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[staysail]

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[hassaran]

It's a little surreal to be here. It's not true that she never meant to stay away. For at least a year she meant never to come back at all. And for long stretches it has felt like she might never return whether she wanted to or not. But she's dreamt of it, sleeping and waking. Sitting in the dark in a Hasmal basement, slowly bleeding through her fingers, she'd tried to imagine herself here instead and the regret of never seeing it again had ached almost as badly as the gut wound.

"Don't try to make me feel worse about it," Yseult's voice is muffled against his shirt, and she shuts her eyes for a moment, pressed closer before drawing away. Her hand drifts down his side as she goes, back to pick up their bags and carry them to the chest at the foot of the bed. "I'll unpack," she says, "Why don't you see to the fire and make some toast?"

[staysail]

"Think I can manage that."

Healers have done their work on him and there's hardly but scars left behind, a certain stiffness of the leg, and a deeper ache in the chest that only ever bothers him if he labors too hard--and that will fade in time, is what they told him. And besides, any chore has felt like a pleasure here. Darras pulls only a little face as he crouches to see to the fire. He's careful not to be looking at Yseult. He wouldn't be surprised if she sensed it in him anyways.

"I don't want you to feel worse. I want you to remember how much you love it here so we come back sooner. Sure and that's no crime."

[hassaran]

"I remember."

She crouches to reach into the chest, run hands and eyes over its contents and see how well she's remembered it. What he's moved or worn out or replaced since she was here last. The dark plaid of their winter blanket, the old sweater of his with the hole at the collar that won't stay darned, the pillow cases with the pretty embroidered hem Aline the baker's wife gave them when she heard about their wedding.

"Is that what you think? That I said no because I'd forgotten that I love it here? That I didn't want to come back as much as you did?"

[staysail]

The kindling first, and the flint. Darras strikes at it until he sees the spark, and the catch. He leans forward to blow carefully at it, encouraging that flame.

"No," he says, when it's properly caught. "I don't think that. That's the trouble with getting older and wiser. You start being able to see things from everyone else's perspectives and views and then you can't be angry any longer over nothing. I know you wanted to come back here as much as I did. Maybe more. But you don't let yourself want it."

[hassaran]

"Is that the trouble?" Yseult laughs, airy, somewhat bemused by the idea of Darras as older and wiser and seeing things from everyone else's perspectives. She takes the pillowcases out and sets them on the end of the bed before she starts putting the clothes they've brought into the chest, sorting and refolding some more neatly as she goes.

"What I want doesn't decide things." Usually. At least not alone. She is here now, after all. They are married. "If I can't go, wanting to won't change my mind. It just makes refusing harder than it already is. Believe it or not," her tone goes a little flip, or at least aims for it, without complete success, "I don't enjoy having to say no to you."

[staysail]

Oh, come on, just look at him. Is he not the picture of old wisdom?

Darras shoots her a look over his shoulder as he clicks his tongue against his teeth, false shock. He gives her an amused little smile. As her husband, he is uniquely able to read intention in her where someone else might misunderstand. (Usually. She can obfuscate like nothing when she really wants to. She isn't this time.)

"And here I was thinking it was a delight to you."

He turns back to the hearth and carefully tents two logs over the little whisper of flame he's coaxed to life.

"Joking," in case she can't read his tone (but of course she can, she always can, sometimes too well). "I know you don't. It's a difference in us. I'll cave to what I want the moment I want it. You're better at ruling yourself. I hate it of you. I love it of you, too."

[hassaran]

"Then why do you press me?" She didn't actually mean to bring this up, especially not now when they've only just arrived. She meant to let it drop, focus on unpacking, breakfast, maybe a nap, getting herself reacclimated to here home. But here they are. She sits back on her haunches, holding onto the chest's edge with both hands. She's tired and still more ragged from the journey than relieved by the arrival, not to mention everything that's preceded the trip. She tries to pull her tone back to even, strip the hurt and frustration back out of it.

"You knew you wouldn't change my mind. You knew I didn't want to say no. But you kept pushing and making me say it again and again."

[staysail]

His shoulders raise a little, defensively. He keeps his back to her, eyes on his work as he goes on adding wood, the smoke coiling round his wrists as delicate bracelets. Gaps are left for the air to flow in and out, like a thing that breathes.

"I don't want to have it out." That might not be enough, so he adds, after a beat, "We're here. I'm happy we're here, both of us, and that we'll be here for a while. Let it be."

[hassaran]

His tone and especially the set of his shoulders knock her back. She hesitates for a minute, still on the edge of saying something more, if only to make a postponement and not an end to it. But sticking the right words on the problem is hard enough without the added pressure of his resistance and the risk of ruining this moment. She gives it up and turns back to the chest.

There's more to fold and arrange, things to pull out for an airing. There'll need to be a line run to string them on, a dozen other small chores she begins mentally cataloging for later. The rectangles of light cast across the floor grow taller as the sun rises, stretching toward the far wall, warming the flagstones as the breeze blows off the last of the morning damp. When she's finished she heads to the window, sitting in the deep sill and looking out at the land rolling down to the cliff's edge, still more green than not even this near to winter, and the sea beyond.

[staysail]

The work helps. As the sun rises, Darras gives himself to the tasks of reopening the house--outside, mainly, checking the well, inspecting the roof, getting what glimpse he can of the fences that surround their property. They'll have to do a proper walk-around later. Everything has been well-maintained but there will still be work to do now that they're back, and he is looking forward to that.

He is looking less forward to continuing the thread of conversation with Yseult. On the other hand, he can't stay away from her. There's a pull to her like magnetism, and when he comes back into the cottage and finds her sat on the windowsill, he comes over to stand beside her, slips a hand to press onto her back.

"If we moved Riftwatch to Antiva, we could come down here every month. At least."

[hassaran]

"That would be nice," she says, shifting after a moment to slowly put her shoulder against Darras. "If we stole an eluvian and installed it in the root cellar we could be here every day." That would be nice, too. In some respects; less in others.

While he was outside, Rosana returned from her tour of the property and hopped up into the sill to curl up against Yseult's knee. She scratches gently behind the cat's ears. "How does it all look? Is the well in order?"

[staysail]

"It's not dried up, the rope didn't rot away, and Madame Barella got us a new bucket while we were gone. The kindness of neighbors here is very different than back at the Gallows."

Darras rubs his hand against her back, a slow gentle circle. He smiles down at Rosana. Her markings look darker in the sun streaming in the window. Her head tips slightly, making space for Yseult.

"Can you imagine Commander Flint replacing a bucket in a well for you? The Ambassador--with nothing expected in return?"

[hassaran]

"No." She could give a more nuanced answer--Byerly might under some conditions, but doesn't know how. Flint would if he needed to use it or if the lack of it somehow irritated him enough. Stark would design an entirely knew bucketless self-winding mechanism or eliminate the need for water entirely. But that's not important and, "Thinking about them is not conducive to relaxing." She tips a dry smile up at him, leaning back into the curve of his arm.

"She left us some food as well, so we won't need to go back to the village until tomorrow." She strokes a fingertip down the center of Rosana's little head, following the line of darker fur. "I might do very little today. What do you think of that?"

[staysail]

He laughs, first--"A thousand apologies, darling, you're right--" and gives a firmer rub to her back as if somehow to clear the unwelcome thought straight out of her. The thing of being home is that it's like being at sea, where there's none but those you brought aboard to think of, and very little beyond. Chores are daily necessities, steps you've got to take to keep yourself alive and the house in order. Neighbors are all well and good for while you're away, but you don't have to see them whenever you step into the corridor. Why ruin that?

"And I think it's an excellent idea, that. Doing very little. If you were talking to be and not Rosana--but she'd agree with me anyways."

[hassaran]

"She would entirely agree," Yseult shows the corner of her smile to at Darras before turning far enough to catch his eye, "But I was talking to you." She reaches up to rest knuckles against his chest.

"I might go back to bed for a little while, and then we could eat outside in the sun. Maybe do some reading." The lean of her shoulder indicates the shelves of books on the opposite wall, novels and chronicles and poetry and science, dozens of volumes she's read and dozens more she hasn't, rather than the reports quietly accumulating in her magical notebook. "The laundry will wait a day. Will you join me? Or are you itching to get to work?" His enthusiasm for mending thatch and scrubbing floors is remembered well and fondly.

[staysail]

"Hmmm." He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the back of it--once, and then a second time for good measure. "No sleep for me, not yet. I'll have a look at the roof," predictable, yes, and he kisses her hand a third time as if to stop her from making some comment about it, "and then I'll join you for lunch in the sun. Think I can stand being read to for a bit. How's that sound?"

This is half to Rosana, who gives a yawn so large her whiskers bristle. She, at least, will clearly nap with Yseult.

[hassaran]

"Like a fair compromise," Yseult pronounces it, even if Rosana is less convinced. She brushes fingertips across Darras's lips and uncurls legs from the windowsill, sliding to her feet in the narrow space in front of him. A kiss is pressed to his cheek as she steps past. "Be careful on the roof."

She is true to her plan, curling up in their bed atop the covers but with the spare quilt pulled up to her shoulder, Rosana making herself comfortable at Yseult's feet. She is still asleep when he comes in from his chores but rouses after a few minutes, combing a hand through loose hair and wrapping an arm around Darras from behind as he washes up. Lunch is a low-effort tray of sliced bread and cheese with some preserves and cider from the cellar carried out onto a blanket in the grass, along with a book of Nevarran folktales. The sun is warm but soft, the sky dappled with clouds, the span of taller grass between them and the cliff's edge riffled by the breeze.

[staysail]

"I think the sun is brighter here," Darras remarks between stories. Though it was good to see to the roof first thing, he ought to have joined Yseult in her nap. The work and the travel hadn't felt tiring, not during, but now that he's been laying in the sun and in the grass, and now that he's well-fed, and listening to a collection of the pleasantest sounds in the world--the sound of Yseult's voice, the distant waves, the wind ruffling the grass--now he could quite fall asleep, though he hasn't, not yet.

He stretches, arms reached overhead, fingers flexed. Rosana had come out with them and had chosen a spot for her second nap on Darras' chest. Annoyed by the interruption, she holds on to his shirtfront with her claws, which makes him laugh and drop his stretch lest he annoy her any more.

"Brighter, and warmer."

[hassaran]

"Maybe it is." Yseult's agreement is easy. Everything feels easy here, like this. The knit of the worn-soft blanket against her calf, the sun already baking pleasantly into her bones. She is propped up on a rolled blanket facing Darras, her crossed ankles stretched out past his head, bare heels in the grass. She lays down the book on her stomach to reach over and pet the cat on his.

"When we're here all the time we'll have to read stories about blizzards and remember that winter we spent in the Vinmarks, so that we appreciate it."

[staysail]

Eyes half-closed, Darras sees the shadow and shape of Yseult's hand. He doesn't lift his own to stop her in any way as his grin sprawls slowly across his face.

"I don't want to remember the Vinmarks or read stories about blizzards. I can remember it all very well and I'd tell them to you from memory but I don't want to think of any of it. I want to lay here and enjoy the sun and never think of ice again. You've got to agree with me."

[hassaran]

"Hmmmmm, right now yes," Yseult hums her partial agreement, "But imagine once we've been here for years. Sun like this almost every day. Warm all the time. We'll start taking it for granted. Become people who think the few weeks of winter here are too hard and cold."

She leaves off petting Rosana and instead sneaks her hand up under the hem of his shirt, tickling at his abdomen like the icy fingers of a winter wind.

[staysail]

"I already am one of those people. If I could be warm all the time," and the octave shift on that last word is because of the touch of Yseult's hand on his bare skin. Darras breaks into a startled laugh and grabs instinctively for her wrist--and he tenses, and moves, and Rosana (extremely inconvenienced) kicks off and dashes off a few paces. She settles at the corner of the blanket and begins to lick furiously at one of her forepaws, smoothing over the damage done by their rudeness.

Darras, meanwhile, is locked in combat. He keeps his grip on Yseult's wrist and tries to use it to pull her down so she'll collapse on him. Unfortunately it keeps her fingers cold and tickling against him, but sacrifices have to be made.

[hassaran]

Cool fingers skip past his navel before her wrist is caught and Yseult is tugged, laughing, book quickly put aside to safety as she tumbles over.

"You are warm all the time," she argues, getting a knee beneath her, "Like a giant heating stone." It's not a complaint, though fingers drum teasingly against his stomach. "Well, you'll have plenty of time to soak up sun while we're here. Once I stop blocking your light--" she says, making as if to draw back from over him but clearly expecting to be stopped.

[staysail]

"Don't you dare--"

He grabs more firmly hold of her wrist and hooks his other arm around her shoulders so that he can easily hold her down against him.

"I want the sun and I want you and if you dare to move and deprive me of one of those, won't speak to you for the rest of today at least."

[hassaran]

"And and and," is Yseult's laughing protest. Her struggle is token, not enough to disrupt her mimicry of his cadence. She twists her wrist free of his grip but coils her arm back around his, pinning it between their chests. "So greedy, maybe I don't want you to speak with me for the rest of today at least."