Lady Alexandrie d'Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coquettish_trees) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
faderift2018-08-09 04:45 pm
coquettish_trees) wrote in faderift2018-08-09 04:45 pm
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.
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. ]
no subject
[ after all, truth is in such short supply in orlais. she is ashamed, now, to have been so entirely crushed by something which now seems so small. what is young heartbreak compared to the brutally efficient murder of a kind and loving woman, close enough to see the life leave her. close enough to feel it splatter on her skin. lexie eyes the bottle, is briefly self-conscious about taking it up again after such a short time, but thinking about how she got here makes her remember how she got here and propriety seems like bullshit in its entirety so she reaches for it again in defiance.
then, after, bitterly: ]
And even then only blessing in that you then have fewer years to look back on in a sort of scornful wonder for their frivolity.
no subject
in orlais, she had imagined herself less sheltered than her peers for her knowledge—the harsh lesson of skyhold had been how relative a thing that was. how soft she was, even knowing. how much further she had yet to go, and how much she still might be capable of. and now, here: this isn't at all where she imagined she would be.
nor where lexie had, she supposes. at least they've company. she is thoroughly shameless in taking the bottle when lexie is done; )
It all seemed so fucking pointless, I just didn't know what to do instead.
( on frivolity. she flexes her left hand, the dull green of the anchor-shard marking it. )
I didn't choose to come with the Inquisition. I mean, hardly anyone with an anchor-shard did. ( sabine, she thinks, who had got hers after. ) But I was particularly—
( a little shrug. )
I was badly injured in getting it, it didn't matter that I was refusing to go. My lord put me in the carriage and I couldn't get out again on my own.
no subject
Do we do anything on our own, truly?
[ she has always known herself to be an ornament. one of substantial and carefully curated quality, perhaps, but an ornament nevertheless. a lapel pin for one, a mask for another, perhaps now even something as active as a concealed blade, but for all her headstrong ways lexie has always felt the delicate strings trailing from her wrists, each of her movements an allowance rather than any true independence. But yet, ]
Have you found freedom here, of a sort? Even with the shard as shackle? I cannot imagine things going as well [ the arch of an eyebrow in acknowledgement of the changed value of "well" ] for you if you had remained in Orlais as they have gone here.
no subject
( it's dry, unoffended. gwenaëlle has always been perfectly aware of her shortcomings, where the orlesian court is concerned; she had survived it through a combination of her father's far superior skill and her own ability to sleight of hand moodiness into mystery that was never too mysterious. the appearance of a mystery likely easy enough to solve, and thus never meriting the stir to do it. no accident that so many thought they had her measure; that she was able to keep her private affairs private, because she wasn't worth the hassle of the pursuit. someone else always shined brighter, and if she did not thrive in their shadow, she survived long enough to find somewhere that suited her better.
a swig and a shrug, one more elegant than the other— )
I'd no intention of going back. Even before the bitch took my title.
( that is, perhaps, a little too unguarded in her feelings on the matter of who survived the civil war, crown intact. )
I'd have always been waiting for that shoe to drop, you know? I knew. Of course I knew. Imagine if I'd married, if—what that scandal would have looked like. In Orlais, instead of here.
( with all the knives and none of the allies. )
I don't have the subtlety to maneuver Orlais on a knife edge. I'd have made an excellent dowager duchess, but I'd never have lasted long enough to get there. And then I came to the Inquisition, and the things I said mattered, and I could make my own place, and make it to suit me. When this is over, why would I do anything but keep doing that?
no subject
You do not think the Grand Duke's headless corpse would look charmingly festive at court? [ a little thoughtful pout, ] Although I suppose his epaulets would be the highest point on him, which would be terribly gauche.
[ while lexie briefly arches her brows, little mention is made of the new title gwenaëlle has granted the empress of orlais-- another manner in which she and evie differ. while celene's reign has been quite excellent for the de la fontaine fortunes given their root in what the empress has been so encouraging in the development of, lexie has never had the national spirit of her twin. believing orlais to be a superior country in nearly all respects does not necessarily grant special reverence for its monarch.
(the bottle is here reacquired and partaken of with a rather grimly satisfied expression at its burn.) ]
Will there be a 'when this is over', do you think?
[ the dragon, the casual raise of the palace, the sudden holistic takeover of both capital and countryside of the only empire that might rival their own--which was currently under increasingly successful siege--were all rather convincing arguments to the contrary. she gestures with the bottle and then holds it back out towards gwen. ]
One in which we are not slaves, fugitives, or corpses, I mean.
no subject
( it's not a rhetorical question. it's frank—hope is a necessity. if they're not working for anything, what's the fucking point? there has to be the possibility of a when this is over, they have to believe that this is worthwhile, that it's for something. )
If we all believe, in our hearts, that ultimately everything we do is pointless, we're going to make that much effort. Not enough. We'll make it true through our own sense of inevitability. We won't try as hard. We won't work as smart. And we'll kill ourselves.
Certainly, this outpost is primarily staffed by the incompetent and the insane, where it is fucking staffed at all,
( ah, that old chestnut, )
but if the only future we contemplate is the one in which we've failed, we're never going to fight hard enough to succeed.
no subject
[ alexandrie drops her wry look for a more contemplative one, as she considers the bottle, the liquor's liquid shine. ]
You are right, of course. I am simply not sure I am quite finished indulging in my bleak mood. [ she sighs through her nose, plucks idly at the fabric of her dress. ] Truly I am not sure I can be finished, indulgence or not. At least if I pretend I do so purposefully it seems within my control.
[ then, after a pause: ]
You are still on friendly terms, yes?
[ she pulls her knees to her chest and clasps her arms loosely around them, bare toes sticking out from beneath the hem of her skirt. as abrupt a non sequitur it is, lexie imagines gwen will know who she means. ]
Go and see him, if you have not. His mother died in his arms.
no subject
In my experience, that's something one prefers to handle alone. He knows where I am; what I did.
( she hadn't guessed it was for his mother, but it explains a great deal about those terse exchanges. )
I'll let him come to me when he's ready to.
( it's not just for his benefit. gwenaëlle isn't sure she could handle the roughest edges of such a familiar grief, not when her own is—
too close, still. and she would have wanted it to be on her own terms; did want it to be on her own terms. the thought of pushing where she would not have wanted to be pushed is a discomforting, unpleasant one. )
no subject
I suppose if that is what is best you are a better woman than I to provide it, for I cannot much longer stand any such waiting.
[ oh. that's what it is. it's jealousy, bright and savage, that has its claws in her. jealousy of the space of separation that lets gwen have such patience to offer, and simultaneous repudiation of the bare idea of finding such space to grant herself the ability to sit apart and wait. the thought that the very love she bears him renders her somehow less fit to care for him in this is an agonizing one.
(that, and, perhaps selfishly, letting him handle it alone means that she will continue to be left alone in her fearful grieving.)
she has dug the heels of her hands into her eyes angrily, as if through main force she could stop what stung her eyes from emerging.
why the fuck was it she'd let herself feel things again? ]
It is so fucking lonely, Gigi. Lying next to him is agonizing. Neither of us can sleep, we can barely speak around it, he will not let me lay the lightest touch on even his shoulder without shifting from it, and yet somehow being away is worse, and all the while Emile is missing and may well be dead and I may never ever know what has become of her and I cannot stop dreaming about the man I killed and I should have stayed in Val Fontaine and drunk wine and remained ignorant of all of this and let my parents marry me off to someone I should not have let myself love at all.
[ beat ]
Or become a Chantry Sister.
[ she puts her face in her knees with an aggrieved noise and holds her hand out blindly for the bottle. ]