Original: "A Server's Secret." Slash
I blame Macron entirely for the length of it. I wanted a nice, short story. He decided to get chatty.
Summary: Macron knew he wasn’t a servant long before Kentor upset the soup tureen over Lord Flink’s head.
Macron knew he wasn’t a servant long before Kentor upset the soup tureen over Lord Flink’s head. He’d known the moment Kentor walked in: servant’s uniform immaculate, tray carefully balanced, step measured with eyes averted - and all of it with a current of hidden power thrumming beneath that made Macron’s skin tingle. Whoever the jittery redhead was, servant was not normally in his repertoire.
Macron watched him closely throughout the dinner and, he conceded, it was probably his fault the poor thing had spilled the soup course all over Macron’s host.
He’d known Flink for so long though, the only response he’d been able to give was to throw his head back and laugh. Good-humouredly, Flink had called for a half-hour reprieve on their meal so that he could change from his soup-sodden clothing and that’s when Macron snuck away.
He popped into the galley, setting everyone in there fluttering, making it difficult for some minutes to get his question answered. “The, uh…the redhead. Where did he go?”
The staff around him seemed to hesitate, obviously reluctant to give up their colleague. “I do not seek him for retribution,” Macron assured them, the corner of his mouth twitching up as one of the wash boys warily pointed him in the right direction.
He ducked into the hold, squeezing through the narrow passages of the servant’s quarters. He knew the door when he reached it, a faint pulse washing across his skin. He rapped the door smartly, stifling an inelegant snort as he heard something - sounding suspiciously like a person - drop to the ground with a solid thunk and a small yelp.
There was some shuffling on the other side of the door before it cautiously opened to reveal the redheaded servant. The blood instantly drained from his face when he saw who stood on the other side, eyes going wide and mouth moving rapidly, though no sound came out.
“Relax,” Macron murmured. “I am not here to punish you, little wizard.” Macron almost smiled as the redhead jerked back. He refrained from giving a predatory grin, but he couldn’t stop himself from looming in the doorway, because there were few times one of the King’s Finders actually got to be something approaching impressive.
Judging from the way the redhead backed up a few steps, he was at least somewhat intimidating. “So, what is your name, secret keeper?”
The redhead’s teeth set in a determined grit for a moment, but a glance at Macron’s implacable mask had him sighing in defeat, shoulders slumping as all of the fight seemed to go out of him. “Kentor,” he bit out, bitterly adding, “not that it matters.”
Macron’s brows shot up in surprise at the tone, his mask breaking for the first time. “Why would your name not matter?”
Kentor looked up at him with distant, forest-green eyes. “Everyone knows that when a Finder catches a wizard, they are taken captive, abused and mistreated, used for the Finder’s pleasures, and then dragged to the Central Palace for execution.”
Macron had the sneaking suspicion that his mouth was hanging open in a most unmannerly sort of way, but he found it took him several long moments to recollect himself. “If that is what you believe happens to wizards when they encounter Finders, I rather wonder at actually finding you here instead of even now paddling your way back to shore.”
Kentor grimaced. “I might have if I’d thought I had any chance of getting away. I also rather hoped that by not forcing a chase, I might be granted some measure of mercy.”
Macron let out a long, low whistle, only needing a couple steps to cross the small, windowless cabin. Kentor flinched back at his rapid approach, but he merely dropped to the one wooden chair in the room, stretching his legs out. “You must come from some awfully distant corner of this Paladinium because anyone who lived closer to the Central Palace would know better.” Warily, Kentor inched around the chair to perch on the edge of his bed, leaving his door pointedly ajar.
“I do,” he relented slowly. “Do you claim the truth is different?”
Macron studied Kentor silently for a moment; clean but malnourished, the fire in him not enough to defeat the tension in his shoulders and the shadows in his pretty eyes, all underscored by the thrum of suppressed magic. “Never having heard any of these rumors before, I cannot claim they are all false,” Macron began seriously, watching as Kentor’s brows furrowed slightly. “But they do not represent something that would be openly accepted within Finders’ ranks, nor are they anything with which I have come into contact in my travels. I am afraid that is the only answer I can give and remain truthful.” He watched closely to see what sort of reaction he would get.
Kentor’s brow had smoothed and now he regarded Macron somewhat quizzically. “In these travels, what have you come into contact with, then? How do the Finders in your world behave?”
Macron hooked his hands behind his head and stretched out, striving to look at ease, though he was choosing each word with extra care. “Well, Finders are chosen from wizards whose magic is particularly weak, as there is little else we can use it for beyond recognizing magic in others. We travel the country solo, searching out unschooled wizards, then escort them back to the Central Palace where they can be taught, at the very least, to control their magic. It’s my understanding that very few choose not to continue their education though, so many wizards end up staying in Central for good.”
Kentor weighed his words for a long moment, turning the information over carefully. “And how do the Finders escort the wizards they find?”
Macron tried for nonchalance, knowing this answer would determine how well this escort went. “Once we’re back on land, we’ll go to one of the numerous Finder Points where we can send a message to Central to inform them that we’re on our way. From there, we…well, we travel to Central.” Macron shrugged, unsure what else, really, there was to say.
“And the Finders never ‘exact their expectation’?” Kentor asked skeptically, but the fact that he hadn’t made it sound like a foregone conclusion gave Macron some small measure of hope.
“I’ve never heard of any such thing happening,” he replied truthfully. “Most Finders become attached to the wizards they’re escorting, understandably so, I think, and I believe I speak for most of us when I say we all hope the wizards we Find will remember us with some fondness when it comes time for them to Bond.”
Kentor’s brows were drawn up and together and he looked so lost, Macron couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, amusement obvious. “We’ll start at the very beginning; wizards, Finders, Bonding, the whole thing. Then, when we get to shore, you can choose whether you’d like to come with me or not.”
Kentor regarded him closely. “And if I decide I wouldn’t like to go with you?” he asked shrewdly.
Macron smirked. “I guess I’ll just have to make sure that’s not your choice.”
For years, he told the story the same way, how he’d known Kentor wasn’t a servant the moment he had walked through the door because, even then, Macron had known he was destined to be the wizard’s Bonded. For his part, Kentor would zap him cheekily and then cheerfully play along.
Summary: Macron knew he wasn’t a servant long before Kentor upset the soup tureen over Lord Flink’s head.
Macron knew he wasn’t a servant long before Kentor upset the soup tureen over Lord Flink’s head. He’d known the moment Kentor walked in: servant’s uniform immaculate, tray carefully balanced, step measured with eyes averted - and all of it with a current of hidden power thrumming beneath that made Macron’s skin tingle. Whoever the jittery redhead was, servant was not normally in his repertoire.
Macron watched him closely throughout the dinner and, he conceded, it was probably his fault the poor thing had spilled the soup course all over Macron’s host.
He’d known Flink for so long though, the only response he’d been able to give was to throw his head back and laugh. Good-humouredly, Flink had called for a half-hour reprieve on their meal so that he could change from his soup-sodden clothing and that’s when Macron snuck away.
He popped into the galley, setting everyone in there fluttering, making it difficult for some minutes to get his question answered. “The, uh…the redhead. Where did he go?”
The staff around him seemed to hesitate, obviously reluctant to give up their colleague. “I do not seek him for retribution,” Macron assured them, the corner of his mouth twitching up as one of the wash boys warily pointed him in the right direction.
He ducked into the hold, squeezing through the narrow passages of the servant’s quarters. He knew the door when he reached it, a faint pulse washing across his skin. He rapped the door smartly, stifling an inelegant snort as he heard something - sounding suspiciously like a person - drop to the ground with a solid thunk and a small yelp.
There was some shuffling on the other side of the door before it cautiously opened to reveal the redheaded servant. The blood instantly drained from his face when he saw who stood on the other side, eyes going wide and mouth moving rapidly, though no sound came out.
“Relax,” Macron murmured. “I am not here to punish you, little wizard.” Macron almost smiled as the redhead jerked back. He refrained from giving a predatory grin, but he couldn’t stop himself from looming in the doorway, because there were few times one of the King’s Finders actually got to be something approaching impressive.
Judging from the way the redhead backed up a few steps, he was at least somewhat intimidating. “So, what is your name, secret keeper?”
The redhead’s teeth set in a determined grit for a moment, but a glance at Macron’s implacable mask had him sighing in defeat, shoulders slumping as all of the fight seemed to go out of him. “Kentor,” he bit out, bitterly adding, “not that it matters.”
Macron’s brows shot up in surprise at the tone, his mask breaking for the first time. “Why would your name not matter?”
Kentor looked up at him with distant, forest-green eyes. “Everyone knows that when a Finder catches a wizard, they are taken captive, abused and mistreated, used for the Finder’s pleasures, and then dragged to the Central Palace for execution.”
Macron had the sneaking suspicion that his mouth was hanging open in a most unmannerly sort of way, but he found it took him several long moments to recollect himself. “If that is what you believe happens to wizards when they encounter Finders, I rather wonder at actually finding you here instead of even now paddling your way back to shore.”
Kentor grimaced. “I might have if I’d thought I had any chance of getting away. I also rather hoped that by not forcing a chase, I might be granted some measure of mercy.”
Macron let out a long, low whistle, only needing a couple steps to cross the small, windowless cabin. Kentor flinched back at his rapid approach, but he merely dropped to the one wooden chair in the room, stretching his legs out. “You must come from some awfully distant corner of this Paladinium because anyone who lived closer to the Central Palace would know better.” Warily, Kentor inched around the chair to perch on the edge of his bed, leaving his door pointedly ajar.
“I do,” he relented slowly. “Do you claim the truth is different?”
Macron studied Kentor silently for a moment; clean but malnourished, the fire in him not enough to defeat the tension in his shoulders and the shadows in his pretty eyes, all underscored by the thrum of suppressed magic. “Never having heard any of these rumors before, I cannot claim they are all false,” Macron began seriously, watching as Kentor’s brows furrowed slightly. “But they do not represent something that would be openly accepted within Finders’ ranks, nor are they anything with which I have come into contact in my travels. I am afraid that is the only answer I can give and remain truthful.” He watched closely to see what sort of reaction he would get.
Kentor’s brow had smoothed and now he regarded Macron somewhat quizzically. “In these travels, what have you come into contact with, then? How do the Finders in your world behave?”
Macron hooked his hands behind his head and stretched out, striving to look at ease, though he was choosing each word with extra care. “Well, Finders are chosen from wizards whose magic is particularly weak, as there is little else we can use it for beyond recognizing magic in others. We travel the country solo, searching out unschooled wizards, then escort them back to the Central Palace where they can be taught, at the very least, to control their magic. It’s my understanding that very few choose not to continue their education though, so many wizards end up staying in Central for good.”
Kentor weighed his words for a long moment, turning the information over carefully. “And how do the Finders escort the wizards they find?”
Macron tried for nonchalance, knowing this answer would determine how well this escort went. “Once we’re back on land, we’ll go to one of the numerous Finder Points where we can send a message to Central to inform them that we’re on our way. From there, we…well, we travel to Central.” Macron shrugged, unsure what else, really, there was to say.
“And the Finders never ‘exact their expectation’?” Kentor asked skeptically, but the fact that he hadn’t made it sound like a foregone conclusion gave Macron some small measure of hope.
“I’ve never heard of any such thing happening,” he replied truthfully. “Most Finders become attached to the wizards they’re escorting, understandably so, I think, and I believe I speak for most of us when I say we all hope the wizards we Find will remember us with some fondness when it comes time for them to Bond.”
Kentor’s brows were drawn up and together and he looked so lost, Macron couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, amusement obvious. “We’ll start at the very beginning; wizards, Finders, Bonding, the whole thing. Then, when we get to shore, you can choose whether you’d like to come with me or not.”
Kentor regarded him closely. “And if I decide I wouldn’t like to go with you?” he asked shrewdly.
Macron smirked. “I guess I’ll just have to make sure that’s not your choice.”
For years, he told the story the same way, how he’d known Kentor wasn’t a servant the moment he had walked through the door because, even then, Macron had known he was destined to be the wizard’s Bonded. For his part, Kentor would zap him cheekily and then cheerfully play along.