closed. the number of hours we have together is actually not so large.

[elegiaque]

WHO: Gwenaëlle, Stephen, and special guests.
WHAT: Gwenaëlle and Stephen go to visit her family for First Day.
WHEN: First Day.
WHERE: A small cottage in the woods, the Free Marches.
NOTES: Content warnings for dealing with lyrium addiction and decline, family member dementia, end of life care, caregiver burnout, grief, loss. Potentially a huge downer of a time.

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[elegiaque]

Anticipated: taking it from its hook when her gaze glossed past it, Gervais hands her the bucket he’s already holding, pressing it into her hand with a quiet, constant affection that allows the way he folds her fingers around its handle not to seem an unkindness.

(Between them, they have known enough unkindness.)

“I won’t tell you to be nice,” Gwenaëlle says, her eye falling on Stephen instead, but now would be a great time for you to demonstrate superhuman patience conveyed in the remaining bright amber. She busies herself, instead, with unfastening the bag she’s been carrying on her hip,

not all they brought, saddlebags still needing unpacked, but a start.

“We’ll catch up. The news, and all.”

[portalling]

There’s so much unspoken happening in this room, this little cottage, the feeling of familiar routine made predictable and rote to wear it into the grooves of their existence. Something known and expected and easier for the woman to remember. Easier, than change and chaos and all their routines being overturned by something new and unexpected like a long-distant niece coming to visit. Easier, than the Riftwatchers’ trip throwing it all into disarray.

(Is this what Stephen and Gwenaëlle might look like, given enough time? Is this what comfortable domesticity and leaning on each other looks like?)

“And all,” Stephen echoes, and he obediently follows Coupe back outside into the brisk winter air. Be nice, he thinks. He’s not very good at it, but he’ll try for her.

Outside and circling the cottage, heading towards the well, to the frozen water. Stephen’s own steps slow down as they approach that stone shape and his mouth firms, looking over the edge. (Hands battering themselves bloody against a frozen lake surface, cold frigid water dark underneath—)

“Do you have a chisel? A hammer?” he asks.