#philomene de aubemarle

[housedeaubemarle]

With apologies to people who actually play Pokemon (any/every generation); if the teams make no sense whatsoever, it's because I was just going on General Vibes and descriptions I read on Bulbapedia. (Also if anyone's interested, I used this trainer card maker)

Anyway, if there ever exists a Pokemon x FFXIV crossover, I'll be ready with headcanons:

Philomene's roster is basically the 'Gallery of Sideeyes', with the exception of the Polteageist who takes some glee in causing mild chaos and her Furret who joins in the mischief (very deep down, the Dowager is amused by these scamps). The Unfezant is actually a matched pair; as newlyweds, she and Vouloix adopted a pair of Pidoves which they raised together, so the Unfezants are as inseparable as she and her late husband had been.

I think Vouloix's Absol would have returned deep into the Coerthan mountains after his death. The rest however still stay in the manor, being cared for by the family and the staff (or in Indeedee's case being part of the staff). His Sirfetch'd and Stoutland in particular keep watch over Philomene and Oudine. Remont would have taken Sylveon with him to Dravania, but she seemed more comfortable in Ishgard, so she hangs out with Oudine's Glaceon, and they all help keep the house lively.

Oudine's Glaceon is her constant companion: wherever she goes, he goes (and Vouloix's Sylveon). Her Swablu likes to nap on her head while she's doing paperwork, and it sort of eases her mind as she does the accounts and reads reports. Her Sawsbuck is the Winter form, and shares a stable with her Mudsdale and the Chocobos. And her Ninetales evolved from one of a pair of Vulpixes Vouloix had given his children when they were very young. The Alolan one gravitated to her while the Kanto variant went to her brother. Oudine's Lapras is a little too far from water so Oudine makes it a point to take it out to the rivers every other day.

Remont brings his entire roster with him to Tailfeather naturally, where they're much happier in the more temperate weather. Skeledirge sings more and Inteleon isn't quite as lethargic. On the whole, his Monferno's not quite ready yet to evolve, but Rem is happy to let the rascal do as he will. I'm not sure what Rotom would become if he possessed a tomestone but it'd be hilarious I think. And just like Oudine's, his Ninetales was a gift from Vouloix. Whenever they go home to visit, both the Ninetales always stay together.

--

Bonus:

Mars' team is all DARK because he's BROODY and STOIC-

They're not all Dark, but Mars sure has a penchant for rough and tumble 'mons who are as loyal as he is. They also just give him pitying/withering/smug looks whenever he's around Oudine, and he can only stand there and glare watch while she coos over his entire roster.

[housedeaubemarle]

...well...

At this point? Oudine freezes to death in the mountains of Coerthas. No one finds her body until much, much later since her Chocobo wouldn't leave her, and no one would have thought to look where she ended up. Some adventurer/wandering knight probably came across the remains, just enough to determine her identity.

The confirmation of Oudine's death, and how she died, is very hard on the Dowager. She probably falls ill again - this time, she doesn't recover. She passes on not too long after.

Remont survives the grief. He assumes the title of Viscount once more, but dismisses all the servants (and gives them all good references). After making sure they've all found new jobs, or given them new positions in Marlstone, the house is shut up.

Then he leaves Ishgard HQ in the care of trusted managers, and relocates to Tailfeather permanently. He doesn't ever return, and neither does his sunny carefree nature. The rest of his days are spent tending to Chocobos, and the rest of his nights staring at the stars in mixed sorrow, regret and anger.

3/1/25

#wolquestion #wolqotd

If your wol(oc) were to have a bad end style AU how would it happen?

[housedeaubemarle]

Does your OC have any dark (or not so dark) family secrets? Did they learn about them by accident or were they told?

(@houserosaire thank you for the ask, and I'm so sorry for taking so long! The lead up to Lunar New Year and the celebrations themselves have been a doozy - also my lord Baron is a delight ✨️)

~

Part of the Aubemarles' arc was finding out the previous head of the house, Viscount Vouloix, wasn't altogether the man they thought they knew.

Tl;dr version:

The secrets aren't dark by any means, but they definitely changed the Aubemarles' history, and how Vouloix’s family moves through the world. The series of events also sounds unhinged* because when the gods are involved, it do be like that sometimes.

Oudine and Remont were told of such secrets, and were flabbergasted for awhile. Then they had to break the news to their mother, resulting in her giving them the cold shoulder to this day because she's got no other coping mechanism.

(I'm keeping it short and vague above the cut coz boy do I yap below the cut...!)

*unless you're the Warrior of Light, but you have to admit they're the Warrior; they're built different

~~

The detailed version:

1. Vouloix used to be an astrologian, and had trained in Sharlayan as a young man. He was fairly competent at it, honestly, and preferred travelling outside Ishgard than being heir apparent to the viscountcy.

2. While on his travels, he helped out a particular Keeper of clan Bajhiri, a priestess in fact. She had a message from Menphina: the goddess had a wager with Her kin, and desired a champion. In exchange for peace and protection, would he offer Her devotion and constancy right in the middle of the Fury's own city? He said yes, and began giving offerings to Menphina in deep secret. When he became Viscount, Vouloix was the one who added the 12 crescents to their family crest - to anyone who asked, they symbolised the Twelve. But they can also be seen as three moonflowers, a permanent offering to Menphina from the champion she found in Ishgard.

3. The Aubemarles' ability to remain practically untouched throughout Dragonsong is essentially due to Menphina's favour - a bet to prove she could find a crack in the frozen walls of Ishgard so at least one lineage** would be able to love than fight, even in the middle of such war and devastation.

**((Why wasn't it the Valentiones? Who knows, they're not my OCs))

4. Vouloix made another deal, with the Traders this time, after seeking answers for his wife's extremely difficult pregnancy. Nald'thal had witnessed the divine wager Menphina made, but Her favour of Vouloix and his family had upset a balance and an order They'd kept for eons. And now Vouloix would see fit to bring in new life but not accept the exchange of death? It could not be so. The Traders would have equal exchange: They would claim his wife or either of the twins growing in her womb for all the chances Vouloix and his family had escaped.

Vouloix counter-offered with another bargain: Take his life instead of his family to keep this cosmic balance, take his powers in exchange for the time to see his children reach majority, and - because Traders surely always appreciated profit - take every memory of Vouloix de Aubemarle being an astrologian so he would never discover his abilities ever again.

The Traders agreed; Vouloix the astrologian vanished from his own memory and the memories of anyone who'd met and knew him, save one - the Keeper priestess, now matriarch, who channelled Menphina's words once again to him. The goddess, for love of her champion, promised a few extra years if he would teach his "grey-eyed child" to offer flowers and candles as he did.

Vouloix did exactly that. Philomene survived the birth, the twins grew well, and their peace held. Oudine and Remont came of age at 18, and Vouloix was there to celebrate and bless his children. He lived another four years before the Traders claimed Their due.

--

The only reason Oudine and Remont found out about any of this was because the Bajhiri matriarch sent her granddaughter into Ishgard to find Vouloix's family and wait for the right time to tell them this entire unbelievable story. It took the twins some time to accept it all, though it did help that Remont inherited his father's astrologian arms, kept safe by the same matriarch. It took them even longer to be brave enough to tell their mother.

At the moment, Philomene isn't speaking to either child. While they didn't cause any of those events, they told her late, and it is about the only way she can cope. If she doesn't talk, she doesn't acknowledge their story, and she doesn't have to confront the fact that her husband hadn't just sacrificed himself but important memories she must also have had of him as a young man. Was it already not enough to die for them?

...it's a very complicated time.

[housedeaubemarle]

Talk about walking in 25 years minutes late with coffee, but anyway. The inspos are arranged randomly, in no particular order:

(Vanilla means you see her pictured here as a Viscountess, not yet a Dowager)

Of all the Aubemarles, the Dowager had the strongest impressions, so hers got filled up quite quickly. If there's ever an OC Tropes template (and I'm sure there's one floating about somewhere), hers would also probably get filled up the fastest. I'm honestly very proud and fond of this cantankerous, willful Grand Dame - I just wish I wasn't so scared to RP her in public coz my god she's Difficult. Yes I made her to be difficult, that's the point, yes yes IC=/=OOC, yes I know, ssssshhhh

Oudine's inspos also were easier to grab; honourable mention goes to Jane Bennet. She was in there for a long time before I remembered Jessamine.

Of all of them, Artemis makes the least sense until you get to her brother.

In contrast, Remont took ages. The way the Aubemarles came to be was through tropes and vibes, rather than specific characters. So it took more mental wrangling to get over the "but he's not like that" hurdle to reach "No Rem wouldn't be this or that specifically, but there's a big vibe they share". Which I guess is the long way of saying I have less of a grasp on his general character than the ladies.

...though I do admit, Henry Tilney was an immediate pick. Apollo too makes one of the core ingredients for Remont. Also might say something about him that though he was supposed to play somewhat second fiddle to his sister, he's got two main character inspos in there. Hmmmm.

Anyway, this was truly absorbing and fun; I know there's lots of other formats to mess around with but for now I'm plenty happy with this. Haurchebeau, wherever you are, thank you for your service.

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #6: Halcyon

Quotations from this translation of Ovid's Metamorphosis 11.708 (Book 11, lines 708-748)

Notes: Follows after Tempest; cw: depression, death of a spouse

~~

Five turns ago:

`

Your faithful prayers did not avail, Halcyone, and I have perished. Give up all deluding hopes of my return. 

`

“Mamma…?”

Oudine’s soft voice trails off as she opens the doors to her mother’s dimly lit chambers. The unfortunate common sight of the Dowager sitting and staring into the fireplace without seeing stabs its usual ache into her chest.

The Dowager's hair has been combed and dressed by the hands of Nisette, and her dressing gown worn by the offices of the same lady. There’s a tray of food on a table next to her; it is barely touched. Some small consolation lies in a few marks of where a spoonful of this and a mouthful of that had been taken. They are testament to her lady's maid’s persistence and effort, while Oudine has been away, trying to portray normality outside their manor so people might be convinced to do business with her and her brother.

She walks forward, kneels before her mother, takes her cold hands between hers. Why is she cold when the fire burns? “Mamma, is that all you'll have? Is it not to your liking? Mr Ofanleitasyn can make something else, whatever you wish.”

The Dowager’s eyes don’t meet hers. They stare into the flames, lost.

“Will you not come sit with me in the drawing room? It could do with an airing. I can have fresh flowers brought in for you.”

No answer. There hasn’t been one for the past eight moons. The last she had spoken to anyone was at Viscount Vouloix's funeral. She had held herself together long enough for the mourners to give their respects, and offer condolences. Not long afterwards, the Dowager's soul began to disappear. The body breathed, but her mind did not return from where it had buried her husband.

A moon in, healers and chirurgeons had been called quietly. All had said it was no bodily ailment, but a broken heart. Priests had been asked – those who had forgiven the Dowager for her outburst anyway – and they had counselled and prayed and blessed.

And the Dowager’s silence continued.

`

“My heart would be more cruel than the waves, if it should ask me to endure this life— if I should struggle to survive such grief.”

`

Oudine swallows her sorrow, and frustration. She keeps her voice steady - her face is becoming more and more used to keeping a calm facade these days, even if her heart screams from within its ribcage.

“Aunt Perette and Aunt Symonne wish to see you. They bring news from your friends. They’re coming tomorrow.”

Her sisters-in-law have never given up visiting, trying to coax her back from wherever she has flown. Their husbands have come upon occasion, trying to see if someone new would rouse her. Even Valtin de Hellyes, the nephew who shares a mutual acrimony with her, had paid a visit, in some hopes that a sharp word might escape her.

And still the Dowager does not stir, nor speak.

She eats when she is instructed or cajoled, and she sleeps for more hours than she had ever done. When she is awake, she sits like this before her fire, just staring at nothing. It is all she would do. In some of Oudine's dreams, she walks into her mother's room and finds the Dowager still sitting there, frozen and stiff - like her father had been in his bed.

It makes Oudine squeeze the limp fingers in her hand, trying to imbue her with some warmth. 

“I implore you, Mamma… don’t. Don’t follow my father. Don’t leave us too. For love of us, stay.” Her voice cracks a little. “I could not bear it. I am trying, but if you go, I will not endure.”

She has said it before, says it as often as she can, doesn’t tire of repeating it. But the Dowager doesn’t reply. Doesn’t move. All she does is stare silently into the fire. 

What can Oudine do then, but kneel and hold her hand in the quiet stillness of the room? 

`

“Alas, Halcyone is no more! no more! with her own Ceyx she is dead! is dead! Away with words of comfort, he is lost" 

-

end.

[housedeaubemarle]

Oh, and an early/belated Happy Nameday to your OC! Any special plans?

(Flowers and soft blankets and your favourite beverages unto you for the ask ✨️✨️💐💐)

~

I've never quite thought of what their nameday celebrations would be like, but I think it involves a lot of their family.

Philomene and Oudine always gets a birthday bouquet from Baroness Symonne (sister-in-law and aunt respectively) in particular, and there's a gathering for a meal and impromptu dancing*. Her extended family already make up enough people to fill up the house and more, so it's always lively/noisy and warm/chaotic, with the people she's closest to. If he's around, like he was last year, Remont would be roped into it.

When he's away in Tailfeather though, it's a much, much quieter affair. He wouldn't make a fuss of it coz the ranchers there don't generally celebrate namedays in a big way - but there's a day off to go exploring and an extra helping of dinner for him.

Incidentally the twins' nameday is on Nov 15, and Philomene's on Sep 13!

*Regency-style, not at the club (though Remont might be intrigued by the latter...)

[housedeaubemarle]

His eye is drawn to the robes at the corner. "It says these robes were typically worn by the Ancients, with red masks denoting positions in a governing body known as The Convocation. Of course none of these masks are red."

Philomene turns to where Joshua has pointed out the clothing. A critical eyebrow lifts. "Did the Convocation receive better tailoring as well? Or are we to trust the Warrior's description of mostly shapeless cloth upon the apparent progenitors of our world?"

"Apparently they frowned upon individuality." He scoffs quietly, "Not unlike some Ishgardians."

She slides her dark brown eyes in his direction; a faint smile emerges. "Oh? Would I be familiar with such Ishgardians?"

"I- I am not sure, Viscountess. My brother Iz-Isillud probably would."

The Dowager tilts her head slightly, the smile still present. "We mustn't be coy, my lord. When making such insinuations, one must be accurate or be outlandish." She turns her gaze back to the robes. "What your audience won't forgive is a verbal retreat."

Joshua coughs. "Well. I hear House Gaussain would be one such example. A-anyway, these robes look rather loose. Surely there must have been people who sought to follow their own drummer."

A gleam of approval flickers within the Dowager's eyes. "A mercy that we are quite alone, Lord Joshua." She shakes her head at the clothing. "I am always one for tradition, but frankly, I would rather be forgotten by the inheritors of my world than honoured if that were my garb. Etoile would have a conniption."

~~

@escherstrange-ffxiv: Joshua Losstarot

Venue: Anesidora | Dynamis, Halicarnassus | Lavender Beds, W2 P57

~~

Thrilled to finally have this prickly Dowager interact with poor Joshua - and it all turned out better than I imagined!

[housedeaubemarle]

Does your OC feel guilty about lying? Or does it come very easily to them?

(@mimble-sparklepudding I'm so sorry for being so late gjfnsks and thank you for all your lovely, creative ask games! I appreciate you!)

~

Philomene: Honestly has a... rather odd approach, now that I think on it. She's Ishgardian highborn (Classic flavour), which means verbal twists and turns don't count as lying in her book - that's just how you Play the Game. If you don't tell someone the full truth, and they aren't In enough to figure out what's unsaid, well then, they haven't played Well enough. On the other hand, she's as blunt as a battering ram when she wants to be, so let's just say she would never do anything as crass as lie, but there are many some things one doesn't give a voice to, for the sake of propriety, order and taste. "And that, my dear, is nothing to be guilty about."

-

Remont: Will try his damndest not to, but for someone with a youth like his, he's done it too many times to count and half of those were necessary. He won't dwell on the guilt overlong since he grew up Ishgardian highborn and rubbed shoulders with the lowborn in disguise - he's found that subterfuge and subtlety often cross lines. Whatever guilt he feels doesn't help anyone anyway.

More importantly, does the lie protect someone from danger? Or does the lie preserve peace without dire consequences? If it does, he won't feel bad about it. He understands if the person who's been lied to gets upset - but he'd do it all the same, if it means they're safe, or if it had been the most strategic thing to do at the time.

-

Oudine: Not something that came easily to her, and like Remont, she'll do her best not to lie to your face, or by omission. But circumstances make the latter very necessary more often than she personally likes. Despite all her father's training, and unlike her mother or brother, guilt does linger in the back of her mind whenever she doesn't tell the whole truth, even if for a good cause. She'd rather keep silent or hedge questions/implications, though she can smile with the best of them when she has her viscount mask on. I guess for her, tldr: 'would love to be honest but this is Ishgard'.

[housedeaubemarle]

A House Call

(written with @escherstrange-ffxiv, without whom none of this would have existed in the first place)

Followed by 'A House Call: Epilogue du Oudine'.

~*~

"Sydney should be here," Joshua grumbles, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeve. 

"Probably for the best." Isillud thinks it wiser not to tell his younger brother of their brother's reply.

An hour ago:

Sydney's laugh was of a man who had suffered at the hands of House Aubemarle. It was long, sharp, and bitter. "HAHAHAHA good fucking luck," he said before the linkpearl fell silent.

Isillud's eyes narrowed at the fireplace, as if telepathically setting his brother on fire all the way at Radz-at-han. "Bitch."

"He could have given us some tips. I've never met the viscountess."

"Neither have I, Joshua." Isillud smooths his hair back, waiting for the door to open.

~*~

Marceaux, butler to House Aubemarle perhaps since the time of the Ancients, opens the door to two lanky Elezen gentlemen. 

The eye first takes in an absurdly beautiful face on the right, accompanied by well-sculpted - youthful - features on the left. Another second of scanning addresses the similar bone structures, Duskwight skin, points of ears, and builds of the pair before him. Yet a third instant notes the ruffles of cravats and shirts, unobtrusive cufflinks and neatly pointed shoes, while filing away for future reference, certain wrinkles in cloth that either point to a household without laundry maids or worse: untrained servants. 

“Our relatives, the Losstarots, are due tomorrow morning, Marceaux. We will not be home to anyone else till their visit is complete.”

“Very good, milady.”

He opens his mouth, just as the trained eye submits a fourth report: the pairs of eyes looking back at him - one impassive, one defiant - are shockingly green. 

“Good morning, gentlemen. Whom may I say is calling?”

Joshua straightens his back, clearing his throat and whipping out a card in between his fingers. “Lord Joshua Losstarot and my brother, Isillud. We are here to meet with Viscount Aubemarle."

The card is a crisp white card printed only with his name and a coat of arms. He looks as dignified and lordly as a young man due to come of age in 3 days (figuratively) can be. Isillud simply nods and smiles at the butler. 

Marceaux wordlessly and gingerly receives the tiny rectangle. He peers at it, absorbing that this is, in fact, the Lord Joshua Losstarot. Still holding the card respectfully in his gloved hands, he bows and moves aside to wave them through.

“Welcome, milords. If you would be so kind as to follow me, I will direct you to the Chantilly Room.”

He awaits acknowledgement of this, and at the briefest nod from Lord Joshua, neatly spins on his heel and walks down the hall at a moderate pace. He does not turn to see their reaction to the interior, though if one were to conduct an interview later, Marceaux would hardly dare suggest anything but satisfaction with the tasteful wallpaper of ivory striped with off-white, matching an elegant marble floor in swirling shades.  

The door of the Chantilly Room opens to, indeed, cream-coloured curtains, off-white painted walls and carpets of a darker grey-blue. Within, on a low table opposite a pale blue sofa, sits a full tea set. Along the walls are ornaments of various styles and sizes on sturdy shelves, while two painted lacquer screens stand at a corner. A gilded wall mirror completes the furnishing.

“Please make yourself at home, milords.”

Marceaux waits for a count of five, trusting their lordships to seat themselves comfortably, before he closes the door with a quiet thud. From the corner of his eye, he sees the barest whisper of a skirt and hears a stifled giggle.

He represses a sigh - and the thought that Lord Joshua’s brother’s reputation precedes itself - before quickly heading upstairs.

~*~

Being away from Ishgard for five summers has dulled their aesthetics towards interior decoration. Joshua shifts his weight, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How long do we have to wait, Izzy?"

Isillud glances at the decor, taking in the details as he walks past the ornaments, mentally placing them in their possible places of origin. "You don't ask, Joshua. You just sit and look around. Gives you an idea of what to talk about." He peers at some. "Hingan teacup. Gyr Abanian charm. If they don't travel, their friends do."

"How do you know they didn't buy it?"

"You don't buy a single teacup, Joshua." 

Joshua points to a row under the gilded mirror. "What about that miniature fan and those dancing figurines then? Took their friends long enough to realise what they liked?"

Isillud glances at the mirror, sighs, then sinks into the couch.

The wait isn’t as agonisingly long as Joshua anticipates. Barely two minutes after Isillud sits, the door opens again. 

“Good morning, my lords.”

The woman offering her greetings is tall and fair, dressed in a blouse of soothing dusty blue with gauzy bishop sleeves, and black trousers. Waves of shiny, dark brown hair have been woven into neat braids, then pinned into a singular tidy bun; bangs frame either side of her face. Clear grey eyes crinkle above a pointed nose; lips coloured an inoffensive shade of cameo pink form a warm smile. 

She stretches out a hand towards Joshua first, as is correct etiquette.

“I am Oudine de Aubemarle. I suppose we could be called cousins of sorts.”

Joshua straightens his jacket before taking Oudine's hand and barely touching his lips with it. "Joshua Lo-" he is interrupted by Isillud's cough. "-Joshua de Losstarot, a pleasure to meet you Viscount."

He steps aside for his brother. Compared to his, Isillud seems smoother, like he trained his entire youth for this moment.

"Milady." Isillud's baritone voice is like silk brushing across her hand. "Will your mother not be joining us?"

Oudine blinks. It hasn’t been that long since she’d received hand kisses as greetings, surely. Is she so accustomed to shaking hands on business that gallantry has become a surprise? 

Focus, Oudine.

She keeps smiling. “She will, in just a moment. Her toilette requires a little more attention, seeing as the sons of her longtime connections are here.” Oudine gestures to the sofa. “Please, do sit. The staff will bring some light repast by and by, so we will have to contend with tea first. I hope red tea is to your taste.”

As her guests sit, and she picks up the teapot to pour, she continues. “If you don’t mind me saying so this quickly in your visit, hearing of your reinstatement was personally gratifying. I’m glad the Holy See is making what amends it can, though perhaps,” she looks up at them, noting the arresting green gazes of both brothers. “Such hurts will take a longer time to heal.”

"I shan't lie, it's equal parts relief and resentment," Joshua replies. "We can't even give a proper funeral for our parents and grandfather, but at least we have our home back." He shoots his brother a pointed look. "Not entirely, but I'll take what I can get." 

Idillud picks up his teacup and inhales once before sipping. Leaning back against the sofa signals to Joshua he has no intention of carrying a conversation - he's only there to supervise the lord-in-training, nothing else - and so Joshua continues. "I do confess my surprise that you are the current viscount, milady." Joshua's voice is markedly younger, and with youth carries a tone of eagerness instead of nosiness. "I thought it would be your brother."

This is not a question Oudine has heard for a few years now. She takes a quick glance at Isillud, apparently absorbed in his tea. Is this the usual pattern? The older brother hanging back, the younger taking the lead? Then again, knowing what they do of Sydney, perhaps House Losstarot must needs rely on its youth. And youth, Oudine knows, requires training. 

“I’m sorry to hear of your parents and grandfather. It is… difficult, when one does not have the chance to say the goodbyes one desires.”

She gestures invitingly to the sugar bowl, lifting its lid.

“As for Remont, let us just say it has long been an unspoken understanding in our family that birth is not necessarily the best judge of headship. My father’s passing was perhaps the culmination of that understanding.”

She smiles at the young man in front of her. For a moment, she remembers her younger brother as he had been ten years ago, though perhaps Joshua has more palpable vitality. 

“I think, in that, we have something in common, Lord Joshua.”

“And what would that be, my love? Is the head of Losstarot too an insouciant younger brother?”

Oudine nearly drops the lid. She whips around to see the Dowager Viscountess herself standing in the doorway, attended by Marceaux. She is shorter than everyone present, but commands a presence that could even match the likes of Count Charlemend de Durendaire. Smooth, very pale blonde hair that borders on white is neatly put up. A wan but clearly inquisitive smile sits on her slightly wrinkled, but still clear, face, matched by a raised eyebrow. Two hands fold atop her cane, topped by a handle in the shape of a finely carved Hornbill head. 

“Mother!”

The brothers stand and bow respectfully to the Dowager. “Viscountess," they greet, though only Joshua continues. "It is good to see you well." He keeps up the smile, waiting for the Dowager's response, while Isillud tugs his gloves up, checking that he is still wearing them.

The Dowager reaches out, not towards her visitors as Oudine had, but for her daughter. Marceaux has already melted away, shutting the door.

“Well as can be, praise unto the Fury,” she says with a sigh as Oudine dutifully takes her hand and escorts her eight steps forward to a sturdy chair near the sofa. “Remember not to get old, young men - it brings too many inconveniences.”

She sits, waving at them to do the same. Then silence falls, awkward and spiky, as the Dowager seems to read the Losstarots’ very souls.

“Hrrmph,” she says at last. “Whatever he believed, at least Cletienne's eyes outlived him. And you,” she nods at Isillud, “I see la incomparable again in your face, so clearly you have your mother to thank for your looks. Though your reputation is entirely your own.”

There is a slightly louder clink of porcelain, as Oudine turns from where she’s pouring a fourth cup of tea to give her mother an inscrutable look. The Dowager, sitting upright in her chair, returns an impassive glance, then turns back again to her guests.

“Well, Lord Joshua? You’ve not answered my question. Or perhaps I should seek answers from another authority on the subject, eh Lord Isillud?”

Isillud's cup rests on the saucer with another audible clink. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out from it; Joshua starts instead.

"Isillud is well aware that his reputation would not bode well for the house; hence why it was agreed upon that I should bear the title." The younger man flashes his brightest smile, "We are much alike in that we have overstepped our more-deserving siblings to wear our mantles, Viscount." His tone dances lightly over the sunbeams spilling through the windows.

Isillud doesn't look at the pair, merely smiles as the lanky man leans into the sofa, crossing his hands on his lap. "Hmph," he softly laughs, snow white eyelashes fluttering shut.

Joshua's shoulders relax, sloping just enough to be noticeable. "You must be curious about what we've been up to over the last five summers, we would be glad to indulge your questions."

The Dowager shows no sign of relenting. “Ah, so the answer is no. Insouciance isn’t quite the description. Dear heart,” she says, looking at Oudine who has continued to drop two lumps of sugar into the delicate cup she holds. “Your brother’s carelessness evidently is an idiosyncrasy of his own. You are to be sympathised with, it seems.”

Oudine mumbles a form of non-committal reply, simultaneously giving her mother tea, and delicately removing the walking stick for the old lady’s convenience. 

Clearly, this was no longer the Viscount’s game. Though, to be fair, it hadn’t been from the moment she’d handed her mother the Losstarots’ formal letter of introduction a few weeks ago. Oudine glances again at Isillud, looking for some kind of solidarity between older siblings. 

There is none to be found. The older brother appears to be fully meditating on the merits of some otherworldly matter. It is a shame, thinks Oudine, she can’t bring herself to do the same since her mother has started speaking to Lord Joshua again.

“Is there possibly anything more dramatic than the antics of the Warrior of Light and the Scions?” asks the Dowager, carefully stirring her cup. “Did you too ride a dragon overhead into Ishgard, guns a-blazing so to speak? Do tell us from the beginning; we are all attention, Lord Joshua.”

Joshua's laugh isn't of a carefree boy - courtesy and restraint swaddle it. "If there are I'm afraid I wasn't privy to it. My story is simpler than that: Taken under the wing of a trader, I simply learned the ropes of her business. Aside from the usual cargo she offered safe passages to refugees seeking to flee the Garlean occupation, when she abandoned it after Ala Mhigo and Doma's liberation I simply abided by her decision. There are other trade avenues to pursue after all." Joshua is less careful with his tea, even a tiny slurp echoes in the room. "Crude, but it pays the bills for now."

Isillud leans forward, nudging his cup towards Oudine. "May I have more tea, milady?" When she refills his cup, slender gloved fingers brush against hers when he lifts his cup.

"Joshua needs to learn. He will be fine. Breathe easy, cousin." Emerald irises rise to her eyes, almost glowing with a divinity that vouches for him.

His cousin wonders when he had the capacity to notice her unspoken pleas for help. She decides to question it later. The intense gaze and silken touch on the hand are distractions enough (and suddenly, Oudine reaches a deeper understanding with her brother).

“If it’s learning you both sought here, then you won’t leave disappointed,” she murmurs in reply, though as she returns to stand behind her mother’s chair, her posture is slightly more at ease. 

The Dowager on the other hand, sips calmly as Joshua recites the undoubtedly summarised adventures of five years. 

“My, my. Refugees from the Garlean occupation, Ala Mhigo and Doma. Your youth belies your profound experiences, young man. And the delicacy you’ve offered in your storytelling is appreciated but unnecessary.” Her dark brown eyes go straight through Joshua. “Pray tell what your trade entails currently. Aubemarle claims acquaintance with any number of lesser houses that deal in commerce, though we ourselves do not have such businesses.”

Behind her, her daughter quietly shifts her weight; the ease dissolves from Oudine’s spine. 

Joshua's smile tightens, eyes set straight at the Dowager. He clears his throat.

"A variety of merchandise from the east. Thavnair, Garlemald, Dalmasca even. The trade routes are perilous and there is no shortage of demand from these nations." Sip. "I simply bring people what they want for a fee, I should be glad to give you our current catalogue should you wish." The legal catalogue is what goes unsaid in his explanation.

The Dowager tilts her head slightly. “‘Bringing people what they want for a fee’. What a simple explanation it is. Have you considered a different career, Lord Joshua? Perhaps a writer for one of our illustrious newspapers? Some of their pieces are so concise, they do the exact opposite of their express purpose: to inform the public. You would do perfectly, I shouldn’t wonder.”

A knock on the door interrupts the plummeting social temperature of the room. Marceaux silently glides in, bearing a tray full of small plates. Upon them are refreshments suited for a mid-morning interlude with distinguished guests: pastries that do not flake, but can be savoured in two bites, eclairs that aren’t overfilled so as not to embarrass enthusiastic eaters, finger sandwiches that make for dignified chewing.

(Thank the Fury for small mercies, thinks Oudine.)

The butler sets the silver tray down, right beside the teapot. The Dowager’s nod sends him gliding back out of the room.

“Do help yourselves, my lords,” says the Dowager smoothly.

Joshua laughs but the heat within tightens around his gut. He's running out of options to please her, and a choice reply remains at the tip of his tongue only because Isillud would likely kick him off the sofa if he said it. The introduction of desserts has done nothing for him, for he is mentally flipping through a notebook about what to do during social situations like this. Unfortunately, the book is still fresh and blank.

He turns to his brother only for him to notice two things: Firstly, Isillud has seen Marceaux. Secondly, the glint in Isillud's eye.

No, oh no you don't-

Isillud doesn't take his eyes away from the door long after the butler has left. He plucks an eclair from the plate and without so much as looking at what he's doing, places it at his lips and sucks the cream from the hole with no pretense what's on his mind.

Joshua's world crumples in on itself. If Isillud does not hide what's on his mind, neither does Joshua with a mortified expression on his face. He does the first thing he can think of to snap his brother out of his reverie: he elbows him really hard in the ribs. It works - Isillud jolts back to the room, blinking innocently at Joshua.

"What?"

Oudine de Aubemarle, with the seasoned practice of someone who has been trained to ignore that which couldn’t possibly have occurred in the drawing room of a highborn Ishgardian house, immediately speaks in her modulated, pleasant tone. 

“It is good, isn’t it? Though he is our own cook, I must personally recommend Mr Ofanleitasyn’s creations. Lord Joshua, perhaps you might like to try a sandwich.”

She walks forward swiftly, picking up one of each kind to place on a small plate, then turns back around to the Dowager. 

“I myself requested Cook to prepare these, Mother. They’re your particular favourites after all.”

The Dowager’s lips had already parted, perhaps to deliver a homily against the obvious dereliction of the world outside Ishgard and its regrettable influence on wayward young men. Something in the look she receives - hidden from view of the Losstarots - makes her put her lips back together and nod.

“Thank you, my pet. Such thoughtfulness,” she says, and even gently pats the Viscount on the cheek.

Oudine turns back, places two small sandwiches on a plate and offers it to Joshua. The smile that accompanies it, she hopes, would read as an apology and encouragement. 

He must and will learn, yes, but the older sister in her cannot help herself.

Joshua whips over to the plate of sandwiches. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before mustering weakly, "Y...yes, thank you." He shoves a sandwich into his mouth, breathing heavily through his nose. If he cannot say anything he might as well have something in his mouth for it.

A second of watching his brother's reaction later, Isillud shrugs and takes a dainty bite from his eclair. "A Roegadyn, then? How long has he been in service?"

“Oh, ever since I can remember, quite frankly,” says the Viscount. She looks to her mother, who hands the younger noble her still-full cup of tea. Oudine silently puts it back on the low table, and proceeds to pour a fresh, hot cup. 

“Mr Ofanleitasyn has been with us these last 30 years or so. One of my late husband’s many flashes of brilliance,” says the Dowager, the tone just ever so slightly more conciliatory. “He may be a Roegadyn, but his abilities produce thoroughly Ishgardian fare.”

The dark brown eyes of the lady gleam as she continues with, “If memory serves, your mother  quite enjoyed a variant of Dzemael Gratin he made once in the past. I believe she was carrying your eldest brother at the time, and so could not attend one of our dinners. Seeing as it was her first pregnancy, she could not help but be cautious. We had a dish delivered over to her, and she returned a most gracious note of thanks.” She pauses a moment. “La Incomparable had excellent taste.”

The Dowager receives the new cup of tea from her daughter with an arched eyebrow. There. Happy? It seems to say.

Yes, returns the answering smile of Oudine.

Chewing slowly, Joshua blinks at the story. "Huh, I didn't know that. Did you know that, Izzy?"

Isillud doesn't answer; he narrows his eyes at the Dowager, lips thinned into a single line. Her words have stirred him though he clenches his fists and says nothing.

It felt like a slap, that this woman of distant relation would have a vivid story to tell of their mother. A reminder of their place: If only she knew what has become of her children. One a swindler, the other a harlot. And you dare show your face around Ishgard? For shame.

Isillud finishes his eclair and wipes his fingers on a handkerchief. "Come, Joshua. We have tarried enough."

"Huh? But we just started-" The look on his brother's face shuts him up. "Thank you for your hospitality. It was a pleasure meeting you both, we shall call upon your house in the near future."

He gives a quick bow and jogs after Isillud, who doesn't even bother with niceties as he heads for the door.

The Dowager silently watches the rapid departure of both young men with unexpected calmness, even having the presence of mind to set her teacup down on the table. 

Beside her, Oudine is less able to control herself. “What-”

“Oudine.”

She looks at the Dowager, surprise - and since they’re alone, some hurt - in her face. “Mamma?”

The old lady reaches out, and instinctively, her daughter clasps her hand.

“I know I promised never to interfere in your dealings as Viscount. But I ask you to trust me when I tell you: do not run out to seek an explanation from them, at least for the present. Will you, dearest?”

Oudine purses her lips. Part of her is itching to do exactly that - to demand an answer, if not resolution, for this abrupt end to a visit she had had every intention of helping along. People she trusted had warned her, gently, about the possibility of these being impostors, of interlopers stealing the noble name of Losstarot, and the resulting connection to the Aubemarles. They had asked her to be extra cautious, knowing that the current Viscount de Aubemarle was inclined to see the better side of others, sometimes wishing to be right, rather than knowing she was right. She had wanted, dearly, to prove them wrong, to be able to say - firmly - that the new head of Losstarot is genuine, and that their claims are true. She still does.

The other part - the one which has seen her mother work what could only be magic on the dizzying social circles of Ishgard’s lesser houses, which has witnessed the Dowager Viscountess call on, and call out, rival houses no less powerful or influential than they, without batting an eyelash - makes her grip her mother’s hand tighter.

Finally, she asks, almost demands. “Did you tell that story of their mother on purpose? Did you aim at Lord Isillud?” Neither woman hears the front door of the house slam shut. The rooms are too well-built.

“If I aim at anything, which I will pretend to understand for the moment, logic dictates I ought to aim at the head sitting right before me,” says the Dowager. “No, dearest. My intention had been to give those boys a memory they could not have had; a keepsake now that they must step into their elders’ shoes.” 

She looks back at the yawning doorway of the Chantilly Room. 

“I forget that the young - especially young, “resentful” prodigals - may not look as kindly on memories as those of my age.”

After a moment, the old lady frowns. “House de Aubemarle can only claim to be far relations. There are others who are closer cousins, in higher places, and with even more accounts of the Losstarots as they once were. Lord Isillud will need stronger armour. And more flesh on his bones, if he intends to remain in this city.” 

Oudine cannot help wanting a complete diagnosis. “And Lord Joshua needs…?”

Her mother snorts. “Time. And more polish in his address.”

Oudine shakes her head, before realising what the Dowager had said. She takes in a deep breath, releases it. “You were listening outside the door when I first entered the room, weren’t you?” 

The Dowager makes no answer, merely returning the grip on her daughter’s hand. The Viscount can only sigh, and finally sits down for the first time since she’d welcomed the Losstarots to their home. 

Still clinging to her mother’s hand, she says consideringly, “You believe them to be real then. They are the long-lost Losstarot sons, now returned.”

The Dowager looks surprised. “Of course, dear heart. No charlatan worth their salt would have stormed out so violently.”

A wave of tired regret washes over Oudine and she closes her eyes. “Then we have given offence to our own. And it involves their mother.” She opens them again to stare at the ceiling. “How on earth can we make amends?”

“My sweet girl, ever forgiving. Thus is the discourtesy already forgotten.”

Oudine lets herself frown, obviously and deeply frustrated, at her mother. It’s been a very long morning, no matter that the fiasco had really only lasted for all of fifteen minutes or less.

The Dowager smiles. “You are Viscount de Aubemarle. You will think of something. Besides,” she nods at her daughter. “You have their calling card, do you not?”

Oudine slips her free hand (it’s also annoying how she doesn’t even want to let go of her mother, despite everything) into a trouser pocket. She pulls out the innocuous white card Marceaux had given her, and stares at it.

“...hmm.”

As the Viscount thinks and plans, the Dowager leans forward towards the table. She picks up an eclair, snorts at a thought that has just occurred to her, and takes a delicate bite.

~*~

It is three days later, when there is a knock on the door of the Losstarots’ residence.

Ser Drouhont, Temple Knight-turned-steward, all of 7 fulms (possibly more) and pitch black skin opens the door. "Good morning. Whom shall I say is calling?" The wind whips his long hair about, thankfully long and heavy enough that it doesn't obscure his face.

Before this very impressive figure stand two Elezens, both in the livery of House Aubemarle. The darker skinned one wearing a small pair of gold-rimmed glasses on his face bows respectfully. The grace of his movement is unhampered by the neatly wrapped parcel in his arms. Beside him, a very lovely black-haired maid with dark eyes dips in a polite curtsey, a clearly laden basket despite its cloth covering, in hand.

“No one, sir. We are only here to present my lady Viscount Aubemarle’s compliments, and seek your goodness to deliver them to your master,” says the bespectacled footman in an even tone.

"My masters are unfortunately currently indisposed, but I would be glad to hand it over to them."

The footman bows again. “Thank you, we are most obliged.” He offers the brown paper parcel, secured by twine, to the steward first, before taking the basket from his colleague to hand it over as well. “Good morning to you,” he says with a last bow. The maid curtsies and follows the footman’s lead to go. 

They’ve only gone a few steps when, right before Ser Drouhont closes the door, the maid turns back to call out with a brilliant smile: “Don’t ignore the box at least! It’d be a terrible waste!” 

Drouhont hooks the basket on the crook of his arm, watching the servants leave with a confused look on his face. Within the house, Joshua leans over the banister halfway down the stairs. "Who was it?"

"Compliments from House Aubemarle with a reminder to not ignore the box." He looks at the twine-wrapped parcel with the same impassive face and flat tone. "T'would be a waste to do so." 

That makes the younger elezen curious enough to take the parcel off Drouhont's hands and set it on the dining table. Drouhont puts the basket nearby, turning the cloth over to reveal its contents.

"Let's see what we have here…" Joshua muses, unfolding a blade from a pocket and starts cutting the twine.

"Oh-"

Joshua stops. "What?"

"Twine can be reused…I could use it to wrap my paintings…"

Joshua simply stares at his steward. He should be used to the man's airy comments by now but he was unpredictable when he wanted to. He shakes his head and continues demolishing the wrapper to get at the contents within.

Brown paper crinkles and rustles, falling away to reveal a perfectly square but good-sized, black, lacquered box. On its lid, a spray of flowers blooming from a shapely bough, made of inlaid mother-of-pearl, grows from the bottom corner. Closer inspection easily reveals that the box is made up of three layers and the mild sweet fragrance of baked goods begins to waft upwards. A thick looking packet sits against the box, along with a thinner, lighter envelope. On both, small wax seals, no doubt from a signet ring, bear the crest of House Aubemarle.

In the basket’s case, its contents are less enigmatic. Fresh fruit of various kinds sit within: Coerthan and mirror apples, La Noscean oranges, Lowland grapes, Pixie plums, even a few lemonettes. There is also a singular pineapple, most of its spiky crown carefully cut off for convenience. In the midst of such vibrant colours, the stark white of a small card stands out.

Not even Joshua can resist the allure of freshly baked goods. "She wasn't kidding about her cook," he says as he picks up the packet and envelope, using the blade to pry the seal open.

Meanwhile Drouhont removes the fruit from the basket and sorts it into an artful arrangement, mumbling to himself, "A fine still-life subject for a painting…Master Joshua, there is a card inside here too." He passes the card firmly held between his fingers to his lord, who now has three things to read.

The thin envelope contains a single-sided letter with the crest of House Aubemarle emblazoned in the top centre of the page. In other words, the official letterhead of the Viscount. The handwriting beneath is neat and evenly spaced, flowing in black ink.

-

To Lord Joshua de Losstarot, head of House Losstarot, & Lord Isillud de Losstarot,

I give greeting to my cousins both, and present our apologies for this late letter.

To come straight to the point, we ask forgiveness for treading upon sacred ground without care. While it is not lost upon us how hollow that may ring after what has transpired, please believe that it is meant sincerely. 

What we should have conveyed that day, but did not, is simply this: words do not suffice for how your house has suffered great losses, in many respects. House de Aubemarle has no power to bring back what was, but we will assist - if you are willing, and should need it - in building what will be. The accompaniments to this letter are more concrete tokens of our friendship.

I hope we shall meet again in future, in more fortuitous circumstances. Belatedly, and truly, we welcome our cousins Losstarot back to Ishgard. 

Yours sincerely,

Oudine de Aubemarle, Viscount Aubemarle.

-

Out of the thicker packet comes a small collection of papers and stiffer cards of varying sizes.

One of the cards is an elegantly decorated invitation. The space for recipients has been filled in by hand: Lord Joshua de Losstarot and Lord Isillud de Losstarot are requested for the pleasure of their company at a formal ball at the mansion of House Maintigny in a month’s time. Lady Oisinne de Maintigny is to be addressed should they accept or decline the invitation.

Yet another invitation, on a marginally smaller card but no less elegant, also requests the pleasure of the lords Losstarot’s company, this time at a musical concert, intended to showcase the talents of the newest protege of the Dowager Viscountess Philomene de Aubemarle. It is to be held at the Saint Llafymae Rooms in a fortnight, with acceptances or declines to be addressed to her ladyship at the Aubemarle manor.

Much smaller in size are four narrow tickets. Identically printed on them are admittances to the latest theatrical sensation of Ishgard, Cant and Candour. The tickets read that they are specifically for box seats on any night while the play is performed.

A folded note comes next, unsealed, so it can be opened to read, in the same ink and handwriting as in the longer letter: ‘The Viscount Aubemarle presents her compliments to the manager of the Lightfeather Proving Grounds, and with great pleasure, wishes to make known to your goodself my lords Losstarot, newly returned to Ishgard. Kindly make them welcome at the usual box whensoever they desire.’  

Yet another sheet of paper similar in thickness to the note contains the simple name and address of Etoilier at the very top. Underneath the letterhead is a message from its proprietress who is delighted to know that their chance meetings in the past could be continued in a more formal fashion. Etoile Wintour reassures her lordships that new suits will be ready in good time before the Maintigny ball, and invites them both for fittings in three weeks. Though there is not much fear there since she already has their precise measurements. She presents her compliments and looks forward to their appointments.

And lastly, the smallest of the ‘accompaniments’ is a white business card. Upon it is printed ‘Marlstone Chocobos’ with an address in Ishgard below it, and another address in Tailfeather on a third line. Flexing it under the light reveals an embossed off-white crest in the upper right corner, that of House de Aubemarle. When turned over, there is a third handwritten message, in the same neat handwriting and the same black ink: 

For any reason, if you are ever in need of a fast bird, bring this to the Marlstone office here. If in Dravania, seek out Remont. You will be given one of our finest, no questions asked, no charge. - O.A.

Once the detailed contents of the packet are perused, the last small card from the fruit basket is almost comical in its simplicity. The writing is in brown ink, and a cursive script far different from all the handwriting earlier. The message is brief:

You’ve only just begun. Eat, then fight.

Joshua shuffles through the cards growing increasingly perplexed. "Oh gods, there are so many events; do these people not do anything except socialize?!"

"That is indeed what they do, Master Joshua," Drouhont answers, carefully stacking the apples into a 3D pyramid. "Networking is very important in Ishgardian high society if you wish to remain relevant. Even a soldier of middling rank is expected to be present at the Forgotten Knight once a week at least."

"Drouhont, I can't attend all these on my own." He fans out the theatre tickets. "There are four tickets here and I don't appreciate music as much as…" His eyes follow the stairs, "Him."

"It matters not which Losstarot attends…only that one does." Drouhont frames his arrangement with his fingers, moving a fruit an ilm to the right to adjust.

"In case you have forgotten," Joshua's voice rises. "The other Losstarot is currently drowning in self-pity with only a blanket to maintain his modesty."

"You seem certain he'll always be crushed by the weight of the expectations he's failed, milord."

The younger elezen sighs, turning his attention to the box. He opens each tray to find out what's inside.

The first layer is a jigsaw puzzle of pastries: danishes, butter croissants, apple tarts, jam tarts, even a fig pastry or two to complete the picture. All have been made specially to fit the size of the box, and to be eaten in a single bite.

The second layer opens up to heavier stuff: currant scones give off a delightful scent of butter and sugar; slices of mille-feuille are artfully dusted with fine sugar and cocoa powder; a row of simple pain au chocolat sits with gleaming golden-brown skins.

The third and last layer is filled with nothing but eclairs, covered in chocolate icing.

Joshua twitches visibly at the tray of eclairs; he considers pushing it aside and bringing up only the first layers but changes his mind and slots the small card from the fruit basket among the eclairs before closing it up and lugging it upstairs. "Drouhont, bring the fruits up- on second thought, do as you like with those."

He kicks the door open; the crow roosting at Isillud's head caws in surprise and hops up to the headboard. Etienne turns and raises his eyebrow just slightly. Joshua Losstarot puts the box loudly on the side table and roughly yanks his brother's shoulder over to face him.

"Wake up, Izzy. You have a society to impress."

Isillud stares blankly through dull green eyes. Joshua removes the last tray and puts it in front of him. "See this? The dowager acknowledges you. Mother would've been proud." The crow tilts its head at the baked delicacies, plucking an eclair and gliding over to Etienne's work desk to pass to him.

Joshua grips his brother's chin between his fingers; the Fury lives in his voice, in the determination writ across his face. "You want expectations to live up to? Live up to the lord of House Losstarot's. Live up to mine."

╔═════ஓ๑♥๑ஓ═════╗ 

        end 

╚═════ஓ๑♥๑ஓ══��══╝

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #23: On Cloud Nine

~~

Twenty one.

“Shall we make a wager, my lord?”

“It would depend on the wager.”

“Five summers. Give me five summers to find someone I might like better. If I don't, then I shall gladly marry you.”

“Five summers is a long time for a man who's waited thirty one for you.”

“Ah, but I have only just begun. I haven't yet waited even one summer for anyone at all. Surely your kind nature would grant me that.”

“...how could I say no when asked so rationally? Five turns it shall be then, my lady.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

`

Twenty six.

“My lord.”

“Lady Philomene.”

“I believe you may have a question for me.”

“Many, to tell you truth.”

“Choose the first one wisely, I implore you. It will determine the rest.”

“...are you certain you can live with me as your husband?”

“...that's such a silly question that it surely cannot count. Ask again.”

“Truly, Philomene, the wager be damned. Are you su-”

“...”

“...”

“...ask me properly, Vouloix. Then I can kiss you again and we can finally be happy.”

-

end.

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #2: Horizon

featuring mentions of the Losstarots by @escherstrange-ffxiv

~~

In post-Calamity Ishgard, the changing seasons don’t truly mean much for obvious permafrost reasons. Yet the city’s residents have gradually found ways over the turns to distinguish between them. The weather will never not be cold, but there are minute changes only Ishgardians could and would ever recognise: the slight drop in temperature which allows for exactly one (and only one - this is still Coerthas) less layer of clothing, a few days of witnessing actual snowdrops bud and bloom, less foggy afternoons so the frost is made brighter by more reflected sunlight.

It is why, within one of the drawing rooms of Aubemarle manor, the orange-yellow flames in the hearth have been allowed to burn down to almost embers. The Dowager Viscountess’ insistence on actual wood rather than fire crystals means there’s also the last faint remnants of crackling logs. Gentle clinks of porcelain - cup against saucer, teaspoon against rim - resound amidst the room’s occupants.

The Dowager’s lady’s maid, Nisette, ever present and ever discreet, sits in one corner next to a window. The sunbeams of the mildly sunnier spring day shine through onto her darker grey-purple skin. Under such natural light, she can better see the sewing she always has with her. Rips and tears in fabric disappear beneath her efficient hands, while her ears keep sharp for any slight command from her employer.

That lady, in a gown of burgundy, sits further away on a sofa, reading a singular sheet of paper as she sips milky tea from her cup. She is watched carefully by a third figure – her taller, darker haired daughter, the viscount.  

“Dearest, it is quite unladylike to stare so hard,” says the older lady, her eyes never leaving the paper in her hand.

“I’m not staring, Mamma. I’m waiting.”

“Then it’s quite unladylike to wait so hard,” she replies smoothly, still focused on her reading material. 

The viscount sighs but does indeed turn her eyes to her own cup of tea; she sips, letting the fragrance fill her senses as the sweetness coats her tongue pleasantly. More quiet clinks and rustles of fabric fill the room, along with the almost hypnotic crackling. It doesn’t soothe Oudine as much as she would like.

Just as she finishes her cup, and opens her mouth to ask if her mother was done staring into the soul of the poor sheet she holds, the Dowager lowers it and sighs. She looks over at her daughter, and stretches the paper out to her.

Oudine plucks it gently out of her fingers. “Well, Mamma?”

“I must own that it’s refreshingly direct. Usually one tosses complimentary words and phrases at one's quarry till an invitation is condescendingly thrown back,” says the Dowager, managing to even make the way she sips her tea wry. “This one simply asks to introduce themselves.”

The viscount is far too accustomed to these kinds of remarks to let it bother her. She glances down at the page again. The signature at the bottom still intrigues her; ever since the letter had first arrived, and her mother had given a fairly brief summary of the sender's circumstances, she'd wondered at it.

“...how long have they been away?”

There is a very brief pause - perceptible only by Oudine who is her own daughter - before she says, coolly, “Five turns.”

The viscount’s whole posture goes still for a moment. It would seem then that five turns ago, everyone’s fates had been traded for far less peaceful alternatives, not just the Aubemarles.

“What do you think, Mamma?”

The Dowager raises an eyebrow. “You are head of the house, Viscount. Tis your decision whether to receive them or no.”

She smiles faintly. “I would seek your counsel.”

“Ah, then ‘tis simple: Write them that we will happily be at home on a date convenient for both parties.”

Oudine hesitates, taken by surprise. “I was… quite sure that you would say no.”

The Dowager smiles in amusement. “Whyever would I? 'Tis a miracle of Halone, do you not agree? Far be it from me to be ungrateful for the resurrection of distant relatives from the presumed dead. And they are connected to the Repouxs no less!”

Her daughter eyes her for a moment then lets out a breath. “You think they're cheats, don't you? You want to challenge and humiliate them directly. Subject them to interrogation the likes of which would be approved by the Tribunal.”

“My darling girl, how could you accuse our own family members of being cheats and impostors? Who would dare impersonate such a noble house? And certainly I would never have such inhospitable intentions.” The Dowager sniffs loudly. “Besides, interrogation is too gauche for this house.” (These absolute bouncers make even Nisette smile to herself though she knows far better than to raise her head from her stitchwork.)

Oudine does her best to level an admonishing look at the Dowager. “You mustn't. Papa said anyone admitted into our home is an honoured guest.”

“Ah, dear Papa,” she replies with a genuinely fond smile. Yet the fondness is given a slightly sharp edge by something close to mischief in her dark brown eyes. Though of course it isn't mischief directly - the Dowager is too old and too dignified for such larks. “It is for his sake that I open our doors to those poor boys. Rest assured if they are truly our long lost relatives then no humiliation of any kind will occur.”

Oudine had been far more prepared to argue on behalf of these would-be relatives. Her mother acquiescing so quickly feels like the older woman has cheated, but she can't see how exactly.

So she says, “I can see you are determined. But I will still try to seek confirmation with someone from the Holy See's offices before I reply.” She doesn't mention that such information may not be allowed to be publicly released, or how long it might take to obtain such knowledge through the current bureaucracy. It's more than likely that they'll have to rely on hearsay and rumour to see them through the visitation.

The Dowager keeps smiling, as if she hears what Oudine isn't saying. “Of course, my dear. You will do what is right and proper.”

Oudine looks doubtfully at her, but stands anyway. “I will let you know what I find.” She leaves the drawing room, determined to begin her inquiries.

The Dowager shakes her head as her daughter leaves, still savouring her tea. “Do you remember the Losstarots, Nisette?”

Nisette lifts her eyes up and nods. “Yes ma'am, though I had never chanced to see them myself.”

The Dowager hums. “What with one thing and another, we never managed to host them here while La Incomparable was alive. She was a most extraordinary beauty, you know. Tis a pity she had no daughters to inherit her looks - though I suppose there's no reason her sons may not be beauties either. If I recall rightly, her second son might have had some semblance of a chance."

Nisette says nothing, waiting for the Dowager to continue. 

"To be sure, death would have altered that in no uncertain terms. If these impostors can find someone of that make, it will be most impressive.” She smirks, sharp eyes gleaming. “I almost look forward to what dawns on our horizon. Wouldn't it be quaint if they were genuine?”

“Indeed, ma'am.”

-

end.

[housedeaubemarle]

(The Silver Tattler, Is. 10)

~~

“Darling Philomene, is Oudine quite alright?”

The Dowager Viscountess sits in her chair, as upright as always, sipping fragrant Ishgardian tea from a porcelain cup. A sumptuous tea service sits between her and her companion, complete with pastries, water biscuits and a generous wedge of good Ishgardian cheese to accompany the latter. One would think two highborn ladies whose ages totalled to about 130 turns would have smaller appetites than the amount of food warranted - one would be mistaken.

She looks at the older lady before her whose face is full of concern. Seeing as it's her sister-in-law, Perette de Hellyes, as lovely a soul as one could hope to meet, it is genuine.

So she sighs. “Perfectly fine, dear. If the Viscount de Aubemarle hasn't enough sense to keep her name out of tawdry publications, she at least has the wherewithal not to let it trouble her.”

Perette nibbles a madeleine delicately, as the concern is replaced by some relief. “Domin and I had been rather worried - this is the first time we've heard our niece being spoken of in such a manner.” She waves a hand encircled by a jadeite bangle airily. “Not that we really believed you would countenance a match between her and the Losstarot head, fond as you are of those young men.”

Philomene snorts. “Fond, indeed. When have I ever given the impression I was fond of them?”

“Well dearest, you must admit: giving away opportunities to be introduced to members of the ton after just one meeting is a hint if nothing else. And have you not been quite kind to them in public?”

She sniffs. “My generous daughter wouldn’t have heard of anything less. As it is the wish of the viscount, I must do my duty as a member of her household.”

Perette grins, knowing full well the Dowager’s peculiar way of expressing affection: denying it utterly in words but showing it in contradicting deeds. “Such an obedient Aubemarle, my love. I am proud of you.”

Philomene gives her a look before returning to the previous topic. “Well, regardless of my… fondness, if you insist on calling it that, I will not have my darling girl be shackled to such an inexperienced innocent. Lord Joshua is yet to be fully tried in our crucible since the ton has been more concerned with his older brother on the whole. Now they will be paying more attention to him; it ought to be a worthy learning experience.”

Perette's eyes twinkle. “That cannot be the right description for someone who has been through a Garlean invasion.”

Her sister-in-law shakes her head. “There are different wars fought here, as well you know. Garlemald quakes before the judgement of Ishgard's beau monde.”

The ludicrous statement makes Perette laugh, even as she understands the sentiment. “And have you considered that Oudine may have her own plans? She is more than of age, and can make her own decisions without your approval – a union with Losstarot is not exactly that poor a prospect.”

Philomene arches an eyebrow at her. “Perette my love, only you may say that to join hands with a man of that house is not a poor outlook.” She takes another sip, and shakes her head. “Whichever bride Lord Joshua brings into that family is going to need a stomach of iron to confront such an unsavoury history, to say nothing of the veritable wealth of rumours.”

“And if Oudine should find herself in love at long last?”

This gives the Dowager pause, but only to set her teacup down and laugh. “Love! My daughter and Joshua de Losstarot!”

“I don't see why you should scoff so,” protests Perette. “From what I see, he is as eligible a bachelor as any! A steady young man with clear ambition, and rather good looking too. Not quite as handsome as the older brother, but certainly features one may appreciate even up close.”

“Fury love you, sister,” replies Philomene with some incredulity. “Would you marry Lucinne- no, stay; of course you would. She chose Felixient and you agreed.”

Perette shakes her head. “Now really darling, Felixient is a lovely man.”

“Oh yes, and without a single sensible thought in his pretty head, even after becoming a father,” says Philomene dryly and without hesitation. “It says much that your featherhead of a son-in-law is, by leaps and bounds, more acceptable than either of the Losstarots as they currently stand. It will take a few more turns before the reason they had to be reinstated even begins to fade into obscurity.”

Perette's amusement, in spite of this (long-familiar) abuse of her son-in-law, is written all over her face. “And that is your only objection if Oudine should wish to marry Lord Joshua? His current standing in society?”

Philomene narrows her eyes at her. “Perette, what has my daughter said to you?”

Perette immediately raises a hand in surrender. “Absolutely nothing, I promise you faithfully.” She sighs. “I merely think it would be nice to see Oudine in an actual romance for once. The poor dear has never found anyone who suits her. Not that she’s had any head for it in recent turns, understandably, but nonetheless…”

Philomene snorts. “She could if she would but listen to good advice.”

Perette gives her sister-in-law a wry smile. “All your dossiers and reconnaissance have yet to bear fruit, I take it.”

The Dowager rolls her eyes. “Stubborn girl.” But the words have no real critique in them.

“Well,” says Perette, picking up a biscuit and the cheese knife. “Perhaps it's for the best Oudine hasn't actually lost her heart to him. Apparently the younger Losstarot was seen stepping out with a mysterious woman some mornings ago; not too long after sunrise, as I’ve understood.”

A silence falls as she cuts a small corner of cheese to spread on her biscuit.

“He what.”

Perette immediately looks up, cheese forgotten. The Dowager's posture has gone more still than earlier, and from afar it would have been nothing remarkable.

But Perette has known her for well over thirty years, and can tell the glitter in Philomene's dark brown eyes is one of utter displeasure. The twitch of her lips is also tellingly unhappy.

“My dear one, you just said-”

“I am aware, love. He what?”

The thought that she may have spoken carelessly crosses her mind rather too late. Perette sets down the knife. “Now darling, it’s all just talk – I heard from one who heard from another and so on and so on. You know how it works,” she says soothingly. “It’s nothing certain at all.”

Philomene does know how it all works, which is why her frown is relentless. “And where did you hear this uncertain whisper from?”

Perette lets out a breath. “My dresser happened to mention it – with all good intentions, to be fair to her; the Tattler also reaches the Foundation after all, and she'd remembered the name of Losstarot.”

The Dowager closes her eyes in consternation, very nearly trembling with indignation. Pity and gossip from a lowborn woman because a prospective suitor has (apparently) moved on within mere suns – suns! – of (allegedly) courting Oudine: her precious girl, treasure of her years, only daughter of herself and Vouloix de Aubemarle.

How dare he.

From the far reaches of her (unjustified) mental outrage, she catches Perette’s voice. “Darling, it is most likely all a falsehood. Besides, you just said there is no possible chance of Oudine ever marrying him. Why in the Fury’s name should this bother you so?”

“Because!” snaps Philomene, and her eyes open at the same time. “It subjects her to the mortification of even more vulgar rumours! The cheek of it – waltzing with my daughter and then stepping out with some common woman?”

Perette is quite used to these wild mental leaps but this is a particularly tricky labyrinth. Still, she tries to keep up. “Philomene, we have no idea who this woman is, common or otherwise. And I really do think a man ought to be free to converse with anyone he pleases – goodness, where would anyone be if one waltz shackled us forever to conversation with that singular individual and only them? It would be lunacy.”

“That is not what I meant!”

Perette blinks. She has a vague clue what Philomene does mean, but can’t quite parse it. She settles on something more sensible. “At any event, I hardly think he set out to offend – and again, if it’s true which it well may not, did you not also just say he is an inexperienced innocent in the ways of the ton? He’s hardly a rake, from what I can tell – it’s unlikely to be anything but a simple misunderstanding. How could he possibly know a mere walk might be twisted into anything more?”

“Well, he should!”

A deeply hidden part of Perette wants very much to laugh at this farce, and particularly at the petulant tone her sister-in-law has taken. Yet any outward show of humour at this point would probably result in an unfortunate incident involving the butter knife. So she quashes the impulse and turns all her energy to calming down the tempest which has arisen. (And also discreetly moves the knife closer to her side of the table).

“My dearest Philomene, one of your best qualities has always been your maternal devotion to Oudine. I know you desire nothing but the very best for the dear girl. The offense is only natural, to be sure.”

Philomene breathes in, and out. That much is true.

“And if anyone so much as forcibly plucks a hair from her head, I am assured you would go to war with them, be they ever so highly placed as the count of Durendaire, or as dangerous as the Tribunal's inquisitors themselves. So what is the lord of an old, noble and recovering house to you?”

That is also true.

“No one, my love, could doubt your affection for your children. None at all.” Perette refills Philomene's cup. “But you know, my dear, your dedication sometimes overwhelms you, understandably of course. Yet I know you are far too sensible a woman to let it overtake you for long. You must remember your health, dearest, lest you be overwrought – we are not as young as we used to be, after all.”

Philomene finally lets Perette's calming – almost cooing – tone settle over her, relenting enough to even drink the fresh cup of warm tea.

“There now,” says her sister-in-law, still employing her mollifying tone. “Isn't that better? Now we may think comfortably.”

She gives Perette a look. “You are not entirely subtle, sister.”

Perette just beams. “Which is just as well since I had no such intentions.” She picks up a madeleine and places it on Philomene's plate for emphasis.

Philomene, in spite of herself, breathes in and out. “Well. After the service he has rendered, one supposes Joshua de Losstarot may be given the…” she sips her tea again, as if to swallow her feelings, “benefit of the doubt, in the face of… admittedly baseless, vulgar hearsay.”

Perette keeps smiling. “Precisely. An eminently more reasonable approach, I say. You've met the young man more often than I have, so you would know far better than any rumour monger, of course.”

“...well, I can’t say I know him all that well,” says Philomene slowly, allowing herself to be convinced by this notion. “But certainly I know enough that he is not inclined to even dally with women, much less keep a mistress hidden somewhere.”

“There you are then,” says Perette, patting her on the hand. “I’m sure they mistook him for someone else. White hair and grey skin are so common these days after all.”

Philomene’s cup rattles a little more than it should on its saucer, but Perette’s tone is perfectly empty of any implications. She does mean what she says.

So the Dowager merely reaches for the madeleine and bites into it, as her sister-in-law takes the opportunity to change the subject.

~~

“Ah, my son, what a rare pleasure to find you home for a change.”

Remont looks up from where he’s been perusing a journal in the study. He immediately places it back where it’d been on the shelf and strides over to his mother. “My dear Mamma, you talk as if you want me tied to your apron strings.”

She takes the arm he proffers with one hand, while the other holds onto her habitual walking stick. An eyebrow is raised in his direction. “Can you deny that we’ve not had you at our dinner table for the past ten suns?”

“Now madam, it’s easy enough to confess I haven’t been there. Yet do consider how five of those ten have been spent out socialising alongside you and the viscount,” says Remont with an easy grin as he leads her to an armchair. “And I distinctly recollect being in the same carriage as you, both to and fro on at least three of those five occasions.”

The Dowager snorts, though the smile is evident. “At least you have such grace to admit the other two did not see you return with us.”

He stands in front of her, still smiling amusedly. “I’m a wretch and a scapegrace, but not a liar.” He adds, before she can open her mouth, “As much as I can help it.”

She gives him a look, putting both her hands on the topper of her cane. “Hmmph. You have your father’s silver tongue.”

“As precious a gift as his name,” he says, with evident sincerity. It mollifies his mother enough to employ a softer tone.

“Remy my dear, I’ve heard some things from your aunt this afternoon. I should like your opinion on them.”

He bows in assent. “They are yours as best as I may give them, ma’am.”

“It involves your sister in some capacity.”

Only a sharp-eyed mother would have noticed some of the casual ease disappear from his posture, though he manages to keep himself quite relaxed overall. “Oh?”

She looks him directly in the eyes, and it is like looking into her own, which makes it easier for the question to emerge: “Has she a tendre for Lord Joshua?”

Remont is genuinely taken aback, staring at her in such shock that the question seems thoroughly answered. Nonetheless, she waits for him to gather himself so she might have solid confirmation.

“My lady mother,” he says at last, feeling like he’s just climbed over the Coerthan mountain range without benefit or aid of magic or mount. “What, in all the names of the divine Twelve, gave you that impression? You cannot still possibly think the Tattler was entirely correct.”

“I was given that impression, dearest, by your aunt asking me that exact question.”

Remont shakes his head. “Dear Aunt Perette, always on the lookout for her niece and nephew’s potential soulmates.”

The Dowager raises an eyebrow. “As am I, for my own children. Thus I must ask directly since subterfuge is beneath us.” Such a blatant mistruth and his accusatory stare bounces off her.

He sighs. “No Mamma, Dine doesn’t fancy either of our cousins in such a way. She has become very attached to them both, and would seek their good and happiness, but it is no tendre.”

“And she has told you this?”

Remont looks at her despairingly. “Mamma, will you not ask her yourself rather than doubt my word for it?”

“I will not subject your sister to such embarrassment when she has so many other concerns to deal with.”

“And I am worth subjecting to this embarrassment? Have I no other concern?”

The Dowager does, in fact, love her son very much, for it is only a real mother’s affection which could offer, in as dry a tone as could be mustered: “My dear child, when have you ever been embarrassed in matters of the heart?”

“I could start!”

She gives him a wry look so devoid of belief, it should have been immediately hauled into the Tribunal for interrogation and executed for heresy.

Remont throws his hands up in exasperation. “She hasn’t told me in so many words, but it is clear to see, Mamma. Dine has no intention of setting her cap for them, and the feeling is mutual.”

“Alright, then tell me this: has either of those boys any serious intention of courting anyone this season?”

Her son goes from exasperation to bewilderment. “I… I honestly couldn’t tell you. Mamma, why would you be remotely interested in the matter? Are you thinking of adopting them?”

“Don’t be ridiculous; one son is more than enough.” She huffs. “My lord Joshua was allegedly walking out with a young woman of unknown origin soon after the Tattler was published. Just after dawn no less. Your aunt’s own dresser brought the news to her.”

Remont can feel a laugh rising dangerously to the surface. Oudine had told him about her pre-breakfast, not-quite-rendezvous with Joshua. She's going to screech at this unexpected development. “R-really now? Did she say what the young woman looked like?”

“No, she did not,” says the Dowager with a more pronounced scowl. “Hence my question to you, as one who has spent far more time with my lord than I have.”

Remont keeps his hilarity down admirably. “I assure you, Mamma, if Joshua has any, ah, particularly close connection, it is not known to me. Nor, I’d wager, to him, considering how he has little real interest in the matter.”

The Dowager’s eyebrow rises higher. “Is he not the one who keeps speaking about the future of his house?”

Remont smiles helplessly. “It doesn’t quite translate to courtship nor its success.”

“Hrrrmph.” She taps her fingers on her walking stick, looking away from her son and at the fire crystals in the hearth, thinking and digesting the new information she’s received. Remont stays quiet, watching his mother’s face.

“Your sister has always hated being the subject of gossip, yet she has handled this without complaint,” she says eventually, thoughtfully. “Outwardly at least.”

“She’s bearing it gracefully, yes.”

The Dowager looks back at him. There is concern mingled with sharpness in her eyes. “Yet she’s not as inured to it as you and I, my son. I don’t know what you’re both scheming, but for my sake, have a care.”

Remont blinks. “What could we possibly be planning, Mamma?”

She snorts, as she pushes herself up from her seat, using her walking stick. “I hardly know. Call it a mother’s instinct, if nothing else.”

He looks at her for a moment, then breaks into a fond smile, and stepping closely to her, kisses his mother on the cheek.

“Thank you, mother mine.”

The Dowager gives him a look. “And what have I done that's worth such thanks?”

“Why, for giving us life of course. Is that not what you’ve constantly reminded us?” he says with a grin. It becomes wider when she swats him on the shoulder, in quite the same way his sister often does.

“Impudent boy,” she says, though she smirks. “Are you staying for dinner?” When he nods, she smiles in satisfaction. “I will see you and your sister then.”

He bows and watches her leave the room, walking stick softly thudding with every other step. When he’s left alone again, he lets out a sigh, sinking into the armchair she has vacated. He does not look forward to if and when the Dowager discovers the other piece of gossip Oudine is planning to manufacture. Then he pictures Joshua's face when he finds out yet another rumour - now with his specific name in it - is spreading and chokes on a laugh.

“From no scandals to two in seven suns; Fury love you, Joshua de Losstarot…!”

-

End.

[housedeaubemarle]

Les Yeux d'Une Mère (The Eyes of a Mother)

~~

It is uncharacteristically late when Oudine arrives home. Unable to find the man she’d tried to chase after, she’d meandered back in a confused state. By the time the front door opens to her, and she heads upstairs as quietly as possible, her confusion has become a strange roiling mass of embarrassment, frustration… and melancholy. 

Her brother meets her at the top of the stairs unexpectedly. One look at her face tells him the evening hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing. “What happened?”

Oudine gives him a tired look. Her voice is flat. “Everything.”

“What?”

Some minutes of explanation later finds Remont trying to suppress laughter since his mother’s bedroom is just some yards away. His sister slaps him on the shoulder at such amusement.

“It’s not funny!” she hisses. “He could have been called out for a duel, and for what? Being a fool? It’s not worth it!”

Remont has to take a few moments, despite the sting in his shoulder, to calm down enough to ask, “Did you catch any names at all?” When she shakes her head, he says, “At least tell me what these noblemen looked like.”

The description - whatever Oudine can remember past the haze of humiliation - is enough to trigger a memory of Remont’s. An acquaintance who spent more time at Le Renard had pointed out the man in the street one day; it wasn’t difficult to remember that distinguished figure. 

“That sounds like Viscount Armand de Courcelle, which means the man whom Ross… propositioned was likely Le Renard’s owner, Evreux Mouraut. Makes sense why my lord became upset - they’re lovers.”

“What?” A cold fear runs through her entire body; she groans. “By the gods Rem… I shouldn’t have interfered…!”

Remont pats her on her shoulder gently. “You weren’t to know. You just wanted to save Ross from a potential duel.”

“He saved himself! He literally turned and bolted, and just left me there, so I ran too!”

Remont presses his lips together to hold back a smile. His sister running is a rare thing, and thus in this light, amusing. 

Oudine’s voice is almost a wail at the sight of Remont’s face. “It’s really not funny!” she says again, as if that would get through to her twin.

“Calm down, Dine. It’s not as bad as you think it is.”

“I just embarrassed myself for nothing in front of a viscount and his lover–”

“You’re also a viscount.”

“That’s not the point-”

The sound of a door opening sends nearly the fear of the Fury shooting into both Aubemarle twins. The sight of the Dowager Viscountess does send the fear of the Fury directly into their respective bloodstreams.

There is an unnerving pause, before the older lady says, “Ah Oudine my love. You’re home. A word with you if you please.” She heads back into her room before either of her children can say anything.

Oudine barely stops herself from a wince. She throws an alarmed look at her brother who shakes his head, trying not to smile. They both know that tone – disobey and at least four out of seven hells would break loose. 

“Courage, ma soeur,” he murmurs, a grin escaping him as he does so.

The alarm in her face instantly becomes an annoyed glare before she turns around to enter her mother’s bedroom, schooling her expression into something more neutral. 

Inside, the dowager is already sitting in a comfortable armchair by the fire, the Enchiridion on the side table next to it. Oudine prays quietly not to be read a homily; she doesn’t feel equal to the task. Not tonight. The dressing gown her mother wears, and the silk cap on her head, signals the dowager is close to retiring for the night. Or at least, she would have been if she hadn’t clearly been waiting for the viscount to return from whatever gallivanting she’d been doing. 

As Oudine approaches, the Dowager looks up with a (deceptively) pleasant smile. She holds out a hand, which Oudine takes gingerly. She leans forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. 

“I thought you’d be asleep by now, Mamma,” she says, keeping her voice light as can be, as she sits at her mother’s feet like she usually does.

“How could I possibly do so when my darling girl sent a message at the eleventh hour of the day, saying she wouldn’t be home for supper? When the same child of my bosom returns to the house smelling of whiskey and cigars?” The older woman wrinkles her nose at her. “It is entirely one thing when Remont does it, but it is not done for one of your status.”

Oudine does not sigh outwardly though she does slip her hand from her mother’s hold. “Because he is a man?”

“Because none of the Twelve have seen fit to equip my son with the proper sense of sobriety and propriety of his station, despite all his natural and nurtured advantages,” says her mother without missing a beat. “You on the other hand have. Or at least ought to have.”

The viscount looks up at her with some restrained annoyance. “I have been out many nights before, Mamma. And at twenty seven, I don’t believe it warrants such critique.”

The Dowager’s smile disappears, replaced by a disapproving frown topped with a raised eyebrow. “Mais Le Renard Argenté, ma chérie? C'est aller trop loin.”

Oudine stares at her, in disbelief first, then dismay, before finally resignation. There are only so many ways her mother could have found out, and all of them are named Remont de Aubemarle. This betrayal would be remembered. “It was your son’s suggestion, mamma. He would never send me into danger.”

“Danger, never. Impropriety, usually. You are not obliged to take up those suggestions which are unsuitable, brother or no.”

“It wasn’t unsuitable. He was just… trying to cheer me up,” she says, eyes moving to the fireplace. A weariness has settled in - the whiskey and its accompanying artificial bravery has long since receded. 

The ensuing silence speaks volumes about how absurd the older woman finds this statement. The Dowager’s eyebrow, which has gone impossibly higher, adds a crescendo of incredulity. 

Oudine doesn’t see it since she keeps her eyes on the glow of the fire, continuing with, “Mamma, it is a perfectly legitimate establishment – beautifully appointed, filled with people of titles galore, and all above board.” She pauses for a moment. “Even if it isn’t exactly the kind of place you would patronise.”

The Dowager sniffs. “My dear girl, there are a dozen hundred places in this city filled with the creme de la creme of Ishgard I would never step foot into, yet I have never deemed them unseemly. What I hear of this Le Renard has me fearing for Ishgard’s future.”

“One would think the revelations of the Holy See’s lies would have done that already,” is Oudine’s dry answer.

“There is no need to be blasphemous, child,” says the Dowager with some severity. 

“It isn’t,” retorts her daughter, finally looking back at her mother with obvious annoyance. “Why does it matter? I am Viscount Aubemarle, and I ought to be able to go where I please.”

“You are Viscount Aubemarle, thus you ought to go where you must.” The Dowager’s lips thin into a grim line. “What business could you possibly have at Le Renard? It could hardly be to find a prospective husband.”

“Don't think me such a fool as that!" snaps Oudine in sharp exasperation. "Of course I had no business being there at all! That’s precisely why I went-” She sees her mother’s eyes widening by a fraction and abruptly stops. The last time Oudine had raised her voice at the Dowager was before her coming of age, many summers ago when there had been plenty of fighting to do between a young woman and her headstrong mother.

“I…” She visibly deflates, sinking her face into one hand. “I’m sorry, Mamma. I’m just tired.”

The Dowager looks on for a moment, then with a quiet sigh, rests one hand on her daughter’s head. Those who didn't know her would have said it was done far more gently than thought possible. “There is more to this, yes? Tell me.”

The touch on the crown of her head makes her look up. The weariness is written all over her face now, along with a frustration that she could not allow herself to show beyond the walls of Aubemarle manor. 

“This propriety you speak of, the position in which I stand, ought to be of more use. Yet I feel so helpless, and clumsy… and ineffectual. Papa did so much, and I have done so little. I am twenty seven – five years have I been viscount, and what have I to show for it?

“I am so inadequate, Mamma. I fall short of so much – there are people I ought to be able to help, yet I cannot. There is so much I don’t know, and cannot see – for Fury’s sake, I can’t even see Moogles. The world has so much to offer… and I haven't enough wit to grasp them.”

She bends her head again, but rests it against her mother’s knee. The dam has broken now, and the waters come forth in waves. “I went tonight… to try and prove something. To prove to myself that I could take what I’d learned in the East - the ability to hold myself up comfortably in such a different environment - and bring it here. Apply it here at home, where there are places as foreign as Othard to me.”

Oudine closes her eyes, awash with shame and discontent at her conduct. “I think I failed. And it makes me feel…”

The Dowager waits, gently brushing her fingers against her daughter’s hair. It is still in the braid she had returned from the East with – and hadn’t pinned back up. The older woman had naturally voiced her doubts about it but Oudine had persisted.

“It makes me feel like Papa would have been disappointed.”

There is a moment filled with nothing but the crackling of the fire. Then the Dowager speaks, firm and assertive.

“Your father would have been proud of you.”

Oudine doesn’t raise her head, shaking it instead. The Dowager reaches down slightly to tweak her ear. That gets her to look up at her mother with some distress. “Mamma.”

The Dowager lifts her eyebrow admonishingly again. “Listen well, my girl. Your papa has never been anything but proud of you. And to see you trying something new would have given him more reason to feel that way. I doubt he would have allowed me to scold you as I have tonight if he were here. Just as I doubt very much if he would have allowed you to wallow in your self-pity.”

Oudine doesn’t quite know if she’s being comforted or being reproached again, but then, that’s par for the course with her mother.

“Whatever transpired in that place is hardly worth mentioning. I do not wish to know. However,” she settles back into her chair. “I can see you’re trying to be your father again, dearest. And that will never do. You must be Viscount Oudine de Aubemarle. If you insist on anything else, it will only backfire, as I suspect it did tonight.”

Her daughter stares up at her, absorbing this strangely encouraging advice. “...Papa would have tried to help a stranger in distress, Mamma.”

“I’m sure he would have.”

“He would have succeeded too. Instead of… embarrassing himself in front of nobility.”

The Dowager shakes her head. “That I would not be so quick to decide, my dear. The fact of the matter is that he isn’t here, and thus we will never know.” She raises an eyebrow. “Which nobility?”

A very faint, utterly humourless smile touches Oudine’s lips. Here it comes – the mortification of looking like an ass in front of an influential member of the ton wouldn’t be complete without a reprimand about said mortification. “Rem tells me one of them was likely Viscount Armand de Courcelle.” 

Yet instead of the reproach she expected, the Dowager snorts expressively. “My lord Armand at Le Renard? I should have guessed.”

Instantly, Oudine's eyes widen to their fullest; she sits up to stare at her mother. “You know him?”

“I know of him, to be precise. We come from the same generation after all.” She tilts her head at her daughter. “His late wife was a Dzemael, you know, and his mother a de Borel.”

The colour seems to drain from Oudine’s face. Gods save Ross; he’d offended more than either of them had anticipated. “Then… why are you so calm?”

“Because,” says the Dowager dryly, “your brother is a newborn babe compared to that man’s proclivities. He’s not let dragons, war or embarrassment stop him for over sixty summers now. If he himself doesn’t acknowledge the emotion of shame, I doubt he’d bother about it in others.” She shakes her head. “A handsome enough man in his day – handsome still for some, though he reserves it for his paramours.”  

“...paramours? I only saw the one earlier-” Too late. Her mother has already heard the words. 

The Dowager rolls her eyes but refrains from comment. Clearly her ladyship has seen and heard more than her children expected of her. “Don't worry yourself about them. ‘Tis more than likely Armand de Courcelle and his… partner have forgotten you by now.”

“...I can’t tell if that’s good or not,” says Oudine with a slightly stronger smile now, and some reassurance within her heart. 

The Dowager smirks. “Discretion is the better part of valour, my treasure.” She chucks Oudine under the chin. “Ma cherie, I did not want you visiting Le Renard not because I think you incapable. I did not want you visiting because you are not yet settled.” Dark brown eyes meet grey ones head on. 

“I am not yet such a doddering old fool that I do not see your restlessness. Your body is home – your soul is not. Not yet. And to fling yourself into such a place as Le Renard – it is aptly named, look you – when you are not wholly yourself is foolhardy behaviour (which explains why your brother encouraged it). Of course you tried to be your father tonight. You always do when you do not feel you can be yourself.”

Oudine blinks. She hadn’t realised the Dowager had noticed. “...Mamma… how could you know all that?”

The answer is so matter-of-fact, the question seems almost ludicrous. “You are my daughter. Of course I would.”

Oudine’s smile stretches. “And about Le Renard. If you’ve never been…?”

“Do you really think this manner of gentleman’s lounge is anything new?” The Dowager snorts again. “They went by different names and much more subtlety when I was younger.”

“...are you saying you went-”

“I do not pretend to understand the draw of such places,” says her mother out loud, bowling over Oudine’s would-be question. “But then, it is not meant for me to understand; that is perfectly clear. To demand comprehension would be the height of impertinence. Whatever they do behind their beautifully appointed walls is their business. But if it affects my daughter, then it becomes mine.” 

Oudine smiles amusedly at that. Sometimes – just sometimes – her mother had her own charms. “I think I’ll be alright now, Mamma. I promise.”

The Dowager eyes her for a moment, then gives a decisive nod. “Very well.”

“And regardless, I don’t think I’ll be visiting again anytime soon. Even if my lord de Courcelle wouldn’t recognise me.”

Her mother shakes her head. “It is his loss.” When her daughter’s grey eyes twinkle at that, she smiles at last. “Ah, la voilà enfin. C'est mieux. Now, it is high time we were both in bed. Goodnight, child. I will see you in the morning.”

Oudine rises, kisses her mother on her cheek, then on the other. “Merci beaucoup, chère maman.”

She steps outside, walking down the corridor to where she knows her brother waits in her study. Remont looks up with some concern and contrition at her entrance. He can already guess some of the conversation, which is why he starts to say, “Now, Dine, before you harangue me, Mamma would have had my head on a spike if I hadn’t told her-”

“Traitor,” says his sister, crossing the room to swat him on the shoulder. It’s a light hit however and he blinks at this lack of force compared to earlier, and the absence of heat in her voice. In fact, her expression has lightened up quite a lot from before.

“...what did she say?”

Oudine smiles fondly. “She knows I’ve not been myself. And that’s why she didn’t want me to go.” She grins, a particular light stealing into her eyes. “Did you know there were gentlemen’s lounges like that back in her day?”

Remont stares at her for a moment then also grins – a mirror of his sister’s. “Do tell.”

-

End.

Note: To be very clear, IC =/= OOC. I for one find LRA very cool, and its patrons exceedingly intriguing. Also whatever is written here about my lord Armand is based on their carrd, and past conversations in the Discord I happened upon. Not to mention the Dowager doesn't know him well, if at all, so what she has are general impressions, not certain knowledge. She's also blatantly biased towards her own children as much as she reads them the riot act regularly. Which all means to say: take her with several pinches of salt. God knows I do, as do her kids.

Though to be honest, this Dowager of mine surprises me with her nuances each time she insists on talking (which she did today after Oudine's little escapade to Le Renard). Unfortunately, her nuances only emerge when she's with her family. Otherwise, she's a cantankerous, difficult noblewoman for all the world - but that's also the kind of image she wants to project so I can't quite say no to that.

Oudine is beginning to uncurl; Remont is starting to become more careful. I look forward to what this family shows me in the future.

@escherstrange-ffxiv's Ross is - and I say this with nothing but affection and well-wishes - so unhinged, you may as well rip off the door and install curtains instead. Especially when he's spiralling and has no idea how to deal with Emotions (big mood honestly). Long may he keep his skin intact for us to enjoy his antics.

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #27: Memory

~~

Sometimes, though she confesses this to no one, she worries she will forget him. 

As the summers come and go, she wonders if there will come a day when she wakes and no longer recalls how the smiles he gave her had always been different from those he wore in public. How he had frowned in disappointment whenever she had gone too far, and shook his head in disapproval when she defended her actions. How he'd kissed her, ever gently, when she attempted to make amends in spite of her own stubbornness. She wonders if those three winters of being frozen in her mourning had been her way of sealing his every expression and every movement in her mind so that she wouldn't lose him again. If such a period would be enough to combat the inevitable passage of time and the erosion of her senses.

Then she catches how Oudine's grey eyes twinkle, as she whirls merrily in a spontaneous dance the younger ones have started. Remont's laughter is familiarly bright and rich as he locks elbows with one cousin and then another, spinning round and round in their makeshift reel within the de Hellyes’ living room.

The Dowager breathes out quietly in relief. There he is, she thinks, plain to those with eyes to see and ears to hear. Where they are, there he is. So long as they breathe, he does too – and that is a blessing indeed.

-

end.

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write 2024 #20 : Duel

A sequel/companion piece to @escherstrange-ffxiv's entry for #18 Hackneyed

~~

“…lordling …opo-opos... directly to Lady Hanrieaux…!”

“How… Dowager Aubemarle is losing her wits… mountebanks…”

Baroness Symonne de Vaillant fanned herself as she crossed the hall, weaving through the crowd. Along the way, she smiled and nodded at those who greeted her, but didn’t stop till she reached her destination: the side of a lady in a gown of dark purple and black, with matching amethysts round her neck and dangling from her ears. She was watching the room intently, but instantly smiled at the baroness’ approach.

When Symonne reached her, she leaned forward to kiss the air beside each of the baroness’ cheeks. “Sister. Delightful to see you tonight.”

“Likewise. You look very fetching, my dear. You ought to wear purple more often.”

"I most certainly will after such approval." The Dowager placed both hands over her walking stick’s handle. “What news?”

Baroness Symonne unfurled her fan again, fanning herself in slow, elegant movements. Her voice was modulated so only her companion would hear her. “Lady Hanrieaux is leaning heavily on you being hoaxed by your relatives. That could be the only reason for Lord Joshua’s rudeness."

Her sister-in-law snorted expressively. “Is that the best she can do? That excuse is moons old.”

The baroness smiled. “Originality has never been her strong point.”

“That much is being proven every summer.” The Dowager rolled her eyes. “Her aspirations to be an influence on the ton are overshadowed by her desolate taste in fashion.”

Symonne chuckled, still fanning herself as her eyes scanned the room, falling on the subject of their conversation at the far end of the room. Tall feathers in her unusually tall headdress pinned to her hair quivered as the lady laughed at something. “And yet there are willing ears to listen to her and ready mouths to repeat her words.”

The Dowager followed her gaze, and smiled serenely. “There will be others who do the same for us. Speaking of which, here comes one of the wider pairs of ears in Ishgard.” She called out towards a gentleman with salt and pepper hair who had just turned the corner nearby. “Lord Drividot! It has been an age!”

The man she’d hailed stepped forward quite willingly. “My lady Viscountess, Baroness Vaillant. Splendid to see you – what a crush this evening eh?”

“Good evening, Lord Drividot,” said Symonne with a pleasant smile. “We missed you at the Mayeulons’ gathering the other night.”

“An honour to be remembered, ma’am.” He said with a genuinely pleased grin and a bow. “Did I miss anything of import?”

The Dowager slid a look at her sister, who just continued to fan herself quietly, then back at Drividot with a sharp smile. “Oh the usual gossip and rumours, although…” She leaned in, and Drividot did the same to eagerly listen. “There was a particularly striking on dit. Apparently one of our most noble ladies has been hiring musicians.”

“And what might be so particular about that, if I may ask? Music is hardly anything unusual,” said the gentleman with a raised eyebrow.

“My dear sir, do attend: musicians. Not music.” She flicked her eyes towards Lady Hanrieaux’s direction. “An entire quartet, whilst the lord of the house is away these past few nights, for her singular amusement.” She smiled. “Speaking for myself, I would be simply exhausted after only one night. But then, I am old and haven’t such ardour.”

Lord Drividot’s face was the very picture of restrained glee as he followed her gaze. Then he turned back to her. “Well, well. A quartet you say. For multiple nights. What a lover of the arts this lady must be.”

Baroness Symonne raised her fan higher to obscure the struggle she was having not to laugh. With admirable self-control, her sister-in-law nodded gravely. “One might even say, an insatiably involved patron of such arts.”

“Quite,” said Lord Drividot with a grin. “Well, I shall not monopolise your attention, ladies. A good evening to you both.”

They nodded in farewell, watching the gentleman move away. He was soon at the elbow of another man, and in the midst of their conference, nodded in the direction of Lady Hanrieaux. Lord Drividot’s acquaintance laughed aloud once, then they parted ways.

Symonne slid a glance towards the Dowager and finally let herself chuckle. “Did you know he would be here?”

“A lucky meeting,” she said with a shrug, watching as the gentlemen disappeared into the crowd. “It is a fortune his mind has a tendency towards vulgar assumption. With any luck, the rumour mill will do its usual inflammatory work, and we'll have someone whispering to us of her unspeakable sordidness within a week. It might be too much to hope for her to winter in Ul'dah, but we shall see."

“Indeed,” replied her sister with a knowing smile. “Tis a fortune for the Losstarots as well.”

The Dowager’s face was perfectly blank. “Now what could that possibly mean, my sister?”

“Nothing, dear. Just thinking out loud.”

-

end.

[housedeaubemarle]

FFXIV Write #17: Sally

~~

About thirty seven summers ago:

“Well met, Lady Repoux.”

The young woman with very pale gold hair turned around, and very prettily did she do so, it had to be said.  Her dark brown eyes crinkled in a genuine smile to see who had addressed her so politely, in a voice as smooth as the flowing waters of Coerthan rivers.

“Why, my lord Aubemarle! This is a most pleasant surprise. What brings you to the Crozier?”

The tall Elezen before her, grey eyes twinkling, bowed in greeting. “I have an appointment with Lord Gerraldieux, but I am not one to turn away such a fortuitous meeting as this.” He cast his eyes and an equally pleasant smile upon the lady’s companion: an Elezen with elegant posture who was still too young to rein in the annoyance radiating from him. “Good afternoon, sir; I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Vouloix de Aubemarle, at your service.”

The young man returned a polite, if stiff nod. “How do you do? Francquet de Imbertain.”

Vouloix dipped in an elegant little bow before turning to the lady he'd addressed. “And has anything caught your eye in particular, my lady?”

Her brown eyes gleamed. “I must admit, not precisely. There is so much to see, after all, and new wares come in each day. Heavens help the woman who knows not her own mind with such bountiful choices.”

“Or the man,” replied Vouloix with a grin. “And yet the fewer options there are, the more one laments the lack of variety.” 

“Such changeable creatures we Spoken are,” said the lady with a shake of her head. She looked at her companion with a smile. “Do you not think so, my lord?”

Francquet cleared his throat. “Changeable and contradictory, yes; not knowing what we seek yet not seeking what we know.”

Vouloix chuckled at that. “Well put, my lord. A fortune indeed, Lady Philomene, to have such a conversationalist at your disposal.”

Philomene's sharp eyes threw him a meaningful look, something akin to a warning of some kind, above a genial smile. “Yes, Lord Francquet has been delightful company, and kind as well since he has faithfully accompanied me on my meandering strolls through the market.”

“Dear lady, how could anyone wish for anything but to meander with you?” said Francquet with a large smile, sincere enough for anyone watching. 

Philomene’s laugh was a touch too quick. “Flatterer!” And when she glanced back at Vouloix who only smiled inscrutably, the laugh extended just a little too much. “Oh I do beg your pardon, my lord; we're keeping you from your errand. Pray do not hesitate to name me as the reason you are late; I shall certainly apologise to Lord Gerraldieux next I see him.”

Vouloix laughed softly, admiring such an accomplished dismissal. "He would be thoroughly appalled if I used you so badly. Could I instead give him your regards rather than any unnecessary apology?"

Philomene's warm smile returned at that. "Yes, with all my heart."

He bowed courteously, matched by a curtsey from Philomene and a bow from Francquet. “Then I shall accept that commission and bid my lady and my lord a good day.” When he straightened, he added, “May what you seek find you without delay.”

And because the twinkle in Vouloix’s eyes was pronounced, Philomene couldn’t help herself, saying just as he was about to step away, “Then shall I expect you at the Quiloud’s ball tomorrow?” 

The smile grew slightly softer at that hint. “You can, if I may reserve a dance with you.”

“What if you may not?”

Vouloix didn’t trust himself to look at Francquet’s face, not that he wanted to take his eyes away from the delightful challenge in Philomene’s expression. It would be the height of scandal if he were to kiss her face right in front of Francquet, right there in the middle of the Crozier – but by Halone, the temptation was ever growing. Three summers since their first meeting, and he still hadn’t found anyone who tempted him this way.

He lowered his voice, meeting her eyes directly. “Then I will endeavour to be more delightful company till I am worthy.”

Philomene pressed her lips together. That gaze he’d just levelled at her was unfair. “Good afternoon to you, Viscount Aubemarle.”

“And to you, Lady Philomene,” he murmured, pleased to see a flash of colour rise to her cheeks. With another nod to Francquet, whose face was becoming redder by the moment, he sauntered off. 

Philomene breathed in quietly, determined not to watch him go. Beside her, Francquet had no such compunctions, making a scoffing sound as he made sure Vouloix wouldn’t turn back. “Finally - thought he’d never leave. What cheek to bother us whilst we are on a pleasant walk. And to practically press a promise from you, my lady; such nerve. 'Tis a marvel how well you turn off unwanted attentions.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Philomene took a moment to arrange a smile on her lips before directing it at him. The colour in her cheeks had also receded. “Do you truly think so, Lord Francquet?” When he affirmed it enthusiastically, she nodded. “Then I shall practice it more often. Perhaps today. Let’s continue our walk, shall we?”

-

end.