Love Stories - Prompts 1-5
Title: Love Stories, Prompts 1-5
Author: ninedaysaqueen
Betas: openedlocket
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of The Thief, The Queen of Attolia, The King of Attolia, A Conspiracy of Kings, nor of any characters, locations, and elephants contained within. All rights of the Queen's Thief series belong exclusively to Megan Whalen Turner and her respective publishers.
Spoilers: Books 1-4
Rating: PG/K+
Genre: Romance/Drama/Humor/Angst/Fluff
Word Count: 3,000
Summary: Five ships, five songs, five requests, and what comes of it! Dedicated to all the romances of the QT world. - They don't have dances like this in Sounis.
Author's Notes: Written for styromgalleries, openedlocket, tiegirl, and bookishbabe.
All but two of prompts 6-10 have been written. The remaining prompts will be completed and published shortly. I've split this collection into two parts largely because of size. I apologize profusely for the wait! I would love to hear from everyone on their prompts!
Enjoy!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#1: Song for a Young Queen by Chris Thile - styromgalleries (Magus/Helen)
It reminds him of harvest--the motion of the dancers feet. How their steps follow the paths between the fields of hay, only for the ladies skirts to twirl across the open court and trim the stalks for the autumn yield.
They don't have dances like this in Sounis.
The magus sighs and twirls his goblet in his fingers, wondering why he stands on the edges of festivities that only bring unhappy thoughts and regrets. He glances at the throne. The queen of Eddis appears to be absent, likely dragged away to some emergency meeting concerning the approaching war.
He shouldn't be here.
“Magus?”
Jolted from his revery, he turns at the voice of the queen, wondering if he's gotten so old as to not hear footsteps approaching him from behind.
“Apologies for startling you, sir.” The queen smiles charmingly and comes to stand beside him. “You seemed lost in thought, and I assume a scholar such as yourself has seen mountain dances before... So... tell me.” She tilts her head to the side to peer into his face. “Something on your mind?”
The magus sighs but smiles weakly. “Nothing much. Just the usual thoughts and worries whirling about.”
“I see...” she consolidates but does not shy from the heart of the matter. “We are all scared for him, but we mustn't lose hope that he is still alive.”
“I know,” the magus agrees quietly.
They stand silent for a moment, watching the court of Eddis clasps hands, twirl, and switch partners down the dancing line, always confident that the hand they reached for would be right where they left it. He wishes life were so certain.
“I have an idea,” the queen says abruptly and links her arm with his. “You look like you could use some fun.”
The magus is surprised and barely has time to set his goblet down on a nearby table before he is dragged into the dance line; the queen across from him.
He has watched the mountain dances enough to be able to participate without tripping over his own shoes, but he is more concerned about the presumption of dancing with the Eddisian queen as a foreigner and an enemy of the kingdom. He is surprised, once again, when no one appears upset or shocked by his actions, and he even detects a hint of a smile from several of the ladies.
That was unexpected.
He has little time to ponder this as the exhilarating mountain tune speeds up and forces the dancers to match the new pace. He grasps Helen's hand in a rushed spin that leaves them both breathless, only to switch partners and repeat the motion. No wonder they don't have dances like this on Sounis. They'd be exhausted before a single song was finished.
The music drives to a crescendo, and the dancers spin faster and faster, struggling to keep time without crashing into their partner or losing pace when suddenly...
The music stops.
He stands, frozen in mid-spin; Helen's hand still clasped in his own, staring into her eyes as unwavering as she stares into his.
It only lasts for a moment.
They step away quickly, both thanking the other for the dance in rushed, nervous tones. She bids him goodnight and returns to her throne.
He leaves the dancing floor in a rush, avoiding the puzzled stares of her court.
This wasn't suppose to happen.
It was never suppose to be him.
He really, really shouldn't be here.
#2: A Moment Changes Everything by David Gray - styromgalleries (Minster of War/Gen's Mom)
He could point to the exact moment as easily as he could stick a pin in a cushion. That was to say, he could recall perfectly the moment it all changed. When she went from the daughter of the Thief he knew in passing--a symbol of archaic, undignified tradition and unrelenting irritation... to what she came to be.
And she came to be a lot...
“Excuse me?”
She taps him on the shoulder. He doesn't shift.
He is on duty near the stable gates that lead out into the main courtyard, the pavement stones dusted with a light snow. The cold of early winter creeps under his armor to crust and chill and make a general nuisance of itself. He stoically refuses to answer her.
“Excuse me?” she taps his shoulder again, reaching up to stand on tip-toe. She is very small. “Is it your intention to scare away potential intruders with the sheer terror of your expression, or do you just look that way all the time?”
He fails to stifle a snort.
She grins at him coyly, thinking herself clever.
She pokes him again; her small fingers finding gaps in his armor along his chest and shoulders. He likens her to a small child or a preening bird begging for attention.
He finally gives in.
“There wouldn't be anything I could assist you with, my lady? Decorum, manners, maturity?”
“Oww...” she brings her hands together like a young girl thrilled by a treat. “He can speak! Alert the temple soothsayers! It's just as they predicted!”
He glares heatedly, ignoring her despite the obvious futility of the endeavor.
She is clearly amused that he won't rise to her taunts. “Would you be interested in hearing what the ladies think of you, sir?”
“No...” he drawls, “but you're still going to tell me.”
She smiles. “They say you're a little tough and a little surly...”
He sets his jaw.
The corners of her mouth turn up and her eyes sparkle. “But they also say you have admirable character and are quite sweet at the center.”
Despite the cold, he feels a heat rise on his checks.
She beams impishly. Shifting her hips back in forth as if in a dance, she turns elegantly on her heels and leaves him in the snow.
Years later... he looks back on that moment in the courtyard. The same courtyard he found and lost her. He wishes he'd told her sooner. Before the fall, the nightmare, the destiny she'd long accepted as fate, and he continues to fight as a curse.
His son ripped up his enrollment papers today.
He doesn't know what to say.
That was always her job. The words, the thoughts, the right articulation of sounds and language to sooth pain and ease past bitter anger and wounded pride.
He was always very proud. His son is too.
He is a man of few words, but there are many words he'd wished he'd said. Many words he'd wished she'd known in more solid form than a twinkle of the eye, a light touch on the shoulder, or smile as she squeezed his hand.
If wishes were roses...
That's what she would say.
If wishes were roses, you'd have a garden to till. Don't nurse what you could give.
She was always better with words...
Words can change a moment and a moment can change everything.
He leaves the courtyard. He needs to talk to his son.
#3: Check Yes Juliet by We the Kings - openedlocket (any pairing)
Say yes.
Eddis made it sound so simple. Take his hand, walk to the marriage altar, offer him her throne and her country, and all would be well. Forgotten. Forgiven.
It wasn't possible. Every day she would see--the hurt, the pain, and the anguish that tormented his mind even as he slept; his slumber a prison of memories. Forgiven? Perhaps. But it could never be forgotten. Just as certain that he would never wake up with his hand magically regrown, and her wrong undone. Fate was cruel in its finality.
There was a tap at her door.
“They let you in?” she asked, her tone laced with surprise. Their wedding was not for three more days, and she doubted her attendants would allow him inside her inner chambers without a pointed announcement... and a squad of guards.
“Oh, I bypassed the whole mess through the windows in the anti-chamber. Think they'll toss me off the balcony if I'm found?” She could hear his smirk.
“That...” she pauses and pretends to consider, “would send a very bad message. I'm afraid I must forbid it.”
He teasingly huffs at her sarcasm, and she wondered at his appearance.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“Can't I just come to see you?”
She raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing.
He sighs, and for a long moment they simply wait. Her, standing near the window, watching the sun set on the city. Him, leaning against the door, his hand and cuff stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching her pretend not to watch him in the window's reflective glass.
The floor was fair game.
“I thought I'd explained myself.”
She turned to face him, her gaze solemn. “You did. My memory is not so short.”
“Then why won't you look me in the eye?”
“My memory,” she repeats, “is not so short.”
Oh.
He stares at the floor.
Silence.
“Eugenides?” He looks up.
“Do you believe one can forgive even if it's impossible to forget?”
He cringes but gives her a half smile. “Under very special circumstances... I think it can be done.”
She meets his eyes.
“Do you want this?” he asks her, suddenly serious; his playful tone vanished like heat from a windblown brazier.
Say yes.
Dangle in front her nose all the hope and the trust and the faith she's long been denied, and what can she say? There is only one thing to say.
And for once she obeys the gentle voice of her heart rather then the screaming logic in her head.
Yes.
#4: Only You by Sinead O'Connor - tiegirl (Gen/Irene)
There was ice on the roof.
Considering he hailed from what many of his subjects would refer to as country bumpkin tree and snow land, one would assume he'd remember to compensate for the condensation that melted into dew under early sun but froze at night into small patches of slippery death.
He couldn't remember that last time he'd stumbled on a slab of ice, forgetting to steady his steps and add extra weight to his heels. He'd fallen flat on his back, cracking his head on the unforgiving metal shingles.
He held his pocket-cloth to the back as his head as he came in through her window. The fine blue silk, imported from Eddis, was now stained bright red with his blood.
He creeped quietly across the floorboards, expertly avoiding the ones he knew creaked. He grabbed a washcloth and her water pitcher from a table by the fire and poured the cool liquid across the textile, pressing it to his head. He breathed a relieved sigh.
The wound was superficial, he knew. He could easily clean up the blood himself, and hide the tell-tale bump under his hair in the morning. Having been poked by doctors all his life for being either too small or too mouthy, he had an instinctive suspicion of anyone who'd ever sworn oath to Asklepious or any such deity of healing.
He disliked the fuss. I made it harder to convince himself... That was... Harder to silence the small voices that whispered and scolded when he skirted the edges of sharp-nosed towers or walked ceiling beams no wider than the breadth of his hand. Harder to mute the noise with calming convictions and unspoken certainties.
The certainty that no one cared what happened to nameless thieves.
His queen sighed sleepily from her bed and sat up. He turned around guilty, sheepishly hiding the bloody cloth behind his back.
Irene stretched her arms above her head and rubbed her right shoulder. She would notice him as soon as her eyes adjusted to the low light of the fire.
“Eugenides,” she called. “What are you doing over there?”
He didn't answer, and furtively glanced around for something to hide behind.
Concerned by his silence, she pushed back the covers and got up, slipping on her shimmering robe as she stood.
“Eugenides,” she repeated. “What's wrong? Let me see.” She approached him, gently taking his chin in her hands to look at him better. He always had to remind himself not to flinch when she did that.
She looked around his shoulder and noticed the cloth balled in his fist behind his back. She turned his head and hissed.
“What did you do to yourself?” she asked gently, taking another washcloth and wetting it, she dabbed the bloody wound, carefully applying pressure to stop the flow. “I should call, Petrus. You may need stitches.”
Eugenides growled. “If that man ever tries to put stitches in me again, I shall impale him with something sharp and pointy. Possibly his own awl that he calls a needle.”
Irene sighed and pursed her lips. He cringed as she applied more pressure.
Her expression made him feel all of five-years-old, like a child refusing medicine because of the sour taste. “It doesn't need stitches,” he added quickly. “I just slipped and banged my head. Not the first nor the last time. It's not even bleeding that much...”
Irene tacitly held up the blood streaked cloth for him to see, before wetting it once again and dapping the back of his head.
“Alright, maybe it is bleeding a little...” he said peevishly.
“Just a little,” she agreed with the hint of a smile. “I often wonder...” she began drily, “that if your fear of the medical element is so fierce, why do you persist on injuring yourself at every available opportunity?”
He chewed his lip, barely biting back a laugh. “That isn't funny, my dear.”
“Actually, my dear...” She raised an eyebrow. “It most certainly was.” She smiled. “Hold that,” she directed, taking his left wrist and pressing his hand to the cloth-covered wound. “I'll ask Phresine to bring some purified water and bandages from the ward.”
He was about to open his mouth to object, but Irene held up a hand. “I'll tell her to say one of my attendants fell on the polished tiles. You won't have to face any doctors tonight.”
Slipping her feet (which were probably freezing by now, he thought guilty) into her fur-trimmed slippers, she walked to the door.
“Irene,” he called quietly. She turned at his voice.
“Thank you.”
She looked at him considerately for a long moment, but only smiled kindly in response. Turning, she left the room.
#5: Haunted by Taylor Swift - bookishbabe (Gen/Irene, during The Queen of Attolia)
Shadows haunt and drown the light--a coil of dark embrace. Her eyes are hard and gleam with the fire's light. Her smile sly as the blade descends.
He knows nothing.
Except the wisp of her gown, white and soft, as it twirls and shimmers beneath the moonlight, spiraling towards darkness.
He wakes from his own screams.
The sheets are damp with sweat, and he pushes off their stifling comfort and too heavy warmth. Getting up, he pours a cup of water.
He can't hold the mug while he pours.
Settling down in his armchair, he loses himself in the dance of the flames. His mind drifting in the quiet air of night.
He is haunted.
Not by the dreams, the flash of a silver blade, or even by the fact that he can't hold his cup with both hands; he is haunted by her eyes. The harsh gleam so in contrast with bare feet streaked with damp soil, dancing till her heart broke beneath a grove of orange trees.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
She wakes to a gentle tap on her door. Her room is dark except for the moonlight that gushes in through the tall windows.
It does not hold back the shadows.
She sits up but does not move the covers; her bones are too old for the cold of late winter.
“Your Majesty?” the voice she hears is edged with concern.
“Yes, Phresine?”
“Chloe heard you calling out a moment ago. Were you having a nightmare?”
“I was calling out?” she asks confused, and Phresine watches her gaze drift to the shadows of the room. “I didn't mean to worry you all. You may go.”
Her attendant does not budge. “I'd prefer to be alone,” the queen says, this time more forceful. The door shuts quietly.
She does not know if it's the shadows she fears or simply what resides in the corners and dark passages they hide. She only knows one thing.
She is haunted.
Not by the threat of invasion, the bleak emptiness of her throne--alone on the gilded pillow, but by a small, still voice that whispers during every waking hour and during many of her sleeping ones as well. She knows the message, even if she refuses the words.
She has no desire to listen.
There is little left in this world that can undo her--shake the foundations of power and confidence built through years of trailers, tribulations, and training. If one thing could do it. If one thing could shatter her glass form, and her eyes of fire and hate...
She stretches a hand towards the shadows. Always there, yet never to be touched. Just like her dreams; just like the voice.
She has nothing to say.
It can and will shatter her. The shadows that haunt, and the fear of what she has become.
She lays down in bed, her eyes on the moon.
The shadows will never be hers.
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Thank you for reading,
ninedaysaqueen
Comments = affection + hugs + candy hearts - writing depression
- comments - affection - hugs - candy hearts = + writing depression or one very sad Lady Jane, who only likes to pretend she is good at algebra. :)
Author: ninedaysaqueen
Betas: openedlocket
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of The Thief, The Queen of Attolia, The King of Attolia, A Conspiracy of Kings, nor of any characters, locations, and elephants contained within. All rights of the Queen's Thief series belong exclusively to Megan Whalen Turner and her respective publishers.
Spoilers: Books 1-4
Rating: PG/K+
Genre: Romance/Drama/Humor/Angst/Fluff
Word Count: 3,000
Summary: Five ships, five songs, five requests, and what comes of it! Dedicated to all the romances of the QT world. - They don't have dances like this in Sounis.
Author's Notes: Written for styromgalleries, openedlocket, tiegirl, and bookishbabe.
All but two of prompts 6-10 have been written. The remaining prompts will be completed and published shortly. I've split this collection into two parts largely because of size. I apologize profusely for the wait! I would love to hear from everyone on their prompts!
Enjoy!
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
#1: Song for a Young Queen by Chris Thile - styromgalleries (Magus/Helen)
It reminds him of harvest--the motion of the dancers feet. How their steps follow the paths between the fields of hay, only for the ladies skirts to twirl across the open court and trim the stalks for the autumn yield.
They don't have dances like this in Sounis.
The magus sighs and twirls his goblet in his fingers, wondering why he stands on the edges of festivities that only bring unhappy thoughts and regrets. He glances at the throne. The queen of Eddis appears to be absent, likely dragged away to some emergency meeting concerning the approaching war.
He shouldn't be here.
“Magus?”
Jolted from his revery, he turns at the voice of the queen, wondering if he's gotten so old as to not hear footsteps approaching him from behind.
“Apologies for startling you, sir.” The queen smiles charmingly and comes to stand beside him. “You seemed lost in thought, and I assume a scholar such as yourself has seen mountain dances before... So... tell me.” She tilts her head to the side to peer into his face. “Something on your mind?”
The magus sighs but smiles weakly. “Nothing much. Just the usual thoughts and worries whirling about.”
“I see...” she consolidates but does not shy from the heart of the matter. “We are all scared for him, but we mustn't lose hope that he is still alive.”
“I know,” the magus agrees quietly.
They stand silent for a moment, watching the court of Eddis clasps hands, twirl, and switch partners down the dancing line, always confident that the hand they reached for would be right where they left it. He wishes life were so certain.
“I have an idea,” the queen says abruptly and links her arm with his. “You look like you could use some fun.”
The magus is surprised and barely has time to set his goblet down on a nearby table before he is dragged into the dance line; the queen across from him.
He has watched the mountain dances enough to be able to participate without tripping over his own shoes, but he is more concerned about the presumption of dancing with the Eddisian queen as a foreigner and an enemy of the kingdom. He is surprised, once again, when no one appears upset or shocked by his actions, and he even detects a hint of a smile from several of the ladies.
That was unexpected.
He has little time to ponder this as the exhilarating mountain tune speeds up and forces the dancers to match the new pace. He grasps Helen's hand in a rushed spin that leaves them both breathless, only to switch partners and repeat the motion. No wonder they don't have dances like this on Sounis. They'd be exhausted before a single song was finished.
The music drives to a crescendo, and the dancers spin faster and faster, struggling to keep time without crashing into their partner or losing pace when suddenly...
The music stops.
He stands, frozen in mid-spin; Helen's hand still clasped in his own, staring into her eyes as unwavering as she stares into his.
It only lasts for a moment.
They step away quickly, both thanking the other for the dance in rushed, nervous tones. She bids him goodnight and returns to her throne.
He leaves the dancing floor in a rush, avoiding the puzzled stares of her court.
This wasn't suppose to happen.
It was never suppose to be him.
He really, really shouldn't be here.
#2: A Moment Changes Everything by David Gray - styromgalleries (Minster of War/Gen's Mom)
He could point to the exact moment as easily as he could stick a pin in a cushion. That was to say, he could recall perfectly the moment it all changed. When she went from the daughter of the Thief he knew in passing--a symbol of archaic, undignified tradition and unrelenting irritation... to what she came to be.
And she came to be a lot...
“Excuse me?”
She taps him on the shoulder. He doesn't shift.
He is on duty near the stable gates that lead out into the main courtyard, the pavement stones dusted with a light snow. The cold of early winter creeps under his armor to crust and chill and make a general nuisance of itself. He stoically refuses to answer her.
“Excuse me?” she taps his shoulder again, reaching up to stand on tip-toe. She is very small. “Is it your intention to scare away potential intruders with the sheer terror of your expression, or do you just look that way all the time?”
He fails to stifle a snort.
She grins at him coyly, thinking herself clever.
She pokes him again; her small fingers finding gaps in his armor along his chest and shoulders. He likens her to a small child or a preening bird begging for attention.
He finally gives in.
“There wouldn't be anything I could assist you with, my lady? Decorum, manners, maturity?”
“Oww...” she brings her hands together like a young girl thrilled by a treat. “He can speak! Alert the temple soothsayers! It's just as they predicted!”
He glares heatedly, ignoring her despite the obvious futility of the endeavor.
She is clearly amused that he won't rise to her taunts. “Would you be interested in hearing what the ladies think of you, sir?”
“No...” he drawls, “but you're still going to tell me.”
She smiles. “They say you're a little tough and a little surly...”
He sets his jaw.
The corners of her mouth turn up and her eyes sparkle. “But they also say you have admirable character and are quite sweet at the center.”
Despite the cold, he feels a heat rise on his checks.
She beams impishly. Shifting her hips back in forth as if in a dance, she turns elegantly on her heels and leaves him in the snow.
Years later... he looks back on that moment in the courtyard. The same courtyard he found and lost her. He wishes he'd told her sooner. Before the fall, the nightmare, the destiny she'd long accepted as fate, and he continues to fight as a curse.
His son ripped up his enrollment papers today.
He doesn't know what to say.
That was always her job. The words, the thoughts, the right articulation of sounds and language to sooth pain and ease past bitter anger and wounded pride.
He was always very proud. His son is too.
He is a man of few words, but there are many words he'd wished he'd said. Many words he'd wished she'd known in more solid form than a twinkle of the eye, a light touch on the shoulder, or smile as she squeezed his hand.
If wishes were roses...
That's what she would say.
If wishes were roses, you'd have a garden to till. Don't nurse what you could give.
She was always better with words...
Words can change a moment and a moment can change everything.
He leaves the courtyard. He needs to talk to his son.
#3: Check Yes Juliet by We the Kings - openedlocket (any pairing)
Say yes.
Eddis made it sound so simple. Take his hand, walk to the marriage altar, offer him her throne and her country, and all would be well. Forgotten. Forgiven.
It wasn't possible. Every day she would see--the hurt, the pain, and the anguish that tormented his mind even as he slept; his slumber a prison of memories. Forgiven? Perhaps. But it could never be forgotten. Just as certain that he would never wake up with his hand magically regrown, and her wrong undone. Fate was cruel in its finality.
There was a tap at her door.
“They let you in?” she asked, her tone laced with surprise. Their wedding was not for three more days, and she doubted her attendants would allow him inside her inner chambers without a pointed announcement... and a squad of guards.
“Oh, I bypassed the whole mess through the windows in the anti-chamber. Think they'll toss me off the balcony if I'm found?” She could hear his smirk.
“That...” she pauses and pretends to consider, “would send a very bad message. I'm afraid I must forbid it.”
He teasingly huffs at her sarcasm, and she wondered at his appearance.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“Can't I just come to see you?”
She raises an eyebrow at that but says nothing.
He sighs, and for a long moment they simply wait. Her, standing near the window, watching the sun set on the city. Him, leaning against the door, his hand and cuff stuffed in his jacket pockets, watching her pretend not to watch him in the window's reflective glass.
The floor was fair game.
“I thought I'd explained myself.”
She turned to face him, her gaze solemn. “You did. My memory is not so short.”
“Then why won't you look me in the eye?”
“My memory,” she repeats, “is not so short.”
Oh.
He stares at the floor.
Silence.
“Eugenides?” He looks up.
“Do you believe one can forgive even if it's impossible to forget?”
He cringes but gives her a half smile. “Under very special circumstances... I think it can be done.”
She meets his eyes.
“Do you want this?” he asks her, suddenly serious; his playful tone vanished like heat from a windblown brazier.
Say yes.
Dangle in front her nose all the hope and the trust and the faith she's long been denied, and what can she say? There is only one thing to say.
And for once she obeys the gentle voice of her heart rather then the screaming logic in her head.
Yes.
#4: Only You by Sinead O'Connor - tiegirl (Gen/Irene)
There was ice on the roof.
Considering he hailed from what many of his subjects would refer to as country bumpkin tree and snow land, one would assume he'd remember to compensate for the condensation that melted into dew under early sun but froze at night into small patches of slippery death.
He couldn't remember that last time he'd stumbled on a slab of ice, forgetting to steady his steps and add extra weight to his heels. He'd fallen flat on his back, cracking his head on the unforgiving metal shingles.
He held his pocket-cloth to the back as his head as he came in through her window. The fine blue silk, imported from Eddis, was now stained bright red with his blood.
He creeped quietly across the floorboards, expertly avoiding the ones he knew creaked. He grabbed a washcloth and her water pitcher from a table by the fire and poured the cool liquid across the textile, pressing it to his head. He breathed a relieved sigh.
The wound was superficial, he knew. He could easily clean up the blood himself, and hide the tell-tale bump under his hair in the morning. Having been poked by doctors all his life for being either too small or too mouthy, he had an instinctive suspicion of anyone who'd ever sworn oath to Asklepious or any such deity of healing.
He disliked the fuss. I made it harder to convince himself... That was... Harder to silence the small voices that whispered and scolded when he skirted the edges of sharp-nosed towers or walked ceiling beams no wider than the breadth of his hand. Harder to mute the noise with calming convictions and unspoken certainties.
The certainty that no one cared what happened to nameless thieves.
His queen sighed sleepily from her bed and sat up. He turned around guilty, sheepishly hiding the bloody cloth behind his back.
Irene stretched her arms above her head and rubbed her right shoulder. She would notice him as soon as her eyes adjusted to the low light of the fire.
“Eugenides,” she called. “What are you doing over there?”
He didn't answer, and furtively glanced around for something to hide behind.
Concerned by his silence, she pushed back the covers and got up, slipping on her shimmering robe as she stood.
“Eugenides,” she repeated. “What's wrong? Let me see.” She approached him, gently taking his chin in her hands to look at him better. He always had to remind himself not to flinch when she did that.
She looked around his shoulder and noticed the cloth balled in his fist behind his back. She turned his head and hissed.
“What did you do to yourself?” she asked gently, taking another washcloth and wetting it, she dabbed the bloody wound, carefully applying pressure to stop the flow. “I should call, Petrus. You may need stitches.”
Eugenides growled. “If that man ever tries to put stitches in me again, I shall impale him with something sharp and pointy. Possibly his own awl that he calls a needle.”
Irene sighed and pursed her lips. He cringed as she applied more pressure.
Her expression made him feel all of five-years-old, like a child refusing medicine because of the sour taste. “It doesn't need stitches,” he added quickly. “I just slipped and banged my head. Not the first nor the last time. It's not even bleeding that much...”
Irene tacitly held up the blood streaked cloth for him to see, before wetting it once again and dapping the back of his head.
“Alright, maybe it is bleeding a little...” he said peevishly.
“Just a little,” she agreed with the hint of a smile. “I often wonder...” she began drily, “that if your fear of the medical element is so fierce, why do you persist on injuring yourself at every available opportunity?”
He chewed his lip, barely biting back a laugh. “That isn't funny, my dear.”
“Actually, my dear...” She raised an eyebrow. “It most certainly was.” She smiled. “Hold that,” she directed, taking his left wrist and pressing his hand to the cloth-covered wound. “I'll ask Phresine to bring some purified water and bandages from the ward.”
He was about to open his mouth to object, but Irene held up a hand. “I'll tell her to say one of my attendants fell on the polished tiles. You won't have to face any doctors tonight.”
Slipping her feet (which were probably freezing by now, he thought guilty) into her fur-trimmed slippers, she walked to the door.
“Irene,” he called quietly. She turned at his voice.
“Thank you.”
She looked at him considerately for a long moment, but only smiled kindly in response. Turning, she left the room.
#5: Haunted by Taylor Swift - bookishbabe (Gen/Irene, during The Queen of Attolia)
Shadows haunt and drown the light--a coil of dark embrace. Her eyes are hard and gleam with the fire's light. Her smile sly as the blade descends.
He knows nothing.
Except the wisp of her gown, white and soft, as it twirls and shimmers beneath the moonlight, spiraling towards darkness.
He wakes from his own screams.
The sheets are damp with sweat, and he pushes off their stifling comfort and too heavy warmth. Getting up, he pours a cup of water.
He can't hold the mug while he pours.
Settling down in his armchair, he loses himself in the dance of the flames. His mind drifting in the quiet air of night.
He is haunted.
Not by the dreams, the flash of a silver blade, or even by the fact that he can't hold his cup with both hands; he is haunted by her eyes. The harsh gleam so in contrast with bare feet streaked with damp soil, dancing till her heart broke beneath a grove of orange trees.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
She wakes to a gentle tap on her door. Her room is dark except for the moonlight that gushes in through the tall windows.
It does not hold back the shadows.
She sits up but does not move the covers; her bones are too old for the cold of late winter.
“Your Majesty?” the voice she hears is edged with concern.
“Yes, Phresine?”
“Chloe heard you calling out a moment ago. Were you having a nightmare?”
“I was calling out?” she asks confused, and Phresine watches her gaze drift to the shadows of the room. “I didn't mean to worry you all. You may go.”
Her attendant does not budge. “I'd prefer to be alone,” the queen says, this time more forceful. The door shuts quietly.
She does not know if it's the shadows she fears or simply what resides in the corners and dark passages they hide. She only knows one thing.
She is haunted.
Not by the threat of invasion, the bleak emptiness of her throne--alone on the gilded pillow, but by a small, still voice that whispers during every waking hour and during many of her sleeping ones as well. She knows the message, even if she refuses the words.
She has no desire to listen.
There is little left in this world that can undo her--shake the foundations of power and confidence built through years of trailers, tribulations, and training. If one thing could do it. If one thing could shatter her glass form, and her eyes of fire and hate...
She stretches a hand towards the shadows. Always there, yet never to be touched. Just like her dreams; just like the voice.
She has nothing to say.
It can and will shatter her. The shadows that haunt, and the fear of what she has become.
She lays down in bed, her eyes on the moon.
The shadows will never be hers.
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Thank you for reading,
ninedaysaqueen
Comments = affection + hugs + candy hearts - writing depression
- comments - affection - hugs - candy hearts = + writing depression or one very sad Lady Jane, who only likes to pretend she is good at algebra. :)