This is just an idea I had and decided to run with: TOG girls set in twisted versions of fairytales. This one is for Aelin, and is a retelling of Cinderella. It's a little bit more than twisted, but I like it, to be honest.
This one's longer than the rest will probably be - I was just planning on a small collection of less-than-1000-word oneshots/drabbles to write whenever writer's block hits.
Whoever has any ideas for what fairytales Nesryn or Nehemia could be put in, please mention it in the reviews or PM me, since I've got no ideas.
Disclaimer: I don't own TOG.
Hand or Heart
Her shoes hurt.
Great. Just great, Galathynius. You're hired to kill one of the most famous men in the country and all you can thing about is your shoes? She grumbled to herself. Stay focused!
She swallowed instead, taking a deep breath. The blades stuffed down her front restricted her breathing, but so long as she was subtle, it wouldn't be a problem. And if she needed to run... Well, she'd deal with that as it came.
The glass castle of Adarlan shone above her, and she curved her lips in a smile before they twisted into a sneer. Such luxury, such extravagance, such arrogance-
She didn't like the King of Adarlan much.
But he wasn't her target. (Thank the gods - Wyrd help her if she had to get through the sort of security he hired, especially for the sum of money her client was paying her.) Perrington was.
Duke Perrington of Morath, the King's right hand man. But he'd fallen out of favour recently, and so he likely wouldn't be trying to draw attention to himself at this party, which made it all the easier for her. All she'd have to do was corner him, trick him into a dance or two, lead him into another room, then slit his throat. Simple.
And, knowing the sort of person he was, it would be very, very easy for her to kill him.
She stepped through the large, ornate doors, and a butler stepped up to take her cloak. She thanked him with a pretty smile half hidden by the crimson mask on her face, and turned away.
The ballroom itself was robed in red and gold - the colours of the Adarlanian royal crest. Couples already twirled on the dance floor, and Aelin's stomach growled when she saw the buffet at the back of the room, but she kept a tight grip on herself. She could eat once she was holed up in her apartment again, the blood of her victim already washed away.
It took longer than she would've liked to locate him amidst the masses, but that was for the very reason she could pull this off: He was keeping a low profile. She finally spotted him after her fifth dance with nameless, faceless strangers - a tall but unassuming fellow in a fine grey tailcoat and a wig. She allowed herself a satisfied smile that her partner politely didn't comment on, only for it to freeze on her face when she beheld who was nearby.
Tall, broad shouldered, heavy yet graceful tread - she found it difficult to believe she hadn't noticed him earlier. Especially in the emerald doublet and polished knee high boots he wore. His silver hair has been cut short since she last saw him; it gleamed under the light from the chandeliers. He had his coat collar and sleeves turned up - likely to hide the tattoo that climbed up the left side of his body. She'd never asked what the words meant.
Rowan fucking Whitethorn.
She felt like seething. How dare he. How dare he. This was her job; Arobynn had assured her the client had asked for Celaena Sardothien specifically. How dare he come here and take her kill from her.
Because he certainly wasn't here to mingle with royalty, from what she knew about Whitethorn. He was here for a purpose. And there were rarely two assassinations going on at once in her line of work.
He looked up then, and spotted her. Though his face was half-covered by the mask of a flying hawk, she saw his lips tighten into a thin line.
Good. He should be angry. She gave him a smirk in return, then turned away as the music ended.
She was getting this job done, and she was collecting her payment. He would not get in the way.
Brooding made Aelin hungry. Abandoning her previous ultimatum to wait, she stalked off to the buffet and munched on a pastry as she considered the situation.
Rowan Whitethorn: the only assassin in Rifthold whose infamy rivalled hers. No one knew where he'd come from, just as no one knew where she'd come from; their names had just started circulating one day, until people had learned to fear them.
Whitethorn probably wasn't even his real name. Sardothien certainly wasn't hers.
This wasn't the first job they'd both been hired to do, and that was the first time they'd met face to face. Well, Aelin had arrived at the target's house, set up watch, Whitethorn had met with the man for "a discussion on economics" and once he'd left, she snuck in to find the man already dead.
It didn't take a fool to fit the pieces together once it began circulating amongst the criminal underworld a week later that Rowan Whitethorn had struck again. That wasn't even really what had pissed her off.
No, what had really made her angry was that when Whitethorn had left, for all the world looking like an innocent acquaintance, he'd looked up at the roof. Somehow, he'd seen her hidden amongst the shadows. And he'd smiled.
Oh, she'd hated him for that.
From then on, it'd been wreckage after wreckage. She'd last seen him a week ago in the markets in Rifthold - whilst she was buying the very shoes she wore now - where he'd started a brawl with her. She'd been hard pressed to escape the city guards coming to see what all the fuss was about.
So, needless to say, she was not thrilled about seeing him here. After she got paid, she might hunt her client down and rip out his throat for the insult.
When she looked up, Perrington was dancing with someone. She resolved to retreat into an alcove and wait.
She was in the alcove for maybe a few minutes before a large shadow fell across the opening. Her hand twitched, itching to reach for her knives, but she forced herself to relax. No one knew what Celaena Sardothien looked like. No one - except Rowan rutting Whitethorn - would be looking to eliminate her here and now.
She instantly realised she'd misjudged the situation when the very person she'd been cursing appeared in the entrance to the alcove - blocking her only exit. "Sardothien," Whitethorn said formally, like this was a perfectly normal, perfectly cordial, meeting - like she wasn't planning on ripping out his rutting throat. "I didn't expect to see you here."
She already had a dagger in each hand, but he was faster, and their positions in the alcove gave him an advantage as he grabbed her wrists. After a moment of struggle, she found herself trapped. Her dagger was angled to slice open his wrist - but his was angled to pierce her chest.
A hand or a heart? Aelin didn't presume to think she had the advantage here.
She took a breath, the movement making the tip of the dagger catch in the fabric covering her chest, and prepared herself to die. Prepared herself to make as much damage as she could whilst she did.
But then he brought his mouth close to her ear and said in a whisper so faint she thought it was a stray breeze: "I need your help."
Only the blade at her breast kept her in place - otherwise, she'd have jerked away in shock. "What?" She got out in an equally quiet voice.
Seemingly satisfied she wouldn't try to stab him - not until he'd explained his bizarre statement, anyway - she let go, and she whirled to face him head on. There was no jesting in his stern face. "I said, I need your help."
"With what?" She fingered the handle of her dagger, eliciting a cautious glance from him.
"This job, of course."
She couldn't help it: she laughed. "Is that so, Whitethorn?" She sneered. "Is that even your real name?"
"Of course," he said simply. "Not all of us have to hide behind a false identity, Galathynius."
She flushed an angry red. "How d-" Whether she was about to say how dare you? or how do you know? was uncertain, but he cut her off either way.
"My point is, I need your help, Celaena, so why don't you shut your mouth for once and listen?" She gaped at his rudeness, but he barrelled on. "I need you to create a diversion."
"A diversion?"
"Faint, or something. This blithering idiots are so sexist the moment a woman faints or screams bloody murder they'll be stumbling over themselves to prove that there's nothing wrong. I just need to to distract the medic Perrington has with him long enough for him to die of the poison I spiked his wine with."
The medic. Yes, she could see how he could be a problem - Perrington's personal healer had been keeping a close eye on him all night, looking for signs of injury or illness. That might complicate Whitethorn's plan to poison him.
"What's in it for me?"
Whitethorn smirked then, and she remembered how much she hated him. "Half of the payment we've both been offered - the other half going to me, of course. You can work out the percentage your master gets yourself," a pause then he said, slightly gleefully, "and if you don't, I'll go straight to the King of Adarlan and tell him that Celaena Sardothien, also known as Aelin Galathynius, is in his midst."
She narrowed her eyes at the threat. "If you do that, I'll let slip that Rowan Whitethorn is here."
"You might, but who do you think they'll be more interested in? A petty assassin, or the daughter of the two most powerful magic wielders this continent has ever seen?" He tapped his fingernail against his dagger. "Oh, I think they'll be very interested in you."
Her pride barked at her to kill him, to refuse, to get the job done, but... It was too risky. If the King got the faintest hint she was here, living in his city-
"Fine," she ground out between her teeth. "I'll do it."
His grin was like the unsheathing of a dagger. "Good."
It went all right at first. She screamed at blood she didn't really see, and when it was clear she was "too hysterical to communicate" there were cries of "fetch the medic, fetch the medic!" She pretended to faint just before he got there, and suppressed a smile when she saw Perrington collapse with little fuss on the other side of the room.
It got awkward when, in his preliminary examination of her, the medic found the weapons she'd hidden under her dress. "Hey!"
She'd bolted.
In fact, she'd been in such a rush to get out of there that she nearly tripped and fell on the stairs. Her stupid shoe came off, and for a moment she debated putting it back on (those shoes were expensive after all) but it was so hard to run in, and it hurt her foot, so she just left it there. It could be potential evidence for the guards to track her down, but... She'd deal with that if it happened.
She kept running.
She didn't stop until she reached her apartment, made sure all the windows and doors were locked, then passed out on the bed.
She woke from a fitful sleep to find the window swinging open (she'd locked it, gods damn it!) and her missing shoe sitting innocuously on her nightstand.
Crammed inside the shoe was exactly half (she counted) of all the gold the client had promised her. She knew where the other half was - a note had been left. Signed by Rowan Whitethorn himself.
Figured you'd be missing this.
And I don't suppose you'd be interested in working together in the future?
