He stood straight-backed over the flat workman's table, a fire crystal grasped in his gloved hand and warm to the touch. A gentle hissing filled the air as, stroke after prim stroke, he ran the hot crystal's smoothed face down the wrinkles of an exquisite cream-colored suit jacket. Entirely focused on his work, his eyes remained calm and focused on the texture of the master's formalwear; fine work, and barely worn.
Regrettable.
That was the word that kept returning to North's mind, unbidden, in the midst of his daily routines and work on behalf of the illustrious Lord Taeros; like a child tugging at his sleeve. Insistent, and admittedly testing his renowned patience.
It was regrettable indeed.
He and Eadmund Prosser had not been terribly close, even in their school days, but time hadn't had much of an effect on him; he was still delighted to see a familiar face, and his brown eyes had beamed at the sight of North, quite unexpectedly in his master's foyer. Their encounter in the Crowes' palatial manor had been brief and muted, but fond. He had not voiced his observations, but the young valet's face had shone like a schoolboy's at the gift of Ishgardian Crystwine(!), handpicked by Lord Taeros himself and passed on to North with a smile. A calm, assured smile.
North had hoped that Eadmund would hear the tone in his voice as he cautioned against overindulgence, advised careful dilution of the wine, suggested that it was known to cause terrible gastritis, urged modesty and alcoholic abstinence. Part of him had already accepted, however, that the gift was perfectly selected so as to be utterly irresistible. And so they celebrated, and North made his way home, having accomplished his duties.
And now Eadmund Prosser was dead, House Crowe was dead, and the bottle was empty, because Taeros had smiled, nodded, and determined that it all be so, and Gideon North, humble servant, had performed his duty. And it was regrettable.
He started, then gave a curt tsk of irritation, realizing his hand had stopped moving, letting the heated crystal hiss and whine against the cuff. His thoughts had distracted him from the task at hand, again... Hastily drawing the aetheric chunk back, he inspected the damage critically. No visible difference, but the wrist would be rather crisper than the master may be used to. Fortunately, the style appeared to be Elezen cuff... more than enough room for the wrist to shift and move as necessary, without the chafe of a too-stiff cloth. Still, the other would need equal treatment. Inconsistency would be far worse than simply hoping the difference wouldn't be noticed. Another hiss, and a light wisp of hot vapor as he turned his attention to the other sleeve.
Jameson Taeros was the master. He was not Gideon's Master, but he was the current master, and not to be displeased. He suspected that Miss Deneith's expression would twist to hear it, but he took a certain satisfaction in being able to serve a master again in whatever capacity needed; to be relied upon to carry out his duties and to be counted on as the best within his field. When the time came for Taeros's retribution - and, seeing how he treated others, he was sure it would come - he would not be the one to pass down judgment. It was a natural law: there were Masters, and there were Servants. Gideon North was no master.
And neither indeed (he suddenly thought) had been Eadmund Prosser. Attachments, fond memories and betrayals aside, Gideon realized with an unsettling calmness that the both of them were equally expendable. His death was regrettable, indeed... but not for Gideon to regret. He was a tool, being used. That was his role, and had been Eadmund's. He had done what he could. Surely. The master's will must be carried out, and indeed, Gideon's true Master, the young Master - his guiding star - must still be served. He checks his tightening grip, and the hissing dies down as he delicately arranges the right cuff.
Miss Deneith obviously meant well, and her idealism and earnestness had certainly impressed upon him her determination to her cause. Lazarov had been described by a bored-looking Taeros as a radical, and perhaps in that, they were alike... in thought, if not precisely in action. It was a cause that intersected with his, and though he lacked their altruistic motives, he was happy to lend his services to the two so long as they might further his own goals. Neither side had seen much success arise from the other, and he was very conscious of the fact - Miss Deneith, for all her efforts and ideals, was in no condition to delve into Ul'dah's secrets, especially to discover the identity of an assassin. North's efforts, too, had borne few tangible results; he had managed a gift here, a slight disturbance there, a change in delivery or a hint at alliance, but turmoil among the wealthy houses was rarely perceptible from the outside. If his efforts had stirred the pot, there was no telling from his current position.
Still, Five had made a fine point, and one he should have realized himself. The Roegadyn naturalist had struggled through a series of increasingly unwieldy metaphors of Eorzea's monsters before settling on a satisfyingly simple observation: Symbiosis doesn't happen overnight. A bit of patience, and the winds would surely change... and North had a great deal of patience to exercise. Roen Deneith was certainly a Master, and he a Servant, but if she had impressed any of her values upon him (he smiled, faintly) it was that she would not tolerate selflessness. He would serve, and for once, he would be served in turn.
Miss Deneith had often said that he reminded her of her childhood teachers. Vaguely, he wondered if he had been instructed by any of them in his valet training. Eadmund Prosser's face rose to the fore again, and he pushed it from his mind with practiced calm and detachment.
The suit was impeccable. He raised it by the shoulders, pinched carefully between two slim, gloved fingers, and laid it carefully within the master's wardrobe.
His time with the young Master Aerstorn was proof enough that Five's words rang true. It would be preposterous to expect that the bond that he had shared with the young Master would be replaced, but if he could attain even a scant quarter of the trust he and the young Master shared, newly formed with Miss Deneith and her allies, it would be a fine place to find himself. Two distinct sides, concordant in harmony and purpose, and prepared to help each other in their times of need... and in their ultimate ambitions.
He exited Lord Taeros's chamber, nodding to a chambermaid. "Inform the master that his suit has been prepared for the operetta this evening."
"Oh, North, he's going to be livid! He says if you take any longer, he's going to be late to his place, and he's in the box seats alongside Lord Rezhenne tonight!"
A wan smile. "You may assure my lord that patience is a virtue. I shall expect him momentarily." The door clicked shut behind him.
Regrettable.
That was the word that kept returning to North's mind, unbidden, in the midst of his daily routines and work on behalf of the illustrious Lord Taeros; like a child tugging at his sleeve. Insistent, and admittedly testing his renowned patience.
It was regrettable indeed.
He and Eadmund Prosser had not been terribly close, even in their school days, but time hadn't had much of an effect on him; he was still delighted to see a familiar face, and his brown eyes had beamed at the sight of North, quite unexpectedly in his master's foyer. Their encounter in the Crowes' palatial manor had been brief and muted, but fond. He had not voiced his observations, but the young valet's face had shone like a schoolboy's at the gift of Ishgardian Crystwine(!), handpicked by Lord Taeros himself and passed on to North with a smile. A calm, assured smile.
North had hoped that Eadmund would hear the tone in his voice as he cautioned against overindulgence, advised careful dilution of the wine, suggested that it was known to cause terrible gastritis, urged modesty and alcoholic abstinence. Part of him had already accepted, however, that the gift was perfectly selected so as to be utterly irresistible. And so they celebrated, and North made his way home, having accomplished his duties.
And now Eadmund Prosser was dead, House Crowe was dead, and the bottle was empty, because Taeros had smiled, nodded, and determined that it all be so, and Gideon North, humble servant, had performed his duty. And it was regrettable.
He started, then gave a curt tsk of irritation, realizing his hand had stopped moving, letting the heated crystal hiss and whine against the cuff. His thoughts had distracted him from the task at hand, again... Hastily drawing the aetheric chunk back, he inspected the damage critically. No visible difference, but the wrist would be rather crisper than the master may be used to. Fortunately, the style appeared to be Elezen cuff... more than enough room for the wrist to shift and move as necessary, without the chafe of a too-stiff cloth. Still, the other would need equal treatment. Inconsistency would be far worse than simply hoping the difference wouldn't be noticed. Another hiss, and a light wisp of hot vapor as he turned his attention to the other sleeve.
Jameson Taeros was the master. He was not Gideon's Master, but he was the current master, and not to be displeased. He suspected that Miss Deneith's expression would twist to hear it, but he took a certain satisfaction in being able to serve a master again in whatever capacity needed; to be relied upon to carry out his duties and to be counted on as the best within his field. When the time came for Taeros's retribution - and, seeing how he treated others, he was sure it would come - he would not be the one to pass down judgment. It was a natural law: there were Masters, and there were Servants. Gideon North was no master.
And neither indeed (he suddenly thought) had been Eadmund Prosser. Attachments, fond memories and betrayals aside, Gideon realized with an unsettling calmness that the both of them were equally expendable. His death was regrettable, indeed... but not for Gideon to regret. He was a tool, being used. That was his role, and had been Eadmund's. He had done what he could. Surely. The master's will must be carried out, and indeed, Gideon's true Master, the young Master - his guiding star - must still be served. He checks his tightening grip, and the hissing dies down as he delicately arranges the right cuff.
Miss Deneith obviously meant well, and her idealism and earnestness had certainly impressed upon him her determination to her cause. Lazarov had been described by a bored-looking Taeros as a radical, and perhaps in that, they were alike... in thought, if not precisely in action. It was a cause that intersected with his, and though he lacked their altruistic motives, he was happy to lend his services to the two so long as they might further his own goals. Neither side had seen much success arise from the other, and he was very conscious of the fact - Miss Deneith, for all her efforts and ideals, was in no condition to delve into Ul'dah's secrets, especially to discover the identity of an assassin. North's efforts, too, had borne few tangible results; he had managed a gift here, a slight disturbance there, a change in delivery or a hint at alliance, but turmoil among the wealthy houses was rarely perceptible from the outside. If his efforts had stirred the pot, there was no telling from his current position.
Still, Five had made a fine point, and one he should have realized himself. The Roegadyn naturalist had struggled through a series of increasingly unwieldy metaphors of Eorzea's monsters before settling on a satisfyingly simple observation: Symbiosis doesn't happen overnight. A bit of patience, and the winds would surely change... and North had a great deal of patience to exercise. Roen Deneith was certainly a Master, and he a Servant, but if she had impressed any of her values upon him (he smiled, faintly) it was that she would not tolerate selflessness. He would serve, and for once, he would be served in turn.
Miss Deneith had often said that he reminded her of her childhood teachers. Vaguely, he wondered if he had been instructed by any of them in his valet training. Eadmund Prosser's face rose to the fore again, and he pushed it from his mind with practiced calm and detachment.
The suit was impeccable. He raised it by the shoulders, pinched carefully between two slim, gloved fingers, and laid it carefully within the master's wardrobe.
His time with the young Master Aerstorn was proof enough that Five's words rang true. It would be preposterous to expect that the bond that he had shared with the young Master would be replaced, but if he could attain even a scant quarter of the trust he and the young Master shared, newly formed with Miss Deneith and her allies, it would be a fine place to find himself. Two distinct sides, concordant in harmony and purpose, and prepared to help each other in their times of need... and in their ultimate ambitions.
He exited Lord Taeros's chamber, nodding to a chambermaid. "Inform the master that his suit has been prepared for the operetta this evening."
"Oh, North, he's going to be livid! He says if you take any longer, he's going to be late to his place, and he's in the box seats alongside Lord Rezhenne tonight!"
A wan smile. "You may assure my lord that patience is a virtue. I shall expect him momentarily." The door clicked shut behind him.
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Skype: wordsmithrefl[/sub]
Skype: wordsmithrefl[/sub]
