"She felt strong. She felt alive, inferno blazing around her shoulders, casting glazes off the sun as she stood atop the building. A smile slipped across her face as they stared up at her. She had it."
"Release me! Let me go this instant!" Beauchamp cried, thinking his authority was still relevant. Eventually his hysterical cries died down and the lordling was silent against his bonds, an expression of sulking on his face when the trickster walked in. The bound man glanced at Locke venomously, his face dark and his position stiff; more so, even considering he was tied up to a chair.
"You will be punished," he murmured. "When I get out I will find a sword and dig it through your stomach, I swear to the gods!" He snarled viciously. Locke could see it in his eyes; he was picturing it quite well.
"Save it for the gods," Locke muttered, almost tiredly. "They're the only ones who will be able to hear you, where you're going."
That shut the man up, and his eyes widened, as if he had just realized he was a mortal. Locke would, well, torture him if he kept it up. Locke had spent hours out here with this guy, listening to him howl, and is really upset and feeling godsdamn tired and just wishes he could shove a knife through that man's skull or something brutally violent to just fucking shut him up.
"Ah, madam!" the maid exclaimed, running through her unruly hair with a brush, a surprised look on her face. "There isn't any grime in your hair today! Oh my gods—its even glowing!" Now she was at a loss for words.
Sabetha sat daintily in her chair in front of the elaborately decorated mirror, and smiled.
"I figured today was a day of change," she said, and allowed her to continue brushing her hair. The maid's eyebrows shot up and her civility, and she said, "Why yes, madam, indeed."
Sabetha's eyes became dark as she looked at her reflection, plans passing through her eyes. Yes, it had to be now.
Today she would act.
Bells rang through the air, and Locke knew his plan had failed.
Locke and Jean sped from the Beauchamp House, taking the secret passages they had discovered weeks before in case of emergency. The plot had begun well, until they were discovered. Locke had no clue how the fuck that had happened, but one of the nobles had recognized Jean, despite their disguises. Locke had been knee-deep in interrogation when he heard the bells, and had to kill off the poor sod he was interrogating as quickly as possible.
"Jean," Locke hissed as his friend slowed his pace. They were momentarily hidden in the stone walls of the garden, but they needed to make haste before they were safe enough to rest. "We need to go now. I know our route is fantastic, but lets not fool ourselves—they'll be able to find us in minutes."
"Sorry, Locke," Jean replied. "I can't."
Locke scoffed and crossed his arms.
"Of course you can you bastard, now move!" But the creeping sensation flitted up his spine, and he couldn't shake the feeling of dread that overcame him.
"No, I really can't," Jean stressed, motioning to his lower body. "I can't move my legs." For the first time, Locke noticed the blood stain on Jean's pant leg. His friend swallowed, sweat forming on his brow. "You need to go on without me."
Locke's brows shot up in consternation.
"Gods fuck me over threefold if I left you here!" he exclaimed, clasping his friends' hand. "Now come on, lift those legs of yours and be quick with it!"
"Locke…" Jean began, his eyelids drooping.
"No, godsdammit, Jean! We're brothers," he emphasized the word, as if stressing it would give Jean strength. "I can't leave you here to die! Not because some fucking Beauchamp idiot noble's son poked you with a sword!"
"How will we do this, then? I'm going to die here and they're going to throw you in a cell." Jean asked, his laugh shaking his shoulders. Locke knew that laugh. It was the sound of defeat.
"Not yet," Locke growled deeply. "Not if I can help it."
Quick! He thought. You're the clever one, think! Or Jean will die! Locke's eyes shot back and forth between the stone walls and the vines which protruded from them, to the garden enclosed within. Locke sighed.
"Ok, my friend," he told him. "Tell me you love me."
"Locke?" Jean asked, fading from consciousness. "Is this really the time for romantic confessions?" Locke smirked, despite the impending threat of the guards' yells coming from directly to their right.
"I'm going to get us out of here."
"Halt!" cried an extremely disheveled man holding a sword that looked more like a needle in his gloved hands. Locke recognized him as the man he had kidnapped. His brown hair, which was originally tied up, was now falling out into strands around his face and sticking there.
"Little out of breath, are we?" Locke scoffed, raising a brow. This only infuriated the nobleman more.
"You bastard!" he cried, pointing his sword towards Locke's chest. He kept his distance, though, standing at least a dozen feet away.
"Jean," Locke mused, turning to his friend casually, as though they were not presently surrounded by guards. "Is it just me, or is there a good amount of fear mixed in his eyes with all that temper?"
Jean winced from the pain in his limbs and the sun in his eyes, but when he shaded his brow with his hand, he nodded in agreement.
"I'd say the motherfucker right pissed his pants before he discovered us."
Locke evaluated him carefully, watching him smoulder.
"Yes, I'd rightly agree," Locke confirmed. The noble was now joined by a series of guards, who looked even less pleased than their employer. "Now will you tell me, please, what the bloody fuck you're up to?"
Locke did not reply with words, but instead shot Jean a wink.
"Don't worry, my friend," he spoke softly. Then he turned back to the nobleman, who shrieked.
"You're surrounded! Now drop your weapons, concealed or otherwise, felons!"
Locke felt the weight of a guard hit into his back, and slip a dagger against his throat.
"Now, now," Locke said, raising his hands. "Lets not get hasty..."
"No?" cried the disheveled lordling. "I think taking me prisoner in my own house, you lunatic, is damn hasty! I think it is my turn! Take them away!"
"I, uh...wouldn't do that if I were you." Locke sighed bemusedly. "The poison is, of course, coursing through your veins right now...yelling and thrashing about only makes it worse. I thought shitting blood was bad enough, but it seems you're an idiot and a masochist."
The color drained from Beauchamp's face.
"P-poison?"
"Don't believe me?" Locke asked, then motioned with his head. "Look at your princely hydrated skin. Your veins should be black." The noble's son threw back the sleeve of his arm, and his eyes widened.
"You're right..." his mouth hung agape.
"Yes," Locke replied, and he felt the storm brew in his own eyes. "And if you do not let me and my friend go, right now, you're going to die by the end of the night. And it's not going to be pretty. You're going to suffer in ways you never imagined before in your life, and no amount of pretty mewling will save you. Your money won't help either. I created the poison, and only I have the antidote."
"You're lying," the nobleman shot back, his voice shaking. He was still as pale as Jean's ass. Locke sniggered.
"You're right, you bastard! I'm lying. There are others with the antidote. Be my guest to try and find them. You have a few hours, and by my knowledge these are people who do not wish to be found. But you've found me. Let us go, and I will give you the thing that can heal you."
"I don't trust you will return with it."
"Then throw me in a cell and enjoy your nightmarish death." Locke glanced at Jean. His friend had slipped sleep. He had lost too much blood, and it soaked through his clothing to drip onto the cobbled stones beneath their feet. "Or you can let us go, and we promise to return in two hour's time with the antidote."
"You will be escorted."
"I think not."
"I will not let you go without leverage!"
"Then you can go to hell. Or wherever prissy noble-types like you go when they die."
The noble's eyes, wide with fear, were the only sign of confirmation Locke needed. The noble slipped the blade away from his throat, but not within flicking the sharp edge against his skin.
Jean bent over his knee, fixing the bandages Locke had helped wrap around his wound. He huffed irritatedly as the wind played with the strands of cloth, and Locke smiled. Jean noticed the expression, and frowned.
"I'd like to see you with a sword wound, Lamora, and see how much you'll giggle like a school girl."
"But, dear Tannen, you have seen me with a wound or two in the course of our lives." Locke winked at him. "And honestly, I don't want to go through that bullshit again. I'll let you suffer in agony whilst I sit here giggling."
A half-smile slipped onto Jean's face, and he looked down onto the sea. High-masted ships sailed out into the harbour, and wind rippled over their sails. Both men remained quiet, observing the colours of the sky. No longer in their disguises, they had nothing to fear from the guards; besides, Jean had rested, and they were still able to run quick as they could.
"Thank you for saving my life once again, Locke," Jean said, not meeting his eyes. Locke's eyebrows shot up.
"No need to thank me," he told him.
"But we didn't get the job done."
"No, not entirely," Locke admitted. "But I did the things we needed to know. More details for the prints. We'll be able to slip into their homes and steal right from their beds, with their mistress all wet and sleepin' in his arms."
"Did you even intend to give him the antidote?"
"Oh, don't worry, Jean," Locke waved him off. "The poison isn't too lethal. Any doctor should be able to cure him. Didn't think you had a sweet spot for nobles? Sounds like you almost care about whether he lives or dies."
Jean huffed, but did not reply.
"Just another day in the life, right?" Locke asked, rhetorically.
"Right." Jean replied, a little sombrely.
Locke could tell he was thinking, and peered at him, wondering what was going through his mind. Jean wasn't one to reflect on the intricacies of death; they had grown up with it their entire lives. Finally, his friend turned to him and spoke.
"You know, you're trying to avoid the inevitable."
Locke knew exactly what Jean meant by that, and he growled, muttering words under his breath that he knew his friend would not hear.
"What?" Jean frowned. "Come on, Locke, don't be a hardass."
"I said: I'm not trying. I'm succeeding. There's a difference. And if you weren't so busy minding other people's business, you would be able to pick up on that."
"Fine, fine. I get it. You're mad," Jean said, raising his hands in objection. "But you're going to have to do better than that. Condescension won't get you far with me."
Locke raised his eyebrows, thinking of a few choice words involve "cock" and "fuck", but decided his friend really was concerned. Looks like I need to have this foolish conversation, after all.
"Well...I've been succeeding in avoiding it, so it can't be all that inevitable." Locke paused, then tapped Jean lightly on the cheek. "Come now, quit the drama. We may have been posing as actors earlier today, but now we're just Jean and Locke."
Jean shrugged.
"She'll find you eventually. You can't hide forever."
A dark look passed over Locke's brow, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
"No. You're right, Jean. She will find me. I can't hide forever." Locke smiled broadly. "But I'm going to do what I always do. Try."