09-04-2018, 07:31 PM
While they were growing up in the old house, Eleanor had kept a photo on the mantle. Taken on one of Natalie's eldest sister's birthdays, when Isobel's passions had centred upon the equestrian, in it Is sat proud and tall atop her mare. Her gap-toothed smile beamed brighter than the sun, riding hat slightly askew, reigns tight in her hands. Astride the second horse, petulantly hunched, five year old Natalie glared abjectly at the lens. Moments later she'd almost fallen in her haste to get off the damn animal's back.
She watched Jay lead the beast out; watched the motions of comfort and distraction as he began to care for it, murmuring quietly to himself, until it reacted to her presence. The horse blinked disagreeably intelligent eyes, ears pricked forward curiously at the intrusion of her approach. "So you're a good listener, huh?" Her palm brushed the length of its soft nose, the hot breath of each wicker an acute reminder of how easily it might buck and trample. Not that fear tended to stay her hand, often to her cost. "You know," she told it softly, "your dad over there is being kind of a dick. Good intentions, obviously, to say nothing of short roads. It's a good job we both like him."
She wasn't exactly oblivious to the way Jay had pressed his face into the animal's side, and she caught at least some of his mutterings (enough to run her blood a little cold), but she skirted carefully away from action that might shatter him. She'd seen a similar look etched wretchedly on Imani's face years before, and the cost of Natalie's reckless help back then had burned them both; a litany of mistakes she was not exactly keen to repeat, but logic seemed an enemy when her heart shifted so restlessly. Truth was she had enough to deal with on her own. The nightmares would fade and grief would find equilibrium given enough time. But for now its grip kicked her towards her limit. She wanted to offer salvation, but was not sure she could distinguish it from accidental ruin.
Natalie didn't know how to coax Jay back from the ledge toward which he strayed. Duty might keep him from the plunge; in fact she was sure it would. But each plucked finger twisted like a knife, pulling her closer than was wise. She ought to step back. She did not need another ghost, and Jay excelled at self-sacrifice, but neither did she trust how he might resolve things on his own, loyalties clawing so many directions he'd rip and split until no man remained at all.
Her gaze pinched away from the horse. She felt every inch of the journey's bone-wearying fatigue as she looked upon him, a reflection of dishevelment (she was hardly a picture herself), but it still washed over her anew -- the realisation of how far he pushed himself. Stubble wrapped his chin. Eyes shadowed by worse than a few hours missed sleep. But she pulled no punches, even then, for the spike lodged in her gut at his insistence to walk the path alone.
"I ought to remind you that I'm the Custody's leash sent to bring you back," she said drily. Her expression rested in its habitual stillness, uncertain she wanted to betray a reaction. "I might even guilt you with what the cost of failure would mean for me, or point out how you've dragged Jensen into whatever this is -- and he's a better person than either of us could ever claim to be. I should probably tell you too that Cayli thinks I'm here to keep you out of trouble; a difficult promise to keep when I don't know exactly what we're running from."
She reeled off the manipulations, knowing even as she listed them as hypothetical that each one would sting like desert sand. She never claimed to be kind. The truth rarely was. But though her words quartered with the sharp blade of their mistress's tongue, she did not demand an explanation -- nor pause to allow him to offer one. Her expression softened, the anger simmering lower once expressed, or maybe she was just too tired to sustain it.
"You're tying the weight of the world around your own feet, Jay. I can't just watch." She pressed a hand over her face like it would somehow wipe the emotion clean, hating the swell of powerlessness and the way it lodged in her throat. She breathed out like she could simply refuse to feel, disconcerted by the depth of it she could hear in her own voice. "We can pretend I'm here out of duty, since you only lie to yourself. Though it was easier to believe when I thought--" Her voice trailed quiet, in part because the horse moved and she jerked on instinct. And in part because the words edged towards something she wasn't sure she cared to admit to.
She thought about Jay's pained expression when she accused his help of being hired in the tunnels. Remembered the circle of his arms in the dark, reassurance she'd been too mistrustful to fall into at the time, though the feel of it had lingered since. Different circumstances might have pulled him willing into the empty room of the Kremlin, like he was a lust that could simply be satiated and forgotten. But she shied too readily from the softer touch of his fingers smoothing her hair to really believe that. Natalie veered between a fortress of steel and the sort of bare-necked vulnerability that expected to be crushed. And maybe that was what it needed; a cruel cut. Sitting on the precipice was just too painful.
Her hand curled around his wrist, stilling any motion with the brush. The heat of skin, even so innocent, lit him to her senses, though it was only earnestness in her pale gaze. "Why won't you let me help?"
She watched Jay lead the beast out; watched the motions of comfort and distraction as he began to care for it, murmuring quietly to himself, until it reacted to her presence. The horse blinked disagreeably intelligent eyes, ears pricked forward curiously at the intrusion of her approach. "So you're a good listener, huh?" Her palm brushed the length of its soft nose, the hot breath of each wicker an acute reminder of how easily it might buck and trample. Not that fear tended to stay her hand, often to her cost. "You know," she told it softly, "your dad over there is being kind of a dick. Good intentions, obviously, to say nothing of short roads. It's a good job we both like him."
She wasn't exactly oblivious to the way Jay had pressed his face into the animal's side, and she caught at least some of his mutterings (enough to run her blood a little cold), but she skirted carefully away from action that might shatter him. She'd seen a similar look etched wretchedly on Imani's face years before, and the cost of Natalie's reckless help back then had burned them both; a litany of mistakes she was not exactly keen to repeat, but logic seemed an enemy when her heart shifted so restlessly. Truth was she had enough to deal with on her own. The nightmares would fade and grief would find equilibrium given enough time. But for now its grip kicked her towards her limit. She wanted to offer salvation, but was not sure she could distinguish it from accidental ruin.
Natalie didn't know how to coax Jay back from the ledge toward which he strayed. Duty might keep him from the plunge; in fact she was sure it would. But each plucked finger twisted like a knife, pulling her closer than was wise. She ought to step back. She did not need another ghost, and Jay excelled at self-sacrifice, but neither did she trust how he might resolve things on his own, loyalties clawing so many directions he'd rip and split until no man remained at all.
Her gaze pinched away from the horse. She felt every inch of the journey's bone-wearying fatigue as she looked upon him, a reflection of dishevelment (she was hardly a picture herself), but it still washed over her anew -- the realisation of how far he pushed himself. Stubble wrapped his chin. Eyes shadowed by worse than a few hours missed sleep. But she pulled no punches, even then, for the spike lodged in her gut at his insistence to walk the path alone.
"I ought to remind you that I'm the Custody's leash sent to bring you back," she said drily. Her expression rested in its habitual stillness, uncertain she wanted to betray a reaction. "I might even guilt you with what the cost of failure would mean for me, or point out how you've dragged Jensen into whatever this is -- and he's a better person than either of us could ever claim to be. I should probably tell you too that Cayli thinks I'm here to keep you out of trouble; a difficult promise to keep when I don't know exactly what we're running from."
She reeled off the manipulations, knowing even as she listed them as hypothetical that each one would sting like desert sand. She never claimed to be kind. The truth rarely was. But though her words quartered with the sharp blade of their mistress's tongue, she did not demand an explanation -- nor pause to allow him to offer one. Her expression softened, the anger simmering lower once expressed, or maybe she was just too tired to sustain it.
"You're tying the weight of the world around your own feet, Jay. I can't just watch." She pressed a hand over her face like it would somehow wipe the emotion clean, hating the swell of powerlessness and the way it lodged in her throat. She breathed out like she could simply refuse to feel, disconcerted by the depth of it she could hear in her own voice. "We can pretend I'm here out of duty, since you only lie to yourself. Though it was easier to believe when I thought--" Her voice trailed quiet, in part because the horse moved and she jerked on instinct. And in part because the words edged towards something she wasn't sure she cared to admit to.
She thought about Jay's pained expression when she accused his help of being hired in the tunnels. Remembered the circle of his arms in the dark, reassurance she'd been too mistrustful to fall into at the time, though the feel of it had lingered since. Different circumstances might have pulled him willing into the empty room of the Kremlin, like he was a lust that could simply be satiated and forgotten. But she shied too readily from the softer touch of his fingers smoothing her hair to really believe that. Natalie veered between a fortress of steel and the sort of bare-necked vulnerability that expected to be crushed. And maybe that was what it needed; a cruel cut. Sitting on the precipice was just too painful.
Her hand curled around his wrist, stilling any motion with the brush. The heat of skin, even so innocent, lit him to her senses, though it was only earnestness in her pale gaze. "Why won't you let me help?"