closed | why you gotta be so rude

[coquettish_trees]

WHO: Lexie, Gwenaëlle, Byerly, Merrill, Wysteria, Leander, you maybe
WHAT: A collection of prompts!
WHEN: Right now!
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: Hit me up on discord (shae#7274) or shaestorms if you want to do a thing. :)

Gwen

[ their friendship a well worn glove at this point, Alexandrie has little compunction about sweeping unannounced save for her footfall into the chamber that Gwenaëlle and Thranduil share. The latter is keeping office hours, and she cares little about the state of readiness of the former, only that she is in residence.

So, sweep she does, and continues her curving trajectory until she is near enough the bed to fall gracefully upon it and stare upwards. ]

Ah, Gigi, [ she intones dramatically, ] I am a fallen woman.


Byerly

[ Time passes, and true to her word each Thursday finds Alexandrie at the same table, at the same cafe, at the same time, the same chair sitting empty across from her. One week she reads. One she embroiders. Another she spends watching the bright birds of spring return to the still barren trees. Always, she looks like a seawife standing on an outlook who watches for sails out of habit rather than hope.

This week, it is finally warm and clear enough that they have set tables outside and they have quickly filled. Alexandrie sits at one, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders to stave off the still persistent chill of the breeze, a bit of finework in her lap. She is partway through a stitch when the sound of the chair pulling out comes, and she begins to speak before looking. ]

I am afraid I still require that, I am waiting for--

[ Stitch pulled taut, her gaze finally swings upwards, and her smile is like the dawn; small, and furtive, and spreading with the promise of brightness. Softly: ]

I did not think you would come.


Merrill and Wysteria

It came by courier, in both cases an enterprising looking urchin who stood a little straighter for the fun of being on a posh errand. A little rectangle of very nice paper with a little watercolored rose in the corner for the purpose of informing the recipients (one Mademoiselle Merrill and one Miss Wysteria Poppell) in very lovely handwriting that their presence was requested for tea the next Saturday at one o'clock at the residence of their mutual friend (one Lady Alexandrie de la Fontaine). They should feel free to wear whatever they liked best (with a note appended to Merrill's that if what she liked best was to poke about in the hostess's closet she was welcome to come early), and to let her know directly if they should be available to attend. (A true répondez, s'il vous plait.)

And lo and behold, all is made ready at the appointed time: a complete tea service, down to the matching porcelain cups and saucers, cloth napkins folded carefully to the swans of the de la Fontaine crest, and a little wheeled cart topped with shining engraved tiered silver platters of little finger sandwiches of varying types, another smaller tower with a selection of several tiny pastries and cakes, and several exquisitely carved boxes of tea from which to choose. One butler, for the purposes of greeting, one butler's son for the purposes of coats, one maid for the purposes of serving, and one hostess, who looks particularly pleased with everything in its entirety including an extra bit of pleased to see you.

"Ah, but it has been so very long since I have had a proper afternoon tea," Alexandrie sighs happily, sweeping into one of the three chairs placed equidistant around the circular table set in the middle of the room which, naturally, is precisely the correct size for a genteel afternoon with your girlfriends.


Colin

She's been going out on Thursdays. Always leaving at the same time, always returning at the same time, always gently insisting on going alone without even Marie to attend her, and always with the air of someone going out to look again for something lost long after the search has been called off. She returns the same: empty handed, expecting to remain so. But it is a gentle thing. There are no tears, no sobs muffled in her pillow on the rare occasion that she spends the night at the apartments.

One day, though, a small smile. And for Colin, as she passes the door to his room, seemingly apropos of nothing,

"You may meet here again, if you like."


Lea

At 5 o'clock on the dot, there are pastries. They can be smelled from the entryway, as if the apartments themselves were an Orlesian patisserie. Let no-one ever say that Alexandrie de la Fontaine doesn't keep her word.

Upon his arrival, there is a cheerful call from the sitting room.

"Has he both arms and legs, Marceau? Do not let him in unless he can properly account for all four, I shall have no oathbreakers in my home."

(Let no-one ever say that Alexandrie de la Fontaine doesn't insist on parity.)

Comments

[bouchonne]

It's hard to say.

[ A shrug, and a dry smile down at his drink. ]

A fellow like me must be like a demon of the Fade, dear Lexie. I must take the shape of what is desired - or feared, or lusted-for. Do you understand that?

[coquettish_trees]

Of course I do.

[ What else had she been all these years but such a thing. A shifting creature that played whatever part allowed a step farther along the path of power. Eating hearts, stoking rage, encouraging fear, playing with the imbalances that fell behind her. ]

[bouchonne]

[ An exhalation. ]

Then that is where we may begin. Anything that can exist must, by necessity, grow from that soil.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Knowing what soil they till makes her want to reach all the harder. For in the space where she and Loki loved, she had tasted the wine of truth between liars and known the wonder of it. What it had done, as nothing else could have, to give her a home. To make her whole.

That is what she wants. To help him remember he has a shape of his own. To make a space where he can wear it. To lie on the autumn balcony with him as she had with Colin, that he, too, might re-learn how to be held with care as himself.

But it was selfish to want to be such a thing, and immensely presumptuous to think that she could be. And she had promised this would not be about what she wants.

And so, brandy. ]

I imagine you plant what seeds are given. That is the way of those who work that land, no?

Have you a garden of your own?

[bouchonne]

[ He runs his thumb around the outside of his glass. There's a grim sort of satisfaction in having her acknowledge it. No arguments, no protests - It's not good, but it's right. ]

My dear woman. You know full well that a disinherited heir receives no land to till. No; I simply work the plot that was given to me to work, knowing that neither the dirt nor the fruit truly belong to me.

[coquettish_trees]

Where is it, then, that we may plant this?

[ Whatever it is. ]

[bouchonne]

[ A hesitation. He toys with his glass. Then - a shrug. ]

I suppose...it might grow as a weed. Something not too obtrusive, so that it need not be uprooted.

[coquettish_trees]

[ A weed. Alexandrie laughs into her glass, her eyes sparkling with amusement like light catching on the sea. ]

I shall be a little stubborn weed with little stubborn flowers, like the ones beside the road.

[ She sips at the liquor—a little early for the richness of it, to be sure, but it aids her shawl against the breeze and plays well with the sun. ]

And I shall genteelly keep my roots to myself.

[ He has confirmed well enough what work he had taken up, but he wants to keep her anyway. A small thing for himself, which means he loves her a little, and she finds that’s enough. ]

[bouchonne]

[ He stares at her, momentarily at a loss for words. Laughter? Joy? In response to that? He finally manages: ]

And you are...content with this, dear Lexie?

[ Because it seems impossible that Alexandrie would permit herself to be a weed. ]

[coquettish_trees]

It is what I may have.

[ Alexandrie lifts her shoulders slightly. So have the pieces fallen. No matter the color of her heart, wishing otherwise would bring nothing but further agonies, and she has become so tired of weeping. She wants to be happy. ]

I should rather be small and green and living than radiant and beautiful and wilting uprooted.

[ She is hollyhocks at home, a valley of beloved brilliant blossoms. For him she can be a cornflower, a small brightness alongside the grain. She had used to like them well, the wildflowers. They were what they were.

Her smile is small and touched with rue as she takes her turn at watching her glass.]

I did not think I should be anything at all.

[bouchonne]

Is that so?

[ He toys with his drink. ]

I was quite under the impression that you preferred the life of a splendid rose - cut to lay upon a lover's tomb - to that of an unnoticed little daisy. You're partial to...grandness.

[coquettish_trees]

[ The corners of her mouth twitch upward with amusement, because she is. She knows it well enough, and will hardly disagree. ]

I take issue with being unnoticed, not with being a daisy. It is only that there are more who care for splendid roses.

[ Alexandrie waves her hand slightly, as if to forestall any further notion he might develop that she has, in fact, become a simple flower always. ]

That is hardly to say I have taken vows. I still greatly enjoy the stage. Bright lights, glittering jewels, drawing as many admiring eyes as I may. Being covered in more champagne than gown.

[ That had been a night. Her eyes laugh over the brandy for a moment before settling again to thoughtfulness. ]

But I have learned that I can be still without fear that I shall be looked away from the instant I cease to sparkle.

[bouchonne]

[ He does remember that night, yes. ]

Have you, now.

[coquettish_trees]

I have.

[ She sees you stalling, Byerly. Keeping the light on her so she will continue to expound and render it unnecessary for him to say anything, reveal anything. So that by the end of the conversation, he will have learned whatever it is he wished to and she will only later realize she learned nothing.

That's not how this goes, and she eyes him expectantly under slightly lifted brows to say so. ]

[bouchonne]

[ But he doesn't meet her eyes. Just asks, smoothly enough: ]

How did you learn it?

[ Because even though the mere thought of hearing her sing the praises of her Vint is enough to make him sick, he's far more comfortable when they're talking about her. ]

[coquettish_trees]

I wanted very much to help someone, and a close quietude was what was required to do so. He has not cherished me any less for it. All the more, rather.

[ Loki had taken up the torch, after Minrathous, but it had been Colin who lit it. ]

For his sake, I would bolt down a hallway wearing trousers and shove someone I care for.

[ She uncrosses her ankles to tap Byerly lightly on the shin with the side of one slippered foot. ]

[bouchonne]

[ He doesn't react to the little kick. Instead: ]

To help someone? Maker. I can't imagine silence helping anyone.

[coquettish_trees]

Nor could I.

[ another small lift of her shoulders. ]

But it was not merely silence, before. It was occupied, and the waltzes covered up what waited in it.

[bouchonne]

Well. And prevented boredom.

[coquettish_trees]

Only with an acceptable partner.

[bouchonne]

Do you often find yourself bored during a dance?

[coquettish_trees]

Not since I have begun to enjoy the immense luxury of dancing largely for my own pleasure.

[ She tilts her head curiously. ]

Have you been often obliged to take to the floor?

[ What do they teach at Fereldan spy school? ]

[bouchonne]

[ An easy shrug, and he answers a different question. ]

You don't recall the times we've danced together? You know how I do love a minuet.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Alexandrie sighs through her nose and looks down at the embroidery she'd brought. It was a new pattern, she'd only just started it today, and she briefly considers using it to keep tally of every time he dodges her. Sets bait for her. Misdirects her. A stitch for each.

She could make him a handkerchief adorned by lovely curling vines of his own avoidance.

She could make him two. ]

I do. Never once did I have cause for boredom.

[ Then, softly, of the dance they do now: ] I prefer the minuet.

[bouchonne]

[ It's simply so easy to hide. The courtly language they speak is so full of indirectness, metaphors, half-truths; it's a simple thing to use that familiar tongue to disguise his own half-truths. To retreat, as he always has. ]

Well, we shall have to dance it again sometime. You're a fine partner.