She pulls Stephen through and he hustles in, the door slamming behind them with ringing finality.
Some part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. His shoulders have hunched, braced for the next blow to rip him away from her: a rolling boulder, mountain lion attack, some avalanche crashing through his half of the cabin and sending him spinning down the mountain. But then he follows Gwenaëlle deeper into the cabin and he lets himself look around the interior at last.
All the accoutrements and debris of a life, a cozy contented domestic life, one without Stephen Strange. One with a husband and a daughter. A tall, strapping, handsome warrior of a husband. A smart, coltish precocious daughter. A life without room for him in it.
(A persistent, irritating voice, small and self-doubting: What selfish right does he have to take her from this?)
Something tightens in his jaw, looking around. Stephen kicks his boots against his ankle, knocking off the snow at the entryway, still a neat and tidy habit.
“You live on a houseboat,” he says, blurting out, “in Kirkwall harbour. Not… here, not like this. I know that makes me sound insane, but this is my first chance to tell you. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
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Some part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop. His shoulders have hunched, braced for the next blow to rip him away from her: a rolling boulder, mountain lion attack, some avalanche crashing through his half of the cabin and sending him spinning down the mountain. But then he follows Gwenaëlle deeper into the cabin and he lets himself look around the interior at last.
All the accoutrements and debris of a life, a cozy contented domestic life, one without Stephen Strange. One with a husband and a daughter. A tall, strapping, handsome warrior of a husband. A smart, coltish precocious daughter. A life without room for him in it.
(A persistent, irritating voice, small and self-doubting: What selfish right does he have to take her from this?)
Something tightens in his jaw, looking around. Stephen kicks his boots against his ankle, knocking off the snow at the entryway, still a neat and tidy habit.
“You live on a houseboat,” he says, blurting out, “in Kirkwall harbour. Not… here, not like this. I know that makes me sound insane, but this is my first chance to tell you. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
For longer than he can express.