Rough Waters

[Glenn]

In all fairness, if these people had to decide between seeing her regal splendor or his wallowing in the mud, there would likely be little hesitation or difficulty in the choosing. To his credit, he took it all in stride. He may have been literally basking in her glory but there was little change to him, except for by association. Still, he thrived in the face of such power and presence and he was there to match her inhuman grace with an all-too-human one born of years of ritual to gain control over his body.

It was another taste of the environmental glamour that he had experienced the last time he tried to provide her with relief from the stifling imprisonment of the carriage but he was not so thoroughly affected this time. Focused so utterly upon her, both the grandeur and the absurdity of it all, the shrouds of his own troubles, worries, and revelations gave way to the broader truth before him.

The problem had been this: it was wholly possible for her to be so passive aggressive and petulant, so immature, that she might have done all of this, every single bit of it, of her own choosing. Add in a guilt that he could recognize and that she struggled with and all of this could be perfectly natural. There was nothing natural about this showing. Surely she saw he was trying to help her. She wouldn't set them into an infinite loop of never escaping the carriage unscathed, would she?

Maybe.

Probably not.

There was some disappointment when she took her hand back. That was only to be expected. He was only human, but at least he was a human who had began to realize what was going on. His entire being screamed to answer directly, to ask directly. Instead, with just a bit of spite biting at his tongue. "Do you feel better?" Then, somehow pushing past that but not nearly to where he ought to be. "Does it frustrate you to obtain a human's name and for him not to even begin to listen to you anyway? Or is there some power you were able to not invoke?" Then, his own restraint quickly leaving him the longer he stared at her. "What happens if I give you my name now, if we both have each other's?"

[Niabh]

Her golden fingertips pressed to her temple, and her eyes closed briefly, like drawing the shutter on a lamp; the glow dimmed a bit. Questions, questions, and no more holding back answers than she could hold off winter one-handed. “No, I don’t feel better, but this was never about me feeling better. Except that it was. I thought if you felt you had some control you wouldn’t be as frightened or feel so violated and I wouldn’t feel as bad about violating you and it rather went into a spiral after that. Also because this has just been sitting between us for ages and you wouldn’t have taken it seriously unless you saw. Like with the glam. You would never stop thinking you could get the better of it unless it got the better of you. You’re like that. It’s wonderful about you but it’s so maddening, Sionnach!”

She dashed her hand to the side, sighed, and opened her eyes again. Meanwhile the little knot of people had gained at least three more. This was all starting to feel a bit performative.

She lowered her voice, though it scarcely helped matters. “Having your name was not at all frustrating. If I wanted to use it, I would have done. You gave it fairly and I claimed it and there was no power in it that was not mine. The frustration was you. I never understood just why you gave it to me. I thought of all kinds of reasons— that you were making mock of me, that you played me a petty game and didn’t care if it hurt you so long as it hurt me too. You didn’t even seem to care if I cared you were hurt. I didn’t want to believe you cared so little for yourself that you would do such a thing. Then I thought…perhaps he just doesn’t understand how serious it is. Except you couldn’t not understand because I explained it to you. You never seem to believe anything until you’re in the very center of it. Comes a time when such is not defiance but foolhardiness. Frankly, you are not my child nor my husband nor yet my subject and I am under no obligation to rescue you from your own foolishness.”

“Tell ’im, girl,” growled a hefty, tough-looking goodwife from the sidelines.

Fionnuala looked up in exasperation. “This is not street theater! Begone!”

She clapped her hands briskly at the circle, which obligingly spread away from them. One or two onlookers shrugged and resumed their paths toward their destinations. A fellow who truly seemed not to get the hint gave a sudden yelp and a jump, rubbed his bum, and looked around for the pinching culprit until a small bevy of sharp, invisible fingers sent him skittering sidelong away from them. He clattered away across the street and up an open stairwell.

It was not perfect privacy but it was as close as they were like to get without they climb back into the carriage again, and Fionnuala cared not if she never set foot in another carriage in her life since all the trouble tonight seemed to revolve around climbing in and out of this one. At one far distant point of the evening, she had actually thought to herself that perhaps this had a hope of turning out all right after all. The hope remained, though by now it felt more like a burr in her stocking than a comfort.

Something of the queen crept back. It was evident in the ominous warning in her voice, the way her head slowly rose until she was full height. “Comes down that I remembered that I am queen and above all caring about why you do things. When people will see not reason then the only reason that matters is mine own. I had to give your name back. For your own sake and for mine. But I resent that you have so little faith that you had to try. I resent meaning so little. If you give it back again, I shall keep it. I do not offer twice.”

And that would have been a perfect line to close on, save that the truth pressed at her, a relentless tide, until she must smother if she did not speak it. She drew away, eyes downcast. “Except that now you could give it and I could not refuse it. Now you could ask for it and I would not be able to keep it. But were it in my will, I wouldn’t.”

[Glenn]

Was there a crowd? While he had made a habit of keeping quite the low profile here in Razasan, it had been very different in Myrken. That was a smaller place where gossip could travel far more quickly, yet he was out and about getting punched or having fruit thrown at him or arguing with some other colorful figure on a nearly nightly basis, even when he was governor. There was benefit to that and none to this but it hardly mattered. He was focused on her and her alone, after all.

"Why didn't you just make me tell you?" This deep into the conversation, with realization dawning and then being slammed against his temple repeatedly like a rusty hammer, every question had a cost. His addendum was quick, uncomfortable. "Only answer that if you want to. Only..." but then his voice faded off and he shook his head. She could use his own tactics against him. There was one surefire way to drive him away from her and he wasn't yet ready to allow her that option; if she were to do it, then she'd do it fair.

Her tone brought some fight back into his eyes but he swallowed it quickly. It wasn't just her answering his questions; it was her doing what he said as well. Literally. She'd been literal about the picturesque nature of the glamour. He could say something in anger and it might change her. There were a dozen things he wanted to say to her and he could allow himself to say none of them. Instead, he let out a slight scoff. "This has been a good gambit. Gambit." He repeated pensively, every word chosen with care for the first time since he met her. "I'm sorry. I apologize for not realizing what was happening sooner, for not understanding back in Myrken, for not being smart enough and not having learned enough to have your name and still allow you your freedom. I am sorry for treading into the waters of power in a rickety boat of ignorance. I will not knowingly violate you, not your body and not your spirit. I'd still like for you to ask what questions you have. I want to ask you questions as well. None of that happens until I give you your name back unless you feel strongly otherwise. Tell me how I give you your name back." It was the one thing he'd order her knowingly and she could be cross with him for it after the fact.

There, said and done. There was nothing else they need worry about. They'd be past this at least. Yet he was still frowning, wasn't he? Burnie raised a hand, palm out. "Wait. Let me tell you something first. One thing I've learned tonight: all that I worried about? That madness. Those lapses. Becoming him again, the soulless creature of intention but no restraint. There's no reason to fear that. It's over. What I have left to fear are my own human failings, and since I glorify those as part of the entire package of humanity, the bad that helps to create the good, I would be more of a hypocrite than even I can to bear to be were I to hold myself back from feeling sensation in fear of them."

[Niabh]

The small crowd made her itch all over, as if their very gaze was so many red ants. Not as bad as being stuck in the carriage, as at least here she could breathe and move about, but still the same sort of mounting discomfort. That plus feeling so utterly vulnerable and powerless made for a foul mix. Her head whipped toward the few lingerers. “See-me-not.”

In almost comical unison, they blinked. Their faces seemed to go blank…but only in contrast to the golden glow leeching out of them. They resumed their usual bored-or-busy city-expressions, remembered their destinations, and forgot.

She turned back to him, raking her hair from her face, and muttered, “I remember now why I hate cities.”

Her voice was still trembling. He had figured it out quickly enough. She expected no less of him, had counted on no less, and had staked not a little on anticipating how he would react once he figured it out. Every new question felt as if he had grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head another painful notch higher. Only a few minutes and already she was instinctively gritting her teeth to brace herself for the next time he spoke, dreading what it would bring, and wondering what she could possibly have been thinking. How could anyone forget this?

His abrupt addendum came as no little respite. She shuddered at the tight band of compulsion slacked, closing her eyes in relief.

“This long, this much, and still you ask why I did not make you tell.” Her eyelids fluttered open again, black eyes now soft as a doe’s but never wavering. “I did not force it from you because knowing all I know of you, I would not have you suffer that, whatsoever it gained me.”

If he didn’t believe her now, he never would. If he did not believe her now, she would walk away from this, and in a hundred years when she was safely amongst her own people, this would all become but one uproarious chapter in The Queen’s Adventures Amongst the Tultharian, and he cast as the thick-headed mortal man with whom she’d wiled away an idle year. Maybe by then she could reframe this all as funny. Now she only felt sorry for him. Scared of and sorry for, a combination of emotions she could come to resent very, very quickly.

“But be damned to your rickety boat. You can moor it in the same hole as ‘charnel house of lies’ or any other pretty phrase you want to invent. Your boat was not ignorance, but obstinance. There wasn’t a question you could ask that I would not have answered well before we came to this, but you would not hear it. I did not gamble to wring an apology out of you, Sionnach.” It had an eerie ring to it. Belatedly, she remembered that it was the second time this night she had expressed that sentiment. “I did it because you need to know and this needs to end. Either it ends in understanding or it just ends. If you…”

This time the faltering was genuine clumsiness; she glanced away, teeth tugging her bottom lip. “If you soothly mean all that, if you soothly feel any change for the better…good neighbor.”

A pause. She had a vague suspicion that now was the moment she was meant to be making some assurances in turn, but she’d sworn her vows in the carriage. She would not violate him again. She had not even amended the promise with the assurance that she would break it in her own defense, as she usually would and as she had a perfect right to do. A queen did not promise twice. Once was enough. Twice meant she was probably lying the first time.

Instead, she stepped toward him again, bridging the gap between them, and raised her own palm parallel with his, with a quick bold glance at his face for permission. If he would allow it, she would weave her fingers through his in camaraderie. Lopsided camaraderie, true, since he had five fingers to her three, but you could only offer as much as you had to give. Him as well as her.

“You give my name back by giving my name back,” she whispered fiercely. “Say it, and give it back.”

[Glenn]

"I love them." It was a brief aside, him speaking of cities, but from the outside in, perhaps an amusing one, almost quizzical in tone, as if she had no idea why she had brought them up. He was staring at her, only her. Before he had ignored the crowd; now he ignored everything but what was before him. Perhaps he was thinking of a garden once more (this is where it had been previously, had it not?), but he did not glance towards even an iota of the city around them.

The world seemed to be speeding up around him now that he understood what was going on. Given that the world, in this moment, was her and him and their pasts and little else, that was an impressive thing. It felt entirely unlike when she made time expand and that notion alone almost thrust a near-drunk smile upon his face. He swallowed it down as he had his fury and his tears. "It was a gesture, one meant to reassure," and how could she fault him for that. Thankfully, she could fault him for this, "though it also felt like a natural part of the journey, of the story: a turn of the page and there it was."

To explain unbidden there been a choice. His voice had been almost dreamlike at the end. It had been a choice. He could have called into question the notion of restraint when she had done something else just as bad for far less purpose and reason just a few minutes before. What would that have gained him now that he already had her name? Burnie was never one to deny truth outright, but he could select one over another. There was a difference between those two occasions and it mattered to her so he would choose to allow it to matter to him as well.

He could apologize, whether she wanted it or not, whether she be a princess and accept it or a queen and not (or was it the other way around?), but he could not thank her. Instead, she thanked him. It was enough to quiet him, for a time, for it was only ever for a time. It allowed her to approach and when she raised her hand up, he took it, five fingers enveloping three.

His gaze was even, restrained, likely frustratingly so, when he met hers. His voice was soft, kind enough, when he spoke. "I renounce your name. Fionnuala. Your friends," and he'd allow for a slight shrug of the shoulder of that interlinked hand, one that just barely tussled his hair and for just an instant made him look younger than he was, "we call you Finn."

[Niabh]

The hand jerked in his. Her head rocked back and she gasped sharply, as if she could inhale the very words as he spoke them, before she appeared to physically melt, shoulders sinking and head nodding forward. The pendulum, poised at its zenith all this while, resumed its natural arc, severing the bond in its wake. How many heartbeats? Not even a thousand, surely, when it felt like hours already. How much longer if had he refused?

When she finally relaxed into position, they were eye to eye, and the high glamour dispersed enough to give her easily memorable features: a pale scar near the hairline, a nose with a smattering of freckles, a mole on her collarbone. Little details like a certain dry, dusty frizziness to her curls. Actual pores in her cheeks. Eyes aglow only with gratitude. It was the nearest to her true seeming she’d been in months, save for when she was alone. Still no ears, though. Razasan was not ready for the ears.

And still in possession of the last grim morsel of truth that he had never asked for and which she would never share: that in the moment before he gave the name back, she had steeled herself to accept that he might not. At least he would be an easy master in the sense that he was unlikely to abuse her or force himself on her. For him, it would be about being as near to the glamourie as possible, and that was simple enough to solve: encourage it. Tempt him toward ever more dangerous ledges and be patient enough to watch him destroy himself. And then she would be free.

It hadn’t come to that. It hadn’t come close. It was a foolish thought and she a fool to think it.

“And I shall call you Sionnach, on account of Glenn-and-Finn is far, far too precious.” Her fingers gently disentangled from his. “In this new spirit of concord and of me not taking advantage whenever it so suits, I feel I should tell that you seem a wee bit drunk. And that is disconcerting.”

Like an idiot, without thinking her hand reached for his face to see if he was truly all right. She caught herself, and, sheepishly, withdrew it, rubbing her wrist. “It wasn’t all the glam, you know. You saw true there. Glamourie changes nothing. It only reveals what’s there. If you found anything in yourself, if you truly feel changed, that part is real, and I wish you well of it.”

Now she was embarrassed. A sentimental thing after all.

“I should still like to talk this through, an you wish. We’ve the rest of the evening for it.” She glanced upward, trying to track how much night they had left in a starless sky, then chuckled to herself. “We’re not even too late for the ball, but any party would pale beside all this and I would be just as glad to have a drink right now.” Her humor faltered, brows drawing together. “Why of all things did you try to give your name back? Did you think it would undo it, or balance it out? Did you think we would be bound to each other?”

[Glenn]

Anyone paying attention as closely as she recently had might expect Burnie's focus to waver as the glamour gave way to a more authentic seeming. It did not. No matter the appeal of what she was, of what he had lost, nothing made his pulse race quite like a secret truth. It had always been the possibility of such which spiraled him towards peril. His eyes were locked with hers, yes, but that still allowed him to take in her whole face, to record every feature of it as if he would have to immortalize it later on, as if he would have to guide some hapless traveler over the incline of her nose or around that mole.

He did not try to keep her hand when she went to withdraw it. He would retain but a memory of a moment when he could have possessed all of her forevermore. Why try to keep a hand? "You'll have to tell me what Sionnach means. I can only go so long pretending that I either know or am somehow above being bothered by not knowing. I am not." It was then that she reached out for his face, and in response she received a wholly predictable doubting glance, but not the accompanying frown at least. On the other hand, the slight uptick of his lip was the sort of thing that turned a compassionate brush of the hand into an outright strangle. Her words swiftly wiped the smile from his face, and apparently swatted at the creation of additional words as well; he nodded, silent for a long moment, before managing a weak "We'll work through some of it together, maybe. Better than I try to work it out alone."

She asked her other question and he turned, walking past her with nary a glance. "Come on. There's a tavern two blocks south, one east." Just a few minutes before he had been completely lost in a fantasy. The night was dark. He had certainly lost all track of time during the ride. Yet, there he was, with complete geographical control of the situation. "I'll figure out some other way to save those people in the morning." It was as if he was stacking infuriating action on top of infuriating action, in order to avoid her question. "Renaud's Gift. The tavern. Not after the current princess, she of the terrible tactical mind, but after the Queen she was named for. She died young and her husband decided to force her memory upon the people through funding the creation of houses of libation. He thought they'd have a more lasting impact than statues. I make sure to patronize them primarily. It's the only thing I do to keep Kostroma and Surdemer on their toes, make it seem like I want to court the Princess. I know they have me followed, even after a couple of years. Probably drives them batty."

He had started off before her. He did not look back to see if she was with him. Instead, despite himself, he allowed her question to finally catch up to him. "I don't always understand magic, Finn. That's obvious. Despite what I tried to learn, I didn't know, until I saw, what having your name would mean. I didn't understand the breadth of it, how deep it was. I guess maybe you're right. I thought if I had your name and you mine, maybe it would have some significance I didn't understand," that it might be magic enough to fill the hole inside of him. "It was foolish and selfish and I wasn't myself at the time. I wasn't being rational. I'm sorry for that too." Then, as if he could somehow stuff all of that back within its bottle by invoking another sort. "Let's just go drink. Between how quickly I can walk and how long your legs are, we'll be there in no time."

[Niabh]

Unnatural beauty plus unwavering arrogance had one advantage and one significant drawback: at this point in her life, admiration had meaning only if it came from someone she admired in return. The least compliment from Hok she would pin to her shoulder for a week and tuck it under her pallet at night; Bruidda’s occasional bark of “good form there!” filled her with a warm glow of pride, but indiscriminate gawping from a stranger was as much as being stared at by a cow. Loath as she was to admit it, she quite respected Glenn Burnie, and had he ever offered her more than off-handed praise, she would have only taken it out twice a year for polishing.

Point was, she knew what that looked like and this wasn’t it. This was a cold, devouring feeling that prickled the back of her neck and made her realize that she had been entirely correct in bracing herself for refusal, that the margin may have been even narrower than she feared. For sake of pride, she refused to drop her eyes from his, and even lifted her head higher as though to give him a better view. He was not seeing her. He still saw the glam. Well, let him look—look until his eyeballs toppled out of their sockets, an it pleased him. She would stand in his way and refused to be ignored.

Still she was relieved when he turned loose her hand.

“Sionnach is a little forest beast, half-dog and half-cat, very light-footed and nimble. I’ve seen them run straight up a tree. Not climb. Run so quick they never have time to fall. They’re a pain in the arse and they’ll attack a calf four times their size an you don’t look sharp to them—rip their bellies clean open. But they have such keen, sweet faces.” She had the bad form to glance over to make sure he was getting the hint, then shrugged a shoulder as she started after him. “Anyway, I like them. They’re wee brave beasties for all their faults.”

In spite of herself—and still irked that he was putting off a straight answer—she was nevertheless interested in the small political lesson, listening with an intent expression as she trailed along after him with hands tucked behind her back in her usual city posture (better to keep from casually picking pockets, better to keep from running her fingers over things, better to avoid brushing stray iron fences and hinges). Naturally she was curious how the tultharian arranged their royalty, and she was even pleased to find a modicum of context: Lady Patience had spoken of the princess of Derry. Her face brightened. “You have spies set to you?” Said in the same tone in which a well-bred noblewoman would express approval upon learning of his hunting lodge in the highlands.

Finally, he worked his way around to answering the question. He’d had a rough time of it. Say true, she was surprised he was this composed after all he’d undergone at her hands, and part of her apology was to prepare to be a little patient, provided he didn’t make a habit of darting down his usual rabbit holes. Even now, she had a sense he was holding back from the true answer, but she wasn’t sure which of them he was holding back from.

“You…” She paused, uncomfortable once more, but the sentence was already begun. “You wrote me once of an emptiness you feel. A hollowness you’re loath to look deep into for fear there will be no bottom to it. You spoke of it also in Myrken. Is…is that what you were hoping would happen? That if you were bound to someone else, it might heal the hollow? Is that why you look at me so now?” She went quiet again, gnawing on her bottom lip once more. “I have wondered on occasion since if that is not why you are so reluctant to ask for things. That you may be refused and left more empty than even you were.” She let out a gentle sigh. “All I ask is that the next time a lady tells you ‘please don’t do this, I will be a slave,’ you do heed her. Not that I foresee this precise situation ever coming up again.”

Quite a mundane thought crossed her mind, bringing her brisk steps to a drag. She glanced at him anxiously. “This place we’re going. I don’t suppose you’ve paid any notice if they use nails or pegs in the floor?” This was a different kind of discomfort, and a much more common one: the finicky guest all too conscious of making demands upon her host. “It’s just…the not-quite-so-nice places usually have pegs. That’s part why I go there.”

[Glenn]

"I ought to find some animal pet name for you as well," he half muttered, able to picture the creature well enough without ever making the connection that ought to have been obvious to him. She had said she was marooned here for quite a while, after all. Tears were an outlier; he took other things for granted. "That'd be too precious by far, though," he mimicked her tone, though likely didn't do a very good job of it. That was not one of his skills. "Plus, I feel like getting to call you Finn is an accomplishment and an honor in the first place. Why throw that away just to call you a badger or some such?"

She let him demur which wasn't nearly the mercy that it seemed on paper. In the end, she was rewarded with his mostly earnest attempt at elucidation. In the middle, she had a small comment, and he noted it, even as he walked on. "Half of it is my fault. I couldn't help but needle Kostroma into expecting the worst of me. Needling Surdemer was its own joy and well, I suppose that's at least half my fault as well. Then there was the engagement to Egris. Purely political, though she's a lovely, terrible, terrible, lovely girl. Royal niece, you know." Not a drop of emotion there, though affectation certainly, enough of the one to make one wonder about the other or so little of the other to make one wonder about the one. "The spies hate me. I commit the very worst of sins. I bore them. Maybe not tonight."

There was the temptation to stop short and have her crash into him. If nothing else, it would be its own form of very physical deflection to her line of reasoning. Instead, he slowed slightly but kept moving, did not turn his head. "You're wrong, and here's why," being the five-and-a-half words most likely to get him killed someday. "Were Rhaena alive still, you and I would still have been wonderful correspondents. I would have still plucked at your secrets and stumbled perilously into your path. I would have offered you possibilities and promised you platitudes. You would have run from hot to cold to hot again. It would have been awkward at times and serene at others. Yes, it's probably different given the emptiness inside of me," and did his walk stutter just a bit there? This was an effort after all he'd been through. He'd almost cried before and there'd be none of that now, whether she might witness it or not.

"And you are welcome to believe this or not, but I do mean it, and I am fairly sure I know it true. I've said it before: I am far more interested in who you are than what you are, Finn. I understand now, much more, that your power is part of who you are, and how that is true. Elements of that power do appeal while others repel, but I am, here and now and tomorrow as well, primarily, secondarily, and tertiarily, interested in it because it is a part of the heartblood of my friend. Whatever temptation it has pales in the face of that, a face with a beauty mark right about here," his hand raised idly to his own collarbone as he walked, "and a few freckles, here and here and here," and he placed them upon his own face as accurately as could be. She'd surely only see some of it, even with her preternatural vision and even if she had mostly caught up to him (and that was very likely, for he carried heavy words capable of slowing him down, and more importantly, because he meant to show off, to impress her). That said and done, he'd increase his pace, which led to the problem of her deceleration that came with her next idle thought.

When the time came, he countered quickly, too quickly, even for one who often had an answer for everything. "We'll arrive and if it does not suit your pleasure, I will place my coat down for you to walk over it. The thing's all the wrong color anyway."

[Niabh]

“Amongst my folk, someone with many pet names is said to be much-loved,” she replied, all too coyly. “’Tis why men name their own pricks.”

Trouble was he had a distinct advantage, walking-wise: he could move as quickly and easily as he pleased, whereas she had to contend with short, ladylike steps that kept the jiggling to a minimum while also keeping her skirts from dragging the pavement. As it was she took two steps to each of his, her heels clicking away beneath the heavy skirts, until she finally pulled alongside him just in time to be greeted the you’re-wrong preamble, which was enough to make her wish she'd lagged behind.

She heaved an enormous, exaggerated sigh and bore it with an air of amused tolerance, only glancing to the side frequently to see if he was anywhere near shutting up, as it felt like one of those things he could expound upon at length. Which he did. “I mention it because I remembered it, and I remembered it because it troubled me,” she said, firm but quiet. “It troubled me then, too. But then you were quite beyond asking, and when it came up in the letter, I thought that if I noted it, you wouldn’t answer. I told you in Myrken, I’ve told you in the letters, and I’ll say it again now: if there’s something you don’t wish to say, tell me so and I’ll stop asking. Mayhap not forever, an I think it important enough. But until you’re ready.”

That time she really did nearly walk straight into the back of him, sweeping gracefully left in the nick of time, but coming near to bump him with her skirts—the magic circle of polite distance finally broken. Well, he’d already had in his head in her lap this night. Propriety seemed like a silly tultharian contrivance after that.

“Look,” she said, serious now, “betimes it’s hard for me to tell how people really see me.” Connation crept into the words, and she half-smiled at the implications. “Not just the glams. A lot of things. I told you about the ganconner, the Niall curse. How no one’s ever sure if we’re charming of ourselves or if it’s just the curse tricking them into seeing something other than what is. It goes both ways. I’m never sure of it either. Betimes I couldn’t believe someone even when they were true. And other times I’ve wanted to believe so much I overlooked every sign that they were not.” And he already knew how the worst of those ended. “If you say you feel so, then I believe you. The letters were a boon to that. I don’t think Grandfather’s curse could possibly seep into letters, beannaithe or not.”

She sighed again, briefly pressing fingertips to her forehead. He was only being flippant because he was being sensitive. But be damned if she had the time or inclination to chase him all over the city. “My pleasure has little to do with it. If you want to show up in a place you’re known with a half-clad, bushy-haired barbarian trailing wide-eyed behind you—which is precisely what you'll have as soon as I step on iron in this get-up—I’m perfectly willing to accommodate. Your spies will rejoice at finally having something noteworthy to report, I’m sure. I’d even be happy to step on that awful coat, if you’d rather. Black makes you sallow and somber.” Now she was openly teasing, mostly to cover up her trepidation. “A pale blue or silver-grey, mayhap, to set off your eyes, or even a green if there be not too much yellow in it. But never black. Oh for fuck’s sake, Glenn.” For he’d pulled ahead of her again.

She dropped her fistful of train straight to the dirty walk and surged into a full run, elbows pumping at her sides, skirts rocking like a tower bell in a storm, and if her breasts bounced clear out of this preposterous neckline then it was up to him to be mortified about it because she wouldn’t be. “Is this to be the new game? Do you enjoy making me scramble at your heels? The view from behind is pleasant enough, but the distance makes conversation a chore.”

[Glenn]

Burnie seemingly had an answer to everything. It was one of his six or seven most irritating qualities. In this case, even if wasn't in his nature, the answer that her little comment gave rise to was obvious. Still, he did not take the bait. "The day when my lapses lead to me responding to a statement like that is the day you can truly start to worry about me."

If he struggled with anything when it came to her, it was understanding her physical limitations relative to her power. That had been the case in the carriage and that was the case here. One expected fairy queens (which, she was not) to be able to flit about this way and that, even in complicated ball gowns. Frolic among the lilies, that sort of thing. Either he struggled again with such dissonance now or he was just being petulant and was holding a grudge in the least meaningful manner possible.

"I'm not sure I'd like to extend that offer back to you, Finn." It was rather an uncomfortable bit of honesty on a night with plenty of that. "Generally, I want to know things to the point that I'd allow you to try to wrest truths I'm not ready for out of me in return." Then, with a half turn to look back at her, even if he didn't quite stop or focus on any part of her specifically. "Are you quite sure that us sharing things directly is preferable to imagining the best of one another instead? Or maybe the worst, because at least that's cleaner and makes more sense than what we quite often get?"

His shift in speed, the drawing of the map of her face, and the near collision followed. Perhaps indirectly, it, with his accompanying words, led to her voicing concerns both general and specific. "Use the letters as a starting point and question any changes in me to a reasonable extent. That way you'll have to keep writing me forever, which is most important because it means I'll get to spend time with the raven for years to come."

There seemed to be more to say there, but he had brought up the strangely absent messenger as a way to avoid it. In the immediate, it didn't matter. He picked up speed. She followed at a near run. As she reached him, he would turn suddenly. Instead of a collision, he would reach out, weaving a hand in his own, putting his other hand upon her hip brazenly, and twirling with her twice. He schemed to make use of her momentum, his deceptive strength and deftness, and the fact that she was all but a prisoner in her own clothes to give them likely the only moment of dance, wholly unaccompanied, that they'd get this evening. If she didn't knee him in the groin for his forwardness, he'd lean in closer, his voice a spirited whisper. "If not your pleasure, then to accommodate you. I've tried it all day: a ball, leaving the carriage, rushing to a tavern. I feel like every time I do something to make you cross, you end up pleased with me, and every time I try to think of your feelings, we quarrel. So far, it's led to escalating efforts, but believe it or not, I may have some confidence issues when it comes to such things. I'm not sure if I can keep this up forever. For now, I'm willing to go in, fetch the drinks, and sit outside with you."

[Niabh]

A knee to the groin was nearly the least of his worries. When he went for her hip, her hand locked around his arm above the elbow. An observer might mistake that grip for a convulsive grab, that he had swept her off her balance and that she had clutched the closest available outcropping to keep her feet. In fact, her next step would be to sock her hip against him and fling him across her back and onto the bricks.

In the very nick of time she caught on that he was playing. The wild fury went out of her eyes, replaced by shock, embarrassment, then, after a moment, slow-dawning delight. Her hand relaxed its stranglehold on his elbow and eased its way to the back of his neck. The waist beneath his hand was both hard as stone and as supple as a young willow. Her whole body relaxed against him, allowing him to turn her as he would. It became immediately clear why she so keenly sought it out: even at a moment’s notice, dancing became a whole other language, gesture instead of syllable. Accompaniment was unnecessary. Her movements were their own music. And with a slight twist of glamourie, there was the sudden sure sense that they alone stood perfectly still at the axis of the world, with the city and the stars and the whole of history revolving around them.

“The trouble could be, as has been established, that you can’t even have fun right.” But she laughed as she said it. “Perhaps try a little less accommodating and a little more experiencing, hm? Things are almost always more enjoyable if there’s other people enjoying them along with you.”

On the final turn she spun, wrist turning in his hand like an oiled joint in a socket, dipped her head gracefully under his arm, then let go and twirled out of reach. Arms floating outstretched at her sides, eyes shut, she did a few small steps and dips by herself purely for the pleasure of finally putting all those rustling skirts to good use, until it seemed she might dance off without him. A scrape of her foot across the pavement brought the interlude to an abrupt halt, and she stood grinning broadly at him, face aflame. The world resumed its usual imperceptible but relentless rotation.

“Well, true, no man’s meant to keep it up forever,” she agreed wickedly, before holding out both hands to him, as if to drag him into still another dance. “I should be glad enough to sit on a stoop somewhere and have a drink with you,” for she could be polite when it suited her.

[Glenn]

Burnie was not particularly skilled at languages. He was better with this one than with some though. As a dancer, he was a very good fencer. All of the skill, the quickness, the aptitude was in his footwork. He had meant to redirect her momentum (emotional and otherwise) and instead, it was he who had been swept up. Nominally, she was letting him lead but there was little question who held the expertise here. He was years out of practice and in so many ways that matter, it had been a different person who had put in all of those evening hours in sweltering barns anyway.

That said, he was also a charming base, supple and pliant. Perhaps it was the years of being bound to Rhaena, perhaps it was simple physical chemistry, or perhaps a mapmaker's sense of visual imagery and angles, but he was able to anticipate where each movement might place her. There was to be no concern of him trodding on her toes, dress, or pride. If only his smile was more amused and less bemused, the whole thing might have been a joy. Still, it silenced him for a bit. When he realized what was happening, that she had taken his gesture and outran him, gown and all, he had muttered a quiet "Oh, you," but that's all he managed until she had finished her variation.

She so rarely was able to clearly and thoroughly best him with a verbal retort, but there it was, proof positive. There he was, accommodating instead of experiencing and upon seeing her grin, upon hearing her words, he simply shook his head. Words were failing him. Instead, his unwanted, exasperated laugh was succeeding her beyond all expectations.

Hands were left hanging in the night as he turned back around, still laughing slightly, head still shaking from side to side as if propelled by the lingering laugh. "Come on, then. Let's go find the princess' pub and a stoop suitable for a queen."

[Niabh]

It was probably better for them both that he turned away at that moment, for he might have laughed even harder at that open-mouthed astonishment directed toward his retreating back. Her hands flopped back to her sides, having been so certain she could lure him into another dance, just a little one. He’d even engaged that one, and he seemed to be enjoying it while it was going on, so what had happened? Laughter was normally a positive indication, though worrisome when she couldn’t be sure what he was laughing at. “What? Oh-me what? What have I done this time?”

Scooping up the skirts again, she hurried to catch up. “That…that wasn’t intended as a slight toward you, if that’s how it seemed. Not really. I was more talking about me. I enjoy things more if I know other people are having a good time, too. And when I’m not certain, I sort of…poke and ply them with different tidbits until one of them seems to work. I’m not really sure what you enjoy. Except letters.” She raised her eyes hopefully. “I could go to the end of the street and scratch something a brick and have the raven read it to you?”

[Glenn]

The laughter slowly faded but his pace did not. She said her piece and then walked it back even as she tried to walk herself forward to keep up with him. "No raven," he'd mutter. "I'd hate to explain this to him." This being what exactly? "Any of this," not at all helpful, "but this especially."

On the one hand, she'd be more apt to anticipate his sudden movement, having seen it once before. On the other, it was so unlikely to happen twice, especially after he had refused her invitation, that maybe (hopefully) it had come as a surprise. It being a surprise was half the point. He had been keeping her momentum going and that meant that it was fairly easy to turn and pull her back into a twirl once again. This time, he better knew what to anticipate. Assuming that her body relaxed against his once more, he'd take a far slower tempo. She'd let him lead before, but it was leading about Her Ascendancy. The challenge was in containing her without constraining her, to force demurral while still maximizing delight. In this, even though he was skillfully planting his feet, it was hardly a formal thing, much more of a swaying into the night.

This time he was ready, however, and even as he started to force their sway, he partook in his own unique and inexorable blasphemy: Burnie spoke. "Once, long ago, there was a prince." His voice was distant, airy, soft and somehow conspiratorial. "Princes have too much time on their hands and find mischief that those toiling in the field might never encounter. They dream and think fantastical thoughts. They seek ideals. This prince sought Beauty, true Beauty. He had read about it in dusty tomes and heard of it in a hundred poems and songs, but he wondered if it was simply fabrication, something we men invented for the sake of our pride, something to bring warmth during the cold of winter or light in the dark of night. It was on one of those dark nights that he wished upon the bright star of the north to experience beauty for himself.

"The next night was a grand ball, one put on in his honor so that he might find a wife. All of the women of the kingdom were invited, as well as noble ladies from the surrounding lands. The prince danced with each, hoping to find that spark of real Beauty within. Each sought to impress him. None danced for the moment. None danced for the dance. None danced for herself. None even danced for him, not truly. Finally, he pulled aside a servant girl, one dressed far more poorly than the guests, with hair mottled from her work and fingers calloused and dirtied, and asked her to dance. It was frustration, desperation, but kindness as well. It was selfless, an attempt to provide one so overlooked a moment of enjoyment in lifetime of labor.

"He could not have known that she was a fairy queen of legend and lore, one in the midst of some mischief or purpose of her own. As he danced with her, true Beauty was revealed to him, not in the form she chose to reveal, as impressive as it was, but in her movement, in her freedom and in her passion. The veil of what had been so courtly and forced and rigid lifted to reveal to him the wonder that he had been searching for. They danced for an hour without pause, and then she was gone. He could not remember her face, not her eyes or her nose or her chin, but the memory of their motion stayed with him with the rise of the sun.

"He left that very morning in search of her, travelling from kingdom to kingdom, from formal ball to barn dance, in raucous pubs and grand halls, wherever there may be music and revelry. And he danced. He danced with queens and paupers. He danced with great-grandmothers and young girls taking their first steps. He became a master, renown far and wide for practiced steps and spontaneous bursts. As he continued to search for Her, to try to recapture that moment of Beauty, he traveled the world day. It was an honor to have him at a gala, a whispered privilege to have him grace your wedding, your village, your tavern.

"This was his life, always seeking, always dancing, always blessing those around him with his presence and his passionate abandon. Eventually age caught up with him as it does with all men, even princes, and he began his journey home. The rigors of a lifetime on the road had taken their toll and he walked with a cane and danced far more slowly. He was welcomed once more at every port, in every castle, in every town, often by the children of those he had met years before, ones who had heard the tale of his prior visit and the happiness he had brought.

"When he was but a few miles from his childhood home, the prince's legs finally gave out on him. As he laid upon the ground, he looked up to the bright star of the north once more. He was alone with it and his warm memories rekindled throughout his journey home. Though he had never found Her again, his last thoughts were not sad ones. Her Beauty had driven him to spread joy and happiness throughout the world, to create his own Beauty that he could share with all.

"Our stories are all like that," somewhere in the midst of swaying and story, his eyes had shut. Now he opened them, though his gaze was far-off, somewhere over her shoulder. "So much of us, so little you." If there was a point more than that, he did not speak it. He only shook his head and lingered in the dance a while more.