22 ~ The Gift
"My dear boy, the people who only love once in their lives are really the shallow people. What they call their loyalty, and their fidelity, I call either the lethargy of custom or their lack of imagination. Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect—simply a confession of failures."
~ Oscar Wilde
She had always had an eye for beautiful things and a genius for making everything more fetching. Her robes were the same issue as everyone else's at the Circle, but she wore hers with flair: it was in the way she fastened them with a belt, the fabric draping over her figure alluringly. Her walk was elegant, and her posture was statuesque. She trained, painstakingly, to speak without a rough accent, and worked diligently to excel.
In everything.
Nothing went unobserved to the young mage. She noticed everything: from the baubles ladies wore to the coat of arms on their coaches. Beautiful things, in her eyes, expanded beyond the realm of tangible items. Titles, power…those, too, were beautiful things.
Vivienne knew that if she demonstrated her superiority in her studies, in her work, she would be granted greater freedom. A privilege. She endeared herself to all the Chantry mothers and sisters she could, and obeyed the templars diligently. When she found herself at Monstimmard, she couldn't have been more delighted.
Orlais was where she belonged, she knew, as she admired the colorful fashions, the lively streets, the odor of baked goods wafting in the air, and the lull of a ballad echoing to her ears. Orlais was alive.
It's a long way to come for the daughter of simple merchants from Dairsmund, she'd congratulate herself proudly.
But even then, she couldn't quite hide the strange feeling that tugged at her when she thought of the empty words: Mother. Father. They were just shadows, even in memory. She'd long stopped wondering what life would have been like, growing up with them— an ordinary childhood. Perhaps, even a happy one. It was pointless, though. It did her no good to indulge such sentimentality. She was a mage, they had done the right thing. Magic had determined the course of her life; she meant to steer that course always forward. Steadily.
She was still a young woman when she set foot in her first ballroom. She was aware of the indirect glances directed her way as she accompanied the Chantry representatives. She was their most competent, beloved pupil.
A credit to her kind.
All her discipline served her well during her debut. She'd concealed how nervous she'd been, how the possibility of a misstep made her so anxious she had to make herself stop trembling, how aware she was of eyes upon her, of the commentary her ears had picked up as she wandered about the room.
Exotic.
Young men bored her. Sure, they were charming, she wasn't blind or immune to them. But their inexperience chafed. They grasped for what they wanted too clumsily— whether it was an opportunity, a bid for power, recognition… or her. Game players though they would someday become, they were still new to it all, still familiarizing themselves with the board…and she was not willing to be some sacrificial pawn. She was pleasant and even flirtatious, but Vivienne was not known to bestow her favors upon anyone. She remained intangible, a fantasy, and she wondered if the impasse would last.
Until he came into her life.
He was older—just how much older, she would learn only later. At the time he was an aristocratic, enticing man. The first thing she noticed about him were his shoes. She admired the fine make and quality. Then, how impeccably dressed he was.
What a sense of presence, she thought, approvingly.
He was not a tall man—he was of average height—but he carried himself with a sense of importance. When he entered a room, she saw people took notice. And when he spoke, he had a low, but strong voice that resonated long after he'd fallen silent.
How rare such a noble in the Orlesian court, she marveled, her fan the perfect accomplice for the furtive glances she cast over him.
A few questions placed in a honeyed tongue to the right ears told her much about the distinct gentleman.
Duke Bastien de Ghyslain was head of the Council of Heralds, she was told.
He was accomplished, wealthy, and powerful.
He was also married, although his Duchess was nowhere in sight.
Of course he is, she smiled, her eyes lingering over the expertly tailored formal coat.
It had taken most of the evening for him to notice her, so engrossed was he in the machinations of the Game, even among congenial company. He was across the ballroom when she stepped off the dance floor, all smiles and graceful regrets. As she turned her head and faced him brazenly yet serenely, he would tell her many times over the years, there had been only she in his eyes.
"C'était le coup de foudre," he'd tell her. Like a bolt of lightning: he'd been struck on the spot.
"Of course it was, darling," she would laugh. "When I aim I never miss…"
His eyes followed her covetously throughout the room, even as she wove coquettishly through the other guests, aware she was being stalked by a most interesting pair of blue eyes. She was being admired, but he was the one subjected to the greater scrutiny. It remained to be seen how he would approach her. Age was no guarantee of a certain savoir faire in such matters…
He'd kept her waiting, something that caused her to grow impatient only because she savored it. She may have cast her net, but he had no intention of being pulled in to be scrutinized, perhaps even tossed back if found unappetizing. This was his sea, he reminded her. She saw his attention flicker like a sputtering candle, and then, he was otherwise entertained, a cordial in his hand, the conversation among his peers animated. She'd would have been very cross to admit it, but her heart sank a bit.
How interesting.
She was accosted later on by the Chantry's representative to the Council of Heralds. She hadn't expected it, and cursed herself later for the look of bewilderment in her face when the representative had casually summoned Bastien to join them, eagerness to accrue favor from him evident in the representative's face.
"Your Grace," she curtseyed politely.
He was difficult to read, she realized. Thankfully so, or she would have found him very dreary, indeed. He carried himself with decorum, asking her polite questions and expressing a studied aloofness when she replied.
This is a true player of The Game, she realized reverently. He takes his time, familiarizes himself with the terrain, acknowledges his opponent…and waits.
Just as abruptly as they had met, he excused himself, but not without letting her know what an exquisite pleasure it had been to meet her. Without a further word, or even a parting look, he turned on his heels and was gone again. She might as well have been buffeted by a whirlwind, she thought, straining to regain her composure. Yes, he was handsome, but she knew better than to bet on looks alone. Looks faded. Looks became tiresome, as did any view. Better they have something behind them: a spark, intelligence…verve. And the Duke had plenty and more. And he was shrewd, she remarked, returning to her companions, disguising her grin of approval.
Everyone was surprised when the invitation arrived. Their small party had been invited, once more, to another event. Not a Chantry one, this time, making the invitation all the more curious.
"Under whose patronage?"someone had asked.
"The Duke de Ghyslain," came the reply.
Vivienne's face remained gracefully impassive even as her heart beat stronger.
He did this to her several times. And all he would do was chat with her in a cordial manner, no more longer than he did other casual acquaintances. But his eyes! Maker, his eyes…His mouth said one thing and his eyes suggested another. She was younger, and definitely holding her own, but it was tantalizing to the point of distraction. Younger men often attempted to tempt her favor, but she was too intrigued by that stage to withdraw her gaze from the clever Duke. It was a very amusing, dangerous game they played, and each time he lured her further, tossing her the smallest hints of how there was more beneath his cool surface: an arm politely offered to escort her across the grounds was often followed by a hand that rested over hers, caressing it very slowly, tellingly, only to fly away indifferently once their destination had been reached.
There had been the time she'd thought he'd ask her to dance.
"Do they teach you how to dance at the Circle?" he'd asked.
"No," she'd replied, her bare shoulders catching the gleam of the candlelight under his admiring gaze. "Alas, it is not a sanctioned field of study for mages," she'd lamented coyly.
"You should learn. It is a most entertaining pastime," he'd declared.
At that she'd despaired.
"I never said I didn't know how to dance," she interjected, flummoxed.
And he'd had the gall to smile! It was a triumphant smile, the grin of the sly cat cornering his prey.
Her faux-pas, she realized, devastated. She'd been too hopeful, too eager.
"How do they say "sorcière" in your language again? I forget…" he said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"We say 'witch'…or 'sorceress,' but the Chantry prefers we use the term 'mage.'"
He'd leaned in very slightly, just close enough to her ear, but enough she could feel his warm breath against her neck. She peered at him sideways, intrigued by the sudden shift in their conversation. With his back turned to the grand salon, he revealed only to her the expression of heady desire on his face.
"Of course they do…They don't want you bewitching or ensorcelling anyone," he murmured, a faint rasp to his voice. He then nodded before leaving her standing there and seeking out the Dowager for a dance.
The level at which he was playing her was unprecedented. She would have been able to marvel at it much more if she hadn't been made to feel so weak in the knees.
Sometimes he did not even attend the events they'd been invited to.
Shrewd, she repeated to herself. That way, he was always on her mind. He left her wondering, guessing, hypothesizing, deliberating…and hoping.
But one event had changed everything.
It had almost brought their dalliance to a thunderous end.
Vivienne's meeting Bastien across a ballroom was gleaned from an in-game conversation as is the bit on her parents and original place of birth. Her insecurities earlier on in her life and some catty comments about the color of her skin are also from the game: Cole reveals them. You can all imagine how delighted she is when he does...