limier: ([ tan - regard ])
ᔕᑕᗩᖇY ᑕOᑭ ᗯ ᑎO ᖴᖇIEᑎᗪᔕ ([personal profile] limier) wrote in [personal profile] arlathvhen 2017-08-19 07:13 pm (UTC)

She listens in silence. The Chantry Incident. Call a stone a stone, girl, but she won’t. None of them have, none of them are keen to begin, and Wren quite counts herself in that number.

This sort of thing, it's not spoken of. The Order owns more than its share of the mad, but this isn’t madness — something else instead, some step between. The sorrow that grew into her mother’s sloth, her own, the fears that grip Gwenaelle. Memories that don’t stay fixed, reactions that slip from place. Problems. Absence of control,

But not an illness. She’s seen the sickness that comes to them all, in time; this isn’t that. Beleth's said it herself, hasn’t she? It’s not unpredictable. Courwin’s hand might rest in hers as easily as it balls into a fist, reaches for her throat: There are patterns to his moods, from time to time, topics that soothe or stray him — but so much of it as an invisible current, buffeted by the Fade.

"You have seen him in combat, then,"

Wren prompts, wishes vaguely that she’d stop pretending at something so obviously not off-the-cuff. It’s not truly Beleth’s manner that wants to lift her ire. (She doen’t want to speak of this. This isn’t the sort of thing one speaks of.)

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