WHO: Athessa, Madi, Lucien, Skull, and YOU!! WHAT: catch-all WHEN: mostly Satinalia and later WHERE: Kirkwall and The Gallows NOTES: post-murderhaus h/c is gonna go here
"Not really," she says, fidgeting idly with a loose thread on one of the cushions. "I actually was planning on uh... offering it to you, if you wanted it. Since I can't use it, and I think... ya know it's not gonna be much use to me and I think it'd be best used by a healer, and —"
Athessa shakes her head, dismissing the rest of whatever she might ramble on about in the wake of that admission. Colin didn't want it because he rarely uses a staff, and it was too personal a gift to offer. He, whom she calls brother. It feels little more than perfunctory to offer it to Derrica now, knowing the implications and that the staff would likely require more practice to use than not.
And this whole time Athessa has avoided looking at Derrica's face, knowing she could gauge her reaction and, inexplicably, preferring not to.
"But if that's too much or just not something you want, I don't blame you. It just seems a waste for me to have it and not be able to use it. It...should be used."
It does feel like too much. Derrica's taken aback by it, though maybe she should have anticipated something as selfless as this from Athessa. Her fingers pluck at a small loose thread at the ankle of her leggings, indecision in her face, before she rises to sit on the bed beside Athessa.
"I'm honored that you want me to have it."
That much is easy to say. It is such an expression of trust to give her this piece of her family, maybe one of the only pieces Athessa has in her possession.
"But I couldn't—it's not wasted with you, Athessa. Doesn't it bring you some comfort to have something so important to your grandmother with you?"
The rites brought her comfort. The book of songs and her mother's journal bring her comfort. The staff brings her guilt.
"No," she says quietly, on a breath, and bites her lip. Hasn't she cried enough? When is she going to stop needing to fight herself just to maintain composure? She wins the battle this time, though she swipes a hand over her cheek just to be sure.
"No. It brings me guilt, and anger, and grief, and I'd rather someone take it and use it to do good rather than let it sit there reminding me about everything I never became and never will."
Athessa buries her head in her hands for only a moment, deterred from prolonging it by the flash-image of that poor elf woman's face. Eyes sewn open, mouth sewn shut. But instead of the glassy marbles Medrod had fashioned in place of her real eyes, Athessa sees her mother's eyes and it shocks a breath from her lungs and forces her to uncurl from herself and keep her own eyes open.
"It's yours if you want it," she says, making to stand. "But I won't force it on you."
Would Derrica feel much like this if she had any part of her mother to hold on to? She had never felt this kind of grief for the absence of her parents. Athessa's pain is so sharp, and Derrica doesn't know what to do for it, how to ease it.
She grieves Dairsmuid, but in a different way. It leaves her very little to go on.
"Don't get up," Derrica pleads softly. "Athessa."
The question becomes: should she take the staff to spare Athessa this weight? Derrica still hesitates over the idea of having something so precious in her possession, even as she reaches to catch at Athessa's wrist to keep her from drawing away.
Derrica's hand on her wrist is a reminder in itself. Of how long Athessa spent out there in the cold, about how high she still is, of the last time Derrica was in this room, the first time they kissed, and the last time.
It takes barely the span of a breath for those things to register before she takes her hand back, but instead of moving out of reach she closes the space between them. She cups Derrica's face in her trembling hands and kisses her.
Derrica has a moment to draw breath, thinking to protest further as Athessa draws away, and then abruptly, Athessa is terribly close. The soft, confused voice of protest is entirely lost under the soft press of Athessa's mouth.
The force of emotion behind the kiss is paralyzing. It knocks the breath out of Derrica. How long has it been since she kissed Athessa? Nothing about the passage of time has tempered this. Her hands come up to catch at Athessa's wrists, draw her hands down into her lap as she breaks away with a soft, ragged breath.
Her intent had been to say something. But nothing comes to her. Her thumbs run along the inside of Athessa's wrist, and she feels like she's been hollowed out, throat closing around a wash of conflicting feelings.
Athessa's not so far gone that she doesn't recognize Derrica removing her hands from her face as a signal to stop, though she's loathe to comply. The haze makes it feel like it's happening in slow motion. Every soft sound of ragged breath or the pa-thum pa-thum pa-thum of Athessa's heart deafening in the wake of what must have been a mistake.
But Derrica isn't saying anything. And her touch brushes over Athessa's skin, over the forget-me-nots tattooed there (yet another reminder), and Athessa's gaze flickers between Derrica's mouth and her eyes.
The words trail off. It feels like taking advantage, like she's inserted herself here at the worst possible time. There's some quiet agony over the idea of mixed messages, whether or not her expression of concern had been too much, too familiar.
How much more damage has she just done? Derrica doesn't know. Her grip is so gentle over Athessa's wrists, fingers careful over the delicately tattooed flowers.
That's what she settles on, pushing back against her own doubts and insecurities to say the truth of how she feels. Despite feeling like she's put Derrica in this position, taking advantage of a time when Derrica is less likely to assert herself because Athessa isn't in peak condition.
Athessa looks down at their hands, her own upturned against Derrica's lap. Derrica's hold on Athessa's wrists would be easy to break, but Athessa has no desire to break it. She shifts her thumb to brush against Derrica's arm.
"If you're thinking that you're somehow being selfish with me," she says, thinking back to the nights on the road home from Churneau, and what Derrica had said upon their return. Soft firelight and fresh injury, gentle touches and the comfort of a warm body to lay beside. A heartbeat to thrum in time with. "Then be selfish."
Derrica feels herself flush, heat gathering in her cheeks, along her throat, pooling in her chest. She takes a breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly before she shakes her head.
"I should let you rest," she says in answer, some quiet strain in her voice as her hands lift from Athessa's. The minor shuttering in her expression is inevitable, tempering the warmth and concern. "I've kept you up long enough."
Ironic, perhaps, that Derrica thinks leaving Athessa alone will result in her getting rest when even at the best of times she doesn't sleep well alone. Now, with the images of dead elves and dismembered limbs fresh in memory, she'd be lucky to sleep at all.
"You could stay," she whispers, wincing at how small her voice sounds. The last thing she wants right now is more pity. "Until I fall asleep?"
Actually, the last thing she wants to do right now is beg. And this feels too close to that for comfort.
The first thought that crosses Derrica's mind: It would be very stupid to stay. Athessa has just kissed her, and the invitation in her voice is weighing heavily on Derrica's conscience.
But Athessa sounds so pained. Derrica doesn't know what the right thing to do in the face of that might be. She has the terrible sense of being suspended in a place where every possible outcome is full of different kinds of regrets. The indecision writes itself across her face, her hands twisting in her lap as she tries to work her way to a choice.
"Just to sleep," is what she says, worry pinching at her even as she makes the decision. She bends to unlace her boots, draw her feet up on to the bed. "Come here."
Athessa nods, just to sleep, and it feels like more than she deserves for acting so thoughtlessly. She's sorry. She's not sorry.
While Derrica unlaces her boots, Athessa finishes unbuttoning her overshirt, shrugging out of it with only a flicker of a wince at the pain of moving her shoulder. The chest binding she wears underneath the shirt will stay on, laughably for modesty's sake as she lays on her side by Derrica. She's not sorry. She is. Isn't.
She sighs, and when she closes her eyes, even briefly, her frown stays. She is.
But Derrica draws the blankets up around Athessa, and stays as she promised. She stays until Athessa's breathing evens out and the furrow of a frown eases from her face.
There's nothing to make any of this easier. It aches to slip from the bed, and aches to smooth the hair back from Athessa's face. She draws the thick folds of her own shawl up over Athessa's shoulders, gathered in with the blankets, and leaves silently out the door.
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no subject
Athessa shakes her head, dismissing the rest of whatever she might ramble on about in the wake of that admission. Colin didn't want it because he rarely uses a staff, and it was too personal a gift to offer. He, whom she calls brother. It feels little more than perfunctory to offer it to Derrica now, knowing the implications and that the staff would likely require more practice to use than not.
And this whole time Athessa has avoided looking at Derrica's face, knowing she could gauge her reaction and, inexplicably, preferring not to.
"But if that's too much or just not something you want, I don't blame you. It just seems a waste for me to have it and not be able to use it. It...should be used."
no subject
"I'm honored that you want me to have it."
That much is easy to say. It is such an expression of trust to give her this piece of her family, maybe one of the only pieces Athessa has in her possession.
"But I couldn't—it's not wasted with you, Athessa. Doesn't it bring you some comfort to have something so important to your grandmother with you?"
no subject
"No," she says quietly, on a breath, and bites her lip. Hasn't she cried enough? When is she going to stop needing to fight herself just to maintain composure? She wins the battle this time, though she swipes a hand over her cheek just to be sure.
"No. It brings me guilt, and anger, and grief, and I'd rather someone take it and use it to do good rather than let it sit there reminding me about everything I never became and never will."
Athessa buries her head in her hands for only a moment, deterred from prolonging it by the flash-image of that poor elf woman's face. Eyes sewn open, mouth sewn shut. But instead of the glassy marbles Medrod had fashioned in place of her real eyes, Athessa sees her mother's eyes and it shocks a breath from her lungs and forces her to uncurl from herself and keep her own eyes open.
"It's yours if you want it," she says, making to stand. "But I won't force it on you."
no subject
She grieves Dairsmuid, but in a different way. It leaves her very little to go on.
"Don't get up," Derrica pleads softly. "Athessa."
The question becomes: should she take the staff to spare Athessa this weight? Derrica still hesitates over the idea of having something so precious in her possession, even as she reaches to catch at Athessa's wrist to keep her from drawing away.
no subject
It takes barely the span of a breath for those things to register before she takes her hand back, but instead of moving out of reach she closes the space between them. She cups Derrica's face in her trembling hands and kisses her.
Sweetly. Desperately.
Like her lips are air and she's been drowning.
no subject
Derrica has a moment to draw breath, thinking to protest further as Athessa draws away, and then abruptly, Athessa is terribly close. The soft, confused voice of protest is entirely lost under the soft press of Athessa's mouth.
The force of emotion behind the kiss is paralyzing. It knocks the breath out of Derrica. How long has it been since she kissed Athessa? Nothing about the passage of time has tempered this. Her hands come up to catch at Athessa's wrists, draw her hands down into her lap as she breaks away with a soft, ragged breath.
Her intent had been to say something. But nothing comes to her. Her thumbs run along the inside of Athessa's wrist, and she feels like she's been hollowed out, throat closing around a wash of conflicting feelings.
no subject
But Derrica isn't saying anything. And her touch brushes over Athessa's skin, over the forget-me-nots tattooed there (yet another reminder), and Athessa's gaze flickers between Derrica's mouth and her eyes.
"I—" She's sorry. She's not sorry.
no subject
The words trail off. It feels like taking advantage, like she's inserted herself here at the worst possible time. There's some quiet agony over the idea of mixed messages, whether or not her expression of concern had been too much, too familiar.
How much more damage has she just done? Derrica doesn't know. Her grip is so gentle over Athessa's wrists, fingers careful over the delicately tattooed flowers.
no subject
That's what she settles on, pushing back against her own doubts and insecurities to say the truth of how she feels. Despite feeling like she's put Derrica in this position, taking advantage of a time when Derrica is less likely to assert herself because Athessa isn't in peak condition.
Athessa looks down at their hands, her own upturned against Derrica's lap. Derrica's hold on Athessa's wrists would be easy to break, but Athessa has no desire to break it. She shifts her thumb to brush against Derrica's arm.
"If you're thinking that you're somehow being selfish with me," she says, thinking back to the nights on the road home from Churneau, and what Derrica had said upon their return. Soft firelight and fresh injury, gentle touches and the comfort of a warm body to lay beside. A heartbeat to thrum in time with. "Then be selfish."
no subject
Derrica feels herself flush, heat gathering in her cheeks, along her throat, pooling in her chest. She takes a breath, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly before she shakes her head.
"I should let you rest," she says in answer, some quiet strain in her voice as her hands lift from Athessa's. The minor shuttering in her expression is inevitable, tempering the warmth and concern. "I've kept you up long enough."
no subject
"You could stay," she whispers, wincing at how small her voice sounds. The last thing she wants right now is more pity. "Until I fall asleep?"
Actually, the last thing she wants to do right now is beg. And this feels too close to that for comfort.
"Please."
no subject
But Athessa sounds so pained. Derrica doesn't know what the right thing to do in the face of that might be. She has the terrible sense of being suspended in a place where every possible outcome is full of different kinds of regrets. The indecision writes itself across her face, her hands twisting in her lap as she tries to work her way to a choice.
"Just to sleep," is what she says, worry pinching at her even as she makes the decision. She bends to unlace her boots, draw her feet up on to the bed. "Come here."
no subject
While Derrica unlaces her boots, Athessa finishes unbuttoning her overshirt, shrugging out of it with only a flicker of a wince at the pain of moving her shoulder. The chest binding she wears underneath the shirt will stay on, laughably for modesty's sake as she lays on her side by Derrica. She's not sorry. She is. Isn't.
She sighs, and when she closes her eyes, even briefly, her frown stays. She is.
slaps a bow on here
But Derrica draws the blankets up around Athessa, and stays as she promised. She stays until Athessa's breathing evens out and the furrow of a frown eases from her face.
There's nothing to make any of this easier. It aches to slip from the bed, and aches to smooth the hair back from Athessa's face. She draws the thick folds of her own shawl up over Athessa's shoulders, gathered in with the blankets, and leaves silently out the door.