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lady_mabThis was supposed to be a warm-up and then it turned into 2.5 pages oops
For Danny!!!!!! I could write about these two all day!!!
Moments of quiet are rare those first few months, and Ephrim takes them whenever he can. Comfort is harder to find, his nights plagued by the heat of the forge, his hand aching in a way that reminds him of what he’s done.
And it’s so fucking cold now.
It’s not just the winter, though it is, a little. He’s traveled across Hieron, has felt different climates. But the warmth had always been a part of him.
The Heat and the Dark my ass, Ephrim snorts as he pulls his robe closer around him. There is nothing warm about this, and everywhere he looks is the blinding white of snow.
It’s hard, extremely hard, to find a space where he can breathe. Because everyone is looking to him--he who walked out of the battle against Arrell at the Archives, he who calls himself Prince, he who speaks, and everyone listens. They need guidance, and they want him to give it.
But all he sees when he tries is the red flames of the forge, feels the heat of them on his face, and his hand aches, so he says nothing.
Rosana will speak when he cannot.
He finds solace in the worn, familiar pages of his old book of stories. Tucked away in the corner of the hall--within reach if someone needs him, but out of sight so that he’s not the first one that they turn to.
Throndir joins him on very rare occasions.
They’ve had nearly a year to get to know each other, and it was a fast year.
But their friendship is tentative, uneasy. Formed over stolen moments sitting in silence and a fight against a man who needed to die but didn’t have the decency to do so.
Ephrim shifts on the uncomfortable chair, but it’s still easier than sitting on the cold stone floor, He thumbs the edges of the book but doesn’t open it just yet. He debates moving closer to the fire--closer to the people huddled around it for warmth--but knows that it would mean sacrificing his brief moment of solitude.
Throndir seems to be the only one who can pinpoint him when he’s half-hidden in shadows, and Ephrim always takes the moment of Throndir’s careful approach to consider how that makes him feel.
“Mind if I join you?” Throndir asks, a bowl of broth clutched in one hand. There’s still snow dotting his hair and coat, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m sorry, I only brought one chair…” Ephrim half-rises out of it before Throndir slides down against the wall with a sigh.
“It’s fine.”
“Won’t you get cold?”
“I grew up in weather like this. It’s fine.”
“Oh. Aniq, right? The Mark of the Erasure?”
Throndir grunts a response around the chunk of bread in his mouth.
Ephrim finds that he usually bristles at whatever sort of company anyone else would offer, but Throndir radiates a calm that puts him at ease. Perhaps it has to do with being the ranger. He needs to travel undetected in the woods, so having a non-presence would be ideal.
But that’s not quite true, Ephrim thinks. He’s very aware of the other man’s presence next to him. The warmth that radiates, the hum of energy, a powerful body at rest for just a moment.
He picks up his book and flips it open to a random page in hopes that the words within will distract him.
A moment passes before Throndir clears his throat. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to read…”
Ephrim glances at him.
“I’ve gotta know what’s up with that book. You read it all the time, but it doesn’t look like a church book.”
Ephrim laughs despite himself. “Just because I’m a religious figure doesn’t mean I only read church books.” He wonders how many church books are lies, but keeps the question to himself.
Throndir offers a lopsided grin that also causes Ephrim to consider how it makes him feel.
So instead, Ephrim holds out the book so that Throndir can inspect it. “It’s silly… but it’s a book of folk tales. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept with me through the years…”
He reaches for it, and lets his fingers graze the cover--as if it will tell him all the secrets contained within the pages.
His fingers don’t brush against Ephrim’s, and Ephrim wonders if he’s disappointed that they don’t.
Ephrim is too busy thinking about that that he doesn’t even realize that he asks, “Would you like me to read you one?” until the words leave his mouth.
Throndir doesn’t look up at him in surprise. His silence is thoughtful, careful, and he leans in a bit closer before saying, “I’d like that,” and pulling his hand away.
So Ephrim clears his throat and flips back to the beginning of the story he had opened to. In a quiet, steady voice, as Throndir settles in to lean against the chair and finish his dinner, he begins to read the story.
For Danny!!!!!! I could write about these two all day!!!
Moments of quiet are rare those first few months, and Ephrim takes them whenever he can. Comfort is harder to find, his nights plagued by the heat of the forge, his hand aching in a way that reminds him of what he’s done.
And it’s so fucking cold now.
It’s not just the winter, though it is, a little. He’s traveled across Hieron, has felt different climates. But the warmth had always been a part of him.
The Heat and the Dark my ass, Ephrim snorts as he pulls his robe closer around him. There is nothing warm about this, and everywhere he looks is the blinding white of snow.
It’s hard, extremely hard, to find a space where he can breathe. Because everyone is looking to him--he who walked out of the battle against Arrell at the Archives, he who calls himself Prince, he who speaks, and everyone listens. They need guidance, and they want him to give it.
But all he sees when he tries is the red flames of the forge, feels the heat of them on his face, and his hand aches, so he says nothing.
Rosana will speak when he cannot.
He finds solace in the worn, familiar pages of his old book of stories. Tucked away in the corner of the hall--within reach if someone needs him, but out of sight so that he’s not the first one that they turn to.
Throndir joins him on very rare occasions.
They’ve had nearly a year to get to know each other, and it was a fast year.
But their friendship is tentative, uneasy. Formed over stolen moments sitting in silence and a fight against a man who needed to die but didn’t have the decency to do so.
Ephrim shifts on the uncomfortable chair, but it’s still easier than sitting on the cold stone floor, He thumbs the edges of the book but doesn’t open it just yet. He debates moving closer to the fire--closer to the people huddled around it for warmth--but knows that it would mean sacrificing his brief moment of solitude.
Throndir seems to be the only one who can pinpoint him when he’s half-hidden in shadows, and Ephrim always takes the moment of Throndir’s careful approach to consider how that makes him feel.
“Mind if I join you?” Throndir asks, a bowl of broth clutched in one hand. There’s still snow dotting his hair and coat, though he doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m sorry, I only brought one chair…” Ephrim half-rises out of it before Throndir slides down against the wall with a sigh.
“It’s fine.”
“Won’t you get cold?”
“I grew up in weather like this. It’s fine.”
“Oh. Aniq, right? The Mark of the Erasure?”
Throndir grunts a response around the chunk of bread in his mouth.
Ephrim finds that he usually bristles at whatever sort of company anyone else would offer, but Throndir radiates a calm that puts him at ease. Perhaps it has to do with being the ranger. He needs to travel undetected in the woods, so having a non-presence would be ideal.
But that’s not quite true, Ephrim thinks. He’s very aware of the other man’s presence next to him. The warmth that radiates, the hum of energy, a powerful body at rest for just a moment.
He picks up his book and flips it open to a random page in hopes that the words within will distract him.
A moment passes before Throndir clears his throat. “Sorry, I know you’re trying to read…”
Ephrim glances at him.
“I’ve gotta know what’s up with that book. You read it all the time, but it doesn’t look like a church book.”
Ephrim laughs despite himself. “Just because I’m a religious figure doesn’t mean I only read church books.” He wonders how many church books are lies, but keeps the question to himself.
Throndir offers a lopsided grin that also causes Ephrim to consider how it makes him feel.
So instead, Ephrim holds out the book so that Throndir can inspect it. “It’s silly… but it’s a book of folk tales. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept with me through the years…”
He reaches for it, and lets his fingers graze the cover--as if it will tell him all the secrets contained within the pages.
His fingers don’t brush against Ephrim’s, and Ephrim wonders if he’s disappointed that they don’t.
Ephrim is too busy thinking about that that he doesn’t even realize that he asks, “Would you like me to read you one?” until the words leave his mouth.
Throndir doesn’t look up at him in surprise. His silence is thoughtful, careful, and he leans in a bit closer before saying, “I’d like that,” and pulling his hand away.
So Ephrim clears his throat and flips back to the beginning of the story he had opened to. In a quiet, steady voice, as Throndir settles in to lean against the chair and finish his dinner, he begins to read the story.
