emmeline just moved another letter back. (percipiently) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-03-06 23:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | cecil warrington, emmeline vance |
RP Log: Emmeline & Cecil.
He couldn't confess to much of an appetite. Which meant, then, that it was a balancing act between eating and ensuring he didn't drink too much (of his mother's) sherry, and while Cecil was middle-of-the-road in a great many things, this did not seem to be an effort he excelled at. Not that he was drunk, of course, but rather that he'd barely touched a thing on his plate before he had suggested they retire to the parlour instead. Despite the fact that he had to wear a mildly sheepish smile every time he said the house elf's name, he'd asked Rolly to supply them with drinks in there as well (and then, of course, go away). Because, while he had spent a great deal of time in Emmeline's company, it was a decidedly different thing when she knew ... well, when she knew. Everything. And Cecil, despite the surprising relief and -- if he could be so bold -- happiness he felt at being so honest with her, was also self aware enough to realise that after one dramatically confesses one's love to a girl, it's difficult to go anywhere but downhill. All throughout the evening he'd felt compelled to apologise for absolutely no reason whatsoever, save for maybe the suspicion that, simply due to how much he enjoyed her company, there must be something he should feel sorry for. "Sorry," and there it was, "I'll light the fire here as well, shall I? I'm so used to the cold in here I always forget that other people... you know. Enjoy not freezing to death." He didn't seem to wait for a reply before -- deftly sidestepping the sleeping form of the beagle puppy on the carpet -- he set down his glass and reached instead for his wand en route to the room's large, grim fireplace. That made two of them who had only picked at the dinner; not that it was a bad dinner, of course (house-elves did not seem to be able to do bad food except on purpose, and it was evident that this particular house-elf -- and namesake -- was disinclined to put forth such an effort to spite its master) and certainly there was no cruelly careless addendum of "not bad -- all things considered" in her mind. But after the week they had, and with her conscience as heavy as Cecil's was now perhaps light, Emmeline could not confess to much of an appetite either. Every time Cecil smiled, she fought a twinge of panic even as she had to -- wanted to -- did -- genuinely smile back. Standing still near the doorway of the parlour (with its creepy taxidermied denizens that seemed so disturbingly alive -- lifelike? -- in the flickering half-light), Emmeline reflexively curled inwards and clutched her elbow at his question even while protesting, "I'm fine." Not that she made a move to halt Cecil, who was already moving toward the fireplace. Emmeline instead tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, fought the urge to bite her lip (damn nerves), and bent down to pet the puppy lightly enough that it did not even lean into her touch at first, though when Barney did do that it was with a contented whine. "You lucky girl." She might have been talking to the puppy. Which was just as well, since the words had spent a spike of alarm through Cecil -- at least enough for him to glance over one shoulder at her -- given that he was unsure of just what had prompted them. However, when he saw their source he smiled a little, and finished up lighting the fire with a well practised flick and swish of his wand. It was set down the next moment on the mantle as he turned back around. "She'll probably be up all night at this rate. She's been out like a light since I've been home, feels like." A time which had seemed like hours and hours ago, given that the days lately had seemed to drag on forever. Distractedly, Cecil tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat before finally settling on a course of action. After a false start or two, he took the few strides required to reach one of the room's delicately crafted sofas, and sat down. There was a wistful statement or five to be found here, mostly having to do with how only the truly innocent and unworldly could sleep through such a time, but that was -- firstly, depressing; and secondly, in the wake of so many secrets tumbling out (and so many more to come), Emmeline just could not summon up the words. Instead she just wrapped her arms around her knees and stayed like that for a moment, letting the puppy pillow her cheek on outstretched fingers, and gathering herself. Before standing up again, hands twisting in front of her. "Cecil." What a lovely start. "We should talk. And there's something that you should know." Which was fair, really. She'd mentioned she had things she wanted to tell him -- and he himself had rather foisted a great deal of truths on her -- so it was completely illogical to now feel a cold sting of surprise at what she said. Illogical, but of course he felt it all the same, even in the literal light of the fireplace slowly warming the room around him. "Of course," he nodded, brow already furrowing sympathetically as he rested his elbows on his knees and loosely -- so as to avoid wringing his hands -- linked his fingers together between them. "I have maintained a friendship with Sirius, and that is the least of a long list of indiscretions." Emmeline took a deep breath before continuing. This was not rehearsed, and once started the words simply flowed out. "Since early 1979 I have been involved with a vigilante group trying to counter the terrorist tactics employed by the Death Eaters against the entire nation. By definition, we have operated outside of the Ministry's capabilities. In this capacity my understanding of acceptability and boundaries has been... much eroded from what I have been taught growing up. I have dared to form and renew friendships with people with whom I should not even speak -- perhaps because blood, or breeding, or loyalties, or in some cases simply gender. "Sirius is one such friend -- I suppose there is something that he and Regulus share, though they're not aware of the fact: some satisfaction in shocking me out of my affected 'delicate sensibilities.' If you can have faith in my word still, then know this: there is nothing untoward here. No presumptions, no transgressions beyond that which you bore witness to. And forgive me for what I'm about to say -- but I know now that you understand what it's like to absolutely need to escape. "Cecil, if I were a better person. I would have -- I would have let you believe that there was something more to what you witnessed, beyond just the occasional need to escape. I have agonised since December over whether I can tell you about my activities this past year, and I'm ashamed to say that had this meeting not occurred I surely would have kept biting my tongue. Because the safest thing to do, the most selfless, would have been to let the engagement break, to not marry you, though I can't begin to fathom how much that would hurt. The safest course would have been to use last Friday to ensure that you think the worst of me -- which perhaps you still do. I am not innocent by any account. But I have hidden this from you for a year, knowingly endangered you with the very fact of my involvement for a year, and it is time to come clean. You deserve to know, to judge and decide while in possession of the full picture, and the same words you wrote to me I must say back to you now: "I leave my secret to your discretion." Cecil's posture didn't change. It wasn't that her confession had frozen him to the spot, but more that his mind was too engaged in processing what he had just heard to send messages like lean back, look away or breathe to the rest of his body. Hearing that she had been friends with Sirius Black was one thing, but it was something he'd made his peace with after the brief conversation he'd had with the boy earlier that day. And while he knew she'd wanted to share something with him, Cecil realised he'd been expecting something he could help with, or at least soothe -- like, for instance, that the rumours regarding her parentage were true. Or that her father was Muggleborn -- or that he was a Muggle full stop... ... but this. He'd thought everything was going to be all right. He'd thought they were actually going to get a future together, one that, at last, he wasn't absolutely dreading. "... vig... vigilante group?" Cecil's brow twitched. As if it had been waiting for the cue, the rest of his body suddenly sparked back to life. There was a hot panic at his throat. "I don't -- I'm sorry, what does that mean? I don't think I quite understand what that means." Not quite the reaction she had expected, though Emmeline was at a loss as to how one might begin to formulate expectations with the sort of news she just dropped squarely on Cecil. She was twisting her hands together so tightly that her nails were indeed drawing blood, and now that the initial wave of whatever-it-was that had powered her confession rather suddenly drained out of her once more, she felt rather faint. So the formulation of this next response came rather more slowly; she did, of course, also have to choose her words carefully. "It means that we are actively fighting back against the violence, or at least trying to contain the damage done to innocent people's lives, and that we act on information that the DMLE might not be able to act on, and gather information of our own about the Death Eaters. If you're asking for the specifics beyond that -- that I can't share." "... does the Minister know about this?" Within an instant he knew it was a stupid question, but still Cecil couldn't bring himself to retract it. He had to say something, and anything that might make what she was saying sound less like complete and total madness was an avenue he was willing to explore, even at the risk of sounding foolish. That was a rapidly diminishing prospect, however. Whatever Emmeline was confessing to, it was illegal, and more than that -- completely beyond him. "No, she does not know." And saying that brought up a fresh flood of guilt in Emmeline; saying it while trying to make sense of the inscrutable expression on Cecil's face just hurt. "My involvement preceded her election by quite a few months. And nobody outside of those who are involved knows. You're the first person I have told." She managed a very weak smile. "Do you remember my being utterly drenched and half-frozen when you found me after the masquerade? I had duelled someone -- a Death Eater -- amidst the chaos." If she was looking for any reciprocation on the smile, she was to be -- quite immediately -- disappointed. Cecil's face fell, and whereas moments ago he hadn't known what to do with himself there was now the very sudden urge to move. He simultaneously pushed from the couch and raised a hand to cover his mouth in concern, and from there launched into what promised to be a wealth of pacing. "Oh, Merlin..." The Masquerade. She'd fought one of them. Up until that moment he'd assumed that whatever this vigilante business was, the most it could translate into was being a spy (which was bad enough, was treasonous enough) but he had never thought, not once, that Emmeline would ever be actually physically engaging a bloody terrorist. "Oh, Merlin...," he repeated, voice becoming tight for a moment before he moved his hand from his mouth to cover his eyes instead. From there he pushed his hand back, through his hair, sending it into quite thorough disarray before his arm fell again. Cecil swallowed, attention shifting from spot to spot on the carpet before he summoned up the courage to look back at her again. "What about you, you, personally you, what do you do? Is that normal? Duelling?" Seeing Cecil's face fall triggered quite a similar reaction in Emmeline, and the already faint and pale attempt at a smile promptly faltered. What had she expected? Heavens. Had she been so foolish as to think that Cecil would take this calmly in stride, that now with everything out in the open they would immediately be all right, perhaps even happy? It was foolish, she can see that now. (She wanted to cry. Instead she perched herself gingerly on the arm of an unobstrusively placed sofa, for her legs felt as if they were about to give out.) "Duelling, 'normally'? Dear Circe, no," which was the truth, as that was not the capacity she acted in or one in which Emmeline was particularly strong; still, when the need arose or when the call for as much support as possible came, she -- by nature now -- would choose to answer and to stand her ground than to evade. But it was best at this juncture to not mention being out in Little Hangleton after the house blew up, or the full moon patrols. "I--" what did she do, exactly? Could she talk about the fact that she keeps track of society patriarchs on the suspects list and stays in the good graces of society ladies to maintain an in to the grapevine, when so much of society was in some way or form family? Would Cecil think it despicable? "--I am well placed in society to hear interesting things. I listen, and watch, and remember. But if there are attacks like King's Cross or the masquerade, I cannot not act." "You've been spying on us?" Us of course being a term liberally applied, and beyond that more a product of his anxiety and panic than any true connection to the people he'd grown up with. In that moment though he wanted, desperately, to find something in common with somebody, and right then that person -- as was becoming increasingly clear -- wasn't Emmeline. "Wh... what, at parties? At dinners? Here? Who -- I mean, what have you said?" "I can't share that information, Cecil." There was the desperation and dread again, perhaps worse than last Friday, the inability to speak because of too many obligations pulling her in too many ways. "The Death Eaters take the law into their own hands and try to scourge the Wizarding world of people whose lineages they themselves can hardly be held accountable for. And you know what sort of society we move in." And somehow, that seemed to be the cue for the floodgates to open, and Emmeline stared down at her hands, trying to be quiet about it and to keep the only evidence of her tears to be the drops in her lap. "I'm so, so sorry." Though Emmeline was not sure what she was apologising for, exactly. "I shouldn't have -- I -- should I go?" She had the feeling that she had ruined things once more; and maybe -- well, maybe she had. Maybe she misjudged. Maybe this was a betrayal of a different, unforgiveable magnitude. Maybe love was not enough. "...Emmeline." He'd waited until he was in front of her to speak, and even then had needed to swallow before he did, bracing himself as he took a knee on the carpet and looked up at her. The knots in his stomach couldn't be untangled unless he faced the fact that he was not extending her the same courtesy she had him. When Cecil had confessed his transgressions -- more than mere trespasses, his lying and exclusion of her from so much of his life -- she had been nothing but gracious. Wholly accepting. "Please don't go." His gaze briefly dropped to her lap, long enough for him to slip both of his hands around one of hers. "I... it's just that I don't want to see you hurt. I don't want to see anyone hurt." And now Emmeline was openly crying, again, for the umpteenth time in so few days, her free hand escaping to cover her mouth as she tried in vain to quell the deep racking sobs that were all but causing her entire frame to shake. She would rather Cecil be angry; it was a surprising revelation. She would rather he be cruel, tell her off, maybe even cast her off. This kindness, his hands around hers, she did not know what to do with this. "There's a war on, Cecil; nobody decent wants to see anyone else hurt. And I don't want to hurt you," she managed after a few long seconds of valiantly fought-for calm. "But it seems like that's all I've been doing. Hurting you." It was impossible to watch her cry (which he had to, given that looking away right now was out of the question) without feeling his own eyes grow hot and sting a little themselves. Cecil tried, as discreetly as possible, to wrinkle his nose and, for a moment, hold his breath as if this would guard against tears. He pressed her hand tightly, half for her comfort, half for his. "No... no, no, Emme, not at all. Not ever. You've..." For a moment or two he pressed his lips together in an attempt to collect himself. Again he felt the same helplessness he always did, that inability to protect her, except this time the sensation reached even greater heights of hopelessness. How could he protect her if this was something she wanted to do? "You've never hurt me," he repeated finally. "You've always helped me. You're... what.... you, you make me grateful to even be me. You're the only person who's ever done that. And... and that might make me selfish, to a degree, because it makes me value you over all the people you might be helping with all... this..." Now a brief glance away, if only to clear his throat quietly. "... would you quit, if I asked you to? We could leave. The country, we could go anywhere." Emmeline was fairly certain her heart had stopped, or swelled to such a degree that it would no longer be able to act in its proper capacity, no longer able to sustain her being. And then she heard the question, and the ache that spread -- no, no heart that had ceased to beat could possibly hurt so much. She leant forward and in an uncharacteristic gesture of familiarity, pressed her forehead against Cecil's. And she closed her eyes. "I can't do that." The words sounded completely hollow upon leaving her lips. Were there words enough to express how much of the terrified-little-girl part of her wanted to? "I can't quit and I can't leave. I can't -- I'm sorry, I can't walk away anymore. That point has long since been passed." And then, even more quietly: "Please don't ask me to." It was the answer he had been expecting, yet still his chest grew cold, and within it his heart fell. Within that sadness Cecil was able to appreciate what she was doing, even envy her the ability to do it in the first place -- but that was if he approached the situation on a purely intellectual basis, and right now that was impossible. Was it too much to ask that they just be let alone from all this? After all, Emmeline -- as opposed to Muggleborns and those other unfortunates with less than ideal circumstances -- had the option of being safe. If she just let this be, she could be safe. Like he was, up until a few minutes ago. One of his hands left hers in order to, very gently, touch the side of her head, palm against her hair. A moment later Cecil kissed her -- briefly, not long enough to find out whether she'd kiss him back or not -- before he once more rested his forehead against hers. And spoke. "I won't," he promised, though it was a struggle to do so. "I won't." |