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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"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."

All right, so Tristran cannot help but soften - just a bit - at that.

Shaking his head, he lets out a sigh. "Here, at least wear my coat over yourself so no one - trees included - will see you wearing my shirt."

Luckily it has dried a bit since and is not as disgustingly wet as the rest of him.

"I was only going to ring the whole mess out before I put it back on," her lips tug up wryly, allowing the coat to be pulled over her shoulders. "I really was just being contrary - I don't precisely deal well with being told what to do."

Obviously.

(Even if it is just an implication.)

A tentative grin, up through her hair, "We need some sort of sign for 'Yvaine, you are being horribly unreasonable - I will refuse to speak to you if this behavior continues.'"

Oh, yes. So very Obviously.

He lets his hands rest for a moment upon Yvaine's shoulders and allows himself to smile a bit.

"That isn't such a bad idea," he says eventually, humour inadvertently slipping into his tone of voice. His hands drop and he shrugs. "Of course, you could simply stop being so 'horribly unreasonable', too."

It's the smile, really, that does it. Which is altogether pathetic of her, to be completely honest. She wouldn't precisely be amiable to admitting just how relieved it makes her, but it does so all the same.

She lets out a quiet breath of laughter - shoulders relaxing, untensing under his fingers.

"But then however would you recognize me, Prince Charming?"

"I could recognize you in a number of different ways," he replies. "Ways that are much more pleasant - and there are ways - than this."

"We need preemptive signs then," she laughs. "For when I seem as though I may be tempted to be unreasonable."

Which may be more often than not, given her track record.

"Shall I apologize then, dear?"

"Well, I would not object to one," he starts.

"Well, I wouldn't know what else to do if you did."

The smile widens a bit, upward on one side, before she blinks up at him - a fair bit more seriously than she usually bothers with. (But then, it's only very rarely that he gets upset with her - so she can try.)

"But I am sorry."

He nods, hands finding hers to touch for a moment.

"Apology accepted," he says. His smile widens likewise to match hers.

"Shall I also promise not to push you into things?"

It's there again, some very vague shimmer along the edges of her - fingers turning quickly after his, capturing his hands.

"Because I'm not entirely certain that I can keep that one."

"You could at least try not to push me into things when I haven't got anything dry to change into afterwards," he says exasperatedly, squeezing her hands.

"Would that work?"

She tries for solemnity, really she does, but the sheer effort and exasperation on his face just make her laugh, ducking her chin and pulling her hands up to muffle the sound - which only really serves to drag his up along with them.

"Oh," she manages, somewhere between laughs and the tangle of fingers. "My mother would adore you."

Very rarely did anyone even continue to bother trying to make Yvaine compromise after a few millennia of hardheadedness.

"Yes. I think that I could manage that."

"Very well," he says, pulling her a little closer towards him - despite the effects of the heat around them.

"You know, I think I've met your mum once." He pauses, drawing back a bit. "Or at least I feel like I might have."

"Still checking up on me then?"

She tilts her chin up, grinning wryly, "Not that I've been very good about giving her reasons not to."

A pause, looping her arms around his waist.

"Though she could be checking up on you," the star murmurs, sweeping her own gaze over him thoughtfully. "You're nice to look at."

He opens his mouth and pauses. Then, "Yvaine."

All right. So that last statement has got him a little flustered.

"It was - well, it was in a dream, I think. And it happened a while ago."

"Ah, yes. Reasonable and well behaved," she murmurs with surprising obedience, though her fingers do stay rather snug where they are.

She'll just appreciate the flush of color while it lasts.

"What sort of dream then?"