milliways_bar: Thinking
"Are you slow or are you falling in love with me?"
How strange it was for Liir to be haunted by his own past. Or rather, not haunted, as the word implied a negative sort of action, a malicious hounding of memory from within or without, but strange all the same. Had Trism been remarking on some deep inner truth yet to unfold within him, he wondered, or was he merely turning an interesting phrase to see how it might unsettle the other man? Or had Trism's words, spoken in that voice of spun silk worked as magic upon the air and brought about the strange and almost miraculous situtation in which Liir found himself at this moment?
That would be amusing, if it were true; amusing to him at least. As such, it probably wasn't true.
At that moment, though, had he been falling in love with Trism? Could that even be said now of what they shared, the strange companionship that they had, the exhilirating closeness of flesh? Wasn't love supposed to be grand and all-encompassing thing like in those trashy novels Nanny had devoured so enthusiastically as he'd cleaned up Kiamo Ko? He couldn't imagine a novel about Trism and himself.
Well, to be utterly honest, he couldn't imagine himself or anything connected with himself being worth even the paper to write it on. What sort of hero doesn't know his own last name? True, he did have the virtue of being an orphan (because according to those self-same books, heroism would pass you over like a fickle fairy on Lurlinemass if you were possessed of both parents in sound mind and body) but he had no distinguishing skill nor any of the inherent goodness that such figures seemed to have in droves. Also, such heroes seemed to prefer female companions.
...the vision of Trism in pink taffetta was not one he'd ever needed.
Most importantly, perhaps, he had no desire to be a hero. In all his life, he'd only desired to find a place in the world. Grandness and admiration hadn't figured into his equations if only because he'd never seen any use for them. His mother the Witch had held grandness in her great claw-like hand; in her stature, in her goals, in the minds of the average Ozian, and what good had it done her? What had she accomplished? What had she left behind?
Him. Chistery. Memories of something more in Animals all over Oz.
Had he been such a prize, such a jewel? Well, at this point, he could honestly say her answer would be 'no'. Chistery she might argue for, especially if she'd heard him speak now. As for memory...
Candle had been right; memory is what holds people together. Unfortunately, memory also had the power to tear you apart.
For now, however, he would focus on the present. On what the past had brought him.
Had he been falling in love with Trism even then? He didn't know. Was he in love with him now? If he could be, he was. Was he a hero? No; far too many dead in his wake. Had he found a place in the world? Yes.
Hedged in by the shadow of a half-voiced girl, the firm and commanding presence of a smooth-talking military man, and the unrelenting evidence of a tiny green baby with night-dark eyes, Liir had a place.
"Liir?"
Hair the color of clarified butter, tufted rather endearingly from some time under a pillow, and under it a pair of sleepy blue eyes. Liir turns to him in the dark of the room, listening.
"Sweet Oz, man, get some sleep as you can. She'll be awake in another hour or so, if I'm worth half a damn, and you'll be aching for a few moments to shut your eyes."
There was wisdom in what Trism said and so he nods his head before he settles down again into the bedding. He gives a single glance towards the basket near the closet to make sure that yes, indeed, she was still asleep, before turning back to Trism. On impulse, he ducks down and presses a kiss to Trism's head.
"Mm?"
"I wanted to."
"All right."
And in the quiet and in the dark, Liir had a place on the bed settled in Trism's arms, half-opened eyes watching his daughter in her basket.
It was a good place.
How strange it was for Liir to be haunted by his own past. Or rather, not haunted, as the word implied a negative sort of action, a malicious hounding of memory from within or without, but strange all the same. Had Trism been remarking on some deep inner truth yet to unfold within him, he wondered, or was he merely turning an interesting phrase to see how it might unsettle the other man? Or had Trism's words, spoken in that voice of spun silk worked as magic upon the air and brought about the strange and almost miraculous situtation in which Liir found himself at this moment?
That would be amusing, if it were true; amusing to him at least. As such, it probably wasn't true.
At that moment, though, had he been falling in love with Trism? Could that even be said now of what they shared, the strange companionship that they had, the exhilirating closeness of flesh? Wasn't love supposed to be grand and all-encompassing thing like in those trashy novels Nanny had devoured so enthusiastically as he'd cleaned up Kiamo Ko? He couldn't imagine a novel about Trism and himself.
Well, to be utterly honest, he couldn't imagine himself or anything connected with himself being worth even the paper to write it on. What sort of hero doesn't know his own last name? True, he did have the virtue of being an orphan (because according to those self-same books, heroism would pass you over like a fickle fairy on Lurlinemass if you were possessed of both parents in sound mind and body) but he had no distinguishing skill nor any of the inherent goodness that such figures seemed to have in droves. Also, such heroes seemed to prefer female companions.
...the vision of Trism in pink taffetta was not one he'd ever needed.
Most importantly, perhaps, he had no desire to be a hero. In all his life, he'd only desired to find a place in the world. Grandness and admiration hadn't figured into his equations if only because he'd never seen any use for them. His mother the Witch had held grandness in her great claw-like hand; in her stature, in her goals, in the minds of the average Ozian, and what good had it done her? What had she accomplished? What had she left behind?
Him. Chistery. Memories of something more in Animals all over Oz.
Had he been such a prize, such a jewel? Well, at this point, he could honestly say her answer would be 'no'. Chistery she might argue for, especially if she'd heard him speak now. As for memory...
Candle had been right; memory is what holds people together. Unfortunately, memory also had the power to tear you apart.
For now, however, he would focus on the present. On what the past had brought him.
Had he been falling in love with Trism even then? He didn't know. Was he in love with him now? If he could be, he was. Was he a hero? No; far too many dead in his wake. Had he found a place in the world? Yes.
Hedged in by the shadow of a half-voiced girl, the firm and commanding presence of a smooth-talking military man, and the unrelenting evidence of a tiny green baby with night-dark eyes, Liir had a place.
"Liir?"
Hair the color of clarified butter, tufted rather endearingly from some time under a pillow, and under it a pair of sleepy blue eyes. Liir turns to him in the dark of the room, listening.
"Sweet Oz, man, get some sleep as you can. She'll be awake in another hour or so, if I'm worth half a damn, and you'll be aching for a few moments to shut your eyes."
There was wisdom in what Trism said and so he nods his head before he settles down again into the bedding. He gives a single glance towards the basket near the closet to make sure that yes, indeed, she was still asleep, before turning back to Trism. On impulse, he ducks down and presses a kiss to Trism's head.
"Mm?"
"I wanted to."
"All right."
And in the quiet and in the dark, Liir had a place on the bed settled in Trism's arms, half-opened eyes watching his daughter in her basket.
It was a good place.