An idle, cruel part of Jone thinks-- well, clearly she's forgiven for the scuffle earlier. The rest listens.
It's a fantastical story, and as ever Jone is unsure whether to believe it as Noah tells it. She thinks there might be something in the metaphor. Yet it is true to him, so that's all that really matters.
“The nature of the realm the gods inhabited was cyclical: death would cycle into rebirth, life into death, repeated infinitely without end— save for unique circumstance. At times, when a soul was deemed useful no longer, it was simply erased.” Unlike the heady swell of rage, Noah lacks potency of pain in his delivery; he does not sink, nor sulk, nor show sign of sorrow. Pale eyes fix themselves to a middling stain upon the floorboards, and he speaks as though this were nothing.
As though he feels nothing.
“My brother, much as I did not love him, was one such casualty.”
She doesn't say anything, because there isn't anything to say. Metaphorical or literal, the loss of a sibling-- those few worthy enough to be cherished, even cherished with hate-- is a heavy thing. She wonders if she would regret losing Mattieu or Marec in such a way. She thinks she'd regret the lack of closure, of not being able to end things on her own terms. Perhaps that's what Gabranth mourns, or something else entirely. It does not matter. She'll stay beside him regardless. Until the heavens come down, and after.
She sits next to him on the bed, and her hand encloses his, gloved or no. Go on.
His hand stiffens— and then tips against her own, knuckles skirting low across her palm to settle more fully within her grasp. It is not difficult to trust, only difficult to ease into touch itself, when so much of his world has hinged on cleaving it away with a ceaseless commitment.
“He and I held little in the way of similarity. Virtue and unerring devotion to the notion of freedom were as lifeblood to him. He was beloved. Admired. Scarce few in the South had not heard his name— and among their number, fewer still did not think favorably of it when it was spoken regardless.” Their paths, divergent in every last conceivable way. His hold on Jone's hand tightens, though he takes care to repeat no past mistakes.
“Were he here in my stead, much would be different.”
But the rifts chose the lesser son. And so.
“I remain a lesser facsimile. I behave as I imagine he would. I wear his face, recount his lessons and purpose in a pale farce. What honor he had, I mask myself with thusly, and emulate the choices he would have made.”
The true reason why Noah's mood so often shatters: the layers between his nature and that of the one he works to maintain are misaligned, gritting against one another until something gives.
Clearly, he is saying something that breaks his own heart. How, she wonders, was she ever angry at him? He is able to pull emotion from her without even trying, and that must truly be what love is. To inspire rage, lust, fear or adoration without even trying, that's what he does to her.
She uses her free hand to pull his entire arm into her orbit, hugging it close against softer fabrics. "I may know you better than you think," she says, because she wants it to be true, "but I won't argue with you now, love."
Maybe she is right. The others within Riftwatch, even those who grasp the entirety of his cruel past, he’d assume their impression of him to be wrong even at its most nuanced. Regardless of the fact that none comprehend the etiquette that governs him, there is a sort of...romance that pervades at times, depending on who he speaks to. The notion he is a knight. A hero.
Not a Judge.
But so much of what Jone suffers is a sting he knows too well. The thought of falling ever short. So he leaves her to pull at him as she likes. A comfort, the strong anchor of her grasp, grounding when he otherwise feels unmoored.
And for a time, that is all that is left to them. The quiet, and her touch, and how he sinks into it. Until at last, the rough catch of his voice breaks through once more.
Jone chews the inside of her cheek to keep back the surprised huff of laughter. Has she cut hair? But she knows how Noah's mind works, and it's symbolism until you hit the bone. She recognizes it-- the same for herself.
"Once or twice," she says, and moves to sit behind him, a hand on his shoulder. "How'd you like it?"
She kisses the back of his head, a silent promise to be kind.
"Short." Which is far from expressive, and after a brief interlude spent soaking the sensation of her kiss, he clarifies. "Military. High in front."
A small gesture made with his unburdened hand, leveling somewhere just above his forehead.
"I intend to shave as well, though it will mark the permanent end of all unshorn stubble: my hair no longer grows, as time still maintains no hold over me."
That is by far the most upsetting idea. He really is going to live forever. She really is going to leave him stranded in this world. And him, the fool, has chosen her over protecting himself from that loss. She pauses, and drops the scissors on the bed so she can wrap her arms around his shoulders.
For a moment it feels as though she means to guard him from the world— or the world from them, locking this point in time in place, untouched. Anchoring it soundly so that it might never truly be lost.
Would that it could be so.
“Because he is gone. And I cannot press on only as his memory.”
To remember him in perpetuity, this Noah will do. But if he is to live again, he'll not make himself a monument to his brother's loss.
Oh. "Oh, love." She settles her head next to his, nuzzling in close for a kiss to his cheek. "Identical twins, aye?"
It's the only thing that makes sense. She wonders if she'd be faithful enough to wear Bede's face, if things were different. Then again, she has no idea what Bede looks like, if he looks like anything at all.
Gabranth would hesitate to call them identical, but that relates more to the commonalities between them that he does not wish to see. For better or worse, favor or fallibility, they’ve been mirror to one another since birth, even in separation. And beneath the weight of that thought, his exhale is tired, heavy-handed when he stretches a palm back to sink against the high slope of her spine.
In the past, he would have pulled from such devoted attention without question. Now, he finds calm within it. Easement.
“Indeed.”
His head tips back against her shoulder, the closest he could ever come to relaxing.
She kisses his cheek, and reigns herself in from trying anything further. Intimacy can exist when both parties are clothed; this isn't some issue she has to push past. She just prefers different unions.
"Do my best not to make a fool of you," she says, picking up the scissors, and cutting off a long section for herself. It's set aside on the night table, to be bound into a keepsake for later.
He knows the difference between cutting and keeping. Her traditions, the way it holds unique meaning, much like the locket ever slung around his neck, hidden well beneath the high rise of his armor.
When she returns from setting those strands aside, his face turns to meet her own. Lips to hers in the quiet dark, low and patient in the way of all things wholly devoted.
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It's a fantastical story, and as ever Jone is unsure whether to believe it as Noah tells it. She thinks there might be something in the metaphor. Yet it is true to him, so that's all that really matters.
"What happened?"
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As though he feels nothing.
“My brother, much as I did not love him, was one such casualty.”
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She sits next to him on the bed, and her hand encloses his, gloved or no. Go on.
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“He and I held little in the way of similarity. Virtue and unerring devotion to the notion of freedom were as lifeblood to him. He was beloved. Admired. Scarce few in the South had not heard his name— and among their number, fewer still did not think favorably of it when it was spoken regardless.” Their paths, divergent in every last conceivable way. His hold on Jone's hand tightens, though he takes care to repeat no past mistakes.
“Were he here in my stead, much would be different.”
But the rifts chose the lesser son. And so.
“I remain a lesser facsimile. I behave as I imagine he would. I wear his face, recount his lessons and purpose in a pale farce. What honor he had, I mask myself with thusly, and emulate the choices he would have made.”
The true reason why Noah's mood so often shatters: the layers between his nature and that of the one he works to maintain are misaligned, gritting against one another until something gives.
Or breaks.
“You do not know me as I am.”
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She uses her free hand to pull his entire arm into her orbit, hugging it close against softer fabrics. "I may know you better than you think," she says, because she wants it to be true, "but I won't argue with you now, love."
And she listens.
no subject
Not a Judge.
But so much of what Jone suffers is a sting he knows too well. The thought of falling ever short. So he leaves her to pull at him as she likes. A comfort, the strong anchor of her grasp, grounding when he otherwise feels unmoored.
And for a time, that is all that is left to them. The quiet, and her touch, and how he sinks into it. Until at last, the rough catch of his voice breaks through once more.
“...have you cut hair before?”
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"Once or twice," she says, and moves to sit behind him, a hand on his shoulder. "How'd you like it?"
She kisses the back of his head, a silent promise to be kind.
no subject
A small gesture made with his unburdened hand, leveling somewhere just above his forehead.
"I intend to shave as well, though it will mark the permanent end of all unshorn stubble: my hair no longer grows, as time still maintains no hold over me."
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"Why're you cutting it now, love?"
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Would that it could be so.
“Because he is gone. And I cannot press on only as his memory.”
To remember him in perpetuity, this Noah will do. But if he is to live again, he'll not make himself a monument to his brother's loss.
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It's the only thing that makes sense. She wonders if she'd be faithful enough to wear Bede's face, if things were different. Then again, she has no idea what Bede looks like, if he looks like anything at all.
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In the past, he would have pulled from such devoted attention without question. Now, he finds calm within it. Easement.
“Indeed.”
His head tips back against her shoulder, the closest he could ever come to relaxing.
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"Do my best not to make a fool of you," she says, picking up the scissors, and cutting off a long section for herself. It's set aside on the night table, to be bound into a keepsake for later.
no subject
When she returns from setting those strands aside, his face turns to meet her own. Lips to hers in the quiet dark, low and patient in the way of all things wholly devoted.
“I am a fool already.”
For her, and her alone.