Haley Thistle
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Banshee Boyfriend: Fitzhugh (special preview)
🕑 Added 2020-09-08 21:00:59 +0000 UTCMy father is a general, quite a powerful one. Some even say he could become the next king if he wanted to, but despite his influence and hold, I believe my father to be quite lazy. I’m sure at one point he was ambitious and worked hard, but from what I have seen, he has become more interested in keeping a hold of leashes than gaining any more power. He enjoys comfort, and because of that, most of what makes him a force now, is the idea of others.
It isn’t just my father. My mother, too, has grown used to the easy life. She does not fear what is beyond her door like the rest of the world does. War is a common thing now, most people are struggling to make ends meet, food is being rationed in some parts, and yet my mother will whine when the cake is not frosted the way she likes.
Yes, I benefit from this lifestyle too. I don’t have to be afraid daily, I don’t starve, I don’t have to suffer at all. What happens to me is not something to compare to what happens beyond the gates of my home. Since I am a general’s daughter, I am seen as a commodity. I had been entertaining suitors since I was thirteen, which was an absolute nightmare to me. My father would bring in these men to see me. People who could keep him in comfort, who would wear one of his leashes.
I had learned a trick to deal with his suitors, one that had served me quite well. I didn’t speak. Not a word at all the entire time they were in my presence. I would sit there, like a doll. For a while they would talk, about themselves, for me, whatever they liked. After a while, when I gave no praise or reply, things grew quiet. They would sit in silence, caught in the grasp of my dark brown eyes. I made no expression, no sign of approval or disapproval. Everything they saw from me was a mirror reflection back on themselves. They would soon want to leave or else chance unraveling. Despite this, I still had suitors.
Nowadays, there was a story going around about a death scream on battlefields. Just before battles were to start, there would be a scream that would ring out loud enough for both sides to hear. Sometimes, there wasn’t even anything planned. There would be a silence, nothing going on, and the scream would rattle the world. The scream always preceded great casualty, not just the usual death toll, but something worse. The last time it was heard was at a medical unit, the camp was full of wounded, but no one was near death. Then the scream was heard, and a few days later, the entire camp was on death’s door. Something ravaged the wounded and the staff alike. The entire camp was gone by week’s end.
This death scream particularly troubled my father. It was becoming a threat to him. People were afraid to hear the scream, and as such, were more reluctant to follow battle plans. He brought in new advisors and a political propagandist to combat this influx of fear.
There was an evening I thought the house would be asleep. I snuck down from my chambers into the parlor where I wanted to pour myself a drink. Lately I had sought out the librations to help me sleep, not a good habit, but one I had a predilection for thanks to my mother. I set my candle aside, only to realize there was a man sitting in the chair right next to the liquor cabinet. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he chuckled.
“I didn’t realize you would be coming, I would have dressed for the occasion.” The man chuckles. It’s the political advisor my father had brought in, Fitzhugh Rothschild. He’s a former soldier turned strategist, as well as the creator of the new war slogan, ‘the scream of victory’. He is extremely beautiful. Quite possibly one of the most handsome men I had ever come across. He’s very tall and has lithe, willowy limbs, and fine sharp features. His pale eyes stand out against his tan skin, and his long dark hair hangs freely around his bare shoulders and chest. He only has on pants from what I can tell.
“You’re not getting drunk on the job are you, Mr. Rothschild?” I open the liquor cabinet despite his presence and reach inside.
“Are you, Lady Ozoro?” His eyes scan over me in my nightgown.
I pull out the bottle of my choosing and lay aside the glass stopper. “Is this how you think of your remarkable slogans?”
“You find my slogan offensive?” I hate to admit how charming his smile is. “I worked very, very hard on that.”
“A scream of victory.” I toss the bottle back, not fooling with any sort of glass. “I’m sure the children fighting this war will find it very evocative.”
His dark eyes look over me, but not in a way that the suitors I have faced for ages do. He’s looking for something rather than at it. He eventually looks into my eyes and his pale green eyes send a shiver down my spine.
