She takes her time about it, pausing for a moment with the bottle on her lip, and then taking another, smaller sip before lowering it to hand back.
"I don't know," she admits. She shakes her head, and reaches up to comb fingers over her hair, where the breeze has lifted it from the loose crown of braids. "I'm not sure what I might find, but the chance of it being anything I want seems--." So slim it barely even merits that word, just another shake of head and shoulders. "Would you? If you were me?"
In the water, Darras' line twitches, and he turns to attend to it. Only a nibble. The fish doesn't bite. He keeps an eye on it anyways, waiting for that next nibble, thinking about what she's asked.
"If I was me, I wouldn't," he says, eventually. "If I was you, I would. I think knowing--you've never needed comforting. You're the strongest person I know. But you deserve it. You deserve knowing. If it's not what you want--I don't think you'd be disappointed, even then. Not you."
Yseult watches his line, too, as another forms between her brows. It's not displeasure, but a sort of mingled fondness and skepticism when she turns back from the nibbling fish.
"You give me too much credit. And it. It'll only be a sad story, or a terrible one. Why seek that out, just because I could bear it if I had to? What's to be gained from it?"
Darras looks away from the water, over at her. If the fish slips the line, he'll rebait the hook and cast off again. They're in close enough quarters that he could lean over and kiss the little crease between her brows. He wants to.
"I know you better'n anyone. I give you the credit I know you to deserve." He holds out his hand to her, fishing pole still gripped in the other. "It might well be a sad story. It'll be your story, still. Where you came from. Something separate from the rest of what your life's been. I think that's worth knowing."
"And if it was your parents?" The crease deepens and something in her jaw flexes, the joint worked side-to-side before it's set. "The truth of who they were and why they left you. That's part of your story. Is it incomplete without that?"
"It isn't a question for me. And I didn't say it'd be incomplete. You could live a whole life, not knowing, and never be troubled. You've done it up until now. But if you've got the chance, and you've even thought, for an instant, that you might want to know. Why not take that chance, then, while you've got it?"
He shrugs. Free hand still held to her, waiting for her to take it. His other hand holds the pole, keeping it steady.
Yseult seems to notice his hand then, though she'd hardly have missed it, and reaches out to meet it with some degree of hesitation or at least distraction. But her grip is firm, palm cool. She watches her fingers settle around his.
"The last time I wondered about a father or some other mystery family I was ten years old and shivering myself to sleep on a rooftop." There's some derisive note in her tone, consigning such notions to childhood or desperation or both. "Is it weaker to want it or not to?"
"I don't think it's weakness." Eyes still on the line, he can see their hands in his periphery. He doesn't need to see them. He has seen them, joined, so often, that he has memorized the way they look. Even when she lays her hand over his, fingers only loosely laced, he knows the way that looks. "Either way I don't think it is. I think it's just--knowing."
The line tugs, once, sharp. Darras tightens his hand on the fishing pole. The line goes slack again, almost instantly, but he doesn't relax just yet.
"The things we've seen--or dreamed--about the future--is it weakness, knowing that? Or wanthign to know what could happen?"
"Probably. Wanting anything too much is a weakness. Especially something so uncertain." Her tone is matter-of-fact, but there's a note of frustration creeping in through the disappearing gap between her jaws. She doesn't want to know; she's now even more sure of that.
"I'll think about it."
She drops his hand and rises, careful as ever not to unbalance the boat, and moves to take over the line. "Let's get back, we've enough for dinner."
Darras gives over the line easily enough. Yseult has proved herself clever with fishing, as she is clever with nearly all things. His gaze lingers on her a moment longer, a faint furrow to his brow. She's looking at the water now. She might be able to see him out of her periphery anyways, or sense his look.
"There's a fish on the line, nearly. Wait a moment longer and we'll have one more, and isn't that better."
(The trick is being clever at following directions; that's Yseult's real skill.) She's given the line a tug to start reeling it back in around the spool, but pauses at Darras's request. A huff of breath out her nose signals she's not in agreement with his logic, but she leaves off, giving him and the fish a moment more.
She doesn't say anything, just watches the line, hands poised.
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"I don't know," she admits. She shakes her head, and reaches up to comb fingers over her hair, where the breeze has lifted it from the loose crown of braids. "I'm not sure what I might find, but the chance of it being anything I want seems--." So slim it barely even merits that word, just another shake of head and shoulders. "Would you? If you were me?"
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"If I was me, I wouldn't," he says, eventually. "If I was you, I would. I think knowing--you've never needed comforting. You're the strongest person I know. But you deserve it. You deserve knowing. If it's not what you want--I don't think you'd be disappointed, even then. Not you."
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"You give me too much credit. And it. It'll only be a sad story, or a terrible one. Why seek that out, just because I could bear it if I had to? What's to be gained from it?"
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"I know you better'n anyone. I give you the credit I know you to deserve." He holds out his hand to her, fishing pole still gripped in the other. "It might well be a sad story. It'll be your story, still. Where you came from. Something separate from the rest of what your life's been. I think that's worth knowing."
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He shrugs. Free hand still held to her, waiting for her to take it. His other hand holds the pole, keeping it steady.
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"The last time I wondered about a father or some other mystery family I was ten years old and shivering myself to sleep on a rooftop." There's some derisive note in her tone, consigning such notions to childhood or desperation or both. "Is it weaker to want it or not to?"
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The line tugs, once, sharp. Darras tightens his hand on the fishing pole. The line goes slack again, almost instantly, but he doesn't relax just yet.
"The things we've seen--or dreamed--about the future--is it weakness, knowing that? Or wanthign to know what could happen?"
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"I'll think about it."
She drops his hand and rises, careful as ever not to unbalance the boat, and moves to take over the line. "Let's get back, we've enough for dinner."
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"There's a fish on the line, nearly. Wait a moment longer and we'll have one more, and isn't that better."
sorry i wrote this in my head and only my head
She doesn't say anything, just watches the line, hands poised.