Being vexed, a sea

Five years ago...

Jean hurled himself into parlor-turned-library attached to his room. He glanced at the divan and armchair huddled about a low table, so carelessly strewn with books that one could not see the polished mahogany. Everywhere, scrawled pages lay crumpled with the Prince's inked attempts to put his feelings into words. But, it was as if he'd choked on fumes. He'd tried to sleep, but the new day did not feel fresh. Tears clung stubbornly to his eyelashes as he rubbed his face at the sight of Ophelia waiting here to begin their lesson, before turning away from her and desperately pulling off volumes from the shelves. He would be fast and get this over with, and then he could sit down and nod like he understood her. What did it matter. 

He turned to his bookshelves and reached for everything about love. He reached for his journal from ever since he met Kieran. He scrambled hurriedly, desperately to get them all in his arms, and then with great strides, he dumped them all into a large brass incense burner. A sob tore through his throat, half a hiccup and half a wail, as he found the tinderbox on his desk, and hands shaking, he began to try and strike a match to burn it all before Ophelia could stop him.

She had taken up private tutoring, a way for her to earn money to keep a roof over her head.  She hadn't liked the idea, but having found that she had no family to serve, and her own family that had been the kitchen staff all dead, and the Young Lord supposedly dead as well (as far as she knew), she was trying to make her way through life.  But life was difficult.  She never had expected that she, would end up tutoring said youth, or that she would miss being a maid slash kitchen wench in a house hold.

"[color=#ff4136]I know that you're not about to commit sacrilege in my presence,[/color]" Ophelia trailed off as she moved close to stop him from setting the books on fire, not understanding what the volumes were, only that they were books, and the memory of seeing the estate in flames, all those volumes lost, all that knowledge gone, it overrode the sense of self preservation, as she took a gentle hold of his hands, trying to still them from the act they were about to commit. "[color=#ff4136]But if you are, wait until you've given it a little more thought?  What ever has you seeking these tomes imminent destruction, may not seem as deep a wound in a weeks time, and their knowledge missed, but unable to be reclaimed.[/color]"

She tried to keep her own body from shaking, from trying to feed her images of the estate, of creating the scenes inside, but the pair of scissors on her chatelaine bumped into the looking glass also strung from the chained clasp on her woven belt, before they swayed back into the thimble, the tinkle of metal on metal the only sound from her, other than the breath she dared take in that moment, waiting for him to decide what would happen next.

Jean's hands shivered uncontrollably as she held them, and the tinderbox clunked to the floorboards. Jean turned away from her as much as he could, looking at the tinderbox as if he once could make it burst into flames with his mind, but had mysteriously lost the power. Tears pricked his eyes as she spoke.

A week won't change anything, his voice crackled with restraint.

I- I'll never... he swallowed, trying to get a breath and daring a glance at Ophelia. The intense look she returned to him scared him and he tried to pull away, taken aback. Her hands were gentle, but Jean had never seen her look so earnest.

Please let me... I won't want them. I didn't know it would feel like this. He tried to cover some of the booktitles, moving his body to attempt to block them. Titles like 'Roman and Julia', 'Pride and Presumptuous', and 'Mauricio' were piled high, and it wouldn't he long before she figured it out if she saw.

Thankfully for his sake, Lia was a very smart woman, but not very bright at times, and so the titles of the books passed her by with very little hitting spark of memory, or, for that matter, recognition.  She simply knew that the burning of books, of any sort, was a crime in her mind, and needed to be stopped.  She couldn't let him burn knowledge, even if they were fiction, couldn't see another book be set aflame in haste.

[color=#ff4136]"Then bury them."[/color]

It was a simple solution, she realized, as she tried to once again gently work the tinder box from his fingers to set it aside. If he allowed her to take the box, she'd set it aside, to return to the thought. [color=#ff4136] "Bury them, and grieve properly, like a true death.  Set them in a box, and in the earth and grieve properly, but never with fire.  Fire is too final, too extreme.  It robs us of a voice that may have inspired or given life to an idea, a spark that may change us for the better or worse.  Written word breathes life into the soul, but it can also invoke such emotions that we don't know how to deal.. so grieve them properly.  Like a loved one.  because while they were alive for you, they gave you joy, did they not?  You smiled and laughed, cried and felt pain with them.  So let them have a proper death."[/color]

She offered her arms then, not for the books, but to hug the younger man, because his face spoke the volume of how much hurt was sitting inside his chest, in his heart, his soul at the moment.  She may not know much of the world, and the workings of people, but she knew that this had to be one of the messier emotions, love.  It had to be love, a lost one, or at least a spurred one at that.[color=#ff4136]  "We'll wrap them in cloth and lay them in a box and then we'll head outside the city and bury them together then, yeah?  Or even the gardens, the gardens might be safer for us both.., but.  Mourn properly, you deserve the chance to mourn properly."[/color]

Distressed, Jean allowed her to take the tinder box. He looked shamefully away, because, he loved books as much as she did. "I know, he replied gently, heartbrokenly to her speech, sucking in a wet breath. He wiped his eyes again, and leaned into her arms. He turned his head to the side as to keep his wet face off of her cloths.

It was then in the midst of this compassion, where he wasn't expecting any, that Jean suddenly fell apart. He had thought, in a whirlwind, he could burn it all and move on with the coldness The Game required. But in Professor Jolfy's embrace, his whole body seemed to buckle, his eyes squeezed shut, and a great sting to his chest needled him. Fresh tears erupted down his cheeks, flowing with vicious fury, and his breath became tangled with wet sobs. I... can't... t-talk... about... it, was all he could manage, feeling like he owed it to her like one might owe excuses for tardiness or lack of quality in work. But even the very idea that he couldn't made him sob harder. He felt pitiful and pathetic, but more largely, he felt like a terrible weight had settled in his chest and was eating him from the inside out. He just knew he couldn't bear to look at these volumes. In a few moments, his breathing calmed, and he pulled away and found a handkerchief to make full and immediate use of as quickly possible. He still sniffled, but meekly Jean looked towards her for guidance.

But Professor Jolfy... I'll look out of my mind if I go traipsing around outside with a big chest to bury, let alone, a big pile of books. And what if someone sees me doing it? And what if someone goes and digs it up? And what will they think and do when they see what all of them are.... He trailed off, shame stopping him, and he stiffened once more between his teacher and the book pile. Love stories. 

You know how they are here. I'll look like I'm hiding something. Which he was.

Lia's heart tugged hard with the renewed tears, and when they started to fall, she guided them down to the floor gently, after all, she was a small woman, and if his knees were to go out on him, she wouldn't be able to bear the weight for both of them.  Her shoulders were strong, and she would hold him in that hug as long as he needed, but she made moves to keep them comfortable, if he allowed her too.  [color=#ff4136]"You don't have to, dear heart, no words can adequately describe what I'm sure is the most pain you've felt before, so there's no need to try and voice them."[/color]

She waited for him, breathing deeply, slowly, trying to give him an anchor in what she was sure was a sea that felt like it was slowly swallowing him whole.  She could wait.  [color=#ff4136]"Oh, you know I never thought of that.  How about I take them home with me, and make them a small little hiding spot in my own personal library, that way if you ever feel like you want to take one or all of them back, they're safe and sound, and well and truly out of sight for you?"[/color]  She felt like that was an amiable compromise.

"[color=#ff4136]And that way no one is any wiser.[/color]"  He had called her Professor, she would have to remind him later that she had no formal schooling -- yes she had gone to university with Luce, but as a lady maid.  All her learning was self taught.  Another time though, when the world seemed more forgivable, and understanding to his pain.  "[color=#ff4136]Besides it would look like nothing out of the ordinary for me to have such books in my possession, of course that's what I'd squander my money one, yes?  Hair ribbons and books like a silly woman indeed,[/color]" the corner of her mouth quirked up a little, as she loosely kept her arms around him.  "[color=#ff4136]Do you wish to talk about it, but can't right now?  Or is this something you'd prefer me to not remember the next time I come for our lessons?"[/color]

Jean nodded, taking the idea and letting his anxieties test is strength. All one had to do was begin to think What if? What if this made her a target for The Game? The prince sending parcel after parcel to the home of a plebian? What would anyone assume?

But he wanted this to work too. 

He looked at her shyly, knowing full well many boys his age shot for women her age for all kinds of reasons. The professor wasn't unattractive. She was pretty. And... so kind. He couldn't describe the shame that edged on him for bringing this excuse up. 

Are you sure, Professor? It's going to be a lot of books. I didn't grab all the ones I meant to. Are you sure you'll have room for it all?

Then more what ifs flooded in as he pictured little Professor Jolfy in a small tenement crammed with books barely having room for her oven, crammed in with all his books. Books weren't cheap. What if she were robbed? What if she were killed in the robbery? What if a stray spark from the fireplace floated at their dry pages in the cold winter?

It's a lot of books, he repeated, with emphasis. 

And now guilt washed up on the beaches of his heart. Idea after idea, she offered while holding him with so much compassion, and here he was defenestrating them. The word excuses cracked a sharp emotion on him. 

Maybe you can take a few books, and I can bury a few books? he said, half wondering if it could work or simply double all his worries. Maybe he should reconsider how many books he hated.

Lia thought for a moment about the amount of books that she could shove into her small corner room, inside a larger home for young women much like herself, displaced out of larger manor.  If push came to shove, she could try and peak in on Rene, see if he would let her hide some books in his home -- if the man still wanted to speak to her after well.  Everything.  She had no idea where she stood with Luce's friends after... everything.  But she nodded.

"[color=#ff4136]I think I could find a place to store most of them, and what I can't find an immediate home for, no one pays attention to someone like me, I slip out with one or three in my satchel and no one is any wiser.  I can hide them with my research.  Come to think of it.  Botanicals in books of these nature.  It could be another branch I study for[/color]."  She had no clue how she would do it, but if it meant saving the books, and keeping them on hand for him, for later, she would.

[color=#ff4136]"Or shove them in a closet honestly.  No one goes looking for things in manor houses until someone demands something be found.  I can't tell you how many times things got misplaced in the manor I served in and no one bothered.  Most of them just buy a replacement, unless it's sentimental value.[/color]"  She thought for another moment.

[color=#ff4136]"Maybe you could have them boxed up and donated.  Say you recently acquired them and they're not to your taste, and wish to make a gift of them to the University.  Fiction is just as important as classics and sciences."[/color]

With each sentence the professor rambled on with, Jean's posture sank lower and lower with bashfulness, until he sat hunched on an ottoman. He pressed his hands into his face as if the pressure would give him the words. It will appear as too big a gift. The rapturous love of books seemed to carry the woman away in a long monologue of possibility, while Jean deflated at the avalanche of sparkles in her eye.

Then, when the tangential idea of donating them seized her, Jean eagerly considered it. He lifted, looking at her, possibilities smearing across his brow with their blend of hope and worry. At the University, absolutely anyone could find what he donated. It might get announced, drawing attention to his tastes. A very public move, but perhaps, no more public than burying them in the gardens. He knew how watched he was. 

That might work, donating them, Professor, he began, But there are about five or so that I'd prefer were not publicly associated with me for... reasons. He leaned forward with blushing doggedness, wringing his hands. I know Orlesian tastes would forgive me, but still. 

He thought of his most lascivious texts, and, then, he thought of Kieran, again. How had his dreams so suddenly become shadows? Each a dagger held at his back.

"[color=#e82a1f]I'll take those five then and make sure they're hidden in my private collection.  I have books just to have books, I think one of them is a list of people born in a certain ten year period, so me having just any book, is honestly, quite usual for me.[/color]"  When she finally sand onto the ottoman, she continued on to the floor, sitting there beside him and watching his face, checking to make sure that he was fine with this solution.  She would provide them until he told her other wise.  "[color=#e82a1f]Still a noble like yourself shouldn't be caught with, or even donating such things.[/color]"

That she understood.  As a commoner, and most recently kitchen staff she had so much more freedom than the high born man in front of her.  She envied them, sometimes, the nobles, they had so much freedom because of their wealth and standing, and then absolutely none when it came to something as simple of, what books they held in a private library.  And that she even held books to her name, legally, not borrowed nor "borrowed" from another library, meant she was well better off then a lot, and she knew she was lucky for what she did have, that she could earn money, good money, tutoring others.  "[color=#e82a1f]What you think is best, then, certainly you must know what's best, forgive my want to save every text from even a dog-earred page.[/color]"

Ophelia smiled up to him as she placed her hand on his knee, giving it a small pat for comfort.  Now that he was no longer needing that hug, she was able to focus on trying to cheer the younger man up some.

All right, he said, repeating the plan anxiously in his head for Orlesian pit falls.

Sure, he might be mocked for a volume of Antivan nude sculpture and a book of local herbs for treated venereal dog diseases, but they were, at the end of the day, arguably practical books for a prince of Orlais. The books he intended for Ophelia's keeping, however were utterly appalling to considering in the hands of literate courtesan. They included:

(1) An illustrated volume of copulating positions for men.
(2) A romance between a Fereldan Prince and a chantry mage, together breaking the rules of the circle. It was old, written before the current blight that surrounded Val Royeaux. Frowned upon back then, it would be down-right heretical now.
(3) A book of love potions Cici had given him (Every recipe does not produce a genuine love potion, but does cause hilariously cruel conditions for the drinker.) He never had the guts to use one.
(4) A book about the witches of the wilds, tattered with extreme age, and given to him by Kieran.
(5) His diary - Maker! She better not read it, nevermind the rest. Most of it was bad love poetry near the end. The last rhyme was written in anger before he quit the book for a fresh one. Burn a boy for fodder. For love, he is no martyr.

Gingerly, Jean put these books together and placed them on the side table. He wrapped them up in the silk table cloth, and passed them bundled to Ms. Jolfy. They represented everything he had become, and everything he wished his wasn't. They were the nasty after-taste of his shame.

Maybe best you don't read them, he managed froggily, only to be interrupted by the loud gurgling moan of his stomach.