05-10-2016, 12:35 AM
A kiss is not a contract
What was the phrase the old women whispered, when they stood at the market center and spread their vicious gossip? Besra looks around her, the realization finally settling in. This was a pit of vipers who’d not been fed for quite some time. Narrowed eyes and tight-lipped smiles, forked tongues and low hisses. The fun for them had just begun, but for her - oh for sweet, unsuspecting Besra - the terror becomes all too real. Here she was, surrounded by the noble-born daughters of Lords and Ladies and who was she but a country girl? Miriam has drifted over to her, no doubt sensing the tension, to wind her long, pale fingers through Besra’s tanned hand and together they watch the main door swing wide, Francis waiting in the impending dark just outside.
Suddenly, she remembers what it was that the old women prattled on about. Ignorance is bliss, they would say, weathered hands gnarled around baskets of linen and common goods. Until this moment, Besra’s never given it a thought and perhaps that makes her all the more guilty for standing here like a foolish twat while her own people struggle to make ends meet. “Please, everyone sit…” Francis begins, and the assembly calmly gathers themselves to benches, chairs, and stools. He’s kind, even though the lie is the written clear across his face. He’s not been prepared fully for this moment and Besra could see that, maybe the other’s could too.
There’s a tug on her hand - Miriam’s been called. In confusion Besra rises with her, head shaking in disbelief. “Sit down.” Miriam whispers firmly, breaking their grasp on each other. “Besra be strong, you’re smarter than the rest of these pretenders.” She says, leaning in to wrap her arms around the blue-eyed girl in a brief, yet genuine embrace. They pull back, both wordless but understanding before Miriam gathers herself to exit the castle, head high while her flaming hair undulates behind her. It’s terrifying to watch her and the others leave, now here she was, empty-handed and silent as Francis gave a formal congratulations to those remaining. What kind of world was one where no one could be trusted?
It’s not a world she enjoys very much at the moment.
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With the elimination comes changes, though. The remaining have been re-located to private chambers, their numbers small and intimate. They settle into a routine of sorts: breakfast after dawn, exercises and lessons before lunch, court duties and social etiquette preceding dinner, and then, only after they’ve finished their meals properly, did they have a few hours of precious daylight to spend as they chose.
Besra is a slave to her abstractions. Her mind is like a bottomless well, parched of water for so long and now filling rapidly with any sort of information she can get her hands on: Languages, the great battles of the past, foreign countries and whether they excelled in exports or imports. It becomes like a retreat for her, those last hours of daylight where she can scour the library and uncover long-forgotten tomes. It’s not long until someone else takes notice, either. There comes a late evening when the light slants through the thick-paned windows and Besra is interrupted by a cough.
It’s one of her tudors, Lord Winston, or as everyone else knew him: manager of coin for the crown. Besra smiles in welcome, rising from her seat and putting aside a weathered book before curtsying lightly. He seems pleased by this, hands hidden behind his back while he bends his neck in a familiar bow. “Lady Besra,” He begins, striding forward to gaze down at her with a keen eye, “surely there are other activities that hold your interest?” He says, questioning stare turning away from her to wander about the terribly empty room.
“Just Besra, please. I’m no Lady.” She tells him, following his eyes. “And you’ve no cause for concern, Lord Winston. I have many things that interest me, but none quite as alluring as these books.” She offers, hoping it will suffice as an answer to her separation from the other girls. His eyebrows betray him, one quirking rather precariously up into the wrinkles of his forehead before he reveals that he's gripping a parchment letter, still sealed. “You may very well not be a lady yet, but someday that could change.” He tells her as she takes the letter, watching her reaction. She flips it over; the handwriting unmistakable. It’s from Rury.
A nervous chill runs along her spine but she tips her chin up, brief smile fading over her face. “I should be so lucky.” She tells him, hands falling to her side though the weight of the letter in her hand feels like it could drag her to the center of the earth. Lord Winston only nods, satisfied with her answer. He turns to go but pauses as if he’s forgotten something, turning back to Besra with a concerned look. “It would do you well to get out, My Lady. A breath of fresh air always puts things into perspective for me.”
She widens her smile, nodding graciously until he’s shut the grand door behind him before collapsing into a chair, fingers grasping for the seal to break it and tenderly unwrap the gift that was her friends doing. The words are so familiar she could kiss them; that scratchy, sideways lettering and rushed thought process. Her fingers trace their loops, their curves, and she presses the letter to her heart, closing her eyes to picture his face. Sweet Rury, holding true to his word. With a sigh she releases her grip on the parchment and sets it upon her lap, smoothing the creases she’d made in her excitement.
Besra,
I struggled to write this damn letter more times than you would ever want to know, so be gentle in your thoughts of me when you read it.
I miss you, firstly. Your parents and your sister miss you, secondly. Baby Vlinder isn’t much of a baby anymore. She’s sweet, much sweeter than you ever were, but smart like you. Said her first word the other day - Rosy it was, if you believe it or not. Point is, it’s not the same without you flouncing around. In fact, nothing is the same. I’m not sure what they have you doing up there in the Castle, but be lucky you’ve missed out on what’s happening out here in the real world. People are starting to want answers but they’re not giving us any, only raising the taxes. I can’t help but wonder what strain this extravagant ‘selection ceremony’ is putting on the kingdom. Father had to trade hand-tailored clothes for good meat yesterday... It’s not right.
But ignore me. You usually do.
I hope that you’re happy and well-fed and that despite everything, you’ll come back to me whole and still with some affection in your heart for us common folk. I may not be an Heir or have any royal clippings to my name whatsoever, but I know (try as you might to deny it) that somewhere you love me. I could see it every time you looked at me and I want you to know that I will never, ever, lose faith in you. Even if you never choose me, or you cast off the place that was never big enough for your wandering mind, I’ll still be here to dry your tears and love you like no Prince ever could.
I have, and always will be, faithfully yours.
~All my love,
Rury
P.S. - Try not to miss me too much, we may be seeing each other sooner than you think. And do me a favor, keep both eyes on that dashing Francis for me.
The ending makes her laugh and that’s when she realizes her cheeks are wet. How long has she been here? Wrapped up so selfishly in her thoughts and dreams of marrying the Heir that she’s forgotten Rury, her family? It makes her sick to think of how concerned he’s been for her while she’s been off taking riding lessons and stuffing herself on three square meals a day. How far she’d fallen, and so quickly. Besra dries her tears and rises from her seat, contemplating the riddle of his goodbye. Seeing him sooner than she thought? What did he mean by that? The way Lord Winston greedily eyed the letter didn’t help. With solemn regret she turns to the dying half of a fire, bending low to deposit the paper into its embers.
Slowly, she watches the way the golden flames lick up the side, eating away at the ink and the double-meanings until they’re nothing but ash.
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Surprisingly, she takes Lord Winston’s advice, trading history for afternoons in the stables. Her riding improves in the following days, but Rury’s letter runs rampant through her mind. His father bartering clothes for food? Why hadn’t they been informed of this in the Castle? Those people were her people. Starving, frantic, agitated in the hundreds of thousands. She finds it hard to believe that news of the unrest has been kept at bay. Or maybe, she’s been too blind to see it this whole time. It irritated her to think she’d been a pawn through the entire ordeal, kept only for something that the low-born people could hold on to as hope. “Look,” They’d gossip on the square, “if one of us can make it onto the throne, then we may just find a voice for us in the capitol.” Besra can picture it now, so vividly that she throws her brush aside in a rash show of anger. What would they think, those countless people, if they could see her now? Taking leisurely strolls and learning to curtsey to the many fancy Lords and Ladies.
She wishes, more than anything, that she had Rury here. Or counsel from her parents. Anything at all to guide her in the right direction. A sound rises up from the lower castle walls - a single howl, soon followed by several more. Besra smiles, knowing it’s been far too long since she’s had the comfort of a wet tongue against the back of her hand. She knows her way there by now - Francis had been eager to show her the newborn pups on their last outing. He’d cradled a little spotted pup to his chest and asked her to name it and she’d obliged, blissfully happy in the memory.
His name was Ruckus and he lunged at the gate for her when she strode through. “He remembers you.” A voice says, causing her head to snap around in surprise. “Francis! You scared me.” She breathed, one hand pressed to her diaphragm in surprise. He was some feet back, bent over in the shadows of a corner on a stool. An empty bottle clatters across the floor when he rises and it takes her only a second to discern that he was, indeed, rather drunk. She’s a bit shocked - she hadn’t supposed he’d like the drink so much and she wouldn’t have pegged him for a lonely drunk at that.
“You’re crocked.” She accuses, watching him struggle to shuffle over to her. He gives up about halfway, posting against a support beam. Ruckus is whining at the gate but Besra’s forgotten him in the moment. Francis waves his hand jaggedly through the air, sweeping away her words with nonchalance. “I’m picking my next wife while my country scavenges for food and plots against my father.” He tells her, drawing a flask from his hip to try and undo the top with dumb fingers. Besra reaches across to snatch the case, twisting open the lid before pulling back a swig herself.
“Good point, but it’s not your country yet.” She coughs, face contorting with mild disgust. God he had a heavy tongue. He’s taken aback, silent as she extends the flask to him but he accepts it anyways, pulling a lopsided smile at her boldness. “So you know then?” He asks, nodding slowly before sipping at the dark liquid. “Everyone around here is all blah blah keeping appearances, and settling the common folk - whatever that means.” He says, turning his back to the beam so that he can slide into a sitting position on the floor.
Besra looks at him - really looks at him - and feels a hint of sympathy. She grabs a bucket, flips it over and takes a seat near him, the two switching the flask from hand to hand. “And here you are, facing the problem head on.” She mutters, a hint of disgust leaking into her tone. Faster than she would’ve given him credit for, his head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “You think that if I had any semblance of real power I’d be down here with the dogs, drinking away my troubles?” He spits, shaking his tousled head. “My father gambled away, wasted money on tourneys and horses, and let my mother run rampant with our expenses and now it’s up to me to either marry rich, or marry in hopes that the people won’t rise up against us.”
Besra’s shocked, it’s obvious by her round, stupefied stare. This whole ordeal had been a sham, right from the beginning. It wasn’t true love or kind-hearted intentions that had brought her, but a political maneuver to let some of the lucky, few, low-born citizens get a glimpse of the castle before returning to their true lives so that they could spout amazing things about the royal family. Besra had never been more repulsed in her life. She can feel the urge to retch at the back of her throat but she swallows instead, watching Francis take another plentiful gulp. “Don’t worry, I loathe myself too.” He mumbles, head lolling to one side limply.
Soundlessly, she rises from her seat, righting the bucket and picking it up to take it to the water trough. She fills it, turns back to where the Heir apparent lays sprawled on the ground, and dumps the contents over his head. It sprays them both and he’s not expecting it so he jumps to his feet, roaring his displeasure. “WHAT THE HELL?” He yells, wiping bronze curls from his eyes. Besra throws the bucket aside, fury consuming her. “You’re nothing but a spoiled rotten brat who doesn’t deserve the crown if all you do is sit down here and slowly turn into your father while your people starve!” She yelps, voice rising to match his. “You have the chance to make things right and you’d rather fall on your ass and play the pity card.”
She’s done with him. With a muffled scream she tightens her jaw and clenches her fist, turning around to fling open the pups kennel and gather Ruckus in her arms. Blast him if he thought she was going to keep the poor thing down here with a sorry sop like him. Francis is spitting dirty water out of his mouth but he’s not said anything, even though what she’s done is punishable by death. Fear replaces her anger and she knows that she can’t take back her rash actions, she’d been too hot-headed, too stupid. The kennel gate clicks shut and she turns to leave, scared to face him. “Besra wait!” Francis calls, but she’s out of the kennel with Ruckus in hand, racing over the lawn and up into the castle before he can catch her.
Out of breath she returns to her room, slamming the door and locking it behind her before turning to collapse on the floor. Ruckus bounds from her arms to wander the room and leave her in peace to contemplate what she’s done. Night descends and Besra knows she’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.
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Tomorrow comes, but there’s no one to come and throw her out. Breakfast passes as usual even though she feels at any moment someone will descend upon her and throw her in irons. Ruckus is still in her room when she returns right before lessons - the maids having taken quite a liking to his rambunctious nature. She gives him leftovers, changes into a casual, pinstripe dress and heads back to the common area for lessons. Francis is waiting in the hallway, leaning deftly against a low table. “Besra.” He calls to her, eyes downcast. She almost wants to ignore him but she knows she’s in hot water, so she meets him calmly instead. “Francis I -” She starts, but his hand rises to silence her. “I owe you an apology.” He tells her calmly, fixing his hair. “You were right, last night.”
She could laugh but she doesn’t, instead choosing to take the high road. It’s obvious by the strain on his face that he wasn’t used to this. Her hand rises, fluttering above his as if to grab it and then a door slams, stopping her in the act. A woman, the same dark-haired witch that had given her a hard time with her necklace, strides down the hallway to link her arm into Francis’. He turns to her, smiling broadly before looking back at Besra with a nod. The tight-lipped female at his arm beams before turning to stare at Besra. She sniffs and the two turn to traverse away from Besra and the hallway, whispers causing them to lean in close to one another.
Besra only sighs, heading to her lesson. They learn of Thurick, a strong ally to the south of Illea. Thought of as a more ‘wild’ country, what Thurick lacked in diplomacy they doubled in natural resources. Her mind begins to wander and then suddenly, there’s chaos. The doors to the lecture hall slam open, everyone turning in surprise to look at a disheveled O’Brien. “To your rooms girls!” She heaves, eyes wild with fear. In the hallway, a crash resounds and the girls are suddenly frantic, gathering themselves into a flock to patter down the back corridor to their chambers. Besra, pushed along with them, tries frantically to look around. Behind them, the noise grows louder until it crashes over them like a wild cacophony of mayhem. “What’s going on?” She asks Ms. O’Brien, pushing her way to the front of the group.
The scornful woman hesitates with an answer, stopping at the end of a hallway to peer around another corner. She turns back to look over her shoulder, contemplating what to do. “A rebel attack.” She tells her finally. “Get to your room, lock your door, and wait there for someone to come and retrieve you.” With a wave of her hand the girls come around, racing down the empty hallway to do as she bid. Besra slams her door behind her, hands shaking as she turns the lock. Where was Francis? Ruckus! She turns around and standing in her room, puppy firmly in the crook of his arm, is Rury.
“Missed me?” He says, dropping the puppy on the coverlet gently before striding across her room to gather her firmly in his arms. Besra is powerless against him, weak as he runs his strong fingers through her golden hair. He’s smiling, the expression lighting up the corners of his wild green eyes and she simply can’t push him away or tell him to stop. Against her will, her arms wrap around him and suddenly her head is buried in the crook of his shoulder, body shaking with a mixture of fear and happiness. He strokes the top of her hair, chuckling at her reaction. Through his thin shirt she can feel how lean he’s become. “Why are you here?” She asks him as she pulls away.
“To see you, mainly, but also because I need your help.” He tells her, grasping her gently by her shoulders to hold her stare. “You have to take me to the King’s chambers. This has to end.” He pleads, letting her think for a moment. Besra doesn’t need to think though, she’s seen all she needs to see and she’s made her choice. “Follow me.” She tells him, turning around to unlock the door and lead him back through the castle. The King’s quarters are near the rear of the estate and they make their way quickly and quietly, trying hard to avoid guards. Through the kitchens and past the banquet hall and then they’re in the hallway, peering around a corner to see the doors and the guards outside of them. Rury holds her back, waiting for something. A shout comes from the end of the hallway and a man attacks the guards, flinging himself at them with a sword. A distraction - and a good one. He draws them away from the door and Besra and Rury rush to try and break the lock.
A hand curls over her shoulder and whips her around. The distraction didn’t last long enough, it would seem. The guard's hand flies to his hip as if to strike Besra down, but Rury is faster. He pulls a knife and presses it to Besra’s throat, holding her against his chest as a shield. “Not so fast.” He tells the guard, and the man in armor hesitates. The two back slowly away, rounding the corner again until the guard is out of sight. Rury releases her, breath coming quick and eyes darting around him. He’s out of time. With a longing glance in her direction he yanks her to him, pressing his lips against hers before breaking the contact. “Sorry about this love.” He whispers.
Stars swarm her vision and then everything goes dark.
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When she awakes, Ms. O’Brien is at her bedside, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. “There there dear, easy now.” She whispers, taking the cloth away to sit instead by Besra’s side. “You received quite a blow.” She says, watching Besra’s fingers fly to the gash above her left eyebrow, near her temple. “Not to worry, it won’t be permanent.” She smiles, patting Besra’s hand. “You were so brave, keeping your calm as a hostage when those savage ingrates stormed the castle. The royal family is indebted to you.” She tells Besra.
This can’t be right, can it? Besra helped Rury, didn’t she? It’s hard to remember exactly what happened, her head’s so fuzzy and the events seemed to happen so fast. He must’ve lied to them then. Did that mean Rury was a prisoner now? Worry freezes her thoughts and Besra turns to the madame, genuine concern in her eyes. “And Francis?” She asks, knowing that she can’t mention Rury without it seeming suspicious. “Is he alright?”
Ms. O’Brien seems happy to hear the questions but she pauses, taking a moment to gather her breath for a reply. "None of that, you need your rest." She tells her, tucking the sheets at her feet before leaving her alone in her room with only Ruckus for company.
Suddenly, she remembers what it was that the old women prattled on about. Ignorance is bliss, they would say, weathered hands gnarled around baskets of linen and common goods. Until this moment, Besra’s never given it a thought and perhaps that makes her all the more guilty for standing here like a foolish twat while her own people struggle to make ends meet. “Please, everyone sit…” Francis begins, and the assembly calmly gathers themselves to benches, chairs, and stools. He’s kind, even though the lie is the written clear across his face. He’s not been prepared fully for this moment and Besra could see that, maybe the other’s could too.
There’s a tug on her hand - Miriam’s been called. In confusion Besra rises with her, head shaking in disbelief. “Sit down.” Miriam whispers firmly, breaking their grasp on each other. “Besra be strong, you’re smarter than the rest of these pretenders.” She says, leaning in to wrap her arms around the blue-eyed girl in a brief, yet genuine embrace. They pull back, both wordless but understanding before Miriam gathers herself to exit the castle, head high while her flaming hair undulates behind her. It’s terrifying to watch her and the others leave, now here she was, empty-handed and silent as Francis gave a formal congratulations to those remaining. What kind of world was one where no one could be trusted?
It’s not a world she enjoys very much at the moment.
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With the elimination comes changes, though. The remaining have been re-located to private chambers, their numbers small and intimate. They settle into a routine of sorts: breakfast after dawn, exercises and lessons before lunch, court duties and social etiquette preceding dinner, and then, only after they’ve finished their meals properly, did they have a few hours of precious daylight to spend as they chose.
Besra is a slave to her abstractions. Her mind is like a bottomless well, parched of water for so long and now filling rapidly with any sort of information she can get her hands on: Languages, the great battles of the past, foreign countries and whether they excelled in exports or imports. It becomes like a retreat for her, those last hours of daylight where she can scour the library and uncover long-forgotten tomes. It’s not long until someone else takes notice, either. There comes a late evening when the light slants through the thick-paned windows and Besra is interrupted by a cough.
It’s one of her tudors, Lord Winston, or as everyone else knew him: manager of coin for the crown. Besra smiles in welcome, rising from her seat and putting aside a weathered book before curtsying lightly. He seems pleased by this, hands hidden behind his back while he bends his neck in a familiar bow. “Lady Besra,” He begins, striding forward to gaze down at her with a keen eye, “surely there are other activities that hold your interest?” He says, questioning stare turning away from her to wander about the terribly empty room.
“Just Besra, please. I’m no Lady.” She tells him, following his eyes. “And you’ve no cause for concern, Lord Winston. I have many things that interest me, but none quite as alluring as these books.” She offers, hoping it will suffice as an answer to her separation from the other girls. His eyebrows betray him, one quirking rather precariously up into the wrinkles of his forehead before he reveals that he's gripping a parchment letter, still sealed. “You may very well not be a lady yet, but someday that could change.” He tells her as she takes the letter, watching her reaction. She flips it over; the handwriting unmistakable. It’s from Rury.
A nervous chill runs along her spine but she tips her chin up, brief smile fading over her face. “I should be so lucky.” She tells him, hands falling to her side though the weight of the letter in her hand feels like it could drag her to the center of the earth. Lord Winston only nods, satisfied with her answer. He turns to go but pauses as if he’s forgotten something, turning back to Besra with a concerned look. “It would do you well to get out, My Lady. A breath of fresh air always puts things into perspective for me.”
She widens her smile, nodding graciously until he’s shut the grand door behind him before collapsing into a chair, fingers grasping for the seal to break it and tenderly unwrap the gift that was her friends doing. The words are so familiar she could kiss them; that scratchy, sideways lettering and rushed thought process. Her fingers trace their loops, their curves, and she presses the letter to her heart, closing her eyes to picture his face. Sweet Rury, holding true to his word. With a sigh she releases her grip on the parchment and sets it upon her lap, smoothing the creases she’d made in her excitement.
Besra,
I struggled to write this damn letter more times than you would ever want to know, so be gentle in your thoughts of me when you read it.
I miss you, firstly. Your parents and your sister miss you, secondly. Baby Vlinder isn’t much of a baby anymore. She’s sweet, much sweeter than you ever were, but smart like you. Said her first word the other day - Rosy it was, if you believe it or not. Point is, it’s not the same without you flouncing around. In fact, nothing is the same. I’m not sure what they have you doing up there in the Castle, but be lucky you’ve missed out on what’s happening out here in the real world. People are starting to want answers but they’re not giving us any, only raising the taxes. I can’t help but wonder what strain this extravagant ‘selection ceremony’ is putting on the kingdom. Father had to trade hand-tailored clothes for good meat yesterday... It’s not right.
But ignore me. You usually do.
I hope that you’re happy and well-fed and that despite everything, you’ll come back to me whole and still with some affection in your heart for us common folk. I may not be an Heir or have any royal clippings to my name whatsoever, but I know (try as you might to deny it) that somewhere you love me. I could see it every time you looked at me and I want you to know that I will never, ever, lose faith in you. Even if you never choose me, or you cast off the place that was never big enough for your wandering mind, I’ll still be here to dry your tears and love you like no Prince ever could.
I have, and always will be, faithfully yours.
~All my love,
Rury
P.S. - Try not to miss me too much, we may be seeing each other sooner than you think. And do me a favor, keep both eyes on that dashing Francis for me.
The ending makes her laugh and that’s when she realizes her cheeks are wet. How long has she been here? Wrapped up so selfishly in her thoughts and dreams of marrying the Heir that she’s forgotten Rury, her family? It makes her sick to think of how concerned he’s been for her while she’s been off taking riding lessons and stuffing herself on three square meals a day. How far she’d fallen, and so quickly. Besra dries her tears and rises from her seat, contemplating the riddle of his goodbye. Seeing him sooner than she thought? What did he mean by that? The way Lord Winston greedily eyed the letter didn’t help. With solemn regret she turns to the dying half of a fire, bending low to deposit the paper into its embers.
Slowly, she watches the way the golden flames lick up the side, eating away at the ink and the double-meanings until they’re nothing but ash.
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Surprisingly, she takes Lord Winston’s advice, trading history for afternoons in the stables. Her riding improves in the following days, but Rury’s letter runs rampant through her mind. His father bartering clothes for food? Why hadn’t they been informed of this in the Castle? Those people were her people. Starving, frantic, agitated in the hundreds of thousands. She finds it hard to believe that news of the unrest has been kept at bay. Or maybe, she’s been too blind to see it this whole time. It irritated her to think she’d been a pawn through the entire ordeal, kept only for something that the low-born people could hold on to as hope. “Look,” They’d gossip on the square, “if one of us can make it onto the throne, then we may just find a voice for us in the capitol.” Besra can picture it now, so vividly that she throws her brush aside in a rash show of anger. What would they think, those countless people, if they could see her now? Taking leisurely strolls and learning to curtsey to the many fancy Lords and Ladies.
She wishes, more than anything, that she had Rury here. Or counsel from her parents. Anything at all to guide her in the right direction. A sound rises up from the lower castle walls - a single howl, soon followed by several more. Besra smiles, knowing it’s been far too long since she’s had the comfort of a wet tongue against the back of her hand. She knows her way there by now - Francis had been eager to show her the newborn pups on their last outing. He’d cradled a little spotted pup to his chest and asked her to name it and she’d obliged, blissfully happy in the memory.
His name was Ruckus and he lunged at the gate for her when she strode through. “He remembers you.” A voice says, causing her head to snap around in surprise. “Francis! You scared me.” She breathed, one hand pressed to her diaphragm in surprise. He was some feet back, bent over in the shadows of a corner on a stool. An empty bottle clatters across the floor when he rises and it takes her only a second to discern that he was, indeed, rather drunk. She’s a bit shocked - she hadn’t supposed he’d like the drink so much and she wouldn’t have pegged him for a lonely drunk at that.
“You’re crocked.” She accuses, watching him struggle to shuffle over to her. He gives up about halfway, posting against a support beam. Ruckus is whining at the gate but Besra’s forgotten him in the moment. Francis waves his hand jaggedly through the air, sweeping away her words with nonchalance. “I’m picking my next wife while my country scavenges for food and plots against my father.” He tells her, drawing a flask from his hip to try and undo the top with dumb fingers. Besra reaches across to snatch the case, twisting open the lid before pulling back a swig herself.
“Good point, but it’s not your country yet.” She coughs, face contorting with mild disgust. God he had a heavy tongue. He’s taken aback, silent as she extends the flask to him but he accepts it anyways, pulling a lopsided smile at her boldness. “So you know then?” He asks, nodding slowly before sipping at the dark liquid. “Everyone around here is all blah blah keeping appearances, and settling the common folk - whatever that means.” He says, turning his back to the beam so that he can slide into a sitting position on the floor.
Besra looks at him - really looks at him - and feels a hint of sympathy. She grabs a bucket, flips it over and takes a seat near him, the two switching the flask from hand to hand. “And here you are, facing the problem head on.” She mutters, a hint of disgust leaking into her tone. Faster than she would’ve given him credit for, his head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “You think that if I had any semblance of real power I’d be down here with the dogs, drinking away my troubles?” He spits, shaking his tousled head. “My father gambled away, wasted money on tourneys and horses, and let my mother run rampant with our expenses and now it’s up to me to either marry rich, or marry in hopes that the people won’t rise up against us.”
Besra’s shocked, it’s obvious by her round, stupefied stare. This whole ordeal had been a sham, right from the beginning. It wasn’t true love or kind-hearted intentions that had brought her, but a political maneuver to let some of the lucky, few, low-born citizens get a glimpse of the castle before returning to their true lives so that they could spout amazing things about the royal family. Besra had never been more repulsed in her life. She can feel the urge to retch at the back of her throat but she swallows instead, watching Francis take another plentiful gulp. “Don’t worry, I loathe myself too.” He mumbles, head lolling to one side limply.
Soundlessly, she rises from her seat, righting the bucket and picking it up to take it to the water trough. She fills it, turns back to where the Heir apparent lays sprawled on the ground, and dumps the contents over his head. It sprays them both and he’s not expecting it so he jumps to his feet, roaring his displeasure. “WHAT THE HELL?” He yells, wiping bronze curls from his eyes. Besra throws the bucket aside, fury consuming her. “You’re nothing but a spoiled rotten brat who doesn’t deserve the crown if all you do is sit down here and slowly turn into your father while your people starve!” She yelps, voice rising to match his. “You have the chance to make things right and you’d rather fall on your ass and play the pity card.”
She’s done with him. With a muffled scream she tightens her jaw and clenches her fist, turning around to fling open the pups kennel and gather Ruckus in her arms. Blast him if he thought she was going to keep the poor thing down here with a sorry sop like him. Francis is spitting dirty water out of his mouth but he’s not said anything, even though what she’s done is punishable by death. Fear replaces her anger and she knows that she can’t take back her rash actions, she’d been too hot-headed, too stupid. The kennel gate clicks shut and she turns to leave, scared to face him. “Besra wait!” Francis calls, but she’s out of the kennel with Ruckus in hand, racing over the lawn and up into the castle before he can catch her.
Out of breath she returns to her room, slamming the door and locking it behind her before turning to collapse on the floor. Ruckus bounds from her arms to wander the room and leave her in peace to contemplate what she’s done. Night descends and Besra knows she’ll probably be gone by tomorrow.
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Tomorrow comes, but there’s no one to come and throw her out. Breakfast passes as usual even though she feels at any moment someone will descend upon her and throw her in irons. Ruckus is still in her room when she returns right before lessons - the maids having taken quite a liking to his rambunctious nature. She gives him leftovers, changes into a casual, pinstripe dress and heads back to the common area for lessons. Francis is waiting in the hallway, leaning deftly against a low table. “Besra.” He calls to her, eyes downcast. She almost wants to ignore him but she knows she’s in hot water, so she meets him calmly instead. “Francis I -” She starts, but his hand rises to silence her. “I owe you an apology.” He tells her calmly, fixing his hair. “You were right, last night.”
She could laugh but she doesn’t, instead choosing to take the high road. It’s obvious by the strain on his face that he wasn’t used to this. Her hand rises, fluttering above his as if to grab it and then a door slams, stopping her in the act. A woman, the same dark-haired witch that had given her a hard time with her necklace, strides down the hallway to link her arm into Francis’. He turns to her, smiling broadly before looking back at Besra with a nod. The tight-lipped female at his arm beams before turning to stare at Besra. She sniffs and the two turn to traverse away from Besra and the hallway, whispers causing them to lean in close to one another.
Besra only sighs, heading to her lesson. They learn of Thurick, a strong ally to the south of Illea. Thought of as a more ‘wild’ country, what Thurick lacked in diplomacy they doubled in natural resources. Her mind begins to wander and then suddenly, there’s chaos. The doors to the lecture hall slam open, everyone turning in surprise to look at a disheveled O’Brien. “To your rooms girls!” She heaves, eyes wild with fear. In the hallway, a crash resounds and the girls are suddenly frantic, gathering themselves into a flock to patter down the back corridor to their chambers. Besra, pushed along with them, tries frantically to look around. Behind them, the noise grows louder until it crashes over them like a wild cacophony of mayhem. “What’s going on?” She asks Ms. O’Brien, pushing her way to the front of the group.
The scornful woman hesitates with an answer, stopping at the end of a hallway to peer around another corner. She turns back to look over her shoulder, contemplating what to do. “A rebel attack.” She tells her finally. “Get to your room, lock your door, and wait there for someone to come and retrieve you.” With a wave of her hand the girls come around, racing down the empty hallway to do as she bid. Besra slams her door behind her, hands shaking as she turns the lock. Where was Francis? Ruckus! She turns around and standing in her room, puppy firmly in the crook of his arm, is Rury.
“Missed me?” He says, dropping the puppy on the coverlet gently before striding across her room to gather her firmly in his arms. Besra is powerless against him, weak as he runs his strong fingers through her golden hair. He’s smiling, the expression lighting up the corners of his wild green eyes and she simply can’t push him away or tell him to stop. Against her will, her arms wrap around him and suddenly her head is buried in the crook of his shoulder, body shaking with a mixture of fear and happiness. He strokes the top of her hair, chuckling at her reaction. Through his thin shirt she can feel how lean he’s become. “Why are you here?” She asks him as she pulls away.
“To see you, mainly, but also because I need your help.” He tells her, grasping her gently by her shoulders to hold her stare. “You have to take me to the King’s chambers. This has to end.” He pleads, letting her think for a moment. Besra doesn’t need to think though, she’s seen all she needs to see and she’s made her choice. “Follow me.” She tells him, turning around to unlock the door and lead him back through the castle. The King’s quarters are near the rear of the estate and they make their way quickly and quietly, trying hard to avoid guards. Through the kitchens and past the banquet hall and then they’re in the hallway, peering around a corner to see the doors and the guards outside of them. Rury holds her back, waiting for something. A shout comes from the end of the hallway and a man attacks the guards, flinging himself at them with a sword. A distraction - and a good one. He draws them away from the door and Besra and Rury rush to try and break the lock.
A hand curls over her shoulder and whips her around. The distraction didn’t last long enough, it would seem. The guard's hand flies to his hip as if to strike Besra down, but Rury is faster. He pulls a knife and presses it to Besra’s throat, holding her against his chest as a shield. “Not so fast.” He tells the guard, and the man in armor hesitates. The two back slowly away, rounding the corner again until the guard is out of sight. Rury releases her, breath coming quick and eyes darting around him. He’s out of time. With a longing glance in her direction he yanks her to him, pressing his lips against hers before breaking the contact. “Sorry about this love.” He whispers.
Stars swarm her vision and then everything goes dark.
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When she awakes, Ms. O’Brien is at her bedside, pressing a damp cloth to her forehead. “There there dear, easy now.” She whispers, taking the cloth away to sit instead by Besra’s side. “You received quite a blow.” She says, watching Besra’s fingers fly to the gash above her left eyebrow, near her temple. “Not to worry, it won’t be permanent.” She smiles, patting Besra’s hand. “You were so brave, keeping your calm as a hostage when those savage ingrates stormed the castle. The royal family is indebted to you.” She tells Besra.
This can’t be right, can it? Besra helped Rury, didn’t she? It’s hard to remember exactly what happened, her head’s so fuzzy and the events seemed to happen so fast. He must’ve lied to them then. Did that mean Rury was a prisoner now? Worry freezes her thoughts and Besra turns to the madame, genuine concern in her eyes. “And Francis?” She asks, knowing that she can’t mention Rury without it seeming suspicious. “Is he alright?”
Ms. O’Brien seems happy to hear the questions but she pauses, taking a moment to gather her breath for a reply. "None of that, you need your rest." She tells her, tucking the sheets at her feet before leaving her alone in her room with only Ruckus for company.