Chapter Text
He was staring again.
Perhaps he could have lied and said it was less staring, more gazing, appreciating, observing even. But no, those were all dignified.
Staring is what he was doing. Desperate and aching, openly. In the darkened corners of himself he knew he thrilled at the idea of her noticing.
Her eyes flicking up, her brow quirking in question, never in disgust or unease. Because even though he knew he was finite, and she was endless, she would still give him the grace to at least believe she’d entertained him.
Yes, him.
Old. Scholarly. A dusty tome, forgotten on a shelf, but without the dignified marks of well worn pages, and threadbare edges. Those were marks of use. Of love. Adoration.
No. He was simply there, only marked by time, no one finding him interesting long enough to pursue his pages to crinkled messes. No lines written in his margins, or edges worn and folded by being known. Always just flipped through, skimmed, then discarded once they realized the material was too dense. Too raw. Too emotional.
And she.
Well if she deigned him the act of dragging her fingers along his soft blurred paragraphs, slow enough, even, to feel the subtle indents of the letterforms, it would be different. He would make it different. He would make it enough.
He would buy her gold. He would take her out. Fill her with wine and words if only to pretend for a moment that she was his. Because he was already hers.
Wholeheartedly, unabashedly, sickeningly.
And when her laugh lilted up and out of her upturned mouth, brought about by another’s wit, it would have to be enough that he was lucky just to hear it.
When she pranced about in her linen skirts, clapping along with the others as they danced around the table, it would have to be enough for him to just simply witness it.
Because she was bright and beautiful and so so brave.
Because she had decades of life stretched out before her.
Because like a slow moving storm over the hills, he felt the yawning abyss of the end stretch ahead of him.
Yes, he could give her everything. His heart, his mind, gold or trinkets, safety and warmth. Love.
Yes, everything. The panic. The doubt. The fading relevance of his station, as newer, younger, more interesting people nudged their way into the places he once inhabited so comfortably.
He could give her everything.
But she deserved more.
So he’d sit in his armchair, and brew her her tea, with a teaspoon of honey, and a small butter cookie on the side, and listen. And laugh. And if he felt brave, he’d try to coax a blush or two.
She would yawn, and try to hide it. And he would notice and act like he didn’t, finding a new topic to keep her just a moment longer. Because to be even just in her orbit was enough. Had to be enough.
And then he’d walk her to the door, and at the last moment place a book in her hands he just so happened to think she’d like, so she had a reason to return.
And when the door closed, he’d be left with the crackling of the fire, and nothing else.
And he’d ache.
And promise himself to get over this. To move on. To latch onto some fault of hers to make her less maddening. Promise to say “no, I simply can’t” when she asked him upon another excursion.
He’d awake the next day, early and alone. He’d find solace in his rituals. He’d tighten his grip on his staff as he made his way to the common room.
And she’d turn and see him, a smile lifting the cheeks he so longed to kiss, and say: “How’s about accompanying me to Treviso?”
And he’d remember his promise, and reply,
“Yes, of course.”