TRAITOR.

@godpick who should shut his mouth and make himself useful.

“yes, yes,” fernand rolls his eyes, unappreciative of the stranger’s observation.  does he remember stepping in horse shit?  of course not.  all he knows is that he’s unfortunately knee-deep in shit and can’t seem to pull himself out for some ungodly reason.  just his luck honestly.  hell, he doesn’t even know where he is, but first, he wants a bath and then he wants a change of clothes and an entire bottle of wine.

@oathgiven - an old daydream.

“my lady mathilda?” fernand asks, surprised at the sudden request.  to be suddenly interrogated about the warrior that could not be his - it catches him off-guard and he finds himself speechless, quiet for a moment as he carefully debates his answer.  

rightfully, he should speak of her noble conquests, her fearsome strength as she commands presence and awe, spearing through a line of enemies as the epitome of grace.  he should speak of her tenacious nature: the hard work that she has done in order to accomplish all of her dreams and goals.  he should speak of her kindness - how she, like clive, has inspired him to fight for their shared cause and how she does not harden in nature despite her warrior nature.

“duke arvis,” fernand greets the noble warmly with an outstretched arm.  he claps an arm around the other’s shoulders like he might greet a friend despite never having met the man before.  “i hear you are quite the accomplished sorcerer.  you must tell me the details.  how does it work if i may ask?” he inquires, genuinely intrigued.

“ah, young love,” the cavalier mocks, arms crossing over his chest.  “it’s obvious, you know, with the way you look at her,” he gestures vaguely to the object of the mage’s affections.  “of course, i have no idea what you see in her, but i suppose you common brats ought to stick together.”  

LISTEN YOU CANT TELL ME HE AND MATHILDA WOULDNT DO THAT!!!!!

me @ me: ( dj khaled voice ) congratulations u played urself 

@songsofheroes ( rinean ) who should scold him more often.

so, the doll can talk after all.  fernand was beginning to wonder if lord berkut had fallen for a mute plaything.  she is so unnervingly quiet, but finally, he witnesses her crack.  he knew her silence was nothing but a well-worn facade.

“thank goodness,” fernand answers, dramatically relieved.  “how it pained me to offer my services to you so frivolously.” he muses lazily, stepping ‘round her like a hawk observes its prey, but he knows she is not so helpless.  he does not believe in her gentle smiles nor timid curiosity.  “how it pained me to offer my services to you so frivolously.”  after all, just because she is lord berkut’s empress-to-be does not mean fernand is required to serve her as well.

“shall we reveal to one another our true natures?” he inquires, lips curled into a smug sneer.  “surely, even you must be stifled by your timid exterior.  to converse honestly like this - it is like a breath of fresh air.”  no more feet kissing, no more forcing himself to worship the ground she walks upon as if he means it.  no, they should all worship his.

@southfaire whose power is unrivaled.

the little princess defeats fernand with the might of her army.  he does not know what she has that he doesn’t, but he desires power.  more and more.  more power than he knows what to do with.  he wants so much strength to wreak havoc onto this earth so that the ground itself could suffer what pain he has suffered.  and he knows he is not the only person in the world to lose a family.  he is not the only person in the world to lose a father, a mother, his sisters and home, but pain is not equal.  

it leaves a scar on his once noble heart.  even pride has abandoned him.

“go on then,” fernand seethes, glaring at the princess above.  with silver hair in disarray, fernand reluctantly kneels on hands and knees - the picture of shame.  is he to die like a dog?  he feels rage bubble in the pit of his stomach, hands clenched into fists.  he does not accept this fate, but he would rather die than be spared by his enemy.  “do it!” he commands, voice coarse as he grips the princess’ blade himself and holds it against his own throat.  it nicks him; a dark drop slides along the curve of his neck.