![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Perhaps. [ He sits back a bit, thoughtful, maybe trying to step onto philosophical rather than personal ground—however intermixed they are here—before he says any other stupid things about hearts. ] The nobles' quarrels are not so different from the quarrels between countries. They are smaller territories, and the changes happen faster, and we call it a game—but there are not many of them who do not think they are doing the right thing, protecting themselves and their people against a world that would take everything from them if they left it undefended.
To start with, yes. But I'm hoping that in the course of our organization's regular business, I'll be able to send along at least one person capable of singing our praises upon visiting another kingdom.
I'll have to enlist someone more skilled at song-writing than I.
[ an exciting day approaching for elderly tavern npc #752 ]
I would hope that you could give me some guidance, or even a wishlist, of targets. Or if not me, then perhaps you could advise the Ambassador so this eventual venture will be of use to both our divisions.
[ an exciting day approaching for elderly tavern npc #752 ]
I would hope that you could give me some guidance, or even a wishlist, of targets. Or if not me, then perhaps you could advise the Ambassador so this eventual venture will be of use to both our divisions.
[When Darras woke up, Yseult was gone. He'd reached for her, blindly, without realizing it at first, and then finding her missing from the bed had been briefly disorienting, a stab of panic as painful as a blade. And then the room had begun to assemble itself around him, the now-familiar shapes of the furniture, the slight personal touches they've both brought in--a fine blue carpet he'd found in Kirkwall and carried back for her, a hairbrush on the bedside table, cups from wine that neither of them have carried down to the kitchens, Yseult's sleeping clothes draped over the chair in the corner, Rosanna at the end of the bed, curled up tight with her nose tucked in her tail like an Orlesian pastry. And the hard winter's sunlight coming in the window, and the distant sounds of the sea and the harbor, and voices carried up from courtyards below.
Kirkwall. The Gallows. And Yseult has risen early, and gone to work.
That's where she is all day. Darras doesn't see her about. He takes his time in the room, dressing and washing up, but she doesn't come back in the morning and so he goes down to the ferry and into Kirkwall, and tries to lose the dream in the day. Every so often he manages it, for a few moments, at least--and then he sees some kid running down the dock with the right color of hair, or the wash of the sea catches him just right, or all at once some image returns to him--Yseult with moonlight in her hair and blood on her lips, the sea's pattern on rock in the dark, the shape of a shadow like a rip--and it all comes back, seeping like a badly-bandaged wound.
When he lets himself into the suite that night he nearly expects to find Yseult still gone--but she's there, sifting through reports. Her smile is spare and she returns right back to her work. When he asks about dinner, she waves him off, and Darras isn't hungry either but he goes down to fetch a plate for them to share. Once he's back, she eats, sparingly, between writing in on some forms and looking at maps, and like an old coat he can see some trouble hanging off of her, pulling at her. The work, he thinks, first. So when she's reading, he leaves off carving and comes up behind her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. The smell of her hair is the same.]
That bad?
Kirkwall. The Gallows. And Yseult has risen early, and gone to work.
That's where she is all day. Darras doesn't see her about. He takes his time in the room, dressing and washing up, but she doesn't come back in the morning and so he goes down to the ferry and into Kirkwall, and tries to lose the dream in the day. Every so often he manages it, for a few moments, at least--and then he sees some kid running down the dock with the right color of hair, or the wash of the sea catches him just right, or all at once some image returns to him--Yseult with moonlight in her hair and blood on her lips, the sea's pattern on rock in the dark, the shape of a shadow like a rip--and it all comes back, seeping like a badly-bandaged wound.
When he lets himself into the suite that night he nearly expects to find Yseult still gone--but she's there, sifting through reports. Her smile is spare and she returns right back to her work. When he asks about dinner, she waves him off, and Darras isn't hungry either but he goes down to fetch a plate for them to share. Once he's back, she eats, sparingly, between writing in on some forms and looking at maps, and like an old coat he can see some trouble hanging off of her, pulling at her. The work, he thinks, first. So when she's reading, he leaves off carving and comes up behind her, presses a kiss to the top of her head. The smell of her hair is the same.]
That bad?
Hmm? [ She startles at the question, just a faint little twitch, not enough to shake him out of her hair. ] Oh, no. No more than usual.
[ She shrugs, flipping at the corner of the paper, gesturing vaguely with her pen. She scratches out the line she wrote last, and starts to go on, but abruptly gives up and sets the pen down, reaching up instead to wrap her arms around Darras's about her shoulders. ]
I'm just tired [ she says, turning to tuck her face against his bicep ] I didn't sleep very well.
[ She shrugs, flipping at the corner of the paper, gesturing vaguely with her pen. She scratches out the line she wrote last, and starts to go on, but abruptly gives up and sets the pen down, reaching up instead to wrap her arms around Darras's about her shoulders. ]
I'm just tired [ she says, turning to tuck her face against his bicep ] I didn't sleep very well.
Me neither. Must've been the food. I've always been skeptical of tomatoes, unless they're roasted.
[He tightens his arms a little, gives her a brief squeeze before he presses another kiss to the top of her head again. There's a moment, brief, when he thinks about the smell of the sea air and the snow. The bright slash of blood marked out on the white, bolder and more final than ink on a page.]
Stop working a moment and come take some wine.
[He tightens his arms a little, gives her a brief squeeze before he presses another kiss to the top of her head again. There's a moment, brief, when he thinks about the smell of the sea air and the snow. The bright slash of blood marked out on the white, bolder and more final than ink on a page.]
Stop working a moment and come take some wine.
[ She'd turned back toward him, in the dream, just as she stepped in. She'd raised the sword she brought back from her trip only to see the hurlock's axe cleave through it like glass, and she hadn't wavered but she'd turned back to him, shouting go! again and then something else, some word still half-shaped when the axe cut into her again, at the shoulder this time and right down through to her heart, dead before her knees hit the ground. ]
You love fresh tomatoes in summer [ she reminds him, ridiculously, as she gets to her feet, but that's the only argument she offers. She trails him back across to the couch beside the fire, curls her legs up into a corner of it as he pours the wine. It's absurd to let a single dream affect her this much, steal her mind all day the way it has. But it has, it's lingered like a weight on her mind, a chill ache in her bones, and so when Darras joins her with the cups she tugs him down close enough to duck under his arm and press against his side. ]
You love fresh tomatoes in summer [ she reminds him, ridiculously, as she gets to her feet, but that's the only argument she offers. She trails him back across to the couch beside the fire, curls her legs up into a corner of it as he pours the wine. It's absurd to let a single dream affect her this much, steal her mind all day the way it has. But it has, it's lingered like a weight on her mind, a chill ache in her bones, and so when Darras joins her with the cups she tugs him down close enough to duck under his arm and press against his side. ]
[Fresh tomatoes aren't cooked, is the thing. And if this were another night he'd likely make this clarification, and they'd begin to argue without meaning any of it. Instead he pours the wine, and when she moves close and leans against him, he shifts obligingly, making the room.
For a moment, there's silence. Darras has his arm around her, holding her to him. He rubs at her arm, gentle.]
I've seen you tired, [he reminds her,] and then some besides. You get a little crease under your eyes. Usually the right one first.
For a moment, there's silence. Darras has his arm around her, holding her to him. He rubs at her arm, gentle.]
I've seen you tired, [he reminds her,] and then some besides. You get a little crease under your eyes. Usually the right one first.
[ She squints, cheeks pushed up to put creases under her eyes, but with her head against his shoulder it's an easy joke to miss. ]
It's nothing, [ she says, after a long moment, too long a stretch for nothing, but what else are dreams? She sounds tired, and small, the veneer of authority given up for today. Not that she couldn't slap it back on if she needed to, but it's late and it's just him. ] I'll be fine tomorrow.
It's nothing, [ she says, after a long moment, too long a stretch for nothing, but what else are dreams? She sounds tired, and small, the veneer of authority given up for today. Not that she couldn't slap it back on if she needed to, but it's late and it's just him. ] I'll be fine tomorrow.
Edited 2020-02-19 14:21 (UTC)
So long as you sleep well tonight, you'll be fine tomorrow. Got to find a way to guarantee that one first.
[He keeps rubbing at her forearm, the soft knit of her shirt gentle against his hand. It's the smallness of her voice that gets him, pulls at something. An axe that cleaves a sword in two, in the dark doorway of the cottage.]
You can tell me about it. Your nothing. Whatever it is, you can tell me, and I promise only listen, not go charging off to throw anyone off the wall for having wronged you. Not that you can't manage that on your own. You can manage anyone.
[The thin smile of her sword, in the dark, and then the axe. He rubs at her arm again.]
I'll listen.
[He keeps rubbing at her forearm, the soft knit of her shirt gentle against his hand. It's the smallness of her voice that gets him, pulls at something. An axe that cleaves a sword in two, in the dark doorway of the cottage.]
You can tell me about it. Your nothing. Whatever it is, you can tell me, and I promise only listen, not go charging off to throw anyone off the wall for having wronged you. Not that you can't manage that on your own. You can manage anyone.
[The thin smile of her sword, in the dark, and then the axe. He rubs at her arm again.]
I'll listen.
[ She smiles faintly, and doesn't say no again, just hesitates for a long silent moment as she works herself around and up to it. ]
If it were someone I'd feel less stupid, [ she says first, ] It's not-- no one's done anything. [ Another breath, her knuckles tight around the cup, wine barely sipped. ]
I had a terrible dream last night that woke me. Please don't laugh, I know it's silly. But it was so real I haven't been able to get it out of my head all day.
If it were someone I'd feel less stupid, [ she says first, ] It's not-- no one's done anything. [ Another breath, her knuckles tight around the cup, wine barely sipped. ]
I had a terrible dream last night that woke me. Please don't laugh, I know it's silly. But it was so real I haven't been able to get it out of my head all day.
[Surprise slows his hand at first, where he's kept rubbing at her arm as she'd sat with his offer, and as she'd begun to answer it, too. But it likely happens more often than he knows. It's not like they make a habit of revisiting dreams, aloud--at least, not often--]
What happened?
What happened?
[ She shrugs a little, tempted to brush it off and not noticing (or correctly interpreting) his surprise. ]
We'd given up our other work and turned the cottage into a small farm and-- had a family. And then darkspawn came and we died and it sounds even more foolish out loud.
We'd given up our other work and turned the cottage into a small farm and-- had a family. And then darkspawn came and we died and it sounds even more foolish out loud.
[That lands like a blow. Darras' hand stops entirely now, but he doesn't remove it--merely leaves it where it rests, there against her upper arm. And when he speaks, he goes to say their names, which are right at the top of his head until suddenly they aren't.
Even without the names he knows them still. Their family. Two children. The small bed in the loft, with its quilt of blue.]
But they got away. [He's almost faint when he says it.] The children.
Even without the names he knows them still. Their family. Two children. The small bed in the loft, with its quilt of blue.]
But they got away. [He's almost faint when he says it.] The children.
Edited (there!!!!) 2020-02-21 04:46 (UTC)
They were so small. [ Yseult's head shakes, voice thick, ] All alone in that boat with nowhere to go and no one to help them?
[ She swallows visibly and takes a deep breath, shoving that image aside, still so real and haunting it almost chokes her up. But it's not real, and it's not the point. ]
How could we have the same dream? What does that mean?
[ She swallows visibly and takes a deep breath, shoving that image aside, still so real and haunting it almost chokes her up. But it's not real, and it's not the point. ]
How could we have the same dream? What does that mean?
Edited 2020-02-22 01:25 (UTC)
They were ours.
[Survivors. Two people who believe, when it comes down to it. Two people who found each other. So their children, too--though it hurts to think of it, this life that he never would have wanted for them--those small people, surviving. Growing older, taller, living, without anyone around. If anyone could, it would be them. There was no blood on Yseult's cheek, when she fell. Darras looks at that spot now. He can remember it, white and pale and perfect.]
I don't know what it means. Or how it-- could happen. If we'd had similar dreams--that's one thing. This is... madness. [But.] It happened.
[Survivors. Two people who believe, when it comes down to it. Two people who found each other. So their children, too--though it hurts to think of it, this life that he never would have wanted for them--those small people, surviving. Growing older, taller, living, without anyone around. If anyone could, it would be them. There was no blood on Yseult's cheek, when she fell. Darras looks at that spot now. He can remember it, white and pale and perfect.]
I don't know what it means. Or how it-- could happen. If we'd had similar dreams--that's one thing. This is... madness. [But.] It happened.
And we left them all alone.
[ Yseult's not getting past that, not as sanguine about their chances as Darras, that old fight in strange new form here. She pulls away a little, into herself, making enough space to draw knees up to her chest. ]
It must be spirits or something. It feels like a warning, or a-- [ her search for the precise word comes up empty and she settles for shaking her head again. ] A sort of punishment.
[ Yseult's not getting past that, not as sanguine about their chances as Darras, that old fight in strange new form here. She pulls away a little, into herself, making enough space to draw knees up to her chest. ]
It must be spirits or something. It feels like a warning, or a-- [ her search for the precise word comes up empty and she settles for shaking her head again. ] A sort of punishment.
[There's a truth there, and Darras' conviction wavers just slightly. Yseult pulls away; that somehow banks it up again. They were alone, but they had each other. He would say it, but she goes on.
The warning, he can't confront yet. Two small hands between his. Some baby's smile that he would know if he saw it. Yseult, reading a book in the tall grass and the sunshine. Her other suggestion is no less difficult.]
A punishment? For what?
The warning, he can't confront yet. Two small hands between his. Some baby's smile that he would know if he saw it. Yseult, reading a book in the tall grass and the sunshine. Her other suggestion is no less difficult.]
A punishment? For what?
[ Her mouth twists as she hesitates. It's not quite the right word but it's difficult to find any for the combination of sorrow and dread she's feeling, the fear that a thing might happen and the sadness that it has, fit into the same moment. ]
For thinking maybe we could have that. A normal life, all of this behind us. A normal family.
[ This tip of her head is entirely self-deprecating, a roll of her eyes at herself, a hand scrubbed across her face. ] This is stupid, it was just a dream. By the time this war ends I'll be too old for children, if we even survive. If you even wanted them at all, it's not as if we've ever talked about it.
For thinking maybe we could have that. A normal life, all of this behind us. A normal family.
[ This tip of her head is entirely self-deprecating, a roll of her eyes at herself, a hand scrubbed across her face. ] This is stupid, it was just a dream. By the time this war ends I'll be too old for children, if we even survive. If you even wanted them at all, it's not as if we've ever talked about it.
[ She laughs. ] Maybe. Antivans have quite a flair for murder at parties, but perhaps that's the opposite, turning a good time into work.
[ She drinks, and turns her cup in her hands, and shrugs. ] I'm not naive enough to think anyone conducting this sort of business has entirely pure, unselfish motives. But I would like to think most of what I've been ordered to do has been for greater good than revenge on a rival for a snub.
[ She drinks, and turns her cup in her hands, and shrugs. ] I'm not naive enough to think anyone conducting this sort of business has entirely pure, unselfish motives. But I would like to think most of what I've been ordered to do has been for greater good than revenge on a rival for a snub.
Page 28 of 55