Garreg Mach Ball

She was radiant. Positively. Radiant.

From across the room, Florence flitters between conversations like a lithe-winged butterfly— beaming and blushing and giggling. Delicate fingers curled around the neck of a champagne glass, sipping timidly between rousing banter. A handsome-faced boy tells a joke, and she permits a bubbly laugh, pressing her free hand against his chest.

Another comes to ask her a question, and she responds by checking the little booklet looped around her wrist. Another suitor looking to dance? How many had that made for the night? He’d lost count around eleven, as his heart simply could not bear any number higher. And yet, she receives the offer in kind; finding his name, she takes his hand and whisks off to the dance floor as orchestra strings whine the beginnings of another jaunty tune.

Ferdinand’s nerves, plucked like that of some such distant viola, cultivate in a very unflattering frown. He could not entirely define why he felt such upheaval, or rather, why it should be his business whom the young Miss. Kiesling chooses to dance with at all— but the fact she had evaded his advances tonight (of all nights!) and that her only response to his request for a dance was “perhaps later, sweet Ferdinand”, had set a fire in him. Disregarded, flouted. Like a tired caretaker to an unruly child!

Baffling, to say the least. He hadn’t a clue what he might have said or done; a miscommunication of sorts, no doubt, for it was far beyond Ferdinand’s valiant constitution to be anything but the expiratory figure of future nobility. Still, it was unlike Florence to be so grossly dismissive of him. They had grown close after all! Or, he liked to think so…

A particularly brassy trumpet honk jolted him from his thoughts, nearly spilling champagne on his dress clothes. The girl that had taken to talking to him in the meantime (a pretty thing, sporting colors indicative of Daphnel), gasps and says something that Ferdinand doesn’t quite catch.

“…—don’t you think?”

He runs his free hand down his breast and finds— to his relief— no wet patches. Amber eyes flicker back to the floor, struggling to find which corner of the room the little butterfly was flittering off to now. The girl clears her throat, and Ferdinand’s head snaps back to her. “Y-yes!”

Her brows knit together, seemingly confused by the agreement. “Really?”

Ferdinand nods, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Of course,” And then turns to look back to the floor. Lost. She was gone— vanished in the sea of painted, pretty faces. His heart begins the slow descent to his feet, and he sighs. “Of course…”

“Are you quite alright, Lord Aegir?” The girl asks softly, gloved fingers gently passing over his arm.

He seems confused by her advance, looking to the girl with knitted brows before relenting. She was a sweet girl. Pretty, gentle. Any man would be lucky to have her. Ferdinand offers a gentleman’s smile, his free hand taking hers and offering her fingers a soft squeeze. “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time, my Lady. Please, forgive me.”

That pretty, gentle face twists sour and incensed as he takes his leave to cross the room. Impassioned, indignant. Ferdinand was a noble, not a knave— why was he making eyes across ballrooms like some star-crossed lover? Why did he wait on bated breath for the hand of a lady who had only afforded him a passing glance? And why— Goddess’ mercy— was every one of those fleeting glances met with her daring smile or quirked brow. Was she teasing him? Testing him? It was excruciating! Surely had he wronged her, she could simply tell him, and he could be free of— of whatever this feeling was.

They were friends, after all… Aren’t they? …Of course they are.

Confident, Ferdinand loiters on the outskirts of the hall looking for the flash of Florence’s scarlet gown. When finally he spots her, she is in— what seems to be— a friendly conversation with a familiar face. Reprieve washes over Ferdinand; finally, a stroke of fortune. Lorenz wouldn’t mind had he stolen her for a moment or two, and surely it was less awkward than having to intervene on a stranger’s conversation with Florence (though rude as it may be, Ferdinand might have done it still). Breathing a sigh of relief, he manages only two more steps before things grow dire. It happens quietly, quickly. Lorenz says something, drowned by the orchestra and still just too far for Ferdinand to catch, and Flora’s face metamorphosizes before his very eyes. Coy contempt disintegrates, replaced instead by a fiery, uninhibited scowl. The relief Ferdinand feels is, as all things, fleeting— and as the closed-eyed Lorenz places a hand to his chest to prattle on, Florence raises her glass and promptly splatters its contents in Lorenz’s face.

There is a hushed “oh!” from a few nearby students who witness the act, and Ferdinand makes a handful of particularly long strides to reach the scene mid-verbal berating. “What is the meaning of this?!” Lorenz hisses, quick to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and dab away the champagne from his forehead and neck. “How barbarous! I am—”

“I know who you are, Lorenz,” Florence spits his name like the very sound was made of bile. “And a pig may dress in all the silks it likes, but it is still a swine.”

Lorenz rips the hanky from his face and affords her a look idling between genuine hurt and deep offense. “Are you calling me a pig?”

She seems to take some small joys in his misery, meeting his distress with a brittle laugh and smile. “Oh-oh, ‘tis the tip of the iceberg. Others that come to mind upon a brief viewing of my mental glossary are “repugnant”, “repulsive”, and “arrogant”,” Florence moves to flip open the little booklet around her wrist with an arched brow, “Shall I write it down for you, my Lord?”

Lorenz scoffs, squinting at the melodramatic display. “The only repulsive thing is your attitude.”

“Ah-ha!” She laughs curtly. Florence places her now emptied glass on a standing table with a pointed thump and gives a theatrical curtsy. “Then I shall relieve you of it.” She turns on her heels, the angry click-clack following her down the ballroom and towards the open courtyard. Ferdinand watches in mild horror, looking briefly to Lorenz (what in the Goddess’ good name did he SAY to her?) before following in the crowd-cut path left in Flora’s wake.

Well. At least she wouldn’t be mad at him.

///

The space outside the ballroom was remarkably serene. Ferdinand had almost figured the gardens would be a popular place for the more… entangled dance partners of night, but it seemed clear of any such mischief (Seteth’s vigilant doing, if one ventured a guess). Amber eyes scanned the open portico, rounding a corner to find a petite figure plopped at the foot of a three-step incline leading from an entryway into the gardens proper. From this distance, he could not hear the content of the girl’s grumbled grievances— but the way she tugged off her heeled shoes and tossed them haphazardly on the step below was indicative enough of her mood. Try as he might, Ferdinand couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Tugging at the bottom of his dress shirt, he smoothed any unsightly wrinkles with the passing of his hand. Why was he so nervous? He was being silly. Ferdinand approaches her with all the caution one might a wild horse— quietly, gentle, fully prepared to get the teeth bucked out of his pretty skull.

“Florence?” He finally found his voice just a foot away, the sound of her name gaining her attention with a startled jolt as she looked over her shoulder. Florence studies him a moment, her expression unreadable. His brows knit together in a telltale sign of concern. Flora really wishes he wouldn’t look so pitifully at her like that. “Hello, Ferdinand.” She relents with a gentle sigh, no ounce of the same vulgar temperament spat at Lorenz just moments ago. But there is no peacefulness to the quiet way she turns to pull her remaining shoe from her aching foot— she’s tired. Exhausted.

Ferdinand, for all his shortcomings, is still shockingly perceptive. The way her shoulders tense does not go unnoticed.

“Are you alright?” He comes closer, moving to hover above her at the foot of the steps. Ferdinand waits until she looks to him again before he continues. “I, uhm,” He winces, trying to think of the most delicate way to words things, “I saw—”

“Ah, caught the show now did you?” She smiles, wicked but not unkind, and rolls her eyes. “Lorenz is a cow, I’m sure his feelings will not be hurt long.”

“I thought he was a swine?” Ferdinand squints.

“Tis no difference. Both are raised in a barn.”

He shakes his head, “I’m not sure the specifics of name calling garners any real merit.”

“It does not,” She helpfully supplies, the bitterness creeping around the edges of her tone enough that he almost flinches when she looks to him again. “But it also doesn’t matter. He’s offensive and he deserved it.”

The young man frowns, brows knitted as he seats himself next to Flora on the steps. “Certainly not. Grievances should be handled with some amount of class, especially by people of our virtue!”

Florence looks to him with a stare of thinly veiled irritation. “No?” She moves to snatch a clip-on earring from her ear. “And I suppose lecturing a lady on the ‘pedigree of her breeding’ is something more worthy of foot kissing and worship?”

Ferdinand grimaced, slowly sitting his glass of champagne on the space beside him. “I’m sure he—”

“As if I need any further lectures of the state of my family’s home— or lack thereof.” She steamrolls over him, and another bitter laugh passes through gritted teeth. “He is not the first pretentious, self-important, gibfaced noble that has so humbly retold me of my station and duties, though I do so love to be reminded,” Flora shakes her head, gesturing to the garden and then back to the ballroom, “As if I am the only lonely lamb in all of Garreg Mach so needing and desperate of the approval of Lorenz. Hellman. Gloucester!” She tugs the other earring out of its place on her earlobe, taking both pieces in hand and tossing them as far as she could into the endless green foliage and hedge. “I should have listened to Dorothea,” She mutters in a sigh under her breath.

“Florence, please!” Ferdinand pleads from his place beside her. “I know you’re upset, but you mustn’t be so careless. Your anger may be justified, but do not do things you’ll later regret. Didn’t you tell me those were your mother’s?” Flora looks to him as Ferdinand moves to stand.

When did she tell him that? Why did he remember such a silly lie? Disgusting nausea bubbles in the pit of her stomach. She can’t stand it.

“I’ll get them for you,” He insists, but Flora catches the sleeve of his shirt before he can leave her side.

“They’re fake, Ferdinand,” She says, exhausted. He looks back to the girl, and to his horror, there is a fresh, wet sheen to her gray eyes. Tears prick at their corners.

The young man immediately, unceremonious, sits back down. “Fake?” He repeats, still transfixed.

“Yes, Goddess’ mercy, fake.” She tugs at her dress, “Fake silks,” tips over her shoe with a wiggling toe, “Fake leathers,” plops her hands in her lap, fidgeting with the pretty, shiny rings on her fingers, “Fake gold.” Flora gives a shaky sigh and, unable to bear his face any longer, looks askance. The bitter laugh returns, though it is decidedly less brutal. “My family is penniless,” She moves her hands to gently grip her own arms as she leans against her knees, “There isn’t a thing real about me.”

Ferdinand winces, nearly overwhelmed for a magnitude of reasons. He shakes his head softly, leaning slightly to catch her gaze. She affords him not even a glance. “The Baron von Kiesling was a great man— wealthy or not, that blood is still yours isn’t it?”

“My mother is a lush and my father has gambled away my grandfather’s legacy. That’s the blood I have to work with, Ferdinand.”

“Nobility isn’t all about affluence,” He counters, propping his arms against his legs.

“Really?” She snorts amidst a sniffle, “Here I thought it was about gold and good breeding.”

“Well,” He winces at the pointed jab, “Maybe that’s what it means to some people— but it’s more than that. It is about character, to be deserving of being called noble. To be brave and outspoken. To defend those that cannot defend themselves. To have heart.” Ferdinand places his hand on Flora’s shoulder, softly squeezing. She looks to him then, big beautiful eyes and red lips, and he feels nearly lightheaded. “That much is very real.”

He smiles— Goddess above— a wretched, beautiful smile. Amber eyes drill straight into her soul, and for a moment Florence almost wishes he’d have reacted like any run-of-the-mill noble might. It would have been easier that way; for him to preen and spit insults, to call her a tramp and a fake. He deserves better, She smiles despite herself, moving a hand to chase away a rouge tear. So much better.

“I take it you’re an expert in the field?” Flora teases with a meek smile.

“A working expert, yes! I try to emulate true nobility as best I can.” He says with dumb earnestness that only proves just how cripplingly sweet Ferdinand von Aegir was. “Though,” He says, a touch more sheepish, “I do best when around others who do the same.”

Flora laughs, no bitterness, no tears. A slender hand moves to brush against the one placed upon her shoulder, a pair of fingers looping around his. “Thank you, Ferdinand.”

“Of course.”

A dance could wait for another time. He’d sit with her like this for as long as she would have him.