#yes ophelia is officially the lady russell of this au

[wintershades]

Who wants another scene from a Fjorester Persuasion AU? :)

This is based on that moment when Anne (Jester) learns what Wentworth (Fjord) thought upon first seeing her again. I went for a more humorous take, since Jester gets the scoop from Beau and Veth—and they have opinions.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Partway through brunch, as the sun peeked under their umbrellaed table on the patio of The Meridian, the trio began to talk of the party that Beau and Veth had attended a few nights before.

The mention of it sent Jester’s heart rushing apace, though she didn’t dare to acknowledge why. Instead, she let the conversation wander where it may: From Beau’s description of a guest with eyes of blue and violet, to Veth’s accounting of the fine tableware she’d stolen.

And when the discussion turned to Captain Stone, Jester didn’t try to change the subject.

This was a calculated decision. It wouldn’t be in her character to turn her eye from any sailor, let alone one with whom she was acquainted. She’d ask a question about him—no, two questions. The first would quench her curiosity, while the second would prove her indifference.

But then Veth said, in a pointed way: “He wasn’t very gallant by you, Jester.”

At this, a cold spike of nerves ran across the tiefling’s body, and the food went flavorless in her mouth. She heard Beau sigh—but to her dismay, the woman didn’t dispute Veth’s claim.

“How do you mean?” Jester asked, and Veth leaned in close.

“He said you were so changed that he wouldn’t have recognized you.”

Instinctively, Jester reached up and touched her face. Because of course she’d changed in nearly nine years time: Her features had lost the blush and brightness of youth, and when she smiled, laugh lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. Her figure was softer. Her hair, more tamely arranged.

But she had a formidable pair of cheekbones now! And she liked how she looked.

Mostly.

“Is it the ridges in my horns?” Jester fretted, running her fingertips over them. “It’s the ridges in my horns, isn’t it.”

“It’s not how you look,” Beau told her firmly. “First of all: You’re as beautiful as you ever were. Full stop. And who would ever forget a freckled blue tiefling? . . . Really, I think it’s more of a—eh . . . .”

“Personality thing,” Veth concluded.

Jester froze with the tips of her horns in her hands. “A personality thing?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

“You’ve grown up, that’s all. You’re way more relaxed—and ladylike, I guess?” Beau smiled and gestured out toward the city. “You’re not running around town all night, painting dicks on storefronts.”

Jester’s jaw dropped. “But I did paint a dick on a storefront—just this week!”

“Before that, though, how long had it been?” Veth countered. Jester reflected on the question, and she was alarmed to find that she couldn’t fix an exact date.

“Well—it’s just— . . . I value my art more these days. You don’t want to produce work of substandard quality, or oversaturate the market, or—”

“See? You say shit like that now,” Beau said.

“And you eat your donuts with a fork,” Veth added.

The tiefling looked down, and before her was the evidence: a pastry, neatly quartered on its plate and framed by her silverware. But the horrors didn’t stop there. She’d picked a glazed donut—not out of preference for the flavor, but simply to avoid getting powdered sugar on her clothes.

Changed beyond recognition!

Could Fjord be right?

Of course, her improved table manners made for a silly example—but as Jester thought more about it, she could see how her ambitions and strivings in society had reshaped her. She and Fjord had both gone out into the world in search of themselves. But she’d returned as less of who she really was, in the service of becoming more palatable to others.

Slowly, Jester raised her head.

“I’m like an old person,” she said in despair, “and he thinks I’m dull.”

“Oh, come on,” said Veth. “Why do you care what some random sailor thinks of you? I bet his ship isn’t even that big.”

Beau eased back in her chair, watching as the halfling took a sip of her mimosa. She crossed her arms over her chest—and tipped her head to one side—and leveled her gaze at Jester.

“Because,” she said, “they were a thing.”

Instantly, Veth choked and spat her drink back into her glass. Then she turned and slipped it onto the tray of a passing server, stealthily trading it for another. She was still coughing as she said, “They were a fucking what?”

Beau leaned forward eagerly. “I saw how you reacted to seeing him, and I know Fjord lived in Nicodranas for a while. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Jester held still for a moment. Then her shoulders slumped, and when she buried her face in her hands, her friends erupted into sounds of amazement.

“I knew it!” said Beau, just as Veth cut in—

“You and that guy? But—”

“—how serious was it? Was it just physical, or—”

“That’s a very personal question, Beau,” Veth scolded. Then, she moved closer to Jester. “You can just tell me, if you want.”

“Why would she just tell you?”

Their bickering continued, or so Jester supposed, as she heard little more of it. She felt that she was sinking into a fog. She breathed in, steadying herself, and she caught the varied aromas of the meals all around them—and under that, the smell of the sea. For a brief time, it returned her to a certain day on the docks in Nicodranas.

The day when she’d returned Fjord’s ring, and she’d told him that she was leaving for Rexxentrum.

She couldn’t study art with the masters and go to sea at the same time, she’d pointed out. But he’d pleaded with her. And he’d vowed to wait for her. And he’d said, with such heartbreak and disbelief: What will you have us be? Friends?

Yes, was what Jester had told him—but Fjord couldn’t accept it, and he couldn’t fathom that she could, either. Suddenly, he’d realized the truth: an outside force had persuaded Jester to part with him.

His hurt had turned to anger in an instant. They’d said some harsh things. Then, as their argument drew to a close, he’d arrived at a different solution.

He’d said: Let us be strangers. Forget me, as I will forget you.

And now, he’d said: She’s so changed that I wouldn’t have recognized her.

Very slowly, Jester emerged from her daze. When she realized that Veth and Beau were still arguing, she spoke up and stopped them cold.

“We were engaged,” she told them, “and I ended it. I was convinced that tying myself to him would close doors for me.”

Beau furrowed her brow. “Who convinced you of that?”

The tiefling averted her gaze. Beau and Veth glanced at each other, and then they narrowed their eyes.

“Lady Mardoon,” they muttered in unison.

At the mention of her friend’s name, Jester made an effort to compose herself. She would master these feelings; she would temper these hopes. She would ask only two questions, and no more.

“Is Fjord happy?” she asked Beau. The woman’s expression softened.

“He seems to be.”

“And in all the time you traveled with him . . . he really never spoke of me?”

Beau paused, seeming to search her memory. “He’s never mentioned you by name,” she finally said.

In the throes of her feelings, Jester didn’t notice that this was a different answer than “no.” Nor did she notice Beau’s pensive expression, or the way she glanced down at her bag, as if she yearned to retrieve one of her journals.

Jester only knew that Fjord did not speak of her, and very likely, he did not think of her.

They were strangers, and he was happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The truth, of course, was different. But not altogether so.

First of all, Fjord never meant for his comment to reach Jester’s ears. He did find her greatly changed, but when he spoke so bluntly, he was still affected by the lingering shock of their reunion.

Because he’d never intended to see her again.

Ever.

In his view, that way was shut. She no longer had any power over him. He’d been deeply attached to her, but in failing to stand by her convictions, Jester had severed their bond and lost him forever.

Never mind that in all his travels, Fjord had never met her equal.

Never mind that once, when he’d been asked what sort of person could win his heart, her image rose in his thoughts like an apparition—for good and ill.

“It must be someone who loves adventure,” Fjord had declared, “and I do favor an easy laugh and a kind heart. But above everything, they must know their own mind.”

And what did he mean by that, exactly?

The captain had made a show of pondering the question.

“I can’t abide by those who are too easily swayed,” he’d said. “Enough of my life is spent at the mercy of the wind. I must have someone with the courage to sail against it.”

Fjord had smiled then, inviting the listener to suppose that his pretty words had been spoken in jest. Because no one would believe it, but he’d thought a great deal on these subjects.

Far more than most people, certainly—and with greater feeling than he’d ever care to admit.