|Goin' to the Chapel|
|Summary:||Darek and Sela talk about world views, religion, bad girls, and bastardry in the sept.|
|Related Logs:||You Gotta Fight For Your Right and Midnight at the Oasis|
|Sept of the Seven, The Roost|
|The Sept of Terrick's Roost was never a grand spectacle, but has been hit especially hard by the occupation. Recent repairs have made the sept usable, if in less glamorous fashion: the broken roof has been replaced with thatch, the broken statues with cruder clay representations, the smashed windows boarded up. The few surviving pews have been supplemented with simpler seating. On the floor is lain out with a bright seven-pointed star in representation of the Gods, defaced by hammer and chisel and not yet restored.|
|24 July, 289|
A sept, even one recently rebuilt, is a place of quiet contemplation and worship. It's also a place where people are often distracted from what's going on around them. Darek Boldt is one of those distracted people, kneeling in front of the rough altar of the Mother. He has a splinter of wood held between two fingers, twisting it and turning it to watch the flame shift and move. Beneath that motion, a single candle is lit, well away from the mass of others, but still very definitively in front of the Mother.
"You don't look like someone who worships the Mother," comes a little voice from above the crude representation of the god. There, seated on one of the open window frames is the nimble free-runner. Sela is balanced in a squat on the sill, arms draped across the butterflied knees. She is in those boy's clothes again — breeches and a leather jerkin. Her hair is pulled back in a loose cluster of curls at the back of her neck. Her eyes are almost luminous in dwindling light of dusk. She leans her back against the window frame, offering the squire a smile. "What are you asking for?"
Darek looks up at the sound of the voice, shaking out the flaming splinter quickly enough to seem embarrassed by being caught playing with it. He tilts his head slightly, trying to place the face, and then settling on the voice, "Shit… you're the girl in the corset." He pauses a moment, then adds, "Sela." Good thing he remembered that, or it might have been embarrassing. And then he remembers she asked him a couple of questions, "Mothers do creation and all. Like music." He looks to the candles again, bowing his head before he looks back up to the sneak-thief, "Why are you dressed like that and in a window, anyhow?"
"Sela," she confirms. Then she smirks a bit, tilting her head as she remains poised in the window. "Though I understand if my boobs are not recognizable." She then swings herself out of the window, landing in a smooth and soundless squat. "Music is creation?" She asks inquisitively as she steps toward him, those thin-soled boots keeping her footfalls soft. She slips into a pew close to the Mother and thus the squire. "Why not?" She quips back, with a tilt of her head, though she offers a bit of a sigh, puffing out her cheeks. "I don't like dresses, they get in the way. I like to… see the towns from a different view. Have you ever been on a rooftop?"
Darek scoffs at the mention of her boobs, his voice a little hushed in the quiet of the sept, "Well, they look good in a corset too." Scrubbing back his hair, he watches her swing down in from the window and close in on him. "Music's all about creation. It's about hearing a sound in your head and making it come out of your instrument." For a moment, that draws a smirk from his lips. "And no, I've never gone up on roofs. Used to climb trees when I was a kid." He frowns a moment, "Why do you want to watch towns from above? All the people are down below."
If she heard his comment on her current bosom state, she doesn't register it. Sela instead folds her arms across the pew in front of her, resting her chin on her arms as she watches the young squire with those brilliant eyes. "I don't know. Its interesting… to watch them…" She blushes a bit, that red forming up quickly on her cheeks. "That sounds odder than I intend. I'm just saying… I like it. Like you like playing that fiddle… can you explain why you like it? Like… really explain… beyond the fact it sounds pretty, and that it causes all the girls to swoon." She shrugs her shoulders a bit. "You like playing the fiddle, I like climbing."
Darek rises from his kneel, walking over to the Warrior's altar and kneeling down again, "The point's to let the music out. That's why I like it. There's all this music inside, and it's got to get out." Leaning forward, he lights the splinter from a candle, and shifts it over to light one of the unlit candles, kneeling to murmur something under his breath and wave out the splinter again. "But making the girls swoon is pretty nice too. Although, then you gotta catch 'em. I'd rather just get 'em all hot and bothered."
Her gaze follows him as he moves to the Warrior, and Sela cocks her head a bit; it loosens a bit of her forelocks, sending those dark, molasses-colored bangs askew across her brow. "Hot and bothered?" She asks as she slips out of the pew once more, restless. She starts to track after him, looking at the Mother with her hands clasped behind her back. "I didn't find your music bothering," she says after a moment. Her gaze shifts over to him now, wriggling her toes in those thin, pliable boots. "In fact, I find it rather the opposite."
Darek rises again, moving over to the altar of the Smith. He looks up sidelong, peering at her from between a fall of dark locks himself, "You're not making it easy for me to say my prayers, Sela. Don't you pray to the Seven?" He kneels down again, holding the now mostly-burned splinter up above one of the many candles burning for the Smith, "Hot and bothered. Interested in a roll in the hay. Looking to get a leg over."
Sela blinks at the look and the words, and she colors another vibrant red. "Sorry," she mumbles a bit as she stands before the Warrior, looking up at him. She holds back comment for a moment, letting the boy light the candles before the Smith. Her gaze remains locked on him for a moment. That red deepens even more as he defines what it means to be hot and bothered. "Oh," she murmurs, looking away now. "No, I'm from the North. I pray to the Old Gods." She shrugs her shoulders a bit, looking down at the candles now. "Not that there's a Weirwood here. Do you think the Seven would pass my prayers along to the Old Gods?" She asks, glancing over to him.
Darek lights his candle, blows out his splinter, murmurs a few quiet words, and then rises to his feet again, stopping to put his hands on his hips and study the northern girl, "You pray to trees? Do they ever answer?" There might be a little scorn and disbelief there, but there's also curiosity. "Wait. You're from the North. Doesn't that mean you never get hot and bothered? Too much ice and snow?" Okay, now he's just teasing. And walking slowly away from the altars, toward the front door, looking over his shoulder to the little thief on his way.
"You pray to statues. Do they ever answer?" Sela quips back with a small smirk transforming her smile. Though she then scoffs, turning away from the crude statue of the Warrior. "I've been hot and bothered enough to make snow steam," she boasts, though that blush continues to ride her cheeks. She hesitates a bit as she looks after him, meeting his gaze as he glances over his shoulder. She bites a bit at her inner cheek before she saunters after him with her hands sliding into the pockets of her breeches as she does.
Darek nods, "Yes." The young man is often flippant, but now he's not, "I hear the mother in the music I play, the Smith in the ring of steel on armor, and the Warrior in the cheers of the victorious." And he blushes just a little, looking down, "Well, I would hear the Warrior, but I never got to participate in any melees at Stone Hedge." And then he catches her words about snow, and he laughs, "Now that I'd like to see." He brushes back his hair again, ducking to pick up his fiddle and bow from beside the door and leaning against the wall alongside the front door, "But it'll be a good long while yet before the next winter, like as not."
Sela chews softly at her inner cheek, though she offers him a small and gentle smile. Her hands remain in her pocket, fingers twisting around the bit of fiddle string as if fondly. She continues to hold onto her blush, looking as ruddy as a rose as she pauses a few steps from the door as he gathers up his fiddle and bow. "That assumes that you think you could convince me to go rolling about with you in the snow," she says in a slightly dismissive tone. She bites softly at that lower lip, trying to suppress the smile that starts to bud. She takes a couple coy steps toward him, hands still in her pockets.
Darek shakes his head slowly, "I didn't say anything about rolling in the snow with you." He brings up his bow, starting to play a soft, low vibrato note, "I just said I wanted to see you hot enough to melt snow." The young man bends his knees slightly, dipping into a more soaring rise, "Besides. I wouldn't have to convince you. You would convince yourself, or the music would."
"Oh," Sela says, almost sheepishly. "Of course, you didn't." She clears her throat, looking down at her feet a bit as she stands opposite of him, the door now between them. "You're really good at that," she says in a half-whisper as she watches him as he begins to play. Everything about his motions, the music that comes out of the fiddle, draws a small smile on her lips. She cocks her head a bit. "You do think highly of yourself," she says with a quirk of her chin. She casts her gaze toward the front of the Sept and then back to him again.
Darek closes his eyes, his upper body swaying to the soft sounds that could be recognized by a follower of the Seven as 'The Song of the Seven.' It's a slow, solemn song, with soaring highs and sinking lows. He actually doesn't answer until the song trails off into another vibrating note and the silence that follows. "I am, and I do. There's never been nothing that I couldn't do." His voice drops a little bit further, "Except keep Ser Henrik alive."
No more comments are given as Sela sinks into silence, listening to the music as he brings it to life with a scrape of the bow across the strings. She bites her lip a bit, clasping her hands behind her back as she watches the boy with those brilliant eyes. As the song comes to a close, she looks as if she is on the brink of stepping closer to him. But, she does not. Instead, she twists her fingers together tighter and she offers him a small smile, which quickly turns into a frown. "Who is Ser Henrik?"
Darek taps the bow against his fiddle-strings in a soft rhythm, causing little burrs of sound, almost like the beat of a funeral march, "Was. Ser Henrik was the guy who made me a squire. Page first, I suppose. Good man. Old man though. Suppose that's the one thing that none of the gods can change, people dyin' 'cause they get old." Once more, he brushes a curl of hair from his face, this time with the back of his bow-hand before the funereal beat resumes.
Sela feels her cheeks begin to cool, and that pale freckled face reclaims its soft, ivory tones. She frowns a bit, hugging her own frame with one arm while the other's hand tugs a bit at a bit of curl. She offers him a sympathetic look after a moment. "I'm sorry, Darek. At least you know he had a good, long life. You know, none of that dying too young." She glances back up the aisles of pews, looking back at him as the song resumes. She is at a bit of a loss at first, as he plays. She looks up toward the ceiling as the Sept as the music fills its walls.
Darek drives his bow across his strings once more, playing a slow, somber note or three and then fading it out. he collects his bow in his left hand with his fiddle, "That's what happens to knights, right? They end up dead." Jabbing his chest with his thumb, he adds, "Me, I plan to go out young and still pretty." There's a pause, and then he points the top of his fiddle at the curvy little lady opposite him, "What in the hells is a northern girl doing down in The Roost? Besides looking at people from above and kissing squires?"
Sela leans into the wall of the Sept, listening to the boy play as she feels her eyes start to slump shut. His comment draws a slight smirk on her lips, but she refrains from her own comment on death, dying, and other such things. This may be because he provides such a wonderful change of subject. Dark lashes lift, and her brilliant eyes look toward his across the expanse of the door. She offers him a small smile, shrugging her shoulders a bit. "I came here to… meet my father." She purses her lips a bit. "Ser Garett Westerling. My mother sent me down here with my Uncle Tristan to meet him, and since I can't go back to the Finger, he wants me to stay at the Cape with him." She shrugs her shoulders a bit.
Darek waves his right hand dismissively at the mention of her father, "Da's are a waste of time. Just around to make you and duck out." Snorting softly, he shakes his head, plucking a quick descending scale on his fiddle, "Why can't you go back to the Fingers?" That broad smirk spreads dimples onto his cheeks, "Kiss a few of the wrong boys? That can be dangerous you know, little Sela."
Sela arches up her brows a bit at his words, but that might be a story for another time. It appears that Darek is far more interested learning more about Sela. His follow-up question draws a small snort from her, and she pushes off the wall to take several steps toward him, now about midway into the doorframe. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she shrugs her shoulders a bit. "I did kiss a few boys, but I don't think they were the wrong boys." She gives her hair a little toss. "But, my Mum said it was best I didn't come back. Not for a while at least." She rubs the side of her right hand against her thigh, grazing the brand against the coarse material of her breeches.
Darek shakes his head, "Figured I wasn't the only boy you'd kissed. That last one wasn't half bad." Is he teasing again? Probably. He gets his bow into his right hand again, reaching out with it to try and brush aside some of her hair, "Yeah. There aren't so many Mums who like sending their kids away." That cocky grin returns full, dimpling force, "You must've been a baaaaad girl. Or maybe she just couldn't handle the pants." The squire spins the end of his bow in a tight little circle, "Spin 'round, by the by."
"Wasn't half bad," Sela repeats with a bit of wryness in her tone. She rolls her eyes a bit. "I was obviously carrying the kiss." Though there is a light smile that begins to bud on her lips again, especially at the long-distance movement of his bow. It frees her eyes, allowing her to smirk at him. "You will never know," she reassures him on exactly what sort of mischief she got into at the Fingers. With a little cock of her head, she arches one solitary brow at him. "Why?" She asks with a touch of amusement in her tone, though she does do as he asks. Cautiously, she comes out of her lean so she can slowly rotate around on the balls of her feet.
Darek is totally just watching her ass and hips. Then again, he's absolutely a 17-year-old-boy. "Because I want to see just what the pants do for you." He leans back against the wall, "Nice, by the way. The dress was better up top, but that's real nice for your ass and hips." At least he's up front about it. Or around back, as it were. "And you can say whatever you want about the kiss, but you and I both know the truth." He really hasn't stopped smirking for about two minutes.
When he confesses to exactly why he had her spin about, Sela scowls — while also blushing. "Well," she says with a slight huff. "I'm glad you approve." She folds her hands behind her back now, purposefully leaning against the wall as if to guard her previously ogled backside some modesty. She turns her gaze down at her boots, and her shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, glancing back up at the roof of the Sept.
Her modest move causes Darek's smirk to double, and laughter to bubble up in his throat, "Yeah. You're so bad." The sarcastic teasing is accompanied by a sad-sounding 'vah-vah-vaaaaah' wrung from his fiddle. "That must be why your Mum sent you away. Just couldn't stand you runnin' around with all the bad boys and blushing every time someone takes a peek at your ass." He gestures upwards, just because he's horrible, "Or your tits." Let's see her cover those and her ass both at the same time.
Sela scowls, looking far less pleasant. She seems to be on the brink of saying something, her mouth opening and closing several times. Nothing seems to be forthcoming, as if she is battling with herself on the proper response. She instead settles for the chill, pushing off from the wall so she can turn to grasp the heavy handle of the Sept's door. "This has been a pleasant encounter, but I hear someone calling for me." She starts to heave open the door.
Darek looks vaguely disappointed when she doesn't return the teasing, lowering both fiddle and bow. When she turns to go, all those lessons beaten and battered into his head by Ser Henrik rear their ugly heads, and he grumpily admits, "Miss Sela. Wait. That wasn't… wasn't right for me to say all that." There are probably better and bigger words, but he settles for what he knows, "'Specially here in a sept. I'm sorry."
The door creaks a bit on its hinges as she starts to flee, but his words stall her a moment. With a slight twitch in her jaw, she sets her gaze on him with a bit of vibrance in her sapphire-blue eyes. She studies him, weighing him under her stare. She bites a bit at her inner cheek again before she resigns to a shrug. "Yeah… alright," she says in response to his apology. At first, it appears as if that's all she has to say on the topic, drawing the door open a little bit more. Then she stops, turning to look at him with a touch of quiet irritation in her tone. "I'm not just some common girl, you know. Maybe I'm not as pretty as that Haigh girl you got punched over, but…" She seems to be at a loss of what exactly she is trying to say, so she ends with a lame, "Nevermind."
Darek collects his bow in his left hand and scrubs at his hair in obvious discomfort as she just studies him. He starts to turn away himself, then stops when she speaks up again. He looks a bit confused at first, frowning darkly, "Wait… what?" He starts shaking his head, "I wasn't coming on to her or anything. She wasn't even there. I just said she was…" That's not the issue, and he probably knows it. Even if he doesn't know what the issue actually is. "I know, you're the daughter of a knight. Bastard daughter. That's what the 'Hill' means." He gives her a grimace, "I'm not stupid, you know. And I'm gonna be a knight some day. So what?"
"Beautiful. You were just saying she was beautiful," Sela clarifies for him. "I heard." The thief looks confounded, though its unsure if she even knows what has her baffled. Teenagers. She huffs out a small breath, waving the hand that isn't still holding the door ajar. "I'm not a bastard," she says suddenly, then she closes her eyes a bit. "No, I mean… I am a bastard. Now." There is a small sigh that slips past her lips, and she taps her fingers against the heavy wood of the door. "This has nothing to do with you being a knight some day."
Darek looks even more confused now. He nods his acceptance of the clarification, "Hells if I remember exactly what I said. So 'beautiful.' Fine." And then he gets even more perplexed, "Wait. You're a Hill and…" and then she reverses her decision, "Wait… what?" He's saying that a lot, "Yeah. You're a bastard. So what? I'm a bastard too. My Da was a traveling singer and my Mum was a barmaid. So what?"
"Yes, I'm a Hill," she confirms. "But a couple months ago? I was a Shale." Sela breathes out a sigh. "Look, it's nothing!" Sela says with a sudden burst of exasperation. "There's nothing about anything, alright?" She looks up at him with those brilliant eyes, now quite tired. "We're good." She states evenly before she finishes opening the door and starts to step out onto the cobbles, those thin-soles making naught but a whisper.
Darek still looks confused, but he nods, "Good." He brushes back his hair once more, then steps back, watching her without actually eyeing any of her assets for a minute, then turning around to meander back into one of the pews. He slumps down into it, stretching up with his back against the pew's arm and kicking his feet up onto the bench alongside him. After a moment, music begins to lift out of the sept, quiet, slow, and mournful.