The scratching stops when he rolls over. In front of the fire, Yseult sits still quiet except to turn an ear back toward the bed, in case he's just shifting in his sleep. The paper is propped on a book on her knee, the nib of the pen leaving a blot before she lifts it.
"Nothing," she replies, softly like there's still some chance of not waking him, "Go back to sleep."
He falls quiet again for a moment, luxuriating in the drowsy peace. Rosanna is curled up on the pillow just beside his head, snoring quietly. He reaches a hand up and scratches behind her ears, and she wakes instantly with a little brrp, pushes her head into his hand.
Darras rolls onto his elbow, lifting himself up.
"I'm awake already," he says, "might as well tell me about the 'nothing'."
"If I knew how to do that, I'd be asleep," Yseult replies, beneath her breath but not so soft that a few words might not carry in the quiet of the cottage. The fire burns low with only the occasional soft pop, and with the windows shut and curtains drawn the waves are muted to a distant hum. She presses her thumb between her eyes a moment, until the pen between her knuckles drips ink onto the page. Back in the inkpot it goes, and the page is folded and fed to the coals.
"It's just foolishness." She gets to her feet with a sigh, crossing the few strides back into the dark and folding her dressing gown over a chair before sliding into bed. "A letter I can't seem to write. I don't have your ease with words."
He shifts over to make space for her in the bed, one arm laid flat upon the mattress so that he can curl it around her and pull her even closer when she lays down again. The fire has risen a little higher after its late dinner of the page, flames encouraged.
"But if you tell me what it is you're trying to say, perhaps me'n my easy words can help."
She hums amused disagreement with that sentiment as she arranges herself beside him, then lets him pull her nearer and does it again, reaching down to draw the blanket up to her chest. In the flare of the firelight she smiles, soft and wry, and sets a hand on his side.
She blows out a breath. "I need to convince someone that even if the worst should happen, they shouldn't give up. Not to let grief ruin the rest of their life."
Sleepy, musing, he settles in. Rosana, meanwhile, turns her face away and tucks her nose back into her tail. She's settling herself in as well--back to sleep. She doesn't have anything to add to the conversation. Darras, meanwhile, rests his hand on Yseult's, holding it against his side, and stares in bleary thought up at the ceiling.
"Tough one, that," he says after a moment. "Are they the type to let that happen?"
Yseult gives a little nod, a shift of her head against the pillow. "Yes. They...." She trails off, fingers kneaded once into his side in demonstration. This is the struggle.
"The loss would be terrible. But at least some parts of the plan for the future could still go ahead. Everything doesn't have to be lost forever just because one part of it is lost. Even if it's a major part. It could be replaced with something different, eventually. You see? It sounds so cold."
The sleepy murmur is also one of commiseration. Yes, it's a tough one. Yes, it sounds cold. Darras lets his eyes slip shut again as he thinks, half-asleep, still enjoying the feeling of being in their bed in their house, together, just the two of them.
He's quiet long enough that it might seem he's fallen back to sleep until, somewhat abruptly (and still quite drowsily), he says, "Maybe don't speak of the replacing. That's the part that sounds cold. And there's some things that can't be replaced, y'know. But there can be newness that comes. That's all right."
"You're right," she says, "Not replacing. But new, and still good. Possibilities."
Lips brush his shoulder, and her hand strokes his side in a lulling rhythm, slow and easy, matching his drowsy tone. With her mouth still pressed to his skin she hazards it.
"I know," she says, in that same low murmur, familiar with the sentiment if not quite in agreement. Her hand never stops its circuit up and back, the gentle scuff of her palm.
"But you shouldn't lose everything else that might be, too."
His frown deepens. It's hard to extricate himself from sleep when she's rubbing a hand at his back like that, like to soothe him back under. If he gives in, he could slip back into sleep and pretend this never happened, that she never said this. But the suggestion of that future is like a rock he's bumped up against. Difficult to find your way around, impossible to ignore.
"And what if it were the other way around? You'd find it easy?"
"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) Date: 2022-05-01 10:37 pm (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."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2022-03-21 03:48 am (UTC)"Nothing," she replies, softly like there's still some chance of not waking him, "Go back to sleep."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-03 12:39 am (UTC)He falls quiet again for a moment, luxuriating in the drowsy peace. Rosanna is curled up on the pillow just beside his head, snoring quietly. He reaches a hand up and scratches behind her ears, and she wakes instantly with a little brrp, pushes her head into his hand.
Darras rolls onto his elbow, lifting himself up.
"I'm awake already," he says, "might as well tell me about the 'nothing'."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-03 03:39 am (UTC)"It's just foolishness." She gets to her feet with a sigh, crossing the few strides back into the dark and folding her dressing gown over a chair before sliding into bed. "A letter I can't seem to write. I don't have your ease with words."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-03 11:42 pm (UTC)He shifts over to make space for her in the bed, one arm laid flat upon the mattress so that he can curl it around her and pull her even closer when she lays down again. The fire has risen a little higher after its late dinner of the page, flames encouraged.
"But if you tell me what it is you're trying to say, perhaps me'n my easy words can help."
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Date: 2022-04-04 12:28 am (UTC)She blows out a breath. "I need to convince someone that even if the worst should happen, they shouldn't give up. Not to let grief ruin the rest of their life."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-05 03:28 am (UTC)Sleepy, musing, he settles in. Rosana, meanwhile, turns her face away and tucks her nose back into her tail. She's settling herself in as well--back to sleep. She doesn't have anything to add to the conversation. Darras, meanwhile, rests his hand on Yseult's, holding it against his side, and stares in bleary thought up at the ceiling.
"Tough one, that," he says after a moment. "Are they the type to let that happen?"
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Date: 2022-04-05 04:34 pm (UTC)"The loss would be terrible. But at least some parts of the plan for the future could still go ahead. Everything doesn't have to be lost forever just because one part of it is lost. Even if it's a major part. It could be replaced with something different, eventually. You see? It sounds so cold."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-07 03:59 am (UTC)The sleepy murmur is also one of commiseration. Yes, it's a tough one. Yes, it sounds cold. Darras lets his eyes slip shut again as he thinks, half-asleep, still enjoying the feeling of being in their bed in their house, together, just the two of them.
He's quiet long enough that it might seem he's fallen back to sleep until, somewhat abruptly (and still quite drowsily), he says, "Maybe don't speak of the replacing. That's the part that sounds cold. And there's some things that can't be replaced, y'know. But there can be newness that comes. That's all right."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-11 01:22 am (UTC)Lips brush his shoulder, and her hand strokes his side in a lulling rhythm, slow and easy, matching his drowsy tone. With her mouth still pressed to his skin she hazards it.
"I'd want that for you, if I died."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-13 04:03 am (UTC)"That's," mumbled, and he yawns, trying to rouse himself so he can put this to some words. "You're different."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-14 04:25 pm (UTC)"But you shouldn't lose everything else that might be, too."
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Date: 2022-04-15 05:49 pm (UTC)"And what if it were the other way around? You'd find it easy?"
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Date: 2022-04-16 12:33 am (UTC)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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Date: 2022-04-20 12:15 am (UTC)"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."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-25 01:53 pm (UTC)"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."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-27 03:22 am (UTC)"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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Date: 2022-04-27 01:19 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-27 11:10 pm (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2022-04-28 04:18 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2022-05-03 04:11 am (UTC)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.
no subject
Date: 2022-05-06 04:00 am (UTC)hello look who it is, it's me
Date: 2022-06-25 09:43 pm (UTC)who???
Date: 2022-06-26 04:13 am (UTC);P
Date: 2022-06-28 12:52 am (UTC)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."
no subject
Date: 2022-06-28 01:31 am (UTC)"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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From:sorry i wrote this in my head and only my head
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