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broodwolf221 · 17 days

Note

Happy Friday!

"i've given you plenty of opportunities to tell the truth." - from the hiding prompts - forrrrrrrr maybe Calpernia/Solas? (I'M INTRIGUED OK haha)

okay bless u for this bc i just went off the deep end these two mean?? sm to me?? it's the weirdest ship but i love them ;o; @dadrunkwriting 1354 words cws: slavery; war mention notes: trespasser spoilers & calpernia's arc spoilers

Her fury was evident as she finally approached—as he finally stopped running and let her approach.

Her chase was unending, but it had to end. She had sent her Venatori to scour the land for signs of him. Her spies. Varric’s own spies were subtle but still present, and Leliana’s were powerful and precise. The weight of the foregone Inquisition bore down upon him with a singular intent, and there were simply too many forces arrayed against him—even with the Eluvians, even with the Beyond and the Fade, he was becoming trapped. He needed someone to stop the pursuit.

Varric’s was the least threatening, and the dwarf was incredibly stubborn. Leliana would not stop so long as she drew breath, and although she presented the greatest risk, Solas would not kill her in order to stem her spies.

That left only Calpernia to dissuade. Calpernia to meet with, Calpernia to argue with. “Why,” she hissed as she approached, her expression tight with her anger. Despite all that had changed, all that had happened, she was dressed in the same armor, wore her hair in the same way… if he closed the distance between them, he thought she would smell the same, that she would feel achingly familiar in his arms.

He kept the distance. He had to.

“There is no other option,” was his paltry answer.

“There is always another option!” She snapped, and he felt the weight of her meaning crackle across the space between them. Her words were thread through with her power, a transfixing display of might and magic and anger. “You taught me that!”

“No,” he said softly, “you knew that long before you met me.” Her expression faltered then, anger giving way to grief for a brief moment… but then she took a deep breath and drew her fury back around her. A shield, a strength, a well of power to draw from.

She would not yield the day easily.

“You have always known there were other options,” he continued. “You taught yourself everything. How to read. How to wield your magic. How to change the world.”

“Like you!” He nodded, conceding the point.

“Yes. Like me. Except…” he scoffed, glancing away briefly. “You were never as naive as I was.”

“You’re being naive now!” She shouted, perhaps sensing a weakness. Perhaps accurately sensing a weakness. But he would not yield to her. He would not spoil all he had worked for, all he had still to do.

“Perhaps,” he admitted after a moment. “There is still no other option.”

“Fen’harel.” She spat the name like a curse… he supposed it was, anymore. “The deceiver. The liar. The betrayer.”

“Yes.” His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears. “Yes. So I was. So I am.”

“You betrayed me,” her pain overtook her anger for a moment, her voice thick. “You betrayed the Inquisition! Your friends! Why, Solas?”

The real question. One which required a real answer… or as much of one as he could give. He met her eyes once more.

“I am Fen’harel,” he confirmed again, “the Dread Wolf. When the Elvhen dominated the land, when Arlathan was the center of power in the known world, when the Fade and the Waking World were as one… that was my existence. My time.” She said nothing, staring hard at him. He was uncertain how much she had been told of his conversation with the Inquisitor, and she did not seem compelled to clarify the matter. “The Evanuris were powerful mages, but not the gods the Dalish think they were. Not gods at all. They were masters, slave-owners, who branded their people with the vallaslin.” Her face was a mask, her emotions contained. But he knew her, knew she felt this—she couldn’t fail to feel this, a slave her entire life until Corypheus “freed” her to use her.

“There had long been murmurings of rebellion,” he continued, “and in my naivete, I fueled them. I organized in secret, freed slaves, removed their vallaslin and smuggled them out of the city. In this way, I slowly amassed an army—and when we were powerful enough… when I thought we were powerful enough… we stood against the Evanuris.”

She stared at him, waiting for the rest of the story, although they both knew how it ended.

“We lost.”

“They died fighting for their own freedom,” she said and his eyes slipped shut, wanting so badly to let her words soothe him. But he could not permit it—this was his burden, his mistake. And it was hardly his only one.

“Even if they did, it was for naught. The war made the Evanuris more determined, more ruthless. They pursued a weapon that would destroy the world. To prevent it… I sundered the world.”

“And now you seek to restore it,” she concluded. So she had been told. He was not surprised—she knew the value of keeping the truth to herself, so long as it suited. Her cunning, her tactics, it was part of what he admired about her. Part of why he had grown, in time, to love her.

Such an unexpected thing, to love a human woman. But he could not deny that she had intrigued him from the start, that her drive and determination and tireless effort for her people had done nothing except inspire him. She was not always right… but when she had learned the error of her ways, the mistake of trusting Corypheus, she had turned on all she knew to stand against him. She wanted to restore her homeland to something worthwhile, to liberate the slaves, to raise them up as citizens. She used all the means at her disposal to do so.

He saw so much of himself in her, but also something so much better. She was not as jaded as he had become, not as despairing. She was lush and vibrant and so passionate it bordered on desperate.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“Then let me come,” she said and he shook his head, even knowing this was coming. Knowing it must come. Her drive, her determination, her need for restoration… of course she would want to be at his side. But she only knew the outline of his plans, and he could not condemn her to live the reality of them. To suffer the consequences alongside him.

Better that she live a life free of him, free of his influence.

“You deserve to live your own life,” he told her, watching as her fury soared again. “Not to chain yourself to mine.”

“How dare you,” she snarled, taking a step closer. “How dare you. I chain myself to nothing! I offer this willingly.”

“You do not know the gravity of your offer,” he protested and she took another step closer. He wanted to back up, wanted to flee, but instead held his ground.

“You think I followed you all this way to pledge myself to you? To bow down, become a slave to your whims?” He winced but she did not give him room to reply. “No, Solas. I have done nothing except be with you. Learn from you. And I have never prevented you from telling me this truth about yourself. There have been so many opportunities–”

Her voice broke again and his heart ached. He wanted so badly to wrap her in his arms, to press apologies against her skin, her hair, but…

“I cannot allow you to join me,” he said instead, forcing a distance in his voice that he did not feel, “and I could never tell you the truth. There is too much at stake.”

“You’re lying to yourself,” she snapped and it took everything in him to not react. To not indulge in the belief that maybe, maybe she was right, that he could allow her to stay at his side, that it would not be cruel and selfish and—

No.

“I am sorry,” he said instead, watching as her expression hardened. “Please, stop pursuing me.” With that he turned and left through the Eluvian he’d come from, although he did not miss her final response:

“No.”

#broodwrites #dadw time #calpernia #solas #i need a ship name for them but ummm...#solpernia?#calpas? calas?#idk. i shall decide later lmao.#anyway. feeling feelings.#still need to work on getting her voice down tho so this was a good practice run ;u;

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justminawrites · 10 months

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The Portrait

AO3

Summary: Syrah holds an impromptu group therapy session to take everyone's minds off the curse-curing crystal. Somehow the topic drifts to First Loves i.e. first portraits, and Whitney is peer pressured into revealing the truth of the first colourful picture he'd ever laid eyes on.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

“All right, that’s enough– get in the therapy bubble, all of you!”

Whitney languidly opened one eye to witness the debacle unfolding before him.

It was a perfectly normal day for the Cursed Princess Club, the birds were twittering and the weather in the Haunted Forest behind the Pastel Kingdom was uncharacteristically pleasant, enough so that Syrah had scheduled an impromptu tea party (much to poor Curtis’ chagrin) complete with picnic blankets, freshly baked goods, and the most motherly attitude she could muster up in the wake of Prez’s absence.

Whitney wasn’t sure where exactly Calpernia had gone but had taken one look at the withering glare Curtis’ shot Syrah behind a tray of slightly steaming muffins and realised he’d probably be safer not knowing.

It must be something to do with the gala anyway, everything did these days.

Syrah had intended on lightening the mood after the disaster that was Gwen’s Dinner Party, but the impending introduction of a curse-breaking crystal had soured everyone’s appetites for the usual fluffy gossip that doubled as a means of relieving tension in the club. Dragging a begrudging Saffron along, the Pinocchio-fied princess held a mandatory sit down to discuss the pros and cons of portraits being used to arrange marriages (a topic she’d found in one of Prez’s abandoned lecture portfolios).

Whitney happened to be meditating nearby when the first sign of disagreement began.

Thermidora knocked over a cup of tea onto Abbi’s new dress, but instead of getting angry, the 80-year-old teenager tutted, shook her head and said something along the lines of ‘-see, this is why you need the crystal more than I do.’

This simple, offhand comment set off a chain reaction across the entire tea party and within a matter of minutes everyone was at each other’s throats about why a curse-breaking crystal would be the worst thing that’s ever happened to them.

Pillows were thrown, names were called and it looked like it was going to turn into a real brawl until Syrah picked up a metal tray and banged on it loudly with a pair of dessert tongs.

“That’s enough!” She repeated, setting down the tray, “Bubble. Now. You too, Whitney!”

Whitney started as she stabbed the dessert tongs in his direction accusatorially, but obliged. Everyone at the CPC was a force to be reckoned with, in their own way, and he had no intention of having more than one member be angry at him.

Once they were all sitting in a circle, Whitney sandwiched between Saffron and Monika, Syrah (on the other side of Saffron) released a breath.

“Now we all agreed that we’d wait till Prez got back to talk about the crystal didn’t we?”

“Yes Syrah,” a chorus of girls, and Saffron, echoed obediently. Whitney pretended to be deeply interested in the red-and-white fibres of the picnic blanket to avoid meeting her eyes.

Nobody had asked him what he thought about the whole curse-breaking crystal situation, but of course, why would they? Whatever claim he had on the item was likely lower than even Frederick; not that he coveted it of course. As far as he was concerned his curse wasn’t a curse at all but the consequences of his behaviour. A punishment that had slowly begun to flare up more and more since he’d gotten here.

“Great! Then let’s forget about all this woe-is-she business and get back to talking about what really matters!”

“But the history of portraiture is so bo-Oring,” Abbi whined, draping herself across a tired looking Renée, who sighed in agreement. A murmur of assent seemed to ripple through the Bubble as the princesses looked at one another and winced.

“You know Prez’s lectures never fail to put me to sleep, Syrah.”

“Yes, that’s why we won’t be doing history but your-story instead!” Syrah replied, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Forget about the ‘Olden Days’– this group discussion is going to be all about your very first portrait-crush!”

A chorus of oohs and aahs filled the glade, as the prospect of a fun, shared experience, temporarily overshadowed the gloom of a cure. Whitney must have looked confused, because both Saffron and Monika simultaneously leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“Its like your first crush-“ Monika began.

“-but only from seeing their portrait.” Saffron finished.

“I had mine when I was only twelve,” Syrah grinned, eyes sparkling, “What can I say, I was a pretty popular child.”

“Yeah,” Saffron scoffed, “Or your parents just wanted to get rid of you as soon as possible.”

She smacked his uncursed arm and he yelped.

“Wait, aren’t portrait crushes usually the result of a marriage proposal.. or an impending one?” Monika asked, anxiously twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“Don’t tell me you got proposed to when you were–”

“Mm, yeah,” Syrah’s momentary preening turned tart, her lips curling into something like disgust, “–and he was well into his twenties too. Luckily my father saw right through his charade.”

“He hired a man to paint him ten years younger, but the artist did his job too well and my parents insisted on meeting him in person. Long story short, there’s a reason I don’t wear chevron.”

Saffron fell strangely silent and Monika turned a greenish purple colour, looking like she was either about to choke or vomit or both. Even Whitney felt a twinge of pity stirring in his chest for the once tween-aged girl; therapy bubble indeed.

“Anyway,” Syrah continued, completely oblivious to her friends discomfort, “Who’s next?”

“I haven’t had mine yet,” Abbi sighed, catching only the tail-end of the mildly horrifying conversation, “Though I don’t think it’ll ever happen.”

“Oh don’t say that, Abbi,” Syrah frowned, pulling the girl in for a hug, “It just means that when it finally happens, it’ll be all the more special won’t it?”

“I guess so,” Abbi huffed, turning to the lobster princess on her right, “What about you, Thermidora?”

“Lobsters are excellent portrait-connoisseurs,” Thermidora replied easily, waving her large, clawed arms inches away from Monika’s face, “I had many a suitor in my day, but none ever caught my eye quite like Benedict did.”

“Was there something different about his portrait?” Syrah prompted as Monika burst into a puff of feathers and landed in Whitney’s claws. He steadied the quaking magpie on his other shoulder to keep her out of harms way.

“Oh yes,” Thermidora resumed, unbothered, “He had the most well-kept moustache I’d ever seen, on a man or a lobster. It was quite the fad at the time!”

“Hear that Saffron,” Syrah snickered, elbowing her friend, “Lobster or man..”

“Oh, lay off would ya.”

“I- I haven't had mine yet either-” Monika twittered once she’d recovered her breath.

“But I can’t really sit still long enough to get one. Sitting still means I have to keep quiet, keeping quiet means all I can listen to are the thoughts in my head, and one thing leads to another and I get so anxious about it all that I just–“

The magpie squeaked as if to make her point and slumped unto herself.

“You could try listening to some relaxing music while they paint,” Jolie chimed in from across the circle.

“Or Read A Book.” Renée scribbled on her pad of paper.

“It shows that you have hobbies and interests!”

“Sorry.. um.. am I interrupting?”

The CPC looked up to see a familiar golden head hover at the edge of the glade, his bright green getup easily marking him out from the trees and foliage.

“Frederick!” Syrah exclaimed, waving over the young prince, “Not at all! Are you looking for Gwen?”

Whitney held up a hand in greeting which he mimicked, albeit hesitantly, once he caught his eye. Though the dinner was almost a catastrophe, Whitney remembered feeling relief burst in his chest when Frederick had called him his friend and saved their cover.

“Uhm.. yes. Is she- is Gwen- uh- around?”

“No, she’s probably busy getting ready for the gala,” Syrah huffed, “-but you’re welcome to join us.”

“Yes! Come, come!” Thermidora echoed.

Frederick looked like he’d rather pull a llama uphill in a makeshift cart again but swallowed his disappointment like a champ and reluctantly walked over to take Monika’s place.

“We’re talking about first portrait-crushes,” Syrah explained quickly and watched as the young boy brightened but then immediately turned pale.

“O- oh, I see.”

“So,” Abbi nudged after an uncomfortable pause, “Was Gwen your first?”

“My family doesn’t have the best reputation with portraits,” Frederick admitted, beads of sweat forming on both sides of his temple as the rest of the club members fell silent to hear his story.

“Our castle was haunted for years, and Father didn’t see the value in paying for an exorcism so all the pictures we commissioned were.. interesting, to say the least.”

“Oh! A friend of mine had the same problem!” Jolie interrupted, popping open her eye sockets to dig around for a picture. Whitney watched Frederick’s face turn two shades lighter; some curses would definitely take a while to get used to.

“Here!”

Everyone leaned in to see the palm-sized sketch the princess had dug out from her eyeless void; though barely qualifying as a portrait, the distinct silhouettes of a king, a queen and a young princess with green hair was overshadowed by a looming maw of darkness punctuated by two sharp jewels of red light, burning like coals.

“No matter where they went, the shadow seemed to follow them!” Jolie explained cheerily. Now it was Saffron’s turn to look perturbed.

“In the end, they gave in and had the exorcism. Good thing they did too, apparently the medium had foreseen that my friend only had three days left to live..”

“Did they... ahem.. ever find out what it was that was haunting them?” Saffron asked gruffly, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice by coughing.

Jolie turned her sightless eyes on him then, a wicked grin spreading over her features as she leaned in to finish her tale.

“No,” She didn't budge an inch, “But the king and queen had it released into a haunted forest right behind their castle.. a forest just... like... this.. one..”

“BOO!”

Saffron screeched as two glowing red orbs lit up inside her eye sockets, and toppled backwards into Syrah taking the both of them down in panic. Frederick clung to Whitney in fear, temporarily displacing Monika from his shoulder, the latter squawking and spluttering as she launched herself onto Renée’s head and hid in her soft blonde hair.

Jolie giggled amidst all the hysteria and knocked on her temples with the flat of her palm a few times until the small, unmistakable form of a mouse popped out into her palm, blinked in surprise, then took one look at Whitney and scurried away for its life.

“Everyone’s a critic.” She shrugged noncommittally. He almost snorted.

“Get. Off.” Syrah huffed, extricating herself from Saffron as she tried to maintain a semblance of dignity but it proved to be a struggle since he’d already passed out cold from all the excitement. Frederick sheepishly dusted off his friend’s shoulder and scooted away, embarrassed.

The sun had begun to inch towards the horizon, smearing the sky in yolky oranges and browns, studded with milky white stars.

“Alright,” Syrah began once everyone’s heart rates had returned to normal, “Where were we?”

“Maybe we should call it a day, Syrah,” Monika quipped, peeking out from under Renée’s hair.

“Nonsense,” She frowned, gesturing for Curtis to pass her a butter-knife, “We haven’t heard Whitney’s story yet!”

Whitney blanched as all eyes now turned to him curiously. Even Curtis, who’d been appearing and disappearing from this conversation at whim paused to flick the cutlery right at Whitney’s face.

“I’m sure you must’ve received tons!” Syrah said, snatching it out out of the air, a hair’s width away from his eyeball.

“I don’t-“ Whitney gulped, pretending to remain unaffected by the attempted assassination that no one else had noticed.

“Don’t be shy,” Renée held up her sketchpad comfortingly.

“Yeahmmff, we’re all ears, cat-man,” Abbi mumbled sarcastically, mouth filled with macarons. It seemed that she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about Whitney’s status as a club member, though she commended his effort to help out.

He looked around helplessly but even Frederick had perked up now, intrigued by the idea of discovering more about his strange friend and his foreign mannerisms.

“Portraiture was difficult for my family as well,” Whitney caved in and began when he realised there was no getting out of this one, “-but our reasons were not supernatural, at least, not as far as was told.”

“The Monochrome Kingdom has a very particular relationship with colour; it was both a treasure and a taboo. Nothing in the kingdom naturally produces colour on its own, from the grass to the cloud cover, everything came in shades of either grey, white or black - so any products that did require other hues had to be imported. Raw dyes and paints were especially reserved for the nobility and only brought out during the most important occasions, and even then what was left was quite muted and dull.”

A blanket of silence descended over the CPC as they watched the former prince recall his home with a mixture of guilt and pity.

“I myself hadn’t seen a single bright colour till I turned 17,” Whitney continued in his usual flat manner, but Frederick thought he could hear something like wistfulness in his friend’s tone.

“And much like everything else - it came from outside the kingdom.”

“But the Monochrome Kingdom is very well-renowned,” Thermidora mused, claw on chin, “Even under the sea, it was quite the popular subject of debate– surely you must have gotten far more alliance-based proposals.”

“One would assume as much,” Whitney agreed, “-but if there’s anything the King and Queen loved more than their wealth, it was their privacy. Before Blacquelyn was born, they didn’t even bother attending galas or parties.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit, I was ignorant to the outside world for much of my youth. Perhaps that was why I was so hasty to get married.”

“Oh right! I was wondering that too!” Monika chirped, fluttering back to his shoulder, “You got engaged to Prez awfully quick!”

“R-right.”

Frederick raised an eyebrow as Whitney’s demeanour shifted minutely; if he didn’t know better, his friend almost seemed.. flustered?

“As I was saying,” Whitney cleared his throat, “My parents valued their privacy and our obedience, so any portraits that were sent in were burned before either Greyden or I laid eyes on them.”

“It was the eve of my seventeenth birthday when everything changed.”

“Well don’t keep us on edge! Get on with it!” Abbi huffed; despite herself, she was starting to enjoy the story.

“Very well,” He acquiesced, “We had just finished one of our violent gladiator-style fights to win Father’s approval that week when a courtier came in to announce an invitation to a ball–“

“Woah woah woah– a WHAT?!” Syrah gasped.

He trailed away in bemusement as the CPC exchanged horrified looks between themselves.

“Wait, like actual fights, with real weapons?” Monika ruffled her feathers in alarm.

“Yes? But it was strictly torso and below the belt,” He added quickly, as though that made it any less appalling, “I nicked Greyden’s face once and my Father had me thrown in the Tiger Pit for three days.”

“Three.. days..” Saffron, rising from his fainting spell, looked at Whitney as though he’d just confessed to murder.

“You must have a lot of scars!” Jolie gasped; he nodded.

“Are you.. okay?” Renée volunteered, making way for Saffron to return to the circle, and Whitney shrugged.

“It was a long time ago,” He said, “And I learned to make peace with my experiences, different though they may be.”

“We’re always here if you wanna talk, ‘bout it, bud’,” Saffron sighed, passing him a pillow, which Whitney took bewildered.

“I- uh- Thank you, Saffron.”

“The courtier came in..” Frederick prompted finally, as a mixed silence descended on the group.

“Right- my parents had been invited to a ball being held the next day,” Whitney began again, stumbling over the newfound support he was unused to receiving, “It was a debutante ball.”

“A princess from a neighbouring kingdom had reached a marriageable age and they were holding a party to introduce her into society. Since it was such short notice, my father declined, but it was too late. I had already caught sight of him by then, and hunted the courtier down after supper.”

“I’m ashamed to say my methods weren’t the friendliest,” He admitted, knuckles tightening as he recalled an undoubtably violent memory, “-but after a lot of.. persuading.. I managed to convince him to tell me the whereabouts of the portrait that came with the invitation.”

“The stars must have aligned for me that day, because they hadn’t defaced it yet. The courtier led me straight it, and that’s when I saw her.”

The CPC was once again at the edge of their seat, now because Whitney’s tone had taken on a kind of softness, his claw-like nails relaxing for the first time since he sat in the circle.

“She had hair the colour of a sky I wasn’t born under, and eyes like a sun I’d never seen. It was the first time I’d ever seen someone so.. full of life. At that moment, I knew I had to have her.”

Whitney winced as he realised what he’d said.

“In hindsight, I realise that those were the whims of a spoiled, selfish prince who had never understood how to correctly treat another human being, but at the time, all I could think of was that if I met her, somehow my life would get better, even marginally.”

Frederick listened to all this, wide-eyed; why did Whitney’s story sound so familiar? Could it be that both of them shared a need for escape from their respective toxic family dramas– perhaps the former prince was a lot more like him than he’d assumed.

“So, what happened?” Syrah demanded, restless for the reveal, “Who was the princess?”

“I took the portrait to my father and insisted on getting married,” Whitney replied.

“AND?” Renée held up the pad of paper.

“He said no and had it burned.” He finished, “So I never found out who the princess was.”

The CPC groaned collectively, completely unsatisfied with the ending of the story but Frederick knew better than to give up hope. He’d noticed that his friend’s shoulders were tense– a tell.

Whitney was lying.. but why?

“Well,” Frederick rose, dusting off his trousers, “This has been really fun but I’ve got to get back before my Father notices I’m missing. Coming Whit?”

Whitney looked up puzzled, but then noticed Frederick subtle attempt at winking and hurried to his feet as well.

“Oh- yes- I’ll make sure you get home safely.”

Syrah narrowed her eyes at the two newest members of the club and crossed her arms, but before she could point out how suspicious they were being, Curtis appeared once more, now looking a little more mellow than before.

“If you’ll excuse me princess, it’s well after twilight and I need these dishes to entertain the rest of the club members tomorrow. I trust you’re finished with your therapy group?”

“Oh, Curtis–”

Whitney didn’t end up hearing the rest of her sentence, since Frederick hastily bowed a goodbye and yanked him out of the glade, much to the disappointment of the other princesses, who were only starting to get used to the strange striped, tiger-man.

Once they were far enough that he was sure they couldn’t be overheard, Frederick turned to his friend and gave him an awkward, one-armed hug.

“What–“ Whitney seemed to freeze at the touch until Frederick pulled back (it was like hugging a rock anyway), and shook his head knowingly.

“I don’t know why you lied about the portrait,” Frederick began, watching as Whitney’s claws involuntarily curled into fists, “-but you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“I just want you to know, I consider you one of my closest friends.”

“Thank you,” Whitney’s shoulders slumped, and Frederick nodded, turning back to the path at hand.

After a few moments of reflective silence, only punctuated by the occasional cicada chirping, the former prince released a long, drawn out breath.

“I lied so they wouldn’t discover the truth,” Whitney said finally, “I didn’t want Calpernia to pity me– she was the princess in the story.”

Frederick had guessed as much. He offered him an encouraging look, prompting him to continue.

“My father burned the portrait, yes, but only after I had found out who the princess was. The courtier informed me that it was a neighbouring princess, from the polygon kingdom. So I hid it in my room and approached my father with a marriage proposal the very next day.”

“He laughed in my face first,” Whitney said ruefully, “But I kept asking, the next day and the next and the next, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He had the guards search my room and found Calpernia’s portrait and burned it right in front of me.”

“That’s awful,” Frederick couldn’t help himself. He was usually good at keeping his emotions well hidden but the monochrome prince’s tales always had a way of eliciting a reaction from him.

“I still refused to give up,” Whitney nodded, “My obsession with marriage, and Calpernia, heightened tenfold. I became convinced that she was the only way out of the hell that had become my home.”

“I studied and fought relentlessly, and met every morsel of praise my father offered me with ‘let me marry her.’ This displeased him to no end. He had me take ten lashes for each time I mentioned her name. Still, I kept at it. Eventually my mother caved and began accepting portraits from influential families both within and outside the kingdom in an attempt to placate the monster I was becoming.”

“But even then I didn’t budge,” He shook his head, “My fixation with Calpernia’s burnt picture had grown so intense that the rest of the women looked paltry and lacklustre in comparison. It would be three years of constant quarrelling with my parents before an artist was brought in to paint my portrait, for the sake of a proposal.”

“They gave in?” Frederick asked, surprised.

“Not exactly,” Whitney frowned, “My parents didn’t care what I wanted, they’d sooner have me wed to a daughter of monochrome nobility, so they could still have control over their oldest son.”

“But every time they invited one over, I’d find a way to miss the event. Pleasing them no longer mattered, nothing mattered, except getting what I’d been denied for so long. I’d lock myself in and when my father had the doors removed, sneak myself out. I’d send Greyden in my place, cause a scene, sabotage the food, even hide out in the Tiger Pit to avoid these events.”

“I got punished, of course, but it all seemed worth it when my parents finally, finally yielded, realising they couldn’t stamp the insubordination out of me no matter how hard they tried. So they sent my portrait to the Polygon Kingdom, along with a proposal to marry their oldest daughter.”

“Nearly four years later, on my twenty-first birthday,” He stopped suddenly, forcing Frederick to turn around, “-I saw her again.”

“No longer a portrait in my mind, but a person of flesh and blood; Calpernia was beau- um.. she exceeded my expectations.”

Whitney was now completely flustered, and Frederick realised he’d never seen his friend blush before, even the edges of his tiger stripes seemed to glow with a reddish hue.

“I was drunk with power, dizzy with winning for the first time in my life,” Whitney said sheepishly, almost like he’d forgotten anyone else was there, “-that when Calpernia confessed to me that she might be in love with a male nurse.. I reacted rather poorly.”

“The rest is history.”

“Why didn’t you tell her any of this when you apologised?” Frederick asked, leaning against a nearby tree.

“Because it wouldn’t have made a difference,” He replied matter-of-factly, “None of it could erase all the hurt and suffering I’d caused Calpernia.”

“But don’t you think it’s unfair–“

“It was unfair to make her the object of my salvation, when she isn’t an object at all,” Whitney interrupted without malice, “She wasn't and will never be responsible for my unwarranted affection. It isn’t her obligation to care about me.”

“I- I see,” Frederick’s mind was so abuzz he wondered if he imagined his hair twitching with all the thoughts inside it.

“If I was worth forgiving-“ Whitney continued, “-it should be based purely on my actions alone. Not on any excuses regarding my upbringing.”

“Do you still love her?” Frederick blurted out, expecting his friend to revert to mortification but the former prince’s face remained indifferent, perhaps even a little sad.

“I don’t think what I felt was love as much as it was desperation,” Whitney admitted.

“I don’t think I could ever love Calpernia as much as she– oh. Spider.”

Frederick jolted back as Whitney reached over and easily plucked a small, black arachnid from what was indisputably his blonde hair, and tried to stay calm as his friend released it back onto the tree.

He immediately put several steps between him and the bark of the old oak, watching it crawl onto the lowest branch before disappearing into its leafy folds– Frederick could’ve sworn the little insect winked at him as it vanished.

“D-Do you think it was there the whole time,” Frederick stuttered, forgetting their conversation as he now imagined the spider crawling around in his hair for hours without him knowing.

Whitney did snort then, and clapped the young prince’s shoulder reassuringly.

“Let’s get you back home.” He said, with a small smile.

As the two of them made their way back to the plaid kingdom, deep in the Haunted Forest, miles away, a tiny spider crawled onto the palm of a certain blue-haired, gold-eyed club president returning from her journey, to tell her something she would certainly be very interested in knowing.

20 notes · View notes