Halone's Winter, Coerthan Spring

Rosaire Ledigne on Balmung; likes from @eggplant-squire; OOC at @hasty-touch

[petyrbaelishs]

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be;—in Marianne he was consoled for every past affliction;—her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend.

[rachaelanthoney]

0907; Inside Duomo di Milano

[furymint]

screens from @greening-coerthas‘ teatime in late january! bonus of @ser-rex under the cut.

Keep reading

[hasty-touch]

                                              Little Ladies’ Day.

  FFXIV © Square Enix; Rosaire Ledigne is mine; Gwenneth Ledigne is @rose-in-the-stone’s.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Green Coerthas.

For your generous support, we of the Institute for the Greening of Coerthas and Dravania express to you our profoundest gratitude, for without the generosity of patrons such as your esteemed House, we could never have embarked upon this enterprise; and though our part in it be but humble, it is a project that could not, in mine own estimation, be more important or holy -- for the stewardship and cultivation of Coerthas is not only essential to ensure the bread and livelihoods of our smallfolk, but a sacred duty that we of Halone's faith must uphold as part of Her Covenant. And as Halone promised us this land, we must promise it to our descendants, and push through this Era's challenges to see it productive and prosperous, to hand on to our children and grandchildren, in hope and prayer of a spring that once more blossoms from the lowlands to the highlands, and a summer that is once more green 

It's there his pen suddenly stops, and, after a minute of stillness, he sets it down. 

He rises from his desk, crossing to the stairs and descending them slowly, one step at a time, cane, foot, foot. He passes through the hall as quietly as he can, easing the bedroom door open with his shoulder and craning his neck to peek 'round at the woman and child dozing there, just the same as he had left them two bells ago.

Like the snow that had fallen steadily since Heavensturn, the Ledigne household had slowly and gradually settled, from the first sennight's nightmare to the restless sleepwalk of the second, to the hazy third, the quiet fourth, and then the dreaming, peaceful, of the fifth and this, the sixth. Gwenneth was weak, but through that fortnight of terror, she lived -- and, gradually, she found her way out of that dark wood, spending more and more time awake and conversant, though she oft preferred just to hold her daughter in her arms and gaze at her in silent wonder, stroking her few soft curls with her fingertips. The maid Miolleane returned, then Clavis, in whose company Rosaire spent much of his time, practicing tricks and playing games to keep the raven happy and, with luck, from associating Alysse's arrival with his own neglect. Their prospects turned from dour to bright, enough that they were soon hosting tea again, bringing him an endless series of hands to shake and congratulations to accept on the birth of his child.

He now approaches the bedside, laying his cane aside to proceed on tiptoe -- but stops next to Gwenneth, an anxious gaze falling upon her, pausing to confirm the subtle rise-and-fall of breath. Her face is yet wan, but a bit of pink has crept into it again, and she is beautiful -- more beautiful than an angel, his irreplaceable rose -- and he feels a deep pang with even the briefest recollection of how he felt a moon ago, when he was forced to consider if, without her, he could survive.

By the grace of Halone, he would not be put to that test. He owes Her a pilgrimage, one of many things promised in his frantic supplications; he'll plan it for Nymeia's moon, he supposes, as till spring he'll stay close by his lady's side. Each time he leaves the household -- even the same room, even her side -- he struggles to pull his anxious thoughts away from her, just as he now struggles not to reach down to brush a lock from her face, leaving her instead to her precious rest.

He turns again to the bassinet and approaches -- with dread.

At the time he had promised Gwenneth his hand, he had also made a promise to Halone (and more to Her than to his lady herself) to keep no secrets from his intended wife -- and yet as soon as this, he skirts breaking it.

There is something he's not told her -- or Nurse Berthoise, Helenne, or Doctor Ferdillaix, or any other soul, in part because he was so slow to recognize it, his mind being completely consumed with thoughts of Gwenneth in those first few days. By the time the realization dawned, he wondered if it was perhaps too late to say anything -- if that thing was not itself too horrible to be said. So he kept silent -- and keeps silent, working the muscles of his face into an acceptable smile when necessary, responding to congratulations with the proper social grace, rattling off some inane comment about her growth and appetite when questioned. He files the truth away and presents his impeccable poker face, and so far has not been met with suspicion, as far as he can tell; no one knows.

No one knows but he, and he is sickened and ashamed:

He does not love Alysse.

Such a turn of events is, really, quite logical to expect. All his life he has known of that defect of his character -- less defect than strength, when 'twas his duty to serve Halone with the Inquisitor's tools -- that makes him incapable of tender feeling, or at least not capable in the manner of ordinary men. As a child, he looked upon his parents with, at best, indifference; from his adolescence, he no more wept, and the sights of the Special Office never once disabled him with horror. It is what makes him Rosaire the Staid, the logical and clear-sighted, an excellent servant of Halone's nation and a poor facsimile of a living, mortal man.

He does love Gwenneth. He fears he loves her not as well as she deserves, that his passions are not as warm and pure as those of the lover worthy of her -- but she chose him regardless, and he accepted that choice, as the unworthy supplicant accepts the grace of the Twelve. For her he lay aside his woodcuts, and through her he began to learn how to live as a man, to scheme no more in the shadows and instead to savor, for their own sakes, the pleasures of friendship and family.

Gwenneth is his angel of life; his heart beats for her. So perhaps it is not strange for that heart to be cool to the one who was nearly the agent of her demise.

She adores Alysse, embracing her closely and looking on her face with awe. But when he looks at her face, that awe doesn't strike him. Most oft, he feels nothing at all. Her puffy, creased face does not strike him as particularly darling, and though her tiny fingers are perhaps moreso, they are not to him any more precious than any other infant's -- and among the many things for which he is known, a fondness for infants is not. Sometimes, when Berthoise holds Alysse towards him and the child gurgles, he finds himself turning away in aversion, even a sort of disgust -- and on a few occasions, when Gwenneth was still very unwell, he would watch Alysse fidget and whine and be suddenly hit by an upswell of rage, a reaction itself so upsetting he'd immediately quit the room, appalled at himself.

She is an innocent babe, and Gwenneth's child, besides -- so of course he does his part to hover attentively over her, small though a one-armed father's part may be next to a mother's or a nursemaid's. He is anxious for her wellbeing and assiduous in his attempts to proof the house against the infectious miasmas of the city, and every night he prays for the Twelve to preserve and protect her young life. But he does not love her, by no fault of her own -- the fault is all that of a man without a heart, a man in the shape of an Elezen but perhaps without an Elezen's soul.

That is why he hesitates to look over the rim of the bassinet, for fear of what he'll feel: emptiness, aversion, perhaps even hate -- but certainly, certainly shame.

However -- in the end, none of those are what he feels.

It was one-and-thirty years ago; he was a young man, twenty-five.

It was the height of summer, the sun blazing at its zenith in the azure sky above. He was astride Achille, the chocobo's feathers slightly lathered from the labor of climbing up the alpine road; his own hat provided only little shade, and sweat pricked his brow as well.

He turned his bird off the main path to approach a goatherd's cottage; he did not bother to knock on the door, but dropped out of the saddle and looped Achille's reins loosely around the post of a water trough. He removed his cloak, laying it over the chocobo's back with the satin inner lining, embroidered with the symbol of the Holy Inquisition, prominently displayed -- and then his jerkin and doublet so he could splash his shirt and face with the icy water, the touch of Halone upon Her mountaintops tangible even in this season. While his bird drank and the damp evaporated off his skin, he wandered some yalms away, ascending a small hill that he might look around. He shielded his eyes with a hand, his sleeve billowing with the breath of the wind.

It was a fine spot to look from; high on the alm as he was, the valley fell away below him for as far as the eye could see. The meadows burned an emerald-green as brilliant as the blue of the sky, scattered with conifers that gathered into thick, dark mats growing up the sides of the flanking mountains, whose peaks, jutting up like halberds into the cloudless heavens, still glittered at their utmost reaches with lingering snow. If he turned to his left, he could trace the winding road as it continued, up and up, eventually fading into gray of the crags leading to the pass; if he turned to his right, he could look down the path he came, flowing like a looping river from the pastures, where here and there the goats and cattle were tended by their herders, to the village with its many shingled roofs and the lone tall spire of the church. Beyond were fields watered with mountain runoff, rich with highland wheat soon to burst into gold that would glimmer and ripple in the wind; further yet, the rest of Coerthas, green and growing -- quivering, like the string of a viola da gamba, with the note of life.

Many summers he’d spent at his family’s estate in Coerthas, surrounded by green lawns, green hedges, green trees -- but his father was so much devoted to the fashion for improvements to the landscape that he supposed he'd seen little of the land's true character till he was grown and graduated and riding the countryside, as now, alone. And now -- gazing across the valley, listening to the lowest note of Halone's hymn -- he felt he at last saw, and knew.

As he gazed upon the scene, he noticed, about halfway between his position and the village, two distinct figures -- small ones, he guessed children -- dressed in madder red, climbing a rise speckled with the yellow of wildflowers and the white of sheep. After a minute of labor, they reached its peak -- and then, quite suddenly, tumbled from their perch, rolling down the hillside at a much greater speed. As the Inquisitor, somewhere between bemusement and concern, watched, the fallen pair picked themselves up, and soon they began again their climb, little ants creeping slowly to the apex again -- and, as soon as they regained it, they tossed themselves down again, stretched out on their sides like logs, tumbling in a blur back down to the hill's foot.

He looked up towards the sky, breathing deep of the air of this place, Halone's Promised Land, and, privately, he smiled.

It is six years hence; Alysse is six, and if he still lives, he'll be sixty-two.

It might be the highlands or the midlands; he cannot quite say which. But the sky would be blazing blue, a canopy of blinding azure draped from the snow-topped spires in the east to those in the west. Below, a meadow lying fallow, flanked on one side by a field of wheat, on the other by beanstalks; stretched across the grass and wildflowers, a red blanket, the proper place for infirm old men to lie and absorb the warmth of the sun.

But the young are not so restricted. A young woman of three-and-thirty would still have breath to run and play -- though not with all the vigor of a child dashing around around them, barefoot, shrieking with delight. Her curls would shake free of their ribbons, and her mother'd have no hope of catching her to fasten them again; she'd freely skip and frolic, at times on all fours, like a mischievous lamb.

She could only be persuaded to sit on the blanket by the opening of the picnic-basket; inside would be honey loaves, apricots and peaches, cherry tomatoes, carrot cake, and rolanberry pie. The mother would laugh at the girl smearing filling on her face; then, stuffed with the summertime bounty, all three of them would stretch out to feel the sun and listen to the murmuring wind and the grumble of the bees, straining their ears to hear the accompaniment, a low note played by Her bow upon the string of Coerthas.

But not all of them could stay so long in contemplation, and when the child would tire of picking flowers -- rampion, gentian, edelweiss -- to pile in a heap upon his belly, she'd soon be dancing 'round the blanket again, then dropping to the ground and rolling, arms stretched over her head, down to the bottom of the hill. To the top she'd run back up and next time be joined by her mother, both tumbling joyfully through the grass and flowers, laughing, embraced by this living, perfect land.

And perhaps none of this will ever happen.

When his lady wakes -- perhaps by the sound of Alysse's stirring, the babe's huge, ice-blue eyes blinking open along with mumbles of her hunger -- she finds her husband half-crumpled at the side of the bed, the knuckles of his good hand white on the rim of the bassinet, his face buried in the crook of his good arm, his shoulders trembling, for he is stricken -- what was once for him the abstract having collapsed into the real.

O Halone -- let her have a summer that is once more green.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Snuck onto his lady's bedside table on the eve of Valentione's, a slender winter bouquet of cedar leaves intertwined with a twig of blooming peach flowers, imparting their honey-sweetness to the note that sits underneath, bearing a little bit of poesy:

If not for fair Menphina's fateful dart and Briar Rose's pref'rence to forgive, how little would have opened up this heart -- how little 'twould have learned of how to live.

  (( @rose-in-the-stone ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

To the shareholders, advisors, and friends of the Alpine Greening Institute, warm greetings and prayers for your good health. 

It has been my wish, as well as that of the Chairwoman, to commence this new turn with a meeting to discuss the affairs of the Institute, to share our hopes for its direction this year, and to hear your thoughts in turn. But as you may already have heard, my lady was, by the grace and mercy of the Twelve, delivered this moon of our firstborn daughter; and though I may report, with praise and gratitude to the gods, that their health recovers, we are unfortunately not well able to stray far from home during this time. 

For this reason we invite you to no grand assembly but instead to a late and informal tea on the 27th Sun at our humble home in Ishgard, at which we may have the great pleasure of not only introducing the Institute's plans for the coming moons but also the Institute's friends to one another. We pray that, though the winds may blow bitter cold outside, there may be refreshment and camaraderie to warm you at our hearth. 

I do, however, strenuously request that if you feel even the slightest hint of illness, you remain at home, as my lady and daughter, while hale now, remain in a sensitive state of health, and must needs be protected from all evil miasmas. Whether ill health or weather prevents your attendance, minutes will be made available to you, and I promise that many more occasions will arise as the moons grow warmer; therefore I will and heartily pray you understand and comply. 

Till we meet, may Halone have you and all yours in Her keeping.

Written at — in the Pillars of Ishgard, on this, the —th Sun of of the First Astral Moon of the seventh year of the Seventh Astral Era.

Your servant, Rosaire Ledigne, the Secretary.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

  For a full sennight the letters are not sent, the house in too much chaos for it to be remembered. By the time they do arrive, at the homes of the Ledignes' closest friends in Ishgard and in the south, quite a few of the recipients have already had word, the gossip spreading from the families of the servants and chirurgeons. 

But at last, here it is, only two short lines handwritten on heavy paper in the husband's neat script:

On the second sun of our Goddess's moon, Gwenneth and Rosaire Ledigne were delivered of a daughter, hale and strong, affused the same day in the grace of Halone and given the name Alysse Lucerne. 

We give praise unto the Twelve for Their blessing, and we thank each of you who joins your prayers to ours for the mother's swift recovery.

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Namedays

  Six-and-fifty winters is he, when his daughter is born into her very first. 

No one recalls. Even he had not recalled, not till now, long after the nurse carried her up the stairs, wrapped her up tenderly and lay her down in the quiet of the nursery for a few bells' sleep. Not till now -- when, having hauled himself up after them and crept in through the door, he looks down at her pink and tiny, impossibly tiny face -- does he realize that all of Heavensturn's come and gone, and that the sun that now rises over Abalathia is the second of Halone's moon.

"You must get some rest, milord," says Nurse Berthoise from the couch, herself groggy. "You've been up more than twenty bells." 

"I will," he lies, and he stands there, his knuckles white on the cot's railing. 

The babe, though, sleeps; eventually, so too does the nurse. He at last sits in the chair beside, to relieve his lightheadedness -- but he continues to watch. For one bell, two bells, he watches, almost without blinking, hand tight on his cane, till she just begins to rouse. At her first murmur, he stands straight up, startling the nurse awake -- and so she is swiftly borne away, back downstairs, before she even gives her first cry for milk. 

Rosaire is left behind. 

He looks after them long after they've departed, then sits down again, slowly, in the chair. 

Fifty Namedays ago, he was playing by the pond at the country estate with his two siblings nearest in age. His own nurse and a footman had meant to keep an eye on them, but their eyes proved too full of each other, and soon he and the girls had ventured, against instruction, onto the ice.

He does not remember the moment he went in -- nor, truthfully, does he remember much of what happened after, save being bathed and made to give thanks to Halone (though not to the lowborn who rescued him) that the water was shallow -- but he remembers the feeling: the shock of cold, the flood of overwhelming fear, his head emptied of everything else. Time became immensely slow, seconds stretched out into years and years -- and yet in all that luxury of time there was nothing he could think of, nothing he could do but sink down, down into the numbness, down into himself, powerless. 

It is the same feeling he has now, and has had for these past twenty bells. 

Not at first. At first he was afraid, yes -- but he was also Rosaire Ledigne, the logical, the Staid. He simply had Helenne summon the midwife and bid the maids make ready, set the book-cradle at the bedside and lay in it his codex open to the relevant page, then sat down next to his lady to murmur encouragement and wait. Such was his duty and his role: to be calm and remain calm, to stand out of the way but ready to assist -- to put the nightmare out of his mind, to pray without speaking, and to give no evidence of aught but a placid heart. 

And so he remained, steady and dutiful, keeping his countenance as she suffered and wept. He even flattered himself with the thought that he might be able to feign tranquility and comfort her through her screams -- until, a mere few bells in, the midwife drew him aside. 

"You'd best call the chirurgeon," she murmured. "The local one -- then ring your specialist in Ul'dah and give the linkpearl to me." 

"Is something wrong?" he asked, like a fool. 

She looked at him, weighing an answer, then shook her head. "For now, just call them," and she turned to go back into the room. 

It was then that he began to feel it, and felt himself sink down, down into the cold and dark. 

One chirurgeon became two, when Doctor Tristelle arrived from the south. They timed Gwenneth's pulse, put an ear-trumpet to her chest, inspected the swelling of her feet, then shook their heads and argued in whispers in the corner. For a long time he could not persuade them to enlighten him, but at least the heat of his frustration provided some sort of relief from the numb fear; but he tamped it down and held her hand when he was not gently cooling her face and neck with a cloth. 

When they finally offered her the option of a draught for the pain, she didn't answer; words, if they were words, came from her mouth in a jumble, and she looked at Rosaire only a moment before her eyelids fluttered and her cloudy gaze went back up to the ceiling. 

Some time after that -- minutes, bells, years, he was no longer sure -- he was taken aside again. 

"You'd best call the priest, my lord." 

The words he'd prayed, bargained, and begged not to hear. 

He listened to the Reconciliation and observed the anointing, though he could hardly hear or see. 'He' was there, listening and watching and even taking Mother Judithe aside to grasp her hand and thank her, but he -- he did not quite feel present in his body, as it went through those movements and spoke those words mechanically. He was somewhere else, floating in the ice-cold water, looking down at the scene as it unfolded with painful slowness.

Miolleane, though acquainted with the Ledignes for just one sennight, broke down crying in the hall; Helenne sent her home, then ushered Clavis into his carrying-cage and took him to the Fortemps aery, leaving Berthoise in charge. She brought Rosaire a cup of strong coffee; it rattled so much in his hand he had to drink it at the dining table. 

For lack of elsewhere to look, he fixed his eyes on the Starlight Sentinels, still bright and in good needle: the first, in bluish-green, slim and delicate -- the second, in silver, tall and thick at the middle. And then, between them, the miniature, less than a fulm tall -- the representation of a wish they'd made at last year's Starlight, both her little hands enfolded in his. 

How could I? 

His throat tensed around the slug of cold water he'd breathed in; his eyes stung. But he was stopped from drowning by one of the chirurgeons rushing in. "Well, if you think you're still able to help with the physicking -- 'tis the time now." 

At first he knew her only by her cry -- less a cry, he later thinks, than a hearty and rather indignant exclamation of surprise. Though she was borne away immediately to receive the attention of the priest -- to whom he barely remembered to mumble the name they'd chosen -- she was soon returned, brought before him in the arms of the smiling Berthoise. "She is much improved already, milord -- a strong and healthy daughter." 

He must have looked at her face then, but his eyes were too full of the blood on the sheets to see it. 

"Bring the babe here -- 'twill help stop the bleeding --" 

"This is a task for a conjurer -- pray, stand aside!" 

Someone's hand gripped his shoulder, pulling him back to make room for the bustle of healers. He looked at Gwenneth's face -- pale and wet -- a worse sight than the blood -- and feared for a second his knees might buckle. They didn't -- he couldn't let them -- so instead of sinking to the ground, he sank further into himself, down, down. 

When it was not his turn to channel physicks, he stood silently at the side, looking at the statuette of Nymeia they had placed at the bedside just a few suns before. The Weaver, friend of laboring mothers, smiling beatifically -- the promise of health and fortune, threatening to be broken -- and prayed.

He prayed to Her -- cursed Her, in a moment of rage, then prayed again -- to Nymeia, to the Twelve, even to Nophica. And he prayed, desperately, to Halone: Fury, please spare Gwenneth. Fury, please save Gwenneth. O Fury, I will serve you faithfully -- only let her live, so she may serve you far better than I. O Fury, I will do penance -- I will make pilgrimage -- anything, Fury, anything, anything, anything, only give her strength. Let her live. Let her live. I beg you -- let her live. 

The gods were slow to answer. The bleeding did stop, but the chirurgeon's faces remained grave. She had faded to an awful pallor -- he wished, in sick despair, she might begin again to scream in pain, for that sound was easier to bear than the sight of her arm falling limp from one of their hands. But a bell later, they were less solemn. The Ishgardian chirurgeon went home, to sleep a few bells before dawn; Judithe followed, though not before pressing his hand in hers and telling him to have faith, be strong. 

"She's made it through this night," the midwife told him. "If she stays strong through this fortnight, she will be out of danger." Unspoken, the obvious corollary -- that till then, she was not safe. He nodded dumbly, sent her home as well. 

Helenne -- Fury-sent Helenne -- took watch in the bedroom till the chirurgeon returned, bag full of potions from the apothecary. It was then that Berthoise suggested taking the babe up to the nursery, to let her rest a little away from the commotion, and the chirurgeons permitted it -- and soon insisted that Rosaire go up, too, to rest and replenish his energy. 

But he sits in this chair instead. 

Since the date of their marriage two summers ago, they have a few times slept apart -- once due to the pressing business of the Bellworks, a few times when Institute affairs took him to southron Eorzea and Gwenneth was too ill to join. He managed, but hated it; so many years a bachelor snoring away contentedly, yet after holding her only once, gently and chastely, he could not bear to be apart from her -- her warmth, her soft skin, the scent of her hair. 

He cannot bear to think of it now. 

But, when Berthoise returns to lay the babe down and smiles at him compassionately, he looks down into the cot, at the child who lies there -- sleepy features squashed like all newborns', little ears with little points still flat against her head, wisps of honey-brown hair on her head -- and realizes that he must, even if fitfully, in this chair. 

He -- and Helenne, and Berthoise, and Clavis, when he returns -- must watch over her and keep her warm till the fortnight's end, when Gwenneth rises, and the time at last comes to celebrate their Nameday.

[thenighteternal]

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

The new maid

  High above, in the uppermost walkways of the Pillars, the bells of Saint Reymanaud's may ring just four past noon, but already has the blue-gray dusk descended upon the city of Ishgard. 

To the girl's left, a sweeper, bundled in so many layers of rags as to be unrecognizable as Spoken, clears the latest snowfall from the spiraling walkway; to her right, she hears the faint strains of a family choir finishing a chorus. Otherwise, the street is quiet, peaceful -- the townhouse windows above shining with the yellow-orange light of hearths and candles, casting a gentle glow down upon the empty cobbles, catching on ice-flakes that glint silver and gold. 

The door before her, like many of its neighbors, sports a red-ribboned wreath, woven with pinecones and small brass bells that tinkle as she sounds the heavy knocker; the needles shiver, and her near-numb nose detects a scent of green, an echo of those snowy slopes of Coerthas that must lie outside the city walls. She has not long to wait, but as she stands there rubbing her fingers against themselves inside her mittens, she looks up at the edifice and thinks that what her sister heard was correct: this is a nice house. The family that lives within does so in comfort -- and so, too, must their servants. 

Fortunate is the maid who can secure a place here, in this sturdy, warm building in this pleasant neighborhood -- fortunate indeed, even blessed -- except for that one thing about the lord and lady who live here, the thing that made the goodys at the market shake their heads and tut when she mentioned it was this address to which she was headed -- that made her mother promise her, as she put on her cap at their door in the Brume, that if in the end she couldn't get the position, and they had to live another sennight on what stale bread her sister's wage alone could buy, well… it might still be for the best. 

Too late to run home. The door opens; at it, a sharp woman in apron and black dress, blonde hair rolled up at the back of her head. The bun exposes her ears, at which, after hearing the gossip from her sister, the girl knows to stare; they're small, yet pointed, like leaves of basil. 

That's what sort of house this is. 

"Miolleane Cemier?" asks the housekeeper, and the girl remembers to curtsey deep. "Just on time -- that's good." With a sniff, she pushes the door open wide and gestures her through. "Wipe the snow off your boots and hang up your coat. Milord is waiting." 

Down the stairs, in the servants' quarters, the Starlight decorations are not quite so lavish as they are in the main hall, but here and there is still a little bundle of holly hanging from the wall, and along the mantel in the housekeeper's parlor, three stockings hang from pegs. The candles, she notices, are beeswax, not tallow, and a rug is spread across the floor -- more than her family's crowded sitting-room can boast. So struck is she by the sight that she does not immediately notice that, seated in the furthest chair with his hands folded in his lap, is an Elezen in embroidered waistcoat and hose, shortish, portly, with long sideburns and a very serious face. When their eyes meet, she flushes -- realizing, now, that he must be that lord -- and bends as low she she can without falling. 

He neither moves nor speaks for a few long moments, only studying her. Then he states, rather than asks, "You are Miss Miolleane." 

She nods -- for while a servant may speak if spoken to, it must be better not to speak at all, if she can. 

He grunts. "Rosaire Ledigne," his brief self-introduction, for he knows she's already surmised. Then he raises his right hand and gestures, just as the housekeeper descends the stairs with the tray in her hands; "Would you pour three cups for us? With milk and sugar." 

She looks up, but is instantly paralyzed; she knows this is the bell of low tea, but her elder sister had told her that 'twas always the Viscountess, or else Lady Poullie, who poured it for their guests. But she had been asked, and so, shakily, she does as bid -- milk last, as she'd heard highborn do it -- and sets them out across the table. The lord nods, and the housekeeper picks up one cup and saucer to immediately help herself, still standing; how queer, thinks Miolleane, but 'tis true that her sister warned her that in every household, things are different -- and in this one, surely, even more different than most. 

"Pray, sit," says Rosaire, "and help yourself. That cup's for you." The first part she obeys, but the second part is a greater challenge; to refuse would surely be insubordinate, but to accept too readily, she fears, would not be right either. But neither, she suspects, is the half-measure she ends up taking, picking up the cup to awkwardly cradle it in her hands. The lord stares at her with his pale blue eyes, and she feels herself shrinking. Then he speaks: "I understand this is to be your first engagement in service. What occupation have you had to this point? Have you been in secondary schooling?" 

"I've been helping Mother with her piece work," she says, and realizes now the tea is essential for wetting her lips. 

"I see. How old are you, Miss Miolleane?" 

"Sixteen," she says, though she is not. And she can tell immediately that he knows; his gaze sharpens, the imperceptible cant of his head evinced only by the blond lock that falls out of place. She remembers, now, with a jolt, that this lord's occupation was once with the Holy Inquisition. For several seconds she sits there, dizzy with fear, as he looks at her silently. Then, slowly, he shakes his head, a wrinkle in his forehead forming as he lifts his brows and sighs. He isn't angry, and so she can breathe -- but she knows, now, to have care with what she says. 

"Well, Miss Miolleane, we've need of a sturdy girl to help Helenne," and he nods towards the housekeeper, still standing as she sips her tea, "with the cooking and cleaning. We've already taken on Miss Sophie, who'll be waiting on my lady and tending the parlor. Your duties will be mainly downstairs -- though, yes, you will have your interview with my lady shortly," a statement that quite alarms Miolleane with how perfectly it answers what she'd just been wondering; mayhap 'tis true what they say, and an Inquisitor has the power of reading minds. "If she consents to hire you, you'll have your own bed in the quarters here, a nuncheon, dinner, and tea -- time off, of course, to attend services, and three nights out of seven to return to your family. Inexperience is fine; what you must have is willingness to work, patiently and diligently, and to take direction from my lady and the housekeeper." 

She nods quickly, and though she again thinks it likely better to keep silent whenever she can, she still blurts out, "I'm willing, milord. I'll work very hard." 

He nods in turn, but once more he takes a long pause to study her; she looks down into her teacup, hoping she does not visibly squirm under that unblinking gaze. Then, pointedly, he asks her, "And will you gladly take direction, from Helenne?" 

She looks up at the short-eared woman to whom he refers, then back to him; she understands what he means, and it causes her to blush. She knows the correct answer, but she's slow enough to say it that the lord shakes his head and leans back. She feels her stomach sink, and she tries to spur her lips to action, but she cannot form the words in time, and he speaks again first. 

"I understand you come, Miss Miolleane, from a good and pious family, proud to cleave close to tradition." 

She nods, though she doesn't know, these days, how to tell whether such pronouncements are complimentary or not. 

"And you have been made aware, I believe, that my family is not traditional in every way." 

At that she can only duck her head to hide the deepening of her blush. 

"Not everyone in the city is approving of our choices. It must make one hesitant to accept a position in this household, for fear an association with our family might taint her in the eyes of future employers." He pauses, then goes on, tone a little sterner. "But I am not ashamed -- to have wed a Hyur, in a Halonic, pious marriage solemnized in the Church, in obedience to all of the Fury's laws. By birth, Ishgard may not judge Gwenneth mine equal, but that is what she is in faith and in her faculties -- and the trueborn child she bears we shall diligently raise in Ishgard's one true faith." 

She looks up at him, then down into her tea, face truly crimson now. 

"And," he goes on, "I am not ashamed to have Mistress Helenne in my employ. She has raised herself above her origins with education and hard work, and she has served me faithfully and very ably for these past thirteen years. Therefore I understand, miss, why you might hesitate to enter our family's service. But, pray, if you remain squeamish, and would only be able to pronounce the name of your employer with embarrassment -- do not take the position." He fixes her with a serious look. "I know your family has great need, following your father's accident, but if 'tis only desperation that would persuade you to work for us, I would rather you not." 

"I understand," she at last manages to say. 

Another pause -- but when the lord speaks again, his voice is low and gentle, even kind. "Your straits cannot be easy," he murmurs, "and we would like to be of help. In a moment, we'll go up to see my lady -- she is in her confinement, and she has not been well, and cannot easily leave her bed," and his expression, till now totally stoic, threatens, for a moment, to crack. But, immediately, he recovers: "After which -- and whether you decide to take the position or not -- I would like to send you home with a ham for your parents." 

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening. Helenne, over the brim of her teacup, laughs. "A ham!?" Miolleane hears her own voice ask. 

For the first time, the lord smiles. "I wouldn't have you pass Starlight hungry." 

She's speechless, at first, and soon must put the teacup on its saucer to keep herself from spilling it. But she must say it: "Your lordship is too generous. We don't deserve--" 

He dismisses that sentiment with a wave of his hand, which then reaches to at least pick up his own tea. She realizes, now, watching him, that it is his only good hand, the left folded up rigidly next to his chest, and that that, rather than mere age, must be the purpose of the cane leaning against the seat next to him. But he does not seem much encumbered by it, and indeed seems in good humor again as he asks, "There's but one further question that must be asked before we go above, which is: are you frightened of birds, Miss Miolleane?" 

She blinks, confused at first, but then putting it to serious thought, as all highborn questions must be. The answer, though, is not difficult; she thinks of the little sparrows on the windowsill, fluffed as round as they could against the bitter cold, and the crusts of bread they'd alight upon to tear apart voraciously. She thinks of how, after much coaxing, some would be persuaded to land right on her hand and to pick pumpkin seeds out of the creases of her palm -- back when they had the luxury of southron pumpkins and breadcrusts to spare, before the block landed on her father's leg at work and the last of their saved gil seeped away. "No -- not at all." 

"Good -- for there's someone else who must needs approve you as well." 

She wonders, on the long walk home from the Pillars to Foundation, what the goodys will say, what her mother will think, what her sister at the Manor Breauname will endure from the other maids, when they find out. She wonders what she will feel, when the half-blood lordling is born -- wonders what a monstrosity 'twill look, and if 'twill inherit its mothers small ears or be marked by its father's lameness -- and then looks down at the huge, heavy ham in the basket she's carrying and is ashamed of herself.

She'd stepped over the threshold with many fears, born of the preconceptions she'd formed or had laden on her. What depravity must reign in a house where such a shocking marriage had been entertained -- what lecherousness on the part of an aged lord hungering after a young and pretty lowborn maiden -- what unscrupulousness on the part of the maiden, to accept the advances of a repulsive cripple to secure his wealth after his imminent death. But -- though she still could not help but recoil a little at the strangeness of it all -- the family Ledigne had not proved as awful as all that. His lordship -- though, yes, frightening -- had treated her with understanding and generosity, and her ladyship, with warmth and kindness, despite how poorly she must have been feeling. Mistress Helenne had not been horrible, either, and Clavis -- though the raven had shied away from her, as he must from all strangers, he had bid her, when his mistress urged, a croaked 'Good Day'. 

If she takes the job, she might be tasked with cleaning his cage daily, and -- as smelly as Mistress Helenne warned that task would be -- she finds herself desperate to do it. 

And so when she comes to the house in the better -- though still bad -- half of the Brume, and pauses at the door, wondering if her father, ill-tempered from the changing of his bandage, will raise his voice when he forbids her to take it, and if her mother will cry -- she finds a bit of courage, regardless, and steps through. 

And, anyroad, she imagines a maple Starlight ham will go far towards convincing them that their younger daughter's placement may not be so bad, after all. 

(( His lady, @rose-in-the-stone, mentioned -- and a thank you to @the-rosehouse for designing and gifting the NPC of Miolleane to me! ♥ ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Twinkleboxes: for Bellamy

Though it now must be shipped from Ishgard to Ul'dah by a different airline, this package is sent first to the Bellworks Manufacturing Company offices, since the sender knows he can trust a courier dispatched from there. By such means does it arrive at the printer's residence, this heavy, cube-shaped box that, 'neath the protective outer layer, is wrapped in festive twinklepaper. 

A card, tucked in under the ribbon, has been painted with a rough scene of some children rolling up snowmen, sketched in pencil and daubed with some broad strokes of watercolor. Inside it reads in large, clear letters: 

To Master Bellamy and Master Josquin, a Happy Starlight and Blessed Heavensturn. May Halone watch over you wherever you may go. From Gwenneth and Rosaire Ledigne.

Inside the box is a large soft toy in the shape of a moogle. Imported mohair plush is used for the moogle's chest fluff, rendering it luxuriously soft -- but an even more unusual characteristic is its weight, not burdensome for a five-year-old but still far greater than one might expect of a stuffed toy. The cause can be found at its back, where a key for winding its internal music box protrudes from between its wings. Wind it and the tune -- alleged by certain moogles of the skies to be a traditional melody of their people -- rings merrily on the music box's tiny tines until it slows and stops. 

(( @sonderjack ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Twinkleboxes: for Odette

  Delivered by courier to the Cygnnoire residence in Mist: a box that, underneath one protective outer layer of paper treated with wax, is handsomely wrapped up in green tissue and bound with a scarlet ribbon. A tag cut from thick paper and hand-decorated with a little watercolor of a holly sprig reads: "To Miss Odette, From Gwenneth & Rosaire."

Inside is a soft doll, similar in style to a ragdoll but very finely made of frost cotton velour, with such neat stitching and embroidery on the face that it seems likely the product of a master weaver's workshop. It is made to resemble a fair-skinned alpine Elezen woman, just a bit of chestnut-colored hair peeking out from under a plain linen coif, and, while soft, is very durable.

She is dressable and comes attired in a nun's habit, sewed not quite as professionally but still with neat, elegant stitches, like that of a noblewoman trained at needle. When it's removed, it reveals its secret: it is reversible, and on the other side is a set of dragoon's mail, the armor's different textures expressed with embroidered appliqués. In design it resembles an Orthodox coat with longkilt, but in a variety of blues, from deep drachen blue to a bright Abalathian sky blue on the skirt.

(( @mathisthemathwizard ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Twinkleboxes: for Maurice

  The night before Starlight proper, this heavy box -- wrapped in parcel paper to protect the bright red twinklepaper beneath -- is delivered by an unliveried lackey to the Bouchard residence. 

Two fulms long and one fulm wide, its contents have been carefully packed with straw to prevent damage, but if mischievous hands should rattle it before opening, a dull clack-clack could still be heard from the inside. While the tag reads "To Maurice", it lacks the name of the sender -- the only signature is the mark of Nymeia. 

Within is a box set of twelve wooden knights, each about five ilms high. They're rounded and quite simple in design, and though the hands at the ends of their stubby arms are slotted, as if to fit little swords and halberds, no weapons are included. Even though they're abstract and minimally painted (perhaps in order to use only chewer-safe colors), each one has been uniquely dyed, and style of their garb is reminiscent of the armor one often sees King Thordan and his knights depicted in, in orthodox sculptures and illuminations.

(( @faerie-apples ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

Letter for Admiah, concerning citrus.

To Madam Admiah Kreiston, care of the Sable Tree Company, be these things delivered, and with them the Starlight wishes of the family Ledigne. 

Right worthy madam, I greet you well, hoping to hear of your good health and all the Sable Tree people's welfare. I write to let you wit that we have received your shipment and, finding all its contents of excellent make and just as ordered, distributed them to the farms in preparation for an early start in the spring; and, having concluded this first business, we would offer you another of a slightly more exotic sort.

The Alpine Greening Institute has recently had the honor of adding another consulting botanist to our roster, one Miss Nandin Shulam of the Collegia Arcanum, who on hearing of our hopes to import the Satzuma Orange from the Far East and test its hardiness against our alpine clime, volunteered to oversee the botanical side of the project. Whether we wish to import seeds, seedlings, or live grafts, I leave to Miss Nandin to decide; but as the latter two require quick and controlled transport, I thought your Company the perfect partner, as you not only deal in the alchemicals her project will require but have connections to importers, one of which I pray may be able to bring the Satzumas over as honored and coddled guests. I therefore entreat you, if this proposal piques your interest, to consult with Miss Nandin herself at the enclosed address, and of course to write to me with any concerns or difficulties you may have. I have nursed this silly dream, of adding citrus to our Ishgardian walled orchards, for more than one Heavensturn, and am thus eager to do whatever I can to assist in welcoming young green scions to Eorzea. 

No more business from me at this time, but one final lark: accompanying this letter is a little twinklebox for the good Master Binky. May you and he celebrate many happy returns, and Halone have you and all yours in Her blessed keeping.

Your servant, Rosaire Ledigne

The accompanying box -- wrapped in beet-dyed paper -- is relatively flimsy, safe for a chocobo to beak and destroy in search of the treasure within: two plump krakka roots and a curiel. 

(( @horsebirds-and-saddlebags and @ceol-aen! ))

[heavens-light-and-hells-ice]

This short letter comes enclosed in an envelope stamped with the gysahl-enfoldeded chocobo emblem of the Institute for the Greening of Coerthas and Dravania. Included as well, a few gil -- unexplained, but coincidentally of a total that would cover a letter-reader's fee in Gridania.

To Master Devet Kha this letter be delivered, and with it the Starlight greetings of Rosaire Ledigne.

Right worthy sir, I beg your pardon for my presumption in so writing, but in the course of my work for our Alpine Greening Institute, a gentleman happened to ask me a question about shepherding that I was unable to answer, but I immediately thought of you as one who might. This man, one Lord Ghalleon Helseth, reached out to us for assistance restoring his family lands in the eastern highlands of Coerthas; these lands, like much of our highlands, once supported great flocks of karakul, but have lain largely unproductive since the Calamity. Though the Institute employs botanists who may advise him about cold-hardy crops, we lack a dedicated livestock specialist who can answer questions about the selection of breeds, special care considerations for extreme wintry climes, and what sort of shelter and watering facilities must needs be constructed. If it pleases you to offer your services as an advisor, I have copied below his address, should you wish to write; I have also given him the address of your establishment in the Lavender Beds, if it be more convenient to conduct such business face-to-face.

No more from me at this time, but I pray that good business for you may come of this, and that in any case the Twelve watch over and keep you and all your dependents this winter.

Yours, R.L.

(( for @fluid-aura~ ))