river_meimei | (no subject)

(no subject)

[After this and this, and all that came before.]

An hour or so ago, River returned from Andrew's world. (With a hole in her arm, some other scrapes and bumps, and a whole hell of a lot fewer bullets than she left with. A lot of other beings' blood on her, too.)

She's been healed, now, thanks to Nita. Washed up -- her hair's still damp -- and changed into a clean sundress.

All the same, she's back at Milliways. And outside; she's barefoot, not dressed for the Scotland February, but it's an unseasonably warm night. Enough that she can borrow a heavy sweater from Bar and get away with at least a short trip out back.

Maybe she can't sleep.

She's walking slowly, arms wrapped loosely around herself, along the lakeshore. There's a wide flat rock in the distance; maybe that's her destination, or maybe her path is aimless.

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In some ways, this is treading very close to the boundaries of trust, and distrust, between them.

And in some ways, it isn't. In some ways, perhaps it's even important.

"I stand," River says quietly to the rock, "for the White."

She said this to him once before, months ago.

It was with anger, that time. Now, it's only matter-of-fact.

So, then.

He remembers that moment very well.

And so it may be that his shields crack open even as he speaks, mouth twisted wryly, indeed.

"And had she only loved me, I might have shone so bright."

He may yet, though his gleam shall only ever be that of flashing teeth and blood in the moonlight.

River's gaze cuts sideways again, swiftly, and it's a long moment before she says anything.

(In the night, Galadan's steps are silent; River's bare feet whisper over grass.)

Softly, "Everybody can. If you want."

"Self-induced refraction."

He huffs out a quiet breath, mouth still twisted in sardonic amusement.

It doesn't last.

"It has, I begin to suspect, been a very long time in coming."

The wanting, that is.

Perhaps.

"Doesn't change it."

Thank you for that

It doesn't translate in words.

But the set of his mouth is less harsh than before.

"Few things do."

"Who we are," River says, her young voice quiet and sober, "and what we do."

"Every minute."

Galadan's eyebrows arch, just a little.

"Now that I can hardly gainsay."

He has ever been himself, each choice made with eyes fully open.

He would hardly decide to change that now.

Edited 2008-02-26 06:55 (UTC)

River's smile curves for the first time, very faintly. To a human's eyes, it would probably be invisible in this light.

It's there, all the same.

"I know it."

He meets her smile, and matches it.

"Well enough."

And more than.

There are reasons beyond the obvious why the Wolflord permits so many liberties to this mad girl.

River's gaze slides, after a moment, back to the dark shapes of tree and rock and lake, and whatever else she might see.

And for a few minutes, there's silence between them, but for River's footfalls and the soft sounds of the night.

Galadan moves to keep pace with her, but he, too, remains silent.

It is nothing like Fionavar, and yet--

And yet this lake, for all of Milliways' noisy multiversal chaos, has its own kind of midnight peace.

(and I shall have some peace there)

They're almost to the rock now, a wide boulder with a flat weathered top. It might have been a glacial deposit, if Milliways had normal geology; perhaps, in the Scotland of Hogwarts, it is. River settles silently onto it, pulling her legs to her chest with her skirt tucked around them against the cold.

(for peace comes dropping slow)

Galadan leans against the rock for a moment, considering his options.

Then he pulls himself up, settling next to River.

He still does not speak, and he does not reach out for her.

But he is there, cool grey gaze shifting from the lake to the stars, and back again.

"Look," River says at length, softly under the lake's susurration. "Shooting star."

Wish, she doesn't say.

Perhaps she makes one; perhaps she doesn't.

It doesn't matter. Not really.

The dark spangled dome of the sky arches over their heads. The stars are brighter in the black, but there's a certain beauty to the atmosphere, too.

Galadan does look, and whether or not he sees such a star hardly matters.

He has never been one for wishing.

But here and now, for once--

What he does have is enough.

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