Post by Griff on Dec 23, 2014 19:53:42 GMT 10
Title: Kings and Executioners
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character Death
For: Idlesse
Prompt: What Alanna and her friends do next after Roger's plot for the throne succeeds.
Summary: When the King fell ill, it was unfortunate. When Jon fell ill, it was a conspiracy. When they both died, gasping and pale, frothing blood boiling out of their nostrils while their mouths gaped empty and useless, it was assassination.
-
“Alan.”
Jon’s tomb was bare.
It was pointed, the flat, faceless absence set next to his father and his father’s father, each a carved likeness cresting out of solid stone to remind the world above of each visage.
But not Jon.
She ran a single finger down the granulated surface. It look smooth, but under her fingertip, each fleck of stone bit and curled against her skin.
“Alan,” Gary set his hand gently on her shoulder. “We’ve been down here for weeks.”
The first week was an accident. When the King fell ill, it was unfortunate. When Jon fell ill, it was a conspiracy. When they both died, gasping and pale, frothing blood boiling out of their nostrils while their mouths gaped empty and useless, it was assassination. Alanna knew. She knew, despite the arrests of Tusaine’s foreign diplomats, that this wasn’t some power hungry lord chewing at their borders. Roger was too contained, too rehearsed, with Alex standing sadly at his shoulder, as he claimed the loyalty of the nobility in lieu of the crown.
As his eyes scanned the masses, black in mourning, he saw her fury burning back at him, knowing and accusations ready to light the tinder in her lips.
That was her mistake.
She hasn’t asked how Gary knew, but when he edged them - she and Raoul - around the corner away from the main halls, through the kitchen where a servant passed him a trio of stuffed packs without so much as a glance, and down the darkened staircases to the long halls filled with silence and a dead audience, Alanna never questioned him.
Gary loved Jon. If he had a choice, he would be laying in the cold casket abandoned under the stones of Corus, just like she would.
“Alan,” his hand squeezed her shoulder hard enough to bruise, but absently Alanna knew he’d shaken her gently several times already.
She turned her head, half a turn at most, so he’d know she heard him.
“We can’t stay here anymore. There’s nothing we can do from a crypt. And I haven’t found supplies waiting by the stairs for three days. We’re out of water.”
If Roger had taken the time to honor him, Alanna thought, his nose would be just there. She rubbed her finger gently on the stone. It would be softer than he’d like to admit, from his mother instead of his father’s almost bulbous knob. Jon was enchanting enough for a young man, but unless he took care, he would have softened as he aged. Alanna imagined him as a clean-shaven king, face still boyish well past the age of charm.
It was a hollow, empty thought. Jon would stay young forever, except here in the tombs where his features would rot away until he was nothing but a stack of bones to be forgotten.
Here lies Jonathan, she thought, too important to live, too unrealized to remember.
“I’m going to kill him,” she said. “I’m going to find him and peel the skin off his teeth until there’s nothing left of him but his sick, sycophantic grin. I’m going to kill him and take his head and when they find it he’ll be nothing but teeth.”
“Alan.”
“I’m going to kill Roger of Conte,” She hissed, eyes flashing in the dark with unholy light. “I’m going to take every moment he stole and I’m going to rip it out of his hide and throw it from the ramparts so all his of his courtiers can taste his betrayal as they wait to cheer for him.”
“Oh, lad.” Gary sighed, lilting the words Alanna knew he stole from George and the lower city because they were theirs’. They were Gary and Alan and Raoul and Johnny’s. Lads without family names or lordships or crowns. Lads who would never be killed by their cousin because of their birth.
Raoul, who had been quiet for so long Alanna almost thought he’d decided to to curl up and join the Black God for the sake of sadness, wrapped his arms around her and pressed his cheek against hers. She was crying, she realized vaguely, as the bristles of his beard slide wetly against her skin. They both were.
“It’s regicide,” Gary said plainly. “Roger is last of the Conte line. There’ll be nothing but war if you take his head.”
She thought of the lines of people who wailed as the King’s casket promenaded through the courtyard. How they threw themselves at the ground as Jon’s faceless box passed them with the same dramatic grievance.
They mourned, she knew, for the stability of the kingdom and the future of their household.
“Good,” She sucked a breath in harshly, pain wheezing out as she breath. “May the Black God take them all. Teach them to bow to a murder.”
“Sod them all,” Raoul mumbled into her shoulder. “Let them rot.”
“Let them rot,” Gary sighed. He reached out delicately, rubbing his fingers along their features, following their faces in the dark shadows of the torchlight. “Let them rot. What executioners we make.”
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Character Death
For: Idlesse
Prompt: What Alanna and her friends do next after Roger's plot for the throne succeeds.
Summary: When the King fell ill, it was unfortunate. When Jon fell ill, it was a conspiracy. When they both died, gasping and pale, frothing blood boiling out of their nostrils while their mouths gaped empty and useless, it was assassination.
-
“Alan.”
Jon’s tomb was bare.
It was pointed, the flat, faceless absence set next to his father and his father’s father, each a carved likeness cresting out of solid stone to remind the world above of each visage.
But not Jon.
She ran a single finger down the granulated surface. It look smooth, but under her fingertip, each fleck of stone bit and curled against her skin.
“Alan,” Gary set his hand gently on her shoulder. “We’ve been down here for weeks.”
The first week was an accident. When the King fell ill, it was unfortunate. When Jon fell ill, it was a conspiracy. When they both died, gasping and pale, frothing blood boiling out of their nostrils while their mouths gaped empty and useless, it was assassination. Alanna knew. She knew, despite the arrests of Tusaine’s foreign diplomats, that this wasn’t some power hungry lord chewing at their borders. Roger was too contained, too rehearsed, with Alex standing sadly at his shoulder, as he claimed the loyalty of the nobility in lieu of the crown.
As his eyes scanned the masses, black in mourning, he saw her fury burning back at him, knowing and accusations ready to light the tinder in her lips.
That was her mistake.
She hasn’t asked how Gary knew, but when he edged them - she and Raoul - around the corner away from the main halls, through the kitchen where a servant passed him a trio of stuffed packs without so much as a glance, and down the darkened staircases to the long halls filled with silence and a dead audience, Alanna never questioned him.
Gary loved Jon. If he had a choice, he would be laying in the cold casket abandoned under the stones of Corus, just like she would.
“Alan,” his hand squeezed her shoulder hard enough to bruise, but absently Alanna knew he’d shaken her gently several times already.
She turned her head, half a turn at most, so he’d know she heard him.
“We can’t stay here anymore. There’s nothing we can do from a crypt. And I haven’t found supplies waiting by the stairs for three days. We’re out of water.”
If Roger had taken the time to honor him, Alanna thought, his nose would be just there. She rubbed her finger gently on the stone. It would be softer than he’d like to admit, from his mother instead of his father’s almost bulbous knob. Jon was enchanting enough for a young man, but unless he took care, he would have softened as he aged. Alanna imagined him as a clean-shaven king, face still boyish well past the age of charm.
It was a hollow, empty thought. Jon would stay young forever, except here in the tombs where his features would rot away until he was nothing but a stack of bones to be forgotten.
Here lies Jonathan, she thought, too important to live, too unrealized to remember.
“I’m going to kill him,” she said. “I’m going to find him and peel the skin off his teeth until there’s nothing left of him but his sick, sycophantic grin. I’m going to kill him and take his head and when they find it he’ll be nothing but teeth.”
“Alan.”
“I’m going to kill Roger of Conte,” She hissed, eyes flashing in the dark with unholy light. “I’m going to take every moment he stole and I’m going to rip it out of his hide and throw it from the ramparts so all his of his courtiers can taste his betrayal as they wait to cheer for him.”
“Oh, lad.” Gary sighed, lilting the words Alanna knew he stole from George and the lower city because they were theirs’. They were Gary and Alan and Raoul and Johnny’s. Lads without family names or lordships or crowns. Lads who would never be killed by their cousin because of their birth.
Raoul, who had been quiet for so long Alanna almost thought he’d decided to to curl up and join the Black God for the sake of sadness, wrapped his arms around her and pressed his cheek against hers. She was crying, she realized vaguely, as the bristles of his beard slide wetly against her skin. They both were.
“It’s regicide,” Gary said plainly. “Roger is last of the Conte line. There’ll be nothing but war if you take his head.”
She thought of the lines of people who wailed as the King’s casket promenaded through the courtyard. How they threw themselves at the ground as Jon’s faceless box passed them with the same dramatic grievance.
They mourned, she knew, for the stability of the kingdom and the future of their household.
“Good,” She sucked a breath in harshly, pain wheezing out as she breath. “May the Black God take them all. Teach them to bow to a murder.”
“Sod them all,” Raoul mumbled into her shoulder. “Let them rot.”
“Let them rot,” Gary sighed. He reached out delicately, rubbing his fingers along their features, following their faces in the dark shadows of the torchlight. “Let them rot. What executioners we make.”