Ficlet: Unpacking ((Closed, One Shot))

The announcements had been made. Quvren didn’t know where, precisely--Broken Shore? Broken Isle?--he was to be deployed, but he made a mental note to visit the map room later. At the moment all he wanted to do was get away. As soon as Commander Longsight dismissed them he made for the stairs, pausing only long enough to give polite smiles and congratulations to those who’d earned promotions that afternoon.

It was better once the sky stretched before him. As he strode toward his new, largely unpacked home he thought about the bath he would draw, the book he would read, the whiskey--a gift from a clueless but well-meaning acquaintance--he would ignore. The key lay heavy in his pocket. He fished it out, unlocked the front door to the cottage. He left the door standing open. He threw up a window sash to chase away the close, stale air.

“I’m home,” he said to no one, trying out the sound.

Skybrooke would have enjoyed visiting this place--visiting him in this place--he realized; she would have bothered him about books, needled him with unsolicited advice. He looked to the dressmaker’s form in the corner, at the mageweave and embersilk dress. Quvren knew it would have fit her perfectly; he’d taken the measurements, sewn each seam himself. All that wanted was for it to be worn. He rummaged in a box, drew a sheet over the dummy, but the hiss and whisper of fabric in motion put him in mind of the way he’d knelt before her, working dozens of tiny pins into the material while she spoke to the top of his head. He recalled the quiet, simple pleasure in her voice as she commissioned a gown: a small surprise for her to wear for Cerellean. Quvren was more than happy to do the work. He loved beautiful things--had always done--and this had been a familiar, safe role for him to play.

All that wanted was for it to be worn. To be loved.

Quvren wanted to break the world just then. His eyes burned. He walked away from the draped dressmaker’s form, into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. On the counter lay a long braid, washed and trimmed just before his departure. Sky’s braid, to be used for Thira’s doll. Without looking, without allowing himself to think about it, he tucked it into a drawer. He boiled water, shook the leaves from the tin. Once he had tea he made for the bedroom. Nap, then a bath. Or bath, then a nap? The dollmaker paused in the doorway. On his night table, amidst a pile of sketches, lay a small, perfectly-articulated leg. The hoof was dainty, the musculature immature. He’d been proud of it at the time. But now… now he hovered, halfway in the hall, staring at it. After a moment he turned and closed the door.