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Moenbryda's first evening at the Rising Stones passes amicably, with her mostly catching the Archons up on the latest research in Sharlayan, and regaling the newer Scions with anecdotes about the old days in New Sharlayan, before the exodus.
The only trouble is Urianger. He remains quiet, withdrawn, slow to join in with the conversation. When he attempts to retire early, Moenbryda quickly declares her intentions to follow suit, and pursues him to the room that she has been told they are to share.
When she arrives, he is sitting down on one of the twin beds in his shirt and breeches, his tunic, goggles and boots discarded on the floor beside him. His hands are in his lap, restlessly folding a piece of parchment into thin lines.
Alone as they are, Moenbryda switches to a register they are both more comfortable in.
"Art thou discomfited?" she asks him.
"Nay," Urianger says, but he can’t lie to her so easily.
"Thou art! Hark, we are but children again in one another's presence. Prithee, share thy troubles."
He doesn't answer. She prods. "Art thou jealous?"
"Jealous!" He looks up, affronted.
"Then, envious."
"Envious!"
"Aye, that my passage amongst thy colleagues should be met with such camaraderie when thy presence should meet with such enduring distance."
Her words meet with an offended silence. Unperturbed, she continues: "How oft hast thou written to me of thy wish to better acquaint thyself with thy fellows? And yet were I to propose to thee that thine affect be dropped in their company, I should prepare to forfeit all my coin to messengers' fees, so that they might be paid appropriately for the yalms of parchment they must bear in response - details of the extensive propriety that thou deemst necessary to uphold their great respect!" She grins. "Truly, hast thou spoken to the source of thy secret affections beyond a scant word? Or perhaps there is another among the Scions that goeth by the name of Thancred? For a mere moment in his company hath apprised me of an irreverence full missing from thine accounts."
His tone is injured. "Thou sayest that my solitude is mine own fault."
"Nay: I say only that thou dost not aid thyself in overcoming it."
He doesn’t respond, only straightening the sheet of parchment against his knees, and beginning to fold it in the opposite direction.
She knows her words have hit their mark. Perhaps too well. It’s so hard to hold back: she’s spent years watching his letters come in, fearing that he’s shooting himself in the foot with his Scion peers, but unable to convincingly argue him out of it at such a remove. Now she’s here, and she can see that her suspicions are correct, and he can no longer argue against her.
It must sting, she knows, for him to see her settle in so quickly among them. What she wants him to understand is that he could have this as well, if he only set foot outwith his comfort zone. Even just seeing her dynamic with him has begun to change the Scions’ views of him, she thinks: there’s a door ajar, and she would have it flung open before he has a chance to shut it again.
But perhaps there’s an easier way forward than getting him to drop his emotional guard. That might come with time, if he can loosen up in other areas first.
"Mark," she says, "thou wouldst achieve greater success if thou wert to reconsider thine attire." She sits beside him on the bed, and gives him a gentle nudge with her elbow. "An appearance more dowdy could not be found in all the knitting circles of Sharlayan."
He blushes. She knows full well that his actual tastes are far different to his current outfit. "‘Tis comfortable," he insists.
"Nay, ‘tis of a like thread count to a miller’s sack. ‘Tis concealing. ‘Tis obfuscating, and thou dost parse that as comfort."
He finishes folding the paper, and then heaves a deep, troubled sigh.
Moenbryda puts an arm around him. "Should I leave thee be?" she asks, her voice becoming quiet. "Thou needst but say the word."
"Nay," he says, eventually. "Thou hast the right of it, I fear, as is thy wont. Truly, I had forgotten thy perspicacity and frankness both." Moenbryda rests her head against his shoulder, as he continues: "Nevertheless, it is full arduous a task that thou hast laid at my feet. I know not where to start."
Moenbryda gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "Thou needst not embark upon it alone. When our business here concludes, pray join me in an expedition to Sapphire Avenue. Should none of the fashions there meet with thine approval, I shall lay the topic to rest. But I suspect that we shall find something that suits thy true tastes."
He lowers his head in thought. A long moment passes, and Moenbryda begins to worry - but then he raises it again, and grins, for the first time since she arrived.
"Forsooth! Now do I see the true intent behind thine offer. Does thou wish to recreate the tales of our childhood, of a humble serving girl who art magically transformed into a princess of surpassing beauty?"
Moenbryda laughs uproariously, and pushes him over onto his side. "Do not confuse my tastes with thine!"
"Stay thy perfidious tongue!"
They’re both laughing now, poking their fingers into one another’s ribs to elicit more sniggers. Moenbryda knows that they are often mistaken for lovers, and for Urianger’s sake she has often allowed the misconception to continue; encouraged it, even, for the sake of ameliorating his struggles at home. But the truth is that they have grown together as siblings, and her mother and father have been truer parents to him than any Augerelt. One day, she hopes, he will be ready to dispense with the fiction entirely.
Urianger’s laughter starts to fade, and he rolls on the bed, staring up at the drapes above.
"Moen," he says, a little plaintively, "wilt thou stay thy charm when thou dost speak with Thancred?"
She laughs again, kindly, this time. "Did thou not listen? Hast thou truly forgotten where my preferences lie? Fear not that I might offer competition in this theatre." She winks at him. "Mine eye turneth instead to thy Warrior of Light."
Urianger sits bolt upright. "Thou dost not mean Rin?"
Moenbryda waggles her eyebrows at him. "Thinkest thou that she would not be interested? But nay, ‘tis Straka I had in mind. O, how long have I waited to find a woman who might endure the pace I would set?"
"Full long, by the testament of your letters."
"Thou hast the right of it! I am a scholar, and I shall make a study of the Eikon-slayer with eyes, mouth and more--"
Urianger groans, and hides his head in a pillow. "Desist, I beg."
"On my life, I will not," she says, and beams. "Thou art stuck with me."
He lowers the pillow and smiles, his golden eyes creasing. "And full glad I am of that."