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“Lass, yer hair is growing out.” Spoke the outlander as his fingers combed through her hair. D'arce wasn’t sure why she allowed him to do this, nor why she’d begun to lean in close whenever he did.
“Have you just noticed? It has been for a while now.” She replied as she grabbed a strand of hair that had grown long enough to trail over her shoulder. “Besides, I am quite afraid that yours has done the same.”
Ragnvaldr threw back his head and let out a throaty laugh, as if she’d said something hilarious. She knew she hadn’t, and yet his joy was a relief to hear after the hell that was the dungeons. For him to still be capable of such a noise, one so loud it shook the earth… Perhaps she would be capable of the same.
“Aye,” He finally replied as he moved to wipe his eye with a single finger, “but I have always had long hair. And Anno that you haven’t. Whit reason did you have fer chopping it all off in the first place, lass?”
Such a question was common, and yet it was always cause for her to pause. “Ah…” She breathed out, bringing her hands to her lap as she leaned further into his touch. “It is for combat reasons. The moment I became a knight of Rondon….”
D’arce trailed off for a heartbeat to fight the swell of grief that had arisen in her chest. And Ragnvaldr did not push for her to continue; his hands just kept toying with her growing hair. Was he braiding it?
“Pardon… When I became a knight of Rondon, I had to cut my hair– otherwise, it could be grabbed when in combat and I could easily be captured or killed.” Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they trailed up, past her bosom and throat, to grab onto the hair he was toying with. With a hiss, she yanked it to the side and grabbed his hand to bring it to her airways. “Like so.”
His hand hovered there, trembling in place and only brushing her skin every so often. But each feather-light touch made her shiver, even if his flesh felt almost scalding.
“...Aye, I see. Ah figured t'was to prevent the other knights from sneaking off to chug.” Ragnvaldr murmured as he pulled his hand away, focused on playing with her hair once more– it seemed to fascinate him, funny enough- like a babe with a shiny shilling. “Er… A wank, as you’d call it.”
D’arce tilted her head back for a moment to try to meet his eyes but was only met with the flesh of his chest and the fuzzy coating of hair upon it, to which he let out a chuckle. It made her heart warm, and yet her stomach sank nonetheless. How could he have let her into his house? Where his wife and child once slept.
Where her former fellow knights brought the two to a bloody and brutal demise. She’d seen how he stared at her in the dungeons; like she, his companion, would turn at any moment and bring him to the same fate. Or was that look his way of guessing if she was the one who slaughtered his family? She’d not focused on it at the time, and now that gaze had long since vanished, but she’d never forget it.
She’d never forget the sight Nilvan presented, either; the slaughtered neighbors and friends, lying upon the ground with their flesh shredded. Many of them had died to her blade, as much as she hated to admit it. Even so, she’d never gained the courage to apologize. And Ragnvaldr had never asked for one.
“Lass, do you ever think about marriage?” The question was sudden and silent, but it still fell upon D’arce’s ears as his hands guided portions of her hair into messy braids.
How odd… With the timing, it almost felt like he knew she was thinking of his former family; people she’d never met, but he’d described with such a distant look of joy in his eyes. How wrong it felt, to answer such a question.
“I used to,” She admitted in the shallowest of tones, a hiccup catching onto her words as she fought the bitter grief, “...we both know what resulted over it, I believe.”
He went quiet. It was not a few seconds, nor a few minutes; it felt like an eternity before he spoke again, and to the arachnids scrambling about it probably was. “...Le’garde?”
That name always seemed to hang in the air… and she did not yearn to compare it to anything she’d seen in that hellscape, but she knew it very well could be. Even so, she did not try to wrangle it down, as she’d so crudely attempted with the makeshift chandeliers. It was just left to dangle until limp, for it was far too hard for her to manage such a discussion with Ragnvaldr.
“...I have…… moved on.” A lie, but not entirely; she’d learned to see her commander for what he was, but that didn’t make the feelings of her heart any less painful. “But I’m afraid I have not let myself wonder about such a thing as of late. I suppose it is the same for you?”
Ragnvaldr’s hands fell from her hair. This time, they did not find their way back. Instead, his back turned so that he may pace without yanking her about. “Naw… I’m not afraid of getting wed again. Er… Ah am, suppose, but Anno I cannae always live in the cauld water of sorrow.”
He found his way to a chair opposite of her, his teeth catching on his chapped lower lip as he spoke. His accent was difficult to understand, but she made do. “The girl… Did you ever give the wee yin a name? She made me miss Björn– wee thing, he was. Aye…… I was so excited tae hold him in my arms…” There was that distant look of joy in his eyes again, but D’arce had not the will to comment on it. “... I want to be a Da again, I think.”
D’arce responded with a splutter before she scrambled for a cloth so that she might wipe her mouth. “Please pardon me. What is this being brought up for?”
But he didn’t need to respond; that look in his eyes felt like enough. Was that what love looked like? She couldn’t be sure, she’d never seen it before. At least… she’d never seen it directed towards her. But that stare was unwavering and it made her heart sink further from the guilt. Was that why he’d begun behaving the way he had? Toying with her hair, making sure she got the first servings of food, letting her have the thickest blankets…
Then his gaze tore from hers to focus on the detailing of the table. He’d claimed to have made it himself, upon Hilde’s request. Even carved her name into the underside, but he’d never dared to point it out. Would he ever do the same for her, if she learned to love him?
“Dunno, lass.” He muttered finally as his hair fell in blood-like curtains around his face. “Just came to mind, I suppose.”
It was a lie of the most obvious kind. But D’arce dared not to call him out; for she knew he’d only admit, and that would make her heart ache far more.
“Sorry, Lass. I have… made things a wee bit odd, naw?” Ragnvaldr offered with a sigh, “...Well, shite.”
D’arce’s own hands found their way into her hand, an almost ingrained yearning for him to return his affections– but why? She wouldn’t dare to love again; Le’garde had proven that love only stripped one of their soul’s purpose. And she couldn’t let that happen again. She would give no reason for anyone to challenge her soul, her dominance, ever again.
… But that look in his eyes… Oh, she hated it.
“Ragnvaldr, would you be truthful with me if I asked you to?” She asked as her fingers combed through her previously braided hair– each portion of it had been awkward in size, making for a rather strange looking braid, but it was of no concern to her.
His green eyes reflected his soul and his affections as he met her gaze. He was tormented and littered with scars and pain, both physically and mentally, but there was still part of him that dared to love and hope. He seemed to search her face for something in that moment without a response, but perhaps he did not find what he was looking for. “Maybe. Wit do you need t’ know? Are you still struggling to understand me?”
D’arce shook her head hastily, letting her hair fall around her– it was messy, but it would be cared for later. “I understand you well enough. We have spent many… months? Years? Together, after all. It is something else.” Nerve was something she had plenty of, even if it was something to overlap with the professionalism she was trained to have. “Why do you look at me so? As though……”
Strangely, she trailed off and could not regain her wording. It was as though she was being strangled, with the rope tied tight; a punishment for traitorism, despite being far from Rondon. She had no reason to be quiet, for she would never allow herself to be shut up ever again.
But Ragnvaldr spoke before she could force her tongue to work. “Aye, I see… Would you believe me if I claimed you to have stolen something of mine, Lass?”
She startled and, almost by instinct, let her hands fall to where her satchel had lay on her once before. But, from the way he chuckled, she knew she appeared a fool; and that only served to flush her face and make her tear her gaze away. “I am no thief. That is… was… Cahara’s act.”
“But you are.” Ragnvaldr insisted as his tidbit of laughter died. “Maybe it is cheesy… Naw, it most certainly is. But, D’arce.”
Her gaze trailed to him once more, to which she saw his hand resting over the left of his bosom. He did not speak for a few minutes, as if collecting his words, and then he removed his hand from his hair-littered flesh to rest it upon the table once more. “...You must have cut me open at some point to thieve. So, I suppose.. It belongs to you for the next eternity.”