[Memory, Mature] I am flesh and I am bone

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

The passive bowed neatly and went off, rather quickly.

Niccolette spared a few thoughts for the oddness of it - a passive, at one of the most important balls of the season, in the midst of Florne, wandering the hallways to look for wine. She could nearly have laughed or something; it was frankly absurd.

Idly, Niccolette wondered if she ought to have refused him; he could scarcely be allowed to roam the halls. She was not afraid of him, but there were plenty of galdori skittish around his type. If he hasn’t been quite so young, she shouldn’t have thought anything of it.

It was, Niccolette thought matter-of-factly, too late. If he did not return, she would decide then whether to go after him. There was really nothing more which could be said or done now.

Whatever would come afterwards, Niccolette thought, she thought they would leave her alone tonight. It would be best to find Giovanna, Photoulla, Elisabetta, whichever other friends she might recognize from summers and winters spent here, and the tiny handful of Bastians she knew in Brunnhold. It would be best to mention nothing of the rest of it; they, none of them, needed to know. Gia knew; none of the rest.

It was not shame, Niccolette told herself fiercely. How her father behaved towards her could not make her ashamed if she did not let it. She was angry, yes. And too she felt -

It did not matter. They could do nothing with the knowing; there was no reason to tell them. There was no benefit to it being shared; there was nothing to be done but to make it through the summer, one way or another, and to get back to Brunnhold.

Always, Niccolette thought, the return was like a gift. She would be going actually first to Vienda this year, spending two weeks staying with Francoise while attending a summer spell-writing intensive. That thought was very pleasing; she would, Niccolette thought grimly, do what she needed to do to keep that and the fall semester from being taken away. They would not force a marriage on her this summer; engagements could always be broken.

Tonight, it had surprised her; she ought to have known better, Niccolette thought, clenching her jaw until she felt the thrum of pain in her cheek. No, she could not regret it, not any of it; she refused to.

This was all settled before the boy returned. Niccolette raised her eyebrows at the sight of the glass on the tray, and the flower alongside it. She inclined her head, taking the glass and swirling it lightly, watching the tears stream down the side from the flow of liquid.

Niccolette set the glass back down and studied the passive curiously. “What is your name?” She asked him. They had not exchanged such pleasantries; she had not thought to. Perhaps it was the flower; she couldn’t have said. She asked, now, for better or for worse; she wondered.

[Yazad]

The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711

Y

azad stood there, his childish face carrying a hint of the anticipation he suppressed. At first glance, it did not look like the girl’s mood had improved much. But there was a tiny shift in expression, a small change that was all the more noticeable exactly because she had kept the same face before. Her eyebrows rose in what could have been...surprise? Wonderment? Whatever it was, it did not feel ‘bad’, and that was encouraging enough.

He really had no idea why people did that--why they slowly swirled their wine glasses as if playing with the liquid inside before consuming it. Sophronios did that often, and now she was doing it as well. While the reasoning behind the action was lost to him, the boy still found himself amused with the relaxed, smooth motion. It looked like the wine was dancing the glass, and he loved dancing.

Even when the tray was relieved of the glass, Yazad still held it up in place, his back held straight and firm while waiting for anything else the young lady might ask for. Surprisingly, her next words were not to make a demand, but to ask about his name.

"Yazad, madam. At your service." A smile tugged at rose-tinted lips, the posture Yazad held tilting slightly when he inclined his head in a small bow. "Oh--" The pale green eyes widened a little as the Passive lifted his head, now noticing the very thin curved line of black on the other’s reddened cheek. A fallen lash, most likely coming loose in the aftermath of that unpleasant incident. "Madam, you have a fallen lash on your cheek. But do not remove it just yet! Make a wish first!”" Yazad’s voice gained a touch of enthusiasm when he spoke. A fallen lash on the cheek was a wish waiting to be spoken, or so his governess had told him once. It was probably a mere old wives’ tale--he knew that. But still, he held onto the hope that Hurte, the Circle, anyone at all was out there listening to their wishes.

Fated Encounters

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted when he mentioned the eyelash on her cheek. She set the glass of wine aside, reaching up to touch the spot he had indicated; she paused, mostly out of surprise, when he said not to brush it away yet; her lips twitched at a little smile, unexpectedly, at the childish enthusiasm in his voice.

“A wish to Hurte, of course,” Niccolette said, smiling a little wider. She remembered such things from her girlhood, exhortations made between friends; she had not thought of them in years. She took a deep breath, in and out.

As you love beauty, she thought to Hurte, so I must ask you to intercede. There can be nothing beautiful about this marriage my family wishes to force upon me – not when there is Uzoji. Please, Niccolette thought, taking a deep breath. Please, Mistress who walks in the night, Lady of the Tiger, by your deadly terrors, by your fearful symmetry, let me have him; this is my only wish.

Niccolette did not hesitate to press her fingertip lightly to her cheek. It wasn’t that she did not feel the pain of the bruise – it registered, in some curious part of her mind where she always felt such things, whether when dueling or otherwise. She knew it was pain, but that was all it was; she did not let it be more than that.

Niccolette drew her fingertip back, glancing down at the single dark lash resting on it. She exhaled a light breath over it, and let it tumble free to the carpet, not watching to see where it went. She lifted her glass of wine and took a sip of it now, easing back in the chair. It tasted well, or at least well enough, full-bodied, with the faint aroma of plums, the taste rich with mineral and fruit notes, with a prickly, savory feeling in the mouth. She took another sip, though not too much all at once, and cradled the glass between her hands in the lap of the elegant dress.

For a moment, amused, Niccolette thought of spilling the wine on the silk; it should be a good enough excuse to go home, at least. But – no. She did not know what the rest of the summer should bring; she might not have the chance to go to another such ball for some time. It would be a shame to cut it short before she had to; pain could not made her do so, not if she did not allow it to.

“I am Niccolette Villamarzana,” Niccolette said, looking back up at the young boy Yazad. A strange, Hessean sort of name, Niccolette thought, though it fit him well enough. She thought it over a bit, studying him – the glass of wine, his flustered worry, even the demand that she make a wish.

“Thank you,” Niccolette said, evenly. She saw no need for false courtesies; she never had. She had thanked him enough, she thought, with the loan of the earrings, and yet – she glanced down at the wine in her hands, and took another sip.

[Yazad]

The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711

T
he boy’s smile widened a bit with the other’s response, revealing a row of even pearly whites. The prickly, agitated sensation lingering in the air was slowly dissipating into something not entirely relaxed, but at least a little less intense.

"May Hurte hear and grant it." Yazad’s head dipped slightly in reverence. The young woman’s comment of making a wish to Hurte was hopeful enough, or so the young Passive hope her smile meant. He could not claim to judge the will of the divine, but if one asked faithfully enough, if one placed their trust on the kindness of the goddess, what reason would she have to deny their wish?

It was an alarming thought that crossed his mind next--that of how the girl’s life must be like if what he witnessed was anything to go by. She looked composed and stoic, certainly, but what is to say that she is not like this because she was used to this kind of treatment? It was a saddening thought, but he dismissed it quickly with a light shake of his head. He was overthinking this, surely. A galdor girl’s life must have more things to be happy about than to be miserable about.

Though not spoken out loud, Yazad assumed that the wish had been made when the other lifted a finger to remove the fallen eyelash. Her cheek was still glowing with the angry red of a forming bruise, but no sound of pain came out of her. Belatedly, he realized that he should have fetched her some ice, too. But would that not be demeaning to her cosmetics and the silk of her dress? Though that would not be her problem to solve, but that of some servant not unlike him back at her residence.

With unspoken interest, the boy’s eyes were fixated on the glass in her hand. The red was rich and deep in color, not too far from the hue of blood. Yazad did serve wine before, but never to someone other than Sophronios, who has a habit of sipping on the liquid while reading. It made the Passive wonder what wine tasted like, and why people had such fondness for it. It smelled like fruits, sort of tangy, but there was also something else there that he could not place. Maybe it had a flavor like raspberries? Or peach tea, perhaps? His attempts to ask the master about the subject were often dismissed with a waved hand and a statement of ‘You will know when you grow up.’

"A pleasure, Madam." Though he did not anticipate that he would be given the girl’s full name, the boy’s surprise had lasted for merely a second. He did hear the scary man call her that; Niccolette. It still did not feel quite right until she spoke it herself. Now satisfied with his service and relaxed enough to no longer worry about Niccolette’s mood, Yazad carefully set the tray down on the small ornate table that sat next to the chair, then straightened up again to look at the galdor.

"You are the first lady that I have ever served, so I will make sure to remember this." There was a glint of something bright and sincere as he vowed to remember her name, which was unique enough to make that easier. Knowing the kind of lifestyle Sophronios led, it was not very likely that he will get to see this young woman again. The man’s engagement in social events was gradually dwindling, and their current meeting was but a coincidence. But, really, who knows? They all lived in Florne, after all.

Niccolette’s thanks took the Passive by surprise much more than her introduction did. On the span of a moment, Yazad’s face slowly morphed from taken aback by the sudden declaration of gratitude to gaining a healthy blush as his lips split into a smile and his hands rested on the rotund cheeks. More than simple delight for the given appreciation, Yazad felt proud--proud to have earned the young woman’s thanks, for she did not look like the sort to say things unmeant.

The sound of passing footsteps echoed on the other side of the door, plucking Yazad from his momentary sense of victory and prompting him to hurriedly move back towards the door. "Ugh, I do hope that he will not come back," he mumbled, audibly enough.

Fated Encounters

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

There was the sound of footsteps from the hallway. Niccolette glanced over towards the door, and then back to the young passive Yazad, who’d moved towards it.

“Very unlikely,” Niccolette said with a delicate shrug of her shoulders. She had settled the glass back in her lap, and one finger tapped lightly against the side of it, sending small, slow ripples through the liquid. Otherwise, she was almost completely still.

She knew her father better than that; he would not come back to look for her. More than likely, she thought he would go to Calogero, to reassure him – perhaps to make him a gift of wine – to laugh off his daughter’s insolence and rudeness all together, in the way men did. He had done it in front of her more than once – women, he might say, grinning and shaking his head.

It was, Niccolette thought, not such a surprise; sometimes she felt as if he could scarcely see past her sex, if he could at all. Then again, she doubted he would have been a good father to a boy, either. He saw her as an extension of himself, and one which did not behave as he would wish. It was that simple; it would never change.

Niccolette did not know if it was that moment, if it hit her then, suddenly, or if it had been building for a time. She felt it close over her, all the same, sharp clear certainty. She could not, Niccolette realized, come back to Florne. She would make it through the summer; she needed her parents to pay for her to finish at Brunnhold. Once she had graduated, Niccolette thought, she would take nothing else from them. She did not care if it meant working – she did not care what it meant doing. She had friends – she had Uzoji, if he were bold enough to take her – she could not come back.

The footsteps were coming closer to the door, and slowing. They sounded to Niccolette like a man’s shoes; she felt a tiny frisson of fear, wondering if her father had returned, her certainty aside, or if he had sent Calogero. She calmed herself; fear was nothing to take to the mona. She did not, Niccolette thought, intend to be hit again. Her field flexed, lightly, bright and sharp in the air around her; she breathed in deeply and exhaled out, prepared as she might be for a duel.

She did not rise; she did not see the point. Niccolette set her glass of wine aside and smoothed her skirt over her lap; she adjusted her legs, crossing them at the ankles, and tuned herself towards the door, gaze on it, chin lifted and the line of her back flawlessly straight. She breathed in once more, and out again, and waited.

[Yazad]

The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711

A sense of dreadful trepidation squeezed at Yazad’s chest from the inside, despite his own efforts to dismiss it as ridiculous. The hallway was a path leading towards the ballroom, so it was entirely natural for people to be coming and going through it. The boy kept reminding himself of that, even as the sound of deliberate footsteps drew even closer to the door he stood behind.

Small as the chance was, what if the man did come back? What can the passive boy do against a galdor adult if it came down to it? Why, he would have to politely, in length, tell him just how appalled he should be with his own lack of gallantry. Yes, that was the right thing to do. He will not be mute in the face of unfair, grossly boorish behavior. No one here knows who he is, therefore, no damaging connection to Sophronios will be made. Yazad inhaled a deep breath--

--and he found himself tumbling forward before he could exhale it. A voice from behind calling out in barely suppressed frustration.

"Yazad, we are leaving."

The tiny yelp Yazad had let out mingled with the sound of a muffled thud as the door was opened with such force to collide with his back. Although with a slight amount of clumsiness to his motions, the boy managed to catch and steady himself before he hit the floor face-first. The voice saying his name he had recognized, but not the reason for the added aggression mixed with it. Not that he was going to complain about an early departure from this place, but he simply expected Sophronios to stay a bit longer.

"That hurts! What is wrong? You said before that you might stay until midnight." Yazad’s form turned to face that of the taller male, his brows furrowing while his hand rubbed his backside.

Behind the boy, Sophronios stood with his fingers still wrapping around the door handle, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected impact and the fact that Yazad was not alone in the room he had left him at. The blue eyes traveled from the pouting passive to the young -obviously galdor- lady sitting pretty inside, and then they narrowed slightly. Whatever else Sophronios was going to say, he seems to have swallowed. In the breast pocket of his dark blue suit was a white rose matching Yazad’s. His styled brown hair would have been perfect if not for the few loose strands falling over the left side of his face.

"Master…?" Yazad questioned, still visibly bewildered with the man’s sudden arrival--until he could see his left cheek. The fresh, glowing red bruise on Sophronios’ cheek did not look unlike the cooling one Niccolette bore, only smaller. After a few seconds of mutual staring, Yazad could only bring himself to shake his head and utter a confused "What happened?".

"I changed my mind." Sophronios replied tersely and, seemingly only to shut the boy up and stop him from asking further questions. "Good day." The greeting that Sophronios had aimed towards Niccolette was as terse and heavy with forced politeness as it could be. The young galdor was neither thrilled to be seen in such a state nor was he in the mood to engage in obligatory pleasantries with another pretentious woman who expected him to entertain her through the night.

"Oh, master. This is Madam Niccolette Villamarzana, she has been kindly keeping me company here for a while." Sensing that Sophronios’ mood was dipping even lower, the boy hurriedly intervened with an introduction. The details of why a galdor girl was in a room with him and not at the ballroom with the rest of the guests were left unsaid.

"A pleasure." Sophronios responded in a tone clearly stating that it was anything but, his expression a stony one. As much as he loathed such banalities, not even he could escape social obligations just yet. By now, he had made his way inside the small room, leaving the door half-open in his wake. The man’s even, deep voice spoke again. "Sophronios Logarchon, madam. I hope the boy has not troubled you much."

"I have not." Yazad protested, looking offended at the question. He stood midway between the two galdori, stepping back a little to give them a full view of each other and looking between them in anticipation.

Fated Encounters

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

The door swung open, thumbing the passive solidly on the behind. Niccolette held herself very straight and very still, though for all she was drawn up there was no tension in the set of her shoulders or her face, nor in the drape of her hands one on the other in her lap.

It wasn’t more than a moment before Niccolette understood that this was the master Yazad had mentioned waiting for. He must be, Niccolette thought, an odd galdor, to have a passive at home. She looked between them, a little curiously.

One heard of such things, of course – families who refused to give up their children to Anastou, who sent them into the canalways of Florne or off to the factories in the fields between Florne and the border with Anaxas, or else shuttered them in the attic and pretended they did not exist. There were ghost stories of such, naturally, rumors of scraps in white seen in one attic or another, and one who was said to haunt the canals after having frozen to death in winter.

Of course, such a passive would not be attending a formal event with a man he called master, unless that man was very, very brazen. Studying him, Niccolette found it unlikely, though she supposed it was sometimes hard to know what to make of a person just from looking at them. Yazad, though, seemed to her too young for the confidence such a scheme would require, unless he was perhaps unaware? More likely, his master – so to speak – had some dispensation in the form of a special contract with Anastou; all the same, it was quite curious.

When the older man turned towards her, Niccolette met his gaze without the least hesitation or flinching, her gaze solid on his. She could see the red mark on his cheek, more vivid than hers without the help of blush and powder to color his face, so far as Niccolette could tell.

The man greeted her; Niccolette rose from the chair, in an easy motion, and bowed at the waist as the passive introduced her. She turned, looking at Yazad even as Sophronios turned his gaze towards her over Yazad’s protests.

“I should say he has troubled me a welcome - perhaps necessary - amount,” Niccolette said with a delicate little shrug of her shoulders. She raised her eyebrows lightly at Yazad, and smiled at the passive. She looked back at Sophronios, coming forward just a few steps.

For all that Niccolette was a student still, her living field was sharp and bright in the air around her, with a duelist’s edge; in the small, side room she maintained nothing of the polite social dampening one would hold in a ballroom, and the strength of it washed out around her, for all she held it cleanly indectal, without any hint of emotion. Whatever field she met, with the older man, she would caprise him, forcefully, although still within the bounds of what politeness dictated.

[Yazad]

The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711

U nlike the older male whose face seemed to carry a naturally-drawn, unchangeable scowl, Yazad’s had brightened visibly after hearing Niccolette’s reply. The girl’s smile was returned with one of his own, a spontaneous giggle of boyish pride following the sheepish drop of his eyes. Despite his initial worrying, it appears that he managed to do something useful for the girl. Even this minor sense of achievement was taken and cherished. Slowly--slowly but surely, he was learning how to be a proper adult.

Sophronios was not a man who sought thrills for the sake of it. He did not look for excitement in spite of how he viewed most of everything outside if his sphere of interests to be an utter bore. Socializing occupied the top of his list containing all the things he disliked and could do without, but the galdor still found a speck of interest to be had in the way that girl -Niccolette, was it?- stared back at him, unwavering. Now that he was looking at her up close, the discoloration of her cheek was visibly clear. It would have been something that he ignores completely and dismisses as insignificant if not for the fact that he carried a similar print of red, as well. What are the odds?

Niccolette had stood up and offered the other galdor a graceful bow, while Sophronios -expectedly, but much to Yazad’s dismay- simply did not bother.

"He has a tendency to do that, indeed." Sophronios commented with a curt nod, his blue eyes glancing to the side at the boy whose face now wore a booming blush.

Yazad was giddy and that felt rather nice. It was not often that Sophronios would make a comment quite so sincere; so lacking in dismissive and dry sarcasm. Even rarer were the times he can say he had been able to talk for more than a few moments with someone who is not Sophronios. This occurrence--this alignment of chance and coincidences, is not likely to repeat again, and that was all the more reason for him to just relish the moment.

Looking between the room’s other occupants, Yazad could only see two galdori looking at each other, exchanging polite words. So why, then, was he starting to feel the tension rising in the air again? It was not quite as prickly as it had been before, but it was still there--a feeling that is vague and unnamed, but surely there.

"Are we leaving now?" Yazad questioned cautiously, taking a step forward as he looked up at his master. The boy did not understand why Sophronios’ earlier urgency to leave had changed. Sophronios, however, kept staring ahead, at Niccolette.

Sophronios stood, ramrod straight and with hands firmly grasping one another behind his back. "In a bit." he replied, not looking at the boy. Pretentious politeness and social pleasantries he never cared for, and Sophronios was not afraid to let that show. The throbbing of his slapped cheek made him even less so. He could sense what the other galdor was doing, and he, in return, reacted. Efficiently, methodically, his organized indectal field flexed for a few seconds before it was relatively dampened; withdrawn to a slightly minimum presence. With unspoken curiosity, the man stood there in silence, observing, and waiting to see how the girl would react.

Fated Encounters

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Sophronios met her caprise, belike living mona mingling easily with hers, accompanied by soft, slippery perceptive mona. His field was the stronger, the older galdor clearly more practiced in such things, magically stronger than the young student.

Niccolette didn’t quite yield, all the same; her field met his evenly and powerfully, with a polite but deep caprise. He flexed in response, an unexpected surge of pressure against her field. Niccolette grinned, bearing up beneath it, not withdrawing or pulling away.

Abruptly, then, he dampened his field, withdrawing it. It was a bizarre feeling,
Niccolette thought curiously, to stand so close to a galdor of his age and feel nearly nothing. She did not withdraw hers, or dampen in the least. Even the polite social dampening which one learned in order to keep every ballroom from being overwhelming she did not bother with, not here.

Niccolette didn’t close the space between them; he was within five feet of her, an easy caprise distance even if he had withdrawn his field.

It was a challenge, Niccolette thought curiously, of some sort. The older man had said nearly nothing, just flexed without any warning and then withdrawn. She didn’t know which was stranger; both were thoroughly odd.

She didn’t glance over at wide-eyed Yazad, who seemed uncertain about what was happening, even if he clearly knew something was. Curious, Niccolette thought, and then, again: a shame.

Niccolette had never been one to back down. She knew he was the stronger; she knew he could force her out of his field, painfully, if he so desired. He had not yet, but she accepted the risk that he would, or else something as strange as his behavior so far, which she could not predict. She knew it was a strange, potentially risky situation; she was not afraid, but rather almost excited.

She followed Sophronios’s dampening with her caprise, insistent, unyielding. She didn’t think she had ever caprised so dampened a field before; she marked the sensation of it, a feeling like the closeness of the moment. Her field was as sharp and bright as ever; it was her turn to flex this time, with all the intensity of the duelist she was.

Her gaze never left Sophronios; her posture was, as ever, picture perfect, the galdor standing there in the pale, girlish blue-white of her demure silk, gleaming with diamonds; her lips were painted just as pale a pink, her eyes subtly colored, and her hair neatly arranged with its diamond pins. She might have been the picture of any young woman at nighteen, but for the vivid flex in the air around her, but for the unyielding grin on her face, but for the red mark on her cheek, but for the steadiness of their eye contact as she gave her own answer to his strange challenge, not in the least unnerved.

[Yazad]

The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711

Y azad huffed, slightly vexed, as he looked between the other two. The nature of what they could be doing was known to him, but not why they were doing it. He would not have minded spending more time with this company if the two did not just stand there staring at each other while making the atmosphere around them overwhelming. Why, he wondered again, were they doing this? Adults were rather weird sometimes.

The stillness of Sophronios’ face did not belie his anticipation as he waited for a reaction. The girl before him was an unfamiliar face, an unknown factor that he wanted to explore before leaving. The grin she gave him could have been one of childish arrogance, but to him, it looked more like confidence. She did not flinch, she did not frown, she did not gloss over his deliberate push and pull. Perceptive, calculating, and misleading with how her girlish appearance showed very little of it. Sophronios assessed Niccolette’s response, inwardly, but did not go too far with how little he knew about her.

And now, it was her turn to flex at him.

Sophronios let it happen, without as much as a blink. Her field was not as strong as his own, but there was something about it--something that his proverbial finger was hovering over, trying to pinpoint. Intensity, the answer emerged. While Sophronios manipulated his field with methodical focus, Niccolette’s had a bit of an edge to it. She, also, displayed neither hesitation nor pressure when flexing her field. A sign of habitual behavior? The girl stood there: unwavering, flexing, holding his gaze, carrying a bruise that looked like his own--and she was still grinning. Slowly, his whimsical curiosity was mounting into actual intrigue. Suddenly, the name Niccolette Villamarzana was a bit more worth remembering.

"Fascinating." Sophronios stated, monotonously, before he allowed his field to gradually break free of the dampening he had subjected it to. It was not magical prowess that had led him to say so, but rather the way she had behaved. If he had not been mistaken -and he liked to believe that he rarely is- she was, in fact, enjoying the encounter. For now, there was no longer any flexing or dampening, but rather the freedom of leaving his field unaltered.

"Ahem..." Yazad’s huff was slightly -and deliberately- louder now. The boy cleared his throat awkwardly, his feet shuffling as if he did not know what else to do with himself.

Finally, Sophronios broke eye contact, looking at the young passive who was giving him a look that he knew well. "Come, we are leaving." The man gestured with his head towards the door before his eyes momentarily looked back at Niccolette. "This had been a pleasure. It is good to know that not everyone here is a vacuous blighter." Pleasantry had gone out the window with no hope of coming back. One corner of his mouth had pulled up into a smile that was barely there. This was not how a member of the gentry should behave, but he simply could not care a whit anymore. This will be the last ball that he will have the forced displeasure of attending--Sophronios will make sure of that.

Seeing that Sophronios had turned around and was heading towards the door with wide steps, Yazad quickly followed. The taller male’s form disappeared through the doorway and into the hallway, but the boy paused for just a moment before exiting, his hand resting on the doorframe while his head looked back to Niccolette. "Thank you for everything, madam. Do not sulk too much, you look better grinning." He could spare a smile of his before he hurriedly made his way out, joining his master who was already halfway across the hallway.

"What was going on in there? Was that not...rude?" Yazad asked, sounding both curious and incredulous.

"What are you, my mother?" Sophronios responded with another question, eyes looking straight ahead.

"I feed you and I clean after you, I suppose that I am." Yazad retorted cheekily, earning himself a snort from Sophronios. When he had walked into the building earlier in the evening, Yazad did not expect his night to be quite as eventful as it had been. And every time the conversation he and Sophronios were having came into a lull, while the carriage took them back home, the young passive found his mind wandering back to the images of wine served with peonies, diamond earrings sparkling like stars, and a strong galdor girl of few words in beautiful blue .

Fated Encounters