[GW2] Vignettes From the Past

[tutankhons]

1307 AE - Part 1

Two men stood, shirtless, at the center of a ring of expectant onlookers. Most of those who had gathered were clearly common—though a small handful of merchants were dressed finely, if garishly, the rest of the crowd was quite threadbare, and a number of the men were just as shirtless as the two at the center of their ring. The one exception to this apparent rule was a boy of perhaps eight who had managed to find his way to the front of the crowd. Like the merchants, his own clothes were quite fine but they were comparatively muted. His coat and breeches were both cut from some soft, powder blue fabric while his waistcoat was in ivory. His blonde hair was tied back into a long, braided queue with a black velvet bow, and on his lapel was a pin showing a semé of violet lilies set on a field of white. Clearly he was a member of the nobility, and the commoners in the crowd knew, perhaps instinctively, to grant him a wide berth.

The boy, however, seemed either ignorant or unconcerned with the obeisance he was being given. Instead, all of his attention seemed to be focused between the two men and the row of musicians who sat just behind them. He recognized three of their instruments as a set of funny-looking, mismatched drums, but he did not recognize the other five at all. In fact, one looked rather like a cowbell and three looked far more like archers' bows than true instruments. But instruments they all certainly were, for a quick, twanging beat was being played upon them.

Suddenly, as if they'd heard some cue hidden in the music, the two men leapt up to stand, not on their feet, but on the palms of their hands. And then, at another cue, they were moving again. At first the boy thought they were having some sort of fight. They both seemed to be trading blows at a dizzying pace, but then he realized that they weren't blows at all.  Indeed, never did either of the two make contact with the other. Instead, their spinning kicks and flying lunges seemed to be some sort of dance.

He stood there, transfixed, for quite some time. Long enough, at least, for the musicians to start up a new song and the men a new dance that was even more impressive than the last. He might have stood there as long as they were at their performance if his mother's gloved hand had not touched his shoulder and pulled him from his reverie.

"Come along, Monty," she told him in an almost regretful voice. "We mustn't keep your father waiting."

[tutankhons]

1307 AE - Part 2

Moments ago, the boy's fingers had been moving across the ebony keys of the fortepiano, filling the long gallery with the sound of its music. The piece had been an airy bagatelle that had been steadily gaining in popularity among the upper circles of society, and all through its first half he played its tinkling notes perfectly—exactly as they were written on the sheet music before him. Now, the boy's hands were still and at his sides. Once he'd passed the halfway point, his playing slowed significantly and worsened gradually until his tutor, a severe looking man with graying hair and pointed features, ordered him to stop entirely.


"You have not been practicing," he accused the boy with an entirely unnecessary frown. His displeasure was plain enough from the tone in his voice. Though the boy opened his mouth to answer, the man pressed forward regardless. "Do not think to lie to me, boy; it could not be more obvious that you have not been practicing. You know, I have only agreed to continue tutoring you as a personal favor to your lord father, but perhaps I should simply stop wasting my time if you are not going to take your lessons seriously. I have other, less useless students whom I would much rather be instructing right now." As he spoke these words, his pointed features twisted with a self-satisfied smirk. He knew he had won the usual argument before it had even begun. The last thing the boy wanted was to earn the ire of his father, and there was no surer way for him to do so than for his piano tutor to walk out before the lesson had concluded again.

Once more, the boy opened his mouth to reply, but once more he found himself cutoff before he could even begin to utter an apology. This time, however, it was not the voice of his tutor that had interrupted him. Instead, it was the sound of a door being closed at the far end of the room. Without having to turn, the boy knew that his father had heard, if not everything, than enough. It was all he could do to sit stock-still upon his bench.

"My son continues to be a poor student, Wilhelm?" his father asked, his tone almost conversational.

"He has been my worst student ever since I first began instructing him, my lord," his tutor confirmed with a simpering bow. "I do not think there is much hope of him ever becoming anything more than a middling pianist."

"I do not see how that could be," his father replied slowly. "Whenever I have heard him play, it has always sounded pleasing to my ear."

"His playing can be technically correct, my lord, but he plays without feeling. What's more, he simply refuses to read the music that's on the page. Instead, he memorizes the movements of his hands as he stumbles through until he can play at speed. When he memorizes correctly, I suppose it can be effective enough, but more often than not he memorizes wrongly. And when he refuses to read it takes my concerted effort to correct his mistake."

"I see... I know that my son leaves very much to be desired, but there must be something he does well that we can build on."

"I suppose he can hold a rhythm ..." Though on the face of them the words were complimentary, nothing the tutor had said thus far had sounded more insulting, and the boy could no longer stand it. Wordlessly, he rose from his bench and began to hurriedly make his way from the gallery.

"You have not been dismissed, Delmont," came his father's voice from behind him, but the boy neither stopped nor replied. He knew he would pay for such disrespect later, but it would be far better than the alternative. Prieurs, after all, should never been seen to cry.

[tutankhons]

1307 AE - Part 3

The boy's mother found him alone in the library some time later. He sat on the far side of the room, curled up in one of the armchairs by the window with a book in his lap, and though his eyes were red, his face was dry. He did not look up as she entered, keeping his eyes fixed on the writing before him. She knew, however, that he was not really reading, as his eyes were not moving across the page at all. The book was simply a pretext to remain in the room, undisturbed.

"Myths and Legends of Ancient Ascalon, hm?" she asked as she settled onto the chaise longue beside his chair and after smoothing out the skirts of her dress  . "I had no idea you had an interest in our mythic history." Again, the boy's eyes remained where they were, but he did, at least, have the presence of mind to turn the page. After a moment, she began again. "Monty. The housekeeper told me what happened earlier with your tutor." Here, he timidly looked up from his book. "You do not enjoy the fortepiano, do you?"

"No," came his quiet reply. "I'd much rather listen to it than play it."

"You know your father only wishes for his sons' educations to be well-rounded.  Even Christophe will be given music lessons once he is old enough to leave his nanny."

"No he doesn't..." the boy said, looking away. "He wants for me to be like him, but I'm not." His mother had no argument against this. The boy's father, after all, had been training him to be his heir since birth, and his father never quite seemed satisfied with the results... "I'm not good enough," the boy added after a moment of silence.

"Of course you're good enough, Monty." She spoke with an absolute certainty that drew the boy's eyes upwards again. "You do not need to be a great pianist to be a proper noble. Your grandfather never learned, and he is every bit the Minister your father is. We simply need to find something suited to your talents."

"Could I...?" he began, hesitating more than ever. Could I learn to dance?"

His mother had not expected this particular request, and one of her already-arched eyebrows moved upwards on her forehead. "You really were quite taken with those street performers, weren't you?" When the boy nodded, she said, "I will speak to your father. I cannot promise you anything, but we shall see."

[tutankhons]

1307 AE - Part 4

The boy stood with the eight others in his class along the long, mirrored wall of the large, open room as their instructor demonstrated the movements of the turn they were soon to attempt themselves. It was an essential part, he had told them, of the simple dance they were to learn by the end of the month. They would all be performing together, as a class, for the opening piece of the school's recital, and though this marked only their fourth lesson, their instructor assured them that they would all be ready.

"From fifth position," the man was saying as he moved through each step, "take a tendu to the side and move into forth position. Then, assuming passé with your working leg, rise onto demi-pointe with your standing leg and perform three turns en dehors." Here the man paused in his instructions to spin, quite gracefully, very nearly on the tips of his toes. The boy watched with a confident smile on his lips. He was certain he could match his instructor exactly. "Once you have completed your turns," the man continued once he'd finished his pirouette, "resume fourth position. You've already selected your partners, so I'd like for you each to find a space in the room and practice these movements together for the remainder of class. Remember to spot your turns and to lend support when needed."

The boy looked immediately to a brown-haired boy at his side, offering him the same confident smile he had worn throughout their lesson. The smile he received in return was much less self-assured. In a room full of noble children, this boy, called Samuel, was the only one of common birth. He and the boy had made fast friends, but most of the others kept well away, no doubt coached by their parents to do so, and the inadequacy Samuel felt at this treatment translated quite clearly into his dancing.

"You go first, Monty," he told the boy after they'd moved off into their usual corner. "They're all watching for me to fall again."

"You're not going to fall, Sam. Just do what I do."

Just as their instructor had, the boy assumed the fifth position, holding his feet together toe-to-heel and heel-to-toe. Then he swept his right foot to the side and held it at a point for a moment, before sweeping it behind himself into fourth. From there, he brought his right foot up to his knee and spun clockwise, just as their instructor had, three times before returning to his starting position.

"It's not as hard as it looks," he assured Samuel. "You try." Reluctantly, his friend stepped away from the wall and tried to mimic the boy's form, but whether from his own usual nerves or the feeling of another pair's eyes on him, he came up somewhat short. "Wait a moment," the boy told him as he moved to place his hands on his friend's hips. "You need to go lower. Bend your knees a bit, and relax. Now try." With the extra support, both physical and moral, Samuel moved through his positions almost fluidly, and though he didn't manage three turns, he was able to execute one without mishap.

"Good job!" The boy began to tell him, smiling once again, but at the voice that sounded suddenly behind him, his face fell entirely.

"Delmont Prieur, exactly what are you doing?" The boy didn't need to turn to know his father's face was lined with contained rage. Nor was he even given the chance to, as he felt his father's firm grip take hold of his braided hair.

"I was only-"

"Silence," his father commanded with a sharp tug. "I've no interest in your excuses. Go and wait outside." The boy was quick to obey. He knew his father had only just agreed to these lessons, and he didn't want to offer him any reason to end them now. As he made his way toward the door, he heard his instructor attempting to intervene, but his father cut him off summarily. "You will ensure in the future that my son is partnered only with boys equal to his own birth and upbringing, and never again with this common filth."

[tutankhons]

1307 AE - Part 5

It had been a stupid thing, the boy knew, to think he might have somehow found his friend. Ignoring the torrential downpour that had overtaken the city, and with it it's driving winds, the boy knew little more of Samuel than his name and that they had been friends at first sight. The boy knew Samuel was of common birth and that his father must have had money, but he'd never even learned in which district Samuel had lived or where his father might have worked. Nor did he even know his last name. None of that had been at all important. Why should it have been? Samuel's background had no bearing on the boy's opinion of him.

When it came to finding someone, however, this was the very sort of information that would be essential to success. Nevertheless, when the boy had discovered his friend had dropped out of their dance school the following lesson, neither his ignorance of these details nor his instructor giving chase had given him pause. Only once he was soaked through with rain and shivering did the certainty of his situation set in: he was likely to never find his friend. So, with little else he could do, the boy had found an archway in which to take shelter, wait out the storm, and contemplate his own stupidity.

[tutankhons]

1307 AE - Part 6

The boy, or perhaps better named here the young Viscount Prieur, was seated on his father right at the dining room's high table. This was a distinction shared by very few others. Of course the viscount's mother was there, at his father's left; to her left sat her lord father and lady mother, the Ministers Ruffec. To the viscount's own right sat his father's other great political ally, Minister Graveson, along with his wife and young daughter. All of his father's other Wintersday guests sat at lower tables facing their own. As such, the viscount's father expected nothing less than perfection from him. He was his father's heir, after all, and must at all times show proper decorum.

Thusly, during the hours preceding this formal dinner and ball, the viscount had been prepared quite thoroughly. A new suit had been tailored for him of velvet and ermine, to match the season's latest fashions, and his hair had been freshly curled and braided. Makeup had been applied, to make him seem even more pale than usual, while his father had drilled him on the names of each of his guests and the courtesies due them. Baron MacBane, for instance, (table five, seat twelve, three guests) was to be politely ignored while the Lady Surena (table one, seat four, no guests) should receive his full favor.  He was shown how to properly bow (from the waist), when to smile (effectively, never), and how to stand (ironically, he noted, in fourth position), though he had been taught all of these things many times before. Finally, as he was to dance with Miss Graveson later that evening, his mother had ensured he knew the steps to a proper waltz. In that, at least, he had managed to enjoy himself, if only just.

There was, however, nothing enjoyable about sitting at the high table. With all eyes on him, the viscount did not even dare to eat more than one small forkful of each course for fear he might drop some morsel and earn his father's ire. Though he knew everyone below was jockeying for a higher seat next year, the viscount would have been much happier to sit among them. While Baron MacBane might have been a persona non grata, his two children, busy making faces and playing with toys they'd received, were at least permitted to have fun.

[tutankhons]

1308 AE - Part 7

The household staff of the Prieur family had quite a task ahead of them. Normally, at the end of the Wintersday festival they would be allowed a few days rest before having to put the house back to rights, by virtue of the limited influence their lady had over their lord. Usually, it would be a time for them to finish their own seasonal celebrations, having put them off to see to the annual Wintersday Ball. This year, however, was an exception to the general rule. Though they knew their lady would have preferred to grant them their leave, they also knew that proper procedure had tied her hands. They could not rest quite yet this year as they first needed to prepare the house for the family's honored guest.

No one seemed to know very much about the man the family was expecting beyond that he was their lady's cousin. The cook was certain she'd heard he was an officer of the Ministry Guard, but the porter was not sure how that could be. After all, he himself was a sergeant of the Guard and he had never met any such man as Captain Ruffec. Nevertheless, they knew both their lord and lady expected the house to be in perfect order. Naturally, it had been so for the feast, but setting for a hundred guests was certainly quite a different thing than setting for just one: every detail must be taken to count! The dining room had to be made more intimate, a guest room had to be prepared, and, as he would have freedom of the house, every other room had to be made open and welcoming as well. Though the manor of the Prieurs was not a large one by comparison to some others, the task remained no small order. It would require all of their attention until the man arrived.

So focused was the staff on their work, the maids set to cleaning the long gallery had not even noticed that they were being watched. Indeed, the boy had entered the room so quietly and stood behind his pedestal so stilly that his presence might have gone entirely undetected had his mother, ever observant, and younger brother not entered the room and outed him.

"Monty," she reproached him with frown (even as his brother giggled at having "won" what he decided must have been a game of hide and seek), "I know I've taught you that it is rude to spy."

"But I've found the one that has been stealing," the boy replied, pointing to the maid at the far end of the room. The woman was much too surprised at being caught to feign any sort of indignation at the accusation. "She's just slipped the gold miniature of Lyssa into her apron pocket."