Brennan always had a hard time recognizing himself in the mirror whenever his mother decided to dress him up for events. She liked to pretend he was some form of fashion doll, tugging on his hair without a care for pain and constricting him in tight, ruffly clothing far more at home on his sister’s toys. It stripped him of any sense of self he had cultivated, leaving him as an object for her to craft and use for her own purposes. After such events, it would take a few days for him to finally feel like himself again, to remember what it’s like to be human. Today she had taken up the task of using him as a model for her personal fashion show with a great amount of fervor. 

         “You cannot ruin this opportunity, Brennan,” she stated, tightening the collar of his shirt. It was too small, causing his breathing to be obstructed uncomfortably. It was enough that he felt as if he was choking while still being able to breathe. She liked to dress him up in tight clothing, telling him that it would make him move more delicately and gorge on less food at events. “She may be the only one that will take you at this point. You’ve already ruined every other chance I’ve given you.” 

         “I thought you saw the de Leons as barbaric heathens unfit for our familial line, Mother,” he replied as matter of fact as he could, making sure to keep eye contact with her through the grand mirror on her dresser. It caused her to tug harshly on his hair, making him wince slightly. 

         “No one but a barbaric heathen would want you at this point,” she spat, continuing to brush roughly through the curls of his hair. “No matter how much I tried to dress you up, you simply wish to be undesirable. You chase away every suitor I find for you. She’s already sworn her loyalty to you, all you have to do is get her to ask for your hand.” 

         “Of course, Mother,” he said. 

         “I hate you calling me that,” she said. It was quiet like some whispered secret but was a sentence Brennan had heard enough times to have burned into his brain. “You’re no child of mine. Don’t act as if you have the right to call me your mother.” 

         “Ah, of course,” Brennan replied, lowering his eyes from her piercing gaze. “My mistake, Lady Primrose.” 

~*~ 

         “Hey, Prettyboy,” Cordelia was waiting for him at the front gate when he stepped out of the carriage. She stared at his outfit from where she was leaned against the gatepost. “You’re…awfully dressed up for a hunting trip.” 

         “It was Mother’s idea to dress me up like one of my sister’s porcelain dolls. You know how much she fawns over me,” he replied, forcing the corners of his lips to turn up in a mockery of happiness. Cordelia’s brows furrowed at the action but she said nothing. “I’m afraid I have nothing else to change into. Will it be an inconvenience?” 

         “Not really,” she said, striding up to him and giving one of his leather boots a light kick with the metal tip of her own. “You’ve got some sturdy boots on and you can borrow one of Papa’s fur coats for when it gets dark. Cold sets in fast when the sun goes down.” 

         “Very well, then,” Brennan said, voice coming out stilted. He had no idea what else to say to her. It was the first time they had truly talked since the ceremony. His eyes wouldn’t stop straying to her bare throat, her chastity choker tied around his wrist. 

         She pursed her lips slightly, contemplating what to say herself. “Well, come in then,” she finally decided on before turning on her heel with militaristic ease and heading back into the estate. She truly would make a good general like her father. He could almost hear Lady Primrose’s voice hiss, “She’s useful unlike you.” 

         He let those thoughts dissipate like a cloud of Father’s cigar smoke waved away with his hand. Instead, he followed Cordelia into the de Leon estate. Her familial home was large and grand in size and yet stark in decoration compared to his own. There was no flaunting of wealth from priceless artifacts and useless expensive trinkets. Instead, every decorated area was covered in history. Portraits of de Leon ancestors lined the halls, showing smiling faces in simple hunting clothes and the occasional militaristic regalia. Each portrait had the favoured weapon of the person placed underneath it in an almost reverent way. It spoke of glory, not vanity. Not the way the portraits in Brennan’s estate were. 

         Cordelia would get her own portrait one day in this hall. Sometimes he would wonder what it would look like. Would she be wearing the uniform of a general, strawberry blond hair tied up in a neat, braided bun? Would she be smiling with the grin that bared all her teeth and made her eyes scrunch up into crescents? Would the portrait portray all the energy and life she has or simply be a counterfeit imitation of her likeness? The painting of the two of them that was recently created and placed in his own home held none of her true self, simply a recreation of her face. It made her look cold and sad, unhappy beside his melancholic figure. He did not want another painting of her like that. 

         “He’s here,” the hearty baritone of Cordelia’s father rang out into the hall from the room they were about to enter. The general was larger than life in the most literal sense, being an absolute giant in both height and muscle. He was smiling wide, sharing the same grin as his daughter as he took in Brennan’s form like he was ecstatic to see him. “Welcome, Marquess Primrose.” 

         The man gave a bow that left a sick taste in Brennan’s mouth. Who was he to be bowed for by such an accomplished man? 

         “Papa, stop it,” Cordelia hissed, smacking him. Brennan flinched at the action, waiting for the man to smack her back for her troubles, even if he knew he wouldn't. Lord de Leon was a good man. Good men don’t hit their children. 

         "It was just a bit of a tease," he said. "It's great to have you here, boy." 

         "I was delighted to accept your invitation, General de Leon," Brennan replied, dipping his head. 

         "Ah, so he can be formal but I can't?" General de Leon scoffed with a smirk. "My little lion sure plays favourites." 

         "Shut up!" She smacked him lightly again. "Unlike you, he's being genuine." 

         "Of course, of course," Lord de Leon laughed. "I appreciate the respect, boy, I truly do, but there is no need for it." 

         Sure, of course there was no need for Brennan to show respect to someone of General de Leon’s caliber. His title meant nothing in the face of the man’s higher and grander accomplishments. His name would forever be known in history. Brennan would be forgotten. His title was the only thing important about himself. 

         "You can just call me Papa or Uncle or whatever," he stated with a grin. "I've known you since you were a tot. You've walked these halls most of your life." 

         "I…prefer to stick to General de Leon," Brennan replied. 

         "Yes, yes, whatever makes you comfortable," he said, letting out what sounded like a disappointed sigh. "Now, let's get down to business." 

         General de Leon turned to him and instantly Brennan felt swallowed by his presence. Brennan himself was rather tall, having surpassed his own father in height and yet he was always scrawny in build. It was partially due to Lady Primrose’s influence, but in truth he was never meant to be a broad and robust man. Compared to the man before him, he looked fragile and delicate. He almost wanted to squirm or run away and hide under his full attention. 

         “Have you ever used a bow?” he asked, not leaving room for Brennan to respond before he continued talking. “Of course you haven’t. Your father probably hasn’t even let you touch anything more than a dinner knife, has he?” 

         “I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with how to use a bow,” Brennan replied. “Perhaps it would be better if I did not—” 

         “Nonsense,” General de Leon huffed, nostrils flaring. It made him look strange, brown eyes wide in an expression of sheer ridiculousness. When it did not elicit a laugh from Brennan, he schooled his features and continued. “You may not be a skilled hunter, but Delia can still teach you how to use a bow. Who knows, you may come to like archery.” 

         He turned to his daughter, clapping his hand onto her shoulder. “Go ahead and grab a training bow for him, Delia,” he said. “You can train him on how to shoot when we get to the hunting grounds.” 

         She ran off, leaving Brennan alone with her parents and a sinking feeling of fear in his gut. Lady de Leon hadn’t spoken yet, an ominous figure standing watch. She was tall in stature, broad-shouldered, and sharp-featured. Cordelia did not resemble her much. She was soft in features, diminutive in height, and sunny in disposition. Of course, Lady de Leon was beautiful, exceptionally so. It was a fierce beauty only seen in warriors. She was as much a general in her own right although she did not use her title. 

        “How have you been?” she asked, tone as sharp as her expression, eyes piercing straight through his soul. “We haven’t seen you since the ceremony.” 

        “You’ve been avoiding our daughter. You’ve been avoiding us.” 

        “I have been quite busy,” Brennan replied. “Mother has insisted that I attend more events now that I have gained my title. It has left me little time to breathe.” 

        “Your mother is a true noblewoman,” General de Leon said with a snort. 

        “Conrad,” Lady de Leon swatted the man, giving him a harsh glare. The man brushed it off, pulling her into a tight embrace. 

        “Don’t be grumpy, dear,” he crooned, nuzzling into her shoulder. “I’m simply jesting. I have just missed him.” 

        She let out a huff, looking away as her fair skin began to tinge red. “We are happy to have you here, Brennan,” she said. 

        As soon as Cordelia had returned, her parents corralled them into a carriage before climbing up onto the driver’s bench. He sat across from Cordelia, so close that their knees were nearly touching. 

        “You never told me the meaning of this hunt,” he said to break the tense silence between them. “You said it was ceremonial.” 

        “It’s in commemoration of my ancestor, Auster de Leon,” she replied. “The Sunhunter.” 

        “The famous general,” Brennan said. 

        “Lieutenant general,” she corrected, opening the curtain to look out the window of the carriage. “He was the first person in my family to swear his life to someone. When his general died, he decided to die alongside him. Everyone in my family has done the same in his honour ever since.” 

        The statement made Brennan’s stomach twist and he went silent for the rest of the carriage ride.