In the marbled expanse of her bathing chamber, Llewelyn’s voice carried easily into the adjoining parlor and bedroom. She stood before a massive, gold framed mirror mounted on the polished porcelain wall adjacent to the doorway. There, she recited from memory the definitions and rules that had been drilled into her by tutors and instructors over her lifetime.
“The customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group.”
Llewelyn turned slightly in the glow cast by the faery orbs and candles, checking the symmetry of lines as she painted her customary golden accents over the skin of her two front legs. It was something that she had been doing since she was but a filly, having found the pattern in a tome from her father’s study. As a youth, she had found the solid lines and symmetry both fascinating and comforting, and now the application of the accessory was as much part of Llewelyn as her imperious nature.
“Ladies should walk erect, with dignity, neither trotting nor running, nor dallying; with their eyes hooded and demure.”
Smiling thinly at her reflection, Llewelyn released her telekinetic hold on the mink-hair and cherrywood paintbrush that she had been using and left it, along with the small jar of gold paint, upon the lip of her massive soaking tub. The maids, when they came twenty minutes after the femme left her chambers for the day, would tidy clean the brush for tomorrow and place it in the same position for Llewelyn’s pre-dawn use. Lifting her left front leg and rotating it just enough to see the gilded appliqué shimmer beneath the candlelight, the maiden sighed blissfully and turned toward the arched doorway leading to the sitting room.
Stepping into the chamber, dark hooves pressing into a plush emerald rug, the youthful mare quirked a brow, noting the blaring lack of her most cherished - and most resented - companion. Was he somewhere else in her apartments? He had never been late for their weekly dawn tea before. She cast a glance at the horizon through the windows that lead to her balcony and felt the unfamiliar pinch of worry in her chest - the sky to the east was brightening from black to a slate grey; there wasn’t much time.
Swallowing and pursing her lips, Llewelyn made her way to one of two overstuffed cushions that accompanied a low mahogany table and perched upon it. The lines in her body were tense, where was he? The Lady did not like being saddled with uncertainty, and the sensation felt like oil, thick and slimy, oozing through her veins. Calming breaths did little to soothe her nerves, and rearranging the tea service set for two had begun to feel more like nervous fiddling than anything else.
Releasing the gold-dipped ceramic teapot with a huff, Llewelyn took to murmuring more lines from her etiquette instructors as she waited, hoping that the familiar syllables and rhythmic lines would help calm her near-frantic thoughts.
“A Lady may accept whatever gift from another that may be useful in the care of her person, or may look charming, or may remind her of her companions, providing, however, that in accepting the gift it is clear that she is acting quite without avarice...”
Here are Mateo's thoughts on etiquette: it is a tool, just as much as speech and history and poetry, and every tool has its time and place.
So when he comes in through the balcony, he is not happy to be doing so but also not terribly concerned with his poor manners. This is an old friend (of course, he would never refer to her as old in any context out loud) and anyway if he took the time to politely knock on her door, he would be even more late for their weekly affair.
He lands softly on a long red rug, embroidered beautifully with fine golden thread, and folds his wings at his sides. Llew's quarters have a familiar and undeniably pleasant scent that he could never quite pin down. It was the smell of candles and perfume and her-- floral and feminine and untouchable. He breathes in deeply as he looks around, and his features quickly break into a broad grin when he sees her, almost as though he's surprised to see her here, in her own quarters, at the appointed time, fretting (or rather, pointedly not fretting) over a teapot. The regularity of their encounters has done nothing to sate his enthusiasm for them.
Mateo takes a deep bow. One leg forward, wings tucked back neatly. His mane is disheveled, suggesting his lateness is either the result of oversleeping or losing track of time in flight. He notes that she is impeccable as always, hair neatly braided and long (long) tail curled gracefully at her side.
"Sorry I'm late, Llew." He has the grace to look sheepish, and his eyes travel the length of the rug he stands on as though suddenly fascinated with its details. It appears he is waiting for an acceptance of his apology before he helps himself to tea. He's not usually late and he truly is sorry for it.
Eventually he raises his silver-green eyes to meet hers and there is a spark of mischief there, poorly hidden. He draws a golden tiger lily from beneath his wing, where it was kept safe from the frost but had unfortunately gotten a little smooshed. It hovers between them like an unfortunate peace offering. "You look stunning, as usual." His lips purse into a smile that is at once playful and genuine. Much like etiquette, flattery was a tool with its time and place.
- - -
@Llewelyn Y E S. I love her so much already! (sorry for the wait!)
She had just trailed off, practiced words fading to nothing within the expanse of her rooms. Irritation at her own worry crept up her swanlike throat, clawing over the maiden’s tongue in a vicious, almost-choking sensation. The mare shooed the sickly feeling away and took a sip of her tea, resisting the urge to flinch as the amber liquid scalded her tongue. Placing the flower-shaped cup back upon it’s saucer, the movement eliciting a tiny clink, Llewelyn stared regally at the empty space across the table.
She was no spurned fishwife waiting for her husband’s return from the sea, she would face the male’s absence with practiced indifference.
At least on the surface, but appearances were really all that mattered, anyway.
As if summoned by her anxiety, Mateo glided gently into his companion’s chambers. His entrance was largely a silent one, the rustling of ebony feathers and the whisper of the breeze upon his back the only sounds. Sooty hooves pressed into the gold embroidered carpet, denting the plush surface ever so slightly with half moons. Windblown and roguish, her emerald-eyed counterpart sailed back into the Mateo-shaped spot within Llewelyn’s life with a flourish and a bow.
A small rage flickered within her breast, blistering and quick, at how easily she knew she would forgive him for his transgressions, however small. Already, his mere presence was smoothing over her stresses, painting the inconvenience as an exciting twist in an otherwise predictable schedule. At his apology and her nickname on his tongue - the use of the casual title by anyone other than the obsidian pegasus was paramount to murder - Llewelyn sniffed, raising her nose haughtily and looking away in a pointed expression of upset.
He had made her wait; even worse, he had made her worry, and worry never became a Lady.
She heard it would give you wrinkles.
He truly was sorry, she could hear it in his honeyed voice the same way one could hear the ocean against the shore, and she knew that she wasn’t truly angry with him. How could she be? He had been her closest friend and confidante since she had stepped into the sprawling citadel. They had grown up together, mischief and gossip and laughter echoing down the hallways and setting their hearts aglow. Mateo had helped her learn how to read when she had started falling behind, had been a steady and unfaltering presence at her side.
No, she could never truly be angry with him, they belonged to each other. In truth, she adored him, cherished him even; but it had always been fun to play games.
So as he settled upon his cushion, mussed locks in charming contrast with the pristinely organized parlor, Llewelyn refused to offer her customary grin, refused to look him in the eye. The maiden wanted to exude a certain shame on you air, and hoped that all her time spent practicing facial expressions in the mirror was paying off. At last, she returns his gaze, and finds that the devilry in his eyes almost, almost draws a smile from her. Brow quirking at the flash of color beneath his wing, the Lady couldn’t escape from the delighted gasp that lit up her face as Mateo proffered his beautiful - albeit slightly wilted - gift.
“A flower,” she cooed, unable to keep up her charade any longer. Gifts and compliments could hardly be ignored, and the femme knew better than to pretend at upset past that, her friend was far too clever to have believed it. “You’re incorrigible, Mateo,” she murmured, though there was no venom in the rebuke, only a soft teasing as she gently grasped the bloom with her telepathy and brushed her lips reverently over its vibrant petals. Looking up at his handsome face through a fan of lowered lashes, Llewelyn finally allowed herself to relax, the comforting familiarity of his presence wrapping about her frame like a blanket.
The courtier allowed herself a few more moments to admire her new trinket before tucking it expertly at behind her left ear and turning the full force of her golden gaze upon her comrade. “So,” she began, a sly grin working its way over her lips, “Outside of unwittingly looking the part of a knight here to rescue a princess, have you heard about that absolutely humiliating debacle in the Day Court?”
@Mateo I am having SO much fun with this! Thank you for giving me such a great opportunity to play around with her character<3 Mateo for president tbh
For all the familiarity between them, time with Llewelyn was not often spent feeling relaxed or at ease. It was quite the opposite-- there was always a little knot in his belly and a spark in his mind. He knew her very well, but she always managed to surprise him in one way or another, and he tried his best to do the same. It felt a lot like playing a game that he didn't know all the rules to.
It was fun.
The present is well received, to his relief. He knew it was best to stay in her good graces, which was easier with gifts than words. It does not escape his notice how her lips brush over the golden petals-- he hopes it escapes hers how he swallows the lump in his throat. If they were playing a game, he was most certainly losing.
(a poem begins to take shape in his mind. It has no words yet except one: scarlet--)
Mateo casually pours himself some tea. It is a welcome distraction from the thought of her lips. When he looks up again she has tucked the gift behind an ear and is piercing him with that golden gaze that was just as deadly as her antlers. "So, outside of unwittingly looking the part of a knight here to rescue a princess," he grins, green eyes gleaming, but continues to listen. "... have you heard about that absolutely humiliating debacle in the Day Court?"
He takes sip of tea before he replies. Something... stronger would be nice, but the sun had barely just come up and he could hardly ask the lady to get drunk on barley wine at this hour. Well, of course he could, and she might even oblige him if he was clever enough in how he asked... but he did not trust himself to drink with Llew, at least not behind closed doors. He could not risk ruining their game, which he so enjoyed.
These thoughts all come and go in the space of a few seconds. "Of course," he says, thinking briefly of that green-eyed Solterran girl and where she might be now. She smelled of sun. He had never associated the sun with a smell before. It felt odd to be speaking of foreign affairs that felt so far away from them-- Solterra might as well be an entirely different world-- and for the first time actually knowing someone who would be directly impacted by them. It makes him take this matter more seriously than he would have been a few months ago. "Surely we will have refugees flooding the city soon. I heard the new king has enacted heavy food and water restrictions." His words are heavy with distaste. "It's absolutely barbaric, even by Solterran standards." Which, to be fair, were greatly elevated by the previous regime. (he sends a silent prayer skyward-- Rest in God's hands, Seraphina)
The tea is warm and comforting. He pours another cup. "Have you heard our Regent has left to Denocte?" He keeps his tone casual, not yet sure if he wants to reveal that Po had asked him personally to be the Regent's eyes and ears.
