A warm hand made warmer by magic, at the round of her back where he knows it hurts most when the coughs spasm. The healing comes naturally-- but he doesn't prolong it. It's hard to work without seeing what you're working on, and when she relaxes again, he follows.
"What do you call all this, then?" Sorrel huffs an amused breath, when they're again settled, and then has to blow to keep her hair from going up his nose, "You weren't running away, coming to the Inquisition. You were looking for help. You're strong, even if your body isn't living up to you right now. Anyone can see it."
To a point, being comforted this way is nice. Sometimes it's good, it helps her go to sleep and calm her awful lungs, and Sina appreciates the warm touch like a cool drink of water against a parched mouth. But there's so much... comforting, dancing around subjects, and she has so little time. So little time to say what she really means, to ensure that things are... well, as she wants to leave them. "Sorrel," she says quietly, after a lull, her fingers gently toying with the lacing of his tunic. "I want you to be happy."
His first impulse is a joke, but the right words won't come and the failure of humor outlives the urge; it dies. Sorrel's second thought is no thought at all, only a stiff emptiness. She wants him to be happy.
He's never been happier than this past season, as full of hardship as it was, with the possible exception of some ignorant, childhood idyll. All of that is the cause of Sina, a blame and boon he lays firmly on her shoulders. And she's dying.
"How?" He strangles out, finally, when he realizes she can't help but read his anguish, pressed together as they are. Too long quiet, and it sends a message all its own.
The sound of the word pierces Sina to the heart, and she feels a tear well up and drip onto his shirt before she can stop it. Her hand tightens against his chest. "By," she begins, and-- how is it this difficult, to say this sort of thing, when it's not even about herself and she'll hardly be around for the consequences? Wishful thinking, of a truth past being worth telling? "...being... who you are," she concludes in a whisper, and smiles faintly despite the tears. "And... loving who you'll love." She angles her head up toward him now, seeking to meet his eyes. He knows what she means, and she has to make sure he understands.
"But I love you," comes out with all the force of emotion that an unhappy toddler would imbue it with-- and with as much forethought. When Sina only turns to look up at him, almost sidelong...
Sorrel stares back, blinking.
What.
And then, only then, after he's well and truly made a fool of himself does Sorrel realize what she's saying, stiffening with the shock. That somehow she'd known-- that she'd realized-- what had she seen?
"I... I..." He flushes with guilt, though what he's so guilty for would be a hard question to answer, "I never-- I didn't. Don't. You..."
Creators, if ever your power had any meaning, please let the sky open up and rift suck him away to the fade right now. It would be more merciful than this.
"...How...?"
He's hoping Sina will grasp the meaning of his question, because Sorrel himself isn't quite sure of it.
Though she's sympathetic, Sina can't help but laugh at Sorrel's reaction. It's not that his flustered stammering is funny in itself, it's that she relates so well to it. She angles her head slightly to touch a kiss to his chin. "I'm..." she begins, and finds it just as difficult, her pallid face even beginning to blush slightly. "...me too."
Part of that is offense taken, but most of it is an answering amusement. Because, he slowly realizes as she snickers and stretches herself to kiss him-- it's truly, truly ridiculous. So he stares at her for a moment and then joins her, laughing.
"You. And me? And the Keepers... Oh no," He has to laugh again, reaching with both hands to cup Sina's face, "My mother thought I was going off to make babies. Despite all the-- the everything."
The likelihood of danger, the shard, the inquisition and the encroaching shemlen presence on all sides. Deheune and her damned finely-tuned sense of a looming betrayal. And she hadn't been wrong, no, but never had she suspected it would come from this angle.
It feels good to find something funny, and to laugh at it despite any pain that might cause. Sorrel isn't angry, and that's what matters; Sina grins as he cups her face, happy to have at least a small moment of levity among all the sorrow. "We might have," she admits, her voice softening, but chooses not to continue the sentence. Beyond that point is only sadness. They might have, but they won't. They won't have the opportunity for that struggle. "Here we are," she agrees, letting that be the conclusion. Resting her head on Sorrel's chest again, Sina sighs.
Sorrel lets it fade when she does, and doesn't grasp after the trailing edge of what might have been. No point, after all, in clinging to the impossible, or mourning before its time. As if it were that simple.
Silence settles around them like a soft, golden cloak. Dust motes idle in the slow sunlight, and Sorrel breathes through the slight, easy weight of Sina's body over his. Too slight. Too cold.
"Sina?" It's a whisper, impulsive and vulnerable. He hesitates, uncertain of why he's asking, or what he means it to come to, then forges ahead, "Have you ever... I mean, you said me too. Did you ever... with anyone else?"
It hadn't been a question worth asking, when he'd assumed a different reality. Now, though, Sorrel finds himself reevaluating so many things, thinking back and wondering, where the truth is, in memory, and where he'd been blind.
What a strange question to have to answer now, at this point in her life. Somehow it's still important, despite everything else going on. Sina angles her head slightly, though she continues to rest it on Sorrel's chest. "...no," she says, a bit deflated, though her smile remains. "...I kissed Ellana once. But she never felt that way." She blushes at the memory, a social stumble that she would still find agonizing if she didn't have something faster to die of. "Little Fern..." She pauses, thinking. "Perhaps, in another life. One where we had time. Where you and I could... learn everything."
Sorrel isn't sure who that is, can't place a face to a name-- but then, he's been distracted. And to someone so used to a world of Vallaslin, all these unmarked faces seem at once too young and too old; they blend together. He hasn't been paying enough attention.
"Fern," He says again, as if testing out the concept. Sina and Fern. It's nice. But then the rest of him catches up and he has to laugh, "Wait, wait, you kissed Ellana? Oh no. Sina, no, not Ellana."
Though she seems about to defend herself, Sina catches her words mid-sentence and sighs instead with a helpless grin. "She's just... so lovely," she admits in a blushing whisper, "I misunderstood her when..." Burying her face in her hands, Sina realizes she can maybe still die of this. "...she was in love with a human, Felix. My feelings were so strong, I..." Despite her hiding, she can't not find it funny, and though she shakes her head, it's not a sorrowful motion. Lifting her hands away again, she wipes her eyes and winces. "We were never quite the same after that."
"Lovely like a snake," Sorrel scoffs, but he relents, smoothing one palm across Sina's hair, comfortingly, "She never wrote back to the clan, that I heard of. And do you know, she hasn't said a single word to me, since I arrived?"
He sighs. It's a different problem, a worry that gnaws at him in quiet, dark moments when nothing else exists to pull at him; the clan here wasn't just drifting apart, it was falling apart. Nothing ever goes easy, does it?
"You deserve so much more than someone like that. This Fern betr have been kind to you."
Sina looks a bit scandalized by Sorrel's assessment of Ellana, but... in truth, she hasn't heard from her in a while, and doesn't want to waste the energy on an argument. A part of her will always be very fond of Ellana. As long as always lasts, anyway. Sighing through her nose, she settles against Sorrel again, letting her eyes close. "Fern is very kind," she murmurs, "and so sweet, so willing to learn." She knits her brow in a smile that's also sad. "...if ever I had to choose a First for myself..."
Now there it is, the painful crush in his chest, the reminder... Because if ever she were Keeper, if she had to choose a First. Sina would choose Fern. Sorrel doesn't say a word, only holds her a little tighter, silent comfort, because he doesn't trust his voice. He's always saying the wrong thing, charging ahead as if bitterness could make him witty; it won't help. It'll only make Sina feel worse. Worse! As if that were possible.
Of course, it makes sense. If she could choose anyone, Sina would choose someone she could love with the whole of her, instead of...
...Sorrel closes his eyes. Now this truly is the most pathetic he's been. Jealous of something that could never happen, and which if it did would be a wonderful blessing.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, eventually. Maybe he's sorry for badmouthing Ellana, or for seeming to disapprove of Fern, or some other silent sin. Who can say? "I'm sure she'd have made a good one."
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"What do you call all this, then?" Sorrel huffs an amused breath, when they're again settled, and then has to blow to keep her hair from going up his nose, "You weren't running away, coming to the Inquisition. You were looking for help. You're strong, even if your body isn't living up to you right now. Anyone can see it."
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"Sorrel," she says quietly, after a lull, her fingers gently toying with the lacing of his tunic. "I want you to be happy."
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He's never been happier than this past season, as full of hardship as it was, with the possible exception of some ignorant, childhood idyll. All of that is the cause of Sina, a blame and boon he lays firmly on her shoulders. And she's dying.
"How?" He strangles out, finally, when he realizes she can't help but read his anguish, pressed together as they are. Too long quiet, and it sends a message all its own.
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"By," she begins, and-- how is it this difficult, to say this sort of thing, when it's not even about herself and she'll hardly be around for the consequences? Wishful thinking, of a truth past being worth telling?
"...being... who you are," she concludes in a whisper, and smiles faintly despite the tears. "And... loving who you'll love." She angles her head up toward him now, seeking to meet his eyes. He knows what she means, and she has to make sure he understands.
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Sorrel stares back, blinking.
What.
And then, only then, after he's well and truly made a fool of himself does Sorrel realize what she's saying, stiffening with the shock. That somehow she'd known-- that she'd realized-- what had she seen?
"I... I..." He flushes with guilt, though what he's so guilty for would be a hard question to answer, "I never-- I didn't. Don't. You..."
Creators, if ever your power had any meaning, please let the sky open up and rift suck him away to the fade right now. It would be more merciful than this.
"...How...?"
He's hoping Sina will grasp the meaning of his question, because Sorrel himself isn't quite sure of it.
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"I'm..." she begins, and finds it just as difficult, her pallid face even beginning to blush slightly. "...me too."
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Me too?
"Are you laughing at me?"
Part of that is offense taken, but most of it is an answering amusement. Because, he slowly realizes as she snickers and stretches herself to kiss him-- it's truly, truly ridiculous. So he stares at her for a moment and then joins her, laughing.
"You. And me? And the Keepers... Oh no," He has to laugh again, reaching with both hands to cup Sina's face, "My mother thought I was going off to make babies. Despite all the-- the everything."
The likelihood of danger, the shard, the inquisition and the encroaching shemlen presence on all sides. Deheune and her damned finely-tuned sense of a looming betrayal. And she hadn't been wrong, no, but never had she suspected it would come from this angle.
"But here we are."
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"We might have," she admits, her voice softening, but chooses not to continue the sentence. Beyond that point is only sadness. They might have, but they won't. They won't have the opportunity for that struggle.
"Here we are," she agrees, letting that be the conclusion. Resting her head on Sorrel's chest again, Sina sighs.
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Silence settles around them like a soft, golden cloak. Dust motes idle in the slow sunlight, and Sorrel breathes through the slight, easy weight of Sina's body over his. Too slight. Too cold.
"Sina?" It's a whisper, impulsive and vulnerable. He hesitates, uncertain of why he's asking, or what he means it to come to, then forges ahead, "Have you ever... I mean, you said me too. Did you ever... with anyone else?"
It hadn't been a question worth asking, when he'd assumed a different reality. Now, though, Sorrel finds himself reevaluating so many things, thinking back and wondering, where the truth is, in memory, and where he'd been blind.
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"...no," she says, a bit deflated, though her smile remains. "...I kissed Ellana once. But she never felt that way." She blushes at the memory, a social stumble that she would still find agonizing if she didn't have something faster to die of. "Little Fern..." She pauses, thinking. "Perhaps, in another life. One where we had time. Where you and I could... learn everything."
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Sorrel isn't sure who that is, can't place a face to a name-- but then, he's been distracted. And to someone so used to a world of Vallaslin, all these unmarked faces seem at once too young and too old; they blend together. He hasn't been paying enough attention.
"Fern," He says again, as if testing out the concept. Sina and Fern. It's nice. But then the rest of him catches up and he has to laugh, "Wait, wait, you kissed Ellana? Oh no. Sina, no, not Ellana."
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Lifting her hands away again, she wipes her eyes and winces. "We were never quite the same after that."
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He sighs. It's a different problem, a worry that gnaws at him in quiet, dark moments when nothing else exists to pull at him; the clan here wasn't just drifting apart, it was falling apart. Nothing ever goes easy, does it?
"You deserve so much more than someone like that. This Fern betr have been kind to you."
Or... something.
Or else.
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Sighing through her nose, she settles against Sorrel again, letting her eyes close. "Fern is very kind," she murmurs, "and so sweet, so willing to learn." She knits her brow in a smile that's also sad. "...if ever I had to choose a First for myself..."
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Now there it is, the painful crush in his chest, the reminder... Because if ever she were Keeper, if she had to choose a First. Sina would choose Fern. Sorrel doesn't say a word, only holds her a little tighter, silent comfort, because he doesn't trust his voice. He's always saying the wrong thing, charging ahead as if bitterness could make him witty; it won't help. It'll only make Sina feel worse. Worse! As if that were possible.
Of course, it makes sense. If she could choose anyone, Sina would choose someone she could love with the whole of her, instead of...
...Sorrel closes his eyes. Now this truly is the most pathetic he's been. Jealous of something that could never happen, and which if it did would be a wonderful blessing.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, eventually. Maybe he's sorry for badmouthing Ellana, or for seeming to disapprove of Fern, or some other silent sin. Who can say? "I'm sure she'd have made a good one."