Kurtbastian: Cordillair (2/~10)
Part 1
Sebastian wakes late in the day, his body slowly comes to consciousness as the castle bustles on in its everyday business beyond the thick wooden door to his suite; the heavy damask of his bed curtains. He feels his body become alert, his long legs stretch and his fingertips flush with blood after moving them from beneath his body, the pins and needles taking over sleeping digits.
He wakes like this every day, lets the world go on without him while his father plans and schemed in his war room, while his tutor waits patiently for him to awake and his servants work for others at court with nothing to do until he wakes.
It is the life he is used to. The life he is destined for. And he finds that he quite likes it.
He sits up finally, looking around for the gold tassel that holds a bronze bell. He pulls it then winces, the mead from the night before making his head swim while he waits for Jack to open his curtains.
He hears the door open and Jack’s smart boots click across the stone floor before his curtains are pulled open, the light of midday bright in the room.
“Hell, Jack, why would you do that so quickly? Christ!”
Jack just bows slightly and addresses him in short, clipped words.
“You rang, sir. I’m simply following your orders, highness.”
Sebastian considers him for a moment, wondering not for the first time if the man before him has more to say when he speaks but then lets it go to move on, begin his day.
“Yes, well, next time maybe close the drapes before opening the bed curtains or you may find yourself elsewhere.”
He pulls himself to the edge of the bed and stands, naked, before Jack, propriety not his strong point.
“Are my clothes ready? Supplies?”
“Of course, your highness,” Jack replies, gesturing to a set of basic garments on the settee by the fireplace, “and Miss Sophie is waiting for you at the east entrance.”
“Of course she is.” Sebastian smirks, pleased at the control he has over his servants. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
He dresses quickly, pulling up his breeches and lacing his boots quickly before tugging on a simple tunic and cape, his body aching to be clean as if it knows where it’s going.
“Dismissed, Jack.” he says, waving his hand and Jack leaves, the door thumping shut behind him. Sebastian crosses to another door, almost hidden beside his bed, to make his way to the stables.
***
Some time later he’s riding hard, pushing Estero like the horse’s life depends on it and laughing as Sophie tries to keep up on her simple mare.
“You’ll never catch me on that thing!” he shouts over his shoulder, and he pushes onward, the coast on his right, the waves crashing against the rocks stealing his words, blending them with the spray of the surf. The trees of the forest on his left are thinning, signalling the cove’s presence and making him slow as it comes into view. A tiny inlet, small and calm compared to the rocky cliffs on either side, the waterfall his mother had always called “alainn”. Beautiful.
Estero whinnies as they pull to a stop and Sebastian frowns, Estero loves the thrill of the chase as much as Sebastian himself but obviously needs a break. He urges the stallion toward a break in the trees,mindful of the stones, and finds the hidden path to the cove’s entrance.
Once they reach the shore, Sebastian dismounts and divests his horse of its tack, leaving him foaming and waiting for Sophie’s care. He pats his flank and whispers to him, calming the horse before pulling off his own clothes and making for the waves. Just as he hits the water, Sophie arrives.
“Sebastian!” he hears her yell before folding himself into the waves, feeling the water wash over him, cleanse him. He waits a few moments before coming up, knowing full well he’s in for an earful.
He’s not wrong, for as soon as his head’s above water she’s yelling.
“Sebastian Smythe, I don’t care who the hell you are, you don’t leave a beautiful creature like this and quality clothes like that in this state! He needs a rub down and water, you giant GIT, and those clothes would dress my brother for a year!”
He just laughs at her, for she’s always scolding him. Sophie is, he believes, the closest thing he has to a friend in this world, and the only one who is ever allowed to speak to him this way.
“Oh fuck off, Sophie, I knew you were coming. And it’s “your highness” to you, damn woman.”
She sticks out her tongue at him, clearly still angry, and tosses a canvas bag at the shore. Just far enough to be considered helpful, but not close enough to be considered the excellent work of a servant.
He sighs and makes for the water’s edge, watching as she tends to the horses and not letting himself smile. He really doesn’t hate her, and that’s saying something.
“Thanks for nothing, Sophie!” he calls as he reaches the bag, pulling out a fluffy towel and soft smooth soap. He tosses the towel into the sand and grabs the soap, heading back into the water as she replies, “Fack yourrself, Sebastian!”
He laughs and sets to cleaning, humming to himself and letting his mind wander.
***
“Why do you always come here?”
He knows she’s been wanting to ask for ages, even though she’s come here for years and knows full well why. But he’s not going to argue with her, not when she’s shaving his neck with a straight razor and cleaning the blade in the sea.
“You know why, Sophie,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his still-bare chest, his new breeches with their shining golden threads a striking juxtaposition against the wild sea grass he sits upon.
“Supposin’ I don’t,” she sasses back, her young eyes boring into his with determination. Sophie’s been with him 10 years, since his mother’s passing. He was a boy then, only 9 but she only twelve when she came to be his personal servant.
“Supposin’ you do you little liar,” he mocks back, but she swipes at him with the razor and he gives in. “You know this was mothers’ favorite place, Sophie. You know. Why are you making me tell you?” His face hardens with his voice, his eyes shuttering closed and his heart speeding up.
“But you never talk about her, Seb. Never, and I-”
He pulls away then, mindful of the blade in her hand, the soap still on his skin.
“And I don’t want to, Sophie,” he barks, his voice like steel. “You need to mind your place. Finish my shave and be gone.”
She looks at him, stunned as if slapped and then returns to her work, quickly finishing his shave and then packing up her things without another word. He watches her leave, her long red hair whipping and lashing in the wind, never looking back.
***
He pushes through his tutoring, listening to Sir Hardall drone through latin exercises and answering every question correctly. Unlike many other things, Sebastian pays attention to his studies. He has always felt that a strong mind are as important as strong will, spirit and body. A talented brain being on equal footing with all the others is key to managing both a conversation and a country. He smiles smugly and congratulates himself silently on being so smart, so in control of what he knows will be the best thing for him as king.
He’s on the final step of conjugating a list of particularly hard verbs when Sophie shows up again.
“Sire,” she says, and he knows they’re still fighting, “His Majesty would like to see you in the strategy room.” She refuses to meet his eyes.
“Come off it, Sophie, just say the war room,” he says, eyes rolling.
She does meet his gaze then, her eyes flinty. “The strategy room, Sire, five minutes.” With that she whisks away, slamming the heavy door behind her.
“Well, well,” begins Sir Hardall, a laugh in his voice, “I suppose that will be all today, Sire.”
Sebastian looks up sharply, daring his tutor to be mocking him, but finds only an innocent face, clean of even a smile and definitely clear of a smirk. Damn Sophie, but he would have to apologize to her.
“I suppose it is,” is all he says, leaving his books to be tended to by Sir Hardall and exiting the room.
***
He stops in the kitchen first, not having eaten, to pull some small meal together from the storerooms when he walks smack into Sadie, the kitchen hand.
It’s awkward, he knows, because Steven is Sadie’s sister. He had been a somewhat good lay, tight as fuck but really fucking whiny about it, and Sebastian had even offered him a little prep beforehand as well. Christ, but was Steven emotional about it. Sebastian had wanted him since grade school but if he was going to be like that every time then well...
“Sire,” Sadie said, bowing low before standing to give him her full attention. If he hadn’t been musing on Steven he never would have seen it, wouldn’t have given her so much attention, but quickly, before she could school her features into that of her station he sees pure, deadly rage in her eyes, set in her jaw and the lines of her forehead. He sees how she feels about him and grows angry for his is not her place.
“You might do well not to broadcast your feelings so clearly, wench, as there are worse places in this kingdom for you to work.” He spit out his words, her impertinence thrown like acid in his face.
Color blooms on her face, but not in blush. It rises high on her cheeks and her features tighten, the girl obviously fighting her anger for much needed piety. She does not succeed.
“You owe him an apology, sire.”
Sebastian takes a step forward, his hand raised to slap her but she stands firm, her eyes blazing.
“Get out,” he speaks two words and she’s broken, her face crumbling and tears slipping down her cheeks. “Get out and never come back. Find somewhere else where you know your place, girl.”
She sets her jaw and wipes her face before pushing past Sebastian and disappearing into the castle beyond.
Sebastian thinks for a moment, realizing that if she had been so impertinent in front of others or had mentioned Steven in any other avenue he would have had to have her flogged or killed.
He is mostly thankful for this, though his anger still burns. Forgetting his hunger, he makes his way to the war room.
***
“Cordillair has never been our enemy, Samuel, why would they be now?” his father is saying to his most trusted advisor. “King Burton has been taking on new territories, that’s true, but why Lagou? Why here? What makes you think this rumor is even founded?”
Sebastian slinks in, not wanting to interrupt his father or his chancellor and taking a seat at the back of the room.
“Sire, I know it doesn’t make sense, but it is what all of our intelligence has reported. An attack is imminent, sire, you must make preparations. Now is the time to act.”
Sebastian couldn’t help it, he laughed then. One loud laugh before he could cover his mouth, and everything was undone.
He father looked up, startled by Sebastian’s sudden presence and then glares at him, quieting Sebastian effectively before speaking again.
“It seems my son shares my skepticism, although in an inappropriate manner.” He walks over to Sebastian, the smell of spirits permeating the air around him, and lowers himself conspiratorially, his mouth next to Sebastian’s ear.
“Don’t be an ass,” his father whispers harshly, “The man has more experience with intelligence than you do in your tiniest fingernail.”
Bile rises in Sebastian’s throat at both his father’s smell and words, but he keeps it down, lowering his eyes to the floor and speaking quietly yet clearly. “My apologies, chancellor, for I do not know nearly as much as you on the subject. I am quite sure that you know of which you speak.”
The chancellor nods dismissively and resumes his conversation with the king. Sebastian, for his part, keeps his mouth shut and listens.
“As I was saying, Sire, the time to act is now. Your people need to know that an attack is imminent. They need to know to take up arms and fortify their homes.”
Sebastian watches his father’s spirit-addled brain take in this information and sort through it. The drink is obviously inhibiting him, however, because it takes much longer than it should for him to respond.
“I just don’t believe it. We are so strong. Why would they come here?”
Sebastian silently agrees with his father, a first in many years, actually. It would be foolish of Cordillair to attack, what with Lagau’s strong position on the sea.
Later, in the back of a filthy carriage that seems to have housed horse feed, Sebastian will swear that he heard the alarm bells before the door broke in; before the men in black with their faces painted to match had taken the room. Before the same men slit the chancellor’s throat in front of him and then turned to his father to speak once before his father, too, was bleeding out on the floor. As it would happen, this all came to pass before one bell was rung, and then it was in victory and not in alarm.
The words will sit with him, though.
“It is not your people who are weak, your highness.”
Sebastian wakes late in the day, his body slowly comes to consciousness as the castle bustles on in its everyday business beyond the thick wooden door to his suite; the heavy damask of his bed curtains. He feels his body become alert, his long legs stretch and his fingertips flush with blood after moving them from beneath his body, the pins and needles taking over sleeping digits.
He wakes like this every day, lets the world go on without him while his father plans and schemed in his war room, while his tutor waits patiently for him to awake and his servants work for others at court with nothing to do until he wakes.
It is the life he is used to. The life he is destined for. And he finds that he quite likes it.
He sits up finally, looking around for the gold tassel that holds a bronze bell. He pulls it then winces, the mead from the night before making his head swim while he waits for Jack to open his curtains.
He hears the door open and Jack’s smart boots click across the stone floor before his curtains are pulled open, the light of midday bright in the room.
“Hell, Jack, why would you do that so quickly? Christ!”
Jack just bows slightly and addresses him in short, clipped words.
“You rang, sir. I’m simply following your orders, highness.”
Sebastian considers him for a moment, wondering not for the first time if the man before him has more to say when he speaks but then lets it go to move on, begin his day.
“Yes, well, next time maybe close the drapes before opening the bed curtains or you may find yourself elsewhere.”
He pulls himself to the edge of the bed and stands, naked, before Jack, propriety not his strong point.
“Are my clothes ready? Supplies?”
“Of course, your highness,” Jack replies, gesturing to a set of basic garments on the settee by the fireplace, “and Miss Sophie is waiting for you at the east entrance.”
“Of course she is.” Sebastian smirks, pleased at the control he has over his servants. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
He dresses quickly, pulling up his breeches and lacing his boots quickly before tugging on a simple tunic and cape, his body aching to be clean as if it knows where it’s going.
“Dismissed, Jack.” he says, waving his hand and Jack leaves, the door thumping shut behind him. Sebastian crosses to another door, almost hidden beside his bed, to make his way to the stables.
***
Some time later he’s riding hard, pushing Estero like the horse’s life depends on it and laughing as Sophie tries to keep up on her simple mare.
“You’ll never catch me on that thing!” he shouts over his shoulder, and he pushes onward, the coast on his right, the waves crashing against the rocks stealing his words, blending them with the spray of the surf. The trees of the forest on his left are thinning, signalling the cove’s presence and making him slow as it comes into view. A tiny inlet, small and calm compared to the rocky cliffs on either side, the waterfall his mother had always called “alainn”. Beautiful.
Estero whinnies as they pull to a stop and Sebastian frowns, Estero loves the thrill of the chase as much as Sebastian himself but obviously needs a break. He urges the stallion toward a break in the trees,mindful of the stones, and finds the hidden path to the cove’s entrance.
Once they reach the shore, Sebastian dismounts and divests his horse of its tack, leaving him foaming and waiting for Sophie’s care. He pats his flank and whispers to him, calming the horse before pulling off his own clothes and making for the waves. Just as he hits the water, Sophie arrives.
“Sebastian!” he hears her yell before folding himself into the waves, feeling the water wash over him, cleanse him. He waits a few moments before coming up, knowing full well he’s in for an earful.
He’s not wrong, for as soon as his head’s above water she’s yelling.
“Sebastian Smythe, I don’t care who the hell you are, you don’t leave a beautiful creature like this and quality clothes like that in this state! He needs a rub down and water, you giant GIT, and those clothes would dress my brother for a year!”
He just laughs at her, for she’s always scolding him. Sophie is, he believes, the closest thing he has to a friend in this world, and the only one who is ever allowed to speak to him this way.
“Oh fuck off, Sophie, I knew you were coming. And it’s “your highness” to you, damn woman.”
She sticks out her tongue at him, clearly still angry, and tosses a canvas bag at the shore. Just far enough to be considered helpful, but not close enough to be considered the excellent work of a servant.
He sighs and makes for the water’s edge, watching as she tends to the horses and not letting himself smile. He really doesn’t hate her, and that’s saying something.
“Thanks for nothing, Sophie!” he calls as he reaches the bag, pulling out a fluffy towel and soft smooth soap. He tosses the towel into the sand and grabs the soap, heading back into the water as she replies, “Fack yourrself, Sebastian!”
He laughs and sets to cleaning, humming to himself and letting his mind wander.
***
“Why do you always come here?”
He knows she’s been wanting to ask for ages, even though she’s come here for years and knows full well why. But he’s not going to argue with her, not when she’s shaving his neck with a straight razor and cleaning the blade in the sea.
“You know why, Sophie,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his still-bare chest, his new breeches with their shining golden threads a striking juxtaposition against the wild sea grass he sits upon.
“Supposin’ I don’t,” she sasses back, her young eyes boring into his with determination. Sophie’s been with him 10 years, since his mother’s passing. He was a boy then, only 9 but she only twelve when she came to be his personal servant.
“Supposin’ you do you little liar,” he mocks back, but she swipes at him with the razor and he gives in. “You know this was mothers’ favorite place, Sophie. You know. Why are you making me tell you?” His face hardens with his voice, his eyes shuttering closed and his heart speeding up.
“But you never talk about her, Seb. Never, and I-”
He pulls away then, mindful of the blade in her hand, the soap still on his skin.
“And I don’t want to, Sophie,” he barks, his voice like steel. “You need to mind your place. Finish my shave and be gone.”
She looks at him, stunned as if slapped and then returns to her work, quickly finishing his shave and then packing up her things without another word. He watches her leave, her long red hair whipping and lashing in the wind, never looking back.
***
He pushes through his tutoring, listening to Sir Hardall drone through latin exercises and answering every question correctly. Unlike many other things, Sebastian pays attention to his studies. He has always felt that a strong mind are as important as strong will, spirit and body. A talented brain being on equal footing with all the others is key to managing both a conversation and a country. He smiles smugly and congratulates himself silently on being so smart, so in control of what he knows will be the best thing for him as king.
He’s on the final step of conjugating a list of particularly hard verbs when Sophie shows up again.
“Sire,” she says, and he knows they’re still fighting, “His Majesty would like to see you in the strategy room.” She refuses to meet his eyes.
“Come off it, Sophie, just say the war room,” he says, eyes rolling.
She does meet his gaze then, her eyes flinty. “The strategy room, Sire, five minutes.” With that she whisks away, slamming the heavy door behind her.
“Well, well,” begins Sir Hardall, a laugh in his voice, “I suppose that will be all today, Sire.”
Sebastian looks up sharply, daring his tutor to be mocking him, but finds only an innocent face, clean of even a smile and definitely clear of a smirk. Damn Sophie, but he would have to apologize to her.
“I suppose it is,” is all he says, leaving his books to be tended to by Sir Hardall and exiting the room.
***
He stops in the kitchen first, not having eaten, to pull some small meal together from the storerooms when he walks smack into Sadie, the kitchen hand.
It’s awkward, he knows, because Steven is Sadie’s sister. He had been a somewhat good lay, tight as fuck but really fucking whiny about it, and Sebastian had even offered him a little prep beforehand as well. Christ, but was Steven emotional about it. Sebastian had wanted him since grade school but if he was going to be like that every time then well...
“Sire,” Sadie said, bowing low before standing to give him her full attention. If he hadn’t been musing on Steven he never would have seen it, wouldn’t have given her so much attention, but quickly, before she could school her features into that of her station he sees pure, deadly rage in her eyes, set in her jaw and the lines of her forehead. He sees how she feels about him and grows angry for his is not her place.
“You might do well not to broadcast your feelings so clearly, wench, as there are worse places in this kingdom for you to work.” He spit out his words, her impertinence thrown like acid in his face.
Color blooms on her face, but not in blush. It rises high on her cheeks and her features tighten, the girl obviously fighting her anger for much needed piety. She does not succeed.
“You owe him an apology, sire.”
Sebastian takes a step forward, his hand raised to slap her but she stands firm, her eyes blazing.
“Get out,” he speaks two words and she’s broken, her face crumbling and tears slipping down her cheeks. “Get out and never come back. Find somewhere else where you know your place, girl.”
She sets her jaw and wipes her face before pushing past Sebastian and disappearing into the castle beyond.
Sebastian thinks for a moment, realizing that if she had been so impertinent in front of others or had mentioned Steven in any other avenue he would have had to have her flogged or killed.
He is mostly thankful for this, though his anger still burns. Forgetting his hunger, he makes his way to the war room.
***
“Cordillair has never been our enemy, Samuel, why would they be now?” his father is saying to his most trusted advisor. “King Burton has been taking on new territories, that’s true, but why Lagou? Why here? What makes you think this rumor is even founded?”
Sebastian slinks in, not wanting to interrupt his father or his chancellor and taking a seat at the back of the room.
“Sire, I know it doesn’t make sense, but it is what all of our intelligence has reported. An attack is imminent, sire, you must make preparations. Now is the time to act.”
Sebastian couldn’t help it, he laughed then. One loud laugh before he could cover his mouth, and everything was undone.
He father looked up, startled by Sebastian’s sudden presence and then glares at him, quieting Sebastian effectively before speaking again.
“It seems my son shares my skepticism, although in an inappropriate manner.” He walks over to Sebastian, the smell of spirits permeating the air around him, and lowers himself conspiratorially, his mouth next to Sebastian’s ear.
“Don’t be an ass,” his father whispers harshly, “The man has more experience with intelligence than you do in your tiniest fingernail.”
Bile rises in Sebastian’s throat at both his father’s smell and words, but he keeps it down, lowering his eyes to the floor and speaking quietly yet clearly. “My apologies, chancellor, for I do not know nearly as much as you on the subject. I am quite sure that you know of which you speak.”
The chancellor nods dismissively and resumes his conversation with the king. Sebastian, for his part, keeps his mouth shut and listens.
“As I was saying, Sire, the time to act is now. Your people need to know that an attack is imminent. They need to know to take up arms and fortify their homes.”
Sebastian watches his father’s spirit-addled brain take in this information and sort through it. The drink is obviously inhibiting him, however, because it takes much longer than it should for him to respond.
“I just don’t believe it. We are so strong. Why would they come here?”
Sebastian silently agrees with his father, a first in many years, actually. It would be foolish of Cordillair to attack, what with Lagau’s strong position on the sea.
Later, in the back of a filthy carriage that seems to have housed horse feed, Sebastian will swear that he heard the alarm bells before the door broke in; before the men in black with their faces painted to match had taken the room. Before the same men slit the chancellor’s throat in front of him and then turned to his father to speak once before his father, too, was bleeding out on the floor. As it would happen, this all came to pass before one bell was rung, and then it was in victory and not in alarm.
The words will sit with him, though.
“It is not your people who are weak, your highness.”