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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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.

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?"

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."

Shirogane generally doesn't like being cooped up indoors for too long. Too much like prison. He's happiest outside where he can feel the wind, and so there's a nod of agreement. "It does tend to be pretty stuffy in there sometimes..."

He follows her gaze up to the sky. At least she seems like she's more relaxed now. "The damp's no help at all...I suppose it'll rain soon enough." If there was something else going on there, he wouldn't pry. Everyone had their secrets, and he knew to leave well enough alone.

Mary is a bit shy when alone with men, something that is both fear and disdain sitting in her gut. She doesn't remember when the disdain entered her heart, but she supposes it must have been after her marriage? Musn't it? (It might always have been there, something corrupted inside of her--)

"It seems... worse, maybe, on All Soul's Day." Her eyes linger on the clouds overhead, her mouth open and loose in a childish expression. "All the dead watching..."

Shirogane is, as far as men go, fairly harmless, unless you're a little rich boy trying to gamble with his daddy's money.

"I can see that...such a somber day almost seems to call for this sort of weather..." All Shirogane had to remember on this day was really his mother, and usually, the thought that she was no longer suffering in this world . If his long-gone father were dead, well, so be it. He paused for a moment, feeling like he should say something else. "As though nature itself were observing the occasion."

"Of course it's watching." She says it with such certainty, as if she didn't even have to stop to consider if the idea was ridiculous or not.

Mary is used to being watched by unseen things, even if they were only in her mind, she could feel their eyes on her. The wind was the breath of a great creature, a great and terrible creature.

To Shirogane, the wind is an old friend, a reminder that he's outside and free. There's nothing to be uncomfortable with now that he's out of the confines of the church, and he finds that certainty a bit odd. He's at least polite enough and practiced enough with his emotions not to let that show. "Good of it to provide something appropriate, then, if it must listen in."

Mary nods pleasantly in response, unlikely to argue with anyone even if she did disagree, not forcefully. She smooths down her skirts absentmindedly for a moment, letting her fingers weave in and out of the creases of the soft blue fabric. Her clothes are slightly out of fashion for England, truthfully, but she was fond of what she had brought with her from home.

"Is it listening to your prayers, footman?" Her eyes flicker up, more focused than they have been at any other point in this conversation, ice cold blue and intent. "Do you have a lost soul to pray for?"

A lady would ask the question more gently, there is almost a bluntness to her now.

Shirogane's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise not so much at the nature of the question, but at that lack of gentleness. "...my mother, actually." He frowns a bit at the thought of the woman; she likely would have been ashamed of how her only son had turned out. "She died of the consumption several years ago."

He wonders if he should ask the same of her to carry on a polite conversation...but the topic's sensitive enough that he hesitates to do so.

"Oh." Now Mary shows some kind of emotion, lifting her little hands -- pale and delicately boned -- up to her mouth, making a little steeple to catch her breath inside. A show of recognition for the terror of consumption.

...But truthfully, the disease fascinates her. The idea of the body eating itself from the inside out, of handkerchiefs full of blood. Of bodies withering away into a pathetic little nothingness--

"How difficult." She doesn't say terrible. "You seem so young, how difficult."

"Not so difficult. I learned how to take care of myself. Made my peace with it." If she'd lived, he likely wouldn't have spent so long hanging around gambling houses. Wouldn't have gotten ideas about using that to get rich. "I've found a place at a respectable house; I'm sure she would have been quite happy."

No, he isn't. But it's the sort of thing that sounds good in a conversation like this.

Her hands lower from her mouth, fingers interlacing to make a humble shape over her heart.

"What mother could be displeased that her son has learned to survive?" She muses this, seeming very earnest about the subject. "But we would all prefer to have been there to witness it."

She doesn't really mean to say 'we,' but her emotions for the subject cloud her judgement as she speaks.

"It's a mother's greatest joy."

"She always seemed to hope I'd be a trader like my father, I'd imagine." Not that he ever could have figured out why she'd want him to be anything like that man. Shirogane would have preferred the life he'd wound up in, prison and all, rather than running out on his own wife and son when fatherhood became too constricting.

But something Mary had said caught his attention rather well. "'We?'" he asked curiously, completely unaware of the possibility of that being a sensitive subject. He hadn't been aware the governess had any children...was she simply that attached to her own charges?

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.

"Oh...I'm very sorry to hear that." He was quite sincere about that. Shirogane had always liked kids. He didn't like to see them suffer, and he hated to hear that one would not survive to adulthood, even if such things were more common than he'd like. He wondered how it had happened, but he did not ask. To do so seemed rather impolite, not to mention insensitive.

She bats at her hair nervously, very careful not to make eye-contact lest she give something of herself away. Eyes are the windows to the soul and hers is so withered and virulent.

"Yes," she agrees faintly, a tremulous smile. "But I'll light my candles today."

As if that explains it all away, proves what a good mother she is.

(no subject)

anachronisticbilliards - 2013-07-15 23:47 (UTC) - Expand

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.

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.

Kiritsugu maintains a respectful distance. He knows it doesn't do to be seen to be becoming too close to an unescorted woman. The last thing he wants is trouble, but he's well-trusted by the household, having caused no difficulties in the past.

"Too plentiful," says Kiritsugu, glad enough to talk about his work. It's his task to keep the population down to manageable levels. Otherwise, the crops would be in danger, and the farmers would never let him hear the end of it. His labors are never done. "They don't let a man get much sleep." The remark is wry rather than a complaint. "Are you fond of them?" He likes animals, himself. His job necessitates that he kill a great many of them, but he never feels regret or upset about that. Why would he? It's for the good of the population as a whole. All a part of nature.

"I am... fond of seeing them, on a walk perhaps."

Mary returns to this idea with pleasure. Sometimes she felt as if she were destined to return to the wild places. There were many godless things in the wilderness. (It would be quite good for her health, wouldn't it.)

"Before I see them on the table," she includes. She wasn't a squeamish girl when it came to her food. The idea of butchery. It reads as a harmless joke from her.

"I wouldn't be surprised if you saw one. It's not a bad day for a walk. Could be better, but..." He shrugs. It could also be worse, his unfinished sentence suggests. "Good for the constitution." Kiritsugu tends to keep things simple, providing simple answers to complicated complaints, but he knows things aren't actually so straightforward. None of his simple solutions have ever truly helped him with his problems, but they help him get by.

He chuckles. "There'll be no shortage of them on the table this year." Butchery was a part of daily life, to him. "I sent a few to the kitchens not along ago."

She beams eagerly, a burst of energy in a young woman who can otherwise seem to be caught up in her own whimsy most of the time, distracted and far away until it's time for lessons.

"I'm sure they will be very fine," she decides, smoothing down her skirts lazily. "Do you take your dogs with you, to hunt the deer? Or do the little beasts spook them?"

She says little beasts with affection. She gets along quite well with dogs, mindlessly faithful, they served any master with no pretentions of righteousness.

Edited (typo, oops) 2013-07-11 15:52 (UTC)

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."

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.

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