How can he not? Who could withhold such a purely instinctive response in the wake of her reeling, the back of his hand pressed against his own mouth to bury it— though it does little good for as long as that unrestrained breath lasts. Coarse and rough, and forgotten a moment later in favor of regaining all poise.
"Oh, you're such a-" But she's smiling, because he's getting about as near as he gets, and it must not be painful. Going from painting to person. If he's realized he's done it at all, that is. Maybe it's better not to.
Still, she grins. "Yeah, hope you're happy. Just chuffed, I am." She pushes the drink far away from them both.
She really is happy. She tries to commit this moment entirely to memory, every gesture, every move, the lovely and rough sound of Gabranth's laughter. This will never happen again. She knows it.
It'll sustain, beneath skies gone dark with rueful destruction: sun set, doors shattered at their hinges like the cracked shell of an egg, no longer a bulwark against Archadia's wrath. The sound of mechanized gunfire from above is only proof of Imperial support, for the city they lay siege to was wholly unprepared to sustain a breach of swift, merciless efficiency.
His longblade drags viciously through the rib bones and leathers of some miserably ill-prepared soldier, more desperate to stall for time than prepared to endure the endless cruelties of a Judge Magister. Gabranth's helm twists, angling an eyeless stare across his pauldron towards Jone.
"The buildings," he barks, flicking his head towards the outer edges of that merchant quarter they'd brushed along earlier. "Take your vengeance."
The fires already burn, after all: all she need do is direct their flow.
All emotion can transmute into rage, given time. With Jone, it never takes much time at all. Silly laughter, memories of closeness, all fade when hackles need rising. She only needs direction, through orders or pre-plotted plans. Gabranth's voice is a lightening rod, and she stalks toward the merchant quarter with sword in hand.
In truth, no one in Videreyn has ever done Jone ill. In truth, they're just too similar to Fedlhelm for her to bear. Same language, same culture, two cities of the same nation, with the same trajectory. The promise of something utopian, crashed into the dirt by greed and mismanagement. She cannot forgive a failure.
And now they cry independence will solve their problems, as though they know how to solve anything at all.
Jone moves through the merchant quarter like the monstrous creature she has promised herself to be, in Archadia's service. She is unafraid of fire, hot as it is inside her armor. What really matters is the people fleeing. She is careful in choosing her victims. Bystanders need to bare witness, but none can escape with riches and finery. Jone cuts down merchant caravans, anything laden with goods. Heads of house fall before her. None can escape with riches intact.
She spares the children, and does not consider them threats. This is perhaps how an ugly ends up thrust into her side. Jone doesn't remember it happening, has no time to flinch. She discovers the pain later, once the Merchant Quarter is truly a ruin. Someone's petty revenge, slid between the cracks in her armor, and she hopes they saw how she did not even notice. She is dead and exhumed and feels no pain.
She leaves it in to stop the bleeding, and her silhouette becomes only more monstrous in turn, lit by flame and fear. She rejoins Gabranth, mounting an incredible defense, just in time to spot a mage crouched in darkness on the walls, readying a spell. There is no time to warn. She rushes ahead, cutting through bodies until she is at Gabranth's side, just in time for colors to flash through her vision, the spell hitting her soundly. She feels all energy and strength fading from her, breath leaving her with increasing speed.
There are worse ways to go, she thinks, as a hand in the terrible darkness pulls that knife from her. Warmth leaves her quickly, but Gabranth will be safe.
In the wake of their shared purpose and her own collapse, he does not rush for her— he does not catch her nor paw at her injuries— instead turning on every last living creature within eyeshot (regardless of innocence or age) and putting them to the sword for silence. For commiserate guilt in judgment, and he is merciless in its application.
Something she will not know. For when fate might next seek a restoration of consciousness beneath the hands of a dedicated healer (not even aboard their ship, where she'd been tended to for hours on end) it is in her own given bed within Archades: Gabranth— armored aside from his helm— seated nearby like a grimly cast shadow, his attention dourly fixed elsewhere.
Jone wakes suddenly and bitterly. Her eyes hurt. Her tongue is dry. Everything aches, and she knows with incredible clarity this is the most comfortable bed she's ever slept in.
Because, we'll, it's hers.
Her room in Archades is not elaborate, not ornate. It is furnished simply, everything functional, from the small kitchen to the weapons table. There are no books or padded cushions, though there are several water clocks scattered around the room in odd places. Her bed is simple-- that's all it took to impress her-- but lavish by the standard she was used to. It still feels extravagant.
And Gabranth is here, which means she lived. Shameful, but it can only add to the stories she wants told about her. Jone, that monster who refuses to die.
A capricorn can only be killed if it is both at sea and on land at the same time.
Even on a simple pillow, she manages to dip her head in the vague shape respect. Not quite close enough, but a lifetime of wounds has told her not to test her strength too early.
The only thing that matters: "The mission- a success?"
It isn’t said cruelly, in fact it isn’t said with any intonation whatsoever, until he jerks his face towards the doorway, his pale eyes set upon that healer— until they disappear, leaving himself and Jone in absolute privacy.
“What were you thinking.”
This time, the words are harsh. Quiet. Barely a murmur at her side when he rises to stand nearer.
Lying still in convalescence, she refuses to be backed into a corner. She has seen him sleep, and laugh, and choke on bad food. She will not be cowed now that he's well and she's not. If he wants to hurt her, she'll lose, but badly.
You can lose a fight and make it ugly enough the winner regrets it. She learned that young.
Her expression is fierce. "I asked first. What happened?"
He'd considered for hours, days even, how much kinder he would be in this moment: how he would move to ease her concerns, or thank her for a sacrifice she never needed to make— but instead he bristles beyond his control, just around the edges of his shoulders where they rise by degrees. In the tightness wending across his brow, the thin set of his mouth.
And then, because she is owed, he finds the will to cede.
"It was a success. Videreyn sues for treatied peace, and will surrender its territories to the Lord Consul."
A pause, and then, with the firmness that still remains stuck in his mouth:
"This does not mean you ought to have acted as you did."
If she did, it's bollocks- nonsense, it's nonsense. She acted tactically, ensuring the survival of the most skilled member of the team. Her life is a coin to be spent, kept in the purse of Archadia, and loaned out whenever she is in action. That is the right of it.
Still, she will suffer punishment willingly, if that's what has been ruled.
"By me? Yes." He bites back, without so much as a second of uncertainty to cling to. "You were already injured when you sought to endure that strike."
The healers had found it, after all— as had he: the deep drag of a knifewound in her side, amongst dark leather and metal alike.
"Had you fallen, you would have deprived Archadia of an appointed Judge Magister, and those who bore witness to it could not be permitted to share such a tale." They were not permitted it anyway, of course, but deep in the throes of his own indulgence, he sets that truth aside for now.
"I would have likely survived: you ought to have safeguarded yourself, if you have not abandoned the idea of simply dying to erase the shame of service."
Jone does not need to sit up in bed to bristle, to seethe. She does need a moment to bite back a curse, pointless swearing that will only escalate this bonfire between them.
He's not a painting here, either.
"Have you a punishment? Lay it before me, and I will endure. Otherwise, you are a witless prattler, of no use to me. How I deem to defend Archadia's most valuable judge is my judgement, alone."
Most valuable, she says, and he would laugh at the thought if her convictions did not seem so wholly grounded in sincere belief. His posture remains stiff and guarded, but clearly she has him on the back foot, his jaw working faintly with uncertainty.
Perhaps that magic struck her harder than he'd previously thought.
"There is no punishment. You are to be commended once recovered, by Emperor Gramis' decree."
The shock is so immediate, from shame to commendation, she feels like she's been dropped from flame to ice. In her fruitless rage, she manages to throw a pillow at him.
"I'd beat you for this insult, but it would only infect my hands."
He's struck; it's the least anticipated attack she could possibly have managed in this moment— though his fingers snare the pillow, keeping it from falling completely, fitting it instead somewhere near his chest.
"You would barely make it from your bed." He dourly replies, chin lifting by proud degrees (regardless of the fact that he is, in this very moment, clutching a pillow to him with a level stare).
“Cease your dramatics- ” words he grumbles tiredly, tossing aside the pillow in favor of setting a hand at her shoulder, pressing her down with care— not cruelty. A steady weight, and one he only bears in places where he knows she'll carry neither scars nor bandaged wounds.
“Do you not understand that I would see you live?”
"Oh, I'm dramatic, now, you-" The rest is held close and away, jaw clenched to keep herself from calling Judge Magister Gabranth a cunt.
And he is very close and her blood is up. She goes deathly still until he retreats, to make sure she does not shame herself further, in his eyes. "I lived," she says, and it comes out more bitter than she intends. "You lived, the task was a success. The only one without understanding seems to be you."
“Do not question my understanding. I know full well of what I speak.”
It was he who watched her fall, it was he who carried her with blood seeping in through leather against his palms. “You did not think of strategy when you threw yourself before me. Do not lie to me now and claim you assumed anything but death would likely follow.
I am far from the most valuable member of this Magistrate, our footing is alike in its strangeness.
You would deprive me of that companionship without a second thought. So be it. But do not expect my own approval, nor my consent.”
She lies there, expression bitter, no options but to take his criticism. She scowls until she hears the word companionship, and it slots into place. Gabranth, Judge Magister, demonic horned god, her admirable superior, is lonely.
She thought that was just her.
If he had physically hit her, she would look less stricken. Slowly, cautiously, staring at anything but him, she murmurs, "I didn't see... you've the right of it."
She has never gotten good at admitting she's wrong. For the first time, she feels vulnerable before him.
That she realizes it now, that he bears witness to the shift between sharp and subdued, does more than much to erase all that venom brimming in his veins: he did not know how she would weather the news— or if she would accept it at all to begin with.
So there, left stubbornly unguarded, he exhales.
"Of this, I am aware." Never one to accept victory with grace, him.
But he draws the seat he'd been using nearer to her side, settling down within it, and resting his elbows across his knees for good measure.
"...I am relieved your death was not the cost of our victory."
Jone raises a hand, flapping it about sullenly. "Don't take this to mean I've forgiven you for yelling."
A familiar tone, wry sarcasm, but for once not echoing out of a helmet. Her eyes roll, swollen lips twisting up into a parody of sneering. Though when Gabranth draws near, it breaks into a smile, tired and fond.
"It goes both ways, you know. You aren't allowed to die for me, either."
"You-" She bites her lower lip, face scrunched up in the shape of someone who knows they've been caught in their own stupid little trap. She can hardly argue, can she? Look at her. Look at them.
"Oh, a font of wisdom, you are." She reaches, fast sunfish, to tweak his ear. "Teasing me from the sickbed."
Yet, now smoothed like crumpled paper, soundless laughter hides in the curve of her mouth.
“Enough-” he grouses, the edges of his teeth showing when he yanks his head away from her grasp, though it’s all the useless grumbling of a hound being tugged from its bed: more noise than actual irritation, in any tangible or perceivable amount.
He does not mind it, not as much as sight would make it seem.
One hand rests across her shoulder once more, bidding her rest. “You are still injured, I would have you not discard all caution for the sake of your own childish amusement.”
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How can he not? Who could withhold such a purely instinctive response in the wake of her reeling, the back of his hand pressed against his own mouth to bury it— though it does little good for as long as that unrestrained breath lasts. Coarse and rough, and forgotten a moment later in favor of regaining all poise.
Well, most poise.
"I must now offer you my own gratitude in turn."
It truly was grand, Jone.
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Still, she grins. "Yeah, hope you're happy. Just chuffed, I am." She pushes the drink far away from them both.
She really is happy. She tries to commit this moment entirely to memory, every gesture, every move, the lovely and rough sound of Gabranth's laughter. This will never happen again. She knows it.
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His longblade drags viciously through the rib bones and leathers of some miserably ill-prepared soldier, more desperate to stall for time than prepared to endure the endless cruelties of a Judge Magister. Gabranth's helm twists, angling an eyeless stare across his pauldron towards Jone.
"The buildings," he barks, flicking his head towards the outer edges of that merchant quarter they'd brushed along earlier. "Take your vengeance."
The fires already burn, after all: all she need do is direct their flow.
"I shall hold off the rest."
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In truth, no one in Videreyn has ever done Jone ill. In truth, they're just too similar to Fedlhelm for her to bear. Same language, same culture, two cities of the same nation, with the same trajectory. The promise of something utopian, crashed into the dirt by greed and mismanagement. She cannot forgive a failure.
And now they cry independence will solve their problems, as though they know how to solve anything at all.
Jone moves through the merchant quarter like the monstrous creature she has promised herself to be, in Archadia's service. She is unafraid of fire, hot as it is inside her armor. What really matters is the people fleeing. She is careful in choosing her victims. Bystanders need to bare witness, but none can escape with riches and finery. Jone cuts down merchant caravans, anything laden with goods. Heads of house fall before her. None can escape with riches intact.
She spares the children, and does not consider them threats. This is perhaps how an ugly ends up thrust into her side. Jone doesn't remember it happening, has no time to flinch. She discovers the pain later, once the Merchant Quarter is truly a ruin. Someone's petty revenge, slid between the cracks in her armor, and she hopes they saw how she did not even notice. She is dead and exhumed and feels no pain.
She leaves it in to stop the bleeding, and her silhouette becomes only more monstrous in turn, lit by flame and fear. She rejoins Gabranth, mounting an incredible defense, just in time to spot a mage crouched in darkness on the walls, readying a spell. There is no time to warn. She rushes ahead, cutting through bodies until she is at Gabranth's side, just in time for colors to flash through her vision, the spell hitting her soundly. She feels all energy and strength fading from her, breath leaving her with increasing speed.
There are worse ways to go, she thinks, as a hand in the terrible darkness pulls that knife from her. Warmth leaves her quickly, but Gabranth will be safe.
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Humanity is inexcusable.
In the wake of their shared purpose and her own collapse, he does not rush for her— he does not catch her nor paw at her injuries— instead turning on every last living creature within eyeshot (regardless of innocence or age) and putting them to the sword for silence. For commiserate guilt in judgment, and he is merciless in its application.
Something she will not know. For when fate might next seek a restoration of consciousness beneath the hands of a dedicated healer (not even aboard their ship, where she'd been tended to for hours on end) it is in her own given bed within Archades: Gabranth— armored aside from his helm— seated nearby like a grimly cast shadow, his attention dourly fixed elsewhere.
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Because, we'll, it's hers.
Her room in Archades is not elaborate, not ornate. It is furnished simply, everything functional, from the small kitchen to the weapons table. There are no books or padded cushions, though there are several water clocks scattered around the room in odd places. Her bed is simple-- that's all it took to impress her-- but lavish by the standard she was used to. It still feels extravagant.
And Gabranth is here, which means she lived. Shameful, but it can only add to the stories she wants told about her. Jone, that monster who refuses to die.
A capricorn can only be killed if it is both at sea and on land at the same time.
Even on a simple pillow, she manages to dip her head in the vague shape respect. Not quite close enough, but a lifetime of wounds has told her not to test her strength too early.
The only thing that matters: "The mission- a success?"
Her voice is raspy in its dryness.
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It isn’t said cruelly, in fact it isn’t said with any intonation whatsoever, until he jerks his face towards the doorway, his pale eyes set upon that healer— until they disappear, leaving himself and Jone in absolute privacy.
“What were you thinking.”
This time, the words are harsh. Quiet. Barely a murmur at her side when he rises to stand nearer.
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You can lose a fight and make it ugly enough the winner regrets it. She learned that young.
Her expression is fierce. "I asked first. What happened?"
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And then, because she is owed, he finds the will to cede.
"It was a success. Videreyn sues for treatied peace, and will surrender its territories to the Lord Consul."
A pause, and then, with the firmness that still remains stuck in his mouth:
"This does not mean you ought to have acted as you did."
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If she did, it's bollocks- nonsense, it's nonsense. She acted tactically, ensuring the survival of the most skilled member of the team. Her life is a coin to be spent, kept in the purse of Archadia, and loaned out whenever she is in action. That is the right of it.
Still, she will suffer punishment willingly, if that's what has been ruled.
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The healers had found it, after all— as had he: the deep drag of a knifewound in her side, amongst dark leather and metal alike.
"Had you fallen, you would have deprived Archadia of an appointed Judge Magister, and those who bore witness to it could not be permitted to share such a tale." They were not permitted it anyway, of course, but deep in the throes of his own indulgence, he sets that truth aside for now.
"I would have likely survived: you ought to have safeguarded yourself, if you have not abandoned the idea of simply dying to erase the shame of service."
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He's not a painting here, either.
"Have you a punishment? Lay it before me, and I will endure. Otherwise, you are a witless prattler, of no use to me. How I deem to defend Archadia's most valuable judge is my judgement, alone."
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Perhaps that magic struck her harder than he'd previously thought.
"There is no punishment. You are to be commended once recovered, by Emperor Gramis' decree."
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The shock is so immediate, from shame to commendation, she feels like she's been dropped from flame to ice. In her fruitless rage, she manages to throw a pillow at him.
"I'd beat you for this insult, but it would only infect my hands."
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"You would barely make it from your bed." He dourly replies, chin lifting by proud degrees (regardless of the fact that he is, in this very moment, clutching a pillow to him with a level stare).
"The Emperor's opinion is not my own."
He worried for her. She made him worry for her.
"Do not make a habit of this, Jone."
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She begins to rise from the bed, daring him to strike her. You can win a fight by losing. If he doesn't know that, it's his loss.
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“Do you not understand that I would see you live?”
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And he is very close and her blood is up. She goes deathly still until he retreats, to make sure she does not shame herself further, in his eyes. "I lived," she says, and it comes out more bitter than she intends. "You lived, the task was a success. The only one without understanding seems to be you."
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It was he who watched her fall, it was he who carried her with blood seeping in through leather against his palms. “You did not think of strategy when you threw yourself before me. Do not lie to me now and claim you assumed anything but death would likely follow.
I am far from the most valuable member of this Magistrate, our footing is alike in its strangeness.
You would deprive me of that companionship without a second thought. So be it. But do not expect my own approval, nor my consent.”
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She thought that was just her.
If he had physically hit her, she would look less stricken. Slowly, cautiously, staring at anything but him, she murmurs, "I didn't see... you've the right of it."
She has never gotten good at admitting she's wrong. For the first time, she feels vulnerable before him.
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That she realizes it now, that he bears witness to the shift between sharp and subdued, does more than much to erase all that venom brimming in his veins: he did not know how she would weather the news— or if she would accept it at all to begin with.
So there, left stubbornly unguarded, he exhales.
"Of this, I am aware." Never one to accept victory with grace, him.
But he draws the seat he'd been using nearer to her side, settling down within it, and resting his elbows across his knees for good measure.
"...I am relieved your death was not the cost of our victory."
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A familiar tone, wry sarcasm, but for once not echoing out of a helmet. Her eyes roll, swollen lips twisting up into a parody of sneering. Though when Gabranth draws near, it breaks into a smile, tired and fond.
"It goes both ways, you know. You aren't allowed to die for me, either."
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“Judge Magisters do not die.”
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"Oh, a font of wisdom, you are." She reaches, fast sunfish, to tweak his ear. "Teasing me from the sickbed."
Yet, now smoothed like crumpled paper, soundless laughter hides in the curve of her mouth.
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He does not mind it, not as much as sight would make it seem.
One hand rests across her shoulder once more, bidding her rest. “You are still injured, I would have you not discard all caution for the sake of your own childish amusement.”
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battles you to the death in a fight to never sleep
glad (????) our insomnia synced up.
Go team crippling exhaustion
collapses.
perishes but strongly and coolly
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types tags from the wilderness
wilderness tags back.
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