WHO: Ellis + OTA WHAT: Homecoming WHEN: Guardian WHERE: Kirkwall NOTES: Thread collection. Closed and open starters in the comments. Holler if you want something bespoke or drop in a wildcard, I'll roll with it.
A tabletop's worth of separation feels intolerable.
Someday, he will have to leave. There is nothing else for it. He is a Warden, and that's what Wardens do. They fight monsters. They die. That is the only end to the story. As far as Ellis knows, that is the final chapter. It waits for him. That has always been a comfort.
Except now, in this moment, there is no finer thing that Wysteria's laugh over that brief wobble of her mouth, that moment when her brow pinched and Ellis saw some familiar thing there followed by another familiar reaction, the way Wysteria holds the former reaction in check. His study of her is so very intent.
How could he ever leave her, so long as there is enough life left in his body to keep him here?
"Then for Lady Asgard's sake," is a very little joke, faltering slightly as Ellis sets down the little mabari. It's for no one's sake but Wysteria's, and certainly not for a woman Ellis has only ever met once in the midst of a haphazard skating game.
There is a beat of quiet there. Ellis draws breath. Opens his mouth.
Says nothing.
Instead, he covers over the crooked fingers of his left hand, makes an effort to sit back slightly in his chair. Inhales deeper, steadying himself.
(This useless thing living in his chest, dug in so deep that there is no reaching in to snuff it out, even if he could bring himself to attempt it.)
"Well obviously," she laughs again, willing her eyes to stop their watering with a wrinkle of her nose. In a last ditch defense, Wysteria fetched her heretofore untouched cup and swallows down a great deal of hot tea in one gulp. "Myself and Mister Stark are simply too good of company compared to the sorts of rocks and sticks and whatever else is in the Anderfels. No wonder you had to acquire yourself the world's largest dog to make up for it."
The cup is set resolutely aside. Wysteria's sleeve makes a last swift pass at the corner of of an eye, compulsive, and then all at once she shifts where she is sitting as if to rise up and out of the chair. Déranger, whose attention has been studiously pinned on the Warden in the room, pivots her bead eyed mop face toward the movement.
"This is silly. It's too cold and dark in here by half and far too gloomy. If we stay here much longer, you and I will both become far too serious and grim when this is nothing but a reason for good spirits." She bangs her fist decisively on the table, rattling dishware. "Come along, Mister Ellis. We should go find ourselves a proper breakfast. We can get those crossed buns and a great slab of bacon and take it over to Gallows and surprise Mister Stark with it before, and you can tell us all about how miserable you've been before he gets too deep into his papers."
A low grumbling comes from somewhere beneath the table, whether in response to Déranger or to the implication of impending movement is anyone's guess. (Perhaps an objection to being named simply a dog.) Across the table, Ellis manages an unsteady laugh, punched out and shaky as he rises with a scrape of the chair.
"Aye, I'd like that."
Not so much the conversation, but being in the room with the two of them. In due time they'll hit upon something to debate over, and Ellis can lapse into quiet, listening as they banter back and forth. It will be a very good way to spend a morning.
Ellis has not let himself fully consider how much he would have missed such an occasion before this exact moment. It is not so far removed from the prickle of feeling returning to frozen limbs after coming in from the cold.
Under Déranger's watchful eye, Ellis rounds the table, extends a hand out to her, inviting, as he reminds, "You'll need your cloak. It's cold."
Even if he cannot say the rest, cannot tell her a true thing, the sentiment comes couched in such a small offering of care. That is enough for Ellis, in the moment.
Without the obstacle of the table between them, it's a matter of course that Wysteria accepts the offer of his hand. Only at the last moment does she recall to be mindful of her feet so she doesn't accidentally trod all over some bit of the mabari lurking under her chair, leaning hard on the benefit of Ellis' hand to keep her balance as she quick steps to avoid Ruadh.
"Ah, yes. The cold," she says in some knowing tone, all forced lightness for she refuses to shed so much as a single silly tear. Standing there between Ellis and the chair and amidst the grumbling of two dogs displeased with this rearrangement, Wysteria fixes him with a serious look which she can maintain only for as long as it takes her to say,
"That must account for why you've let your all the hair on your head grow so long. You're positively shaggy, Mister Ellis."
Before she flashes him a wobbly smile, fiercely squeezes his hand, then separates to fetch the bright red cloak from its peg.
"Come along, Déranger," she calls to the briard with a snap of her fingers once the cloak has been donned, the coals in the fireplace shoved all the way to the back wall, and the little copper mechanized dog has returned to its box and gentle bed of wood shavings. "You may as well make good your acquaintance with both these gentlemen. I suspect you will be obligated to tolerate their company for quite some time to come."
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no subject
Someday, he will have to leave. There is nothing else for it. He is a Warden, and that's what Wardens do. They fight monsters. They die. That is the only end to the story. As far as Ellis knows, that is the final chapter. It waits for him. That has always been a comfort.
Except now, in this moment, there is no finer thing that Wysteria's laugh over that brief wobble of her mouth, that moment when her brow pinched and Ellis saw some familiar thing there followed by another familiar reaction, the way Wysteria holds the former reaction in check. His study of her is so very intent.
How could he ever leave her, so long as there is enough life left in his body to keep him here?
"Then for Lady Asgard's sake," is a very little joke, faltering slightly as Ellis sets down the little mabari. It's for no one's sake but Wysteria's, and certainly not for a woman Ellis has only ever met once in the midst of a haphazard skating game.
There is a beat of quiet there. Ellis draws breath. Opens his mouth.
Says nothing.
Instead, he covers over the crooked fingers of his left hand, makes an effort to sit back slightly in his chair. Inhales deeper, steadying himself.
(This useless thing living in his chest, dug in so deep that there is no reaching in to snuff it out, even if he could bring himself to attempt it.)
Instead: "It was intolerable, being so far away."
Half a sentence. Close enough to the truth.
no subject
The cup is set resolutely aside. Wysteria's sleeve makes a last swift pass at the corner of of an eye, compulsive, and then all at once she shifts where she is sitting as if to rise up and out of the chair. Déranger, whose attention has been studiously pinned on the Warden in the room, pivots her bead eyed mop face toward the movement.
"This is silly. It's too cold and dark in here by half and far too gloomy. If we stay here much longer, you and I will both become far too serious and grim when this is nothing but a reason for good spirits." She bangs her fist decisively on the table, rattling dishware. "Come along, Mister Ellis. We should go find ourselves a proper breakfast. We can get those crossed buns and a great slab of bacon and take it over to Gallows and surprise Mister Stark with it before, and you can tell us all about how miserable you've been before he gets too deep into his papers."
bow on this y/y?
"Aye, I'd like that."
Not so much the conversation, but being in the room with the two of them. In due time they'll hit upon something to debate over, and Ellis can lapse into quiet, listening as they banter back and forth. It will be a very good way to spend a morning.
Ellis has not let himself fully consider how much he would have missed such an occasion before this exact moment. It is not so far removed from the prickle of feeling returning to frozen limbs after coming in from the cold.
Under Déranger's watchful eye, Ellis rounds the table, extends a hand out to her, inviting, as he reminds, "You'll need your cloak. It's cold."
Even if he cannot say the rest, cannot tell her a true thing, the sentiment comes couched in such a small offering of care. That is enough for Ellis, in the moment.
yyyy : ' )
"Ah, yes. The cold," she says in some knowing tone, all forced lightness for she refuses to shed so much as a single silly tear. Standing there between Ellis and the chair and amidst the grumbling of two dogs displeased with this rearrangement, Wysteria fixes him with a serious look which she can maintain only for as long as it takes her to say,
"That must account for why you've let your all the hair on your head grow so long. You're positively shaggy, Mister Ellis."
Before she flashes him a wobbly smile, fiercely squeezes his hand, then separates to fetch the bright red cloak from its peg.
"Come along, Déranger," she calls to the briard with a snap of her fingers once the cloak has been donned, the coals in the fireplace shoved all the way to the back wall, and the little copper mechanized dog has returned to its box and gentle bed of wood shavings. "You may as well make good your acquaintance with both these gentlemen. I suspect you will be obligated to tolerate their company for quite some time to come."