~|~ 𝕾ø𝖗𝖊𝖓 𝕱𝖊𝖑𝖉𝖙, 𝕾𝖈𝖚𝖑𝖕𝖙𝖔𝖗 ~|~ 𝔡𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔬𝔡 𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔶 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔤 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔗𝔲𝔡𝔬𝔯ℌ𝔔𝔰 _______ When Someone You Love Becomes A Memory, That Memory Becomes A Treasure.
The accent- familiar, but in her panic Grace couldn’t quite place it, at least not until he spoke his name. She assumed Danish and replied to his bow with a brief curtsey of her own. “Grace Sherrington, sir.” Dark brows knitted into a frown as she looked at him; his face was that of one who she imagined was handsome in his youth, even now she found him appealing, though his age was harder to assume. “Your were not at the banquet, sir? Don’t you know what’s happening?” The dots were not hard to connect, yet Grace found it puzzling that he seemed to be almost completely unaware. She didn’t know whether to find comfort in his calmness, or if it unsettled her. So she kept her distance. There were men at court who’d keenly take advantage of their solitude, and Grace didn’t yet know how long their situation was to last. “An attempt was made on the King’s life. By Gods grace he is alright but… court is in chaos. I believe we may be spending some time together, sir.”
Søren wished he could say he was surprised there had been an attempt on the king of England, but in all honesty, he couldn’t be. It was not uncommon for new or young royalty to try to be removed or undermined. “That is unfortunate. I do hope they catch whomever is responsible,” he said sincerely. The spot it had put him and this young woman in, however, was less than ideal. Not that he would begrudge accompany now and again, but to have a strange woman literally pushed into your personal quarters was not good for either party. “Please, take a seat ? I’m afraid I cannot offer anything by way of refreshments, I was not expecting a house call,” he gestured towards a chair a safe distance from himself to keep her comfortable, but out of the way of the door should this turn into a full party.
“Yes, they are. Though I do not believe that it was built with the intent to house someone,” he spoke slowly and clearly in an effort to make up for his accent which some around found hard to understand. He offered a small bow, “I am Søren Feldt.” It seemed the least he could do was to introduce himself to this woman, even if the way circumstances had fell had been well beyond his power. They must not have known he resided here or they like as not would not have put an unaccompanied woman with a strange man. The Dane did also wonder why they were locking a seemingly harmless woman up in a room anyway, but assumed it must have something to do with the loud shouting that had occurred moments before.
From the sounds of it, there was some sort of banquet being held...again. He vaguely recalled an invitation to attend but had declined as he had seemed to be spending more time attending events then doing what he was here to do. Thus he was in his chambers, conveniently located off a long hall near all the loud revelers that were louder than a herd of sows giving birth. And then it all got even louder. He was bent over his work when the door swung open and a woman entered. Or as seemed more accurate, was ushered in with some low words before the door was shut and locked. He hadn’t even been previously aware his room could be locked from the outside. Inquisitive eyes turned towards the woman. “Hej med jer,” his greeting was more a question.
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His head bowed in appreciation and acknowledgment to her praise, though as usual he did not feel it warranted he receive praise for something that came as naturally to him as drawing breath. Now the small event had faded, he was not sure how to go about this. He had been on his way elsewhere, but it would be rude to just leave the young woman standing here.
Annoyance greets her like an old friend, with the force of another body colliding against her own. It does not take much for irritation to take ahold of her, since she is prone to it. From the slight upward tilt of her head, nose poised with superiority, it is the only tangible sign that she is not impressed. Emotions are often cleansed from her features, washed away with the tide like cracked shells. In her short time since she has arrived at court, the princess has found it to be, dare she say, hospitable. But the company is proving to be terribly bland.
Her English mother had more than a fire in her belly, but the origins of which Arabella can not find in the people whom she meets. Blonde cascading locks ripple in the wind as she walks through the courtyard, back from where she had travelled into the squalor of the kingdom where the peasantry begged for scraps. Arabella gave them what they desired, but only so that it was her name which they praised. ❝ — Goodness! The hour grows later than I had expected. Has everyone already started to feast? ❞ The softness of her voice heaves with falsehoods as she greets the courtier, following the obstreperous sounds which continue to spill from the main hall.
Søren had sought an escape from the nauseatingly frivolous happenings of the inner court to look at some of the more comfortably humble surroundings of the outer circles of the area. He may have risen from a son of a no-one fisherman in Denmark to a highly sought after artist, but that would never change that his heart didn’t belong among those fripperies.
He was somewhat reluctantly returning to the court where his attendance would be expected, when he came across the young woman. “I could only assume so, highness, as the time for such draws near,” he answered with a little bow. He could place her in an instant, despite not having personally met the beautiful soul before. He did perhaps catch a hint of falsity in her tone, but that in long term would no way affect him, as he was not in any way politically inclined, unlike a lot of artists and poets and indeed storytellers who flocked to court.
“It is not my scene in the slightest. I am here simply for my work. As soon as I have finished I will be gone again.” Gone where even he did not go. When he had no current commission he would oft literally follow the wind, making pieces inspired by feelings and random thought rather than likenesses. Despite being sold for much less than the portraits and busts of kings and nobles they were usually his best works coming more from the heart than the works made for the needs of the upper classes. “I am sorry for your horses. Being stuck inside is no good for man or beast. Both need the freedom to roam.”
“Indeed they are. I did make it, many years ago, yes.” He returned the object to a breast pocket most carefully. His thoughts began to wander over to the day he had made it. Little Mette had fallen asleep in his wife’s lap after a long day out in the air, while Sigrid herself had such a look of contented happiness that he had never wanted to loose it, he always wanted to have it to look upon when he was away from home. He wasn’t to know it would be the last of these moments he would ever have.
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