“Sometimes I imagine all of Ivalice would not satisfy.” And damn him for his own sure-footed foolishness, letting so much slip in her care; his eyes wander briefly towards the doorway, content to see that it remains closed.
“The Lord Consul makes overtures. I am certain the Emperor will do nothing yet, but that does not mean there will be no task given to call me away.”
He studies the paleness of her features, the shadows beneath her eyes, no different than prior weeks, no, but that is hardly heartening during recovery.
“How is your care? Do they treat you sufficiently?”
“Perhaps it would be you. If you would hurry in your mending.”
It is not quite teasing: he does genuinely wish for her to return to service at his side— yet now he is denied both her companionship as well as Drace, and it leaves him feeling strangely starved in ways he’d never before thought himself capable.
His arm withdraws, his form regained as he tugs off the span of his own gauntlet, placing one rough palm across her forehead.
She shoos his hand away. "You can't feel anything with that, c'mon."
Jone lies back a little in bed, because she imagines it will make him pleased, because he looks worried, because she'll do whatever he can to help. "Don't, Gabranth. You've enough on your plate. I'll be fine."
“Do not question me.” Stern-hearted as any command given on the battlefield, it is only his own forceful tone that remains defanged here and now. She might've dislodged his attempts at studying her state, but she hasn't yet warded him off entirely.
“I have a right to desire your companionship, as surely as I've the right to demand your return to service.” He watches her sink between covers, still perched and looming at her side like a strange, half-formed nightmare. One that would see her well, if only fate would make it so.
“To that end, you cannot deny me what would bring easement, no matter how it discomforts you.”
In this moment he remains very clear: this is not about you, Jone. Not entirely.
She gives him a canny look, peeking above the covers, her hair a mess. Green eyes flicker mischief more than fatigue or pain. Enjoyment of his company, that, too, but to her mind those are synonyms. If you like someone at least a little, are even a tad curious about them, how can you stop from riling them? How else do you get on?
She peeks her full face out of the covers, "then why did you ask?"
“To grant you opportunity for concession with dignity.”
It is not a wry statement, he means every word of it, even as the cast of his expression runs cool and soft at the edges, his eyes fixed on her— and her alone.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he plots the course of his own obligations, and how he might yet wring out more time for this. Here.
He finds a place to sit beside her in the interim. At the edge of the mattress, rather than in a chair at distance.
"Dignity?" It makes Jone laugh, a stupid little giggle. "You've seen me in pyjama's how many times now? If I were a proper court lady, I'd have none left. Can't believe you're putting on airs for me, now."
She reaches forward, a hand on his pauldron. "That's the most annoying kind thing anyone's ever done for me."
“You must learn to hold it eventually.” He counters smoothly, though something in his unyielding posture withers itself down into subtlety beneath her hand.
A good sign, in truth, that heaviness of her grip across polished armor. Much like her ability to walk.
“And I’ve placed too much of my own reputation in your skill— your successes— to simply stand by without pressing you into proper conduct.” This, he says, knowing full well they’d played fool in some shoddy little pocket of a restaurant, shirking both duty and augustness alike for the briefest period of time.
“You are not so pedigreed, nor so loved, Jone. You cannot afford to be bold save for your own tactics in battle.”
Perhaps this is his own fault for encouraging her with a free, indulgent hand. That he views her as his equal, when so much of where they stand is based on matters of earned keep— which can always be rescinded.
Helms can be passed on. Refitted. Her lineage means nothing, her wealth only borrowed.
She must not forget this.
“I spoke praise of you, yes. Yet it is all true, and your commendation fast approaches.” Particularly if she stands now, if she walks, even by middling measures.
She leans in, and so does he— shadows deep beneath his eyes. The weight of long, dark eyelashes.
“Consider what that means carefully, for both our sakes.”
You are not so loved. Already, the weight of her own mind twists the recent memory into something more consumable. Did she need to be reminded of that, and the color of the sky, and of air she breathes, and her own name?
Apparently so. She closes her eyes, leaning back. She has forgotten herself. How foolish she must look, to a man made of honor such as Gabranth. A bratty novice, distracted by finery, refusing advice that benefits him as much as her. He has given her so much, and what has she done?
She pauses there, ruminating on her failure. She knows how to keep her expression clear, to avoid the urge to throw herself at something, to cause harm. She knows where she is, and the creature she is expected to be. Perhaps one day, maybe, if she works very hard, someone will put a stake through her as she deserves.
In the meanwhile, she must uphold Gabranth's honor. She opens her eyes. "My apologies," she says, "you're right, as always. I have been... lax, always, but especially now."
He cannot see it. He is too blunted, too blind, to understand the shift in mindset he’s prompted— instead, he thinks she’s only taken to his sharp insistence for the sake of self-preservation, rather than camaraderie.
Which is fortunate. It means there is no weakness in the plating of her figurative armor. That she does not forget she walks in a palace with a thousand eyes.
This will save her, he is certain.
“There is nothing to forgive.” She will do better, and he will see her succeed. There will be no excess friction in her rise to authoritative power. To the Emperor's fully given trust. “I will send Drace to your side tonight, in my own stead, to ensure you are not treated unkindly.”
Jone shakes her head. "No, please. Grant me the kindness of solitude, while I think on this."
Drace means well. She has nothing in common with Drace. She has nothing in common with Gabranth either, she's been so reminded, but at least she feels some modicum of safety in his presence.
Drace is nobility. She is pride in perfection, and the very pinnacle of the Magistrate itself, and even Gabranth struggles to keep pace with the mark she sets.
He...does not blame Jone for this, he realizes. In her place, he would feel no different. No less weak while wounded in such a shadow, when already they are made to feel lesser to begin with. So she asks, and so he relents, dipping his own head in show of absolute deference to it.
Instead at last he sinks at her bedside, settling once more across the edge of the mattress as he favors as of late. One hand resting near her shoulder.
"No. I let my guard down around you; do not confuse it for carelessness. Trust this little, at least, that I can manage for myself."
There, her words are even-keeled, her expression placidly concentrated. She looks as she did when they were preparing for Videreyn, except perhaps more wan and clammy. This is business, her sworn task, and she will not forget again.
It makes him the weaker tether, then, for nearly breaking the very same demands he made of her (yet is that not his right? He has lived in Archades for longer, learned much of the intricacies of etiquette and nuance, even if he cannot always apply that knowledge cleanly— is he not allowed to then be more lax at times, trusting that he can counterbalance if necessary).
“It is not trust.” It is, she has the right of it, but he refuses that logic in much the same way that he refuses to move. To withdraw from her side like the intrusion he is.
“I wish to remain, for myself. For mine own comfort.”
It is not trust. It is not love. (She knew that one, but it still stings to hear aloud.) It is disappointing; she is accustomed to capriciousness, but she had hoped...
No, people are not logical, and do not follow their own commands. Yet it stirs curiosity; Gabranth will not admit why he needs her, beyond comfort. Normally, it would be enough for her. Today, it is not. What a capricious thing she is.
"You are so discomfited by life that you need the company of one you do not trust?"
Again, his words have failed him, or he in executing them, or...caving to the brittleness they house. Perhaps all of it is true, for he remains ever the inverse reflection of the brother that abandoned him: more sharp edges than softness. More wanting than capable of care.
Even so, his expression sinks when he sighs. It is difficult not to be terse in his own correction.
“I do trust you, Jone.” That fact was never in question, he thinks, knowing full well what slights against his own duties he's committed already in her presence. What more he would do if given the chance. “But it is not for trust— or lack thereof— that I refuse to leave your side.”
She should stop here. She should be kind and accommodating, allow him to set his own pace, find comfort in his own limitations. She should be anyone but who she is. She should be someone worthy of his friendship.
Thinking has never been his strongest asset. He makes overtures, spends effort, but at best he is taxed by it, and at worst...
He leans forward without it present at all this time, still carrying the faint scent of metal polish and sweat, catching her mouth with his own without the decency of propriety or concern; always he has been a creature of impulse more than foresight, always does he make himself the enemy of decorum. Dignity.
She hasn't been kissed in years, now. At Gabranth's touch, she is hungry and grasping, pulling him closer, adding tongue and teeth. She'd pull him on top of her if not for the-
"Off- off with the armor. Now."
He has never been a creature of thought, perhaps, but she has never been one of half measures. Presented with a promise, she must have it in its entirety.
He protests, though it does nothing to draw him any further from her side, or her hold on him, his fingers wrapped around her wrist in turn. Holding fast. He loses so much. He has always lost so much.
Instead he kisses her again, sharp edged and demanding, sunset catching through glass in her hair before he shuts his eyes to it, wholly focused in this.
There are a lot of things she could say to that, all crude, all requiring a tongue. She'd rather kiss him, fast and hungry and deep. If she can't convince him with words, she'll convince him with sounds, hungry pants and the occasional keen. This is good. This is amazing. She wants more.
"Let me- touch you." She kisses him. "Just let me touch you." She kisses him again, her teeth finding his lip, turning begging into demands.
That— the sound of her breathing, the rush of it running hot across his tongue, the heave of her chest beneath the edges of his gauntleted fingers— is a language he comprehends well where so many others fail. It is persuasive, it speaks to the simplicity of his hunger.
Or, were he so willing to examine it, his desire.
Her teeth snare his lip, scuff and scrape and bite, and somewhere without intending to he finds himself already working at the clasps of his gauntlets, the ties securing his cloak, his breastplate. Impatient, irritated, even.
But earnest, also.
Had she doubts about his investment, perhaps this will put them to bed.
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“The Lord Consul makes overtures. I am certain the Emperor will do nothing yet, but that does not mean there will be no task given to call me away.”
He studies the paleness of her features, the shadows beneath her eyes, no different than prior weeks, no, but that is hardly heartening during recovery.
“How is your care? Do they treat you sufficiently?”
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She grins up at him as he asks. "How would I know?"
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It is not quite teasing: he does genuinely wish for her to return to service at his side— yet now he is denied both her companionship as well as Drace, and it leaves him feeling strangely starved in ways he’d never before thought himself capable.
His arm withdraws, his form regained as he tugs off the span of his own gauntlet, placing one rough palm across her forehead.
“Need I supervise their efforts?”
If she cannot gauge it, then perhaps....
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Jone lies back a little in bed, because she imagines it will make him pleased, because he looks worried, because she'll do whatever he can to help. "Don't, Gabranth. You've enough on your plate. I'll be fine."
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“I have a right to desire your companionship, as surely as I've the right to demand your return to service.” He watches her sink between covers, still perched and looming at her side like a strange, half-formed nightmare. One that would see her well, if only fate would make it so.
“To that end, you cannot deny me what would bring easement, no matter how it discomforts you.”
In this moment he remains very clear: this is not about you, Jone. Not entirely.
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She peeks her full face out of the covers, "then why did you ask?"
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It is not a wry statement, he means every word of it, even as the cast of his expression runs cool and soft at the edges, his eyes fixed on her— and her alone.
Somewhere in the back of his mind he plots the course of his own obligations, and how he might yet wring out more time for this. Here.
He finds a place to sit beside her in the interim. At the edge of the mattress, rather than in a chair at distance.
“Though I did suspect you would not take it.”
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She reaches forward, a hand on his pauldron. "That's the most annoying kind thing anyone's ever done for me."
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A good sign, in truth, that heaviness of her grip across polished armor. Much like her ability to walk.
“And I’ve placed too much of my own reputation in your skill— your successes— to simply stand by without pressing you into proper conduct.” This, he says, knowing full well they’d played fool in some shoddy little pocket of a restaurant, shirking both duty and augustness alike for the briefest period of time.
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Why not rub her cheek in their face? They, who are just as proud. Pretending she's of fine breeding will only make her laugh, much less the others.
"How much of your reputation?" She leans her head in, conspiratorial. "You been talking me up?"
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Perhaps this is his own fault for encouraging her with a free, indulgent hand. That he views her as his equal, when so much of where they stand is based on matters of earned keep— which can always be rescinded.
Helms can be passed on. Refitted. Her lineage means nothing, her wealth only borrowed.
She must not forget this.
“I spoke praise of you, yes. Yet it is all true, and your commendation fast approaches.” Particularly if she stands now, if she walks, even by middling measures.
She leans in, and so does he— shadows deep beneath his eyes. The weight of long, dark eyelashes.
“Consider what that means carefully, for both our sakes.”
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Apparently so. She closes her eyes, leaning back. She has forgotten herself. How foolish she must look, to a man made of honor such as Gabranth. A bratty novice, distracted by finery, refusing advice that benefits him as much as her. He has given her so much, and what has she done?
She pauses there, ruminating on her failure. She knows how to keep her expression clear, to avoid the urge to throw herself at something, to cause harm. She knows where she is, and the creature she is expected to be. Perhaps one day, maybe, if she works very hard, someone will put a stake through her as she deserves.
In the meanwhile, she must uphold Gabranth's honor. She opens her eyes. "My apologies," she says, "you're right, as always. I have been... lax, always, but especially now."
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Which is fortunate. It means there is no weakness in the plating of her figurative armor. That she does not forget she walks in a palace with a thousand eyes.
This will save her, he is certain.
“There is nothing to forgive.” She will do better, and he will see her succeed. There will be no excess friction in her rise to authoritative power. To the Emperor's fully given trust. “I will send Drace to your side tonight, in my own stead, to ensure you are not treated unkindly.”
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Drace means well. She has nothing in common with Drace. She has nothing in common with Gabranth either, she's been so reminded, but at least she feels some modicum of safety in his presence.
Drace babysitting her would only feel like pity.
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He...does not blame Jone for this, he realizes. In her place, he would feel no different. No less weak while wounded in such a shadow, when already they are made to feel lesser to begin with. So she asks, and so he relents, dipping his own head in show of absolute deference to it.
Instead at last he sinks at her bedside, settling once more across the edge of the mattress as he favors as of late. One hand resting near her shoulder.
“Then I shall remain until you sleep.”
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There, her words are even-keeled, her expression placidly concentrated. She looks as she did when they were preparing for Videreyn, except perhaps more wan and clammy. This is business, her sworn task, and she will not forget again.
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“It is not trust.” It is, she has the right of it, but he refuses that logic in much the same way that he refuses to move. To withdraw from her side like the intrusion he is.
“I wish to remain, for myself. For mine own comfort.”
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No, people are not logical, and do not follow their own commands. Yet it stirs curiosity; Gabranth will not admit why he needs her, beyond comfort. Normally, it would be enough for her. Today, it is not. What a capricious thing she is.
"You are so discomfited by life that you need the company of one you do not trust?"
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Even so, his expression sinks when he sighs. It is difficult not to be terse in his own correction.
“I do trust you, Jone.” That fact was never in question, he thinks, knowing full well what slights against his own duties he's committed already in her presence. What more he would do if given the chance. “But it is not for trust— or lack thereof— that I refuse to leave your side.”
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But she isn't.
"Then what is it?"
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He leans forward without it present at all this time, still carrying the faint scent of metal polish and sweat, catching her mouth with his own without the decency of propriety or concern; always he has been a creature of impulse more than foresight, always does he make himself the enemy of decorum. Dignity.
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"Off- off with the armor. Now."
He has never been a creature of thought, perhaps, but she has never been one of half measures. Presented with a promise, she must have it in its entirety.
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He protests, though it does nothing to draw him any further from her side, or her hold on him, his fingers wrapped around her wrist in turn. Holding fast. He loses so much. He has always lost so much.
Instead he kisses her again, sharp edged and demanding, sunset catching through glass in her hair before he shuts his eyes to it, wholly focused in this.
As he focuses on everything that matters to him.
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"Let me- touch you." She kisses him. "Just let me touch you." She kisses him again, her teeth finding his lip, turning begging into demands.
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Or, were he so willing to examine it, his desire.
Her teeth snare his lip, scuff and scrape and bite, and somewhere without intending to he finds himself already working at the clasps of his gauntlets, the ties securing his cloak, his breastplate. Impatient, irritated, even.
But earnest, also.
Had she doubts about his investment, perhaps this will put them to bed.
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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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finds typo in my prior tag, promptly expires
resurrection scroll tyvm.
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