no one gets too much light

In Val Faim, there is no simple thing. A story is not a story but a message in a language Agrippine has not yet learned — one of implications and innuendos, invisible strings that slips by unnoticed. An object, after all, casts a shadow; Agrippine just doesn’t know how to read them, and responds by holding the world at a distance as if that will spare them in the end.

In Val Faim, there is no simple thing, but Agrippine comes close. Adraste comes close, they are sure of it; so Agrippine holds on because they are sure of so little. What is truth but the wind against skin, the earth beneath their feet, a promise made and followed through? They don’t know much, but the few things Agrippine is confident in, they repeat to themselves like a prayer and a mantra. They have lived before they can remember. There is reason to the madness; Savatier will help them unravel the knot until Agrippine’s story is an unwound thread, easy to follow and trace. 

The most recent thing they’ve learned: Adraste is their friend, the first they can remember. Emerging from the stables with a quick wave of their hand, Agrippine welcomes the sight of her with a happy crinkle of their eyes, smile tugging at their lips. “I’m always here, and you’re always spoiling Lune.” They say it to chastise her, but already Agrippine is tugging at Lune’s reins to meet Adraste. “She’s always happier after you stop by. I don’t blame her. You always bring sweets for me too.”

Something in Adraste’s posture softens at the sight of Agrippine emerging alongside Lune. There’s an unfamiliar easiness in their companionship, a welcome newness. She bother doesn’t feign sheepishness as the Agrippine’s playful chide - if Agrippine truly didn’t want her feeding Lune she’s sure they’d make it clear - and instead just lets the smile brighten on her face as horse and rider approach. She steps forward to greet them, offers Agrippine a warm smile, and gives Lune a quick pat on the neck before reaching into the bag to offer Lune her stolen treat. 

“I’m always happier after I visit,” Adraste says easily. Visiting Agrippine brings Adraste something she never thought she’d find in the sprawling city, they are a place somehow both soft and solid, a peaceful little oasis in the heart of Val Faim. It is only fitting that she bring whatever sweetness she can in return. 

—

Chaos is an old foe of Roth’s, control and constants the only weapons he has left to fight it with. In Val Faim, control seems nonexistent or, at the most, just barely out of the Chevalier’s grasp — that reality, the dark cloud that haunts his past and present, seems to be slipping into his mind more and more with each passing day. Control was rusty and unreliable as a weapon and so Roth finds himself relying more on the two constants in his life: Adraste and Madraut.

Though that doesn’t mean the Chevalier has any plans of going easy on the training field, not when it comes to making sure Adraste is in top shape. With each strike of his sword that gets countered, Roth can’t help the proud smirk that appears on his lips, even if in the next move, he’s sure to make Adraste question just how much she truly knows about his strategies. With each strike, Roth pushes it even harder and gives Adraste enough to think about. With each strike, Roth hopes Adraste learns. 

One day she will beat him, Roth knows that much. One day, the student will surpass both her teachers and Roth knows that with each training session that day is getting closer and closer. However, that morning is not that day. The clattering sword steals Roth’s attention for only a split second before his eyes meet Adraste’s, his smile matching hers. It’s only when they stop that the Chevalier notices his breathing, the sweat forming on his forehead. 

Roth wipes it away with his left arm, letting the arm that holds the sword go down. “I know you will. You get closer to it every day.” And although he can sense something off about Adraste, he hopes is just a bad feeling, his past influencing what it should not. “What did you learn just then?” He asks her as he picks up Adraste’s sword and extending his arm to hand it to her. The question is an important one but merely an opening to the conversation they must have, as Chevalier and Chevalier-in-training brought back for one reason and one reason only. 

“How are you finding Val Faim?” A question that asks for less of a personal opinion and more of a professional one.

Adraste can’t help the way her chest puffs up at Roth’s compliment despite her heavy breathing, her smile spreading wider across her face. She thinks on the question for a moment as she takes her sword back from him, feeling the familiar weight in her hands as she goes over the movements of the fight in her mind. Every defeat is a lesson, she knows, even when they’re hard to see. She learned that young, but it seems far more true with Roth and Medraut than it ever did during her mother’s training. 

“I expended too much energy too early,”  says after thinking on it a moment. “My endurance ran thin, and it made me vulnerable.” She thinks on it a moment longer, trying to remember any specific flaws in her footwork or her technique. Roth is one of the best swordsmen she’s ever encountered, with every move he keeps her on her toes, keeps her guessing at his techniques and strategies, improvising as much as falling back on old knowledge. Every time they spar he seems to have a new trick up his sleeve, and every time Adraste commits them to memory, to learn to counter and to recreate. “Anything I missed?” 

How is she finding Val Faim? She hopes he doesn’t see the flash of something in her eyes at the question. It’s so easy to lose herself in swordplay, to let the whole world fade away, leaving only her, her opponent, and their blades. Roth brings it all rushing back in, where they are, what they’re here to do, the uneasy weight that sits on her shoulders. Adraste tries to brush it off with an easy smile. “It’s different,” she says, knowing its not much of an answer, but its the most honest one she can give. Val Faim is a lot of things, exciting, overwhelming, claustrophobic, grand, and ever shifting. “A good different, in some ways, I think,” she adds, doing her best to sound positive. “I’m still just... finding my footing here.” Was that too revealing? She punctuates it with a casual shrug of her tired shoulders.

— 

Cyril can’t help the smile that appears on her lips at Adraste’s reaction. “You, as well? Not with fabric, I presume, which is almost as light as a feather. And what you do is far more difficult, isn’t it? At least, physically.” She runs her hands through her hair, tucking a loose strand of it behind her right ear. Just doing my duty. A small chuckle escapes Cyril. “Well, your duty is very honourable,” she begins, a wide smile on her lips as she nods her head once, emphasising the playfulness that drips from her words, “I am glad you were here when my hands forgot how to… well, be hands.”

Adraste’s offer ingrains itself in Cyril’s mind. Amidst the growing tensions of Court and the tailor’s own feelings about how thin the ice she stands on regarding her own role in all of it is, the young Chevalier’s (or is it Chevalier-in-training? To Cyril, Chevalier or almost-Chevalier, there is something to be said about their skill) company would come as a breath of fresh air in a place where the marble floors became more and more stained with politics.

“Yes, some company would be lovely, actually,” Cyril begins, an inviting smile on her lips, though it soon falters as a thought crosses her mind, “but I don’t want to keep you if you have somewhere else to be. I must imagine how busy Chevaliers must be, especially lately.”

-

An embarrassed chuckle escape’s Adraste’s lips. “Medraut - Ser Galant - sometimes has me hold my sword until my arms more or less give out,” she admits, trying to sound casual. It sounds intense she knows, it is intense - sitting there glaring daggers at her mentor with sweat pouring down her skin, muscles burning, arms trembling from the effort, refusing to give in until her body fails her - but Medraut knows her. He knows just how far past her limits he can push her. But that’s all just physical endurance and raw stubbornness. Keeping up with the Val Faim’s famously ever-changing fashion and all that delicate needlework, Adraste suspects, is just exhausting in its own way. She shrugs. “More strenuous perhaps, but I suspect I’d be even more out of my depth with a needle than you would with a sword.”

Honourable, Cyril calls her, and Adraste glances downward. It sounds magnificent on Cyril’s tongue. She wishes, so desperately, that she could believe it, that the life she’s signed up for was all saving maidens and doing good. But Cyril accepts her offer, and whatever waver there might have been in Adraste’s smile vanishes as she meets her eyes once more.

Should she be out in the streets, chasing down whispers? Probably. But so far they’ve had little but dead ends, there is little to do for her but rummage from the proverbial needle in the giantic haystack that is Val Faim and its winding streets. There will be no great disaster because Adraste has chosen to indulge in Cyril’s presence a little longer. “Nothing that can’t wait a while,” she promises, sincere. “Lead the way,” she says, gesturing down the hall. 

—

Cyril’s frustration subsides at the sight of a semi-familiar face and the warmth it irradiates. The young tailor can’t help but find the Chevalier-in-training’s kindness to be sort of… refreshing. There are many people in Cyril’s life that make the young Courtier less nervous about being a part of the Empress’ court but those are people that she considers friends. Most of the strangers, the acquaintances that she finds herself surrounded by whenever she visits the Palace all make her feel all sorts of things… and the majority of them can’t exactly be described as positive. 

That’s why a smile appears on the tailor’s lips, watching as Adraste so promptly offers to help. “Adraste,” she breathes out. Cyril has no idea why Adraste had been so quick to help but she also knows not to complain when someone performs an act of kindness. “Oh, yes,” she begins, letting out a semi-nervous chuckle, shaking her head in a dismissive way before she crouches down to the same level, “Just… I suppose my hands forgot how to work for a moment,” she finishes as she gathers some of the dropped fabrics in her hands.

After picking up the last piece of fabric that remains, Cyril stands up. She looks at her hands for a heartbeat, moving the fabrics around and making sure none would fall again. Then, her attention is back on the Chevalier. “Thank you, Adraste. I doubt just anyone would have stopped to help.”

- 

Cyril explains that her hands forgot to work and Adraste responds with a small laugh. “We’ve all been there,” she says, remembering Medraut making her hold a sword to heavy for her until her hands simply gave out. Of course that’s not what happened with Cyril and the fabrics, but she supposes tailoring must have its own wear on the hands. What’s a needle but an exceptionally tiny, delicate sword?

Adraste follows Cyril to her feet, fabrics still clutched in her hand. “Of course,” she says, almost shy under Cyril’s attention and her thanks, afraid that a pink blush might be creeping onto her cheeks. There’s much that’s drawn her to Cyril, but this, her kindness, catches Adraste off guard ever time. How many nobles would kneel down to help her, would thank her so sincerely? Cyril has no obligation to so much as acknowledge Adraste, but instead she is kind and appreciative. “Just doing my duty,” she adds, deflecting the praise. It’s scarcely even true, Calandre didn’t exactly summon her and her brethren here to look out for her tailor, but as far as Adraste is concerned any reason to spend time with Cyril is a good one. She only hopes she isn’t too obvious in her affection. 

“Perhaps I could continue doing it by helping you take these these-” she nods down at the gathered fabrics in her hands “-to their destination?” Adraste’s smile is a touch nervous at the suggestion, afraid to overstep. “Just in case your hands decide to stop working again.”

Val Faim is a city of chaos and hunger. Adraste welcomes it, the way its streets twist and turn before her, full of masked strangers each with their own plethora of secrets and expectations. Everywhere she goes, someone is seeking something from her, and she is seeking something in return. If asked, Adraste would fervently deny seeking an escape from it, from missing the open spaces of the south or the sometimes straightforward duties of the border patrol, and she’d be lying through her teeth.

Agrippine is the solace she’d deny she needs. But she arrives at the stables and a weight is lifted from her shoulders. She’s made her share of connections in Val Faim, but Agrippine is perhaps the first she could truly call a friend. Perhaps they’re the first person she could call that in longer than she’d care to think about - Medraut and Roth are more, they’re nothing short of family - everyone else an acquaintance or an informant or a crush. But with Agrippine, she’s not a Chevalier or a trainee or a threat or a nuisance, she’s just a friend. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed that until she found it.

There is little Adraste loves more than a proper sword fight. The familiar weight of the blade in her hand, heart pounding in her chest, the satisfying sound of metal striking metal. Roth keeps her on her toes, trying to predict his next move, searching for an opening in his expert defence to make her strike. She’s outmatched, of course. Roth is a talented swordsman with years and years of experience on her, but that takes none of the joy from the fight. There is still so much she has to learn from him, every battle a lesson.

Adraste can feel her endurance beginning to fail her, the weapon feeling heavier in her hands, but she only pushes herself further. Sweat beads on her brow, her breath starts to come in pants, and the smile on her face is unmistakable as she parries and strikes. The few days since they’ve arrived in Val Faim have been full of newness and uncertainty, providing more questions than answers. But training? She knows training, knows Roth’s style. Adraste might not be an equal match for him yet, but every fight she gets just a little bit closer, gets just a little bit better.

She feels the loss coming before she knows exactly what form it will take, but it reveals itself soon enough. Adraste is only a split-second too slow to catch it, the clever move that Roth uses to disarm her, but in a fight like this, a split second is all it takes. Her sword clatters to the ground, and Adraste raises her empty hands in surrender, and meets Roth’s eyes with a smile. 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: 13th of Maccius  𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: Summer Palace 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed, @adraste​

Cyril loves her occupation, she loves what she gets to do for the people in Val Faim in her own way, she loves that she gets to create things she imagines and then grows to adore. What she doesn’t love, however, is when a shade is so clearly in her mind but nothing she encounters seems to hit the nail for her. There’s this sensation that sticks to her chest Cyril swears is impossible to get rid of unless the reason why it appeared is taken care of.

But, lucky her, nothing seems to be able to even coming close to being taken care of. Many would dismiss her worries, shove her aside like her siblings did, because worrying about a colour is not a worrisome thing — unless your name is Cyril Beauchamp. Her thoughts culminated in her chest, so much so that everything seemed too much. Including the few pieces of fabric she’s holding in her hands and, for once, feeling threads at the tip of her fingers doesn’t calm her  — instead, it’s the last straw and, like a guttural reaction, her hands let go of what they’ve been holding. 

“Oh, for Odeline’s sake,” the tailor breathes out in frustration. Maybe she should leave them there. No one’s around, they wouldn’t know. But she would know. And she needs them. 

Cyril lets out another exasperated sigh.

-

The Summer Palace seems almost labyrinthine to Adraste, so large and sprawling and grand. She sometimes feels she could spend whole days walking its halls, running her fingers along the wall as if through touch they might reveal their secrets, whisper to her the many tales they’ve borne witness to. How many of her ancestors have walked these halls, known these corridors? 

Adraste turns a corner, and the thought vanishes from her mind as a smile blossoms on her lips. Had she managed to wander in the direction of the tailor’s workshop without even realizing? Probably. Almost definitely. It’d be just like her, drawn to Cyril like a moth to a flame. She’s not totally clueless. She knows it’s a bit ridiculous, how even the sight of Cyril Beauchamp with her back turned can make her heart flutter. But Adraste can’t help it. She doesn’t even want to help it. Cyril is a bright spot in the swirling chaos of Val Faim. Witty and clever and beautiful and...

In need of assistance. Her posture is deflated, fabric scattered on the floor around her. It hardly takes a genius to imagine what’s happened. Adraste reaches Cyril’s side in a few long, quick strides. “Cyril, are you alright?” she asks, and immediately drops to one knee, chivalrous as can be. “Here,” she says, offering a reassuring smile as she gathers up the fabric from the floor. “Let me help.”