Don't Panic || Aoife + Cillian
Aoife's head had been spinning her entire trip back from Lorcan which, luckily, was much shorter given that she'd managed to catch a ride on the back of a cart headed towards Malconaire's village. Saoirse's words were playing over and over in her head. There's a rumor that...that you and...Sebastian Varmont were..."
There's a rumor that you're carrying his child."
It wasn't true and she knew anyone with half a bit of sense in their heads would know wasn't true- that rumor and any of the other ridiculous ones that were circulating about her sisters. But Aoife knew there was one person who would both know it wasn't true but still want to seek retribution on behalf on the Malconaire. That person was Ronan.
Aoife hopped off the back of the wagon as it slowed to take the bend near her home, waving at the driver to thank him before setting off in a run back towards her home and straight towards one of the few people who might be able to stop Ronan from doing something completely mad.
"Cillian!" Aoife burst into the stables, breathless. Cillian looked a bit shocked, which was unsurprising as Aoife rarely appeared at any places\ with such urgency.
"You have to take me to Ronan. I have to talk to him before-- before he--" Aoife couldn't process the words, thoughts coming all at once. What if Ronan had somehow heard the rumors already? What if he was halfway to Stafford as he spoke?
"I know you must know what's being said about me, Cillian," Aoife turned to him. "That they're more than the horrible lies being spread about my sisters. But I know there's... there's other things being said about how... Sebastian and I being seen in... in... compromising positions at the Emperor's tournament-- which of course isn't true! But I know how he is, Cillian-- Ronan, I mean-- I know how he is and it seems as if its gotten worse since he left so... I just... I have to talk to him. I don't want him to get hurt and I... I don't want him to hurt Sebastian.
Cillian was whistling while he worked, breathing in the warm, rich scent of the soil, black and cool on his hands. He liked this work, it made sense to him. There were plenty of things, of course, which he enjoyed which did not make sense to him -- Cassandra Varmont, perhaps, being the leading example -- but working the land had a calming effect. Malconaire had always proven a bread basket of sorts to Astaira, and so perhaps it was simply that the work was always both effective and beneficial, but there was something rewarding in hard work always paying off.
It was a merry tune upon his lips -- one which had been stuck in his head since Arthur Varmont's bard (who had proven himself quite the musician) had played it at the gala. It was true that he'd not so much attended the event as observed it, ensconced high in a tree where precious few saw him, but he'd heard and seen much of it. Good and bad. Just now, however, his thoughts were far from that, meditating more on the simple, wholesome pleasures of his life, planting just as his father had taught him, so long ago.
All such thoughts fell immediately away, however, as he heard Aoife's voice calling across the field. She sounded tense. He stood, immediately, scanning the fields for her, and hastening her way as soon as he spotted her.
His brows arched in astonishment at her request. His breath caught. He licked his lips, brushing his dirty hands off on his apron, absentmindedly. He stopped, met her eyes again.
"Aoife..."
He didn't quite know what to say. He had to refuse her, surely. But could he? He didn't think he'd ever turned Aoife down, for anything. She and Eithne never asked him to do anything that wasn't eminently reasonable, and besides, Cillian would do anything for love, even if it hadn't been...but he was caught here. Aoife was a sister to him; Ronan was his brother. Was he meant to choose between them?
But an answer came. Neither of them would wish for Aoife to see him as he was, now. Neither of them. Still, it was hard to deny her. It was hard to say what he had to say.
Exhaling slowly, he chewed his lip. "Aoife, I'm sure you're thinking o,f--Ronan isn't...He's not how he used to be." It pained him to say this, burning in the hollow just above his heart. He rubbed at it with his hand, jaw working. "What is it you want, I--I can tell him, whatever it is. It's better if you don't see him, Aoife. It's better if..."
He frowned, a nagging uncertainty whispering in his head. "Before he what?"
Cillian colored, looked away. He did know the rumors. He hadn't credited them for a moment, naturally, but he knew how she must feel, and he was angry besides. He still felt the tug to do his worst. But he hardly even knew where to direct his fury.
"Where did they even begin?" he murmured. Oh, Valentina had made them wildfire at the gala, he knew that much, but he also felt sure she wasn't the originator of these words. She was that devious, no doubt, but they weren't her style. He couldn't put his finger on it, precisely, but it didn't seem like something she'd invented. They had just enough basis in fact to cause doubt amongst those who did not know the particulars nor the players well, and that was their brilliance. Likely, it was meant to be a gambit to discredit the princes (it was only Valentina who stood to profit from the Malconaires' part of the scandal as far as Cillian could tell) -- their obvious favor of the Malconaires simply pointing the way to his ladies -- but who would benefit from discrediting all the princes? Guinevere, perhaps, but it seemed even less like her than it did like Valentina...The Hand of the Emperor? Might Ciara know something?
Hearing Aoife's voice, again, he was pulled from his thoughts. His head snapped up to hers. "You've seen him." It wasn't a question. Her testimony that he'd gotten worse could mean nothing else. "You--but--when? Where?" He and Saoirse had been careful, so far, to keep the matter from him, but if he was venturing out -- she was right to worry. If, however, she'd only seen him in the Old Forest, well...
"I--Aoife, please tell me everything."












