Logs:Good night, Harper
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 23 February, 2009 |
| Who: Satiet, Rodric |
| Type: [[Concept:{{{type}}}|{{{type}}}]] |
| What: Satiet visits Rodric during her vacation from life after a long time. |
| Where: Master Rodric's Cothold |
| When: Day {{{day}}}, Month {{{month}}}, Turn {{{turn}}} ({{{IP}}} {{{IP2}}}) |
 |
| Master Rodric's Cothold(#1384De) A small cothold, boasting only three rooms (living, bed and bath), it is nevertheless neatly kept and cozy. The main room spans the width of the cot, with the hearth and chimney at one end and a study area on the other. Comfortable couch and chairs sit over a woven rug of warm, autumnal hues before the hearth making an informal space for folk to gather. Two doors at the back of the main room lead off to the bedroom and water room.
It's a long-standing habit of Rodric's, to come up to Fort during the winter around Turnover, to catch up with other harpers, to keep up some of the connections and friendships from that old life he used to live here but is no longer his full-time occupation. The fire's warm in his hearth on a chilly Fortian winter's day, though the windows are both unshuttered to let in light in spite of the cold that presses against the glass. Sunshine slants down through a slight wintry haze, that dissipates its light, though now and then an actual beam penetrates, catches the details of a rattling, clinging dead leaf on a tree, or the wear and tear along the harper's shutters. The man himself sits in one of those windows, a small table pulled up there as he writes steadily and looks out now and then at the winter landscape of scattered whites, browns and grays. Knowing this, this habit of Rodric's, is what drops a shadow of a large dragon overhead over the tiny cothold, once so familiar. Soaring high, flaring up in a little dip before spiraling into a slow descent, Teonath favors a spot of snow-laden winter just shy of the path, and soon thereafter, the slim figure atop the dragon is slow to climb down. Slow and careful before she lands with a flounce of snow dust in the air with her landing. And then there's that pause, the lift of her sharp chin and the light catching in her pale eyes as she looks up that path to that once familiar cothold and the man sitting in the window. The shadow overhead draws a flicker of Rodric's brows and blue eyes lift from the page, look out again into the portrait of winter beyond the windowpane. The flash of gold hide, is what stills his hand though and after a moment, the harper sets the writing implement down carefully. It's possible his gaze might cross hers, even with the space intervening, that window. He rises, certainly, moves to the hearth first to toss another log on, then moves to the door to open it. There in the doorway, he waits again, a slight smile caught in the corners of his mouth as he gestures lightly with one hand in invitation, almost as if no time had passed at all, though of course, there's more than one sign of just how much time it's been. Perhaps she knows what he does when he departs that window, and the thin, fur-clad figure waits, still, until the door opens and he stands in the frame. Then, Satiet ventures a dry, crooked curl of her mouth followed by a tilt of her head the opposite direction. A slow procession of steps brings her up that path to that doorway and that man and one slim hand loosens itself from the folds of her cloak to curl thin fingers against his cheek, almost fond that gesture. "It's been too long. Happy Turnover." The tilt of her head, the movement of her mouth, both are observed closely, though there's only a wider smile in answer, Rodric's reaching into his eyes. Satiet's approach, the touch of her fingers to his face, draw one of his hands in turn upwards, to rest lightly atop hers. "It has," he says simply and his expression is warm, welcoming as he echoes the well-wishes. "Happy Turnover, Satiet." The thinness of her fingers, the gauntness in her face, they do not go unnoticed, but there's no comment on either from the harper, beyond the brief narrow of eyes, the slight lingering of focus here and there that might betray that notice. "Please, come in?" he invites in a low voice that carries his fondness to her, though it's light enough not to demand anything in return. "I have spiced cider on the hearth if you'd care for a warm drink." The fingers trail along his cheek beneath the hand atop hers, feather light and pausing only briefly at his chin before, using the weight of his hand, descends the air between them back to her side. The hand finds warmth in the lengthened sleeves of her cloak. "Thank you," is said to his invitation, a step bringing her into the cothold and away from the door. "I-," for a moment, in the shadows of what light the hearth throws against the wall, she hesitates visibly, the turn of her body to fire rather than harper notable, and the sharp upward jut of her chin casting her gaze to the ceilings. Then a smile, winsome and bright casts over her shoulder. "I don't know why I've come, except I'd like to see the face of an old friend." That smile of Rodric's is steady as her fingers trail so and his eyes never waver from her face. When her hand retreats, he waits again, for her to enter and when she's not looking his way, he focuses all the more intently on the way she moves. Briefly, unseen most likely aa pang of concern crosses his face, but then he's busy drawing the door shut and returning that smile of hers with one of his own, surpassingly charming ones. "I flatter myself that my company is still enjoyable," he quips mildly and moves beyond her, back to the hearth to poke at the log a little, swing the pot of simmering cider outward and lifts the lid, letting the scent of apples and spices permeate the air. "You can always count on that friendship, for a warm welcome," he replies, the words sincere as he looks up at her again briefly and stirs up the cider. Satiet might say something. It hovers about her mouth and in the way her lashes lower and flutter there, uncertain of whether to open wide or to continue focusing on the flames between the haze of her lashes. The glittering diamonds on the pin that holds her cloak together disappears behind a hand that lifts to unhook it and slide it into her upswept hair. With her othehr and, she gathers the cloak over her arms and steps further into the cozy abode, claiming a ginger seat along the armrest of a couch. "I heard you're continuing to travel with your family's trader clan." It's atypically conversational and light. "Are you enjoying retirement?" Though she hasn't accepted the offer of a drink, Rodric takes down two mugs, fills both and sets them on the table. His hands reach for her cloak then, his eyes, the tilt of his mouth saying that he means to hang it up, though he doesn't actually speak the words. "I continue to work as the train's harper, yes," Rodric replies, eyes seeking hers out again. She could open up if she chooses to, the offer is there, unspoken too, but again, not demanded. Still, is there understanding there too? "It's good still to be on the road, to be with family once more and to reclaim my roots." There's a moment's pause and then he smiles again, briefly. "I am again, a grandfather. My son has a daughter by a woman in the clan, though we're not all directly related." "Son?" If there was news, she's missed it. Or forgotten, though the latter seems unlikely. A quizzical purse claims her lips, her pale eyes veering to look towards Rodric sharply. Then, her "Congratulations," is followed quickly be her mouth quirking humorously, and a glint of a tease sparking life into her cool gaze. "I wonder what it feels like to be such a figure of elderly dotage. Do you spoil them? Your grandchildren?" Satiet looks briefly to the mug with its tendrils of steam, reaches for it, but holds it in the cup of her hands. "Seems all these turns, I had a son after all," Rodric remarks with some amusement. "His mother ... chose not to tell me and raised him without the onus of being the Masterharper's child. "It's been a very full few turns," he muses softly and leans against the back of the chair that's just opposite. That tease is answered with a broad smile. "I spoil them rotten. The latest is only just a month old, today in fact. We've named her for my mother." His gaze shifts away for a moment, a faint trace of grief written in his features, before his smile reclaims his mouth. "Cedri, he calls her, my son. He's a rider at Fort these days, though he Impressed at Telgar. The world has a funny sense of humor sometimes." His mug is lifted, the liquid blown across and sipped carefully, the harper's eyes on hers from over the rim of the mug. Of Telgar then Fort, Satiet's interest piques only a little, but not enough to ask further questions. She listens, dutiful to the story of his past few years, a little absentminded, but not without some iota of actual interest. It's a tepid thing; she doesn't truly care about those grandchildren or the new-found son at Fort. In fact, other than the initial inquiry, the fact _Rodric_ has a surprise son is of little further surprise. But, she does stand shortly, slipping off that ginger perch she's made and putting that mug down, and in a few steps, she crosses the distance. "I haven't slept. In a while. I'm very tired. But I can't sleep. Will you," and here there's the faintest smile and the most wry glitter in her ever-pale eyes, for how her words could be misconstrued, "Sleep with me? Hold me? I'd like to sleep a little bit before I go home again." The absent-mindedness, causes a brief, amused flicker in those blue eyes of Rodric's but he only swallows what he just sipped and sets the mug down, turns a palm upward for her hand and not the faintest sign that he's misunderstood. "Come then," the harper says softly, "rest for a little while, Satiet." His eyes crinkle up at the corners with that next smile, nothing but familiar warmth to be found in them for her. Should her fingers come to rest in his hand, he'll lift them briefly, bend his head to graze a kiss lightly across her knuckles, before moving to swing her up into his arms as he's done so many times before in the past, only this time, not for passion's sake, but to offer the simple comfort of companionship. In his arms, in his laps; whether together or not, it's a familiar comfort and she's as feather light as her fingers against his chin in his arms. And she'll sleep, arm slung around his shoulder and her head tucked against his neck, smelling of lavender and rose. Whether she meant to initially or not, she'll sleep most of the day, most of the afternoon, her breathing even with intermittent sharp intakes and her face burrowing into side, shoulder, or pillow. She'll sleep, as if she hasn't slept in many weeks, with dark lashes fanned against winter pale skin, and when she wakes, it's as if she and Rodric have traded places in slumber. She stirs, moves, her feet light. In the sun's set, cloak and pin re-find their original spots, and from the pocket of her riding leathers, she produces a small box with a note attached and sets it on the table next to her untouched cider, now cold. And just as she's about to leave, right before, she pauses to lean down and press a kiss into the harper's forehead. Her, "Good night, harper," whispered is left to hang in the air as she leaves. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------< Left on the table is a blue velvet box with the snowflake necklace given so many years ago inside. With it, the note says in her simple script: I could have tried harder. I should have tried harder. But if I wasn't who I was, would you love me as much? Thank you. Be happy, sir. >----------------------------------------------------------------------------< Arms mostly, and for a long while, Rodric is awake, listening to her breathe, occasionally smoothing back her dark hair. As the sunset fades from the sky, he gets up to put another log on, returns to her and this time, draws up the covers. He watches her still, for quite some time and though he doesn't say a word, there's a moment where sadness overtakes his features. His arm tightens around her then and his breathing goes tight. The moment passes though and he's steady again, until it's dark enough that he slips into slumber himself. It's much later when he wakes to find her gone, pads out into the other room and sees the box. The contents close his eyes for a moment and he walks over to the mantel to lean there and look into the fire. It's into his pocket that he reaches, to draw out the missing, matching piece to what lies in that box and sets the unbroken ring of silver there beside it. The box is quietly closed and left on the mantelpiece when he leaves in a few days' time to go back to the caravan. The letter, goes with him. |
Leave A Comment