tristranthorn | [014] OOM - Aboard the Free Ship, Perdita

Current Location: The Free Ship, Perdita

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[014] OOM - Aboard the Free Ship, Perdita

Tristran finds himself thinking of everything at the top of the spire of cloud he sits upon. There is a sense of perspective, sitting here. Everything is so simple, so...straight-forward, so...small from up here.

His stomach growls and he can't help but think that while adventures are well and good, there is certainly a lot to be said for regular meals and freedom from pain, like the pain he feels right now. He wishes he had his rucksack, or somehow they could open some mysterious door to Milliways again, if only so he could get something to eat. He doesn't need anything elaborate. He'll even take a plain loaf of bread. His hand throbs with heat and pain, and he wishes there were something he could do to stop it, but it's useless, no matter what he thinks.

Still, he is grateful to be alive with the wind in his hair and the fantastic view spread out before him, so wide he could never fully take it all in. The sky is so blue, so different from the way he might have viewed it from earth, and everything felt different to him from all the way up here. There is a sense of nowness.

Most of all, it is terribly quiet in a peaceful sort of way and it makes him want to ... disturb it. Just because. Standing upon the cloud spire, he calls out, "Halloo!" several times, belting it out as loudly as he can. It feels strangely exhilerating.

He wants to laugh. He wants to feel that pulse of adrenaline run through him and act like a fool. And when he does, he feels ... free. It's a nice sort of feeling, even if he does it by himself (not that he isn't used to doing things by himself, as that was what his childhood mostly consisted of). As he clambers down the length of the spire to return to the 'ground', his footing slips and he falls at least ten feet, landing shortly after into the misty softness of the cloud.

And then he laughs quietly to himself.

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"Very well should," she mumbles, purposefully belligerent.

"Is your hand feeling better?"

It's asked almost offhandedly, as if she hadn't given the statement much thought at all. She's rather proud of this accomplishment.

"Meggot said that she had taken care of it," not that she had specifically asked, of course. "But I did not get to speak to you very much at - ah - dinner, yes? To ask. Myself."

He stills his hand for a moment, fingers pathetically out-stretched as far as the pain would allow. The ointment had done wonders for his pain, but the skin is still raw and red and blistered.

"A little," he replies, relaxing his hand once more. "Meggot really did help quite a bit. It doesn't burn or give me as much pain as it used to."

It doesn't look terribly improved - but he's a horrid liar, so she's not too terribly concerned. Not that she would be or - because, really - oh, forget it.

She rolls her eyes mildly and lets out a sigh (mostly to herself) before propping herself up a bit.

"Thank you," she says simply.

Tristran lets his hand drop slightly, and he frowns, looking up to glance at the star.

"...For what?"

"Saving me."

She manages to look incredibly dignified, she thinks. Or she would like to think.

"Not that it will stop me from loathing you," she counters, tucking her hair behind her ears and eying him warily.

Tristran smiles, even relaxes a little bit more.

"No, of course not," he says, a hint of amusement in his expression. "I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

"It is good to know that I am living up to my standards," she replies. "I would hate to be growing too complacent for you."

She shift herself over a bit further, making room. It's fairly obvious that he isn't going anywhere just yet.

"I promised to make your life difficult, after all," and let it be known that she is a woman of her word.

"Yes, you did," Tristran says. He moves over a little bit, careful not to bother his burnt hand in the process.

"Though you could cooperate...once in a while." So things like burnt hands don't happen again? He would really hate to burn something else.

The star flinches slightly, gaze shuttering guiltily - she doesn't quite say she's sorry, but it's there anyway.

"Where you go, I go."

Shrugging, she finds, isn't particularly effective when one is laying down.

"So it does not matter very terribly much if I wish to cooperate or not. We will go where you desire."

Hmm. She doesn't have to make it sound so final. So forced (even if it sort of is). It makes him feel ... a little guilty.

"You're sure we can't put you back up into the sky once we're done with this quest?"

"Yes Tristran," she answers. "I'm sure."

She pauses for a moment, eyes closed, before sitting up abruptly, once more self possessed. A very prim tilt of her chin and she blinks at him slowly, gaze challenging.

"Getting rid of me so soon?"

"Of course not!" he says quickly. "I just...want to help you go back to your home. If you don't want to go, of course, I'm not forcing you."

That, ladies and gentlemen? That would be the sound of someone missing the point entirely.

And this?

Oh, that one is what a star sounds like when it giggles. (Not that such a sound will ever be repeated, of course. Certain stars do have their dignity.)

"Like you could."

He's never heard Yvaine giggle -- it's a rare thing in itself to hear her laugh, or see her smile.

He raises both eyebrows, then says, "Well, I wouldn't." ...and then in a teasing sort of tone, adds, "But if I chose to I am certain I could. I will just carry you to the top of some tall mountain and toss you back up into the sky."

"Oh," she blinks back at him, raising one of her own pointedly. "And you are supposing that I would just let you drag me to the top of a mountain?"

This is, of course, ignoring that whole 'whither thou goest' contract they have going on. Minor, negligible details.

She narrows her eyes, "Would be awfully counterproductive in making your life difficult, Tristran Thorn."

Tristran laughs a bit.

"I would manage," he tells her seriously. "Shouldn't be a problem."

"Shouldn't be a problem," she echoes, tilting her head to mimic his posture as well as his words.

A lazy smirk.

"I do not think that you would last half way," comes the reply, simply stated and entirely factual.

Scoffing, Tristran gives her a most incredulous look.

"Do you think that badly of me, that I would not have the energy to finish such a task?"

"That badly?" she leans forward once more. "Well ..."

Pausing, she presses one cheek to her shoulder and lowers her lashes. (She has sisters, she's seen all of these things put to practice. Admittedly, she hasn't had much practice herself, but really, how hard can it be?)

"You," the star murmurs, before a significantly more Yvaine grin breaks across her face. "Couldn't even carry me to the door."

"I certainly can," he says confidently, then adds quickly, "of course not right now, as my hand is still injured. But on any other day, I can."

Then he laughs.

"Maybe one day I can prove it."

"But my point still stands," she says. "You can't."

Arguing, she finds, is much more entertaining when the other person actually bothers to argue back.

She lets herself flop back down, one hand waving dismissively, "We shall talk of 'one day' when we get there."

"Well all right, maybe I can't if you're speaking of right now," he concedes, "but it still stands that I'm sure I can if I were completely healed."

Perhaps arguing is fun for Yvaine, but Tristran isn't very much a fan in the end.

That's just because Tristran's a sore loser.

"Of course, Prince Charming," she drawls sarcastically, rolling her eyes.

"You know, that would have been the first question out of my mouth when I was younger, 'Are you a Prince?'" a quiet snort. "Well, perhaps after inquiring as to whether or not you were a boy - but that, at least, has become self evident."

She would like to believe that that is some sort of indication of self-growth. Or of ability to pay attention for more than five minutes. Either one.

Sore loser? Pfffffft...

Tristran smiles. Somehow her words feel very familiar. Almost like they happened in a dream...but when would he ever have dreamt something like that?

"Well, I was quite certain that a prince was what I was going to grow up to be," he says.

A sore loser and a baby.

She turns her head, nose wrinkling at the prickling something, and peers over at him inquisitively.

"And now?" she asks. "What do you want to be now?"

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