If the northern noble noticed his delicate pianist's shadow as it moved of its own accord, he said nothing. Perhaps it was just a trick of the mind or just the way the fire danced in the hearth—Caius wasn't sure. He sighed as she curled against his bare chest, aware of how much the cauterized scar opposite his icy mark had faded in just barely over half a season. He looked down at Darcy's face as new tears formed, her eyes full of a mix of emotions, and while her whispered words were sincere, there was something else behind them, something heavier than the brush of her fingers over his face. His hands moved to hold her tighter as if he anticipated her need for such reassurance, and then he listened to her quiet, terrible confession.
For an audible heartbeat or two, the sound loud and fast between them, tangible, the young Gawyne said nothing. His silence, as before, wasn't a judgmental one however, for he also had been given no choice but to accept Syroa's bargain, lest he become responsible for even more death. How many more innocents would have been blood on his hands had he refused Her? How many souls would wait for his own death to confront him in the Eternal Kingdom?
He blinked, exhaling his words in a whisper, their first conversation of the Rebirth Cycle, on a trial he'd never expected to exist on, being one of pain and apology, of forgiveness and commitment, "Oh, Darcy, I'm sorry."
Just as the whole execution had been a trap, though one set by fallible mortals who'd underestimated their opponents, the Seekers, so, too, had his wife been led into a trap of sorts, though it was one of Immortal design and truly inescapable. Her life for the life of this Garrud? Caius was, of course, biased on the side of Darcy's life for obvious reasons. He loved the blonde Gawyne, his Gawyne, and knew not the others who'd been involved in whatever debauchery Mastes and Kata had led them into. Or, specifically, led his delicate pianist into since from the sounds of things she was the only mortal to have left marked and alive.
It hurt, honestly, to hear her struggle through her words, and the Fury that warmed the cavity of his chest was hotter than melted lead. He frowned, shifting to tangle more of their bodies together and free his hands for a moment to wipe her face with his thumbs and press too-warm palms against her cheeks, keeping eye contact while he spoke softly, "Just one man? To save yourself? At the behest of not one, but two Immortals? You had to, yes, and I don't begrudge you what you did to live. Where would I be if you had not? Here I am, with the lives of over fifty innocents on my conscience, Darcy, their bodies and grieving loved ones forever etched into my memory. One is a fair trade, by the Seven. And I can’t judge you for wanting to survive."
Kissing her forehead while he held her face as they hid in the fire-lit darkness under the comfortable covers of their bed, Caius laid quietly with the delicate pianist to comfort her as much as himself, to assure them both that together, they were safer, together there was no need for secrets, together they were stronger,
"We are both in strange, terrifying places, trapped by forces we cannot fight on our own, but that doesn't change how I feel about you, Darcy. I'll do what I can for you—I mean it—even if I must condone all that I fought so hard to turn you from." The young Gawyne's voice wavered with those last words, aware of his sworn commitments in secret marriage just trials prior, "But I beg you to make me a part of everything—I can't protect you if you hide from me."
While he couldn't quite comprehend the depths of danger and the dregs of depravity their collective Immortals were capable of wielding in their mortal lives, he still couldn't hate them. Some stubborn, hungry part of Caius longed for purpose, direction, and while he was sure that he couldn't find that solace from Syroa any more than Darcy could from Mastes or Kata, he could now empathize with his delicate pianist's hatred: how could he protect the woman he loved against a power far greater than any mortal? He was determined to find out.
Otherwise, he'd simply have to give in and admit he'd failed one more time—his sister, Darcy, and perhaps, ultimately, his Kingdom, too.
His eyes stung with threatened tears and Caius sighed to shove it all away, discarding his fear and sorrow like ruined parchment into a fire. His too-warm hands moved away from her face, wandering gently, almost teasingly over her pale skin to hold her, the comfortable press of their bodies together not distracting so much as necessary, a feeling he had once been sure he'd not feel again, the northern noble's needful coping mechanism in the sea of confused realities,
"No matter what, I'm alive to-trial when I shouldn't be, on a trial that didn't exist until I woke up in it, and so are you, for Fate's sake. I've already lived a lifetime simply waiting to die, and I'll admit, I'm not going to sarding live my life that way a second time, even if I have no idea what to do with ... all of this ... any of it ... our secrets. Bogs! I don't have a fucking clue—"
Caius let his words hang for trill or two, breath hitching as the reality of both his survival and all that meant for the trials that followed this one, longing to enjoy the time he'd just been handed, especially with Darcy here in his arms, and yet burdened by the strange landscape that spread out before them and called itself their path forward. At least they had each other, and the young Gawyne found his hope in that,
"—but what I know is this: that my love for you is real, regardless of who or what has taken interest in our lives."
For an audible heartbeat or two, the sound loud and fast between them, tangible, the young Gawyne said nothing. His silence, as before, wasn't a judgmental one however, for he also had been given no choice but to accept Syroa's bargain, lest he become responsible for even more death. How many more innocents would have been blood on his hands had he refused Her? How many souls would wait for his own death to confront him in the Eternal Kingdom?
He blinked, exhaling his words in a whisper, their first conversation of the Rebirth Cycle, on a trial he'd never expected to exist on, being one of pain and apology, of forgiveness and commitment, "Oh, Darcy, I'm sorry."
Just as the whole execution had been a trap, though one set by fallible mortals who'd underestimated their opponents, the Seekers, so, too, had his wife been led into a trap of sorts, though it was one of Immortal design and truly inescapable. Her life for the life of this Garrud? Caius was, of course, biased on the side of Darcy's life for obvious reasons. He loved the blonde Gawyne, his Gawyne, and knew not the others who'd been involved in whatever debauchery Mastes and Kata had led them into. Or, specifically, led his delicate pianist into since from the sounds of things she was the only mortal to have left marked and alive.
It hurt, honestly, to hear her struggle through her words, and the Fury that warmed the cavity of his chest was hotter than melted lead. He frowned, shifting to tangle more of their bodies together and free his hands for a moment to wipe her face with his thumbs and press too-warm palms against her cheeks, keeping eye contact while he spoke softly, "Just one man? To save yourself? At the behest of not one, but two Immortals? You had to, yes, and I don't begrudge you what you did to live. Where would I be if you had not? Here I am, with the lives of over fifty innocents on my conscience, Darcy, their bodies and grieving loved ones forever etched into my memory. One is a fair trade, by the Seven. And I can’t judge you for wanting to survive."
Kissing her forehead while he held her face as they hid in the fire-lit darkness under the comfortable covers of their bed, Caius laid quietly with the delicate pianist to comfort her as much as himself, to assure them both that together, they were safer, together there was no need for secrets, together they were stronger,
"We are both in strange, terrifying places, trapped by forces we cannot fight on our own, but that doesn't change how I feel about you, Darcy. I'll do what I can for you—I mean it—even if I must condone all that I fought so hard to turn you from." The young Gawyne's voice wavered with those last words, aware of his sworn commitments in secret marriage just trials prior, "But I beg you to make me a part of everything—I can't protect you if you hide from me."
While he couldn't quite comprehend the depths of danger and the dregs of depravity their collective Immortals were capable of wielding in their mortal lives, he still couldn't hate them. Some stubborn, hungry part of Caius longed for purpose, direction, and while he was sure that he couldn't find that solace from Syroa any more than Darcy could from Mastes or Kata, he could now empathize with his delicate pianist's hatred: how could he protect the woman he loved against a power far greater than any mortal? He was determined to find out.
Otherwise, he'd simply have to give in and admit he'd failed one more time—his sister, Darcy, and perhaps, ultimately, his Kingdom, too.
His eyes stung with threatened tears and Caius sighed to shove it all away, discarding his fear and sorrow like ruined parchment into a fire. His too-warm hands moved away from her face, wandering gently, almost teasingly over her pale skin to hold her, the comfortable press of their bodies together not distracting so much as necessary, a feeling he had once been sure he'd not feel again, the northern noble's needful coping mechanism in the sea of confused realities,
"No matter what, I'm alive to-trial when I shouldn't be, on a trial that didn't exist until I woke up in it, and so are you, for Fate's sake. I've already lived a lifetime simply waiting to die, and I'll admit, I'm not going to sarding live my life that way a second time, even if I have no idea what to do with ... all of this ... any of it ... our secrets. Bogs! I don't have a fucking clue—"
Caius let his words hang for trill or two, breath hitching as the reality of both his survival and all that meant for the trials that followed this one, longing to enjoy the time he'd just been handed, especially with Darcy here in his arms, and yet burdened by the strange landscape that spread out before them and called itself their path forward. At least they had each other, and the young Gawyne found his hope in that,
"—but what I know is this: that my love for you is real, regardless of who or what has taken interest in our lives."
❦
