505-07-23 Crime and Punishment
With the summer evening so warm and inviting, the windows of the suite have been thrown open to permit a sultry breeze throughout the room. On the coffee table resides a pitcher of lemonade, rivulets of condensation licking down the glass, and a platter boasts cookies of oatmeal and shortbread flavors.
Ravelle is standing near one of the windows, surveying the cloudless night as she awaits your arrival.
When the door opens, Bastien enters carrying a small parcel of something wrapped in brown paper, of the sort bought at an apothecary. It's wrapped in tine and otherwise unmarked. He closes the door behind him and spends a moment standing that way, hand on the doorknob, studying her back with that impassable golden gaze and saying nothing.
Upon hearing the door close, Ravelle pivots slowly, her gaze hunting for the source of the sound. "Sir Knight. Good evening." Her attention briefly favors the package that you hold, curiosity stealing through her eyes, but she does not address it. Instead, an elegant hand indicates the familiar seating arrangement (how many days did you have to spend here on watch?) and she invites, "Please, be seated. Would you care for some lemonade?"
"Not tonight." The words are gentle, but they have grim connotations in light of the ones to follow. Bastien releases the doorknob and steps into the room proper, to meet her halfway, and there is nothing wry about him tonight -- nothing amused, nothing subtly entertained. There is gravity to him, and weight. "We should speak more privately. In your rooms, if you please, Lady Soranus."
Confusion briefly visits her brow before caution settles around her. She studies you closely, her slender frame straightening even more, if possible, to allow just a breath more distance between you both. She offers you a gentle smile. "Sir Knight, it would be remiss of me to meet with you alone in my bedroom as you are not a relative or my husband." She glances over the room before dark eyes return to match the gold of your own. "I assure you, I do not object to my family hearing anything that you might say to me, though I do think we will not be interrupted here."
There is something terribly akin to understanding in Bastien's expression as he regards the changes that take place in her countenance and posture in the wake of his words. He draws his lips into a thinner line, silent for several heartbeats, the paper of the package in his hand crinkling as it shifts against his uniform. "It's for the best. For your sake...but so be it. Have a seat." He extends his free hand, indicating the seating arrangement and table nearby.
Brown eyes flick briefly to your package before rising to search your features one more time. "Very well..." Her hesitancy is visible but she does move over to the sofa and slowly sink down on the cushion, watching you. "What is wrong, sir knight? Have I trespassed in some way?"
Rather than seat himself, Bastien follows her with his gaze until she's seated, and then he makes his way to the table, setting the item gently down atop it. Hands freed, he turns to the slow task of moving several chairs out of the way, picking them up with care and setting them down with deliberation, a lazy and unhurried process that seems at direct odds with everything he's said.
"I hear you spoke recently to the First Knight." Only that, nothing more.
A trace of sadness touches upon her tone. "Are you here to punish me for something I said to him?" She is so watchful and alert, though she folds her hands demurely in her lap. She tracks your motions through the room with wariness.
"What was it the two of you spoke about, if you don't mind my asking?" Clearing the last of the chairs from the table, Bastien turns back to the end at which he set the package down and pauses there, regarding her with heavily lidded eyes, down from the lofty heights of his natural stance. His fingertips settle atop the table's edge and rest there: stillness that seems tranquil in so many other circumstances now given a sense of coiling, of inner tension, like a deeply wound clockspring.
Her breathing heightens audibly as she watches you command silence and the absence of motion so skillfully. So promising -- like the stillness that precedes a powerful storm. She attempts a soft smile, though it is certainly not one that completes. "We have shared words on multiple occasions, but I confess I was rather heated with him in our last encounter." Her lips trace down a measure then, her dark eyes unyielding in their vigil of your strong frame. "Are you enjoying knowing that you have unsettled me without having told me anything?"
"I'm not enjoying anything about this. But we'll get to that in a moment," Bastien says flatly. Where she seeks eye contact, she will have it: the man's eyes may as well be made from poured metals, gleams of unearthly amber so often given to warm bemusement gone hard as canary diamonds with only the subtlest shifts of expression. In truth, there is nothing about him to suggest anything but the passivity for which he's widely known, but nevertheless the moment is different, the way the air is different when thunderheads blot out the pewter sky.
"Maybe you'd like to share with me what it was that was said, and your thoughts?" Calm. Polite.
Ravelle glances upward a moment, trying to recall the specifics that her lips gave birth to last eve. She finally glances back to you. "I pointed out that the knights, according to one of their own, had given special protection to Zipporah and challenged whether other vampires were receiving the same aura of defense for helping the knights in their work. My tone and my words were uncalled for and I owe him an apology." Her voice is soft and measured, and sincere.
"Mmm." Bastien studies her in silence that could contain a hundred heartbeats, depending on how hummingbird fast they pulsed by, and then he lowers his gaze to the paper parcel in front of him, unhurriedly beginning to undo the twine knots that bind it closed. "Let's talk about Providence, Lady Soranus. That's a subject dear to your heart...isn't it? The divinity? The faith?"
"Very dear, sir," she replies, remaining motionless. "Is it a subject that you hold dear? Faith? Providence?"
Bastien nods slowly, one brow arching mildly as he unwinds the coarse threads. "It is. It's a subject very dear to all of us. All of us, in the Order...because we, more than any other, know the importance of protecting Her will on this earth. For Her, for the sake of all mankind, we pledge to give our lives without a thought. We vow to make a sacrifice not many men are willing to make...not even for Her."
The paper sides of the package unbend when the string falls free, exposing a number of jars that seem to contain salves, balms, and medicinal ointments -- items used in the treatment of bruises, small cuts and other discomforts. He does not look at her, attention wholly -- ostensibly -- focused on arranging them in a neat line, where she can view the labels for each.
"What sacrifice is that, sir?" She inquires softly, alarm favoring her expressive features when she sees those jars. Silk whispers accompaniment as she smoothly ascends to her feet, dark eyes never wavering from you and your actions. "Is it a sacrifice that you were still willing to make while on your hiatus?"
"Yes. I was gone because that was the Keeper's will, Lady Soranus. I have only returned for the same reason. My life belongs to the throne." He lifts his gaze, settles it on her with all of the force of small gilded planets. The ease in him, the readiness, Bastien somehow manages to look grim despite both. "I would die for him, because he is Her voice manifest, and only the Keeper -- with the blessing of Providence -- is able to stem back the tide of horrors from whence we have struggled, bloody in tooth and nail. Have a seat, please."
"I don't mind confessing that you have made me quite nervous, as I am certain that is your intent. If it pleases you, would you permit me to remain standing?" The petition is delivered with a polite, entreating tone. "If there is punishment that must be delivered, I will endure it-- I would not shame my Goddess or my family by committing a trespass and then refusing the just consequences." She allows a phantom smile despite her unsettlement. "Though, I admit, you are very good at what you do if this is your intention. Were you chosen for this? Or did you volunteer?"
"I would prefer you to sit." Bastien settles the last jar into place and then straightens, weight evenly distributed between his feet as his hands begin the act of unbuckling the baldric from his chest, the leather strap that holds that ugly, ugly bastard sword in place. He has eyes only for her. "How deep is your allegiance to Providence, Lady Soranus? How deep is your faith? How wholly do you trust that the only thing standing between yourself and the pits of a hell not even your ancestors' bones remember is a single man?"
Poise uncompromised, Ravelle gracefully resettles on the sofa cushion, dark gaze anchored to your strong form. "My allegiance to Providence is without waver, Sir Bastien." Ah, there it is. That passion that often finds her voice when she speaks of her faith-- so warm and vibrant despite the gentle decible of her words. "Dig as deep as the seas piled on top of one another, and you still would not come close to the depths of my faith for Providence."
"And what of the Keeper? Do you believe that it's only through Providence's will that he bars the tide of demonic violence? What has your faith to say about that?" With aching slowness, gravity takes the sword at his back and slides it downward, caught by the sheath at the small of his back by hands that know it intimately so that he can set it aside, against the table's edge. He never once looks away from her.
"We are taught that the Keeper is ordained by Providence and that he enjoys a close commune with Her so that he might rule with strength and wisdom." She tilts her head faintly, eyes tracing over your handsome features in measure. "Why do you ask me this? Why is this so important right now, Sir Knight?" The tension lining her slender frame suggests she'd be quite quick to stand again, if provoked unexpectedly.
"And so you are taught those things...but you do not say that you believe them, with the same fervence that you accredit your faith in Providence, and that has of late become a concern to some people." Deft fingers begin the work of uncatching the steel gorget about his throat, removing the blackened collar in order to set it gently down atop the table in front of him. "All that stands between the world and the man who holds back the tide of evils greater than any of us have ever known...is the Order. Me. My brothers. The First Knight. We are the last line of defense against the darkness. And we are the men who are tasked with being more fearful than the darkness that sleeps in the hearts of our fellow men...because should they prove more fearful than we, or should we not be so terrible as to daunt the blackest of hearts, the life of the Keeper would be brought to an untimely end...and so, thus, all of mankind with him."
"Are you suggesting, Sir Knight, that I am not a loyal citizen?" Her diction is far too precise, betraying her offense at your words. "You and I each stand in defense of the good of the people, though your task is much more demanding and some of your Order have admitted that they will stray into darkness itself to achieve their means, we stand against darkness with light. And light alone. We are on the same side-- it is our methods that are disjoined." She starts to rise again, not enjoying the vantage you hold on your feet so. "I have no doubts that you can daunt the blackest of hearts-- you have no trouble shadowing where light would tread."
"Sit down."
It is not a suggestion. For the first time, something of an edge surfaces in otherwise velvet tones of voice, and all motion stills as he pins her with his eyes, the way a lepidopterist pins butterflies to corkboard with needles. "This is precisely the reason I'm here. It would be easy enough for me to mete out a satisfactory result for the First Knight tonight without bothering to have this conversation with you, but that is not the man I am. As it's your fault entirely that I'm here at all, and I resent the necessity of having been tasked with this, the least you can do is sit down and do me the courtesy of making an attempt at understanding what has brought us together in this way...and so perhaps see to it that it never happens again."
Her frustration apparent, Ravelle does yield to your order and reclaims her seat. Her fingers lace in her lap, perhaps to just keep herself out of further trouble. She draws in a soft, steadying breath, releasing some of the energy that coils within her, tempting her to press. Confident that she has reclaimed jurisdiction of her emotions, she tips her head to you, watching you steadily. "So you are here because the First Knight instructed you? Though I am still not certain if you are here to deliver punishment or a lesson, as there is a difference." Then, with soft respect, she inquires, "Do you, Sir Bastien, believe that I am a threat to the Crown? That I would seek to have the Keeper fall or would betray him in some way? That I have any desire at all to see the Gateway fall and demons surge into our lives like plague incarnate?"
There is a knocking upon the door, coming from the direction of Draught Baronial Quarters - Gateway Castle.
As soon as she sits, Bastien is once again utterly at his ease, eyes turned away from her as his fingers resume their work. Startlingly, perhaps, he begins to unfasten the clasps that hold the arming jacket of his uniform closed, exposing by degrees a thin cotton undershirt over the angled breadth of his chest. The knocking goes ignored utterly, and masculine voices exchange words in the hallway beyond as the petitioner is politely turned away. "Those who would bring allegations and bitterness against the shield wall that protects the Keeper are a threat to the crown. Yes, they are. It weakens the Order. Each and every one of my brothers and I are invested with the authority of the Keeper. We do what we do for reasons, Lady Soranus, and if you cannot, as an outsider, conceive of what reasons there may be for some of the acts the Order participates in or commits to...then as welcome as you are to your thoughts, it is not your place to assume you have the right of things and make allegations. We are terrible by necessity. We are dangerous for a reason. When Providence takes the life of a young child in a terrible way, you don't rail against Her. You don't question it. I understand that you've been warned numerous times that you have stepped dangerously across a line many believe constitutes treason, and that regardless of warnings you've continued to push." His brow arches. "What do you say, to that?"
Dark eyes move over your form as you continue to shed articles of your attire, uncertainty finding her features. The knock draws her gaze for a moment, but upon hearing the voices, she grants you the full weight of her attention again. "You are here because I challenged the knighthood on something it has /already/ confessed to doing once. That is not treason. That is addressing a possible trend, sir." There is a quiet fierceness that finds her words, like a current that carries them from her lips. "I /love/ this country and I love the Keeper and Providence. I am not attempting to undermine your work. It is our belief that darkness should be addressed-- for it is like a fire that consumes anything it touches. If the Order gives in to darkness using the tactics of darkness- then are you really, /really/ protecting us from the demons? Or are you adopting their tactics, sir?" She is quick to add earnestly, "I do not say this to insult or to suggest treason on my part, I merely wish to address something that I fear is going to lead to something that will capsize the Gateway." She glances toward the window then, allowing, "But I am not a knight, nor am I privy to the secrets that you must possess, so I ask your forgiveness for my passion on this and request that you consider that everything that I have brought up is not a lie. It is not meant to undermine. It is born of evidence and confessions from your brethren." Then, as if you'd dropped your napkin at a dinner party and she leaned over to collect it, she asks in a more privately concerned voice, "Why are you undressing?"
"It's not a question of intent. It's a question of effect. You may not /intend/ to drop an infant, but the effect is the same either way, and negative. Whatever your intent -- and that is not something I am going to debate further with you tonight, though I will say that there are men who doubt that your intentions are as innocent as you claim -- you have been warned that your behavior is inappropriate, by the men who've been entrusted by the Keeper to make that kind of judgement their business. There've been not one but /numerous/ conversations in which your insinuations have been not only disputed but cautioned against. What was your conversation with Sir Broderick Salazar?" For the moment he seems uninclined to answer her query. The fastenings undone, he rolls hard, chipped shoulders free of the dark blue material, exposing a frame every bit as unyielding and architectural as a lifetime of rigorous, brutal athleticism might suggest, made lithe and lean by his height but nevertheless as angled and unforgiving as supple stone. Hanging it neatly on one of the chairs, he ceases his movements and lifts his gaze to her, stilled.
"I see," Ravelle admits quietly. "You are correct. It is the effect that is of concern, and though I am fairly certain that your reputations will far exceed my questioning of methods, I agree that from your standpoint, it should be addressed." Resignation haunts her slight frame as she answers, that passion banked in favor of a respectful reply. "Sir Broderick and I spoke of a few things but one of the most memorable involved a lesson on listening to instructions." She meets your gaze. "I am sorry for the trouble that I have caused you. I see your stance now."
"I don't know that you do." Bastien stands for a moment in silence and regards her with that lack of expression that is itself an expression, and then...he sighs, something infinitely weary in his face. "I was chosen for this, Ravelle. I was chosen because this is a punishment for me as much as it is for you...and I earned it, the same way you have. I do not relish this. I do not...and I do not thank you for having placed me in a position where it ever became necessary. But it is. Necessary. You've seen to it that there's no alternative. So here we are." He lifts a hand, opens his palm and indicates the arming jacket set to one side. "You asked me why I undressed. There are several points of relevance." That open palm lifts, splaying across the flats of his chest, shadow and light in chiaroscuro play over the tawny skin of his bare arm.
"Ravelle...you see the uniform. Maybe the facelessness of it permits you to disrespect the wishes of those around you. Maybe it's easier for you to use something you dislike to justify going on doing what you've done long after the time for polite requests is past. Now, I take it off. I am no less a Knight, Ravelle, but maybe you can see the man as well. And maybe, in the future, you will think about the position you put me in tonight, and you will stop to think before you open your mouth and push where pushing is neither wanted, needed, nor appropriate."
"You are being punished for the effects of something that you've done rather than the intent?" Ravelle's gaze descends to your hand as it splays across your chest and she glances away, a faint blush courting her features. "I still see a knight--one more dangerous, perhaps, because he seems less girded, but I know that you are not. Nor are you permitted to be merciful. " She offers you a gentle smile, looking back to your features. "I have erred grievously, it would seem. Will you name my punishment before proceeding?"
Softer. Entreating.
"Please?"
"No man -- not even a Knight -- is punished for having a tender heart...but a tender heart is a weakness when hard acts are called for, and has no place in some things. Yes. I am. This is bitter to me, but I do it without reservation. And I will do it again, if I'm asked, because I have seen what happens when men have no fear. And if I must be the thing that they fear, and if on occasion I must do things distasteful to me to prevent a greater evil...then I will, and with a heart that is not glad, but peaceful for knowing my reasons are sound." Bastien draws a breath, exhales slowly, and nods a single time, eyes an amber glitter that yields nothing of the thoughts that turn behind. He rounds the table slowly.
"I have to hurt you, Ravelle Soranus. Because this is what happens. This is who we are. This is what you authored."
Ravelle glances directly ahead as you confirm her suspicions of your purpose here, a faint tremor stealing through her white-clad form. Her brow knits and she commits to a single nod. "Yes, I see," she breathes, and then finally looks up at you. "I told you that I would accept a just punishment. The First Knight once said he could have me l- lashed..." It seems that the word sticks some as the image it conjures flashes behind her eyes. "If that is deemed the solution to my trespasses, then I accept it." It seems that the words are slightly harder to give her full voice to, but she finishes, "Where would you have me kneel, sir, to accept your punishment?"
Bastien shakes his head once, stopping at the stretch of wall nearest the seating arrangement. He lifts a hand, fingers twitching once in a beckoning gesture. "Come here. Face the wall. ...don't confuse this with an attempt at a solution to a problem. We don't. None of us truly believes that this sort of thing alone solves problems; credit the Knighthood with understanding that well. This is a reminder. This is a token to take forward with you. Death is a solution, Ravelle...and this is a petit mort, a small death by which you might better appreciate the alternative, and find greater reason to still your tongue. The solution is yours to choose or not to choose, at your will. I suppose we'll see what choice you make." His voice is quiet, a level of volume better reserved for intimacies of a different kind, as though they shared confidences in close quarters.
Now that she gets to stand, she's far less eager to do so, given the circumstances. Nevertheless, she rises from her seat, watching you with great wariness. "You have not named to me what you will do. Why?" Measured steps slowly bring her over to the wall but she does not turn to face it, monitoring your features instead. "Please, will you tell me what my actions have earned? Even a person at trial knows their sentence when it is decided that they are guilty."
Bastien extends a hand and sets it against her shoulder, encouraging her to turn toward the wall with a grip that's somehow gentle and iron, both at once. Golden eyes settle on dark, throwing back her reflection like summer mirrors, and silence spins itself out between them. "Because this is my small mercy to you," he intones quietly -- and then he begins to urge her to turn toward the wall in earnest, the suggestion of his hand on her becoming more than a suggestion, edging into the realms of instruction.
A soft sound of distress escapes her as she is turned toward the wall, her resistance slight beneath the strength of your hand. "You are so cagey about it. I fear you are here to hurt me in a fashion that goes against my beliefs..." She presses her brow to the cool wall, requesting with respect and need, "I beg you, please. If such is the case, to grant me one more mercy. I beg you. Do not punish me in a fashion that belongs to my husband. Do not steal that which belongs to him." In truth, she does tremble some from the weight of emotion and fear that your threat instills. She finally tilts her head back with eyes closed and lapses into petition to her Goddess for aid or provision.
"I would never do that," Bastien says flatly, and for the first time irritation blooms in him, some semblance of emotion beneath the calm veneer of his iron-clad composure. It passes soon enough, tension exhaled on a single breath. Despite that promise, for a moment it likely seems as though he would lie to her: against her back, the hard line of his torso, his hands warm but dry on her shoulders, one of them slid into the long fall of her dark hair to curl behind her head.
At her ear, a jaw that has only begun to evidence the rough crop of a shadow of stubble, late as it is in the day, and a breath: "Goodnight, Ravelle."
And with that, the hands on her pull her backward...and then push her forward again, into the wall, the side of her face into the flat of it with just enough force to -- if a lifetime of training sees his judgement fair -- send her off into the darkness that will spare her the rest of the violence he must by necessity commit.
There is just the faintest relaxation to her frame at your first words, one that is quickly retreated when your strong body aligns so prominently against her back. She does not see it coming, so focused is she on what her punishment is to be, that when her face connects with the wall, there is the phantom sound of surprise that lodges deep within her before the sound of her head slamming into unyielding surface resounds throughout the room. Brilliant darkness explodes through her mind and she goes limp immediately within the arms of oblivion.
Bastien does not let her fall, and he is as good as his word: the way in which he carries her is chaste, devoid of ulterior motive. What he does with her for the ten minutes that follows is not pleasant, but the bruises and pains he leaves her with will tell a story of the what the world saw, outside of the swimming darkness he thrust her into: bruises on her ribs, on the sockets of her hips. Aches and pains that will last some weeks, make movement possible but deeply uncomfortable: he leaves her with the ability to walk, but her bones will remember every blow that her mind does not. Several of the blows were hard enough to break skin, though he does not appear to've at any point removed intervening clothing: she will be able to discern as much by the way the bruises reflect dim shadows of her hems and the weave of the fabric.
The last of his hurts will be impossible for anyone to see: he cuts her tongue, underneath. Not enough to sever, not enough to make it impossible for her to eat, but when she speaks -- as she is bound to -- she will have that sharp and beestung pain to remind her that every word deserves the weight of consideration before it falls from her lips.
When he has finished, he settles her atop the couch with a pillow beneath her head, dresses himself, straps his sword to his back, and upon leaving the suite informs the guards without that the Lady Soranus is unconscious and in need of a healer from the infirmary.
