She sat there silently, her arms bent at the elbows as her fingers templed in front of her lips. It was perhaps unheard of to see the Raven donning anything but black leathers or velvets, yet her willowy frame was draped in a breezy, white linen shirt, unbuttoned almost entirely to reveal a slither of her shapeless chest and the slight details of the tattoo underlining her sternum.
Her elbows rested, rather uncouthly, upon the desk at which she found herself, olive eyes gazing down at a freshly written letter. Yet to be folded and distributed to an envelope, the sloping script of Ashaia's familiar writing patterned the front and back of the single piece of parchment, addressed lovingly at the top to her husband.
For the topic of the Viper, as of that current moment, was a particularly wistful affair.
To give context to the sight of the letter, the furrowed expression upon her face and the unusual choice of attire for that Spring afternoon, her husband had recently procurred himself another job. A contract which took him elsewhere from the idyllic countryside of Bree and the warmth of the private estate, separate from the house for wayward girls, where his family resided.
Jobs such as these were not uncommon in Dagramir's line of work, often taking him far and wide as was fitting for a man who, despite obtaining a wife and children, still thirsted for some kind of adventure and unpredictability.
No matter his age, the older he would get, his hedonistic nature would never truly leave him.
With this instance, however, the two had argued before he left. Over nothing. Over something petty. Bickering as married couples tended to do. And the first niggling sense of regret was beginning to formulate in the back of Ashaia's mind.
Make no mistake, for Dagramir was perfectly capable of handling himself when entering the fray, even if he often threw himself blindly into it, but treating each of these excursions he would take as his potential last was something the Raven had wished she had put into practice this time.
Thus to ease her worries somewhat, she did what she knew best - she wrote him a letter. And there it sat, undelivered as of the moment as her eyes roved rapidly from left to right, ensuring that each word conveyed her thoughts without misconception. That within every letter lay the foundations of her heart and the sweet longing for his timely return.
The shirt upon her back was his. The one she was yet to take off. The one she had slept in every night since. Where between the weaves of cotton his scent lingered, perfuming her own skin in the remembrance of how it last felt to find him under white sheets illuminated by sunlight, fingers delicately intertwined.
The Raven eventually lowered her hands, the peace and quiet in the privacy of her study proving quite a blessing whilst her son took his first nap of the day. She finally folded the letter, satisfied with what she wanted to convey, how much she and the children were excited for his return yet unable to bring herself to apologize entirely for the words she had snapped at him as he stood at the door, bearded jaw clenched and the muscles there protruding. Packed and ready to depart, for the first time, without her kiss.
Ashaia would wait a lifetime or more to rectify that mistake.
Perhaps this was where she and the Viper clashed the most: both were stubborn. Both struggled to apologise. Whether it came from pride or something else, it was prevalent in every argument they had, however little they occurred. One would wait for the other to reach out following such a heated disagreement, waiting for a knock on the door and a cup of tea in hand, the unspoken apology etched upon their softened features.
Yet it wouldn't come today. For he was far, far away today.
The unsettled weather was rather indicative of her mood without him present. The overlap of breezy, clear days and the impending overcast of light drizzles. Her daughter, Ava, had romantically called it 'sun raining'.
These days were long. Something was missing without him. Activities of which she enjoyed seemed to be lacking, like a void deep within her was waiting to be filled by his presence again. The lonely nights in a large bed, spindly white fingers roaming over the empty space where his familiarly scarred form used to lay. She knew he lay somewhere else very much the same, wishing to turn over and find her there, to slink an arm around her and pull her closer to his chest. To place gentle kisses upon those raven tresses.
On occasion, she felt like hurting again. Just to alleviate the sense of want.
Of course, her children and her work took up the majority of her attention with each day, yet the sense of him gone never truly left her. Both Ava and Arthur had asked for him in the days after he had left and explaining quite precisely what their father did for a living was a particularly tricky subject to broach.
Ashaia chewed on the inner flesh of her cheek, carefully sliding the letter into an ivory coloured envelope. She reached then for a sprig of lavender, drew it briefly across her top lip as though confirming the scent for herself and proceeding to slip it also into the envelope.
Following it was a scrawled drawing as created by her small son, the imagery up for interpretation, and little else in the way of her daughter who's attitude was growing ever stormier as she did and following a screaming tantrum had simply refused to make a contribution. Ashaia had explained as much in a short post-script at the bottom of the letter.
Now encased, she sealed the envelope with a personalised stamp, the grooves of a raven with its wings outstretched present in the purple wax. She drew back and sat up straighter, spying the envelope that she would deliver shortly, feeling that familiar ache to hold him again.
She missed him.
With every fibre of her being, every skipped beat of her heart, she missed him.
She sniffed slightly but did not cry, he would not want her tears to be spilled just for him. He would be back. Sooner rather than later.
Though for the moment, wherever he had found himself, she hoped that it was sun raining.
