All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

[valdemars]

Date: November 2nd, 1888
Time: 10:00am - 10:30 am (service- characters may stay for longer, though)
Location: The chapel
Characters: Everyone [OPEN/CLOSED]

Summary: The household gathers together in the chapel for a short All Soul's Day service.
Warnings: None.


The Valdemar family are not, by and large, particularly religious. "My faith," proclaimed Lady Valdemar once, to the horror of her husband's parents, "lies while science and science alone. If God should have a hand in that, so be it. I couldn't care less either way."

Yet here they were, gathered together in silent prayer before the altar and the glassy purview of King Solomon and a host of angels, huddled in the dark pews at the front as if in collective repentance- not that Her Ladyship seems particularly repentant. From the slant of her shoulders to her poker-straight back to the upward jut of her chin, all of her bearing is far too proud for a humble servant; she watches her husband take to the lectern with an almost feline boredom, thin lips pursed. Even a servant watching from a second floor balcony might note the smear of carmine on them, as if brushed on for the sole purpose of better expressing her disdain.

"The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil." Lord Valdemar seems uncomfortable with so many eyes upon him, and he studiously avoids his wife's stare. He dabs at his brow with a handkerchief before continuing. "Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death."

His voice, though low and quiet, echoes throughout the space with a new importance that could only have been built into place by a canny architect with an ear for dramatics. A Madonna relief rolls her eyes piously to the ceiling; a spider inches its way down her shoulder and drops onto the organ, silent for years now.

The final stretch now. "I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite," he finishes- and, the bible closes in a dusty thump. With another mop of the brow, he murmurs something pleading about feeling faint before bolting for the hallway wearing a martyred look.

Lady Valdemar sniffs. "A migraine," she informs no one in particular, rising from the pew. She makes it sound like an accusation. "His health is so tenuous these days."

But for all of her snide comments, that she is the one left rather than her husband does allow for a little breathing room. If anyone should want to light a candle or speak a silent prayer of their own, now is the time.


[This is an open post for all of the household. Threads may either take place during, before or after the service. Lady Valdemar will also be available to speak with, assuming your character is either of the right station or has an excuse to do so- say so in your post's subject line if that would interest you.]

Comments

[motherof_bone]

Mary sympathizes with the Lord's plight... to a certain degree. The host of angels staring at her from above most certainly makes her feel ill. It is a feeling of both revulsion and love, the same knot of confusion and fear that always sits in the center of herself. A void where perhaps God should have been, but where instead a great and terrible nothing resides. She would prefer not to attend these sermons, but she sits alongside her pupils in dutiful silence.

She picks discontentedly at her fingers, prying back thin layers of dead skin. When she pinches too far and draws blood, the finger goes straight into her mouth. A habit her mother never did manage to break her of.

She looks up from her distractions very suddenly when Lord Valdemar goes tumbling past. He didn't seem to be walking so 'uprightly' now, and Mary a cruel smile. She remains seated a few moments longer, but her eyes keep flickering up towards the empty lectern, and around the room at all the watching eyes. She's beginning to sweat, and her mind turns uncomfortably over the little soul she is responsible for.

( But she is a long way away from that little grave, no chance to pour sweet milk upon the stone and beg her spirit be deemed clean on All Soul's Day. )

It is eventually too much and she rises, hurrying out of the chapel and out into the brisk November air where she stands gasping for breath, a pale hand clutched over her heart.

[anachronisticbilliards]

When the service ended and it seemed as though it were permissible to leave, Shirogane had wasted no time in getting outside. He'd never been much for religious services, and he wasn't at all objecting to this one having gotten cut short. It's a minor miracle of its own sort, and Shirogane is happier to be outside because of it, though he soon sees he's not alone out there.

He spots the governess and frowns. It looks like something had been a bit too much for the woman to handle. "Are you all right?"

[motherof_bone]

Her eyes jerk up towards him, startled. Her eyes very blue and very large and... at first it seems that even though she is staring right at him, she doesn't see him at all--( Is she alright? She isn't alright. She's never been alright and she will never be. The world is tainted and poisonous and she is no better, blood-stained little Mary who sent a babe to Hell. )

"Yes, I..." she looks away, finally, no longer staring at him like a trapped animal. "It always seems strangely claustrophobic in there. Doesn't it?"

She gives a soft girlish laugh, smiling absentmindedly at the wet ground for a moment before her gaze drifts up towards the greyling sky. "Perhaps it's just this oppressive weather."

[failedprotagonist]

When Mary leaves the chapel, Kiritsugu's not far behind, though he has his own reasons for leaving.

Once he's outside, he notes her distress and pauses. The governess. He knows her on sight, though there's not much call for the two of them to interact in the course of an ordinary day. He wonders what could be the matter with her--a mere case of nerves? Or something else? He's no expert on women's ailments, and he's not sure what help he might have to offer, but he comes toward her with a nod.

"A walk might do you good."

It often helps him. He usually heads out into the woods if he needs time to himself or life starts to wear on him too much, though he has more freedom where that's concerned than most of the other servants. Yet it's not as if she's chained to the house, and she looks hale enough, in spite of her current state. He's not much for the idea that women should be treated like invalids.

[motherof_bone]

Mary has always been treated as an invalid. A young girl with hysterical tendencies, she has spent many long days hidden away in her rooms, alone with herself. It was Hell, to be alone with herself, but that did not make her more eager for company. They were all rotten inside, every last one of Eve's children.

She gives Kiritsugu a wide-eyed look, not entirely comfortable around men. (Something itches inside of her, when they look too close.)

"Have the deer been plentiful this year?" She liked the idea of deer, their soft white tails and large eyes. Their delicious meat.

[mouthbreathing]

Our father who... the words evade his thoughts and Warsman glances sideways, ever aware of his own presence and trying not to raise his line of sight to the point where it might just cross Lady Valdemar's. He'd like to admire the chapel in all its gothic splendour, but he finds himself waiting until her back is turned before he gets to his feet and pads softly to the side as though he were a thief rather than a guest. A subject, too. Maybe that's why he's so eager to remove himself from Lady Valdemar's sight; when she looks at him, he feels her eyes blueprinting his entire body.

And he doesn't want to feel that. Not on today of all days, when simply sitting before the altar was enough to make him wonder if a man with a metal heart could truly call himself a Godly creation.

But that line of thought could only make him maudlin, and so he focuses instead on the elegant white walls- he'd rather worry about whether his own dark suit, perfectly acceptable by most people's standards, looks shabby by comparison, or whether wearing his helmet in here is disrespectful. Then again, he isn't sure that anyone here looks particularly at ease this morning. It's too quiet in here, the space too large for so few people to fill it comfortably.

With his size, though, standing around like this is making Warsman feel even more conspicuous, and so he quickly makes towards the trays of candles towards the back of the chapel. Taking one of the lit candles, he carefully tilts it so that the flame touches an unlit wick until it flares up itself. He might not be in any position to ask God for mercy even in the name of others, but going through the motions is soothing in its own way and he finds himself lighting a second and a third just to find something to do with his hands.

[professorwolf]

Church is not really Lyall's cup of tea. It never really has been. He knows perfectly well he'd be as likely to be cast out as accepted, and he's not really interested in a deity that is so harsh with his supplicants. He sits thought the service politely, of course, as it is expected for his position within the house, if not necessarily required. Instead of thinking on the homily, however, his mind is moving through lists of things that need doing today, people he needs to check in with on various tasks, and a shipment due to arrive in the next couple days that will need people reassigned to handle organizing. When Lord Valdemar finally flees, he breathe a small and silent sigh of relief, and rises smoothly. He'll light a candle of his own, if just to see the altar light up with warmth, and then be on his way.

Warsman is there first, his much longer stride and more awkward impatience moving him more quickly. The quiet butler offers him an amiable nod and a small smile. "Someone on your mind?" he asks, voice soft in the open space, eyes on the slowly growing collection of votive candles.

[mouthbreathing]

Soft though the voice that addresses him is, Warsman still finds himself instinctively twitching a little, his head jerking as if to weave away from a left-hook-- but for all his defensive instincts the blow never comes. It's just the butler: a friendly enough man by all accounts, though he's never really found the occasion to speak to him all that much. Truthfully he's still trying to figure out where he sits in the house's admittedly unusual hierarchy. Would his hosts be insulted if they caught him speaking to servants, or is he barely one step above them himself?

Regardless, he tilts his head both to return the nod and direct what he hopes seems like a smile in Lyall's direction, the eyes of his mask softening around the edges. It's much easier to offer a response when the silence has already been broken for him.

"I think everyone has someone they like to remember on days like this." A pause. "Mr. Lyall, isn't it...?" Or is it just 'Lyall'? He doesn't want to seem rude, but...

[loosethedogs]

Unfortunately, Lady Valdemar's granddaughter isn't much better. There are few things that would prompt Misaya to linger inside the chapel after the end of a service; Warsman is one of them.

And she truly does think of him as a thing, her gaze, bright with compassionless curiosity, darting up and down his body as she sweeps over to him. This is hardly the first time she has fantasized about quite literally pulling him apart and examining what makes him tick, and it's unlikely to be the last. Her eyes flick to the candles briefly, then up again. "Much on your mind?"

[mouthbreathing]

Though he could never be so crass as to admit it, in her own way Misaya almost makes him as nervous as Lady Valdemar herself. He's been told that she's something of a prodigy, more than clever enough to carry on the family's legacy with a little nurturing, but maybe that's what unsettles him about her. They'd never have been left alone together of course, a fact for which Warsman was generally grateful (and then felt terrible about being grateful for) but as she approaches him in the church he nonetheless feels oddly cornered by her. Ridiculous, considering the immense difference in their size.

"I... nothing worth mentioning." Should he really be speaking to her like this? He finds himself glancing over her head briefly, trying to reassure himself that this is a very open and visible space- though he doesn't know why he's worrying about intimidating someone like her. "Did you want to light a candle for someone?"

[dracobin]

Temeraire's visits to the chapel have been few and far between, thanks to the Valdemars' typically lax attitude toward religion; he can count the number of times he has attended a service here on the fingers of one hand. Now he takes in the sights around him with undisguised curiosity: the ramrod-straight posture of Lady Valdemar; the blank, stony stares of the saints; the dull gleam of the organ in the half-light of the chapel. It is all terribly stiff, once the novelty of it all has faded away, but there is nevertheless something familiar in the pomp and the circumstance. Temeraire himself has never been particularly religious, but he remembers the funerals in the village where he was raised, and there is not such a great difference between those ceremonies and this. He draws some comfort from the thought, if nothing else: a memory of home, so very far away.

All the same, he breathes a small sigh of relief when Lord Valdemar makes a hasty exit, and he pushes to his feet and stretches his aching back as the low murmur of the other congregants begins to fill the chapel. He is about to take his own leave when the unmistakable figure of Warsman catches his eye.

He has introduced himself to the Russian before, though only briefly; he would be lying if he said his current interest in the big man were not primarily motivated by academic curiosity. Still, even that curiosity is accompanied by a simple, straightforward interest in getting to know the other residents of the manor better, and this--a lit candle, a silent prayer--this, too, is not unfamiliar.

"Pray, what are you doing?" His voice is meant to be pitched low, but it comes out a little louder than he intended; with any luck, Warsman will interpret it as the friendly inquiry it is meant to be, rather than an accusation.

[puppy_lancer]

Lancer stands out from the rest of the servants. If not by his posture, then by his activities. He had fallen asleep and was currently snoring and drooling. He never was very good at listening to long religious services, even if they were being given by his boss. If those people sitting next to him aren't careful, there's the very real danger that he'll fall onto their shoulders and continue drooling while using them as a pillow.

Obviously, someone should wake him before the entire room can hear his snores.]

[failedprotagonist]

Kiritsugu's level of caring about someone sleeping in church hovers somewhere around nil. Sleep is probably one of the better uses of church, in his opinion. Yet it's an infraction, and the boy is likely going to get in some amount of trouble for sleeping during the service. Kiritsugu has no particular fondness for punishment without good reason.

That's why, from his place seated behind Lancer, he cuffs him in the back of the head.

[loosethedogs]

When the service finally ends—and on that note, too; what an embarrassment—Misaya rises immediately. What a relief. She can't say she understands going through the motions of faith when hardly anyone gathered in the chapel seems to appreciate it, but far be it from her to question her grandparents' wisdom. It's with her usual straight-backed and proud bearing that she makes her way through the pews.

As she passes by her snoozing servant, she very deliberately stomps on his foot.

[failedprotagonist]

It's rare to catch a glimpse of the gamekeeper in the chapel, as calling him a religious man would be a gross mischaracterization, but he's made an appearance today. Kiritsugu's hair is combed and his boots are clean, though he hasn't gone so far as to shave. He's not much for religion, but today is different. The Commemoration of All Faithful Departed. It's one particular departed that Kiritsugu has on his mind. He all but completely ignores Lord Valdemar's words, sitting in the back of the chapel with his eyes closed, as unobtrusive a presence as it is possible for him to be. In silence, he says a prayer for his father, hoping to feel some sign of the man's presence, a warmth or an awareness.

He senses nothing. He can hardly recall his father's face.

When Lord Valdemar leaves, Kiritsugu opens his eyes to watch him stumble from the chapel with a faint frown. He probably shouldn't have come. He rises to his feet, yet instead of leaving, he walks to where the candles stand. He sinks to his knees and lights one. This action may bring his presence to the attention of the others, but he doesn't appear to mind the thought that he's being observed as he says another silent prayer. It's only once he's offered these final words to his father that he rises again and unceremoniously walks out.

He could return to his work or his cottage, but instead, Kiritsugu lingers nearby. He takes a pipe from his jacket pocket and proceeds to light it, smoking slowly and thoughtfully as he stands at the edge of the lawn. Pale smoke rises into the air. Proper decorum it isn't, but proper decorum isn't exactly what one has come to expect from Aungier House's gamekeeper.

[loosethedogs]

Misaya cares little about religion, and even less about the dead, so it's no surprise that she has already made her way outside when Kiritsugu exits the chapel. Her lips purse together when she takes note of him. He's one of the few—perhaps only two—members of the staff that her sharp eyes do not skip over as though there were mere scenery. Setanta is her possession; Kiritsugu is a liability.

...But, allowing him to catch her had been her mistake, so she can do nothing but monitor him and make sure he has no reason to give her away. For now, this means staying in his good graces. "Good morning, Kerry," she says, a charming smile fixed on her face by the time she addresses him. "I hope you didn't find the service too torturous."

[muscovy]

When Kiritsugu took the candle and lit it, Ivan was watching him, and once he has been told that he can get up he moves over to the candles, pulling one out and with some stretching up managing to light it... and then standing there, candle in hand and not tall enough to put it up where it belongs.

It seemed like a good idea to light a candle at that time. Turning his head, he looks into the direction into which the man who lit his candle earlier vanished into. His eyes shortly dart back to the mop of blond that indicates the only person in the house that he at least technically knows yet, but he's chatting with someone and children aren't allowed to interrupt adults. But that other man was alone. Maybe he hasn't gotten far yet...

Candle in hand, the little Russian ventures outside and upon spotting the gamekeeper walks towards him, his aim obvious.

[muscovy]

It's not what he expected when the man that they told him was his father told them that they were attending a kind of worship. For one, there seems to be no priest, and it's very - dry. Yes, that might be the best description. That there are few people, or that half of them don't look like they are particularely fond of being here, is not nearly as odd. He notices that some are about as confused as him apparently. And some are not...

But no matter how odd the worship is, he cannot get up and wander around to look at things. That's forbidden. So he'll stay where he is, unsettlingly calm for a boy his age, and just look around and watch with a somewhat disconnected smile on his lips. He's looking at people openly and won't avert his eyes should someone look back at him, and even stay where he is when the first people start to get up, because he wasn't told that he was allowed to.

[motherof_bone]

She comes to visit him, just before the service begins. She has a pretty face and a gentle smile.

"It will be over quickly," the house governess promises. She holds out a hand, held in a fist. When she uncurls it, there is a small piece of candy in her palm.

[ryuuzaki]

L sat through the brief service as he always did: silent, still, and inscrutable, his wide grey eyes seemingly fixed on his father-in-law. He was a paragon of rapt, respectful attention, his long white fingers folded neatly in his lap, a contrast to their usual activity. At one point, he shifted positions, then brought his thumb to his lower lip, as if very interested in what he was hearing.

In truth, he was inestimably bored and uncomfortable and his mind was wandering far afield. His sympathies were with his mother-in-law. These tedious services were always a good time for thought, and to observe the household, but they would have been better if there had been no speech at all. He could always consider things better in silence, but getting it could be a chore; he had to order everyone out and lock the door. Sometimes he envied the older man’s effortless solitude... but not his inactivity, his loss of reputation, or his seeming abandonment of personal ambition.

When it was over, L pushed to his feet and moved towards the door, eager to return to his work, but knowing that he would probably be detained. There were mundane duties here to attend to, as well as family and collegial friends -- at least his daughter had sailed away the moment she was able to. A servant might catch him in the hall.

There was also a possibility that Her Ladyship would crook her finger at him.

[muscovy]

A little boy, new enough to the household that it has to be the first time that L sees him (after all Ivan only arrived last night without any prior announcements, and the service happens early enough that he only had time to be woken up, get dressed, and sling down a quick breakfast during the process), is standing near the door and just watching the older male. He's smiling, though it seems to more just be there, not directed at anyone - standing there and watching L seems to be a pleasure to the child.

His hands are joined over his belly, and his purple eyes, of the same hue as his "father" Timo's (just like his blonde hair is very reminiscent of Timo's), only show curiosity and intent interest. They won't be turned away should L look at him, he seems to not be quite aware of staring like that being impolite.

[gentlemanliest]

It wasn't a servant or student that stopped him this time. Robin caught up to him as he passed under the arched doorway and entered the hallway, long legs carrying him on several strides to close the gap. "Terribly busy today?" he put a hand to his shoulder to stop him, "I suspect that if you have no time for God you'll have none for me."

His tone was conversational but it disguised how closely he had been watching him throughout the service. Was it devotion that kept him so still and focused? He had never appeared especially fanatical about religion and one glance at her ladyship’s almost scornful expression throughout the proceedings was enough to tell anyone that he hadn’t married into such a family either. But then again, he was hardly an expert on the subject, as much as he had tried to remedy this recently.

Those first few months, they were more strangers than brothers, connected by half a bloodline that he had otherwise severed himself from, like a surgeon cutting out a tumour- or so it had felt at the time. It had been easy enough to declare himself estranged when he was on another continent to the rest of the family but it made for a humbling return.

Maybe he should have taken the opportunity to offer the Lord a grateful prayer for having mercy enough to take their father before he attempted it.

[gentlemanliest]

Of all the skills he had picked up throughout his years serving under the British flag, none were proving so useful right now as his ability to look solemn and collected through pious droning. As Lord Valdemar lurched away from the lectern, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a particular sermon in Rhodesia that had ended in the priest crumpling into a heatstroke-induced swoon, still jibbering about hellfire. The countless services that he endured and been forced to sit through come rain or shine or ruin may not have done much to enhance his eternal soul but they had more than prepared him for this. After all, how many aristocratic social mores came down to simply affecting the correct degree and type of aloofness?

And yet he kept his eyes firmly down, not daring a glance towards Lady Valdemar. Even after two years, he was a stranger in this house; it was only a matter of time until she grew tired of his presence. That much was inevitable. Keeping his distance, for now at least, seemed the best course of action.

Perhaps that was why, once the service had wound down and his fellow ‘worshippers’- he had spotted his niece’s servant dozing off too- began to scatter, he didn’t linger too long in the pews. Small talk could be exchanged away from the judging eyes of plaster martyrs- and the lady of the manor herself.

[mouthbreathing]

Though it might not have been entirely accurate to say that Warsman had quite been pinned to Robin's side since his arrival, it was fair to suggest that he certainly seemed a lot happier trailing after his old teacher than he ever did wandering by himself. True, he was a far cry from the man he met all those years ago, the Barracuda who made his life hell for the short time they were together, and it was truer still that he'd been pale and melancholy like a man possessed for the whole time he'd been here- but he was softer, too. Calmer. More reasonable.

More awkward, too. There was no mistaking the fact that now they shared a different sort of intimacy to the master-student hierarchy they'd constructed in St. Petersburg; he'd been humbled beyond frosty authority. Though Warsman had been reluctant to press for the details of his resignation it wasn't long before he realised that, somewhere past his to-the-point explanations and light conversation, something had broken his spirit. And nothing troubled him more than the thought that he might have preferred him this way.

The moment Robin rose from his pew, so too did he hurry towards him with a light, quick urgency, as though escaping from a shower of rain in the man's shadow. "Sir." He'd been trying to train himself out of it, but old habits died hard. Anyway, it wasn't as though Robin was undeserving of his respect. "Will you be busy today?"

'Will you be busy' was, of course, a coded question- the question his hesitance refused to let him ask was if his company was welcome- but he knew he'd be understood.

[muscovy]

If he still remains after a chat or two, he might come across a little boy sitting on the steps outside the chapel. Ivan is waiting for his father, as they had no time to agree on what they would do after the service and Timo seems to be caught up in an interesting conversation right now. The boy could go and ask his father what to do, but he has been taught to never ever interrupt adults in their conversations (or older people in general), so he's sitting here now, watching a few sparrows at a puddle a few metres away. After a while, his eyes leave them and stick to the next best interesting person, which happens to be Robing. And then his eyes just stay on the older male, watching him openly.