ELEGY OF FORTINBRAS

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋, sharp and unyielding, but she is also human, as odd as that may sound. She recognizes the shift in his expression and she purses her lips for a moment, the poor choice of words only widening the rift between the two of them. Connection, beneath the auspices of alliance and crown, is easy to come to, but it seems that her guard is impenetrable, even outside the known treachery of the Court. It is perhaps the failing that she regrets the most; how many tragedies she could have overcome if she had learned to wield her emotion as well as the steel in her spine.

“She only fed us the same line. Some with tears, some with a haunted look. I was thinking about using an experimental spell, one that would have a chance in aiding us in finding a perpetrator, but her disappearance complicates matters.” She takes a sip of wine before setting down the glass altogether, leaving her drink half-empty on an ornate end table next to her. The lessons come easy, the tucked foot, the half-made smile to comfort, but Helene takes a step across, and puts a hand on his shoulder, her half smile turning into a soft one that reaches her eyes.

“I—Commander. Michel,” she offers, no amount of flattery in her words. She always recognizes the efforts made, and does not allow herself or others the delusion of the padding of unearned compliments. And a simple word, she has learned, conveys more than the prattling on of more common nobility. “I am severe, I know, but even those under the employ of Her Majesty must find respite, unless they become a dulled blade. He would have hit you over the head to let you rest, and do not think I would do the same for you.”  An ache, an echo. It hurts, but she presses forward. “Do not let yourself burn on both ends. I would miss your company.”

Her touch, the hand at his shoulder, comes as more of a comfort than anything else he’s taken refuge in in the past several months. He doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing and Michel takes the time to look at the floor instead of at her, because that would be a little like staring directly into the sun. Listens, quietly, to what she has to say instead, runs over it the way one would familiar words in a book. Fed us the same line. Haunted look. Amelie had been empty like a tall pitcher with nothing in it when they’d taken her away from the scene, but he’d expected that attitude to break at some point or another.

But if it hadn’t... well, then that does indeed complicate things.

“You’d hit me over the head?” That’s the first thing he takes from all of it, the first thing Michel is even remotely comfortable addressing. He can see it now: Helene, with all the fury in the world, smacking him directly on the skull in an effort to make him take a twenty-minute nap. He might even take that option, if it meant attaining the rest he so often misses out on. “I know, but I don’t know how else to handle...” he motions with his hand, circular and simple, “who else is going to do it, if not me? Victoire, who already has his hands full? The Chevaliers, who preen like birds but get very little actually done?”

—

The room feels impersonal; almost as much as Degaré’s room above The Mane. Cyril’s eyes wander and, at the same time, they look for anything that could tell her more about the man she’s about to share tea with. With each passing second though, her attention deviates from her surroundings and instead falls falls solely on the Commander, focus and a slight hint of confusion showing in the furrow of her eyebrows. Each word that leaves Michel’s lips makes it more and more obvious that Cyril hadn’t been summoned there simply to talk about what she knew best — clothing, fabric enchantment, the new designs she had in mind to make Calandre’s guards as presentable as any Empress’ guards should be. 

Cyril sighs ever so slightly. For a moment, the tailor had hoped the Commander’s question had come by itself, looked around and left without leaving much of a trail behind. Instead, it brings out a companion, one that attaches itself to a slight sensation of guilt, as if she was telling on a person she saw as more than just the best client she has. In vain, she holds the cup of tea not in the way her father had taught her but in an attempt to look for a sense of reassurance in a simple and warm cup of tea, freshly brewed, no doubt. 

The tailor knows the Commander’s question comes from a place of worry and yet her gaze falls in shame — although still green in the ways of the Court, despite the fact that she’s been around for long enough to know, Cyril can always rely on her gut and her gut, now forgetting the one bloody picture of Michel that she had in her mind for weeks, tells her that she can trust the uniformed man in front of her. 

“A lot has happened,” Cyril begins, pressing her lips together, worry written all over her expression — not for herself and the words she wants to speak, but for the person that is now the topic of the conversation, “and Calandre is strong, she will not break. Not completely, I don’t believe. But she is still just a person. I think she’s been stressed and with the explosion, it all just… Exploded.” The last word is breathed out, hesitant as the tailor finds the word leaving a sour taste in her tongue — a bad choice of words, no doubt. 

“I don’t know what’s been said but the Empress is strong. She just… Had a moment.”

He worries a decent enough about that he and Cyril got off on the wrong foot. There’s no doubt that the world in which they inhabit can be hostile at best and cold at worst; it’s difficult to tell when you will be brushed off versus stabbed in the back. When he’d overwhelmed her a few weeks ago, insistent on working on a prototype, he might have come off a little... harsh. He intends not to let that happen again, if he can help it.

Michel doesn’t know what the Empress would think of him asking after her like this. Most of their interactions are limited to yes and no, and then working through reports when she asks for them. There is no personal bond between them, nothing binding them together. Most days he thinks less of her than he does those in her court. (Helene in particular occupies a decent-sized spot in his head, but that’s not really something he’s willing to acknowledge yet.)

“So these outbursts of frustration -- you just think they’re...” He pauses, searching for the right word. He comes up with, “temporary?” No, that’s not it. He takes a drink from his tea to stall for time, mull over his thoughts on the matter a little more. He’s about to ask something big of Cyril, something he shouldn’t be asking at all. He wouldn’t call her trustworthy, because no one in Val Faim is, but she might be his best option for now. Michel clears his throat, looks down at his desk, and then looks up again.

Intermission descends with vast, swooping wings that cover the entirety of the audience. The tension in the air is palpable as the band brings the music to a crescendo and the curtain begins to close. Michel is privately very grateful: he feels like he spends most days sitting and waiting anyways. Doing so in his leisurely hours feels like a waste. The chance to stretch his legs is one he takes very quickly, practically throwing himself out of the box while others tend slowly pry themselves from their seats.

He grabs a glass of something bright and orange from the bar, but doesn’t linger. The first thing Michel goes for is the doors, which will close again in twenty minutes’ time to the outside world and trap them all inside again. Maybe he’s feeling a little more claustrophobic than he thought he was. The night air is cool, but it blessedly isn’t raining, which he’s grateful for. He’s wearing no armor tonight, and he feels naked because of it. Being rained on in some of the finest clothes he’s worn in months would be one of his worst nightmares.

𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: tba 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: le palais d'été 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇: @ofmichel​

awkwardness, bold and riant, sits at the table just like the rest of them, a product of bad planning and even worse seating arrangements. it makes itself comfortable, with elbows neatly resting on the table, and soon enough another guest arrives, but this one bears the name discomfort. a sibling, not quite a twin, but the blood runs thick and deep and they share the same mother. maybe not the father. glancing across the room, she’s quickly reminded of her adolescence, of the loneliness and strangeness that followed her around like a loyal hound, a proper beast that frightened anyone who dared to come near. 

but she’s not that same girl anymore, not a meek and docile creature with a feeble spine that hides in her sister’s shadow and obeys her mother’s orders. she grew more legs, eight of them to be exact, found herself some spinnerets, but she has yet to master the true power that she holds in her hands. so instead of ignoring her companion for the evening, or sparing him a brief hello or any of the foolish pleasantries, she turns towards him with an amused smile, ❝ i’ve never quite seen you looking so magnificent, michel, ❞  celeste begins, prepared to spew out any necessary compliments.  

❝ but for an evening as boring as this, i almost regret dressing up this this much. the company isn’t that impressive either, ❞ with her voice dropping down to a whisper, she hides a growing smile behind a silver chalice filled with wine.  ❝ can you guess who i’m speaking of? ❞ perhaps it’s you.

Dinners are, perhaps, the most abhorrent event of any kind to Michel. There is a certain artistry to eating and conversing at the same time while also having to pretend to enjoy it, and he has no skill at it. He’s been more focused on his soup than he has the company at the table, and being sat next to Celeste has done him no favors. He’d known the girl’s brother, fool that he was, known that the man was no good. So when Celeste speaks -- leading first with a compliment only to follow with implied insult -- he has to take a moment to gather his thoughts.

He’s not even sure why he’s here. He gets plenty of invitations but rarely accepts them, preferring to dine on his own before entrenching himself in the company of others, unless that company is with those beneath him who throw aside formalities for the sake of bawdy laughter and an evening of delight. This is neither of those things.

— 

There is so much Roth could say, let his own demons and memories take the reign, but there is something that is stronger than those feelings  — in the present situation, it’s the Chevalier’s sense of duty, knowing that he has been brought back for one reason and one reason only and that that is meant to be his sole focus. In any other situation, it would be his need to protect both Medraut and Adraste, their life coming before his, any time. In a situation where both are at the centre of it, though, Roth knows what he’d choose and it’s not the thing he’d been trained to do. 

Roth swallows every word he wants to say, he kicks away any thoughts to the back of his mind knowing the halls of the palace are neither the time nor the place to say less than polite words — much has changed around Val Faim but the Summer Palace’s walls are still as keen to listen in as they were before, Roth has no doubt about that. He nods at Michel’s words, lips pressed together underneath his mask. “What can you tell me about —” Roth’s hands motion, as if trying to speed up his thought process as he tries to remember the name of the man Michel beheaded, “ah. Brosseau, right? Family? Friends that might want to have revenge on the Empress’ decision?”

The Chevalier rests his left hand on his sword’s handle, signifying nothing more than a need for a resting stance, something he does without even noticing — comes as natural as breathing, no doubt. “No need. I take it you’ve seen it and I trust that you wouldn’t lie to me.” Or at least what Roth represents. “Amelie — the mage escapee. Did anyone talk to her before she disappeared?”

If Roth wants to take the time to open any more wounds in Michel, he doesn’t, and Michel can’t help the relief that he feels wash over him. Years upon years of dancing around barbs and daggers both in physical form and via words have exhausted him, and usually when someone attempts to engage, he seeks a way out of the conversation as quickly as possible. It’s a little like he can see the desire get pushed down on Roth’s face, although Michel might be reading too much into it. Back to business, then, and he’s grateful for it. Long-standing grudges Michel can do, but he usually prefers work. 

Onto the topic of Brosseau: “he had no family. He worked alone, as the harbormaster. Seemed well-liked, but not necessarily trusted. Anyone who protested to the Empress’ question the night of the Masquerade would already be a suspect, and everyone in Val Faim is smart enough to know that.” He frowns beneath his helmet, before taking it off and resting the weight of the thing on his hip. “So, no. I think it was an outside influence of some kind. Discontent with something bigger than just Brosseau’s death.”

Anxiety has worked its way through him like a slow-acting poison, starting at his center and moving all the way out to the end of his limbs. As he approaches Sidonie’s door he finds that the feeling has only worsened since the morning, and any efforts he makes to quell it have failed entirely, falling flat on their face. Frustration, too, is beginning to seep in, and he worries he may have to indulge in yet another cup of tea to spare himself the hassle of getting angry at one of the guardsmen and then apologizing for it.

He knocks on Sidonie’s door with three quick raps, and then stands back, hands on his hips. He almost can’t believe it. He’d gone down to speak with Amelie this morning only to discover that she’d been gone, the guards meant to be covering her unconscious, and those around them without any clue as to what had occurred. Now they have no leads, no clues, and no outside testimony for where she could have gone or what her goals were.

The whisperings are those Patrice has come to expect, his name often uttered by the patrons with a question mark following. He certainly does not look the same as the child who left this place, not yet a man and not yet knowing the world. He was smaller then, and worn from the place he had grown up in. Now, he stands with more than just the noble posture he had singed into his memory, and towered over many of those who looked on him now. It did not stop them from their comments, however. “Not in the desirable way, at least not to them,” he remarked. Patrice didn’t care what they thought, but it still was not a pleasant thing to have to explain to his grinning companion.

How long has it been? Not long enough, if Patrice had his way. “However long it’s been since I returned you here. I try and keep my distance from Val Faim, you know. After all, I’d once advised you to do the same. I almost hoped you’d listened.” How beautiful this reunion would be if he had found Michel upon the shores of some other land far from the reaches of Val Faim. How euphoric they might feel. Instead, something dark looms overhead, threatening to spoil what reunion they do have every second they idle.

Patrice is obviously uncomfortable with the question, but he figures there is no need to give Michel a reason to be suspicious if he has not developed one in the first place. It is an innocent enough question, but for a man who does not wish to be here at all, it makes him all the more aware of the weight of the invisible burden upon him. “I’m not sure,” he answers truthfully. “There’s still business to tend to, so whenever that is taken care of,” or, whenever Alain or Calandre are taken care of, he doesn’t really care which, “I will take my leave. If it is time with me you desire, I would say make haste.”

I’d almost hoped you’d listened. The jab stings, but not enough to make Michel flinch. Instead, all he can really do is swallow the words down and along. He’s contemplated often Patrice’s offer, the idea of just... disappearing, without care or regard for his obligations in the city, but it had been a far-off pipe dream at best. Michel recognizes that by now. Patrice might thrive on the open waters, unbound and unrecalled by those he calls his family, but without his occupation and the call of the Empress, Michel knows he would have felt stranded.

Their waitress returns with drinks, and Michel hastily takes the opportunity to buy himself a little more thinking time. Patrice has exposed himself and his reasons for being here, albeit vaguely, and he can’t help his curiosity. Business to tend to, he says. Michel arches a brow at him and sets the drink down atop the table, trying to watch the other man’s face for any cues.

when: twenty-third of maccius. where: tea time, morning. who: @ofmichel​​

“don’t look at me like that.” the silence had sat between them for long enough that victoire had begun to fidget. it started with the gentle wringing of his hands, but it was sure to move to the incessant tapping of his foot if michel didn’t speak soon — and odeline forbid that it move to the rocking of his chair. the tea sat in front of victoire, untouched; he eyed it, turning the cup this way and that, just to give himself something to look at beside his friend across the table. 

“shall i offer you an excuse?” he softened his voice, taking on a tone suspiciously close to one of his guards caught in mischief. “oh, dearest, loveliest, most merciful michel fortin, will you forgive me for missing our morning ritual this past week? i had to battle the urge to throw myself from the tallest tower, or, as it’s known colloquially, i had to drag myself to some ill-timed meetings.” a half-truth, but well-intentioned all the same. victoire brandished a sweet pastry, one he had picked up specifically for this occasion. his voice returned to its usual tone, “ — forgive me?”

Michel takes solace in very few things -- rather, he is allowed very few things to take solace in. Above all else, however, routine has reigned king, emperor, empress. It is the one thing that has allowed him his sanity in such a time of difficulty and distress which started off as a long week and dragged out to become several long years. A key part of said routine? Tea-time with Victoire. Odeline willing, he’s never missed the chance to have a good cup of tea in the morning and sit. There’s a certain kindness to being miserable together, a humor in shared cynicism and despair that waits for them both around every corner.

So -- when Victoire had missed out, his heart had broken. Maybe not severely, but just a little bit. A tiny splinter. Thus, because Michel is not above pettiness, he’d made his choice late last night about how to handle the poor Captain when he’d come along knocking. The silent treatment. This drags out a long, almost infuriating amount of time, but his grudge wins out over his disdain for awkward moments, and he makes it through half a cup and Victoire looking like he’d been close to falling apart.

𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊, from stem to rim in her glass forms upon Michel’s news, and a headache soon follows after. An escape. She was going to have words with Michel and Victoire about proper security protocol for a high level prisoner, but Helene cannot do anything now, but simply deal with it the day after. If news of this caught wind of Alain’s merry band of rebels, it would be a simple way to discredit any one of them within Calandre’s council, offer replacements or a shadow campaign that will dog them for the rest of their conflicts. This will simply not do.

Helene sighs, and as the crack formed, it neatly disappeared, her magic allowing it to be restored, unlike the peace of mind that will inevitably leave her the second that Michel extricates herself from the estate. She was going to make Lord Marais a very wealthy vintner when this is all over, she’s sure of it. “I don’t know what you want me to say Michel. She was in hysterics, and she kept babbling about something her needed to prevent by making a mess.”

“Honestly, I was this close to—” She stops herself from saying anything, letting her frustration and anger fall into the well that she employs whenever something horribly wrong runs afoul of her. “To say the least, it has been a troublesome couple of days,” she continues, drinking far too quickly, and setting the wine glass down. “Hysterics and rumors and piecing together a statement from the prisoner is exhausting. I rather liked it when I was simply blindsided by an execution.”

Michel can’t help it. He gawks, just a little, at the sight of a splintering crack in Helene’s glass. It’s gone as quickly as it had arrived, but it’s as stark a reminder of what Helene is capable of that he isn’t more than it is anything else. He suddenly feels... very small, under her gaze, pinpointed and sharp, like she somehow always knew exactly where to look. If he were a more cowardly man, he might have run from the hills the day he met Helene. In spite of all that, he’s glad he didn’t.

He’s aware that this is a disappointment. More than that, it’s an astounding one. Calandre had expressed as much when she’d heard the news, but where Helene’s look is something like irritation, disappointment, Calandre’s had been worse. Apathetic. Uncaring. Dismissed with the wave of a hand, told to fix it like Michel has fixed all other issues for her before. That hard burned. Anger, he can handle. Disregard, he cannot. Or, at least, not well.

Gisele makes careful note of the frown, and though her expression remains locked in place, she takes in a slightly deeper than usual breath, as though about to sigh but not letting it out.  “No, no one comes to mind. No plotting cousins, no rabble rousers, nothing.” She lets herself sound slightly frustrated with herself, not a difficult part to play when it strays so close to her honest emotions. “I suppose I have no proof of deadly intentions, but what else could it have been? What could have caused this? Nothing ever just happens. There’s always a reason or someone to blame. There’s always something that could have been done.”

Once again, she desperately wishes she could cry. She wishes she could be charming, sympathetic, pleasant, sweet, something, but it’s always been beyond her. Even as a child, when she tried to leverage conversations with tears or pouts or puppy dog eyes, she failed utterly. These vain attempts at recapturing a tender, juvenile charisma she’d never possessed only ever underlined the gruesome sobriety of her nature. Some people were simply never meant to be pitied. It makes this all the harder to play. Gisele can’t rely on sympathy or likeability to construct a vision of innocence, but neither can she fall back on honesty or diligence. All her natural talents lay in things that could be of no use to her here, and worse, were likely hurting her case. She knows how she looks, how she seems, the lack of reaction that suits her so well in court and politics now working against her.

“Yes, poison. The physicians can corroborate,” she answers, administrative and deadened in tone, “By the time it had set in, healing magic was useless. There was probably only just barely enough to kill, so the suffering lasted ages. Do you think that would have been intentional?” Gisele asks because she doesn’t know anymore.

There’s always something that could have been done. Michel has an unkind thought about nobility and their naivete but dismisses it before he gives it any real attention, because that line of thinking has no particular place in the house of a woman who is obviously grieving. He turns his gaze down to the floor, stares at the whorl patterns in the material, and bites his tongue. He does not ask her what she thinks she could have done, because he knows himself, and if it were him, he would have torn the world apart looking for answers, some kind of sign, some kind of relief. A good thing, then, that he is more or less entirely alone and equally miserable most days.

In the same way Gisele wishes she could cry, Michel wishes he were better at expressing sympathy, but all he can do is spur the conversation forward. “It’s possible,” he answers, looking up again. “Cruel, but possible.” From the talk he’s heard, Vivienne Duval was not unliked. Quite the opposite. She was the second-shining star to Yvon, and then on that last page there sat Gisele, with a reputation for ruthlessness and tact and what might have been a visible discomfort with crying. “Tell me about Vivienne. Did her behavior change, in the days before her death?” Outside, the wind rattles the windows. He’s grateful for his armor, padded on the inside and lined with fur. In spite of the snow sticking to his boots, he’s not cold.

—

Cyril can’t help but press her lips together at Michel’s words, mirroring his stroll even if she wants to walk the other direction. Although the tailor is thankful Michel has gotten her out of trouble with Victoire before, it also means that there’s another pair of eyes watching her like a hawk whenever she’s at the palace. And, sometimes, all she wants is to wander those marble halls, looking around at an opulence that might inspire her to do something unheard of, never seen before — something new and worthy of Calandre’s wear.  

Michel’s question causes Cyril to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in surprise and a slight amount of confusion; she didn’t expect to have the Commander ask her about her life (solely because there’s a lack of common ground between the two of them, something Cyril finds herself experiencing a lot in Court), let alone a past that is far away enough that Cyril doesn’t have to think about it unless she physically visits her parents. 

A light and nervous, albeit a bit sad, smile appears on Cyril’s lips, her attention back on the marble floors for a heartbeat before she looked forward again, walking side-by-side with the Commander. “I’m the first in my family to have any kind of magical ability in generations so my parents were excited when my powers manifested,” Cyril begins, a bittersweet taste in her tongue left by the knowledge that her parents’ excitement hadn’t been out of love. Not the pure, unconditional one that so many parents dote on their children with. “My siblings, they — well, they weren’t as excited as my parents.” Her gaze falls momentarily, words filled with a heaviness that proves too much. At least for a few heartbeats. 

Then, Cyril looks back up. “Siblings, right?” She lets out a nervous chuckle, shaking her head. “And yes, sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming. Keeping up with trends, having to always inovate because there’s a lot of eyes on you…” Cyril looks at the Commander, shrugging her shoulders ever so slightly. “But I’m lucky enough that those that go to my shop understand there can be a long waiting period unless their name is Calandre and they happen to be the Empress or someone close to her. And those that don’t… Well, who needs them.” 

The sunlight filtering through the tall-towering windows of the Palace is enough to cast them in warmth, and Michel thinks this is almost pleasant, if it weren’t for the fact that Cyril is blatantly suspicious of him and his motives, even if he can’t see her face to tell him as much. Still, she answers his inquiries without too much hesitance, and he folds his arms behind his back as they walk and talk. Siblings, right? “I couldn’t say, I didn’t grow up with any.” It’s said with a casual air, not at all critical or discerning. “But I know enough about the people here to say that no one particularly loves being outshined.”

He can count on both hands the number of times he has less than gracefully taken the attention away from the wrong person during a meeting in Court with Calandre, only to be summarily scorned in his office by that person once the pleasantries could be discarded with. “The younger members of the guard are as close as I’ll get, and they know to shut up around me if they have something to complain about.”

He tries to imagine it: Cyril, lauded by her parents, despised by her own brethren. And then he stops imagining it, because it all feels very sad. He tries to move the conversation into a lighter direction as they make their way out into the gardens, passing by merchants and other esteemed guests of the Empress’, here today to make their case on some matter or another.

—

Cyril lets her eyes wander, curiosity pouring out of every movement she does as she looks around the Commander’s office. He is a mystery to her, all she sees is what he wears and what he says — essentially, only what he chooses to show to other people. But, in spite of the bloody vision she has present in her mind most of the times she interacts with Michel, Cyril can’t help but trust the older man; after all, Calandre wouldn’t employ someone so high-up in the palace’s chain of command if she didn’t trust them, right? 

That’s what Cyril hopes. Though she can’t help but let her mind wander and come to the realisation that it employing an enemy so close to one’s presence could very well be a strategy employed by those that understand the Court better than the young tailor does. 

A few questions. Cyril nods at Michel’s words and she can’t help the small smile that appears on her rose-tinted lips, excitement bubbling inside of her chest at the promise of exposing her ideas for the uniforms, one that stands so close to her — so much so that Cyril swears she can feel her fingers start to tingle and burn at the thought. Cyril flashes the Commander an acknowledging smile before she heads to the couch, her green kefta’s colour shifting with the change of the light. 

Cyril sits down and watches the Commander; not in a scrutinising way but in a absentminded one, where her eyes follow the movements in a less than studied way. However, Michel’s voice breaks through that absentmindedness and Cyril’s eyes become focused on his figure and her ears on his voice. Cyril narrows her eyes slightly, taken back by the matter the Commander chooses to bring up. 

“Erm…” she breathes out, lips part a she both processes what is said and what she means to say. “Yes, she does. Well, not directly. The Empress may rant at times or just speak and know I’ll just listen. Or ask me my thoughts on an hypothetical situation. Sometimes she’ll be speaking with other people and doesn’t mind me there.” Cyril takes the tea cup and holds it, just as her father had taught her to. “So it really depends on what you’re meaning to ask me about. I can’t just… Talk about anything the Empress might have thought wouldn’t leave a fitting.” Cyril says, looking at Michel with eyebrows furrowed in a silent plea for his understanding.

Her response is reasonable, he thinks.

She sits back, and watches. Not with the age-old expertise of someone who falls into familiarity with the court and its traditions, but with someone new, with trepidation, watching but unsure of what to look for. She’s clever, however, and so he is certain that in time she will learn exactly how to dissect someone just by looking at them for long enough. He never thought he’d be able to equip himself with the skill, but here he is, bearing the brunt of the weight of his position and desperate, some days, to pass it off to someone else.

She’s tactfully vague, tacks on a disclaimer at the end, and Michel listens, carefully, nods at the appropriate times. Is it odd, then, that the Empress talks around Cyril? Maybe not. He doesn’t interact with her often behind closed doors, unless she needs something taken care of, or if he has been tasked to putting out fires and fails miserably. (He does his best not to wince at the thought of Roth Babin and what happened at the border of Celestine and Widrowem, all that time ago.)

“I’m not asking for specifics, Cyril. I’d never do that.” She doesn’t know that, he reminds himself. “But there’s been a lot of talk, plenty of rumors, and it’s my job to dispel concern as much as possible.” He’s almost entirely sure she knows that, at least. Then again, common knowledge to him is not always common knowledge to others. How many times has he said something to a nobleman, expecting equal ground, the opportunity for rapport, only for them to look at him like he’s insane?

More than once. He’s going to try not to have that happen here.

over the years, they have learnt which paths to tread, and which one’s to avoid, faces and names and histories and people that lead vaska to hide in sylviane’s shadow like a ghost, swallowed up by the earth and the past, a glance over by those who, just as equally, do not want to see her. guarding is easy from the background, a whisper of steel and the glint of a blade, plain featureless mask that lets everyone present that a bloodstain rests behind it, that accusation isn’t a pointed barb from either side of the gaze.

but the earth opens up and the sky tears into pieces and there’s a shifting under ground and perhaps now there’s old hurts coming to light, a turned face to what vaska has to say, impassive in the face of his requests, and vaska lets the mask shift, shorten, reveal a scar, reveal unblemished skin, the only thing still covered is their eyes.

but this change, this transformation, hibernation ending, means that there are uncomfortable things from the past that arrive, hauntings of possibilities turned flesh and plate, and a patch where it feels shadows draw into, michel a darkness against the colour that sylviane has been painting.

‘ i do? ‘ she matches in tone, dry, not quite bitter, but flatter. she does not know what to say to him, what words there are left for him after she poured them out and he stepped away. she turns to face him, no longer pretending to watch the paint dry, tugs down the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. ‘ still haven’t left the palace these past two years? ‘

The past, to Vaska, must be a blight.

This is all he can assume, that which seems the most sensical, the most logical. A mark on unblemished flesh, ink staining an otherwise untouched piece of paper. It is not that he does not want to see her. It is not that he hasn’t wanted to. But time sweeps them all up into its uncaring arms, and just like that, it’s been two years. Five. Ten. Fifteen. How the years have aged them both, he thinks, just looking at a scar, a mark, a sign, a brand.

“You do,” he affirms, a small nod, an acknowledgement of a flat tone and even flatter temperament. This is deserved, he reminds himself, before he can even begin to consider taking offense. You did this, in some way, and now you have to live with it. The greatest lesson he’s ever learned is that intent has little actual impact on effect. Vaska had been young, and so had he, and his intentions had been good, but--

They’ve all heard the stories. With a moniker such as theirs -- the flame-bound blade -- It’d be difficult not to.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓. Helene always does, every measured step, every bit of paint on her face, armor forged for the battles to come. No Farrow will be caught dead unguarded, with no weapon in their hand. All things, she reasons, are weapons in her vicinity, from her clothes to her gaze, to the magic that suffuses the air as she enters.

And so, it is always rare for her to be disarmed.

She walks down, a little less than perfect, something her mother would have scolded her for, she assumes, but still regal. Still her. The night is dark, and she is hardly in a position to entertain guests this late at night, but the matters of state security seem to have no time for her or her pleasantries. She dismisses her majordomo with a smile and a nod, before waving Michel to a bench with ample amounts of wine and something to pick at as they will presumably discuss whatever it was on his mind. Nothing too dour, hopefully, but with all of the events happening at once, she hardly has it in herself to do even that.

“I did say the estate was open to you, but I suppose a word of warning would have been nice. I could have worn a nicer ensemble, you know.” Her port is sweet, as is her voice, as she languidly sits upon a chair, soft and ancient. “So. What do you have to tell me? I hope it was important enough to keep me awake, or I am making you pay for my lotions.”

Helene does not so much enter the room as she does drift into it, and Michel very quickly reminds himself of where he is and who he’s with before he even thinks to gawk. He keeps his eyes downcast, instead, helmet in hand, unmasked, and takes a seat at the proffered bench. There’s a platter of green grapes and some wine. He ignores the port, but helps himself to the fruit, popping one into his mouth to chew.

The reality is that this is a serious matter. No time for dourness or sorrow. Business at hand first. But the air pricks at him, like the point of several needles, and he wonders if this is what it’s like all the time. If the house, this grand place, is possessed as much by magic as it is by old ghosts. Ugh. Shut up, Michel.