(Untitled)

[river_meimei]

When River comes in, she's wearing a yellow sundress and pink lacy sweater, and her black stompy boots. She's grinning down at the floor, as if still amused by something someone said just before she opened the door

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[wolflord_andain]

It is a cold night, and one might suppose that this is why the lakeside is all but deserted.

Save, perhaps, for the shadowed shape padding out from the forest's edge, skirting the lakeshore and heading -- or so it seems -- toward the bar proper.

[river_meimei]

The moon's a bare crescent; the stars shine all the brighter for that, of course, and there's light spilling out from the door to the bar's common room. All the same, the shaggy dark shape of a wolf blends in well -- even one with crimson eyes and a splash of silver. And River hasn't been out here very long. Her eyes are still adjusting to the night.

Ordinarily, she might glance unerringly over anyway. But Galadan's shields are up right now, and his paws are silent on the October ground.

River's eyes are on the dark-glimmering lake, as she moves without hurry down the long slope of the Milliways lawn.

[wolflord_andain]

The black and silver wolf moves to meet her, pace similarly unhurried.

Dark the night may be, even speckled with stars. But it is hours yet until dawn, and such time is not often ill-spent in company.

These days, at the least.

[river_meimei]

Something catches River's eye -- a flicker of movement, or light glinting off a crimson eye -- and her head turns. Quickly, but without undue startlement; River sees many things, not all truly there.

This one's familiar, though. Even as a half-ghost in the darkness.

[wolflord_andain]

The wolf that is Galadan moves closer yet, close enough for his warmth to be felt even through the heavy cloak.

And then, carefully -- so much more carefully than usual -- his shields crack open.

Some things, it seems, words cannot express.

(He remembers the Paraiko, does the Wolflord, and while this is little like the feeling evoked by that race of giants, still --

It is, in its way, similar enough.)

[river_meimei]

River's steps don't stop, but they slow a little further, as she glances down at the wolf beside her.

Her cloak's long folds brush against his side as he paces beside her.

She says nothing for a long moment. Just listens silently, to more than words, in the nighttime hush of Milliways's lake.

Softly, at length, "Stirs things up."

Her voice is compassionate, and not quite a statement; not quite a question, either. The waves wash the shore, far quieter than the ocean, but still nearly as loud as River's words.

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan says nothing.

That is only partly because he is a wolf.

The rest --

It is not as if River does not know already.

'Stirred up' is a fairly accurate descriptor for a whole host of things, at the moment.

Self-awareness only gets one so far.

[river_meimei]

Words aren't really necessary, most of the time, with them.

Even if River's in the habit of using them anyway.

She doesn't say any more for the moment, though. Just breathes, and listens, quiet in the crisp quiet air, and lets her steps carry her on. Galadan can listen, in his turn; River can't shield in any case, but the willingness is there.

And River knows old grief and grief's acceptance in many shadings. Knows them well.

[wolflord_andain]

The rage was easy, once. Grief, too, is something stormy enough to fit into the space that was left when Lisen died.

But this --

Even after the Bael Andarien, Galadan has not been used to true peace.

And this fainter cousin is more confusing still.

[river_meimei]

There's a rock River's thinking of. Broad, and flat, the kind of boulder that would have been left by a glacier if Milliways had true geology. It's wide enough for a few people to sit comfortably, or a short person to stretch out, and it's out of the way of immediate lake traffic.

It's a good place to watch stars. A good place to coexist.

(River spent many hours there, years ago, with a weathered gunslinger who smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, slow and meditative, and called her mo cuishle in his thoughts.)

She settles onto it cross-legged, swathed in folds of crimson wool, and tucks her hands between apron and cloak. There's cotton against her fingers, texture that will turn to wrinkles soon enough.

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan spends his first moments on the rock staring out over the lake. Perhaps he might almost believe that if he stares long enough, it will turn into the sea.

But he is not so great a fool.

And after a long minute or two he settles down next to her, close enough to share warmth.

Close enough that his eyes -- crimson-red and bright -- are level with her own.

Even if he is looking elsewhere.

Memory is a heavy weight, whether it is pleasant or no.

And loss --

Loss it not easily forgotten, even when it can be borne.

[river_meimei]

That's life.

There are far worse things. Life goes on; it holds starlight too, and night breezes, and friends.

After a time, River shifts her weight just a little, leaning sideways until her shoulder rests lightly against Galadan's dark fur.

It's a nice night.

[wolflord_andain]

Galadan keeps his own weight precisely where it is. There is no pressing reason to do aught else.

And it is a nice night.

Such things, he is learning, have their own value.

[river_meimei]

Eventually, River will go back inside. Maybe Galadan will too; maybe not.

But that's eventually.

She has a warm cloak, and a friend silent beside her, and nowhere more pressing to be.