You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: Becoming Noémie  (Read 787 times)

emptyanima

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Becoming Noémie
« on: September 19, 2021, 03:28:05 PM »
Noémie Desrosiers
Click image to download portrait.
[1]

Name: Noémie Desrosiers (née Vaillant)
Age: 18 Yrs.
Race: Human, Dementlieuse
Religion: Ezra
A Woman of Good Breeding
Origin: Dementlieu, House Vaillant (Ravenloft Native)


The Promise of the World - Howl's Moving Castle - Cover by Yuka
 1. Artwork by June-Jenssen
« Last Edit: November 15, 2021, 05:12:19 PM by emptyanima »

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The Portrait
« Reply #1 on: September 19, 2021, 04:17:02 PM »
Noémie Vaillant did as she was told.

This remained true as she suppressed the rebellion of her twitching, meticulously-posed limbs, and in her firm hold upon the carefully-sculpted smile she had been instructed to wear.

The painter's brush moved with skill and care across the canvas, cruelly concealed from its subject's sight. Noémie wrestled with and overpowered the desire to study the painter's movements, and worked to set aside the questions she had over the process the painter employed. She fought such questions and movements regularly, for what had she been taught? The words sounded clearly in her mind.

Your desires must always bend to his. That is the mark of a good and faithful wife.

Having subjugated one desire, her thoughts turned to the cause for which she now sat, unmoving. It was a gift, a portrait to commemorate her eighteenth birthday and capture her appearance on the date which marked her ascent to womanhood.

Despite being newly come of age, and having much to learn of the world, Noémie was keenly aware of what the portrait portended. It was time to set aside what remained of childish things, and to step toward the duty for which she had been trained and prepared all her years.

While her brother trained with the blade, Noémie memorised each subtle movement of the fan.
While he studied leadership and tactics, Noémie learned etiquette and the delicate balance of conversation, and how to comprehend the meaning of what was left unsaid.
While he was meant to study the arcane sciences, Noémie discovered an aptitude for the subject of her own, a concession which was agreed would assist in her own protection.

The ballroom was her battlefield, her tongue both her blade and shield.

In due time, she thought, she would be presented and taken to wife.
She would set the name of Vaillant aside, bearing in its place the name of her husband, yet unknown.
With the casting off of her maiden name and maidenhood both, she would be brought into his service.

It is for the wife to be a sure support, came the words of her lessons anew.
She is his helpmeet and his anchor. She is his reprieve. She is one who secures his legacy and line. She is obedient, comely, of gentle countenance and manner. She may advise, but never direct him. She pleases. She serves. And should she fail to do so, they shall both suffer the consequences.

Noémie was stirred from her thoughts as the painter cleared his throat.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Yes, monsieur?"

"The portrait is finished." He smiled, beginning to set his tools aside, then paused. "You may be at ease, mademoiselle. You need not hold the pose any longer."

Noémie exhaled a soft breath as she let her arms rest at her side. She finally permitted herself awareness of the dull ache which covered much of her body. She nodded politely to the painter, then moved to examine the finished work.

"You did well, mademoiselle, to hold it for so long. I did not have to instruct you once! Would that all my subjects were so easy to work with."

Noémie permitted herself another small smile as she looked upon the portrait. He had captured her just as she had wished.

For a moment, even she believed in that painted smile. Then, her own faltered as another thought came.

I look so much like Mama did.

The painter shuffled uncomfortably, worry in his tone.

"Oh, mademoiselle... do you not like it? Does it not... capture your beauty as you wish?"

Noémie shook her head.

"No, monsieur - it is perfect. Thank you."

The painter exhaled in relief, then bowed his head before departing with his belongings.

Within the privacy his departure afforded, Noémie clutched the necklace she wore and spoke a prayer for the dead, the beginnings of tears in her eyes.

When her mother passed, not only did she take with her a piece of Noémie's heart, but also a source of guidance and comfort concerning the fate which awaited her. Once she had spoken her prayers for the one departed, she took, at last, some moments for herself.

"Sainted Mother," she prayed, "you tell us we must love our duty. Please nurse the seed in my heart. Please guide my hands and my tongue. Fashion me into a wife like Mama was, a mother like she was." She paused in her prayer, before adding a final plea.

"Please give him a gentle heart, like Father's."
« Last Edit: September 19, 2021, 06:36:09 PM by emptyanima »

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The Swan and the Hunter
« Reply #2 on: October 02, 2021, 05:07:17 PM »
Noémie Vaillant did as she was told.

So it was, at the behest of her family, that she went to Port-a-Lucine. Her uncle, the Baron de Duchbourg, was in charge of organising the White Day Ball which was soon to be held in the city, so it was decided that this would serve as her debut upon the public stage. When she met with him shortly after her arrival, he confirmed that the purpose of her visit was her duty, and reminded her that this duty was also her purpose. Noémie agreed without complaint.

She began her time in the city in quiet uncertainty. She found herself easily mistaking one cobbled street for another, and struggling to discern one new face from another. She hesitated to move far from the places which began to feel familiar. In turn, she also denied herself from taking in too many of the city's sights all at once, fearing that one would blend into another in her head - that their distinctiveness would be lost. She sipped upon the city as she would a glass of wine; slowly. A little at a time.

Soon enough, the city of Port-a-Lucine began to feel familiar to the young lady of House Vaillant. She began to form a leisurely routine - breakfast at Café Léon, consisting of sweet coffee and a croissant, then a stroll through the Quartier Savant, before finally catching up on all the news swirling around the Quartier Publique. As the city's streets and cafés became more familiar, so did its faces. Thus had Noémie felt the first blooms of friendship form with several folk.

There was Monsieur Dorian de Sauvre, a creative, kind-hearted young man moved by noble goals, newly-appointed to the Gendarmerie. Then there were Mademoiselles Eglantine and Brielle Desrosiers. Their friendliness, warmth and wit were a comfort to the young woman, while their good manners and good breeding assured her of their suitability as confidants in this city of gossip and secrets.

Though they were family, she considered her cousins Alexandre and Fleury among her friends, despite the shadow of controversy which loomed over them. Their kindness and protectiveness never went unnoticed by her. She was beginning to learn a little of their experiences in the city and all they had endured, and learned of events from which she had been shielded. There was cause for both sorrow and joy - sorrow, for the rifts which separated blood from blood, and joy for the happiness they had found despite their woes. Even young Noémie  could tell that there was much more she did not know, much more they had not said, but she did not feel it was her place to ask, as it was not in many facets of her life.

Her uncle indicated to her soon after her arrival that there had been interest in her hand and, though she was curious, once more she fought with herself to keep silent. Had her uncle intended her to know who had shared their interest, he would have told her, she reasoned. Upon sharing this reasoning with another of her new acquaintances, Monsieur Emeric Desrosiers, he remarked upon her dutifulness, commenting that most he had met in the city would be shrill with anxiety over their fate.

"I trust in my family to decide what is best for me, monsieur," said Noémie. "It is their duty to choose, as it is mine to obey."

She did not envy them the weight of that responsibility.

Before long, the hour of the White Day Ball arrived. She had prepared laboriously for this moment. While Dorian had served as the tactician for this engagement, it was the young Vaillant woman who now girded herself for it. Passing her uncle, who dressed as Emperor Léon, she took a deep breath before entering the ballroom proper.

It was not long before she found herself under scrutiny.

That night, she was not Noémie Vaillant. She was Brighid, Swan-Goddess of Poetry from a far-off land.

Her gown, striking in its brightness, was formed of layered fabrics which caught the light. The shapes created by this layering were feather-like and delicate. The white gown was contrasted by a pair of black satin, fingerless evening gloves, though they had been altered at the ends to resemble yet more feathers. The lace of her bodice was crowned at the neck with a high collar, about which was clasped a jet black choker. At its centre gleamed a sparkling ruby, stark as blood when set against the black and white of her costume.

The most striking part of her costume was doubtless the pair of large white wings which sat against her back, curving close to her shoulders; this was a protective measure of her own design to prevent any overeager gentlemen from easily breaching propriety by touch.

She concealed her awed expression with a hand-held mask, trimmed with black lace. The mask's visage featured an elegant long beak.


She took in the impressive costumes of lavish design - depictions of heroes and villains of history and folklore, of truth and fiction. The ballroom was filled with, but not overpowered by, beautiful music played by performers who had also come in costume. The undercurrent of chatter sweeping around the room combined with everything else to send a frisson of excitement through her body.

She danced, first with Corbul. He was, in truth, a retainer named Ladislau Vacarescu, who had but recently been hired into her House's service. He was sweet and earnest, and while he still had much to learn of Dementlieu's customs, she appreciated his efforts to understand and adopt the ways of her people, and to navigate the unspoken code of etiquette and propriety which governed the nobility.

Her second and final dance partner was one of two Dr Rudolph van Richtens. It was not hard to tell him for who he really was by his manner and speech. Emeric Desrosiers was a man of noble countryside stock. This upbringing had given him the qualities of clear and direct speech, something which was not always perceived as a virtue in the city. Noémie found it refreshing. She felt she always knew where she stood with him. During their dance, this was at a respectful distance, with minimal touch and without hint of romance.

As the evening progressed, she began to make out more of the faces behind each costume; Monsieur Dorian de Sauvre had come as a soldier, accompanied by Eglantine Desrosiers in a mysterious but beautiful ensemble as the concept of Solace. Her cousin Alexandre was instantly recognisable despite his costume. Though she had never seen the Tyrant-Lord of Barovia, Noémie doubted that Strahd von Zarovich possessed her cousin's loveable mien. In the angelic golden guise of Innocence she spotted Brielle Desrosiers. And finally, to her shame, she did not recognise her other cousin's smile behind the wolfish grin he wore, not before the ball was near to its end. Fleury, for his part, did not seem to take offence.

It was not only performers of music which graced the ball, but also magicians. The Lamordian, Stella Seifert, wowed the crowd with an escape act, working in partnership with a fellow dressed as one of Hazlan's Red Wizards. And she could not forget the contest of costumes which followed. While Noémie had cast her vote for every participant, seeing the effort they had held forth and the joy they had brought her, only three places could be claimed. In third, The Vampiress, who had depicted the creature of legend with just the right sort of lethal beauty. Second place, Noémie shared with Brielle, as Innocence and Brighid were deemed equals among the celestials. The pair had commented to one another just how heavy their wings had grown throughout the night. She was glad not to be saddled with them all of her days. Finally, in first place came Innocence's dark mirror, Corruption.

Despite all the joy she felt on the day of her debut, Noémie now found it corrupted herself, not for any costume, but for another cause. An unseen face which had yet seen her that night, drunk her in, and met her with improper words and a sinister gaze some days later. When she had shrunk back and given her worried farewells to those present, for a moment she believed that he had followed her. Yet while he did not follow her in body, the darkness of his expression lingered in her spirit, troubled her sleep and trembled in her limbs. For while there were many in the city that were in want of good manners, none of them gave her cause to fear.

None save him.

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A Passing Dream?
« Reply #3 on: October 14, 2021, 07:40:04 PM »
Noémie Vaillant did as she was told.

She always did.

She looked to those who led her to guide her in proper and ladylike behaviour. She looked to her mother, when she lived. To her father. To her uncle. And if she ever had a question, or the time came to make a choice which puzzled her, she would always bring it to those three. Her uncle in particular had become her steward during her time in the city, while she waited to be wed.

Port-a-Lucine was more than a city to Noémie. In this place she was, for the first time in her young life, afforded a measure of freedom in her new womanhood. She had seen so many, both of the nobility and common-born, who committed themselves to one business or cause or another. They were actors, writers, painters, fighters - they threw themselves into new ventures, new mysteries, new experiences and expressions of self. Several of Noémie's friends and acquaintances were hard at work seeking admission and matriculation at the university.

Noémie felt, as she often did, and despite her own protestations, that pang of want. As ever, it brought her guilt. In all that she had been taught of duty and behaviour, want was a force to be denied. It was the small, seductive voice which whispered suggestions of rebellion.

Yet, for all her efforts, she never ceased to want. So it was, against her better judgement, that she sought permission from her uncle to embrace it.

Noémie was no great magician. She knew how to prepare a few wards for her own protection. She was keenly aware of how small she was, how little she knew, in the grand scheme of the arcane. She did not seek, neither did she expect, great accomplishments of herself. What she wished, simply, was to learn.

She knew her uncle well. She knew him well enough to guess at his response even before she asked. But she also knew that if she did not give voice to this wish, it would consume her.

Despite all this, she felt the sting of disappointment when her uncle refused. She could not tell if it was the pang of lost opportunity or of grief over her becoming, for that moment, a disappointment. Cowed and ashamed, she considered his words. He could not permit such distraction, not when he and her grandfather sought to make arrangements for her marriage. Such an alliance took great effort to secure. Hence, she had to be ready for the duty which followed, that for which she had been prepared all her life. That for which she was born.

Noémie accepted this, apologetic and quiet. She accepted his words when he dismissed her concerns over the man who had frightened her so deeply. He did however acknowledge her worry; it made an apt scapegoat for her foolishness in seeking such study. He also promised to buy her some new books, aware of her love for them. While Noémie accepted this gratefully to his face, something within the young Vaillant woman began to shake. Upon Grégoire's departure, that which had given her cause for such trembling spilled free as tears.

Noémie loved her cousins more than she could well express, but between Fleury being proclaimed illegitimate and Alexandre's first marriage ending poorly, leaving him hesitant to accept another, had resulted in the young woman bearing much of her uncle's remaining hope for his house. It made every decision grave. Every mistake was weighty. She had accepted living vicariously through her books and conversations with other much more interesting people for so long, earnestly taking in their news and sharing in their joys for the temporary easing of her burden these afforded. She had watched with jealous intent those who had gone to and fro from their examinations, wishing desperately to be among them - to be part of their tales, and not merely a spectator in the round. As the door clicked closed and Grégoire disappeared, the truth hit her hard in the chest and broke, for a moment, her resolve.

She had to do her duty, come what may. Such was the motto of her house. Such was her teaching. And though she spoke to try to cheer herself up, that to do her duty well would bring her joy, she would continue to want that which duty did not permit. Her heart ever stretched forth its hopes for those things she could not reach. Perhaps that was why she wanted them at all.

Perhaps that was why, when the dream of study was snatched away, another want took firmer hold.

She needed air. Carrying with her an easel, palette, brushes and paint, she headed east towards Edrigan, setting down her supplies by the road to paint the deer among the trees. Noémie was no great artist; she painted for the enjoyment of it, and not for any grander purpose. Though she was calmer now, she still dwelled upon her cares. She thought of all that awaited her, of the marriage to a man whose name she still did not know, and all that she had been denied. She wished to reach out to the dead's dwelling place, to hear her mother's advice, but there was only silence, and silence could not stop the swirling storm of thoughts that consumed her.

To her, it seemed that who she was did not matter. It did not matter that she loved to paint and lose herself in stories. It did not matter who she held as friends, what she learned, or what she felt. The name Noémie was of no import - but Vaillant was. That was what mattered, that she was a young woman of good breeding. It was her charge to be married in service of her house. It was her duty to be beautiful, soft-mannered, and full of her husband's children.

Again she told herself that there could be joy in it, if she worked hard, but doubt gnawed upon her heart, while her head sought to remind her that to hope for such joy could well prove to be a foolish want all of its own.

But there were other foolish wants, and her gaze was drawn to one as she painted. Her heart quickened as that gaze was met.

--

Noémie Vaillant yielded to want, slowly at first, then all at once.

They moved from mere gaze to conversation.
From conversation to accepting his hand upon her shoulder.
That soon became a kiss upon the crown of her head, then her cheeks, her lips,
her lips,
her lips...
her neck...
...

They stopped short of that which belonged to duty. That which belonged to the man whose name was still unknown. They knew that this freedom was temporary. They knew that soon, the day would come when all would be as it must, when reality would set in.

For now, at least, they were content to share this pleasant dream, for this was all it could be. A dream in which they could want and be wanted, love and be loved, not for something they might give, or for the sake of duty, but for the sake of themselves alone. There will be those who doubt that this shared feeling which swept the pair up like leaves in the wind, that burned hot and fierce as a wildfire in dry underbrush, might be rightly called love at all. One kiss, they said, would set them free from their desire. Of course, such a foolish course had failed, only serving to stoke the flame. Yet despite this, the two burned willingly, believing that the love they shared would serve to comfort them when their embraces had to end. They weighed their bond against the ash and tears which would meet them at dream's end, and found it worthy of such sacrifice.

And what is love, if it is not sacrifice?

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THE VESSEL: Part One - A Vessel Formed
« Reply #4 on: November 14, 2021, 05:17:35 PM »
THE VESSEL: A Tale in Three Parts
Part One: A Vessel Formed


It was not much later that Noémie learned she was being considered by the Marquis de Valey as a potential match for his grandson. Despite initial confusion and concern over the match proposed, Noémie would give whatever came her best. She told her uncle as much as she comforted him, following slander spread and daubed upon the stones of the Publique. He comforted her in reply, that it would not reflect upon her, were she not chosen. That there would be other houses that would seek such a match. It was a comfort to the young woman to hear this; she had been nervous over the Marquis' opinion of her at the Autumn Hunt, and she feared that she had unwittingly offended him. That the fault did not lie with her was a balm, though her confidence had been knocked. She took a breath as her uncle told her not to place pressure upon herself, despite her eagerness to impress. How could she explain to him that there was no other way for her to feel? She thought of Alexandre, of Fleury, and of Severine, and the choices they had made. The choices that had left her without her own choice. There was no other part.

She thought of him, and he appeared. They spoke of duty and of love, and of carefulness. They were so very careful as they refused themselves, yet straining under the guilt of denying the other. Their secrecy weighed upon her, and yet she found comfort in his words and in his arms. Their shared secrets only made them more honest with one another; their sincerity in this place of deception only brought them closer. Yet still, they did not yield.

--

The new day had brought with it a new dress. Noémie was guided by one of House Desrosiers' retinue to the meeting place - The Blue Crescent - and before long she was seated before the Marquis de Valey. Pleasantries turned to questions of family. Questions of family turned to insults of faith. Noémie clutched the necklace she wore, as though covering her departed mother's ears to spare her this mockery. She remained silent as the Marquis accused them of religious weakness. She thought of her father. She spoke only when questioned directly, finding that to be quiet made it easier to conceal her hurt. Thankfully, the talk turned to more pleasant things, granting her some reprieve. That is, until the question of university came up. She did eventually find her voice, as much as it was hers, confirming she would only act in this regard as far as it was acceptable to her husband. While Emeric's words for her were mostly kind (save joining his grandfather in insult), naming her a credit to her family, still the insults remained. This time, the barb was directed at the absent Severine.

Despite such barbs, the dinner ended civilly, if not amicably.

--

Monsieur Emeric Desrosiers' encouragement did not end at dinner. He had detected that the young Noémie was formed of a malleable clay. She could yet be shaped into a wife that he wanted, if not for love, then for merit.

He invited Noémie to attend university lectures. She had always been a good listener, and he spurred her to speak her mind. To question. His was not the only encouragement the young Vaillant woman received. At the first debate in Fleur d'Ambre, her beloved cousin Fleury nurtured her desire to speak at the debating table, where she made a good account of herself to all present. Where many might expect vacuity of the quiet young woman, she spoke with intelligence and courage that belied her nervousness.

"You ought to use your voice more, oui?" Emeric had said.

They spoke at length that night. They confronted the insults spoken at dinner. Emeric made both an apology and a promise to avoid such barbs in future. Even Noémie, naive as she was, could see that he had only followed his grandfather's example. They spoke of family. They spoke of loss.  They parted on better terms, even as he left Desrosiers-shaped imprints upon her soul, turning her on the potter's wheel as she was shaped into the sort of Noémie she wished to become.

Yet these were not the only imprints upon her soul. With each secret meeting, each hidden kiss, shared laughter and talk of dreams, his lips and fingertips left almost-tangible memories. In talk of a name she could not bear, of a family that could not be hers, Noémie saw who she would be, were there no demands or duties. Were she free, she would be as she wished with him. There would be no more secrets. There would be nothing else between them. But such desires were confined to dreams, though they were increasingly harder to contain.

But even her wishes were in conflict. She wished to love freely, yet she also wished to do her duty, and to do it well.

It was a calm and pleasant evening in the Atelier; the potential match was chaperoned as they partook in a game of chess. As their pieces crossed the board, they spoke of their beliefs and their values. Noémie played defensively, while Emeric's game was more offensive. There were no insults, but instead carefully-chosen compliments. Small smiles. A willingness to learn and understand. As their game of chess continued, their discussion became more pointed. Again, Emeric's encouragement came, and though his words were softly-spoken, there was a firmness to them. He entreated her, should she be desirous of their match, to show the Marquis de Valey that Noémie Vaillant did in fact possess a spine. That she could issue a challenge.

"Are you prepared to look me in the eye and say that?" Emeric questioned. "Because my instinct says that there is strength in you as yet unfulfilled." Noémie tried to meet his gaze.

"I wish to, very much, Monsieur Desrosiers. I hesitate because I worry... because I wish to do my duty well. I wish to do my best, but I place-... there is a great deal on my shoulders. I do not wish to make a mistake. Yet I make them because I fear to speak."

"If you have such strength inside you, show it to my grandfather," Emeric replied, "I encourage you to speak to him. Write to ask to do so."

Once more, he had turned her on his potter's wheel. She gave his words much thought as she took this shape.

All that remained... all that was needed... was the fire.
« Last Edit: November 14, 2021, 05:29:06 PM by emptyanima »

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THE VESSEL: Part Two - A Vessel Fired
« Reply #5 on: November 14, 2021, 05:20:13 PM »
THE VESSEL: A Tale in Three Parts
Part Two: A Vessel Fired

Even as Noémie sought to toughen her resolve, an inner flame burned which all but threatened to devour her. The lovers' last meeting had ended in thin tears and unfulfilled want; their souls had long been intertwined, such that their own pains were always shared. Their flesh yearned for the same closeness as their spirits, yet again they were denied.

Noémie threw herself into her efforts to claim the path she wished for herself, seeking it not only for its own ends, but for distraction from the flame. With firmer resolve, she told Emeric of her intent to speak with his grandfather, one she made good on. She was emboldened by the kind words which Emeric had written for her. This handmade gift, this sincere apology, reminded her a little of the sincerity she felt between herself and the lover she kept secret. Noémie spoke with the Marquis de Valey of the debate she had taken part in. They spoke of youth, and the desire of the youthful to change the world. Then the topic changed one final time.

“Do you want this marriage?” the Marquis asked. The directness of the question left Noémie momentarily without words, though she did find them.

“Yes, I do.”

“To please your family?”

“That is true, yes…” She admitted this with a hint of worry. ”But it is only part of the reason. You recall what I said, about not changing the world, but making it the best it can be? I believe your grandson could help me to be my best, Monsieur le Marquis. I would strive to offer the same for him.”

As Noémie spoke these words, she surprised herself as she found them to be sincere. Their meeting ended on a happy note. For a moment, she was almost convinced that there could be no further obstacle to her pursuit of duty.

Yet she had discounted one.
Her uncle.

Noémie had been so concerned with becoming the right sort of wife for Emeric, she had neglected to think of her uncle’s concerns and desires. After she shared Emeric’s apology with the Baron de Duchbourg, and spoke of her time with the Marquis, and relayed her willingness to be formally and finally matched with Emeric, did he finally reveal how unimpressed he had been left by them. Once again, when it had seemed so near and so certain, did Noémie’s wish stretch once more out of reach.

But it was not entirely out of her hands, no, not yet.

She shared the Baron’s concerns with Emeric. She sought an apology on his behalf. She sought a sign of respect. Yet Noémie knew that House Vaillant had seen better days. Scandal after scandal had come upon them, and so too did reminders of them. That she was being considered at all was remarkable. But Grégoire did not deserve to be ill-treated for the errors of his children. He still deserved respect. Emeric agreed.

Bolstered by Emeric’s support, Noémie continued to fight for the match. Letters were written. Arrangements were sought. One way or another, Noémie resolved, this matter would be brought to an end. The uncertainty gnawed at her, such as she increasingly sought comfort from her secret beloved. Secret… until he was not.

They had only been speaking when that knock on the door came. But the look on the maid’s face said everything. When she was gone, the air was wrong. Tight. Fear turned him to desperation. Though it broke her heart, once more, he was denied. They parted in tears and trembling.

The uncertainty Noémie had sought to escape only grew heavier, and worse, the knowledge that someone could expose them hung over her head like the sword of myth which threatened always to fall. Their silence was bought with fear, but also temptation. A sanctuary was promised for them, if they simply did as they were told. Noémie held to this promise as the uncertainty grew heavier, and heavier, and harder to bear, until it was lifted.

With effort from both Vaillant and Desrosiers, the Baron de Duchbourg was convinced to consent to the match. Once more, her chosen duty seemed near. But when no announcement came, and no word was sent to confirm the transaction, worry bubbled up within her, driving the young woman close to madness. She could sense the same in her mostly-secret beloved, who was driven to panic and shortness of breath, crushed beneath the guilt of the price he paid to love her. Such worry made them foolish. They lingered too long together when they ought not to. When they saw commoners dancing with the nobility at the Desrosiers ball, they believed they might be spared scrutiny should they also dance together. But even if they did not speak of their feelings openly, they could not cloak every expression, or conceal the silent words shared between their bodies. Though they consciously denied themselves, their souls still sought embrace regardless of their surroundings, charging the air between them.

Still, the uncertainty dragged on. Gregoire assured his dear niece not to worry over the delay - would that his words could end her worry! She continued to spend time in Emeric’s company, hoping for some sign or news to end the torture of the unknown.

Then at last, the time of promise came; the silver lining to the dark cloud which hung over Noémie and her beloved’s heads. The place of sanctuary was found.

The weight they carried was too much to bear. Something had to give.

In the low-lit quiet, away from words of duty and touches of finery, they surrendered utterly to loving desire. They touched the dreams they shared, drawing them into reality. There was nothing between them. Entwined, they whispered of forbidden things. Their love was a medicine, though not the only medicine Noémie took that day. There was one risk that even then they could not take.

Yet the restoration it would bring them was short-lived.

Her uncle finally brought word, and it was not good news. The rumour-mill of Port-a-Lucine whirred with lurid gossip, and among its targets, Emeric Desrosiers had been implicated. There was talk of dealings with unscrupulous folk, however well-intentioned it may have been, that was foolish and above all, dangerous.

“I made a promise to your father,” said Grégoire, “that I would find you a husband that would treat you well, with the respect that you deserve.”

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as Noémie trembled faintly. “I am a man who keeps his promises, Noemie.”

Guilt weighed upon her as he departed. She ill-liked the steps she had to take to keep the secret love between her and her beloved, but she had to comply, not only for their sake, but for her uncle’s. Her heart had been in her throat as he spoke gravely, shaking for the fear that they had been discovered, that she had been the architect of her own misery. He could not know. He must not know. Port-a-Lucine was a city of secrets, and if she was careful enough, this could be hers, and he would not be hurt.

The lovers took special care over their final meeting, though they did not know it at the time. As they hurtled unknowingly towards the doomed hour, the heavens were above them, and the earth beneath them; they cleaved to one another as though they were the whole world and everything in it.

Imperceptible, until it was too late, their shared dream would turn into a nightmare.

« Last Edit: November 14, 2021, 05:28:20 PM by emptyanima »

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THE VESSEL: Part Three - A Vessel Broken
« Reply #6 on: November 14, 2021, 05:27:35 PM »
THE VESSEL: A Tale in Three Parts
Part Three: A Vessel Broken


Noémie, her beloved and her uncle converged upon the city streets, as though flung together by the machinations of higher powers. Her uncle was calm when they met, bidding the pair to follow him, that they might speak. It was only once they were out of view that the mask of calm slipped from Gregoire’s face, soon engulfed in storms of anger. The directness of his gaze caused Noémie to shudder.

He knew, and it leapt from his lips with a ferocity that left Noémie speechless. They had been witnessed by others. They had noted the depth of their shared gaze and the love that lingered in the corners of their smiles. In truth, they had betrayed themselves. Noémie fought to find the words to speak that might mend it all, to make it all vanish, but all she found were tears. Nothing she could say would make the situation any better; what would it profit her to speak the truth in its fullness; that she loved him with her whole heart, that their souls were as one, that she wished in dream to add his family’s name to her own. No, the truth would be used as a stick to beat him. The truth would only hurt her uncle more. Her lover’s discomfort overwhelmed her. Her uncle’s heartbroken rage disturbed her, and she crumbled.

“After Fleury… Alexandre… and Severine.. I thought you would be different,” Gregoire continued. “Selfishness is more common than I thought.”

The words were heavy on her soul, for it was the weight of her uncle’s disappointment. She was a Vaillant through and through, discovered to share the sickness of selfishness that consumed them. She was only going to add to the scandal. They would only sink lower…

The tears came as her beloved was sent away - she felt their joined souls begin to strain and weep at the impossibility of parting. To cut them apart was to leave them bleeding. She watched him as he fought the urge to speak. She watched him come to the same conclusion she had done - that there was nothing he could say.

She unlocked the door as the announcement of his firing yet rang around the room. She looked on helplessly as he passed through the threshold, at all the unspoken love and sorrow in his eyes, until he was gone. She sank against the door, her head rolling against the wood. She searched once more for the right words, but none were forthcoming.

“I promised your father I would find a husband deserving of you,” came Gregoire's stern voice once more. “I have. You will be marrying Monsieur Desrosiers. You deserve each other.”

“Uncle…” the word was more of a sob. He peered down at her, anger set into his features.

“I do not want to hear it. Open the door. I am done looking at you.”
The door slammed behind him with all the finality of a closing coffin. Noémie withdrew from the door, taking a few deep breaths while she searched for anything that might anchor her. There was only silence. She was alone. She gave in to the misery that enveloped her, throwing herself upon her bed and sobbing bitterly into her pillows.

She could scarcely find his scent on them anymore.

She wept until her voice died in her throat, hours after her tears had dried up.

--

Noémie Vaillant was alone.

She had made efforts to find and speak with her uncle that day. He barely looked at her. He spoke little. Where once he offered warmth and encouragement, she was met with cold silence. Even her name sounded icy in his mouth. The moniker dear niece was scratched forcibly out of his vocabulary.

She did not know how it was possible for a heart to break twice, so close together, but she felt it.

That night.

That night she asked him if he wished to join her at the Atelier for a small exhibition. She had meant to make a submission of her own, but the time had passed her by; there was no room for a happy excursion there. Her uncle made it clear that he did not wish her to attend unless she had an invitation.

She did not look at him after that. She tried to speak, but no replies came. When he departed for the showing, she took a short stroll, seeking some vain distraction to numb her pain. She stared up into the sky over the Savant for some hours. She watched the sunlight turn to sunset between the leaves of the great tree, ere the moonlight came.

Her absence was ended by a familiar voice. She looked up to see Brielle Desrosiers, and shortly thereafter, Eglantine and Emeric Desrosiers, the latter of whom was immaculately dressed - yet not even this could conceal the redness in his eyes.

“Mademoiselle Vaillant,” he greeted, “you are without flowers. This will not do.” He presented Noémie with a bouquet. She accepted with a grateful nod and small smile, though inwardly she was puzzled. I am not sure why he comes bearing such a token.

Noémie followed the arrangement of Desrosiers to the terraces, where they found the Marquis de Valey and the Baron de Duchbourg. They had clearly come into the middle of the conversation.

“Let us be done with this,” said Gregoire.

“You are sure?” asked the Marquis.

“I am certain.”

A brief exchange followed, a question over her cousin Fleury’s location.

“I shall meet you there,” said Gregoire.

“We will await you in the cathedral. Very well.” Such was the Marquis’ reply.

Noémie’s confusion remained. This seems a strange place to have a meeting. And why is Fleury invited?

As she entered with the others, the water droplets slipping through the damaged ceiling in the dark, the Marquis’ voice went up again.

“Not the most attractive space, but I understand this is important to you, Mademoiselle Vaillant.”
Her thoughtfulness continued. Why would this irreligious man take such considerations for this meeting? What sort of meeting must be held in the cathedral? Are we to go to confession-...

She froze as they neared the front of the church.

“The bride and groom have arrived, but we await her family.”

Noémie’s eyes widened. She tried to speak.

“The bri…” it came softly, dying in her throat.

“Wait,” murmured Emeric at her side, “haven’t you been told, mademoiselle?”

“N-no, I had not…” The words were soft and strained. Noémie could feel her heartbeat in her ears as they approached the pews. Was the Cathedral of the Sainted Mother always so dark? She took a few deep breaths. She paled and her complexion became clammy.

“Mademoiselle, come, come…” Emeric was offering her a hand, guiding her towards the altar. She took halting steps, as though it hurt to move, then drew another deep breath, trying to compose herself. Looking about the darkened chapel, she saw that the pews were all but empty. Emeric leaned a little closer to murmur to her. The words washed over her, as though she was underwater and beyond their hearing. Still, she searched the pews.

“Is my father coming? My brother? I… I didn’t get the chance to ask for Mama’s dress…” Her words came quickly and quietly.

“I don’t believe so, I’m afraid. The one you wear is nice though.”

Par Ezra! This was all wrong. She had promised her ailing Mama that she would wear her wedding gown when the day came, so that she might be present, even after her death. And her father… her father! How could he not be here? Had he not been told? Just what is happening...

“I’m sorry, Monsieur Desrosiers,” Noémie strained to speak, “I… I didn’t know this was today. I didn’t even know if it was… at all…”

“Likewise,” came his reply, “but this is where our mutual failings bring us, oui?”

She took another deep breath and fought desperately not to cry. Was this her uncle’s idea of punishment, to turn her duty into a cane with which to beat her? Was this a trap sprung to keep her in place like a hunted deer? Was she expected to flee, as Severine had done?

Emeric’s voice came soft but reassuring. While it did not come from the heart, his tone was well-constructed and his willpower strong. A hint of comfort came from it.

“Do you recall what I said to you and your uncle, when you came to the Salon to talk of this match?” Noémie strained to think but the whirring of her thoughts kept her from finding it.

“I… please forgive me, monsieur. It is hard to think at all.”

Emeric chewed his lower lip, just for a moment.

“I’ll just say, then, that I still consider you a worthy partner in endeavours.”

The room fell silent with Toret Pineau’s approach.

Noémie’s hand clutched her Ezrite amulet. It was as near to embracing her mother as she could manage. Pineau’s voice went up as he looked between them.

“You are Monsieur Emeric Desrosiers, and Mademoiselle Noémie Vaillant?”

“Yes-..” Noémie’s voice came in a meek sound. She cleared her throat. “Yes.”
Emeric offered the same reply.

“I will open the ceremony with a prayer,” continued Pineau.

Noémie felt the stares of the Baron de Duchbourg and the Marquis de Valey upon her. She dipped her head to pray, and took the opportunity in a time of closed eyes to let a little of the moisture trapped in them slip free. To her shame, she missed the prayer entirely. Her mind raced with the same questions. She felt more and more like a child each time his name came to the forefront of her thoughts.

Papa… where is papa?
I need him…
Where is he?
Please help me, papa…
Please.
I need you.
I miss you.
I want to go home…


She saw herself, much younger. A little child in form and face, her fair hair brushed a hundred times by Mama’s caring hand. She wished very much to be that child right now, away from all the pain and grief she felt. With her father, her mother, her brother, before everything went wrong.


But while there are spells to slow the flow of time, there was none that could reverse it. Though she was afraid, and lost, and she felt the stares upon her, she had to press on. She was a woman now, at eighteen. She had made her choices. They had brought her here. She was brought back from her escape into memory as the prayer ended.

“... in that spirit,” said Pineau, “if anyone knows of a reason these two should not be joined together, speak now.”

The silence swallowed up the chapel.
No escape would come here.
It only ended when Pineau continued the service.

“Emeric Desrosiers,” Pineau began, “will you have Noémie Vaillant to be your wedded wife -  will you love her, and honor her, keep her and guard her, in health and
in sickness, as a husband should a wife, and forsaking all others on account of her, keep only unto her, so long as you both shall live? Do you vow this before Ezra and all those gathered here?”

Emeric’s eyes rested upon Noemie's face, but not her eyes. Her ear received great scrutiny.

“I do,” said Emeric.

“Noémie Vaillant,” said Pineau, the final time this name would be hers. “Will you have Emeric Desrosiers to be your wedded husband -  will you love him, and honor him, keep him and guard him, in health and in sickness, as a wife should a husband, and forsaking all others on account of him, keep only unto him, so long as you both shall live? Do you vow this before Ezra and all those gathered here?”
Grégoire’s gaze sharpened upon her. She feared to look at him, to see the wedge between them, to see the coldness of his gaze. She did not look at Fleury; she did not wish for him to see the sorrow behind her eyes.

Instead, Noémie looked upon the man who would be her husband. Her gaze was not direct, lingering upon his brow instead of his eyes.

This was not the day for which she had been prepared. She had not been dressed and attended to in attaining the bride’s expected radiance. She had not been fastened into her departed mother’s gown. She had not been met with her father’s smile, or held his hand in hers as he led her to the altar. Her brother, Gabriel, was not there to see his sister undertake her most sacred duty.

There would be no such day for her.
This was it.

“I do.”

“Then in the name of Ezra, Our Guardian in the Mists, I pronounce you husband and wife. May She bless and keep you in your holy union. You may kiss the bride.”

Noémie heard Emeric inhale deeply, at that. She remained very still, as though holding, without thought, onto a breath.

There was no movement for some time.
Then, his voice came softly.

“It will be alright.”

Leaning forward, he placed a brief, soft peck on Noémie’s lips.

“Congratulations, Monsieur and Madame Desrosiers,” went Pineau.
Madame Desrosiers. Madame Noémie Desrosiers…

All the chatter which followed the ceremony, in its strained awkwardness, passed by in a blur as Noémie tried to process what had happened. She was married. She was married. Married at the wrong time, in the wrong place, without the right people, in the wrong dress…

She remembered her beloved’s face.
The next instant, he vanished - Noémie was drawn from her thoughts by her husband’s hand upon hers. He had a purpose in mind - her education. It was his wish to go straight to the university to see her enrolled, now that she was his.

“I am keeping my first promise to you.” He said.

They did not speak very much as they walked, but eventually some questions came. Questions that Noémie could not answer. She could not think anymore.

“Do we need to go another day?” Emeric asked.

“Could we, please?” The please brought with its utterance a hint of tears. Her husband studied her for a moment. At first, there was annoyance. Then came guilt. Then, concern. Noémie trembled.

“If- sorry…” The first sob escaped, stifled. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be.” Emeric looked at her with uncertainty. Then he closed his eyes, took a breath, and stepped forward to embrace her.

The well within Noémie burst - she wept into his shoulder.

--

Soon enough, they were alone together, properly, for the first time.

She carefully set her bouquet into a vase upon her windowsill, her treatment of it gentle and dutiful.

Their wedding night was mostly talk.

Their speech was honest. Messy. Full of all the secret hidden things which lay beneath those secrets already exposed.

They spoke of love. The pangs of their innermost hearts. Those for whom they wept. Those with whom their souls were tied.

They spoke of the love that accompanies duty, different, and calmer, and quieter as it was. It was not the blazing inferno of consuming surrender which had swept them into the arms of others, but one that was worked at and fought for, as was their mission.
They spoke of the children they would have.

Their honesty was a balm to Noémie’s trembling soul. For all the wrongness of the day, for all the scandal they worked to bury beneath it, their crimes of love had exposed them, one to another. What they had shown to one another was not born of love, but in the nakedness of their souls did they find deeper understanding and resolve.

Having seen so deeply beneath her husband’s skin, into his innermost heart, there was little to fear in the nakedness of flesh.

Gently, quietly and dutifully, Noémie and her husband became one.
« Last Edit: November 14, 2021, 07:55:03 PM by emptyanima »