faderift | OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

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OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

WHO: Lexie, Evie, Loki, Thor, Fifi, Gwen, anyone else who wants to deal with this actual mess of a woman (special shout out to anyone who has a four letter (nick)name apparently)
WHAT: Late nights, early mornings, a bunch of processing the horrible things that happened!
WHEN: Post return from Tevinter (so... mid-month?)
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: cw: a nice violent nightmare, general mental trauma. hmu if you want something special, will do brackets or prose as desired.

I. The Apartments (Day)

When Alexandrie is home, much of her time is spent laying on the chaise out on the balcony staring into nothing and hardly seeming to care about the oppressive heat that so irked her the month before. Her hair, if it is styled at all, is woven into a simple braid and pinned up, a far cry from the way she used to wear it. Sometimes she is a fury of diplomatic paperwork, sometimes she is repetitively and grimly throwing a knife into a target that is a new fixture in the area. Sometimes she will, all of a sudden, snap into the light and cheerful woman she was, although her laughter is harder to come by. Whichever it is, she is still welcoming of callers.

II. Hightown (Night)

She haunts the streets like a ghost; all loose hair and pale wan skin and simple white dress, dressing gown layered over it against the slight chill that still manages to cover Kirkwall by second or third bell despite the heat of the day. Often, she is in the memorial garden, sitting and watching the fountain or pacing the paths repetitively. Sometimes she makes her way to wherever the sea can be best seen. Like a spectre, too, she is gone by the time the sky begins to lighten.

Anyone else out and about in the dark hours?

III. Loki/Evie:

Smell. Noise. There's so much of it. The screams of panic, the mortal ones unlike any other, some far too high to have issued from fully grown throats. The ozone of magic ripping the air mixing with the choking char of burning stalls, the metallic smell of blood. Blood. Far too much of it. How can there be so much. The visceral nigh-unbelievable revulsion at how thickly it drips. It clings to her hands, sliding, sticking. The wink of sunlight on silver. The noise he makes around it is so desperately wrong: liquid, bubbling. The same thing, then, on a far slenderer throat. Sudden. Silver again, but streaked with red. Silver where it doesn't belong. Cannot belong. Disbelief. Overwhelming horror that grips so hard she is frozen and the sound, the sound that comes from them.

She never quite screams. While there is noise that accompanies Alexandrie's gasping terrified surges to consciousness, the shriek in her throat never truly makes it past the hands that fly reflexively to cover her mouth to fiercely stifle it as her knees shoot to her chest, her heart pounding like something is trying to fight its way outside of her. Sometimes they are clapped flat against her face; sometimes it's the side of her hand between her teeth, her jaw clenching hard enough to bruise, even to draw blood, although that is more rare. Always it is a desperate bid to prevent her horrified shuddering panic from waking her bedmate.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not.

IV. Thor/Fifi:

There is a small disturbance in the kitchens. The pour of water, the clink of metal, of china, rummaging through dry goods. Investigating will reveal Alexandrie, wrapped in a white silk dressing gown, her hair finger-combed and tied around itself in a simple knot, quietly looking through the selection of tea as the glyphs on the kettle do their work of setting the water to boil.

She looks tired and subdued—she often looks so, recently—but she manages a small smile all the same.

“Pardonnez-moi. Did I wake you?”

V. Gwenaëlle:

[ she has come looking for Gwenaëlle for a reason she can't really fathom. Perhaps it is because there is precious little in Kirkwall that is familiar and they had walked the same streets and halls, seen much of the same art, known many of the same faces, have the same mother tongue. Perhaps it is because Gwen too had been abruptly thrown from that world into one that so immediately included brutal violence and death that stood close enough to feel the hot splatter of it. Perhaps it is both things.

Whatever the reason, Alexandrie is knocking now on the door to the Provost's rooms in hopes of finding the small, concentrated, dark-haired woman, wearing a simple summer dress with her hair pinned up just as simply, the neck of a bottle containing something substantially stronger than the wine she'd offered at the Tourney in her fist. ]

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He's supposed to be standing vigil. Has been, even. But Thor cannot summon the energy to care if someone spreads word that he left his mother's side long enough to take a desperately needed break. He can't even care if Loki sees him and snipes at him, he doesn't think, though the presence of someone else in the kitchens startles him enough he takes a step back. It's just Lexie, it turns out, and Thor gives her an exhausted shake of his head.

"Is there enough water for two cups of tea?" This is not what duty requires of him, but they are not in Tevinter and he is not actually the head of the family.

It is a thing Alexandrie has wanted to ask more than once as Thor stands his vigil day after day by the dais in the music room where Frigga lies: where is your father. But Odin is a respected general, a warleader, and the war has come spectacularly to Tevinter on the back of a red lyrium corrupted high dragon to rip the earth asunder.

Her eyes shut briefly against the memory echoes of its roar, and then she nods, reaching to search out a second cup and the saucer that shares its pattern. Just because it's sometime after third bell and the world has shattered around them doesn't mean they have to succumb to improperly matched porcelain.

"Any blend in particular, my lord?" Alexandrie asks, before thinning her lips in sympathy. "Or just something for wakefulness."

He will be standing long after she has returned upstairs to have another dogged try at sleep.

"Thor," he corrects. She was there for the death, she seems to genuinely be into his brother (and even more surprisingly, the reverse seems to be true,) she's basically staying at their house, and she'd been in danger alongside him. The time for lord is past.

"Anything for wakefulness we have." There's a pause before he wearily sinks down into a chair. "But please do not tell my brother."

Maybe Loki's worn out enough as well that it won't turn into something he uses to needle Thor later, but there's a fair chance he's not. Loki holds on to things. Lexie may as well, but at least her question seems to imply this weakness she'll let pass.

A brief nod, perhaps both in acknowledgement of his request to simply use his name and the later one in regards to her silence, and then Alexandrie returns to poking through boxes, lifting them to scent the leaves.

By the time she finds the blends she is looking for—something soothing and herbaceous for herself, something rousing for him—the water is making the deep sound of its boil, and she reaches to deactivate its enchantment almost thoughtlessly before pouring the steaming liquid over the leaves and bringing both cups to the simple table in the center where Thor sits. She would never have done so before. After all, there are a great many other rooms she could have suggested they retire to in the house, but she is tired. They are both tired. She watches the leaves idly as the water works on them and they sink one by one.

How quickly things change.

“...Surely you are not meant to stay awake the entire week?” asks Alexandrie quietly, looking up at Thor from the cup, once the last has settled.

Sleeping just off the kitchen in the servants' quarters, and still being in the habit of awakening at even small sounds in the night, means Fifi is roused by the voices. Wrapping a plain robe around her nightgowned form, she opens the door and pads out into the kitchen, somewhat surprised to see both Thor and Alexandrie there.

"Have you got everything you need, messeres?" she asks, rubbing at her eyes. She'll do the servant thing if necessary, and otherwise she's going the eff back to sleep.

Edited 2018-08-13 23:35 (UTC)

Thor jerks to his feet as the elf comes in. It's just Fifi, not his brother's valet, but there's a deeply ingrained instinct to appear strong and confident in front of the sl-servants. When slaves see weakness they tend to become afraid and insecure. Maybe the same is not true of servants, but he will not burden an elf with additional concerns in an already chaotic time.

"We do, thank you." He straightens his robes before frowning and looking down at his tea. "You will not mention this to anyone." House Asgard is vulnerable. They cannot afford for anyone, Venatori or regular enemy houses, to hear of him taking a break during his vigil.

"And I am expected to stay awake for several days of it, yes. Or the head of our house is. But he is seeing to matters at home and I am here." They hadn't managed to get anyone out aside from Inquisition personnel and there were plenty who didn't want to submit to Venatori rule.

"With the resources tied into the war it has been difficult even to be sure of timely letters between Val Royeaux and Kirkwall," Alexandrie muses, flicking her gaze briefly to Fifi and nodding slightly—she's fine too. "The way Tevinter has been so embroiled, I cannot imagine you have been much in contact with Lord Asgard."

She wonders if Odin even knows. How horrible. He must know. She curves her thumb to run her nail along the delicate porcelain of the cup's handle as something else occurs to her suddenly about Tevinter being so embroiled. "Will you stay with the Inquisition's efforts, or will the House call for its sons?"

Are you leaving? (Is he?)

He forgets about Fifi as quickly as she'd come in once Alexandrie's expressed no need of her, turning his attention to what she's saying and asking and not quite saying and asking.

"We pledged to help the Inquisition. We will not turn and run when it costs us. Even if I do not have confidence in the person who leads my division, now, and even if my Father does not see it the same way." There's a noise, something that might have been a snort if he had more energy or was in a better mood. Instead his voice is bitter. "It is not as if he has other heirs with which to replace me."

Frigga must be avenged. The way to do that is not to hold Marnas Pell, but to take on Corypheus, and the Inquisition is the base to do it from. His mother had loved him as he had loved her, and he's not going to blindly follow Odin when Odin is wrong.

Odin does in fact have another heir with which to replace Thor; one whose bed she had left as quietly as she had been able once it had become obvious that sleep was not to be had. The casual--and, she thinks, without malice--way in which Loki is unthought of makes Alexandrie arch a brow that is lowered as quickly as it had twitched upwards. Even so, the greater opportunity for vengeance against Corypheus and the Venatori who had murdered Frigga that the Inquisition affords is very likely a greater lure now than even what approval could be gleaned from Odin.

It is as reassuring as such a thing can ever be. She blows on her tea to aid in cooling it and watches the ripples.

"It must be a difficult thing for someone accustomed to command to serve beneath another," she murmurs. "More now, that your faith in her has been dealt a blow."

He sees the arch of her eyebrow and shakes his head, having a feeling he knows who she's thinking about.

"He will not choose Loki over me." Best if that idea is quashed now. "Our..." He stops, swallows, and continues. He's all right. Or he will be. "Our mother was most of the reason he was ever even civil with my brother; there is little love lost there. And it was very telling that she dismissed the lack of magical bloodlines in your family at, at the meal."

The last meal. He should have ended it early, sent her home. There'd been something in the air and he'd ignored it, intent on enjoying his time like a fool. He'd let his instincts slip, lured into complacency, and the Inquisition threatens to continue that process.

"And I do not know why the Inquisition has a leader who is fine with attacking another nation. I heard of what happened in Nevarra, that the Inquisition denies being to blame for it, but what I saw in the Catacombs did not encourage me there. What if the priorities of the Inquisition are not simply to defeat Corypheus but to also destabilize other nations, ones who have not declared themselves in support of it?"

The problem is that he doesn't have the head for this sort of maneuvering. It's Loki who does, Loki who is is barely even looking at right now.

She would inquire after what precipitated this disaffection, but with Thor being both the man he is and the favored son most like because of it, she might very well hazard a guess. After all, of his parents, it is not Odin Loki takes after.

There is a reason the Divine has a Left Hand as well as a Right, however, and the probability of Loki’s subtler talents having gone overlooked or unappreciated chafes at her far more than any obstacle to her social ambitions. In fact, to some small surprise, the latter has almost entirely ceased to be important at all.

But Thor is still talking, and Alexandrie finds herself nodding slowly at his thoughts. Especially now that she has been reminded of the Divine's Left Hand and her place in the Inquisition. She would not be surprised in the slightest if Sister Nightingale were indeed playing the Game of Nations in the way he suggests.

"I think," she says finally, "that if those are indeed the secondary priorities of the Inquisition, that they are being set higher in command than anyone in Kirkwall." She does not say, however, that he is wrong. "But that even if there are not such plans, the organization should be prepared to address that it is having such an effect and to attempt to compensate for it." She turns the cup slightly in its saucer. "It will no doubt protest, and quite convincingly, I imagine, that the power of Corypheus warrants expediency and results more than it does a plan that requires it to tiptoe around the sovereignty of the nations of Thedas. And now, having seen..." Alexandrie trails off, shaking her head slightly as she nearly feels the vibration of the ground in her feet as the Archon's palace is ripped from the earth, "I would agree with it. So. It is worthwhile to be distrusting, to continue to question, but such thoughts will not prevent me from rendering whatever service I may."

A lengthy considering pause as she turns the cup again, watches the leaves slowly resettle themselves, and then gently inquires after all.

"May I ask what transpired, to cause such ill-feeling between your brother and father?"

He nods, a little begrudgingly but he nods. There's no denying that they need the Inquisition right now. Tevinter cannot fight Corypheus off on its own. And the Inquisition cannot keep losing the way it has been, land after land. It needs them.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Thor takes a sip of the tea.

"I do not know. It seems sometimes that my father was annoyed with Loki as long as I can remember having a brother. It does not make any sense. How can one resent.. an infant..."

The question gets lost as he speaks the words. Loki did not look like like Odin in the least, and what's the one thing that could make someone resent an infant? Infidelity. But he cannot think that of his mother, he cannot.

"No," he says decisively after a pause he wishes he hadn't made. "I may be misremembering. It has been some time since we were children, and sometimes my father is prideful and angry. There must have been something that transpired, my father resented it, and it simply built over time. And I love my brother, but he can be very stubborn and dig in to get under someone's skin."

It makes sense in that children are given to mistaking often for always, in that Loki's penchant for irreverence would be more than irksome to the patriarch of a militaristic House, and in that such a set of circumstances might well over time and repetition become entrenched in a way that is nigh irreconcilable. Especially between two men who, for reasons of being stubborn, uncompromising, or in Loki's case simply contrarian, might be disinclined to yield; so she nods slowly.

But siblings are different. Any similar difficulty does not seem to have calcified between the two brothers, and although they had been anywhere from cool to downright cruel to each other at times during their shared walk across Tevinter, Thor still now says he loves him. And so:

"You are both exhausted," she says, reaching to very lightly rest her fingers on Thor's forearm for emphasis, "and both far from home, and both grieving terribly. It is of a certainty not my place to suggest, and I know well it is not customary, but... what think you of sharing your vigil? Of standing it together?"

Perhaps she shall be chided by one or the both of them for her impertinence, and perhaps it would precipitate strife rather than any hint of reunion, but perhaps neither of those things. It seems an acceptable risk to take in the pursuit of whatever peace can be had.

He looks over at her, contemplating before shrugging.

"If he has the desire to stand as well, he may. I will not ask it of him. It is not a weight he is required to bear." They are not reconciled after the journey. It may be a wound that is too deep to heal, a chasm that is too wide to cross. He hasn't had the energy to give it any real thought, and he expects Loki has not either.

But it has never been Loki to smooth things over.

That thought has him looking down, closing his eyes. It had been their mother who had soothed the wounds when Loki took offense to something Thor had said or done, or when Loki literally stabbed Thor yet again. This may be it. The thing that there's no reconciliation from. Thor doesn't know if he can do this without his brother, but he has to. His mother has to be avenged.

Edited 2018-09-12 00:48 (UTC)

"Nor will he ask it of you," Alexandrie replies quietly, her thumb rubbing absently at the handle of her cup. At least, so she guesses. Loki is far too prideful for such a thing, especially where his elder brother is concerned. No, it would have to be Thor's idea or not at all.

"Perhaps it has been too little time for me to make such an observation—and I beg your pardon if it is so—but it seems to me that the both of you are proud men, and perhaps find it... unpalatable... to come to each other in entreaty. Loki already believes you think him weak, although I grant he has not said as much, and I do not think he will come to you for anything. That is your bridge to build, if you have a desire to."

Thor shakes his head.

"I hear what you are saying. But it is not our way. The head of the household stands vigil, or the head available, and to ask for... to ask for assistance or company on it is a weakness at a time that we cannot show any such thing. We are House Asgard, my lady. If he asks of his own will, I am free to grant it and let it be known that he chose to stand. But our enemies, the Venatori and rival houses, even rival relatives, will see me making such an offer as a vulnerability, and we cannot afford it."

He takes a slow breath before finishing his tea and standing up. "We must stand tall. We must prove that even though we are in the South and have suffered such a loss... That even through that, we are a strong house. Thank you for the tea and company. I must return to the task."

"I see," she says with a slight nod. And, despite her eminent concern for Loki during this time, she does. The both of them have grown up in societies where any true compassion in the face of tragedy invites nothing but further tragedy. It has been unsettlingly easy to forget, cocooned as she has been in Kirkwall. Struck by how little any of it had mattered in the aftermath of Corypheus's attack on Minrathous, the long trek they had all taken. The rawness of the space she shared with his brother.

It is a luxury to have been allowed to relax her guard, and it is one that Thor does not share. And so not only must he stand alone in keeping ceremonial guard over his mother's body, he must keep actual guard against any who would attempt to exploit or further damage the family, following the scent of blood lke a wolfpack.

"I wish you strength in it, then."

Thor inclines his head in thanks. She may very well understand in a way most southerners do not. There is a price for not performing their roles, and the price can be exceedingly steep. Now more than ever he must make his father and his house proud.

Without another word he heads back to stand alone, holding close to the promise of his mother's legacy being one of grace and strength rather than one of faltering.

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OPEN | Looking Down on Empty Streets

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