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]

“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.”