Being Nevarran: the title of his memoirs. It's a real thought he has, and the flicker of a real smile, shortly snuffed by another piece of fruit.
"A bit," he says, talking around it. "There's more to Nevarra than the macabre, you know. Not much, granted—but they've got all that dragon-slaying business, as well, about which I know absolutely nothing, except that I'll never try it." A pause to swallow, and to shift his weight from one hip to the other. It seems as if he'll go on, but instead he just looks at her, considering, licking the citrus taste from the back of his teeth.
It's a long enough stare to become uncomfortable.
And if it doesn't, how about this: "Are you feeling sad?"
Right now, lately, in general—however she chooses to interpret it.
Leander is not the first person to direct such a look at her. His searching gaze provokes the same self-conscious discomfort in her as the matriarchs sometimes have. There is something sad in her. Derrica knows this. An absence, a craving. Something missing that she knows to miss but doesn't have a face to set against.
She drops her gaze, sucking on the inside of her cheek. There is an orange in her hand that she occupies herself with while Leander studies her, carefully separating out a particular segment, thinking of dragons rather than her haphazard entry into the world. She expects something other than the question he puts to her, and raises her head to look at him, taken aback.
"Now?" She questions, seeking specifics, seeking a little time while she thinks about an answer.
Is she sad? Sometimes. Isn't everyone? It's hard to pin down if she is today; whatever she had felt, whatever she'd touched, had felt tragic. It left an impression on her. But then again, every single spirit that she feels stirring behind the Veil leaves some sort of mark. She wouldn't have it any other way.
"Obviously not now—how can you possibly be sad while standing next to this?"
Leander's hand spreads theatrically, makes a smooth gesture from shoulder to hip, indicating his own self—then back up to his face to swirl once more for good measure. The silly, extra-cheekbonesy face he's put on becomes a smile that grows as he leans in, and in, and in, unrelenting, trying to provoke a little fun out of her. A laugh, maybe.
He finishes with a companionable bump of shoulders before easing up on her personal space, and once there's room, still looking pleased with his own antics, he shoves another slice into his mouth.
It was a real question; she can answer it if she likes.
The laughter comes. A smile first, then a bright laugh. It gives her some space from the ruminations of what she'd felt in the fade and the scrutiny she had weathered time and again.
"Obviously not right now," she agrees. It's less to do with whatever manly charms Leander teases and more the companionable company, the shared snack. Derrica cherishes these little reminders of camaraderie. She stacks them and tallies them, holds them close to her heart.
"No, I'm not. I'm not sad," she continues a bit more firmly, though it's not entirely the truth. "But the spirits that come are sometimes. And it...sticks. Like tar."
Which may be more because of Derrica than anything else. Too empathetic. Too easy to sympathize. But that doesn't occur to her.
There we go. For some, this would be a moment of reflexive commiseration; for Leander, a puzzle to feel proud for solving. Insert effort, receive attention. Transform frown into laugh. Easy.
"I thought it might." As if it was his idea all along, and Derrica hadn't wandered this way a whim—or to seek comfort, maybe, from the very first living body she saw. (Why else would she come to him? Surely not for any precise reason.)
"Do you ever wonder what it's like, being a spirit? Living such a directionless existence you've got to mimic a fragment of someone else just to experience some... sense of purpose. How boring would that be," he asks, entirely casual, before what's left of the orange disappears into his hungry mouth.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
"A bit," he says, talking around it. "There's more to Nevarra than the macabre, you know. Not much, granted—but they've got all that dragon-slaying business, as well, about which I know absolutely nothing, except that I'll never try it." A pause to swallow, and to shift his weight from one hip to the other. It seems as if he'll go on, but instead he just looks at her, considering, licking the citrus taste from the back of his teeth.
It's a long enough stare to become uncomfortable.
And if it doesn't, how about this: "Are you feeling sad?"
Right now, lately, in general—however she chooses to interpret it.
no subject
She drops her gaze, sucking on the inside of her cheek. There is an orange in her hand that she occupies herself with while Leander studies her, carefully separating out a particular segment, thinking of dragons rather than her haphazard entry into the world. She expects something other than the question he puts to her, and raises her head to look at him, taken aback.
"Now?" She questions, seeking specifics, seeking a little time while she thinks about an answer.
Is she sad? Sometimes. Isn't everyone? It's hard to pin down if she is today; whatever she had felt, whatever she'd touched, had felt tragic. It left an impression on her. But then again, every single spirit that she feels stirring behind the Veil leaves some sort of mark. She wouldn't have it any other way.
no subject
Leander's hand spreads theatrically, makes a smooth gesture from shoulder to hip, indicating his own self—then back up to his face to swirl once more for good measure. The silly, extra-cheekbonesy face he's put on becomes a smile that grows as he leans in, and in, and in, unrelenting, trying to provoke a little fun out of her. A laugh, maybe.
He finishes with a companionable bump of shoulders before easing up on her personal space, and once there's room, still looking pleased with his own antics, he shoves another slice into his mouth.
It was a real question; she can answer it if she likes.
no subject
"Obviously not right now," she agrees. It's less to do with whatever manly charms Leander teases and more the companionable company, the shared snack. Derrica cherishes these little reminders of camaraderie. She stacks them and tallies them, holds them close to her heart.
"No, I'm not. I'm not sad," she continues a bit more firmly, though it's not entirely the truth. "But the spirits that come are sometimes. And it...sticks. Like tar."
Which may be more because of Derrica than anything else. Too empathetic. Too easy to sympathize. But that doesn't occur to her.
"But this helps."
She lifts the orange, tips her head towards him.
no subject
"I thought it might." As if it was his idea all along, and Derrica hadn't wandered this way a whim—or to seek comfort, maybe, from the very first living body she saw. (Why else would she come to him? Surely not for any precise reason.)
"Do you ever wonder what it's like, being a spirit? Living such a directionless existence you've got to mimic a fragment of someone else just to experience some... sense of purpose. How boring would that be," he asks, entirely casual, before what's left of the orange disappears into his hungry mouth.