emmanuelle & laurent iii.

Emmanuelle

A week passes. He has nowhere to send a letter should his plans change, only a promise that should he come to the edge of the woods, spirits will tell her he is there and she will find him. He receives no letter, either, only,

one sunny day, early afternoon -- not quite lunchtime -- Emmanuelle at his door again.

In the same blue dress, which has been washed by someone intent on getting out the mud from the hem, and apparently someone rather practiced at it as well. And interestingly, it is not nearly so soiled as the last time, despite the fact that it is spring, and the ground is often damp.

She has no hat, but her nose and cheeks and brow are not reddened from the sun, no matter how brightly it is shining today. Her hair is even less elaborate, though, braided slightly to one side, gathered and bound with a ribbon at her neck, slightly behind and below one earlobe, the rest hanging down in dark waves from that point. And she is carrying a small valise, though that may be a nice word for the beaten-up, somewhat rough leather satchel she has in her hands.

Laurent

It is Saturday, and the shop is busy. There are several customers crowded into the tiny shop, some of the less patient or less polite shouting orders from the back. The brothers are busy, both of them manning both till and block as time permits. Boiled chickens, plucked geese, cuts of pork and chunks of mutton and even slabs of precious beef are traded for coin at the counter, but even so when Emmanuelle appears at the door a momentary hush seems to fall.

Then the Parisians are clamoring again -- I need a leg of mutton! I need a pork loin! I was here first, sir, get in line! -- and Laurent raises his voice to bellow, ungentleman-like, over them all:

"THE SHOP IS CLOSING FOR LUNCH. You'll be served if you get in line right now, but after that you will have to come back in the afternoon."

There's a frantic rush as customers squeeze into line. Over their heads, Laurent nods at Emmanuelle, then points at the door and motions for her to shut it.

Emmanuelle

Emmanuelle does not like crowds. Her eyes go wide at the number of people in the shop. And she

promptly

steps backwards out of the shop and lets the door close again.

--

She can hear him yell, from where she ends up standing outside, near the window. He can see her through the window, at least, and knows she hasn't run away. If she catches his eye there, in the midst of the chaos, she smiles. That's all.

--

A little while later, the people filter out with their mutton and lamb and loin and geese and so on and so forth. More than a few, with their powdered faces and elaborate wigs and feathered hats, look at the odd young woman by the door with her little valise, in her simple dress and peasant's hair, and do not know why such a creature drew their eyes

only to make them regret that they looked at her,

only to make them uneasy that she might have looked back.

But then, when they've all gone, Emmanuelle gently opens the door again, peering inside and, a moment later, stepping inside as well.

Laurent

They are starting to get the bourgeois in this shop. Not just their fellow scum of the left bank but respectable merchants' wives from across the bridge; women with wigs and powdered faces and feathered hats who come here as much for the Local Flavor as they do for the meat. That is fine; they tend to buy the choicest cuts and they do not haggle over prices. Laurent does not mind them, and Gaspard rather likes them.

Two such ladies depart, along with a redfaced man who works the riverdocks and a pair of adolescent girls buying precious meat for their family's Sunday dinner. Finally, an old man, unsteady on his feet, startling visibly when he sees Emmanuelle outside. Recovering, he manages to find his manners and doffs his hat to her before tottering away.

--

She peers in to find the brothers cleaning up. They are a sight to behold, efficiency defined -- though none too careful, as one might expect of two men running a shop. Surfaces are scraped, rinsed, wiped; knives are washed and sharpened and rinsed again. In minutes they've finished closing down the shop for lunch, and Gaspard, making some thin excuse about needing to cook, disappears upstairs.

Laurent comes out from behind the counter, reaching for the barely-a-valise. "Sorry you had to wait," he apologizes. "I should have told you, we're busiest on Fridays and Saturdays. Closed on Sunday, though. What's in your bag? Are you spending the night?"

Emmanuelle

The man who doffs his hat delights Emmanuelle. She thinks it's terribly amusing, and charming, and sweet, and she hopes he has a nice day even though she doesn't say a word to him. Which is for the best.

--

Emmanuelle is not well-socialized enough to greet Gaspard and bother him with small talk when he insists on going to cook. Truth be told, the two of them together is hard for her to manage, since it feels a bit like trying to speak two languages at once. She likes him. She doesn't know, at all, what to do with him.

Laurent reaches for her valise, and she isn't quite sure why, but she doesn't jerk it away from him. He is nice, and she has seen it, and he is polite, so she trusts that he means neither her nor her valise any harm, and in fact he might be unhappy if she didn't let him attend to her like a lady.

So he takes it, and feels up his arm a slight vibration of energy, something unnameable, unless that name is somehow hers, one he hasn't heard spoken but recognizes all the same.

"I don't mind," she assures him, sincerely, both to her wait and their busy-ness. "And... many things, really. It is hard to explain. What I do requires... tools, sometimes. I prefer to keep it with me when I travel."

She smiles a little. "I am not staying, remember? I am taking you to the caern tonight."

Laurent

"I do remember," he says, because he does. "I just thought perhaps you'd changed your mind."

A pause.

"You could, you know. Stay the night, if you'd like." And then, because that sounds terribly inappropriate: "My brother and I would share a room. You could have the other."

Emmanuelle

Now her cheeks redden. Not in a shy, almost self-aware blush. In the sort of blush that creeps up the neck and cheeks without one noticing. As it creeps up her cheeks, as she looks at him, staring somewhat.

Then she blinks. "I... I want to take you home, though."

Her brain swoons left, veers sharply right, and crashes slightly against some rocks.

"To see the caern."

Laurent

He laughs a little, a breath of it that he catches. He doesn't want to embarrass her.

"Maybe next time, then."

Emmanuelle

Emmanuelle is pink. No one talks to her like this, intentionally or by accident. She has no idea what to make of him, or even her own reactions to it.

So she takes a moment. She is aware now that her face is hot, and looks down, exhaling slightly. Clears her throat a bit before she looks up again.

"What are we having for lunch?"

Laurent

"Beef roast," he says.

Wants to tell her that that's a special thing. That even butchers don't have meat daily, and certainly not beef; that he wants to serve her beef because she is a guest, and special. But he doesn't have the words, not in ways that won't sound as though he wanted something -- some recognition, some overt gratitude. He doesn't want any of those things. He just wants to serve her something special.

So in the end, it's just that simple explanation. And then he clears his throat, looks at the floorboards, looks back at her.

"Let's go upstairs and eat. Then we'll take the horses and go see your home."

Emmanuelle

Her eyes flash. That sounds good enough to make her forget her blush, her awkwardness. Her mouth waters a bit, which she conceals, but she nods. "That sounds lovely." And it doesn't occur to her that this is special, she who hunts her own meat and tears it bloodily with her jaws. It doesn't occur to her that Laurent, who was raised by humans and understands how to behave among them, might occasionally feel a little awkward with her, too, even when it isn't her fault for being so... uncouth.

She nods to him, and he carries her valise, which feels so strangely like it is a piece of her, like he's touching her,

though he never has.

--

Lunch is much like the dinner last week: their guest is not a fantastic conversationalist and often looks to Laurent for guidance when speaking to Gaspard. She is a little more prepared for his inquisitiveness, and a few times even gives him answers that verge on revelation of the truth that his brother has not given him yet, but she still respects that boundary in the end. When he calls it magic, she gently corrects him: they are gifts, taught by spirits. If the word 'witch' comes up, she corrects him gently again: I was born under a crescent moon, and I am called a theurge.

And she eats what she is given. She does not ask for more but keeps eating whatever is offered. She likes the beef very much, and says so more than once, as if she's forgotten that she already remarked on it. This time, she even drinks a bit of ale, which -- as well as the food -- relaxes her, makes her eyelids heavy and her shoulders less tense, her body less rigid.

She blushes more easily, but less shyly.

Emmanuelle

[FAK]

Emmanuelle

[bettar?]

Laurent

In a week's time, Gaspard seems to have learned a little more. There is an offhand comment about shapeshifting, though he must not know much yet because he doesn't have much in the way of questions. He is corrected on terminology: theurge, not sorceress or witch or enchantress.

Theurge.

It's a word Laurent doesn't know, either. And then there is some discussion of what the different moon phases are called; these words that are foreign, that sound borrowed from this language or that. Eventually the conversation drifts, and Gaspard entertains them with the German he has been learning. Some of the best minds of the day, he says, are German.

They eat. Again her plate is refilled often and generously, though she never asks for more. And the brothers eat, too, and drink more liberally of ale than she does. Eventually their politesse slips and they pick things up in their hands, gnaw on bones, suck their fingers, laugh.

It is mid-afternoon by the time they quit the table. And Gaspard, generous fellow that he is, says he will do the cleanup. So it is that Laurent goes to saddle the horses, returning when they are ready to fetch Emmanuelle.

"Are we bringing your bag, then?" he asks. It is confirmation: he already has it in hand, ready to load up behind the saddle.

Emmanuelle

This seems to relax her, too: the less flowy sounds of German against the French. She almost says they remind her of growls at times, but stops herself. The men eating with their hands, the heaviness in her belly: it all seems to calm her somewhat, make her feel less out of place, less worried.

Gaspard must know his brother is being taken away into the woods by this woman. He must know, to not be bewildered by the turn. While he cleans, Emmanuelle rests, sitting back in her chair and asking Gaspard a few questions of her own. She tries not to make them too probing: she asks if he likes butchering, and if he will speak in German again, and

small things, like that.

When Laurent comes back up her eyes are bright, and even though when he went to saddle the horses she looked ready to fall asleep, she looks energized now, alert. Rises from her seat, nodding to his question.

She thanks Gaspard. She tells him again how lovely the roast was. She doesn't know quite what else to say, but she's appreciative, at least. She does, after all, like him.

And likes, oddly, that Laurent has a brother. A brother he's close to.

--

She and Laurent go downstairs, and he straps her valise to the saddle on the horse she's to ride, and after he does, she comes to face the horse. It backs up a few steps, initially, shaking its head, anxious and uncertain, but doesn't rear. She keeps coming closer, until it settles. Until its hooves still. Until she lifts up a hand, palm upward, and -- after a moment -- the beast comes closer to her again. Puts its muzzle in her hand as if there were a lump of sugar there. Whinnies softly, like she's familiar. Steps right up against her, trying to rest its enormous, long head against her own. She laughs gently. Puts her palm on the animal's shoulder.

Then it does the most extraordinary thing: it kneels for her. It goes down, ungainly but submissive, and Emmanuelle walks to its side, her hand trailing over its coat all the while so that it never looses contact with her. And she sets herself carefully in the saddle, grasping the pommel tightly,

and pats the horse's neck. At that signal, untaught, untrained, it gets back to all fours, which jostles her a bit, but not enough to throw or dislodge her. She smooths its mane, its broad neck, murmuring to it in a language that is not French, or German, or anything Laurent has ever heard before.

Laurent

The horses are, like Laurent's dueling pistols and his rapier and his scant few pieces of gentlemanly clothing, far above what one might imagine a simple butcher could afford. Yet in a sense they are a part of his profession, the same as the pistol and the rapier and the clothing. To duel nobility, even in substitution, one must look the part.

And so the animals are noble, spirited things, long of limb and sleek of muscle. One is black, and the other chestnut. It is this second one that is saddled for Emmanuelle. As it gentles for her, then bows to her, Laurent watches amazed. After it has risen, Emmanuelle on its back, he swings up onto his own mount.

"I don't think I've ever seen him do that," he remarks as they set off onto the cobblestoned streets. "Perhaps he remembers what you did for him."

Emmanuelle

Truth be told, the chestnut isn't the only one who seems suddenly fond of Emmanuelle, though it is the one that receives most of her attention. The black is nosing its way over, or trying to, trying to get a better look, a whiff, or -- most coveted of all -- a caress from one of the theurge's hands. And if Laurent permits it to get near to her, she does lean over and stroke the beast's brow and pats its neck, making it whinny happily, as well.

They set off, and for all her unease in the city it seems that Emmanuelle does, in fact, know how to ride. And does so astride, which is unthinkable, and yet.

So much of her is unthinkable.

"I do not think so," she says, not unkindly, as the chestnut carries her along. "Animals, whether predator or prey, fear and avoid my kind. One of the gifts I have learned is to mask myself as a mortal to their instincts. The closer the creature is to humans in general, the more submissive it seems to be to me when I use this gift."

She looks over at him. "A fox in the woods will not panic, but nor will it eat from my palm. But a hound will leave its master if I call to it, and follow me where I lead."

Laurent

The horses are more docile today than is typical, and their ride through the city is leisurely. Laurent's horsemanship is excellent; he sits the saddle easily, the flow of his body unconsciously attuned to the stride of his mount.

As she looks over at him, she finds him looking at her. He is thoughtful: "You heal. You befriend animals. It occurs to me all your magic thus far is ... gentle. I'm not sure it's what I would have expected of creatures who can shapeshift into a monstrous beast. Is it just you, or all your kind like this?"

Emmanuelle

The look in her eyes when he calls her magic gentle is one of faint ache. Her eyebrows draw together slightly, and she glances away again as they ride.

It occurs to her to simply tell him no. That very little of her magic is, in fact, gentle. That shapeshifting itself can be monstrous, not just the end result of the change. That no: there are none of her kind she would call gentle.

But this is not what she says. It is not the whole truth.

"A mother is gentle with her children," Emmanuelle finally answers, after a brief silence, "but can become ferocious and terrible if they are harmed.

"The Garou were created by our Mother from that ferocity. From her rage. Not her gentleness."

A glance to him, now, because though it makes her wonder what he will think of her now, she is not ashamed of what she is. "Not all agree with me, but I believe that she also lets us feel... tenderness, and be gentle sometimes, because it is the only way we can truly understand her pain, and why we must fight the way we do, endure what we do. I do not see it as a weakness."

Laurent

"Nor I," he replies.

They continue onward: past the baker, the fishmonger, the seamstress. Past a small tavern, noisy even in midafternoon, and then past a crowded tenement -- clothes drying on lines hung out of windows, children playing in the muddy puddles out front. One or two run along behind them a ways, awed by the horses and the lady riding astride.

"What else can you do, then?" he asks after a while. "Besides heal and charm."

Emmanuelle

People stare at her. The way she rides. They don't just look surprised, but genuinely put off, offended. As they get towards the poorer areas, the looks are more baffled and less affronted. The children run around nearly unattended and half-naked, unembarrassed on their own or anyone else's account.

Emmanuelle even smiles at them, and they whoop suddenly and run off, shoving each other.

"Many things," she says, thoughtfully, without boasting. "I am not the strongest fighter, but those of my auspice are not meant to be. My strength is in gift and ritual." She gives a small laugh. "Though most of my kind come for healing, and I am sure many do not know much else about what I do."

Laurent

Laurent turns his head to watch the children run off. They go dashing along the riverbank, one of them eventually shoving another into the water with a splash. He turns back, smiling.

"Given how mysterious and vague you were just now about what you can do," he teases gently, "I'm not surprised."

Emmanuelle

Emmanuelle huffs a laugh, looking over at him. "I was not vague. It is a long list. I do not want you to fall asleep and slip off your horse."

Laurent

"I shall signal for help," he retorts, "should I start to drowse."

Emmanuelle

She laughs again, more open this time, more at ease than before. There's something shy about it again, only her shyness looks less and less like embarrassment or smallness, the more time he spends with her. It starts to look like those blushes aren't simply a fretful nature or awkward social skills, but -- at least on occasion, and certainly now -- an indication of pleasure. Of happiness.

So then she tells him. It is, as promised, a rather long list. And she is detailed about it, since he just teased her for being vague. She can speak to spirits and understand their language in return. She can catch the scent of the Adversary, even when it has not revealed itself. She can, as he knows, heal with a touch, though she cannot heal herself this way. When in the spirit world, she can tether herself to a safe place when she goes into deeper, darker, stranger places, so that she does not become lost for days, months, or forever. When fighting hostile spirits, she can drain their energy with a sigil that carves itself into the ground at her feet. She can command spirits, which -- as she notes -- is mostly done with neutral spirits, ones neither likely to attack nor submit of their own accord. She can conjure prophetic visions, which she says are not always as helpful as one might think.

She can protect herself from fire, and armor herself with moonlight. She can stare down beasts and humans with no other threat, regardless of the form she wears, and make them flee or freeze in place. She can manipulate shadows to conceal herself or cast illusions for her enemies. She can hear whispers over a great distance. With a clap of her hands she can summon the voice of Grandfather Thunder, stunning those who hear it. She can cleanse people, tools and the ground itself from the influence of their great enemy, and notes wryly that her people call on her to do this with as much regularity as they ask her for healing. She can open the heart of the caern to grant its gifts to her, or to another. She can punish another wolf by making them tell everyone they meet of their greatest, most embarrassing secrets.

Emmanuelle knows the rite to send a fallen wolf to the afterlife and gather others together in their grief and honor for the dead. With a stone and a bit of hair or clothing, she can find anyone who has gone missing or run away. She can dedicate clothing and other objects to herself and others so that they shift with one's shape, so that they go into the penumbra, and it really is quite useful, especially now that she has to put on a dress to come visit her friend in the city.

Yes. She says that. She says it teasingly.

She knows how to awaken the spirits that sleep in all things, from plants to musical instruments to ale. And she knows how to bind spirits into objects or to her service, and mentions that there is a spirit of water bound to the gourd she gave him two weeks ago. She makes sure to mention that water spirits are often quite gentle, especially those bound into healing talens, and that it literally cannot do anything but heal, and then it will return to its essence in the spirit world.

Emmanuelle pauses after this, and by now they are some distance from the edge of the city, on their way to the woods. "I am only a Fostern, by rank," she says, "but I study with the Keeper of the Land in our caern. I must learn all I can, while he lives."

Laurent

He listens, attentively, as she tells him what she can do. He does not fall asleep. He is interested, and sometimes amazed. The things she tells him sound like magic. They are magic: unrational, inexplicable, far removed from the direction of the world.

And she is very thorough, and perhaps surprisingly honest: she tells him so much, with no fear of what he may do with this knowledge. On some level, they have each shown absolute trust in the other, unconsidered and unafraid, as though they know they will each never act against the other. Neither of them mention this unspoken. It is possible they don't even think of it, so natural does it feel.

"Will you succeed him, when he dies?" he asks, though the answer is already obvious. "What is it a Keeper of the Land does?"

Emmanuelle

"Perhaps," she says, because he cannot know what is not obvious: that she might die before then. That another wolf may usurp her. Though, truth be told: even she does not think these things will happen. The Keeper chose her as an apprentice. And she spends most of her time in the woods already.

"The Keeper of the Land... well. It is in the name," she answers, with the smallest of shrugs as they approach the long, stretching shadows of the trees. "He cares for the land of the caern and the bawn around it, the protectorate claimed by the sept wolves. He watches the land and trees for blights and sickness. He performs the rites that keep the spirits of the wood cared for, and loyal to us. He knows the rites, too, that make the woods inhospitable to humans and protect us from their encroachment. He is also the one who takes care of the graves of our heroes, so that the spirits of those long gone are still honored, even when all who knew them have passed on.

"It is not a position of great renown," Emmanuelle admits, "but it is necessary. And I am... well-inclined to the duties of the office."

Laurent

"Because you are shy," he says, and when he says it it sounds like a good thing, "and you love the land."

They are nearly at the edge of town -- the bridge where, some weeks ago, he turned back to seek answers. Seeing it, Laurent touches his heels to the flanks of his mount, spurring it to an easy trot.

"Will your position still allow you to visit the city, should you ascend to it?"

Emmanuelle

Another smile. Another reddening of her cheeks. She has no answer for that. Just that moment of pleasure to herself, that strange sense of being seen, but not exposed. Understood, and not undermined.

A moment later, she looks up as he quickens the pace of his horse, and she does the same, listening to the sound of the water beneath the bridge, the sound of the hooves on wood instead of cobblestones or packed earth.

She doesn't answer him at first. They cross the bridge. And then, with a strange sort of tension in her voice -- the reality of the answer holds a weight she didn't want to acknowledge yet -- she tells him: "...With great rarity. And only after I have an apprentice."

But she takes a breath and smiles at him. "It is many years away, yet. As I said, I am only a Fostern."

Laurent

A strange sensation -- the desire to reach out, to comfort. They are astride trotting horses, though, and at any rate -- it would not be proper.

"Well," he says, all the same, though this is not quite proper either, "perhaps I will visit you instead. Often."

Emmanuelle

Not for the first time, something about his words thrills her differently than the tender pleasure she feels for much of their conversations. It's a brief flash of heat, but it isn't lust. It's just a prickling of her awareness, a sharpening she's not used to. The feeling has no words, just a potent, fierce desire that comes over her suddenly:

she wants him in her den.

She swallows, and perhaps the strange look on her face can be interpreted as just a bit of lingering unease at the thought of being separated, which -- strangely, already -- seems like something he would understand. Something she believes, without having reason or evidence to believe it, would sadden him, too.

Emmanuelle just nods. "Yes. I would hope that many years hence, we are still... friends."

Laurent

"Friends," he echoes, softly.

And -- with a gentle tug on the reins -- slows his mount back to a walk. They are on the path down which he and his brother fled a couple weeks ago, heedless and headlong; now, leisurely as their pace is, he has time to see the graceful arch of tree branches overhead; the play of sunlight on the earth. It is lovely, cool in the dappled shade, birdsong ringing through the calm.

"Only friends?"

Emmanuelle

There it is again. And it shows on her face in its color, the bright pink that comes so easily to her fair skin. It takes her a moment to compose herself enough to answer, as though to clarify:

"At least friends."

Laurent

And tugging again on the reins.

And slowing again, this time to a standstill, his mount stamping a hoof and snorting.

"Forgive me," he says, "for I know not how to proceed, nor who else to ask: what are your customs? Who do I speak to, if I were to seek permission to court you?"

Emmanuelle

For a moment or two, the chestnut keeps clopping along, because Emmanuelle is avoiding looking at Laurent while her face is hot. But it doesn't take her long to notice that he's stopped, and to slightly turn the chestnut so she can see him.

At first she's not sure what he's talking about, or why he asks pardon, or what customs he's talking about, and her brow wrinkles in confusion. It isn't until the last four words that she understands. And freezes slightly, not out of displeasure but sheer surprise. She's never heard such a question before, certainly not regarding her own concerns.

It shouldn't be such a surprise. She's the one who pressed him a week ago, aching to know if the strange little things she was feeling were reciprocated, and too unschooled to know that asking right away like that isn't... how such things go. The idea, and the sensation, has floated back and forth between them every time they've been in one another's company, each of them taking turns being uncomfortable and uncertain about it.

All the same, he finds her staring at him instead of answering at first, and then -- finally -- blinking.

"M-mine," she eventually stammers. "Only mine. Y-you are kin. Normally it is I who would need to find your Garou relations and request permission to... to..." She closes her mouth, wets it, swallows. "But you have none for me to ask. So... I need only yours."

Laurent

She's so shy. And so uncertain. And so obviously startled, rattled, by this turn of events that he can't help but feel for her. He nudges his mount a little closer, the horse obediently sidestepping toward his friend and stablemate.

"Mademoiselle," he says, "may I have your permission to court you?"

Emmanuelle

The horses are familiar with one another, and comfortable standing quite close, which only means that now, if Laurent were to reach out, he could touch Emmanuelle's cheek. He does not. He is too polite for that. He knows the rules: things like lunch invitations and how to bow to nobles and asking permission to court a young woman who has caught his fancy.

Another example: he knows not to stare. Emmanuelle, not knowing this, is staring at him.

"Yes," she says, quick and quiet and somewhat breathless. She remembers to breathe, and does so, inhaling a sip of air.

And then -- oh, so brave -- she asks:

"May I have yours?"

Laurent

How quaint, he thinks, that she asks his permission in turn. And not merely because a woman would ordinarily never court a man, but also because: she thinks she still has to ask, even when he has made his own intentions so clear. How quaint; how charming. He is, indeed, quite charmed by her.

And so he holds his hand out to hers: palm up, fingers relaxed.

Emmanuelle

The look on his face makes her feel safe. Calm, even though being near him simultaneously makes her skin tingle somewhat. It's a strange feeling. It's like nothing she's ever felt before, and it is exhilarating and breathtaking

and warm

and gentle.

He holds out his hand and she doesn't hesitate. She barely knows what she's doing when she reaches her own hand back out to him, covering his palm with her palm, resting her fingertips on his wrist, and placing her smaller hand in such a way that his fingertips can touch hers, too.

Laurent

The palm of his hand is warm, and broad. There are callouses where one would hold a sword. Also, where one would hold a butcher's cleaver. After a moment, his hand closes gently around the base of hers.

"Of course," he says softly. "I would not have asked, otherwise."

Emmanuelle

She blushes. Again. Huffs a laugh at herself. "Of course," she says, realizing how silly it seems for her to ask. She knows why, though. And his hand offered to her, closing around hers, warming her skin, his voice saying of course: this is why.

She looks at him, and the sun is starting to set, so everything is bright and tinged with red and gold. She's holding his hand, and he holding hers. All the same, she tells him: "We should go on. Before it grows too dark."

Laurent

"Yes," he agrees, though he holds her hand still. "Right. We should."

And, reluctantly, he releases her hand. Takes up the reins again and guides the horse with his knees, nudging it onward.

Emmanuelle

His reluctance to let go is echoed in the way she touches him. Then: she squeezes his hand. Briefly, but it is there, and it is warm. Lets go. The horses step away from one another and soon she trots a small measure ahead, not only because this is her territory and her people's territory, but because the way quickly demands it.

For a time, the path is wide enough for the two horses to walk side by side, and she indulges in this. She can sneak looks over at him, the way she does when he's near. She can let her heart thump, the way it does when she looks at him.

But the sun is setting and the deeper they go in the trees, the darker it becomes. The path is narrowing and the deeper they go the less of a path it becomes. Before too long there is no path to speak of, for the roads that men walk do not lead through the heart of this particular forest, but skirt this way and that, away from its depths.

Soon they have walked deeper than Laurent has ever been. It is surprisingly quiet, though still one can hear frogs croaking, nightbirds hooting and cooing as they wake, branches rustling. Nocturnal animals still run from burrow to bush, bush to burrow. The trees creak.

There is a hush over it all, though. A faint breeze that sometimes sounds like whispering in Laurent's ears. The corners of his eyes play tricks, show him small lights darting between shadows or shadows themselves creeping closer towards his horse. These woods are enchanted, but not in a friendly way.

He sees a stagnant pool that ripples once when he glances at it in the twilight, as though some great and awful thing moves beneath the surface.

He sees moss hanging from branches that seems to move of its own accord, sees a faint dark flash that could be a pair of eyes opening in a mangled tree's trunk.

A fox screams somewhere in the distance.

There are fewer sounds of nature waking to night now.

Emmanuelle looks at him over her shoulder. She knows he is still there, for she can hear his horse, but she checks anyway. She knows these woods are inhospitable to mortals. She is not sure how 'mortal' to consider him, but she knows that one of the many rituals that keeps them protected is a potent one.

A few yards later, she pulls the chestnut to a stop, glances once at Laurent, then lifts her chin and lets out an ululating, tremulous howl. It is human-voiced but mimics that of a wolf's with surprising accuracy. It goes on for a few moments, almost as though she's talking to someone, and then she quiets. She waits, listening.

Then: an answering howl. This one is most definitely a wolf, and the sound is heavier, lower, and joined by a few other voices that twine together as one. Emmanuelle listens as though she understands, then looks at Laurent again.

"You are welcome here," she tells him, her voice quiet and strange after so long not speaking. "You are safe, but stay close to me nonetheless."

With that, she gives the chestnut a nudge, and they turn slightly to the east, angling their way towards the caern.

The first thing he sees, though, doesn't look like much: a low, sprawling hut built with some of the trees themselves as part of the walls. It is a primitive thing, made of rocks and mud and branches, but when they get closer he can see that much of this is camouflage. It is actually a rather sturdy little stone house. There is even a tendril of smoke curling up from a small, squat chimney.

A few yards from the house is a small brook, trickling and gurgling along. Emmanuelle leads him along the edge, then stops near a tree with a trunk so thick Laurent could not put his arms all the way around it.

"We can tie the horses here," she says to him.

Laurent

Deeper and deeper into the trees they stray, down paths -- and then trails -- and then nothing but thickets and brush -- that Laurent doubts he could find again if he were alone. The deeper they go the darker it gets, until all the irrational stories of childhood are ringing again in his ears; haunted forests and living trees, malevolent fairies and ...

well. Big bad wolves.

Emmanuelle can hear him starting now and again at a sight, a sound. He has grown quiet and tense, his knees locked around his docile horse, the reins gripped in his hands. When she looks back at him, he looks at her with strain in his face, tightness in his lips -- but manages the wryest of smiles.

Soon enough she stops. And howls. And the hairs on the back of his neck rise with the sound, so inhuman, coming from her throat -- echoing and then answered all around. The horse between his knees dances sideways, frightened, and he surprises himself when he pats the side of its broad neck, murmuring reassurance in its ear. As though he knew or trusted, somehow, that they will not be harmed.

And then they are moving again, and as they go a certain oppressiveness seems to lift. There are fewer flits and flickers in the corners of his eyes. There are fewer rumbles and chatters right at the edges of his hearing. Just the deep, still silence of an ancient forest; older than he would have imagined existed this close to one of the mightiest cities of the world.

When they stop, he dismounts and throws the reins over a lowhanging branch. Loosely, so that the horses can wander and nibble at grass, drink from the brook. Giving the black a last rub between the ears, he follows her once more.

"Is this your house?" he asks.

Emmanuelle

It is quieter here, and calmer. The woods seem ancient but not threatening, deep and dark but not hostile. The horses still retain tension: a long ride, a worrisome stretch of forest, and -- frankly -- they can sense that wolves are not far off, that this place is still strange and unfamiliar.

However, there is cold, clear water. There is bright spring grass growing in soft patches along the water's edge. And there is Emmanuelle, who pats the chestnut until it kneels again, letting her slide off the saddle. She strokes the horse a bit, and it tries to nuzzle her,

and then so does the black, til she's petting both their broad necks in comfort.

She shakes out her skirts a bit, and is walking closer to him, about to answer, but then

the door of that little house opens. It's an odd door, somewhat angled, existing in the crook of a wall rather than facing outward openly and obviously. So it shadows, somewhat, the person who is coming out, and the darkness of the night and the heaviness of the trees only hides them further. There is just enough light for Laurent to make out that the person is small: smaller than Emmanuelle, and skinnier. As his eyes adjust further, he sees a girl, just barely entering womanhood, with long hair that is far lighter and far straighter than her sister's thick, wavy darkness. Her eyes are rounder, lighter in color, though it's hard to see in the dim light. They do not look very much alike. She is dressed more like a peasant, too: a shift dress with an overskirt and a waistcoat, both rather plain, and with a more modest neckline than is fashionable. Her feet are bare, her hair loose. The skirt is a bit too short, as though she's grown too much recently for it to reach past her ankles.

"Simone," Emmanuelle says when she sees her, smiling, instead of answering. "This is Laurent." Turns to Laurent, almost beaming. "Monsieur Laurent, my sister Simone."

Hearing who it is, Simone -- several years younger than Emmanuelle, though not quite a child -- steps out and gives a small but surprisingly proper curtsy. The formality she displays with this amplifies the incongruity of the moment, the place. This strange, strange place.

"Bienvenue, Monsieur Laurent," she says when she rises, with the diction of a daughter of nobility and not a barefoot peasant running around the woods alone. "How was your travel?

Laurent

At once he knows who this must be, though still he waits for the introduction. Receiving it, he steps forward -- matches that incongruously proper curtsy with an incongruously proper bow.

"Unsettling," he answers, honestly, "but better now." And partly to Emmanuelle, too: "I had wondered how your people had managed to go unnoticed here for so long. Now I think I know."

And, amending the prior question: "This is your home together, then?"

Emmanuelle

"It is one of the duties of the Keeper of the Land," Emmanuelle notes, though surely he's guessed by now. She moves a little closer to Simone, who is watching Laurent with pale, hawklike eyes. She has an intensity about her, but it's very different from her sister's. There's something furtive and wild there, but carefully controlled.

Emmanuelle's hand comes to rest on Simone's shoulder, and Simone softens a bit, smiling up at her.

"It is," Emmanuelle says.

"Will you stay and eat with us?" Simone asks, as if she were the lady of the house, and it is up to her to issue invitations. Emmanuelle doesn't chide her or contradict her, and not only because she -- of course -- wants Laurent to stay. She almost seems to agree that this is more Simone's privilege than her own.

Laurent

"I would like that," Laurent says, politely omitting the fact that they had finished lunch not so very long ago. "I'd like to ... to see more of this place, though. If I may."

Emmanuelle

"Of course," Emmanuelle says. "It will take time," she adds with a smile, squeezing Simone's shoulder and walking back towards him. She does look at her sister again. "Is there anything you need?" she asks.

Simone, then, gives her a short list. A few things to gather. A few things to trade for. Little things. She needs a bit of salt. She has not looked for berries for some time. She asks, also, if she may unsaddle the horses and brush them. She tells Laurent with a sort of homey pride behind her tone that she has blankets that she can give them, if it keeps growing cool.

Then Emmanuelle holds out her hand to him, to take him through the rest of the caern.

Laurent

As her sister offers her hand, Laurent casts a glance at Simone, which is an absurd thing to do. It's not as though Simone keeps watch over Emmanuelle. It's not as though anyone does. She said herself: her own permission is all that is required, and it has been given.

So he takes the hand that is offered. It is the second time they have touched, and this time he seems surer, his hand closing warm and strong around hers.

"I'll help clean up," he promises, perhaps embarrassed now to be leaving Simone to be doing all the work.

Then, following Emmanuelle into the woods: "Have the two of you always lived here?"

Emmanuelle

It isn't terribly absurd, because when Laurent looks over at Simone, Simone is watching him like a hawk. Perhaps Simone, so much younger than her sister, does indeed keep a sort of watch over her. Perhaps Emmanuelle is slightly off the mark and it's the barefoot teenager whose permission he should have requested in order to court this strange woman he's taken with.

Simone isn't hostile about it. When she catches his glance her eyebrows lift, like she's waiting to see what he does. And what he does is take Emmanuelle's hand, and Simone looks satisfied with this.

Emmanuelle just looks pleased. To see her sister. To have him here. To be taking him around her home. She holds his hand with far more confidence than before, warmly giving in to the touch. He promises to help Simone after, and she just gives a little scoff and wave of her hand before going back inside to stir up the fire and start putting together a meal.

When they're alone again, Emmanuelle starts walking with him, her skirts brushing over the grass, but it isn't muddy here.

She nods. "I was born here. Simone as well. Our mother is... often traveling, but this is her sept and home."

Laurent

A warmth in the center of his breast, to see that pleasure on her face. A certain gladness, too, that her sister does not look upset. Looks satisfied, instead, as though she too were happy for them. As Simone goes inside and they head into the caern, they resume their conversation. They are finding out about each other, little by little, and he is again a touch surprised:

"Your mother yet lives?"

Emmanuelle

"Yes," says Emmanuelle, but slowly, as though reluctant somehow. She looks over at him, and there's a touch of relaxation in her eyes and in the way her body reacts: a slight rounding of her shoulders, a gentling. It's his hand holding hers, she realizes. It feels right. It feels strangely familiar.

It feels somehow necessary.

"My mother is a warrior among warriors," she admits. "You asked if all my people were like me. She is so far unlike me to make one disbelieve that she birthed me." She gives a soft, dry little laugh: "I do not think there is any gentleness in my mother."

Laurent

"I'm sorry," Laurent says after a quiet, and without quite knowing what it is he apologizes for. Her mother, maybe. The obvious strain between them. The starkness of the difference between mother and daughter, which seems a particularly cruel trick of the universe.

After a while -- "And your father?"

Emmanuelle

Emmanuelle looks at him for a moment, and then there's a small smile, small and a little aching. But she makes a choice there, between concealing the ache and letting it come through. He won't use it against her. She doesn't think he will.

"I am honored to be her daughter," she says, and she means that. "But not always happy to be."

They walk a bit, and he can hear things now: not the eerie, frightening noises of the forest surrounding but more natural sounds. He can hear animals. He can not hear the soft padding of wolves, but he can hear wood being split somewhere, and he can see a few more curls and coils of smoke rising here and there. They are nearing other people -- her people.

"My father was a kin to the Shadow Lords -- my tribe. Well-bred, Parisian, and I am told he was quite dashing, but I do not remember him very well. He was afflicted with a terrible sickness while I was still very young, and did not survive the winter."

She speaks of this without angst, but also without dismissal or coldness. He was her father. She has almost no memory of him. And he has been gone a very long time.

"What of yours?" she asks him, then. "Your mother, your father?"

Laurent

A smile answers hers, just as small, just as aching. He squeezes her hand mutely. There is nothing to say: it is the truth, and there is no need to varnish.

He laughs a little as she speaks of her father, well-bred, Parisian, quite dashing. Enough to catch the eye of her ungentle mother. Died young -- too young for his daughters to have known him. There is no laughter left by then, though: little in the way of sympathy, either. At least, not the way he'd expressed it when she spoke of her mother.

It makes a certain sense. The pain of losing her father is so distant, so remote, so faint. The pain of having a mother she is honored by, but not always happy about: that is something far closer and rawer.

He draws a breath as she asks after his family. "Both deceased," he says. "They had my brother and I late in life, and were elderly by the time we left for Paris. We wrote them often, and they visited us once. We returned home for two Christmases with gifts for all the extended family. Then, after my mother passed, my father lived with us for the remainder of his days, which were not long. He died three years ago, and since then it has been my brother and I."

Emmanuelle

"I am sorry," she says to him, gentle as...well. As he has seen her to be, time and again. "I am glad for you that they lived so long, but it is a recent loss." Three years. As though time, to her, stretches on so much further than her years.

She glances up ahead, then pauses to turn to him. "We are very near the others. Do you have anything you want to ask me, before you are around other wolves?"

Laurent

And again, a squeeze of her hand. "Thank you," he murmurs.

They pause. He halts as well, looking through the trees as though he might see what she promises: wolves, wolf-men and wolf-women like herself. There is anticipation in his face. Nervousness, as well.

"I... I hardly know what to ask," he admits. "Is there anything I should know?"

Emmanuelle

They are still holding each other's hand. She is turned toward him, their hands between them, still linked as though this is a natural state already. Yet as natural as it feels, it is not neutral: every so often a small thrill goes through her, a tremulous sort of acceptance that he is real, and he likes her back, and they are touching. Skin to skin.

She glances aside for a moment, then back to him. She gives a small laugh, eventually. "It is nothing like Paris," she says, half apologetic. "If you grow wary, squeeze my hand or signal me. It is not always easy, even for Kin, to be around so many wolves."

--

They walk a bit farther, and soon come upon a cleared area, a circle as wide as a park. Deeper into the trees he can see hints of other huts and houses like hers, some smaller, a few larger. The larger ones seem to house several people. And they are people... for the most part. Many wander around in human form, though there are a few wolves wandering in and out of the woods, loping along with golden eyes and thick, black fur. There are a few with fur the color of steel or stone, a number with red. A couple are enormous direwolves, only there briefly to look over the gathering before going back into the woods on a continued patrol.

There is one enormous creature, the same shape Emmanuelle was when she fought the spider, walking along on all fours, looking monstrous but calm. It has one eye, for half of its skull looks caved in, and its remaining eye is milky. It is alone, avoided somewhat by the others.

There are a few children near one of the larger homes, and some of them are quite young and running around naked or in short tunics. Their mother is nursing the youngest at her breast, sitting near a cook-fire. A man with broad shoulders and a heavily scarred face sits not far from her, stonily watching everyone who comes within a few yards of the children, who are obliviously playing with sticks and chasing a frog, trying to catch it.

It is like a small village from a hundred or several hundred years in the past, with simple clothing and simpler food, but humans and animals mingle with one another. He even sees one change in front of him: a young man, just an adolescent really, goes running towards the trees at a call only he seems to hear, tumbling forward and growing fur and a muzzle mid-step, taking off at a faster clip as soon as he's in a new shape.

Several look over at Emmanuelle when she comes. She's the most elaborately dressed person here, second to Laurent, and in Paris neither of them would stand out as flashy whatsoever. He's a new face, after all, but no one growls or approaches him to demand to know what he's doing there. He is, after all, standing next to a known quantity. The apprentice to a sept official. The daughter of a hero. He is looked at, but let be.

"This is the center of our sept, in a sense," she tells him, as they walk through the middle of the clearing, which includes a large well. "But not geographically. This is just where many of us live. Others, like my sister and I, prefer a bit more isolation, but most are happiest when closer to others of our kind. The true center of the caern is deeper still into the woods, and... it is quite beautiful."

She looks at him. "It is all right if I take you there. They know I will not let your harm the heart of the caern. I am not sure you could even if you wished to. Do you want to see?"

Laurent

It is a surreal experience -- like stepping into a fairytale, or perhaps a story told by a half-mad old woman. Laurent feels removed from time, removed from space; taken out of the world he knows and led into quite another. He stares, openly, at the first wolves he comes upon, until he sees the youth become one. Then all at once he realizes what should have been obvious all along: they are all wolves, and they are all people.

He tries not to stare, then, though the huge direwolves still draw his amazed attention. So perhaps it is only fair that he in turn is looked at, appraised, measured, and let be: he is, after all, doing his fair share of gawking.

At the edge of the well they pause. He looks into the well, curious. She wants to know if he wants to see the heart of the caern. He looks at her in surprise.

"Of course," he says. "I want to see whatever you'll show me."

Emmanuelle

She told them, before they entered the enchanted woods. That howl of hers, unearthly and lovely and terrible: she is bringing a lost kin. And neither she nor Simone are gossips, but a few of them already heard about the lost kin discovered recently. Many of the looks he gets are curious, but none are invasive. Perhaps a few of these people know what it is like to wake up one day and discover you are not the person -- the human -- you thought you were.

Emmanuelle smiles at his answer. "You are so open," she says, soft and somewhat incredulous. "You will love it," she assures him, a moment later, and then her hand tightens on his hand, and she starts to pull him with her, heading into the trees past the little family.

The fair-haired nursing mother is rocking the child in her arms slightly, humming to it. The male, his hair jet-black and his eyes a piercing blue, watches Laurent carefully. A moment later, however, one of the smaller children all but dive-bombs into the harsh-looking man's big arms, giving a childlike growl and snarl and nuzzling ferociously into his father's jaw. The father releases Laurent from his attention, wrapping his arms around the gleeful, fearless child and muttering to his pup in some rolling slavic language.

Past the well then, and into the trees once more. There are few paths and even less light. The trees are thick and old here, very tall, the underbrush untouched. The grass is soft as silk beneath their slippers and boots. And then, a faint blue-green light up ahead: a softness in the air that almost sounds like a distant hum. His mind begins to whirr with possible explanations, some of them ludicrous and outlandish. He remembers, suddenly, a drawing he saw once of a flying machine, and his mind fills in the bird it was modeled after. Suddenly then there is the sound of the bird's cry, and a song wanting to be sung at the edge of it. A whiff of smoke from the caern village lingering on his clothes draws his mind to the smell of roasting meat, to the building he works in, to the exterior that suddenly seems beautiful, all those interlocking pieces of handicraft that somehow have created a building. Words fall into his mind, drawn from his surroundings: he has poetry bursting in his thoughts, poetry he could write down if he only had paper and ink.

Emmanuelle has led him to a spring. It is a pool, rather small, fed by a spring he can see bubbling up from the earth. The pool feeds several small brooks that web outwards into the woods, some of them to feed the roots of trees, some of them leading to places like the creek beside Emmanuelle's little house. The water is as clear as glass, and yet that is where the faint glow of light is coming from. The spring itself seems to be singing, or talking, or laughing.

She is smiling at him, watching his eyes, knowing what is happening.

Laurent

There are many little families here, and perhaps Laurent can be forgiven for glancing at the mother, the children. Catching the wary look of the imposing father, though, reminds him yet again to stop staring: this is not some storyland but a flavor of real life, and he is not so much a tourist in a fantasy world as an interloper in real lives.

He nods to the family as he passes, though by then they are already distracted. A laugh under his breath at the divebombing pup, the father's response, and then they are past.

Back into the trees. Into the dark, though a far less intimidating darkness than the one they passed through to arrive here. Laurent is careful with his step; tries not to tread any shoots or saplings. There is a light ahead, like the dim phosphorescence of fireflies and sea-algae, and as it grows Laurent suddenly finds his mind going every which way, erupting into ideas, thoughts, flights of fancy. He has a million ideas for how he might renovate his humble little shop. He wants to paint his chambers! He has music in his mind, though not the learning to set it down.

Suddenly he becomes aware that they are no longer walking. They are standing still, and she is smiling at him, smiling like she knows what a verdant garden his mind has become. For all the thoughts spinning in his head, he cannot seem to tame them into words. "I..." he says, "I never knew..."

And then he puts his hands on her face, very gently, and with the same carefulness, gentleness, that one might approach a mostly-wild thing. He draws her closer, because it feels right, and with all manner of song and poetry in his mind he closes his eyes and kisses her.

It is very soft. It is nearly chaste.

Emmanuelle

Of course: the city of light, the city of enlightenment, home of countless works of art both historical and yet to come. Look at the women in town now who wear birds in their hair, the designers making clothes both fashionable and outlandish. They are wary of the woods and yet at the heart of the woods, there is something that influences them even without their knowing.

Right now, though, they are not miles and miles away: they are standing right at the edge of the source, the heart of something that may in fact be feeding the entire world just by existing. Emmanuelle feels it, too, no matter how 'used to it' she becomes. Her skin is tingling. Her mind is racing. He speaks and she laughs, bright and open and pleased, and she is about to answer.

She is about to tell him of other sorts of caerns all over the world, of the way they affect those who come near them. She likes to teach. She imagines teaching pups and cubs, of training an apprentice, of songs to honor the dead, rites to honor the spirits. And she wants to tell him so much of what's in her heart, because this place gives her words to begin to say it, but

he kisses her. She breathes in when he touches her face, surprised by the closeness of the contact. She holds her breath when he draws her near, and gasps softly when his lips touch hers. For a moment she's quite still, as though she's uncertain what to do, how to... kiss back, really.

But it comes to her. She surrenders, not just to the energy of the caern's heart but to the way his mouth feels on hers, and she leans gently into that kiss.

It remains soft. It remains almost chaste, but not cool. There is an intimacy to it; she feels as though they are breathing together. But it goes on, because she does not want to withdraw from him yet. Her hand rises, comes to rest on top of his hand where he is touching her cheek.

Laurent

In response, his fingers part. Her fingers slip between his, and then he is holding her hand again, though reversed, while the pads of his fingers still linger on her face.

The kiss lingers too. It doesn't escalate. It is what it is, intimate and tender, close as two hands nestled together. Close as two hearts beating in time.

After a while, it parts. Laurent draws a breath. The air tastes cleaner and purer than any he's ever known; it feels laced with magic. He opens his eyes and his thumb traces over her cheek, along the line of her jaw. He kisses her again, just as softly, folding her hand into his this time, pressing it to his breastbone.

Emmanuelle

That gesture, his fingers parting -- subtle as it is -- makes her sigh against the kiss. Her lips do part then, gently, but it's the most wanton thing he's sensed from her. She can feel her heart beating, and perhaps his, in her fingertips, her eyelids, her lower lip. It makes her feel almost drunk.

So that is why, when he breathes, when he opens his eyes, he sees hers still closed, as though she's lost somewhere. It takes her a moment to follow him, finding his gaze again with her own. She's leaning towards him, somewhat overcome. When he kisses her again she sighs, this soft sound of relief escaping her.

Laurent moves her hand. Draws it to his chest. She exhales, headily, but her touch on his chest is gentle. She doesn't clutch or grab at him, though there's certainly something wanting in the way she's kissing him now. It's tentative still, unsure and unpracticed still, but... pleasant. Pleasing.

Her hand rests on his chest, her fingers spreading almost luxuriously. "You are very warm," she whispers, after a time, though her lips don't move far from his. She doesn't sound surprised. Just... as though she's trying to explain, even to herself, why she is enjoying this so much.

Laurent

He murmurs a laugh; can't help it. His heart expands with tenderness and warmth. His touch is a little surer now; he strokes back her hair.

"The things you say," he says, and it is not mockery but something gentler than that.

And then -- because she is so unsure, and because their courtship is so new, and because he does not want to dishonor her -- he rests his brow against hers a moment. Then, taking her hand in his, he presses her knuckles to his lips.

Emmanuelle

She leans into the stroke of his hand through her hair, too, thoughtlessly animalistic for a moment. She gives a small roll of her eyes when he comments on the things she says, with a soft laugh. "I never said I was a lady of good repute," she retorts, reminded of something he said last week.

Their brows touch, and she smiles, standing close to him, holding his hand, closing her eyes again. She feels him lift her hand, feels his lips on her fingers, and it delights her so much it takes effort not to shiver in response. She turns that hand, brushing her just-kissed knuckles across his cheek.

"We should head back," she murmurs, after some time. "I still need to gather what Simone asked for."

Her eyes open. She's uncertain if it's all right to say this, but it is hard not to, standing so near to him, and so near the caern's heart. She lets it leave her lips, soft and warm and sincere:

"I hope you will do that again, Laurent," Emmanuelle whispers. "Most ardently, I do."

Laurent

He could say it again. The things she says. He does not, though, because she never claimed to be a lady of good repute; never claimed to be anything but what she is,

eldritch and strange,

wild and lovely and sweet.

"With your permission so given, I will," he murmurs. And, as they draw away from one another, and as he tucks her hand into his again, "Thank you for not being upset with me. I did not mean to presume. I just ... I could not think of a single reason why we should not."

Emmanuelle

He thanks her for not being upset, and no one's ever... she's never been...

so she laughs. Emmanuelle just laughs, amused and at a loss, in an odd and not unpleasant way. She's blushing again, more from pleasure than shyness though. She holds his hand, walking with him away from the potent, flourishing energy of the caern. "Because... you are shy. In your way," she tells him, echoing something he said to her on their ride from Paris. "And you do not want to behave dishonorably."

She looks at him as they walk, her skirts brushing over grass, and against his leg. They walk very close, but it is only in part because of how narrow the way is between the trees. "I do understand that. We are not without laws or taboos. Controlling oneself, doing what is right and not only what instinct dictates... yet not denying those instincts -- and thus one's own soul -- or confusing obedience with goodness. I think of such things every day."

Laurent

It is that feeling she had earlier: of being seen, but not exposed. He warms to it, smiling, his hand in hers. The grass is so soft.

"For what it may be worth, Emmanuelle," he says, "I think you're doing a fine job of it."

And then, pausing -- "Wait." He leans down and, without explanation, pulls his boots off. Then his stockings, stuffing them inside the boots. Barefoot now, feeling that silken grass against his feet, he takes her hand again and continues back toward the little stone house.

If she catches his eye, he smiles at her. Then laughs.

Emmanuelle

He could not have delighted her more -- unless perhaps he had kissed her again, which seemed to put stars in her eyes. She laughs as he takes off his stockings and boots, walking along in breeches and bare feet. She walks with him, and back to the clearing, and no one looks at him askance, though there are a couple of knowing glances, one from an elderly woman missing several teeth who giggles at their hand-holding, their obvious infatuation. She is shaking bones in her palms, tossing them into the dirt to, it seems, read fortunes.

Emmanuelle takes him around a bit, to various huts and houses. She trades talens -- which seem to come from an invisible pocket -- for a skin of wine, a handful of carrots. She takes him into the woods to look for berries, and they find a thicket of blackberries, plump and ripe and rich. By the time they begin to head back to the house though, she is also out of her slippers, and she keeps sneaking berries.

The door of her house is open, and there is a cookfire outside with a bit of meat roasting away. Simone has her hair braided and pinned up, off her neck, and waves when they come near. She takes the carrots and wine and berries, eyeing the quantity while Emmanuelle feigns innocence. The chestnut is laying in the gras, mild and content, nibbling idly at grass. The black is lapping at the brook.

Reluctantly, and perhaps only because she receives a potent Look at her hemlines from her sister, Emmanuelle goes inside. While she changes, Simone takes the carrots not to prepare them for dinner, but to feed them to the horses. She's clearly fond of the animals, and she chats with Laurent a bit.

She asks about his brother that she's heard of, and if he will bring him one day to the caern. He asks about her, and learns that in fact, she does not share a father with her sister. Hers was some soldier, and she seems so unconcerned with his identity that she does not even know if he still lives. She asks him many questions about Paris, about the current trends and styles and news, her curiousity ravenous and intense. She mentions a few people in the sept who used to live in Paris who taught her things like how to braid hair and curtsy and speak properly. She talks of the city as though it is much farther than it is, some longed-for place of art and culture and civility.

But they do not speak long. Emmanuelle comes outside again, dressed very differently: more like a peasant, more like Simone, in clothes that won't snag and catch on branches, clothes that will survive a bit of mud. The hemline is shorter, too, exposing her bare feet and bare ankles, but the neckline on this is still not as modest and carefully squared as Simone's. Here her fair, exposed shoulders, her slightly freckled forearms, a pale curve of her breasts. She's combed her hair and pinned it back at the nape of her neck, and has brought out cups for wine, plates for meat and the bread and cheese she unwraps from cloths. They eat out on the grass, near the fire and the brook and the evening air itself.

"Are you staying with us tonight?" Simone asks, bolder than her sister, despite her politesse. "We have room, if you wish."

Laurent

Belatedly, as they become the subject of glances and giggles, Laurent realizes what his appearance -- and their handholding -- and the after-dark walk to the most sacred parts of the caern -- might imply. But no one seems to judge them for it, nor cast aspersions at her. And besides, at this point, hastily putting on his boots again would seem only to highlight the situation.

So he walks with her, barefoot, as she trades for wine, for carrots. He follows her to look for berries, which is something he may have done a long time ago as a boy but has forgotten so thoroughly that he must be taught again. His hands and his mouth are red with berry-juice by the time they make it back to the little house, which means it's useless to even feign innocence. So, chivalrously, he takes the blame for the diminished quantity of berries, though it likely fools no one.

While dinner cooks, he chats with Simone. He does not know what to say about her errant father, but luckily she does not seem to care overmuch. He tells her what he can about trends and styles, and a little more about the news; there is a hint of sympathy in his eye, perhaps, when he comes to realize she longs for the city. He invites her to come with her sister, to stay above the butchershop -- if she does not mind the cramped quarters, of course, and the occasional smells -- to see the city for herself. To meet his brother, too. If there is matchmaking on his mind, he at least keeps it subtle.

Then Emmanuelle reemerges, looking like a peasant-girl. And her feet are bare too, as are his still. He helps her with the plates, the cups. They spread supper out by the fire and the brook.

It is as idyllic a meal as he has had in longer than he can remember. He drinks wine; he carves cheese and meat for their little party, and he eats his fill unashamedly, as Emmanuelle had whenever she visited. Asked, he flushes a little, with a glance toward Emmanuelle.

"I... if it is acceptable, and if it will not trouble you both."

Emmanuelle

It says something of Simone's character that when Emmanuelle comes out, she does not instantly begin begging and pleading with her to please, please let her go to Paris and stay in the butchershop. She will ask later, privately, where she will not shame herself in front of a near-stranger with how badly she wants to go. She's a composed girl, despite her youth, but even she can't hide the way her eyes spark and light up and widen when he makes his offer. There is something of her sister there, no matter how different their faces: the aching way she hopes, the breathlessness of it.

Here, Emmanuelle seems more relaxed. She's used to this: more casual clothes, sitting on the grass, eating right off the fire. She drinks wine without shyness or wariness that it will make her act improperly. Tendrils of hair fall along her cheeks and she doesn't fret over them. She talks more, too, mostly to boast about her sister, without whom she would be lost. She tells him that Simone knows how to read and is even practicing writing, that she taught Emmanuelle arithmetic. Emmanuelle talks of Simone far more easily than she talks of herself, until Simone cannot bear it anymore and changes the subject... to Laurent.

Who flushes. Simone keeps her thoughts to herself, but her eyes are twinkling even as she presses her lips together.

"Of course," Emmanuelle says, regarding the acceptability of this man staying in her home with her, sleeping in her den, the sound of his breathing filling the darkness. "You may sleep in my bed," she adds, and cannot stop herself from turning red as she says it. Her eyes flick to Simone. "I will sleep with my sister."

Simone just nods, unbothered. One can easily imagine that they shared a bed for a very long time when they were younger, or when Simone was very small and Emmanuelle the age her sister is now. But Emmanuelle is watching Laurent again, thinking of, picturing, something else entirely.

It is more innocent than one might think. But still sets her heart racing.

Laurent

Laurent nearly chokes on a bite of meat when she says it: you may sleep in my bed. Then she clarifies, while he attempts to rescue himself and his dignity with a swallow of wine.

"If it does not trouble you too much," he says again, this man who cuts down aristocrats for a living but cannot now seem to look either sister in the eye.

Emmanuelle

Simone can't stand it. She all but wordlessly excuses herself, picking up the remaining carrots -- one to munch on herself, more to treat the horses with -- and walking away so neither adult will see her stifling laughter at them.

Emmanuelle's cheeks are hot. But she's also amused. And also, gently: touched. She moves a little closer on the grass to Laurent.

"Only if you wish to stay," she says quietly. "I do not want to cause you any discomfort. Truly."

Laurent

Watching Simone excuse herself, Laurent at once flushes and laughs at himself, moving his feet so she has an unhampered path to the horses.

"Of course I want to say," he says at once. And then, gently prodding fun at himself as much as anyone: "In your bed. Though I will settle for the same, with you in another."

Emmanuelle

Emmanuelle exhales a sigh, soft laugh that it is. And leaning towards him -- perhaps encouraged by the wine -- she kisses him.

Laurent

This time, a warmer, more familiar thing, the kiss. The edges softened by wine; their senses not so overwhelmed by the sheer power of the caern's heart. This time, just the two of them,

(and a sister and some horses nearby)

leaning into each other and sharing that moment. Strange, but it almost feels like they've done this before, a hundred times, a thousand. He knows they haven't, though. They've never sat in the grass together. They've never kissed quite like this. He's never known anyone quite like her.

When they draw apart, he smiles at her. It is in his eyes; it lingers on his mouth. His hand covers hers in the grass. Then he exhales, leans back a little; takes a drink of wine.

"Your people will not think poorly of you, will they?"

Emmanuelle

This time when they kiss, it is... less chaste. Hardly wanton, but less careful. Emmanuelle is less hesitant. She can't stop thinking about the words he just said. And she's smiling, too, the longer this new kiss goes on, somehow forgetting about the horses, the fire, even her sister not so far away.

They draw apart and she's still smiling at him. Smiling with him. "No, she murmurs, then laughs a little. "Most of them think I am odd. I am not fierce. And I have never... shown interest, before," she admits, somewhat embarrassed to confess it. "Now at last I must seem to be more like the rest of my people."

Her shyness softens a bit, crumbles and falls away as it keeps doing when she's near him. "Taking someone like you as a mate would not make anyone think poorly of me," she says softly, with that tender sincerity. "And it would not matter to me if they did."

Laurent

Her people.

Of whom he has seen only a little, yet. But even in those glimpses, and from her words, he can infer certain things. He can guess that her people are, by and large, ferocious. Hotblooded. Forceful in their emotions, whether anger or love or lust. Half-beast in truth, where she seems instead to be ... what? Half-spirit, perhaps. That is how she explained it. That is how she seems sometimes, half-real at best, half-immaterial, half-lost in some other-world.

But not wholly lost. Sometimes she is entirely here. Right now, she is entirely here.

So he kisses her again, since she is near and present. Less careful, less chaste; not wanton, but simply: learning. Knowing. Afterward, he repeats the word softly: "Mate. Is that what your people call it?"

Emmanuelle

Every time they kiss, Emmanuelle seems like she's close to toppling over, sprawling in the grass from sheer delight. Of course a simple kiss or touch of his hand would do this: she seems utterly innocent of these things. Not unaware, not oblivious, but simply untouched. Uninterested. Removed.

And yet. There is this, now. Whatever it is. Whatever it means.

Though it seems that in truth, both of them know exactly what it means.

She nods. "Yes," she says simply, but adds: "It can mean different things. There are matings like that which my mother had with my father, and Simone's father, meant to bring forth children and little else. But there is also... what I want with you. A true mate."

Laurent

One might imagine another man would be terrified at this sort of talk mere hours after confessing a desire to court a woman. But then, one might imagine another man would have be terrified, period, by the sight of two monsters tearing at one another. Would never have come back into the woods. Would never have nursed this unlikely, tender little friendship of theirs.

Laurent simply looks thoughtful. Then faintly amused: "Like marriage, only without a chapel and a ring, I suppose."

Emmanuelle

She smiles. An open, unshy thing this time. She laughs. "I will go to a chapel if you wish," she tells him. "I have heard no stories of my kind bursting into flames when they set foot on holy ground. I should be safe."

Laurent

"I think my brother would like to see us take vows in a chapel," he says. "Perhaps your sister too, if only to see Paris."

A pause.

"I don't mean to rush you. Nor to presume."

Emmanuelle

With some wryness: "I would never get her out of the city again," she says of her sister.

She's turning to reach for her wine, bringing it to her lips when he says what he does. She pauses, smiling gently. Her hand comes closer to his on the grass, and her fingers twine between his.

"I remember when I came to your shop last week," she says, looking at their hands together, her surprisingly fair skin and soft hands, his calloused ones. "How I felt. How I longed to know if you were feeling the same. I was so afraid you might not that I did not think of how presumptuous I must have been. How rushed I must have made you feel."

Her eyes lift, find his again. "I am sorry if I did. But as... untested as I am, in these matters, I think we both know there is something of our friendship that is unlike any we have known. Or could have forseseen."

Her fingers, where they rest against his, move slightly, stroke his hand. "And I am not afraid of it."

Laurent

"You need not apologize. This has taken me by surprise. But I regret none of it."

His hand turns over beneath hers. He laces his fingers with hers again. It feels as natural as anything they've done together. The walks they've taken, the conversations they've shared. The kisses by the caern's heart, and here.

"I am not afraid of it either. I welcome it. And you."

Emmanuelle

It should come as no surprise to him then, when she kisses him again. Softly, sweetly, but there's something lush and warm underlying it now. She gets bolder every time their lips touch; the hesitance and curiosity dim as the flames of desire, exploration, and affection grow hotter. He is not the sort of man to treat her poorly for taking pleasure in this; he is not the sort of man to grow tired of her as soon as he has her.

And there is no way for Laurent to mistake it, and it has been the central strangeness between them since he met her: he has her. She's given herself over to him, and to whatever this is between them, even though she doesn't know what it is. Even though she doesn't know who he is. If he were a cruel man or a cold man, she would never know, she would never protect herself, she would be lost.

It's not the most comfortable thing, to be so instantly and so utterly trusted. Even she, under-socialized as she is, knows that. But the more time they spend together, the less it confuses her. The less it seems to trouble him. She doesn't enjoy him because she is desperate for a man, any man. She does not kiss him because he is simply there to kiss, and no one else ever has been.

Her lips are parted this time. She tentatively, gently tastes his lips, his mouth if he permits it. She sighs softly into the kiss, not for the first time, because there is something terribly arousing to her about the way he tells her that he welcomes her, welcomes this,

perhaps wants her. Wants this.

Her fingers are light on his cheek, stroking his jaw, when she parts this time. Her cheeks are flushed. She smiles, perhaps a little amused at herself, her own... everything. All these things, bubbling up, taking her over. "I am quite pleased that you are staying tonight," she murmurs, and

that is all, because Simone is wandering back, very politely pretending that none of this is happening.

--

They clean up together. Laurent's offer to do it has either been forgotten or is simply being ignored, because the sisters both take part. Emmanuelle takes care of the fire, banking it so they can make porridge the next day. Simone asks Laurent to help her make sure the horses are set for the evening, more securely tied, blanketed, whatever it is they need. And then, for the first time, he's taken inside the little house.

The roof is low, and there is a small hearth against the wall opposite the door. The fire that was in there earlier is coals, but the night is not very chilly, and no one stirs them into flame. It's an oblong sort of house, though not perfectly: it is, after all, built with tree-trunks as supporting structures. There are alcoves at either side of the home, little beds of straw that are also, surprisingly, lined with furs and skins. Both alcoves have thin curtains, presumably for warmth as much as privacy. And in between there is a table and a few mismatched chairs, a shelf of dishes as well as -- most surprisingly of a -- a few books. There is a slate and chalk, presumably Simone's, and then there is another low table covered in gourds, black ink and brushes, small glass vials with cork stoppers, needles, thread, sinew, feathers, scraps of fur, animal bones, and several other things harder to identify.

Emmanuelle's bed is a bit smaller than the one he has at home, but it is soft, and reasonably comfortable. There are blankets, enough to keep him warm even if it were winter. It is cozy, but it is nothing like Paris. It's nothing like a city. It's like they live in another era altogether.

Emmanuelle goes with Simone to the other side of the house, glancing at Laurent over her shoulder with a small blush, before the two climb into the bed behind the curtain to go to sleep.

--

It's perhaps only an hour or so later. The night is entirely dark now, and still. Occasionally there is the howling of wolves, the hooting of owls, the rustling of animals or the horses outside, but otherwise it is calm here. Emmanuelle's bed smells like her. Perhaps he sleeps. Perhaps it is all too strange, and keeps him awake.

It keeps Emmanuelle awake. Has kept her awake for over an hour. Simone is a warm, unconscious lump beside her, sleeping heavily as a child -- though in this case, a child who does the work and holds the responsibilities of a woman of the house. Emmanuelle normally sleeps just as heavily, especially with her sister, her only real packmate, next to her.

But tonight she is restless. She knows why. And perhaps it is no surprise when the curtain over her own alcove moves, when she peeks in on Laurent, unsure if she should disturb him or not.

Laurent

Laurent is utterly charmed by that little stone house. He says little, but his pleasure is evident in his face, his manner, the way he touches this, observes that. He pauses by the books to read their titles. He looks at what is written on the slate. He is curious about that table of talismans, picking up one of those little gourds to examine it.

"This is like what you gave me," he says, as much in confirmation as in recognition. "This is how you make them."

He is shown to one of those odd little alcoves, comfortable with straw and furs. It is hers, and perhaps there are some knickknacks strewn around. After they bid each other goodnight, and after he watches her cross that small and yet impossibly long distance to her sister's alcove, he steps into her bed. He has slept on straw-stuffed mattresses as long as he can remember, and is not entirely certain how to sleep on a more primitive bed such as this. She can hear him rustling around for a while, rearranging furs and skins, until at last he is comfortable. Soon after, his breathing is even and steady.

--

It is still even and steady when she stirs from bed. Her sister rolls over as she departs, but does not wake. Outside her sister's little alcove, the room has grown cooler. The curtain shading her own alcove is only half-drawn. She doesn't even need to draw it back to peek in on her houseguest.

Her suitor. Her lover.

He does not wake at once. But he does wake before long, alerted to her presence by some sound or sensation. He opens his eyes and looks at her, sleepy at first, then with dawning awareness.

The straw rustles as he raises himself up on his elbows. He has taken his boots off; his overcoat and waistcoat and belt. He still wears his shirt, thin and loose without the outerwear, as well as his trousers. He looks at her for a moment, both of them wide awake now.

Then he holds his hand out to her.

Emmanuelle

Emmanuelle's hair is down: unpinned, unbraided, unbound. She's dressed only in the shift that was beneath her skirt and bodice earlier, the neckline wide and falling slightly from one shoulder, the laces loose over her breastbone. It ends just above her knees, the pale fabric washed so many times that he can almost make out the shape of her through the draping fabric.

He's asleep when she opens the curtain, even though it's just a little. She bites her lip, her heart thudding so heavily she thinks he must hear it like a drum. She longs to touch him, almost does, then draws her hand back, still not sure if she should, if it's too forward, if she'll frighten him.

And she has just decided to let the curtain close and stop being silly and go back to Simone's bed when he rolls, her eyes opening slowly, looking up at her. She takes a breath, and does not exhale right away. And then she does, and swallows.

When he starts to sit up, she licks her lips. And then, even as he's about to hold his hand out to her,

Emmanuelle steps into the alcove, and climbs onto her bed beside him, letting the curtain fall behind her. She lifts the edge of the blanket that covers him and slips underneath it with him, watching him all the while for any sign that he doesn't want her there, he'd prefer she go back. Her legs slide in alongside his. Her hip comes to rest next to his. When she nestles against him, her hand on his chest, he can feel her breasts resting against his side through their shirts. She tucks herself against his body, laying her head on his shoulder, covering his heartbeat with her palm.

She's never done anything like this before, and he can feel her almost trembling with the tension and wonder of it all. And then,

in only moments,

he feels her relax. He feels that tension drain out of her like water poured from a jar. He feels her breath stir the fabric on his chest, feels her head grow a little heavier as she relaxes, entirely, against his body.

"Oh, Laurent..." she whispers, with a tone of deep, profound relief in her voice.

Laurent

Were it daytime, were there candles burning, were she wearing her clothes -- even those crude peasant things -- were her hair pinned up, were she doing anything but what she does now,

standing beside his bed, all but offering without words,

he would never stare at her the way he does: with hunger and amazement, and something like covetousness. When she lifts the edge of the blanket, he puts his hands on her waist. It is a shockingly intimate touch, but something about the way his fingertips curl, the way he almost pulls, suggests it could easily become all the more shocking, all the more intimate.

He doesn't draw that shift off, though. And he doesn't cup her breast. He doesn't even touch her hip. She climbs into bed and it is warm. It smells of her but also of him, now. She lays her head on his shoulder. His heart is beating out of his chest. The tension between them is palpable.

And then -- unexpectedly -- it seems to lift. She relaxes. He is reminded of something wild, something untamed; the deep and unwary sleep of an animal in its lair. He takes a breath, lets it out.

"Emmanuelle," he murmurs, as though naming her from nothingness.

Emmanuelle

She does not expect him to touch her the way he does. It makes her catch her breath to feel his hands through her shift, to feel him drawing her closer. She doesn't think she could stand it if he were to let his hands wander, but nor does she think she could help herself.

And make no mistake: the thought enters her mind. As she slips into bed with him, as her shift rucks upward slightly on her thighs, as she feels his heart pounding beneath her hand, she thinks of all the places he could touch her, all the ways that touch could feel. She thinks, too, of a dozen things she would like to do to him, places to kiss him, parts of his body she would like to run her hands over, just to feel the muscles under his skin quiver.

Neither of them act on the tension that all but shakes the air between them. She comes to rest beside him and he holds her against him and... something about this feels so deeply right to her, so profoundly comforting, that she feels almost reverent. Grateful, too. She does not understand it. She closes her eyes, trying not to question. Trying not to seek an answer, an understanding, for something ineffable.

She lets it come to rest over her, in her den, in her own bed, her head resting against his chest. She tastes the word in her mouth again, feels it humming in her mind, echoing almost musically in her soul: mate. my mate.

It is still so rare to hear her name in his voice that it makes her shiver slightly. Calls her back somewhat. Her eyes drift open again, and she looks up at him in the dark. For a long moment, all she does is look at him. See him like this, so close and so warm, hidden away in the darkness. It feels worlds away from Paris, the butcher shop, the caern, even the very house where her bed stands. It feels like stepping briefly out of the time she was born to, and into something older, and yet infinite.

Her hand lifts from his chest. She touches his jawline lightly. Her fingertips stroke over his lips, both exploring and remembering.

Laurent

It's almost unbearable, the intimacy of this moment. This silence. Their touching bodies. She looks at him and he is looking at the ceiling, at the shadows. Her fingers touch his mouth and -- strange, but it sparks something poignant and sweet in him. He closes his eyes, feeling that exploring, remembering touch.

He raises his hand after a moment. Folds his fingers around her hand. He kisses those fingertips; that palm.

Then his eyes open. And he shifts slowly, turning, facing her in her bed. His hand on her face, then. His thumb tracing her mouth; his fingertips her eyebrow, her cheekbone.

Emmanuelle

Whatever space opens up between them as he turns on his side, she closes. She moves into the small hollow, whatever scant inch there is of it, too enamored of this closeness to let it go, even a bit. There is something about the sensation of his body against hers, pressed to hers, that acts on her like a drug, like wine.

He touches her face now, feeling her even more than he sees her. Feeling, more than seeing, the way her lips open. Feeling, more than seeing, the quickness and warmth of her breath.

Her hand comes to cover his hand, but gently: fingertips on the back of his hand, on his wrist. Carefully, almost, she draws his hand down, past her throat, to her half-bared shoulder, her elegant clavicle.

Laurent

It is sensation more than sight. Softness of her lips. Humidity of her breath. Then the smoothness of her fingertips, her hand taking his. A steady downward pull; his fingers grazing her neck, her shoulder, lower.

He hesitates. She feels the resistance in his forearm even before he speaks. "Wait," he whispers. A disjointed jumble of thoughts and concepts: "Wait. Your sister. And you're ... I don't know if I'll be able to ... to stop."

Emmanuelle

Her touch on his hand is so light that it almost feels like no resistance at all. He pauses; she stills. She hears him telling her to wait and it says something of the warm, heady fog in her mind that even that word sounds like an endearment, a sort of verbal caress.

But she hears him, all the same. She wants to laugh softly, tell him that her sister is sleeping, but he doesn't mean that he can't kiss her, that he can't touch her the way she longs to be touched. It's more than that. Even though he speaks in jumbles and bits, and she understands the rest in between. It's her innocence, which is terribly obvious.

Emmanuelle is breathing with some heaviness, her skin ignited just by lying close to him like this. She knows what he means, and why it matters, even if she sorely wishes she didn't.

His hand is in her hand. She nods softly in the darkness, her hair rustling on her bed, and lifts his hand to her face again. She kisses his fingertips, his palm, as he did for her, and then lays his hand on her cheek.

"Soon, though," she whispers to him, both plea and promise. Then -- and he can hear the smile at the corner of her mouth, hear the twinkle of her eye, though he can barely see it: "Perhaps you will wait until you have said vows to me in a chapel, hm? And keep me a proper lady of good repute?"

She is teasing him. Sweetly, deliciously, even happily. But most of all: fondly. Tenderly.

Lovingly.

Laurent

He laughs softly. There is room between them only for quiet utterances, soft laughs -- not only because her sister sleeps a stone's throw away but because they are so fond, so tender, so adoring; as though they have known each other longer than the two weeks they've had. As though they've known each other since childhood, since before.

"Maybe not in a chapel," he whispers back, "but I do want to ... mark the occasion somehow. Make it real for all to know."

Pause.

"If you want to. Only if you want to. I know this has been... fast."

Emmanuelle

She is smiling at him. He can feel it, where his hand rests on her cheek, where her hand holds his touch. He speaks of 'the occasion'. He speaks of all knowing. He speaks of, in essence, taking part in some form of a ritual that has existed since, perhaps, their very souls were born.

"I want to," she whispers to him, as soon as the first few words have left his mouth. It comes in a rush; he can feel her breath on his chin.

He says it has been fast. She sighs softly, and yes: adoring is the word for it. "I felt, when I first saw you, as though I was greeting a long-lost friend, returned from some interminable journey.

"And I felt, when I saw you again, such a longing to be held in your arms that it was almost like grief."

Emmanuelle's thumb touches his lower lip, softly. "When you kissed me in the caern, I felt -- I knew -- that we had found each other again, and that I had no cause for grief, no more need for longing. I know it is senseless. And I do not mind if you think me mad. But I know you. Somehow, I know you.

"And I love you, Laurent. I will forever love you."

Laurent

"I don't think you mad," he whispers. There is room only for whispers between them; for shared secrets, shared confessions. "I think there is so much I don't understand. But I don't think you mad. And I think..."

He hesitates. His brother is the curious one, the philosopher, the devourer of Enlightenment theories and ideals -- but he too is shaped by that rigorous, pragmatic approach; shaped by reason, shaped by evidence. Yet still, he can hardly help but say it:

"I think you're right. I think I know you, somehow. I think I have loved you since before I knew you existed."

Emmanuelle

She kisses him again. There is so much in it that wants to be... lush. Lustful. She touches his face, and it smooths around to the back of his neck, fingers going into his hair. She knows, though, if she lets herself kiss him more deeply,

if she wraps her arm around him, clutching at his back,

if she presses her body to his,

it's possible that neither of them will be able to stop. And strangely, even sweetly, she wants to wait for him. Odd, given that it feels she's always been waiting for him, and waiting so terribly long. But now he's here. What is another day, another week? Nothing at all, compared to all the years. Nothing, when his tenderness towards her gives her such a gentle, private pleasure in itself.

So the kiss is warm, and full, and it answers him: yes she says. Yes, me too. And also, perhaps: thank you,

I missed you,

I am so happy.

And then she parts from him, her fingertips gently stroking his scalp, rubbing him like one might touch a dearly cared-for pet. She watches him, saying nothing now, as though all her words poured out of her and left her with no more for the day. She sighs, after a time, and closes her eyes, leaning into him, resting her head on his chest like --

this is how she has slept beside him for many other lifetimes.

In time, her breathing slows. It steadies. Her arm around him is still, and then it is heavy,

and she is asleep.