primrosella | Quest 245

Quest 245

Oh, rats, it seems it's one of those weekends again, just the same as ever.

...Though come to think of it, we didn't have one of these weekends last month, did we? I do usually try to keep track of them as best I can, whether it's on the weekend itself or on the Monday just after, which seems to be one of the most constant things around here--that the Monday after a weekend like this will never have a curse on it, as though it's meant to be a respite after a whole weekend of trouble. And most every month I say the same thing--that it's one of those weekends again--but now that I think about it, I don't recall saying so last month. Did we miss one, along the way?

Last month was rather strange in itself, though, since we don't often have curses one right after the other, either. And of course, a random weekend like this is two days of curses, one right after the other, so perhaps the two have something to do with each other, after all. It's something to think about, in any case.

The good news is, I seem to have drawn a rather harmless curse today, and one that I've had before, though not...er, precisely in this sense. I do think I look quite nice, though, even if black isn't exactly my color of choice. And of course, the hat is just lovely as well. I suppose I'll have to take care not to let any children knock it off with snowballs, though, won't I? I hear that's rather one of the hazards of having a hat like this, after all.

~~The bad news is, I think I know exactly whose clothes these are, which means--~~

Oh, and I know it's a bit late, but thank you again to everyone who came to the arcade earlier this week! I had a lovely time, and it was great fun seeing all of you. It's always a fine thing to take time out and enjoy oneself, isn't it? And it's always so easy to focus on the bad things in life, so it's good to stop and remember once in a while to look at the good ones, too. And I'm so very glad for that.

Arthur, I know we'd planned for a meeting today, and I've been looking forward to it very much; I do hope you'll forgive that I'm dressed a bit...unusually, today. And of course, I hope you haven't found yourself cursed today either--though if you have, it's no trouble at all to arrange a different time, of course. As I mentioned earlier, the Mondays that follow these sorts of weekends are usually guaranteed to be free of curses. Or at least, as much as anything can be guaranteed in a place like the City.

And Miss Philomena, when you have a moment, I'd like very much to show you the--well, I think it's a rune, but I'm not quite sure, actually. I suppose it might be a sigil or a hieroglyph, just the same, but in any case, it's quite odd and I'd very much like to know what it is.

[OOC: And the name of the game is Wardrobe Switch! Specifically, she's traded clothes with Cain today, which means she's running around looking something like this. Fab Victorian gear, ho!]

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[ Nigel shuts his eyes for a moment, if only to better picture the memory in his mind's eye. His mother, there, seated at her vanity and him (still a young boy) seated at her feet or (a young man) silhouetted in the doorway behind her. His hands twitch instinctively once where they're resting, folded in his lap. ]

One braid, down the back. The end of which she'd pin to the top of her head. It made her hair look a bit like the mouth of a seashell. I would hold up a small hand mirror for her so she could see.

I think yours is a bit too long for that, I'm afraid, but we'll make it look nice, just the same.

[Which isn't to imply that she thinks he wants to be taken for pretty, today, and it only occurs to her afterward that he might take it as such. From Rosella's perspective, it's merely a question of looking one's best, for whatever definition of "best" fits most at the time.

She makes quick work of finishing his part, then takes up one side and divides it into strands, beginning to whip it into a tight, efficient braid.]

She sounds very nice, your mother.

[ Somewhere in the back of his mind, Nigel is vaguely aware that this isn't normal. To be a girl when the day before you'd been a boy, for one thing. But then also to have simply accepted it, at least enough to allow one's roommate to go about braiding one's hair. And then to reminisce over the memory of one's dead mother on top of that -- a mother that he'd murdered himself, no less. ]

He was very nice. Very kind. Too generous, I think, for myself and my father to deserve her. [ A pause, long and drawn-out the way Nigel's pauses usually are. But this one is pointedly different because there is the hint of regret to it. A sentiment he's never truly expressed before. ] You remind me of her, you know. With all your kindness.

[When she finishes the first braid, she secures the ends with one of her elastics and then moves on to the other, repeating the motions.]

I'm...very flattered you think so. It's quite an honor, reminding you of someone you care about so very much.

[ Nigel turns his head slightly to watch Rosella has she goes about braiding the second half of his hair. Unlike the staring of a moment ago, this time the look in his eyes is different; it is not flatly unnerving or openly predatory. Just quiet inquisitiveness, something akin to boyishness which slips from his expression when he finally looks away. He's silent for a while before saying: ]

My father killed her.

[It's easy enough to work around the turning of his head, and it doesn't bother her much when he does; however, at the spoken revelation, the braid drops from her fingers as she jumps, startled. Of all the things she might've been expecting--]

He what?

[ Nigel stares at the painting of Rosella and her family, hung there on the wall above where he's seated. His voice is elusive, the hands in his lap giving another restless twitch. ]

He shot her. [ Those hands then rise and press absently against the front of Nigel's shirt, just below where the buttons threaten to pop, the very center of his torso. ] Just here.

[She takes an unconscious step back, eyes wide--but of course, her first thought doesn't go to guns, but to arrows, and a time when she once shot someone's mother, herself. That Nigel is so apparently calm about it, so quiet, leaves her speechless.]

[ It's the step back that makes Nigel turn to look at Rosella again with those cold eyes of his. There is something moving behind them, some sort of sentiment too vague and unmanaged to properly place. Disgust for his father, regret for his mother, irritation that -- for all their hard work -- he had found himself here and unable to claim his prize. Maybe it's all of these things, or maybe it's none of them, but Nigel's eyes shimmer and shine with something as finally the corners of his mouth turn downward to form something of a scowl. ]

I saw it.

[ I did it. The one who put the gun in his hand was me. But he'd never say those things, no, never. ]

I--

[She has one hand clapped over her mouth, still reeling as Nigel turns to look at her--and it's only made worse by the emotions shifting behind his eyes. Death in itself would've been bad enough, and murder still worse, but for it to have happened between his father and his mother...

She's always known full well that the relative peace of her family life at home makes her something of an oddity here in the City. She's had plenty of friends who have loathed their fathers, and most of them for good reason. But even so, the very thought of one parent murdering another--no, she can hardly imagine it. Not in contrast to her own parents, looking down over the scene from their portrait on the wall.]

I'm--I'm so sorry...

[ Nigel blinks, his eyes feel wet but he's not crying -- no, he hasn't done that since he was a child -- and his face feels flushed with something like exertion. Feelings did that to him, sometimes, made him feel as if he'd just run up and down a very steep flight of stairs. Winded, he looks away again and lowers his head, a hand coming up to touch the end of the unfinished braid. ]

You remind me of her so very much at times. [ Not good for you, Rosella, Nigel knows. Not good at all.

He looks at her again. ] Don't be afraid.

[Rosella isn't exactly sure what to do, in that moment. Her instinct is to hold him, try to offer some semblance of comfort, something. But answers that would suffice in Daventry so seldom work here, and it makes her second-guess herself. So she stays frozen, feeling lost, and searches for words, even though none of them seem to come.]

I'm sorry...I didn't know, I--

[And she casts an unconscious glance up at her family's portrait, unthinkingly, before quickly averting her eyes back to the ground.]

You mustn't apologize anymore, [ he says, a bit of finality in his voice now. Not a hard edge, but perhaps the beginning of one. A passing sadness giving way to what could be anger -- but still, so subdued and so far from the surface. Nigel sees her glance away and then follows the directions her eyes had gone until his attention lands squarely on her painting again. ]

Those who should be sorry, are.

[ In those last moments of his father's life, Nigel could see that he did regret. It was, perhaps, the most glorious moment of his life. ]

[She swallows hard, nodding slightly; it's less to do with the fact that she wants to stop apologizing and more to do with the fact that she's responding to that finality in his tone; she won't press an issue she's been specifically told to drop, and certainly not one of that severity.

And now it's her turn to fidget, her hands fumbling a bit, and at last she motions toward the half-finished braid already coming loose at the side of his head.]

I...ought to finish that...

[ Nigel touches the braid again, feels where it's begun to unravel, but instead of offering the braid to Rosella so that she can finish, he rises to his feet. Where normally he might tower over her slightly the two of them are now eye-to-eye. Decidedly not Nigel's face, not his mouth of his cheekbones, but still the eyes remain the same. ]

Have I made you uncomfortable again, Rosella?

Not uncomfortable, no. [Yes.] Just...sad. And sorry, for your sake, that such unfortunate things have happened. And I wish there were something I could do to...

[But she trails off, as it suddenly occurs to her that she's probably babbling. It's less intimidating to face Nigel like this when his face isn't the one she still harbors a secret fear of, but his eyes haven't changed, nor the way he looks at her.]

I hate that I can't help, that's all.

You're here. With me. [ It seems as though Nigel is choosing his words very carefully. Though whether this is for Rosella's sake or his own is unclear. ] And you and I are alive.

[ His gazes takes a beeline path across her features, up towards the crown of her head and then down one side only to travel up the other. ]

That counts for something, doesn't it? Small mercies. You must find them where they lie.

[There's something about the way he says it that resonates with her more emphatically than she'd expected--because isn't it the same thing she's been telling herself for a week, a month, nearly half a year, in the wake of so many friends leaving? Losing a mother is far more powerful than losing a friend, but still, he's right that there's something to it. It's harder to focus on the loss, and much easier to try to find the good in what one has left. She knows how that is. She's been doing it herself for a long time now.]

My father...he nearly died, just a day before I came here, and so whenever I hear about something like that...

[But she shakes her head quickly, determined not to think about it.]

You're exactly right. Small mercies are better than none, and they do add up, too.

[ Nigel wants to tell Rosella that her father will be there, waiting for her, whenever she returns back to Daventry. Just the same way he knows his mother and father will be waiting for him, back at his house in Leeds, whenever he leaves this place too. His parents, his Maraclea and his Jack. Patience was all that was needed, the readiness for it.

Although he doesn't say it, the sentiment shows in his expression and his eyes before he reaches out and very lightly touches Rosella's elbow, urging her finish that second braid.

No more talk of dead mothers and dying fathers, today. But that Nigel has confided these things in her are no small thing. No, they are more dangerous to Rosella than perhaps she is capable of understanding. Somewhere in Nigel Colbie a door has been open that he is not certain he wishes to shut anymore. ]

If you'd be as so kind, Rosella.

[She nods very slightly, forcing her mind away from the way her father had looked, hovering on the brink of death in his bed, and turns her thoughts back to the simple, habitual motions of braiding hair. What remains of the braid is a mess, but not beyond being salvaged; working quickly, she combs the strands with her fingers and then returns to braiding them, fingers only fumbling slightly when the time comes to secure it at the end.]

Sit back down, I'll...I'll pin them up for you.

[As she returns to her table once more, rummaging for stray hairpins.]

[ Nigel complies easily, dropping back down onto the edge of Rosella's bed, concentrating on how it feels to have the weight dip beneath her, the contents of the bed shifting ever-so-slightly in his direction. His attention turns back to that painting of hers, those smiling regal faces of her family. A son, a daughter and two parents. What a family, Nigel muses to himself, what a life. ]

Saya's offered she take me out to buy my own shoes, can you believe that? [ He can tell already the shoes offered to him by Rosella won't fit. Her feet are far too wide. ]

I can, very much so. She's very kind that way, Miss Saya.

[Which is far more ironic than she realizes, but when one comes from a world where evil is always accompanied with red eyes and a cruel demeanor, it's much easier to miss the more subtle forms. She finds her pins and returns to the bedside, twisting the braids up and around Nigel's head as she speaks. It's familiar, the motions of shaping them into the simple but elegant style that she usually wears herself when she intends to busy herself with work, and pleasant in its own way. Then, once she has them neatly arranged, she begins to secure them with her pins.]

She gave me a whole outfit to wear the other night when I went out, and needed something modern for the club. And she wouldn't take it back afterward, either, and insisted I keep it as a gift. She's really very lovely that way.

[ Nigel smirks this time, doesn't smile, at another passing thought. It was odd, the company he kept in the Warehouse. Rosella in all of her proper politeness and Saya with all of her jarring directness. Two women could not be more opposite -- one so inherently good and the other not quite evil, but most certainly a creature of instinct and impulse. And what strange impulses they were. Nigel had only sneaking suspicions, though, only carefully worded conversations. ]

Mm, yes, [ he says, low and predatory again, a touch of bemusement there in his tone. ] Quite lovely. I've never met a woman like her.

She's very unique.

[And more importantly, Sam thought highly of her, which in Rosella's book is about as solid a reference as one can get. Even if, unbeknownst to Rosella, Sam's praise may have been more closely tied to her physical appearance than her demeanor.]

There, you should be done. Does it feel all right?

[ A hand creeps up the back of Nigel's head, deft fingertips feeling their way lightly up the length of the braids as they rise and coil together. Not really one for prettiness, per say, he can appreciate a job well done. Which, he can already tell, Rosella has managed. He looks up at her, smiling faintly. ]

I appreciate you doing this for me.

[ It's clear he's speaking about more than just the hair. ]

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primrosella.livejournal.com - 2011-01-16 08:56 (UTC) - Expand

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Quest 245

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