all that he could see
I adore Winifred, she's awesome. I just wish I was better at writing her . . .
May 21: Emrys and Nghia: Cooking Radish and Painting Bamboo, part VII
"I don't like it."
Emrys did not pause, busy fussing with the wide belt at her back. "You chose the fabric, Winifred, not me."
"I like the fabric, just not the clothes. They're so . . . heavy. And uncomfortable. And confining. And too hot."
"Cast a cooling spell, then." Apparently satisfied with whatever he'd done behind her, Emrys knelt at her side to examine the drape at her hips, busy with pins.
"That won't change the fact that these clothes are annoying." Winifred fidgeted with the fall of the second layer. "Ow!" She jumped when something pricked her hip, and her offended look was met by a bald red gaze.
"Hold still," Emrys said calmly, and turned his attention back to the fall of her train. "This wasn't my idea, Winifred."
She scowled. "It wasn't mine, either."
"No, but you caused it." He threaded a needle with silk to fix a hem to his liking. "What did you think the end result of your meddling would be? As long as I simply lived here quietly, I wasn't worth anyone's attention. But as soon as I began to acquire a reputation, I suddenly became interesting."
"I didn't do anything to give you a reputation. I just brought the boy up here."
"And then you told his sister that I could help with her nagging stomach problem, and then that mare who was about to foal--"
"The baby would have died, Emrys. Died!"
"Everyone dies. Winifred. Everyone. Except you, and me. But that was all that was needed for them to lose their fear. And once they lost their fear, it was only a matter of time." He shook his head a fraction. "It's connected, Winifred, all of it. Did you think about that at all when you started this?"
She sighed, and suppressed another fidget. "No, not at all."
He looked up at her, considering. "No, you didn't." The acknowledgement of that truth was a measure of forgiveness for the injury done. "It seems I will always be surrounded by those who act without thinking at all."
"It's not that I don't think at all, it's that you think too much. Don't you ever do anything spontaneously?"
"I much prefer an ordered existence."
"An existence where you control everything."
"Obviously I can't control everything." There was a certain wry humor to the words, but it vanished far too quickly. "In any case, you've succeeded at your goal. I would think you'd be pleased."
"My goal?"
"You've forced me to leave the mountain."
It was not an accusation, not quite, but he was not meeting her gaze this time. She stared down at the bowed silver head, at the busy, elegant hands stark against the fiery hem of the robe, unable to be surprised that he'd seen through her so easily. "Emrys . . .all right, yes, I admit it. I wanted-- I want-- to get you off this mountain. No, I didn't plan this, but yes, I am glad of it."
"Why have you gone to so much trouble to begin with? You've patience enough for such schemes when you want to have it, though this one is none of yours. As you've proven, you can even outmaneuver me when you want to, provided you put your mind to it. But you've never been interested in political power, or wealth. You even complain at donning the mere trappings of a civilized court. What is it that you want out of this? Of what use are my abilities to you in the land below the mountain, if you do not desire influence or greater control of mortal affairs?"
She let out a breath sharply, struggling with her exasperation. "Are those the only reasons you can come up with for why I came looking for you? I'm no more interested in money or power than I ever have been, it's far too much bother. Dammit, Emrys, did it never occur to you that I might be worried about you? That my attempts to pull you out of your self-imposed isolation might stem from my concern for your well-being? That maybe I'm here simply because I care?"
"Your lack of consideration for my wishes belies the possibility."
"And your wishes are what, exactly?"
"Privacy. Quiet. Peace."
"Emrys . . . maybe that's what you want, but it's not the real reason you're here."
"Then why am I here, if you know so much?"
She ignored the acid in his tone. "You came here to grieve. I understand that, I did something similar. But enough is enough-- it's been six years now! Don't you think it's about time you returned to your life?"
"I am not dead, Winifred." He rose to fetch the next layer of the robe and settled it around her slim shoulders.
"But you wish that you were?" She shook her head. "Can't you say all of what you mean, just this once? You didn't go to Tor's funeral."
"Funerals are for mortals."
"No, Emrys, funerals are for the living. So that they can come to terms with their loss. But you've never come to terms with it, never put your grief into its proper place. You stay here and hold it close to you, renew it whenever it seems like it might become less. Tor would never have wanted you to be like this."
She watched the urge to deny her accusation come and go behind his eyes. "Tor is dead. He does not want anything."
"Yes, he’s dead. So why are you dragging him along after you still? Why do you continue to dwell on his memory, why do you keep living his death, over and over again? Do you enjoy your own suffering so much? You're wallowing, Emrys, why can’t you let it go?"
That struck home; she knew that he would hit back before he even opened his mouth. "Your memory is as good as mine, Winifred. How, then, have you managed to forget him? Where are all your beloved dead? Where is that grief you brought to me centuries ago?"
She refused to be angry at him; it was what he wanted, and she would not allow him that escape. "Within me still. My mother, my father, my brothers-- no, it has never left me, and it has never become less. But-- damn it all, they're dead. They're dead, and I'm alive. You showed me that, didn't you? Back then. But I guess you never understood it. Tor is dead. You are alive. Emrys . . ." She turned and took him by the shoulders, unsure of his reaction to what she was going to say next. "Emrys, what did you do after Nghia died?"
It was not possible for him to go pale, but she stole the air from his lungs. The startled vulnerability in his eyes was like a gaping red wound-- it was too much, and she pulled him close so that he could recover himself.
"You're here still. You're alive," she said to his shoulder. They were of a height, but she could feel that he was somewhat too thin beneath the robe he wore.
"And as it seems I have no choice about that, I will continue to live." He was enough in possession of himself to draw back from her after a moment, to re-adjust the careful layers that she had disturbed. "Here or in the mortal courts below, I suppose it makes little difference."
It was her victory, she knew, if a somewhat hollow one. They could not lie to each other, but Emrys got around that simply by omission. Nor would he yield to her arguments; too proud, too stubborn. But . . . he would be in the world again, and once there, he would not be able to keep himself free of political and social entanglements. They could neither of them forget, and yet . . . it was possible to bury memory, and live without the constant burden of their dead.
And she would be going with him, which would mean certain sacrifices on her part. "How many layers does this damn thing have again?"
"Six."
"How many have you finished?"
"Four."
"And this is what they wear in the summer?" she shook her head. "You had to choose a country full of lunatics to retreat to, didn’t you?"
May 21: Emrys and Nghia: Cooking Radish and Painting Bamboo, part VII
"I don't like it."
Emrys did not pause, busy fussing with the wide belt at her back. "You chose the fabric, Winifred, not me."
"I like the fabric, just not the clothes. They're so . . . heavy. And uncomfortable. And confining. And too hot."
"Cast a cooling spell, then." Apparently satisfied with whatever he'd done behind her, Emrys knelt at her side to examine the drape at her hips, busy with pins.
"That won't change the fact that these clothes are annoying." Winifred fidgeted with the fall of the second layer. "Ow!" She jumped when something pricked her hip, and her offended look was met by a bald red gaze.
"Hold still," Emrys said calmly, and turned his attention back to the fall of her train. "This wasn't my idea, Winifred."
She scowled. "It wasn't mine, either."
"No, but you caused it." He threaded a needle with silk to fix a hem to his liking. "What did you think the end result of your meddling would be? As long as I simply lived here quietly, I wasn't worth anyone's attention. But as soon as I began to acquire a reputation, I suddenly became interesting."
"I didn't do anything to give you a reputation. I just brought the boy up here."
"And then you told his sister that I could help with her nagging stomach problem, and then that mare who was about to foal--"
"The baby would have died, Emrys. Died!"
"Everyone dies. Winifred. Everyone. Except you, and me. But that was all that was needed for them to lose their fear. And once they lost their fear, it was only a matter of time." He shook his head a fraction. "It's connected, Winifred, all of it. Did you think about that at all when you started this?"
She sighed, and suppressed another fidget. "No, not at all."
He looked up at her, considering. "No, you didn't." The acknowledgement of that truth was a measure of forgiveness for the injury done. "It seems I will always be surrounded by those who act without thinking at all."
"It's not that I don't think at all, it's that you think too much. Don't you ever do anything spontaneously?"
"I much prefer an ordered existence."
"An existence where you control everything."
"Obviously I can't control everything." There was a certain wry humor to the words, but it vanished far too quickly. "In any case, you've succeeded at your goal. I would think you'd be pleased."
"My goal?"
"You've forced me to leave the mountain."
It was not an accusation, not quite, but he was not meeting her gaze this time. She stared down at the bowed silver head, at the busy, elegant hands stark against the fiery hem of the robe, unable to be surprised that he'd seen through her so easily. "Emrys . . .all right, yes, I admit it. I wanted-- I want-- to get you off this mountain. No, I didn't plan this, but yes, I am glad of it."
"Why have you gone to so much trouble to begin with? You've patience enough for such schemes when you want to have it, though this one is none of yours. As you've proven, you can even outmaneuver me when you want to, provided you put your mind to it. But you've never been interested in political power, or wealth. You even complain at donning the mere trappings of a civilized court. What is it that you want out of this? Of what use are my abilities to you in the land below the mountain, if you do not desire influence or greater control of mortal affairs?"
She let out a breath sharply, struggling with her exasperation. "Are those the only reasons you can come up with for why I came looking for you? I'm no more interested in money or power than I ever have been, it's far too much bother. Dammit, Emrys, did it never occur to you that I might be worried about you? That my attempts to pull you out of your self-imposed isolation might stem from my concern for your well-being? That maybe I'm here simply because I care?"
"Your lack of consideration for my wishes belies the possibility."
"And your wishes are what, exactly?"
"Privacy. Quiet. Peace."
"Emrys . . . maybe that's what you want, but it's not the real reason you're here."
"Then why am I here, if you know so much?"
She ignored the acid in his tone. "You came here to grieve. I understand that, I did something similar. But enough is enough-- it's been six years now! Don't you think it's about time you returned to your life?"
"I am not dead, Winifred." He rose to fetch the next layer of the robe and settled it around her slim shoulders.
"But you wish that you were?" She shook her head. "Can't you say all of what you mean, just this once? You didn't go to Tor's funeral."
"Funerals are for mortals."
"No, Emrys, funerals are for the living. So that they can come to terms with their loss. But you've never come to terms with it, never put your grief into its proper place. You stay here and hold it close to you, renew it whenever it seems like it might become less. Tor would never have wanted you to be like this."
She watched the urge to deny her accusation come and go behind his eyes. "Tor is dead. He does not want anything."
"Yes, he’s dead. So why are you dragging him along after you still? Why do you continue to dwell on his memory, why do you keep living his death, over and over again? Do you enjoy your own suffering so much? You're wallowing, Emrys, why can’t you let it go?"
That struck home; she knew that he would hit back before he even opened his mouth. "Your memory is as good as mine, Winifred. How, then, have you managed to forget him? Where are all your beloved dead? Where is that grief you brought to me centuries ago?"
She refused to be angry at him; it was what he wanted, and she would not allow him that escape. "Within me still. My mother, my father, my brothers-- no, it has never left me, and it has never become less. But-- damn it all, they're dead. They're dead, and I'm alive. You showed me that, didn't you? Back then. But I guess you never understood it. Tor is dead. You are alive. Emrys . . ." She turned and took him by the shoulders, unsure of his reaction to what she was going to say next. "Emrys, what did you do after Nghia died?"
It was not possible for him to go pale, but she stole the air from his lungs. The startled vulnerability in his eyes was like a gaping red wound-- it was too much, and she pulled him close so that he could recover himself.
"You're here still. You're alive," she said to his shoulder. They were of a height, but she could feel that he was somewhat too thin beneath the robe he wore.
"And as it seems I have no choice about that, I will continue to live." He was enough in possession of himself to draw back from her after a moment, to re-adjust the careful layers that she had disturbed. "Here or in the mortal courts below, I suppose it makes little difference."
It was her victory, she knew, if a somewhat hollow one. They could not lie to each other, but Emrys got around that simply by omission. Nor would he yield to her arguments; too proud, too stubborn. But . . . he would be in the world again, and once there, he would not be able to keep himself free of political and social entanglements. They could neither of them forget, and yet . . . it was possible to bury memory, and live without the constant burden of their dead.
And she would be going with him, which would mean certain sacrifices on her part. "How many layers does this damn thing have again?"
"Six."
"How many have you finished?"
"Four."
"And this is what they wear in the summer?" she shook her head. "You had to choose a country full of lunatics to retreat to, didn’t you?"