An Inheritance like an Arranged Marriage: Cut Content

[everysecondtuesday]

Originally, An Inheritance like an Arranged Marriage was going to be much longer. The fic as it stands was going to be the beginning, and the snippet in the end note was still going to be the epilogue. Unfortunately, the middle was rapidly getting away from me, so I ended up cutting it down into the story as it stands, then wrote a second story for a different, but still excellent prompt. I meant to post it at some point, but only found it again now that I've been doing some folder (re)organization.

crantz (and anyone else who is curious), here's the bit that was cut in its raw, unedited form:

"M'dying," Riss mumbled, trying to smother himself in his pillows.

"You're fine," and Riss sat straight up, because he didn't remember inviting anyone home last night. Not that he remembered much, but the wards shouldn't have let anyone past the front parlor but his blood relatives, Vera, Cassel, and whomever else Vera thought would be funny to key in. (A local family of raccoons still had run of the place, but that was the trade-off for letting Vera take care of his wards rather than paying a professional.) Even if he'd wanted company, he'd been entirely too drunk to successfully complete the rituals required to invite someone into his personal space. He scrambled for a weapon, but all he had at hand were the pillows and a book. It was just as well. He looked around, but didn't see any intruders. Like a sucker, he relaxed. That, of course, was the point the voice continued, "Well, maybe a little brain-damaged from all that poison last night, but we can fix that with a quick potion or three."

It took him a moment. In his defense, Riss was very hungover. "Master, uh, Book?"

"Call me Grim." There was an expectant pause. "For 'grimoire'?" A sulking silence. "No one appreciates me."

"Terribly sorry, Master Grimoire." Riss cringed at his own awkwardness.

"No, no, just Grim. I'm not anyone's master, and if I'm to have a name, it'll be one of my choosing. Now get up. Best to fix the damage as soon as possible."

Feeling slow, Riss asked, "The damage that helped me forget some of yesterday?"

"Yes! We'll bring back those brain cells and lost connections!"

"Oh." Riss rolled over, piling the pillows back over his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Going back to sleep."

"But the damage!"

"S'intentional. Unless you've got a hangover cure--"

"But that's exactly--"

"--that won't let me remember, m'going to sleep in."

Grim was quiet. Riss closed his eyes and tried to let the gentle pounding at his temples lull him back to sleep. He was on the cusp of it when there came an awful shrieking. He flailed his way out of bed, having flashbacks to his apprentice days, but once more, nothing was there. Just him, the pillows, and the book.

"What was that?" Riss bit out, putting a hand to his head.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Grim said primly. "But if you're up, we can get started on that potion."

Riss wanted to say no, he was not up, and he would not be anytime soon. He wanted to throw the book out the window. He wanted to sleep and forget he'd ever bumped into a mage as a child, who'd taken one look at him and told his parents, "He'll need to be trained if you don't want him to accidentally set the town on fire." But this was Riss's life and very rarely did he get what he wanted. As ever and always, Riss gave into the inevitable and resigned himself to the day ahead.

Grim chattered away as Riss washed his face and threw on clothing--an overview of the potions he'd be brewing, but also comments on his house, his clothes, his friends, his wards--whatever seemed to catch its attention. Riss couldn't tell if it was opinionated or just lonely. As soon as this crossed his mind, Grim said, "Both. Definitely both. Imagine having to spend the last fifty years with mostly Roderick the Dick for company." Something clenched in Riss's chest, but Grim just continued, "Anyway, if you don't have unsalted butter, then you'll need to substitute cream or resign yourself to the version that tastes awful. I have more experience with that one, because I'll not part with my best recipes for just anyone, but--"

Grim's chatter flowed around and through Riss as he gathered ingredients and set up the small workspace that was usually devoted to poultices and mild panaceas for minor injuries and illnesses. Grinding, mixing, and stirring made the process familiar and soothing, though the recipe itself was new. He felt much better, the hangover gone and the memories unfortunately returned (including Vera snapping, "See how you like it!" and trying to groom Old Beaky back), but Grim chided and chivied him until he completed and drank several more potions. "You haven't been taking care of yourself at all! But don't worry, we'll fix it! Now, this one actually starts with salt and willow bark, but--"

Riss hadn't been too concerned about what he was putting in his mouth. He'd spent the years since his apprenticeship as a glorified hedge mage, and the majority of his work was focused on potions. Theory and practice both told him that what he was making wouldn't harm him, and he'd already decided to humor Grim as it got settled in. This was a mistake. Sure, the first few cured his hangover, fixed the previously permanent ache in his wrist from the first time Master Roderick had him feed the chimeras, and improved his recall--even of the times Cassel and Riss had done long, extended rituals to forget. He felt stronger, healthier, brighter. He breathed easier. But the last potion? What Riss thought would give him a minor boost to his magic reserves at best (and a little extra hydration and protein at worst) had instead brought upon him hallucinations. There were lights everywhere he looked. They curled around the jars of ingredients. Wisps rose from the mortar and pestle he'd just cleaned. Even his hands glowed.

Riss sat back down on the stool at his workstation and carefully put down the mug he'd been using. "Grim, I think I made this one wrong."

A figure in shades of green and blue crouched suddenly in front of him. It put its hand to his cheek. It felt like old, dry leather. "No," Grim said. "It worked exactly as intended. But you may want to sit down."

"I am sitting down."

"No, no, on something with a back." The figure tilted suddenly, its face even further above him. "Or on the floor. The floor works, too."

This, right here, was why Riss never thought he'd make it past his apprentice days. He was stupid, he was trusting, and he made all the wrong choices. Touch the unidentified glyph, Riss, surely nothing will go wrong. Try to pet the gryphon, Riss, it just wants a friend. Listen to the evil book, Riss, and drink its poison potion. Surely you won't end up possessed and your house on fire.

"I'm not evil!" Grim's voice sounded further away now, but more indignant than ever. "I'm trying to help you!" The sound of a foot made of air stamping on nothing. "And I'm succeeding, too!"

Riss missed the rest of Grim's rant. He was missing time entirely. He'd been on the floor, but he was back in bed, his pillows fluffed up beside him. The grimoire was curled on his chest like a sleeping cat. The lights weren't as bad, now. He could almost ignore them entirely. The grimoire was green and blue, but beneath he could see the faded red and brown. Glints of red circled his walls and windows like faded wallpaper. His hands were a pale blue, but they were also the same dark brown.

It didn't take him as long, this time. Flatly, accusingly, he said, "You gave me mage sight."

"I opened your eyes," Grim said.

Riss gritted his teeth. "I never would have agreed."

"That's why I didn't tell you." Grim didn't sound the least bit repentant.

With the last of his patience and only a tenuous hold on his temper, Riss pointed out, "I'm a terrible wizard."

"Well, yes."

At this, Riss was brought up short. Rather than yelling, he found himself bewildered. "Then why? Even with a power boost or, or extra abilities, I'll never be interested in real mage work. The finicky stuff doesn't work for me. I'm barely a hedge mage. I follow all the instructions perfectly, and my panaceas have never cured anything more serious than a head cold. I'll never be whatever it is you want of a new--" Riss didn't have the hubris to think himself as Grim's owner and finally settled for, "--keeper. I don't know what you want from me."

"I don't want to change you. I want to make you more of what you are. You should have been a flame, an inferno. They tried to drench you, but you still smolder. You can still burn! And I'm going to help!"

There were any number of things Riss could say to this excited and entirely misguided speech. He settled for, "I'd rather not."

A head rose from the book and stared at him, cheeks puffed out like a small child about to throw a tantrum. Riss stared back, unimpressed. There came a terrible shrieking. Riss sighed. He picked up the book. He opened the window. He dropped the book into the small garden he kept outside.

Riss closed the window, laid down, and put the pillows over his head. He should have done this to start with. Why didn't he do this to start with?

The shrieking edged into wailing, which trailed off into weeping. Something in Riss's chest clenched. His throat was tight. From outside, there were a few pathetic sniffles. Finally, silence. He clutched the pillows like a shield. It didn't help.

Riss was a sucker. Grim had landed in the lavender. All things considered, Riss had no doubt it could easily make its own way back inside. If nothing else, Grim could probably ensorcel one of the raccoons into assisting it. There was a reason Master Roderick had kept the tome locked away behind wards and glass.

Riss put on his shoes. It was a nice day out. The book was heavy in his arms. The leather cover was surprisingly smooth as he stroked it. Grim's voice was small. "Why won't you let me help you?"

"I don't need it," Riss said.

"Roderick gave me to you because he thought I couldn't help you," Grim said. "I want to help you."

Riss sighed. "I'm happy how I am."

"Fine." It was grudging, but Riss was pretty sure Grim meant it. "But if there's something I can do--and that you'll let me--"

Riss patted Grim's cover. "I'll let you know."

Having reached an accord and the morning long over, Riss spent the rest of the day alternating between getting Grim settled in--"Are you sure you don't want some space of your own?" but Grim insisted there was no need to convert the guest room into a one book library--and catching up on work and errands. When he returned from deliveries and the market, a strange and disorienting experience and likely to stay that way until he adjusted, Grim had moved from the kitchen table to the plush armchair facing the door in the parlor. It had a length of ribbon Riss had been using for a bookmark tied around its middle.

"You made a clever choice in minions," Grim praised Riss as he stopped in the doorway. "It took only a few tries for their nimble fingers to learn to tie a bow."

"Minions," Riss repeated blankly. Three raccoons stuck their heads out from under the chair. More eyes glowed behind them. "Of course. Minions."

Riss put his purchases on a side table and retired to the kitchen. He found a clean mug. He discovered all the hard liquor had been poured down the drain.

"Caps and corks they got on the first try." Two of the raccoons carried Grim into the kitchen. "I think they already had some experience."

Riss sat down. He put his head in his hands. He wondered how Vera was doing with her immortal zombie fire bird.

When Riss went to bed, Grim had been directing the raccoons in removing everything from one of the bedroom shelves so they could line it with fabric and cushions, all while refusing to let Riss move his own possessions--"No, no, you're tired, and I have enough hands already"--but when he woke, the book was resting on his chest once more. "Shhh, no, sleep." Grim made a noise that was the book equivalent of yawning and rolling over. "Did a lot. Only dreams now."

Bemused, Riss patted the grimoire and placed it on a pillow. "Nnnn, sleep." Riss shut the door behind him.

He made and ate a quick breakfast. He checked his mail. He updated his to-do list with the new orders. He went to check his stock.

Riss slammed open the bedroom door. "Grim. What have you been up to?"

"Sleeping? Sleeping."

Riss felt his eye twitch. "And that required you ransacking my ingredients and making a mess of my workspace?"

"Oh!" Riss could feel Grim becoming more aware, focused and intent. "You had a list. I took care of it."

Riss pinched the bridge of his nose. "How? Why?"

"I had lots of hands last night," Grim said, like that answered all Riss's questions. "And I cleaned up after myself. I improved it! It was inconvenient, how it was before. Your minions had trouble with some of those locks, and you shouldn't have had such delicate glasswork on the highest shelves in the first place."

"What happened to waiting for me to ask for help?"

"I wasn't helping you," Grim said. "I did it for my own benefit."

"Really."

"Yes! Now that you have no work for the day, we can play with your magic! And maybe we can make some more improvements, too, now that--Riss, where are you going? Riss!"

Though Riss left Grim in the bedroom, when he returned home much later that day, Grim was sitting on the parlor chair again. Grim's voice was small as it said, "You're mad at me."

Riss smiled humorlessly as he dropped today's packages at the door. "I am."

"Don't--don't make me go back." Grim's voice wavered. "Please."

Riss sighed. "I won't."

"Or--or lock me up?"

Riss lifted Grim in his arms. "No one's locking you up."

"Or send me away?" That odd note in Grim's voice--it almost sounded like hope.

Riss closed his eyes. "You sure you want to stay? There are other places--people--who'd gladly take you in."

"They'd want to own me."

"Probably," Riss allowed.

"I want to stay. But. I want you to want me to."

"This would probably be a good time to talk about boundaries, then."

--

The intent was to have Riss and Grim learn to live together, go on a couple adventures Vera and Old Beaky dragged them on when Roderick's other creations wreaking havoc on the countryside got a little too close to home, and fall in love. Riss would come into his powers as a sorcerer, but still insist on remaining a humble hedge mage when it came to work. Grim would accept this, but insist on also contributing their own, better potions. They would have what Riss saw as an unfortunate habit of falling into trouble they'd have to solve on the side and what Grim would see as their main calling as adventurers.

I have no idea why I thought I could write all that in under 5k, and that it took me 2400 words after the beginning to realize that oh, no, this was never going to be done in time for the deadline.