He ought urge her to silence for secrecy's sake, even as the tightened rush of the merger of their bodies cuts overwhelming through him, lashes falling in a stuttering blink across his eyes when he exhales hot across her mouth in that nominal distance between them— though he keeps his word: it remains only a blink, pale eyes forced open a beat later to find their focus in her own.
Odd, that it helps. That through having something else to cling to as he rocks his hips steadily— ardently— into hers, he finds himself more capable of tethering himself to sustaining, rather than recklessly rushing headlong for the feel of it alone.
Not much more capable, in truth, but perhaps enough.
The rest is slick and half-paced, a mix of rushed movements chased by slower, grinding reminders, his hands fitted firmly as a bracket on either side of her hip bones, thumbs sunk in deep, not so much guiding as clinging.
But if it is an intrusion, he trusts her to say so.
Jone ends up moaning into Gabranth's mouth, unwilling to let herself slacken, let her back arch. The uneven stutter of his hips makes it feel more genuine, lengthens the stretch-- she enjoys putting things off as long as she can, when she has the luxury of knowing she'll still have her ending. Gabranth seems determined to give it to her. Set to a task, and he's... perfect.
And as he holds her closer, she feels more and more wrapped up in it, the feeling of being wanted, unfaltering.
She turns her head, biting at his lip, breathing into his mouth. "Gabranth, Gabr- harder- can barely feel you-"
An obvious lie, from the noises she's been making, and yet, he is indescribably fantastic; she cannot resist the urge to pick and scratch, seeing how much she can steal for her own greedy heart.
Perhaps she overestimates him; strong as he is, sound as he is beneath her fingertips, her mouth— her— here he is a woefully inexperienced hand. She demands his pace quicken and he bends to it, taken by it, breathing gone throaty and sharp like an animal running rabbit, salt sweat clinging to his skin in faint beadwork.
And there, after his muscles tense and his arms fit tight around the span of her ribs as an anchor point to his thrusts, he fails in his given promise.
His face ducks down, buried against her throat, her shoulder, rhythm unforgiving and hard-set— teeth meeting and marking skin as he bites and scores and kisses at whatever he can find before something gives way soon after— white-hot and searing as it travels up his spine, sparking a guttural, shuddering groan only mercifully (faintly) muffled by the press of her body.
Distantly, Jone wonders if she's gotten him off with an insult.
The rest of her is dazed, sore and wanting, pressed under the weight of a man she has far too much affection for. This is going to end poorly, but that's almost a freeing thought. Knowing the ending means she won't be surprised, at least. There's no distraction of hope. Within reason, she can do as she likes.
She thinks she's be forgiven for snaking a hand down to finish herself off. It doesn't take much when she's sore and aching like this, she knows from experience. A stutter-stop gasp, and she moans his name directly into his ear, a gift apology for the previous insult. She doesn't intend to truly apologize; it worked, didn't it?
Contented, she lets the moment linger, sweat-soaked and tender. She pets his hair and stares at the ceiling, momentarily content in her victory.
He is spent already, there is nothing further to be given when she whispers his name in ecstasy— yet his broad frame shivers in her arms regardless, as though somehow struck again by the aftermath of something shifting under his skin, shattering his efforts to manage anything even remotely close to composure even without even a fragment of strength left to give. Not a lack of energy, only a lack of...
He does not know what to call it. Numbness, perhaps. Inherent listlessness. No matter how he tells himself to tense or to alter his own positioning, he feels slack against her. Content in ways he's too long been lost to.
If he ever knew them at all.
Eventually, an eternity to his mind (perhaps only seconds, perhaps minutes) he manages to sink into the bedding at her side— having suddenly remembered her injuries: one hand to her ribs, his attention cast downwards, examining the stitchwork closely.
Jone grimaces, and quickly moves his hand, gripping his wrist. They somehow haven't popped any stitches, but her previous injuries feel no better from rough handling. It's pain she can manage, even hide, with her body surely blossoming bruises tomorrow. At the moment, though, she's no energy for the act.
"I'm fine," she whispers. "Better. I might... bloody sleep."
She doesn't let go of his hand, bringing it close to her face once again.
He cannot linger. His obligations would already have called him away by now were it not for this; he’d planned on seeing her to sleep, on making sure she was being treated justly— instead he lies selfishly at her side, leashed to that hold on his wrist, and there is guilt intermingled with his desire to stay. He should not be so weak-hearted.
Her smile is faint and tired, but nonetheless pleased. She kisses the hard pad of his palm. "You will spoil me," she murmurs, unsure if she's joking or not. "This is all I want."
She was never an ambitious woman, so much as contrary. She was doubted, so she bit back and rose above. That world invited more cold than she expected, more than she wanted. The fire in Gabranth warms her utterly.
Another kiss, this one to his wrist, and rather sloppy for it. He won't have to wait long; she's fading quickly.
Confident in his ability to counterbalance, to fit things back into their proper order, Gabranth is unafraid of the threat that he might pamper her too much. Now, or in the unforeseen future.
But he does wait. Remains warm and close and heavy at her side until she is dreaming and serene.
From there it is somehow easier to disentangle when she isn’t looking at him. To dress himself and lock back into place both his armor and his selfless sense of determination, departing with all due haste.
He thinks he will return when she next needs him. Or he hopes for this. War is an unkind master, after all.
Jone murmurs in her sleep, faint and unheard whispers. When she wakes, he is gone, and night has set. She rushes to dress herself and change the sheets before the healers inevitably return. If they notice anything, their flinty gazes give nothing away.
Now with far more motivation than ever before to have her room to herself, Jone is a far better patient. She rests when asks, takes medications without question, and ignores any negative side-effects. She doesn't move from bed unless she is bid; she eats when she is told. She would be a model patient, if not for that impatient tone, the demand to be cleared for duty.
Accordingly, the commendation ceremony is... not quite rushed, but earlier than expected. Waiting in the wings, fully armored once again, she feels the weight settle down on her. It does not crush, it does not pain, but she notes anew how restrictive the barrier is, between her and the world.
Yet that has always made kneeling easier.
"Someone managed to talk the kitchen staff out of making this a dinner event," Jone murmurs, waiting for her cue, to walk and kneel and say nothing. "I ought to thank them."
Her table manners are still... lacking. Improved, but lacking.
“I ought not to. I was looking forward to noting your improvements.”
This, despite the faceless dryness of his commentary somewhere beneath the span of a dark, featureless helm, is not untrue. He expects she has been practicing in private, even without his constant companionship. He had indeed wanted to see her flourish.
Yet the Lord Consul is demanding, in all things, and he must be watched in his every tactical advance under the Emperor's shadowed orders— and that is a difficult line to walk when one has wants of their own beyond service and sleep.
She'd tweak his ear, poke his nose, if she could. Now, seeing him without seeing him, she longs for solitude. She can have that later. She won't be driven to distraction by any one person, no matter her personal feelings for them.
(He is so very dear, in his wildness, his rigidity, his snarling refusal to heel.)
"Improving isn't improved," she hisses. "You can natter on at me afterward, if you'll join me."
There is the ceremony to start a the new session of senate hearings, rulings given, orders outlined, and then Judges dismissed in their ugly metal mottle to plan and rest. Whatever will be done with Videreyn may be decided here. Jone is excited for that, as much as she is to see Gabranth later, as little as she is to receive a ribbon or metal or kind word from a dying man.
Gabranth would be the first to remind her she owes much to that dying man— and the longer he lives, the more hardships they are all spared.
But he does indeed join her, after the ceremony and she receives both her medal and the gift of gilded weapons. After Videreyn is first debated, and then decided to be left alone and granted opportunity to prove its newfound loyalty by emperor Gramis’ command. His ruling stern and unquestionable. A balm to some in attendance. A thorn to others.
Gabranth feels relieved to hear it, though it does not show; he bears no resemblance to anyone in Videreyn— thus he cannot be drawn upon in secret to commit treason once more.
Basch had been the exception. The only one. The rest of his battles, for as long as he is called to make them, he would rather be acts of vicious, clear intent.
He requests her presence on one of the upper terraces of the palace's sprawling expanse. A quiet place to eat, yet not so secluded that his intent might be misconstrued, or their faces mapped. Table secluded, sky a faded, muted violet threatening to soon turn into night.
He'd left his armor behind for a change, but the high collar of his clothing and long sleeves mimics the rise of it all the same.
Every day, Jone is brought to view new wonders. She didn't know about this wing of the palace. She didn't know the setting sun could be this color, that night could smell this sweet above a bustling city. She takes a moment to appreciate it, letting soft winds wash over her, before turning to Gabranth.
All lights are fair to him, a man made well in shape and form. If they were different people, would this be courting? If they were different people, would she be dead?
(In her mind, Bede's body will never stop burning.)
Jone's clothing is cut in a stern Arcadian style, or at least that's what the tailors told her. She had only asked for something you could fight in, and green. She likes green. She always has.
"The gilded weapons," she says, expression collected, before letting her head loll to the side, a joker's weapon. "Those are ceremonial, right?"
His mouth twists slightly, the ghost of a grin as he seats himself: rigid even without the span of twisted, dark metal settled tight across his shoulders.
"Do you believe the gold of my own weapons to be purely ceremonial?"
Jone cocks her head to the other side, pretending to think about it. Beneath the table, her soft-soled foot begins to rub against Gabranth's ankle.
"How often d'you have that replaced? Gold's a soft thing." She shagged a smith once. No, don't say that. "Wondering how often I'll have to see the blacksmith."
He carefully pulls his foot away from her brushing focus, fixing her with a glance. He is weak to her attentions, yes, but he’ll not risk notice in public— even if that public happens to also be the privacy of court grounds.
It is taxing, to be so difficult.
“The imperial smiths are not common cut: what they forge will last, though you ought regularly submit your armor and weaponry to their care regardless.” In the gap between sentences wine and water are brought, placed between them, and unlike his decision to drink within the confines of her quarters, he chooses water this time— favoring clarity after a long day.
“I tend to mine each morning and night, and return them to the forge for upkeep at the end of every month, without fail.”
No fun tonight, then. She gives him a swift poke under the table, her shoe hitting his boot, before retreating.
Jone mixes her wine and water again. Archadian wine, she's finding, is too strong for her tastes-- no, that isn't true. If she hadn't a care in the world, she'd drink it happily. But she hates the thought of getting soused on duty, and she is always on duty. She may not take the job as seriously as Gabranth, but she wagers that's because it's not physically possible.
"I do," Jone says, raising a glass to her lips. Admittedly, not every day and night. The stuff doesn't see use that regularly, beyond ceremony. Maybe she should. "Did someone set you to that schedule, or is it of your own make?"
Her habits are peculiar. Cultural differences, or class— or both: the outline of his life as it was before is muted and hazy at best, it is difficult to gauge whether she is the stranger of the two of them.
But if she is, he enjoys her company for it. So there is no insult in that.
“My own.” It carries a hint of pride for a tepid beat before he adds, soberly:
Should I be jealous, Jone wants to joke, but even she can tell what a bad move that would be. Jone has no love for secrecy, but she understands why it is necessary, and has no interest in compromising either of them over jealousy she does not, truly, have. Further, Gabranth's obvious esteem for Drace leaves little room for jokes to begin with; she doesn't truly wish to see Gabranth's temper lost, and that strike may be too close to something Gabranth obviously cannot stand. Dishonor, indignity, things never to be leveled at those Gabranth holds in true esteem.
(If she is jealous, it is in wondering how and if Gabranth would defend her from slander that, in truth, would offend her none to hear. What a foolish creature she is.)
"And now you pass your knowledge onto me." Jone takes her watered wine slowly. "I wonder if my unluckiness is the luckiest in all the world."
He chuckles, a dry sound— made so from the unfamiliarity of disuse, not for lack of water.
“So it must be,” determined well before he even speaks, settling straight-backed in his seat to let his arms fold easily. The air is fragrant with something, baked bread and the faint wafting of roasted herbs— much a relief after so long a day. He wonders, distantly, how Emperor Gramis must fare in his frailty, for he spent himself no less. “For you stand now where few ever have before you, and few ever will again. At the crown of an empire.”
Not just the city sprawling around them, millions of flittering lives visible from where they're seated, but the expanse beyond.
He says empire, and Jone looks down from the balcony on instinct. Empire, the thing she feared in her youth, and she looks down: it's just people. That's all Fedlhelm was, all Videreyn is.
It's all so stupid.
"I used to like that," Jone admits carefully. Her expression is the level, even thing that lives beyond the shores of her poor sense of humor. "Being a creature to envy... I relished it. But now it seems more distraction than glorious."
Jone eyes the food, taking care to slowly pick the correct fork. "I am more troubled by how to eat this... roll. Dumpling?"
She knows how to eat those with her hands, but is currently convinced that's the wrong answer in the strange game of courtesy they play. It would be annoying, if Jone did not love winning so much.
"I have learned not to believe in grand concepts. Better to give loyalty to people. The deserving."
She does not specify who is and who is not deserving. If Gabranth is afraid to touch his boot to her shoe-- as annoying as that is-- it is not a safe place to speak of deep truths. Yet they are unwatched, at least in this moment. Her gaze flickers to him, pointedly.
Gabranth answers that question for her: reaching across to take one roll between his notched fingers— splitting it open to reveal a pocket of glistening meat inside.
A fair attempt, Jone.
“People are fleeting. Ideals would serve you better: a cause, a flag, a nation— those are far more difficult to kill.”
Not impossible, but more difficult.
Even so, he does not miss her intent when she emphasizes to whom she swears allegiance. Selfishly, it is not an unwelcome thought.
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Odd, that it helps. That through having something else to cling to as he rocks his hips steadily— ardently— into hers, he finds himself more capable of tethering himself to sustaining, rather than recklessly rushing headlong for the feel of it alone.
Not much more capable, in truth, but perhaps enough.
The rest is slick and half-paced, a mix of rushed movements chased by slower, grinding reminders, his hands fitted firmly as a bracket on either side of her hip bones, thumbs sunk in deep, not so much guiding as clinging.
But if it is an intrusion, he trusts her to say so.
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And as he holds her closer, she feels more and more wrapped up in it, the feeling of being wanted, unfaltering.
She turns her head, biting at his lip, breathing into his mouth. "Gabranth, Gabr- harder- can barely feel you-"
An obvious lie, from the noises she's been making, and yet, he is indescribably fantastic; she cannot resist the urge to pick and scratch, seeing how much she can steal for her own greedy heart.
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And there, after his muscles tense and his arms fit tight around the span of her ribs as an anchor point to his thrusts, he fails in his given promise.
His face ducks down, buried against her throat, her shoulder, rhythm unforgiving and hard-set— teeth meeting and marking skin as he bites and scores and kisses at whatever he can find before something gives way soon after— white-hot and searing as it travels up his spine, sparking a guttural, shuddering groan only mercifully (faintly) muffled by the press of her body.
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The rest of her is dazed, sore and wanting, pressed under the weight of a man she has far too much affection for. This is going to end poorly, but that's almost a freeing thought. Knowing the ending means she won't be surprised, at least. There's no distraction of hope. Within reason, she can do as she likes.
She thinks she's be forgiven for snaking a hand down to finish herself off. It doesn't take much when she's sore and aching like this, she knows from experience. A stutter-stop gasp, and she moans his name directly into his ear, a gift apology for the previous insult. She doesn't intend to truly apologize; it worked, didn't it?
Contented, she lets the moment linger, sweat-soaked and tender. She pets his hair and stares at the ceiling, momentarily content in her victory.
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He does not know what to call it. Numbness, perhaps. Inherent listlessness. No matter how he tells himself to tense or to alter his own positioning, he feels slack against her. Content in ways he's too long been lost to.
If he ever knew them at all.
Eventually, an eternity to his mind (perhaps only seconds, perhaps minutes) he manages to sink into the bedding at her side— having suddenly remembered her injuries: one hand to her ribs, his attention cast downwards, examining the stitchwork closely.
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"I'm fine," she whispers. "Better. I might... bloody sleep."
She doesn't let go of his hand, bringing it close to her face once again.
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And yet.
“I’ll not leave your side till sleep takes you.”
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She was never an ambitious woman, so much as contrary. She was doubted, so she bit back and rose above. That world invited more cold than she expected, more than she wanted. The fire in Gabranth warms her utterly.
Another kiss, this one to his wrist, and rather sloppy for it. He won't have to wait long; she's fading quickly.
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Confident in his ability to counterbalance, to fit things back into their proper order, Gabranth is unafraid of the threat that he might pamper her too much. Now, or in the unforeseen future.
But he does wait. Remains warm and close and heavy at her side until she is dreaming and serene.
From there it is somehow easier to disentangle when she isn’t looking at him. To dress himself and lock back into place both his armor and his selfless sense of determination, departing with all due haste.
He thinks he will return when she next needs him. Or he hopes for this. War is an unkind master, after all.
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Now with far more motivation than ever before to have her room to herself, Jone is a far better patient. She rests when asks, takes medications without question, and ignores any negative side-effects. She doesn't move from bed unless she is bid; she eats when she is told. She would be a model patient, if not for that impatient tone, the demand to be cleared for duty.
Accordingly, the commendation ceremony is... not quite rushed, but earlier than expected. Waiting in the wings, fully armored once again, she feels the weight settle down on her. It does not crush, it does not pain, but she notes anew how restrictive the barrier is, between her and the world.
Yet that has always made kneeling easier.
"Someone managed to talk the kitchen staff out of making this a dinner event," Jone murmurs, waiting for her cue, to walk and kneel and say nothing. "I ought to thank them."
Her table manners are still... lacking. Improved, but lacking.
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This, despite the faceless dryness of his commentary somewhere beneath the span of a dark, featureless helm, is not untrue. He expects she has been practicing in private, even without his constant companionship. He had indeed wanted to see her flourish.
Yet the Lord Consul is demanding, in all things, and he must be watched in his every tactical advance under the Emperor's shadowed orders— and that is a difficult line to walk when one has wants of their own beyond service and sleep.
A new fascination, and a foolishly welcome one.
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(He is so very dear, in his wildness, his rigidity, his snarling refusal to heel.)
"Improving isn't improved," she hisses. "You can natter on at me afterward, if you'll join me."
There is the ceremony to start a the new session of senate hearings, rulings given, orders outlined, and then Judges dismissed in their ugly metal mottle to plan and rest. Whatever will be done with Videreyn may be decided here. Jone is excited for that, as much as she is to see Gabranth later, as little as she is to receive a ribbon or metal or kind word from a dying man.
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But he does indeed join her, after the ceremony and she receives both her medal and the gift of gilded weapons. After Videreyn is first debated, and then decided to be left alone and granted opportunity to prove its newfound loyalty by emperor Gramis’ command. His ruling stern and unquestionable. A balm to some in attendance. A thorn to others.
Gabranth feels relieved to hear it, though it does not show; he bears no resemblance to anyone in Videreyn— thus he cannot be drawn upon in secret to commit treason once more.
Basch had been the exception. The only one. The rest of his battles, for as long as he is called to make them, he would rather be acts of vicious, clear intent.
He requests her presence on one of the upper terraces of the palace's sprawling expanse. A quiet place to eat, yet not so secluded that his intent might be misconstrued, or their faces mapped. Table secluded, sky a faded, muted violet threatening to soon turn into night.
He'd left his armor behind for a change, but the high collar of his clothing and long sleeves mimics the rise of it all the same.
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All lights are fair to him, a man made well in shape and form. If they were different people, would this be courting? If they were different people, would she be dead?
(In her mind, Bede's body will never stop burning.)
Jone's clothing is cut in a stern Arcadian style, or at least that's what the tailors told her. She had only asked for something you could fight in, and green. She likes green. She always has.
"The gilded weapons," she says, expression collected, before letting her head loll to the side, a joker's weapon. "Those are ceremonial, right?"
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"Do you believe the gold of my own weapons to be purely ceremonial?"
Are you refusing your gift, Jone?
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"How often d'you have that replaced? Gold's a soft thing." She shagged a smith once. No, don't say that. "Wondering how often I'll have to see the blacksmith."
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He carefully pulls his foot away from her brushing focus, fixing her with a glance. He is weak to her attentions, yes, but he’ll not risk notice in public— even if that public happens to also be the privacy of court grounds.
It is taxing, to be so difficult.
“The imperial smiths are not common cut: what they forge will last, though you ought regularly submit your armor and weaponry to their care regardless.” In the gap between sentences wine and water are brought, placed between them, and unlike his decision to drink within the confines of her quarters, he chooses water this time— favoring clarity after a long day.
“I tend to mine each morning and night, and return them to the forge for upkeep at the end of every month, without fail.”
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Jone mixes her wine and water again. Archadian wine, she's finding, is too strong for her tastes-- no, that isn't true. If she hadn't a care in the world, she'd drink it happily. But she hates the thought of getting soused on duty, and she is always on duty. She may not take the job as seriously as Gabranth, but she wagers that's because it's not physically possible.
"I do," Jone says, raising a glass to her lips. Admittedly, not every day and night. The stuff doesn't see use that regularly, beyond ceremony. Maybe she should. "Did someone set you to that schedule, or is it of your own make?"
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But if she is, he enjoys her company for it. So there is no insult in that.
“My own.” It carries a hint of pride for a tepid beat before he adds, soberly:
“....and Drace’s.”
It is in her footsteps he follows, as always.
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(If she is jealous, it is in wondering how and if Gabranth would defend her from slander that, in truth, would offend her none to hear. What a foolish creature she is.)
"And now you pass your knowledge onto me." Jone takes her watered wine slowly. "I wonder if my unluckiness is the luckiest in all the world."
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“So it must be,” determined well before he even speaks, settling straight-backed in his seat to let his arms fold easily. The air is fragrant with something, baked bread and the faint wafting of roasted herbs— much a relief after so long a day. He wonders, distantly, how Emperor Gramis must fare in his frailty, for he spent himself no less. “For you stand now where few ever have before you, and few ever will again. At the crown of an empire.”
Not just the city sprawling around them, millions of flittering lives visible from where they're seated, but the expanse beyond.
“So many envy you.”
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It's all so stupid.
"I used to like that," Jone admits carefully. Her expression is the level, even thing that lives beyond the shores of her poor sense of humor. "Being a creature to envy... I relished it. But now it seems more distraction than glorious."
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—a sentiment interrupted by appetizers and a fresher course of drinks, servants waved away with an easy hand.
“Does that truth now trouble you?”
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She knows how to eat those with her hands, but is currently convinced that's the wrong answer in the strange game of courtesy they play. It would be annoying, if Jone did not love winning so much.
"I have learned not to believe in grand concepts. Better to give loyalty to people. The deserving."
She does not specify who is and who is not deserving. If Gabranth is afraid to touch his boot to her shoe-- as annoying as that is-- it is not a safe place to speak of deep truths. Yet they are unwatched, at least in this moment. Her gaze flickers to him, pointedly.
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A fair attempt, Jone.
“People are fleeting. Ideals would serve you better: a cause, a flag, a nation— those are far more difficult to kill.”
Not impossible, but more difficult.
Even so, he does not miss her intent when she emphasizes to whom she swears allegiance. Selfishly, it is not an unwelcome thought.
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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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