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A funeral in the Duchy of Ardal.
She had expected it to rain, that God would weep with her. But God was smiling, the sun shining brighter that day than in months. Mother said it was because He was happy Arthur was joining Him in heaven, but she couldn't help feeling He was beaming down at her in spite.
It had taken five days to recover his body. Five days of him lying down in the mud while the squadron he spoke so vividly of ran off to fight another battle. It was a disgrace. How could the Honorable Arthur Shanley be forgotten by the people he trusted? The son of an Earl! A Viscount! The first of his name.
And now Ethalind Shanley, now the sole heir to Rothan, a Viscountess born of tragedy, would bite back her tongue, wishing that her brother would return, that everything would go back to normal and that these mean-spirited people who gossiped about him would just leave...
--
Her eyes would meet his in a painting that stood above the mantle, in the hall where people once celebrated, but now gave their most sincere condolences. She could almost feel their eyes on her, judging her every move. Is this what it was like? To be the heir?
It was no wonder he wanted to escape.
Ethalind would blink, letting the tears fall down her face.
He supposed arriving late was better than never. His travels hadn't been the best, not since he had made his leave from Ahjfeld. That place was a mess, and the templars he had been stationed with had been slaughtered. It had already been reported he was the sole survivor, and after returning to the capital, and to the order of St. Agratha, he was set for a leave.
'Treat it like a vacation'- he wasn't even sure what to make of that. But traveling to a funeral was not on the top of the things on his list he would have considered a 'vacation'. He was still healing, his leg was something he still limped upon (but he supposed he ought to be grateful he still had the limb). But Kentamin Dhelsbar was still a priest, and also still the son of a nobleman from Matron's hollow. And his father had good relations with the Shanley family. His brother had married one of the dukes sisters and similar matches had been known to go on throughout his family and the Shanley's for a few generations now.
Kentamin had been the exception. Being a priest, he renounced any titles inherited to him, and any obligations he may have had to marry. If he were bitter about the option, he never said it. He had never been one partial to the idea of marriage anyway. After all, one of the few girls he had liked growing up, he had found out, had been a mage. And that was that. he never considered much into match making or love outside of that.
That was, until he met Olive. But he'd rather forget about her forever, if he could.
So he supposed a funeral was a good a place as any. And the sun was shining. A pity. At least when he'd read from the book of Ansgar for the family, it would be in the rain. And at least his travels were dampened by any rain at all. In fact, not a single day in his few weeks travel did it rain at all. He was, in fact, lucky on that account, and not to have any distractions befall him during his travels.
Kentamin was rather sure bad luck stuck to him like glue, and his countenance looked miserable. He rarely smiled anymore, and even when he did, giving the Shanley family gentile nods- there was still not much warmth to it.
War had not been kind to the boy. And now, becoming a young man, it still was not being kind in shaping who he had still yet to be.
Everyone was in black here. He faired the same, wearing a family crest pinned across his form to keep his travel cape secure as he stepped into the house. He removed his hat and continued to bow to the family in paying his respects. When he got into the main hall, he paused to observe the large painting of the late Arthur Shanley.
"Ansgar gained another great soldier in heaven," he told the girl standing nearest the painting. She, of course, could only be Ethalind. Athur had only one sister, and the last time Kentamin had ever seen her, she had been a wiry little thing with frizzy hair. She had grown up to be a woman now, that much he could see, and from what he could presume, she'd marry well. No doubt, if her famly hadn't married her off already, with her brothers death, they'd surely be more adamant in finding her a match.
He bowed at the waist towards Ethalind before raising his cool blue eyes to her.
"I'm sorry for your loss, milady. in time, God heals all our wounds."
Ethalind nodded gently as she turned to face the priest, clutching her wrist at it fell at her skirt.
"I hope that is the case. Sir Kentamin. My father told me you traveled all the way from Ahjfeld to get here. I cannot put in words how grateful I am that you came." She smiled primly, her eyes sparkling as they matched his.
"We met at your brother's wedding. I remember you helped me find my doll," she'd say, chuckling slightly as she rested her hand delicately upon the mantle. In silence, her gaze would shift to the intricacies of the frame beside her, before returning to the priest in a moment of consciousness.
"You were kind to me then, as you are today," she remarked, her tone imbued with quiet strength. So much had changed since they last met, but Ethalind was grateful that he had held onto what was most important.
It had not been a particularly long trip, if you were strictly counting the days passed. If it was the actual feeling of time passing that was being measured, though, it had been interminable; nearly a week spent on horseback, with nearly a day by itself spent picking their way through the treacherous mountain passes until they had come into the more navigable foothills of Highheart. At first, the journey had been more of an adventure than a trial; so rarely did the group leave the mountains, and almost never with just such a noble party, that a feeling of high celebration had wrapped itself around the travelers - which lasted approximately into the third morning of travel.
Margaery Grey was neither particularly good at holding her tongue, nor dealing with disappointment. While not an outright brat, she had been raised gently, and as the pet of her father, had rarely gotten any way but her own. As such, when her favorite mare had strained her fetlock on the third day and forced them to go at a slower pace to the next village, her temper had not been much improved by the burning sun, the interminable insects, or the aching in her back. Not to mention, they'd had to leave her darling Quicksilver at that filthy stable, with instructions for the groom to catch the party up after she had been properly treated. Her father had been quite insistent that they didn't have the time to wait up for the mare to heal, and she'd been put on some inferior nag instead. Hardly the proper entrance for the daughter of a baron, she'd thought snottily, and had bullied her maid into switching horses with her. It wasn't the graceful fortune of horseflesh she'd preferred, but better than the short-backed creature they'd been forced to take.
The rest of the journey had been relatively uneventful, and though Margaery found the lump of homesickness under her breast both surprising and expected, she was eager to get to their destination. She'd only been once to see the Earl of Rothan, but that hardly counted; she'd barely been more than three or so, and her father had brought her to meet her Aunt Elizabeth, the Countess of Rothan. She knew that she had a cousin of roughly her age, too, and was certainly curious to meet the lady in question. Surely the matter of their inheritance had nothing to do with it, she added to herself austerely, black-gloved hand sweeping away a curling strand of red hair that had fallen from its pins under the froth of black lace that brushed just to the edge of her cheekbones.
Her clothes were simple enough, though well-made: a long-sleeved black satin gown, its startlingly-low neckline covered primly with a length of black lace that her mother had insisted upon, which was echoed along the lower portion of her sleeves, falling in shadowy fashion from her elbows, and along the hem of her gown, brushing over calfskin-and-leather slippers. In true Margaery fashion, she had dressed as though she wanted every eye to be on her - even at this, her cousin's funeral. She looked every inch a ghostly vision, done up in fire and milk-white skin, and she rather knew it. It was a pity that her mother hadn't let her bring the dark navy gown, though, she thought a bit acerbically.
Though she'd have to acknowledge that she had probably met her match in her cousin, she thought musingly from her mother's side - provided, of course, that the strawberry-fair girl in deepest mourning was actually the Viscountess. Deftly extricating herself from her mother's pinching fingers, she crossed the room with a whisper of silk, heading straight for her cousin, who had been joined by a strong-jawed young man. She flicked her eyes briefly over him, though it wasn't surprising that she didn't recognize him on sight; she hadn't met very many others of her class, as isolated as she lived.
Margaery waited politely for the both of them to come to a natural lull in conversation, then stepped forward, her face composed in a mask of polite concern. She shifted into her cousin's line of sight, stepping more fully forward, though she could practically hear her mother's irritated huffing in her head; extending on hand, she made a move to place it on the dark sleeve of the other girl's gown. Dipping her head slightly to the man beside them, she instead shifted her attention to the daughter of the house. "Forgive my intrusion, but you must be Cousin Ethalind. My father's told me much of your family." She paused for a moment, then offered a delicate grimace of something like grief, eyes downcast. "My Lord Father and Lady Mother and I have all come to offer our condolences. I can't imagine the pain you must be going through," she added, after having made a small sweeping gesture toward her father, indicating their shared blood. After a moment, she puffed out a breath, the sound faintly reproachful at herself. "But excuse my manners! You probably won't know me from Ansgar. I'm your cousin, Margaery Grey." She forbore to add her title; for now, while she was sizing the other girl up, she thought it best to be quite informal.
[ooc: sorry it's a bit long and a bit clunky!]
@Glorilyss @Spicyspice Ethalind would nod stiffly as the girl announced her relations. She was too young to remember ever meeting Margaery, but she was grateful for her kind words. Whether or not she actually meant them, however, was unknown to her.
In these times of grief and agitation, Ethalind saw people putting up walls and testing each other's loyalty. She saw this in her father, speaking amongst his men, his eyes shaking with suspicion and a fear she had never seen in him. She saw this in her mother when she grabbed her by the shoulders and scolded her for wanting to pursue a life outside of what was given to her.
But worst of all, she saw it in herself, glancing at this girl's attire like she was hiding a thousand knives under her skirt.
"Of course... Margaery. Such kind words. It is a shame I had not met you before today."Ethalind was growing colder it seemed, and she was beginning to grow acutely aware of the fact. In a moment of realization, she'd suddenly grasp her cousin's shoulders and place her cheek gently on hers, as is a custom in the west, and hoped that she'd accept this contact as a sign of familiarity.
At the arrival of another lady, Kentamin clasped his hands behind his back and let his eyes wander, though there was nothing in particular in which he looked. Long had the days been where he had to oblige such propriety but the lessons grown were not forgot. In light of the war, it would serve no one well to forget their roots, and Kentamin clutched onto his noble blood line when he could.
His parents had always reminded him that he was a Dhelsbar, and though it was a bit off putting a male and heir potential had joined the church, Kentamin had been determined.
For now, he'd let the ladies speak, and scoff inwardly at the idea he had been referred to as kind. Rare was it spoken of him and at him, and he wasn't sure the words were worth more than that. But these were true ladies, frail things spared from the war.
Margaery had always been a fair hand at picking up on the subtleties of emotions, and most faces had become like books to her. While there were certainly many people who had masks far too thick for her young eyes to see beyond, Margaery could sense the hint of.. something like reservation behind Ethalind's polite face. Not to mention the barest hint of cold suspicion that brushed over her skin like a winter breeze; had she been made of softer stuff, she would have shivered with nerves.
She barely had time to register the fact that the chips of ice had thawed from the Viscountess's eyes before she was being drawn in, cool cheeks pressing together like butterflies bumping against one another. She tightened her grip briefly on the other girl's arm, a gentle squeeze that spoke of reassurance and consolation, withholding all of her own personal curiosity and judgments until she knew this kinswoman better.
Drawing back, she offered the sort of smile that starts off shy - though Margaery was almost never timid - while hinting at a warmth that could blossom like a flower if allowed. She shrugged slightly, spreading her hands wide in a gesture that conveyed embarrassed regret. "I've only been here to meet your family once, and Father had to tell me about it." The shy smile turned a little sheepish. "I think I was almost three. You would have been born then, of course, but I don't think we met then." She shrugged, brushing the matter off. "And of course, I don't get to leave the mountains much."
Pausing for a moment, she half-turned to the blonde youth her cousin had been entertaining before her own approach. Looking him up and down with frank appraisal, she noted the family crest with approval. If nothing else, at least the Shanleys were well connected, she mused irreverently, heedless of the fact that her own father was merely a baron to his brother-in-law's earldom. "But I'm sorry! I didn't mean to steal you away from your other guests. Please, forgive me!" She blushed prettily in Kentamin's general direction, a mixture of actual interest and the deep desire for attention that came of living in the mountains drawing her attention toward the young man.
[ooc: sorry for the wait and also the clunkiness of this post!]
Kentamin's eyes caught to Margaery's before he looked away, clearing his throat and ignoring the blush forming on his cheeks.
"Please, do not trouble yourselves over my account. I was simply making my rounds."
And the pair just had to be pretty young women. That fact alone was enough to rile him. He had only Constance Carwick to blame. And perhaps his foolish self from two years ago. But two years wasn't long enough to completely heal his heart, nor his pride. At least his mistake on 'love' was a private matter no one but himself (and that woman) would ever know.
He also knew looks shouldn't matter, but once he got a taste of one woman...
Now he felt like he sensed there was an awful lot behind them that he didn't want to know at all. One rotten apple to ruin the bushel.
Again, it shouldn't matter. He.. never should have taken an interest in a woman. Now shouldn't be any different- except now he was brooding and still emotionally scarred. The woman had up and left him to die on more than one occasion and....
He must've looked tense. He certainly felt it. He bowed to the two young women.
"I shall continue to make my rounds. Please, do not hesitate to seek me out if you need counsel. Although I am a knight of the church, I am still of the church, and am taught fervently in the ways of God."
He stepped away without much regret, but his gut felt like a giant knot. He needed air,a nd after saying a few soft 'hellos' and condolences to others in Ethalind's family, the templar eventually found himself out on the balcony, alone- Thank God, as he paused against the railing, closing his eyes and just letting the cool, Connlaothian winds kiss his face.
He was still stewing over it, pretty girls clearly meaning 'pretty trouble'- and to rid his mind of it, he unpocketed his book of Ansgar and idly flipped through the pages. Though it was hard to tell if he was going through the motions, or actually looking for a scripture in which to read.
Ethalind would nod to Kentamin politely, observing him casually as he made his way around the great hall. She had seen the way Margaery looked at him, and how he blushed when she acknowledged his presence. It was almost as if the two had already gathered feelings towards each other, a realization that left a sour taste in her mouth.
They weren't flirting outright, but the heiress couldn't help but feel a twinge of disgust at how they handled themselves. Her family had gone through so much pain in past few weeks and to see them so enamored with each other gave her frank displeasure.
Of course, none of these feelings could be seen past a few uncomfortable blinks, and Ethalind made no note of it to her cousin. If she were to catch herself a man of real importance, she would have to learn to ignore the affairs of her subordinates and focus on her own merits. This reflection naturally reminded her of something quite important she had been meaning to do.
"Margaery? Would you mind accompanying me to the gardens?"
The young woman couldn't help the subtle feeling of satisfaction that uncurled in the pit of her stomach, like a cat stretching out in a patch of sunshine, when faced with the gentleman's flushed face. It wasn't that she was particularly enamored of the blonde man, though she would certainly admit that he had a fair face and nice eyes. In fact, a cat was the perfect analogy for her: desirous of attention, but only when she wanted it, and admittedly a little full of herself. But really, it wasn't like she could help who she was, for Ansgar's sake.
She watched him make his leave with only the faintest moue of disappointment on her face, though she cleverly wiped it away as she bobbed him the shallowest curtsy in farewell. After all, though he was of the church, she didn't intend to lose her sense of self-possession for a pretty smile. She had an idea of her own worth, and while she wasn't wont to parade it among those of her own class, she kept her blue blood close to her heart, like a token from a lover.
Turning back toward Ethalind, she had just opened her mouth to make a comment about the youth - all in good fun, of course, and with the intention of creating perhaps a closer bond between the two - when she caught the slightly uncomfortable expression on her host's face. Mentally chastising herself - 'God, Margaery, must you really flirt at a funeral'? - she offered a one-shouldered shrug of the closest thing to an apology that anyone was likely to get from her. Before she could say anything, Ethalind had beat her to the punch.
"Of course, Cousin. Lead me away - you can show me your fine house while we head there. I confess to not remembering much of it from the last time I was here." She meant the remark to be charming, and to most people, it would have been. A pity, really, that she was finding her cousin so hard to read.
sorry for the wait :P
@Glorilyss @SpicyspiceEthalind would nod with little expression on her face. Clutching her pendant, she'd wordlessly motion for Margaery to follow her out of the great hall, into the expanse of the first courtyard.
https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/0/08/Allington_Castle_plan_1906.JPG
To the right, one could see the silhouette of the large northern gate where Margaery entered, large growths of ivy resting delicately against the immaculate stone. To the left would be doors to a couple offices and above them would be a long, ornate terrace overlooking the yard, jutting out from the private rooms of the family. Kentamin would likely be sitting in this spot, hastily reading passages from the book of Ansgar.
Across the courtyard from the hall would be the chapel. Lush stained glass reflected the western light in a dazzling display of various colors. Ethalind would stop to admire the windows, the exalted images of saints painted on her pale skin.
"These windows were a gift from our grandmother," she'd remark, looking back at Margaery with a prim smile.
--
Ethalind's smile would fade as she continued towards the inner gate, which sat under the bridge connecting the guest lodgings and the complex that held the family rooms and the offices.
"Here we are." The gate would open up to the inner courtyard, which would be darkened by a large tower. In it would be a large dogwood tree, its leaves already fiery red and orange, surrounded by rows of goldenrod flowers, one of the only varieties in Connlaoth known to bloom in fall.
"I'll have to show the innards of the castle later, but hopefully my explaining should have been enough to rouse your memory." Ethalind would pin up her hair, before tossing a small canvas bag on a clear spot on the ground.
Something caught his eye from outside the window. He kept a finger inside the book to mark his spot and peered outside, noticing two women outside and as he moved closer to stare- realizing it was Ethalind and her cousin.
One hand dropping to scoop up a handful of the black satin of her skirt and and pull it out of the way of her feet, Margaery followed after her cousin, only a half-pace behind as they drifted through the hall like little chips of shadow detached from the corners. The young Lady Grey's eyes were wide with the curiosity natural to a girl who hasn't gotten out much; isolated as they were in their mountain stronghold, and especially with matters in the realm as tumultuous as they had become lately, Margaery did not get off of the estate much. While a funeral, and therefore somber by its very nature, this was also a special treat for the girl.
As the courtyard opened like the petals of a bloom flower before her, she couldn't help a little nod of approval. The delicate tracery of green ivy over pale stone had been just as pretty close up as they were seen from a short distance, looking picturesque and hinting as to the amount of the time that the castle had stood. The warm light of late afternoon filled the courtyard, honey-golden and gilding everything in sight, lighting up the leaded mullions crossing the brilliant, jewel-bright scenes in the chapel windows. Margaery's smile was easy and unfeigned as she turned it toward her cousin, nodding once in acknowledgement her words.
"We have one above the altar in our chapel, too. No more, though;" she shrugged, knowing that stained glass windows were a sign of wealth, and not particularly caring if Ethalind saw this admission as a lack of it. "Father says there's little point in the mountains, and I suppose he's right. The house is situated to take advantage of direct sunlight as much as it can, but that's difficult with mountains all around you." She huffed lightly, the sound almost a laugh, but not quite making it.
The two continued across the courtyard, shadows striping a pattern over Margaery's face as they passed through the small connecting gateway into the deeper reaches of the castle. The brilliant glory of red and gold leaves was all very pretty, she admitted to herself, half-envious and wishing she could have a double column of the dogwoods for the drive up to her own house. Her father had remarked that she had the mind of a man, and she encouraged this comparison by constantly seeking to improve their little mountain steadfastness. She was rather jealous that they didn't have any of these lovely trees, and resolved herself to ask Father for them immediately.
Margaery turned from her avaricious viewing of the tree, noticing a small flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye as she did so. There he was, the blonde boy, and she'd be damned if he wasn't looking at them. With the air of a born coquette, she cast her eyes down but smiled in a fashion that could almost be called maidenly, then flicked her eyes back up, the edges of her mouth solidifying in something almost like a challenge. Dragging her attention away from the young man removed from them, she fixed her attention solidly on her cousin.
I think I remember this tree," she said after a moment, flicking another glance at it and nodding firmly. "I can't remember exactly what time of year it was when we came all those years ago, but I suppose it must have been around this time. I think I remember all of the colors, and... yes!" Her eyes glowed as if lit with a candle from behind, a surprised chirp of laughter breaking from her mouth. "I could walk on my own by that time, of course, and I remember sneaking away from my mother and the Countess - I mean no disrespect, but I found it all terribly tedious at the time, you know, - and coming down and playing in the leaves." She paused, looking positively charmed at the little memory, then half-turned back the way they had come. "I think I remember the stained glass, too. Children seem to be attracted to bright colors." She offered a rueful smile half-shrugging. "Thank you for showing me this." For once, her voice was utterly free of guile or reservation.
There was only so much of Ansgar's word he could read. It was merely a distraction. He was a bit socially anxious in the moment, and once offered a drink, he obliged. The wine sat well in his belly, but made his head feel light. Conversations did come out much easier, however, yet soon he found himself expiring through most of the guests. It seemed most were more focused on their own little cliques than expanding to seek the reassurance of a priest.
So he found himself along the same dog wood path, holy book under his arm as he moved through the lawns. It was a pretty day, one that reminded him of days he had long lost. He, for a while, was beginning to wonder if he'd ever have the chance to enjoy such simple days as this- even if he were here for the sad occasion of a funeral.
The spotty shadows of the trees fluttered across him as he walked, winds picking up as he noted the rain clouds far off on the horizon. Perhaps he should inform Ethalind's parents they should proceed with any readings if they wanted to avoid the rain.
But he knew that might not be in the best taste. Connlaothians were true to tradition, and it was still too early for it to be appropriate for him to read. He paused a moment to observe the cemetery where Ethalind's bother would be laid to rest. No doubt, if there were a crypt, which was hard to see this far away, he would be taken there, rather than his own shallow grave. But it was hard to guess just how wealthy the family was. But being in close relations to the Duke, they clearly had money- and their property did show the potential.
But he'd been to larger. His family wasn't this well off. In fact, his status was pretty low on the grand scale of things. Places like this reminded him that, though he had a well off manor home in the city, and that in itself, was quite expensive to maintain, his family lacked any true property or a castle.
It was just as well. He'd likely inherit nothing, though, perhaps he would- but hte family inheritance would end there. Likely one of his cousins he wans't so found of, would take what was left of his family's claims.
He must've been walking further than he thought, because out in the middle of no where he spotted the two cousins again and slowed his pace, bowing towards them but uncertain if he ought to approach. Maybe he ought to let them have a moment together. The funeral ought to be starting within the hour- would it not?
Ethalind would nod gently at her cousin, a prim smile appearing on her face. It seemed the two women were warming up to each other. "You're very welcome, Margaery. It has been my pleasure to reconnect with you today." Ethalind held her gaze, her smile widening naturally as the two exchanged glances.
It would be in this moment that she would remember the bag she had brought with her and had thrown on the ground. Plucking it gently from its place beside the grand dogwood tree, she quickly searched its contents, before presenting it to her cousin.
"They'll bloom next spring. Hyacinth." In the bag were several small purple bulbs and a minuscule shovel. "I wanted to plant them today, as a tribute to Arthur." Ethalind pulled a bulb from the bag, and turned it in her hand as she inspected it for deformities. Right then, she'd notice Kentamin by the gate in the corner of her eye, approaching them, the book of Ansgar in hand. She offered a light nod, allowing him to come forward.
"Is it already time?" she asked gravely, knowing very well it wasn't.
He approached the women with a bow.
"I'm sorry if I have interrupted you. I had not realized how long I had been walking." And at her query of the time, he shook his head. "No, it is not time yet, my lady. Please, do continue to enjoy the day." Her brother would certainly have wished that over her potential sobbing or the possibility of her being so distraught by his death she might go ill. No, it seemed, by his observation, she was handling this all quite well. It made him curious, however, to her relationship to her brother, the fallen.
Being this close, however, he noticed the bulbs in her hands.
"Were you planning on doing some gardening, Lady Shanley?"
Ethalind nodded, heading towards a bare spot near the back of the yard, trovel and bulb in hand. "I wanted to plant something for Arthur." The lady knelt before the dogwood tree, piercing the soft dirt with her shovel. As a small mound of earth gathered at her feet, a large gust of wind entered the courtyard. It shook the great tree, causing dozens of tear-shaped leaves to careen gently to the ground. At this sight, she became totally silent save for her hands, which packed the earth.
Leaves fell in her hair, but she seemed to pay no mind to them. For a while, the world was a void, with only her and the soil in it. But eventually, as the last bulb was buried, she rose from the earth, brushing the dirt off of her hands. "Sir Kentamin," she called out, interrupting any conversation between him and Margaery. "I want you to refer to me as Ethalind. Or if you insist, Lady Ethalind. Lady Shanley is my mother and the Countess of Rothan. I am not to be Countess until she or my father is dead. Thus, I ask you to refer to me by my first name with or without a noble prefix," she requested coolly, her hands clenched by her side.
He had watched her in silence as she worked. He'd offer to help, but he knew it might seem rude. This was her time to do something in respect for the dead. But what came next was most unexpected as he stared down at the young woman who made her demands over the simple title of her person.
Still, he knew where he was now, even if the war had him forget while he was on duty. So he bowed to her. "Forgive me. I had not meant to offend. If you feel we are so well acquainted, I shall oblige your wishes, Lady Ethalind."
[ooc: oh god I'm so sorry, I lost this thread 😭]
Margaery was surprised to have found her cousin so easy to speak with, considering the fact that she had expected someone far more superior and stuck-up. She supposed that she should have felt vaguely guilty of assuming the worst, but contented herself instead with not considering the idea at all. And if she was being honest, her mistaken feelings had probably had something to do with the constant black cloud of her potential inheritance. It wouldn't be fair to hold that over her cousin - at least not for right now. And anyways, she couldn't be certain that Ethalind was a genuinely nice person; nobly-born children were taught to guard face and tongue from an early age.
"They're lovely," she admitted, admiring the small bulbs in the palm of her cousin's hand. She had a few potted hyacinth plants in her own rooms, back at home; she had begged her mother to let her plant some in the gardens, but the frost-bitten mountain winters would have killed them quite immediately. Nodding at Ethalind's admission of intent for the soon-to-be flowers, she stepped away a few feet, crossing to the edge of the courtyard to give er cousin privacy. Lost in her thoughts, she hardly noticed Kentamin's reappearance and conversation with her cousin, but when she did, she made no move to rejoin them. She felt oddly subdued in the moment; perhaps it was the thought of a sister mourning her sibling; thought Margaery would have normally sold her younger sisters for half a groat, the immediacy of death pressed down upon her like a dark thumb. She shivered irritably, as a horse shaking flies from its coat, finding the day suddenly oppressive.
It was only then he turned to observe Margaery. He nodded peaceably in her direction, book still tucked over one arm. She was close enough she ought to have heard him when he spoke towards her.
"And what of you, my lady? Have I been addressing you correctly? Or is there a more appropriate title you wish to keep?"
Hearing Kentamin's voice raised toward her, Margaery half-turned toward the gentleman. She had been so tucked up into her own moment's thoughts that she hadn't quite noticed that he'd stopped speaking to her cousin. Even still, it took no more than a moment to realize that he was speaking to her.
"Well, I rather prefer 'my dear'," she quipped lightly, pushing away the brief flash of guilt at her light tone, "But I suppose 'my lady' shall suffice for now." She offered the ghost of a smile, the edges dimmed by something almost like frustration or bitterness, though this was wiped away immediately. "I won't hold my father's title unless he can find someone to take me." 'Or if he manages to get a son,' she admitted to herself silently, forcing down the instant pang of hostility with much more alacrity. It was, after all, hard enough being the oldest girl, even without the the fear that a younger, male sibling would come along and snatch your future.
"Forgive me, but my lady is also far too general," he pointed out, smiling primly, if anything as he cleared his throat. "I simply meant if you'd prefer something along the lines of Lady Grey, or Lady Margaery."
Ethalind was in the kitchen at this point, washing her hands. She glanced at the pair through a window that looked out into the courtyard. She couldn't make out what they were doing, as the window was barely large enough to hold a dish, but she assumed that they were exchanging formalities.
It was strange. She rarely stepped foot in the kitchen anymore, not since she was a little child. She looked around the room. Nothing much had changed, save for a new shelf and a couple extra cans of peaches. It was cozy and brought back memories of a simpler time. How she craved Cook's special pie now. She hadn't tasted it since..."well, since he passed away," she muttered sadly to herself.
Perhaps she could ask the servants to make it for her. She reckoned she still had the recipe from when he passed it on to her. It was probably hiding somewhere in a drawer. She'd have to look for it some day.
Kentamin hadn't realized Ethalind had left, or at least for how long, until he realized he was alone with her cousin. He cleared his throat a moment and looked back towards the home.
"Shall we go join your cousin inside the house?" Or was it she desired to stay out here a little longer? Peering up at the skies, he wasn't sure if he minded doing one thing or the other. The day was lovely anyway. He turned back to Margaery. And so was she.
Like the young gentleman across from her, Margaery, too, had seemingly forgotten the existence of her cousin. Which was really quite rude, since she was really here at Ethalind's family's invitation, but what was a girl to do when confronted with springtime beauty and youth in all of its glory?
"Oh, I much prefer Lady Margaery." Frankly, what she really preferred was the way it seemed to induce intimacy, in the same way that a proper title presented only a cold shoulder. Of course, she would have done much for the title, too, but then, she'd always been contrary. The young lady had just taken a step towards Kentamin when he drew attention to the absence of her cousin. Pausing a moment to flick an appraising glance around - Ethalind really was quite gone - before casting her eyes to the ground. "I suppose we should go in.. It would be terribly rude to stay out here." She paused briefly, looking upward through the fringe of her eyelashes, as if to pertly dare him to deny it. She wouldn't say it herself, of course - she had to keep up appearances.
Kentamin gave a stiff nod but faltered under her gaze. Something about the way she looked made him wish he could stay. Were he not so sworn to the church, he'd let himself fall smitten, and perhaps even talk the girl into walking off with him somewhere to steal a few kisses in private, off in the woods. But life had turned grim for the man, and the war, unkind on his once colorful ideals.
Yes, in one life or another, she, or even Ethalind, would have been a perfect match for a wife. But even this event was meant to be a solemn one. And it was a bit frustrating that his only vacation was focused on the death he wanted to run from. But he stood nearby and offered her his hand.
"My lady. I could escort you inside and we can see what plans our hostess may have."
Margaery didn't even allow herself the hint of a sigh, instead gliding forward another pace to place her own gloved hand in his. She even refrained from making a comment about leaving the glorious outdoors to return to the interior of the house, dimmed as it was by Death's presence and the grief left behind in its wake. Really, Margaery thought she was being exceptionally well-behaved for her situation.
It was a pity that he was ensconced within the church, she had to admit that to herself. He was a well-made young man, to be certain - though to be fair, Margaery wasn't often around any young men of her breeding, so perhaps the fascination came from her notable lack of experience or opportunity. Still, speculation about her interest did little to lessen it in the meantime. With her hand sliding up to rest against his forearm, she peeped upwards from her shorter height. "So, Father, tell me about yourself? My family's land is in Highheart, and I'm afraid I don't get out much from the mountains."
His face faltered at the title she chose and it skewed his face in a most uncomfortable way.
"Please.. the title is meant for those priests sworn in officially. I.. that is to say, I am not a priest. Not yet." And he let his gaze drop shamefully, her hand still in his.
He didn't let it hang for long, not wanting to seem simple or unaccomplished as he raised his gaze to her's. "That's not to say I won't be some day, Lady Margaeret. A templar.. and one from St. Agratha.. it takes quite some times, years, to become so blessed."
(Ahh sorry for the wait, everyone!)
Ethalind watched them make their way to the kitchen through the window. She squinted oddly through the dirty glass. Their dynamic was mesmerizing. It seemed the two had chemistry, but out of shame or attachment to his organization, Kentamin seemed to draw away from Margaery's advances. Yet, there was a certain want in his eyes to be close to her. They were two people who just wanted to be with each other, whose hearts were together, but whose heads were at war.
It was strange. After Arthur's death, it seemed natural warmth left Ethalind for a time, and no matter the circumstances, she could only see it in other people. Perhaps this sensitivity was a result of a want to go back to the past and enjoy the state she once possessed. But at the moment, her thoughts were too muddled to understand anything about herself and the way she interacted with others.
As she opened the door to the kitchen and put on a welcoming smile, exiting her childhood haven, she left behind thoughts of doing things from the past. She became nothing, and everything, embodying the present moment and therefore excluding all before and after. All she could focus on in this moment were two people, walking under the fiery dogwood tree, engulfed in the afternoon sun and the ruminations of a coming storm.
Margaery couldn't help but feel a dull candle-glow of warmth in her belly at his admission that he wasn't officially sworn into the priesthood. Of course, the circumstances of their lives had already snatched away any hope for something more than a few minutes' conversation, but Margaery had always had rather a frustrating quality of wanting exquisitely exactly what she couldn't have. Perhaps it came of being the eldest daughter and spoiled excessively, or maybe it was just human nature, but either way, it was quite annoying.
Bowing her head as if chastened, Margaery leaned in minutely. "Excuse my error! I just assumed.. ah, well, no matter. You must be a friend of the family Shanley?" At his mention of his profession - beyond being easy on the eyes and a bit too stiff, she decided - her eyes widened slightly. "Oh! A templar? And the Order of St. Agratha? You must have your hands quite full, with the war. Well, more than others, I suppose I should say." At that moment, the young woman saw her cousin exit the kitchens ahead of them. Feeling vaguely as if she should feel a bit sheepish for being an incorrigible flirt, even in the face of death and polite society, she nonetheless disregarded any such inclinations and waved at Ethalind, offering a brilliant smile.
Ethalind waved back at Margaery, approaching the pair solemnly. "I am sorry for leaving so abruptly. I had to... take care of something. Shall head inside?" Ethalind glanced between them, before focusing her attention on Kentamin. "Papa and Lord Grey may want to speak with you, before the ceremony. They'll be in the great hall. As for Cousin dear... I almost forgot. Mama requests you join her upstairs. I'll show you there." Ethalind offered her arm, pursing her lips slightly as she awaited her response.