You are shaking fists & trembling teeth. I know: You did not mean to be cruel.

That does not mean you were kind.

Venetta Octavia, excerpt of “THE BURNING”, from my chapbook, “What We Left Behind” (via venettaoctavia)

harrypotterhousequotes:

HUFFLEPUFF: “You’re my sister. It’s my familial duty to make sure that you survive.” –Roshani Chokshi (Mini: Aru Shah and the End of Time) 

“We come from Gridania, in the Twelveswood. We have need to meet with Lord Emmanellain.”

“Of
course, sirs. Rest by the fire, and I will fetch him for you at
once.”

Honoroit did not run. For one, it was undignified. For another, undue haste would be suspicious and one of the two Wailers now sitting by the fire looked like he had sharp eyes. However, it was the man’s comrade who struck fear in his heart; he’d known Mistress Ritanelle had a brother, but the strong family resemblance was unmistakable. Her words floated through his mind as he strode down the halls to his lord’s chambers.

“Near as much of a chocobo’s arse as Artie…never approved of a thing I did…prob’ly glad t’ be rid of me, all things considered…might well do for me himself if he caught me.”

This was a situation that called for subtlety. Fury, let my lord grasp the meaning of that term for once.

The Fury was on his side, it seemed. A moment’s keen listening outside the door brought only silence interspersed with the faint scratching of a quill, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d been less cautious once, and neither of them had looked him in the face for a week. Emmanellain had at least been sure to lock the door after that, necessitating his sharp knock now. “My lord? We have something of an emergency.”

The quill stopped. “Come in!”

The chambers given to Dragonhead’s commander were dark. Dark stone, dark wood, and dark wall hangings; those last had once been tapestries depicting various saintly defeats of dragonkind, but his lord had deemed it prudent to replace them with pastoral scenes. The overall effect was slightly cavernous and made crossing the floor difficult without tripping over any of Mistress Soleil’s discarded (mostly black) outerwear, so he pressed his back against the door instead. Honoroit secretly would not have been surprised if the desk had been salvaged from the Stone Vigil; it was creaking alarmingly as Emmanellain set his report aside and heaved himself out of his equally ancient chair. He was in his shirtsleeves, his hair a ruffled mess that Honoroit’s fingers itched to fix. “What’s the matter, my boy?”

He winced at what he had to tell, feeling his ears dip. “Ah. There are a pair of Wood Wailers in the front asking for you, my lord.”

“What?!”

Oh. Mistress Ritanelle is awake. The bed was a canopied, four-postered monstrosity; the curtains rattled on the frame as Ritanelle Soleil, eikon-slayer and Scion of the Seventh Dawn, yanked them aside to poke her head and one arm out. Her unbraided hair fell over her shoulders, and Emmanellain’s shirt was far too large on her. Before she could start demanding answers–her green eyes were wide, her knuckles white on the fabric–he started talking. “They only just arrived; from their garb, I would venture to assume they plan to stay a while.” He hesitated, watching her face. “I should not like to presume, Mistress, but one of them bears a strong resemblance to you.”

She was already pale, but contrived to turn paler. “Oh, gods.”

Emmanellain’s ears pinned back against his head; Honoroit saw the rising panic in his face before he forced it back down with a deep breath and clenched fists. When he found his voice, it was admirably controlled, with an edge of steel to it. “Never fear, old girl. I’ll stall them as long as I can. Honoroit, help me with my armor, there’s a good lad.”

“I’d offer to help, but I have to go–” Ritanelle was wasting no time; the curtain fell back, and a great deal of rustling was happening on the other side. “Gods damn it, kiddo, do you see my skirt–” A hand snaked out from the curtain to grab it off the floor as Honoroit passed.

His lord’s armor was not as complicated as some knights’ were, but it was decidedly faster to don with help. One day, he thought as he helped adjust the lay of the padded leather doublet that stood between Emmanellain and his own chainmail, I’m half tempted to contrive illness and see how long it takes for him to get ready for the day by himself. “Have you a plan, my lord?”

Silence, aside from their breathing and the clanks and rustles of armor. And then Emmanellain took a slow breath, seemingly to steady himself. His ears trembled in their flattened position; his voice was the most venomously cheerful thing Honoroit had ever heard, all honeyed acid. “Of course, dear boy. I shall be simply the most congenial man they have ever met. It will be a terrible shame, of course, that I have no useful information pertaining to their inquiries. And an equally terrible shame that we are ever so busy, and perhaps since they are in the area they could help with some of our more dangerous duties.”

The curtains moved aside as Ritanelle swung her newly booted feet over the edge of the bed. “Emm.” She hesitated, looking him up and down. “Be careful. My brother is…”

Emmanellain lifted a hand in polite refusal of the cloak Honoroit held out and took the few steps necessary to stand by her side, taking her hands in his. “Rita, after all the times you’ve fought for us, I will be damned if I can’t be your knight now.”

She grinned at him then, fierce and wild. “Promise you won’t punch either of them when I’m not there to see it.”

Honoroit cleared his throat before they could start gazing cow-eyed at each other or, Fury forbid, start kissing. There was only so much sap he could tolerate witnessing from his liege lord. It was bad enough directed at Lady Laniaitte. “They will be awaiting you, my lord.”

“Ah! Yes, of course.” As Emmanellain swung back to his side, he flashed him a smile. “Perhaps if we’re quite lucky, I can convince them to buy a few copies of your book!”

“My lord!”

The travelogue he’d written about the Sea of Clouds was making quite enough gil without his lord’s vocal and enthusiastic backing, but Honoroit found he couldn’t complain about the extra sales even to himself. No such restriction laid upon the selfsame lord’s cheerful ruffling of his previously neat hair, however, and he glared halfheartedly at his back as they strode down the corridor together.