WHO: James Holden and YOU WHAT: Catch-all for April WHEN: Fantasy April WHERE: The Gallows and Kirkwall, mostly, but around NOTES: Starters in the comments, lmk if you'd like something bespoke or feel free to drop in a wildcard.
There's a sideways smile that tugs at his mouth, wry and with humor, as he looks up at her. He might've moved to cover up more if she'd seemed uncomfortable, but truthfully, it's hard to imagine anything rattling Aenor.
There are things that might shake her confidence, but someone as harmless as James Holden isn't on the list, even when he's undressed. She takes a seat on a nearby bench, pulling pins from her hair one by one and dropping them into some unseen pocket.
"Mmm," she says, considering, a little smile to match his own. "Yes, I think so. But a man washing, he may not want company. A man relaxing, he might."
Company it is, then. Once her hair's falling down around her face, the braids combed out with her fingers, she undresses and climbs into the tub, across from him. She's slender, thin-limbed, silvery old stretch marks at the edges of her belly overshadowed by the jagged puckering of an old scar on one shoulder, cutting down the outside of her upper arm. There are plenty of other marks on her, old and older, but that one's the most likely to draw the eye.
"Riftwatch, it is good. Better, I think, for me than my dear son." Which, in retrospect, she wonders if Caric himself suspected from the start. A perceptive boy, her son. "Good for you, too?"
Of course, he doesn't have much of a choice; there's always Amos's backup plan to escape elsewhere in Thedas if it ever comes to that, but just the same. And he couldn't imagine leaving now, not these people, nor their causes. But he doesn't speak that to Aenor, eyes landing on the larger scar, briefly, before returning to her face.
"Good." A small thing, but she's happy to hear it. Riftwatch seems to help people, and if Holden's included in that number, so much the better.
She leans her head back against the rim of the bath, cracking her neck, before she answers his question. It gives him, she'd like to think, a chance to stare if he needs to--and more importantly, her neck cracks. When her gaze meets him again, she's smiling. "Caric, he is so many things. Clever, brave, determined. A mother sees this. But he leads, I think. Riftwatch is for following."
It's a strange thing to consider that, in some ways, he hasn't seen much of families around the Gallows. Riftwatch is a little like the Cant had been, in some ways — a place where people gather to work for their own reasons, sometimes for a lack of anywhere else to go, sometimes to escape their own pasts, sometimes for their own goals. There's something sweet to how easily and openly she talks about her son.
"Not far, I think." She hopes not, at least. The idea of his leaving Kirkwall longer than a few months, returning to the Anderfels permanently, might tear her heart to pieces. What she says, her hair floating weedlike around her on the surface of the water, is, "A boy, he should be able to visit with his mother. You understand."
"Something like that," he admits, considering the admission that he only sent messages to one of his mothers. Aenor might be interested, he thinks, but he's not sure he wants to get into that story.
So, instead, "I can't imagine Caric not coming back to see you."
They have a clear bond, Aenor and her son, and he wouldn't take his mother somewhere and abandon her.
"Nor I--" a ready agreement, all cheer--"unless my dear son, he was kept from me. And then, I think, I would find him."
It's her turn, certainly, to rescue the poor boy from loneliness. Fortunately, it seems an unlikely turn of events; Caric will no doubt find himself plenty of mischief, but he's quite adept at getting himself out of such entanglements as well.
"And your mother, what of her?" It occurs to her, after she asks, that he might not want to speak of her when he's so far from home. But it's asked, and Aenor's got no intention of taking it back.
He laughs, makes to duck from her splash, raising an arm and dropping it.
"Of course not," he says in a tone that's very much I wouldn't dare suggest that. And then shrugs. "Well, when eight people love each other very much — "
" — they decide to have a son," he goes on, undeterred and amused, "and cash in on a tax break that allows them a parcel of land."
It's gotten easier, the longer he's been here, to sometimes talk about his family. To, every so often, bring up Montana. He misses the farm, but not as much as the Roci, and the tight knot of shame he used to feel about leaving has eased over the last year or so.
Her brow furrows. Taxes, she knows, if distantly--they seem like a human concern to her, or at least a settled one. (Perhaps they'll be necessary now, living in one spot. She's not entirely sure.) But--"A 'tax break'?"
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"Can it be both?"
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"Mmm," she says, considering, a little smile to match his own. "Yes, I think so. But a man washing, he may not want company. A man relaxing, he might."
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She's still here, of course, along with her son; so he imagines he has an idea of her answer.
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"Riftwatch, it is good. Better, I think, for me than my dear son." Which, in retrospect, she wonders if Caric himself suspected from the start. A perceptive boy, her son. "Good for you, too?"
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Of course, he doesn't have much of a choice; there's always Amos's backup plan to escape elsewhere in Thedas if it ever comes to that, but just the same. And he couldn't imagine leaving now, not these people, nor their causes. But he doesn't speak that to Aenor, eyes landing on the larger scar, briefly, before returning to her face.
"But your son isn't as much of a fan?"
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She leans her head back against the rim of the bath, cracking her neck, before she answers his question. It gives him, she'd like to think, a chance to stare if he needs to--and more importantly, her neck cracks. When her gaze meets him again, she's smiling. "Caric, he is so many things. Clever, brave, determined. A mother sees this. But he leads, I think. Riftwatch is for following."
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"Where would he go, if he left?"
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"I don't know that I do. First chance I got, I started working as far from home as I could get."
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So, instead, "I can't imagine Caric not coming back to see you."
They have a clear bond, Aenor and her son, and he wouldn't take his mother somewhere and abandon her.
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It's her turn, certainly, to rescue the poor boy from loneliness. Fortunately, it seems an unlikely turn of events; Caric will no doubt find himself plenty of mischief, but he's quite adept at getting himself out of such entanglements as well.
"And your mother, what of her?" It occurs to her, after she asks, that he might not want to speak of her when he's so far from home. But it's asked, and Aenor's got no intention of taking it back.
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Not unfriendly, though a little evasive, maybe. More than he means to be, really — but also an honest question. What does she want to know?
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But he's clearly teasing; of course she hasn't, who in Thedas would?
"Three mothers. Five fathers. One of me."
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Where she's gained her familiarity is neither here nor there, of course. Which is why, almost immediately, Aenor adds, "Continue."
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"Of course not," he says in a tone that's very much I wouldn't dare suggest that. And then shrugs. "Well, when eight people love each other very much — "
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It's gotten easier, the longer he's been here, to sometimes talk about his family. To, every so often, bring up Montana. He misses the farm, but not as much as the Roci, and the tight knot of shame he used to feel about leaving has eased over the last year or so.
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Eight adults to one child is easily a sparser ratio than it could be, and they'd been able to take rights to the land before the UN could stop them.
"Which isn't a problem here, I know."
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He leans his weight backwards, resting more against the side of the bath than he had before.
"If they hadn't, it would've all been gone by now."
Easy to recall the bogeymen of his childhood: the land paved over, the forest cut down, the earth bled dry, light and sound pollution —
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