and you will be my ayne true love
There was a ritual to waking up. Not a ‘put on trousers left leg first, brush teeth before coffee’ ritual, but in the actual act of waking Duo had found the most pleasant of patterns. First there was birdsong. He never would’ve really noticed it, if Polly hadn’t told him all there was to know about the damn things, but first, there was birdsong. Then under that was the distant, soft, whispering hush of the waves coming up on the sand, and slowly the sound-scape of the island filled the space between the beach and the bird in the feeder, hanging from the roof of the hut. Palm fronds rustling, the creak of tree trunks bending gently. The whole canopy of the jungle swayed in the morning air, and the sun reflected off the sand and the glow of it warmed the hut even before it was fully risen. Recently, there was the added noises of Annagovia’s little puppy snores, or the quiet whuffles of breath she gave while she dreamed. Sometimes the sound of her tail thumping on the floor, sometimes on the mattress. And then there were Polly-sounds, and these were either sleepy breathing, or the little sigh of waking up, or the shifting of bed sheets. She used to beat him out of bed, but so many months later, that part of the ritual had changed, too.
It was a good ritual. It felt like home.
He wasn’t sure what was off for about five seconds after waking. He breathed in the sounds, the warmth, the breeze, and heard Annagovia roll over on the floor near the door, nails scratching the wood, before collapsing sleepily back down. He heard the bird. He heard the ocean. It had been a while since Polly had managed to get up and out before him, and without waking him up in the process. A little warning bell was still going off, though. He turned his head to look at her half of the bed. She’d made it, after she’d gotten up?
No, he thought. The morning sounds faded out under a dull, distant buzzing. He felt still, and awake. He reached an arm over, resting his palm against the pillow where her head should have been, blond hair, getting longer all the time, fanning out across it, yellow in the reflected sun and almost grey in the shadow…
No, he thought, and pushed himself up to sitting. He blinked, the last step to full wakefulness, and looked around the hut. Clean. Warm. Suddenly, much less home.
Her pack wasn’t there. None of her things were. There was a cup, a regimental tin mug that Maladicta had given her. There was a story behind it. They’d had some great war stories. Annagovie rolled onto her feet and, tail wagging, set about sniffing the room. Duo stood, feeling strangely removed, and walked to the door. He pushed it open, and stepped outside. No footprints leading away. Just the old ones, breeze-smoothed, from yesterday. He sat on the wooden stoop, resting his elbows on his knees as staring at nothing.
So, she was gone, then. True, she could have gotten up early, taken all her things with her, for no apparent reason. She always had a reason, she was pragmatic like that. Maybe she even got up early enough where the breeze had still had time to wipe away her footsteps. And somehow miraculously leave remnants of yesterdays?, he thought. No, probably not. She was gone.
The puppy thrust her head under his arm. She was going to be too big, soon, to be throwing herself in people’s laps. Direwolves weren’t to be taken lightly, mostly because they weighed a ton. He covered her muzzle with one hand, because she liked that, then wrapped both arms around the wolf and pulled her into his lap, to scratch his fingers in the scruff of her neck and along her belly. Then he held her for a while, and though she was not an animal designed to be held, she sat, and rested her heavy muzzle on his shoulder while he stroked her fur. The sun climbed higher. Duo didn’t notice, much. Eventually, he released her, and she ran down into the clearing before the hut. He went inside and pulled on the black tank top, stepped into his shoes. There was a strange, listless, hollow feeling in him, and he didn’t know what to do about it. What he did know to do was find Arya and, goddammit, find Maladicta. And then he would go to the memorial stone and carve Polly’s name in it. He’d spent his life wrapped in memorials. It would be the first time he’d constructed a conventional one. In the moment he thought that, he realized he’d need to do something more. It would come to him.
He started for the compound, Annagovia following, looking as worried as a wolf could. Duo looked about what he felt, which was: nothing.
It was a good ritual. It felt like home.
He wasn’t sure what was off for about five seconds after waking. He breathed in the sounds, the warmth, the breeze, and heard Annagovia roll over on the floor near the door, nails scratching the wood, before collapsing sleepily back down. He heard the bird. He heard the ocean. It had been a while since Polly had managed to get up and out before him, and without waking him up in the process. A little warning bell was still going off, though. He turned his head to look at her half of the bed. She’d made it, after she’d gotten up?
No, he thought. The morning sounds faded out under a dull, distant buzzing. He felt still, and awake. He reached an arm over, resting his palm against the pillow where her head should have been, blond hair, getting longer all the time, fanning out across it, yellow in the reflected sun and almost grey in the shadow…
No, he thought, and pushed himself up to sitting. He blinked, the last step to full wakefulness, and looked around the hut. Clean. Warm. Suddenly, much less home.
Her pack wasn’t there. None of her things were. There was a cup, a regimental tin mug that Maladicta had given her. There was a story behind it. They’d had some great war stories. Annagovie rolled onto her feet and, tail wagging, set about sniffing the room. Duo stood, feeling strangely removed, and walked to the door. He pushed it open, and stepped outside. No footprints leading away. Just the old ones, breeze-smoothed, from yesterday. He sat on the wooden stoop, resting his elbows on his knees as staring at nothing.
So, she was gone, then. True, she could have gotten up early, taken all her things with her, for no apparent reason. She always had a reason, she was pragmatic like that. Maybe she even got up early enough where the breeze had still had time to wipe away her footsteps. And somehow miraculously leave remnants of yesterdays?, he thought. No, probably not. She was gone.
The puppy thrust her head under his arm. She was going to be too big, soon, to be throwing herself in people’s laps. Direwolves weren’t to be taken lightly, mostly because they weighed a ton. He covered her muzzle with one hand, because she liked that, then wrapped both arms around the wolf and pulled her into his lap, to scratch his fingers in the scruff of her neck and along her belly. Then he held her for a while, and though she was not an animal designed to be held, she sat, and rested her heavy muzzle on his shoulder while he stroked her fur. The sun climbed higher. Duo didn’t notice, much. Eventually, he released her, and she ran down into the clearing before the hut. He went inside and pulled on the black tank top, stepped into his shoes. There was a strange, listless, hollow feeling in him, and he didn’t know what to do about it. What he did know to do was find Arya and, goddammit, find Maladicta. And then he would go to the memorial stone and carve Polly’s name in it. He’d spent his life wrapped in memorials. It would be the first time he’d constructed a conventional one. In the moment he thought that, he realized he’d need to do something more. It would come to him.
He started for the compound, Annagovia following, looking as worried as a wolf could. Duo looked about what he felt, which was: nothing.