(no subject)

[coeurdulyon]

So here they are.

It took no small amount of negotiating to get Pastille and Jone's coursier from the inn, but he managed it, and now they're on the long road to Orlais. The conversations thus far have been brief, familiar but with a terse edge to them, so after time and time again of trying and failing to find a comfortable rapport, Lucien has fallen back on talking to his horse and humming softly to himself.

His voice isn't going to win him any accolades, but he can carry a tune.

"Éblouis et à l'abri,
c'est notre vie.
Éloignés de la mêlée,
c'est notre envie.
Qui voudra leur parler,
plaider, pour nous libérer?"

Comments

[poleaxed]

There are times Jone loves her passions, the lust for adventure and the feeling of blood rushing through her. Other times, far more frequently of late, she wonders if it were so bad to be Tranquil. Her own heart does nothing but complicate and betray, these days.

She's always liked his singing, and singing in general. Didn't keep it secret or announce it from rooftops, just let it be. But now, it fills her with a heavy sense of loss and comfort, the sort she feels she can't anymore hold up. It's too fucking dense.

But here they are.

"Forgot your lute, huh?" She resists the urge to throw something at him-- everything on hand would cause injury.

[coeurdulyon]

He pauses to look at her, eyebrow raised.

"Non, I believe it is somewhere in that satchel of yours." The satchel he means, of course, is the money pouch lashed to the coursier's saddle. "You were always a better player than I, chérie."

[poleaxed]

"Very funny," she says dryly. "If I really want to get rid of you again, I can just sing."

The thought is like salt in a wound, which means it's good, what she deserves, what will prepare her for leaving him forever. She's already being selfish by prolonging it.

[coeurdulyon]

"Nonsense," He waves a dismissive hand. "You would have to try much harder than that."