GOD, IT'S BRUTAL OUT HERE !

her fists are dripping in sweat and blood; salt and sweetness. below her is the only boy she’s ever loved, who knows no better resolution to their problems than an open palm. it isn’t the first time he’s done this—hell, it isn’t even the tenth. she stopped keeping score of how much they could hurt one another a long time ago. she still doesn’t know why she’s let it happen. maybe it’s the cruel imitation of love that drives her to the edge of sanity. maybe she’s only clinging to a strange and twisted sense of belonging she felt in his arms. either way, one of them isn’t making it out of this field alive.

the many faces of love and anger obfuscate on his features beneath the pale moonlight. the night is sweltering, and maisie can feel her flesh become feverish the longer she hovers above him, waiting for his counterattack. but he doesn’t stand, nor does he even flinch or breathe. she thinks that this is it. he’s gone. she’s free. but then, he sucks in a struggled breath, reanimating as he writhes on the ground in a flailing attempt at gathering himself. she stumbles backwards, tripping over her ankles and falling backwards onto the dirt. he coughs up a clot of blood and she flinches. she doesn’t know what better thing there is to do besides run. it’s cowardly, but it’s either that or she dies, and she thinks she still has some stomach left for life inside her. so, she turns on her heel and leaves him to choke. hopefully, by the time the sun stretches across the horizon, his suffering will come to an end. 

that’s more than she can say for her own.

-

when she sneaks in through the kitchen door, the house is eerily quiet for nine o’clock. typically, her twin would be indulging his mother in a brady bunch marathon or cooking them up a post-dinner snack. instead, all the lights are off, the air is unmoving, but there’s at least a plate wrapped in tin foil waiting for her on the isle. she swallows hard, the sensation making her throat pulsate. she couldn’t be further from hungry, yet still knows if she doesn’t eat it, she’ll receive an earful in the morning about her well-being. in truth, she’s always been a ravenous being, so her refusing food would be entirely out of character and very suspicious on her part. she approaches the plate and unwraps it, finding two pieces of baked chicken and a modest amount of mashed potatoes coupled with cold peas, all coated in thick brown gravy. 

she sighs and nukes it in the microwave. as she waits the three minutes, she leans on her elbows and watches the quiet world outside the window over the sink. in her mind’s eye, she conjures up an image of herself and her brother on the swing set as children. times were much simpler then. it was before they discovered what love or desire meant, what weight it possessed in their fucked up society. before wesley. before she killed him, or even had the thought of killing him.

the worst part of it was that she couldn’t justify it. although he had hurt her far more than she ever had him, she was at least self-aware enough to know better than to say he deserved death. you’d think, at this point, she’d be fretting how she was going to excuse his disappearance and subsequent demise. but wesley has made lots of enemies in kansas city. some would say it was only inevitable until his comeuppance would steal his right to life. there are plenty of people in town who would die themselves to be in her shoes; these beat up converse that had splatters of blood and mud on them, that walked the six miles home in a darkness only interrupted by the occasional streetlight. 

the microwave beeps. she snaps out of her daydream and tosses it open, sliding the plate out and sitting at the isle to consume it with almost painful haste. she chews fast, her jaw aching, but she’s no stranger to pain. once it’s all gone, she leaves the plate in the sink and tiptoes upstairs. 

the bathroom is the nearest door, which she slips inside with a quietude she inherited from her mother. she kicks off her shoes and begins undressing once cranking the bathtub faucet on. after washing her shoes in the sink and leaving them by the door, her pulpy form lowers into the hot water and wades just below the surface. she stares up at the ceiling and ponders on how she’s gotten here. 

she thinks back to the day she met wesley: it was five years ago, when she was eighteen and he was twenty-one. he had long since graduated and she had skipped a year ahead of her brother, going from sophomore year to senior year over the course of one summer. she caught his eye while breezing through her math homework underneath an oak tree in the park. she’d have studied with friends like everyone else, but she didn’t have any. he approached her, flashed her a smile that she now recalls as being grimy, and asked what she was writing. 

formulas, was all she said in return. he asked what kind. math kinds. then, he laughed. this was a year before she received her cochlear implant, so all she could see was his mouth form an ‘o’ shape and his shoulders shaking in amusement. she smiled then, finding it charming.

what’s your name? he kept prying.

margaret, she replied. normally, she didn’t give out her nickname. it was sacred, made for those who she deemed worthy enough, and she had just met him, though immediately she felt herself compelled to continue speaking to him. 

old timey. i like it, he said. in that moment, she softened, lowering her pencil and inviting him to sit beside her. can i call you garet?

she laughed. a wholehearted, bright, filled belly kind of laugh. he laughed, too. they sat there and it felt like the world revolved around them, even if just for a little while.

a tear slips down her cheek as the memory disintegrates. once upon a time, things were good. he was her saving grace, the boy she’d end up marrying, but back then she couldn’t fathom the thought of bearing children. she still can’t. what if they’re like me? she always thinks, despite the fact her own mother had her and her brother and made them a decent life. it’s different with her, though. she isn’t as softhearted or understanding. she’s roughly hewn, the stitching on her heart bursting with every beat. she would never subject children to her own untamed madness. it’d be crueler than what she had done to wesley.

she washes off the viscera stuck to her body. when she emerges from the tub, she dresses in one of her brother’s sweaters and a pair of striped shorts. she decides when she leaves the bathroom that she can’t sleep alone. she pads across the hallway and inches open spencer’s bedroom door. smiling faintly, she peels away his comforter and slides into the bed beside him. he rustles, but doesn’t wake. she ducks her head into his back and inhales the sweet scent of fabric softener on his shirt. it’s the one thing that keeps her from sobbing.

-

in the morning, she’s awoken by sunlight bleaching the room. she rolls over onto her back and opens her eyes slowly. when the world focuses, she notices spencer looming above her. she starts, not expecting his presence. she rubs her eyes and pushes herself up on her elbows. he offers her his cochlear implants and, still groggy, she tries to refuse them. 

his hands lift as he signs, it’s important. put them on.

giving a sigh, she finally accepts the implants and fastens them on both sides of her head. as she adjusts to the white noise, her hazel eyes drift up to where she can focus on his lips to read. he seems disheveled and restless, which is strange, because she could feel him snoring against her as they slept.

“what is it?” she asks, her throat struggling to force words out. she wasn’t aware of how worn it’d feel—then, she remembers how wesley clutched onto it with brute force and siphoned all the breath from her lungs. she stills at the thought and pushes it away for the moment.

“i got a letter,” spencer replies. she doesn’t seem impressed by this, offering raised brows so he’ll elaborate. “it’s from dad.”

maisie doesn’t know what she should say at first. “dad?” she echoes. he nods. “we don’t have a dad.”

“sure we do. he sent us a letter.”

“that doesn’t mean anything. it could be from anyone,” she’s quick to deny. without returning her gaze to his lips, she shuffles out of bed and smoothes her wrinkled sweatshirt. “probably just some stupid prank.”

spencer fishes inside his pocket and unearths a crumpled up envelope, offering it to her. “see for yourself.”

she gives an exasperated sigh and reluctantly accepts the envelope. thumbing it open, she slides the letter out and reads what it says. it’s written in immaculate cursive, something that makes her frown. who writes like that in the latter half of the twentieth century?

to spencer and margaret,

i know this letter must come as a great surprise to you both. but i feel i must unburden myself. after almost twenty-four years, i have begun seeking your presence out of the wholehearted desire to know my own creations. inclosed in this letter is my current whereabouts, including my address and the appropriate funds required to reach me. you should know me by name, which i am certain your mother has not uttered since her leaving. i am lucien jensen, which makes you both jensens as well, but i will not press upon either of you to accept my family name until we’ve acquainted each other properly.

i do hope i can see you soon. i have waited many years for this. i leave for europe at summer’s end, so you have ample time to gather your belongings and find me.

i eagerly await your arrival.

respectfully, lucien jensen

“this is bullshit, spencer,” maisie denies as her eyes fall upon the stranger’s name. “why would he wait until now to reach out? he’s had decades to do it. what’s so special about now?”

spencer shrugs in return. “how am i supposed to know? but i do think we should go.”

“why?” she asks, confusion imbued in her voice. “i’d think you of all people would care the least about what he has to say.”

“because we deserve answers, mai. don’t you think so? aren’t you, i dunno, curious?”

maisie frowns. “not really.”

“well, you should be. and i’m going, which means you are, too.”

“i’m not going,” she immediately refuses. she shoves the letter into his chest and moves so she can leave his room, but before she can open the door, he clutches onto her wrist and she can feel the familiar pangs of panic emanate from deep within her chest. she rips her arm away and stares up at him with wide eyes—like she’s some kind of frightened animal.

spencer seems perplexed by her response. “what’s up with you? you’re acting weird, you slept in my bed last night, you probably didn’t even eat the food i left out. is everything okay?”

“i ate. everything is fine.” she deadpans. “i’m not going, okay? i don’t care who he is or what he has to say. and if you do go, you’d just be betraying ma. she left him for a reason. we need to respect that.”

he softens as he fully observes her tense form. it’s very unlike her, which she is painfully aware of, but she tries brushing it off anyway. she leaves him behind in his room and tries to shake their conversation from her mind. by the time she’s in her own room and collapsed onto her bed, she knows it’s all she’ll be thinking of for the rest of the day.

-

it’s two o’clock in the morning when she notices the hall light pouring underneath the crack in her door. she hasn’t been able to sleep, far too consumed by thoughts of wesley and her father. she worries for the moment they’ll find his corpse in the cornfield and what assumptions they’ll make offhand from it. before she can succumb to fear, a shadow eclipses the light and she sits up further against her pillows. heaving out a sigh, she feels far too curious to let it go without investigating.

she slowly turns her doorknob and opens her door. she sees spencer, dressed in jeans and a sweater, with a duffel bag hauled over his shoulder and car keys clutched tight in his hand.

“spencer?” she speaks up, which startles him. “what are you doing?”

“jesus, mai,” he breathes. “where do you think i’m going?”

maisie blinks. “i don’t know. that’s why i asked.”

“i’m going to find dad,” he finally answers her, staring her down in a way that makes her skin crawl. “was hoping you’d just stay asleep so i could go without a fight.”

she presses her lips together. she’s surprised he’s actually gathered the guts to follow through with his hastily made plan. he’s never been the courageous type, leaving all that to her, who’s been fearless from the moment she was born. instead of arguing, she steps forward and looks him over. his shoulders are squared and his posture is fixed. he seems determined. unshakeable.

“i won’t fight you,” she says. her voice is soft, unlike how she normally speaks at an increased volume.

“well, good,” he clears his throat awkwardly and gives her a once over. the lack of sleep is evident in her sunken in eyes and peaked face. “... mai?”

“yeah?”

“i really wish you were coming with me.”

maisie’s brows knit together at his words. slowly, her chin pivots over her shoulder, and she gazes inside her bedroom. it’s dark, minus the night light that cuts through the night and shines warmly in the corner. she knows exactly what compels her to face him again and respond the way she does, and it has everything to do with the dead boy in the cornfield.

“give me ten minutes.”

-

the car ride to maine consumes twenty-eight hours of their lives. maisie gazes out the passenger side window almost the entire trip, admiring the scenery, which shifts from rolling hills and endless plains to dense forests and, eventually, the ocean. she’s never seen such an expanse of water before, always accustomed to the lakes of missouri. it’s gorgeous and incomprehensibly large. she imagines herself on a beach, the sand between her toes, the sunlight warming her bones. she doesn’t know why coming along feels so right—maybe because she and spencer have done everything together as a pair from when they were in utero, or maybe she hopes she can find peace in a place far from home; far from her mistakes and regrets, far from the love that almost killed her.

when they reach a bed and breakfast that spencer thinks looks reputable enough from the outside, she’s exhausted, despite the fact she had remained in the passenger seat the whole ride. he pays for a week long stay, which empties their pockets by half. he’s lucky that she has her own cash, accumulated from birthdays and christmases that she’s clutched onto with an iron fist since receiving it. she hates spending money, knowing that her family could use it on a rainy day at any time, and it seems they need it now more than ever.

they settle into their suite and spencer is eager to leave again as soon as he drops his duffel bag. while he searches for the letter where he can scratch down the address given on a napkin, maisie turns on the television and tunes into an episode of her favorite show, dungeons & dragons.

“you sure you don’t wanna come with?” spencer asks as he folds the napkin and tucks it inside his back pocket. maisie’s eyes flicker toward him and she nods. “okay. i’ll be back soon.”

“actually,” she says. “i think i’m gonna go down to the beach. can you pick me up there after?”

spencer’s brows lift, seeming surprised that she wants to leave the room without him. “uh, yeah. yeah, i can. you wanna go… alone?”

“i do. i’m capable of it, i think.”

“then okay. i’ll pick you up in a couple hours. just—be safe, okay?”

maisie offers him a smile. “you, too.”

“always,” he shoots her a crooked grin, then moves so he can quickly leave their room.

when he’s gone, she sits through one more episode before she reaches inside her backpack and brings out her sketchbook. might as well capture the beauty of this place, lest they have to escape at any point. she tugs on her sneakers and adorns a cardigan, one that has her mother’s initials sewn into the tag, then follows spencer’s path out of the bed and breakfast.

the beach is only a five minute walk away. she settles on a bench and gazes out at the ocean. she likes how it shimmers in the glow of the sun above; how everyone there seems so at peace. it takes her a while to find inspiration, what with so many people coming and going. it isn’t until she sees a boy sit on a bench about thirty feet from her that her heart jumps inside her throat and pulses.

as she sketches him she thinks about nothing except for how pretty he looks. it’s been a while since she’s felt such desire. she stopped looking at wesley that way after the first time he hit her. she’s focused on his features, repeatedly glancing up at him—until he returns the stare, and it feels like the tide coming in after spending ages on the scorching sand.

he walks over. she stills. wesley’s beaten body flashes in her mind, but then, miraculously, the visual of it surrounded by wildflowers refreshes her spirit, and she feels ready again.

basics ;

full name. lukas spencer. nickname(s). luke, lukey, lulu. age. nineteen. gender. cis male. sexuality. homosexual homoromantic ( with heavy comphet ). date of birth. 18th of sun's dusk. zodiac. the atronach.

physical ;

hair. medium brown, some blond highlights in the sun. eyes. violet with blue specks. brown hair. skin. pale white ; has a scar cutting down the left side of his face from being sliced open with a dagger at age fourteen. physicality. lean ; practices archery and does frequent upper body exercises to maintain his form. mentality. medium tempered. has some anger issues inherited from both his parents, and has autism like his mother, but he does his best to remain level as much as he can. habits. scratching, humming ( very out of tune ), spinning objects in his hands, tapping his foot when anxious.

personality ;

basics ;

full name. jane waverly. nickname(s). janey, jay. age. twenty - one. gender. demi female. sexuality. bisexual biromantic. date of birth. 11th of midyear. zodiac. the steed.

physical ;

hair. light brown ; cut right below her chin and left in waves. eyes. azure blue. skin. very pale ; burns easily in the sun and often wears hoods to hide from it. physicality. skinny ; build like a stick but still maintains some poise, mostly when it comes to climbing/scaling tall objects. mentality. hot tempered. much like her parents, jane has a lot of built up anger for seemingly no reason at all. she snaps easily and has a stubbornness that remains unmatched by anyone else in asla nalore. habits. clenching her fists, digging her nails into her palms, humming when bored.

personality ;

basics ;

full name. isabeau vyolet starborn. nickname(s). isy, beau. age. twenty - four. gender. cis female. sexuality. homosexual homoromantic. date of birth. 3rd of second seed. zodiac. the steed.

physical ;

hair. dark brown ; left in luscious mocha waves that fall to her elbows. eyes. honey brown. skin. sun - kissed ; lighter in tone but tans easily in the summertime and covered in freckles from her cheekbones to her arms. physicality. curvy ; has a full figure and keeps in shape by the occasional sword fighting lesson despite not being too interested in it. mentality. even tempered. much like her mother, beau is pure of heart and rarely is in a bad mood, though some criticize how oblivious she can be of evil at times. habits. pacing when nervous, throwing her hands around while speaking, stuttering.

personality ;

“Do you want a clout in the ear?”

Sebastian’s mother’s voice struck Gods given terror inside his enlarged heart every time she threatened him—all he’d been guilty of was wielding a wooden sword he was gifted for his nameday in the dining hall, swishing it around with impressive ease and agility. Where most mothers would have praised their sons’ adeptness, Avril was the opposite. She valued obedience far more than any other virtue, which is what summoned Sebastian to lower the sword and tuck it inside the sheathe he was given that’d been branded with the sigil of his house: a three-headed dragon.

House Jensen had ruled Aliadore for three centuries with no evidence to believe their dynasty would crumble for another millennium at the least, yet Sebastian was made to feel the smallest out of them all. He was the son of a princess, which meant virtually nothing when it concerned status. He would be married off to a noble girl to secure an alliance, entirely forgotten by his family even if he sired an heir, who would also serve as nothing more than a pawn to move across the board spanning the whole continent. This made him avoidant to picking up his responsibilities as a prince of the realm, particularly when it came to studying all day long. He made a deal with his mother at the age of ten, that if he proved himself in the art of dueling that he could forfeit his study on the histories and instead dedicate the time to training.

She was reluctant to accept, but eventually submitting to his request was easier than listening to his incessant whining. So, he was only bound to his arithmetic during midday, spending his early mornings and late afternoons in the yard with the finest swordsmen in the realm. He’d picked up the art rather quickly and made it noticeable to all how skilled he was. He was gifted his very first longsword at the age of eleven, this ebony weapon smithed in the firepits where dragons once resided in days of old, etched with his house’s sigil at the hilt and shining obsidian underneath the glare of the sun. He carried it with him everywhere, hardly seen without it swinging at his waist as he traversed the hallways of the palace. And yet still, he was no match for his mother.

“No,” Sebastian replied meekly in response to the threat, his head cowering. He wished he had the kind of mother who was more inclined toward kindness and warmth; one who coddled him when he violently awoke from a night terror; one who cared for his well-being out of a sense of love rather than the duty thrust upon her by her father.

Avril almost sneered at him even as he was submitting to her. “Be on your way, then. And give me that bothersome toy before you go,” she held out an open palm, which Sebastian watched with great reluctance before he surrendered the sword, feeling like he had relinquished a quadrant of his heart all the same.

⚔️

At age fourteen, Sebastian’s one wish was fulfilled on the eve he was meant to acquaint his betrothed: to possess an ebony sword he could wield in the battles to come across the realm from those who challenged his family. Considering how much he irritated his mother simply by breathing, he was caught off guard from the gesture. His father was the one who had arranged it, or so said Avril, who seemed to refuse any credit lest she be held accountable for what Sebastian intended on doing with the sword. Good, of course. All he ever wanted to contribute to the world was good, and it seemed his father and younger sister were the only ones who believed in that.

He sat outside for hours admiring the weapon, twisting and turning it beneath the gentle glow of the yellow sun above and observing the brilliant shimmer it possessed from the shiny black blade. After he’d snapped out of it, he started to thrust it outwards and spin it around in his dominant hand to figure out his grip and stance. As night fell and he was ordered inside again, he found himself lying awake in bed, thinking of all he would enact with the help of his new sword—then, when sleep came, he dreamed of it. He dreamed of cutting down their enemies, slicing through tree branches, performing tricks for the peasant children to inspire them much the same as he was as a youngling. He dreamed of things that would never come to pass, at least not in his lifetime, with where he was in the world.

The following morning the Bellers arrived from a small domain nestled in the hills of the Heartlands. Wildling invasions were frequent at the time, and the Bellers had struck up a deal to offer all their arms to the Jensens if they supplied men in return to drive off their invaders. Since Sebastian was the first born prince of the princess, he was offered with relative ease to the Bellers’ only daughter, Lady Mila.

Her hair was blacker than the night and her eyes reflected like gold under the warm glow of candlelight in their halls. She bore a heart-shaped face and skin as milky and smooth as the chocolates Sebastian helped prepare in the kitchens after dinner each evening. Her lips were drawn together taut and her posture was stiff, especially as she curtseyed in greeting, but nonetheless he felt an unexpected surge of respect and excitement overwhelm him the first time their gazes crossed.

“My name is Sebastian,” he introduced after their parents had left to confer with one another over their betrothal. His hands were slick with perspiration, face already flushed from beholding someone so beautiful.

“I know,” Mila returned, remaining unimpressed. “Mila, your grace.”

Sebastian nodded along fervently. “I know. Would you… Like a tour of the grounds?” He wasn’t sure what else was expected of him, as in truth he hadn't anticipated a betrothal for another few years yet. Still, he supposed he should have felt grateful his bride-to-be was so easy on the eyes, even if a bit prickly in her personality.

“I have no choice regardless, do I?” she asked, a hint of bitterness on her sharp tongue which made Sebastian deflate. She let out a sigh, pitying him at that moment. “… It would be convenient to know where exactly I am going if I am to remain here.”

So, he gave her a thorough tour of the palace grounds, arm-in-arm as he walked them through the hallways and into the kitchens, then the dining hall, the throne room, and out to the gardens which he had assumed she would like best. He rattled off the names of every flower he could remember, having skimmed over that page in the books he was directed to read before forfeiting the least interesting subjects in exchange for swordplay. In the middle of the gardens, where they’d been encircled by a well-kept maze, Mila stopped in front of a small array of black roses.

“Where in the realm did you find these?” Mila wondered as her fingertips danced over the silky petals.

“Do you like them?” Sebastian asked, joining her at her side as his head cocked sideways in curiosity. “I actually don’t know. Perhaps my mother had them brought here—she likes peculiar things.”

Mila hummed. “We’re much alike.”

“Oh, no,” he was quick to deny. This perplexed Mila, whose styled brow arched in return. He cleared his throat, redness flushing through his white cheeks. “She’s much… Much less pleasant to be around.”

“She’s a princess, is that not to be expected?”

A frown graced Sebastian’s face for half a second. “Well, not entirely. My little sister is a princess and they’re nothing alike. I still am not sure where Saylor came from.”

Mila couldn’t disguise a grin. “A womb, or so I hear.”

“No, no, I mean—“ He paused whenever Mila burst out into a fit of giggles, only quieted when she lifted a hand over her mouth. For the first time, he had thought he’d amused someone not by being humiliated, but simply for being himself.

A smile broke across his features as she collected herself. He reached out and plucked one of the roses from its stem, carefully avoiding the thorns which threatened to puncture his skin, and he reached out so he could tuck it behind her ear.

“… You’re much stranger than I expected,” he said to Mila, expecting she wouldn’t find offense in his words.

And she didn’t. “So are you. Your grace.”

He smiled more. From that moment on, he knew he had fallen in love, and it was sweeter than all the treats and more exhilarating than a thousand swings of his sword could offer.

⚔️

He spent less time in the yard with Mila around. She suddenly became more important than anything else he previously thought mattered in his life—sometimes, she felt more important than breathing or blinking. He could stare at her with empty lungs forever if it meant they were together and he could call her his. Their wedding was slated to take place two weeks following his sixteenth nameday, but in the meantime he was encouraged to find other avenues of pleasure and adventure. This, of course, meant brothels and petty fights with lesser men in the lower districts of the city, yet he couldn’t be bothered by such insolent folly. In the span of one day all that’d come to matter was Mila and soaking up every beam of light she cast out, until his Uncle Dante approached him one evening while he was busy daydreaming of his next encounter with his betrothed.

“We’re taking you out into the city, boy,” Dante said, so sure of his decision as he clapped a hand onto Sebastian’s now stiffened shoulder. In his chair where he’d been practicing his spelling Sebastian jolted, feeling his whole body resist the idea.

He glanced up to his uncle, forbidding himself from scowling. “I need not the company of strangers, uncle. But I thank you for—“

“Nonsense. You spend all your time confined within these palace walls, a boy of your age and station should observe the ways of the commoners and their pleasantries if he’s to rule someday,” Dante insisted, further befuddling the prince who stared at him almost slack-jawed. “Come. One evening away from home will benefit you far more than it will bring any harm. I’ll see you at the stables in half an hour.”

And so, knowing there was no denying his uncle, who at the time was still next in line for the throne, Sebastian readied himself for the short journey and dressed in the plainclothes he had at the bottom of his dresser drawer so he could better hide himself in the presence of commoners. While there was nothing to be done for his head of silver hair or purple eyes, he could at least dress as if he were a Jensen bastard, as there were many who had been born from the seed of his uncle and his grandsire before him.

They rode out of the stables on three horses, each one saddling two men at a time. Sebastian ducked his head upon first entering the bowels of the city, hardly wishing for their cover to be blown so quickly. It wasn’t until the light became sparse that he raised his eyes and began surveying the world around him. The people hardly spared them any glances, which he assumed was because they couldn’t risk finding themselves in trouble as much as the royals did—at least his kind would be pardoned, but for the smallfolk their fate was decided long before their crime was enacted.

The brothel they attended was nestled on the shoreline, far enough down to where the guards couldn’t be arsed to patrol for ne’or do wells. This was convenient for Dante and his thugs, who dismounted their horses and corralled Sebastian indoors. Immediately the stench of sweat and a foreign scent that reminded him vaguely of sour spit drove nausea deep into his gut, and he nearly wretched before Dante ushered him along, toward the depths of the establishment where the transaction was to be made.

“We’ll take half a dozen of your finest wenches in two of your cleanest chambers,” Dante threw a coin purse overflowing with gold onto the counter, to which the purveyor swept it off the surface and whistled, summoning the girls from where they sat on other men’s laps, wrapped around their figures in nothing but loincloths and threadbare corsets.

The sickness was overwhelming Sebastian, who swayed a little in place as Dante directed him toward a woman who bore striking similarity to Mila. Her hair was mostly black, though her roots were growing out an ashy brown, and while her eyes were not the honey brown he admired in Mila, they were still brown. Her skin was a few shades darker and her figure more filled in, but by no means was she sore on the eyes, which he’d started attributing to how smooth her curves were, and how her stomach protruded from her torso in a way he hadn’t yet observed in noble girls so far. Everyone was so obsessed with vanity that they hardly thought twice about the act of starving themselves in pursuit of beauty. It was clear Mila, however gorgeous otherwise, held this belief devoutly as well.

“You take this one first. We’ll join you later,” Dante said, a devilish grin befitting his features as he pushed Sebastian straight into the woman’s arms.

She escorted him to a private room, which really served no clear purpose as what divided them from the rest was a flimsy curtain which she ducked around while pulling him along behind her. He was shoved onto a bed of hay covered by a sheet, his eyes wild as he scanned the environment while the woman slowly started shedding her clothes.

“You don’t have to do that,” Sebastian said as soon as his gaze fixed on her. He couldn’t seem to dissolve the warmth which pooled below his belt, which the woman had begun undoing as he sat in disbelief. “What—what is your name?” He thought to ask as she worked.

The woman’s eyes came up and she seemed almost enamored by him. “… Hulda,” she said. “Does it matter?”

“To me it does,” came his reply, which made her smile. “But truly, you don’t have to. I didn’t want to be here to begin with.”

Hulda’s rounder and fatter fingers brushed away the flecks of silver hair clouding his vision, letting them drift down the slopes of his face. “I know what you are, boy,” she said, her voice low and alluring. “The prince is a frequent buyer here. Are you his son?”

“… Nephew,” Sebastian answered. He wasn’t sure what inspired the honesty out of him, perhaps because he knew he was a tragically terrible liar. “My name is Sebastian.”

“Sebastian. A befitting name for a princeling,” Hulda said as her fingers dipped beneath his chin so she could grasp it, pulling him in closer. Her lips ghosted over his, and Sebastian could feel guilt and excitement dance together in his heart. “What’s also befitting is experience. If you’re to marry someday.”

Sebastian kept their gazes tethered as he spoke, “I am to marry soon. In six month’s time.”

Hulda straddled him, the unexpected move sending a jolt down his spine as she lifted her other hand and cupped both cheeks in her hands. “Then we have plenty of time to make certain you can bring pleasure to your wife on that night.”

He didn’t understand why he couldn’t resist her; perhaps it was the familiar eyes or the irresistible nature of her body, but he’d spent that entire night devoting all the energy he could into impressing her. Of course, there wasn’t much he knew how to do, but with every attempt he made she was there to correct him. By the end of it all he was exhausted, craving a good drink and a hardy meal, and once she could walk without her knees giving out from under her she returned to him with a goblet of cheap wine and an iced lemon cake. He opened his mouth so she could pour the wine in, grimacing at the bitter taste and delighting in seeing her laugh.

When she held the lemon cake up to his lips he indulged in a small bite, but an idea came to mind which made him steal the treat from her and instead bring it to her mouth.

“Open,” he said softly, not knowing how to speak any other way. Grinning widely, Hulda’s mouth fell open and she let him slide the treat between her lips. She bit down carefully, chewing with diabolical precision without letting her lips come together once. He watched the food disintegrate in her mouth and melt on her tongue, and before she could offer more wine to numb him he pulled her into a kiss.

Forget the sword or fighting—she tasted of spit and lemons, neither of which he could rinse out of his mouth when he returned home.

⚔️

Three nights before their wedding, Sebastian was awoken suddenly by a shadowed figure standing at his bedside. He snapped out of the dream he was having involving Mila and marzipan, feeling a rush of adrenaline at the prospect of it being Dante coming to escort him back to the brothel before he would be sworn to his betrothed forever. Not that whoring found its end in marriage; it seldom did for most men in his family, but he intended on setting a good example for the son that he would make with Mila someday. Instead of being able to trace Dante’s sharp and handsome features in the inky darkness, he drew out the hauntingly familiar face of despair in a nurse. He pushed up onto his elbows as the adrenaline became laced with panic in the span of a single second.

“What is it?” Sebastian asked as his beating heart threatened to crack through his rib cage. “Elisif, what is it?”

“The Lady Mila, my dear,” Nurse Elisif informed, brushing her fingers across his cheeks still slicked with sweat from his dream. “She came down with a fever in the night.”

Sebastian looked over his shoulder, out the window where a new dawn was breaking on the horizon. He was so certain it was still dark out—how did the sun sneak up on him like that? He tossed the duvet aside and slinked out of bed, searching for his robe. “No one told me of this,” he said as he found his slippers to put on first. “Has she been given any medicine? How does she fare now?”

“My prince,” Nurse Elisif said, this gravity in her voice he hadn’t yet cared to acknowledge. He continued his quest for his robe, becoming slightly irritated as she looked on in pity. “She passed not but an hour ago.”

Sebastian’s heartbeat slowed at her words. Suddenly, all the ache he felt from the pain of its pulsing had halted, and he was drenched in guilt rather than despair. He swallowed roughly, lowering his hand from where it was reaching for the robe which he’d spotted on the back of a chair. When he turned to face Nurse Elisif, the candlelight revealed tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes. He knew she wasn’t one to fabricate a story, didn’t think any of the nurses had the gall nor the idiocy to even try—yet still he couldn’t seem to believe the words that escaped her. He leaned back against the wall, trying to negotiate with himself: She can’t be dead, I saw her at dinner and she was well. Only a little pale in the face, but who wouldn’t be when spending all their time indoors? She must be alive, because she has always lived within me, and if she were dead, so would be I.

“I am so sorry,” Nurse Elisif began departing her sorrows unto him as if he were listening. The world now sounded like it were all underwater and he wondered if that’s how his cousin felt all the time when others spoke to her. Completely detached, entirely uninterested. “You may see her now if you wish. The healers have already sent a raven to her family. I suspect they’ll arrive in a few days’ time.”

Nurse Elisif left his chambers silently. It was as if he existed outside his body, like he wasn’t fully in control as he scoured his chambers for a knapsack. He began shoving all the plainclothes he possessed inside, along with a few trinkets he knew he could sell along the road, plus an extra pair of boots and the leftover snacks he brought in from the kitchen before bed, all wrapped in cloth. He wished he could have put more thought into the decision as he was making it, but all he could feel in his frenzy was a desperate urgency to flee. He couldn’t exist within the same palace walls Mila’s own soul departed from, the ones where he repeatedly escaped her in search of dead end pleasure, even if he’d convinced himself it would be for her benefit someday. He didn’t belong among people that wished not to enact kindness but instead drink and whore their lives away; forsaking their good wives and the children born to them, whittling away at their own credibility while pursuing a fate which favored no one.