Stolen Moments: a lovestory
Title: Stolen Moments: a lovestory
Author: ninedaysaqueen
Thanks to: openedlocket, thelasteddis, & stubefied_by_gd
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: Book 1 only.
Rating: PG/K+ - For some very (very) minor swearing. Nothing worse than what appears in the books themselves.
Genre: Angst/Romance/Fluff/Pre-series - Yeah, I covered all departments with this one.
Word Count: 2,000 (approximate) - Excluding author's notes.
Summary: How exactly did the stoic Minister of War fall for the enigmatic Thief's daughter? This is their story.
Author's Note: I may have taken some small liberties concerning Eddisian culture and the nature of the Thief's title that are not necessarily supported by cannon but are not contradicted by it either. *waves artistic license*
Enjoy!
On QT_Fic
Part 1: Love
(verse)
She stole from him.
It started when they were young. At the time, he knew of her only as one of his many (many) distant cousins. The court knew of her as the daughter of the Thief - illusively charming, witty, gracious, bratty (the last part was is own observation). The girl, whom everyone assumed, would continue one of Eddis's most ancient and useless traditions. He could speculate she wouldn't have agreed with him on the useless part or really... any of his observations concerning her character and family. Thus, he was surprised when she took an interest in him; surprised when she stole from him.
The first thing she took was a fibula pin. Not his fanciest nor his most expensive, but his sturdiest and most practical. He'd spent hours going through his drawers and searching behind furniture; only to see her walking near the stables one morning with his missing pin securing her cloak to her shoulders. He'd approached her (in righteous indignation) to demand she return the stolen item. She turned into an alley as soon as he had gotten within a half a dozen steps. When he reached the corner, she was gone. She never would tell him how she did that. He found a new pin lying on his desk the next day. Just as sturdy but a degree more fancy. He never wore it.
But he kept it.
She cheated at cards.
Or so he was convinced. Gambling was a meant to be man's game, but he suspected the reason she excelled at it lay somewhere in her feminine charm. She bet erratically. One turn barely maintaining her place in the game and the next sacrificing half her wins for gods knows what reason. She never folded, went all in more often than he thought a sane person should, and seemed to anticipate her opponent's hand by some sort of divine informant.
Winning was suppose to be the result careful observations and calculated moves executed efficiently by a competent player. Achieved in a strategic and scientific manner. This was how he always played, yet she always managed to rob him blind of his pocket money.
She definitely cheated.
She danced circles around him.
Literally. She would appear at his right arm and seizing his wrists, she would bully him out among the festive motions. She was easily half his size, yet he knew it wasn't physical strength that allowed her to drag him across the open court. He could dance; a little. In the manner he'd been taught to flatter visiting debutants and potential brides. She would spin circles around him, laughing manically. Obviously enjoying his irritated glare as he was left without a partner in an open dancing court. She did so more and more often as they got older, eventually coaching him on his steps rather than spinning away to brighter and more talented prospects. The coaching usually brewed into a banter, which would occasionally boil over into an argument.
He eventually began to realize how his preconceived notions about the Thieves were often the cause.
She walked on the roof.
As nonchalant as if it were the hallways to the dinning hall or the stairs to the sleeping rooms. He'd see her sometimes from his window, nimbly striding along the parapet, hopping from one to the other, sometimes adding a little twirl. He'd stride up the stairs to shout at her to come down. She was never there when he reached the top.
If only he could remember to step more quietly.
(refrain)
“You want to know what I think, oh Prince of the Sword?”
He'd ignored her when she sat down and was planning to continue ignoring her. That never did work.
“That I've been cursed by the gods?”
She laughed. “Not quite. I think you really aren't so irritated by me as you pretend to be. Why else would you talk to me so often?”
“I believe it's you who usually does the talking.”
Her smile grew. “No, really. What I think is that you're just not being honest with yourself.”
He went back to ignoring her, until she poked him. Twice.
“And honesty is something you are so well versed in?” He finally snapped.
“Oh, touché! And here I was going to give this back to you.”
He looked up to see her shaking his belt purse at eye level. He snatched it from her grip. She didn't evade and simply laughed when he checked the contents.
(verse)
She loved him.
He never understood it at the time. The teasing, the baiting, the stealing, the sarcastic banters, the special attention. She had known; for quite some time. She was just waiting for him to catch up. Waiting for him to realize...
He loved her too.
Part 2: Marriage
She was the mother of his children.
Two sons. The first studious, reserved but with eyes full of humor and intelligence. The second a stocky boy, shorter like the men in his mother's family, yet stoic in manner like his father.
Two daughters. Both as beautiful as the blooming rose in high spring; born with the natural propriety of any dignified court lady. At least, when their mouths were closed.
And one son many years later. Out of all his children, it was that one son the concerned him the most. He was born two weeks late, facing the wrong direction. The doctors warned him of this as an ill omen. They claimed with a superstitious undertone that a baby unable to follow even the most basic rules of life could not grew into an obedient and noble son. A son a man of his importance would be proud to call his own.
They were right about the first part, at least...
She taught their children to do hand-stands.
That was only the start of it, really. He didn't think much of it at first. She'd taught them all same basic acrobatics - how to tumble, how to do a cartwheel, how to stand on their head. It was all for play. Little tricks to amuse them, so they would sleep through the night; or so he thought.
His stupidity resulted in him nearly falling off his horse one morning, when upon entering the courtyard, he saw his youngest son climbing one of the leaning buttresses that led up to the main roof of the megaron; as quickly and as nimbly as if he were a spider.
He should have known she was testing them.
She knew their son's fate.
As did her own father. Sometimes in hushed, private tones and sometimes loud enough for the entire court to hear, they would discus between them the boy's future. Sometimes they seemed joyful. Glad that an heir to their tradition was guaranteed. Other times, they seemed worried. Concerned about the boy's personal desires and whether or not he'd be up to the task. As if him becoming the Thief was his inevitable destiny; as if there was no other choice. He should have gone right then and there to Eugenides's altar and demanded his son back.
He should have prayed for her life while he was at it.
(refrain)
“It's written in stone if you haven't noticed. My grandfather, his father. Always the same way.”
“You would need not concern yourself with that if you'd simply stay off the roof,” he had mentioned somewhat irritably. A Thief had never fallen in his lifetime, and he dismissed the notion as superstitious nonsense. The fact that many Thieves died from falls seemed to him a logical outcome, considering they spent half their lives four stories off the ground.
“You might sooner ask me to stop breathing. It would probably be easier.” She sulked for a moment and was silent as she sipped her tea.“You don't believe me.”
“Oh, I believe you. I just think you're taking this too seriously. You're ancestors were probably rather careless. You are more careful, correct?”
“Generally speaking.”
“Need I remind you that you have five children?”
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. “Oh believe me, my dear husband. You need not remind me.”
She fell.
Not two weeks later.
Part 3: Mourning
(finale refrain)
“This...” he clenched his teeth barely keeping his voice even. He soon failed. “This is how you honor your family! This is how you show your respect for me!” His son glared back at him, equally impassioned and equally furious.
“I intend to honor my family! My family! I don't care what you or our other 'respectable' relative think!”
The rest of their relations looked on, a mix of blank stares and cringes of discomfort. He barely noticed them. The various aunts and uncles and distant cousins who were attending his wife's wake, traditionally held immediately prior to the cremation. He knew he would have to address this matter soon, but not this soon. Not while his vision was clouded in red. Not as he was preparing himself to watch his wife's body reduced to ashes and a thin trial of smoke.
He took a deep breath before he did something he would truly regret and pulling his chair further out, reseated himself. He would not get anywhere with his son by shouting at him. “I am...” he chose his words as delicately as his current temper would allow, “uninformed as to what you might consider 'respectable', but know this: I will not, under any known circumstances, allow you to carry on the tradition of the Thief.” His son opened his mouth to object, but he cut him off. “Be anything else! A soldier, a scholar, and goddamn groomsman for all it matters, but as long as I am alive, you will not take up that cursed title.”
There was a long moment of silence as father and son remained locked in a hard glare. “Gods, you must have hated her.” His son had to know that wasn't true, but neither of them was thinking about ramifications.
“What?” he responded, heatedly.
"You heard me.” He should have more than vaguely noted that the boy's voice was cracking in grief. “You must be overjoyed that she's dead. No longer around to complicate your social circles and muddy your bloodline with more children like me!” With that he stormed off before anyone could retort.
His son did not return for the funeral. His father didn't blame him.
(bridge)
She died.
Alone. Her legs twisted and broken. Her neck bent at an unnatural angle. Blood pooling from were she'd cracked her head on the pavement. Eyes wide open. Staring vacantly.
He still didn't know why he hadn't seen her that night. Why he hadn't looked for her when he'd rolled over in their bed and noticed she wasn't there. He didn't understand why she fell that night of all nights. Under a clear summer sky with plenty of moonlight to guide her steps and no spots of ice on the ledges to upset her balance. The type of night she would spend dancing on the rooftop to a song only she could hear. The way she had lived her entire life.
He couldn't remembered why he hadn't listened more carefully to her about the fate of the Thieves - the manner in which she had always warned him she would die. He didn't know why he hadn't tried to stop her from being so reckless, doing whatever it took to ensure she lived to an old age. To guarantee she saw all her children reach adulthood, get married, and bear her grandchildren. He couldn't understand why his son, after seeing his mother's blood washed off the courtyard cobbles, would still insist upon following in her footsteps. Her footsteps that led right to the edge of a wall and ended in a pool of blood.
Honestly, there was only one thing he understood anymore. His son would not become the Thief. His son would not die from a fall. Eugenides would not steal anyone else from his family; to this he swore.
He swore it at her god's altar; he swore it upon her grave; he swore it to her father; he swore it at his son when he handed him his enrollment papers; and what he swore he meant.
Eugenides would learn that.
Thank you for reading,
ninedaysaqueen