Chapter Text
two weeping willows throwing an arm to the other
1
Anna returns from Bjorgman House around teatime.
Her dear sister excitedly jabbers on about the latest gossip told to her by Kristoff's mother, Madam Bulda. It is, after all, that time of the season and the DunBroch annual ball is approaching once again.
Elsa has never been; partly because Duchess Elinor frightens her, and partly because she often hid behind the excuse of Agnarr and Iduna scheduling their Summer journey to Sommerhus. But Anna is one-and-twenty now, and she pleaded with their parents to let the two sisters remain at Germonia and stay home-bound in Arnadalr Abbey — determined to enjoy the gatherings the strawberry blonde had always been kept away from.
Between bites of mini sandwiches, Anna speculates wildly about details of the ball — the food, music and decorations. Most of the grandeur is left to the imagination until Anna echoes Madam Bulda's words, “Duchess Elinor is very strict, so who knows who she’ll be gratuitous to this year!”
Though Elsa doesn't say it out loud, she, too, wonders who will receive one of these ornate invitations.
The topic of the attendees is soon delved into, and Anna mentions that the Bjorgmans are set to receive their yearly invitation. Oh, and, of course, the von der Sonne family certainly cannot be overlooked! And, how can anyone forget, the Fitzherberts will surely secure a place on the guest list, too!
Elsa's mind barely registers the continuous string of names the strawberry blonde is happily prattling out. One moment, the Natturas are being listed, and then the next, the Westergaards are casually thrown into the mix — which makes Elsa blink in surprise.
Much has been said about that family; non-magic folks who had risen to influence for about thirty-four odd years now.
Magic is a sacred thing, and those born with its blessings are held in the highest regard. Not to say that those born ordinary are scorned. However, the Westergaards were a curious case and an exception in whispered circles.
Many still looked upon their successful farming trade and good fortune with suspicion, to the point of exclusion from public and private gatherings alike.
Rumours had clung to the self-made wealthy farmers — talk that their sudden luck with far-off markets like Vakretta, Zaria and Chatho was tied to stolen magic. It was some kind of curse that the Westergaards had somehow managed to bend to their advantage; an ability to command the ocean and grant themselves effortless passage across the treacherous waves.
Nothing had ever been proven, of course, but those inclined to gossip insisted the Westergaards were too unnatural.
Even so, Elsa privately chalks much of it up to jealousy. The era had been marked by an unsteady economy. There were once four leading households, each seen as a cornerstone, until they fell in turn — toppling like dominoes. In such times, any family that managed to prosper was bound to attract the evil eye.
(Or, at least, Elsa assumes so.)
Fortunately, the platinum blonde woman's daydreaming passes unnoticed as her sister's unrestrained chatter carries the conversation along.
Anna would have left herself breathless from talking, if not for a heavy stock card (edged in a forest green backing) arriving on a silver platter — courtesy of their steward, Kai.
At its centre, the emblem of three bears in a circle is finely embossed, catching the afternoon light whenever Anna tilts the invitation skyward.
She marvels at the olive branch extended, and, Elsa, smiling through it all, simply lifts her cup of darjeeling to her lips, leaving a faint smear of lipstick on the rim of the fine china.