Re: Wandering: Hannah/Fiach
She was good at reading people, at her sureness in others. He did have stories and storms behind his smile and his eyes, and they were not tempests he wished to drag anyone into. For you see, he was good at it as well, behind his dance partner's eyes was a fog. It wasn't that she couldn't see, but that she was lost somewhere between reality and memory. He knew that look, when people wandered too far, they drank to much of their wine, ate too much of their fruit and there were moments there was a clarity about them, but the wrong--or right word--could send them drifting back down the misty river.
She was like that and at the same time not, because she fully seemed aware of him, at least. Of the dance. Of the songs in her head.
He smiled still when she curtsied, perfectly timed and delighted.
Fiach turned slightly, those thick brows of his coming down in sharp angles. "It isn't pleasant talk for a first meeting, is it?" The right corner of his mouth dragged up and took his cheek along with it. "But your condolences, they are appreciated." His eyes shifted to her and the hurt that lingered in her gaze, and instantly any swift anger and heavy tides were gone from his face.
Nimble fingers reached out and though it was intimate and ill advised since he did not even know her and she was very much torn, he tucked a piece of hair that that had gone wild from their twirling madness. "You're not alone in not belonging," he assured her. "And I will tell you it's strange, maddening, and wholly disatisfying at times, but then you find moments. Moments where you're alive and bright and fully there, and those are the moments beings like us," not people. "Well, we belong and are alive, but don't tell anyone." His finger tip tapped her nose briefly. "Because those are precious and shouldn't be soiled by death, because we're dead, but we're not. You see?"
He stepped back and folded his hands behind his back looking up at the ceiling. "They can't take those moments."