[ When she speaks of longing he nearly heaves a great sigh, both relief and frustration combined. He doesn't, however; but he does drop his gaze for a moment with a breath; as if he was about to say something but decided against it. At least she's looking at him now similar to how she did that night - without the solid steel walls up, her gaze more open than he's seen in weeks. The sight of which doesn't help to strengthen his resolve to remain where he is, of course.
When her horse causes her to start, it jolts him out of that as well; at least a little. But then the flush of her cheek draws his gaze; and that gaze wanders the contours of her face - remembering how it had felt beneath his touch. And then, more dangerously; his eyes are inevitably drawn to her mouth - and with that comes the memory of her lips, warm and bruising against his during that first kiss.
He doesn't like to think about their last kiss, the one that had felt final; a goodbye he still refused to accept. ]
I suffer that same longing.
[ He admits without guarding the way his gaze takes her in, the raw emotion visible across his features as he takes a step closer to her. ]
You have avoided me successfully these past few weeks. You are much better at this than I am.
[ The words are absent of the teasing humor his tone usually takes on. There are dark circles beneath his eyes; and instead of the easy smile he typically wears; he looks tired, worn. ]
Would it do any good to tell you how often I think of you? How much I want to take you in my arms right now; the pain it causes me to refrain from doing so?
Would it do any good? To know that you suffer for my sake, that you feel it as keenly as I do, that if I allowed it, you would have me in a moment, and all that it would cost would be everything?
[Her laugh is low and bitter, and she shakes her head, but her eyes return to his and she cannot turn her gaze away. He looks so worn and weary, and it aches in her chest, a feeling that is guilt as much as sorrow. It is bad enough to think of how this pains her, but her pain is her own to bear: to know for certain that it wounds him, too, is a far deeper cut.]
No. No, it would do no good.
[Her eyes dart past him, to the door, and then to and fro, as though to check one more time that they are alone. Then, with a speed that aims to outpace doubt, she reaches out to grab his sleeve, drawing him towards her mount's stall. It will not make their conversation entirely private, but it may go some way towards it. (And that thought, predictably, comes with a thrill of both excitement and dread at what privacy could portend - but she does it anyway, because in the moment, she cannot help herself)]
[Pulling the stable door closed behind them, she lets go of his wrist and turns to face him, her expression no longer guarded, mirroring his own. Her voice is low and serious, but comes in a rush nonetheless, the words falling over one another in their haste to be spoken.]
I am not better at this than you. I only know more keenly what might be lost, by failing. And yet I have thought of you endlessly, and each time your name has been raised, it has struck me to the core, and each time I have seen you, I have wanted you nearer, and I have wept for it, and I have not slept for want of you, and it is driving me mad. I have never felt loneliness so keenly, and I had resigned myself to loneliness before you came, I have borne it since my brother rode out to fight, but I cannot bear this.
I cannot bear this, Daario. [Her eyes search his face. She has stepped away from him, her hand no longer at his arm, and yet she cannot seem to draw back more than a little way, as though there is something still binding her, drawing her in. There is a lump in her throat, treasonous and unwanted.] To have you is to risk your life, and my lord's safety, and all the kingdom, and all that I love. To turn from you should be so simple a thing, and yet...
[She lets out a long, shuddering breath and lets her hands fall to her sides.]
Do not tell me of the pain it causes you. I am no less wounded. It serves no end to dwell on pain, unless we can answer it.
[ The words rush out on a slightly shaky breath. It's the most honest thing he'd said in weeks. To everyone else he's interacted with, he's been a shell of himself; performing, essentially, the role of the man he was before all of this began - lively, charming, bold, capable. He's kept up enough of the facade for others not to catch on, and he does so out of necessity. It would do no good for anyone to notice his pining, his ache.
Certainly not under the ever watchful gaze of Wormtongue; who, although Daario has spent no further time interacting with Éowyn since that night after their ride; still scrutinizes his every step, listening in to his conversations when he thinks Daario is unaware. But he's always aware; because he has to be.
And she's right, to be with him is to risk everything she has. The risk to himself, his own life; means less because of how familiar risk is to someone like Daario. He can navigate it well enough, as evidenced by the past few weeks; agonizing as they have been. He knows that what he wants from her is not something she can give; and yet he wants it still.
It brings him some comfort in the knowledge that she is no less affected by this than he. That she aches as he does. Though it doesn't solve anything. ]
I don't know. [ He answers truthfully, uselessly; alone in the stall with her he's far too distracted by her proximity to come up with any logical solutions; if any actually even exist. All he knows is that when her hand drops from his arm, he wants it back; wants her touch so desperately that he acts purely from that desire - disregarding every risk and every warning and every reason why he should not do so, he steps closer to her and lifts his hand to frame her face. He swallows against the thickness building in his throat, his gaze raw and pleading. ]
I don't know how to be near you without touching you. [ His fingertips brush down along her cheekbones to her jaw, an unsteady sigh leaving his chest; his voice coming out in a quiet sort of rasp. ] I'm not strong enough. [ His gaze darkens as he shifts closer to her. ] It isn't fair of me to ask it of you, but you have to leave. You have to leave me here, or I will not be able to stop.
[Her heart skips in its rhythm, stutters a moment before setting up a faster tattoo. His hand is hot and rough against her cheek, and it feels to her that it burns like a brand, that its heat passes over into her and sets her cheek aflame. Her eyes meet his, and she could not help it if she wanted to - no more than she can help the answering desire in her own look.]
[It seems to her that she has forgotten how to breathe. Standing so close, he seems to take on a strange power, an intensity of presence, as though he is somehow the only real thing in the world. This is exactly what she has been striving to avoid, what she should not allow. At the same time, it is all she has wanted for weeks: his touch, his closeness, the look in his eyes that says she need not be alone.]
[Her hand comes up to cover his, and it trembles a little. Her voice is barely a whisper when she echoes his words.]
I am not strong enough.
[And she gives in to that pull, unable to prevent herself: she moves closer, almost without knowing it, until they are nearly chest-to-chest, until she can feel his breath unsteady against her cheek. Shame washes over her, but it is not nearly as strong as that magnetic draw of his touch.]
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sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2023-05-06 12:38 am (UTC)When her horse causes her to start, it jolts him out of that as well; at least a little. But then the flush of her cheek draws his gaze; and that gaze wanders the contours of her face - remembering how it had felt beneath his touch. And then, more dangerously; his eyes are inevitably drawn to her mouth - and with that comes the memory of her lips, warm and bruising against his during that first kiss.
He doesn't like to think about their last kiss, the one that had felt final; a goodbye he still refused to accept. ]
I suffer that same longing.
[ He admits without guarding the way his gaze takes her in, the raw emotion visible across his features as he takes a step closer to her. ]
You have avoided me successfully these past few weeks. You are much better at this than I am.
[ The words are absent of the teasing humor his tone usually takes on. There are dark circles beneath his eyes; and instead of the easy smile he typically wears; he looks tired, worn. ]
Would it do any good to tell you how often I think of you? How much I want to take you in my arms right now; the pain it causes me to refrain from doing so?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-06 03:58 pm (UTC)[Her laugh is low and bitter, and she shakes her head, but her eyes return to his and she cannot turn her gaze away. He looks so worn and weary, and it aches in her chest, a feeling that is guilt as much as sorrow. It is bad enough to think of how this pains her, but her pain is her own to bear: to know for certain that it wounds him, too, is a far deeper cut.]
No. No, it would do no good.
[Her eyes dart past him, to the door, and then to and fro, as though to check one more time that they are alone. Then, with a speed that aims to outpace doubt, she reaches out to grab his sleeve, drawing him towards her mount's stall. It will not make their conversation entirely private, but it may go some way towards it. (And that thought, predictably, comes with a thrill of both excitement and dread at what privacy could portend - but she does it anyway, because in the moment, she cannot help herself)]
[Pulling the stable door closed behind them, she lets go of his wrist and turns to face him, her expression no longer guarded, mirroring his own. Her voice is low and serious, but comes in a rush nonetheless, the words falling over one another in their haste to be spoken.]
I am not better at this than you. I only know more keenly what might be lost, by failing. And yet I have thought of you endlessly, and each time your name has been raised, it has struck me to the core, and each time I have seen you, I have wanted you nearer, and I have wept for it, and I have not slept for want of you, and it is driving me mad. I have never felt loneliness so keenly, and I had resigned myself to loneliness before you came, I have borne it since my brother rode out to fight, but I cannot bear this.
I cannot bear this, Daario. [Her eyes search his face. She has stepped away from him, her hand no longer at his arm, and yet she cannot seem to draw back more than a little way, as though there is something still binding her, drawing her in. There is a lump in her throat, treasonous and unwanted.] To have you is to risk your life, and my lord's safety, and all the kingdom, and all that I love. To turn from you should be so simple a thing, and yet...
[She lets out a long, shuddering breath and lets her hands fall to her sides.]
Do not tell me of the pain it causes you. I am no less wounded. It serves no end to dwell on pain, unless we can answer it.
What are we to do?
no subject
Date: 2023-05-07 07:14 am (UTC)[ The words rush out on a slightly shaky breath. It's the most honest thing he'd said in weeks. To everyone else he's interacted with, he's been a shell of himself; performing, essentially, the role of the man he was before all of this began - lively, charming, bold, capable. He's kept up enough of the facade for others not to catch on, and he does so out of necessity. It would do no good for anyone to notice his pining, his ache.
Certainly not under the ever watchful gaze of Wormtongue; who, although Daario has spent no further time interacting with Éowyn since that night after their ride; still scrutinizes his every step, listening in to his conversations when he thinks Daario is unaware. But he's always aware; because he has to be.
And she's right, to be with him is to risk everything she has. The risk to himself, his own life; means less because of how familiar risk is to someone like Daario. He can navigate it well enough, as evidenced by the past few weeks; agonizing as they have been. He knows that what he wants from her is not something she can give; and yet he wants it still.
It brings him some comfort in the knowledge that she is no less affected by this than he. That she aches as he does. Though it doesn't solve anything. ]
I don't know. [ He answers truthfully, uselessly; alone in the stall with her he's far too distracted by her proximity to come up with any logical solutions; if any actually even exist. All he knows is that when her hand drops from his arm, he wants it back; wants her touch so desperately that he acts purely from that desire - disregarding every risk and every warning and every reason why he should not do so, he steps closer to her and lifts his hand to frame her face. He swallows against the thickness building in his throat, his gaze raw and pleading. ]
I don't know how to be near you without touching you. [ His fingertips brush down along her cheekbones to her jaw, an unsteady sigh leaving his chest; his voice coming out in a quiet sort of rasp. ] I'm not strong enough. [ His gaze darkens as he shifts closer to her. ] It isn't fair of me to ask it of you, but you have to leave. You have to leave me here, or I will not be able to stop.
no subject
Date: 2023-05-07 01:35 pm (UTC)[It seems to her that she has forgotten how to breathe. Standing so close, he seems to take on a strange power, an intensity of presence, as though he is somehow the only real thing in the world. This is exactly what she has been striving to avoid, what she should not allow. At the same time, it is all she has wanted for weeks: his touch, his closeness, the look in his eyes that says she need not be alone.]
[Her hand comes up to cover his, and it trembles a little. Her voice is barely a whisper when she echoes his words.]
I am not strong enough.
[And she gives in to that pull, unable to prevent herself: she moves closer, almost without knowing it, until they are nearly chest-to-chest, until she can feel his breath unsteady against her cheek. Shame washes over her, but it is not nearly as strong as that magnetic draw of his touch.]
Who knows you are here?