WHO: Coupe + Gervais, Yseult, Lakshmi, Teren WHAT: Back 2 Kirkwall WHEN: Now-ish, some prompts backdated WHERE: Kirkwall/Vaguely Orlais NOTES: HMU on plurk if you want something.
Her return is unannounced. It doesn't go unnoticed.
There's a man to drive the ferry, a guard to check faces (blinking one brown eye into ink replica). There's still word here or there — and here is there, though the runner to find him wasn't sent for him at all, disinterested to find a mage too dour to be Voss.
The dog paces. Hesitation creaks. The scrape of a tread worn familiar, slower, and then she's there. There, and hasn't the faintest fucking clue what to say of it. Even silence is disparate, isn't it? This business of choosing when and how to speak. Some tongues bend slowly. And pages,
I noticed? Or: not insignificantly, yes. Or perhaps: better late than never. Gervais makes no attempt to voice any of these thoughts, rising to his feet from where he's been quietly plucking away at correspondence he was struggling to convince his own private anxieties was really the most pressing thing he could be doing this instant, and
into her shoulder, “Th-th-th-they've, they've, they've given you back unfinished.”
Hi, honey, you look like shit. He holds her very carefully, but he does not let go.
Whether magic can heal a broken heart is a matter for Yngvi's shit novels; spells only do so much for the rest. Her hand finds his neck, fingers circling new tangles into ruddy hair: It's alright,
It's not. Takes the moment, this acceptable pause; time stilled just enough to breathe in the scent of him. Sweat and ink, and all that the past weeks have clotted into blood.
I heard of Emeric, a wound half a year in the making. Can't stand to say it, to have him run again. This time no one cut off his head. Hums low in her throat, rubs a lock between finger and thumb.
For a long time, Gervais didn't allow himself to wish even so much as that they might live in a world in which they might wish; now, he will go that far, at least. It feels like a world being molded for people who will go to it and leave them behind, all the more reason to hold her closer and tighter while he yet can. Emeric is dead, Gwenaëlle is a mystery and the life he once lived coals he must still walk over, but this—
this, still.
He had not allowed himself to think she wouldn't return, so he didn't have to wish for it. Here she is, now, and the thought of home is strange, and sad, and lovely, and he turns his face against her throat and exhales all of those things.
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GERVAIS
There's a man to drive the ferry, a guard to check faces (blinking one brown eye into ink replica). There's still word here or there — and here is there, though the runner to find him wasn't sent for him at all, disinterested to find a mage too dour to be Voss.
The dog paces. Hesitation creaks. The scrape of a tread worn familiar, slower, and then she's there. There, and hasn't the faintest fucking clue what to say of it. Even silence is disparate, isn't it? This business of choosing when and how to speak. Some tongues bend slowly. And pages,
"I was delayed."
There's an understatement.
no subject
I noticed? Or: not insignificantly, yes. Or perhaps: better late than never. Gervais makes no attempt to voice any of these thoughts, rising to his feet from where he's been quietly plucking away at correspondence he was struggling to convince his own private anxieties was really the most pressing thing he could be doing this instant, and
into her shoulder, “Th-th-th-they've, they've, they've given you back unfinished.”
Hi, honey, you look like shit. He holds her very carefully, but he does not let go.
no subject
Whether magic can heal a broken heart is a matter for Yngvi's shit novels; spells only do so much for the rest. Her hand finds his neck, fingers circling new tangles into ruddy hair: It's alright,
It's not. Takes the moment, this acceptable pause; time stilled just enough to breathe in the scent of him. Sweat and ink, and all that the past weeks have clotted into blood.
I heard of Emeric, a wound half a year in the making. Can't stand to say it, to have him run again. This time no one cut off his head. Hums low in her throat, rubs a lock between finger and thumb.
"I wish,"
The sound dies in her mouth. It's alright.
no subject
this, still.
He had not allowed himself to think she wouldn't return, so he didn't have to wish for it. Here she is, now, and the thought of home is strange, and sad, and lovely, and he turns his face against her throat and exhales all of those things.
“Yes,” feels like plenty.