ROMUND + MOIRINE // deception
Who: Moirine & Romund
When: Dec 8th.
Where: Myron's estate.
Rating & Warnings: G.
Moirine struggled to her feet, her bruised knees cracking as she settled into place. At this point, she didn't know which pains were attestable to the pregnancy and which came from scrubbing floors and cleaning dishes day in and day out. How had she ever been so stupid to think this would be easy? Her boots slipped on the wet marble as she shuffled out of the foyer, the bucket of dirty water on her arm. Just the other day she'd fallen and spilled it on herself. No one was there to cover for her, so she'd risked the chill and worked in wet clothes. Allen would have thrown a fit; no one here batted an eye.
She walked slowly towards the door to get fresh water. Hopefully, the pump wasn't frozen. As she passed by Myron's office, she sneaked a glance inside. He was rank during the day, but it was her job to keep an eye on him. Anyway, these days, with her disheveled hair, dirty face and growing belly, she couldn't feel much more attractive than that walking corpse.
Lingering a moment too long, she straightened up in fright when he happened to glance up at her from his desk.
The Hour had furthered Belief. Romund was slow to anger, but he'd felt a cold rage build inside him as he'd read the Magus' words. Tyrol was a game that man played, nothing more. Both humans and Others alike were ruined and twisted by the cruel assumptions of their peers, and yet the Magus remained unscathed. Romund took a deep, rattling breath and shut his ledger, glancing up at a glimpse of movement. Cerys? Another unfortunate, though victim to another cruelty entirely.
He began to force a small, encouraging smile, and then stopped. His eyes caught on her hair. Most of it was brown, disheveled, but there was a single long lock that hung against her cheek that was white as snow. Romund stared for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"Child," he called, "Come in here. And close the door."
She dithered a moment in the doorway. Should she leave the bucket and rag or take them with her? Carefully, she set them on the floor and entered his study, closing the door behind her. Moirine stood there, obviously uncomfortable, and not simply she was afraid of dirtying his carpet with her boots. What did he want with her?
"Y-yes, m'lord," she replied, doing her best to resist the urge to cover her nose and mouth with the crook of her arm. She'd never in her life smelled anything as foul as Myron.
Yes, there it was. White. Pure white. And from beneath the rest; was it a wig she wore? "Your..." he started, then trailed off. He cleared his throat again, ignoring the way it rattled wetly in his throat, and touched a finger to his cheek. It could not be possible, what he suspected. She could not be so colossally stupid as to hide here. Then again, Romund thought in hollow disbelief, perhaps it was the smartest thing she could've done.
"Your hair, Cerys," he said softly, disappointment in his voice.
"What?" She tangled her hands in her hair and lifted the locks into her field of vision. She just expected to see it looking matted and dirty. It was tricky finding times to wash her wig; a scarf could only cover so much, after all. When she saw the streak of white cutting the brown, though, Moirine's eyes widened. No, no, no, no, it couldn't have fallen out... She tied it up so carefully...
Looking back to Myron, she started backing out of the office. Her hand was already on the doorknob. He was going to tear her apart, all the Others were going to tear her apart. She turned, ready to just bolt out into the snow and run as fast as she could.
He started to rise from his chair. "Cerys, wait." If she left now, the others would see her hair as well. Though he was frustrated the girl had lied to him, she would only doom herself further if one of the maids caught sight of the white hair spilling out from beneath her wig.
"If you wish to leave, I will not stop you," Romund said, his voice, for once, urgent. "But first, child, fix your hair. There is a mirror..." He pointed to the far end of the room, where a small mirror sat upon a small desk. It had been - and still was - his daughters', but she liked less and less to see her own transparent reflection. "You are in danger if you are seen this way."
When he got up, she sucked in a breath and pressed her back against the door. It wasn't a flinch, she told herself. She'd been taught to fear and hate Others her entire life; she wouldn't cower before one now. Moirine listened to him, almost too afraid to move, then glanced to the mirror. What was he doing? He had every reason to kill her- and she was more than certain he could without breaking a sweat. Why... advise her instead?
"You know now," she said, almost beneath her breath. Going to the mirror meant walking past Myron, something her weak knees weren't prepared for. "Who in this house has more cause to harm me than you?"
Her knife was up in her room. Stupid. But, then, what would stabbing a corpse accomplish?
His heavy brow lifted further. Harm her? Did she truly think--? Though he was by turns furious, disappointed, and horrified, hurting Cerys had never entered into his thoughts. He was not a violent man. Though he knew his size afforded him some means of intimidation, he expected that any who really knew him would think him incapable of harming anything, let alone a woman with child. The Occia, he corrected himself silently. Small wonder she'd fled. She would not have been able to hide her pregnancy for long. Was it the Other Cita's? No-- he could ask those questions later, if she would allow it. Now was not the time.
"I have no intention of harming you," he rasped, sitting again. Would the sight of him sitting alarm her less? He was smaller that way, less threatening. Romund rubbed his fingertips against his forehead, trying to will himself to think clearly. The Occia, hiding in his house as a maid. White hair. "Why here?" he asked finally.
His words didn't comfort her, but when he sat, Moirine relaxed slightly. She still refused to move away from the door. Holding her stomach, she stared down at her feet, past the strands of hair that had given her away. How did she even begin to explain why she was here? If he didn't intend on hurting her for being a former Occia, would his understanding hold if she confessed that she was here to spy on him? Even she wasn't stupid enough to admit to that.
"An acquaintance told me that you were desperate for maids," she murmured. "Most noble houses have at least one Civitas in the family. I thought that an Oth- that your household... that no one would notice me."
She could feel the panic swell in her chest again. Living here was her only option. Silence would kill her if she had no purpose. Where else could he hope to place her? Moirine glanced over at Lord Myron. Appealing to him was the only hope she had. "I swear to you that I never had any intention of telling the Citadel about you or your guests. I only want to work, and be left alone..."
Romund winced and held up his hands. "Be calm, child. I did not suspect you for a spy." A stowaway, it appeared, but not a spy. Her explanation rang true. His estate was the last place any would look for the former Occia. What would the Citadel do if they learned he employed her as a maid? It would be taken as grave insult, he was sure, and the last thing he wanted was to rile the Citadel when they'd so recently achieved a tentative peace. Romund drew a deep, rattling breath. Something had to be done. He couldn't throw her out on good conscience, but neither could he risk what had happened today happening in front of the other maids. They would be quick to sell the information, and then both the girl and her child would be in danger.
"You understand you have put me in a very difficult position," he rumbled, fixing his frown on her. "Your former family would be in an uproar if they found I employed you."
She did her best to appear calm. Moirine even took a step away from the door, though the handle was still in arm's reach. "I understand. I-" 'tried to be careful', but excuses weren't what she needed right now. Cutting herself off with a slight nod, she watched Myron warily.
"I could-" Moirine grit her teeth, then forced herself to continue. "I could dye it." No one had recognized her face, after all. Naively, Moirine told herself her hair was the only issue.
Dye it? It was an endearingly pathetic offer. If ever an envoy from the Citadel came - which, Romund hoped, was not too far-fetched a possibility - a different haircolor would not disguise her. Her face had been considered holy, once. He had not recognized her, his maids had not recognized her, but nobles would. Civitas would.
"Recognize," he murmured suddenly to himself, eyes widening. Romund drew slowly to his feet and shuffled to the shelves that lined the back of his office. His limbs were heavy and slow to respond when he was at this stage of decay; he had a slight limp, and his left leg dragged. He reached up to take down one of the many glass cases that spanned the shelves. It housed an open jewelry box, inside of which rested a rope of woven silver. It gleamed in the light like liquid. Romund set the case upon his desk and opened it, thick fingers scooping the necklace from its resting place and holding it out to Cerys.
"I collected many strange... things," he explained in a rattling voice, "When still I lived. This is one. It was named simply 'Deception' by its previous owner. If you wear it, not a soul will be able to recognize you, not even your closest companion. It will not harm you, or the baby," he assured her. "It is not that kind of magic. But it will protect you, Cerys."
What was he doing? Moirine watched Myron go to the shelves and pull out a jewelry box. Still suspicious, she leaned forward to try to make out what he was after. Nothing dangerous could be hidden in so small a box, she told herself. When he produced a necklace, she frowned, thoroughly confused and almost disappointed.
Her eyes were on his hand rather than the necklace as he held it out to her. Yellow, half-missing nails on bloated, dead fingers... And they stunk just as badly as the rest of him. She turned her head and covered her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said, on the off-chance that he really was trying to help her. Even though he was an Other, he deserved some respect... Glancing at the lord over her shoulder, she asked in a muffled voice, "Why would you help me?"
Perhaps the necklace was cursed. Knowing that that was a possibility didn't make her feel any better; she had to take whatever option he presented her with.
Romund hesitated. His fingers curled slightly around the necklace. "You are with child. You are alone, and frightened. If what you've said is true, you came here out of desperation and a desire not to be found. If I throw you out, you will starve - or you will suffer under the hands of another employer. Even if you find a kind master or mistress to take you in, there is a high chance you will be recognized, will be found out. I cannot begin to imagine the uproar if the Citadel were to discover your condition."
He paused and cleared his throat, blinking quickly when something wriggled in his lungs. "I had a child, once," he continued, softly. "I did everything I could to protect her and keep her healthy, but it was not enough. I care very little about who you were or what you've done, Cerys. You are a mother trying to protect her child. I will help you as much as I am able. I hope you trust me enough to accept that." He set the necklace delicately on the desk between them and slowly lowered himself into his chair. The Occia, hidden in his house. And he'd had her scrubbing the floors...
Moirine listened. For once, she did her best not to judge him as an Other. Myron was kind, understanding, or else a hundred times the liar Ira was. It was hard to imagine that he had an ulterior motive. And, well, if he wanted her dead, she imagined that having her put on a cursed necklace wasn't the most satisfying method.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she murmured sincerely. Her eyes were on Myron as she approached the desk and hovered her hand over the necklace. Picking it up, she balled the chain into her fist and glanced towards the door. "I should get back to work. Thank you. I'll put it on as soon as I've left."
No one would recognize her... It was such a strange thing to consider. Recognition was all she'd had for so long. Moirine smiled a little as she backed out of the office. "Thank you, m'lord."
When: Dec 8th.
Where: Myron's estate.
Rating & Warnings: G.
Moirine struggled to her feet, her bruised knees cracking as she settled into place. At this point, she didn't know which pains were attestable to the pregnancy and which came from scrubbing floors and cleaning dishes day in and day out. How had she ever been so stupid to think this would be easy? Her boots slipped on the wet marble as she shuffled out of the foyer, the bucket of dirty water on her arm. Just the other day she'd fallen and spilled it on herself. No one was there to cover for her, so she'd risked the chill and worked in wet clothes. Allen would have thrown a fit; no one here batted an eye.
She walked slowly towards the door to get fresh water. Hopefully, the pump wasn't frozen. As she passed by Myron's office, she sneaked a glance inside. He was rank during the day, but it was her job to keep an eye on him. Anyway, these days, with her disheveled hair, dirty face and growing belly, she couldn't feel much more attractive than that walking corpse.
Lingering a moment too long, she straightened up in fright when he happened to glance up at her from his desk.
The Hour had furthered Belief. Romund was slow to anger, but he'd felt a cold rage build inside him as he'd read the Magus' words. Tyrol was a game that man played, nothing more. Both humans and Others alike were ruined and twisted by the cruel assumptions of their peers, and yet the Magus remained unscathed. Romund took a deep, rattling breath and shut his ledger, glancing up at a glimpse of movement. Cerys? Another unfortunate, though victim to another cruelty entirely.
He began to force a small, encouraging smile, and then stopped. His eyes caught on her hair. Most of it was brown, disheveled, but there was a single long lock that hung against her cheek that was white as snow. Romund stared for a moment, then cleared his throat.
"Child," he called, "Come in here. And close the door."
She dithered a moment in the doorway. Should she leave the bucket and rag or take them with her? Carefully, she set them on the floor and entered his study, closing the door behind her. Moirine stood there, obviously uncomfortable, and not simply she was afraid of dirtying his carpet with her boots. What did he want with her?
"Y-yes, m'lord," she replied, doing her best to resist the urge to cover her nose and mouth with the crook of her arm. She'd never in her life smelled anything as foul as Myron.
Yes, there it was. White. Pure white. And from beneath the rest; was it a wig she wore? "Your..." he started, then trailed off. He cleared his throat again, ignoring the way it rattled wetly in his throat, and touched a finger to his cheek. It could not be possible, what he suspected. She could not be so colossally stupid as to hide here. Then again, Romund thought in hollow disbelief, perhaps it was the smartest thing she could've done.
"Your hair, Cerys," he said softly, disappointment in his voice.
"What?" She tangled her hands in her hair and lifted the locks into her field of vision. She just expected to see it looking matted and dirty. It was tricky finding times to wash her wig; a scarf could only cover so much, after all. When she saw the streak of white cutting the brown, though, Moirine's eyes widened. No, no, no, no, it couldn't have fallen out... She tied it up so carefully...
Looking back to Myron, she started backing out of the office. Her hand was already on the doorknob. He was going to tear her apart, all the Others were going to tear her apart. She turned, ready to just bolt out into the snow and run as fast as she could.
He started to rise from his chair. "Cerys, wait." If she left now, the others would see her hair as well. Though he was frustrated the girl had lied to him, she would only doom herself further if one of the maids caught sight of the white hair spilling out from beneath her wig.
"If you wish to leave, I will not stop you," Romund said, his voice, for once, urgent. "But first, child, fix your hair. There is a mirror..." He pointed to the far end of the room, where a small mirror sat upon a small desk. It had been - and still was - his daughters', but she liked less and less to see her own transparent reflection. "You are in danger if you are seen this way."
When he got up, she sucked in a breath and pressed her back against the door. It wasn't a flinch, she told herself. She'd been taught to fear and hate Others her entire life; she wouldn't cower before one now. Moirine listened to him, almost too afraid to move, then glanced to the mirror. What was he doing? He had every reason to kill her- and she was more than certain he could without breaking a sweat. Why... advise her instead?
"You know now," she said, almost beneath her breath. Going to the mirror meant walking past Myron, something her weak knees weren't prepared for. "Who in this house has more cause to harm me than you?"
Her knife was up in her room. Stupid. But, then, what would stabbing a corpse accomplish?
His heavy brow lifted further. Harm her? Did she truly think--? Though he was by turns furious, disappointed, and horrified, hurting Cerys had never entered into his thoughts. He was not a violent man. Though he knew his size afforded him some means of intimidation, he expected that any who really knew him would think him incapable of harming anything, let alone a woman with child. The Occia, he corrected himself silently. Small wonder she'd fled. She would not have been able to hide her pregnancy for long. Was it the Other Cita's? No-- he could ask those questions later, if she would allow it. Now was not the time.
"I have no intention of harming you," he rasped, sitting again. Would the sight of him sitting alarm her less? He was smaller that way, less threatening. Romund rubbed his fingertips against his forehead, trying to will himself to think clearly. The Occia, hiding in his house as a maid. White hair. "Why here?" he asked finally.
His words didn't comfort her, but when he sat, Moirine relaxed slightly. She still refused to move away from the door. Holding her stomach, she stared down at her feet, past the strands of hair that had given her away. How did she even begin to explain why she was here? If he didn't intend on hurting her for being a former Occia, would his understanding hold if she confessed that she was here to spy on him? Even she wasn't stupid enough to admit to that.
"An acquaintance told me that you were desperate for maids," she murmured. "Most noble houses have at least one Civitas in the family. I thought that an Oth- that your household... that no one would notice me."
She could feel the panic swell in her chest again. Living here was her only option. Silence would kill her if she had no purpose. Where else could he hope to place her? Moirine glanced over at Lord Myron. Appealing to him was the only hope she had. "I swear to you that I never had any intention of telling the Citadel about you or your guests. I only want to work, and be left alone..."
Romund winced and held up his hands. "Be calm, child. I did not suspect you for a spy." A stowaway, it appeared, but not a spy. Her explanation rang true. His estate was the last place any would look for the former Occia. What would the Citadel do if they learned he employed her as a maid? It would be taken as grave insult, he was sure, and the last thing he wanted was to rile the Citadel when they'd so recently achieved a tentative peace. Romund drew a deep, rattling breath. Something had to be done. He couldn't throw her out on good conscience, but neither could he risk what had happened today happening in front of the other maids. They would be quick to sell the information, and then both the girl and her child would be in danger.
"You understand you have put me in a very difficult position," he rumbled, fixing his frown on her. "Your former family would be in an uproar if they found I employed you."
She did her best to appear calm. Moirine even took a step away from the door, though the handle was still in arm's reach. "I understand. I-" 'tried to be careful', but excuses weren't what she needed right now. Cutting herself off with a slight nod, she watched Myron warily.
"I could-" Moirine grit her teeth, then forced herself to continue. "I could dye it." No one had recognized her face, after all. Naively, Moirine told herself her hair was the only issue.
Dye it? It was an endearingly pathetic offer. If ever an envoy from the Citadel came - which, Romund hoped, was not too far-fetched a possibility - a different haircolor would not disguise her. Her face had been considered holy, once. He had not recognized her, his maids had not recognized her, but nobles would. Civitas would.
"Recognize," he murmured suddenly to himself, eyes widening. Romund drew slowly to his feet and shuffled to the shelves that lined the back of his office. His limbs were heavy and slow to respond when he was at this stage of decay; he had a slight limp, and his left leg dragged. He reached up to take down one of the many glass cases that spanned the shelves. It housed an open jewelry box, inside of which rested a rope of woven silver. It gleamed in the light like liquid. Romund set the case upon his desk and opened it, thick fingers scooping the necklace from its resting place and holding it out to Cerys.
"I collected many strange... things," he explained in a rattling voice, "When still I lived. This is one. It was named simply 'Deception' by its previous owner. If you wear it, not a soul will be able to recognize you, not even your closest companion. It will not harm you, or the baby," he assured her. "It is not that kind of magic. But it will protect you, Cerys."
What was he doing? Moirine watched Myron go to the shelves and pull out a jewelry box. Still suspicious, she leaned forward to try to make out what he was after. Nothing dangerous could be hidden in so small a box, she told herself. When he produced a necklace, she frowned, thoroughly confused and almost disappointed.
Her eyes were on his hand rather than the necklace as he held it out to her. Yellow, half-missing nails on bloated, dead fingers... And they stunk just as badly as the rest of him. She turned her head and covered her mouth. "I'm sorry," she said, on the off-chance that he really was trying to help her. Even though he was an Other, he deserved some respect... Glancing at the lord over her shoulder, she asked in a muffled voice, "Why would you help me?"
Perhaps the necklace was cursed. Knowing that that was a possibility didn't make her feel any better; she had to take whatever option he presented her with.
Romund hesitated. His fingers curled slightly around the necklace. "You are with child. You are alone, and frightened. If what you've said is true, you came here out of desperation and a desire not to be found. If I throw you out, you will starve - or you will suffer under the hands of another employer. Even if you find a kind master or mistress to take you in, there is a high chance you will be recognized, will be found out. I cannot begin to imagine the uproar if the Citadel were to discover your condition."
He paused and cleared his throat, blinking quickly when something wriggled in his lungs. "I had a child, once," he continued, softly. "I did everything I could to protect her and keep her healthy, but it was not enough. I care very little about who you were or what you've done, Cerys. You are a mother trying to protect her child. I will help you as much as I am able. I hope you trust me enough to accept that." He set the necklace delicately on the desk between them and slowly lowered himself into his chair. The Occia, hidden in his house. And he'd had her scrubbing the floors...
Moirine listened. For once, she did her best not to judge him as an Other. Myron was kind, understanding, or else a hundred times the liar Ira was. It was hard to imagine that he had an ulterior motive. And, well, if he wanted her dead, she imagined that having her put on a cursed necklace wasn't the most satisfying method.
"I'm sorry for your loss," she murmured sincerely. Her eyes were on Myron as she approached the desk and hovered her hand over the necklace. Picking it up, she balled the chain into her fist and glanced towards the door. "I should get back to work. Thank you. I'll put it on as soon as I've left."
No one would recognize her... It was such a strange thing to consider. Recognition was all she'd had for so long. Moirine smiled a little as she backed out of the office. "Thank you, m'lord."