[ An exchange of glances, Wallace seeming to ask some question not of her, but of himself, and Katrina offering a brush of her hand on his arm. Don't worry.
Or, perhaps, I won't hurt him.
Or, You need rest, too.
And he, reluctantly, goes.
And she, uncertain, lingers at the bedside, considering.
This is the first time she has witnessed this intricate interaction between Treavor and his manservant; how it plays out with such coordination, as though this has been going on for...
Years.
Another clench of her heart, a bolt of compassion and pity. How long has he been doing this nightly routine of drinking and staggering to bed? How many lonely nights has he spent drunk and furious? And what was done to him, to make him this way? (Well - what was done to her? Someone was unkind. Someone vanished. Dreams were shattered and childhood snatched away too quickly.)
(An awareness at the back of her mind, a small and weak flicker of hope: maybe he would understand her. Maybe, if he cared to try, he could see his pain reflected in her, and recognize it - and she wouldn't feel so alone.
Not tonight. Not for many nights to come. It isn't right of her to expect anything of him at all, anyhow.
It isn't right to make these assumptions.)
This poor man. His sacrifice seems so...hopeless, when she considers how he may have lived before. Not a noble act, but one of concession of defeat. Why not marry a nobody in a nowhere village? Why not, when life is only drinking and misery?
Why not allow the daily affairs to be handled by his barely-a-wife, or the business to be handled by his family? Why not merely relent, and be maneuvered (and oh, she does know that feeling all too well.)
And why not message his barely-a-wife with crassness, when she shows him no warmth, anyhow? The worst has already happened; she can only repeat her rejection.
An ugly sort of guilt plays in her. No, of course she won't go back on her refusal - certainly not tonight, when he is incomparably drunk - but would it hurt her to offer something? How much of this night will he remember? Will it settle in him, a knowing that she means him only gentleness, only merciful, compassionate tenderness?
How many have ever meant him only that, and nothing more?
So, she offers a cautious touch, featherlight stroke of her fingers along his cheek to coax his face up, and presses a chaste kiss to his temple. ]
Rest now. I'll sit beside you, and keep the watches of the night.
[ A grim thought, a sorrowful thought: if anyone needs protection, it's the man misfortunate enough to cross her path.
Well. Who better to protect him? She knows what terrors lie outside her door. ]
no subject
Or, perhaps, I won't hurt him.
Or, You need rest, too.
And he, reluctantly, goes.
And she, uncertain, lingers at the bedside, considering.
This is the first time she has witnessed this intricate interaction between Treavor and his manservant; how it plays out with such coordination, as though this has been going on for...
Years.
Another clench of her heart, a bolt of compassion and pity. How long has he been doing this nightly routine of drinking and staggering to bed? How many lonely nights has he spent drunk and furious? And what was done to him, to make him this way? (Well - what was done to her? Someone was unkind. Someone vanished. Dreams were shattered and childhood snatched away too quickly.)
(An awareness at the back of her mind, a small and weak flicker of hope: maybe he would understand her. Maybe, if he cared to try, he could see his pain reflected in her, and recognize it - and she wouldn't feel so alone.
Not tonight. Not for many nights to come. It isn't right of her to expect anything of him at all, anyhow.
It isn't right to make these assumptions.)
This poor man. His sacrifice seems so...hopeless, when she considers how he may have lived before. Not a noble act, but one of concession of defeat. Why not marry a nobody in a nowhere village? Why not, when life is only drinking and misery?
Why not allow the daily affairs to be handled by his barely-a-wife, or the business to be handled by his family? Why not merely relent, and be maneuvered (and oh, she does know that feeling all too well.)
And why not message his barely-a-wife with crassness, when she shows him no warmth, anyhow? The worst has already happened; she can only repeat her rejection.
An ugly sort of guilt plays in her. No, of course she won't go back on her refusal - certainly not tonight, when he is incomparably drunk - but would it hurt her to offer something? How much of this night will he remember? Will it settle in him, a knowing that she means him only gentleness, only merciful, compassionate tenderness?
How many have ever meant him only that, and nothing more?
So, she offers a cautious touch, featherlight stroke of her fingers along his cheek to coax his face up, and presses a chaste kiss to his temple. ]
Rest now. I'll sit beside you, and keep the watches of the night.
[ A grim thought, a sorrowful thought: if anyone needs protection, it's the man misfortunate enough to cross her path.
Well. Who better to protect him? She knows what terrors lie outside her door. ]
I won't let anything harm you.