#rannon

It was as tranquil an evening as there was ever to be had in Ku’Naq. The unbearable humid heat had lessened only somewhat at sundown, shrieks and calls of various strange animals making the jungle seem much closer than it was, but the city itself was blessedly silent. For its few virtues, Ku’Ombos wasn’t a place of frequent decadent parties lasting long into the night.

Still Rannon hesitated to change out of his formal attire and go to sleep, as sometimes prince Maqaxha did summon him for another of their rather interesting conversations this late.

When there was a ruckus at the entrance to his outer chambers, then, sounding as if someone was kicking at the door with their foot, if rather weakly, he merely grabbed his swords from the stand and made his way there just as Kann was letting the rude latecomer through.

An unsteady figure staggered in, burdened with another, and more collapsed than knelt on the tigthly woven mat on the floor just behind the entrance, tracing blood onto the precious fabrics threaded with gold.

Rannon drew himself to his full height, all senses immediately on high alert. For all the years of war, it wasn’t often that a battlefield spilled into his own living quarters.

Then he recognized the Machralese ambassador, and that really wasn’t any better. That was nations at stake, a threat of another war.

“A healer. Please.”

For all that the man seemed at the end of his endurance, hunched over his companion, his voice was still somehow impossibly pleasant, if tight.

“And tell your master that I humbly request an audience with him.”

With utmost care, he laid the person in his arms down, first her legs, then, gently, her head. His companion, the courtesan, only loosely draped in the glossy Machralese fabrics that until recently were her own flowing dress, now unforgivably torn.

It was the gentleness that struck Rannon mute, though, made him take in the ambassador anew.

Years ago, when they last properly met, sati Narcissus seemed to personify the worst the island city-nation of Machra-la had to blight the world with, save maybe for her insufferable ruler himself: shallow, effeminate and undoubtedly merciless. Unable to rely on either tradition or bloodlines, cutthroat ambition was the only thing that could have carried him as high as he stood, for all the inane small talk he’d offered. The Machralese were as honorless as they were decadent, sweet as honey to those who had something they wanted, discarding those same people without a second thought once their usefulness ran out.

Sati Narcissus’ courtesan was already obviously unwell, sweating and unsteady on her feet, when Rannon welcomed them both to Ku’Ombos, though she did her utmost to hide it. Right now she certainly looked more like a liability than a treasured part of one’s household: beaten, sick and unconscious. Yet the ambassador carried her here rather than leave her to her fate at the hands of their attackers, perhaps having given up a chance to escape more easily.

Rannon met Kann’s startled eyes over the head of the crouching man and nodded briefly, knowing his servant would understand: Yes to the healer, but do be careful.

Kann nodded back and slipped out the door, leaving Rannon alone with his unexpected guest and the unwelcome implications of his presence.

“Sati Narcissus.”

The ambassador stilled at the sound of his measured voice, then struggled to his feet, revealing some more of the damage on him.

An eye already swollen shut, sickly red; bloodied nose and mouth, mud or maybe something worse rubbed onto those finely painted features. There was a long gash on his right forearm, dripping yet more blood, and torn clothes showing a knee that looked like it could give out any moment now.

Yet, once he stood up, he bowed with impeccable form.

Rannon, knowing very well the physical limits of a human body, grudgingly conceded another point in his favor. It was one thing to bow so sweetly in the fragrant halls of Machra-la. Another thing entirely to do the same in blinding pain, clinging to a badly shredded dignity.

“Sati-rehu. Forgive me for disturbing you so late.”

“With good reason, I see,” Rannon replied dryly.

“Yes, that.” Narcissus’ benign smile, on that bloody mouth, was a horrible thing to witness. “As you can see, I found myself in a somewhat unfortunate situation.”

The ambassador’s one remaining open eye was wide and wild, nearly black in the low light of the recently lit lamps. For all the courteous words falling off those swollen lips, he looked like a cornered animal, ready to strike.

“Under the circumstances, I truly have no choice but to ask if you would graciously consider extending your protection to me and my courtesan. Seeing as your standing in this court seems vastly more secure than ours, sati-rehu ZanTaoyaka.”

Ready to try anything, everything, to make the danger pass.

Thinking back on all those long conversations with the young, eager prince Maqaxha, Rannon had to concede that his standing in Ku’Ombos was indeed as secure as a stranger’s could ever be. Whether it allowed him to extend his protection to anybody was mildly dubious, especially since he had his suspicion as to who stood behind an attack on such a high-level target. Despised Machralese or not, Narcissus was an ambassador and a noble. For sure that would have made any street ruffian hesitate to touch him—unless said ruffian was backed by someone similarly high-level, if not higher.

Nonetheless, it was almost inevitable for Rannon to make an effort, if for no other reason than to send a stern, if polite message to the suspected instigator of the attack. Or a so far unsuspected instigator of the attack. Ku’Naq did not lack in powerful men who were bound to find the very presence of the Machralese offensive.

The badly fitting illusion of a sociable smile on Narcissus’ swollen face cracked under the weight of Rannon’s contemplative silence.

“I would of course be eager to return the favor later, in whichever small ways you would find my assistance useful..?” he chanced.

Rannon suppressed a derisive snort. For all his unexpected care and self-discipline, the ambassador was still Machralese after all: favors bought and sold, everything for sale for the right price. Much as assisting him was an unfortunate necessity at this point, Rannon would do well to remember he’s going to house a viper.

Or something even less savory. While “seductive” was the last thing Narcissus could be described as right now, it was well known that private company was most definitely among things the Machralese bought and sold without hesitation.

Wary of giving the mistaken impression of being interested in such rewards, Rannon moved closer to better assess the state of his unwanted future guests.

The ambassador flinched and nearly lost his footing.

“At least give shelter to Ebenholtz!”

Rannon stopped, realizing he’s been misread after all, but in the opposite direction. He lifted a hand, but it was too late to halt the onslaught of Narcissus’ desperation.

“That’s all I ask,” the Machralese forced through teeth that were beginning to chatter, in mounting shock or fear or both. “She is sick. I cannot take care of her like this. I beg you, sati-rehu. Sanctuary for Ebenholtz. A healer for us both. Allow me to impose on you until morning. If I am to redress my grievances through official channels, I cannot petition the court looking like this! I assure you, I will find a way to repay your kindness.”

“Of course,” Rannon cut him off, because the man seemed ready to launch into listing all that he could offer. Since it was strikingly obvious he could offer very little under the circumstances, Rannon didn’t want to hear what he would come up with.

Narcissus swayed in place as if it took physical force to stop the avalanche pouring out of him, but he did fall silent.

Judging him unable to walk any further, or at any rate unwilling to abandon his companion, Rannon made a detour under Narcissus’ wary gaze to fetch him a low stool, then helped him lower himself on it, hoping his left arm was as uninjured as it looked.

Narcissus’ grip on Rannon’s hand was surprisingly strong, the upper arm supported by Rannon’s other hand not only lithe but firm under the flowing silk of his sleeve.

If the man could fight, he could be unexpectedly fast. For the first time, Rannon wondered if there were bodies after all left in the wake of the attack—just not the ones intended.

He straightened and took a step back, careful not to step on the fallen courtesan’s hair, pooling unrestrained on the floor.

“Any attack on a diplomat is shameful. As a fellow ambassador, I consider it my duty to offer my hospitality, until such a time that you recover or can safely return to your own quarters.”

For several heartbeats, Narcissus looked as if he didn’t comprehend. Then he inclined his head and sketched a bow, cut short by a wince. Cracked ribs, if Rannon had to guess, and the man was out of reserves to suppress the pain for sake of appearances.

“Thank you kindly, sati-rehu. I am forever in your debt.”

That should have left nothing to do but wait for the promised healer, but Narcissus stared up at him, one eye apprehensive, the other swelling worse by every passing moment.

Waiting for the price to be named, most likely, or for a cruel joke to arrive at its punchline. The man was a high-ranking socialite of Machra-la, a noble; he surely couldn’t be as oblivious as he had pretended to be to Rannon’s dislike of him and everything he stood for, dating to his first visit of Machra-la years ago.

Could he even understand the concept of principles above personal dislike if Rannon tried to explain? Or was that what he had counted on when he made the desperate call to knock on his door? The Machralese perhaps could be justifiably despised, but not underestimated.

“If I am to make it known to the court that you and your companion are under my protection, I need to know what happened,” Rannon stated, keeping both pity and suspicion to himself.

Hurrying steps could be heard on the other side of the door.

“Of course, sati-rehu. I will tell you.”

There was the briefest knock, the door opening. Kann was back, a grumpy healer at his heels. With the necessary polite exchange, Rannon released his guests to the healer’s care, leaving interrogation for later.

-----

Obviously, I'm back to my dastardly ways of borrowing @silvysartfulness's characters.

In my defense, I promised no questions, prompts or comments to distract you, not no fanfic?

A rough sketch as usual, I refused to get stopped by questions like "Does Ku'Ombian architecture even have doors?"

Sorry for ignoring the rest of Rannon's servants. I even suspect there is a healer already among them, but I badly needed to get them out of the way for the conversation to be what I wanted it to be.

I had SO much fun writing from Rannon's perspective for a change.

Enjoy?

Directly inspired by Silvy's Artfulness — (1/2)Ooooooooh, pictures! (tumblr.com)

(I'm sorry, this ask has no point, the reblog just brought back memories)

I've never seen/heard the musical! Until today, I never even knew there was one!

But my dad got me into the books when I was a wee lass of... 10? 11? Something like that? And I loved them.

Aside from Phantom of the Opera (the musical in this case) they were baby's first fandom obsession... Except of course this was in the earliest 90ies, so there was no internet to fandom on. Just tiny girl me in my room, endlessly looping Phantom and reading those books. ♥

I will admit, though, Chauvelin was definitely a great inspiration for Rannon in my original storyverse Pangaea - dark brown hair, sharp grey eyes and merciless wit. ♥

Rad x Shannon 

Look, I made this just for you. Strategy lessons through fish-feeding! ♥

I think Rannon is good with kids in that he doesn’t coddle or talk down to them - he converses with them as seriously as he would an adult, and they tend to love that. And that works until you have kids being kids, throwing tantrums or having emotional outbursts. I suspect he’s not nearly as good at handling those.

Then again, he turns out to be a surprisingly intuitive and capable dad to Meimere, the one of his kids he actually got to father from the start. Even when she was a small squirmy, whiny baby. Fully capable of delivering distinguished speeches at Council while absently burping infant child over his shoulder and such. The trick is to not make him think about what he’s doing, that’s when he freezes up and starts overthinking. But the general spontaneous gut-response tends to be in the right place. :)