Like the silly, stupid thing that she is, she'd talked of dancing and playing. Then the poisoning, then the dead, and Riftwatch is pretending it never happened, trying to wash it all away with a second party in the Gallows proper.
Frankly, Jone would normally leap at the opportunity to join them in willful forgetfulness. Even with her face a mass of bruises, her body sore, she'd lean into the lull of drink and let the music take her. But now there is a stain that won't be blotted out.
How fucking dramatic. She's plenty of scars all over her looming form, but this is the first she's had more than a nick to the face. Margaery, bless her, had been no slouch when it came to sewing this scrape up, but the fact remains. You can't cover up this mess.
The scar runs from her upper lip to the bottom of her nose, bright and red and angry. It makes speaking a painful difficulty-- though she manages, because she refuses to be cowed by anything as ephemeral as pain-- and looking in the mirror an even more galling prospect than it was previously.
She's not in the clothes she usually wears to fine events-- her best trousers, her best shirt. She stares at the ceiling, reclining shoe-less on the bed Noah and her share. She'd be frowning, if facial expressions involving the mouth weren't an incautious gambit. Instead, her brow is furrowed.
Even from the heights of the Templar Tower, music drifts up stone steps and bounces under wooden doors. She ignores it. It's easy to ignore.
His work this day was heavy. Grueling. Tiresome. There were bodies to be removed, scattered fragments of tainted lyrium to gather and dispose of. He returns in his armor without the heavy weight of his own helm, cloak draped dark across his shoulders as always, brow lined with residual beads of sweat.
He had expected to find her dressed for the celebration, disguise in hand, eager to press him into following suit. Instead, she rests sprawled across the mattress in a state of obvious discontent, wafting music acting as a strange counter to the scene itself.
“...are you unwell?”
She would not be cowed by injury or exhaustion, but illness...it is the only thing that comes to mind.
His wording trails off as his brow furrows, lines etching themselves deep into the flat of his forehead, pale eyes narrowing as they measure her response. As he realizes she is sulking.
"It is your injury that troubles you?"
Too blunt, that question. Too unkind in its disbelieving cast, a criticism in its own right.
I can barely bloody talk, she wants to say, but-- perhaps ironically-- that requires too much movement of her upper lip. If she pulls a single stitch she'll scream; she can't stand the thought of this scar getting worse, of the idea that her mouth-- her words-- will lose even more mobility.
"Yeah," she says, only using the back of her mouth, her tongue doing all the work. "Not on for dancin'."
Those last two word comes out a bit garbled, but it's better than for partying, which would have been an ugly snarl in her new mouth.
Where so much else fails, intuitiveness serves Noah tirelessly— steering his mind when obtuse observation would otherwise grant him nothing: he cannot read the look on her face beyond its most simplistic interpretation, nor does her tone carry as anything more than morose.
Yet after a moment he sinks down into the bedding beside her, angled slightly towards her, armor shifting the entirety of the bed with its weight. There is no reason to believe she is grieving anything more than superficial damage nobly won for the sake of Riftwatch's continued survival.
For the good of all Thedas, in truth.
There is no reason, and still, his voice is lower than it was before. His attention fixed and heavy beneath the shadow of his brow.
"There are masks, Daughter of Denerim. To bury the sight of your injury until it mends fully, if that is your trouble. No one need witness it."
The idea of a mask is a comfort only fleetingly. She is still herself, overly tall with distinctive hair; she would be immediately recognizable. The shores of her confidence were always staked on being unapologetically herself, as loudly as possible, and being ready to fight any who would doubt her. This new scar, well... it puts a break in things.
"Can't w- hardly... speak, Nn- Noah."
If she's careful, she can say his name. She just has to remember not to purse her lips around the no, to let the sound emerge entirely from her tongue and teeth. It still comes out a lot more like Nor than anything.
And who would he be if he chose to? Not the boy from Landis, lost and left behind, who to this day resents his own reflection. The man who pressed Jone to search for her brother, and presses still to walk always in her shadow regardless of what she demands.
He resists her pull, but only to begin unstrapping his armor. A process that takes a minute in full— and then he slips back atop the bedding at her side, leaving her to fit herself where she pleases.
She fits her shape into his side, drinking in his warmth. The smell of him, sweat and metal and the undeniable him of his skin, has become an undeniable comfort.
She pats his hip, pleased as much as she's unsurprised. Of course he'd stay.
There is no point in assuring her he’ll remain. He will always remain; that is his damning fate, and the tether that brought him to her to begin with.
And with the smell of bonfire smoke running high in the air, Noah slips his arm beneath her head, drawing her more tightly against him, silvered stare fitted to the ceiling overhead.
There, the words that slip from his lips come thoughtlessly. Old stories, the ones told to him as a boy. Tales of Ivalice long since left to rot elsewhere, lingering still within his mind. Perhaps a meager comfort to a woman with so little else to keep her.
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no subject
Frankly, Jone would normally leap at the opportunity to join them in willful forgetfulness. Even with her face a mass of bruises, her body sore, she'd lean into the lull of drink and let the music take her. But now there is a stain that won't be blotted out.
How fucking dramatic. She's plenty of scars all over her looming form, but this is the first she's had more than a nick to the face. Margaery, bless her, had been no slouch when it came to sewing this scrape up, but the fact remains. You can't cover up this mess.
The scar runs from her upper lip to the bottom of her nose, bright and red and angry. It makes speaking a painful difficulty-- though she manages, because she refuses to be cowed by anything as ephemeral as pain-- and looking in the mirror an even more galling prospect than it was previously.
She's not in the clothes she usually wears to fine events-- her best trousers, her best shirt. She stares at the ceiling, reclining shoe-less on the bed Noah and her share. She'd be frowning, if facial expressions involving the mouth weren't an incautious gambit. Instead, her brow is furrowed.
Even from the heights of the Templar Tower, music drifts up stone steps and bounces under wooden doors. She ignores it. It's easy to ignore.
no subject
He had expected to find her dressed for the celebration, disguise in hand, eager to press him into following suit. Instead, she rests sprawled across the mattress in a state of obvious discontent, wafting music acting as a strange counter to the scene itself.
“...are you unwell?”
She would not be cowed by injury or exhaustion, but illness...it is the only thing that comes to mind.
no subject
"Ain't feeling it."
Her words are careful, checked to make sure none have to use too much of her still-healing lip.
no subject
When he moves closer with heavy footfalls, he stops just at the edge of the bedding beside her, unwilling to intrude.
“If something troubles you,” Noah begins, weighing his own suspicions, “speak, so that I may allay it.”
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She would have said fix, but the word no longer suits her.
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His wording trails off as his brow furrows, lines etching themselves deep into the flat of his forehead, pale eyes narrowing as they measure her response. As he realizes she is sulking.
"It is your injury that troubles you?"
Too blunt, that question. Too unkind in its disbelieving cast, a criticism in its own right.
no subject
"Yeah," she says, only using the back of her mouth, her tongue doing all the work. "Not on for dancin'."
Those last two word comes out a bit garbled, but it's better than for partying, which would have been an ugly snarl in her new mouth.
no subject
Yet after a moment he sinks down into the bedding beside her, angled slightly towards her, armor shifting the entirety of the bed with its weight. There is no reason to believe she is grieving anything more than superficial damage nobly won for the sake of Riftwatch's continued survival.
For the good of all Thedas, in truth.
There is no reason, and still, his voice is lower than it was before. His attention fixed and heavy beneath the shadow of his brow.
"There are masks, Daughter of Denerim. To bury the sight of your injury until it mends fully, if that is your trouble. No one need witness it."
no subject
"Can't w- hardly... speak, Nn- Noah."
If she's careful, she can say his name. She just has to remember not to purse her lips around the no, to let the sound emerge entirely from her tongue and teeth. It still comes out a lot more like Nor than anything.
no subject
Jone, who otherwise struggles with nothing. And whom he would protect from its consumptive shadow, were he capable.
“Shall I take you to another healer?”
A better one is the implication. Someone more skilled than what Riftwatch supplies. For her, he would find one.
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It will heal right if she's good. And being good is something she'd rather do in private. She reaches up to tug at his arm, trying to pull him close.
"Stay."
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Who is he to deny her that request?
And who would he be if he chose to? Not the boy from Landis, lost and left behind, who to this day resents his own reflection. The man who pressed Jone to search for her brother, and presses still to walk always in her shadow regardless of what she demands.
He resists her pull, but only to begin unstrapping his armor. A process that takes a minute in full— and then he slips back atop the bedding at her side, leaving her to fit herself where she pleases.
no subject
She pats his hip, pleased as much as she's unsurprised. Of course he'd stay.
"Never leave."
no subject
And with the smell of bonfire smoke running high in the air, Noah slips his arm beneath her head, drawing her more tightly against him, silvered stare fitted to the ceiling overhead.
There, the words that slip from his lips come thoughtlessly. Old stories, the ones told to him as a boy. Tales of Ivalice long since left to rot elsewhere, lingering still within his mind. Perhaps a meager comfort to a woman with so little else to keep her.
It will take hours before they run dry.