#margie faonbeau

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Namedays

  Six-and-fifty winters is he, when his daughter is born into her very first. 

No one recalls. Even he had not recalled, not till now, long after the nurse carried her up the stairs, wrapped her up tenderly and lay her down in the quiet of the nursery for a few bells' sleep. Not till now -- when, having hauled himself up after them and crept in through the door, he looks down at her pink and tiny, impossibly tiny face -- does he realize that all of Heavensturn's come and gone, and that the sun that now rises over Abalathia is the second of Halone's moon.

"You must get some rest, milord," says Nurse Berthoise from the couch, herself groggy. "You've been up more than twenty bells." 

"I will," he lies, and he stands there, his knuckles white on the cot's railing. 

The babe, though, sleeps; eventually, so too does the nurse. He at last sits in the chair beside, to relieve his lightheadedness -- but he continues to watch. For one bell, two bells, he watches, almost without blinking, hand tight on his cane, till she just begins to rouse. At her first murmur, he stands straight up, startling the nurse awake -- and so she is swiftly borne away, back downstairs, before she even gives her first cry for milk. 

Rosaire is left behind. 

He looks after them long after they've departed, then sits down again, slowly, in the chair. 

Fifty Namedays ago, he was playing by the pond at the country estate with his two siblings nearest in age. His own nurse and a footman had meant to keep an eye on them, but their eyes proved too full of each other, and soon he and the girls had ventured, against instruction, onto the ice.

He does not remember the moment he went in -- nor, truthfully, does he remember much of what happened after, save being bathed and made to give thanks to Halone (though not to the lowborn who rescued him) that the water was shallow -- but he remembers the feeling: the shock of cold, the flood of overwhelming fear, his head emptied of everything else. Time became immensely slow, seconds stretched out into years and years -- and yet in all that luxury of time there was nothing he could think of, nothing he could do but sink down, down into the numbness, down into himself, powerless. 

It is the same feeling he has now, and has had for these past twenty bells. 

Not at first. At first he was afraid, yes -- but he was also Rosaire Ledigne, the logical, the Staid. He simply had Helenne summon the midwife and bid the maids make ready, set the book-cradle at the bedside and lay in it his codex open to the relevant page, then sat down next to his lady to murmur encouragement and wait. Such was his duty and his role: to be calm and remain calm, to stand out of the way but ready to assist -- to put the nightmare out of his mind, to pray without speaking, and to give no evidence of aught but a placid heart. 

And so he remained, steady and dutiful, keeping his countenance as she suffered and wept. He even flattered himself with the thought that he might be able to feign tranquility and comfort her through her screams -- until, a mere few bells in, the midwife drew him aside. 

"You'd best call the chirurgeon," she murmured. "The local one -- then ring your specialist in Ul'dah and give the linkpearl to me." 

"Is something wrong?" he asked, like a fool. 

She looked at him, weighing an answer, then shook her head. "For now, just call them," and she turned to go back into the room. 

It was then that he began to feel it, and felt himself sink down, down into the cold and dark. 

One chirurgeon became two, when Doctor Tristelle arrived from the south. They timed Gwenneth's pulse, put an ear-trumpet to her chest, inspected the swelling of her feet, then shook their heads and argued in whispers in the corner. For a long time he could not persuade them to enlighten him, but at least the heat of his frustration provided some sort of relief from the numb fear; but he tamped it down and held her hand when he was not gently cooling her face and neck with a cloth. 

When they finally offered her the option of a draught for the pain, she didn't answer; words, if they were words, came from her mouth in a jumble, and she looked at Rosaire only a moment before her eyelids fluttered and her cloudy gaze went back up to the ceiling. 

Some time after that -- minutes, bells, years, he was no longer sure -- he was taken aside again. 

"You'd best call the priest, my lord." 

The words he'd prayed, bargained, and begged not to hear. 

He listened to the Reconciliation and observed the anointing, though he could hardly hear or see. 'He' was there, listening and watching and even taking Mother Judithe aside to grasp her hand and thank her, but he -- he did not quite feel present in his body, as it went through those movements and spoke those words mechanically. He was somewhere else, floating in the ice-cold water, looking down at the scene as it unfolded with painful slowness.

Miolleane, though acquainted with the Ledignes for just one sennight, broke down crying in the hall; Helenne sent her home, then ushered Clavis into his carrying-cage and took him to the Fortemps aery, leaving Berthoise in charge. She brought Rosaire a cup of strong coffee; it rattled so much in his hand he had to drink it at the dining table. 

For lack of elsewhere to look, he fixed his eyes on the Starlight Sentinels, still bright and in good needle: the first, in bluish-green, slim and delicate -- the second, in silver, tall and thick at the middle. And then, between them, the miniature, less than a fulm tall -- the representation of a wish they'd made at last year's Starlight, both her little hands enfolded in his. 

How could I? 

His throat tensed around the slug of cold water he'd breathed in; his eyes stung. But he was stopped from drowning by one of the chirurgeons rushing in. "Well, if you think you're still able to help with the physicking -- 'tis the time now." 

At first he knew her only by her cry -- less a cry, he later thinks, than a hearty and rather indignant exclamation of surprise. Though she was borne away immediately to receive the attention of the priest -- to whom he barely remembered to mumble the name they'd chosen -- she was soon returned, brought before him in the arms of the smiling Berthoise. "She is much improved already, milord -- a strong and healthy daughter." 

He must have looked at her face then, but his eyes were too full of the blood on the sheets to see it. 

"Bring the babe here -- 'twill help stop the bleeding --" 

"This is a task for a conjurer -- pray, stand aside!" 

Someone's hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him back to make room for the bustle of healers. He looked at Gwenneth's face -- pale and wet -- a worse sight than the blood -- and feared for a second his knees might buckle. They didn't -- he couldn't let them -- so instead of sinking to the ground, he sank further into himself, down, down. 

When it was not his turn to channel physicks, he stood silently at the side, looking at the statuette of Nymeia they had placed at the bedside just a few suns before. The Weaver, friend of laboring mothers, smiling beatifically -- the promise of health and fortune, threatening to be broken -- and prayed.

He prayed to Her -- cursed Her, in a moment of rage, then prayed again -- to Nymeia, to the Twelve, even to Nophica. And he prayed, desperately, to Halone: Fury, please spare Gwenneth. Fury, please save Gwenneth. O Fury, I will serve you faithfully -- only let her live, so she may serve you far better than I. O Fury, I will do penance -- I will make pilgrimage -- anything, Fury, anything, anything, anything, only give her strength. Let her live. Let her live. I beg you -- let her live. 

The gods were slow to answer. The bleeding did stop, but the chirurgeon's faces remained grave. She had faded to an awful pallor -- he wished, in sick despair, she might begin again to scream in pain, for that sound was easier to bear than the sight of her arm falling limp from one of their hands. But a bell later, they were less solemn. The Ishgardian chirurgeon went home, to sleep a few bells before dawn; Judithe followed, though not before pressing his hand in hers and telling him to have faith, be strong. 

"She's made it through this night," the midwife told him. "If she stays strong through this fortnight, she will be out of danger." Unspoken, the obvious corollary -- that till then, she was not safe. He nodded dumbly, sent her home as well. 

Helenne -- Fury-sent Helenne -- took watch in the bedroom till the chirurgeon returned, bag full of potions from the apothecary. It was then that Berthoise suggested taking the babe up to the nursery, to let her rest a little away from the commotion, and the chirurgeons permitted it -- and soon insisted that Rosaire go up, too, to rest and replenish his energy. 

But he sits in this chair instead. 

Since the date of their marriage two summers ago, they have a few times slept apart -- once due to the pressing business of the Bellworks, a few times when Institute affairs took him to southron Eorzea and Gwenneth was too ill to join. He managed, but hated it; so many years a bachelor snoring away contentedly, yet after holding her only once, gently and chastely, he could not bear to be apart from her -- her warmth, her soft skin, the scent of her hair. 

He cannot bear to think of it now. 

But, when Berthoise returns to lay the babe down and smiles at him compassionately, he looks down into the cot, at the child who lies there -- sleepy features squashed like all newborns', little ears with little points still flat against her head, wisps of honey-brown hair on her head -- and realizes that he must, even if fitfully, in this chair. 

He -- and Helenne, and Berthoise, and Clavis, when he returns -- must watch over her and keep her warm till the fortnight's end, when Gwenneth rises, and the time at last comes to celebrate their Nameday.

[rose-in-the-stone-moved]

Counting Days II

It struck her as she watched Alexandroix disappear down the hallway with the burden of her flowers, though it wasn’t until the boy was out of sight that the smile fell from her face, replaced by something more subdued, more thoughtful.

A moon had come and gone, she realized.  Half of another had already followed.  

Somewhere along the way she had stopped counting the days.

Perhaps it was that there had been too many.  Perhaps she believed that to tally the bells of his sickness only drew it out longer, in some strange way.  Still, uncounted, they passed by in their silent march.  They thinned the frost that settled on the windows as winter began its slow retreat, carrying with them promise and possibility.  They carried hope.

They grew easier, somehow.

And not at all.

There were the days when she walked through the gardens at dawn; finding, there, rare moments of peace.  In the course of her stay with the Pepins she had come to favor certain paths through their sprawling greenhouses, and grow to love them as dearly as those she knew in wilder, secret places left behind in southern forests.

They were the days when she came with flowers -- tokens left quietly at the Inquisitor’s bedside as he slept. It was a comfortable habit, and though she expected no acknowledgement, no reply, it was not a habit easily broken.

She supposed it never would be.

There were the days, too, when when she read to herself and to him, filling the silence that stretched when Helenne was away and visitors were likewise absent. Poetry, novels; the impractical things she favored and prayed he would forgive her for, though her murmured recitations never lasted long. He stirred uncomfortably in his long sleeps, and to disturb him was the least of her desires.

So there were the days when she sang instead -- a quiet, wordless humming that escaped her, without thought, in those moments when her attentions were too busied elsewhere to feel self-conscious.  It provoked him less, she found.  There was gladness in that.

They were the days when she stood in the sun, the light slanting through the windows, and everything felt a little warmer in the end.

Though there were the days when she wept, even after telling herself over and over that she hadn't the strength to do so any longer, back pressed against the door that separated his rooms from her own.  She heard what things the physicians said and all that they did not. She heard the moans of dismay and the sound of their convalescent's garbled protestations. She heard Helenne, forever patient, in her attempts to scold and to soothe as the Inquisitor experienced day after painful, addled day -- barely knowing them, barely knowing himself.

And so there were the days when she stood before the mirror and wondered how perhaps, if it were a different face looking back from the glass -- a face that was sketched over and over on secret sheaves of yellowed paper locked away from prying eyes -- that he might find the strength to be well again; that it would cure him. That happiness would be as the precious esuna to his great and terrible malady.

So she apologized to her, she pleaded to her -- apology for her own sentiments, apology for lingering where she ought to be, pleas for some sliver of guidance as the heart in her threatened to burst.

They were the days when she despaired most of all.

They were the days when she was most disappointed in herself.

...And then there were the days when everything changed.

Slowly, like the shifting of the seasons, until the trees all at once seemed to burst into bloom.

@heavens-light-and-hells-ice

[houseshadowstar]

Letter for Margie Faonbeau

To Madam Faonbeau,

I wish to apologize for the suddenness of this letter’s matter. It is a circumstance I can do little about. I hope all is progressing well for you and for Inquisitor Rosaire. My prayers continue to be with you all, as ever.

My father had a relapse of his chronic lung ailments, and has become saddled with Lung Fever. After much deliberation, our contracted conjurer, Madam Mharithosa and I have decided to take Father south for a moon. Sirus and I will be accompanying Father and Madam Mharithosa to Stillglade Fane in Gridania.

Rhydia will continue to watch over my own familial home, as well as my personal apartments, with the assistance of my Father’s apprentices. They will also continue to assist with the matter of checking over the security of Inquisitor Rosaire’s apartments. Sirus has also, with the acquiescence of his commanders at Camp Cloudtop, recruited a few of his fellow knights to assist Rhydia with these matters.

I will be reachable via the usual mail routes, and through the linkpearl that I’ve attached to this letter. The linkpearl will also reach Sirus and Rhydia, should you need. Additionally, any messengers sent to the conjurers of Stillglade Fane can likely be directed to me.

I apologize for any inconvenience this brings you. And I thank you for your patience with our sudden departure. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if I am needed for anything.

With sincere hopes and prayers for us all,

Ceridwen of House Shadowstar

@heavens-light-and-hells-ice

[hasty-touch]

Relationship gifs for Rosaire

One gif each for three different relationships of your character. I was tagged by @mostdangerouspotato and actually successfully found three gifs!!!!

Gwenneth Ledigne

Margie Faonbeau (Helenne)

Hyacinthe Aubeheraut

(I don’t know anything about The Flash (gif #3) but I absolutely do know who’s in #1 and #2 and they are Correct.)

Open tag; please do steal if you wish! <3

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

The new maid

  High above, in the uppermost walkways of the Pillars, the bells of Saint Reymanaud's may ring just four past noon, but already has the blue-gray dusk descended upon the city of Ishgard. 

To the girl's left, a sweeper, bundled in so many layers of rags as to be unrecognizable as Spoken, clears the latest snowfall from the spiraling walkway; to her right, she hears the faint strains of a family choir finishing a chorus. Otherwise, the street is quiet, peaceful -- the townhouse windows above shining with the yellow-orange light of hearths and candles, casting a gentle glow down upon the empty cobbles, catching on ice-flakes that glint silver and gold. 

The door before her, like many of its neighbors, sports a red-ribboned wreath, woven with pinecones and small brass bells that tinkle as she sounds the heavy knocker; the needles shiver, and her near-numb nose detects a scent of green, an echo of those snowy slopes of Coerthas that must lie outside the city walls. She has not long to wait, but as she stands there rubbing her fingers against themselves inside her mittens, she looks up at the edifice and thinks that what her sister heard was correct: this is a nice house. The family that lives within does so in comfort -- and so, too, must their servants. 

Fortunate is the maid who can secure a place here, in this sturdy, warm building in this pleasant neighborhood -- fortunate indeed, even blessed -- except for that one thing about the lord and lady who live here, the thing that made the goodys at the market shake their heads and tut when she mentioned it was this address to which she was headed -- that made her mother promise her, as she put on her cap at their door in the Brume, that if in the end she couldn't get the position, and they had to live another sennight on what stale bread her sister's wage alone could buy, well… it might still be for the best. 

Too late to run home. The door opens; at it, a sharp woman in apron and black dress, blonde hair rolled up at the back of her head. The bun exposes her ears, at which, after hearing the gossip from her sister, the girl knows to stare; they're small, yet pointed, like leaves of basil. 

That's what sort of house this is. 

"Miolleane Cemier?" asks the housekeeper, and the girl remembers to curtsey deep. "Just on time -- that's good." With a sniff, she pushes the door open wide and gestures her through. "Wipe the snow off your boots and hang up your coat. Milord is waiting." 

Down the stairs, in the servants' quarters, the Starlight decorations are not quite so lavish as they are in the main hall, but here and there is still a little bundle of holly hanging from the wall, and along the mantel in the housekeeper's parlor, three stockings hang from pegs. The candles, she notices, are beeswax, not tallow, and a rug is spread across the floor -- more than her family's crowded sitting-room can boast. So struck is she by the sight that she does not immediately notice that, seated in the furthest chair with his hands folded in his lap, is an Elezen in embroidered waistcoat and hose, shortish, portly, with long sideburns and a very serious face. When their eyes meet, she flushes -- realizing, now, that he must be that lord -- and bends as low she she can without falling. 

He neither moves nor speaks for a few long moments, only studying her. Then he states, rather than asks, "You are Miss Miolleane." 

She nods -- for while a servant may speak if spoken to, it must be better not to speak at all, if she can. 

He grunts. "Rosaire Ledigne," his brief self-introduction, for he knows she's already surmised. Then he raises his right hand and gestures, just as the housekeeper descends the stairs with the tray in her hands; "Would you pour three cups for us? With milk and sugar." 

She looks up, but is instantly paralyzed; she knows this is the bell of low tea, but her elder sister had told her that 'twas always the Viscountess, or else Lady Poullie, who poured it for their guests. But she had been asked, and so, shakily, she does as bid -- milk last, as she'd heard highborn do it -- and sets them out across the table. The lord nods, and the housekeeper picks up one cup and saucer to immediately help herself, still standing; how queer, thinks Miolleane, but 'tis true that her sister warned her that in every household, things are different -- and in this one, surely, even more different than most. 

"Pray, sit," says Rosaire, "and help yourself. That cup's for you." The first part she obeys, but the second part is a greater challenge; to refuse would surely be insubordinate, but to accept too readily, she fears, would not be right either. But neither, she suspects, is the half-measure she ends up taking, picking up the cup to awkwardly cradle it in her hands. The lord stares at her with his pale blue eyes, and she feels herself shrinking. Then he speaks: "I understand this is to be your first engagement in service. What occupation have you had to this point? Have you been in secondary schooling?" 

"I've been helping Mother with her piece work," she says, and realizes now the tea is essential for wetting her lips. 

"I see. How old are you, Miss Miolleane?" 

"Sixteen," she says, though she is not. And she can tell immediately that he knows; his gaze sharpens, the imperceptible cant of his head evinced only by the blond lock that falls out of place. She remembers, now, with a jolt, that this lord's occupation was once with the Holy Inquisition. For several seconds she sits there, dizzy with fear, as he looks at her silently. Then, slowly, he shakes his head, a wrinkle in his forehead forming as he lifts his brows and sighs. He isn't angry, and so she can breathe -- but she knows, now, to have care with what she says. 

"Well, Miss Miolleane, we've need of a sturdy girl to help Helenne," and he nods towards the housekeeper, still standing as she sips her tea, "with the cooking and cleaning. We've already taken on Miss Sophie, who'll be waiting on my lady and tending the parlor. Your duties will be mainly downstairs -- though, yes, you will have your interview with my lady shortly," a statement that quite alarms Miolleane with how perfectly it answers what she'd just been wondering; mayhap 'tis true what they say, and an Inquisitor has the power of reading minds. "If she consents to hire you, you'll have your own bed in the quarters here, a nuncheon, dinner, and tea -- time off, of course, to attend services, and three nights out of seven to return to your family. Inexperience is fine; what you must have is willingness to work, patiently and diligently, and to take direction from my lady and the housekeeper." 

She nods quickly, and though she again thinks it likely better to keep silent whenever she can, she still blurts out, "I'm willing, milord. I'll work very hard." 

He nods in turn, but once more he takes a long pause to study her; she looks down into her teacup, hoping she does not visibly squirm under that unblinking gaze. Then, pointedly, he asks her, "And will you gladly take direction, from Helenne?" 

She looks up at the short-eared woman to whom he refers, then back to him; she understands what he means, and it causes her to blush. She knows the correct answer, but she's slow enough to say it that the lord shakes his head and leans back. She feels her stomach sink, and she tries to spur her lips to action, but she cannot form the words in time, and he speaks again first. 

"I understand you come, Miss Miolleane, from a good and pious family, proud to cleave close to tradition." 

She nods, though she doesn't know, these days, how to tell whether such pronouncements are complimentary or not. 

"And you have been made aware, I believe, that my family is not traditional in every way." 

At that she can only duck her head to hide the deepening of her blush. 

"Not everyone in the city is approving of our choices. It must make one hesitant to accept a position in this household, for fear an association with our family might taint her in the eyes of future employers." He pauses, then goes on, tone a little sterner. "But I am not ashamed -- to have wed a Hyur, in a Halonic, pious marriage solemnized in the Church, in obedience to all of the Fury's laws. By birth, Ishgard may not judge Gwenneth mine equal, but that is what she is in faith and in her faculties -- and the trueborn child she bears we shall diligently raise in Ishgard's one true faith." 

She looks up at him, then down into her tea, face truly crimson now. 

"And," he goes on, "I am not ashamed to have Mistress Helenne in my employ. She has raised herself above her origins with education and hard work, and she has served me faithfully and very ably for these past thirteen years. Therefore I understand, miss, why you might hesitate to enter our family's service. But, pray, if you remain squeamish, and would only be able to pronounce the name of your employer with embarrassment -- do not take the position." He fixes her with a serious look. "I know your family has great need, following your father's accident, but if 'tis only desperation that would persuade you to work for us, I would rather you not." 

"I understand," she at last manages to say. 

Another pause -- but when the lord speaks again, his voice is low and gentle, even kind. "Your straits cannot be easy," he murmurs, "and we would like to be of help. In a moment, we'll go up to see my lady -- she is in her confinement, and she has not been well, and cannot easily leave her bed," and his expression, till now totally stoic, threatens, for a moment, to crack. But, immediately, he recovers: "After which -- and whether you decide to take the position or not -- I would like to send you home with a ham for your parents." 

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening. Helenne, over the brim of her teacup, laughs. "A ham!?" Miolleane hears her own voice ask. 

For the first time, the lord smiles. "I wouldn't have you pass Starlight hungry." 

She's speechless, at first, and soon must put the teacup on its saucer to keep herself from spilling it. But she must say it: "Your lordship is too generous. We don't deserve--" 

He dismisses that sentiment with a wave of his hand, which then reaches to at least pick up his own tea. She realizes, now, watching him, that it is his only good hand, the left folded up rigidly next to his chest, and that that, rather than mere age, must be the purpose of the cane leaning against the seat next to him. But he does not seem much encumbered by it, and indeed seems in good humor again as he asks, "There's but one further question that must be asked before we go above, which is: are you frightened of birds, Miss Miolleane?" 

She blinks, confused at first, but then putting it to serious thought, as all highborn questions must be. The answer, though, is not difficult; she thinks of the little sparrows on the windowsill, fluffed as round as they could against the bitter cold, and the crusts of bread they'd alight upon to tear apart voraciously. She thinks of how, after much coaxing, some would be persuaded to land right on her hand and to pick pumpkin seeds out of the creases of her palm -- back when they had the luxury of southron pumpkins and breadcrusts to spare, before the block landed on her father's leg at work and the last of their saved gil seeped away. "No -- not at all." 

"Good -- for there's someone else who must needs approve you as well." 

She wonders, on the long walk home from the Pillars to Foundation, what the goodys will say, what her mother will think, what her sister at the Manor Breauname will endure from the other maids, when they find out. She wonders what she will feel, when the half-blood lordling is born -- wonders what a monstrosity 'twill look, and if 'twill inherit its mothers small ears or be marked by its father's lameness -- and then looks down at the huge, heavy ham in the basket she's carrying and is ashamed of herself.

She'd stepped over the threshold with many fears, born of the preconceptions she'd formed or had laden on her. What depravity must reign in a house where such a shocking marriage had been entertained -- what lecherousness on the part of an aged lord hungering after a young and pretty lowborn maiden -- what unscrupulousness on the part of the maiden, to accept the advances of a repulsive cripple to secure his wealth after his imminent death. But -- though she still could not help but recoil a little at the strangeness of it all -- the family Ledigne had not proved as awful as all that. His lordship -- though, yes, frightening -- had treated her with understanding and generosity, and her ladyship, with warmth and kindness, despite how poorly she must have been feeling. Mistress Helenne had not been horrible, either, and Clavis -- though the raven had shied away from her, as he must from all strangers, he had bid her, when his mistress urged, a croaked 'Good Day'. 

If she takes the job, she might be tasked with cleaning his cage daily, and -- as smelly as Mistress Helenne warned that task would be -- she finds herself desperate to do it. 

And so when she comes to the house in the better -- though still bad -- half of the Brume, and pauses at the door, wondering if her father, ill-tempered from the changing of his bandage, will raise his voice when he forbids her to take it, and if her mother will cry -- she finds a bit of courage, regardless, and steps through. 

And, anyroad, she imagines a maple Starlight ham will go far towards convincing them that their younger daughter's placement may not be so bad, after all. 

(( His lady, @rose-in-the-stone, mentioned -- and a thank you to @the-rosehouse for designing and gifting the NPC of Miolleane to me! ♥ ))

[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.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

The first day of training.

He had done it once before.

For twelve years he had avoided the memories of those long moons of despair, of being unable to speak, unable to protest against the men all gathered ‘round, sneering or sighing “idiot,” “cretinous,” “cabbage,” unable to participate in the discussion of how best (that is, most economically) to warehouse him for however long he had left to live. Memories of how many bells, after the merciful intercession of Lady Charlinne, he’d spent staring into a mirror propped up on his chest, torturing the muscles of his face till his expressions attained a socially acceptable level of symmetry – how dry his throat became as he forced himself to read aloud page after page after page from so many thick volumes, over and over till he could approximate fluent comprehensibility or his exhausted brain gave out – how tired and sore he was after crashing into another piece of furniture, stumbling about clumsily with his good arm strapped to his chest, forcing him to work his affected side till its weakness would pass beneath the notice of his casual acquaintances.

Those memories had been shackles once – painful, shameful, haunting his steps – ugly secrets that no one could ever be allowed to uncover lest his veneer of competence, of unaffected intellect and independence, be revealed as a fraudulent cover o'er his damaged brain, his… disability.

But now that that had happened – that everyone knew – they’d been transmogrified into something else: they were proof he had done it before, crawled up the vertical walls of that deep pit, fueled just by pride, indignation, and utter stubbornness.

So he just had to do it again.

 … At least, those were his thoughts when he woke that morning, his head fuzzy and heart aching from the night before, and rallied all the determination he could – for if he wished to put the truth behind what he had said, that his only remaining wish was to serve her happiness, there was one thing he needed to do above all:

I want you to be well again.

… But he had neglected, perhaps, to fully acknowledge that he was twelve years older, considerably wider, and weakened far more by bedrest than he’d once been.

Helenne may, too, have been twelve years older, but she’d been so young and slight when she entered his service that she had been made stronger and stouter by the years. But she was still but a thick-armed domestic, not a champion weightlifter, and while she did all she could when he lurched off balance, she could only slow his tumble into a slow, balletic, undignified sprawl across the floor.

“… A bit too ambitious for the first day out of the sling, mayhap,” the attending chirurgeon observed.

“We should borrow one of the Pepins’ Roegadyn,” his nurse suggested.

No one addressed Rosaire. But Helenne did kneel carefully beside him, glancing in question from his right forearm, still in a brace, to his expression. He grunted tiredly; it and his healing clavicle felt sore but fine, less bruised than his spirits.

She laid a gentle hand on his. She’d been witness, twelve years ago, to the long struggle and indignity of his recovery, and now had once again been called upon to perform the most unpleasant offices of a nurse, to watch over and tend him in his most helpless, useless state. … And yet still she was here, faithful and true, even when he’d been stripped of everything that made him Rosaire Ledigne, the Inquisitor, who cultivated allies through his wits, connections, effectiveness. And not only Helenne but so many had stayed, loyal and patient, by his side, even after learning of his infirmity, his shame, and gave their hopes and prayers that he’d be well, even though they surely knew he’d never be able to bargain his way back into a useful position –

Even if they did so not for his sake but for that of a much more important woman – he’d accept that.

For, after all, 'twas the same with him.

And so, slowly and laboriously, he stood up again.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Book III

'Twas like waking from one nightmare into another, he thought. 

The confusion was gone, at least in large part. His memory of what had happened over the past moon was patchy, and several times he had told Helenne to bar poor Miss Gwenneth's entry to his room, to spare her such a wretched and miserable sight, only to be told she had just been sitting with him; familiar faces at times seemed strange, and when he started from sleep he'd still spend a moment in fearful disorientation, looking round at the ceiling and walls that by now he should have memorized. 

The pain was less, although the improvement was mainly in the arm that was broken, not paralyzed. Twelve years ago, it was his right side that was rendered utterly useless, but a fortnight after his accident he'd at least been able to wrap his fingers round the handle of a spoon -- this time the useless side was his left, and a moon on he could not at all move the heavy lumps that were his limbs. The chirurgeons spoke cheerfully of whether it would be closer to a moon or a fortnight for his splints to come off; naught was said of his paralysis, no forecasted dates, no reassurances. The few times he'd summoned courage to ask about it or about the persistent blindness on his left side, grim faces were his only answer, and he swift resolved to venture no more questions. 

He was too tired, anyway. Still tired, so tired. At least he could speak, even if it shamed him to hear his wretched lips form words with an imbecilic slur; he was not trapped, as he was twelve years ago, in a languageless abyss, bewildered and frightened. But how difficult it was to attempt a dialogue -- how tiring. Helenne tried to encourage him, remarking how his focus seemed to improve each day, how each conversation lasted a little longer; he wanted to protest, to complain of the oppressive weight he felt upon him when trying to perform even the simplest mental task. But to argue was so tiring -- to rummage through his brain to find an eloquent rejoinder with which to snap back at her, something that in the years since his first accident had once again become the easiest and most natural thing in the world for him, was now impossibly difficult. And so he surrendered, fell silent, gave himself up once more to the murky darkness of sleep-without-rest.

You must get well, milord, for her sake. For Ishgard's sake. 

That was what she said, but -- how could he begin to think of the future, to think (oh, Halone) of Ishgard -- how could he begin to face her, her expression blurry but her voice thick with obvious tears? How could he explain himself, excuse himself, condemn himself -- how could he protect her, how could he console her, when he could barely remember how to be a man, an independent sentient being, nevermind its actual accomplishment?

If he had only died, he'd not have had to face any of it. 

But for him to die, so soon and so easily, did not seem to be Her plan for him. 

Nor was it his plan. For all the simplicity and ease it would mean -- he could not wish for it. For all that he had longed, perhaps still longed, to at last be at someone else's side -- 

He couldn't bear, after all, to leave her -- not now, not like this.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Margie’s letters

A pair of brief letters from the front door of Rosaire Ledigne’s Pillars apartment, notes his housekeeper might not have been able to send at all if she hadn’t managed to catch the milkman and persuade him to send ‘round a courier for them:

To her ladyship Lady Ceridwen of House Shadowstar this message be taken apologizing for the presumption and the trouble but sending warning that the Lord Aleaume de Saincourant may soon be troubling you with efforts to take possession of the apartment of my master Rosaire Ledigne his brother, when I know you have already bought the property several moons back. I intend to stay here until you are able to send a replacement to watch over it and deter any unwanted entrants but humbly beg you do so swiftly so that I may join my master where he convalesces at the Hospital of the Temple Knights. With a thousand pleas for your pardon, Margie Faonbeau his housekeeper.

To Miss Gwenneth Gilrouis care of the noble House Dufresne this message be taken conveying my urgent request for her presence at the rooms of my master Rosaire Ledigne for he has taken gravely ill. But before I may join him where the Knights Hospitaller tend to him, I must discharge a duty I solemnly swore which was to see that certain documents he intends for you are safely received. For my intrusive presumption I beg pardon but as this is a matter of great seriousness to both him and me I am sure you will understand. From Margie Faonbeau his housekeeper who is also called Helenne.

(( @houseshadowstar @conjurer-reima ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Top priorities.

As much as Lord Aleaume de Saincourant, head of that House and proud steward of that branch of the Fortemps line, wished to see his poor baby brother on his receipt of that terrible, terrible news, there was aught that called his attention first and saw him hurrying across the Pillars, flanked by two men borrowed from his manor guard, as quick as a man of sixty-five summers could safely trot across the icy cobbles.

Above the street, peering down from a window, Margie Faonbeau – for while she was dressed as ‘Helenne,’ there was no one present to call her that – saw his little retinue approaching, just as her master predicted would occur. She rose from her seat and moved swiftly to the front hall, arriving just in time to feel the vibrations of the imperious rap upon the door. She unlocked the deadbolt and lifted one chain – but not the other – and cracked the door to peer out at the visitors, two strange and one familiar if not unchanged by the twelve years since she had last seen him.

“Ah, good,” said the man – who resembled so much his brother, blond-haired and broad, but with a ready smile where the younger wore a somber mask and a cheerful coldness where the grim-faced brother was surprisingly mild – “someone’s here. I am Lord Aleaume de Saincourant; let me in, pray.”

She could only hope her expression was half as steady as her master’s. “I beg your pardon, milord, but I cannot let you within.”

Lord Saincourant just smiled broader. Though he paused, he hardly seemed thrown. “I see,” he murmured, all patience, “that you have not yet had the news about your master. Your master – my younger brother – has, by the stroke of Halone’s hand, been rendered insensible and gravely, gravely ill. Indeed, the chirurgeons fear he may not survive to the night. If they are right, it must be I who brings him his things to bring him a little comfort before the end. You understand, hm?”

I understand, she thought to herself, that it must not be you.

“I beg your pardon again, milord, but be that as it may, I cannot let you within,” is what she said.

His smile staled. He may not have remembered her, but by now he realized his object would not be attained as easily as he hoped. “Forgive me, my good woman, but mayhap you still do not understand – not only am I your master’s next of kin but the head of our house. While he is incapacitated the management of his affairs and property is my duty.”

“I do understand you, milord,” she answered, and stood firm.

“… Miss, I know that my brother does not like to receive me unannounced, but you really ought to give way. For if you do not do so now, you will have to when I return this evening, either with a writ from Knights Hospitaller confirming my insensate brother’s need for a guardian, or else in mourning colors. If you’ve some misguided notion that this stalling serves your master’s wishes, you should realize that you can buy but a few bells at most. And a few bells that my brother lies dying! Is a few bells more for his privacy worth preventing me from bringing him his things to comfort him in his last moments? That is not loyalty, girl. You must choose between letting me in now or letting me in then.”

“No, milord.”

He showed it only subtly, only slightly, but the direct repudiation made Aleaume recoil slightly from the door; it thrilled her to watch. “Beg pardon?”

“I cannot let you in without the permission of my master – whether he is hale, ill, or dead – or the permission of the landlord.”

And now the show got even better; he paled. “The landlord?”

“My master is a tenant of this property. I can allow in his guests or those of the landlord – but if my master is unwell, the rights of the tenant are not passed on to his next of kin but revert to the landlord.”

He repeated, incredulous, “The landlord?”

“Lady Ceridwen of House Shadowstar, milord; and 'tis not my place to understand the details of such things, but I believe that copies of the paperwork have been stored at the Vault.”

He withdrew a half-step, regarding her now with a much more honest scowl; she supposed that her role now was to wait for his next question and give him the truth as politely and deferentially as possible. But her inclination to do that, already slim as a Brumeling, had been worn away by the bells she’d spent waiting for word, waiting for a signal that it was safe to abandon her master’s house and return to his side, to take up what was her real duty. So instead she close the door, flipped a handful of locks, and returned upstairs to her chair, to watch the men below.

Aleaume stood there for some time, flummoxed. But when one of his guardsmen stepped forward with the butt of his weapon readied, the highborn stood him down with a gesture. “No, no; do not be so rash.”

“Do we believe her, milord?”

The nobleman tipped his head back to peer up at the frosted windows, though he could not divine which it was that the housekeeper sat behind. “If she’s bluffing,” he murmured, “she buys only a few more bells with which to burn his papers – and she’s already had enough time to burn the most valuable ones.”

“And if it’s true…”

Aleaume let out a quiet laugh. “It’s absurd; I can hardly believe he’d give up his most treasured possession. And yet–

"That he’d put himself out just to annoy me? That is something I can believe.”

[hasty-touch]

Just wanted to share with you all how Rosaire’s been feeling lately.

Bonus: