Post by sesquipedalian on Mar 7, 2012 13:36:18 GMT 10
Title: A Sympathetic Ear
Rating: PG-13 for OC death and implied domestic violence.
Summary: Brothers are shaped by their sisters, and George is no exception.
A/N: This fic will probably make a lot more sense if you read this fiefgoldenlake.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=drabbles&action=display&thread=43769 , though it's not necessary. Love? Hate? Tell me. Flames appreciated!
After his mother had gone to bed, George sat up, waiting the click of the door to open.
An eternity of waiting in the dark later, he heard the door be unlocked and a sliver of light fell on the floor.
“Hey, Cory,” he said softly, so as to not wake his Ma.
“George!” she said, scolding gently. “You should be asleep.”
His sister watched him shrug in the darkness as she shut the door behind her.
“How was work?” he asked instead.
“Work was fine. Some fool nob put their saddle on backwards,” she whispered, making the words sound scandalous.
“And Stefan?” he asked with a wry smile.
“He turned it around, of course,” Cora said, knowing full well that wasn’t what he was talking about at all. Changing the subject on him as she took off her boy’s soft cap, she said, “I heard you got in trouble with the Guard today.”
“How’d you hear that?” he asked, impressed. There wasn’t a lot of ways a palace hostler would find out about that in such little time.
“I’ve got my sources,” she said, leaning against the door. “Stealing again, George?”
“You an’ Ma ain’t getting enough money for the three of us, Cory,” he said.
“The brother I knew wouldn’t steal from his neighbor just because he needed the coin,” she said, and while he couldn’t see her expression, she probably wasn’t smiling.
He looked down. “There was a group of children," he told her, knowing she'd listen to him. "They were escaping from somewhere, you could tell. I saw the welts myself. They needed the bread more than the Lofts did.”
She walked over and sat against the wall with him. “Well, that is the noble baby brother I know and tease,” she said, and in that moment, her praise was worth all the scoldings and Guards in the world.
“Lovely scar you got yourself, brother,” she said, and she was smiling this time.
“Comes with the job, Cory,” he said, looking at it in the mirror at different angles.
She rolled her eyes at his preoccupation. “Just make sure frostbite isn’t too. Put a shirt on. You may look dashing with that cut up your arm, but you won’t when your lips turn blue,” she told him.
“You sound like our Ma,” he said, half complaining.
“I don’t care so long as my brand new Rogue doesn’t end up having his first impression ruined by a sniffle,” she told him.
He laughed at that. “It wouldn’t be the best show of strength, now, would it?”
She got up off the cabinet. “Speaking of which,” she said, handing him a proper tunic, “I’d watch out for Tarsden, the right hand man? He may have been loyal to the last Rogue, but the way he talks to the inn hostler, Cory, that privilege isn’t extending to you.”
He leaned down to grab the tunic and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, Ma,” he told her.
That night, as a show of strength to himself, he shared a drink with Tarsden, rusher and also apothecary’s son, who was particularly interested in his family life.
Love,
It’s not safe for me anymore. I know we planned on the house in town with the flour boxes and the worn out horse whips, but I can’t. If you never see me again, it will be for the best.
Give George my love. Tell him I’ve always been so proud of my noble brother.
-Cory
He schooled his expression as he read the letter. This was his fault, this was all his godsdamned fault.
“I’m sorry, Stefan,” he told the man he had been looking forward to having as a brother-in-law. “This is the product of my own foolishness.”
“Majesty,” Stefan replied, eyes wide. “I never spoke to her about a house wiv flower boxes, and she’s spelt it wrong. She’s never said a word to me about t’ horse whips neither.”
George reread the letter frantically. “Flour boxes and horse whips…” he whispered to himself.
“Thank you, Stefan,” he said suddenly, rushing out the door. “There’s somewhere I have to go. Alone.”
He hadn’t been to the bakery in years, but the Lofts were still there, same as always. Slipping in through the back door, he found his way to the pantry, not knowing he was retracing more than his sister's steps.
There were bloodstains on the flour bags. Splatters on the floor. And glinting in the corner, Stefan’s ring. With a hand attached to it, and almost all of a body to that.
He stared at his dead sister, hair falling out of its soft cap, gaping wound through the middle.
One ear missing.
Rating: PG-13 for OC death and implied domestic violence.
Summary: Brothers are shaped by their sisters, and George is no exception.
A/N: This fic will probably make a lot more sense if you read this fiefgoldenlake.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=drabbles&action=display&thread=43769 , though it's not necessary. Love? Hate? Tell me. Flames appreciated!
After his mother had gone to bed, George sat up, waiting the click of the door to open.
An eternity of waiting in the dark later, he heard the door be unlocked and a sliver of light fell on the floor.
“Hey, Cory,” he said softly, so as to not wake his Ma.
“George!” she said, scolding gently. “You should be asleep.”
His sister watched him shrug in the darkness as she shut the door behind her.
“How was work?” he asked instead.
“Work was fine. Some fool nob put their saddle on backwards,” she whispered, making the words sound scandalous.
“And Stefan?” he asked with a wry smile.
“He turned it around, of course,” Cora said, knowing full well that wasn’t what he was talking about at all. Changing the subject on him as she took off her boy’s soft cap, she said, “I heard you got in trouble with the Guard today.”
“How’d you hear that?” he asked, impressed. There wasn’t a lot of ways a palace hostler would find out about that in such little time.
“I’ve got my sources,” she said, leaning against the door. “Stealing again, George?”
“You an’ Ma ain’t getting enough money for the three of us, Cory,” he said.
“The brother I knew wouldn’t steal from his neighbor just because he needed the coin,” she said, and while he couldn’t see her expression, she probably wasn’t smiling.
He looked down. “There was a group of children," he told her, knowing she'd listen to him. "They were escaping from somewhere, you could tell. I saw the welts myself. They needed the bread more than the Lofts did.”
She walked over and sat against the wall with him. “Well, that is the noble baby brother I know and tease,” she said, and in that moment, her praise was worth all the scoldings and Guards in the world.
--
“Lovely scar you got yourself, brother,” she said, and she was smiling this time.
“Comes with the job, Cory,” he said, looking at it in the mirror at different angles.
She rolled her eyes at his preoccupation. “Just make sure frostbite isn’t too. Put a shirt on. You may look dashing with that cut up your arm, but you won’t when your lips turn blue,” she told him.
“You sound like our Ma,” he said, half complaining.
“I don’t care so long as my brand new Rogue doesn’t end up having his first impression ruined by a sniffle,” she told him.
He laughed at that. “It wouldn’t be the best show of strength, now, would it?”
She got up off the cabinet. “Speaking of which,” she said, handing him a proper tunic, “I’d watch out for Tarsden, the right hand man? He may have been loyal to the last Rogue, but the way he talks to the inn hostler, Cory, that privilege isn’t extending to you.”
He leaned down to grab the tunic and kissed her on the cheek. “Yes, Ma,” he told her.
That night, as a show of strength to himself, he shared a drink with Tarsden, rusher and also apothecary’s son, who was particularly interested in his family life.
--
Love,
It’s not safe for me anymore. I know we planned on the house in town with the flour boxes and the worn out horse whips, but I can’t. If you never see me again, it will be for the best.
Give George my love. Tell him I’ve always been so proud of my noble brother.
-Cory
He schooled his expression as he read the letter. This was his fault, this was all his godsdamned fault.
“I’m sorry, Stefan,” he told the man he had been looking forward to having as a brother-in-law. “This is the product of my own foolishness.”
“Majesty,” Stefan replied, eyes wide. “I never spoke to her about a house wiv flower boxes, and she’s spelt it wrong. She’s never said a word to me about t’ horse whips neither.”
George reread the letter frantically. “Flour boxes and horse whips…” he whispered to himself.
“Thank you, Stefan,” he said suddenly, rushing out the door. “There’s somewhere I have to go. Alone.”
--
He hadn’t been to the bakery in years, but the Lofts were still there, same as always. Slipping in through the back door, he found his way to the pantry, not knowing he was retracing more than his sister's steps.
There were bloodstains on the flour bags. Splatters on the floor. And glinting in the corner, Stefan’s ring. With a hand attached to it, and almost all of a body to that.
He stared at his dead sister, hair falling out of its soft cap, gaping wound through the middle.
One ear missing.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!