(1940-01-11) Agrippa Homecoming
Details for Agrippa Homecoming
Summary: Newlyweds Marcus and Elysia return to London, in the freezing January of 1940.
Date: January 11th, 1940
Location: Agrippa Residence, Mysticked District

The house has sat empty for a long time. A thick covering of dust layers every flat surface, and cobwebs drift lazily from corners and lampshades, stirred by some intangible breeze. Even the grandfather clock in the hall has ceased bothering to tick. Life has, quite frankly, slowed to a halt. Not that it was ever a particularly lively dwelling in the first place. Oppressively dark-painted walls and weightily draped curtains offer little in the way of natural illumination, and the sombre, cynical portraits that adorn the occasional chamber all share a distinct lack of welcome to the onlooker. So, it likely comes as something of a surprise to the old building when, out of the blue, someone disturbs its slumber.

A knock at the front door comes first. Rather futile, really. Who is there to answer it? There's a brief, muffled discussion outside, followed by the trial and error clattering of several keys in the long-retired locks. Rousing, the dwelling considers these goings on with detached curiosity; satisfied mere moments later when a figure arrives abruptly over the threshold, plainly having used a little force to get the damn door to open at all.

Righting herself, one hand still on the doorknob, a slender, raven-maned beauty casts her eyes over the lobby with an unreadable expression. There's a set of luggage that trundles in after her, settling itself neatly beside the doorway to the sitting room; a modest trunk of brown leather and aged carpet bag that still look dazzling and new, in comparison to their surroundings. As for the young woman herself.. she practically blends into the decor, attired as she is. Her hair is swept up in a chic, dark chignon at her nape and a drab pencil dress of stiff ebon wool falls to mid calf beneath a fur-trimmed cape; some passable defence against the snow falling outside. Delicately pulling off her gloves, she takes in the initial impression, pivoting slowly on her heeled shoes. "Home sweet home.." comes a murmur, little above a whisper and either amused or sardonic.. the panelled walls can't quite decide. And then she's moving aside, making way for someone else to follow her inside without glancing their way.

The next figure to enter the room brings with him the chill of wintertime London. The house considers his bearing, the haughty lift of his chin, the dismissive way in which he glances at the younger woman, and decides to withhold its opinion of him. Something about the man warns against rash judgements. He paces into the center of the room, shrugging out of his heavy trenchcoat as he walks and hanging it from the central staircase's banister. "Ove has done us proud," he murmurs, his European accent crisp and decisive.

He runs a hand down the banister, then inspects it thoughtfully, as though he has never before seen dust. "You will have this clean by tomorrow," he informs his beautiful companion. There is no heat in his voice, no sense of challenge — he simply takes for granted that she shall obey him. He pads over to the fireplace, producing his wand and muttering something. Fire — without wood, without any fuel at all — bursts to life, casting orange flare through the room. The house notes this.

"There has been history in this place," he continues, a faint note of relish coming into his voice. "Great deeds have been done here. And if they have not been done here yet, they shall be. This is a place that shall become ours." The plurality in the sentence seems to be an afterthought.

At least the young lady seems to have a proper respect for the house. There's no sneering curl of lip or disgusted examination of the dust from her. It's old. Dust happens. The look she casts at the man's back as he departs for the fireplace, however.. well, let's simply, charitably say it lacks affection. Gritting her teeth, she retrieves his snow-damp trenchcoat and hangs it properly on the hooks behind the front door, closing that in turn and rubbing her cold hands together, blowing into cupped palms. "I swear, he thinks he married a house elf." It might have been a brave utterance. But it was voiced in an undertone. And in German. And to a portrait of a corpulent fellow as she straightens his frame a touch on the wall. A huff of air from between pursed lips as she stoops, and his nameplate reveals him to be an Agrippa. Well, that explains the frown lines.

Elysia straightens, turning to follow after the man as he sees to the fire though not drawing close; instead drifting about the modest sitting room and lighting a few candles and oil lamps. No electricity in this place, no sir. For a long moment she simply lets Marcus talk. He does prefer the sound of his own voice to hers, that much she knows very well. But, with a rare flicker of defiant mischief, she can't help but interject, after a suitably polite pause.

"Mmm, yes.. it does have rather an interesting history." A subtle nod and flit of green eyes indicates the cobweb-strewn Agrippa crest, masterfully carved into the mantel. "And I imagine my mother's library remains intact, if you're of a mind to learn more." This was, of course, where her mother spent most of her time and where Ely herself often spent her summers, as a child. Oh, did she neglect to mention that? For shame.

Oh, come on. It's rare she ever gets the jump on Marcus. The vaguely smug, feline expression that seizes her features when she glances his way can at least be understood, if not exactly forgiven. "I expect the bedrooms are in a similar state. But you're welcome to the larger of the two." With that - a cleverly worded assurance that she's no intention of sharing a bed with him - the young woman turns away and strolls into the next room; without so much as a backward look to see if he pursues. The adjoining chamber, as it happens, is a quaint dining room, still with a pair of silver candleabras upon the oak table. She lights these as she moves.


Marcus quietly secures the door behind them, his wand still out as he stalks into the dining room. "We shall share a room," he announces. His gaze lingers on Elysia — there is a strange heat there, but it is not lust, not really. Perhaps some other emotion. He looks up at the candelabras, taking them in with an approving nod, then returns his attention to Elysia. "I shall sleep on the floor." Perhaps that is surprising, the man giving up his own comfort. But Elysia truly doesn't know him that well, yet — he's used to hardship.

Walking up behind Elysia, he casually flicks the side of her thigh with his wand, a preremptory demand for attention. "To the world, we are a loving couple. You will show proper affection in public. You will not take lovers. We shall occupy the same space at all times." The words are dispassionate, but again, something burns in his gaze as he studies Elysia. "We shall keep the spare bedroom for visitors. Ove will send us agents, from time to time."

The thwap of the wand at her thigh, while hardly painful - especially on the scale she's used to - elicits a faint scowl from the young woman, and she rounds the far end of the table, putting its corner between them before she stops, faces him and replies. "Suit yourself." She doesn't argue that the 'spare' room is her own childhood bedroom. Or that she doesn't feel awfully safe, having him there when she's sleeping. That was one benefit of their old apartments back home, she could come and go as she pleased.

Lowering her gaze, she clasps the back of the chair at the head of the table, her fingers tightening about the carved upper details as she shifts it fractionally into a better place; the opportunity created for schooling her expression back to a neutral, impassive mask. She knows how he hates that.. but it seems best, under the circumstances. He's testing his power in their new situation.. let him have his masculine victories. Clean the house, Cinder-ely, share the bedroom, Cinder-ely

"Very well.." Keeping her voice gentle, the words preceding a long-suffering sigh, Ely looks up and holds Marcus' fiery, icy gaze levelly. A pointed change comes over her expression with the guile and ease of a trained thespian; those green eyes pools of liquid warmth, full lips curving in an inviting smile. "..darling." She's not quite foolish enough to physically close the distance between them, but by now he's likely witnessed what she can do to people with a mere glance. There's something about those eyes… they can drown a man in a heartbeat. "Why would I possibly have any desire to take a young, vibrant lover, when I have a husband so abundant with fire and passion..?" And then, as swiftly as it arrived, the entrancing warmth is banished. "But we're not in public, are we?"

Again, she turns to walk away from him, her manner returned to businesslike indifference. "I'll see to the wards."

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