young wolf, dearly beloved
"My darling Syrenne..."
If it's not the most common thing she's ever heard him say, it's still cutting a ribbon. Easy words. Charmer words. Drunken words.
Sometimes, wordless words.
But this time, it is admittedly different. Softer. Graver. An odd look in those ice-blue eyes, as Lowell trails off, staring.
Everyone knows where to find them, at Ariela's - have a look at the heroes, grisly mates, and share a pint! They've never enjoyed such celebrity, and they still don't, so they've found some other spot in the northeast corner, away from The Flame and Lizard and all.
It doesn't matter the building, the counter, the hangings on the wall. It doesn't matter the clientele, hoity-toits or riffraff. Lowell is the same. He's been the same. It's why, without him, Syrenne had had no interest in going on.
She says she doesn't need people, but just like Lowell doesn't count her as a woman, she doesn't count him as a person, really.
More like he's part of her. The annoying part. The cheeky part. The boner that won't stand down.
There's always something tweaking at the corners of his eyes - truly, the ghost of a wink flicking its devil's tail. This evening, it's quieter. Almost sleepy. Subdued. Restrained.
And these are not words that one applies to people such as Lowell and Syrenne. More like: boisterous, obnoxious, audacious, loud.
He's so quiet. So deadly quiet.
Lowell stares with open emotion, or the lack of it.
So Syrenne stares back. Sure, she can do a contest. She's always great for that.
"How tender is the feeling in my heart," he murmurs, reaching for her shoulder. She'd even let him have it, except for the fact that--
"Hey-! Try some feeling in your hands, first! You're cold, Lowell," Syrenne whines.
Or, rather. He's always cold. That's not new.
"Well," Lowell deigns to provide some clarity on the subject, even as he removes the offending palm, "I did die. Tell me, did I leave a beautiful corpse?"
She blushes, crossly. Shan't say. Can't say. Didn't know. Didn't see.
His quivering thumb brushes the sweet coral of her cheeks. That's new, too - the trembly limbs. He'll have shakes forever, Syrenne guesses. Usually it just looks like a whole-body tic across his shoulders - like he's trying to shimmy his chest, the picture of a male mating bird.
But Lowell's feathers are only for one peacock, proud as anything and prouder than anyone.
"It hurts," he says. And yeah, his chest should hurt, for catching a sword it wasn't meant to. Yeah, maybe let it sting awhile. Stupid bastard. Stupid, handsome boy.
Syrenne watches him, still, tracing absent circles over the left side of his breastbone even as his eyes touch her, touch her, touch her. Usually, she wouldn't let them do it. She'd be smacking away at whatever she could reach to push him off.
But she can't do that, now. Ugh! How she wishes she could.
"Sorry," she says, apropos of nothing.
Oh, there's his smile. "Don't be sorry, Syrenne." The cadence ticks up, hopeful, wry, et cetera. "It's a wonderful thing."
A tender feeling. Like a caress. Like love.
(Hey, don't cry!)
That's what he's saying, isn't it?
"I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman. Do you know that, Syrenne?"
Does she?
"It's not to congratulate myself - although, I will say, it's a pretty great feeling."
Syrenne scoffs. She's meant to, she knows. He says these things just to rile her.
Doesn't he?
"I love you more than Zael loves Calista." Alright, so shake the earth. "More than Horace loves Meredith. More than...more than Mirania loves food!"
"Sod off - are you proposing?!"
The wistful timbre drops. "No," Lowell says simply, a single icicle plucked from eaves. He appears to be otherwise none diminished.
"Why not?"
"You wouldn't want that."
Oh. Huh.
"So I just allow myself this. To tell you, at least. Maybe to hold you. Somehow, to satisfy me, that I won't go foolishly looking for all that you are in other women. But I know I can and I will, if I must."
Syrenne doesn't answer. What is there to say, to that? Even if it's false maturity, fancy speeches to wave in her face as pretty as the rest of his useless words, it's still new. It's still changed. It's still a horrible, lonely break from their old pattern.
Lowell's changed. Has she?
You wouldn't want that. No longer the avoidant reliance on some curse he imagined to string together logic between death, and death, and death. No faux-gallant laughter to imply that he's so lofty-philosophical, he actually believes such things beneath him. No fish stories. No lies.
You wouldn't want that, Lowell says, honestly and seriously to the tune of Syrenne's own best wishes, and he's right.
She wouldn't want that, if it would change him. She couldn't bear to let herself, broken self, retrieve him for writ out of musty pub air.
He died for her, though. Obviously, he did. So it's all already been chosen.
Syrenne rolls her neck to one side, trying to be casual but drawing out to the extreme of the motion as she begs for just one satisfying crack. Eventually, it comes, and when she darts her eyes back open, Lowell's gaze has followed her as if magnetized.
"I dunno what you want me to say to you."
Lowell swallows, licks his lips - thin lips, like her. Agile things ably twisted into curses, here and there, or smirks. Usually they're so quick, so confident.
Ah, that's it. There's a fear to him now; a fragility. Syrenne's always hidden hers. So's Lowell, but he must just be such a master at the game, she'd never known it.
"Do you love me, Syrenne?"
That's what'd always been the nice thing about him, about them: you never had to ask. They both respectfully avoided this part, naturally.
"I...I guess."
He sighs, but the drama's not in it. "I suppose that's the most I could ask for."
She could have said no, after all. Could have snapped at him. Could have slapped him, slammed her tankard into his head, knocked him off his stool, any of a thousand things. All to shove him off.
But all she's got the energy for, right now, is an "I guess."
The realization's what breaks her, and she feels a whimper huff up from the front of her throat, over her desperately-bitten lips.
It's not fair. It's not fair! Why'd everything have to change? Why'd they have to get here? Why couldn't everything be like it was before?
Lowell regards her with some distant relative of pity, and Syrenne really doesn't like how it invites her in but keeps him out of it.
He's so selfless, now. Suddenly, he's polite.
"Why've you got all the answers, all of a sudden? Huh?!"
The thousand-and-first option is to pound her fists into the fleshy parts, front sides, of his shoulders, then fall forward with the rest of her body until her bottom nearly slips from its perch. And so what if she fall down to the floor? At least there's still plenty of beer to be had.
She doesn't care. Really, she doesn't care. Moving forward seems to mean something different, now, and she just doesn't have it in her to bother.
A moment passes (unbeknownst to Syrenne, Lowell scanning the room to see if there's a modicum of privacy to be had about). Then, his hands chisel under her thighs and lift her up across the gap onto his own.
So messy. So pathetic. It doesn't come often, but when Syrenne's body chooses to remind itself that her mind is broken, it's quite the grand affair. All she can do is watch, practically.
Lowell soothes her with a gentle hand cupped to the underlayers of her hair, careful not to graze her scalp with their unnatural chill. Little whispers. Tuneless hums. His other arm minds her waist, tacking like a brass buckle to her hips.
Maybe, if her ears are hearing right, he's whispering, "There, there, love. Don't mean to hurt you."
Don't mean to don't mean nothing, unfortunately.
"Someday I'll hold you when you're not angry with me."
But it's not him she's angry with, it's the bloody situation. If she could just--
If she could just be here, right here, forever, then maybe she wouldn't mind so much.
And maybe that's what Lowell knows. Maybe he's finally figured that he's got Syrenne right where he wants her.
With a finger braced to the place where they killed him, she shoves herself back and howls into his eyes.
"Damn it, I love you, alright? I'm in love with you! Is that what you want me to say?!"
Lowell just chuckles. "I'd be lying if I said no."
A shiver takes Syrenne again, scrapping with the tenuous gravity keeping her upright. Probably, she just looks extra drunk. She hopes so, anyway.
Actually, now it is Lowell she wants to scrap with, because he's here for the shaking. Enough of keeping it in, taking it out on stray Reptids and chaff-hearted blokes trying to replace a shag with the Arena. Enough of pretending that what she doesn't know, she doesn't need.
She doesn't really know Lowell, but she needs him somehow anyway.
"It doesn't make any bloody sense," she mutters, breath crusty as old sleep. "It's too easy."
Now Lowell scoffs. "Honey, that doesn't mean it isn't right."
"What, because it's always been easy, for you? Easy with all those other girls? Sure, you're Mr. Easy, have a look, take your time. You don't care about anythin' or anyone but yourself!"
And how rich must she look, saying this from her seat in his lap, enjoyin' all the comforts a random stranger can see fit to provide. It's for animals, is what it is. Comfort is for the weak, and Syrenne's not weak.
With all the arrogance of a stallion, Syrenne retrieves one of her legs back to self-control and stabs it down to the floorboards. She'll see herself out, thank you very much - and he can pay, if he thinks it's so lovely.
For his part, Lowell just sits, eyes dim once again, none too pleased with his correctly identified foregone conclusion.
He knew he couldn't catch her, so he didn't even try.
Figures. Suits.