‘ bold of you to assume i’d die. ‘
@felandaristhorns cont’d from: [x]
Ailis dashes into the shop with uncharacteristic haste, darting around the displays to reach him - and Fenumin can only stare at her, bewildered; what if a customer had seen? He has a reputation to maintain, and she knows full well he cannot afford to draw undue attention. It isn’t like her to be careless, which of course means this must be an emergency, but what sort of emergency could warrant- But then she signs something, so quickly and urgently he must - for once - ask her to repeat herself, both because he isn’t quite certain he caught her meaning… and because he isn’t quite certain he dares to believe what he thought she’d signed. - - - The days pass, blurring into months before Fenumin realizes how long it’s been since… since- is there any point in dancing around it? No. Since Lord Harellin’s reported death. It is not the first time he’s been presumed dead, of course; his work is deadly, and complications arise. Fenumin is among those who refuse to believe it: there is no corpse, after all, and with no corpse, who can say with any certainty Dirthamen’s Left Hand is gone? He has returned from more likely demises. But then the days become months, and even those most staunchly in denial begin to doubt. Fenumin buries himself in work, denying at every turn that it is in any way related to Harellin’s disappearance - there is simply, he insists, too much work to be done to waste time on sentiment. But when he visits the temple, he lingers for a time in the garden, tending what he can. It is a colder place without Lord Harellin’s presence, but Fenumin cannot bring himself to ignore it completely. - - - “Lord Harellin is alive,” Ailis signs again, her eyes wide. “He’s coming this way.” But then the shop’s door opens, and for a moment, Fenumin forgets to breathe. Dizzy and disbelieving, he steps past Ailis, greeting Lord Harellin at the door with an expression caught somewhere between disbelief and hope; he reaches as though he means to touch the man, to assure himself he’s real, he’s solid- But he catches himself, drops his hand, and takes an unsteady breath. When he trusts his voice, he shrugs, turning away to resume his work. “Nonsense,” he replies, pleased with how stable his tone is, how untroubled he sounds. “I knew you’d return in due time.”
Harellin clearly had been to a healer already, because safe for a bloody, bruised nose, he didn’t look pretty bad for wear. His expression was as warm as ever, softening even further at Fenumin’s reaction. Catching the potion-brewer before he could walk away on him, the raven-lord, wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist from behind, nuzzling his cheek affectionately.
“Sorry for th’ worry, I caused”, he said and his voice was truly apologetic, “If it’s any consolation, me Sis already gave me a lecture on bein’ foolish an’ reckless”, he laughed softly, a sound that made it apparent how breathless, he still was - probably still recovering from a couple broken ribs, “She actually punched me straight upon sight. Bless her heart.”
He turned to give Ailis a warm smile and a wink,, still not letting go of Fenumin, but aside from crushing the poor man against his broad chest, he did nothing more, even though seeing the man well and alive had filled him with a strong sense of relieve and the need to cuddle him all day long, to assure him that all was still well.
“I saw, ya tended ta me garden. Thanks for that. There’s slaves tendin’ to it, when I’m away, but it shows, when someone of th’ craft has his hands in as well”, then after a thoughtful pause, he turned his face into Fenumin’s cheek once more, staying there, as he muttered again: “Sorry for makin’ ye sad.“