Post by Griff on May 2, 2012 12:15:43 GMT 10
Series: Mirror, Darkly
Title: Weight of Blood
Rating: PG-13
Event: Relay
Words: 400
Summary: The weight of blood is never changing.
-
Arram Drapper took a knee before the Tortallan king, exhaustion peeling at his frayed courtly manners. He looked a fright, matted hair and soiled clothing just a taste of his slovenly state, but the whispered promise of safety made him cast aside his vanity and beg.
“Your cousin promised sanctuary,” Arram pleaded, eyes pinned to the floor. He was afraid, he admitted to himself, that if he met King Jonathan’s eyes, they would be chillingly familiar.
Duke Roger of Conté may have promised him safety for his sworn service, but he was never a man Arram would deign to trust.
-
“You’re talking treason,” Alanna growled, tugging at her choppy red hair.
“He stole my throne,” He lounged on the mussed sheets of George’s bed and spoke matter-of-factly, “My mother is dead, my father is mad, and Roger’s changed the line of succession.”
“I understand,” she snapped, turning on him. “He took my shield. I want him caught-out same as you, but this isn’t just murder. Jon, you’re talking…”
“Regicide,” He tipped his head in agreement. “Kinslaying. Patricide.”
“But why your father,” She pleaded helplessly.
“Because,” Jon said simply, “Roger fancies himself a puppet master. I mean to snip his strings.”
-
“Presenting Duke Jonathan of Conté,” the herald bowed as his cousin strode forward, black robes snapping behind him.
“The prodigal son returns.” Roger stepped forward, arms open, “Jon. You’ve grown.”
“I could hardly stay fourteen forever, Your Majesty.” His cousin bowed politely, but shallowly, turning the honor into a perfunctory duty. He raised his eyes and smiled, lips curving sharply with challenge.
Settling his hands on Jonathan’s strong arms, Roger imagined gripping the young snake about his handsome neck and squeezed. He noted the pained crease around bright eyes with vitriolic glee.
“No,” King Roger agreed. “You certainly could not.”
-
“Shh, young one,” he soothed the boy with a gentle stroke of his hair. “No monsters tonight.”
“Roger,” Jonathan slurred sleepily, rolling over as his cousin pulled his feet up onto the heavy winter quilt.
“My room was cold,” he lied, slipping under the covers and pulling the prince close. “You’ll let me stay, won’t you?”
“Mm,” the dark head nodded, nestling against his chest as he always did.
Roger hummed softly and stroked his fingers through the fine strands of his son’s hair. In the daylight, Lianne’s lie would echo, but in the darkness, Roger held what was his.
Title: Weight of Blood
Rating: PG-13
Event: Relay
Words: 400
Summary: The weight of blood is never changing.
-
Arram Drapper took a knee before the Tortallan king, exhaustion peeling at his frayed courtly manners. He looked a fright, matted hair and soiled clothing just a taste of his slovenly state, but the whispered promise of safety made him cast aside his vanity and beg.
“Your cousin promised sanctuary,” Arram pleaded, eyes pinned to the floor. He was afraid, he admitted to himself, that if he met King Jonathan’s eyes, they would be chillingly familiar.
Duke Roger of Conté may have promised him safety for his sworn service, but he was never a man Arram would deign to trust.
-
“You’re talking treason,” Alanna growled, tugging at her choppy red hair.
“He stole my throne,” He lounged on the mussed sheets of George’s bed and spoke matter-of-factly, “My mother is dead, my father is mad, and Roger’s changed the line of succession.”
“I understand,” she snapped, turning on him. “He took my shield. I want him caught-out same as you, but this isn’t just murder. Jon, you’re talking…”
“Regicide,” He tipped his head in agreement. “Kinslaying. Patricide.”
“But why your father,” She pleaded helplessly.
“Because,” Jon said simply, “Roger fancies himself a puppet master. I mean to snip his strings.”
-
“Presenting Duke Jonathan of Conté,” the herald bowed as his cousin strode forward, black robes snapping behind him.
“The prodigal son returns.” Roger stepped forward, arms open, “Jon. You’ve grown.”
“I could hardly stay fourteen forever, Your Majesty.” His cousin bowed politely, but shallowly, turning the honor into a perfunctory duty. He raised his eyes and smiled, lips curving sharply with challenge.
Settling his hands on Jonathan’s strong arms, Roger imagined gripping the young snake about his handsome neck and squeezed. He noted the pained crease around bright eyes with vitriolic glee.
“No,” King Roger agreed. “You certainly could not.”
-
“Shh, young one,” he soothed the boy with a gentle stroke of his hair. “No monsters tonight.”
“Roger,” Jonathan slurred sleepily, rolling over as his cousin pulled his feet up onto the heavy winter quilt.
“My room was cold,” he lied, slipping under the covers and pulling the prince close. “You’ll let me stay, won’t you?”
“Mm,” the dark head nodded, nestling against his chest as he always did.
Roger hummed softly and stroked his fingers through the fine strands of his son’s hair. In the daylight, Lianne’s lie would echo, but in the darkness, Roger held what was his.