#radegonde greystone
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9/06: RING.
noun: a small circular band, typically of precious metal and often set with one or more gemstones, worn on a finger as an ornament or a token of marriage, engagement, or authority.
rating: g
characters: prince haldrath, radegonde greystone, euphemie de dansereau (mentioned)
tags: modern au, engagement ring shopping, gonde puts hal through the gauntlet(™)
summary: one could hardly call it equivalent exchange!
wordcount: 388
“No gold.”
On any other occasion, the proprietor at the establishment would have turned them away for the wine-flavored cigarette in her fingers—but the Dansereau family’s reputation won them entry. Not that Haldrath wasn’t embarrassed by the unabashedness of his most-certainly-sister-in-law-to-be. But he wasn’t confident in his judgment for what would be a life-changing event for both him and his beloved. He had silently hoped that her mother would assist him in his cause—or better yet, entrust an heirloom. But that conversation had gone exceptionally well—and ended far shorter than he’d anticipated. Though Donatien did mention something about the questionable personalities of the past men his sister had dated…
“I just thought the cut suited her eyes.” Haldrath had removed one glove so he could scrutinize the sample ring with more ease, bringing it up to the light of the jewelry store’s ceiling. Starlike were Euphemie’s eyes and he would have nothing less of an engagement ring that emulated such a sparkle. And he knew she would appreciate a piece that complimented her eyes.
“Then get it in silver. Or alloy with mythril or whatever,” A pressed puff fled her pursed lips, painted a bright red that left a mark ‘round the cigarette between her fingers.
“Honestly. Why does everyone make this more difficult than it has to be.”
“You know your sister.” He eyed her deadpan in his peripheral vision, and she smirked. Haldrath wouldn’t dare imply such a thing within earshot of his hopefully wife-to-be lest he valued a good night’s sleep in her own bed and not the living room couch.
“Touché.”
“But a mythril and silver alloy with this diamond would be perfect,” He nodded towards the sales associate with a courteous smile as he ceded the ring.
“And the two small amethysts at the sides. Thank you.” Haldrath felt the raven-haired beauty eye him like a hawk as he removed his wallet from the pocket of his dark overcoat, and readied his card for the payment.
“Where to for lunch?”
“I thought I’d leave that up to you.”
“Dangerous. But fair,” Radegonde followed behind him after he’d made his order.
“It’s good practice for you anyway.”
Haldrath paused and looked at her over his shoulder, just as she lowered her cigarette once more.
“For getting used to indulging me along with my sister.”
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9—02: BOLT.
verb: (of a person) move or run away suddenly.
rating: t
characters: tedalgrinche, original characters, radegonde greystone
tags: post-heavensward, arranged marriage, political marriage, oc is the sister of my wol
summary: an argument in the carriage hits an unexpected stalemate. takes place after the MCH 60 quest, ‘rise of the machinists’.
wordcount: 1608
“i’d say that went rather well.”
idly her elbow rested on the carriage window, acting as if she hadn’t heard his sly quip. though he had sworn to end his harassment of skysteel manufactory and all its associates, tedalgrinche had directed his ill-favored attention onto other things—and as recent events had damned her closer to him in more ways than she had been willing to ever fathom, she too had felt the collateral damage in the form of embarrassment from his countless blunders, all in the supposed name of the knighthood, of the nobility, of everything that had once been and may no longer be.
“it did. you’ve practically volunteered for target practice. the generosity of house dzemael never fails to inspire.”
“i simply thought to repay the debt i owe to those at skysteel.” he stood square-shouldered against the seat, still seemingly oblivious to the failure of his so-called courtesy he’d given the common folk under stephanivien’s good-will—and his good-will had come with guns, and by now she believed it nothing less of a miracle than tedalgrinche had left another day without so much as a graze of a bullet.
“from the way they looked?” vintage rose hues, originally fixated on the passing scenery, shifted in his direction.
“they would have gladly collected.”
instead, he sighed—his brows creased in haughty, hollow heartbreak.
“and yet! they chose to send us on our merry way. the cold shoulder, i must say—are we not doing our part by seeking collaboration?”
her stomach and throat tightened—simply to swallow her sigh before it could begin.
“‘grinche, fury help you or else—”
“that’s a given, dearest—” the most detested of monikers, delivered with the most detested of grins—the grin that tucked his eyes thinner under the pinch of his raised cheeks.
“we must do well to remember such trials are her method of teaching—”
what failed to shift in her expression—darkly-painted lips slightly ajar and eyes devoid (or rather, drained) of ire, the latter of which made itself more known in the growing quietness of her voice—instead fell with the weight of a bertha’s cannonball in her chest, in perfect tandem with the push of her closed fist against the door handle.
radegonde only caught a glimpse of his smile collapsing into horror before her knees collided with frost-slicked stone, the creak of wheels unceasing for one missing passenger.
fortunately, there weren’t enough passersby to make it more of a spectacle—for now. radegonde knew better than to think the people of the pillars to be above gossip; on the contrary, it seemed more the daily bread than the enchiridion itself. someone who carried as much infamy on her shoulders as she would inevitably find herself at the center of unwanted attention. it seemed these days that such a fixation was something she passed to and fro amongst her younger sisters—house dansereau had, for better or worse, become a fixture not only in ishgardian high society (at least, moreso than before) but also throughout eorzea, thanks to the larger-than-life exploits of their youngest sister, douceline—now deemed a ‘warrior of light’.
in the past week, there had been three journalists—from three different periodicals (one of which she had never even heard of! she, who had spent many a listless hour draped across a chaise with some form of print in one hand and fruit-blend tea in the other—had maneuvered an interview under the steel-silver gaze of her newly-titled baby sister only with a promise of having said periodical delivered daily to the manor) that had arrived at their doorstep. she still took delight in the terror of the second, a lalafellin lad who peered up at the sentries from underneath a cap a size or two too big for his little head.
she dwelled on such thoughts as she turned one, two corners in an effort to dodge tedalgrinche and the carriage. she had intended to return home, anyway—she was intent on keeping away from his family’s manor as much as possible until that dreaded day.
it wasn’t that she didn’t see the benefit in wedding a higher-ranking retainer of the dzemaels; rather, it was the individual himself—the mutual spite and snides that never saw ceasefire for as long as their eyes met—one of the few wars that intensified in the wake of the dragonsong. but the union itself would not only mean gil (that both families, so embedded in the knighthood, would be in dire need of), but security in where they stood in social rank. when neither the warrior of light nor the famed euphemie of the broken maw accepted—radegonde was the next closest candidate. and unlike the others, denying meant having far, far more to lose.
pride was the heart of it all—pride in being kept in the household at her father’s behest, pride in being dressed as glamorously so as her trueborn siblings, pride in being raised noble in everything but name—being cast to the corners or to her suite in the presence of others was, to her, a small price to pay for the pampered and sheltered treatment by all those in their employ. that, and the stark divide between her and her siblings born by her father’s legal wife: the dismal lack of expectation versus the constant drive planted in them by both their dansereau and beauharnais blood. not once had radegonde met her own mother, and she had already decided, long ago, that she didn’t want to. after all, it was her father that claimed her as his own, in spite of everyone—including his own mother—warning him against it. that was what she loved about him best—the one thing she hoped, above all others, she’d learned from him: rebellion.
an onlooker would think, then, that agreeing to wed lord tedalgrinche made her a hypocrite; in a decision where denying seemed paramount to maintaining what little she could call her own, radegonde saw opportunity—opportunity for more of the life she already had—and of course, there would be other chances to say no—this time with his reactions far up close and personal than had ever been before.
but none of this changed the fact that tedalgrinche was truly insufferable. her bolting out of the carriage was but a fraction of what she believed was in the machinists’s every right to land one, or two, or three bullets at that horrid smirk. if he were as every bit the sanctimonious knight as he were, that trial by combat in the highlands must have been enough to prove him wrong. but clearly there was still more to be done—more to be experimented as the blade that would grow the cracks of his hard-headed skull.
once she reached home, every sentry and servant knew what was best for them by not questioning her on the ongoings of her day. by now, her expression served as their only warning—once the silver tray of tea and treats were delivered and the door to her suite was shut, she would be left to her own devices, in her own cherished respite.
until.
a newer hire to the staff was at her door—the tremor in his words gave it all away. that the lord tedalgrinche had sent his page to their gates, bearing a message. she had a mind to believe that there were flowers in place of an actual apology—and if she was lucky, berries in place of an actual understanding. the man couldn’t have the gall to show his face so soon, though if he did, she was already planning her next move to upstage him once again. there would never be an opportunity so promising as wedding she and all she had to offer—and there would never be prospects so favorable offered to a greystone.
radegonde strode past the hyuran lad in the raspberry-red coat with the black-fur trim, for the usual night robe simply wouldn’t do. tedalgrinche was far from deserving of seeing her in such casual comfort, and even now with her sash tied tight he would never know of the negligee underneath.
the flash of platinum blonde in the reception room, however—dashed all her hopes of this being a said and done exchange, and pouting, she raised her arm, resting her elbow against the edge of the corridor entryway, placing her forehead against it. exasperation, spelled out by the letter.
“why did you choose to make such a scene.” gritted teeth in place of a grin, gauntlets clenched at his sides. still better than the usual, she presumed.
“because i could stand the one of your making no longer.”
“can a man not speak freely of his thoughts? of the day’s happenings?”
“not when such happenings were the product of unrealized idiocy.” she delayed taking any step closer into the room where he stood. it seemed like surrender—and even feigning that seemed too soon, for she sensed that by the way his chest was frozen stiff he had plenty more to say.
“‘tis no fault of mine that they failed to understand chivalry.” her eyes sought the glow of the room’s hearth.
“such is the task of the church, is it not?”
“...and they have failed you, as well.” oh, she couldn’t resist the lift of lips at that one—though the squeeze of gauntlet-plate against glove-leather meant he’d only clenched his fists harder.
“...what is it you would have me do?”
the magic words. her smile spread wider, and finally, her gaze began to creep back to where he stood, several paces away.
“...the chocolate-dipped rolanberries—the oldroses. then,”
with an open hand, she gestured to the large, vacant sofa seated before the hearth, with the low table in-between.
“we can discuss.”
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9—11: (EC) UNFAIR.
adjective: unkind, inconsiderate, or unreasonable.
rating: g
characters: original characters, friend’s oc, samson warren, radegonde greystone, euphemie de dansereau
tags: slice of life, family, ft. samphie’s 2 twin girls, talking about apples, sammie belongs to sky (tysm for letting me borrow him & the girls!!)
summary: even during a brief respite, the warrior of light feels restless. takes place after patch 6.2 in the msq.
wordcount: 745
”You’re going where now?”
Incredulously, Radegonde peered at him, seated on the playroom floor where the twins sat beside her, cooing and toddling amidst the toys strewn around them.
“The thirteenth,” Samson hissed between teeth clenched in a smile. The last thing he wanted to talk about was work, but he was simply too polite for his own good—and did his best not to leave any questions unanswered. Besides, with his sister-in-law he knew the topic would circle back around eventually…
“Weren’t you just in the first not long ago—“ Gondie winced as a fistful of her long hair was yanked by her giggling niece. He frowned and stooped to his knees, gathering the child up as he continued:
“I was. This is different.”
“I should hope it involves less of that ancient nonsense.” Radegonde frowned as the other girl crawled onto the dark skirts of her aunt’s lap, reaching for a brightly-painted rook toy not far from her grasp.
“It doesn’t seem that way.” Samson relished in the girl’s toothless smile as he handed her the toy, while the other in his lap toothed on the tail of a stuffed wyrmling.
“…And I doubt anything called the thirteenth means you’ll be taking them with you anytime soon.” He grew quiet at the words he’d known and ruminated on since he’d returned, this time with Zero in tow. After discussing with Vrtra and Y’shtola they had decided it best to wait before having her accompany him back home to Ishgard, as it’d still been relatively early since she awoke. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how different everything must have been to her, but then again, they now learned that the Void had formerly been as vibrant as the Source; it was chilling to think back on the fate they had so narrowly avoided. Samson was grateful they’d survived the ordeal—he just couldn’t shake the feeling of how hopelessly unfair it seemed, that such ceaseless sacrifice was asked of him.
The girls had only seen their first summer, and yet Samson felt at odds with everything else thrust upon his shoulders that everyone expected of him—that Eorzea needed of him. How he wished he could’ve been home with his family as much as he’d wanted; while this wasn’t the idyllic life he’d once considered back when he was but a boy in the La Noscean countryside he was stalwart in protecting what he had now, and he would never surrender it for anything else.
“...We brought back a friend.” He pivoted her question—and she seemed happy to oblige him, though the look in her eyes said otherwise.
“So I heard.”
“Likes apples…” Gondie blinked.
“Maybe that’s why Peep loves his apple pie.” The darling little Deepeye that often followed at her ankles proved more friendly than his housemate Gus. Any minute now, Sam believed he would hover by and demand affection in the form of chin-scritches or treats.
“I was thinking we should let her try apples in different forms, too. Maybe we can get Puddingway and—”
“I don’t recall applesauce being pudding.” The other girl, still secure in her aunt’s lap, had exchanged the rook for a toy unicorn.
“I think it’s close enough. Apple pudding…”
“I would imagine it’s smoother—like cream.” The one in his hold turned her attention to the other dragon—this time, colored red instead of blue, but with the same sewn buttons as eyes—and discarded the latter on the floor by her father’s knee.
“We can even have one of them test it. They should be old enough, right?”
“I…would ask the physician first.” He coughed while the girl on his lap stared up at him, as if on cue—big bright eyes like her mother’s. The same eyes he had trouble refusing.
“They’ll probably end up liking it anyway.” Radegonde gestured to a servant and offered up the girl, standing and brushing the skirts of her indigo dress.
“I still don’t want them to get sick…” Samson murmured as he watched her stretch with a yawn.
“Anyway. Good luck with the thirteenth and all—let me know if you find any more deepeyes or anything I should know about them.” With a wave of her hand she headed for the door. Lackadaisical as ever—if not slightly more callous than the way Euphie carried herself. Samson couldn’t help but smile and laugh in spite of himself, offering his left arm and allowing the servant to cede the other twin girl into his hold.
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9—22: VERACITY.
noun: conformity to facts; accuracy.
rating: g
characters: original characters, radegonde greystone
tags: post-endwalker, gonde’s interviewed bc her bb sis (wol) is too busy
summary: a journalist’s lucky (?) day.
wordcount: 577
gonde let out a laugh, leaning back against the plush seat.
“it’s up to you whether or not you believe my testimony. But you must admit, there’s few so close to her that could provide as much as i.”
the journalist—a bright-eyed miqo’te—sat in the identical seat across from her, a mug of coffee in hand, brewed from the mansion’s kitchens (the tremaines boasted their own chef, shipped to ishgard along with the scholarch’s new bride), for the interviewee claimed that theirs was a blend not found in the last stand’s selection.
“o-of course—” he cleared his throat, setting the coffee down on the low table before him, and took his notepad in hand. what had been a fortuitous meeting now offered him a story that would surely set him apart from his fellow reporters.
“well then go on, mister journalist.” she grinned at him wryly, keeping her mug still in hand with one leg crossed over the other.
“what is it you’d like to know~?” something about the woman’s sly countenance unsettled him. he had his reservations with taking her up on her offer for coffee. and though she had indeed taken him to the mansion of the tremaine family, the very same with whom the warrior of light had become a new stepdaughter, he still felt uneasy at the whole situation. there had been talk of eorzea’s champion preferring privacy and quiet amidst the media sensation her achievements had gained her, and he feared his very presence in the reception room would breach it—welcomed as he may have been by her sister, the same might have not been for douceline herself.
“...what were your first thoughts when you heard of her…exploits?” he pressed his thumb against the tip of his pen with a click. basic as it was, he thought it best to start from the beginning—if he was lucky, her answers would aid him in his subsequent inquiries.
“i didn’t believe it at first.” her eyes were idle as she sipped from her mug.
“it was all so unlike her. besides the part about helping people here and there. that’s so doudou to do.” doudou. he supposed nicknames would add points to her veracity…
“...what did you notice that changed about her when she became the warrior of light?” the word ‘became’ held so much weight in this context—the myriad of feats attributed to her had only added to what would become worldwide renown. still, this interview was meant to be from an angle not seen by the majority: he would have to tread carefully.
“the scales—” she broke into a laugh, and he blinked in quiet surprise. despite the ongoing reforms most of eorzea still viewed ishgard as stringent in how they practiced their faith: one of the main headlines that had run the papers for months focused on the circumstances regarding douceline’s kidnapping, the physical effects of the dragon’s-blood, and what it all meant when she returned that fateful day to the gates of judgment (a perfect title, really—and it was their paper that had claimed for their own coverage of the story).
“she’s busier. but of course she’d be…she seems more. focused. in a way. which would also make sense.” she looked at him.
“what was she like back then? from before all this happened.”
“like a cute little mouse. or a kitten. read lots, loved corners…still might.” she added a wink, as if hinting him on where to find her.
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9—08: TEPID.
adjective: showing little enthusiasm.
rating: t
characters: tedalgrinche, original characters, radegonde greystone
tags: arranged marriage, oc is the sister of my wol, it’s a wedding how much could it cost? 5000000 gil?
wordcount: 276
summary: radegonde muses on how things have come along.
Radegonde was reeling from being thrust into the spotlight.
It wasn’t her place—it never had been. She counted the seconds—not the bells—of when either of her baby sisters would come to take it away again. She couldn’t wait to slink back into the shadows and only appear when called for once more, like the old days.
The weddings of her sisters were sure to outshine her own: they outranked her in deeds and the subsequent renown—Radegonde had a mind to think her own swung too far into infamy to be seen as anything but. Being born a Greystone—despite having been raised alongside her father’s legitimate, ‘Dansereau’ children—was the final nail in the figurative coffin. She was full aware that she had been, in the eyes of their Pillars-born peers quite lucky to have availed a husband in spite of her illegitimate status—and a noble one at that. Of course she had known Tedalgrinche before everything began. The more she thought about it, the more ironic it was that she would have most definitely refused his proposal if she hadn’t. He’d disparaged her on many things in the past, on things that held ground and those that didn’t—and she had done the same (though on a very rough estimate, she believed she was still winning in their years of back-and-forth banter).
They were a sardonic, bickering pair—but in that Gonde took a strange comfort, knowing that past his stubbornness he was capable of listening to her when it mattered—it just took time.
And as long as she had her dark little corner with a good bed for her darling little deepeye, she would be fine.
Blissful, even.
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9—28: VAINGLORY.
noun: inordinate pride in oneself or one's achievements; excessive vanity.
rating: t
characters: tedalgrinche, original characters, radegonde greystone
tags: post-heavensward, a marriage of convenience, gonde’s sisters enjoying their marriages while she and ted are “ “
summary: gonde hates it when something’s said twice.
wordcount: 672
“What is it with. All that noise—”
Tedalgrinche raised his head towards the door, which had done well to prevent everything but noise from entering the guest room. While he had been more than happy to allow Pépin to join the other Dansereau pets for bed he still had to face a wall of cushions that partitioned the large bed into his half and hers. The new couple had been blessed in their own household to have ensuites of their own, as his own parents had passed years ago, but the bitter irony was that in visiting her family’s there had only been one bedroom allotted per couple.
When Radegonde had pulled her sister—the one who was Baroness—aside, the younger woman insisted that when or if there would be children in the picture, all the little ones would share a room together to stay warm. It was so Euphemie to deflect the matter onto something she’d prefer to think about. Gonde had a mind to tell her that she didn’t like being in bed with her dear husband as much as Euphemie didn’t like thinking of it either.
Alas, her petty negotiations had availed her none. She—or rather, they—had been given her old bedroom, with the light lavender walls untouched (the same walls she’d begged her Papa for years ago) and only a bit of the furniture rearranged—the ones she hadn’t taken with her, anyway. It wasn’t until tonight that Radegonde realized that unlike her siblings her now-husband had never seen her bedroom until now: in all their months of courtship she’d done well to prevent him from taking so much as a step inside her private chambers. She’d spoken to him with only her head sticking out of the door, yes—and it’d usually ended with the door slammed in his face, ilms from his nose.
Now here they were, together in bed—as together as they’d allowed themselves to be.
“You’ll get used to it.” Gonde turned on her side, folding the pillow around her head and over her ears. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to call up for that chamomile tea.
“You’re saying they’ve done this before they were—” He turned to her, green eyes wide and a flushed color to the cheeks that crept to the tips of his ears. Still, she only glanced at him from over her shoulder, confident for the time being that this could still be resolved quickly.
“Often.” Tedalgrinche’s mouth shaped into a shocked ‘o’ and she groaned, turning her back to him.
“Mind you. That wasn’t me—”
“I—I never doubted you—” He choked, and inched closer.
“I just—”
“Speak plain. ‘Tis late and I need my sleep.” She hissed, clutching the sheets up higher over her shoulders and right under her chin.
“...W…we have yet to.” He coughed, and Gonde was certain he was staring at her, with his egg-gold hair dangling to his chin and his eyes peered down but away from her—in that delicious way she knew meant some kind of defeat.
Except in this case, she didn’t want it.
“We agreed we’d—”
“I know, I just…” A crumple of the cushions that served as the halfhearted barrier between them. She blinked once, twice, then turned to face him—where he remained staring at her, but dutifully behind his part of the bed.
“...People are saying things, aren’t they?” For a moment, he met her gaze—but looked away after a poignant second.
“...Fury, ‘Grinche. Learn to live with it.” Something bitter ran up her throat as she hissed the words through clenched teeth, turning again to lie down. The day had progressively worsened her mood, but this cemented it: the only thing that would alleviate anything was sleep. Suddenly Gonde sought what it was she had before in her bedroom, alone with Pèpin, unread books, and undone reams of fabric.
It was that accursed vainglory that ran through her veins and his that led them to wed—all for something that meant less and less as the days of the new Republic passed.
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9—19: TURN A BLIND EYE.
phrase (of blind): pretend not to notice.
rating: t
characters: paulecrain de fanouilley, grinnaux de dzemael, original characters, magloirienne de dansereau, euphemie de dansereau, radegonde greystone
tags: pre-arr, character dynamics, older sister not impressed with baby sister’s dalliances (hypocrite), maggie doesn’t know what she wants, semi-character study (?)
summary: fury don’t forsake me (leave me, leave me to this wondrous rot).
wordcount: 992
magloirienne detested the way he looked at her.
the sheer audacity of him and his cohorts to come all this way to doehaven—supposedly in the name of duty and a rotation of patrols—but everyone knew better. at most it was an excuse, as the lot of them including her sister had achieved knighthood, and were now relishing in the freedom that came with the completion of their training.
what ser grinnaux and her sister claimed as duty felt more like an excursion—a open tryst in the bright coerthan sun. magloirienne had been at a windowside when she saw him cross the gates on chocobo-back, with paulecrain and the others in tow—and soon enough did euphemie burst free from the doors and down the steps, her boots part-laced and gauntlets hastily fitted as the lordling descended from his mount to take her in a crushing kiss, which she happily obliged to—leaned in to, so much so that the bird jerked backward in a surprised squawk once they nearly toppled into it from the force of their embrace.
paulecrain had scoffed and took the bird’s reins in one hand, along with that of his own in the other—and, having grown tired of watching the two un-lovers turned to look upwards, meeting her gaze.
magloirienne scowled, wretched and purposefully just as he started a smirk, and thrust the curtains shut, stepping backwards with a hiss.
she hated what the knighthood had done to her sister. to think that the very thing meant to instill duty and selflessness in an individual did the very opposite for euphie, who had flourished not by combat and poise but also honed her charm and wit—and for her skill and noble birth did magloirienne suspect that the authorities had turned a blind eye to the hypocrisy of the vows by which she was sworn to.
and she had seen that look—mayhaps the one that sunk her sister ‘neath the waves. but magloirienne would stay afloat, and undaunted. she was not one to fall to such temptations; in fact, she abhorred the suggestion, let alone sustain an affair as her newly-knighted sister had done. she had done well to avoid them for the most part during the time they visited the highland estate, but she felt compelled to remain as a lady of her household was wont to do. she did well to avoid so much as looking in the direction of the visiting knights—a stark contrast to how the dazzling-eyed euphemie gave them her attention in full, as they seemed more brethren to her than her own siblings, her own blood—and far more, magloirienne knew.
(her eyes are on the gratin as euphie slips grinnaux a morsel of soup-drenched bread, and beside her their older sister radegonde smirks at the indiscretion).
it’s harder to ignore when she’s in the chemise that falls to her ankles, loose waves of beige strewn over her shoulders, standing in the cold moonlight of the corridor with paulecrain at euphemie’s shut door staring back at her.
by instinct she crosses her arms over her chest and scowls, as she had done when they arrived and their eyes met—she hated how the distance was closing in on them. for better or for worse—most certainly worse—he seemed to think otherwise.
what was there to be said? she almost prayed that some errant sound would come from her sister’s bedroom in order to break the uncomfortable silence that lay heavy between them, but it never came. fury forbid that the task of service would fall upon her at such an hour; an ordinary guest would never impose, but she knew the company her sister kept, and kept well.
“…keeping yourself warm tonight?” no title, no recognition. the way his hair shone bright by the tall window, and how his golden eye shone brighter with the spread of a smirk across his lips—
the hand at her side closed into a fist. he had a reputation and she had one to keep. it wasn’t that magloirienne was beyond imagination, but devotion served as a fine distraction.
until it wasn’t.
her thin lips opened, then closed. no longer could she stand to look him directly in the eye—a sign of her impending downfall. quickly she pondered which would pose the greater risk: continuing their talk in the open corridor or whisking him away to her—
clumsily did the hand at her neck fall to her chest in a loose fist, and with that the shine in his eye dulled to one more idle. disappointment. her heart raced at a thousand malms a minute, feeling as if something would break inside of her if she stayed a moment longer—the feeling grew hot in her chest and in her eyes as she turned on her bare foot and hurried back into her room, the door closing with a resounding lock behind her back.
she couldn’t understand it—to what temptation had she so nearly avoided? supposedly it would all come to fruition for her if she did her part right—abiding by the fury, by the will of her elders—and yet she felt empty. unfulfilled.
there was a growing, ugly part in her that wanted her to hate them more and more. the feeling one had when having been lied to for a very long time. she wouldn’t have cared had it been someone other than her elders—the ones who modeled the very behavior she had been taught since girlhood to mimic. with time mimicry no longer felt sufficient—it felt shallow when her heart craved otherwise.
but magloirienne would never yield.
she would never—
her hand was back on the doorknob, clutching so that the cold brass pressed into the bones under the heartlines of her palm, so that her nails dug into her own skin.
only she stood in the way of what it was that she wanted. what the fury forbade.
when she re-opens her bedroom door, paulecrain is no longer there.
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