hummingbird sister-slayer (cremnomys) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-25 14:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, bram thornton, elvira treveil |
just trying to turn the shadows into light but you're walking with me, you say i'm blessed.
Who: Elvira Treveil and Bram Thornton
What: A talk of present business and recounting the past.
Where: Civic district.
When: Today.
Rating: Tame.
Status: Complete!
Elvira was dressed to the nines, not an uncommon sight for her at work. She tugged on the collar of her ivory peacoat, adjusting it to shield her skin from the chill. The holy knight strode through the Civics District, hands fiddling with her coiffed hair, fixing what the wind undid. As the city entered Pisces, warm weather could not make its entrance soon enough. Through the movements of jurors and judges, lawyers and peacekeepers, she spotted one Bram Thornton on the court steps. His head was averted, his shoulders hunched, fiddling with the soft click click click of a silver lighter. Elvira froze as though she was in the presence of an endangered creature. The blonde was inclined to keep him at a distance, but the years from her squirehood marked him as an extension of her mentor. She had him filed under “councillor, fighters; Thornton, Vera: husband of”. The man escaped the strictly professional, brown-nosing ties she had kept around the other councillors of their guild. After a breath, her smile returned. (A glance to her pocketwatch informed her that there were a few minutes to spare before an appointment with Lesait.) “Councillor,” she called out, quickening her pace as best she could through the slush. “Councillor, how good to see you.” The man’s head jerked up, his fingers latching on the clasp of the lighter, finally managing to coax it into some form of flame. Bram lit his cigarette before setting the lighter aside (not ornate but still expensive, his initials carved into the back, an anniversary present from Vera long ago). “Elvira,” he said slowly—pleasantly surprised despite his weariness, the exhaustion that settled on his shoulders as an almost visible mantle. The first name alone set her apart, the blonde standing in a category closer to extended family than guildmate. “How are you? Didn’t know you had business here.” He’d been on his way back from yet another court date, lurking as a spectator in the back row as he watched judges and barristers assigning arbitrary justice. Unraveling months’ worth of hard EKP effort, order colliding headfirst with the forces of law. Perhaps this went a way towards explaining the cigarette. “I’m fine. Busy with errands and paperwork.” She laughed and waved her hand around to gesture at the buildings around them, skirting the question about her business as no one was supposed to know of an Inquisitor’s work. “Just out of the courts, are you?” “Aye. Disappointing resolutions, as always.” The man stood rigid, the old and familiar disapproval etched into the lines on his face. “Simply catching them isn’t good enough anymore, obviously.” His railing against the courts—that ancient tension between Fighters Guild and Judge Magister—had always been a familiar speech to Vera, carried out in an irritated tirade in the safety of their kitchen while her squire drifted in the background like some small and watchful bird, alighting on his wife’s shoulder. He peered down at the much shorter woman now. Elvira Treveil still looked like Elvira Treveil, but— But he could still remember a tow-headed teenager, blonde hair readjusted and realigned just so, pins inserted with surgical precision and holding the curls in a passable facsimile of Vera Thornton’s current look. Back then, one could almost imagine that they had a daughter, a girl ten years older than their own son, all cherubic innocence against Jonah’s dark hair and curiosity and shyness. The house had been noisier then: the sound of children running through it, the clack of training swords in the backyard, Bram leaning against the doorway as he watched the women at their practice, the habitual furrow in his brow finally loosened into something easier, something kinder. The clatter of their mock battle ceased; Elvira’s sword fell slack in her hand, the tip falling with a soft thump in the grass. She turned her attention away from her mentor to regard their spectator. Ever eager to please, the young girl flashed a smile up at him. How am I? her eyes asked as she paused to catch her breath. “Acceptable,” he said, once the silence had worn on just a touch too long. “Like to see you do better with Aleyne.” Vera’s smile was warm, despite the slight dig. They all knew that Bram’s squire was absolutely hopeless with a sword; Elvira was all grace where the boy fumbled, dropped his weapon, and accrued bruises upon bruises, and yet he would keep silently plugging onwards with the weapon, toiling away. He and his mentor shared a stubborn streak a mile wide in that regard. Bram was still tight-lipped as he looked down, meeting the girl’s eye but withholding praise, as he did with all of them. (Perhaps that was the problem all along.) The dragoon cleared his throat. “Lunch is ready.” The squire looked to her mentor whose nod substituted as a school’s dismissal bell. Sheathing their weapons, the pair moved to return inside, Vera taking the lead and Elvira at her heels. The years fell away. A holy knight stood in front of him, a funhouse mirror reflection of his wife, one that smiled more and laughed more, her voice itself an elegant chirping. She fits in here, Bram thought, eyeing the majestic outline of the courthouse etched into the sky behind her, yet couldn’t say what had made him think of it. The corners of Elvira’s lips fell slack into a smile more genuine than often seen on her face, then tightened again. The holy knight closed the distance between them, directing the conversation from talk of business to casual pleasantries. Old memories swam up between their chats of the present as they wandered off the steps together, Elvira now taking up the space at his side (having outgrown her place in the Thorntons’ shadows). |