albinomilksnake | RP: OPEN POST

"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."

"What?"

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).

"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."

"Do I now follow at your barking call? If I displease, will you have me whipped?"

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.

“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.

It was never just her.

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."

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” He counters, his voice low and cool, as relaxed as she might have ever known it to be in quiet spaces.

“Judge Magisters do not die.”

"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.”

He touches her, so she touches him. Her hand reaches out to find that same ear again, though her fingers land below it, a caress to his neck. Her thumb gently measures the texture of his finely kept beard, or whatever that is called in the lands of his home. A bad cut, they'd call it in the Fedlhelm slums.

Thank all the gods and demons of the land and sky, she is here and not there.

"You'll visit me?" She says, embracing the role of sickly patient if it will give him calm. "If I'm to be laid up for so long, I'll need entertainment."

“I have been at your side for days already.”

She is free to do as she pleases, that much is clear in how still he sits beneath her roaming fingertips— neither tensing nor balking at the attention, only patient. Attentive. He is unused to this, yes, but that does not mean he won’t endure it for her.

...or that it’s unwelcome in the slightest.

“I see no reason to alter that practice now.” And then, his jaw tilting just so against her palm, “how do you feel?”

So Jone indulges herself, reaching up to run light fingers through his bright, short hair. Ever since she was anointed by the Empire, she has lived without touch. She had been willing to give it up, but is equally willing to take back what small pieces she can, like a starveling at a banquet.

Though this is hardly a banquet. She wants to feel the callouses under his gloves, the pulse in his wrists, the shape of his teeth, the warmth of his mouth. She could bargain for that, if she were greedier. If she respected him less.

And then he moves to give her more, as close to an embrace as people like them can get, and the relaxation that sweeps over her is obvious. The smile is natural. She is content.

"Better," she says, voice hoarse with softness. "I was just screeching at a good lad for no reason at all, if you can believe it."

It is more than he has known in an eternity. A lifetime. Where she is starved, he is only learning again, and everything is taken in small, careful sips: the scuff of his stubble against her coarse skin, the warmth of it where it finds his throat, his cheek. He is not a patient man, but in dialed seconds like this, he might be mistaken for one.

“I can. Though I believe he is capable of forgiveness.”

"Oh? Really?" She grins, allowing herself to be easily rallied. It's not very hard. His presence, an imposition only days ago, now brings cheer and deep warmth, things she'd been prepared to go without until she died, again and again and over again.

Her fingers drift along the shell of one ear. This is lingering away from what platonic friendship can excuse, but she'll stop when he tells her to.

"What does he need? I can shine shoes and make dinner."

And kill people in thoughtless swaths, but that skill lives outside the tentative, make-believe world they are building.

He snorts faintly at that, yanking his head away once more. It seems— perhaps to the attentive observer— that Gabranth might not be able to handle the keen graze of her fingertips just there with anything remotely akin to dour dignity.

“Right now you are capable of neither, and are on strict orders to remain in bed. That is all I— ” a pause, his lips tightening as he reaches out to catch her searching hand within his own, “he would ask of you.”

His imagination lacks, it seems.

Stop there, then. Pet at him, but don't entice. He wants touch-- a desire Jone cannot blame him for, harboring deeper, darker wishes-- but little more. She can't hold the thought I can be chaste in her mind without laughing, though, so instead promises herself: I can endure.

That's the creed lately, isn't it?

"How terribly kind of him," she says. Her hand squeezes his, wishing she could feel the warm roughness of his ungloved fingers. "Especially if a certain someone ignores any obviously false reports about me being a terrible bloody patient."

She'll be kind with him. She's going to haggle with the healing mage once they return. Poor thing, having to wrangle her utter lack of care for her own recouperation.

He cannot sustain the game for long; even dry humor strains his own long-forged restrictions, and where his mouth flexes faintly it does eventually recede into something more controlled. More appropriate for a Judge, even in isolated spaces, with his fingers snared across her own and weighted with thick leather.

Perhaps in time these defenses too will fade, but for now they leave only fresh footprints in untouched snow. Every step is new. A risk, broached with care.

Or at the very least, that is how he sees it.

“I believe those reports to be unsubstantiated.” He would see her behave, is what he means, even if he knows she longs for coarser freedoms. “But I will continue to monitor your recovery regardless. Just in case.”

A pause, before:

“I shall also refrain from informing Emperor Gramis of your status until you are fully prepared to face him.” To avoid any shame of perceived weakness, to afford her time to seem infallible, even in the wake of her fall.

He will keep her in line, he seems to be promising, and there's a little thrill at that. Selfish, she knows, but none have ever cared this much for her health.

Yet at his second offer, she shakes her head. "Do not keep anything from him on my account. I will endure; as you've said, it is my duty."

And she would hate to see him sully his honor for something as little as this.

That is exactly what he promises— even if the results of that effort may vary, considering his sternness and her whims: he remains certain he can bar her from rising and donning armor, at the very least. To ensure she eats and shuts her eyes. The most basic of needs, but the most vital, also.

His palm rises from her hand, resting heavily across her brow. Not pressing, nor measuring, only— steadying. He leaves it there as he watches her, pale eyes summarizing the damage scattered across her features.

“As you say.” It is a concession made with decorum. “even so, it would be best to keep the matter of our own...familiarity between us, as a generality.”

It is not a deception, only a privacy, he would argue.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject