heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

The urge to reach over to take her left hand, close his own over the gleaming green flicker embedded there, is kept in check as Ellis instead winds an arm around her. He rubs his hand up and down her bicep in silent attempt to ease the shivering from her. Being solid and warm and reassuring is the most he can do for her in this moment. Wysteria will right herself in due time.

"I know."

Agreement punctuated by the lift press of a kiss to the top of her head. Yes, Ellis is aware Wysteria has managed in more difficult situations. She's been kidnapped twice that he knows of, and come back unshaken. (Discounting the dream, of course.)

"It doesn't hurt?" he prompts, question asked nearly into her hair as he tucks her into him by degrees. He's never asked, but he'd wondered. He's seen her and Tony use them over and over, but it hadn't been quite like this.

"And you were very dashing," is what she says at first instead of an answer. "It was very decisively done. I wouldn't have thought to exert such a show of force, but clearly it was quite necessary. Do you know I have a cousin who once knew someone who was robbed on the road. I believe they killed the driver. Or at least that was how he told it to me. I suppose it might have been just him trying to frighten me. I was very small, and we were visiting and had to take a long road home. That scoundrel."

He is warm. His breath is too, and the sound of his voice pressed so close is pleasantly reassuring.

Wysteria looks down at the hand in her lap.

"Yes, it does. When I'm near to a rift, or helping to closing one. It does ache somewhat then." She closed her hand into a fist. "And a little more right this moment, I suppose."

The application of dashing and decisive are meant as praise, but don't quite land as intended. But he doesn't contradict her.

"I'd thought as much," he says instead.

Not that anything could be done for it. There's no way for him to do anything about it. He doesn't tell her that he's sorry, because what would she do with such a sentiment?

After a few moments of quiet, he says, "Here," and releases her hand long enough to undo the fastening of his gambeson, take her left hand and lift it to press squarely against his chest over his heartbeat. Less for the pain, more to keep the gleam of it out of sight, underline the rise and fall of his breath and the steady thud of his heart beneath his tunic.

"I had a cousin who would tell me stories about werewolves," Ellis tells her, as he reclaims her right hand, lacing their fingers together. "And he did frighten me, because for a few months I wouldn't go out of the house after dark, even with a torch. I was afraid I'd drop it, and when the light went out the monster would get me."

That pocket of air between gambeson and tunic is brazier warm. She thinks that first. And then after feels the regular beat of his heart. She thinks of counting it. And then does count it—beat one, beat two, beat three.

"Do you suppose it is a rule that all cousins must be little beasts?"

It'a not really a question that needs an answer. Cinched in close to him, sitting in the mud and end of winter brittle vegetation, Wysteria closes her eyes. She breathes in and thinks of not holding it overlong. Breath one, breath two, breath three.

"How did you stop being frightened?"

A soft hum in answer. What a moment to think back, sitting here with blood on him in the road. The pass of his hand up and down her arm slows, lingers at her elbow before ascending back up to her shoulder.

How did he stop being frightened? Thinking back, it is hard to think of one specific moment when the concern of being snatched in the dark faded away.

"My father," he says, and then stops. He inhales deeply, chest rising beneath Wysteria's hand. "We'd go out together, without a torch. I think it must have stopped worrying me when nothing tried to eat me."

And then, after the Blight, what was there to be frightened for? (No. He's been reminded, since he's come to Riftwatch. He was reminded just today, when Wysteria had been ripped from her seat in this cart.) He ducks his face briefly into her hair, grip tightening on her arm.

"Remind me later. I'll tell you the werewolf stories I remember."

His chest rises under her hand. Her eyes are still closed, but she can imagine the look on his face which must come with it (counting still—Eight, nine, forty, forty-one, two, three—if she focuses on it, the rhythm of the ache in her hand fades and her own breathing begins to feel even).

"Yes, thank you. I would like to hear them."

For the narrowest instant, she can feel a knot forming in her throat. Tears stinging in her closed eyes. She doesn't have time to sort where either comes from before both subside, though. And then they are just sitting on the ground and it occurs to her that she's getting cold from it.

"Well. For now, we may as well track down the wagon. At this rate, I'll have almost no time at all to get a look at my caves."

Yes, they might as well see how far the horses got before they were distracted or exhausted. And Wysteria seems steadier, or at least, the shivering has subsided. But Ellis doesn't make to stand just yet.

"I had an idea," Ellis says. "That we stay the night there, and we can see your caves on the way back. Tomorrow."

Though he wouldn't blame her if she'd rather speed back to the Gallows, Ellis thinks she deserves the option to put herself back together.

"Oh." And. "Yes. That seems perfectly reasonable. The horses would do well to be put up for the night."

And the idea of sitting on a hard cart seat for further hours on end sounds miserable. And he looks dreadful and will need a bath. And she is tired, and dirty, and sore. And then she will get to see her cliff caves and they may forget all about this nonsense. And in a few hours, once the pain has faded, she may speak to Tony over the crystal regarding the event in the road and it will be as if nothing at all remarkable had occurred save for the activation of her anchor shard.

There. Decided. It's a fine plan.

"Very well. Can you stand, or shall I make the first attempt and dredge you up after me, Mister Ellis?"

That's a good joke. She decides that too.

In the wake of her brisk little joke, Ellis can almost forget the axe hooked over the edge of the wagon, so close to her arm. Or the crackling dome of green, obscuring her from view. He smiles for it anyway, brings her hand to his mouth to smack a light kiss to her knuckles before leveraging himself up with a groan.

"Here we go."

Unattended, the horses had meandered farther down the road than anticipated before being distracted by grazing opportunities. Wysteria's notebook is recovered. They make it into the village, later than expected but before nightfall. Ellis unloads the cargo, amidst a pattering of faux casual questions and a gaggle of village children. The interest is understandable, considering the state they arrived in. (Ellis' mace is concealed until he can rinse it clean in the trough behind the stables.) There's a little inn that doubles as the tavern, and a few coins gets baths, dinner, a room on the third floor with sloping ceilings but a warm fire. The events of the day recede by turns, and Ellis doesn't summon them back when he scribbles the news of their delay into the book, addressed to Matthias.

"They'll wash out our clothes," Ellis is telling her, hands deftly winding bandages over the scrape on her arm. His hair is still damp from the bath, having returned to her in just his tunic and a pair of borrowed trousers. The salve-smeared scrape disappears by turns as he winds the cloth into place. "And promised us breakfast, if I chop wood for them before we go."

So all in all, a decent bargain.

All things considered, it's a perfectly comfortable arrangement. What more could be asked for after a such an extraordinarily long day? She has fended off the interrogation of a dozen children while the wagon was been unloaded, and gossiped ferociously with the innkeeper's wife and daughter while she'd sat in a shallow bathing pan and they'd helped to scrub all the mud and blood out of her hair. They'd been kind enough to use some sweet honeyed soap made in the summer and to lend her a clean shift and a plain but beautifully cedar smelling dress from the bottom of some chest, and here in the evening with a fire roaring in the narrow upstairs room, she is almost beginning to feel human again.

Her long pale hair in its straight forward plait is draped forward over her shoulder. There is just one chair in the little room, so they're instead seated on the yarn hooked rug because it's convenient and because it's closest to the warm hearth stone. She has her knees drawn up, her chin resting on the peak of them, and is just patient or tired enough to submit to being tended to.

"Is that so? I'll bet that was a suggestion from Alma, the cheeky old bat." Wysteria lowers her voice to a stage whisper. "She thinks you're quite good looking. I tried to dissuade her with descriptions of your terrible temperament, but by the sound of things I wasn't successful."

A mage could erase the wound easily, but Ellis has to make do with what he has. Even if Wysteria is humoring him, it still eases some lingering sense of guilt for what feels like a mistake; if he'd done it all properly, surely she would have come through it without a scratch.

But it helps that Wysteria seems more or less herself. She's resilient, far more than she gets credit for. Once the scrape is obscured, this could be any other stop-over in the midst of an errand gone on longer than intended.

"I'm going to have to disappoint her," Ellis answers, a smile working at the corner of his mouth. His hands move carefully at her wrist, tucking and securing the last ends of the bandages. "I've had my head turned by an extraordinary woman. There's nothing for it."

A sweep of his thumb along the heel of her hand, and Wysteria is released. These words come easier now, though not without a small pang of some complex feeling.

None of that touches his expression now. Instead, Ellis smile widens just a fraction as he continues, "But maybe we wait tell her so after we've eaten."

Her arm is folded accordingly back, tucking in about her legs so she might secure them to her. It's a comfortable thing, easily done as she hmms and oh?s and so on to the effect of humoring him.

"I agree that would be best. I couldn't bear to see that woman's heart broken after she and her family have shown such hospitality to me. —Well, to us. But in exchange for keeping your secret, you will have to tell me all about this fine lady who has you put you in such an inconvenient position. Because I won't stand for it. I'm extremely jealous, Mister Ellis, and was under the impression that we had become reasonably close."

"I have a sense you'd like her."

Between them, on the rug, Ellis has set to packing away what he'd taken out of his kit: rewinding bandages, sealing the little tin of salve, tucking them into the pockets and straps where he'd drawn them from.

"She's very clever. One of the smartest people I've met in all my travels," Ellis tells her, watching Wysteria's face from the corner of his eye. "And pretty. Even in a borrowed dress."

Had things gone differently on the road, he might have said other things, teased her about her driving. But it is too soon to invoke any of it, and Ellis lets the list end there, lapsing into quiet as he ties the leather straps securely into place and turns to slide the kit back into his pack.

She scoffs, a singularly skeptical noise whose force isn't represented in the ease of her posture.

"Well now you've put me at quite the impasse, Mister Ellis," she says, watching as he repacks the kit and stows it away. "For I'm naturally suspicious of anyone who is so easily praised, and so would naturally assume that I would find this lady to be quite dreadful in practice. But, I also know your word to be fairly reliable and your judgement sound. So I suppose, in the name of our regard for one another and because you are so well traveled, I have no choice but to accept your evaluation. Much as it pains me to do so."

It is pleasantly warm in the room and the birch bark used for tinder in the fireplace has a sweet smell to it. Were the circumstances of their presence here more different, she might hardly give much appreciation to either, or to the crusty bread that had come with dinner, or the scratchy woolen stockings she's been lent.

Seated there on the latch hook rug, she allows the link of her hands to slip from her knees to loose about her ankles. So long as they are here and have the time, there is some reading she might do in A Field Guide to Earthly Phainomenon, Vol.II refresh herself on what they may find in her cliff caves tomorrow. Or she might work on drafting the report they will need to make (or the one for their latest excursion into the Vinmark's and measurements taken from the rift which was closed there which she still owes a hard copy of to Felandaris and Provost Stark). Or any number of things. Or—

"Are you very tired?"

Had he always been so fond of her scoffs? When exactly did that softness develop in him, that he is more prone to a grin than anything else in response to them?

The moment of consideration in the wake of her question has very little do with self-assessment. Ellis knows his answer. But he doesn't respond until he's nudged his kit into place among the other items in his bag, securely refastened the buckle and set it back against the leg of the chair.

"No," he answers her. "But I thought you might be."

Edited (changes literally 1 word) 2021-03-10 20:48 (UTC)

"Tired? At this hour? Really, Mister Ellis. The sun has set so recently we might still catch up to it by walking."

Across the tops of her stockinged feet, there is a small motion—a thoughtless turn of her left hand in her right, the absent set of her thumb in her anchor fractured palm.

"Would you tell me about one of the places you've been to? I'd like to hear about more of what you've seen and liked best. I'm planning my summer travels, you see."

Her smile flicks briefly wide. A witty joke.

Repeating, "Oh, your summer travels," back to her in suitably impressed tones is only partly a stalling tactic.

Where has he been that he would dredge up to share with her? Where has he been that wasn't colored over with death and violence of one kind or another?

There is something Ellis' expression does when he casts his mind backwards: a shuttering, some closing off as if bracing against strong wind. But he invited—no, he drew Wysteria in to him. Part of the bargain means it will always be more difficult now to close her out.

He'd promised her, regardless. He'd promised to do better. Ellis watches the turn of her hands and the set of her fingers and closes his own hands together, elbows on crossed knees.

"Aye," he says at last, straightening in his seat on the rug. There is a bruise rising all along one side of his body, but it's more ache than actual pain, beating dully when Ellis stretches. "Alright, but if I have to repeat part of it again for Tony's benefit, you can't give away that I've already told you."

"I swear to keep it in utmost confidence," she says, all faux solemnity thanks to the adoption of some severe set to her brow and jaw.

She sets her left palm, all aching, over her ankle and her right hand quietly over top of it. And she waits, the picture of good humor, of being in fine spirits, and patience.

Looking at her, the words come here catch in his throat. The blurry line between what is and isn't permissible rises up like a wall, and Ellis draws a breath, sets the urge aside, and gathers his thoughts.

"I think you already know some particulars about the Deep Roads, and maybe a little about the lost thaigs," he begins. "The dwarves lost many of them to the darkspawn, but the nature of darkspawn—"

Ellis shakes his head, reframes his line of thought. He doesn't care to invite darkspawn and strategy into this room.

"You can't count on it always, but it's safe to explore if you have an idea of where you're going and you're well enough prepared. And that's part of what I was assisting with, years ago. Exploring, and mapping."

Maybe he told her this before. He thinks he might have, remembers her remark on it, mistaking him for the research rather than the person sent along to make certain the researcher returned. Ellis' hands shift, one crossing over the other, right hand covering the stiff-bent fingers of his left as he says, "I'd never seen anything like them. You can imagine it, a Fereldan seeing something so grand as an entire underground city. Even ruined as they were, you could see what they'd been."

From the first mention of the Deep Roads, her attention becomes attentive—interest glinting like a light behind the eyes. The idle shifting of her hands on Wysteria's chin on her knees quiets, and she listens with the sort of rapt focus which most might devote to particularly fascinating works of fiction, or the devout to chapel and the Chant.

"I've done some reading. De Foncé lent me a selection of books when I told him we were to take an expedition to Orzammar—a thing shared with the understanding that it be kept in the strictest secrecy," she hastens to assure him as once upon a time those plans had been the sort of thing they might ordinarily say nothing about. Is it different now that Tony heads the division? Perhaps.

"Would you describe how it looked to you? The thaig. I should like an image to think of, as I believe you intend for us to avoid the deep roads as much as is possible when we do go off on our little excursion."

"Beautiful," Ellis says first, then, "And very lonely."

But maybe sensing that such abstractions are not exactly what she's after—

"The dwarves dug so deep that you could stand on a ledge and not be able see the roof of the cavern or down to the bottom of the caves. They'd suspended bridges and statues over great chasms, and dug their settlements into the cavern walls. The walls were sloped—"

Ellis sketches out impressions of these things with his hands absently as he speaks.

"And they'd built ledges, and then built structures on those ledges. The stone had crumbled in places, so we'd scale it to enter their halls, and see what was left," Ellis' voice is slowing, careful around the topic. "And the carvings...we were lucky, to have found places where they were so intact. What had been hewn into the stone was very lovely."

"Do you recall any details of the shapes? I've been reading about dwarven textiles because de Foncé finds the subject so beneath him, and would be delighted if any of the popular patterning in them is reflected in the old thaigs. He is so opinionated on the architecture. I should like to show him up at something relating to it if at all possible."

This is a familiar patter, a well practiced rhythm into which so many of their conversations—the ones which truly warrant the title, as opposed to when she is just talking at him—fall into. They might be discussing a book, or some work of Riftwatch, or a bit of news circulating through Kirkwall, or the house in Hightown's next stage of renovation. The constancy of it might be quite dull if she'd ever decided his opinions were of little consequences, and yet they are and so the arrangement is—

Comfortable. Comforting. A fine distraction from the prickle of unease which has lingered there in the back of her mind like the slightest draft through a poorly fitted window upon first being shown up to this room which they're expected to share. To eventually go to bed and sleep in.

Indeed she might happily talk the subject to death well into the evening if he were to allow her, or if she could think of interesting tangents which they might reasonable travel.

Yes, it is familiar. Even down to the hour, because Ellis has lingered late before when their conversations had unspooled further and further before one of them remembered the ferry.

The question of the room, the bed, it's already resolved in Ellis' mind. Despite the newfound permission to take her hand when he pleases and the newly granted option to ask her if she cares to be kissed, the way they fit together has been largely unaltered.

And Ellis has stalled over outlining the edges of it. Is that not a kind of unease akin to what Wysteria is harboring?

"Give me a page out of your notebook, and a pen," he tells her, apparently content to continue apace. "I'll see if I can reproduce what I remember."

And what he does manage, despite being of middling quality, is fairly accurate. Whether or not it means anything to Wysteria when he turns the page to her, leaning by slow degrees into her space to deliver his work, is something else.

The scrap of paper is accepted eagerly and is what finally prompts Wysteria to unfold the drawn up line of her knees and settle there more comfortably before the fire and beside him so she might turn the page about or fold it this way and that with her right hand. Her left remains set in her lap, fingers curled into a loose fist about the anchor's blow.

"There are pieces of it which seem similar. This portion of the pattern here, you see? That's not so different from the sort of trim which is typical in the formal wear of some upper castes. Well—according to the drawings I've seen in any case. I wonder if there if there isn't a familial element to it—if each ancient thaig perhaps pattern making which was distinct to those who lived there. If we do indeed ever manage to go to Orzammar, let us look into it. See if we can't find some connection between whatever remains of the oldest city there and the traditional fashions.

"You may be my partner in the investigation. If we find something, we might write a paper on the subject together. De Foncé would surely expire on the spot then," she says, turning her attention from the page to him. He is quite close. There is—

"Oh, you've a small scratch there." Wysteria taps the apple of her own cheek. "Wounded after all."

The second person in so many weeks who has expressed interest in Ellis writing a paper. He takes Wysteria no more seriously than he had Mhavos, chuckles over it and leaves the suggestion be as Wysteria makes an examination of his face.

Mirroring her, Ellis taps his own cheek, finds some minor point of tenderness.

"Ah," he says, considering the bruises he's acquired and declining to volunteer news of their existence. "Is it dashing? Or will I need to wear a veil when we leave this room?"

When his hand leaves his cheek, it's to reach for her left hand in a mimic of the moment on the cart, how easy it had been to lace his fingers through hers then.

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