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A memory that makes them feel angry.Ā
Asked by @shadowrcith and @vasylia
Featuring @calliopevalmont
There had been women before, that was to be certain. At random ports and on drunken nights of revelry. There had been many women before, but none who had affected Feivel to the point of any sort of attachment. Perhaps this was because these women understood the temporary nature of the manās presence at their shores, or maybe it had been because Feivel was a different being all together in those days.
He had felt so strongly the impression that he had been reduced to little more than a caged animal within the walls of Castle Tyrholm when he first arrived stripped of his wealth, his reputation, and forced to watch the slaughter of his men. The sense of deep mourning and dread had followed him like a ball and chain slowing his mind and body the first several months he had occupied his station in King Septimusā court. He supposed he saw himself much like the relics and treasures displayed in the grand halls of the castle, something to gawk at, an object to display the grandiosity of everything that Septimus had managed to accumulate.
It was a chance encounter with Queen Calliope that felt like the hand that reached out to help pull him from his living grave. No, he would not call himself a sentimental man, but he was one to recognize the resources at his feet. He wouldnāt say he loved herāthat felt a step too far, and something he was significantly unfit to ask to be worthy of. However, the pair did offer one another a respite, a physical outlet colored by a sort of mutual understanding.
Even if Feivel was not brave enough to admit it to himself, the fact that love was not on the table did not mean the affair was devoid of feelings altogether.
Calliope stirred something in Feivel, which in and of itself was more than he had ever hoped to feel after his sudden capture and subsequent appointment within the court. He would not say it, but he recognized plainly from the start that Septimus had been the one to marry upward, out of their league and not the other way around. Feivel himself was a significant step downward for Calliope, even in comparison to Septimus, but still he could not discipline himself enough to stop from sneaking into the queenās private quarters while Septimus was away on some hunting trip or other indulgence.
Feivel entered the queenās chambers, his footfalls silent and his breath baited as he checked over his shoulder at intervals to make sure the coast was clear and the secret remained between the pair of them. He called her name only when he was convinced it was safe to assume they were truly alone. He didnāt expect her to come to him, but rather wanted only to announce his presence.
She was at her dressing table when he found her, her long hair cascading down her back in turns as she ran a comb through it. It made Feivel envy her comb for a moment; to contribute to that tremendous beauty, to run effortlessly through that ebony hair finer than the richest silks this world had to offer. The rogue approached her from behind, his hand collecting the thick rope of Calliopeās hair before he twisted it around his rough palm to guide her to tilt her head back. He stooped low to meet her where she sat and brushed his lips against hers revelling in their softness before enveloping her in a deep kiss to sate the hunger that had been building within him across the previous few weeks.
āYouāve been busy,ā Feivel stated simply, trying not to sound like some angry animal that had been left to lick its wounds. With his free hand, he lazily dragged a finger along the exposed nape of Calliopeās neck to the curve of her jaw and down along her throat. With one deft, nimble hand he loosened the buttons that had fastened her ornate dressing gown. His lips met with the smooth surface of her skin as he dropped a procession of kisses along the curve of her neck down to her shoulder as he pulled the fabric back from her shoulders. He had scarcely reached her collarbone when something in the mirror caught his eye.
It struck him as out of place, as unimaginable as he lifted his head to stare into the looking glass nearly certain his eyes had played a trick on him. His hand loosened from the thick cord of her hair as he stood slightly straighter, his eyes fixated on the purplish brown markings on her bicep. A momentās more observation and he put together the pattern of a manās hand. Feivel adopted a grim silence as he crouched before her and gently removed Calliopeās arm from the sleeve and gingerly examined her skin only to find an additional set of bruises closer to her wrist. The discovery felt like a knife in his heart and a lump formed in his throat almost immediately. He was not an educated man, but he was no fool: no one would have been bold enough to lay a hand on a queen except a king.
Heavy moments passed in silence before Feivel managed to lift his eyes to meet Calliopeās gaze, the expression behind his looking pained. How many times had this happened before? How many times might he have overlooked a welt or contusion?
āWhat is this?ā he asked when the tightness in his throat finally allowed.
Calliope brushed her fingers over the discolored skin, skimming over the back of Feivelās hand where it rested on her forearm nearby. āOccupational hazard,ā she responded vaguely.
The casual nature of her response was a twisting of the knife in Feivelās heart. It brought to the surface a deep rage that he had previously thought had been extinguished from within him. Had Septimus been present in Castle Tyrholm, he wasnāt entirely sure he would have managed to drown that fire out in the moment. He had no honor himself with which to fight for Calliopeās virtue, nor did he have any true power in the court to leverage in any sort of attempt to protect the woman. He was made to feel completely ineffective and useless in protecting those he cared about months prior as he stood witness to the slaughtering of his crew--and now he stood in that same feeble position. His inability to act to protect the ones he cared for shattered something within him.
Feivel turned his head and pressed a long kiss to the dark bruising on Calliopeās wrist, his eyes closed in a silent invocation to whatever old or undying god that could be tasked with hearing his prayer. After a moment, he released a sigh before framing Calliopeās face between the two of his rough, rugged hands. After a moment of stillness, he pressed his forehead to hers and made a silent vow to find a way to intercede and do what the gods either could or would not.
