I WILL CROSS THE VAST OCEAN

the lion’s mane is a place of origin. 

not of his conception, prophet forbid, but of his rebirth. his becoming. his first slaying, that witless ambassador, took place in one of the rooms here, before the new proprietor was even grown. whenever he does return, he arrives only with sharp intent, exploiting loose lips drowning in ale and undeterred by inquiry. today is no exception, although he’s in possession of a greater predilection for the bottom of a flagon than usual. all because of that damned ship. 

he didn’t expect for the ruse he’d had with rowan to carry on forever, no, he’s seen the bloodier side of living too often to be anything but a pragmatist. but life in widrowem was… different. slower-paced, leisurely, although not even a less lethal for it, possessing different pleasures and beacons and traps of its own that it seemed to run alongside his life in celestine as a parallel, or an alternate reality–apart, but infinite in its path. how disappointing that it ended, as all things do.  

with a sigh. 

rowan’s, in fact. karine looks up from his drink to return it in kind, wry smile nearly reading as rueful, if one were imaginative enough. perhaps he is. it was tickling, playing as a man who could lay in another’s bed as if his hands weren’t stained down to the bone with blood, some damned merchant’s proxy who never saw death in his life, taking to rowan’s home like a feral turned housecat. if it was easy, he wouldn’t admit it. 

“hardly shocking, isn’t it? a lonely heart often looks for reprieve at the the bottom of a flagon.” he grins crookedly, gaze roving. my, but they were beautiful, even now. “let me guess, darling–you’re looking for answers. well, set the table, and i’ll lay out a feast.” well, he’d try. it’s his dagger-hand that is known to be reliable, not his word.

The first word that comes to mind is, of course, appalling. It circles around their head the way a bird might, taunting and pecking at their hair like a bird’s nest. Appalling, appalling, appalling. They don’t consider themself witty, usually, in spite of their knack for talking their way out of situations that may have ended with their head on a pike. Quite the opposite. When true moments of charm arrive, they come unbidden, alongside a story that makes as graceful an exit as it did an entrance, unexpected.

After their one, bare-boned moment of glib taunting, words escape them. What follows is a very quick series of emotions which they have no choice but to pick up and tuck away to look at very closely later. Arrogance, haughtiness, shock, a little terror, anger, definitely anger, and lastly, at the very end of a very long list, sorrow. More than anything else, sorrow, with a hint of embarrassment to go along with it. They don’t go for the throat. It’s not their way. Nor is hurling insults to add on top of injury. They’ve found over the years that the most earnest harm is done in which conversations are had honestly.

Therein lies the issue.

Karine, they’ve discovered, is not at all honest.

But they’re offered an invitation that would be outright rude to decline otherwise, so they pull up a seat and comfort their tangled thoughts with the knowledge that they won’t make this conversation any longer than it has to be. If Karine drags it out, they’ll cut it short. Quickly. Concisely. Cutthroat-ly. Rowan grimaces, and because they won’t hide their face in the way all Celestinians seem to, it appears plain as day. “You’re familiar with this place, I’m assuming?”

when: twenty-second of maccius. where: the empressian gardens.  who: open.

it was simple really: victoire did not have time to go for a drink, to parade around the lion’s mane, to rest — he did not have time for such a thing, but the night was quieting. his shift had ended. there was breath in his lungs, and the thick smell of flowers was settling on his skin with an ease he could almost appreciate. ( almost. he so did love to complain about the flowers on occasion. ) maybe he would have time tonight. 

victoire was walking away from the summer palace, but he could not help it; his eyes roamed over the bushes, seeking danger. expecting it. and as if not to disappoint him, he heard the sudden footfalls of another. 

“i’ll bet half my pay it’s another assassin,” he muttered to himself. “alright,” he called with a flourish of his hand. please don’t be heading to the summer palace. “step forward, if you please. let’s get this over with, yes?” 

—

There is no denying that Rowan is lost. Utterly, inextricably, embarrassingly lost. Oh yes, they think, let’s go for a nice evening walk, see what awaits us, and pathetically wait for Cassian to drag you out. Is there anything more sanity-inducing than irritation-fueled rants at yourself? Probably not, but they’d like to think that is the true peak of coping in the midst of what feels like plain idiocy. Every corner they turn meets them with green shrubbery. Everything that looks like it may be a landmark, in fact, is not a landmark.

There’s a bench, but when they go a mere six feet further, there’s another bench. So many fucking fountains. Statues of emperors and empresses of old (and one new, egregious, proud, absolutely terrifying to look at) stand and watch vigil, and it’s making them feel so claustrophobic their palms are beginning to sweat a little.

How does this make anyone feel relaxed?

          𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 a person’s efforts were best dedicated to something aligned with their strengths, something, Nella, Etienne’s only employee at Terra Noire, assured him several days ago, but that did not change her decision to take the week off, and leave him to run the shop, and most dreadfully, interact with customers. A bonus, nor a raise would sway her either, though Nella still welcomed the idea of either in the near future, she’d assured him. Perhaps this was when having multiple employees would have come in handy— but he knew the odds of stumbling across another person he could tolerate long term were slim to nothing.

          Every moment spent above the surface meant another moment spent away from the lab, and Etienne progressively grew more irritable in its absence, busying himself with straightening several enchanting fragrances displayed on the shop counter and opting not to look up at whoever entered the store. He could only hope his performance of obliviousness was convincing enough. Only several moments pass before he decides identifying the customer would be in his best interest, perchance he fell victim to another assassination attempt. “Have you come here with a purchase in mind, or are you just browsing, as they say?” Etienne asks point blankly, for this would determine the remainder of their interaction. “If you are here to browse, consider arriving more prepared next time. There are only so many options to be had with a perpetually unchanging inventory.” Every customer meant a new opportunity to break the record for least amount of time spent with him in the store.

—

Terre Noire cuts an imposing shape on Val Faim’s streets, which may be why Rowan finds themself so inexplicably drawn to it. In their last few days the shop has been on the tip of the tongue of nearly everyone they’ve spoken to -- strange, considering the fact that no one seems to be in the building now, and that the only person working there is a man who immediately makes it clear that he’d rather Rowan be anywhere else. It strikes them a little off-guard, but they try to brush it off with a friendly (read: slightly strained, slightly alarmed) smile. The air is heavy with fragrances that remind them of places, rather than things. The cool mountain air to the north. The distinct sea-salt scent from the ocean, the kind of thing one can only catch after getting hit by a breeze. Being handed a bouquet of fresh flowers, enticing and sweet but not too overpowering.

if diplomacy is a game, then cassian is beginning to tire of this particular romp; vexed by rigid rules and repetition of the same phrases. it was dull five years ago - and time has only hardened this particular venture, tarnishing its once shiny surface. widrowem makes a proposal. calandre cuts them down, says no. diplomats scurry off with tails between their legs, having once again reached a stalemate. cassian is exhausted. cassian is bored. all dams break in the end - and this one has nearly split.

she glances at rowan from the corner of her eye, searching for signs of their weariness. they would do well to hide it, in this rotting nest of vipers. the celestian’s will pounce the moment they perceive weakness. to be a diplomat is to be your nation’s shield, a pillar holding it up straight. alone. well, cassian remarks, taking in rowan’s presence at their side, not alone this time around. the thought brings equal part comfort and dismay. loneliness is a crippling curse, but so is the responsibility of having someone else’s life in your hands. 

she chooses her words carefully, not willing to trust even the walls in this palace. “the empress is nothing if not consistent.” already, cassian is composing a letter in her mind, addresses to all thanes but directed at one in particular. “but - “ she presses, eyes firmly fixed on her protégé. “what else did you notice? about her? we may not have gotten the answer we desire - “ we, the royal we, the national we, not herself, not cassian “ - but that doesn’t mean it was wasted time. what lessons can we learn?” 

it’s a test. no one becomes great by being coddled.

Working with Cassian proves to be strange at the best of times, and at the worst, perhaps a little concerning. They’ve operated in the same district before, but to be hailed upon by them is another matter entirely. Chosen, Rowan reminds themself. You were chosen. Bizarre. Absolutely, unerringly bizarre. They straighten their spine and keep their chin up, if only to ensure that the guards which pepper the hallways do not see any notion of weakness. They know what they’ve heard about Celestine.

It’s never anything good. The walls have eyes, ears, and on certain occasions, mouths to start rumors with. These men and women, towering in build and suited in armor that shines as bright as the sun -- they’re decorations, yes, but they also serve a purpose. They hum, low in their throat, turning the coin over in their head. “You’ve dealt with her more than once.” No we, here, no royal address -- because Cassian, as far as Rowan knows, is the only one who’s grappled with a woman on par with her own deity and made it out alive. 

They pass the beginnings of what might be a mural, a large outlined sketch pressed up against marble and stone. They can’t even begin to formulate what it will look like when finished, with abstract lines and loose-leaf ideas, but they’re almost certain it will be a testament to ego. “She seems on edge,” they murmur, keeping their voice quiet, “but not enough to act on it yet. Paranoid, maybe. Did she watch you the entire time?”

when: the 8th of diodore 933 where: rowan’s quarters in widrowem who: closed to @aldgwynn

karine’s never been one to become too comfortable in one place–it is complacency, not curses, nor prophecies, that leads to a certain death. loiter too long where one isn’t meant to be, and circumstances will see to it you’re thrust back out, read you as malignant and poisonous. he can’t say it’s an inaccurate assessment, but as far as widrowem goes, there’s a rueful little morsel of him he would loathe to call sentiment that finds the kingdom a fine reprieve. unexciting, perhaps, as its leaders seem to be competent and its people happy, which means apart from whatever mandate alain had him underneath, jobs were slow for karine while he was there. days happily crept to a leisurely crawl here, in this kingdom of virtue and wisdom.

but he seldom finds room or time to whinge when he finds himself whisked away to its capital city and donning his usual shroud of mist and whispers; alain is clear about his objectives. and beyond that, he has his own. it begins with looking to win over the widrowem ambassador, or to have his ears, at least, and it’s morphed into this: his first night back from val faim, sweeping into their living quarters while they’re out like a breathless exhale, and making a home in between the sheets, flickering between their books, stretching out as far as the room will give.

strange creature comforts. he’s not turning soft like this, coiled up like a serpent in repose in a bed that belongs to another but he’s claimed for his own, whittling the hours not with the whetstone, but with soft sheets, the comforts of flesh and idle, tickling company. it’s all intelligence, he thinks to himself, as he lays his latest offering upon their dining table–a hefty tome detailing celestine’s architectural history he’d taken from the imperial library and never returned. a sole button, intricate and gold with fine details creating the likeness of the prophet, he’d found in the maze of the empressian gardens. repeats it once more, in his mind, as he falls onto rowan’s bed, weary with travel, and slumbers.

Rowan’s work is never done. This goes without saying, of course, but sometimes things feel better to come to terms with when they are spoken aloud, when the reality of the circumstances is admitted. It is this that they remind themself during their return to their home, tucked away among several others. Another day, another meeting with the Thanes, another assignment -- a journey to the desert at the end of the world, or the supposed end of the world in the East, to see what the cliff faces hold. They have a week to prepare themselves, and like always, there is that familiar sense of eagerness and fear twisted up into one that they have to hold the hand of, like their emotions are a small child bundled up in warm clothes.

They stop on the way home to grab dinner, devouring a bowl of soup as they go, following memorized paths and stepping stones between throngs of people that populate the streets. Here, there is always talk. Never a quiet moment, not even into the latest hours of the day. Their neighbors in particular are an absolute hassle at the moment, and while they’d never admit to prying, they’re certain there’s some sort of affair going on that will eventually come to a boiling point. Rowan can hear them arguing even now, bitter snaps of words at one another as they go to unlock the door--

And find it already open. Unease does a friendly flip in their stomach.

Strangers coming to visit their home unwelcome and unwanted occurs at least once a year, if not more. It always ends in talking someone out of their poor decision, or chasing someone out the door and trying to track them down later. They breathe out a rueful sigh even as they go for the handle. They don’t go for the knife in their pocket: no need for it, and realistically speaking, if someone really wanted to kill them, they’d lose that fight. Combat is no art to them.

When they enter, however, there is no sign of chaos or disruption of their messy organizational system. Things are displaced, but on the table outside the kitchen there is a tome that must weigh at least eight pounds and an intricately detailed button. The longer they look at it, the easier it is to see the face that lies within, the solemn expression of a man they’ll never meet. The pieces click together quite quickly after that: their crow, returned to them. Bearing gifts, of course.

Val Faim has several places just like this one: not tucked away, but not on brazen display, either. Buildings that blend into the background almost seamlessly, easy to pass over without taking another glance. They are fascinated by places like these, have spent the last enduring hours of the day working their way from quarter to quarter, hunting for something without being able to put a name on it. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a need to be active, out and about, exploring the world they’ve placed themself in. Well -- it’s not entirely true. Cassian, on a technical note, pulled them along. But they’re here, so they figure they might as well make the best use of it.

The Lion’s Mane is intriguing: it’s like the building has been divided entirely into two pieces. Raucous peals of laughter on one side, accompanied by the distinct slosh of spilled drinks and men and women colliding their fists’ against other’s faces with intention. On the other, there’s a quieter attitude. People with their heads tucked down, or held in their hands, nursing something and desperately finding the will to go along another day. Not an uncommon sentiment worldwide, and no, they suppose it would make sense that even here, the day-to-day turmoil that plague so many would not change.

Celestine has a reputation of gold. Rowan is eager to discover what appears underneath if they work away at the varnish enough.

It is their first time meeting Calandre Valence, and Rowan isn’t sure if they’re underwhelmed or overwhelmed. Maybe it’s some dithering space of emotion in between. Maybe it’s just... whelmed. They hadn’t felt nervous, necessarily but speaking to her in person had not at all been what they’d expected. Normally, in any diplomatic affair, there’s a game. A dance to dance, a stack of cards to deal to each individual party which are then kept as close to the chest as possible. There’d been none of that with Calandre, and Rowan--

Doesn’t even know what to say. It’s like they’re entirely at a loss for words. They’re not sure if that’s inspiring, or discouraging.

They keep looking to Cassian as they walk, between eyeing the gauche decor and the tall-standing figures which seem to scatter every inch of the hallways. Never before have they seen such a display of human arrogance, of assumption that some kind of line will continue. What will these displays all mean, if Val Faim is one day rendered to rubble and ash? What good will they have done, outside of proving an Empire wrong?