Her sitting at the end of a long day is the most fine thing at hand, save maybe the gelding who is sturdy and patient as Marcoulf unbuckles the straps of the girth and strips the rest of the tack from him.
The saddle and its patterned blanket are set unceremoniously pommel down into the straw and against the stall wall and in moments, Marcoulf has fallen into the task of brushing the big horse down. There's sweat marks along his face and belly and face; there's mud from the road to be scraped clean of his fetlocks. And all of it is automatic, so practiced that it's an easy thing to fall into the rhythm of. He could do this in his sleep. He could and has done this at the margins of battlefields and in the loamy valleys below them suffused with the stink of the dead.
Is it fine? Six thinks about the trail that went cold, the loss of people, the life that has been taken, and she considers - is it fine? Is it alright for her to be here and not chasing after the dead? There must be some more signs, surely, something that might indicate that they live, that they exist, that... That she hasn't failed. Lifting her hands, she wraps her fingers around her symbol of Sarenrae and breathes in and out, hoping for the best but not expecting it.
She wants things to be okay, but...
Rubbing her hands over her face, she breathes out shakily, grasping at nothing before she looks back over at Marcoulf.
Scrape, scrape, says the hard bristled brush. There's nothing to apologize for. You didn't kill them, is what he should probably say. Instead, he's quiet for a long beat and the silence is filled with soft animal sounds and the rustle of the gelding as he noses through the leaf of fresh hay. Scrape, scrape, scrape.
The silence is almost deafening, and Six feels sick and anxious with it. She doesn't know what to do for a moment, her gaze flicking over his features before she breathes out sharply. Tears prickle at her eyes and she has to look away, forcing herself to not look, to not gaze at him, to not admit how terribly affected she has been by all of this.
"Ashes." Six swallows. "We were given belongings and ashes."
There must not have been bodies left. If there were, someone would have said so. It would have taken longer for the search party to return if they were forced to transport a cart full of corpses. So of course they were reduced to ashes and things. That makes sense.
I wonder, he doesn't say, if it was the mage or if they were killed and burned after.
The whisk of the brush over horsehair continues as he ducks over to the gelding's far side. It's a steady nearly unbroken rhythm. It's a good, repetitive motion with which to bury other things that threaten to wander upward: what was the last thing he'd said to her? He can't recall, only that it had been angry and cutting. Maybe if he'd been there like at Ghislain--
It must be agonising for him, surely. Six knows that some of the people who had taken part in the mission must have been those that he cared for, and she knows that this must be incredibly difficult for him - how can he be so stern, so sure of himself? How can he not break?
She broke when Adrian died. She fell apart entirely, at a loss, shattered and destroyed from the inside out. Only Sarenrae had saved her, and even that had not felt like enough at the time. How does Marcoulf keep himself stoic, when surely inside he is aching?
Perhaps the work gives him strength, gives him something to hold onto. It is all that she can imagine, when he is so clearly focussing on Sir over his own emotions.
Breathing out, Six sighs.
"It seems there was something of each person, proof of their death. We gathered it all so that it might be returned to their loved ones."
Their contact, he thinks, had been the sentimental kind. It takes a particular kind of sweetness or care to be so diligent. Or maybe it is luck. Or maybe--
Maybe it doesn't beat much thinking on, beyond the fact that he would like to see what they'd fetched back. Will anything of Magni's have survived the fire? What became of her great hammer? Of all that iron she wore in her belt? Of small bits of fur and leather and feathers?
"That's very kind." A pause, stretched thin. "It's good to have something of them at all, I suppose."
There's an ache, so much of an ache, that Six feels that she might break. What she wants is a reason to distract herself, something else to focus on - and can Marcoulf not give her that? Give her something to turn her mind to, something to force her to stop thinking of the ashes and the items, personal effects that will never see their owners again -
- she breathes out. Slowly, carefully, she stands, stepping forward to lumber to the front of her horse, hand lifting to stroke against his face, gentle and soothing. She thinks he can read her; he pushes his nose against her fingers and she blinks back her tears, desperate and lost.
"Kind? No. It was all that we could do." A swallow. "It will never be enough."
The whisk of the brush pauses, a brief hiccup in that repeating rhythm. Enough? No, probably not.
It's like watching this scene from the wings of a cheap play: People die all the time. It's what happens, he can see the man thinking it hard enough to be a shield at the same time he knows that the girl - she seems very much like a girl in most ways except her height and plate armor and the weight of her arm when it's swinging a sword - is a sensitive creature. That it wouldn't do to say it.
The only thing he can't quite figure out is what the point is. Why do you keep doing this? he could ask either one of them.
Death is not something so easy for Six to accept. She has seen it in warfare, of course; she was there, cutting down men, hurting them, harming them, all in the hopes of bringing them back towards the light, but it never works how she hopes it might. It is never so easy, especially with Sarenrae so distant from her, so far beyond her reach. It is not that easy, and it hurts, aches, an agonising feeling.
Leaning forward, her forehead touches her horses and she relaxes, closing her eyes.
"Eaten?" Hesitating, she leans back to think. "I am not so sure. I cannot remember when I last ate."
Then she turns, looking over at him.
"I will make sure Sir is settled and fed and then I will find my own."
Scrape, scrape, scrape and the sweat mark of the saddle and girth is slowly worked out of the gelding's coat. Here, the motion of Marcoulf's arm doesn't pause, but the rest of him seems to.
For a beat. For two.
"I know a place," he says, half halting like he isn't certain what he's offering. "Unless you'd rather just make your way to the Gallows."
At least Sir is here to calm her, and Marcoulf is being kind. She did not expect that and it rests on her shoulders, calming and easing the tension inside of her. She feels such guilt about what she had been unable to do, her failures, and yet...
And yet. She knows it is not entirely her fault, but... She wishes she could repair it all the same. She wishes... So much.
"No. I would be glad to go anywhere." And then, again, "thank you."
"Think nothing of it," he says without shifting his attention away from the task under his hands. Maybe it's a statement made automatic out of habit. Or maybe his thoughtfulness only extends so far - yes, to offering his company; no to accepting her thanks. Or maybe he's just an ass. Or maybe he's aware of some prickling, selfish intent in all of this. He shouldn't invite her along anywhere. She does poorly with the stilted quality of his presence and it would be neater, cleaner, kinder to simply not request that she suffer through it at all.
But.
(Magni wouldn't have died easily, he thinks. But maybe she did. It's a comfort to think it was done with quickly. Maybe that's why the rest of them couldn't get all the way away. If she was struck down right at the beginning, they wouldn't have the benefit of her strength behind them and then--)
Anyway. He focuses on brushing out Sir's coat. It takes some time, some effort, and it's most comfortable to do it in silence and so he offers little more in the way of conversation until the horse is settled.
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no subject
Her sitting at the end of a long day is the most fine thing at hand, save maybe the gelding who is sturdy and patient as Marcoulf unbuckles the straps of the girth and strips the rest of the tack from him.
The saddle and its patterned blanket are set unceremoniously pommel down into the straw and against the stall wall and in moments, Marcoulf has fallen into the task of brushing the big horse down. There's sweat marks along his face and belly and face; there's mud from the road to be scraped clean of his fetlocks. And all of it is automatic, so practiced that it's an easy thing to fall into the rhythm of. He could do this in his sleep. He could and has done this at the margins of battlefields and in the loamy valleys below them suffused with the stink of the dead.
It's fine.
no subject
Is it fine? Six thinks about the trail that went cold, the loss of people, the life that has been taken, and she considers - is it fine? Is it alright for her to be here and not chasing after the dead? There must be some more signs, surely, something that might indicate that they live, that they exist, that... That she hasn't failed. Lifting her hands, she wraps her fingers around her symbol of Sarenrae and breathes in and out, hoping for the best but not expecting it.
She wants things to be okay, but...
Rubbing her hands over her face, she breathes out shakily, grasping at nothing before she looks back over at Marcoulf.
"I am sorry. I wish I had brought better news."
no subject
"Did they say how it happened?"
no subject
"Ashes." Six swallows. "We were given belongings and ashes."
no subject
I wonder, he doesn't say, if it was the mage or if they were killed and burned after.
The whisk of the brush over horsehair continues as he ducks over to the gelding's far side. It's a steady nearly unbroken rhythm. It's a good, repetitive motion with which to bury other things that threaten to wander upward: what was the last thing he'd said to her? He can't recall, only that it had been angry and cutting. Maybe if he'd been there like at Ghislain--
Anyway. With the big horse between them:
"Anything worth keeping?"
no subject
She broke when Adrian died. She fell apart entirely, at a loss, shattered and destroyed from the inside out. Only Sarenrae had saved her, and even that had not felt like enough at the time. How does Marcoulf keep himself stoic, when surely inside he is aching?
Perhaps the work gives him strength, gives him something to hold onto. It is all that she can imagine, when he is so clearly focussing on Sir over his own emotions.
Breathing out, Six sighs.
"It seems there was something of each person, proof of their death. We gathered it all so that it might be returned to their loved ones."
no subject
Maybe it doesn't beat much thinking on, beyond the fact that he would like to see what they'd fetched back. Will anything of Magni's have survived the fire? What became of her great hammer? Of all that iron she wore in her belt? Of small bits of fur and leather and feathers?
"That's very kind." A pause, stretched thin. "It's good to have something of them at all, I suppose."
no subject
- she breathes out. Slowly, carefully, she stands, stepping forward to lumber to the front of her horse, hand lifting to stroke against his face, gentle and soothing. She thinks he can read her; he pushes his nose against her fingers and she blinks back her tears, desperate and lost.
"Kind? No. It was all that we could do." A swallow. "It will never be enough."
no subject
It's like watching this scene from the wings of a cheap play: People die all the time. It's what happens, he can see the man thinking it hard enough to be a shield at the same time he knows that the girl - she seems very much like a girl in most ways except her height and plate armor and the weight of her arm when it's swinging a sword - is a sensitive creature. That it wouldn't do to say it.
The only thing he can't quite figure out is what the point is. Why do you keep doing this? he could ask either one of them.
"Have you eaten today?" A hard left turn.
no subject
Leaning forward, her forehead touches her horses and she relaxes, closing her eyes.
"Eaten?" Hesitating, she leans back to think. "I am not so sure. I cannot remember when I last ate."
Then she turns, looking over at him.
"I will make sure Sir is settled and fed and then I will find my own."
no subject
For a beat. For two.
"I know a place," he says, half halting like he isn't certain what he's offering. "Unless you'd rather just make your way to the Gallows."
no subject
And yet. She knows it is not entirely her fault, but... She wishes she could repair it all the same. She wishes... So much.
"No. I would be glad to go anywhere." And then, again, "thank you."
no subject
But.
(Magni wouldn't have died easily, he thinks. But maybe she did. It's a comfort to think it was done with quickly. Maybe that's why the rest of them couldn't get all the way away. If she was struck down right at the beginning, they wouldn't have the benefit of her strength behind them and then--)
Anyway. He focuses on brushing out Sir's coat. It takes some time, some effort, and it's most comfortable to do it in silence and so he offers little more in the way of conversation until the horse is settled.