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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Feb 19, 2017 18:36:22 GMT -5
Raidon was curled over, his head resting on Drake's chest and one hand clutching Drake's between them, while the boys other hand was stretched out to clutch Jon's, while Cayden floated Drake – and Raidon – out of the room in the heart of the castle, where the Graas' had gathered to choose their new head. Jon had only been allowed in as an observer due to his closeness to Rafe and because Drake – as the Heir and the expected next Head – had thrown his influence behind it. But it did mean that Cayden really didn't know what to tell to the rest of friends and family as he awkwardly came to stop before them. What could he tell Avis?
It was Raidon who broke the silence though. “Dad is dead,” the boy said with frank pragmatism that only children seemed to be able to truly come by. After a breath Raidon straightened up again and after one more look at Drake's face turned to reach out his other hand to Jon as well to be helped off the floater so that he could glue himself against his grandfather's leg. “Drake was chosen, but the wards flared up to seal the room once he... stepped through the door to whereever it was. An hour later he...,” Cayden choked up and just gestured helplessly at Drake's body with his free hand.
“If the Head trial isn't successful, there isn't usually much left to bury. And what there is, isn't pretty,” another member of the family cut in, the older woman who Rafe had been fond of. At least Drake looked whole and peaceful. Not unlike Rafe had been. His parting had sent a shockwave through the family, but Rafe himself had looked peaceful. As if he had sat down underneath the tree and closed his eyes for just a quick nap. “Put him with his father, boy,” the woman said, squeezing Cayden's shoulders briefly, “The new Head will know what to do.” “Dad stepped in, once Drake was... back. If... when... he returns, he will be the new Graas Head,” Cayden murmured and then turned away, a twitch of his wand directing Drake down the hallway to head to lay him to rest next to his father.
***
It was late at night when Wyron was thrown back into the castle. For a moment he just lay on the ground, gasping for air the magic within the castle almost overpowering itself. He scrambled to control it, clamping down on it only to be thrown backwards by the force of it. Like a child scrambled to channel magic for the first time, except Wyron had centuries of Graas family magic in him. He knew without a doubt that the whole family had felt the clap of his magic and knew that he was there. He... He was not a child. Gritting his teeth Wyron focused. His family might know he was there but... There. With a twist of his magic his family also knew that he didn't want to see anyone right now either.
Sure that the order had gone through and just as sure that the family would follow it – it came from the Head after all, Wyron took a moment and then another as he tried to gather himself again. It was a while until he found the strength again to push himself to sit, leaning heavily against the wall. His eyes fell on the portrait on the opposite wall. Dad. And... Drake. A smaller painting, for his brother had never become an official Head. But he ha sworn his soul into service and so eh was honoured. Wyron's eyes flickered between the two portraits – unmoving as all the others within in the Graas' Heads portrait gallery, uncharacteristic as that was for a pureblooded wizarding family. Even if Wyron now knew the reason. Looking at the portraits of his father and brother Wyron allowed himself to break, allowed himself to curl in on himself and weep for all that he had lost.
***
His family had known that he was back so Wyron wasn't surprised to see the whole family as he turned the last corner on the path around the castle. The path every single Graas Head took every morning, every completed circle adding one more layer to the protective wards of the castle. It was Wyron's path to walk now. One foot before the other, Wyron finished the round for the morning, almost physically able to feel the magic slip into place. He didn't stop at that though, instead walking forward to step straight in between Jon's arms. “Dad loved you. Loves you,” he murmured into his stepfathers ear, wrapping an arm around the man in as tight of a hug as he could. Wyron wasn't the only one who had lost someone important. “Forever,” he added, letting his remaining father hold on to him.
Wyron took to one knee before Raidon next, uncle and nephew studying each other for a moment. “I want Dad's ring,” Raidon murmured with mulish set to his jaw. Wyron dropped his head with a faint and bittersweet smile. “The Heir's ring? It'll be waiting. When you're old enough, you my try it on,” Wyron promised and then almost lost his balance as Raidon threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around his neck with a sniffle.
Only once Raidon had released Wyron again and turned back to lean against Jon's leg again – in the back of his mind Wyron smiled, even as the majority of his attention was already turning. It would do both grandfather and grandson good to have each other to lean upon. Everyone needed someone. “I'm here. I'm still here,” Wyron murmured, wrapping his arm around Avis and pulling his sister in close.
***
Father and son were laid to rest next to each other. It was a simple ceremony with just family there. Rafe and Drake had been loved by the family, had been important to so many people who had now lost them. Wyron had as well, except... except not quite. He could still hear their whispers brushing against his mind, the souls of every Graas Head bound into service. He had lost them, but not quite... not quite the way the rest had. Not that Wyron could afford to mourn anyway. The family now looked at him to keep them together, to keep them safe and moving forwards. He no longer owned himself.
Wyron didn't even realise his legs had carried him forward until he was already stepping up to the graves. His hand fisting, Wyron touched his knuckles against the top of Drake's tombstone as he walked past, but he didn't stop. Couldn't stop as he walked back towards the castle without a single glance back. He could not mourn. But he could and would keep his family safe while they did.
*** Wyron grinned to himself without even looking up from where he was finishing a letter. The castle’s magic, now running through him non-stop, had let him know that Jon was coming long before the man even got into the hallway – and this certainly explained how Dad always seemed to know everything, although Wyron suspected that it would be a long while until he grew used to all the previous Heads of the family whispering in his ears, their souls forever bound to the service of the family. But he probably would have been able to guess anyway. Who else in the castle would be up at this hour and come to see him? Or, more likely, tell him off for still being up and working. And in light of all the responsibilities he had had to pick up recently as the Head, it was nice really to have someone worry about him. “I know, I know,” he said as the door opened, “I’m due to take my next dose of medicine in twenty minutes and am going to bed right after that.” Signing the letter with a flourish, Wyron put the quill down, let the parchment roll up, sealed it and passed it to the waiting eagle owl for delivery before turning to Jon and smiling faintly. “I would appreciate company for those twenty minutes however,” he said instead, standing to walk to a couch facing the fireplace and collapsing on it and – once Jon had sat down as well – against his shoulder well.
For a moment he just breathed, staring unseeingly ahead of him. “I'm tired, but,” but he couldn't sleep. There was just too much of everything. Wyron's lips curled into a sardonic smile. “But I'm preaching to the choir here. You haven't been getting much sleep yourself either,” he murmured. Raidon at least was young enough for his body to override his grief with tiredness so that at the boy could get some rest. “Will you stay?” Wyron asked abruptly instead. It wasn't easy, couldn't be for Jon either, with memories of Rafe and Drake all around them. But then Wyron never wished to forget either. The memories hurt, but he couldn't regret the hurt. And this was Jon's home too – he certainly shouldn't feel that he had to leave. “Dad would have liked you to stay. He loved you so very much,” Wyron murmured, tilting his chin towards where he knew Jon's hand with Rafe's ring – that had remained on his finger as it would until Jon died, because Rafe's essence and so also his love was eternally bound to keep the ring present – was. “Raidon finds comfort in your company, Avis has borderline moved in,” his sister had always been protective and it was definitely showing now that she had lost a stepfather and one of her brothers, “And I could definitely use your help as well.” Jon could never stand beside Wyron and support him as he had Rafe, but even though with the castle and the family magics and with his own training – he had been a spymster as well as the Head's son, his training hadn't been all that different from Drake's – Wyron could pretty much pick up where Dad had left off and keep all the balls in the air, but he was still new to the post of the Head. He could use someone like Jon who had the experience and could argue with him. *** Wyron inclined his head in a greeting to Avis and Jasper - he had told Avis point blank that he needed to talk to Jasper, so the pairs presence wasn't particularly surprising, even if Wyron would have preferred it to happen a bit later, but he'd just have to deal with it - even as he shifted slightly to hold the heavy door open for them with one of his legs as he used his hand to brush, somewhat ineffectually, at the soot and ash on his head and shoulders. Not that he was particularly successful at it, but it was the point that counted. “I had a mild disagreement with my wand,” he offered in explanation with a one-shouldered shrug to Avis, “Which resulted in both of us quite spectacularly catching fire.” Wands did gain affinity to their users, however ever since losing his arm Wyron had become surprisingly adept at casting wandless magic, which didn’t necessarily endear him to his wand. And now… well, that relationship had quite literally ended in fire. Loosing something personal and important to himself… Well, it was the story of his life. Stepping into the large entrance hall Wyron paused to wait, the butler appearing out of a side door a few moments later. As if by magic, if someone didn’t know there was an alarm system in place to alert the muggle butler that someone was waiting at the entrance. “I left something of a mess in the stables, I’m afraid. Have the bodies taken to one of the cells – I’ll deal with them tomorrow. And I won’t be available to anyone until tomorrow,” Wyron instructed the butler, who merely bowed and withdrew to follow the orders while Wyron shrugged at Avis again. “What? I have made plenty of enemies of my own up until now and am technically pretty new to the Head business still. I would have been offended if no one had tried to take advantage of it. Even if it was still stupid to try to attack me here, where I have all of the family’s power at my fingertips. Granted, my wand fully refusing to work for me came as a bit of a surprise to everyone, but even so attacking the Graas Head in their home seat was a stupid idea.” “I believe there is a different wand that I will be able to use however,” Wyron mused, turning to head down the hallway towards Dad’s… his office, letting Avis fall into step next to him as they traversed the hallways, through the Head’s office and the door leading to the private hallways secured behind. Stepping into the treasure room, Wyron passed the first room and the stopped at the wall at the end of the second, reaching over to rest his palm and his magic against a stone there, letting the wards wash through him and verify that he had the right to go further before the wall shimmered into nothing before him. “Some of the Graas relics,” Wyron offered as an absent aside as he stepped forward, “Not necessary the most valuable monetarily, but the most valued.” Wyron walked forward to stop before a small picture of a couple settled on a shelf, opening the lid of the dark wood box sitting before it. “Kris and Cleo, my great-grandparents,” Wyron offered with a slight nod towards the picture, even as his eyes lingered on the wand in the book. “This was Kris’ wand. 11 and a half inches, rosewood with werewolf hair – Kris’s –, inflexible.” Kris and Cleo had known what they wanted – each other – and had gone for it with no one able to sway them from that final aim. The whisper about the wand had brushed against his mind even as the wards had rise around him at the stables and Wyron was learning to listen. It was his family after all. For a long moment Wyron merely stood and looked at the wand. And wasn’t this just the greatest irony. That a wand born of arguably the greatest love within the Graas family tree would end up in his hand. Exhaling slowly through his nose Wyron lifted a hand and picked up the wand, the wand prompting a howl as the air rose in a harsh swirl around him. Turning his head slightly Wyron imagined that he could just about see the shadow of a large wolf rising behind his back as the wand gave his allegiance. It was pack. It was family. And Wyron was now the Head. “I should have perhaps guessed that my previous wand would stop listening to me,” Wyron murmured as the howl died down, turning his head just far enough to give a mirthless grin to Avis, “After all, I’m no longer human.” The wand still grasped in his hand Wyron stood to face Avis. “My life is no longer my own. Treatment and cures didn’t work, so I’ll have to trust in a curse to,” he offered the explanation with a shrug. Because Avis would understand what it meant to sacrifice everything you were and had for the good of the family. And Wyron was cutting away large swathes of his own self, because what else could he do? Ironically, Jasper perhaps understood that best. “So I ordered the castle closed and emptied,” Wyron smiled faintly, for he had done so quite openly, even if he had cited a need for him to fully align with the castle’s magicks now that he was Head for the reason behind his order, “And had a werewolf bite me.” Wyron still had all his contacts and skills from being the spymaster so all of that had been pretty easy to pull off really. “I’ll need to manage for the rest of the month and survive the first transformation. After that a werewolf’s higher regeneration rates should be sufficient to keep me alive and relatively pain-free. At least when compared to now. Not forever, but then I was never meant to live long enough to grow old. I will live long enough though,” he murmured. Long enough for Raidon to grow. “But that discussion can wait, as I believe you have a meeting coming up you can’t afford to miss or be late,” Wyron added with a pointed look, even as he bent to brush an absently fond kiss on Avis’ forehead, before his eyes turned towards Jasper for the first time since the pair had portkeyed in. “And Jasper and I have a matter to put to final rest. Don’t worry, you’ll still have your uncle afterwards,” Wyron teased, gesturing for both Jas and Avis to head out. Wyron himself paused to tuck away his new wand and pick up a crystal box instead, opening the cupboard with Graas rings and settling it over his before tilting his ring into the box and slipping it closed, careful to avoid touching the ring itself. He stopped in his office and put the ring encased in the crystal box on his desk, his nail stuttering faintly against the crystal for a moment. But then Jas was trained to observe and notice, so Wyron didn’t even bother try to hide the fine tremors running through him at the moment. He was body was simply too overwhelmed with everything. The disease was eating away at his insides, the werewolf’s saliva was also spreading through his organism. He was still learning to manage the family magic running through him as well, feeling like a child first learning to control himself – with some sparks sparking in his hair or erupting form his fingertips when he wasn’t paying attention even then. And that wasn’t even touching his current gauntness the disease had wrecked previously or the practically black circles around his eyes. He was burning the candle from both ends – would have cut himself in half to burn from the middle as well if he could have – and it showed. For a moment he simply looked at Jas. He would have preferred to have done it a bit later, ideally after his first transformation so that his organism would be stronger – the ring and its magic had been left to languish for years. The backlash there would be against Wyron would be… bad. But then there was nothing to be done about that, so Wyron simply jumped straight to the point. “You have claimed the ring so that I can no longer touch it. As such I would ask you to ash my ring,” he said, pushing the small crystal box he had tumbled the ring into across the table towards Jas. This would be the last gift he could give to the man. Peace. It wasn’t widely spread but there were enough people who knew who held Wyron’s ring but didn’t stand with Wyron for it to be a threat for both of them. “If you want a reason for it – your own peace to keep people from bothering you in an attempt to gain influence over me. You’d be well and truly rid of me.” Wyron took a step sideways, reaching out his hand to touch the wall as he let his magic tangle into the castle’s for a moment. “Neither the castle nor family magic will hinder you after you have done it and the spell itself is relatively simple,” he murmured a few moments later, removing his hand from the wall and gesturing to an empty parchment instead for the spell to write itself down on the parchment. He had just enough pride left to not want to collapse before Jas when he did ash the ring. If Jas had to first read the spell before casting it, it should give Wyron just enough time to hopefully get to one of the rooms next door where he could pass out once the backlash hit. “Admittedly, however, your ring and your choice. I cannot compel you to do anything, but I believe you will have nothing to loose by destroying the ring,” he finished with a nod, before moving to round the desk to leave the office.
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Post by Philip Garwin on Feb 20, 2017 16:16:55 GMT -5
Jon remains in step with the morbid procession as they make the slow return to the crowd of faces waiting for them. His head feels clouded and distant but this he knows how to do. He's walked with death before; there's a familiarity here that he detests. He has walked with his parents and his wife, with various Cartiers during his long decades as acting Head. His feet know the slow, painful rhythm of this walk even if his head has no concept of anything but the feel of Raidon's small hand grasping his.
Drake's death has undone him even more than Rafe's had, in a way. Jon had felt the moment his husband died, had felt a chamber of his heart falter and wither when the man he loves, the owner of his cuff, had passed. There had been a sense of finality in that moment, a coldness that he couldn't argue with. He was alone again and there was nothing he could do but accept it. The loss of his son just feels inherently wrong, even more so than it had to lose Rafe. It's wrong and unexpected; this isn't a walk that they should be taking. Drake was born to be the next Head. They had all known it and taken it for granted and now they're all paying for their naïveté. Death comes for whoever he wishes, regardless of rank or title or riches. Jon had somehow forgotten that, had thought his son invulnerable as he watched him step through the door. And now his youngest has walked through that very same door and all Jon can see is Drake's face and all he can feel is Raidon's weight against his leg and the boy's hair as Jon smooths a hand over his grandson's head, offering empty comfort because that's all either of them have left.
The cloud hasn't lifted yet so Jon watches as the news sinks in. Tara lets out an almost inaudible sob before turning to bury herself in her sister's arms. Gen has looked shellshocked since Rafe died but she seems even paler now, all of the colour leeching away from her tanned face as she hugs her younger sister close purely out of instinct. She feels the cloud too, Jon observes. It helps, this sense of haziness. It keeps them upright and useful but they'll be a sobbing heap on the floor too once it dissipates. Flick doesn't have the cloud but she does have Lucas, who keeps an arm around her waist when she seems to crumble at the sight of Drake's dead body. He had been the first person to break through her brittle shell and she has loved him ever since. He can't see Tristan anymore but his eyes settle on Avis and her son. Nathan is crying silently, tears sliding down his face as he curls into his mother again. The boy is too young to have lost his grandfather and uncle in the same day, too heartbroken to realise what it means that Wyron has taken Drake's place. Avis isn't young; she isn't crying because she's too stubborn and she hasn't cried in public since her mother died, but she notes her younger brother's absence and she hears Cayden's explanation and her lower lip trembles briefly before she tightens her jaw. She doesn't allow herself hope, because Avis never does. She's picturing them as alone as Jon is.
***
"Will Uncle Wyron come back?"
It has taken Nate several hours to ask that question, until he's curled up under his duvet and Avis is sitting on the edge of his bed, gripped with the sudden terror that he'll disappear if she takes her eyes away for even a second. She hasn't sat over him like this for years, not since he was a baby and the memories of losing one child before she had even held them had played on her mind constantly. He blinks sleepily, this son of hers with his father's eyes, and Avis leans into the warmth of Edward's hand on her shoulder to borrow some of her husband's understated strength. She had dismissed him as a uselessly bumbling fool once, scorning the way he seemed to trip over his own words at times, but he has stayed with her even through her most difficult moments. Strength is more than just the physicality her family believe it to be.
"Death walks with us all," she reminds him quietly, parroting the words that all Cartiers grow up with. "We mustn't be afraid of his reaching arms." She hasn't answered his question though, as his patient gaze reminds her, and Avis allows herself to feel the hope that her son gives her simply by being alive. "Yes, darling. Uncle Wyron will come back. You'll see him again."
***
Tristan spends the day after Drake's funeral getting drunk. It dulls the pain some so he just doesn't stop. Nothing else has worked, not even raising the Occlumency shields that all active Cartiers keep as a last line of defence. Nothing takes away the pain and the loss but drinking helps. It dawns on him after a few nights that assignments probably help too.
Avis is sharp but she's just lost two of the most important people in her world. She can be forgiven for not seeing that he's still drunk when he swings by to pick through the latest list of seduction jobs. None of them look interesting but they do look like they could keep him busy. Tristan swipes more than half of the pile and saunters out without being stopped. There's nothing to keep him off active duty anymore, there's nobody left to make a claim on his heart or his body. He has freedom enough to drown in it and Tristan has always been very good at losing himself.
He tears his way through the missions, switching identities six times in four weeks. Everything blurs together after a while - the countries, the identities, the targets - until the only thing he knows for sure is where his next drink is coming from. He gets down to the last file he had taken from Avis' desk by the seventh week. This mark - Adam Marcus - is tall and dark-haired and stoic. Tristan hates him immediately.
"I asked for six months. I asked for slow. This time it was going to work out, you know? I was in love and it was going to be fine, it was going to last. I wasn't going to screw it up." Tristan contemplates the bottle of whiskey hanging loosely between his fingers, considers hurling it against the wall in the hopes of feeling something other than broken. "Guess I should have just charged in at full speed. Wouldn't have made a damn bit of difference after all."
Adam Marcus doesn't appear to appreciate his monologue, so Tristan gives him a chiding sideways glance. People today have no respect. Adam Marcus chokes back a scared whimper, which Tristan supposes is a rational reaction to having what should have been a one night stand turn into a drunken, rambling soliloquy. Probably the silencing charm isn't helping matters but he just kept trying to talk. "Mo-no-logue," Tristan reminds him in a drawl, "this is me time. You can tell someone else about your crappy luck in love another time."
*** Jon never has slept well in an empty bed but it seems to have grown worse of late. He ghosts around the castle at night, checking in on Raidon compulsively as if he fears that this last remnant of Drake will fade away. He has to fight with himself to not check on Wyron and Cayden in much the same way; they're lighter sleepers than the child and any attempts to make sure they're sleeping will inevitably just wake them. He had been much the same immediately after Clare's death but at least that hadn't been a surprise. They had been as prepared as they possibly could. No one had been prepared to lose Rafe or Drake. Avis is still struggling to cope; she has her son's grief as well as her own, a family to run and the remnants of their family to look after. She hasn't noticed yet but Jon isn't blind to his nephew's downward spiral. Tristan is more self-destructive than his charming smile would suggest and they have seen him go down this road before, albeit perhaps not to this extent. If he doesn't find his own way back soon, someone will be dispatched to remind him of the way home.
Tonight, his feet tread the path towards Wyron instinctively. Jon has walked this path too; he had lived it himself long before he had witnessed his daughter's transition to Head - acting Head in truth, but Avis thinks herself the true Head, as well she should - and he's familiar with this dance. There are too many steps, the beat is too frenzied, and it would be so easy to fall out of sync completely. Wyron is far better equipped to take up this mantle than Jon had been though; he might want someone to lean on every once in a while but he'll do just fine.
"It will get easier," Jon promises, his arm around his youngest - only - son's shoulders. "You're doing so well already, far better than I ever did." He doesn't even know if he's talking about grieving or becoming the Head of a family. Either, he supposes. Jon has always been spectacularly bad at both. Grief keeps him awake, turns him into a ghost of a man. Being Head had been just as bad, at first. They had done it for respect, he and Jas, because they were tired of being the bastard boys hiding their heritage but power and authority doesn't automatically equate respect. For them, whose only real interactions with power had been Kris and Rister, that had been the rudest of awakenings. "I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "I'll be here for as long as you want me." His eyes follow Wyron's gesture, his thumb rubbing against the band in a long ingrained habit that dates back to the start of his relationship with Rafe and the lingering fear that it was all a mistake or a misunderstanding and the ring would be taken back. "I loved him too, so very much." That's a new shift, the change to past tense. Jon has been stumbling over his words ever since it happened, referring to Rafe and Drake in present tense, as if they're alive and could come strolling around the corner at any moment. "My dad adored your grandfather, you know? To the point of idolisation. It was probably ridiculous for a grown man to look up to someone quite so much but they were close friends and so I spent a lot of my childhood here. Even before we went to Hogwarts, it felt like not a week would pass by without your dad and I crossing paths. Our lives are emptier without them but they died with full certainty that they were loved and that we are strong enough to bear their loss. We'll endure this, even if only because we have no other choice." ***
Jas had stayed in Singapore, at Jon's pointed request, throughout the deaths and funerals. This is the first time he has stepped foot in Italy, the first time he has entered the castle, since Rafe ceased to draw breath. It's a childish notion that the castle feels emptier without his cousin's presence but Jas feels the truth of it regardless. Long before everything - before Wyron, before their friendship grew taut, before graduating - he and Rafe had been close. Jas had been an endless show off once, had loved to draw a crowd with his tricks when the mood struck him. He had bounced ideas off Rafe, used him as a moral compass when he lost his own, shared a goddaughter with him. Their lives had intersected at so many different points that losing him had felt strange - but Jas had lost him long before Rafe died. Jas had lost him the moment their friendship faded away and he has long since mourned the man he once trusted as much as his own brothers.
Avis isn't happy to see him - is even less happy when he's there to hear the news that Wyron has been bitten - but she stamps it down with the same ruthlessness she uses to disguise the grief that still lingers in her heart. Jas smiles at her blandly. He'll be out of her hair soon enough. The wheels are already in motion. His ring will be hers, as it should have been long ago. He already has the archivist on his side, however reluctantly the girl's agreement was. The archivist line is almost more tightly tied to the Head than their own children; they'll never be able to disobey a direct order given with utmost conviction, and Jas is deathly serious.
"You remember what it was like when you become the Head," Jas reminds his niece helpfully. "All those attacks. So many people looking for weakness, and what a tragedy it was when they found it." Avis flinches at the reminder and he knows precisely which pretty face has been conjured up in her mind. Poor Tiríon. She had been so beautiful once, so radiant in her pregnancy but so determined that she wouldn't walk down the aisle while she was still carrying the twins - "that wouldn't be a walk," the Irish woman had protested with a bright laugh, "that would be a waddle," - and Julien had given way to her. She had never made it down the aisle in that white dress and both he and Avis remember the pretty girl rocking herself back and forth on her bloody bedroom floor. His niece looks pale and diminished, even more than she had previously, but his callousness serves its purpose. She no longer looks ready to scold Wyron for taking such a step, as if the man hadn't already considered every angle of his choice. This isn't a step one takes lightly. Jas can't remember the last time he saw Kris or Morgana - too many years ago to count, certainly - but he remembers them. He remembers the full moon and the howls and never being afraid of the monsters under the bed because they knew someone stronger and scarier who could protect them. More than that, he knows what it is to be willing to do anything to survive.
"You need to sit down before you fall down," Jas comments absently. It isn't an exaggeration. Wyron looks like a strong wind would be enough to knock him to the ground. He clearly isn't well - Landon's tinkering with the medical machinery hasn't done what the boy hoped it would, Jas gathers - but the whimsical flickers of magic sparking over his skin and hair make him look like magic given form. He had seen almost the same phenomena in the mirror once, a very long time ago. The Cartiers are not quite so old a family, and one rooted in blood magic besides, so Jas had felt most of the sparks licking through his veins. Only a few had been visible in his eyes and hair when he grew agitated. Once he handed the right to rule back to Jon, where it belonged, the sparks had settled down and disappeared forever. Idly, he wonders if Avis will experience them when the archivist slips into her house and exchanges her ring with the one that is hers by right. He rather hopes she does; it will be a mess for Jon to explain but it's something that every Head should experience at least once.
Jas waits until Wyron has left before he examines the spell, his dark eyes narrowed. It is a simple thing that Wyron has asked of him - and perhaps Jas would have been inclined to do this one small thing for him if he hadn't seen Wyron in the flesh. He has no tangible idea of what destroying the ring will do but he instinctively knows that it cannot be good for Wyron's health. Things of this nature are never good for the people who ask for them. Jas knows, he had watched Julien try every method he could think of to destroy his cuff and his eldest had nearly destroyed himself in the process. Wyron Graas is one of the few people that his brother and niece still have left. Jas will not take him from them; his loyalty to the people who have taken up his mantle as Head demands it. His plans have only a few months left before they come to fruition anyway. Wyron has survived this long; he can last a while longer with the knowledge that Jas has some sort of inadvertent claim on him. Within three months, this will all be a moot point anyway and Wyron will be in better health to manage whatever backlash comes his way.
"Twelve weeks," Jas murmurs, his eyes on the crystal box. "Then you’re free." He practically grew up in this castle and he makes his living from being a ghost; he's out of Italy and back amidst the bustle of Singapore within five minutes. He wonders if he should have dropped in to see Jon or his boys before shaking his head. They've managed just fine with his absence thus far. He'll make the trip to France in ten weeks or so, once all of his affairs are in order and the first domino is ready to topple.
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Post by Philip Garwin on Feb 21, 2017 13:17:33 GMT -5
They only have a month together, but Tristan doesn't know that until it's too late. He doesn't know that their time is limited, that he should be snapshotting each moment in his mind because soon memories are all that he'll have left. He has no idea so he wastes time and remains cautious and tries so hard not to repeat his previous mistakes.
Tristan knows his faults. He knows that he feels things too strongly, that he has a tendency to lose himself in his feelings. He needs entirely too much and it can be exhausting for the recipients of his affections. He doesn't want that to happen to them so he keeps himself reined in and Drake, who knows him better than almost anyone, either doesn't notice or is patient enough to wait while Tristan wears himself out testing the boundaries he has set them both.
Rin looks at him sometimes with puzzled amusement in her watchful green eyes but she seems happy enough with the changes even if she doesn't understand completely. Tristan thinks of the story his mother told him and has faith that his daughter will move on. Cayden is just the first; there are two other loves waiting for Rin somewhere. She'll find happiness in something other than death one day.
His cuff, still locked away in a box made of cherrywood, appears in his bedroom three days before Drake dies. They do that sometimes, Tristan knows. Their cuffs are made from their heart's blood and the essence of their magic. He has infused enough weapons with something similar to know the power that can be embedded in metal that has been treated with blood and magic. This piece of jewellery knows his heart with more certainty than Tristan trusts himself to. The box sits there, untouched except for the absentminded brush of his fingertips over the lid each morning. It becomes a ritual of sorts, a touchstone for a man who can't trust his heart enough to give it away so quickly.
Tristan never gets the chance to open that box and offer the contents to Drake. His future steps through a secret door deep within the Graas castle and only a corpse returns.
***
Rin finds herself momentarily lost in the aftermath of Rafe's death. She's no stranger to death, particularly given that she has more blood on her hands than any teenager rightfully should, but it's not just Rafe. Rafe is dead and then so is Drake and then Wyron is just gone and everyone is so sad and she doesn't know what to do anymore. She's usually long gone before this part, being congratulated on a job well done and packing up to move on to her next target.
Her godfather is a survivor. Rin permits one single breath of dizzying fear that she'll never see him again before putting that thought to the back of her mind. Wyron is a survivor. He's proven that several times over. He won't let the dark take him. He has to return, because Rin remembers the promise she made to him and she doesn't think she's strong enough to keep it just yet. She can't chase Cayden through the depths of his grief. Not yet.
She can be here for him though. For as long as it takes Wyron to return to them, she can be the quiet, solid presence at Cayden's side. She knows better than to reach out and breach the gap between them but she stays close at hand, ready to be whatever her best friend needs. She can retreat to some high platform later after Wyron has returned and exhale her terror until it is no longer a solid band crushing her lungs but for right now she knows where she is needed and this is where Rin stays.
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Feb 28, 2017 13:37:07 GMT -5
His new wand had a temper all of its own, Wyron mused even as he twisted out of the way of one of the curses and send a hex to eat the next one. It was a purely offensive weapon, the wand actually struggling against casting healing or protective spells. Wyron hadn’t fumbled a simple Protego in years, but the shield had fizzed out almost as soon as he had tried to cast it for the first time with this wand. Offensive spells tended to come out with an extra bite to them though – even when Wyron discounted the family magic now running through him – and the wand seemed to appreciate strength. It was pretty good for transfiguration, unsurprisingly, while slightly too inflexible for charms at times. It was a strong wand however and they’d get to know each other. Repelling another hex fizzing his way as he duelled with himself – the wards raised into a large dome around the room, reflecting every spell Wyron sent out back to him – Wyron weaved and cast in an attempt to overlast himself. Catching sight of Kellen and Landon on a second floor gallery overlooking the duelling arena a little while later, Wyron brought his arm and wand sharply to the side and focused for a moment. The spells were absorbed by the wards and with a brief shimmer the warded tome itself disappeared. Wiping his forehead against the sleeve of his hand, Wyron merely breathed heavily for a moment before turning towards the staircase tucked away in a corner of the room to climb up to meet the twins. “Afternoon,” he greeted the pair with a nod as he drew level with them, tucking his wand away again. “Come along, I have something for the both of you,” he continued, stepping around the twins and leading the way back to his office. Through the back door of the office, a turn to the right and then through the third door on the right. “The Graas family tree,” Wyron with a nod towards the shimmering wall. “It’s a bit different in usual ones, because the tree can twist around more – depending on who becomes the Head as it is not necessarily a hereditary title for the Graas’s – and because it lists more than just members of the family born or wed into the bloodline. For example all my sons are listed here and Tara and Rin as my god-daughters. They are signalled differently that family members from the bloodline, but they are there,” Wyron elaborated, reaching a hand out to zoom into the view on Rin’s and Tara’s names as well as his own. The tree considered loyalty and friendship as well. And the twins had certainly demonstrated that towards Wyron and now that he was the Head that was pretty much the same thing as loyalty to the family. “Similarly friends of the family can make an appearance – you will find both of your names linked with mine. You have been recognised as friends of the family on your own merits, so if you wish – the crests on the pedestal are yours,” Wyron added, dropping his hand so that Kellen and Landon could look for their own names if they so wished and nodded towards the pedestal, where the twins could find heavy emerald pins with the slightly adapted Graas crest. “That said, do not try to break me out of my own cells in the future. Especially as I will not be able to take Wolfsbane potion, not for the first couple of full moons at least, so attempting to do so would be deadly,” Wyron added, his gaze calm as it rested on the twins. There was no way he could keep his new status as a werewolf as a secret, so he might as well be upfront about it. *** Wyron stepped into the ballroom with the ladies from the Italian Council of Eight around him, tilting his head to bid farewell to the ladies before bowing elegantly to lift the hand of the eldest and the unofficial leader of the Council to his lips. The women had done him a great honour after all. And did him an even greater one as the lady curtseyed in response, sending small murmurs spreading across the room. Taking his leave with that Wyron glanced around the room, automatically checking for anything that would catch the attention of that suspicious little voice in the back of his head form the days of when he had been the spymaster and for the new voice of the Head of the family, he looked around to check that all his family members were fine. Wyron shared the grief for his father and brother, but then he could no longer afford to allow himself to feel it. The Head’s ring was heavy on his hand and not just because of the large emerald held in place by large hooks fashioned to look like wolf-fangs. Very apt really, considering that at least four Graas Heads, including Wyron himself now, had been werewolves over the course of family history. There was plenty he could and should do, but then Wyron had usually been happy to leave socialising to Drake and then his family needed him. Perhaps more than ever now really. So many of them still felt the need to verify for themselves that Wyron at least was still alive, that he was still there. The party was held in the house of a family member so extending two fingers of his hand was enough for a house-elf to pop into existence next to him. A quick order and then Wyron was heading across the room, his palm wrapped around his own mug and two others floating next to his shoulder before whizzing down to bob before Tara and Gen, while a twist of the family magic had family members move to create a circle of space around them, intercepting anyone who might breach the unspoken barrier. “Hey, sweethearts,” he murmured a greeting, tilting his head down to brush a fond kiss over both of their foreheads. He suspected both girls could use some old familiarity, even if Wyron could never make up for the losses. Would not make it any easier as he set his own mug to float in the air for a moment while drawing out two envelopes from the inside pocket of his green shirt. “These are for you,” he added, offering the envelopes to the girls, “It won’t help with the loss, but these are the last gifts your godfathers wanted to leave to you and any last farewells they might have wanted to make,” Wyron was vaguely aware now of what would be in the vaults as was relatively sure there might be some sets of jewellery or other bits and pieces in addition to the money, that had been bequeathed to the girls from Rafe’s and Drake’s personal accounts. *** Wyron merely hummed. He was doing alright, true. Mostly thanks to the whispers from all the previous Heads, their souls bound to serve. And this he could do. Managing papers, keeping everything rolling… It was still early days really. “For a pretty reasonable man, which I’d like to think I am, I make a fairly heavy-handed tyrant,” he mused with a tilt of his head. Is that what they called power going to your head? Perhaps. Wyron didn’t think that was the case with him yet though. It was more that he was still struggling to come to grips with everything and still learning the ropes. And a lot of the tyrannical part were left-overs of what he had been dealing with before, but wouldn’t necessarily have the time to finish off as he planned. So in a lot of cases he just made a sharp final decision. Part of it was expected of course. The Graas' held to the old ways with some traditions. "It's easier that the family tree will not argue with the Head, regardless of the order," he added. The Heads were held to account by those that had come before. "And I seem to hold the loyalty of a lot of the younger generation already as well." *** It was still fairly disconcerting to be this aware of what was going on in the castle – Wyron was just glad no one in the castle was currently having sex, because he wasn’t sure he could handle having to know about that just now – but then he could have guessed where Rin would have headed anyway. Pushing the trapdoor open Wyron climbed to the flat top of the tower and settled in next to Rin. “Hey you,” he murmured fondly, letting his feet drop over the edge of the roof as well and squinting into the distance a bit distractedly. The view from here was actually pretty good. So for a long moment Wyron merely sat there with Rin, looking at the view in the distance and taking a chance to breath. “I have something for you,” he said finally, pulling an old-fashioned steel key from his pocket along with a small cream calling card and offering both to Rin. “I got it a little bit ago already, but with everything that’s been happening I haven’t been able to pass it on. I’m the only one who knows of it and should anyone go listed, they’d find papers indicating it’s an old Graas side-asset acquired years ago as part of a package deal. It is the best cover I can offer. However if you like it, it’s yours.” Rin had agreed to let Wyron buy her a small home all of her own, where she could hide from the entire world should she so wish. And knowing his god-daughter and her fondness for heights, Wyron had settled on a lighthouse. It should meet both the need for privacy and calm, situated on a small cliffy islet that it was, as well as offer a high view to the surroundings from the top of the tower, with the living quarters spread across the different floors within the lighthouse tower itself. ***
Wyron paused at the door for a moment, considering it absently even as he reached back across his connection to the castle. Lifting a hand he twisted the magic akin to how Rafe had used to do when he and the triplets were children and stepped forward to push the door open. He was hungry – the full-moon had been hard to say the least, but he was currently riding the high of it as the werewolf’s regeneration was fixing what it could inside him, meaning he was starving almost constantly as his body tried to fuel the repairs – so he helped himself to a pear in passing. Perching himself on the armrest of a couch, he bit into the crunchy fruit while turning slightly to glance out of the window as he settled in to wait. “Jasper,” he greeted the man with a tilt of his head when he appeared. And with his one remaining hand occupied holding the half-eaten pear, he at least couldn’t fidget. The perks one could find in missing a limb. “Should have ashed the ring, if you wanted to be rid of me,” he wryly remarked instead, carefully modulating his voice to neutrality regardless of how much he wanted to shake the man and demand to know what he was thinking. To yell at him that it was cruel to take the ring now, when he discarded it before. When he had made it so very clear that he didn’t care. Idly Wyron found himself wondering if everyone had actually managed to disturb Jas yet. There had certainly been attempts to find him that Wyron had heard of and interfered with, but he hardly had time to deal with everything anymore. Instead Wyron inhaled slowly and with a tilt of his head – not even consciously realising how many of Rafe’s expressions and small gestures he had started to adopt, because they simply helped to manage the overflow of magic and information in the castle – cut to a different question entirely. “Why are you here?” Finishing his pear, core and all, with two large bites Wyron lifted his eyes to Jas’s and elaborated. “The mission? Losing yourself in work can be good and you lost a friend too. Even if you didn’t always think of him as one, Dad considered you to be his friend. Had there ever been even a whisper of you needing his help, he would have been there no questions asked. So it’s easy enough to lose yourself with work, but you have enough experience in what you do to make the call now. Take the kill or don’t. Why are you here?” Wyron paused to allow for a wry smile as he shifted slightly where he was perched. He had never expected to have to be the one to admonish Jas, but then it was starting to seem as if he was the only one who could. Perhaps it was a good thing he couldn’t dredge up any fear towards the man, however accomplished of an assassin. He never had feared Jas. “Jon has lost his husband and stepson. I will never be the same without my brother, so I know very well that having just Lucas there isn’t enough. You’re triplets. It will only ever be right with the three of you there. Your sons need you there. Julian has never been my biggest fan,” Wyron and Julian worked together well enough, but Wyron had inadvertedly caused Julian too much, “But Tristan is shattering. Stephen adored Dad. Your grandchildren – I have most of their loyalty, yes. But Kellen and Landon look up to you. Rin is good, but she isn’t ready to do your work. But they are your flesh and blood and you care enough to move the moon and stars for them. KeSo why are you here?” Whatever Jas had lost, he hadn’t lost his love for his family. And this wasn’t even about bloodline of the Head’s magic, it was simply the love and support he could give his brother and children. “I asked the exact same question from Jon and Avis today,” Wyron added after a moment. He had never meant to make Jas’s life more difficult, so he was going to make amends for it. “While you might have been the reason for me wanting a break, you were neither the sole nor even the main reason for my continued travels. Just as I will always be indebted to you for saving my son’s life. My apologies, I should have made that very clear a long time ago.” “Admittedly, Avis might be recalling you regardless. I left a fair amount of contracts on her desk, for targets I won’t have time to finish destroying as thoroughly as I might have wished myself and I’m not sure Rin would be able to distance herself from her emotions well enough to get the job done without wrecking herself, when I’m the cause of the hit,” Wyron mused in an almost distracted manner. But then Jas was hardly likely to want to make small talk, however unusual it might be between them. “There are nine weeks remaining from the twelve week deadline you gave,” Wyron said, tiredly running a hand down his face and biting back on the urge to snipe that if Jas wanted to make sure it would properly hurt and cause permanent damage he should make sure there were silver bullets involved. “I’m the Graas Head, I know everything that happens in the castle,” he murmured, knowingly using one of the Rafe’s stock phrases as he lifted his eyes to Jas’s with a wry smile, “So. What’s happening in nine weeks?”
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Post by Philip Garwin on Feb 28, 2017 15:22:59 GMT -5
"I was busy," Landon complains petulantly. Despite his words, his posture mirrors his brother's almost exactly. They're both leaning against the balcony of what Landon presumes is supposed to be an observation deck, although Kellen is far more engaged in the flashes of light below. Kellen always has been more interested in magic though; he could drown himself in spells and incantations the same way Landon surrounds himself with wires and electricity. Landon can appreciate the efficiency of a spell but, honestly, it's just boring. He much prefers taking the long route, disassembling something until he can examine each part individually and only piece it back together once he understands precisely how it all fits together. He approaches people in much the same way; everyone is much the same, at the core, and very few have ever proved interesting enough to make him take notice.
Wyron is not precisely a puzzle, Landon thinks. He can make out the edges of the man, in much the same way he would begin to complete a jigsaw puzzle. The edges come together easily enough but those are just the universal parts. People's edges always look similar: family, love, duty. Landon could assemble the edges of a person in a heartbeat. Even Rin, even Jas, even Wyron. Even himself, he supposes. Love is not just romantic love, which is an entirely different creature altogether as far as he can tell. Wyron is less a jigsaw puzzle and more a complicated puzzle box, full of hidden compartments and trick pieces. Honestly, Landon is more than happy to leave Wyron's secrets where they are. People both bemuse and annoy him; as long as Wyron is acting in Kellen's best interests and keeping him safe, Landon has little interest in the matter.
"Presents!" Kellen hisses at him in an excited whisper as they trail behind Wyron, which earns him a roll of Landon's eyes. His twin is bright and energetic and hopeful in a way which just seems exhausting. Landon adores him for it. He still doesn't think that they're getting presents though. It's neither Christmas nor their birthday.
Kellen is the one who steps forward to manipulate the family tree, naturally. Landon stays at his brother's shoulder, eyes narrowed suspiciously once their names appear. This...does not make sense. Kellen's name may belong up there, he is willing to admit. Kellen has dragged Wyron into their small circle of important people, he has learnt from the man, and he practically exudes the fondness he feels for him. Landon has permitted this with a long-suffering sense of patience, obliging enough to offer his services as an engineer but putting his foot down quite firmly before Kellen extends that welcome to Cayden and the penguin supplier and any other of Wyron's sons who may just so happen to be in the vicinity. Landon doesn't have the capacity or the energy to care for everyone who just so happens to cross his path. He'd be exhausted within an hour.
At least Kellen does not immediately try to reach for the crested pin, although Landon does have his left hand fisted in his brother's sleeve as a precautionary measure. He already wears two brands, neither of which he chose but both of which he accepts as inevitable fact. His Cartier signet ring and the twist of wire around his left wrist are part of him now. He knows their benefits and their limitations and the price he pays for wearing them. The Graas pin is not such a known quantity; Uncle Tristan may have embraced Wyron and Drake and their family as his own but Dad never did. Dad taught them family pride and loyalty and caution, for all that both twins all too often forget the last trait. He has never seen Rin or Tara wearing the Graas crest, which raises further suspicion. Why them, why now? Simply... "Why?" Landon asks patiently, turning to fix Wyron with curious brown eyes. The revelation of Wyron's new status as a werewolf doesn't earn even a flicker of a reaction from Landon - Kellen fearlessly leans forward to scrutinise Wyron a bit more closely, as if he can pick out cleverly hidden claws or fangs - except a rather exasperated exhalation at the fact that he'll now have to keep track of the moon cycle. Merlin knows Kellen won't bother.
***
Their mourning period is over. Drake and Rafe are dead and buried and time enough has passed that this isn't supposed to bother them anymore. Life continues on and so they are expected to slide seamlessly back into a world that has marched on while they have been stalled with grief.
Tara manages, because she has to, because Drake taught her how to. She endures. This is the way of the world. Life happens, death happens, and one is expected to continue on regardless. So Tara does. She resumes her life; she returns to her veterinary practice and faces each day with carefully flawless makeup and hair and clothing choices. She has never liked showing weakness in public and her godfather had taught her enough that she never has to. Sometimes, though, she retreats back to her bedroom, locks the door, and her perfection shatters. Her grief is a bitter wave that threatens to drown her if she gives it the opportunity - because this isn't right, Drake was never meant to die, not like this. She wasn't ready to lose the one man she trusted to always be there when she needed him. She doesn't think she would ever have been ready.
Gen's method of coping is somewhat different, but she and Tara have always been as dissimilar as the sun and the moon. Where Tara hides from it until it catches up wi her, Gen throws herself into her grief and rides it out. She drinks until she's numb when she needs to, dances through the setting of the sun and the dawn of the next day until exhaustion claims her, shifts into her animagus form when she needs something simpler than the complexity of human emotion. It's consuming and unhealthy but it helps. The grief fades somewhat, will fade further with time. It still hits her sometimes, when she sees something or hears something and her first instinct is to share the news with Rafe. Those moments bring tears to her eyes and the pain is as sharp in those seconds as it was when she first learnt of his death, but she learns to breathe through it and let it pass. She stops coping and goes back to living. Rafe would have wanted her to, she thinks, and the guilt of resuming her life begins to dissipate.
This is their first public outing together since...well, just since. Tara had been ruthless in her search for perfection and Gen has to fight not to tug at the pins in her hair, one of which seems to be attempting to penetrate her skull. If nothing else, they both look impeccable as they watch Wyron circulate around the room. There's a brief moment when they're both imagining different men in his place, Gen acknowledges, but the spectre of Rafe in her mind doesn't linger long. She can't quite say the same for Tara, whose dark eyes grow glassy with unshed tears as Wyron occupies the space they had both expected Drake to fill. Her baby sister doesn't last long after Wyron's approach and the familiarity of his greeting, somehow managing to flee the room in an exit that Gen reckons could still be called sedate. Tara has never been anything but a lady, she acknowledges tiredly.
"This is normally where Drake would step in," Gen remarks mirthlessly, her eyes still fixed on the empty space where her sister had been standing less than a minute ago. "I don't know what to do when she's repressing everything; that's not a problem I've ever had. I don't think we can just sic Cayden on her like you and Rafe did when I was feeling a bit lost. If nothing else, Rin might get jealous. She coped well, when you were missing," Gen adds, because it's the truth. Rin didn't run away, didn't hide. She had been quiet and remained distant from almost everyone but she had stayed at Cayden's side. "You would have been proud of her, I think."
***
"It is...difficult, at first," Jon admits carefully. He can remember the first rush of power coursing through his teenaged self, and he hadn't even truly been the Head. Power didn't always combine well with a teenager who had a chip on his shoulder and a lot to prove but they had managed. His fathers had kept him grounded until Jon could be trusted to make rational decisions not motivated by previously impotent fury at being disregarded and disdained for so long. "You are doing well though and you have the support of the family, as you know. Your first few months as Head will not end as your sister's did."
***
The sadness that has settled over the castle is almost tangible; it puts Rin on edge to the point that all she wants to do is leave, just for a little while. The promise of new beginnings isn't yet quite enough to erase the misery of death and she dislikes it. This somber atmosphere puts her teeth on edge, possibly because it's not a mood she associates with the Graas castle. In the end she stays, if only because she told herself she would. Wyron is back so there's no longer any possibility that Cayden will need her but she had promised that she would try to stop running. Rin and her dad may not always have a lot in common but this they share: they'll never stop trying to be better for the sake of the people they love. The only escape she permits herself is at the top of this tower, her legs dangling over the edge and the wind tugging at the long hair she has left loose for once.
Rin traces a fingernail over the ornately etched key wistfully before tucking it away in her pocket. There will be time enough for freedom and exploration, but for now she knows where she has to be. "You can tell Cayden," she allows, because she thinks that's one hurdle she might be best to approach at full speed. They'll never be able to fix the damage to their friendship if she never lets him close again. "Not Gen or the twins. Just the three of us for now."
Dad has been gone for a while, trying to outrun his demons in a way that Aunt Ana assures her is perfectly normal for him. But...Dad is gone, as are Drake and Rafe albeit in a far more permanent manner. That just leaves her godfather with Jon and Avis, both of whom are busy with their own grief. Rin twists to blink at him, a frown crossing her face briefly. She has been conscious that Cayden might need her since the moment Wyron disappeared; it had never really occurred to her that Wyron is shouldering a burden that he had never expected, which she suspects might well be accompanied by the feeling that he needs to keep the majority of his own grief to himself. Wyron isn't like Dad or Rin herself. He hasn't given in to the urge to run. "You're not okay," she observes bluntly, turning her eyes back to the vast horizon before them because she still flinches from such conversations if she has to look at another person. "I should have noticed before. I don't think you'll agree to leave for a while so we'll stay, but you'll tell me if I can do anything. Right?"
***
Even in Singapore. Jas exhales a sigh as he opens the door and senses the intruder. The worst of his wards aren't centred around the property itself but rather serve to protect his secrets so he supposes he only has himself to blame. Still. He can't get a moment of peace even in Singapore. The dagger returns to its sheath in the small of his back when he turns the corner and sees Wyron. He might well have preferred an intruder with deadlier intentions, he muses humourlessly. It would have been far easier if this was an encounter that could be handled with violence.
"Perhaps you should consider the empty spaces in your own life rather than contemplating the ones in mine," Jas suggests in a lazy drawl, deliberately cruel in a way he would normally never be to Wyron. "My brothers manage well enough in my absence and, truly, I do not believe Julien has ever spared enough of a thought for you to like or dislike you overly much." Stephen will manage; his mind has always been stable enough and he has Ana and Liam as his touchstones. Tristan, however, is a concern. Wyron's assertion that his boy is shattering isn't too far from the truth and Jas doesn't have to contact Valérie to know that she isn't in a position to step in as she has previously. Whatever her faults, that woman loves their sons fiercely and she would have been at their side the moment she heard the news if she could. Wherever his ex-wife is, she can't provide her usual brand of assistance. It's a pity really; Tristan is far more like his mother than either of his brothers are. If anyone could get though to him, it would be Val. She's done it before after all. "He's a grown man," Jas dismisses with forced callousness. Nine weeks. There's no time left to deviate from his plans, not even for his son. Jas wouldn't know what to do or say even if he did. The only solution he can offer is dissociation and Tristan feels far too strongly for that to be a workable option. "I'm here because I chose to be," Jas stresses harshly. "Because for once in my life, I chose not to be beholden to anyone else. My brothers and my sons and even my grandchildren - they're all old enough to manage on their own for once. They aren't here begging for my attention right now so why don't you follow in their footsteps and leave me in peace for once?"
"Rin has wanted to take my place since before she was old enough to know what that meant," Jas points out placidly. Even when Rin had been younger Tristan had never been overly happy about the direction that his daughter's talents were clearly taking but he wouldn't have been happy if she took after him either. His middle son never has been able to find where his happiness might spring from. "Now's her chance. Either she'll manage or she won't. If she doesn't, she'll either pick herself back up and be better than before or she'll retire. She's a strong girl, stronger than Avis was when she tried to take a kill on your behalf. Rin will survive."
Nine weeks. Things are proceeding precisely as planned, though Jas now somewhat regrets his decision not to move the timescales up. He hadn't thought he would need to, but he never had been able to predict Wyron's actions very well. "A lot of things will happen in nine weeks," he answers blandly. "In nine weeks the tides will have changed, your nephew will have celebrated another birthday, your sister will disappear for three days, and your goddaughter will have killed some of those targets you've laid on your sister's desk. Perhaps my son will have even returned to Europe. A lot can happen in nine weeks."
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Mar 2, 2017 13:30:41 GMT -5
Wyron allows a wry grin at Landon’s caution. Then again it’s not entirely unappreciated either, so he also inclines his head in acknowledgment of the gesture and a murmur of “Smart.” It is good to see a Cartier not jumping into things for once before looking into the matter more closely. “Because of magic,” he offers in response, shifting his weight a little as he leans back against the wall, “I do not actually control the family tree, it’s populated automatically through its link to the family magic. When you half-way blew me up, you…” Wyron paused as considered the rest of the sentence for a moment. Perhaps he shouldn’t assume Cartiers had actually known what they had done. All his previous experience certainly pointed him towards presuming that they in fact didn’t. So Wyron simply considered the twins for a moment, mentally amending his answer to include an explanation and then started again. “When you blew me up, you did more than just try to stage a jail-break. The Graas’ still hold to some old traditions, one of which is total obedience to our Head. You went against the Head’s order and in doing so also against your own family as the Graas’ and the Cartiers’ are officially allied families. If Dad had taken umbrage and demanded satisfaction to his - and the Graas’ - honour, it would have put Avis in a situation where she would have had to either denounce you two from the family tree to preserve that alliance – and breaking her family in the process - or break the alliance. The results of that break could have varied from anything from a total stop of association to a full-out blood-feud.” Wyron paused to nod towards the family tree. “So regardless of your knowledge or lack of thereof of what you were doing, you two went against your own family for my sake. And that intent and loyalty registered in the family magic. Now that I am the Head, loyalty to me is pretty much the same thing as loyalty to the Graas’. So you two showed up on the family tree as recognised and proven family friends, when I emerged as the Head.” “If you choose to accept the crests, you would be officially recognised as such. Might open some doors, might close others. You’d never be welcome in Egypt again. You’d have the right to call on the family’s assistance and have some access to the family resources. Should there be any trouble say between the families, or between Cartiers and the society at large, you would be largely exempt from the effects as the Graas’ would have recognised you on your own merits regardless of the bloodline you come from. I can give you access to a book in the library that would explain all of this in more detail,” Wyron summarised with a shrug. “You are under no obligation to accept the crest.” ***
Wyron lets Tara go. He understands the grief, even if he can’t allow himself to feel it. He also understands the feeling of needing space and time to grieve. Besides he doesn’t think he is the person who could make it better. “True. For all of his faults, Drake was good at readying people and seeing what they wanted,” Wyron agrees, his eyes calm as he meets Gen’s. “Drake would have gone after her. But I am neither my brother nor my father,” Wyron was simply glad that he was old enough and, despite everything, confident enough in his own skin to be able to realise that. There were so many people whose eyes were looking for Rafe and Drake when they looked at the Graas’ Head – Wyron himself did whenever he caught sight of the Head’s ring on his own finger - that he probably would have gone a bit mad if he wasn’t able to accept the difference. “I cannot make it easier, because I’m not the man she’d want to see. I simply hope that whatever farewell my brother would have left in the vault holding his inheritance to Tara would be more eloquent in helping her find that comfort,” Wyron added, his eyes a bit too tired and a bit too wise as they rested on Gen. He could not replace Drake for Tara and he could never step into Rafe’s role for Gen either. “I am proud of her. Always have been,” Wyron agrees calmly. He understood Rin, understood her on a level he had never wished to at times. Wyron’s mind flickered back to the burn marks they both wore. He saw almost too much of himself in Rin at times. From a tendency to run away, to loss, to taking whatever was thrown at you I someone else’s plan. “She’s a survivor,” Wyron mused, unknowingly echoing Rin’s words about himself. They were survivors. And maybe, just maybe, cruel as it might have been to ask Rin to look after Cayden, Wyron was still glad that it seemed to have worked. ***
Wyron hums. “I’m a fair bit older than Avis was when she took over,” he sidesteps the chance of making any sort of evaluation of Avis’ time as a Head of the family. That never ends well and as Avis is not the Head of Wyron’s family, he is hardly in position to even make that judgement call. Hasn’t been a Head himself long enough to really be able to evaluate as a peer and as the Head of an allied family. “And not like there are all that many people who could tell me off either,” Wyron adds with a slightly amused smile, “I could do without everyone expecting me to have the answers. I know how to make a decision and run with it, but I’ll need to get used to affecting an omnipresent air.”
***
“Whoever you wish to know or not know. It is good to sometimes have a hidden corner all to yourself, where no one will bother you,” Wyron agrees. He considers Rin for a moment out of the corner of his eye. He has taken the box with Rin’s cuff and hidden it at her request and so he very much wants to ask whether she’s sure. Sometimes it is best to have a corner of the world that is only yours, a corner that not even your loved ones don’t know about. “This is yours to do with as you wish. I can tell Cayden on your behalf if you want me to, but maybe save that until you’ve actually seen the place and decide whether you like it,” is all he settles on saying out loud instead. Rin knows her mind. And even if she doesn’t – there are enough nay-sayers in the world already. You need someone who will just listen and support you, even if you’re wrong or only figuring things out. Wyron can’t help the wry smile at Rin’s words. She’s the only one to notice that he isn’t sure about anything he’s doing. Only one to realise that he’s not okay. At least so far. “No,” Wyron agrees after a beat, having had to swallow before responding. “I’m not okay.” Lifting his hand before him, Wyron allows his control to slip a little bit and watches the magic spark between his fingers almost immediately. “I never expected nor wanted to be the Head. But regardless of what I want, I am the Head not so I’ll need to deal with it.” He will be there for his family, he’ll keep them safe and comfortable and do his best to let them be happy. Besides the Head had just changed – the family needed him to be there more than ever. And Jon and Avis needed him more than ever. “I can’t leave for a while. I’m tied to the castle and some of the adjustment to being the Head is draining,” Wyron mused, his mind flickering back on the heavy pull on his magic as he walked the round every morning to add a new layer to the wards. “And I need to figure out what I’m doing with my health.” Death was no longer an option. Not one he could take until Raidon was old enough to potentially take it over. Even if Wyron now felt a pang at that thought. “I will. This is good,” he added. And it was. Just taking a moment to sit on the roof-edge and blankly stare off into distance – it was good. ***
“Perhaps I did and it led me here?” Wyron responded with far more teeth than mirth in his smile. It takes a lot more than insinuations about his loss to put Wyron off. Yes, he had lost his brother and father, but then he could still sense their presence through the castle magic. He still had something to hold on to. And even if he hadn’t, he was the Graas’ Head now. He would be that strength and anchor to hold on for his family, no matter what it would cost him. If that meant welcoming Jasper into his home for the benefit of his surviving father, then that was something he’d be happy to do. Besides Rafe had been Jas’ friend as well. Perhaps Jasper hadn’t felt that friendship, not for years, but thought that perhaps he remembered it. “Are your brothers managing? Have you checked?” Wyron asked after a beat, “Oh, certainly, Lucas is. He’ll miss Rafe, sure, but he’ll be fine. Jon, however, is fading. To the point where I fear that in a couple of weeks I will need to bury a second father.” Jon was holding on. To Raidon, as the boy was holding on to him as if sensing Jon’s fading as well, to Wyron, to Avis. But then Avis was struggling as well, shaken by the same loss and clutching onto her own son. If what Wyron was suspected was true, then Jon losing his brother on top of his husband and son would only make things worse. Wyron allows the remark about Tristan to pass. He has made his own move with that and will need to wait and see as to whether that will help Tristan or whether he’ll be waiting to punch him in the face when he gets back to the castle. “Lovely rhetoric. But then have you ever been the warm and cuddly type, who was let his family lean on him when they are hurting? Would you even allow it? Regardless we are always bound to our families,” Wyron mused, not really even expecting an answer. Leave Jas in peace. “You marked me for life when you first pick up my ring and then rejected it – and by choosing not to ash it,” Wyron said with an idle tap of his fingers against his chest, “You saved Cayden’s life, for which I will beholden to you. And you are important to my friends and family. I believe having you there would help Jon and Avis and if throwing open the castle doors for you and talking to you would get you there, then I’m happy to do that. I’ll leave you in peace when you get your life in order so that your family stops worrying for you.” “I’m not sure whether Rin and Avis are disassociated enough to take on some of the jobs, but that’s Avis’ decision. I will leave now as you ask, but maybe you should remember that life never is that simple,” Wyron reminded as he stood, “I did speak to Jon and Avis already – and they are protective of me, perhaps unnecessarily so, even at a cost to themselves like this – but your family misses you. Your return would help them, so no, I’m not going to let it drop either.”
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Post by Philip Garwin on Apr 4, 2017 16:29:18 GMT -5
His brother can be alarmingly singleminded and singularly focused to the extent of neglecting his own health but he also has excellently honed instincts, Kellen reminds himself. Whether it's an innate ability or something developed from years of having things quite literally explode in his face, Landon is an expert at pinpointing oddities before they can cause any damage. Kellen is inclined to believe that Wyron can be trusted, that there's nothing dangerous or untoward that can occur simply from being offered these crests, but Landon hasn't worked alongside Wyron as Kellen has. There's no trust there. Whatever his instincts might be telling him, Landon won't accept such a brand from someone he doesn't wholeheartedly trust.
"It doesn't take intentions into account then," Landon observes sceptically. Magic has such limitations and yet so many people rely on it blindly. That kind of blind faith is one of many reasons he doesn't understand the wizarding world as a whole. They simply don't register the danger of letting their entire lives revolve around something that they don't wholly understand. "Kellen may have had grand delusions about your freedom but I certainly didn't. He bribed me with the promise of finally being able to test something that Dad told me I wasn't allowed to demonstrate to Avis."
"Politics," Kellen sighs sadly. He likes Egypt. The pyramids are pretty and camels are rather fun and their ancient spells promise to be intriguing. Still, Wyron is his mentor and he's interesting and not even Landon could argue against the practicality of having that connection to the Graas family. It's practically inevitable at this point that one of them will wind up in a spot of legal trouble, likely Landon with his penchant for large explosions and utter disregard for societal expectations. Dad has both shady and legitimate connections to most structured governments but even he can only do so much by himself.
"We want access to the book first, before we make a decision either way," Landon compromises because Kellen wants him to. "Full disclosure. The good, the bad, and the bloody."
***
"And your family is very different," Jon agrees with a nod. The Graas family have taken the appointment of their new Head in stride, evidently not feeling the need to poke and prod and test his worth. He doesn't think that the Cartiers will ever be able to do that. They're like sharks, always waiting for the next hint of blood to permeate the water. Avis had been raised as the Heir since birth and yet certain members of the family had still sought to locate and exploit any potential weaknesses.
He glances at his son with a raised eyebrow and an amused smile. "You're still not old enough that I won't tell you off if I think you need it," Jon assures lightly. "Head or not, you're still the cute little brat who used to leave a trail of havoc in his wake. I remember the antics you got up to with Drake and Tristan."
***
"Cayden should know. The day will come when he needs me again. And I think I need him," Rin adds reluctantly. She hates the idea of being dependant on people but there's no denying that she needs both Wyron and Cayden in her life. She simply functions better when they're on good terms. Leaving aside the complications caused by her complex feelings for Cayden, he has been a prominent part in her life for as long as she can remember. If not for him, she would never have left for years and experienced the things that made her who she is. For better or worse, she is who she is in part thanks to Cayden. There's no extricating him from her life, not anymore.
Rin tips her head to the side, watching the sparks dance between Wyron's fingers curiously. She can perform wandless magic to some degree - is best at using it to partially cloak her presence because Jas taught her to always have a back up plan - but this display of wild magic is beyond her. She has to wonder if it hurts, like tiny flames licking at his skin. She still dreams of the flames sometimes, still draws away from the first heated wave of air from a fireplace. "I think it's still okay to be selfish sometimes," she remarks instead, because she isn't sure if she really wants to know. "You can't leave for a long time anymore but that doesn't mean you have to be available for everyone all the time either. Take an hour or two for yourself sometimes; visit George or go to see Mary-Rose with Cayden or just lock a door so people can't bother you for a bit. Whatever responsibilities you have now, you can't be as effective if you're burnt out because you never take a break. I don't think even your dad worked nonstop, did he?"
Rin stretches with lazy, catlike grace. The movement pulls slightly at the burns on her back, a sensation which is uncomfortable and still unfamiliar but not necessarily painful. She has learnt to live with the scars, the reminder of the consequences of her job but also her own strength of will. She hadn't given in, hadn't broken. Sometimes she's still young enough to need that reminder. "It helps," she comments, gesturing to the view before them. "The height, the distance, the solitude. It helps. I spent hours on rooftops while I was gone, just staring out at whatever lay below or naming the constellations. Most of the time it helped to clear my mind and sometimes it helped me remember the people I left behind when it started to feel like I couldn't even remember their faces."
***
Rin will be fine. She was there in the moments before he left, watching him with sad eyes and far more empathy than someone her age should possess. His daughter will survive, Tristan knows, because the way she feels about Cayden has taught her to never again let herself love someone so much that they can cripple her. That boy will always be her weakness and he occasionally curses the day he welcomed Cayden into their lives because this is his daughter, his strong little girl, and Wyron's son was the one to put that sad understanding in her hazel eyes. He lets himself remember simpler days sometimes, back before their kids became teenagers and he and Wyron had laughed about Tristan smithing a large war-hammer to deal with men who wanted his daughter. Then again, that's the problem isn't it, Tristan muses. Cayden doesn't want her.
Thinking about his daughter is easier than thinking about Dr-...than thinking about other things, at least until she shows up on his doorstep with his son in tow. Raidon looks so much like his father that it hurts and Tristan just can't. He isn't as strong as Rin is; she learnt that from Wyron, not him. She must have, because Tristan has never been truly hurt or heartbroken before. He loves quickly, superficially, and his relationships fall apart and he bounces back as irrepressible as ever but this is different. He hasn't just lost a potential partner or a fun time. He's lost one of his closest friends, a man Tristan has known and loved his entire life, and the resulting hole in his life feels insurmountable. Raidon's sad eyes and Rin's uncharacteristic gentleness with the young boy doesn't help to ease his grief. Tristan already wakes up to the sight of the box containing his cuff each morning, a mocking reminder of his cowardice. He doesn't need another reminder of what they've all lost.
"This is a low, underhanded move," he tells Rin bitterly, and his daughter nods but shrugs because, well, they're Cartiers and Wyron is a Graas and Tristan should have known better than to expect anything less.
"I understand why you left," Rin says quietly. "I get it. Sometimes you need to get away because staying is just too painful. I told you that I'd wait for you to find whatever you need to get yourself back on track. I made that promise, Wyron didn't. And I'm doing as much as I can but you can't expect me to be enough. He lost his dad and his brother and his best friend all at once, Dad. He has me and the twins but we'll never be enough to fill that gap and you know it."
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Apr 6, 2017 16:16:27 GMT -5
“It does,” Wyron countered with a shrug, “Whatever you might provide as a reason, you took the same leap of faith as your brother. Possibly because of your brother talking you into it, but regardless of that you took the risk on my behalf.” He accepts Landon recommendation with a nod and a small smile. “Very sensible. Come on, I’ll show you the books,” he agrees easily, leading the way to the library and after a thoughtful pause heading directly to the correct bookcase. Opening the glass doors – the books are valuable enough to have the glass cover, not so that they would be locked – Wyron picks one of the tomes and passes it to Landon. “I’d recommend starting with that. It covers and explains the basics pretty well. It offers references, some of which you can see on the same shelf here. You aren’t allowed to take this one off the grounds,” Wyron adds, tapping the back of the applicable book, “But this also offers a personal account of someone who was offered and took the Graas crest about a century ago. The rest of the tomes you may borrow. Mind, no explosions, no acid, no gunpowder amidst the pages. I want them back in as pristine a condition as they are now.”
***
Wyron hums thoughtfully in response, the headache that has been hounding him for days seeming to get worse now that he actually takes a few minutes to relax. He is used to pain though, knows it will only make it worse if he tries to relieve it by rubbing at his temples or closing his eyes, so he simply pushes the pain back and refocuses his mind. “It is,” he agrees with the Jon’s statement. The Cartiers and Graas’ get along well, but with the exception of Lucas perhaps, no one would ever mistake the member of one family tree for another. Cartiers seemed to have more extremes. “The oath of loyalty was given to me before I stepped away to finish the transition to the Head if you remember,” Wyron mused. The choice of the Head was one of the very rare cases the Graas’ used blood in their oaths and even then that one drop was more symbolic than anything else. “I am now bound to serve by the castle and the family magic and the family rests easy with that knowledge. As much as I can now fully use the family magic, I am also accountable to it.” If Wyron ever failed to put the family tree first, the castle’s magic would kill him. It wasn’t exactly a secret, not in the family. But Drake’s death was still far too fresh for Wyron to want to put it into words. “I am cute,” he agreed with a faint smirk curling a lip-corner. But then there is something that has been bothering him. And Jon is the best person to ask. “It’s difficult for Avis,” he said bluntly, twisting slightly to meet Jon’s eyes, “In addition to everything else and disregarding the fact that I’ve never been a little brother that she can actually protect – for many purposes I am Dad now.” Avis had always looked up at Rafe, as a father and as her closest ally really. She loved Wyron as well, but their relationship had always been different. Wyron had always been the little brother and Avis had always been protective. Overprotective really. Not that she had ever been able to look after Wyron. He had a fairly easy character so had been happy to toddle around after Drake and Avis as a kid, but only when it suited him. Dad had first said that there was too much cat in Wyron long before he had become an animagi. As such Wyron’s fierce independence had always been difficult to Avis in contract with her protectiveness, but now that Wyron had stepped up from being a small brother to being the Head of Avis’ allied family… It would take an adjustment. Especially now when Avis had just lost two people important to her – a loss that was shaking her entire family and support network as well. “I am the Head of the Graas’, with everything that means, not just a little brother and occasional spymaster, who – for the most part – just followed up on her requests.” ***
Wyron smiled faintly. He knew better than to prod wounds where a word – especially a kind one – would make it hurt even more, but he was proud of Rin. So instead he simply tilted his head to press a light kiss to the top of her head. “We can tell him,” he said instead, aware that Rin had already asked him to at least be there. “But not until you have seen the place yourself. I thought of you when I Saw it, but the only thing that matters is whether you’ll like it or not. If you do that’s great. If not, we’ll keep looking.” Wyron focuses himself again, carefully suppressing and pushing back the magic again. “I feel like a child learning to control his magic for the first time again,” he mutters with a tired shake of his head. The headache by now is such a common companion that he hardly even feels it anymore. “I know. I still have my duties and my responsibilities, including those to my sons. But it will take me a while to adjust and find my footing. Dad had years of experience in how to juggle all the responsibilities and duties and decisions of the Head,” he murmurs, not saying that Dad also had the family’s respect. Wyron had their trust and the family knew him, but it would take years to build up the respect. “It is a very different situation. Dad had the experience, but he also had the people. I don’t have an Heir, even less an adult one who could shoulder a fair share of the responsibilities. Nor a partner. Jon… will be of help, but he can support me far less than he could Rafe.” Besides Jon had had a horrendous loss that Wyron feared had broken something in the man and so probably needed Wyron to be there for him instead. “Plus for all that I’m still here, the Graas have lost their spymaster. As have the Cartiers, though I’m not sure Avis has realised that yet. Cayden is good, but he isn’t ready nor able to fully step into my role just now.” Cayden doesn’t have the innate social skills to deal with the parties and galas that had been born and bred into Wyron. The boy is learning – and his work with Gen is definitely helping in that regard – but he still has a long way to go. “And however flattering and important it is that the Council of Eight has offered their spare seat to my representative, I have no idea who to name. But things will work out.” They would work out and he’d make the decisions, Wyron knew that. Meanwhile it would just be taking its toll on Wyron himself. Wyron eyes the view again. It is a pretty one, he doesn’t deny that. But where Rin sees freedom and space, Wyron sees decisions and duties and responsibilities. He does like company, even if he rarely allows himself the luxury of physical affection in the shape of a hug or even a friend at on his shoulder in passing. What helps is the company, the fact that Rin cares enough to even think to ask. But that is just a different perception of things, a different age and personality and duty. “I’m glad,” he murmurs. And he is. Because if this helps Rin, that he’s glad for it. Wyron has always been a caretaker at heart.
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Apr 27, 2017 13:08:47 GMT -5
It is ironic that the very things meant to keep him hale and alive are the very things killing him. Already weakened from his illnesses, the werewolf curse was already tearing his body apart – with none of the benefits of a werewolf's regeneration. That wouldn't kick in until after the first transformation. All of which Wyron had known in advance. Although he could have done with his horrified doctor asking before the brats as to how high his pain tolerance was. Especially as his mild answer of “I manage” didn't seem to have convinced the kids that he was fine. Plus the castle magicks and maintaining them was draining, even if the family magic was also sustaining him. Which meant that by the time the full moon came around again Wyron was actually almost looking forward to it. Even knowing that the first transformation was going to be brutal. Walking down to the dungeons with the butler – it had always been a Graas tradition to have a muggle head butler in the castle – Wyron finished off giving a couple of last orders on the way. There was something of a crowd gathered in the dungeons already, prompting Wyron to cock an eye-brow at them. But then he had mostly expected it. So instead he simply quirked a smirk and with a shake of his head stopped outside the cell he had chosen. Unbuttoning his shirt, he folded it with quick flips of his arm and experience gained over years, before toeing off his shoes and socks. There wasn't any point in ruining perfectly good clothes during his transformation after all. “Don't forget. No matter what happens, no one is setting one foot in that cell until after sunrise,” he murmurs the reminder, not even needing to to raise his voice. Instead he patiently meets until he has met everyone's eyes and received an agreeing nod before stepping into the cell. The butler stepped in after him, Wyron having chosen him to be the one to lock the chains and the cell, figuring it easier than making any of the brats do it. Sitting down on the floor, Wyron locked the chains around both of his ankles and then held out his wrist for the shackle to be locked around that as well. He tested each of the shackles once, before nodding. The butler simply nodded, stepped out and locked the cell door as well and then took his leave with the keys. Figuring that this was as good a time as any to take a nap – he hadn't had all that many chances to do that lately after all and he was tired. Everyone else could entertain themselves for the evening. Not that he got long to nap. It started quietly, so quietly that no one else potentially even noticed it to start with. A tremble in his arm. A twitch in his side. It started slowly, quietly enough to lull you to rest. And then the first flare of pain hit. Wyron's back arched away from the wall, the pain blinding him for a moment as the cry of pain got strangled in his throat. And then he no longer knew left from right or up from down. All there was was pain. Blinding all compassing pain that twisted and tossed his body like a limp ragdoll until there was nothing at all left. Nothing but the Wolf. To an observer the sudden stillness would have perhaps been the most startling change, even above the black fur and decidedly lupine shape. For a few long minutes the Wolf merely lay panting where he was. First transformation was rumoured to be the hardest and Wyron had not been in a good place wit his health, which showed. The black fur wasn't quite as lustrous as it should have been and the Wolf looked gaunt and starved. It was, however, a predator and a dangerous one at that. Yellow eyes snapped open when someone's hand brushed the bars and the Wolf surged forward with a deep snarl rising from its chest and fangs barred, only to be yanked sharply off his feet when he attempt to jump beyond the reach of the shackles. The rest of the night passed in similar manners. The Wolf paced, baring his teeth whenever someone seemed to reach jut a tiny bit closer to the cell, and the low snarl seemed to never abate. Buried somewhere deep inside the Werewolf was a human mind though, which could learn. And the Wolf learned as well. There had been one more jerk against the chains – purposeful this time – before it learned just how far he could reach. The transformation back was easier. It had been a long night to wear everyone out and at one point the Wolf had slipped off to sleep leaving behind Wyron. “Good morning, Master Wolf,” came the crisp tone of the butler, prompting Wyron's eyes to snap open. It was morning, wasn't it. He ached all over and his Head was sore and he could feel the call of the magic for him to start his round around the castle so it really wasn't a good morning. But he was alive. That was a good sign. Probably. “Good morning,” Wyron responded, pulling himself to sit up, not quite able to bite back the groan of pain as he did so. “Master Wolf?” came the prompt after a moment when Wyron didn't move any further and Wyron's head snapped up. Master Wolf? No. That was wrong. That was what Kris had been known and he had been so different. Had sacrificed everything for the family, but had also been blessed beyond reckoning by his family and those who cared for him. It wasn't right for Wyron to be called that. Except... Wyron's eyes met the butler's, who merely nodded patiently towards the cell door and the shackles. And Wyron could see the similarity in that. Kris had been a werewolf as well. “Yes, I'm ready,” he responded with a nod, waiting patiently for all the locks to be undone. Thankful that the butler had brought a change of clothes, Wyron slipped into a pair of slacks and pulled on his socks before stepping into a pair of boots. Forgoing the shirt – his skin, his whole self, still felt much too raw to put it on regardless of how little he liked people seeing his stump of a shoulder – Wyron grit his teeth and stepped out of the cell. He had his duty to attend to. He could collapse after that. Shaking his head in a weak attempt to clear it, Wyron simply focused on setting one foot before the other so that he could finish laying the wards just as every other morning. Admittedly he didn't usually drudge to his rooms to collapse onto his bed afterwards, but need must. “Unless you brought food with you, bugger off,” he muttered darkly without opening his eyes upon hearing the door open. There was scuffling sounds form the door for a... while... Wyron wasn't entirely sure for how long, but he woke up mildly when a baguette was shoved in his hand. His stomach making itself loudly known at the scent of food, Wyron gobbled the baguette down in about six bites without even bothering to open his eyes. The second baguette followed in much the same manner. And with the worst of his stomach's grumbling thus satisfied, the last energy he had had failed Wyron and he flopped face-down into the pillow. After a moment he shifted his face sideways just enough to tiredly order: “No penguins, no experiments, no weapons in my bed.” After all, a puppy pile of the brats on his bed seemed pretty inevitable at this point, so Wyron merely sighed and slipped into sleep – a healthy sleep this time to recover some of his lost strength and energy. *** It was later in that afternoon – after a long nap, which ended with him literally kicking both of the twins out of his bed from where they were attempting to construct something with mahjong pieces on his back, and a hearty meal – that Wyron finally made his way towards the stables. He had more or less resigned to the fact that riding horses would simply be yet another thing he would need to give up. What horse would want to carry a werewolf after all? And by this point Wyron was used to losing everything he cared about or could care about if given half a chance. The whinnies and nerves of the horses as he walked past the stalls was clear enough to read even to someone who wasn't a werewolf. Not that it made it any easier, as Wyron came to a stop at the gate to the small indoor ring his own horse had been put in. Kelpie. Kellen had been with him when he found the horse, at a auction where old horses were sold off in bulk to meet. Wyron had stopped mid-mission, a quick gesture ordering another one of his trainees to see it through to the end, as he had turned to look at the black horse. And he had stood and watched ad waited and bought the horse when it came up. Not that it had been an expensive purchase as the stallion had been ran too hard and beaten and was in a pretty bad state. He had looked nothing like he did now – the black coat glossy and while silvery scars from his beatings still webbed across his back and sides, the marks oddly complimented the horses silvery mane and tail. He had remembered Kellen asking why this horse and his response “He isn't broken yet. Not yet.” A response he had gave every time since as well, when Dad had taken one look at the horse when Wyron had finally gotten him to Italy and lifted his arms in surrender, when the horse had tried to bite anyone who stepped into his stall and shown that he had a temper, which prompted Wyron to name him Kelpie. It had taken a year for the horse to grow to fully accept Wyron, but he had. And that love and trust carried through. Kelpie trembled where he stood as the horse and man looked at each other for long moments, but it was Kelpie who moved first. Tentatively and slowly, but the horse approached, finally reaching out his neck to nuzzle at Wyron. And the words came back to Wyron again. Because he isn't broken. Not yet. “Yeah, Kelpie, me too,” he murmured, closing his eyes as the emotion of not loosing this too threatened to overwhelm him as he dropped his head to rest his forehead against Kelpie's. “Me too.” He wasn't broken yet. They weren't broken yet. Beaten and tired and work, but not broken. Not yet. www.kmsha.com/stallions/states/kentucky/jleesrockit.jpg*** Thinking back on it later, Wyron would realise that it was the moment he had fully become the Graas Head instead of being the previous Head’s son, instead of having just stepped in to cover a gap, instead of trying to figure out the job. No. At this point he was the Graas Head and able to balance all the duties and obligations of that on his shoulders. It had been such a small thing really. His gaze was caught by a flutter of a shadow from a passing bird. And then held by the full moon hanging low in the sky, for all that it was daytime and he wouldn’t change right now. He had already spent last night in the cell as the transformation overtook him and would do so again today and tomorrow night. And for all that Wyron pushed through to have as normal of a life during the days between his transformations, the moon felt like it was mocking him. Hardly true and he did know as much – what would a lunar body care for one human? – but it didn’t make it feel any easier. There was a flash of something in his eyes that he just saw in the vague reflection of himself in the window glass, but his face remained impassionate beyond that. A Graas Head had to put reason and his family before his feelings. Always and forever. It was instinct and habit that stopped his hand once Ana’s cup was refilled rather than actual attention to what he was doing. He had grown up drinking from this china – even if for Ana’s amusement he occasionally had a different set laid out for their biweekly afternoon teas – much as the thought had both horrified and comforted Ana when he had once dropped and broken one of the cups by accident. Nothing a simple reparo hadn’t fixed, but regardless. But it did mean he knew exactly how much tea or coffee the cups could hold. Putting on a faint smile, it was getting easier and easier to simply suppress any sign of emotion unless he wanted to purposefully display it, Wyron waited a beat for the flash of wolf to disappear from his eyes before turning his eyes and attention back to Ana. *** The day was remarkable for how unremarkable it was. Which was exactly why Wyron chose it. It was six days after the full moon he had seen in the sky while having afternoon tea with Ana. So the full moon was over and he had had a day to recover, had dealt with some more urgent work and there were no anniversaries or birthdays today that he would need to remember. So Wyron did his morning tour, had a leisurely breakfast, went into the stable to see Kelpie and give him a quick brush down and then slipped out of the stables to head towards Rafe’s and Drake’s graves. He hadn’t been back here since the funeral. Hadn’t really stayed for the funeral itself either. He could still feel his father and brother, could sense where their souls had been melded in the castle and family magicks to eternally serve the family. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t an approving upwards quirk of a lip-corner from Dad. It wasn’t a nudge to share an inside joke from Drake. It wasn’t… Wyron closed his eyes and for the first time in the eight months since his father and brother had died allowed himself to acknowledge the enormity of what he had lost. Wyron’s breath caught when he finally opened his eyes and saw his father and brother. It took a few seconds before he realised his – the family’s – magic had caught on his taught and this was just an illusion. A mirage. Yet not an unwanted one. Stumbling back a step Wyron lent his back against a tree and simply stared at the illusion. Dad sitting on his gravestone, legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankle, hands resting on the stone on either side of him as he looked straight forward towards Wyron. Drake perched sideways on his stone, one foot on the ground and the other tangling off the gravestone that he was half-sitting on, facing Dad but with his head turned towards Wyron and slightly cocked sideways. The magic was making things just slightly fuzzy, giving both slightly softer edges. But then both men had had a softer side saved only to the closest family. Wyron lingered looking at the mirage, ignoring the drizzle of rain once it started and when the rain thickened to the point where the tree branches above him could no longer keep him dry either. It was only when he sensed someone approaching – either someone coming to pay their respects, because even now the graves were pretty well visited or more likely coming to look Wyron – that he moved. Reaching for the waiting portkey Wyron let it whisk himself away long before he could actually see who had been coming or why. The cabin had been reserved for Graas Heads – and their loved ones – for years. A place where they couldn’t be troubled. Jon had been here once or twice with Rafe, Wyron knew, just as he knew that Jon wouldn’t be able to find his way here again. And it wans’t much more than a cabin, Wyron realised glancing around. There was a large king size bed taking up half of the in the L shaped room, a couch with a small standing table next to it facing a stone fireplace, a bookcase tucked into the corner and a small kitchen nook with a tiny fridge, a metal sink, a one plate hob and barely any counter space. There was a door leading to a small bathroom, but that was it. Although the shower looked luxurious Wyron noticed as he stuck his head in and suddenly he couldn’t stand another minute before taking a shower. Stripping off then and there, Wyron went straight to the shower, turning the heat up until it almost burnt as he scrubbed at himself. The good news was that there were replacement clothes here he discovered when he finally turned the water off and padded out to the rest of the cabin again. Finding a towel first, Wyron chose a slightly too large green cable-knit sweater – which for some reason made him think of both his father and of fishermen, which didn't make sense as Rafe had never cared for fishing – and black-and-white checked pyjama pants. There didn't seem to be any socks around, but on the flipside he did find a kettle and some tea in the kitchen nook. This he could deal with. Fixing himself a cup of mint tea, Wyron padded out of the cabin to take a seat on the bench on the front porch. It was raining here as well – Wyron took a lazy glance around and made a mental note to figure out later on as to where he was – and there was a bite to the air. Wyron curled up on the bench, curling his toes underneath the edges of the slightly too long trousers and his palm around the mug of tea, and just looked at the rain. It was when the tea was almost gone that Wyron finally realised what felt different. The magic. Oh, it was still there when he reached for it. But he had to actually focus to reach for it rather than dedicate half of his attention on suppressing the family's magic flowing through him. It was strange, but also a relief to feel tensions he hadn't even realised he had been carrying leech out of his shoulders. Wyron simply smiled, wiggled his toes and then headed in again to see what was in the bookshelves. He lost himself reading. Memories and advice and panic. All of it coming together as the Graas' Heads took the moment here to relax and be themselves. A chance to put away the mask, to not have to know everything, to not be the unflappable one, to... to simply breathe. Wyron laughed out loud at the amount of “How the hell am I suspposed to manage this!” comments, underlined and circled and bracketed by exclamation marks. The “I don't knows” and “hows” and “I wish I knews” that Wyron knew so well from the last eight months. It was good to know that he wasn't alone in feeling like that. Besides it was good to get to know the men in whose company he'd be spending eternity with. Finding a pen Wyron tilted his head and then continued on from where Dad had left off his notes. {i}I love him. And I think he would have needed me. But I suspect he would have been bad for me,[/i] he wrote, considering his words for a long moment. Now that he had written them down he could actually acknowledge them. He had known the truth for a while, but knowing something and accepting something were completely different things. I was ready to support my brother as the Head. I did not want to take it on myself. How am I supposed to manage... everything? Was put down on paper as was I am lonely. He had his family and was aware by now that it might very well have been for the best that he and Jas didn't end up together. But he was still lonely. He just wished there was someone, anyone, who would care for him for who he was and as he was. Someone who could love Wyron. Shaking the thought from his mind – there was no benefit for mulling on the topic – Wyron returned to continuing the story the Graas Heads weaved only for themselves and for each other. Because there were bright spots as well. Brushing the back of his hand over his chest where his scar had started to heal – also after his first transformation into a werewolf – Wyron put pen back to paper to reiterate some of the mishaps of everyone who had chosen to move into the castle now that he was the Head. He did love all of the brats and he made no attempt to hide that as he wrote. *** For all that the Graas Head always knew where his family members were – at least while in the castle – the family would always know where to locate the Head as well. For him to disappear as thoroughly as he did... Raidon tilted his head and glanced at the Heir's ring. Uncle Wyron would hear and come should the family need him. Finishing the rest of the bun he had been eating with two large bites, Raidon stood and headed towards his father's rooms. Dad had been dead for a while now, but no one had laid claim to his rooms. Wouldn't for a while. Probably his own child would claim them once. Or a grandchild. The castle had a number of larger suites of rooms that the Head and his children tended to swap between as the generations passed. For a few long moments moment he left his hand on the door, before pushing open and tip-toeing in. Picking up a throw that he used to like wrapping himself in whenever he came to see Dad in the evening when he wanted a chat or just some company and headed out again. He paused again at the door to uncle Wyron's rooms, but that didn't feel right either. So instead Raidon detoured through his own rooms for a couple of books and then headed to the Head's Office. Nodding politely in greeting to the butler who had just finished lighting a brazier – a matching one from which family members could light candles to keep burning until their Head returned would be burning in the foyer, Raidon knew – the boy curled up on the couch, wrapped the blanket tightly around himself and tried to focus on his books. At least the couch he curled up on was amongst the most comfortable in the entire castle, which was a good thing as Raidon didn't move again from it except to go to the bathroom – it was an easy enough of a matter to have the house-elves deliver his meals to him. It took him a few bleary moments in the morning to figure out what had woken him. Sitting up Raidon rubbed at his eyes with his fists and looked around for long lost moments, before realising that the fire in the brazier had flickered out. The brazier... Uncle Wyron was back. Any hint of sleepiness gone, Raidon jumped off the couch and sped towards the door, only to rush back a moment later and awkwardly bundle the throw into his arms, before running off again, heedless of who or what might be in his way. It was barely beginning to dawn so Wyron would be walking the rounds. And it wasn't that Raidon had been scared that uncle Wyron had left as well. He was just... glad that he was back. Raidon stood still and waited for Wyron to turn the corner from around the castle, fidgeting only a little bit as he did so. At least he had the blanket to fold over and over until it wasn't quite as bulky in his hands. Blinking in surprise when Raidon indicated with a sharp gesture of his head to him, Raidon didn't lose any time in dashing over. Settling into pace next to Wyron, he instead paid close attention, well aware that Wyron had started reciting the ward he was laying verbally – if only just loud enough for the two of them to hear it – only for his benefit. And he would learn. He would listen and learn and he would prove to everyone that he could do Dad's job as the Heir and later become the Head as well. “Can I walk with you again?” Raidon asked, peering upwards hopefully. “Sometimes. Not for the whole round though. Not yet. Now come on, I want breakfast,” Wyron responded, mussing Raidon's hair slightly before letting his hand drop to rest on the boy's shoulder. Which Raidon pretended not to take comfort in and Wyron obligingly pretended not to notice the small hand creeping up to hold his . Instead smiled and nodded at Cayden who was waiting for them at the doorway and who relaxed and returned the smile after having scrutinised Wyron carefully for a long moment.
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Post by Philip Garwin on Apr 28, 2017 16:34:23 GMT -5
It's almost amusing to witness how on edge the kids become as the sun slowly starts to set. Even more amusing that she thinks of them as kids despite being the youngest by far, Rin supposes. The twins are four years older and there's at least thirteen months separating her and Liam but they're still children in her mind when she thinks of them. All three of them just feel so young; they all have their own duties but none of them have blood on their hands and shiny burn scars stretching across a wide expanse of their torso. It's still difficult sometimes, being here after so long away, but Rin settles her back more comfortably against the wall and stretches her legs out in front of her so that her boot nearly brushes against Cayden's ankle. She made a promise, and Rin doesn't ever break her word.
Wyron hasn't been looking too good recently but he looks even worse in the cell with shackles clasped around his wrist and ankles. Liam has admittedly been fretting over the older man all week, convinced that he's growing paler and more gaunt right in front of their eyes. Little Katarina hasn't been getting much in the way of training beyond tagging along after him and helping to work through his mother's recipe for waffles and other desserts. She's enjoyed every moment of it - although she'll hate him next week when he makes up for his lapsed attention by pushing her five times harder - but for now Liam can't contemplate anything other than how slowly time passes when the only sound is Wyron's pained cries as the transformation takes hold.
The moon has been up for an hour, perhaps two, when Kellen tips his head to the side and leans forward. "I think he's bored," he decides thoughtfully. Rin rolls her eyes, which he graciously ignores. She just wishes she'd thought of it herself, obviously. "He's pacing a lot, see? He's bored. Landon, you need to make something to keep him occupied next time."
Landon opens one eye balefully, the full effect of his glare diminished by a wide yawn. Wyron is fine; he has fur and an adequate number of paws and a tail. He doesn't really know what else to expect from a wolf - wickedly sharp teeth, he supposes, but Wyron had proved earlier that he has those too. There's no need to be concerned and his tools are all still in his lab so now he's tired. "Ask him tomorrow if he wants me to build an indestructible stick for him to play with," he drawls before closing his eyes again and leaning against Liam's side. His cousin is warm and solid and his breathing isn't too much of a disturbance. Landon has slept under worse conditions.
***
"He threw us out," Kellen tells Liam mournfully, pouting when his cousin clearly has no sympathy.
It had started as such a peaceful morning too. Even Rin had joined them when they invaded Wyron's bedroom, although Kellen rather suspects that their youngest cousin had stayed awake whilst the rest of them slept. She had obligingly produced several daggers from various hiding places when Wyron had banned weapons from his bed but violence is still more of an instinct than a choice, armed or not. It's ingrained in her in the same way that Landon sometimes drifts off halfway through constructing a machine and can pick up precisely where he left off when he wakes up - if he even stops at all. Kellen swears that he's seen Landon working even in his sleep. Rin isn't an open book but he thinks it's a safe bet that she hasn't slept with other people in the vicinity for a very long time. She can deny it all she wants but they've grown on her and she won't risk her instincts kicking in if one of them had rolled over too far and brushed against her when she was sleeping.
"You were trying to construct the leaning tower of Pisa out of puzzle pieces on his back," Liam points out, breaking off halfway through his sentence to yawn. "I have to meet Katarina in less than an hour to test her reflexes. Coffee?"
"Coffee," Landon agrees fervently, which is quite possibly his first coherent word all morning. He doesn't wake up quite as much as he undergoes a slow system reboot after refusing to sleep for a long stretch of time.
*** Landon is more than a little bit insulted when Wyron chooses not to trust him. They move past it and nothing changes - as Wyron said, he loves Landon and the sentiment is returned because Wyron is an important part of the twins' lives - but his pride has been stung and nothing quite manages to smooth that out. His determination to prove that his idea would work only solidifies after encountering Garrett, who strolls into his lab and touches things and fixes the damn timing issue on a bomb he's been working on for seventy three hours.
Rin still hasn't returned back to the castle though. She's being stubborn again - and the last time she was being stubborn and stupid over Cayden, she was gone for over a year. It's already been two weeks since Wyron went away for the full moon and Landon isn't patient enough to wait much longer, not when he has something to prove.
"You need to tell her she can come back," he tells Cayden decisively. Landon doesn't know the entire story behind Rin and Cayden but he knows that much. He'd checked with Liam just to be sure. "She won't come back unless you tell her she can. She only left because you wanted her to anyway."
***
Tristan has been back in France for nearly three months before he makes his reappearance. Avis knows he's home, of course, but she gives him space to breathe for a while. He certainly dropped enough ammunition from his non-stop assignments on her desk to keep her busy, utterly shameless despite being thoroughly identifiable in the folder relating to a certain married man's secret affair. It's not like he has a relationship to think about anymore after all. He tells Rin too; his daughter's rare smile is a beautifully painful reminder of how much she's grown up while he's been gone. She'll keep his secret unless Wyron or Cayden ask about him outright, she tells him, and that'll have to be enough.
He's been carrying his grief around with him since the day Drake died, unable to bury it in alcohol or sex or any of his other usual coping mechanisms no matter how hard he tries - and he has tried. Tristan has done everything he can think of to stop missing Drake and nothing has worked. He has so many regrets, so many things he didn't say or do. Sometimes he forgets, just for a second, and he'll remind himself that he absolutely has to tell Drake something when they next see each other only to remember that they'll never see each other ever again. It never fades, this indescribable feeling of loss, and it's almost enough to make him turn right back around and leave again.
"It wasn't supposed to be like this," Tristan says once he finally works his way over to Drake's grave, sitting in front of the headstone. It doesn't reply to the accusation in his tone. He doesn't think he really expected it to. "You promised me six months. We didn't even get six weeks. Really, you chose now to lose patience with me? You couldn't wait for me to figure out that I would risk offering you my cuff after all? Not fair, Drake. You always waited for me to catch up before."
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on May 31, 2017 12:27:35 GMT -5
Wyron stood next to the blown out wall and squinted thoughtfully at the horizon. It was a pretty good view he noted absently, but then it was difficult to get a bad view in the castle. For all that it was a pain to upkeep, the castle was gorgeous and in a picturesque location. And frankly the view had been just as good from the window that used to be in the wall. Lowering his eyes, Wyron prodded the rubble on the floor with one booted toe, watching the play of colours as the sun reflected off the slivers of shattered glass. There wasn’t anything that could get the dust and dirt out of the Persian rug, was there? And really – the chemicals and wires on a regular table? It had been an accident waiting to happen. “Was anyone hurt?” Wyron asked finally – well aware that everyone was waiting for his judgement in this – as he lifted his eyes to take in the view again. “One of the house-elves got a minor burn. It has been healed already,” the butler responded quietly, “Apologies were offered.” Wyron nodded slightly just to show that he had heard. Landon was always going to invent and tinker and often for the better. But there was no reason to go asking for trouble – and risking everyone’s life and sanity – by letting him do so wherever he found a table of any sort. Besides there wasn’t any reason why the boy couldn’t have something of his own. Kellen had gotten his penguins and while Wyron didn’t think that caused any issues between the twins, he could stretch to something that would be wholly Landon’s as well. Wyron eyed the horizon and considered the mental blueprint of the castle he had for a few quiet minutes. “Prepare a list of the furniture that requires replacement and the cost of rebuilding the wall. As well as two weeks payment to the house-elf and have it on my desk by Friday. Landon, I’ll be deducting the costs from your patent payments,” he ordered finally as he turned away from the… well, the damage was too wide-spread to be considered just a hole in the wall, wasn’t it? “Landon, come with me,” he instructed instead, wordlessly leading the way down to a sub-section of the dungeons. It was slightly out of the way in a section mostly used for storage as Wyron had no desire to have Landon accidentally damage the structural integrity of the cells or the wine cellar. But then it wasn’t too out of the way, the room was structurally sound and it had windows. A fact that had swayed Wyron to choosing this. The windows weren’t big – just narrow strips under the ceiling as half the room was underground, but they would provide ventilation and some light. Opening the door Wyron stepped in first, squinting into the room that currently housed different baskets and mostly what appeared to be gardening equipment that didn’t really see much use. Stepping forward through the small almost entry way to the room – partially blocked from the rest of the room with a small half-wall before the room itself opened up into a decently sized hall. “I’m not willing to have you demolish my castle room by room, but I am willing to let you set up your workshop here if you wish, if not for any other reason than to give my carpets a break from you,” Wyron said, stepping in and leaning his arm on the half-wall as he eyed the room. “There are some conditions to the offer. I am willing to cut a general deal with you regarding your inventions on the same grounds as the deal you made with Dad over the medical equipment. I will, however, maintain a veto right. I promise to not use it lightly and not without giving you an option to argue your point – however if after listening to your case, I still believe it would be dangerous to the castle’s structural stability, hazardous to the health or sanity of anyone in the castle or damaging in any way to the Graas’ family, I will be able to veto the invention. If I do, you will not work on that within Graas grounds nor with any resources gained through Graas connections or with our funds. What you do on your own is up to you. If I have any specific requests I’d like you to work on for me I’ll pay you accordingly to the project. Any damage you do to the castle or anything outside this room – this does not mean dragging my poor Persian rugs here to test your inventions on them – will be paid out of your pocket. If you draw up a list of what you absolutely need, we can sit down over it together. I might be willing to cover the price of a certain amount of equipment needed to furnish the workshop and can negotiate over having standing orders for some more generally gear and can exert Graas’ influence at times for harder to procure materials if I believe the possible end result is worth it. There will also be a lights out policy as I’m not allowing you to shut yourself in here with your wires and scrap metal and nuts and bolts and whatever else for ever – you need to show your face, get some sleep as you are not putting a bed in here, and get some food as the house-elves and servants will be instructed not to bring any food here. However I’m willing to discuss and find a compromise as to how often you need to surface from here.” Wyron paused to turn around and look at Landon to gauge what the boy was thinking. “If you find that acceptable in general terms – let me know and I’ll draw up a basic contract to cover the points I listed and any you might wish to add, including any points we want to negotiate over and have the space cleared out for you move in.” *** It was 1:34 in the morning when Wyron finally lifted his head from the paperwork he wanted to get down today. Or yesterday, he thought with a wry twist of his lips as he glanced towards the clock. He hadn’t even gotten started on today’s pile yet. Dropping his quill, Wyron rubbed his eyes tiredly and thought about going to bed. Except it seemed both too much of a task to actually get up and walk down to his room and also not really worth it as he had already hit that stage of tiredness that you no longer felt how tired you were. He’d have to be up again soon anyway. So for a long while Wyron simply sat there, gazing unseeingly at the clock, before pushing himself to his feet to at least stagger over to the couch. The large, blissfully comfortable couch that he could collapse on – as so many Heads had before him and would after him. Dropping himself onto the couch, Wyron closed his aching eyes before even reaching out to blindly grope for the edge of the throw to tug it over himself as he forced himself to drop off to sleep. He startled awake a mere hour and a half later, his eyes snapping over and immediately seeking out the clock. It’d be dawning soon. He could already feel the tug of the castle low in his belly where it was hooked with this magic, calling him to lay another round of wards around the castle. He’d have just enough time to grab a shower and change his clothes in his room before heading out, Wyron mused as he watched the seconds tick away. He had always worn tiredness well, his Mediterranean complexion already half-covering the purple shadows that might show otherwise. But there was no reason to alarm anyone else or to allow this sign of weakness in the Graas Head should anyone arrive to meet with him in person so he would take the time to add a glamour charm or two as well as some muggle make-up to hide the shadows under his eyes. Oh, he’d pay for this, for pushing his body so far, later on. But then he’d pay for not getting everything done as well. He’d have a solid six hours of sleep tonight though he promised to himself. Even if it meant he’d have to push some of his work back a bit to tomorrow. Closing his eyes as he counted to five, he then pushed himself upright and went off to do exactly what he had planned. Five minutes in a shower with water on this side of too hot. Then make-up – oil-based crema and then powder, both professionally matches to his skin-tone, then a discreet glamour, a new set of clothes – a green shirt rather than a black one, there was no reason to create a dark contrast between the shirt and his face than necessary – and then out to do his rounds. He was entirely unsurprised to see the breakfast room empty when he finished his round – the sun had only just started to rise over the horizon – as he helped himself to a hot cup of mint tea and balanced a croissant on the saucer next to the cup before heading back to his office to bend his head over another day’s worth of tasks. *** The wedding had been an overwhelming success and a feather in Ana’s cap for organising it. Which of course also meant that breakfast was a late affair as nearly everyone – except Wyron, who had been up at dawn as usual to complete his round around the castle - took the chance to sleep in. In reality, it was a prolonged enough affair to stretch into encompassing lunch as well as people lingered over their drinks and headed back for desserts. It was quite pleasant really, the bickering light-hearted and friendly. The only one missing was Raidon, which on its own wasn’t particularly remarkable, as he was still young enough to prefer being on the go. Even so there had been that discussion Wyron had had with the kid last night so he tracked the boy’s progression through the hallways lazily, realising that Raidon was heading towards the Head’s Office – or perhaps more precisely to the treasury beyond it – when the kid was half way there. Well, he had promised Raidon that he could try the Heir’s ring, hadn’t he. Pushing back his chair Wyron stood to turn and stepped to the large floor-length windows, staring out unseeingly at the grounds as he actually focused his attention to tap into the castle magic more fully to track Raidon. All the way through the Head’s office, into the treasury room and then into the second treasury room when the Graas rings were kept. And then everyone knew. The heads of everyone else wearing a Graas signet ring in the room, Cayden and other younger relatives who had chosen to join in this morning – snapped up as they turned in their seats to subconsciously align themselves in the direction of their new Heir. “It’s alright,” Wyron murmured, lifting his hand slightly to wave down any weapons and explosives any Cartiers would no doubt be reaching for at the sudden tension in the room, feeling an unbearable wave of sadness overwhelm him for a moment. In some ways he had hoped that Raidon wouldn’t wear the ring. That he would be spared the training and the Head’s test and the eternal service. His tone of voice was perfectly even and his eyes clear of any clouds as he lifted his head as he turned to face the room. “The Graas’ have a new Heir,” he offered the explanation to those who hadn’t felt the pull of magic themselves. Cayden’s eyes narrowed as he glanced around the room before turning his eyes back to Wyron and merely asking: “Raidon?” Nodding in confirmation, Wyron waved back anyone looking to stand and stepped out of the room to go and formally greet his new Heir alone. *** Wyron knew when Tristan set foot on the grounds. Of course he did. Knowing that came part and parcel with being the Graas’ Head. Not that he displayed any sign of knowing, beyond pausing his writing for a moment to study the report before him with unseeing eyes. He had expected Tristan to visit Drake’s headstone sooner or later and this was, perhaps, even earlier than he would have guessed. He couldn’t really blame Tristan for having kept his distance either. He understood far too well – even Wyron had remained travelling because of the good he had seen it do to Cayden rather than to stay hidden himself. Plus he should have done better himself, he supposed. Should have reached out further, gone himself. He had known how hard Drake’s death would hit Tristan. But between loosing Dad and Drake, having Jon and Raidon and Avis needing him, becoming the Head with – Wyron had been too lost himself to do more for Tristan. Twirling his pen between his fingers, Wyron considered his options. As time passed, the number of unconscious pauses and small flinches upon seeing Wyron and not Dad sitting behind the Head’s desk had started to lessen as people grew more accustomed to Wyron. Tristan hadn’t had that chance. Hadn’t seen Wyron step up to being the Head in Dad’s place. In what everyone had expected to become Drake’s place. Yet Tristan would need to accept that as well. Wyron could just hope that given the time and space to do so would be enough He had been lost after the deaths of his father and brother as well, but then time had moved on. And life was for the living. Putting down his pen, Wyron touched a fingertip to a small bell on his desk that would summon the butler and then rested his palm on the magically locked drawer and chose a black box from there. Running his thumb over the velvet cover of it, Wyron passed the box to the butler who had stepped in. “Lock it,” he instructed quietly, passing the box to the butler. The key inside was enchanted enough to extend the castle wards over the room to make sure there wouldn’t be anyone getting into Drake’s rooms before the door would be unlocked again by the same key. And getting to that key would require the Family Head’s approval. No one had really set foot in there for a while anyway. Wyron had visited and Jon and Raidon had slept there for a week or two after Drake’s death, but it seemed almost too intimate now without Drake himself filling the space. And maybe this would help Tristan not to get lost in his memory either. It was about half an later when the first drops of rain drummed on the window that Wyron looked up again, twisting the chair around a bit so that he could stand up. Reaching out his hand to summon an umbrella with a quiet ’Accio’ he stepped up to the back of the couch where Liam had harassed Rin into helping out with class planning. Considering the plans over Liam’s shoulder for a moment, Wyron interjected a question as to where exactly he was planning on running the class – he had a suspiciously hairy feeling that the answer was going to be the castle even as he asked though – before holding out the umbrella to Rin. “Take it out to your father,” he murmured the quite request, pressing an absent kiss to the top of Rin’s head while doing so. “He’s at Drake’s grave,” he offered the information, should it be necessary, even as he straightened again to head back to his desk. *** Wyron leaned back in his chair and considered the boys before them. No, not boys anymore he amended mentally. Not children. But not quite grown men either. But regardless of their age, the question itself was serious and an answer – any answer – would have implications. As would a lack of answer. Even so he was oddly glad to have been asked at this point. Not because he wanted to get embroiled or even know about this to be honest, but because he knew that regardless of what Nate decided he would be dragged into the mess this was going to turn into. At least this way he could try to mitigate the damage and the eventual fallout as much as possible. “Come on. Let’s head outside – I wouldn’t mind some grilled sausages and you can make me smores. Plus it will give me some time actually considered the different possibilities so that my answer would make any sort of sense, as it isn’t an easy question,” he said instead, making no secret of the fact that he would need to think about it rather than have a clear answer off the bat. Plus it might be good to move this conversation somewhere other than Wyron’s office. Both to make it feel less official and because Nate was fairly trembling with nerves. Coming here was Raidon’s eye Wyron guessed, as Nate looked about ready to… well, do something. Wyron wasn’t even entirely sure whether the little rebel was more likely to throw a tantrum while throwing things and hexes, to run away, or to actually cry. Leaving his desk as it was, Wyron stood to usher the boys out of his office. A quick side-trip through the kitchen yielded them with a basket of everything they would need – plus some extras – before the trio trooped off to find a nice enough location where to set up the small bonfire. Sitting down on the edge of the low stone wall next to which they had decided to light the fire and waited for the boys to fuss about with getting the stone circle laid out and the wood and branches piled up inside. It was only once the fire had been lit and the boys settled down, Raidon shaving off the bark and sharpening some sticks and starting to add things to grill on it, that Wyron got back to the original question that had brought them out here. “You asked a difficult question, Nate, and I have to be honest – I don’t think I can give you a full answer. But I will tell you what I do know and hope that’s enough to help you decide. As a matter of fact, the actual practicalities of denouncing the Head’s – or Heir’s – responsibilities is actually going to be a fairly straightforward matter for you for two reasons,” Wyron mused, accepting a stick from Raidon with two sausages stuck on it and, resting his elbow on his knee, extended it over the fire. “For one, Avis might have named you as her Heir and you have been raised with the expectation you will one day become the next Head, but in reality that doesn’t actually mean much. Cartiers are also one of the rare families where the position of the Head isn’t necessarily an inherited position. The Head needs to be from the Cartier bloodline, certainly, but a very little known fact is that the Cartier Head is whoever claims the position. I could count on my fingers the amount of people who knows that. At least before now,” Wyron continued, with a glance towards the boys, figuring he wouldn’t need to add the warning to not go sharing that information out loud. “So technically someone would need to claim the Head’s position and if you don’t challenge it, you’d be out of the running. Granted, it is very unlikely anyone will attempt to lay claim to the position unless you openly turn it down. People don’t know about it as said, plus you have been raised as the Heir and future Head so I suspect your mother would probably consider someone else laying claim to the title as treason.” And Avis wasn’t likely to be merciful towards someone she thought was laying claim to her son’s heritage. “The other factor to consider is your father. He is the Head of his own house,” Wyron pointed out. Edward was an incredibly patient man and often got overlooked. And admittedly the Cartiers were the larger family, but that didn’t change the fact that Edward was a Head of House as well. “As his only child, you could request to declare yourself the Hardwick Heir instead. You’d still be a Heir and become a Head one day, but to a far smaller family – I believe the only other Hardwicks are two elderly ladies living in a care home and there’s the Hardwick family seat – a drafty old box of a manor in England – but that’s most of it I believe. At least that’s everything I know off the top of my head. As such you wouldn’t have anywhere near the same extent of responsibilities nor the same type really as a Cartier Head would. Well, there is a standing alliance with the Graas’, which Dad and Edward set in place love before your parents married, which I assume you’d be able to stomach. Overall, you’d be pretty much free to do what you will with your life as a Hardwick Head,” Wyron summarised with a shrug of a shoulder and a small smile to Nate. All of that was technicalities and practicalities. The real difficulty would be the people and the decision itself. For all that Nate chafed at being protected and being groomed into being the next Head, it was all he had ever known in his life. Walking away from all of that wasn’t going to be easy. “Walking away will be easy enough in theory. In reality, there will be consequences,” with a thoughtful look at Nate. Nate… has always been a rebel. But then Avis has also been an overprotective mother – not without reason, considering the amount of enemies the Cartiers have made over the years – but Wyron could easily see how it could grate on a teenager. And while Raidon was dedicated to learning and becoming the Head of the Graas’ one day in memory of Drake, Nate, thankfully, didn’t have the same sort of motivation to spur him on. In fact Wyron could also see a gentleness in Nate, hidden as it might be under a gruff exterior, that wouldn’t necessarily let him flourish as the Cartier Head. The Cartiers were a bloodthirsty bunch. But he doubted he needed to tell all that to Nate. Nor that this would hurt Avis. Potentially there would be fights between her and Edward as well, but Wyron could hardly get involved in that. Even if he believed that when a push came to a shove Edward would stick with his son. It would be a scandal and who knew how to the Cartiers would react. Probably depended on who would fill the void. There were the more traditional results to those scenarios however, which is what Wyron shared instead: “It is not up to me, but I would imagine based on historical cases that if you chose to become the Hardwick Heir you’d be cast out and erased from the Cartier bloodline. If you remained a Cartier but renounced the position of Heir, the decision would be up to whoever takes up the position. And that’s also a question – who would become the Heir in your place. You should think long and hard over that so that you would have a name you could put forward as your recommendation when you do decide what you want to do and act on it.” Pulling the stick with the sausages back to himself Wyron scrutinised the sausages for a moment, before deciding they needed a bit longer and stretching them out again. “My guess is that Julien would end up picking up the mantle in the immediate aftermath. He knows the job, is respected by the rest of the family tree and is, frankly, a good fit for the post,” Wyron mused. Of course there were the buts as well. Julien was older than Avis was and even if he would want to become the Head – and there was an age when a man just wanted to leave things be, even if once he might have entertained thoughts of becoming the Head. “If he chooses not to anymore or who would be his Heir – that is a question. I would say that Rin, Liam and Kellen are the most likely candidates actually, with each of them having points for and against their candidacy as the Heir or Head.” Their friendship with the Graas’ actually counting both for and against them. It was good to be friends with your allies, but questions could be raised as to whether Wyron wouldn’t potentially have too much influence of anyone out of those three.
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Post by Philip Garwin on May 31, 2017 16:20:03 GMT -5
"No." Rin smacks at Liam's hand until he relinquishes the quill and then proceeds to scratch out the majority of the traps marked on his parchment. "That needs to go there," she points out as she reworks the training plan, "and you can't put the bonfire there unless you want one of the kids to accidentally trip someone into it." She recognises the basics of the idea from her own early childhood, though Liam has taken his father's idea and expanded it to a far grander concept than Uncle Stephen had originally envisioned. It's essentially a large game of capture the flag, with the requisite Cartier twists built into the structure of the game; the kids in each age group will be divided into two teams and pitted against each other, with the winning team advancing to the next bracket of the tournament and competing against the winning team from the next age group. Liam's group had won two years in a row before he went to school, Rin remembers with a sudden spike of something that she refuses to acknowledge as jealousy. Rin had been trained by herself since the moment she was old enough to show her talent; she had never been part of a group to compete.
"Good point," Liam acknowledges, somewhat mournful as he watches his hard work erased and replaced by Rin's sharply curved handwriting. "Hmm?" Liam twists around at the sound of Wyron's voice over his shoulder, offering the older man a sunny smile. "Rin says she knows a place that will be perfect; the training grounds that we usually use for the Academy will be too small for what we have planned."
"I do know a place," she hums placidly. "Right outside. You don't mind, right, Wyron?" Rin lays down the quill only once she has finished her corrections, green eyes studying the umbrella and the pelting rain thoughtfully, then turns back to the parchment with a clear air of dismissal. "He's your best friend," she drawls. "Save him from the rain yourself, maybe catch up a little. Of the two of us, only one hasn't spoken to him already today."
***
Nate isn't particularly happy to be stood here - he considers sending a glare at Raidon, because this is entirely his fault, but he figures his best friend already knows that and has come to terms with it. It isn't as if they really had any other choice anyway; he and Raidon have run through every idea they can think of but everything ends in Nate leaving or hurting his family, neither of which he really wants to do. Nate loves his family, he just doesn't want to be in charge of them. At the heart of his mother's family is a darkness that Nate simply doesn't share. He isn't vicious or vindictive or manipulative. He isn't even especially ambitious, although that might just be because he doesn't have the freedom to have any dreams of his own. There must be ambition living within him somewhere; Merlin knows his mother is overflowing with it, and his father isn't exactly lacking it either in his own way. He doesn't want to hurt anyone in the way that his family do. As much as he sometimes resents being trained completely by himself rather than amongst his peers as the other Cartiers are, at least it means that he only ever spars against Stephen, Rin, Liam, or Katarina. He beats Kat slightly more than half the time, being taller and physically stronger despite being a year younger, but she's quick and smart and hates losing.
Nate extends a hand to Raidon for a few sticks, comfortably falling into the rhythm of removing the bark and whittling the end to a point. Liam takes him and Katarina camping sometimes, and he and Raidon have sat around a fire more than a few times themselves. He's at ease with the knife, one made for him by Tristan and so uniquely suited to his palm and the length of his fingers in a way that only a custom blade can be. He doesn't have Rin's mastery of weapons - he's the Heir, not an assassin in training - but he knows the basics. His physical training is just geared primarily towards being able to hold his own in a fight and keeping himself alive for as long as possible. Nate is good at the survival tactics, not so much the violence.
Nate...did not know that. He has always been raised to believe that the Head's ring would pass to him as a matter of course when his mum died or relinquished her position. In most cases, he supposes, it would. Not many people would take the risk of stealing the ring in the time between Avis passing and Nate forcing himself to trade out his Heir's ring for the one his mum wears every day. "Mum would throw them in a dungeon to starve," Nate agrees dryly, although he privately thinks that his mother would probably do far worse to anyone thinking to usurp his place, even if he himself would offer it quite happily to a more suitable replacement.
"It would not be terrible to be the Hardwick Heir," Nate hedges unsurely. He doesn't have the unshakeable faith in Wyron that Raidon seems to. Wyron is his uncle, yes, but he's also his mother's brother and their families are very closely allied. Avis would consider it a terrible betrayal if she knew what her brother and son were discussing right now. "I don't..." He sighs as he trails off, glancing at Raidon helplessly as if the older boy can pluck the words from his mouth and speak them for him. "It's not the responsibility or the position itself that I dislike," he admits carefully, halting his work on the sticks. He has been taught better than to use sharp blades when his mind is unfocused. "It's the only life I know, after all. I just...I am not built to be a Cartier. I do not enjoy pain and I have no love for violence. I could not live the rest of my life sorting through the contracts that pass across Mum's desk. I don't want that sort of life." He runs his thumb over the design engraved into the handle of his knife, his gaze stormy and tempestuous as he stares into the fire balefully. "I don't want to be my mother," he mutters quickly, his voice low. "I don't want to tell people whom they may marry, I don't want to send people off to kill and seduce and lie, and I most certainly don't ever want to bind anyone's heart in the way that Mum bound Liam's. It's cruel."
The thought of being removed from the Cartiers is terrifying enough that his knuckles turn white around the forgotten stick in his left hand. His mum is overbearing and overprotective and frankly smothering at times but she's his mum, just as Rin and the twins and Liam are his cousins. Kat too. Nate can't imagine a life without them, a life without his mother's surname and her blood in his veins. He can't imagine looking at the family tapestry and seeing a scorch mark where his name currently sits. He can't imagine his mum having to look at that scorch mark everyday. But he also can't imagine a life as the Cartier Head. He never has. "But what would happen to my cuff?" Nate asks tremulously. "If I'm not a Cartier anymore...what happens to my cuff?"
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Jun 3, 2017 15:29:01 GMT -5
“If someone tried to lay claim to the ring now? It would be the dungeons to start with,” Wyron agreed with a mild grin. He didn’t think anyone of the three of them thought being thrown into the dungeons would be the end of it. Avis was fiercely protective of everything related to her family, not just her son. Just the same Wyron chose not to point out that Avis wouldn’t actually have much of a say regarding who would claim the Head’s place. Based on Jas’ and Jon’s experience Wyron believed that the position of the real Head could only pass with death. Jon had been able to pass on the responsibilities of the Acting Head to Avis, but the position of the Head didn’t pass on – despite their best attempts – until Jas died. And Wyron doubted Avis would name Nate an Acting Head. That would be too close to a truth that had been hidden for too long for too great of a price. “Yeah,” he agreed calmly with Nate’s explanations. And he did understand all too well. The toll making such decisions could take from a person and Nate being unwilling – or at the very least hesitant – to take that on. “I wouldn’t want to do it either,” Wyron responded, even knowing that it would be faint comfort, “I never wanted to take up a Head’s responsibilities in the first place. It is a lot, but the Graas’ are a very different family from the Cartiers as you know. We deal with seduction, but only with and after family members agree and volunteer for it. And while my hands are hardly clean, I don’t have to deal anywhere near the amount and content of the contracts Avis does, for which I’m grateful.” Wyron could do it, he knew himself that well. If he had to, he could step up to the plate. He had spent his whole life doing just that. But he wouldn’t enjoy it. Certainly wouldn’t be able to accept half the contracts on purely moral grounds. “I could tell you that you can change that,” Wyron shrugged. In a lot of ways the Cartiers needed to change. The way they managed wasn’t sustainable, not in the long run. There would always be strife and conflicts, but sooner or later the contracts would try up. Or all the enemies they were making would join up, but the Cartiers didn’t have anything else to fall back on. “Lucas manages business, but – despite the fact he remains a Cartier – he does that mostly through the Graas’ and his wife. There would be resistance and pushback to change the family businesses, so that would be neither an easy nor a quick process,” he summarised, because he didn’t think he should lie to Nate about this. How did that old Graas saying go – if you were old enough to ask the question, you were old enough to handle the answer. Regardless of what Nate decided, if he wasn’t willing to take that on then for the Cartiers at large it would be better if he stepped down now. “I..” Wyron started, before biting back the words. Sure, he could tell Nate what he would do in his position. But he wasn’t Nate so would that even be helpful? “I don’t know. I'll give you my best guess, but that's what it's going to be,” Wyron said softly, aching to reach out to comfort the kid and to fix things, but he couldn't lie about this. He had become to all the kids what Dad had been to them he realised with sudden clarity as he watched Raidon reach over to nudge Nate in a wordless reminder that he wasn’t alone. “If you do decide to go down the Hardwick path, you will get to pass on any relics and traditions of the Hardwicks. Either your dad or I can fill you in on those. But I guess it would mean that your cuff would be destroyed,” he said gently, putting down the stick with the sausages to reach over to squeeze Nate’s shoulder, “You can live without one if you choose. And you would always have an ally in us.” Wyron secretly suspected that Avis might even prefer that. To have someone there to keep an eye on her son’s back, even if she no longer could. “If you just step down, then it would be whatever the Head decided. They would most likely need to demand an oath of allegiance, probably something akin to what Stephen and Liam have given, could leave things be, could denounce you, could do just about anything. Cartier cuffs have been… destroyed… before to guarantee someone’s unwavering loyalty to the bloodline and to ensure they would never challenge the Head,” Wyron said, figuring that was a safe enough statement.
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Jul 6, 2017 14:08:58 GMT -5
Wyron smiled faintly at the presence behind him – of course he was aware of it, he could both hear and smell them as well as sense them through his link to the castle magic – but didn’t shift from where he was bent over the engine of one of the sport cars in the castle’s garage. He had had to retire from professional racing after losing his arm, but he was still fond of cars and made sure the vehicles were kept in excellent condition even if he didn’t really have any spare time and couldn’t take the cars out for a spin nearly as often as the vehicles deserved. Maybe that was why checking the car over now seemed so relaxing now. His eyes steadily moved over the powerful engine, checking everything over with his eyes and his fingertips. Once satisfied, he shifted to let the hood fall on his shoulder was folding away the strip of metal holding it up, and then closed the hood. A quick murmur of a spell to clean his fingers and then he walked around the car, his fingertips trailing over the metal and pausing to press the tip of his shoe against each tyre in turn, until he reached the driver’s door again. Pulling open the door he stepped in and then tilted his head as he considered his visitors. The Cartiers never did seem to trust him at the wheel of a car, he mused bemusedly as he took in the careful positioning between him and the garage door. And the kids had all been too young to actually remember him from his heydays. With a grin tugging at his lip-corners Wyron angled his head sharply to the passenger’s seat in a wordless invitation, even as he twisted the keys to start the engine and roll down the windows. “Want a ride?” he asked idly, even as he shifted in the seat to draw the seatbelt securely over his chest. Once his passenger was safely strapped in as well he merely smiled and then let the car burst forward, letting the wind caused by their speed rip away any words or protests his passenger might have to the drive or the speed they were going at. Not that they were even going all that fast – in Wyron’s opinion. Just a bit over any speed limit that might be deemed acceptable by any muggle authority. Besides he hadn’t driven in a long time and had to account for his lacking arm by bracing the wheel with a lifted knee whenever he had to shift gears. He certainly wouldn’t be doing any drifting he noted critically to himself as he guided the car down the narrow pathways around the castle. And he couldn’t really get proper traction here that he would get on proper racing tarmac, but it was well enough. Besides he knew these roads as the back of his hands. He spared a glance to the side as he whizzed past the route exit he had taken after his first shaky drive right after losing his arm, but carried for a while longer as he drove to a small natural plateau, pulling the car to a stop with a flashy 180 degree twist so that it was facing the castle as he killed the engine. Humming thoughtfully under his breath, Wyron flexed his fingers and wrist while keeping his palm on the wheel. “I’m rusty so I’ll need to put in some hours of practice, possibly call in some old friends I used to race with,” he mused out loud, his mind already jumping to the particulars of who and when and where, “But I think I might actually take part in the charity race I was invited to.”
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Post by Rister Graas S6 on Jul 20, 2017 15:50:43 GMT -5
Raidon is fourteen when he goes away to summer camp. There is no great production around it – in fact Wyron makes the exact opposite is true. The day starts as usual and in the early afternoon Wyron simply walks him down to the courtyard and activates a portkey for him. There is nothing unusual about any of that, except that Raidon doesn’t return at the end of the day. “Raidon’s at summer camp,” is all Wyron says in explanation when he’s asked and steadfastly remains deaf to any further questions. As would every other Graas question about it as this was one mystery the family actually kept mum about whereas with most other question if they were faced with a direct question, they would answer. Raidon returns three weeks later with as little fanfare as at his departure. Knowing that he was returning Wyron had stayed up to wait. Although truth be told, he would have been still up anyway. He was slowly getting to grips with the job – his butler wasn't the only one who called him Master Wolf at this point, even if being called that made Wyron want to grimace because he was nowhere near what Kris had been – but that didn't lessen the amount of work there was to do. Nor did Raidon appear to have expected anything less either, seeing that the boy headed straight for the office once the portkey deposited him safely back in the castle courtyard. So Wyron put down his pen, leaned back in his chair and waited for the boy.
Raidon had the presence of mind to not slam the office door behind him Wyron noted with bemused approval as he took stock of his nephew and Heir. “Welcome back,” he offered the greeting first and Raidon nodded sharply. In control of himself, but not really happy. “That was...” Raidon started only to trail off. “I know,” Wyron responded with a nod, because he did know. For a long moments uncle and nephew, Head and Heir merely look each other. A patient weighing look, until Raidon shifts and angles his eyes a bit downwards. Acceptance and a hint of understanding. “All those wedding proposal for me – burn them,” Raidon announced a moment later, only to exhale noisily through his mouth, “And I suppose I'll want to see anything else from now on.” In response Wyron merely flicks a finger and once the pile of papers has flown from on top of the fireplace into the fire murmurs “Incendio” and watches flames burst forward. He had anticipated this request – in fact was somewhat amused by how identical it was to the one he had made to his father way back when. Which wasn't as big of a surprise really. Raidon wasn't his son, but in truth Wyron was the one who had brought him when the boy lost his father at a much too tender age. “Go. You can have an undisturbed night's sleep in your own bed today,” Wyron soothes as Raidon pauses hesitantly at the door and after a moment the young man goes.
Raidon puts in a late appearance for breakfast the next morning, his eyelids heavy and his hair still sleep-mussed as he wanders in and makes a beeline for the food. Very much the same as before, Wyron thought as he leaned back and let the rest greet Raidon instead. But also so very much not. There was a looseness to Raidon's limbs now, a certain careless grace that had been brought forward. There was still plenty for the boy to learn, but there was calculation in the gestures now, a seductive fluidness that was so very-very familiar. So when the questioning glance was turned his way, Wyron quirked a brow in response. Hiding his smile behind his cup of tea, Wyron took a long sip and gently put it back on the saucer before answering. “What? Graas' don't do the whole awkward teenage years thing.”
***
The Graas’ do keep some old ways and traditions alive. One of them is the memory that the family got started from entertainment and the associate training in charm and conversation and dance and music and art and other bits and pieces that every Graas takes. And people who have been judged old enough by the Head and have finished their basic training and have finished summer camp is granted the right to fasten their shirt or dress collars and wrists with delicate silver chains rather than just buttons, starting from the first celebration or party where they are semi-officially introduced to society as now full-fledged and adult (regardless of their actual age) members of the family. Few people even remember or recognise this, but it’s a somewhat sentimental habit that’s kept up. So when Raidon returns from summer camp Wyron isn’t entirely surprised when a check and an invitation to entertain arrive. The check is both obscenely large and not large enough for the Graas’ en masse, but it is the Head of Italy’s Council of Eight as well as Wyron’s personal friend issuing the invitation. Plus it is just a large enough celebration to fit the bill for the Graas Heir. So Wyron cashes the check, sets up tailor fittings for Raidon, handpicks the rest of the Graas’ to accompany them, makes sure everyone knows the necessary choreography and makes sure to talk in careful circles to ensure none of the Cartier kids will be there. Even if the disbelief when he mildly agrees after the first I-am-an-adult-and-you-can’t-make-me-come-to-the-party-if-I-don’t-want-to! protest, is both entertaining and vaguely insulting. It’s not like he makes the brats go to that many parties, but everyone has certain social obligations as well. Wyron actually isn’t the first one at the breakfast table the morning after the party – what with having to up at dawn to finish his round around the castle, he usually is – but then again Landon looks as if he hasn’t actually gone to bed yet. “Morning,” Wyron greets the boy none-the-less, pausing to pick out a sliver of metal from his hair and passes it to him. He knows better than to query as to why exactly that piece of metal appeared to have been glued to his hair though. At least it also means that Landon is unlikely to pick up on the fact that Wyron doesn’t actually eat breakfast. For years now he has a cup of coffee, black with two sugars, for breakfast even if he supports having healthy and hearty meals for lunch and dinner. Nodding his greeting to his butler awaiting next to his usual seat, Wyron takes a seat and reaches over to turn his cup the right way up on the saucer while glancing up at the man expectantly. “The letters regarding last night’s party are awaiting next to your desk, however where would you like us to put the gifts that have started to arrive for young master Raidon?” the butler asked and Wyron hummed thoughtfully. Letters were innocuous enough – his personal wards in the office and over his desk would catch any minor hexes or potions or threats in them – but there was a lot that could be compressed into a present. He certainly didn’t want Raidon anywhere near them until he was sure they were safe, potentially not even then, but he equally wanted to be safe himself. Reaching for the coffee pot, there was a fancy monochrome and steel coffee machine on a side table as well, but Wyron had always preferred an old-fashioned cuppa, he pondered the question while filling his cup and stirring in the sugar. “Take them to the duelling hall. I’ll have a go through in the afternoon and if there’s anything I’m iffy about then the hall is durable enough to withstand Landon’s explosives,” he decided finally. The butler bowed and slipped out to pass on the orders while Wyron took a sip of his coffee and unfolded the first newspaper awaiting at his elbow. It wasn’t really much of a surprise to see a half-page picture of himself on the front cover. It wasn’t a bad angle, he thought while eyeing the picture critically. His missing arm was hidden by the bulk of the man he was kissing, his remaining hand slipped into the man’s hair to tug his head backwards and one leg wrapped around his waist with careless sensuality. It was just scandalous enough of a kiss to have caught the majority of the attention, even if it was going to be trouble Wyron acknowledged. He had known it was going to be trouble even when the man had reached out a hand to help him down from the table he had been dancing on top of, but he had decided to wrap an arm and a leg around the guy to slide down his body before granting that kiss knowingly. It wouldn’t be trouble Wyron couldn’t handle and it would keep the spotlight and attention on him rather than on Raidon. Even if it meant that either Kellen would try to start matchmaking him or the kids would never let him set foot out of the castle alone again, not that he understood where all this unnecessary protectiveness towards him came from. At this point Wyron wasn’t even sure which way things would go. Raidon had now finished his summer camp and the party had served to introduce him to society as an available entertainer – even if only people extremely well versed in old ways would be able to tell -, but Wyron had no intention of making access to his nephew be easy. He would also need to talk to Kellen to make sure no more would-be suitors would arrive in the castle (the wards were fine and Wyron was attentive, but why go asking for trouble?) until Raidon had returned to school in September.
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