[IC/OOC] Contact

[minrathousian]

 

dream visits | letters and notes | in-person visits

To contact Atticus IC: Leave a response to this entry, specifying the means of contact (e.g., letters, in person visit). To contact me OOC: Discord:  middlemarching#9936 Plurk:  ragweed NB:  I work 9-5pm EST Mon-Fri, have additional volunteer obligations, and write fiction in my free time.

Comments

[minrathousian]

When she leans against him he shifts instinctively to accommodate her shape against him, drawing simple creature comfort from her warmth and familiarity. For she has become that, at this stage--familiar, and wanted.

Her position, described thusly, does not strike him as being too dissimilar from that of a magister in the Magisterium in Minrathous. The risk, the high stakes, the relentless danger, all are unavoidable constants. An affair revealed between magisters would have far-reaching consequences, but could they truly be compared to what might occur, were he and Petrana to be found out now?

"Ser Coupe had questions."

He cannot disguise his ill-ease at this revelation, not in this place, and not from Petrana; the Fade is only too willing to betray him in the cold wind that chafes against both of them suddenly.

"She came to speak with me as well," he says. "What did she ask of you?"

[minrathousian]

"I'd ask that you hear my next proposal without ego."

It's that last observation that manages to draw his attention away from the parallels between Ser Coupe's line of questioning for Petrana, as well as for himself. He shifts some so that he can study her face, at once suspicious and bemused. Mildly, he inquires, "Do I strike you as a man particularly inclined towards egotism?"

He is. Nevertheless, he waits for her suggestion (and anticipates her rebuke).

[minrathousian]

No one enjoys to have their weaknesses laid bare, even by a tender hand before a sympathetic audience. Atticus especially dislikes it.

His chin follows the gentle pressure of her fingertip, his face turned as she wills, but his eyes are like pale blue stones as he looks down at her; a glimpse of the magister others see through the bars of his cell in the physical world, perhaps--though after a moment he reaches up to gather her hand into his, his touch gentle.

"A benefit," he repeats softly, "in my attachment to you." She isn't wrong. He brings down her hand to let it rest palm flag just over his heart, stroking one thumb over the fine bones of her wrist. Regarding her expectantly, he presses, "What would you have me do, Petrana, and to what end?"

[minrathousian]

At her last words, his lips curve into an almost boyish smile against her mouth, and he draws back just enough to see her eyes. Eyes bright, he inquires, "Did I make you blush?" Easier to be coy, here, than to allow himself too much liberty to mull over how this clever scheme of hers may land him in a snare of her making, rather than the Inquisition's.

Yet to interrogate that concern further, she has already ensnared him, hasn't she? Here he stands before her in a dream kingdom he crafted out of Fade stuff, spelled into existence to make her vision a reality. There is no advantage to be found in passing his time here with her in this place, in this way; yet he is here because he wants to be here, with her, and he would do well to attend to that new reality, to find some way to ensure she folds neatly into his plans, going forward. If that requires him to follow her lead, then he will acknowledge that he has been caught, and will follow as she bids him. For now.

[minrathousian]

His cat-like smile grows with satisfaction at her chiding, but he hears her reply, too. He notes the implication in her words and considers it; it confirms much that he's come to suspect regarding her marriage to the man he has replaced. Atticus knows very little of Marius, save what few details she has chosen to share--those details, and the image of him standing in a pastoral field, a flaming sword in his had.

A difficult man to love. He likely would not take to death easily, either, but that does not prevent Atticus from entertaining the fantasy, just for a moment. (It requires some effort to prevent that vision from spinning itself into existence around them, but he manages.)

He slips an arm around her waist and coaxes her close enough for another kiss; slowly, he's growing more familiar with his own desires, less bashful in expressing them. It's the moments of casual intimacy that still give him some pause, but here he learns, too. "We've whiled away many hours here tonight," he observes quietly afterwards, then adds with a touch of regret, "It is nearly morning."