And it all has been perfectly well, otherwise she wouldn't be standing here now would she? Some might say that Wysteria has, definitively, never been entirely wrong a day in her life.
"I would like to, yes. I have hopes that the work with Vanderak will produce some interesting possibilities that I think Aldrich would find— well, quite foolish, I'm sure. But also interesting, and I should like his opinion on one or two things before I pursue them too seriously."
Here, she drops her voice to a parody of a hush—not too quiet, lest it be entirely lost on the scuffle of the dock, but hopefully not so clear as to carry.
"You remember that dream with the flying ships, of course." Of course he does. "—So if you've any message to deliver, I would be most happy to deliver it for you."
Flying ships. Of course he remembers. Of course Wysteria plans on making such a thing her particular project, now that she's managed her gun.
"Only that he should offer you tea," Ellis says. "Before he starts pressing you about the details."
The last time Aldrich offered Ellis anything, it was when Ellis was still mostly bandage and his armor was in ruins. He forcibly rejected the concept of social niceties long before either of them were born.
"And that he should give you whatever help you need," as an almost unnecessary addition. Aldrich would grumble, but Ellis can't imagine he'd turn her away.
There is something in that request which makes the line of her smile flex with amusement. It doesn't quite manifest into a laugh, but it's clear that the impulse is there, bright behind the eyes.
She is not laughing at him. Not really.
"How enduringly selfless you are, Mister Ellis. No souvenirs, no special requests from my correspondence, the loan of your dog, and the good will of your friend. One of these days, I will successfully trick you into asking for something you want and I'll be very pleased with myself over it."
But lest they linger over this outright threat unecessarily—
"You will take care of Mister Stark while I'm away, of course."
The attention given to her in this moment, observing all the brightness in her face, the widening of her smile—
It shifts something in his expression. Brief, finding no purchase, only a passing, tender thing that comes and goes almost helplessly in response. He is so fond of her good cheer, even if some aspect of it comes at his expense.
"Aye," is easy reassurance, deferring away from the topic of any possible thing Ellis might want. (It catches in his throat, held in check still.) "And Mr. Dickerson. And the chickens, and any other animals I might find alongside them."
Theoretically only the goat and the dog. But who can say what else might end up in residence?
There will, in fact, soon be a giant ant of the Donarks moving into most permanent residence there in the second cellar largely dug in Ellis' absence, nearing completion now finally now that the ground has unfrozen enough for the pair of dwarven contractors hired to finish the work. But Veronique has for some time been such a forgone conclusion in her mind that the matter of the ant's introduction to the chickens and goat and various dogs and indeed even Ellis or Mister Stark slips her mind entirely in favor of horror and dismay.
"If I come back from Orzammar and find a cow, or a gaggle of geese, or a big fat pig that you don't mean to turn immediately into bacon in the side garden, I will be very cross with you!"
She balls up her fist, but gets only as far as threatening to drum him on the chest with it. You—!
"Come now, have you any notes for me with respect to your friend? I told you I know nothing at all about dogs."
(Nevermind that Déranger has taken to sleeping at the foot of her bed, and will no doubt spend the rest of the summer in the morose state of having to put up with the sub-optimal company of various people more dull than the screeching young lady she ordinarily takes such care in herding.)
This minor show of outrage only manages to be endearing. (Ellis is adept at distinguishing a show of temper from the real thing.) The smile that comes is muted, quieted due to proximity of her departure, but present.
Between them, aware of the shift in conversation topic, Ruadh huffs and butts his head against Wysteria's hip. Leans all his weight against her thigh, licking his chops. Ellis resists the urge to kneel down to him.
"He'll help you," is what he says instead, which Ellis clearly feels is a reassuring statement. "He'll need chicken livers. Fish will do, on the voyage. Bones to gnaw on in the evenings. He likes an egg, from time to time."
A refined palate.
"And he'll like to accompany you, wherever you're going."
This is, for good or for ill, a fact she has already endured herself to. Indeed, she has supposed that was his intention—that she never be without some form of supervision, or defense, or whatever word along those lines is most convenient. Is that not what a mabari is meant to do?
So Wysteria, leaning hard to balance against the counter pressure of Ruadh doing the same against her leg, only rolls her eyes very slightly as she repeats back, "Bones, fish, eggs, livers," as if she might not recall it otherwise.
"I'm sure he will find it all quite dull, and will return to you incredibly spoiled by having done nothing but lay about in a workshop for months on end. Isn't that right?"
The big mabari with his patchwork of scars receives a thumping pat on the shoulder for emphasis.
Something of a true statement. Ruadh does not have the look of a creature that's had an easy time of it, if the scarring is any indication.
But the question is given due consideration as Ellis folds himself downward to scruff one hand up along Ruadh's scarred shoulder, thumb at his velvety cheek. Obvious fondness in Ellis' face for it, lingering as he tips his head to look up at her.
"Talk to him," Ellis advises. "He'll be lonely, otherwise, and he understands conversation just fine."
This is surely not a hardship.
"And when you think of it, scratch him about the ears. Like this."
Ellis' hand turns up, holding out for Wysteria's own hand to be guided.
This is why she's agreed to be saddled with the animal at all—the look of pure, unaltered affection in Ellis' face when he addresses Ruadh, and how it lingers there still in his face even after. The mabari is important to him. Obviously she knows that; they have spent a great deal of their time reading Ferelden folktales and histories, and she would consider herself rather well educated on the point of that people's attachment to their dogs, particularly their clever war dogs. But there is a difference between reading a thing in a book and seeing it plain on Ellis' face. That is particularly true when his only other souvenir from Weisshaupt seems to be the faintest air of melancholy.
It would have been unthinkable to turn down such a heartfelt gift as Ruadh's company, nevermind the annoying semantics implicit in the whole arrangement.
So despite a great air of being put upon—"Oh, very well."—Wysteria surrenders her hand to his guidance.
A flicker of humor for that begrudging acquiescence. Around them the heave and scrape of boxes being loaded aboard the ship and the lap of waves and bustle of preparation are a clear reminder: she is leaving and the house will be empty and all their conversation will be passed back and forth by letter, rather than in her little kitchen or the garden or over supper.
Ellis takes her hand in his own, laces their fingers together beneath his palm so he might guide her along Ruadh's great square head, obligingly lifted in expectation.
There is a knot of scar tissue here. A raised slash of a knife strike there. A cluster of punctures, perhaps from teeth, further along. And, just behind the cropped rise of Ruadh's ears—
"Here," Ellis tells her, as he presses Wysteria's fingers into place and Ruadh's nub of a tail wags encouragingly. "Right here."
So arranged and encouraged either by that wagging would-be tail or by the shape of Ellis' hand, Wysteria makes some small effort to demonstrate what she knows of scratching dogs behind their ears. Her nails scrub through Ruadh's bristling coat. Her knuckles bump against Ellis' palm.
Yes, yes, all right. See how swift a study she is!
"Ear scratches, conversation, fish bones." A brisk correction— "Fish, and also bones."
Ruadh's head butts up under her hand, tongue lolling out in appreciation. Yes, Wysteria is a quick study. Yes, her ministrations will apparently serve well enough for the future.
The tenderness in Ellis' expression remains as he lifts his hand from over hers. Scruffs his fingers against the thick muscles of Ruadh's neck, chucks him beneath the chin. Says something, so low it is swallowed up by the clatter of sailors and slap of sea against the dock, but is returned by a soft lap of Ruadh's tongue to his hand.
Looking up at her, his expression has shifted only very slightly. It is still softened, cracked open enough for some silent, honest thing to make itself plain.
There is a beat of hesitation, where Ellis might say some other thing. Even unspoken, it draws taut within his chest, suppressed enough so that when he does speak, what he has to say is—
"Aye, that is all he needs. And perhaps some space on a rug alongside your bed, if you'll permit him."
How gentle he looks there knelt before the mabari's big block head, all kindness and blatant affection. Just the edge of it, lingering there in the set of Ellis' expression as it turns upward in her direction, produces a sudden and pleasant warmth behind the ribs. How good it is to see him love something so openly. This business in Orzammar will have to be seen to and resolved directly, she decides all at once (having never given its duration any thought prior). It would be very cruel to keep Ruadh from him for long, and if she returns with no better souvenir from Orzammar then she will at least be content to know that she'll be returning to Kirkwall to witness that fine look of adoration on Ellis' face as the great dog comes bounding back off whatever packet they reserve for their return journey to rejoin his master.
"I'll consider it," she says, meaning very much to sound quite arch and cool and ruining it by instead smiling down at him as her hand continues to scratch absently behind Ruadh's ear. How difficult it is to see all that endearment in him and not simply reflect it directly back! So much so that there, amidst the bustle of the dockyard, she forgets the growing urgency to traipse up the gangway onto the little boat so she might be aboard ahead of her things and so see them directed according to her wishes, and momentarily loses track of even her annoyance over the inconvenience of such a traveling companion.
(Ruadh will take up a great deal of the space in the closet sized cabin to which she has been appointed on the Guillemot.)
"I promise to mind him very carefully, Mister Ellis."
The conversation is winding its way to an end point. Ellis is aware of this. Even as he looks up at her, lit gold in the early morning light, he thinks again that it will be weeks before he sees her again. It punches out a deep ache in his chest, stirs and shifts the emotion just slightly in his face.
That honest, closely-guarded thing is not diminished by it.
(In all the stories, is this not the place to make a declaration from? The knees?)
Lingering there, looking up at her, Ellis breathes out a deep, slow breath. Acclimating to the present moment, the inescapable presence of the ship behind them. Ruadh is content enough, luxuriating underneath Wysteria's ministrations. Ellis swipes one last pass over Ruadh's velvety snout, before he levers himself up.
"I know that you will," he tells her, voice gone thick over the words. "And I will miss you, very much."
It's a very fine thing to hear; it prompts some squeeze high in her chest that it both thrilling and terrible. Maybe this is why, weeks from now, when Val asks after her opinion on being missed by someone that Wysteria will have such a ready answer for him.
"Nonsense. We're going to write with such frequency that you'll not have the time to."
She should have written him a note here in Kirkwall, she thinks. She might have given it to him this morning or arranged to have it delivered to his mail cubby after she had gone. It would have been a charming bit of high spirits and good humor. But she hadn't; she will have to suit herself with writing something during the crossing and with sending it directly back the moment she reaches Ferelden.
"In fact, you must promise me that you'll be extraordinarily well while I'm away. I would find that considerably reassuring."
An impossible promise, but Wysteria has made a habit of asking too much. So far, Ellis has found a way to avoid disappointing her. It tends to be easier, when she's asked that he carry this or fetch that or hold such and such a thing in place. Even when she's after a particular sample or alchemical compound, those are easier to mitigate than the prospect of being something in neighboring extraordinarily well.
Straightening, Ellis' expression creases into a subdued, fond smile. No promise is forthcoming, though he reaches to interrupt her ministrations. A regrettable turn of events for Ruadh, perhaps, but that prospect isn't enough to keep Ellis from catching up her hand in his own.
Certainly, he could have made the promise. How could it be verified one way or another? But Ellis imparts something else, instead.
"He has a keen sense of smell," comes with a tip of his head downwards, towards the seated mabari. Still panting, hopefully attentive to the two of them. "If Ruadh tells you to go, heed him. Aye?"
Nevermind the Kirkwall must be just as cutthroat and dreadful as Orzammar, if not moreso, and she charges about it every day entirely on her own without the company of either friend or mabari. It wouldn't do to say so to him at present. Instead, Wysteria turns her hand very slightly in his grip so that she can gently pinch the skin that runs between Ellis's thumb and forefinger—a mildly chastising bite of fingernails. Don't you think that your evasive habits haven't been well observed, sir.
"Aye," she grumbles back at him, in something like imitation of his timbre. Less so: "I will be very cross if you insist on being not well. And trust that I will discover it if so. I have eyes and ears in every corner and stairwell of the Gallows, Mister Ellis."
Her thumbs presses across his knuckles, or as close to it as she's able to reach. The look she assigns him is quite severe. Expectant.
"But come now, I'm all out of time and can stand here scolding you no longer. If you would please go ahead and embrace me, then I will let you be on your way. I'm certain you have other things to accomplish this morning."
Yes, they are all out of time. He can't delay her, and so much reconcile himself to the inevitability of the matter: she is going, and she will return in due time, hopefully having accomplished all she wished.
The minor, prompting pinches of her finger and the stern tone she's adopted do not quite put off the inevitable, senseless urge that still persists: could he keep her here on the docks, talking just a little while longer?
No.
So he cedes his grasp on her hand to do as bidden, and bow down into her. Turn his face in against her neck, secure his arms about her waist, and hold her tightly. Feel the burn of some close-held truth fluttering behind his ribs, and make no immediate attempt to quiet it, here where it cannot be read on his face or otherwise divined.
The prosthetic strapped to her shoulder is in irritating distraction in this moment—she is very aware of it as it's squashed slightly between them where, had she her left arm still, she would simply throw that one gamely across his shoulder in much the same fashion as her right one has been. But there is nothing to be done for it and as obtrusive as it might be in these close quarters, it's generally simpler to put the inconvenience out of her mind when presented with the reward of tightening her remaining arm about Ellis and squeezing him with the kind of enthusiasm that borders on comedy.
Yes, she's going to miss him too. And he had truly best take care; she may be the one traveling, but Riftwatch is hardly known for its bodily security even when one is based here in Kirkwall. Who is to say what work he'll be committed to, or what skeletons will come crawling out of the sea, or where Corpyheus will turn should Starkhaven's defenses collapse in the weeks she's due to be away.
For a great deal of her life, worry (the real, legitimate sort) has been as foreign to her as most languages—a thing which other people may practice, but something she has had little reason to bother with. It seems there is something to be said for being forced to learn a thing by being repeatedly exposed to it.
And someone is shouting her name, saying, 'Madame de Foncé! Where is she? Madame de Foncé! Your husband will be here when you get back! I insist that you—'
Wysteria laughs, a bright peal of good humor as she bows back from the press of his face against her neck. She bends far enough back in the circle of his arms to laugh again and pat his cheek before moving to extricate herself entirely.
"Yes, yes. All right! Be well, Mister Ellis. Best of luck with Mister Dickerson. Should you think of anything you do want from Orzammar, please send word and—oh—" She'd nearly forgotten her traveling case there at the foot of the pile of miscellaneous baggage.
"Come, come Ruadh. Oh, and," she is walking partly backwards as if the impatient dwarven merchant waiting at the top of the gangplank is reeling her in with a hook and line, having to raise her voice the farther she gets away from Ellis there in the dock. "I promise to let you and Mister Stark know should anything unexpected happen—"
And so on and so forth, until she at last is hollering 'Goodbye, take care!' from the railing of the Guillemot.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"I would like to, yes. I have hopes that the work with Vanderak will produce some interesting possibilities that I think Aldrich would find— well, quite foolish, I'm sure. But also interesting, and I should like his opinion on one or two things before I pursue them too seriously."
Here, she drops her voice to a parody of a hush—not too quiet, lest it be entirely lost on the scuffle of the dock, but hopefully not so clear as to carry.
"You remember that dream with the flying ships, of course." Of course he does. "—So if you've any message to deliver, I would be most happy to deliver it for you."
no subject
"Only that he should offer you tea," Ellis says. "Before he starts pressing you about the details."
The last time Aldrich offered Ellis anything, it was when Ellis was still mostly bandage and his armor was in ruins. He forcibly rejected the concept of social niceties long before either of them were born.
"And that he should give you whatever help you need," as an almost unnecessary addition. Aldrich would grumble, but Ellis can't imagine he'd turn her away.
no subject
She is not laughing at him. Not really.
"How enduringly selfless you are, Mister Ellis. No souvenirs, no special requests from my correspondence, the loan of your dog, and the good will of your friend. One of these days, I will successfully trick you into asking for something you want and I'll be very pleased with myself over it."
But lest they linger over this outright threat unecessarily—
"You will take care of Mister Stark while I'm away, of course."
no subject
It shifts something in his expression. Brief, finding no purchase, only a passing, tender thing that comes and goes almost helplessly in response. He is so fond of her good cheer, even if some aspect of it comes at his expense.
"Aye," is easy reassurance, deferring away from the topic of any possible thing Ellis might want. (It catches in his throat, held in check still.) "And Mr. Dickerson. And the chickens, and any other animals I might find alongside them."
Theoretically only the goat and the dog. But who can say what else might end up in residence?
no subject
"If I come back from Orzammar and find a cow, or a gaggle of geese, or a big fat pig that you don't mean to turn immediately into bacon in the side garden, I will be very cross with you!"
She balls up her fist, but gets only as far as threatening to drum him on the chest with it. You—!
"Come now, have you any notes for me with respect to your friend? I told you I know nothing at all about dogs."
(Nevermind that Déranger has taken to sleeping at the foot of her bed, and will no doubt spend the rest of the summer in the morose state of having to put up with the sub-optimal company of various people more dull than the screeching young lady she ordinarily takes such care in herding.)
no subject
Between them, aware of the shift in conversation topic, Ruadh huffs and butts his head against Wysteria's hip. Leans all his weight against her thigh, licking his chops. Ellis resists the urge to kneel down to him.
"He'll help you," is what he says instead, which Ellis clearly feels is a reassuring statement. "He'll need chicken livers. Fish will do, on the voyage. Bones to gnaw on in the evenings. He likes an egg, from time to time."
A refined palate.
"And he'll like to accompany you, wherever you're going."
Which is perhaps the biggest imposition.
no subject
So Wysteria, leaning hard to balance against the counter pressure of Ruadh doing the same against her leg, only rolls her eyes very slightly as she repeats back, "Bones, fish, eggs, livers," as if she might not recall it otherwise.
"I'm sure he will find it all quite dull, and will return to you incredibly spoiled by having done nothing but lay about in a workshop for months on end. Isn't that right?"
The big mabari with his patchwork of scars receives a thumping pat on the shoulder for emphasis.
"Is there nothing else?"
no subject
Something of a true statement. Ruadh does not have the look of a creature that's had an easy time of it, if the scarring is any indication.
But the question is given due consideration as Ellis folds himself downward to scruff one hand up along Ruadh's scarred shoulder, thumb at his velvety cheek. Obvious fondness in Ellis' face for it, lingering as he tips his head to look up at her.
"Talk to him," Ellis advises. "He'll be lonely, otherwise, and he understands conversation just fine."
This is surely not a hardship.
"And when you think of it, scratch him about the ears. Like this."
Ellis' hand turns up, holding out for Wysteria's own hand to be guided.
no subject
It would have been unthinkable to turn down such a heartfelt gift as Ruadh's company, nevermind the annoying semantics implicit in the whole arrangement.
So despite a great air of being put upon—"Oh, very well."—Wysteria surrenders her hand to his guidance.
no subject
Ellis takes her hand in his own, laces their fingers together beneath his palm so he might guide her along Ruadh's great square head, obligingly lifted in expectation.
There is a knot of scar tissue here. A raised slash of a knife strike there. A cluster of punctures, perhaps from teeth, further along. And, just behind the cropped rise of Ruadh's ears—
"Here," Ellis tells her, as he presses Wysteria's fingers into place and Ruadh's nub of a tail wags encouragingly. "Right here."
no subject
Yes, yes, all right. See how swift a study she is!
"Ear scratches, conversation, fish bones." A brisk correction— "Fish, and also bones."
no subject
The tenderness in Ellis' expression remains as he lifts his hand from over hers. Scruffs his fingers against the thick muscles of Ruadh's neck, chucks him beneath the chin. Says something, so low it is swallowed up by the clatter of sailors and slap of sea against the dock, but is returned by a soft lap of Ruadh's tongue to his hand.
Looking up at her, his expression has shifted only very slightly. It is still softened, cracked open enough for some silent, honest thing to make itself plain.
There is a beat of hesitation, where Ellis might say some other thing. Even unspoken, it draws taut within his chest, suppressed enough so that when he does speak, what he has to say is—
"Aye, that is all he needs. And perhaps some space on a rug alongside your bed, if you'll permit him."
no subject
"I'll consider it," she says, meaning very much to sound quite arch and cool and ruining it by instead smiling down at him as her hand continues to scratch absently behind Ruadh's ear. How difficult it is to see all that endearment in him and not simply reflect it directly back! So much so that there, amidst the bustle of the dockyard, she forgets the growing urgency to traipse up the gangway onto the little boat so she might be aboard ahead of her things and so see them directed according to her wishes, and momentarily loses track of even her annoyance over the inconvenience of such a traveling companion.
(Ruadh will take up a great deal of the space in the closet sized cabin to which she has been appointed on the Guillemot.)
"I promise to mind him very carefully, Mister Ellis."
no subject
That honest, closely-guarded thing is not diminished by it.
(In all the stories, is this not the place to make a declaration from? The knees?)
Lingering there, looking up at her, Ellis breathes out a deep, slow breath. Acclimating to the present moment, the inescapable presence of the ship behind them. Ruadh is content enough, luxuriating underneath Wysteria's ministrations. Ellis swipes one last pass over Ruadh's velvety snout, before he levers himself up.
"I know that you will," he tells her, voice gone thick over the words. "And I will miss you, very much."
no subject
"Nonsense. We're going to write with such frequency that you'll not have the time to."
She should have written him a note here in Kirkwall, she thinks. She might have given it to him this morning or arranged to have it delivered to his mail cubby after she had gone. It would have been a charming bit of high spirits and good humor. But she hadn't; she will have to suit herself with writing something during the crossing and with sending it directly back the moment she reaches Ferelden.
"In fact, you must promise me that you'll be extraordinarily well while I'm away. I would find that considerably reassuring."
no subject
Straightening, Ellis' expression creases into a subdued, fond smile. No promise is forthcoming, though he reaches to interrupt her ministrations. A regrettable turn of events for Ruadh, perhaps, but that prospect isn't enough to keep Ellis from catching up her hand in his own.
Certainly, he could have made the promise. How could it be verified one way or another? But Ellis imparts something else, instead.
"He has a keen sense of smell," comes with a tip of his head downwards, towards the seated mabari. Still panting, hopefully attentive to the two of them. "If Ruadh tells you to go, heed him. Aye?"
no subject
"Aye," she grumbles back at him, in something like imitation of his timbre. Less so: "I will be very cross if you insist on being not well. And trust that I will discover it if so. I have eyes and ears in every corner and stairwell of the Gallows, Mister Ellis."
Her thumbs presses across his knuckles, or as close to it as she's able to reach. The look she assigns him is quite severe. Expectant.
"But come now, I'm all out of time and can stand here scolding you no longer. If you would please go ahead and embrace me, then I will let you be on your way. I'm certain you have other things to accomplish this morning."
no subject
The minor, prompting pinches of her finger and the stern tone she's adopted do not quite put off the inevitable, senseless urge that still persists: could he keep her here on the docks, talking just a little while longer?
No.
So he cedes his grasp on her hand to do as bidden, and bow down into her. Turn his face in against her neck, secure his arms about her waist, and hold her tightly. Feel the burn of some close-held truth fluttering behind his ribs, and make no immediate attempt to quiet it, here where it cannot be read on his face or otherwise divined.
no subject
Yes, she's going to miss him too. And he had
truly best take care; she may be the one traveling, but Riftwatch is hardly known for its bodily security even when one is based here in Kirkwall. Who is to say what work he'll be committed to, or what skeletons will come crawling out of the sea, or where Corpyheus will turn should Starkhaven's defenses collapse in the weeks she's due to be away.
For a great deal of her life, worry (the real, legitimate sort) has been as foreign to her as most languages—a thing which other people may practice, but something she has had little reason to bother with. It seems there is something to be said for being forced to learn a thing by being repeatedly exposed to it.
And someone is shouting her name, saying, 'Madame de Foncé! Where is she? Madame de Foncé! Your husband will be here when you get back! I insist that you—'
Wysteria laughs, a bright peal of good humor as she bows back from the press of his face against her neck. She bends far enough back in the circle of his arms to laugh again and pat his cheek before moving to extricate herself entirely.
"Yes, yes. All right! Be well, Mister Ellis. Best of luck with Mister Dickerson. Should you think of anything you do want from Orzammar, please send word and—oh—" She'd nearly forgotten her traveling case there at the foot of the pile of miscellaneous baggage.
"Come, come Ruadh. Oh, and," she is walking partly backwards as if the impatient dwarven merchant waiting at the top of the gangplank is reeling her in with a hook and line, having to raise her voice the farther she gets away from Ellis there in the dock. "I promise to let you and Mister Stark know should anything unexpected happen—"
And so on and so forth, until she at last is hollering 'Goodbye, take care!' from the railing of the Guillemot.