Stephen breathes out, a slow exhale. He’s still sitting on the floor and having to look up at Gwenaëlle, jaw craned up and up, which is going to give him a crick in his neck eventually; and so he finally just gives up the ghost and climbs up to perch on the edge of the bed instead. The moment on the floor finally seems to have passed, ebbing away in the wake of all that debris, that stymied anger and grief. He simply looks at her for a little while, taking her in.
“Well then, I’m glad,” he says; the words few but the warmth there, achingly fond in a way he otherwise struggles to express.
Maybe opening yourself up to someone else isn’t, in fact, the worst thing ever.
And he’s still half-mulling over what she’d mentioned, offhand, as a joke, but: Everyone dies eventually except incredibly irritating elves.
Meditative: “Elves and elfblooded in Thedas. You don’t, like, have preternatural longevity or anything, do you? I know that it varies, across worlds— back in our universe, I’d read about the Svartálfar, they were tremendously long-lived.”
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“Well then, I’m glad,” he says; the words few but the warmth there, achingly fond in a way he otherwise struggles to express.
Maybe opening yourself up to someone else isn’t, in fact, the worst thing ever.
And he’s still half-mulling over what she’d mentioned, offhand, as a joke, but: Everyone dies eventually except incredibly irritating elves.
Meditative: “Elves and elfblooded in Thedas. You don’t, like, have preternatural longevity or anything, do you? I know that it varies, across worlds— back in our universe, I’d read about the Svartálfar, they were tremendously long-lived.”