(no subject)

[iniquiticity]

here’s some tyrant washington with secret rebel hamilton feat. mulligan the spy.


cw: violence, suggested relationship badness.


They traveled, of course, in the well-constructed palanquin of dark wood that Washington had had constructed. At first the thing had only been designed to carry him, but some turn of thought had had him create a larger one, with space for not only him but also for Alexander, who he sometimes had accompany him on trips to the city, mostly for show, and to remind the people of their Savior and Exalted King. Out of all the ways that he was displayed as a puppet and decoration, the palanquin sat near the top of ones that he hated; the display was so wretchedly public, and of course no man or woman could look at His Excellency hatefully, but they could secretly reserve these looks for him, the orphan bastard whore consort. His Excellency often called him Prince, although consort seemed close; certainly princes had some control over their bodies, and what clothes they were allowed to wear, and how they spent their time. But not him, whore-consort that he was. He was little more than a puppet, gifted from his adopted father to their Great Unifier; Alexander thought that His Excellency might prefer him to only breathe when he was permitted, and ideally under close supervision.

The townsfolk, as they were baded and sent post to alert them of, stood on the street with their heads bowed as the palanquin passed; His Majesty cast his stone gaze over the townspeople through the gauzy, translucent curtain. Alexander had no doubt that the King was counting in his head, making sure all who should have been here to exalt in His Presence were. It was just the sort of thing he was good at. The whole display was only for show - they would travel the main streets, the Kingsguard in their gleaming armor with the thin black silk over their faces that gave them a haunted, supernatural look, like ghouls - the palanquin, carried by the bearers, in their gold-threaded silks - and then they would go home, and some activity would be provided for Alexander, or likely he would take shelter in the greenhouse, the only place where he only marginally suffocated by his life.

“Stop,” His Excellency said, his eyes fixated on a break in the crowd. The palanquin stopped, and the King peered through the curtain, eyes flickering from the spot to the shop behind it. Then, the king turned to Alexander. “The tailor. He is your friend, is he not, my prince?”

Alexander turned his head towards the missing spot and then looked out.

The tailor’s shop.

He fought to keep himself from going sheet-white with fear. Where was Mulligan? Mulligan would know that he had to pay respect. Out of all people, out of all people and all activities–

For you see, Alexander had just communicated with Mulligan that day, when he had picked up a new jacket. The jacket had within it a secret message sewn in the sleeve, that Alexander had read and then eaten, and then had two glasses of wine, so that he may remove it from himself as soon as possible.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Alexander said, softly, although it was a bitter joke to say a man who was so hated had friends. His Excellency knew nothing of his friends, of their secret meetings in the moonlight, of their communicated codes. Had His Excellency known, Alexander would have become very well acquainted with a variety of sharp implements, and learned just how many tenors of screams he could make.

“Where is the tailor, then?”

“I presume he is only working, sir,” Alexander said.

His Excellency sat back in the chair; Alexander saw the displeasure in the crows feet under his eyes.

“Fetch him, if you will, my dear.”

Alexander opened the palanquin door and stepped into the street. Men and women stared at him, at the gold embroidery of his jacket and the fine silk of his shirt. He banished his fear and went into the tailor’s shop. It was obviously that Mulligan had not opened his mail in days; the royal post sat upon a flowing pile of unopened mail. Alexander bit his lip and disappeared into the shop; not for the first time, he considered never returning, and escaping out of the trap door in Mulligan’s floor in the chamber room. But he did not. He had a purpose and meaning, and was needed.

“Hercules!” Alexander said, sharply, when he found the man tightly bent over sleeve, of which he was carefully threading some jewels onto. The tailor startled, and jewels went flying.

“Alexander?” The tailor, Mulligan, said, looking over his shoulder with confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Alexander threw the royal post at Mulligan’s head. Mulligan cut it open, and his eyes went wide.

“Perhaps if you prostrate yourself pathetically enough….” Alexander said, with the hint of a beg to his tone.

Mulligan then did something very peculiar; he drew his right hand over his left elbow and then flicked his wrist, as if he was trying to open a stubborn jar. Alexander’s eyes watched the movement, and then he brought his own right hand across his face, and pressed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and middle finger.

“God, I will,” Mulligan said, and then the two of them appeared out of the shop. Mulligan slunk to the floor to the side of the palanquin, his nose touching the dirt of the street; Alexander stepped back into the thing, and took his space, across from the Exalted. The King studied him, and then Mulligan, through the open door. Then, without speaking, he closed the door and rapped sharply, twice, on the wood behind his head. Alexander closed his eyes and pretended he did not know the symbol. He could see the whole situation evident in his head; one of the tall, powerful Kingsguard unfurling a black whip in his hand, and then, as evidenced by the sound, brought it down hard on Mulligan’s back. Alexander no longer jumped at the crack of leather on flesh, although he fiercely bit down on the inside of his mouth to resist the urge to shift at the sound of Mulligan’s wail of pain. Twice, a third, and then a fourth time, and then nothing.

“Go,” His Majesty said, and the palanquin resumed. It was only the burning in his stomach - the remains of the note’s ink, perhaps - that stopped Alexander from bounding across the carriage and attempting something foolish on the most hated King and his personal master who punished his friend. But he could not. He instead forced himself to feel relief, that only Mulligan’s disrespect had been noted - nothing about the promises they had both made to a hunched man in the darkness called the general.