The world as she knew it had little room for Musketeers, had featured them only in brief cameos of passing one or two of the king's guard on the street or seeing a small procession at a distance when her path happened to come close enough to the Palace to allow their worlds to overlap even so much as that. It might have been strange to think that the two of them could both walk the streets of Paris and see two very different worlds, but as that was the way it was, Constance had not thought overmuch on why it was that way. No more than she had wondered over the motivations or thoughts belonging to those rarely seen blue cloaks beyond the gossip of duels between the king's guard and the Red Guard, of the chaos they could create in either the street or the taverns they were well-known to frequent.
The distance between their lives should have added another layer of formality to an interaction already between two strangers. It should have kept her eyes from softening under the dawning understanding of what lay behind the flatness of his expression.
He was neither husband nor brother, neighbor nor friend, and still a spark of...was it unease? a strange mixture between sympathy and indignation? rose within her to think that he might not care whether he saw bottle or grave by the next day. Too familiar with people who scrabbled for every breath, every last mouthful of life, she was taken aback. After a moment gathering herself, she retrieved the cup of water she had poured for him and placed it in front of him with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary, the sound of the glass against wood a heavy sound. "You should be more careful," she repeated, with more emphasis on the words than she had before. There was much it wasn't her place to say, but she could not quite stop herself all the same. "Try and find yourself inside next time you've had too much to drink. I can't go searching every pile of hay to do it for you."
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Date: 2015-04-23 09:23 pm (UTC)The distance between their lives should have added another layer of formality to an interaction already between two strangers. It should have kept her eyes from softening under the dawning understanding of what lay behind the flatness of his expression.
He was neither husband nor brother, neighbor nor friend, and still a spark of...was it unease? a strange mixture between sympathy and indignation? rose within her to think that he might not care whether he saw bottle or grave by the next day. Too familiar with people who scrabbled for every breath, every last mouthful of life, she was taken aback. After a moment gathering herself, she retrieved the cup of water she had poured for him and placed it in front of him with perhaps more force than was strictly necessary, the sound of the glass against wood a heavy sound. "You should be more careful," she repeated, with more emphasis on the words than she had before. There was much it wasn't her place to say, but she could not quite stop herself all the same. "Try and find yourself inside next time you've had too much to drink. I can't go searching every pile of hay to do it for you."