[But he's shushed her, and now he's giving that soft and sweet smile of his and she's just too tired to argue any longer. She looks down as he jokes, mouth twisting, to the coat he's laid on the ground. Rosamund sits with a heavy sigh and an unease too deep-rooted to shake. People really are much too considerate of her. Strohl is much too considerate, has been from the start.]
You should sleep anyway though...it's not good to lose too much of it...
[Or get too much.
It's something in the simple strength of that earnesty that drives her to a mad thought, then. He says it so plainly. There's many ways in which Strohl is his own man. Too easily embarrassed, for one, his temper burns fiery hot, and his reasoning is of a man of twenty-some years, not a few hundred. Where he begins to double up in her mind now is that sweet and starkly true sentiment, said without a trace of irony.
She could just about hear the same thing in Sidon's voice.
Her mouth goes dry. She sees (not shares this time, blissfully), the crumpled mess of Sidon's legs from their fall. The way his body had been sectioned into deli counter slices by a force unseen. Rosamund feels her hands tremble and tries to quiet this sudden swell of grief. Her eyes focus on Strohl, blond hair rendered blue in the false moonlight, leaned against a tree and sat in the dirt.
This is the real moment. She needs to focus on here and now. Not the illusion of that other place. She inhales thickly and her eyes catch on the book. Easy enough.]
[ too late! he's not budging. stubborn as a goat, in the end, and he pays little mind to the protest, turning his head to look at her with a more wry smile. ]
...If I'm honest, I can't hardly remember the last night I slept well - magically induced aside. [ thursdays, that is. even then, it doesn't really count, because the force of it doubles the anxiety, puts a twist of it into his emotions, an underlying thread that seems to pulse often through the way he feels. that's what it means, to wield an archetype, to take those things and hold them, wield them not as a breaking point but as a weapon. brave, perhaps. terrifying, often. but still, all the same.
but with that thought aside, he's quietly thumbing through the book - it's only when he feels her shift slightly that he glances over, still on alert in case the control comes back, and concern flickers briefly across his face. unaware of the things she sees, but well aware of the pain she's been through in other manners, he makes a soft noise to shake it, and gently smooths the pages open across his lap so she can see the artwork! ]
This is a book belonging to His Highness that tells tale of a utopia: though it reads often like a guidebook, it's a novel. It ended up in our lounge wrapped up as a present just before I arrived on this side, lucky as that seems. I've seen him read it near a thousand times - in fact, it's become something of a tradition that he shares it with all of us.
[ strohl's voice softens into fondness as he tells of the book, of many nights spent on the gauntlet runner watching will read the same book, listening to him speak of the world he wants to create. he runs a thumb over the edge of the book, and then lifts his head again, briefly searching her face, brows knit together still in clear concern, but there's something softer to the edge of it, as he falters just a little. it's boyish, something just the side of uncertain, though for reasons unknown. worry, sincere and open, that perhaps it's not enough, that the depths of her grief and hurt from her experience are insurmountable. a weight of conversation carried from a long day, a long few hours, the strange and jarring sensation of another loss that seemed near permanent.
... but - still, he carries on. ]
I thought it might make a fine distraction, if nothing else - that perhaps we might read together, for a little while.
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[But he's shushed her, and now he's giving that soft and sweet smile of his and she's just too tired to argue any longer. She looks down as he jokes, mouth twisting, to the coat he's laid on the ground. Rosamund sits with a heavy sigh and an unease too deep-rooted to shake. People really are much too considerate of her. Strohl is much too considerate, has been from the start.]
You should sleep anyway though...it's not good to lose too much of it...
[Or get too much.
It's something in the simple strength of that earnesty that drives her to a mad thought, then. He says it so plainly. There's many ways in which Strohl is his own man. Too easily embarrassed, for one, his temper burns fiery hot, and his reasoning is of a man of twenty-some years, not a few hundred. Where he begins to double up in her mind now is that sweet and starkly true sentiment, said without a trace of irony.
She could just about hear the same thing in Sidon's voice.
Her mouth goes dry. She sees (not shares this time, blissfully), the crumpled mess of Sidon's legs from their fall. The way his body had been sectioned into deli counter slices by a force unseen. Rosamund feels her hands tremble and tries to quiet this sudden swell of grief. Her eyes focus on Strohl, blond hair rendered blue in the false moonlight, leaned against a tree and sat in the dirt.
This is the real moment. She needs to focus on here and now. Not the illusion of that other place. She inhales thickly and her eyes catch on the book. Easy enough.]
What's that?
no subject
...If I'm honest, I can't hardly remember the last night I slept well - magically induced aside. [ thursdays, that is. even then, it doesn't really count, because the force of it doubles the anxiety, puts a twist of it into his emotions, an underlying thread that seems to pulse often through the way he feels. that's what it means, to wield an archetype, to take those things and hold them, wield them not as a breaking point but as a weapon. brave, perhaps. terrifying, often. but still, all the same.
but with that thought aside, he's quietly thumbing through the book - it's only when he feels her shift slightly that he glances over, still on alert in case the control comes back, and concern flickers briefly across his face. unaware of the things she sees, but well aware of the pain she's been through in other manners, he makes a soft noise to shake it, and gently smooths the pages open across his lap so she can see the artwork! ]
This is a book belonging to His Highness that tells tale of a utopia: though it reads often like a guidebook, it's a novel. It ended up in our lounge wrapped up as a present just before I arrived on this side, lucky as that seems. I've seen him read it near a thousand times - in fact, it's become something of a tradition that he shares it with all of us.
[ strohl's voice softens into fondness as he tells of the book, of many nights spent on the gauntlet runner watching will read the same book, listening to him speak of the world he wants to create. he runs a thumb over the edge of the book, and then lifts his head again, briefly searching her face, brows knit together still in clear concern, but there's something softer to the edge of it, as he falters just a little. it's boyish, something just the side of uncertain, though for reasons unknown. worry, sincere and open, that perhaps it's not enough, that the depths of her grief and hurt from her experience are insurmountable. a weight of conversation carried from a long day, a long few hours, the strange and jarring sensation of another loss that seemed near permanent.
... but - still, he carries on. ]
I thought it might make a fine distraction, if nothing else - that perhaps we might read together, for a little while.