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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"Well, it's certainly a pleasant day, isn't it?" he asks.

He readjusts his rather badly abused rucksack over his shoulders and looks towards the sky.

"It's bloody hot, dear."

And it is, really.

The star is very seriously contemplating why, exactly, skirts with unnecessary layers are 'appropriate' attire for ladies. Is there something incredibly fashionable about passing out due to overheating yourself?

Her fingers disengage themselves from his arm to twist her hair up and off her neck.

The grin twitches up a bit, "Exceedingly so."

"As though we aren't used to it," he says, shaking his head. "We've been through just about any possible weather condition you can think of, haven't we?"

He pauses.

"Though I could certainly use a glass of my mum's lemonade right about now."

"You may be used to it - this is only my second time around."

Well, if one counts Milliways seasons then it's some confusing conglomeration of times gone around - but still.

"Winter, at least, makes sense," she snags his arm again, gesturing pointedly with her free hand. "If you are cold, you can very well put things on until you're warm again. There isn't much that can be done when you're hot."

A mild frown, vaguely pouty, before she's grinning slightly once more.

"Well," she allows. "Unless I begin removing skirts, that is."

"Which, as much as I would like for you to do so, is probably not a particularly good idea in public," he says matter-of-factly. A hint of a smile remains.

"Winter isn't all that wonderful either when you are trying to get from place to place. Especially when there's a whole lot of snow."

"Ah, yes," she drawls. "Because the trees will be highly offended by my impropriety - it will spread like wildfire, I imagine."

Her back straightens, accent changing from its lazy murmur to as haughty as she can manage. (Which, unsurprisingly, is pretty damn stuck-up. She is still herself, after all.)

"Did you hear? That future Queen of Stormhold - my what a brazen young thing! Unfit for the throne, I'd say!"

Tristran sighs and rolls his eyes, though he cannot help but feel amused all the same.

"You never know," he says. "I did meet a tree once who could speak and think on her own. There might be many more like her that we do not know about."

Never mind that the talking tree was actually a nymph. Yvaine doesn't have to know that.

And so she will remain mournfully uneducated.

"Very well," she grins, leaning a bit more heavily. "I shall remain a shining beacon of good behavior - and when I melt, you will write me epic poems of woe and heartache."

With rhyming couplets, even.

He laughs.

Oh, Yvaine. Ever the drama-queen.

"All right," he says, playing along. "I can definitely do that. They will be poems everyone will remember."

"They'd better be," she warns and twists herself slightly to poke him in the chest - they're walking slowly enough that she can manage, after all. And practical demonstrations of emphasis are always helpful.

She tilts her chin, smile in check.

"And you'd better not replace me with some Faerie-strumpet."

"Replace you?" Tristran looks simply appalled. "Never. Not for anyone or anything in the world."

As over-the-top as he makes it sound, he really does mean it.

"Oh, you're good," she arcs an eyebrow, grinning once more. "Very convincing. Do remind me to keep you around."

A pause, and then she leans a little closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.

(In case the trees are listening in, of course.)

"You know what?"

He raises an eyebrow, curiously - after he is done grinning and generally being a little smug, that is.

"What?"

"If I were a tree, I would be terribly jealous."

It's pretty true, really. As far as things go.

"I would have no legs to do this -" she takes a step forward, closer still. "- I would have no fingers to do this -" the very tips of them skitter over his eyelids, coaxing them closed, before they wind their way downward.

"And most importantly?"

Her lips hover dangerously close and the grin slips its way into a smirk, crooked and amused as the water shimmers pleasantly in the sun.

"I would have no arms to do this," and the hands braced at his shoulders shove lightly, but just enough to tip him.

That was simply not at all cool, in the modern sense of the word.

As Tristran loses his balance - both cold and hot at the same time - falling into the water, he finds himself wondering if he could possibly have detected hints of Yvaine's evil plan.

The answer would be a firm no.

Still, he has tricks up his sleeve and crawling out of the water, resembling a drenched mouse, he wraps his arms around her waist.

"Whither thou goest, right?" He grins, lifting her up and making his way towards the water once more.

Edited 2007-12-22 06:10 (UTC)

"Tristran!" she yelps, wriggling and scrabbling with her fingers - trying very valiantly to not get herself soaked, as it was not part of the Plan.

It is, of course, a sadly useless attempt.

"I was only kidding!"

(This may or may not be a lie.)

"I cannot say that I want to go swimming - though you do look delightful when drenched, dear," another completely undignified squeaking noise. "Really! Please don't drop me!"

"Now, it's only fair that we get drenched together," he says, feeling highly uncomfortable with his clothing sticking to him like a second skin. "Besides, didn't you complain a little earlier about how hot it was?"

They have reached the edge. Tristran laughs as he does, indeed, drop her into the water - gently, of course.

"You look delightful when drenched too, dear," he returns.

Tristran? Evil? Possibly.

That just earns him a glare, one delicate eyebrow arced in an entirely unimpressed manner and body braced back on her elbows.

"I'm not feeling particularly together at the moment, darling," she is, in fact, rather on her lonesome. Dripping. In the water. "You could, of course, join me."

Voluntarily or not is the real decision here.

Dryly, "The water's lovely."

He laughs again.

"Yes, I'm sure it is," he says, shaking his boots of water. "But I think togetherness counts when both of us are wet. And I am, of course, very wet."

"Come closer so I can check, yes?"

A smile is tugging it's way across her lips again - not precisely with her express permission, per say, but it's there all the same.

She is not getting up.

Her skirts likely weigh more than she does now - and the water is lovely.

"Nice try," he tells her, ringing out the bottom of his coat.

"Well, I can't precisely pick you up and dump you on your ass."

Such ladylike eloquence, really.

The trees are very likely scandalized already - and if they weren't, they certainly would be at the way she is eying said ass.

A bright, utterly guileless smile, "And you're already soaked."

Yvaine, you shameless, shameless star.

He laughs from the perfectly safe distance he is at, shaking his head.

"I am in the process of becoming pleasantly unsoaked," he tells her. "I don't need to get wet any further."

It's hers. She can look all that she wants.

She rolls her eyes and cups a hand, swiping it along the surface of the water and half-heartedly splashing it in his direction.

"And how is that going for you, dear?"

"At this very moment in time?" Tristran asks, glancing down at himself. "Not entirely pleasant just yet. But I'm getting there."

He is. Slowly.