#tiziri is blunt/passive/reserved so its fun trying to strike that balance

[bosspigeon]

Dara prompts! I love Dara. Dara being badass and protecting the MC?

Tiziri has never been struck with a mace. He counts himself lucky such is the case, and can only hope he should never have to know how it feels, especially seeing, hearing, the way the would-be assassin's armor dents under Dara's mighty blow. Surely, their ribs are cracked, if not outright broken.

He watches them crumble with a strange sort of calm fascination, clutching their middle and moaning pitifully as they roll about on the ground. They are one of several that have been felled in much the same way, the last and presumably the leader.

He wants to ask Dara if they will die, if he needs to do something, but Dara is... Oh.

Dara is looking right at him with a face like thunder, and suddenly every thought in the Crown's head comes screeching to a halt.

The general is much taller than Tiziri, and so dropping to a knee before him puts him only slightly lower than eye level. There is an instinctive part of him that wants to complain, for a moment believing Dara is going to do something silly, like prostrate himself before his Imperial Majesty in penance for "allowing" such a thing to happen, but instead, his gauntlets cup Tiziri's face, stiff and cool, and he gently, but firmly, bobbles the Crown's head with a wordless growl of frustration.

"When I tell you to run," he says sternly, dark eyes boring into Tiziri's with an intensity that leaves him breathless, "You need to listen."

Tiziri finally regains enough of his composure to furrow his brows and stubbornly set his jaw. He can feel the twitch of muscle flexing against Dara's gauntlet. "I am not a coward, and I won't leave you behind," he says sharply, grasping at Dara's wrists.

"It is not about bravery," Dara scolds him. "It is about self-preservation. It is about keeping yourself safe."

"Where else am I safer than by your side?" Tiziri insists, frowning stubbornly.

The general's helmet was knocked off in the skirmish, and so there is nothing to hide the ruddy flush that blooms on his high, sharp cheekbones. "I— That's not— You—" He tries to pull his hands away, but Tiziri holds on tightly to his wrists. He could break the grasp easily, they both know well that he could, but he doesn't. His hands remain on Tiziri's face, cupping his cheeks with care. "You are infuriating."

Tiziri can't help but be a bit shocked by such honest exasperation. Dara is always respectful, always careful with the way he behaves toward the Crown, ever patient and ever conscious of his manners and propriety. Tiziri smiles. "I have been called worse," he tries to tease, but it comes out softer than he intends.

The way Dara says it makes it sound more of an endearment than anything, really. He is only infuriating because Dara was scared for him. As his general, yes, sworn to protect the Crown with his life, but also as someone who cares. Someone who wishes for Tiziri's continued existence not for the political stability or for honor, but for the Crown himself.

It is nice to be reminded that he is cared for as an individual person rather than a figurehead. Tiziri turns his head and brushes his mouth against the general's armored palm, murmuring a soft "Thank you, Dara," against the cool metal.

Dara's face reddens further, but his sharp, dark eyes soften. "Of course... my Crown," he says, and while Tiziri has never been overly fond of the weight of his title, and he is not sure he ever will be, there is something about the way Dara says it that sits heavily in his chest.

He is not just any Crown to Dara. He is Dara's Crown.

Behind them, there is a weak groan of pain, and a confused jumble of syllables come tumbling from Dara's mouth in lieu of words. This time, when he pulls away, Tiziri lets him go, and the general leaps to his feet with surprising swiftness under all that heavy gilded armor. "I will handle the assassins," he says, his voice a bit too loud and quite strained as he whirls around to do just that.

Tiziri ducks his head and hides his own flush beneath his wild curls, fists twisting in his heavy skirts and biting his lip to stifle a smile.