Not a poor one, it seems, for all that he could grimace or growl from where he’s seated, he only flashes the edge of a dull smile. The memory of one. Rare favor.
“Of this I am aware.”
Perhaps that says much of her, as it speaks much of him in turn.
“Your wounds, they do not trouble you?”
He’d been concerned during the ceremony and subsequent meeting— he expected her to tire quickly, yet no sweat peppers her brow as she sits at table with him, no strain apparent in her bearing. Either she masks its presence well, or she is healing. Well and truly.
Oh, so he likes being reminded of getting blown. That shouldn't surprise her. Why does it surprise her? She has really got to stop overthinking this bastard.
Jone finishes a mouthful of food just as he asks, literal and figurative rumination interrupted by a fair question. She leans over a bit so she can pat her wounded side-- lightly, but still more than she would have managed otherwise.
She takes a drink before answering. "I'll have a pretty scar to add to all the ugly ones, nothing else."
He is, for all his layered demands, a simple man at heart. A well-kept, well-guarded secret.
"There is no such thing as an ugly scar," he scoffs, ignoring a beautiful mirror-like dessert flecked with gold as it's set before them, its shining surface catching both city lights and stars alike. A master stroke of work from whichever chef was responsible for its creation, no doubt.
And to Gabranth, it is merely another meal, as he pays it no heed.
"All are triumphs. Proofs of conquest in survival."
Jone, meanwhile, stares at her food with confusion. She's supposed to eat this? But it's so pretty.
Luckily, Gabranth distracts her before she has to decide what spoon to destroy it with. Jone snorts, shaking her head. "No, Gabranth. Some really are... are evils writ upon the body."
Slipping back into that Archadian way of speech may be more convincing. It certainly has more decorum. She should try to keep up more, in his presence, but he makes her so bloody comfortable, these days.
He does not comprehend it. His scars— the ones that run deep— don’t mirror the marks on his body. The two are ever divided, and so to his simplistic heart her promise makes no sense in any way he can tangibly grasp.
But he trusts her. And the weight in her voice, her accent as it slips through. A choice.
His brow twists, and then he finally moves instead to study the custard-like confection before them, cutting clean through one of its unbroken edges with a spoon. There is no portion to be taken away, no plates for their own servings. An intimate dessert. The staff chose presumptively, he thinks.
Jone takes a careful spoonful, mirroring Gabranth. The desert is sweet, but not overmuch, a gentle sort of sugary flavor that melts pleasingly over her tongue. It mostly distracts her from memories of knives held when she was defenseless, rocks thrown, furniture she was thrown into.
Jone takes another spoonful of the desert-- it really is lovely-- before sitting back and thinking on how to answer. "I agree that wounds in battle are no thing to be ashamed of," she concedes lightly, "but scrabbles to escape, petty squabbling, traps and mistakes... I hold no pride in the evidence of marks."
“Then I’ll not question your interpretation.” He determines, already having long since abandoned any attempts to eat what remains of that dessert: it is far too sweet for his taste.
Most things are, in fact.
“But whatever the road it was you traveled to bring you here, I am glad to know it ended with you at my side. Emperor Gramis was correct in his choice, and his words today were no less far-sighted than that initial shrewd decision.”
He leans back in his seat, his arms folding. He'd not been called upon to offer his own endorsement at either the ceremony or its aftermath, and so instead he grants it here, in relative privacy and relative silence, witnessed only by a sprawling city with no visible end.
“You are a credit to the Magistrate. Let no one say otherwise.”
Jone takes another swipe at the desert. It is a bit sweet, especially for her unsophisticated palate, but she's mostly entranced by the look of it. Somehow that makes up for it.
"I'd point out some examples, but that would be quite untoward," she says dryly, without looking up from the sparkling gold flecks under her spoon.
She can't keep from smiling at his compliment, and the smile can't keep from going wry. "Ah, but if I cared what pettiness was said of me, I'd stoop to the tedious lows of defending myself against fools."
It is no sweetness, he wears no smile. Where this carries potential for humor or a jabbing sentiment, Gabranth is firm-edged, in expression and posture alike.
He means this. As surely as any oath. It is unmistakable.
“It is not pointless. A slight made against you is a slight made against us all.” This is no vain chivalric venture, he does not make this offer to defend a woman that cannot defend herself; he would do no less for Ghis or Drace— they would do no different for him, even if the creature throwing stones were as lowly as any gutter rat.
There is a lesson to be learned here, and though he is certain she draws nearer to it every day, he does not know if she yet grasps it.
“Our dignity, our honor, remains ever shared. I beg you not forget it.”
I beg you? Jone turns her head with a look of concern.
"Something so zealously protected is often fragile," she murmurs. She can't eat any more of the desert; it's making the roof of her mouth ache. She pushes it gently aside. "But your judgement has never lead me astray."
So it's presumably worth it, to strike out in haughty pride. People are the same everywhere.
“Pride is fragile. It was for pride that I slew every living creature that bore witness to your fall.”
The necessity of it, so precious a thing, demanded he do no less— even before seeing to her treatment. Had she died there, it would have been vital that not one soul lived to speak of it. To mark her human. Fallible. A stain on her memory and efforts.
As much as Jone is aware she should be disgusted by the loss of life-- she isn't. They were all cunts. Gabranth did her a massive favor, and she didn't even realize until now, weeks later.
Gratefulness rises within her, far too earnest to bear, and she tempers it by imagining herself ripping off his clothes.
"I think we have different understandings of pride," she says evenly, though she's looking at him again as she sips her wine, calmly appreciative. "I like yours far better."
He does not need to know her perspective to know he is right in this, and thus he does not ask for it, instead focusing on the favor of her stare. The approval that lingers there.
At times she is so much the stray. An animal untamed, unused to the fine surroundings that now house it. This has only made him pleasantly certain of the fact that he does enjoy her company— no matter the difficulties that sometimes arise for their differing approach.
She just barely keeps herself from sucking her teeth, rolling her eyes. Instead, she gives him another love tap under the table, her heel to his ankle. "What a humble man you are," Jone says, words mocking only fondly.
The sun is almost set. She ought to leave now; it would be decorous. She doesn't want to. She wants to... well, she can think of a few things. Being able to touch him would assuage that, maybe a little, maybe a great deal, but she doubts he would allow it.
"Is this where you prefer to dine?" She's still utterly entranced by the balcony, the sweet-smelling air. "I should come here more often."
If it is courtesy that demands she take her leave, then it holds no sway over Gabranth in turn: he does not look comfortable in his seat, stiff and sharp-shouldered as always, but he hardly seems inclined to move in turn— not even when her foot finds his ankle once more, soft soles catching against thicker leather.
“It is where I spend much of my time in the capital, when I am not called to duty.” The air smells clearer so high up, the view unparalleled— its troubles far. There is no need to play into her suggestion, and yet he flexes something all the same at the edge of his mouth, leveling a sidelong glance her way.
“You should indeed. I would be glad of the company.”
The words are gentler. Sincere. Those of an impostor, not a proud Judge Magister, and yet it is him all the same.
"I may make a habit of it," Jone says, but the tone she'd meant-- a warning-- comes out more like a promise. She keeps her gaze on the balcony, so it doesn't flicker back to his hands, his mouth.
"Where are your rooms? You've visited me, but I've never returned the favor."
Surely that's no secret. Their movements are doubtless accounted for. It is a grand palace, but it's still a beehive in the center of an imperial capital.
Jone's face twists into an expression of utterly fond longing, which is fine because she's still staring off the balcony rather than looking at him. How fucking embarrassing, otherwise.
"Yes, yes," she says, finishing off her drink. "I may as well be converted completely to the ascetic's lifestyle."
She can't imagine he has much flair for interior design, not that she can throw stones.
That comment earns a disapproving glance from across the edge of his shoulder, though by then she's likely dropped all softness at the seams. From there he rises— tall and yet not so tall as she— setting aside utensils and his own napkin in no particular order, cast without care as the meal is done, and propriety no longer matters.
"With me, then."
He does not wait for her, not even with her mending injuries (he imagines she appreciates that over overwhelming courtesy), cutting a path through the palace before they reach the most southernmost facing spire, all cold, dark architecture offset by glass and vivid art. His home sits at the end of one such corridor, interior no less sprawling— and, precisely as she had predicted, utterly spartan. There is furniture, but perhaps it was all placed before Gabranth was offered it for his own use, as the walls are untouched, the surfaces all clean and uncluttered. He holds no possessions save for a very minimal few, and those— like an armory— take up small residence in the corner of an overwhelming space.
It's nice to be right. Jone won't crow over it-- she suspects he doesn't really care that much, beyond his general distaste for being ascribed any traits that don't require swords and gushing blood.
So sorry for him, then, that isn't what she's after. Door closed and locked behind her, she leans across its frame. "You'd have to sit down, first."
He, on the other hand, misses that crucial hint. Interprets it instead at its most baseline value— as some sort of demand that he lower his guard and prove his own easement before she’ll tend to hers in turn, and so, with little ceremony he offers her only one sidelong glance as he seats himself across a lounger that is unreasonably large. Expectant. Attentive.
Jone looks him over, finding no spark of recognition, not even the smugly petty satisfaction of earlier. Is he hiding it? Does he not care? Is he oblivious?
The last option seems the most likely, and she hates how that makes her skin itch for him, all affection and needing to touch. What a strange, strange man. She adores him.
Still, she retains her composure as she walks over to him. There is no smile, no warning, before she sits solidly in his lap. Leaning over, her head finds his shoulder, her breath finds his neck. "Now, I'm comfortable."
The noise he makes is immediate, snorting and affronted like a startled beast— yet even so, even with his fine features made unbearably sharp by intrusion, it takes only the span of a single second, two, before the tightness in his shoulders relaxes beneath her. Before his arms, held uselessly on guard at his side, rise ever so cautiously to curl around her, rough fingers perched against her spine.
In truth, perhaps without knowing so, he invited this. Wanted this. Waited for this from the moment he moved to her side.
“You are a strange creature.” He breathes, and it sounds, for all the cruel harshness of the world around them, like a compliment.
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“Of this I am aware.”
Perhaps that says much of her, as it speaks much of him in turn.
“Your wounds, they do not trouble you?”
He’d been concerned during the ceremony and subsequent meeting— he expected her to tire quickly, yet no sweat peppers her brow as she sits at table with him, no strain apparent in her bearing. Either she masks its presence well, or she is healing. Well and truly.
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Jone finishes a mouthful of food just as he asks, literal and figurative rumination interrupted by a fair question. She leans over a bit so she can pat her wounded side-- lightly, but still more than she would have managed otherwise.
She takes a drink before answering. "I'll have a pretty scar to add to all the ugly ones, nothing else."
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"There is no such thing as an ugly scar," he scoffs, ignoring a beautiful mirror-like dessert flecked with gold as it's set before them, its shining surface catching both city lights and stars alike. A master stroke of work from whichever chef was responsible for its creation, no doubt.
And to Gabranth, it is merely another meal, as he pays it no heed.
"All are triumphs. Proofs of conquest in survival."
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Luckily, Gabranth distracts her before she has to decide what spoon to destroy it with. Jone snorts, shaking her head. "No, Gabranth. Some really are... are evils writ upon the body."
Slipping back into that Archadian way of speech may be more convincing. It certainly has more decorum. She should try to keep up more, in his presence, but he makes her so bloody comfortable, these days.
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But he trusts her. And the weight in her voice, her accent as it slips through. A choice.
His brow twists, and then he finally moves instead to study the custard-like confection before them, cutting clean through one of its unbroken edges with a spoon. There is no portion to be taken away, no plates for their own servings. An intimate dessert. The staff chose presumptively, he thinks.
“Do you regret many of them, then?”
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Jone takes another spoonful of the desert-- it really is lovely-- before sitting back and thinking on how to answer. "I agree that wounds in battle are no thing to be ashamed of," she concedes lightly, "but scrabbles to escape, petty squabbling, traps and mistakes... I hold no pride in the evidence of marks."
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Most things are, in fact.
“But whatever the road it was you traveled to bring you here, I am glad to know it ended with you at my side. Emperor Gramis was correct in his choice, and his words today were no less far-sighted than that initial shrewd decision.”
He leans back in his seat, his arms folding. He'd not been called upon to offer his own endorsement at either the ceremony or its aftermath, and so instead he grants it here, in relative privacy and relative silence, witnessed only by a sprawling city with no visible end.
“You are a credit to the Magistrate. Let no one say otherwise.”
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"I'd point out some examples, but that would be quite untoward," she says dryly, without looking up from the sparkling gold flecks under her spoon.
She can't keep from smiling at his compliment, and the smile can't keep from going wry. "Ah, but if I cared what pettiness was said of me, I'd stoop to the tedious lows of defending myself against fools."
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It is no sweetness, he wears no smile. Where this carries potential for humor or a jabbing sentiment, Gabranth is firm-edged, in expression and posture alike.
He means this. As surely as any oath. It is unmistakable.
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battles you to the death in a fight to never sleep
There is a lesson to be learned here, and though he is certain she draws nearer to it every day, he does not know if she yet grasps it.
“Our dignity, our honor, remains ever shared. I beg you not forget it.”
glad (????) our insomnia synced up.
"Something so zealously protected is often fragile," she murmurs. She can't eat any more of the desert; it's making the roof of her mouth ache. She pushes it gently aside. "But your judgement has never lead me astray."
So it's presumably worth it, to strike out in haughty pride. People are the same everywhere.
Go team crippling exhaustion
The necessity of it, so precious a thing, demanded he do no less— even before seeing to her treatment. Had she died there, it would have been vital that not one soul lived to speak of it. To mark her human. Fallible. A stain on her memory and efforts.
“And I would do so again, gladly.”
collapses.
As much as Jone is aware she should be disgusted by the loss of life-- she isn't. They were all cunts. Gabranth did her a massive favor, and she didn't even realize until now, weeks later.
Gratefulness rises within her, far too earnest to bear, and she tempers it by imagining herself ripping off his clothes.
"I think we have different understandings of pride," she says evenly, though she's looking at him again as she sips her wine, calmly appreciative. "I like yours far better."
perishes but strongly and coolly
He does not need to know her perspective to know he is right in this, and thus he does not ask for it, instead focusing on the favor of her stare. The approval that lingers there.
At times she is so much the stray. An animal untamed, unused to the fine surroundings that now house it. This has only made him pleasantly certain of the fact that he does enjoy her company— no matter the difficulties that sometimes arise for their differing approach.
“It is only natural that you would.”
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The sun is almost set. She ought to leave now; it would be decorous. She doesn't want to. She wants to... well, she can think of a few things. Being able to touch him would assuage that, maybe a little, maybe a great deal, but she doubts he would allow it.
"Is this where you prefer to dine?" She's still utterly entranced by the balcony, the sweet-smelling air. "I should come here more often."
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“It is where I spend much of my time in the capital, when I am not called to duty.” The air smells clearer so high up, the view unparalleled— its troubles far. There is no need to play into her suggestion, and yet he flexes something all the same at the edge of his mouth, leveling a sidelong glance her way.
“You should indeed. I would be glad of the company.”
The words are gentler. Sincere. Those of an impostor, not a proud Judge Magister, and yet it is him all the same.
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"Where are your rooms? You've visited me, but I've never returned the favor."
Surely that's no secret. Their movements are doubtless accounted for. It is a grand palace, but it's still a beehive in the center of an imperial capital.
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The bluntness of a man who knows nothing else.
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"Yes, yes," she says, finishing off her drink. "I may as well be converted completely to the ascetic's lifestyle."
She can't imagine he has much flair for interior design, not that she can throw stones.
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"With me, then."
He does not wait for her, not even with her mending injuries (he imagines she appreciates that over overwhelming courtesy), cutting a path through the palace before they reach the most southernmost facing spire, all cold, dark architecture offset by glass and vivid art. His home sits at the end of one such corridor, interior no less sprawling— and, precisely as she had predicted, utterly spartan. There is furniture, but perhaps it was all placed before Gabranth was offered it for his own use, as the walls are untouched, the surfaces all clean and uncluttered. He holds no possessions save for a very minimal few, and those— like an armory— take up small residence in the corner of an overwhelming space.
"Make yourself comfortable as you like."
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So sorry for him, then, that isn't what she's after. Door closed and locked behind her, she leans across its frame. "You'd have to sit down, first."
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Is this what you wanted, Jone?
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The last option seems the most likely, and she hates how that makes her skin itch for him, all affection and needing to touch. What a strange, strange man. She adores him.
Still, she retains her composure as she walks over to him. There is no smile, no warning, before she sits solidly in his lap. Leaning over, her head finds his shoulder, her breath finds his neck. "Now, I'm comfortable."
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In truth, perhaps without knowing so, he invited this. Wanted this. Waited for this from the moment he moved to her side.
“You are a strange creature.” He breathes, and it sounds, for all the cruel harshness of the world around them, like a compliment.
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types tags from the wilderness
wilderness tags back.
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finds typo in my prior tag, promptly expires
resurrection scroll tyvm.
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