[One evening--after internal debate and an afternoon of wine, ostensibly for courage, but really just because he loves wine--Nikos decides, abruptly, to contact his cousin before she contacts him. Or before she is somehow used against him. His second cousin? Third? Fourth? What is a family tree but a morass, curated largely so those who care about title and inheritance can move about their pieces on the board.
He almost loses himself in that thought before he remembers. Sidony Venaras. Eight, nine, ten years younger. Nevarra City. He can picture the exterior of the Venaras home, Nevarran in its architecture and in the color of the stone used to build it, its gardens trim around it. His father, pointing it out to him as the carriage went past. Maybe he saw her at a holiday, a party, an interchangeable cousin bedecked in finery.]
All right-- [Heavily, like he's picking up a conversation when they never started a conversation in the first place--a habit of his, she'll find, if they take up any sort of regular correspondence--] --you're Sidony Venaras of Nevarra City. I'm Nikos Averesch. We're related, somewhere, somehow.
[ The sound of someone speaking through the crystal makes her jump, just a little, moving away from her books to pick it up. The voice is a little bit familiar, her eyes narrowing for a moment before she listens to it all the way through. She's not sure what to say at first, her eyes staring down at her table as she taps her fingers, thoughtful for a moment before she sighs.
It's now or never, she supposes, as snippy as this person seems. She could just ignore it, but that would be rude, and she has the politeness of her own heritage and parents to think about. ]
Cousins. I've been informed. [ A considering noise. ] Your brother is Kostos and I am to be his personal surgeon if words are to be believed. Do you need the same?
This reminds me that we are no better than strangers. Kostos wouldn't tell me if he was fucking run through with a pike and on death's door. He's a-- [there are so many words for what Kostos is, and Nikos flips through them all before settling on the diplomatic,] prick.
I'm sincerely surprised that he would imply the need of a surgeon.
A family trait, then. My own brother is - [ a traitor, cruel, hurtful, in the past - ] - disappointing. I will learn, in time, given the chance. I have no reason to avoid you, if you'd have my company.
[ But the rest - well, she doesn't care. ]
Better your kin than a stranger who might whisper, I suppose. It's no concern of mine if he comes or not.
[Just kidding, it's not like his brother ever visited. Or like he wanted him to. And now they live in the Gallows, and are often within spitting distance of one another. Spitting distance for a champion spitter, at least, which Nikos is. So it could be worse, unless--]
No. [ There’s a little heat in it - frustration and hurt colours her tone just a little bit. ] I’d rather he never step foot out of Nevarra. Better for the both of us, I should think, since I’ve no desire to see his face.
That's a very cruel thing to say, cousin. [ But she says it teasingly, more than anything else. ] And to think, I was settled on naming you my favourite.
crystal.
He almost loses himself in that thought before he remembers. Sidony Venaras. Eight, nine, ten years younger. Nevarra City. He can picture the exterior of the Venaras home, Nevarran in its architecture and in the color of the stone used to build it, its gardens trim around it. His father, pointing it out to him as the carriage went past. Maybe he saw her at a holiday, a party, an interchangeable cousin bedecked in finery.]
All right-- [Heavily, like he's picking up a conversation when they never started a conversation in the first place--a habit of his, she'll find, if they take up any sort of regular correspondence--] --you're Sidony Venaras of Nevarra City. I'm Nikos Averesch. We're related, somewhere, somehow.
Now it's been acknowledged.
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It's now or never, she supposes, as snippy as this person seems. She could just ignore it, but that would be rude, and she has the politeness of her own heritage and parents to think about. ]
Cousins. I've been informed. [ A considering noise. ] Your brother is Kostos and I am to be his personal surgeon if words are to be believed. Do you need the same?
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Is that what he said?
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This reminds me that we are no better than strangers. Kostos wouldn't tell me if he was fucking run through with a pike and on death's door. He's a-- [there are so many words for what Kostos is, and Nikos flips through them all before settling on the diplomatic,] prick.
I'm sincerely surprised that he would imply the need of a surgeon.
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[ But the rest - well, she doesn't care. ]
Better your kin than a stranger who might whisper, I suppose. It's no concern of mine if he comes or not.
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[Pike to the chest, deadly STD, who cares. See how much he doesn't care about his brother? It's a lot.]
We don't need to keep one another company. Any of us. Family relation is hardly the binding contract it is purported to be.
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Does that mean we cannot enjoy it, at times?
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[Brothers =/= cousins; cousins are actually, comparatively, better than brothers, but still.]
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[Just kidding, it's not like his brother ever visited. Or like he wanted him to. And now they live in the Gallows, and are often within spitting distance of one another. Spitting distance for a champion spitter, at least, which Nikos is. So it could be worse, unless--]
Unless that implies you wished for a visit.
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Good. Because I've no desire to bloat the region with any more relations. Three is enough.
[This is a request, phrased more like a statement, but--]
Remind me of his name.
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[ Half because she would run away and half because he might drag her home. ]
Lord Octavian Venaras, of the Mortalitasi order.
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That's right. The one with the stupid name. Octopus.
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I was luckier than he was when it came to names. He tries to go by ‘Tav’.
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[In the interest of fairness and full disclosure, and nothing else:]
Si-Drone-y. Your voice was too high-pitched to be called a drone, probably. It was just the closest pun. Think it was meant to indicate boredom.
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[And also, gross.]
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We're too old for nicknames anyways.
[He's absolutely going to call her Si-Drone-y.]
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