Jenny: What Home Is

He really ought to go fetch a book, or a length of leather that needed braiding: something to occupy his hands. Artos had fallen back to his carving - the craned head of a mare was beginning to emerge from the block - and Jason had no one to talk to and nothing to talk about. But it was chilly, and he was comfortable, and he did not feel like moving. His eyes fell on the two women lounging on the cushions at the fireside, busily working, talking in undertones. His little almond girl turned her head just so, mare-ishly, the firelight striking sparks off the tips of her eyelashes. By the natural shape of her mouth her lips were parted a little, the sight of which caused him to notice the rhythm of her breathing. He stretched himself out in the chair, folding his arms across his chest, reflecting on the Guttersnipe as the summation of all things warm and comfortable about home: a little wild, but familiar and warm and friendly and his own. Her hair fell down over her shoulders, framing her brown-flecked face, and he thought, She is home.

Then he realized Artos had left off carving and was looking at him, eyebrows flyaway. "I can move if I'm interrupting something..." the Merlin began.

"No, you're fine," Jason assured him. He settled lower in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other. "Wake me up when it's time for supper."

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