aungier | All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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.]

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He returns her smile easily enough, though his is a faint and quiet kind of smile. "I hope you enjoy them," he says.

"No, I don't hunt deer with hounds. That's for the riding parties. I stalk the deer, myself. Dogs might lose patience with that. Too long and too quiet for them, on the whole. Mine are well-trained enough to manage, but I bring them out mainly for birds and other small game."

He speaks of the animals fondly, himself. They're loyal companions. Sometimes he thinks he prefers them to people (with some exceptions). "They're good dogs."

"Generous of you, Miss. I'm no doctor, but I know the man." Not well, but he's spoken with him about the all-important topics of sport and meat.

He notes Misaya's falter, but his own expression remains serene. "You'll have to tell me if you'll be needing me." He does go along on hunting parties, or with individual hunters, to advise and reload, though he knows Miss Valdemar likes her privacy.

He looks up at the sky at her words, the Yorkshireman in him stirring as he considers the weather. "Aye, it's been bad lately. Looks like rain, but I don't know if this storm will break. Might not rain until tomorrow." Having lived in the area all his life, and having lived much of it outdoors, weather is another area of his expertise, though like any folk forecaster, he has his off days.

"Scones, it it?" He shook his head. Lancer wasn't shy, that was certain. "I'll see what I can do. Now it sounds more like me doing you a favor than you bringing me a drink." Not that he minded. "You might have to give me a bit of warning, if you expect a feast."

"It is high for you, yes." He nods. "We'll have to do something about that. Come along, then." Kiritsugu leads the way, toward the flickering candles. He can still identify the one he lit, the one that bears a prayer for his father.

"No need for a chair." He gestures for Ivan to come to stand before the candles himself.

He chuckles lightly.

"Well, I'll bring you some meat and some drink. So I can compensate you enough for the cooking."

For the briefest of moments, he looked wrong-footed, brow creased with confusion, until he finally caught on to what Warsman was saying. Oh. Well then.

"Ah, I'd completely forgotten that..." Robin trailed off with an apologetic shake of the head. Really, now, and he was supposed to have graduated amongst some of the brightest minds in England all of those years ago. "English really is a devil of a language to navigate, isn't it? Do excuse me. A folly is a type of building- they're designed to look as though they have a purpose when, in actual fact, they're purely ornamental."

You didn't get many of those in London. Anyone trying to erect a miniature castle, assuming that they even found the space of it, would find it almost immediately populated by any number of wanderers and vagabonds. So much for 'purely ornamental'.

A couple of hours. And most of them he wasn't awake. But how do you express that? He forces his hands to stay still and not start tugging at his shirt. That's bad manners, he's been told. "Day." It's not exactly that, but surely it would come close enough for the purpose? Will his father be angry that he gave a wrong timeframe? But it's not entirely wrong, and he probably won't hear about this... "Come in night."

The reply unsettles Ivan. What is he replying 'yes' to? Is he even replying it to anything, and if he does, was what he said good? He doesn't know how his father's standing is in this house - Timo said that he 'got on well with everyone here' but that could mean a lot of things. And even if he really is on good terms with everyone - especially if he is: Ivan doesn't want to shake that situation.

But he doesn't know the man well enough to really make heads or tails of this, and so he just tries to answer to the question to the best of his abilities. Or was going to, but then the pastilles are heald out for him and yet again he is not sure what to make of it. Usually people who offer children sweets want to get something with that, or reward something that they did. Sometimes they get candy for no reason, too, but that is usually from parents who are their relatives or something similar, and it's never applied to Ivan before.

But would it be rude to not take it? What if he is being tested, what would be the right reaction - he still hesitates to take the candy as he answers. "Ivan." He has a proper father's name now, one that actually notes his father, but sinc ehe already said who his father is, he'll leave that out of the introduction. "I have not seen the house." Yet, anyway. Not much of it, anyway. Only the kitchen and night entrance, and Timo's room and the way from there to the chapel. He'll see more later. Then he'll be able to comment on it, say that it is nice or whatever.

Oh. Her attention had drifted off of his face while she spoke so fervently about the love of mothers, but they slide back to him when she hears the word again. We. Her eyes are large, like a startled deer. We. Mothers, like us. She wrings her hands uncomfortably, feeling an itch somewhere deep that she wishes she could scratch out. The words of the dead buzz in her ears like so many flies circling her ever-rotting body.

"Oh yes," she murmurs very softly, that swell of emotion that had touched her a moment before is gone. She shakes her head back and forth slowly, mournful. "But I won't see my little one grow. She's gone. She's gone forever."

It is hard for Mary to think that she made such a sacrifice only to receive nothing in the bargain. The idea makes her mind scream, and so she tries not to think on it too often. Tries to believe, the way that the faithful believe there is purpose to their suffering in God's world.

She imagines him, stalking the deer. Something quiet and dangerous coiled in the shadows, waiting. It fills her with a cloying dread, that thought. The thought of men waiting to bring blood from the innocent with swiftness and slyness. Taking whatever they desire. She wanted that power for herself. She wanted to be the one to rend, to make things scream.

She runs her fingers through her hair several times, uncomfortable with the turn her thoughts have taken. Her eyes lower to the hems of her skirts, which stir only a little in the brisk air.

"I would like to meet your dogs," she murmurs, attempting not to lose the thread of conversation and seem too strange. She didn't like to be peered at too closely, as if tapping fingers on the glass might break her pretty veneer and all would be exposed about a pretty girl with a bloody mouth. "I like dogs, very much. Someone once told me I have a good heart like a dog. Loyal."

A young man she had met in the village where he family lived West of the Valdemar House. He had very pale skin and dark eyes. He would smoke cigarettes at the cafe while she drank tea and chattered to him about fairytales. His smile was sharp when heads went rolling.

"My father." He brightens up a bit at that, still nervous both about the situation and about the whole having a father thing, but it's nice to not be an orphan and even nicer to have a parent who might just be active. He loved his mother, but she was also often sick and mostly sad and full of shame about his existence. Sure, she tried to not let him know, but... He's not sure how Timo thinks about him. But he seems friendly, and that is a good start. He's not sure if he'll hug him like his mother did, and let him sleep in his bet when he had bad dreams, but... he will see.

"Timo Väinämöinen." He points at the man.

Ivan hears "chair" and looks around - did he miss one? But there is nothing, and he peers up at the man, not sure if he is been made fun of. The sentence was half lost to him between thinking about the candles and suddenly hearing words in a language that he doesn't think in.

"Where?"

Kiritsugu shakes his head, hoping a gesture will be more easily understood than his words. He beckons to Ivan with one hand, then gestures to the floor right in front of him, between him and where the candles stand. "Here." He smiles, reassuringly.

...No. He doesn't trust this. When he got lifted up before, he usually then got carried off or suspended in the air until he agreed to something. Or he was helped up somewhere and then not helped down again, while other children laughed. No matter if he got lifted up by adults or teens or children, it almost never ended well. The only one that he would have trusted to lift him up like that would be his great-grandfather, and even with him he could never be sure.

He takes a step back, shaking his head and thrusting the candle towards the man instead. Take it and put it up there instead.

Kiritsugu nods, still smiling. If the boy is skittish, he won't force him. As slowly and carefully as he's been speaking--so as not to spook him--he steps toward him. He takes the offered candle from his hand and places it with the others, simply and easily.

"There we are, Ivan." He turns toward him again. "Do you have a prayer you'd like to say?" He mimes praying, pressing his hands together.

With a quick glance at Kiritsugu Ivan nods, though he doesn't move forward, staying out of arm's reach of the man. He presses his little hands together and stares into the flames, his lips moving as he starts to pray under his breath. It doesn't stay under his breath for long, though, and soon enough he speaks at a volume just high enough for someone standing close by to hear it. It's all in Russian, though. Basically, he is praying for a good start and that Timo will turn out as nice as he seemed at first, and then he turns to asking Mary to check on his mother and make sure that she is well up in heaven. And that she is there. Because some of the aunts and also his grandparents said that surely she couldn't be, and he doesn't know why, she was such a wonderful person even if she wasn't available often due to her sickness.

"If it's personal, maybe it would be better if you accompanied me."

They were already set to move in the direction of his study, but it was some distance away, through the long picture gallery.

Even when no one else was in the gallery, the painted faces watching from the walls ensured that it never felt like a particularly private location. It felt, instead, like being subject to the collective mild disapproval of generations of Valdemars, all at the same time.

They had nothing to disapprove of, however, except their own failures: if the family had declined to a point where he'd had to take their name to help preserve their status, those pieces had been in play for well over a century. New blood, Latimer blood and Daxter blood, had been their best hope, but it remained to be seen how it would play out. Life had an end, but time, he thought, did not, and he wondered when the results of the experiment would be decided.

If they spoke in his study, or perhaps the library, it would be more quiet, but if they spoke in the gallery, no one would have to continue to feign patience. He'd leave the decision to his brother. L began to walk, gesturing for Robin to follow.

Edited 2013-07-13 06:58 (UTC)

Completely forgotten? More like it hadn't even occurred to him. At the last moment Warsman had stopped himself from shaking his own head, but even so it wouldn't have been a fond gesture; sometimes it seemed that the cleverer the speaker, the more detached from the rest of the world they could sometimes be, as though their minds were too occupied with their own brilliance to take account of any of those silly, unnecessary things like clarity or simplicity.

"It is tricky, yes," he agreed warmly. He didn't have the heart to tease him. "I think I understand. Purely ornamental, though..." For a moment his mask's expression was clouded with a faint disapproval. He couldn't fathom having not only the money but the space to put up a building with the sole purpose of looking nice- and not even close to the house, if his memory of the grounds served him well.

On a sudden note of inspiration, he tilted his head. "Is it that shape to the north? I've seen glimpses of it out of the upstairs windows, but it's been very cloudy lately."

"It is settled, then," announces Temeraire, beaming. "I have an experiment to run this afternoon, so I am afraid I will not be available today--but at your earliest convenience, perhaps? Pray let me know."

It only just now strikes him that perhaps this is not the proper conversation to be having in a place of worship, particularly on a holy day of all times--but he dismisses the thought after a moment. Surely whatever spirits are present will not begrudge them this.

Ah, now that proves a little bit more difficult to decipher. After a moment of consideration, Robin gives a decisive nod and turns back to Ivan. "You've been here a day and you arrived last night. I see," he answered, not waiting for confirmation of that fact before continuing. "Tell me, what language do you speak at home?"

"Väinäimöinen" isn't a surname that he's familiar with but perhaps they might be able to find a language that suits them both.

"Russian." But he was told to learn English quickly because he couldn't expect anyone here to speak it. French, maybe, but he was too young and too devoid of a governess or teacher to start to learn it yet. And the people in his surroundings were a very patriotic kind, they made a point of speaking Russian a lot of the times. He's never been to court. "But my father like Finnish good." Maybe that is why nobody told him about him before? Because he was more Finnish than Russian and they didn't like that?

Rather than being made uneasy by the walls of austere faces, he was quite curious about each of them. Their names, embossed in bronze plagues beneath each portrait, held little meaning or interest to him but for the surname: Valdemar. How strange that they had dwindled down to just the one man standing before him. The weight of their stares was almost certainly far greater on L's shoulders than his own but he had never seen him buckle. Even now, his face remained impassive, unperturbed by this immense pressure.

But that wasn't the sole reason for his dawdling; talking in the presence of such a stern audience was preferable to being locked away in a study. At least here, should either one of them feel the need to quietly slip away, they could do so without much performance.

"It's about the trunks I have stored on the third floor," he said, hoping to stop him before he reached the far doors, "They mostly contain my old military equipment and uniforms and so on but some of the things I brought with me from London are there too." A pause. "Father's things."

Immediately, Robin's smile brightens again and he can't help but give a short chuckle of surprise. Now, there's a happy coincidence. He clears his throat and, in fluent but likely heavily accented Russian, begins to speak again. "You'll have to correct me on my grammar. I haven't spoken Russian in a few years now."

The look on Ivan's face could almost be called comical, his eyes going wide and his jaw dropping at first before it turns into a smile again, this time one of excitement and relief. "Are you Russian?" Not that his accent sounds like it, but Ivan cannot quite imagine how someone would speak another language so well without being from that area. A language not French, anyway, because French is a normal adult lanugage apparently, and he can't understand a word but if all adults speak it surely they have to speak it well to not lose face.

"That's it. Sometimes you can hardly see it for the mist."

Most winter mornings it was swallowed up by thick, white fog, the tip of the highest turret just barely peeking out of the fog like the prow of a wrecked ship until the tide finally subsided to reveal it window by window. Robin had visited it once before but something about its hollow, towering shape had set him on edge. He hadn't returned since.

With company, it might feel less desolate. Buoyed by that thought, he clapped his hands together in the way a teacher announcing the day's schedule to the class might. "Right. We'll explore the grounds together, shall we? The weather is perfect for it."

Not that he had expected Warsman to object account of a little chill in the air; he'd probably endured winters colder than anything England could throw at him.

Edited 2013-07-14 14:10 (UTC)

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All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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