#playwrightwip

Day 4: Reunion

(friend)Ship: Wynwallow & Eilika

WIP: The Playwright King

Warnings: None

~*~

Eilika so rarely got the chance to visit her natal family, to travel to the place of her birth, with its dry heat and perpetual sunlight. The smell of hot, dry earth was so infrequent a phenomenon in her husband's country that even closing her eyes she knew her birthplace from that scent alone.

She and Esico spent the better part of two months with her mother, her remaining siblings and their respective families, all happy to dote on her son, Esico basking in the attention. She ate her favourite foods, drank her favourite teas, walked through the markets, picked fresh fruit from the palace orchards, and bathed in the salt water pools. Each moment was like reliving her favourite childhood memories, and yet the heartbreak of leaving again was tempered by how much she truly desired to return home.

Mentamor was colder and wetter than where she had grown up, sure enough, but it was where she was married, where she birthed her son, where she fell in love, and where she had buried her husband, however secretly. It was her home now more so than Gadarat, and when she was away she missed it.

Most of all, though, she missed the family she had built there, from scraps, through coersion and blood and money and lies. Somehow she had forged something worth missing. Most surprising of all was the man she was looking forward to seeing again above all, the man who had taken up the mantle her husband had left behind when he died. He had put up with her schemes and seen through her carefully built facade, he had brought her husband back to her in many ways, not least of all through that damn sword.

Eilika wasn't sure how she would have managed without him, and knowing Wynwallow, wasn't that a terrifying thought.

When the carriage finally arrived back at the palace in Mentamor, a wind already whipping the waves below into a frothing frenzy against the cliffs, Esico sleeping in his nurse's arms, she found herself drifting immediately to her husband's private rooms. Some days she still expected to find Tassilo there, and was disappointed to find his doppelganger instead. Today, however, it was that doppelganger she so hoped to see.

Sure enough, she opened the door to see Wynwallow engaged in conversation with one of his many advisors. She could tell by his demeanour that whatever the meeting was for had already bored him to tears, and without Ilar there to prop him up, Wynwallow was flagging. The door closed behind her with a creak and snick, not loud, but enough to snap her husband's double from his stupor.

When Wynwallow's eyes finally met hers, they lit up, his entire demeanour brightening as he leapt from his chair, meeting immediately adjourned, advisor waved away with the barest flick of his hand. He all but ran across the room and scooped her up in his arms, spinning her around once before setting her down and planting an exaggerrated but heartfelt kiss to her cheek.

"Eilika, darling, you're back!" He grinned. "It's been insufferable here without you."

Eilika cupped the side of his face fondly. "Don't be dramatic, your Majesty."

"Me? Dramatic?" He replied, feigning offense with the kind of flamboyance only an actor could pull off so convincingly. "When have I ever been anything but absolutely sincere?"

She bit the inside of her cheek, suppressing a smile. "I'd compile you a list, but I've only just returned and I simply don't have the time."

"Tell me you have time for a glass of something red, I have so much to catch you up on."

Eilika nodded, taking her not-husband's proffered hand and allowing him to lead her to the settle by the window, chattering away about the goings on at court as he did.

Day 1: Desperate

Ship: Wynwallow/Ilar

WIP: The Playwright King

Warnings: Off-screen violence, mentions of bodily harm, mentions of death

~*~

Ilar all but ran through the palace corridors, stumbling in places, murmuring hurried apologies to those he bumped into along the way.

An assassination attempt was to be expected, really. Wynwallow-as-Tassilo was not who Tassilo-as-Tassilo had been, his politics since the King's miraculous recovery had ruffled more than a few feathers, and there were certainly those with access to the King who wished his harm. Killing Tassilo had many benefits for many powerful people, and his son was far more malleable a puppet than Tassilo himself. Ilar, Wynwallow and Eilika together had prepared for such an eventuality, and yet in the reality of such circumstances, all thought of plans had fled Ilar's mind, replaced with nothing but panic and fear.

The hallways were a blur of tapestries, the hind and hounds stitched there seeming to run alongside him as he went. His mind was filled with thoughts of blood one moment, Wynwallow's golden skin split open to reveal a nightmare of offal inside, and the next it was poison, his beloved frothing at the mouth, eyes streaming and tongue black. He hated not knowing, he hated the messenger who had come to him with nothing more than a simple note penned hurriedly in Eilika's hand: "Assassination attempt. Come at once."

By the time he had reached the secret entrance to the King's chambers, carved stealthily into the silk wallpaper, Ilar was beside himself. Little caring if anyone saw him, he swung the door in the wall open wide, barely remembering to close it behind him as he did.

The King's chambers were dark, curtains drawn across every window, the flicker of several large torchiers painting the room in warm, shadowy hues of black and gold. Ilar's eyes immediately fell to the bed; large and imposing, but entirely empty. Then he found Eilika, stood silently at the foot of it, watching him with a guarded expression.

Ilar began to speak, began to ask where Wynwallow was, if he was alive, but Eilika's gaze simply slipped to the corner of the room where the King's writing desk stood, and the words died on his tongue.

Slumped in the chair, long hair falling across his face, was Wynwallow. He must have made some startled, involuntary noise, because Wynwallow's head snapped up, eyes wide and fearful, darting around the room like a hare caught in a poacher's snare. Then they fell upon Ilar and his expression crumbled.

Ilar's feet had carried him across the room before he could take another breath, crushing Wynwallow to his chest. Wynwallow, in turn, wrapped his arms around Ilar's middle, fingers crushing the fine wool beneath grasping fingers. Someone let out a sob, though which of the three of them was anyone's guess.

"You're alive" Ilar rasped, over and over as Wynwallow clung to him.

When Wynwallow finally released his grip and looked up, Ilar began to brush the wild tangles of hair from his tear-stained face with trembling hands, his heart still in his throat.

"I thought you were dead."

Wynwallow shook his head, and with that Ilar finally broke. He grasped the collar of Wynwallow's shirt and crushed their lips together. The kiss was inelegant, the angle was wrong, it was too wet and too forceful, but in that moment Ilar could finally breathe. He felt Wynwallow's hands tighten around his waist as they kissed, desperately, as if each kiss were a breath for a drowning man. They kissed and kissed until Ilar had to break away to sob again for a moment.

Wynwallow pressed their foreheads together, their noses nuzzling. "I'm not dead. They tried, they tried but I-"

Ilar kissed him again. "I don't care, just that you're alive is enough."

A shudder ran through Wynwallow again. "Ilar," He croaked. "I killed a man."

The weight of that statement was not lost on him, and Ilar brought Wynwallow close to his chest again, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I'm sorry you had to do that, but I'm not sorry you did."

Wynwallow's reply was muffled by Ilar's doublet. "I never wanted this. I never wanted this."

Eilika had drifted from her place by the bed, and was hushing her husband's double softly. "You did what you had to, Wyn. Trading his life for yours was a decision he made for himself the moment he drew that knife."

Ilar broke away from their embrace slowly and knelt on the floor beside the desk chair so that their eyes were level with one another. "Wyn, darling, I do not love you any less for defending yourself in this way. In fact, perhaps I love you more, selfishly so, for breaking your own moral code to keep yourself alive."

Wynwallow's eyes searched Ilar's face for any trace of a lie, and upon finding none, grasped his face between his hands and kissed him again.

"I cannot lose you, Wynwallow Bragg." Ilar confessed quietly. "Please do not make me."

Wynwallow shook his head, voice still watery. "I am a charlatan, a liar, and now a murderer, Ilar, but I promised you I would not leave, and I intend to keep that promise."

"You are perhaps all of those things, Wyn, but I love you for that, not in spite of it."

Wynwallow keened, sobbing once more into Ilar's shoulder.

Happy STS Azzy! I'm slowly making my way through these again, so thank you for the ask!

I'm really vibing with the Playwright WIP guys today, so:

Wynwallow prefers to drink full-bodied red wine in both scenarios, and he occasionally likes a sherry or a brandy, but he also would slam a fruity cocktail in the modern world too.

Eilika lives for mint tea and honey wine, she isn't fond of grape-based wine at all, but will drink white wine if she has to. In the modern world she'd be all over a ginger beer or a *good* mojito.

Ilar doesn't drink much beyond water, but when he does he's partial to a cider. In the modern world he'd survive almost exclusively on sparkling water, but he'd probably also drink an unhealthy amount if Earl Grey tea if someone else was making it for him.

This is a great question, and it's one I've been trying my hardest to build up recently! Please have an unfinished map of Playwright WIP's home country, and the surrounding nations and landmasses:

Armori (named Mentamor in previous posts, I'm still settling on names) is the capital city of the Kingdom of Blauwenisti, an island nation off the far east coast of the Lethan Peninsula, which is to the north-west of the continent of Tafakal, where Eilika's home country of Gadarat is located.

As you can see from the map, Blauwenisti is a small island, approximately 220km across from east to west. It is a cool, wet kind of an island (think Köppen Cfb) with low lying coastal areas, and mountains in the central and south-western regions. Its summers are warm and its winters are cold, it rains for much of the year, and as such it is such a green, fertile land that it was named after the carpet of flower meadows visible even from the sea when approaching from the continent.

Blauwenisti has good trade and diplomatic relations with most of the coastal Tafakal nations, exporting mostly timber, fine cloth, and high quality parchment. However, Blauwenisti has an antagonistic relationship to its closest Lethan neighbour, Oledir.

Blauwenisti had once been part of Oledir territory, and while Blauwenisti has been its own nation for hundreds of years, the kings of Oledir have never quite given up the idea that Blauwenisti ought to be ... re-acquired. It doesn't help that the kings of Blauwenisti are blood related to those of Oledir, and so both would nations technically have claim over the other should either of them choose to push their right.

Playwright WIP is mainly set in Armori, a bustling port city with a large population ranging from aristocracy in their inherited palaces, to streets of merchants from all over Blauwenisti and beyond, to labourers plying their trade for day-to-day wages, to pockets of unhoused communities and transient individuals flying under the radar.

Technology and science are much as you'd expect of the mid-16th century, but the addition of Common and Noble magics changes the dynamic a little. Common magic is the kind of hedgewitchery that anyone can do: minor healing and herbology; palmistry for love and fortune; finding lost or stolen goods and people; etc. while Noble magic is the kind that is studied by those who have nothing more better to do than spend their days experimenting with alchemy, astrology, enchantment, divination, etc.

Thank you to @abitscripturient for tagging me! Have a snippet I have probably shared before from Playwright WIP :))

Premise: post a fun line/snippet without any context!

'Where are you?' 'In your hand. I thought you said you weren't a simpleton.' Wynwallow looked down at the sword in his hand and shrieked, dropping it to the floor with a ringing clatter. 'I'm going mad.' He said weakly to himself. 'I'm actually going mad.' He nudged the sword with the toe of his boot. 'I'm hallucinating. It's all the rich food, it's finally got to me.' Wynwallow danced around the blade on the floor to reach the door, which he unbolted and opened as quickly and quietly as he could. He looked out into the corridor beyond, but there was no one there either. 'Shit shit shit shit shit.'

Ooh my boys!!

First and most important: when they first met Wynwallow fell really hard, really fast, and Ilar hated his guts. It didn't help that Wynwallow was pretending to be someone that Ilar already hated, but it was for sure a meet-ugly. Enemies to co-conspirators to friends to lovers.

When they first get together, Ilar and Wynwallow think they are being sooooo subtle. They think they're hiding it soooooo well. They are not. Everyone knows. Everyone also knows it's above their pay grade not to just pretend like it's not happening. The King got married and had an heir, who are they to judge what he does now? The most popular rumour is that it's for some "balancing of energies" reason. Women have too much yang energy, yada yada, so he's gotta refrain from sleeping with his wife, but a man's got needs. If it fixed whatever was wrong with him before, no one is saying a damn thing. Sleeping with men: a miracle cure!

You'd think that Ilar would be the sensible one, given Wynwallow's flair for the dramatic, but no. Wynwallow is the sensible one and Ilar is the reckless one. Wynwallow can offer insults that take a week to digest, he can feign a smile and be polite when no one else can manage it, he knows how to pick his battles, and he know when to back down. Ilar wears his heart on his sleeve and will fight anyone anywhere at the drop of a hat. He won't pretend to like anyone, and he will act first and think later. Ilar has approximately zero self-preservation and it's giving Wynwallow grey hairs.

Despite the above, Wynwallow is uncompromising in his art. He writes scathing political satire, and finds theatre for pure entertainment to be trite. Ilar, however, loves to watch romances and comedies, he will go to the theatre to see a bawdy play for fun. He actually finds most of Wynwallow's plays to be a little dry, and though he agrees with the message, it's just not the theatre for him. Wynwallow will never forgive him for it, and it's the number one silly thing that comes up whenever they fight.

Happy (very belated) STS!

Okay, so Shakespeare is the big inspiration for Playwright WIP, but having recently seen Born With Teeth in the West End, I'm also now funnelling Adams' Kit Marlowe into Wynwallow so fast he's overflowing! Sadly there's no proshot, and no illegal recordings, so you'll just have to take my word for how much Ncuti Gatwa and Edward Bluemel's chemistry has shifted my worldview RE: Wynwallow and Ilar.

Ooh okay, how about we give Wynwallow some company and do one for his beau Ilar!