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So it does.

[ Here is the ferry, that flagship indicative of his freedom from the Gallows; Loki swings their arms between them a little as they walk towards it, basking a bit in her apparent joy at his arrival. Would he mind? Loki can't quite say, honestly; he'd have to see them first, he figures, but that's not the first thing that concerns him. ]

Are you sure it wouldn't feel odd to you? Me, wearing your husband's clothes. [ In her husband's place, he doubts he would actually mind very much, except for the part where he might be insanely jealous that she was courting a version of himself; but that man isn't here, so who knows how he actually feels about it. ]

I've been remiss in all my studying of Thedas' culture I have not paid much attention to its fashions. [ He tilts his head a little. ] You draw?

[ Alexandrie chuckles air through her nose and lets him swing their arms, paying the charm of his buoyancy far more mind than the appearance of propriety.

Thinks again, as she finds them a place to sit on the side facing the city so she can point out landmarks as they travel. Would it feel odd? Perhaps in practice. More importantly, it might well be deleterious to her attempts to separate the two men in mind and heart. She hardly needs more points of connection. ]

We shall see Phillipe first, then, and he shall be very happy to tell you anything you wish to know in excessive detail.

To the other: I paint. Landscapes in particular, but many of the skills translate to other subjects.

Fantastic, [ he says, nodding. As they sit he keeps his hand in hers, moving to hold it with both of his own in his lap, but he's prepared to take in the sights as they are. He promises himself, silently, that he won't make any derisive noises should Kirkwall not meet his impossibly high standards. Anything other than the Gallows will be an improvement at this point.

As there are very few people on this ferry he feels safe enough to summon up an illusion above his hands, opening them while interlacing his fingers with hers, of himself in various clothing he's imagined would be possible, here. Mostly dark, long jackets, with embroidery in gold and greens. Just to give her a sense of what he'd thought up thus far. ]

I would like to see your paintings. [ He says, as the small image of himself flickers and changes clothes. ] If... well, if you wouldn't mind showing them to me.

[ Fully enthralled by the smart looking little him, it takes her a moment to process what he’s said, but eventually she looks up. ]

I should love to. There are several at the estate; and more at my atelier.

[ The latter seems to fluster her a little as after a quick smile she looks down at the illusion again to admire the new outfit, this time raising her free hand palm up to offer a surface for it to walk upon. ]

I had forgotten you hardly need my sketches. I wonder if Phillipe would be pleased by such a model. Careful, though. He might well attempt to cajole you into visiting him to let him try out alterations before he makes them.

[ Looking up again, curious: ]

Have you an art you practice, outside of your magic?

[ The illusion!Loki does stride across her open palm before bowing towards her with a little flourish. ]

Is your atelier here in the city?

[ He watches her face, not the illusion; that is powered by some stream of thought that he's long grown used to ignoring in favor of watching others respond to it, and this is no different. He imagines she must be very good at painting, but that is mostly because he can't imagine her being very bad at anything.

When she looks up he raises his eyebrows and then furrows them. It's been so long since he's practiced an art beyond magic, he has to reach into his youth to find an answer for her. ]

A long time ago I considered writing plays and stories of the exploits of myself and my brother. Some were turned into songs on Midgard.

[ She inclines and dips her head elegantly in reply to the bow before returning her attention to the illusion’s crafter. ]

You must write them here then; I should like to hear them.

[ Alexandrie looks out at the city, drab as always, and gestures up toward the cliffs and mansions of Hightown. ]

It is up there, yes. I shall show it to you. It was once a set of apartments that I shared with my sister Geneviève, designed by our father.

[ A half shrug, a little smile. ]

She returned to Orlais to take a posting in the Empress’s personal guard, and I moved to the estate, so I had the parlor and dining room combined and made into a studio.

A dear friend of mine once took one of the rooms, but he has gone to a posting near the front and is not like to return soon.

[ A pause, then with a slight hesitance— ]

If you would like it.

I will try. [ For her sake, moreso than his own; he's not sure that those stories could be anything but slightly heartbreaking for him at this point. Because the brother he knew is gone, unreachable, his mother fated to die by his poor decisions and his father is elsewhere and the men who exist in this reality in their place do not know this Loki.

Like the songs of his people, they exist only in Loki's memory.

That is enough reason to share them, he supposes, remembering his first conversation with Alexandrie on the matter. ]

You have a sister? [ He's charmed by this information for unknown reasons, pocketing it away in the corner of his mind. She has a sister, who is a personal guard for the Empress of Orlais, a friend at the front lines (she doesn't offer a name and he feels loathe to pry just yet) and thus an empty apartment.

One she's offering him, he thinks, but is so surprised by that offer that he isn't sure, suddenly. The illusion, no longer sustained by Loki's split attention, dissolves above Alexandrie's open palm. ]

I would, [ he offers quietly, ] but I wouldn't want you to feel as if you must.

[ He doesn't want her to resent the many things she's offered him, things he's not sure that he deserves. ]

I have four sisters, [ is the amused reply. ] And one brother. All older than me, save Geneviève, whom I bested by two minutes.

[ And Alexandrie still looks slyly pleased about it. ]

We look very much the same; would look moreso if I were to have trained to heavy armour as a Chevalier and she had taken more care with her figure and keeping her skin from the sun.

[ She chuckles to herself, and then offers Loki a softer smile and leans to brush a kiss across his cheek with an accompanying gentle squeeze for his hand. ]

I do not feel as if I must. It is freely offered. And—

[ The ferry bumps into the cityside dock and she rises, tugging him lightly after her towards where they will disembark— ]

I am being selfish, for it will mean you are close by on the nights I spend in Hightown.

My goodness, four sisters, including a twin. And a brother, [ he'd be remiss to forget that. Loki smiles, wondering just how old Alexandrie is but knowing much better than to ask. He's not a fool.

Besides, she kisses him on the cheek in the next moment and he's struck by that instead. The gentleness of it, of her, which surprises him each time it's turned in his direction.

She rises and he stands as well, following after her while still holding her hand in his. He looks around as they alight from the ferry, taking in the foggy docks that don't look drastically different from those at the Gallows. ]

Then I will gladly accept the offering of your apartment; it's connected to the rest of your estate, I presume?

It is not, no. But a walk of fifteen minutes at most, and far quicker by carriage.

[ The which she lofts a hand for now, the slight gesture caught immediately by one of the enterprising drivers who had quickly made a habit of meeting the ferry once the Gallows had bustled to life again. Two enterprising drivers, in fact, but one has a footman quicker with the door and so that one it is. Driver's hat doffed, destination given, coin produced, and once they settle themselves within the relatively comfortable space, off down the less comfortable uneven streets that wind from the docks through Lowtown they will go.

When they are alone again the look she casts upon him is one of tentative apology. ]

I had thought—

But then I thought you might not be well pleased by the offer of Lord Thor's rooms, which would again must needs be his if ever he returned to Kirkwall, and...

[ She looks down at their hands. This time she pulls his into her lap, covers it with her other hand, strokes his thumb with hers. ]

I will take no other lover to his bed. It has been so, and it will remain so.

Fifteen minutes isn't so bad, [ he says, mostly to reassure himself. He's not had to walk as much as he has these past few weeks in the Gallows, which has been great for his thighs and ass, not so great for his feeling like he's in control of his life.

Hopefully, there aren't a million and four stairs.

He won't ask, though. Just in case there are.

She pulls his hand into her lap and he watches the way the light from the carriage window plays across their skin, their intertwined fingers. He has to chuckle at the idea of being offered Thor's rooms. ]

I wouldn't prefer that, no. [ Besides. ] The marriage bed is sacrosanct.

[ He means this honestly. Other beds? Open for whatever may come, or whomever, as the case may be.

He should be watching the window to see the city around them but instead, he's fixated on her, on the curl of her hair and the softness of her hands. ]

Yes.

[ He is looking at her as if he can see nothing else, understands the turning of her thoughts, and Alexandrie wants suddenly to change all of her plans. There are other times to see Phillipe, breakfasts can be brought, Kirkwall will still be there with all its severe architectural lines, sparse sand-coloured stone, and perennially disagreeable weather. It is early enough in the day yet, they could go back to sleep instead. Could curl together with her head tucked into Loki's shoulder, or his into hers. Could hold more of one another than hands.

(He has not let go all this time. She has not.) ]

The space is yours then. When we arrive at Phillipe's I shall send a message to Byron to have it prepared.

[ She shifts a little so she can lean against him, relaxing there with a little sigh. ]

Is there aught you should like to see in particular, now that you may walk about as you please?

[ She leans into him and he feels... protective of Alexandrie. Which might be a little surprising, he's not sure. Good, in the moment, and a little honored that she would trust him thusly. It warms him, and he shifts to be a better pillow for her, putting his shoulder down a little.

Neither of them has let go; he stares at their hands as they continue onward. ]

Thank you.

[ He, like her, wonders if they shouldn't just go straight to the apartment. Fall into bed, catch several hours of sleep, and try again. But he doesn't want to seem as if he's disinterested in what she's arranged for the day, and so he keeps the thought to himself. ]

The marketplace, I think. I've been warned away from Darktown. [ Which of course means he will investigate it at some point. ] What do you think I should see?

[ The problem with Kirkwall is that Alexandrie does not like it.

She likes the sea, but she likes it better in Val Royeaux. The trade goods are interesting, but she likes them better in Val Royeaux. The theatre is not the worst she has ever seen, the food is tolerable, the fashion acceptable but riskless and uninspired by her standards. It has grown on her over the years, but more in the sense of a stubborn garden weed that cannot be uprooted and so she is obliged to find some sort of beauty in it or go mad.

And she has; the sea birds that live in the cliffs, the park in Hightown, the view of the storms rolling in from the water on the balcony of the apartments. But attempting to cultivate any excitement about the city itself in another requires a genuine desire to, and Loki's shift to make himself more comfortable for her to rest on has chased everything but the want of being in his arms somehow entirely out of her head. ]

I think you should see my paintings.

[ She says quietly, meaning I think we should go to bed. ]

I would like that, very much.

[ He moves to kiss the top of her head and squeezes her hands. He would like nothing more, honestly, than to have new clothes made and then spend time quietly in the company of Alexandrie and her art. Investigate an apartment. Discover just how long a fifteen-minute walk really takes. ]

So. We will go to Phillipe's and send word to your man, Byron. [ He's assuming he's a butler or something similar. ] Perhaps at Phillipe's we shall obtain some coffee or tea to help us be more awake at this hour, and once we're done there, we can enjoy the splendor of your art together and perhaps seal ourselves off from the world for a while.

Later, if the fog lifts, we can get lunch somewhere.

[ He'll need to go back to the Gallows to obtain his meager belongings and return books to the library, but that can be a later in the day sort of activity. ]

How does that sound?

[ It sounds like she is turning so the hand not interlaced with Loki's can find its way to the back of his head and gently pull until she can kiss him, eyes closing on a long inhale. It is a sweet and soft thing—

Until the uneven street jolts one of the back wheels and makes it briefly much harder than necessary and accompanied by a muffled yelp of surprise that dissolves into laughter when she pulls back to touch his lips apologetically. ]

Andraste misericordieuse, I forgot about the bump. I hate this road.

[ It means they're nearly at the lift, at least. ]

[ Hw wonders, as she pulls him in for that kiss, if there will ever be a time in which he'll stop being pleasantly surprised that she wants him for such a gentle thing. Hopes that he won't. Hopes that it keeps causing his breath to catch a little when she spools her fingers through his hair and tugs him close. Even if he lives out the rest of a mortal life, here, with her.

It's an odd thought, but again perhaps not that odd, yet definitely one that is interrupted by the jostling of the carriage and her suddenly being pulled away by it. Loki opens his eyes to her laughter, smiling as she touches his lips. ]

Better than the stairs, though, I imagine.

[ Gods above, he's tired of stairs. ]

The stairs are fine enough for kissing, [ she counters coyly, looking up at him through lowered lashes.

A moment there, and then she breaks into a broad smile and wrinkles her nose at him before pointing out his window. ]

I like to watch this part, when we rise above the rooftops and can see the water again.

[ He laughs because there's little else to do in the face of her expression, that nose wrinkle. He imagines stairs are very useful as a place to kiss, especially if she were to stand several above him and thus not need him to lean in order to meet her mouth.

Which is what he's looking at, as opposed to out the window, until she points and he turns in his seat.

Kirkwall is a grey and somewhat severe city that recalls to mind the Brutalism period of Midgardian architecture; a place of severe lines and corners that need to be brightened by an overabundance of plant life to be easier on the eyes and the soul. It is not as terribly oppressive as the energy within the Gallows, and the view she's pointed out has its perks. There's something very nice about the slow progression of the lift, breaking them above the fog bank and then above the tops of the city's buildings until the ocean can be viewed beyond them.

He turns back towards her, squeezes her hand again. ]

It's lovely.

[ The gaze he will meet when he turns back is one of softened adoration; Alexandrie has been watching him watch the city appear and marking every little flicker of expression, every minute shift in his position as something new appears and captures his interest for a fleeting moment before it is replaced by something newer still. She is watching as if she could hold each small part of him she sees in her hands and love them all in turn.

She will let him see it only for a moment before she looks down at their hands with an odd little smile. There is something in her that has grown afraid of sharing the full volume of her heart too soon. She has seen it be a thing that drowns.

She squeezes back. ]

I am pleased you like it. [ When she looks back up, there is mirth in her eyes again. ] You shall see it often enough.

[ She looks down and Loki is left blinking in the absence of her gaze, momentarily concerned that perhaps she was merely looking fondly upon the city, definitely not at him; but she's looking at their hands, and then up again, her subtle joy a precious sort of thing, and she's said something.

Give him a moment.

He could say something smart about the view being improved by the company and he nearly does, just to see if it will make her laugh; his mouth opens and he would like nothing better than to cause a joyous noise to erupt from her, to keep that sound in his imperfect memory until it was a part of his atoms, but the lift ride is more stable than the path towards it has been and he opts instead to kiss her again.

It's not as soft as her earlier venture. There's more of a need to it, near desperation in the way he holds her chin with thin fingers and bites at her lower lip. Like he thinks she might suddenly up and vanish.

The lift stops; Loki breaks the kiss to breathe heavily through his nose, eyes closed, nose alongside her own. He rubs along the line of her jaw with his thumb and opens his eyes, much too close to focus beyond color, dominated by shades of blue. ]

[ And just like that, she is safe again.

There is no shape you could take, she had insisted once, that I would not love.

She had meant her husband's shifting form when she'd said it. That she would love him human, kossith, serpent, raven, any thing that was him she would love. It has broadened now, now that she knows that there are not only more of him splintered out across the worlds but that perhaps there is something in the heart of every one that pours into the cracks in her like molten gold, and she will love him. Again and again she will love him because he wants her, wants all of her. Wants her in her rage, her sorrow, her joy. Wants her knowing she was cruel and still can be, wants her when she is kind, when she is sharp, when she is clever. Reaches to hold her when she is a storm as readily as he does her calmer waters.

And he wants her heart, wants all of it. He takes it from the mews and gives it back the sky, and in gratitude she pours it forth for him; meets his need with her own, answers the desperation in his kiss with surety— Yes. Here. Always— and when it breaks she presses her head to his, nudges his nose with her own, their breath alike.

They cannot go to see Phillipe or the lands she's saved upon the walls and the room will have to do as is, for right now there is nothing in the world but him and she will wait no longer to be loved.

Without looking away she rises up a little so she can rap sharply on the roof. Waits for the slow, the footman's swift return, so she can tell him they are going home. ]

[ He feels... hm. Not bad, exactly, for having so thoroughly derailed her earlier plans (he is a creature of chaos, after all) but there is a question in his eyes as the footman approaches. Is this alright? She wanted to know his heart and he still is uncertain of it, strange and cold thing that it is, except for its express desire to be nearest to her. To smell her perfume in every room, to watch her move through the world, to be there when she's angry or happy or sad and do his best to provide some equilibrium or perhaps just to be there. Nothing makes as much sense to him as Alexandrie does, because they're so alike in ways he hadn't expected, but perhaps he should have. Only something similar to himself could he learn to love, he thinks, not terribly kindly.

Only something similar to himself could love him, anyway.

That train of thought will not get him anywhere, he decides.

He leans back so she can speak to the footman but his hand remains with hers, the one that had pressed against her jaw falls to his lap as she speaks and redirects the carriage. He lifts their hands together so he can kiss the back of hers, a way to hide his small smile. ]

Philipe won't be terribly disappointed, I hope?

[ She doesn't hide hers. ]

Phillipe may be as disappointed as he likes.

[ If Phillipe were to swear to never put needle to cloth for her again so long as she lived, she would choose the same; even if Loki doesn't know, she knows enough. Enough to know he will not take what she gives to hurt her with it. Enough to know if she touches him like finest crystal, like the down of smallest bird, he will lean into her hands not pull away. Enough to know his eyes wonder as much as hers.

If she is wrong, let her be wrong.

But if she is right, Alexandrie will not waste a single numbered second of their lives on fear when it could be spent in joy. Not one.

There's an extra coin and a smile for the driver when they arrive at a building cunningly designed to be part of the city and apart from it; the lines of it are as severe as the rest, but instead of corners on the windows and doors there are curves; small clovers and wide and airy arches facing the sea. The bricks of stone are cut the same, but they are of white that sparkles subtly, setting off the moulding— harsh and angular but painted in blue and offset by the curving gold filigree that dances within— and the green of the carefully trellised vines that climb the sides. A little piece of Val Royeaux sitting primly, quietly rebellious, in Kirkwall.

It is little new to Alexandrie, but for a moment she sees it so and smiles; then turns that smile on Loki. ]

So?

It's quite something, [ he murmurs appreciatively, stepping out of the carriage and taking in the white and the blue and the climbing vines. The clovers and the arches and the curves of the doors and windows. This, honestly, he finds a much more aesthetically pleasing architectural foray than the rest of Kirkwall; he's sure that the city's varied and oftentimes quite dark history has something to do with the way its buildings are structured, but that doesn't mean his eye isn't at least a little more interested in what pleases it.

They stopped their handholding to alight from their mode of transportation; now, Loki reaches for it again, loathe to let go for longer than strictly necessary. ] I would like to fall into bed with you, [ he announces once their fingers are intertwined again. ] Even if it's just to hold and be held.

[ It's still early, after all. Far earlier than he'd be awake on his own. ]

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