{ pfsb } by the fireside

[for_tradition]

A fireside – the proper kind, with the scent and crackle of flames as they transmogrify the passive energy of wood into heat and light – is something one just really can't have without wood to burn. 

The swimming fish are an added bonus, but really don't lend much to the ambience beyond novelty. 

It's very pleasant to sit by this fireside, real or magicked up as it might be, while ferociously taking notes. The warm, flickering light of the flames reflects off Abigail Pent's smooth brown hair and the silk of her skirts – the rich brown of excellent milk chocolate, struck through with gold – and illuminates her neat, slightly cramped handwriting. So engrossed is she that when the waitrat arrives with her ordered tea, she doesn't notice until the creature gives a polite half-cough, half-squeak.

Glancing up, she peers myopically at the proffered tea set. (She is wearing two sets of spectacles, but forgotten to put either over her eyes. One sits lightly on her hair, the other hangs around her neck off a cord of brown silk.)

"That doesn't look right," she tells the waitrat. It certainly is tea, but the stunted white pot and small, handle-less cups don't look at all like the bone china she'd expected.

She looks about, searching – ah. Getting to her feet in a rustle of fabric, she accepts the tray from the waitrat and makes her way over to the table she'd spotted, where a tall, slim young man has received a bone china tea service and plate of iced biscuits. "Pardon me," Abigail says, smiling as she approaches him. "I believe our orders were switched."

Comments

[for_tradition]

"Ah," she murmurs. "So you know."

She takes a breath and shakes her head. "They were innocents," she tells him. "Their souls should travel lightly through these waters."

[lightamidchaos]

"I did not meet them. But I am aware."

He grasps for something to draw the sorrow from her, as much as it can be; something else for her to focus upon.

"It seems likely that one with your skills would know," he tries. "If you are willing, if it is no trouble, I would be glad to hear more of your own path, and your work."

[for_tradition]

It's another way in which Lan Wangji is nothing like Silas Octakiseron; he is kind. "No trouble," she says, lightly.

"But I can't imagine it's an interesting story to hear. I spent a good deal of my life in research and writing and further research still. I became head of my House five years ago, at which point my husband, Magnus, became my cavalier primary."

[lightamidchaos]

"Were you always researching the River?" he asks.

[for_tradition]

"Only in a general sense, in that the River is almost always present and must be accounted for during a summoning," she tells him. "But it wasn't until I was older that I began to think there was more to it – more beyond it."

She smiles and sips at her refreshed tea. "And you? Have you always studied musical cultivation?"

[lightamidchaos]

"It has always been part of my studies," he confirms. "Along with the sword, and the precepts, and of course core formation."

He hesitates for an instant, but surely it is not excessively boastful to mention information as a simple matter of fact? "In recent years, I have also begun composing."

[for_tradition]

"Now that is an interesting skill!"

Abigail leans forward, focusing all her interest on him, fascinated at the thought. "A bit like writing your own theorems, I imagine. Have you written anything with a new, or perhaps more efficient, effect?"

[lightamidchaos]

"Some variations on existing pieces," he murmurs. "Some few things that are not intended to have a cultivation effect, as well. It is still ... new."

[for_tradition]

She beams warmly at him, as pleased by his statement as if she'd known him his whole life and is now getting to see him blossom into his true potential.

"And are you enjoying yourself?"

[lightamidchaos]

Something about her manner seems almost as though she is proud of him, but how could that be? She has just met him. Surely he is imagining things.

For an instant, he can almost smell the delicate scent of gentians. He can't quite see her face clearly in memory, but he remembers the gentle sound of his mother's voice when he tried to make her happy by reciting the rules correctly - and she had asked him to tell her about what he liked best about his classes, instead.

"I... yes," he says, after a moment. "I - I do."

[for_tradition]

"Good!" she says, approving. "Study and perfection are all very well, but you have a life still to live, Hanguang-jun. And what is life without a little enjoyment?"

[lightamidchaos]

"I have more joy than I deserve," he says, very simply. "It is enough. But music is part of that, yes."

[for_tradition]

"There's no such thing," she says, with certainty. "Take it from one who no longer has the option, Hanguang-jun: pack your life with as much joy as it will hold. Because that, you can take with you."

[lightamidchaos]

“I will remember.” It is as much of a promise as he feels he can give. Lying is forbidden.

[for_tradition]

"I hope you will."

She finishes her tea and sets the cup back down. "I'd very much enjoy hearing one of your compositions, sometime."

[lightamidchaos]

“I will be honored to play for you,” he says. “Any time.”

[for_tradition]

"The honor is all mine, Hanguang-jun," she says, smiling.

"Until then, all I ask is for a little more of your company."

[lightamidchaos]

The faintest hint of pink flushes the top curve of his ears as he refreshes her tea once more, then sets the plate of snacks more firmly within her reach.

He has never been social, but something about her graciousness and warmth makes it easier than usual.

[for_tradition]

It's easy for her to chat lightly, to fill awkward silences, but she finds herself enjoying the quiet she spends with Lan Wangji, although she enjoys conversing with him, too.

She lifts her cup to him in a smiling toast, and sips.