Work Text:
"Leave us."
Rolant's voice broke through the tense silence of the bedroom, causing the maids to halt in their steps. The pair looked at him, then at each other, before finally glancing over their shoulders at the teenager sulking by the window in just her shift and dressing gown. They were supposed to be readying her for that evening's party, but she had been uncooperative, only letting them tie her hair back in a simple French plait. Knowing better than to argue against the Earl Swansea, however, they gave a quick curtsy to him before skittering out of the room.
Once he heard the door latch shut, the Earl exhaled a quiet sigh and, shifting the large box beneath his arm, began to cross the room. Not once did the teen turn her head to look at him. "Margaret tells me you're refusing to don the new dress your mother had made for tonight." Reaching the dressing table, he set the box down only to notice that the floor-length mirror beside it had been haphazardly covered by a sheet; as far as he was aware, no one had died, so to see it covered was mildly perplexing. "You had seemed so excited to wear it just a couple of weeks ago."
"It is a lovely dress, but…I cannot abide wearing it at the moment."
"Does it not fit correctly?"
"It fits perfectly, my lord."
His brow rising, he turned to face his daughter—well, his stepdaughter, but the world needn't be privy to that information just yet—and waited for her to continue. When she did not, he sighed once more. "But?" he put forth, hoping to extract a willing confession from her.
Finally, she turned her head and looked at him, her expression sullen, yet bearing some hints of confusion.
"Clearly, there is something else wrong with the dress for it to no longer be of your liking," he elaborated. "I would like to know what it is."
Her brows furrowed in uncertainty and she swallowed a bit harder than normal. "If I were to answer that, you would send me away to the furthest lunatic asylum."
"I have yet to do such, despite all the mischief you've gotten yourself into over the years, Emilianna," he said, his brow lifting higher now. He walked over to her and sat down on the edge of the window-seat before allowing a rare, gentle smile to come to his lips. "I believe you're quite safe from suffering such a fate."
Though uncertainty still lingered on her face, her body visibly relaxed. "…Do you promise to not send me away?"
"I promise."
Folding her legs against her chest, she wrapped her arms around them before resting her chin atop her knees. She remained silent for a moment, attempting to put into words the thoughts and feelings racing through her mind. "Wearing the dress right now…it leaves me feeling ill," she finally said.
"…Feeling ill?" he repeated. "How so?"
Again, she went quiet as she tried to work out her phrasing. "Seeing myself in a dress…It makes me feel as if I am looking at someone not myself. It fills me with a nauseating sense of wrongness."
"And yet, you seem to be just fine with wearing those raggedy trousers when you sneak out to meet with the ferch Wright twins." A hint of amusement came to his expression.
Her cheeks reddened as he subtly called out her unladylike pastime. "Wearing men's clothing doesn't elicit the feeling." She turned her head away from him, ashamed by what she just confessed. "…Most of the time, it feels…right to don breeches. But in contrast, the past few years, I have been finding it more and more…toilsome to wear women's clothing if I'm not in the correct disposition to do such."
"The correct disposition?"
"It's…it's difficult to describe, father."
"Try your best, plentyn."
Her shoulders slumped and her eyes closed as she pressed her forehead against the glass. "Do…do you know that innate feeling that assures you that yes, you are very much a man and nothing else?"
"Yes."
"I don't have that." She tried to pull her knees closer to her chest, but she was curled up as small as her gangly limbs would allow. "I never have. Ever since I was young, that feeling has rotated between woman, man, and neither. Of late, however, it seems to be staying between 'neither' and 'man'."
For a third time, Rolant breathed a small sigh, this one escaping his lips as a soft 'hmm'. In truth, the past few years had left him suspicious that Emilianna wasn't quite like her sisters—aside from being fathered by a different man, that is. Despite enjoying plenty of feminine hobbies, she had certainly displayed more interest in masculine activities, such as swordplay, hunting, sailing…
And, God forbid her mother ever find out, women.
"Well…that certainly won't do," he said after a moment, "especially considering how you are expected to attend Alexandria's birthday banquet tonight." Rising to his feet, he returned to the dressing table and removed the lid from the box. "However, I believe I have a solution that you will find rather…preferable to wearing the gown, to say the least."
Her brows knitted themselves together as she looked over at him. Before she could question him, however, he merely motioned for her to come join him at the table. After a moment's hesitation, she slipped off the windowsill and, with no small amount of caution, made her way across the room to him.
"You will wear these instead," he told her, nodding down at the box. He watched as she hesitantly began to remove the box's contents only to find that it contained a young gentleman's three-piece ensemble: Breeches, a waistcoat, and a finely embroidered justacorps. He had also been sure to include a linen shirt and a cravat to complete the look.
Her eyes widened in shock as she pulled out the pieces of the outfit, admiring the rich, yellow-green color of the fabric. "…My lord?" She looked up at him, more than a little perplexed.
"I will not have a child of mine feel uncomfortable in their own skin," he stated simply, "let alone in their own home."
"…But…how did…?"
A gentle smile came to his lips. "Do you honestly believe I haven't noticed your proclivity for masculine activities and dress over the last few years?" he asked, his words somewhat teasing. "I hadn't intended for this outfit to be for tonight's festivities—rather, I was going to wait until our midsummer ball to give it to you. But when I was told you were refusing to wear the gown, I knew now was as good a time as ever."
For a fleeting few seconds, a smile came to her lips only to be quickly replaced by a look of concern. "People will talk, surely."
He took her by surprise when he let out a hearty laugh. "Plentyn annwyl, we are in Wales! You know as well as I that few will care about anything if it has nothing to do with the weather, the mines, or sheep." Reaching over, he set a hand on her shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze. "But, should any gossip arise, I will deal with it."
"…And what of mother? I have the feeling she will not react in a favorable fashion to this last-minute change."
"I will also handle your mother, plentyn." He gave her shoulder another squeeze before releasing it. "Now, go dress yourself. I will show you how to tie your cravat when you've finished."
She nodded and, lifting the box, hurried behind her changing screen.
Walking back to the window, Rolant folded his hands behind his back and gazed out at the garden, where the servants were finishing the final preparations for his eldest daughter's birthday banquet that evening. Due to a combination of her turning eighteen and him knowing the Duke of Powys' second-born (whom Alexandria had been quite infatuated with for some time now) would be asking to begin a courtship with her, he may have spent a few extra pounds to ensure the garden looked positively elegant for that night.
But, as excited as he was for the coming event, his mind was currently swirling with thoughts about his middle daughter and all that she had divulged to him.
"Do…you feel the same way about your name?" he asked after a few moments had passed.
"Pardon?"
"Your name. Does 'Emilianna' bring about the same sickly, wrong feeling as wearing a dress does?"
There was a brief silence and he imagined she was pulling on the linen shirt. "…At times, yes."
"Is now one of those times?"
"Yes."
"Then is there another name you wish to go by?"
Another pause. "…Killer and Mercy have taken to calling me 'Emil'."
His brow rose. "Killer and Mercy…?"
She cleared her throat. "The ferch Wright twins."
He opened his mouth to question as to why one of the girls called herself Killer of all names, but promptly shut it again and shook his head. That was a discussion for another time.
"Emil," he instead repeated. "Hm. It retains an element of your birth name while also being masculine in nature…A rather suitable sobriquet, methinks."
Soon enough, Emil came out from behind the screen, almost fully dressed and looking very much a young gentleman. Rolant found himself more than a little surprised by just how well her—or would their be more appropriate for the time being?—appearance favored the part. The layers of masculine-cut clothing made it nearly impossible to tell they were female.
"Do I have to wear a cravat?" they asked, holding the length of cloth out to him.
"You are a young gentleperson. It is a necessary part of our ensembles, regardless of how uncomfortably warm and itchy it can be, I'm afraid." He took it from them and began the process of showing them how to fold and wrap it around their neck. "Now, keep in mind, you want to keep the knot vertical in order to achieve the correct amount of volume," he said, "and you'll want to leave the first three or four buttons of your waistcoat undone in order to allow the cravat to sit correctly. Given the growth spurts you've been going through, I recommend four buttons."
They nodded. "Vertical knot, four buttons. Understood." When Rolant took a step back to give them a final look-over, their head tilted. "How do I look?"
"I believe you should answer that for yourself." He nodded towards the mirror.
They looked at it as well and Rolant watched as their brows furrowed in uncertainty. But then, turning, they began to cross the room. Each hesitant step they took towards the mirror betrayed the anxiety filling their mind and Rolant almost felt tempted to go over and remove the sheet himself. He knew, however, this was something Emil had to do for themselves and, as such, he stayed put as they slowly reached out and gripped the sheet.
With a great deal more care than they had surely used when throwing it over the mirror, they removed the cloth. To his surprise—and concern—as the sheet was removed, a small cloud of dust rose into the air.
Just how long had it been covered…?
Emil dropped the sheet and stared at their reflection in silence. When nearly three minutes passed, Rolant took a cautious few steps towards his stepchild only to find their cheeks damp with tears. Despite the tears, however, there was joy written all over their face—a kind of genuine joy he hadn't seen from them in years.
"Well? What is your verdict?" he asked, voice quiet.
Their head turned towards him, their smile wobbling as they fought back the urge to sob. Rather than speak, they merely went over to him and hugged him—tightly. Thankfully. Rolant blinked, taken aback by the unexpected embrace; they hadn't hugged him since they were much younger. For them to suddenly cling onto him like this would have been worrying if they hadn't been so obviously joyous. Somewhat awkwardly, he returned the embrace, lightly patting them on the back.
"Thank you," they whispered, the words somewhat muffled by his shoulder. "This is the first time the outside of my self has actually matched the inside."