Ruby Slippers

"I do think the young madam is going on a trip," said the maid

"I know," replied the bodyguard.

"Of course you know," scolded the maid, giving him a knowing look. "Either way, the magister just sent Selkie for the paperwork to cross the garrison outpost. Can you imagine, our young madam, out in that part of the country?" The maid chuckled to herself, while the bodyguard stared idly and bleakly beside her. 

Earlier this morning he had paced his sparce room, fiddling with the buttons of his black tunic's cuffs. And the morning before, he had watched the young madam pull out all of her shoes. He had stood in the shadows, still, like an austere object of decoration. His guardianship was wholly uneccessary for the young madam, who had many times demonstrated her capacity to defend herself, but his presence did serve a more gaudy purpose: a reminder of the magister's wealth, an obselete purchase of luxury like paintings to be put into storage or books one never planned to read. The bodyguard watched her, thus, invisibly, at attention, eying her while she distracted herself, and straining to hear anything muttered. The only other time she had pulled out all of her shoes was when she took a trip outside the Tevinter capital. She stocked so little that he found practical, and the search to find something suitable for long journies could easily take up her whole morning. 

He served her in the morning and mid-afternoon hours while his colleague, Marcus Gaus, was her escort and watch in the evening and early morning. Marcus was a cranky old veteran with a scar down his left cheek,  and with two missing fingers on his left hand. He liked to ask the maids if they had lovers when he thought no one else could hear, but overall, did his job seriously and well. Between the two of them, Marcus was Lus's senior, but they were both called 'guard', as one was almost always asleep.

So yesterday, the junior bodyguard had witnessed her take out all of her shoes and ponder many thoughts to herself. Earlier this morning he had paced his bedchamber, anxiety unmasked. Currently, he awaited Agatha to prepare the breakfast tray she had ask him to take up to the madam. Agatha loved to talk to herself as if she were talking to him. As she did this, she piled scones and clotted cream and a lovely teacup and teapot and porridge with a pot of honey beside it, along with a selection of pastries and cookies.

"Oh, don't give me that look," Agatha finished, at last handing him the laden tray. "I'm sure she will miss you too. Now hurry on up. Selkie would have brought this up ten minutes ago. "

"I-" began the bodyguard, suddenly taken aback, but he was pushed out the kitchen door before he could say more. He was not used to speaking nor feeling the urgency to speak. He looked down at the tray and sighed. His tight grip betrayed his lack of training for the task of bearing such a fine ornament as this breakfast. He promptly stomped up the steps to the young madams bedchamber.

He thought about what he should say. Should he poise a question? He never poised questions. Should he stay silent and allow the coinflip between himself and his senior. Was it even a coinflip? He was just the junior bodyguard. Four years of service and he was still just the junior bodyguard. So he had to do something, but what?

As he approached her room, he felt the prickles of fatigue that her living presence always gifted him. All his breathes became almost sighs. Long ago, his heated ruminations of multiple stab-wounds had been sucked away of life, chilling into the simple objective of execution. His secret hatred had somehow, Maker's goft, been confused with secret love by the rest of the staff. Her trip could be the end of everything as he knew it, and he could be free of this rediculous life. He shifted the tray to one arm and knocked on her door.

"Madam, breakfast. May I enter?" said her bodyguard.

Octavia hated travelling. Too much she needed. Not enough space - or so her servants tried to tell her. She'd pursed her lips in thought most of the last few days, pointing, judging, deciding. What would come, what would stay. What would she miss. What had she forgotten she possessed.

While not of any high bred stature, importance and wealth beyond the lavish still came with the territory. She was the apprentice of a Magister, after all. And, one day, she'd be Magister in his stead. One beautiful day.

Hopefully sooner rather than later if he was going to keep sending her on "trips" like this. And this, oh Maker, this was the worst of them all. Expected to go to the south? Cold, damp, filled to the brim with rabble.

A knock disturbed her and her features soured. She wrapped her robe a bit tighter about herself. As if the mere presence of one beneath her would bring the chill of the south to her feet. Octavia knew who it was before he spoke. Could feel that certain something only he brought with him.

She let out a weary sigh, rolling her eyes as she moved away from the door to sit dramatically on her chaise. Octavia made no move to speak or acknowledge the door more than she already had. Instead, her handmaiden scurried to the door in her stead.

"She's in a right state she is," the young woman whispered harshly to the guard as she opened the door. "Maybe you can lift that dour mood of hers, eh?" The rumors had not escaped the ear of the handmaid as she flashed him a smile before ducking out of his way.

Aulus gaped as the handmaid scurried by him with a snicker. Preciariously, he lifted the tray so she wouldn't jostle it, causing the laden saucers, bowls, and pastry to jiggle and clink. Many a time before he'd chase down these women who seemed to savor the story they built up in their minds, so that he would not have to be alone with Octavia, but with a grim bleak glance as the gray skirts rounded the corner, he admitted to himself it was better to attempt this conversation while there were no witnesses. He paused again, trying to find the strength, his grip white on the silver, and then, he stepped inside.

He glanced about the room, and then at her, before humbly switching to the ground as he was supposed to. She was strewn on a fancy couch, her room dismantled and trinkets tossed about. The scent of it all hit him first, a melange of soap, perfume, and other mysterious components that always left him feeling uneasy. Dark thoughts skittled anxiously across his mind as he stepped haphhazardly around the mess with the calculated grace of cat. She doesn't deserve any of this. Spoiled, lazy woman. Egotistical and selfish brat. He looked stiff, brittle, in his black pressed uniform, the complete opposite of her.

Fear tickled him as he set the tray down unceremoniously and without delicacy. He growled in reply to the clink of porcelain and metal, as if it were the final straw to the frustration of this unfamiliar chore. He touched the sword at his waist as if it might offer reassurence, and then, Aulus rose, hastily bowed, and turned towards his spot.

His spot was beside the doorway, where he stood for countless hours a fixture of protection and a flesh suit of armor. He stood to return to his vacant, expressionless, invisible duty. He had proven himself most excellent at it, never looking directly at her, never responding to her in any manner that wasn't pure professionalism, no matter how her presence left him feeling hollow, broken, and lost.

He stood to return, but suddenly, hesitated, then double backed and dropped to one knee before her. "Take me," he said, his voice rumbling and shaky with lack of use. He tried to meet her eyes and his fist clenched and unclenched on his knee. 

"On this trip, take me instead of Gaus as your guard." He looked at her with that serious, desperate expression so misunderstood by the houseservants, that he was normally so careful with. As he looked at her beautiful, sinister form a cold paleness spread across his face, and some deep muscle in his chest tightened and twisted painfully in a sensation he had long come to interpret as his own miserable, pathetic hatred. Let me end this, he thought, mad with his growing weakness. When the deep muscle twitched, a sensation he had never felt before, never testing this level of confrontation with her before, he looked down again and swallowed against the clenching of his jaw. 

"Please," he added hastily, remembering a tongue-lashing Agatha had last given him about his demanding tone.

A commotion seemed to happen at the door, but Octavia couldn't be bothered to care. Instead, she began to pick at her long nails. Another bored sigh escaping her lips when the help seemed to sort themselves out. Honestly, was it truly so difficult to be efficient? Ah, but the clank of armour further proved she knew who delivered her meal. Another reason she did not desire to touch it.

Octavia did not look up when he approached, engrossed in the nothing of picking at her nails. One leg crossed over the other at the knee bounced slightly. The only current indication of her impatience.

Briefly, her eyes flicked to where he set the tray down. Her lip curling slightly.

But he did not depart from her presence. Instead standing there like a clueless slave. Only to drop to a knee and... beg? No. It was too demanding to be begging.

Ummm, no.

It hardly occurred to Octavia he meant anything other than the physical that came first to her mind. The sneer on her lips finally showing a bit more as she tipped her head up to look at him.

Octavia sniffed. I'm not leaving yet. Seeking something else to do with her hands, she began to brush her fingers through some strands of long hair. Her gaze flickered away from him and to what she was doing. As if it were now the most important thing in the world.

Aulus's fist clenched firmly, no longer flexing with anxiety, and a bristle of frustration flared inside him. While the tense sensation in his chest did not relent, the edges of his fear were softened, and he looked at her again.

She was being obtuse on purpose, he thought.

He had seen her pull this act innumerable times before, upon most who wanted something from her, also. But, he could tell it was an imperfect deflection, as he paused, and the heat in his gaze quenched. With typically many appointments and errands abound, Octavia could brush off the lobbyists with her departure. Here she had nothing to run off to do, just oversee her handmaids packing and take breaks in between. He looked at her, methodically numbing himself to what he knew he could expect from her.

"When you leave," he said flatly, watching her fingers pick at her hair, "in three days. I am the better choice." Aulus rose, and walked to a vanity where he had glanced a brush among the clutter. He grabbed it like a dagger, and then, he walked to loom over her. Aulus handed it to her as if it were a blade aimed at her heart. "A brush," he gritted.

Her gaze shifted to him with just the barest flick, just a hint of a glance. Persistent. She sighed, rolling her eyes back to what she was doing. Her hair was better to look at anyway.

I'll decide in three days, then. Her own answer was flat, though edging more on bored. Perhaps flippant to those who knew her well enough.

Finally, Octavia stopped and looked up at him. Her hands pausing in their work. She sighed again, this time annoyed. Okay, you can do it.

Tucking her legs up under herself, she spun to give him her back. Resuming, then, looking at and picking at her long, sharp nails.