F. S𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭 F𝐢𝐭𝐳𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐝 S𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 S𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 #1

# “His dark eyes took me in, and I wondered what they would look like if he fell in love.” - Mirren (MC and Notre)

“[His/Her] dark eyes took me in, and I wondered what they would look like if [he/she] fell in love...”

“Eye. Mirren has only one,” Notre corrects promptly, fishing the empty cup from between your limp fingers, and placing it loudly on the table. “And that’s enough wine for you.”

“I only had two little sips.”

“Two bottles. And however many goblets Cassius handed you during the meeting.” Pushing the cup further away from your wandering hands, Notre looks you up and down. What she sees clearly displeases her. “And look at you, you’re swaying, slurring your words. I got maybe half of whatever you said.”

“I was—” Your dizzy brain has almost forgotten what you were saying and the cause of your lamentation, but the reminder of the meeting brings them back to you. “Oh, right.” The ‘assassination’ ploy, the courtiers’ favorite pastime also called ‘infighting,’ or ‘favor play.’

Since Mastravisch personally praised you during breakfast, naturally by the time dinner rolled out, your meal was sprinkled with strychnine, its bitterness blended perfectly with the salad they served to compliment the roasted scarfish.

You don’t remember much aside from the initial agitation. Half the plate in, you become acutely aware of even the smallest speck of ground pepper, strangely fixated on trying to polish it off without touching your greens.

The heightened perception aside, you might have detected the poison earlier if only air was still a necessity for you. Alas, by the time you left the dining room, your muscles were all stiff, pulsating against your will. When the contractions had finally seized your spine, the pain rendered you unable to speak or even gasp.

It was just your luck that of all the other courtiers, only Mirren took the same route - if it was anyone else, your humiliation wouldn’t know no end. Oh, it must have been disgusting, your scrunched-up face, the snot, the spit. You might have regurgitated on [his/her] uniform as well, your throat was so sore after.

There was nothing deep to Mirren’s actions, you’re more than sure of it, but you’re important to Mastravisch, and, by proxy, to Mirren, as well. Of course, [he/she] would be concerned. Even if you can’t really die, you can be rendered permanently useless. But the look of pure, genuine shock and apprehension on [his/her] face could sustain your delusions for years.

Cocooned in Mirren’s arms, your body gave up almost immediately, recognizing a habitat you once thought was safe. Then you woke up alone, trying to tell yourself it was expected, that it didn’t hurt, but when the servant told you that Mirren stayed in the infirmary for hours to wipe and help you dress...

Ah, but [he/she] does keep you not unlike an unanchored raft, always at the mercy of something larger than life, easily swayed by [his/her] deeds.

“I wish [he/she] weren’t so kind to me,” you choke out, sounding beyond miserable despite your best efforts to conceal yourself. “I hate it more when [he/she]’s kind.” And what’s the point of being good to you now that [he/she] has ensnarled you? When [he/she] has you where Mastravisch wants you?

“[He/She]’s not kind,” Notre says firmly. “Mirren’s an ugly, bad, terrible, and awful person. The worst. You’re wise to cut [him/her] off,” she presses on, only to sigh deeply, brows drawn in commiseration. “I don’t get your taste, I really don’t. [His/Her] shirt is buttoned up so tightly. Negative sense on trends, I tell you. The visage is generally unattractive, too.”

The playfulness is meant as a distraction that you go along with eagerly. It’s better to laugh than cry, as Cassius says. There’s plenty of reason for the latter, no need to add another.

“Rez has the same face—”

“Rez has a presence!” she exclaims, hand on her chest in mock affront. “And a buttonless shirt.”

“And the chest all out...”

“And the chest all out,” she agrees, tone dreamy to your monotone. “You’ll find someone better. There’s that, what’s his name, the new librarian.”

“Notre...”

“Right, he’s a bit,” she drawls, pulling a face. “How about the healer’s apprentice? She’s not bad-looking, either. Though she has both eyes, so it might not be your type—”

“That’s awful,” you snort, placing your forehead on the back of your hand just so you don’t have to look at her. If you meet her eyes, you’ll laugh, that’s how it goes.

“Life’s awful,” she counters. A pop of another open bottle resounds, and the scent of fermented berries assaults your senses. “Ignore me though. It’s not like you can stop loving [him/her]--”

“What?” you straighten up, suddenly awash with cold sweat. “What did you say?”

Notre pauses with the bottle tilted towards her cup, vertically enough not to spill a drop. “Mirren, I mean.”

“I don’t love Mirren.” At her dubious expression, you add, “I don’t.”

“Well, all right. Let’s say you did love [him/her], but now you’re all better.”

“I never loved [him/her]. I don’t know where you got that—”

“Fine, fine. You never loved [him/her]. Better?” Notre gets back to pouring the wine. Contrary to her earlier nagging, she pours a cup for you. She doesn’t hand it to you, however. “What’s wrong?”

Everything. Every single thing. “Was it obvious?” you whisper because that’s all you can muster as the realization dawns on you. Your feelings weren’t as covert as you thought they were. Brilliant. Simply amazing.

Notre presses her mouth into a line so thin you can’t see her lips. You don’t need her to say anything. That’s an answer enough.

Pushing yourself upwards on unsteady legs, you ignore her questions, and all but barrel towards the exit. You need to be alone. You need to damage control this.

The doorstep of her little house is rickety, and though you remember to tread over it carefully, you still topple over it, grabbing a wall to keep yourself steady.

“Fucking shit, can’t she f—”

“Careful.”

“-ix it already.”

Mirren. Not a wall. Shit.

[His/Her] hand goes to your elbow, to steady you, or to drag you deeper into the hell [he/she] created for you. Whichever it is, you don’t want to know.

Jumping backward, you evade [his/her] touch, mumbling a quick goodbye and the first excuse you can think of before circling [him/her] and not running away. You’re simply walking at a sprint’s pace.

You can only hope [he/she] didn’t hear much. The walls are wooden but thick, right? And [he/she] was outside.

Hold on. Why was [he/she] outside?

# “Hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you.” - Rez (slight deviation from the game, though still can be considered canon for a relationship that developed faster than in-game)

The first time [he/she] kissed you it was thoughtless, straight after a victorious battle, with blood and grime still smeared all over [his/her] face. Quick and rough - hands gripping your jaw, a loud smack of [his/her] lips on your cheek, childish and chaste.

It left you stunned, and you wouldn’t be sure if [he/she] knew who [he/she] was kissing had [he/she] not said your name at the end of it, topped with, “Drinks on me!”

[He/She] ran off with the rest of the soldiers before you could decide whether to pull [him/her] back or swat [him/her] across that stupid mug of [his/hers]. Always doing as [he/she] pleases, that’s Rez for you.

Though it was all you could think about for days to come, [he/she] didn’t act any different around you, causing you to eventually shrug it off as one of [his/her] quirks. [He/She] tends to place [his/her] hands on the squires' shoulders to cheer them up, and tease [his/her] squad mates with a jostle or two. Since [he/she] took a human form, [he/she] was brought up in a barrack. Maybe it’s normal to [him/her], you wouldn’t know.

But then [he/she] kissed you again, just as unexpectedly, under a dusky sky more blue than orange. You were alone, trying to wash the caked dirt from your hair. It had grown longer than what you were used to, longer than it was suitable for a life on the road, but there was no cook, nor barber, not even a servant in the camp, and most of the squires barely knew how to saddle a horse as it was.

You were still so stuck in the middle of a silent complaint that you barely noticed another pair of hands scrubbing your scalp, nor the voice babbling on behind you. It was only when your head was titled, and your eyes found Rez’s face above you, upside down, that you realized you had company.

“Shit! You startled me.”

“Pay better attention,” [he/she] chided half-heartedly, using the hand that had been dousing you to pinch your cheek. [He/She] meant for it to be light, but from some time now, every [his/her] touch stings like a brand.

“Enough.” Slapping at [him/her] haphazardly, you admonished [him/her] with,  “Stop sneaking up on me.” To the usual outcome.

“Cute,” was all that [he/she] said in response before pecking your bruised cheek, as if in apology. Then a bucket of water followed shortly after, drowning your sputtering in a wave of foamy water.

You didn’t have to wait long for the third, fourth, and fifth kiss, as they came all at once during the last celebratory feast before the long way to your new home. You let [him/her] get away with it, perfunctorily brushing your blood-stained forehead against the sleeve of [his/her] shirt.

When [he/she] pulled you into [his/her] lap, you blamed your easy assent on the copious tankards of alcohol you’d been putting in yourself through the evening and well into the night.

Most of the ghosts and demons were already out cold, keeled over in their tents or outside of them, leaving the few immune and abstinent soldiers to stand watch on the perimeters.

Rez was none of those, but [his/her] innards had to be layered with steel to stomach the assault of strong spirits and near-charred food [he/she]’d been filling [himself/herself] with. Even after the celebration was officially over, he was nursing a half-empty pitcher of some overtly sweet wine. The scent of it was heady in the air.

The both of you guarded a secondary exit from the valley, used as an outpost, with nothing but dense forest before you, a small fireplace, and Rez’s running commentary to liven up the atmosphere. Not that you could’ve appreciated that - all [he/she] talked about was the battle, and you had enough of fighting for two lifetimes.

[He/She] nudged you as [he/she] spoke, sometimes to get your attention, other times by accident, too animated as [he/she] recalled a move or two [he/she] especially liked.

As the alcohol and weariness caught up to you, you found yourself filtering Rez out, watching [him/her], without really registering [his/her] actions - the curl of [his/her] lips as [he/she] observed you in turn, one eye squinting with mischief.

“Hard to sit here and be close to you, and not kiss you.”

Every sound, from the crackling of the fire to the rustling of the leaves, was no better than background noise to you. Perhaps that was why Rez’s words, too, went straight over your head, and you came back to the present when the surrounding silence became palpable.

“Hm? Sorry, what did you say?”

Hiding a grin behind the pitcher, Rez took a long gulp of wine, then another. “Tell you later,” [he/she] said at last, sounding both relieved and crossed.

“Right.” It couldn’t have been anything important anyway.