open | i'm somewhere, you're nowhere

[paperwing]

WHO: Sabriel and you
WHAT: It's been a year since Sabriel became a Warden, and she's feeling a little down.
WHEN: (waves hands) Anytime before the Wardens leave west, and going forward to early Drakonis.
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: CW: descriptions of death, violence. If you wanna use this for something else you had in mind for Sab, that's cool too. If you'd like a specific starter, shoot me a PM or ping me on plurk!

Sabriel is not one to seek attention, but she is known, and noted. She could have been like any other mage, diligent, studious, one who keeps herself busy and assists when she's needed and sometimes meddles when she's not. But when you have a voice amongst the mages, and speak for them, you're noticed; when you're a Warden, the same. The Warden's reasons for being here were still not publicly known, and their actions were, as always, shrouded in mystery, and chock full of secrets.

Sabriel had a few secrets of her own that even her fellow Wardens did not know. Burdens. Secrets kept so tightly sealed and pushed away to deal with later, later, later. But, later was now. It was the time of year she dreaded, days creeping forward and her usual distractions fell short. She could keep an Old God's song at bay for so long, but what she had done? The guilt for it, the remembrance? Not so much.

Too many secrets. She was not as pure hearted as they assumed, by far. They could guess at her father being dead, if they were so inclined; an Abhorsen only rises when their predecessor falls. That was the way of it. He had been a Warden for almost three score years, so they would assume it was his Calling that took his life.

It wasn't, in the end. She had failed. It had been her.

Everyone had a time to die. She knew that, the cornerstone of everything Terciel had ever taught her. But she had never dealt with it, never faced it, and never, ever, forgave herself. And now, it was later, and she didn't know how. She was different, changed. For those who knew her, it wouldn't be difficult to notice.

There was an attempt at normality, but it was fleeting. She attends meetings without input, takes tea with a polite thanks and conversation falls short. Where once she sat in the library and studied, now her time there was spent staring from the windows, unseeing at the courtyard below. Sometimes she would hum the unfamiliar ditty that was her constant companion, but what she saw were the fields of Ghislain. She sits in her corner of the tavern in the evenings, wine and meal untouched, appetite lost, something telling for someone who rigorously planned her next meal. None of this - going through the motions, if it could be called that - was for her benefit, but for those who were going west. They didn't have to know. They had enough to deal with, and she had her own orders to follow, if she were not to go with them. Let them think it was sullenness, nothing more.

Once they go, however, she retreats to her shared room, insomnia's hold tight. She lays awake at night, and sleeps during the day, steps along the battlements when it's at its worst and fights back those damned tears when it's little better.

How else was she to deal with this but by herself? It was all she had ever done.

( WILDCARD! AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT )

Comments

[bunko]

"It is not," he corrects, with less boldness than he might usually correct. As careless as he can be, he can tell when a soft touch is best, when his declarations should be more gentle than ringing. "No trouble should be inevitable, not for you. Not while I am here."

Though, depending on how deep her troubles are, this is perhaps a promise that Scipio will not be able to keep. This thought crosses his mind for only a second before he puts it away. What trouble could stand against him? What trouble cannot be cheered away?

He takes her wine glass and replaces it with his cup, which is full to the top and still warm. "There. To start, you must have a drink. This is a thing that helps with the troubles. Three sips, and then you tell me, what it is that casts your face like this. Agreed?"

Agreed, get it? He taps his lower lip. If she says agreed, they will need to seal it.

[paperwing]

Sabriel sighs, a deep, heavy, settled sigh. "It is," she disagrees. Her reply is soft, but resigned. It is what it is. It would be nice if it were true, that he could whisk every trouble away (with his presence, his words, a sip of wine, his kiss), but no. Admitting it doesn't make it true, because it is inevitable.

It is also not his weight to carry, not a story she wants to tell. There are others, better ones, with better endings. Not happy, necessarily, but happier. The sort of happiness that reminded her of him, not just for how she felt. His world was of luckiness, of happiness, and to bring something so sad into it...

But she is too tired to argue. Resolve decays as time doesn't mend.

Not that she says or does anything right away. She watches each movement, the wine, the tap of his lip, his words that wash over her as her frown reasserts itself. Sabriel hesitates again - suggestions ignored for now, their agreement tabled - as she wrestles with her words.

"Are you certain you want to hear it? It is not something that can be taken back, and something heard is not something that can be forgotten. It is mine to bear already, I would not want to-" she sighs, exhaling.

She tries again, though this time, reaches for his hand, the same that tapped his mouth. There is intent, there, yes, but she wants him to be sure - even now, when she is ill-of-ease, she still thinks of others first. "Are you certain, Scipio?"

[bunko]

Well.

No, he is not certain. Not when she looks so seriously at him, her face cast so grimly, this resistance to his cheer. Scipio's hesitation is all internal. Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last) does he think, what would Rafael do now?

Easy answer. Rafael would excuse himself, soften his excusing with flattery or else just stand up and leave. This is his way. It is not Scipio's, though perhaps it should be. How else can he stop himself from getting into such troubles, troubles of the heart, of friendship, of the empathy that flows sweetly in his blood and so often turns his pity and sorrow toward others. You make your own life difficult, Skip, is what Rafa would probably say. Among other things.

But how can he tell her that he will not hear what troubles her, when she looks at him so? Scipio turns his hand so that he is holding hers more properly, and laces his fingers through hers. There. A bond. He cannot leave now.

"I am certain," he tells her, quite seriously, "yes. I am certain that I will hear you. And after you have said these things, I am certain that I will kiss you. Now, please. Tell me this trouble."