Chapter Text
Balls are a wonderful thing, and whoever says otherwise is either lying through their teeth or just terrible company. There's something special about stepping into someone else's house (someone wealthier, more traveled) and enjoying all the stuff they can buy, commenting on it to bond with dozens of strangers.
Everything is about masks and pleasantries, the script is predictable. If you're bad at it, someone might still find you likeable. If you're good at it (and I was very good at it), you might just get rewarded with a comfortable life for you and the rest of your last name.
The key? Listen to your father and don't try to be a smartass, basically.
I had it down to a science, you see, taking the same exact steps every time with stellar results. Dance with everyone, particularly if they look a bit lost because those are always thankful. Stare at the art so people can explain you things about it, because people love showing off. If a man asks you for a walk in the garden, say no. If a woman does, say yes, you're about to hear the juiciest gossip of your life. Don't you dare share it with anyone else, she'll know it was you. You can be witty once, only once, so use it well.
Foolproof. Like a charm, time and time again.
The system had granted me a flawless reputation: charming, but not easy, respectable, but not a prude, well-read, but not pretentious. Papa was Proud, capital P. The only reason why I wasn't married yet was his ambition, or better yet, hope. We were waiting for my family name to cross a few more borders, get to some ears that rested on both sides of a higher head. Not a prince, not a count, but... A baron wasn't far fetched.
Life was good, for a single noble lady with my knowledge of the scene.
Which is why I was puzzled when my best friend, Beatrice, who definitely knew better, sat down on a velvet sofa with the sketchiest man I've ever had the disgrace of sharing a ballroom with.
Granted, he was striking, with a head of white hair, skin like marble and piercing, red eyes. He was also fresh off the boat, something that made up half of his appeal.
He spoke with a purr and looked at people like they were seducing him, which is about the best thing you can do to convince someone that such a bad a idea is actually good. His clothes were vibrant enough, fancy enough, elegant and fairly manly. Just a tad extravagant, the right amount to keep people guessing.
All in all, the new elf in town was the very epitome of a serial lover. Probably the reason why he was invited in the first place, to amuse the widows in exchange for a sniff of what the upper ranks were cooking.
Beatrice, however was no widow. She was of marrying age, pretty, inexperienced and far too clever to know herself weak. The scoundrel's natural prey.
"Oh, I love that you wear perfume. Not every woman bothers with perfume, did you know that?" The elf asked. His nimble fingers played with a lock of Beatrice's hair, that he was examining carefully. "What is it? Gardenia?"
If Beatrice blushed any more, she would burn a hole through the sofa.
"Yes..." She replied, looking at him from below, coy like a baby deer. "I had it made, I just adore the smell..."
"Me too." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. His eyes lifted to gaze into hers, an intense, rehearsed look of longing and nostalgia. "Gardenias remind me of... My mother." A short pause, in which he pretended to get emotional. His voice lowered just enough to sound intimate. "She was a beautiful woman, so very kind. I used to run up and down our garden, fetching the petals that had fallen from her gardenias to make little paintings on the dirt. She loved them, absolutely beamed every time I pulled her out the house, shrieking like a beast, craving for her approval." He shook his head, chuckling, and one of his curls fell over his eyes. I saw Beatrice's hands twitch, physically aching to brush it away. "I wish they could've been preserved. Now that she's gone, I would've loved to have one of those moments, framed for eternity..."
"You could..." Beatrice's voice came out breathless. She looked almost pained. Or sick. "You could always make more."
The elf sighed. He gently leaned forward, still playing with her hair, looking into her eyes.
"I wouldn't dare, without my mother. But, smell is the sense that's best associated with memories, after all." He pushed her hair away so it fell down her back, brushing her shoulder lightly with just the tips of his... Actually, kind of gross fingernails. "Maybe I should ask you for a bottle of your perfume. I'll smell those sweet gardenias, when the moon is high and the night is long, and it will remind me of her. Or perhaps... Perhaps, of you."
If he kept going Beatrice was going to cry. I intently examined a particularly intrincate detail on the tapestry that dressed the wall behind them. Sipping on my wine. Clearly minding my own damn business.
"Oh..." Beatrice sighed, breathless. "I- I don't know... That's..."
"Are you flustered, my dear?" The elf asked, searching her eyes for the first signs of discomfort. "I'm sorry. I got carried away, I'll... I'll just leave. I shouldn't be talking to you like this, here, in front of your parents and your neighbours..."
He began to stand up, and I had to hold back from making a face.
Huh. Decency, from that flirty, mysterious menace.
Maybe he was actually taken by Beatrice's lovely face and charming innocence, and I had just kept watch over the purest, simplest buds of a sincere romance.
"Wait!" Beatrice held his wrist, clawing at his sleeve like a falcon. "Please... Tell me more. About your mother, and your childhood."
The elf was so surprised when he turned around, like he couldn't believe someone wanted him close for something other than shameless flirting. Beatrice was naive, but kind as they came. Her big brown eyes looked at him with compassion and fondness, and I could see him taking her in, his breath slightly caught in his throat.
They both looked at each other, and for a moment... They spoke without words. So much longing, in one gaze.
I had definitely been too harsh in my judgement. Overcautious.
My right foot shuffled away from the couple, and the left followed. Then, the right again. I would leave, as discreetly as I had arrived.
Those two were merely discovering each other, and if that elf found in my friend the person he needed to overcome his old ways then I'd be damned if-
"Beatrice, will you let me walk with you? In the garden?" He spoke softly, choking on the words as if they took a great deal of effort to say. "There's this beautiful spot in the back that I-"
I immediately turned on my heel. Like shit. No friend of mine was getting disgraced on her first big event, and definitely not by a nobody who had nothing going on besides veiny forearms and pretty eyes.
"Beatrice! Found you, my dear friend." As gracefully as possible, I took over her field of view, holding her wrist with almost maternal firmness. Sadly, than meant having to address the elf with a polite curtsy, excusing myself for interrupting. He kept a very warm smile that he probably didn't mean at all. "You have to go play that harp, darling, the Baroness won't stop asking. She loved your last performance so much... It's all she talks about."
Both Beatrice and I were acutely aware of the Baroness and her young, single, very eligible nephew. I prayed to the Gods that she read between the lines.
And read between the lines she did, because her eyes lit up like that huge lighthouse, west of Phandalin, that everybody gushed about when they came back from their travels.
"Oh!" She said, a bit bashfully. Smiling. "Well, we shouldn't keep her waiting, then!"
"My apologies..." I excused us again, addressing the elf more directly. My face was as warm and inviting as a soapy bath after a long day in the field. His smile was perfectly kind and understanding, almost apologizing himself for getting in the way of Beatrice's performance. We were both full of shit. I knew. He hopefully didn't.
"Oh, please." The elf shook his head, waving me off. "I wouldn't wish to be the one that held back this lovely creature's display of talents."
"Bye... It was nice, hearing your stories." Beatrice bowed quickly and all but dragged me away. Two piercing red eyes followed us as we ventured into the crowd, looking for both the harp and a way to get my friend in front of it.
When we were well within gossiping distance, I felt confident enough to scold her.
I opened my mouth.
She spoke before I could.
"I don't know what happened back there." She confided, softly, but not whispering. The most effective way to gossip is to look like you're not gossiping at all. "I wasn't myself. I was a moth, and he was a lamp, it's..." She struggled to explain herself for a moment. "I don't know. He's not that handsome, is he? He's decent, but..."
"He's everything but." I snorted. "Have you seen him, since he arrived? He's talked to everyone, I think. Granted, not as blatantly as just now, but... I've heard things. Gossip from many towns, from people who have met him before."
"Well, why didn't you say?" Beatrice whined, nudging me gently. "I could've gotten myself in trouble!"
"It's unbecoming to gossip." I sentenced, looking at her with fondness. She was a bit younger. Sometimes, it showed. "And I wasn't going to let you get in trouble. I was keeping watch, silly."
"Thank the Gods." She sighed. "He had me."
"He did. I got shivers, watching him work." My eyes searched for him, just to check, just to make sure he wasn't up to anything sketchy. Well enough, he was already sweet-talking someone else. A merchant's daughter, named Adela. "Look! He already got another one. Ah, poor thing..."
"Aaaaw... No, Adela, love..." Beatrice covered her mouth with her hand. She watched her elf tuck Adela's hair behind her ear, admiring her earrings. His fingers lingered against her neck for a second too long. It was exactly the opposite of casual. "Well, at least she's rankless." Beatrice shook her head, a bit sad. "I mean, she can't do much better, can she."
"Right..." I examined the scene, hiding worry behind a wall of indifference. "But still, I don't think he's looking to settle. She'll have to marry a butcher, when he's done with her."
"Oh, Adela..."
"Yeah..."
As if he has heard us, the elf looked my way. Just for a split second. A quick gaze. A moment. He went back to Adela after that, and gently rubbed her right earlobe, purring something obviously indecent.
I saw the subtle twitch in his eyebrow, though. A little challenge.
"Pity." I muttered, more to myself than anything else.
"Can't blame the wind for blowing." Beatrice concluded.
We ran into her father, and he signaled us towards the harp, happy to see his daughter had decided to play for the Baroness.
When he squeezed our arms fondly, seeing us off, I thought I heard him whisper a weak 'thank you'.