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when i go towards you it is with my whole life.
 | You came to the side of the bed and sat staring at me. Then you kissed me—I felt hot wax on my forehead. I wanted it to leave a mark: that’s how I knew I loved you. Because I wanted to be burned, stamped, to have something in the end— I drew the gown over my head; a red flush covered my face and shoulders. It will run its course, the course of fire, setting a cold coin on the forehead, between the eyes. You lay beside me; your hand moved over my face as though you had felt it also- you must have known, then, how I wanted you. We will always know that, you and I. The proof will be my body. — louise glück |
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Invoking the past is like cracking open the seal on a long-kept jar. The lid doesn't settle back into place as neatly. It is not so easy to contain the contents. It feels not so dissimilar to wrenching the fingers of his hand the wrong way, and feeling the reverberations of familiar pain course through his body. The fixed point upon which he steadies himself is Wysteria's hand, still in his.
When they rise, it is nearly in the same movement, Ellis drawn up by their laced fingers. They are stood too close in the space between two chairs. Ellis doesn't step back from her, though he should. He is aware of the wax lingering on her fingers, the sweet scent of honey. The word stay catches in his throat.
All those years ago, Shanae had kissed him first. She had seen something in his face when he was a boy and decided for them both. He wonders if his expression then would have been the same as whatever his face may look like now when his hand lifts to her cheek.
He opens his mouth. Draws a breath. Doesn't manage to ask her, though his fingers are very gentle against her skin.
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It does however succeed at turning that pause into a realer kind of stillness. The straying point her attention veers so sharply back that it may as well come with a soft snap as it clicks into place on him. There it remains, and about it settles just the smallest pinch of uncertainty.
"If there is something more you wish to say on the subject, Mr. Ellis," she prompts. His hand is warm (or her face is—a flush of something like quiet exasperation tinging the back of her neck). "You must speak it now before we go. I would see the whole thing put to bed directly. I have no tolerance at all for loose ends when it comes to the resolution of—a misunderstanding."
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The silence stretches a few beats longer. His thumb skims across her cheek. The words don't come. The sentiment is too big. Among all the things he has tried to say, this is too much. It is not a loose end. His grip flexes over her hand as Ellis draws in a deep breath. Wysteria might be forgiven for thinking he is about to clumsily say something to her. She has weathered his attempts for some time now, surely she recognizes the signs of it.
But instead—
His palm shifts, cupping her neck. There is some shade of agony working across his face, indecision and regret and some other, overwhelming element resolving all at once as he looks into her face.
Despite her request, Ellis doesn't speak anything aloud. Instead, he leans down and kisses Wysteria in her little kitchen, hand holding very tight to hers as he does so.
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It is not so new, wanting to please Wysteria. There are still notes, accompanied by sachets of tea or a tiny bouquets of snowdrops and hellebores and winter jasmine, and books with passages marked for her. It is not even new to spend time in the Hightown house, talking about what she's read that sticks in her mind or playing cards or rearranging the library while she sits among stacks of books. He always returns to the Gallows at the end of the evening. It is much the same, except for what's shifted, inescapably, and glows warm between them.
It's a thing to be carefully tended. Whether or not he still recalls how to do so—
Today, Ellis has been charged with the delivery of a wagonful of goods on behalf of a merchant the Ambassador is currying favor with. Ellis hadn't asked after the particulars of the arrangement, nor was it necessarily the type of errand that required company, but he'd mentioned (offered? requested?) it to Wysteria.
Which is how she came to be sat beside him on the cart on the road to one of the outlying villages along the coast. It's very cold and the wind is brisk, but the sun is out, and the ride has been uneventful. Ellis' gloves are tucked into one pocket, scarf tugged up around his ears. The sea stretches out along their right, beyond the grassy incline at the side of the road. The journey has been very pleasant, all thing's considered.
Wysteria has been speaking at length, the kind of explanation of what she and Tony are working on that Ellis only half-understands but enjoys hearing regardless. In the course of it, he shifts the reins to one hand and reaches over to where she's folded her mittened hands in her lap to lace his fingers through hers.
"Go on," he says, because he'd hear whatever she cared to talk about. It hadn't been meant as an interruption. It had occurred to Ellis that he could take her hand, and that it needn't be anything more than that.
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But now, having been reminded of the necessity to breathe, she sucks down a lungful of air rather than continue right away. It's held for a moment, the bitter sea air all desperately cold in her chest, and then released all at once in one strong exhale. She fancies she can taste something like salt in it.
(It would be easy to say that very little has changed between them. But that would be emphatically wrong. There is no one else's hand in the entire world who might contrive to interrupt her. And even if there was, she certainly wouldn't welcome the thing much less allow herself to feel any sense of the warm self-satisfaction which rises in reply to it.)
"My grandfather kept a house by the sea for a time," is in no way a continuation of her presentation. Squinting toward the rocky strand of beach, she wraps his hand a little more securely between her mittened ones. "I only saw it a few times while he was alive and Kalvad is very different from the Marches for most of the year, but in this season and with the water just there I'm reminded of it very much."
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"Can you swim?" is an easier question than Do you miss it? Ellis knows better than to invoke topics he doesn't care to answer in kind. His thumb strokes overs hers, a small, deliberate movement that doesn't disrupt the arrangement of their hands.
This is not chief among the questions he should be asking her. He's had some time to consider what should be settled, to think of what is due to her. But in the present moment—
"I'm not suggesting we stop now," he clarifies, in the wake of the strangeness of thinking so far ahead, that he might take her to a lake in the summer without any purpose beyond breaking away from Kirkwall's heat. "But I can't remember if I've ever asked."
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essential thread research: google show me "wagon parts"
thanks google
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Maybe it is the season—the beginnings of summer, humidity thick in the day and evenings all balmy; the orchards beyond the city ripe for peaches and plums, and wheat grown knee high—, when last she'd been here during the crisp end of fall. Or maybe it is that having once been the unspoken subject of the University's lecture halls that the second time—seated high in one of the galleries, listening intently to a series of talks on alchemical studies—is less daunting. Or maybe it is because she is a different person than she was in those first months. Or maybe it simply is something to do with the fact that this time she has a companion more willing to go exploring with her in the evenings once the lectures have wrapped for the day.
"Miss Van Klerk or Miss Smythe would have had more out of these talks, I'm certain. But better that you and I be here than no one at all. Imagine! Sending such a late invitation to Kirkwall. One would almost think they hadn't meant for us to accept in the first place."
This, Wysteria is saying as they weave their way through one of the close knit neighborhoods tucked in near the University's western flank. So many of Markham's roads have been kept wide for livestock and the passage of carts, but here the city has filled in in support of the college—all public houses and shops and bookstores and walk up apartments and inns and cramped courtyard markets.
"But it all works out in the end. And this way, you may meet dear Mister Brown and his friends who I met during my last visit here. He has already agreed to take us all to dinner tomorrow. I think you will like him. He's very sharp."
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"What will we do tonight then?" Ellis asks, following his own mild, nodded agreement on the matter of Mister Brown and his fellows. What Ellis would contribute to that dinner is a question to consider tomorrow.
Their lodgings are taken care of, courtesy of Riftwatch and Provost Stark. Ellis would propose that they bring something back for Tony, but maybe it's better to simply wait until they come across the right item than to try and plan for it.
His fingers graze hers as they walk along the narrow lane, and Ellis teases, "We can try to see a play."
Because that had gone so well the last time they'd tried it.
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(Ellis is here because she had made her appeals to Provost Stark to send her with a reliable escort. A good sword arm which might be trusted on the road. Someone with dark hair, and a reliable demeanor if such a person was to be found. To which Provost Stark had bleck'd and made the proper arrangements. But these facts either to be assumed (obviously she had asked) or are generally irrelevant (Tony's feelings on the matter).)
"No, there is a taproom somewhere here that had music and dancing which I remember from my last visit," she says, buzzing along with her half street lead and peering around every corner they reach. "I only have to recall down which of these side streets it lies. I was quite drunk by the time we relocated there, but I will know it when I see it."
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The garden is flourishing, everything coming into bud or bursting open in the sun. Frequently Ellis comes in to Wysteria in the kitchen smelling of earth, sweat and dirt on his skin, smudged on his palms. The flowers that appear on her table shift, winter blooms giving way to spring: daffodils and crocus and hyacinths to accompany the books left on her table.
When he'd asked her to accompany him out of Kirkwall this morning, it had been presented as an errand. Not so unusual, considering their habit now. But the errand turns out to be a pond an hour's ride out of the city. It's a more idyllic setting than the Marches have a right to host, but more importantly, it's shallow to a point, and the water is calm and it's secluded. Perfect for—
"I thought we'd see about teaching you to swim," he tells her, as he swings out of the saddle and leads his horse towards a low-hanging branch. He's prepared for this to be received much like the archery lessons: with a great deal of sighing and the clear sense that he's being humored.
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"Oh really, Mister Ellis," she grumbles, kicking free of one stirrup and then another.
"You might have at least warned me. These are not my best things—I would hardly wear my best stockings for riding—, but I would have picked something entire different if I knew they were to be drenched. And I would have brought something to change into besides. Do you know how dreadful it is to sit in three damp layers? To say nothing of being on a horse in them."
All this Wysteria says as she clambers down from her own saddle, hopping to draw the reins over the mare's head so it too might be tethered to the low hanging branch.
"At least you picked a fine day for it. The weather is truly atrociously warm."
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But they are all fair objections. Ellis is nodding along with them, assessment of the weather excluded, as he runs his palm down the neck of her horse. A soft whicker and shift of the horse is the only reply Wysteria receives for a moment, before he turns back to her.
"Check my saddlebags," he instructs, one hand pressing briefly at the small of her back as he passes her to check the ties. Wysteria is more or less left to uncover a neatly wrapped parcel that surely contains lunch, and clothing, tunics and trousers, one set smaller than the other. A makeshift swimming outfit, one that Ellis is fully aware Wysteria would never be caught dead in were they in a public place, but the idea of trying to purchase a suit on her behalf felt—
Daunting. Less so than simply buying something light and make-shift for the purpose of an afternoon.
Unsurprisingly, this is the point Ellis worried over the most.
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https://i.ibb.co/tx77DZ1/w-2250038.png pt2
Fortunately, in the course of the trip from Kirkwall to the village in question, then beyond the village to the ruins of what once might have been a modest castle, Ellis has enough time to read through the entirety of the petition.
"There's a concern about haunting," Ellis is telling Wysteria, having passed the sheaf of papers back to her as he tethers the horses securely. "But it may well be a rift, leaking out wisps or some other thing."
Or it might be nothing at all.
Ellis hasn't proposed this, but he's considered the possibility alongside the potential for danger.
The gate is rusted, overgrown and impassible in it's current condition. If they mean to enter, they'll have to wrench it open, or they'll have to find an alternate route. It already feels just a little bit more effort than the entire vague assertion of ghosts deserves.
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Wysteria, standing in the shade of the overgrown wall into which the gate is set, folds the papers over and stows them in full to bursting satchel at her side. She is dressed very sensibly, as far as Wysteria ever is: her robust, worn field boots and skirts which fall not quite to their ankles. She has a knife in her boot and another in her belt, and that round shield from Satinalias past paints an almost comic circle behind her silhouette where it's been strapped to her back. There is no bow or collection of arrows, the strength of the anchor in her hand negating its use somewhat (her aim, too, is better with her own hand), but by and large she very nearly has the appearance of a young lady well acquainted with field work if not strictly adventure.
"I suppose we might have asked a few more questions down in the village, but there is so much daylight left that I would prefer not to waste it. We can always do interviews when we return there this evening. Why, from the state of this wall, it's possible we will spend all of it looking for a way in and hardly have a chance to explore before the light fails us. Which directions would you care to try in first," she asks, attention shifting brightly to him from the barricade in question. "I'm sure we will find a place where the masonry has begun to fail, and then we might simply climb over."
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i just saw how many comments are in this post
we're very industrious
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The lady Hildred Paget is opening her winter home, and requires our assistance, the Commander had said dryly. An easy enough assignment, except that the task of "opening the winter estate" has stretched to encompass a wide array of responsibilities, up to and presently including attempting to locating the lady's cherished feline somewhere within the sixty-two drafty rooms in the cavernous building while the lady herself reclines in the drawing room with a bevvy of servants to play the harp and read aloud and transcribe her meandering replies to the basket of correspondence she had arrived with.
Wysteria's presence here is unofficial, as far as Ellis knows. And as pleased as he is to see her, his attention is regrettably split between the search for this thrice-damned cat.
At the moment, he's bent down to peer beneath a musty bed, clucking his tongue. It necessitates the question, "Sorry, what did you say happened in the workshop?" as he sits back on his heels.
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Before being delivered into Ellis' company, she had first been shown to the lady of the house where she made a series of similar (albeit far more respectfully and delicately worded) excuses, followed by a fairly charming conversation about the weather and only a little poking and prodding at the subject of her anchor. All this she might have handled with perfect aplomb. But as a last note, quite nearly as an afterthought, Lady Paget had remarked to her scribe that Riftwatch 'Must be in dire straights indeed, Albrecht. For look at the state of the poor girl's dress.'
So: flash forward. Wysteria is sullenly regarding herself in a slightly brassy looking glass. In its reflection, she is vaguely aware of Ellis shifting upright from peering under the bed.
"A nominal explosion," she repeats. "Mister Stark and I believe it will all be perfectly well given a week or so to air out. We have opened up all the vents and sealed the doors to the main house, but the kitchen and cellar are both quite unlivable for the time being. What do you make of this color?"
She plucks at her skirts.
my fuckin lol
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It is, as far as Riftwatch work is concerned, a highly typical excursion. On an island off the Ferelden coast, there are rumors of an ancient ruin. Dwarven, not elven, would be her estimate from nature of these whispers; Wysteria had theorized as much to Ellis long before they'd ever reached the shore of that place of windblown heather and stony pathways, great grey and brown stretches of landscape defined by marsh and dusky slate colored skies and the lonely shape of some old bann's abandoned hall lurking like a crouched black animal on the cliffs over the only stretch of coast fit for landing upon.
There are no horses on the island, and so they must make their way on foot along narrow paths of slate and sand under a gray sky. Wysteria, with her cloak wrapped tight about her and her head bowed forward against the cut of the air, is shamelessly using Ellis' broader form as a wind block. Across the Waking Sea, it's hardly autumn. But on this side of the channel, it feels like they're already ceding into winter. The scent on the air is brittle and salted, snapping cold, and the whole of the visible world bears some patina of impending isolation.
It's in this gloomy place that Wysteria, in all her bright colored outerwear and much battered field boots, finally approaches the subject which has been haunting her since it first occured to her to think of it.
"Mister Ellis, while we find ourselves walking, I wonder whether I might press you with a particular question."
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If there is any flicker of apprehension over heading towards another ruin, Ellis has kept it to himself. But he has resolved to be sure their equipment is in hand and a second medical kit is tucked under the seat of the boat to avoid any repetition of their last misadventure.
"Aye?" comes easily, prompting without any particular wariness.
Wysteria has been delicate with her questions. They are engaged, after a fashion. What is the worst that might arise, as they wind their way towards their destination.
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And if we were in Kalvad the bride would have to be kidnapped, of course, before the wedding, but seeing as we are not in Kalvad...
Ellis had hummed in acknowledgement, and she had gone on, talking about the garden and about the vows, and whether or not they might invite enough people that they should have a small cake, and what gambeson he might wear, and—
Wysteria had talked and Ellis had listened and they'd come to some conclusions. Or Wysteria had talked her way to a decision that had contented her and Ellis could make happen, and so they have arranged the wedding. More or less.
Except Ellis has considered there is one thing left undone, and so that is why he is waiting on the street with the hood of his cloak pulled up to shadow his face and a scarf tugged up around his cheeks. His horse is shuffling restlessly. There are still a handful of people milling about the way, enough that he will not stand out. And he knows that Wysteria will pass by on her way back to the ferry within the hour, for she was meant to meet him for supper.
Ellis is patient. He can wait, however long it takes for Wysteria in her bright cape to appear on the street.
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She is not quite running (that would be unladylike), but she is certainly only a hair's breath shy of it and struggling to do up the last buttons of her capelet as she goes. Clearly, she is aware that she is running late. What is equally obvious is that she doesn't believe herself to be observed by anyone of true consequence, and so is free to flap along in her slightly disheveled state. Her felt cap is hanging halfway out of one of her skirt pockets. There are two hair pins in her mouth, and if they were not there she might even now be swearing a mantra as she goes. She is certainly thinking it: Hells. Damn. Other naughty phrases like Adraste's ass.
Perhaps this is how Wysteria Poppell often makes her way through Kirkwall, organizing herself into something like a picture of neatness and respectability only at the last moment before she is seen. There is something certainly practiced about how she yanks one of the pins from between her teeth and jams it into the twist of her hair while dodging foot traffic.
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However, there are some tasks that lend themselves to the idea of the thing. They've been dispatched to the Viscount's hunting lodge in Vinmark mountains, familiar territory. Wysteria is meant to be seeking any evidence as to the presence of spirits within the lodge. Ellis is meant to be clearing fallen trees and assisting the staff with any necessary upkeep of the house.
But it leaves plenty of time for other pursuits, hiking or reading or dancing in the little tavern beyond the lodge in the village.
And today, Wysteria has decided upon ice skating, so they have commandeered two pairs and trekked through the snow-covered trees to the river. Ellis has half an inclination to follow it upwards, and purchase dinner for them at that same tavern.
"Let me," Ellis says, crouching to take her laces in hand.
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As something of a novice skater when first Riftwatch had made their winter in the Viscount's lodge, Wysteria has had precious little opportunity to improve her skills. She has however prepared by reading up on the subject, as well as reviewing a guide to winter weather survival, and various flora and fauna one might find in the region typical for the season.
Not that it's doing her much good right at this moment as she ties the laces of her winter boots together and drapes her non-bladed shoes about her neck. The snowy stone she's sitting on doesn't much care that she might have some solid suspicions as to it's geological makeup. It's just cold through the seat of her skirts.
Pink nosed and ruddy cheeked, she is bundled rather be loosely against the weather. But soon they'll be posting about on skates, and sweat (she had read) would be twice as bad as setting out a little chilly.
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little women reenactment or yada yada yada to village dealers choice
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Despite this, she is traipsing along ahead of Ellis—a great deal of her obscured either by the shape of the shield on her back or by the broad brim of the hat she means to wear to fend off the sunlight and wind to which they'll soon be subjected. She carries the thaumoscope's box in one hand, but her other swings freely. A number of stairs prior, Wysteria had thoughtlessly surrendered her pack to Ellis.
"Though obviously I've been to their roost. It has the best vantage from which to throw things off the tower."
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"Throw things off," is a questioning echo.
So many immediate safety concerns. It's a miracle someone passing beneath hasn't been injured.
"Butterball is a good choice for your first time. Did you remember the bits of jerky?"
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puts thumb over timestamp.
what timestamp I don't know her
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surprise
gasp
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