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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Zath returns to Stormwind to pay a visit to Avrenne at home, where the two former enemies-turned-lovers continue to get to know each other a little better, and clear the air of former misunderstandings and misapprehensions. Romance RP with adult content of two consenting adults in a romantic relationship, please see CWs for details. 13,500-ish words. |
| Rating: | A for Adults Only 18+ |
The Fallon Townhouse in Stormwind is as it ever was before the Duchess Esprit married the Commodore. Very little has been altered in it. Although there have been some additions to the bedroom shared by the Lord and Lady Fallon, and a permanent resident of Avrenne's second youngest ward, Daisy Ducere, nothing has changed in the month since the wedding. It may be that the Lady Fallon has few plans to alter it, for her own reasons.
Avrenne is, as per usual, dressed to impress. To be fair, she might not know any other way to dress. This latest one is, as to be expected now, long sleeved, but it lacks the high collar of Avrenne's business dresses, with a gentle v-neck that doesn't quite get into cleavage territory so much as just suggest that area, of a dark pink material that has been threaded with gold looking thread, lending it a shimmering quality, particularly with movement, the designs of it geometric rather than strange embroidery. Her hair has been pinned back, but loosely, with several strands made into gentle waves, and allowed to escape purposefully along the back of her neck to be little tendrils there, brushing against her skin.
She wears her wedding ring on her left hand, and the seastalk case (gold with that lining of stormsilver on the clasp and trim) is on a deceptively delicate gold chain around her neck like a necklace.
On the sitting room table is a bouquet of pink convolvulus, yellow gorse, red spikey honey flower, and maidenhair fern, set next to a tea set of gladioli and gladiolus flowers.
Avrenne sits not in her usual chair — and she does, in fact, have a usual chair, long ago claimed — but the loveseat, where another could sit next to her. That does not seem to have been an accident. The door to the sitting room is currently shut, but it has been made clear that the lady is expecting Zath's company, and he has but to knock when he arrives.
Knock knock knock.
Three sharp raps on the sitting room door, a somehow unmistakable knock.
Avrenne smiles at it. "Come in," she says, as she rises to a stand, adjusting the skirt of her dress to fall around her appropriately. Her hands are clasped in front of her by long habit.
Zath enters almost tentatively, closing the door quietly behind him. He is dressed as always, all in bla— wait. Under his black waistcoat is a long-sleeved shirt of an extremely dark, grayish twilight blue. He is ungloved, and wears no coat, because it is summer, but he is buttoned all the way up. He carries a very small basket covered with a cloth.
He gives her a swift up-and-down assessment, barely noticeable, like a man accustomed to taking in women's details very quickly before he is caught at it. He has clearly forgotten whatever he was going to say in greeting, and just stares at her, lips parted slightly.
Avrenne on the other hand lights up at the sight of him, her own gaze appreciative, holding out a hand to him in an offer to come to her, the palm down in preparation for a kiss rather than a handshake. There is no sign of the composure mask to her whatsoever. It's just Avrenne there. "Zath." She smiles as she says it, clearly pleased to see him.
He approaches and takes her hand, his other arm cradling the basket against him as he leans down to brush her knuckles with a kiss that lingers just a bit longer than would be appropriate for a Gentleman. He releases her hand and offers out the tiny basket.
"I've no doubt you can guess what is inside."
Avrenne raises both brows. "Oh?" She has that look of someone who wasn't expecting to need to guess, but she's game to try. Pop quiz! "Did you bring strawberries?" She asks it with a sound of delight of guessing, rather than stating her surety. She doesn't try to take it yet; she waits to see if she's guessed correctly first.
Zath whips the cloth off of the basket with a flourish, revealing a luscious little crop of alpine strawberries.
"From this morning's farmer's market," he says, offering them out to her. "You've no idea how strong my urge was to get blueberries instead. It runs counter to my nature to be predictable. But… I've observed that you seem to enjoy a sense of stability, of… shared experience and wordless communication, so I thought I would– "
He stops, his expression falling.
"— Ruin it by communicating about it," he finishes wryly.
Avrenne laughs — not at him, but in an expression of happiness, a sound as warm as a summer morning with that sense that if one were to linger in it just a little longer, it would grow into something hotter, that inherent invitation in the sound of it to laugh with her, as she closes the distance between them, her hand reaching up to his face as she stretches on her toes up for a kiss.
As he leans down to meet her, Zath cradles the strawberries against himself with one arm. The other hand comes to rest on her hair, again tentatively, like a man expecting to be slapped away at any moment. He kisses her as though he is still learning the shape of her mouth, savoring it and memorizing it, before he draws away to study her, his gaze gently inquisitive.
Avrenne has a soft smile on her face, and the touch of a blush to her cheeks. "I think it is very sweet. Thank you. Both for the noticing of what I like, and for telling me your thoughts. I do appreciate both." Her fingers are light on his cheekbone, a gentle tracing of the edge. "But I would be also pleased by blueberries, for the surprise of you. I like that you can surprise me. Not many people can. I enjoy it when you do."
"I'm afraid I'm terrible at courting," he says. "But witness my attempt." He offers out the basket toward her again.
She takes it, stretching up again to place a kiss to his cheek. "I think it — and you — are lovely, really." She sets the basket down next to the tea set, moving to sit down once more on the loveseat, adjusting her dress. "You surprised me before, you know, when you brought me roses. I was not expecting that either, let alone white ones. Of all flowers, they have some of the most delicate nuances particular to them. Do you know the language of flowers at all?" She asks it as she reaches for one of the strawberries to put on the side of her saucer of the teacup.
"I… do not," he says, lowering his gaze apologetically. "The look of them simply reminded me of you. I hope I did not offend you with any unintended message."
He carefully moves to sit beside her on the loveseat, perching lightly on its edge. He lets his eyes linger on her dress — nowhere specifically salacious, just seeming to take in the entire effect. His manner remains slightly bashful and awkward, though not unhappy.
"No, not at all. Most people don't know it; it's long out of fashion. And I do try to assume no malice even when suitors have sent somewhat unfortunate messages; most look for yellow flowers, because of my hair, and there are quite a few such flowers that have meanings I try to give the benefit of the doubt were not meant," Avrenne says as she reaches out to pour herself a cup of tea. "It's just an…odd little hobby of mine. I have a fondness for such things, 'Languages In Between.'" She looks at the flower arrangement on the table for a beat before she lifts her gaze to Zath. "Tea?"
"Thank you," he says, but his gaze is now on the flowers. For a moment he looks as though he is waiting for them to speak to him, as though he could decode them through sheer force of will. But then he turns to her and asks hesitantly, "What do they say?"
Avrenne's answering glow of a smile is bright, and she is clearly very pleased to be asked. "'A sweet and secret love, the worth sustained by judicious and tender, enduring affection and with discretion of that bond of love.'" She gestures to the teapot and cups. "And this is my set for 'I am sincere, and intending to be generous.' I always had it out for you, if you recall. I have others that say other things."
"You had it out for me indeed," Zath says with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Is the one that is now missing a cup, then?"
Avrenne does not miss the mischief, or the phrasing, and she makes a faint little tsk sound, a warmer look in her gaze on him. "It was, but I have seen to the replacement. It was hardly the first teacup I have lost so, you know. You will likely learn that I am not especially daunted by the occasional lost teacup." There's a curve of her smile at that. "And you may always ask me what they mean. The flowers, or the teacups." She picks up the teapot to pour tea — black, brewed strong, and unsweetened — into the cup, gently turning it towards him with an elegance of practice if not natural ability. "I am used to speaking only to myself with them, but I rather assume a lack of interest in others more than a reluctance to share it."
"I have always had difficulty… sharing with others, and so I both admire and am somewhat baffled by your openness with me. To me it seems like a sort of courage bordering on an emotional death wish. My instinct has always been to hide away anything that I valued. As I was just informing your husband, I had the oh so charming habit as a child of stashing away anything I treasured, however worthless, in secret little spots I had hidden around the estate. I suppose the habit has stayed with me all these years, even in a metaphorical sense."
Avrenne picks up her teacup and sits back, her expression thoughtful. "Mm. I have to admit that I do not share myself easily, for all that I am trying to do so with you," she says quietly. "I have grown so used to hiding my thoughts and my feelings both, that sometimes I fear I have lost the ability to show that I have them." She looks at Zath, a soft expression on her face. "I did not hide things as a child, but I did hide myself in places. I always wanted to know more than I was allotted, for having been born a second daughter rather than a second son. Our butler used to call me a 'little fly,' for the way I would try to sneak into places where my brother was being instructed, or into my father's office when we visited him in The City."
"I was lucky in that way," Zath says gently. "No knowledge was ever withheld from me. But I see that the attempt to limit you only strengthened your determination. It seems to me that you have learned everything you ever hoped to know, even if it wasn't made easy for you. Perhaps you would value it less if it had been spoon-fed to you."
He at last takes a sip of his tea; whether he likes it or not is hard to tell behind his habitually closed expression.
"Oh, well." Avrenne stares at her tea. "Not quite. You see, I grew too big to really hide myself after a point, small as I am. And then after that, it was time for me to move to the City to become 'refined' as a lady for my father's purposes, to act as marriage bait for the House. My father felt very much that I had been left to grow too wild and too freely with my insistence on subjects such as mathematics and business, when I was not to be the leader of the House; I was a daughter to marry to advantage, and I should be seeing to the attraction of a proper husband." She shrugs, a controlled movement.
"My mother helped me hold enough of myself, and the rest of the time I simply endured my father's displeasure in acting not in perfect accordance with his wishes, believing that someday he would see the worth I could potentially have. I would have rather not have needed to fight for it," she says quietly.
"But you ended up learning both, to absolute perfection," he says fervently. "Your father's blindness to your gifts did not stop you from becoming the woman you wished to be — intelligent and business-minded — and you can take on the part of the well-bred and refined lady as well, to perfection. You learned what you wanted to learn after all, even if it was not made easy for you. And is it not possible that as a side effect of the futile pursuit of pleasing a man who could not be pleased, you learned at least a few things that turned out to be quite useful even for your own aims?"
"Yes, of course," Avrenne agrees, taking a sip of her tea. "And I have hardly learned to perfection, as you may recall." She doesn't meet his eyes, watching her tea. "At the Charity Gala, there was a moment there where I was…reminded once more of the way some perceived such failings in me, when speaking with Siege Engineer Kerlo Quarterflash, and you admonished me for our discussion of war when we might have spoken of instruments or poetry. I told you that I do not know anything of either, for I do not, and you said that I could learn." It is related without any bite to it, a soft sorrow to the recounting, her finger stroking a line along the edge of the cup.
"It was hardly the first time I had been told so, that my own interests were not correct, that I should stop wasting my time in learning things I loved, such as the constellations in the sky for their Language in Between or the precise tensile strength of fel iron versus traditional iron, and devote more time to what others thought I should know or like. I am well aware that some men find me rather off-putting for my odd hobbies and my pursuits."
Zath looks stricken, and sets down his teacup. "Avrenne," he says quietly. "Please forgive me. I could try to explain why I — but it doesn't matter. Just know this: that what you love does not make you 'off-putting' to me or to anyone who matters. Your father was oblivious to the treasure he possessed. You deserve to be cherished precisely as you are."
"On the contrary," she says, still in that soft tone so unlike the cold voice she uses in public. "As you said, as a side effect of failing to please my father, I learned a few things useful to my aims. One of which was how to ensure that I would be taken seriously as a woman in a world of men, and the benefit of holding myself outside of an object of romance." There's a slight lift of her chin that seems reflexive.
"I don't flirt. I don't flatter. I don't laugh. I don't smile. My interests are serious and my hobbies obscure. I have used this, successfully, to cool more than one man's ardor who might have otherwise pursued me for romantic reasons." Her hand goes to her waist for a moment, as she takes a breath and sets the teacup down. It takes her a moment to look at Zath, and it's obvious that it isn't easy for her. "All of which serves me well, until there is someone I would like to entice, and I find that even when I remove my mask, what is left underneath is still much of that woman, and I know her appeal to be limited." A faint, hopeful smile cracks through. "Limited, but not none. I know myself to be cherished, precisely as I really am." That smile grows brighter, her eyes warm in thought.
"So I hold out some hope, you see. That perhaps you will get to know me a little better, and find that I am not off-putting on greater acquaintance." She reaches out her hand to Zath's. "And I believe I will find the same in you. I want to hear what you have to say, what explanations you might offer, to hear more of what it is that you enjoy and treasure yourself."
Zath takes her hand — his is cold as always — but lowers his gaze. "I am afraid that in the matter of facades, I am in some ways your opposite. There are good reasons that I keep most of my thoughts and feelings to myself. The more one knows me, the lower I sink in their esteem. I have worked very hard over the years to construct the man that I present to the public, and I have made him into a man who is — if not loved, at the very least respected. Trusted. I am not hiding a better man inside the mask, I assure you, and I suspect that coming to know more of me will not improve our relationship. But at the very least I may owe you an explanation for that moment in the ballroom with Siege Engineer Quarterflash, if you would wish one."
"From what I have seen so far of you, knowing more of the man behind the mask, I must say that you have only risen for me and my esteem." There's a wicked look in her eyes at that, before Avrenne lifts Zath's hand up to her face to press a lingering kiss to his fingers, her look sobering, and her eyes intent on his. "I do wish to know what you might say of that time in the ballroom."
Zath lifts his gaze to watch her kiss his fingers, then continues to stare at his hand as he talks, as though wondering what she saw in it that possessed her to do such a thing.
"There were… several factors at play. Obviously, at that point in our acquaintance I was angry enough that I would have criticized anything you chose to say or do and framed it as a fatal personality flaw. But it had more to do with Siege Engineer Quarterflash himself. He is, you see, a talented musician and a poet. A deeply sensitive, romantic soul who has been suffering on what I can only call an existential level since we were deployed to Northrend. He hides it well, because his concern is always the morale of his unit.
"I asked him to come with me that night not only because I dreaded the affair with every bone in my body and wished to have a familiar face in the room, but also because I thought it would do him some good to be around music, beauty, fashion and elegance. It seemed to work, at first, but then when you, a stranger, approached, he immediately began nattering on again about military matters, because that is what is expected of him, you see. He was Representing the 7th, and has to try all the harder to do so because of his stature. And you encouraged it. I do not think you truly did him any harm, but you disrupted my wonderful plan to let him forget all of that for a night. So I was even angrier at you than usual, which was, at the time, at a simmering base level of moderately angry at all times.
"Again, I apologize, from the depths of my soul - if I'd had any idea how personal a note I had struck with my chaotic lash, or that I even had the capability of wounding you, I would never have said such a thing to you."
He is still staring at his hand.
"I am not so easily wounded as all that," Avrenne says and there's something of a reassuring note to her voice. "I tend to respond to such criticism as I did with my father's yelling. I will not be cowed or shoved into place by any man who thinks I can do better now." There's a touch of that tone in her voice, one that he might recall from when a captain of the 7th yelled at a duchess in a tavern. It softens again as she continues, "But it did leave a lingering impression of your thoughts of me. That much like he maintained, a woman lacking such things would not be of interest to you." She reaches up her other hand to his, stroking her fingers lightly along his own, as though he's something precious in her grasp.
"As for Sergeant Quarterflash, I would never wish to do any loyal soldier of the Alliance harm. But, it is also true that the ballroom is where I accomplish much of my work, some of which is essential to my understanding of what I must do. I genuinely value his perspective and his opinions, and as you may recall, I do try to speak to as many as I can of what they think and know of their situations. His words were of great comfort, in fact, in the ensuing weeks, when I began to doubt if I had made the right decision on the trebuchets for Wintergarde, and I recalled his agreement on my decision. I do hope he had a pleasant rest of his evening, and that my brief interlude as a lady concerned with war was swiftly forgotten in the wake of more entertaining companions."
"There is no particular quality that I require in all women," Zath says. "I tend to default to liking them unless they give me reason to dislike them, and the reasons I had to dislike you at that time were nothing to do with your interests, your appearance, or any of your other personal qualities. Strange as it may sound, it wasn't personal at all, really. But I regret making you feel that you had somehow failed to measure up as an individual, and I hope I no longer put across that impression."
"I should assure you that I am long past that young girlish impulse to attempt to bend myself into whatever will please another most, or measure my own sense of worth by what another values of me." There is, however, a slightly nervous sort of flutter to her fingers as she touches him. "That is not to say that I do not wish for some to like me better, for who I am." A pause, as she seems to be, perhaps, considering his hand, her finger tracing along his fingertips.
"You said you had an interest in astronomy, if I recall correctly." The softening phrase has a peculiar sort of tone to it now — it's lower, with a sultry note to it, as though rather than to say if she recalls correctly, that she does in fact recall it very well, and is recalling it right now, in fact, and thinking rather wicked thoughts about it.
"I do. All of the sciences of nature, really, but there is a particular awe that is inspired by the stars. When I was young, it was the very mystery of them — what are they? But in some cases the answers to a mystery only increase the awe one feels. A draenei told me that each of them is a sun, around which revolve worlds living or dead — mostly dead. And now every time I see them I wonder which of them are suns that some other creature may be basking in and thinking is the greatest light in the world…"
He stops, then flushing slightly. "But you likely meant… their use in navigation, calculations and so on. Which I know little about."
Avrenne leans forward. "No, not at all. When I was younger, that is similar to what caught me. You see, I learned of them in a book, of plates that showed them in demonstration, individually. And the book explained how these stars were representations of images, and stories, and I was captivated by this Language In Between of how they could be not only small dots, but wondrous signals and codes of something more — something greater and more profound, the inherent beauty of angles and fixed points that were transformed into these new heights of metaphor and symbols." She makes a humming sort of sound, like a caught laugh.
"It is only recently that I have begun to learn more of them as a sailor does. Siamus has been teaching me how to use a telescope, something I have always wished to know. My father had one, but I was…not permitted to touch it." Her fingers curl more around his, and there is a sweet enthusiasm in her voice. "I am still learning the whole of it all, how it all fits together and how to find them in the sky itself and not on a page, but I could show you some, if you would like. We have the telescope at the Estate."
"I have never used one before," he says, his eyes lighting slightly, tentatively. A shuttered lantern. "I believe I would find that most interesting. And my presence at the estate might be less… conspicuous than here."
He reaches again for his teacup, taking several sips as he considers the possibilities.
"I have asked Sophie to clear my schedule for today, and tomorrow; we might travel there tomorrow afternoon, if you would like. After that, I will need to see to some business that is unavoidable, regarding my current contracts with an investment opportunity in Redridge. I am in the middle of a rather delicate market manipulation with aims to aid the long term goals of Lord Tennerow as well as benefit the Alliance as a whole, and I must be here in Stormwind to meet with Mr. LaHaies by 2pm." Avrenne seems to not be in any hurry to finish her tea or eat anything just yet, her hands still on Zath's, stroking a light path along as though studying them for future reference.
"I should remind you as well that it is not uncommon for me to have military men in my company, and my reputation is such that I am well known to be frigid, unlikely to even be swayed by my very charming husband, let alone do something like take a lover. Even a man as observant as you has seen only that which I wished you to see of how cold I am. Between your reputation and mine, I expect there to be little speculation as to my doings." She gives him a significant look. "Not that I will not be cautious, you understand? I mean only to reassure you that I will not damage either of our reputation with scandal, and that I am taking the delicate nature of this quite seriously."
Zath nods, gazing down with a sort of entranced bafflement at the movement of her hands on his.
"I must apologize again for the insult I delivered back at Wintergarde on that subject. I suppose by the nature of my vocation, I am constantly alert to Worst Case Scenario. Or I suppose in the wake of Wrathgate I should say, the Worst Plausibly Imaginable Case Scenario. And the Worst Plausibly Imaginable Case Scenario for being found with your or Siamus's portrait upon my person was terrible indeed. However, since then I have thought of an interesting compromise between sentiment and practicality."
He raises his eyes to Avrenne's finally, and there is something shy in them; he's unable to hold her gaze for long, and returns it to their hands.
"What if I were to commission a portrait of the two of you? That would send a slightly different message to a stranger, would it not, than either or both of you separately?"
Avrenne makes a considering sound, her eyes warm and thoughtful on his. There's almost the sound of whirring in her head as the gears turn, as she reconsiders angles and thoughts, considerations of the implications of what he might be trying to say with such a portrait. "It may, yes. Well, I suppose not if they were to suspect there was more, but if we were to think along such lines, of creating a reason why a man might carry with him a portrait of a friend and his wife," she muses, that slightly distracted tone in her voice, as though thinking more aloud than speaking directly.
"Why not a step further? You are friends with Lord Bertrand as well, if I recall correctly." She obviously does. It's just an automatic phrase to soften it, as though she might be wrong. "Priscilla would be well pleased to make one of him. You might even consider if any other friend of yours, such as Lady Cressidha, would be pleased to offer it. I suppose if you asked for one of her and her brother Lord Bertrand, it would dampen that possible sense of impropriety as well. Then, a portrait of Siamus and I would not seem so unusual, don't you think? Merely one among a collection, a smokescreen of plausible reasoning."
Zath gives her a slow, sly smile. "Aren't you the clever one," he purrs. "And it is known that I enjoy art in general. Now that I have begun to accumulate such a thing as friends, why would I not collect artwork of them? And in so doing, I might provide Sgt. Aspenwood's lady with more income."
Avrenne smiles in return, a bright thing, clearly pleased by the compliment. "Well thought," she says, and there is again a light stroking touch along his fingers. There's a softening of her gaze. "I do truly try to consider perspectives other than my own, for all that I can be used to resolving myself to a course as I must. I do value your thoughts. I know it has not always seemed so, convinced of myself in the past, but I hope you know that even from the very first in Northrend, I have always respected you, and I do so only more the longer I know you."
She does let go of his hands though, to turn once more to take up her tea, sip it, set it back down, and take up the strawberry in her fingers. She does that same idle sort of spinning of it by the stem as she did the night of the Charity Ball, and it may be more obvious now that she has, perhaps, done so over the years, considering it before eating it, as though possibly recalling Strawberry Facts! (Science!) each time. "Are you interested in poetry? Siamus does refer to you as a poet, but I am well aware that he does at times use his own little Languages In Between for people. 'Lady Blanche,' for me, does refer to my middle name, one of them, but it is also because the larger moon, the White Lady, is the one that according to the Kul Tiran faith one prays to in order to keep sailors at sea safe."
"It has been a long time since I have had the chance to study poetry in great detail," Zath says, eyes on the strawberry in her fingers, "but I do retain a fondness for it. That needn't be common knowledge, however - it flies somewhat against the reputation I have attempted to cultivate. Siamus, I believe – " here he shows that faint hint of a barely-there flush on his cheekbones that Avrenne has seen more and more frequently as of late, " — has not discussed poetry with me in earnest. He most likely simply refers to my tendency to… speak at length during intimate moments. His little joke, I suppose."
"I have found that Siamus rarely truly jokes in such matters," Avrenne says, moving the strawberry slowly. "It is something I love about him. He is, at his core, a very serious man." There is a wealth of feeling in the words, her expression soft with it as she looks at the berry caught between her small, delicate fingers. "Neither of us know much of poetry though, or I believe he would happily speak more at length of it with you. I am afraid I am very limited myself. I know nothing — well." She hesitates. It's a long hesitation, and there is that odd almost flutter of her fingers, as she twirls the strawberry in a sign of some nervousness. "I do know a limerick, but it is not…well. It's hardly the work of masterful linguistics. I don't know that it would be much to your liking."
Zath slants her a little smile. "Most of the limericks I have heard are not your style at all, dear lady, and so I confess that I find myself quite curious. I beg you to share it."
Avrenne laughs, a little twirl of sound in the air. "Oh, very well. I will need something to write on, and with."
This is definitely a Weird Limerick.
Zath nods, and obligingly pulls out a miniature paper-bound journal and fountain pen from a pocket hidden inside the lining of his black waistcoat. He hands it to her, open to a page that is mostly empty, but for his angular block capitals along the top listing several kinds of fruit and their prices in varying quantities.
Avrenne sets the strawberry down once more, and takes it and the pen. Then she moves a little on the loveseat, raising the book between them to hide what she's writing, a playful glint to her eyes as she writes in quick, sure flicks in her own angular, somewhat rectangular hand. When she finishes, she caps the pen properly, and turns the book back to him to show it to him, hovering her finger just above each part as she recites:
"A dozen, a gross, and a score
Plus three times the square root of four
Divided by seven
Plus five times eleven
Is nine squared and not a bit more."
It's…it's a math limerick. (Somewhere, Finley groans. Neeerd.) There's something caught between shyness and the look of someone who is trying very hard to not laugh at her own joke and only mostly succeeding in the brightness of her eyes.
Zath's reaction is perhaps not quite as expected - he does not laugh, but instead his jaw falls slightly slack as he stares at the paper and murmurs in astonishment, "That is remarkably funny. Fiendishly clever, really. "
He takes the pen and journal back from her, tucking it back away behind his waistcoat as he talks, his eyes lit with strangely grave and earnest enthusiasm.
"Because you see the beauty of poetry is the capturing of wild, chaotic creativity and emotion into a structure, forcing it into order. But this takes the idea of poetry and turns it inside out - it takes the very orderly energy of mathematics and, by applying it to a certain structure, turns it into chaos! For what is humor, what is laughter, if not joy gone a bit wild?"
Avrenne gives it the demonstration, letting loose her own laugh into the air, a sweet joyful sound that lights up her face, the bright warmth of her laugh with its reaching, that sense that she is by her own nature of joy, inviting her companion to laugh with her even more intimate than ever. "Thank you," she says, as she retrieves her strawberry once more, a pleased curl of her smile lingering. "That is not usually the reaction it gets. I always thought it very funny, a little joke on the nature of the limerick itself, but only you and Siamus have ever found it so."
"It is ingenious," Zath says with the same fervent and utterly unsmiling enthusiasm. "Positively gnomish." He remembers he has tea, and takes a few more sips of it before it gets lukewarm.
Avrenne makes a humming sound again, that sense of a trapped laugh. "Do you have a favorite poem? Or, well, a favored book of poetry? I will not know it," and there is something in the way she says it that feels as though there is an implied yet there, "but I would like to hear or know of it, all the same."
"It has been far too long since I've had such possessions, but if I recall, as a young man I was rather obsessed with the work of Guillaume Dorman, or at least his earlier more lyrical work, before he became extremely political. There are no official collections by his hand — he was wont to publish them one at a time in the Lordaeron Gentleman's Monthly — but a Stormwind enthusiast by the name of Daniel Cameron Mills attempted to make a complete collection in four volumes. The first two of the Mills volumes were my favorites when I was young; I wore them out and had to replace them not once but twice."
There's a look of sympathy in her as she once again reaches out to take his hand in hers. "I see. I lost all of my books in the Fall," she says with that sense of shared loss. "I have managed to replace some of them. Mostly the textbooks, and a few others. But most of those I cherished were at the Estate, and…they are likely lost completely now. It's rubble," she explains. "Half the mountain came down on it at some point. It is now also inaccessible enough that looters have, for better or worse, never managed to get there. There is no path up or down that would not involve scaling a cliff, and there are…well." He knows. Undead. Everywhere.
"It is somewhat its own tragedy, repeatedly, to be cut off from one's own past in such a way, isn't it? Not things left behind by choice, but by necessity and distance and then a life built not to fully accommodate what was before."
He presses her hand gently. "To be quite honest," he says carefully, as though afraid of provoking her, "I had not thought of those books in years, not until you asked about them." His glance is apologetic before he lowers his gaze again. "Long before I escaped Lordaeron in the literal sense, I had escaped it in my mind. Gone to Dalaran, dropped a curtain over everything I had been and done before. I have always been a man concerned largely with the present and future. With what is, and what could be, rather than what has gone before."
"It is a useful skill in a world such as ours, to be able to let go when one must," Avrenne says diplomatically. "Did you enjoy Dalaran? I was not… well. I was taught by a Kirin Tor trained mage, but I was never invited to Dalaran, as I have no power of note or worth in their estimation." It is said without envy or rancor; this is just a fact of the matter.
"It was… more pleasant than living on my father's estate," he says. Something in his tone suggests that this is a very low bar. "But joining the military was the true revelation for me. It was the first place I formed any true bonds with others. If the Light were interested in hearing my prayers I would thank it for the fact that just as I was beginning to doubt my future in Dalaran, my old friend Halford Wyrmbane felt his legion was low on mages, and offered me a place not long before war broke out."
Avrenne smiles gently at it. "It is enormously satisfying, isn't it, to feel as though one has come into one's own rightful place, a certainty of a course that one can serve well." She considers the strawberry for a moment longer before she bites into it, chewing delicately. "House Esprit has served in some military capacity for all eight generations of our line…until mine. We commit a second son, historically. My father had only the one son. I was the last attempt and, well." She clears her throat, leaning away to set the stem of the strawberry down and select another one from the basket.
"I did have a brief fantasy, when my magic showed and they were not yet certain if I might be rather powerful, that if I did have such power, that I might have been able to become a battlemage, and serve the Alliance directly. It was, as I say, brief. It was clear rather quickly that I never would be able to do so." She offers out the strawberry to him, holding it between her fingers in that same light grip, brows raising in the offering. She very likely means for him to take it from her with his hand, as before.
For a moment he hardly seems to notice the strawberry — something is troubling him in what she has said, and he's on the verge of a response to it. But then he seems to think better of it and willfully directs his attention elsewhere. When he fully registers the offer of the strawberry, something devilish glints in his eyes, and he leans forward to pluck it from her fingers with his teeth.
He sits back then, fingers lifting to separate the stem as he bites into it. The mischief fades from his eyes as he realizes he is, as once before, now sitting with food in his mouth and someone looking at him. He chews slowly a few times, then holds up a somewhat apologetic one moment finger as he closes his eyes and covers his mouth with the palm of his hand. He seems to be concentrating… and then swallows.
He clears his throat and sets the strawberry stem on his tea saucer, then lifts the cup for a generous sip or three.
Avrenne laughs with delight when he bites into it, and at the shift in his gaze, she looks away to the strawberries once more, taking her time in selecting another one. "You may ask or speak to me of anything you like," she says to the strawberries. Or, presumably, Zath. "I realize that you are…perhaps accustomed to a certain coldness of me, but I am assured both of your affection for me, and of your intentions to not do harm purposefully. I will take any question on both those assumptions, and try not to take offense readily, or explain myself properly if I do."
"You saw something unspoken," he says softly, resigned. "I have become too… relaxed in your presence; my thoughts flit over my face like clouds across the moon, hm?"
He takes another sip of tea, then sets down the cup carefully, centering it perfectly in the saucer.
"It is only that you speak of a fantasy of serving the Alliance in the military, a brief hope that was dashed before it could come to be. And I was simply… struck by the irony. Because you see…" He averts his gaze. "For me, the fantasy was serving in a way that would not require me to wield the fel, a way that might allow me to… dispense with the man I have constructed these past years. Know what it is to be looked at without fear, invited to tea, invited to hold someone's child. But… there were too many contenders, even for that number of seats. Given the chance to reject me, of course they did. Why would they not?"
He reaches for the tea again, cradling the cup between his hands.
Avrenne makes a soft sound as she gets the strawberry she wants, sitting back once more. "They will not again, if another seat comes up, and you choose to run once more. I have made certain of it." She regards Zath seriously, her hand reaching for his arm. "I did continue to try, even after — " She shrugs, a controlled motion. Even after the rejection. "But there was not enough time, and I… it was more difficult without your close assistance. Next time, though, if there is one, it will be different. You will have the Fallon voting block of Fallon-Tennerow-Thenedain. Lord Ference you will likely have as well, considering your work together with the W.E.B., and I would expect Lord Lysander and Lord Amerith sure things. From there, well. You will not have Lady Aspenwood or Lady Barfield, but I could sway the rest enough that their votes will not decide it."
She's quiet for a moment. "I believed in you. There is nothing wrong with you at all for the position, a man of intellect, action, and sound judgment. Truly. I would have not offered my help if I did not genuinely believe in your suitability, or your cause. In the end, the choices came down to either Lord Demasco or Lord Tennerow, and Lord Tennerow was the better one. But I would have seen you there, if it had been in my power to do so. It wasn't. I did not have that ability to help you so far that time."
Her hand moves up to his cheek to touch him lightly. "Do you wish to leave the 7th? Or do you simply wish to be here, invited to tea, without fear of you, with a future of children to be asked to hold as a favored…" She considers the options. "Uncle of the family?"
At her first reassurance he smiles faintly, gently amused by something, but also clearly comforted. At this last, he leans into her hand, closing his eyes. It seems to be difficult for him to answer.
"It was not my right to wish for anything at all," he says in preface. "I have been extraordinarily fortunate. That said, it did not stop me from fantasizing when I heard the news. It seemed that it would benefit everyone. Leaving the 7th would have been difficult, but it was also the only way that Lt. Boles would ever see a promotion."
He breathes carefully for a moment, silent as he struggles to keep his composure. More than once he takes a breath as though about to continue, but then simply lets it out, slowly. At last he continues, albeit roughly.
"If I weren't so … repulsive," he says, "then I thought, perhaps a woman might be pleased to— I am not an ugly man, even if I do look a bit sharp, a bit older than my years. And if I had a seat on the House, seemed respectable, perhaps someone might have… warmed to me, wanted to share my life. And then… the gift that the King entrusted to me, I would not have squandered it. The lands would not sit abandoned and unloved; they would be filled with… footsteps and laughter, and when I was gone, I would not be — forgotten. I would have… begun something that could carry on after me."
Avrenne's hand moves on his cheek, her hand gentle. "Oh, Zath." It isn't pity in her voice, but something more of sympathy, perhaps. "Dearest Zath. There is not a single repulsive thing about you. You do not need a House seat, or land, or a title, or even those indescribably beautiful eyes of yours, to have that — you as you are, all that you are and offer as a man, is enough.
"But, it is true that you have been isolated in the 7th. If that is what you want, a…" She considers his gender options. "Spouse in that way, a love match," there's a bit of a dry tone there, a little bit of a touch of you do you, dear, "Then you will have it. You have so much to offer. Surely you must see that, with how Siamus and I care for you so. All you need is to be willing to meet with those who you might find appealing enough, and I must say, that while I sympathize with how deeply frustrating you might find this enforced break, it is also a possible opportunity for just that."
He takes in a shuddering breath and opens his eyes, looking at Avrenne with a sort of cautious wonder. "Do you mean it…? You really believe that a woman would— I understand that Siamus sees something in me. Although I do lap up his pretty words like warm milk, I never believed them for a moment. It's his eyes, his touch, his actions that tell me that he sees something in me that is truly beautiful, desirable. I thought him a madman for it, but was not inclined to cure him. And yet it seems that you… agree? Not only that but you truly believe some other sane woman might be willing…?"
He considers it a moment, seizing her hand to kiss it as he thinks, but then shakes his head resolutely. He seems calmer now, settled on the matter.
"No," he says. "What I have with you and Siamus, it is enough, it is real and present, and I will not trade it for something so esoteric and symbolic as a Legacy, no matter how it may appeal to my vanity. But I suppose it comforts me to believe as you say… that my lack of a marriage is not because I am unworthy. That my one chance at a marriage wasn't finding a madwoman who saw her dislike for me as a tick in the Advantages column."
He drops her an almost imperceptible little wink, then drops her hand and reaches for his tea to finish it off.
Avrenne watches him closely. "My dislike of you did not last past Northrend, and was kindled only by your own unexpected coldness towards me then. When I saw you there at first, when Lord Bertrand brought you in, I was struck by it enough to forget your proper title. Handsome, even more than I remembered you to be, and even in how unkind you were I was impressed by you as a Captain and as a man — I would not have proposed to you if I had not been. By that night of the Charity Gala, I knew already that I liked you far more than I had hoped to.
"I saw your dislike of me as a point in the column, for I wanted a marriage made out of no sentimental attachment to me. And I realized, belatedly, that no such a thing would ever happen with you. For you would either never agree while you held such a dislike, or you would only agree because you did have such a feeling of sentiment. I was wrong in my proposal to you; I was not a suitable match for you as a wife," she says, with a shrug. She was wrong. It happens. Not often, but.
"But why do you think you must need trade what we have? All you need do is make the stipulations of your marriage clear." Contracts, Zath. They solve everything.
He laughs softly. "I would already be asking my lady wife to tolerate a great deal. My long deployments, my use of the fel, my…" He just gestures vaguely, encompassing his entire Being. "How many stipulations do you think such a man can afford to place in his contract before the woman simply tears it up and throws it in his face?"
"For the privilege of being yours? A great deal I would expect," Avrenne says with such confidence that it says something about how she feels about him in its assertion.
"You are both mad," he says tenderly. "And you are both mine." He reaches for her hand again, brings it to his lips. He holds it between his own (cold) for a moment. "If Siamus Fallon did not exist, I would have married you. And once I found that the making of them with me did not repel you, I'd have tried to give you children. And we'd have made the best of it, and it would not have been the worst thing that could have happened to either of us. It would have been lovely, in its own way. But I would never have matched with you as he does. I knew that in my heart, and it is why I pushed him at you. You… annoy me in so many of the same ways."
He can't help it. He's Zath. He has to be a bit of an asshole.
"But toward the end, that was the only reason I pushed the two of you together. Not because you repelled me in any way, but because I could see how brilliant you would be together. You both wanted exactly the same thing. That is too rare to ignore, my love."
Avrenne's answering smile is lambent in its glow, as she leans forward, her hand moving up to his cheek and into his hair. "I know. You were right from the first. I cannot regret how it came to be, for I would not trade the meeting of you, or learning of you, but I cannot and will never deny that Siamus is the most perfect of husbands for me, and I am grateful that you saw it to turn your hand in it so. Not only for myself, for there is no finer husband for me, for what I have wanted for so long, but for him as well, for I am the wife he has long held out hope for and desired to have. And, for you too, to not have been tied to me by your honor and word to see me not ruined, but not as happy as you might be for it, with a wife that can annoy you so." It is said with a small, almost conspiratorial smile.
"That does not mean I do not care for you, as you are, or that I do not want you as a man; all it means is that your best match is still out there, somewhere, and we simply have not yet found her."
Oh, it's now a we haven't found her yet. Oh boy. She might be considering the logistical resource management concern of Find Wife now.
"I heard that we," says Zath in a warning tone. "Don't you dare."
He leans forward and reaches for her rather suddenly, attempting to pull her onto his lap.
Avrenne, possibly to his surprise, goes willingly, her arm coming around his neck. She may be, uh, used to this sort of maneuver. "Oh?" Her brows are raised as she assesses how serious he is in that warning, flicking her eyes across his face. "I will have you know that I am an excellent matchmaker. I have a reputation." There is something playful in the tone, rather than sharp.
"Oh is that so?" He returns the playful tone. "Is that why it took two other people working unwittingly in tandem to shove you at your perfect match? But even so, I think I have more woman than I can handle as it is."
He settles her legs across his lap, careful not to muss her skirt overmuch.
She seems very comfortable in this position with its familiarity. Her right hand drifts to the collar of his shirt.
"My restrictions made it more difficult, and I fully admit to my misread on you," she admits. Her smile is bright, and it is very difficult to see a cold woman there in his lap. "You have no such difficulties of a time limit or requirements of wealth. I have personally seen to the matching of nearly twenty such couples, all of whom are pleased by the match. It is part of how I maintain some of my own web of connections. There is a bond that forms when someone has such a hand in these matters. One cannot help but feel very, very grateful to such a person," she says it as she trails her hand deliberately down his chest, fingernails slight suggestions, her voice sultry, and her eyes hotter. "Do you have more woman than you can handle, Captain?"
Despite his putting himself in this situation, he suddenly seems slightly bashful to find himself there. "I… do not have a great deal of experience in these matters," he says. Which, judging by the way he knew his way around her in the dark and through clothing, seems like a bald-faced lie.
Avrenne considers him for a moment, a faint frown as she seems to try to fit the data along various formulas. Some of the seduction tones down as she studies him. "With the discussion of the logistics of finding and courting a woman to marry with a practical minded woman, or with having a grateful woman desiring you and eager to please you in your lap?"
His ears and cheekbones turn decidedly pink. "Ah… the latter… is what I meant. I had many of the former sorts of discussions as a young man."
"Well, I suppose I have no experience in the matter of advising a lover in a wife myself," Avrenne admits with a touch of playful tease in her voice. "For all that I am used to considering the basics in general terms."
She brushes her hand back up along him, slowly, to trace the blush across his cheek, her eyes warm and soft. "I have only Siamus as my own experience. Before him, I had never had a suitor do more than a chaste brush of a kiss to my lips. That moment with you in the garden, when you touched me so, was the most any suitor had ever dared touch me with such intent. I was essentially untouched, in every way. I am still quite new at all this myself, you know." She's just a really fast learner, Zath. She smiles brighter as she leans in closer to him for a kiss. "I do know some things though. And I know what I want." And she is not, obviously, undaunted by the prospect of learning through doing. (Science!)
He leans in, but stops at brushing her lips with his, then murmurs against them. "I know… I know how to please," he assures her, as though he hasn't already done so multiple times. "I was trained to do so. But by… courtesans, when I was young. You are the first woman I have ever been with who… desired me. I confess that it… changes things, and somehow, believe it or not, rattles my confidence. Especially without Siamus here to er, command me."
Avrenne smiles sweetly at the first, a now familiar expression for what it means, as she shifts restlessly in his lap, a faint blush on her cheeks now. She does not seem bothered to learn that he came by those skills by, uh, professionals.
As he concludes, she pulls back just enough to make eye contact, her expression solemn and gentle at once, her eyes a deep, warm darkness. "Do you trust me — that I will tell you what I like, and what I do not, that my desire for you is real and unfeigned?"
At the word unfeigned a dark cloud flickers across his expression, but it is quickly gone, and his tone is gentle and sincere when he answers, "I trust you."
Avrenne nods, tilting her face closer, as she lets her hand trail down him to his hand, bringing both of theirs up to her hair, where the pins hold it in its chignon, pressing his fingers there in a suggestion that he might take it down. "You do not have to be anyone other than who you are, or consider what 'a lady' might want or what the correct courting may be. I am 'Avrenne' with you, and what I like is this. What I want is you, however you wish to be with me. You please me for being as you are. If you wish for direction, I can give you it. If you wish to take the lead, I will follow it, but never to my own harm to please you, I promise you that." She closes her eyes on a soft sigh. "I trust you, Zath."
"Then you are a madwoman," he whispers hoarsely.
Nimble fingertips find the pins, moving so delicately that she can't feel the slightest stirring in her hair until Zath slides enough pins out for gravity to start unwinding the knot.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, watching the light play over her hair as it falls down. He sifts his fingers through it, half smoothing it into order, half savoring the texture of it. He leans in and lifts a few strands to his nose, inhaling softly.
That scent of lotus is stronger in her hair, sweet and slightly spicy with an undertone of green growing things. She makes a content sound at the touch of his hands. If she does not seem particularly flattered by the compliment, she does not seem put off by it either. But it may be obvious to someone watching closely for a reaction that she was more pleased to be called "clever" than "beautiful."
"Your hands feel so lovely in my hair," she says, that sultry note a sweet darkness in her voice now. "That night of the Remembrance Ball, I could still you feel that sensation of you touching my hair, as though you had taken a sample of me, a tasting, for weeks after." She shifts in his lap, a restless movement of her hips.
"I thought of it too," he says, closing his grip on her hair now and using it to tilt her head back. "I could not understand how such a hard woman could have something so soft." He leans in to kiss her, firmly now. First her mouth, then her angular jawline, moving last to the spot just behind her ear and lingering there, tongue tip tasting as he breathes in the scent of her skin. She can likely feel him stirring beneath her where she sits.
There's a gasp at the kiss to her neck, a soft exhale at the touch of his tongue, and the start of a sense of a bow being tightened, as she arches further for him, a sense of yielding to her. "And now?"
"Now I have felt and tasted all of your softness," he murmurs against her skin. "And I am drunk with it, dazed and stupid." One hand explores her dress, finding her breast, her ribs, waist and hip, lingering nowhere but instead seeming to learn the whole of her. "I can hardly reconcile the woman I thought you were with the one I have had in my arms, heard cry out in the dark."
He has always kept it dark, thus far.
There's a distinct sound at the touch to her breast, even in the fleeting touch. Her eyes open slowly, so dark that pupil and iris have become almost indistinguishable. It takes her several seconds to form word thoughts. "This is who I am. It is simply not for everyone to see." It is, however, clearly for him to see. "Like you, I made myself into what I needed them to see. But this is the one that is real."
"She is… exquisite," Zath says, and brings both hands up to trap her face, drawing her in to kiss her fervently. But soon he draws back, perhaps prematurely from her point of view. "I had best not get carried away here," he says, resting his forehead against hers. "This is a civilized room meant for company."
Avrenne laughs, a low, warm sound like the peak of a summer's day. "As you like," she says, and she seems to mean it; if he wishes to stop, then they will stop. "I should say, that has not stopped me before." She may have been carried away in some rooms at the Estate that were not a bedroom. Ahem. "But, I would not wish you to feel uncomfortable."
"You said we might go to the estate, hm?" He nuzzles the side of her throat. "Surely there are plenty of rooms there that are private and out of the way and more tolerant of… a bit of chaos?" He slips his hand into her hair again, savoring the feel of the silken strands.
In his defense, they are very silky. Avrenne has the well kept hair of a noblewoman.
She tilts her head to expose her throat more. It takes her once again several seconds to reply; he can almost feel the way she has to force the thoughts to happen again, distracted by his touch.
"We may, yes. Although there, you will see more of my wards. Isla, Otto, and Finley all live there. Daisy lives here, though she is not often at home. But it is a large place, and no one would open a door that I have shut without permission." Her hands are back to his shirt again, tracing the waistcoat lines. She seems to be possibly studying it to redirect other thoughts, but her head is still tipped in opening for him to enjoy. "Do you enjoy horseback riding at all? For recreation, I mean, not for purpose to get from one location to another."
"I suppose I do," he says. It's obvious that any question to do with his preferences requires a pause for thought and self-examination. "I suppose I enjoy anything that gets me outdoors, and I have a great respect for horses. They used to take to me well in return, although… some are skittish around me in recent years."
"I do not think these will be. They are rather fearless. My dear Greygale will be glad to see you again," Avrenne says. She considers something, and there is now an element of a wicked light in those dark eyes, as she moves her hands along the collar of his shirt as though fixing it, smoothing it. Hm. She might be planning something. "And I should introduce you to Vesper, my other girl. I am very fond of them both, if for different reasons."
"It would be… lovely to see Greygale," he says, his voice a little rough with… some feeling or other. His gaze is glued to her face, to her wicked expression. "And yes, some horses aren't bothered by hints of the fel… my own, for example, the one I ride to battle. Somber, he's called. I don't consider it appropriate to ride a felsteed everywhere, which is how most warlocks solve the problem." He casts a disdainful glance skyward.
"Mm. Would you rather ride a felsteed, or would you care to borrow one? I will not mind either way. The fel does not bother me in and of itself." Avrenne's smile goes softer. "I would love to meet Somber someday. I am fond of horses."
"Somber is rather a one-man horse, but you should at least see him some day; he's magnificent." He smiles down at her and smooths her hair. "I do not ride felsteeds unless I have no other choice but to summon a mount from nowhere. In those cases, they can be convenient indeed."
"Well then, you shall have Leveche, and I shall take Vesper, and perhaps I can show you some of the grounds of the Estate. We may ride along the coast as well, if you would like."
"I would enjoy that," he says. "I've always loved the sea, and of course now more than ever." He smiles then, something sweetly pained in it. "Light, I miss him. How do you stand it?"
Avrenne looks down to her seastalk case, and her hand goes to it. She touches it lightly on the triangular piece of greenish sea glass in the front, her finger moving along it for a moment before she moves it to the latch, opening it to look at the blossom inside it — fresh and blooming still. There's a soft sigh at the sight, and she closes it once more.
"I suppose that some of it is that I think of him and I am comforted by that thought. And some of it is that…" She does not meet his eyes, a faint sense of her squaring her shoulders slightly, as though possibly afraid of some judgment, but committing herself to truth. "It is something of my nature that I have been told that I do not seem to need people the way I think some people like to be needed. I always want him with me, but I do not need him at my side at all times to be happy with him, to know that I am still with him, and he is with me, no matter the distance. I will always be so pleased to see him again, but while I miss him, it is a feeling I am comfortable enough with that it is not a pain, nor a sadness. I am still blissfully happy, simply knowing he is there, somewhere, even half a world away.
"I would like that portrait of him though," she adds seriously. "I did not realize until he left the first time how much I would wish to be able to look at him while he is away."
"He's ridiculously beautiful, isn't he?" Zath says in a faintly disgusted tone which she may know him well enough by now to understand is affectionate in nature. "I worry that if I do get that portrait made, between the two of you I'll not be able to stop staring at it and shall find myself walking off of a ledge or something. What an undignified end for a decorated veteran."
"I suppose you shall have to either be certain you keep a soulstone on yourself before you start looking at it, or have a mage follow you around to slow your fall should you step off one," Avrenne says, a playful tease in her voice. "Although, one must consider that then that would give you ample time to study it at leisure with no one around to look over your shoulder."
"I think I'd like a very different sort of portrait of you to gaze at when alone," he says dryly. "But first perhaps I ought to see you in person, in full light. I am joking about the portrait, too, of course. For reasons discussed previously."
Avrenne gives him a bright smile at the suggestion of seeing her in full light, a glow to her. Oh, yes. She's into it. "If you would like to see me, you are welcome to." There is again that sort of brush of her hands along his shirt, and from the way she's examining it now, it might be more obvious that she is looking at it as though to consider what is underneath it. "You may say no, of course, there is no obligation, but then might I have the privilege of seeing you so, in the light?" It's asked gently, her eyes flicking from his waistcoat up to his eyes. She really is a turnabout is fair play kind of gal, Zath.
His eyes tighten at the corners, just this side of a flinch, but then he exhales resignedly.
"You know that I can deny you nothing," he says. "But please at least allow me to close my eyes while you look so that I cannot see your expression of horrified disappointment. 'Battered hatrack,' I believe was Boles's assessment. Not to say that she ever saw me undressed in that context, mind you."
Avrenne's expression grows softly concerned at the stipulation, but what is most telling, what is undeniable in its immediate truth, is the way her hands go abruptly hot over his shirt, palpable through the fabric, at the insult to him, even as her lips tighten into a line. Her chin goes up. "That was a cruel thing for her to say," she says with her voice controlled, her hands taking their time to cool fully, but she raises them to cup either side of his face, her eyes gentle now. "And I would never look at you so. I know the shape of you. You are lovely and if you think I would be horrified at any part of you, then I can only beg your forgiveness for having given you reason to think I might."
"Do reserve your judgment until you behold the full effect, hm?" he says with a strained but tender smile, hands covering hers on his face as though to cool them. "Know however, that whatever your final assessment, I am deeply grateful to you for your kindness and your willingness to see me in a generous light. Whatever my own… misgivings, I shall not withhold myself from you.”
"Mm." There is that look in her eyes, as though he's dared her or challenged her, but it's oddly gentle for all of it, as though she's stepping towards him rather than away, as her hands cool beneath his. "Will you trust me with yourself? I will give you nothing but my fullest honesty, but I would ask that you watch it, so you know that it is not that I have covered it, or that I am only showing you what I want you to see. I admit that I am eager to see you," she says, and there is a punctuating movement of her on his lap, a suggestion of her hips. "And it is not kindness that makes me feel so. It is desire."
Again she can feel a definite stirring beneath her at this, and an echoing heat in his heart-of-flame eyes.
"Succubus," he says in a low, almost threatening sort of purr. "Do not tempt me to put my hands under that very nice skirt in this very nice tea room."
"Don't tempt you because you do not want to, or do not tempt you because you think I do not want you to?"
"Because I am terrified that someone will blunder in… or overhear," he adds, letting her imagination fill in the cause and effect there.
There's that wicked look in those dark eyes again. Avrenne strokes her hands down his jaw to his neck, coming to rest them on his shoulders, as she leans forward to set her lips by his ear. Her voice is low, a familiar sort of warm and sultry; he's heard it often enough in the dark. It turns out that the succubus of the darkness really is her. "No one will open that door; they have orders not to. Sintha is not here. And I suppose if you want me quieter, then you will have to keep me quiet, Captain. I'm sure you can think of something."
Time Passes
She's looking at him, or it might be better said that she is visually drinking in the sight as though it's the most erotic thing she's seen, her expression soft, lips parted in invitation, as she pants against him, her hips moving in faint shifts of aftershocks of pleasure. "Zath." It's again that tone, that satisfaction so deep that it's a caress of him with his name.
It takes him a moment to return to earth, for his eyes to slowly drift open. When they do, his gaze is drawn to her face and lingers there drowsily. "Avrenne," he says, aloud this time.
Avrenne smiles at it, a bright lambent glow to her, that distinct flush across her making her seem as though she's run miles in the summer heat, as she closes the distance for a much gentler kiss, a savoring slowness.
He starts to lift both hands toward her face, but then lowers them, perhaps due to Stickiness. He seems strangely fastidious in these matters. He lets the hands fall limp, answering her kiss only with caressing lips and a lazy tongue-tip. He sighs deeply.
Avrenne nips playfully at his bottom lip, barely something that could be called a bite, before she pulls back to simply look at him, as though studying the picture of him there in the light. She hasn't released him fully from her hand, but the other comes up now to brush his hair back from his face, a loving gesture. "You are so lovely." There's a sweet curl to her smile again. "I think we shall have to go to the Estate today." There's something about the way she says it that implies almost a now, or at the very least a soon.
The woman is possibly dangerously resilient.
"I would enjoy that," he says, returning her smile drowsily. "I am ready to go whenever we've tidied up here." His gaze flickers downward toward her softly lingering grip.
Avrenne flicks her eyes down, and then up to his again. Very slowly, lingering in it as though she is reluctant to let go, she releases him. She does not seem particularly bothered by the mess, or the stickiness. "Would you like me to get you something?"
Tyrrell turns his attention to his lap, tidying up and tucking himself back in. "If… hm… what should we do about this, er…?"
His ears turn a little pink as he holds up the cloth, then immediately scrunches it up in his lap as though trying to make it disappear.
"With your husband not here, whoever does the laundry might have questions, and opening up a small portal to the Twisting Nether to toss it in seems rather like overkill. Plus I'd need a third person, which defeats the point. I could summon one of my servants and send it back with them… the sayaad might even enjoy it…" He's definitely babbling now.
Avrenne sets her left hand gently on his face, that deliberately light touch, as she looks him in the eyes. "Zath. Let me handle it. And the sheets you intend to destroy later. I am the Lady Fallon," she says with that unmistakable authority of hers, that chin tilt. Although, now, it is possible that the motion, which exposes more of the line of her throat, conveys a few more mixed feelings than it did before, of the sign of her confidence. "It is no different for me than for Siamus. This is our House, not his alone. I am in full rights by my contract with him, with his full blessing, not a lady of the House conducting an illicit deed. This is only discretion, Zath, not something shameful." There's that gentleness and warmth in her voice, as though trying to reassure him of something she already believes.
He gazes back at her for a long moment, lifting his hand to cover hers on his cheek as though holding it there, and then takes a deep breath.
"I am sorry. I — I am not certain I remember how to live in a way that doesn't anticipate disaster around every corner. But I shall try." He takes the hand on his cheek and brings it to his lips, still gazing into her eyes.
"I understand." There's a deep sympathy in the words, her eyes still on his. "I know what it is like, to live every day with the fear that it will all come crashing down around you. That you will say the wrong thing, or you will fail to secure the right contract, or that this will be the month no amount of math will change the fact that you will not make rent, that everything you have is built on a house of cards waiting to fall. And to come from that to finally believing that you have, at last, something safe, you can lean on it, reach for what you believe you must," she pauses, and there's a trembling around her eyes and mouth for a moment, despite the time passed. "Only to have it collapse behind you, leaving you dangling over the precipice, as though mocking you for having dared believe you could ever trust in anyone but yourself."
She leans forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek, affection in it. "I also know what it is like to wake up every day and know myself safe at last, with a man who will never leave me so, who will support me without me needing to ask, and still find myself acting as though I am alone, needing to survive. I expect these things take time. I do not begrudge you your own habits of survival, dear."
He wraps his arms around her, cradling her close. She is so small, against him. One hand comes to rest on her hair, the other on her arm, an embrace free of all prurient intent and simply cherishing her for a moment. Then he lets her go.
"Let us prepare for departure, then," he says. "We have sheets to ruin."