"No." She wouldn't try. "And I never said easy. I'm sure it would take time." Her mouth curves where it's still half-rested against his shoulder, half-teasing, "I would be insulted if it didn't."
She feels a little bad keeping him awake, hearing him frown through the sleep in his voice. But he did ask. "But I wouldn't want you to be alone forever. You could still have a family, one day."
He puts his arms around her, only a little sluggish from sleep. It takes some shifting but it's worth it, in the end, to have her even a half-inch closer.
"Never wanted a family until I met you. Can't imagine it with anyone else." Some dark future, a path he'll never have to go down. "I could live a life, maybe. A sort of life. But it'd be--something different. Out on some island fishing. Nothing more."
She accommodates the shifting, rearranging limbs to settle comfortably nearer, face still tucked against a shoulder. She hums against his skin, a familiar noise--mild, thoughtful, consideration without agreement.
"What if," she says, and he may recognize this tone too, the hint of a tease, the faintest imitation of his storytelling cadences, matched in the stroke of her fingertips at the nape of his neck, "One day, after some years of solitary fishing, you meet a lady fishmonger. Maybe the old fishmonger retires and his daughter takes his place. She's a widow, you see, with two small children. Her husband recently lost at sea. And every week you bring her your catch and you, being the friendly fellow you are, chat about the weather and the fish and the state of the island and how her children are doing, and she is funny and sweet and has a pretty smile. And one day her little son asks if you'll teach him to fish. Of course you can't say no to that. You wouldn't shut your door in their faces."
"I couldn't shut my door in their faces," he agrees. The brush of her fingers is soothing, and so is the sound of her voice. "Though fishmongers smell. S'ppose I'd smell as well, if I were fishing all the time, but they do smell. What happens next?"
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."
The rhythm of Yseult's voice, telling him a story--like when she reads aloud when they're sat by the fire--like the future he's thought of and even once lived, in his mind, when they have two children sat with them--and the tickle of her breath as she talks--and the distant sound of the waves, steady and familiar--all of it could nearly put Darras back to sleep.
He doesn't fall asleep. He listens, eyes half-closed--and by the end, a smile half on his face. There's a beat of silence before he says, "A pretty story," quiet and drowsy. He rubs his thumb against her arm. "I like that you'd be glad for me. I like it all. If it happened that way--"
Well. He opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. It's lower than the ceiling of their room in the Gallows. More familiar, too, even though he's slept years in that room now.
"I'd still miss you. Every day. I'd think of you."
"I know." Yseult frees her fingers from behind his head and lowers her arm back beneath the blanket instead to rest against him, her hand returned to his chest. She's quiet, taking in the rise and fall of his ribs, the warmth of his skin, and letting her eyes slip closed. She focuses on that, and on the image she's conjured in both their minds, and on the crackle of the fire and the distant hush of the waves, all so far from a clammy cell smelling of cold mud and burnt skin and fresh blood, silent except for Flint's breathing and her own. At least she's planted the idea and Darras hasn't ripped it up. That's some comfort.
She hooks a heel around his shin and pulls herself an impossible inch closer. "I'd miss you too," she says, adding more lightly, "If spirits can miss things. If I don't get pulled into some other dream world to be their version of a rifter."
Edited (not a nag i swear just restless tweaking instead of doing my real work) 2022-05-01 22:37 (UTC)
"Mmm." Half a hum, half a laugh, and already he's smiling again. "Never heard anything that made me want to jump in a Rift more'n that. I'd be after you in a shot. Sorry to the widow and her charming child, that sounds a nice life, but..."
Darras still has an arm around her and he leaves it where it is, draped over her shoulders and holding her close. Her breath is a tickle on his chest, her hand a warm and familiar weight.
"D'you believe in fate?" he asks, after a long silence on his part, right when it seems he might have fallen back to sleep.
Yseult is almost dozing, and so answers without her usual careful thought or precision, "Not really." She strokes an absent thumb against his breastbone. "You do. Don't you?"
"I do." Obviously. And her answer is obvious as well, and in the dark, Darras smiles. "I'm laying here thinking, there's no where else I like more than being right here, just like this, in this place, with you. Not even the sea compares to it, not anymore. And that's partly what makes me believe in it. How is it that we'd end up here, after everything, if not for it."
"Luck." Yseult stretches against his side, reaching toward the footboard with toes and then curling back in, ankle hooked over his. She's pressing a smile against his chest. "You're terribly lucky, remember? I'm just another dolphin."
"But you're much better than a dolphin, darling, don't sell yourself short. I'd never have married a dolphin."
Darras, smiling as well, pulls her even (however impossibly) closer to him, as if in response to that ankle hook.
"As to your point, I'd argue that I'm lucky because of fate. Or maybe it's my luck that entwined my fate with yours. Either way, I won't be convinced otherwise."
"I won't try," Yseult replies, obviously assuaged by the knowledge that he considers her much more marriageable than a dolphin. She is laughing a little, the sort of fond chuckle that's more breath than sound, and follows the direction of his pull, pushing herself up half onto his chest where she can kiss his cheek or jaw or something in that general region.
"Go back to sleep," she urges, with that laugh in her voice and kissing him again, "I know it's my fault you're awake, but I'm not debating philosophy at this hour. Sleep."
"Sleep," he agrees. One last kiss, which he's got to twist to plant on her, whatever part of her he can get to--but he does, gladly. And then he does sleep.
The next morning is for chores, and breakfast, and chores after that--a nap in the afternoon, when the sun is highest and the hottest, no sense in trying to do anything when it's like that out, and when you're in Antiva, you might as well act like it--but in the afternoon, Darras gets out their little boat and they sail out into the cove, just where it turns to ocean.
This, in a way, is also a chore. Someone's got to catch their dinner--that's what Darras says to Yseult, as he casts his line out and holds one hand out for the bottle of rum they've brought along. Encouragement.
Yseult wedges her pole into a notch and stretches for the rum in the basket, loosening the cork and handing it over. She's not the most enthusiastic fisherman, but she doesn't mind the waiting, stretching out in the sailboat, wide hat brim shading her face and skirt twitched up to bare knees to the sun.
"I meant to tell you before we left," Yseult begins at some point, when the fish aren't biting and the last line of conversation has petered out, "Bastien had a magic ring that tells a person's true name, and it said my surname is Alström." She shrugs, like weird, huh?
The sun is lowering toward the horizon, but it is still very warm, and the breeze is making only the faintest ruffle across the water. Darras is looking at the freckles that have popped up on Yseult's knees. If you took ink, you could join them together the way they trace constellations on the star charts. Make shapes of them. He dips his finger in a spot of water and rum that's beaded on the seat of the boat, a makeshift pot of ink.
Yseult shrugs again, arms up and out this time to exaggerate the motion. "There is a magic ring that when you wear it, it tells you the name of everyone you see, even strangers or those in disguise. Bastien tested it and it seemed to work. At some point it told him my name is Yseult Alström. He told me, and when I wore it and looked in the mirror that's what I learned as well.
"That's all I know," she says, folding forward to reach for the rum on the bench beside him. "I'm not planning to use it, but I thought you should know."
She's allowed the rum, unimpeded. Darras is still turning over this revelation in his mind. Alström.
Of course he knows Yseult's past, where and who she came from. Sometimes--not lately, but earlier, when they were first married, usually when they were half-asleep or drunk on either wine or each other--he's asked her to describe what of her mother she remembers, so he can imagine her. Every time, Yseult had rolled her eyes, but complied. It was a game--a bit sad--but imagining some past, people, trying to picture where she was from. Having a surname doesn't complete the image. It's another piece. Stepping one foot on dry land and pulling your little boat closer to a shore.
"Alström." He tries it aloud. "What do you think that is--Anders?"
Yseult drinks, and lets him turn it around in his head as she's been doing, intermittently, since she learned. Hearing him say it aloud is strange, somehow twitching along her skin and making her want to shift where she sits, stretch and crack limbs. She's not sure if it's a good feeling or a bad one.
She holds still except to drink again, and then shrugs. "Maybe. I haven't searched the records for it."
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?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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She feels a little bad keeping him awake, hearing him frown through the sleep in his voice. But he did ask. "But I wouldn't want you to be alone forever. You could still have a family, one day."
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"Never wanted a family until I met you. Can't imagine it with anyone else." Some dark future, a path he'll never have to go down. "I could live a life, maybe. A sort of life. But it'd be--something different. Out on some island fishing. Nothing more."
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"What if," she says, and he may recognize this tone too, the hint of a tease, the faintest imitation of his storytelling cadences, matched in the stroke of her fingertips at the nape of his neck, "One day, after some years of solitary fishing, you meet a lady fishmonger. Maybe the old fishmonger retires and his daughter takes his place. She's a widow, you see, with two small children. Her husband recently lost at sea. And every week you bring her your catch and you, being the friendly fellow you are, chat about the weather and the fish and the state of the island and how her children are doing, and she is funny and sweet and has a pretty smile. And one day her little son asks if you'll teach him to fish. Of course you can't say no to that. You wouldn't shut your door in their faces."
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"I couldn't shut my door in their faces," he agrees. The brush of her fingers is soothing, and so is the sound of her voice. "Though fishmongers smell. S'ppose I'd smell as well, if I were fishing all the time, but they do smell. What happens next?"
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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."
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He doesn't fall asleep. He listens, eyes half-closed--and by the end, a smile half on his face. There's a beat of silence before he says, "A pretty story," quiet and drowsy. He rubs his thumb against her arm. "I like that you'd be glad for me. I like it all. If it happened that way--"
Well. He opens his eyes and looks up at the ceiling. It's lower than the ceiling of their room in the Gallows. More familiar, too, even though he's slept years in that room now.
"I'd still miss you. Every day. I'd think of you."
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She hooks a heel around his shin and pulls herself an impossible inch closer. "I'd miss you too," she says, adding more lightly, "If spirits can miss things. If I don't get pulled into some other dream world to be their version of a rifter."
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Darras still has an arm around her and he leaves it where it is, draped over her shoulders and holding her close. Her breath is a tickle on his chest, her hand a warm and familiar weight.
"D'you believe in fate?" he asks, after a long silence on his part, right when it seems he might have fallen back to sleep.
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hello look who it is, it's me
who???
;P
Darras, smiling as well, pulls her even (however impossibly) closer to him, as if in response to that ankle hook.
"As to your point, I'd argue that I'm lucky because of fate. Or maybe it's my luck that entwined my fate with yours. Either way, I won't be convinced otherwise."
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"Go back to sleep," she urges, with that laugh in her voice and kissing him again, "I know it's my fault you're awake, but I'm not debating philosophy at this hour. Sleep."
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The next morning is for chores, and breakfast, and chores after that--a nap in the afternoon, when the sun is highest and the hottest, no sense in trying to do anything when it's like that out, and when you're in Antiva, you might as well act like it--but in the afternoon, Darras gets out their little boat and they sail out into the cove, just where it turns to ocean.
This, in a way, is also a chore. Someone's got to catch their dinner--that's what Darras says to Yseult, as he casts his line out and holds one hand out for the bottle of rum they've brought along. Encouragement.
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"I meant to tell you before we left," Yseult begins at some point, when the fish aren't biting and the last line of conversation has petered out, "Bastien had a magic ring that tells a person's true name, and it said my surname is Alström." She shrugs, like weird, huh?
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Hang on, what?
"What?" He laughs. "You what?"
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"That's all I know," she says, folding forward to reach for the rum on the bench beside him. "I'm not planning to use it, but I thought you should know."
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Of course he knows Yseult's past, where and who she came from. Sometimes--not lately, but earlier, when they were first married, usually when they were half-asleep or drunk on either wine or each other--he's asked her to describe what of her mother she remembers, so he can imagine her. Every time, Yseult had rolled her eyes, but complied. It was a game--a bit sad--but imagining some past, people, trying to picture where she was from. Having a surname doesn't complete the image. It's another piece. Stepping one foot on dry land and pulling your little boat closer to a shore.
"Alström." He tries it aloud. "What do you think that is--Anders?"
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She holds still except to drink again, and then shrugs. "Maybe. I haven't searched the records for it."
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He waits until she's had her drink to ask it, and to reach to take the rum back from her so he can have a sip.
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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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sorry i wrote this in my head and only my head