#confident soldier lady gets more than she bargained for
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I am so in to König and the confident solder lady (btw we need a tag name or a callsign for her, maybe a poll?) but anyway I go insane for that dynamic!❤️🔥 I am on FIRE after I read your stories and it's NEVER enough 😭🤣
so I imagined this scenario about them
They are out on a mission to capture someone. When König finds the target the lady solder, still under the effect of how brutal and efficient König is with his hands disposing of the enemies, says to him:
L - Bag n tag me...I mean HIM
K - *looks at lady solder while filthy thoughts run through his mind*
now both of their minds are in the gutter...as well as mine, but mine never left😈
Confident soldier lady is so unhinged even König is at a loss sometimes 🤨 And our soldier babe? She gets off on those baffled, bewildered looks a little too much (shame on her).
One day when they're cuddling, sweaty and spent after another heated session that was supposed to put her in her place – how curious that it does actually work, even if only for like 5 minutes – she crosses another line.
"König… Could you kidnap me sometime? You know, in a roleplay fashion," she asks while drawing circles on that godly, muscled, sweaty chest.
The said godly muscled sweaty chest almost stops breathing.
"Kidnap you?" König repeats, appalled and with pure loathing in his voice. "I hate kidnappers... And I hate slavery."
She nearly rises to give him a pointed remark about how funny it is that he hates that shit when at the same time, doesn't have a problem with treating her like a possession. But calling a man like König out on his double standards would be futile, so she settles for seething with quiet resentment while curled up there in his arms.
Right.
Yeah… Of course this guy wouldn't know what roleplay even means.
..........
Next week she's walking back to the bus after visiting a sibling, a bit anxious about getting back to base and seeing König again. She still has over a week's worth of leave left, but she wants to go back to spend it with him.
It's sick... Everything about this relationship is sick, twisted, and crazy. She’s always running back to him like a cat who hears her owner has opened another canned tuna in oil. She's so in her thoughts about how to torture that jerk in return that she doesn't quite notice a white van pulling over right next to her.
He barely fits inside the cargo space with her, almost folds her in half while ducking and stepping inside. The car groans under the weight, slants slightly to the side, and she starts to panic and squirm from realizing this is actually happening.
Next thing she knows, she's being picked up from behind like she weighs nothing. A large palm lands over her mouth the minute she’s about to scream – she makes a tiny little noise through her nose but the palm moves to cover that as well.
The street is silent, it's a lazy afternoon in the suburbs, everyone is at work and children are at school, and no one can hear or see how some psycho hauls her inside that van.
"Shh. Stop fighting," a familiar voice bleeds into her ears, muffled and warm.
It can't be…
But then again, didn't she just make a wish upon a psycho star?
He notices she has stopped fighting, just like he ordered her to. He feels how she surrenders to a far stronger beast – just like she's supposed to. And then he purrs.
"Das ist eher so… Be good now. Be a good girl."
Yep...
No one speaks German like that. No one calls her a gut girl like that.
The palm leaves her mouth, and she's being lowered gently on the floor of the van. She turns to look at her captor with both hope and dread pounding inside her chest.
"König…?"
It's pointless to utter that name when the man before her is exactly his size and build, moves like him, has those same cold, blue eyes that gain a warmer tone every time they land on her. The only thing that makes her take a double check is that he's not wearing a hood this time but a black balaclava. Oddly enough, it makes him look a bit more human. She can see the shape of his jaw, the perch of his nose, usually disguised by the baggy sniper hood he's so fond of...
But what the new mask also does is that it makes him look even more menacing: he looks like some of those terrorists they've always fought against. He looks like the biggest bank robber ever put to this earth, he looks like he's about to shoot dozens of innocent citizens and then kidnap someone to take as his prize and drag them into his rape lair.
The notion should not make her squeal like she's looking forward to being that person…
"You're mine now," he looks down at her, lying at his feet like a stray cat about to be taken back home, then turns to walk out of the van. By the time he slams the doors shut, she's smiling – she might be in need of some serious help, but she can't deny König is at his best when he comes out to play.
….....
His house is surprisingly neat, albeit it is no doubt also a man cave for a soldier who rarely spends time at home.
She’s not carried into a cold lair or a secret dungeon underneath the house. No, she gets to stay in his bedroom, on a soft, king-sized bed. He "forces" her cook for him, and praises her meals like they’re some sort of gourmet dishes. It lights a little flame inside her chest, a fire that doesn’t burn but only feels warm. She starts to tidy his place on her own accord.
It's cute, and it's fun, their little kidnap game.
It’s also kind of entertaining to play house with König like this, especially when her "kidnapper" comes to her every night and takes her gently but intensely, with a passion that renders her silent.
It starts to resemble the most domestic little scene until after one week, she snaps out of it.
She doesn't fight back at all.
He calls her his, asks if she has everything she needs as they lay together on his ridiculously large and nice bed. She doesn’t miss her hard army bunk one bit.
She snaps out of it because he brings her a dress.
She fucking hates dresses.
Well, perhaps she doesn’t hate them... but she hates the particular dress he bought her. It's white and has flowers on it – yuck – is she supposed to cook him a nice, healthy meal while wearing that? Let him lift the hem and take her against a counter whenever he wants? Does he think she’s just going to open her legs for him every night after serving him like a docile, doting little wife?
That night, she fights like a wildcat when he comes to her. She enjoys the way he's panting by the time she finally surrenders to him. He sounds like a dog in heat, he's grunting like a man who has one job too many, trying to restrain his little alley cat so that he can push that heavenly cock inside her. She's dripping wet by the time he gets there, looking up at her captor with lightning and thunder in her eyes.
"What's gone into you now, meine Wildkatze?"
"That stupid dress, that's what's gone into me," she hisses as he tries to be gentle again – she suddenly hates it that he's gentle.
"You'd look good in it," he tries, and she almost spits on his face. Her heart hurts for some unfathomable reason, her lower lip juts out with a furious pout.
"Well you'd look good in rags…!"
And just when she thinks he couldn't make it worse… he makes it worse.
He just laughs. Gently, and heartily.
"Is that the best you can do, little one?"
"You'd make such a good wife..."
The only thing she can do is gasp for air as he makes love to her, as those eyes hold her captive gently, so gently – has he become so gentle just because she cooked him for a week and cleaned up his stupid man cave?
Did he kidnap her just because he realized that would be the perfect way to trick her and transform her into a good little housewife?
Good god...
"If you don't set me free tomorrow, I swear I'll… I'll run away!"
She’s the one panting now, and her threat has little effect save for the hauntingly familiar flash of dare that makes those blue eyes look brighter for a second.
"That's what cats do sooner or later," her King tilts his head – the cock inside her gives a demanding pulse, and she has to fight the urge to moan.
"…but they always return home."
#answered#kidnap roleplay#yandere könig#confident soldier lady gets more than she bargained for#lol she's falling in love and she hates it#könig is already in love ❤️#we do need a callsign for her though#any suggestions?#something kitty kat related perhaps lol
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Our Nightly Confidant 4
War Games
Warriors needs fresh air.
The hand resting in the crook of his elbow is soft, but its grip is threatening to cut off the blood circulation to his hand. The pain has steadily numbed as the ladies exchange thinly veiled insults about this or that province and this or that financial ruin.
He used to like this.
The attention, the admiration, the glory! When did it start to taste like ash in his mouth?
If his queen heard that thought, she'd have another one of her brutal truths for him. 'When war stopped being a game and became a duty.'
When he realized that not even being the Chosen Hero of Courage would shield him from the game. That it made him twice the target every other soldier was. When the bodies of fallen comrades couldn't go past the numb exhaustion that took him every evening.
“Lady Farosh, Lady Ordonas, if you'll excuse me for a second...” he says, flashing them his flashiest smile.
Lady Ordonas brings out her fan to hide her rosy cheeks and agrees with an obvious giggle. Lady Farosh, whose fingernails are on the verge of piercing skin, delays her reply by the barely polite amount of time.
“Oh, Captain Link, you cannot abandon me so swiftly,” she tries, eyes flickering to her father, an esteemed general in discussion with Impa.
“But of course not, only a second to freshen up.”
The instant she releases him, he pulls away and bows. Though, despite his instincts screaming at him, he doesn't run a straight line for the glass doors of the Queen's ballroom. Lady Farosh would take it as an insult. He weaves through conversations, dropping the minimum expected of him here and there, snarks at a Legend that looks ready to murder Lord Lonnayru (and Warriors wishes him to succeed), never touches a drink or bite offered that he did not pick for himself, and eventually reaches freedom.
The cool night air is a balm on his skin as it strokes his hair and face.
Even the small, military tents he's slept in during the campaign didn't feel half as stifling as that ballroom. And some of the tents, he couldn't even stand up inside!
Above, the moon shines its silvery glow down to the garden's fountain. With the ball in full swing inside, no one walks the peaceful path of stone amidst the roses and the arches. Shame. It's a beautiful place. His first stroll there had been a pleasant experience, though not his first conversation with his queen. Impa had chased away the rest of the escort and glared the patrolling guards into submission. Any attempt to bargain had been met with stony silence and a dare to prove themselves worthier of the Queen's protection than her Sheikah general and mentor.
Warriors stops by the hedgerow. If he focuses, he can see the spot where Zelda sat down, where she picked a rose for him, and pinned it on his breastplate.
They had had hopes for the future. Have. He still has hopes. Don't get him wrong. But he's a little more tired than he used to be. Where had the time gone?
'Captain Link, I must introduce you to my daughter.'
Must. Must. Must. Always a 'must', never a 'may'. Duty traps him and the wild beasts know it. They sniffed his blood long ago, and he can only ever bandage the wound so much before it becomes infected.
Traipsing around with the heroes of previous eras is a blessing and a reward that Hylia offered him. A thank you, he feels, and perhaps the beginning of an apology.
“You shouldn't be out there on your own, Captain Link.”
Those are normal words, spoken with careful reverence. Nothing about them should bring his walls up this quickly. But Warriors is no longer accosted by the common soldiers. Hasn't in a long time.
The cracks on his heart spread just a little further. Deeper.
“Someone might try to hurt you, sir.”
The reverence is gone.
And the spear points straight at his chest.
He doesn't have time to bring out his sword.
A snarling mass of fur tackles the traitor, and by the time Warriors can react, the cry of fear stops abruptly. In its stead is a steady gurgle, a fading wheeze. A limb that thuds against the garden grounds.
Warriors doesn't flinch. He's seen worse.
Once his prey has been deemed sufficiently mauled, Wolfie turns to him, muzzle dark with blood, and worry clear in his eyes.
“Good boy,” he says, absentminded, a hand ruffling through the beast's sinfully soft fur.
It's a testament to his companion's state of mind that no warning growl responds to the familiarity. Warriors doubt he would hear it anyway. He's staring at the dead body.
The guard was young. Maybe... Hyrule's age. He must have hated the war, if he'd gone to the front lines. Hell is hardly enough of a description for the dance of bodies and hacked limbs. He had probably lost a brother or a father or a cousin to the fighting, if he was earning his keep in the Queen's castle at that age. Maybe Impa had taken pity on him.
“Simple-minded fools who can't resist basic mind magic,” Warriors repeats, a wobbly chuckle in his voice.
Wolfie noses his hand, and the little shock of cold and wet jolts enough that he can avert his eyes from the traitor. Defeated, the events of the night all playing on loop, he drags himself to a secluded spot by the hedgerow. One from which he can see people coming, with his back to the branches. Wolfie plops down next to him.
“Mind magic. What I wouldn't give for that to be the case,” he confesses to the wolf-like companion. “Hylia. I'd take cowards over this. I'm not asking them to fight my battles for me. Not even fight by me. Just...”
His fingers curl into his scarf. Holds onto the lifeline.
“I just want to be able to turn my back on the people I protect. Is that really so much to ask for?”
Soft fur fills his sight. He ought to resist the urge. An officer must be strong. Cannot let the soldiers down. Fear spreads like wildfire. One spark, and the whole army goes up in flame.
He knows this.
He knows, and he sobs anyway. Farore, please, just for an instant, allow him to be weak.
He buries his face in Wolfie's shoulder, relishes the warmth and protection that comes from the sacred beast. It doesn't matter that some blood splatters might stain his official knight armors. It doesn't matter that for a split second, he doesn't scan his surroundings for exits, potential ambushes and traps. He gives the taut ropes of tension inside him just enough relief.
Until he pulls back.
Sniffs twice, wipes his face once and plasters the charmer smile.
“I'm alright, Wolfie... I'm alright.”
Wolfie doesn't buy it. Makes an inquisitive little whine. A question.
His hand trembles in the fur. “I am. I will be.”
Wolfie turns, quick not to notice one's tears. Strange for a wolf, but he doesn't pounce on their weaknesses. They trust he never will.
Silly as it sounds, there's more than a few noble daughters in that ballroom that could take lessons in civility from Wolfie. At least, in his presence, he doesn't feel like a bloody piece of meat dangling in front of a pack of wolves. Now, that's irony.
“You know... you kind of make me miss Midna.”
Warriors jumped back when Wolfie suddenly straightened, his eyes laser focused.
“Yeah, I know her,” he said, feeling a hint of a real smile. “We have a statue for her in the Temple of Souls. Hell of a woman.”
His hands went to his sword the second his ears picked up a low growling noise, only to realize it had come from Wolfie. Was... was their canine companion protective of the Twilight Princess? Or, Hylia forbid, jealous? Goddess, that was too cute.
“Shh, don't alert the others,” Warriors said, hands held in front of him in mock surrender.
Wolfie, with very Hylian-like intelligence, puts a paw first on his muzzle, then scratches one of his ears. It's a good point. He'd know first.
Warriors relents before Wolfie starts nipping. He remembers Time's mud bath. “She mentioned you too. Called you her favorite pet.”
He hadn't know what disgruntled looked like on a wolf before, but now he had the perfect picture. No wonder Midna had loved to tease him.
“She went into battle with this shadow spell. Wolf-companions.”
Wolfie's interest shifts into disguised wariness. There are hints that he might like to pull back a bit, but Warriors' hand remains firm on the back of the wolf's neck.
“Called her main one Rinku,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows. “Reminds you of something, huh?”
Wolfie blinks. Then blinks some more. He's almost completely frozen, like he has no clue what to make of that information. Or is trying to choose the right way to react. And when he does, Warriors bites down on a burst of laughter.
The puppy eyes. The good boy smile. It's worrying how they almost work.
Almost.
Warriors keeps a sly grin on his face and waits. He's in no hurry to return inside the palace.
It takes another change of beat in the music coming from the ballroom before Wolfie gives, and shadows swallow him.
“Since when?” Twilight says, sighing.
Warriors' smirk is immensely punchable, he's aware. He loves to live dangerously.
“Are you implying that I would deliberately play dumb so that one of my fellow Hero of Courage would act like a dog when he doesn't need to? That I knew from the very beginning and asked Wild to take pictures for posterity? For shame, Twilight.”
A vein twitched under Twilight's jaw. “No, I wasn't implying that. I was saying you're an asshole, Wars!”
Warriors fails to dodge the lunge, half-paralyzed by muffled chuckles. The momentum throws them on the grass, and there's a split second of disorientation before his back hits the ground, and a weight lands on his chest. A heavy weight. Goddesses be good, the farmer lifestyle paid, huh?
“Twilight, move your fat ass.”
The mullish expression on his brother's face would have made a raging moblin sweat. “No. We're still doing this. I have a great track record, and I'm not letting you narcissistic goatfiddler break it by being your usual self. Talk.”
His eyes widen in alarm. “Really? This is the setup? Me, suffocating, and you, thinking of a place to hide my body. What is this, a deathbed confession?”
“You could have had the amazing emotional support of everyone's favorite wolf. But noooo, you're too good for that, so spill. Better be fast, because I had double serving of Wild's chili. Gives me gaz like thunder.”
“You. Wouldn't. Dare.”
The silent glare he receives is all Time.
Warriors squirming renews. “Farmhand, I will skewer you on the Master Sword myself if you don't-”
“Why would you go off on your own like that? We were all in the ballroom. You could have gotten any of us.”
“Let's not reverse the roles here,” Warriors hisses, one eyebrow raised. “I'm not the one playing double-life around our group. You can't talk about trust when you constantly hide in plain sight. You want trust? You tell me why.”
The boyish, almost light air between them breaks. Guilt blooms on Twilight's face. He can't meet Warriors' gaze and doesn't even try.
“... It's Dark Magic.”
“I couldn't care less. I've fought amongst noble fighters with dark magic and against monsters with the opposite. Next.”
Twilight's ears droop slightly. It's dog-like, and amusingly fitting for a moment of hesitation. Every second that passes without a word hammer the fact that 'dark magic' is the surface excuse for Twilight's shifty dealings about their group. Warriors tries not to be angry. Twilight did just save his life with that very secret.
“I've had...” Lips mull the words for a few seconds. “Mixed reactions.”
Warriors feels himself frown. “Mixed how?”
“You know me, the country boy, raised in the small farmer village lost in the woods. Country bumpkins, the lot of us... You ever heard what they think of wolves?”
His breath hitches. Slow dread creeps on him. He hates the ease with which images come to him. He's never seen Twilight's hometown, never met any of his family, but he's suddenly overwhelmed by the idea of a mob of pitchforks and pickaxes held high, of dogs barking through the woods as a grey wolf scampers. Narrowly avoids a bear trap snapping its deadly maw on thin air instead of a limb. Overhears angry grumbling about making a pelt out of his skin.
They should be farmers, but he sees old faces instead. Soldiers. Commanders. Officers. Brothers-in-arms he's long trusted. Thought he could trust.
“W-what do they know about those majestic beasts?” he says, jokingly because he's afraid to let the mask slip an inch. (It'd fall a mile, shatter too hard for him to ever glue back the pieces.)
“My father threatened to skewer me,” comes the quiet admission, less than a whisper.
Warriors' heart squeezes. “Twilight.”
“Didn't know it was me though,” Twilight adds, failing at even a small smile. “To him, I was just this wild animal circling the village right after most of the children had been stolen. He... he only threatened me. Just words. Nothing like what you had to deal with.”
“The words are the worst part for me,” Warriors hears himself say. “I hear them in my nightmares, even if I forget what they tried to do. Couldn't tell you who came at me with a spear, with a sword, with a dagger. But I see their eyes in the mirror, the hate as they died.”
“The fear. The 'Get back, beast!' and the screams.”
“'It's your fault!'” Warriors repeat, the same tone that echoed in his head. “'You should have died instead!'”
Twilight's face twists, and there's a split second when Warriors thinks his heart will give out. Even the shadows of Twili magic can't compare to the darkness that covers the blue of his eyes. But Twilight turns his head to the side and spits in disgust.
It hits the traitor's cooling corpse.
“Bastards,” he says, venom lacing his tongue. “Should have made that last.”
He says, with blood all over his face , Warriors thinks dryly.
It's a sharp contrast, that violence on him. Twilight has always had that air of earnest, straightforward honesty. One look at him and strangers will put their trust in him without hesitation. He lacks the battleworn scars (at least where it's visible), is old enough to be taken seriously and his bumpkin accent breeds familiarity with most commoners they meet. Warriors himself has to deploy all his charms to get the same results, and he's still being glared at by a lot of the men.
They peg him a charmer, and not without reason.
“I don't like it either,” Warriors says, quiet.
“What?” Twilight replies, an eyebrow raised.
“The knight act, you know.” And before Twilight's mouth can drop – “At least, some of it. The game. The doublespeak. The mask. It all feels pointless sometimes.”
“I... really?” Twilight's baffled words hurt, just a little.
Warriors scoffs. “Yes, really. I'm not meant to play knaves and daggers. I'm a soldier. An officer. I'm meant to be out there, defending the kingdom I love. Inspiring the people to fight back against darkness, to stand up for their lives. To be at the front of an army, to lead as one amongst the great... it's incredible. It's what I was born to do, I know it in my bones. The act is necessary. But by the Goddesses do I wish I could live without it.”
He sees the way his meaning worms itself past Twilight's gaze, understanding dawning on him. “No matter where one goes, huh?” Sheepish ruffle of his own hair. “Is it something in the water?”
“Like they'd lower themselves to drinking water,” Warriors sneers, a smirk hidden underneath. “Wine only, my good sir. And only the finest year, from the finest yard. Vintage, my good peasant, it's all the vintage that shows breeding.”
“They do know that for everyone else, breeding is something you check for your horses and your dogs, right?”
“I... couldn't tell. I've stopped listening a while ago. I just nod and play my handsome part. It is the only use for a Hero once the King of Evil has been defeated, it looks like. I don't know if I even should call myself a knight anymore.”
“Wild was touched, y'know?” Twilight says, looking up to the moon. “When you called him an honorable knight,” he adds with a sigh. “He's always associated his life before the Calamity to knighthood, to that incredible soldier that had trained for a decade before facing his destiny. Someone whose shadow he chased for months, not realizing it's his own. You might have been the first to call his current self a knight.”
“He is!” Warriors near jumps to his feet. “Wild may be unorthodox, but he is a loyal, devoted man that served Hyrule to the best of his ability despite having lost everything but his life to the cause. Most generals in my army could not even measure up to his standard.”
“Should have seen the look in his eyes when I mentioned it.” There's a hint of sadness beyond the pride and joy of this memory.
He hates the curdling feeling that brings forth. “Remind me to knock a couple of heads together next time we visit his Hyrule, would you?”
Twilight's chuckle is fond, gentle. “Yeah, that's what I meant. I never thought to tell him in those words. To me, he was always good enough. But you saw that side of him too. You know what it's like to want it. I can't relate that well to this, but... well, anyone under your command has to look up to a guy like you.”
Hands ball into fists. Eyes drift to the corpse. “Not everyone does. Obviously.”
Twilight bumps shoulders with him. “I'm sorry, pretty boy. I'm sorry these assholes think they have any right to blame you. To resent you. You're an amazing leader. Much better than me. I... I honestly admire you and your skill.”
Warmth settles in his stomach. He can't... For a second, he needs to blink away tears.
“So he admits it.”
There's a wry, wolfish quality to Twilight's grin. “You speak a word of it, and you'll meet an unfortunate fate, Captain.”
“As if anyone but my Queen could make me fall in battle,” he laughs, pushing Twilight's shoulder, hard.
“Careful there.” His brother's grin sharpens, and the returning shove almost sends Warriors crashing into a bush. “You might touch my cursed stone, and then you'd be stuck as your true self. What would your queen think if she saw a plague-ridden rat try to command her armies?”
Laughter bubbles in his chest. “Be happy to send the rat to infect the goat-loving hillbillies before they spread out of their mudholes! Imagine the half-goat, half-hylians that would invade Hyrule!”
Twilight's gauntlets fall to the ground. Knuckles are cracked. “A'right. Someone needs an asswhooping.”
He could not stop smirking if the Goddesses ordered him to. “Bring it, dog-boy. I'll put a collar on you.”
Taunts, past this point, become superfluous. The breath they would waste could be better utilized trying not to die (lose) against this moblin (his brother) and his freakish strength (no, really, he pushes giant metal crates on ice, the goron-born idiot). The honor of Hyrule rests on his victory.
At some point, they roll over in the fountain.
This does not, in fact, stop their roughhousing.
***
“Should I ask why you both have black eyes and split lips when no one noticed any monster for miles?” Time wonders at his seconds-in-command. “While we were attending a ball?”
“No,” they growl with a ferocity to chill bones.
“Not fair!” Wind protests, to the nodding of most. “Why did they get to have all the fun?”
Ah, youth.
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have you ever thought about a rebel bounty Witcher!AU? I just finished the books and like Boba would make a prime Witcher, he definitely gives off grumpy monster hunter vibes
I haven’t read the books myself, but I have seen the Netflix series so in the spirit of that...
AO3 Link
Witcher AU
Ten years ago, the princess was abducted. Taken prisoner by the sorcerer Jabben who wed her by force and kept her bound by enchantment to his cursed stronghold at Mospera. That’s the story they tell, the story Boba was told when he was hired.
“Doesn’t look very cursed, does it?” Fenn Shysa is a bard who sometimes travels with him, spinning songs and tales at taverns to draw in crowds and pay for their lodging. Boba prefers to work alone but he can’t argue with results. Both his ability to find work and his ability to avoid suspicious crowds with pitchforks have increased since the bard joined him.
He can’t argue with Fenn’s assessment either. The village of Mospera is clearly prosperous, the town square is decorated with flowers and banners for a market day that is coming to an end as they arrive. The rich scent of stew is in the air as the people return to their homes for supper. A vendor approaches, proffering meat pies at a discount, and Fenn swiftly charms the directions to Jabben’s keep from him.
“I’ll just stay here and wait for you,” the bard informs Boba, still smiling at the vendor. He’s a handsome man and his cheeks are very rosy when he looks at Fenn.
Boba continues on alone. No one stops him until he reaches the gate. “My name is Boba of Fett. I’m here on business to see Master Jabben.”
The guards exchange a look. They escort him to an audience chamber, where he is presently greeted by a bald man in the dignified robes of an advisor. “Greetings to you, traveler. I am called Bibar and it would be my pleasure to assist you with your business here.”
“I must see Master Jabben.”
“It’s not possible, I’m afraid.”
“It’s about his wife.”
That provokes a response. Bibar stills and then clasps his hands. “One moment, please.” When he returns, he holds the door open. “This way. The lady will speak to you.”
He’s interrupting her dinner. A generous table has been set for Princess Leia of Nabu, who reclines comfortably on cushions with a goblet of wine in her hand. The portrait he was shown gave a good likeness of her beauty, making her easily identifiable even ten years later. Her long brown hair hangs to her waist, loosely bound with ribbons, and large dark eyes watch his entrance.
“So,” she says. “You have some business here which you will not reveal, and it must have something to do with me. Speak, sir.”
“May we speak in private, my lady?”
Her eyes shift to Bibar and she gives a slight nod. “Very well.”
The advisor leaves and Boba steps forward. “My name is Boba of Fett. I was sent here to kill Jabben and break his enchantment.”
“Ahhh. But you are not a sorcerer.” She speaks with confidence, her eyes assessing. “Surely they haven’t sent a witcher.”
“What can you tell me about the curse?”
She pauses to finish the wine in her cup, the gesture unhurried. “Can I offer you a drink? Some food?”
“Are you bound from discussing it?”
“No.” She sits up a little and refills her glass from a gilded pitcher. “There is no point in discussing it. It cannot be broken.”
“All curses can be broken.”
“This one can only be broken by one thing. My maidenhead.” In the silence that follows she sighs and motions to a bench. “Sit, Witcher. I will tell you the tale.”
He does, his hand on his sword hilt. It can only be a matter of time before his purpose here is discovered.
“Jabben was a more clever rapist than most. He cursed me to never leave this keep while I was still a virgin. He knew no one else would dare touch his wife, so he thought it would force me to offer myself up to him. Then one night he was eating crushfruits in bed and choked on a pit. He died with his wish unfulfilled.”
This was a twist he did not anticipate. “Jabben is dead.”
“Dead and buried for many years.”
“But the curse remains.”
“It troubles me very little. I have done my best to be a just and fair ruler in his stead, and the people of Mospera have rewarded me with their loyalty.”
Her lack of self-pity is admirable, but something about the story doesn’t quite seem right to Boba. “You could have broken the curse on your own after Jabben’s death.”
“The only people I see are my subordinates, and how could I ask such a thing of them?” She waves her goblet with too much abandon, wine sloshing over the rim.
“You could have had someone brought to you. Someone from outside of Mospera.”
“I’m afraid the number of volunteers to enter a cursed stronghold is a slim number, present company excluded.” Her eyes drop down to his feet and back up again before she sets down her goblet. “I have had a long day of reviewing accounts and now I have indulged too much with my dinner. Please help yourself if you are so inclined. Bibar will show you out when you are ready to leave.”
She stands abruptly and sways, her hands outstretched for balance. Boba is quickly at her side, steadying her with a hand on her arm. “Perhaps we could also offer you a bath for your trouble,” she says, looking up at him with a soft, teasing smile. “I would see to it myself but I think I must go to bed.”
“Do you need help getting to your chamber, my lady?”
Her full lips part. “If you would be so kind.” He sweeps her up into his arms, and she laughs as she settles her arms around her neck. “I’ve heard so many terrible things about witchers, and yet I find you to be very pleasant company, Boba.”
He doesn’t answer. He’s already retracing his steps, moving as swiftly as he can.
“This is not the way to my chambers.” Even in her inebriated state, she notices. “Where are you taking me?”
“I thought some fresh air might do you good.”
“What? No!” She kicks and struggles, but he has a good grip and will not relinquish it. “I cannot go outside you fool-”
As soon as they’re through the gate she falls silent. Boba sets her down, and she glares at him, plainly furious. “How dare you deceive me!”
“Deceit for deceit. You broke the curse long ago, why have you not returned home?”
“This is my home! But you had to keep sniffing like some starving dog-” She shoves him, which doesn’t have much of an impact. “If you try to make me go with you I swear to you I’ll scream loudly enough to bring every soldier in the barracks.”
She tries to push him again and Boba catches her arms, holding her in place. “You don’t want me to kill your soldiers.”
Her resolve crumples a little at that. “I will not go back to Nabu.”
“Tell me what happened. The truth.”
He releases her arms and she takes a step back, drawing in a shuddering breath. “Nabu has long been under the influence of the sorcerer Palpatine. He sought to use my brother and I as bargaining chips by wedding us to empires as cruel and brutish as he wants Nabu to be. When I saw how my brother was traded off like livestock I ran. And then Jabben found me.”
Her arms fold tight over her chest as she continues. “Everything I told you about the curse was the truth. Every night before he laid down beside me he would tell me that I would give up eventually. That I would beg him to have me. So one night, as he slept, I smothered him with a pillow.”
“By yourself?”
“It was not easy. He fought, but my determination was great and I knew what the consequences would be if I failed. When I was sure his breathing had stilled I cut up the crushfruit and used the handle of a fireplace poker to push the pit down into his throat.”
“Fuck.”
“Jabben was not well liked. The people accepted his death quite readily.” She spread her hands at the walls and buildings around them. “Here I may do as I please with my life and my body. And as long as the myth of the curse prevails, I am free.”
With a heavy sigh, Boba turns away from her, his feet bound for the village.
“Where are you going?”
“To tell my bard that he’d best start writing a new song if he wants to eat tomorrow.”
“Wait.” She hurries after him. “You will leave empty-handed?”
“I came here to kill a monster. You beat me to it.”
She catches his sleeve, forcing him to halt. “Remain here tonight. In the morning I will see you and your bard fed and provisioned.”
“Why would you have me stay here?”
Her hand slides up his arm. “There are no curses to be broken here, Witcher. And no monsters to slay. But I would still welcome the company of someone who is not my subordinate.”
“You’re drunk.”
“And you are in dire need of a bath.” She steps in closer, tilting her head back to look up at him. “By the time you are clean, I will likely be sober.”
#boba fett/princess leia#rebelbounty#witcher au#replete with one obligatory f bomb#dang it Boba makes a really good witcher#boba fett#leia organa#my fic#random au#Anonymous
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Good Omens recs
Here are some of my all time favourite stories, but be warned that my taste is rather specific and can get into darker themes. I especially like hurt/comfort focused on Aziraphale, but that’s not the only thing you’ll encounter in this list.
The Strong Tower by @aziraphalelookedwretched (M, 41,458)
After the failed executions, a vengeful angel takes it upon herself to neutralise the threat presented by Crowley and Aziraphale.
All stories by BuggreAlleThis are wonderful even if they get very dark in places. There (almost) always is comfort that’s more than worth the hurt and I love them all, but this one remains special to me as one of the first stories I read in this fandom and awaited every update eagerly.
White Walls and Dead Air by BabyHoldMyFlower (G; 3,382 words)
It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.
Beautifully written and bittersweet, with lovely wing grooming and insights into the characters.
A Demon Would A-Wooing Go by @shinyhappygoth (G; 301 words)
“Heigh ho,” said Anthony Crowley, and just drove anyway.—Good Omens
Filk of "A Frog He Would A-Wooing Go".
I just love a silly take on a silly folk song that was actually referenced in the book, okay?
Flaming Sword by Bookwormgal (T; 8,576 words)
A dark shape in the not-quite-empty darkness. Dressed in black robes. Humanoid. Skeletal. Then wings unfolded. Angel wings, but not ones of feathers. Wings of night. Wings that Aziraphale could sense more than see in this strange place. And even if the thin thread didn't truly exist except as a concept to better understand what was happening, one skeletal hand rested on the weakening connection. Waiting patiently.
Azrael. Creation's Shadow. The Angel of Death.
"Oh," he said quietly, his voice swallowed by the emptiness.
Aziraphale remembered what happened. He remembered moving. He remembered the blade sliding in, sharp and sudden. He remembered pain. And then…
"I died, didn't I?" he asked.
I like the exploration of the theme of self-sacrifice here. This is just my personal pick from several of my favourite stories from this author.
Courage by Anonymous (E, 21,595 words - WIP)
Ten years after the world didn’t end, Heaven and Hell want to punish Aziraphale and Crowley for their treason. Gabriel decides that the perfect way to punish both of them is to torture Aziraphale and force Crowley to watch; Hell agrees to the plan. Aziraphale and Crowley are kidnapped from their South Downs cottage and taken to a neutral location; Aziraphale is tortured and raped and Crowley is forced to watch; they are then returned home, Aziraphale critically injured.
This is the Prologue (the first three chapters; all of the violence is confined to chapter 2, which can be skipped).
The real story begins in chapter 4; it’s the story of how Aziraphale and Crowley recover from the trauma. They are both profoundly traumatized; it takes a long time, but they work through it together, and their marriage recovers. There will be a happy ending.
Aziraphale and Crowley heal each other.
This story is a WIP, but it already got to the part where things are getting better. It’s very (very!) heavy, but absolutely beautifully written, it’s giving me goosebumps.
Love Seeketh Not Itself to Please by die_traumerei (T, 14,645 words)
After Aziraphale is left gravely injured by a summoning, Crowley must take him to heaven and bargain with the angels for his life. It doesn't go as he'd expect.
A hurt/comfort story that’s focused on the comfort part, really satisfying to read!
Evolution by @lady-divine-writes (M; 1,455 words)
Five times Aziraphale wasn’t the most confident Dom, and the one time it finally clicked.
Again I’m only picking one story, but there are so many more from this author that I love! I bookmarked this one because I don’t usually see Aziraphale as Dom, but here he is fully in character and gets there through conscious effort, and it feels very empowering.
The Longest Night by @charlottemadison42 (series rated T-E, 34,747 words)
The night the Apocalypse doesn't happen, an angel and a demon share a bus bench on the way home to face their fates. This is the story of their evening spun out line by line, all the little moments that carried them through the night they knew might be their last.
A wonderfully written series giving a detailed account of the night before the trials, complete with drunken talk, with wonderful grasp of the characters. Again just a personal pick from the stories by a really great writer.
Who Needs Heaven (when we have each other)? by Kat_Rowe (series rated G-M (so far), 48,057 words so far)
Now that they're independent of Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale and Crowley become even closer. Friendship eventually turns to romance, and emotional intimacy to physical. (Slow-burn friends-to-lover fic series.)
A very gentle series starting with wing grooming and continuing through the exploration of a relationship in which one of the partners (Aziraphale) is asexual.
Fancy Patter on the Telephone by @hotcrosspigeon (G, 12,854 words)
A series of telephone conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley during the Lockdown.
They get steadily more desperate and ridiculous as the weeks go on.
Featuring a moping demon, a teasing angel, a pub quiz, an explosion, extraordinary amounts of alcohol, a bubble bath, awkward flirting, several love confessions... and an ill-conceived bet on who can last the longest without seeing the other.
What could possibly go wrong?
HotCrossPigeon is an amazing hurt/comfort writer who writes absolutely delightful Aziraphale ahurt/comfort from Crowley’s spot-on POV, so definitely check their other stories as well, but I just had to pick this one that’s actually humorous and doesn’t contain even a drop of blood because I couldn’t stop laughing with it.
Feathers by @29-pieces (series rated G; 23,247 words)
Pre-Apocalypse shenanigans. In this AU, when an angel and a demon fight, the victor customarily takes a feather from their opponent signifying victory over them. Usually followed by killing them, naturally. But sometimes the defeated angel or demon is left alive, minus a feather, so that everyone KNOWS.
Neither Crowley or Aziraphale ever took part in that sort of thing because it's really just a mean thing to do.
A series of three stories, two with hurt Aziraphale and one with hurt Crowley.
5 Times Aziraphale was Almost Discorporated and One Time He Actually was by @charliebrown1234 (series rated T-M; 29,011 words)
This series is an absolute match for my need of Aziraphale hurt/comfort, just like their more recent story Ex Infirmitas, Sinceritas. One of the authors I’m subscribe to and read everything they write.
The Whole Sky Fell by @thepaisleyelf (T, 9,692 words)
“Okay, Aziraphale, out with it,” Crowley said finally. “What’s wrong?”
Aziraphale blinked. He suddenly seemed very interested in looking anywhere that wasn’t at Crowley, fiddling with the napkin in his lap.
“I don’t -- I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
Aziraphale really was a terrible liar. Under other circumstances Crowley might have found it charming, cute even, but his concern had been growing ever since he’d picked Aziraphale up for breakfast that morning....
Same as above, Turcote just knows what I love to read. Definitely check their other stories as well!
Desperate Ground by @desperateground (M, 55,883 words)
After they prevented the apocalypse and escaped execution, Crowley and Aziraphale thought they were safe from the machinations of Heaven and Hell. But there are still some demons with scores to settle - and since the angel and demon have made it clear to the world how far they're willing to go for each other, Hell has plenty of leverage on them.
A breathtaking story with torture and unwavering loyalty of the characters to each other.
***
And if you find these recs to your taste, then you might also enjoy
Back to the Roots by me (M, 90,946 words)
"We always knew it would end. Like mortals know that they'll die." Crowley closes his eyes, finding the stare of his own reflection unbearable. "When you're immortal, you can afford to pretend and hide and go slow. And then, when you finally figure it all out, it turns out that what you have can end anytime. It's unfair..."
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The morale in Heaven and Hell is low after the failed Apocalypse. Punishing the traitors (effectively this time) seems like a good idea to raise it for both sides - the angels would see what awaits them if they dare to disobey and the demons could just use some fun. And then there is someone else as well - someone whose grudge is even more personal.
Also torture and unwavering loyalty, breaking the characters and then putting them together with great care. This is the darkest from my stories, so if torture is not your thing, you can check my other ones (mostly Aziraphale hurt/comfort too).
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duty to the kingdom || choi youngjae
→ summary: one of the things you hated the most was being looked down upon. unfortunately, as a princess, there were plenty of times where one of the royals would treat you as if you hadn’t a thought in that pretty head of yours. you absolutely despised it. imagine your outrage then, when the king picks your betrothed for you one fateful day. even if you rarely defy the king’s orders, this felt like a personal challenge to your independence and free choice. as you fight against your arranged marriage to prince youngjae, you eventually begin to wonder if your hardheadedness and anger are misplaced.
→ pairing: prince!youngjae x princess!reader
→ genre: arranged marriage au, lots of self-reflection and fluff
→ word count: 5.4k
→ warnings: n/a
→ a/n: proud to make my 100th post about youngjae. slightly late birthday fic, but i hope y’all will continue to give him the love he deserves!
✧✧✧✧✧
The royal court is nothing if not prone to gossip. Every day, you’re forced to be in attendance despite every fiber of your being aching to be in bed instead with a good book. Not only would it be far more interesting, but you also wouldn’t have to worry so much about sitting prim and proper in front of the kingdom’s gaggle of royals.
Appearances were everything here.
Sitting beside the king, you chance a glance at him as you give up on following the topic of the current conversation. It feels like it is only yesterday that your father had laughed and played with you in the castle’s rose garden, your mother smiling through the windows as she watched the two of you. But now, his hair is streaked with grey and his face aged with wrinkles. You couldn’t remember the last time you heard his booming laugh; a rarity ever since the queen passed.
“Y/N, there is an important matter I must speak to you about.”
Not expecting him to address you like this, you hurriedly bow your head in acceptance. A soft ‘yes father’ escapes your parted lips, hoping that it does not catch the attention of any court ladies in the vicinity. They were like a fish to water with rumors, so you learned your lesson at an early age not to ever trust them with important issues.
The remainder of the discussion ends on a rather promising note, as the king gathers a lot of promising intel on his supporters’ current situations and his neighboring kingdom’s allegiances. Enduring the mindless chatter of the royal court was most definitely a chore, but it is also essential in maintaining power. The one with the most knowledge will always be one step ahead.
You rise alongside your father, watching as the owners of estates across your kingdom bow in reverence. Even if they were doing this out of fear for your father, and not you, the action motivates you to wield the same authority someday. When you are this kingdom’s ruler, you will not tolerate anything less that what your father achieves.
Following the king out of the throne room, you dismiss a servant as she rushes to follow after you. As she leaves after giving you a deep bow, you begin to feel the tingle of anticipation against your spine. You rarely held private conversations with your father, given how busy he has been managing his duties. The crops did not grow as well as anticipated this year and there have been plenty of potential threats against the kingdom, so to say he had his plate full would be an understatement.
He leads you into his study, and you take some time to briefly examine the bookshelves surrounding the room. Each row is neatly organized based on subject matter, from battle tactics to formal letter writing. There used to be an entire bookcase dedicated to children’s stories when you were young, since you loved hearing your father read to you before bed. You wonder momentarily where those books are now.
Breaking out of your stupor, you notice the king standing with his back facing to you as he observes the palace grounds from the large windows behind his desk. Closing the door behind you with a soft locking sound, you walk forward to stand beside him. The soldiers are making their rounds, following neatly divided paths leading to various areas of the palace. Their march is methodical and focused, and the rhythm is hypnotizing.
“How have you been faring?” the king finally asks, regarding you with his usual gaze.
“Well enough. The tutor has been doing great. He says I am improving very fast,” you note, pulling your eyes away from the window to meet your father’s.
“That is good to hear,” he says before adding, “You will make a great queen.”
The king’s praise is hard to come by, especially as he has grown more demanding of you as time passes. With each year, he expects you to become more informed about your role as a member of the royal family and more mature about your decision-making for the kingdom’s future. You do your best to hide your satisfaction, but it is difficult.
“Thank you, father.”
He makes a noise of affirmation before looking out the window again. You cannot pinpoint exactly what he is observing, so perhaps he is simply seeing something in his mind’s eye. The sigh that follows worries you, wondering if the news he wanted to speak to you about was actually a bad one.
“With every great ruler, is a great partner,” he states simply, and from his melancholy tone you sensed his continued sadness regarding your mother’s early death.
Your heart sinking to the pit of your stomach, you fold your hands and nod.
“I’m sure you are aware of our talks with the closest kingdom to our North. Alongside our treaty agreements to share grain stores and defend each other in the case of invasion, we have also discussed formally uniting outside of a contract.”
The puzzle pieces were slowly snapping together in your head, and the dismay traps itself within your vocal cords. You are afraid to speak, afraid that if you voiced your concerns, it meant that your father had truly used you as a bargaining chip.
“Prince Youngjae will make a good king. I’m sure the two of you will bring about a second Golden Age for our people.”
When you finally say something, the deathly monotonous sound of your words sounds like that of a stranger’s. Amid your disappointment in your father, you have become a stranger to yourself.
“No. I object to this union,” you grit, nails biting into your palm as you struggle to maintain the little power you thought you had. Yelling and crying would just expose your weakness and lose what credibility you had.
“It is not a suggestion, Y/N,” if it were possible for the king to look even more weary than he did earlier, than it surely accurately describes his current state.
“Father you cannot seriously hand me over to a complete stranger. A man I do not know, do not love.”
His silence just angers you further, as you begin to feel increasingly alone. Not only will you never be able to confide in your mother again, but now you have lost your worth to your remaining parent. If he truly wanted what’s best for you, he would not have added you to a bargain like a prized cattle for sale.
“I have done nothing but obey you, your majesty. Do not confine me to a future of unhappiness,” you warn, hoping that your anger masks the fear and hurt you feel at this development.
Instead, the man you once affectionately called father simply barks, “It is a command. The marriage will be held a month from now. I suggest you correct your attitude before then.”
You allow yourself to let the first tear fall when he finally leaves the room, leaving nothing but a swish of his robes and the loud slam of large oak doors.
✧✧✧✧✧
“You’ll sooner see me die than marry that man.”
To your servant’s credit, she does not acknowledge your angry words. Instead, she continues to help you get dressed for the day. While you continue to criticize the king for doing this to you, yourself for being too weak to defend your autonomy, and eventually your betrothed for even daring to be involved, she finally speaks.
“Your highness, you do not know if Prince Youngjae deserves the way you speak of him.”
You hesitate, acknowledging that she did bring up a good point. Arranged marriages in and of themselves are horrendous affairs in your mind, the lack of free will causing you to complete turn your nose up on the idea. The prince could be a decent individual, but he could also be a gruff man with zero awareness of your feelings. If he is anything like the dukes your father entertains daily, you would sooner escape for a life of exile than stay as a sitting duck.
“Perhaps not. But Luce, I’m being commanded to marry a man I’ve never met. Is that not, in and of itself, an injustice?” you inquire, watching as she gets on her knees to smooth out the remaining wrinkles at the hem of your dress.
When she finally stands, dusting off her apron as she does so, she gives you a small curtsy before replying, “Pardon me for my honesty, but there are far worse things in life. Perhaps for a royal, the loss of the ability to choose and make decisions for oneself is a terrible punishment. However, I advise you give the boy a chance. It is in your best interest to make this work.”
“Luce, we’ve grown up together. You’ve been my personal servant since we were both 13. You know that I cannot allow decisions affecting my future to be made for me. I have spent hours studying, confined to books when others play outside on sunny days. Am I not allowed to think for myself for a change, instead of the kingdom?” you want your closest friend to agree with you, if only to reassure you that you had a right to be outraged.
“Born to two of the king’s servants, my purpose is to serve the royal family until I die. Born to Utopia’s king and queen, your purpose is to serve Utopia’s people until your last breath,” Luce finally gives you a small smile as she pins the last gold leaf into your hair, “You will do the right thing. I know it.”
Brushing the wetness appearing in your eyes, she chastises you softly for ruining the makeup she used to try and get rid of the puffiness from yesterday’s bout of crying. You swallow thickly, thanking her for preparing you for the morning before getting ready to meet the king’s entourage for breakfast. When the door to your room opens, Luce returns to her demure position a few feet away from you, looking everything like the perfectly submissive servant castle etiquette instructs her to be.
Breakfast is a sordid ordeal. Stirring your porridge with distaste, you nibble on the freshly baked bread from the kitchens and think about your meeting with Prince Youngjae in a few hours. You originally considered openly refusing to go or disappearing conveniently as soon as you spot his carriage entering the castle walls, but after Luce’s words this morning, you’re forced to reconsider.
Picking apart the remainder of your honey bun, you realize that, regardless of whether this man assigned to you turns out to be decent person or not, you harbored no romantic feelings for him. Marrying him would then become nothing but an obligation, and you would be nothing but a task he completes for the sake of his kingdom. You did not want to share your bed with a stranger for the rest of your years, nor bear his children for the sake of duty. When would your royal duty end and your free will begin? It all seemed terrible.
When breakfast is finally removed and you have no choice but to meet the royals of the neighboring kingdom your father discussed yesterday, you regret eating that pastry. Even though you’d only had a few bites, the anxiety was causing you to grow nauseous.
Maybe if you threw up on the prince’s shoes, he’d cancel the engagement.
Hiding your smile behind a gloved hand, you do your best to keep up with the strong amble of the king before you. Servants bow at the two of you as you pass through the corridor, only continuing their work when they are out of your sight. These people depended on you completely for shelter, safety, and purpose. Luce’s earlier warning rings through your ears, and the heaviness of the responsibility of your birthright feels more stifling today than any other day.
When you enter the throne room, you notice that it looks shinier than it had yesterday. Perhaps for the sake of good first impressions, it was subjected to a thorough cleaning the night before. Your father returns to his seat on the throne, and you allow yourself to imagine yourself on that seat in a few years’ time. Would the throne feel heady with limitless power or cold with loneliness?
The seat you typically had next to the throne has been removed today, so you simply stand next to your father with your hands crossed over your abdomen. As soon as you’ve adjusted your skirts, the guards open the doors and you do your best to maintain the neutral expression on your features—regardless of who steps in through the entrance.
As the trio approaches the throne, they incline their heads in greeting to the king. Acknowledging Elysia’s king and queen, you return their gaze with a deep bow of your own. Pausing for a few long seconds, you finally straighten to immediately regard their son who was standing only a few paces away.
The first thing you notice, albeit with some shame, is that he is very good-looking. His locks are slightly tousled in a stylish way, and are as dark as his eyes that are openly observing you as well. A small smile graces his lips, a lightly pink contrast to the fairness of his skin. Briefly wondering how a man could look so calmly attractive, you only break your unabashed stare when your king speaks.
“Welcome to Utopia. The princess and I hope the travel was without issue,” your father says, giving your future in-laws their due respect.
“Elysia and Utopia have always been close neighbors. Visiting is no trouble to us,” Elysia’s king replies, and even through your first impressions, he seemed to be a kind yet commanding individual.
“We are honored to finally meet Princess Y/N, she is as lovely as they say,” the queen adds, and the way she openly beams reminds you too much of your own mother.
Heart stinging, you whisper, “You are too kind, your highness.”
The remainder of the discussion revolves mainly around the adults in the room, as you begin to feel like a toddler waiting for your parents to stop talking to the other adults. Doing everything you could to avoid looking at Prince Youngjae again, you could feel him taking short peeks at you, and it makes you oddly nervous. You wonder what his first impression of you could be.
As if that mattered. Your ultimate goal was to prevent yourself from being saddled to him.
When the conversation finally ends, you only let the sigh of relief escape when the royal family exits to have a tour of the palace grounds. Your father chuckles at your response, standing to rest a hand on your shoulder before asking, “Was that really so frightening?”
“My duty is cementing our treaty with Elysia. I still do not consent to marriage,” you reply, looking your father in his eyes in direct challenge.
Instead of striking fear into the old man, he simply gives you an amused smile before exiting. You are left standing alone, left behind to consider your next step.
✧✧✧✧✧
Turns out, Prince Youngjae would be staying for the next month within the castle. You wondered whether Elysia was foolishly trusting or rightfully confident in simply leaving their heir in the hands of another kingdom’s rulers. As you head to your room to retire for the night, you hesitate in front of one of the best guestrooms you had to offer. The man you were to wed was inside, miles away from the home he grew up in. You wonder if he is afraid.
Settling in your favorite chair by the fire, the pages of your newest novel feeling crisp against your fingertips, you fail to notice how quickly the night moves. You reckon it is fairly late when you finally finish, setting the book on your table. You used to play chess with your mother on this table. It is well worn with age, but you couldn’t throw anything away that held essences of your time with her.
If she were here, she’d never let this happen.
Stretching out your limbs, you rub your weary eyes and wonder if the kitchen would have leftover slices of the pumpkin pie from dinner earlier. It was extremely well-made tonight, perhaps due to the need to impress, but you only confined yourself to a single slice.
Slipping on a warm shawl, you open your bedroom door slightly to examine the hallway. Empty except for the pale moonlight slipping in from the giant windows, you tiptoe against the marble floors. Even in the middle of the night, you need not see clearly to find your way. You grew up within these walls, each nook and cranny familiar in a way that you knew them like the back of your hand.
You are only a few steps from your heavenly dessert, the creaminess of this year’s pumpkin crop on the tip of your tongue, when someone’s voice stops you in your tracks. Ducking your head around the corner, you notice an unfamiliar figure sitting within a small alcove, looking up at the stars outside the vaulted glass windows.
Draped in shadows and moonlight, he sings a bittersweet song. Even though you didn’t recognize the words, you are transfixed on the intricate melodies that are holding you in place. The singer is talented for sure, given the ease of each delivered note and the sugar hanging on his clear tone. It is like nothing you have ever experienced.
When the tune ends, you’re left with a sense of unexplainable emptiness. You have half the mind to demand an encore when the figure turns his head to acknowledge you for the first time.
“Princess, what are you doing up so late?” Youngjae asks, surprise shining in his eyes as he scrambles to his feet and gives you a bow. His slightly clumsy movements are a bit endearing, as you press your shawl to your mouth to cover the smile underneath.
“Ah, you know…just having a walk,” you grimace, wondering if he’ll judge you if you were telling him you were trying to have a second helping of dessert.
“Interesting choice,” he grins.
You wave him off, hoping he understood that he didn’t need to be so formal with you. He seems to understand your insinuation immediately, because he returns to his spot in the alcove before waving you over. You hesitate, wondering if you wanted to be caught in such a compromising way.
Screw it, you needed to figure out where he learned to sing so damned well.
Tucking your skirts underneath you, you take a look at the beautifully round full moon hanging in the sky before regarding Elysia’s prince for the second time today. If it were possible for someone to look better up close, this man would be the prime candidate. His eyes are shining with stars and kindness, and in his casually neat shirt, he is the epitome of a princely figure.
“What were you singing earlier?” you ask, fiddling with a stray thread on your shawl.
He pauses for a moment, as if wondering whether he should tell you, before he answers, “An Elysian lullaby. My mother used to sing to me as a child. This one was my favorite.”
“It’s beautiful. I don’t speak Elysian but, you sing really well—better than any performer I’ve ever heard,” you admit, hoping you weren’t putting a dent in your plans by complimenting the prince.
His singing ability had to be acknowledged, so you’ll give yourself a pass for now.
He blushes, and the way he shyly laughs is adorable. Your next breath lodges in your lungs as you try your best to stop the sudden increase in heart rate you experience. Maybe you should’ve just gotten your pie and returned to your room.
“Thank you, princess. That’ll be a source of great encouragement for me,” he says, giving you another interesting look before he returns his gaze to the night outside. You wonder if he’s homesick, and you figure that he probably is. As much as you hated having to spend the next month surrounded by the reminder of your impending marriage to a stranger, he probably had his own share of trouble. He was trapped within a foreign land, with no allies to his name. Completely and utterly alone, perhaps the least you could do was make him comfortable. Even if you didn’t love him, that didn’t mean you couldn’t at least treat him respectfully.
“Have you ever performed?” you inquire suddenly, and the suggestion seems to catch him off guard.
“No, it’s unheard of for a royal to perform. That is usually reserved for the court jesters.”
You laugh, imaging the prince in a jester’s costume and telling jokes in front of the royal crowd. It was certainly a funny thought, but you were also slightly disappointed that Prince Youngjae’s singing might never be shared beyond his intimate family. It truly is a tragedy for the world, not to hear such talent.
“Do you want anything from the kitchen? In case you haven’t had enough at dinner, I’m sure there’s plenty of leftovers,” you hint, hoping that he agrees so you can have your planned pastry.
“I’m quite alright princess, thank you.”
You try not to let the disappointment appear on your face, and even though you’re typically very good at hiding your emotions, Youngjae seems to catch on immediately. When he hums in acknowledgement, you hide your face when he asks, “Did you want something princess?”
You shake your head adamantly, “I’m quite alright as well, prince.”
A grin quickly appears on his face, as he teases you further, “Are you sure? I do remember someone finishing their slice of pumpkin pie in less than 10 seconds. Perhaps we should call one of the scribes to commemorate such a prestigious record.”
“Maybe we should call the scribe to commemorate the nosiest royal to be alive this century!” you quip, quickly clapping a hand over your mouth when you realize how disrespectfully you’ve spoken to Prince Youngjae. As you wonder how quickly the man would squeal to his parents, and realizing you could’ve completely ruined Utopia-Elysia relations, the sound of loud hearty laughter saves you from your thoughts.
You had thought someone had caught the two of you, but you quickly realize that the laughter is coming from the prince himself. He holds his stomach in laughter, mouth wide open as his eyes momentarily disappear with each laugh. You watch, completely mesmerized, as pure amusement pours from the boy. He suddenly seemed so much younger, laughing like this.
Beginning to giggle yourself, you quickly pressed your hands to his mouth when you see candlelight flickering in the hallway. Pulling him upright, you dash off to the bedrooms as quickly as you could without making too much noise. You hated to find what rumors would develop if the two of you were found together this late in the evening. To his credit, the prince mirrors your speed and silence all the way to the guest bedroom.
Checking to ensure you weren’t followed, you whip your head back towards him. He’s still hiding his grin behind his hand, and doing a poor job at it, when you glare at him.
“Did you really need to laugh that loudly?” you hiss, but the boy simply looks like he’s about to start laughing again.
You sigh, unable to hide how funny the situation is to you, so you just giggle and dart off with a wave. Pumpkin pie forgotten, when you finally return to the safety of your room, you stay up to stare at your ceiling. Turning over in your sheets, you wonder-- when was the last time you felt that much excitement?
✧✧✧✧✧
The next time you see him, Prince Youngjae is taking a stroll through the palace gardens. Even though the blooms aren’t as spectacular as they are in spring, your mother had chosen equally beautiful flowers that blossomed during the winter. You catch him admiring the cheerful winter jasmines lining each row, framed by snowdrop flowers. Considering whether approaching him would be the right move, you once again throw caution to the wind when Youngjae catches you staring and gives you a small wave.
“Do you have a favorite?” you ask once you’ve walked close enough for him to hear you.
“Not really,” he replies, letting go of the fallen petal in his hand, “It’s enough for me to admire the beauty each one offers.”
“Well said,” you say with a grin.
“We didn’t get your dessert that night. My apologies, princess,” he jokes, and it strikes you then that the prince is a cute but mischievous sort. He appeared to love riling you up, but only as far as you would allow him.
“Not a great first impression,” you admit, letting yourself fully appreciate his laughter now that the two of you were in a more proper environment.
Finding a place to sit and talk further, you allow yourself to acknowledge the truth that you really did enjoy this man’s presence. Even though you were holding onto the notion that you needed to prove that you weren’t just an airheaded princess waiting to be married off, perhaps under different circumstances, Youngjae could’ve been your friend. After all, it wasn’t everyday that you met a royal who wasn’t stuck-up or entitled. It seemed that this prince genuinely appreciates everything life has to offer, and he isn’t afraid of having fun with what he finds.
“Call me Y/N. I think after the trouble we went through, it seems fitting enough,” you say, once the conversation takes a short lull.
“You’ll have to call me Youngjae then,” he adds, and you show your agreement by repeating the new title he offers you. He seems to like the way it sounds on your tongue, because his eyes are aglow with delight.
“Do you miss home?” you ask afterwards, curious to see how your new friend is faring.
“Definitely. No matter how many times I’ve left Elysia, I always miss it with the same fervor,” he admits, and you appreciate the way he opens up to you. It was almost as if he were unafraid of appearances in front of you, and his abrupt honesty was completely foreign to you.
“You leave often then?”
“A few instances. I’ve had to be involved in some skirmishes at our borders recently,” he sighs, and it appears that Youngjae is also not a big fan of warfare. You note that as well, realizing how much you were growing to admire each of the characteristics of this new prince.
“I suppose that’s why all of this is happening…making alliances to appear strong,” you briefly relent, acknowledging that as much as this union would hurt your pride, it had its use. It was not a frivolous decision for either part, which only made your choice that much more difficult to execute.
“If it’s to protect my people, it’s a sacrifice to make,” he agrees, “I apologize that you will not be marrying for love, Y/N, but I promise I’ll do my best to not make it torturous.”
He tacks on a joke at the end to ease the tension, but it doesn’t hide the fact that his words make your heart waver. Youngjae recognizes what you were giving up and he sympathizes with you. Unlike you, however, he was accepting his fate. Even though he doesn’t mention it, you know that he is giving up his free will as well by agreeing to marry you. He would also be closing the door of “what if?” because he cared for the citizens under his protection.
You think back to the servants who never fail to curtsy in your presence, the cooks who always let you have a taste of whatever’s cooking because they didn’t stand a chance to your puppy-dog eyes, and your closest friend Luce who always takes care of you without a complaint. You remember how her worn hands glide across your skin with the finest skincare in the land, just to ensure that your skin stays youthful at the expense of hers. Your heart pounds with pain.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe, as you struggle not to cry in front of Youngjae.
He grasps your wrist in confusion, worried eyes seeking yours when he says, “Did I say something wrong?”
You pat the back of his hand and try to smile amidst your guilt. Nodding slowly, you say, “I thought that I deserved to fight against this marriage because without my autonomy, I’d be nothing. But your words, you made me realize that perhaps there are greater things.”
He looks at you with the utmost care and sympathy when he replies, “Agreeing to this doesn’t make you weak, Y/N. You will be the strongest queen Utopia has known because you sacrifice for your people.”
When he hugs you in a much-needed, warm embrace, you don’t stop him.
✧✧✧✧✧
The month passes by in the blink of an eye, and before long, you’ve let Youngjae into your life more than you’d like to admit. The boy made you much more playful, as you began skipping some of your studying to join him in playing outside. He seemed like an energetic individual, always wearing a smile and excited to see you. You did your best to keep your distance, but ever since he opened up to you it almost felt natural to do the same.
The day of the wedding rolls around, and even as Luce and a few other servants help you get dressed for the special occasion; you can’t help but doubt whether you were making the right decision. Of course, there would be worse men to be in an arranged marriage with, but ultimately this was a choice that would stick by your side for the rest of your reign. You shouldn’t tread lightly.
“Luce…” you mumble as soon as the other girls leave to let her braid your hair in an elegant bun in peace.
“Today is a special day in your life your highness…your life and Prince Youngjae’s,” Luce begins, giving you her reassuring smile as she braids silver flowers into your braid.
“I know that, I know this is important for our kingdoms, and yet I feel afraid.”
“Fear is understandable. It’s important to fear because it will push you to act. You are not just making a decision for yourself, but for thousands of people,” she finishes with your locks before finally giving your shaking hands a squeeze, “You have never let us down.”
You give Luce a grateful hug, thankful for her comforting words. When you stand, admiring the long train behind you, the reality of everything begins hitting you all at once. You were marrying Youngjae, the man that recently makes your stomach burst with butterflies and your palms sweaty just from looking at him. You were crazy enough to think that you could eventually love him, and you hoped to the heavens that he considered you in the same way.
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I wouldn’t worry,” Luce muses before opening the door as your entourage stands at the ready outside. You would fire back at her to say that you weren’t worried at all, but the sight of the dozen knights standing in full armor to escort you to the grand ballroom is enough to dry your mouth completely.
You knew that the ballroom would be transformed for the wedding, but you didn’t expect the beauty dazzling from the high ceilings. Each corner had a fresh bouquet, the beautiful pastel roses making your eyes widen with wonder. The guests consisted of the royals whom previously paid you no heed, but now are openly observing you with interest. You knew that they now respect your new position, and you would soon have to play palace politics. The dread paled in comparison to the surprise that catches in your throat when you see the groom standing at the altar.
Youngjae is dressed in a standard princely attire, but the sparkling crown atop his head and the big grin on his face make all the difference. Seeing him standing ahead of you, waiting for you to be by his side, force you to reconcile with your feelings once again. You were falling for him, from the moment he sang you his favorite song and laughed without a care in the world, you were smitten. He not only acknowledged your fears but reassured you through them, and for that, he was more than deserving to rule alongside you.
“Ready?” he whispers after receiving your hand from your father.
With one look at his deep brown eyes swirling with affection, you announce proudly, “I’m ready.”
✧
#got7#got7 youngjae#got7 choi youngjae#choi youngjae#youngjae#fanfic#got7 fanfic#got7 fanfiction#got7 imagines#got7 reactions#got7 x reader#got7 x y/n#got7 x you#youngjae x reader#youngjae x y/n#youngjae x you#got7 one shot#got7 scenarios#got7 fluff#s2l#youngjae ff#youngjae au
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Where The Winds of Fortune Take Me: A Dragon Age Pirate AU
Welcome to another edition of @schoute And Pika Are Cullavellan and FenHawke Trash! You have Schoute entirely to thank for this; this AU is her beautiful brainchild ❤️ Posting in time for @dadrunkwriting Friday!
Brief synopsis: ‘Mad Piper’ Lavellan is the captain of the lovely pirate vessel, The Lady Luck. Varric is her ever-patient quartermaster and Fenris is the broody master-at-arms. Shenanigans ensue, and eventually Commander Cullen of the Kirkwall Navy joins her crew, along with Rynne Hawke, the highly-sought-after Belle of Kirkwall.
Basically, PIRATES ARE FUN AND WE DO WHAT WE WANT OK
Read here on AO3 if you prefer! ~6200 words.
**********************
- FENRIS -
Fenris sighed as he, Varric, and Piper stepped into the bustling market of Lowtown. “All right. Now that we’re here…” He raised an eyebrow at Piper. “Remind me again what we are doing here.”
Piper grinned up at him and jammed her tricorn hat onto her wild beaded hair. “The usual, of course: bargaining and booze! For me, at least. I keep hoping you’ll enjoy yourself eventually if I bring you here enough.” She strolled toward the mass of people who were milling around in the marketplace.
Varric chuckled as he and Fenris followed her toward the crowd. “Pretty high hopes there, Cap. I think our broody master-at-arms would enjoy himself more if he stayed on the Lady Luck.”
“An astute observation,” Fenris drawled. The marketplace in Lowtown was just so damned noisy. On a busy day like today, it was a seething throng of humans and elves and dwarves making every possible permutation of noise: patrons squabbling over the price of flour and fish, shady characters muttering as they exchanged illicit items under cover of the crowds, musicians playing with varying degrees of skill and melding together into a cacophonous catastrophe. The merchants were loudly hawking their wares, and the prostitutes were just as loudly hawking their bodies. And then there were the sailors from the Kirkwall navy who stared at the likes of Fenris with far more condescension than they should. Fenris’s skin might bear the distinctive marks of a slave, but as a member of Piper’s crew, he was far more free than any of those navy soldiers would ever be.
In sum, the market was a combination of nearly everything that Fenris disliked. He shot Piper a pointed look. “Is there any chance–”
“No,” Piper announced. She pointed imperiously at Fenris. “This is the best part of Kirkwall. I order you to find something to enjoy about this place.”
Fenris gave her a flat look. Despite her small stature, Piper could certainly be intimidating if she wanted to be, but Fenris had difficulty taking her seriously when a smirk was curling the corners of her scarred lips.
“I can’t,” he told her. “It is impossible.”
She gasped in mock dismay. “Mutiny!” she declared. She turned to Varric. “Take a note: Fenris tried to incite a mutiny in the market.”
Varric smirked and shook his head, and Fenris folded his arms. “It is hardly a mutiny if none of the crew are around,” he said.
She dropped her imperious stance and waved her hand dismissively. “Ah, you’re right. I forgive you. Come on, let’s go!” She punched Varric in the shoulder. “Back to the boat at sunset, yes?”
“You got it,” Varric said. “I’ll pay the usual guy before then.” He gave her a casual salute, then sauntered away.
Piper raised her eyebrows expectantly at Fenris, and he sighed and waved to the market in a resigned manner. “Lead on, Captain,” he said tiredly.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she said cheerfully, and she swaggered confidently into the crowd, with Fenris skulking at her back.
He glowered at the lively marketgoers and tried his best to avoid being jostled by the press of bodies. Piper, on the other hand, greeted and called out to merchants and criminals alike, and she gave a gold coin and a kiss on the cheek to every prostitute they passed. As they pushed their way through the market toward the Halla’s Head, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “We’ve been coming here once a month or so since you joined me. You really can’t think of anything you like about this place?”
“Not particularly, no,” he said.
She gave him an exasperated look, then opened her arms as expansively as she could given the bustling crowd. “Look around, Fen. This is one of the finest markets on the Waking Sea. The tasty smells, the pretty trinkets they’re selling... I bet you could find some kind of beauty in this place if you looked a little harder.”
He gave her a skeptical look, but her expression was stubborn, and Fenris sighed. He’d been sailing with Piper for long enough now that he knew this look on her face: she wouldn’t be budging until he at least tried to follow her suggestion.
He looked around wearily. He supposed the bougainvillea and wisteria crawling up the walls and across the roofs were attractive enough. But admiring the flowers was hardly a sufficient reason to leave the ship.
He glanced boredly around the market. Then, on the broad stairway that led away from the Lowtown docks and up to Hightown proper, he spotted something that caught his eye.
Or someone, rather: a beautiful and obviously high-born woman who was just as obviously out of place. She had two handmaidens and an armed attendant at her side, and her corseted and heavily petticoated dress was completely impractical. Her long dark hair was elaborately pinned and curled, and if she was in Hightown where she belonged, she would blend right in.
At the threshold of Lowtown, however, she stuck out like a sore thumb. Foolish, Fenris thought. If she set foot any further into the market, she would likely be robbed within minutes.
Fenris narrowed his eyes. Nobles, he thought, with a rush of dislike. They came to gape at places such as this, to get a sense of slumming without suffering any of the uglier consequences of being lower class. Then they returned to their clean and spacious homes full of servants and slaves and laughed amongst themselves about how the ‘other half’ lived…
But something about this particular woman was different. Her whiskey-coloured eyes were wide and wondering as they scanned the market, and her expression wasn’t smug or supercilious. It was… almost sad. Wistful, perhaps.
Fenris couldn’t imagine why. A woman like that had all the privilege the world could afford. She had no right to be sad.
Then her roaming gaze found his face.
The woman stared at him, and Fenris froze under the unexpected boldness of her stare. Her pale slender fingers rose to rub at the scarlet ribbon choker around her throat, and a surprisingly saucy smile lifted her lips.
Fenris swallowed down the buzzing in his chest, then tore his eyes away from hers and turned back to Piper, who was staring expectantly at him. “Well?” she said. “See anything you like?”
“No,” he said bluntly. He jerked his chin in the direction of the Halla’s Head. “Come. We should move on. The afternoon is growing late, and I can only imagine you must be thirsty.”
She grinned at him. “So full of good ideas, you are. Keep it up and the crew will be ousting me to make you the captain instead.” She skilfully pushed her way through the crowd and in the direction of her favourite elven tavern.
She boldly shoved open the doors to the Halla’s Head, and there was a brief silence at her bolshy entrance. Then a mixture of cheerful greetings and grumbled complaints filled the air as the clientele and bar staff alike recognized the notorious Mad Piper.
She waved her hands as though to calm them, then swaggered inside and straight to the bar. “Rum for me and my friend here,” she announced to the barkeep with a nod at Fenris, then strolled over to a nearby table and plopped down on the bench.
Fenris wrinkled his nose. “Sour ale, vomit, and the smell of desperation,” he groused.
Piper placed her hat on the table and shot him a chiding look. “Ah now, it’s not that bad. I can smell a hint of camaraderie, can’t you?”
He scoffed and glanced around the Halla’s Head with an air of indifference, but in truth, he was sussing out the threats. It was mostly other elves here today, which significantly decreased the chances of a fight — unfortunately for Piper.
Then his eyes landed on a table in the darkest back corner of the tavern: a pair of large human men who were muttering to each other and darting dirty looks in Piper’s direction.
Ah. She will be pleased, Fenris thought. He wandered toward her, then sat at a different table altogether.
She raised her eyebrows. “What are you doing over there? Do I smell?” She raised her arm and sniffed one of her armpits.
Fenris rested his elbows on the table. “No. I am simply being prudent.”
Piper scoffed. “What do you mean by that?”
He gave her a knowing look. “Do not play coy with me. I know exactly why we’re here and why you announced yourself in such a… grand fashion.”
She raised her eyebrows innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She smiled and winked as an elven serving girl approached with two tankards. “Keep ‘em coming, love,” she said, and she gave the girl three gold coins.
The serving girl’s eyes widened at the small fortune in her palm. She shoved it into the pocket of her apron, then beamed at Piper before giving Fenris his tankard and hurrying back to the bar for more.
Piper gulped down her first drink, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve and looked at Fenris. “What?” she said.
He smiled faintly and shook his head. “And you hassle me for giving away my shares of the coin we plunder.”
She raised an eyebrow at him and smirked. “At least I’m getting a little something in return for mine,” she reasoned. “Your whole emptying-my-purse-on-the-elven-urchins thing is great, but you could occasionally treat yourself to a little something nice.”
Fenris toyed idly with the string of the coin pouch that hung at his belt. “I have no need for it,” he said.
Piper shrugged. “Suit yourself. Maybe you’ll find something someday that you’ll want to spend a coin or two on.” She smiled as the serving girl came back with another tankard.
As promised, the serving girl kept the drinks coming, and Fenris watched with a weary sort of amusement as Piper became more garrulous than usual as her sobriety steadily ebbed away. Soon she was goading the other customers to sing shanties with her, and then she was dancing with the serving girl who seemed to have become her new best friend.
And that, as expected, was when the two hulking humans in the corner of the tavern rose from their table and lurched toward her.
“You there,” one of them grunted. He pointed a fat finger at Piper. “Wench. You skipped out on our game last time you was in town.”
Piper stopped dancing and faced him with wide eyes. “Who, me? Skip out on a game?” She blinked innocently, then abruptly dropped the harmless act and leaned casually against the bar. “You bet I did. You try to grope me during a game, the least you should lose is your coin.” She raised an eyebrow. “Care to know the most you should lose?”
The two men narrowed their eyes, and Fenris sipped his drink. He had his cutlass and his knives at hand if needed, but he knew exactly what Piper was hoping for, and his interference would only get in the way of that.
The second beefy human stepped toward her and penned her against the bar, then grabbed the front of her shirt and hauled her onto her tiptoes. “You think you can talk to us that way, yeh knife-eared bitch?”
“I do, in fact,” she said. Then she slammed her knee into his crotch.
There was a collective gasp around the tavern as the man bent over double with a breathless oomph, and Fenris took another sip from his tankard of rum. He watched as the other human took a swing at Piper, only for her to dodge under his arm and pummel his right flank with a swift series of punches that had him on his hands and knees in seconds.
There were a few screams and curses, and a number of clients ran out of the tavern, but Fenris ignored them. Good technique, he thought idly. He’d taught Piper that maneuver himself, and it was undeniably pleasing to see it used on a pair of foul humans such as these.
The two men were down on the ground, but Piper didn’t stop there. With no small effort, she rolled one man onto his back and struck him square in the nose with the heel of her hand.
Fenris nodded approvingly, then continued to watch as she pummeled the two men. One of them eventually pulled a knife from his belt, and Fenris momentarily tensed, but Piper dodged deftly from his clumsy swings and eventually managed to pin his dagger arm behind his back, then grabbed his greasy ponytail and slammed his face onto the straw-covered ground.
Fenris winced slightly. Then the doors of the tavern burst open, and three officers of the Kirkwall navy stepped inside.
Fenris hunched his shoulders in a falsely deferential manner. He would always be distinctive with his white hair and the white scars that marred his tawny skin, but body language did wonders for making him blend in with other elves. As always, it was effective; the navy officers’ keen gazes slid right past him as they scanned the bar for the source of the trouble.
The head officer’s gaze fell on Piper, and he sighed. “Mad Piper,” he said in resignation.
“That’s Captain Mad Piper to you,” she cheerfully corrected.
Fenris bit back a smirk. The officer, however, was unimpressed. He pulled a pair of shackles from his belt and gestured for her to stand. “You’re under arrest. Again.”
She snapped her fingers as she rose to her feet. “Oh curses,” she said happily. “I don’t want to be arrested at all. What a fucking shame.”
“Hmm,” the lead officer said suspiciously. “If that’s the case, I wonder why it happens with such regularity.”
“Bias,” she announced as she obediently allowed the officer to chain her hands. “Sexism. Racism. Call it what you will. But who am I to defy the law?”
The officer raised an eyebrow at her. “Defy the law? You’re a bloody pirate.”
She gasped in mock horror. “Why, Lieutenant Rylen, Such language! I should tell the dear Commander about your cursing. Then you’ll be in trouble.”
Rylen frowned as he pulled her toward the doors. “Not as much as you, I fear.”
“Ooh, I certainly hope not,” Piper purred. Right before Rylen marched her out the door, she tossed Fenris a surreptitious wink.
He shook his head in exasperation, and she grinned. A moment later, she and her unruly cloud of silver hair were gone.
Now that he was alone, Fenris smirked to himself, then slowly finished his drink as he watched the other two officers shackling Piper’s victims as well. He knew that Piper enjoyed the Lowtown market, what with all the people and the rich food and drink and the merchants and their merry wares.
But Fenris also knew the truth: there was one and only one real reason that Piper enjoyed coming to Kirkwall so regularly. And now that she’d been arrested for the umpteenth time, she would be seeing that reason very soon.
- CULLEN -
Cullen read the document on his desk with slightly heated cheeks. He idly tugged at his cuffs, then glanced up at Rylen with all the stern composure he could muster. “Mad Piper? Again?” he demanded.
Rylen bowed slightly. “Yes, Commander. She was assaulting a pair of–”
“I read the report, yes,” Cullen snapped. He rose to his feet. “Well, given what happened the last time she was in jail, I suppose I will have to supervise her myself.”
Rylen grimaced and unconsciously rubbed a spot on his forehead – the spot that had sported a bump for some time after Piper’s last arrest. “Y-yes. I… my apologies, Commander, it was a foolish mistake–”
Cullen sighed and waved him off. “Don’t apologize. She is unpredictable in the extreme. Now go on back to Lowtown and continue your patrols.”
Rylen saluted him sharply, then strode out of the navy headquarters. Cullen watched him go, then rose from his desk and smoothed a hand down the buttons of his coat before striding toward the door that led to the jail cells in the basement.
Just before he descended the stairs, he patted his pockets and belt to make sure he wasn’t carrying any keys, then finally began to make his way down the dark stone steps. As soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard the distinctive silken purr of her voice.
“Why, if it isn’t the Golden Boy himself. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Cullen looked over at the cell farthest from the stairs. In the dim and flickering light of the oil lamps that hung from the walls, he could just make out her small figure sitting on the pallet in the cell, but the ethereal silver colour of her hair was unmistakable.
She rose to her feet, then sashayed over to the door of the cell and casually draped her slender arms through the bars. Cullen rubbed his mouth to hide a smile, then lifted his chin and folded his arms. “You leave me little choice,” he said. “Lieutenant Rylen can no longer keep watch when you’re in our care.”
She blinked. “Why not? Should I be offended?”
Cullen gave her a knowing look. He didn’t believe her innocent look for a second. “You tricked Rylen by making a scene about an imaginary scorpion in your cell, and you think you should be the offended party?” he drawled.
“Ah, yes,” she said. She winked. “Apologize to him for me, won’t you? I honestly didn’t mean to hit him. I really didn’t think the door would swing open quite that quickly. These hinges are terribly rusty.” She experimentally rattled the bars of her cell door.
Cullen raised an eyebrow, then chuckled and shook his head. “Wanting to apologize to the navy officer that you terrorized the last time he arrested you? You are an odd pirate, Captain Lavellan.”
She batted her eyelashes at him. “Please, Cullen, no need to stand on ceremony. My friends get to call me Piper.”
Cullen forced his face into a frown. “We are not friends,” he informed her. “A Commander of the Kirkwall Navy cannot fraternize with criminals.”
“Oh, Cullen,” she said chidingly. “I think we’re more than friends. I think you quite enjoy the feeling of wrapping those strong hands of yours around my wrists before you chain me up.” She pressed her face closer to the small gap in the door of her cell and lowered her voice to an intimate purr. “We’ll have to try it without the bars between us someday.”
Cullen swallowed hard as a prickle of heat rippled down the back of his neck. She was smiling at him, smiling that troublemaker’s grin that she so frequently wore. But the nebulous light of the lamps set her eyes aglow, and those eyes… They held so much warmth. A genuine kind of warmth that Cullen would never have expected to see in a dastardly pirate’s face.
Cullen considered the little elf in front of him. She’d been sneaking into Kirkwall approximately once a month for almost a year now, and somehow she managed to find herself in jail every time, usually for disturbing the peace in one way or another. Often it was with a fight, like had happened today. Other times it was for stealing a purse full of coin from a Hightown citizen and throwing said coin into a crowd while announcing a ‘golden shower’. Foolish and pointless disturbances, to be sure, but nothing truly heinous – nothing like the pirates Cullen had met in the past.
As far as he knew, Piper wasn’t a vicious murderer or a rapist or a pillager of innocents. Her name had never come up in any reports of pirates who had attacked a naval vessel unprovoked. From what he’d heard and what she’d told him, she primarily raided slaver ships, other pirates, and the odd private vessel. She was hardly the kind of menace that Cullen abhorred; she simply seemed like a troublemaker and a nuisance.
But she is still a pirate, he reminded himself. Her actions were still illegal, and her activities still constituted theft. Piper was a criminal, and Cullen couldn’t fraternize with a criminal.
Not that he was actually considering fraternizing with her. Not by any means.
He rubbed his nose and tried hard to ignore the widening of her grin. Then she pulled her arms free from the bars and leaned casually against the door. “Well, while we’re here, why don’t I finish telling you that story I started the last time I visited?”
Cullen smiled faintly at her. “‘Visited’, you say. As though your being imprisoned was a choice.”
“No, of course not,” she said smoothly. Too smoothly.
Cullen narrowed his eyes slightly. What did that mean? She was trying to get locked up in prison on purpose?
She tilted her head. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?”
Cullen gazed at her for a moment, and she steadily returned his stare. Finally he sighed and leaned against the bare stone wall beside her cell. “All right. I would hear the rest of this story, if you’re offering.” He chanced a small smile. "You did leave it on quite the cliffhanger last time. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little curious."
Her smile broadened. “Excellent,” she said. “Now where was I? Oh yes, the mermaid. She gave me this bead…” She lifted a braided a lock of her silvery hair, which was adorned with a bright aquamarine glass bead. “... and she kissed me on the forehead. I’m not certain what that means among the merfolk, but for all I know, we could be engaged.”
Cullen shook his head. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered.
She chuckled. “Indeed! Now listen carefully, because this is where it gets odd. Three days later, we were sailing due west – complete opposite direction of the island where I spotted my mermish lady. But as the sun is starting to set, our pilot starts to panic. ‘There’s an island off the port bow that’s not on this blasted map,’ he says, so I leave Varric at the helm and I run over to look.” She widened her big elven eyes. “Sure enough, it’s the same island where I saw the mermaid, just three days past.”
Cullen raised his eyebrows skeptically. “And you’re certain that your pilot was not drunk or incompetent?”
Piper scoffed. “Dorian? Not a chance. He’s a lush when he’s off-duty, but when we’re on the ship, he’s the most fastidious navigator you’ll ever know. No, it was certainly the same island, even though we’d just as certainly been sailing straight in the opposite direction.”
Cullen harrumphed. “All right,” he said. “So what did you do?”
“I went to investigate, of course,” she said, as though it was completely obvious.
Cullen huffed in amusement and gave her a knowing little smile. “On your own, I suppose?”
She grinned. “See? You know me so well. How can you say we’re not friends?”
He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “Fine. You investigate this island on your own. And what do you find?”
“It’s the mermaid again,” Piper replied. “We spent the evening together – not like that, you pervert,” she snickered. “She did have a fish’s tail, after all. But when the dawn came, she kissed me on the forehead again, and she gave me this bead.” She lifted another braid – this one decorated with a bead of clear golden amber.
Cullen frowned curiously at her braid, then darted his eyes back to her face. “I had wondered whether those beads of yours had any significance,” he said. “What…?” He trailed off as her pretty face creased with a smile.
“Been thinking about these braids of mine, have you?” she purred.
He winced. That was a rather embarrassing thing to have admitted. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to change the subject. “What happened next?” he said bluntly.
She turned to face the bars once more. “We left the island. Sailed due south this time, a complete straight-line course – Dorian was absolutely sure of it. And can you guess what happened?”
Cullen raised his eyebrows. “You found yourselves at that same island.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Now if I’m being honest, I was a little annoyed by this time. If I wanted to go back to the same places over and over, I’d be a bloody landlubber. I just want to sail the open seas in peace and not always come back to this same island all the time, you know?”
“Hmm,” Cullen said noncommittally. Piper was obviously spinning a tall tale for his amusement, but the way she was telling it – the conviction in her tone and her expressively gesturing hands: it was all so convincing. If Cullen was some superstitious sailor, he would think she was telling the truth. But Cullen knew the truth: there was nothing magical about the sea, neither literally nor figuratively.
He tucked his hands into the pockets of his navy coat. No harm in having her finish the tale, however. “Did you confront this mermaid, then?” he asked.
“I did,” Piper replied. “Or I tried to, at least. When I told her how displeased I was to be stuck on her bloody island again, she just smiled at me. She kissed me once more, and gave me another bead.” She lifted a third braid, this one near her left temple. Sure enough, it was decorated by a bead made of brilliant green jade.
Cullen frowned. “But what do they all mean?”
Piper nodded. “I asked her that. ‘What worth do these have?’ I said. ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t throw them straight into the sea’.” She stepped closer to the door and lowered her voice. “Do you know what she said to me?”
Cullen studied her in silence for a moment. Her eyes were wide with wonder but also serious somehow, and Cullen found himself leaning forward slightly to hear her better.
“What?” he asked. “What did she say?”
Piper placed her delicate fingers on the bars of her jail cell door. “This is what she said. ‘The sun, the land, and the sea: I give you these beads three. As long as you sail, your heart will prevail: these beads are all you shall ever need.’”
He stared at Piper speechlessly. Had she come up with that little verse on her own? No, it didn’t seem like her. Piper wasn’t a poetry kind of woman. But if she hadn’t invented the poem…
He lifted his chin. “You’re making that up.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m not. I swear on the Lady Luck. That’s what the mermaid said to me, right before she slid back into the sea.”
Her face was utterly serious now, and a little shiver ran down Cullen’s spine. He nervously licked his lips, then leaned back against the wall. “Well. That was… entertaining, to say the least.”
A tiny smile lifted the corner of her lips. “You see what she really meant, don’t you?”
He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”
Her smile softened. “Freedom,” Piper said. “She meant being free. Sailing in the sunshine across all the lands that are sprinkled across the sea: that’s the life for me.” She sighed happily and leaned against the jail cell door. “That mermaid knew me well.”
Cullen studied her profile with an odd sort of squeezing feeling around his chest. The way Piper spoke of sailing and the sea, like it was the finest life she could imagine…
It was nothing like Cullen’s experience in the navy had been. As a young sailor, Cullen had always been shamefully prone to an odd sort of cabin panic thanks to the cramped quarters on the ships, and the other sailors had never let him forget it. As he’d risen through the ranks, his finest comrades had fallen during horrendous naval battles with pirates, and their screams of pain and their cries for mercy still rang in his ears at night. When Admiral Meredith had called on him to return to Kirkwall, Cullen couldn’t deny the relief he’d felt at the idea of keeping the peace in Kirkwall instead of on the seas. His landbound duties weren’t nearly as exciting as holding command on a ship, but protecting these people from pirates was a noble and necessary calling.
But Piper… She looked so happy when she spoke of the sea. With her wild beaded hair and her sun-kissed golden skin, she herself was almost like a siren made real. Her passion for the open seas was one of the reasons that Cullen found their once-monthly conversations so strangely compelling.
He folded his arms once more. “You aren’t free now, though. You’re stuck in jail.”
She shrugged and smiled. “I suppose I am right now, yes.”
He peered at her slightly suspiciously, then decided to disregard her mischievous tone for now. He tilted his head curiously. “You talk about not returning to the same places twice,” he said. “So why do you return to Kirkwall? Why do you come back month after month?”
Her smile widened. “Oh, Golden Boy,” she said softly. “You’re a sweet one, aren’t you?”
He frowned with growing bemusement. “I… I’m not sure what you mean.”
Just then, there was a clattering of footsteps on the stairs, and one of Cullen’s lieutenants appeared. “Commander!” he exclaimed. “There’s a disturbance at the main entrance – a fight over a crate of fine Antivan rum, it seems, but I’m not sure where it came from, and the citizens are practically in a riot–”
Cullen instantly straightened. “I’ll be right there,” he snapped, and the lieutenant saluted swiftly before running off.
Cullen sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “My apologies, Piper, I must attend to–” He stopped short, then frowned at her. “Wait a moment. Why am I apologizing to you? You’re a pirate. And a prisoner.”
She laughed. The sound was warm and bright and sultry, and Cullen felt his cheeks going embarrassingly warm as she looked him in the eye. “So very sweet,” she purred, then she waved him off. “Go deal with your duties, Commander. I’ll be here when you get back.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. Her tone was exceedingly casual, and he wasn’t entirely sure that he could trust it. But he was badly needed out front…
He gave her a stern look. “Stay out of trouble,” he warned her, and he hurried toward the stairs. As Cullen ran up the steps, he was followed by Piper’s laugh.
The bright, tantalizing siren call of her laugh.
- PIPER -
Piper watched as Cullen sprinted up the stairs, then sighed contentedly and plopped down on the lumpy pallet in her cell. It wouldn’t be long now, what with the disturbance happening upstairs.
Sure enough, it wasn’t more than two minutes later that Piper heard a soft whistle. She looked up to see Varric strolling into the jail and twirling a key in his fingers.
She grinned at him as he unlocked her cell. “A whole crate of Antivan rum? Whose idea was that?”
“Fenris’s,” Varric replied. “Don’t worry, only half of it was actually from Antiva. The other half was swill.” He shrugged. “Hence the riot.”
Piper chuckled as he pulled open the door to her cell. She rose to her feet, then snapped her fingers in remembrance. “Did you happen to notice if–”
“Yes, Fenris brought your hat from the Halla’s Head,” Varric said patiently. He patted her elbow. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before the head jailer realizes a certain key is missing from his belt.”
“Just one second,” Piper said. With the toe of her boot, she scrawled a rough shape into the grime that coated the ground in her cell.
Varric tilted his head and wrinkled his nose at what she’d drawn. “A heart? Really?”
Piper nodded sagely. “You’re right. It needs something.” She stepped back, the used her toe to trace one more shape into the middle of the heart.
Varric chuckled. “‘P’ is for Piper, I presume?”
“Not at all!” Piper said innocently. “‘P’ is for pirate, of course. The Commander needs a bit of an attitude change. I’m simply helping him out.”
“Uh-huh,” Varric said. “I’m sure that’s exactly how he’ll see it.” He placed the stolen key carefully in the middle of the heart so Cullen would know they’d returned it – as well as Piper’s method of escape. Piper then led Varric cautiously up the stairs.
The way was clear; most everyone was occupied by the cranky mob outside, and Piper and Varric snuck over to the nearest open window for a brisk escape. She slid out of the window and landed lightly on the balls of her feet, and she was followed a moment later by Varric’s louder thump of impact. Then they were running away from the navy headquarters as quickly and inconspicuously as they could.
Fenris was waiting for them at the mouth of Darktown. He gave her his usual unsmiling nod as she approached, then handed her her hat.
“Thanks,” she said brightly, and she plopped the hat on her head. Together, the three of them began the trek through the dregs of Darktown toward the decrepit docks where their little boat was moored.
Varric glanced up at her. “Cap, I have to ask. What’s your play here? Why do you keep letting the Commander arrest you?”
“Is it not obvious? She wants him,” Fenris said. “It is pathetic. And admirable.”
Piper looked at him in surprise. “Why, thank you, Fenris!” She turned to Varric. “See, Fen knows what I’m about.”
Varric opened his mouth to reply, but Fenris wasn’t finished. “Admirable insofar as the Commander seems… not a complete paragon of corruption within the navy ranks. Otherwise, this whole endeavour is a repeating cycle of idiocy.”
Piper wrinkled her nose at him, then shrugged. “You know what, I’ll still take that as a compliment.” She cocked her head thoughtfully. “Somehow.”
Varric frowned slightly as they stepped over a drunken pair of dwarves. “Seriously though, Piper, what are you hoping will happen here?” he asked. “We can keep coming back to Kirkwall if you want. It’s a decent place to resupply. But… I mean…” He grimaced. “He’s a scrupulous navy commander. You’re a pirate. What’s the point?”
Piper gave him an incredulous look. “Varric, what’s the point of anything? Enjoying ourselves! Living this wild sea dog life! And if it means resupplying in Kirkwall every now and then…” She shrugged again and jauntily hooked her thumbs into her belt. “Well, I just go where the winds of fortune take me.”
Fenris huffed. “Or your unsated libido, it seems.”
“Unsated for now,” she retorted with a roguish smirk.
Varric chuckled, but Fenris folded his arms. “It will never happen,” he said flatly. “Humans of their stature would never lower themselves to the likes of us.”
His sneering voice was thick with disdain – for the humans, Piper knew, but still she tilted her head in mock confusion. “‘Us’ as in elves, or pirates?”
“Take your pick,” Fenris said. “It is a pipe dream, Captain. You know that.”
“Ah, but what you call a pipe dream, I call a Piper dream,” she said slyly. She clapped him and Varric on their backs and pushed them toward the docks. “Now come on, boys, let’s get on with resupplying while that ruckus is still going on.” She pointed at Fenris. “Good job with that, by the way. Remind me to pay you back for the good rum.”
“I certainly will,” he drawled, and Piper smirked as she and her two faithful crewmen piled into the boat. While Fenris rowed them to Lowtown’s docks under cover of darkness, Piper thought dreamily about the handsome Commander Cullen.
Fenris wasn’t wrong. Her crush on Cullen was a fantasy, and it was unlikely at best and delusional at worst to think it would go beyond flirtation.
But Piper couldn’t help herself. There was something about Cullen that piqued her interest in more ways than one. With every soft splash of the oars, her smitten mind seemed to remind her how nice it was to talk to him: his handsome scars his innocent questions; his boyish and barely-concealed wonder when she told her stories, and the oddly jaded weight of his words when he denied their truth; his lovely frown and his even lovelier smile.
Cullen was a good man. Piper could see that clearly. But he’d been wounded too, and it was evident in more than just the scars on his face. She knew he’d fought with other pirates in the past, the type of pirate that Piper herself would put down in a heartbeat, and she knew he’d been deeply suspicious of her when they’d first met.
It only made her more determined to help him come round to the idea that not all pirates were bad. And if that meant cajoling him into the idea of – ahem – fraternizing with her in the process, well… she had always been a lucky girl, after all.
And nothing would be better than getting lucky with that precious Golden Boy.
#fenris#cullen rutherford#fenris fic#cullen fic#cullavellan#fenhawke#cullen x lavellan#cullen/lavellan#fenris/hawke#fenris x hawke#fenris/femHawke#fenris x femhawke#fenris/f!hawke#fenris x f!hawke#hawris#f!hawris#pirate AU#pikapeppa writes#schoute writes#fenrynne#piperford#Where The Winds of Fortune Take Me
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Foreword & Acknowledgements
On April 22nd 2017 I was fully introduced to a world alternate but similar to our own, captured in manga, and my life was changed for the better. An acquaintance from my life, whose relation I will not divulge and I made a bargain, and my end of the bargain was to read The Rose of Versailles. She warned me many a times that it was a girls shojo manga written in the 70’s, but I reminded her all I cared about was how good the story was, and didn’t consider a gendered piece of work to be an issue to whether I would enjoy the material or not.
In the end I got so more than a good story. What I got was a cast of memorable characters, a history lesson in a subject I’ve not studied too much into, challenges to gender roles, and a beautiful tragedy, the likes of which I’d never think could come out of 70’s era Japan. The intrigue, use of real characters to retell a historical event, the creation of the fictional characters that drive spikes through your heart, that of which I never really thought I had in the first place, was a hell of an experience.
After all that one thing led to another, and an acquaintance became a blossoming friendship, to the point where she shared fanfiction ideas with me and I helped create interesting what-if scenarios with her. Which spawned this fic here. While she enjoyed the idea of Rosalie being the Black Knight, she didn’t feel it would work in her work, but I held on to the idea and uttered the words, “Maybe I’ll work on that someday”.
After a few months she decided it was time for me to pony up, take pen (or keyboard rather) in hand, and work on my own idea if I wanted to see more of hers. Hence the creation of this. At the time of writing this foreword the project is still a Work in Progress, but rest assured I know where it’s going, I know how it’ll end, and this will be updated as I make changes.
So with that being said, and much more that I could say, but I’d be gushing at that point, I’ll conclude this by thanking Riyoko Ikeda for recreating the French Revolution, introducing the world to Oscar, Andre, Alain, and more, and reminding people just how much fun history can be, the importance of our history, and the humanizing of one of the most tragic rulers in France.
And to that friend. You know who you are, thanks for suffering through the words I write. Ya did this to me and I’m grateful.
Prologue
Trust is earned, respect is given, and loyalty is demonstrated. Betrayal of any one of those is to lose all three. –Ziad K. Abdelnour
“He’s stable, let him rest”, said the voice of a nurse, her work clothes stained reddish brown. She was addressing a petite girl probably no more than fifteen. The girl stared upon a young man in his twenties laying unconscious in a bed, his shoulder bandaged, the smells of concoctions used to clean a wound hung heavily in the air.
“I will. Just give me a few minutes” the girl responded hollowly, never taking her eyes away from the unconscious man. The nurse bowed, and slipped out of the small empty room, save for a bed and side table. In truth the girl didn’t sit staring at the man more past him, images of the last few hours running through her head. She felt the panic welling up in her once more, the fear of getting caught. Bang!
And the guilt. The guilt that gnawed at her chest refusing to give way.
How did this all happen? It was supposed to be easy.
“Rosalie!” Said an imposing female voice behind her. Rosalie didn’t address it, didn’t turn. She continued to stare off past the unconscious man. “Rosalie, would you come with me please?”
Rosalie sighed and turned around to see a tall, slender, intimidating, yet calm woman, though you wouldn’t know it unless she spoke first. She dressed in men’s clothes, but she wore them like a second skin, the garments of a royal guard, sworn to protect the Queen of France, and curly strawberry blond locks that she wore to the midsection of her back.
“Rosalie, the nurse says he’ll recover. Let him rest. I need to talk to you”.
Rosalie stood up, still silent, and followed the lady soldier out of the patient’s room. Through corridors they walked in silence.
“Lady Oscar, I’m sorry—“Rosalie began as they walked the halls.
“Silence, there will be time in a moment.” Oscar interrupted.
They arrived at a double door to an opulent room, Lady Oscar’s quarters. There was a small table and chairs sat in near the center of the room, a four-poster bed off in the corner, and a small collection of weapons hanging on the wall. There was a fire burning in the hearth near the table and chairs, and a cabinet just off to the side of the entrance. After Rosalie entered the room Oscar shut the doors behind them, and moved to the cabinet, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of wine.
Rosalie stood at the entrance to the room, still not saying a word.
“Are you going just going to stand there all evening then, let the moss grow, or do you want to take a seat?” Rosalie somberly shuffled to an empty chair at the small table.
“Will Andre be joining us?” Rosalie spoke in a quiet empty voice, referring to Oscar’s servant and bodyguard
“Ah, she does speak then!” Oscar responded, “No, I told him I wanted to speak with you alone.” Oscar came to the table offering a glass of wine to Rosalie, before taking the chair opposite her at the table.
“I see. Is this wise?” Rosalie asked.
“I don’t see the trouble. Of course he didn’t like the idea, but I can handle myself just fine I told him”, she said with confidence before taking a rather large sip of wine.
“I’d be worried too, if my master invited the most notorious criminal in France into her chamber.” Rosalie said, trying to sound menacing.
“Indeed?!” Oscar chuckled; the fact that Rosalie had such the audacity to say something like that seemed hilarious to her more than anything else. She then held her arms out to the sides, palms facing Rosalie, “Well if that’s the case, come at me with all you have. Clashing with the Black Knight one on one, should be quite the treat.” Oscar challenged sarcastically.
Rosalie winced at the remarks, wishing she’d never said anything, “What is the purpose of this meeting Lady Oscar?”
“Well let’s see now, I’ve got a gunshot wound victim in the guest quarters of my father’s estate, fear of some mysterious purloiner running rampant throughout Versailles, and said purloiner turns out to be a student of mine and worse, a trusted friend.” Oscar’s was very serious now, and getting louder. She noticed though, and resolved herself, “I just want to talk.”
“About me?”
“Yes, what drove you to become a criminal, how did you operate without my knowing? Just why did you become the Black Knight?”
Rosalie thought for a moment, “Where should I start?”
“Wherever seems reasonable”.
Rosalie thought some more, “Hmm, ok then, but the story is a bit long.”
“We have time”.
Rosalie took a sip of strawberry wine, the flavor dancing on her tongue. “Very well then. I will start in Paris, the day my mother died."
Chapter 1: In Which the Mean Streets of Paris are Utterly Rude to Rosalie, and She Meets Some Sarcastic, Smart-Alecky Sentinels
It was a day like any other. I had gone out to the market to buy what meager food my mother and I could afford. We were poor, and she was sick, so I had to provide for the family. I worked as a cobbler, and the funds I earned went to what little food we could afford and some medicine on a good day.
I was on my way back home, and I saw maman outside our ramshackle home sweeping the porch. It wasn’t much to look at, a cramped little thing in the busy streets of Paris. We did the best we could.
She looked at me warmly and started towards me. “Rosalie, could you do me a favor?” she came to me, asking hoarsely. As she came forward I noticed off to my left a horse drawn carriage rushing down the road, maman didn’t see it coming. I begged her to stop, but she did not…
It’s hard to describe what I saw, it was all a blur, I remember the horses cries, my mother screaming in agony, and the glimpse of a woman in the carriage, who seemed so unconcerned with the person she ran into, more in favor of saving face than anything else.
I heard my mother groaning on the ground, lying broken. I rushed to her, “Maman, hold still! Someone, please, anyone help!” I screamed around the road, people who observed the incident keeping their distance.
“Rosalie,” She rasped, her hand trembled up to my face, tears welling in her eyes. “Rosalie, I need to tell you something. Before…”
“Maman, don’t say that. We’ll find help, just hold on!” I cried, defiant.
“Rosalie, listen!” She croaked, “I’m not your mother.”
This of course hit me hard. Not my mother? How could that be? Of course I thought she might be delusional, “Maman, you’ve been a mother to me my whole life, of course—“
“Listen…” my mother coughed, spitting out blood, “You’re real mother was a woman by the name of Martine Gabrielle.”
“Maman”, I started.
“Rosalie, know I am, and always will be, proud of you”. She convulsed, the life leaving her eyes, “Never change”.
And that was it. I was, I don’t even know how to describe. Stunned I suppose. The family I’ve known my life was gone, now I had another mother, whom I never knew.
“Sad turn of events here isn’t it?” I heard a voice say trying to keep quiet, but failing. I was at my wits end and this lout seemed unaffected. How dare he?!
“Another day in this dump.” The other voice replied, louder, just as irksome. These guards had no sympathy, no remorse!
“Should we do something then?”
“Yea I suppose. Did you get a read on the carriage?”
“Nah, you?”
“Ya think I’d ask if I did ya lout?”
I couldn’t take it anymore, my face was awash with tears and anger. “ARE YOU TWO QUITE DON—oh”. Unfortunately I caught myself screaming at the members of the French guard. “My apologies I just, I don’t…” And I lost it, right there.
“Dammit”, the second guard groaned. “Hey now, it’s gonna be fine. What’s your name?”
I was beside myself, I couldn’t find myself responding to simple questions like my own name.
“Zut alors, alright then, grab the off duty boys then, we need to help here”. The second guard said, “Dismissed.” He barked, and the first guard ran off. He roped off the area and moved my mother away from the street. I held her as long as I could, I couldn’t believe she was gone.
The soldier sighed, “Tell me about her.”
“Excuse me?” I was surprised, the guard never really seemed to care about anything. Rumors around Paris were they tended to be drunken louts who only did their jobs for the free rations and beer, and harbored not one compassionate bone in their body.
“Your err, mother, what was she like?” The guard repeated himself.
Words didn’t come to me that easily at the moment. I would have loved to speak to her kindness, her generosity to myself and adopted sister, and all who knew her, even when she had nothing herself. I would spin a tale about how tough she was despite her illness, that she was a strong woman. But I was twelve at the time, and of course I lacked eloquence enough to say such things, “She did her best” was all I could think of.
The soldier grunted, “Sounds like she did a fine job with you. What’s your name?”
“Rosalie.”
“Rosalie eh? You’ve got a fine name there.” The soldier smiled at me. I noticed just how well decorated he was at that point, wore a fine if slightly well-used uniform, and kept his jet black hair unruly. He kept a mischievous, knowing, yet relaxed look about him. “Call me Alain; it’s a pleasure to meet you”. He said, extending his hand, which I shook.
His men returned with a wheelbarrow and began loading mother up.
“You’re not taking her away in THAT are you?” I protested.
Alain looked to the other soldiers who stopped what they were doing, awaiting orders. He looked to me, then them, and grunted. “Which of you louts brought a shovel?”
“The Hell are we using a shovel for?” One of the soldiers retorted.
“For digging you dolt!” Alain shouted back. “We’re gonna do this thing right dammit, now grab a shovel, and we’ll find a nice place for this girl’s mother to rest.” The guard seemed floored by the order, “Are ya deaf and dumb? MOVE!” Alain commanded, and the guard ran off in a huff.
After a while the guard returned, and we made for the outskirts of the town, and the guards took turns digging a hole for mother under an old tree. They grumbled like nobody’s business, complaining about their game night being ruined, the work they were doing, etc., before laying mother in the ground.
“You want to say something?” Alain prompted.
I sighed, I cried, but through tears and heartache I simply said, “I’ll miss you, and I’ll make you proud. Don’t worry. You’ll see.”
A Short Interlude
“The guards proceeded to lead me back to my home, or what was left of it. It didn’t really feel like much of one anymore without my mother though.” Rosalie said before finishing off her glass.
“More wine?” Oscar offered.
“Please.” Rosalie said. She hadn’t recalled that story in some time. The memory was raw, and she felt vulnerable speaking on it, but Lady Oscar had this calming presence to her that kept Rosalie from losing control of her emotions.
“I’m quite surprised by your account of the guards, though.” Oscar said as she poured fresh glasses.
“Why do you say that?” Rosalie asked.
As she returned with two fresh glasses Oscar replied. “I simply didn’t expect such, I don’t know, boorishness from a guard I suppose.”
“Lady Oscar mediocrity is all you can ever hope to achieve in Paris, and I pray the people find their ways out of that hellhole.” Rosalie responded.
“I see. Well continue on then. How did you come to thieving as your means to survive?” Oscar goaded Rosalie on while taking a sip of newly poured wine.
“It actually found me really”. Rosalie continued, doing the same.
Chapter 2: In Which Rosalie Discovers Taking Things That Aren’t Hers
The idea that there are thieves in Paris is like saying the sky is blue, thievery is brought about by all ages and class. Hell, those who would be considered “well off” stole, though it wasn’t common, and usually was restricted to their political or financial rivalries. The point is, everyone steals in Paris.
A few days after mother’s passing I was allocating funds to survive, selling the extra furniture and burning the blankets she used to prevent contracting whatever disease she had, on Alain’s recommendation. So I did just that, and soon my home was simply my bedroom, a small table, and a fire place. It was on my way to the market that I truly understood just how desperate people could be, all in the name of survival.
The streets were busy, as always, and I moved about finding my usual stalls that sold the cheapest food and drinks. Since I only needed to provide for me the small portions I would purchase would last me much longer, or so I thought.
“’Scuse me!” said a kid who ran past me, managing to bump into my sides before continuing on.
“Oh, ok,” I shouted after. I was still out of sorts, not really paying attention to anything, thoughts still on mother. I wandered towards the first of a few stalls and began asking for some stale bread. When I reached down for my coin pouch though, horror struck me to the core. It was gone! But I swore I brought it with me! Did I leave it at home? Did I drop it along the way?
The bread salesman was getting annoyed, “If you ain’t got the coin, get out of my face ‘fore I call the guard.”
“No sir I swear, I have the money, you know me, I’m good for it…” I stammered, but he’d have none of my pleas.
“If you don’t get out of my goddamned face right now…” But that was the last I’d hear of his threat. He and I never really knew each other, but at the very least you’d think after years of business he’d at least not treat me like trash? But this was Paris, where money talked louder than loyalties and friendships.
I searched all day long, retracing my steps back towards my home, when I thought of the order of events that day. I was stuck on the kid, but kept trying to keep my mind off it. Surely not…right? She didn’t seem old enough. Surely she didn’t understand what she was doing. Couldn’t be any older than maybe a toddler…right? Well sad to say it, but she was much older than I was giving her credit for, she knew exactly what she was doing, and did exactly what I didn’t want to ponder what she did. I returned home, my mind in a haze. I couldn’t believe my rotten luck. My mother, my almost nonexistent earnings. How would I put the roof over my head another month?!
I decided I would just have to work twice as hard to get what I needed to live another month.
Work came and went, and I returned to an empty home once more. I cooked up the last scraps of rations and ate as sparingly as I could. My thoughts were still on my need to survive, this work didn’t do it for me, and my pay was delayed again. I was at the end of my rope. That’s when I heard a tapping on the window. When I tossed the drapes I was staggered by what I saw, the kid from the other day. How did she know where I lived? I grabbed a nearby implement to defend myself in case of robbery, the mighty dinner fork of course, that could slay any foe made from leafy greens. I must have looked like a deranged fool. The girl on the other side of the window startled back before pointing to the front door, and booked it the other way afterwards.
This has to be a trap. She’s going to come around the other side, or she’s got a henchmen at the door to brain me with something, or there’s a trap on the other side of the door that will cause the structure to fall on top of me.
Or she just wants me to open the door to talk?
With that I slowly opened the door, making sure I kept an eye on whatever lurked on the other side. Imagine my surprise when I was suddenly accosted by…my money pouch, and a chunk of stale bread. My heart leaped out of my throat and I greedily grabbed my pouch and food. The purse was still full, and by full I mean I had enough for the bread that had been sitting with it. Whilst heart soared, reality plummeted my euphoria with a troubling thought. This bread was probably stolen too! Images ran through my mind’s eye, the kid stealing the bread, “offering to help” the bread vendor, “finding my coin purse”, running to the guards, telling them of my horrid misdeeds, only to place the blame on me for the nefarious scheme to get rid of me.
I get the feeling I was going a bit paranoid, needless to say, things happen to you when you’re poor and alone. That night I didn’t sleep, afraid of what might happen. The next morning I woke up only to have not had the guards break in to my home to arrest me, I had one loaf of stale bread going staler. Surely it couldn’t hurt to have some of the bread then, who would miss it honestly? That being said I still felt a profound wave of guilt. Should I bring it to the vendor? No, he’d think he’d know I did the crime and I’d get, I don’t even know what. Perhaps then, pay it forward as it were? Therefore I took half of it, ate a bit and stored the rest, and waited until nightfall to bring out the rest.
I didn’t bring a purse, no accoutrements that would show me as a valuable save for some leftover covering for the bread I had from another day. I hid the key to my house where only I could find it, and went on a walk. I avoided the market area, and looked about looking for children specifically. Hidden in an alleyway near my home I found a group of 4 kids huddled together sharing their gains from the day. Mostly coins from the looks of it, though one of the older kids seemed pleased with a top that he nicked from the market. Their eyes went wide as I approached, which prompted them to start packing up their things and run.
“No wait,” I whispered, whipping out the bread into the alleyway.
The kid with the top called to his gang to stop before addressing me. “What are you doing?” He tried to sound menacing.
“Doing you a favor. You all look hungry.” I replied, noticing the kids’ eyes going wide at the sight of food.
“We can handle ourselves thanks” the kid bit back. The other children seemed to disagree in look alone, as they went from hopeful to sad at his words.
“I insist. Please, you look like you haven’t eaten in days.” I persisted.
“What’s your angle lady?” the boy barked. “We can handle ourselves, we’re in this for ourselves, we don’t want you or your—“ one of the older looking girls punched him in the side, causing him to collapse.
“Ignore my brother” she huffed, cracking her knuckles and neck, before taking the bread. She eyeballed it up and down, sniffed it, then questioned me, “Nothing funny here right?”
“What do you mean?” I asked innocently.
“No drugs, you’re not looking to sell us someplace for work, no angles?” She spat with acid in her words.
“I swear, I couldn’t finish it myself, so I gave it to someone who needed it.” I held my hands out, “look, nothing to hide, just trying to help how I can.”
The girl chuckled. “Hmph, Paris needs more people like you girl.”
“Thank you—“ I started before she interrupted.
“That kinda behavior’ll get you killed before your time girl” the child growled, squinting at me. “These streets are nasty business, you wanna be a saint? Join a nunnery, be a slave the rest of your life. Wanna live free? Leave that ‘everything and everyone is amazing and great and beautiful’ outlook behind you. These streets here can be your best friend if you know how to use them, and if you don’t you’ll end with a knife in your gut for a meager penny, and no one will care.” As the girl spoke she drew a knife and pointed it right at me. I was too stunned to move, to scream. The urchin flipped the knife where the grip was facing me, “I’m sorry, here, for the bread.”
I gulped, reaching a timid hand out to the weapon.
“C’mon, I’m not gonna knife ya. I got everything that’s really valuable from ya anyway, what’s the point?” My hand stopped. “I’m just sizing ya up girl. Just go on and take the damn knife. For the bread.” With that the girl walked towards my shaking self, wrapping my hand around the knife hilt. It was cool to the touch, a simple black grip, with a small cruciform shape to it. The blade was no longer than 10 or so centimeters, fairly sharp, but the edge itself was slightly worn.
“If you need to cut any purses, that’ll help a bit. Better than undoing knots that’s for damn sure.” The girl explained.
“Thank you,” I said, holding the knife close to my chest.
“Don’t sweat it, though you might want to keep that thing hidden. The guard don’t take to kindly to urchins like us keeping weapons out like that.” The girl took a bit of cloth and helped me wrap up the knife.
With that, the girl helped her brother back to his feet, and they said their farewells, before I turned and walked away.
I decided to take a walk through the market, now quiet at about 11 pm. I stuck primarily to the shadows, keeping my knife close just in case. As I passed empty stalls that just hours before burst with product, customers and a flurry of coins, they now sat quiet as a church.
Curiosity is one thing with these places, what might be here and there, what secrets might these shops and stalls be hiding. Thievery is a different beast though. Thievery is seeing a small lockbox roughly the size of a book, kept hidden under a cloth, though enough is there to cause the palms to itch, the brow to sweat, and the heart to flutter. Thievery is that paranoia that all the world and buildings are watching you; the streets are judging you for what you’re thinking, and even God himself weeping at the idea. But it’s also a rush; it makes you wonder what if? And when you’re out of resources, especially when you’ve given away resources, the temptation is intoxicating. Thus I looked around at the sleeping degenerates on the street, acknowledged the lack of guards in the area, and walked slowly towards the box. I was close to the stall when something caught my eyes, a collection of clay pots suspended by a taut rope, which seemed to be connected to the box itself. The general idea was the owner wanted to make sure his box was safe, and if someone managed to find the box they’d wake the whole neighborhood, and alert guards and degenerates looking to turn in a thief for meals for a week. But for me, whose eye for detail in making shoes and sewing could figure out that holding the trap and lowering it gently would allow for a slow, but potentially rewarding endeavor. I judged the rope work, took my new knife, and started cutting the rope that suspended the pots at a point that would still give me enough slack without worrying about losing to the trap all together. Slowly but surely the trap was disarmed, and the lockbox was mine. Eh, and the cloth too. I loaded the haul and walked home, avoiding guards, people, and hell even the strange cloud formations for all I knew they were on to me.
I just stole for the first time ever.
And it felt great!
Chapter 3: In Which Rosalie Shares and People Get Annoyed (Oops).
I was elated! Ecstatic! Thought the floor was watching me! The ceiling was shaking its head in disgrace! I may have been a bit paranoid…
I had something that wasn’t mine, the butterflies in my stomach felt like they were about to burst from my stomach! I danced around my home like a crazy person, there was no music but I felt divine! I had the lockbox, and nothing would keep me down!
…I had a locked lockbox.
Well, it was a start? I spent a good hour or so trying to wriggle it open, pry the sides open, work every angle possible. The lock though I couldn’t crack. Yet.
So I, being the incredibly savvy brand new thief I was I knew I had a new assignment ahead of me. Maybe I could learn how to break a lock with a hair pin and metal bit like the perilous purloiners in the stories? Well, that kind of thing is complicated, especially for someone whose only been a thief for a day. So the next best thing of course would be to steal a tool to break open my new lockbox, something that could let me just break things open no problem. Well, there was a smithy nearby…?
So I hid the lockbox and waited a few days. But I had that itch every time I passed something in the streets that I couldn’t help but think, “That could break a small, book-ish lockbox in a swing or two”. As well, I couldn’t help but feel bad for the angry pottery maker I stole from, who was fuming the day after when I brushed past the market. He seemed to be talking to the guards who barely seemed to be paying him any mind.
I saw Alain in the gaggle of guards, which made me feel all kinds of awkward feels, amplified even more when I tried keeping my head down and he called my name out, and then his coming towards me to “check in” did nothing to help my guilt for the crime his retinue was supposed to be investigating.
“Rosalie, good to see you again”. He greeted me, half rubbing his head, half trying to be positive as possible. Probably hungover, it was the French guard.
“Pleasure Alain!” I said, though my tone was obviously nervous.
“Everything okay?” He toned.
He’s suspicious, he knows, I’m trapped, there’s no escape! I thought to myself. “Just a little out of sorts?” I was terrible at lying at the time.
“Hmm, alright then. Well, there was a robbery here, nothing new though. Just lock up at night I guess.” He changed the subject, he didn’t seem the wiser, and so I thanked him, and got out of the situation as fast as I could. I observed Alain return to his platoon through the busy throng of people, before they left the stall, whose owner seemed visibly frustrated by the lack of concern on the guard’s faces.
Nothing new here in Paris. Nothing to see nothing worth reporting.
I meandered around the market for a short time, not really finding anything that would help with my lockbox situation. Dejected I wandered home, taking a long route. I needed something that might help me open the box, anything at all. As I mused to myself I thought of the smith’s shop I was passing, and wandered in.
I took a quick perusal at the shop; it was warm in here, more than I was used to, and tools, horseshoes, and silverware lined racks and the walls. There was a tall gruff looking man working a forge in the back of the establishment, seeming to be hard at work. He didn’t even seem to notice me walk in; the door was open to let out the oppressive heat, and the clanging of metal.
I felt that familiar itch again, not in broad daylight though. Too risky.
“Excuse me!” I called out to him. He turned and lifted his face covering. He had a large nose, beady eyes, and a bushy brown soot covered beard. He looked mean enough, though he seemed nice.
“What can I do for ya?” He asked pleasantly enough.
“I’ve uh, I’ve got a door at home that’s stuck shut, and my err dad sent me to grab something to help get it open.” I said sheepishly.
“Out or inward?” He asked.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Does your door open outward or inward?” he explained.
“Oh uh, outward.” I responded.
“Hmm.” He grabbed a crowbar from his work station and let me eye it.
“I think this would work. I just—I mean, he needs it only a short time. Can I bring it back later?” I asked nervously.
“This ain’t a rental service girl. Ya want the bar or not?”. He answered back, tired.
“I haven’t the funds—“ I started but he interrupted.
“Look kid, I have to make a living here, I can’t just let good works waltz out the door. Bring me something of value and I’ll consider it.” He said. He wasn’t mean about it; he’s just a man doing his job.
“A trade perhaps?” I started, “I can fix and make shoes, do you have any I can fix for you?”
He raised an eyebrow, then returned, “Know what, if you can fix up my old boots, I’ll give you the crowbar.” With that he stepped away from his work station, and slipped into a pair of more comfortable looking shoes. The boots smelled awful, but a deals a deal I suppose.
“Can you get them to me tomorrow?” He asked.
“Yessir, but I need the bar. My uh, room is the door that’s stuck, and I need the bar to do my work.” I lied.
He stared at me long and hard through those beady eyes. “Bah, can’t say no to a face like yers. Fine. Tomorrow, no later.”
Excited I grabbed the crowbar and boots and thanked him, before walking out. Even if he didn’t know it, he was my accomplice now.
When I returned home I locked the door, pulled the box into the pantry where our food was kept, keeping the door open just a crack. I didn’t want anyone knowing or seeing what I was up to. I struggled to get the bar through the cracks in the box, but managed eventually. The metal resisted fiercely as I began trying to force the thing open. I made a lot of noise, and was worried about who was hearing the struggling, but I wanted nothing more than to crack this thing open. Eventually the metal gave around the lock, to the point of tearing off. Inside I greedily grabbed at the funds. 20 or so copper coins, and 53 ecu [Author’s note: This translates out to about 300 livres, the currency of the time, and 20 coppers were worth about 1/6th of 1 ecu].
I had to put down the box, there are no words for how I was feeling. When you’ve been poor your entire life such money like that was almost like a fortune. I felt guilty for what I did, but I did what I needed to survive. This would eat away at me unless I did something about it. I needed to take my mind off of this, so I closed the pantry door, and worked on the smith’s boots as promised. I worked as if possessed, my hands went through the motions, and I only thought briefly on whether or not the padding was there, but otherwise I thought about the money. I couldn’t keep it all, but I had needs too, like food. And a non-threadbare dress wouldn’t hurt either. I thought about the kids from earlier, and considered giving to them. Maybe the poorer souls with no roofs over their heads? Perhaps the church?
Sticking myself with the needle was my first reminder that I should be paying attention to what I was doing, patching a hole, re-working the soul, and working as I should be.
I returned the shoes the next day, the smith beside himself with joy. “My dear I couldn’t do better myself if I tried.” I offered to return the crowbar but he rejected the bar. A different idea cropped up in my mind though.
“Perhaps you could teach me how the inner workings of locks function? There was something weird with the door at home, maybe next time I won’t need to force it open?” I bargained.
“I might be able to do that. Come back tomorrow, and we can get started.”
I wouldn’t be seeing him tomorrow.
Having money when you’re poor your entire life was a weird feeling. Almost like being a noble at a farm, or a cockroach at a ball. The point is, I’ve never had anything in life more than a copper or two in my coin purse, so having silver caused me to constantly pat my pouch just to make sure it was there. I also had that feeling of being watched by everyone again, though no one paid me any mind. That’s just what they want you to think. I would think, but honestly no one cared. I made my way to a tailor shop where I bought new clothing, nothing ostentatious as bright colors or finery, just simple dresses that maintained their threads to their fullest, and a pair of shoes, which was ironic as I was a cobbler who didn’t own shoes. Then a shot to the market where I bought some cheap food.
After I returned home I waited until nightfall, where I gathered my ill-gotten gains, and walked around Paris once more, leaving coins near the places of sleeping children and homeless men and women. They would all wake up to find a mysterious benefactor leaving much and asking for little. While I didn’t like the idea of thievery, I relished the idea of helping those in need from those who had enough. It seemed noble enough.
I awoke to a commotion outside my home, and rushed out the door. There was a crowd of people gathering as some man was yelling out in the street, holding the wrist of a kid.
“You brat! You stole that money didn’t ya!” He barked. I recognized the kid, one of the people I visited last night. The man dressed in the finery of a nobleman, fancy clothes, a big gaudy hat, fine boots, and pistol hanging at his hip.
“You don’t understand! I didn’t steal nothing, I swear!” the kid screeched, struggling to get free.
“Then where’d that money come from huh?” The nobleman bit back, “Really convenient that some rat urchin like yourself comes by money like that, ‘specially after the potter’s stand gets robbed, you find yourself with quite the haul! Now where might all that come from, hmm?” Sarcasm dripped from his acidic tone.
“I don’t know, I swear! I woke up and there was money next to my head, so I kept it!” The boy cried.
“Whose you’re accomplice!” the man screamed, pulling out his firearm.
Everything was a blur, I remember the kid falling as the man released him, I drawing my knife, and I remember trying to grab the man, forcing him away from the boy. But he was stronger, he knocked the knife out of hand, pushing me into the mud, and I heard the sound of thunder cracking, a fire-y explosion from the muzzle, screams from the gathering crowd, and the thunder of hooves on pavement. The noble noticed the hooves as well, and rushed his way out of the crowd. Upon the horse was a soldier, though not like the others in Paris, the soldier was dressed in a uniform of bright red, well decorated, too. The soldier’s golden curls draped to the midback, sword shining in its scabbard at the belt, a glorious sight indeed, a paragon of her own really—
Erhrm!
A Shorter Interlude
“You realize Rosalie that flattery will get you nowhere”. Oscar said, fingers steepling, elbows resting on the table.
“Why Lady Oscar!” Rosalie feigned a gasp, “I thought you wanted me to be thorough, so I’m recounting every detail I found important.” She grinned.
Oscar cocked an eyebrow before receding back in her chair, deciding to play Rosalie’s little game here, “Very well, this gallant knight shows up, tell me more”…
Chapter 3 Part II: In Which a Gallant Knight Offers Rosalie a Ride to Versailles
Anyways, this gallant knight in shining reverie arrives on the scene, and she barks orders on high from her horse for everyone to calm down, while her dark and mysterious companion leaps from his own to survey the scene. He ran up to me as I was, still in shock, looking upon the dead boy.
“Hey, are you okay? Were you injured?” he knelt to me, waving his hands in front of my face.
I was distraught by the scene, the potential threat on my life, not to mention my mother only a week prior, I couldn’t bear anything. I grabbed on to his shoulders and lost it, as you remember.
“Er, Lady Oscar,” He said, unsure of how to respond. “Uh, there there. What happened here?”
I realized if I lost my composure any more than I already had I would divulge secrets that needn’t be shared, so I regained myself. “I’m sorry, that was improper” Wiping tears from my eyes and cleaning myself up I stood to thank the dashing soldier and her debonair attendant.
From there I asked about Lady Martine, and begged you take me to Versailles, where I had business to take care of. I had to learn more of this noble and my estranged mother, and you were the only one who would take me from Paris, and on to my destiny.
Another Interlude
“So of course you know of my journey here, you trained me in fencing, hand to hand combat, and those of your household taught me proper etiquette befitting of a lady in Versailles, however that was mostly a front. I had my fair share of trouble, but the mask hid me, and kept my affairs from tarnishing the good Jarjayes name.” Rosalie finished, reaching for her wine, but was already finished. Without a word Oscar grabbed the glass and her own, returning to the cabinet.
“Hmm, a noble thief with a heart of gold.” Oscar said dryly. “Not for nothing, but I’ve heard that kind of story in the tales, and only there.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to believe in mine own words, but I’d urge you ask around the surrounding areas to learn more. How money was spread to those who needed it, the fences in town who would assist in moving trinkets around and donating to the churches.” Rosalie returned. “I couldn’t stand idly by watching people suffer.”
“Even at the expense of yourself?” Oscar snapped back, “Didn’t that promise you made to your mother mean anything to you?” Oscar’s tone bit like a knife.
Rosalie recoiled at the words, “She told me never change. I’ve always aided those in need, before and after her passing. How dare you!”
Oscar was visibly shaking, but Rosalie could tell she was taking deep breaths, so she did the same.
“My apologies,” Oscar sighed, bringing back the glasses, handing one to Rosalie in a now familiar fashion.
“Lady Oscar with all due respects, you’ve never known struggle” Rosalie took the glass as Oscar sat down.
“Beg your pardon?” She asked surprised.
“You’ve never known hunger, whether the water you drank would poison you, or disease you. You’ve never had to survive on coppers.” Rosalie said, trying not to offend. “The streets are the homes of many people, people who are tired. There were rumors abound about the queen, people blame their strife on the monarchy! When I stole as the Knight, I was doing so for them, for the crown, and for you!”
Oscar was taken aback, “How could you say such things in regards to Her Majesty?”
“Because I know them to be true!” Rosalie replied, “I’ve seen it, I’ve heard it. People in taverns, the soldiers in the surrounding countryside, thousands are concerned for their well-being and the well-being of France. Day by day the people see their money buys less and less, while the queen spends extravagantly.”
Oscar remained silent; the words clearly set her mind racing.
“The people hear rumors, and they spread like a weed; when you pull the stem, the roots still remain, and it festers and grows.” Rosalie warned.
Oscar continued to sit in silence, she was clearly uncomfortable with this subject, and how couldn’t she be? The brigadier-general of the Royal Guard was hearing the sounds of displeasure in the people who were supposed to love the queen, yet if what Rosalie said was true…
“Enough of this, let’s change the subject! So we’re in Versailles, what did you do while under my care, before we found your mother? And after that, how did you steal while under your mothers’ nose?” Oscar drank her glass fully and rushed for more.
“Are you okay?” Rosalie asked timidly.
“I’M FINE” Oscar blurted back. Rosalie felt bad about the revelations of the people’s opinions, but they had to be heard.
“Very well. I’ll tell you about Bernard then—“ Rosalie started.
“The journalist from the pub?” Oscar said, her back to Rosalie still.
“The very same! He led me to the nobleman who killed the urchin from Paris, and my very first appearance as The Black Knight”
#rose of versailles#fanfic#alternate universe#berubara#how do i tag shit#rosalie#oscar#first fanfic#words words words
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Gift #22, @moonshoespotterr
You better put on your moon shoes for this one. This gift is out of this world! Happy Dralentine’s, @moonshoespotterr !
Our gifter says:
“Happy Dralentine's day! I hope you enjoy my gift to you, and I hope your day is absolutely lovely! xoxo”
Blind Wait - Two failed blind dates result in something much better. 3k.
Tags: no smut
10th February, 2004 — 8:00 p.m.
Narcissa Malfoy knew what was best for her son, even if he didn't believe it.
It was their most common argument: Draco, at the ripe old age of 23, was still single. Narcissa, at the tender age of 48, was of the belief she should be a grandmother in a few years’ time. Draco was homosexual, and had no interest in marrying and procreating with a woman. Narcissa accepted and loved her son, and would never view any children he adopted as anything other than family. Draco didn't know any other gay wizards. Narcissa didn't think it likely that he would meet any, since he left their home only to go to work. Back and forth, every few weeks they found they found themselves squabbling under a thin veneer of politeness. Holidays always found the argument coming up more often, and with Valentine's day fast approaching the two Malfoys found themselves losing patience with one another.
That Tuesday night found Draco reading the day's news in his favorite chair by the fire, a generous portion of wine in his free hand. Narcissa was out, presumably with her social club of other middle-aged rich women with a surplus of free time, and he was enjoying the moment of peace and quiet. He worked as an apprentice under Mr. Mullpepper, the apothecary who ran a shop in Diagon Alley, and his workday had been chaotic. The elderly potioneer couldn't quite handle the shop any longer, and relied on Draco to do most of the upkeep and customer service. Draco didn't usually mind; it was nice to not live under someone's constant supervision. Today, however, had seen a random influx of customers, and he hadn't had the opportunity to sit down, eat, or even think all day. He sighed and further settled into his chair, content to read all about whatever the airheads at the Prophet considered newsworthy.
As he turned to read the society pages (Celestina Warbeck had apparently just tied the knot with husband number eight) the fireplace flared bright green and his mother stepped daintily over the grate. Before he could look up at her, she planted a large kiss onto his forehead.
“Good evening, mother.” He folded his paper up and set it and his glass of wine aside. “Did you enjoy your day with the ladies?”
Narcissa beamed at her son. “Indeed. I have wonderful news. I've found him.”
Draco's eyebrows flew up. “You've found him? Who is ‘him’, exactly?”
“The second father of my future grandchildren,” Draco groaned even as she spoke. “He's a nephew of one of the ladies who join us for bridge. Tall, dark, handsome, terribly charming, wealthy, he's the total package dear!”
“Mother, must you meddle? I can find a partner on my own.”
“Oh? Have unsolicited suitors begun calling here? I hadn't realized.” She clapped her hands twice and a House-Elf appeared seconds later with a glass of port wine. She took the drink, and the elf disappeared with a bow. “Honestly, my dear, he's really a lovely young man. You must give him a chance. What harm could it be?”
Draco sighed and studied his mother carefully, weighing his options. If he simply agreed to meet this person, his mother would be delighted and he'd never hear the end of it. Worse still, if they didn't hit it off, she would take this as permission to continue to search for a match for him. On the other hand, if he flat-out refused, his mother would be annoyed and he'd never hear the end of it… and truthfully Draco really did not mind the notion of having a boyfriend. He found most people tiresome, and many still loathed his family for their part in the war, so all of his feeble attempts at dating had ended in disaster.
Plus, even he could admit his social life lately was non-existent. Almost all of his friends were married with children, and the few who weren't were either abroad or in prison.
He pinched the bridge of his nose before replying. “All right, mother, I'll make a bargain with you. I'll meet this gentleman of yours,” she gasped with delight but he soldiered on “however, I don't want to hear of this again until at least Christmas. Do we have a deal?”
Narcissa kissed him on the forehead again, spilling wine into the carpet in her excitement. “Oh, yes my darling! You'll see, you won't regret this! You have a blind date with him this Saturday at seven o’clock.”
He was immediately annoyed. “Mother! You went ahead and made plans for me behind my back?”
“I was confident that you'd agree.” She replied smugly, sipping her wine.
He sighed again. Tricks like these were commonplace with his mother, so being cross over them wasn't useful. “All right then, what's his name?”
“If I told you, it wouldn't be a blind date, would it?”
“But he knows my name!”
“Yes, that's about the sum of it. He'll be wearing a red hat.” She scrutinized his face and laughed. “Oh, don't pout, sweetheart. It'll be fun!”
14th February, 2004 — 6:45 p.m.
Narcissa had given Draco the address of a very posh bistro in London. It was in a muggle neighborhood but, judging by the way the muggles looked right past it, it appeared to be wizard-owned. The Siren's Song, the black sign read in simple white lettering. Inside the walls were white bricks and the decor was black, clean, and minimal. There were twenty or so small tables, each with a single red rose as a centerpiece. Nearly all of the tables were occupied by couples. Draco scanned the room for anyone wearing a red hat. While he did not see anyone fitting that description, (not a problem, he had arrived early after all) he did notice Harry Potter sitting by himself at the end of the bar.
A hostess made her way over to him, but he waved her off, making his way to the bar as well. Potter’s eyes met his, and they nodded to one another. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Potter recently. Potter came by the Apothecary regularly for potion ingredients. He often made sure to stop and make small talk with Draco whenever he stopped in; he asked about his mother, chatted about the news of the day, brought up what restaurants had opened up nearby and whether they were any good, things like that. In fact, he had seen Potter exactly twenty days prior, and knew that he'd most likely be in any day now for more supplies.
He didn't care to examine why he was so keenly aware of how often he saw the other man.
He ordered himself a drink and adjusted in his seat, so that he would see the man in the red hat when he came in. After fifteen minutes, the ice in his drink had melted and he assumed his date was running late. After twenty five minutes, he had finished his drink and began to grow annoyed. After thirty minutes, he was reaching into his robes for his coin purse to pay for his drink so he could leave and stew in his embarrassment at home when a warm hand suddenly lay on his shoulder.
“Could I get two gigglewaters please?” Potter had come over beside him and was smiling at the barkeep. He looked down at Draco. “I think I've just been stood up, would you mind terribly keeping me company until your date arrives? It's less embarrassing this way.”
Draco sensed that Potter was perhaps not speaking only for himself, but he didn't comment on it. He merely nodded and turned his back to door. If the man with the red hat came in now, he'd find Draco getting chummy with Harry Goddamn Potter, and then wouldn't he be embarrassed!
The barkeep returned with the drinks, and Potter slid one over to him. He took it and toasted the other man before downing it in one gulp. Though he still felt annoyed and embarrassed, his face immediately split into a grin. He was privately thankful then that he wasn't a muggle, and therefore didn't burst into laughter. A few more would – of course – get him to that point, but he didn't want to look like a lightweight. Potter nodded to the barkeep and their glasses immediately refilled. Wanting to keep his composure, Draco took one delicate sip and set the glass aside. He turned again to face Potter, resting his arm on the bar.
“So what brings the famous Harry Potter to a place like this, tonight of all nights?” he asked. “Back at Hogwarts, I thought for certain you'd be married to Ginny Weasley by now.”
Potter chuckled. “Honestly, back at Hogwarts I thought the same thing. Luckily, I worked out that I'd rather shag blokes before it ever got to that. I imagine a divorce is a lot messier than splitting with a girlfriend.” He laughed again at the look of surprise on Draco's face. “I know, I know. Hermione was apparently unsurprised, but she was the only one. I've been more or less ‘out’ for a few years now. As for why I'm here… same reason as you, I suppose. I was supposed to meet some fellow a friend knows. That'll teach me for trusting the judgement of a work friend.” His smile was sheepish now.
“Where is it you're working nowadays anyway? I heard you left the Auror corps a few years ago.”
“Keeping tabs, were you?”
“Old habits die hard.”
“Fair enough!” Draco wondered if Potter’s eyes were always so green. “I'm actually teaching, at a primary school for young witches and wizards before Hogwarts. It's a lot of fun, the kids are amazing to work with.”
“I can see you enjoying that. You did that Defense Against the Dark Arts club back at school, didn't you? Your pupils were pretty amazing back then, I can only imagine how much better you are now.” What was he saying? Why was he blathering out compliments like an idiot?
Potter grinned and looked down, his face blushing attractively. ‘... Oh, that's why.’ It hadn't escaped Draco's notice that Potter was handsome, it was just that he only saw him at the Apothecary and was always too busy with his work to actually spend time looking at him. Apparently five uninterrupted minutes of looking at his face was enough to turn Draco into a simpering fool. He shook his head before continuing.
“So is that what’s bringing you into the apothecary so much? Teaching?”
“You’d noticed? I hadn’t realized.” His face had become redder still, though Draco couldn’t imagine why. “Er, yeah. I need to keep my first aid potions stocked, and it’s cheaper to just brew them myself. Children have an incredible talent for injuring themselves, it turns out.”
“I can imagine. My mother keeps reminding me that she wants grandchildren soon, but honestly I don’t know if I could ever properly care for a child.” Draco admitted.
Potter inched closer to him. “Do you ever see yourself having kids? Down the road?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. It would depend greatly on whether I’d found a steady partner or not, and when. I think I’d like having a family, but I don’t want to be raising children by myself and I don’t really want to be too old to keep up with them.”
“I can’t really imagine you having a hard time keeping up with anyone.” Potter’s tone was sincere, and Draco’s chest gave an odd little lurch at the peculiar compliment. “I’ve always wanted a family. I think that’s what I found appealing about Ginny, in the end. Her family is… well, you know. Huge. I’m very lucky to be so close to them, but I’d love a family of my own. For now I’ve got my students and my godson, Teddy.”
“That’s my cousin’s son, right? Nymphadora’s son?” Draco asked. “How is he?”
Potter nodded. “Fantastic. He’s the best of both his parents. He’s nearly six now. Your mother spoils him rotten. Now I see how you became such a brat at school.” he laughed, winking.
Draco gasped in mock offense. “I was nothing of the sort! I’ll have you know, Potter, I was the most delightful child in the history of the world.”
Potter laughed again, draining the last of his drink. “Of course. How silly of me to forget. And, er, you can call me Harry, you know,” his tone was suddenly serious, almost nervous. “If you want to, I mean.”
“Harry.” Draco tried the name out, rather enjoying how it felt on his tongue. He, too, finished his drink, “In that case, I insist you call me Draco.”
“Well, Draco, if you insist.” Harry winked at him again and Draco decided that he must have not eaten enough at dinner, because his face felt warm and it must have been because of the alcohol. It must have. “Say, Draco, when was your date supposed to arrive?”
“Hm? Oh, seven o’clock.” Draco replied absently, still concerned over the warmth in his cheeks.
“I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news… but it’s nearly eight now.” So it was. He had spent nearly forty-five minutes talking to Harry and it had flown by. “Did you want to continue to wait? Because I bought an obscenely expensive bottle of wine to impress my date, and I won’t appreciate it at all. It would be terrible to let it go to waste.”
Was Harry Potter asking him to go home with him? Draco was too surprised to respond for a moment.
“Er, sorry. That probably sounds really weird.” Harry’s face had gone red again. “I swear I’m not going to, you know, take advantage of you or—”
“No, no, I’d like that. The wine, I mean.” Draco attempted a reassuring smile. “Tonight would have been a humiliating disaster for both of us had you not stepped in, the least I can do is drink your expensive wine.”
Harry barked out a laugh that seemed to partially deflate him, like he had sighed with relief. Draco found that he rather enjoyed getting Harry to laugh. “You are the very soul of charity, Draco Malfoy.” he paid for the drinks, and stood to leave. “Do you mind walking? My home’s not far from here, and it’s a lovely night.”
“Walking sounds nice.”
While they walked back to Harry’s place, they talked more about small things — their hobbies, their friends, things like that. Harry walked closely beside him, accidentally brushing against him often, and Draco’s entire focus would zero in on the places their arms and shoulders touched each time it happened. This made him absolutely useless at conversation, but Harry either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. Draco really wasn’t sure which he’d prefer to be the case. It wasn't long before they stopped on another muggle-occupied street. Harry began walking right between two houses, then paused when Draco did not immediately follow.
“This is it,” he said, gesturing to his apparent destination.
“Po— Harry, I can tell when a house is under a Fidelius charm.” Draco rolled his eyes. “You're walking right into a wall, as far as I can see.”
“Oh. Er, right, sorry. I forget about it all the time, so many people are Secret Keepers now… er, it's 12 Grimmauld Place.”
And just like that, Harry's home appeared. It was noticeably older than the houses on either side of it, and in a considerable state of disrepair. “This was Sirius Black’s home, wasn't it?” Harry nodded. “What happened?”
“The war,” was Harry's simple reply, as if that explained everything. For the time being, it did. “Don't worry, it's much nicer inside.”
And it was. Inside the walls were freshly painted and, aside from the ornate light fixtures, a few portraits, and the odd heirloom or two, one might never know the home once belonged to an old pureblood family. Harry led him to a comfortably furnished sitting room.
“Wait right here, I'll grab the wine.” He seemed oddly jumpy all of a sudden, but Draco could empathize. It had been a long time since he had last been in another man's home. Even if the evening didn't lead to romance or sex, the experience was novel.
Once Harry left the room, Draco took the moment of solitude as a chance to investigate his surroundings. In the corner of the room was a glass terrarium, where a small, pale yellow snake was coiled on a little log. The walls were covered in photographs, both magic and muggle. Featured in these photos were, of course, Weasley and Granger, other members of the Weasley family, Lovegood, Longbottom, and several others whose faces he remembered from school. Most prominently featured was a small boy who seemed to be a metamorphmagus. While his hair color changed from one photo to the next, the Black family features were unmistakeable on his face – it had to be Harry's godson. Draco happened upon a small strip of four black and white muggle-style photographs. They depicted Harry and the little boy pulling silly faces at the camera in the first three photos before dissolving into giggles in the last one. Draco couldn't help but smile at the love evident on Harry's face.
“Those are from Teddy's fifth birthday.” Draco nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Harry's voice. “I took him to an arcade downtown. He's obsessed with all things muggle.”
Draco turned to see his host pouring two glasses of sparkling white wine. “Have you met Daffodil yet? She's Teddy's snake.” He gestured to the terrarium in the corner. As if she understood him, the snake lifted her head up, her forked tongue flicking with interest. Harry hissed something at the animal, and she rested her head back onto her coils.
“What did you say to her?” Draco asked curiously.
“Truth be told, I'm not a parselmouth anymore. Not since… well, you know.” Harry smiled at him. “I just try to hiss from the heart. I think she understands.” He handed a glass to Draco and raised his own, his smile turning thoughtful. “To… new connections.”
Draco raised an eyebrow but raised his glass in turn, clinking it against Harry's. The wine was cool and sweet, but did nothing to help the heat rising once more in his face. Harry topped off both of their glasses before sitting in a plush loveseat. He gestured for Draco to sit beside him.
“So Draco, what poor sorry sod passed up your date tonight?” he asked, settling back in his seat and looking him over appraisingly.
“So you could tell I'd been stood up after all, eh?” Draco asked ruefully.
“I'm something of an expert on you being cross, so… yeah.” He laughed. “You looked positively livid at the bar.”
“I may have been… slightly disappointed. Mother tried her hand at matchmaking. She's been trying to see me matched for a while now. I had a boyfriend for a little while right after Hogwarts, but it didn't work out so she's in a panic. She and father were already married when they were my age, so apparently since I'm still single I'm going to die alone. At least that's what you'd think if you heard her go on about it.”
“It sounds like you didn't want to go out at all.”
“As I said, I had a short relationship after Hogwarts… and nothing else since. I wasn't necessarily against meeting someone, it's just… I suppose I'm not really a fan of letting mother know when she's right. I was a bit reluctant.”
“And now? Do you regret going out?”
“Honestly? Things sort of worked out perfectly. You're proving to be good company, which I'm perfectly willing to admit I'm lacking, and Mother was wrong about her mystery match.” He drained the rest of his drink, which Harry immediately refilled. “Best of both worlds.”
“I'll be honest with you,” Harry scooted closer to him. “I'm actually very glad your date didn't show up.”
It was a crime Harry had spent so much money on the wine, because Draco was suddenly gulping it down in his nervousness and couldn't taste it at all.
When Draco didn't respond, Harry continued. “I mean, when you walked into that restaurant tonight, dressed to kill…” he let out a long breath. “I was not looking forward to seeing someone else sweep you off your feet.”
“What about your date?” Draco hated that he couldn't manage to get his voice above a whisper.
“I was just about to leave when you walked in. I don't know why I stayed. I'm glad I did.” He seemed to catch himself. “I'm… I'm so sorry, that was incredibly forward of me. It's just… I don't actually need that many first aid potions. At work, I mean. I just had no idea how else to see you. I didn't even know if you were gay, but then I heard your mother talking to her sister about you so I started coming by more often, but I couldn't pluck up the nerve to ask you out. Then I tried to see someone else and then you showed up and… yeah.” he finished lamely, looking down at his lap.
This was footing Draco was more accustomed to. At least now he knew that whatever was blossoming in his mind wasn't going to be thrown back in his face. Emboldened by the security afforded to him by Harry's admission, he set his glass aside, gently lifted Harry's face by the chin, and kissed him.
The kiss began as chaste, but quickly escalated. It had been a long time since Draco had received any proper kisses, and the small moans of happiness coming from Harry hit him like air to a drowning man. He wrapped his arms around him, carding a hand through messy black hair, and was rewarded with the feel of warm, wide hands on the small of his back. They remained like that for a while, acquainting themselves with each other physically, before Harry broke the kiss.
“I want to ask you to come up to my room.”
“I would very much like that.”
“I want you to agree to go on an actual date with me first.”
“I would very much like that also.”
Harry's grin was wide as he took Draco's hand and led him upstairs.
14th February, 2004 — 9:00 p.m.
Two wine glasses clinked against one another in triumph. Upstairs, Teddy Lupin slept peacefully.
“So what was your story?” Andromeda asked.
“Some cock-and-bull about a nephew of a friend, yours?” Narcissa replied.
“I had a girl he works with 'set him up’ with an imaginary fellow.” she smirked. “You're certain Draco's interested as well?”
“He talked of nothing but Harry Potter for years, and even now he makes a point to gush about every single time Potter turns up at his work. I'd be willing to bet anything he's with him right now, and he doesn't come home until tomorrow.”
“It'll be nice to have Harry in the family properly.” Andromeda sighed happily.
“It'll be nice to see Draco with someone who really loves him.”
Narcissa Malfoy knew what was best for her son, even if he didn't believe it.
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