Post by capjack54 on Feb 28, 2011 22:53:37 GMT -5
[This is a little something I bodged together during CWI last year to satisfy my critics. The segment I wrote is fairly short, and the chances of me actually finishing it are fairly long. Anyway, I emplore you to enjoy what little there is.]
There was something beautiful about the capital this time of year; the summer made everything sweet and sunny, and Maubenc hated it.
He hated it for reasons that were no fault of its own. Though he held no particular grudge against the birds fluttering in black silhouettes against the sunset, or the grass waving goodnight as the earth let out a held breath, or the cacophonous song of the summer peepers, he could not stand the general splendor of the lands surrounding him. Instead, he brooded in a quiet, darkened corner of the palace. His brooding found a home not in the recent death of Lord Auvrey, but the events proceeding thereafter, which had led to the more crushing disappointment.
He’d never taken proper time to acquaint himself with Auvrey’s son, it was true; but the boy had never had a distinct effect on the policy put forth by his father, and so Maubenc had never felt it necessary. Now in the wake of Lord Auvrey’s passing, he should have been surprised to be supplanted by Lord Elleson as appointed regent. But the insult bit into his peace of mind and spread its poison. He had served as the late Lord Auvrey’s appointed regent for some twenty years with success. The only explanation for this outrage was the young Auvrey’s attachment to Lord Elleson. Such favoritism was unbecoming of the new Lord Supreme.
Sitting there, forgotten, as the shadows grew both about him and within him, Simon Maubenc’s mind was focused on a singular machine: revenge.
* * *
Elsewhere in the palace, in grander, warmer, lighter chambers, the honorable Lord Marcus Elleson paced the great hall with increasing impatience. His eyes darted around the immense space – almost as large as the jousting lists, the other place such merrymaking would often be observed. With a measured frustration, Elleson searched with his eyes the tables at the far end of the hall, lit with gleaming glass candelabras and heaped with the finest, most exotic food the royal coffers could be emptied to procure. His gaze swept over the tumbling mass of gaily-attired dancers, the wide marble floor writhing with fine silk gowns, glittering silver lace and crisp embroidered doublets.
Only this morning, the sun had risen on a much more somber scene, the palace hung from foundation to winding spires with black banners bearing the ill tidings of the Lord Supreme’s passing. But today was the seventh day, ere he had departed, and as was custom, his life was to be celebrated as fully as his death had been mourned. By sundown, the palace has been transformed, an umber-camouflaged moon flower bursting into colorful splendor as the night drew in. The entire courts was here assembled for the celebration… excepting two.
It was these two that Lord Elleson’s prying eyes hoped to find in the tangle of adorned limbs before him, but the task was proving impossible. He sighed and irritably adjusted the fine robes that hung about him, itching under their tyrannous presence. He hated the formality as much as the young Lord Auvrey himself, but he had forced himself into the peacock-inspired foolishness of this garb in order to provide the boy’s reign with the greatest respect and success. The effect, however, was somewhat lost if the young lord never chose to appear himself…
Finally, when he could stand the strain of the cellos no more, Elleson made his way to the end of the hall, sliding along the walls of the packed space to avoid confrontation. He slipped off out the doors into the cool atrium, treading quietly in the direction of the young lord’s chambers.
* * *
Curled in a sultry shade, two forms lay, pressed together despite the summer heat, beneath sheets of finest silk. Only the best for the royal bed.
“Rhys?” came a quiet voice – female, and barely more than a whisper.
“Hm?” replied the youth, stirring at the interruption.
“What hour is it?”
Rhys groaned. “I’ve no idea.” Blinking, he sat up in bed, peering through the sheer shades draped round the bed. The only light in the room came from a single, wavering candle-flame. “The sun’s gone down, at least.”
“That should suit your headache well,” she teased, a smile playing across thin, dainty lips. Her lips, Rhys had come to realize, were the only dainty things to be found on her. Even her eyes burned playfully as she fixed him with a knowing stare.
“Indeed.” Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and slipped out from beneath the covers, crossing the room to stand by the windowsill. The girl watched him with adoration, admiring him from a distance.
“It’s the banquet this evening, remember?” She prompted him, cautious of his reaction. “Marcus will have your head if you’re not there.”
“Maybe so,” said Rhys. There was an aimlessness in his voice that worried her. “But I can’t join in their… their celebration. The old ways be damned; my father is dead, king or no.” He slapped his palm lightly against the cold stone of the sill, as if testing its strength.
The girl held her tongue a moment. “You’ve spent the week in bed, Rhys. You must face the other lords sometime, and may it be before the crown weighs heavy on your mind.”
Rhys turned to examine her. A small smile found its way to his face after a long journey from the depths of his heart.
“A week spent in bed is far from a wasted one when it is spent with you, dear Isabel,” he nearly recited, the words flowery and turgid to the point of laughter, in which she then indulged. Giggling softly, she propped herself on elbows and met his lips as he crossed the room once more and bent low to kiss her.
Their amorous reverie was shattered by a sudden knock at the door. Starting, Isabel looked to the door expectantly, gathering the sheets about her. Tense, Rhys reached for the dagger beneath the plush mattress, where he kept it ever-concealed. Crossing to the door, he opened it a crack and peered through the tiny space out into the hall.
“Master Rhys?” called a frightened voice. Almost instantly, Rhys relaxed, tossing the blade onto a carved wooden desk nearby and opening the door a little wider.
“Thomas,” he said, apparently not thrilled at the page’s presence. “Marcus sent you?”
“Yes, Lord Auvrey,” Thomas replied obediently. “He advises you collect yourself, and find it in your heart to put aside your grief and come join your wife and him in the great hall.”
The message was delivered faithfully, with all of Marcus’ noble sarcasm, and the word ‘wife’ received sufficient emphasis to inspire guilt.
“Very well,” Rhys gave in. “Inform Lord Elleson that I will join him shortly, though it pains me greatly to do so.”
Thomas nodded, a certain gleam in his eye. The poor page had been the go-between for Rhys and Marcus for years, ad had by now learned to appreciate their banter, seeing as carrying it hither and thither was his only occupation. “Very good, my lord.”
He turned and departed, and Rhys shut the door quietly, turning back to the royal resting place. Isabel was no longer sprawled across it, languishing in its luxuries; she stood facing the far wall, pulling on bodice, shift, and gown. Approaching her, he laid his hands on her shoulders, and she turned, the cords of her corset hanging down her back, useless. They served no purpose; her shape was perfect in form as could be by any stretch of mathematics or imagination. She met his eyes with her own, and he reassured her with a welcoming smile.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said.
“Yes, I think so.” Gathering the remainder of her garments, she made for the door. Rhys watched her go. She turned and gave him a good, hard look before shutting it behind her.
Sighing, Rhys turned and fell back into bed, parting sheer curtains as he tumbled into a comfortable place, nestled among sheets still warm from Isabel’s body. After a deep breath, he considered the promise he’d just made and decided to break it. Let them dance over a dead man’s grave. He wanted no part of it; his bones were too sore, his soul too weary from the week’s preparations. Tomorrow would mark the true beginning of his reign. He would do well to retire while there was still some candle-wick to burn.
He’d just settled in for a night’s nap when another knock came at the door. Groaning, he heaved himself off the bed once more and shuffled to the door with less enthusiasm than a convict to the gallows tree.
“I’m coming, Marcus,” he said as he yanked open the door. “I-”
The attacker’s first blow hit him hard in the stomach. Doubled over, he was still reeling in shock when a quick chop caught him in the throat. Staggering backward blindly, he ran into the wooden desk and tripped, falling backwards. His assailant leapt upon him, taking every opportunity to beat and maim, but in his first favorable move, he caught the striking hand and pulled it down to his level, along with its owner. Tumbling across the floor, the assassin recovered and scrambled towards him.
Working his way to his feet, Rhys circled the stranger, watching for his next move, but the man was too quick, and before he knew it, a brief scuffle ended with his head in the attacker’s hands. His forehead bounced ruthlessly off the hard wooden bedpost and sang with pain as he tumbled to the floor, dazed and limp. In a second, his attacker was on top of him, pinning him to the ground with two knees and two hands clasped tight around his throat. Bucking and writhing. Rhys’ hand flailed out wildly for some sort of salvation and fell on a high-heeled shoe – Isabel had left it behind. His fingers closing around it, he beat at his attacker’s head with it. He was rewarded with a scream of surprise and pain from his attacker and a single moment of freedom. Scrambling to his feet with the aid of the windowsill, Rhys turned and threw himself towards the desk, towards the dagger, only to find–
A thrill of shock went through him as he felt the dagger enter his own body, a hard, alien object suddenly thrust hard between his ribs. He balked, seeing the familiar hilt peeking out from the sheath of his own flesh. With a final push, the assassin let it go and moved back to observe his handiwork as Rhys’ knees slammed into the unforgiving floor. One hand stretched out before him to break his fall and brace himself, Rhys bit his lip and drew the dagger forth in one motion, but when he raised his gaze once more, all that remained to mark the mysterious assailant’s presence was a trail of red speckles leading out into the hall and a bloody handprint on the wrought iron handle.
Panting with the effort of it, Rhys propped himself up against the bedpost that now bore his blood. The sullied dagger fell to the cold marble with a clatter. His gaze swept over both this and the crimson flower now blossoming on his loose white shirt. He tried to call for Thomas, but the words emerged as a strange gurgle.
His last sights were of the flickering candle as an unseen summer breeze blew it out.
There was something beautiful about the capital this time of year; the summer made everything sweet and sunny, and Maubenc hated it.
He hated it for reasons that were no fault of its own. Though he held no particular grudge against the birds fluttering in black silhouettes against the sunset, or the grass waving goodnight as the earth let out a held breath, or the cacophonous song of the summer peepers, he could not stand the general splendor of the lands surrounding him. Instead, he brooded in a quiet, darkened corner of the palace. His brooding found a home not in the recent death of Lord Auvrey, but the events proceeding thereafter, which had led to the more crushing disappointment.
He’d never taken proper time to acquaint himself with Auvrey’s son, it was true; but the boy had never had a distinct effect on the policy put forth by his father, and so Maubenc had never felt it necessary. Now in the wake of Lord Auvrey’s passing, he should have been surprised to be supplanted by Lord Elleson as appointed regent. But the insult bit into his peace of mind and spread its poison. He had served as the late Lord Auvrey’s appointed regent for some twenty years with success. The only explanation for this outrage was the young Auvrey’s attachment to Lord Elleson. Such favoritism was unbecoming of the new Lord Supreme.
Sitting there, forgotten, as the shadows grew both about him and within him, Simon Maubenc’s mind was focused on a singular machine: revenge.
* * *
Elsewhere in the palace, in grander, warmer, lighter chambers, the honorable Lord Marcus Elleson paced the great hall with increasing impatience. His eyes darted around the immense space – almost as large as the jousting lists, the other place such merrymaking would often be observed. With a measured frustration, Elleson searched with his eyes the tables at the far end of the hall, lit with gleaming glass candelabras and heaped with the finest, most exotic food the royal coffers could be emptied to procure. His gaze swept over the tumbling mass of gaily-attired dancers, the wide marble floor writhing with fine silk gowns, glittering silver lace and crisp embroidered doublets.
Only this morning, the sun had risen on a much more somber scene, the palace hung from foundation to winding spires with black banners bearing the ill tidings of the Lord Supreme’s passing. But today was the seventh day, ere he had departed, and as was custom, his life was to be celebrated as fully as his death had been mourned. By sundown, the palace has been transformed, an umber-camouflaged moon flower bursting into colorful splendor as the night drew in. The entire courts was here assembled for the celebration… excepting two.
It was these two that Lord Elleson’s prying eyes hoped to find in the tangle of adorned limbs before him, but the task was proving impossible. He sighed and irritably adjusted the fine robes that hung about him, itching under their tyrannous presence. He hated the formality as much as the young Lord Auvrey himself, but he had forced himself into the peacock-inspired foolishness of this garb in order to provide the boy’s reign with the greatest respect and success. The effect, however, was somewhat lost if the young lord never chose to appear himself…
Finally, when he could stand the strain of the cellos no more, Elleson made his way to the end of the hall, sliding along the walls of the packed space to avoid confrontation. He slipped off out the doors into the cool atrium, treading quietly in the direction of the young lord’s chambers.
* * *
Curled in a sultry shade, two forms lay, pressed together despite the summer heat, beneath sheets of finest silk. Only the best for the royal bed.
“Rhys?” came a quiet voice – female, and barely more than a whisper.
“Hm?” replied the youth, stirring at the interruption.
“What hour is it?”
Rhys groaned. “I’ve no idea.” Blinking, he sat up in bed, peering through the sheer shades draped round the bed. The only light in the room came from a single, wavering candle-flame. “The sun’s gone down, at least.”
“That should suit your headache well,” she teased, a smile playing across thin, dainty lips. Her lips, Rhys had come to realize, were the only dainty things to be found on her. Even her eyes burned playfully as she fixed him with a knowing stare.
“Indeed.” Running a hand through his hair, he sighed and slipped out from beneath the covers, crossing the room to stand by the windowsill. The girl watched him with adoration, admiring him from a distance.
“It’s the banquet this evening, remember?” She prompted him, cautious of his reaction. “Marcus will have your head if you’re not there.”
“Maybe so,” said Rhys. There was an aimlessness in his voice that worried her. “But I can’t join in their… their celebration. The old ways be damned; my father is dead, king or no.” He slapped his palm lightly against the cold stone of the sill, as if testing its strength.
The girl held her tongue a moment. “You’ve spent the week in bed, Rhys. You must face the other lords sometime, and may it be before the crown weighs heavy on your mind.”
Rhys turned to examine her. A small smile found its way to his face after a long journey from the depths of his heart.
“A week spent in bed is far from a wasted one when it is spent with you, dear Isabel,” he nearly recited, the words flowery and turgid to the point of laughter, in which she then indulged. Giggling softly, she propped herself on elbows and met his lips as he crossed the room once more and bent low to kiss her.
Their amorous reverie was shattered by a sudden knock at the door. Starting, Isabel looked to the door expectantly, gathering the sheets about her. Tense, Rhys reached for the dagger beneath the plush mattress, where he kept it ever-concealed. Crossing to the door, he opened it a crack and peered through the tiny space out into the hall.
“Master Rhys?” called a frightened voice. Almost instantly, Rhys relaxed, tossing the blade onto a carved wooden desk nearby and opening the door a little wider.
“Thomas,” he said, apparently not thrilled at the page’s presence. “Marcus sent you?”
“Yes, Lord Auvrey,” Thomas replied obediently. “He advises you collect yourself, and find it in your heart to put aside your grief and come join your wife and him in the great hall.”
The message was delivered faithfully, with all of Marcus’ noble sarcasm, and the word ‘wife’ received sufficient emphasis to inspire guilt.
“Very well,” Rhys gave in. “Inform Lord Elleson that I will join him shortly, though it pains me greatly to do so.”
Thomas nodded, a certain gleam in his eye. The poor page had been the go-between for Rhys and Marcus for years, ad had by now learned to appreciate their banter, seeing as carrying it hither and thither was his only occupation. “Very good, my lord.”
He turned and departed, and Rhys shut the door quietly, turning back to the royal resting place. Isabel was no longer sprawled across it, languishing in its luxuries; she stood facing the far wall, pulling on bodice, shift, and gown. Approaching her, he laid his hands on her shoulders, and she turned, the cords of her corset hanging down her back, useless. They served no purpose; her shape was perfect in form as could be by any stretch of mathematics or imagination. She met his eyes with her own, and he reassured her with a welcoming smile.
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said.
“Yes, I think so.” Gathering the remainder of her garments, she made for the door. Rhys watched her go. She turned and gave him a good, hard look before shutting it behind her.
Sighing, Rhys turned and fell back into bed, parting sheer curtains as he tumbled into a comfortable place, nestled among sheets still warm from Isabel’s body. After a deep breath, he considered the promise he’d just made and decided to break it. Let them dance over a dead man’s grave. He wanted no part of it; his bones were too sore, his soul too weary from the week’s preparations. Tomorrow would mark the true beginning of his reign. He would do well to retire while there was still some candle-wick to burn.
He’d just settled in for a night’s nap when another knock came at the door. Groaning, he heaved himself off the bed once more and shuffled to the door with less enthusiasm than a convict to the gallows tree.
“I’m coming, Marcus,” he said as he yanked open the door. “I-”
The attacker’s first blow hit him hard in the stomach. Doubled over, he was still reeling in shock when a quick chop caught him in the throat. Staggering backward blindly, he ran into the wooden desk and tripped, falling backwards. His assailant leapt upon him, taking every opportunity to beat and maim, but in his first favorable move, he caught the striking hand and pulled it down to his level, along with its owner. Tumbling across the floor, the assassin recovered and scrambled towards him.
Working his way to his feet, Rhys circled the stranger, watching for his next move, but the man was too quick, and before he knew it, a brief scuffle ended with his head in the attacker’s hands. His forehead bounced ruthlessly off the hard wooden bedpost and sang with pain as he tumbled to the floor, dazed and limp. In a second, his attacker was on top of him, pinning him to the ground with two knees and two hands clasped tight around his throat. Bucking and writhing. Rhys’ hand flailed out wildly for some sort of salvation and fell on a high-heeled shoe – Isabel had left it behind. His fingers closing around it, he beat at his attacker’s head with it. He was rewarded with a scream of surprise and pain from his attacker and a single moment of freedom. Scrambling to his feet with the aid of the windowsill, Rhys turned and threw himself towards the desk, towards the dagger, only to find–
A thrill of shock went through him as he felt the dagger enter his own body, a hard, alien object suddenly thrust hard between his ribs. He balked, seeing the familiar hilt peeking out from the sheath of his own flesh. With a final push, the assassin let it go and moved back to observe his handiwork as Rhys’ knees slammed into the unforgiving floor. One hand stretched out before him to break his fall and brace himself, Rhys bit his lip and drew the dagger forth in one motion, but when he raised his gaze once more, all that remained to mark the mysterious assailant’s presence was a trail of red speckles leading out into the hall and a bloody handprint on the wrought iron handle.
Panting with the effort of it, Rhys propped himself up against the bedpost that now bore his blood. The sullied dagger fell to the cold marble with a clatter. His gaze swept over both this and the crimson flower now blossoming on his loose white shirt. He tried to call for Thomas, but the words emerged as a strange gurgle.
His last sights were of the flickering candle as an unseen summer breeze blew it out.