when they tell you you are made of stars, tell them you know.

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle Vauquelin, Petrana de Cedoux, Benevenuta Thevenet & Galatea Lourdes + SPECIAL GUEST: YOU.
WHAT: A Wintermarch catch-all.
WHEN: Wintermarch.
WHERE: Kirkwall.
NOTES: Somewhere for me to put planned, closed threads! Hit me up on keanuleaves or libbitybibbit#8828 if you desire one.

Comments

[rowancrowned]

“Then be my lady,” he says. “Have our children and let me find a forest to hide us all away in once things are settled. Braid flowers into my hair and I will hunt deer and learn to till the soil. But no one need know that is what we want until we have it.”

He does not want to push things, but someone needs to say things to her.

“I know he loves you. I read your poems,” he says. “Ilde’s poems. He failed you. He loves you and he failed you, and I would tear his heart from his chest and offer it to you, if it would fix anything, if it would make you happy, if it would make the younger you happy. He has not disowned you. You can love him for the right he did and still hold him accountable for what he failed in. You are an adult, now.”

He opens his eyes, turns his head to look at her, even if his hair falls from his grasp. “There must be someone you trust to transport private letters. The distance may help—and he aches for his daughter. I do not know him well enough to guess, but if there were a better time to ask him for answers to questions you have had for a long time, secrets that you were forbidden—now would be the best moment to strike.”

[elegiaque]

I don't want to, she thinks, not the thought of a woman grown but the clutching hands of a child to her mother's skirts; the heat in the room from the brazier feels suddenly oppressive, a sense-memory that creeps up her back to tighten her shoulders, heavy drapes pulled over curtains and Anne's hand under hers somehow still cold.

Even now, it feels like betrayal to bend where she had not.

“I've no questions,” she says, looking up at nothing over his head.

[rowancrowned]

“It is rare to have someone who will do anything for you,” he says, and turns onto his knees before planning his hands on either side of her knees, and rising, his torso guiding them apart. Bring her back, he thinks. “You know I am at your command.”

To some degree. He is no Guilfoyle, but Guilfoyle has the look about him that suggest he has a courtier’s way of redirection, of guidance, that he is sure he puts to use with Emeric.

“My wife,” he says, and hopes ‘not too much’. “My love. I missed you very much. Do you have a looking glass? I want to see my hair.”

[elegiaque]

It takes her a moment to reorient, to draw herself out of memory and a grief that had still felt new when it had yet to be layered over with more recent aches—when she softens again it's a purposeful yielding, breathing out and meeting his eyes, her skirts tangled around her knees and him as well.

“Of course,” she says, touching her thumb to his mouth, so lightly. They're apart more than they aren't, it feels like, and she dislikes it—bury themselves in the wood somewhere and never be apart again, live quietly...

She could do it, she thinks. She could learn that. Maybe.

“Let me get it.”