Extra little writing bit for Gallant

Hey there BTS people!

Every now and then, I get little scenes of a much larger story stuck in my mind. Almost like, small images of a scene or dialogue or something, and I always want to write down that idea, in case I want to use it later, or if it becomes a part of a bigger story. Sometimes it's notes in my phone, sometimes scribbles on a page, or sometimes I will actually sit down and write it all out as I see it.
Since probably like 90% of any story I think of takes place in one of the stories that my audios are a part of, I thought why not share it, right? I do a lot of thinking about the audios, and the stories, and the worlds they go into, but in the end all most people see is a once a month (if that) post as the result. But you guys are paying to be here sooooooo 

A lot of people enjoyed the extended script/narrative bit for Grey's world.... so don't you want to see where it goes?



Gallant stared at the paper in front of him. He had been the one to open the seal, it had not been tampered with. He had repeated that statement to himself at least four times. It had been Vilmos’ seal, until he had torn it in half to read it. Of course, there was always the chance that someone had a near perfect replica of the seal. Such things existed, but the price for replicating and distributing the seal of even an official without that official’s direct approval and involvement, was immediate execution - a remnant of the king’s laws. However, the handwriting was clearly that of Vilmos as well, as strange and unlikely words they would be for the man to ever think of.


Drowning in the silence that pressed in on him from all sides, Gallant looked up, and so quickly and quietly began to mutter, that the expression on the man before him gave way to only confusion.


“Did you write this?” Gallant asked Vilmos, for it was Vilmos who had delivered his own report by hand.


“I…” the man stuttered, “Yes, m’lord?”


In any other circumstance, it would have been the weakest conviction that Gallant had ever heard, but Gallant did not hear the man. His hand was already in his face, a deep and shaky sigh coming from his chest, and his eyes darting around the room to any point but where Vilmos was standing.


The pause that followed was so long and silent, that Vilmos himself began to look around the room, shifting uneasily as he stood there, waiting for a response.


“Thank you,” Gallant managed at last. “You can… Rest. I suppose, or whatever you need to do. I…”


His eyes locked on the paper, Gallant took in a slow breath, and without looking up, finally managed the sentence that he dreaded saying.


“I think I will have to give this to my father.”


“I understand, thank you, m’lord”, Vilmos replied, halfway across the room and already reaching for the door before he was finished talking, leaving Gallant alone again.


The prince ran a hand through his amber, curled hair, before it began to tighten into a claw that painfully tore at the strands. His eyes were wide, and his heart was pounding in his chest to the same rhythm that he would run his stallion with. He tried letting out another slow, controlled breath, but it did not help the ringing in his ears. To say that he had never felt afraid before would not be true; everyone experiences fear in their lives, and has unfortunate and entirely unexpected situations arise. Perhaps it was his age, and his ability to fully comprehend what the letter meant. Perhaps it was the fact that he was prince, and the burden of responsibility was on his shoulders. Or perhaps, it was simply that for the first time in a very long time, Gallant did not know what to do, and the thought of running to his father for help cast him back into the memories of childhood that he had wanted so badly to grow away from, but in that moment it was all that came to his mind.


“Gone,” he repeated the word in the letter. Not damaged, not torched, not destroyed, not even ruined. The village of Flinton was gone.


It was not until the edges of the paper began to singe that Gallant became aware of how bright the room had gotten, and how intensely the candles burned on the desk. Knocking over his chair as he went, the man flew to the window, throwing it open and sticking his head out, gasping in the fresh air as if he had been held underwater. He stood there, trembling and painfully aware that if he moved again, his stomach might reject his recent meal. As a cool breeze flooded past him, Gallant pulled up his hand and stared at the letter again, telling himself that he simply held it too close to the flames.