Madi speaks from the doorway, leaning against the jamb and toeing the stone floor with embroidered leather boots as she looks in at John. Her expression is fond, to be sure, but there's a certain coyness as well that harkens back to years earlier, when they knew one another less intimately. That's not the cake's doing, though.
She's dressed warmly to combat the bitter cold of Kirkwall, the chill that pervades every inch of Gallows architecture, clinging to every stone. Her hair is bound up in a scarf, and about her shoulders is held the shawl he gave her for Satinalia, the ends of it secured in place with the wide belt at her waist.
"It was very good. Although, I am not sure I am qualified to judge whether or not Vlasta's claim is true."
For all John's complaints of the cold, the shutters in his room are habitually cracked. There is something good in the salt air, regardless of temperature.
The habit of leaving his door ajar while he's occupying the space has sometimes invited less desirable interruption. But, not for the first time, he is caught by the easy pleasure of Madi in Kirkwall, close enough at hand to appear in his doorway with a familiar sweetness in her expression.
"We might try Imre's and Gréta's, and then you'll be able to make a more informed decision," John tells her. The Walrus accounts log is open over his knee, and he closes it as he speaks. There is a moment's pause to take her in, consider her wrapped warm in a shawl he'd kept in his trunk for over a year. "That wrap suits. You look well in it."
Most things do. But there is real satisfaction in having given her something she's able to make use of here.
Madi smiles, one hand lifting to needlessly smooth down the front of the shawl — it doesn't need smoothing, but it's an unconscious appreciation of the purple and gold patterning on it.
"Mm. It was a gift from someone very important to me," she explains. "Someone I hoped might accompany me outside? I hear that snow has just begun to fall."
There have been cold days, and rainy days, but rarely the exact conditions required for snow prior to today. One of the gardens would be ideal for the experience, she thinks, but the courtyard would suffice just as well. To see the world dusted in white much like the cake John had left for her.
The first thing that comes to mind: I'll warn you, it doesn't hold it's charm for very long.
But he doesn't say this. It would be unfair to her, to diminish the moment in her eyes however flippantly the remark might have been offered. And in truth, this winter has been easier to bear than the others he's spent in Kirkwall, for reasons very easily discerned. (She is here. Flint is—) It is easier to grin over the coyly offered invitation than to sigh over the inevitability of chill and damp.
"I don't see how I could refuse."
There is no other answer to give. John lifts his crutch from where he'd propped it against the windowsill. The log is locked in the chest. The new coat, burnished, rusted blue, is fetched from it's peg on the wall.
He kisses her in the doorway, soft and fond, before stepping into the hall to lock the door behind them.
"Have you considered where you planned to watch this phenomenon? The side gardens? The courtyard that faces the harbor?"
"Of course," she admits, knowing that he knows how much thought she gives to everything. "I think the gardens would be beautiful, but—"
Madi walks alongside John, gaze dropping to the stones beneath their feet momentarily. They set an easy pace despite her excitement, because they have time. Time enough, a rare commodity, for strolling side by side and enjoying one another's company. For conversations and familiarity as well as new experiences. The diminishing return of the novelty that snow holds will be balanced by the infinite returns given by being able to look across at John and simply ask, how are you today?
"I don't know for certain. And I do not want my first sight of it to be through a window."
"Then we'll go to the gardens," John says, easy over the words because this is such a simple thing to grant her. Set against the towering stack of things he wants to give her and hasn't worked out a way to do so, stepping into the gardens to watch the snowfall is no effort at all.
His fingers brush and catch hers intermittently as they descend the stairs, releasing only to settle solicitously at the small of her back as they cross the threshold into the cold.
"If it doesn't meet with expectation, I can think of something else worth doing."
A momentary pause to appreciate the weight of his hand on her back, the warmth of him so near even in the cold. Also, to purse her lips in a thinly veiled attempt to keep from smiling, which is a battle she'll never truly mind losing. Not with him.
Still, it's a teasing thing, this false confusion as she tips her head, furrows her brow, and glances sidelong at him.
Though she can be assured of one thing: most everything John might propose takes place indoors.
Over the course of two winters in Kirkwall, John's learned to be careful in the navigation of snow-slick stone. The garden is lovely, as Madi has predicted. Bare trees dusted white, gray sky full of thickly falling snow, it is picturesque. John can appreciate that, as much as he complains of the cold. He draws Madi out with him, further from the doorway.
"I think it's cold enough for it to linger a few days," he tells her, fingers lacing through hers. "If we're very unlucky, someone will try to strike up a snowball fight."
With anyone else she'd be self-conscious of the pure wonder reflected on her face as they step out into the garden, aware of how sheltered it makes her seem. Were it anyone else, she might feel the need to formulate some explanation for it, something poetic and beautiful enough to inspire the same feeling in that other person, rather than allow them to think her more naïve for it.
But she would share everything with John, not only out of fairness of what he's shared with her. And if there's anything worth sharing in this world, it's the awe and joy at something new and amazing and beautiful.
Her smile broadens as her gaze shifts from John's face to the sky, blinking when snowflakes grace her eyelashes and holding out her free hand to catch a few in her palm.
"For once I hope we are very unlucky," she says, squeezing his hand and looking at him, face stained with love. It may be foolish to wish for this moment to be the only moment there ever is, so that she might bask in this calm contentment, but she'll allow herself to be foolish today. Just a little.
The sweetness of her expression is a gift. John is never unaware of what Madi chooses to divulge, what he is allowed to see of her and the preciousness of it. When he lifts his hand to thumb away the melting snowflake at her cheek, he considers again the miracle of her presence here.
Even now, he still wonders if she will be happy here for any extended period of time.
"Matthias will oblige you," John says, tone more tender than a conversation about a snowbal fight might warrant. His hand falls to the folds of her wrap, fingers skimming along her neck before he looks up into the sky again.
"I hated it, the first year I was here," he tells her. "I never thought I'd come this far south again."
"Again?" Madi tips her head, brow furrowing ever so slightly. "You had been before? Or do you mean once our business with the Inquisition was concluded?"
In that alternate version of events where their relationship with the Inquisition saw a conclusion, where their war and the war with Corypheus were separate.
"I sailed out of many ports before I landed on the ship that took me so far north."
Nascere goes unspoken. John still has the sense that it would be like salting an open wound. His thumb draws down the back of her hand, watching her face as he speaks.
"It had still been some time since I'd been in a Marcher port before we resolved to come to Kirkwall and deal with the Inquisition."
For reasons obvious now: nowhere so far south was a place a mage could exist comfortably, before the rebellion, and particularly not someone like John.
It's something she would have wondered about, if he hadn't shared that secret in a different garden on a different island far, far away. But it makes sense. Madi nods understanding while she listens.
But there's a little tug in the back of her mind. A question taking shape, one she does not want to ask when everything is calm and sweet and peaceful. She focuses on the clear blue of his eyes. The way his mustache curls over his top lip. The way he tips his head this way and that when he's talking. He's always been masterfully expressive.
"Coin," comes so easily, a little like a joke in spite of it's truth. "And chance."
The idea of reward that didn't outweigh the risk and loathing he had for southern Thedas had carried him many places. It had carried him all the way to her, in a way. All the choices he'd made in his life had brought him here.
But that's nothing new to consider. He's chosen her and he's chosen Flint over and over. If he looks back at the winding path that had led him to it, he has never seen anything that could be altered.
"The same things that brought me north, if you're curious," he tells her, lifting a hand to thumb a few snowflakes from her cheek.
Madi smiles at the gentle brush of his thumb, and chuckles softly at the snow clinging to his hair and eyebrows.
"Of course I am curious. I want to know everything," she says and shrugs one shoulder. There is always something to learn; about life, about people, about him.
"Coin," John repeats. "And a fair amount of chance."
Everything else had come later. Why he'd stayed becoming a tangled thing, threads of connection looping over and over until there was no breaking away from them.
Her cheek is warm under his fingers. When he cups her face, fingers gentle at the nape of her neck, he can feel the steady beat of her pulse, feel the hum of each word she speaks.
"It's not so exciting as you might imagine."
Survival, focusing solely on moving through the world evading danger and scrutiny, is more monotonous than she might think.
She stifles the urge to roll her eyes, her smile softening the edge of playful annoyance. She curls her fingers around his beard, his chin, and gently wobbles his head.
"I thought you were supposed to be good at telling stories. What kind of answer is that?"
"A truthful one," John answers her. "I'd rather give you that than a pretty story."
Yes, he could turn a good tale. Some of it would be true, and some of it wouldn't be. But he loves her, and a sparse, dull truth strikes him as a better thing to impart than unspooling embellishments.
While she has hold of his beard still, she may as well pull him — gently, of course — closer for a kiss. Her hands shift to lay flat on his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath her fingers, and she smiles.
"Do you remember your first snowfall?" She asks, her attention lingering on his features for a moment before she turns her head to watch the slow drift of white over the garden. The grey sky, the bare trees. "I did not expect it to be so...quiet."
"I think this may be one of the few times it is every so completely quiet here."
Even the gardens can be subject to the chaos of the company housed in the Gallows. How often has John witnessed people dashing through the gardens at breakneck speed, or plow through in the midst of conversation? The Gallows is not a small place, but it can feel small.
John's free hand comes up in answer, closes over hers at his chest.
"But to your question, I don't think I do," he answers her. "I might not have found it as awe-inspiring as you do."
Or because thinking that far back is beyond him, even for something so small.
"By tomorrow I expect some of our younger colleagues will be throwing it at each other."
Even after such a short time out here, Madi's fingers have gone cold. The warmth of John's hand brings the chill into sharp relief, and she finds she has to lift her shoulders slightly to bunch her wrap up closer to the exposed skin of her neck.
"It will be nice for them to be able to enjoy themselves," she says, moving closer. There's already so little space between them that with that half-step it's reduced to the thickness of one of his hands. "There is much work to be done yet, but even a brief respite is invaluable."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pre-dream, action
Madi speaks from the doorway, leaning against the jamb and toeing the stone floor with embroidered leather boots as she looks in at John. Her expression is fond, to be sure, but there's a certain coyness as well that harkens back to years earlier, when they knew one another less intimately. That's not the cake's doing, though.
She's dressed warmly to combat the bitter cold of Kirkwall, the chill that pervades every inch of Gallows architecture, clinging to every stone. Her hair is bound up in a scarf, and about her shoulders is held the shawl he gave her for Satinalia, the ends of it secured in place with the wide belt at her waist.
"It was very good. Although, I am not sure I am qualified to judge whether or not Vlasta's claim is true."
no subject
The habit of leaving his door ajar while he's occupying the space has sometimes invited less desirable interruption. But, not for the first time, he is caught by the easy pleasure of Madi in Kirkwall, close enough at hand to appear in his doorway with a familiar sweetness in her expression.
"We might try Imre's and Gréta's, and then you'll be able to make a more informed decision," John tells her. The Walrus accounts log is open over his knee, and he closes it as he speaks. There is a moment's pause to take her in, consider her wrapped warm in a shawl he'd kept in his trunk for over a year. "That wrap suits. You look well in it."
Most things do. But there is real satisfaction in having given her something she's able to make use of here.
no subject
"Mm. It was a gift from someone very important to me," she explains. "Someone I hoped might accompany me outside? I hear that snow has just begun to fall."
There have been cold days, and rainy days, but rarely the exact conditions required for snow prior to today. One of the gardens would be ideal for the experience, she thinks, but the courtyard would suffice just as well. To see the world dusted in white much like the cake John had left for her.
no subject
But he doesn't say this. It would be unfair to her, to diminish the moment in her eyes however flippantly the remark might have been offered. And in truth, this winter has been easier to bear than the others he's spent in Kirkwall, for reasons very easily discerned. (She is here. Flint is—) It is easier to grin over the coyly offered invitation than to sigh over the inevitability of chill and damp.
"I don't see how I could refuse."
There is no other answer to give. John lifts his crutch from where he'd propped it against the windowsill. The log is locked in the chest. The new coat, burnished, rusted blue, is fetched from it's peg on the wall.
He kisses her in the doorway, soft and fond, before stepping into the hall to lock the door behind them.
"Have you considered where you planned to watch this phenomenon? The side gardens? The courtyard that faces the harbor?"
no subject
Madi walks alongside John, gaze dropping to the stones beneath their feet momentarily. They set an easy pace despite her excitement, because they have time. Time enough, a rare commodity, for strolling side by side and enjoying one another's company. For conversations and familiarity as well as new experiences. The diminishing return of the novelty that snow holds will be balanced by the infinite returns given by being able to look across at John and simply ask, how are you today?
"I don't know for certain. And I do not want my first sight of it to be through a window."
no subject
His fingers brush and catch hers intermittently as they descend the stairs, releasing only to settle solicitously at the small of her back as they cross the threshold into the cold.
"If it doesn't meet with expectation, I can think of something else worth doing."
no subject
Still, it's a teasing thing, this false confusion as she tips her head, furrows her brow, and glances sidelong at him.
"Only if it doesn't?"
In other words...
no subject
Though she can be assured of one thing: most everything John might propose takes place indoors.
Over the course of two winters in Kirkwall, John's learned to be careful in the navigation of snow-slick stone. The garden is lovely, as Madi has predicted. Bare trees dusted white, gray sky full of thickly falling snow, it is picturesque. John can appreciate that, as much as he complains of the cold. He draws Madi out with him, further from the doorway.
"I think it's cold enough for it to linger a few days," he tells her, fingers lacing through hers. "If we're very unlucky, someone will try to strike up a snowball fight."
no subject
But she would share everything with John, not only out of fairness of what he's shared with her. And if there's anything worth sharing in this world, it's the awe and joy at something new and amazing and beautiful.
Her smile broadens as her gaze shifts from John's face to the sky, blinking when snowflakes grace her eyelashes and holding out her free hand to catch a few in her palm.
"For once I hope we are very unlucky," she says, squeezing his hand and looking at him, face stained with love. It may be foolish to wish for this moment to be the only moment there ever is, so that she might bask in this calm contentment, but she'll allow herself to be foolish today. Just a little.
no subject
Even now, he still wonders if she will be happy here for any extended period of time.
"Matthias will oblige you," John says, tone more tender than a conversation about a snowbal fight might warrant. His hand falls to the folds of her wrap, fingers skimming along her neck before he looks up into the sky again.
"I hated it, the first year I was here," he tells her. "I never thought I'd come this far south again."
no subject
In that alternate version of events where their relationship with the Inquisition saw a conclusion, where their war and the war with Corypheus were separate.
no subject
Nascere goes unspoken. John still has the sense that it would be like salting an open wound. His thumb draws down the back of her hand, watching her face as he speaks.
"It had still been some time since I'd been in a Marcher port before we resolved to come to Kirkwall and deal with the Inquisition."
For reasons obvious now: nowhere so far south was a place a mage could exist comfortably, before the rebellion, and particularly not someone like John.
no subject
But there's a little tug in the back of her mind. A question taking shape, one she does not want to ask when everything is calm and sweet and peaceful. She focuses on the clear blue of his eyes. The way his mustache curls over his top lip. The way he tips his head this way and that when he's talking. He's always been masterfully expressive.
"What was it that brought you south, back then?"
no subject
The idea of reward that didn't outweigh the risk and loathing he had for southern Thedas had carried him many places. It had carried him all the way to her, in a way. All the choices he'd made in his life had brought him here.
But that's nothing new to consider. He's chosen her and he's chosen Flint over and over. If he looks back at the winding path that had led him to it, he has never seen anything that could be altered.
"The same things that brought me north, if you're curious," he tells her, lifting a hand to thumb a few snowflakes from her cheek.
no subject
Madi smiles at the gentle brush of his thumb, and chuckles softly at the snow clinging to his hair and eyebrows.
"Of course I am curious. I want to know everything," she says and shrugs one shoulder. There is always something to learn; about life, about people, about him.
(It could be useful.)
no subject
Everything else had come later. Why he'd stayed becoming a tangled thing, threads of connection looping over and over until there was no breaking away from them.
Her cheek is warm under his fingers. When he cups her face, fingers gentle at the nape of her neck, he can feel the steady beat of her pulse, feel the hum of each word she speaks.
"It's not so exciting as you might imagine."
Survival, focusing solely on moving through the world evading danger and scrutiny, is more monotonous than she might think.
no subject
"I thought you were supposed to be good at telling stories. What kind of answer is that?"
no subject
Yes, he could turn a good tale. Some of it would be true, and some of it wouldn't be. But he loves her, and a sparse, dull truth strikes him as a better thing to impart than unspooling embellishments.
no subject
"Do you remember your first snowfall?" She asks, her attention lingering on his features for a moment before she turns her head to watch the slow drift of white over the garden. The grey sky, the bare trees. "I did not expect it to be so...quiet."
no subject
Even the gardens can be subject to the chaos of the company housed in the Gallows. How often has John witnessed people dashing through the gardens at breakneck speed, or plow through in the midst of conversation? The Gallows is not a small place, but it can feel small.
John's free hand comes up in answer, closes over hers at his chest.
"But to your question, I don't think I do," he answers her. "I might not have found it as awe-inspiring as you do."
Or because thinking that far back is beyond him, even for something so small.
"By tomorrow I expect some of our younger colleagues will be throwing it at each other."
no subject
"It will be nice for them to be able to enjoy themselves," she says, moving closer. There's already so little space between them that with that half-step it's reduced to the thickness of one of his hands. "There is much work to be done yet, but even a brief respite is invaluable."