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Her first day at Whitestone is…odd. The people in Whitestone are already talking about her, spreading rumors about the possible relationship she and Lord de Rolo have. Of course, the people know who she is. Lady Vex'ahlia, Baroness of the Third House of Whitestone and Mistress of the Grey Hunt, member of Vox Machina, Slayer of…Well, many things, too many to list. Mostly known for killing the dragons. But no one expected to see her arrive to stay for 'an undefined period of time', as Cassandra and Percival announced last night, introducing her to the people of Whitestone on the castle's balcony.
However, waking up there for the first time is even odder.
She blinks in the unfamiliar bed. Hm. Not her sheets, not her mattress, of course. Well, they're technically hers, now. It's been a while since she last slept on a mattress, honestly. A good one, or one she could call hers. Usually, she slept in a bed from a pub, or on the forest floor, or just floor. But now, she's in a bed, and a good one. She's sleeping in her room for the first time in a long time. One that she won't have to constantly leave to save the world, or something along those lines.
The second thing she registers is the change of temperature. The sheets are deliciously warm, but the second she shakes them off, the cold claws at her. Fuck, no wonder Percy never had an issue with cold. Growing up there, he must have developed a strong resistance to it, given that she's immediately shivering.
It's been a while since she had a home, since she had something to call hers. At the beginning, she had her mother and her brother. Then, the fire came, and she and her brother were left alone.
They found people. They found Vox Machina; they found a new family, they found love. But that sense of belonging, of knowing where to be, moved with the group. They had to be where Vox Machina was. Vax didn't seem to mind at all. But...She…sometimes did. She loved Vox Machina and the adventurer life, of course. But she couldn't deny that setting down didn't sound half bad.
But now, she's in Whitestone's castle, a place where she never thought she would be. Not even when she was raised as a lady, educated to get married, did she ever imagine she would end up actually doing that. She always imagined herself running away with her brother, maybe finding someone she actually loved. And that's, more or less, what happened, didn't it?
She shrugs the blankets off her, hissing from the cold, standing up, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, and going out to the balcony. It's a quiet day, with snow falling softly from the sky. There are people on the streets, some walking to their jobs, some walking their children to school, and some just sitting on the benches having a chat. The rebuilding hasn't stopped since the second dragon attack, but it's nice to see the people, her people, she reminds herself, actually living the peace they deserved. She notices amongst the crowd a couple of women walking at a slow pace. One of them holds a small boy's hand, the other carries a baby. It's odd thinking that there are children being born every second, children that will never have to experience what the city went through. Children who won't know who the Briarwoods are and what they brought. Children who won't fear dragons because they will never live through an attack. And children that will only know Vox Machina, that will only know her, from history books and bar tales, if they're lucky enough to get that recognition. Maybe, in many winters, they'll be forgotten like all the pain the city went through, and just be remembered as names in an old book.
She looks at the horizon. Clear sky with no clouds, mountains in the distance. Crows flying free. Tall buildings with delicate architecture, many of them still in construction, but standing proud and resilient. Her city, again. Percy has made it very clear that Whitestone is her house, too. Her home. It's that feeling she got when Greyskull Keep got built for them. An odd sense of belonging, despite her having only spent a day inside those walls. Those people are hers, now. The brand new ring on her finger is another symbol of that.
They should probably get a formal ceremony. With Vox Machina and everyone they loved, but they were so happy and drunk that night that it just happened. Why was Percy carrying around that ring? She didn't know, but she could imagine. And Cassandra seemed to know what everything was about, for the unimpressed yet excited look on her face when they finally told her the news. They haven't made it public yet, though.
(She has a complicated relationship with the fact that she's essentially doing what her father trained her to do: marry, have kids (which they haven't done yet, but it's expected, thanks to their…habits), rule a city by the side of her husband, and essentially, grow old as a Lady. Yet something tells her this isn't what he had in mind for her.)
Whitestone is a beautiful city. It truly is. She has seen it fall and rise over and over. The Briarwoods, the multiple dragon attacks…Yet the people keep waking up and moving on. People there must have lost so much. It's a city of death, but it's also a city of rebirth. She looks at the baby in the woman's arms again. She'll make sure the people never know pain again.
"You're already awake?" A soft, sleepy voice pulls her out of her thoughts, arms wrapping around her waist. "No point in staying under the sheets, hm?"
"Nope, not today," she smirks, dropping a hand in his hair. "I have work to do. I promised I'd help Cassandra deal with all the paperwork of my arrival. I want to cause a good impression."
"There's no impression you need to make, my sister loves you already, and the people will too. I can take care of the paperwork," he suggests, but she turns to shut him with a kiss.
"This is my city, now, darling. I need to take care of it."
"Don't overwork yourself, please," he begs, nuzzling, sleepy, against her neck. He's still not in his best form. Being dead for weeks does leave its mark, and he struggles to keep himself awake, to move with the same vigor he had before. It was going to be a long path of recovery, said Keeper Yennen, but if he rested well, he would be back on his feet in two weeks or three.
"I won't. Now move, I'm already late. Stay in bed."
He whines, but pulls away without a complaint. He sits on the bed again, groaning under his breath. His legs hurt, and walking without a cane is still a struggle, but he still puts on a smile. "Have a good day, dear."
When she gets to the room, Cassandra is there already. It looks like she's been awake for a while. She has her glasses on, the ones she only uses for paperwork. And there's a lot of it.
She gets to work without a word, grabbing a chair from the corner of the room and sitting by her side, grabbing a pile of paper. Most of them just require a signature from someone from Whitestone in a position of power, and she meets those requirements from a mile away. But as she looks up, she notices how Cassandra looks. She still has those eyebags, she still sighs occasionally as if she struggles to keep herself awake, which she probably does, if she is used to waking up at that hour.
"Cassandra, dear," she begins, before she can think it twice, "how old are you?"
"You know, it's not very polite to ask a lady her age," she mutters, unbothered. She's not even looking at her, continuing to write. "I turned 20 last month. Didn't celebrate it, there was a funeral going on."
Vex knows she should probably drop the topic, but keeps going anyway. She's realizing many things this morning. "Gods, you're young," Vex blurts. Cassandra finally looks up and chuckles. She looks much older than she is, just like her brother. It had been a shock, finding out he was the second youngest in the group. And Cassandra, that poor girl who had been through so much, was even younger.
"Ha. Thanks for reminding me," she says with melancholy, writing something on the paper before going for the next one. And then, again. She's doing the same gesture over and over. Vex wonders if that's something she got from her parents or from someone dear to her. That little gesture, the little hand flick between signature and signature, looks like something you get from seeing it from someone.
Someone who, knowing her and her family history, is probably dead.
They continue working for a few more minutes in complete silence, but then Vex breaks it again. "How is it?"
"How is it what?"
"Ruling an…An entire city. It's odd. You have so much to look for, to care about, there's a ton of people in Whitestone."
"I know. And all of that is mine. Well, yours, too. And Percy's. It's all shared, but it's a lot of responsibility nonetheless," she puts down her pen, stretching. She's been sitting in the same posture for about an hour. "These people depend on us. Making sure they're safe is what we were…" she pauses. "Well, what my siblings were trained to do."
"I don't know, I feel like some kind of invader," Vex explains, putting her things down too. "This place is so beautiful, so sacred, ruled by people that love this city… And then there's me."
Cassandra stands up, pointing to a painting hanging low. "Look at it. Whitestone. Painted by…" she pauses, "ah, I can't remember. Never paid much attention in classes, anyway. This is all yours, now. Do you love this city, Vex?" She asks, putting down her glasses.
"I do. I-Of course I do!"
"Then that's far more than enough, Vex. This city…The De Rolos have never been a pureblood family, you know? There have been plenty of affairs that have been welcomed with open arms. My great uncle and great aunt, for example. She worked on the castle and stole my his heart. The people may talk about it for a month or two…but then it's forgotten, and they just welcome the new members of the De Rolo family," the girl says, clearly used to these kinds of conversations. "It won't be different now."
"Are you sure?" she asks, "Will I be good enough? I'm sure the standard is pretty high—"
Cassandra sighs, putting back her glasses and returning to her business. "Vex, I'm no good at these things. But I can tell that you will be enough, and that's a fact. If Percival, of all people, trusts you to lead, then I have to believe you qualify. Now, whether you believe it or not is up to you. Believe whatever brings you peace." Cassandra is clearly in a much worse condition than she is, and extremely tired. She especially looks like her brother here, as both are in a terrible state. The past few days have been very stressful, and despite peace slowly returning, the people need their time to heal.
She nods, deciding to drop the topic. About an hour later, she finally reads and signs the last paper, dropping her head against the table. Gods, that was awful. Cassandra, not so bothered, stands up, stretching again. "This is going to ruin my posture…" She mutters, tidying everything up.
Vex does the same thing, gently reverencing Cassandra as she heads for the door. "You don't need to do that, you know," Cassandra laughs. "We're equals here. Expect people to reverence you."
Vex nods awkwardly, allowing Cassandra to go through the door before following her. They take separate paths from there. Cassandra goes left, Vex goes right.
The Whitestone Castle is fucking big, by the way. And it's extremely easy to get lost.
The corridors look all the same, the rugs have no difference, and the paintings of multiple landscapes are the only thing that allows her to see how she's going in circles. She peeks at the various rooms, trying to find some indication that she's getting closer to finding the exit. Getting out by the windows wouldn't make a good impression, she thinks, but it's definitely an option.
Most of the rooms are filled with boxes and spiderwebs, dust covering the sheets of the beds. Open wardrobes with clothes that haven't been used in years, workshops with materials she can't name, and rooms with tons of books that are probably much older than she is. And then, she opens one final door, the one at the end of the hallway.
An enormous, canopy bed with tangled sheets stands proud despite its poor state. Open drawers as if someone had gone through them quickly, and what looked like portraits hid under the bed. The walls are naked, and the rug is tugged away, but there are no signs of dust or spiderwebs, just a quietness on its chaos that seems to weigh more than she realizes.
"Vex, what are you—Oh." Percy's voice, how timely. He's using his canes, still having some difficulty walking.
"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry, I got lost, and—I didn't mean to worry you. You should rest," she begins, but he's not even looking at her, just at the door ajar.
"No, no, it's okay. It's just—I've been avoiding this room," he peeks inside. "I'm surprised the servants are still cleaning it. I thought no one came here anymore. I guess they want to honor their memories. Though a bit of tidiness wouldn't hurt," he chuckles, but there's some kind of melancholy in his voice. Something darker. Not in the dangerous way, but in the way that reminds her of how terrible the Briarwoods were. "One day you have everything, and another, you're left with nothing.
She hesitates before holding his hand. "Whose room was it?" She asks carefully, keeping an eye on his face to see how he reacts, to see if she can push further.
"My parents'. Do you want to see the portraits? I think I remember some of them." He steps inside the room, like it's nothing, though something in his posture or the way he reverently picks the set of portraits, that this is important.
"Your parents' bedroom. I imagined—"
"The Briarwoods would have gotten rid of it? We thought that, too. But Cassandra told me they used it to torture her. Making here sleep here, knowing they were dead and—you know already. " He sits on the edge of the bed, dropping the cane, and signaling her to do the same. He gently turns one of the portraits and chuckles, tracing its edge with a soft caress. "Gods, I had forgotten about this one. Here, this is me." She sits next to him and looks at where he's pointing. A young, short boy with bright green eyes and a childish smile stands next to an older girl, probably his sister. He's wearing a blue suit, has brown, dark hair, and wears broken glasses.
The only thing that looks like her Percy are the eyes. They look like completely different people now.
She traces the figures along with him. A man and a woman, taller than all of the children, hold hands. She's sitting on the throne while he stands beside her. The girl closer to Percy has her hand on his shoulder, also wearing glasses. They look awfully similar; they could be twins. Then, the two who are definitely twins, one next to each other, laughing about something. Whoever the painter was did a good job, capturing so well the essence of childhood. Then, near the oldest man, a younger one that would be about Percy's age now, with a rapier by his side and darker brown hair, piercing blue eyes. By his side, a younger girl, not as young as the twins but not as old as Percy, dressed in blue and holding her mother's hand tight. Blue eyes, smile on her face. Completely brown, long hair. A family. The De Rolos in their days of glory.
"Vesper, Julius, Whitney, Oliver, Cassandra, mother, father…" he murmurs absently, lost in thought. "This was painted on the first day of winter. It was awfully cold, and we had to take regular breaks. The twins wouldn't stop moving; they were terrible to paint. The painter got paid an extra, I believe."
"This is…Gods, Percy, you family…" This moment…It feels so intimate, so pure, and she can't help but turn to look at him, to see if he's still okay with sharing everything. She just holds his hand tighter, trying to keep herself grounded.
"They would have loved you," he states, kissing her hand. "They would have loved you so much."
"They would have been so proud of you," she then says, turning to face him fully. Something in him breaks at those words. He sighs.
"I hope so. If not, what would have been the point?"
They stay like that for a moment. He's absently tracing the portrait as she looks at the others with curiosity. There are multiple paintings of each sibling in their own, but most of them are group portraits. Such a big family. A family that loved each other so much. Gods, looking at those paintings knowing their fate breaks her heart, especially looking at Percy in those. Such a small child, such an unbroken soul.
"I was actually looking for you. They'll have to paint you soon," he suddenly says. "You're a De Rolo now." He fidgets with the ring in his hand, a reminder of what they are now.
"Painted?"
"Yes," he begins, "before the Briarwoods and…everything, the castle used to be filled with portraits, of all generations. To remember them. Cassandra and I still…kind of dislike having to see those portraits, but it's still a tradition to continue. 'When you're painted, you live forever, ' is what my mother always said. She loved being painted."
"I've…never been painted before. Are you sure?" She asks, and that doubt of not being enough appears again.
"You'll be fine. I'll be there, too; you needn't worry. It's a fairly usual procedure; they do it with every De Rolo."
"I…But Percy, this is your—"
"You belong here. This castle is as yours as it is mine or Cassandra's. This is all yours," he reassures. "I'm yours, my heart is yours," he says, kissing her, before finishing. "Whitestone, its people, are yours, from now on, and you have every right to be here, dear."
She blinks twice before a smile forms on her face and goes to kiss him back. Gods, belonging feels so good.
The procedure is fairly simple. They bring the painter in, a lovely woman with a bright smile, the same one she saw carrying the baby that same morning. She's asked to sit still, with Percy and Cassandra, him holding Vex's hand and her holding her rapier, both standing proud.
With each brushstroke, she's immortalized. With each brushstroke, she's reminded that she'll be remembered, her portrait exhibited in a hallway, where people will see her and keep her in their memories one more day. With each brushstroke, she belongs to Whitestone and Whitestone belongs to her. A start of something new. A start of something the city won't forget in a long time.
The painting is exhibited in one of the main hallways of the castle, where it'll definitely be seen.
The first day of winter, as snow falls, a new era for Whitestone begins.