Scrolls From A Reborn Realm

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"Lord Artoirel is concerned for Mistress' Sadler's health. He wanted to know if aught was needed to provide her any additional comfort?"

Oh you son of a bitch. Augustine thought. Years of training ensured that he could keep his face placidly neutral. And facing down the elder Count Fortemps house steward, he needed every bit of shielding he could get. Clever servants who lasted long in the High Houses were sometimes the deadliest opponents of them all. And Augustine didn't know if the older elezen was in Artoirel's confidences. Count Edmont's, most definitely.

Is the old man aware of what happened? No…I don't think so. Everything had happened far too quickly. More than likely this was Artoirel's attempt at arse-covering. And trying to see if Riven had realized what he was up to.

"The healer deemed she just needed warmth and rest." Augustine said, gesturing. "And given the amount of aether she used—several hearty meals. I already took the liberty of having a tray waiting for her when she rouses." Food that wouldn't be tampered with. The steward nodded, a wry smile crossing his face.

"Her appetite is rather robust." He commented. "I'll inform Lord Artoirel and the cook—the latter has been fussing about how thin Mistress Sadler is. There'll be some roasts and thick stews heading your way."

"My thanks." Augustine replied, bowing. He watched as the steward walked away, not moving until the other man had rounded the corner. Then he exhaled, going back into the room behind him. From her nest of blankets on the couch, Riven watched as the paladin bolted the door shut.

"Who was it?"

"House steward, saying that Artoirel wanted to know if you needed anything." Augustine debated briefly—then decided why the fuck not? Gold light shimmered around his fingers as he started to inscribe a security ward on the door.

"Keep eating." He ordered.

"I'm full." Riven countered.

"Then start drinking the Ether, please." Riven scowled, but obediently reached out for the blue bottle on the table next to her. She didn't remove the stopper, instead looking down at the intricately carved glass.

"…Am I in trouble?" She asked, looking up. Augustine had finished applying the ward, and he turned around to face Riven. "Have I…done something—some sort of Ishgardian protocol breach?"

"No. It's just bad luck that you wound up in the midst of a family squabble." And Haurchefant's fault, Augustine thought. More than likely the Silver Fuller had given the Scions a passing summary on his situation—and had probably ram-raided his father into agreeing to the wardships. Emmanellain, bless him, was only thinking of himself and didn't see Riven as a potential anything. Not to mention in her debt after the mess in the Sea of Clouds.

Artoirel, on the other hand…

There are issues there. "If it helps, it's looking more and more evident that this wasn't planned out." Augustine offered. Riven didn't reply, but a scowl crossed her face before she uncorked the bottle. "He acted rashly, and realized what consequences would befall him rather quickly."

"While my idiot self was running around in a blizzard." Riven downed the potion, closing her eyes as the aether sent heat down her throat and through her body.

"I should have said 'no' and waited for you, put on the spot be damned." The bottle now empty, Riven set it back on the table. "But I didn't think I could say it."

"Not without losing what ground you had made so far here." Augustine agreed. "Or further damaging your reputation." The setup had been diabolical. A High House heir, soldiers of a technical unfriendly House. The expedition to Falcon's Nest had been to improve relations with House Durendaire— and Riven, an outsider, desperately needing any and all allies she and the Scions could get. A golden opportunity for Artoirel to be petty towards his younger brother and his father…

And then it all went flying out the window the moment he realized the consequences. Augustine had arrived just as the lordling had been mustering forces to go and aid Riven. The stricken look on Artoirel's features, unable to look Augustine directly in the eye, and the lies that had screamed from every word he'd spoken—

"…too late to go somewhere else?" Riven's question jarred the paladin from his thoughts. "Could…we…would there be another House willing to take us in?"

"No." Augustine shook his head, and watched as Riven 's face fell. "The minute you accepted Haurchefant's offer, you and the Scions bound yourself to House Fortemps tighter than wedding-knots. The only one who can revoke the wardship is the Count himself, and if he does that you'll effectively be persona non gratia in the city. Not to mention rejecting it is rejecting the House's hospitality, and that's a league of problems in and of itself."

"I would think one of the heirs trying to kill me is a breach of hospitality!" Riven snapped, her voice rising. Then she sucked in a breath and looked away as Augustine held up a hand in alarm, glancing towards the door. After a few moments, the ebon-haired man blew out a breath.

"It is. And he knows it. Made even worse by the fact that you saved Emmanellain. The Count is also in your debt for that." And it added yet another twist on things. If Edmont's youngest son—his spare—had died, there was a likely chance that Haurchefant could be legitimized. That would make him the House Fortemps heir should anything happen to Artoirel. And if Artoirel had been that quick to try and kill off an ally of his brother's, despite her honored guest status, despite her saving Emmanellain—

Inter-House feuds always ended with high body counts.

"I believe he regrets his actions." Or at the very least Artoiel now realized what could fall on his head, Augustine thought. "I don't think he'll repeat the behavior for fear of what would happen to him here. And when you and the Scions clear your names, he'll also have to factor in dealing with international trouble if he is plotting anything."

"So what do I do then?! Please don't ask me to talk to him. Or see him. I don't trust myself to behave politely if I see him again, Augustine!" Riven's voice had raised to a near yell, and Augustine got up to gently rest his hands on her upper arms.

"Hey. Breathe." Riven sucked in a breath, staring at him. Frustrated-and exhausted tears shimmered in her eyes. Biting back a sob, she closed them. "Breathe. You don't have to see him for a while. In fact, I was going to suggest that you're unable to have company for the next day or two." Let Artoirel stew while Riven rested.

"Rest, get your strength back—mentally and physically. Talk with Alphinaud and Tataru. I can take care of everything else."

"I can't do that, you'll be all by yourself—" Riven began.

"Riven." Augustine interrupted her gently. "I am your sworn. This is my duty. This is my home, and I know how it works. You are still recovering from that damned banquet, and now this mess." Riven snuffled, blinking away more tears. Augustine smiled gently, then released one of her shoulders to pick up a nearby handkerchief.

"Leave Artoirel and the House to me." He said, offering her the muslin square. Riven accepted it, wiping at her eyes before blowing her nose. "With any luck, the most I'll have to do is keep him from your door while he stews in his own guilt." Riven nodded, pulling the blankets about her.