an_evening_star | (no subject)

(no subject)

It begins, really, as any good and responsible royal journey should - in what is assuredly the complete, opposite direction of responsibility.

For example:

"Which way - hypothetically, of course - would we want to be going if we were on the way to Stormhold?"

"Well, if we turn right here, I'm pretty sure that -"

"Very good, left it is then!"

It really is terribly convenient, every once and a while, to have a boyf- a lov- a Tristran that simply knows which way will suit for their purposes at any given time. Especially when one considers that it's awfully difficult to stop and ask for directions when one is in the middle of nowhere.

And tree sprites?

Are terrible liars.

So it begins in the ~~right~~ wrong direction and it continues for sometime - until Yvaine is hot and her legs are sore and the tip of her nose is growing oddly pink from the sun and the soft tinkling of the stream off to the side begins to curl her lips upward in a decidedly troublesome manner under the shade of her hair.

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"I would join you," she muses, head back lazily and the ends of her hair fanning over the surface. "Only I don't particularly fancy trying to stand up in this much waterlogged material."

Yet another reason why skirts are utterly pointless.

"I think that I'll just lie here and wait until I have managed to soak up the entire body of water."

Tristran starts to laugh. There is a possibility he is laughing at her, with some of her deep blue skirts floating about her like a balloon while some are submerged under water.

Then, staring at her for a moment, he lets out a sigh.

"Oh, why not."

Pulling off his boots and his coat this time, Tristran dumps them off to the side and jumps into the water, creating quite a splash.

If her hair had been at least partially dry before, Yvaine should now be quite re-soaked again.

Lovely.

Just lovely

"I am having completely illogical flashbacks of jumping into puddles," she grumbles, one hand swiping a newly dripping cascade of hair out of her eyes. "Though I distinctly remember that being more fun."

He waddle-scrambles towards her, wet fingers brushing that hair from her face as he grins.

"What do you mean?" he asks, having no recollection for himself of that very interesting and terribly cute day save for bits and pieces he thinks to be from dreams. "I thought you always lived in the sky."

"I did say illogical, dear," she returns, lips curving upward helplessly.

It is entirely too kind and un-Yvaine to admit to having stupid dream-crushes on someone when you were hardly ten million and some change.

Also, it would be unseemly and out of character to go around boosting the poor boy's ego at this point.

The grin doesn't fade, "Though you were probably cuter as a child."

He leans back a little, making sure not to lose his balance in the water.

"Cuter?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "You've seen me as a child, then, have you?" Well, he supposes she must have if she's had a view of the world all this time.

And then something occurs to him.

"Wait. Do you mean to say I am no longer cute?" He looks more amused than insulted, really.

"Might have," the smile widens and she sits up to tug at the material of his shirt. "I've seen a lot of people."

It's true, really - and balance is a silly, pointless thing.

The last question gets a laugh, bright and amused, fingers winding their way upward enough to tangle at the ends of his hair. He is awful cute.

"If I didn't know any better, I would say that you were fishing for compliments." You know, or if his subconscious was a lot more devious than the rest of him. "But I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assure you that you are still lovely to look at, dripping included."

He places a damp hand upon hers, laughing a little.

It is actually a pity that he hadn't been thinking at all about fishing for compliments. Looks like that deviousness will have to be worked on for the future.

"Perhaps," he says, "but in a moment's time I will simply turn pruney and that is hardly nice at all. I wonder - does that also happen to stars too?"

"I'm not really certain," she wrinkles her nose thoughtfully. "The longest I've been in the bath was before some crazy woman tried to have my insides for dinner - I was not really paying attention to my fingertips at the time."

Tragic, that. Yet another opportunity for knowledge wasted.

A quiet hum, lips twitching upward, "It is also terribly unfortunate that there is hardly enough water to dunk you in."

Totally finding a larger body of water next time.

"Yes, a terrible pity," Tristran agrees with a fair amount of sarcasm; his words are practically dripping with them.

"Now we can hardly stay in here forever. What say we get out and dry ourselves, now?"

He even attempts to stand again.

Well, to be completely honest, it's thematically appropriate sarcasm given the current locale.

"Fine," she casts her eyes skyward, allowing him to stand and holding out her hand expectantly. There is, after all, no way in hell that she's getting up on her own.

"I will need something, of course."

"Need something?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

After several tries, he's managed to get himself on his feet once more. Without the boots sinking into the mud, it is admittedly far easier then the last time.

And he'll be certain there will not be a next time.

Ruling out things entirely is boring.

And wasn't this fun, Tristran?

"Mmhmm," she hums in affirmation once she's back on her feet, and tentatively prods at a heavily waterlogged fold of her skirt.

It is only fun if one enjoys torture - and being completely soaked and blood uncomfortable at the same time.

"What do you mean by that?"

He has managed now to get towards the dry land. Oh, sweet dry land.

"I," she begins, chin tilted upward imperiously and skirts sloshing a rather ridiculous amount. "Am not walking around like this."

Not only is it unpleasant, it's very likely somewhat impossible.

The skirts weigh almost as much as she does.

"Ah."

No, he supposes neither of them can really go on with their wet clothing.

"Well, I suppose we can find the nearest village and find dry clothes there," he suggests. "It isn't too far." He thinks.

"Or," she chirps, grinning widely in a sudden change of mood, managing to slosh herself forward a few more steps to reach his rucksack. "I could just -"

Give her a second, she'll find what she's looking for.

"...just?"

He has a sneaking suspicion he won't like this idea at all.

He doesn't like any of her ideas.

It's rather tragic. She'd be saddened if she wasn't so busy executing one of previously discussed ideas.

"There we go," she murmurs, tugging one of his spare shirts out and just as easily tugging it over her head, fingers working at the ties on the side of her (unnecessary, heavy) skirts.

"...You can't possibly think it a good idea to be traveling in one of my spare shirts," Tristran says flatly.

"My last dry one, at that."

She looks ridiculous. What will their subjects think?

"Only until the skirts are dry," she returns reasonably, eyes shaded under her hair. "Unless you would prefer me to travel in nothing, dear?"

She'd do it too.

And the shirt comes, with the pile of wet skirts gone, very nearly to mid-thigh. Certainly enough propriety for the middle of nowhere with no one looking.

"If you hadn't pushed me into the water in the first place, none of this would have happened," Tristran says, squeezing excess water from his only shirt.

"I'm sure the village isn't that far away that you would have to dress like that."

"So terribly sorry, dear. Next time I'll ask for your permission," she returns tartly - pausing in ringing out the damp material and dropping it with a distinctly unpleasant, very wet noise.

"And I was going to give it back in a little while, your Majesty," her hands press momentarily to her hips, before sliding down to the hem of his shirt. "But if you want it so badly, fine."

"What exactly is that supposed to imply?" he asks, frowning at her.

Honestly, though he doesn't want to point fingers at anyone, it was Yvaine who caused this little situation.

He doesn't enjoy getting completely soaking wet, especially knowing there is nothing dry to change into afterwards.

And he does not enjoy seeing Yvaine looking like that - in public. Yes, Tristran is the traditional sort at heart.

"I just - I -" the displeased edge to her voice flickers far more quickly than she is entirely pleased with and her shoulders slump - rather like a doll let off its strings - fingers knotting into the material. "I have no bloody idea, I just - I'm being a terrible bitch, aren't I?"

This was very distinctly not how things were supposed to pan out.

A mumble, "I hate it when you're right."