our lady of the bloodied hands.

helene farrow. advisor to the empress of celestine. ❝ and a voice shouted: i build upon the bones of my enemies and make a monument to their demise, so that i may live forever. ❞

[ircnclad]

as written by KAEL • ( cis man, 23, gmt+8:00 )

❝ o! pity the fool that stands in her way, the one with steel in her spine, who has tasted death in the air many more times than she can count. no funeral shall be held to those that would deny her the entrance to the star-lit heavens or the judgement of the eternal hells. ❞

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. 𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐍.

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑. )​

Michel can’t help it. He gawks, just a little, at the sight of a splintering crack in Helene’s glass. It’s gone as quickly as it had arrived, but it’s as stark a reminder of what Helene is capable of that he isn’t more than it is anything else. He suddenly feels… very small, under her gaze, pinpointed and sharp, like she somehow always knew exactly where to look. If he were a more cowardly man, he might have run from the hills the day he met Helene. In spite of all that, he’s glad he didn’t.

He’s aware that this is a disappointment. More than that, it’s an astounding one. Calandre had expressed as much when she’d heard the news, but where Helene’s look is something like irritation, disappointment, Calandre’s had been worse. Apathetic. Uncaring. Dismissed with the wave of a hand, told to fix it like Michel has fixed all other issues for her before. That hard burned. Anger, he can handle. Disregard, he cannot. Or, at least, not well.

Blindsided by an execution. He cringes. It’s a deserved jab, but a jab regardless, and it stings. He pursues anyways, out of necessity. “She didn’t say anything specific? Names, people, places… What about the boy she was with, the one that died?” She’d been covering his body, he remembers, had screamed when they’d tried to pull her away. What a gruesome sight it had been, the aftermath of a somehow unbloodied battlefield. Absolutely terrifying.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐋, sharp and unyielding, but she is also human, as odd as that may sound. She recognizes the shift in his expression and she purses her lips for a moment, the poor choice of words only widening the rift between the two of them. Connection, beneath the auspices of alliance and crown, is easy to come to, but it seems that her guard is impenetrable, even outside the known treachery of the Court. It is perhaps the failing that she regrets the most; how many tragedies she could have overcome if she had learned to wield her emotion as well as the steel in her spine.

“She only fed us the same line. Some with tears, some with a haunted look. I was thinking about using an experimental spell, one that would have a chance in aiding us in finding a perpetrator, but her disappearance complicates matters.” She takes a sip of wine before setting down the glass altogether, leaving her drink half-empty on an ornate end table next to her. The lessons come easy, the tucked foot, the half-made smile to comfort, but Helene takes a step across, and puts a hand on his shoulder, her half smile turning into a soft one that reaches her eyes.

“I—Commander. Michel,” she offers, no amount of flattery in her words. She always recognizes the efforts made, and does not allow herself or others the delusion of the padding of unearned compliments. And a simple word, she has learned, conveys more than the prattling on of more common nobility. “I am severe, I know, but even those under the employ of Her Majesty must find respite, unless they become a dulled blade. He would have hit you over the head to let you rest, and do not think I would do the same for you.”  An ache, an echo. It hurts, but she presses forward. “Do not let yourself burn on both ends. I would miss your company.”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐑.​ )

          𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄’𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐏𝐒, 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐄𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒, and Etienne now knows to commence with the verbal contest. “It never hurts to have a shopkeeper on your good side. Rumor has it, I have a pretty swoon-worthy friends and family discount.” It was a rumor of his own formulation, something that went uncontested with little to no friends or family to make use of such an opportunity. “Though my worth independent of my business will be up for reassessment in the near future, you may find,” Etienne offers with a suggestive smirk, knowing that the particulars depended on the outcome of his sponsorship. 

         “You’ll have to forgive my unfamiliarity with such customs, for I am no gentleman.” To carry himself as such would’ve been no different than it was in his early years of social climbing, but he presently possessed standing enough to opt-out of such niceties. “But do not let my failure as a gentleman prevent you from restoring decorum as a lady would in an instance such as this,” he hints at her prior suggestion, eyes returning brazenly to her mirrored gaze. “I’m not sure how safe I am to truly feel considering all of the potential weapons formulated from tailors tools, it is reassuring to know I’m not in close proximity to your sword, milady.” 

         He lingers a moment longer without response, still determining the precise nature of his motivations. It was true, admiration always played a substantial role in their interactions, but there was a sense of approval sought out that did not exist prior— not the approval he achieved in their verbal spars, but an approval extended only to those considered worthy allies— or adversaries. Such a desire would never be addressed directly, but he wondered what indirect measures could be taken in order to achieve such a result. “No new potential political gain that I’ve concocted since our last encounter. Other than the usual benefit of having an advisor to the empress on your good side. Is there any way I can be of service to you, though, milady?”

•

𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍, and for that purpose, she welcomes the open venom upon which he regards all of the decorum instilled upon her since birth. It is refreshing, to say the least, having to see all of the emotion face first, rather than digging through silt and sand and underhanded methods of hiding displeasure. Helene locks eyes with him in the moment, before letting the seamstress continue to measure and sketch her latest outfit, for yet another ball or another conversation with a foreign dignitary. Nobility is prestige, but also tedium, if the life that she has lived serves as a measure to all others. At least the young noble breaks up the monotony of it all.

“A silver tongue and a charming smile, Lord Marais. Had you come to me at the beginning of your debut, you could have passed our dear Gisele, but such is fate, and such is circumstance.” The attendant brings her crafted gauntlets from Cyril, armor that felt as much as fashion, and she appraises them, keeping Etienne within her periphery as she lets light catch on the metal. She lets the silence sit as punctuation, but she turns to him, to answer his question of what exactly she would want from him. Order in Val Faim, perhaps, a mountain of gold. Poison and wine that runs across from the Azure Quarter down to the seas of the north. None of these would satisfy her, but it was something to think about, if only for a bit of levity.

“I would ask for exclusivity for Her Imperial Majesty, to join her cabal of alchemists, but as I understand it, freedom would be your prerogative, rather than employment, of which I can hardly fault you. Life within the Court can be tiring, so to speak.” Helene waves and the measurements continue, the sketches and the commentary on whether puce was going to be the color of the season between excited whispers. “Your service, I suppose, will come in the form of neutrality, which will in turn keep you on my good side. Though I do resent the fact that you assume I only have only one,” she comments, a slight pose as she turns to Etienne, amusement in her face. “All of my sides, as you say, are quite good.”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑.​ )

The structured plane of politics flowed beneath their feet, a militant march of sharply-drawn lines and deftly-laid tiles that Zhenya need only ever call upon when pursuing his goals at court. After all, when in the Summer Palace, one did not craft the board or position the pieces; instead, one merely stepped up and made their move. Such was the purpose he had sought in his approach, and for a long, cuttingly cordial moment, Helene walked the path of its preordained outcome with utter compliance – only to halt upon her next step and gracefully rip the arena from beneath his feet.

Now the lines were formed of heartstrings; the tiles scattered and misplaced atop a vacant slate, warped and disfigured as freshly-formed bruises along well-worn skin. Zhenya’s steps never wavered, yet his mind staggered; thoughts tumbling over tactics and swerving around lies as he rushed to adapt to the new territory. The bargain was now personal, the pawns blood-filled and vulnerable. He had foreseen such a game, had known it to be inevitable, yet he hadn’t expected to be thrust into it in a manner that stripped him so cleanly of his footing – he had been unwaveringly confident in his own preparedness. Indeed, he had left himself open without ever lowering his guard.

Reckless, he internally chided, leaning into the gnashing hold of the realization long enough to grow familiar with it before anchoring himself and bracing his heel for the next step. He tilted his head with feigned interest, meeting Helene’s gaze so as to repel the possible assumption that he would shy away from her. “I can’t say that I find that surprising. After all, that’s certainly one impression given by your rather amicable encounters with the Commander – that is, if I may comment on your taste,” His lips hiked in a mild smile, gaze gliding back towards the scenery splayed out before them. “We all have our playthings, don’t we?” He said with a shrug. A brief pause, then he turned around and trained a look of mock-suspicion on Helene, one eye squinted playfully. “Are you proposing an exchange of some sort? Forgive my jest, but I can’t imagine any other reason why you would draw us into this topic of conversation.”

𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐋, but Helene laughs. The pause between replies was amusing, and the topic of her heart is hardly something she expected to turn to with a foreign ambassador. Granted, the current state of affairs made for some unlikely bedfellows and conversations that felt as if they were an oddity, but it is enough for her to find amusement in Zhenya’s questioning of her intentions with Michel. Questions reserved for blushing debutantes and lovesick fools, parlayed between an advisor to the Empress and an envoy from the biting north. The sound trails through the halls, easy and melodic, water flowing from a once-barren stream, and even after, as Helene smiles to herself, she cannot remember the last time that a conversation had this sort of odd charm.

“I would have imagined you talk about my dearly departed husband as the man in armor, rather than my friend, but who am I to judge your observational skills, darling?” She levels her smile at him, rapier to the throat, as the mood dissipates around her, moving from levity to business in a matter of moments. Niceties and sniping are well and good, but until Helene ascertains Zhenya’s intentions, as well as the Queen he serves, she supposes that the moments that are as amiable as this are going to be few and far between. However, it doesn’t mean that she has not relished the first blood drawn between the both of them.

The stillness continues, smile drawn between teeth and insinuation, as they continue their walk, the only auspices between them sunlight and intention. “And plaything? That is unfortunate, given your liaison, but I suppose that the clarity of your situation will not escape you,” she continues, a sigh on her lips. “No, I do entertain this topic for the sole purpose of conversation, a far better sort than the tragedies that have seemed to dot the city as of late, but if you wish, a pivot between the two of them will suffice. Respectability and propriety between ourselves may very well be a comforting norm, until the next disaster.” The stone inside her takes hold, the questions upon question to determine if the ambassador is simply friend or foe. “I suppose your home may be a better comfort than our foreign land, though I have never heard about it, other than rumors and gossip. Would you care to enlighten a southerner, my dear ambassador, or is conjecture preferable to reality?”

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( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃. )

He will give Helene this: the way that she commands a room is impressive. The fact that she has stood so long at Calandre’s hip does not surprise Degaré at all, but it doesn’t make him shrink back either. In a way, his low birth is a convenient sort of shield, making him impervious to the artifices of the nobility. He has spent something close to a lifetime studying the deceptions and dealings of the court, their sharp practices hidden in frills. He has watched for smoke and mirrors, optical illusions, the sleight of hand. Studied the way that tongues wait, poised, behind their teeth. He has learned all of their gestures as perfectly as he has learned the movements of every dance, so much so that they are also his gestures, now, his dances.

He has no grand estate, no ancestral reserve, no power at the court; but still his pockets are deep. Secrets are about the most valuable currency there is, but his tenacity has taught him something more valuable still: cunning genius, competence, a deftness which belongs to the elite alone. Bloodied hands. Never their own, someone else’s. Certainly, Helene Farrow commands this room, she commands a great many things, he’s sure, and while Degaré will grant Helene her dignities, while Degaré will indulge her in polish and propriety and other civil things, Helene Farrow does not command him. She knows this, he thinks. It is why he sits at her invitation, accepting the port.

A little ceremony has never hurt anyone, my dear.

A cough of laughter threatens to emerge, but he catches it in his throat, swallows it with a sip of Etienne’s vintage. Now, that’s not strictly true, is it?

But he has not come here to talk of abuses and insults. He has not come here to comment on Etienne’s port, either, but he does so anyway. “I am even less a vintner than the apothecary, but the two go hand-in-hand, no? The apothecary deals in medicines and salves, and I should think a good vintage is the more tolerable anaesthetic of the two.” Helene’s stare peels through him, like a carving knife. He almost shivers. Would, if it wasn’t also a tool in his own arsenal. “Are you after the secret to a good wine, Lady Farrow? Marais’ vinification process, while lucrative, is a secret I would have trusted to a missive.” 

He sips, thinking. The Lion’s Mane never falls quiet. It flows as much with whispers of whichever such worthy masterstroke as it does ale or wine. “You have never set foot in the Lion’s Mane, Lady Farrow, so I suppose you must be forgiven for being ignorant to what occurs inside. I shan’t paint a picture for you, as I wouldn’t want to spoil the tenor of etiquette and decorum we’ve curated for ourselves here, but in such times as these, where polemic spoken against Her Imperial Majesty is as well-established as her praise,” Degaré pauses, testing for a response. “One catches wind of many things. Ah… names, scandals, points of view,” he motions with his hand to illustrate his point, then settles his eyes on the chalice in his hand. “Secret cabals.” It’s almost a murmur, delivered as idly as a casual comment on the weather; as if it is of little more interest than news of a nobleman, scandalised by an affair. He lifts his eyes and smiles darkly. “You wouldn’t believe how the lips loosen over a cup of drink, far from the court, so sure that nobody is listening in,” Degaré pauses to flatten out a crease in his habit at his shoulder, “But they are, of course.”

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌, appearing appeased and disarmed. She is fond of the idle conversation before the storm of information unleashes itself upon the halls of her estate. The kingdom upon which Degaré has built for himself has always fascinated her, the halls upon halls of vagrants and drunks that he calls his subjects; in another life, she would have sunk her teeth into the backbone of that empire, but she was fettered to another one. Degaré was a blade forged in a different heat, in a different time. Perhaps, if she allowed herself to see it, apparent similarities would surface, but there was no time for pleasantries. Not until she heard an allegiance drop from his lips.

“If I wanted to become someone who sold barrels of wine, perhaps, but I would much rather leave the thankless job of supplying drink to the stores of Val Faim to him. I’m far too busy with the Court and the estate, as I’m sure you would understand, being someone who manages both of these things that you own with proficiency.” No empty flattery leaves her lips, not against him. Sincerity, boldfaced and rough, enters the conversation, though she pays no mind to its appearance between the two of them. “But I suppose that is how you catch these rumors as quickly as they leave the lips of the patrons you have.”

A sip is taken once more, as she looks back to him, the mask on her face framing her eyes and allowing them a moment for poise as she wraps her mind around the new secrets that The Lion’s Mane has in store for her. Names are good enough to start, to be passed onto the spymaster or the apprentice, questions and information and everything that is needed to keep the empire afloat, against the waves of dissent and unrest that the moment has given them. The information turns over in her mind, a dark background beneath all of the events that had transpired only nights before. Someone lesser would have broken under the pressure, or traded their position, but not her, not yet. It is a thankless job, but it is one that she is happy enough to have.

There are names, people, contacts that can be traded between them, and an opportunity in place for Degaré, if they wanted to take it. “And I suppose that these rumors are nothing compared to a business arrangement of a competitor of yours, with a captain that I know of, whose allegiances are as fluid as the port that they carry.” Her hand swirls the glass she drinks from, the wine-drunk seas swimming beneath glass and sunlight. “I hear that expansion is a good business deal, especially with a business as lucrative as the Mane.” Helene smiles, steel-strong and poised at the breastbone, as if a dagger ready to crunch down to the chest. Commerce was her expertise, and the flow of trade and influence allowed her to map the thoughts of merchants and tradesmen alike, with occult precision. The hook is set, with his only action now to take it, or leave it. “Is it not the nature of an empire to expand? And I feel it is high time that you set the plans in motion to expand yours—or at the very least, increase the reach you offer your subjects. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

[tvandfilm]

Sense8 | 1x09 “Death Doesn’t Let You Say Goodbye”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑. )

Helene does not so much enter the room as she does drift into it, and Michel very quickly reminds himself of where he is and who he’s with before he even thinks to gawk. He keeps his eyes downcast, instead, helmet in hand, unmasked, and takes a seat at the proffered bench. There’s a platter of green grapes and some wine. He ignores the port, but helps himself to the fruit, popping one into his mouth to chew.

The reality is that this is a serious matter. No time for dourness or sorrow. Business at hand first. But the air pricks at him, like the point of several needles, and he wonders if this is what it’s like all the time. If the house, this grand place, is possessed as much by magic as it is by old ghosts. Ugh. Shut up, Michel.

He lets the quiet settle over them like a blanket. Best to just come out and say it. “The woman you interrogated, after the explosion, with Lady Dupont? She’s missing. Gone. The men I assigned to her have no idea where she went.” Unspoken: because they’re idiots, or incompetent, which reflects poorly on me in a way I’d rather not discuss. “So,” Michel continues, going for another grape, “I need to know what you spoke of with her. What she was like. How she held herself, in the aftermath.”

𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊, from stem to rim in her glass forms upon Michel’s news, and a headache soon follows after. An escape. She was going to have words with Michel and Victoire about proper security protocol for a high level prisoner, but Helene cannot do anything now, but simply deal with it the day after. If news of this caught wind of Alain’s merry band of rebels, it would be a simple way to discredit any one of them within Calandre’s council, offer replacements or a shadow campaign that will dog them for the rest of their conflicts. This will simply not do.

Helene sighs, and as the crack formed, it neatly disappeared, her magic allowing it to be restored, unlike the peace of mind that will inevitably leave her the second that Michel extricates herself from the estate. She was going to make Lord Marais a very wealthy vintner when this is all over, she’s sure of it. “I don’t know what you want me to say Michel. She was in hysterics, and she kept babbling about something her needed to prevent by making a mess.”

“Honestly, I was this close to—” She stops herself from saying anything, letting her frustration and anger fall into the well that she employs whenever something horribly wrong runs afoul of her. “To say the least, it has been a troublesome couple of days,” she continues, drinking far too quickly, and setting the wine glass down. “Hysterics and rumors and piecing together a statement from the prisoner is exhausting. I rather liked it when I was simply blindsided by an execution.”

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( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑. )

All too-familiar with the eyes and ears of the Summer Palace that seem to surface out of thin air, she closes the door behind her before discussing things further. She knows how the other mage’s words could be misconstrued, picked up and lauded by none other Alain Gauthier who would bolster his ludicrous cries with her shrouded story: Look, look, he’d say to any who would listen, that poor mage who survived said her compatriot died trying to stop what I’ve been warning you all of: Calandre’s destruction of the world. She must be stopped. The thought of anything corroborating Gauthier’s story–no matter how twisted and simply untrue–sets Sidonie off-kilter; to protect Calandre and right herself once more, she’ll do nearly anything. 

“None more substantive than her initial cries that Henri didn’t mean to cause the explosion,” the mage responds at last. “Amelie spoke, finally, but in a cryptic and indirect manner; she cried, ‘Not all is what it seems. My friend only wanted to stop something awful before it began, and it cost him his life.’” The woman’s visage–wide-eyed, pallid, fearful–is one that Sidonie will not soon forget.  “When pressed further, she refused to elaborate beyond what she already said. By the time I left, she’d gone silent again, save for bouts of tears.”

“I swear, her freneticism softly echoes that of Gauthier.” There’s a lovelessness that hardens her typically amicable tone, whatever warmth between herself and Alain long gone. “Empress Calandre won’t be pleased in the slightest with that explanation, but there are means we’ve not yet used with Amelie to…encourage her to speak, for a lack of a better term.” 

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 that sits neatly upon Helene’s face as the Court Mage proposes something far more in her wheelhouse. While she never had reserves of magic as the other has, she has knowledge, connections and the will to simply do what she can in order to keep the perfect facade of Celestine afloat. Beckoning her to come to the desk, Helene opens a page from an old grimoire, taken from an old enemy, buried underneath the bones of the city she now calls home; they are dust and ash, as all are that would threaten the peace and order she had built for ages.

“Perhaps this poor dear caught wind of the Obsidienne’s notice. The psyche is so terribly fragile, and even with magic, none are impervious to the insidious will of that place.” She flips to a page outlined with incantations and equations, a spell that could help them with the problem they both face. It is… unorthodox, experimental, and for Helene, almost impossible. But with Sidonie on her side, well, they could create the making at the heart of all creation, if they could.

“And so, our condolences to the poor dear’s psyche, if we choose to deal with this course of action.” Helene taps the page with a neatly manicured hand, and slides the book over to her. A spell that theoretically can dominate the mind of another to speak truths—or to break them down entirely. A useful tool in an interrogation. “The calculations are not yet complete, nor the adjusted cipher for the incantation for magical draw. It is a good spell, though I hardly have enough magic in myself to do it without pursuing a substantive risk, but maybe the calculations would be suited to you instead. What say you, darling?”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐏𝐄𝐑.​ )

As Gisele listens, she narrows her eyes at Helene, not like a glare but more like she’s peering into something through a small crack. 

“In this case, a highly misplaced hope. Half the Duvals wiped out in a handful of months– Unrest is unavoidable. A whole people are grieving and have been for months.” Try as Helene might, no exile or execution conjured up will leave Gisele flinching. There is no practical personal consequence invokable she has not made peace with a thousand times over. To her understanding, all the most terrifying tortures are those of complete stasis, being stuck somewhere where nothing ever changes, like the world around you is under ice. Better to be a fire-starter and burn of your own volition than be frozen and ineffectual. "The worst there is to fear on that account is that the situation might never improve and I find it’s unproductive to fear the very circumstances I’m already contending with.” 

Gisele turns her gaze pointedly away, fixed on some spot in the distance. "The only allegiance I have, in fact the only one worth having is to my people. You seem to be under the impression I’ve auctioned off my soul to the highest bidder, when I’ve established no such ties. I simply occasionally play ball with those whose interests align with my own.” She invokes her people like a devout does Odeline, steeped in prayer and conviction. Resorting to bringing up Yvon is a low blow, and one she will not deign to reply to. Still, Gisele considers herself a great deal less unreasonable than she’s often given credit for. She chooses allies the same way she develops enemies, sourced from a place of duty: Yvon for the misery her ineffectual rulership will inflict, Calandre for the sanctioned injustices and deficient foreign policy, Zhenya for the horrors he will no doubt call down upon the nation he’s been pretending he belongs in, each of them ready and able to bring about ruin if not actively opposed. These eventualities are all ones she refuses to witness– If Celestine is to be torn to shreds and the maw of death is to glut on her people, it will only be after she has given everything in an attempt to prevent it, including her life. She doesn’t expect this to be understood. The pedestrian machinations of the Court are typically pinned to individuals, not ideals.

“You’d written me off as a lost cause so long ago, and once again you assume I’m beyond all hope and all reason. Maybe it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, hm? And whereas normally I would be content to let you maintain those suppositions, for now I’d prefer you and your betters know that all I want and all I’ve ever wanted is what I’m rightfully owed, nothing more, nothing less.“ The pause that follows lacks her usual venom, filled up with something softer but no less dark. Her gaze flashes down for a moment, a rare vestige of the quiet girl she’d once been, before she rights herself. "It didn’t have to be so difficult. It doesn’t have to be.”

That second part is a lie, but that’s hardly the point. It’s hard to imagine what she might be like now had bloodlust not roosted in her thoughts, but it came as a necessary byproduct of what she’s been put through. It matters little– she’s not putting this out there with a serious expectation that Calandre and her dogs will suddenly develop common decency and right Gisele’s situation, but offering it more with the intention of salting a wound before it’s even there. In hindsight, they will see how easily her favour could have been secured and how essential it truly was. “Though I suppose relaying this to you might be futile. After so many years of failing to quell Gauthier’s raving, it would be no small wonder if you’re still listened to at all. Or has allowing his influence to grow unchecked all been part of some grand strategy of yours? Another example of your ‘fluid application of skill?’”

𝐀 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 in her mind, spider silk soft and sweet as a song in her web, looking at Gisele as she thinks she has become half as good as she was. Not enough work, not enough sacrifice, not enough loss that feels personal enough to drive a stake through her blackened heart. Gisele can insult her all she like, pinch and poke at her, but in the end, she will stand upon the crumbled monument she has built herself, and watch as everything she has destroyed returns to her tenfold. Diplomacy is a lost art, and contacts are as well, but she has hardly thought of nothing that would make even the most seasoned player of the Game blanch. After all, what was the Queenmaker but a weapon, refined? What was Helene, if not the vanguard?

There are diplomatic forms to write, of course, and ruinous things to seed among the nobility. If she cares about her people, it would be her undoing if she continues down the path to Alain, especially if she had sought to use the executioner’s ax upon those loyal to Her Imperial Majesty at her own Court. Inquiries and trade deals and double-crosses that were always on the horizon brought ever closer by her hand. She schemes, and she is treacherous, the feeling of distance looking upon the edge of a cliff. Houses have been made and unmade by the sands of time, by the opinion of the populace and by a shadowed hand in the darkness. Karmic retribution is not in the cards for either of them, for those that have bloodied their hands too much for their selfish wants, however idealistic or self-serving they may have been, but the cleansing fire of loss will be a humbling experience for her former pupil. Or the thing that melts her for scrap.

“Darling, your power is fractured and Fleur is in unrest, which will, no doubt in my mind, be rectified as you ascend to the seat of power that you have so carefully placed yourself. You are shrewd and beautiful and loved, and I have no question of the capabilities that you have in making things right.” Helene stands tall, even before the accusations that she, of all people, failed to do anything involving Alain. Charm, coffers and a weak psyche. It is the one point of contention that she and Calandre have had—the execution of a traitor raving mad about horrors beyond the Obsidienne, and she will not be blamed for that. “It is why I wanted you as my pupil.” she replies, a smile of condescension leveled at her as if an arrow threatening its prey. “But it is also why I can never believe you when you say that you care about your people.”

Hypocrisy was never her strong suit, and delusion was never her game. If Gisele told herself that all of this, Vivienne dead and Yvon fearing for their life, was for the people of Fleur, she was either deluding herself into martyrdom or less intelligent than Helene gave her credit for. “Lie barefaced to me, my dear, to the Court, if you must, but do not lie to yourself.” It is a simple jab, but the cruel truth that Helene, and everyone knows. The first lap of power, as if of blood, entices Gisele like a shark, territorial and unyielding to the point of desperation and anger, a rage that only matches Helene’s own. “You tell me that I am not listened to, and that I have failed my Empress and her people, but I see no failures here except you, and the masquerade you have yourself under that you deserve the rule of Fleur, for the betterment of the legacy you are handed.”

“It is laughable, the stain upon which you have produced upon your mother’s legacy. Even now, the rumors circulating you and your sibling are something to behold, and if they reached your home? Devastating. You think that you are the solution to every problem that is thrown your way, even if there is nary a problem to be seen, even if you have made it yourself.” She takes a step towards Gisele, the malice in her voice seeping into whatever anger she has left in her chest, for the first time in this conversation. A moment is taken as their eyes lock, before Helene turns her back to the pupil, now enemy, that takes shape beneath the darker eddies of Celestine. “And now, a sister dead, a sibling estranged, and unsavory allies at your doorstep, you tell me my missteps and fail to consider your own,” Helene muses, shaking her head. “But the difference between you and I, is that I have outlived people like you, Gisele Duval, and I will do so again. May you keep the paltry power afforded to you, dear. May it be a comfort to you, as well as those you may have sworn to protect. And, if nothing else? May you learn.”

𝐄𝐍𝐃.

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍. )

When they’d met, Iseult was not yet notorious in the underworld, but a bruiser in clothes too big for his frame, learning the ropes of the place by ferrying its visitors through its maze of corridors. When they’d met, Iseult had not asked after Lady Farrow’s business ( for the crowning jewel of Val Faim’s underbelly, the thing that had the lowest scoundrel and highest noble alike entrusting its denizens with their contracts, was its assurance of silence. Its discretion ) Though he’d not asked the contract’s nature that day in his youth, its presence was another thing entirely: Farrow’s business that day had trailed her like her own shadow, a thing dark and smothering.

This pleasant evening, the iron-branded magic does its trick. Iseult revels in the scent. The show of power. “I am honored nonetheless,” they assured her. As Helene closes in, Iseult is still as a palace carving. Waiting with bated breath for what ploy fate has for them this go ‘round.

“That depends,” is their answer. One perhaps unusual for this meeting, but these are unusual times. Now finding himself a guard, Iseult sees this as a necessary vetting, and expresses a discretion of his own. A contract large enough will always take precedent. The one he holds now can only suffer so much distraction. But Farrow seeking Iseult is not taken lightly. Interest are piqued. “What would be the tenets of this contract?“ In other words, I can afford to be picky at the moment. In other words, I have to be.

“𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓. I need discretion and I need intelligence. Under oath, pain of death and whatever gods you wish to invoke, no amount of gold, information or threat will ply my request from your lips.” The moonlight glints off the both of them, shadows in conversation. Dealing with assassins and scoundrels has always been a necessity in her line of work, the double-dealings and backstabbers the background symphony of Val Faim’s daily goings-on. Sensitive information passed between them, and one wrong move, or one paid handsomely, the Guild would flock to it like flies on a cadaver.

The spirits of death moved about them under the glare of the moon, the way that they haunted Helene’s dreams, silence under the veil of sleep. Perhaps that is what made them so feared within the circles of the Dark Court, what made them be one of the better people that thrived upon the shadows of the Game, but she does not need to speculate. Only forge a contract.

Her back stands tall as she continues, her cards clear on the table as assassin to employer. It is simple, too simple to do anything and expect that she is not watched, but she has buried too many people for that to be the case, for none of her secrets to come to light. She may be old, but Helene was no fool. “I will pay, no doubt about that, and payment is… substantial. Whether it will be in dor or influence, you will not be disappointed. Are these terms amenable to you, my dear, or will we have problems?”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑.​ )

status: closed for @ircnclad date: 11th of maccius. location: farrow manor

Amelie’s escape is troubling news, the sort that pricks at him just when he’s laying down to go to bed and again at the neck when he rises in the morning. It’s bizarre – as though she’s disappeared without a trace, with no clue leading back to her. It’s this particular problem that has him returning to the one place he’d never thought he’d go back to, late in the hour of the day. But he cannot rest, and he and Helene and her husband had all shared strange hours at some time or another.

Hopefully, he thinks, his arrival won’t be too bizarre. He is technically here on Calandre’s business, after all.

He waits in the foyer while the attendant goes to fetch Helene, and Michel does his best to avoid looking at the walls, the decor, the very feeling the place possesses now when put up against what it used to, all the changes stacked on top of each other. When Helene finally enters, and Michel is left to stand there and introduce himself formally, he bows but finds his mouth has gone dry. He clears his throat to buy himself a little more time. “Lady Farrow. Sorry to come knocking so late. It’s… important.” It is, but that’s not why he feels this way.

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓. Helene always does, every measured step, every bit of paint on her face, armor forged for the battles to come. No Farrow will be caught dead unguarded, with no weapon in their hand. All things, she reasons, are weapons in her vicinity, from her clothes to her gaze, to the magic that suffuses the air as she enters.

And so, it is always rare for her to be disarmed.

She walks down, a little less than perfect, something her mother would have scolded her for, she assumes, but still regal. Still her. The night is dark, and she is hardly in a position to entertain guests this late at night, but the matters of state security seem to have no time for her or her pleasantries. She dismisses her majordomo with a smile and a nod, before waving Michel to a bench with ample amounts of wine and something to pick at as they will presumably discuss whatever it was on his mind. Nothing too dour, hopefully, but with all of the events happening at once, she hardly has it in herself to do even that.

“I did say the estate was open to you, but I suppose a word of warning would have been nice. I could have worn a nicer ensemble, you know.” Her port is sweet, as is her voice, as she languidly sits upon a chair, soft and ancient. “So. What do you have to tell me? I hope it was important enough to keep me awake, or I am making you pay for my lotions.”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑.​ )

Every time Cyril is in Helene’s presence, she is reminded of the beautiful chandeliers that adorn the ceilings of the palace, she is reminded of the rare flowers that bloom and ooze an untouchable feeling to them, she is reminded of every piece of history and Val Faim that is too precious, too… priceless to be touched — it is close enough for everyone to see it but just far enough that one must not touch, even if capable of it. Helene is a regal beauty that hides much more beneath the surface, Cyril can tell that much, but she can also tell that if there is someone that appreciates when people know their place, it is Helene. 

Still, the tailor can’t help but feel herself wishing she could be more at ease when near the adviser; tt was the same with Calandre, ease gained with time. And from that desire, there’s a small chuckle that escapes her when she hears Helene’s words about the Commander. “There is much to say about the Commander’s uniform but that it has elegance is not one of them,” Cyril begins, taking a few more steps towards the adviser, feeling as if Helene grows bigger and bigger every time she comes close. “He has actually asked me to redesign the uniforms after he pulled me out of trouble for — erm, just wandering around.” Cyril speaks quickly, trying not to incriminate herself for her undying curiosity of awe of the palace. 

Cyril’s eyes meet Helene’s. “I have talked to Chevalier Matthieu about a few alterations in his uniform. Just to make it easier to… clean.” Not the usual dealings that she has with the rest of Val Faim but there is much to be said about the needs of Chevaliers and knights that don’t quite align with the view of fashion that runs deep in Val Faim’s cobbled streets. 

There is a shift in her surroundings as soon as the Empress’ name is brought up. Suddenly, all Cyril can think about is what she heard coming behind the doors that separated her and Zhenya from Calandre’s breakdown. The impulse that ran through the tailor like electricity to just want to… help. “The Empress she’s…” A few heartbeats of silence settle between the two of them. For once, Cyril is carefully thinking about the words she wants to say. Every word that leaves her makes Cyril feel as if the walls of the Palace have ears and the last thing she wants is to add fuel to an already roaring fire. “I believe the explosion and everything has taken a toll on her.” There’s a sigh that escapes her as her gaze falls to her fidgeting hands, an uncomfortable feeling pouring on her as soon as she speaks of the Empress.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐒. “Matthieu and Michel. Forgive me for saying this, but by the grace of the Prophet, I cannot imagine two people less fashionable in Court. I applaud and appreciate your patience.” Fond exasperation is on her face, showing through the cracks of whatever stone that she had built to protect herself. She does not trust easily, but she does trust. And in these times, where friend and foe seem to swim beneath her vision, she tries to move over that abyss, yawning and eternal so as to trust. It is for fools, simply put, but she has been ruthless and hardened her whole life, a time to be foolish would be now, whenever she can still draw breath.

She does. At the mention of Calandre’s state, Helene takes a sharp inhale, before pursing her lips. It hurts to see her like this. In the infancy of her reign, she was skilled, but she was also a child, holding the world together in the palm of her hand as it shattered upon the thrust of a dagger’s blade. Old alliances were the start, but Helene found it in herself to care for Calandre the way anyone with half a mind and even less heart would. It is hard, to care for anyone in the Court, even moreso to care for Her Imperial Majesty herself, but she has trusted Calandre for the last twenty years, and for her to break now seemed as if cruelty on part of the divine.

“She bears it well in public. The amount of stress that she’s consistently under is bound to make any lesser person’s head spin.” The truth is all she can say, but this truth is simply a series of omissions. The prisoner at the cells. The explosion. An assassination attempt. She had broken before, and she had seen her rise again, a phoenix from the ashes, despair on her tongue. The precipice now, however, seems deadlier than craven officials looking to scavenge the remains of a girl who had become Empress overnight. It would be her privilege and her honor, perhaps, to catch her as she falls. Helene assures her that she will rise, and even if she had to burn down the rest of what she was, she would. She always would.

“I am glad, at least, that she finds comfort in you, aside from her illustrious paramour.” Her smile never does quite reach her eyes, but she continues on, the thought of despair still freshly in her mind, a simple stain beneath her temple. “She enjoys your company, dear. That is more than I can say for most of the vultures at court.” she says, eyes looking at Cyril. “You are perceptive, and perhaps compassionate enough. I hope you continue to afford Her Imperial Majesty respite between the storms brewing in the horizon.”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐘. )

𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐄, 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐄, understood the nuances of debt and favors. They could weigh a stack of dor in their hand and guess its value with their eyes closed; they were above keeping themself in someone’s shadow, beholden to some imaginary scale. The Guild, after all, speaks in tangible measurements and payment in coin; the Guild scoffs at vague bounties and flimsy recompense.

But Alodie is lost and there is only Agrippine, who has been dealt one too many kindnesses to shrug them off. A few favors seem a small price to pay for a quiet escape. Naively, they offers the one thing that is their own, the last bit of protection left to them. “Agrippine,” they offer, remembering the old woman who once asked the same question and never received an answer. With a swallow, Agrippine decides they have had enough uncertainty to last them several lifetimes. “Escape,” they choose with earnest.

𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐋𝐘, looking upon a game that she has already won. A small victory, it seems, but a victory nonetheless. It was hardly fair to subject them to the whims of the Court in all its glory, but they would be a tool that Helene can use to her advantage, and in turn, the gates of the Summer Palace would open to them in all its bloody glory. This person will be a pawn, willing and able, to secure the throne of Her Majesty from the idle hands of those who would seek to tear her down in an instant.

Her eye catches a guard—one of Victoire’s lieutenants, and a brief exchange of words goes between them, the unknown person always in the periphery of their vision. An escort is granted and given, and they accompany them towards a side entrance of the Palace. The dagger-sharp smile of hers never leaves, even as they walk the grounds of the Palace, after the heels of the death of another. The old heraldry comes to mind, a memory enshrined within her soul. Sharper than steel, and stronger still. Brosseau was a dull blade, and even now, she grows sharper, a new weapon added to her repertoire.

“You will hear from me, my dear,” she calls sweetly, as they exit the halls of the Palace. “I suspect I might have need of your services when the time is right.”

𝐄𝐍𝐃.

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑. )

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: the 4th of maccius, 936 - early morning 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: le palais d'été / the summer palace, helene’s chambers 𝐖𝐇𝐎: @ircnclad

Not all is what it seems. My friend only wanted to stop something awful before it began, and it cost him his life.

Amelie’s gasping cries ricochet throughout the confines of Sidonie’s mind. Her wild gaze, hysteria-laced words, and frantic demeanor haunt the Court Mage long after she departs from the cells, leaving her off-kilter and dissatisfied. What it seems, is this: she is no closer than separating fact from fiction in regards to Amelie, Henri, and their parts in the explosion outside of Le Tombe du Prophète. Despite the Dupont woman’s best attempts, Amelie budged no more; she vehemently repeated herself until she devolved into somber silence again, cheeks reddened and tear-stained. 

Sidonie’s displeasure is palpable as she strides down the hall of her home, heeled steps clacking mercilessly against the marble underfoot as she heads towards Helene’s chambers to share what little information she could wring from the woman in question and to decide on next steps. It is not often that both advisors produce such meager outcomes at their Empress’ request and Calandre’s subsequent disappointment pours salt on an already-open wound. If there is anything Sidonie can do for some sort of answer to appease Her Imperial Majesty she will, for Calandre’s distance only makes Sidonie’s heart ache instead of grow fonder.

Knuckles rapt twice, quick and curt, against Helene’s door as soon as she arrives at the doorstep. She does not even wait for the door to swing open before punctuating her knocks with her very own words: “Helene, I’ve an update from the cells.”

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒. None but mages know this, and not even they even fully understand. Helene was not blessed with wellsprings of power, the active threat of toppling nations or the insidious nature of absolute control—this is only the next thing that she works upon, a clawed rake to grasp whatever mote of magic was left beneath the ashes of scholars before her. Once, she had resented many for doing what she could not, but her blade sings beneath the ruin of everyone that had ever doubted her. They can only decompose now. A simple chorus of stalwart opposition in the dramatis personae of the play that she seems to have found herself in.

This thought is what she was in the middle of as Sidonie barges into the room, apocryphal texts recounted and remade into something that could pierce the veil of lies and bring light into what happened at the Prophet’s Tomb. But it seems that she would not even need that, if the tone of the Imperial Mage was to be believed. No effort is wasted, though she will need to file all of it at a later date.

“Does this news mean that we have anything declarative to present to Her Majesty?”  A growing migraine mounts on the side of her head, only kept down by the tranquil look on her face, thinking about the many ways this could all go wrong and strengthen the resolve of any dissidents in the Court. “I would rather not hope to go by conjecture; I’m no oracle and I would rather get to the bottom of this as quickly and cleanly as possible.”

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑. )​

Helene’s words come as cutting glass to Cyril and she can’t help but shift her weight from one side to the other, uncomfortably standing behind the adviser. She takes the opportunity to let a reaction grace her expression, knowing that as long as Helene stood with her back to the tailor, it’d be safe to show any sort of hurt over words that were far too similar to the dismissive ones her siblings used to spit at her. Cyril’s polite and warm smile falters at Helene’s opening words, feeling a lump grow in her throat and, out of habit and a need for some sort of comfort, she twiddles her fingers, searching for the same igniting feeling her powers give her. 

And even when Helene tells the tailor that she had been kind to ask, the smile that she manages to attach to her lips is shallow and she tells herself to get herself together as she inhales deeply and sharply. “Of course,” Cyril replies, employing what her parents had taught her, what they had presented to her like gospel even when she barely a teenager. Know your place, know your court and know your courtiers. Never be rude, not even when they say something that doesn’t sit well. Cyril isn’t a push-over, at all, but she is well aware that some battles are better left not fought. 

Cyril’s thankful for the quick transition the encounter had taken to a discussion of matters that she is actually comfortable with. Her eyes can’t help but seek Helene’s, however, when she says she wants elegant armour for the day-to-day and Cyril can’t help but wonder if everything is even worse than it seems in Val Faim. She clears her throat, clearing away the surprise that had momentarily settled in her eyes and the tailor walks towards the adviser and, with every word spoken by Helene, Cyril draws closer. Her eyes are focused on Helene herself, her mind studying and already imagining a design that would both fit the adviser and the vision she had in mind for her own outfit. 

“I can add some armour to whatever design you desire, yes. And would be grateful for any ingots House of Farrow can dispense, of course.” Cyril has her own way of designing gowns and outfits for the day-to-day life of the Courtiers and regular folk that came to her shop, but she is also capable of adapting to whatever vision her client wants. “I can keep it light and elegant like you said. I can also enchant the fabric to act as the true armour, if that is something you’d be interested in.” Cyril looks at Helene, trying to gauge the reaction. “No blade or arrow can pierce it.”

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍. Helene has grown up with the intrigue of the court and treachery of enemies as early as she could—the only use for someone in her position that could not see the momentary flickers of emotion was beneath six feet of loose earth. This is how she sees the weakness in Cyril’s smile, the way that it falters beneath her eyes as it tries to rise beneath whatever emotion Helene has put in her. A poor choice of words, it seems, but she cannot apologize now; damage has already been done. The tension around the Palace is static in the air, a match hovering over a fus and it seems that even she has brought it to Cyril’s shop.

Helene softens as she looks at her, coming as quickly as it left, as if by figment of imagination, before glancing at herself in the mirror, thinking about the next statement upon which the Court could gaze upon in envy. She is not young and a debutante anymore, not like Yvon, but she still had a few more tricks up her sleeve. Intimidation is a useful tool in the right hands, and whose hands are better to wield the sword than hers? She is feared, even among the allies she has gained, what is more between intrigue and uncertainty?

“I would ask that you provide enchantment for armor and fabric. I can defend myself, but certainty is a necessity in Val Faim. I would go to smithies, but I would rather not look like the Commander.” Helene pauses before continuing, amusement upon her features. It is an old joke, a well-loved one among friends. “Bless his heart. He tries, but no living soul can wrangle him from the armor on his back. At least it’s good armor.”

There is a rudimentary sketch of her outfit given, elegant and deadly. Helene has to show that Calandre is strong, even with the unrest that Alain has brought upon the capital, and while she reins in all of the rage that builds inside her chest, she does not want to make the man a martyr. Not yet. Not until Calandre gives her word. “Gauntlets and a breastplate would be welcome, my dear, especially if you could incorporate Empress’ Nadia’s taste into the current royal armaments. I assume you’ve had dealings with Her Imperial Majesty’s chevaliers—”

She does not speak after she says the words, but she knows that she must question Cyril about her. It is an open secret, but the question feels like treason. She asks, the lingering feeling of loyalty and care rooted in her chest awakening for the well-being of Her Majesty, if not for Celestine’s. “Well, how is the Empress. You see her more than most. More than I, at least. Is she well?”

[ofmichel]

ircnclad​.

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 as she looks back to the firelight, the accusatory pyre with all of its trappings and machinations. Returning to a time before she was this cold thing, this cold, hard thing beneath the piercing eyes of all that had sought to take her place within the court, was merely wishful thinking. The dead cannot return to life, inasmuch that she could not unlove the moments that she ever had with him. Helene had buried the love she had along with her husband, and cemented what she was with the blood of her father beneath the catacombs of Val Faim. It was cruel. It was enough. It was necessary.

Most would say that the Queenmaker was a merciless woman, laid to waste beneath the winters of grief and tragedy, that no tear ever left her eye for every death that happened around her. And how could it, if grief was the background noise of your life? Dead siblings, dead lover, dead father. No, Helene was merciless out of necessity, but she grieved all the same. Michel had known her, during the first months after Calandre’s reign, full of rage and full of mourning. She had been to enough funerals, seen enough blood spilled to claw Celestine out of the abyss it hung over. Oblivion did not care for grief, and so, in time, Helene never did either.

“I’ve had practice,” she replies coolly, the familiar scent of ashes filling her lungs once more. It is the truth, and the truth is what Michel—a friend as close as one can get, needs to hear. An easy measure of steel, her mother called it. Decorum prevents her from saying more, from reaching out fully from the yawning abyss from which they both stood opposite, but decorum rules beneath the Summer Palace, and she will not let her grief be the thing that ruined her.

“The way things were are only memories now. We can rage and rage against the passage of time, get swallowed by its current, but it does not care. It is unkind to those that resist it, and so, we must adapt.” Her eyes turn to him, the mask of propriety donned once more. “I have wasted time on grief and anger besides. Perhaps there is still time to forge something for the future, if you let it.”

Perhaps there is still time to forge something for the future.

It’s possible. It’s entirely possible, sitting right in front of him, waiting, beckoning, calling. Let this go, it says, and Michel, staunch and stubborn and rooted in duty in the same way as she is but different in so many others… cannot. It is his nature to hold onto things he should not keep and want what he cannot have. 

He thinks of his helmet, sitting aside somewhere, still covered in blood and waiting to sit atop his head again, and his mouth fills with the taste of iron. He wants to ask her how she does it. More than that, he wants her to tell him how to do it. A direction, some kind of guidance, an order. Anything is better than this thing which clutches at his boots and tries to drag him further into the muck of grief.

It’d be easier, he’s sure, if he let himself understand it. Looked it in the eye for anything longer than a few moments.

How strange it is to think that when he brought the head of the man who’d signed his – and several other’s – death warrants for the sake of a little dor, Helene had seen him. At his worst, in fact, hair shorn short, face and mouth and body bloodied from a since-buried front, full of a rage he’s been lucky enough never have to feel again and spilling over like a fountain with grief. He’d sworn he’d never lower himself in that way in front of anyone again, even as he’d said with bold-faced brashness to Calandre what had happened.

Here he is now. Not quite so low, but certainly not the same. Certainly not the man he could be. Would her husband be disappointed? Is she?

“We can try.” It’s a simple statement, all he can summon up. Unspoken: I will try. He looks at Helene, takes her in, commits this moment – her face, the steely look in her eyes – to memory. “If you’d excuse me, Helene. I’ll speak with you soon.” It’s a graceless exit, as graceless as it comes, but he cannot be here, cannot stay, cannot bear this any longer than he could swallow down another glass of champagne. He has nothing more to say, and further, nothing more he could if he wanted to. In time, he will return to her, but tonight’s lost, and tomorrow sounds unfathomable in his head. There is a brief touch to the inside of her arm, at her elbow, as if to say I’m sorry, and then he’s gone.

– END.

[ircnclad]

( 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐋𝐘. )

among the dark weeds of maccius, le papillon is directed pointedly to her next landing branch: the ESTATE of HELENE FARROW, summoned to her home via a liveried messenger.  ╱ @ircnclad

if i have been stripped and renamed the butterfly for little more than comeliness and fuckery, yvon thinks as she descends from the coach, surely there have been a thousand sobriquets for helene.

she ponders upon them as strides the cobblestone between carriage step and entryway, rifling through the backdrafts of her mind for a gust of memory, and as she’s brought into the grand foyer she ponders some more. cobra? lion? what the fuck is a gryphon comprised of? water drips from her cloak onto bare wrist, and yvon temporarily abandons her curiousity for irritation. as with all slight, winged creatures, the rain often left her unnerved. under the heavy slickness of her cape she feels compressed, the momentary exposure to spring shower rending from the duval girl some of her voluminous presence. beneath the wet satin, she could become — if only briefly — a simple, petulant girl. unfastening the drawstring below her chin with a snap, she extends the garment to a nearby attendant. “take it.”

if the cause of her sudden vexation is the weather, the staff does not know it.

it is only when she sees the lady farrow for the first time that she is reminded of why a moniker had never been mounted upon helene’s reputation at the summer court: her presence was enough. there was no creature that compared to a woman deemed impervious.

“madame farrow,” yvon’s body dips with proper respect, and rises with sharp amusement in the gulf of her eyes. “how fine a home you have.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 beneath the torrent of rain is only contrasted with her descent from the steps of her estate, heels clacking and ringing out as she descends with the utmost grace. Yvon seems smaller, now, as if a girl rather than one of two heads of a prosperous house beneath the dampness of the rain. It was endearing—an asset, that her coquettish nature seemed to be as pervasive as Gisele’s venom. It is their strength, or it would have been if they had learned to consolidate power. Helene does not let herself dwell on the other’s sister, but sets the pieces in motion inside her mind, the tangled webs of nobility and circumstance condensing into something more concrete. Something that she can work with.

“It is a much finer home if you did not bring the storm through the threshold, but the weather is as vicious as the changing sands, so I cannot really fault you for that.” Her face is amused, but her hands move precisely, letting Yvon and her coat dry instantly, and disallowing any more water to be tracked into the manor. It is charming, she supposes, a novelty, but hopefully what she proposes today would endear the younger sister to loyalty and politics.

But from what she’s heard, it would have to be an uphill battle; a good thing Helene does not back down so easily.

“I would have you accompany me to the sun room, but perhaps the gallery would be better suited to this type of weather, wouldn’t you agree?” She comments, a hand gesturing to the growing puddle on the floor. “Though I do concede that if you wish it, I could show you other parts of the estate. It is the least I can do, after you had to travel through that dreadful storm.”