"Once or twice." Yseult's smile is warm too and so are her hands as she lays them on his bare chest, palm over the place he was wounded at Val Chevin though there's nothing left to see of it now. She bends to press her first kiss over the spot all the same. They are both lucky. She doesn't linger on it.
Later, she dozes with her head on his chest, letting the sun lull her back to sleep. She laughs as Darras insists on pouring wine into mouth instead of handing over the bottle, wetting fingers in the trickle that spills down her throat and flicking it at him. She cards fingers through his hair as he reads with his head in her lap. She relights the oven and slices bread while he fries salt pork. She stitches up a tear in a shirt while he tunes his guitar. She falls asleep with his breath soft against the back of her neck. Another day passes, two, three. They shop in the village, check the perimeter fence, take the sail boat out for an afternoon and eat their catch on the beach as the sun sets. They read, and fall asleep in front of the fire, and spar on the lawn, and debate whether they ought to buy goats someday, and wake each morning in their narrow bed.
It fixes more than it doesn't. But Yseult still wakes one night hours before dawn and pulls on her dressing gown to sit and write in the orange light of the barely-glowing embers.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-03-14 01:50 am (UTC)Later, she dozes with her head on his chest, letting the sun lull her back to sleep. She laughs as Darras insists on pouring wine into mouth instead of handing over the bottle, wetting fingers in the trickle that spills down her throat and flicking it at him. She cards fingers through his hair as he reads with his head in her lap. She relights the oven and slices bread while he fries salt pork. She stitches up a tear in a shirt while he tunes his guitar. She falls asleep with his breath soft against the back of her neck. Another day passes, two, three. They shop in the village, check the perimeter fence, take the sail boat out for an afternoon and eat their catch on the beach as the sun sets. They read, and fall asleep in front of the fire, and spar on the lawn, and debate whether they ought to buy goats someday, and wake each morning in their narrow bed.
It fixes more than it doesn't. But Yseult still wakes one night hours before dawn and pulls on her dressing gown to sit and write in the orange light of the barely-glowing embers.