Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2011-01-14 02:38 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2011-01-14 02:38 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Castle Walls, part 4
Title: Castle Walls (4/8)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: (skip) Drugging, kidnapping
Pairings/Characters: Jon/c!Stephen, Olivia/Kristen, Sam, Lizz
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. (Alas.)
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Lizz's outfit and mannerisms can be seen in this Thinking and Drinking interview, in which she and Rachel Maddow chat about the 2008 primaries and drink cheap beer. It's a bit like IRL crack.
Decorative capitals are from Daily Drop Cap. For the rest of the story, see here.
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
awn crept across the master bedroom, slipped through a crack in the bed-hangings, and stirred Stephen just enough to let him know that he was alone under the sheets.
He found Jon by the dying fire, asleep sitting up, still fully clothed with a short sword across his lap. Stephen woke him from a distance, careful to stay out of range of the gleaming steel until Jon recognized him, at which point he took the blade away and pulled Jon to his feet. "Bed. C'mon."
"Was checking the wards," said Jon, bleary-eyed and heavy on his feet. He wasn't managing any Vulpin at all, and only his singleminded focus over the link made him intelligible. "If they break down...."
Stephen latched onto a word that meant something like defense spells. "The wards are fine. We're safe."
"Not us. The princess. Someone tried to kill the princess."
"Someone tried to scare the princess," corrected Stephen. "It's different. Anyway, they won't need to figure out how to sneak an outside attacker in here if you let the rooms burn down all by yourself."
Jon tried to shake himself awake. "Did I—the fire—?"
"Well, it's out now." Although Stephen planned to go back and dump several buckets of water on the embers, just in case. "Here, lie down. Let's get you out of those clothes."
He was tugging Jon's trousers down over the man's solid legs when he heard a delicate cough from the hall. "I'll come back later," said Olivia, averting her eyes. Her new tunic rustled as she left, adding something under her breath that might have been, "Guess they get an early start around here."
Stephen was tucking the forest-green blankets up over Jon's dozing form when he jolted awake again, long fingers wrapping around Stephen's wrist. "The bracelet. If you let her borrow the bracelet...."
"The lack of sleep is obviously making you delirious," said Stephen. "So I'm going to do us both a favor and pretend I didn't hear that."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
et me see if I have this straight," said Sam, rolling a handful of silverware up in a napkin embroidered with the bar's logo and tossing it on a tray. "She's hot."
"Uh-huh," agreed Kristen from her perch on a stool. She would start the kitchen fires roaring just before the place opened to the lunch rush; a teardrop of flame shivered and danced on her palm in preparation.
"She's a geek," continued Sam. "Maybe even a bigger geek than you are."
"Uh-huh."
"She's cute. She's funny. She's totally into you. Did I mention she's hot?"
"Only about eleventy billion times!"
"And you didn't hit that?"
"It was a dressing room!" cried Kristen, the flame in her hand buffeted by a nonexistent wind. "Practically a public place!"
"Oh, honey," sighed Sam, picking up the tray of silverware and balancing it on her rounded stomach. "If you don't think I've done it on every table in this room...."
Kristen made a face. "Sam. People eat here."
"We sure did," said Sam dreamily.
"Keep that up," threatened Kristen, smothering the flame with a gesture, "and I'll stop coming around to light a fire under your grill."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
very news outlet in the Castle got wind of the white-powder scare by that evening. The late editions of the papers were a jumble of speculation, mixed with quotes from Her Majesty's press office, ad-hoc political analysis of the situation in Gi Foar, and a swath of colorful charts that would have put a peacock's tail to shame explaining the Gi Foarese royalty to the lay citizen.
Kristen picked up a copy of the Times, and was idly scanning it as she wandered away from the crowded newsstand when a whisper caught her attention. "Psst! Kristen!"
It was Stephen, lurking in the shadow of a carved stone arch that tunneled under a section of buildings. Olivia and Jon were nowhere to be seen.
"Is everything okay?" she asked under her breath, once she had joined him in the shade. "Did something else happen? If Jon needs any backup in the bodyguard department, I'm sure Her Majesty can find plenty of volunteers. I'll be the first. All you need to do is ask."
"Everything is okay," said Stephen in his halting Commedian. "Jon is okay. The princess is okay. Will you get a thing for me?"
"A thing," repeated Kristen. "Sure, I guess. What kind of thing?"
"A paper. The paper The Harlot." He stumbled over the words, eyes flicking away behind the gold frames of his spectacles. "The people at the seller of papers, they will ask questions. I just want a paper. I doesn't want questions. From strangers," he amended. "From you is okay."
"No questions. Just a paper. Hang tight, I'll be right back."
Minutes later she was pressing the small paper into Stephen's waiting hands. "Is it for Jon?" she asked, falling into step beside him. "I didn't think he was interested in this sort of thing."
"Is for me," admitted Stephen, emerging into the lamplight on the far side of the arch. "What sort of thing? Is it a bad paper?"
"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that. I just mean that it's not hard news. It's more about popular culture, entertainment, social movements...although that might make it a better thing for you to read, if you're going to be a citizen and you really want to understand the culture."
Stephen looked shocked. "I need this to be a citizen? Nobody tells me that! Is it on the test?"
It took some time for Kristen to talk him down, by which point they ended up in a small plaza with an impromptu copse of trees in the middle. Stephen brushed off the wrought-iron bench under the budding branches, then beckoned for her to sit; Kristen took the spot beside him, unfolded the Times, and said, with all the nonchalance she could summon, "How is Olivia taking all this?"
"She was fine in the morning," said Stephen, flipping absently through The Harlot. "I hasn't seen her after that. I hope she has to stay at the home all day," he added, hissing through his teeth.
"Hey!" protested Kristen. "Do you want the terrorists to win?"
"Is her own fault! She doesn't know safe! Yesterday, she sees the mail, she sees her name, she thinks is from you...she has to open it. Jon says it maybe isn't safe. She won't hear it."
Kristen's hand flew to her mouth. The gift she had finally chosen lay unsent on the bureau at home, and all this time Olivia had been so eager to get them that she had ignored her own guard's warning. "I have to go see her. Right away!"
"Can't. She is at a...a thing," faltered Stephen. After some prompting from Kristen, he settled on the word: "A banquet. Because...is the Queen's food. She can make sure is not poisoned."
"Probably for the best." Kristen suppressed the urge to set her paper ablaze in frustration. Maybe after she finished reading. "Right. First thing tomorrow it is, then."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
nfair though it might be to Jon, Stephen made no move to return to their rooms even as his usual hour of homecoming slipped by. When a chill fell over the darkening streets he ducked into Sam's bar, paper folded under one arm and a bag with his pocket dictionary slung over the other.
It wasn't that he felt he shouldn't be reading The Harlot, exactly. But something in him rebelled at the idea of letting Jon help translate.
Stephen crept through the still-crowded bar and ducked into a booth at the back, then nearly jumped out of his skin. The seat across from him was already occupied, by a woman whose cloak made her almost melt into the shadows, though it framed a high, pale forehead and lavender garment that ought to have stood out. "Sorry!" he blurted, grabbing back the paper that he had half-spread across the table. "I doesn't see...I will go away."
"Don't even worry about it," replied the stranger—in, of all things, passable Vulpin—as she waved a hand to beckon him back down. "Go on. Sit. I can use the company."
"Thanks." Stephen sank back onto the plush seat, smoothing out the crumpled sheets of print.
"No trouble at all. You want a drink? I can call for an extra cup."
Renewed suspicion flared in Stephen's chest. "I don't even know you."
The stranger looked almost affronted, but shook it off in a heartbeat. "Lizz," she said, shaking his reluctant hand. "Two Z's, no lemon."
Her frank manner and the familiar language chipped away at Stephen's barriers, especially when he realized she could help interpret the article he had been working through. The political expressions he could usually guess at, but the social ones were baffling, even when his dictionary translated individual words.
After carefully sounding out the fourth or fifth chain of words, he wasn't sure what to make of Lizz's expression. Was she angry? Or just as puzzled as he felt? Or simply starting to feel put off by what turned out to be astoundingly cheap beer?
"Here, lemme see that," she interrupted, while Stephen was trying to figure out how to pronounce 'harem'. "Oh, relax, I'm not gonna steal it. I just need some context."
She sat back, crossing one leg over the other in such a broad gesture that Stephen could see her shoe tapping against the edge of the table, and for a moment something blue flashed under the clasp of her cloak. A warning sapphire, like the one in Jon's ring? Or some other kind of protection?
"You're the Stephen in the article, aren't you," realized Lizz. "Sir Stewart's...boyfriend?"
All Stephen's hackles flew back up. "Partner," he snapped, using the Commedian word. There were plenty of terms in Vulpin for a relationship of equals, but his whole identity in his native tongue was tied up in pet, and the more distant he kept that, the better.
"Partner, right," agreed his companion without missing a beat. "Are you sure you want to hear this? It's pretty rough on him."
"I'm sure." It was Jon. How bad could it be?
Lizz'z hands couldn't seem to hold still. One moment she was propping up her chin, then gesturing in the air as if reaching for her next words; running her finger along the page, before twisting her whole hand in her hair. "The article starts off by comparing him to a couple of Her Majesty's other knights. You wouldn't know them, but they're pretty much on the record as being jackasses...served their country well, don't get me wrong, but still. Anyway, they go on to imply that you're being taken advantage of, that you only get to live with Stewart because he made you promise to be his...well, they don't say 'partner', let's leave it at that. Followed by some noise about how he probably jumped at the assignment to guard the refugee princess, not out of respect for her as a person, but because he thinks she's hot. This phrase here, it means 'a fetish for foreigners.' And 'harem' is something like 'a group of servants that you have sex with.' Are you okay?"
Nausea twisted at Stephen's gut, his vision feathering darkly at the edges. How dared they? How dared? No one would have said such things about Papa Bear. Anyone who tried would have been considered lucky to get away with being reduced to a tearful, sobbing wreck.
"I think you better lie down," said Lizz, and Stephen obediently let his forehead rest on the cool wood of the table, only realizing how tightly his hands had been gripping its edge when he tried to unclench them. "Don't pay them any mind. They're just trying to be controversial because it sells papers."
"They won't be selling much when Jon has their tower of lies razed to the ground," muttered Stephen.
The response was not as enthusiastic as he had expected. "Not a big fan of freedom of the press?"
It took a moment for the phrase to register: it was a translation of one of the key points from A Child's History of the Constitution. "What good is a Constitution if it lets people attack my Jon?"
Lizz had the nerve to laugh, loud and unpolished. "No, it's okay, I know where you're coming from. There are plenty of times I wish I could just smack down anyone who went off on someone I liked." She gave Stephen's hand a casual pat. "But a free press is one of those big important things that keep society running. As long as they're not knowingly publishing false information with intent to harm—and if they do, Jon has every right to fight back—they're just part of the cost of keeping our nation safe and open."
"Isn't there anything we can do?" implored Stephen, tilting his head to give her his best pleading eyes. He was only an ex-slave; he wasn't used to being able to effect actual changes. But surely a proper citizen, even one randomly met at a bar, would know how to make the system work.
His focus was starting to return; he could see Lizz's lips stretched into a broad streak of a smile. "You could start by not buying their papers."
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
anquets, Olivia concluded, were the second most boring thing in the universe. Sure, the food was nice, but it was no fun if you couldn't jump in the cakes, or challenge fellow diners to an impromptu contest about how much hot dog you could devour in one bite.
The first most boring thing in the universe was still sitting around the Stewart home with nothing to do.
Jon had retracted his offer to take them down to the stables, apparently convinced that someone might try to shoot her off the back of a unicorn. (Never mind that a unicorn's back was probably the best place in the world to get shot at, as any damage could be healed by your mount right there.) Stephen preened at the fringes of the debate with poorly hidden smugness, until Jon pleaded with him to stand guard while Jon caught a nap, at which point Olivia retreated to a safe distance to watch the explosion.
Even that was over far too soon. Olivia couldn't understand how they resolved things so quickly; her crystal didn't subtitle the conversation when she wasn't meant to be part of it, but she could tell that the Commedian part was a garble, with words that must have been Vulpin thrown in at seemingly random times. And this mess flowed between them like a third tongue in which they were both fluent.
She might have put it down to The Power Of Love, but the primary feeling in the air was irritation, so thick she could almost taste it.
The window in Olivia's room looked out over a slope, roofs and turrets and courtyards of the Castle stretching out below her, the broad open sky above. Dull grey clouds scudded across the blue like smudges on what could have been a perfectly nice painting, while in the distance she could see the mountain peaks that cradled the paths to Gi Foar.
"Good riddance," she muttered, leaning on the stone ledge just long enough to make a face at it before turning her energy to organizing her new clothes.
When she emerged, in a wine-dark shift with long sleeves under a bodice trimmed in gold with a skirt that matched, Jon's door was closed and Stephen was attempting to impale the hall floor with a broom.
"I hear sweeping goes better if you try to get all the dirt in the same place."
Stephen unsubtly whacked a puff of dust in the direction of her shoes. "Go away."
"Gladly," snapped Olivia, and didn't look back until the front door was closed with her on the far side.
♢ ♘ ♢ ☯ ♢ ♘ ♢
rincesses! thought Stephen. Olivia was the only one he knew personally, but as far as he was concerned that was more than enough grounds to generalize. Why can't they just sit around and look pretty, like they're supposed to? Why do they have to go out and...and DO things?
Half a block ahead of him, Olivia wandered in no particular direction, greeting fruit-sellers and dawdling in the windows of art galleries. Well, eventually she would figure out that she was lost. Then Stephen would appear out of the shadows with a heroic flourish, and she would fall into his arms and beg for forgiveness, and be so grateful that she wouldn't cause him and Jon any trouble ever again. It was a perfect plan.
It seemed less perfect an hour later, when his feet were dragging, a cold edge had settled into the breeze, and Olivia had found not only a cute outdoor café to eat at, but an attractive honey-blonde woman to share her food with. Watching them from a bench across the street, Stephen felt sorry for Kristen. Almost as sorry as he felt for himself.
The princess was swaying on her feet when she finally got up, and had to lean on the strange woman's arm for support. Stephen could have sworn they hadn't ordered all that many drinks, and was puzzling this out when his quarry turned down a back way, then disappeared through a nondescript stone door.
Sick of the chase, unwilling to wait out in the cold, he tried to follow.
The string of jewels on his wrist glowed, and a pane of ruby light blocked him from walking in.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: (skip) Drugging, kidnapping
Pairings/Characters: Jon/c!Stephen, Olivia/Kristen, Sam, Lizz
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. (Alas.)
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Lizz's outfit and mannerisms can be seen in this Thinking and Drinking interview, in which she and Rachel Maddow chat about the 2008 primaries and drink cheap beer. It's a bit like IRL crack.
Decorative capitals are from Daily Drop Cap. For the rest of the story, see here.
awn crept across the master bedroom, slipped through a crack in the bed-hangings, and stirred Stephen just enough to let him know that he was alone under the sheets.He found Jon by the dying fire, asleep sitting up, still fully clothed with a short sword across his lap. Stephen woke him from a distance, careful to stay out of range of the gleaming steel until Jon recognized him, at which point he took the blade away and pulled Jon to his feet. "Bed. C'mon."
"Was checking the wards," said Jon, bleary-eyed and heavy on his feet. He wasn't managing any Vulpin at all, and only his singleminded focus over the link made him intelligible. "If they break down...."
Stephen latched onto a word that meant something like defense spells. "The wards are fine. We're safe."
"Not us. The princess. Someone tried to kill the princess."
"Someone tried to scare the princess," corrected Stephen. "It's different. Anyway, they won't need to figure out how to sneak an outside attacker in here if you let the rooms burn down all by yourself."
Jon tried to shake himself awake. "Did I—the fire—?"
"Well, it's out now." Although Stephen planned to go back and dump several buckets of water on the embers, just in case. "Here, lie down. Let's get you out of those clothes."
He was tugging Jon's trousers down over the man's solid legs when he heard a delicate cough from the hall. "I'll come back later," said Olivia, averting her eyes. Her new tunic rustled as she left, adding something under her breath that might have been, "Guess they get an early start around here."
Stephen was tucking the forest-green blankets up over Jon's dozing form when he jolted awake again, long fingers wrapping around Stephen's wrist. "The bracelet. If you let her borrow the bracelet...."
"The lack of sleep is obviously making you delirious," said Stephen. "So I'm going to do us both a favor and pretend I didn't hear that."
et me see if I have this straight," said Sam, rolling a handful of silverware up in a napkin embroidered with the bar's logo and tossing it on a tray. "She's hot.""Uh-huh," agreed Kristen from her perch on a stool. She would start the kitchen fires roaring just before the place opened to the lunch rush; a teardrop of flame shivered and danced on her palm in preparation.
"She's a geek," continued Sam. "Maybe even a bigger geek than you are."
"Uh-huh."
"She's cute. She's funny. She's totally into you. Did I mention she's hot?"
"Only about eleventy billion times!"
"And you didn't hit that?"
"It was a dressing room!" cried Kristen, the flame in her hand buffeted by a nonexistent wind. "Practically a public place!"
"Oh, honey," sighed Sam, picking up the tray of silverware and balancing it on her rounded stomach. "If you don't think I've done it on every table in this room...."
Kristen made a face. "Sam. People eat here."
"We sure did," said Sam dreamily.
"Keep that up," threatened Kristen, smothering the flame with a gesture, "and I'll stop coming around to light a fire under your grill."
very news outlet in the Castle got wind of the white-powder scare by that evening. The late editions of the papers were a jumble of speculation, mixed with quotes from Her Majesty's press office, ad-hoc political analysis of the situation in Gi Foar, and a swath of colorful charts that would have put a peacock's tail to shame explaining the Gi Foarese royalty to the lay citizen.Kristen picked up a copy of the Times, and was idly scanning it as she wandered away from the crowded newsstand when a whisper caught her attention. "Psst! Kristen!"
It was Stephen, lurking in the shadow of a carved stone arch that tunneled under a section of buildings. Olivia and Jon were nowhere to be seen.
"Is everything okay?" she asked under her breath, once she had joined him in the shade. "Did something else happen? If Jon needs any backup in the bodyguard department, I'm sure Her Majesty can find plenty of volunteers. I'll be the first. All you need to do is ask."
"Everything is okay," said Stephen in his halting Commedian. "Jon is okay. The princess is okay. Will you get a thing for me?"
"A thing," repeated Kristen. "Sure, I guess. What kind of thing?"
"A paper. The paper The Harlot." He stumbled over the words, eyes flicking away behind the gold frames of his spectacles. "The people at the seller of papers, they will ask questions. I just want a paper. I doesn't want questions. From strangers," he amended. "From you is okay."
"No questions. Just a paper. Hang tight, I'll be right back."
Minutes later she was pressing the small paper into Stephen's waiting hands. "Is it for Jon?" she asked, falling into step beside him. "I didn't think he was interested in this sort of thing."
"Is for me," admitted Stephen, emerging into the lamplight on the far side of the arch. "What sort of thing? Is it a bad paper?"
"Oh, no, I wouldn't say that. I just mean that it's not hard news. It's more about popular culture, entertainment, social movements...although that might make it a better thing for you to read, if you're going to be a citizen and you really want to understand the culture."
Stephen looked shocked. "I need this to be a citizen? Nobody tells me that! Is it on the test?"
It took some time for Kristen to talk him down, by which point they ended up in a small plaza with an impromptu copse of trees in the middle. Stephen brushed off the wrought-iron bench under the budding branches, then beckoned for her to sit; Kristen took the spot beside him, unfolded the Times, and said, with all the nonchalance she could summon, "How is Olivia taking all this?"
"She was fine in the morning," said Stephen, flipping absently through The Harlot. "I hasn't seen her after that. I hope she has to stay at the home all day," he added, hissing through his teeth.
"Hey!" protested Kristen. "Do you want the terrorists to win?"
"Is her own fault! She doesn't know safe! Yesterday, she sees the mail, she sees her name, she thinks is from you...she has to open it. Jon says it maybe isn't safe. She won't hear it."
Kristen's hand flew to her mouth. The gift she had finally chosen lay unsent on the bureau at home, and all this time Olivia had been so eager to get them that she had ignored her own guard's warning. "I have to go see her. Right away!"
"Can't. She is at a...a thing," faltered Stephen. After some prompting from Kristen, he settled on the word: "A banquet. Because...is the Queen's food. She can make sure is not poisoned."
"Probably for the best." Kristen suppressed the urge to set her paper ablaze in frustration. Maybe after she finished reading. "Right. First thing tomorrow it is, then."
nfair though it might be to Jon, Stephen made no move to return to their rooms even as his usual hour of homecoming slipped by. When a chill fell over the darkening streets he ducked into Sam's bar, paper folded under one arm and a bag with his pocket dictionary slung over the other.It wasn't that he felt he shouldn't be reading The Harlot, exactly. But something in him rebelled at the idea of letting Jon help translate.
Stephen crept through the still-crowded bar and ducked into a booth at the back, then nearly jumped out of his skin. The seat across from him was already occupied, by a woman whose cloak made her almost melt into the shadows, though it framed a high, pale forehead and lavender garment that ought to have stood out. "Sorry!" he blurted, grabbing back the paper that he had half-spread across the table. "I doesn't see...I will go away."
"Don't even worry about it," replied the stranger—in, of all things, passable Vulpin—as she waved a hand to beckon him back down. "Go on. Sit. I can use the company."
"Thanks." Stephen sank back onto the plush seat, smoothing out the crumpled sheets of print.
"No trouble at all. You want a drink? I can call for an extra cup."
Renewed suspicion flared in Stephen's chest. "I don't even know you."
The stranger looked almost affronted, but shook it off in a heartbeat. "Lizz," she said, shaking his reluctant hand. "Two Z's, no lemon."
Her frank manner and the familiar language chipped away at Stephen's barriers, especially when he realized she could help interpret the article he had been working through. The political expressions he could usually guess at, but the social ones were baffling, even when his dictionary translated individual words.
After carefully sounding out the fourth or fifth chain of words, he wasn't sure what to make of Lizz's expression. Was she angry? Or just as puzzled as he felt? Or simply starting to feel put off by what turned out to be astoundingly cheap beer?
"Here, lemme see that," she interrupted, while Stephen was trying to figure out how to pronounce 'harem'. "Oh, relax, I'm not gonna steal it. I just need some context."
She sat back, crossing one leg over the other in such a broad gesture that Stephen could see her shoe tapping against the edge of the table, and for a moment something blue flashed under the clasp of her cloak. A warning sapphire, like the one in Jon's ring? Or some other kind of protection?
"You're the Stephen in the article, aren't you," realized Lizz. "Sir Stewart's...boyfriend?"
All Stephen's hackles flew back up. "Partner," he snapped, using the Commedian word. There were plenty of terms in Vulpin for a relationship of equals, but his whole identity in his native tongue was tied up in pet, and the more distant he kept that, the better.
"Partner, right," agreed his companion without missing a beat. "Are you sure you want to hear this? It's pretty rough on him."
"I'm sure." It was Jon. How bad could it be?
Lizz'z hands couldn't seem to hold still. One moment she was propping up her chin, then gesturing in the air as if reaching for her next words; running her finger along the page, before twisting her whole hand in her hair. "The article starts off by comparing him to a couple of Her Majesty's other knights. You wouldn't know them, but they're pretty much on the record as being jackasses...served their country well, don't get me wrong, but still. Anyway, they go on to imply that you're being taken advantage of, that you only get to live with Stewart because he made you promise to be his...well, they don't say 'partner', let's leave it at that. Followed by some noise about how he probably jumped at the assignment to guard the refugee princess, not out of respect for her as a person, but because he thinks she's hot. This phrase here, it means 'a fetish for foreigners.' And 'harem' is something like 'a group of servants that you have sex with.' Are you okay?"
Nausea twisted at Stephen's gut, his vision feathering darkly at the edges. How dared they? How dared? No one would have said such things about Papa Bear. Anyone who tried would have been considered lucky to get away with being reduced to a tearful, sobbing wreck.
"I think you better lie down," said Lizz, and Stephen obediently let his forehead rest on the cool wood of the table, only realizing how tightly his hands had been gripping its edge when he tried to unclench them. "Don't pay them any mind. They're just trying to be controversial because it sells papers."
"They won't be selling much when Jon has their tower of lies razed to the ground," muttered Stephen.
The response was not as enthusiastic as he had expected. "Not a big fan of freedom of the press?"
It took a moment for the phrase to register: it was a translation of one of the key points from A Child's History of the Constitution. "What good is a Constitution if it lets people attack my Jon?"
Lizz had the nerve to laugh, loud and unpolished. "No, it's okay, I know where you're coming from. There are plenty of times I wish I could just smack down anyone who went off on someone I liked." She gave Stephen's hand a casual pat. "But a free press is one of those big important things that keep society running. As long as they're not knowingly publishing false information with intent to harm—and if they do, Jon has every right to fight back—they're just part of the cost of keeping our nation safe and open."
"Isn't there anything we can do?" implored Stephen, tilting his head to give her his best pleading eyes. He was only an ex-slave; he wasn't used to being able to effect actual changes. But surely a proper citizen, even one randomly met at a bar, would know how to make the system work.
His focus was starting to return; he could see Lizz's lips stretched into a broad streak of a smile. "You could start by not buying their papers."
anquets, Olivia concluded, were the second most boring thing in the universe. Sure, the food was nice, but it was no fun if you couldn't jump in the cakes, or challenge fellow diners to an impromptu contest about how much hot dog you could devour in one bite.The first most boring thing in the universe was still sitting around the Stewart home with nothing to do.
Jon had retracted his offer to take them down to the stables, apparently convinced that someone might try to shoot her off the back of a unicorn. (Never mind that a unicorn's back was probably the best place in the world to get shot at, as any damage could be healed by your mount right there.) Stephen preened at the fringes of the debate with poorly hidden smugness, until Jon pleaded with him to stand guard while Jon caught a nap, at which point Olivia retreated to a safe distance to watch the explosion.
Even that was over far too soon. Olivia couldn't understand how they resolved things so quickly; her crystal didn't subtitle the conversation when she wasn't meant to be part of it, but she could tell that the Commedian part was a garble, with words that must have been Vulpin thrown in at seemingly random times. And this mess flowed between them like a third tongue in which they were both fluent.
She might have put it down to The Power Of Love, but the primary feeling in the air was irritation, so thick she could almost taste it.
The window in Olivia's room looked out over a slope, roofs and turrets and courtyards of the Castle stretching out below her, the broad open sky above. Dull grey clouds scudded across the blue like smudges on what could have been a perfectly nice painting, while in the distance she could see the mountain peaks that cradled the paths to Gi Foar.
"Good riddance," she muttered, leaning on the stone ledge just long enough to make a face at it before turning her energy to organizing her new clothes.
When she emerged, in a wine-dark shift with long sleeves under a bodice trimmed in gold with a skirt that matched, Jon's door was closed and Stephen was attempting to impale the hall floor with a broom.
"I hear sweeping goes better if you try to get all the dirt in the same place."
Stephen unsubtly whacked a puff of dust in the direction of her shoes. "Go away."
"Gladly," snapped Olivia, and didn't look back until the front door was closed with her on the far side.
rincesses! thought Stephen. Olivia was the only one he knew personally, but as far as he was concerned that was more than enough grounds to generalize. Why can't they just sit around and look pretty, like they're supposed to? Why do they have to go out and...and DO things?Half a block ahead of him, Olivia wandered in no particular direction, greeting fruit-sellers and dawdling in the windows of art galleries. Well, eventually she would figure out that she was lost. Then Stephen would appear out of the shadows with a heroic flourish, and she would fall into his arms and beg for forgiveness, and be so grateful that she wouldn't cause him and Jon any trouble ever again. It was a perfect plan.
It seemed less perfect an hour later, when his feet were dragging, a cold edge had settled into the breeze, and Olivia had found not only a cute outdoor café to eat at, but an attractive honey-blonde woman to share her food with. Watching them from a bench across the street, Stephen felt sorry for Kristen. Almost as sorry as he felt for himself.
The princess was swaying on her feet when she finally got up, and had to lean on the strange woman's arm for support. Stephen could have sworn they hadn't ordered all that many drinks, and was puzzling this out when his quarry turned down a back way, then disappeared through a nondescript stone door.
Sick of the chase, unwilling to wait out in the cold, he tried to follow.
The string of jewels on his wrist glowed, and a pane of ruby light blocked him from walking in.
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Stephen has exactly the opposite idea of what princesses are supposed to be like as I had as a child. I can't help but think that Jon's poked his head out of his room and is currently freaking out about the fact that he's the only one in the house. And oh, Stephen defending his Jon from The Harlot. :D
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Jon is due for a freakout soon, no question about it...
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Stephen's standing up for himself, yay! I'm so pleased. He has adopted the Commedian view on life and relationships quickly.
Why did he want to read The Harlot in the first place? Does he have any friends who told him about it?
Also, does Stephen get his money from Jon? Or does Commedia give grants to refugees? Will he be forced into the workplace eventually?
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He caught wind that The Harlot was saying bad things about Olivia, and was intrigued. (Possibly he heard it from Jason, who referred to them back in chapter 2, although not by name.)
Currently Stephen is on the books as Jon's housekeeper, which is why he does things like sweeping and cooking. He'll be looking for more independent employment one of these days, but this arrangement is holding for now.