Prompts

January 11: Gloves | Skin

January 12: Worship | Heresy

January 13: Exile | Reunion

January 14: Poison | Antidote

January 15: Deception | Trust

January 16: Wordplay | Snark

January 17: Talon | King

Alternates: Hands | Teeth, Caution | Abandon

NSFW Prompts

January 11: Dom Viago

January 12: Service Kink

January 13: Semi-Public Sex

January 14: Kneeling

January 15: Praise Kink

January 16: Quiet Sex

January 17: Sub Viago

Fia moves through the halls with all the purposefulness her four lanky legs can manage at just eight months old. She has an important job to do. The most important, her papà says. And if she does it exactly as she's supposed to, papà will give her a treat.

Tee-arr-ee-ae-tee.

That means treat, too, even if Fia doesn't know why papà and mamma say it like that sometimes. There are so many words for treat. It seems like as soon as Fia and her sisters learn one, papà and mamma use another.

Biscotto.

Dolce.

Bradh.

Fia likes treats. Loves them. Especially the ones papà gives when he's very proud of her.

She presses her long snoot to the crack of the partially-closed door, opening it enough to slip into the room where Fia and Nessie and Aridhel and papà and mamma sleep at night. A little wicker basket sits on a low shelf right next to the soft pillows where papà lays. He says it was made special, just for her; not even her sisters are allowed to touch it.

The handle is made of supple leather but it is not a toy. She knows that now, but it had been very confusing at first.

"Why is it not a toy?" she had thought. It smelled and tasted just like the bouncing ball that she and her sisters like to chase in the garden. Papà had used words she did not know, but mamma is very clever. (Just like Fia and Nessie and Aridhel. Papà says they are all his clever girls.) Mamma taught Fia a new doing word. Help.

Fia likes to help almost as much as she likes treats. Help is good girl, and si, bene, and scratches under the chin.

Nessie and Aridhel help too, but this is Fia's special job. A job papà says he only trusts her to do.

Some words mean mamma and papà want her to do something.

Sit.

Bed.

Speak.

Trust is not a doing word. At least Fia doesn't think it is. To be fair, she's not sure what it means yet. She's learning, though. Always learning. Because she's papà's clever girl.

Whatever it means, she likes it. Not as much as treat and help but almost.

She gathers the handle carefully between her teeth (gentle, mamma says) and trots back through the halls. The basket is not heavy but she can smell the things inside. Some of the smells are always there. Two things that smell like death (the kind like papà's work, not the kind to eat) and two things that smell like mamma when the sky is wet and loud. There are always clothes for papà's hands, too. (Gloves, she thinks. She is still learning. All of the clothes have different names.)

Today she smells parchment and ink. Like the things mamma says are called books. Fia likes books. Mamma looks at them and says words. Sometimes Fia even knows some of the ones she says. There is also the smell of metal, but so many things smell of that it is hard to know what this thing could be.

That's okay, though. Fia doesn't care what is inside the basket. She only wants to help.

Papà is going to be so proud of her. She is very fast. He is still where she left him, in the napping room, with mamma laying in his lap. Fia brings him the basket and he coos sweetly at her. It makes her tail wag back and forth. She preens and noses at him as he uses all the best words.

"Si, bene. Good girl, Fia. My clever girl. Well done," he praises, handing Fia—

A treat! A special treat!

She takes the fuzzy rabbit ear gently (another good girl for gentle) but does not leave. Not yet. Sometimes papà forgets the other thing. Fia doesn't forget, though. She's a clever girl.

There's room for her chin to rest on one of papà's knees. Mamma's head is on the other. Her face is turned away but her breath is slow and even which Fia knows means she is asleep again. Good, Fia thinks, mamma is safe to nap here. (This is Fia's favorite room because of the big soft couch by the window and because mamma and papà smell safe here. No one else is allowed inside.)

Mamma smells more, now. Not like when Fia and Nessie and Aridhel go swim and need a big bath. Not bad. Just more. New but not new. Mamma but not mamma.

Fia thinks there are words for it, but she is not sure yet.

Baby. Bee-ae-bee-why.

(Sometimes mamma calls Fia and her sisters that word, though.)

"Ah, how could I forget?" Papà says.

Yes! Fia's tail wags faster, eyes closing in contentment as papà scratches beneath her chin. This is very good. There are no clothes on his hands which makes it even better. Papà likes wearing gloves but Fia thinks they are no good for scratches.

"Good girl. Now take your treat and join your sisters."

Treat!

Fia carries her rabbit ear to the rug in front of another couch where her sisters lay curled together. Nessie sleeps like mamma but Aridhel is alert. Always alert. Papà says that is Aridhel's special job. Fia thinks she is very good at it. (Mamma says Nessie's job is silly goose but Fia doesn't know what that means yet. Nessie is a good girl, though, so Fia knows she is very good at her job too.)

As she begins plucking the fuzz from the skin (her favorite part), Fia watches papà pet mamma's hair. He opens the basket and the smell of parchment and ink wafts out. Soon a soft scratching sound begins and the smell of ink grows even more fresh. Sometimes papà will say words but Fia does not know them.

Fia likes to hear papà's voice, though. Mamma and Nessie and Aridhel do too. Aridhel even closes her eyes.

"Enjoy the quiet while you can," papà says softly.

Consciousness returns to her, drop by hazy drop. Everything is very warm, and her mouth is very dry, like her tongue has been wrapped in cotton wool. She shifts, trying to roll over onto her other side, and is immediately rewarded with a jagged lance of pain tearing up her right side.

Ow.

"Don't move."

It takes all of Nova's focus to open her eyes. Has controlling her eyelids always been so hard? Taking shallow breaths against the pain radiating through her, she screws up her focus and bullies her eyelids into opening.

She's not in any room she recognizes. It's too dark to be an infirmary, the bedding and drapery on the magnificent four-poster bed too lavish, too ornate. A fire burns merrily in an ornately outfitted hearth across the room, and scattered around her is the detritus of healing. Bandages, pitchers and bowls of water, bloodstained towels, empty bottles.

And sitting in an indecently large armchair by the side of the bed is one Viago de Riva, looking as stormy as ever as he turns the page of his book.

Nova stares at him, at him nonchalantly reading as she continues to come back to her body bit by bit. Curiously, Viago's eyes don't seem to move on the page he's just turned to. It could be a trick of the flickering light in the fireplace. She stretches out her leg on the side that doesn't hurt like a bitch and closes her eyes again.

"Where are we?"

"A villa on the outskirts of Avira, in the Weyrs." There's sound of a page turning. "Until very recently, the property of one Leonello Covazzi. It was not wise to move you very far, given the…extent of your injuries."

Ah. That explained a lot. Nova swallows thickly. Her mouth is so dry. "So Covazzi's dead."

"As a doornail. Caprice ensured what little was left of my half-brother would be an exemplary message sent to the rest."

Nova sighs, the sound turning into an involuntary whimper of pain - and then hears the book snap shut before the weight of it skids down the bed, near her feet.

"Here." A bottle uncorks near her ear, and then she can smell the sickly-sweet greenish smell of one medicinal brew or another beneath her nose. The scent makes her gag; she frowns, head shaking from side to side as much as she can.

"You are in pain," Viago says, disapproving. The cold glass rim of the bottle presses against her bottom lip. "Take something for it."

Nova shakes her head again, and tries to lift a hand to bat it away before Viago finally relents. She only just woke. Even if her side's in agony, she does not want to go back to sleep. "Water. Please."

The cool, lush sound of water splashing from pitcher to cup is the sweetest sound she's ever heard, and she forces her eyes back open so she can take the cup. Viago holds it steady for her as she drinks, great noisy gulps of it, the sweetest thing she's ever tasted. Half of it spills down her to the sheets but she scarcely pays it any mind, focusing instead on draining the cup, and then a second. Her hand closes over Viago's when he helps her to drink again, the leather of his glove skin-warm even as cool water drips down their hands.

Sated, finally, Nova sags back into the bed and closes her eyes again. The cup's set with a soft clink of glass on hardwood on the bedside table, and then Viago settles back in his chair. She hears him exhale softly, and, licking the last remaining drops of water from her lips, wonders if he wishes he hadn't tossed his book to the side.

"So your half-brother is dead."

"One of them, yes."

Nova doesn't remember the moment of Leonello Covazzi's death. She does remember the company of mercenaries that shouldn't have been there and yet, somehow, were. Clearly Covazzi had caught wind of the premature demise of the last three of Viago's half-siblings and made some investments in his own well-being. Viago was perfectly capable of handling himself, but Nova can now recall, with perfect clarity, the flash of a hired longsword as its wielder sought to cut down the leader of the Crows.

One man and his two loyal assassins, cutting a bloody swath through the bastard progeny of the King until they could grasp for the line of succession. In the moment Nova hadn't thought. She had merely moved between that sword and Viago, the only one of the entire lot worthy of being called King.

It was worth it. It was all worth it. Even as Nova takes shallow breaths, feeling the fire of the wound every time she moves.

"Mmm. Pardon the pun, Highness, but your half-brother was a real bastard."

"He was certainly tenacious, I will give him that," Viago muses. He sounds…contemplative. Nova cracks an eye open to see him in his armchair, arms crossed, absently rubbing his thumb along the edge of his jaw. There's a strange, contemplative set to his brow, a distance in his eyes.

"Did you know him?" she asks.

Viago scoffs. "Hardly. Covazzi's mother was the younger sister of a minor count here in the Weyrs; apparently her elder brother had the good sense to keep her away from court after our father was too…attentive to her. He knew he was a royal bastard, of course, but if a royal bastard decides to lay low and keep to his agrarian pursuits, then apparently he may be an exception to the rule of Crows, or exile."

There's a distinct bite of bitterness at the last three words. Nova falls quiet, wondering if, after everything, Viago would prefer to be a nobody of minor nobility out here tending to the affairs of vinyards and wheat harvests, not poisons and contracts.

"For what it's worth, I don't think you would be very happy as a gentleman farmer," she offers at last.

"Happiness is immaterial," Viago retorts. "Efficiency, accuracy, and self-control are the only standards to which I should hold myself."

"Suit yourself, Highness." Nova tries tugging the bedsheets up further and immediately regrets it. Viago's frown deepens, and then he's standing over her, pulling the sheets further up to her chin. It's a…surprisingly tender gesture, from the Fifth Talon.

At the beginning of this mad endeavor, when subterfuge was cast aside and Viago had - begrudgingly - revealed his ambitions to the two of them, Nova and Caprice had sworn their loyalty to him. Their oath, that they would see Viago installed as King of Antiva, or die trying. It was one thing to swear an oath, to know that it is only three of them trying to overturn an entire line of succession.

It's something else entirely to have someone who holds your oath of devotion fretting over you in an infirmary bed and tucking you in. Nova does not know what to say, not even to thank him. For a long moment they look at one another, Nova exhausted and sore, Viago standing awkwardly at the edge of the bed, as if unsure why he did that.

"You should - take some more medicine," he says hurriedly. "You're still in pain."

"It's not so bad," Nova says softly. "You're taking care of me. I'll recover."

"Yes, well." Viago clears his throat, looking away. "You…you did not have to do that. For me. I could have handled one mercenary with a sword. And now you're - you didn't have to risk yourself unnecessarily."

"You have my oath, Highness. What else could I have done?"

Apparently Viago doesn't have an answer for that, only medicine. Nova watches him uncork the bottle once more, and though she begins to pull a hand from beneath the blankets to reach for it herself, he only shakes his head and holds it up to her lips for three measured sips before pulling it away.

"Rest," he says. "We will return to Salle as soon as you're well enough to ride. Caprice and I can handle the next contract."

Nova struggles to open her eyes once more, given that her eyelids have suddenly grown exponentially heavier. "I can - with you two, I can…"

"Rest," Viago says, steel in his tone. "That is an order, Nova."