Name: Sweet Talk 101
Author: Kirrae
Rating: Teen
Pairing: RxOC, MxV, BxN
Summary: A certain assassin's return to court causes a few ripples in the relatively new peace of Remalna's politics.
Disclaimer: I own only the words and any original characters that appear in this work. The characters, settings, and main plot derive from the work of Sherwood Smith. The song lyrics in this chapter belong to Cute is What We Aim For and All That Remains.
Chapter Note: I have decided to take this up again. Not sure how it'll turn out, as I've scrapped most of the original story. I hope it continues to your liking. Let me know of any suggestions you might have. Thank you kindly.
Chapter 1- Sweet Talk 101, The Air that I Breathe
You have a jump in your step
But a rip in your
A rip in your rep
He gazed at the girl in front of him, she was pretty, he'd give her that. He had an eye for such things, or so it was said, but she could never compare. Not even in the eye of the insane could she compare to her. Tamara stood in front of him, frilly dress, hair done up in an intricate fashion, intended to show off her 'natural beauty.' He couldn't help but laugh inwardly at this; she tried so hard to be what she was not. She could never replace her in his heart, mind, or eye.
It was just the other day that he had been thinking, much as he enjoyed their games, he could never rightly marry a woman who would view his titles, his land, and indeed himself as a consolation prize. She did not know she'd lost the crown as of yet. The Duke of Savona did not really want to think what her reaction would be. Afterall, she'd lost the crown to the barefoot Countess. Not that it was much of a surprise to any who'd observed the two together. They had a certain air about them. Something many would envy, despite the couple's ignorance of its existence.
Ah, on to other, less painful topics. Beauty, he thought, was not something that was common, and found 'classical beauty' to be a lie girls were led to believe in, just for that hope that they could really be special. True, you tend to find the one you love most beautiful, but he had been, among other things, a philanderer for so long that this theory seemed to mean nothing when applied to him. Beauty was strange, flawed, but still perfect. It was the utmost representation of the human soul, perfected in its flaws.
She had been his undoing, the one angel for which he truly fell. She was not just rough around the edges, as some would call her; she was not soft at all. She had been, and always would be, his strength. The only thing that had ever marred his formerly perfect reputation at being a complete and utter flirtatious fop of Duke. Of course, with the thought of her came the songs, specifically the annoying one now flitting around his thoughts. She'd sung it at him once, in jest, and he was somewhat shamed to find he could recall every note.
And everybody knows it
So be sure to be proud
But don't forget, you aren't allowed to brag
They all knew that he had fallen for her, for her charm, her beauty, her strength, and her cold demeanor. She had been forcefully distanced from the rest of the courtiers at a young age, having been disowned from those whom she had called family, and never again would trust any as such. Some had pitied him when she had been forced to leave, but Russav was never one for such emotion, he just simply scoffed at the thought of being upset, in anguish, over her departure and had stalked off, taking up his role as a fop once again. He refused to let that bastard of a tyrant win.
While it had been months, almost a year now, since the death of Galdran Merindar, a new king had yet to be crowned. Thought that wouldn't last. By the New Year a new throne would be commissioned and a rather handsome couple would take their place. However, little could be done with the military, and so she remained at the borderlands. And he remained ever the flirt, which had its advantages.
He never could get over the thought of her, no matter how hard he tried. It seemed as if he had fallen into a cavern too deep for him to ever hope of getting out, and Russav wasn't so sure he wanted out. If being perpetually suspended in that dark abyss gave him the ability to still think her alive, safe, and thinking of him, he would remain till the rest of his days had been lived out in solitude. As long as no news of her death was delivered to his door, Russav would never marry.
Even if she were safe, he could not think of her as anything but what she was. A military woman all too fond of her independence. Marriage and children were not for her. Which suited him just fine.
With that façade you can do no wrong
Many will enter but few will win
So please be sure to read the fine print
He remembered so clearly the day she had said that to him, "Ah, but Russav, many will enter, and few will win, so please, please be sure to read the fine print." That had been the day she had found him being surrounded by countless girls, all aiming for a slight softness of grace, a casual touch, or any sign of recognition from him. He had said something particularly foolish about having too many fans for his heart to accept them all. Her advice was wise, yes, but as cryptic as ever to his mind at the time. It had taken him so long to realize exactly what she had meant and why it was said with such deep melancholy burning in her fathomless eyes.
I spend more time in front of mirrors than any
Gent should
Because lets face it
One on one is more fun any way
And everybody knows it
But I'm not so proud
And I'll never be the one to brag
A true dolt he was, spending countless hours organizing what exactly he should wear to emphasize a certain point. She'd have laughed at him for such anxiety and over-reading. Foolishness, she'd say with a slight pout, and here I thought you'd never fall for such things, Russav. Oh how he missed that whip-like wit with a sharp tongue to match, how he longed to hold that slight form in his arms again… It truly was more fun to just be alone with her, than amid thousands of them.
A woman of many faces, facets, and purposes, was she. It was easy to tell which one was dealing with based upon her speech pattern, walk, and even the shade of her eyes. They would all change with her mood, but most specifically what she was at the time. He had met a few of her 'personas' and had quite few negative run-ins with them. She really couldn't go wrong in any situation, for there was always one handy for every possible scene in which she could find herself. Such a talented actress, some would say, but he knew better.
He would always say that one could tell her mood clearly by the set of her brow. Were she angry, they would be furrowed and set in a grimly straight line, upset and they would quiver slightly, cold and distant, as was her norm, could be told by the unmoving, pristine quality of those artfully-shaped brows. When dancing with her, he could not help but joke, just so he could hear that laugh, that musical laugh that seemed to fill the air with such avid amusement.
The truth of the matter was, he would never be over her, didn't want to, and could never imagine being without those waves of shivers that coursed through his body every time he thought of that soft, waved hair and those unnaturally colored eyes. How strange they were, how strangely pretty their hue.
He lamentably hid behind a front, much like a certain cousin of his. Indeed, he was not interested in any of the women he spoke to, they all would try and gain his rapt attention, and all would fail. Even when absent for years, she could still pull his mind to her, latching onto his consciousness with the ferocity of a wildcat. As much of a court decoration as he was, (oh, how he loved that particular phrase of his cousin's dear Countess) he was even more so when his thoughts turned to the past. At least Danric didn't need him during Petitioner's Court.
The Duke of Savona was brought out of his recollections of soft skin, dark hair, and violet-red eyes by the abrupt slam of the heavy throne room doors. He, along with the rest of the court, swung his eyes to the figure hunched and bleeding in the doorway. The hiss of her name from his lips was drowned by the collective gasp of those around him. Tamara at his side clung to his arm, her fan fluttering. Beside her Lady Trishe rose to her feet.
There she stood, in the middle of the door, a hand clasped to her side, chest heaving, and shorn hair matted with blood. There was a small trail of blood leading in from the hall to a puddle at her feet. She swayed where she stood, almost delirious from bloodloss, and yet Russav had never found her more beautiful. Doubtless she had three or more holes drilled through her skin.
"I am terribly sorry Master Travail. Please, continue. The blacksmiths will always have my support."
The poor petitioner stuttered and continued with his account. Obviously, the site of an armored, armed, and bloody woman standing in the midst of the throne room came as a surprise to the guild smith. Not to mention the large Captain's insignia stitched into the sleeve of her leather armor.
"We are simply afraid of possible negative outcomes. Their rates aren't held to standard and they'll likely put us out of business. I've taken this to the judges, but they have done nothing. The establishment is technically not a smithy, thus they-"
"Don't have to play by your rules." Vidanric apparently decided to save the poor, flustered smith. "We will look into the matter the moment we have the chance. Keeping local business running is one of our top priorities."
Her voice cut across the room, solid as ever, even as she staggered foreword.
"Ever the people-pleaser, hmm? I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Her leg refused to move, even as her body continued ahead. She was half to the ground when Russav had managed to vault over the stools in front of him and pull her back to her feet.
"Thank you, Savona. But since when was there a tree on the throne? I didn't know we had a new king. Such a pretty flower he was, and now such a beautiful tree."
She grinned, slightly unhinged. Just slightly.
"I'm so sorry for interrupting, but, well, my riding's dead. Denliffi mercenaries in Merindar colors. Managed to get half of them on the border, another third down on my way here. I'm about a day ahead. Check near the Saints Rest outside Orbanith. That's where I lost them. They're headed here. I'd have done more, but I'm afraid I'm a few weapons down and have four holes in me. This is my last act as a sane woman it appears."
Russav held her tightly to him and nodded at his cousin. He'd take her to the healers.
"I believe, cousin, that you have some work to attend to. For now, I'll take our dear Captain to a healer."
As one, they bowed elaborately to the seated Royal family and turned for the door.
"I am truly sorry for bloodying the floor, and you, my Duke. My apologies."
"Healer." Oh, Danric would make such a good little King, wouldn't he?
"Yes, milord."
She really couldn't shut up, could she? Then again, what fun would it be otherwise. She was chattering about some bizarre combat she had come across in her travels. Giving him full descriptions of techniques and her opinions on the methods uses. It wasn't until they'd managed to get halfway to the Service Wing that she turned to him.
"You really are a sight for sore eyes Sav. I have missed you these past few years."
"Are you capable of being anything but droll, madame? It seems you're stuck in that mode."
"Russ, if you really want to know, I've got a hole through each of my shoulders, my stomach, and my right thigh. I haven't slept in days, have a dreadful headache and I just watched fifteen of Remalna's best get slaughtered in front of me."
"They got you over the head didn't they?"
"Unfortunately."
It was an old weakpoint of hers. Being so short and refusing to wear a helm, she was occasionally prone to getting slammed in the skull with a hilt. The blow would knock her down and leave her with a nasty migraine, occasionally it would knock her out. Most of the time she was winded and battered enough that struggling to move did more damage than lying there in her own blood.
"You really should take to wearing some headgear. I imagine you could find a smart hat or two for the occasion. Preferably in heavy leather."
He was far too delighted by the laugh that spilled from her shaking form in his arms. Half-dead and she still held him in her grasp.
"Russav."
He settled for curling a hand through her now shoulder-length locks. He was a bit upset by the change in length. He had loved the long waving tresses, but ultimately the shorter look was a bit more functional. It fit her in a way the lengthy locks hadn't. As did the sun-colored highlights from long campaigns in the south. The shorn hair still managed to retain some semblance of its former beauty by flipping and curling at the ends.
"Yes?"
"Thank you," and she proceeded to fall limp in his arms. He could only grin at her, brush bloody bangs from her brow, and lift her up into his arms. He'd imagined carrying her like this often, however those dreams did not include her being battered and unconscious. It seemed as if he'd have to make due with what he could.
"Well my lady, it seems I have finally found myself in a position to talk to you without interruption. As it stands you are apparently my wife after we got married in the midst of a naval dogfight. Or so it would seem. My apologies. I had always hoped you'd find a better husband."
"I'm not unconscious, Savvy darling. Just unable to walk."
"I should fix that before I continue then, shouldn't I?"
"Preferably not. I'd like to hear all of your sappy endearments. They're rather good to hear after all of the campaigning. No flowery language for the soldierly types you know."
"Indeed my lady. To the Captain's Quarters then?"
"Does this make you my cabin boy?"
"So it would seem."
"You know, I really want to meet Danric's Countess. I've heard so much about her."
"Now, I'm not entirely surprised, but how do you know?"
"Anyone who can read Danric can tell, and I have heard stories."
"Ah. Stories my lady?" Doubtless, she'd had them all tailed. Tailed and told on, by their own servants, no less. She had a dreadful habit of that.
She settled for bringing her arms up about his neck and pulling his head down to her own. Rather than answer with only words, she let her lips graze his brow as she whispered "indeed."
By the time Russav managed to carry his rather amorous assassin to the healer's station in the service wing, he was quite sure that she had sustained some rather severe head trauma. Either that, or she truly had missed him. He was unsure which he preferred to believe. While her eyes were clear, her actions were somewhat uncharacteristic. Amidst all of this musing he was shocked to find himself singing that awful tune that had been racketing through his brain all morning. Her response was merely to laugh and inform him that she was quite often wrong, but the flattery was both noted and appreciated.
Mistress Kylar, healer on duty, was quick to inform the girl that she ought to stay in bed, resting, and to change her bandages as often as necessary, but at least once daily. She just smiled and nodded as she let the healer redress her wounds. Russav found himself waiting outside a tapestry, hanging on every rustle of fabric that sounded from the other room. When he was readmitted, he found her sitting up on the cot, flicking a blade between her fingers. On the bright side, she looked better, however she still looked like the casualty of one of Tamara's infamous rages. He should know. He'd worn that look many a time in the past three years.
"Reminiscing Sav? That's new."
"There's a lot new. Three years, Arya."
"Russav."
"What? It's your name isn't it?"
"You know as well as I that it is a cover name."
The duke shook his head. Honestly, that girl had a mouth on her. Quite a vicious one, at that. Well, not currently, she was being quite tame. He'd simply write it off as her being both exhausted and perforated at the moment.
"As if I were informed of what else to call you. Would you prefer Ara? It's close enough that I can manage, should my lady request."
"An it please milord, he may call his servants what he will."
"But such a beautiful servant needs a name as radiant as her resplendence."
"Ara is fine. Or Mirçé."
"Ah, so that is your true name."
"Perhaps."
Never a straight answer with this one.
"Very well then, Mirçé. I shall watch over you to ensure your safety. Unless you'd like to try and find your old chambers. I'm sure Danric saved your possessions somewhere."
"I am a mortal man, Russav, but I'm not fallen, I'm not broken yet."
"Arya?"
She positively huffed at the familiar name. Oh, wasn't this cute, it was practically a pet name of its own. She just mumbled a few words under her breath, sounding vaguely Sartorian, and moved to stand. They would have none of that.
"Lie back down."
"Savona, I am perfectly capable of movement."
"Really now? And here I thought you were split at the seams."
"Magic, my dear friend, a potential for which we all have some ability. Most don't notice for our small quantity is hardly formidable. Others are certainly more apt. However certain events might make some of us able to tap into that property and learn a skill or two. I've been cut up so often that I have a talent for healing myself. Picked this one up from a mark a year and a half ago."
This made the ever-unflappable Russav raise a brow, eyes clouded in mirth.
"Really?"
"Would you like to test my hypothesis?"
"And let you stab me a few hundred times? Hardly. But really, how does it work?"
Much to his surprise, all it took was an incantation, some knowledge of how the spell would work, and a bit of energy. Not all that complicated. Finding the energy and channeling it was the difficulty. Some strange meditation thing that he'd never really been too fond of. Too much like soul searching.
When Vidanric strolled in at the next time-change, he found his cousin sitting in bed, leaned against the wall, and cradling a weary woman in his arms. He had managed to convince Mel to accompany him, but he had regretfully forgotten to mention exactly why he had wanted her in attendance. This was easy to see for one so skilled at watching, as Russav found himself doing nothing else most days. The Countess would have been skittish and blushing had she known why her Marquis wanted her to visit a wounded soldier.
"My dear Countess, does my cousin inform you of anything?"
"He occasionally leaves out details, for which he will be repentant. You know this as well as I Sav. Such it has been, such it will be." Why did she refuse to rest? Oh yes, she was obsessive, controlling, and of the opinion that sleep was only for the weak-willed
and foolish.
"Mel, I do apologize for not saying this sooner, but the woman my cousin is supporting is none other than our esteemed Master of Assassins. An old friend. In fact, she is posing as a cousin of mine. I thought you two might benefit from one another's company."
The countess could only bow, positively red from jaw to brow. Arya/Ara/Mirçé stood, returned the bow, and clasped Danric's shoulder with a glove.
"It is good to see you, cousin. If you don't mind my still calling you as such. Appearances and all. And I must congratulate you both. I know that you'd like to keep things discreet until after the wedding of Count Branaric and Lady Nimiar, so I'll not say much else of that."
"Tactful as ever, I see." Danric wearily sunk into a chair at the corner of the room, rubbing his hand along his brow. Mel moved to stand by his chair, apparently unconscious of her movements.
"She's changed rather little. Just picked up a few new names and tricks along the way." Why in all hell could he not shut his mouth when he ought to?
"You expected otherwise? Three years is hardly much against a life. I am rather set in my ways, in any matter. Lady Meliara, may I complement you on your successes. What most won't tell you is that your heroism relies in the aid you accept from others. Not many can do so. And modesty will get you nowhere. You've managed to steal my cousin's heart, that is the mark of a true heroine, heroic acts or not. It's more a miracle than anything."
"I do apologize, but what may I call you? I never received your name." Oh, Mel. What would Danric do without you? He'd be as stuffy, calculating, and cold as ever. Life! She could make that man smile.
"That is because Lord Danric Fancytitles never told you a thing. Arya at your service. If we are to be continuing the tradition, as least."
"Pardon?"
"Arya is my cover name. Simply put, Arya Renselaeus does not exist except for the pretense of keeping me at Court. Best to have an assassin protecting you from assassins, hmm? My birth name is of little consequence."
"So it is Mirçé!" It was a regrettable weakness of his. One he often fell victim to. He should likely stitch his mouth shut.
"Indeed."
"I knew it."
"The likelihood of that is doubtful."
To prevent the continuing of a pointless argument, Vidanric felt it necessary to make himself useful. Thus he cleared his throat rather pointedly and gestured toward the door with a graceful arm.
"Your old quarters are open, Arya. We are glad to have you with us again. I was much displeased when I found I could do nothing to recall you."
"No need. I am here now, and that is what counts, don't you think cousin?"
Mel was a bit lost, of course, but to fill her in would mean loosing half the fun.
"If you don't mind my asking, why exactly were you called away, and to where? Forgive me for being so forward, I am just a bit lost."
"Aren't we all."
"Pardon?"
I will not relent, no, no
Never live with defeat, never falter
It's like the air that I breate
I will not choke on failure
"I was an assassin sworn to protect the Renselaeus family. The easiest way to do so was to pose as a distant relative that they had taken in due to a family tragedy. Gave me a similar start as most at Court. Galdran not being very fond of parents. I remained here for many years, from the end of my training until three years ago, when Galdran found me practicing with a few of my subordinates. He realized I could use a blade rather skillfully and had me sent away. Leading a campaign along the border. The entire border. You know the rest."
"My apologies."
"None necessary."
I am a mortal man
But I'm not fallen, I'm not broken yet
I am a mortal man
But I hold tight to my beliefs now
Arya took Mel by the arm and walked with her, taking the garden path to the Royal Wing. Leaving the two cousins behind. Finally a chance to torment Danric, he had much to tell.
"When did you prepare that room?"
"The moment I got back after Galdran's death. You know that, Russav. You were with me."
"True enough. You've already sent out the ridings, I presume."
"Most certainly."
"There's more to this than a few mercenaries at the border."
"So I have been told." He did not even have to raise his brow. "Surely you must know the code. At least a wing under command with Merindar colors. We've got a rebellion on our hands."
"She'll want to be part of it."
"So I'm hoping."
I have suffered defeat, pain, loss
Still I push to the edge, never falter
For this cements my beliefs
I will remain my own master
Bran and Nee were the first to be introduced to Lady Arya. Russav's amusement was certainly plain on his face. His court mask depended on glee, yet true amusement was always a touch stronger than his baseline joy. Danric barely even kept his in place, letting it slip from his eyes and the corners of his mouth.
"Mel, where have you been? Have you- Oh, well, hello. Name's Bran, this is Nee. I'm Mel's brother."
"I had figured. You have the same hair color. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance milord, milady. Arya Renselaeus, at your service."
"Service?"
"Military woman, as you can see. I believe I can find my way from here, thank you lords, Lady Meliara." Ornate bow, twirling an imaginary cap between her fingers. That bow was more effective with some form of headpiece. She turned on her heel and walked off to her room. Likely to remove the bloody uniform. It could be a poor choice in clothing should she run into certain company.
"Danric, she's one of your many cousins?"
"Distant relative, yes. I probably should be going-"
"Danric, don't even try. You have no work to attend to at this very moment. So socialize."
"Russav you know very well that I have urgent business-"
"That isn't so urgent that you cannot take the time to relax with friends. What would Aunt Elestra think if I let you do this to yourself again? She'd have my head."
"And what would we do without your beauty to grace us, hmm?"
"Some would indeed mourn the loss, would they not Lady Meliara?"
Of course the cheerful air could not last. Never in Athanarel could one converse with friends without some form of subtle intrusion or war. The very worst was the interruptions. Too many people. Rather, too many people who had a tendency to get involved in the affairs of others.
"Think what, my Lords?"
Tamara. The conversation went down hill from there. Danric excused himself quickly. Mel said nothing. Bran ended the confrontation with his characteristic unthinking honesty. And Russav was no closer to ridding himself of the parasite that was the Lady Chamadis.