|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 12:49:29 GMT -5
So I'd ridden to the City of Elua. I carried with me the deed to our home and a letter of introduction from the Doge himself, ascertaining my identity and begging audience with Queen Corretta. Upon learning the death of Queen Sabrina de la Courcel, I had felt a pang of sorrow, quickly stilled, for she had been a kind ruler.
I was a lone traveller in simple garb, having ridden stubbornly through Caerddicas, and avoided large duchies and crowded roads, nigh bearing the appearance of a mere messenger, nothing more. I had my trusty rapier and years of anger on my side. I had a burning desire to live, and when I approached Millazza and entered its gates, I had wondered if I would feel the same detachment upon seeing the City of Elua's White Walls.
After a week's ride, I had my answer – my heart, Elua, my heart ached to as I saw the familiar shape of Mont-Nuit detaching itself from the landscape, and only then did I know why. What if all that awaited me was more mourning?
Fearful for no good reason other than my own mind's fast work, I had put off seeking out our old townhouse, and exhausted, made for Night's Doorstep, for the Cockeral, where I intended to settle in, if temporarily.
And so it was that I had leaned at a bar, my scant belongings dumped upstairs, my purse, deeds and letters safely tucked close to my skin, under my shirt. Unthinking, I scratched the scar on my forehead and ordered a pint of ale. I tried not to think of To-Biko's glaring absence and to focus on my drink. It was in this state that I had met Renard, a peer younger than me by but a few years, who reminded me of who I used to be. Unexpected acquaintances should be treasured.
The following day had been spent wandering the city on foot, remapping familiar places, making notes. I'd written to the Palace, begging an audience by favor of the Doge himself, my second-cousin.
Now there was nothing left to do, but wait. I'd never met Queen Corretta, that I recalled. I prayed she would grant me a chance to make my plea. It was a matter of presentation, of reasserting my presence and my rights to the house I'd been removed from so abruptly. Most importantly, I would beg leave to seek my sister out, and any assistance the Royal Crown may offer would be accepted gratefully.
Once more down at the bar, I downed my mug of ale and begged for another, and failed to observe the mingling crowd about. It mattered little. There was little left of the young and charming Duca sent years ago to the shining city. I suspected I looked the part of a mercenary, and not that of the dashing Duca. In this slum, it was for the best.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:00:22 GMT -5
Slowly my life was beginning to come back to me. The days weren't full of dark anymore, and I found I woke feeling peaceful more and more; no longer did I wake with tears on my cheeks, with my sheets twisted or dumped on the floor beside me with nightmares and memories plaguing me throughout my rest. No, now I woke and stayed in bed a moment only to stretch and reflect, not to try to catch my breath and pull myself back to reality, to consciousness. That wasn't to say, of course, that I was without my dark times, but they were receding, and my life was slowly becoming my own again.
Christelle, of course, helped. My darling little daughter, four months of age now, practicing her balancing skills of sitting up and smiling with unspoiled joy at the silliest of things. She was my balm, had always been my balm; there was nothing I wouldn't do to protect her, or do for her. Just a babe, but the head of the Trevalion household, and a Princess of the realm, both gifts from her father, who hadn't even known I was carrying her when he perished. I hadn't known either; the grief that followed his death was wrought with sickness, and had Augusts parents not called a doctor to tend to me, I might not have known until I began showing that I was pregnant. It was because of Christelle that I pulled myself through, and try as hard as I could for her, for both of us. Everyone I was close to though, it seemed, died. My parents when I was but ten years of age. Gillermo, whom I'd loved fiercely, but circumstances frightened me and brought a wedge between us. I'd hurt him, though I'd never wanted to. August died next, and Sabriel after, or so we thought... but Sabriel was returned to us somehow, our information mistaken. His reappearance had healed me in more than one way; maybe, just maybe, when we think all is lost, we find it's really not.
Work as well drew me out of my depression. I had that of my own duchy to care for, and now that of the Sovereign seat of Azzalle. I was but a regent, holding it for my daughter as I'd never wed August, and a part of me feared Sabriel was going to come after me to take it as his own. He could try, but the protectiveness in me that I felt over my daughter was something I'd never felt for anything or anyone before, and I thought mayhap he was underestimating me somewhat. Work, though, brought me out of my house, where I left Christelle with a wetnurse to care for her. This evening saw me at the lower section of Mont Nuit, having met with some glass blowers personally, preferring to go to them in their own places than request them to come to me. I'd smiled and talked with them for the better part of an hour, browsed their wares; this trip was for my own self, not for either duchy, wanting something delicate and pretty for Christelles room. Finally we came to an accord, and I paid it up front, then paused before leaving to give two coins each to his three children. The looks on their faces made me laugh and love them straight off, and I flashed the glassmaker a smile before I made my way out.
It was getting late, but I knew by the time I reached home Christelle would have been put to bed, so I decided to stay out a touch longer. Declining to take my coach, I made my way two streets down to a tavern I'd been to once or twice. Slipping inside, glanced about me, then made my way to the bar to sit, not wanting to take up a table all to myself. My dress was a soft blue, one that made my eyes appear paler than they were, and my hair was pinned back from my face, but falling in waves down my back. Settling in, I paid little attention to the people around me, and ordered a glass of white wine when the barkeep came.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:05:31 GMT -5
It was my third order of Alban ale, and I was contemplating ordering something stronger – maybe it was memories flowing back, and drink loosening my tongue, but so it was that I called out, a bit louder than was proper, “Host! A round of that awful whiskey of yours, for all about.”
Just as I settled back at the bar, my eyes caught sight of a flash of blue – oh, Asherat of the Sea, how the memory stung, suddenly, and more so as I caught a glimpse of blond hair, followed that fall of golden thread, to find a face too familiar not to ---
Mirielle.
Of all the faces in this dirty, lowly place, hers was the one I expected the least, an angel in a den of wolves.
I said nothing, willed myself to stop looking, but it were as though my body, my face, my eyes, all had rebelled against me. The name I'd given her then came to me unbidden, and I said it, barely audible, a gasp.
“Angel.”
The moment it was said, I prayed that it was lost to the confusion and the riotous partying which my order had induced. And still, my eyes could not stop looking, staring. I willed myself to stop, and turned around, harshly tearing my gaze from the beloved face. My voice was hoarse as I called again to the host.
“And fine wine for the lady.”
With that, I turned around and dug my nose in the remainder of my ale, before I shifted to that awful whiskey that I remembered she so loved. On the morrow, I would be poor, tonight – oh, tonight, I drunk my sorrows.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:09:52 GMT -5
It was noisy in here, but it was a pleasant sound to me, like the murmur and hum of people satisfied with their days and relaxing for the night... or at least, that's how I imagined it. I tried not to stare around me though, but looked ahead, my hands folded in my lap and my eyes studying the bottles on the shelf ahead of me. It fascinated me how detailed some of the labels were, and how simple others; some of the simpler ones, though, were the more expensive kinds. I was leaning forward a little when I heard the man next to me call out whiskey to those about.
I froze. It sounded too much like a ghost from my past for comfort, though this voice wasn't as smooth and cultured as the one I remembered. It was close though, so close that the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and my eyes stopped moving on the bottles while I remembered to breathe. In that moment, there was a draw of sharp breath, and it sounded like a word had been incorporated with it. This time, I was terrified to look. Just because Sabriel came back did not mean everyone else was going to. Sabriels return was a special case, and luck such as that didn't strike twice.
I bit my lip an looked down a little, but he spoke a third time, tacking on a wine for me, and I couldn't resist it any longer. I gasped and held my breath, the sudden flare of pain sparking bright in my chest. I don't know why I came here, I should have gone home. Should have went to my daughter, asleep or not. I couldn't handle this, not this much, not this quick.
So, rather than sitting and facing the ghosts of my past, I gathered my skirts and fled. My hand was at my mouth when I slid off my stool, and I walked through the maze of tables and straight to the door, pushing it open and disappearing into the night. I didn't go towards my coach, but away from it, needing a few moments to calm myself and cool myself, needing the night air to undo what had just been done.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:12:59 GMT -5
She fled, like a terrified doe. She'd not even looked at me. Self-consciously, I touched the scar on my temple. Damn Bedouins. I reached for my whiskey and downed it.
Blasted bullocks, she'd heard. She'd heard, and she'd known me – how could I hope she wouldn't? Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cursed myself in Jebe'z and stared at the bottles behind the host, willing them to bust open like my own heart was – I could not even tell.
She was alive, alive, my Angel – but alive and not mine, and that was something I'd best remind myself of, and sooner, rather than later. What did I care, if she got mugged, if someone stole her riches? What did I care if she was murdered, outraged if someone tore at her baby blue corsage and ----
“Curse the bloody broad,” I grunted as I left a handful of Ducats and broke through the crowd after her, running the moment the way was clear. She wasn't mine, true. I'd be damned and dead before some bastard laid his hands on her.
“My lady! My lady!” I called, and I knew not if I should sound like myself, or like another, or even find a new name for her, that would not make her leave. Other than that, I had no idea why I was running after her.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:18:39 GMT -5
Outside, I drew in breath after breath, trying to calm myself, to quell the shivering that had taken me over somewhere between here and my barstool. It wasn't him, gods, I was such a fool, such a fool to let someone who sounded like him chase me out, a fool for not facing down my fears and looking him in his face and proving to myself that it wasn't him. It wasn't him... Maybe if I repeated it enough times, I'd convince myself. I shivered, wrapping my arms around my middrift as I walked, setting a brisque pace, my toes kicking at my skirts, my eyes on the path ahead of me. I wasn't paying attention to anything, not to those who still lingered in the night, not the buildings I passed, or the name of the street I'd just crossed.
I'd managed to get mayhap a block when suddenly I heard the voice from my past calling out behind me, and before I knew it, tears were in my eyes. My back stiffened, and my feet stopped themselves no matter how my mind tried to get them to run. I stood for a long moment before I pulled together the courage to look. Slowly I turned, my eyes searching through the intermittent glare of lanterns and lamps, knowing exactly who I was looking for... and I saw him.
Him.
It was he, and it wasn't there was something different about him, and briefly I entertained the notion that mayhap it was a cousin, or a wayward brother, but in the pit of my soul I knew it wasn't. My hand flew to my mouth again as a sob suddenly fell from me, and I stood rooted in place, tears trickling over my cheeks as I watched the figure through a group of young men as they walked between us, and I whispered his name behind my hand, knowing he couldn't hear me.
"Gil?"
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:20:22 GMT -5
I paced myself, my lungs heaved faintly, and I exhaled through my nose, I shifted to a walk, pausing at a respectful distance, so as not to frighten her further.
“My lady,” I said again, and there was, whether I want it to be there or not, the slightest inflection on the my, which I tried to counter by not smiling, by looking as stern, as official as I could. Truth be told, it demanded little effort – I was furious.
“My lady,” I said again, this time with more authority. “It is not meet that you should venture out in this slum unescorted. Allow me to see you home safely, if you please.”
I bowed, but it was curt, short, stiff, angry even. “On my honor, you shan't be harmed, so long as I breathe.” And quieter, I added, “Allow me to offer you a selection other than fine wine, if it so offends you.”
It was the shadow of my old self, talking, I knew. It was the Serenissiman diplomat – not the man who bore a grid of whipping scars on his back or a slave's brand on his shoulder. My chin jutted up defiantly, I felt my lips spread in something close to an angry smirk.
“Or do you find the company so repulsive, that you would chose to face common thugs instead, my lady?”
Oh gods. I just had to ask. I steeled myself for the inevitable rebuke I knew would come, telling myself that she was nothing to me. Nothing. Nothing to me. Nothing.
What a lame lie.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:23:47 GMT -5
He was angry. I knew it, before I could even see the details of his face, before I could see how he carried his hands or the line of his mouth. Instinctively I knew it as much as if someone had whispered it in my ear, or shouted it from a rooftop, and I winced. He came to me, stalked almost, and I didn't know whether to back away from the sardonic ire, or whether I should fling myself on him and cry to the gods above. I quivered where I stood, letting him bow to me, letting him throw barbed words and cutting phrases at me, and each one struck like intended, lodging deep within me. I struggled to take a clear breath, one that wasn't choked with a sob, tried to stop myself from crying, but I was faced with two choices: One, stand and cry, and let him do what he would to me, or two, react. The choice to flee was gone; I was here, riveted by him, held in this space, in the space wherever he was, now, like his essence had sucked me in and held my soul captive.
Slowly I brought my hand down from my mouth, and with the last edged comment to me, I threw my purse at him. "You think I would choose such? You think I would.. that I could.."
Words fled me, and I wished I could run away, but I found myself walking towards him, not bothering to look to see if anyone was moving to cross in front of me as I walked. My face was a mask of anguish and surprise, pleasure and joy, with a thread of fury weaving through it all. Oh sweet Elua. He was here, standing, his blue eyes looking down into mine. He was still so angry, still so infuriated, and I drew a shaky breath, not trusting myself to press my face into his chest like I wanted to. "How could you?" I whispered, tears trickling down my cheeks again. The pain overwhelmed me, and I brought one hand up, hitting him in his chest. "How could you go? How could you leave like that? Where were you? You didn't tell me, you didn't send word, you didn't try to contact me..." I started hitting him then, my fingers bunched into little fists, hitting his chest with the bottom of my hand rather than like a man would. The tears fell faster, and the more I hit him, the more I spoke, the more thick my words were with grief and emotion. "You left! You left and you didn't tell me, they told me you were dead! Oh gods, Gil!"
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:25:21 GMT -5
Those tears – Elua, those tears. They were sourly sweet, both a balm and a twist of the knife. Had she ever been anything else to me? I thought not. I'd loved her then, I loved her still, and there were no words that I could form to respond to her questions, to the anger and the grief she expounded on my chest with every one of her hits.
I reached, then – unthinking, a gesture simple that was more natural than I expected it, my arms wrapped around her and I pressed her to my chest, nigh crushing her. I wanted to kiss every single one of those sweet tears away, to smooth her hair until she was soothed. Most importantly, I wanted to enfold her, protect her, keep her from shedding any more of those acrid tears. Instead I just stood there, crushing her to my chest, tense and unsure of what to say, unable to put in a condensed sentence all that had come to pass in the past year.
By gods, she could hit me as much as she liked – I deserved every hit she laid on me, and more, for everything I'd ever put her through.
“Mirielle,” I murmured finally, my own voice hoarse, broken with emotion. “Mirielle,” I said again, because that was all that my mind could offer, and I repeated her name, breathed it like one does the sweetest, headiest perfume, over and over, not defending myself or offering an answer.
In all earnest, she'd silenced every word I could conjure with her fury. My eyes were dry – tears, I'd shed no more, I feared. Instead, I felt as though I were made of stone, stuck in place, with an angel turned demon in the frozen circle of my arms, banging against my chest.
Certainly, she was Lady de Trevalion, now – wed to August, the Brat Prince whom she so claimed to love. Of course. And I would bring trouble into her life, merely by existing. Surely. I closed my eyes and found something to say, at last. My voice felt sandy when I murmured it.
“Forgive me.”
... well, that wasn't exactly what I thought I'd say when I opened my mouth. Gone, that witty retort about sending her home to her husband. Egad! I could not even remember how I'd phrased it.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:27:51 GMT -5
I was aware when he put his arms around me, pulled me tight against his chest, hugging me so hard that I could scarcely move my fists to punch him anymore, and I began sobbing into him. It was him, on Elua, it was him, the way he said my name, how his arms felt around me.. It was him, but he was different, too. I cried like a little girl against him, my tears soaking into the shirt covering his lean chest. He didn't hold me tenderly, just crushed me against him, but even that I took solace in. Before I knew it my fingers were tangled in his shirt and I was holding him, not struggling any more, letting the moment pass til my world stopped spinning wildly out of control.
But he'd said my name. He'd said it, again and again, emotion inflicting it even if nothing but force filled his arms. I heard in his voice then the Gillermo of old, the Fox who'd stolen my heart from its cage. My tears began to slow, but I continued to cling, ignoring everyone else around us, if there was anyone else around us.
Forgive me.
I pulled back a little, enough to look up a him, my cheeks and eyes glistening with wet. My fingertips tightened as I held his shirt still, though I couldn't have told the color or the cloth, the cut or length. I could have told though, of his eyes, blue and piercing, harder than before, but the same eyes. My lip quivered as I brought one hand up, touching his face gently, carefully, still half afraid he was an apparition that would fade like smoke at the slightest disturbance. But, no, he was solid, and warm, and hard and stubbly.. everything I remembered. My other hand touched the opposite side of his face, and I caressed his skin slightly, a quiver passing through my body in the silence between us.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:34:57 GMT -5
There was quiet – or rather, the chaos around us was barely a faint buzz, passing unregistered. Night's Doorstep was never known for being a quiet place. At long last, Mirielle stopped with her sobbing and looked up at me, and gods, tear-stricken as she was, I felt awful for finding sweetness in her crying.
My hand travelled up her spine in a rough caress – as though I'd forgotten how to touch, and I was trying, and gods, I touched her silhouette, finding her – different, a little, but again, a year had passed and --.
I turned my head into her palm, but I never stopped looking at her, even as my lips gruffly grazed the inside of her hand.
“Woman,” I murmured, and I could not help the word, she was so feminine, everything in her beckoned, fired me up, like spark does on well dried kindle. Finally, I touched her hair, with fearful fingers terrified of causing her more pain, tugging, even simply giving her an unwelcome touch.
And I had no words, other than the obvious with which I was suffused. But sometimes, the lame and the obvious suffice.
“I'm glad to see you.”
Simple words, but my voice was hoarse with emotion – and with hope. Did this mean my sweet sister lived as well?
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:39:29 GMT -5
I couldn't help but touch him. I couldn't help but to draw my fingers across his cheeks, in wonder and surprise, still trying to convince myself that it was really him. He touched my back, drawing his hand up the center, and I found myself leaning into it some, remembering how it felt, remembering how he smelled, how he looked down at me, remembering him. Almost as if he were reading my thoughts though, he turned his head and brushed his lips against my palm, the words he spoke against them almost muffled for it.
Through the tears, through the pain and the shock, that was all I needed to hear to make me smile. My glistening cheeks and eyes reflected the curve of my mouth, and I caressed my hands over his cheeks and down across his jaw, leaving one remaining there while the other dipped down to gently cup the side of his neck.
"Gillermo," I whispered, my voice shaky through the smile on my mouth. "Oh gods, Gil, I can't believe you're alive... I can't believe you're really here!"
Something changed in me in that moment, and a piece of me that had been broken and lost when August died returned. I felt.. hope. Hope not just for my daughter, but for myself too, for Terre d'Ange and all of the people everywhere. Two such people who'd meant so much to me had returned, and I began believing again that anything was possible. Before I knew what I was doing, I threaded my arms around his neck and laid my head on his shoulder, pressing my eyes against his neck, and hugged him tenderly, but with a unspoken need to not let go of him. Not yet. Not yet.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:41:06 GMT -5
I didn't want to let myself believe, but gods, how tempting it was to sweep her into my arms, then, and steal a kiss from her. But the Sovereign Duchess of Azzalle was holding me, speaking to me, pressing her face into my neck, and all I could do was stand there with less grace than I wished and less ease, feeling almost uncomfortable, wanting to ask what August would think and not daring.
But gods, it was sweet and selfishly, I took it in, her touch and her words and the joy on her lips, on those beautiful lips which I could not stop staring at, feeling drawn to them like a dimwitted moth to a flame, and without thinking, I leaned in toward them.
“Sorry I'm late,” I heard myself murmur, half a breath away from the prize. And for fear that she might refuse it, egad, I took it, stealing the kiss so coveted. I'd not kissed anyone since the Valerian adept I'd pressed to the horse and whipped, the week after she'd let me go, and the memory of it was blurry. What I remembered was Mirielle's kisses, which always seemed to taste of salt and tears. Just then, I didn't care. One kiss – just one kiss, and she would slap me and run away, and I'd deserve it. One kiss and Azzalle would be against me, and damned as I was, I didn't care.
A kiss from Mirielle, oh, that was worth a thousand pains, and beyond.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:41:33 GMT -5
Was this a dream? Mayhap that explained it, the way that everything else had faded away, the way that nothing else mattered but this, here and now. I held him and remembered him, my arms wound around his neck and unwilling to let go, and all I could think was that he was here. He was warm and solid, he was tall and handsome, even if he did look different, more beraggled and downtrodden. But it was him, not just some look-alike cousin; the longer I stood here with him, the more of him seemed to return, and the anger he'd harbored had faded from him. It was awful but I felt torn between holding him like this and touching him again with my fingers, just to try to convince myself that I wasn't sleeping.
He moved, and I pulled back enough to look at him, my cheeks and eyes drying slowly with the early-night air. His murmur brought a flash of a smile to my face; it was so suave and smooth, so much like him, but Elua bless me, he was so close. So close... and then he kissed me.
How I didn't gasp against his mouth I didn't know, but I was frozen for the barest of seconds before I tightened my hold around his neck, and kissed him in return. I wasn't pushy or demanding, but my lips were pliant and soft beneath his, accepting, encouraging, not at all put-out or upset. Right now nothing existed for me, nothing but this little bubble that had gone up around me. I let out a soft breath against his cheek, and didn't pull away, but even parted my lips slightly for him.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:45:35 GMT -5
Gods, this kiss. If I had but one wish after it ended, it would have been to die, and the irony – the very deep irony of the thought did not escape me. I smirked to myself – the thought was wry, and I turned my head to cradle her, to kiss her cheek in return, wanting to somehow reassure her that I was still there.
But, what now? Barely arrived in the city, not even having stayed a fortnight, and here she was again, my Angel, crying and pounding me with her fists and now all cat-like, pressing herself against me.
And I was at a loss for words, and rightfully felt like a dolt for it. Where had my eloquence gone? Wiped off by my selfishness, certainly. For a moment, we just stood there, wrapped in each other, and I finally whispered in her hair, almost fearfully, bracing for the kick in the guts her expected answer would certainly provide me with...
“Aren't you expected, Mirielle?”
Gods and goodness be damned. I prayed he treated her well – and part of me hoped that Mirielle would have recriminations, giving me leave to be her righteous defender. The other part hated the thought that she could have suffered, somehow. Mostly, though, I was just listening, attentive, worried.
But perhaps this was all it was, and all it could be. And even for this short moment with her, I was more grateful than I could say.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:48:29 GMT -5
He was being so careful and sweet, and I could have sighed in happiness, the little bubble we were standing in blocking out everything else in the world but this singular moment in time. My eyes closed when his lips touched my cheek, and for a moment there was nothing but quiet around us, and slowly I began acclimating myself to the feel of his arms around my waist again, his fingers touching my hair. He used to love my hair...
He spoke, and it brought a wave of confusion through me; mentally I ran through everything these past few moments, but I couldn't think of when I'd have offended him... unless he was not over what happened before...
I closed my eyes, and nodded. I was expected, for Christelle, and I knew if I didn't come home within the hour they would begin to worry, if they weren't already. My servants were like family to me, cared for my daughter like their own when I wasn't at home, and always seemed to watch out for me, too. That Gil knew about her I didn't doubt, not with the proclamation that had gone out at Augusts heir being born, and the new Duchesse of Azzalle, the new head seat of House Trevalion. The news was nearly as big as Augusts death had been, a joy to match the sadness.
"They'll be wondering where I am," I whispered. The little bubble around us had been shattered, and I felt the tug to be with by daughter again, but I stood where I was for antoher moment, looking at him, watching him. Carefully I brought my hand to cup his cheek again; where before I was assuring myself he was real, now it was a fond gesture, and a smile haunted the lines of my lips again. "I've missed you," I whispered, my voice thick with a near overwhelming gratefulness that he was alive.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 13:49:54 GMT -5
There were no thoughts as my head other the fact that she was... still... there. My hand met with hers, and again I kissed the inside of her palm.
I've missed you more than life itself, I wanted to say, my heart beating wildly. Instead, I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of her skin, that which was so very unique, so very much... hers. I'd tried to recreate it in my mind a thousand times, but it was her, or nothing. Memories were but a pale reflection of reality.
But what was the use – the purpose of this? Wasn't she going to walk away, or turn around and leave me once more? A year had gone by, that had felt like a century, and she was as radiant as day, not aged, as fleeting and beautiful as I remembered.
“Your prince must be waiting,” I finally murmured against her wrist. “Won't he be sad if you make him wait further?”
I tried to sound detached. Doubtless, I succeed. Not caring had made a fast business of becoming my specialty.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 13:54:15 GMT -5
He kissed my palm and I felt a little quiver pass through me, an affect he'd always had. My free hand came up and I touched his hair, longer than I remembered, traveled over his forehead to his scar, but I shied away from touching that, wondering what happened to him. My eyes took his in again, drinking them in as a dying man did water, and vaguely I was aware of of movement on the street near us, but I paid it no mind.
My brows furrowed slightly when he spoke, confused; my prince? He sounded like he didn't care, but it was at odds with the tender way he cradled my wrist, how he closed his eyes and breathed, and a jumble of emotions passed through me. "My Prince?" I asked, unsure what he meant.. Surely he couldn't mean... Oh Elua, he didn't know?
I swallowed twice before I could speak, and I tried for my voice to be full of sureness, but it came out a whisper anyway. "The only way I can join him is to go to the Terre d'Ange of beyond," I murmured, then bit my lip, teeth catching my flesh as I looked up at him, his eyes, searching them. "You don't know? Truly? Oh sweet Elua Gil, what happened to you? Where were you?"
My lip trembled again and I brushed my fingers through his hair once more, a tender caress that tried to comfort him, tried to bring some solace to whatever it was he'd been through. I wanted to cry again, sure whatever it was that happened to him wasn't an isolated thing, and it had stretched on. Suddenly the weathered look of his face, his rough hands, his down-ridden appearance really hit me, and I saw all of him, not just his beautiful eyes. I didn't stop touching his hair tenderly though, not sure what else to do to make him feel better, but knowing I had to try something.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 14:12:55 GMT -5
I had to still myself entirely as Mirielle spoke of Terre-d'Ange-That-Lies-Beyond, and my arm around her tightened a little more secure, as though to prevent her from going anywhere – which frankly was exactly what my unformulated intent was.
“Elua, Angel,” I whispered, and gathering her closer, in a gesture made awkward by the conflicting emotions the news brought me, I tried to wrap my arms around her more tightly.
I said nothing more, answered no questions for now – the tale was long and my mind was on her, not on Carthage or the blasted eunuch and his blasted whip. To be fair, Mirielle Bellamont's beauty and her tender touch were a far more beckoning thought to entertain.
“I hope you're not making any traveling plans,” I finally managed to say, roughly, my voice a rasp against her ear. “And if you are, I hope you'll take a moment to hear about my objections to such a project.”
If she was, I would – oh, god forbid. I would tie her up until she saw reason. There had been enough death for a lifetime.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 14:15:12 GMT -5
I sought to comfort him, and he sought to comfort me. I didn't know if he was avoiding it and speaking of it, or if he simply heard nothing more than what I'd said to begin with and focused on that. It didn't matter, right now nothing mattered. His arm pulled me closer, but it wasn't the rock that it was originally, when I'd hit him and cried - already I was mortified that I'd done that - but it was something more real.. more heartfelt.
I did take comfort in it, truth be told, and the little nickname he called me, the very same he'd called me so long ago. My hair shifted and rippled down my back when I shook my head no to his question, but a sad smile came to my mouth with his remark on me waiting to hear his objections. "No, no, nothing like that," I replied. My gaze held steady on Gils, and the sadness faded away into a more timeless tenderness. "I couldn't be so selfish... I had his child, four months back."
I waited for it, waited for him to back away from me. Sabriel hadn't run from me, but I could tell too that he wasn't pleased.. though for Sabriel, it was entirely different matters. Christelle had what he thought should be his, and Gil? I wasn't sure what he was going to think, or how he was going to react. I wouldn't hide her though, not from anyone.. My daughter meant more than just the world to me; she was me, in more ways than one. I didn't pull away from him though, but remained steady against him, taking in the feel of his arms around me, mine around him, his stubble brushing the fine skin of my ear. It might be for the last time, I knew, if he reacted to this news so badly.. and if it was the last time, I wanted to remember it as wholly as I could.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 14:19:02 GMT -5
She spoke and the words clambered in my ears, merging into a jumble that made no sense, re-emerging into something... different and both terrifying and beautiful. A child... the thought was nigh horrifying, not because of life, or a babe, but because of the very tangible proof that Mirielle had been his – was his, somehow, still, through the babe I could not help but see suckling at her breast.
I'd dreamed of this, once – the memory flashed before my eyes, my person, bound for safety, battling the Ka'sho'rok's awful intent, and her, beautiful, forgiving, generously giving me a sponge bath as I made light of a situation too dire to ignore. I'd asked if she'd let me court her, and she'd agreed. I'd wanted to promise her Kriti, and Azzalle, and little blond heads to call her own.
That she'd had August's child instead, with him buried in frozen death, while I was a slave in shackles... The thought was maddening, and all I did was blink. A vision of claw marks on her beloved body flashed before my eyes – Elua, how I'd wronged her, hurt her, merely by going to her in the past. Slowly my hand reached to touch her face, and for a moment I said nothing, only looking into her hazel eyes, letting myself drown into the wonder-filled knowledge that she was alive, and had begot life herself.
She was a living miracle.
The question I asked came unbidden, and for some reason, it seemed important, so very important that I asked with an urgency with surprised me.
“-- a blond child, Mirielle?”
I didn't dare let myself think of why it was so important.
[OOC: Why yes, I have been re-reading the epic thread of demons, curses, sponge baths and endless love declarations. ^^]
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 14:20:42 GMT -5
From the way he was still, how he didn't seem to want to move, I was worried that he'd back away from me, turn, and disappear into the night. I had to work to keep my arms from tightening around him, to let him walk away if that's what he chose, but I couldn't stop myself from pressing my face against the side of his neck again. I drank him in, the feel and smell, which underneath the dirt, was still him. Memories flashed through me, and all the work I had done to keep my arms still vanished and I held him a little firmer, a little closer, damning myself for it all the while.
His hand touched my face though, and I leaned back enough to be able to look at him, my eyes taking in his as his took in mine. I couldn't read him like I used to be able to; I was afraid he was hurt and angry still, and couldn't decide if those emotions were in his gaze or if I were only seeing them because I expected them.
His question took me off guard though, but I didn't hesitate in answering him, not having anything to hide, though much to worry over. "She was born with dark hair," I said leaning my face a little against the gentle touch of his hand. "But it's lightening some as she gets older. I don't know what it'll be in a year, or two, or five."
My own eyes were still emotion-charged as they held on his, a myriad of feelings still swirling through me like a tornado bound inside the cage of my ribs. Still the strongest was shock that he was alive, and relief too, that the candle of his soul hadn't been snuffed out.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 15:02:22 GMT -5
I nodded, trying not to think of the implications, of whose daughter this was Mirielle spoke of with so much love, or rather, whose daughter it was besides her own. Slowly, I reached to touch her face, a callused thumb to gently touch her silky cheek, and I looked at her, considering, made thoughtful.
“A widow and a mother, Angel,” I whispered slowly. “You have suffered more than your share.”
A breath, and I closed my eyes, gathered her to myself, closer, if she would let me. “Who sees to your safety, Mirielle? Is there one to protect you, and the babe?”
Impulsively, I wanted --- I wanted – and it felt foolish and brash, and so very presumptuous. I'd hurt her, once, and just this night she'd shed more tears than I cared to see her yield. Mayhap – I should not be considering, I told myself.
You will only cause her more pain. She couldn't possibly want you – and more so now with August's babe at her breast, you fool.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 15:42:21 GMT -5
Angel.. He called me it again, and I felt the warmth of old come to me, infusing my chest, and I was glad he was holding me to keep my knees from quivering. I tried to focus on that and not his words, but I couldn't help myself and I drew a soft breath. When he drew me closer I went, my eyes closing briefly, my own arms still twined around his neck and having no intentions of letting go. Unlike before, the bubble was gone and I was well aware of where we stood, but it somehow made it more.. real.
"I protect us," I said softly, opening my eyes to look at him. One hand came up, caressing through his hair at the nape of his neck, tender little touches, remembering its silkiness, remembering its texture. "And not a widower, but definitely a mother... We never married, but were only engaged. I suppose you could say we jumped ahead of ourselves," I said, shrugging a little. I knew he didn't like to talk about August; he never had, but some things needed to be said, needed to be explained.
I looked into his eyes, I looked at his eyes, and just barely stopped myself from rising on toe to press my mouth to his again. It would never do, not after what we were speaking about, but a tremulous array of feelings were within me, and as the shock slowly was fading, another, emotion was rising. "Gods I'm so glad you're here," I whispered, my voice a little shaky with sudden emotion. "I don't know where you were, or what happened, but I'm so glad you're here."
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 16:04:20 GMT -5
Feeling welcomed – and wanted by her, when the last time I'd spoken with her, she'd chosen another. Another who was now dead, who perhaps still competed with me from the grave for her love, but over whom I now had the unbeatable advantage of being alive.
Ah, August. His ghost would ever stand between Mirielle and I, represented by his daughter, a child I prayed would take entirely after her mother – for Mirielle's gifts are generous indeed.
“Aye,” I said again, and my throat tightening as I spoke, I said, voice raspy and barely a creak, “And I am glad to be here,” and it was almost a lie, because part of me knew, deep down, that I would only ever be second best.
I did not know if I could accept it, and my heart ached at the thought. Another deep breath.
“It's late,” I said, simply. I hated to part ways, though.
If she allowed it, I would see her home.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 16:41:12 GMT -5
His voice changed, dropped, became quieter, and I couldn't begin to grasp what must have been going on in his mind; I could barely grasp my own. All I knew at the moment was the texture of his hair, the rougher clothes he wore, the scar at his temple that had never been there before.. His skin was tanner, his face was more haunted, but his eyes.. His eyes were his own, his lips were as I remembered, and if his body was leaner, not as thick with muscle, it was still the same too.
I parted my lips to speak, but he beat me to it, and the words I was going to say were lost to eternity. At least thrice now he reminded me I had to leave, and I was reminded all to keenly the pain I'd caused him when we parted ways last. I nodded and dropped my gaze, leaning down and away from him, not even remembering when I'd drawn myself up on toe.
"I'm sorry," I said, tucking my arms down to my sides again, self consciously smoothing my dress over my hips. "You're right, I should take my leave."
My purse was gone, and I caught sight of it on the ground next to him from when I'd thrown it. My cheeks flamed crimson, and, mortified, I dipped to retrieve it, my heart fluttering in my chest as I clutched the cloth. "I.... It was good seeing you again," I said awkwardly, not wanting to push him into spending more time with me, and not knowing if he could tell how I wanted to spend more with him. I wanted to know - what had happened to him? Where had he gone? Why hadn't he written? It ate at me til I thought I would have a hole through my midsection, but all I did was press my fingers against my cheeks, trying to cool the blush that spread across them.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 16:51:56 GMT -5
She looked so vulnerable – I looked at her as she retreived her purse, eyes drinking her shape hungrily – I felt like a ravenous wolf, wanted to touch her, Elua, the urge to kneel and slip my head under her skirts to find the familiar scent of her overcame me, quickly ignored.
I shivered, my hand flexed, and I steeled my face to calm, though desire suffused me like a violent shot of Ruskovian liquor, burning, painful and exhilarating.
“I think,” I said slowly, and I felt as if words were heavy, terribly heavy in my mouth, “that you should go home to your daughter, Mirielle. Babes miss their mother's teats when they are apart for too long.”
I bit back something about August and Mirielle's teats, and instead took a breath. “Would you do me the honor of accepting my escort?”
There were excellent reasons for this. I wanted to know where she lived. I wanted to stay with her a while longer. I wanted to see her safe. I wanted...
Oh, merciful Kushiel.
I wanted her.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 16:59:42 GMT -5
I flinched when he told me to go home to my daughter, and I felt as if I were less apt a mother than I should me. My cheeks burned hotter, and I drew myself up a little more, but I couldn't quite mange any sort of real affrontment to him, not like I would had anyone else insinuated it. If anything, I felt.. defeated.
"I don't want to take you away from anything," I said, barely keeping from adding that I didn't want to put him out, either. I had the distinct feeling he was offer out of obligation only, and that was the last thing I would ever want from him, to feel obligated in any way towards me. I drew a small breath.
"My carriage is parked this way." I said it softly, barely outside the realm of a whisper, and I turned as if to walk, unsure of where things were with us. He'd kissed me, he knew I was not with August, and he urged me to leave him. I was confused, so confused, and though I'd found a piece of my missing soul tonight, I somehow felt more lost in this moment than I had in a long time.
|
|
|
Post by Gillermo Stregazza on Jun 11, 2011 17:27:11 GMT -5
Elua, this was hard. It was hard to watch as Mirielle flinched and bowed her head in shame and harder yet to pretend that I wasn't seeing her body in the shining moonlight, and mine over hers, lost in a labor of love.
But goes, I hated myself for being so curt, and yet hated her for having a carriage - would that I could take her home, even astride. I didn't think I had it in me to tell her everything that had come to pass, not this night, at any rate. I didn't think it wise to do as I willed, to crush her lips under mine and press her to a wall like commoners to wenches, nor did I think it fair to myself, to her, or to the child, that we should act brashly.
She would prove a distraction, I told myself ruthlessly.
“I'm not expected anywhere,” I finally said carelessly. I reached to touch her arm, to take her hand. “Let me take you home, ride with me, Mirielle, and send the damn box away. It's been a year.”
The latter was not exactly what I'd planned to do, or say. But then again, my mind had every been split by half, and more so when dealing with the Duchesse Bellamont.
|
|
|
Post by Mirielle Bellamont on Jun 11, 2011 18:17:51 GMT -5
There was a moment of quiet between us, though how long it lasted I couldn't have said, lost in the awkward thoughts and feelings that coursed through me. I didn't know what he wanted, I didn't know what I should say. I knew what I wanted to say.. Hold me, stay with me, don't leave...
Say you forgive me.
Forgive, but was there anything to forgive? I had Christelle, and I would never be sorry for it, or sorry I bore her, but I was sorry of how things had gone. Yes, I decided, there was things to forgive, though neither did I forget everything else during those dark days.
Those days were over, though, and this.. This was now. I was on the cusp of biting my lip when he finally spoke, his hand coming out to capture my arm and move to my hand. I opened my mouth to tell him he wasn't obligate towards me, that he didn't have to feel responsible for me because of past feelings... but the words melted before they could even get out of my throat, and I nodded. "Alright," I said softly, my hand grasping his gently. I didn't care how he wanted to take me home, even if it was riding on his back, or carried in his arms; I would acquiesce anything in this moment in time.
Silence hung over us as we walked, hand in hand, the short distance where my carriage waited. I didn't say it, but I was silently happy, thrilled, at so small a touch, and by the time my carriage was sent away, my blush was blessedly gone. I looked up at him curiously, still unable to help the marvel I felt at just being able to see his face. "I'm yours, now," I said, before realizing how that came across. My blush returned with a fury, and I covered my mouth with my free hand, terrified at how he might react. "I mean, Oh Elua, to take home!"
Oh hells! That wasn't any better. Utterly mortified, I groaned softly, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.
|
|