"Do you want to die?" General Thurston demands.
"...Is that a trick question?" Azazel asks.
He's been sitting in the general's lounge for the first fifteen minutes after eating breakfast, being thoroughly reprimanded for last night's shenanigans in the inn. The general has spent every minute reminding Azazel that he graciously accepted Azazel's plea for protection and that he is doing what he sees fit to ensure his life is spared. He stresses that Savaric and Grimald are there for his protection, not as his babysitters, and if he wants to act like a child then he ought to find someone willing to coddle him.
Azazel hasn't been listening to most of the lecture. He tunes in here and there to make a smart comment, but other than that, he's studying the room for anything to steal. Examining the lounge is starting to get aggravating. He's seeing the same old posh things, over and over, and getting nowhere. None of it is good enough to steal. He needs something the general is going to miss.
"For the rest of this week, I must insist you remain within the estate at all times," General Thurston commands, and Azazel slumps farther into his chair. "Consider it a better alternative to dying from your own folly."
Yesterday, Azazel couldn't get away from the general's bffs. Now, he can't get away from his house. He bids his deeply cherished freedom goodbye.
Pepin flutters into the room along with Alistair, perching on the back of the couch beside the general. Eyeing Azazel suspiciously, like he might have a cookie hidden somewhere, he hops one step closer to the general.
"Sir," he says, "The florist is here, and she would like to meet with you considering the floral arrangements for the wedding."
General Thurston stands. "You must excuse me, Azazel. I have business to attend to. Again, I will stress: do not leave the estate."
Azazel sighs, offering him a half-hearted salute. Pepin seems pleased with Azazel's fate, as he returns to the kitchen looking rather smug. The general turns to exit, facing Alistair.
"Ah, good morning, my pet," he greets, holding out a hand. Mechanically, Alistair offers his hand for the general to take and kiss. "Would you like to accompany me to the florist's?"
"Not this morning, thank you," Alistair rejects, retracting his hand. "I am feeling weary. I did not sleep well last night."
The two of them discuss something or another, floral patterns maybe, and Azazel tunes them out. Eventually, the general leaves to run their wedding errands, and Azazel is left in the lounge with Alistair.
He expects to either be ignored or reprimanded for his posture or something stuffy like that, but then, Alistair says, "I suppose I… ought to thank you for last night."
Looking at Alistair's expression reveals a rare crack in his near constant stoicism. The slightest hint of pink dusts his cheeks, but the shade from his hat-like extension conceals it well. He seems embarrassed to concede gratitude. Normally, Azazel would milk this moment. He'd rub it in a little. Right now, he's just too tired for any of that.
He shrugs. "Just leave it."
Silence.
"I couldn't help but overhear that you have been subject to house arrest," Alistair remarks. Azazel could laugh. Of course, when he has the decency to not gloat in Alistair's face, Alistair doesn't have the same inclination.
"Yep, I sure did," he responds with sarcastic chipperness. "I bet you love that I'm trapped in this boring house all week."
A beat.
"I'd say I'm more indifferent to it," Alistair replies, "But I assure you, the estate is not dull. There is plenty to entertain yourself with."
Azazel gives him an unimpressed look. "Like what."
Alistair turns, gesturing for him to follow. "I'll show you."
"And this one is titled Righteous Sin," Alistair informs, taking Azazel by the seventeenth classic painting in this hall alone. The image is of a soldier in white standing over the slain bodies of dozens of people clad in an array of dark colors. "As you can see, the soldier thinks himself in the midst of a glorious pursuit for good, massacring those who are not in white. However, the bodies beneath him glow with heavenly light while he does not. This is to symbolize that he has made himself holy in his own mind while committing atrocities against genuinely good people…"
Azazel doesn't think he can listen to another analysis of symbolism and motif and theme or whatever the hell Alistair sees in these paintings. He barely listens to Alistair ramble—do you see how he's dressed himself in white to pretend he can glow like the others?—and instead opts to search the hall for something to steal. Any of these pieces of art could be a good payout, but difficult in operation. He's not sure he could sneak out of here with one of the general's paintings, at least not easily. Besides, do any of these paintings hold deep value to the general, or are they just aesthetic?
He gazes down the hall, letting Alistair ramble to himself. The corridor is needlessly long and frivolously filled with posh art just for show. At the end of the hall, a large, golden arch curves to open up to a new room. From a distance, Azazel can't tell what type of room it is. It's large and sunny, that's for sure. Possibly full of goodies to snatch.
Alistair catches his gaze and remarks, "That's the library. I spend most of my time there. Would you like to see?"
The library is, as Azazel saw from the hall, ginormous. But standing inside is much more impressive than an outside view. The shelves stretch so high that he can't read the titles of the highest books. It's an endless sea of books: history, fantasy, instructive, romance, adventure, arithmetic, philosophy, and a bunch of other practices Azazel doesn't know. He gawks at the tremendous display. He's certain the vast collection in the Skystead Library can't even compete with this.
Alistair floats beside him, gazing up at the books as if this is any other room. "General Thurston had the library installed in our summer home because he knows I enjoy literature. However, he says he will not buy me anymore books until I have read all of these. So, my goal is to read this entire library by the end of the year."
"By the end of the year?" Azazel repeats, incredulous. "It's summer and you just got here, there's no way you'll finish."
"Perhaps not. But I have made decent progress."
"How much?"
Alistair points to a shelf. "I have read that."
Azazel looks between him and the shelf that towers to the ceiling. "What, like you've… read some books on that shelf?"
"No. I have read the entire shelf."
"The entire shelf?!" He exclaims, inclined to call bullshit. But Alistair nods seriously, so he has no choice but to take his word for it. Staring up at the monstrous amount of books, he finds himself getting a headache just thinking about all of that reading. "Well. You sure like to read, huh."
"Indeed," Alistair responds, pleased. He floats over to a window seat in the center of the room, sitting on the plush cushions and taking a book left on the sill. "This is the newest book I am reading. Have you heard of it?"
"Not much of a reader," he admits, "But what's it called?"
"Rosera Rellom."
"...What?"
"Rosera Rellom," he repeats, "Are you familiar with the Kiveri language?"
"Uh, I'm aware that it exists, but I don't speak it."
"Do you speak Motoge? Isatoi? Koatio?"
"No, no, I just speak Kyphic, like everyone else in town. Why? Do you speak all those languages?"
"I'm not yet fluent in Isatoi."
Alistair says it so nonchalantly, as if everyone in the world has experience in five languages. Azazel only stares at him for a second before laughter begins to escape him. Alistair looks up from his book, confused.
"What?"
"I don't get it," Azazel begins, sitting beside Alistair on the window seat. "How can you read so much and know all these languages and still be a complete idiot with no street smarts?"
Alistair huffs, flustered, and argues, "I have been raised indoors my whole life and forbidden from mingling with the common folk. How am I supposed to have—what do you call it?—street smarts? I do not possess the knowledge you would consider universally known."
"Well, for starters, don't call people common folk. It's pretentious."
"Oh. I see." Alistair pauses, seemingly to ponder over his newest discovery. Then, he asks, "Could I inquire more about common… er, the people of your class?"
Azazel leans back. "Go for it."
They exchange questions and answers, going back and forth at the speed of light. Is it true that you don't have personal attendants like Pepin? How do you entertain yourselves? Where do you shop? Do you drink tea? How does one peel a potato? The questions pour in, one after another, each spoken as honestly and as cluelessly as the last. Some of them, Azazel can't help but laugh at. But he answers them all just as truthfully as Alistair asked them. All the while, Alistair pays close attention, soaking in the information like a hungry sponge.
As the conversation goes on, he even finds himself asking Alistair a question or two. How many rich people that you know truly earned their wealth? Do your servants actually help you bathe? Alistair, red-faced, emphatically denies the latter.
Their conversation carries on so long that Azazel doesn't realize the sun has gone down and the library has grown dark. It only occurs to him when a voice from the entryway calls, "Alistair."
They both turn, facing the general as he stands in the hall. Offering a hand for Alistair to come and take, he urges, "Come to bed. It's late."
Alistair gazes out the window at the moon for a surprised second. Then, he says, "The time must've slipped my mind." Alistair rises, bowing his head to Azazel. "I'm afraid I must bid you goodnight."
"Of course. Goodnight."
Alistair floats to the general, taking his hand. Azazel watches them leave the library. When they've left, he looks up at the moon. He can't believe he just talked to Alistair Laurembitch for an entire day—and had... fun?
Maybe house arrest won't be so bad, after all.
The third day of house arrest, he's in the gardens. He's had such a difficult time finding something to steal inside the estate that he began to wonder if he was looking in the wrong place. The building is surrounded by spacious gardens. There must be some valuable trinkets here and there, like a small marble statue or something accidentally left on a bench.
He didn't count on there being a garden maze. Now, he's hopelessly lost. He's taken at least a billion wrong turns but always seems to end up at the same place. What is it with rich people and making labyrinths out of shrubbery? He'll never understand.
His patience is running out and he's just about to float above the maze and never come back when he hears something. From deeper inside the maze, a melody drifts. He stops walking, taking a moment to listen. The song is in a language he doesn't understand, but it's no less meaningful. It's a song about heartbreak, he can tell, because the voice is so full of emotion. He hasn't heard singing this beautiful since his mother passed away.
Without his permission, his feet draw closer to the source. He travels through twists and turns and gets so whirled around that he has no sense of direction anymore. But his heart still follows the song, so he presses on.
When he finally reaches a clearing in the center of the maze, he happens upon an elegant fountain. The rhythmic sound of falling water is background to the song Alistair is singing as he sits on the fountain's edge. Azazel pauses, almost like the ground is too sacred to walk on, and listens. He suspects if Alistair's back weren't to him, he wouldn't have the chance to hear him sing.
Alistair only seems to be half-singing, as a form of background entertainment to what his actual focus is: writing. The song ebbs and sways from a mere hum to soft, clear words and then back again. Sometimes, he grows entirely silent, and Azazel finds himself yearning for more. When the song returns, it's always with a riveting note of sorrow. Azazel's almost glad he doesn't know the words. If he knew the language, his mind might latch onto the words and not the emotion.
Azazel allows himself to bask in the music for another minute before taking the slightest step forward. A good person would announce their presence, or simply walk away. But Azazel's not a good person, so he knows what he has to do.
Floating above the fountain, close behind Alistair, he whispers, "Boo."
Alistair flails in surprise, practically flinging himself backward. Azazel hurriedly backs up to avoid being run into, allowing Alistair to fall right into the fountain. The water splashes outward, rushing onto the marble edge and dripping off. When Alistair thrusts himself back to the surface, gasping, Azazel's doubled over in laughter.
Indignant, Alistair whips his head around to glare at him. Azazel can hardly see the annoyance in his expression through his hysterical tears. What he can see, clear is day, is how hilarious Alistair looks sitting in a fountain soaking wet. His amused cackling runs wild.
"I see you think yourself funny," Alistair huffs, holding his dripping arms out in front of himself disdainfully. Azazel can only manage a teary nod through his laughter. Reaching out an arm to him, Alistair snaps, "Well, I do not. Help me out."
Rolling his eyes, Azazel takes his hand and says, "Yikes, someone got up on the wrong side of the—"
He's yanked in.
When he emerges from the fountain, shaking his head free of water, he sees Alistair in front of him with a hand covering his mouth. His eyes sparkle with mischief, and Azazel suspects a smile is creeping on his face behind that hand. A grin stretches on his face in return.
"All right, now you've done it," he warns, lunging for Alistair. Alistair leaps out of the fountain, and Azazel jumps after him. "You're getting dunked!"
Alistair takes off through the maze, quicker than Azazel expected. He gives chase through the air, flying past every twist and turn Alistair attempts to lose him with. Still, Alistair is starting to shake him. Not only does he know this maze better than Azazel, he's faster, too. With fairplay alone, Alistair will easily escape him.
Good thing Azazel's never played fair.
He dives into the ground, sinking through it. Darting to the side, he cuts under a hedge and ends up on an entirely new path. When he pops out, Alistair is just turning the corner to race that way. Seeing him, Alistair spins around and dashes the other way. Azazel does the same thing as last time, blocking Alistair's path once more. This time, Alistair is just close enough to grab. Azazel reaches out to him, but Alistair whirls around and flees just in the nick of time. His fingers barely brush Alistair's arm.
He bolts after him, following him through the winding paths of the maze. They happen upon a long, straight row of hedges that end with no exit. Alistair races to the dead end, and upon realizing he's cornered himself, he spins around to retreat. However, Azazel's in his way.
"Nowhere to run," he taunts, slowly closing in on him.
Alistair looks to his sides, as if he'll be able to phase through the hedges. No ghost-types can move through living things, so he has to know he's stuck. Unless he moves through the ground or the air, where Azazel can clearly catch him. It's the end of the road for him.
Except, Alistair suddenly darts to the side. Instead of attempting to phase through one of the hedges, he physically shoves himself between the branches. Azazel can't help but laugh, diving into the ground to pursue him. When he emerges on the other side, Alistair has already taken off, covered in little scrapes and leaves from the bramble. But Azazel catches up after Alistair second guesses a turn, and they're only an arm's length away, now.
From behind Alistair, he ducks into the earth, shoots forward, and leaps out right in front of him. Alistair's speed doesn't give him enough time to stop, and he runs right into Azazel. Finally catching him, Azazel grapples with him until his hands are trapped behind his back. Alistair is laughing.
"Back to the fountain with you," he threatens with a grin, causing Alistair to squirm.
Behind them, someone clears their throat. "Azazel."
They turn to see General Thurston. Azazel releases Alistair.
"I'm happy to see that you are enjoying yourself at the estate," the general remarks, gesturing for Alistair to join him. With his head down, Alistair does. "But I would prefer you to limit physical contact with my fiancé to something more… conservative."
There was an air of freedom in the garden maze that suddenly feels sucked away.
"Yeah. Sure, I get it," Azazel replies. Alistair keeps his head down. "It was my fault, I was fooling around. I'll leave him alone."
General Thurston nods, stern but appreciative. When Alistair looks up, he looks at neither of them. His expression has grown cold and dead again.
The general takes Alistair by the arm, and Alistair obediently links their arms together. "Shall we have lunch outdoors today, my pet?"
General Thurston and Alistair depart. Azazel watches them go, then turns his head away and sighs. It's like a chasm has been torn between the little progress he and Alistair were making. Now, this house arrest feels like its old, bitter self again.
He looks around at the hedges surrounding him.
"Shit," he says, "I'm still lost."
After the fifth night, Azazel is regretting being born. Savaric and Grimald have been on his ass non-stop, there's nothing good enough to steal, and General Thurston is a huge stick in the mud who considers a week of house arrest a seven day week and not five. The small bits of fun he could have with Alistair have been dashed away. He hasn't seen Gunnora in days. Overall, he's just plain miserable.
He's been lying in bed for hours, trying to sleep. His mind is too active for rest; he's itching to burn some energy. The most thrilling thing he can do here is play a solo game of chess, and that's not gonna help him. All he can do is stare at the ceiling, agonizing as the seconds drip by like molasses.
Woefully, he drops his head to the side to look at the time. It's just past two in the morning. He sighs, drearily, returning his despondent gaze to the ceiling. Why are rich people's ceiling's so intricate? Why do they have all these fancy designs and gaudy colors? It's giving him a headache.
He only ponders his misfortune for a moment longer when something drifts through the air. A sound, a slight, almost non-existent sound slips under the crack of his door from the hall. It catches his attention because he's both bored out of his mind and confused by it. Savaric and Grimald never make a sound. It can't be them. The general, nearing his sixties, sleeps through the whole night soundly. Alistair rarely gets up in the night, and when he does, he's as silent as the colonels. He considers that it could be Pepin wandering around and doing some early morning cleaning, but Pepin wouldn't dare make a noise that could wake the house. But if it's none of them, who is it?
Are they here to rob the general? They would have to have a lot of nerve breaking into the general's house, either that or be incredibly desperate. But if someone steals from this estate before Azazel, he's gonna be so pissed.
He leaps out of bed, tip-toeing closer to the door. As he draws near, the sounds become more intelligible. It's two people whispering, almost conspiratorially, like they're hiding something.
Could it be the killers? No killer could be crazy enough to risk facing the general, right? They'd have to know that killing him would lead to their own death penalty.
Creeping to the door, he presses himself against it and listens closely. The hushed whispers become clear enough for him to recognize the voices. It's General Thurston and Alistair.
"Leave me be. I'm sleeping in the guest room," Alistair states.
"Azazel is in the guest room."
"We have more than one guest room."
Okay, so nothing suspicious is going on here. Just a pre-marital spat. He's honestly a bit disappointed; he'd hoped that something invigorating would happen and spice up his bland week. He should just go back to bed. There's nothing for him here. He doesn't know why his feet stay in place, or why he continues to listen.
"I never wanted any of this," Alistair proclaims, bitter. "This was between you and my—"
"Alistair." The general's tone is dark. Imposing. "Come back to bed."
This issue is clearly none of his business. Clearly. None. He should just hop back in bed and try to get some much needed sleep. But their voices are rising and their argument is escalating. It's starting to sound intense. He doesn't know the general. He doesn't know where he draws the line with his anger. If things spiral out of control…
He puts on his best acting face. What does a person who's trying to sneak out and totally doesn't realize there's a couple's argument past their door look like? Hopefully like him right now. He twists the knob.
Immediately, their voices hush. He pushes open the door, poking his head out and intentionally peering down the empty part of the hall where they are not. When he turns his head and spots them, he pretends to be surprised.
"Oh! Hey there, guys."
Both the general and Alistair blink back at him. After a moment, Alistair shuffles uncomfortably and looks away.
General Thurston stares at him, somewhere between disbelief and aggravation. "Were you trying to sneak out again?"
"Uh… yeah?" He lies. "Looks like you caught me, though. Darn."
The general's temper flares, his expression burning with fury. His voice surging and smoldering with rage, he seethes, "The audacity! Why do you request my help if you insist on defying me at every turn?! Never, in all my life, have I come across someone with such—such blatant disrespect and insolence!"
"General," Alistair says, quietly.
"What is it that you are hoping to achieve?!" The general demands, flames of wrath crackling in his eyes. "Are you trying to get killed?!"
A little louder: "General."
"Would you rather I kill you myself and get it over with?!"
"General!" Alistair shouts. "Calm yourself. Leave, walk the estate, do as you please until you can control yourself. You wouldn't want your blood pressure to spike again, now would you?"
The general is still searing with anger, like he's itching to strangle Azazel with his bare hands. Alistair glares at General Thurston with cold, resentful spite. After a tense battle of wills between the two of them, the general turns on his heel and marches off to stew in his own boiling air. Azazel doesn't watch him go.
Who'd have thought a water-type could be so much like a volcano?
Gazing at Alistair, he sees the sharp, acidic expression of the Alistair he met in the inn. He asks, "Are you okay?"
Alistair doesn't turn to him. "If you know what's good for you, you had best stop these inane attempts at escape." With that biting remark, he briskly stalks away. Azazel watches him go.
Heavily, he sighs. He returns to bed, and still doesn't sleep.
The next day, Azazel is wandering the estate in search of something to steal. Well, that's what he's supposed to be doing. His heart isn't really in it, right now. These past two weeks have been a drag, and it's tearing down his motivation. Last night really hit the nail on the head.
He drifts into the library, expecting to see Alistair. He tries to ignore the disappointment in his chest when he finds it empty.
He could steal the books. He suspects that won't hurt the general as much as it hurts Alistair. There's a bust at the side of the room made in the general's visage. That might be too heavy to get away with.
He flops onto the window seat. There's nothing here for him. He just wants to get out of this stupid estate.
On the window sill, he spots the book Alistair had been reading, Rosera Rellom. He had just started it when he last saw it. Now, the bookmark is nearly at the end. Azazel idly flips through the pages of the book, unable to understand a word. He tosses it aside. On the sill beside where the book had once been, a leather bound notebook rests. Curious, Azazel takes it and opens it.
Inside, a loose leaf page falls out. Azazel takes it, skimming over handwriting he recognizes as Eustace's, the snobby rich art curator. It appears to be a letter of some kind, addressed to the general. It mostly talks about weather and politics and art, but there is a paragraph that gives him pause: it mentions him by name. And it's a long, long paragraph.
Running through it reveals that Eustace was doing nothing but moaning and whining about Azazel stealing—allegedly stealing, mind you—his priceless glass Articuno. He rants and raves about Azazel for a good page, calling him a no-good thief and blaming his lack of character on his upbringing at Beggar's Hole. Azazel rolls his eyes. What a little bitch.
On the journal's pages, he finds unfamiliar handwriting. It's cursive, scrawled elegantly onto the pages, and the vocabulary is extensive. Some of the words, Azazel can't even read. Guess that's to be expected when he hardly learned how to read or write, anyhow. He flips through a few pages, skimming the material. Turning back to the front cover, he reads,
Journal of General Thurston Rambugnon III.
Makes sense, he supposes, that the general would write all fancy like that. He flips a few pages, reading through what he can. The language is flowery and frivolously long, and it mostly gives him a headache, but he can pick out the main themes. Usually, the general is writing about the weather or some boring rich person he met with that day. He writes about business and politics and war. There's a weird passage about some cannibalistic ocean clan that he faced off against; that was kinda interesting. Extensively, he details the importance of having a pristine reputation. Azazel mostly skips through all of this, not really reading any of the content. It's mostly mundane, anyways. What he does pause to read is an entry that mentions Alistair.
Alistair Laurembert and I, happily engaged, will enjoy our wedding and subsequent honeymoon on Bloomfield Island, in the town of Skystead. Alistair has remarked that the island is a strange place for us to hold our wedding, but I know he will grow to love it.
Yes, as he will grow to love many things, Azazel thinks to himself. He skims through the rest of the page, mostly finding that he discusses the climate and the scenery of the island for a whole paragraph. He turns the page.
I told Alistair that I have ordered a library be built in our new summer estate. I was blessed to see one of his rare smiles. Hopefully, I will continue to see more. He is so beautiful when he smiles.
Azazel frowns slightly, his mind drifting to the fight last night. It's a strange juxtaposition to have, watching them argue and then reading through one of their deepest affections for the other. He flips the page, finding nothing but more talk of his reputation. He turns several pages aside.
Alistair and I walked in the gardens of our summer estate for the first time. He was surprised to see that I had filled the gardens with his favorite flowers. I hope, through these small actions, he will come to see how dearly I cherish him.
He skims through several other pages of writing before closing the journal. He tosses it carelessly to the floor, bored. He looks to the window sill for anything else interesting lying around. There is one more thing: a small stack of loose leaf papers. Azazel takes them, scanning over the writing.
It's not Thurston's handwriting, whose cursive is elegant in a stiff, business-like manner. The cursive is gorgeous, like art, swooping and caressing across the page. He doesn't even read the words for a second; he just appreciates it. His eyes drift to the bottom of the paper, where he finds a signature.
Alistair R. Laurembert.
Of course it's Alistair's. After hearing his singing in the garden the other day, he should've expected nothing less.
Actually paying attention to the words this time, he reads through the writing. It's a poem, he realizes, and a really well-written one at that. But it's depressing as hell. All it talks about are lonely palaces and withering flowers.
"Prying is a hobby of yours, I see."
Azazel looks up to find Alistair in the entryway. His expression is tight and unpleased. Floating curtly over to him, he snatches the poem out of his hands and collects his things.
"Sorry, wasn't trying to snoop," he says, putting his hands up defensively. "Your poetry is great, though."
"Hmm." Alistair's tone is deadpan. A poem in his hands slips to the floor. Azazel picks it up, glancing over it.
"You should publish it," he suggests, handing it to him. "You should publish all of them."
Shortly: "The general wouldn't like that."
A pause.
"Is everything okay between you guys?" Azazel asks. "After last night, I mean."
Alistair huffs, sitting beside him but opening a book to indicate that he's not interested in him. "Nothing is ever okay between us."
Azazel considers what to do with such a statement.
"You know," he begins, "The general's journal—"
A scoff escapes Alistair. "You mean that old thing he writes in so religiously? All he talks about is the weather."
"And you," Azazel adds, and Alistair turns to glare at him.
"So. You really were snooping."
"Well—okay, maybe I did read the general's journal and your poems, but it was a complete accident."
"An accident, you say."
"Listen: all I'm saying is that he writes about you a lot. He seems to really love you," he insists, and Alistair scowls and looks away. "I'm not gonna try to convince you to love him back, but—"
"Good. You cannot."
"—but do you think you ever could love him?"
"No," Alistair responds, grim and cold. He glares at his book as if the words on the page are acting out of line. "Love is not a one way street."
"Maybe you just need time," he suggests, and Alistair's frown deepens. "How long have you been engaged?"
"Ten years."
"Ten…?" Azazel utters, his words trailing off as his mind goes blank. "Wait. How old are you?"
"Twenty three."
It only takes a second for him to do the math in his head, but for whatever reason, his brain refuses to accept the answer.
"You've been engaged to him… since you were thirteen?" Azazel asks, somewhere between horror and abhorrence. Nausea roils in his gut. "He had to have been almost fifty at the time of your engagement—that's—that's disgusting—"
Azazel cuts himself off when he sees Alistair's face burn with humiliation.
"Wait, wait," he says hastily, sitting straighter as Alistair closes his book and rises to leave. "I'm not disgusted with you, that's not what I… it's not your fault. You were just a kid; you didn't deserve that."
A moment of tense silence passes them by. Eventually, Alistair sits again.
Shamefully, he explains, "My father is a politician. He only thinks of how to get ahead. When the general first saw me, he asked my father for my hand in marriage. My father accepted, because marrying into the general's family would bring him great power. He didn't stop to think about how it would affect me. He didn't stop to think about how wrong it was. And just like that, I was scheduled to marry the general at eighteen."
"Eighteen," Azazel repeats, unable to fathom it. He sits there, dumbfounded for a long, drawn out minute. Then, suddenly snapping out of it, he wonders, "Wait, if you were supposed to be married at eighteen, how are you still not married now?"
"Simple," Alistair responds, "I've pushed the wedding date back every chance I get."
Azazel leans forward. "Why don't you just break the engagement?"
"Two reasons. The contract is between the general and my father. I have little power to break it," he explains. "Second, this contract is an oath. A promise. And I do not shirk promises, it is against my sense of right."
Azazel blinks.
"Uh," he says, arching a brow, "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
Alistair stares at him, offended. "I beg your pardon?"
"Who cares if it's an oath, a promise, whatever," Azazel says, "Promises mean nothing. Break it. Who cares?"
Alistair gapes at him as if he murdered a baby. Aghast and enraged, he rises, casting his book aside. "Of course, I couldn't expect you of all people to understand. Only someone so lawless and despicable could treat the sanctity of a vow so carelessly."
"All right, fine, get back on your high horse," he spits, eyebrows furrowed, "But at least I'm not the one ruining my life because a piece of paper tells me to."
Alistair turns to him, his eyes livid.
"Get out," he hisses, breathless like he's been punched in the gut. "Get out, now. Out of this estate, out of my sight!"
Azazel stands to his feet, shoving past Alistair. He storms through the house, past Pepin, past all the ostentatious rich shit he'll never steal, and he slams the door behind him. He'll gladly oblige to this one demand, and he won't look back.
