• Closed • [Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Darcy, please. Picking up the pieces post-Pythera ambush.

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• Closed • [Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Caius Gawyne » Thu Jan 18, 2018 4:30 pm

Zi'da 52, 717

Mood Music

"Now, my Lord Gawyne," Notrerevé's healer Ambre de Relle spoke sternly even as she tied the last of his stitches, tugging just enough to elicit a hiss from the northern noble who'd endured the process a second time, sober now, with an impressively straight face, "There will be scarring. The muscles of your shoulder need to be still for some healing, so let's put your right arm in a sling for a ten-trial or so just to keep everything as unmoving as possible."

The older woman set the needle and thread aside for cleaning, wiping Caius down one sarding last time with antiseptic on a cloth. He whined, but otherwise held still, so fekking over it all by now. The doctor set out herbs and bandages, having already explained that the sewn area required cleaning and care to keep infection at bay, especially where Darcy had cauterized the deep hole in his shoulder,

"You'll stay here for the rest of to-trial, yes? Tomorrow morning, we'll check on it again before you head back to Andaris. Is there someone who can see you there? I want to make sure you keep well."

Sitting up, the young Gawyne nodded, reaching for his shirt with fingers that trembled from enduring an encore round of stitching and from the edge of exhaustion, "The infirmary on the Rynmere University's campus is available to me as a student. I assume I will have to take some significant time off of printing at the Rynmere Gazette, too, Miss Ambre?"

"I'd say yes, though I won't pretend to know what this printing you speak of entails. No heavy lifting, no sword play, no sudden movements, no straining for at least thirty trials, my Lord. Infection will set us back or kill you. Too much use will most likely leave you with more scar tissue and reduced function, so I highly recommend taking it as easy as possible."

Caius sneered in frustration, but made a noise of agreement and defeat, allowing de Relle first to do the necessary bandaging and fussing, then to assist him with his shirt, and finally to figure out some way to immobilize his right arm with a sling. It was with an obvious expression of displeasure and discomfort that the northern noble put up with it all, not having a choice if he wanted to keep the proper use of everything, so he grit his teeth and let the older woman do her job.

Finally finished, the healer held a hand out when the young Gawyne made to get up from the bed,

"Just stay and rest, my Lord. I'll have the Lady Venora return and someone bring some warm food to you. But, really, stay." Her voice was firm and Caius reluctantly set his feet back up on the bed and settled sitting up against the pillows, annoyed, restless.

"Thank you." He managed honestly, nodding as the woman gathered her dirty things separate from the clean ones and packed it all into her bag. Smiling at him, she made her way out of the room to first find Darcyanna and then make her way to the kitchens, leaving the northern noble alone with his thoughts for just a few bits too many.

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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Darcyanna Venora » Fri Jan 19, 2018 6:50 pm

52nd Zi'da, 717

They’d made it back to Bellesoir, made it back to Notrevé, and Caius had lived. Oliver had lived. Everyone was alive for now. Darcyanna had managed to hold herself together for their sake, put on her brave face to reassure them both they would be just fine. Reassured them that she was fine. Everyone said things like protect, safety, revenge; and she nodded. She agreed.

And then Caius was taken away for a proper look and stitching by Ambre. Oliver was in his bed, safe for now at least, and Darcy was left on her own for a moment. She had taken her leave, absconding to the baths where as though reading her mind Jirele had already instructed the staff to draw one, steaming hot when she arrived. Removing the blood stained clothing from her pale flesh, the pianist stepped into the scalding water with a hiss, sinking down to lay in the tub. The water immediately began to turn ruddy as the Gawyne’s blood drifted from her skin like scarlet dye. Picking up the soap, Darcy scrubbed her hands, cleaned methodically under her nails. She wiped the blood from her face, as though removing war paint, her eyes distant and face blank. One of the young house staff helped to wash her thick platinum locks, blessedly silent as she did so, sensing the young Venora had no desire to talk about the events on the road to Andaris.

Stepping out of the tub, the blonde dried and wrapped in a thick bath robe, made her way back to the Pink Room. Once inside she dressed, a simple knit long sleeved beige dress, and dried her hair. Sitting before the mirror, she stared through her reflection, brushing the locks and moving to place the brush down carefully on the dresser with a violently trembling hand, not quite releasing it. Taking a deep gasping breath, Darcyanna gripped the brush tightly in her shaking hand and allowed herself to finally feel everything she held back in the carriage and the return home. She wept, and her chest felt as though it might explode. Fates, what were they going to do?

What was Pythera going to do?

Standing suddenly, she threw the brush across the room with a frustrated cry. Turning, she picked up a bottle on the dresser and pelted it at the wall with a loud crash. Stumbling away from the carnage, she moved to lean with both hands on the closed lid of her piano, teeth grit against the fear and the rage inside of her. Damn Pythera, damn her and her blackened soul. Damn her birth and her insanity. Closing her delicate fingers into fists, the blonde pressed them hard against her forehead with another gasping sob, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“My Lady?” A soft voice and a knock came from the closed door. Darcy opened her eyes with a shuddering breath, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands and trying to compose herself.

“Yes, yes what is it?” She called out hastily, taking another deep breath. The handle turned, and from the hallway Ambre poked her head in.

“Young Lord Gawyne is…he is settled…perhaps you’d like to see him? I’m off to see Jirelle and get something warm for him to eat. For you both.” The Venora nodded, turning to look at the woman with a shaky smile. She’d grown up around Ambre, she’d grown up with almost all of them, and so to even put on a face of togetherness would be impossible with the healer.

“Thankyou Ambre. I’m not hungry, but I will go see him.” The chestnut haired older woman bowed slightly, before disappearing to the kitchens.

Drying her tears and taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Darcyanna made her way to the room where Caius had been taken, waiting outside the door for a bit. She was afraid of what she would find, what mistakes she had made that might have made his wound worse. Taking a deep breath, the Wilted Rose opened the door and took in the sight of the tall diri bedbound and bandaged, his right arm supported by a sling. For a trill, her heart stammered at the sight, but there had been enough crying and enough of her weakness. Now, the Gawyne needed her. Lifting her chin and offering Caius a smile, she entered the room.

“Still in bed, my Lord? I expect my suitors to be a tad more robust than this Gawyne.” She joked, knowing full well there was no way he would be up and about yet. The wound had been…horrific. Darcy could still feel the flesh giving under her needle, seeing muscle and bone through the blood. Moving to his side, the delicate pianist took a seat.

“How do you feel?” She asked in a more serious tone, one hand reaching out to rest on his own gently, stormy eyes searching his.
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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Caius Gawyne » Wed Jan 24, 2018 2:06 am

"Robust?" Caius echoed Darcy's teasing with a tired grin, her hesitant presence still lighting up the room and warming his heart in spite of his aching chest, "I seem to be fresh out of such things, having paid it all in sarding taxes to the Crown for a second round of stitches."

Sober, he thought to add, but didn't, hesitating to point that out right away as if she hadn't been there at all, as if he hadn't made a fool of himself in the terrifying effort to stay alive.

He chuckled anyway, eager to make room for her to sit next to him, tangling their fingers together when she reached for his free hand. The northern noble inhaled the scent of soap and cleanliness with a hint of jealousy creeping into his otherwise warm expression, for while he'd obviously been washed of blood and dirt, it hadn't been with the comforting pleasure of a warm bath,

"Angry. So fucking angry." The young Gawyne admitted grimly at her more poignant question, meeting her gaze, "Since being in pain is somewhat sarding obvious, I'll confess to being angry. And confused. And, well, afraid."

Angry that Pythera had stalked them, had stalked Darcyanna far more closely than anyone had ever suspected. Angry that the Butcher of Warrick had known every Fates-be-damned thing. Angry that she'd caught Oliver off-guard and possibly crippled him. Angry that she'd nearly killed him as well. Angry that she'd gotten away. Confused by the depths of her insanity. Confused by the what ifs and the what's next thoughts that swam like so much debris and flotsam in the shipwreck of his exhausted, stinging mind. What was there to be done, anyway? She'd bested all of them and yet left them alive as playthings in a game Caius feared no one could win. Nowhere was safe and he was helpless to protect the delicate pianist he'd admitted so much to while he'd stained their carriage with his blood,

"But also," he sighed, expression hardening into something sincere, irises shifting toward silver in hue, "sarding determined to not let any of that ever fucking happen again." The young Gawyne hissed, his voice full of emotion and his eyes watering at the intensity of everything he felt in the moment, everything flooding back into his thoughts again, filling the sore cavity of his chest with so much melted lead,

"I meant what I said. That I love you—"

His expression faltered, a bit of chagrined flush rising to his cheeks despite the weight of his words,

"—all of what I said I meant, even if it wasn't at all at the right moment or necessarily in the right state of mind. Though, perhaps in hindsight, everything was as right as it could be."

Caius laughed, not embarrassed so much as aware of himself; of his feelings; of how comfortably high he had been in front of the one woman in Idalos he'd confronted on the same issue; and of how sarding close he'd been to Vri's quiet hands. He bit his lip, looking away from the delicate pianist's face to his hand holding hers, to his left forearm littered with scabbed-over gashes and his birth trial in pale ink under his skin,

"Listen, Darcy," Looking back up at her, his voice was very quiet, measured, cast in solid lead, "I am not going to let anything that happened or anything that madwoman said change a single sarding plan or a single word. Not for you. Not for us. I don't have a sarding clue how, but that's it. I'm not living in fear of some animal with sharp teeth or her hungry companions because mortality is already too fucking short. As a Gawyne, I know this practically from the womb."

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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Darcyanna Venora » Thu Jan 25, 2018 1:52 am

52nd Zi'da, 717

Darcy nodded sombrely, understanding exactly how he felt. It wasn’t just now, it wasn’t just there on the road. It was her entire existence for four long arcs. Her every waking moment was spent angry, confused, afraid. So sarding afraid. Having Caius know that feeling, know that fear didn’t make it less or better, but it some strange way make her feel validated. As though now both himself and Oliver could really understand her silence and her desperation to numb it all with her addiction.

At the viciously fierce words that hissed from the young injured noble, the pianist tightened her grip on his hand and shushed him gently, not wanting the emotionally broken man to over exert himself.

I meant what I said. That I love you—

The Venora blushed, a small smile breaking the precarious stoic expression she wore.

“I meant it too, every word.” Unable to help herself, Darcy chuckled with a raised eyebrow.

“You are dreadfully chatty when you’re...under the influence. Has anyone ever told you that? Am I that talkative?” She teased gently, casually breaching the fact that his high had been not quite as unfamiliar to him as expected. Watching as the diri turned his face away to glance at his arm, Darcy let her smile fade slowly.

Did he really remember all of it, all the things he said?

Capturing his gaze again, the young blonde listened to his words, sitting very still and very quiet as he spoke. Her eyes had shifted though, languidly drifting into a stormy grey as he so vehemently declared that the Valkyr and the VII would not change what they had discussed. What plans they would make. When he stopped, she sat in silence for a moment, before finding her voice.

“Four arcs. I’ve lived these feelings you have right now, for four arcs. Somehow, somewhere along the way I found another who stood against the tide of my horrors and made them seem like a far off fantasy. A phobia that I’d clung to for nothing. I began to think I’d been afraid, for nothing.” Making a grimace, her brow drawn, Darcy waved her free hand to express the hopelessness that was eating at her from the inside.

“But then, like some wraith willed into existence, she was there. She was right fucking there, and not only that, she’s alwaysbeen there. All those hallucinations of her staring at me from the shadows, they were real. Do you have any idea what that realisation feels like? Caius I...” Sighing heavily, the Venora clenched her fist.

“I thought there in the carriage, with the blood and all those sweet words...I thought for more than a moment that you were going to die. And I realised something.” Offering a wane smile, she gently brought her clenched hand to rest it over the one that held his own.

“I love you, so sarding much it hurts. If Pythera is going to come for me, so be it, but I will not miss out on those precious moments with you before then. I can’t...Saun is so long away...” She laughed suddenly, forcing back the tears that wanted to come.

“Is it so much to ask to be able to love and be loved without her fates be damned living ghost around every sarding corner? I just want to spend my time with you. Love you. Be with you. Before...” the words trailed off and she drew her brow into a slow frown.

“What do you mean, as a Gawyne? Is the weather that dire in Warden’s Peak?”
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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Caius Gawyne » Thu Jan 25, 2018 5:33 am

Every word.

They both felt the same then, even if it'd taken violence to tug such heartfelt truths from their lips. Caius treasured her smile in this moment, fleeting but honest, and couldn't help the stray thought of small blonde children and his favorite warm hearth in the library of Warren's End. Just one, she'd asked him to consider first, just one to start with. He blushed at the very imagining of such things, Darcy's words teasing him and bringing him back to focus on her face,

"I keep more of my thoughts to myself when I'm clear-headed, yes." The young Gawyne smirked, "Reevi in particular seems to remove my filter—has anyone sarding told me? Yes, thank you. I’ve done my own stupid things over the arcs, looking to escape the trappings of my noble station and the hurtful dysfunction of my family’s lives once Ivy came home. Besides, I’m a fucking Arts student—hasn’t everyone tried reevi?" He mocked offense, rolling his eyes at her, "Seriously, you can rub in the irony of high Lord Gawyne all you like, Darcy. Are you as talkative? Well, you didn't tell me all your secrets sober, did you?" He could tease back, but it was much more light-hearted than the actual, very dire event of her overdosing that trial had been. He felt as though they'd been in places far more terrible and horrific now, that even that night felt much simpler by comparison.

His memory was excellent, not quite as sharp when high, but he'd managed to write down what he could remember anyway, obsessive with his journaling, fuzzy bits and all.

Her words turned serious again and Caius listened, painfully aware that he'd underestimated everything about her story, that everyone had. No one had expected Pythera to be so obsessed as to stalk them—all of them—and the northern noble could have admitted he'd assumed the beast of a woman long since disinterested in her threats, but he'd have been wrong. He had been wrong. He sighed with her, sinking a bit into the pillows that propped him up and felt as she felt: burdened, angry, and afraid.

How he longed to burn it all away, to set fire to the insanity that haunted the delicate pianist, that now haunted himself, that haunted all of them as if it was just some other magic in need of being put down. Biting his lip at the thought, the imagined sting of ashes filling his nostrils with the rage that filled the cavity of his chest like so much dry kindling under the pyre, her confessions of love were like cool water and he blinked,

"Your time with me? Don't talk like that. Nothing is going to fucking happen to you. To us."

Caius hissed uncomfortably, her words making it sound as if her trials of existence were even less defined than his own, "We will put a stop to this, not succumb to it. Darcy, I will hunt her down with the Order's own resources if I have to, her and every last member of VII. Even if she isn't executed as a mage, Pythera has given herself away. Confronting us, fucking attacking us, that was a misstep. The advantage can be ours. Somehow. I believe this, and I will make it so. We all will."

His jaw clenched, eyes washing pale silver for a trill or two in his passionate frustration, before his expression softened and he shifted just enough to reach with his wounded arm to brush her face with his too-warm palm, wincing but letting his hand remain,

"The weather is pretty sarding dire in Umbridge, especially in the mountains. But what I mean is, well, as a Gawyne, specifically as the grandson of a Mortalborn—that is literally the offspring of an Immortal and mortal paring—stay with me here but yes, my grandfather the Duke is more than he seems—I was born with a somewhat strange gift, a lingering hint of the otherworldliness that is in my lineage. I know down to the trill the date of my natural death. Sometimes, clearer than others, like a whisper in my heart, I know it. I have always known that I'd have an end—everyone does—but I cannot know if someone else kills me so my mystery is just as real and terrifying as yours."

His eyes strayed from her face to his shoulder for emphasis and to avoid the tears in her eyes as his own ached to spill over onto his cheeks, under the bandages the future scar that would always remind him of just how close to death Pythera Venora had brought him. Turning his left hand over under her hands, he revealed his birth trial again, faint and pale numbers parallel to his palm on his wrist,

"This is my reminder that at birth, my birth, I was also given an end. I began. I will cease to be. The numbers of my trials without intervention or accident are known to me, and I've chosen to live each one as fully as possible. Have I wasted a few? Fates, yeah. Will I waste any more with you? No, no I sarding will not."

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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Darcyanna Venora » Sat Jan 27, 2018 12:42 am

52nd Zi'da, 717

Darcy laughed, shrugging at his comments. Indeed, it seemed that one of the requirements of being an arts student was to have at least tried Reevi once, like some sort of initiation process. Most of her profits selling the plant came from that wing, when she’d been selling anyway.

“Fair call my Lord. Fair call.” She said softly, watching the change in his face as his anger over Pythera’s influence bubbling forth. The blonde didn’t want to think so pessimistically, she wanted desperately to have the fire that Caius had, and yet as angry as she was the delicate pianist couldn’t see how they would do it. Yes, Caius had his influences, but her sister had the VII. They had proved themselves time and again a dangerous faction, the Warrick’s always on their toes, always having to keep watch for them. Their influence was spreading though, stories of robberies and attacks filtering in across Rynmere. It gave Darcy a moment of thought. No one really knew how big the alliance was, not even all the faction names. They probably had more information on them from her insane sister’s attacks than anyone had in arcs.

Perhaps the northerner had a point. Maybe there was hope.

Leaning into his touch with another warm smile, watching the wince of pain in his eyes with a turning of her stomach. She listened as he spoke, raising an eyebrow when he mentioned the Immortals. A pairing of mortal and Immortal? Bollocks. Probably some sort of hand-me-down tale to make the house more influential, not that she minded. However, as the story continued, Darcy lifted her head with a frown.

“Sorry...you what?” Her eyes shifted, washing with indigo as she saw the tears in his eyes as she shook her head with a scoffed laugh of disbelief.

“That’s...that’s ridiculous Caius. No one can know when they will die. It is the Fate’s decree when we live and when we die, per Krome the Saint of Death.” Turning her gaze onto the tattooed wrist as he revealed it, the Venora listened as the man she loved, the man she’d just sarding admitted she really wanted to wed continued to speak of his specifically timed ending. A small thrill of fear caught in her throat, and she drew her brow more deeply.

“No, you can’t. You’re just...it’s a superstition. A family tradition. Right?” Clamping her hand over the fates be damned tattoo, Darcy searched his face for some sign of doubt, her eyes welling. If she said it, if she pointed out the absurdity of it, surely he would see it too. She willed him to, and yet, somewhere in his eyes, the blonde saw it. The fear, anger, sadness. Clearly Caius believed it, and so she felt another trill in her chest.

“Okay well, surely it must be arcs away right? I mean, if it’s a natural death then you’ll be an old Baron and sound in our bed. Right?” Her heart stammered in her chest as she quickly blinked away the tears, frightened of the answer to her next question.

“Caius, when? When is the date?” She asked, voice very soft and hand tight on his wrist.
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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Caius Gawyne » Tue Jan 30, 2018 5:13 pm

Atmosphere

"It's not ridiculous." Caius mumbled defensively, "It's just unusual. Ziell is the Immortal of Prophecy as well as Peace and Winter. As his great grandchild of sorts, some of that Domain lingers in my person. I—oh, Darcy, listen."

He watched the delicate pianist's disbelieving gaze carefully, shifting a little against his pillows with a tilt of his head. She curled her fingers around his wrist and he held her tearful eyes with his serious ones, "I wish I could say it was some foolish folktale us Gawynes tell each other to perpetuate our warped sense of superiority, but I only have one story to tell as proof. As far as I know, all of us of a similar generation—grandchildren—have the same premonitions, though my father has never shared whether the same is true for himself."

The northern noble moved her hand from his wrist to the uninjured side of his chest, her palm where his heart was beating steadily under the fabric of his shirt and his own too-warm hand over hers, "I had a younger brother, Robert. He was born an arc after Ivy and a few arcs before my younger siblings, though of all of us, he was always the most ill—always, it seemed. Gawyne is a harsh place, and Umbridge one of the harshest. Despite all my parents had at their disposal as Baron and Baronness, there was little to be done other than shelter him. Once he was an old enough boy, well, Robert would have none of it—he wanted outside and in the woods with the rest of us and he wouldn't take no for an answer. When he was old enough to understand, however, he knew—as I know—the day of his natural end. He told me first, sometime after Ivy had disappeared, perhaps because death had finally become a topic of conversation in the warm walls of Warren's End. Cowering from the wrath of my older brother Hunter and seeking to comfort each other, he was bold to speak of the too-soon date he knew."

The young Gawyne looked away for a moment, wishing very much that the so-called gift he'd been left as a descendant of an Immortal could just be a stupid superstition. Closing his eyes, if only to hide a few tears and not look at Darcyanna's doubting, expectant face, he continued quietly,

"The cold cycle of his day came, and honestly all of us passed an illness around in late Vhalar. But I knew. And he knew. And he didn't get better. Robert got worse. Finally, he told our father and that was that. He passed away in late Vhalar on the date he knew. He wasn't wrong. No one did that to him—how can I say that's just a family tradition?"

Caius' eyes fluttered open again and he released her hand to rub a palm across his face, digging the heel of it against his eyes and wipe his cheeks, the weight of the real secret he'd kept finally weighing him down, crushing his chest as he inhaled a ragged breath,

"I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner, Darcy. I didn't want to—I don't—I don't want this to be any more true than it was for Robert. For any of my cousins, for that matter." He paused, afraid to return his hand to hers, afraid of the anger she'd feel once he spoke the truth. He hadn't really lied, he just had kept this from her because the northern noble knew she wouldn't believe him anyway. Because he didn't want to believe it himself.

And yet, he'd made promises in defiance of it all.

"By the Fates or not, I won't be an old man. I won't even be twenty four—" He set his jaw then, body tensing, determined to maintain eye contact with the blonde Venora although by the sudden racing of his heart against her hand, he was terrified to answer truthfully.

Bogs.

He could have lied—given her any date at all, arcs from now, decades, centuries. What would it have mattered? He'd lied enough already, so what was one more? By Warren, how he wanted to, but he couldn't. Not again. Not anymore. He'd almost died yester-trial by the bloodied hands of Pythera Venora in front of Darcyanna's own eyes. A fistful of extra trials were a blessing, as far as he was concerned—these breaths a gift even if they didn't feel like it under her tearful, terrified gaze.

For fuck's sake—he couldn't. He shouldn't. He had to.

She deserved to know everything. He'd told her the depths of his feelings, his real feelings. He'd told her his heart's desires in that carriage, his blood everywhere.

Now, now he had to betray every word.

Everything inside him writhed in pain, stabbed by a thousand daggers of truth, burned by the fires of his own self-doubt. His breath hitched and he fought the urge to get up and walk away, wrestling with his own tongue as the numbers he felt were true in his very soul clawed at the back of his throat to be set free.

He sighed, his words quiet as he laid the rest of his secrets out in the open between them, the last one he had to give, though he kept the break and the bit and the trill to himself,

"—Zi'da the 91st, Darcy. This arc."

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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Darcyanna Venora » Sun Feb 04, 2018 5:52 am

52nd Zi'da, 717

She listened to his tale, tears threatening to spill with each strangely ominous word. It felt like listening to a story told over winter fires and hot beverages, something from a work of fiction. The blonde realised she’d never heard of his younger brother, not from the diri’s lips at least. There was always the family trees, written in the pages of the Houses at the university, that showed almost clinically a strike through on the names of those lost to time.

But they were just that, lost to time by the natural and ever waiting occurrence of death. Be it violent and by another’s hand, or peacefully in one’s sleep; death happened when it happened. There was no predetermined expiry date, no way of knowing when you would end.

No way.

As Caius struggled against the weight of the painful memory, Darcyanna rubbed his uninjured chest gently to reassure him she was there. Right there, regardless of the fact that with Roberts strange circumstances revealed she couldn’t shake the cold sensation that ran up her spine. It wasn’t in her to believe these Immortals could imbue a mortal with the knowledge of their natural death, but the Gawyne’s words were unexplainable, and his pain palatable. Reluctantly, unwillingly, she was being forced here and now to accept that Immortals were more than just tall tales. More than that, the pianist was listening to her lover admit he knew the date.

I won’t even be twenty four—

The Venora frowned, holding his eyes with her own, dancing between the indigos of anger and the blues of fear. Her heart was rushing in her ears, trying desperately to remember when his birth trial was and his age. He was older, but not yet.

Twenty three now...

Her breathing sped up, feeling the rapid racing of his pulse under her hand, wanting to stop this conversation before it was too late but too far in now to step back from the void. Caius sighed, his mouth moved to form letters and numbers, the words sharp knives burying themselves deep in her aching chest.

Zi’da the 91st, Darcy. This arc.

Darcy couldn’t take a breath, her gaze staring through him, pulse pounding in her ears. If he spoke to her again in those bits, the Venora didn’t hear it, the date repeating in her mind over and over.

Zi’da...

She recalled the first night they met; she so intoxicated she could barely walk and he ready to go home after a long night at work. It was happenstance perhaps, or if you believed in them, it was the Fates at work. A chance encounter that had the blonde falling hard and fast, madly and deeply for the tall northerner. Her mind flicked through the beautiful evening at the Tulburns, before jumping to the morning after her overdose, perfection written in the pages of her mind.

91st...

Of course there was the gala, only trials ago now. Caius looking so regal in his House colors, making official statements on their relationship. Then, riding hell-for-leather in the back of the carriage, stitching his shoulder shut as the weak and inebriated Gawyne confessed promises of marriage. Of taking her to Wardens Peak. Of children, babies, beautiful things. She was going to be his Winter Rose.

This arc.

It was all too fucking much.

“No.” Darcy said angrily through clenched teeth, finally focusing on his face again with dark eyes, tears streaking her cheeks. Drawing her hand from his chest, the blonde stood suddenly, stepping back and shaking her head with a strange humourless half laugh. Holding her arms around herself the blonde stared at him in shock.

“No Caius. No. It’s not...it won’t...it can’t...” Stumbling back, she bumped heavily into the dresser at the edge of the room, looking away and moving as though she wanted to run a shaking hand through her hair. At the last minute she simply let the hand brush her cheek, trail to rest on her lips, pressing hard as she shook her head again. Taking a deep breath, Darcy turned her eyes back on him with an angrily heartbroken frown.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Before...before...” Fates, she couldn’t make the words come, a hand gripping at her chest as she gasped a painful sob. Why?? Why was it so fucking hard? Why couldn’t they just have a normal sarding relationship?

“All this time, I have been so frightened of my sister, giving up my burdens so you could share them with me. All this time you’ve been telling me how it will be alright when you already knew that it sarding won’t be?” Her last few words were barely a wheeze, struggling to fight the crushing aching hole tearing itself open where her heart once resided. It hurt to breathe, hurt to think. Taking another breath, the Venora felt white hot rage flare in her suddenly.

“You said you wanted to take me to Umbridge. You said you wanted to...” She growled, clenching delicate fists as she fought the emotions raging within her. Darcy felt dizzy, delirious with hurt and heartache and rage.

“We we’re going to have a family. You were...you’ve been lying this whole fucking time. The whole time.” The realisation of what exactly his silence actually had meant stung like a slap to the face, and the musician could barely bring herself to look at him.

Thirty eight trials.

He had thirty eight trials left.

Seven, why? Why bother?
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Darcyanna Venora
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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Caius Gawyne » Mon Feb 05, 2018 1:34 pm

He deserved her anger, he did, and he saw how much his words hurt her as sadness and fear played out across her features and in her eyes. Darcy pulled away from him and he resisted the urge to stop her, tensing for a moment as if he wanted to reach out and snatch her, to keep her from standing, but he let her slip from her place next to him and back away from the bed. Slowly, as she spoke, he sank into the pillows that propped his pale, tired, sore self up, drowning. His eyes welled with tears again and his breath hitched before he disappeared beneath the downy pile completely, good hand curling angrily into one of the pillows and holding it in place to muffle a noise that was something between an ugly sob and a groan of sadness and anger. Mostly anger, fading into a string of foul words and finally silence.

He hid for an extra trill or two, aware that he'd just set a torch to the heart of the delicate pianist with his words. Tossing the pillow aside, he worked very hard to sit up, hissing and gritting his teeth with the effort, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and digging the palm of his free hand against the bandages that hid his second set of stitches,

"No. Damn it. I haven't been lying. Not about this, Darcy. I've never lied about how I feel about you. Not once." Caius' response was almost deadpan, honest, so bereft of any superfluous emotion as if he'd just emptied himself of everything with his noise of agony, "I want sarding everything. All of it. Everything I said, I meant—I want you to see my home, to meet my parents, to have a lovely wedding in Saun, to bear adorable fair-haired children. All with me. None of that is a lie. Not a word."

The young Gawyne watched her carefully, his irises dark and his gaze taking in every detail of the blonde Venora, every subtle change in expression and every stray strand of platinum hair, "You were unexpected. This was unplanned. I never should have let anything happen, most of all my feelings—my love for you. I'd told myself over the arcs I'd never feel this way about anyone, ever. That I shouldn't. That it was sarding unfair. That there was no point, no matter how much I've wanted to in the past—no matter how good my friendships, how amazing my relationships, how interesting my meetings with merchant house daughters my mother has arranged—what would ever be the point? How could I ever really love someone when I knew the length of my days would never be long enough?"

It wasn't as though he hadn't made similar mistakes before, and yet everything about Darcyanna Venora felt different. He couldn't express in words the hope she filled him with, the fiery desire to tell this prophecy he was burdened with to fuck off, to beg the Fates for a second chance, to appeal to Ziell himself if he could. Just more time to love her—why was that too much to ask?

Caius sighed—a ragged, forlorn noise that was strangled by the tightness in his chest—and he looked away from Darcyanna as if staring at her had become too hard to do while speaking,

"That night in Vhalar, by the Seven—I never expected to love you as I do, but I also couldn't bring myself to leave you well enough alone. Fucking stupid, and yet now that I cannot imagine not feeling this way about you, Darcy, I have hoped and prayed and wished and studied to find some way to make untrue what I feel is unavoidable prophecy. Madness, really, but I have searched because I don't want to leave anything undone, because I don't want anything to happen to us."

The northern noble looked at her helplessly then, wavering a little with the effort of sitting up, dizzy in his mix of exhaustion and sadness,

"I'm sorry. It was fucking selfish of me to allow one trill of this between us. I didn't try very hard to stop it, for Fate's sake. I wanted everything, every last sarding thing, and yet I knew it would hurt you. I couldn't help myself. Ever since I met you, I haven't—I haven't felt capable of denying you."

He smirked then, ruefully, pausing with a slow exhale through his teeth,

"It will be alright for you, though, if I accomplish nothing else in life. Look at where you are—back home, no longer alone. I will make sure you are safe somehow because that's what you sarding well deserve. It's the least I can do. If I had time for more, well, Darcy, I'd give anything for some chance to change things. Anything. Just so I could give you everything, all of me—"

He'd made a mistake and he knew it. Looking down and away from the delicate pianist, he fell quiet for a few bits, wondering for a moment if all of this would have been made easier had Pythera simply ended him in the road. Fingers moved with the temptation, the angry thoughts of ripping stitches and finishing the job left undone by the Valkyr, but he simply curled a hand frustratedly against the painful wounds and whispered in defeat, "I'm sorry."

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[Bellesoir] Prophecies and Truths

Postby Darcyanna Venora » Thu Feb 08, 2018 2:38 am

52nd Zi'da, 717

Watching the Gawyne struggle his way to sit at the edge of the bed, Darcy instinctively reached out to him only to stop short and curl her hand shut, pulling it back to rest against her chest as he spoke. The emotionless, defeated tone of his defensive words pounded against the stone wall of her rage, their desperate sweet wants doing nothing to staunch the aching hole that her soul felt it was bleeding from.

They were unplanned, she was unplanned. A mistake in his Immortals damned life-map. Fresh fiery rage poured through the shark-black cracks of her iris’, melting into the stormy greys of sorrow. How could they play such sick games with the lives of mortals? How could anyone worship these demons?

Darcy watched Caius as he spoke, her brow furrowing and tears on her cheeks anew at his pained sigh. As he looked away, recalling their first encounter, the blonde ran her hands into her hair, gripping tightly as she took another shuddering breath and felt the ache burning inside. The fight left her then, ebbing away with a hopeless sob. Sinking down against the front of the dresser, the pianist sat on the floor, knees bent with elbows resting on them and hands shifting to clasp together and press against her forehead.

It will be alright for you, though.

“No it fucking won’t! It won’t ever be alright for me Caius. It will never be okay.” She yelled hoarsely, banging her fists against the ground beside her and glaring up at him with fury.

“I will never be okay.” Darcy muttered shakily, looking down at the bandages on his chest with a forlorn grief. Moving heavily, she shifted to her knees, coming over to kneel in front of the broken diri with a sigh. Taking his free hand in both of hers, the Venora kissed it before pressing the palm to her cheek as though desperate to feel his warmth. Laying her head on his thigh, she closed her eyes with another gentle sob.

“You are not going to leave me Caius Gawyne.” She whispered, before lifting her head to look up at his face with a fierce determination pushing through the hurt and the pain.

“You are not going to die, because I won’t fucking let you.” Shifting to sit beside him on the bed, Darcy held his eyes with her own, black with her adamant belief and anger.

“I stopped Pythera taking you from me, and I will stop this Immortal. I will stop them all.” She had no idea how, but there was no way the blonde would let them take him from her without a fight.

They would have their future together. Fates be damned to the emea.

“I love you, and I won’t loose you. Not yet. Not now. Not like this. If the Prophecy takes you this ninety first, then...” Swallowing her fears, Darcy squeezed his hand firmly.

“Then Pythera take me. Because I can’t bear a lifetime without you in it.”

Beyond the closed door, a soft knocking sounded. The meal Ambre had promised was here. The pianist patted his hand, moving to open the door slightly and take the tray from the timid serving girl. Truth be told, she’d been outside for a few bits, but had been scared to interrupt. Allowing the girl to close the door, Darcy returned and placed the tray on the dresser.

“Now, lets get you settled. This is Jirelle’s cooking and you’d be sarding insane not to eat it.” She said, moving to retrieve the thrown pillow and assist the tall nobleman in moving back to recline, as though she hadn’t just admitted to letting her sister take her life if Caius lost his.

There was just too much, it was all too much. To say the musician was on a fine edge was not wrong. She brushed her hair from her face, knowing exactly what she needed to do, exactly how to cope. It wouldn’t be hard to procure a hit of something, anything, in the barony filled with artists and agriculturalists.

It would be so much easier than this.
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