World: Castle D'Image
Scene: The Caffe Dolce, October 4281. Night.
Players: Morien = Manda; Jehan, Mama Cinelli = Abby
The Caffe has an open, airy feeling, perhaps because of the large diamond-paned windows that line the south and north walls. The east wall is built of brick, with large windows opening into the kitchen, and the west wall is actually hewn from the rock of the mountain, with an indoor garden watered by the little streams that trickle down its face. A door opens north into the garden. The south door leads back to the piazza.
Jehan is probably in his mid-thirties, but his tousled golden hair and quick, grave smile give him an air of innocence. He is fairly tall, perhaps a trifle too thin, and he carries himself with quiet confidence. His grey eyes are bright and serious. He is clad in a flowing shirt of ivory linen, tucked loosely into snug breeches of russet suede. The full sleeves taper into wide cuffs, and the wide collar fastens with a simple ribbon tie. Both collar and cuffs are intricately embroidered in russet and brown, in a design of running deer. His only ornament is a rather tawdry-looking silver ring, in which a glass bead is clumsily set.
Morien's stance is aloof and untouchable. He stands well over six feet tall and walks with a confident stride. A pair of chocolate brown eyes gaze out from his sturdy face with a near constant look of boredom. His square jaw is covered in a neatly trimmed beard; upon his upper lip is a thin mustache. His dark blond hair is relatively short and carefuly combed back. Though he is a couple years past thirty, he still has a youthful look about him. He wears a heavy silk tunic of a becoming deep yellow, worked with elaborate embroidery in gold and green. Dark green breeches tuck into polished boots.
Morien enters the Caffe from the piazza and closes the door behind himself, a bit too loudly.
Jehan is sitting quietly by himself, leaning his head in one hand; cup at his elbow, a sheaf of papers spread on the table before him. He looks up sharply at the sound, squinting through the dimness.
Morien strides well into the establishment and fixes a glare on the man who's looking at him, as if to say, 'What are you looking at?'
Jehan starts slightly as he recognizes, not the man, but the glare. He blinks a couple of times; then shakes his head and turns back to his papers as though he never looked around.
Morien makes out the features of the fellow just before he looks away. There is a momentary pause, as he just looks at Jehan while Jehan looks at his papers. Then he says, without emotion, inflection or anything else that would make him sound other than monotone, "Jehan."
Jehan gives a small sigh of resignation. "Morien," he says, not uncivilly.
Morien says, coolly, "I am always greeted so warmly by my siblings."
Jehan leans back in his seat with another sigh, this one of fatigue. "And you in return are always so enchanted to see them." He's dropped the ironic deference of their last meeting, doesn't even quite look at Morien.
Morien is in a mood tonight, and thus walks to the table and joins him, without seeking to gain permission. "I did not know you were still milling about here."
Jehan doesn't protest, merely looks patiently resigned. "Where else should I go?" he returns evenly. "It was you who had left, I thought."
Morien says, "I had... and now I am back... and finding that I do not have anywhere else to go, either."
Jehan's brows go up ever so slightly. "Oh?"
Morien says, "I do not know that I should gratify you with the story of my doomed kingship."
Jehan leans back another degree, folding his arms. "No? Why not?" Still his tone is level, conversational.
Morien talks with his usual blustering, haughty tone, yet he doesn't seem to be seeking to be mean or bitter towards him. "Because it might amuse you too much."
Jehan says calmly, "I doubt that very much."
Morien goes on, "I was ousted. The Timirans did not seem to care for a foreigner in the position of their god-king. A pox on them all."
Jehan has to chuckle at that. "Oh, I don't think that's necessary. If half the tales are true, they have that already."
There's an almost awkward pause before Morien makes a noise in the back of his throat, a chuckle.
A look of surprise flickers across Jehan's face; he hadn't known Morien had a sense of humor. But the flicker is swiftly masked. He is silent a moment, then inquires casually, "And the boy?"
"My son is safe." Morien puts his guard back up, when this topic comes up.
Jehan nods slightly; concern still lurks in his eyes, but he doesn't pursue the issue. "So."
"I worry that his mother will try to claim him." Morien seems to feel some sort of need to explain himself. He goes on, "We already had a row about it."
Jehan says mildly, so mildly, "Mothers do take these notions." With a look of nothing but polite interest.
Morien says after turning to shout to the hostess that he wants a drink, "She's not like our mother."
"A-right, a-right," Mamma Cinelli yells back, irked.
Jehan glances at the woman, then back, with the faintest hint of an ironic smile. "I see."
Morien grows frustrated. "You and Marguerite both."
Jehan blinks at him blankly. "I beg your pardon?"
Morien shakes his head. "Nothing..." He changes the subject completely. "What fills your days lately?"
Jehan reaches out to the papers on the table, turning them face down as though aimlessly. "Writing. Telling stories. Practice and study. A great deal of busy-work. And you?"
Morien says, with obvious regret, "Nothing."
A twinkle of humor brightens Jehan's eyes. "You should learn a trade, little brother."
Morien snorts as if the whole concept were preposterous. "I know a trade. But I'll be cursed to hell before I go back to it."
Jehan says "Mmmm" to his cracked pottery cup. And then: "It is never too late to take up something new."
Morien says, "What am I going to do, Jehan? Make horseshoes, knit socks?" He scoffs. "I was a king for almost a year. You don't just learn a trade after that." Is that self pity one detects?
The little ironic smile flickers into being again. "You could write your memoirs."
Anger and bitterness threaten at that little crack, but Morien chuckles again instead. He gets his glass of wine and takes a long drink from it.
Jehan adds, offhandedly, "With an appendix. On the subject of Timiran pox."
Morien says, "Timiran pox is only half their problem. Even Southport isn't as decadant as that country... and I am speaking of the nobles. Hedonistic... perverts."
Jehan wrinkles his nose.
"Dueling to death over the drop of a hat." Oh, the hypocrisy that is Morien. "Or the favors of a clap-ridden nobleman's daughter..."
One could make a number of wounding remarks at this point. But Jehan refrains. "Indeed."
Morien drinks more of his wine. "Do... you see the countess often?"
Jehan takes a minute to process this question. Then, in a somewhat subdued tone, he says, "Fairly often."
Morien breathes in and out deeply through his nose. "Has she been handling her tasks well?"
Jehan retreats. "I would not venture to say."
Morien's lips curl down at the corners.
Jehan regards him noncommittally, a trifle quizzically.
Morien grows very sullen and unhappy looking. He stares at his glass.
Jehan relents a little. "She seems to manage."
Morien makes a low, grumbling noise and nods. He swallows the rest of his glass.
Jehan says, not exactly a question, "That bothers you."
Morien says, "No. Can't expect the Coast to just sink into the miserable ocean because I'm not there."
Jehan half smiles. "No."
It is quickly apparent that Jehan has just somehow managed to pull the 'irrational' lever in Morien's brain. He says, with sudden fury, "Oh, just say it. I'm a failure!"
Jehan says mildly, "I did not say that."
Morien says, "You don't have to say it... I can tell... and Marguerite says it every time she looks at me."
Jehan shrugs. "I am not the man to call you a failure for not keeping hold of a kingdom. I cannot speak for Mari."
The words seem to get him off the hook. Morien looks out the window at the fog and croons wearily, "I broke Mari."
Jehan gives him a look. "Pardon?"
Morien says, "I broke her... She will never feel anything for me... but hate."
Jehan takes in a sharp breath; then lets it out in a sigh. When he speaks his tone is oddly gentle. "She is only twenty-three. Give her time."
Morien says, "And what do you think, brother?"
Jehan tilts his head slightly. "Of what?"
Morien shakes his head and falls into silence, just staring at him.
Jehan waits.
Morien says, "Did you ever regret it? Or do you really think it's better... how you live?"
Jehan half smiles. "No, I have never regretted it. I regretted the hurt it gave... people..." It's possible he's only just realized that Marguerite might not have been the only one who minded. "But for myself, no. I am content. I do honest work that I enjoy. I have never missed what I gave up."
Morien nods gravely as he listens. His voice sounds remote as his lips form the words, "Mother cried. When you were gone."
Jehan blinks slowly at that. He says nothing, however. What is there to say?
Morien goes on, "And father exploded at the mention of your name..."
Jehan glances at his hands. "I can imagine."
Morien says, "Where did you go?"
Jehan pauses, picking up the cracked cup and venturing a sip of now-cold coffee. Setting it down again, he says briefly, "Southport. Then Lochlain and Esternesse."
Morien says, "I once went to Esternesse... with Sir Henry... Nice there."
Jehan casts him a searching glance, then nods slowly. "Some of us came from there," he explains almost shyly, "Master Corbin from Langreen, and Lydia-- Lydia from Trefoile..." He trails off again.
Morien says, "Who were they?"
Jehan half smiles at the table. "Friends. The people I was with... Master Corbin was in charge of things, you see, he... He had a terrible temper," and Jehan chuckles.
Morien's brows both go up, wondering why a terrible temper would be anything to laugh at.
Jehan explains, still chuckling, "He would go off into these terrible tantrums. I used to be petrified, until it dawned on me that the rest of them only laughed at him. A heart of gold and no patience at all."
Morien says, "Sir Henry didn't have much patience. But he didn't have a heart of gold, either."
Jehan laughs wryly. "I remember."
Morien says, "Thank the powers that be that you never had to squire."
Jehan smiles a bit. "I do."
Morien rises from his chair and steps around the table to stand near him. he reaches down and clamps one of his big hands over the spot where Jehan's shoulder meets his neck.
Jehan looks up silently, gravely.
Morien looks down at him with brows furrowed. He would say something meaningful if it wouldn't make him feel so weak. The things that are in his head right now are the kind that just find a difficult time being voiced by men like Morien. He wavers for a moment, between furthering a human connection and keeping what he mistakenly labels his dignity. Finally, he says, "I'm tired... I'm going to go to bed."
Jehan is silent another moment more; then half smiles, and nods, and reaches up to clasp Morien's shoulder in return. "Good night."
Morien says, "Good night, Jehan."
Jehan murmurs, "Sleep well."
Morien's words are accompanied by something that passes as a natural smile. He nods and turns to go, somewhat swiftly.
Morien has just gone out the door to the piazza.