3 Sept - PG - Caesar
Title: Caesar
Author: Alyx Bradford
House: Slytherin
Date/Challenge: 3 Sept / ambition, idly vain
Character/Pairing: the Founders
Genre/Warnings (as applicable): gen
Rating: PG
By candlelight, four students sat around a heavy wooden table, staring - or, in the case of the dark-headed girl, squinting - at parchments, still hard at study though the hour had grown quite late. Though the sun had long ago set and dimmed the room, their master had not dismissed them from work, and they were well-trained enough not to stop before being told.
“He’s forgotten us again,” complained the broadest and tallest of their number, a Saxon youth of some nineteen years named Godric. He had stood to stretch and begun pacing in front of the fire, his worn patience showing with the quickness of his stride.
“Most likely,” replied the dark girl, the Celtic-blooded Rowena. She did not seem entirely put out by this fact, but rather resigned, and somewhat expectant. “He usually does.”
“Especially when he has guests,” added Helga, the beautiful Welsh blonde. “I’m sure they’re very important people.”
“They’re always very important people,” Godric said, sounding slightly irritable about it. “Obviously worth abandoning us for.”
The fourth member of their party, Salazar, a wiry dark-haired man a year older than Godric, raised his head from his parchment. “Stop having a fit, Godric,” he said, rolling his eyes, “and sit down and get back to work.”
With a slight huff, Godric dropped his muscular frame back into his seat next to Rowena. Across from her, Helga’s eyes lifted, and the two women exchanged a look of significance. Godric was much more suited to their more active pastimes, to dueling and training the winged horses, than to these studies. Dipping her quill back into the communal inkpot, Helga adopted the carefully sweet tone she always did when trying to make peace between the two men who were such good friends and yet somehow so often at odds. “What are you working on tonight, Godric?” she asked. Helga had figured Godric out years earlier; the best way to soothe his temper was to make much of him, as one would a small child.
Godric tossed his head, flinging his curls back from his face. “Caesar,” he replied. “The British campaigns.”
Rowena wrinkled her nose. “I never cared for Caesar,” she said, in her dark but somehow sweet voice. “At least not when he had it in his head to declare war on our people.”
“Well, it’s a good war story,” Godric said, as Helga shot Rowena a look. That had not been the angle she had been hoping to approach from.
Somewhat unexpectedly, it was Salazar saving the situation. “I admire Caesar,” he said quietly. “A good sense of when to move, that man had. A master with the people.”
“Right up until his best friend stabbed him,” Rowena snorted. Both men looked askance at her. “Well!” she declared. “Deny that’s what happened.”
“That isn’t the point,” Salazar retorted. “The man changed Rome.” He looked up, and the candle caught his ocean-dark eyes, setting a bit of a spark there in the fathoms. “He accomplished what no one before him had. He won the will of the people by courting them, by knowing what would move them...”
“He won his own personal armies,” Godric picked up, expression growing excited. “Legions of men, loyal to him and-“
“Him alone,” Salazar finished. It should’ve been surprising, that two men so extremely different could find such common ground that they finished each others’ sentences, but Rowena and Helga had grown quite used to it by now. “He could do anything with those men at his back…”
“Alia iacta est!” Godric declared, leaping up from his seat again. He nearly upset Rowena’s chair in the process, and her grey eyes went terribly wide as she teetered, until he caught the back of the seat and set her right. “Err, sorry, Ro...”
“Crossing the Rubicon, invading Rome... the world at his command...”
Rowena, restored to balance, gave Salazar a slightly discomfited look. She could hear in Godric’s voice his usual passion, the slight bloodlust that gently coloured his character, and she somehow expected it of him. It fit well, and she credited in no small part his Saxon blood; everyone knew they were a crude, warlike people. But Salazar - in his smooth and cool voice, in the glint in his eyes - she sensed something somehow more frightening. He understood in a way Godric did not seem to. Godric saw wars and glory; Salazar saw methods and strategies, saw the way to coax men’s hearts without them realising he’d won. It worried Rowena, somehow, this obsession with power and progress that lurked in Salazar’s heart, ready to spring out when she least expected it.
She glanced over at Helga, hoping for some indication that her friend noticed what she did, what broiled latent under Salazar’s surface. But Helga’s attention was still on making sure the boys wouldn’t quarrel. Her blue eyes followed Godric’s movements across the room as he mock-battled hoards of raging Gauls, reciting from his translation.
Rowena looked back to Salazar, who was not watching Godric, but looking past him in contemplation. Now it was the light of the fire in the hearth that reflected in his eyes, not of the candle, and for some reason, it made Rowena shiver.
Author: Alyx Bradford
House: Slytherin
Date/Challenge: 3 Sept / ambition, idly vain
Character/Pairing: the Founders
Genre/Warnings (as applicable): gen
Rating: PG
By candlelight, four students sat around a heavy wooden table, staring - or, in the case of the dark-headed girl, squinting - at parchments, still hard at study though the hour had grown quite late. Though the sun had long ago set and dimmed the room, their master had not dismissed them from work, and they were well-trained enough not to stop before being told.
“He’s forgotten us again,” complained the broadest and tallest of their number, a Saxon youth of some nineteen years named Godric. He had stood to stretch and begun pacing in front of the fire, his worn patience showing with the quickness of his stride.
“Most likely,” replied the dark girl, the Celtic-blooded Rowena. She did not seem entirely put out by this fact, but rather resigned, and somewhat expectant. “He usually does.”
“Especially when he has guests,” added Helga, the beautiful Welsh blonde. “I’m sure they’re very important people.”
“They’re always very important people,” Godric said, sounding slightly irritable about it. “Obviously worth abandoning us for.”
The fourth member of their party, Salazar, a wiry dark-haired man a year older than Godric, raised his head from his parchment. “Stop having a fit, Godric,” he said, rolling his eyes, “and sit down and get back to work.”
With a slight huff, Godric dropped his muscular frame back into his seat next to Rowena. Across from her, Helga’s eyes lifted, and the two women exchanged a look of significance. Godric was much more suited to their more active pastimes, to dueling and training the winged horses, than to these studies. Dipping her quill back into the communal inkpot, Helga adopted the carefully sweet tone she always did when trying to make peace between the two men who were such good friends and yet somehow so often at odds. “What are you working on tonight, Godric?” she asked. Helga had figured Godric out years earlier; the best way to soothe his temper was to make much of him, as one would a small child.
Godric tossed his head, flinging his curls back from his face. “Caesar,” he replied. “The British campaigns.”
Rowena wrinkled her nose. “I never cared for Caesar,” she said, in her dark but somehow sweet voice. “At least not when he had it in his head to declare war on our people.”
“Well, it’s a good war story,” Godric said, as Helga shot Rowena a look. That had not been the angle she had been hoping to approach from.
Somewhat unexpectedly, it was Salazar saving the situation. “I admire Caesar,” he said quietly. “A good sense of when to move, that man had. A master with the people.”
“Right up until his best friend stabbed him,” Rowena snorted. Both men looked askance at her. “Well!” she declared. “Deny that’s what happened.”
“That isn’t the point,” Salazar retorted. “The man changed Rome.” He looked up, and the candle caught his ocean-dark eyes, setting a bit of a spark there in the fathoms. “He accomplished what no one before him had. He won the will of the people by courting them, by knowing what would move them...”
“He won his own personal armies,” Godric picked up, expression growing excited. “Legions of men, loyal to him and-“
“Him alone,” Salazar finished. It should’ve been surprising, that two men so extremely different could find such common ground that they finished each others’ sentences, but Rowena and Helga had grown quite used to it by now. “He could do anything with those men at his back…”
“Alia iacta est!” Godric declared, leaping up from his seat again. He nearly upset Rowena’s chair in the process, and her grey eyes went terribly wide as she teetered, until he caught the back of the seat and set her right. “Err, sorry, Ro...”
“Crossing the Rubicon, invading Rome... the world at his command...”
Rowena, restored to balance, gave Salazar a slightly discomfited look. She could hear in Godric’s voice his usual passion, the slight bloodlust that gently coloured his character, and she somehow expected it of him. It fit well, and she credited in no small part his Saxon blood; everyone knew they were a crude, warlike people. But Salazar - in his smooth and cool voice, in the glint in his eyes - she sensed something somehow more frightening. He understood in a way Godric did not seem to. Godric saw wars and glory; Salazar saw methods and strategies, saw the way to coax men’s hearts without them realising he’d won. It worried Rowena, somehow, this obsession with power and progress that lurked in Salazar’s heart, ready to spring out when she least expected it.
She glanced over at Helga, hoping for some indication that her friend noticed what she did, what broiled latent under Salazar’s surface. But Helga’s attention was still on making sure the boys wouldn’t quarrel. Her blue eyes followed Godric’s movements across the room as he mock-battled hoards of raging Gauls, reciting from his translation.
Rowena looked back to Salazar, who was not watching Godric, but looking past him in contemplation. Now it was the light of the fire in the hearth that reflected in his eyes, not of the candle, and for some reason, it made Rowena shiver.