By now, having known him this long, Wysteria must be familiar enough to recognize Ellis struggling over his words. He finds himself at a loss. It is difficult, feeling one sentiment come so immediately to hand, and having to sift and sort until he can find a way past it.
He looks away from her face. He takes her hand in his own, thumb running back and forth over the back of her palm. It's a loose hold, easily disengaged when she has had her fill of it.
What would he have of her? This is not a question he knows how to answer. Or rather, it is not a question he knows how to answer truthfully. Not while still being fair to her. Not in such a way that would not become a burden to her.
"I enjoy dancing with you," Ellis says quietly, brow knit into furrows. Watching their hands, and not the too-bright smile on her face that Ellis knows to be as much a function of her unhappiness as it is a mask. The second half of this answer explains itself: this is the thing that matters. Her. The moments in time where he might permit himself to consider the possibility that—
The thought is fractured before it can continue on. Ellis draws in a breath. Recognizes that he has not offered her sufficient response, though he doesn't see what else can be said, he adds, "But I don't want you to be unhappy. Not over this."
In which this holds place for a great many things, all of which Ellis keeps tucked neatly away.
Yes, she can tell when he isn't saying something. It's just like knowing that picking and prying and levering at the shell which covers is unlikely to do her much good—it will simply have to be enough to know that both things exist and that the thing Ellis says isn't necessarily the full shape of what he means. She isn't a blood mage. She can't very well compel him to it.
(Which is obviously a horrible thing to even think, unserious though it may be.)
Her study however remains far more relentless; Ellis watches their hands and Wysteria watches his face with a sharply analytical eye designed for the examination of schematics. He's going to make those wrinkles on his brow deeper frowning like that, she makes herself think. Otherwise the direction her thoughts wander in is far more morose than the day calls for.
"Do Wardens ever have parties and dancing, or is the seriousness when you're together too much for it? This is a real question and not an attempt to make fun of you or anyone else. I really do wish to know."
Once said, Ellis can never reclaim the words. He knows this.
But there is an inevitability to it all the same. Someday, he will say this thing aloud. He has divulged the thing in so many other ways. His own body betrays him in this. Perhaps she already knows the shape of it, has put name to it and is kindly allowing him the space to pretend he hasn't been rendered so transparent.
Ellis hopes otherwise, but it is impossible to know.
"There are Wardens who dance," he answers. "I imagine there are parties, where they'd do so. I was never one for them."
Then he came to Kirkwall, where enough shifted to make that statement not quite true anymore.
And times have changed among the Wardens regardless. If there was ever dancing in Weisshaupt Fortress, they're well past it.
By the end of the day, there will be some ink spattered here, he knows. His thumb moves along the edge of her knuckles, where a quill may rest at some point. It is still early, though Kirkwall stirs further to full consciousness with every passing moment.
She could draw her hand free from him at any point. Instead, he is welcome to it—the scuff of his calloused thumb drawing its outlines over her knuckles and the hardly noticeable small circular burn scars between her thumb and forefinger, palm and fingers pliable.
It strikes her that he is nervous, or frightened, or maybe both, or maybe just something adjacent to them which she would have difficulty recognizing. Maybe it's something he found at Weisshaupt which he now refuses to speak on. Or maybe it's the reason he went to begin with.
"Will you tell me why you weren't?" isn't the following question she had originally planned—Has their ever been a Lady Warden with some dreadful injury, and did she dance, and was it strange to see or did everyone simply forget and see only her and not her pinned sleeve—but it seems the more important one.
"Is it because of—That young lady you knew. Or was there some other reason?"
But the question draws his gaze up to her face anyway. It does not still the sweep of his thumb. It does not shift his expression, change where it has cracked open in the course of their discussion. The quiet unspools between them, punctuated by the thunk and crack of storefronts opening, shutters being pushed outwards high above them, the cawing of gulls in the harbor.
"Aye, that was part of it," Ellis ventures, frown deepening as he feels his way through to this answer. Abbreviated because the day is very new; it is too early to invite this part of his history onto the street alongside them.
Yes, part of it was that Shanae was gone. But so was everyone else, even the person he was then, who danced with anyone who reached for him.
"But we should speak on something else now."
There is no obligation for Wysteria to tread along this conversational topic with him.
Her hand turns gently, thumb and forefinger setting at either side of his wrist. But she hasn't looked away from his face before this moment and so there's little reason to do so now just because he is looking back at her and the street is peeling itself out of its bedclothes.
As much as Ellis would like to pretend it is a kindness to her, he knows better. Wysteria has more than dispelled the idea that she has no capacity for the worst of his life.
But even so, Ellis balks at inviting it too close to them. The light pressure of her fingers at his wrist is such a good thing, made all the more precious for the awareness of what is being closed off to him, what has been excised without him realizing the possibility to brace against it.
"Why don't you want any of this?" she'd asked once, the kind of question that chimed against Vance's Stop playing dead. Is this a moment, a thing he should express some specific objection? Dig his heels in, express some acknowledgement of a thing lost? Would it be fair to her if he did? If he made this harder for her?
Her study of him is very keen. It's as sharp as a pen point, as fixed as the press of her fingers is patient. Wysteria spends a great deal of her day unpicking strange puzzles, and unpicking Ellis isn't so different a prospect. And so there is an urge to stand here in the shade of the wall and to do it—to poke and prod at him, and to turn him this and that until she has made sense of all the things she can see and draw safe conclusions regarding what she can't.
It's a mercy that, after the briefest hesitation, she concedes:
"Well, I suppose that's fine then. A very temporary reprieve—that would be acceptable," she says. And then, lest anyone become too delicate she adds, "But only because you've described it as a kindness to you. You should know I wouldn't allow anyone else to get away with such nonsense, Mister Ellis."
With a prompt squeeze of his wrist, Wysteria turns her hand in his and frees herself. It's a absentminded gesture so she might brush some nonexistent dirt from her skirt and adjust the lay of the chains hanging from her belt with a soft melodic jangle of metal. She clears her throat once in the process, and then just as briskly crooks her arm once more in offer to him.
An offer easily accepted, reclaiming the link of their arms. They draw back together, falling into step as they join the scattering of travelers winding their way towards the docks.
"Aye," Ellis agrees, leaving off any more specific gratitude than the brief pressure of his fingers at the bend of her elbow. "And then to your project."
Someday, that incisive study will render him transparent to her, whatever choices he makes. Ellis can consider the inevitability of that as the ferry bears them across the water to the Gallows, where Ruadh will no doubt meet them. They will part, so she might go to her work, until she calls him back again.
And some days later, a new chain will appear on the table of the Hightown house. Longer. Better suited, with a simple clasp and length enough to slip over her head without effort, just as needed.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He looks away from her face. He takes her hand in his own, thumb running back and forth over the back of her palm. It's a loose hold, easily disengaged when she has had her fill of it.
What would he have of her? This is not a question he knows how to answer. Or rather, it is not a question he knows how to answer truthfully. Not while still being fair to her. Not in such a way that would not become a burden to her.
"I enjoy dancing with you," Ellis says quietly, brow knit into furrows. Watching their hands, and not the too-bright smile on her face that Ellis knows to be as much a function of her unhappiness as it is a mask. The second half of this answer explains itself: this is the thing that matters. Her. The moments in time where he might permit himself to consider the possibility that—
The thought is fractured before it can continue on. Ellis draws in a breath. Recognizes that he has not offered her sufficient response, though he doesn't see what else can be said, he adds, "But I don't want you to be unhappy. Not over this."
In which this holds place for a great many things, all of which Ellis keeps tucked neatly away.
no subject
(Which is obviously a horrible thing to even think, unserious though it may be.)
Her study however remains far more relentless; Ellis watches their hands and Wysteria watches his face with a sharply analytical eye designed for the examination of schematics. He's going to make those wrinkles on his brow deeper frowning like that, she makes herself think. Otherwise the direction her thoughts wander in is far more morose than the day calls for.
"Do Wardens ever have parties and dancing, or is the seriousness when you're together too much for it? This is a real question and not an attempt to make fun of you or anyone else. I really do wish to know."
no subject
But there is an inevitability to it all the same. Someday, he will say this thing aloud. He has divulged the thing in so many other ways. His own body betrays him in this. Perhaps she already knows the shape of it, has put name to it and is kindly allowing him the space to pretend he hasn't been rendered so transparent.
Ellis hopes otherwise, but it is impossible to know.
"There are Wardens who dance," he answers. "I imagine there are parties, where they'd do so. I was never one for them."
Then he came to Kirkwall, where enough shifted to make that statement not quite true anymore.
And times have changed among the Wardens regardless. If there was ever dancing in Weisshaupt Fortress, they're well past it.
By the end of the day, there will be some ink spattered here, he knows. His thumb moves along the edge of her knuckles, where a quill may rest at some point. It is still early, though Kirkwall stirs further to full consciousness with every passing moment.
no subject
It strikes her that he is nervous, or frightened, or maybe both, or maybe just something adjacent to them which she would have difficulty recognizing. Maybe it's something he found at Weisshaupt which he now refuses to speak on. Or maybe it's the reason he went to begin with.
"Will you tell me why you weren't?" isn't the following question she had originally planned—Has their ever been a Lady Warden with some dreadful injury, and did she dance, and was it strange to see or did everyone simply forget and see only her and not her pinned sleeve—but it seems the more important one.
"Is it because of—That young lady you knew. Or was there some other reason?"
no subject
This is not a thing he can say to her.
But the question draws his gaze up to her face anyway. It does not still the sweep of his thumb. It does not shift his expression, change where it has cracked open in the course of their discussion. The quiet unspools between them, punctuated by the thunk and crack of storefronts opening, shutters being pushed outwards high above them, the cawing of gulls in the harbor.
"Aye, that was part of it," Ellis ventures, frown deepening as he feels his way through to this answer. Abbreviated because the day is very new; it is too early to invite this part of his history onto the street alongside them.
Yes, part of it was that Shanae was gone. But so was everyone else, even the person he was then, who danced with anyone who reached for him.
"But we should speak on something else now."
There is no obligation for Wysteria to tread along this conversational topic with him.
no subject
"Is that a request, or a courtesy? I can't tell."
He's tired. She knows that.
no subject
As much as Ellis would like to pretend it is a kindness to her, he knows better. Wysteria has more than dispelled the idea that she has no capacity for the worst of his life.
But even so, Ellis balks at inviting it too close to them. The light pressure of her fingers at his wrist is such a good thing, made all the more precious for the awareness of what is being closed off to him, what has been excised without him realizing the possibility to brace against it.
"Why don't you want any of this?" she'd asked once, the kind of question that chimed against Vance's Stop playing dead. Is this a moment, a thing he should express some specific objection? Dig his heels in, express some acknowledgement of a thing lost? Would it be fair to her if he did? If he made this harder for her?
His expression is too—
"Grant me a reprieve, at least until I've slept."
no subject
It's a mercy that, after the briefest hesitation, she concedes:
"Well, I suppose that's fine then. A very temporary reprieve—that would be acceptable," she says. And then, lest anyone become too delicate she adds, "But only because you've described it as a kindness to you. You should know I wouldn't allow anyone else to get away with such nonsense, Mister Ellis."
With a prompt squeeze of his wrist, Wysteria turns her hand in his and frees herself. It's a absentminded gesture so she might brush some nonexistent dirt from her skirt and adjust the lay of the chains hanging from her belt with a soft melodic jangle of metal. She clears her throat once in the process, and then just as briskly crooks her arm once more in offer to him.
"Then let us deliver you to bed, sir."
slaps down bow
"Aye," Ellis agrees, leaving off any more specific gratitude than the brief pressure of his fingers at the bend of her elbow. "And then to your project."
Someday, that incisive study will render him transparent to her, whatever choices he makes. Ellis can consider the inevitability of that as the ferry bears them across the water to the Gallows, where Ruadh will no doubt meet them. They will part, so she might go to her work, until she calls him back again.
And some days later, a new chain will appear on the table of the Hightown house. Longer. Better suited, with a simple clasp and length enough to slip over her head without effort, just as needed.