There's a lot to get through. It takes a few days.
Ivette's a methodical researcher, collecting every scrap she can that might lead to a cure: tales told first- and second-hand, passages copied from books ages old, all of it separated out into different sections of her journal. They're interspersed with copious notes of her own linking thoughts, ideas, and story together. Some of it splays out like a tree; other sections cross-reference numbered pages and a few of the unnumbered loose sheets tucked into the back of the book.
(Alistair learns to be very, very careful about those loose pages. Early on, he unfolded one, caught sight of the name Nathaniel and a few choice words not typically spoken outside the bedroom, and, his whole face aflame, scrambled to shove it far away from the rest of Ivette's notes.
After that: if it's folded, he will not touch it, thank you.)
Cullen -- when he's not too exhausted to hear it -- gets a brief recap of each day's work when he returns home. Otherwise, Alistair tries to be...present, more than anything. Quiet when Cullen needs it, aimless chatter when he doesn't; a hot meal on the table; the usual attempts to look after his husband without tipping over into fussing.
Maybe he's domesticated. Alistair doesn't care a whit.
These might be some of the last days he has with Cullen, and Alistair will do everything he can to make those days a little easier.
Just before sunset, a handful of days after Ivette's arrival, another figure walks the path to Cullen and Alistair's home. She travels on foot, with a hood drawn over her head; the staff strapped to her back gets more than one wary look from passerby, as they try to determine just how wide a berth to give her. (It could be a perfectly mundane weapon. Not a mage's staff. But -- )
Inside, beneath the kitchen table, Gru cocks an ear. He lifts his head -- then the rest of himself, padding to the front door with an inquisitive rumble in his chest.
All the same, Alistair nearly jumps out of his seat when the knock finally comes.
no subject
Ivette's a methodical researcher, collecting every scrap she can that might lead to a cure: tales told first- and second-hand, passages copied from books ages old, all of it separated out into different sections of her journal. They're interspersed with copious notes of her own linking thoughts, ideas, and story together. Some of it splays out like a tree; other sections cross-reference numbered pages and a few of the unnumbered loose sheets tucked into the back of the book.
(Alistair learns to be very, very careful about those loose pages. Early on, he unfolded one, caught sight of the name Nathaniel and a few choice words not typically spoken outside the bedroom, and, his whole face aflame, scrambled to shove it far away from the rest of Ivette's notes.
After that: if it's folded, he will not touch it, thank you.)
Cullen -- when he's not too exhausted to hear it -- gets a brief recap of each day's work when he returns home. Otherwise, Alistair tries to be...present, more than anything. Quiet when Cullen needs it, aimless chatter when he doesn't; a hot meal on the table; the usual attempts to look after his husband without tipping over into fussing.
Maybe he's domesticated. Alistair doesn't care a whit.
These might be some of the last days he has with Cullen, and Alistair will do everything he can to make those days a little easier.
Just before sunset, a handful of days after Ivette's arrival, another figure walks the path to Cullen and Alistair's home. She travels on foot, with a hood drawn over her head; the staff strapped to her back gets more than one wary look from passerby, as they try to determine just how wide a berth to give her. (It could be a perfectly mundane weapon. Not a mage's staff. But -- )
Inside, beneath the kitchen table, Gru cocks an ear. He lifts his head -- then the rest of himself, padding to the front door with an inquisitive rumble in his chest.
All the same, Alistair nearly jumps out of his seat when the knock finally comes.