Tomorrow seems a very long way away. It did before as well, when Yseult was missing. Days that just went on, and on, until the sun rose bleakly and the next endless day started going on, and on, and on. This is the better version, a day that should last forever. The sort of day that you turn over in your mind when you're living through the other kind.
Darras washes Yseult's hair--once, and then again, until the water that drips down her pale back runs clear. He kisses her, the ear and then the cheek and then the back of her head, the smell of her clean hair a heady perfume. He is thinking of the cottage as well, the plants and the sun and the sea and the waves at the bottom of the cliff. The fire in the grate when it is cold, the sun through the curtains when it is hot.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
He doesn't ask until later, until after she's out of the bath and dressed in clean clothes and he's rubbing at her hair with a towel, leaving it damp and half-dry.
no subject
Darras washes Yseult's hair--once, and then again, until the water that drips down her pale back runs clear. He kisses her, the ear and then the cheek and then the back of her head, the smell of her clean hair a heady perfume. He is thinking of the cottage as well, the plants and the sun and the sea and the waves at the bottom of the cliff. The fire in the grate when it is cold, the sun through the curtains when it is hot.
"Do you want to tell me about it?"
He doesn't ask until later, until after she's out of the bath and dressed in clean clothes and he's rubbing at her hair with a towel, leaving it damp and half-dry.