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

On the plus side: there is no screaming or gasps from the public house's interior, and no undead wolf comes immediately battering down the back door either. Slightly more ominous is the fact that Wysteria doesn't return—not within a few minutes, not even within a handful of minutes. And though the sounds of the well attended little tavern seeping in through to the kitchens and the storerooms seems perfectly typical, there is no shrill underpinning at all from Wysteria's twittering voice. When someone does appear back in the kitchens, it's the spotty faced nephew of the landlady sullenly clanging and clattering his way through scraping dinners out of the large pot simmering over the fire, grumbling about it being the scope of his duties while deftly stacking bowls up the length of his arm for conveying back to the dining room.

He sticks his head in the storeroom before he goes, frowning gloomily at Ellis in the way teenage boys are wont to do.

"Aunt M says to tell you to have something to eat."

Just for peace of mind, Ellis looks in on the fade-touched corpse before heeding the instruction to come in to find something to eat.

Wysteria's continued absence feels enough like a warning sign that it propels Ellis from the dining room up the stairs to the cozy little room that's been let to them a second night.

A cautious rap on the closed door is followed by—

"Wysteria? Do you intend to eat with me?"

Before whatever trap she's laying springs.

First of all, Wysteria Ginsberg née Poppell would never lay a trap. That would be absurd—a sign of desperation and a lack of charisma both, surely. Why lie in wait when it is so much more expeditious to simply go directly toward what she has an interest in. No, it is entirely unfair to cast such aspersions in her general direction.

For indeed if she were baiting a trap, certainly she would have a more thoughtful reply prepared for him than the muffled squawk of alarm that first answers his inquiry through the door. It's cut sharply off, interrupted no doubt both by Wysteria's own bid for discretion as much as it is—

Something else. There was some other noise accompanying that honk of dismay, though separating it proves to be difficult through the closed door, and in no time at all Wysteria is calling hurriedly back—

"No, you go on Mister— Ellis. I'm hardly hungry. Which is to say, I've eaten," is clearly a lie in an effort to dissuade further questioning. "So please don't concern yourself with the state of my stomach."

Yes, it is clearly a lie.

If the delivery had been a bit smoother, and Wysteria seemed more at ease when they'd spoken earlier, Ellis might have come to the conclusion that Wysteria was occupied with her notes. It wouldn't have been the first time some scientific data took precedence over all other things.

As it stands, Ellis hesitates for a long moment on the opposite side of the door. Hand heavy on the latch, Ellis ultimately circles around to the semi-casual rejoinder of—

"I would rather have your company," will likely be easily brushed aside as well, which is why it's coupled with, "Would you sit with me, or have me come up after I've finished?"

It's very difficult, sometimes—to tell him know. From the far side of the door, she can imagine what he must look like in the narrow little hall: a frown, maybe. The slightest pinch at his brow.

All at once, she realizes that the bolt has not been done again. The landlady had drawn it back to allow herself to leave, and Wysteria had not thought to follow after her and see the door secured once more. This brief moment of alarm sounds like, from Ellis's side of the door, like either a very long pause of consideration or perhaps as if she's been distracted from the question entirely and has only half heard him—

"No!" is blurted out as if to fill that space retroactively. "I mean, I can't join you but yes. You ought to come up after you've finished. Or—" Think. "Or rather, let us split the difference I will come down in a reasonable time to have a warm drink with you once you have finished your supper. There, a perfectly happy arrangement."

A reasonable time feels nebulous at best.

Having some sense that this is a delicate matter, that he must tread lightly around it, Ellis hesitates to ask her for a more specific measurement.

"Alright," comes clearly through the door. Ellis choosing to accept these terms, and whatever might be happening within their rented room. "Come fetch me when you've settled your work for the evening."

This too, a choice. Choosing to believe that she is devoting herself to study of some kind, rather than the many variable potential draws for her attention. Some of which he can guess at, and would like to offer reassurance for, but won't attempt while there's a closed door between them that she has yet to even allude towards opening.

So he does retreat into the main room, where he is given a table by the fire. A rabbit stew loaded down with vegetables, and good crusty bread to accompany it. He is glad for it. When he'd traveled on Warden business rather than Riftwatch's business or a honeymoon, he'd received more or less the same far.

He is easily found, as time passes and the room clears. Ellis is content to wait for a time, before trying the door again. If Wysteria appears before that point, he'd be pleased enough, but is acclimating himself to the inevitability of ascending the stairs.

The hour advances and plates are cleared away. The landlady's sulky nephew disappears into the kitchen to clatter pots and pans about. The landlady herself makes a great to do of shifting the logs about in the room's cramped fireplace, making one or two brisk remarks about Ellis' work in the storeroom while she does so—not really a conversation and not really anything else either. It seems she might almost be avoiding joining her nephew in the washing up, or maybe willing herself to pretend there isn't an cursed animal in her woodshed while still being polite. Then, all at once, she glances toward the little stair leading up into the inn, stows her fireplace poker, and excuses herself with a curt, "Warden."

In passing the stairwell, she pauses briefly to give Wysteria (hesitating there on the mid-floor landing) a rigorous examination. The dirty field boots she's wearing warrants a sharp look and Wysteria, at once defensive, hisses en sotto voce "Well I hardly brought slippers, now did I?" which serves to at last drive the landlady the rest of the way through the little door and into the adjoining kitchen. The clattering of dishes intensifies instantly.

A reasonable amount of time is hardly a fair descriptor for the duration required to bring a bucket of water to some reasonable temperature in the little fireplace of the cozy upstairs room, or the time it has taken to scrub all the mud and sweat off her skin and to clean the gore out from under her fingernails. But here she is, a frankly unreasonable amount of time later, having done all that, and having successfully managed not to fall out the window while attempting to surreptitiously empty the basin of dirty water out of it while holding an only slightly shouted conversation through the door. Why, she has even sorted how to fold over the skirt she'd borrowed from the landlady in order to make it fit—her own having collected a half foot or so of grime at the hem—and fixed the lay of her braids so as to neaten how they've been coiled.

So, crusty field boots aside, it is an entirely more put together Wysteria who at last comes hurrying down from the landing, saying loudly "Ah, there you are Ellis! See, I told you I would be along shortly. Have you finished your supper already?"

Nailed it.

While there is no possible way for Ellis to ascertain the exact lengths to which Wysteria went to achieve her present state, he is not unaware that she has gone to some trouble. Or performed some minor feat in the span of time between their parting and her entry into the now emptied taproom. It is, after all, not her own skirt that Wysteria enters the room in.

All at once, Ellis has to consider the entirety of his person and day's wear worn into his skin and whether or not he should excuse himself at once. (What recourse does he have? Dunking into the frozen trough alongside the storeroom where rainwater has collected, and frozen over?) He had not been in near as dire condition, saved mostly by the frigid temperatures, breastplate and many layers that are now easily shed, but comparatively—

Yes, they had made a plan for the evening. But somehow, it had felt so very remote as to be unlikely up until this exact moment.

"I have," is the answer Ellis settles on. Yes, he has more or less finished. And been kept at the table longer than he'd have otherwise lingered on the assumption that it is more or less where Wysteria expects him to stay until he's fetched. "Do you still intend to drink a cup of cider with me?"

"Cider? Oh! Yes. Yes, of course. —Madame Hill!" This shrill call comes as Wysteria, having stopped short during her progress to the table, turns swiftly in the direction of the closed door leading to the kitchen. The speed at which the landlady answers is, it must be said, somewhat suspect and suggests the possibility of her having been stood just inside it there, halfheartedly banging pots and pans while listening with one ear.

"Has the fire been put out yet? No? Excellent. Could I trouble you or your nephew for two cups of hot cider? There's no hurry at all. And then we'll have nothing more at all to trouble you with this evening, I promise—"

The result of which is, ten minutes later, two clay mugs of steaming pressed apple cider made sweet and rich with spice, being deposited unceremoniously between them on their little table in the otherwise empty taproom. Wysteria has arranged herself in the chair opposite him, and has for these past many minutes been absently jiggling her knee under the table while discussing (in very broad terms) where they might hope to store the wolf upon their return to the lodge.

Regardless of plans for the evening, of whatever Wysteria has been attending to while sequestered in their room, or Madame Hill's investment in their supper, Ellis is pleased to listen and offer piecemeal advice for Wysteria's newly acquired specimen.

But, by and by, Ellis and his cup shift over a seat so as to set himself adjacent to her. Reaches beneath the table to put a hand gently over her jiggling knee. They are alone in this room and the door to the kitchen is closed, but Ellis is attempting to be mindful of what sort of displays of affection Wysteria might permit. One that is not so easily seen feels like the best bet.

"You look very fine," in a borrowed dress, but surely it was some trouble to arrange on such short notice. "But I'd remind you that if we wish to change our plans for the evening, it wouldn't be any kind of hardship."

This is predictable, surely. Unable to assign the nervousness to any one thing in particular, Ellis attempts to address it this way: they might put the whole business off, if it isn't as Wysteria hoped.

The jiggle of her knee stops abruptly once the placement of his hand calls attention to it. The solid heel of Wysteria's field boot sets resolutely down on the floorboard.

Her "Nonsense!" is quite abrupt, practically bristling although neither of her hands presently wrapped around her warm mug unpeels from it. She promptly lowers her voice by a decibel or two, continuing along in a not-quite-whisper. "We've an appointment, Ellis. I've no reason to delay it."

And then, at an even lower volume still—so like a whisper that it may, miraculously, actually qualify as one: "Why, do you wish to change our plans for the evening?"

"No."

So resolute as to be beyond doubt, despite how reserved his tone is.

"But you know it's important to me that you are satisfied with all aspects of it."

Satisfied is a delicately chosen word, meant more as a ward against any potential eavesdroppers than because Ellis thinks it's the best option to express his meaning.

He wants her to be comfortable. Ellis doesn't imagine there is any approach that won't create some level of anxiety, and he is admittedly uncertain whether he can fully judge the difference between what is unavoidable and what is exacerbated by their present location but—

But it's important to remind her of her options. That he will not fall to pieces should she ask to wait a night or two more.

"Yes, yes," has a sort of clipped, hasty air to it. Yes, she knows. Delicately chosen words aside, she has heard this refrain from him enough times before that it has become rather like the little step which leads up through the door and into the kitchen of the house in hightown—something navigated with such regularity that she hardly registers its presence save when some unlucky turn results in stubbing her toe against it.

"Which is precisely why we ought to adhere to the schedule we agreed on yesterday. If you're satisfied"—to borrow the word—"with the arrangement, and I'm satisfied with it as well, then delaying the whole affair further will only make it seem like one or both of us is avoiding the whole thing for some reason. Which we are not."

It's only after she does so that she realizes the volume of her voice has clambered back toward its naturally conversational register. This is promptly corrected, reduced once more to that veritable whisper as she partially turns toward Ellis altogether. Her knee shifts under the shape of his hand beneath the table's edge.

"You needn't be shy, Ellis. I realize it may have been some time since last you were in such circumstances, but I assure you that you will only be performing for an audience which knows no better and who will be perfectly happy with however you choose to conduct yourself."

Look, how thoughtful and reassuring she can be!

It's nearly the truth. Yes, it has been some time since he did this in any sort of functional way, where space existed for softness.

The disparity between Wysteria and Cathán is so vast it may as well stretch across the entirety of Thedas.

But the certainty with which she reassures tugs at the corners of his mouth. Tilts him towards a smile rather than introspection. (This is a choice.) His thumb runs along her kneecap, light pressure as he lifts his mug to his lips.

"I have a suspicion you'll form some opinions along the way," Ellis tells her. "And I'll be glad to hear all of them."

Which is followed easily by, "You'll give me a little time to wash up?"

She hadn't been anticipating that she might make him smile, but the hint of it is highly rewarding—warms something right in the center of her chest in a way the hot cider can't. She is so pleased with it that she says, "Yes, of course," and doesn't even think to be cross with herself over the fact that she might have just said the same thing to him and thus been perfectly at her leisure rather than scampering around like a chicken's body recently parted from its head in the effort to see all the sweat and viscera and so on scrubbed from her person.

(Nevermind that part of the embarrassment had been to do with having entirely forgotten the whole thing.)

"I believe there is even a washbasin in the hall outside our room. I have no idea how it arrived there, obviously." Obviously. "But I did happen to notice it leaned there against the wall, and I doubt Madame Hill would refuse you its use. Now," she says, lifting her mug with both hands so she might take a prim sip from it. "I've been thinking we might ask to borrow a sledge and some dogs, so as to convey the corpse up the river more smoothly. I've never driven a string of dogs, but I can't imagine it's very difficult—"

And so, they spend some time considering the transport of an oversized wolf corpse. Who might be prevailed upon to spare sled and dog. Whether or not Tomar might vouch for them and instruct them on the use of the sled. They finish their drinks. Madame Hill clears Ellis' plate, reassures them that she's had water sent up to their room.

Not that they'd been asked, but Ellis hadn't had any illusions about who was listening behind the swinging door to the kitchen.

The fire has been stoked, the room warmed. The basin has been set behind a threadbare screen. Ellis steps behind it to begin the business of stripping off articles of clothing.

"I'll be brief," he promises. "Should we check to see that there's no one hovering outside our door even now?"

"No, I have a strange sort of confidence that when our proprietess wished us goodnight that she may have actually meant it."

Partly on account of the fact that Wysteria had stuck her head back out of the room under the pretense of thanking Madame Hill for her attentiveness, and the two of them had shared an exchange of significant looks and the working of eyebrows at various heights on the face. Yes, thank you for the substitute skirts, and for the hot water, and the advice, Messere—

With Ellis having become a shadow behind the screen, Wysteria has perched herself on the little room's bed with the field book retrieved from her pack. She is making notes in it presently—or cleaning up the remarks she's always made while sitting in the wood shed, expanding them into proper sentences she might easily decipher some weeks from now.

"But if you like, I can cram my shawl under the door and some paper in the keyhole."

"I'll trust your judgement."

Bracers, tunic, trousers, one after another after another landing over the screen. It rattles under the weight. A rush of water, sloshing into the basin, follows after.

For a stretch of moments, there is quiet. Wysteria left to her notes, Ellis focused on the business of sluicing away the day's work. The worst of it all came off with his armor. He is economical, brisk in his movements.

"Wysteria," comes after a comfortable stretch of shared silence. The cloth wrings an excess of water into the bowl. "Have you finished your work for the evening?"

"Aye."

Ha ha ha, she's very funny.

This, from where she has transitioned from sitting on the edge of the bed making her notes to lying on her side crossways across it to do the same. Only after answering does she raise her attention from the page, tucking the snub of the pencil behind her ear.

It occurs to Ellis belatedly that they might have banked the fire.

Still, though Wysteria has observed all his scars, all the violence of his life writ large across his skin. It is very late to consider that he might prefer all of it go unseen.

For a moment, he contemplates all this scarring. The lines of ink on his chest.

"Would you rather I put something back on before I step out from behind this screen?" he questions.

There's some difference between undressing in front of her and simply appearing entirely undressed. All other hesitancies aside, this feels like fair warning.

On the other side of the screen, Wysteria perks up like a particularly irascible little terrier that's heard something scratching at the window pane. She doesn't sit up. She does, however, prudently close the little leather bound field journal.

Well.

Would he prefer to put something back on? Should she ask him that? Should she rather it that way? Is it very dreadful if she doesn't? If she hesitates to answer him much longer, will he simply put all his clothes back on and say how long the day has been and that they ought to sleep?

"No," she says abruptly. And then amends, "It's quite all right if you don't. Unless you would prefer to. I have been in the Gallows baths, you know."

(She absolutely doesn't use them herself, and this is stretching the truth. But she is aware them and that must certainly count for something.)

"But I can close my eyes if you like. Were it me, I would feel very ridiculous simply appearing suddenly without any clothes on. Not that you ought to. I'm only speaking very broadly."

Would Ellis like her to close her eyes?

There is a split second of consideration, what might be best. He thinks back to that night in Markham, in the near-darkness of that little dormitory. Wysteria instructing him which items to take off, in which order.

Ellis sets down the cloth over the edge of the basin. A moment later, he steps out from behind the screen. This is apparently Ellis' decision, appearing without preamble or further deliberation. His skin is still slightly damp. He doesn't reach up to snare his tunic from the top of the screen as he passes by it.

The room is not of remarkable size. It's easily crossed, in a few strides, unless he is otherwise stalled.

No, she doesn't stall him. Partly because, for a very short instant as he appears there out from behind the screen, she is struck briefly dumb over being so indulged. Or because it is quite a lot of skin. Or because she has seen him in his wet clothes with his trousers sticking to him, but so rarely has she seen the rest of him in so much firelight. She is distantly aware of the jolt of her pulse, the sudden flush of adrenaline.

But mostly she doesn't stall him because it doesn't even occur to her to do so. Does she look a little round eyed and shocked? Certainly. But before Ellis has finished crossed the little room to the bed, she has also levered herself up onto an elbow so as to look at him more directly.

"Oh." She can feel the prickle of a flush at her scalp. "Well there, you see. Hardly ridiculous at all."

(Her neck has gone instantly very hot. She can feel that too.)

Stopping just short, at the edge of the bed, Ellis observes her. Marks the expression on her face, the focus of her study. It may as well be a physical touch. He feels the prickle of it on his skin.

"I hoped not."

Even if he hadn't been worried about looking ridiculous, as much as he had worried over the scarring, and what questions they might raise. Ellis is certain that isn't a discussion conducive to what Wysteria had hoped to accomplish tonight. Or even one he wishes to have.

It is better to look at her. She is so rarely at a loss for words.

"How would you have me?" is only a little teasing; it's a very seriously posed question but for the way he is looking at her, the warmth in his voice. "In bed alongside you?"

It is more a question of this: has she completed her study?

Yes, he is very battered. But she knows that—has seen that harsh mark across his throat, and has inspected at least some small portion of the array across his chest. She knows his back is scarred too, and knows at least part of what made those marks. It makes sense that the rest of him ought to follow in kind. Indeed if she's never really interrogated the marks, it's because there is a reasonable conclusion she might draw from nearly all of them: that Ellis has lived a very rough sort of life, both in Riftwatch and before it.

She isn't looking at his scars, or the dark mark of the tattoo sprawled over his chest. Rather, she is absorbing the general impression of him there at the edge of the bed. Something of it in combination with fondness in the sound of his voice prompts that color to spread from her neck to her face.

Wysteria plucks the snub of a pencil from behind her ear and chucks it off the foot of the bed without actually blinking away from him.

"Yes, that would do. Only—" is quickly added, lest he otherwise take her immediately up on having reached a conensus. Though she pauses a long time before saying, "Only would you turn about for me? Just the once round."

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