#npc: comitessa perhonen

[menodoramoon]

Caiette’s Swynwrimo 2024: Task #9 — Background NPC

Background NPC: Write about a moment of your character’s life from the perspective of an NPC character.

Sometimes I worry that my daughter doesn't smile enough.

Her eyes are blue and bright, though I can see the way they fade slightly. Her hands touch lightly to everything they graze. She is reserved and cautious, though friendly.

I wonder how much of her is me and how much is her father.

…

She reads a book in the kitchen, hair done up in a braided crown. I used to do that for her, now she does it herself.

"And when did you grow too old for me to brush your hair," I ask, dusting egg wash on a blackberry tart.

My daughter shifts. Looks over her book. "I just didn't want to bother you."

"It's not bothering me to do your hair. It never is."

She's quiet. Resumes her reading. There is this tell, though. Her fingers, drumming on the cover of her book. Holding it tightly.

My daughter is nervous.

"When is River coming over?" I ask, with a knowing smile.

And there's my daughter's flushing face. Common for her. She hates it, but it comes from me.

"He's… not."

I raise a brow.

Then, after a moment, "we're meeting in town."

My daughter rarely ventures out. I've always worried about that. She doesn't seek out friends.

Is that my fault?

But there was River Johansen! He's a young, sweet boy that I do enjoy the company of. He's short for his age. Shorter than Menodora. He always shies away from me.

I wonder if it's because of my title, or because he loves my daughter.

"Would you like me to pack you anything?" A thought strikes me. "And what of Mr Sethson's lessons? Have you gone rogue?"

Pause.

"Yes."

Oh. I wasn't expecting that.

But Menodora's face is flushed already and I don't desire pushing it.

"I hope you have fun, Moonlight," I say.

And there is that smile. Did she worry I would reprimand her? That's not me, that's never been me.

Perhaps the Commission would, but never me. My daughter deserves the world. She deserves to smile more, to be happy-go-lucky, even if she seemed to dodge luck a moment too much. Her timing is off. Dancing to a different beat or rhythm?

She is often out of step with everyone else.

Is that bad? Is that wrong?

Darling girl, I might have said. It is not a crime to fall in love.

Many times over, she has reassured me — or herself — that she wasn't seeking love. And perhaps she wasn't, perhaps she didn't know it yet.

Or, perhaps I am a romantic. But in this kitchen, in this place… I believe her heart is holding space for him.

I hope her heart holds space for others.

She deserves to be loved and to love in turn.

I just hope I live to see the day she does.

--

Caiette's Swynwrimo 2024 Tracklist.

[menodoramoon]

The Story of Moon and River

Summary: Some insights to Moon and River's marriage. Characters: Moon Perhonen Butterfly-Johansen, River Johansen (NPC), Stella "Star" Butterfly (mentioned) Word Count: 2,130

He’d charmed her when they were children, sitting together in mid-summer, watching their families play Game of Flags. A ‘brutal’ fight for dominance, a variation of King of the Hill. With magic, and wrestling, weapons, risk…

River Johansen, 14, too young to play. Menodora Perhonen, 13, too valuable to play.

They sit a respectable distance apart, seeing as Menodora was a future Countess and River was from a noble family but not nearly as ‘important.’ Menodora thought that was a useless comparison.

It wasn’t until she was sixteen that she had played Game of Flags. What a terrible, terrible year.

🦋 —------- 🦋

…”You won't be playing Flags today,” Moon would tell her daughter one day. “Why not? You played Flags when you were my age,” her daughter would protest. “I did a lot of things you won't be doing” …

🦋 —------- 🦋

The next summer: River, 15. Menodora, 14. The same place, under the summer canopy.

He sits closer to her then, only by a few inches. They sit and laugh, ignoring the brutal game before them. If asked, neither of them would remember who would win.

“You’re the future Grevinde,” River had said, realizing he was getting too familiar.

Menodora had laughed, the use of the future, formal title tickling her. “That doesn’t make me so special.”

River blushes. “Well, I think you’re special no matter what.”

Was it flirting then? Was it being friends? She wondered how many times River had made her laugh in those earlier years. He had come by the estate a few times, against his parents' wishes, bringing flowers from his own home. She had found them quite charming, a departure from the heather that grew around hers.

She’d invited him for dinners, walks on the moors, an odd swim in the river (much against everyone’s advisement.)

It was never an issue. River treated her with the utmost respect.

If Moon was more cynical, more aware, she might have admitted that – aside from her mother – River was the only person who really treated her like a person.

🦋 —------- 🦋

“I don’t understand why you like him,” Hekapoo had said, rolling her eyes at the notion of River having another dinner with the family. “Oh, leave her be,” Comitessa had said, pulling yet another pie from the oven. “He’s just a friend, Hekapoo.” “And if he becomes more than that–?” Was the reply.  Menodora sat quietly in the corner, her history books in front of her face, relatively ignored.

🦋 —------- 🦋

Menodora had invited two people to that fateful banquet. Her advisor, tutor, and closest friend…. And River. River, who had sat next to her at her special invitation. Sure, his father gave her a sideways look, but he also seemed to appreciate the way she was kind to his son. The way she didn’t lead him on – since River’s own insistence was that they were friends.

He’d been the one to walk her to her room when she’d gone nearly comatose from the shock of the evening. After all her tears had been used up and countless people had failed to pull her from the bloody hall.

River had pulled her up and supported her as they walked somberly through the halls.

“She was a good woman,” River had said, his words barely above a breath. 

Moon sniffed. Part of her wanted to snap and she that her mother is a good woman, or is the best person… but the fire dies in her as River squeezes her hand.

They hadn’t kissed or even hugged that night. He’d left her off to her room before traveling home at night himself. She’d been grateful, but unsure how to express that gratitude in all her mourning.

🦋 —------- 🦋

“Maybe w-we should let Moon decide. She is the queen,” River says, meekly. They were standing over a makeshift war table. River, herself, some lords and ladies, Hekapoo and Mina, and the rest of the Commission… Moon had smiled at him. Another Lord, Mildrew, had protested. “She just lost her mother, River. She needs time with her feelings.” Moon had tightened her smile, and attempted to look regal. (She was only sixteen.) “I am the Countess now, so I will make the decision. My decision... is that I will make a decision at dawn.”

🦋 —------- 🦋

Why had she said decision so many times? 

River had caught up to her, both of them in their mourning blacks. Some others had been so kind as to don them, but not many. Power struggles brought out the ugliest of people.

He’d brought her some food while she paced nervously in the hall. Protein-rich, she’d noted.

“It’s how we Johansens apologize,” River had said, and suddenly he seemed self-conscious of it. The Countess Menodora was a lady. Apology Meat wasn’t the thing she needed. Maybe it was…

She hugs him, carefully not to topple the plate in his hands. He’d awkwardly rested his hand on the small of her back. She had appreciated it greatly.

When they did finally break apart, she took the plate gratefully and went back to her room to think about her decision.

And with strength, or cowardice, she didn’t understand…

She turned to unknown, unspeakable help.

🦋 —------- 🦋

“Countess Moon! You did it!” “Oh, my gosh, River!” A hug. “Thank you!”

🦋 —------- 🦋

“Menodora, your hands,” he’d murmured when they were finally alone, waiting in the War Room for the Commission's arrival.

She’d barely noticed by that point, adrenaline pouring from her like a flood. She was exhausted, the magic of the Darkest Spell overwhelming, 

“It’s nothing,” Moon had said, brushing him off. She was not going to look weak in front of The Commission. She was not going to have anyone question her.

He doesn’t let her brush him away. He takes her hand, insistent. She could say something, argue with him. Spit back words that could be hurtful and terrible.

She doesn’t. It’s at this moment she realizes he knows what she needs. 

He holds her hands close, kisses her magical scars, and gives her another hug. Something more than what it had been before. Something supportive and not so hesitant. 

Moon cries then, as she hadn’t let herself do since the actual banquet. The sting in her hands and wrists is persistent, and she doesn’t know what it is she can say now to make it go away. She doesn’t think she can make it go away.

He’d found her a book, later, on glamours and illusions. She was no illusionist herself, light magic having been her specialty, but she was able to master one spell. Her hands appeared as they once did with such a spell, no longer showing the dark magic, or the burns she acquired in her training.

Things could have been ideal.

And then they sort of were.

🦋 —------- 🦋

Summer, once again: River, 20. Menodora, 19. The Veranda.

She had said ‘yes.’

🦋 —------- 🦋

They got married under a similar canopy as the one they’d first met under. Even the heather seemed to sing in celebration as Moon had walked through it, white dress and all.

It was strange to have a wedding like this, with no mother or father to walk her down the aisle. It was offered to her by some relatives, but she’d evaded their generous suggestions. She walked by herself, her train staining purple in the heathered-dew.

🦋 —------- 🦋

“She’s perfect.” “She has your eyes.” “That doesn’t say much, my eyes change as easily as the weather.”

🦋 —------- 🦋

It was years until Stella was born. Almost long enough that Moon may have given up hope. Your late twenties was borderline unacceptable, according to some members of the Commission.

How archaic to expect her to provide an heir.

In some ways, they blamed River. Moon thought that was wholly unfair. It was her fault, it had to be. Something was telling her she wasn’t ready to be a mother. Or maybe it was something she hadn’t wanted.

She could admit she was wrong when she first held Star.

River had held Stella out to her, but Moon had hesitated. Her hands were stained like pitch, There was something so unclean about the idea of holding someone so perfect as Stella with hands that had come even close to killing.

But Star reached for her first. 

And then there was nothing to keep Moon from her daughter.

River had taken a photo of them that day, locked in a box away from the rest of the world. It’s the only photo Moon has with her stained hands. And it was…. It hurt. 

Is that hiding? She’s always hiding things from Stella. It doesn’t make for the best relationship.

‘Because I said so,’ isn’t the best parenting. But it’s what Moon knew.

🦋 —------- 🦋

A conversation that never happened: Star: Why?! What happened to cool warrior countess Mom?! Moon: I was never a cool warrior countess, Star. I was a happy-go-lucky girl like you. Or… it hasn’t happened yet.

🦋 —------- 🦋

“You’re rubbing your hands again,” River says, approaching his wife. He holds out his own hands, and Moon does as she always does. She reaches out and takes them, allowing River’s thumb to run over the backs of her hands. 

It’s soothing. Calming. 

Star, 10, plays out in the garden, chasing butterflies outside the grand windows. Moon sits by the window seat, River joining her.

“You worry too much, my dear,” River says, quietly. His voice is lower, and he’s grown into his features. He’s handsome, her’s kind. Sure, he can be rambunctious and, affectionately, absurd. He loves her, though. That’s something Moon would always appreciate. “You’ll wear your hands smooth.”

Moon smiles wryly. Says nothing.

River pulls them closer and kisses them. Her palms, wrists… slowly, the darkness washes over them, the glamor melting away. He’s the only one who gets to see this weakness. He’s the only one she’ll permit to see this failing of hers. Only one other person had seen it, besides. And they didn’t matter anymore.

“She won’t hate you for these things,” River says, what he means remaining unsaid but loudly understood. 

What he means: Going to drastic lengths to protect the County. What she thinks: For becoming a monster myself.

“It’s because she doesn’t know yet,” Moon says. “The moment she does…” She pulls her hands back, “she’ll turn from me. I expect it, I know it. She’ll be disappointed. She is too good and too kind for the world she’s inheriting.”

It’s a bitter thought that River is far too familiar with.

“You, my dear, need to be kinder to yourself,” He chides. “You say such horrible things about yourself, and think even worse. You forget that I know you, and I love you despite all the faults you think you have. I think you ought to do the same.”

Moon shakes out her hands, the illusion resuming. She finds herself tired, suddenly. River stands with her, offers his arm. Let’s go for a walk in the heather, my love. It would do you good.

🦋 —------- 🦋

“I don’t want to fight you!” Moon cries, light sword in hand, ready to swing. Hands tense. “Then don’t!” River says, calmly, dropping his own flag. A betrayal to his family on such a day as this. “You don’t have to prove yourself to anyone. Especially me.”

🦋 —------- 🦋

The Game of Flags was an annual occurrence. Possibly a fight to the death, in the name of honor and bragging rights. It was a silly Mjaunie custom, but Moon found that any tradition had at least some place. They wouldn’t be anywhere without the past lighting the way to the future.

River walks towards where the two of them had been sitting, Moon laying back against the grass. They are exhausted. Tired. Her hair is pinned up off of her neck, her dress looks like it had been through a war of greenery.

Had Moon won? Yes. Did she feel she earned it? Not really.

Comitessa Perhonen is nearby, packing up the copious number of dessert tins that she’d brought. Moon’s Aunt Etheria was busy talking Moon up to another lord of another house. 

“I– I brought you some water,” River says, sitting beside her.

Moon, an arm over her eyes, smiles without looking at him. “That’s very nice of you,” she says, sitting up. She takes the water, sipping it down, keeping her eyes averted from River. Then, after a moment, “I’m sorry you didn’t win.”

River smiles softly, and it strikes Moon in a way. A flutter in her stomach. In her chest.

“I think we both won today,” River says with that same soft smile. “When you win, I win, Moonbeam. I think that’s pretty fair, don’t you?”