tfln open post

[byanyname]

***

either leave a message (or set of muses) for one of my assholes, or request a message from one of them. choose messages from the classic source, from your own skull, or whatever you may please.

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[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. ]