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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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[HPHM] Carewyn Cromwell and Orion Amari Cinderella AU Moodboard

x~x~x~x

Once upon a time, there were two kingdoms at war -- the land of Royaume with rolling valleys and mountain ranges, and the land of Florence by the southeastern sea. Their conflict had started fifty years ago, rooted in a territory dispute that blew up in an assassination and full-scale war. Since then, the royal family of Royaume, including the young Prince Henri, was kept under very tight house-arrest. It also resulted in many families gaining status and power in the two nation’s governments through investing in war.

One of those such families in the nation of Royaume were the Cromwells, led by the cold and ruthless Lord Charles Cromwell. The Cromwells put in a lot of their own money investing in the War, and those investments only came back to them tenfold, making them incredibly wealthy and very well-regarded among Royaume’s royal court. The King of Royaume needed all of the financial assistance he could get -- especially since he’d spent a lot of money to hire a mercenary from an outside country to assassinate the Crown Prince of Florence in an attempt to end the War, only for the War to go on unabated when the King of Florence coughed up a replacement heir. And as luxurious as the Royaumanian palace and many of its country estates looked, a lot of the lower classes weren’t getting their fair share, around paying for the soldiers at war. There were rumors that Florence was better-off, since they simply used black magic to make money and food appear out of fat air, but that was widely considered to be unfounded rumors. Royaumanians were very distrustful of magic and those who practiced it, and Florence’s harboring of witches and wizards didn’t do much to endear the common man to their enemy country.

This was why, one day at the local market in Royaume’s capital, there was a lot of fuss made when one of the street vendors -- an old miser named Argus Filch -- suspected a strange man of buying ingredients for a potion.

“I’m not stupid, boy,” said Mr. Filch, looking over the stranger with suspicion. “You think those things you’ve been picking up like a crow look like anything other than some kind of black magic recipe?”

The stranger in question -- a young, tanned, black-eyed man with a beard and slightly-too-long dark hair -- responded with remarkable calm.

“I assure you, sir, black magic is certainly not my intention,” he said quietly.

“Oh yeah?” challenged Mr. Filch. “What’s all this for, then?”

“A friend,” the young man answered.

“A friend, eh? Some nasty old witch in the forest, I’m sure -- thinking of mixing up some poison potion -- ”

“Is there a problem here?”

Both men looked up, very startled.

A young lady astride a white horse had just come to a stop beside them. She was dressed in a light yellow gown with green sleeves and her ginger hair was done up in netting decked with pearls. It was a peculiar sight, to see so well-dressed a woman riding her own horse through the market rather than riding in a carriage, even if she did ride side-saddle.

The ginger-haired lady glanced at the dark-haired stranger out the side of her almond-shaped blue eye. Although her face was as stoic as a marble statue’s, there was something about her gaze that caught his attention. It was discerning, and yet...not cold. Not condescending.

The lady then turned to Mr. Filch.

“Good sir,” she said, “why do you harangue my escort?”

The dark-haired stranger blinked, but otherwise kept the surprise from his face. Mr. Filch himself blinked several times in rapid succession.

“Y-your escort?” he sputtered. “Then...you’re who he was shopping for?”

“That I am,” said the lady very coolly. “Is there a problem with my purchases?”

“W-well, yes, in fact!” Mr. Filch stammered, his suspicion returning even though he was clearly intimidated. “What could a fine lady such as yourself want with this sort of...pagan nonsense?”

The lady raised her eyebrows dryly. “‘Pagan nonsense?’”

“Yes!” said Mr. Filch, his voice becoming a bit louder in his defensiveness. “Rosemary, henbane -- ”

“I require rosemary for the kitchen staff, to season our meals,” said the lady at once. “And henbane makes for pleasant incense -- we use it to stifle the smell of cigar smoke, after large parties.”

Filch looked a bit abashed.

“...And what about the absinthe? That stuff’s pretty strong...and the catswort...”

“My uncle brews drinks with absinthe, as a palette cleanser after large meals....and surely you yourself know of how much house cats enjoy catswort? I believe I see cat fur on your coat.”

“Well, yes, but...but what about the Mandrakes?” challenged Filch. “That is pretty occult, if I’ve ever -- ”

“The Mandragora plant has some of the prettiest flowers I’ve ever seen,” the lady said, and her blue eyes grew a little narrower. “Now have I satisfactorily nullified your concerns? I’m afraid I have an urgent appointment at the palace, and I know my grandfather Lord Cromwell would be very displeased if I was late for it because someone suspected his family of aligning themselves with witchcraft.”

Mr. Filch suddenly went very, very white. “L-Lord Cromwell!? Y-you’re related to -- ?!”

He abruptly prostrated himself before her. “My lady!”

The display actually seemed to make the young Lady Cromwell look incredibly uncomfortable -- as if she hadn’t intended for the threat to make the vendor react with quite so much anxiety.

“Rise, please,” she said, and her voice seemed oddly remorseful. “That’s not necessary. Just be on your way and leave this man be, please.”

“Yes, my lady!” said Mr. Filch very quickly, looking no less anxious. “O-of course, my lady...”

With that, he slunk away, back down the street toward his stall.

Lady Cromwell looked down at the dark-haired stranger again. His sparkling black eyes had not left her face for almost the entire exchange and were very difficult to read.

“Have you bought everything you need?” she asked under her breath.

The stranger inclined his head in a single nod. “Yes.”

Lady Cromwell nodded in return, a very small smile touching the corners of her red lips. “Good. Walk beside my horse for a block or so. I’ll escort you out of the market, so you can head home.”

She flicked the reins and started her horse off at a leisurely trot. The dark-haired man hesitated briefly, before adjusting the basket under his arm so that the handle hung on his shoulder and following her.

“That was some very clever thinking on your part,” he said quietly.

Lady Cromwell raised her eyebrows.

“You seem surprised,” she said dryly. “Have you never encountered a clever woman before?”

“On the contrary,” the man replied, “I’m fortunate to count several as my friends. But I must confess, I did not expect such kindness from someone in your position.”

“And pray, what ‘position’ is that?”

The man inclined his head respectfully. “A lady of the Cromwell estate, of course. After all, as you yourself said...your grandfather most assuredly would be offended if someone associated him and his family with witchcraft.”

Lady Cromwell shot a quick glance at him out the side of her eye. Then she faced forward again.

“...I suppose I...have never been that much like the rest of my family,” she said softly. “Excluding my brother.”

“The young Lord Tristan Cromwell?” asked the man.

“No -- Jacob Cromwell,” she replied. “He’s at the war front.”

The man’s dark eyes flickered with a strange, sad glint.

“I see...”

The lady brought her horse to a stop and faced the man more fully.

“Well then, this is where I leave you. I’m sorry if it requires more of a walk for you to return home, but I must be off to the castle -- I’m already running behind.”

“It’s no problem at all,” said the dark-haired stranger. “It truly is not so far of a walk for me.”

Lady Cromwell nodded politely. “Very well. Farewell, then, Mr...?”

“With respect, my lady,” said the man with a slight wry smile, “perhaps it’s best that we not share our identities.”

The red-haired lady cocked her eyebrows sardonically. “Seems rather rude of you, considering you already know mine.”

“Ah, but I don’t, truly,” said the stranger, and his black eyes sparked with something almost mischievous. “I know your family name, yes, but that’s not who you are, is it? And truthfully even who you are now isn’t really that important. I’d say who you wish to be is far more telling than who you are at the present moment.”

Lady Cromwell raised an eyebrow, intrigued a bit despite herself. “Really? And who do you wish to be, sir?”

His black eyes twinkled a bit more, making them resemble two miniature night skies with hundreds of tiny pinprick stars.

“...A free man.”

Lady Cromwell’s eyes actually softened a bit, almost sympathetically.

“...Well, I hope you achieve that dream, Mr. Freeman,” she said in an unusually kind voice.

She flicked the reins of her horse.

“Farewell!” she called behind her.

Despite himself, the dark-haired stranger felt his face breaking into a broad smile as he watched her gallop away.

“Farewell,” he murmured, “Lady Cromwell.”

Not long after she was out of sight, a familiar black carriage appeared around a corner, and the door cracked open so that one could enter it. With an airy sigh, the dark-haired man climbed into the carriage and shut the door behind him, before the carriage rode off.

Not long after, the woman who’d been called “Lady Cromwell” arrived at the Royaumanian palace. She received a lot of attention from the castle staff for her mother’s old dress and formal hair and make-up -- and when she approached the thrones of the King and Queen, she startled everyone with her greeting.

“Your Majesties,” she said lowly, her blue eyes downcast to the floor to obscure the faint nerves she felt, “my name is Carewyn. Lord Cromwell sent me, so that I may serve his Highness, the Prince.”

The King looked very startled. “Lord Cromwell? Then...”

His face suddenly burst into an incredulous smile.

“...Why then, you’re the new maidservant! Lord Cromwell’s serving girl! My, but you have cleaned up -- I never would have guessed!”

“Clearly Lord Cromwell treats his servants well, if even they look the part of a courtier,” said the Queen, and she couldn’t help but giggle behind her hand.

Carewyn successfully resisted the urge to scoff. Charles most certainly had not told her to come dressed in her mother’s old dress or doll herself up quite this much -- he wanted Carewyn to be eyes and ears for their family, not to draw attention away from her cousins vying for the Prince’s hand. But Carewyn had her own reasons for wanting to make a good first impression.

“Come nearer to me, child,” said the Queen.

Carewyn obeyed politely. She still had some trouble meeting the King and Queen’s eyes, but she kept her composure as best she could.

“Turn for me.”

Faintly confused, Carewyn nonetheless did so. The Queen looked very pleased.

“Oh, she’s just like a little china doll!” she said through a simpering smile. “Prince Henri is going to have such fun with her, wouldn’t you say, dear?”

“Yes, yes, indeed,” said the King with a chortle. “I don’t know if you’re aware, Carewyn, but my son has quite a knack for -- ”

“Father!”

Carewyn couldn’t stop herself from turning around in surprise as the man who had to be Prince Henri strode up the hall.

He certainly was dressed the part, that was for certain. He wore a doublet made of gold-trimmed purple velvet complete with a brocaded cape and a matching hat and breeches with white stockings and gold-buckled black shoes.

“Henri, how good of you to join us,” said the Queen brightly. “Carewyn -- this is Henri Lancelot-Yves Andre -- Crown Prince of Royaume.”

Carewyn curtsied politely. “It’s an honor, your Highness.”

The dark-skinned prince Henri gave a bright white grin. “Ah, then you’re the new maidservant! I think I can see why you were sent over -- your fashion is on point, despite your dress being of an older style...”

He offered a hand politely to her.

“Come -- we must get you fitted appropriately!”

With faint hesitance, Carewyn rested her hand on top of the prince’s and followed him out.

“Fitted, Your Highness?” she asked. “I thought I merely would receive a uniform, once I arrived.”

“Oh, you will,” said the Prince brightly, “but no member of the castle staff is going to wear a uniform that doesn’t fit her properly -- I’ll need to tailor it. And please...call me Andre.”

Meanwhile, the dark-haired stranger called “Freeman” was getting an earful from the man in the carriage.

“Orion, you can’t keep running off every time you’re able to sidestep your attendants,” said the blond-haired man in the carriage. His arms were crossed, and although his expression was grave, it wasn’t particularly strict or reproachful. “There’s a lot of military strategy to discuss.”

“I learn a lot more about our enemy here on the streets than I ever could in a tower, McNully,” said Orion serenely. Once he’d finished organizing his basket of herbs, he lay it down on the seat across from him. “Don’t let me forget to deliver that to Miss Haywood, for the wounded.”

“You could stand to learn about your enemy in both places,” said McNully, “and you could also stand to think a bit more critically before disguising yourself and wandering across the border. Do you know what the Royaumanians would do, if they caught you?”

Orion considered this. “Hmm...perhaps that would make a good strategy. Cleopatra herself apparently smuggled herself inside a rug, so as to parley with Julius Caesar -- ”

“Yes, but Cleopatra’s older half-brother hadn’t been killed on Caesar’s orders beforehand,” McNully cut him off a bit more forcefully.

He sighed heavily.

“Orion...I understand you never asked for any of this. I mean, of all the people I could’ve seen becoming heir to the throne of Florence, I’d have said you only had a 3% chance of being picked.”

“Much obliged,” said Orion with a rather placid smile.

His face then grew a bit more serious.

“Even so,” he said quietly, “it’s my responsibility. And so is ending this war, preferably in such a way that balance is restored.”

“Kind of hard to do, when Royaume seem more interested in killing off royal family members than negotiating,” said McNully. “At this rate, I’d say the odds are slim they’ll accept peace over all-out surrender -- 10%, tops.

Orion shook his head. “Its leaders, maybe, but not its people. There is goodness among them. Patience, tenacity, loyalty, and fire. A desire for peace and stability, in place of war and loss.”

“And an irrational hatred of us, bred out of a fear of everyone and anyone even slightly associated with magic,” McNully pointed out.

“Not all of them feel that way.”

“A good 98% do.”

Orion glanced out the window at the large wall that marked the border of Royaume and Florence. Positioned in the distance were a battalion of Royaumanian soldiers shooting their guns and yelling -- no doubt they were being distracted just long enough for their carriage to slip through unnoticed.

“However slim the number,” said Orion quietly, “there are those here who don’t fear the unknown and mysterious -- whose kindness gives them courage...”

The face of the ginger-haired lady he’d met in the market rippled over the Florentine Prince’s mind again, and his lips curled up in a small smile.

“That’s something we can count as a blessing and use to our advantage.”

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #cinderella au #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #charles cromwell #jacob cromwell #murphy mcnully #andre egwu #SWERVE!#bet you thought you knew where this whole thing was going with carewyn going to meet the prince didn't you? >D #this isn't any standard cinderella story there are a few twists #and a lot of unanswered questions #why is carewyn a servant girl among her own family?#why is jacob a soldier on the front lines?#how did orion end up the heir to the throne?#what's his story?#then there's all the political intrigue #but yeah anyway this au is taking a little influence from one of my favorite cinderella adaptations called ever after #which is also a quasi-historical retelling of cinderella in a renaissance setting #though this one is decidedly more magical #'royaume' and 'florence' are ever-so-slightly references to france and italy during the renaissance #more specifically during the italian wars circa the 1550s #naturally they aren't really france and italy because there's magic and the history isn't exactly the same #but there will be a few off-hand references to the history through the fashion architecture names and such #my writing

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nonfayth · 3 years

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a deep dive into the home life of bern’s royal family, and why zephiel became the man he does when he grows up. whilst some headcanons are made here, it’s mostly just me extrapolating what we already know in canon.

tw: emotional abuse and toxic parenting under the cut.

king desmond and queen hellene were wed out of an entirely political marriage, and although hellene was excited at the prospect of having the opportunity to be a good wife and mother, she would never have the chance to truly be seen as the former due to the fact that desmond harbored affections for his actual paramour, a bernese woman of common birth. he would never be able to marry the love of his life due to both status reasons as well as how bern sought out the advantages of linking themselves with one of etruria’s most noble families, thus giving them a link to another major power in the continent. it would be foolish, in the bernese court’s eyes, to refuse the marriage offer from hellene’s family then.

though he could not officially be with his paramour, king desmond was allowed to host her within the bernese royal palace, and so he did, making quite public displays of affection with her while electing to not spend more time with his wife than necessary. it was quite obvious who he favored of the two, and desmond was never really a subtle man who kept his emotions close to his chest. servants could describe his behavior towards his lover as amorous to the point of being sickeningly sweet and his behavior towards his wife were dismissive at best, outright hateful at its worst.

desmond’s nasty nature against his wife is what leads hellene’s own dreams to turn away from that of love to one of power. when she bears desmond’s heir in the form of zephiel, she immediately expresses hope for the day that zephiel will take the throne away from desmond. being the mother of the future king, she assumes she will be given more respect around the palace and have a more secure future. zephiel is seen less as her beloved son and more as her winning piece to get back at desmond; zephiel is the constant reminder that desmond’s days in power are limited, and that one day it will be hellene’s own blood taking over.

desmond, upon first seeing zephiel, hates him for the mere fact he is hellene’s son. zephiel is living proof of their a marriage forced onto him, and he cannot stand the living reminder of it, especially if people were going to come and congratulate him on the birth of a healthy heir and then speak about the son frequently now. to avoid the nuisance of being forced to see his newborn child, he banishes both zephiel and hellene to an off-site manse under the guise of claiming that hellene needs more time to be able to relax with the baby. this further enrages hellene, motivating her to make zephiel into a project to spite desmond.

she will make it so desmond must acknowledge their son.

hellene from a young age is both strict and neglectful with her son. zephiel is afforded every tutor he can be given with her own personal funds ( funds that desmond is obligated to give her every month but no more ) and is sent to lessons as soon as he can walk and talk. he is drilled in military arts, history, etiquette, the arts, and all manner of topics to groom him into the perfect heir. luckily for her, zephiel proves to be a prodigy and excels in everything quickly. she spreads this like wildfire, telling every and anyone of how perfect her son is so as to make the general populace enamored with him.

the lessons zephiel devotes himself to is scheduled in such a way as to not afford him much free time if any at all, and when he is given the chance to breathe, he is encouraged to spend it on pursuits that will make him look either handsome or intelligent such as learning to play an instrument or falconry. when he gets the chance to speak with his mother, usually only at meal times, she is quick to ask him of his studies and nothing else before excusing herself. if things are going well, she praises him and finds new topics and limits to push onto him. if things are going poorly, she goes to discuss things with his tutors.

zephiel does not know love, but if he does not know it, then he cannot be sad to be missing it.

these days of aiming to become the perfect heir continue, and when he is old enough, hellene tries to show him off to desmond. hellene waits until she is positive that zephiel is in top form, and she stresses upon zephiel to make sure he impresses his father.

he performs spectacularly. he is polite, he is well-learned, and he endears the knights with both his charisma as well as his talent in martial arts despite his young age.

the sight of everyone surrounding desmond, people devoted to him, being taken by the prince enrages him. hellene’s smug smirk in the corner does no favors either. desmond realizes that the people love the person he has resolved to hate, and he looks bad for not welcoming zephiel into the palace as a result.

stubborn to a fault and envious over how his son is better than him in every degree, especially given how desmond himself is a mediocre man, desmond takes to publicly shaming zephiel. desmond is unable to quell his own ire in order to remain civil, and so he sharpens his words in order to try and chase the boy away. the less time zephiel spends in the palace, the less he can charm the people around him.

desmond also goes on the offensive, calling out zephiel’s behaviors as manipulative. he tries to warp the narrative, claiming zephiel’s attempts to get in his father’s good graces are in actuality calculated moves to make him look bad in contrast, and that zephiel is merely a power-hungry prince who needs to learn respect. desmond is convinced this seemingly perfect son of his is just like the woman who conceived him, and he cannot see zephiel as anything other than someone who plots against him and wishes to see his downfall.

zephiel, confused and distraught by this callousness, struggles to cope with it. his mother and the tutors ensure he is wonderful, but his father openly bashes his character and disapproves of him so vehemently. though hellene is upset by this turn of events, she insists that zephiel continue his studies and attempts to make desmond recognize him as his rightful son.

being treated to verbal abuse every time he visits the palace but encouraged to desire approval from his father, zephiel’s brain attempts to make the reality easier to stomach by twisting his perception of his father’s words as right. if he is to keep trying to curry favor with his father, then it would be difficult to do so while believing he is being unreasonable.

every time desmond scolds him and tells him that he is not worthy of his love nor his position as crown prince, zephiel begins to believe it more and more. the problem lies with him, and he must earn his father’s love. the burden lies on him. he begins to pray to st. elimine every day for this, but his prayers go unanswered as the abuse remains the same.

if even st. elimine won’t help him, then this is proof that zephiel is simply not working hard enough and is not deserving of such a gift as familial love. st. elimine isn’t wrong to not grant his wishes. st. elimine is a beloved religious icon.

the desire for love grows as does the mistreatment when zephiel meets desmond’s second child. she is a little girl named guinivere, born from desmond’s mistress. though desmond attempted to keep guinivere and zephiel from ever properly meeting, guinivere is a bit of a rebellious girl in her youth and desmond is helpless to stop her, too doting and weak to her as the product of his healthier romance.

guinivere instantly loves zephiel, and she begins asking every day to see him again and play with him. she is open with her adoration, and this is the first time zephiel experiences actual love from anyone. he, in turn, loves her too in the purest way a half-brother can, starved for genuine affection all his life, and the two prove difficult to separate.

desmond grows paranoid that zephiel aims to kill guinivere to try and get him where his greatest weakness lies, still convinced that zephiel is as conniving and out to get him as hellene is. desmond grows physically violent now, destroying and killing any gifts that zephiel brings with him as he is unable to physically harm zephiel himself without being criticized even more by the royal court of bern. he shuts zephiel down even more each conversation they have, and his vitriol is even worse than before.

desmond hates his son for not only being the perfect heir but also for being the person guinivere loves the most in the world, even moreso than her own father.

zephiel is given even less leave to be able to visit the royal palace now, giving him more time to reflect upon his perceived mistakes in conduct and more time to prepare for the next time he shall meet his father only to not even be given a chance to impress the man. the more effort he puts in, the more he despairs at the inevitable failures. the more love he receives from guinivere, the more he wishes he could be with her always, and the more he longs for similar affection from his father and mother.

he yearns for a loving, happy family. he tells himself he has not earned the right to have it.

this self loathing and lack of confidence in himself rises to such a point that zephiel refuses to believe other people when they compliment him. he sees praise as ultimately unhelpful to his quest to get his father to approve of him, and he convinces himself that his father’s insults and critiques of his character are his father’s way of trying to groom into someone worthy of his attention. the only correct person, the only person worth listening to, is desmond.

his belief in his father is unshakeable. even when his father hires assassins to get rid of him on the eve of his coming-of-age ceremony, zephiel does not suspect for even a second that it was him who had sent the hitmen in the first place. zephiel merely sees the incident as the universe testing him, seeing whether or not he can weather through what might come for him one day as a royal. it is merely expected of him to be able to fend off such attempts, and anyone could be out to get him.

when his mother goes through an unexpected shift in demeanor after the incident, even telling him that she will try and support his wishes to move back into the palace and live as a family, he believes he has taken a step forward towards his goals.

this would not be true, for desmond would merely wait for another opportunity to strike.

when zephiel grows to be of an age similar to when desmond himself became king, desmond invites zephiel to have a drink with him. zephiel is excited at the prospect; after over two decades of working for this outcome, it looks as if he has finally become a man worthy of love.

it turns out “love” tastes like poison.

for the next ten days, zephiel hangs on the cusp of life and death. he is unable to run away from the truth this time: his father wished to kill him. it was his father who knowingly served him poison, and it was his father who smiled as he was writhing in pain after taking a sip from the goblet. it was no ordinary poison either, but rather a poison meant to incur agony upon its victim as they remained aware of it for more than a week.

desmond wanted him to not only die, but to be suffering a slow death too.

zephiel is only able to survive the incident due to his vassal murdock’s dutiful attempts to filter the poison out of his system, but when zephiel is able to regain his strength, he is completely changed by the experience.

his previous unshakeable faith in his father being the type of man who is secretly looking out for zephiel and trying to make him the best man he could be is unable to cope with the damage and betrayal of trust displayed. the only way for zephiel to stay sane after the experience is to believe that it is human’s nature to be bad people. as zephiel ruminates during his recovery period, he looks back on all the years he had wasted trying to win the favor of a man who would never give it to him, and he evaluates the kind of man king desmond really is.

he looks at the envy, the open love for another other than his wife, and the paranoia. zephiel realizes desmond’s attempts to kill zephiel were all founded on ugly emotions, and in order to accept that the man he looked up to the most secretly had a dark heart, zephiel must then believe everyone can and will succumb to such emotions as well. after all, if desmond was supposed to be the best of them, then what could be said for people zephiel held in less regard?

he turns his personal tragedy into something he believes must be a universal one, and when he kills his own father a few days later, that marks the death of the zephiel who believed in the absolute good of people’s intentions.

it also marks the birth of a zephiel who believes the world would be better off without humans, for if they are all fated to become horrible people, then why bother with them at all?

#// is this the cleanest?? no. next question #// tldr zephiel refuses to accept that his dad is a bad person and assumes the blame for their failing bond instead ---#// -- when it gets to the point of no return he absolutely loses it. Oops #// hate the fact as i was writing this i was like 'dang this is easily the setup to like 500 manhwas i've read huh'#+. / hcs & metas.#long post ---#emotional abuse tw ---#toxic parenting tw ---

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scribbleseas · 4 years

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The Indignant Pawn, Chapter I: The Princess of Germany’s First Kiss (Prologue)

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the first installment of TIP!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

DECEMBER 12TH, 1883

SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, GERMANY

“Her Highness is missing again, haven’t you heard?” a woman spoke over the incoherent mumbling of men and women who were in the process of boarding the SS Mary- a steamship that was preparing to go to London, from the main port of Schleswig-Holstein. Their words were muffled to a girl as her lithe figure was contorted into a crouch between restrained boxes of cargo on deck. She trembled as they did nothing to compose the unforgiving draft of December air.

Her eyes were downcast, staring at the soiled silk of her petticoat. The sight of it caused her lips to twitch in amusement, the brown grime and recently melted snow did well to spread up the skirt, which made the elaborate dress more worthless than it had been coming out off the seamstress’s thread and needle.

“Who, Princess Helena? They ought to put her in her place when they find her- the rest of them are nothing like that hellchild,” another woman’s voice carried a heavy disdain, highly resembling Governess Lydia’s admonishing words- the verbal equivalent to the crack of a punishing whip. However, she missed the hateful German language as instead sported a thick, English accent, much like the first woman’s.

The girl’s grip on one of the thick gold chains in her pocket bag tightened as she twisted it around her finger and back again. Every bit of gratification the blemishing of her fine wardrobe gave her was quickly dispatched- made to be as bitter as the cold that stung at her nose. “How they managed to corrupt one of those children out of- what, four? Frightens me. Princess Marie should have a sure enough influence on her.

Naturally, the virtuous Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig-Holstein was a necessity to speak of to make a proper comparison. Though her visage was identical to Princess Helena’s, she couldn’t never have the grit that her sister’s character possessed. Marie was the perfect girl- obedient and soft-spoken, which was why she was so loved amongst the public and the royal family. She had the attitude of a sprouting tulip or a fleeting butterfly while her sister had broken nearly every custom a royal ought to obey.

The mere thought of Marie herself caused the girl’s features contort into a frustrated frown, as if she’d tasted something sour. Something undesirable, quite like herself, she’d come to realize.

“At least we’ve got on before the Peelers could start searching ships, heavens knows- that one is smart enough to climb aboard,” the woman continued, “what she’d do in the country of her grandmother is lost to me.” The woman’s doubt was quite an inspiration to the girl. There was plenty to do in London. How the girl hated being underestimated.

“Reckon the brothers will join the next massive search party?” The first woman asked, referring to the eldest siblings of the Germany royalty- Prince Christian and Prince Albert. Prince Christian was the heir of the throne, much to the public’s relief, considering he was the most disciplined- the most honorable, though he was only sixteen.

“Of course. They’re Princes. They must, no matter how fruitless the search is,” the second responded, her reproachful tone caused the girl to shudder again, perhaps pitying the small infant that was smothered in soft blankets. She could hardly make out them between the thin opening in front of her, her person was tall and slender, her skirts perky enough to suggest that they were made of light, shiny silk. It seemed he was militant because she was a noblewoman.

A deeper male voice interrupted, “shut your sauce-boxes! The princess doesn’t mean nothing to the royal family, so why would she be of any more public concern?” he asked, clearing his throat, the scent of his cigar sharper in the cold. The girl wrinkled her nose in equal part concern and disgust- gentlemen were never to smoke around ladies.

“Oh, Arthur. Put that thing away, you’re an embarrassment,” the tall woman gestured to the sleeping infant as she turned her back to the man who adjusted his grip on the detailed carpet bags as he followed the two women with ease before stopping to begrudgingly do as he was told.

“Of course m’lady,” he scoffed, putting out the cigar in the astray that was near the railing as other men seemed to do so in suit. The man picked up the bags again to follow his companions out of the girl’s earshot.

“Besides, you know Her Majesty fancies her grandchildren as much as her own summer home. She’s to make everyone care, you tool.”

. . .

DECEMBER 13TH, 1883

LONDON, ENGLAND

“Your name?” An officer demanded, his face stoic as he squinted at the girl, trying to get a proper look at her face as she concealed it with a burly scarf. There were dozens of officers by the port, each asking the same question to the incoming travelers. While most provided them with an answer, the girl simply stared at the man, her optics wordless as she pretended to claim unfamiliarity with his language as opposed to her own native tongue. “I asked for your name. Are you deaf?”

Under her scarf, she pursed her chapped lips. “Ich spreche kein Englisch,” (I don’t speak English) she mumbled, her ears reddening with the lie, though they were concealed by her elegantly braided bun and the limp hood that covered her head. She watched the guard, his stance straightening before shaking his head in disdain. His old face was keen, though he evidently lacked the energy to question her any further.

“Wait for your mother next time,” the officer commented, impatiently gesturing for her to move along. His frown passive enough for the girl to assume that her passage into the city was acceptable.

London was crowded, the cold air stale with the far off stench of horse muck and smoke. Carriages passed through the streets, the sound of the hooves of horses sounded on the uneven cobblestone. The conversations of pedestrians polluted the atmosphere, boys with the latest papers were sure to badger each passerby. News of the missing Princess came to London faster than SS Mary had been able to, which meant that Her Majesty had to have been notified of granddaughter’s disappearance already.

The girl followed the pavement, appreciating the lack of cracks and the polite, genuine society around her- until she was interrupted already, within a matter of minutes of leaving the sport the SS Mary had docked in.

“Buy one of me papes, Miss, please!” A freckled boy scurried over to the girl, whose hand paused as she considered pulling down her scarf. It was too soon, though she reckoned that exposing her bun like a proper lady would do well to keep her inconspicuous. No one would know that her dress was of German make and housed heavy, jewelled accessories under the multitude petticoats she sported.

The boy was shivering, his cheeks red. He was too thin for his jacket, and his gloves were fingerless. The girl had no money, yet she found herself fishing a certain ring out of her pocket bag, it was emerald- her birthstone settled in a polite rose gold. It was likely worth more than the company that managed to produce the paper that the boy was distributing. His eyes followed her gloved hand, widening considerably as she offered the ring to him. Selling a paper for a few coins was no use to anyone.

“Sell this, for no less than... fourteen hundred pounds. And wait a week, at least,” the girl ordered, her accent was more pronounced than what she would have preferred, but her point was deliberate enough to make up for it. The winter was too harsh for such a young boy (who couldn’t have been much younger than herself) to only look out for himself during. No heedful mother would allow her son to leave home in such ill-fitting clothes, which suggested that he was alone. When he hesitated, she pressed the ring into his palm.

“I-I..I can’t take this,” he protested with a regretful sigh that was visible as his warm breath collided with the air. He tried to give it back, his hand still and outstretched, but the girl led his fingers over the ring with her own hand. “Just buy some pap-”

“Spring is months away. Buy yourself an overcoat that fits,” the girl was smiling under her scarf, though it was only visible through her eyes as they squinted around the sides.

“With...fourteen hundred pounds?” the boy repeated his voice in a dramatic whisper. His brown eyes were welling up with grateful tears as he pulled her into a cordial embrace. It was inappropriate, though they were around the same age. He gave her a tight squeeze, trapping both of her arms in it before letting go and running off, his satchel dropping papers in his wake with every bounding step. “Thank you!” he exclaimed over his shoulder with a half-wave, though he’d nearly bumped into a woman in his ignorance. He stumbled to the side of the pavement and took off his hat for her, since she was escorted by a man in a tailored coat and cane, statues of wealth.

. . .

DECEMBER 27th, 1883

LONDON, ENGLAND

“I saw Princess Helena! She was here, in a scarf-” the girl’s eyebrows were knitted as she stared to the side, away from the Peeler that she attracted with her concerned screeching. Her apron was in a muss of batter and the remnants of an egg yolk. To match, her hands were caked in the unidentified substance as their wild gestures failed to exaggerate her point. She too, was young, not too much older than the girl who was currently hiding herself between two buildings, her scarf hanging low around her neck. She could feel sweat beginning to perspire through her shift and her stay was too loose and floppy with each significant move she made. Dressing herself had proven itself to be more of a challenge than she anticipated, especially with navigating the cross ties that required the deftness of fingers she did not possess yet.

“Please Katherine, all of that sugar has made you delusional. Get back to work and wash your face, would you?” the Peeler scoffed, gesturing to any onlooker to carry on. He rolled the girl’s paper into a thin coil, resembling his own wooden truncheon as he tucked it into his boot.

“You bloody mutton-shunter! She came in wanting a loaf of bread! I swear it!” Katherine defensively rubbed her cheekbone, unconsciously spreading more flour on it. She gave the street adjacent to her one more long look before returning to her parents’ shop. “Don’t give me that rubbish.”

“Her Highness has been missing for…’bout two weeks. If she was going to show up, she woulda done it by now. See yourself off, now,” he waved the adolescent away from his post at the end of the street. Vaguely, he could recall a comrade of his speaking of a strange girl in the port, alone- her face covered. Perhaps...he shook his head. The media ought to stop this witch hunt for the poor girl, it seemed to be getting into his old head.

Meanwhile, the girl found herself in a difficult position. For two weeks, she had been able to live off of the wealth her jewelry had sowed, renting a room along with new petticoats and boots, while vendors in the market square had time to ruminate amongst themselves. They refused her further business unless she unraveled the uncouth scarf that concealed her nose and lips and in spite of her protests (the damning weather, potential ugliness), but to no avail. Concealing her face was unseemly and unladylike. Evidently, the result of her obediently removing her scarf was having to dash off and hide, all because of the papers. It would have been effective to fake her own death before she had boarded that bloody steamboat.

In her hunger, she could hear her stomach protesting in a chorus of low growls. The scent of bread in the bakery had been too tantalizing to describe as her most recent full meal was nothing but a distant memory. She rested her head against the bricks of the building, strands of her hair clinging to the porous material and causing her bun to fall more than it had previously. Her chest rose and fell as she stared at the grey sky. Snow was going to fall again, for the second time that morning.

“Ey- you there,” a male voice was getting closer, his silhouette unveiled as he entered the girl’s sightline. A smart grin was playing at his lips, pronouncing the smile lines that were on either sides of his eyes. “You gave that girl a serious fright, didn’t ya, Your Highness?” He was holding a paper, the headline facing outwards: PRINCESS HELENA OF SCHLESWIG- HOLSTEIN; YET TO BE FOUND. The man was scruffy and as he drew closer, as did the trailing scent of a cigar. His suit was plaid, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a white undershirt.

The girl’s first instinct was to start off again, though she knew in her state, she wouldn’t get too far. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and stood up straight to face him. “What’re you, eight?” He continued, “I ain’t much into the royal scene, but I remember old Helena getting married to old Christian a coupla years ago.”

The girl tensed as he stopped at a respectful distance before her, while he disrespected the parents of the missing princess. Their eyes met, his being a deep, confusing green. His hair was a russet brown that slicked back, exposing the aged wrinkles in his forehead as well, a matching set to the lines near his eyes. “Ten,” she corrected him, her arms reluctantly uncrossing. This man was intelligent for a commoner, she could see it in that childish stare of his.

“You’ve got a gift, then,” he commented offhandedly, “well, Your Highness,” he laughs at the wry pleasantry, his shoulders jumping along. “I reckon we can help each other out a bit.”

The girl raised her chin, a request for him to elaborate as he continued to speak, each word visualizing in the cold air. Around his mouth and over his jaw was the making of a beard, barely poking out of his skin. It managed to suit the indigent man. “Have you heard of a confidence trick?” The girl was silent, which he took as a discreet ‘no’. “You’re gonna need to take off the scarf and play ‘long, then, alright? Come with me,” he gestured towards himself as he led the girl out of the alley.

It was unwise of her to trust a strange man, yet the girl’s ample intellect was undermined by her curiosity and inevitable starvation. She unwrapped her scarf, wrinkling her nose as it was exposed to the biting wind. Small snowflakes fell, wetting her hair and face before leaving trails down the beige stomacher and gown she dawned. The man lingered at the foot of the alleyway, merely watching the street before fixating on a pregnant woman and a man, presumably her husband. He led the girl to the pair, his face contorting into a desperate, doleful look of despair.

“Please, good sir- good lady, my daughter has fallen ill and I’ve…” the man looked down at the girl, who had the sense to cough into the sleeve of her shift, her shoulders tense as if every breath was hard to take in. “I’ve lost me position to the boss’s son.”

“You have our sympathy, good sir,” the husband started, only to be interrupted by his wife’s glare. Her hand was on her distended belly, sourly reminding him that their own child could be ill in the girl’s place in the future. Their exchange was wordless, yet brief. The look the woman shot at her husband was akin to the look the girl’s own mother gave towards everyone around her. With a sigh, he offered the man a large bag of coins, “today’s wages. You best get to the physician before he closes for the night,” he dismissed with a nod, arm in arm with his satisfied wife.

“Do find yourself a tenement. This cold won’t be doing your girl any favors,” the woman frowned, shouldering her furs as if they’d disappear suddenly.

“God bless!” the man simpered with a bow as he waited for the couple to show themselves further ways down the street before turning his attention back to the astonished girl. “Well?” he asked, “call me Baxter. And your name, kid?” There was a knowing smile defining the old lines in his face as he handed the heavy bag of coins to the girl, who was silent for passing beats as she tried to decide if Baxter was the man’s first name or his surname, if either. She’d never know.

“Y/n,” she mumbled, accepting the heavy bag in her small hands.

“Pleasure’s mine, Y/n,” Baxter laughed, “let’s fetch somethin’ to eat before we starve, yeah?”

. . .

OCTOBER 11TH, 1885

LONDON, ENGLAND

“A lady is more than capable of giving a man a good collie-shangle,” Baxter said, his sleeves rolled up as he faced the girl. “The world’s all chuffed with this idea of stronger, faster, fatter- whatever,” his baggy shirt was billowing in the gentle wind as they were fixed in the shielding wood of their shabby home. The wind was feeding through the open window to the side. “This is what matters, Y/n,” he gestured to his forehead, with the intent to help her see that he was adhering to his brain, or intellect, “understand?” Her natural English was still a work in progress.

The girl was twelve, and this was about to be her first of many defense classes. The conman had finally decided that she was ready as in the streets, a proper knowledge of fist to cups was as necessary as breathing. She nodded slowly, digesting each syllable the man had said. It was the complete opposite of the royal way, where she’d be shoved into dresses and ignored, like an abandoned toy. Baxter never ignored her; he was more of a father than hers ever was.

“Your mind is always gonna be your greatest weapon,” the girl’s eyes traveled down to his belt, where there was his usual handgun sheathed to it. Baxter had taught her how to shoot it, though she had yet to lay so much as a finger on it. It was for emergencies- life or death situations. Baxter cautioned that violence was always the last resort- the ‘time out’ in a hopeless situation. “This is just training you how to apply it to useful combat. How you’ll be able to take out someone bigger than you.”

At the time, this would apply to nearly the entire world’s population, considering the girl had hardly rounded out from the higher quantities of food she’d been consuming, and only grew a few inches since the day she departed Germany. “I- that’s...have you gone mad?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing. The crown of her head was hardly adjacent to the midline of his bicep.

“How’d you go about it, kid?” Baxter asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he waved his hand dismissively. “Think.”

There was no thinking about it. Besides their height difference, it was his strength versus hers. Even his arms were longer, which meant that he could defend himself simply by using her own force against hers. Biting her lip, she was pleased to comprehend what he had meant by her strategic rationale being her primary weapon, though next to a fist of a hand that could cover the entirety of her face, she couldn’t see how it was relevant. Her only virtue would be her agility and speed, which were also useless in a spar.

“Draw ‘em in by giving ‘em an opening to come in close,” Baxter said. “You’re small, so they’re gonna try n’ use that against you by getting in real close and pushing you around,” he explained by example, starting towards the girl and gently pushing her back by her shoulders. It wasn’t enough to force her to move, but it was enough to demonstrate.

“Won’t they be pushing to injure?” The girl questioned, her nose wrinkling in frustration.

“No one pushes to injure- not in the streets. That’s for ol’ church-bells in their fancy skirts and we ain’t having none of that. ‘S a waste of our time,” the conman shook his head, as if the fact was obvious. “Pay attention now,” he gestured for her to step away again. “You’re gonna use your height to your advantage. You’ve full access to vulnerable points, like me throat n’ me torso. Now come back in.”

“Use your hand to drive me back,” Baxter directed, merely pointing her into the right direction. She’d recall the answer better if she found it by her own hands.

The girl’s small hand curled into a fist for a moment. He told her to drive him away, not to strike. With an open hand, she surged her arm upwards, spreading her thumb and index finger to accommodate the stretch of Baxter’s throat as she gave the hold a short push so as to not hurt him.

Baxter was smiling now, “brilliant, ‘n right after, you’ll wanna finish it with a knock er two. Since you’ve ‘em stunned, they’ll be mindless weight that you’ll be able to draw in. Drive in, push the throat, pull in ‘nd bring your knee in, ...where, Y/n?”

The girl followed each step, visualizing it as Baxter explained them. Drive in, push the throat, pull in, force her knee...if he was mindless weight, he’d be slouching at his waist...leaving his whole middle defenseless! “Your midline,” her lips turned up at the sides as she smiled. He liked to say that she inherited his ‘troublemaker’ grin while she told him that they liked to call her the Devil Child behind her back in the castle. It’d made him laugh.

“Exactly. Now try it,” Baxter directed, bracing himself as the girl drove her small hand around his throat, the other pulling his arm away by the sleeve, a welcome addition. With a huff, she (attempted) to pull him in, but for model purposes, he allowed her to, which left him open to getting hit in the upper groin area with a surprising amount of force. “Good,” he grunted, planting his shoes into the ground to avoid putting his full weight on the girl. “Go high again,” he instructed.

“Your throat is at a poor angle,” her hands were getting clammy as it clutched onto either of his sleeves.

“Then don’t use it. Unnecessary movements can be suicide,” he scoffed, but it came out as more of a wheeze when her palm forced his face back, causing his tall frame to arch back as he moved with her, suddenly. “You’ll finish off with your elbow and other hand.”

“Right,” the girl nodded in confirmation, pulling his body down by the sleeve with one of her hands as she used her other arm to simulate butting his head with the bony joint of her elbow. She released the conman, who stood up after bending himself back to crack his spine, vertebra making consecutively loud exclamations. He was beaming at her again, the wrinkles on the outside bits of his eyes curling with his lips.

“Now we ought to run it until you break me into bits. Buck up,” he said, extending his arms to his starting point.

. . .

AUGUST 12TH, 1887

ALFRISTON, EAST SUSSEX, ENGLAND

Spending the summer out of London was an understated relief. In Baxter’s shoebox of a countryside home (he said he’d inherited it from his father), the girl was able to let her hair down from its bun and loosen the tight strings of her stay, even going as far to muddy her boots, all of which would have caused a riot within her former life.

By then, the German princess, Helena had been missing for nearly four years. Her Majesty had been heartbroken to establish her granddaughter’s funeral in 1885, though it seemed she was the only individual of royal blood to truly mourn. Even Princess Marie-Louise, the twin of Helena’s, was quite stoic as they lowered the empty coffin. And thus, it was quite simple for the girl to remove her scarf and freely introduce herself as Y/n L/n, the foreign girl who stood at the side of the cunning conman- who was also the kindest of anyone she’d ever encountered.

Baxter, within their four years together, had aged considerably. His dark locks of hair had begun to gray as it fell past his eyebrows that morning, the wrinkles next to his eyes were more defined with every squint as he took a long drag of his cigar. He exhaled, blowing the dark smoke into the cloudless atmosphere of Alfriston as they reclined against the cool stones that made up the walls of the building behind them. It was a textile shop, but it wasn’t open quite yet- the owner was on his way.

The girl was staring at her cream colored boots as they peeked out from under her skirts. They were the cleanest pair she owned, and thus, employed to help orchestrate their plans for that morning. Dimly, she could recall stealing them from a whining daughter of a baron. Her crying was more shrill than a highest soprano in an opera house. It was Baxtor who told her that any spoiled maid could be distracted by something better than they already had. He was proud to watch on as the girl waited for the baron’s daughter to remove her boots in awe of a new pair.

Now, they were worn by the girl under a first hand gown, bought with an abundance of coins from different pocket bags and wallets. The gown was a gloomy shade of blue, enlightened by the gold lining that kept it secured to the stomacher. It was regal enough, given the pretenses of the meeting.

“Remember, liars stare off and shrink away. You’ll do neither,” Baxtor affirmed, to which the girl nodded, steeling herself. “You’ll look right into the bloke’s eyes... and take all he’s worth,” the man chuckled derisively as he coughed from the dryness that the cigar had put in his throat. The girl smiled, the corners of her lips twitching. “He’s gonna be mad as hops too, thinking he can outsmart you because you’re a girl.” Baxtor always spoke in a way that resided between both a common man’s tongue and that of an aristocrat, which naturally influenced the girl’s own English- in addition to her accent that tended to turn her ‘th’ sounds in most words into a noise akin to a ‘d’, ‘s’, or ‘f’. ‘Their’, as an example, tended to verbalize as ‘deir’, which was nearly impossible for the girl to differentiate. In short, her English accent would never be completely flawless, despite the conman’s efforts.

You’ve taught me well enough not to waste your breath on filling silence,” the girl moistened her lips, her grip on the large envelope in her hands was tight as she accidentally wrinkled it.

“Have I?” She could feel Baxter’s meticulous gaze on her for the moment.

He was more than aware of that fact, seeing as the girl was quite astute to begin with and paired with his wide field of knowledge, the incoming baron simply couldn’t stand a chance.

Speak of the devil; a dark carriage rode up to the building, rolling to a stop as the driver pulled back on the reins of the horse. He proceeded to open the door for a top heavy man, suited in a high top hat with a matching jacket. His mustache twisted at the ends, in contrast to the unconvincing smile that his thin lips twisted into. Baron Steven Wright- the owner of one of the most competitive textile companies in Europe, for the time. His factories were working double time as he was desperate to find a way to edge out the rest of his opponents.

His desperation was what made him a viable target for this sort of schematic. Baxter liked to compare ravenous businessmen to the little, cattish girls of ruffles and pink. All they wanted was more- they took and stole until they could find something better. Tricking them out of their own fortune was easy enough- it was blameless, considering they were the ones stupid enough to let their own greed drive them.

“Lord Wright,” the girl lowered her gaze and dipped into a proper curtsy. Though it had been years since she followed the proper social etiquette of addressing a titled man, the movement was still of second nature.

“Miss Hartmann,” Wright moistoned his lips, his steely gaze meeting the girl’s as she returned to her proper stance. “Pleasure,” his hand was in the deep pocket of his jacket, it was a heavy fur and the beads of sweat that dripped down his forehead were signs that he was merely wearing the burly thing in the middle of the summer to show off his status. They were quickly dabbled away by a handkerchief before he continued to fish a key out of the pocket.

“Johanna, please,” the girl corrected with a smile, immediately attempting to lower the man’s weak guard. She was a girl, and she’d merely use that to her advantage. Baxter was silent at her side as he played the role of a defensive escort for a clueless daughter of a German baron whose body was recently dug into the earth. The girl was to sell him a false land deed in Dosenmoor under the pretenses of his erecting more factories within the industrializing country. By the time the man traveled to make note of his spoils in the flesh, Baxter and herself would be back in London- knee deep in new plans.

“What a shame it is, your father passing so suddenly,” the man started, pushing his key into the padlock of the shop’s door. “Your grieving must’ve been cut short, being the head of his trade now. What is it, agriculture?” It seemed the man thought he was cheating a thoughtless, grief-stricken girl out of prime land.

“Of fodder beet and potatoes, yes, my Lord,” the girl nodded, her lips relaxing into a content line as the baron turned his back to her. Briefly, she met Baxter’s eyes as he nodded once, a prompt for her to go inside after the chubby man. “My mother...didn’t fancy the truth,” she was less cautious in watching her accent for evident reasons.

The baron was laughing, though it sounded like a series of strangled wheezes- likely from too many cigars. The girl noticed that Baxter must have finished his off between Wright’s arrival and then, as it was improper for a servant to be smoking in the presence of a female. “True love at its purest, my dear. Being unable to cope when he parts first. Deciding to join him for fear of being alone. My, you’re so young, running such a manly business in your dainty hands.”

There was a bitter taste in her mouth as she bit her tongue. At least the walls of the shop took them out of the rising sun and humid air of the countryside. She appreciated the scent of old wood as the baron led them up a rickety flight of stairs to a room at the end of a hall. In the room, there were shelves of books and in the middle of it all, a neat desk, as opposed to the tables of assorted fabrics, threads and partially woven clothes on those they had passed.

“Perhaps you’d consider handing it off to someone,” Wright mused, the implication as conspicuous as his mustache, or even the pink in his face that surfaced with the effort that took him to climb the short staircase. “Johanna,” he urged, the girl’s lack of eye contact leading him to believe that her attention was elsewhere.

“My Lord,” she needed to bring the matter of their meeting back into focus, though easily, she could weasel the man out of more of his fortune. This wasn’t about being greedy. The girl allowed the man to pull a wooden chair out from under the table for her to sit in. Baxter was lurking behind her. The girl smiled again, in order to mask the directness behind her next comment, “what keeps us from the matters at hand?” Wright sat himself on the opposite side of the table, a grunt passing through his lips as he gauchlessly righted himself. He was making a show out of what needed to be a five minute meeting in order to try to rouse the girl, an acting beneficiary of hundreds of free acres of land into giving him more than he paid for. Little did he know, Wright would be getting much less than he was emptying his bank for.

“Right, stay the course,” the man was too amused with her, as if he was cooing at a cute stray kitten. It was a mockery that caused the girl’s blood to curl in frustration. “Why don’t we start with sorting those out?” He requested, gesturing to the envelope in the girl’s hands with his chin.

. . .

FEBRUARY 3RD, 1888

LONDON, ENGLAND

There was a loud knock at the door, truculent and intrusive. “Johanna Hartmann!” Each knock was stiff, causing the door to wobble as it threatened to give in. “Open in the name of Baron Steven Wright! This instant!”

Their home was small, hardly larger than the first floor of a tenement within the heart of London. The main room served as the kitchenette and Baxter’s bedroom as he gave his (the room down the short corridor) to the girl. The fireplace was on, the heat crackling and filling the vicinity with warmth as it fought off the frosty draft of February.

Baxter stirred from his light slumber with a start. Johanna Hartmann? Vaguely, he could recall the name form one of their older scams- from the summer their offseason. They made quite a profit off of his greed, more than triple what they made off of working class pedestrians. The fallout was late in meeting their doorstep, however.

Baxter was confident that he could diffuse the situation without waking the girl. She needed her rest after their long day of practice- teaching her how to unarm a gunman was a necessary skill, especially for a girl as she strode into her adolescence. He wouldn’t always be around to guide her, after all.

Baxter stood from his arm chair, quickly looking from the empty hallway and to the door again. Thankfully, she wasn’t awake yet, which gave him time to turn this man away. Opening the door, he was met with three men, each much younger than the baron. By the way their hands lay protectively on their belts, he was able to conclude that they were carrying some form of a Remington shotgun. The lights were too low for a proper shot.

He forced himself to smile, his shoulders dropping as he mirrored the body language of the other men. Improper posture was telling of their backgrounds- it was something he had to have the girl unlearn to survive the streets, amongst many other things. “Is there something you lot needed?”

“Put away y’re gigglemug, if you know what’s good for ya,” the man in the middle said, his words thick with a cockney accent. “Where’s the lass?”

“Lass?” Baxter repeated, moistening his lips as he feigned contemplation. “I haven’t the slightest-”

“Don’t sell us no dogs-” the man scowled, a wrinkle forming between his bushy eyebrows. With the slightest nod of his head, his accomplices pushed past Baxter, causing the door to slam against the plaster wall. “Just hand over the money and we won’t have to blow no one’s brains outta their skulls,” he continued, pulling out the gun that Baxter had predicted. It was pointed in his general direction, a threat. Vaguely, he could hear the soft whining of the wooden floor as the girl started down the hallway, her lantern chasing the dark away as it revealed her face.

“Johanna Hartmann,” the man laughed dryly, cocking his head, an arrogant smirk contorting his tan face. “Well? Cough it up. Every coin of it,” he ordered, aiming at her, rather than Baxter. “Before I get angry,” he added.

“Y/n, get out of here,” Baxter ordered, fixating his assertive stare on her as her lips set in the indignant pout that she assessed situations with. “Now.”

“One step and I shoot this bloke. Then yourself.”

“Sir, I don’t know anything of a Miss Hartmann,” the girl started, biting the inside of her lip. “Perhaps you could go to the Peelers?” she suggested, purposely widening her eyes in false innocence as any simple girl would advise a stranger to go to the police. “Her name sounds...quite German?”

“If anything, you lot seem to be more likely to steal- barging in during the wee hours and waving them guns about,” the conman started, tutting in disapproval. Evidently, he was switching tactics, since the men were not buying into their act of innocence. It wasn’t wise to challenge three impatient men with guns in their hands, and the girl knew this as she communicated through her eyes in a warning side gaze.

Met with angry scowls, he continued in his play to distract the trio. “I’ve got our papers. I’ll prove that she ain’t no Heathmen or Hartman, or whatever-” Baxter rolled his tired eyes before turning on his heel. He was in nothing but his nightshirt, similarly to the girl, who was merely glad in a sheer shift. It was improper for her to be so exposed in a knee-length, cotton gown.

The girl watched on as the conman stalked towards their cupboard over the kitchenette. She assumed he was after a knife to defend himself, though it was fruitless. These men were well into their twenties at least- likely paid off by the baron to do his bidding as he sucked on a silver spoon.

“I’ve had enough of this. He’s insolent, Pete. Let’s just shoot ‘em and search the house,” the man on the left flank said, moments before he was shot in the side by...Baxter, whose face was steely calm, his lips in a dead serious line as he recoiled from the force his gun exerted against him. The sound of the bullet rang throughout the small house as the man’s body fell in a cursing heap.

Baxter wasn’t quick enough as immediately, the favor was returned to him by so called Pete- the snarling man in the middle. “Y/n!” the conman yelled, as before the gun went off, he’d assumed the bullet was to fix itself into her flesh, rather than his. Thankfully he’d been wrong as instead, the white-hot pain in his stomach spread through his body as blood began to soak his clothing. He was grateful that he was able to keep from eating his words- an unecessary movement was suicide. At least the girl was able to learn that firsthand.

Screaming, the girl was trembling more than the conman as she thrust herself to his side. The sound of her anguish was almost as deafening as the dispatching bullets were.

Her breathing was labored- she could feel her heart racing in her ears as unborn tears stung her eyes. She balled up his shirt, pressing it into the bleeding wound. “You can’t,” she urged, her accent flaring as it tended to do when she was stressed, or upset. “Don’t please-” her hands were shaking as through the dirty lens of his new glasses, Baxter could see tears running down her cheeks. He hadn’t intended to leave her like this, but their time was limited. His time was limited while hers was a mere bullet away from being so.

“Y/n, listen here,” Baxter’s voice was weak, though his eyes carried the same impish spirit that he had met her with all of those years ago. He whispered, gesturing for her to come closer, her ear to his lips, “trap the gun,” he said, in which she nodded, a lump forming in her throat as his cold hand wrapped around her wrist, pushing it away from the fabric of his with a confident nod. “Trap the gun, Y/n.”

“I-” she started through labored breaths as she wiped her eyes, staining her face with his blood by accident. There were too many words. Too much admiration and respect...familial love, but not enough time.

“I know,” he said, tears pooling his eyes as he weakly waved her away to face the two standing men with shaking legs and tears that left tracks as they fell down her face. Her heart was heavy with grief because not even Baxter, the strongest of any man could survive such a wound without care and she- a mere girl could survive two men with guns to her back, as it seemed.

Trap the gun.

The girl mustered the remnants of courage and rationale in her panicked conscience. She was this conman’s legacy, as far as she knew. She wasn’t going to die in their hands. They were not going to take her. Rage began to run through her veins in the form of adrenaline.It caused her heart to stammer faster, her hands to curl into fists as she faced the two remaining men, the third being dead on the floor. Neither of them seemed to care about him- poor bastard.

Trap the gun.

She wiped fresh tears off her flushed face with the back of her hand, choking on a sob. Draw them in. “I’ll..I can do anything- please don’t sh..sh..shoot me,” her breathing was labored as she focused on formulating a plan, throwing her heart into every tear, each new gasp for air that was unpracticed, unlike the pathetic script of words that escaped her lips.

Trap the gun.

“James, I reckon we can find a way to get this little tramp to pay back every bit of the coin she owes the boss,” Pete smiled, his cold eyes exchanging a sick smirk with the standing accomplice. “We oughta show her the ropes right here. Sweet thing’s beggin for us in that getup.”

Draw them in.

They were trailing forward, the hair on the girl’s arms standing standing at attention from both the cold that the open door was inviting in and the intensity at which the men were staring into her flesh. “Look at her, she’s a beaut...even with all of that blood on ‘er. She’d go for a pretty penny after we break her in, Pete,” James agreed, the girl only comprehending pieces of their words, half listening to keep herself from moving too soon. They weren’t close enough.

The man who had shot Baxter- Pete- was less than arm’s length away as the barrel of his gun was dipping and he didn’t stop his pursuit until the muzzle of the gun was resting on the girl’s hipbone as a looming threat. James, meanwhile, scoffed, “don’t be coy with us- take this off,” he ordered, tugging firmly on the soft material of her shift. He was behind the girl, his own prowling fingers working on top of her bloody ones to do so.

It was cold between the clothed bodies of the men, they were damp with melted off snow and rough with the common material they were made out of. Pete was playing with the necklace around her neck, twisting it around his finger whilst James’s calloused fingers continued to wander; grazing from the girl’s sternum, down her stomach- until it was between her thighs, gently caressing. His hands were cold. Everything was cold.

James’ lips were attached to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, suckling the skin after pushing her hair out of the way. The pad of his finger was insistent on rubbing around a specific margin of her womanhood, causing her to exhale, the sensation growing warm as it was hard for her tremulous legs to carry her. Pete was kissing her, his lips predatory and slick with saliva.

“Hmm, Pete, feel her,” James praised, his coarse hands on either of her thighs, urging them apart as he supported her with his thigh. “Wet already.”

“Has she already been broken in? Lord knows what she was doing here with that old bum,” Pete mused before grunting in approval as his fingers ran from the spot James had been rubbing, down to her lower entrance. His gun faced the floor as he was more occupied in exploring her formerly sacred womanhood.

“Doesn’t matter, she’s ours now, isn’t that right?” James asked, forcing one of his fingers past the girl’s saliva-slick lips. “Speak, whore,” he forced another slender finger into her mouth, pressing down her tongue.

The girl choked on the two digits as they threatened to touch the back of her pharynx, her face flushing in equal parts embarrassment and rage. Reflex tears formed in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. The man retracted his fingers with an amused laugh. Her nails dug out small crescents in her palms where they dug in.

“Oh, she’s crying. What a little princess,” Pete sneered, “wanna bet she tastes like one?” he asked, his own laugh was shockingly similar to James’ as he brought his intruding fingers into his mouth with a groan. Princess. If only they had known- the looks on their faces, the fear would have been invaluable.

Trap the gun.

Adrenaline sprinted through the girl as she ignored any lingering hesitation in her body. Her bloody hand took hold of the barrel of Pete’s gun as she forced it to the side, trapping it in her grasp. The man faltered, yelling in surprise as the unclothed girl stepped in (away from the line of fire), forcing the firearm down to face the floorboards. Her arm was completely straight as her other hand came around to help pull the gun away with all of her strength, paired with the strongest knee to his groin that she could manage with her shaking limbs.

Dammit, James, shoot ‘er!” Pete yelled, his face pale with fear as the girl unlocked the gun, her heart beat growing rapid as she met his eyes for the first time that morning. The sun was rising behind him, painting his skin a luminous orange and enlarging his shadow behind him. He would have made a fine man- tall and broad, his facial hair kept to a clean fade. The girl was doing him a favor.

She could hear James pulling out his own gun again, mumbling a curse under his breath. They should have killed her when they had the chance as in her stead, she shot Pete without further hesitation, the first bullet digging into his stomach and the second, his jugular as he fell. The sound again, reverberated throughout the room, the scent of gunpowder at a new peak. As it had before, the recoil of the gun caused her to stumble back, her arms involuntarily being forced up.

“You bitch! You’ll, you’re going to bloody p--” James screamed, glowering at her as he struggled to get his fumbling hands in place. But he was too slow.

With another fearsome blast, the girl was pushed back again, causing a stinging pain within the muscle of her shoulder. James was evidently, in worse shape as he fell to the ground. Blood began to blossom near his lower ribs, which was far off from where she had initially aimed. The sun was shining on him, his ashen skin and closing eyes. For the next few moments, she could hear his labored breathing, growing rapid before it stopped, suddenly.

The girl was breathing heavily herself, struggling to recollect her thoughts as she felt a warm, unidentified slick run down her thigh, Baxter’s blood drying on her hands and under her nails, making her skin feel stiff. Her ears stung, as if someone had forcefully shoved fabric into them. Her arms were heavy and the air was thick with gunpowder.

She pulled her shift back over her head, her eyes reluctant to leave the corpses of her attackers, as if they could reanimate and try to impose themselves on her again. Her fingers rubbed at her tear-stained cheeks, the lump in her throat was finally beginning to settle down again.

Someone had to hide the bodies.

. . .

Tags:

#ciel phantomhive #ciel x reader #black butler #strangers to lovers #anime fanfiction #sebastian michaelis #murder #angst #historical romance #historical fiction #victorian era #black butler fandom #black butler fanfic #the indignant pawn #ciel phantomhive x reader

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bluboothalassophile · 5 years

Text

Not a Pawn...

“You must choose, save her and watch the planet burn, or save the planet and watch her die,” he said. The girl in his grasp teetered dangerously on the edge, her braids being grasped tightly by the mad man and the toes of her boots scrapping the edge as she clawed at the man’s arm despite her restraints.

He couldn’t choose!

Her blue eyes flicked defiantly to his, her proud face seemed almost ethereal right then. “You don’t get to make me your pawn!” She hissed, he didn’t see her obtain the knife but he saw her slice the braids holding her from the abyss as she lost balance and teetered off the edge.

He screamed, the Sith looked so stunned at her move he couldn’t even catch her as she twisted and fell, he ran for the Sith then letting everything in him snap as he felt the Force flow into him.

~~~*~*~*~~~

It was a simple peace keeping mission to the dangerous world, Gotham, the dreary planet was not the most welcoming, but the mission was simple. The death of a crazed terrorist known only as the Joker had brought his acolytes to light and the use of the Dark Force unhinging the planet. The Jedi had been requested to interfere, and as it was his native planet he had been asked to come and bring the peace. Well, actually King Bruce had requested his presence.

King Bruce was a revered man of justice and compassion; a warlord and scholar, a ruthless leader and a compassionate one. The contradictions were unusual.

The King had many children, and a large harem of unique women who had provided him these children, but the only heirs to the King’s throne were Prince Damian and Princess Athanasia, twins bore to the King by his only true wife, Talia al Ghul. King Bruce also had one child with his Ambassador, Diana Prince; Prince Richard. Two others who were rumored to be sired from his top assassin, Lady Shiva; Princess Cassandra, and Prince Timothy. There was also Prince Duke, son of Bruce and the Queen of Mtamba, Jezebel, and his younger sister, Princess Nell. There was also the bastard Princess Stephanie, daughter of the court scribe, Vikki Vale. And three other daughters of unknown parentage but were proven to be King Bruce’s; Princess Carrie and Princess Alina.

Jason had thought it odd the King would personally request him, but he was not going against the orders of the Council; again, after the last time and found himself heading for Gotham with a new padawan he had never requested. Mostly because the last time… well, he and his Master had gotten in a bit over there heads and may or may not have started a slave revolt which they won and it was completely against orders because they had been ordered not to interfere with the planet, merely to secure the trade route needed for massive troop movements. Needless to say, they hadn’t gotten the trade route secured, and it was all Hal’s fault for falling for his Master’s weakness for pretty women and their beguiling wiles.

V1C, affectionately nicknamed Cy; was chirping in the cockpit then.

“We’re almost there,” he informed his rather bored padawan. Kyle perked up a bit.

Kyle Raynor was rather young to be a padawan, but as Jason had started younger he had seen no problems Kyle’s age. Kyle was a rather creative individual, and clearly in need of massive stimuli given the trouble and antics the boy frequently got into. If the creche master was to believed, then it was easy to believe Kyle could find trouble easily enough. No, Jason’s problems with taking on a padawan was in the simple fact he had no desire to teach, he wasn’t patient, he wasn’t kind, he wasn’t personable, he was a General, he was a warrior, he was very poor at the peaceful aspects of the Jedi way. Were he was informed Kyle was actually challenged at the warrior aspects but good at being peaceful and a pacifist.

“Master, is it common for a certain Jedi to be requested to a planet by the ruler?” Kyle asked, breaking the silence.

“It is not uncommon,” Jason said carefully. Rulers interacted with people they thought they could trust, people they knew to relay the message they wanted. King Bruce, though reclusive, was no different.

“Are you close with King Bruce?” Kyle asked then, very curious and bright, his enthusiasm caught Jason off guard.

“No, I’ve never… I never met the man before,” Jason omitted.

“Then why did he request you personally?”

“I don’t know,” Jason admitted. It had been bothering him, but wasn’t a thought he was dwelling on. “Prepare to land,” he warned his padawan as he strapped in and they broke through the cloud line of Gotham, landing where he had been ordered to when summoned. The engines rumbled and thrummed as they died and he unstrapped to check on a few things, pulling the hood of his cloak up before walking out of his craft into the rain to finish the landing routine and security. Kyle was shyly standing on the ramp with Cy when Jason turned to see the welcoming party.

Motioning for Kyle to follow him he and Kyle quickly made their way through the rain and paused under the auning as they shook off the worst of it.

“Come, the King is awaiting you,” the dark woman said.

“We were honored to receive the summons from the King,” Jason said as he hid his hands up the sleeves of his robe, to warm himself and to hide the agitation at being summoned into a castle like this.

“We are honored to have a legendary Jedi Knight come to our aid,” the woman said with a kind smile.

Jason revealed nothing until he walked into the throne room. He didn’t notice all the people gathered there, the royal family no doubt, no, his eyes immediately narrowed onto the continuous pain in his eyes since his days as a senior padawan.

“What the kriff are you doing here!?” he snapped.

“Great to see you too, Red,” the bounty hunter chuckled.

Rightfully called the Dark Angel, the woman’s cascading black hair was thick and long, her ivory skin seemed to glow a bit, giving her an ethereal appearance and her blue eyes were bright with amusement even if her proud face was apathetic of her emotions. He wanted to smile at her, but settled for glaring because their last encounter had had Raven trapping him upside down dangling as bloody bait for an outlaw known as Kill Croc before she had disappeared for the last year. Hal had tormented him about it relentlessly all year.

“Raven,” he growled.

~~~*~*~*~~~

He stared rather dumbly at the young man, who’s hair was dark and soaked curling as it dried with red undertones showing. He had green eyes, and freckles, was a rather handsome lad.

Bruce had ulterior motives for requesting this particular Jedi Knight. Normally the Knight whom he spoke with and dealt with was Master Kal-El, who was a senior member of the Jedi Council and a wise kind man. However, it had been through Kal-El that this particular Jedi had even come to Bruce’s attention. But not for the reasons one would suspect.

Jedi Knight Jason was an… odd find for the Jedi. Brought in to be a padawan at the age of ten, never a youngling raised by the Jedi, and a former slave from the All-Caste assassins. He was a unique Jedi according to Kal-El, but what mostly had Bruce’s attention for the boy was who his mother was recorded to be. There was no proof, of course, but the slave records had been incomplete but a link to someone Bruce had lost. Looking at the young bristling man he felt his suspicions were correct, he looked almost exactly as she had when she had been here and alive; Jedi Knight Jason looked exactly like his missing wife, Selina.

However, the Jedi’s entire focus was on the bounty hunter who had brought Bruce Joker’s head. The hybrid seemed rather amused to even have Jason’s attentions.

“What the blazes are you doing here!?” Jason hissed menacingly.

“Collecting a paycheck, how’s it been?” Raven asked sauntering up casually. The apathetic appearance of the stoic bounty hunter seemed to ruffle the Jedi as Jason lost his composure.

“How’s it been!? You left me dangling by my ankles over those teeth!”

“It wasn’t for very long,” she offered.

“I was there for the night before my Master found me!” he snarled.

“Semantics,” she dismissed.

“I should have your head!”

“Awe, I see you have a youngling now!” she said her attention snapping to the young boy who had been hiding behind Jason.

“Padawan!” Jason snapped as the boy hid in Jason’s robes now.

“That’s adorable, and good to see you Cy,” Raven said. The R unit droid chirped happily seeing her.

“Miss Wilson, I would like to hire your services,” Bruce said, which had the young woman turning to him.

“You have the Jedi here,” Raven stated.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Raven hadn’t been particularly surprised to see Jason here, once she had heard of King Bruce’s interest in her Jedi she had decided to take a job on Gotham. The reasonings for this were simple:

Jason was the Jedi she loved, even if he didn’t know it, and she wouldn’t permit anyone to use him. She thoroughly vetted most the unknowns she didn’t trust to keep him safe, and King Bruce was an unknown that she didn’t know what to think of.

Gotham was home to the most wanted terrorist who had the largest bounty on his head in the galaxy, Raven had decided to collect that bounty.

Now she turned to look at the King who was the unknown who she had come to investigate, still knowing nothing about him, and looked between Jason, the kid and the King, the other children. Jason was glaring at her right then. She love ruffling the Jedi, and working with him was fun, so she could see the appeal of the job, even if she was merely being paid to annoy the shit out of him. And believe her, she knew there was nothing here that she could do to aid him or detract from his mission, no matter how Force sensitive she was.

But there was also the child to consider which had her looking over at the King.

“And you have the experience with terror cells,” Bruce stated.

“I don’t deal with Force related issues,” Raven stated blandly.

“Oh that’s the largest pile of bantha shit you have ever said, too my face!” Jason snapped at her.

“Well, maybe I just don’t want to be around your ugly mug, you ever think of that, you laserbrain!” Raven deadpanned.

“I will pay you to aid the Jedi in bringing me the head of Joker’s wife and lover,” Bruce stated.

“How much?” Raven demanded turning fully.

“Double what I paid for Joker’s head.”

“We are not bounty hunters!” the kid squeaked which had Raven looking down at the padawan who was hiding against Jason then. Kid was small, humanoid, she could see the mixed blood in the green tint of his skin and his slight markings on his cheeks.

“I am,” Raven stated.

“We do not seek to kill,” the kid persisted.

“But they do,” Raven pointed out.

“We are here to bring balance,” Jason stated looking at her. Raven said nothing, her Force sensitivity permitted her to feel the turmoil of this planet’s balance, and she knew she was going to be dragged with Jason into the grunge of Gotham.

“I’ll take half now, half when I finish the job,” Raven stated looking at Jason. “I’ll go with you.”

He said nothing now as he nodded. She could sense him weighing the options here, the options for her aid or not against the two terrorists. She would go either with or without him, but going with him meant she ensured this danger proned Jedi was safe.

She just had to go and fall in love with a laserbrain!

#bluboothalassophile #fanfic #one-shot #star wars au #jason todd #raven #jayrae #redrae #raex #bruce wayne #kyle rayner

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