Untitled AU

More headcanons. Have some barely edited AUs that probably won’t get fics anytime soon, but are great ideas nonetheless. If anyone wants to add on/chime in/create something, feel free.

Smith is a former theologian and archivist; a murderer sentenced to life in prison. After his country falls to foreign invaders, he is removed from his cell and retried. Under the new rules of the prince, he becomes chief translator and historian of the royal crown.
Trott is the crown prince with an interest in the land he was given from his brother’s war conquests. In between putting his country back together, he wants to study the history of it’s people. Smith is the last of the acolytes of his kind. He’s the only one alive who can translate Trott’s inherited documents.
Smith teaches Trott about divine works and Trott teaches Smith about intimacy.

(I couldn’t think of a good title for this one. It’s rather random. it reminds me a little of Tale of Two Cities, or Vikings.)

cw: death and misery. mention of murder. religion. mention of illness/improper living conditions. mention of war. shackles. mention of blood oaths/cutting of palms.
If I need to tag something, let me know.


Smith stands before the court in shackles, barefoot, and cold.

“You have killed a man in cold blood.”
“I have.”
“And you hold no guilt over your actions?”
“I do not.”
murmurs from the jury
the judge sits back in his seat, appalled.
“A man such as yourself-”
“There isn’t an ounce of remorse in me, your honor.” Smith says loud and clear in the dark room. “So whatever sentence you decree, I go willingly.”
“100 years to life, no parole.”
bang of the gavel

staring in a dark, cold stone cell. trying to keep time by the rotation of bread and water each day. giving up. hardly having the motivation to eat. autonomous.
beard grows out, but it’s scraggly. hands are always dirty. sick later on, bronchitis.
early on, sings hushed prayer songs to himself. gives up on that too.
he realizes this is the last place he will ever see. he’ll die in this cell. he’ll die alone.

the sounds of war come in muffled bursts.
the capital falling, but not much changes. accented language. new royalty.
he’s been in prison for seven years (21 to 28) when he’s called for a new hearing.
the crown prince has ordered that the criminals serving sentences under the previous rule be retried
in order to get his freedom back, Smith has to swear allegiance on a blood oath.
the guard cuts an X into his palm, and Smith bears the cross as a scar. if he’s found guilty of murder again, the punishment is death.
“Do you accept these terms?”
“Aye.”
“‘I’ what?”
“I…I accept.”

gets a letter of recommendation? to see Trott, because Smith has experience with religious studies and history of the country. he can translate very old documents, and Trott needs him to transcribe them.

Trott with symbols painted on his skin
cold, gristly feeling of wet paint
kohl around his eyes
lots of makeup
shimmery, soft, silky fabrics in rich bronze and jewel tones.

Trott from a country where showing ones affection and admiration is through physical touch
Smith is more likely to say his thanks in written or verbal discourse. his religious studies do not approve of overly physical touch. not out of sin or impurity, but that it is unclean and the hand disproves of those who favor the work of others over the work of the hand.
everything is the Hand (God’s) work

Smith as a follower of Truth
in the old prophecies, they speak of a young man with golden hair and golden light spilling from his hands, who shall arrive in the land and bring wealth and happiness to all.
at some point, Smith thinks Trott might be that prophet.
it’s too much of a coincidence to not be true.
the people like Trott. the kingdom is healthier and more well-off.

Trott who kisses Smith and caresses his skin in gratitude. Smith who is…confused by it.
the sexual attraction to men was always there, but not the romantic interest.
Smith, who does not love in a “conventional manner” seen in the society he previously lived in. “It’s why I became a monk.”
“There are different kinds of love, Smith.”
“I cannot- and I do not- love in a…romantic sense.”
“But you care for me.”
“Deeply.” admits
“Then that is all that matters.”

“I don’t understand. I don’t understand what warrants these affections. I killed a man! I killed him! With my hands around his throat, I choked him until his lungs emptied of their breath and his body lay still and cold. He’s dead because of me. I killed a man. And he should have killed me.”

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