Fire Emblem Fan Fiction ❯ The Shades In Sorrow ❯ Piqué ( Chapter 2 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

In the primal space of Rafiel's mind, time has no weight, no tune. He know that it stretches but doesn't want to know more.

... There is another sleepless night.

The beorc did not leave him the time to dread it, but it was bound to come... The captain cannot bring him everywhere with her, she does not have infinite energy...still, she arrives in his room before he can blow out the last candle.

As she closes the door, a scroll in hand, he is still hunched over the nightstand, stopped in his tracks and unable to remember what he was thinking before she came.

Joining him as he sits, she shows him her scroll without more ado; soon they are discussing history and fiction. Or something close to that. Half of his mind has no idea of what she's reading even now.

She is mid-way through the scroll when he moves a hand and silently set it on its canvas, palm spread on the crisp texture laid on her crossed legs. His movement is shaken but detached; his eyes watching the gesture as if it's a pure concept without matter, without importance—just like the events around him.

The knight pauses her reading and follows his arm up to the curled tendrils leading to his head.

There are words in his mind but the one that rises is "Why?"

He doesn't feel the will to develop nor the strength to make sure that she heard. He feels exposed; forgotten on her lap, his fingers, slowly curl close.

Her hand finds a way between them before they are completely shut.

The beorc's hold is warm, solid. It gives him the strength to turn toward her, sliding his gaze up her profile just as she has one second before.
He asks again. He needs to know now. A faint sense of sourness coats the inside of his lips.

"Why would it matter if I am here?"

*.

The lifeless look in his fogged eyes says that he doesn't only speak of Begnion, or her house.

"You must see that my existence is meaningless." His inflection sounds like he's finished speaking when he adds, "Yet you insist...on...movement." His voice is made of tuneless tides, evenly rolling sentences, thin, crisp words, phantom-like sounds. But he chooses to say 'movement' in lieu of 'life'. Apparently, he stills feels bound by honor in tradition and some things remains taboo even to his half-conscious mind.

"Your Highness..." she sighs, somewhat moody. "Do you need to ask...this is stupid."

There is hidden amusement in her exasperation, but her expression is mostly worried. His doesn't find the will to focus enough to listen to her heart, but there's a sort of jumpiness, terror showing from her stillness. Even if he's not used to relying on reading body language, he can tell she's trying to suppress it. She looks like she might break glass. It's a little amusing...but he is unable to feel amused.

His eyes are away, evading. She takes his shin and won't leave him room to escape hers—but he doesn't feel ready to connect with anyone even in so small a gesture, so he looks at the line of her nose instead.

"Just with your songs, you would be precious to any person in their right mind. I haven't seen one creature to lay eyes on you who hasn't done their best to protect your life."

"Then...with a sore throat I am as useful as a painting—" his voice is quiet, grounded even though long nurtured love for traditions rises an underlying shame in it—she puts a thumb across his lips before he finishes.

He hears wind sweeping between the cracks of the windows, hissing a discreet howl that jolts him out of his gloom for a second. The sound raises goosebumps on the nape of his neck...

But he doesn't regret his words.

Kindness and stern worry radiate from the body of the beorc woman sat in front of him.

"This doesn't become you," she simply says, her voice a low groan, but the tune more pained than chiding.

"Neither humans nor laguz would want to live in a world where...you don't exist. Your kin gives us strength in hope. You give us...a reason to better ourselves." She is gently frowning now, as if he is playing silly for not understanding something that obvious. "Because your existence is the proof that we have not completely ruined our words, behaving like mindless greedy beasts—all of us. You are a reason for all on Tellius to tolerate each other...to maintain peace. Your traditions have meaning for every one of our races; even more so because of what this country has done." /Does she means Begnion?/ "Please, do not treat them lightly. They are precious because they are…" she searches the right word, something that can weight in the end. "/Useful/," she decides and nods satisfied.

His hands curl again, but the one in her grasp cannot close itself and he feels light-headed. Blind with unshed tears.

"Besides...from what I have seen during the commemoration, it is plain even for me that Lord Lorazieh needs a helping soul to explain your heritage to Lady Leanne, Lord Sephiran and...Reyson. I would worry that their behavior could kill him from exasperation."

Only decades of taught countenance prevent him from breaking in tears and shaking his head in denial.

He gropes for something to alleviate the pain of being alive—the cloth on her waist is ruined in seconds. He can't let go. She kneels up and engulfs him in her arms, allowing him to drinks in her embrace, as in a strong nectar; the heron empties his mind, focuses on basic senses. He almost feels the rolling of muscles on her stomach, stretching up and around her waist, above him, her frame feels grounded like a mace, lean, blunt and solid.

Barely less full than—he bites his lip until he begins to taste blood and presses his face in her middle, soaking her belt with further tears of denial, his arms never leave her, entangled somewhere in her clothes between her shoulders and waist. He doesn't sob, but the world is shaking like an earthquake and it's terrifying—until she moves her hands in his hair. There is a tranquil warmth in her caress as it lowers on his face, pauses on his cheek... He swallows before trying to speak.

"It is...good if my sojourn is not personal." Eloquence can get lost for now.

There is a silence and she seems to consider his words for a while.

After a while, the knight grabs his shin—her palm is cold now. (It feels burning.) He closes his eyes.

"As if you made that possible."

Trying to understand, he peeks up, but her eyes don't burn him anymore; she looks both aching and grudging.

He blinks and she has cast these emotions aside, smiling again in her usual fashion.

"You can stay as long as you want. It can only be a blessing to house you," she almost mouths a word but presses her lips shut in time.

Rafiel considers her words and evades her gaze again. "Me? You'd be more blessed with my father I think," he says evenly, treading thin between irony and honesty, /to alleviate the atmosphere,/ he explains to himself. (But he feels already rebuked by how lame of an excuse this makes.) "Or Leanne..."

"Oh shut up." She stops, her mind briefly struggles to explain herself. "I won't leave you one way or another. Don't ask me why. I can't explain. Just accept it."

"Then, sorry" Words are painful like cutting glass into his throat. His fingers are digging into her skin like talons now, her clothes no longer a boundary to his distress. He attempts a light laugh but it breaks into a sob and he is still for a while until he finds his breath again. She feels nervous now, in his arms. But not for the reason that he wants. He lets his hands roam lightly up against her frame, watching their trail from behind a fog, never untangling himself from her, he kneels up—and would be towering over her but his bent head stands level with her face.

"Because I'm afraid..." He breathes in, emptying his world of anything but her grip around of him "that...I... I will disappoint your regard for Father's traditions. If you..." he stumbles on his words, "this is not enough. I am not...going to be patient." Not now, not like that, not when little matters anymore—they are alone; no one else is looking up to him for example here. And... with two previous lifetimes of sensible actions already, perhaps he can indulge just once /right now/ while he desperately needs her touch /like air/ beyond reason— /The heron prince quiets his heart./

Touching her forehead with his own, he briefly looks into her eyes before blinking down to her lips and struggles a little in order to keep his own half-an-inch apart without letting any feelings catch up between them.

*.

Does she have a choice? Granted, Tanith can overpower him and even if he is noble, he is not likely to raise a fuss, but can she push him away after what she has said? She cannot afford to have an opinion here. He doesn't seem to realize it, or he simply does not care. Or maybe he wants her to face the weights of the path she has taken.

She doubts that he is able to think through the terror that seems to lurk in his eyes or the despair of his clutch, though. Yet this was not something that she could have expected...

*.

The woman has not moved yet and he feels emotionally exhausted. He is beginning to feel a strain in his neck, the fog is clearing minutely and pain fills up his mind again. Her face is a raw expression of alarm until he cringes. She sees it somehow, and slips a hand behind his head to secure his position. But she is still looking at him quizzically while he makes a point to look only at her lips, only letting his forehead connect to hers. He has no intention of misleading about anything. His skin is burning with yearning and he feels something well-up in his throat, he is not sure what, but he considers just bridging the gap rather than asking...her lips taste like metal. ...But has she been the one to... He sighs, painfully /grateful/, because her hesitation has vanished and she gets more assertive with the kiss—just enough for him to forget himself.

Their bodies part too soon and there are parts of his skin burning, knotting in anguish and despair for a touch, solid warmth, raw intimacy...the security of a new altar.

Like a passive observer, he opens his eyes in slits to lean on her ear while his trembling hands decide to look for seams in her clothing. He's surprised that his voice still holds together when he ushers as many words he can to provide an explanation. It turns out sounding more like a justification to his ears. "I cannot wait..." he simply says.

She responds positively and helps him to shed his small embroidered veil, before grasping the thick linen of his nightclothes. Before long, he can feel the muscles of her stomach bare under his fingers, moving against his solar plexus, there is no longer a part of his skin left ignored by her soothing touch and he traps her on him, arms woven up and tight around the nape of her neck. Her heartbeat is growing a little erratic, but when her hands reaches his hips, she hesitates. Then, she stops lavishing attention to his ear until her breath is disciplined again and her heart has found a reasonable pattern.

"You are not yourself," she whispers, drawing back just one inch. "How can I know that this is really what you want?"
/What?/ His brows are drawn, his hands moist and his wit is everywhere but home but—but he manages to recomposes himself from sheer will, stops squirming and closes his eyes. (His head doesn't feel hindered; she must have put his hair out of the way when he had brought them down—he is glad that the neverending blond tendrils have not strangled them both yet). Once his breath is calm enough to speak in a dignified manner, he gives a meek shrug.

"I find no reason," he states distantly, "for this to matter...regardless of...the outcome."

*.

"But—" She doesn't want to ask but she cannot throw every care to the wind. If anything, her mind has always been deeply ingrained with a sense of duty; so she blurts out something about a child.

She bites her lip to resist from fretting and she has to resort to all of her discipline to dare to look down at him again.
He looks distant, gaze lost aside and she becomes suddenly aware of too many details in the room. She shakes her head.

"It is not that I don't—huh," (she struggles to contain her blush and silently damns herself for reacting like a tad) "but...you are—I'm...human." Choosing her words seem a little tricky around him. /To her defense, she had never expected to become this close to a laguz./

Then his face is completely blank. He doesn't move a hair but talks quickly right after her. "I'm barren." She has to strain her hearing to catch his words. Then /oh./ Many tiny things suddenly clicks together in her head.

She tries to tie this all up again; when sweep him into a new kiss, he feels very willing until her lips descend on his neck and he grows less responsive for a while...as if hesitant.

She lifts her head again with a silent question...and there is one in his glance, mirroring hers. His eyes are so deep and sad that she forgets how to breathe for a second. She tries to decipher the emotion in them, /but.../ she blinks. Is he feeling responsible of her?

/Just because.../ She breaks from his embrace and bites one of her lips ; silently cursing herself for her stupidity—and him as well, for thinking that she may change her mind for something like that!

...
Once upon a time, a Prime Minister had toyed with her. Now Persis belongs to the Empress and Tanith has no master besides her ruler. The end of the Second Goddess War has left her with a greater taste of freedom than what she cares for.

Now, there is a Prince who seems to need a little of guidance and she doesn't see how he could be a worse subject of allegiance than her previous one. She could envision...no, she will serve this Prince. /As long as he will allow it or until her end comes./

This time, when she goes down on him, it is to sear her will on his skin—it would be rude to take it slowly, yet he is doubting her decision. She feels entitled, as a woman of her word, to unravel his expression a kiss at a time in order to avenge her pride. Her last coherent thought is filled by the urge to find out if male herons can sing out of tune.

*._______________________

He has watched her fall asleep below him (heaving off aside just in case his weight smothers her face in the mattress—how they have come to this precisely, he is not sure. He just knows that this woman is willing to give as much as take...and it is new. Different from the two others lives he had known. Once again, he will have to attune to the segments of his fate amidst the song of Tellius.

But it may be interesting, too.

There is a fainter aura of fulfillment that the woman softly radiates, and Rafiel lets his lips curl up a tiny notch...though something in the back of his mind is a little ashamed to realize that he cannot remember a cause for her satisfaction. He has not felt the mental energy to care at the moment...but he has no reason to feel regret now that he sees her glow with contentment. Her expression, the heron muses, heart beating once again on the even measure of Ashunera's songs, her expression reminds him of a moment, so very long ago, when he had been but a nestling who just learned to fly.

It also reminds him of another face and voice...elegant white wings...the scent of fire—/that line of thought is even more unstable, he reminds himself./

There are too many reasons for what he had done to the knight—a beorc even—to be wrong by the standards of both of their races. Almost as many that he can find for this to turn out somewhat acceptable. He doesn't feel like being responsible or even remotely logical; she doesn't feel like she can break easily; he just wants to continue holding onto her.

He is used, tired of the song of life; anything that is his alone will sooner or later be torn and lost. Yet, he doesn't have to be wary of that fact with the knight because with her it is certain and he has an idea of the number of years to count down. At best, she will dim and flicker off in a blink of time. There will be no surprise. He is already braced for the fall.

The sun is barely up now. He had waited for it minutely even since she had fallen asleep. Trying to keep his mind afloat from the tides of his thoughts.

Also... He adds another hand to cover his face. There were papers, light scrolls, many items of light weight in the room. As every bird laguz, he used to be mindful of the movement of his wings whenever inside another tribe's house. Yes, but...yesterday. Too many surfaces are completely empty this morning. The stools, window benches, table, /shelves/... He doesn't dare to risk a look at the floor. But well, it cannot be worse than the blankets. He could almost facepalm but settles for a sigh and decides not to worry about this yet.

...Still, there are a lot of possessions in here, even though the house in itself is nothing close to opulent.

...

He...feels...like waking from a long slumber to suddenly find someone with a face by his side, with her own life and troubles... How does she afford to feed him this much variety, where has she slept until yesterday? The knight must have been sacrificing a lot of her comfort to house him in their arrangement up to now. How long could it have gone before her health would have been impacted?

Even if they can share the bed from now on, and commonly agree to set to a diet based on the locusts and larvae from Daein; before months, he will have to hope for his father or Tibarn to decide to send him some goods.
But he couldn't exactly accept his father's support yet refuse to face him, and, that would mean facing King Tibarn and Lord Lehran as well at least...

...
/Lehran./

There is an instant of frozen shock. The heron prince feels his wings stiffen and a pitch black despair slowly begins to gather at the door of his soul.

/Why does he remember only now? By Ashera...!/

Trying not to let a panicked tremor seize his hands, he lifts one to his face and slowly covers his eyes. By Ashera—Ashunera, he swears silently, as if either part of the deity has ever had a saying in the laws ruling over mortal bloods.

He clears his voice silently; he wants to try right away...but he doesn't want to wake her up with his galdr—his voice.

But...not knowing is maddening.
/Of course the outcome of this night was important!/ He feels stupid for risking the most useful ability he has so easily, and with a beorc with whom he doesn't share any set feelings. Well the woman matters a lot to him in more than one way, but—oh Ashera~

When she stirs besides him, Rafiel feel all of his thoughts desert him.

He is suddenly ready to jump at the slightest warning. Fear and worry plagues him for more reasons than he can count.

She looks at the half bare mattress and turns her head toward him. He is able to breathe again, slowly, when he knows that though she is tired and exasperated with the bed, the love in her smile is genuine.

She extends a hand, and her touch is still the one he has grown used to during the weeks.

Her breath is barely erratic as she turns on her back and leans in a way so as not to shade him from the sun when she kisses his cheek, then proceed to his forehead; he is already closing his arms around her and burying his head in her neck.

Now that everything can happen he feels at loss for words again. He can just hold on, fingers clutching and releasing her skin minutely. "Please... Please... Never stop moving..."

It takes her a while to understand what he means. Then she freezes—her schemes have been laid bare, and so is her face—walking on thin glass again. But this time it doesn't looks amusing anymore.

"As you wish, your High—" He clutches her hands hard before fully knowing it. She looks surprised but drops her word.

He wonders if she will call him by his name, now. Or anything she wants /but this title/.

"I promise." She frowns. "Stubborn nutcracker."

He lies tiredly under her gaze for endless seconds.

...
Maybe he will still be able to sing; after all he would not be able to give her children anyway, and maybe that makes a difference from Lehran's predicament.

That hope is a thin one, but also the sole that he has—he cannot imagine being wrong, /cannot, will not/...

He barely registers that he is cringing but as soon as it happens, he feels himself being lifted up and off the bed by his arms, while she is already chiding him for laying in bed so long into the morrow.