0001-03-03 - The Story of a Marriage (Part 1)

Turn 120 of the 6th Interval

Laurent is sixteen. Sevyli is twelve.

Or thereabouts.

It's a formal meeting: Laurent has been recalled from Telgar, and arrives at Fort Hold with both his parents. His mother, Naledi, is washed out and sickly, the kind of woman who looks as if she would shatter entirely if you touched her. His father, Ebrem, is terse and distracted, and talks about the two young people as if they were horses: bloodlines and breeding. Maybe that's not so far off the truth anyway.

Laurent doesn't really want to be here, but duty is duty. Sixteen could be an awkward age, but he's not awkward: no acne, no lanky gangliness. He smiles at Sevyli when they're introduced, and is quick to suggest that they take a (chaperoned, naturally) walk outside while their families discuss terms. He even goes so far as to bow, and offer his arm-- a gentleman personified.

Ciera is kind, her low words somehow even softer than the norm when speaking with Naledi. The arrangements of the solarium to allow for only the lightest touch of light to warm the chaise designated for Keroon's lady and the table of digestible snacks and tea close by speaks to Lady Fort's understanding of the situation. While her husband nods at the appropriate moments about bloodlines and breeding, he seems more interested in the results of bloodlines and breeding -- grandchildren, the prospect of which not-so-secretly delights him.

At twelve, "Sev," she corrects him before he even speaks, "I like going by Sev," is a lanky creature, growing into teeth and limbs still. Her hair is plaited in the way of unmarried youths of Fort, and her attire is pristine. She straddles that universe between child and young(er) woman with all the airs of aiming for the latter but very pronouncedly in the former. Her thin, brown little hand trembles excitedly in the crook of his arm and she looks up at this handsome older man with shiny eyes, "Do you..." her voice trails off, uncertain of how to speak to a sixteen year old, "Do you want to see my roses?" They're not really her roses, but the cleft of her chin lifts proudly, as if this kind of conversation is what older people have.

"Sev, then," says Laurent, with the kind of smile that has probably broken hearts already. "And I'm Laurie."

Does he want to see her roses? Oh probably not. But the past few turns at Telgar have taught him a thing or two, and feigned interest at appropriate moments is at least one of those things. And so, what he says is a gentle: "I would love to see your roses, Sev. We have roses at Keroon, too, though of course our climate is much more dry. Mother likes to have some in her sitting room, too."

He glances back over his shoulder as they go, smiling in a reassuring way to those assembled adults: she's in good hands, see?

If the adults are paying attention, they don't give overt signs of it, the volleying negotiations going between Fort and Keroon a far more interesting distraction. The only adult who is paying attention is Sevyli's nanny who trails the pair at a comfortable distance - she's able to hear and see, but not obtrusive. "Ahh," responds Sev, lapsing into an awkward silence. The hand at his arm twitches again, this time less excited and more anxious. "This never gets any easier," the young girl finally says, "I think you're the third suitor I've met with," her other hand waves idly in the air to indicate all the other suitors, "Something about Fort this, Fort that. Nothing about Sev this or Sev that. You're the first who wanted to go on a walk with me. I know," she confides, her dark head of hair leaning in and then tipping back to look up to smile sweetly at Laurie, "You just want the alliance with my parents and not me. You must feel the same about me," she decides in a statement that's only slightly a question by a tiny lilt on the last word.

"Third."

If this is unwelcome news, or if Laurent's thoughts immediately rush straight into the assumption that there must be something wrong with Sevyli that someone else has not immediately snapped her up, made the best possible offer, there's no obvious sign of it in the young man's expression. (An older Sev, more familiar with him, might recognise some of his tells, of course: the faintest twitch of his eyebrow, for instance.)

"Well, you're my first, so I'm hoping you'll show me the ropes, Sev," is what he says, turning his head so that he can meet her gaze squarely. "Besides which... it's not Fort that I'm looking to marry, is it? Fort isn't going to sit at my side for the rest of my life, and smile at me across the breakfast table. You are, or I hope you are. Father may be concerned about alliances and trade, but I--"

Am a romantic hero (or trying to be), all earnest and charming and full of smiles.

She may be twelve, but she is her father's daughter, astute enough to recognize some of the charm for what it is, pretty words that don't mean much. And somewhere, in the future, she might remember these words fondly, on some days, and bitterly, others.

But she's also very much twelve, and so quite susceptible to the rest of his charm that seems, to her, earnest. Laughing merrily, she teases, "Do your parents smile across the breakfast table?" Both hands drift away from Laurent, and run down to smooth her very adult, just for this occasion, dress, and she takes bolder steps forward, and away from both the man of the Hold courting her and their chaperone. The few extra steps bring her to the stone archway of an enclosed stone walled garden filled within every inch not a designated pathway with different varieties of roses. Her arms spread out, as if enveloping the flowers in a big, virtual hug, and she turns over her shoulder to beam at the older boy, with a naive and delightedly hopeful smile, "Would you like to smile across the breakfast table with me, Laurie?"

Laurent is about as interested in roses as any sixteen-turn-old boy (that is to say: nope, not even in passing), but he dutifully smiles as he follows Sevyli into the garden, taking the time to glance around in what (hopefully) comes across as appreciation. Still, that's a passing thing, and more important is answering the young woman. He stands straight, clasping his hands behind his back.

"My parents lead very separate lives, I'm afraid," is his initial answer, and it wouldn't take much to get a sense of the loneliness in that; and in Laurie himself. "Which is certainly not the marriage I would wish for. I would like..."

Sixteen-turn-old Laurie is still growing into his charm. Sixteen-turn-old Laurie probably hasn't realised this yet. Sixteen-turn-old Laurie is at least still probably somewhat charming in his bumbling attempt to charm his prospective bride. "I would like nothing more, Sev, than to see your lovely, smiling face across the table each morning. I would like to see it in the evenings, too, as the sun sets over the cliffs. I would--"

She falls hard. Oh, she falls hard. It's there all over the hope blossoming all over her face, that this boy, this marriage will happen and conclude in all the ways her storybooks have told her love conquers all. "Oh," Sev's breath catches and she spins with her arms wide still, dizzying little circles that aim her right into his arms, because that's what young girls falling in love are supposed to do with the boys they intend to marry.

It worked? It worked!

And Laurie's oblivious enough to his own ineptitude not to be surprised by this; why wouldn't Sevyli fall for his charms? He's charming.

His arms open, and he grabs for her waist, ready to swing her around in the air in a predictably romantic and dramatic twirl, chaperones be damned. Just two young people in love.

The turns pass, negotiations continuing even after the signed contracts of betrothal. Fort wants this concession. Keroon would like that. But the engagement holds fast, and Sev's letters to Laurie turn from girlish confidences to gaining notes of the adult she will become: the dreams and hopes she has for Holding with her to be husband, naïve plans that have no base in the reality of economy, for feeding of the poor, caring of children, education, all these disparate ideas she's learned from tutors and eavesdropping on conversations not meant for her. After a while, her heart-dotted eyes disappear and the loops of her letters become more polished, elegant, and more fitting for the idea of a Lady Holder. The letters come steadily, whether there is a response or not, consistently arriving every four days.

The first few replies are a little awkward. Laurent has returned to Telgar and his life there, and there are other things (okay, yes: other woman-- or at least one other) on his mind, capturing his attention. But he's a savvy enough not-quite-a-man to have recognised the importance of maintaining this connection, and building that trust, and so the replies arrive, one by one. Not every letter, not even every two or three, but enough to make it a conversation of sorts.

He returns to Keroon, and the letters change: perhaps it can be explained away by increased knowledge of Sevyli, or that he's getting older and more mature, but more likely it simply comes down to loneliness. His father is remote, his mother fading before his eyes; he's not dramatic in what he writes, but something of the emotion is there all the same. He's older, a little more grounded in his understanding of How Things Work, but he doesn't squash Sev's plans.

Instead, he writes more about the things he'd like to show her, the things about Keroon he loves. The garden he hopes she'll like. The horse he'll make sure she has, so that they can ride together. It's a charming picture.

So is the invitation: that she should come to Keroon ahead of the wedding, so that she might learn to know the people that will be hers, and that they might learn her as well.

She arrives in a state befitting a daughter of Fort. It's a longer journey than what could be, by caravan rather than dragon - some negotiations fell apart with her father blustering about unreliable dragonfolk and how they do nothing good for society. Her rooms are ready for her, and her ladies unpack her things and she's settled, perched on a little chair looking out a window upon the Hold before her. "It's," she starts, now the supremely old age of thirteen, "Not what I pictured," is her concluded muse to the lady that runs a comb through her hair. To her credit, or that of her mother, she has matured vastly in the last year, learning more applicable things to Hold management and what marriage might entail. Certainly none of the sordid details, but that information has been seeded thoughtlessly by overhearing the stories the women folk share, and the stableboys at Fort snicker about. But worldy? Learned? None of these things describe Sevyli at thirteen. Ambitious dreamer with idealistic aspirations is a better descriptive for sure. Physically, she's just past the awkward stage of growing into teeth and limbs and the thinness of youth is starting to fill out with emerging adulthood. "It's certainly," a pause, "Something." Her doors are opened as the women put their finishing touches on making the teenager presentable.

Perhaps it's not strictly proper for a young man to visit a young woman, even a woman he's contracted to marry in a few turns, in her rooms-- but the amount of ladies around provide a modicum of chaperonage, and in truth, it's very unlikely that worldly Laurent thinks of Sevyli as anything more than a child, for all their letters.

Indeed, that correspondence is probably a large part of why Laurie stands some distance back down the hallway, hesitating over greeting his future bride. It's one thing to write letters, to hint at your feelings on paper; it's another to be faced with the person who has read them, and perhaps sees more of you (even at thirteen) than anyone else (except the woman who shall not be mentioned, now safely married and very nearly a mother at Nabol).

Laurie's trained to be a Lord, though, and there's a certain amount of stiff-upper-lip involved in that. Further down the corridor, the doors are opened, and that's his cue to stride through them as if he owns the place, and to offer a courtly bow. "Welcome to Keroon, lady Sevyli," he says.

And then: "Sev."

"Laurie," she's surprised and pleased, and a disarming smile curves her lips. It speaks of something more than what a thirteen year old should be capable of, hints at something that could grow up to be formidable, were her destiny decided for her at such a young age. "Laurie," Sev utters again, rising from her seat and at first running towards a boy she's come to know in letters enough to try and fill in those blanks with the paintbrush of childhood dreams of romance, and then quickly slowing her pace down to something less eager. "I didn't think we'd see each other until supper." Indeed, she hasn't seen any of the Blooded Holders since her arrival just earlier this day. "How are you, m'lord?" the title she bestows on her fiance paired with an impish, cheeky little grin.

The time since they saw each other last has certainly made a difference, and though Laurie still, inevitably, sees Sevyli as a child and not a woman-- well. There's potential.

The run, and then the walk, makes him smile, and he reaches out to grab for her hand, aiming to draw it to his mouth for a kiss; such courtly graces. "I couldn't leave you to languish on your own," he tells her, green-eyed gaze lifted from her hand to her eyes. "I know mother meant to be there to greet you, but--" Lady Naledi is indisposed. "I'm well. All the better for seeing you, for having you here. Do you like your rooms?"

Concern furrows Sevyli's brow, wrinkling the fresh powder her ladies have brushed there, "Should I go to see her myself? My mother sends her regards and I've brought a small token." A small gesture to one particular member of her retinue causes movement among the ladies and a small ornamental chest is brought forward. "Some herbs from my mother's personal healer at the Hall that may help." For now, she defers answering the questions about her, the kissed hand stealing up to dare to brush knuckles against Laurent's jaw before a flush of embarrassment colors her own cheeks and causes the hand to draw back.

Those knuckles are, by Laurie's expression, a pleasant surprise and a positive indication: there are words and then there are actions, and as a seventeen-turn-old boy, the possibility of positive inclinations towards future physical intimacies are a good sign in a virginal bride-to-be. He reaches to grasp her hand and to squeeze it, gently.

"I believe she's resting. I expect she'll invite you to visit once she's feeling well enough for it. Your gift," and he smiles, encouragingly, "will certainly be appreciated."

Pleasure that her dare was welcome, she allows her hand to be grasped and even uncurls it so that her fingers can slide into his, presumably, larger one, curving to grasp in kind and draw it to her own cheek. While she's daring, she may as well inch forward a little more. A cough from behind her stays any further movement, but she bites her lower lip and a small giggle escapes, before the sobriety of the subject at hand shuts that off as well. Sevyli nods, a small waggle of her free hand behind her skirts causing the lady with the chest to put it away. "Will you show me your favorite spots, Laurie?"

Laurie runs his fingers down Sevyli's cheek, then shifts them to sit below her chin. It might not need lifting, but perhaps the gesture is intended to send a message of confidence and surety. After all, Sevyli will be Lady of all this, one day (and yes, ok, this is only the very tip of the iceberg of intimacies). She's far too young for him to try anything further, but his smile is genuinely warm and inviting.

"Anything my lady desires," he promises. "There's so much I'd like to show you. Shall I give you the full tour, or shall we jump straight to my personal favourites?"

These little gestures flutter her heart and make her feel all those burgeoning feelings girls her age start to feel and notice. She notices him in a way different from the year previous and can't help but take sidelong sweeping looks at her very good looking husband-to-be with the smug satisfaction that this will be hers as well. "Let's," she agrees, and follows him as he shows the various, proper, haunts of the Hold.