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

The mention of it comes in passing. Ellis had put his head into her lap in the backseat of a jolting carriage as they'd been ferried back to Kirkwall from a day's work within the looming library of some seaside estate. Wysteria had her hand in his hair. In the idle flow of conversation, she had mentioned it:

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.

Edited (heheheh) 2021-11-07 02:30 (UTC)

She keeps him waiting longer than one might expect which might explain why, when Wysteria does finally appear, there is something harried about her bearing.

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.

Had Ellis not taken some time to plan for this evening, he might have been content to observe her, meet her at the ferry to take her satchel and perhaps her hand, if she allowed it.

Would it not mortify her to know she'd been so witnessed, Ellis would tell her that he finds all her bluster charming. There's an attractive quality in it that is likely down to Wysteria herself, and Ellis' expression behind the fabric of his scarf has fallen into a pleased smile.

Not very intimidating, so he must muster up some focus. So with a final pat to the horse's neck, Ellis departs his position to come walking briskly up behind her.

Ellis has never actually done this particular maneuver. He's swept Wysteria up in his arms, but always in full sight and assurance of his welcome. But that's contrary to his purpose, so he must simply catch her round the waist from behind and attempt to haul her up over a shoulder with as much grace as possible.

To say that crime in Kirkwall is commonplace is an understatement. Everyone knows this. Wysteria herself keeps her purse in her skirt pockets on no less than two ties. And yet after so many years hurrying about to and fro, in the grey hours of dusk and dawn even, there is so denying that she has perhaps become somewhat cavalier regarding the possibilities of what might befall a young lady in the city alone. Or perhaps she has just become slightly enured against such attempts on her person. This is, after all, hardly her first kidnapping.

Regardless of the cause, the sound she makes around the hairpin between her teeth is more squawking shock than it is outright terror. More counter productive still to the possibility that anyone on the street might be moved to attempt a rescue, her second instinct is not to flail or scream but to go rigid like one of those small pygmy goats which faints when startled. She is almost fully hoisted over a shoulder by the time good sense is recalled to her.

Then she thrashes. And spits the hairpin into her hand so she might make a tight fist about it and move to stab at her attacker with it.

Edited 2021-11-07 04:04 (UTC)

It is fortunate there is so many layers of fabric between Ellis' neck and the stab of that pin.

It is also a reminder that he might try a little harder to get Wysteria to keep a knife at her hip.

The dig of her pin gets Wysteria a pained grunt for her trouble, but Ellis' grip doesn't waver. He makes a second, heaving hitch to finish the task of getting her over his shoulder as he staggers backwards. Not quite in the direction of his horse, but easily corrected so long as Wysteria doesn't manage to get that pin somewhere sensitive.

If she fails to, it will clearly be despite her best efforts. The moment she is fully thrown across the man's sturdy shoulder, Wysteria is grasping after the back of his cloak with one hand and jabbing the pin wherever she might reach.

(Happily for everyone involved, where she can reach is largely sections of heavily quilted and horsehair stuffed gamebson.)

"Put me down, you scoundrel! I will scratch your eyes out! I will have your throat out! I am a member of Riftwatch and you will"—pillowed stab—"do"—pillowed stab—"as I—"

The stitching on the back of this belt is very familiar.

"Say—?!" is squawked with somewhat less ferocity.

Maintaining silence is surely the best way to keep from revealing himself, isn't it?

Wysteria is treated to a second, wheezed grunt as she's hitched up higher over one shoulder. Has she bent the pin in her efforts? Ellis is reasonably certain there's enough force to at least bruise, which is something of a relief. She hasn't made this entirely easy for him.

Ellis is extremely careful as to how his hands are set over her as he pins her into place there. Perhaps this gives him away. Would any common kidnapper be so concerned as to propriety?

Straightening, squaring his feet, he begins the trek back to his horse. They haven't gone unnoticed, but the tapering of Wysteria's outrage has stalled the more interested parties from intervention to wary observation.

The belt and the gambeson and the width of his shoulder and something familiar in the grunt of pain he'd issued and the mindfulness of his hands, yes. Either he is a very considerate kidnapper who has gone to great lengths to disguise himself, or—

It takes a long series of minutes in which she is still struggling against being held despite neglecting to continue attempting to stab her kidnapper in the back for reason to eke its way past the adrenaline fueled idiocy. They are fully to the horse by the time she stops trying to somehow drive her knee into his chest or ceases to wail on his with her (pinless) clenched fist.

Her eventual "Mister Ellis," is fully appalled.

Before she speaks, Ellis had been thinking as to whether or not she'd bent the pin past using. Between the thrash of her knee and the pound of her fist on his back, Ellis had been concerning himself with the question of what might be done once they reach the horse. He doesn't imagine Wysteria will simply go quietly.

And then—

There is a stretch of quiet. Ellis shifts her weight over his shoulder, a little aimless, buying himself some time to consider his answer, coming to rest on a slightly abashed "Hush," murmured in answer as he makes to put her over the saddle.

"Hush—!" is squawked back, indignant and hot tempered. Hush. How dare he say such a thing after frightening the daylights out of her. She ought to try kicking him again for good measure.

She nearly does (unintentionally), the heel of her camel colored boot coming perilously close to thumping him in the chest as she's deposited across the saddle. Wysteria has to fight the shape of her cape then, all bluster and scoffing as she seeks to untangle herself from the undignified fall of it.

Edited 2021-11-07 05:27 (UTC)

The horse doesn't seem thrilled with the deposit of passenger, and the whickering complaint is accompanied by a fussy little side-step. Ellis makes a soft, soothing noise, though he has to carefully reach over with the hand that hasn't settled across Wysteria's back to pat the mare's neck.

"Careful," is gruffly said, some minor attempt at clinging to the pretense of being a stranger despite the fact that she's certainly caught on, even before recognizing his favored mount from the Gallows stable.

Reaching across, he pins the cape to her back, out of her face, and asks, "Can you ride upright, or will it spoil the effect?"

"The effect? And what effect is that meant to be exactly?" she begins to bluster back, clinging to the saddle with one hand against the paranoia of somehow overbalancing despite his hand there at her back.

And then all at once—

She moves as if to straighten, the abruptness of it nearly well and truly ruining how he's placed her. Some scrabbling occurs which the horse, reliable though it may be, no doubt would prefer didn't. When she has recovered, Wysteria demands with marginally less heat, "Are you attempting to kidnap me, sir?"

The kind of question that rekindles some interest in their audience. Ellis is not unaware of that either, though his only immediate reaction is to trade one hand for another, to keep one palm at the mare's neck while the other presumably keeps Wysteria from sliding out the saddle.

"Aye," is not as certain as it could be. Theoretically, the answer is yes. But it isn't exactly going as planned.

But maybe this is how it would have gone in Kalvad, spoiled identity included.

There is a brief, instant flush of outrage which rises in her that is equal parts—no, it is all embarrassment.

This is not how a bridal kidnapping in Kalvad is meant to go. She doesn't think it is, in any case. Surely you aren meant to see your betrothed's face so you don't accidentally attempt to stab him to death— But slung there across the saddle with his hand so studiously avoiding her backside and a dozen eyes glancing uneasily in their direction, it occurs to Wysteria that she doesn't actually know. Every bride she has ever known has always been perfectly (coyly) innocent about the evening in question and—

Thank the Maker that he is on the other side of the horse and unlikely to see her look of absolute mortification. Imagine if she had managed to sink her pin into him.

"No." Wysteria strangles out a reply only a few seconds later, this absurd mental calculation having occurred more or less instantly. "It would not ruin the effect."

With the sneaking suspicion he's missed some step of the process, Ellis reaches over and squeezes her hip gently.

"It's a short ride, I promise."

Though is that not how it's meant to be? He'd thought it would be simpler, easier on her, but—

Well, it's done now. He can't very well light out to another destination at this point, when all the arrangements have been settled. He'd been unclear on what exactly happens after the kidnapping, which suddenly also feels like an important lacking piece of information.

But at the end of a short gallop through Kirkwalls's emptying streets, they come to a small inn. It's on the lowest edges of Hightown, so not any great luxury, but it is clean and the proprietor is a cheerful, sweet-faced woman who does not comment on anything other than the room she's set aside, with a lovely view of the sea, if you please. There are bouquets of flowers in a vase on the table and strewn across the mantle and candles on the table, illuminating the meal that's been prepared for them.

"I didn't know what happened after the kidnapping," Ellis tells her, delicate over the words. "But I promised you dinner earlier."

Throughout her struggle, she had managed to retain her little felt hat. This is a blessing, for her half pinned hair has somewhat failed to withstand all the trouble and she may more or less twist the whole affair and shove it up under the cap and be more or less presentable once they have arrived and dismounted without anyone (such as the lovely woman who greets them) being much the wiser. This simple fact somewhat reduces the mortification inherent in having attempted to stab Ellis to death so that once they've been shown to the room—which is indeed very lovely—, she has the room in which to feel a small prickle of pleasure stirring underneath all the murderous embarrassment.

"Oh," sound quite surprised, albeit in a distinctly less horrified vein than all her other shock prior to this moment. "It's very prettily done."

(She is not in her best dress or even her second best dress. The thought prompts Wysteria to absently smooth the wrinkles in her skirts as the door is shut prudently behind them.)

"Hilde is good at these things," Ellis tells her, the kind of statement that is clearly repeated after having been reassured of it more than once in the planning of this venture.

But more importantly—

"You never said what happened after someone made off with their betrothed," isn't exactly an apology, but it does have some rueful ring to it. What goes unsaid: I hope that this makes up for the inaccuracy.

Ellis had very nearly consulted Tony, but thankfully for all involved, had refrained from invoking any earth customs in pre-wedding night shenanigans.

His hand catches her elbow, holding there lightly as Wysteria takes the tableau in. Ellis is in no hurry. There is dinner and there is the book they've been reading and there is much else to discuss. None of it need be rushed after.

"Oh. Well—"

Here she might confess the truth. That she has no idea what is meant to happen to the kidnapped bride to be when she has been spirited off before her wedding. It's quite possible that a fine meal is shared, or even that there are no requirements whatsoever.

She is on the very verge of saying so when she is gripped by some alternative.

"No, this is perfectly well," she says instead after a moment as his hand lies just there at her elbow. "And it's entirely my fault for not telling you. I can hardly blame you for not knowing. It isn't as if—well, never mind it and not to worry. I will, uh, lead you through the particulars over dinner?"

Nailed it.

Some slight scrutiny furrows Ellis' expression, and gives way to some softer thing as he steps around to her.

"Aye."

Whether or not her assertion is believed, Ellis is content to let her make what she pleases of their evening. Regardless, positioned there adjacent to her, his fingers lift to her jaw and the strip of smooth ribbon securing it beneath her chin.

"Let's have this off," he tells her, solicitous. "And your cape."

To be comfortable, surely. They have shared meals in their cloaks and hats and thick, warm outwear before. But they might pretend to be in the Hightown house, and he might help her off with her cape without any fanfare, as if they were coming home from a day's work.

"Only if you will wait while I pin up my hair properly," is the very weakest protest, made even while submitting to the delicate work of his fingers. Oh very well. He may undo the ribbons and take her red cape too.

"I refuse to have dinner with you on what it meant to be a proper evening half dressed. Properly dressed I mean. Obviously I have all my other clothes on."

Right. Shedding the hat and cape. She still has a fistful of pins in her skirt pocket.

"I don't mind it," will not matter very much in the grand scheme of things. Ellis has grown familiar with the lines separating out proper and improper. They are not impossible to move, but it takes some persuasion. And he might convince her otherwise, but—

But he doesn't mind watching the deft work of her fingers setting those pins into place, steals glances at it while he hangs both cape and hat on the little peg inside the door. His scarf and coat join them, satchel set down on the floor.

When he returns to her, it's to take her by the hand and draw her in with him to the table by the fire. Here, the assorted trays, waiting to be uncovered, the little vase of flowers and trio of candles, waiting for their attention.

"I pull your chair out?" he asks, a little teasing. "Like that time at that Orlesian estate?"

For all her fussing and fiddling, she is indeed perfectly deft with that pocketful of pins. In quick succession, Wysteria has her pale hair twisted into a semblance of neatness and picked into place. She more than ready to be led by the hand by the time Ellis returns to take her by it.

—and to scoff and roll her eyes and slap at his wrist without actually letting him go.

"If you must."

Apparently, he must.

It does necessitate letting go of Wysteria, which Ellis does regret.

But then here they are, sat together for a meal. They've done this hundreds of times before. The only difference is the shift in their status, and the weight of barely-grasped tradition bearing down on this particular evening.

"Are there other points in the future where I'll have to kidnap you?" Ellis asks, lifting the cloth over the basket of scones.

Hopefully not, considering how poorly this first attempt had gone.

Wysteria smooths her skirts once. And then a second time, laughing reflexively.

"No, I don't believe so. It's just the one time as far as I'm aware. Though I've become rather practiced, you know. I think if you tried again, I might best you."

There, see. She will simply make a joke out of the whole affair. Shifting up in her chair, she fetches the bottle on the table and promptly sets about working the cork free. She continues to talk in the interim.

"But there are other requirements now, of course. Ordinarily there would be, er, certain dishes we might be expected to share? But if those scones are made with any fruit then they should do. And then we're meant to share to a cup, but you and I have very different tastes in that sort of thing so I won't require it of you."

Pop! After a brief sniff of the wine soaked cork, Wysteria pours herself a glass of the spiced wine.

"But there is a game we might play."

"Yes, I think you might. If I hadn't had you over my shoulder so fast you might have gotten that pin into my throat."

Entirely blasé about the prospect. If anything, Ellis sounds rather pleased at over her reflexes. It doesn't interrupt his sorting through the basket, idle examination turned purposeful. After a few minutes, he lifts out one, then two, then three scones with a sweet jam filling to set on a small plate nudged between them, having apparently deemed the others unqualified for her purposes.

Then, his hand beckons towards her cup.

"A sip, for tradition's sake," he acquiesces, before prompting, "What kind of game? Not the kind we'd need cards for?"

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