[Said with the utmost fondness. But it seems he's getting the hang of things back there, finally. Nerves got the better of both of them, that's all.]
Usually? A lot of the court stuff is far worse. Not that I mind putting on something fancy. [She rather relishes in it actually. No #notlikeothergirls feelings here.] But it does strike me as a little silly. There's already so much we're not able to do on our own, does that have to include putting on our own clothes?
Though — I suppose you'd need a little help getting in and out of armor, too. I shouldn't complain so much.
[NOT THE DOOFUS!!! He wants to kick up a fuss so bad but he really did just look like a wholeass idiot so he just sulks behind her]
Only a little. [Stares at his knight card. At least this outfit is no different from your usual fantasy video game knights, it's fine.] And it's not like we have to worry about looking beautiful, just uniform.
[To present a united front and look organized and intimidating yadda yadda. Luke doesn't even need to worry about that too much, honestly, given that he's been her personal guardian for years, but he did learn the same things the rest of the army did, and he internalized them perhaps even more thoroughly than the rest of the royal guard, given how seriously he takes his duties.
He softens a little, then.] But I'm glad you don't mind it too much. It would be terrible if you were uncomfortable all the time.
[Also he would feel insanely guilty for thinking about how pretty she is all the time if she truly hated it, especially since he is but a weak mortal man and can't help himself.]
Hmm. Well, you do cut a dashing figure all the same.
[A thought that falls loose too easily, and reminds her of the intimacy of this act anew. Rosamund hushes up for a moment. She has to gather herself again, suddenly the swish of the cords is louder than her own voice. And there's a mad urge to reach back. Or turn unexpectedly, or shrug her sleeves down. Tell him to keep going.
All notions that trail back to that oft visited and oft squashed corner of her mind, where she flees any time he gives her that shit-eating grin, or the light catches his lashes just right, or she watches him in heated spars from high windows. For the thousandth time, she presses each and every thought down, until they're all small enough to tuck into dark crevices and leave for later.]
I'm not uncomfortable. [This isn't regency era yet. Rosamund smiles to herself, pulling at her thumb in a show of nerves hidden from his view.] I just don't like the idea of being helpless.
I mean, there's got to be things you'd rather be doing instead of watching over me all the time. I don't like the idea that I'm burdening you. Even with something as silly as this.
[The dress. The impending marriage. How will she look him in the eye once they reach their destination? He's supposed to stay with her until they're both called back, or retrieved by a victorious retinue after the conflict abates. Even thinking about holding some strange man's hand in Luke's line of sight makes her queasy.
It's not a betrayal, but it burns like one just the same.]
Edited (nah makes it thirstier) 2024-05-05 03:57 (UTC)
[Oh. Well, immediately, his grip tightens on the laces, and he shakes his head--completely forgetting what he's doing in favor of dispelling her concerns.]
Don't ever think that. You could never be a burden to me. [Firmly!!] Actually, it... makes me really happy, when this is all you need from me. Because it means you're safe.
[Not that he doesn't like being needed--in fact, it's very much what he lives for, and it always has been. Protectiveness is in his blood. But he isn't so selfish as to begrudge their moments of peace. He has no large dreams of ambition and glory. Everything he wants is right here, in this room.
And he can't say that, of course, for a thousand different reasons. But he doesn't like that she's feeling discontent, even if it's about something small. (Even if it's not.) And it's ingrained in him to assuage her unhappiness--not out of any knightly training requirements, but simply because it makes his chest hurt, and he's compelled, purely by affection, to try and make her smile again.]
And, there's... [nowhere I'd rather be than right here, with you, all the time--]
[There's a knock on the door, is what there is, because he'd asked for a bath to be brought up to her room, and the water is nice and hot now, so the kind madam innkeeper is here to deliver it for her!!
And very abruptly, he remembers that he's helping her undress, and his shyness slams back into him. He yanks his hands back, staring blankly at the undone laces, and hurriedly turns away, nyooming for the door.]
In the privacy granted by simple perspective, she can smile at that. He doesn't have to see the tightness at the edges. It's odd that the word sits so ill with her now. It's not that she wants to be in danger, more that...well. Safe decisions are usually the ones being made without her say so? Like this marriage. Like staying cooped up inside, barely learning anything useful. She must seem awfully naive to someone like Luke, who's seen and done so much with all the same hours in the day she's had. He could fight a band of six brigands easily, unarmed even. She can't even reach the ties of her own dress.
Before he can move on, however...]
—Ah!
[Right! The bath!
She grabs at her sleeve and turns but he's already beating a retreat.]
[Once a deeply appropriate amount of bath time has been had, Rosamund is in bedclothes and a heavy robe over even that, lest things look too casual. Her hair has been dried about as well as it's going to get, and the hour draws quite late.
Whenever Luke sees fit to return to the room, she's curled up in a chair waiting for him with a few candles lit, pouring over a book.]
Welcome back. [She'll smile warmly.] I didn't mean to kick you out for so long. You must be exhausted.
[A cloud of roadrunner dust settles across the floor as he flees (no)
It is shyness that has him fleeing, because Luke is brave in a lot of ways, but not this one, not the way that truly matters. (And he'd balk if he heard someone say it, but he's innocent, too, at least compared to the majority of his fellow knights.) It's hard enough for him not to turn tomato red half the time when she's simply existing in the same space, he's pretty sure he would've exploded and died if he'd lingered any longer,,,
So he flees, because he can't see her like that. And he stays gone for a while, longer than strictly necessary, because--
Well. Because she can't see him like this.
The roof of the stable is a blessing in the storm. He isn't in a state to appreciate it as he curls into himself, his throat scraped raw and his chest heaving with the painful, bloody coughs that rip through him--but he will, later, when he doesn't have to make excuses for anything beyond smelling a little too much like horse and hay. Later, he'll be grateful for the pouring rain hiding the sounds of his body tearing itself apart, even if it's unlikely that anyone would care enough to be nosy. Late, late at night, when everyone else is fast asleep and he can sit alone with his thoughts and his brittle, aching body, he'll think of these things and feel quietly relieved that he doesn't have to lie to Rosamund any more than he already does.
For now, though, he can't think beyond the pain, and all the misery and bitterness it dredges up within him. They're old friends, by now.]
[He's cleaned up, more or less, by the time he returns. The blood is wiped and rinsed from his mouth and the cloth tucked away. The hay's picked out of his clothes and his hair, and for good measure, he waits long enough that the color of his face is, most likely, back to normal. His facade is firmly back in place as he knocks quietly, and when he pokes his head in, he smiles to see her.]
It's fine. One of the patrons downstairs got into an argument with the owner over fish--it was pretty funny to watch. [Refreshingly mundane, compared to the sorts of things the two of them have to worry about on a day to day basis. He slips inside and closes the door, coming over to peer at her book.] What are you reading?
[She folds the book shut, eyes flicking quick over him. Altogether fine, it seems. Nothing's happened. Nothing ever happens when he vanishes, regardless of the inciting cues or the speed with which he makes the exit.
Luke is very, very careful. She knows this about him, observes it in many of his steady habits. And he is discreet. He has other work, and he's not always within pinching distance of her in the first place. But he vanishes. It's the one habit he won't cop to, and the one that needles her the most. It was only a bath, she thinks with a thin press of the lips. Shyness only counts for so much.]
Uh — minor cures and crafts? [She holds it up, cover facing outward.] Forgive me, I sneaked it along for the trip. It would be handy, don't you think? To know a little witchcraft before we get too far into the woods.
[Where more powerful witches are known to reside. Occasionally.]
...Are you all right? You should rest, Luke. It's been a long day.
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[Said with the utmost fondness. But it seems he's getting the hang of things back there, finally. Nerves got the better of both of them, that's all.]
Usually? A lot of the court stuff is far worse. Not that I mind putting on something fancy. [She rather relishes in it actually. No #notlikeothergirls feelings here.] But it does strike me as a little silly. There's already so much we're not able to do on our own, does that have to include putting on our own clothes?
Though — I suppose you'd need a little help getting in and out of armor, too. I shouldn't complain so much.
no subject
Only a little. [Stares at his knight card. At least this outfit is no different from your usual fantasy video game knights, it's fine.] And it's not like we have to worry about looking beautiful, just uniform.
[To present a united front and look organized and intimidating yadda yadda. Luke doesn't even need to worry about that too much, honestly, given that he's been her personal guardian for years, but he did learn the same things the rest of the army did, and he internalized them perhaps even more thoroughly than the rest of the royal guard, given how seriously he takes his duties.
He softens a little, then.] But I'm glad you don't mind it too much. It would be terrible if you were uncomfortable all the time.
[Also he would feel insanely guilty for thinking about how pretty she is all the time if she truly hated it, especially since he is but a weak mortal man and can't help himself.]
no subject
[A thought that falls loose too easily, and reminds her of the intimacy of this act anew. Rosamund hushes up for a moment. She has to gather herself again, suddenly the swish of the cords is louder than her own voice. And there's a mad urge to reach back. Or turn unexpectedly, or shrug her sleeves down. Tell him to keep going.
All notions that trail back to that oft visited and oft squashed corner of her mind, where she flees any time he gives her that shit-eating grin, or the light catches his lashes just right, or she watches him in heated spars from high windows. For the thousandth time, she presses each and every thought down, until they're all small enough to tuck into dark crevices and leave for later.]
I'm not uncomfortable. [This isn't regency era yet. Rosamund smiles to herself, pulling at her thumb in a show of nerves hidden from his view.] I just don't like the idea of being helpless.
I mean, there's got to be things you'd rather be doing instead of watching over me all the time. I don't like the idea that I'm burdening you. Even with something as silly as this.
[The dress. The impending marriage. How will she look him in the eye once they reach their destination? He's supposed to stay with her until they're both called back, or retrieved by a victorious retinue after the conflict abates. Even thinking about holding some strange man's hand in Luke's line of sight makes her queasy.
It's not a betrayal, but it burns like one just the same.]
1/2
Don't ever think that. You could never be a burden to me. [Firmly!!] Actually, it... makes me really happy, when this is all you need from me. Because it means you're safe.
[Not that he doesn't like being needed--in fact, it's very much what he lives for, and it always has been. Protectiveness is in his blood. But he isn't so selfish as to begrudge their moments of peace. He has no large dreams of ambition and glory. Everything he wants is right here, in this room.
And he can't say that, of course, for a thousand different reasons. But he doesn't like that she's feeling discontent, even if it's about something small. (Even if it's not.) And it's ingrained in him to assuage her unhappiness--not out of any knightly training requirements, but simply because it makes his chest hurt, and he's compelled, purely by affection, to try and make her smile again.]
And, there's... [nowhere I'd rather be than right here, with you, all the time--]
2/2
And very abruptly, he remembers that he's helping her undress, and his shyness slams back into him. He yanks his hands back, staring blankly at the undone laces, and hurriedly turns away, nyooming for the door.]
Uh-- I'll-- wait outside.
[GOODBYE]
1/2
In the privacy granted by simple perspective, she can smile at that. He doesn't have to see the tightness at the edges. It's odd that the word sits so ill with her now. It's not that she wants to be in danger, more that...well. Safe decisions are usually the ones being made without her say so? Like this marriage. Like staying cooped up inside, barely learning anything useful. She must seem awfully naive to someone like Luke, who's seen and done so much with all the same hours in the day she's had. He could fight a band of six brigands easily, unarmed even. She can't even reach the ties of her own dress.
Before he can move on, however...]
—Ah!
[Right! The bath!
She grabs at her sleeve and turns but he's already beating a retreat.]
Oh. Bye?
[There he goes. Damn.]
2/2
Whenever Luke sees fit to return to the room, she's curled up in a chair waiting for him with a few candles lit, pouring over a book.]
Welcome back. [She'll smile warmly.] I didn't mean to kick you out for so long. You must be exhausted.
1/2
It is shyness that has him fleeing, because Luke is brave in a lot of ways, but not this one, not the way that truly matters. (And he'd balk if he heard someone say it, but he's innocent, too, at least compared to the majority of his fellow knights.) It's hard enough for him not to turn tomato red half the time when she's simply existing in the same space, he's pretty sure he would've exploded and died if he'd lingered any longer,,,
So he flees, because he can't see her like that. And he stays gone for a while, longer than strictly necessary, because--
Well. Because she can't see him like this.
The roof of the stable is a blessing in the storm. He isn't in a state to appreciate it as he curls into himself, his throat scraped raw and his chest heaving with the painful, bloody coughs that rip through him--but he will, later, when he doesn't have to make excuses for anything beyond smelling a little too much like horse and hay. Later, he'll be grateful for the pouring rain hiding the sounds of his body tearing itself apart, even if it's unlikely that anyone would care enough to be nosy. Late, late at night, when everyone else is fast asleep and he can sit alone with his thoughts and his brittle, aching body, he'll think of these things and feel quietly relieved that he doesn't have to lie to Rosamund any more than he already does.
For now, though, he can't think beyond the pain, and all the misery and bitterness it dredges up within him. They're old friends, by now.]
2/2
It's fine. One of the patrons downstairs got into an argument with the owner over fish--it was pretty funny to watch. [Refreshingly mundane, compared to the sorts of things the two of them have to worry about on a day to day basis. He slips inside and closes the door, coming over to peer at her book.] What are you reading?
no subject
What was wrong with the fish?
[She folds the book shut, eyes flicking quick over him. Altogether fine, it seems. Nothing's happened. Nothing ever happens when he vanishes, regardless of the inciting cues or the speed with which he makes the exit.
Luke is very, very careful. She knows this about him, observes it in many of his steady habits. And he is discreet. He has other work, and he's not always within pinching distance of her in the first place. But he vanishes. It's the one habit he won't cop to, and the one that needles her the most. It was only a bath, she thinks with a thin press of the lips. Shyness only counts for so much.]
Uh — minor cures and crafts? [She holds it up, cover facing outward.] Forgive me, I sneaked it along for the trip. It would be handy, don't you think? To know a little witchcraft before we get too far into the woods.
[Where more powerful witches are known to reside. Occasionally.]
...Are you all right? You should rest, Luke. It's been a long day.