A pause, where Ellis lifts his hand and carefully flexes his fingers before leaning back slightly in his chair. Wysteria understands some aspect of this, but he doesn't see the gravity of it in her face. He doesn't know how to say this, or if he wants to say it.
The silence stretches as he sets his left hand onto the table.
"Everyone was killed. Or taken. I didn't know until later that darkspawn had a tendency for that, but it means the same thing in the end."
A pause. A deep breath. Ellis doesn't know how to make it real for her without bringing something horrific into the warmth of this kitchen.
"I ran," is what he says instead. "They were in our house, they'd gotten hold of my mother, and my father told me to run out the back door, so I did. I left them."
Which is the point. He'd left. The opaque description of the thing is enough illustration.
The whole world is full of books with dreadful things written in them, and like that they are remote in the way a description of of a day will always fail to capture it. Does speaking them aloud make much difference? What if the person saying it was there? What if they are the book the dreadful thing is written in?
This is the truth: Wysteria Poppell is clever, but she isn't terribly imaginative. Regardless of clarity - and he is clear; he doesn't need to describe the visceral horror of the thing for her to understand the implication inherent in it -, the combination of tender skin and stiff muscles which make up the hard shape of Ellis' long ago broken hand make more immediate sense to her than the bitter reality of 'I left them.' She is careful about how his left hand will or will not bend as she scuffs the honey wax across it, but for I ran, the only thing which occurs to her to say is--
"I'm sorry." She doesn't look up from his hand. A lump of scar tissue rolls under his thumb. "Is that why you became a Warden?"
That had been the truth for many Fereldans, but it hadn't been the course Ellis' life had taken. Joppa had dragged him from a cell and offered him a purpose. Ellis hadn't sought it out.
"You asked me about my family. I still have the note, the one I never answered. The truth is that they're gone. The people who raised me, my friends, my—"
Shanae.
He shakes his head.
"So the answer, what I should have written, is that I have you, and I have Tony. And I will do better, in the future, so as to keep you both from stumbling in the dark."
For a moment, the press of her fingers quiets. It's a small thing--a minor hesitation. A beat of consideration. And then the scuff of her fingertips resumes, rubbing small waxy circles into the rough shape of his hand until there is nothing more accomplished by continuing.
(Something in the center of her chest clenches. It's a minor sting, the treatment of that secret cut. It's not so different from rubbing a sweet salve into winter dry skin.)
Her fingertips are all oily and wax smooth. She releases his hand, rubs hers together, and then reaches for jar's lid.
"Thank you. For telling me. And it doesn't trouble me," she adds. With a soft click, the lid slides securely into place. "That it took some time for you to do it."
Wysteria looks at him then, sideways. She's a little skittish but genuine when she says, "Truly."
As she speaks Ellis' hand turns, covers Wysteria's over the tin before drawing it to him and holding it between his palms. Her hands are very warm. The jangling pressure of what he's invoked is still weighing down on him, but the give in her voice and the familiar comfort of the little kitchen acts as a cushion, buffers him from what he's drawn into the room with them.
It seems that may be all there is, just the clasp of his hands around hers. He's spoken at great length. What can possibly come after that?
"I've never told anyone that before now," comes softly, apology and gratitude mingled in his voice. There is some unspoken request in that, one he won't say aloud. After some further beat of quiet, "Thank you for tending to my hands."
His hands about hers are very secure, gentle but not tentative, and when Wysteria sets her spare hand over top of them it's a quiet thing but not delicate.
"You're welcome. But--" But. Her look is more direct, sharp edged. "I am obligated to say that if you were only more mindful about wearing gloves, you might not have needed them tended in the first place."
She pats the combination of their hands, squeezes whichever of his wrists is most convenient and strictly informs him that, "You should also know that this is the last time I will feed your chickens, Mister Ellis. So unless you mean to pack them up with you, I suggest that we all must simply agree to put our leaving days behind us. It would be easier for everyone, I think. The planning it would take to do otherwise--"
What a welcome thing the turn of her voice to both scolding and stratagem in turn is now. His hands shift, thumb covering over her scar as she briskly turns her attention to the chickens.
"Aye, that's wise," Ellis tells her. He would have gone if she'd asked him, but there's no reason to say as much now. Whatever he intended to say breaks on a short, hitching laugh, Ellis' head ducking as he clears his throat to add, "Especially as I don't think the chickens would be happy anywhere but here."
Her "Hm," is one of those quietly skeptical noise, though as a favor to him she makes no overtly disparaging remarks on the subject of chicken intellect. Wysteria merely rolls her eyes and gives the combination of their hands another firm pat.
"Now, Mister Ellis, if you will excuse me. I have a meeting with some city clerk who has historically refused to see me if I am so much as five minutes beyond what she believes to be our appointment time. I had resolved to bully her, if this conversation went poorly, but as it has not then I may as well save myself the trouble. To say nothing of your own duties, as I assume you have carefully booked your schedule as closely as you're able in an effort to avoid this very chance meeting."
Gently, his hand turns beneath hers to clasp both and bring them briefly to his lips. It's a very tender thing, standing in for everything Ellis wants to say. Whether or not Wysteria gathers all the action carries with it isn't important. The action itself matters. His head lifts, small smile pulling crookedly at his mouth.
"I'll walk you part way," he says, thumbs passing briefly over her knuckles before releasing her hands altogether. "If you haven't tired of my company."
That small smile serves to pluck at the corner of her own mouth, but before it can bloom too near to maturity she flattens it with an inauthentic scoff. When allowed the opportunity, Wysteria slips a hand free and pinches his bristling cheek.
"Only if you promise not to dawdle. You might think, given the great length of your legs, that you would be less easy to outpaced."
Which is as settled at the matter is likely to ever be. And so her mittens and scarf and hat are donned once more and the folio with its prodigious collection of papers is fetched up and stuffed under an arm. In the house's grand tradition of unfinished work, the pot of honey wax is forgotten entirely. It is left where at the center of the table when they go.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The silence stretches as he sets his left hand onto the table.
"Everyone was killed. Or taken. I didn't know until later that darkspawn had a tendency for that, but it means the same thing in the end."
A pause. A deep breath. Ellis doesn't know how to make it real for her without bringing something horrific into the warmth of this kitchen.
"I ran," is what he says instead. "They were in our house, they'd gotten hold of my mother, and my father told me to run out the back door, so I did. I left them."
Which is the point. He'd left. The opaque description of the thing is enough illustration.
no subject
This is the truth: Wysteria Poppell is clever, but she isn't terribly imaginative. Regardless of clarity - and he is clear; he doesn't need to describe the visceral horror of the thing for her to understand the implication inherent in it -, the combination of tender skin and stiff muscles which make up the hard shape of Ellis' long ago broken hand make more immediate sense to her than the bitter reality of 'I left them.' She is careful about how his left hand will or will not bend as she scuffs the honey wax across it, but for I ran, the only thing which occurs to her to say is--
"I'm sorry." She doesn't look up from his hand. A lump of scar tissue rolls under his thumb. "Is that why you became a Warden?"
no subject
That had been the truth for many Fereldans, but it hadn't been the course Ellis' life had taken. Joppa had dragged him from a cell and offered him a purpose. Ellis hadn't sought it out.
"You asked me about my family. I still have the note, the one I never answered. The truth is that they're gone. The people who raised me, my friends, my—"
Shanae.
He shakes his head.
"So the answer, what I should have written, is that I have you, and I have Tony. And I will do better, in the future, so as to keep you both from stumbling in the dark."
no subject
(Something in the center of her chest clenches. It's a minor sting, the treatment of that secret cut. It's not so different from rubbing a sweet salve into winter dry skin.)
Her fingertips are all oily and wax smooth. She releases his hand, rubs hers together, and then reaches for jar's lid.
"Thank you. For telling me. And it doesn't trouble me," she adds. With a soft click, the lid slides securely into place. "That it took some time for you to do it."
Wysteria looks at him then, sideways. She's a little skittish but genuine when she says, "Truly."
no subject
It seems that may be all there is, just the clasp of his hands around hers. He's spoken at great length. What can possibly come after that?
"I've never told anyone that before now," comes softly, apology and gratitude mingled in his voice. There is some unspoken request in that, one he won't say aloud. After some further beat of quiet, "Thank you for tending to my hands."
no subject
"You're welcome. But--" But. Her look is more direct, sharp edged. "I am obligated to say that if you were only more mindful about wearing gloves, you might not have needed them tended in the first place."
She pats the combination of their hands, squeezes whichever of his wrists is most convenient and strictly informs him that, "You should also know that this is the last time I will feed your chickens, Mister Ellis. So unless you mean to pack them up with you, I suggest that we all must simply agree to put our leaving days behind us. It would be easier for everyone, I think. The planning it would take to do otherwise--"
Wysteria tsks between her teeth.
no subject
"Aye, that's wise," Ellis tells her. He would have gone if she'd asked him, but there's no reason to say as much now. Whatever he intended to say breaks on a short, hitching laugh, Ellis' head ducking as he clears his throat to add, "Especially as I don't think the chickens would be happy anywhere but here."
no subject
"Now, Mister Ellis, if you will excuse me. I have a meeting with some city clerk who has historically refused to see me if I am so much as five minutes beyond what she believes to be our appointment time. I had resolved to bully her, if this conversation went poorly, but as it has not then I may as well save myself the trouble. To say nothing of your own duties, as I assume you have carefully booked your schedule as closely as you're able in an effort to avoid this very chance meeting."
put a bow on this pls
"I'll walk you part way," he says, thumbs passing briefly over her knuckles before releasing her hands altogether. "If you haven't tired of my company."
no subject
"Only if you promise not to dawdle. You might think, given the great length of your legs, that you would be less easy to outpaced."
Which is as settled at the matter is likely to ever be. And so her mittens and scarf and hat are donned once more and the folio with its prodigious collection of papers is fetched up and stuffed under an arm. In the house's grand tradition of unfinished work, the pot of honey wax is forgotten entirely. It is left where at the center of the table when they go.