[ That crush of reuniting lovers and friends, on their return from the desert, had made him feel as lonely as he’d ever felt in his life—but it was a long time ago. So long ago he is sure it wouldn’t happen the same way now, and so long ago that it wasn’t what he meant when he asked. So long ago he wouldn’t expect the memory of it to curl her shoulders that way.
Still, it’s the hope he wanted. His gaze is distant and thoughtful, but he smiles at his faraway point, and he doesn’t press his thumb against the thin, bruising skin of her thoughts to try splitting them open. He thinks about how long it has been since he’s seen her husband stalking through the Gallows, how long since he’s heard any complaints about his existence among the Hightown gossips, thinks about Athessa, thinks about the day Alexandrie laughed off his questions about her time as a bard and the day she told him about watching her husband read.
So he slips a hidden thought of his own into her hand. Not for trade. For safekeeping. ]
My little sister would be her… is Athessa's age, I hope. Somewhere.
[ When he was a young cellist in Val Royeaux, if anyone asked, he'd sprouted up without tending or origin, like a weed between the cobblestones in the city. No parents. No siblings. No little girl, with sharp bones like an underfed kitten, who held onto his ankle and dragged behind him halfway to the door the last time he walked out of it. ]
no subject
Still, it’s the hope he wanted. His gaze is distant and thoughtful, but he smiles at his faraway point, and he doesn’t press his thumb against the thin, bruising skin of her thoughts to try splitting them open. He thinks about how long it has been since he’s seen her husband stalking through the Gallows, how long since he’s heard any complaints about his existence among the Hightown gossips, thinks about Athessa, thinks about the day Alexandrie laughed off his questions about her time as a bard and the day she told him about watching her husband read.
So he slips a hidden thought of his own into her hand. Not for trade. For safekeeping. ]
My little sister would be her… is Athessa's age, I hope. Somewhere.
[ When he was a young cellist in Val Royeaux, if anyone asked, he'd sprouted up without tending or origin, like a weed between the cobblestones in the city. No parents. No siblings. No little girl, with sharp bones like an underfed kitten, who held onto his ankle and dragged behind him halfway to the door the last time he walked out of it. ]
So are you, but that is stranger to think about.