hummingbird sister-slayer (cremnomys) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-04-28 22:01:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, !log, elvira treveil, rictor cassul |
sing mercy, sing mercy, sing mercy on me. let's pretend that everybody here wants peace.
Who: Rictor Cassul and Elvira Treveil.
What: The first meeting to the reunion.
Where: Various.
When: From 2011 to Taurus 9 (April 28) 2013.
Rating: PG-13. Some violence and language.
Status: Completed.
The majority of that morning's churchgoers left immediately after the sermon ended, eager to indulge at their Sunday brunches. She heard the shuffling of hundreds of feet moving behind her and out the cathedral. She felt them brush against her in their hurry to leave, to forget their day of worship. Faith for Elvira did not end with the conclusion of the morning service. Elvira stood before the statue of Saint Ajora, her gloved hands folded in front of her. She stared into the ivory eyes of her saviour in stone, and with a deep breath, found the strength to ignore the non-believers around her. The weak. The faithless. The sinners to be punished. As the clouds parted, the stained glass windows aligned with the sun in such a way that they could cast their colors onto the cathedral's visitors. Something stirred with her. With her eyes still fixated on her lord, she stepped back quickly as she could manage restricted by her pencil skirt and heels. The crowds milled past her with purpose, like a receding tide ebbing out across the sands – and just like the tide, it left behind scattered flotsam and jetsam on the shore, lingering, waiting like seashells scattered in the surf. The churchgoers sifted out and only a few were left behind. Elvira Treveil was one of them. Rictor Cassul was another. He sat in the back row with his arms resting on the back of the pew, sprawled like a lion at rest. He watched the way the light fell in the cathedral, all the silhouettes and outlines painted in the brightening morning. It was far more majestic than the chapel at Cassul Keep, this Grande Cathedral – it was the dawn of a brand new day and his first year in the capital as a newly-minted Blade. The man’s armour still shone. (He’d polished it that morning, in fact. Pride was not an inherent part of Pharism, but Rictor took pride in the look of gleaming steel nonetheless.) And eventually, he noticed that he wasn’t alone. He stood, dusting off his pauldrons, and inclined his head towards the blonde. “Good service,” Ric said, amiably. She caught the gasp before it left her mouth. The voice came, Elvira realized, from behind her. Though for a moment she could've sworn Ajora was speaking to her. Still facing away from the speaker, she took a moment to collect herself before replying, “Father Seizce knows how to engage.” Turning from the statue to the man, she fiddled with the ruffled collar of her blouse. She expected to someone familiar, someone else who had the heart to stay when others turned away, someone she knew to be faithful. There were few she thought were willing, and this man wasn't one of them. She noticed (recognized) his uniform and its glory before his face. A Blade, a member of the elite. Pawns of the Cardinal. She reached up, twirling her curls to give them more bounce, and smiled at the armor. Then at his face. “Good service, indeed,” Elvira repeated, licking her lips as if she could taste the sugar in her voice. “Is that his name?” He sounded honestly surprised, and after a beat, the man seemed to settle into a straighter posture – back rigid, hands folded neatly in front of him as if on the pommel of a sword, the angle of his spine unconsciously mimicking that of the Saint. A role model, to be sure. His nonplussed tone gave way to explanation: “I’m new, you see. This is my first time attending a sermon at the Grande Cathedral. It met expectations, to say the least—” It had been fire, brimstone, searing light, and a steady warmth that kindled in his chest and grew and grew and grew. The steadying hand of Faram on his shoulder. He could hear it in Seizce’s words, and with that, he’d known he had made the right decision in moving here and donning the silver cross. “Cassul,” the man said and offered a hand. (For all his stiff posture, his movements were fluid, languid, almost lazy.) Her own hand seemed tiny, frail, in comparison, but her shake was no less firm. “Elvira Treveil.” She paused, pretending to think. “Just Elvira is fine.” The woman relaxed as she scanned him head to toe once again. He was new. She already heard it in his voice before he clarified. A poor memory could have explained a missed name, but to never attend a sermon. Her first time at a proper Emillion church service empowered her with precious holy knowledge, yet stripped her of the idea that she had a clue about anything. It was Faram that knew all. And, oh, this man was new indeed. Elvira cocked her head to one side, letting her smile fade to neutral expression as not to give away her eagerness. She exhaled softly. “Welcome.” She looked different in battle. The blonde hair was bound up – not in a delicate, fashionable updo this time, bound in fragile lace and pinned in place, but in a severe bun which kept it out of the way. That was merely the first of many differences, ones that he noted with a clinical eye and the kind of objective interest that came from noticing everything. Everyday details took on sudden significance in the moment. It came from being separated from his body, ignoring the pain singing up and down the length of his arm, and the weakness in one knee where he suspected the tendon was very nearly cut. Because this was Faram’s will: the blood in her hair and dripping into her eyes; the burns on his palms; the fire crackling up and down the sword. Boots sliding in the dust as he came to a stop, entire body crashing into the beast, everything ringing, ringing, ringing in the platemail, claws skittering off his own iron scales, armoured like a dragon – the Dark was hissing and Faram looked at the fray and He said no. Rictor Cassul charged forward again and again so that she didn’t have to. And although Elvira Treveil was more than capable of fending for herself, she let him fight in her stead. “Are you trying to impress me, Mister Silver Blade?” she teased. Through labored breaths, Elvira managed to laugh – a single ha! – that broke the heaviness in the battle air like the crack of a whip. Each time he struck, she saw in him less of the pawn and more the knight, less a boy new to Emillion and more a man. She stood with her back to him, watching him fight from her shoulder. The Dark enclosed them, but with Faram as their ally, she had no fear of losing. Flexing the grip on her sword's hilt, Elvira slid her feet apart into a stance that grounded and readied her to fight. Holy magic seared like electricity in her veins, sending shocks down her arms. But she remained behind. “Maybe,” he muttered under his breath, but she heard it, oh, clear as day. The holy knights were the same age – he only half a year behind, perhaps – but the woman seemed older. Elvira was worldly, self-possessed, suave, composed. Rictor, on the other hand, was twenty-five and the world knew it: an exuberant bruiser with his face mottled black and blue, an over-enthusiastic dog bounding (almost gambolling) into the fight. He swung to grin at her through sweat-slicked hair, pausing as the lamia finally recoiled and slithered off. “They don’t know what hit ‘em,” he declared, hand shifting on the claymore’s hilt. The air in the cave reeked of gunpowder and blood. “Oh my.” Elvira eyed the creature as it slithered away, drinking in the delicious scent of its fear and defeat. She smirked at the younger man's confidence. While she was made like a doll, lithe and fragile and graceful, he was built to be all muscle and power and strength. Qualities she didn't have and didn't need. “How lucky I am to have —” Noticing a shadow stir from over Rictor's shoulder, she trailed off and braced herself for the newcomer. An ahriman flew at them from the darkness. She twisted around and swung when it came within her reach. Her blade glowed with magic, slicing its wing clean off. It fell to their feet and she kicked it aside with the heel of her boot. She looked from the animal flailing at her feet to the beast before her. Him. “—to have a strong knight like you,” she finished with a coy wink. Ric whirled but a moment too slow – speed had never been his forté, even when drilling endlessly in the practice yards of the Keep – and watched as the creature whirled and thrashed in a circle, its enormous heavy-lidded eye blinking ponderously. He took a step back, clear of its pronged tail stirring up dust, and frowned. Was she mocking him? “Sounds like sarcasm,” he said, his voice even and his breathing steady. He leaned forward, pressed his weight against the sword, and drove it right through the creature’s one eye. It was an unpleasant sensation—jelly-like, hard and rubbery and unyielding before it finally punctured, broke, oozed. It stopped moving. Half a beat later, Elvira gave the corpse a small, tight smile. No clue, no warning before its untimely, well-deserved death. This was Faram's will. They were here by Faram's will. Alive and dead, the holy knights and the Dark victims. This was all Faram’s will. She tilted her head to one shoulder and sighed with relief – no, satisfaction at their deed. Her attention flitted back to the man's comment. Drawing circles into the dirt, she pointed the toes of one foot to the ground and turned it back and forth playfully. “Only teasing,” she lilted. Rictor watched her for one inscrutable moment. A smile twitched on his own mouth and he sheathed the sword (fire still flickering at his fingertips), brushing past her and striding towards the exit, not looking back. She felt lighter and freer, but emptier, without the weight of her sword at her side. Her weapon and fur shawl were checked at the entrance to the ballroom, as though the two items were equally benign. (They were, while in her possession, equally dangerous.) The light from dozens of glittering dresses and glass chandeliers eclipsed the harvest moon outside; the stars of tonight were blue-blooded Emillionites, filling the room with their mindless, faceless, nameless selves. She coveted the opportunity to dig her claws into their heart, to have proper knights, nobles, judges, people of actual worth - dressed to the nines, all eating out of the palm of her hand. She twirled from one suited man to another, laughing and smiling all the while. Elvira Treveil considered the marble dance floor more a home than she did the battlefield. Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, a familiar figure stood alone and uncomfortable: looking alien in his formal trappings, with starched collar and pressed trousers. The man was tall and handsome, but his shoulders were too broad for the jacket, fit to bursting at the seams – and he was painfully aware of the fact. Rictor still walked with his spine military-straight as he went directly to the buffet table, a glass of champagne looking too small in his hand. Aspel would never fit in here either, he thought. Watching the whirling patterns and designs around him, tailored dresses the height of fashion, a froth of lace and petticoats, he could easily imagine that each white-blonde head was Seloria. She would have spun onto the floor without hesitation, each movement carefully timed to join the dance. The buzz of conversation around him carried barbed words, pointed like daggers – this was a place beyond his purview, outside his zone of expertise. He gritted his teeth. Drained the fluted glass. Only one more hour. Brushing away the lesser noble that began to speak to her, Elvira glided across the room to him. She knew the man’s face, but when stripped of his knight’s armor, he looked foreign. He looked to her like a child’s toy, ideally muscular, taken out of its intended packaging and dressed in ill-fitting clothes from another set. And she stood before in a tailored gown. White - stark Bureau white - clean of blood and of marks and evidence of what else she could be. “Thirsty, aren’t you? Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said, eying the empty glass in his hand. She placed her hands on her hips where the mass of taffeta and silk applique flowers began tapering up her waist. “Always,” Ric confirmed, his voice bland. “Nothing makes me thirstier than trying to keep up with– all this.” The pause was almost imperceptible, but it was there nonetheless for those who were paying attention: a small hiccup in the sentence, a stutter-skip when it came to encompassing all this. There was the slightest edge of distaste in his voice, a rumble in the back of Rictor’s throat at the spinning rows of dancers clutching hand to hip, palm to shoulder. As he spoke, Elvira pulled her lips in a twisted, half-smile with the glee of a predator that spotted its dinner limping. She snapped her fingers for the nearest waiter, with an unopened bottle and a folded cloth over one arm, to refill the Blade's glass. “Then, drink up,” she mouthed before stepping backwards to the crowd, not breaking eye contact until the crowd of dancers swallowed her whole. St. Dalmasca Courtyard outside the cathedral was a bustling place even on non-holy days – the monastery further off might be a haven of silence, but the city milled happily around the cathedral, set up markets and stalls, conducted business. Today was no different, save that something important seemed to be rolling in: there was an enormous wagon being shifted towards the cathedral, laden with trunks and ancient boxes carved from ironwood. Seven dusty knights stood weary beside it, fidgeting and taking long drinks of their water bottles. One of the lance corporals moved to the front of the group and exchanged hurried words with the leader of their little squad. They all wore silver. Confession, Rictor thought, remembering the sound of the confessional’s door slamming shut. He took a deep breath of the city, savouring the smells of Emillion in spring, back at last after four gruelling months on the roads. Parts of his cloak had been stained a rusty red; he hadn’t had time to wash it. He watched the transferral of the ironwood chest with the sort of anxiety typically attributed to a mother watching over her firstborn – when one of the labourers’ hands slipped on the rope, the man snarled a warning. “Fucking be careful!” Ric snapped, the expletive falling unexpected from his lips. The rest of the men chuckled, clapped hands to shoulders for a long job well-done, and then dispersed. The man’s knuckles were cracked and split, a bandage still wound around the palm of one hand where the skin stung, a cut still-healing. He favoured his left side a little when he moved. By Faram, it was good to be home. The Cathedral received plenty of notable deliveries that week. A body for one. Now some confidential other thing. Elvira’s curiosity for those items waned when she spotted the scene outside the church: commoners and nobles alike mingled in the Courtyard, while the Blades stood, statuesque and inhuman. The Cardinal carved his followers out of the same grey stone; they shared the same armor, and the same scars, and the same mind. For a time, she thought them to be identical but some (or just one?) of them still managed to surprise her. Her gaze zeroed in on the corporal, drawn to the visibility of wounded game. That blood, that back, that sinful pride - was that him? She stood on tiptoes, hands clenched behind her back, and waited a second for the sun to shine a little brighter on them. She waited a second to be just a little more sure. Elvira picked up her pace, slithering through the stands and shops, with deftness that suited her true allegiance. Her heels stepped lightly in the roads paved with stone and dirt, and she did not stop until she came up behind him. “Welcome back,” she chirped. Surprise made him rear; less like a startled horse, more like a twitchy feline, tail lashing. He marshaled his expression back into order, however, quickly managing to look unfazed. A knight must never be caught off guard. Keep faith, Rictor thought, while simultaneously another little voice whispered: Never turn the back upon a foe. “Thank you,” he said, on his best behaviour now that they stood in the eye of the church. “Been a long time since.” As he spoke, Elvira pushed back her shoulders, straightened her back, and lifted her chin. He seemed smaller in her memories and she detested when her memory failed her. “All we do for His will,” she laughed, more at his composure than her own words. “Faram bless, you could’ve been gone from home even longer.” Faram bless that you’re safe she almost said, but those words felt too fake even for her. “Can only hope I finished the task in time to please Him.” When Rictor grinned at her, it was toothy and broad. “I hear He can’t abide lazy asses.” “Your language, Korporal,” she countered with mock reprehension. “He’ll forgive. Will you?” “If I follow in His example, I suppose I will.” “Good. You ought to.” The man shifted on his feet, armour clinking and glinting in the blistering morning sun. Wordplay wasn’t necessarily his forté – he was a man of steel and blade and blood – but the sharp humour came bubbling up regardless, an emergent second nature despite the fact that he tried to suppress it. Because goodly, honourable knights weren’t sarcastic, were they? Beat. “And on that note. I don’t have time to see the chaplain before my meeting – so if you could spare a Cure, Treveil,” Ric said, flexing his bloodied hand as if for demonstration, “it’d be much appreciated.” “Oh, you poor, poor thing.” Her curls bounced with glee as she shook her head at his injuries like they were somehow misbehaving by finding themselves on his body. It always amused her that he thought to point out the obvious. Rocking her weight from one foot to the other, Elvira placed her hands on his breastplate and traced imaginary shapes across his chest. She dropped her voice to a purr. “I thought,” she began, ignoring his request, “I said you could call me Elvira.” “You did,” he said lightly, trying not to let his eyes glance down to the pale fingers splayed across his armour. “But I prefer surnames for guildmates. Business acquaintances.” “Business acquaintances,” she repeated. Elvira licked her lips. Once. “I might not have a Cure to spare for my business acquaintance.” His expression soured, eyebrows knitting into a frown. “No, that’s all the more reason you should. Fighters Guild looks out for Fighters Guild, correct? Fight for the welfare of all, obey those placed in authority, and guard the honour of thy fellow knights.” The words fell from Rictor’s lips automatically, recited by rote, as if by knee-jerk instinct – which they were. “I am looking out for you. I’d hate for you to grow soft receiving handouts.” As she said this, her smile curled up higher and her voice turned sweeter. She gave him a small wink and backed away. “If you aren’t grateful, I understand.” The man went rigid, one hand reaching out, ready to seize on Elvira’s wrist and drag her back. There was an aching twinge in his palm and a stabbing pain in his side (he was fairly certain one of his ribs was broken), and the weight of his armour pressed against his injuries. He could practically feel his men watching them from across the quad, too. But it wasn’t about the Cure. Not really. “Thank you for this valuable opportunity,” Rictor said through his teeth and bowed at the waist, executing a flourish with one arm and a flick of his bloodstained cape. Then he withdrew, the both of them backing as if stepping out of a fighting ring. Might as well stop wasting time. He had a meeting with the Cardinal to reach. |