ugh ugh ugh
Jan. 14th, 2008 06:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrWant to go back to bed *whine*
And looking at the weather, we're supposed to get flurries all day. I hope that amounts to a lot of nothing.
Umm. Chocolate coffee is good, but I'd still rather go back to bed. So wish I'd had the nerve to fake sick, but I felt too guilty to do it.
Have a little bit of woobie angsty duke.
The snow was unending.
To describe the world as turned to white was so vast an understatement that Yvain near laughed. The past few winters had been mild, with snows never reaching a depth greater than his knees.
Around him now the snow came well to waist level, with every promise of ne'er stopping afore spring at last drove winter back. As the winter solstice was yet two weeks away, meaning they were still in autumn and not true winter—
The world was not turned to white, but had been devoured whole by white.
If not for the crest of the Grand Duke stamped into the wax which sealed the missive brought to him by no less than a Beauclerc, Yvain would have told the messenger to bugger off and enjoy his perilous return through the unending snow.
Unfortunately, he was a peer of the realm, one of the highest, and so must answer the summons of the Grand Duke no matter the time or weather.
His progress was slow, his horse as pleased as he to be stuck in the thrice-cursed weather. Just as he was beginning to despair of having stepped wrong somewhere along the way, through the falling snow he spied the walls of the capital.
Chieldorona, the very heart of Chieldor, Kingdom of the Sun.
On a clear day the towers of the keep were visible at great distance. At the moment, he could scarce see his fingers before his nose. His frozen nose, and the fingers no better even within their gloves.
Yvain reached the great drawbridge which spanned the river that formed a natural moat for the great capital. On most days, so long as the sun was up the city was open. Once the sun set, the massive double portcullis were closed and no one could go in or out save with express permission. In especially bad times, the drawbridge was raised as well.
Drawing close, he halted as guards stepped forward to demand his identity. Normally he might have taken offense, for 'twas their duty to know as well as any herald the crests and blazons which sought entrance to the city. However, he doubted they could see it any better than he could see his icicle fingers.
He lifted his frozen arms in a gesture of peace, and dismounted at their bidding. Calmly, ignoring the crossbows leveled upon him – making note to commend these men to their superior – he threw back the hood of his fur-trimmed cloak.
"Your Grace," the men promptly replied, lowering their crossbows and dropping to their knees. "Forgive us, please."
"Aye," Yvain said lightly, touching their shoulders. He reached into the cumbersome folds of his heavy winter cloak and withdrew the missive, displaying the seal upon it. "I come at the bidding of his grace the Grand Duke."
The men nodded as they rose, one vanishing into the guard tower to give orders for the portcullis to be raised.
"You guard the city well," Yvain said. "Continue your good work."
"Aye, your Grace," the remaining man said, sweeping him a bow as Yvain mounted his horse and rose through the gates as they were raised.
Scarcely had he cleared them when they were again lowered, and he was well sealed within the city.
The snow was not so heavy here, for the inhabitants fought against it where they could, sweeping it from the streets, carrying away much of it to be melted down for fresh water as he doubted many of the public wells remained unfrozen.
'Twas near quiet as a graveyard as he rode along the cobblestone streets, for those who might have loitered about to enjoy a bit of fun in the night had been driven indoors to seek what amusements they may with a fire and warm ale.
His breaths were misted puffs where not swallowed by the still-falling flakes of heavy snow. It muffled the clomping of his horse's hooves, but not overmuch, and the silence all around them only made the rhythmic noise all the louder.
Here and there torches fought the weather, but he could see where more than a few had lost the battle. Guards were posted at regular intervals, and he did not doubt the lot of them were being punished for some offense or another. He nodded to each one, offering what little sympathy he could.
At long last he reached the keep itself, and here light blazed as though in an effort to drive back the grim black and white world which had been brought upon by winter.
As he reached the gate, guards rushed forward – but here they could see more clearly, and knew him on sight, moving swiftly to take his horse and offer assistance. He waved them aside with thanks, moving stiffly at first as he attempted to regain feeling in his limbs.
Just inside the keep, at the far end of the great hall, he shook his cloak free of snow, pushing back the hood, shaking his head to free it of stray flakes, combing a hand through his light brown hair.
Free of snow, the deep, rich green of his wool cloak was visible, a splash of fine color in the dimly lit gray hall, though the rich black sable which lined it was near invisible. Even here, all had sought the warmth of their beds rather than continue to endure the miserably cold. 'Twas like a strange dream, to see a place normally overflowing with people so stark and quiet.
Moving forward, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt, he traveled down the length of the enormous great hall and through passages he could travel with his eyes closed, until he reached the southern tower. He took the stairs rapidly, arriving at last at the private chamber of the Grand Duke of Chieldor.
He nodded to the guards who stood on either side of the door, murmuring absent greetings as he passed by them.
Inside, his breath abruptly lodged in his chest, refusing to move any further.
Then a deep, familiar ache blossomed and only long years of practice kept his emotions from his face.
Corentin was as pale and beautiful as the snow consuming the world. He seemed a child of winter come to life – pale blonde hair and soft blue eyes, tall and broad, dressed in a deep blue surcoat trimmed in gray, the crescent moon crest of the House de Capre emblazoned on the chest. Around his shoulders was a full cloak equal in measure to Yvain's, blue rather than green, lined with white fur. Both had been gifts last winter from the Grand Duke.
Always had Yvain loved him, always from afar, for how dare he confess such feelings to a man whose House had ever been locked in hostilities with his own. So many times had the words been upon the tip of his tongue, only to die there as their fathers renewed the animosity that was too-many decades entrenched for Yvain to easily overcome.
Then his wistful, distant watching had revealed to him Yvain's secret lover, and he had finally given up all hope that he might find some way to bridge the chasm between their families.
Even then, the worst had not yet come. When the worst did come, Yvain could not comprehend it – only that he would rather die than have Corentin learn the truth. It killed him, to know Corentin's hatred was entirely personal and now eternal…but he would rather that, even now, than see the pain etched so deeply into Corentin's handsome face. A year and half now had passed, but it may as well have been a day.
No hope had he now of having his love returned, and while it was a fact to which he should long be accustomed…'twas more like the ache in his thigh, a relic of a battle fought when he was young and reckless and thought himself immortal. It would be there forever, worse on some days, more tolerable on others, but never truly gone or eased.
It had been more bearable when Corentin believed the hatred mutual…ever since that awful day at tourney, when the Grand Duke had forced him to speak the truth of the matter…he had avoided them both as much as possible.
Now…now he was called late in the night, in awful weather, to private conference with the Grand Duke and, it would appear, Corentin. What did one say to a man who hated him, when that man knew he was loved by the man he hated?
Yvain moved to the Grand Duke's chair before the fireplace, and dropped to one knee before him, head bowed low.
And looking at the weather, we're supposed to get flurries all day. I hope that amounts to a lot of nothing.
Umm. Chocolate coffee is good, but I'd still rather go back to bed. So wish I'd had the nerve to fake sick, but I felt too guilty to do it.
Have a little bit of woobie angsty duke.
The snow was unending.
To describe the world as turned to white was so vast an understatement that Yvain near laughed. The past few winters had been mild, with snows never reaching a depth greater than his knees.
Around him now the snow came well to waist level, with every promise of ne'er stopping afore spring at last drove winter back. As the winter solstice was yet two weeks away, meaning they were still in autumn and not true winter—
The world was not turned to white, but had been devoured whole by white.
If not for the crest of the Grand Duke stamped into the wax which sealed the missive brought to him by no less than a Beauclerc, Yvain would have told the messenger to bugger off and enjoy his perilous return through the unending snow.
Unfortunately, he was a peer of the realm, one of the highest, and so must answer the summons of the Grand Duke no matter the time or weather.
His progress was slow, his horse as pleased as he to be stuck in the thrice-cursed weather. Just as he was beginning to despair of having stepped wrong somewhere along the way, through the falling snow he spied the walls of the capital.
Chieldorona, the very heart of Chieldor, Kingdom of the Sun.
On a clear day the towers of the keep were visible at great distance. At the moment, he could scarce see his fingers before his nose. His frozen nose, and the fingers no better even within their gloves.
Yvain reached the great drawbridge which spanned the river that formed a natural moat for the great capital. On most days, so long as the sun was up the city was open. Once the sun set, the massive double portcullis were closed and no one could go in or out save with express permission. In especially bad times, the drawbridge was raised as well.
Drawing close, he halted as guards stepped forward to demand his identity. Normally he might have taken offense, for 'twas their duty to know as well as any herald the crests and blazons which sought entrance to the city. However, he doubted they could see it any better than he could see his icicle fingers.
He lifted his frozen arms in a gesture of peace, and dismounted at their bidding. Calmly, ignoring the crossbows leveled upon him – making note to commend these men to their superior – he threw back the hood of his fur-trimmed cloak.
"Your Grace," the men promptly replied, lowering their crossbows and dropping to their knees. "Forgive us, please."
"Aye," Yvain said lightly, touching their shoulders. He reached into the cumbersome folds of his heavy winter cloak and withdrew the missive, displaying the seal upon it. "I come at the bidding of his grace the Grand Duke."
The men nodded as they rose, one vanishing into the guard tower to give orders for the portcullis to be raised.
"You guard the city well," Yvain said. "Continue your good work."
"Aye, your Grace," the remaining man said, sweeping him a bow as Yvain mounted his horse and rose through the gates as they were raised.
Scarcely had he cleared them when they were again lowered, and he was well sealed within the city.
The snow was not so heavy here, for the inhabitants fought against it where they could, sweeping it from the streets, carrying away much of it to be melted down for fresh water as he doubted many of the public wells remained unfrozen.
'Twas near quiet as a graveyard as he rode along the cobblestone streets, for those who might have loitered about to enjoy a bit of fun in the night had been driven indoors to seek what amusements they may with a fire and warm ale.
His breaths were misted puffs where not swallowed by the still-falling flakes of heavy snow. It muffled the clomping of his horse's hooves, but not overmuch, and the silence all around them only made the rhythmic noise all the louder.
Here and there torches fought the weather, but he could see where more than a few had lost the battle. Guards were posted at regular intervals, and he did not doubt the lot of them were being punished for some offense or another. He nodded to each one, offering what little sympathy he could.
At long last he reached the keep itself, and here light blazed as though in an effort to drive back the grim black and white world which had been brought upon by winter.
As he reached the gate, guards rushed forward – but here they could see more clearly, and knew him on sight, moving swiftly to take his horse and offer assistance. He waved them aside with thanks, moving stiffly at first as he attempted to regain feeling in his limbs.
Just inside the keep, at the far end of the great hall, he shook his cloak free of snow, pushing back the hood, shaking his head to free it of stray flakes, combing a hand through his light brown hair.
Free of snow, the deep, rich green of his wool cloak was visible, a splash of fine color in the dimly lit gray hall, though the rich black sable which lined it was near invisible. Even here, all had sought the warmth of their beds rather than continue to endure the miserably cold. 'Twas like a strange dream, to see a place normally overflowing with people so stark and quiet.
Moving forward, stripping off his gloves and tucking them into his belt, he traveled down the length of the enormous great hall and through passages he could travel with his eyes closed, until he reached the southern tower. He took the stairs rapidly, arriving at last at the private chamber of the Grand Duke of Chieldor.
He nodded to the guards who stood on either side of the door, murmuring absent greetings as he passed by them.
Inside, his breath abruptly lodged in his chest, refusing to move any further.
Then a deep, familiar ache blossomed and only long years of practice kept his emotions from his face.
Corentin was as pale and beautiful as the snow consuming the world. He seemed a child of winter come to life – pale blonde hair and soft blue eyes, tall and broad, dressed in a deep blue surcoat trimmed in gray, the crescent moon crest of the House de Capre emblazoned on the chest. Around his shoulders was a full cloak equal in measure to Yvain's, blue rather than green, lined with white fur. Both had been gifts last winter from the Grand Duke.
Always had Yvain loved him, always from afar, for how dare he confess such feelings to a man whose House had ever been locked in hostilities with his own. So many times had the words been upon the tip of his tongue, only to die there as their fathers renewed the animosity that was too-many decades entrenched for Yvain to easily overcome.
Then his wistful, distant watching had revealed to him Yvain's secret lover, and he had finally given up all hope that he might find some way to bridge the chasm between their families.
Even then, the worst had not yet come. When the worst did come, Yvain could not comprehend it – only that he would rather die than have Corentin learn the truth. It killed him, to know Corentin's hatred was entirely personal and now eternal…but he would rather that, even now, than see the pain etched so deeply into Corentin's handsome face. A year and half now had passed, but it may as well have been a day.
No hope had he now of having his love returned, and while it was a fact to which he should long be accustomed…'twas more like the ache in his thigh, a relic of a battle fought when he was young and reckless and thought himself immortal. It would be there forever, worse on some days, more tolerable on others, but never truly gone or eased.
It had been more bearable when Corentin believed the hatred mutual…ever since that awful day at tourney, when the Grand Duke had forced him to speak the truth of the matter…he had avoided them both as much as possible.
Now…now he was called late in the night, in awful weather, to private conference with the Grand Duke and, it would appear, Corentin. What did one say to a man who hated him, when that man knew he was loved by the man he hated?
Yvain moved to the Grand Duke's chair before the fireplace, and dropped to one knee before him, head bowed low.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-14 01:30 pm (UTC)Now I'm desperately curious as to why the Grand Duke is calling them out there in that weather. Why must I wait for more?
Good luck in getting through the day.