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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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?”
no subject
"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."
no subject
"Why're you cutting it now, love?"
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.