Happy birthday @recurringwriter ! I wrote 1.1k of Rodriguela for the occasion.
It was mid-evening, but the sun was still high in the sky as was seasonal for spring in Fraldarius.
Rodrigue stepped into the drawing room he’d all but given to Manuela during her stay. His shelves had been reorganized and moved to accommodate the acoustics, and the style of seating, the shape of the curtains, and even the lighting all bent Adrestian in a way that offset the room from the rest of the estate. And yet it was here he found himself most comfortable now, despite the workshops and offices and parlors at his disposal.
Home was four walls, and the glittering maiden who sat within them.
Manuela wore a flowing robe over a loose dress, looking far more at home in rich fabric than Rodrigue felt he ever had. She was lounging quietly with her missives and her rye, in the habit of reading her letters over a dozen times before replying. She’d blushed a saintly pink when Rodrigue had expressed admiration for how thoughtful she was; which had been an exaggeration of the heart when compared to the number of responsibilities she was flippant with, though Rodrigue felt that he too was full of contradiction.
She smiled when she noticed him lingering in the doorway, as if it were neither expected nor welcome that he should intrude upon her so late after dinner and delegations.
“You’re done early,” Manuela observed, ruffling a hand through her light brown hair, a warm caramel in the evening light.
“It’s quite late, in fact,” Rodrigue confessed as he entered the room. Amusement curled his lips before they met the curve of Manuela’s high cheekbone, and then the side of her head, and the exposed curve of her shoulder. “Am I interrupting?”
Manuela sat up straight, patterns of navy fabric pooling out around her as she leaned her neck back to look at him, all challenge and camaraderie. Her left hand was curled up around the yellow topaz at her throat, while her right pat the seat next to her upon the sofa.
“Sit with me then, if his Grace can spare a moment.”
Though they both chuckled, Rodrigue’s vision paused in middle distance as he asked, “Do you feel neglected?” He swallowed as he turned to her, brow furrowed with worry. “You’ve been here for some months now. I had hoped you might even be enjoying—”
“I am,” Manuela said. Her delight was a blessing and a reassurance that Rodrigue had sought to return, but she’d kissed him again before he could reach for her hand or answer her.
He did not fight the direction however, and pulled Manuela towards his lap when she pressed back his hair, long and streaked with grey, and her fingers tickled over the corners of his smile and the bristle of his moustache between warm presses of her plush lips.
“Good,” Rodrigue whispered, and Manuela squinted one eye as she leaned away from him in confused accusation.
“Good?” she repeated, and Rodrigue shook with silent laughter as he clarified.
“It’s good that you are enjoying your time here. Our time together,” he pressed another kiss to her mouth, gone slightly stern from his implication. “I know our arts scene is very different than the life you were used to, and that any other diversions would be … slower, than Garreg Mach.”
“Slow has its place,” Manuela said, honest and ragged. “Who would want to go to war again?”
While Manuela had meant it figuratively, when meant in a figurative sense, they each knew the answer. That one year of students from the Officer’s Academy were either in power or vying for it, with each their cause to fight for. Felix’s time was coming soon.
Rodrigue nodded, and reached up to curl a hand around Manuela’s wrist.
“Anyway,” Rodrigue said, resuming his rambling, “if you weren’t enjoying your time here—”
“I agreed to stay, didn’t I?” Manuela said, half accusation and half reassurance.
“—then it would be far more selfish of me to ask you to marry me.”
Manuela’s expression fell, and while at first Rodrigue had presumed it was shock, as time went on, he realized it was suspicion and concern.
“Is that something you think you might do?” Manuela asked finally, something of her usual haughty poise returned. “You know your people already think I’m a liability.”
“I didn’t think you’d want a public proposal for that reason,” Rodrigue said very quickly, moving his hand from Manuela’s wrist to her chin. “And I couldn’t simply ask without … without knowing I’d given you ample time to refuse, to decide you hated Fraldarius, or that any aspect of myself or my family was simply … not to your liking.”
“You know I’ve been proposed to before,” Manuela taunted, but her eyes were glassy and her cheeks were starting to go red, so the threat only soothed Rodrigue’s nerves, “with far more pageantry.”
Manuela pressed three fingertips to Rodrigue’s lips to silence him.
“What I’d like,” she said, pausing as she took her hand away, “is for you to stop second guessing yourself. I’m here. I’m here, and I have been. No one who proposed before really knew me, and then once they did or if they had I knew— I can be a lot of trouble, just, generally, for an average person.” She and Rodrigue giggled softly, knowing what a mess they both made of their relationship on more than one occasion, and feeling the importance of his political mantle slip away as it so often did in their quiet corners. “And you want to raise me to Faerghan nobility?”
“I know. You already have dissenters,” Rodrigue agreed, still bouncing in his amusement, but steadily his tone grew softer and more serious as he continued, “but if you attend a meeting or two I think that they, and the people in the city, would be kinder to you. And you deserve kindness.”
“You know, I could live as your mistress,” Manuela said, and Rodrigue could feel the sadness in the declaration, as though she expected him to pull away the future he was promising — or, had not yet promised.
“You could,” he said softly, reaching into a deep pocket in his jacket. “Or you could be my wife. Would you marry me, Manuela Casagranda?”
Somehow the ring seemed to still take her off guard, a fan of gold set with sapphires and diamonds, and her confidence cracked again as she tried to answer, crying and trembling and desperate for love. They held each other for what felt like hours afterwards, giddy and apologetic and soothing. There would be no dark nights in Fraldarius for a long time.
