She is the definition of courtly love, and as a Duke she has rank on basically anyone she would be courting. Therefore, she would be the one expected to take initiative.
She would find that extremely difficult.
She would mostly avoid the subject for the most part, attempt to remain unmarried for as long as possible, focusing her attention on the rest of her station.
But... it would catch up to her eventually. Pressures from her subordinates to either marry or give up her station. Pressures from the other great houses to tie together the fragile kingdom with economic bounds. And, of course, the ever-present pressure to either produce an heir to inherit her personal wealth, her responsibilities, and her cultural lineage -- of Emirale she is the last, and of the line of Ebura mages she is the last -- or face the threat of dying swiftly, on the battlefield or by an assassin's blade, with no one to carry her on into history.
So she would, eventually, find a suitable bachelor. One not too high in station that it would a high-profile marriage, but one not low enough that there would be no political or economic benefit to it, and thus a stain on her prestige. One with a good family that approved of her ancestry, one who was kind and personable and charming. One who could take over the social functions of the House that the Duke Arradre had never excelled at.
She would find him, and she would court him in the proper way. A letter to his family, first, expressing her interest and requesting an introduction. A brief, terse conversation at a party that would be as vapid as it was polite. A series of escalating encounters over the next year or so that would be, on their face, plainly romantic -- private dinners, a ride through the countryside near Amulta, a weekend sailing together on Lake Istales. They would all be empty.
Eventually they would be married, a beautiful ceremony on the lawn of the Library of Amulta, well-publicized as the marriage of the Duke Arradre -- a fascinating character, whose rise to power was much talked-about amongst the nobility -- but ultimately trite. They would spend a brief honeymoon in the north of the country as is tradition for the Dukes Arradre, and they would return diligently to their duties.
She would produce an heir. She would be remembered as a curious, foreign, but ultimately revered Duke.
"To each their own, I guess," Carme said, through a mouthful. "But I've never really cared for it."
"It's weird, yeah. I think of it kind of like a fill-in for pasta. It needs a lot of toppings, though, it's kinda bland."
"Seconded." They were seated in the outdoor area of Taego Aduraz, a southern-style upscale restaurant with neat red and white decor. They had picked it for what the name meant in Ebura -- "Brave Escort for the Upper Class" -- which they had a childish giggle about in the square earlier that morning. It was strange, waking up in the morning and having nothing to do, going on a walk through the ruined, but slowly rebuilding city of Bastion, and casually swapping bites of each others meals to see which they liked more.
Nearly ten years of perpetual anxiety, bouncing from conflict to conflict, and now they had a ship booked to the mainland in two months and nothing to do until then. Unfair. Now so many things were rising up to fill the gap.
Carme was looking out across the street, towards the gap between buildings where the tips of masts could be seen, just peeking out above the hills and the throngs of busy people. Her hair caught the wind -- longer than it used to be, and still strange to see dipping just past her shoulders.
"Do you want a haircut?"
"What?" Carme turned back to her, absently, and Celia felt her cheeks flush. "Oh, uh, I guess? I haven't thought about it in a while. No galas or anything to go to, so I haven't had to bother."
It had come out too quickly, and Celia was uncomfortable now. "Well, you know, if you wanted, we could find a barber. Or, you know, a hairdresser. If you wanted."
"No offense, Celia, but we're not exactly flush with cash at the moment."
It was true. She had come to this island to make money, to build up her connections within the empire, and leverage both of those things against her occupiers. But now she had declared support for a rebellion, lost most of her money in a shipwreck caused by said rebellion, and was left almost entirely alone. Almost.
"I could cut it for you, if you wanted," Celia said, thinking as little as possible about the words coming out of her mouth. "I've cut your hair before."
"Oh! Uh, yeah. You have." Carme seemed to be surprised by that. It was true, she promised. "That was when we were kids, though."
"Did I not do a good job?"
"No, no, that's not it." Carme paused. "I just... you know, you're upper crust nobility, technically, even if our purses don't show it. Is it, like, appropriate?"
The Duke Celia Arradre, daughter of House Emirale, stared to her left and watched a ship lower sail and slip smoothly below the cobble-crusted streets.
"I feel less and less respect for propriety, lately. The empire did things properly, and we stabbed them in the throat and set their city aflame. Drebur did things properly, and it was betrayed by its own houses and conquered by men with no love for it. What will happen, now, if we do things properly? What will happen, if we are polite?" She turned back, eyes brown as ermine fur. "Will we burn again? I think we may have to accept reality, sooner or later."
Carme stared at her, and nodded gently, spoon laid to rest at the edge of her plate, just so. She was truly gentle, and graceful, when she wanted to be. A picture-perfect knight, minus the shining armor for the moment. Not the clumsy, naive fool that so many appraised her as. She was intelligent, and savvy, and focused, and driven. A perfect servant to many a master before her. Celia wishes she wasn't just using her.
"So... you do want to cut my hair?"
"Yes."
She smiled. Celia tried not to.
"Tonight, then. At the vinyard. That little seamstress girl must have a spare pair of scissors somewhere, right?"
"Ephemerid has many things."
-------------
The vinyard was not quiet these days, but tonight it was mostly empty; Ryll was gone, tracking down the few remaining imperial loyalists and giving them offers they couldn't refuse; Eleanor was putting together her new government, and hopefully getting tempered by Talgeron; Chai was off rebuilding the farms that had fallen into disrepair in the last few weeks.
Ephemerid was more than happy to lend a pair of scissors -- with eyes the size of dinner plates -- when Celia came knocking on her door in the early afternoon. A hushed question of "what are they for?" and a smug grin on her face as she passed over a pair in silver and mother-of-pearl. Celia left her at her bedroom door, though she could feel the press of her gaze on her back. She ignored it.
The bathroom was prepared with a chair and a thin sheet, which Celia draped across her knight wordlessly. Carme seemed apprehensive at her touch, muscles tensing. Discomfort, perhaps. Celia would touch her no more than she needed to.
The scissors she held in her left hand, and, with a mutter of Draconic under her breath and a flutter of her eyelids, conjured a pointed, foggy hand with which to hold the comb. She tucked the scissors into her belt for a moment.
"Do you want to keep a braid of it?" Celia asked softly, combing out her hair.
"U-uh, sure. Sure. Yeah. Why not."
"Alright," said Celia. The hair came through her fingers easily -- it was fine, much finer than her own, and tended towards slick and silky rather than voluminous and soft. It fell together quickly, Celia's own deft fingers tumbling together with conjured ones until a short braid fell down Carme's neck. She cut it, swiftly, and set it down on the bathroom counter.
Carme's hair fell around her chin -- blunt and a little ridiculous, but still somehow dashing in the mirror in front of her. She had a way about that. Celia did not make eye contact. She picked up the comb, and went to work.
The cut was familiar to her. It was the way soldiers had their hair cut during wartime, and the way men cut their hair year-round. Celia hadn't, for reasons she was given when she was young and had rarely thought about since then. But Carme had kept her hair this way at all times. She told Celia once that it was to keep it out of the way, because she hated the way that it felt on the back of her neck. But then that didn't explain the way that she always asked to wear suits instead of dresses at hastiludes and galas and midsummer parades, nor the way she walked broad and gallant, with none of the delicacy or grace that she and Celia were taught from the time they were young.
Scissors ran across the nape of her neck, quickly, loosely. Celia was not an expert hairdresser, but she had cut Carme's hair enough times when they were young to know well enough what she was doing. Scissor-over-comb in the back, close at the base and longer as it goes up. Keep the crown tied up until you need in, then cut it short and feather it so it doesn't fall all together. The sides have a starker gradation than the back, which fades evenly into the length on the top. It was easy to lose herself in it, since she could feel nothing of the hand that had its knuckles pressed into the skin of the back of her head, and only the soft snip, snip of the scissors as she moved up her neck.
Carme sighed, a few times, and sank back into her seat. She was bored. Celia would work more quickly.
She had been cavalier about this earlier, had downplayed the significance of such an intimate act for the sake of indifference. It was not insignificant, she found now, as she ran her non-fingers through Carme's hair, motioned wordlessly for her to tilt her head one way or another, felt a slight twinge of fear as she obeyed, equally wordlessly. She trusted her so.
Another few minutes went by, and it was more of the same. Snip, comb, snip. A few times, Celia's finger would brush against her scalp, or she would have to use her fingernails to separate out the hair. That was when she had to be most careful, impartial, professional, not too indifferent, but not too personal. And, of course, Carme leaned into her touch whenever those little slips happened, as if she had none of the same dedication. She was always such a fool.
Celia let the hair on the crown of Carme's head fall around her face. She glanced in the mirror for a second, and caught an eye -- piercing, brown, peering through locks of damp hair and smiling softly. Celia quickly turned away. She was irritatingly handsome, even only halfway through a haircut, in the way that turned the heads of men and women no matter how sound their desire.
Celia stared into her hair. Cut, comb, cut, comb. Blot out everything else.
"You look nice, by the way."
She said it in Ebura. Soft, with rounded vowels. Celia ignored her. Cut, comb, cut, comb.
"I should say it more, because I think you don't realize it. But you look nice like that, with your hair down, the tabard open." Carme was staring at her in the mirror. "You feel natural. You're usually so careful about everything. I like you better like this. When you aren't being careful."
Cut, comb, cut, comb. She grabbed Carme's chin and turned it sharply, somehow eliciting a giggle.
"Are you afraid of me? What do you think will happen?" Carme shut her eyes for a moment, letting out a long, slow breath. "You're doing a good job, by the way. It looks nice."
Celia scoffed. "I could do better if you'd be quiet."
"Right, right. As you wish, my lord."
Celia cut, and combed. She feathered the straight lines, kept them from sitting too flat and dull on her head. She would be lying if her own tastes weren't being reflected in it; she had any number of opinions on the kind of things that looked good on Carme. And, she liked when her hair was feathered and messy. It was not traditional, but she wore it handsomely.
Her stomach twisted, and quiet things began to burble up. She grimaced, and reminded herself that everyone makes mistakes once in a while. Her most of all.
"Yes," she said, after a while.
"Yes what?" Carme opened her eyes, and Celia saw her staring at her through the mirror curiously from her periphery.
"I am afraid of you," she said.
There was nothing more to do, the haircut was finished, but she was still combing, slowly, as an excuse not to look her in the eye.
"Oh." Carme was quiet for a while, staring into the middle distance. Celia had meant to shock her, but she wasn't lying. Guilt crept into her throat again. It was familiar to her now.
"Why is that?" Carme asked.
"I don't know," she responded. A lie. She knew why.
"You don't have to be. Or I wish you didn't have to be." Pause. "You and I could be close, and... I don't think that the country could have anything to do with it. Or if they do, then... You're Duke of one of the Great Houses. You have the favor of the Queen. Things could be different, if you wanted."
"You presume it's something I want. And you assume that I want to test my luck with her, which I don't. I've already murdered the previous Duke, and ruined our chances at prosperity in the future. We are impoverished, soon homeless, and I have nothing to show for my conquest." Celia placed the comb down on the countertop, more sharply than she intended to, and stepped towards the door. "It's done. I'm done. I'm going to go on a walk. Unaccompanied."
"No, I don't think you are." No hand grabbed her, but Celia froze as if one did. "I know you, Celia. There's something wrong, and I want you to deal with it for once, instead of going on and on about how you're horrible and irreparable and trapped by the system. Because you know what? You want to know what?"
Celia turned halfway, to look at Carme, bent forward on her chair, looking up at her. She narrowed her eyes. "What?"
"You are the system. You've beaten it; it's yours. Make it what you want it to be. There were never any rules, you should know that better than anyone. They do whatever they want, and call it tradition, and they call it 'right'. And you can do the same, but this time actually fucking be right. For once, do something good for someone. For you"
Celia stared for a minute, watched the muscles in Carme's jaw flex as she met her gaze, watched her hands clench and unclench in her lap. Strong, bruised hands, with scrapes and scares on her knuckles. She would know defeat yet.
"What do you think I want?"
"I think you want to be comfortable. And I think you want to be taken care of." Carme stood, and approached her, and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. Sweat beaded there, where she couldn't brush it off. "I think that you've spent a very long time doing what other people ask of you, and you don't know any other way to live. And I think you want something else."
A pause. Carme fidgeted with her fingers for a minute, working up the courage to say something. Celia begged for divine intervention, for anyone to save her from the fate that awaited her. Please let it not be what she wanted. There would be no going back.
"I swore an oath to you, to protect you, defend you, serve you. To do your bidding. But I haven't, not yet. You haven't once given me an order that would serve you. You want to serve the crown, and that is honorable, but..."
She took Celia's hand. Hers was warm, and calloused. Celia's was clammy.
"I want to be servant to your desires. Then I will have fulfilled my oath."
A beat. Another. Carme was so close now, and Celia could feel the warmth of her body radiating into her. She thought that Celia would not pay attention, so she came closer to make her point. Celia would be more attentive.
She shut her eyes, and let out a long, slow exhale. "You are an honorable woman, Carme Saenz."
It happened slowly, like a rockslide, with lots of dust and debris obscuring the truth of it. And Celia knew, in the moment, that it would be brief, impossible to remember, impractical to think about. But it was euphoric. A spout of exhausting clarity, true and simple, invoking such regret that she felt like sobbing. But she didn't, and she didn't have to struggle to maintain composure this time. It came, easy and free.
It lasted longer than Celia cared to elaborate on. There were no words shared afterwords, just stares and gentle touches and hands, gripping each other tightly, for a long while. Celia let go first, and Carme's hands dragged on her shoulders as she pulled away. Again, a wave of calm. She would be back.
-------------
Celia walked out into the cool halls that ringed the courtyard and began the walk up the stairs, but stopped, and turned, to face a girl in a starched white dress.
"Ephemerid. Your scissors." She offered them out.
Ephemerid smiled, and ran a finger along the banister, pretending to check for dust. "Sooooo... how are things?"
"Well." Her heart was racing. Her face was flat. "Here are your scissors."
"Well?! That's it?" Effie stared at her with an open mouth. "You had the experience of a lifetime, you MORON. You can't just say you're well and go on your dukey way. You're gonna tell me what happened."
Celia closed her eyes and took a breath. Well. The girl can read minds. She opened her eyes, narrow. "How much did you see?"
"Huh?" Effie tilted her head, and frowned. "What do you mean?" Her eyes went wide. "WAIT, WHAT HAPPENED?!"
Celia smiled. "You didn't see anything, did you?"
"NO! I SAW EVERYTHING!" Effie took a few steps up towards her, and pointed with a quivering finger. "YOU GAY KISSED HER, I SAW IT!"
Celia felt her cheeks warm, but stood her ground and only raised an eyebrow. "You have always had an overactive imagination. Take your scissors back."
"NO! ADMIT IT! OR I'LL KILL YOU!!"
Celia shrugged. "Fine. I'll keep them. Come get them when you can see reality."
She turned and walked back up the stairs, twirling the scissors on her finger. She felt light, somehow. Open. Fresh. Change seemed so close all of a sudden.
Celia to me is very fun because there were a bunch of possible timelines that i considered, since there were so many different ways her story could go. she could go imperial, she could stick with the party, she could go imperial and then betray them for the party... i sort of thought about all them and now that we're close to the end of her story shes like. winding down. resolving. theres only a few things that still have to resolve sans significant unexpected events, mainly her relationship with carme (they want each other carnally)
i adore magpie and if i were a better writer i would actually finish her story. Shes sort of an x-files type, with the nebulous gocernment agency backing her and the roaming around the continental united states looking for monsters, but thats where the similarities end. her story isnt a motw drama, its a horror story. its framed as serial fiction, and over the course of many many chapters she will gradually fall apart, drifting slowly further and further away from linear time and forgetting how to be human. the audience also learns that her organization is the government, but it could also be one branch of an eternal monster that worms its way into peoples' minds and grows the more people are awful to each other. (see: the city we became) its like. its a heavy story and i want to do it justice, so i dont want to start writing it until ive finished a few other projects first.
7. there’s a magic item (or technological innovation, or special resource) made just for them—what is it?
13. what are some motifs you associate with them? did you intentionally bring in those motifs, or did it happen over time?
7. There's the minmax-y answer to this, and then there's the genuine, character-driven answer.
The minmax-y answer is a robe of the archmagi. Pumps her AC up to 19/23/28 (unbuffed, bladesong, shield), gives her a buff to her spell DC and spell attack bonus, and improves her saves, all of which are extremely beneficial to her.
But, it just isn't character accurate. She would never wear "robes", and even when she does wear dresses she prefers them tight and form-fitting rather than loose. She doesn't really want to be more powerful in battle, either; if anything, she wants an end to a life of fighting that has scarred her physically and emotionally.
So the characterful answer? Something that functions as a permanent Telepathy spell, like the Bonded Bracelets from MCDM's Beastheart. Honestly, the one thing she really wants is to be close to Carme, and to ensure that she's safe and taken care of. She's a little overprotective in that way. Also, bonded jewelry is... gay. -w-
Otherwise, since her skills lie in the obtaining and dispersal of information, a Crystal Ball or some method of casting Sending at will would be very nice.
13. There's patterns, and then there's motifs. While I was writing this, I was sure I didn't have any motifs, so I wrote down a few patterns. But, I still kinda want to talk about them, so here they are:
storms. she does a lot of cold, lightning, and fire damage (shocking grasp, booming/green flame blade, spirit shroud (almost always cold or necrotic), lightning bolt, minute meteors...
The problem with this as a motif is that, like, every wizard does a lot of lightning, fire, and cold damage. It's kinda what they do. Still, I've incorporated it into my sketches of her, and I consider it a core aesthetic tenet of the character.
knighthood. it's obvious, really, but it is a huge part of her character: codes of chivalry and conduct, decorum, honor, her dress and sword. Even her affinity for horses all stems from the fact that first and foremost, she is a knight loyal to her country.
in fact, one of the gayest scenes between Carme and Celia consisted of, I shit you not, Celia listing out a set of vows for carme to commit to as a sworn knight of House Arradre, with Carme saying "I do" in response to each of them. That kind of thing is... it's just so them.
And, probably the only real motif she has: the sea. It is what brought her to this island, it's what reunited her with carme, it's what claimed the life of sixty or so of her countrymen. Eventually, it will be what she crosses when she leaves the island and returns to try to save her country.
It represents change, it represents home, it represents the pain and suffering she has withstood up to this point, and it represents the emotional scars that still linger from turning against the party. And she really, really hates the sea.
