afternoon, sunlit
Summary: Tale of Felluah. The soft rustling of cloth has become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Drabble- Arthur (Orthez). (Arthur doesn't like the Royal Court.) Set immediately after vol 02 ch 03.
Warning: Drabble.
Set: Directly after vol 02 ch 03.
Disclaimer: Standards apply.
Arthur does not like the Royal Court.
There are too many, too artificial people, and too many of them believe they know too many things about him. The halls are too grand and the furniture too expensive, the light that illuminates the too-long dinner tables is too bright, there is too much etiquette, too much false politeness and too many rumors and he is too tired to even care about any of it anymore. There is a crown prince who is entirely too interested in a certain Countess of Felluah, there is a Marchioness whose sight still brings back too many memories and too much pain, there are Knights of Pabina who tread too carefully around issues which are too private to have them out in the open and, in the process, only remind him of them even more. There is too much he dislikes in this place and in these people and too little he likes to allow him to ignore all of it. And there is nothing he can do other than to bear it because Arthur is the Earl of Felluah and he has a duty. Towards the Royal Family, towards the nobles of the realm, towards his family name and his family history and his dead parents and his subjects and his childhood friends. And, last but not least, towards his wife.
Orthez is too polite, too well-behaved and too perfect to be true, and that is why he does not trust her.
The eldest daughter of the Duke of Tessa, Orthez Lafrey born Acryl, is beautiful. Her smile is kind and her words are soft, her movements elegant and her appearance exquisite. Everything in her is perfect. Except for her character Arthur cannot find any fault in her; and for that reason he is suspicious. Of course, her character is a major flaw. The bossiness, the rude tone and the stubborn defiance, however, only appear when nobody else is present except for the two of them, so he cannot really blame her for that. He knows how it feels to be forced to be a person one does not want to be. Except that Orthez does not seem forced: she just seems weary.
But Arthur also has no reason to mistrust his wife. That, he guesses, has to be enough for now.
The Lady invited Marchioness Ricel to Felluah.
He is so terribly, terribly tired. The afternoon sun is low in the sky, highlighting the too-beautiful frescos on the too-high ceiling. Just for a second… Too-cheerful voices drift in from the outside, maybe the Queen's Circle, again, or the Crown Prince and some of his fellow noblemen. The play will begin soon and the Queen has extended her invitation: there is no way he can avoid attending. He just hopes…
I will be loyal to you.
When he wakes up it is because someone is loosening his collar. Soft, cool fingers barely skim the edge of the skin of his throat and move away again. Not hasty, but not lingering, either. The afternoon sun illuminates Orthez' golden hair and her fair complexion; she seems almost ethereal. In another world, perhaps, Arthur would have fallen in love with her.
"Isn't it uncomfortable, sleeping like this?"
He watches her, waiting for a reaction, knowing full well she expects an answer and yet expects none. When he just looks at her wordlessly her hands continue, carefully opening the first button of his jacket.
She fumbles with the second, then catches herself.
The third comes open, and the fourth. Arthur does not say anything, and neither does she.
When she has finished her task, her hand touches his vest lightly. She places her palm against his chest – so small, so fragile – and he wonders whether she will do something, but she does not. Instead, Orthez slips away again, disappearing behind the folding screen separating the room from her dressing area.
The play, Arthur remembers. Of course she would change for the event. She is meticulous like that; he has seen her wardrobe. Dresses in all colors, all forms and styles. All matched with a fitting head dress and matching shoes, sometimes even with matching jewelry. He is not sure whether she actually enjoys dressing up – the way she seems to leave behind any pair of shoes as fast as possible once they find themselves in their own, private rooms certainly seems not an indication to it. But it is expected that the Countess of Felluah sets an example when it comes to fashion, and Orthez probably is perfectly aware of this.
I will be loyal to you, Arthur.
For some minutes, the whispering sound of cloth is the only thing heard in their room. A soft thud resounds as the dress is draped over the screen, then the soft song of other, different material follows. Apparently, Orthez did not wait for her handmaiden to come to her aid. Arthur cannot say that he is surprised. Or has she not called up on her? Why not, then?
You were asleep.
He rolls over, pillowing his head on his right arm. Turning his back on the screen and the room and on her.
But he cannot escape. The sound has changed, but it still continues on. Softly, carefully. Calm. Now, Orthez is dressing herself again. Arthur imagines silk and stockings gliding over pale skin, imagines rustling folds being arranged and arranged until they fall exactly the way the Countess envisions it. (Everything and everyone bows to Orthez.) Distinctly, he can differentiate at least three sounds. Skin on skin, cloth on skin. Orthez' breathing. The afternoon sunlight catches the top of the window and the room is plunged into shadows, but the presence behind him remains. Arthur closes his eyes again.
When had the sound of rustling dresses become so familiar to him, so soothing?
Do you want to go home? –I would like to go to Tessa.
He cannot remember whether this discussion took place or not.