Post by wordy on Feb 19, 2014 14:33:23 GMT 10
Title: semper ardens
Rating: PG13
For: Ankhiale
Prompt: #3 – Thom of Trebond, anyone.
Summary: Obsession, ambition, and perhaps something more.
Warnings: A couple bad words.
A/N: Set from In the Hand of the Goddess through to Lioness Rampant. The title is Latin for ‘always burning’.
Not a romantic fic, but hopefully you see the other shades of love and lust in there somewhere. Plus I guess it could fit with a ‘secret admirer’ sort of theme?
Hope you like it!
I
The servant deposited the tray on the table, shaved head bowed. Thom waited until the man was gone before he got out of bed and slunk over to inspect the meal. Steam rose from a bowl. He picked the shelled walnuts from the soup and chewed on them absently, ignoring the loaf of crusty bread that was speckled with dark seeds and the large purple fruit that had rolled up against it.
He should have been making the most of this simple pleasure—outside of the examination period, adepts were required to eat together in the common hall—but it was difficult to kindle the faintest enthusiasm for anything when the problem of a certain smiling man was preying on his mind. And it was all that he thought about, recently; studying was hideously boring in comparison.
“It is not simply a matter of power,” one of the Masters had told them, after the Sweating Fever, “but of consistency; control; restraint. A sorcerer may have the power to light a candle’s flame from great distances, but to keep that flame burning, constant, shows the true extent of a sorcerer’s ability.”
Thom had read and reread his sister’s letters, anxious for details; when there were none to be found, he moved instead to the Cloisters’ library, and then to practical research of his own. Using his Gift to siphon a constant trickle of magic had been simple enough, but each time he had returned to his room after the day’s lessons, he had found the candle extinguished, wick cold to the touch.
It was, perhaps, a question of practise. Yet each time when he returned to find that the flame had gone out, his frustration had grown.
He had considered it a step forward when, one afternoon, the candle was still alight and burning down to a stub. The drapes and the bedclothes had somehow managed to catch as well, which caused a flurry of activity for the servants as they carted buckets of water from the pump room, but Thom had saved his books before they could fall into any immediate danger. Unfortunately, the Masters did not see his progress in quite the same light.
It had been back to the library, after that.
And now, with the yearly examinations ahead of him once again, Thom found that the novelty of the City of the Gods was waning. There was nothing left to be learned here; the Masters seemed to respect discipline and tradition over innovation. If he advanced at the pace expected of him, too many years would be wasted. Alanna would have her shield soon. What would he have?
The mysterious Duke of Conté still had eyes here. It had grown easy to ignore them—in the common hall, the courtyard, the City itself—but was not wise to do so. Thom feared that the trouble in Corus would break well before he was away from here, and then he would be less than even a pawn: he would not be on the playing field at all.
It was time to act.
He picked up the loaf of bread and began pulling it into pieces, seeds scattering onto the tray and the table, and the floor. As he ate, one hand drifted to his cheek: the hair there still itched, his beard growing in slower than he would have liked. The irritation was worse than when his shaved hair had begun to grow back. Initially, he had thought to remain bare-faced for the duration of his time at the Cloisters, to remind them of how young he really was—young, and brilliant beyond his years. But that would have been too obvious. Let them think what they liked.
Let them talk. Thom smiled, imaging the expression that would be on old Si-Cham’s face when he requested to take the examinations for Mastery.
Perhaps, if all went to plan, his reputation would precede him to Corus.
He looked for Alanna in the fire. Not a day passed where he didn’t, though it was foolish to expect a different result after so many years. Since his first days in the Cloisters, she had been shielded from his sight, a fog that no amount of herbs or whispered incantations could break through.
But old habits die hard.
As always, his attention finally shifted away from his unreachable sister and the flames returned to their torrential crackling and hissing; the heat reflected mercilessly off the stone and clawed his face with sweat. Images flickered. Some were clearer and more mundane than others—commonfolk about their business, the snow-capped mountains, birds bursting from the trees at the toll of the midday bells—while other scenes held the irresistible pull of moments yet to come. Thom had not yet decided whether those prophetic images were better studied or left alone. Now, though, he ignored them all: his gaze was drawn to one man in particular.
Scrying in a fire of this size did not allow for images of great detail, but no matter the distance he was viewing it from, the quality of the furnishings in this room would have been difficult to miss: drapes of wine-red velvet framed the single window, secured with cords of gold braid; the crystal lamp-covers twinkled in the encroaching sunlight, two upon each wall, the oil within not yet lit. Even the simple dresser and bed-frame spoke of wealth, though the decorative carving was subdued in favour of the wood’s luxurious mahogany hue.
The brocade coverlet spread across the bed gave Thom pause. Blue and silver were the Conté colours, but for centuries—perhaps even longer—the Tortallan monarchs had claimed purple as a symbol of their sovereignty. Most people would doubtless overlook the use of royal purple by King Roald’s cousin.
Thom waved his hand and the image wavered, then he was looking at a different room, this one packed with young boys, some on the verge of being men. The man who paced at the front of the classroom wore his dark beard cropped short and he was turning a jewelled rod in his hands as he spoke. His face was handsome; beneath the silky fabric of his tunic and hose, his build was slim, but Thom knew that years of fencing would have provided the duke with muscle as well. He was not an opponent to be underestimated.
A pang of concern for Alanna struck him, then. She was wise enough not to act until evidence of some wrongdoing was in her hands, but that did not mean she was safe. “What are you planning,” Thom murmured, watching the duke through the flames.
The jewelled rod that he held winked, and Thom found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes. The moment broke just as suddenly. In the remote safety of the City of the Gods, Thom sat back on his heels and let the image shimmer, then fade away.
II
He had not arrived in time to see his sister go into the Chamber, but he had witnessed her emerge from its hollow darkness, alive. By the time of the second feast of the Midwinter Festival, Alanna had calmed considerably, but Thom still detected a concealed uneasiness in her. The Chamber of the Ordeal of Knighthood was rumoured to be far different than the Ordeal of Sorcery that adepts faced in the Mithran Cloisters. Thom would have given anything to experience the old magics of the Chamber—except, he thought wryly, years of page training.
Duke Roger, when Thom had the brief honour of speaking with him at the feast, was disappointing in his courtesy. Surrounded by lords, ladies, and the newly knighted, the man’s handsome face and polite words were a mask upon whatever vile plots he was crafting; Thom accepted his congratulations for completing his Mastery and sought more stimulating conversation elsewhere, though he did not find it. The feeling of eyes upon his back lingered, long into the evening.
Standing at Alanna’s back, Thom felt the banquet hall fall silent, quiet as the grave. Were the gods listening? Did his sister’s divine patron care for the dramatics of mortals or did She look down upon them with something between satisfaction and indifference?
“…I knew this was dishonourable, and I did it anyway. What I did was wrong. What I thought to find—what I did find—was far worse.”
The queen cried out when Alanna placed her findings on the table. The wax dolls were macabre and damning in their likenesses. Thom reached out, curious, before remembering himself—what damage could be done by mishandling such an object?
Alanna’s heated accusations and the duke’s furious denials split the air of the hall like sharpened blades. The tension raised gooseflesh on Thom’s skin, but he could not draw his eyes from those dolls: among them were representations of Alanna, the king, the Lord Provost…yet Thom saw no wax doll modelled after himself.
Roger was demanding trial by combat, now, still clinging to innocence. Thom watched him—watched the famed duke deny his guilt like a child. The entire hall and all who were gathered there had been changed already, by the sudden display of weakness, unintentional though it may have been.
Thom could do nothing but watch as his sister killed the most powerful sorcerer in the Eastern Lands.
III
“Rumour has it that the king has asked you to teach sorcery to the pages,” Delia of Eldorne said, glancing at him sidelong. Further off, some of the lords and ladies had stopped to examine one of the gardens where a new specimen from Carthak had been transplanted.
The lady and her party had intercepted his walk from one part of the palace to another, and now she clung to him like a leech, showing no sign of removing herself. Delia was pretty and ambitious, but so was every other young woman here.
Alanna had ridden off in search of adventure without a backward glance, and the glittering allure of life at court had turned to lifeless glass in her wake.
“Although I don’t doubt it,” Delia continued, when he did not reply, “I was certain that you would not accept.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Lord Thom, do you want me to flatter you?” She ticked the reasons off her fingers. “The youngest person to ever gain Mastery. Most powerful sorcerer in Tortall. Brother to the most controversial young knight of this decade, and said to have assisted her in the greatest deception this country has seen. If I were you, I could not help but aspire to grander heights than teaching children.”
“I will admit to having no interest in teaching the Gifted pages,” he replied. Though he would never stoop to gossip with this woman, it was true that he had been offered the position—and refused it.
“Who would? Of course, the late Duke of Conté did, but considering how that turned out, I wouldn’t question if it was merely part of the act. But,” she lowered her voice suddenly, “I’ve heard whispers that it was him who sent the Sweating Fever, and all the way from Carthak!”
Thom smiled thinly. “Is that so?”
“It’s a dreadful business, naturally, but he must have been truly powerful to manage such a thing.” Her expression turned oddly sympathetic. “Corus must bore you so, Lord Thom. Have you considered returning to the City of the Gods? I assume it would be more suited to your pace.”
He was not certain if she spoke innocently or if the barb was intentional; whichever it was, he did not appreciate the implication. He did not fancy remaining at the palace to perform party tricks, however; even the dullness of the Mithran Cloisters would be preferable to debasing himself and his Gift in such a way. Wouldn’t it?
They walked in silence. A number of old texts in the castle library awaited him; his fingers itched to turn the brittle pages and discover what secrets those books and scrolls held. Yet even they would not hold his interest forever, and if he did not put his talents to good use, it would make no difference where he resided.
The song of a swallow broke the quiet. Delia tilted her head, listening, her lips curved in a smile. “I heard a story of Duke Roger, once: when he was still a child, a bird flew into his window and he brought it back to life with just a touch of his hand. It was one of the first signs of his Gift.” She shook her head, dark curls bouncing. “What do you make of that, Lord Thom? Is there truth to the tale or is it exaggeration?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. But he would be interested to find out.
The body should have been burned, the ashes spread on Traitor’s Hill.
Hot sweat beaded on Thom’s forehead. The catacombs shone with the light of a hundred candles; he had given so much time already, the wax melting into glossy puddles, but still the ground trembled. His body trembled, too, as if a great weight sought to pull him beneath the stone and earth.
But he could not leave this unfinished. There were too many questions that remained unanswered. He licked his upper lip, tasted salt and blood.
Something broke inside him, like a fist about his heart.
Darkness pulled him down….
IV
Eyes. There were eyes all around, always watching.
Thom was strangely relieved that the old king had not lived to see what he had done.
The court fluttered with gossip, lords and ladies sharing rumour with wide eyes and trembling hands. From the knights, the fear was mixed with something far more bitter; he learned to ignore the shame and disapproval that radiated from that quarter.
But there was one pair of eyes that did not whisper or linger or judge: as blue as the day he had died, though the face that housed them was sickly and grey, not yet free from the memory of death.
His appearance was no matter, nor the state of his once-fine clothes. Thom suppressed a shiver when a hand pressed upon his shoulder; those eyes gazed on him in almost wonder, as if seeing him anew.
And the older man spoke with a deference that Thom had heard from no one else.
“It is not great power you hold,” he said, softly, “but the power to do great things.”
Thom smiled.
V
“What does it matter if Jonathan makes cow eyes at that Copper Isles slut,” Delia said, pacing furiously, her green skirts rustling. Thom pressed his fingers against his temple and tried to focus on the inked words in front of him; he seemed to tire more easily these days, and listening to Delia’s drivel was excruciating at the best of times.
“Even without his Gift, Roger is far better-suited to me,” she went on. “The entire palace has heard the whispers from the Lower City: Jonathan looks like a green boy, while Roger—”
Thom slammed his palm down on the desk and Delia jumped. “Enough!” he demanded. “If you can’t hold that stupid tongue of yours, let me work in peace!”
She seemed to swell with anger, spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks. “You dare,” she began, stepping towards him, fists clenched. “Lord Thom thinks he’s better than all of us—”
Rising from his chair, he allowed months of repressed loathing to pour forth. “Your petty concerns are so far beneath me that only lowliest servants would care to gossip about them,” he spat. “Jonathan used you and threw you aside, and Roger will do the same.”
His words only seemed to anger her more. “Roger—”
Thom sneered. “Roger is fond of you, as he would be fond of a pet. And when he is done with you, he will kick you to the gutter like a common bitch, without hesitation or remorse. You fool yourself with pretty clothes and banquets, Delia, but beneath it all you are nothing.”
“You need to learn your place, Thom of Trebond,” she told him, deathly quiet. Her eyes pierced his flesh, but she could not harm him. The expression on her face made him laugh.
“I know my place,” he said, bitterness rising in his throat. He swallowed it down and walked around the desk, to the door. “Do you know yours?”
The handle turned before he could touch it and the door opened inward; Alexander of Tirragen stood there, his dark eyes taking in the scene, saying nothing. The young knight moved aside, allowing Thom to leave.
Though his legs carried him swiftly away, Thom heard the door close once more, and the murmur of voices beyond. He clenched his fists until the nails bit into his palms and kept walking—to where, he did not know. The rage continued on, though, filling him until his skin burned from the inside out.
It was too late to stop it.
VI
Tears ran down her cheeks. He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.
He could hardly feel the pillows as he sank back against them, but Alanna’s hands still felt real, she was still alive, and he wanted to laugh again at the bleak fact that she would have to kill him all over again. She had to.
“Never—know how—he did it…” Thom whispered, and his final plea was for forgiveness.
A/N: Some snippets borrowed from the books: Alanna’s dialogue about the wax dolls and Thom’s final dialogue.
Rating: PG13
For: Ankhiale
Prompt: #3 – Thom of Trebond, anyone.
Summary: Obsession, ambition, and perhaps something more.
Warnings: A couple bad words.
A/N: Set from In the Hand of the Goddess through to Lioness Rampant. The title is Latin for ‘always burning’.
Not a romantic fic, but hopefully you see the other shades of love and lust in there somewhere. Plus I guess it could fit with a ‘secret admirer’ sort of theme?
Hope you like it! I
The servant deposited the tray on the table, shaved head bowed. Thom waited until the man was gone before he got out of bed and slunk over to inspect the meal. Steam rose from a bowl. He picked the shelled walnuts from the soup and chewed on them absently, ignoring the loaf of crusty bread that was speckled with dark seeds and the large purple fruit that had rolled up against it.
He should have been making the most of this simple pleasure—outside of the examination period, adepts were required to eat together in the common hall—but it was difficult to kindle the faintest enthusiasm for anything when the problem of a certain smiling man was preying on his mind. And it was all that he thought about, recently; studying was hideously boring in comparison.
“It is not simply a matter of power,” one of the Masters had told them, after the Sweating Fever, “but of consistency; control; restraint. A sorcerer may have the power to light a candle’s flame from great distances, but to keep that flame burning, constant, shows the true extent of a sorcerer’s ability.”
Thom had read and reread his sister’s letters, anxious for details; when there were none to be found, he moved instead to the Cloisters’ library, and then to practical research of his own. Using his Gift to siphon a constant trickle of magic had been simple enough, but each time he had returned to his room after the day’s lessons, he had found the candle extinguished, wick cold to the touch.
It was, perhaps, a question of practise. Yet each time when he returned to find that the flame had gone out, his frustration had grown.
He had considered it a step forward when, one afternoon, the candle was still alight and burning down to a stub. The drapes and the bedclothes had somehow managed to catch as well, which caused a flurry of activity for the servants as they carted buckets of water from the pump room, but Thom had saved his books before they could fall into any immediate danger. Unfortunately, the Masters did not see his progress in quite the same light.
It had been back to the library, after that.
And now, with the yearly examinations ahead of him once again, Thom found that the novelty of the City of the Gods was waning. There was nothing left to be learned here; the Masters seemed to respect discipline and tradition over innovation. If he advanced at the pace expected of him, too many years would be wasted. Alanna would have her shield soon. What would he have?
The mysterious Duke of Conté still had eyes here. It had grown easy to ignore them—in the common hall, the courtyard, the City itself—but was not wise to do so. Thom feared that the trouble in Corus would break well before he was away from here, and then he would be less than even a pawn: he would not be on the playing field at all.
It was time to act.
He picked up the loaf of bread and began pulling it into pieces, seeds scattering onto the tray and the table, and the floor. As he ate, one hand drifted to his cheek: the hair there still itched, his beard growing in slower than he would have liked. The irritation was worse than when his shaved hair had begun to grow back. Initially, he had thought to remain bare-faced for the duration of his time at the Cloisters, to remind them of how young he really was—young, and brilliant beyond his years. But that would have been too obvious. Let them think what they liked.
Let them talk. Thom smiled, imaging the expression that would be on old Si-Cham’s face when he requested to take the examinations for Mastery.
Perhaps, if all went to plan, his reputation would precede him to Corus.
***
He looked for Alanna in the fire. Not a day passed where he didn’t, though it was foolish to expect a different result after so many years. Since his first days in the Cloisters, she had been shielded from his sight, a fog that no amount of herbs or whispered incantations could break through.
But old habits die hard.
As always, his attention finally shifted away from his unreachable sister and the flames returned to their torrential crackling and hissing; the heat reflected mercilessly off the stone and clawed his face with sweat. Images flickered. Some were clearer and more mundane than others—commonfolk about their business, the snow-capped mountains, birds bursting from the trees at the toll of the midday bells—while other scenes held the irresistible pull of moments yet to come. Thom had not yet decided whether those prophetic images were better studied or left alone. Now, though, he ignored them all: his gaze was drawn to one man in particular.
Scrying in a fire of this size did not allow for images of great detail, but no matter the distance he was viewing it from, the quality of the furnishings in this room would have been difficult to miss: drapes of wine-red velvet framed the single window, secured with cords of gold braid; the crystal lamp-covers twinkled in the encroaching sunlight, two upon each wall, the oil within not yet lit. Even the simple dresser and bed-frame spoke of wealth, though the decorative carving was subdued in favour of the wood’s luxurious mahogany hue.
The brocade coverlet spread across the bed gave Thom pause. Blue and silver were the Conté colours, but for centuries—perhaps even longer—the Tortallan monarchs had claimed purple as a symbol of their sovereignty. Most people would doubtless overlook the use of royal purple by King Roald’s cousin.
Thom waved his hand and the image wavered, then he was looking at a different room, this one packed with young boys, some on the verge of being men. The man who paced at the front of the classroom wore his dark beard cropped short and he was turning a jewelled rod in his hands as he spoke. His face was handsome; beneath the silky fabric of his tunic and hose, his build was slim, but Thom knew that years of fencing would have provided the duke with muscle as well. He was not an opponent to be underestimated.
A pang of concern for Alanna struck him, then. She was wise enough not to act until evidence of some wrongdoing was in her hands, but that did not mean she was safe. “What are you planning,” Thom murmured, watching the duke through the flames.
The jewelled rod that he held winked, and Thom found himself looking into a pair of blue eyes. The moment broke just as suddenly. In the remote safety of the City of the Gods, Thom sat back on his heels and let the image shimmer, then fade away.
II
He had not arrived in time to see his sister go into the Chamber, but he had witnessed her emerge from its hollow darkness, alive. By the time of the second feast of the Midwinter Festival, Alanna had calmed considerably, but Thom still detected a concealed uneasiness in her. The Chamber of the Ordeal of Knighthood was rumoured to be far different than the Ordeal of Sorcery that adepts faced in the Mithran Cloisters. Thom would have given anything to experience the old magics of the Chamber—except, he thought wryly, years of page training.
Duke Roger, when Thom had the brief honour of speaking with him at the feast, was disappointing in his courtesy. Surrounded by lords, ladies, and the newly knighted, the man’s handsome face and polite words were a mask upon whatever vile plots he was crafting; Thom accepted his congratulations for completing his Mastery and sought more stimulating conversation elsewhere, though he did not find it. The feeling of eyes upon his back lingered, long into the evening.
***
Standing at Alanna’s back, Thom felt the banquet hall fall silent, quiet as the grave. Were the gods listening? Did his sister’s divine patron care for the dramatics of mortals or did She look down upon them with something between satisfaction and indifference?
“…I knew this was dishonourable, and I did it anyway. What I did was wrong. What I thought to find—what I did find—was far worse.”
The queen cried out when Alanna placed her findings on the table. The wax dolls were macabre and damning in their likenesses. Thom reached out, curious, before remembering himself—what damage could be done by mishandling such an object?
Alanna’s heated accusations and the duke’s furious denials split the air of the hall like sharpened blades. The tension raised gooseflesh on Thom’s skin, but he could not draw his eyes from those dolls: among them were representations of Alanna, the king, the Lord Provost…yet Thom saw no wax doll modelled after himself.
Roger was demanding trial by combat, now, still clinging to innocence. Thom watched him—watched the famed duke deny his guilt like a child. The entire hall and all who were gathered there had been changed already, by the sudden display of weakness, unintentional though it may have been.
Thom could do nothing but watch as his sister killed the most powerful sorcerer in the Eastern Lands.
III
“Rumour has it that the king has asked you to teach sorcery to the pages,” Delia of Eldorne said, glancing at him sidelong. Further off, some of the lords and ladies had stopped to examine one of the gardens where a new specimen from Carthak had been transplanted.
The lady and her party had intercepted his walk from one part of the palace to another, and now she clung to him like a leech, showing no sign of removing herself. Delia was pretty and ambitious, but so was every other young woman here.
Alanna had ridden off in search of adventure without a backward glance, and the glittering allure of life at court had turned to lifeless glass in her wake.
“Although I don’t doubt it,” Delia continued, when he did not reply, “I was certain that you would not accept.”
“And why would you think that?”
“Lord Thom, do you want me to flatter you?” She ticked the reasons off her fingers. “The youngest person to ever gain Mastery. Most powerful sorcerer in Tortall. Brother to the most controversial young knight of this decade, and said to have assisted her in the greatest deception this country has seen. If I were you, I could not help but aspire to grander heights than teaching children.”
“I will admit to having no interest in teaching the Gifted pages,” he replied. Though he would never stoop to gossip with this woman, it was true that he had been offered the position—and refused it.
“Who would? Of course, the late Duke of Conté did, but considering how that turned out, I wouldn’t question if it was merely part of the act. But,” she lowered her voice suddenly, “I’ve heard whispers that it was him who sent the Sweating Fever, and all the way from Carthak!”
Thom smiled thinly. “Is that so?”
“It’s a dreadful business, naturally, but he must have been truly powerful to manage such a thing.” Her expression turned oddly sympathetic. “Corus must bore you so, Lord Thom. Have you considered returning to the City of the Gods? I assume it would be more suited to your pace.”
He was not certain if she spoke innocently or if the barb was intentional; whichever it was, he did not appreciate the implication. He did not fancy remaining at the palace to perform party tricks, however; even the dullness of the Mithran Cloisters would be preferable to debasing himself and his Gift in such a way. Wouldn’t it?
They walked in silence. A number of old texts in the castle library awaited him; his fingers itched to turn the brittle pages and discover what secrets those books and scrolls held. Yet even they would not hold his interest forever, and if he did not put his talents to good use, it would make no difference where he resided.
The song of a swallow broke the quiet. Delia tilted her head, listening, her lips curved in a smile. “I heard a story of Duke Roger, once: when he was still a child, a bird flew into his window and he brought it back to life with just a touch of his hand. It was one of the first signs of his Gift.” She shook her head, dark curls bouncing. “What do you make of that, Lord Thom? Is there truth to the tale or is it exaggeration?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. But he would be interested to find out.
***
The body should have been burned, the ashes spread on Traitor’s Hill.
Hot sweat beaded on Thom’s forehead. The catacombs shone with the light of a hundred candles; he had given so much time already, the wax melting into glossy puddles, but still the ground trembled. His body trembled, too, as if a great weight sought to pull him beneath the stone and earth.
But he could not leave this unfinished. There were too many questions that remained unanswered. He licked his upper lip, tasted salt and blood.
Something broke inside him, like a fist about his heart.
Darkness pulled him down….
IV
Eyes. There were eyes all around, always watching.
Thom was strangely relieved that the old king had not lived to see what he had done.
The court fluttered with gossip, lords and ladies sharing rumour with wide eyes and trembling hands. From the knights, the fear was mixed with something far more bitter; he learned to ignore the shame and disapproval that radiated from that quarter.
But there was one pair of eyes that did not whisper or linger or judge: as blue as the day he had died, though the face that housed them was sickly and grey, not yet free from the memory of death.
His appearance was no matter, nor the state of his once-fine clothes. Thom suppressed a shiver when a hand pressed upon his shoulder; those eyes gazed on him in almost wonder, as if seeing him anew.
And the older man spoke with a deference that Thom had heard from no one else.
“It is not great power you hold,” he said, softly, “but the power to do great things.”
Thom smiled.
V
“What does it matter if Jonathan makes cow eyes at that Copper Isles slut,” Delia said, pacing furiously, her green skirts rustling. Thom pressed his fingers against his temple and tried to focus on the inked words in front of him; he seemed to tire more easily these days, and listening to Delia’s drivel was excruciating at the best of times.
“Even without his Gift, Roger is far better-suited to me,” she went on. “The entire palace has heard the whispers from the Lower City: Jonathan looks like a green boy, while Roger—”
Thom slammed his palm down on the desk and Delia jumped. “Enough!” he demanded. “If you can’t hold that stupid tongue of yours, let me work in peace!”
She seemed to swell with anger, spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks. “You dare,” she began, stepping towards him, fists clenched. “Lord Thom thinks he’s better than all of us—”
Rising from his chair, he allowed months of repressed loathing to pour forth. “Your petty concerns are so far beneath me that only lowliest servants would care to gossip about them,” he spat. “Jonathan used you and threw you aside, and Roger will do the same.”
His words only seemed to anger her more. “Roger—”
Thom sneered. “Roger is fond of you, as he would be fond of a pet. And when he is done with you, he will kick you to the gutter like a common bitch, without hesitation or remorse. You fool yourself with pretty clothes and banquets, Delia, but beneath it all you are nothing.”
“You need to learn your place, Thom of Trebond,” she told him, deathly quiet. Her eyes pierced his flesh, but she could not harm him. The expression on her face made him laugh.
“I know my place,” he said, bitterness rising in his throat. He swallowed it down and walked around the desk, to the door. “Do you know yours?”
The handle turned before he could touch it and the door opened inward; Alexander of Tirragen stood there, his dark eyes taking in the scene, saying nothing. The young knight moved aside, allowing Thom to leave.
Though his legs carried him swiftly away, Thom heard the door close once more, and the murmur of voices beyond. He clenched his fists until the nails bit into his palms and kept walking—to where, he did not know. The rage continued on, though, filling him until his skin burned from the inside out.
It was too late to stop it.
VI
Tears ran down her cheeks. He tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much.
He could hardly feel the pillows as he sank back against them, but Alanna’s hands still felt real, she was still alive, and he wanted to laugh again at the bleak fact that she would have to kill him all over again. She had to.
“Never—know how—he did it…” Thom whispered, and his final plea was for forgiveness.
END
A/N: Some snippets borrowed from the books: Alanna’s dialogue about the wax dolls and Thom’s final dialogue.
And it seems to me that Delia knows she's dispensable and is trying to convince herself otherwise.