she speaks to the walls, coaxing them to recall a shape they once had, and a frisson of heartbreaking familiarity sets Illarion's hidden feathers on end. For a moment (an hour, a lifetime, an eternity) this is not a young woman beside him but his Prince, evoking an older and better state from lifeless stones. He goes rigid as the wall behind him, in the shock of recognition--in the doubled shock of recognizing recognition as unreal, impossible (except his Court-gift is there, he's certain of it), and not to be acted on. His hands lift (to reach out and take his Prince's shoulder) and he stutters in the gesture, turns it to lacing them around a knee drawn up to his chest.
The butterflies ((tickle)) in his periphery; he cannot see the ramparts that rise to hide them, but he can ((feel)) the shape of them, and imagine what it is she must have done. It is remarkable in the moment, unexpected and serendipitous. He prays (has prayed) (will pray) it goes unnoticed, though an awful presentiment twists through him that all the eyes in the world must be turned their way, must have seen that--
A yell of "Mage!" somewhere far afield nearly startles him from his skin. But it is followed by more gunfire equally far away, and none of it's aimed at them.
He relaxes by degrees, unclenching his gritted fangs.]
Only to speak. Don't bother when I'm alone. [With (usually human) company it behooved him to mimic the living around him, match his unnecessary breathing to theirs.
He is not doing that now.] What are your limits? Or your--rules. [A Knight-Preserver had to know the ones he healed well enough to recall how they'd been before the injury. A bulwark couldn't be treated surgically with her skin that resisted blades. Where did Sayo's restrictions fall--in casting, or its consequences?
Where had they fallen last time she told him about this? (No--she hadn't, this is new. Is it? They've had this conversation before. He's had this conversation with his Prince, before, and the sound of distant shouting is the murmuring of the Court.)
He sets his fangs again. Mutters,] We need to address the corruption. All thr--all--both of us.
no subject
she speaks to the walls, coaxing them to recall a shape they once had, and a frisson of heartbreaking familiarity sets Illarion's hidden feathers on end. For a moment (an hour, a lifetime, an eternity) this is not a young woman beside him but his Prince, evoking an older and better state from lifeless stones. He goes rigid as the wall behind him, in the shock of recognition--in the doubled shock of recognizing recognition as unreal, impossible (except his Court-gift is there, he's certain of it), and not to be acted on. His hands lift (to reach out and take his Prince's shoulder) and he stutters in the gesture, turns it to lacing them around a knee drawn up to his chest.
The butterflies ((tickle)) in his periphery; he cannot see the ramparts that rise to hide them, but he can ((feel)) the shape of them, and imagine what it is she must have done. It is remarkable in the moment, unexpected and serendipitous. He prays (has prayed) (will pray) it goes unnoticed, though an awful presentiment twists through him that all the eyes in the world must be turned their way, must have seen that--
A yell of "Mage!" somewhere far afield nearly startles him from his skin. But it is followed by more gunfire equally far away, and none of it's aimed at them.
He relaxes by degrees, unclenching his gritted fangs.]
Only to speak. Don't bother when I'm alone. [With (usually human) company it behooved him to mimic the living around him, match his unnecessary breathing to theirs.
He is not doing that now.] What are your limits? Or your--rules. [A Knight-Preserver had to know the ones he healed well enough to recall how they'd been before the injury. A bulwark couldn't be treated surgically with her skin that resisted blades. Where did Sayo's restrictions fall--in casting, or its consequences?
Where had they fallen last time she told him about this? (No--she hadn't, this is new. Is it? They've had this conversation before. He's had this conversation with his Prince, before, and the sound of distant shouting is the murmuring of the Court.)
He sets his fangs again. Mutters,] We need to address the corruption. All thr--all--both of us.