It was comforting, at least. For both of them, he imagined; the last thing they needed now was to be distracted by – old memories, by strange and altogether out-of-place feelings. He could not seem to stop hearing it in his head, the taut, strained sound of her voice, the words ungrateful and worse lonely, or the way his own voice had broken. It stood utterly at odds with the neat, comforting armor of his uniform, with her calm practicality and straight-backed composure, even leaning on his arm. Yet he could not stop thinking of it; he had not scrubbed or shaved it away.
There was the ever-present knowledge that they had both set it aside to return to later, a thing he had perhaps never before in his life done. To plan, to… talk. To a…
A friend? Not a friend. But what else were they? They had been, once. It was only that Morandi did not after all have very many friends.
Of course, he knew he would have to be – Desiderio, someday, to Amelie, who would be his wife. And he would have to talk about these sorts of things. The thought was as alien to him as taking his clothes off in front of her.
That – what an altogether inappropriate thought to have, and an even worse comparison to make, considering the circumstances.
And oddly not an entirely accurate one. The prospect of talking to Amelie had felt rather like something he had been roped into, like looking forward to the noose; this – this, he found, as frightened as he was, as alien as it was, he wanted to do.
That was even more disturbing. He promptly put all of it out of his head.
There was, anyway, a moa to steal.
Snap! He raised both of his eyebrows, looking over and down at her. Shadow, who was prancing rather gleefully around the tawny-feathered beast, hesitated at the sound of Aurelie’s voice, but then came trotting over.
An unexpectedly lovely sound. Sterner than he had heard it so far; as much as she had told him, it still took him by surprise. Matron, she had said, with a strange twist to her voice, as if it were very unflattering; he tried not to picture her in the kitchens, and it was not altogether because the image was sad. A bizarre mix of feelings.
Morandi was smiling. Morandi stopped smiling in an instant. “There you are, pup,” he said firmly, “you are learning quite well. Hurte’s stripes, but he knows his mistress, does he not?”
Brusque as his voice was, he could not keep the admiration from it. Pup was now pushing his way between their legs to press himself up against her, with no care at all to him; it would have been infuriating – it certainly made walking no easier – if it were not so…
Morandi cleared his throat, studying the moa. “It –” It. He frowned, uncertain, remembering what she had said. ‘It’ sat ill with him. “She? Seems to – be calming down.”
She was decently-sized, for a moa, though not near large enough for his liking. Its feathers were ruffled, its head swiveled to stare at Shadow, but it did not balk at their approach.
He paused at the moa’s side.
“Ah. Mounting… I – hmph.” Giving her a palm to step in would hardly work, given the state of her ankle. “If you – I could – er. I have helped other – injured officers – onto chroven, in the past. It is quite easy. If you would permit...” He cleared his throat again.