churbooseanon

Starlight Challenge Weekly prompt: February 9th, 2015

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He spends years pretending to forget, and sometimes he even fools himself.

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Fandom: Red Versus Blue
Character: Locus, Felix
Ship: Lolix
Rating: G
Word Count: 4406
Notes: Synnesai sent me a song and mentioned an idea and this sorta just happened.

Sun and Moon

The life of a young noble, Locus learned early on, was one of tedium. No, that statement was not entirely true. It was more correct to say that winters as a young noble resulted in the worst kind of tedium imaginable.

For the rest of the year his life was one of lessons. Lessons on etiquette. Lessons on the management of not only the vast estates he was to inherit but in how to delegate responsibilities to trusted subordinates. Lessons on recognizing which subordinates could be trusted with funds and which were hardly fit to be trusted mucking out stables. Politics, finances, the brokering of deals and power and currying of favor were all things he was trained in from a young age. Riding, hunting, combat, and conversation were all relevant points to him. Spring, summer and fall were filled with useful, nay, vital information and crucial lessons that would one day serve him in fulfilling his duty as the heir to the Castille family.

Then, of course, there was the winter. Winter could be a useful time as well. In winter he could learn lessons about tracking game in the snow when it was less common. Or he could spend more time perfecting his skill with a blade. There were even simple brawling skills he desired to learn for if he found himself unarmed that could pass away the time. Failing that there was the library, which he rarely found himself free enough to indulge in the less record-keeping aspects of their not insubstantial collection.

Instead his family passed their winters paying court to the royal family. Winter court, when all there was for the nobles and wealthy to while away the hours was ball after ball after ridiculous ball. Parties and frivolities and gross misuses of stores that should have been laid in for the lean parts of the winter. Celebrations festooned with evergreen boughs and garlands of garishly colored cloths and men and women in overly expensive and difficult to wear formal layers so they might impress the royals that they might see once or twice. An elaborate and useless waste of wealth to dance attendance upon individuals whose only qualification for sitting the throne was the loins from whence they sprang.

To be fair it wasn’t half so bad as that, of course. The balls and galas Locus was expected to attend had been a paltry few in the past. There was the royal affair on Midwinter’s Eve of course, as failure to attend that for anything less than illness would be frowned upon. Nor could he consider missing the more private affair his mother and sisters arranged within their own winter home in the capital. There were the revelries held by the families of true friends he had no concern in attending because he was well aware he’d have time with young men his own age who found these things as frightfully boring as he did. Between those Locus often found his meager taste for the inane but socially acceptable prattle and distaste for an overwhelming press of people well filled and many others he could beg out of.

Not this year. Not any year to follow. At last Locus was what his father deemed of a suitable betrothable age, and clearly his parents desired to waste no time in showing him like some prize stud. While he was not as primped and paraded as his elder sister was two years before, by the end of the first week in the city Locus was quite done with all of the attention. Instead of the normal parties his afternoons were spent in minor festivities at the homes of their allies, being kept busy and seen amongst the right peoples. There was but a two hour breather between afternoon parties and evening events where he was expected to be dressed impeccably and guided from group to group to be shown at the proper parties and noticed by all those nobles his parents thought had daughters befitting his future rank. Locus spent his night chatting about topics they selected, dodging the advances of wealthy widows, and dancing and flirting with those girls and women his parents selected for him.

Every last one of this interchangeable mess of parties was the same, save for the faces he saw. Some girls he danced with multiple nights. Others he met only once in passing. Some compliments he paid a thousand times by rote, others he only produced because his mother had whispered them in his ear. The true annoyance, he supposed, was the fact that tonight as they rode in their carriage to the latest ball–one for which he had an entirely new outfit for, made all of black brocade with deep green accents–his mother was going on and on about what sorts of trinkets could be sent as ‘tokens of affection’ to the handful of girls his parents already seemed to have narrowed down his marriage candidates to. Why should he even care whether she sent carefully arranged sweet meats for one girl while another was given a ribbon shot through with hints of gold to wear in her hair? It wasn’t as if he cared for any of them.

“Let the boy be,” his father said at length, finally as tired of his mother’s prattle as Locus had been from the first word. “Tonight isn’t an evening for such concerns. This is his first Faceless Ball, and he should be let to enjoy it without a care as all young men and women do.”

Something about the way his father said it made Locus look up from the book he had, much to his father’s disapproval, snuck into the carriage with them. He had hoped to secret it into tonight’s party as well, maybe even escape from his parents briefly to find a corner to read to escape from the constant press of people.

“Faceless Ball?” Locus asked, trying to figure out just why that name sounded so familiar. At last it came to him, and Locus found himself smiling at the implication. “Do you mean to say I’m allowed to attend the masquerade this year?”

“Of course,” his father answered as if it was as plainly evident as the nose on his face. “All young men and women of marriageable age are expected to attend. Did you somehow think, in the midst of all our work to find you a wife, that you had not reached that point yet?”

“Now dear,” his mother said quietly, hand coming to rest gently on her husband’s arm, “Locus was just not…”

“I can speak for myself, Mother,” Locus sighed, closing his book with a brusque snap. “And I had forgotten of the custom. This means, I believe, that I may make my own company tonight?”

“Of course,” his father repeated, nodding. “But remember that even in a mask, you reflect upon your family. Any antics you get up to may still be attached to our name if you are unmasked. You must still behave befitting a Castille.”

Locus just smiled to himself, gazing through the window of the carriage. Yes, he would behave as befit his family, be sure to not disgrace the name, and a hundred other variations on the same sentiment with only slight tweaks to the language. No, his concerns tonight would be dominated by not dancing with anyone, not paying the same repeated compliments, and not dancing his feet sore just to show well.

No, tonight would be his.

* * * * * * *

By the time the carriage arrived at the manse of the Duke of Chorus, Locus almost found himself eager for the party. Yes, being old enough to finally attend this particular ball was a pleasure, but the truth be told, Locus’s main enjoyment was the idea that he could slip away from his family and no one could hold it against him. Yet as his mother produced a trio of masks from somewhere and passed one across to him, there was a bubbly sort of feeling in his gut. This, then, was his face for the night.

And what a face it was. The whole thing mimicked a human face, but softer, rounder, more generic. His parents were clearly designed to match, done up in the family colors in a way that was clearly meant to advertise who they were. His own mask, on the other hand, had been made to suit his outfit. Jet beads outlined the eyes, offsetting the dark green enamel and the faint silver lines that traced the curve of the cheek and line of his jaw. It wasn’t as extravagant as his parents’, theirs practically dripping with beads, flowers and feathers, but Locus found the full face mask far more fitting to him than their half masks.

It took but a moment to tie the mask on, the long silk ribbons anchoring it to his head, tying the bow just above the queue of his chair. The carriage door opened just as he got the thing settled comfortably, and Locus stepped out to look over the mass of people gathering past the doors and servants. Gentle strands of music flowed from the doors and Locus almost felt caught up in them for a moment, walking forward. He almost halted himself, intending to hang back for his parents to catch up. But no, tonight he was responsible for himself and thus he finally strode forward, confident of his freedom, even if only for a night.

Compared to all the other parties Locus had attended, this one was almost sedately decorated. Which, as he cast his eyes about and saw the splendor of the guests, was understandable. The decoration itself was in the extravagant outfits and the faces the guests wore. Locus did his best to move confidently forward, through the well dressed forest of bodies. There were so many different sorts of masks. Faces that ranged from just patterns over the human form like his own to a wide range of animals both real and fantastic.

The music carried him forward slowly, and soon Locus found himself drawn toward a crowd of people he thought to be closer to his own age. It was hard to tell, but with the way the males hovered closer to the females, the louder laughter, the nervous shifting seemed right. Seemed appropriate behavior for those his age, and while he was not quite fond of that behavior, these were at least the people he’d be expected to spend some time with.

As Locus approached he found that the reason there was such a congregation for him to even notice in the first place. Everyone of the nearly twenty people gathered were angled to look toward a single man dressed in soft gold and rich orange arranged in a fetching manner that was only emphasized by the plain, undecorated silver of his mask. Every other person gathered was focused on the man, who didn’t carry himself with the normal poise or control, but who was slouching against a table.

For a while Locus stood there, at the edge of the gathering, and listened. Listened at the stranger in the silver mask as he told strange stories, crude jokes, and held the attention of everyone around him. Except for Locus. Locus found himself quickly growing bored of the stories, each less reasonable than the last, each clearly more built up than the last to hold on to the rapt attention of his audience. As he laughed his way through another story, Locus finally just turned and strode away. Tired of this bit of foolishness he wandered off to find a quiet corner to enjoy the book that he had snuck in with him. Turned out a masquerade ball was just as boring of an event as any other.

The bench he found on a balcony overlooking the dance floor turned out to be the perfect area. While he knew already that it was almost cliche to look to such nooks for privacy between couples, but Locus was quite happy for the light from a nearby sconce so that he might enjoy the simpler and more lasting pleasure of his reading.

“Is it any good?”

The voice was low, curious, and unfortunately familiar. Worse than that, it was practically in his ear, the words silky smooth and warm over his skin, and Locus had to shiver before he turned to glare at the silver-masked young man, only to find himself face to face with something unexpected. As certain as it that this was the same young man from earlier, the simple silvery mask had been replaced with a half mask styled as the sun. Nor were his clothes from earlier evident due to the long black cloak wrapped around him.

Still, there was a way those now visible lips curved that said it could be no one else, and it wasn’t as if Locus doubted his ear. Why he was here, though, Locus could not begin to fathom. Of everyone who had been present to listen to him, Locus clearly had proved to be the least interested. Whether his stories proved to be true or not failed to concern Locus. Perhaps, Locus mused, it was the fact that he had walked away that had caught the man’s attention.

Even that, though, could not explain the new mask or the cloak.

“It is,” Locus answered cautiously, not even closing his book.

“Party not doing it for you either?”

Locus resisted the urge to roll his eyes because it had truly seemed like this man was enjoying himself with his little hoard of hangers on. No, the way the other man smirked at him made him seem much like the way Locus’s youngest sister reacted around the cats of their manse. They cared more for the staff and hunting mice, and so they cared not for a girl chasing after them with grubby hands. And Lacey, the cheerful girl she was, only saw that as an invitation to toddle after the things.

“The theory is alluring, but even now people follow the same routines they normally use, save the specific posturings of those seeking to find good marriages,” Locus admitted. Normally he would not dare to say such a thing, but the point of a situation like this was the freedom it afforded one. Besides, his clothing tonight had not been chosen to showcase the family colors, and this was his first proper winter season, so the chances of him being recognized were slim at best.

“Exactly the problem,” the other man sighed, sitting down on the bench next to Locus and leaning back against the banister. At last Locus allowed himself a true look at the other man. There was something about the flashy gold of the mask, not to mention the rays that stuck out from the form that made Locus think again of the smirk the man wore as easily as the mask.

“Everything here is exactly like everything else, and it’s boring. So, I think it’s time to make things a bit more… entertaining.”

As Locus watched the man swung one of his arms wide, showing Locus a flash of the orange and yellow of the man’s clothing even as the stranger produced a bundle of black cloth which he held out toward Locus. Only with that bundle held out to him did Locus realize why the mask the stranger now wore seemed familiar. After returning from this ball last year, Locus’s elder sister had spent hours chattering about how she’d been chosen as the companion for the one dance traditional to the Faceless ball.

“You’re the most interesting person here in the way you’re completely uninterested in me,” the stranger laughed as Locus took the cloth and pulled back a fold, uncovering a silver half-mask of a crescent moon.

“Me?” Locus asked, unable to take his eyes from the surprisingly light-weight metal mask. There was a reason, he realized, that the stranger’s mask looked so bright: chances were it was made of gold, or at least something gilded. “You want me to partner you for the dance?”

“Clearly.”

Again Locus was met with a wide smirk as he looked up at the stranger. “Clearly you’ve never been to one of these balls either. From my understanding your job is to ask a woman to dance with you.”

“Don’t you dare presume to tell the sun his business,” the man teased. “This would be way more entertaining than the usual arrangement of things, and if I’m going to be the sun, I intend to choose a moon that will entertain me.”

Locus just kept staring at the other man, trying to process this. From what he understood, in no small part due to the ramblings of his sister and the rememberings of his mother. The height of the Faceless Ball was the dance of the sun and the moon. The tellings of his family said that the purpose was to tell the tale of the dance of the sun and moon through the sky, how the sun so loved the moon that he spent part of the year hiding himself so that his love might be seen all the better. Every year the role of the sun was assigned to a noble who would attend the ball by the King himself, and the sun had to, by the end of the evening, choose a moon to dance with. Those dancers would replace their own masks and don cloaks to darken themselves like the sky, and together they would dance to bring the sun back. It was an old custom, thought to help end the lengthening nights and return longer days, but now was just another festivity.

And to the best of Locus’s knowledge, the sun was always a man, and the moon a woman. Yet here he sat, the mask of the moon in his lap, staring in bafflement at a stranger that wouldn’t even be able to see the way he could feel his mouth gaping open thanks to the mask Locus was wearing.

“Come on, no one will know it was you,” the stranger cooed. “It will make a buzz, and once we’re done you just take off the cloak and replace your own mask and no one will be any the wiser.”

“The King…”

“Only knows who I am,” the other man smirked wider. “And only I’ll know who you are. Not that I even know your name. Come on. Make a bit of a fuss with me.”

Again Locus’s eyes roved down to the mask before him. At last he reached up behind his head, untied his own mask, and smiled briefly at the stranger.

“Step on my toes, and I’ll find a way to avenge myself.”

As the stranger reached out and lifted the silvery mask to Locus’s face, he was graced with an almost sweet smile.

“I don’t doubt you will.”

* * * * * * *

The whole party seemed to hush as Locus followed the tugging on his hand and the other guests parted before him and the sun-masked stranger. All eyes, clearly, were on them, and Locus was doing his best not to just pull away from the King’s chosen representative and just flee. This was, undoubtedly, a terrible idea. The best thing he could do in this moment was to drop that hand and walk away, to flee. Stuff the cloak and mask behind something and hide until it was time to go home.

Except the people were still parting before them, and at last they stood on the edge of the cleared dance floor as the hired musicians were already striking up a new song.

“This is the worst situation I’ve ever been involved in,” Locus mumbled quietly to the stranger, who just chuckled and shook his head.

“Follow my lead. Just let me move you and we’ll be fine,” the smiling stranger insisted, bowing over Locus’s hand as if he was some maid.

All Locus could do was breathe deeply, and wait for the man to raise his hand. His own he lifted and rested firmly against that of the stranger, trying not to flinch as the man laced their fingers together and guided them easily into the steps.

It was strange, more than just strange, to not be the one guiding the steps of the dance. At first he found himself tripping and stumbling. More than anything he wanted to blame it on the cloak, but the stranger had been very thorough in pinning it up so that it wouldn’t catch around his legs. No, the truth of the matter was that he was having a hard time processing the fact that he was expected to move when the hand pressed to his, the arm that had come to be wrapped around him, and the touches of the stranger prompted him to move.

With each step, though, it grew easier, could see that in the way the other man smiled at him as they moved together to the music. Locus caught his eyes falling closed as he focused on the press and pull of the stranger’s hands guiding him through the steps. For the moments they drooped closed it almost felt like he was floating. Maybe his dancing partner realized that as well, because when Locus’s eyes opened again, he was always met with a softer, almost genuine smile.

The dance was a slow one, not the sort Locus had been trained in. These days it was more popular to have cheerful, energetic, and highly arranged dances than to have these slower, quieter, more intimate moments like this one. Truth be told, Locus thought he understood why now, for there was something that suddenly seemed intoxicating about the other man’s presence.

“You know… the music ended.”

Locus blushed hotly at that sudden whispering from the other man and he pulled away, freeing himself from the stranger’s grip. Instead of snapping at him he just bowed, as he would to any other dance partner, and turned toward the crowd. Still there were countless eyes on him, and he dared not think of why they would be. Thankfully when he strode forward people parted before him, allowing him to flee–slowly and deliberately of course–from the dance floor and back toward the darkened hall that he had donned and adjusted the cloak in.

Within moments he wasn’t alone, not from the sound of footsteps behind him.

“You should have heard the whispers the second you walked away,” the stranger laughed, and Locus whirled on the other man, glaring at him through his mask.

“I’m glad you were amu…”

The rest of the ire that Locus intended to throw at the man was ruined by the arms looping around his neck and the lips pressed lightly against his own. Then and there he should have thrust the man from him, but for a moment it felt almost like they were still in the dance, and it felt right. So instead of pulling away, his arms were there, wrapping around the man and pulling him closer. Even as his eyes closed he could feel the smile overtaking the stranger’s lips. That, more than anything, finally broke the spell, making Locus push the other man away.

“How dare you?” Locus demanded, pulling the silver mask off and thrusting it into the man’s hands before ripping the cloak off. “You presume too much, sir. Far too much.”

With that Locus grabbed his mask from where he had hidden it behind a pot, donned it, and strode off, leaving the stranger behind.

And he found himself unbothered when he didn’t run into the stranger again that night.

* * * * * * *

If only distancing himself from the memory was as easy as it had been to put space between him and the strange, smirking man. It seemed as if there was nothing people could speak of but the dance. Two men together like that, while not unheard of, was apparently the height of gossip. Sure enough it was the only thing his parents could speak of on the carriage ride back to their manse. His father spoke with disdain and disgust that the King could choose someone who would insult such important traditions like the one he saw as insulted. On the other hand there was his mother, who spoke wistfully of love as forbidden as that of the sun and the moon, like the stories told. Nor did it end there. Within hours of returning home the event was the only thing that his sisters and the servants could speak of.

For days, weeks even the whispers followed him. Well, not followed him precisely. Nothing that was said began to hint, even for a moment, that it was him who had worn either of the masks. While speculation was rampant, within days his parents had settled down and returned to the task at hand, which was that of finding his bride. Maybe that would have been a distraction enough, were it not for the fact that the dance was the only thing even the girls he was sent to woo gossiped about.

The only thing that seemed to bring an end to the whispers and speculation was the royal ball itself. There people were too caught up in the awe of meeting the royal family and trying to ingratiate themselves to said individuals. Locus barely even had a full minute to look at the the King and Queen, and he found himself afforded less than a brief glimpse of the young Prince Felix from a distance. But the royal ball meant that Locus was almost free. In fact, the night after the only thing his family had to speak of was his finally pending betrothal to the daughter of the Duke of Chorus himself.

All Locus could think of, though, was the gift that showed up the day after his betrothal was announced publicly.

Because how could he not think of the box filled with a length of green silk and a silvery mask resting upon it. How could he ever think about anything but the small note written in a messy hand.

I hope to dance with you again in the near future. Thank you for the entertainment. Thank you more for the kiss.

-Felix Hamilton Elliott Rafferty Winton the Third, Prince of Valhalla

How in his life, after all, was he to forget a revelation like that?