Usual Sabine/Zarad stuff. I liked playing with this theme 8)
1616 words, Revaire!MC/Zarad, general
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Cordelia would never be so vulgar as to yawn, but it seemed Emmett and Clarmont were not above cracking their jaws against the winding down hours. And even Cordelia looked a little slack around the cheeks, and she blinked rapidly, turning her lashes into fluttering butterflies struggling to prop her eyes open.
Clarmont threw his hand down on the card table with a rueful smile. “If I had any idea how quickly I would be bankrupted at the Summit, I might have stayed home.”
Cordelia let the gentlemen push her winning toward her with a small smile. It wouldn’t do, after all, for a lady to scrabble and stretch across a table.
Beside her, Zarad pushed Sabine’s game chips over along with his own. “I am afraid we always sit at the card table with the princess to our doom.”
“She sure is--” Emmett started, interrupted by a tonsil-revealing yawn. “--the best here. Sorry.”
Cordelia gave him a practiced and indulgent smile. “I hope you all have enjoyed yourselves. I certainly have, but I am afraid I am quite tired. I think I shall retire.”
“I think that is a good idea,” Clarmont said. He stood to pull Cordelia’s chair.
“Oh, no!” Sabine protested. She fluttered the fingers of one hand, a champagne flute in the other. “Oh, don’t go, loves! I haven’t lost nearly enough yet!”
Cordelia, Clarmont, and Emmett smiled and made their apologies. They left the parlor, leaving the dwindling little clusters of chatting delegates and the ever-deepening shadows. It had become the habit of the more night- and company-inclined guests to linger together in the parlor for after-dinner drinks. For the last few days Zarad and Sabine had run a cards table with rotating partners as their friend’s obligations changed.
Zarad leaned back to the little rolling cart with its ice bucket and pulled the champagne bottle out. His silken robes slid a bit more open (shocking that such a thing was even possible!) and the low candlelight went gliding over his desert moon skin. He caught her looking and gave her one of the smuggest smolders she’d witnessed yet. She returned a very arch brow.
“Congratulations are in order,” he said, pouring the bottle’s last drops into his glass.
“Excuse me? I know you are a little unique in the head, but you can’t have already forgotten that I am considerably lighter in the purse tonight.”
“Now, now,” he said. “You don’t have to be so modest with me. You’ve succeeded in your greatest ambition, dear. Quite an accomplishment!”
She sipped at her glass and didn’t dignify him with a comment.
Undeterred, he leaned forward with a smile and a wafter of spiced perfume. “You’ve finally gotten me alone, all to yourself.”
Sabine stared at him. “You know, you have gotten quite presumptuous of lately. Assuming you know my mind before I do. Quite ungentlemanly.”
“Gentleman? I should hope I would never be called that. I don’t know how well I could bear such an insult. And the only thing I know is that I am helpless to stop the heights to which I bedazzle you.”
She placed her flute on the green felt of the card table and pulled some the discarded hands closer to them.
“I don’t believe that a bit,” she said, using a finger to flip some cards over, one by one. “In fact, I think-- no, I know you have caught on to more than you show. So show me.”
He gazed at her with quizzical smile. “Show you?”
“Tell me which card I am.”
And she flushed then-- because his the muscles around his eyes relaxed that small bit that told her he was looking at her with the constant mask had lifted. Lifted just enough for her to peek under-- but it was enough. Those peeks felt like being trapped together, nose to nose, beneath a veil. She wouldn’t say it, but he was right. He bedazzled her with his night eyes.
Zarad looked down at the cards, his crooked smile curling back up. His fingers danced over the remains of their games.
“It depends,” he said, tone low, “Which version of you we’re speaking of.”
She tilted her head, long earrings swinging. “I have versions?”
“If it is the Red Baroness of Revaire we speak of--”
He pushed a card face-up toward her. The queen of clubs, wielding her scepter in a threatening fist. The queen of violence. Of aggression, self-service.
Zarad’s fingers left the queen of clubs to pick up another card. “If it is the public Sabine, the baroness you present to society--”
Beside the queen of clubs, he laid down another. The queen of diamonds. The materialistic woman. Wordly and unmindful of greater concerns.
He gazed at her as he selected and put down a third card. “But beneath even that--”
The queen of hearts. The queen of love. Love both romantic and platonic, and the people’s queen.
Sabine propped her chin on a hand; Cordelia would be horrified at such a casual and unladylike pose. But she couldn’t help it. He was so dangerous, because he made her want to drop each and every facade and game. She smiled at him.
He gazed back for a long moment. He blinked and dropped his eyes to the cards, surprising her.
She tapped the queen of hearts sitting by her two sisters. “And this is the true Sabine?”
He smiled and stared at it. “I wonder.”
Before the moment went too long and too close, Zarad’s hand reached for the cards again. He plucked one up, brows back down into their flirty set and his eyes glittering.
“As for myself--” He laid his card down with a flourish. “The jack of hearts: the constant servant and devotee to his queen.”
The jack and queen of hearts stared up at them from the green felt. They certainly looked a pair, with their matching red ink hearts and twining roses.
Sabine hummed. “Again, you are always so slippery.”
“Oh?”
“In some games the jack is the highest ranking, and in others it is the lowest. Your jack plays at the lover, but he is a trickster.” She raised a brow at him; he smiled vaguely. “I believe it is my turn?”
She reached forward and shifted through the mess of cards. When she found it, she glanced up and carefully laid it down before him.
The king of hearts.
They were two of the last delegates left in the parlor, and she could feel the eyes of the servants at the edges of the room. She was afraid there was a particular pair of violet eyes boring a hole in her head, but at the moment nothing mattered more to her than the eyes in front of her.
The king hearts is unique of all the kings, not holding his weapon before him. Rather, his hand held a sword aloft, stabbing backward and appearing to go straight through his skull. The suicide king, he’s called. The king of sacrifice, of ill-fated ends.
She watched him stare at the card, and she watched him command the muscles of his face into a smooth facade. She summoned her own soft smile, as aware as he of the eyes in the room on them.
“I worry,” she near-whispered, “That the path you’re on is treacherous and unforgiving. It is narrow-- too narrow to allow you the comfort of your true thoughts and feelings. That you kill the Zarad you deserve to be constantly. Every day.”
She ran a finger up the side of the little paperboard card. “But you know, there is a different interpretation of the king of hearts; that he is not stabbing himself, but brandishing his sword high in victory.”
Her finger walked from the card across the table to his hand resting on the felt. She slipped her fingers beneath his. Their eyes met.
“That is the Zarad I see,” she said, voice so low it was little more than a silent mouthing.
His eyes roamed over her. Then darted beyond her, and back again. He smiled. “Then the situation is worse than I feared; you have become so bedazzled that you are quite seeing things. It seems it is time for us to finally part-- no, don’t cling, dear, we must be strong.”
She slipped her hand from his with a wry glare, just as Jasper materialized silently at her shoulder.
“My lady--”
“Yes, Jasper,” Sabine said, standing. Zarad stood as well, and she eyed him. “I was just giving some wasted advice to this fool I found here. But I had best be on my way now.”
Jasper gave a half-bow and stood aside waiting. She gave one last raised brow to the usual sparkling smoulder in Zarad’s eye, and she dipped into the habitual curtsy before turning.
And she stopped. Because she’d laid her hand on the back of the chair she’d been sitting in as she turned to sweep her skirts free of the card table and its ornate chairs, and on the hand she’d so thoughtlessly dropped to the back of chair now laid Zarad’s hand. His fingers caught her pinky and ring finger, and they lightly squeezed before letting go. When she looked up, his smile did not pull a bit out of place or his eyes register anything out of his usual nonsense.
She did not fare so well. The suddenness had surprised her, and so her defenses were quite helpless against the strange intimacy of such a small thing. Heat rose in her face.
Jasper cleared his throat. She whipped around and walked from the parlor, a silly smile barely bit down about her lips.
Another newer MC, since I wanted to try Lisle’s path with something other than a pirate. His week 4/5 content is So Great with an Ethical Widow, just wow. Or, at least, my ethical widow.
Christiana was no stranger to desperation. Or the despair that all to often accompanied it. Together, the pair of them had formed the driving force for most of her life, from sweet-talking the butcher or tailor into extending her family’s credit just a little more, straight up to marrying the baron when she was barely more than a child. She’d hardly noticed the all too familiar tightness in her chest as her ship approached Vail Isle. The Summit was her one hope of escape.
Which was why she couldn’t stop herself from smiling every time Lisle acted like she was doing him a favor at horrible personal cost. On the third such occasion, she finally couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Lisle.” She set down her glass and reached over to take his hand. “I know it might be difficult to believe, but I am happy with our arrangement. Thrilled, really.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “That is hard to believe. Your being thrilled, I mean. Not many women would be.”
Christiana smiled darkly. “In case it’s escaped your attention, I’m not like most women. Widowed, frequent subject of gossip, from the poorer end of the nobility... I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to get where I am, balancing my ethics against what survival required. Do you know what our match is to me?”
Lisle shook his head.
“It’s hope. Hope for Wellin’s future once you become king, hope for me that I can maybe actually do some good in the world rather than lying through my teeth so the royal family doesn’t orchestrate my convenient disappearance, hope that the future will be better than the past.”
“I plan to do everything in my power to make it so,” Lisle promised, looking touched by her words as he covered her hand with his.
“Honestly, you’ve already started,” Christiana said. “You know the Grand Duke you so badly didn’t want Penelope to marry?”
He nodded. “Thank you for talking her out of that.”
“It was the voice of experience. From her description, her Grand Duke and my Baron were quite similar. My husband maybe didn’t yell as much, but he was awful to the servants, and after the first month or so, didn’t have a kind word to spare for me.” She swallowed hard. “I may not have done anything to hasten his demise, but I didn’t particularly mourn his loss, either. Going from that to marrying you... a man who will treat me well, be my friend and partner, is wonderful beyond words. I know from experience I don’t require love in a marriage. Being your friend is more than enough.”
“High praise, indeed,” Lisle murmured, laughing softly. “I will endeavor to be worthy of it.”
“You will be a great king someday,” Christiana said, truly believing it. “You’ll do great things for Wellin-We will do great things. We’ll change things for the better, an inch at a time if need be. But we’ll do it. And we’ll leave such a legacy that people will still remember your name centuries from now.”
“You don’t dream small, do you, Christiana?” Lisle said softly. squeezing her hand.
“Where do you think the ambitious reputation came from?” she returned. “But for the first time, my ambitions can be for the betterment of the world and not simply my own survival.”
Lisle smiled and released her hand to pick up his half-empty glass. “Well, then. To the future.”
Christiana raised her own glass. “May all our hopes come to be.”
As they drank their toast and parted ways, she realized that for the first time, she actually believed they might.
Shortly after the Baron of Namaire passes, Sabine returns home to the Guyenne estate for an overdue visit with her family. It’s not all tea and roses, and Sabine has business in mind for her siblings. (And yes, Rosalin is shamelessly inspired by Julie d’Aubigny.)
5821 words, Revaire!mc and no pairing, general
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Sabine took the hand Chrétien offered, and a few raindrops fell on her traveling gloves. Black spots bloomed over the maroon silk. She stepped down from the carriage, careful with her impractical and yet very pretty slippers on the slick running board. The butler-- the new one that Chrétien had written to her about-- held an umbrella to shield her mostly, and her brother partly, from the rain.
“Thank you,” Sabine told him.
“Of course, madam,” he said, specks of water dotting his coarse dark hair. He managed a bow that was both elegant in its grace and careful in its keeping the umbrella still keeping the rain off.
It could never be said the facade of the Guyenne estate did not show a modern style-- attractive in its stately proportions with larger windows than the ancestors had used and more delicate crenelations-- but that was the face of the castle. The interiors and the unseen sections told a different story. The southern wing jutted out over a lake and would have lovely vistas if the whole wing did not smell of mildew and the foundation had not been steadily dissolving into that very same lake.
Only half the eastern wing was kept open, and many of the western wing’s room were also kept closed. The best and oldest portraits were kept covered year-round unless company was expected. Servants were constantly hired and dismissed as the cash flow changed, so new faces were a permanent feature of the house.
“Shall we?” Chrétien asked.
It never failed to surprise her: having to look up at him. Even though he’d been taller than her for years. Curly dark hair and dimples, her precious baby brother. He smiled inquisitively at her lingering.
Sabine patted his arm. “Very well.”
They walked the short distance over the shining gravel to the entrance, Manel and his umbrella following. The footmen were waiting with the entrance doors. Rain darkened the shoulders of their wool uniforms. They bowed as she and Chrétien passed.
Warmth washed over them in the foyer. White and pink marble, silver sconces and gold gilding. She had a minimum of time to inspect the latest refurbishment before a side door burst open and screaming bounced about the foyer.
Two bundles of taffeta and ribbon bows bowled into her midriff.
“Sabine! Sabine!”
Sabine laughed and stooped to grip the two girls strangling her waist even tighter to herself. They squealed. She knelt to push them back a little and get a better look. Identical brown and dimpled cheeks, cheekbones that would one day be sculpted, little bow mouths. Camilla wore a yellow frock with yellow lace, and Marigold wore blue with black velvet ribbons. They grinned at her.
“Oh my doves,” Sabine said. “Little dumplings. You’ve grown so much!”
“Did you bring Pardot’s Theorems--”
“What about The Principles of Thought as--”
“Girls,” Chrétien said. He handed his coat off to the doorman and frowned at them. “She’s been in the door for a second. You could at least give a proper greeting.”
Sabine stifled a snort. His babyface made the frown look very ill-fitting indeed. She tugged on the twins’ mahogany curls.
“He’s right. I could be convinced by a kiss though,” she whispered.
They giggled, and together pecked either side of her face. “Hello, sister!”
“Hello, loves! The books are in my luggage, and I’m sure the maids are already unpacking--”
They flew up the main staircase before she finished the thought.
“Camilla, Marigold!”
Vera appeared in the same archway they’d come screaming from, herself much more sedate in a great voluminous skirt of a saccharine pink. Her thin and brown shoulders nearly drowned in embellishments, and her head swayed under the great whirl of her dark curls molded into a complicated style. She smoothed down delicate rosettes and ruffles to smile at Sabine. Lilah followed her into the foyer as well.
“Sabine,” Vera said after a pause, her arms jerking upward for an embrace.
“Vera,” she said and pulled her as close as possible with that large skirt. Their jaws clacked together in the cheek kisses. Sabine held her shoulders and smiled as she inspected her. “My. Aren’t you a picture. Perfectly pretty, dear.”
Vera inspected her as well, again pausing a little too long. “And you look-- well. Quite appropriate. Quite appropriate, sister.”
Sabine smiled. The traveling gown was red for mourning. The seamstress had cut it well-fitted and styled it modernly. Not too ostentatious to be worthy of second looks, but certainly not dowdy. Quite appropriate indeed. Yet Vera’s eyes lingered on the close cut of the dress and her figure beneath it. When gathered together, Sabine quite always stood apart from the other Guyenne women in not being quite so narrow and svelte. Not at all, in fact.
And Vera let slip the word ‘appropriate’ in that condescending manner that was ever her particular charm. Yes. There certainly was no place like home.
Lilah stepped forward in a motion not quite a curtsy and yet still somehow deferential. As she dipped, her hand swept smooth the front of her simple dress. Rather too simple, really, in Sabine’s opinion. A schoolgirl’s crown of braids wrapped around her head and pulled taut at her temples, making her hooded and heavy-lashed eyes rather doll-like.
“Sister,” Lilah said.
Sabine raised a brow. “‘Sister’? Why, what manners! What a perfect little lady-- oh don’t, I know quite well you’re all growing up, but if you think I’m going to let you get by without a hug you are sorely mistaken.”
She held out her hands and gestured imperiously. Lilah’s lips cracked a little smile despite herself. They hugged, a little awkwardly having been several months out of practice. And she was turning out to be such a formal little thing, her Lilah.
“Oh, look at my beauty, my love--”
Behind Vera appeared Mother and Father. Lilah released her as Mother bull-rushed them and scooped Sabine into a fiercely tight embrace. And then Father threw his arms about the both of them and squeezed them until they squealed. A great deal of fussing and admiring was had, with complaints about the journey and the eye-rolling about Camilla and Marigold. Sabine protested the absence of the littlest of her siblings (Andreas, Domin, and baby Marjot); Chrétien smiled and pointed out that it was well past dark and their bedtimes.
When this quieted, and her mother stopped making dewey eyes at the sight of her in full mourning, Sabine looked about the hall where they-- still-- lingered.
“Where is Rosalin?” she asked.
Mother and Father quieted. Lilah and Vera’s eyes flew to their faces. Lady Guyenne, beautiful as ever with an artful tumble of dark curls and a thin face and large thick-lashed eyes, stared at Sabine with her lips mouthing around floundering words. She looked to her husband. Lord Guyenne, mahogany to his wife’s copper with his coarse hair flaring from his head in a handsome halo, tugged at the lapels of his coat and hesitantly smiled at Sabine.
“Well. Dear--”
“Where,” Sabine said, her tone changing. “Is Roselin?”
Lord Guyenne’s lips puckered. When their parents still remained silent, Sabine’s gaze shot to Chrétien. His dark brows shot up. He raised his hands defensively.
“I’ve just gotten back with you. I know as much as you do.”
She turned back on her parents. They managed placating smiles.
“Sabine, darling--”
She exhaled violently. “No, do not-- I cannot believe the pair of you! This is the third time.”
Mother sighed and laughed. “Oh, Sabine, really. It’s not such an ordeal. You know Rosalin! She can’t be caged, she’s a free spirit--”
“She is a young girl,” Sabine shot back. “She is a foolish and arrogant young girl you have coddled into thinking that she is impervious to consequence--”
This tirade and back and forth continued on for a while. Vera and Lilah drifted as close as Vera’s ridiculous skirts allowed, with mirroring awkward nonplussed expressions. Chrétien’s hands hovered about and reached forward as if to make some gesture of intervention, but he never expressed anything other than silent dismay in his wide eyes.
Mother fluttered her hands. “Oh, enough! She’s fine--”
“Really? Really, she’s fine? Do you even have any idea where’s she gone this time?”
“She has a poetic heart! Romance is in her blood, and I’m glad--”
“So that’s what this is? Another love drama?”
“Sabine,” Father said. He placed a hand on her arm and smiled at her pleadingly. “Please. Rosalin is an intelligent girl. She’ll be fine.”
She stared up at him, clenching her jaw. “How long has she been gone?”
He hesitated. “Ah. A… few days.”
Sabine closed her eyes. She released a long stream of extremely cross breath.
“Sabine,” Chrétien said. He looked at her with beseeching eyes and dimples. He has always hated conflict.
She exhaled and pursed her lips. “Alright, fine. Vera, Lilah-- I think it’s time you two went to bed.”
Vera made a sound of protest, her mouth opening in an angry ‘o.’ Lilah discretely nudged her in the side before pulling on some sash or enormous silk rose on her skirt. Vera made a bit of a squawk as she was led up the stairs.
“You two,” she gestured at her parents. “Continue on, I suppose.”
Mother blinked. “Wh-- Won’t you come sit down for a nightcap?”
Sabine shook her head, already walking past them. “No. Good night, Mother, Father. I will see you at breakfast.”
She moved past the grand staircase to the oaken door tucked behind it. A pair of ‘Good night’s!’ and Chrétien’s footsteps trailed after her into the warm and dimly lit hallway that meandered around the parlors, the library, and the sitting rooms. A slightly threadbare carpet kept their steps muffled, and the inset panelling kept the damp and cold air from the rain out. It was late enough that they didn’t encounter servants.
“Sabine,” Chrétien said.
“I have a feeling. She knew I was coming, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
They found their way to the kitchens. The broad and tall-ceilinged room was lined with worn wooden counters, beautiful hammered copper pots with dark patina, little terracotta pots with herbs, and dried ham hocks. The scent of salt and yeast and rendered fat perfumed the air. At one of the thick-planked tables set around for food prep, a cluster of servants sat over cups of tea. Brows raised, they stood as Sabine and Chrétien entered.
“My lord, my lady--”
“Hello, Cook,” Chrétien smiled. “This is Sabine. The oldest of our little brood.”
The older woman-- suspiciously thin for a cook, but appropriately cheerful in the smile-- bobbed a bit. Another new face hired on since she’d left.
“Oh, yes, of course. We’ve heard so much, my lady.”
Sabine smiled back, stuffing down her agitation. “Some of it good, I hope. Please-- don’t stand on my account. And I have to ask your forgiveness for intruding on your domain.”
“Oh, not at all.”
Sabine gestured and the cook and the two kitchenhands hovered in an almost-sitting position. They hesitated, looking at each other. Chrétien smiled encouragingly, and Sabine moved past the butcher’s block and the counters to another of the clean, lemon-scented tables. She sat, her red skirts rustling loudly, and the servants slowly sat as well.
But the cook popped up again. “Shall I make you tea?”
Chrétien sat beside Sabine, and waved his hands. “No, no, we’re fine. Please, don’t worry on our account.”
“Yes,” Sabine said. “We’re sorry for imposing-- Ah, my manners. What was your name?”
“Nadia, ma’am. But ‘Cook’ is fine.”
“Nadia. We’re sorry for imposing. But we’ve a little mouse we’re hunting.”
Nadia blanched.
Sabine stopped short and smiled. “Oh, no. Don’t worry. Not a real mouse. I’m only joking.”
Pausing a moment, she smiled back and chuckled. “Oh, well. Just so you know, ma’am, I keep a tight ship down here and you’ll find no vermin here.” She wagged a stern finger.
“A woman after my own heart,” Sabine said.
They all sat like that for a while. The servants at one table them at another. Despite their assurances, the conversation between the cook and her girls went stilted and too quiet. Sabine and Chrétien sat silently, smiling placatingly at their inquisitive looks. Rather quickly, Cook and the girls left for their quarters.
The candles in the sconces and hanging lanterns flickered as the time dragged. Sabine let the stillness of the kitchen cool her off, and Chrétien made some comments about the skill of the new cook. He yawned a few times but shook his head when she told him to go on to bed.
But in fact, they didn’t have to wait that long. The door to the kitchen yard, around the corner from where they sat, squealed as it cautiously pushed inward. A long pause. The hard patter of rain and the blue light of the moon spilled into the kitchen. The door creaked as it closed. The tap of well-heeled boots bounced off the walls.
Rosalin rounded the corner, freezing at the sight of her two older siblings sitting in the kitchens.
“Hello, Rosalin,” Sabine said. “Nice of you to join us.”
Her lips flapped open and closed for a moment. She was soaking wet. Her black hair was plastered to her skull, her ponytail a tangled mess. Her jaunty scarlet coat drooped splotchy and dripping from her thin shoulders, and her matching red breeches clung to her legs. Her black boots shone with rain.
“Uh,” Rosalin struggled. “Uh. I, uh. Thought you were coming tomorrow.”
Sabine raised a brow. “That’s the thing about carousing rakes. They tend to lose track of time.”
Rosalin frowned. “I wasn’t-- You have no idea--” She rounded on Chrétien with a glare. “You!”
He threw his hands up. “I was gone, remember? I was with her, and had no notion at all about this. And anyway, why does everyone blame me for these things?”
“Oh!” Rosalin huffed. “You’re always on her side anyway!”
Sabine stood. “There are no sides, Rosalin. There’s only our family. And don’t talk to your brother like that.”
She rolled her thick-lashed eyes. “So what? Is this the part where you give me the lecture?”
Sabine eyed her. She shook her head. “You’re drenched. Go change and get to bed.”
“Sabine, you’re not my mother. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“You’re right, I’m not your mother,” Sabine said. “But I do happen to be the one paying for your dancing lessons. Your singing and fencing masters. I happen to be the one that has paid bribes to alehouses and casinos to forget your face. I am the one who paid for that very suit you wear and the food on your table, Rosalin-- so. Go upstairs. And go to bed.”
Rosalin glared. They gazed at each other. Exhaling angrily, Rosalin walked away with an indignant clip in her step.
Sabine deflated when the kitchen doors banged shut behind her. She closed her eyes, the journey catching up with her.
“Welcome home…?” Chrétien said.
She stared at him, and shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother.”
-
A certain Boneille Guyenne had commissioned the desk nearly a century ago, insistent that it be as impressive as possible. Her interpretation of “impressive” honestly left much to be desired aesthetically. It loomed in the middle of the library, nearly the size of a draft horse, with its fluted columns for legs and its crenellation of roses and little birds. Sabine leaned over its inlaid cherry wood surface. A black ledger laid out before her. The fingers of her red gloved hand perused the pages and columns.
Mid-morning light, lavender from last night’s rain, danced over the parquet, the tall shelves, and the leather chairs.
Chrétien stepped through the open archway. “Ah. The audit’s begun already.”
Sabine straightened and smiled wryly at him. “Trust me. It’s light reading. I have absolutely nothing to worry about and you’ve done very well.”
He approached, his hand coming up to rub at his neck bashfully. He looked down at the ledger with her. “Really, please check to see if everything matches what I’ve sent you.”
She sat down at the desk’s overplush chair, smoothing out the draping of her red skirts. “Chrétien. I’m proud of you.”
“Just make sure you really do look through everything. I’m sure…”
“Did you hear me?” she gazed at him, still avoiding her eyes. “I said I’m proud of you.”
His dimples deepened with his embarrassed smile. He reluctantly met her eyes and shook his head. “You’ve done all the hard work.”
Sabine gave an exasperated sigh. She smiled at him, and flipped the ledge shut. He sat at the edge of the ostentatious desk, trying to keep a little opal gilded lion from digging into his back.
“Any sign of Rosalin?” Sabine said.
“She generally never wakes up before noon.”
Her lips pinched. “Well. I’m having a talk with her at some point during this visit whether she likes it or not.” Her eyes snapped to him. “Actually. I need a talk with you as well.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“Oh, nothing, honey. Not that sort of talk. Unless I need to know something?”
“No, no!”
She laughed. “You’re so cute.”
“I--” he started, dark and thick brows knit perplexedly. “What did you want to talk about?”
Sabine inspected him. The tall and thin windows looked out over the south grounds and its articulated “natural” paths and little copses. It was easier and cheaper to maintain a naturalistic garden than a formal one. Chrétien leaned toward the tall side, with limbs that were gradually coming into their own with a graceful way of drawing him up politely. He dressed well, yet simply, and his pleasant looks invited instant trust. No one could mistake him for anything other than a noble son.
“You’re going to university,” Sabine said. “No matter what.”
He gazed at her, and his lips pulled a bit tight. “Sabine… I…”
“I know you think that staying here and keeping up with the estate will be the best,” she went on. “But you going and furthering your education, spending time in society and learning more-- that is what will help this family most, Chrétien.”
“I just. I worry about what will happen here if I’m gone. I was visiting you for not even a fortnight and Rosalin ran off with us knowing.”
“Rosalin is another matter. Completely unrelated.” She reached across the desk and laid a hand on his fingers. “I want you to be selfish in this. I know you want to go; your books and theorems are always on your mind, I know it. There will be plenty of time to rebuild the family name and all of that later. But now is the time for you to serve yourself.”
He remained silent. She squeezed his fingers.
“I want you to go out, meet bad influences. Make mistakes. Have fun. You deserve it, you know.”
“Bad influences?” he smiled.
She frowned. “Well. Not too bad. I shall certainly have stern words if you get too wild.”
He smiled a moment longer before looking down and rubbing his fingers on the desk’s surface.
“I… think I do want that. To, uhm, go.”
She stood and went around to him, pulling him into a hug. Seated, he actually was at eye level with her.
“I know you do,” she said. “You’re my baby brother. Of course I know. And go you shall!”
He patted her back. “Please don’t start on the baby brother stuff.”
“My sweetie! My itty bitty wuvie-dovie baby--”
“Stop! You’re bullying me, stop!”
Sabine laughed and released him. She leaned against the desk beside him. Their shoulders knocked. It reminded her of them being small and sitting on a kitchen bench together, squeezed in with the others. Staying warm in one of the remaining rooms to be heated, during one of the more lean times.
“I wanted your thoughts on some other things,” she said.
“Oh?”
She nodded. “I think it’s time to look to the future.”
A maid passed by in the hall outside the entrance, weighed down with a basket of laundry. Rosalin’s red suit dangled from the edge. The laundresses would have a time of it restoring the red wool after the drenching it got yesterday.
“You are going to university,” Sabine stated. “Afterwards, we’ll see, but I’m sure you’ll have options and ideas for after. Rosalin-- let’s put her aside for the moment. She is her own tangle of problems. Vera…” She tapped on the desk with her fingers. “What do you think of marriage for her?”
Chrétien’s brow rose. “She’s… too young still, don’t you think?”
“I don’t mean right away. A few more years. But I think not too long, because I highly doubt that she will ever mature much more. I think the best thing is to find someone patient and indulgent, and of good enough position to flatter her vanity--”
“And enough money to afford it.”
“Yes. Someone safe and not caught up in politics or the court. Because she simply is unsuited to those matters. But, eventually. I think that would be best for her.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.”
“I’ll speak to her about it,” Sabine pushed on. “Now, Lilah. Lilah-- I would rather push off her marriage for as long as possible. I see potential in her for political power, and I don’t believe she’d ever be satisfied with a safe marriage.”
“Are you thinking… the Summit?”
“She won’t be old enough for the next one. But maybe the one after. Or…” She paused. “I have some ideas for myself, and if she were willing she could be a great help to me. She has intelligence, poise, looks…”
“But-- I’m not sure what she wants.”
“Me either. Another conversation to have. If I can draw her out-- you know how difficult she can be.”
“Yes. But there’s time.”
Sabine nodded. “Now, the twins. I think it’s obvious for them. When they’re fifteen or sixteen, I think we’ll send them along to one of Jiyel’s academies. They’ll thrive there, I’m sure.”
Chrétien smiled. “They’ve already talked about that, you know.”
“Have they? Well, it’s settled then. I’ll look into the different schools. Or just ask them, because I am sure they know everything already. And have opinions.”
“So then, the children?”
She smiled. “You’re all children to me, love.”
“You know, you’re not that much older than me.”
“My baby brother. Adorable little dimpled babycakes.”
He grimaced nervously. “Please don’t. Domin? Andreas?”
Her expression faded back to seriousness. “Honestly, I’d like to have them fostered elsewhere. Preferably together. Wellin or Arland. Somewhere staid.”
Chrétien hesitated. “But, they’re so young.”
“I know. I don’t say this lightly. Maybe in a few years, but…” She shook her head, and she sighed. “And Marjot…”
Marjot had only been born the previous year. She was happy little bundle of gurlges and squirming, but she truly was just a baby.
“A baby truly should have her mother,” Sabine said. “But… I don’t know, Chrétien. I’m nervous about waiting too long.”
Somewhere deeper in the house, Camilla and Marigold and the two young boys were shrieking about something. Overhead, running feet pounded across the upper floor.
Sabine lowered her voice and leaned in closer to him. “You don’t know quite how bad it is in the capital, Chrétien. The stories alone don’t do it justice. Everything is beautiful and jeweled and gilded, and the ballrooms are full of laughter-- but there is suspicion everywhere. Blood being spilt in the dark, away from the public’s sight but always on their minds.”
She swept a red-gloved hand over her red skirts. Chrétien reached over to lay an arm over her shoulders. They leaned into each other.
“Mother and Father…”
“You know how I feel about them.”
He nodded, and went silent. They sat together-- the two of them, the two oldest and therefore tied together as the responsible ones. They had always been partners in everything, and knew better than anyone what they each carried.
-
After a day or two of chasing rumours of Rosalin stalking the halls, taking her meals in strange places, and making a nuisance of herself in the servant’s quarters-- Sabine finally hunted her down in one of the closed off wings of the estate. If ever renovated, the long gallery would be beautiful with its very old and very tall (and very boarded up) windows and its covered antique settees and enormous pink marble fireplace.
Rosalin prowled around the room, wearing white breeches and a blue fencing jacket with its tails whipping behind her. She moved about with one arm tucked into her back and the other thrusting and slashing with her rapier. She hummed an arpeggio as she fought an invisible opponent, dust dancing in her wake.
In the doorway, Sabine cleared her throat.
Rosalin paused. Her expression fell at the sight of her. She’d somehow pulled the boards away from one window, and its light caught along the wavering edge of her suspended blade. Sabine stepped forward.
Rosalin lowered her sword arm. “Do you want something?”
Sabine gave her a look. “Could you please try to sound more displeased to see me? If that is even possible?”
Rosalin’s mouth twisted around and she shrugged.
Picking up her skirts so the pretty embroidered hem didn’t drag in patches of dust, Sabine gingerly minced forward to a couch shrouded in a white cloth. She grimaced at the layer of powder and fuzz on the cloth and jerked at it until she could toss it to the side. At the cloud this disturbed, she coughed and waved in front of her face. The upholstery of the couch was ratty and badly in need of replacement.
Still, Sabine sat with as much grace as if it were the finest silk. She eyed Rosalin, but she remained stuck to her spot with her feet placed for some fencing maneuver. As if waiting for her to live so she could restart.
“You can remain standing if you like,” Sabine said. “But I’m going to speak to you anyway.”
They stared at each other for a bit before Sabine exhaled.
“Rosalin, I hope you do realize that I don’t treat you the way I do to anger you. I love you, and I get concerned.”
Rosalin’s eyes went wary. “I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”
Sabine sighed. “I know. You’re not a child, but neither are you completely grown. You realize that, don’t you? The places you go, the things you do… They’re more dangerous than I think you know.”
“I’m not afraid of danger,” she retorted, eyes flashing. “Especially when it’s in the service of what’s right. When it’s a strike back at the boot on the throats of the innocent and downtrodden.”
“And you think you’re actually helping people? Helping your great cause and not simply invited scrutiny? Scrutiny that could very well mean not just your neck but all of ours? That you aren’t, in fact, simply playing revolutionary?”
Her dark brows drew in anger. “I’m careful. I’m always careful. But I can’t believe it-- I knew you were such an overbearing sham, but I can’t believe you’re an actually cold-blooded monarchist.”
She spat the word, monarchist, venomously.
“I am-- publicly,” Sabine stated calmly. “As so many of us must be. You would be surprised how many of the people you spit at for being bootlickers actually harbor no good will for the current Crown.”
Rosalin sniffed. “No action is as bad as support.”
“Who said I’m not acting?” Sabine said. They stared at each other. Sabine remained straight-backed with a direct gaze while uncertainty seeped into Rosalin’s eyes.
Sabine continued. “But that is the difference. Do you know the type of people that crowd the gallows stage and swing on the ropes? Those without caution. That move without subtlety. And their loved ones and friends swing with them. You know this. You’ve seen it.”
Oh, yes. She did indeed know about all of Rosalin’s little excursions into the cities and their lower quarters.
Rosalin fully lowered her rapier and brought her feet together. She looked away, bit her lip.
Sabine leaned back. “But you’re right. You’re no longer a child. So I’ll let you know that I’ve talking with Chrétien about all of you. About your futures. Because Mother and Father certainly aren’t thinking about it. But when it comes to you, I worry.”
Rosalin sat on the couch with her, quite a few seats away and not looking at her.
“Women have few choices, Rosalin,” Sabine said. “A true marriage isn’t possible for you. But-- if we discuss our options-- certain arrangements can be made in a marriage.”
Her eyes shot up at this. “I don’t want that. Ever. Love should be true and honest and gone into with everything you are.”
“I was talking of marriage. Not love.”
“I won’t separate the two.”
Sabine studied her. Truthfully, she could not blame her. She was grateful to Namaire, and had loved him in a way-- but she’d never been in love with him.
“Maybe there is something in our blood,” Sabine said. “Because now I am very little inclined to disagree with you. In the future, I…” She trailed off, and she shook her head. “Who knows what the future holds? But for now, I am not going to force you into anything you don’t want.”
She scoffed. “I’d like to see you try.” But the sullen edge was gone and a more genial, sarcastic sharpness took its place.
Sabine glanced at her with a small smile. “Well, then, what do you think your future will look like? Because I am struggling to see anything more than corrupting young ladies and winning duels.”
“That sounds pretty good to me,” Rosalin said. “What’s so wrong with that?”
“That’s all very well and good in your youth, but you’ll have to settle down at some point.”
“I don’t see why.”
Sabine gave her a look. Rosalin pursed her lips and shrugged.
“Look. I can take care of myself, Sabine. I know-- I guess-- that you want to help, but I’m never going to be alright with ‘quiet’ and ‘respectable.’”
“Who said anything about respectable? A good rumour or three can be quite useful. I’m more concerned about safe.”
“I said I was careful, didn’t I? And… I’ll try to be more careful. Your subtle thing. I’ll try.”
Staring hard at her, Sabine exhaled. “I’d prefer to see it rather than just hear it from you. But alright. And no more running off! If you want to go in to the city, you need only ask. You’re old enough now that you can pretend to be accompanying one of our friends.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rosalin said, in an entirely unconvincing tone. She changed tactics. “You said you were thinking about the future for all of us?”
She was the third oldest. Sabine was used to relying only on Chrétien concerning family matters, and she was used to expected the worst of Rosalin’s temperament-- but perhaps she was mistaken about that now. She was the third oldest and therefore some of the responsibilities could be imparted to her. Or at least discussed if only to open her eyes to the realities the rest of them were in.
Sabine spoke to her about her tentative plans for each of their siblings, and Rosalin commented here and there. She still seemed wary, as if there was some trap in Sabine’s new candor.
“You seem… oddly concerned about getting us out of Revaire.”
Rosalin now sat facing her on the couch, one soft boot on the floor and the other tucked up underneath her thigh. The singular uncovered window’s light gilded her dark ponytail and her strong brows, her high cheekbones and proud nose. She studied Sabine hard.
Sabine leaned back, her red gloves in her red wool crepe lap. “I am, very much so. This country is a disaster. It is a bloody sty, and I am quite done with it.”
“But the estate--”
“Look at this place,” Sabine gestured around them. “Look. It’s a rotting mess. And what has this horrible old pile of stone ever done for us? Other than made us miserable with its expense and its history. Chrétien wants to keep going, to restore everything-- but I have very severe misgivings about it. I hope in time I’ll be able to convince him to look to himself first.”
“What about the people?”
“You are my people. My siblings, my servants, and my friends. These are my people. I may sound heartless, but I cannot save the world. What I can do is protect you all. And I am determined to do so.”
Rosalin shook her head, mouth drawn tight. Clearly, she disagreed. And Sabine really did fear for her. There was too much death sown into the soil of this country; she had no appetite at all to see any of them struggle to grow in such poisoned conditions.
“If you won’t think of the greater good--” Rosalin shot at her, to which she raised an arch brow. “--Then what, at least, about Mother and Father? You didn’t say anything about them.”
Feeling a cool stillness crack over head like an egg, Sabine gazed at her. “Our parents have made their choices in life. I am done with being constantly disappointed in them. Done cleaning up their messes. Neither I, nor any of us, owe them anything. They will have to find their own way, as best they can.”
Rosalin stared back. It was apparently not the answer she’d expected.
Sabine sighed. They sat together in silence, each considered the chaotic valleys and hills of their childhood. The highs and lows of the money and the petty, unrealistic concerns of Lord and Lady Guyenne. The scrabbling for any sense at all of some safety in their lives.
“My concerns lie with my siblings now,” Sabine stated. “And whether you like it or not, that includes you. I won’t dictate to you how to live. But I love you Rosalin, and I want you to be safe and happy.”
Rosalin’s shoulders hunched a bit, and she looked off.
Sabine smiled. “Did you hear me? I love you, Roz.”
“Yeah. Well. I love you too. I suppose.”
Sabine laughed. “I’ll take it. Now--” She eyed her sister and her embarrassed expression, and her eyes coi nsidering their conversation. She continued. “Now. This latest escapade of the heart-- are you or are you not going to tell me about her?”
Rosalin’s eyes shot back to her, scrutinizing for sarcasm. Sabine smiled. Rosalin snorted. She straightened and flicked away her ponytail with cavelier pose.
Sabine again, and I thought I’d look at her particular fears as a Revairan in uncertain times.
1734 words, no pairing, Revaire!mc, general
-
As she “guided” them through the hedge maze, Sabine waited several little meaningless tête-à-tête exchanges about the merits of getting lost, the scandal of being suspected of running away with each other, etc., before she broached the topic she’d been keeping on the tip of her tongue since the welcome feast.
“I’ve been meaning to say-- I believe we have a mutual friend,” she glanced up.
Clarmont smiled genially. “Oh?”
They did not move in the same circles. The times they’d crossed paths at court could be counted on one hand. Her glittering world of social seasons was quite apart from his sedate country life. That they would have a mutual friend was indeed, worthy of an “Oh?”
Even an unsurprised one.
“Jan Allard. The writer,” she smiled back. “He has the most interesting conversation, don’t you think?”
“Very much so. Quite a character,” Clarmont said. “I must confess, though. His treatises are a bit beyond me.”
She laughed lightly. “They certainly are for me. But somehow I think you are being a little modest, my lord.”
“Oh, no. I am afraid I am hopeless beyond the small matters of a country estate. High econcomics and such send me off snoozing in my armchair. And I suspect, my lady, that it is you who is being modest.”
“Modest? Me? How scandalous.”
He laughed low in his throat.
“But that does remind me,” he said. “When I saw Jan last, he told me to send you his regards.”
Sabine’s light hand on his arm directed them down yet another dead end. They turned about, and a warm breeze brushed the back of their necks. She remained silent for a moment.
“That was kind of him,” she said. She stared ahead. “I have not seen him in some time, and did not get the chance to give my farewells. You would have seen him… last month, yes? I believe he was staying with you.”
Clarmont said nothing for a long stretch.
Like every month, last month had been awfully quiet on his estate, save for his guest. It had not been so quiet in the capital, however. Oh, not for the nobility, of course. The court’s favored, anyway. The parties and luncheons and theatricals continued on. But in the city’s lower streets, the common people’s squares ran red. A new batch of anarchists and radicals had been rounded up by the Crown, and dealt with. Including that nuisance of an anti-monarchist pamphlet writer, The Fox. The Fox had swung, along with his fellow instigators, from the gallows before a sullen-eyed crowd.
There was a secret that the Crown hadn’t sniffed out, though. The Fox was not the man they caught, but rather Jan Allard.
Which he knew she knew. And which she knew he knew she knew. And so on, and so forth.
Clarmont smiled. “Yes. I kept him for as long as I could, but I’m afraid he was more than pleased to finally escape the dullness of my land for his usual haunts.”
Sabine smiled. “Oh, I doubt very much that is true--”
They continued on their stroll through the idyllic gardens until teatime.
-
“There’s been a change,” Sayra said quietly. She stood to the side with the corset in her hands and the laces draped over the shoulder of her neat black jacket.
Sabine had her arms halfway raised to let her begin help dressing her. She turned her head over her shoulder to Sayra.
“A change?”
Sayra pulled the corset over her shift, and Sabine held it against her breast as she began to lace the back.
Sayra lowered her voice. “Lady Pema is planning on visiting Princess Gisette before Lady Naomi’s morning tea. The princess plans to pressure her into taking her along to the tea.”
A presumptuous move by the princess-- to intrude uninvited-- but people were often left with no other options with her than ‘Yes’ or ‘Yes.’ That Sayra should know such intimate information was becoming less of a surprise as the days went by.
Sabine gazed across the room and let Sayra work, threading the dozens of eyelets with a practiced ease. Ria had left already after finishing her hair and makeup, and Jasper would be at the door soon. She felt all her lumps settling into a comfortable and familiar position as Sayra tied off the corset’s laces.
“Could you get the pink day dress instead?” Sabine said. “I think I will send my regrets to Lady Naomi. I’ve a bit of a headache coming on.”
Sayra did not pause as she silently went to the wardrobe to put back the visiting gown and all of its accompanying underthings.
As they pulled pink dress’s matching petticoat carefully over her head, so as not to disturb her hair, Sabine caught her dark eyes.
“Thank you, dear.”
Sayra blinked placidly and tied off one side of the petticoat. “Not at all, my lady.”
-
The stablehand patted Butterscotch’s wide flank. The horse’s tail barely flicked. He was, truthfully, only a step above a plow horse in temperament. But the Lady Sabine of Revaire had been requesting the most docile and slowest beast they could find ever since her accident, and so Butterscotch was pulled from his quiet life of grazing placidly on the rare occasion that she was invited to a ride. She accepted these invitations with some reluctance, it seemed.
The stablehand took a cloth handed to him by the boy assigned to follow him about on duty as part of training. The boy took his own cloth and began helping him wiping down Butterscotch’s broad sides.
The Isle stables were beautiful. Straight-cut beams lofted high, and groundskeepers kept the white mortar of the walls neat and clean. Broad strokes of sunlight painted the smooth rock floor, let in by the tall windows set with real glass. These horses lived better than many humans, truthfully.
Over the perfume of new hay being laid down and the chatter of the others working, the stablehand and the boy groomed Butterscotch.
A flurry of something drew his eye to a window. He dusted the front of his breeches and went to the glass. The stablehand blinked, his cheeks shifting.
He gestured to the boy to continue working on Butterscotch as he slipped out the stables’ grand double doors.
The area around the stables was of course manicured and arrayed to suit the aesthetic sensibilities of the nobility; pretty trees and intricate little awnings provided shade over several seating areas.
A lady and lord stood by one of these very seating areas and its ornamental topiary. Their body language and distant sound of chatter read as light and friendly, even if the lord leaned in a rather looming-way and held his shoulders and nose rather high. You’d think they were indeed just chatting, but you could never know with this lot. Especially with that crown prince of Revaire and the very lady of Revaire whose horse he’d been currying.
She’d apparently lingered after her ride in order to rest-- riding being a practice in containing reluctance for her-- and Prince Jarrod had happened by.
Unseen, the stablehand watched a moment. He grabbed a large broom and rounded the corner of the stables toward the gentil paved yard. He pushed the stiff bristles against the pale stone tiles and whistled a jaunty tune. He felt them take notice and dipped his hat respectfully. The prince frowned and the lady blinked. The stablehand replaced his hat and continued, whistling ever louder.
He saw out of the corner of his eye as the prince turned back, his cocky posture and whatever his line of cocky words had been interrupted and not so much in stride. The lady straightened and said something. The prince retorted. A short exchange followed. The prince finally turned with an overly-dramatic swirl of his cape and stalked away. A bit of red marked his pale cheeks.
The stablehand continued sweeping. A pair of trim boots and the embroidered hem of a riding habit swished into his view.
He bowed slightly. “My lady.”
Lady Sabine ran a hand over her skirts as she gazed at him. “I owe you my thanks.”
“My lady?” he said.
She raised a dark brow.
He tapped the ground with the broom. “Just doing my job, my lady.”
“Then you have fortuitous timing,” she said.
She tilted her head back to study him. Her brow knitted. “You…”
The stablehand waited with a vague smile.
“It would be good…” Lady Sabine started. “I mean, I would very much appreciate it if this incident remained here. And did not reach the ears of our friend.”
He considered this. He was no player of the guests’ rotten games, but there was no mistaking who she meant. Their mutual companion at the servants’ gambling tables. Her eyes were stuck to his expression with uncertainty pinching her lips.
“I can do that, my lady,” the stablehand said. “But, pardon the presumption-- not much of a way to have a beginning. With un-truths.”
Her eyes widened. And then her shoulders went sort of limp as she huffed a small laugh. “I suppose you are right-- well, you are very right actually.” She popped open a fan to shield her face from the sun as she smiled. “I owe you my thanks twice it seems.”
“Not at all, my lady.”
The fan’s shadow cast her features into a sort of soft painterly picture. She peered at him. Looking for something, seemed like.
“It’s just…” she said. “Well. It’s a bit embarrassing, I have to admit.”
He shrugged. Studied her back. “I didn’t see anything embarrassing. I mean. Pardon me, but the prince is… something, right?”
Her eyes shifted, and she lowered her voice. “Well. Yes. But I am fortunate, aren’t I? Unlike others.”
The quiet of her voice echoed the quiet steps and quiet looks of laundry girls, maids. He nodded.
“We all have our own ways, my lady,” he said.
They paused quietly. No one was about; most of the stable workers were inside tending to the steeds of the nobility after their morning rides. If anyone would pass by, they might look strange. The lady met his eyes, and their words turned into a silent acknowledgement. She stepped back.
She sighed. “Well, I must be away. Until next time, dear.”
“My lady.”
She walked away, and the stablehand went back to Butterscotch.
I wanna ask SO MANY of the courting questions... Um, pick any of these that sound fun? 2, 15, 17, 26, 29 for Sabine and/or Xan, and 7, 18, 19 for Xan? (Ack so many I hope that's okay!)
*BUSTS THRU THE WALL LIKE THE KOOL-AID MAN BC I WILL NEVER TIRE OF THAT JOKE*
Hello yes did someone call me to ramble at length abt my OCs bc I sure AS HECK will~!!
83
So first Sabine, because she is my love and I miss her a bit~
Sabine
2. ♥ When they have a crush on someone, how do they let them know?
She’s very much naturally flirtatious with pretty much everyone, so you may not notice at first when you specifically are the object of her affections. (It also doesn’t help that she has a habit of calling everyone things like ‘darling’ and ‘my sweet’) To cure this, she may take you aside in some group setting and give you a very elegant and well-phrased confession, or she may send you a letter (carried by someone of absolute discretion) that can leave no doubt to her feelings.
15. ♥ Do they enjoy talking to their partners before going to sleep or is it straight to dreamland?
Yes! Sabine loves this. She loves to be close and warm and cozy, talking about simple things from her day or yours. She likes, too, the sweet heartfelt conversations that come about under the cover of blankets and darkness. This is one of her favorite things.
17. ♥ What sort of characteristics or quirks draw them to someone?
She definitely likes extroverted and occasionally outlandish people (no surpise there I mean). She also is much more at ease with people who have casual manners; she can do the etiquette thing but she kind of hates it. While she does like gregarious people, she also has a thing for quiet brood-y types, intellectuals even, because it amuses her to play the foil to them. It amuses her to blur the lines between where play-acting as a silly creature of comfort ends and her real self begins.
26. ♥ What do they love most about their significant other?
8DDD
What Sabine loves about Zarad is the depth of his inner self, which she wonders if even she will ever reach the bottom of, and how much steel his true self is made of. She admires his sense of integrity, his adherence to his own convictions. She admires his sensitivity even when he does his best to hide it behind barbed walls.
And she certainly has begun to admire his taste in women, especially after the MM feast. :>>>
29. ♥ How do they express their love to their partner?
Sabine is very attentive. She likes to make sure of the little domestic things: your favorite food, your clothes in favorite colors, your tea the way you like it, etc etc. She adores gift-giving and does her best to be thoughtful about her gifts. She goes super overboard on gift-giving holidays, and throws the best birthday parties.
She’s also good at dropping subjects or giving you space if you need it. She likes to be close and give tactile comfort frequently.
-
Xan
17. ♥ What sort of characteristics or quirks draw them to someone?
She definitely likes when people are fun, are witty, have a wicked sense of sarcasm, etc. She also is drawn to people who have some sort of inner strength; a strong will no matter how the person chooses to exercise it.
26. ♥ What do they love most about their significant other?
Xan loves how soft and devoted Asra is. She loves that his feelings run deep, and she is kind of in awe about his sensitivity– she thinks he is much stronger than her in that respect and she hopes she can work to be worthy of it. She loves his sense of humor, and loves the way he takes care of her.
Xan loves that Julian just wears his heart on his sleeve and it makes her want to protect him so badly. She love his goofiness and his penchant for drama, and she loves to tease him. She loves how he can just turn it on and she’ll know that what’s in his eyes is absolutely what he means. She loves that he finds it so easy to fall.
7. ♥ How do they feel about polygamy?
:D
Answered mostly here, but the gist is that (purely by coincidence I swear) Xan came from a polyam family. Her father is deceased, but her two mothers are still alive. I imagine growing up teenage-Xan was determined not to be like her family, and was imagining her future as monogamous. But oh no, here we are with two wonderful specimens of yes please.
I will say that jealousy is incredibly distasteful to her; what goes on in one relationship belongs to that relationship, and shouldn’t have an impact on another if every member of the arrangement is in agreement and knows what they’re getting into. If jealousy does arise, she sees it as someone not having their needs met, and that needs to be discussed.
19. ♥ What was their first impression about their partner/person they are courting?
Hmm. This one’s kind of difficult for Asra, isn’t it? Because we don’t really know what the situation was when they /really/ first met, right? But if it’s taken from the point when the apprentice was coming around from the memory loss, then I imagine Xan wasn’t in any state to make concrete judgments about anything or anyone. But I’m sure those first impressions of Asra’s soothing voice and being held by him left a definite feeling of comfort and security.
Julian– Xan was pissed! She chucked that bottle at him so hard. The second go around tho, after she had cooled down, she would’ve been mostly curious about everything that was going on, and 100% willing to see what sort of person he was. Also, there is zero doubt in my mind that Xan actually took his offer to feel him up, shoved him through the door of the tavern just before things got too hot and heavy, and told him to buy her a drink.
Thank you for letting me talk at length abt my babies ~~ <3 <3 <3
For the Romance Asks, 3, 7 & 25 for Xan and her boys, 5, 17 & 22 for Sabine and Zarad! :3
:3
Asra/Xan/Julian
3. When they are having a fight, what is it about and how do they deal with it?
If it’s between Julian and Xan, it’s probably Xan getting impatient with his neediness and Julian subsequently sulking about it. If it’s Julian and Asra, it would be Julian holding the past over Asra and being passive aggressive about it. If it’s Asra and Xan, it’s the two of them not actually communicating about a problem and letting it fester.
When it comes to fights, there’s a rule that the third person can’t get in the middle of it or “fix” it. The fight-ees can talk it out/vent to the third, but ultimately have to work it out between themselves. Most likely to confront the issue are Xan and Asra, with Julian being bad for the sulking. After every make-up, Xan insists on a make-up meal with a feast of everyone’s faves and she makes a nuisance of herself in the kitchen watching all the prep.
7. Favorite date activity?
Dinner dates at home are always a hit. Asra takes charge of cooking, Julian is overly helpful sous chef, and Xan is the peanut gallery that throws nuts and grapes at vulnerable buttcheeks and is in charge of the wine. Wine consumption. (BTW SHE HAS A LOT OF DIFFICULTY HITTING THAT ITTY BITTY JULES TUSH WITH MACADAMIAS.) They like to eat on the roof and watch the sunset and the stars.
Xan likes to go to the races, and at night Jules wants to head to the pubs, and Asra likes to either laze around doing nothing or go on day trips near the city. Also they collectively makes nuisances of themselves at the palace.
25. Share any headcanons about their relationship.
Asra has a tendency to leave little notes on their desks, among their papers and books and things.
Julian is bad to procrastinate about his work, and will do all the chores for the others.
Julian gives great piggy-back rides!!! Very useful for those pub runs.
Xan is so good at being a distraction. She’ll sneak up and attack with the deadly back hug.
Asra spitefully sticks his icy feet on them under the covers.
Xan has pestered Julian into drawing terrible portraits of them, and has them framed on the wall.
Zarad/Sabine
5. How do they comfort each other when they are sad?
When she sees that little edge to Zarad’s blitheness and his smile, Sabine will do her best to help him with whatever task or machinations he’s working on. If possible, she’ll insist on clearing out the servants and courtiers, and will make him spend the day with her, reading and cuddling. He’s weak for the way she’s so good at brushing his hair. 83c Or they’ll sneak out of the palace to go play in seedy little gambling dens or such.
If it’s Sabine that’s feeling sad or homesick, he’ll probably skip whatever plans he had for the day to spend time with her. He’d plan some grand romantic gesture, and be especially sappy. Or he’d take her to one of her favorite plays, or have a troupe brought to the palace just for her.
7. Favorite date activity?
I’m sure they both will always have a soft spot for star-gazing. Garden walks, days spent going out into the city (ofc this is frowned upon for palace women, but when has Zarad ever followed convention?), and I’ve written about it a couple times, but I hc a little hidey-hole that Zarad has on the coast that they try to escape to every now and then with like two servants tops.
22. From the outside looking in, what is their dynamic like?
Lol, I like this one. Zarad is Zarad: the conceited flirt without a single serious thought in his head. Sabine is the silly, vain, and morally dubious widow who is not quite a “proper lady.” Outwardly, I think they play a game as a couple entirely based on sex. They’ll be constantly on the edge of propriety in public, and it will seem very much like they aren’t paying a bit of attention to what goes on around them.
Basically, people who underestimate them will think they’re idiots making spectacles of themselves. And that’s how they’ll like it. 8>>>
Self-defense lessons turned out to be rather a poor idea.
Zarad’s fingers ran like droplets of water from a blue oasis up her arms, leaving the most wonderful type of burns in their wake. Dampness stuck their hair to hot skin, but it could be the worst sort of winter in Skalt and they would still feel breathless with heat. He’d spent all that effort in lecturing her over her helplessness against potential physical altercations-- assassins-- and here he was, completely unable to resist whispering instructions in her ear in a completely un-didactic manner.
And she’d spent so very little effort reassuring him of her eagerness to learn, with her eyes wide and innocent, and there she was gazing at him as if nothing in the world existed. As if nothing else mattered. That look, and the darkness in her cheeks and the provocations of two pairs of lips saying one thing and meaning another.
The choke-holds and the arm grabs did not quite have the right force put into them.
“I know of a great retired captain of the guard--”
“That’s all very well,” she whispered. “But perhaps we can discuss that later?”
