The Thief of Skystead

A House Divided

"Do you want to die?" General Thurston demands.

"...Is that a trick question?" Azazel asks.

He's been sitting in the general's lounge for the first fifteen minutes after eating breakfast, being thoroughly reprimanded for last night's shenanigans in the inn. The general has spent every minute reminding Azazel that he graciously accepted Azazel's plea for protection and that he is doing what he sees fit to ensure his life is spared. He stresses that Savaric and Grimald are there for his protection, not as his babysitters, and if he wants to act like a child then he ought to find someone willing to coddle him.

Azazel hasn't been listening to most of the lecture. He tunes in here and there to make a smart comment, but other than that, he's studying the room for anything to steal. Examining the lounge is starting to get aggravating. He's seeing the same old posh things, over and over, and getting nowhere. None of it is good enough to steal. He needs something the general is going to miss.

"For the rest of this week, I must insist you remain within the estate at all times," General Thurston commands, and Azazel slumps farther into his chair. "Consider it a better alternative to dying from your own folly."

Yesterday, Azazel couldn't get away from the general's bffs. Now, he can't get away from his house. He bids his deeply cherished freedom goodbye.

Pepin flutters into the room along with Alistair, perching on the back of the couch beside the general. Eyeing Azazel suspiciously, like he might have a cookie hidden somewhere, he hops one step closer to the general.

"Sir," he says, "The florist is here, and she would like to meet with you considering the floral arrangements for the wedding."

General Thurston stands. "You must excuse me, Azazel. I have business to attend to. Again, I will stress: do not leave the estate."

Azazel sighs, offering him a half-hearted salute. Pepin seems pleased with Azazel's fate, as he returns to the kitchen looking rather smug. The general turns to exit, facing Alistair.

"Ah, good morning, my pet," he greets, holding out a hand. Mechanically, Alistair offers his hand for the general to take and kiss. "Would you like to accompany me to the florist's?"

"Not this morning, thank you," Alistair rejects, retracting his hand. "I am feeling weary. I did not sleep well last night."

The two of them discuss something or another, floral patterns maybe, and Azazel tunes them out. Eventually, the general leaves to run their wedding errands, and Azazel is left in the lounge with Alistair.

He expects to either be ignored or reprimanded for his posture or something stuffy like that, but then, Alistair says, "I suppose I... ought to thank you for last night."

Looking at Alistair's expression reveals a rare crack in his near constant stoicism. The slightest hint of pink dusts his cheeks, but the shade from his hat-like extension conceals it well. He seems embarrassed to concede gratitude. Normally, Azazel would milk this moment. He'd rub it in a little. Right now, he's just too tired for any of that.

He shrugs. "Just leave it."

Silence.

"I couldn't help but overhear that you have been subject to house arrest," Alistair remarks. Azazel could laugh. Of course, when he has the decency to not gloat in Alistair's face, Alistair doesn't have the same inclination.

"Yep, I sure did," he responds with sarcastic chipperness. "I bet you love that I'm trapped in this boring house all week."

A beat.