| Two Letters |
| Summary: | IN the morning, Alina receives the letters sent to her |
| Date: | 1865-11-04 |
| Related: | Related Logs (If there aren't any, use None. Don't this entry leave blank. If there is a log, use full URLs, like http://eternalcrusade.wikidot.com/logtitle) |
| NPCs: | {$npc} |
| Players: |
in response to letters from or regarding    |
Two letters waited on her desk in the morning.
The first, sealed with the green of House Romante, with her name written on the outside in Tristan's familiar script, is opened with a smile. That it is entirely in cipher does not surprise her, nor really do much to slow her on the reading of it.
She leans back in her chair, drawing her legs up and smiling as she begins to read, though quickly, her expression pulls to a frown. Perhaps there was a pawn or two in the court at Lyionesse. But who?
The last line of the letter does warm her some, though most of her mind is set to puzzling out the likelihood of his concern being valid.
She pulls out the most recent set of missives, looking for the official announcement of the betrothal being broken. There was nothing in it that spoke one way or the other.
The Viscount's showing at the tourney was quite good, she decides, but if, as she suspected, the situation with the Viscount's brother had reached the King and Queen's ears, it was likely that could have been enough to call things off.
Stuffy royals. Almost as bad as the al'Callenta; she muses. Well, she had warned about it, hells, she had even sent her father a lengthy explanation of her opinion on it, what seemed like months ago but had only been weeks, from Four Corners. That the betorthal was cancelled did not come entirely as a shock, though it did put her own desires to wed Tristan looking less likely to come to pass.
She sighs, placing the letter aside and absently opening the other while still lost in thought, weighing the different idiots and sychophants at the court for how likely any of them could have architechted a scheme like this.
She is still mentally measuring the aptitude of others in the court when she beging to read Michael's letter, and she finishes it before the words actually begin sinking in.
"Injured?" And she stands up, staring at the letter. How injured? Injured enough that his twin would send this, and ask for prayers? Why Michael and not Gabriel? Was Gabriel too injured to write himself?
No, he didn't strike her as the writing sort.
She shakes her head, clearing the jumbled thoughts. A letter about her brother being injured, she would expect, even if the wounds were light. But… there is only one reason why someone might think to inform her of Sir Gabriel being injured.
I will follow you, even if I have to delve into the deepest part of hell to get you back.
Keep that in mind, yes? If you get into trouble, and you can send word. Do it. I will ride to you.
His words echo, unbidden, in her head. She sinks back into the chair, crumpling the page with Michael's plea for prayer on it.
What could she respond?
She places the letter aside, trying to go back to her work. She wasn't there. She didn't pray… the One doesn't listen anyway. She wasn't a healer. There was nothing she could do, except wait for more news, when more news came.
She tries to go back to her work, but her eyes keep moving to the letter from the north, the broken bit of blue wax, the scrawl of words.
She laughs, bitterly.
If he succumbed to his wounds, then she wouldn't have to worry about what might be between them. The problem would take care of itself.
But there is, after all, that very annoying realization that she doesn't want it to.
"Abyss take us all," she curses, stuffing the letter into a drawer and standing.
She couldn't look at these missives and notes anymore. She needs a break. She moves to the door, and glances to Maurice. "Let my brother know I'm going for a ride. And make sure the horse I take doesn't throw a shoe like last time."
The Wraith lifts a brow, but nods, and slips off to go speak to Corvin and make sure a mount is prepped in the stables. Alina watches him go, sighing, before leaving to change into something more suitable for a ride.