Chapter Text
Omnia sub sole comburentur, omnia quae eam colunt; contusa, solum aureum; omnia comburentur, in cruenta voragine in qua nati sumus; consumere debuimus, aut consumpti sumus.
The words hung with real weight over the hollowed expanse of the King’s court, ghastly and long, the letters morphing into something else entirely— blending into the design of the golden banner.
“I’m sure there would be something you would have to report.”
The voice that the room was built around echoed, as it was destined to. Bouncing off of curved walls and sandstone pillars until it disappeared between the large Neptunian tiles set into the ground. Sun streamed and refracted through a multi-faceted, prismatic skylight, casting little rainbows all along the room. Must’ve been a nightmare to build. Grandiose tropical plants reached for it, clawing desperately at one another for a place in the light.
“You mustn’t have voyaged as far as you have to tell me nothing.”
“There isn’t much to tell other than what we’ve told.” A comrade spoke, his face set hard, “If Maiahra attempted or even organized an ambush on Junisiviae, it would fail. That’s all that we found.”
“Junisiviae has made technological advancements,” The third and final stepped in, to refute the tone of the former, “the likes of which Maiahra has yet to see. Irrigation systems, climate control to propagate the growth of foreign crop, new political systems we don’t understand the fundamental concept of. Their armies are well fed, well armed, and well guided, your Highness. It would take Maiahra a nearly invaluable amount of resources to successfully invade, much less sustain, Junisiviae.”
The King’s brow set in a familiar, unpleasant stubbornness, followed by the characteristic narrowness of his eyes.
“Then how, pray tell, are you returning the debt you now owe me?”
An uncomfortable silence fell.
The faint sound of waves crashed outside, seeping in through open air lookouts and cracked windows of sunrooms. The gulls squawking, swooping low and terrorizing the sun birds and children. Salted ice cream melting on cobbled walkways, the market streets bustling with energy and people. Sun-tanned, freckled skin, laughter and street music.
The air inside was suffocating.
“Your Majesty,” The first spat, and immediately the other two snapped their heads towards him. Mouthing all sorts of things he pretended not to see, “When you send men into foreign territory for reconnaissance, do you prepare a debt for them to owe if they don’t give you the answer you wanna hear? Maiahra is weaker than Junisiviae in every single category except salt and fish— what the hell were you expecting?”
“Shut up!” The other two hissed, grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him back a couple steps. The second kicked the back of his knees until they buckled, and their combined weight shoved him onto the ground. On his knees, in a position of groveling.
“All three of you, out of my courtroom this instant.” The King’s voice boomed, “Bakugou,”
The man in question sneered, looking up at him only due to his comrade’s hand tugging his hair.
“I suggest you watch your tone.” In stark contrast to the previously booming volume, the monarch’s voice was now low and dark, a strong nose mere inches away from a beam of sunlight reflecting rainbows of color onto the ground where the musketeer lay. Bathed in warmth, he looked up disdainfully at his King.
As the three men walked into the sunlight, silence settled heavily between them, the first turned to look over his shoulder at the looming, sandstone castle. Brilliant gold hemming curled around colossal pillars, framed open air outlooks on the second floor that, if you looked long enough, you would see someone— a house servant, the queen’s hand maiden, a routine guard, the Queen herself if you got lucky— walking past, in somewhat of a hurry. It was imposing, but lightly so, a life-sized sand castle.
Towers with golden and salty walls, sun birds sitting on the low branches of trees and the heavy array of tropics around the base of the castle. Crimson eyes searching the grove for the horses, they drifted up to the tower with the best view of the ocean, as if he’d ever see it in his life. To his slight surprise, on the outlook facing the gate, sat the Princess of Maiahra. Her long hair (about the only thing he could make out from the distance) blew away from her faux elegant face and luffed about like the maritime blue flags draped silkily over the kingdom. While he couldn’t see her clearly at all, he knew the common look on her face. Narrowed, scanning eyes. A false composure set in her (apparently ‘naturally resting’) brows, shoulders straight and back, looking amusedly on whatever was the most intriguing at the moment.
The townspeople were in love with her, and he wished he could stop hearing about it.
“Bakugou.” The second said, turning to face the blond.
“Yeah, what?” He grumbled, looking from the tower to the man with windswept, heterochromatic hair.
“Do what you’d like, say what you’d like when it’s your own neck. I don’t want to be involved in whatever attitude you feel like using to get yourself killed.”
Bakugou snorted a laugh, “You’re not exactly kissin’ his ass, either. Not like shirt-sleeves over there is.”
“I’m serious.” Shoto hissed. “However you react to the King is your own fault, alright? Not mine, and not Iida’s. You’re lucky he wants you around, and the two of us are lucky that we don’t have your tongue. We’d have been dead a long time ago.”
“Oi, shut the hell up, I don’t need a fuckin’ lecture on it,” He groaned, rolling his shoulders out impatiently.
“I’m not lecturing you on your behavior.” Shoto asserted, “I’m saying that I don’t take responsibility for it, which means you hold your damn tongue when we act as a group.”
“Yeah, whatever, I get it.”
Shoto didn’t have anything to say to that, sending a hard glare and turning to retrieve his horse from the stableman. Iida took in a small breath, looking at the blond with hard-set eyebrows.
“Don’t start, go the hell home.” Bakugou hissed, and Iida looked away, nodding slightly.
“Take care of yourself. Until tomorrow.”
Iida stalked off after Shoto.
Bakugou, who had nothing of a horse without the Palace (who would not lend him one unless deemed strictly necessary by either a member of the royal court or militia) paused for a moment before heading towards the gate. As he hung on the threshold, he spared one last look at the beacon of Maiahra.
Princess at outlook, flags luffing in the wind. The orange and yellow birds chittering and singing as the sun sank a marginal amount lower in the sky, towards the sea. Guards posted at every entrance point of the gate, and at the grand, ajar doors leading into the castle; the jingling of their weapons sounded like bells. He turned to the town, the clock tower striking the hour. He counted the chimes until silence filled the space.
Without another glance, he stepped into the real Maiahra and allowed himself to melt into the crowd. A flowing stampede of people contained in the valleys of the buildings, curving up around the bases of buildings— young people standing on steps and porches, laughing, eating pastries and ice cream, dancing to the music. Salt hung in the air. Vendors yelled about End-Of-Day discounts in their haste to pack up and get home to repose before the sun set. Stopping briefly, he leafed through a coin pouch and dropped two fresh coins into the palm of a vendor, in exchange for a shot of espresso and an extra sack of the beans.
Carding through the masses, he filled his arm with the bounties of the locals. Fresh caught fish from the morning, garlic, churned butter, warm bread. It was a few hours now before the musicians tended to emerge from their homes, giving him just enough time to cook and eat before the chanting began. He unlocked the gate to the courtyard, nodding to the neighbors sitting at the brunch table and chattering in hushed, diplomatic language with their friends, or family.
Bakugou didn’t know his neighbors well, but he was fairly certain this one was a politically upset, paranoid foreigner. He was even more certain, in fact, that this neighbor believed him to be an undercover agent for the King himself. The woman was always speaking in low tongues he didn’t understand, ones so distant he couldn’t even trace the origin based on the sound of their phonetics. There was never any sharp inflection, no clicks, no stick-out pronunciations, but she always regarded him with shifting eyes.
To make himself unthreatening, he gave his nod and kept his head down as he climbed the stairs to his apartment.
Drift wood worn soft with sand cracked, and let the breeze inside everywhere one wouldn’t usually want it. No matter what he did, his home smelled of salt. There was no point in opening the windows— he could hear everything on the street regardless. In the beginning, he hated it. He was a poor kid with a head that hadn’t quite set on his shoulders, too high up and lulled by sunlight to be realistic. Bakugou had wanted something bigger. Mansion-like, one of the ones he saw from the shoreline, far from (what was to him then, obnoxiously loud) merchants and city squares, tranquil on their verdant cliffs, waves crashing into their foundations.
After spending most of his life weaving through crowds, though, observing the community as they flagged him down to hand him a little piece of bread, butter, a sugar cube, and sent him back on his hurried way, it had become familiar.
The creaky alleys, the words blending together until they sounded foreign, banners waving and women dancing in the streets, it all became a homey white-noise. A vice, to sit up on his window sill, to watch everything happen from above (A hushed conversation between sisters; a man crouched down to spin his young daughter on his arm, smiling at her laughter and watching the older girls wave their skirts; a vendor handing out the rest of their wares for free, having closed their cart and no way to store bread without it going stale, the same people they’d gifted their goods to coming back to the cart the next day and paying for what they’d eaten).
Everything was better in Maiahra in the town, and everything in the town was better at night. When the lamp lighters came around with their torches, plunging the world into a deep, orangey glow, everything became unfocused, taken out from underneath a harsh, prying light and bathed in familiarity and comfort.
Smells drifted up past windows, burning herbs (rosemary, lavender, lemongrass, marijuana, bay leaves) mixing together to form something of an incense. Everyone chanted and clapped, throwing coins into the cups of musicians, and flowers at the dancing women in the street. The world seemed small, then, when everyone you knew was in one place.
It’s why he wanted to get done with dinner before it began— the smell of the weed messed with the taste. He hurriedly slid his groceries onto the counter and pulled his guard tunic up over his chest, throwing it onto an overstuffed armchair he’d gotten from the old woman across the way, who told him he could keep it if he could pick it up and move it. Pushing his unruly blond hair back from his forehead, he blew out a heavy breath and got to work.
The sun rose over the town the same way it always did: with Bakugou climbing up onto the courtyard wall from the saddle of his white stallion and watching it light up the sky, turning the buildings into something gold-gilded. He’d been working since much before, ensuring the perimeter was secured before he readied up for the head count and daily assignment.
Lined up with the rest of the King’s men in the very same court he’d been standing yesterday, he kept his chin turned up, neck relaxed as he observed the conversation between the lower guards— the ones that paced around all day, keeping the perimeter Bakugou himself had set the morning of— bumping into each other like drunken bees. They laughed loudly and haphazardly until the metallic banging sound of an iron-tipped spear against the tile bounced along the cavernous ceiling.
Suddenly, everything stopped, and the men were in a rigid line.
“Consumere debuimus.” The salute rang out like a siren among them, until a syncopated breath was stolen from the air and they spoke all in rehearsed, uniform syllables:
“Aut consumpti sumus.”
“Men,” The troop leader called, marching parallel to his faction until he came out in front of them. With a dramatic flourish, he turned, shoulder cape luffing behind him. “Assignments for this morning,”
He rattled off an exhaustive list, each man bowing deeply when they were addressed and turning after they were dismissed, walking immediately out of the court with polish swiftness and the sound of their leather-soled shoes nearly imperceptible on the ground. Bakugou was left for last.
“Bakugou, First.”
The blond tipped his head slightly, cracking his knuckles as his wrists rested at his sides.
“Scout on the Northern Settlement, 14th District.”
He turned and walked out back into the pink glow of the morning, finding his horse in the care of the stableboy. Taking the reins from the shaking farmhand (who was so afraid of Bakugou that the man almost found it endearing), he stepped up onto the stirrup and swung his leg over. He had a lot of ground to cover, and not as much time as he would’ve liked to.
So off he went, and quickly, to the Northern settlement to aid the poised men there as they searched the tropics bordering Junisivaie for any sign of espionage. Now that the King was certain Junisivaie had more military power than Maiahra was capable of handling, he must’ve been doubling down by sending one of his best. It was one of the wiser things Bakugou had seen from the man in quite a long time.
The sun was low in the sky by the time Bakugou was dragged back to the sand castle, another soldier holding onto the reins of his horse as an escort. No one seemed up for much conversation, and the blond leaned forward, head pitched against the neck of his horse. The constant rhythmic stamping lulled him into something of a dream-like state, and he was still dazed by the time the soft tamps of hooves on dirt turned into stone, and then tile.
He was then unforgivingly pitched onto the ground, startling him an embarrassing amount as his weight struggled to balance out and eyes struggled to adjust to the burning orange dusk. Before he could fully orient himself, he was swept by his under arms and dragged, protesting, into the palace. Maids and servants looked on, startled by the sound, as he yelled interrogatingly at his prosecutors. They kicked the back of his knees in, pushed down his shoulders, and lowered their heads in a filthy bow as they reached point B.
Back on his knees, back in that goddamn cavern of a court, being stared upon by the psychopath of a monarch.
“What?!” Bakugou spat, breathing heavily, eyes wild and furious as they looked at him. The Queen stood a few paces behind, her hands folded in front of her with immeasurable poise— her face was calm, cool, and she was a better gauge of the situation than the King himself could ever hope to be, so Bakugou resolved to search her, instead. This steady indifference she held, dark hair almost green in the reflection of the waxy leaves, was the most unsettling thing about the situation.
Maybe he’d done it this time, and they’d decided his military strength wasn’t worth the trouble he brought on. It didn’t matter if he stood by what he did, or not; he’d already done it. Some snitch in the Northern settlement had found out about it, reported to their General, who had, evidently, reported back Home.
“I’ve received word from General Hizashi of a misconduct in the Tropics today at twelve-forty-three p.m., is there anything you would like to say for yourself before I proceed?” The King spoke finally, with cool concentration on his face.
If the Queen was here, maybe they were planning on hanging him.
She usually was an officiant of those types of things, he thought. Briefly, he wondered if that was because of some political necessity— by law, must there be a second-hand witness to decide whether or not the execution was non-tyrannical?--- or her own morbid willingness to be a piece in the proceedings. He supposed it didn’t matter, if that really was what he was here for.
He then remembered that he had been spoken to, and remembered what exactly was said. He hated this, a sketchy, diplomatic speaking every royal or advisor he’d ever met had perfectly practiced and tuned, masters of it, as if it was a useful trade. They worked to catch people on their own words. A nasty, shady practice, that would be frowned upon were they not of the blood-type best suited for it. He huffed,
“No.”
“Then, we shall trust full-heartedly in the word of our General.” The King said, face unmoving, unsurprised. “You, First Musketeer Bakugou Katsuki, are said to have caught a Junisivian traveler—” He inflicted the word like it was distasteful, “---on our land, the Eastern sect of the fourteenth district.”
Bakugou’s eyes blew out in recognition and then immediately furrowed when the situation fully dawned on him. “You’re not serious.”
The King raised his voice to fight Bakugou’s incredulous one, “While you had this traveler very easily at your mercy, you let it continue into Maiahra. Tell me, because you’re so eager, why is that?”
“Traveler is hardly whatever I’d call her,” He argued, “That woman was starving, she had a baby.”
“We are not employing you for your judgment of character, Musketeer.” The King spoke, hands poised over a golden walking cane. Bakugou couldn’t control the rolling of his eyes as he nearly laughed. Nevertheless, the King continued, “Especially not, as just the day before, you had told me of the prosperity in Junisiviae.”
Good god.
“When this starving, impoverished traveler is, in the end, a Junisivian spy and an oversight on your behalf that risks the wellbeing of my Kingdom, what will you say to explain yourself?”
“Jesus Christ,” Bakugou breathed, head rolling back on his neck as he stared at the ceiling.
“Two week suspension, Musketeer, and do not make me regret how light of a punishment it is,”
The King had already told him to watch his tone, just about 24 hours ago, now. No second warnings, fair enough. It actually was quite a light punishment— especially when he initially believed his neck was to be broken—, he took in a deep breath as the weight from the guards’ hands on his shoulders was lifted.
“Servitude. Men, please.” The King said, gesturing with an air of finality, and turned, walking away with his Queen following closely on his wing. Bakugou was lifted to his feet by the guards, and immediately protested.
“I can fucking walk,” He hissed, and they abruptly shoved him away. Reflexes finally where he would typically want them to be, he caught himself. “See?” He held his arms out aggressively.
“You got Servitude, Musket, let’s go.” One of the men said sternly, arms crossed as Bakugou huffed and readjusted himself.
“Can fuckin’ hear, too.” He muttered, allowing them to lead him towards one of the sides of the court.
A contradictory wooden door opened to a set of stone stairs, the descending corridor lit by burning torches like something out of the Tale of Despereaux. Bakugou, pushed to walk in front, listened to the guards’ conversation, slightly nauseous.
They were thinking of creating wanted posters. Needing descriptions of a genuinely impoverished, starved beyond repair, young mother, with a baby clutched to her chest. Trying to find anyone who had seen her, so they could pitch her right back into the same system that chewed her up in the first place. Talking pointedly about how they figured the Musketeers were supposed to be smarter than that, than falling for such an obvious cheat.
But neither of them saw the woman, he thought.
Neither of them were there as he lowered his longsword from her throat, tears openly streaming down her face in sobs; mixing with the jostled cries of the baby who had been brutally woken by the same tamping sound of hooves that lulled Bakugou himself into a half-sleep state in mere hours after the fact.
They didn’t hear her raspy, dehydrated voice as she begged him for mercy; on her knees as he looked down at her from the large, white horse; told him about her family, her mother and the name of the baby she clutched close to her body, hiding his face from the harsh world that wanted so desperately to see his mother dead.
Didn’t see the way her eyes cleared slightly as Bakugou offered her a deal, didn’t see the irreplaceable determination flash in her eyes. A flicker of energy that sparked and fizzled, the same spirit that had been within her whole life, briefly visible to a naked eye. They didn’t know that she’d promised him that he’d never hear anything about her ever again. If he did, she had said, she’d throw herself at his feet once again and ask to be killed.
He had said alright. He had held out to her, from his own rucksack, a half of bread from the vendors yesterday.
He felt sick.
The Guards left him, fortunately, as the hallway opened up into an expansive room. The floor was covered with layered imported rugs, keeping the noise from echoing and growing into something deafening as what must’ve been more than 50 servants bustled around each other. Rags were squeezed out into large, pit-like wells; brooms batted against each other and dusted the rugs with sugary looking sand, wax was boiled out of polishing cloths.
“Hello, Sir,” An authoritative woman said, with broad, low-set eyebrows that gave her an immediate air of control. She spoke to him quickly, hurrying between task and task, “May I help you?”
“I’ve been sentenced to 2 weeks of servitude by the Majesty,” He huffed, crossing his arms. Pausing— a rare thing— she gave him a second look-over.
“I’ll be. You’re the First Musketeer, ain’tcha?” She barked a laugh, “Never had one of you boys on duty, that’s for sure. You must’a done something,” She trailed off, waving him to follow her. Her instant change of demeanor was startling, but frankly endearing, and he found himself trailing naturally behind her as she blabbered on and on.
“I must say it will be difficult finding something for you to do— if you can’t tell, we have plenty of people. Hey, Bridge’!” She yelled, voice hard and set again. A red-haired woman looked up from a pot of polishing wax, noticeable burns on her hands as she swiped her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“Your baby at home?”
“With my mother,” ‘Bridge’ confirmed, looking down at the wax before wiping her hands with a dirty cloth.
“Why don’t you take yourself a break, how’s 2 weeks sound?”
Immediately, she perked up, and threw the cloth down.
“Maggie, I could kiss you,” She whispered as she walked past, leaving a gust of wind in her wake and untying her apron.
“Take care of that baby.” ‘Maggie’ answered, and turned to Bakugou, “She ain’t usually on wax, so you ain’t either. Matter of fact— hey, stay walking with me now, no laggin’ behind like we got the time to.”
Bridgette, he’d been told, was typically put on something called “Sand Duty” in the vaulted cathedral in what was called the ‘Nautics Arrondissement’.
It was a tall atrium at the center of the whole damn place with lofted walkways around the perimeter, balconies, leading to “all sorts of different things” (According to Margareta: “To the West, there, you see,” she pointed, checking closely to see if he was listening, “are the Princess’s chambers. You ain’t gonna be able to go in, don’t matter if sand’s there or not. I’ll tell you,” she trailed off on a long, boring story about the last time the Princess had let anyone other than her Mother, Father, and Hand Maiden within the tower. He didn’t pay much attention. “Then, over to the East are meeting rooms, the court, as I’m sure you’re aware,” He scoffed, she continued “diplomacy shit we ain’t allowed to know about. North is the dining hall, kitchen. South is the Ballroom, and the courtyard.” ) from arched open doorways on all four sides.
It was such a target to be titled “Sand Duty” because it was on the second level of the castle with open lookouts nearly every 3 meters, and when it got particularly windy, this specific location was perfectly situated to be hit with nearly wave after wave of sand blowing inside.
So there he stood, broom in hand, beginning what seemed like a Sisyphean task: sweeping up all this goddamn sand. There was so much of it, his boots left heavy footprints, and the edges of the center-run carpet were concealed entirely underneath the golden earth.
He whispered a prayer, and began.
It was, by nature, Sisyphean. Perhaps it wouldn’t be, were it not so windy, but this hypothetical was almost invalid as wind blew off the sea nearly every hour of every day. It was one of the many “charming” things about Maihara, a constant breeze, the reason salt hung so heavily in the air— but Bakugou, who had fallen hard for the charm of it, was now the wiser. The wind was torturous, and he had never been left with such an idle mind as the task turned slowly into muscle memory.
It rendered him unbelievably interested in the conversations of passers-by, even the passers-by themselves if they were something to be seen— which, typically, they weren’t.
He had lost count of however many times he’d seen guards walk past, usually rotating between 4 of them every 10 minutes or so. He saw the occasional maid, hurrying off, sometimes accompanied by a servant or two. When that was the case, both the maid and the servants tended to carry more supplies, leading him to believe that somewhere in this impressive building, something went wrong. It made him chuckle, a little, and that ease of humor was how he knew this whole situation was bad for him.
There was one time, though, that stuck out specifically. As he was switching from the Southern to the Western Corridor, he heard lively chattering from the other end, all the way across the expanse of the Atrium. He couldn’t make out what they were saying at all, and this wordless conversation didn’t exactly give him enough information to get interested— so, he left his head down, staring at the mini pyramids of sand he was building with the end of the broom. It was when they turned onto the Western that he glanced up and to his complete astonishment there walked the Queen with her daughter, the two regal women being trailed closely by the queen’s Handmaiden.
Their voices hushed, reducing what he could clearly make out into giggles and gasps.
“I hate those assholes and meetings more and more each time I go to one,” The Princess stomped on beat to her syllables, dragging them out like she was exhausted.
“Don’t say that,” The Queen scolded.
“Beuf ,” The princess scoffed with a lethal roll of the eyes, and the Handmaiden tipped back her head and laughed. “Maiahra est la plus— l-la plus— le plus connu de tout le monde vient de Maiahra! On peut pas se coucher et le prendre!”
“Did you hear him this morning?!”
“Girls, your mouths!” The Queen’s jaw gaped slightly, swatting at her daughter’s head, who laughed and blocked it.
Bakugou was beside himself. He had seen the two royals in courts from the cold, impersonal distance they had everyone stand at, civilians, nobility, and foreigners alike. He’d grown so accustomed to their cool, booming voices echoing around halls and their words being chanted back at them, that this blatant display of humanity seemed to him completely. He felt as if he was wading through a thick dream as they blew past him without a glance or word.
“Ça c'était un mousquetaire, non?” The princess whispered with furrowed eyebrows, sparing him the glance he was wondering about and leaving him even more confused, “Qu’est-ce qu’il fait ici, balayer le sol?”
Not like he understood much French (he heard the Princess say “Musketeer” with a funny intonation and quit trying to make heads or tails of it after that). The royals liked it that way, he figured. It was the official language of diplomacy between the 6 Nations, and it made everything more universal for the leaders; more obscure for everything else. Perhaps he was a conspiricist, but to him this choice always seemed intentional and done for the sake of being covert with one’s international political movements.
“Il a raté son obligation à la frontière nord, hier.”
“Mais qu’est-ce qu’ils font, les autres? Il a fait quoi à rater?”
“C’est juste lui.”
“Bah, ouais, carrément, mais ça dure combien de temps–?”
“On verra. Deux semaines, peut-être, mais y’a cette réunion-la et peut-être qu'on va vouloir qu’il reste ici avec toi.” The Queen seemed briefly impatient, a light crease of tiredness spreading across her face. Nevertheless, she petted her daughter’s hair. “Tu me fatigues.”
“Would you tell me what I’ve missed?” The Handmaiden pleaded as the women paused at the entry-way to the Princess’s Chambers. Exhibit A, Bakugou thought to himself, even the closest confidant of the Queen didn’t thoroughly speak it well. The Princess looked back to Bakugou with a sharp glare, and his gaze immediately flicked back down to the floor.
“Je crois qu’on a un petit souris,” She said, “Vas-y, ‘faut qu’on cache dans la chambre, et t'inquiète j’ai les bonnes pour toi… tu continues à fumer, right?”
The Handmaiden lowered her voice until he couldn’t hear it anymore, and the Princess laughed, smoothing her hair back.
“I leave the two of you be,” The Queen said, kissing her daughter on the cheek. “Come see me when you’ve finished your repose, my darling.”
“Allez, come on,” The Princess acknowledged her mother with a blink, grabbed the Hand Maiden by the wrist, and dragged her up the stairs to her secret tower, laughter echoing down the cavernous hall and into the wide expanse of the atrium. Bakugou was left, star-struck, sweeping.
The second time he’d see the Princess in such a fashion was around an hour later. The Handmaiden had left, walking by and sparing something a little more than a glance (he had looked up, eyebrows furrowed, chasing her eyes, curious.
“What is it?”
“Oh, pardon me.”
“No,” He said, straightening his posture, “What did you miss?”
“In the—?” The woman looked alarmed, before her face hardened, “It’s confidential, Sir. My apologies.” She smelled very strongly of herbs).
Following her by maybe 20 minutes, the Princess floated down the western steps in a flowy, lightly translucent robe that enveloped her body almost entirely in layers— and had more to spare, billowing out behind her with the wind that breached the castle and the wind that punctuated her walk. She blew past him with barely a glance, leaning over the smooth guard rails to peer down into the Atrium.
He watched, disdain shivering down his spine at her secrecy, the fluency at which she spoke political obscurity, how easily she withheld information. He had never truly seen her face very closely, which even then, the looks that he’d quickly taken at her weren’t perfect, but he knew well enough to confirm his former hypothesis.
She had the look all royalty did when they weren’t selling something. Set eyebrows over hard, stone-cold eyes with shoulders so far back it looked uncomfortable. Toe-to-heel walking, hips switching, hair blowing like they came from pure gold, knew it, and harshly regarded anyone of a more modest background. Inhuman. Perhaps his detestation of most politicians was bleeding into his view of his own representatives, as she rounded the corner sharply and broke into a run down the hall, bare footed.
“Hey,” She called, catching the sleeve of a personal guard, a Kingsman. “Could you tell him I’d like to have a word, later today, when he’s not busy?”
Her voice in English was more boyish than that of hers in French, carried a lilt of impatient politeness as well as general comfortability. Slightly huskier, sicker, better punctuated. Bakugou straighted, tapped the broom out, and brushed all the sand off of the sill.
The guard seemed to have confirmed it.
“Yes, not right now. He’s surely busy, as am I.” She sighed, and Bakugou briefly wondered what the hell she could be so occupied with, running around barefoot in clothing that somehow bordered on nothing at the same time as overdressing. “Thank you very much.”
The Kingsman bowed his head and continued up the stairs to the Royal Chambers, and the Princess peaked down at the Atrium from the guard rail once again.
“Eleonore,” She called, and giggled, “Eleonore, I can’t even see right, I—I think that was cut with something,” She laughed more loudly, leaning over the railing and kicking her feet, “Oh, shit, there are people, fuck,”
Bakugou scoffed. ‘Herbs.’
He attempted to ignore their laughter as the Princess switched to her more girlish, light-sounding French, keeping her secrets close to her chest. He stopped trying to figure out whatever the hell it meant, to make sense of sounds that hung onto each other, leaving no room for reprieve. There were no tones, no specific pauses or breaks. Indecipherable. He willfully tuned it out for as long as it took, until she breezed down the carved stairs and wandered into a secluded room in the West that Bakugou himself had never seen, the depths of which hidden behind a foggy glass door.
For what felt like the hundredth time today, guards circled the perimeter. The sun, bathing the world in a golden, angelic, honied type of glow, was beginning to put itself down. This time, perimeter was different, apparently. The two men stopped, watching him as he swept. After a brief moment, Bakugou’s temper got the better of him.
“You got a staring problem?”
The men laughed, slightly startled, and put their hands up in sync.
“No, no, it’s not that.” They swore to him, readjusting their stances to match their amiable chattering. Bakugou leaned on the broom, eyebrows furrowed as he regarded them in plain distaste.
“Then what?”
“You’re the Musket, ain’t you?” One with brilliantly red hair spoke, the sun hitting him right in the eyes. He squinted as he tried to make eye contact before giving up, he brought his wrist to his forehead, casting a shadow on his face and smoothing out the harsh lines by his eyes and nose. Bakugou scoffed, rolling his eyes and tipping his head down.
“Damn, alright, sorry for asking.” The other laughed slightly, looking over his shoulder and scouting to make sure no one who would scold them for their idle chatter was conveniently coming along. Silence fell among the three men as Bakugou began to consider putting the broom back where he got it, turning in, and going home. Buying something fresh from the market for half the price, eating it alone in his apartment. Maybe, for once, he’d go down and join in the crowd. Smoke something. Drink. His back was aching from leaning towards sand all day, and it left an ugly, bruising, purple mark upon his work ethic.
“Look, we got this thing going on with the other guys,” The redhead said again, and Bakugou looked back up at him, blinking harshly to rid his eyes of sand. “We’re meeting up all together in the kitchens tonight, playing some poker, we got some good stuff, you know. If you wanna come, we want you there.”
“Want to know why you got stuck here, more like,” The other one, a yellower blond than Bakugou himself, chuckled. “Come with us.” He implored.
“Very low commitment.” The red one tacked on, trying desperately to read the platinum blond’s face and failing miserably.
Bakugou mulled it over in his head. People he didn’t know, though people whose faces were likely somewhere swimming in his memory. A smokey room. The promise of “good stuff,” card games, communication. It had been a long time since Bakugou had found himself in a group, and before he could come up with any jarringly realistic counter reasons (par contre to his overly romanticising view of the event) , he heard himself agreeing.
“Yeah?” They sounded surprised.
“Well, alright, then. We’ll see you in the Kitchens tonight at 10,” The redhead said, grinning, and they continued their perimeter, walking off with a wave.