Post by Muse on May 27, 2012 10:26:31 GMT 10
****THIS FIC CONTAINS MAJOR MASTIFF PLOT POINTS****
Series: Strong [#5]
Title: Confident
Rating: PG-13
Event: 1500 Word Dash
Word Count: Most of the time, Gareth enjoys being a Conte. Tonight, though, is not one of those nights.
Warnings: none.
AN: Guys, I got to 1500 words this time!!!
*
Most of the time, Gareth enjoys being a Conte.
Tonight, Gareth isn’t wearing the blue tunic bearing the Conte coat of arms that has become his uniform these past two years since becoming Squire Gareth; instead, tonight he is Prince Gareth of Conte.
Across the table from him, Lady Blandine smiles toothily, grabbing the salmon fork instead of the utensil appropriate for salad courses. Gareth carefully selects the correct fork and smiles politely.
Most of the time, Gareth enjoys being a Conte. Tonight, however, does not seem like one of those times. The next time he ventures a glance up, Blandine is blinking rapidly, as though she has gotten something in her eye. Vaguely horrified, Gareth searches—discreetly, he hopes—for someone to talk to, or some distraction of any kind, but at the high table all focus is on the discussion being held by the King and his Prime Minister (except for Blandine’s, more the pity).
“Shall we dance, Highness?” Blandine’s simpering provides Gareth an escape, and he wordlessly offers an arm to her. It really is too bad that she insists on blinking so furiously at him; surely she must tire of such exertion at some point?
Perhaps, after this, he can escape.
***
Gareth closes the door to his room behind him carefully, the only noise the latch snicking softly into the lock. The Royal apartments fall into silence as Gareth leans back against his door. His head pounds, a headache born of too much light and noise, and his skin crawls with the need to suddenly be gone.
Without bothering to light any candles, Gareth trades his Court regalia for a soft, un-dyed cotton shirt and plain brown breeches that he has stashed in the bottom of his trunk. As he studies himself in the mirror, Gareth finds a rather unexceptional version of himself in the place of the Squire or the Prince.
He only pauses a moment before he grabs the vase of flowers that his mother insists on placing in his room from the nightstand. Even though Gareth has protested on numerous occasions that squires don’t need flowers in their rooms, she still sends them. Replacing the vase on the chest of drawers, Gareth turns to tug the painting on the wall askew. It’s a horridly florid thing that he had been presented with one year for his birthday, but tonight it serves a purpose.
When Sabine catches up to him—and she will, Gareth knows—she will see the flowers and the painting and know that he has left of his own accord. After the first time he disappeared without warning and the resulting verbal lashing, Gareth has never made the mistake of not leaving a sign for the Captain of his Guard.
Dressed as he is, it’s only too easy to slip through the servant’s passages. The majority of the staff are waiting on the banquet, so Gareth sees no one who would try to stop him.
The air outside of the servant’s entrance is warm and smells of something burning, the end of the wash-water, and someone’s animals, but it is a welcome smell.
Gareth breathes deeply.
From the Palace, Corus looks sleepy and quiet when the sun goes down, the tops of buildings lit in slowly fading red-gold as the shutters close up for the night and families return to their homes. Closest to the Palace gates, the nobility’s town houses sit smugly overlooking the rest of the city, as satisfied with the Lords and Ladies who live in them and never venture further into Corus.
The illusion doesn’t fool Gareth, and as he slides into the shadows at the base of the Palace walls, the familiar hum of the city fills his ears. When he makes it past the lavish streets of Upper City, Gareth tucks his hands into his pockets and strolls along whistling under his breath.
***
It was Rosto, back in the final years of his reign as Rogue, who introduced him to the Dove. The Inn, still visibly newer than the buildings that surround it, bustles with activity even this far into the evening, with no signs of slowing anytime soon.
Inside, the noise is louder still; the doxies and the flower sellers giggle and flirt over the shouts and guffaws of the well-watered patrons, while games of dice are tossed and lost by the unfortunate along the walls of the room. At the head of the room near the fire sits the armchair that Gareth remembers too well; at its right hand he learned to spin a lie that would catch even the best foist and the secrets to relieving an overly assured tradesman of the contents of his pockets. Of course, Rosto never told these things to Gareth himself (because if Beka ever explicitly learned Gareth’s crooked education and what, exactly, he was being taught she would have Rosto’s head) but he never lowered his voice when discussing the subjects in front of Gareth, which was permission in and of itself.
“Goin’ to gape, Gary-lad, or will you put your coins on the table and show me you’ve learned to play a decent hand of cards?” A rusher calls from the left of the room, kicking out the chair opposite him in invitation.
Spotting his challenger, Gareth recognizes the man, laughs and crosses to the table after scanning the rest of the room.
“I was wonderin’ when you’d grace us with your presence again,” the rusher continues as Gareth sinks into the open chair.
“It’s been too long,” Gareth agrees, “Phelan.”
The rusher rolls his eyes. “Quiet wi’ that, will you? Someday you’re gon’ create more trouble than you know wha’ t’ do with.”
Gareth, unconvinced, shrugs. “You gonna deal or not? Some’d call this whole thing you losin’ your touch.”
“Gary!”
One of the serving girls spots their table and blows him a kiss. “Where you been, sugar? You tryin’ to snub us o’ somethin’?”
Gary offers only a good natured, lopsided grin. “Elle-belle, you know me. I got carried away, drifted off for a bit.”
Phelan snorts. “Right.”
Elle flounces over and pats Phelan on the cheek. “What, you jealous of the boy?”
It is Gareth’s turn to laugh, as Phelan hides his indignation and tugs Elle onto his lap. “That boy is set to be robbin’ me of house and home. Care to sit ‘n be my good luck charm, Ellie?”
Behind his hand of cards, Gareth smiles slightly to himself.
***
Three hands and a tankard of ale later, Gareth wins a round. Phelan’s good-natured ribbing (“…but you do pick it up fast, lad,”) and the protests of the men betting against Gareth gain him the attention of half the room, at least momentarily. Pushing back from the table, Gareth offers apologies to the crowd. “I have some business of my own to attend to.”
Elle pouts. “What about business here?”
Catcalls and wolf-whistles fill the air. Gareth grins at her, winking slightly at Phelan. “Sorry, ladies, perhaps another night.”
Phelan waves a hand lazily. “Ellie, sit yourself down here. Gary, give ‘em hell.”
***
Gareth could find his way with his eyes shut. Outside the house, he tosses a pebble at her window, once, twice, until he sees the curtain flutter.
When she slips out the front door and into his arms, Gareth gathers her in close and sighs.
“It’s been a while,” she murmurs, and his arms tighten for a brief moment.
“I’m sorry.”
Pulling back enough to face him, she shakes her head slightly. “It’s alright.”
And Gareth wishes it were that simple, that easy. If he were anyone else, maybe it could be. She deserves better than him.
“You can’t stay long, can you?” She knows him better than he remembers; she always surprises him, and he knows he can’t lie.
“No.”
When she pulls away, he fears she will leave, but she only moves far enough to perch on the low wall that runs between the house and the street. “Sit a while, anyway?”
That she accepts what he has to offer and asks for nothing more is a mystery to Gareth, but one he’ll gladly accept.
He can’t give her anything more. Not right now. If he allows himself to believe, then maybe—
He’s a Conte. While they have magic, he knows better than to think that any of them believe in it.
“Tell your ma that Phelan sends his love, won’t you?”
The words are abrupt.
She looks over at him, “You won’t tell her yourself?” as she bites her lip.
Shaking his head, Gareth reaches for her hand. “I don’t have time.”
When she squeezes his hand in return, Gareth knows that she understands, at least a little. “Will you come visit soon, though? She and Pa miss you, I think.”
“I miss them.”
The admission is almost painful. Gareth shakes it off. He’s been away too long, he has to go.
Her kiss lingers.
Sometimes, Gareth hates being a Conte.
Series: Strong [#5]
Title: Confident
Rating: PG-13
Event: 1500 Word Dash
Word Count: Most of the time, Gareth enjoys being a Conte. Tonight, though, is not one of those nights.
Warnings: none.
AN: Guys, I got to 1500 words this time!!!
*
Most of the time, Gareth enjoys being a Conte.
Tonight, Gareth isn’t wearing the blue tunic bearing the Conte coat of arms that has become his uniform these past two years since becoming Squire Gareth; instead, tonight he is Prince Gareth of Conte.
Across the table from him, Lady Blandine smiles toothily, grabbing the salmon fork instead of the utensil appropriate for salad courses. Gareth carefully selects the correct fork and smiles politely.
Most of the time, Gareth enjoys being a Conte. Tonight, however, does not seem like one of those times. The next time he ventures a glance up, Blandine is blinking rapidly, as though she has gotten something in her eye. Vaguely horrified, Gareth searches—discreetly, he hopes—for someone to talk to, or some distraction of any kind, but at the high table all focus is on the discussion being held by the King and his Prime Minister (except for Blandine’s, more the pity).
“Shall we dance, Highness?” Blandine’s simpering provides Gareth an escape, and he wordlessly offers an arm to her. It really is too bad that she insists on blinking so furiously at him; surely she must tire of such exertion at some point?
Perhaps, after this, he can escape.
***
Gareth closes the door to his room behind him carefully, the only noise the latch snicking softly into the lock. The Royal apartments fall into silence as Gareth leans back against his door. His head pounds, a headache born of too much light and noise, and his skin crawls with the need to suddenly be gone.
Without bothering to light any candles, Gareth trades his Court regalia for a soft, un-dyed cotton shirt and plain brown breeches that he has stashed in the bottom of his trunk. As he studies himself in the mirror, Gareth finds a rather unexceptional version of himself in the place of the Squire or the Prince.
He only pauses a moment before he grabs the vase of flowers that his mother insists on placing in his room from the nightstand. Even though Gareth has protested on numerous occasions that squires don’t need flowers in their rooms, she still sends them. Replacing the vase on the chest of drawers, Gareth turns to tug the painting on the wall askew. It’s a horridly florid thing that he had been presented with one year for his birthday, but tonight it serves a purpose.
When Sabine catches up to him—and she will, Gareth knows—she will see the flowers and the painting and know that he has left of his own accord. After the first time he disappeared without warning and the resulting verbal lashing, Gareth has never made the mistake of not leaving a sign for the Captain of his Guard.
Dressed as he is, it’s only too easy to slip through the servant’s passages. The majority of the staff are waiting on the banquet, so Gareth sees no one who would try to stop him.
The air outside of the servant’s entrance is warm and smells of something burning, the end of the wash-water, and someone’s animals, but it is a welcome smell.
Gareth breathes deeply.
From the Palace, Corus looks sleepy and quiet when the sun goes down, the tops of buildings lit in slowly fading red-gold as the shutters close up for the night and families return to their homes. Closest to the Palace gates, the nobility’s town houses sit smugly overlooking the rest of the city, as satisfied with the Lords and Ladies who live in them and never venture further into Corus.
The illusion doesn’t fool Gareth, and as he slides into the shadows at the base of the Palace walls, the familiar hum of the city fills his ears. When he makes it past the lavish streets of Upper City, Gareth tucks his hands into his pockets and strolls along whistling under his breath.
***
It was Rosto, back in the final years of his reign as Rogue, who introduced him to the Dove. The Inn, still visibly newer than the buildings that surround it, bustles with activity even this far into the evening, with no signs of slowing anytime soon.
Inside, the noise is louder still; the doxies and the flower sellers giggle and flirt over the shouts and guffaws of the well-watered patrons, while games of dice are tossed and lost by the unfortunate along the walls of the room. At the head of the room near the fire sits the armchair that Gareth remembers too well; at its right hand he learned to spin a lie that would catch even the best foist and the secrets to relieving an overly assured tradesman of the contents of his pockets. Of course, Rosto never told these things to Gareth himself (because if Beka ever explicitly learned Gareth’s crooked education and what, exactly, he was being taught she would have Rosto’s head) but he never lowered his voice when discussing the subjects in front of Gareth, which was permission in and of itself.
“Goin’ to gape, Gary-lad, or will you put your coins on the table and show me you’ve learned to play a decent hand of cards?” A rusher calls from the left of the room, kicking out the chair opposite him in invitation.
Spotting his challenger, Gareth recognizes the man, laughs and crosses to the table after scanning the rest of the room.
“I was wonderin’ when you’d grace us with your presence again,” the rusher continues as Gareth sinks into the open chair.
“It’s been too long,” Gareth agrees, “Phelan.”
The rusher rolls his eyes. “Quiet wi’ that, will you? Someday you’re gon’ create more trouble than you know wha’ t’ do with.”
Gareth, unconvinced, shrugs. “You gonna deal or not? Some’d call this whole thing you losin’ your touch.”
“Gary!”
One of the serving girls spots their table and blows him a kiss. “Where you been, sugar? You tryin’ to snub us o’ somethin’?”
Gary offers only a good natured, lopsided grin. “Elle-belle, you know me. I got carried away, drifted off for a bit.”
Phelan snorts. “Right.”
Elle flounces over and pats Phelan on the cheek. “What, you jealous of the boy?”
It is Gareth’s turn to laugh, as Phelan hides his indignation and tugs Elle onto his lap. “That boy is set to be robbin’ me of house and home. Care to sit ‘n be my good luck charm, Ellie?”
Behind his hand of cards, Gareth smiles slightly to himself.
***
Three hands and a tankard of ale later, Gareth wins a round. Phelan’s good-natured ribbing (“…but you do pick it up fast, lad,”) and the protests of the men betting against Gareth gain him the attention of half the room, at least momentarily. Pushing back from the table, Gareth offers apologies to the crowd. “I have some business of my own to attend to.”
Elle pouts. “What about business here?”
Catcalls and wolf-whistles fill the air. Gareth grins at her, winking slightly at Phelan. “Sorry, ladies, perhaps another night.”
Phelan waves a hand lazily. “Ellie, sit yourself down here. Gary, give ‘em hell.”
***
Gareth could find his way with his eyes shut. Outside the house, he tosses a pebble at her window, once, twice, until he sees the curtain flutter.
When she slips out the front door and into his arms, Gareth gathers her in close and sighs.
“It’s been a while,” she murmurs, and his arms tighten for a brief moment.
“I’m sorry.”
Pulling back enough to face him, she shakes her head slightly. “It’s alright.”
And Gareth wishes it were that simple, that easy. If he were anyone else, maybe it could be. She deserves better than him.
“You can’t stay long, can you?” She knows him better than he remembers; she always surprises him, and he knows he can’t lie.
“No.”
When she pulls away, he fears she will leave, but she only moves far enough to perch on the low wall that runs between the house and the street. “Sit a while, anyway?”
That she accepts what he has to offer and asks for nothing more is a mystery to Gareth, but one he’ll gladly accept.
He can’t give her anything more. Not right now. If he allows himself to believe, then maybe—
He’s a Conte. While they have magic, he knows better than to think that any of them believe in it.
“Tell your ma that Phelan sends his love, won’t you?”
The words are abrupt.
She looks over at him, “You won’t tell her yourself?” as she bites her lip.
Shaking his head, Gareth reaches for her hand. “I don’t have time.”
When she squeezes his hand in return, Gareth knows that she understands, at least a little. “Will you come visit soon, though? She and Pa miss you, I think.”
“I miss them.”
The admission is almost painful. Gareth shakes it off. He’s been away too long, he has to go.
Her kiss lingers.
Sometimes, Gareth hates being a Conte.