Within the Swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies

Cécila-Valentina Von Chéreau- Scripts Between Socialites

(1/1)

TherapyCat:

[Two women, bound by the tether of time, find solace in a common pastime. Regardless of the day's temperament - be it fraught, banal, jubilant, solemn or infuriating - they each retreat to their quiet corner, quill poised above parchment, their hearts transcribing their most intimate thoughts... their minds whispering to their souls. Could this shared ritual be the solitary thread weaving their fates together...?]






[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]



Spoiler: show
--- Quote ---May 4th, 752

An uncanny sensation, indeed. Or should I say...odd? The theatre, my dear refuge, has tutored me in the intricate dance of decorum, particularly amidst the illustrious echelons of society. Yet, as I pirouette at the epicenter of this grand masquerade, I can't help but trip over my own two feet. The gilded cage of nobles and social butterflies...do they truly desire honesty? Or merely the dulcet tones of flattery, polished and refined like a well-cut diamond? It's a bitter pill, this pretense, yet I swallow it for my beloved Claude. He revels in this world like a peacock in full bloom. Relishing the spotlight on his ventures, basking in the applause, the finery, the decadent banquets, the silken suits...and how they not just recognize his name, but kneel before it with reverence. I can only implore the heavens that this intoxicating brew of adulation doesn't spoil him...for oh, how I would mourn the loss of the earnest lad from the Marchand who serenaded me with a clover ring. Despite his newfound wealth in gemstones, I contend – to anyone who dares lend an ear – that my humble clover remains the most coveted jewel of them all...

On the cusp of an autumn eve, as dusk unfurled its cloak, the echoes of our union reverberated... An event of humble semblance, it was. Discarded candles, their lives half-spent, now found renewed purpose, casting an ethereal glow upon the shoreline... I, arrayed in the spectral echoes of my mother's own bridal attire, rendered white once more, not for deception, but a nod to tradition... Claude, in a suit borrowed not from a friend, but a benefactor, his workman's garb momentarily set aside... Weeds, plucked from the edge of the woods, transformed into an unassuming bouquet of rustic charm...
Only two souls bore witness... Melodie, my kin in blood and spirit, and Gabriel claude’s dearest friend...The melody of my own composition served as my march, carrying me across the sands, toward the sea's tender cradle... The joining of hands, a silent testament to our bond...
The vows, oh, the vows... Just three promises, no more, no less... Was Claude undeserving of a grander pledge? No, it was not a question of his worth, but one of honesty... of realism... Could I promise him the universe? Perhaps... But I feared it was he who had already bestowed it upon me...

I vow to cherish the tender sentiment of love, from its initial spark... to the final flicker of life's candle...
I pledge my fidelity, as if my heart and sight were blind to the existence of another...
I assure to preserve my authenticity, so the woman you fell for... remains an indelible memory...

In the grand scheme of our existence, we found ourselves immortalizing the moment with a tender kiss... amongst other sentimentalities. Why, one might wonder, does this particular day awaken such an emotional landscape within my heart? Claude's return, imminent as it is, looms near...I should prepare ‘something’ for him indeed.

--- End quote ---





[Within cyan colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

(tw: Curse Words In Song))

Spoiler: show
--- Quote ---June 19th, 779

I watched a wedding today. It was what I imagine an shot to heart must feel like indeed.  Quite honestly, I am not being dramatic when I state I wish me dear brother was here to SHOOT Me. There was no love.I find myself questioning my capacity to love a man, yet I had hoped to at least witness the enchanting spectacle of two individuals deeply in love uniting in matrimony. However, the reality of the marriage institution seemed far from the romanticized image I held.
The ceremony, rather than a lavish celebration, felt more like a tribute to Ezra, not that I hold any animosity towards her. She is perfectly agreeable, I suppose. Nevertheless, I had anticipated an opulent display of beauty – roses, silks, melodious music, shimmering gemstones, and heartfelt declarations. Regrettably, such grandeur was notably absent.
Is this to be my destiny? To wed a man I neither know nor care for, in a dimly lit cathedral or a solemn manor? Am I fated to a life of yearning without fulfillment? My father once regaled me with tales of his toil to ensure I lacked for nothing. Alas, it appears I may be more self-centered than he had initially surmised, for what I yearn for transcends mere material possessions.
Gabriel, with his conceited demeanor, trivializes the sanctity of marriage. He seems to regard the act of marriage lightly, perhaps owing to his indiscriminate attraction to all he encounters.

The bride-to-be seemed to harbor a deep disdain for her impending union, yet resigned herself to it like a gradual, corrosive poison. Her groom exhibited a similar lack of enthusiasm as if their only shared emotion was mutual despondency.
I have attended countless weddings akin to this one... Is there truly no alternative solution?

--- End quote ---

TherapyCat:
[two women, write again.. and again.. as if this is the only place where their shared voices can exist between time, unedited.]




[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]


Spoiler: show
--- Quote ---December 3rd, 752
The art of secret-keeping, alas, is a skill not bestowed upon me... a woman stripped of the capability to shroud truths under layers of deceit. In those yonder days, when simplicity reigned supreme, our lives were but an open book, guilelessly narrated. Was I not a humble waitress at the Broken Spire not too long ago? An existence uncomplicated, yet one that allowed for the sweetest of human connections... including the fortuitous encounter with my dear Claude.
Enter, the realm of aristocracy. Herein, I am graced with the begrudging attention of the noblewomen, their tongues laced with whispers and innuendos, delicately veiled beneath the guise of casual discourse. Could I, too, be the subject of such clandestine chatter in my absence? The discernment between idle prattle and venomous barbs, alas, eludes me. With the shackles of laborious work cast aside, the days have stretched out into a yawning expanse of ennui. Yet, the thought of voicing this discontentment is abhorrent... For, has not Claude worked himself to the bone for our current prosperity?
The stage... The unforgiving brilliance of the spotlight, the deafening roar of the crowd, the intoxicating adulation... Yet, as the seed of our love blossoms within me, Claude deems it fitting for me to retreat from this dazzling world, to conserve my spirit for the impending chapter. The prospect of motherhood fills me with joy, genuine and profound. While the world may yearn for a son, my heart whispers a different wish... A daughter. A young maiden named Valentina, a moniker laced with promise and sweetness, a beacon of hope for a resplendent future. A life unlike mine, abounding with endless possibilities for her to shape and mold. She will ascend to heights that transcend my wildest fantasies...
A radiance, I am sure, will emanate from within her, that no force in the universe can extinguish.
[/i]
--- End quote ---

[Within cyan colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]

Spoiler: show
Spoiler: show
--- Quote ---June 20th, 779
I find it challenging to keep secrets. Surely, Gabriel has to fathom the essence of my identity. Part of me believes that my father might also be aware. I have declined eight marriage proposals, disguising them as unsuitable matches. It is no longer believed to feign ignorance; they must have some inkling and choose to disregard my reservations about men. Though "aversion" may seem harsh, I do not detest them. I recently encountered a particularly kind man. While kindness is not rare, his was exceptional—gentle, with a sincere and soft-spoken nature that resonated within me. Yet, even with his virtues, I hesitate. Despite his admirable qualities and status, I still hesitate. This hesitation perplexes me. Why do I pause? Why do I falter? Why am I unable to embody the powerful, radiant force my mother envisioned me to be? If only she spent more time with me beyond a fleeting moment, she might realize that I fall short of her expectations. I perceive myself as feeble, indecisive, lacking brilliance—I smolder with envy, doubt, and an underlying self-loathing.
Mother, I have discovered the allure of the theater, yet I fear the city will soon turn its back on me, indifferent to my endeavors.
This facade, this performance, is draining.
--- End quote ---

TherapyCat:
[two women, write again.. and again.. as if this is the only place where their shared voices can exist between time, unedited.]




[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]


Spoiler: show
--- Quote ---April 13th, 760

This gestation carries an air of distinction... I can sense it. An inexplicable frailty has seized me, as though this unborn child siphons my vitality, my allure, my prime. An antiquated tale suggests that such is the toll of bearing a daughter. I chaffed at the jest, for I refuse to believe my girl would knowingly exact such a cost. Yet, a girl is my secret hope, for I already have my cherished Cedric. Such a luminous soul... He has mastered his alphabet and has developed an unlikely fascination for cartography. Cartography, of all things! Is that not utterly charming?
In my youth, Claude and I had no luxury to indulge in such quaint hobbies, bound as we were to labor from a tender age. The relentless pace of our early years has rendered Claude incapable of repose. His absence stretches into infinity as I find myself confined in Waterford. A fair enough locale, but I find my gaze irresistibly drawn to the river's endless flow. Bereft of music, stages, and lights, companionship is a scarce commodity in these parts.
I yearn for the companionship of a kindred spirit.
Most days, it is just Cedric and me. As much as I dote on him, I am bereft of knowledge in the realm of maps. And the dear boy, I know, craves companionship of his own.
As I ponder the birth of my second child, I wonder... If I recover my strength, would Claude permit a return to the stage? I fear... the relentless march of time might cause the stage lights to forget me...
Or worse, I could forget them.
--- End quote ---


[Within cyan colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]



Spoiler: show
--- Quote ---July 28th, 779

I rediscovered my love for dancing while choreographing my upcoming musical on the softly illuminated stage, with only the theater staff present as silent witnesses. Their focus was not on me but on the theater itself – the curtains, shadows, lights, benches, doorways, and windows. This absence of scrutiny allowed me to dance without fear of judgment. I strayed from the prescribed choreography, dancing freely for the first time in years. It was a departure from the structured and disciplined nature of ballet, where the fundamentals are honed for the eventual moment of unrestrained expression akin to the flight of birds.
In my youth, dancing brought simplicity to my life. I possessed a slender frame and garnered admiration effortlessly. During that ephemeral period, my peers found me captivating, while Gabriel remained untouched by the turmoil of war. His eyes still held a brightness that eclipsed any gem, making him my cherished beacon. The notion of acquiring a suitor was then a jest, a distant reminder of future obligations, not a daily imposition. My father found joy in observing my dances, considering them a mere pastime to occupy my restless mind, rather than a lifelong aspiration. Surrounded by acquaintances who knew my name, strolling arm in arm back from the ballet house felt akin to having a companion.
I so desperately long for a friend.
Not someone I employ, or someone who wants a part in the next play I write, or to take a moment of passion from me,  but a genuine friend.
It is intriguing, isn't it? Somewhat morbidly so. My mother and Ezra bestowed upon me a lifelong friend; we developed in the same womb, born only 6 minutes apart. Yet, now it seems as though he is a stranger to me.
What transpired during those six minutes?
What unfolded during the war?
What became of Gabriel?
--- End quote ---

[/center]

TherapyCat:

[Within a salmon colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled heart design.]

Spoiler: show

--- Quote ---August 1st, 760

The physician predicts yet  a scant few months before our second child bestows upon us its presence. How I yearn for something as humble as a disheveled abode, rather than this grand suite in Waterford... A dwelling in disrepair could be molded into a sanctuary, a safe haven. Amidst our ceaseless wanderings, the sensation of home grows ever elusive... Given a domicile of our own, I’d drape the walls in the warm embrace of salmon hues, and sprinkle the ceilings with tiny celestial bodies for my little ones to marvel at.
Perhaps it is folly, yet I am convinced the child will be a girl... a connection, profound and ineffable, already exists between us. Could it be the whims of womanly intuition? The truth remains shrouded, yet within the cavern of my heart, her existence is as tangible as the morning dew. A son will bear the mantle of heir, but a daughter... she will be my own, to nurture, to share laughter, to sing, to confide tales of hardship only we could comprehend... An intimate bond of friendship, I envisage, will blossom between us.

One can only hope she inherits my fondness for pink...
--- End quote ---


[Within cyan-colored leather bound notebook embellished with a bejeweled star design.]


Spoiler: show


--- Quote ---August 10th, 779
I’m barely sleeping anymore, every time I attempt, I hear this soft, yet shrill echo lamenting through the walls of the hotel room. It sounds so familiar, so intricately warm, and yet I have not the slightest inclination of why it is happening. When I awake, I see nothing out of the ordinary, other than this dairy is always open to an empty page, and the quill is slightly escew. But there is never any other writings upon it other than my own.... I wonder if I have been so busy lately that it is simply my own exhaustion playing tricks on me. And assuming Gabriel is trying to toy with me is never out of the question.
 
Yet something about it seems odd. Purposeful.

I think the majority seemed to enjoy the play. It is always so hard to tell. When I was younger and performing in the ballets, people would smile, dip their heads. They would say nice things, but mere moments after I would see them turn and mutter lowly amongst themselves as they spared fleeting glances to me. I could tell they didn’t truely believe a woman of my waistline deserved to be there. And for the longest time, I believed them.
Perhaps a part of myself still believes them.

Some ginger woman didn’t enjoy it. She harbored some disdain because she thought it to be a parrel to some criminal named Dove. I never knew a woman named after a bird. It was hard to hold my tongue. The play of course, had many parrels, none of course to a stranger delinquent I had never met.
Aimee was me in many ways. Not fitting into the traditional look and allure of a performer. Doing what she loved, despite her father's wishes. Her father desperately misses his wife and limits the life his daughter could have because of it. Aimee’s mother being missing was a game of grief I used to play as a child. Hoping that somehow my own was not dead, but just.. misplaced somewhere and creating scenarios of where she might have been. The Macabre nature of it, was purely for shock value. I wanted to garner attention. I wanted them to remember this play, for whatever it might have been. The delicate aesthetic of it all, the mention of lace, sweet-tasting pastries, the color palette, all of it was a nod to the force of feminity that has been pushed upon me my entire life.

It wasn’t a parrel to a criminal.

It was a parallel to me.

I didn’t intend to perform. I wrote the play so I wouldn’t have to perform, but here we are I suppose. Figures. The stage light was brighter than I remember. Lines were easier to learn at least, when one writes the script I find, and my castmates were supportive, overwhelmingly so. I want to believe that perhaps I could stem friendships from this comradery, but my father would warn me to be smarter than that. “Allies, not friends” he’d remind me if he was here.

I’m grateful he’s not here.
--- End quote ---

Navigation

[0] Message Index