It is cold still, regardless. And clever as she thinks herself, Gabranth already lies awake across their mattress, his eyes trained upon the ceiling before he hears the door to their quarters creak, a subtle groan in a soundless night— save for the fluttering of snowfall outside, wet and heavy along the sill.
When she pulls, his fist is iron, closed about the end of the sheet.
It is the only part of him that remains resolute, given how his mending musculature fails to compete with her own— and ah, there it goes— yanked away despite how he clings to one corner like a dog with a prized toy.
“Jone.” He growls warningly in the dark, more bark than bite. More adoration than ire.
So they're playing tug-of-war? Did Noah ever play that game as a child, in the unknown world he came from? It's hard for Jone to picture him as a child, all told, but she tries. He'd prefer too much the idea that he was some constant presence, no beginning and frightfully endless.
"Don't like the-" a tug. The blanket slides free, and Jone pulls it around her shoulders like a cape- "chill?"
The look she wins for all her mischief could cut glass. Cleanly. There is, from the base of his throat, the lowest rumble of a warning sound, before he manages (with effort, but that need not be discussed ever) to shift across the bed in order to make a bid at her: swiping to try and drag her near, one arm grasped about her waist.
"I dislike to be so roused by the woman meant to keep me warm—"
Though she's clothed, the fabric is soft with wear; she bounds into bed next to him, wearing the blanket like a cape. Burrowing in next to him, her chin meets his shoulder.
How could he stay livid, much as love lives in his dour heart for her and her alone?
...quite easily, it seems, given that he growls in the moment her chin meets his shoulder, reaching out with a heavy hand to take hold of at least part of that blanket (and her as well) fitting it around himself as much as can be managed.
It settles him, in part. Warmth. Closeness.
(Though she does smell of ale and tavern smoke.)
“What use are you, if not for this, I ask.” It is, despite tone, fond.
That draws a narrowed bubble of a sound from his throat, near to a laugh, though not quite.
It passes quickly; his fondness does not.
“And do I succeed in that venture?”
He shifts beside her, sinking down more comfortably into the mattress. A small adjustment, easing the lingering knot in his side from recently mended wounds.
Thick scar tissue only an ugly shade of red. A souvenir from Val Chevin.
She looks down at him, and her keenly pleased smile breaks into something more fond. She hides her face in the crook of his neck. "So you so, so you do."
A moment, just to breathe.
"Met someone who knew Bede. Reckoned I ought'a tell you."
There, he sits up as if called to alert: pressed up across rumpled bedding, back straight and stiffened (compared to how he’d gone gentle in her easing grasp), the whole of his focus fixed fully on her.
He forgets the cold, as he forgets his struggle for the blanket itself.
It is not quite relief, what he feels at the news (having gone so long without reason to feel anything of the sort, his heavy heart is incapable of rushing high and hard), but he is glad of it all the same. For a moment, he had assumed the worst: Jone is, much like an animal (much like Noah himself), capable of masking injury with great proficiency; it is possible that she, having so long ago come to terms with his loss, carried on as though nothing at all had happened.
But that is not the case.
He lifts a hand, the edges of his roughened knuckles marking the line of her cheek.
Warmth that stills him. Warmth that calms, relaxing tirelessly tensed muscles as he settles down fully once more, drawing her still closer by narrow degrees. Not a demand, not an expectation.
Simply desire.
That lone constant, even when he fought to deny it.
“When you knew him he was but a child.” Noah puffs in tepid amusement, only able to recognize Tsenka’s name and little else; he is no social thing. “I imagine there is much you both fail to know of one another now.”
And how strange to think there may someday come a time when all of it is laid bare between them.
“There are some that would argue the merit of having your search penned for local papers.”That particular some, for the record, is not Noah.
Noah, who busies himself by drawing scarred fingers through tangled hair in listless, sloping patterns.
“But your instincts do not mislead you: with each passing day the scope of the world narrows more and more under the weight of pressing war— and many roads lead to Kirkwall.”
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When she pulls, his fist is iron, closed about the end of the sheet.
It is the only part of him that remains resolute, given how his mending musculature fails to compete with her own— and ah, there it goes— yanked away despite how he clings to one corner like a dog with a prized toy.
“Jone.” He growls warningly in the dark, more bark than bite. More adoration than ire.
Fond and irritable in the same snarling breath.
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"Don't like the-" a tug. The blanket slides free, and Jone pulls it around her shoulders like a cape- "chill?"
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"I dislike to be so roused by the woman meant to keep me warm—"
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"Meant to? You're a laugh."
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...quite easily, it seems, given that he growls in the moment her chin meets his shoulder, reaching out with a heavy hand to take hold of at least part of that blanket (and her as well) fitting it around himself as much as can be managed.
It settles him, in part. Warmth. Closeness.
(Though she does smell of ale and tavern smoke.)
“What use are you, if not for this, I ask.” It is, despite tone, fond.
He would not tease anyone but her.
He does not tease anyone but her.
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It passes quickly; his fondness does not.
“And do I succeed in that venture?”
He shifts beside her, sinking down more comfortably into the mattress. A small adjustment, easing the lingering knot in his side from recently mended wounds.
Thick scar tissue only an ugly shade of red. A souvenir from Val Chevin.
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A moment, just to breathe.
"Met someone who knew Bede. Reckoned I ought'a tell you."
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He forgets the cold, as he forgets his struggle for the blanket itself.
“Knew.”
Knew, she says, and that is a key distinction.
“Is he….”
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"So far's we know," she says, "he's alive. Last anyone seen, which was years ago, but it's something."
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It is not quite relief, what he feels at the news (having gone so long without reason to feel anything of the sort, his heavy heart is incapable of rushing high and hard), but he is glad of it all the same. For a moment, he had assumed the worst: Jone is, much like an animal (much like Noah himself), capable of masking injury with great proficiency; it is possible that she, having so long ago come to terms with his loss, carried on as though nothing at all had happened.
But that is not the case.
He lifts a hand, the edges of his roughened knuckles marking the line of her cheek.
“Indeed it is.” Years ago. Closer than childhood.
Closer than the Circles falling, perhaps.
“This person, did they know him well?”
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She sits up a little. "The new elf. Ah, Tsenka, it were."
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Simply desire.
That lone constant, even when he fought to deny it.
“When you knew him he was but a child.” Noah puffs in tepid amusement, only able to recognize Tsenka’s name and little else; he is no social thing. “I imagine there is much you both fail to know of one another now.”
And how strange to think there may someday come a time when all of it is laid bare between them.
“Will you search for him together?”
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Noah, who busies himself by drawing scarred fingers through tangled hair in listless, sloping patterns.
“But your instincts do not mislead you: with each passing day the scope of the world narrows more and more under the weight of pressing war— and many roads lead to Kirkwall.”