moonlitscholar | (no subject)

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I know it looks a little strange, but my grandmother swears by this.

["This" being a pestle full of strange herbs and other things Briona apparently had lying around in her pack, mashed into a paste that has turned frightfully orange. It smells distinctly of almonds.

They're settled into their room at a rather posh inn for the night. It's far out of their usual budget, but Briona is footing the bill, and insisted that one more night at a campsite would surely kill her. The proper lighting of an inn also gives her the opportunity to get some journaling done, and to play around with all the strange new ingredients she's been able to gather on their travels.

She offers Garson the pestle in one hand, and a roll of gauze bandages with the other. Dressed down in a silky white shift, she looks a little more like the princess she is than the rugged, traveling scholar she seems in the daylight.]

A little of this and a bandage on top should stop the discomfort. May I?

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[ With the bandages off, he doesn't watch her work. He doesn't need to, to know what he'd see. The initial scrape along the inner side of his forearm, as of animal teeth, isn't so bad. It isn't even the thing he'd usually bother to wrap, although it had never quite healed. But the tarlike blackness that seeps out and around it, that's unsettling. Since he'd picked it up nearly a year ago it's grown to cover a good chunk of his forearm, and only regularly bathing it in salt water keep it from spreading. Nothing encourages it to shrink.

At least, nothing yet. Briona is smart — incredibly quick and skillful, in fact, and if anyone's going to help, he puts the highest hope in her.

Still, though, he keeps his eyes on the fall wall and focuses on the gentle touch of her fingers, both keeping still his arm and spreading the strange poultice. It's comforting. ]

No. [ And it's almost worse for it, something so uncanny should have the decency to hurt. A frown draws into its usual place across his brow. ] It doesn't feel of anything.

Hmm.

[The strange black ooze has become Briona's enemy. And though she does try not to pry or prod about it, she is now constantly on the lookout for something that will help. This is just the latest of many... and the orangest, too.]

I put in a little larkbane, too. We use it to fight infections. Just let me know if it starts to feel strange or painful.

[She continues to apply the poultice, though is acutely aware of the weight of his arm in her grasp. The heat of him sitting beside her. Again, just how much his figure dwarfs hers, even this close.]

I'm glad we decided to come here. If I had to wake up and comb swamp mud out of my hair one more time, I was going to go absolutely mad.

[She turns to shoot him a grin.]

Did you try out the bed while I was bathing?

[ Larkbane. That, and Southern sunspores. He commits the words to memory as one more thing tried, should he ever have to recount the attempts to some healer somewhere, without Briona along. And gods, but he hopes this thing doesn't drag out that long... ]

No.

[ Another flat, one-word answer, his specialty. This one comes with a silent look of of course not, though. Please, like he'd disturb a bed she's paying for, that she hasn't even had a chance to use herself. Actually, he'd explored the premises a little while she bathed, to give her the privacy of the entire room whether she used it or not. And having done so, he has this bright news to announce: ]

They'll serve breakfast here, come morning. Free of charge. [ He's excited. (Not that you'd guess it by looks alone.) ]

Not even a bounce?

[She may have been teasing, trying to get that look out of him. Eking little responses out of him, aside from the single word ones, has become a hobby of hers.

At the mention of breakfast, her eyes light up, and she looks back up from where she's finished applying the poultice.] A hot meal? That we don't have to cook? Blessed be.

[She sets the pestle aside and takes the roll of fresh bandages to start wrapping them carefully around his arm.]

Clean beds, a bath, good lighting, hot breakfast... we're going to be so spoiled.

[ Not even a single bounce, he doesn't have to say. The flat look speaks for him — so does the way one corner of his mouth twitches in amusement. Moving on, though. ]

I'll try not to let it go to my head.

[ He lifts his arm as she finishes rebandaging it, holding it up to the light of the room as if he could see through the new bandages to see if it's working under there or not. What a dream it would be, to redress his arm tomorrow evening and find the orange had sucked away the blackness. An unlikely dream. He rubs his arm with a frown, which fades again when Garson's eyes find Briona's. ]

Thank you. [ He's careful to say it after each attempt she makes for him — and every time she assists with rebandaging, while he's at it. There's a small tug of amusement at the edge of his expression again. He can still smell that light scent of almonds. ] I'll smell pleasantly at least all night. Maybe that was the plan of this one.

If we're not feeling too spoiled, maybe we could stay a second night.

[Once the bandages are wrapped, she releases his arm with one more gentle pat. She looks pleased with herself as he inspects her work, and she's smiling when she meets his eyes.]

Maybe. I do like the smell of almonds on you.

[If that's an odd comment for her to make, her expression certainly doesn't show it. Just an extension of that playful smile, followed by her standing up and reaching back to push her long hair back over her shoulders.

Not preening. Really!]

It's a little cool in here, isn't it?

[ Now that's getting luxurious. He's just forming some kind of words to say so when she makes her comment — somewhat of a confusing comment, actually. It's... intimate, isn't it? He glances up at her, caught somewhere between surprise and uncertainty, not sure how to take it. And once his gaze is on her, her simple gesture of rising and brushing back her hair keeps it there.

She's beautiful, he's thought so often enough. But she's also an elf, and a respected and frequently busy one at that. And Garson is, of course, simply the hired protection, her kindness regarding his afflicted arm notwithstanding. All the pieces of her particular puzzle point to it being best that he keeps any such thoughts to himself.

He clears his throat and redirects his eyes again quickly. ]

I'll fetch a blanket, if you like. [ He's already standing to go and hunt down a spare. Something lighter and smaller,
ideally, for draping. ]

[She's not quite sure where that remark came from, except that it felt cute and fun to say it. And the look on his face is fully worth it, even if it's fairly quickly shoved away by Garson's typical stoic routine. Though it leaves her wondering what it was she just saw in his expression.

Whatever it was, it brings a little heat to her chest. For some reason.]

Oh, you don't have to...

[He's already up, though, so she waits patiently for him to return from the trunk in the corner. And she's certainly not staring at him as he's turned away.

Well. It isn't as though she hasn't thought about Garson like that before. It's just that it's feeling particularly... appealing tonight, in a nice place like this.]

Nobody gives you any credit for being so sweet, Garson.

[ Of course he doesn't have to — the agreement was protection, not a manservant. But he doesn't mind it. Aside from being beautiful, she also has a good heart, and doing what he can for her seems like the least she deserves that he can offer.

He digs through the trunk for a few seconds, passing by a few blankets — too big, too worn — before finding one just right. Thin and dark purple. He can't help but think a dress of this color would look stunning on her ... but he doesn't have a dress to offer, so he supposes they'll have to settle for it as an overly large shawl.

He turns back again, flapping the blanket open, and holds it out to drape it for her as he approaches again. ]

It is cold. [ It's really the best excuse he can manage. Sweet isn't a descriptor many use on him, and nor would he want them to. From her, though, it's accepted. ]

[Bri turns as he approaches and lets him drape it over her shoulders. She reaches up to wrap it tighter, and just might let herself brush against him a little more than necessary.]

Are you cold too? We could put another log on the fire.

[She turns around and smiles again.]

Or I could share, if you like.

[ His hands hover a few seconds longer than necessary at her shoulders, maybe the better to facilitate that brief, quick brush of hand to hand. Which is ridiculous. Any interest in that has been safely stowed during their travels together, and stowed it will remain. He drops his hands again. ]

I'll take care of it.

[ The fire, that is. Sharing a blanket is too — too intimate, that word again. It's too intimate, and he's certain she'd regret offering it as soon as she realized such.

He turns to free a fresh few logs from the stack of firewood they'd been given, and places them with a practiced ease. The mechanical duty of it is calming, reminds him to keep his mind where it should be. ]

[For a moment, she thinks there might be some reciprocation there-- only for a moment, though, as he then heads off to take care of the fire, leaving Bri standing there with her blanket and a growing sense of frustration that she can hardly rationalize.

It's silly, really. And she shouldn't start pushing at this, not when she and Garson have a perfectly good partnership just how it is. They don't need the extra complications of... well. Whatever it is that's giving her butterflies in her stomach right now.

She sits down on the bed again, blanket over her shoulders, folding her hands in her lap as she mulls on things, watching him tend the fire. And not imagining how those strong hands would feel on her, either. Really.]

Thank you.

[ If she's watching, she'll see the brief dip of his head as he nods a you're welcome into the fire. Otherwise, it's taken silently. He stays crouched before the flames a while longer, to be sure everything will settle and burn as it should, before he finally stands and turns back to face her. Things are under control now. No more awkward confusion, something he's sure is unique to his side of things. Briona is just being herself. ]

Which side of the bed will you have?

[ This part, at least, isn't awkward. They've shared beds before in the name of saving money, each of them keeping respectably to their chosen side of it, and had no issues. It will be just more of the same, he trusts. Whenever he finally makes it to bed, that is. He's in the mood to make it one of those nights made for whittling by the fire, with only whatever hours remain to be finally given over to sleep. ]

Oh, I don't know.

[She looks a little distant, lips pursed in thought when he turns back around. She turns to look at him, as though considering something, then lets out a little sigh.]

I'm not very tired yet. A little bit restless, I suppose.

[Well, restless is one word for it. By the ancients, Briona mentally scolds herself. What's gotten into her all of a sudden?]

What about you?

[ Well, maybe it won't be such a lonely night of it, then. He likes the thought of that. ]

The same. [ He'd gone to get a chair from the nearby provided writing desk, but pauses with his hand on the luxuriously (to him) cushioned back of one and glances over at her. ] I'll be at the fire. Would you like to sit with me?

[ He'll have her company whether she sits with him directly or stays at the desk to write, he won't complain either way. Though... it is nice to have her close. ]

[She perks up at the invitation. She was originally planning to sit at the desk, but given... well. She changed her mind, anyway.]

Yes. That sounds lovely.

[She gathers her journal and a pencil and makes her way over to join him, blanket still draped over her shoulders.]

I don't have much writing to do, luckily. Just a few notes from today.

[And that will distract her, she halfway hopes. Only halfway, though.]

[ He nods, and the two chairs are relocated to the fireside. He sets them a respectable distance apart — a distance which has come to shrink in the time he's spent with her, true, but it's still a foot or so. A companionable distance, he thinks. That done, he stands to the side to let her have her pick of chairs. ]

Anything I can help with?

[Bri curls up in the chair with her feet up on the seat, setting her journal in her lap and setting to scribbling.]

Yes, actually. Do you remember that one plant you showed me? With the purple marks on it? What was that called, again?

[She's been through these parts before, but with someone along for the trip, she gets to worry less about getting attacked on her own and more about finding plants that she missed last time.]

[ He does, actually, and brightens a little to be able to be helpful. ]

Evening Bell. [ He says it with pleased authority. He's only passingly familiar with this region, but flowers are one of the things he's pretty good with. He has his mother to thank for this particular pearl of wisdom: ] And its secondary use, diced and dried in a tea for chronic pains.

Evening Bell. Thank you. I took some samples, too, to dry and press.

[Bri quickly writes that down, along with the other details he mentions about it. Amazing how there is always more to discover, even after she's passed through this area so many times before.

Journaling holds little interest for her tonight, though, aside from that one little thing to fix. She holds her toes towards the fire to warm them, leaning on an elbow and watching Garson for a moment with a contented smile on her face.

She may be plotting something. Maybe, she tells herself, to calm the voice in her head that's wary of admitting it.]

[ While she writes, Garson slides his whittling knife and the block of wood he's been working out out of their respective pouches. It's a new piece, only barely just starting to take shape — that it's something stoutly cylindrical is all that can be said of it so far.

He's not unaware of her attention, though, and shortly he glances up. It's a peaceful evening, and his contentedness of the moment warms his fond gaze toward her. ]

Something on your mind?

Yes. I suppose.

[She smiles, glancing away self-consciously. What's on her mind, exactly, is currently her own private joke, and she isn't sure whether she should let him in on it.]

You'll probably think I'm being silly.

[ Well, now he has to know, doesn't he? Who could resist a lead in like that? He huffs his amusement quietly, the knife going still for a moment against the wood. ]

I'd think nothing out of the ordinary, then.

[She regards him with a shocked expression, then laughs.]

Very funny!

[She folds her arms and leans over the arm of her chair towards him.]

Well, if I'm always silly, then you'd have no reason to make fun of me now. Promise?

[ He shifts his elbow to the chair's armrest nearest her, to lean in in turn, and offers a solemn nod. ]

No reason at all. I promise.

[Bri pauses a moment to think about it, then rests her chin in her hands.]

Do you ever...

[Reconsiders.]

Garson, do you ever think about me? And you?

[ Of all the possible responses, a question like this isn't one he was expecting. Garson blinks, then frowns. It's a puzzled frown, one that struggles to understand the context, and he has to ask — ]

Frequently, but I... in what way do you mean?

[ Because he knows how that question sounds to him, but that must be a misread. She wouldn't mean in that way. ]

You know.

[She tilts her head and purses her lips slightly, suggestively.]

In the way that I'm a woman, and you're a man...

[A little color rises in her face.]

You know. That sort of way.

[ Oh. Gods, she did mean in that way. Briona isn't the only one with color rising to her face, and Garon's can be seen even through the green hue of his skin. He clears his throat awkwardly, shifts in his seat, and glances away. ]

That wouldn't be my place.

[ Which isn't a no, exactly. ]

[She's carefully watching him for any sign she may have just embarrassed herself completely. The reaction she gets is... not promising. But typically stoic for Garson.]

I'm not asking about places, Garson. I don't care about that. I just...

[With a huff, she looks back towards the fire, beet red.]

I've thought about it.

You should care about it. [ There's a beat, and very carefully, pointedly, he adds: ] Your Highness.

[ There is a long, long list of people that would be very, very unhappy with him if he and Briona ever behaved... well, inappropriately to their stations. Garson is a bodyguard, hired as such, and no more. But... as his gaze slides back toward her while she watches the fire, he absolutely can't deny that he has thought about it. Fleetingly, guiltily, but he's thought about it. Those thoughts are returning to him with an astonishing and embarrassing speed. ]

[A scoff escapes her at the dropping of her title.] Oh, don't play that card. You never care about it otherwise.

And neither do I. I'm not some stuck-up elven noble holed up in my magical glade looking down on everyone else. I know what I want, and...

[She folds her arms.]

Well. If you don't, then that's alright. I didn't mean to make things awkward.

[ That's true, he rarely takes notice of her title at all. especially recently. He'd abided it at first, when they were strangers to each other, but it had dropped pretty quickly. Still, it doesn't feel unfair to lean on it now.

But nonetheless, quickly: ] I don't don't. [ That... hardly make sense. He winces at his own mangled sentence, sighs, and continues a little more gruffly. ] You're a beautiful woman, to be sure. My concern is for... how things might change, between us.

You- [What in the world kind of phrasing is that? But Bri translates it rather quickly, and her eyes widen curiously as he goes on.

Well. He does have a point there. Things are different when they become physical, but...]

I... suppose that's true. I know that I respect you greatly, and consider you a true friend. I don't think that would change, if...

[She looks up at him again, chewing her lip.]

I have thought about this more than I should admit.

[ The frown that furrows his brow remains, and his gaze drops down to the woodwork and knife in his lap, held close together and nowhere near seeing use at the moment. ]

I think... [ That he'd love to, that he has pushed away the thought more times than he could count. His frown darkens. ] You're a true friend as well, my lady. But some thoughts should stay thoughts.

[ It pains him to say it, but it would pain him even more to break something between them. ]

[Well. That seems quite final. Some bratty side of her wants to protest and get him to explain himself, but she knows he's offered as much of an explanation as he needs to give. To whine or pressure or cajole him at all would be hideous behavior, truly unbecoming of not just a princess, but a decent person.]

Alright. I understand.

[She gazes at her hands down in her lap. She will not pout, she vows.]

You're probably right. It's better not to push our luck.

[ Guilt hits him hard, and the uncertainty that he'd really offered the correct answer. But — it is. It has to be. They shouldn't, and that's simply all there is to it. He drops his attention to that piece of wood, and finally the knife begins its careful edging work into it. ]

You'll find a better prospect. And when you do, best not to be tied up elsewhere.

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ffff sorry, i disappear every so often when i fall off the tag wagon :'|

no worries, me too! >>

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