led to a Blackmuir one. He supposed he had Matteo to thank for that, in a way.
Slowly, Therrin let his hand rest in Matteo’s dark hair. The tension ran from him like water. He leaned more fully, putting more weight against Therrin’s knee. His shoulders dropped an inch. He exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath.
He kept his hand on Matteo’s head. With his right hand, he put quill to paper.
Matteo is alive. I have no way to soften this news, and though joyous I know it will still come as a shock. He was at the Muirkeep when we took it. He arrived with Henry some months before. He’s been helping me collect signatures from Muirland nobility on much needed regulation and laws, in areas they were severely lacking under Truly rule. I am grateful for his loyalty and his help. I do not know if the word we received of his alleged death was intentionally deceptive, but I suspect it was.
Tentatively, he stroked Matteo’s hair by pulling his hand back, just an inch, lifting it to bring it back to the crown of his head. Matteo gave a shaky sigh, and closed his eyes.
Therrin did it again. And a third time. It felt wildly unnatural, like petting the fur of a lightly sleeping puma. The Matteo he’d grown up with would never have asked for this. Nor would Therrin have granted it, if asked. They had been like oil and water.
And yet, as he tried a few more soothing strokes, he felt Matteo’s breathing grow slow and even, and his whole body leaned against the side of his leg. He was well aware it was a deeply submissive pose, with him on the floor and Therrin seated in his chair. A wicked and insatiable part of him got a little thrill from it. Him, King, and vicious little Mattie at his very feet. The irony.
Still, some part of him gentled at the idea that he might offer Matteo a shred of comfort after what he’d been through. It was not the play pretend games of power he’d played with Saxon so many times. This was different from that. It felt more delicate, and more dire.
He dropped his hand to the side of Matteo’s head, and gently worried the cartilage of his ear between his forefinger and thumb.
I want nothing more than to hear from you. Matteo will sign this as well. I believe you will recognize his signature, or his old tutors will. If you send someone to verify my claims, they will be a welcomed guest and may speak with Matteo at length.
I hope it goes without saying he has come to no harm under my rule.
Yours now as always,
Therrin
He read it aloud to Matteo, whose eyes went far away and glassy and would not leave a single spot on the floor, but who listened and gave a sharp nod at the end. He seemed to be grateful of the way Therrin had skipped entirely over the how and why of his presence there. The proverbial elephant in the room was that there was no mention of him being sent home, either. He had enough grace not to mention it.
Therrin put the quill in his hand. The bottom of the letter was signed, if a little wobbly:
-Matteo Osier
It was sealed and sent south by southwest the following morning, in the fog banked hour before dawn.
A young officer in a villainous kingdom’s army tries to send a battalion on a mission they have no hope of returning from.
When the officer’s commander finds out about this, he’s sent to die alongside his men as punishment. But when the rival kingdom recognizes the officer among the enemy forces, they decide they won’t let him off so easily.
Summary: Therrin Blackmuir, previously a child ward of the noble Osier family, takes advantage of a volatile political situation to reclaim the throne for his line, the Blackmuirs. He finds an unexpected prisoner in the deepest cell of the dungeons, someone who does not expect merciful treatment from him.
Theo, this baby looks so inhuman, I love it so much!!! And the lighting in this is just stunning! Like, the composition, and colors, and anatomy are all Greta, but this light just gives it something, to? Fucking delightful! And the details in the outfit too? 10/10
“There will be hell to pay.” Says the King, as much a father to them as there could be.
“I know.” The Head of the Guard touches the hilt of their blade. It feels heavier these days. “I always knew. I carried it out anyway.”
“I will try to stop it if I can. But royal blood usually requires retribution.” The eyes of the man are haunted. Guard wishes they could get a break. First the death of his wife, then the economic crisis and now, this. “There are things even I can’t do.”
‘I know.” The Guard repeats. They are not afraid. They knew this day would come. They would do it again, a thousand times. For the Princess. For her. “His Majesty doesn’t have to explain himself to me. I will take whatever comes.”
Silence falls between them as they both look down at the gates, where a rich carriage is crossing the limits of town.
“Thank you.” King says.
—-
Silence. Unfamiliar, eerie even. Princess can smell trouble.
The nurses are hovering more than usual. They bathe her and for the first time, the water is warm instead of icy cold. She still feels weak - her muscles, her knees - but at least she can walk herself to the bathroom now.
As she emerges, she asks the nurses if she can wear her normal clothes instead of sleep clothes. They hesitate, but she insists. Perhaps feeling like herself again will be beneficial. They can’t resist Princess’ charm. She knows that.
They also can’t resist when she asks them to call for the servants.
“I suddenly feel very hungry. Can I have some sweets?” And proceeds to give out a list of all kinds of delicacies, big enough so they go to find parchment paper to write on.
Which is just the time Princess needs to sneak out the servant exit and close the secret passage door. Even inside of the normally busy walls, there is silence. She furrows her brows, holding herself against the cold stone walls as she walks down the hallway. She counts the doors until she finds one that takes her to one of the castle’s public hallways.
Finally, she hears a sound in the phantasmagorical halls.
The sound sends a wave of cold up her spine. She runs to the first window she can find and looks down. The view shows her the front courtyeard and the horrors beneath. The whole court is reunited in a circle. Watching. What seems to be the whole castle staff is behind them, squeezing through any crack to see. Princess is sure none of them were called. They just couldn’t help it. A wall of horrified faces.
A horrible snap echoes up the walls and all the way to the Princess. Forgetting about her weak muscles, about her shaky knees, about her twisted stomach, she runs. She trips down stairs, painfully collapsing against walls, but not daring to stop. She hears guards calling after her, but no one has the heart to stop her. They know where she is going.
The Princess throws her body against the crowd, that yelps in surprise, pulling apart to let her pass. She invades the courtyard, taking in the sight. The court wearing greenish tints to their skin as they watch the terrible spectacle. The executor, preparing another lash of the whip. Her father, hands in fists.
Princess runs, stepping in front of Guard’s destroyed back she dares not look at.
“ENOUGH!” Her voice echoes in the stones of the castle. Like a spell, it brings life back to it. The staff murmurs in relief. The court sighs, finally able to divert their eyes. She looks her father in the eye. “What is happening here?!”
“Child.” A lady Princess does not know, but that resembles someone with the same terrible posture and similar amounts of riches, steps ahead. “Do not interfere. This is a debt that must be recalled. In your honor, or so I heard.”
The lady looks over her shoulder to the king.
“What debt?” The Princess almost forgets herself by gnarling at her father.
“My Princess, you should be resting. I gave your nurses severe instructions…”
“To keep me away? I am feeling much better, thank you very much. What debt?!” She insists. The King sighs.
“Guard… Has… Taken the life of the Lord you were to marry.”
Princess feels something break inside of her. She doesn’t know if it’s the poison still not fully out of her system, or her heart shattering. She steps closer to Guard.
“Well, he has tried to murder me, a Crown Princess of the Court. I’d say that’s all the reparation needed.”
“He was found innocent!” The lady shouts. “A young child like yourself might enjoy inventing stories, but a judge of law has no such inclinations.”
“I would hold your tongue.” Says the princess, turning to her. “My father may have lost his courage with my mother, but I found mine when she was taken from us.” She points at Guard, who barely moves, like they’re too away from that place to react to what’s happening. Princess shelters her heart, just to do what must be done before falling apart. “This person is under our protection. They have been a part of our staff for the last twenty years and they have proved their worth time and time again and it surely was bigger than that of a common murderer.”
The court holds their breath while someone in the staff cheers.
“Well, I never!” The lady says.
“And you never will again. No one walks into my home making demands of hurting my staff.” Princess feels her strength ending. She starts shaking, but hides her fists in the folds of her skirt. “If I were her ladyship, I would return to her castle and pray I forget you when my turn comes to run this kingdom. No riches and no schemes will keep me if you threaten my family again.”
King, as usual, is unable to end this conflict. He looks from the lady to his daughter, slowly turning a deep purple color. She stands, trying not to collapse, as the lady stiffly bows her head to her.
“Lower.” The Princess says, hatred burning inside of her.
The lady does not bend lower. She stands up straight, turns around and leaves.
“You may have costed us —” The King starts, but the Princess is no longer there to hear.
She walks to Guard and she lets her knees finally fail in front of them. Their eyes are closed, although their eyelids are fluttering, like they’re struggling to regain conscience. Blood drips down their back and into the floor - so much of it. Feeling the edges of her vision swim, she takes their face between her hands.
“Let them go!” Princess orders and the executor looks to the king, who is still frozen in place. She looks at the staff, who moved closer once the court rushed out of the courtyard. “Please, someone help.”
One guard moves and then another and they help cut the ropes that held Guard’s arms up. Princess holds them when they collapse, their head on their shoulder, the smell of fresh blood almost overpowering. She closes her eyes, almost passing out herself.
“I just made a new enemy… I’m going to need you. Don’t you dare die.”
Princess almost can’t believe it when she hears the echo of a vibration in Guard’s chest. Was that… A chuckle?
CWs are in the tags so you can choose to look at them or not as they are spoilers
-
Si woke.
He was in his hammock at home. The room stank of sweat - it did no matter what you did to it after years of close-packed kids sneaking into adulthood here. Sunlight poked its fingers through the dirty window. Squinting, he lifted his head. The collection of hammocks and sofas and pallets and blanket nests were empty other than a few sleeping teenagers. They must have been on a job late last night. All being well, he snuggled back under his blankets, and shut his eyes tight.
A sharp kick jolted him from below.
“What was that for?” he groaned.
“Uncle’s pissed you slept in!” He couldn’t work out which of the little kids it was.
He tumbled from his hammock to the floor, and patted the backs of his shoulders. Nothing there. No wings, no tears, not even any pain. He grabbed his pack of cards from his breast pocket and flicked through them. The Ace of Hearts was missing.
