• Closed • A Printer's Diri, Part Two: Pulling the Proof [Darcy]

[Caius Gawyne]

Zi'da 15, 717

A break before midnight at the Rynmere Gazette

Music Inspiration

Appropriate.

"So, when're y' gonna tell me 'bout whoever's got y' tied up in such purty knots, diri? Seems like y've gone an' had y'self a rough start o' th' season, eh? Can't have y' missin' work, boy." Basilius was smirking at him from over his cup of coffee, the print room blazing hot already as he heated the furnace to melt lead and mold type. He'd seen Caius' bruised face for trials, though just a few fading streaks of ugly yellow remained. The northern noble had managed to get his face smashed up twice in such a suspiciously short period of time that even Fern had wondered out loud whether or not the young Gawyne had begun entertaining a secret career in the fighting pits. He hadn't, and the gossip columnist already knew way too much about Darcyanna Venora for her own good. Sweating, he'd rolled up his sleeves and half unbuttoned his shirt under his apron, wishing there was more he could do against the oppressive heat of the print room.

Still, the printer's apprentice had kept himself mostly tight-lipped around his Master, perhaps because he'd weathered the man's foul insults for so long that he knew he'd just be adding fuel to the fire. And yet the man asked, and Caius smiled, standing at the type case, carefully picking out the small metal letters one by one and placing them carefully into the wooden composing stick, forming each article word by word, line by line. Spacing and leading were at his disposal, as well, and he had to pause in order to trim a thin strip of lead to slip between one sentence and the next,

"I won't—Darcy? What could you sarding well want to know, Ser Moad?" He questioned almost coyly, sharp blue eyes flitting up from the open tray of type to study the older man as he took the galley trays of already finished articles and began to arrange them in the chase for their next run of prints—the second page of the Gazette. He still had four more articles to lay out, and soon Basil would have to go back to casting metal type. The old man promised he'd give the northern noble his chance molding metal, but thus far he'd only allowed his apprentice to cut punches out of tempered steel shafts and building the matrices that made the type molds.

Caius had used the punch to hammer the letter's shape into a piece of copper and made the matrix out of sand and copper, but he'd never poured the lead. Basil teased the noble's hands were too pretty to risk, but he knew the old man was just stringing him along because they liked each other.

"She's gotta mean punch for jus' another whore dolled up 'n rich clothin'—"

"Dammit, none of that about her. You can say whatever the Fates you want about me." Hissed the young Gawyne defensively, though truth be told, he'd felt as though the blonde Venora had avoided him more over the past five trials than anything else. Perhaps he deserved it, but he wasn't really sure how to feel anymore about much of anything. Scrapping a line of words because he'd allowed himself to get distracted and placed them in right side up and left-to-right instead of right-to-left and upside-down, Caius scowled at the composing stick instead of looking up at the smirking old Master Printer, "I care for her, Basil, but I don't think I'm enough. I'm pretty damn sure I've already made more sarding mistakes than good moves anyway, so it doesn't matter."

The printer's diri bit his lip and sighed, eyes stinging at his words and neck burning in embarrassment under the weight of the other man's dark-eyed gaze. He attempted to focus on placing one little piece of lead type at a time, but but he actually had to concentrate in order to do so, the sudden rush of anger and hurt making his hands shake.

"Hrmph." Basilius observed without a real comment, though the noise he made in his throat carried a strange weight that Caius hadn't heard but a few times in his seasons working for the Gazette. The old printmaker set his cup down and stood, much shorter than the northern noble, twisted by age and a hard life of manual labor, "Look here, y' piece o' shyte diri, jus' like pullin' a proof, sometimes y' gotta make some mistakes t' get th' perfect print. Y' get me, boy?"

No, he didn't. He hated soot proofs. Oh. He was making a metaphor, the old man was. The young Gawyne finally smiled a little, realizing that Basilius was actually encouraging him. Why? He didn't deserve it. Bogs. He'd made such a mess.

"I'm pretty sure I've just cracked the mold, ser. I should have known better." Caius replied lamely, chagrined that he was having a relationship conversation with the Master Printer at the Rynmere Gazette.

"I've been married o'er thirty years, y' sorry fek. Don' think I don' do stupid shyte. Th' worst, though? Lettin' 'er die first. Dammit, boy, get back to work." Basil growled, turning away from the young Gawyne as if he wished to hide his face and making his way to the roiling furnace, setting a canister of type slugs into the flame and preparing some simple matrices with sand to cast some type.

The northern noble was cowed into silence, having not realized the older man even had friends, let alone a family. Thoughts turning inward, he went back to his work, attempting to focus on all he had to do before the sun rose instead of dwelling too long on all that he felt.

❦

[Darcyanna Venora]

15th Zi’da, 717

Darcy wandered without direction, without purpose, her feet taking her where they wanted. The trials since the tenth had been spent in a daze, the blonde caught between the painful, hurtful things that had happened and the inescapable fear that Pythera would know she’d told. For the first two trials she pleaded illness, locking herself away in her room, dust lightly gathering on her untouched piano.

Eventually though, the Venora knew she had to come out. Her studies would suffer if she didn’t make an appearance. So the pianist had cleaned herself up and put on whatever was closest in her wardrobe, and she went through the motions. Darcy attended class, and she wrote notes, and she forced herself to not think about the tenth.

Everytime she did, the blonde wanted to break down in tears.

Caius. Her heart ached at the bitter memory of their last encounter, knowing that words were said that she didn’t mean. No matter how sarding stupid what he’d done was, nothing seemed to be as stupid as walking out that night. On her way back home, the pale creature took ways around the courtyard to avoid running into him. Ashamed and uncertain of what to say, still angry and yet not.

The reevi, sweet as it was, didn’t help with the hole in her heart. Tucked into her bed, Darcyanna cried and smoked, before falling into a restless broken sleep. She repeated the routine over again the next few trials, uncaring of anything. Even the fear of Pythera seemed to pale in comparison to the heart ache she felt.

The morning came, a beautiful sunny winter day, bird singing their songs and the world crisp and bright. A beautiful day of Zi’da, and her twenty third birthtrial. Darcy sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees and head in her hands. Fates, what was she doing? She should have packed and left, should have gone far away where her sister would never find her.

Except that far away didn’t have Caius Gawyne.

Classes. Lectures. Notes. Darcy went through the motions yet again, making her way home to sit down with a reevi cigarette. She looked at it, unlit, before throwing it down and rubbing her eyes with a sigh. By the Seven, the musician had to get out of this endless rut. Get out of this waking reoccurring trial. Getting her cloak, Darcy pulled it over a simple black dress, tugging the hood up and leaving the dorm room.

The nighttime was crisp and cold, with a threat of wet weather hanging in the air as the shorter Venora left the school grounds. She should be scared, should be hiding away lest the wild eyed sibling found her but Darcy didn’t care anymore. Let Pythera take her, what else was there for the blonde anyway. She’d pushed away her brother and her friend, fear making her do stupid things.

Say stupid things.

As her feet wandered, Darcy sniffed and wiped the tear from her pale cheek. Again, the biting words of the tall diri gnawed at her heart, making the pianist want to disappear. Things would be better if she did, for Caius and for Oli.

“Happy birthtrial to me.” She muttered under her breath, looking up to get her bearings. It was too sarding late and she should go home.

But then she saw a familiar building front before her, and the Venora’s breath caught in her throat. The Gazette.

Fates...

It would be better for everyone if she just left, and yet even as the thought occurred she couldn’t help but peek through a window. It was warm inside, heat coming through the glass, and inside it was bathed in a soothing gold glow. A color that reminded Darcy of Caius’ liquid amber eyes. She glanced around, looking for the printers apprentice.

What would she even say if she saw him? Was sorry enough? Would he even want to see her.

Turning away from the window, Darcy took a few steps to leave before pausing in her tracks. She closed her swirling indigo blue eyes and took a deep breath. She at least had to say something.

Reaching for the door, the pale noble pushed it open slowly, looking around as she stepped in. There were voices, unknown to her, and the pianist nearly left, when one caught her ear.

Caius.

“Hello?” She called out hesitantly, nerves eating at her very being. The Gawyne may simply shoo her out, and he was within his rights to do so.

Darcy just wasn’t sure she could cope with that.

[Caius Gawyne]

The young Gawyne had finished hand setting all of the type, each article laid out carefully to fit together into the larger chase. Sweating from the heat of the stove, even after Basilius had finished casting all the type as Caius requested it. Standing over the composing stone on the work table, he followed his Master's layout sketch, arranging each of the articles' collection of letters into their places in the metal frame and then adding pieces of wooden furniture, lead and copper spacing, building out the form so that the entire layout was supported by a gentle tension—too much pressure would stress the metal type and too little made for a poor impression. Once the arrangement was ready for lock-up, he turned the quoins, pausing to lean against the table and run lead-stained fingers through the matted mess of his hair.

The print room was a nightly torture, and yet he couldn't stay away. The repetitive process was reliable, comfortable, necessary—Caius went through the muscle memory motion of it all and could tune out his too busy thoughts, could shut out words left unsaid and things left undone, could melt away his mistakes like so much flash—

"Don't jus' stand 'round, y' lazy bastard. There's printin' t' do b'fore th' Fates-be-damned sun's up." The Master printer chided him without a grin, aware that the northern noble had been distracted for all of their working evening, for trials on end now. While this annoyed the old man, gnawing into their productivity, he actually liked his apprentice, despite appearances, and so his words weren't as harsh as they could have been, "I'm gonna put th' kettle on again. When I get back, ye'd better be inkin' that fekking form."

"Yes, ser." Caius watched Basilius leave the print room as he hobbled his way to the hearth in the main room of the Gazette that somewhat doubled as a kitchen, the kettle there if nothing else.

It was the Master Printer who heard and saw the door open, Zi'da chill creeping into the reception area and making the fire dance hungrily. The old man paused, clearing his throat to make his presence known as he set the teapot on its stand in the flames,

"We're closed."

Basilius said perhaps a little more loudly than was actually necessary, his bleary dark eyes studying the young blonde who'd slowed down his best apprentice for too many trials already. Whether he was passing judgement or not was hard to tell on his sweaty, wrinkled face, but he nodded at her anyway, "But yer no' here with th' fekkin' news. Caius. He's workin', Lady Venora." A soot-covered, greasy hand pointed to the correct door, "Go on."

If she'd follow Basil's pointing, the door to the print room was open. Just stepping into the room would reveal where all the heat in the place came from, the smelting stove in the corner making the whole place like a small corner of Saun in the middle of Zi'da. Caius had carefully carried the chase to the press and locked it into place, his back turned while he set the frisket to protect the pages with a bit of gummed tape, cursing at the smudges his dirty hands left on the sheet of waxed paper that was meant to be a barrier. Wiping his hands on his apron with a few mumbled words, he heard the door and turned to look over his shoulder, expecting his employer to be asking him why he wasn't sarding printing yet,

"Darcy." The young Gawyne said her name quietly, but with a genuine smile despite the sinking feeling that gripped his stomach. He'd told her she could visit his work if she needed him, if something had happened and she needed somewhere safe. His concern crept into his expression, breaking the sincerity in his happiness to see her, and he carefully crossed the room, avoiding the stacks of Gazettes ready for the second page to be printed. A sweaty, dirty mess, Caius visibly hesitated to reach for her though his conflict was obvious in the motion of his hands, which raised in her direction before he shoved them into the pocket of his thick leather apron,

"I'm glad to see you." He admitted, unable to hide the mix of feelings in his tone, let alone in the churning storm of his eyes, "Are you okay? Do you—do you need something? I mean—bogs!"

He made assumptions, it was true, stepping closer with a wince at his own words of obvious worry and letting his gaze flit furtively toward the door as if he expected his Master to barrel through and growl at him to get back to work. Perhaps he wasn't such a bitter old arsehole, after all. The blonde pianist looked sober, and that left Caius looking like an idiot, floundering for what to say and how to act after a handful of trials without speaking. His shoulders sagged, melting in her presence in the uncomfortable heat of the cramped print room,

"I'm sorry—for everything. I'm sorry, Darcyanna."

❦

[Darcyanna Venora]

15th Zi’da, 717

Darcy looked up at the too loud voice that didn’t quite greet her, a gruff voice of an older man who she couldn’t tell was going to send her packing or let her stay. He didn’t seem the friendly type. Reaching up to lower her hood, the Venora opened her mouth to speak, to apologise and take her leave, before the gruff man nodded and spoke the words she wanted to hear.

Caius. He’s workin’...Go on.

Offering the man a timid thank you and a small nod, she followed his pointer to the open doorway, immediately hit by a thick wave of heat as she entered. The room was hot, Saun hot, and Darcy couldn’t help the racing of her heart when she saw the familiar frame of the taller diri ahead of her. Standing quietly she watched him look over his shoulder, unable to stop the way her stomach turned in nervous anticipation, worried how he would react. Afraid of whether she could handle the sting of rejection if he didn’t want to see her. The blonde hadn’t seen him since their fight— and a passionate one it was —all of her own doing. Would he turn her away, would he even speak to her?

Maybe she shouldn’t have come in.

Her name fell from the Gawyne’s lips, quiet but with a smile. The Venora offered a small smile in return, although it was short lived as she saw the concern on his face. She knew why, and expected as such. It was night time and if anything she had instilled in him, it was that he could count on her to be high. It hurt, but only because she knew it was her fault. The taller student approached, and for a moment it looked like he would reach for her, until his hands disappeared in the pocket of the curious leather apron he wore. Darcyanna dropped her gaze to her hands, not surprised but also wishing he hadn’t stopped.

Really stuffed things up this time Darce.

Her eyes lifted as the man spoke again, smiling a little again, ridiculously hot in her thick felt cloak but not willing to remove it just yet. Not if she might just be putting it on again soon.

“I’m...no. No nothing I just...It was late, and I needed to just get some air...figured my birthtrial was a good an excuse as any to leave the dorm. But then...I didn’t have anywhere to go...and I saw the light and I remembered...I thought...” It was ridiculously awkward, and her words made little sense, watching him step closer. Caius’ eyes shifted to the door for a moment, and the pale woman felt her heart sink a little more. He clearly didn’t want her here.

“Sorry I shouldn’t have disturbed y—“ Her words were cut short by the tall Gawyne’s apology. Darcy felt a shift in the tide, a moment in conversation that was a pivotal for them both. Taking a deep breath the Venora let her words flow, a verbal wash of everything she’d been aching to say for the past five trials.

“Caius, by the Seven you shouldn’t be apologising, it’s me. It’s always been me. You’ve been nothing but nice, and tried so hard to help. I said I didn’t ask you to care, but maybe I really did. If I didn’t want your help I would have just said so but I never did. And you were right, I was a sarding fool. I know you never promised, I know. I just was so scared and fates I still am but I’m so much more scared of facing this all without you.” Taking another breath, she let her final words hang between them for a moment, brow furrowed but somehow not in tears. Tentatively, she came a little closer and put a hand on his forearm, attempting to hold his gaze with her own.

“I’m sorry too.”

[Caius Gawyne]

He should have touched her. Caius saw the flicker of disappointment on her face even as he attempted to piece together her words at first.

Birthtrial?

He blinked, bringing his eyes back from the door to her face with his apology, but he felt it, too, the need for a moment. What Darcy said was necessary, waited for, and he smiled faintly, lopsidedly at the last of it all, his irises warming in a mix of colors she knew were all good feelings. Her hand that would have found his forearm brushed his apron instead, Caius stepping forward, too, and forgetting his print shop appearances to reach for her, to tug her against him for a lingering embrace. It was possibly marginally gross, sweaty and lead-dusted that the printer's apprentice was, but he pressed warm lips against her forehead and then her mouth for an apologetic sort of kiss,

"I do care, perhaps more than I expected to, but I'm sure as the Seven not complaining about it. I know you're afraid, and truth be told, I'm afraid, too: afraid I made the wrong decision and afraid that when it matters, I won't be able to protect you. But, Darcy, keeping her secrets are what's killing you. Oliver—"

He paused, biting his lip for a moment because he'd told the older Venora not just about Pythera but also about Darcy's addictions that kept her from dealing with it all,

"—Telling your brother was a good thing. I really believe that. I'm sorry everything unfolded the way it did, for disappearing on you and not being able to give you word. I won't let it happen again." The young Gawyne had to believe he'd made the right choice, really, trusting Oliver to be there for his sister now that he was aware of her need. After one more needful, affectionate kiss, he leaned away, ink-stained fingers moving to shove unkempt hair out of his face, his smile genuine despite the gnawing guilt he felt in the hull of his chest at being unable to tell the delicate pianist the whole truth. It was for her own good, he reminded himself, for those who cared about her wanted to help her with her choices. He just wished it didn't feel so much like lying. Changing the subject, Caius shoved his hands back into his apron for a few trill,

"Did you just say it was your birthtrial? To-trial? I'm sorry I didn't know or else I would have—"

The door opened again and Basil returned, steaming hot mug of coffee in his greasy, gnarled hands, "Get back t' work, diri." The old man laughed roughly, bleary dark eyes falling on Darcy with a mixture of amusement and almost-but-not-quite realistic threat, "If y' stay, I'm no' payin' ye shyte. But you'll have t' make yerself useful, an' I don't mean feelin' up m' apprentice, ye hear? Ye've distracted that son 'f a throne-mongerin' whore long 'nough s' far as I'm concerned."

The young Gawyne smirked, reaching up to begin to remove his apron and hand it to the delicate pianist if she indicated she wanted to remain, uncaring about the already ruined condition of his own work clothes so much as keeping her dress from the same fate, "You don't have to—stay that is—but I've got to get through that stack of Gazettes tonight. It will take a few breaks, but maybe we'll be finished in time for some scones. Birthtrial scones. Together. I know this really great bakery and Thierry always lets me in early if he's baking already ..."

He was grinning, letting his words trail off deviously at the innuendo that baked goods had inadvertently become, reaching to untuck his sweaty shirt with a sigh of relief once she took his apron. It was so sarding hot with the smelter on, the northern noble felt like he was some iced over body of water thawing and he hadn't even started the physical part of the print work yet. If she didn't want to stay up half the night, he'd understand, but if he knew her at all, he assumed it wouldn't matter. His expression made it clear he wouldn't at all mind her company,

"You can hand me paper. It's an easy job." Caius chuckled, feeling the weight of master Moad's gaze on him as he moved back toward the large wooden press that dominated one side of the room. He'd already locked the form in place, all of the articles for the second page arranged in their places in the metal chase, locked in place with furniture and two quoins, and ready for inking.

As long as the blonde Venora agreed to stay, Caius and Basilius would get to work printing, including her in their not so tame-languaged banter and giving her a glimpse of the process that the young Gawyne seemed to enjoy so much about the work. The form was inked, a frisket was placed over the form, and then a sheet of paper was lined up over the frisket. The whole surface was then lined up under a large, flat piece of wood and a crank was turned until the wood pressed the paper against the metal type. Then, the paper was removed, hung to dry, and the process started over again. Over and over. For breaks. It was repetitive, tedious, and the crank for the press required actual strength to turn, closing and opening the press once every few bits.

The northern noble enjoyed the motion, needed the physical strain of the work, and appreciated the fine fiddly details that printing with metal type required—sometimes, one letter wasn't right. Sometimes an entire line of text was crooked. These little details fascinated him and the fact that every print was slightly different kept him curious about the next print pulled.

Caius couldn't help stealing glances at Darcy while he worked, brushing her hands with his when she'd pass him paper, and generally making a fool of himself in her presence in front of his employer who, for the most part, didn't seem to care. If anything, Basilius was relieved to have his hard working apprentice back, for once they'd made their nice words with each other, it seemed to the master printer that his diri was back to working at full steam—hard and fast—without complaint again. That pleased him greatly, but that didn't mean he'd let the young woman hang out in his print shop ever again.

Just tonight—the gift of an exception.

❦

[Darcyanna Venora]

15th Zi’da, 717

Darcy sighed, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around Caius to hug him tightly as the taller man took her into his sweaty lead-dusted embrace, ignoring any possible marks that may have just been made on her cloak or her person. She felt as though a great weight had lifted from her shoulders, tilting her face up to accept his kiss with eyes that bleed lime green from the depths of her soul.

“It doesn’t matter, Caius. None of it matters. We’ll just...we’ll deal with things as they come. Oliver will be cross I am sure, but I’ll handle it.” She didn’t want to linger on the awful things that had put a wedge between them, wanting to forget the fight and the hurtful things and focus on all the lovely things they could be together.

As the diri pulled back, Darcy nodded with a wave of her hand and a shrug.

“It’s not a big deal. I don’t usually have anyone to celebrate with so I—“ Her heart damn near leapt out of her chest as the cranky old man returned, coffee in hand and colourful words that made the Venora pout in a show of feminine defiance. Basil’s words tweaked a nerve, and with a quick moment she removed her cloak to hang it on the nearest coat rack and reaching to twist her long pristine blonde locks into a high messy bun.

“I’m not afraid of a little work, ser. Especially if it’s to fix a problem I’ve caused.” She said firmly, however not disrespectfully, taking the apron from Caius and draping it over herself and tying the back tight. Looking up at the taller blonde, Darcyanna smiled wickedly.

“Birthtrial scones? Well, that sounds just...delicious.” Glancing away with a chuckle, she looked at the stack of paper with a nod, ready to help.

As the evening wore on, the noblewoman quietly did as she was told, watching the banter between the Master and the Apprentice with a small smile and listening carefully when Caius would at times explain why he was doing what he was doing in the process. Whilst she didn’t have the strength for the crank, Darcy offered to help where she could without interfering, taking the paper carefully to hang or finding a lead work letter in the assortment of others. The work fascinated her, and each page that she helped with the pianist would look a little closer at the perfect imperfections. It was an artform, one that she had never noticed or appreciated before.

Wiping a stray lock of hair away from her forehead with a smudge of lead dust—the stuff was sarding everywhere!—the Venora shot her own looks at the Gawyne, at least when the older printer wasn’t looking. Fates he was like a grumpy old father figure, or an uncle. One that tolerated you but only just. If someone asked her whether the night was spent well, Darcy would not hesitate to say she would do it all over again. The breaks wore on, and she didn’t feel the sickening need for a hit of reevi or dust, busy hands, busy minds so it seemed.

When the work was finally said and done, Darcy handed back the apron and took her cloak, offering Basilius a polite curtsy and a thank you before they left. The process had been long, maybe could have been tedious, but it was more therapeutic than she’d expected. Watching the men work, it was like the intricacies of playing a piano, fingers and hands just so to ensure the right keys played the right notes in the right combination. Leaving the Saun-like room, it seemed much colder outside, the sky not quite as black as it was blue in these early hours.

“Another sunrise with you, seems to be a habit.” She chuckled, huddling close to the taller diri and they walked. Of course, they were not going to the bakery.

Birthtrial scones were more of a homemade delight anyway.

[Djinn]

Rewards Awarded

Points: 15

Caius Gawyne

Skill Knowledge:
Endurance: Working through the heat
Printmaking: Letterpress: Using a composing stick
Printmaking: Letterpress: Matrices for moveable type
Printmaking: Letterpress: Composing the layout
Printmaking: Letterpress: Locking it up with a quoin
Printmaking: Letterpress: Locking up a chase in the press
Printmaking: Letterpress: Setting the frisket
Rhetoric: Verbally defending your Lady's honor

Darcyanna Venora

Skill Knowledge:
Detection: Knowing the right "moment"
Medicine: Drugs don't fix a broken heart
Printmaking: How to handle the paper
Printmaking: Hanging the print to dry
Seduction: Scones will never be the same again
Rhetoric: Printmaking is an artform
Rhetoric: Apologies all around
Sociology: Saying sorry takes a lot of courage


Comments: You two give me heart palpitations. The natural chemistry is amazing, and I hate to say it, but I love Caius. Know why I hate to say it? He's a damn yuppie. But at least he's good to Darcyanna.