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[byanyname]

***

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[loyalless]

[ She’s smiling. She speaks and he looks at her, finds his focus tuned upon her face. Doesn’t think the smile was there before, and notes it now as not-mockery, as something other than her usual gloom, as strange, as something not-unwelcome.

There’s no sharpness in that smile.

Wouldn’t it be kind, if she meant it? (Has she ever smiled before, or no, it doesn’t matter.)

(She lived some life before he was forced on her. A thought he’s never entertained. A thought that sinks back swiftly into liquor’s worn-out haze.)

He can’t think about what she’s saying. The words are - everything has become - too much to process, and anyway he can’t tell what to trust and what’s a farce. She’s thrown his compass awry, or the drink did that, thank fuck there’s wine and whiskey to be had here, thank fuck his family hadn’t consigned him to a land of only swill.

Her hand is before him.

Her hand hasn’t left him; he still feels, thinks he feels soft pressure at his cheek, and when he tilts his head sideways - an involuntary inspection - he finds her there still.

She’s offered him two hands, then. Very good of her. Pragmatic of her? She wants something. Wants to get rid of him, maybe. Can’t do that if he’s slung over the chair.

Well. He doesn’t want to be in this chair much longer. Sees the world darken, reappear, darken, as his eyelids attempt to sink shut. She said— He said? He’s tired. It’s time to end this night, to shake off this could-be-dream and prepare for the next wretched day.

Is he supposed to reach for her? It’s an awful lot to ask.

He tries. Bats a hand out and misses. Shifts course and this time, this time might just find her. ]

[lostyourheart]

[ A sound escapes her as he leans into her touch - a noise of soft surprise, or approval, or of a breaking heart. Was he appreciating her touch, or only seeking her, only reminding himself of the tenderness there? Surely that, for how can he appreciate what he doesn't understand?

He will; she'll ensure it with every passing day if she must that her touch means him only gentleness. That her presence doesn't herald harm. (To what end, she can't say, save that she doesn't like the way things are between them now; she doesn't like this hostility, this distance.

She is so tired of both. If she must have a husband, then perhaps in him she can find her own cold comfort.)

His hand bats at hers and she realizes he's falling into a stupor, and will soon be asleep if she doesn't get him from the chair and onto his feet. The day has been so long, though, and the prospect of dragging him up herself seems...unlikely.

And just like that, she senses another presence in the room, a large form behind her that, for once, heralds no sense of unease. Behind her, and then at her side. At Treavor's, practiced hands helping her husband upright. (And her gratitude finds another recipient, another unfortunate target sure to endure her thankful smiles for days to come: Wallace is managing capably.)

Was he near all along? A thought to examine later, that question of whether he was listening at the door to her tearful entreaties, to Treavor's fear. Waiting to intervene? Waiting to part them, should the scene turn ugly? Or only waiting to see what would happen? For now, perhaps unnecessarily, she takes her husband's other arm, a second brace in the slow struggle to his room.

This room, that was hers. This room, that was Brom's, when it ceased to be hers. How she hated this room. How it bears now no sign of that other man, and so seems strangely unfamiliar, enough that she falters in the doorway. Only a moment, though. And a moment more for indecision: go, or stay with him until he sleeps? He seems so troubled. He seemed so soothed by her touch.

And Wallace can hardly stay all night; poor man, he deserves his rest. They all do.

So, she determines to remain, and follows onward, to help as she might. ]

I'll stay with him.

[ This, to Wallace, but she returns her attention to Treavor; he's not so far gone, is he, that he can't comprehend her offer? ]

I'll stay until you sleep. Would you care for that?

[loyalless]

[ That’s familiar. That’s Wallace, and this is the practiced rhythm of walking, trying to walk when the floor shifts and the walls don’t cohere and Treavor really only wants to sink down to the ground. When he leans against Wallace, a practiced bolstering, and finds himself moved toward the safety of his bed.

What’s changed is the pressure at his other arm, presence of a stranger. Not-quite-stranger, because when he manages to look, a delayed and wobbled process, he recognizes the woman. Mournful woman. Distanced woman, not so distant now, and, and, doesn’t it seem she’s been beside him all this night? Much of this night. Odd sensation, that. A feeling of comfort at her hold.

She’s touched him. She’s close to him again.

Ought to be repelled; what a foolish woman.

Her hand against him. (She’d brushed his… cheek. He can imagine her fingers in his hair. (Dangerous to permit such notions.))

Interrupting his routine.

(He doesn’t hate it.)

And they’ve reached the room. And she’s speaking, she hasn’t departed, she’s speaking to… him? Well of course she ought to. It’s his room. It’s his routine.

Would he care for—? Who bothers to ask. Who bothers to know. He tries watching her, squinting at her. ]

If Wallace says.

[ Wallace knows what’s right. Always knows, dependable Wallace, he’ll do what Treavor says, he’ll say what Treavor needs. Will spare Treavor any burden of deciding. Treavor is very tired. He’d like to sleep right now, jars toward the bed (his bed now, how did this strange room become his own?), feels the well-known strengthening of Wallace’s hold and then the mattress sinking beneath him.

When he speaks again he’s watching Wallace, speaking not to Wallace, now aware and not wholly aware of the woman, feeling some shimmer of her presence but it’s difficult, isn’t it, to hold anything for long. ]

Maybe.

All right.

[ ’No toying,’ he starts to add, but the words slip away and anyhow that goes without saying or probably he already said it, really she should know.

He’s watching his hand against his knee now. Grateful for Wallace’s hand still against him. (Grateful for the thought of any touch against him, granted without pain.) ]

[lostyourheart]

[ 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. ]

I won't let anything harm you.

[loyalless]

[ Wallace isn’t here.

He feels the absence before it reaches comprehension, finds himself glancing boggled around the room unsnagged by any sign of his manservant. Wallace, the surest quantity that keeps the world together. Wallace, recognized and trusted even in the depths of deepest drink, Wallace known beyond the need for thinking.

Wallace isn’t here now. He’s gone away when Treavor wasn’t looking. (Been banished away? Why would Wallace go.)

It’s only the woman now.

Treavor’s been left…

Not quite alone. He doesn’t not know who she is. Silly girl. Worn-down woman. She lives here, too. He rather wishes she didn’t. Or… no, he wishes he didn’t live here. He used to have a house. A house of his own. Now there’s this woman in his room.

She’s not the worst woman, in this room.

(He remembers a hand against him, or he’d dreamed it. His name in soft tones, or he’d dreamed that, as well. A touch without wounding, or the wounding’s yet to come, there’s always wounding yet to come.)

He should call for Wallace.

He’s tired.

And she’s— Someone’s…

A drift against his skin. Nearness of a someone not entirely unknown.

Treavor doesn’t register the way he moves into that touch, shifts guided by that touch. A softness so rarely known, and how is it he should know its source? Why should he anticipate blue eyes and find them, much as they waver in his haze, much as all wavers in his haze?

It hurts him, the gentleness now granted. Wells his chest and leaves him shrinking somewhere inward, down against a muted wish of what he’d like, might like, might once have liked to have.

And his eyes slip shut. Let her… let her… It’s fine, probably. It’s late. This is his bed. It’s… Dreaming. He’s dreaming. He understands.

The way he understands the pressure at his temple can’t be actual, can’t be other than envisioned. Never mind the drop of his heart, the sharper clenching of his chest. He knows what that feeling might be. Knows the closeness of another body. Doesn’t understand its implications.

A little late, words filter through his thinking, and he tries to find the source, tries to find the source, opens his eyes and blinks blearily at… Not Wallace. At her, still. That woman.

Rest, she said.

She’ll…? He doesn’t remember. What she said. Or how much of the past five minutes, past hour has been waking and how much the work of dreams. What he knows is he’s tired. What he knows is he can’t find Wallace, but he feels no harm from this woman. What he knows is there’s little enough can harm him any worse now, ha, so he might as well… give in for the night. Sink at last. Let this woman watch him, wound him (only he doesn’t feel that worry; only she seems so unrazored now) if she likes. He’s survived enough for today.

So he watches her for a moment more before beginning to pull himself up onto the bed. Before half-shifting aside the covers. Before pausing and staring at a pillow, his pillow, still thinking the woman’s here, hasn’t yet gone. Before offering a remark toward the pillow, for the… whoever’s watching. The woman. ]

Don’t let yourself freeze.

[ Because it's... cold here at night? Cold usually at night. She ought to be in bed. But that's her business, and he's already forgotten his own remark. ]

[lostyourheart]

[ He seems so resigned now; not tame - only beaten. Only accepting that this is happening.

What does it mean when one is so accustomed to building a defense, that a kiss, or a touch, or a soft word seems like an infiltration, and that the war has been lost? That lying down to sleep seems like surrender? That's how he looks: like a captured city after a long siege.

Tomorrow, she thinks, she'll speak with Wallace. Perhaps he'll be willing to give some insight into Treavor's behavior; if he has been with the man for so long that this nightly routine is so perfected, then he must know what has been endured. The question is whether the manservant will share that information with her. She knows it's the habit of servants to gossip amongst one another, but there is a strict line between that, and telling tales to the employers.

Some distant, ingrained memory, perhaps, of who can be trusted on a farm, and who can not.

His words catch her, hand hovering just as he hovers, and a frown tugs at the corner of her mouth as she tries to make sense of -

Ah. She told him she didn't care to kiss anyone. How cold she is. And her expression softens, full of clemency. (Doesn't she feel agreeable just now? Warm, yes, and agreeable.) ]

No, I won't freeze. I have such warmth for you. My friend.

[ Yes, friend. Let him rail against it if he wishes; how she likes the notion of having one friend, someone to hold dear. Someone who has no opinion of Brom, nor memory of Ichabod. Perhaps Treavor is some brightness in her life, after all; perhaps she needn't feel so wholly deadened to the world.

Tomorrow will tell, and every tomorrow after.

With these words, her fingertips trace again through his hair, a slow carding she repeats, rhythmic and pleasing to herself, if he doesn't shy away. ]