Chapter Text
The continent of Fear had been thrown into political turmoil following Queen Gertrude’s untimely demise, and the matters were complicated further by the fact that the crown prince Gerard remained stubbornly just as missing as he was before the Queen died.
After a long month without a clear ruler, a legal heir was finally declared: a Princess of a more distant relationt but more fearless than anyone in the remaining main branch of the sparse royal family. The Princess was supposed to arrive at the castle in time for the old Queen's funeral and take the throne immediately after the appropriate mourning period. In the meantime, the responsibility of both funeral preparations and peacekeeping fell onto Duke Peter Lukas, who was only marginally easier to get hold of than the missing Crown Prince.
None of this had anything to do with Martin.
None of this should have had anything to do with Martin, yet somehow here he was in the capital city, having dinner with Count Magnus as Duke Lukas's substitute.
The table before him was filled with a feast fit for the late queen, yet the whole ordeal filled Martin with deep terror. He wished nothing more than to be on his way already. Perhaps if he left quickly, he would be lucky, for once in his life, and see the handsome knight who had welcomed him in the Magnus estate again. The knight had done nothing but be professionally polite, but Martin was so starved for positive attention that it was enough.
Martin did not leave, of course. He sat firmly on his appointed seat at the end of the table far too large for the three people seated at it, and tried to calculate which fork he was meant to use next. Martin had set enough tables for nobility, though at the remote Lukas castle he had worked at until recently, everyone important ate alone, that he knew the proper order of the cutlery by heart, but he had no idea how it was meant to be used actually.
His hands were getting sweaty, and he could not stop himself from nervously glancing around the room again. Count Magnus had casually referred to this room as the small dining room when he had led Martin in, but Martin's whole house would have fit in here without a struggle. When his mother had been well enough to have a house, that was.
With its high ceiling and expensive furnishings, the room would have been beautiful if not for the unsettling eye decor carved into nearly every surface. It was not surprising, given where Martin was, but did Magnus think that if his house were not constantly staring at his guests, they would forget where they were?
The centerpiece of the dining room was the dining table, of course. Its wooden surface was smooth as glass save for the eye carving in the middle, dutifully polished until each diner could see their reflection from it as if the very table watched and judged those who dared to sit at it. Martin certainly felt judged, even more than he usually did. He tried to reassure himself that this meeting was not really about him and he had no reason to worry, but he still shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
His outfit was fancy enough for the setting, but like all of Peter’s gifts, it was uncomfortable and awkward. The waistcoat was just a touch too small for Martin, which he was almost sure was on purpose since the Duke was not a small man himself either. The ill-fitting but expensive clothes left Martin feeling just as he was, someone who did not belong among all this luxury. The Count had not commented on it, but Martin was sure he could see his unease even without any help from his patron.
Martin swallowed both the discomfort and his wine, and tried to focus again on the Count and his endless questions. The questions at least had absolutely nothing to do with Martin. Magnus asked about Peter, his whereabouts and plans, and Martin had well-rehearsed polite answers ready that he could give out when requested. Martin himself asked nothing and in general offered very little of what he had not been asked.
The Count was not a young man by any means, but he still was younger than Martin had expected. Judging by the way Peter had spoken of him, Martin had assumed they would be of similar age.
What Count Elias Magnus was, was condescending and nosy. That was fine, Martin had a long experience with rude old men. Keeping his head down and remembering to add the words 'my lord' after every sentence usually did the trick.
The real problem was Lord Jonathan.
After a brief introduction, Lord Jonathan had done nothing but stare at Martin from his seat next to the Count. He had barely touched his food, and Martin could swear that the man had not blinked even once. Elias had not eaten much either, despite the feast laid in front of the table. Martin had eaten his fill and wondered if that had somehow been a breach of etiquette.
Both the Count and his heir wore similar outfits with eye motifs meticulously embroidered on them with silver thread. If Martin looked at the patterns long enough, they, unlike Lord Jonathan, seemed to blink. Besides the outfit, Lord Jonathan did not look a thing like Count Magnus, he was considerably shorter and darker, so he most likely was not the Count's son.
Martin idly wondered what made him the Count's heir then. He was aware that since the Great Fears cared about bloodlines a lot less than the people living in their realm, inheritances tended to be tricky. As far as he knew, the Lukases were the only ones managing to consistently keep the power of Forsaken in the family. It was none of Martin’s business of course, most things weren't.
It was hard for Martin to estimate Jonathan’s age. His harsh expression lined his otherwise youthful face, and his dark hair had already begun to grey at his temples. He however had that air of carefully curated maturity into him that Martin recognised from his own first attempts to hold a job despite being just a boy, that he came to the careful conclusion that the only thing he and Lord Jonathan had in common was that they looked older than their actual years.
Jonathan was not exactly handsome, not in a conventional way anyway, but Martin knew he would have found his sharp and gaunt look very appealing if he didn't watch Martin like a hawk. A hawk that Martin had personally insulted.
“And how was Peter?” Elias asked. “He never writes. I understand he is a busy man, especially given the recent developments, but It is not proper to ignore old friends like that.”
Elias could call Peter ‘old friend’ all he wanted, but Peter had described Elias as a ‘meddlesome little man’ with more distaste in his voice than there had been when Martin had spilled wine all over his coat. But what did Martin know? Perhaps that did count as a friendship between the rich and powerful.
“He’s sorry he can’t be here in person, but I can assure you he is fine, my lord,” came Martin’s dutiful reply.
“I see,” Elias nodded. “And I understand Peter can be, ah, lax, when it comes to etiquette, but so that you know, that is a dessert fork.”
His voice was carefully friendly in a way that Martin immediately recognized as patronising. What was even worse was that he was sure that the stone-faced Jonathan had smiled for a split second at the blunder that was Martin.
Shame burned bright on Martin’s face. Perhaps Peter truly did not care as long as he got what he wanted, or perhaps he did hold it against Martin but had elected not to comment for whatever reason. Perhaps he even had wanted him to unwittingly insult Elias. Martin had long since decided not to think of Peter’s motives too hard, since those always made his head hurt.
Martin stammered his apologies, switched forks, and the conversation got back on track. The letter had been delivered, Elias found the terms agreeable, and Martin clumsily pretended he knew what had been in the letter. Peter had named him his envoy, but Martin did not have the vaguest idea what actually was expected of him besides delivering letters to the 13 other heads of important houses. Peter had not cared about the order in which he played mailman, as long as Beholding was the first house visited.
Martin figured the dinner was going well enough if his pride was the only thing damaged. He did not have much of that to begin with. Then, the Count turned to address his heir for the first time after introducing Martin to him. The candelabra on the table cast a soft, ethereal glow on Lord Jonathan’s face, highlighting his cheekbones.
"Jonathan, if you would," Elias said.
Jonathan nodded curtly and aimed his piercing gaze right back at Martin. Martin felt his stomach twist, and cold sweat built up under his collar, and he fought against the urge to tug on it. Martin wanted to look away, but found he could not.
"Where is Peter Lukas?" Jonathan asked. His voice was deep and insistent.
Martin was about to repeat the polite but roundabout explanation Peter had made him memorise that he had already told Elias. The Duke apologised that he could not be here in person, but unfortunately, other matters demanded his full attention.
"At the sea," Martin heard his own voice answer instead. "He boarded the Tundra and sailed off as soon as it became clear he was needed in the capital. I don't know where exactly he went, most likely just away from here."
"Does he actually plan to attend both the funeral and the coronation?" Jonathan asked.
"Yes."
"What about the rest of the Lukas family?"
"Conrad and Nathaniel both are coming, Evan is not."
"Why not?"
"I don't know. I think he did something to turn the rest of the family against him, but I was not told the details, and I did not dare to ask," Martin explained.
The words tumbled out of him with no care for whether he wanted to say them or not. When he said them, he cared for nothing but the truth, but a second later the horror struck him. The secrets he had spilled were mild and not even his own, but he felt like throwing up all the expensive food. Why had the Count even insisted on having his heir drag these out of him? Martin was paid well but not enough to attempt to lie directly in the house of the Beholding if he had been directly asked. Probably. He gasped for air in his panic, but his table companions did not react to his distress.
Martin had encountered power before, of course, but it had always been flashy like the dramatic fog Peter liked to disappear into. Or like the crawling corruption and rot drawn to his mum’s sickness that had convinced her it could love her better than Martin ever could.
Lord Jonathan's power was neither dramatic nor violent, but it was incredibly dangerous nonetheless. He wielded it in a manner so casual and comfortable that it suddenly made sense he'd be the heir to the house of Beholding.
Martin's throat tingled, but his mouth was drier than the desert, and his tongue stuck into the roof of his mouth. He took a long gulp of his wine glass. It did nothing to calm his nerves. Now his glass was empty, but there were no servants in the room to fill it for him again, and he knew better than to ask the Count, or his spooky heir, to pass him the bottle.
Elias nodded his approval at Jonathan and then smiled at Martin casually, as if both of them had done him some boring, mundane favour.
"Thank you, Martin," he said.
"It was no problem, my lord," Martin lied now that he could again.
With that, the dinner was over. Martin fled the scene as soon as his knees felt strong enough to carry him again. His heavy footsteps echoed in the hall, and his heartbeat had not quite settled down.
Martin was still quite disoriented when he made it to the gate. The sun was shining, which did not help Martin's confused state, he was too used to rain and fog these days. The handsome knight was still on duty by the gate, but Martin was not as stoked about it as he thought he would. He wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers, which were more expensive than anything Martin had previously owned.
“Everything alright?” The knight asked.
“Yes, Yes. Thank you, sir…?” Martin stammered.
“Timothy, but you can just call me Tim,” Tim said, complete with a lazy wink.
Despite himself, Martin let out a nervous laughter. Tim was somewhat shorter than Martin, but with the way Martin always slouched, there wasn't much visible difference between them. Unlike Martin, Tim was well built, and his gleaming armor, which of course had an eye carved on the chest piece, highlighted the fact.
He felt heat creep up to his face but Tim just smiled at him, well aware of what kind of reaction he ignited in people. His strong jawline was accentuated by a less-than-perfectly groomed beard that added an air of careless charm to his striking features. Martin let Sir Timothy lead him into some small talk in hopes that his heart rate would settle within the year. It worked to a degree, and in the broad daylight near the ivy-covered wall and a clear view of the city through the iron gate, Martin found himself relaxing a little bit.
Tim was still sharing gossip about the Princess no one knew, when Lord Jonathan ran out of the estate that would be his one day.
“Hey you, Lukas’s errand boy,” he yelled out.
Martin thought that was quite rude but held his tongue.
“Wow, Jon. Rude,” said Tim, who had no such reservations.
“What?” Jon asked, “I just wanted to talk to him.”
“And I am telling you that there are multiple perfectly polite ways to do so.”
Jon huffed something unintelligible to this and rolled his eyes. While they were technically arguing, the way they spoke to each other made Martin figure Jon and Tim were, if not friends, at least on friendly terms with each other. Not that Martin had enough friends to make the comparison.
“Did you need something, my lord?” Martin asked, unsure what Jon’s rank even was. Viscount maybe?
All he knew was that he should not refer to the man as simply Jon even in his private thoughts. Thoughts could be dangerous when he was quite literally standing in Beholding’s yard.
Tim chuckled softly, determined to keep the affair casual, yet Jon glared at Martin.
“I can’t help but find you suspicious,” Jon told him, and then his eyes narrowed and the next words came out with great intensity. “Why do you even work for the Lukases?”
“I don't know,” Martin admitted without meaning to. “I think it is like, like a joke or something? I was hired to the Lukas estate as a stablehand, and even that was too much. I am actually scared of horses, okay? When Duke Lukas himself asked to speak with me, I was so scared that he had found out I lied about my credentials, but then out of the blue, he tells me I’d been selected as his personal envoy? It has to be a joke, but I need to pay for my sick mother’s care, and the Duke is so scary that what else could I have done other than accept his offer? It is not like I would work for him if I had any real choice.”
Martin snapped his mouth shut with an audible click of his teeth, but it was too late for that. He had just spit out his disloyalty and lies like it was nothing. His own incompetence was nothing next to that. Jon stared at him in wide-eyed confusion, and next to him Tim looked angry, but not at Martin.
“Dammit, Jon. What did you do that for,” Tim demanded.
“I didn't, I didn't mean to,” Jon stammered, more to Tim than to Martin.
This did not go unnoticed by Tim, who nudged Jon toward Martin. Martin hung his head low, avoiding looking at either of them. He had no idea what kind of expression Jon was making. He would have claimed he didn't care, but that would have been another lie, and not even one of his better ones.
“I shouldn't have told you that,” Martin said despite having no choice but to say it. “Peter will have me beheaded. Or worse, fired! I can’t afford that.”
Martin was well on his way to working himself up into a full-blown panic attack on how the Lukas’s money was the only thing keeping Martin’s mother from fully becoming a feeding ground for the Crawling Rot when Tim put his gauntleted hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” he said softly. “No one is going to tell the Lukases anything.”
Martin’s eyes flickered to Jon, who looked more embarrassed than he had right to. Jon fiddled with the collar of his cape, which seemed too dramatic now that they were outside in the daylight and not in the candle-lit hall with spooky eye decor everywhere.
“I have nothing to gain for Duke Lukas knowing about this conversation,” he tugged at his collar again, “and, for what it is worth, I did not mean to compel you. It was meant to be a normal question.”
“Sure,” Martin said.
He could believe it was accidental, power had never seemed too stable to him. He however was not too convinced that Jon, or even Tim, would not tell on him at the first opportunity that would bring them the advantage. People were like that. All of them.
“I mean it. Neither Tim nor I will tell anyone what you told me. That includes Count Magnus. He could theoretically just know it, but since he wanted me present at the dinner, I’d say he had bigger worries than an unwilling envoy,” Jon said.
Jon smiled after he was finished, awkwardly like he had forgotten how to do that, but unfortunately for Martin, he had quite a pleasant smile. With his sharp features and presence that filled the whole courtyard despite being by far the smallest person present, he was exactly the kind of man Martin wanted to smile at him.
Despite this unfortunate attraction, Martin was not still quite convinced, but what could he do? He mumbled his thanks and goodbyes before bowing to Jon and escaping. The eyes engraved next to the gate followed him all the way across the street.