- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
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- Anytime, I have no life.
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- Douche
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- Male
- Nonbinary
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- Primarily Prefer Male
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- Fantasy, romance, slice of life, anti-hero stories, "you're our only hope", fandom non-canons, soft scifi, transhumanism, magical girls, horror, suspense / mystery, detective noir, fractured fairytales
Tap-tap. Lysander tapped his long-dried pen against his notes.
The meeting dragged on. Lysander had been here early too, hoping he would be able to give his report (No, nothing new. No new illnesses for him to cure despite the early arrival of winter. No, no new antidotes to any new poison. No, no new apprentices either. That's right, still no intention of taking in an apprentice. Yes, he was getting on with his years, Lord Foscari, but that did not mean he intended to take on anyone who believed themselves capable of becoming an alchemist.) and retire back to his study before it was too late in the day to eat his dinner warm. Alas — no such luck. Lysander was forced, as always, to sit in silence as his fellow council members nattered on about winter fashion, about the new recruits for the city guard, about the winter solstice ball preparations.
Tap-tap.
It's not that he disliked his position, quite the opposite. Lysander could not imagine a life outside the royal keep. These walls had kept him safe since he was a child, and he had no intention of…
Well. Wanderlust was not in his blood, but on occasion he did wonder what life might be if he lived closer to the coast. Not in the bowels of the city beneath the keep — no, he did not have such plebeian tastes. But rather he wondered what it might be like to live in a home all his own, where he might not need bother with entitled lordlings come to seek a cure to their diseased genitals or bold ladies who thought batting their eyelashes at him would secure them a chance at courting him.
So Lysander spent most of those council meetings daydreaming about being far, far from here. Far from people, far from Lord Foscari who had eyes too sharp for his own good. Far from obligations of taking on an apprentice or worse — a wife.
"Lord Blackburn?"
Tap-tap-tap.
The queen's chill voice brought him back to the present. His lips curled into a well-practised and polite smile, as though he'd been paying attention the whole time. This, too, was a skill well-honed over his years as the royal alchemist.
"Yes, your majesty?" Lysander looked to his left where Queen Ines Yornold sat. The knowing glint in her eyes made him twitch, but he kept a pleasant smile nonetheless.
"As Lady Petronelle was saying," Queen Ines spoke slowly as though Lysander were too thick to understand her (he wasn't, but he hadn't been paying attention, so this was likely warranted), "you have been the royal alchemist for over eight years now." She folded her hands atop the table and tilted her head at him. "We have given you quite a bit of leeway, Lord Blackburn. Royal council members are required to take on an apprentice for their position within five years of their appointment."
Lysander sent a scathing glare at Lady Petronelle, the royal ambassador who'd been pontificating about silk and other fashion nonsense minutes ago. This topic came up every year, and every year Lysander succeeded in pushing this silly requirement away.
"With all due respect, your majesty, Lady Petronelle," Lysander simpered — and oh, how he hated himself at that moment for having to do so — and gave a polite nod to each woman, "I simply do not have the time to train and—"
"Enough." Queen Ines knocked her knuckles against the table, silencing him. "You will make the time, Lord Blackburn, or you will be assigned an apprentice. You have one month to find a suitable young person, or this council will bring forth candidates and choose the best ones."
"Ones?" he repeated weakly.
"Of course." Next to the queen, King Leomer chuckled, looking entirely too amused at the situation. "Every council member has, on multiple occasions, taken on more than one apprentice at once. It is only fair that you do so as well."
Well, fuck. Lysander knew his father, who'd been the last royal alchemist, had never taken on another apprentice other than Lysander himself. But at his age, his father had already been married and Lysander had already been born. He, on the other hand, had no such guarantee lined up. He licked his lips and nodded numbly.
"Of course, your majesty. I will endeavour to find an apprentice before the end of the month."
"Excellent!" Queen Ines clapped her hands and smiled beatifically at them. "I will let our castellan know to expect an order of new livery with your colours soon."
Lysander fingered the alchemical symbol embroidered with deep purple thread on his breast. No one but him had worn purple around the keep in the last eight years. He did not relish in seeing anyone else with his livery and his colour roaming around the keep. But it couldn't be helped.
"Of course," he eventually murmured.
The meeting concluded after that, and they were free to escape back to their private lives. Most of the council members took their meals either in their private chambers, or in the dinner hall with the rest of the keep residents. Lysander could accompany them and try to play nice. He could disprove their gossip about him being an anti-social hermit. He could, he could.
Yet his feet carried him all the way to the south wing of the keep, where his study was. Meetings always exhausted him, and he needed a bit of time to himself to consider his options. What choice did he have, really? He would have to find an apprentice soon. A month! That was no proper time at all! He'd have to send notice to the local alchemists down in the city, and in the other major cities of the kingdom. What a pain. Then he'd have to meet dozens of hopeful candidates, who would all fail the basic tests, he knew. Even finding someone who knew how to read was a challenge, these days!
Distracted with his spiralling thoughts, Lysander did not notice he'd forgotten to close the window of his study, or forgotten to lock the door (again). He entered his study with a frown and muttering to himself, and lit the lamps around his desk. Perhaps it was the sense of danger, some part of his mind that recoiled at the sensation that he was not alone that alerted him to the other presence in his office. Perhaps it was just paranoia. Or perhaps it was the distinct stench he associated with those who lived in the deep bowels of the city.
"Who's there?" he gasped, his athame in his hand before he could fully understand the situation.