Swordpoint Diplomacy Marcel

The seed of this was a request from H to see a snippet of Rose being Stronk from Marcel's perspective. I realized that it might be interesting to see his perspective on being captured a bit more generally.  

Marcel scenes from ch 22-24

"Someone's coming." Auntie narrowed her eyes at the tent entrance and straightened her back that much more.

Willame didn't move from where he was splayed out like the world's most muscular cat. He was as far from Marcel as possible, maintaining a stubborn silence.

"Leave!"

He almost didn't recognize the voice, harsh as it was.

"The King is coming. Stand over there so that we might have a private conversation."

Marcel sucked in a deep breath. Everyone sat up at that.

'That's not good at all. What is going to happen?'

Marcel followed his aunt's gaze to the entrance in time to see the princess Rose blow in with a thunderous expression.

His heart clenched in his chest.

Aunt Yvette beat him to saying anything. In her most diplomatic voice, she said "So kind of you to-"

"Shut up."

Pardon?

The foreign princess looked nearly murderous. She didn't so much as look at the other woman as she strode in. Aunt Yvette's jaw dropped in indignant shock.

Princess Rose had no idea, because her eyes were fixed on him.  

Marcel felt distinctly endangered. He opened his mouth but he didn't have time to say anything before she was upon him, kneeling. He jerked away and twisted to see what she was doing. Her hands darted purposefully behind him, to the metal ring atop the stake driven into the ground. She made a twisting motion with her hands and put such force into pulling that her elbows jerked back.

Time paused. He saw the dim light glint off a round link and catch on the rough edge where it had been torn open.

'She just broke metal. She just broke metal with her bare hands?'

His internal monologue descended into confused babbling. He was wholly helpless against her when she grabbed him and lifted up.

"What's going on?" He scrabbled at her shoulder to support himself, legs stiff with pins and needles.

"Be quiet." She muscled him across the tent.

Marcel experienced a feeling of weightlessness that he didn't remember feeling before. He was up in the air- and then she was shoving him forward, a small warm hand on his back. He let out an embarrassing squawk as he fell forward. He caught himself on his hands and knees.

Whumpf

He let out an oof in confusion as something heavy and soft landed on top of him. There was another whumpf and the weight got heavier. He dropped from his hands and knees to his belly, pressed flat by- by-

'The bedding? She's hiding me under blankets and mats?'

"Willame, hide his chain!" Her whispered order was muffled through layers of fabric. The stack on him got heavier again.

Marcel made a sound of protest and pushed forward so he could get some air, face pressed against the canvas of the tent.

He barely heard Princess Rose's next words, but they chilled his blood.

"Stop fucking moving if you want to live."

Marcel froze. His brain caught up with current events. He heard the sharp tone of the Castellan giving an order.

'She's hiding me because she doesn't want someone to recognize me. There probably aren't many people who would both know my face and be able to supercede her orders.'

He heard his aunt's voice, but he couldn't make out what she said.

Then things went quiet, but only for a moment. Marcel breathed and tried not to move even though he was itching under the heat and pressure of 4 people's bedding in the middle of the day.

There was a man's voice.

He swallowed. Marcel held his breath and strained to listen, but it was no use. He couldn't make out what was being said.

For all that he knew he was in danger, he couldn't stay alert with nothing to focus on. He found his mind wandering, back to the expression he'd mistook for anger on Rose's face.

'She was worried. For me?'

The realization was strangely touching. She always seemed cold and unapproachable but that couldn't be true, could it?

'She's risking a lot. She doesn't need to be doing any of this. She could have just killed me, or let her people ransom me. She must actually have a principled stance against the invasion.'

The thought was strange.

He must have been reading her all wrong. She wasn't cold and cruel, just an obstacle to work around. She was passionate, wasn't she? He remembered the look on her face again and recategorized it as fear and determination. She had known of a threat to him and she'd immediately moved to protect him.

Unbidden, the sound of metal snapping rang in his ears again. In the darkness, Marcel flushed at the memory.

That…

He swallowed.

That had really been impressive, hadn't it?

All the old bloodlines were a bit more than the descendants of immigrants. A bit faster or stronger perhaps, or blessed with intuition or even with foresight. He had never for a moment thought there was anything of substance to the Eastern king's claim that his eldest child was the conquering hero of prophecy, meant to restore the kingdom that had once stretched over the continent. It was a grandiose delusion. It was laughable.

After meeting her, it started to make more sense.

He thought of that snap again. He felt his face turn hot.

It was… Well, it was more than he could manage.

He should have been thinking about how easily his fight against her could have gone badly. He should have thought about contingencies for escaping if she proved faithless.

But instead, Marcel sat with the memory of protective anger on that classically perfect face, and moved a little closer to being a believer.

It could have been minutes or hours. His body was painfully stiff by the time Willame lifted the bedding off of him. Marcel started stretching. "My thanks," he said, keeping his eyes low.

Willame grunted something in response and then laid a mat out with a tremendous whap sound.

"Quiet!" The Chamberlain gave Willame's back an expression of annoyed fury. "We can't have anyone come in yet!"

…. Because he was obviously unchained, Marcel realized. He stumbled to his feet, dragging the length of chain attached to his wrist as he went.

"We can't…."

He looked at the loop that it was meant to fit on.

"I don't suppose you have any tools?" Aunt Yvette said, sotto voice to the old man.

"Regretfully, I do not."

Marcel squinted at the chain. It looked like it was just barely smaller than the loop. Maybe… he knelt and gently coaxed the chain through the loop, like putting string in the head of a needle. It fit. He glanced up and made eye contact with his aunt.

"Give it a slight pull," suggested the Chamberlain. "So you know how careful you must be."

"Good idea," he said under his breath. Marcel gave an experimental tug. The chain let out a quiet scolding shriek.

He nodded at it decisively. It was noticeably different from the clacking of the properly attached chain, but it would do in a pinch.

"Marcel."

His aunt was staring at him languidly, eyelids low.

"Yes?" He said cautiously.

She glanced at Willame, and then her lips curled into a smirk. "We wondered if you had thoughts on how easily your fiance picked you up."

"And broke metal," Marcel added reflexively. "With- just with her hands." He felt himself flushing again. "Yes, of course I was thinking about that. It was remarkable, wasn't it?"

"You're missing the point," Willame said bluntly. It was the first time they'd spoken since their hissed argument about how he'd fucked up their potential cooperation with Princess Rose by killing one of the guards. The familiar teasing tone twisted up Marcel's determination to be angry. "We're implying that you want your lady to manhandle you. Perhaps to carry you off to a tower and protect you from all ills."

Marcel blinked. "I think she might," he said slowly. "If I asked." He let out a huff of air. "How curious." He looked at Willame sideways. "I'm sorry you are so envious," he said earnestly. "If only your rear was not so large, perhaps she would carry you away as well."

"It's perfect in size and shape," Willame said primly. He sniffed, like one of the court ladies when offended. "Besides, even though I'm too much man for you, I'm sure the lady could fling me around."

Marcel opened his mouth. Then he closed it and sat down, facing the other direction.

She probably could.

His reaction unfortunately proved to be fuel for more teasing and speculation. Marcel tuned most of it out.

The minutes turned to hours. Of course they filled him in on the discussion the King had held while he was hiding. Then they rehashed the same discussion they'd been having ever since they were left alone- what was the evidence that Rose was trustworthy? What would they do if she wasn't? What would they do if she failed, if they got separated, if one of them was killed?

It was a bleak few hours later when there was a muffled conversation outside. Marcel blinked himself further awake in time to see the princess was back yet again.

"Good evening." Her voice was quiet now. It was a pretty voice, he thought. He closed his eyes without intending to.

He drifted away. He gradually became aware that someone was next to him. He could hear breathing. He cracked his eyes open again and looked up at the princess. He was immediately torn between silently observing her for as long as she'd let him or saying something so that he could get her attention.

'It's like that time I crept into her tent,' he reminisced. He felt a smile creep over his lips. 'I thought she might actually kill me if I stayed to fight her. I was right. She's phenomenal.'

"We simply must stop meeting like this."

She blinked down at him. The move was oddly catlike. "Good evening." She said it a bit stiffly. "My apologies for manhandling you earlier."

There was a snort. "Hear that?" Then Willame rolled over with a rustle of blankets so that he could elbow Marcel in the rib. He kicked the knight's leg in retribution immediately. Undeterred, he continued, "She's sorry she manhandled you, frail thing that you are."

Dryly, Marcel said, "I heard."

“Delicate,” Willame continued. “Are you wounded? T’was a lot of bedding.”

'He is such a bastard.'

"Creepy eyes," Willame muttered. He turned away.

What? Marcel must have missed something. He looked between Rose and the back of Willame's head. Her expression was tense. She deigned to look at him and it tightened even further.

"I assume you understand what happened," she said, stiff and unfriendly. Nothing about her voice or posture invited clarifying questions.

'The contrast between her unfriendly expressions and her actions is striking.'

He felt his eyebrows raise. Yes, he rather thought he did understand. She'd perceived a threat to him and she'd run over to keep him safe. He knew he should stay emotionally removed, but he felt a rush of warmth for her. "I understand," he finally said.

"If you’re executed, there is a significant reduction in the possibility of a peaceful resolution,” the princess said coldly. “So I hope you can forgive my manners.”

“We do,” Castellan Yvette said with a hint of warning in her voice.

"Like hell I do," Willame grumbled lowly. He said it in his Mother's tongue, so Marcel let the comment pass without censure. The princess probably didn't even notice.

“Wonderful,” she said tightly. “My plans have changed. Obviously, I cannot leave Marcel with my Father, though I’m afraid the other three of you are at his liberty.”

Marcel winced.

'The Chamberlain would be fine. Would Aunt Yvette? Willame… he needs to not speak at all if he's to live.'

After am extremely uncomfortable pause, the princess shifted her weight from one foot to the other and but at her lower lip. “...He probably won’t kill any of you." He could see her take a hard swallow. “He actually mentioned how much he thought he could get in gold for Castellan LaGown.”

It sounded like she was trying to reassure them. That in itself was comforting.

The princess stood and cast another look at the metal chain. “I think I should put this back,” she said. “If the guards notice, Father will definitely get a report and realize there’s four prisoners.”

“Oh, this should be good.” Willame stopped pretending to be asleep and sat up again. “I want to see the mountain woman bend metal with her bare hands.”

The princess scrunched her nose up, looking puzzled. The innocent feeling came across in her voice when she said, “I’m not from a mountain.”

Willame snorted and put a hand over his face.

'Oh no,' Marcel thought in horror. 'She's very cute.'

He couldn't let his horrible friend tease her, so he said,"Please ignore him,” Marcel said, sounding pained. “As you say.” He reached out and squeezed her hand.

The air changed. The princess seemed to stop breathing. She… she reminded him of what he'd thought she was at first, cold and unfeeling. That clearly wasn't the case, so he must have alarmed her. He carefully pulled his hand away, apologizing internally and cursing himself for taking the liberty. He put it under the blanket as if to reassure, "see? I can't touch you now."

She took a deep breath and then moved.

Mesmerized, he leant in to watch her. She had surprisingly small hands. He would have guessed they'd be long elegant hands with fingers to match, but her fingers were proportionally quite short. They were quite cute. He felt his eyes soften. She pulled the end of the chain out of the loop. She fixed her little fingers on the last link and pulled. He saw muscles flexing in her hands and forearms. The metal slowly began to open, coaxed gently with what must have been incredible and controlled force.

Marvelous. Lovely. She was like no one else. Marcel's heart fluttered in his chest.

She wasted not a moment when it was open. Her clever fingers hooked it into place and then she squeezed it shut again with one hand, almost carelessly.

His head swayed.

While he was still reeling with the confusing force of how much he admired her in the moment, she seemed to notice his focus. She frowned at him, but it was toothless now that he knew she was actually kind. “What?” she asked in a dangerous tone. In the back of his mind he noted that she was defensive, and that was odd for a crown princess. In the moment, he managed to force out, “Nothing.” He swallowed and tried again. “Nothing. Thank you for- thank you. Good night.”

Willame let out a series of coughs that sounded more like laughter. Marcel felt his face heat. He couldn't look away. There was something electric in the air between him and the princess.

The Castellan let out a long, loud sigh. Her blankets rustled. “Goodnight boys,” she said pointedly. “Goodnight, Princess.” She pulled her cover over her head.

The reminder that there were there other people in the room made him flush bright red. He looked away.

The princess's clothes rustled behind him. “Right. Goodnight.” Her voice was cold again, but it was poorly hiding the actual confusion in her tone. She swept out of the tent. He was sad to note that she seemed relieved to go.

As soon as she left, he wanted her back.