#beloc

Thank you! I had three goals with this one:

1) flesh out Beloc’s character

2) work out Holland and Beloc’s relationship as co-victims (I cannot believe they never interacted in canon)

3) showcase Holland cooking :)

Snippet:

He can feel Beloc’s eyes on him: his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the apron covering him from collarbone to knee. The question follows soon after. “I did not expect you to do this sort of work.”

“The other servants in this castle all have their minds bound to the king. They can do nothing without his will to direct them. And it is difficult to have people cook when you do not know how to cook yourself.” Holland dumps the chopped daikon and potatoes in a pot, wraps the handle in a damp cloth, and brings it over to the fire, where he hangs it in a far corner so it will cook evenly. He turns back to the kitchen table and wipes his knife clean. “You have more questions. Ask.”

“How do you know I have questions?”

Sorry this is so late, Anon. I hope you’re still around! Sometimes the words, they do not come.

In the aftermath of the events of Endurance, Beloc’s mother will come to know Holland (and Kell) not as the ‘demons’ they are often said to be, but simply as men who showed her son kindness in a time when he was held in thrall by two people utterly incapable of it. Holland becomes somewhat exhausted by the amount of baked goods she attempts to give him when he comes into town from his place in the woods.

Kell towers over Holland, who is a couple inches taller than Beloc. This often leads to a sense that Beloc has two very tall shadows on either side of him

Beloc and Holland enjoy giving Kell Maktahn wine, which is stronger than Arnesian wine, because he tries so valiantly to keep up with the two of them, and can’t.

The Danes are so convinced of Beloc’s perfect subjugation that they don’t really bother about his magic, as everyone in White London is losing magic anyway and Beloc’s was never particularly strong. This comes back to bite them later on, when Holland and Kell rely on beloc for something very important

@pinkcupboardwitch you’re vicious, and I love it. This is giving me Ojka as knight-in-training vibes, so enjoy!

1917

Astrid had spent an hour grilling the red-headed girl. Slight and still, she seemed too quick on her feet for someone so short. Flighty, slim. A cat’s weight, a thief’s balance. Not necessarily someone Astrid would have let past the front gate were it not for Holland’s recommendation.

Astrid had allowed it as an indulgence.

Holland was so dull and never argued for anything any more, but he had argued for this young woman. As an asset to the monarchs, for a position as a knight. Astrid thought it was a sweet ploy to bring his rumored paramour closer to him. Athos wouldn’t dare believe Holland would abscond with anyone but him.

Astrid had indulged the placement, and had been pleasantly surprised.

Athos had been unusually quiet as Astrid questioned the girl, tested her reflexes, her loyalty. From the look on his face, he was enjoying the tension, waiting for her to falter. Since Holland had pulled the bitter kitchen boy from Athos’ sight, he had been itching for a new canvas.

Astrid came to rest at Athos’ chair, resting a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “I like her, dear brother. What do you think?”

Athos eyed the young woman with her vivid hair and strange yellowish eyes. Her dancer’s build and quick, light tongue. “I like her as well… Should we bring her on?”

“I’m tempted,” Astrid muses. “It would keep our Holland happy.”

“Holland is technically my knight, so it’s only fair you have your own.”

“Since when is he yours?”

“You know quite well why he’s mine, sister.”

“Ah. Well. I don’t intend on doing the same with this one,” Astrid purses her lips, drumming her fingers along Athos’ shoulders. “I think we should. But, I might have a test… Would you like a cross examination as I go get Holland?”

Athos grinned, sharp and dangerous. Astrid could almost hear the discomfort ripple through this Ojka’s skin. “I would love to, sister.”

“Excellent.” Astrid clapped her hands. Spinning on her heel, she walked towards the door. “When I come back there better not be so much as a scratch on her body and a hair out of place!”

Nighttime wandering leads to an unlikely conversation, and Holland has never been one to give false hope.

OC backstory 

i gotta draw more Bel and Blest!

~+~

I see that it’s real Loving Beloc Hours, which of course just means making him suffer. Thank you for letting me use your headcanon about the scar on Beloc’s neck, with credit ;)

This fic is 1.3k, and I have also posted this to AO3. Naturally, Athos Dane is his own warning. 

Enjoy!

The Oval Portrait: artist, sacrifice, loyalty.

Sometimes the worst kind of memory is the press of Athos’ body against him. Other times it’s his hands—not just because he hates Athos and wishes that he could have felt the bastard die in his, but because he also feels Athos looking at him.

Like he’s admiring his work.

I'm shirking the rules for today. I've changed the prompt and am humbly offering an unpublished section of my fic, Amid the Ruin. A scene between Holland and Beloc, with a sleeping Nasi nearby. Enjoy!

Warnings: discussion of violence and death; allusions to murder, noncon, dubcon, sexual assault. Please be warned, this is a lot heavier than the last few sections have been.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635280/chapters/63240940

“I thought about strangling him in his sleep sometimes,” Beloc whispered to the crackling fireplace. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, relishing the warmth seeping through his skin. “Sometimes I’d lay there, wishing I could take one of his belts or the sheets, wrap it around his neck and end it.”

He trained his eyes on the large fire, focusing intently on the sparks and embers. The crackling of tree bark, the way the logs crumbled and shuddered as they burned. How far into the midnight black of the king’s chambers the comforting golden-orange glow extended. 

Beloc did his best not to look at the king, sitting only a few feet away. 

Holland was nearly hidden by the shadows. His pale fingers holding a cigarette and the white bundle of Nasi in her nightgown were the only indication that Beloc was not talking to the shadows themselves. The Dane Twins were many months dead now, but their shades seemed to still lurk in the walls, the gardens, and the darker corners of the palace. Beloc often found himself convinced that they lived in his skin, in his dreams, in his own shadow on sunny days.

Holland had taken to inviting him into his study in the evenings, ostensibly to talk but Beloc always did most of the talking. As the sun set and liquor warmed his bones, Beloc’s tongue loosened. He would spill secret things in the dark, to the fire and the man who was now king.

Holland never said a word.

But Beloc knew he listened. He could tell in the way the older man breathed, in the stillness of his shape in the other chair.