cailisairgid | { log } waters black wood in snow dead of night how bright you glow

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{ log } waters black wood in snow dead of night how bright you glow

'Informal' isn't a way that Nuala can typically be described, and by anyone else's standards she still isn't - but her gown and traveling coat make a slimmer silhouette than the elaborate skirts she usually favours, and her hair is pulled low in a chignon to be finished with her plain circlet in lieu of the bejewelled alternatives under lock in her chambers. In short, it's a low-key outing (albeit one that required significant advance notice to find the time and make her arrangements), and though she stops at the nursery before she leaves, she doesn't waste the time she's allowed for.

It's been some time since she saw Doul last, but she'd thought of him when Belani wrote to invite the twins to Armada and been pleasantly surprised to be contacted before she had the time to make anything of her thoughts. With her even-tempered escort in tow, she makes her way through the nexus to where she gathers he's been living lately.

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Doul has found himself a nice, slightly odd looking 'bungalow' perched on top of an abandoned missile silo. It's for everyone's benefit that his studies are conducted far, far below ground.

Tacked up on the front door, there's a clearly written sign that reads: 'Please, for your safety and mine, ring the bell and wait to be admitted. Thank you.'

Lonán rings the bell; when Nuala goes indoors he'll take up a sentry's position, as he usually does when she goes on these 'little excursions'. It looks as though he wouldn't fit indoors, anyway.

They wait.

Since he was expecting company, Doul wasn't down in the lab and so there's only a moment or two before he's at the door.

"Princess, a pleasure to see you, please, come in." He's honestly, openly pleased and might even smile. She might also notice that Doul no longer has wired clipped and embedded throughout his right arm.

Something does strike her as different, and she catches sight of his arm and hand before she has too much time to wonder what it is. Still - it's more than a lack.

"I have been very much looking forward to visiting," she says, steping inside through the door. "It's wonderful to see you."

His living quarters are small, neat, but lived in. The books that usually cover most stable, flat surfaces have been sorted, boxed, and shelved for her visit. There's a couch, a couple chairs, and a very small pseudo-kitchen.

"How have you been?" There's a tea set out on the low table and a collection of small plants on the windowsill.

The quarters receive a cursory examination while Nuala removes her coat, before she seats herself by the tea and offers him a smile that skews slightly distracted. "Terribly busy," she confesses, as if the nature of it still feels new even as she's coming to be more settled into her roles and duties. "I can hardly imagine that it's been less than a year yet."

"I like to think I've adjusted rather well in such a short time." If she'll let him, he'll hang her coat and then go about putting the kettle on. "I wasn't sure how well I'd adjust to the strangeness and solitude, but I find that it suits me."

Of course she will, and watch him at the kettle, too. "I can't quite be surprised. It seems to me that it certainly would suit you, but we have differed before on what I see and what you yourself see."

Notably: Nuala usually has a point.

"I'm not sure I want to know what others see me as. Although, like any man, I do wonder." He's not vain, but unless it serves a practical purpose, why bother? "I trust your judgment in this."

Over the last few months, Doul has found it easier to smile and it makes him look considerably younger.

"As well you should," she says, mock tartly. The slow establishment of their friendship has suited her, and now she's far more comfortable with him than she was before; Nuala wouldn't admit out loud that her comfort level has gone up the more he's accepted himself as something other than human, but it has.

"Yes, your highness, I am suitably chastised and learned the error of my ways." Shall he pour the tea?

"I must admit, I don't have any really pressing news to tell you, other than I bought far too much jam at the market and I enjoy your company." Moreover, it's Doul's experience that ladies often want out of their house and like an excuse to do so.

Nuala, unlike these theoretical ladies, seems more than a little distracted - but all the same she's covering it well, and she appreciates Doul's company enough to have come and to make an effort to settle her thoughts and enjoy a purely social occasion. She's had few of those lately, and fewer still with Doul himself.

"Such fondness is pressing reason enough, I think! What sort of jam did you buy?"

"I'd never heard of the fruit, so I picked them based on how well they'd match the wallpaper in here." This may or may not be true, but he has a couple little pots of red(ish) jam and one that's a nice, light green. "Please, feel free to help yourself."

"Do you think I could take a jar?" Nuala asks, scrutinizing them with a little bit of eagerness. "My brother's fondness for sweet jams can sometimes get away from the both of us."

"Of course. I have a few to spare." They may already be in a basket for her to take home. There might even be a couple small books from Bas-Lag in the basket as well.

"Oh, wonderful." Nuada can expect to be fed nexus jam when she gets home, but in the meantime she focuses on trivial chat and not the infants at the castle or their kin outside it. "What is the fruit?"

"Red?" Uther, you are not helping at all. "It's sweet, but more herbal than I'd expected."

Let's all be honest here, Doul doesn't really care about jam. He really just wanted to talk to Nuala and do something that could pass for 'normal' under dim light.

Steadfast and soothing, Nuala is accustomed to providing a calm face of normalcy when there isn't any; it's a toss up as to whether she realizes that's what Doul wants or is just like this all the time.

"I will see what Nuada thinks of it - he has much more of a taste for these things than I do. I like them a little." She busies herself with tea, for a moment, thoughtful. "I'm sorry I've seen so little of you lately, Uther Doul."

"I'm sorry too, but I've been busy." There's something that might almost be a smile as he gestures with his wire-less right arm. Let's hope that Nuala reacts better to this little revelation than the Brucolac did.

If he's anticipating a reaction now, then he wasn't paying attention when she noticed it at the front door. Nuala sips her tea. "Yes, I see."

"It seemed like a good idea and so far it's taken some getting used to, but not a major disaster." ...Doul. What do you call the Brucolac biting you and then spending a few days being violently ill other than a disaster?

"Explain it to me," she requests, without prejudgement.

"The original purpose of the wires was to serve as a conduit that would allow me to turn my sword into a functioning Might Sword. They've always itched." As would just about anything woven through skin and tissue. "Since returning from the Scar for the second time, I came to realize that I no longer needed the gearbox or wires to let me tap into that ability which enables me to use Ghosthead technology."

He sounds very smooth and confident when speaking, but Nuala can probably sense some sort of conflicting emotions.

It's safe to say that Nuala is taking this much better than the Brucolac did, judging by the lack of surprise and even tranquility while she sips her tea and listens.

"No, I suppose that you wouldn't any more."

He really ought to be a gentleman and recognize her patience, but that's not easy to do and keep the Brucolac out of the reasons he's glad for her kind temper.

"I'm glad you're not upset by this."

Nuala coughs into her tea, legitimately startled. With a puzzled look, her hand by her mouth, she asks- "Why should I have been?"

"I wasn't sure." At least he has the good grace to duck his head and look as sheepish as he can. "I haven't made it common knowledge."

"I have known for some time that you are something other," she reminds him, kindly. "This comes as no surprise to me."

Doul puts his teacup down on the table between them and rests his hand on the wood. He's not about to touch her hand to show his gratitude for this kindness, but the thought is there.

To Nuala, it's no more than common sense - but she treats him gently with it, all the same. "On the contrary," she says, setting her cup down much the same way, "I'm pleased to think you're settling into yourself."

He is a stranger to common sense.

"So'm I. It's, ah, awkward and not all that comfortable, but I don't wish to reverse it." Not even at the cost of seeing Armada again.

"Transitions, for good or ill, are never very comfortable times." She curls her fingers into her sleeves, smiling a little. "I think it will be very interesting to see the other side."

"I'm not very comfortable, it's true. I feel ill at ease in my own skin and I'm torn between not bothering anyone about it or just talking." He doesn't expect to ask for advise or assistance, and he certainly doesn't want to drag Nuala into whatever happened with the Brucolac.

"If you would like to talk, you know that I will listen."

"May I be blunt with you? I have no desire to cause offence, but I might."

Nuala considers him for a moment, and then she waves her hand to the side in acquiescence. Go ahead, Doul.

"I met with the Brucolac and when he saw my arm, he lashed out and bit me before I could stop him. I was unarmed and unprepared." After this happened, he spent some time thinking about weather or not he ought to return to carrying a weapon. "He then drank my blood and was violently ill for a time. The next day, when he could speak, he explained that he did this because I would not tell him what I am and that my blood would."

"I hadn't thought to tell him about removing the wires before I did it and now, I'm not sure how to avoid this problem in the future."

Nuala absorbs this in silence, her gaze falling from Doul to her lap and then back again; she remains steady, but it takes her some time to form a response. It does, in a way, explain something that she'd been wondering about but had opted not to push the Brucolac himself about; she's not entirely sure, otherwise, what to make of it.

"I knew," she says, carefully, "that something had passed between the two of you. I saw it in him on the Uroc. ...but I had not considered that, and I confess I'm puzzled by it."

"So am I." He hadn't thought that removing his wires would have been important, but it appears that the Brucolac saw it as a landmark decision. "I think, perhaps, that I am changing too much for his liking."

Doul adds a bit more tea to his cup and holds it just to enjoy the warmth of it.

"It may be so." Nuala seems troubled by the notion, but unsure of how to address it; her hesitance turns into further silence, and she takes refuge in her own teacup.

"I doubt that it will help matters, but for the time I have withdrawn myself from his company." It may annoy the Brucolac and Doul suspects that the vampir will not understand his reasoning and see this avoidance it as sulking or being petty.

"I ... I have thought about it and I do not think I will halt or try to reverse whatever is happening."

"If he fears a loss, I imagine withdrawing would only cement such thoughts," she observes, not yet looking up from her tea; she phrases it in the hypothetical, unwilling to quite break a confidence that she wasn't asked to keep in the first place. She simply took it as read - she wouldn't tell the Brucolac what she discusses with Uther here, either.

"He already thought that I was so far gone that he could not talk to me or treat me as a rational being." If he'd asked, Doul would have either avoided the topic or explained in such obscure terminology that it wouldn't have been much help. Still, according to Doul either of those options would have been preferable to being bitten.

"I don't know what to make of it," she admits.

"Neither do I, but I am well and he is well again, so I we shall all continue on." Although, they may not continue on as before. Doul has been bitten and no matter the good intentions, he will not forget.

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{ log } waters black wood in snow dead of night how bright you glow

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