Johanne waited, her heart pounding, for Dariel to emerge from the room he had disappeared into. She took the brief moment alone to compose herself. Her hands twisted in on themselves, her fingers picking at cuticles, scratching a her thumb. She was uncomfortable in a place where she should have felt at home. It was a strange feeling. Since she had arrived in Lhavit, never had she met someone who had spoken of her scars so frankly, or had examined them so closely. This young man stripped away her layers with his eyes until all that remained was the very essence of Johanne on display. And he did not even realise that he was doing so. She took several deep breaths, squaring her shoulders, when Dariel emerged, two cups of steaming tea in hand. She could not help but smile at his generosity.
She let the comment on Denvali slide. She did not like to lie, to cover up secrets with shadowy words, and felt uncomfortable conning Dariel any further. If she had spoken more on it, she would have undoubtedly let slip what she had said, and what she intended to do. And all this, for a man she had met only half a bell ago, less, even! Johanne was a woman who felt fully, and that alienated people from ever getting to know her truly. She had to ease them in to her true nature.
Dariel had never even heard of the small little town. He did not miss the streets, the docks, the rubble in the same way she did, and any words would have felt empty against the memory of sea breezes in her mind. It stung a little, that her past was so obscure, and so meaningless in the eyes of the wider world: but that is why she had left, was it not? "Denval was small. It was tiring living there, trying to be as big as I could be in a world contained by mounds of debris. I left to find stories." Not that I found any, she thought to herself. But perhaps Dariel was right: divine providence had saved her from a life where words were swallowed by the insignificance of her geography.
"But the Gods ... I cannot understand their reasonings and deeds, and I must say: I have no intention to try." She shrugged, dismissing the Gods from her being, although she respected their power. She had never seen any evidence that they were at all interested in her stories and her scars, and so Johanne thought: why should she be interested in theirs? Save for Leth and Syna on her left forearm, an image of Joseph rather than the deities themselves, the Gods had no standing in her soul.
"I have found no mention of Denval's culture and way of life in any literature here, but I do not have access to the Bharani Library yet." To write the story of Denval, of the people there, and her way of life ... Johanne was not sure that she could do it. It would finally and irredeemably close a chapter of her life that she had always felt she could return to when the world got too big for her. But to write it would mean that she would have to keep walking, that she had gotten all she could from Denval. Even if that was the story she was meant to write, she could not do it now. And so she remained tight lipped on that topic, even if Dariel were to press it further. Writing was what happened between her soul and the page in private; it was not something she could contemplate aloud.
She stepped forward, inclining her head in thanks as she outstretched her hand to take the tea from him. Picking up the warmed cup, she saw below, in his palm, the crumbs of rock sugar: a small and hidden offering, if she should choose. She paused, his thoughtfulness taking her by surprise. Hesitating for a moment, she took the sugar from his hand, her fingers brushing his palm lightly, before dropping it in her tea. "Thank you," she said softly. Kindness went a long way with Johanne.
She sipped her tea while Dariel spoke, staying silent, never once interrupting. She had put the questions to him so demandingly that she must stay and let him say his piece. He was an intelligent young man. His voice measured, he clearly put much thought into everything he did, and said. This touched Johanne, a girl too used to hasty dismissals and uninterested hasty interactions. Here was a man who would think on what she said and give her an honest answer. A thrill went down her spine when he said that she was working magic. Johanne had hope that he would understand.
In the lengthy pause, as Dariel sipped his tea, she stayed silent, processing. Just as she had begun to think that he had said his piece and required a response, he spoke. And spoke such beautiful, unexpected words, words so similar to the ones she had offered Joseph years ago, that tears welled up in her eyes, obvious to Dariel, though they did not spill.
"Thank you," she whispered, and her voice was hoarse. "No one has ever thought that before. I cannot express what those words mean, what memories they bring back--" Joseph's eyes flashing through her memory, his smile, his smell, his lips against hers.
"Thank you, Dariel Masute. Thank you for thinking they are beautiful."