shelley_winters | (no subject)

(no subject)

Seven pm. Past time to have something to eat, really. She'd been distracted.

No, that's a lie. She just hadn't wanted to go back downstairs. But if she desn't eat, she'll get ill, and they're already suspicious at work, and if they send her home, she has to spend more time here. No, no. She has to remain in control. Then she has a chance, if-

I-

Don't-

That's if anything goes wrong. That's it.

So she slips down the stairs, a chilly glance flickering towards the dark head visible on the couch before she heads into the kitchen. Something easy.

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After a few minutes, Ishamael inquired of her. It was a genuine concern. Ishamael was serious about his reading, a habit born from centuries of scholarship.

"When is the approximate time for dinner, my lady? I should not like to begin a play only to shortly thereafter leave it for dinner."

"There isn't," she answers shortly.

"But I'm making some now."

As for when it will be done... Well, he can learn to use bookmarks.

A small sigh as he returned his eyes to the book. What a bother.

"Will you notify me when it is done at least, or shall I simply guess?

"I'll have the staff inform you," she says acidly.

How should she know how long it will take? In her experience, vegetables cook at their own pace.

Turning the page, he commented rather wryly. He had eaten little all day, and was ready for a meal.

"Excellent."

Shelley grits her teeth so hard her jaw hurts, but continues into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind her.

The kettle goes on, and she begins to chop up an onion in angry silence.

After a time, he could smell the cooking and with a small sigh, he put down his book and walked into the kitchen. Not speaking to Shelley directly, he simply went about collecting some plates, forks, knives, and spoons to set upon the table.

Menial tasks were necessary, if unpleasant. Starting small if he wanted to win her heart.

Shelley hastily blinks the water from her eyes from cutting the onion. Too strong. She picks up the pan of pasta instead, taking comfort in the fact that she can throw it at him if he tries anything with those knives, and makes her way to the sink to drain it. Clouds of steam billow through the room.

Finishing setting the silverware down, Ishamael turned and asked of Shelley. Stay calm, and do not upset her. He should not be filling drinks, but rather have them filled. Abide it for a time. Win her love, and then take her back to the Second Age.

"What do you wish to drink?"

Shelley shrugs quietly.

"There's juice or some wine in the fridge. That."

She points. She hasn't seen one in the Second Age, so better to let him know.

Ishamael nodded and removed a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, and walked over to the table.

"And do you have a particular place at the table to sit? Though I do not suppose it matters greatly."

She shakes her head in silence, pouring the sauce carefully over the pasta, then taking the pan to the sink to rinse.

Salt, pepper, and after a moments deliberation, a pot of parmesan go onto the table along with the plates, and Shelley sits down in front of the decidedly smaller portion. There's no way she can eat much with him there, though she knows she has to have something.

Ishamael sat down in front of her, and delicately held his napkin. Looking for all the world as if this were a state dinner with Senators instead of a hastily made meal in a small house, Ishamael nodded and closed his eyes for a moment as if in prayer before beginning to eat.

"It is excellent, my lady."

It was passable at best.

Shelley glowers darkly at her plate, taking a small but determined mouthful. It's not the best meals she's ever made, but can he blame her?

Does she give a damn?

It'll do.

A slight frown as he ate in silence for a moment.

"Shall we always take our meals under such an oppressive cloud? At the risk of being trite, I find it a touch depressing."

Shelley swallows.

"I couldn't care less, Elan," she says, voice cold.

Then she picks up her cup, still staring determinedly at the table.

Ishamael's mouth twisted as he had another bite. This was going so very well.

"Well, excuse me for not resigning myself to utter misery. Misery may enjoy a hand to hold, but no need to do what you can to make me anymore than I already am."

"Need? No. Want? Yes."

Another small mouthful. The quicker she finished, the quicker she can leave.

Ishamael shook his head, and continued eating.

"As long as you adjust your attitude of moral superiority accordingly, I suppose I cannot complain."

"I'm so far ahead of you in that I doubt you'll ever overtake."

Shut up, Elan. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Ishamael frowned and stabbed his pasta with his fork. Nothing he could do, really.

"So you will indulge in some cruelty? I cannot stop you."

Shelley snorts, angry and disgusted.

"Cruelty? Not talking to you? Poor baby. That's pathetic, Elan."

Ishamael glared at her and took a sip of his wine. His voice was acerbic.

"I, who was once the prince of the entire world, am sitting in a small house wearing a bed sheet without anyone but books to assuage my loneliness. I gave you better than that. I am plumbing the depths of pathetic."

"You gave me scars."

Mental, physical. Some are invisible.

She puts her fork down again, swallowing against nausea. Why should she punish herself just to amuse him? This is her world, hers, and he deserves nothing good, and certainly not to live. But she can't not keep him.

His father once told him to be careful with women for they were so very fragile, a bubble no more, and also that they are children and understand so little and yet their words slice deeply.

"In anger, and you have reciprocated admirably in your own."

She laughs quietly, painfully.

"Don't be stupid. You hardly wake up screaming, or-or worse, stay asleep remembering me breaking your bones or burning you or- or..."

She feels sick, and places a careful hand on the table to steady herself.

"I can't even begin to pay back what you've done, so don't you talk to me about cruelty."

His eyes seem to light up as he intimated in a low voice. None could plumb the depths of both pain and pleasure that he has.

"Have you ever heard the voice of God, Lady Shelley? A voice that crushes you inside your own skull and though the flesh on your knees is burning from the hot rock that you are kneeling on, the feeling is so intense that you can feel neither your knees, nor the blood you are sweating. Until you have stood there, you cannot discuss pain with me."

Shelley shoves the table hard, bruising her hands and hardly feeling it.

"You did that to yourself!" she shouts. "You chose to serve something like that, and then you thought you had the right to hurt everyone else, and laugh, and I hope you burn in hell, you bastard!"

Her chair is knocked to the ground as she stumbles from the room, shuddering with sobs of rage, scrambling up the stairs as her stomach starts to heave.

No, no. What is she doing? What has she brought here? Please, God, help.

It burns.

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