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everlastingdreams · 26 days ago

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The Weeping Monk x Fem!Reader : Forged Of Fire Chapter 43

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Story Summary: Raised under the tiranny of your own family, and forced to steal to earn your keep, you struggle to survive. Born from a Fey mother, and a Manblood father who wanted only sons, you are forced to hide your Fey side. When you are ordered to steal from Father Carden by your half-brother, Cassian, your life spirals out of control and you find yourself at the mercy of the Weeping Monk. The life you knew changes drastically when Cassian betrays you in the cruelest of ways. A trade is made, a promise is broken, and a debt must be paid.

Chapter Title: A Stolen Moment.

Notes: /

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Trauma bonding. Intrafamily violence. Depression. Self-harm. Suicidal thoughts. Violence. Torture. Gore. Pining. Trauma. Self-Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc. Lima/Stockholm syndrom-ish. Childhood trauma.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forced Marriage. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn. Found Familly-ish. Comfort. Fluff. !SMUT and SPICE!

Word count of this fic: +250K

Chapter: 43/47

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Days of exhausting work had taken a toll on Lancelot. Five days of scouring the woods to ensure that there were no unexpected threats, unfortunately there were wolves present. Days of work to fortify the castle against enemies, days of lifting and carrying heavy materials around the large castle for it. And as the days passed, he had grown more and more anxious about the nearing arrival of the Fey at the castle, causing a lack of sleep because he kept working into the night to keep himself distracted from it.

It was no gift when Gawain asked him to meet at dawn by the large round table, with the diorama of the castle and the lands surrounding it, down in the undergrounds of the fort. “Word is traveling the land, Lancelot. Now that Father Carden is gone, Pope Abel has assigned Abbot Wicklow and the Trinity Guard to be in command of the Red Paladins.”

It was news Lancelot preferred not to have heard at all. He slammed his hands down on the table, leaning over the miniatures of the trees, sighing deeply. “That bastard will rain fire upon the land, he’ll burn everything on his path to power.”

Gawain had been made aware of this escalation in the war. “They are ruthlessly attacking the villages where Fey are found, killing even Manbloods. An uprising is bound to happen if this continues. And I dare not think who will be put to blame by the villagers, the Fey or the Church. Fear is a powerful weapon. More Fey will be wandering these lands in search for safety and I have asked Red Spear to command her crew to help aid the Fey to find their way here.”

“We are outnumbered, Gawain.” he stated what he feared. “The more we send away from the castle, the weaker we are against an attack should the Abbot send his Trinity Guard here.”

“That is why I have summoned you here.” Gawain locked eyes on him, tone turning even more serious, “The Fey need your help, Ash Man.” He saw Lancelot look up at him. “I once told you how I believed you to be our greatest warrior and you have proven that I was right. I need you to teach our people how you fight.”

He was quiet for a few seconds, frowning. “They will never agree to it.”

Gawain shook his head a little. “There is no choice, Lancelot. Our people are dying. They are being slaughtered because they cannot defend themselves. The Fey must stand together or we seize to exist. You said it yourself, we are outnumbered and we need more capable people to save our people. And there is no one here in this castle more suited to train them than you are. Is that not what you did when you were with the paladins?”

He tilted his head, arching a brow. “The paladins were not as eager to murder me.”

Gawain stepped closer, stopping at his side. “Lancelot. I know you are concerned, I can see that as the days pass you grow more restless. All here have seen the good in you, have faith that others will as well. You cannot keep running for the rest of your life, it is not in your nature.”

Lancelot let the knight’s words sink in. “Running is what kept me alive.”

Gawain shook his head, lowering his voice, “No, my friend. It is what is killing you.”

He pressed his eyes shut. “I will do as you ask of me. I will train the Fey. But I ask for something in return.”

“Which is?” Gawain asked with a dose of caution.

He faced him and made the demand. “If you suspect retaliation to come to me, swear to me that you will not let my wife be harmed. They may see her as a traitor merely for being wed to me.”

“Lancelot-” Gawain let out a sigh.

It was not up for discussion. “I need to hear you say it, Gawain. I cannot remain here if she is at risk of being harmed because of the mistakes I have made. As much as I desire for this castle to be our home, she and Percival are worth far more to me than what these stones could ever be.”

Gawain shook his head, feeling the burning concern in the Ash Man. “Do you truly believe I would let her be harmed? Lancelot, you know I will protect her if it is necessary.”

He made a second request, “Forbid entrance to the west wing of the castle where our, and Percival’s, room is.”

Gawain took a moment to decide. “Will that offer some peace of mind to you?”

A nod. “It would.”

For the Knight it was a small price to pay to calm his friend. “Then consider it done. The west wing will only be accessible to those we trust.”

“Thank you.” He gave a grateful nod. “Although I am starting to wonder if you wish to see me killed.”

A chuckle escaped Gawain, he patted the Ash Man on the shoulder. “Nonsense. We need you alive, brother.”

He gave him a side-eye. “Then I should go and have breakfast before my stomach gets worse than it already is now.”

Gawain called out to him before he could get too far. “There is one more matter I wish to speak to you about.”

Lancelot looked back at him, arching his brow in inquiry. And the conversation that followed was not one he’d ever thought to be a part off.

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You were working on one of the tasks given to you. Readying the rooms of the castle and making certain all beds had some linen to be used considering the days were getting colder. Some of Red Spear’s crew had been the ones responsible for washing the linen and it had taken a while to get it all dry again. Five days of work had passed. Five full days of running around this large fort to get matters done before the Fey from Gramaire would arrive, they could be here any day now.

Lancelot came to help you with readying the rooms, seeing it as the perfect excuse to not have to continue carrying in the buckets of steel, and other metals for forging weapons, that Arthur had returned from the market with. Carrying around stone and steel had been a daily business, it wouldn’t have been so tiring and annoying if there had not been so many stairs to climb with it. It wasn’t hard to tell that the Ash Man’s mood was sour, nights of little sleep were catching up on him. You knew it had to be because of the Fey soon arriving and that he worried how they would respond to him. You would go to bed at night alone and hear him settle in beside you only a few hours before dawn. Constant work and no enjoyment was tiring for anyone.

This day was no different, small things were starting to get on his nerves. You were understanding, knowing what the cause was. It wasn’t fun for you either to barely have any time alone with him when you were both not tired. He was trying to be too hasty today, a bad mixture when nerves were included. The simple task of making a bed was going awry fast.

He had tugged at the sheet a bit too hard and it ended up laying askew on the bed. It had not been the reason for his sour mood, it was just the door that opened to pour it out. “This damned…”

You turned, hearing him grumble under his breath whilst he tried to fix the sheets. You understood the mood he was in, it matched your own. Small things were starting to irritate, but you held on to the hope that soon everything would get better.

You offered him some rest, “Maybe you should just sit for a moment. I can make this bed alone if-”

He shook his head, too stubborn to take the offer. “I can handle it.”

Ah, there it was. That grumpy tone, and that bad habit he had to forget when to take some time for himself. “I never said you couldn’t. But this linen won’t run off.”

He ignored your attempts. “I want them to be able to rest without having to untangle sheets. They already have enough reasons to wish me dead.”

Ah yes, tangled sheets would mean the difference between life and death.

You feared simmering guilt was still forcing him to work himself to death to earn forgiveness. “You’ve been working hard. It is not a crime to take some rest. Even Gawain took some rest.”

He still ignored the advice and went to move the bed a little more away from the window.

With a sigh you put yourself into his path the second he was about to move on to another task and put your hands unto his shoulders. “Stop it, Lancelot.”

He came to a halt, the protest left his eyes when seeing the concern in yours. “I am the warden of this fort.” He spoke quietly, “I need it to feel like a home to them, to replace the ones my past stole. I need them to see that I am prepared to aid them.”

You rubbed his arms. “You cannot aid them if your mind or body collapses under the pressure that you put on your shoulders.”

His downcast mood was clear to see now. “I can handle the burden.”

That stubborn… “I am your wife, half that burden is mine to carry.”

He stepped out of your hold but did not rush to go and complete another task. You sat down on the bed before he could think about perfecting the way the sheets were on it. This was him trying to distract himself, executing control over something he could control, because once the Fey of Gramaire arrived it would be out of his control. He stood and watched you for a moment, an almost apologetic look in his eyes. He was pushing himself too far. When was the last time he had even allowed himself a proper meal without having to rush?

“Close the door.” you told him casually.

He frowned. “Why?”

You shrugged your shoulders and began to unlace your bodice. One glance up at his eyes through your lashes and you could see how they had changed so quickly. He was rooted to the floor, staring.

You did love to see how timid his gaze was now, like he did not let himself dare to believe what was happening. “I think it is time I offered you some distraction from your duties. I won’t let you work yourself into an early grave.”

He swallowed hard. “Distraction?”

Oh, that innocent mind that still lingered in him. You beckoned him closer, holding out your hand for him to take. He took a few steps back, alarming you until he closed the door and approached.

He let you take hold of his hand and lightly pull him closer. “There is still work to be done.”

But his resolution on doing the work was crumbling fast. And he knew that by nightfall he could be too exhausted again to engage in an amorous encounter that he had began to yearn for.

You placed his palm just where the bodice folded open already, onto the curve of your breast. “And if I were to say that I need you?”

For someone so focused he could be so easily distracted. It seemed that the action had scrambled his thoughts for a moment.

His voice sounded close to scolding, “You play a dangerous game.”

Your eyes batted up at him, voice sweet as honey, “As long as I get to play with you, I don’t mind.”

Days filled of work, nights filled of sleep. And each passing day he had shown less and less restraint from letting his eyes consume what he so craved. Accidental touches that were not so accidental in truth, stolen glances… sleep was not the only thing he felt deprived of and seeing that desire darken his eyes was titillating.

You unlaced the bodice further, feeling the pads of his fingers trail further down. “And I may be wrong, but I think you need me too.”

It was the midst of the day. Gawain would be expecting him soon and Arthur had wanted to see him in the weapon’s room. There were so many waiting for his attendance and counting on him. But all of that faded to the back of his mind under the longing gaze of his lover. He never thought lust could compel his thoughts like this and that it could grow stronger if not tended to. If he were bolder he would change his touch to a hold, cupping your bosom into his hand and-

“Lancelot?” You were a bit worried at the silence coming from him.

He tilted his head back a little, looking at the ceiling and drawing in an audible breath. One might suspect he was praying to the gods to free him of this temptation. His gaze fell upon you again, he blinked slowly, throat dry. He knew his eyes gave away his thoughts when they locked on yours.

“Do you wish for me to provide you with an image to have in your mind for when I am not there to help you sate your needs?” You gave him your most sultry look. “For when I cannot lend a hand…”

The ambiguity in your words was on purpose and he undoubtedly picked up on it. There was a noise in his throat, a deep sound.

He rolled his jaw in an attempt to relax it. “What sort of image?”

You felt your spine tremble at the warm deeper timbre his voice had reached. “I think you know, I can see it in your eyes that you do.”

His index finger grazed your chin, thumb brushing the corner of your lips. “What do you see in my eyes?”

You unlaced the last bit of the bodice and took it off without breaking eye-contact, then put it down at your side. “Right now?”

A nod.

You gave his sword belt a tug to get him closer, grabbing hold of his hips. “Lust.”

When you lightly touched his groin, his hand flew to grab hold of your hand. A soft nervous sounding chuckle tumbled out of him. “Do you wish for me to be unable to walk these halls without others noticing the state you would put me in?”

“You have nothing to hide.” It was a blatant compliment towards his body.

“Oh?” A smirk grew on his face.

Your eyes pleaded with him. “Sit down for a moment?”

“What for?”

“Please?”

He knew. He knew that when he sat down this building tension would unravel and he silently wished for it. As expected, the moment he sat down, you placed your hand on his thigh and gave it a very lascivious squeeze.

He caught your head into his palms and crashed his lips to yours. Kissing you hard, silencing every single thought in your head until there was only him. He laid claim to your lips, submitting them to the passion that was set aflame inside of him. You kissed him back, leaning your body into his to close any open space between you. He caressed your thigh, until you moved and straddled him, seating yourself into his lap. He must have anticipated it because he had sat back on the bed more to allow for it. He let you take off his weapons belt to get it out of the way and he watched as you took off your own.

The intensity grew stronger because of it. He made no effort to hide how he yearned for a moment of intimacy, he gripped a hold on your behind and kept you perfectly close. His tongue touched your parted lips and you let yours meet it, a content groan rumbled through him. His confidence had grown, or perhaps his need made him braver. Your body was spoiled with his attention, his touch graced over your every curve. To be the reason why he was losing his composure did wonders for your own confidence.

You played with the locks of hair at the nape of his neck. “See? A little time for yourself helps, doesn’t it?”

He hummed in agreement, then moved his hips a little but it made him utter an apology for it. “Forgive me…”

“Shh…” You kissed that apology away.

“You’re so good to me…” His breath shook hard as he kissed your throat and snaked his hands beneath your shirt, no longer holding back on nourishing the desire in him.

When you felt the breeze of air touch your waist, you realized he was hiking up your shirt a little and you tried to fish for one of his hands. “Lancelot?”

He halted. “No?”

“Yes?” you blurted out.

He bit his bottom lip, a small wheezed chuckle escaping him, “Yes?”

He proceeded to slide his hands up along your sides until his thumbs touched the sides of your bosom. With caution his fingertips explored your bare skin, wondering where you’d draw the line.

At the appearance of that lovely boyish smile, you locked your lips to his to taste the happiness they radiated. He loved it when you slid your fingers into his hair, when you kissed him a little harder and when you breathed hotly into his mouth. The sounds he emitted went straight to your core. He was hardening and did not bother to try and hide it or to make you move off of him.

He planted a hand on your thigh, his thumb moving suspiciously over the inner side of it. “This reminds me of our night in Gramaire.”

“Does it?” you smiled cheekily.

He nodded, smiling back much the same way. “Yes.”

You lowered yourself in his lap, dropping your gaze before lifting it to his face again. “It does feel very similar.”

His brow arched at the blatant teasing. Then he had to swallow the sound threatening to flee his throat when you playfully ground over him just once. It earned you a scolding look but he still couldn’t hid the curve of his lips.

He grabbed your hips. “You coy little minx.”

Your mouth trailed along his jaw, nipped at his earlobe and grazed over the shell of his ear. “I loved to see you come undone underneath me. You were so sensitive to my touch, so quick to respond to my affections.”

His breathing quickened under the mercy of your lips that lasciviously moved over his skin, his eyes fell shut in submission. Your name fell from him like a prayer, a soft whisper of longing.

You murmured against his neck, “Will this help when you lay a hand on yourself?”

He spoke against your temple, his voice a husk, lifting your shirt until it was just beneath your bosom, “It will.”

The cold breeze to your skin only made you lean into him more to steal some of that warmth from his body for your own. His warm hands spread open on your back, pressing you firmer against him.

He could barely breathe in enough air, “You were right, I do need you.”

His lips captured yours again, enthralling them. Consuming heat spread into your veins, awakened by his growing urgency. The layers of clothing atop his skin were a nuisance to your senses now. Inhaling once near his neck to pick up that tempting Fey scent made you start to tug at the belts that held his jerkin shut.

He pried your fingers loose, a smug smirk on his face as he tsk-ed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

The pout appeared instantly on your face. “You’re not playing fair.”

“I know.” He brushed his hand over your hips, eyes burning with mischief. “I found that not playing fair has it’s benefits.” His gaze glided over your form, making clear what he meant by ‘benefits’. “I get to have you in my lap like this, while I remain decent in appearance.”

“Yes… you are so ‘decent’.” You dropped the risky tease, “Monk.”

Within the second he moved and had you planted under him with your back on the mattress, your wrist pinned above your head.

“Would a monk do this?” he asked, cupping your breast, hearing the gasp slip from your lips. “Not one who used to keep to the vow as I have, the vow I chose to break because you are a temptation I cannot resist.”

You grinned up at him. “Try praying-”

He did not let you say another word after that, crashing his lips to yours to silence that wit that was driving him insane.

The creaking of the door sounded into the room. Lancelot halted, his response too slow from being distracted. Someone cleared their throat and the two of you scrambled apart, you quickly held your bodice against you. Gawain stood there, arms crossed and looking right at Lancelot, who sat next to you on the edge of the bed and leaning a little forward to try and hide his body’s reaction to what had been happening. There was no doubt in your mind that Gawain had seen him touch you indecently.

The Knight did not hold back. “Those sheets have just been washed. Ruin your own, not those meant for others.” He looked at Lancelot. “I see what you meant when you said you would lend her a hand with this task.”

It was mortifying. You did not dare look at either of them whilst quickly putting on and closing up the bodice again.

“We were just…” Lancelot tried to find a believable lie but faltered.

Gawain stopped him right there. “I truly do not need you to explain. Just make yourself look decent and come with me. Kaze and Gareth have arrived with the group.”

Lancelot got pale fast as he looked to Gawain in silent shock. You touched his arm upon noticing it and felt how tense he was.

Gawain was calmer upon seeing it too. “You need to trust me now, brother.”

Both of you were quiet when standing up and putting your weapon belts back on. Lancelot adjust his shirt, pulling at the hem to get it to sit lower. You purposely slowed down on making yourself look decent so his body had some more time to calm down, and he knew. He must have felt as if the knight was sending him to face the gallows. By the time you began to follow Gawain out of the room, Lancelot had composed himself and returned to the stoic demeanor he had in the face of battle.

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The dining hall was filled with people, you could hear them talk right outside the door. Gareth stood outside, waiting for Gawain to arrive and quickly moved over to him once he saw the three of you. “Everyone is inside. Are you sure you want to show him to them?”

Gareth gave Lancelot a side-eye, he was visibly nervous for how it would go down once the former Weeping Monk stepped into that room filled with Fey.

Gawain shared a look with Lancelot, who nodded. “I will speak to them about his presence first, explain what and who he truly is.” He took a deep breath. “The longer we delay this, the harder it will become. We handle this now.”

Gareth stepped aside and let his brother enter the room, shutting the door behind him before putting his attention on you. “Still alive I see.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes at the blatant quiet insinuation that he’d have done something to harm you. He took a few steps away to keep himself calm and collected before he’d have to face the crowd.

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Still a pompous twat I see.”

Gareth ignored the surprised smile on the Ash Man’s face. “Oof. Can I not share my concern over your well-being?”

Oh, how he tried to make you believe he had no ulterior motive. “You can. But without the hostile attitude towards my husband.”

He denied it, “I have no quarrel with him.”

“Liar.”

“Why would I?”

You scoffed. “The first time we met, you tried to get me into bed and you clearly have not given up on that hope. I am not going to sleep with you. I will never sleep with you.”

Lancelot’s eyes were sharp and set on the Fey knight, watching on with interest in what the response would be to that. Gareth cleared his throat and straightened his back a little.

Gareth looked even embarrassed to be put on the spot in such a way. “I would never attempt to seduce a married woman.”

“Liar.” It was near comical. “Again.”

His defensive demeanor faltered, what came out was genuineness, “I mean no insult or harm. You must know that…?”

“I know. I have not forgotten how you offered to help me escape the paladins.” You stepped closer to him, taking one of his hands in your own. “I don’t think you’re a bad or horrible person, Gareth. But you are seeking to be a knight in matters that do not need one. Focus that determination on causes that do need a knight.”

Gareth’s expression changed, his eyes got calmer and a small smile appeared. “I enjoy your spirit, but I must say that your kindness is what makes you extraordinary.” Then he looked at Lancelot. “A woman like this would not have chosen a cruel man, I must believe you are worthy to be the keeper of her heart.”

Gareth withdrew his hand, your words were sinking into his being. Lancelot stepped to your side, his side touching your arm. There was an understanding forming between all, you could feel it. Gareth stepped away, creating a distance to allow for you to speak to Lancelot more privately.

The anxiousness radiated from the Ash Man, threatening to consume his courage. Rubbing along his arm did not seem to help break through the anxiety in him. He did lock his eyes on yours to seek guidance, to find the will to remain calm as he was to face one of the most difficult tasks in his life.

“They hate me…” the whisper fell from him.

“No, Lancelot.” You cupped his face into your hands gently. “They hate the ‘Weeping Monk’, not the man who was imprisoned underneath. You are not the monster they were taught to fear.”

He rested his forehead to yours, swallowing hard. “You should stay here, it will not be safe inside there.”

There was no chance. “You already know that I will not let you walk in there alone.”

The door opened, Gawain stood waiting for Lancelot to enter and patted him on the shoulder encouragingly once he walked past him inside.

Pym stood near Kaze and Red Spear, Percival was beside her looking worried at Lancelot. Merlin stood in a far corner of the room, watching it all with curious interest. Arthur and Gareth came to stand beside you, perhaps sensing the tension rise into the room. The people that had arrived, most of them Fey and others Manblood that had allied themselves with them, began to whisper amongst each other upon seeing Lancelot at Gawain’s side. Whatever Gawain had said to them, it had to be what kept them calm now.

The knight spoke to them again, hoping for their understanding on the odd situation. “We have believed for years that this man is nothing more than a monster haunting our lives. But in truth the Church stole one of our little ones. They murdered his family to try and erase his past and raised him into believing that the Fey, including himself, were evil. We saw the Weeping Monk, but we did not know he was the son of Ban, the last descendant of the Ash Folk King. Fey Fire burns in his veins and it has now returned this castle to our people, breaking it’s curse.” Gawain placed a hand to Lancelot’s shoulder again. “All Fey are brothers, even the lost ones. He has returned to us and vowed to help us fight against the ones who seek our end. My friends, I ask you to be merciful. We have lost too many of our people already and we need all the aid we can get.”

The knight stepped aside, letting Lancelot take the word.

Lancelot tried to convince them of his intentions. “I come to you not as an enemy, but as an ally. What I have done to our people is unforgivable and I cannot ask your forgiveness for the suffering I have played my part in. Instead I will earn your forgiveness. I will turn my blade to the ones who seek to harm the Fey, I will fight for you.”

An elderly woman of the Sky Folk clan spoke up, “Why should we trust you?!”

A younger woman stepped towards him, wasting no time to slap him across the face. “I saw you put your sword into my uncle! Why should I not do the same to you?!”

You had wanted to intervene, but Arthur made you halt. Lancelot did not take a single step back from the wrath that came down upon him. He slowly unsheathed the short sword and offered it to her.

“I cannot undo what I have done when I was blinded by lies. My apology will never be enough to ease your pain.” He put the sword into her hands. “If it is vengeance you seek, take this blade.”

Arthur tried to hold your arm, you broke free immediately and quickly rushed forward past the ones trying to keep you away, until Kaze and Gareth grabbed hold on your arms.

“Lancelot! Don’t!”

He held up a hand, signaling for you to not get closer. The woman faltered, shocked to be holding the weapon in her hands with the permission to kill him.

He knelt down before her, lowering himself instead of towering over her. “There will not be a day when I do not regret what I have done. I am sorry, now and always, for the pain I have caused you.”

The woman looked behind her at her Fey brethren, feeling the weight of the sword and the choice on her being. You tried to break free from the ones restraining you, feeling the fire in your blood threaten to rise to the surface.

Percival broke through the crowd, his young legs running towards the kneeling Ash Man and not stopping until his arms where thrown around Lancelot’s neck. The boy used his own body to shield him from the danger. “No! Don’t hurt him!”

He began to try and calm Percival, looking towards the Green Knight to come collect the boy. Percival tightened his grip on him, refusing to let go even when Gawain tried to make him.

The spillage of tears from the child made the woman drop the sword. “I won’t do this. It’s not right.” She turned to the Fey behind her. “No monster would choose his own demise. His remorse is true.” Her words cut through him worse than any blade ever could, “You don’t get to die. You don’t get to meet the gods. You will spend the rest of your days living with the memory of all the death you have caused.”

She walked back to the group, but turned to him one last time. “Guilt will be your ruin unless you redeem yourself. Your soul will die a hundred deaths before your body will.”

Percival glared at the woman, confused by what must have sounded as a threat. To Lancelot, it was clear what she was trying to tell him.

The Fey would watch as guilt tore apart his soul day by day, moment by moment, until nothing was left of it. He would not know a moment of true peace until he had earned redemption. To feel what he already felt, for the rest of his days, was a terrible thought.

His eyes fell to the floor, the confidence had left them. The last time you saw him like this had been in the vision of his past, when he was on his knees and deprived of hope.

Kaze let go of you, but Gareth and Arthur signaled for you to stay calm and where you were. It was under the worried gaze of Percival that Lancelot found the strength to stand up from the floor again, the boy picked up the short sword and gave it back to him. He touched the back of the boy’s head in a comforting manner. The weight of the low opinions they had of him fell upon Lancelot’s shoulders, he was grateful to see Gawain discreetly letting him know that it was alright to leave now. And he did. Without another word, and with his eyes fixed on the tiled floor, he left the dining hall.

Taglist:

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#cursed #lancelot x reader #weeping monk x reader #cursed netflix #the weeping monk #weeping monk #weeping monk x you #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #lancelot

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ascalonianpicnic · 10 months ago

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Therapist seeking current and former Pact members in need of treatment. All ages, races, and genders welcome. If you've served in the Pact previously or are currently serving and feel you are in need of support, stress relief, or help coping with the things you have experienced, please do not hesitate to reach out below or stop by the office in Fort Trinity to make an appointment.

Note: I do not date my patients. I would have my license to practice revoked if I did, and I rather like my license.

(Brandellyn's a woman and uses she/her. Also please feel free to actually leave your pact characters in the reblogs of this post, I think it would be cute!)

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #sylvari #my characters #brandellyn

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ambermaitrejean · 1 year ago

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Fort Worth & Western Railroad bridge over the Trinity River. Circa 1902. Trinity Park, Fort Worth, TX. Photo by Amber Maitrejean

#photographers on tumblr #bridge #railroad bridge #trinity river #trinity park #fort worth #panther city #TX

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trinitybloodbr · 28 days ago

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Trinity Blood R.O.M. Volume I A Estrela do Lamento ----------------- ⚠️ ESSA OBRA EM HIPÓTESE ALGUMA É DE MINHA AUTORIA. TRADUÇÃO REALIZADA DE FÃ PARA FÃS. NÃO REPUBLIQUE OU POSTE EM OUTRAS PLATAFORMAS SEM AUTORIZAÇÃO. SE CASO POSSÍVEL, DÊ SUPORTE AOS AUTORES E ARTISTAS COMPRANDO AS OBRAS ORIGINAIS. ⚠️ -----------------

Prólogo: A Noite do Caçador

“... Aquele que derramar o sangue de vossas vidas, certamente eu o destruirei." (Gênesis, capítulo 9, versículo 5, Versão Japonesa)

No instante em que abriu a pesada porta, ela foi tomada por um intenso cheiro de sangue.

Apesar do vento fétido que soprava do fundo da capela e fazia Sasha franzir o rosto, ela não esqueceu de ajustar novamente o aperto no castiçal de prata que segurava. Suas mãos encharcadas de suor produziam uma sensação desconfortável.

As chamas trêmulas e frágeis do castiçal destacavam a escuridão maligna que pairava em todos os cantos. As sombras, densas como miasmas venenosos, pareciam observá-la de cima como seres dotados de vontade própria, encarando a corajosa garota.

Este era o lugar onde Sasha frequentava quase todas as semanas, desde sua cerimônia de batismo até completar quinze anos. No entanto, nesta noite, a capela estava imersa em uma escuridão, de uma maneira que a jovem nunca tinha visto antes.

— Virgem Santa, por favor, proteja-nos. Por favor, proteja-nos, Virgem Santa...

Sasha, depois de seu irmão, era a pessoa mais corajosa da vila.

Assim que 'eles' apareceram, os covardes moradores da vila, desistiram de tudo e se trancaram em suas casas. O pai dela, que era o chefe da vila, também se enclausurou em sua mansão, espalhando alho e espinheiro-alvar, e vivendo como se prendesse a respiração por medo deles. Não houve ninguém que oferecesse ajuda ao seu irmão, que tentava resgatar a noiva que fora sequestrada.

Três dias atrás, Sasha também tentou acompanhar o irmão mais velho quando ele planejava entrar na igreja ocupada por 'eles'. No entanto, ele rejeitou calmamente essa proposta, dizendo para ela proteger os pais durante sua ausência e partiu sozinho — e então, nunca mais voltou.

— Senhor, por favor, proteja-me. Virgem Santa, por favor, proteja-me...

Sasha avançava passo a passo, examinando com cautela a escuridão da capela. Uma mão fria, saindo de dentro de suas imaginações mais tenebrosas, tocou-lhe o ombro. Seus olhos, fixos, por ela ter se esquecido de fazê-los piscar, agora ardiam dolorosamente.

Sasha ouviu o rangido das tábuas do chão bem ao seu lado no instante em que lambeu os lábios ressecados.　

— Quem... quem é...!?

Uma sombra de uma mulher gigante emergiu suavemente sob a luz do castiçal que Sasha apontava ameaçadoramente. Por pouco, ela não ficou paralisada de medo. Instintivamente, recuou três passos, e só então percebeu que a mulher carregava uma criança pequena nos braços e exibia um sorriso amável em seu rosto, que era esculpido em mármore branco.

Da boca de Sasha escapou um suspiro de alívio.

— Q-que susto... Por favor, não me assuste, Virgem Santa.

O coração de Sasha ainda batia forte, mas por pouco, ela conseguiu controlar o tremor nos joelhos, enxugando o suor frio da testa. Depois de fazer uma brincadeira com a estátua da Santa Mãe, que também era a divindade protetora da vila, ela virou-se para trás de repente — e, desta vez, o coração de Sasha quase parou.

No banco, duas sombras estavam sentadas.

— Oh! Parece que alguém chegou, Miris.

— Maris, é um adorável passarinho que se perdeu.

Eram duas mulheres que trocaram olhares e sorriram.

As mulheres pareciam exatamente a mesma pessoa. Tanto a beleza branca, como alabastro, quanto os longos cabelos loiros que chegavam até a cintura eram exatamente iguais. Apesar de ser uma época em que a neve estava prestes a começar a cair, ambas vestiam finos vestidos de seda idênticos. Se houvesse alguma diferença, seria apenas a cor do batom em seus lábios: uma usava um tom rosa claro, enquanto a outra tinha um tom azul marinho mais escuro.

Olhos cor de âmbar cintilaram, e os lábios de um delicado rosa claro sussurraram:

— Miris, isso é um problema. Finalmente temos uma visitante especial. Apesar disso, nem mesmo o chá está preparado. Onde será que coloquei o samovar?

A mulher olhou ao redor de maneira teatral enquanto continuava a rir, e Sasha agitou o castiçal contra ela.

— O-o que fizeram com meu irmão, seus monstros?!

Com o balançar da chama da vela, três sombras dançavam como criaturas estranhas. Internamente, mesmo assustada por isso, a garota gritou com toda a força que possuía.

— Eu sou Sasha, filha de Kasparek, cavaleiro do vilarejo de Konavli! Vim para vingar meu irmão mais velho! Agora, lutem de forma justa comigo!

— Irmão mais velho? Será que esse pequeno passarinho está falando daquele valente galeto de antes, Maris?

Os lábios batom rosa claro, movendo-se de forma sedutora, sussurraram.

— Ora, você lembra? Aquele galeto que fez a gentileza de ler a Bíblia para nós outro dia.

— S-se for a Bíblia, também tenho uma aqui! E um crucifixo também!

Mostrando as escrituras sagradas na mão esquerda e o rosário pendurado no pescoço, Sasha gritou. Nesse meio-tempo, seus joelhos tremiam de intenso medo — estava amedrontada. Parecia que seu coração iria congelar de tanto medo.

Enquanto trocavam conversas como se estivessem cantando e sorrindo graciosamente, a figura daquelas mulheres era tão bela quanto os espíritos da escuridão. No entanto, Sasha de forma alguma se deixava enganar por aquela aparência. Essas belas mulheres eram ‘eles.’ Os inimigos mortais da humanidade que apareceram repentinamente neste mundo após a Grande Calamidade, o Armagedom. Conhecidos como 'aqueles que rastejam nas sombras', 'os súditos da noite', 'os habitantes das trevas', entre inúmeras outras definições, eram terríveis monstros. Entre todos os nomes, o mais conhecido era...

— Vampiros! Vamos! Preparem-se e entreguem suas cabeças!

— ‘Seu irmão estava extremamente saboroso, pequeno passarinho’.　

As doces vozes que soaram combinadas foram sopradas diretamente nos lóbulos de ambos os ouvidos de Sasha.

Duas mãos agarraram seus ombros, uma de cada lado, fazendo o rosto de Sasha ficar completamente branco, como se uma geada tivesse caído sobre ele. As sombras, que com certeza estavam sentadas no banco, haviam desaparecido de sua frente. Como se tivessem se teletransportado, os dois monstros agora estavam atrás da corajosa garota.

— Leia a Bíblia com todas as forças...

— Nos aponte o crucifixo...

— Depois, chore e implore pela vida...

— E no fim, torne-se a nossa refeição.

Sasha nem sequer conseguia responder as vozes que sussurravam alternadamente uma após a outra. Como se estivesse congelada, a jovem ficou parada no lugar, enquanto dedos frios como gelo se enrolaram na mão dela, fazendo o castiçal de prata cair no chão.

— Este pequeno passarinho foi mais esperto que o irmão, não foi, Miris? Está bem-preparada.

— Isso mesmo, Maris. Essa detestável prata... É o que nós, os Methuselahs, odiamos mais depois da radiação ultravioleta.

A mulher com batom azul-marinho, com uma expressão de repúdio por ter que somente olhar para aquilo, chutou o castiçal caído para o canto da capela. A vela que havia tombado no chão apagou-se, e a escuridão voltou aos arredores.

— Não precisa ter medo, pequeno passarinho. Você também logo irá para junto de seu amado irmão.

Entre lábios de um rosa pálido, um brilho longo demais para simples caninos e uma voz doce e pegajosa escaparam.

— Então, pequeno passarinho, qual será o seu sabor?

Na tênue luz da lua que entrava pela janela, os lábios azul-marinho encostaram-se gentilmente no pescoço da garota. As presas brilhantes lentamente se cravaram na pele macia e fresca...

Foi naquele momento que um brilho, como o gelo, rasgou a escuridão.

— !

A vampira de batom azul marinho escuro recuou violentamente, soltando um grito que parecia não ser deste mundo. Cravado profundamente em sua mão estava um crucifixo completamente comum. Lançado com uma força desconhecida, o crucifixo, que nem parecia particularmente afiado, perfurou o dorso da mão e atravessou até a palma.

— Mi-Miris!

Enquanto segurava nos braços a irmã que gritava de dor, a vampira de batom rosa-claro, Maris, olhou determinada para trás. Seus olhos, que não piscavam, se estreitaram com uma malícia insondável.

— Quem está aí? Parece que ainda existe nesta vila um tolo para atrapalhar nossa refeição, não é?

Através do teto de vidro, podia-se ver o céu noturno azul. Daquele céu ao sul, as duas luas olhavam para a terra: a 'primeira lua', prateada, desenhava um círculo perfeito; e a 'segunda lua', vermelha como sangue, exibia uma forma disforme e irregular. Inesperadamente, sob sua luz sinistra, uma sombra alta, permanecia imóvel.

— ... Infelizmente, eu não sou um morador da vila.

A voz da sombra soou tranquila.

— Vampiras Maris Zadrovshka e Miris Zadrovshka, em nome do Pai, do Filho e do Espírito Santo, vocês serão presas sob acusação de vinte e dois assassinatos e roubo de sangue no vilarejo de Konavli.

— Maldito. Esse hábito religioso é...!

Miris mostrou suas presas para a sombra iluminada pela luz da lua. A sombra ── um homem alto que vestia um hábito religioso preto com uma capa da mesma cor. E, brilhando em seu peito, estava um rosário dourado.

— Vaticano!

— Ah, perdoe-me não ter me apresentado. Eu fui enviado pela Secretária de Estado para Assuntos Sagrados do Vaticano...

Sua apresentação pessoal, tão educada a ponto de parecer deslocada para aquela situação, foi interrompida por um som molhado de algo perfurando carne.

O que estava profundamente cravado nas costas do homem era o crucifixo que antes havia perfurado a mão da vampira. Sem que ele percebesse, Miris, que estava atrás dele, destilou palavras carregadas de uma raiva venenosa.

— Um mero terran, ousou ferir meu corpo... Morra e pague por isso, seu cão!

As mãos graciosas, que ostentavam uma força superior à de um urso pardo, moveram-se elegantemente, cravando o crucifixo até a base. No mesmo instante em que um som assustador ecoou, com os músculos do coração explodindo, os joelhos do homem alto desabaram e dobraram-se bruscamente. No brilho azul da luz da lua, gotas de sangue espirraram no rosto branco e belo de Miris, que sorriu com satisfação.

— Quanta insignificância... Tanto o sacerdote daqui quanto este sujeito aqui, os cães domesticados do Vaticano estão ficando cada vez mais covardes, não acha, Maris?

— Não me importo com isso, mas por favor, não suje tanto o chão assim, Miris. Assuma a responsabilidade e dê um jeito em todo esse sangue você mesma.

De forma discreta, Maris empurrou para a irmã mais nova, que estava embriagada com vingança e o aroma de sangue, a tarefa de limpar a bagunça. Em seguida, baixou os olhos para a garota que segurava nos braços. A corajosa ‘passarinho’ havia revirado os olhos e desmaiado diante da tragédia que se desenrolava à sua frente.

— Então, eu vou começar com este passarinho aqui.

Maris sorriu enquanto cuidadosamente levantava os cabelos que haviam caído sobre seu rosto branco. Para uma terran, até que ela era razoavelmente bonita. Certamente, o sangue também deveria ser saboroso.

Da entrada, também se ouviu o som de presas cravando a carne, seguido pelo som doce da irmã mais nova engolindo a água da vida. O sangue da presa era aparentemente tão delicioso que até suspiros quentes escapavam.

— Miris, deixe metade para mim, por favor.

Maris propôs à irmã mais nova, enquanto afastava o cabelo do pescoço da jovem.

— Também deixarei metade do sangue deste passarinho para você. Vamos fazer uma troca justa, tudo bem?

—... Não, receio que isso não será possível.

A voz calma que foi ouvida não era da sua irmã mais nova, Miris.

— Eu sou um pouco exigente com minha dieta... não posso aceitar o sangue dessa garota.

— !?

Quando instintivamente se virou, o que entrou no campo de visão de Maris foi a figura de sua irmã, com os olhos arregalados de terror como se fosse uma terran. Os lábios azul-escuros, abertos em forma de grito, deixavam escapar uma respiração frágil, e o rosto, já pálido, estava branco como papel. Contudo, o que espantou a vampira não foi a figura da irmã. Era a sombra alta que se sobrepunha à sua garganta.

— Q-que absurdo... o que é esse cara!?

Como se estivesse beijando, os lábios daquele sujeito, estavam sobre o pescoço de Miris, deixando escapar um fio de um líquido avermelhado. Era uma cena extremamente familiar para Maris. Porém, o que esse sujeito estava sugando era...

— Inacreditável! E-esse sujeito... o sangue... o nosso sangue!

— Então... você nunca pensou em algo assim?

Ele sorriu tristemente, colocando o corpo de Miris no chão, que havia perdido a força devido à perda de sangue e ao medo. Contudo, o que se revelou entre seus lábios, em forma de luas crescentes foram, inconfundivelmente, presas afiadas.

— Os humanos comem gado e aves. Vocês sugam o sangue desses humanos. Nesse caso, vocês...

— Entendi. Já ouvi rumores sobre isso... Que o Vaticano, nossos inimigos, mantém um monstro absurdo. E esse monstro, justamente, suga o nosso sangue...　

Enquanto se aproximava da vampira, cujas presas tremiam de medo, ele se apresentou com um tom de voz levemente melancólico.

— Eu sou... um vampiro que suga o sangue de vampiros.

————

Créditos da tradução:

Lutie (◕‿◕✿) ,

#trinity blood #abel nightroad #krusnik #crusnik #novel #tradução #methuselah #ROM #reborn on the mars #vampiros #tradução novel #pt br #the star of sorrow #a estrela do lamento

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draw-you-coward · 2 months ago

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doomed to repeat

a lil write set very late pact, pre-silverwastes. uhhh tagging for disordered eating, and light praise k!nk ig lmao (nonsexual)

Winter brings with it many things. The cold. Unsatisfying trysts in Fort Trinity’s storerooms that everyone above can definitely hear. A lack of sunlight.

All things pertinent to Roza at the moment, in ascending order. He has been shifting his seats closer to the windows, but he can do little to catch the sun when it flees in the middle of the afternoon. Also, Trahearne had seem mildly hurt exactly once when Roza had moved the chair in his office away from him, so of course he can never do that ever again. And now misfortune is collecting its weary toll from him in the form of an assault on his wellbeing.

Roza is feeling mostly fine, save the fatigue and dizziness and bodily aches. He faces a conundrum: whether or not to tell Trahearne. On the one hand, it is not yet severe enough that he requires rest. On the other, Trahearne has explicitly expressed that Roza is to be honest about his health when questioned. The solution to this, of course, is to not be questioned, and thus not be noticed. This poses a further point of contention, since Roza’s high station in the Pact necessitates his presence in a variety of matters, half of which involve the marshal. He has decided to write everything down in order to work it out plainly, and is currently mulling over his journal as he lets his breakfast sit uneaten.

A messenger deposits herself in front of him. “Meeting with Marshal Trahearne in fifteen, Sir.”

“Is it urgent?” Roza asks.

She hesitates, perplexed. “I… didn’t ask, Sir.”

“Tell him I am indisposed.” Roza scribbles down: Avoided third meeting – suspicion low. “I will review with the transcriber later.”

The messenger stares at him as if he has just cost her her job, but eventually runs off. Roza adds a question mark—nothing has happened yet, but he will adjust as needed.

The words in front of him blur into each other, and he shuts his eyes his headache returns with a vengeance. He opens them when someone clears their throat in front of him.

It is the same messenger. Nervously, she says, “Er, Marshal Trahearne wants to know why you are indisposed. Sir.”

“I am still working on that very important project from last time.” Roza stirs his breakfast bowl aimlessly. When she doesn’t leave, he pauses. “Is that all?”

“He… wants to know why what you are working on is more important, Sir. He wants to know what it is, because you didn’t tell him last time.”

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Roza tears a page out of his journal and scribbles down a handful of jargon that have a vague relevance to Pact political matters. He ends it with, I am sure you are competent enough as Marshal to handle the Pact without me to hold your hand, because the headache is making him irritable. He folds the paper, hands it to the girl, and waves off her and her trepidatious stare.

Suspicion medium, he rectifies. Warded off for now. Will have to come up with outside project. Fitting rockets to battlements? Return to giant cauldron idea.

This time, he sees the poor girl coming from across the hall. She is nibbling on something in one hand, and clutching the torn journal page in the other. She reaches him and stops. Takes a deep breath.

Roza spreads his hands. “Begin.”

“Marshal Trahearne requests you come to his office immediately,” is all she says. She thrusts the paper towards him.

Roza takes it from her, flipping it over. On the other side, Trahearne has written,

Commander,

Your progress on integrating an ancient Krytan blood-letting ritual into a Nornic spells of warding for the spirit world to strengthen the Veil in Jormag’s territory would be impressive, were it actually possible and not simply many random words mixed together that make no sense arcanimically. Your presence is required here, now.

Below the note is his signature and seal. Roza hides a wince. Alright, ‘Medium’ might have been a bit of an understatement, but he is still working out the kinks in his plan. Underestimating Trahearne’s ability to perform basic logic might have been one of them.

He makes his way to the office slowly, taking in the sights and trying to absorb as much sunlight as he can along the way in a futile attempt to mask his condition. If he acts normally, he can dial the suspicion aroused all the way back to nil. It is maths, really—one variable affects all the others. Roza is a master at deception and manipulation. If he stands exactly five or more yards away, he should be able to conceal any sign of illness. If he raises his speaking voice by about five decibels, it should remain in its regular range. He straightens his back as he reaches the door and raps on it. Yes. He knows what he is doing. Nothing can go wrong with his plan.

Trahearne himself opens the door, and makes direct eye contact with him. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he says.

Damn it.

“I am sure I do not know what you mean, Marshal,” Roza says in his most aloof voice. He strides to the window, gazing out of it with a pensive and mysterious air.

“Why have you been staring out the window all week?” Trahearne asks. “Are you waiting for certain weather? A flash snowstorm? Hail? Another Elder Dragon? A messenger bird bearing a royal decree to excuse you from all meetings forthwith?”

He sounds a tad piqued. Roza clears his throat delicately, folding his hands behind his back. “Such injurious remarks do not become your station, Marshal.”

He can feel the ripple of Trahearne’s reaction to that in the Dream, and he winces. Oops. Perhaps he should attempt to speak in a more modest tone, to soothe his marshal’s humours—

“Do not become my station?! What exactly do you call this, then?” Trahearne snatches the paper from him and holds it up.

Roza is calculating a perfect response, which is a brave endeavor with his current mental afflictions, though he is a precocious sylvari who rises readily to any challenge—when the piece of paper violently waggles itself in front of him as if to make a point of its existence. Roza resets, changing his response—and Trahearne dangles the paper again.

“Stop that.” He snaps his head to the side, aborting the gesture halfway.

“Finally, you are acknowledging me.” Trahearne throws up his hands. “What in Pale Mother’s name is going on with you? You have been avoiding me all week. Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” Roza says instinctively, and then, “I haven’t… been avoiding you.”

“Then explain to me why you are suddenly too busy to meet with me.” Trahearne crosses his arms. Lowering his voice, he adds, “Both on and off duty.”

Thorns. This is going to turn into another immovable chair situation, isn’t it? Roza swallows and begins, “I have been inspecting our battlement artillery and I believe that replacing them with rock—”

“Roza,” Trahearne says flatly.

Roza’s eyes dart around, searching for another excuse. Trahearne steps closer to him, boxing him in against the window. He lowers his head, and Roza desperately tries not to notice how purposeful the movement is, or how it feels to be the focus of his attention. He fails.

“Tell me the truth,” Trahearne says. He shouldn’t say that, not like that, not while Roza can barely form a coherent thought. Or while he is ill.

His meticulous mind falls back on a singular equation. Give Trahearne what he wants, and get what Roza wants in return. “I am sick,” he reveals, his desire for the thrill of the end result overtaking him.

“You are sick.” Trahearne sighs, his breath fanning out over Roza’s face. “And so…?”

“Didn’t want you to notice,” Roza admits, and quickly rectifies, “Couldn’t lie to you about it if you caught me.”

Is that enough? That must be enough. Trahearne looks him up and down, most traces of his annoyance slowly draining away.

“Why couldn’t you… ah, it matters not. Thank you, Roza. You did well to tell me.”

It is not quite Well done, but it has the same soothing effect on Roza regardless, and he calms, feeling much like a cat that has been pet.

Trahearne is examining him with a frown. “Follow my finger,” he requests, and Roza sluggishly complies.

They run through more basic checks, and Roza tries his best, confident that his marshal will deem him fit for duty. This is simply a slightly worse version of his normal, after all. He cannot very well go on leave for the entire winter.

“The season is harsh on you—I should have foreseen this,” Trahearne mutters. “You have not been eating well either, if I were to guess. At least you are sleeping fine. Are you experiencing any weakness or fatigue? Loss of cognition?”

He should open Roza’s shirt to touch him again, like he did last time. He undoes the top button of his collar, and Trahearne’s gentle hand stills his wrist.

“What are you doing?” he asks softly.

What is he doing? Executing another brilliant plan. “Helping you,” Roza explains.

Trahearne looks confused for a moment, before he says, “You can help by answering my questions, my dear Roza. Tell me your symptoms.”

The endearment melts some of his headache. “I… am tired,” he decides. “Even more so than usual.”

“Yes?” Trahearne’s hand sweeps past his temple, and he leans into it with a heavy head. “You feel tired. Are you hungry?”

There is a small tray of biscuits on his desk, but they are not appetizing. Roza shakes his head.

“Can you tell me the difference between extracting a soul’s essence for corporeal reanimation as opposed to meta-physical? How do the two operations differ?”

Roza groans. The words make sense, in a distant corner of his mind that he cannot be arsed to access at the moment. “The fuck do you mean? Go act out your mentor fantasies elsewhere.”

“I will take that as a no.” Trahearne moves away from him—o dreary day—to his cupboard, taking out a bottle that he presses into Roza’s hand. “This is the medication I used when I roamed this land. Take a double dose minimum, and more if you need it. I will get you your own prescription. You do not need to spend a quarter of your life feeling like this.”

An unexpected bubble tightens Roza’s throat. “I… don’t?”

“No, dear one.” Trahearne’s touch returns to his weary bark once more. “In fact, I’d wager that you are deficient for most of the year. We will attend to that come spring. For now, I’m giving you the rest of the day off. Go get some rest.”

Roza wrinkles his nose. “I am not an invalid.”

“No, but it would put my mind at ease. Would you do it for me?”

Roza tugs at his sleeve. Yes, of course he would. He nods, and Trahearne rewards him with a smile. “Thank you. I will see you in the evening.”

The rush of endorphins is halted by a feeling of uncertainty. “Do I—” he says, and stops, worrying at his lip.

“Retire to our—to my chambers, yes, if you’re comfortable with it,” Trahearne answers. “I would like to keep an eye on you, if that’s alright.”

It is more than alright. Roza nods again, and reaches out for—for something. Trahearne squeezes his hand. It is not enough—he holds his breath and initiates a tight embrace. Trahearne is warm and has a comforting smell. Roza scurries out of the office when his lungs fail him, cheeks aflame.

~*~

He thinks about it, in the space between dozing and staying awake. Our chambers, Trahearne had almost said. Like our house. Our Pact. My dear Roza.

Roza presses his face into the mattress. It is ridiculous. He is not owned by anyone, and his marshal would never hold him hostage. But—My Marshal. My Trahearne. He wants it. More than anything, he wants that.

He gets up and opens the drawer where Trahearne keeps his extra blankets. There it is—the blue woollen one that he had given to Roza almost two years ago, when they had barely known each other. Roza has tried to give it back many times without success. Now it is only here because he is, too. He hasn’t slept in his own bed for nearly a month.

But what does it mean? Trahearne does not make him do anything. He only offers, and Roza takes. And then he offers more, and Roza takes that too. And Roza pushes, and he gives. Now they practically share a suite.

He is reading when Trahearne enters later, some text about skritt anthropology that makes less sense the more he stares at the pages. It is early in the evening, hours before he would usually retire, and Roza does not mask his surprise at seeing him.

“What, can’t I mind the clock like a normal person?” Trahearne takes off his outerwear, hanging it by the fire Roza has started with an appreciative nod.

“You? Never.” Roza dog-ears the page and sets the book aside. “You should be in your office at this hour, ignoring your dinner in favour of some stuffy old scroll.”

“Without my evening’s entertainment?” A smile and a glance in Roza’s direction.

“I—wh—,” Roza stammers.

Trahearne laughs softly. “I mean nothing so crass. ’Tis boring at work without you, my dear Roza.”

Roza is keenly aware of how this separates them from their morning selves, even from the marshal that had touched his cheek so gently and told him to take rest. He wishes there was no separation. He is afraid of there being no separation, and of what that would mean for them. He would not know how to behave, or how to react to how Trahearne would behave, much like he does not know how to react now.

Trahearne kneels at his side and beckons with one finger. Roza obligingly lets himself be examined, fueled by some feeling he cannot quite identify. It is different than the morning, somehow. Trahearne is more purposeful with him, more firm, yet somehow indelibly softer. He releases Roza’s chin after a minute.

“It is hard to tell after barely a full day, but I believe you are doing better,” he says. “Did you finish the lunch I sent up?”

Roza looks away, ashamed.

“It’s alright,” Trahearne says, in a way that he wants to trap and keep forever. “You don’t have to force yourself. Dinner is coming in half a bell. Are you hungry?”

Roza sighs. “I do not know,” he says truthfully.

Mischief twinkles in Trahearne’s eye as he puts his boots away. “Would it help I handfed you?”

“Hardy har.” Roza rolls his eyes, puzzling at the odd turn in his stomach. It is probably from his illness.

“I wish to shower,” he announces. “I have been surrounded by your germs all day and I feel disgusting.”

“No one was forcing you to stay here,” Trahearne reminds him. He dips his head towards the ensuite. “Go on, but don’t take too long. I have been surrounded by my germs too.”

Roza sniffs disdainfully and plods off towards the shower. The hot water melts into him and he closes his eyes, pretending for a precious few minutes that he exists only in this moment. Then it is over, and he shuts it off. His towel and sleep clothes are draped neatly over the changing screen.

“I’m naked behind here,” he calls out, for what purpose he doesn’t know.

“So am I,” Trahearne replies.

Roza quickly pokes his head out. Trahearne is sitting on the bed, fully clothed. He looks up.

Roza darts back, scoffing to himself. Firstborn and their little games. Roza can play games too. He prances out, half dressed, and Trahearne breezes past him, pausing to plant a small kiss on his forehead.

“I hope you didn’t use up all the hot water,” he murmurs, and then he is gone.

Roza gapes at the bathroom door. That… he… what was that? How in Tyria is he supposed to react to that?

He sits heavily on the bed, touches his forehead, and thinks about it for the entire ten minutes it takes Trahearne to shower and get dressed. Soon enough, their dinner arrives, and he pushes him to go answer the door. He has no wish for them to be the talk of the fort.

Trahearne brings the plates over and lounges on the bed. It is unusual—he is ordinarily meticulous about crumbs.

“We are going to make a mess,” Roza points out, making himself comfortable. He is thankful Trahearne is taller than him sometimes—sometimes—since it means he can be fully used as a backrest. (He is also useful for reaching high shelves, but Roza will only admit that on pain of death.)

“Mm?” Trahearne’s arm settles over his waist. “That’s alright. You are taking a sick day.”

“Does that mean you are going to handfeed me?” Roza asks.

Trahearne chuckles. “Do you want me to?”

“If you are tending to me tonight, I do not see why not.”

Trahearne considers him, amused, and then tears off a piece of bread. He holds it to Roza’s lips. “Open.”

Roza feels that gut-clench once more, that rare feeling that tickles the corners of his brain. He wonders if Trahearne can sense it from him. The thought makes the feeling squirm its way further into his insides.

Trahearne lowers his hand. “You do not have to—”

Roza gently bites the bread from his fingers. They make an odd moment of eye contact, before he forces his gaze downwards, chews, and swallows.

“I am sorry,” Trahearne says softly, needlessly. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Oh, shut up,” Roza grouses. “I wanted you to.”

“Still,” Trahearne insists. “I never want to take advantage of your…”

He pauses. Roza pointedly jabs his bread in his broth. “You don’t,” he says, and then, “Of my what?”

Trahearne’s prolonged hesitation only makes him more curious. “Trahearne,” he asks, prodding him in the chest. “Of my what? Go on.”

“Your, ah… desire to please,” Trahearne tells the far wall. His cheeks darken a deep green.

Roza feels as if someone has lit a match inside his head. He stares, and Trahearne diligently refuses to look at him, and he provides both of them with a three-second lightshow.

Trahearne winces. “I-I—didn’t mean to embarrass you. You, ah… I appreciate it. I try not to take advantage.”

“It’s not a sex thing,” Roza blurts out.

Trahearne breathes out a small laugh of relief. “No, I gathered. Even if it were, that would be alright by… I mean, if you were alright with it, then I would be as well.”

“Oh,” Roza says.

“It is, ah, just you,” he admits a minute later. “I do not know what that means.”

“That’s alright. We do not need to decipher everything about ourselves. Roza… I truly do appreciate being given your trust. There is not a day that goes by where I do not treasure what you have placed in my hands.”

“You deserve it,” Roza replies without a thought.

Trahearne looks at him achingly, and Roza is driven by a strange compulsion to kiss him, which he does not follow through.

“Thank you for being here,” Trahearne says eventually. “With me.”

Roza relaxes into him, and the arm around his waist tugs him close. “Thank you for taking me.”

~*~

#roza #trahearne #writing #drabble

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