Closed;

[unreadability]

[ Characters ] Mireille Duroc/unreadability and Silver/annealoncemore
[ Location ] A clearing in Schwartzwald, somewhere between Jamarrow and Childreams.
[ Date/Time ] 19th of April, early afternoon.
[ Warning ] Awkward honesty?
[ Content ] Mireille gets rid of The Mouse and Silver... hasn't learnt not to run around with knives.
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Comments

[annealoncemore]

Mireille's steps are quiet, but it's difficult to miss the crackling of dry leaves even as she tries her best to pick over them - and it's even more difficult, about three seconds later, to miss the mouse that scampers towards him on legs faster than he'd've expected, speaking rapidly as if he is its best friend on Earth.

"Someone else to hear my tales! Now, are you also interested in Napoleon, or would - "An abrupt silence. Perhaps it notices the - given, rather conspicuous - kitchen knives Silver is holding in both hands. Two steady double-edged blades mounted on ornately-carved handles - rather nice, really. I'm sure the faceless inhabitant from whom Silver stole them had thought so, too, before being threatened at gun-point by an emo assassin jumping in through their window and demanding their kitchenware

[unreadability]

The branch is obstinate, one twig having grabbed hold of a fine seam and ripping the thread loose from the fabric. It’s a miniscule sort of job, loosening the tiny knots and still not cause the fabric to tear. Nails scraping over silk, she notices the mouse falling silent, but allows the moment to fade away along with its high-pitched words. If it has disappeared into the forest, it will at least be at home. A slight smile, just a quiver at the corner of her mouth; even talking mice habituate the territory of their kind.

Finally prying the twig loose enough for her to straighten up and step back, she turns around and stops dead. Yes, the sight that meets her would have been comical if it didn’t call forth a long line of memories that she has done her best to bury inside, for safe-keeping. Far away from the web of half-truths and pretence she has made hers now. The inescapable reality of Mireille Duroc, not Barrault. Her smile, the shadow of it, disappears.

”I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.” He had had kind eyes, even

[annealoncemore]

By the time Mireille fully enters the clearing, the mouse has left - more accurately, has fleed the scene, managing to babble about historical figures even as it ran for its life. Silver directs his full attention to Mireille, eyes veiled and impossible to read (not that he's the most expressive guy to begin with

[unreadability]

At his question, she lets her eyes wander across the clearing in search of… but the mouse is long gone. Looking down, correcting a fold in her skirt slowly, she takes her time to regain her composure. Deep breaths, difficult as it is in a corset, and the slight trembling of her hands not as obvious when they’re moving over the shadowy material of her dress. In her mind, she can hear her own voice, twenty years old and high-pitched from grief, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have… not like I did…Blinking once, the thought disappearing in a rush of others, Mireille raises her gaze, meeting Silver’s. That was then, this is now. She cannot take back the words she threw at him that night and if she were given the opportunity to go through it all once more, would she really not utter them, in the exact same way