kingdomsofrain | tfln open post

And you, what, mend his sorry wounds?

Try your best.

Blackstock might have clawed further, saved us all some trouble.

[ ... ]

Not your business. Stranger that you are.

Your duty to your brother is not my business, but his dalliances are?

You have an odd concept of discretion.

And yes: his devoted brothers did not mend his wounds, and so I did. I kissed each one, soothed his brow as his fever raged, and whispered my love to him.

He will have no more faithful wife than myself.

[ ...Assuming he. Doesn't prefer the company of men.

But Morgan doesn't need to know that. ]

Your comprehension lacks.

No surprise. Look at you.

Happy him. I expect he'll find you useful.

Happy him, to not be found lacking. To be lavished with tenderness.

"Look at you", you say, as though you have seen me more than once, and for more than a moment.

Foolish woman, to overlook such flaws. Give him what he wants; what will he take?

Twice. And heard all the secrets of your heart.

All your talk of touching him. A wonder you've not taken ill. Persistent, you.

Ah - my mistake. You are naturally correct: we did cross paths at that deplorable party.

He isn't contagious. His rash is an adverse reaction - as one might have to a bee's sting, or to poison ivy. Perhaps you ought to have a word with your family's physician, for failing to make such a simple determination. So simple that a foolish, stupid woman could look for only a moment and diagnose it.

And such an inexpensive remedy! Treat it with honey for a week and it vanishes.

What sort of doctor takes your coin for thirty years without delivering the most basic of care? He must have been convincing, indeed, to perpetrate such a scheme for so long.

For surely, you and your brothers are not so ignorant as to throw good money after bad. Astute as you are, you would have seen through all but the most dedicated ruse. (Well, Treavor excepted: in the worst throes of illness, he can hardly be expected to negotiate the finer points of his own care, or do more than trust what he is told by those who look after him. So it goes with us all when we ail.)

Disgraceful.

- I assure you, Lord Pendleton, you have not heard half the secrets of my heart.

Edited 2019-09-22 16:54 (UTC)

[ He'll be irate with her. Eventually.

For now - while he can't see her, while words seem to mean little enough - it's easy to take her disrespect in stride, another sign of just how pointless she is, just how little she understands. Let her prate across a distance; what does it matter to him? ]

Think you're smart.

You mistake our duty.

You mistake the measure of our brother's value.

A shame he's lived so long.

That's your trouble, soon enough. So we understand.

[ ... ]

You with your heart bared. So tender.

Perhaps one day you'll divulge your untold secrets.

I will gladly accept this particular "trouble".

Divulgence is an odd expectation from my brother-to-be. May we not agree there are some things better left unknown?

Ah, but.

Perhaps one day those who imagine the further exposure of my tender heart will run afoul of my untold secrets.

[...]

You would have done better to drive me off early in my dalliances with your unwanted kin; now I have my footing. You will find I am formidable, no matter the scandals revealed or the fright evoked. Find some other use for your time.

No. Never your brother.

[ There. Now he's beginning to grow agitated, cheeky as this woman plays, much as she dares... Well, is that meant to be a threat?

As if she gives any cause for concern. There's nothing she can enact against him, but the sad attempt at intimidation rankles. Amuses. And rankles. ]

Humorous.

We'll see you long you're counted glad.

How long you'll keep content with our wounded lamb.

Incurable, that one. Try your "honey" as you will.

No need at all for quotations. It was hardly euphemistic.

I am not nearly so crass as to discuss the finer points of our interactions, much less to refer to them with innuendo such as that.

Brother dear, when I say honey, I mean the substance found in hives.

And when I suggest your physicians are confidence men with snake oil instead of cures, I mean that you are fools for retaining them.

~~Bitch of a~~

Still. Crass enough to fuck him in our home. Creep in like the common whore you are.

No. Less than that. Unpaid, unskilled.

You speak beyond your knowledge.

See who laughs when everything falls.

Cure it for a time. See how every effort fails.

I speak precisely my knowledge.

And act precisely according to my skill.

Ought you laugh at any downfall I encounter? Our fortunes will be so inextricably linked.

What fortunes we have between us.

Perhaps it is easier to laugh when you need not fall far.

[ A pause. A minute, two minutes slip by.

He's angry. He'll need a target for his anger.

The bitch won't do. Distant as she is. He'll need an immediate target.

One of the servants. He sends a summons. Flicks a sneer, pacing. ]

Ill-fitting ideas you entertain.

[ ... ]

The convalescent babbles at the first sign of a coddling hand or a throbbing prick.

Let your boldness damn you.

You told me of your financial situation long before he did.

"Are you prepared to suffer for our insolvent?" you asked me.

What draws you to babbling?

Upstart bitch.

[ He should stop there. Probably. Probably.

Should wait for the servant to arrive. Work out his anger that way, privately.

And yet. ]

I would see you bound and strung.

Prey kept for evisceration.

Brazen snatch though you are, you'd make a serviceable specimen.

I might be drunk enough to make out with you. You don't want to miss this unique opportunity.

[ How they avoid one another. How well it suits them both, she thinks, or had thought: he, rankling, and she, disquieted by this marriage and all the factors that forced them together.

She has been kind, for what else can she do for this stranger, this useless youngest, cast into exile here with her? Give him space, let him live his days in whatever peace he finds - even if it comes at the bottom of a bottle. She needs nothing from him. Expects nothing. (Poor creature. Useless even to his wife. Let him seek oblivion if he requires.)

While he drowns in liquor, she buries herself in books. She seeks nothing and no-one beyond her own little library.

So. This message, interrupting the quieter hours of the evening normally devoted to their respective drowning and burying is...odd.

Crass.

...A little amusing. ]

Are you particularly adept at it when drunk?

Or do I possess some unsuspected appeal to the inebriated eye?

[ He didn't—

He certainly hadn't meant to...

As if he would offer her any such thing. As if she would deign to accept any such thing. As if he has any interest in seeing her now, or ever. Better to stay apart from her and every other rube in this so-quaint countryside. Better to keep his own company, and Wallace's, and no one else's.

And what was that about... Supposing that he's drunk? How dare she feign to know intimately his degrees of inebriation! As if she could measure his coherence from a mere line of a text. As if she's certain, so certain he's drunk off his damned ass every minute of the day.

Oh, wait, no, he'd. That's right he'd. Said he was... It doesn't matter. She's still rubbing his drinking in his face, ha ha so very clever, what novel ammunition she's chosen. ]

Ha ha.

Didn't mean to send it,

For my eyes only.

Please.

I know you'd take no interest.

Well, the message is sent, and seen. There is no 'unspilling the milk', isn't that the saying?

No, I take no interest - in kissing. Not you, nor any one else.

I am a cold woman, it's true.

[...]

But I take interest in unique opportunities.

We need't DWELL in the milk, either.

Christ.

No kissing, no - oh I'm afraid Im going to be indelicate - fucking, you've made this all perfctly clear. Can't imagine what 'unique opportunities' you WOULD like.

'Take interest' ha ha I bet.

[ ... ]

I don't see what your temperature has to do with anything.

[ She's cold. Who wouldn't be cold here? The wind howling all around and no one worth knowing in sight. He might as well die here; nobody would know. Christ, she's cold, good for her, how exceptional. ]

[ What?

What -

He -?

Is he angry that she relieved him of -? That she -

She can't manage a coherent thought. Can only stare in surprise at his message, at the...wounded tone of it. It hadn't been a rejection, certainly. She hadn't meant...

Or perhaps she had.

It isn't him, though. He's unobjectionable, abstractly. It's her. It's only her, and how hollow she feels. How hollow she ever feels.

And, yes, the jerk away from bedding a stranger.

Fucking a stranger. ]

Not my temperature. My temperament.

[...]

~~If I insulted you in refusing your bed, I~~

[ "I'm sorry". She says it so often. Thinks it, each time she sees him.

How sorry she is, for him. For her. For this.

And now, for this small injury to his pride.

It changes nothing, of course.

But she is sorry. ]

I thought it best.

[ Why is she... responding still? She should have stopped ages ago. Should have stopped before she started. As if there's anything here for her to win.

She must be bored. Or toying with him. Done churning her butter for the day, ha ha.

He's tired of her. Her and her meaningless apologies. Her and this fuckforsaken countryside existence. There are... too many years left for enduring this. Better not to count, or think, or hold sober for any length of time. ]

TEMPERAMENT. Of courS. How foolish of me.

You don't need to tell ME the story. You thought it best. 'Best.' Everyone thinks it best. One look is all it takes.

Well I can't say I wouldn't do the same in your shoes. I'VE seen my facE.

Go back to your butter.

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