make friends with cannibals (mediocracy) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-27 17:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, evander finch, siri d'albis |
here you are in the wrong house, feeding the wrong dog.
Who: Evander Finch & Siri D'Albis.
What: A dinner and dance party, truths revealed.
Where: Nobles District.
When: Recently, before the quake.
Rating: Tame.
Status: Complete.
Lady Bernadette’s fiftieth birthday was a quiet affair as far as noble parties went: her guest list included only a third of Emillion’s blue-bloods. As the Finches’ representative of the night, Lord—not Judge— Evander Finch flitted from the buffet table to the dance floor and back again. He made polite conversation with as many people as possible, laughing until his eyes crinkled (and the dark circles beneath could be hidden). He cast a glance to the grandfather clock at opposite end of the room. One more hour, he promised, before his time to leave. While searching the floor for more contacts, his eyes fell upon a certain newcomer, a familiar girl. Pulling away from the group surrounding him (a trio of old, bearded men who hoped to butter up the influential judge), Evander gravitated towards Siri as though he was overcome by a magnetic force. “Siri,” he greeted. “How goes?” She was not enjoying herself, though it was only polite to attend and satiate curiosity about the recent noble arrival from Kerwon. Siri sincerely hoped this was enough to answer whatever thoughts they had in her head, most people vibrated with unasked questions and that was making her nervous. Mostly because Siri did not wish to reiterated answers when people already knew. What was the point in that? She tried to be inconspicuous near the grandfather clock. The constant count of time a soothing promise that this would end. At times like this a bigger gathering was preferred, there was a greater chance of meeting the right people. Evander's greeting was a relief, familiar already and she smiled warmly. "Time goes at its own pace, Lord Finch, is that not tiring for you?" “Nothing good company cannot fix.” In a smooth motion, he swept two flutes of champagne off a tray and held one up in a casual offer to the young woman. A bright smile, a muttered thanks; Siri took the champagne flute in her hand and tilted it Evan’s direction (a toast to him, Judge of the City, Lord Finch). “I’ll pretend you mean my company is good and it will fix the passage of time.” Siri raised her glass to clink it with his own, “A toast to your impeccable timing and to a better evening.” His eyes softened. “You improved it already.” Reading people was not always easy, or maybe it was different when they met before. The softening look, the line of his spine and curve of his hand; the underlining weariness. Push a little and crack the rib cage open, slide your hand and puncture the lungs. Staccato beats faltering. Siri didn't always know for sure, but she suspected and without permission her fingers tapped the inside of Evan's wrist, hold and count his pulse (in sync with the clock). "Everything is never fine." His gaze moved from her hands on his to her eyes, mouth opening and closing in confusion between returning to a (puzzled, tight) smile. Fingers clenching, tensing, the man held firm to his fiction, the one he had painted himself to believe. “P-pardon?” Her own fingers tightened on his wrist, insistent on her observation without repeating it again. “You’re not happy here. Let’s go.” The man gulped, still smiling. The light behind his eyes flickered, for a moment off and dark, revealing him—not as Judge or Lord—powerless. “Very well. Let’s go,” he repeated, resigned to leave with a confused disappointment lining his words as though he had truly wanted to stay, as though he giving in to please her. Lying to himself ran deep into his bone. What was he if not the image he projected? She had seen him as a beetle on his back, legs crawling to nowhere, underbelly exposed. He escorted her (or, in this case, she escorted him) out to the hallway, then to a room with ceiling to floor windows.. The crowd’s chatter still trickled in but the distance muffled their noises. He looked around, examining the surroundings and the young noblewoman before him. “I,” he attempted to speak a correction for his sake, “am happy.” The words of others felt so far away when focused on him, she kept his hand in hers and clung on tight (not escape her, you can’t, not now). His lies, his truths, Siri skimmed them; bended and arched her back. Everything fit, push your hip down enough, take a breath or two.. Siri sought to tangle their fingers together, nothing intended behind them but a comforting gesture and an unspoken ‘i know’ that she wouldn’t push on him. Dancing within his grasp, she looked back at him and gave a half smile, “Okay.” And then weighed and considered her words, “Lying to prophets doesn’t work, perhaps you may find use for that?” “Perhaps,” he reflected back to her. After a moment’s hesitation, his shoulders relaxed, muscles in his body loosening into a rare moment of honest joy. Then, the nobleman (or the shepherd) spun her close to him, and apart, his feet conjuring up the movements of lessons long past. “Shall we dance?” |