Shades on our Shoulders

[Ladorak]

Captain James Saumarez of HMS Crescent was haloed by the soft glow of the candle upon his desk. He was engaged in reading a novel of sorts, his eyes flitting back and forth over the pages and soaking in the words that played before his eyes. A thin smile stretched at his lips at various parts, and the weasel gently laid a paw upon his cowlick, smoothing the fur out momentarily before lifting the pads and causing the tuft to spring back up into place.

"Hah....so they plan to marry each other's daughters do they?" he flipped a page, reading on. The novel so far had been quite dark, but Saumarez had been absorbed in it since it had arrived in last week's mail. Dorothea had sent it to him, saying he would probably wrap his tail around it far easier than she had. It was a story with many twists, and was a new type of novel, according to the author.

A knock on his door interrupted his perusing, and the weasel lifted his head, calling to without. “Enter.” The ship’s Clerk pushed the door open, saluting and apologizing to his Captain.

“Forgive me Captain Saumarez sir. Just bringing in the mail.” He held up a letter, and walked tentatively over to the Captain’s desk, leaving the letter for him to take up. Nodding, the Clerk started to exit the cabin. Framing the letter with his claws, the weasel suddenly looked up.

“Hey!” The Clerk stopped, and turned around.

“Captain?”

“What the hell is this? I don’t answer to the Royal Court of…” he paused, glancing down at the envelope again. “Ferlusan.” He finished. The Clerk shrugged helplessly.

“Sorry sir. I only deliver the mail.” Saumarez nodded, giving the Clerk a speculative look at best as he shuffled out of the cabin.

Frowning, the weasel slit the top of the envelope open with his claw, and retrieved the contents. Sighing, he placed a paw on his forehead and began to read. His expression became more wrinkled, more contorted as he read. What the blooming hell…?

Closing the book’s cover, the title “The Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Novel” could be clearly seen spelt out in the gold lettering. Horace Walpole was listed as the author. The letter was what was drawing the jack’s attention however, his knuckles growing white from the mounting tension. “You, the aforementioned, are hereby being considered as one of the choices to wed Princess Priscilla Steep in matrimony as part of the alliance agreement between the Kingdom of Welkin and the Kingdom of Ferlusan and…and…what is THIS?”

A look of pensive wrath was upon his face as the letter suddenly crumpled under his grasp, the bottom half folding over and balling up as his fist closed around the parchment. Being considered for an ARRANGED marriage!? An ARRANGED marriage!? Since when did Welkin get so damned formal about things!? And why him? He wasn’t single…well officially he was, but that’s only because Dorothea was considerably below his station.

Regarding the letter with a dour look, the weasel sat stock still. Priscilla Steep? Weren’t the Steeps the wealthiest land owners in Crittenden? Steep? What was she even like? Harsh? Genteel? Brutish? Boorish? Was she…attractive?

Slapping the letter down on his desk in frustration, the mustelid inhaled, trying to come up with a course of action. It only said considered right? So not definite! That meant there might be a chance to wriggle out of this! But how? What was the criteria? Why wasn’t he kept in the loop for any of this?

Pushing his chair back, the weasel ponderously got to his hind paws, clasped his forepaws behind his back, and walked over to the stern windows. His right brow was slightly raised, and his own puzzled expression stared back at him in the glass. The darkness outside was vast, an expanse of ink that could not be penetrated. The rest of the fleet was out there, extinguishing their lights as per regulations. One by one they winked out, letting the darkness have hold.

Priscilla Steep? Priscilla Steep. Pri…scil…la…Steep. Steep? Odd last name. But then again…so was his. The name…it had…some sort of ring to it…or did it? Priscilla…Steep. Saumarez sounded it out in his head. “Priscilla Steep.” He whispered the name, rolling it off his tongue. “Priscilla Steep…alright.” I’ll play this game, he thought glumly. Besides, the chances of him getting picked were probably extremely low. It was all just a game for the royals to play. All just a game. That’s all. Wait it out, and he’d come out in the clear.

Smirking at himself in the window now, the weasel moved over to the candle, snuffing it out with a quick breath…and his room too joined the outside world in shade.

[spender]

"Priss... Priss?"

General Roland Steep knocked on the door, softly, cringing as his ears perked for an answer. There was none.

"I thought we could go out today," he said, raising his voice a little. "A picnic on the coast? Horse-riding in the forest? Maybe go see an opera? Or just browse the markets? Can I come in?"

Still no answer. He tried the knob. It was unlocked.

The old weasel's face sagged at the sight of his daughter sitting on her bed, staring listlessly at the floor, a cigar drooping from her mouth. She was still in her bathrobe, though it was almost sunset. A broken window across from him was letting in a pleasant draft. A wicker basket by the door was full of bedsheets; Roland sniffed these and gently tugged the basket out into he hall before sitting down on the bed and putting an arm around Priscilla's shoulders.

"Worse, or better?" he asked.

"Rrn," came the reply, somewhere between a grunt and a growl.

Roland hugged her briefly, then let go and put his paws on his lap, rocking back and forth for a few seconds.

"Priscilla," he said, and stopped. He sighed and stared at his booted footpaws. He tried again. "Priscilla, some sunlight will do you some good. I don't mean—not like that, but this sitting around moping is getting us nowhere. At least come to supper tonight. Here, your cigar is out..."

Getting up, he moved to the nightstand and opened the drawer. Bottles clanked and rolled. He stared at them, askance.

"It... helps," Priscilla croaked.

"How many?"

"One. One each night."

Roland sifted through and found the packet of matches. But his heart was no longer into helping with any further addictions, and he closed the drawer.

"I can't allow this," he said.

"Like gull you can't!"

"Priss, if you gave me a sign, any sign, that you're capable of functioning—walk around the house, enjoy the gardens, Fates, I don't know! But this—this is not right. Cigars, alcohol, you're not even dressed, I haven't seen you all week! How many medications are you on? How many attempts have you made this month? Maybe, maybe if I could be sure that your physical health, at least, is intact–"

"None."

"–I could be more lenient in—what?"

"None," she repeated, her voice a whisper. "They don't work, da."

He stared. She was shaking all over, her left paw reaching out to grasp the bedpost. Her claws dug holes in the wood. Roland stepped back as something splashed down by her footpaws, and then turned his gaze away as a dark stain began to spread around the bed underneath her.

"I'm... I'm sorry," he choked.

She only sobbed in reply.

Steeling his jaw, Roland sat back down on the bed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her head and shoulders into his lap. He rubbed her back and scritched her chin, and stared at the carpet until her crying faded and the room was dark with evening.

He changed her out of her bathrobe, and pulled her against the pillows on the bed, and tucked her in. She woke, briefly, to flail her paws at a wooden cylinder on the bedside table. He passed it to her and she bit down on the wood with a whimper. He hushed her, brushing her whiskers with the back of his paw, and sang until her breathing slowed, and by then the room was in pitch-black darkness.

He made a note to have somebeast see to the window in the morning.