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curriebelle · 8 years ago

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Standing on Ceremony

Congrats if u stayed up this late....u get GROGLETH FIC

this is a completely unedited first draft that I am going to fix and stick on ao3 probably in the morning woop woop.

Also ye this is Wise Man’s Tree universe, set after the current point in the story :o :o :O FORESHADOWING??? No mostly not actually.

Keyleth found Percival in the salon, brooding about some lordly trouble or other, and she convinced herself that disrupting his misery was a good thing, not a selfish thing; he needed distraction, and she needed help. And so she crossed the carpet in a few skittering steps, and slapped a sheaf of paper on the coffee table. She narrowly missed his teacup. At the clattering noise, he jumped in his chair, and his eyes flicked up from the book in his hands.

“Percival,” she said, her voice deadly serious, “I need your wisdom.”

“Desperately?” he answered, obviously irritated. Not that he was busy with anything important – the book in his hand was one of those dime-a-dozen adventure serials. Good, she thought, over her – perhaps it would put him in a suitably romantic mood.

She explained her plan and her request at length, and watched the young Lord’s face make all kinds of interesting expressions in the meantime. His metamorphosis ended on disappointment, and Keyleth bit her lip.

“Will you not do it?” she said, clasping her hands in front of her chest.

“Well,” he began, in the tone of a father about to deny his child dessert. Keyleth, in response, felt her throat tighten. He continued, gingerly; “I don’t mean to quash your creative spirit, but it is traditionally the gentleman’s prerogative to profess his feelings in such a manner.”

Keyleth rose to her full height. “What if the gentleman has no feelings to profess, or no manner of professing them? Do I-“ she gestured broadly about the salon, which suddenly appeared to be the most stifling room she’d ever seen, “-do I wait?”

Percival tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowed. For a long time, he was silent, enough that Keyleth prompted him with a wave. He started, and set his book aside. “Beg your pardon. I’d never reflected on that before.” A grimness overcame his countenance, and he leaned forward, staring at the papers. “It is so often true that a lady must be granted a platform to speak by a gentleman; if he does not have the perception to offer her one, propriety demands her silence. It seems cruel.”

If she let Percival stew on that particular point, he’d grow far too morose to help her. But as she was about to open her mouth and ask, he smiled, and leaned back in his chair. “Very well. Could be a lark. I’ll assist you with your serenade.”

With a short, joyful exclamation, Keyleth hopped into the air and clapped her hands. She flung herself down upon the nearby settee, sprawling like a psychiatrist’s patient, and began to rattle off the words her heart was desperate to transmit.

XxXxX

It turned out that verse was more difficult than letter-writing, and while Percival was quite proficient with the latter, he quibbled over syllables and poetic meter for so long they nearly missed their chance to go to town. But descend to town they did, racing the fire of sunset – Keyleth wanted it to stay as it was, blazing red and passionate, so as to form a fitting backdrop for her confession.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Percival took them to The Lion’s Wrath, and they found it near-on empty but for a single familiar face. Mr. Shorthalt, who sat restringing a lute in the corner, informed them that the miners were not drinking that night; instead, they had convened at the foreman’s house for a dinner and some games.

“Pardon, your lordship, but they’re partaking in activities you – ah – don’t strictly condone in the public space,” he said, with a wink. “A few rounds of cards and gold exchanged, no harm done to anyone.”

Percival gave a curt laugh. “We’re not here to crack a gambling ring.”

Mr. Shorthalt tilted his head to the side, and gave a wicked smile. “Then what are you here for?”

The explanation – and Mr. Shorthalt’s insistence that he fix the rhythm, which Percival, in his novice attempt at composition, had apparently butchered – swallowed the rest of the sunset. What took still more time was the gentlemen’s insistence that Keyleth memorize what they had written, for they agreed it would appear disingenuous to read from a card.

By the time she could recite the lines from memory, Keyleth had begun to grow quite impatient, and almost to regret her plans. It suddenly felt like artifice, to tinker and phrase her feelings so thoroughly, and lack of artifice was what she admired most about the man who had captured her attentions.

Nerves, too, began to spark, little warnings of fires and storms under her skin. Mr. Strongjaw had earned such admiration from her over the course of a difficult month. She admired his energy, his eagerness to help or fight or rescue, the care he had shown to everyone in Whitestone. Yet admiration did not account for the strength of her feeling, the depth. In the few conversations they had shared, short but tender, she learned he was a beast like her, one whose heart always threatened to overtake good sense and politeness. He did not disdain her wildness; he threatened to match it.

When they were last at Whitestone castle together, preparing to take tea, she remembered that she had left her teapot in the garden-shed. She stammered her explanations between her apologies, that she liked to drink tea outside sometimes, surrounded by the flowers – even when the flowers were gone, when it was still early spring and the garden was mostly mud and snow – but there was the Sun Tree, after all, which was pleasant enough – even in its death throes-

He’d picked up the cups, a saucer each in his broad hands, and asked if they were going to the garden, then. She stared; he said, “I’d like that. A few hours on in the tunnels, I’m always itchin’ to see the sky, right?”

It was a small thing, but love, like a sunflower, grew from little seeds into something loud and bright and gold, blossoming for miles, and reaching ever sunward. She told him they would go another time, so as not to disturb the lord and lady outside. Grog bowed, unsettling, and then barely rescuing, the teacups. She smiled at him, and that same smile would come back every time she thought of him again.

So she steeled herself. She recited the words under her breath as they walked to the foreman’s house, Percival occasionally steering her when she threatened to wander clear into the street. Mr. Shorthalt joined them, apparently intending to partake in the festivities. The foreman had a respectable two-story house with hearty hedges in the front, and the gentlemen chose to stay behind them should Keyleth need a quick rescue from any awkwardness.

She entered the yard. Around her was the mixed, muddy, lamp-pocked darkness of Whitestone. Before her, a short dirt walk, a six-step stairway, and four windows. The windows on the bottom floor were dark; those above were glowing gold, and she could hear laughter beyond them, muffled, raucous, and the sounds of creaking wood and clinking steins joining chorus. She breathed out; her breath made a cold, icy spiral. The chill had meant nothing on her walk, but it seemed considerable now, because the house before her pulsed with jovial warmth. She could almost smell the ale and rum through the glass.

Then a shadow moved across the nearest pane, and Keyleth jumped as a man she didn’t know threw the upper window wide, leaned halfway out, and called, “Oi, lass! You here for cards?”

Keyleth called back, “No, thank you. Is – is Grog Strongjaw among you?”

The man was hard to read, courtesy of nose and jaw that looked as if they’d been caved in by a punch and only halfway re-inflated. After a moment, he leaned back inside and yelled, “Strongjaw!” and waved his hand. “Lady on the walk for you.”

There was a thudding sound from inside – the scraping wood-on-wood noises of chairs being pushed back. The voices dimmed a little, and in the resulting quiet, Keyleth could hear Percival and Mr. Shorthalt hushing each other behind the hedge. She only prayed they were hiding well.

Then the other window flung wide, and Grog Strongjaw leaned halfway out of it, tankard in one hand, swung high. He looked absolutely delighted, grinning broad behind the dark beard, and Keyleth felt the smile mirrored on her own face. Whatever this game-night was, it seemed to be a formal occasion; he wore a shirt with buttons under suspenders, cleaner and a touch more dapper than the typical miner’s wardrobe. “Your Ladyship!” he crowed, saluting with the tankard. “Come up ‘n join us, we’re havin’ a lark – there’s enough drinks for more!”

Oh, the thought of giving her valediction in front of a crowd of strangers – Keyleth felt as if her feet had been welded to the walk. Besides, this was, to the best of her knowledge, how moonlight serenades were done. Beloved in the window, and petitioning lover below. If she’d thought of it, she would have asked Scanlan to play something on his lute.

And in her mind, there had been fewer drunken miners, and more of a viney, flowered balcony than a grimy window. Still, she called back, “Thank you. I’d prefer to stay here.”

“In the cold?” he called. Even from the fair distance, she could see his brow furrowing. “You all by your lonesome?”

The rustling in the hedge behind her stopped. Keyleth swallowed a curse, and shouted, “Yes! Yes, it’s just me.” She spread her arms wide, and laughed. “By my lonesome!” Even to her, her voice sounded shrill, so she bit her lip and dropped her arms.

“Right,” Grog said, nodding, processing. He took a drink. “Pardon, your Ladyship, but it might not be safest wanderin’ Whitestone streets alone at night.”

The man in the other window barked out a laugh. Keyleth jumped. He crowed, “Yeah, not with leerin’ oafs like Strongjaw about!”

Grog leaned out, gesturing sharply at his fellow with his tankard, which slopped a generous wave of ale out onto the front porch. “Ey, stuff it, Kern!”

“Oh right, he’s a changed man,” Kern shot back mockingly. “No more lady favours for ol’ Strongjaw. You know what they say of ‘im, Ladyship?” he continued, over Grog’s protests, “He’s a bumblebee; stings just once, then his stinger pops clean off!”

Keyleth didn’t quite follow the insult until Kern’s hand gestures made his insinuation quite clear, and then she drew a gasp in through her nose. A chorus of boos and shouts emerged from the room behind them, with Grog’s curses the loudest of them all. Behind her, she heard Percival rather quietly remark, “My word,” and something that sounded like laughter.

But when her eyes found Grog again, he was looking back and forth between her and Kern, his cheeks ruddy with some mix of shame, anger, and embarrassment. Her heart surged forward. Her fears evaporated. She stomped her foot on the ground to widen her stance, and thought, hells with the bastards – they have said their piece on the man; now they will hear what I think of him!

She called forth, “GROG! STRONGJAW!”

The quarreling fell silent. Kern looked excited, perhaps expecting her to supplement his insults. A pair of female miners, who had been dutifully shoving and elbowing Kern as punishment for his lewdness before a lady, turned to watch her as well. She shot them all a last, defiant look, and turned back towards Grog.

“Tonight!” she declared, and spread her arms wide again, “I seek your ear and kind regard!”

Murmurs arose from her spectators, and she flinched back, catching snippets of their words:

“-what’s she want his ear for?”

“That some Ashari witch-thing?”

“Shut it, you layabouts!”

Grog’s shout silenced them all again. He looked down instead, curious, almost enraptured, leaning out of the light and into the garden. Itching to see the sky, she thought, and she found her words again; “Th-that Keyleth’s valediction may be heard! For I have sought the wisdom of the bards to capture wordless sentiment in words!”

The house creaked. Keyleth watched more figures, more bearded men and scruffy short-haired women, gathering at the windows. Shadows, murmuring and chattering under her recitation. She gripped her skirts, and the words slipped from her mind until she shut her eyes, bowed her head, and concentrated.

“Your image in my mind is like a feast,” she said. She gathered speed, remembering; “In richness, sweetness, and intensity-“ a lovely picture indeed, Grog smiling, bowing, the teacups held aloft, and she practically giggled “-Your beard the envy of a kingly beast, as are your strength and your immensity!”

Hoots and hollers erupted from the crowd, coupled with few echoes of immensity and yet more illustrative hand gestures. Behind her, a scandalized Percival hissed, “Mr. Shorthalt!”

Keyleth held her hands up for silence. This was her favourite section: “This stunning picture plays but half the part!” she interrupted, as loud as she could.

She looked up at Grog again. He had one hand half-raised, partway to shushing the crowd, but he was no longer mastering his own gestures. He watched her, and listened, enraptured, the lamplight glowing behind him. His mouth was slack, his eyes were wide. Keyleth felt empty and airless, as if her heart had flown clear from her chest.

She recited, “Kindness moves your hands, and you have shown in titan’s form must beat a titan’s heart – a heart that roars in tandem with my own.”

His shoulders twitched with a silent, disbelieving laugh. Smiling through the last of her words, she folded her hands over her chest and finished: “Strength shall I grant to my beloved’s labours - come and claim the tokens of my favour!”

Then, for a long, anguished moment, there was silence, and stillness – almost. Keyleth could hear her own gasping, delighted breaths, and the faint creaking of wood. The crowd said nothing; one of the miners sniffled; another rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand.

Grog, too, was still and quiet. She watched him, but he said nothing – and then he abruptly turned and vanished from the window, leaving his tankard rattling on the windowsill.

She held her breath; so, too, did the watchers at the window. Then, like thunder behind a mountain, Keyleth heard the rumbling of footsteps. The door before her burst open, and she blinked and squeaked at the flood of lamplight. Before she could orient herself again, a broad shadow swept up and grabbed her, and she smelled sweat and ale and pine - and of course it was him, hauling her into his arms, into the air.

She laughed, gave a slight, steadying kick of her dangling feet, and squeezed him about the shoulders. Hanging there, she thought at first that she heard the sound of thunder again – but no, was merely thunderous applause from above, and piercing whistles and jocular hoots. A woman called “Alright, give ‘em some courtesy, you louts!” and Keyleth felt her feet hit the ground just as the shades clattered shut.

Once they were properly – or relatively – alone, Grog released her, and in the light from the doorway his eyes glittered with a joy he could barely contain. But he did his best to maintain propriety, and fumbling with his hands he admitted, “Er, Key- Your Ladyship, I don’t know what I should be sayin’ to that-“

“Oh, that’s perfectly alright – I didn’t think that far ahead,” she cut in, trying to staunch any awkwardness before it could start. “I only wanted to give you something, if you would accept it.”

“Any, uh-“ he waved his hand about, hunting for a word. He was trying so, so hard not to smile and failing so miserably, and Keyleth couldn’t help laughing with nearly every breath. “Any gift gifted to me by your Ladyship would be treasured forever,” he stammered.

“Good!” she chirped. She had thought long and hard on what her favour would be, and was quite proud of her choice. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, pale seed with a flourish – and immediately lost her grip on it and flung it into the garden. She heard it clink against something and land in the dirt. Keyleth muttered, “Oh, piss it,” bunched her skirt up in both hands, and rushed into the garden.

Grog followed, asking, “D'you see it?”

“No,” she moaned, dropping to her knees in the dirt. She scuttled her hands through it, hoping the lamplight would catch on one of its smooth edges-

“What’s it look like?”

“A white seed,” she said, and held her fingers up, “this big, shaped like an-“

Suddenly, Grog’s broad hand fell upon her shoulder, and she looked over at him. He had one finger up to his lips in a bid for silence, but his steel-grey eyes were fixed straight ahead. Keyleth followed his gaze, and saw thick, tangled leaves. She realized they’d come right up to the hedge near the end of the yard.

The leaves rustled, ever so slightly – then, with a yell, Grog surged forward, thrust his hand into the hedge, and pulled a form through it, tossing it onto the dirt nearby. It squawked and tried to wriggle away, but Grog pinned it, barking, “Stalkin’ a lady in the dark, you good-for-nothin’-“

Keyleth yelped, “Oh, Percival!”

Everyone froze – Keyleth with her hands to her mouth, Grog with one fist raised and the other curled in a fine fur collar, and Percival, prone on his back, hands shielding his face.

“Oh,” Grog said, and lowered his fists. Percival gave a startled gasp: apparently the grip had been choking the air out of him. “Your Lordship. Beggin’ your pardon,” Grog said. He backed up onto his heels, dusted off his trousers, and hauled Percival to his feet. “Why’s it that you’re hangin’ about in a bush?”

Percival straightened his cloak, and made another undignified choking noise before replying, airlessly, “Nothing of consequence. Passing by.”

“Huh,” Grog said.

Keyleth rose to join them. “A pleasure to see you, Lord de Rolo,” she said. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Percival snorted, and then held out a hand, palm up. Keyleth glanced down and gave a joyful cry; he held the seed she had lost. With his free hand, he adjusted his glasses, and explained, “This happened to knock me in the head when I was “hangin’ about in a bush”, as you so quaintly put it.”

Keyleth took it from him, and held it cupped in her hands. A tiny spark of life still beat in it, and she smiled. She could feel the shadow of Grog leaning over her, curious, and she barely resisted the temptation to lean into him – and then, she thought perhaps she no longer needed to resist.

“I,” Percival declared, “am going to go inside, and I am going to exert my lordly right to nick drinks from my subjects until I am sufficiently drunk to turn each of my regrets into a nice, fuzzy blur. Good evening.”

With that, he bowed, and marched toward the door. Keyleth watched him go, and snickered when Mr. Shorthalt emerged on the path, chasing Lord de Rolo down and joining him at the threshold. They entered together, leaving Grog and Keyleth alone in the garden.

Grog was watching the seed. “What’s this?”

“This,” Keyleth informed him, staring down at the little white pip, “is an Alabaster pine seed. The pines grow here in the mountains, on nothing more than stone, sometimes. They can survive burning summers and freezing winters. No adversity can fell them.” She smiled, and glanced to her side where he stood. “They remind me of you.”

His cheeks were scarlet, and he seemed unable to find words again, so she turned to face him and said, “Hold out your hand, like mine.”

“Right, yeah-“

Keyleth pushed his sleeve back, and pressed the little seed to his pulse. She shut her eyes. In time, she could feel them fall into step, the way living beings always did, the longer they spent together. The life within the seed throbbed, following the same rhythm that ran through his body. Then, with a gentle sigh, she stoked it to life. The seed cracked and bloomed. The strong green tendrils of a young tree burst from the shell, and wound themselves around his wrist. They met, and wove together; they stopped, and hardened under a shell of dark brown bark. She did not need to ask if it was too tight or too loose; the bracelet had attuned to his heartbeat, and it would never break; it would stretch and contract as his body demanded. Content with her work, Keyleth released his hand.

Grog looked at it, turning his wrist this way and that. He gave a long, low whistle. “Wow,” he muttered. “That’s beautiful.”

“Do you like it?” she said, folding her quivering hands behind her back. Sometimes magical exertion would leave her trembling – but in this case, it might have been the excitement.

“Yeah,” he answered, with a crooked grin. “Yeah, I do.” He turned the bracelet, inspecting the weave of juvenile branches. She watched every twitch in his face, every little expression of awe and appreciation.

When he finally lowered his hands, he said, “I’ll have to get you something, eh? Somethin’ like this, to say what you mean to me.”

Her heart skipped. Her hands tightened in her skirts. “Oh,” she said, “that would – I would really love that.”

“Give me a bit,” he said, grinning. “It’s not easy to find somethin’ special like you.”

Keyleth bit her lip, and her delight was such that she forgot herself, sprang forward, and kissed him swiftly on the mouth. A quick scratch of his beard and a fleeting taste of sweet rum, and still, still it was enough to make her giddy. She dropped back onto her heels, delighted by his stunned smile. They watched each other, and she reveled in it. How pleasant it was to watch someone, once permission was given – to enjoy the warm, genuine smile as long as she wanted, while he rested a broad hand against her cheek, idle and adoring.

After a moment, he straightened, and put on something of a posh, Percival-esque accent; “Did I hear, perchance, that you called me a beloved?”

“Why,” she said, laying a hand over her heart, mimicking the act, “I believe you did.”

“Well, then, beloved,” he continued, offering her his arm, “would you like to partake in a drink and a game or two with my companionates?”

“I would be honoured,” she said. She took his arm, and matched him stride for stride as they went to the door.

#grogleth #critical role #wise man's tree adjacent #YE o/

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