| Old Bones |
| Summary: | Anathema and Tyroan reflect on age and their new duties. |
| Date: | 23 September 2012 |
| Related Logs: | None |
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| 23 Sep 289 AL |
It has been a rather trying day for Anathema Nayland. The armor she wears in public and surrounded by Tyroan's family has started to show wear by the time night falls on Tordane Tower. She has resigned herself to a heavily cushioned chair out on the squat little balcony that hugs this particular curve of the Tower. It is a cool night as the air comes off the river, and for once in a very long time, she is able to curl herself under furs she brought from the North. Her hair has been brushed out into soft waves of inky ebon that are vaguely salted with strands of white. She is in her nightshift and her feet are bare, and she is curled almost youthfully in the chair.
Tyroan brings a heavy tome back into the room, knuckling his back — but only after the door has shut behind him. "Fucking stairs." He grouches either to the room as a whole, or to the wife he knows is already there. The book makes a big thump as he sets it down on a nightstand, then makes his way over toward the balcony, "I miss the frogs." Letting his hand settle down on her shoulder, he looks down, "What do you think, Ana?"
"I miss them too," Ana confesses in a hush — a surprising confession perhaps as the first decade of her marriage, there was nothing positive she could muster about those swamps. "I've not heard such quiet peace since I was up with the First Flints. The river sounds like whispers you can't quite make out." She looks up toward him as her hand lifts to lay across his own. "I think we are too old for this," she says after a moment. "Twenty years ago… we could have swept in her and straightened everything with a snap of our fingers. Now our bones are too tired." Then turns her gaze out at the skies glowing with stars. "But, we will make do."
Tyroan offers a tight smile down to his wife, "It may take more than a snap of the fingers this time." His gnarled fingers tighten on her shoulder a moment, release, and he moves over to lean against the balustrade, rubbing at the small of his back again. "But they're not asking us to build the fucking tower ourselves, or fight Barristan the Bold. Just think. Be smart. Don't fuck up." Looking back over his shoulder, the setting sun gleams off his bald head, "Think we can manage that, Ana?"
Aralima pages: Yay!
Anathema brushes her cheek against the furs, relishing in their scent and feel. When her husband starts to rub at his lower back, she tilts her head a bit with those dark, earth-colored eyes watching him precariously. She sweeps the furs back, revealing the simple nightshift and her bare feet. For a moment, she looks as young as she once did in their first years of marriage. "Have we ever fucked up, Husband?" She asks him as she gracefully sweeps back into the main room of their chambers. "Take off your shirt," she commands as the sound of her bureau drawer being drawn open. When she returns out onto the balcony, she carries a jar of one of her homemade salves.
Tyroan nods his head as she rises, taking in the pale-clothed figure with that small little curl of the left corner of his mouth that serves as his true smile. "You may have a flawless past, but I damned well don't." At her command, he unlaces his shirt and pulls it over his head with a groan. The patchwork of scars scattered here and there across his torso demonstrate quite neatly some of the mistakes he's made. And with the slight gain of weight associated with aging, it's quite clear that however well he's kept himself in shape, he's not the young man she married. "You look young tonight, Ana." There's a beat pause, and then he adds, "In a good way."
The Flint-born woman laughs — soft and reedy. "Together, our pasts are flawless." She steps up to him as she untwists the jar open, though she pauses to look up into those familiar storm-colored eyes. Her gaze drops aside almost instantly, looking down his scarred body. "Turn," she commands once more, after clearing her throat. Once he does as she commands, she slips to half sit on the bannister edge. Two fingers dip into the salve, drawing up a scoopful before she begins to gently rub it into the sore, old muscles. His compliment draws another laugh from her, this one far quieter. "Quite a mystery, as I feel twice my age." She focuses on his muscles, and the salve begins to warm between their skins. "Young, but not as unsettling?" She asks after a moment.
Tyroan turns half away from the railing so that she can work at his back, hissing and starting a little as the cool salve touches his skin, "Ahh. Cold. Fuck-all. Cold." Relaxing his flinched-away shoulders, he settles down again, "No. I'm used to you by now, Ana." He looks over his shoulder a moment, "None of your oddities are odd anymore." There's another long pause, and then his gruff voice returns, quiet, "Can we do this, Ana? Can we make this work? Can we make sure this isn't just a temporary appointment, but a permanent one?" For all his advancing age, he's definitely still got the Nayland ambition.
His complaint causes her to laugh again, and she shakes her head a bit. "Such complaints," Ana murmurs. Then she looks up toward him as he glances over his shoulder, and she smiles a smooth and graceful smile. "As am I used to you," she replies as she continues to work on warming and softening his lower back. His questions stall her hand a moment, though she does not answer right away. She instead closes her jar tightly and sets it aside. She gently turns her husband to face her, and her hand comes to touch the side of that shaved head. "I am certain we can, Husband. First… and foremost… we must prove to Lord Frey that this township is better in our hands than any of your brothers or their sons. And then, we must make sure that Rickart's sons lose all credibility. Let Rutger claim his birthright, but Stonebridge will pass to our son, and our son's son, and out son's son's son."
Tyroan groans as she rubs the salve in, bracing himself with his right hand on the railing. He's silent as she finishes the job, turning around easily under her direction. "Which means that not only do we have to make a permanent peace with the Houses around us, but we have to rebuild Stonebridge on fuck-all besides the grain that grabby-handed little fuck paid too much for." He lets out a grunt, "Fuck it. It's a sunk cost. If we end up giving it away, it doesn't matter. Maybe the Haighs or the Erenfords will buy some at a loss."
"It is time for harpies to be graceful, Husband," Ana says as he offers her his opinion on the state of things. She slips back to her feet, standing before her husband as a cool breeze gusts briefly across the tower. She turns her gaze out toward the township briefly. "I would like a month's worth of grain to take to the Terricks, preferrably some that have gone to seed. It will be… part of our attempt to make amends with the House. Even if Rickart broods and holds judgement against Jerold, there is no reason the Naylands of Stonebridge cannot reach peace. I may also reopen the doors for a possible marriage between our Houses, though Ren worries we might be salting wounds at that point."
Tyroan snorts softly at the mention of the required grace, reaching up to cup his pecs a little, "I'll show them my tits if it'll help." Since of course the harpy on the House arms is bare-chested. Shaking his head with a smirk, he drops his hands to his sides, then raises them up to pop his knuckles again, "That grain is the only thing we have to barter with anyone, Ana." He looks over his wife's face, thinking hard, "Do you think you can get by with a tenth of the whole?" A smaller measure, to be sure, but still half of what Rutger had offered as a dowry for Roslyn. "I might trade some to the Erenfords for some beer and wine, so the levies can get pissed. They're going to be working their asses off, and I want their morale high." Grunting again, he shakes his head a little, "Might be best to let them offer marriage if they want it. What do you think?" After so long, he has no problem asking his strange lady wife for her opinion. Then again, he rarely has problems asking for opinions, as the discussion with the squire and the maester showed.
Ana cannot help but grin at her husband's vulgar display. "They are more likely to appreciate mine over yours, Dear Husband." She then breathes out a sigh at the reminder of her nephews wretched attempt to sell Rickart's spinster daughter off for grain. "Ten percent, then." She collects her jar of salve, stepping toward the chair of cushions and furs as her dark, inky mane sways about her lowback. "Once I see to the Terricks, I will then see to the Erenfords." She casts a glance over her shoulder to him, dark eyes glimmering in the twilight. "You are probably right. Best to let them come to us lest we look needy."
Tyroan barks another laugh at her counter, "I should fucking hope so." Stretching his shoulders and back, he keeps his shirt off, tossing it over the back of a chair so that the salve can dry in place. "I'm thinking of asking the Erenfords here to talk, Ana. The Eagles' spawn," the Mallister vassal houses, "will expect us to grovel a bit. The Erenfords are already at our side to some degree." The man grunts again, "And I still need to find out exactly what ruinous deal the fuckwits made for their help. Probably promised to cancel their tariffs entirely." Crossing back to the side of the chair, he reaches down to stroke over some of that gleaming black hair, "Best we get our sleep, too. There's going to be a whole lot of sleepless fucking nights ahead of us both."
"You are lucky," Anathema says to her husband as she gathers up her furs. "You are the youngest son, and I am not a woman of these parts." She is quiet when she says her next words. "And the Gods have made it so we were away with sweet Vis for much of these recent events. We had no part of them." At the touch to her hair, the woman turns to face him with an armful of wolf hide. She looks up into his gaze briefly before she reaches up to grace her fingertips just behind his ear. "I require something of you… before we sleep," she murmurs as she arches up onto the balls of her feet to press a kiss to her husband's lips. "Since I am looking so young."
