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

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Niccolette stood on the dressing table, her hair curled and pinned in an elaborate updo, heavy enough that her neck ached; gleaming diamonds on delicate gold pins were strewn through it, glinting in the light.

“I asked for the ochre silk,” Niccolette said, glancing at the door.

“Yes miss,” Agata curtsied around an armful of pale blue silk, only the gleaming of the light making it darker than white. “Master Villamarzana instructed that you wear this dress.”

Niccolette’s shoulders trembled; she breathed in as best as she could beneath the tight laced corset, and inclined her chin. She fixed her gaze solidly on herself in the mirror, and said nothing more.

Agata came closer, murmuring an apology. She paused, holding the armful of bundled silk, and they both looked at Niccolette.

“The maquillage, miss,” Agata said, quietly.

Niccolette closed her eyes for a moment, trembling. The dark kohl and the bright red lip color had suited the ochre well, she knew. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “We shall begin again.” Her hands fisted tightly in the delicate silk of her undergarments, then let go. Agata lay the dress out, carefully, over a chair; Niccolette wrapped herself in her dressing gown and sat at the dressing table once more.

Niccolette crossed her ankles and glancing down at the delicate heeled slippers, then back up at the mirror, breathing in deep. She began to wipe the crimson from her lips, steadily. Agata did the last of it, and painted pale rose on instead; her eyes they wiped clean, and Niccolette closed them as Agata brushed delicate powder onto her lips.

Niccolette did not look at her reflection when she stood on the dressing stand once more. She glanced down, finding the floor with one foot and then the other in the center of the pools of pale silk, and breathed evenly, fixing her gaze solidly on her own reflection.

“Niccolette!” Domenico’s voice roared from down the hallway.

“Chin up, miss,” Agata said, very quietly, easing the second of the heavy diamond earrings into place.

“What would you know of it?” Niccolette snapped. She strode off of the platform, her shoulders shaking. At the top of the staircase, she straightened the line of her spine, and came down, slowly, foot by foot in the narrow confines of the elegant dress.

Domenico scowled at her. “Do you wish us to be late?” He asked. “Your mother has been ready for one hour.”

“I could not care less if we are,” Niccolette snapped. Her gaze slid over Annunziata, who was sitting ankles crossed in one of the chairs by the door, her dress smooth over her lap, looking away and idly fanning herself. Niccolette looked back at her father.

“If you are impertinent tonight,” Domenico said, evenly, “you will regret it, child. Perhaps such things amused you when you were a girl. You are a woman now; you shall act it, or I shall make you do so.”

Niccolette looked away, her jaw clenched beneath the delicate make up, all the layers of pale silk trembling.

She still did not understand, not even when they sat together in the carriage, Niccolette across from her parents, her living field held separately from her father’s thick perceptive field and her mother’s light-soft physical one. She did not caprise either of them, not in the slightest, even with the closeness of the carriage. None of them spoke as they rattled over the stones of Florne.

She still did not understand, when they entered the ballroom one after the next, the heavy elaborate chandeliers gleaming overhead, the ones which were all crystals set next to other, stranger stones. The ballroom itself was a wash of white marble, with elaborate fountains set around the edges of the dance floor, burbling beneath the orchestra and gleaming in the light. Heels clacked on the floor; glasses clinked together, champagne bubbling up through them.

She understood when Domenico took her by the arm, firmly, and drew her across the floor.

“Calogero,” Domenico bowed, deeply. “It is my honor to finally introduce you to my lovely daughter, Niccolette Villamarzana.”

Niccolette bowed as well, rising up.

Calogero smiled down at her, his mustache gleamed and oiled, his thick black hair slicked back. “She is as lovely as you have said, Domenico,” he said, appraisingly.

Everything in Niccolette stiffened; she held her back very straight.

“She is a spirited girl,” Domenico said, smiling, “but I think you are a man who knows how to handle this.”

The music changed.

“May I have this dance?” Calogero asked with a half-mockery of a bow. His thin perceptive field caprised her, intruding into the edges of hers.

“No,” Niccolette smiled delicately at him; her field flexed, and forced his back out, refusing the caprise. She held it fully extended in the air around her, refusing even the polite suppression which was taught to children at such events. “I should rather not dance with you,” Niccolette went on, her gaze flickering over Calogero. “Although I suppose you could use the exercise.” Her gaze went back up to his face, and she smiled once more.

Calogero’s face went white, splotches of color standing out in his cheeks.

“I think your rouge is uneven,” Niccolette offered, evenly, looking the few inches up at him.

Domenico’s hand closed over her arm once more – not her forearm this time, but her upper arm, hard enough to crush the silk. He smiled. “Calogero, my friend – please enjoy your wine. I shall return in a few moments.”

Calogero exhaled, harsh, and shook his head.

Niccolette followed, her father’s grip hard enough that she nearly tripped over the edge of her gown in her heels. She was smiling, despite it all, even as she pulled the edges of her field inside once more.

“The contract is all but done, you stupid, insolent girl,” Domenico spat at her in the hallway, the two of them alone on the thick carpet.

“You cannot force me to marry him,” Niccolette said, her jaw set and her pink-painted lips pressed together. “You can force me to wear what you like – you can force me to come here – you cannot control what I say or do. You cannot make me marry him.”

The sound of the slap rang through the hallway; Niccolette’s nostrils flared, tears gleaming in her eyes.

“I can keep you from dressing like a woman without the sense to charge for her favors,” Domenico’s voice was low and harsh. “I cannot keep you from embarrassing yourself, it seems. You will pay for this later, Niccolette. You do wish to finish at Brunnhold, do you not?”

With that, Domenico turned and strode away, his back disappearing down the hall.

Niccolette stood, shaking, in the midst of the rich gold carpet. One hand came up to touch her cheek, gingerly. She held there a moment, and then she pressed her fingertips into the bruise, angry and vicious; her nostrils flared, and tears gleamed in her eyes, and sharp, crackling red spread out through her field, gleaming in the dim light of the hallway.

[Yazad]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Why is it that people liked balls?

Yazad made an honest attempt to find a logical answer, he really did, but to no avail.

Perhaps he was not yet old enough to understand the appeal--or not galdor enough. The boy of fourteen just looked up at the high ceiling overhead and exhaled a soft breath, the back of his head resting against the wall he rested his back against. He could have been at home tidying the disarray that his master often leaves his office in, or working through the pile of laundry that never seems to ever get any smaller. But instead, here he is, being parked outside of a boisterous ballroom and tucked into a nearby small room where his presence would not be noticed. There was absolutely nothing for him to do except wait and have thoughts that he did not want to have. Thoughts of bygone days and faces that were what made his entire world once, but are now merely a backdrop to his current and very different life. A party of opulence and grandeur was hardly the place for a Passive such as himself.

The tempo of music spilling from the ballroom had changed, announcing the start of another dance. Yazad sighed even harder, silently biting into his lower lip. A few more moments
Trickled by, in which Yazad had chosen to occupy himself by repeatedly braiding and undoing the long lock of hair falling over his left shoulder.

The unfamiliar painted faces that he could occasionally glance as people leisurely walked up and down the hallway did not phase him, nor did they entice him. The Passive still admitted to himself, his eyes following the full skirt of a beautiful dress only partially visible to him through the crack in the door, that he would have loved to be able to wear clothes that are as lovely as those. Being uninvolved in the merriment, however, did not mean that he could get away with being unkempt. The neat and pressed uniform he was provided with -black bottoms and a grey vest with a single white rose tucked into his breast pocket- was fitting but barely anything to be compared to the lavish costumes and extravagant garbs others donned. Others who were, no doubt, of much higher social standings than him.

“--insolent girl,”

Something that was neither laughter nor chatter blended with the distant sound of music. He had always preferred the Hessan music, but he would likely never hear it anywhere in Bastia except--

No, the boy shook his head and chided himself even more firmly. No. He will not allow himself to reminisce, he will not let himself be nostalgic and tearful. In an attempt to distract his unruly thoughts, the raven-haired boy edged closer to the partially open door, pale green eyes looking out at the young woman and the older man standing in the hallway. Even from where he was, the Passive could still pick up the tension that blanketed the two strangers. Oh, he was doing such a terrible, ungentlemanly thing--he was PEEPING at others and he was disappointed in himself for it. He was the worst. This is not how a proper man should conduct himself, but the raised voices and agitated motions made it impossible to look away.

And so, he watched. First with slight apprehension, then absolute shock and disbelief when the man’s hand struck the girl’s cheek so hard that Yazad instinctively lifted his hand to rest it on his own, rotund cheek. His other hand, in reaction to his tiny gasp of surprise, hurried to close around his mouth. Yazad’s mind lagged as it tried to process what he had just witnessed. The rest of the man’s spoken words felt no less malicious than his despicable earlier action. Within the Passive’s chest, there was a rising sensation; strange and unfamiliar. Like little prickles of heat puncturing his face. Was this fear? Was this anger? Who would dare strike a lady like this? Across the face, even. But, thank Hurte for small mercies, the awful man did not linger around for long after that.

Yazad did not waste a second before acting.

"That looked painful!” The black-crowned head emerged out as Yazad piped in indignation, his hand slipping down to rest on his chest. “Are you okay, madam? Do you--...oh, um…” His urgent questioning of the girl’s well-being subsided into awkwardness. He had reacted without much thinking, but now that the moment had passed, clear thought returned to him once more, reminding him of his position and, subsequently, hers. Hurte forbid that he sullies a galdor’s evening even further with his presence. Embarrassment was etched across his features after his blunder, the boy retreating quickly to stand, obscured from view, behind the door. After a few seconds of rustling, an arm stuck out through the small gap, ending with a pristine yet featureless handkerchief held by pale fingers.

“It is clean, I promise.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Bruised, Niccolette thought dispassionately, perhaps. She touched it with her finger again, her lips pressing together once more, feeling along the line of it, and delicately pressing her finger down on her cheekbone.

Niccolette lowered her hand then; she wore enough powder that she doubted it would be visible tonight. If it grew swollen, then perhaps. Nothing felt broken in her cheekbone, no sharp ache the way broken bones error described. Just pain, damaged flesh and broken blood vessels.

It had been worth it, she thought, fury still burning in her chest. This was not, she knew, the full cost of ending the would-be engagement with Calogero - if, in fact, she had succeeded -

The thought of him choked in her throat, and her teeth clenched; tears welled up in her eyes. They could not force her, Niccolette told herself. She was alone here in Florne, all her best and closest friends back in Vienda and Brunnhold, and Uzoji - damn him! - in Thul Ka for the summer, distant enough that it should be at a week until her letter reached him, and perhaps more.

The voice from the doorway startled her. Niccolette’s head snapped up, and she turned to look at the gleam of a small pale face through the crack, a bright young voice more indignant than anything. He and his dark hair disappeared from view, and an arm emerged, a handkerchief dangling from his fingers.

She could not stay here, Niccolette thought grimly. She could not bring herself to go back out to the ball either. And so -

“If you are too close to the door, it will hit you,” Niccolette remarked. She went towards it, taking the handkerchief from small fingers with her own long ones. She did, to her credit, wait a moment, and then she pushed through the opening, and closed it to a crack behind her once more.

The Bastian, the jewels in her hair and hanging from her ears gleaming in the light, and all the expensive fabric of her dress gleaming too, glanced around the small room. She sat down on a nearby chair, adjusting the folds of her skirt, and crossing her feet at the ankles.

Niccolette glanced down at the handkerchief in her lap. She shrugged. “I shall not cry,” she said, after a moment. She hoped it was true. “He does not deserve it.”

It had rarely stopped her before, of course. Angry tears were still tears. Niccolette occupied herself with slow, deep breaths, with smoothing the last of the red shift from her bright living field. They soothed the prickling heat behind her eyes, but did very little for the core of burning anger in her chest.

That was good; she wished to be angry. She wished to be furious. Fuck him, Niccolette thought. He could not control her; she was not his puppet, and she would not - never - marry as he wished. In that moment Niccolette thought if she never married, it should be worth it to avoid a marriage that he picked out for her. Whatever he wanted from it - whatever he thought to gain from it - she would do anything in her power to keep it from him. Her hand tightened on the handkerchief, squeezing the fabric tightly.

Sometimes at such times, Niccolette occupied herself by thinking of spells. She could recite passages of them to herself in her head, picture the pages as she had read them. She could turn them mentally, going through the chapter until she was calm enough to focus on it.

Just now, instead, she looked up at the small passive - for he must have been a passive, since she had felt no field of his through the door. Her eyes narrowed, just a little. She had never really thought about a passive before. Certainly she had never seen one outside of Brunnhold or Anastou. Her gaze flickered over him, and his neat pants and the white shirt with the rose.

“What are you doing here?” Niccolette asked a moment later, half-idle curiosity with every expectation of being answered. She raised her eyebrows at him.

[Yazad]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

It was not going away.

The unfamiliar sensation had abated considerably, but it still stubbornly held on and refused to completely go away. Yazad could not decide if the heat roiling in his stomach was outrage at the man or offense on behalf of the struck girl. Not that one or the other would make any kind of difference in this situation. The tiny, more childish voice in his head, angrily saying that he should have done something, was promptly silenced. Any kind of intervention that he would have attempted was likely to end up disastrously for him, and that would not have mattered so much if he did not know that Sophronios will be the one to be held accountable for his actions if he had crossed the line.

Even though he had not the faintest idea about who the man was or why he had done what he had done, Yazad knew that he did not want to be anywhere in close proximity to the cad. Perhaps he should not openly call the man a cad as well, considering that the girl was most likely his relative. Niccolette. During the heated exchange prior, the man had called her Niccolette. But for the Passive, there was only ever one thing that he can address the young woman with.

“Yes, madam.” The polite voice acknowledged her words, his arm retracting back through the gap as soon as he felt the sheet of cotton leave his fingers. Slowly, the boy stepped back while keeping his gaze trained at the door. She will probably peek her head in, look at the face of the Passive out of curiosity, then go back to the ballroom, and wait to be comforted by friends and family. Much to the boy’s surprise, his assumption was quickly proven false. Yazad put a little more distance -as much as the small room’s limited space allowed- between him and the dolled-up galdor who sat on the chair in almost eerie silence. She was certainly not crying as much as he had expected her to--rather, she was barely crying at all.

Her utterance was met with an uncertain look from the nonplussed Passive. While he himself thought that the man deserved a lot of things; none of them good, Yazad was not sure if he should verbalize his opinion or even openly agree with her’s.

“Yes, he was entirely ungentlemanly and I should hope that he--” The continuation of ‘humiliatingly tumbles down the staircase within view of everyone in attendance’ was quickly replaced with “--that he does the proper thing and offers a sincere apology to the good madam.” What had happened to him keeping his opinion to himself?! It was clearly something beyond his ability; to not say what he felt was the right thing to be said.

Pink dusted the pale cheeks as the youth softly cleared his throat, then folded his hands over his abdomen. What was he supposed to do in such circumstances? Simply because the young woman was not washing down her cosmetics with her own tears in a fit of hysterical weeping did not mean that she was truly ‘fine’. More than anything, she almost looked as if she was...smoldering. If her white-knuckled grip on his handkerchief was anything to go by, anyway.

“Ah, I am waiting for the good master to be done with his socializing. Attending balls seems to be a rather tiring affair for him.” With a smile drawn on his face, Yazad answered the other’s inquiry, both his expression and his voice now tinged with tender gaiety. It was forced socializing as far as Sophronios was concerned, judging by the dour face he had worn to the ball along with his velvety suit, but those were details that the somber girl did not need to hear. Another look at her tense form dimmed his smile a little. It tugged at his heart to see someone -even a glador that he knew nothing about- sit in such silent dejection, seemingly stewing over the earlier unpleasant occurrence.

“Those are beautiful, I love them.” Yazad’s fingertips lightly tapped the lobe of his right ear in a gesture that would make it clear that he spoke of the girl’s earrings. It was not that he had been deliberately attempting to make light of the other’s state of unhappiness--he genuinely found the jewelry to be quite exquisite.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Niccolette had made a noise along the lines of a snort at the passive’s suggestion that her father should offer a sincere apology to her. For a moment, her lips nearly twitched at a smile at the sheer improbability of it. There was nothing comforting in the suggestion; there was no hope of such a thing.

Niccolette tried vaguely to imagine it – her father, bowing deeply and apologizing for… she couldn’t even quite put words to it. It was beyond impossible; it was not even worth considering. She could not imagine either, how she would have taken such an apology. She did not want it; she did not care to have it. Words of apology would change nothing between them. If he should leave her alone, and let her this last summer of her school days as she liked, she would be glad of it; even still, she did not think there could be forgiveness between them.

Niccolette’s hand still gripped the handkerchief tightly. She could have gone back out, she supposed, to the ladies’ retiring room. Giovanna was more than likely somewhere, but Niccolette hadn’t seen her that evening. Photoulla would be attending the ball as well, and Elisabetta; the thought of seeing any of them, even her beloved cousin, was more than she could manage just then.

Giovanna knew something of it, at least, Niccolette thought, her gaze dropping to the balled up handkerchief in her hand. But was what there to do? Nothing, and they both knew it. She didn’t want comfort, or a hand to hold; she wanted freedom.

She wanted, Niccolette thought, heat burning behind her eyes once more, Uzoji. If she had never met him - if she had never known what was possible - she tried to think if once she would not have minded a marriage to such a man as Calogero. Perhaps not; affairs were always there to keep life interesting, after a point. Wasn't that how she had thought of marriage, once?

And now -

She tried to think what he would make of it, her absurd, honorable Mugrobi, if she told him she was on the point of being engaged. She couldn't it begin to fathom it. He had fought for her already, and lost; Niccolette's face twitched at a smile against the burning heat behind her eyes, thinking of Uzoji as she'd healed his broken nose, after he'd started a fight he'd known he couldn't win, just to prove to her she cared. The idiot, Niccolette thought, lovingly.

She couldn't imagine either what he would have done if he were here tonight. There was no sense, Niccolette thought, in imagining impossible things: Domenico's apologizing and Uzoji's presence fell equally there.

The passive answered her question; Niccolette only half-listened, not particularly interested in the boy or the man he called his master. She glanced up at him again, a little curious at least about why he wasn’t at Anastou. She didn’t think he could be more than thirteen or fourteen years old; he looked like a child.

Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted when he spoke of the earrings. She settled the handkerchief on her lap, and reached up, unhooking one of the earrings. She spread it out on her palm, tilting it from side to side. They were lovely, delicate; there was a single diamond on the ear, and white gold trailing down from it, a small bit connected to another large diamond, and then a tear shaped fall of them, little chips in a row, with the largest at the bottom.

Expensive, Niccolette thought, dully, and bright, and utterly meaningless to her. She shrugged. “I do not care for them much,” she said. She took the other one out too. “Are your ears pierced?” She held them up, raising her eyebrows in the boy’s direction. There was a small mirror set on the mantelpiece opposite them.

[Yazad]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Yazad was not sure what to make of it when the lips of the young woman -still looking understandably morose and lost in thought- seemed to be tugged at the corners into a smile. The boy was not privy to the content of her mind, but he was also not blind. Was she pleased about something that had been sparked in the thoughts only she can know? Strange, as nothing about the current atmosphere inspired much humor or joy. But years in the service of a man whose face barely changed expressions at all had taught him that there is always something behind the silence. For good or for ill; there was always something.

There was not much of a reaction to the answer he had provided for the other’s question, but the dull response did not seem to affect the Passive in the slightest. If anything, he was thankful that she had asked him that, for it gave him the reason to think about more pleasant things than the mind-numbing boredom that came with being idle. Sophronios will no doubt be dining at the ball, so what he has to look forward to is cooking the meals of the day after. Sausage eggs for breakfast--with a side of potato cakes, perhaps? He had not gotten the hang of making cheese turnover quite yet, but he was getting there. Slowly, but surely, he was producing meals with more flavor and variety than he did before- and he was quite proud of himself for that. One of his greatest current joys was experimenting with the recipes found in that cookery book he was given. And who knows? One day, he might not even need it anymore.

Pale green eyes blinked twice in confusion as they followed the motions of the other’s hand, his earlier thoughts of culinary pursuits and potato cakes baked to perfection all but gone. The earrings did not look to be heavy or uncomfortable--quite the contrary. Why, then, was the girl removing it? One might think that she did it to marvel at the glamorous design, but her expression showed nothing of the sort. Her comment -spoken joylessly- was equally as baffling to the raven-haired boy. So much so that he did not know what to say about it.

“They are, madam.” The answer was spoken with all the puzzlement Yazad was feeling. For the past number of years, all he had ‘worn’ there was a few loops of string. Wide-eyed and speechless, the Passive looked up from the set of beautiful earrings to the young woman’s face, then he followed her line of sight towards the framed mirror. Slowly, the full realization of what the girl was implying dawned on him. It made him stare at her face a bit more, attempting to pick up on any traces of mockery or jest in there.

He did not find any.

Slowly, wordlessly, Yazad reached for the earrings to gingerly pick them up. He wanted to put them on so much and he did not even know if there would be consequences to him giving in to that desire, but he followed it anyway. He turned to face the mirror, his earlier hesitation melting into determination. With the earrings carefully nestled in one palm, Yazad raised his other hand to tuck the locks of ebony chin-length hair behind his ears. Unlike hers, the boy’s motions carried a small amount of clumsiness that came with the lack of practice, but he eventually managed to secure both earrings in place, then took a step back and shook his head slightly to allow his hair to fall back into place.

When Yazad lifted his gaze to look at the smooth reflective surface, everything around him seemed to fade out of existence. The distant music tapered to silence, the presence of the other person in the room largely forgotten. For a moment, all that there was had been him and the reflection staring back at him--that of a boy on the cusp of adulthood with an uncharacteristically wide grin, feeling momentarily at the top of the world as he wore jewelry that glinted like the stars would. And for yet another moment, his own eyes seemed to sparkle just the same.

Yazad knew that such trinkets were not meant for him, but he found himself not caring for how things are supposed to be.

Soon enough, Yazad was brought down from his brief high as his eye glimpsed the reflection of the girl’s dress, peeking from behind him on the mirror’s surface. Nimbly, the boy spun to face his unlikely companion, still very much all smiles. His lightness seemed to only increase in response to his delight, but the Passive remained aware of his manners. “Thank you for letting me try them on, madam. That made me feel--” There was a pause as the Passive contemplated the right word to use. Handsome? Beautiful? What even was the difference?

“--good!” He ended up chiming, choosing simplicity instead of worrying about accuracy.

Unclasping the earrings proved to be easier than wearing them, and so it was done rather swiftly. The intricate ornaments were carefully and respectfully presented back to their rightful owner. “You said that you do not care for them, so what is it that you care for, madam?” His question was asked in genuine and spontaneous curiosity. What can a galdor who stood at the top echelons of society possibly want? He has no right to a reply if she chose to not give it, so his expectations to be answered were kept reasonably low.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

It was a moment before the passive understood. He was sort of staring at her; Niccolette lifted her eyebrows, a little impatient, and gestured towards the earrings with a twitch of her chin. He came, slowly, and took them. He fumbled them into the holes in his ears, one after then other, then turned to look at himself in the mirror.

They were rather long for him, Niccolette thought; on top of the outfit he wore, they looked downright absurd.

He turned back to her, smiling, joy written across his face. Niccolette’s lips twitched a little at the sight of him, and then she smiled, too, after a moment. He returned the earrings, and she took them with a nod and a little shrug for his thanks. “You are welcome,” Niccolette said, not entirely sure why. The truth – that it cost her nothing, and she cared not in the least if he stole or ruined the earrings – seemed cruel. She didn’t feel cruel; she felt angry, perhaps, bitter, frustrated, but not cruel.

Niccolette put the earrings back into her ears, one after the other, finding the holes with her fingertips and guiding the posts through with easy motions; she did not need to look to do it, and nor did she fumble.

Her eyebrows lifted at the passive boy’s question. “Impertinent,” Niccolette said, studying him once more. She grinned, just a flash of it; it faded. The worst of her anger had gone, too, and there was only the stinging pain in her cheek. Niccolette took a deep breath. That was a shame; the anger had been easier to bear. It wasn’t gone entirely; it never was, not quite.

“Not what, but who,” Niccolette answered, after a moment. There was a softening at her lips, and then she pressed them together once more. She looked down at her hands in her lap, set one of top of the other.

Just then, Niccolette thought, the ballroom was the last place she wished to be. She breathed in deep, straightening up her spine, and lifting her chin. She could not hide in here forever, she knew, and yet neither was she quite ready to leave yet. She would need to go to the ladies’ retiring room and check whether there was any bruising to be seen, any swelling; ice, she thought, would be good, but it would mean a higher likelihood of disarranging her make-up.

For a moment she thought of – no, Niccolette thought, and then: no. She would not take this to the mona; she would not dishonor herself and them both in that way. If there were to be consequences, they would not fall only on her. It was shame, Niccolette thought, which she felt. She did not wish to. She breathed in and out, deeply, and she turned her back on the shame.

No one, Niccolette told herself, very firmly, could make her ashamed, if she did not let them, and she did not: she refused it, utterly, with every fiber of heself.

[Yazad]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Well, he had expected this, did he not?

The expression Yazad displayed when his ‘impertinence’ was called out had been lacking in any actual disappointment. The boy’s brows furrowed slightly, his lips jutting in a slight pout that made cheeks that were round already appeared even rounder. Had he been any good at acting, he might have been able to add a few more convincing theatrics to his mock offense. A sniffle here, a tear there. But no, he was simply awful at acting, and he much preferred the comfort of being straightforward. Just as fast as the pout was born, it was also gone; replaced with a giggle contained behind the Passive’s palm to mirror the girl’s grin.

“Maybe so, but I find it preferable to being wimpish.” Yazad stated in playful defense, his chin lifted ever so slightly in defiance. She thinks him too young to understand her plights, most likely. It was fairly difficult to determine if her persisting glumness was the result of that slapping incident, or if she has always had the antics of someone who seemed to be dissatisfied with everything about life.

Inky black strands shifted as Yazad tilted his head slightly to the side. Not what, but who? Had this been somehow connected to a person the girl cared for? It certainly cannot be the man from before, and he did not think that he would get an answer if he had asked further. As subtly as he could manage, the Passive attempted to take glances at the other’s reddish cheek every now and then. The unwanted memory of that slap, of the disturbing sound of flesh smacking against flesh, alerted the boy to the possibility that the brute could come back for her at any moment. Instinctively, Yazad found himself crossing the room to stand with his face towards the young woman, and his back pressed against the door as if that would be enough to conceal the girl’s presence in the room.

He disliked this. He disliked that he was lacking in the knowledge and experience to navigate such a situation. Not that he wished to make a habit out of watching people get abused, but still--

“I say, madam-- As you seem to have settled here, how may I be of service? Do you fancy some water? Wine, perhaps? I never tried it myself, but I hear that wine helps people forget their sorrows.” Yazad made the offer of his services with a little clap and a tone that was a touch overeager. Despite the glaring age difference, he felt responsible to care for her as long as she was in his proximity. How inconvenient it was to have a sense of duty much larger than his expertise. Still--making a foolish attempt was better than doing nothing at all.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711
The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

The passive went to the door and planted himself in front of it, looking back at her. Niccolette raised her eyebrows at him, and then shrugged, giving it up. He was not in the least threatening; she couldn’t find anything like fear at his movements.

She knew those afraid of passives; she thought it somewhat absurd, with Brunnhold and Anastou so full of them. She never quite knew what to make of them - and not this one either, really - but whatever else he might be, she didn’t think him dangerous.

He was not a galdor, of course. For a moment, Niccolette felt something like pity, looking at him. A shame, really, she thought, thinking of the brightness on his face as he had gazed in the mirror, and the impish grin when she called him impertinent. Then she put it aside; he was what he was, by the will of the Circle. She knew Hurte loved beauty, and yet.

He offered to fetch her water or wine, clapping his hands together and looking bright and eager. Niccolette nodded. “Wine,” she told him, not quite bothering with niceties, nor offering either a please or thank you. She saw little purpose to wasting words so, and never had.

She did not think she needed it, not quite, but the idea of having a drink before she went back out into the ballroom - and she would, as she had to, eventually - was a comforting one. The only worse way to face the evening would be more sober.

Niccolette hoped suddenly that her father should have to give Calogero a crate of his precious Terenadetto as an apology, or better yet the Rossiolo. She knew he had only a few left in the Florne house, although the Tessalon one had a full cellar, and always would. The rolling grape fields which lined the estate saw to that.

Villamarzana wine was not - never - available for sale; it was her father’s hobby, his passion, and Niccolette supposed the only thing he cared about, beside the family name. He guarded his bottles carefully, outside of a few annual commitments. She hoped he should have to waste quite a few of them on this.

She had, over the years, done her part to help empty them; more than once Niccolette had taken a bottle to meet friends in Florne, or snuck one back to Brunnhold in her trunk. She wanted nothing of the Villamarzana name, not one syllable, but so long as she wore it, she thought to make herself at home.

The anger was back, a burning core in his chest. Niccolette felt it with relief, grateful for the way it swept through her. She straightened up a bit, though she had never exactly slouched, and closed her eyes and opened them again.

A few minutes, she thought, and a glass of wine, and she would be ready. She scarcely had a choice; she could not stay here forever.

[Yazad]

The Agathangelou Ballroom, Florne

Evening, 19 Roalis, 2711

A

after receiving the terse one-word reply, Yazad responded with a small bow in return. Unneeded, perhaps, since he was anything but formal with the galdor girl earlier, but it was simply the force of habit puppeteering him. Getting someone intoxicated for comfort signaled a failure on his part. But really, with his less than scarce interactions with people of the womanly sort -save for that nice elderly lady at the store he frequented-, how is he supposed to know how to lift the spirits of a dejected woman?

By all means, the young woman did have every right to look as dour as she was. She -and he as well, for that matter- most likely did not think that her night would consist of a barbaric slap in the middle of a hallway. He, Yazad told himself with a sterner inner tone, cannot be expected to smile as blithely as he does. Perhaps the few moments in which he will be away to fetch her wine would help her relax in some way.

"I shall be back promptly." Yazad announced as he turned to reach for the door handle, his small body easily slipping through the opening before he pulled the door shut behind him. For someone who was too young for spirit, he knew exactly where to find it. Briskly, the boy made his way up the hallway towards the refreshment room, his eyes casting a fleeting glance towards the lively glow of the ballroom.

His own opinion about the activity aside, balls were beacons of glamor and beauty designed to offer merriment and exhilaration for those who had earned it through no effort of their own. All they had to do was be born galdor, and he was born that, too. Yet now, he had been excluded from the circle of the privileged, but that was, perhaps, for the best. He still retained his initial thought that balls were awfully tedious.

Tonight’s band of musicians did a rather great job of keeping guests entertained and eager to dance. Thank Hurte for small blessings, as this meant fewer people lingering about inside the refreshment room. With respectful politeness, the passive made his way in, willing himself to not look at anyone else in the room. If he did look, if his eyes met someone else’s, he would no doubt see a gaze that questioned his presence in an establishment meant for those who are older and much more socially relevant. Full of purpose, he confidently strode up to the servant who stood at the end of a long table housing a plethora of items--ice, tea, coffee, cakes, sandwiches. The exchange with the servant was a brief one, made only as a measure to ensure that his purpose here is clear. There is a galdor madam who retreated from the ballroom and wishes to be sent some wine to elevate her weariness. Yazad made sure to not tell a lie, but he also did not think the servant needed to hear all the details involved.

In a moment, Yazad was entrusted with a small silver tray decorated by a fine doily, and a tall glass of...something...sitting on top of it. He had no idea what it was that he would be carrying back to the young woman, but it was red so it must be wine. Before he could make the trip back, the passive stopped by one of the luxurious flower arrangements sitting on the table for decoration, boasting a full range of roses and flowers of beautifully matching colors. With a smile that bloomed on his face, he reached a pale hand to pluck a plush white peony from the vase and laid the flower at the base of the wine glass. He liked this much more than the pinkish carnations and the garish red roses. Now satisfied with his presentation, the tray was carried back to the room he had left earlier.

After he had politely knocked on the door a couple of times to announce his arrival, Yazad opened it with one hand while carefully balancing the tray on the other. Pale green eyes inspected the other’s expression, looking for any possible change of mood reflected through them--and hopefully not for the worse.

"Wine for the lovely madam, as requested."

Fated Encounters