#charlinne de saincourant

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Family.

For as long as he could remember, he had been at war with the House of Saincourant. From the days of Lord Laurentin, selfish and cold, to those of Lord Aleaume, who was those as well as stupid, anyone who proudly bore that name was his enemy, and anyone who bore it reluctantly was still not anyone with whom he'd waste his time. The patriarchs were loathsome -- the ladies, morally bankrupt -- the scions, well-trained out of all common sense and virtue by their parents, molded into perfect highborn boys and girls. The moment he had the power to rid himself of their company, he did so, and not once in the decades hence had a reunion with any of them given him cause to change his opinion.

There was but one exception; it was from that dark time twelve years ago, a time that otherwise doubled, tripled his hatred for that greedy House, when the Lord de Saincourant stood gloating over his insensate body, dispatching representatives to every corner of Coerthas to appropriate and sell every piece of his carefully nurtured investments. It came in the form of an intercession, a request for a concession -- that rather than keep him in the manor while waiting for him to succumb and die, that he might be more comfortable in his private apartments, his home of many years. It was, to Lord Aleaume, a little thing, a small expense in comparison to the riches he'd just won through his unmarried brother’s misfortune -- and it came from his lady wife, a woman so meek and modest she never criticized and hardly ever asked for aught, making it easy for him to oblige her.

For that, Rosaire was grateful, and though his feelings were not so warm that he'd consent to spend a moment in his brother's presence in order to speak with her, Charlinne de Saincourant was the one member of that House he would consider welcoming in, if she came to call.

And that was, of course, why it was she who did so, and why he felt, as he instructed his housekeeper to let her in, a tinge of grief, for that one, tenuous relationship he knew he was about to lose.

She was dressed in black velvet, the furs of winter exchanged for a silken scarf and a hat in a modern style, though it still carried a veil to mark her as a lady of high and ancient bloodlines, chaste and, if not quite cloistered, divided from the base and vulgar world. At seven-and-forty -- an age that would perhaps have made her better suited as a bride for him than for the brother eleven years his senior -- she was not yet old, and indeed, ought perhaps to have still been young and full of life. But there had long been a weight on those slim shoulders, and she swayed under it, weary. It had grown worse in the years since he'd seen her, and when she stooped low in a deep, low curtsey, he feared somewhat that she might not be able to rise.

But she did rise, and she greeted him: "Lord Rosaire, dear brother, it is so good to see you well."

Her eyes were downturned in a gesture of humility, but that look and her turn of phrase made him self-conscious of the cane on which he leaned, and he gripped its handle. "And you, Lady Charlinne."

"We would have liked to care for you at home, but you must be happiest returned here again, I imagine."

"Yes… I heard," heard about his brother's incessant attempts to wrest him from the company of House Pepin and confine him to the Manor Saincourant so that, this time, he'd be guaranteed not to recover, inconveniently, from his stroke -- "and yes, 'tis good to be home. Tell me, are you able to stay long? May I offer you tea?"

She hesitated to answer. He imagined that perhaps it was guilt at the thought of accepting hospitality when she's come on a mission of war; he granted her that much. "I would be honored, brother."

He steeled himself and murmured, "Then come with me."

He was confident, as he took the first step of the stairs, that his face revealed to her neither fear nor embarrassment. Yet he was also confident that by the time he reached the landing, his movements would have slowed, his breath begun to grow short. And he also knew that though she preceded him, she turned an eye back to watch, to measure and judge the difficulty. His cheeks flushed, but he granted no more than that, and continued at a steady pace to the top, where he lifted his head to look at her impassively, clamping down on the tired tremor threatening in his limbs. With a tense gesture, he indicated the table; "Pray, sit."

She did so, delicately arranging her skirts. "Your home is very beautiful. It strikes me each time I see it."

"Thank you," he grunted, allowing himself the blessed reprieve of a seat. "Helenne shall be along shortly with tea."

She hesitated. "Your nurse," she began, but after a pause, she shook her head. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, turning her gaze down. She was quiet; he let her be. And when she spoke up again, her voice was small. "-- You must know how much I wish, Lord Rosaire, to talk naught but pleasantries with you. And you must also know that -- I cannot do as I wish."

"Yes."

"If I proceed at once to the topic at hand, not out of discourtesy but respect for you, my lord, will you be very angry?"

"Not at you, my dear lady, but I make no promise as regards your lord husband." 

She bit her lip; it was plain on her face that his words did not console her. Still, she continued, after wringing her hands: "... Certain rumors have reached us at the Manor Saincourant."

"Pray elaborate."

"They concern you, my lord."

"And…?"

"I… cannot believe them true, of course, so out of line with your lordship's character are the things alleged --"

"And? Specify, so that I may refute them or not."

She sat, frozen and silent, for several more seconds. He was forced to confess before Halone that to see such discomfort in the expression and posture of a person seated across from him did, at times, bring him a delicious sort of pleasure, and that it was the messenger of House Saincourant now so suffering gave him a bit of satisfaction -- but that it was Lady Charlinne, that poor, unfortunate wretch, gave him a concurrent pang of guilt. Until -- "It concerns a woman."

"A woman."

"It is said," she swallowed, "that you have taken a mistress."

Despite himself, he smiled. "Ah."

"A Hyuran mistress."

"Ah."

She pressed her hands together; beneath her veil, she blushed. "The thought is... as unlike my brother-in-law as any could be. And yet people are convinced of it. Not only that it has been moons since, but that she was living with you while you were…"

"While I was what?" 

… She shook her head. "It cannot be true, though. You are the most continent, abstemious man I know -- that Ishgard knows, even if it has forgotten! The last man to sin so flagrantly and with such... vulgarity." She leaned forward, a discomposed look in her eyes -- an unladylike look -- that made her anguish seem genuine. "'Tis unfounded, is it not? 'Tis only the latest disgraceful slander."

He exhaled; he again failed to stop himself smiling. "... It is untrue, of course, Lady Saincourant. There is no mistress." 

"Oh," she sighed.

"There is, however, a young woman whom I have courted and, just this sennight, asked to marry me."

And, as unconstructive as he acknowledged such sentiments to be, the look on her face gave him immense satisfaction.

Finally, she spoke, in a tone now fully bereft of ladylike poise: "You can't."

"Can I not? Which of Halone's laws prevents me?"

"The laws," and she stood straight up, striking her hands to the table, "against marriage with Hyur!"

And he sat up to his full height, pressing his good hand to the armrest of his chair in equally aggressive emphasis. "Those laws," he boomed from his chest, "are not Halone's laws. They are the laws of degenerate highborn who worship bloodline o'er the Fury and Her every commandment. And who, do you propose, will enforce their laws, now that we must all swear before Parliament that our Lord Flavien fathered a quarter of the lowborn, else be denied representation? Which bishop -- in this age of impiety, imported barbarism, and surrender of our values to appease the sensibilities of the foreigners who despoil and mock our city -- do you propose will stand up and say, 'This pious man of Ishgard, this son of Halone, who serves and worships Halone with unwavering ardor, may not wed his equal in faith, this pious woman of Ishgard, this daughter of Halone?'"

"But you can't," she cried, "as a man of Saincourant. You are not free to do as you alone please! Think of your family -- the cost we must bear -- the effect on us --!"

"Cost. What cost will be borne by the House of Saincourant if a coal-black karakul of an uncle contravenes its traditions a little more? What does he have to do with the reputation of that House known for... hm," he mocked, "descent from Fortemps and… what else? Who thinks of Inquisitor Ledigne in connection to it, or it in connection to Inquisitor Ledigne? -- And what else could my marrying have to do with Lord Aleaume and his brood? What am I, now -- eighth in line for the headship?"

"Eighth!" she exclaimed. "As if the Houses have never before seen the eighth, ninth, tenth succeed to a title! 'Twould be one thing if you were considering marriage to a widow of your own age -- even if she were Hyur, 'twould be forgivable. But they say -- you say! -- she is young, young enough to bear -- and what children she would bear! Halfbreeds," she choked, "mongrels, in line for the headship of the House of Saincourant!"

"Mongrels," he replied, voice quiet though he felt his anger now burn twice as hot, "trueborn, raised in devout, lawful, loving marriage, educated in the faith, inculcated with honor and duty. Would they truly be inferior to whatever inbred highborn offspring come of money-matches arranged to suit the current patriarch's whims?"

She gaped back at him with shock and, he supposed, hurt -- since he had just described her own grandchildren, perhaps children -- but he had no room for sympathy next to the offense he felt on behalf of his. "I beg you, my lord--"

"No."

"Do not do this to your nephews."

"Deny your children the inheritance of my wealth?"

"Bring disgrace," she cried, also offended, "to their name!"

"My nephews may govern themselves as they see fit, in obedience to the laws of Halone -- and so shall I."

"Then," she begged, "pray -- think of your own reputation -- it too shall be ruined irrevocably."

"In the eyes of those whose unworthy esteem I desire not."

"Unworthy or not, they could destroy you!" She shook her head incredulously. "No... woman," said with a passionate distaste that made the silent baseborn, Hyur, slattern audible, "is worth such a sacrifice -- your sacrifice -- Rosaire --"

He cut her off with a violent gesture. "Such a sacrifice would be mine to measure and make, milady de Saincourant."

And she was, of course, enormously, egregiously, comically mistaken. Such a woman did exist.

They then stared at one another in silence, a silence he broke first: "Does your lord husband intend to stand in my way?"

She looked down. They both knew that he surely would, on hearing the news. And they also both knew that, howbeit, precious few means existed for him to do so, and all of those means were weak. And so she said nothing.

"Then I ask for neither consent nor blessing, for I know I shan't receive either -- only for a graceful acknowledgment that he has lost, and to be left, along with my intended, in peace."

Her brow creased, and she shook her head -- but as she did so, her shoulders fell.

"If you've naught else, you'd best return to him."

She stepped away from the table, wavering, as if stepping back into the tight and tiny shoes of the Lady de Saincourant left her a little dizzied and pained. But in a second, it was gone, and she curtseyed to him once more, very low. "... You have the right of it, my lord. I beg your pardon, and I pray you'll excuse me."

"Go," he answered -- and then, with less coldness, he added, "May the Fury be with you."

She bowed her head, then turned, and picked up her skirts to traverse the stairs alone. He remained seated, listening as her footfalls receded, then passed out into the unseasonable cool of this Third Umbral Moon, the heavy door closing behind her.

Only after she was gone did Helenne -- the 'half-blood', Helenne -- bring the tray of tea, with a single teacup.

And only long after that, after the tea had been drunk, after Helenne had helped him, much more slowly and unselfconsciously, back down the stairs, after he'd written two quick letters at his new desk, did it occur to him what she might have meant when she protested, her outrage and despair burning bright, that no woman deserved his sacrifice.

He was angry, still, and he imagined he'd be angry decades hence. The thin thread of esteem that had bound the two of them was burned to cinders, just as he knew it would be.

But he thought back to a year long-past -- thirty-one summers ago, if his recollection was correct, though perhaps it was thirty, perhaps thirty-two. At that time he was a young man, a junior inquisitor, busy in and 'round the city hunting heresy and building the foundations of his career, having naught to do with his family that he could possibly avoid. But he did, at times, receive news by letter, of commissions, births, and deaths in the extended Fortemps sphere. By this means did he receive news of his brother's betrothal, then wedding, an event he did not attend -- and he remembered far more to do with his parents' anger at this decision than any detail concerning the bride.

But he knew that she was a girl of prestigious breeding, surely raised in the strictest and most traditional style, cloistered, bullied, sheltered from knowledge, trained only to trust in Halone and submit. And he knew what such a girl, such a young girl, must have surely felt, wed to the one highborn man he personally knew showed all of the vices and none of the virtues of lords of his reprehensible class. He did not know her, not for many years, but long before that, he knew her suffering.

And -- though mayhap nothing would have come of the attempt, and there was no acquaintance, nevermind ardor, to motivate him -- he did nothing to help her.

And so though his anger did not come close to cooling entirely, as he sat there in his chair, recollecting, he once more felt, when he thought of Charlinne de Saincourant, a twinge, small and tender, of pity.