#bariolee

@bariolee @servesorlais

The great hall would never be as full of guests and as richly decorated as when Divine Justinia had visited Serault not three weeks earlier. 

Fabien remembered when his mother was still alive, and still the Marquise, how she would throw parties when the hunting season had been especially rich and fruitful, inviting families from neighbouring feuds, and yet none of those lavish evenings could compare to the long parade of game, offerings, and entertainments --- including but not limited to the skinned wyvern being displayed to the guests by men moving inside it as if it were a costume --- that he had ensured to organise to properly welcome and please Her Perfection.

This evening, he had to admit, was neither one of his mother’s parties nor the extravagant celebration to win Justinia’s favour, but it was just about what he needed, that is, a way to please the ever so demanding young ladies of Serault, and their fixation for that nea dance, a way to enjoy the fruits of the Baron’s last hunt, and a way to provide Colombe her hunting ground, to perform as his sweet cousin and sheathe the blades to wield weapons more delicate by far.

The great, tall windows of stained glass had turned black once the light outside had waned. It was no loss, however: for now that dinner was over and dances, chatter, and more drinks could be shared (courtesy of the Abbess’ cellars), now that the sun’s glow was gone, they had lit enough chandeliers to make the mirrors on the wall opposing the windows shine like beacons --- and being those mirrors of Serault, they were clear and bright, and spoke of wealth more than gold itself could. The hall was greatly magnified by the effect.

It’s not even Sunday. Naughty. I’ve got this post about his sexuality, but here are some other things to fill in: 

The Academie students are of a certain age while they’re training. Sexual education is not an official part of their training repertoire, but there are mentors among the older students that can offer their advice on that sort of thing. The young women have advice to the girls, the young men have advice for the boys. They’ve all learned to be practical about it  ---  no room for nonsense between all the training. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t experimenting, after hours and in the dressing rooms and bedrooms and maybe a foray in the tack room in the stables now and then. You can take care of those urges yourself, or you can help out your attractive friend and it’ll be more fun that way. They’re all Orlesian, after all, old enough to recognise that the potential scandal of getting caught is part of the thrill. Michel might not have been the most popular student, but he had his share of stolen kisses and wandering hands. 

Also, while they’re out travelling on Academie-related trips when they’re older, they’re very much encouraged to have company at the inns they stay at. Sometimes they’re not even inns, but brothels; usually it’s not for practical need of a place to sleep, but presented as a reward for a mission well done. Michel’s first time happened that way. A learning experience for him, even if he was a little bit drunk at the time. He hasn’t been back to that kind of establishment since he became Celene’s champion, for the sake of keeping up appearances as well as a general disinterest, but the acquaintances he keeps among the chevaliers have definitely invited him to accompany them. There are some very nice, very expensive places in Val Royeaux and he can point them out if asked. 

Otherwise ... he doesn’t like to keep routine partners, because that makes them a lover, and he’s somewhat unofficially banned from having anyone have that much influence over him. For the most part, he doesn’t mind, because that also means no one is going to get close enough to start picking at his secrets. So ... no serious partners to speak of in his past, no lingering attachments. 

Another thing I’ve considered is that he’s fairly disillusioned with the sex = romance thing, because in his experience, it hasn’t really been that at all  ---  including the fact that he has no clue who his father was, and has various doubts about how much his mother wanted either him or his father in her life. Romantic sex seems like a privilege for noble paramours, at any rate. On that note, Orlais doesn’t appear to see having a lover in addition to a husband or wife as anything scandalous in itself, and maybe even encourages having both, so he’s not looking for marriage and romance and sex all from one person, for what that’s worth. 

He’s definitely going to use that chevalier status to make himself seem more attractive, but he won’t abuse it to pressure a partner that doesn’t seem interested. He’s arrogant enough to assume he’ll get a more enthusiastic response elsewhere, at the very least, but he is aware of and uncomfortable with abuses of power.  ( The extent to which he’d intervene if he saw it happening with someone else is ... variable, though. )

And various nsfw things ... the more he likes a partner, the more submissive he’s willing to be; for the casual one-time things, he’d prefer to stay in control of that. He likes semi-clothed sex ... as a first round. Not into butt stuff. Not into overly loud partners. Likes having his hair pulled but he’ll probably be annoyed if it’s visibly messed up and he has to look presentable afterwards. He’ll also be irritable if he hasn’t gotten laid in a while, which is ... a lot of the time, really. Anything really restrictive like blindfolds or bondage or hands around his neck is a no, not least as a necessary precaution in the Game. 

        ❝ ... I suggest you try not to break your hand in the meantime. ❞

       The statement belied more confidence than Michel felt, delivered in a collected tone of voice as it was. The last time he’d seen a wood twist and writhe like this, he’d lost his cherished warhorse, and nearly lost Celene too. What had that Dalish said? The Veil had been drawn thin, and strong emotion encouraged spirits to exploit the weakness and slip through, taking the trees like other spirits crawled into corpses? As if the close air and the smell of rot from the forest floor was not bad enough on its own ...!

       Even so, his apprehension and dread at the misleading nature of the path was not quite enough to raise any feelings of regret. Michel’s reasons for volunteering this mission had been tactical; he knew the northern cities of Orlais, Montfort and Ghislain and Churneau; and when word had reached him that the Marquisate of Serault had misplaced its Marquis, evidently along with some Inquisition forces, it had felt wrong not to offer his help when he knew both that far corner of the empire and the man in question. A certain fondness for one of Serault’s ladies was ... rather beside the point. In truth, her present anxiety was very unlike the bold and confident huntress he’d left behind, something he might have dared to comment on under less dire circumstances.

       He still might, later, if this resolved itself in a satisfactory way. But it was still too soon to call, and so Michel buried the thought. 

I am well aware of the absurdity; I had you for such a little time, how can I be said to miss you when my life is very much as it was before your entrée into it? And I use that word of possession, had, very loosely indeed. My knight, I liked to call you, but I know that you were never truly mine. Perhaps, for all that you delighted in coming to my bed, you did not wish to be mine, and that is fine too. I would place no chains upon you, nor would I wish to be chained either.

But still, despite all the ways the language does not suffice to truly describe what it was we enjoyed for that little time, I had you then, and you had me. You walked at my side, and I was proud to have you there. 

The one you serve now, I wonder if she appreciates what she has in you. I wonder if she is as proud. I hope that you have found and fought your demon. I hope that you have found a new life which suits you. My life, as I have said, is much as it was before. It has always suited me, and in truth it still does. But sometimes I climb to the top of the Tower of Lights and I look to the south and I wonder what it would be like to set my back to all that gave me birth and seek out the new, as you did. I wonder, and then I descend the stair and resume my place.

As I write this, it is late indeed. The single candle upon my desk does not illuminate much beyond itself, and the windows are dark, their glass gone dun and dim. Once in a while the lightning splits the sky open, as I have heard the Breach splits it wide. I am in my chemise, and barefoot, and my hair is loose. A shawl of softest grey wool is around my shoulders. I tell you this so that you may picture me, as I find it so impossible to picture you. Where do you sit now? What armor do you bear? Have you slept, have you been injured? Are you thin, or thriving? I cannot know.  

It is raining. I was abed, because it is so very late, and I was listening to the rain. It came to me all at once that I would like for you to be there with me, in my bed and wrapped tight behind me as it rained outside. Warm and safe together, while the sky tore itself to pieces.

Instead, I got out of my bed to sit and write this. Perhaps I will not send it. After all, where would I send it to? The rumors say you have joined the Inquisition. I hope they are true.

It is raining, Ser Michel de Chevin, and I miss you.

        Opening a throat was nothing he had not already done a hundred times. 

       The offer remained ... a good one, Michel was forced to admit, though he tried not to think of it as sweeter for its new reference to a particular woman’s affections. It ... it wasn’t even love that he felt, a petty voice in his head wanted to clarify, although the demon had not even suggested as much. She was just someone he was happy to be around, rare a thing as that was  ---  and here came an offer that would remove the reason he could never truly be at her side! Accept, and the lies wouldn’t exactly be dishonest anymore. He could talk without fear of being sent to the headsman in Val Royeaux, more importantly; Colombe de Gris de Serault probably wouldn’t even care that he’d needed to kill someone to earn it. Her profession made her a killer, too. They were alike in that respect. 

       For a second, Michel considered, which probably meant the demon had already won a little victory. He’d probably also find a victory in Michel’s growing sense of dread at the proposed outcomes. If he accepted the offer ... he would live to flee back to Colombe’s arms, a more pleasant fate than having his body unceremoniously dumped into the nearest bank of snow, which was a point of favor in that direction. His parting words to her had been a halfhearted offer to return, if he was able; the fact that there was still a lot between them that needed mending was half the reason she had occupied his thoughts so often, and a reason why he wavered now. All of that would have to go unsaid otherwise, more apologies he’d have no opportunity to make.  

       Michel glanced down at his sword, and thought of a flawlessly executed Duelist Catches an Apple. He thought of the shivering, starving peasants in Sahrnia, how easy it would be for one of their bodies to fill the bank of snow instead of his. The empire, as a whole, would go on none the wiser, though some of the other villagers might raise questions. 

       But the demon wouldn’t be asking for an insignificant villager to die. He’d ask for Michel’s blade in the throat of the Inquisitor, or the Empress. Someone whose life mattered more than Michel’s, to put it simply. Michel knew that, without even needing to ask.