| Vigil |
| Summary: | Isolde and Igara hold a vigil to gain the Seven's blessing. |
| Date: | 27/07/2011 |
| Related Logs: | TBD |
| Players: |
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| Isolde's Chamber — Toldane Tower |
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| A high headboard crowns the bed with carved flowers and vines at the top, a faded green velvet over blanket settled to decorate over the quilt beneath. A few pill pillows decorate the standard affair and a robe and dressing gown rest over the footboard. A chest is set at the side of the bed, open and showing a few personal items beneath folded blankets and robes. On the opposite side of the bed is the double slitted windows, a small table and chair set next to it with quill and scrolls rolled atop. Next to the chair and directly inward from the door is the hearth. Upon the mantle is strapped several dried bundles of lavender and rosemary that gives the room it's scent. An oval shaped rug of soft creams and greens decorates the main floor and the right wall holds the low chest of drawers. |
| Wed Jul 27, 288 |
Evening's coming fast, the sky rosy in whatever direction the sun sets in in this universe and the charcoal-smudged blue of incipient night in the opposite. Igara and her gentle cous, the Lady of Stonebridge, once the more heady affairs of state were finished for the day, have retired to her chambers and, having gone through their collected wardrobes and put together several fine options for a gown worthy of a wedding, have put off the further thinking on the matter until the morrow, and are relaxed in the drowsy sunset hours, having taken a quiet dinner in and some good wine therewith. Igara plies her needlework with nimble, slender fingers, keeping her eyes downcast now with more industry than deference, and when she takes a breath, stretching out her shoulders and straightening her back to look out the window and over the campgrounds, seeing the fires beginning to kindle into being amongst the camps, she turns to spot Asha, and, with the gentle courtesy due a guest in her cousin's chambers, "Good Asha, will you set candles for our prayers? The sun fades, and soon we will keep good vigil with the Septa."
The day has held quite a few new twists and turns in the affairs of a noble's life for Isolde and for her part, she sits near the window and brushes over a few old and aged sheets of paper. Her head rests against the wall and she lifts a piece, scrawled out in scripted ink and with a few pressed flowers to it. She smiles as she reads over something, the small pile being held together by twine and carefully set aside in her pursuit for a few pages in particular.
Asha, the thin waif of a girl gives a nod to Igara and gathers up some of the empty plates, "Yes, milady. I will go collect them." She dips a curtsey and hurries out with her tray, leaving the two to be for the time.
Igara gives Asha a tender smile and a slow nod of her head in thanks, lowering her eyes to her embroidery once more in order to finish a few more stitches, ostensibly, keeping her cousin and her letters in the periphery of her vision without calling attention to the fact that she's watching. When the candles are lit she finally bundles up her work to put it away, rising from her seat to move to the window, still not outwardly looking at Isolde. "You'll feel much the easier in the morrow, I warrant, gentle cous. Marriage is wont to happen to even the best of women, and many of them manage to survive the ordeal." A joke? Maybe. In any event, offered with a light-heartedness she hopes will cheer her cous.
Setting down the old pages, she is tender with putting them in order with the bits of memories tucked against the pages. Isolde reties the twine carefully and moves to set the pile beneath the small bench seat at the window. "As many have done before I…I think perhaps there is a shred of courage in that." A wry lift of her brow and the Lady of Stonebridge rises from her place and smooths the simple gown into place. It is meant to keep her cool in the humid heat of the summer days.
The candles are arrayed for the ladies in a central table, lit by Asha's careful hand, her kerchief wrapped head looking back to her work before blowing out the lighting wick and stepping away. "Shall I get anything else, my Ladies?" She looks to each in turn.
Time. Slowing to a crawl in those moments you wish would rush past, and thundering along at those times when all you wish for is more time. It's difficult to say which of those times is now, as the view out of the windows facing towards the road offers the sight of a single slender figure making their way towards the house proper. And it isn't long, before the knock comes at the door to the House, and when opened, reveals not a company, or a knight, or even a messenger from a distant house, but only a Septa, dressed in the soft grey and white that marks the Sept at Hag's Mire. Slender hands push back the hood of her robes, though it does little to reveal more of her face than was visible before, the wimple set so that only the oval of her face is easily visible. "I have come to see the Lady of the house." Soft words, with the rich accent of one born in or near to Seagard, though softened by time and distance. Yes, a vigil indeed. But a short one for Ilya, the Septa, before she's shown into the hall. Only a few minutes more, before she's met by Milicent, and lead away to the rooms of the Lady of Stonebridge. Her eyes dance, from plinth to post, taking in the details of the house, though no word of commentary passes her lips, save those of common courtesy as she greets the older woman now leading her through the castle.
"Then take of it," Igara encourages Isolde, stepping close to be there as Isolde stands from putting the letters away, resting her hand on her cousin's arm, just above her elbow, giving it a warm press between kin and companion. "You will do well. And I will be here for you, to wait upon you as you need, or to listen to any worry, Isolde. But for tonight, let me pray for you. Pray with you," she meets her cousin's eyes for a long moment, then turns to Asha. "Be by, for now, in case the Septa has needs of her own or requires aught else to lead us in vigil, Asha. Thank you."
Pray. Isolde smiles some but for the Lady there is no prayer that would give her ultimately what she wants. Release. "Very well, dear Igara. So we shall pray together." She touches the hand on her gently as Asha dips a quick bow and turns, meaning to wait in the hall. Yet as the chamber door is opened, Milicent is just cresting the steps and coming down that narrow hall between the rooms. Asha pauses and gives a look back into the room at the Ladies before stepping back and aside, looking up at the Septa with curiosity.
Milicent, the head cook and Tower overseer trundles towards the door and gives Asha a sharp look before stepping into it's arch and pushes the wood further inward. She hesitates and looks to the women and then the candles. "My Ladies…the Septa has arrived." That said, she steps in and out of the way for Ilya to enter, dipping her head respectfully before waiting to see if ought else will be had.
Courtesy demands that the Septa follow the rules of the house, and she seems little inclined to break any of them. Her steps still as she approaches the door, a soft smile offered to the young servant girl waiting outside, her face perhaps surprising, younger and less careworn than one would imagine of a woman of the cloth. if she's aware that what prayer and faith she brings her might be of no avail, she gives no evidence of that knowledge, "My thanks to you mistress," that to Milicent, "And to you young miss," to Asha. A step, a second, as she makes her way into the room, "My Lady," comes a moment before the bow, first to Isolde, as is only fitting for the Lady of the House, and then to Igara.
Igara lets her hand slide from Isolde's arm and turns to the Septa as she enters, lowering her eyes and then taking a step to the side, descending as if in a curtsey, but ending on her knees in reverence for the Septa's person. She doesn't say anything, but leaves the greeting of the Septa to the Lady of the House, only showing her deep devotion and respect.
Milicent lingers still as the Ladies receive the Septa. Isolde regards Ilya and with a brush of skirts with her hands, she dips into a deep bow even as she takes note of Igara's reverence. The Lady of the House rises and she steps forward to greet Ilya more properly. "I do hope your travels saw you well and the Seven kept the roads safe and clear." The Lady personally reaches to take the cloak from the woman and glances to Milicent. "Bring water and wine, as well as some small morsels for the Septa." Green eyes return to Ilya and she smiles, "Is there anything else you have need of, Septa?"
"The road was easy, thank the Seven for it. I took my rest with the Nayland guard camped not far from the city, before I journeyed on to the House." Not so unusual, given that her Sept is within the capital of the Naylands. "I have brought everything that I will need for the vigil, thank you. I have need of little else." Again, a smile for Milicent, and another for Isolde. As Igara kneels, so too does Ilya move, stepping easily away from Isolde, but not to join her. Instead, she steps close enough to offer her hands, "There is no cause to kneel to me, my lady. I am neither the Maiden nor the Mother, though my sisters tells me in a few years time, it will be the Crone who sits on my shoulder. I am Ilya, bound to the Sept at Hag's Mire."
Igara lifts her eyes to the Septa's, giving her a soft, child-like smile, and taking the offered hands in both of her own, rising to her own two feet once more and bowing to give the Septa's hand a respectful kiss. "I thank you so for coming, Septa. Your prayers will make the evening heaven-blessed." She stands straight once more.
As Ilya steps away from her, Isolde nods to Milicent to bring what she had asked. The Lady moves to the bed, removing a hand made tome and setting it atop the chest of drawers next to to a few more candles. The room literally glows as the sun is all but set in the sky. Wiping her hands upon her dress, she watches the other two, a faint smile on her lips before she moves to join them, regarding Igara and her movements before her eyes flit up to Ilya. She is respectfully quiet for a time and then asks so as not to interrupt overly, "How would you care to begin, Septa?"
Ilya accepts the kiss, her expression still kindly, before she settles into herself, "By first getting to know both of you and learning a bit more about what it is that you seek from this vigil. The Seven answer many prayers, but none so well as those that are clearly spoken. You, my Lady Toldane, I know by the stories told of your House. But to your lady companion I have not been introduced." Ilya makes no move to settle herself, seeming comfortable enough where she stands, turning only far enough to begin to remove a few items from the small bag she carries with her. Oils, a series of three bowls, a small bundle of grey sage.
The central table set with candles is waiting and ready for the Septa for such items. But as Ilya asks of Igara, Isolde steps closer and nods her head, "This is my Lady Cousin, Igara Frey. She has been sent to be my Lady in Waiting and oversee the wedding with me. She has been a great boon companion." She dips her head, "Igara wished a vigil for the upcoming union between myself and the Young Lord Nayland. There has been a request by his Lord Cousin, Rygar to make certain whether or not my maidenhood is intact." That last is said with a little less enjoyment but it barely changes the expression upon her face.
Igara bows her head once more as she is introduced, then pipes up again, "My gentle cous has a Lady's natural anxiety about the day of her union. I hoped that I might join in prayer with her for a blessed, peaceful and bounteous wedlock, and send her fears off on winged words to the Seven," she explains with a hopeful cast to her expression, as well as a sheen of joy, as if she, for her part, were sure the union would be a great success.
A soft prayer, offered in turn as she sets out the accoutrements of the religious service yet to come, "Ah, Lady Frey, I have heard your name at the Sept. And seen your face, though I had not until now put one with the other. My sisters speak well of you, and you will be a blessing to the Lady Toldane, of that I have no doubt." She does not, at the moment, seem inclined to attach the Nayland name to Isolde's. "We can certainly see to the examination, my Lady Toldane, but if the Lord Nayland speaks at all to the women of his house who know such things, he would know that those nobly born more often than not lose their maidenhead to horse and saddle, before they have even the inclination to see the wedding bed. But it is the rare man that understands that a wedding is not made in the bed, but in the light of the morning that follows after, when the flesh has fallen away and you are left only with the strength of your hearts and your minds and your joined wills to guide you." A gentle smile for Igara, "The Seven give their blessings at all beginnings. I am certain they will send their good graces for the wedding. Please, both of you, make yourselves comfortable. My Lady Toldane, to who would you pray, if you had to choose among the Seven?"
A nod of her head is given and Isolde for her part is far aware the risks of riding for noblewomen. "I am to drink of moontea for three months if my maidenhood is not intact to make sure that their interests are ..assured." But that bitterness is lost in the light of the two rather composed and serene women. Both deeply devout it would seem and to what who she would pray, she draws a breath. "The Maiden to help me give what once was mine, The Mother for the ability to give my compassion to my husband and bear him heirs…and the Crone, for the ability to rule my people wisely." She dips her head, "And the Warrior, to give me courage in the face of my task." She shifts than, untying the ribbons holding the length of her sleeves up along her arms.
Igara comes up with a warm flush to her cheeks when the Septa speaks of her in such kind terms. "I… am sure your sisters are very kind, Septa," she replies meekly, with a modesty most becoming to her age and gender. "I will do all I can for my dear cous, to help see her through. But the Seven will be able to show the path better than I. I only pray for guidance how best tend to their will in a-waiting on the dear Lady and putting her at good ease."
"The arrogance of men is sometimes astounding," is offered at Isolde's mention of moontea, "Alas that they would not be the men we need them to be without it." As for the Seven, well, "And so we leave out the three whom might be the most important for your upcoming wedding." That's gently said, with even a bit of humour, "But no matter. They will all visit you today." Serene and devout, she might be, but she has none of the dourness so often a symptom of the hole orders. "Come, we will see to the cleansing, before we begin our prayers." One of the bowls she uses for fresh water, poured from the carafe brought up by Milicent. Into the other the sweetly scented oils of the Seven. Into the third a small square of incense, and a few of the twigs of sage, crushed for ease of lighting. There's a shake of her head at Igara's words, "The Seven show the path, but it is human hearts and human hands that lead us along it. They act for us, but also through us. Never think that they are not guiding your hands and instructing your words."
The ties at the shoulders of her arms are undone slowly and she pulls them off to bare them instead of just leaving them rolled up. Isolde then turns to drape them over the nearest chair and smiles faintly at the Septa's last words. She shifts and looks to the bowls and draws a breath. "The Seven have their ways and I respect them. I long to understand them in my life more and in what is to come." Her head bows and she presses her hands together before her. Silent thoughts are wielded as prayers. Her eyes close and she whispers a few words slowly lowering to her knees on one side of the Septa, facing the table. The Lady of Stonebridge is deep in prayer, brows furrowed as she offers something silently to the Seven.
Igara is at hand to take the shed fabric, folding it tenderly and setting it away while her cous goes to kneel for the cleansing. She steps quietly behind her cousin, treading in discreet silence until the Lady of Stonebridge finds slender fingers sliding in amidst the locks of her hair, unfastening the circlet one pin at a time and coming away with circlet and cloth both with such care as to not tug a single hair on the lady's head.
It's a slow and easy process, preparing the Lady for the vigil. But that might be simply the way of the sisters of the Sept. While Igara handles the bodily preparations, Ilya seems content to take care of those aspects which speak more to the spirit than the flesh. The water she holds in her right hand, her dominant left dipping fingers into the bowl, to coat them with the water. A quick motion flicks droplets over Isolde's hair, the droplets sparkling like topaz in the soft light of sunset and candle. A second and a third, as she begins the soft prayer to call the eyes of the Seven to the woman, the droplets falling now along Isolde's bared shoulders, and not least of all, Igara's hands, for she too seems to be receiving the Septa's cleansing.
The blessing water spatters out over her and she flinches with the few that land near her eyes. Isolde is attempting to find peace in prayer, gentle administrations of her Lady cousin calming her some as her long hair is freed of it's vestments. A slow breath is released and she flexes her fingers about each other and she shifts upon knee till finding more comfort in her position. The whispers of her voice rise a little more and she opens her gaze faintly, looking to the floor and Septa's feet. The whispers become something of a chant as the Lady finds something of meaning to repeat.
Igara closes her eyes as the water lights upon her fingers, sanctifying them to the labor of the Seven, letting the drops sit there undisturbed but for their whorling dance, drop melting into drop and hanging pregnant and grave from her delicately poised hands. Lashes flutter open once more and the hush of her own words trail in a guttering echo behind the Lady's, leaning and resting upon one knee to take her cousin's hand in one hand, her other arm coming around to run up the length of her arm, catching the droplets and spreading them along the skin as she goes, letting the skin become cool and moist, spreading the moisture thin enough that it breathes away from the soft skin like the breath of a shadowed spirit.
Once the Lady and her handmaiden have settled themselves, and the final drops of water have been dashed, the first bowl is set aside, and Ilya turns her attention to the the second, the one that contains the incense and sage. A nearby candle is used to set the sage to smoking, a few minutes given to allow the tarry substance beneath to begin to melt and exclude the odor so characteristic of the Sept. That done, she kneels herself, facing the pair, the bowl of oil and that of smoke set on the ground in front of her. Her voice is as soft and smooth as it ever is, resonant in the now perfumed air between herself and the two noble women. "The Seven are called, and they answer. To each we ask a blessing." Again, her hand takes up one of the bowls, this one with the oil. A dip of her index finger, before she reaches out across the distance to anoint Isolde's shoulders, "Of the Father, who holds the scales of judgement, the strength to join understanding with love, that this woman might find in her husband not only a lord, but a companion along the road."
Eyes lift to look at Ilya as she knees with the bowl, her hand taking Igara's gently as she lets out a long breath. Fingers curl and a thumb softly brushes the Lady's hand. Isolde looks to the oiled hand as the murmured utterings are lifted to the Father to hear and she dips her head again. Reverence is paid to he that can not be seen and in the darkening hours of the evening. The sweet scent of the sage is light at first, yet as it smolders it grows thick and heady, adding to the glow of the candles in regards to the heavy mysticism in the air. Lungs are filled with the grey smoke and the Lady of Stonebridge lets the weight of prayer finally take its place before the call of her duty. It is time to look elsewhere for answers, inward has become too muddled and confused.
Igara lets her hand fall back down the length of Isolde's arm, to clasp the Lady of Stonebridge's hand in both of hers, lowering herself further, sliding both legs underneath her and settling upon her heels, being there as a comfort and support, an aide de camp in this sacred war on fear and doubt, stalwart and silent except to join in echoing the rejoinders of the prayer.
Ilya takes things slowly, allowing the two women the time to make themselves comfortable, to take comfort in human companionship as well as the company of the Seven. Once the Lady is settled, her fingers once again touch the oil, but this time, she does not actually touch Isolde's person, touching instead, the air close to her body, the gesture seeming to have the same efficacy. A light touch to the air above Isolde's lower abdomen in the area of her womb, "Of the Maiden, the strength to give that which is most sacred in her eyes, and to understand that in the giving we too are gifted. To live always with Her words on the lips, 'My beloved is mine, and I am his.'" Her fingers dip again and rise, touching the air above Isolde's breasts, "Of the Mother, we ask for the strength to bear children of strong character, and the compassion to love and nurture, not only the children we nurse at our breast, but the father as well. For no man is so long in years that the gentle hand of the Mother does not give comfort and respite from pain."
The motions made to the various stages of the feminine side of the Seven cause her eyes to gaze out through a veil of her lashes. Isolde smiles faintly but then it fades as the words of the maiden are given. Her head bows, chin nearly touching her chest as her hand tightens unconsciously on Igara's. Swallowing back her nerves, she attempts to give herself over to the vigil, the spoken ritual. Exhaling heavily, it does nothing to relieve her thoughts and that twitch of it remaining runs along her arm to her hand. The Lady of Stonebridge draws her head up to gaze at the Septa with the words mentioned to the Mother. Something passes behind that green gaze of her's and she is glad of Igara's presence, though it is only shown in the grip of her hand.
Igara slides just imperceptibly closer as she senses that tension, traces it with a stroke of her hand toward its source, feeling the course of the muscles under the skin as her slender fingers move to the crook of Isolde's elbow. Her witch-hazel eyes scan her cousin's downcast profile, as if endeavoring to read therein the seed of anxiety. But she does nothing else other than let her hand be clasped and stroke the inside of her cousin's forearm with a sisterly tenderness.
The Septa's eyes, when they meet Isolde's show only compassion. She likely knows as well as any that noble marriages are not always love matches. That's likely as not why the Lady of Stonebridge has need of a vigil before her marriage. And her voice is a gentle thing, "It will come." A return to the bowl, as Ilya's fingers return to the oil, the oil cool despite the heat of her hand on the vessel, the oil itself tingling slightly as it warms to Isolde's body heat. A light touch to Isolde's dominant hand, "Of the Warrior, the strength to rule with the spirit of justice, tempered by love and mercy. To seek always to rule for the good of the people." A touch to the back of the Lady's other hand, "Of the Smith, the strength and knowledge to persevere in times of trial, and to make light of the burden that will often seek to bow our shoulders and bend our backs." The sage scent has saturated the room by this time, the incense joining it to add a haze to the air as much olfactory as visual. A haze of smoke and scent that seems to pick up on the light of the candles, the last dying rays of the sun, adding an ethereal glow to the Lady, to her handmaiden, to the Septa's face, and the fingers of her hands.
In that darkening wall that presses inward, there is warmth here. Isolde finds an inner circle, as if the Seven were actually gathered in those words and attending to the Lady. Her lips part and the scent only serves to make the Septa's presence all the more otherworldly. Igara is felt and the touch is recognized for what it is but relief slowly winds its way through her as the added prayers to the rest of the Seven. Green eyes are fixed upon the Septa and it is through that glow about her face that she finds acceptance and a faint smile touches her lips. Reverence. Where Igara had shown in willingly in the beginning, it has taken this to allow the Lady to find ease. Tension drains some and she begins a whisper, a call to the warrior to give her strength.
"Ah, do lend her strength," comes the hushed plea from Igara at her cousin's side, almost in unison with Isolde's own call. Her eyes veer across the room, aimless and gazing through the haze of candle-lit smoke, chin tipped up as she clings there with religious tenacity.
The sun has now truly set, and only the light of the many candles illuminate the room, the soft whispers of the trio of women breathing and the soft crackling of the smoke bowl the only sounds from within, and from without, the familiar sounds of Stonebridge, the rustle of leaves, the sound of the sea, distant but ever-present. A final dip into the bowl, as Ilya reaches out to anoint Isolde's forehead, "Of the Crone, the wisdom to rule the people with a gentle hand and an open heart. And the greater wisdom to know that before we can give love to others, we must first give it to ourselves." Finally, she lowers her hands, her fingertips just above Isolde's lips, her life's breath warming the Septa's fingers. There is only one of the Seven remaining, and while most would not seek his favour, Ilya does not shun him. "Of the Stranger, who stands always at our backs, the strength to face the unknown without fear. To live every moment to its fullness. And to live so that when he comes to us at our ending, and we greet him, not as a specter of terror, but as an old friend, come to take us home at long last, to know that we will go to the next world with love and without regrets."
Each anointment is accepted in a deeper meaning for Isolde and when the Stranger is called upon, she keeps her gaze focused on the Septa. A shiver runs down her spine and then slowly she feels the heaviness return. Regrets. Green eyes falter in their hold on Ilya's for a moment and her hand tightens on Igara's hold. "I have regrets…" Isolde interrupts and she hesitates, "Regrets left by the oaths of my father…Septa.." She looks to Ilya, "Do the Seven see the oaths made by my father as ones that are mine as well. Shall I carry their weight?" this is most likely not a usual question asked but it appears the Lady of Stonebridge needs to know.
Igara tenses her own hand just below Isolde's elbow, grasping her forearm and becoming focused on the here and now once more, eyes drawn narrow against the smoke, and then closed as she listens to the query being posited, remaining still, otherwise, in wait for an answer.
"It is often said, that in this mortal world, the sins of the fathers are visited on their children." There's a flicker of something in the Septa's eyes, as though, perhaps she knows something of that saying in practice, rather than in theory. "You are the Lady of Stonebridge, you do not have the freedom to set aside duty, honor and obligation and yet retain your title and your position. If you have made the choice to take the seat of your father's successor, to serve your people and your king, then you must accept that you must fulfill the duties that he is no longer able to. But that does not mean that you must live your life forever bound to the will of those who have gone to the realms of the dead. You are not your father, or your brother, your mother nor any of your kin. You are Isolde Toldane, Lady of Stonebridge, and while you might now carry the weight of his oaths, that does not mean that you cannot fulfill them in the manner that seems best to you. The Seven have given us many gifts, not the least of them intelligence. It would be a sad thing, if we did not use those gifts that have been given to us." Again a pause, the Septa, while not strictly looking away from the woman, seems, for a moment, to be contemplating something entirely different, before she returns, "We do not always have the freedom to do what we want to do. Most of the time, we do what we are called to do. The secret to happiness, is in finding a way to make that calling our own. To allow it to shape us and help us on the road to becoming the person that we are meant to be."
The words are both helpful and not, causing a furrow deep within her forehead. Isolde lets out a breath and releases. "I am myself, yes.." She agrees with the Septa her lips parting to offer this to the two women, "This marriage…this union with Nayland goes against my father's oaths and promises to the Terrick House." The Seven will bare witness to the truth that has been whispered and spoken amongst Nobles and sworn alike. "This union is legal in King's Law…alone. I break from my father by doing this and sunder what was made between two Houses. What say the Seven to that, is this union my calling?" Her gaze is keen, locked on Ilya.
Once Igara's eyes have rested from the smoke, she runs a soothing thumb along toward Isolde's elbow, remaining silent at her side, as gentle a companion as a Lady might wish for. And when she opens her own eyes, they, too, are upon the Septa, though less sharply so, only expectant, quiet.
Ilya nods, considering, accepting the words and making sense of them, "Let me ask you this first, before I give you my council. Why did you father make this oath between his house and Terrick? What was to be gained by the joining of those two houses. Property, territory, protection, security?" That is, after all, usually the reason houses wed members of one to members of the other. "And answering that question, answer this…what is the benefit to House Toldane, if you create this alliance between your house and House Nayland. Setting aside feelings of friendship and the love that brothers in times of trial have for brothers."
Love. It is something she feels very deeply for House Terrick and for the moment, she struggles. Isolde answers then, "They are stronger and have more men. They are allied with my mother's father's house, Frey." Igara is a representation of that. "Other than that, I see no other advantage over these oaths that were given. My father gave them to Lord Terrick out of brotherly love and understanding. Our families were close.." She intones. Her green eyes look somewhat..accepting of what is to come. "Septa. I need to know for my peace…is this my path?"
Igara continues to watch the Septa, slowly lowering her chin but keeping her eyes steady on the woman, brows knitted in concern as talk turns from the spiritual to the political. But she is only here to tend to Isolde and be a comfort to her, and she intends to do that, as her father has bidden her, whatsoever the verdict.
"So then, if you turn away from Nayland, you will have only the existing connection to House Terrick and you will alienate Nayland even further." The rivalry between Terrick and Nayland is legendary. "But if you choose to ally yourself with House Nayland, you have an opportunity to create a lasting bond with a House that has long been a rival of the Terricks. You have the opportunity to become a bridge, a beacon of hope for peace between those two great Houses. Your marriage, I think, will not destroy the bond that exists between your house and House Terrick. It has existed too long for that, and is built on stronger foundations than those that are built in war and conquest. There is an old saying…"Let the men do what it is in their nature to do. Let the women do what is in theirs. It is in a man's nature to fight, to war, to hunt. In a woman's to comfort and console and ease suffering and to bring peace. You have been given a chance to find yourself in a position to bring peace to these two great Houses. So tell me, do you think that is your path?"
Perhaps it is what she had already thought for Isolde bows her head. "I shall honor this union writ under the protection of King's Law." she says softly. "I have given my word and I will not break it. I only wish for the prosperity and health of my people and those of the Riverlands." It is her place and she is welcoming to it. The Lady dips her head further and reaches out a hand for Ilya's to place a kiss to it if allowed. "Thank you Septa, for your words of wisdom and for bringing the Seven to us." Her forehead presses to the woman's hand, whispering softly.
A builder of bridges from Terrick to Nayland. It's an interesting concept— yet something in it sticks in Igara's mind, not to be settled easily. A bridge, after all, is only rarely crafted of mutual interests for both shores, but much more frequently that one may have access to the other for its own purposes. It's left only to wonder which shore is what.
Ilya accepts the kiss, and then leans forward herself, placing a soft kiss on the air above Isolde's forehead, still not touching the Lady without her express permission, her hand, slim, but calloused from years of hard word, tightens on the Lady's. "Perhaps your father's oath was for the same reason, to secure the life and prosperity of your people. You are still doing that, so then, in that way is his oath fulfilled." And then, more gently, "You are always welcome, Lady Toldane. But remember, always that the Seven travel with you wherever you journey. They are in the work of your hands, the thoughts of your mind, the feelings of your heart. You have only to reach out for them, and they will come to you when you need." And now, for the time being, the vigil falls into silence, the Lady and her handmaiden allowed to rise, and Ilya to refresh the incense and sage. And…when the time for prayers has past, for the Septa to depart, she leaves the noble women to their work, and the morning to follow. But the Seven remain.
