Yseult's chuckle is a soft huff of breath against his skin, accompanied by a little tug of the short hairs at the back of his head, not hard enough to pinch. "You spend far too much time with fish, you can't smell them anymore."
As for what happens next, "You teach the little boy to fish, of course. Some days after he finishes his lessons he comes and sits with you on the dock and you teach him all sorts of things about fish and knots and tell him stories about the sea. And he keeps coming back with new questions, so you teach him more things. How to whittle and whistle far too loud and skip rocks and the stars. Sometimes he brings his sister and you tell them both stories about magical fish and dolphins and all sorts of things.
"And one day when you walk them home at dusk their mother invites you to stay for dinner. You're hungry, and it doesn't smell like fish, so you do. You let it become a habit. Some nights after the children go to bed you and the pretty fishmonger share a bottle of wine and talk--just talk, about the children and the village and life. She talks about her husband, sometimes, how she misses him. How angry she is at him for dying and leaving her alone. You tell her about me, a little. Months and months go by, maybe years even, and you keep not shutting the door in their faces. And one day at a fair you dance with the pretty fishmonger and she smiles at you and you realize you're happy with her and the children that are almost sort of yours now. Maybe not happy like we would've been, but she wouldn't ask you for that. She knows it's not the same. But it's something. You're not alone. And somewhere beyond the Veil, I'm glad."
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As for what happens next, "You teach the little boy to fish, of course. Some days after he finishes his lessons he comes and sits with you on the dock and you teach him all sorts of things about fish and knots and tell him stories about the sea. And he keeps coming back with new questions, so you teach him more things. How to whittle and whistle far too loud and skip rocks and the stars. Sometimes he brings his sister and you tell them both stories about magical fish and dolphins and all sorts of things.
"And one day when you walk them home at dusk their mother invites you to stay for dinner. You're hungry, and it doesn't smell like fish, so you do. You let it become a habit. Some nights after the children go to bed you and the pretty fishmonger share a bottle of wine and talk--just talk, about the children and the village and life. She talks about her husband, sometimes, how she misses him. How angry she is at him for dying and leaving her alone. You tell her about me, a little. Months and months go by, maybe years even, and you keep not shutting the door in their faces. And one day at a fair you dance with the pretty fishmonger and she smiles at you and you realize you're happy with her and the children that are almost sort of yours now. Maybe not happy like we would've been, but she wouldn't ask you for that. She knows it's not the same. But it's something. You're not alone. And somewhere beyond the Veil, I'm glad."