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Counterpoint, Interfolio
Encore: A piece of music played at the end of a recital.
A/N: For Connie Marie
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He doesn't know what snapped at his awareness, pricked his consciousness until it smeared a light shock up his spine, made his hands clench tight on the reins and his breath hitch just a little in his chest. A shift in breeze, perhaps, a ripple of scent, he's not sure, only that something has changed, something is… here.
It's coming.
A foolish thought, for he has no idea what 'it' could be, nor what 'its' coming might mean or bring or even why it matters, why it seems all at once as though he's been expecting it all his life and has only just this moment realised he'd been waiting. The air is thick and heavy with expectancy and he lifts his eyes to the horizon, the soft curve of the land where the emerald of the plains of his home meets the silver-blue of the late-September sky. A tawny ribbon of road cuts itself into the grasses and there, preceding a small storm of dust kicked up in his horse's wake, the solitary rider flies like an arrow, dark hair streaming behind him, whipping in the wind and curling about his nape like sooted smoke.
He's going to break his fool neck, he thinks as he watches the rider sway easily with the lift and surge of the rhythm beneath him, listens to the whoops and silvery laughter that ride on the wind before him, announce his arrival with all the grace and subtlety of a charging troll.
He snorts a little, shakes his head, watching. The rider is still at least half a league distant; plenty of time yet.
Time for what?
He's not sure, or so he tells himself.
He narrows his eyes, tries to focus on the dark blur, but all he can really tell from here is that this man rides well and his horse is capable. Not so fine as his own, of course, but the rider looks to be from Gondor by his dress and they are not the horse-lords his own people are; he himself rides a descendent of Shadowfax, after all, or so the legend goes, the blood thinned over almost two centuries, but still pulsing steady and hot through the veins. Sure-footed and swift, is his mount, and together they have stirred the dust on this very road more times than he cares to count. But he can't help the small pang in his chest when the rider dips in his saddle a little, swift recovery from an unexpected lurch. A good rider would know not to fly break-neck over an unfamiliar road.
He shakes his head, finds himself chuckling a little -- mostly at himself; his brother often accuses him of being pushy and protective and here he is, proving him right by mentally chastising a perfect stranger. Another almost-stumble, however, regardless of the quick recovery and re-establishment of balance, and he finds himself slapping the reins on his own horse's neck, knocking at its ribs with his heels and urging him down the slope and towards the road. There are no trees for miles to block sight and the day is clear; the rider can't miss him and propriety will demand that he stop in greeting.
He doesn't think about why that sends a hot rush through his chest.
Nearer now, less than a mile and closing fast; the rider's mount may not be a blowback to the Maeras but swift it is nonetheless. He soothes his own horse with a long stroke down the thick neck, calms the eager tremor in the animal's tensed muscles, keen for permission to join the race.
"Patience," he murmurs and the horse gives a disgruntled tug at the bit, paws at the ground but stands firm beneath him. The reins dangle loose in his hand and he adjusts himself in the saddle, the leather creaking a warm and familiar tune to his ears. He affects a casual pose, not at all unaware of the picture he makes, and he tells himself that he is simply getting comfortable for the short wait, that it matters not if this stranger takes note of it.
He knows it for a lie and he has to smile a little at himself. He's been waiting for this, after all, and though that knowledge is only moments old, still it's been with him since the world was born and there is no point in trying to suss it out or deny it.
It is what it is; it will be what it will be. And he smiles again.
The rider has noticed him, he can tell, for the run becomes a gallop becomes a canter. The stranger's chin lifts and the dark head cocks a little to the side. A gaze more intense and alive than any he remembers finding himself held within is levelled with his own, wary interest sparking bright and sharp. A small smile slips over the angular face, the straight nose pinked with wind and sun, the cheeks slightly bronzed, but he thinks probably ivory is their natural colour. The build is fine, though more slender than his own, speaking of wiry strength and unintended grace, rather than the bulk of solid muscle his own form boasts.
He is a stranger, yet still…
I know you, he thinks and there is an odd flicker of darkness that comes with it but it's there and gone before the slight chill at the bottom of his spine can take hold.
I have never seen you before, yet I know you, have been waiting for you, and... how can that be?
The rider lifts his hand in greeting, broadens his smile, the wariness and suspicion carefully kept damped beneath cheerful regard.
Wiser than I'd thought, he tells himself. Strangers on the road sometimes mean the loss of one's purse and only that, if one is lucky. He should have thought of that before.
He widens his own smile, turns it to a friendly grin, waves a greeting of his own.
"Hail and well met," he calls and doesn't have to try to make his voice friendly, his greeting sincere, for he's been waiting, after all.
Something in the rider's eyes flares, blooms, and those eyes widen briefly then narrow, a twist of confusion contorting the brow. He closes the distance, pulls rein.
"Do I…" The stranger shakes his head, as though he knows the answer but feels compelled to ask the question anyway. "I am Maura of Gondor." He pauses, removes a glove and extends his hand slowly. "Have we met?"
"Gefēonde," is his soft reply and he can't help the way his grin becomes nearly wide enough to split his face and topple the top of his head right off the bottom. His hand shakes as he wraps it about the smaller one. A bolt of pure connection surges up from his fingers and through his chest at the contact and he wonders if the stranger has felt it as well; he can't tell, for the eyes are veiled now, guarded. The hand is pulled too quickly from his own and it's all Gefēonde can do to clear his throat, speak without tripping over his tongue. "And I don't think so."
A small nod and the stranger -- Maura -- finds his smile again, soft and awkward at first, but wide and open soon enough. "I don't suppose so," he agrees, though his eyes say he suspects different. "I've not been permitted this far 'til now and unless you've been to Minas Tirith…?"
Gefēonde shakes his head in answer, frowns a little. "Permitted?"
A light flush spreads over the face made paler by the dark hair that sticks to the sweat shining damp at cheeks and temples. Only determined will keeps Gefēonde from reaching out, pushing back with his fingers the silken sable that has escaped the leather binding at his new companion's nape.
"I've only just come of age," Maura answers with a shrug and a good-natured roll of his eyes. "My birthday present to myself is a trip outside the city's limits, with no companions to 'protect' me."
This last said with quite a lot of sarcasm and another roll of the eyes.
Ah, but you're one who needs at least a little protection, I'm thinking, Gefēonde thinks. Not enough to stifle or smother you but just enough to watch you don't race yourself right off a cliff trying to beat the wind, that's what I reckon.
He smiles. "And Rohan seemed a good place to start?"
A new eager shine lights in Maura's eyes and he nods. "A very good place, actually. I intend to go all the way to the North Kingdom of old one day but I was desperate to see Rohan before anything else. I've seen paintings and drawings of your land and…" He breathes in deep, gestures about him with arms thrown wide. "They can't compare to the real thing, by any stretch. It's beautiful here -- nothing like the white-on-grey I've always known. It's hard to believe so much space exists." A self-deprecating grin. "A poor excuse for my display on the road, I suppose, but I couldn't seem to help myself."
"It was a lovely display," Gefēonde replies before he's had a chance to consider and he can feel hot colour rush to his cheeks in its aftermath.
Maura's eyes widen in surprise then an eyebrow lifts and those eyes take on a mischievous slant. He looks… Delighted is how he looks, or at least that's what Gefēonde tells himself.
"You have unusual eyes," Maura says, as though reading his discomfiture and casually trying to dispel it. "The colour is…" He leans in, peers closely before he shrugs and shakes his head. "I'm not sure there's a name for that colour."
Now Gefēonde is sceptical. "It's called grey," he answers, his tone perhaps slightly challenging. Flattery and fun is one thing but he will not be played with. "It's not unusual -- either here or in your own country, from what I hear."
"No," Maura responds and his voice is firm, resolute. "Not grey. I mean, they are grey but…"
He keeps staring, leaning farther and farther until he finally dismounts and stands expectantly, waiting for Gefēonde to do the same. Still feeling uncomfortable, not knowing whether this somehow-completely-familiar stranger is having him on, he grits his teeth, firms his jaw and decides he's already in for a penny. He dismounts, opens his eyes wide and leans in, allows Maura a close examination, and oh, this was a mistake; he's already rising and thickening, the smell of sweat and horse and bayberry that waft through him every time Maura shifts a little closer, doing things to his body that will make it extremely difficult to re-mount in only a few short seconds. And he keeps moving closer, invading the thin stretch of air between them, encroaching relentlessly until Gefēonde realises that his back is pressed to the sweat-slicked haunch of his horse and he has no choice now but to stand his ground.
So close he can see the specks of road-dust on bronze-over-ivory, so close he can almost taste the breath that slips warm and damp from a mouth curved slightly upward, so close he can feel heat slam up against his body, near level him, and yet there is no touch upon him. He keeps himself still, the air charged and thick so that he can feel the hairs at his nape prick and his skin flushes hot. All he has to do is lean in and it won't seem strange anymore, he won't feel that rush of waiting-but-not-knowing and not knowing what he's waiting for, not even knowing he is waiting, and if he just leans in, takes what is being offered, he'll know, he'll know it all, he'll know… Something.
"Thunderclouds," Maura whispers and the word paints itself on the skin of Gefēonde's throat. Maura pulls back, smiles, and it's warm and… so bleeding familiar and Gefēonde all at once feels like weeping with relief and joy and he can't explain it, doesn't want to explain it and wouldn't explain it if he could. In this moment of still expectancy, he is more alive than he's been all his life and he won't be bothered with flesh-and-bone reasons for something that's as intangible and real as this feeling of coming home that flares warm beneath his breastbone.
"I wonder," Maura furthers as he takes two careful steps back, his tone smooth and low, "what might make them darken."
Gefēonde's mouth flaps, the shock of the promise and the abrupt release too much to take in. He can only shake his head and watch as Maura swings himself smoothly back into the saddle, grins down at him and tightens his fist on the reins.
"Perhaps a good challenge," he says with a teasing tilt of his head and his eyes spark bright and playful. "Race me to that thicket yonder and I'll see what colour they are then." He waggles his eyebrows, broadens his grin. "Hai!" he calls and laughs as his horse takes wing.
Gefēonde only stares for a moment, winded. He needn't worry; the thicket is at least three miles away, the stretch of the land deceiving to one who is unfamiliar with it, and it will only take a half-mile for him to catch up. So he keeps staring for a moment, catching his breath, pushing away every scrap of thought that smells of sense or reason, before he re-mounts and takes off after Maura.
Gefēonde would like to know what might make his eyes darken, too.
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