Sebastian Varmont

Tristan and Sebastian had fought side by side in the team melee on the final day of the games and, while they'd not proven victorious, Tristan did feel that they'd proven a good team, coming in second place. Still, the finale to this event was proving rather less auspicious hosted, as it was, by none other than Valentina, herself.

Nonetheless, Tristan had found that, when in Sebastian's presence, their hostess had a habit of making herself rather scarce and, between enjoying Sebastian's companionship and misliking that of Valentina, he'd found this a rather promising place to be. Besides, there was an old kind of camaraderie about being here at Malconaire, again, together, even if there were rather more people on this occasion than usual -- hadn't they been frequenting the place together for years, now?

"Well, I don't know about you," began Tristan, approaching Sebastian with two drinks in hand, and offering him one. "But I think this is the largest number of people I've seen at Malconaire at one time so far."

In truth, it was strange watching all the people from his life at the citadel colliding with the pastoral peace he'd found here, but he couldn't fault a single soul for coming. It was the one place Tristan had consistently managed to find any peace.

He took a small sip, then glanced back toward the bustle of the hall, “Still, I’m glad it helped,” he added more sincerely. “If nothing else, I suppose I’ve learned to watch my surroundings. Edmund would call that strategy; Arthur would say it’s instinct. I think it’s mostly caution.”

Sebastian nodded at Tristan’s observation, his gaze drifting over the crowd again. “You’re right: it’s the most people I’ve ever seen here at once.” There was a pause, “Malconaire has not often had cause for gatherings on this scale. Not for many years.” He didn’t elaborate, but there was something careful in the way he phrased it, as though skirting a truth too impolite to voice outright.

Malconaire had neither the resources nor the occasion for it, he knew.

Despite himself, his eyes slid briefly, though rather pointedly, toward Valentina Malconaire, radiant and sharp as ever at the center of her domain. Sebastian’s mouth curved, not quite into a smile. “Though I must admit,” he said, lowering his voice a fraction, “I am a little surprised by the turnout. Given how assiduously our hostess and her son tend to… discourage affection.” The dryness in his tone was uncharacteristic, but unmistakable.

He tipped his cup slightly in the air, as if toasting the thought. “It does rather suggest that Malconaire endures in spite of them, not because of them. Have you had the honor of making our hostess's acquaintance? He asked, his gaze returned to Tristan, but there was suddenly a flicker of apology in his eyes, as though Sebastian was aware he’d strayed closer to unkindness than usual.

hi, so you've been promoted in alistair's eyes!! he used to be a keen GUIN FOR EMPRESS supporter but now he's fallen for her he doesn't want that for her bc ~she doesn't want that and laksjdflkjsdfj so sebastian it is!! enjoy having a life you don't want, bud! ;D jk jk i don't think he hasany particular plans for ~how this will go just...yknow...ngl he's like 'edmund and arthur are both doomed bc they'll kill eo' so that one's gonna work itself out in his mind lkajsdfsdf alistair just has to keep guin safe so sebastian can ascend and yeahhh lakjdsfjkdsf

no, but all this being said, it ~is a vote of confidence in sebastian!! he def thinks he's up to the task and would be a good ruler!!! and i do think he does what he can to teach sebastian as much as he can bc honestly he's gonna need those skills!! lkajsdfjlkdsf

do you think that Sebastian knows/suspects that he's Alistair's pick??? I don't think Sebastian thinks he's really anybody's 1st choice for future emperor (nor does he think he should be!!) and he just would feel so incredibly underprepared for such a job and would wonder what he did to trick Alistair into thinking HE'S the best choice lmao

but yes!! I agree -- either way, I think that Alistair has known Sebastian his entire life and!!! this would baffle sebastIAn even further if he found out that he's Alistair's choice for emperor because he was NOT his star pupil but any stretch with Edmund's superior strategies and Arthur's godlike skills with a sword and Sebastian is barely average at either of those things, at best.

honestly he probably DID think him the weakest of the three at first lmao but y'know my boys strengths start to shine through as he gets older and it becomes clear that he's the one who wants it the least and therefore probably deserves it the most; he'd always be calm and listen to council vs. try to dominate it; and he's definitely the most merciful one who just might be able to broker peace which would probably be very welcome to Alistair after he's fought in so many wars!!

"If you wish to see Lady Aoife," Valentina said, rather distractedly, "She's taking a walk in the gardens."

It was clear that whatever plot Valentina hoped to put into motion, it was only his brothers that were to be a part of it and Sebastian was more than willing to escape it to spend a quiet walk with Aoife outdoors.

He supposed no one had found Rose in time to tell her that the Varmont princes had arrived, for there, outside the house, was Roisin Malconaire -- although not as Sebastian had ever seen her before. She was bent over a basket of freshly washed clothes, carefully pinning each piece to the line. He'd accidentally stumbled across her washing clothes.

He was about to turn to leave, before she could spot him, when she stood up and her eyes immediate met his own. For a moment, Sebastian found himself at a loss for words.

"I --- um," A beat. If it hadn't been for the book of Astairan fairytales that Aria had suggested he read, he never would have thought of anything to say at all.

"Aoife told me that you used sometimes would put on plays to amuse yourselves. I must say, I'm impressed. I never would have had the patience to take it so seriously. I suppose you have won the lead in Before Midnight?"

Before Midnight was the dramatization of an Astarian fairytale that centered around a young cinder girl who had been orphaned and was at the mercy of her step-family. She was once granted an evening away from her troubles by the goddess Phaedra to attend a royal ball, but with the warning that she must return home before the stroke of midnight.

He supposed it was a bit on the nose to suggest this particular play, but it had been the first thing he'd thought of. Never mind that he knew that the girls hadn't play acted since they were children; never mind that this was likely a bit more method than even the most dedicated of them had ever been.

Of all the unpleasant tasks Rose had undertaken at her stepmother's behest, this was by far the worst, yet it had to be done. And Valentina had saved her sister's life. It was a little mantra she repeated to herself over and again, each time she plunged her hands into the pungent, stinging vat. She saved Brigit, she saved Brigit, she saved Brigit. It was the rhythm by which she washed the clothes, scraping them again, again, again against the board to its flow.

Rose donned very different clothing for this project even than she did for her other servile functions, and still more so than for those she wore to entertain the princes or to step out to balls and functions at court. Today, her hair was bound up atop her head in a scarf. She wore long gloves up to her elbows, splotted with a bizarre assortment of colors from the thousand dyes she'd used over time. Her dress, similarly, sported an array of mismatched colors, and was an ancient, threadbare thing -- picked especially because she did not care what became of it. It was the sort of rainment few would relish being caught in, and still less one who was so very focused upon her fashionable appearance, and frankly quite vain, as was Roisin Malconaire.

Finishing with the shirt she'd just been scrubbing, Rose stood, ready to plunge it into the barrel of pure water beside her, so the lye could not eat it, when -- in standing -- her eyes caught another pair. Gasping astonishment, Rose darted backward a pace or three, heart pounding wildly in her chest. For a moment, she stood with her surprise, Cassimir's lye-soaked shirt, clutched to her chest, when she felt it drop away from her surprised fingertips, puddling at her feet.

It was Sebastian. Sebastian Varmont. An imperial prince of the realm. Twelve countries. And she looked like a street urchin and -- gods alive! -- he saw the vat! And, and he'd seen her washing! And--

Her gut seemed to drop, her whole chest caving against this realization. She stepped back again, Cassimir's shirt forgotten. A feeling of illness curled through her, rising from her chest, which felt suddenly too tight, towards her head. She could feel a flush unfurling from her bosom to her brow. Her mortification was complete.

Sebastian was speaking but she hardly heard him at first. All she could think was that it was all out. It was all known. There was no way to hide her family's shame, now, and tears bit at her eyes at the thought. She'd failed them all. Failed her sisters, failed her parents' sacred memory. In a way, she'd even failed Valentina and Cassimir and Sonya. She'd failed the people of the village. She'd failed all who looked to them to lead the way. Who now could have faith or pride, now, in people who behaved in such a way? With this shame falling upon them all? Was conquest not enough? Was this, too, to blemish the name of Malconaire--

But he was still speaking and she shook her head, intent upon hearing him. She had to do it! Had to answer the charges, somehow! Maybe it wasn't too late, maybe she could still pull this back, maybe some dignity could still be salvaged--

"Before...Before Midnight," she whispered, processing his words. Her eyes widened. Had he just--He had! He had! Gods, she could have kissed him!

"Yes!" She hadn't meant to cry that with such enthusiasm. This was ordinary, she reminded herself. She cleared her throat. Focused on keeping her choice even. "Yes," she repeated. "When...when we were children," she shrugged. "We didn't, but we didn't have so much to give, then, you know? It's only as rewarding as the effort you put into it, you see."

Quickly, she pealed off the gloves, dropped them to the ground before her. Let the lye eat Cassimir's shirt! His mother would find a way to get him another one, no doubt, or else Rose would simply make it. That didn't matter, now. This was more important.

"Before Midnight has so much...hope to it, don't you think?" And, she thought, it was a far more apt excuse than -- she prayed -- he would ever know. "No matter your circumstances, you can always...rise above and be your best self. It's an important lesson to keep in mind, I think. Not that--" she paused, she'd been about to wildly claim that the House of Malconaire knew nothing of reduced circumstances, but such a statement, she realized would be far more damning than saying nothing of it at all. "Not that any of us would forget such a beautiful moral."

She laughed, then, self-conscious. "I know it must seem a rather dull pastime to a prince of the blood, but...we ladies cannot ride out and seek adventure as you may. We are country folk, as well, and must invent amusement however we may." She laughed, half mocking herself as she spoke. "Who knows, perhaps if you were ever to try it, you might even enjoy it. Does such playacting hold any charm for you?"

She cleared her throat. "But, come, I've had my share of fun for the time being. I'll--I'll leave that for the servants to clean," she said, waving her hand towards the lye and the barrel of water and the clothes on the line. She meant, of course, that she, herself, would come back later and see to it. "Let me change into something else quickly and then would--would you care for a walk?"

Rose knew the rest of her sisters were also about their tasks, and she wished to prevent him from seeing them, too, at work. Of course, she'd claim that they were all simply taking part, if he did, but better that he not witness each of them at it.

"I applaud your dedication," Sebastian grinned, masking his relief for amusement. "But no, never dull. On the contrary, I'm sure it can be exciting, to pretend to be someone else -- to transport yourself into another time and place." Prince of the blood or no, even he wished to escape his own life sometimes.

He never would have asked for any of this.

"I can say that I do enjoy watching stage plays," He was careful not to hint that he would be interested in seeing their play. "Especially ones based on fairytales and folklore ... I've found the historical ones to be a bit ... dry."

In fairness, the only historical plays he had ever seen performed were ones that depicted his own father's heroics. There were endless versions -- a playwright had no better subject than this to earn favor with him. However, just as Roderick Varmont could be their biggest supporter, he was just as easily their biggest critic and anything he deemed inaccurate would see the end of the play's run -- and that was if they were lucky. The preferred interpretation had been written by his own court historian and it was a play of epic proportions that was in four parts and was performed over several nights, in succession.

"Which has been your favorite role? I think I would prove too timid to be an actor ... but I certainly admire those who try." He'd made speeches before -- ones to rouse his troops -- and while he'd managed them, his delivery was heartfelt, was always rushed. It was clear to everyone that he did not like so many eyes upon him at once.

Sebastian was more than willing to wait while Rosie excused herself and changed. The longer she stood there in her servant's garb, he knew the more uncomfortable she would be. When she returned, she seemed brighter; more herself.

She smiled. "Though you must not imagine any of us useless little twits, either! Our parents wished us to know what was involved in caring for ourselves, and to know that we could do so, if need be, from the start. My parents began it, but..." and here a touch of sarcasm crept in, Rose smirking softly. "My stepmother is even more dedicated in her wish that we be self-sufficient than they."

Hearing him speak of dry historical plays, Rose laughed. "Oh, yes, your brother once obliged me to watch one performed for your father's nameday celebrations. I lost four hours of my life to that innocent pledge, but know better now than to make such promises to Edmund anymore. Though...that was less historical and more...symbolic, I believe." She frowned, turning a touch wry. "Or perhaps hope."

She paused. "I've yet to see the historical play of the Emperor's own deeds, but...I've heard tales. It is not a favorite with you?" she tilted her head. "Do you and your siblings feature in these plays? How does it feel to watch yourself portrayed by someone, up on stage? I feel, in such a position myself, I'd be far too apt to heckle the stage with proclamations about how I never said that or wore that or did that, and I fear it would prove most disruptive to the entire production."

She paused, considering his question. Though what he'd observed had not truly been a play, it had been an old custom of the girls' as children to perform for their family, and Samain often included mummery, though Rose rarely participated. "Oh, its hard to say. I should not much like to perform for a whole crowd, myself, I fancy, though I think I could manage it credibly: there's an ancient tradition of mummery here in Astaira.

A beat. "I'm sure it changes a person, doesn’t it?” he continued. “If you have ever scrubbed a stain until your wrists ache, it becomes much harder to dismiss the people who do it every day as background. If you have ever carried water, kneaded dough, mended, cleaned… you cannot pretend you don’t understand what you ask of your servants, or your villagers. I think that sort of knowledge makes for a better lord, for a better lady."

He wouldn't have faulted even Valentina for pressing her own step-daughters into servitude if she had only asked the same thing of her own son and daughter. He felt it would have done them all good.

"I sometimes wish my father had insisted on something similar for us. How can one rule the people, if one does not know the people?” The last word carried more weight than the rest, and he looked at her again.

With the empire as it is, he thought, we have conquered places whose customs I’ve never been taught, whose songs I’ve never heard, whose lives I’ve never tried to understand. It is a strange thing: to be told you own a land you’ve never really met.

These words went unsaid: he knew better than to ask for sympathy from her in this. How could he, when it was her land and her culture that was being threatened? He silently grieved the loss of art, history, religion, and traditions that were being threatened with each new piece of territory his father claimed for his own. How long would it be, he wondered, until it was all gone?

He was desperate to change the subject and, for the first time, gladly returned to discussing his father's plays. “The truth is, I’ve seen so many performances about my father that I’ve lost count.” He hesitated, and his voice dipped, careful. “In most of them, we are only shadows at the edge of the stage. A line here, a bow there. It’s almost… merciful.” He exhaled, a quiet confession. “I don’t think I’d like to see how a playwright would portray me."

If Sebastian had come to know Valentina Malconaire through other means, he would have likely made excuses for some of her behaviors. He was someone who often found the good in everyone and was empathic to their situation and motivations, even if he couldn't agree with their actions.

But Valentina had crossed a line with him, when she had forced her step-daughters into servitude to help offset her own rather lavish lifestyle, while she saw to her own needs and the needs of her children, all while neglecting everyone else who counted on her.

Instead of seeing a woman who had only known what it was like to be royalty, who was then married to a man who was so devoted to his first wife and children, that Valentina could never hope to occupy a place in his heart as she once had -- Sebastian saw a scheming, selfish, and unfeeling woman.

In this vein, it did not surprise him that Eithne and Brigit, both, had been absent this evening. The Varmonts had been invited to dine with the Malconaire and Sebastian and each of his siblings had accepted the invitation.

Rose, Aoife, Edmund, and Cassandra chatted in one corner and all of Cassimir's attentions were upon Guinevere, while Valentina had set up Sonya and Arthur conveniently in another corner where he turned the pages for her as she played upon her lute.

Sebastian had been joining in with the others, but he found he could not concentrate on anything that was said when he caught Valentina's rather pleased expression. From her vantage point, everything was going as she planned. He felt something come over him, as his heart began to race and he could feel the blood running in his veins.

Valentina sniffed, then, inventing an excuse off the cuff. "Such dear girls," she began, smiling warmly, now, as if the thought of Brigit, or even Eithne, brought her any pleasure. "Poor Eithne took ill this morning," she said waving a hand as she conjured an image for herself of the imagined hardship which had taken them away. "And you know our loyal Brigit. Couldn't be persuaded to leave her side, much as I tried!"

In fact, Valentina had dispatched Eithne all the way into the woods towards Lorcan after a particular berry in order to get her out from under Cassimir's nose, but she doubted Brigit knew a thing whatever about that, as she had gone tearing out of the yard riding bareback on one of Cassimir's horses (which she insisted on calling her father's horses, though Macdara was long gone, now!) an hour before, hellbent on some errand for a townsperson Valentina had not bothered to commit to memory beyond the point that she'd not be back till about dawn tomorrow. Scandalous, from beginning to end. But what was Valentina to do with such an obstinate, headstrong girl? ((<3)) She ought not to let her have her own way so very much, but -- Valentina reminded herself -- it had been for the greater good: Cassimir and Sonya each looked wonderfully cozy.

"Such sweet devotion, you know, could break a mother's heart. No, I won't have them disturbed. Eithne is resting and could not be in better hands and Brigit...well, you are so dear a friend to us all I need not conceal from you at this juncture how little she regards gatherings. In truth, I suspect she's happier up there, but then...it is so hard for my stepdaughters," she added, quickly, not wishing to give insult but simultaneously wishing to remind him of the most pleasing news there was...

"It is no easy thing, you know, to be utterly surrounded by those of royal birth when ones is not. I know the poor girls feel it most keenly...See? Look at them," she boasted. "My Sonya and my Cassimir could not look more natural in any other company than that of your family," she added, instinctually reaching out to take his hand and tuck it into her arm (about to say the worlds 'It is in their blood!') when, for the first time, she looked fully into his face.

He was a storm and, for perhaps the first time, Valentina could see his father in him: something rigid in his stance, something hard in his face. She had never seen him so, and she found to her own chagrin that she cringed and shrunk back, half as if he would strike her. But, steadying herself, she summoned her courage. He would not strike her. Surely he would not. Not here. Not now. Her mouth was dry and she reached up, tittering nervously, and dabbed at her hair. "Oh, I...I think I had a bit of a dizzy spell, Your Highness. You will excuse me, I hope."

She wondered for half a second if the same expression in either of his brother's faces might have so frightened her, but she could not countenance it. No. This was a peculiar kind of palpatation, that came only when a peaceful man knew rage. She swallowed hard past the dryness in her throat. Her voice came out half a croak. Half a squeak.

From what he did know of Brigit, it would not surprise him to learn that she was not hear of her own violation -- what her step-mother said did seem to be true: that she disliked such gatherings. But Sebastian had also seen, on multiple occasions, that her affection for her sisters would always outweigh anything else and he had seen how protective she could be, especially when the Varmont princes were near.

While he didn't doubt that Brigit might just miss out on such an occasion to nurse one of her sisters if they were ill, Sebastian still was not convinced that this was the case.

However, short of searching the grounds of them, or demanding to see Eithne, himself, Sebastian could have no way of confirming whether or not Valentina spoke truly.

At least, not just yet.

"I am very sorry to hear it. I should like to have one of our own physicians look in on her," Before Valentina could protest, he turned to her, and added, "I hope you know, Lady Malconaire, just how much my family values the friendships we have formed here and I intend to make certain that you are all taken care of, properly."

Whether or not he would actually send his physician to them, he hadn't yet decided. He had no intention of dragging Eithne into whatever charade Valentina would likely insist she go along with, but he also did not appreciate that she believed that she could lie to him without consequence.

He further did not appreciate her comparisons that she drew between her children and his siblings, as though it was their blood alone that made them better than anyone else. It was clear to anyone who knew them that her stepdaughters were the superior creatures (to both her own children and Sebastian's own family) and he had half a mind to say as much when he suddenly saw a look upon Valentina's face that he had never seen before in anyone and he did not know what it meant.

Never before had Sebastian instilled fear into another person and he was suddenly afraid that Valentina was taking ill, herself, and might swoon at his feet at any moment.

He feared, too, that perhaps he had been wrong about her lying about her other girl's whereabouts and perhaps there was a sickness in the house, after all. While this did not change his opinion of her, he was guilt stricken that perhaps he had been wrong and had perhaps misjudged her in this. While he could hardly say much good about her, he did not wish to see her harmed and his own features softened as he reached out his own hand to steady her.

"Here, please. You should sit down -- here by the window where the heat of the fireplace is not so strong." He lead her to a chair, hoping he could keep her from fainting. As there was no current servant in attendance, Sebastian poured her a glass of water, himself, from the pitcher that had been left upon the table and brought it to her side.

This had always baffled Valentina: why any loving parents should insist their daughters lower themselves to manual labor failing to prove conprehensible to her, but she could not pretend now to regret that they had...

"I daresay little Brigit is the most adept healer from amongst all the girls, and that is a boast on her behalf, I assure you! All will be well." She forced a smile, and unconsciously rubbed her arm. "Not...not that our Aoife is not superlative in everything she undertakes, however! She is...of course."

Valentina's eyes widened at Sebastian's suggestion and, quickly, she arched her brows, an expression of thought. "Tis but an innocent cold, and I daresay Eithne shall be well before your most excellent physician could even be brought here...No need to trouble yourself, Your Highness, though your concern for my dear girl is...touching." The last word sounded as flat as it felt.

"Besides..." she added, something which was partly true occuring to her as she lowered her voice in a seemingly confidential manner. "I'm sure I need not remind you that Malconaire has such a tradition of and connection to plants and healing...I fear poor Brigit might take offense that you did not think her skill great enough to heal her sister! You ought to have heard how snappish she grew when I, myself -- her own mother! -- approached the sickbed!

"I shall of course not stop you, if you think it advisable to pursue this, as my girls' wellbeing in my second priority, bending only to the holy will of the true god and of His Imperial Majesty, our great Emperor, but I will simply hint that it might...damange materially your relationship with Brigit...and thus with...her sisters," she added even more softly, lowering her eyes as she felt sure he would not wish to spoil things with Aoife, simply to catch Valentina out which, she felt sure, was precisely what he was doing. He did not, after all, sound terribly concerned. Or, at least, this is what she hoped...

Glancing down as Sebastian spoke coldly of his concern for House Malconaire's wellbeing, she arched a brow before turning her glance to him once again. "That is..." she arched a hard brow as she considered precisely which members of her family he meant. "A most touching sentiment, Your Highness."

His hand! It rose up, suddenly, and Valentina pressed herself back, the wall once again hitting her back. Her breath and blood all. fled. Her eyes widened, her chest constricted. She cowered, but at all once, some strange iron which had gripped her once before, watching Brigit drug away by a crowd, rose up in her, some strange impulse flaring and she squared her shoulders, even with her back pressed to the wall, and stared him down as best she could despite his superior height. If he is to strike me, to arrest me, even to behead me, I shall go down as a queen should, she thought. I will not quail for him!

But he did not strike her, only caught her arm gently, supportively, and she stared dumbly at it, then, upon her shoulder, an she found that for all that she had thought of courage, she was shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut. This, she thought, this was his most devestating, his most confusing play of all. Calling her out, she understood, but what was this? Yet, it had worked. He'd tur ned her to a reed upon the breeze and all at once she wished to weep, but she held herself taut.

He thinks me wicked, she thought, bitterly, her eyes catching his again. He thinks me a wretch and a liar! He doesn't understand all that I've done, all that I've given for these girls, despite their inflexibile natures, their ingratitude! He thinks he knows! But he knows nothing. I am innocent. He knows nothing! He has only heard from those hateful girls! she thought, and her anger crackled. It only shows his own wicked heart. It only speaks about him! It reflects more on him that he should believe such vile calumny! Not me, not me! All I've ever done was for survival! For my children! He's wrong. This doesn't reflect on me. Not me!

Valentina glanced confusedly towards the chair he proferred. And now he pretends to care for me? His was an imperial court, she reflected. hers had only ever been a royal one, and though she'd learned much in such plays there, she had been there but little in truth. Yes, she realized, silently sliding into the seat, her gaze never wavering from his, His ways are beyond me. I must be careful of this one. He means to destroy me: he's made that plain, but if it comes like this, I shall not see the blow coming.

He spoke. She stared, wide-eyed, at the water he proferred and, for a moment, Valentina shrank from it. Poison, she thought, but she shook her head. That was madness! It was her own water! But he'd done it. This strange play had gotten in her head. I must try this tactic, she thought, unfurling her clenched fists to slowly accept the glass and obliging, to sip at it, eyes narrowing as she watched him over the rim.

“I do not think Brigit incapable,” he said at last, voice measured, gentler than the storm he’d carried over here. “If she can mend a broken bone and brew a draught that eases fever, that is a gift. It is a good thing to have in a house.” He paused, letting the compliment land where it would, then added calmly, “But the offer stands. A physician is not an insult. It is simply… another pair of hands, another set of eyes. That is all.”

Sebastian kept his face smooth. He did not say, I will ask them myself about Eithne's condition, which was what his true plan was. He only watched Valentina over the rim of her own glass as she drank from it as though it might betray her.

“I find it curious,” he continued, letting the thought come out as a question instead of an accusation. “Has there ever been sickness in this house among your own children, Lady Malconaire, that Brigit or one of the girls cured?” His eyes narrowed slightly, not cruelly, but with focus. “A fever. A fall. A cough that would not ease. Anything.” Because if the answer was yes, then it meant those same hands Valentina dismissed as labor had once saved what she valued most.

He leaned back a fraction, giving her the space to answer without feeling cornered. “Healing is not lowering oneself,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “It is stewardship. It is protection. It is love, when it is done rightly.” His gaze returned to her face.

Valentina’s earlier panic tugged at him again, a small unwanted thread of concern. He did not like the way she’d recoiled from his hand. He kept his voice even. “If you are unwell, say so,” he offered. “And I will call for help .... ” A pause, and then, because she had thrown a strange, sharp stone into the middle of the conversation, “But you must explain yourself.”

The hanging had been this morning.

If Roderick had not demanded the presence of his three sons, Sebastian would not have gone. He did not agree with their actions: he never agreed with problems being met with violence. But his father had wronged their Queen and they had been angry. Perhaps they deserved punishment, but they did not deserve to die.

Sebastian had said none of this to his father. He felt that it would be pointless to do so: Roderick seemed to meet any resistance with anger. He feared it would do more harm than good, but he could not shake the feeling that he had let all of those men go to their deaths and he had done nothing.

He was exhausted when he returned home. He was tired of all of this death; weary with the very thought of it. He had hoped that, after two years, the climate in Astaira would have settled and they would be finished with these public executions for treason, but the people here were restless. They would not give in so easily.

Sebastian had thoughts of retiring to his own chambers, but when he returned he found his mother still awake, seated by the fire. She looked so peaceful sitting there, that he longed to join her -- wondering if the memories of the day would temporarily lift from his mind.

He knew he would not escape them when he was alone.

"It is very late, mother," He said. Had it been any other night, he might have told her she ought to get some rest. But tonight, he simply asked, "Might I sit with you for awhile?"

“Oh of course, my darling,” she replied, standing and beckoning him into the room. “For as long as you would wish; I would never say no to a moment with you. Come, come,” she took his hand, squeezing it and gesturing to the chair closest to the fire. “You have had long day. Are you hungry? I can have the guards to go down to the kitchen and have them prepare you something.”

Marian had been troubled by her husband's insistence that all his sons attend the executions at Lorcan that day, but she knew better than to protest. She supposed that it was important for them to understand these events, for her eldest son to see what must be done when he would become the Emperor of the empire. Still the spectacle of it all... the thought of it made her uneasy.

“Cassandra plans to visit Malconaire?” Marian asked quickly, her brow furrowing slightly. She recalled the discussion she’d had with her husband a week past about what their sons might be doing in their own visits to the Malconaire estate. “You or Arthur are to accompany her, I hope? After all that has happened I should not like her out without one of you with her… The guards…” Marian gestured her hand dismissively. “I just know I never need worry if you or your brother are with your sister.”

“Sebastian, dearest…” Marian paused. She could not ask outright for him to confirm or deny his father’s suspicions about his and Arthur’s activities at Malconaire. “What… what is it that draws you and your siblings to Malconaire so often? Your father’s description of the place is that it seems to be quite… quite rustic, barely maintained… and Lady Malconaire, herself…well…”

Marian knew Lady Malconaire had invited her children, along with Guin and Edmund, to dine with the family multiple times and, always, included Roderick and his queens in the invitations. Marian did not allow such trivial missives such as dining with a minor noble family to cross her husbands desk but she knew of them. She could not imagine willingly spending time in the company of Valentina Malconaire, not matter how charming her step daughters.

He turned his gaze to Marian then, earnest and careful. “I know it is not a grand place. Their tastes are simpler, yes, but that is part of its virtue. There is a great deal of sky at Malconaire, and trees, and silence when one wants it. Cassandra has spent her whole life behind gold and stone, taught what the world should look like rather than allowed to see it as it is. There, she walks, she listens, and she laughs more freely. I think it has widened her view of things in a way no tutor ever could.”

After a pause, he added, “And Roisin Malconaire has been very good to her. A true friend, not one chosen for her by rank or advantage, but one who sees her as she is. And one who does not look at my sister and wonder what she can gain from their friendship. That is not nothing, mother. Friendships like that are rare for those in our position, and rarer still for someone as open-hearted as Cassandra. I would not dismiss that lightly.”

Sebastian leaned back, eyes flicking briefly to the shadows at the edge of the room. “When we are there, it is as though the rest of the world falls away. The noise of court, the expectations, the… weight of it all.” He smiled faintly. “There is peace in it. A kind of quiet that settles into you before you realize you have been missing it.” He did not say that it was one of the few places where he, Arthur, and Cassandra could breathe as themselves rather than as symbols. He did not need to.

He imagined that Edmund must feel that way, too, although he never said.

Of course, the Malconaire girls, themselves, played a large part in this, too. They had charmed the Varmonts: and not with their beauty nor wit (though they all possessed those qualities, too), but with their kindness and, above all, their genuine natures. He suspected that all of his siblings even respected Brigit for her's, even when it wasn't exactly complimentary.

Malconaire was like a breath of fresh air.

His expression tightened, just a little, when Marian mentioned Lady Malconaire. “I will not pretend everything there is perfect,” he said plainly. “And I will not defend Lady Valentina. I find her company unbearable. Whatever her charms, they do not outweigh the sharpness of her tongue nor the way she conducts herself within her own household.” He stopped there deliberately (he would not elaborate on that to his mother), but the disapproval in his tone was unmistakable.

“That is why,” he continued, more firmly now, “I think you should still invite Lady Eithne and Lady Aoife to tea and only them. If there is ever a moment when decorum might be bent without harm, it is here. Spare yourself an afternoon of false pleasantries, and spare those young women the strain of it as well.” He met his mother’s eyes, steady and sincere.

"Go away," Aria snapped at the Varmont guard that was trailing behind her. She was in the courtyard of the castle-- how could she possibly do any harm there?

It did seem to work slightly-- the guard did not leave, but he did stop and let her get a yard or so ahead of him before he began following her once again. Though, that could possibly be due to who she was approaching-- Sebastian Varmont was crossing through the open air pathway as well and Aria meant to intercept him.

"I come in peace," she assured him as she approached. Their last interaction, outside of the stiff and formal dinners his father interested on forcing upon them all, had ended on somewhat of a sour note. She stopped in his path-- he'd have no choice but to listen to her now.

"I... was harsh," she admitted, her eyes darting down to the tiled ground beneath their feet. She'd been told as much by Aoife after Aria had told her friend exactly what she thought of the Varmont princes when they'd managed a few moments alone at the now, as it had been come to named, Ice Ball.

"Aoife said we might be friends should I mind my tongue and she is never wrong so," Aria held out the volumes of books she had been carrying, the three tied together with a bit of twine. "Aoife said she'd told you all about her favorite Astairan tales but the books were lost from the Malconaire library..."

(A half truth from Aoife-- they were lost in the sense that Valentina had sold them off.)

"... so I've brought you my copies to borrow."

There was more behind this, however, than simply listening to her dear Aoife's suggestions. News had reached the castle of Eithne Malconaire's engagement to her terrible step brother and all Aria could think about now was what would happen to the other sisters.

"You... you mentioned when we spoke in the stables about speaking to your Uncle about the Malconaire sisters... situation," Aria kept her voice low, not wanting the guard nearby to overhear what she said and report back to the Emperor.

But regardless of any of that, he wished his father had not made his announcement in front of the entire court, catching everybody out. It had been the first time the Staffords had been allowed to see anybody who hailed outside of their palace walls for nearly two years and his father and went and announced them to be baseborn?

Not to mention that he did so on a night that was supposed to be celebrating his eldest daughter. He could not imagine how his older sister must be feeling -- to have her father make such an announcement as though it was a gift to her. Sebastian did not think she was likely to see it that way.

As a result of it all, Sebastian had stayed clear of the Staffords since the ball. Not that he ignored them if he saw them but ... he doubted very much that either of them would take kindly to the Varmonts, just then, and he did not want them to have to feign anymore niceties than were necessary.

Given this and how they had left things the last time they spoke, Sebastian was surprised to see Aria Stafford greet him this afternoon. What's more, she seemed to have sought him out. Had Sebastian been a more skeptical person, he might have put his guard up right then and there but, instead, he smiled -- both genuine and relieved.

"No, you had every right to be," He replied. And she had even more right to be now, he thought. "Consider it forgotten."

Sebastian was struck suddenly when he comprehended that the stack of books in her hands were meant for him. "I -- thank you. This is very kind of you, my lady." He knew that she must have gone through some trouble to find them. Astarian fairytales would be considered blasphemous by his father and if he had found them in the libraries, he would have had them destroyed, and so if these had survived, he suspected that they had been tucked away somewhere -- or perhaps his father did not know enough of their folklore to know that their gods often played a part in that, too.

"I suppose I ought to thank Lady Aoife, as well," He added, grinning, "And I hope I will live up to whatever she said to convince you." He glanced down, pretending to look at the spines of the books but it was, in reality, to hide the color that he felt on his cheeks when he realized that not only had Aoife Malconaire spoken of him -- she had advocated for his character.

"Where should I start?" He asked. "Which is your favorite?"

Aria watched his face closely as she mentioned Aoife, remembering what Cassandra has babbled at her that day before Guinevere's Ball. Was Sebastian smitten with Aoife? The pair were of similar temperament in many ways and Sebastian did seem to understand Aoife in way most did not.

"Aoife has to say little to convince me of much. I trust her completely in all things," Aria informed Sebastian with a small bit of a smile.

"I took the liberty of marking a few stories for you... the green ribbon marks Aoife's favorite, the blue mine... and the pink is a tale of which I thought you might tell to your sister. I confess I intended to give her one of the volumes a few weeks back but she was much too distracted by talk to gowns and left it behind. But I do believe the Princess Cassandra would enjoy it very much."

Aria had always enjoyed books, but even more finding tales she thought others might enjoy. She knew from what Cassandra has mentioned that Roderick even found fanciful tales heretical so there was something comforting to her when Sebastian took her offering both with thanks and genuine appreciation.

"Perhaps when you see Aoife you might tell her that I did listen to her advice. I... I'm not sure when I should have a chance to see her again soon," Aria's face fell a bit at the thought, and the thought of Aoife's behavior when they'd had a few moments to speak the morning after Guin's ball. Aoife had seemed distracted by something, almost as if she was somewhere else entirely while she and Aria were together.

Aria hadn't expected Sebastian's response in regards to speaking with his uncle. She looked over her shoulder to where the guards still lingered.

"Do you truly think I'm going to make an escape attempt in the company of an imperial prince?" Aria snapped at the guards, eyes narrowed at them. It seemed utterly ridiculous that after two years of being a prisoner in her family's home Roderick would imagine she would manage to get away now.

Sebastian knew a great deal too much about the latest fashions thanks to his sister. If she was not telling him the very latest gossip, than she was describing, in detail, the designs she had had commissioned for a new dress.

"It was very kind of you to think of her," He said, knowing very well that Aria did not owe them anything.

"Thank you," Sebastian carefully took the book into his hands. His fingers touched the ribbons, his touch lingering upon the green ribbon: the one indicating Aoife's favorite. He was, of course, eager to read them all but none so much as her's.

"I will have to find some old fairytales we used to read. They were not exactly encouraged, but we did have an old nursemaid who would read them to us. We all had our favorites then, too." When they moved out of the nursery and their educations were more closely monitored by their fathers, only Cassandra was allowed to fill her head with fairystories.

He did not consider that perhaps she would not be quite so interested in their culture as he was in her's. Sebastian had only meant to return the favor ...

Sebastian's expression grew more serious when she asked if his uncle felt that there could be done for Malconaire.

"He is not especially hopeful," Sebastian began, truthfully, " ... given my father's past policies on such things. However, he did not despair completely as he suspects that if any exceptions can be upon someone's behalf, Lady Eithne may be a good candidate to receive it. My father has no love for Lady Valentina or her son." Sebastian suspected that it was only a matter of time before either of them did something to truly offend his father and he would be certain that whatever punishment he felt he must bestow upon them for their behavior would not extend to their step-family.

He knew, too, that his father would likely gift Malconaire to some other loyal lord over a woman, should that happen, but Sebastian was ever an optimist and clung to the ideals that his father would see reason, if it was presented to him in the right way.

"My uncle has advised that we wait, until the right moment, to approach him with the idea. I will defer to his judgement, but I hope that something can be done sooner, rather than later."

"Your Highness, His Imperial Majesty, your father, Roderick Varmont the First of His Name, Conqueror of the Twelve Kingdoms, Defender of the Faith, and god's own Champion, requests your presence this afternoon."

The servant bowed low following this announcement and Sebastian had to bite his lip to catch himself from laughing -- he noted that he had transcribed his father's array of titles in the palm of his hand and was using his bow as covered so he might check that he had said them.

Sebastian was certainly not going to point out that he had missed some.

"Of course, thank you."

As soon as he excused the servant, Sebastian allowed himself to exhale. He never particularly looked forward to these interactions with his father. If he was being summoned, it often meant that his father was angry with him, or that he meant to test him. There had been a time when he would have been eager to rise whatever challenge his father might have prepared for him, even as he knew he would likely fall short in comparison to his brother's. But now? Sebastian was almost more eager to disappoint than to please: he had no interest in ever being a pawn in the same brutal game that Edmund and Arthur had been playing their entire lives.

Still, he did -- and always would -- respect his father and his wishes, and he answered the summons with promptness.

Today, god's voice was the weeping of a bird: a mourning dove perched high up amongst the leafless branches, she sunned herself under the sun as it peaked beyond the far clouds, and she gazed out over Roderick's vast domain. She moaned, her haunting voice a dread song to Roderick's ears. Too small, small, small. Any man could conquer such. His father could have. His brother could have. God had not chosen either of them: he wanted more.

The dove looked beyond: out towards the world as yet unconquered. Roderick's fist cracked down upon the lintel. He could not yet go. He would lose Astaira. His father would have known the way out. Roderick could see the disapproving flash of his eyes.

Sneering, Roderick turned away. The fire in the hearth felt cold, but he came to stand by it, leaning against the back of his tall chair. He heard the expected knock at last. He didn't look up.

"What took you?"

The words were out but Roderick was not so sure it had been so very long at all. The dove wailed. Astaira was her cage as it was his. He ought to have crushed this land; this people. He ought to do it now. Perhaps that wretched queen would bend when her people howled at her from their pyres, once again. They deserved to burn for their heresies, and Edmund had been right, perhaps: she would not bend because they were too happy with things as it was.

Roderick clapped a hand down upon the solid back of his seat. He did not enjoy the torments of those pyres. There was no glory in it, no joy, however cleansing the heat of those godly flames. Why would she force it of him? This Astairan queen was cruel, indeed.

Sebastian was rarely at ease in his father's company and today was certainly not an exception.

Every question his father posed towards him seemed to be a veiled criticism, or a test he was destined to fail. The older Sebastian got, the less he found he agreed with his father, but the more he found that a part of him both craved and detested his approval almost with equal measure.

His desire to minimize conflict was constantly at war with his desire to stand up for what he believed was right.

And today? Today his father was asking him questions he would rather not answer. He felt even more on edge that he had been made to sit, while his father stood -- roaming about the room like a lion who hadn't yet decided whether Sebastian was a friend or foe.

"I ... I believe it is a hard thing, father, to create doubt in the minds of those who truly have faith in their own religion. It is a cause that they are willing to die for and no amount of promises or threats will change their minds," He paused, "However, I don't think that they truly worship demons here like we once thought. Most of their followers stopped practicing a long time ago. It is their culture they wish to celebrate ... not their religion."

They leapt and hissed in the grate, a crackling recollection of what must be done. The god spoke in all spaces, he'd been taught, but most of all he spoke from the flames.

"Promises, threats," bit out Roderick, abandoning the chair he'd leant upon with a shove to stalk about the room once again. "Why will they not see the truth? Must I burn them all, purge this nation entire and start afresh amongst the ashes? I take little pleasure in it. But I shall do it if I must, Sebastian. I shall."

There had been one whose shrieks had satisfied him at the last: a volley of distinct sensations, those screams as her empire collapsed beneath his heel: a voice of agony louder than the crackle of flames all around her. But the so-called witch-queen of the fens had burned like all the rest.

"Her name meant 'deer,'" commented Roderick, as if his son had been somehow privy to his inner monologue. "But she did not run." Roderick folded his hands behind his back, finally stilling. The dove went silent. He glanced to his son. "Despite it all, I respected her for that. Her courage. Though it meant only her doom." He rolled his shoulders. "Perhaps this star-struck Stafford is half a witch, herself. These heathen women," he shook his head. "But no. She is soon to be your mother and queen. I ought not to say things which are not so, even though you are a man grown. She is no witch, only bewitching, and I think she has ensnared all the nation. But women are such brittle creatures. I shall crack her open, yet, and feast upon this nation she calls her own. Fiadh thought once to outlast me, as well."

Roderick's brow arched in haught judgment as Sebastian proclaimed that they were not deomon worshippers, but as he continued, clarifying his position, Roderick's relief came out a laugh. "I am pleased to hear it," he said, crossing to the chair opposite Sebastian and finally seating himself. "For a moment I thought you meant to declare these blasted 'guardians' something other than demonic! I should have been obliged to send you back home were you to go so native as that," he laughed, reaching to the side table to pour them each a glass of wine.

Taking a sip, he considered Sebastians words. "There is much in what you say, though madness lies that way, I think. For all the quarrels I have stamped out in other lands...I do believe these Astairans more stubborn than the rest. What is it they fight for, if not their faith? It is strange, Sebastian. It is faith which has brought us this far -- do we come now to a godless country? That is a thing far stranger than all the rest, and we have cast down countless false gods, now, have we not?" He nodded.

"Do you suggest a different angle of approach? Your brother, Edmund, would have me placate Eilionora, only to withdraw those promises after we are wed. Arthur--" he sneered, looked away. "Arthur was disrespectful."

Arthur had suggested that Roderick ought not to appeal to Eilionora at all, but to summon her various lords from across the country, wheeling and dealing with them to win the loyalty of the people as, he said, he was told (by some Astairan waif, it seemed!) that was more or less how Eilionora herself had come by her crown. But Roderick would not hear of it: it reeked of the suggestion that Roderick, himself, had proceeded wrongly, and he would not hear of such a notion. Besides, it was absurd to think nobles might have more power than a crowned ruler. Roderick's nobles must not hear of such a notion, or he'd be facing dissent from farther quarters than merely Astaira as each petty lord scrambled to fill his own purse at the expense of all others. That way lay chaos.

His eyes were sharp as they fell once again upon Sebastian. "I see your brother in you. You believe you better understand these heretics, I think, than I," his mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. This was a test.

"Were it yours to reign, boy, what is it you would do with a godless people to whom it falls to you to convert? Shall I make them beg for my god? Or shall I show them his mercy -- his fire? Neither will please such a horde, I daresay. Believers are one thing, Sebastian, but a nonbeliever? A nonbeliever is, at his core, desperate. All he has is this," Roderick gestured around him. "Such men are hollow." He looked once again towards the flames.

His heart raced in his chest as he witnessed his father's displeasure. He did not regret taking responsibility for his tardiness (as he did not think his father exaggerated when he said that he should not have tolerated this, had it not been his own son), but he knew that his father's mood had been set now for the duration of their interlude and Sebastian knew he would be at a disadvantage.

The subject matter of their conversation would not help this either. What Sebastian truly wished to say to his father, his father would not care to hear. He would have been tempted to answer in a way that would appease his father (Sebastian doubted any of his actual views would do much to sway his father's opinion and were only likely to enrage him more), but he found that even he could not remain silent when his father wondered aloud if the solution to his problem was to burn them all.

"No, father." He replied, a touch more defiance in his voice than perhaps he had ever used before: his thoughts rushing to Aoife and her family. "That cannot be the answer. There has been enough bloodshed - on both sides. A good relationship between us and the people here will take time. But they are deeply loyal to this land, to their traditions, and to their queen ... and while your intentions have only been to save them from themselves, they do not see it that way. They see a man who has stripped them of their lives, their freedoms, their lands, and their rulers -- all of whom they hold dear."

A beat. Sebastian wondered if he had gone too far.

"While I cannot condone some of their actions, I can understand them. I do not think that they shall take kindly to your rule until it is made clear to them that you mean to improve their lives." Improve was perhaps not the right word: Sebastian did not think that having any Varmont influence upon Astaira would improve it, but for the sake of his argument, it would do the job better than perhaps what he meant to say.

"And they will not see that unless you are more lenient with them. It has been too much change, all at once, and they can only view each new implementation of Varmont values and traditions as an attack on their way of life. If I was in your position, I would offer them mercy .. and I would offer them more choices. They will be resistant to change without it."

Sebastian doubted very much that many in Astaira would abandon their traditions and religious practices for their own, even if the choice was there, but he suspected that they would be less hostile towards Roderick if he did not mean to take everything from them.

"And I would not harm the Staffords," He ventured. "The people are loyal to them, as the riots proved. Marrying Eilionora will help things, I think, but you must make her happy, too. She was a good queen, father, and the people loved her. She would know better than anyone else, how to please them. I would use her experience to your benefit."

Sebastian did not wish such a fate upon Eilionora, but he suspected that it would be better for her to be Roderick's wife, than captive, especially if his father could somehow be convinced to take at least some of her advice into consideration. If she could help lesson the extreme measures his father was, at times, inclined to take, perhaps it would be worth it.