#tedalgrinche

“i’d say that went rather well.”

idly her elbow rested on the carriage window, acting as if she hadn’t heard his sly quip. though he had sworn to end his harassment of skysteel manufactory and all its associates, tedalgrinche had directed his ill-favored attention onto other things—and as recent events had damned her closer to him in more ways than she had been willing to ever fathom, she too had felt the collateral damage in the form of embarrassment from his countless blunders, all in the supposed name of the knighthood, of the nobility, of everything that had once been and may no longer be.

“it did. you’ve practically volunteered for target practice. the generosity of house dzemael never fails to inspire.”

“i simply thought to repay the debt i owe to those at skysteel.” he stood square-shouldered against the seat, still seemingly oblivious to the failure of his so-called courtesy he’d given the common folk under stephanivien’s good-will—and his good-will had come with guns, and by now she believed it nothing less of a miracle than tedalgrinche had left another day without so much as a graze of a bullet.

“from the way they looked?” vintage rose hues, originally fixated on the passing scenery, shifted in his direction.

“they would have gladly collected.”

instead, he sighed—his brows creased in haughty, hollow heartbreak.

“and yet! they chose to send us on our merry way. the cold shoulder, i must say—are we not doing our part by seeking collaboration?”

her stomach and throat tightened—simply to swallow her sigh before it could begin.

“‘grinche, fury help you or else—”

“that’s a given, dearest—” the most detested of monikers, delivered with the most detested of grins—the grin that tucked his eyes thinner under the pinch of his raised cheeks.

“we must do well to remember such trials are her method of teaching—”

what failed to shift in her expression—darkly-painted lips slightly ajar and eyes devoid (or rather, drained) of ire, the latter of which made itself more known in the growing quietness of her voice—instead fell with the weight of a bertha’s cannonball in her chest, in perfect tandem with the push of her closed fist against the door handle.

radegonde only caught a glimpse of his smile collapsing into horror before her knees collided with frost-slicked stone, the creak of wheels unceasing for one missing passenger.

fortunately, there weren’t enough passersby to make it more of a spectacle—for now. radegonde knew better than to think the people of the pillars to be above gossip; on the contrary, it seemed more the daily bread than the enchiridion itself. someone who carried as much infamy on her shoulders as she would inevitably find herself at the center of unwanted attention. it seemed these days that such a fixation was something she passed to and fro amongst her younger sisters—house dansereau had, for better or worse, become a fixture not only in ishgardian high society (at least, moreso than before) but also throughout eorzea, thanks to the larger-than-life exploits of their youngest sister, douceline—now deemed a ‘warrior of light’.

in the past week, there had been three journalists—from three different periodicals (one of which she had never even heard of! she, who had spent many a listless hour draped across a chaise with some form of print in one hand and fruit-blend tea in the other—had maneuvered an interview under the steel-silver gaze of her newly-titled baby sister only with a promise of having said periodical delivered daily to the manor) that had arrived at their doorstep. she still took delight in the terror of the second, a lalafellin lad who peered up at the sentries from underneath a cap a size or two too big for his little head.

she dwelled on such thoughts as she turned one, two corners in an effort to dodge tedalgrinche and the carriage. she had intended to return home, anyway—she was intent on keeping away from his family’s manor as much as possible until that dreaded day.

it wasn’t that she didn’t see the benefit in wedding a higher-ranking retainer of the dzemaels; rather, it was the individual himself—the mutual spite and snides that never saw ceasefire for as long as their eyes met—one of the few wars that intensified in the wake of the dragonsong. but the union itself would not only mean gil (that both families, so embedded in the knighthood, would be in dire need of), but security in where they stood in social rank. when neither the warrior of light nor the famed euphemie of the broken maw accepted—radegonde was the next closest candidate. and unlike the others, denying meant having far, far more to lose.

pride was the heart of it all—pride in being kept in the household at her father’s behest, pride in being dressed as glamorously so as her trueborn siblings, pride in being raised noble in everything but name—being cast to the corners or to her suite in the presence of others was, to her, a small price to pay for the pampered and sheltered treatment by all those in their employ. that, and the stark divide between her and her siblings born by her father’s legal wife: the dismal lack of expectation versus the constant drive planted in them by both their dansereau and beauharnais blood. not once had radegonde met her own mother, and she had already decided, long ago, that she didn’t want to. after all, it was her father that claimed her as his own, in spite of everyone—including his own mother—warning him against it. that was what she loved about him best—the one thing she hoped, above all others, she’d learned from him: rebellion.

an onlooker would think, then, that  agreeing to wed lord tedalgrinche made her a hypocrite; in a decision where denying seemed paramount to maintaining what little she could call her own, radegonde saw opportunity—opportunity for more of the life she already had—and of course, there would be other chances to say no—this time with his reactions far up close and personal than had ever been before.

but none of this changed the fact that tedalgrinche was truly insufferable. her bolting out of the carriage was but a fraction of what she believed was in the machinists’s every right to land one, or two, or three bullets at that horrid smirk. if he were as every bit the sanctimonious knight as he were, that trial by combat in the highlands must have been enough to prove him wrong. but clearly there was still more to be done—more to be experimented as the blade that would grow the cracks of his hard-headed skull.

once she reached home, every sentry and servant knew what was best for them by not questioning her on the ongoings of her day. by now, her expression served as their only warning—once the silver tray of tea and treats were delivered and the door to her suite was shut, she would be left to her own devices, in her own cherished respite.

until.

a newer hire to the staff was at her door—the tremor in his words gave it all away. that the lord tedalgrinche had sent his page to their gates, bearing a message. she had a mind to believe that there were flowers in place of an actual apology—and if she was lucky, berries in place of an actual understanding. the man couldn’t have the gall to show his face so soon, though if he did, she was already planning her next move to upstage him once again. there would never be an opportunity so promising as wedding she and all she had to offer—and there would never be prospects so favorable offered to a greystone.

radegonde strode past the hyuran lad in the raspberry-red coat with the black-fur trim, for the usual night robe simply wouldn’t do. tedalgrinche was far from deserving of seeing her in such casual comfort, and even now with her sash tied tight he would never know of the negligee underneath.

the flash of platinum blonde in the reception room, however—dashed all her hopes of this being a said and done exchange, and pouting, she raised her arm, resting her elbow against the edge of the corridor entryway, placing her forehead against it. exasperation, spelled out by the letter.

“why did you choose to make such a scene.” gritted teeth in place of a grin, gauntlets clenched at his sides. still better than the usual, she presumed.

“because i could stand the one of your making no longer.”

“can a man not speak freely of his thoughts? of the day’s happenings?”

“not when such happenings were the product of unrealized idiocy.” she delayed taking any step closer into the room where he stood. it seemed like surrender—and even feigning that seemed too soon, for she sensed that by the way his chest was frozen stiff he had plenty more to say.

“‘tis no fault of mine that they failed to understand chivalry.” her eyes sought the glow of the room’s hearth.

“such is the task of the church, is it not?”

“...and they have failed you, as well.” oh, she couldn’t resist the lift of lips at that one—though the squeeze of gauntlet-plate against glove-leather meant he’d only clenched his fists harder.

“...what is it you would have me do?”

the magic words. her smile spread wider, and finally, her gaze began to creep back to where he stood, several paces away.

“...the chocolate-dipped rolanberries—the oldroses. then,”

with an open hand, she gestured to the large, vacant sofa seated before the hearth, with the low table in-between.

“What is it with. All that noise—”

Tedalgrinche raised his head towards the door, which had done well to prevent everything but noise from entering the guest room. While he had been more than happy to allow Pépin to join the other Dansereau pets for bed he still had to face a wall of cushions that partitioned the large bed into his half and hers. The new couple had been blessed in their own household to have ensuites of their own, as his own parents had passed years ago, but the bitter irony was that in visiting her family’s there had only been one bedroom allotted per couple. 

When Radegonde had pulled her sister—the one who was Baroness—aside, the younger woman insisted that when or if there would be children in the picture, all the little ones would share a room together to stay warm. It was so Euphemie to deflect the matter onto something she’d prefer to think about. Gonde had a mind to tell her that she didn’t like being in bed with her dear husband as much as Euphemie didn’t like thinking of it either.

Alas, her petty negotiations had availed her none. She—or rather, they—had been given her old bedroom, with the light lavender walls untouched (the same walls she’d begged her Papa for years ago) and only a bit of the furniture rearranged—the ones she hadn’t taken with her, anyway. It wasn’t until tonight that Radegonde realized that unlike her siblings her now-husband had never seen her bedroom until now: in all their months of courtship she’d done well to prevent him from taking so much as a step inside her private chambers. She’d spoken to him with only her head sticking out of the door, yes—and it’d usually ended with the door slammed in his face, ilms from his nose.

Now here they were, together in bed—as together as they’d allowed themselves to be.

“You’ll get used to it.” Gonde turned on her side, folding the pillow around her head and over her ears. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to call up for that chamomile tea. 

“You’re saying they’ve done this before they were—” He turned to her, green eyes wide and a flushed color to the cheeks that crept to the tips of his ears. Still, she only glanced at him from over her shoulder, confident for the time being that this could still be resolved quickly.

“Often.” Tedalgrinche’s mouth shaped into a shocked ‘o’ and she groaned, turning her back to him.

“Mind you. That wasn’t me—”

“I—I never doubted you—” He choked, and inched closer. 

“I just—”

“Speak plain. ‘Tis late and I need my sleep.” She hissed, clutching the sheets up higher over her shoulders and right under her chin. 

“...W…we have yet to.” He coughed, and Gonde was certain he was staring at her, with his egg-gold hair dangling to his chin and his eyes peered down but away from her—in that delicious way she knew meant some kind of defeat. Except in this case, she didn’t want it.

“We agreed we’d—”

“I know, I just…” A crumple of the cushions that served as the halfhearted barrier between them. She blinked once, twice, then turned to face him—where he remained staring at her, but dutifully behind his part of the bed.

“...People are saying things, aren’t they?” For a moment, he met her gaze—but looked away after a poignant second. 

“...Fury, ‘Grinche. Learn to live with it.” Something bitter ran up her throat as she hissed the words through clenched teeth, turning again to lie down. The day had progressively worsened her mood, but this cemented it: the only thing that would alleviate anything was sleep. Suddenly Gonde sought what it was she had before in her bedroom, alone with Pèpin, unread books, and undone reams of fabric.

summary: radegonde muses on how things have come along. 

Radegonde was reeling from being thrust into the spotlight.

It wasn’t her place—it never had been. She counted the seconds—not the bells—of when either of her baby sisters would come to take it away again. She couldn’t wait to slink back into the shadows and only appear when called for once more, like the old days.

The weddings of her sisters were sure to outshine her own: they outranked her in deeds and the subsequent renown—Radegonde had a mind to think her own swung too far into infamy to be seen as anything but. Being born a Greystone—despite having been raised alongside her father’s legitimate, ‘Dansereau’ children—was the final nail in the figurative coffin. She was full aware that she had been, in the eyes of their Pillars-born peers quite lucky to have availed a husband in spite of her illegitimate status—and a noble one at that. Of course she had known Tedalgrinche before everything began. The more she thought about it, the more ironic it was that she would have most definitely refused his proposal if she hadn’t. He’d disparaged her on many things in the past, on things that held ground and those that didn’t—and she had done the same (though on a very rough estimate, she believed she was still winning in their years of back-and-forth banter).

They were a sardonic, bickering pair—but in that Gonde took a strange comfort, knowing that past his stubbornness he was capable of listening to her when it mattered—it just took time.

And as long as she had her dark little corner with a good bed for her darling little deepeye, she would be fine.