[M] ... Comes Around [Closed]

Rhys returns home on the 9th of Intas after the murder of Benjamin Tolsby.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Rhys Valentin
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Tue Sep 17, 2019 11:13 am

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Home Sweet Home
early into the 9th of Intas, 2719
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Part Two:
​​The Jaws of the Wolf
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Continued from HereShow
​​The sky was blue with the promise of dawn by the time Rhys Valentin found himself making his way through the Painted Ladies, making his way home.

Benjamin Tolsby was dead.

What was left of his body was somewhere in the Arova.

The suspended officer had meticulously erased evidence first from the warehouse where the galdor had been beaten, tortured, and shot in the face and then from himself—burning whatever could be consumed by the fires of Saunder's Forge and letting the dancing flames sear into his retinas as he watched his vengeance consumed in the heat. He didn't feel fear. Or remorse. He didn't taste the bitterness of regret. In fact, he wasn't sure he felt much of anything, moving through the motions of a well-trained professional who knew what to destroy because he knew exactly what he would have looked for had he been on the case.

His ears were ringing from so much magic use, tinnitus having haunted him regularly since the riots of Yaris 2718, but it was the only thing that he could really hear in his own head, strangely empty and numb as he felt.

Changed. Washed. But not made clean.

The walk home wasn't a long one, really, but Rhys made it more by muscle memory than by conscious thought, body moving mechanically through the dark streets, sticking to the longest shadows and the least-traveled side roads because the Sergeant knew patrol routes, because the tall blond knew what sorts of characters would be out and about in the wee hours before the sun rose above the smog of the Soot District to cast its bright rays into the bitter Intas chill of the Dives. He didn't want to be seen. He didn't want to be heard.

He wasn't sure he wanted to be anything.

What had he done?

Justice hadn't tasted the way he thought it would. Vengeance hadn't settled in his stomach the way it should have.

No matter what Benjamin Tolsby deserved—was it really his burden to bear? Had it even been his? Gale had done the beating. Gale had done the shooting. Had his sister taken what belonged to him or had his permission been enough? Had his consent in the end of the bastard that had attempted gods only knew how many times over the past decade to rape Charity Valentin, née D'Arthe, made him totally complicit? Was he satisfied? Had some hunger been fed? Had it been enough?

No. There would be more.

So much more.

Benjamin was kindling. His death was the lighting of a fire. Rhys felt like the spent match, blackened, twisted, but purposeful. He was serving a purpose: there was much left to burn until even Damen was left as a smear of ashes in the Seventen roster. No one else would do it. No one else knew the truth like he did. No one else saw a need for justice to be served the right way.

The fucking right way?

He hissed a cloud of breath through cold, scarred lips, turning the corner onto the street of crowded row houses in various states of dilapidated, half-hearted repair. His was, of course, far better off than the rest by now, considering he'd worked hard and spent good coin to fix up the place, considering he'd made it a home so far from Uptown on purpose.

His body felt as numb as the rest of him, Intas icy and snow-covered and steal-your-breath frigid in temperatures. He fumbled for keys with aching hands, shoulder pressed against the threshold, feeling all the willpower that somehow got him up the stairs draining out of him as if he'd been the one shot, as if he'd bleed through the streets all the way home.

Inside, the warmth rushed through him, familiar scents of the life he'd made here filling his senses and making him dizzy, vertigo a cruel trick played on a half-bred sorcerer who'd pushed his weaker genetic heritage so far, so hard, so fast. Too far. The heat from the hearth washed over him even from two rooms away and he gasped, immediately filled with everything he'd not felt for the entire night.

Oh gods.

He closed the door and stood there in the foyer, heavy satchel weighed down by a metal mask and all of his other prodigium equipment, by whatever evidence of tonight's bloodied, ritualized revenge that couldn't be destroyed slamming to the floor. He struggled to slip out of his coat, to kick off his boots, to shed the last vestiges of who he had to become to do what he'd done ... only to find all of it clung tightly, threatened to drag him to the old rug before he even made it past the front door,

"Charity!"

It was a groan more than her name. A gurgled noise that surprised him because he hadn't heard his own voice in almost half a house. He dropped his coat with a sob, tightness in his chest sinking claws right into mended bones, and he made it to the stairs to lean against the bannister, gripping it tightly, resting his forehead against the peeling paint of the post.
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Charity Valentin
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Mon Sep 23, 2019 8:30 am

9th of Intas, 2719
HOME| EVENING
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It was dark in the parlor, the wall lanterns unlit and the fireplace burning low. Thick curtains they had purchased only a few seasons ago held at bay any hint of moonlight or street light that might seek to seep into the room. In the darkness, Charity sat, staring at the piano before her. Staring beyond it, hands clasped around her elbows and violet gaze far far away. The lid sat open over the keys, and on the music holder instead of sheets of music there was a grimore. The blonde was supposed to be practicing her Living magic, she’d planned on sifting through the book of spells and finding simple ones that would allow her to refine her relationship with the Living particles of mona that ebbed around her.

Yet, here she was, sitting in the dark, staring at nothing.

It had been seasons since the attack in Achtus. Seasons since she’d reconciled her painful memories to allow intimacy back into her life. Seasons since she’d cried over Rhys’ bloodied body, certain this was the last time she would see him alive.

Yet, here she sat, staring into the past, reliving all the events of that night.

Benjamin Tolsby.

By the Circle, just the thought of his name made her skin crawl as though hundreds of spiders were inching over it. She took a shuddering breath, closing her eyes with a frown and swallowing the bile that threatened to overspill. All was okay again, and yet all was not. After years of thinly veiled suggestions, and unwelcome advances, after the events last year Charity was certain she’d been freed of Benjamin’s unwanted attentions. She’d been certain that she was safe.

And just like that he’d nearly taken her. He’d nearly had everything he had so obsessively wanted.

There was a cold heaviness in her field, laced with the bright yellow of fear and red of rage, and her chest felt tight. Here, in the dark, alone she could still feel hard fingers digging into soft skin. She could still feel hot breath against her cheek. She could—

Jumping from the piano seat, the blonde rushed to the foyer and up the stairs to the bathroom, bringing up the little that she’d kept down that evening. Kneeling over the lavatory bowl, Charity trembled, her skin feeling cold and clammy. Slowly, she climbed to her feet, rinsing her mouth out and looking at herself in the mirror.

You’re nothing without me. The familiar bitter voice growled in her ear, though she was too weary to pull away from it anymore, simply sighing and closing her eyes.

“I’m everything without you.” The pianist whispered to herself, moving away from the mirror to leave the bathroom. As she moved down the hallway, the delicate creature paused to linger in the doorway of the bedroom that she shared with Rhys Valentin. Her husband. Her lover.

Her always and forever.

Leaning her head against the frame, arms crossed, Charity let a small smile grace her lips. No matter how far she fell, no matter how lost she was, Rhys was always there to catch her and bring her back home again. The pianist couldn’t imagine her life without him, and couldn’t fathom how he’d not given up on her yet. She wanted more for him, wanted to be better for him. Gods she loved that man. That wick.

He was more than she could ever hope to be.

Even now, tonight, he was out there right under her father’s nose working to keep them alive. To keep them safe and secure. Charity shook her head, unable to stop a soft laugh escaping her. After everything that had happened, Rhys had never lost his rebellious streak. Oh how Damen must hate him. How he must—

Bang!

The loud thump of something heavy hitting the floor caused the pianist to jump, turning her head towards the front foyer just beyond her line of sight. It had to be Rhys, late after work and probably weary on his feet. She began to move, a smile returning to her lips.

Charity!

The galdor felt immediate adrenaline rush through her body as panic filled her aura, stepping away from the bedroom with wide eyes staring down the staircase.

There was something wrong. Something terribly horribly wrong.

“Rhys?!” Charity called out in terror, rushing down the steps as fast as she could to see her husband clutching his chest as he leant heavily on the banister.

“Oh Gods what did he do? What did he do to you?” She stammered, fearing the worst had happened again. Fearing her father’s wrath had come down on Rhys as heavily as the Intas snow. Delicate hands reached for him, searching his chest for injuries or blood, blinking away hot tears that wanted to spring forth.

“Rhys you’re so cold! What did Damen do, I swear I will rend his heart from his chest. Rhys what is it? Are you hurt? Should I get a healer?!” Charity held his face, holding the man she loved so she could look at him, her brow drawn and field full of concern.

“What happened?” She asked quietly, tugging on the man to lead him towards the parlor, carefully guiding him to sit down in the darkened room by the fireplace. She’d moved a small couch into the room, the not so perfect deep green velvet upholstery covered by a thick throw rug which she snatched up to curl around her husband. Kneeling before him, still searching his body for signs of injury, Charity held his hands tightly.

“Rhys?”

Last edited by Charity Valentin on Tue Oct 15, 2019 9:56 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Rhys Valentin
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Thu Oct 10, 2019 3:08 pm

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Home Sweet Home
early into the 9th of Intas, 2719
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​​As much as he'd expected her immediate appearance, there was something about the flurry of panic in Charity's voice and the tense tingle of fear in her field that made him wince and gasp, hands slipping from the bannister to raise toward her, to slow her down, to put some space between himself and her delicate blur, only to drop it to his side and slump toward her as she reached for him,

"Damen? No, he hasn't—I—hurt? Good Lady, no. I've just—" Rhys stood still like some spooked animal while the petite blonde ran her fingers over his person, searching for physical injuries that didn't exist. A few bruises, sure, but he didn't wince when she accidentally brushed over them, but any of his bleeding was internal, any of what hurt with an indescribable pain was hidden from view inside.

Her hands moved to his face and he resisted the urge to pull away, wincing against her palms, eyelids fluttering heavily at the fiery sting of tears that seemed immediately drawn forth by the almost oppressive weight of her concern. He gripped her wrists, slowly tugging her hands downward, placing them back on his chest,

"—I'm alright." The not-galdor assured her, speaking only of his body, aware that to use those words about the rest of him would have been lying. He hitched a breath and held her violet gaze with a sudden fierceness, jaw clenching, muscles working to form the words,

"Charity, listen, I—" She pulled him, her fingers curling into his shirt as she dragged him away from the foyer, dragging him toward the parlor and he felt like a child's toy, yanked across the floor, following numbly. He didn't want to sit at first, wavering on his feet, no longer full of the rush of adrenaline but still full of fight. Her gentle guidance was met with resistance for a moment, his whole self pushing back, taut and strained, the last dregs of resistance he had left, until he finally just collapsed onto the sofa. He melted, sprawling onto the threadbare velvet and gritting his teeth, suddenly overwhelmed by the crushing weight of it all.

He gasped for breath with a sob and looked down at his wife's hands gripping his so tightly,

"Benjamin is dead."

Rhys' gaze drifted upward for those words, sharp and focused on her violet hues, holding her there even as his Perceptive-laden glamour seemed to grow cold, heavy, seemed to creep between them like the dark, half-frozen waters of the Arova that hid all that was left of Benjamin Tolsby from view,

"I told you I'd find him. I told you we'd find him. Gale and I, we—" His words were broken, but it was not out of sorrow that he sobbed. He had no regrets. He might have been afraid of the consequences. He might have worried that eventually, eventually, he'd be caught for it all. But he was not sorry. He had no apologies to make for the death of a piece of shit like Tolsby had been.

He deserved the torture. He deserved the beating. He deserved the bullet.

Didn't he?

Benjamin paid his dues and Rhys wasn't sorry, not one fucking bit.

Wasn't he?

But, he knew what he'd started. He knew there was no going back. There was no turning from this path now that he'd stepped on it. There was nothing but more blood ahead of him, ahead of them both. He'd set it all in motion now and he could only keep going until there was no more blood left to spill. His chest felt tight, the once-broken, now-healed bones of his ribs aching as he gasped for breath, sobbing with a ferocity not born of regret but of the emptiness left in the wake of vengeance, the insatiable hunger stirred for more of the same when one body wasn't enough,

"—we killed him. He's gone."
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Charity Valentin
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Wed Oct 16, 2019 6:26 am

9th of Intas, 2719
HOME| EVENING
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"You’re clocking well not alright.” The blonde choked, blinking to clear her vision as the wick drew her hands against his chest, refusing to be placated by the false reassurances Rhys handed her. As soon as her hands were captured, she was already moving to draw away, to take him from the cool hallway into the parlor. They didn’t reach the piano, the taller blonde fighting her for reasons she couldn’t understand for a moment, before finally sinking into the almost Seventen green of the couch.

“I am listening Rhys. Tell me—” The throw rug flowed through the air like some sort of abstract cape, draped around his shoulders and tucked close as she knelt to grip his hands tightly with a wide concerned violet gaze.

”Benjamin is dead.”

The name drew a sharp gasp from her lips, Charity jerking back from the man as though burnt, caught now in his own grip rather than hers. The cloying weight of his glamour was like the press of thick heavy blankets, too heavy for comfort.

“N-no…what?” She stammered, stomach churning and a simultaneous hot and cold flush rushing over her face, brows drawing in confusion as she tried to put together what he’d said. Had Damen got hold of the violinist after everything that had happened? Part of her felt a sudden rush, something unsettling like relief.

"I told you I'd find him. I told you we'd find him. Gale and I, we—"

Murderer. Her fathers voice murmured in her ear, and she swallowed hard. Charity shook her head, the relief draining like so much cold bath water, tears burning her eyes.

“No Rhys, no. No this isn’t…you shouldn’t…” The petite musician gasped another breath, falling back to settle on the hardwood floor with a thump, staring through her husband with shock. Benjamin deserved vengeance, he deserved every single thing he got, but not by Rhys’ hand. Not by the hand that could be investigated and traced and snatched up by the Seventen.

"—we killed him. He's gone."

The words were razors against her heart, and as she watched the broken man sobbing before her on the couch, Charity frown of confusion turned into a scowl of deep anger. Her field shifted with a surge, the blood red tide of rage sweeping through her aura. Benjamin had been her shadow for so long, so very very long, that she’d almost resigned herself to the fact she would always be afraid of him. When he’d come into their home, when he’d tried once more to take that which she would never give him, the blonde hadn’t been prepared. She’d been weak, and useless, and Rhys had suffered the price.

Not once, but now twice.

The pale woman realized then, with a small mote of horror, that she was happy. So gods-be-damned happy that ersehole was gone.

What did that make her?

MURDERER!

“Good.” She said darkly, scrambling to her knees before the man, grasping his cheeks and ducking to capture his gaze.

“Rhys Valentin, look at me.” Brushing the dirty blonde locks from his forehead, Charity spoke more firmly.

“Look. At. Me.” The flecks of gold that interlaced the violet of her iris’ caught the low firelight, vividly bright as her ramscott field rallied around them both. Perceptive particles filled the air around them, twined so closely with his glamour that it was hard to tell who ended where. She waited for him to face her, to look into the depths of her gaze, before finally speaking in a quiet voice.

“Tell me, everything.” Her voice almost shook with the intensity of her need to know what had happened that night, every fibre of her being aching to understand it all.

Is this what you abandoned me for? This murderer? Charity ignored the voice in her head, jaw twitching as she clenched it against the words that she wanted to say to it.

Now was not the time to give Rhys more to worry about, not at all.

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Rhys Valentin
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Fri Nov 08, 2019 3:14 pm

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Home Sweet Home
early into the 9th of Intas, 2719
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​​"I'm not injured." He corrected softly, allowing the petite blond galdor to drag him from the foyer, pausing to kick off his boots though the action just caused him to stagger a bit, heavy, clumsy, and drained. He let himself sort of collapse onto the couch, the sudden act of becoming still almost suffocating as if the weight of everything finally settled onto him, settled against his very bones.

He sighed.

"He'd have never been tried, Charity. Never. There's no justice for any of them—not your fucking father and not for Ben, either. They know they're untouchable: every last one of them. I can't let it be." Blue eyes searched violet hues, searched a flushed, familiar face with a desperate need to be affirmed. He saw tears well in her eyes and watched as relief drained from her face, and her frown hurt. She did not feel any sense of victory, and the anger that rippled through her field surprised him, stole his breath. He sobbed and curled further away from her once Charity sat hard on the floor, drawing his legs up to his chest and wrapping trembling arms around his lanky self as if he could ever hide,

"It was just meant to be a fucking warning—a returned favor. I wanted to—"

To what?

Punish him. Torture him. Repay him for everything and make sure Benjamin Tolsby never touched his wife again.

Well. That problem was fucking solved, wasn't it?

He paused, almost cowering beneath the red shift of her stronger field, his glamour dampening, alive though it was with all of the casting he'd done, all the memories he'd relived magically in Ben's mind to make sure he suffered. Rhys raised his hands as his wife scrambled to her knees, as if expecting some form of retaliation, some sort of berating for his mistake, as if he was prepared to defend himself against accusation. Her warmer palms found his face and his eyes widened, legs lowering slowly, arms hovering awkwardly, confused.

Good.

Good, she said. Did she mean it?

Fingers brushed hair away from his face and he winced, reluctantly meeting her gaze even though in the fiery furnace of his once-broken chest, he did not feel at all sorry for how things had unfolded. He'd not murdered Benjamin directly, but he should have. Meeting his delicate pianist's gaze at her order to do so, he did not push back against the mingling of their fields but there was a wariness tangible in his entire being.

"Charity, no, you don't—"

She didn't need to know, surely. He resisted in silence for a moment, shifting on the couch slowly, body aching, exhausted and broken, tugging the petite galdor toward him in capitulation to her request to know everything. There was something in her expression, some passing thought, but she didn't share whatever it might have been. He surrendered with obvious reluctance, inviting her needfully into his arms, longing for her familiar body against his,

"I made a prodigium, and we caught him outside the theatre. Took him to a warehouse I've rented for informants in the Soot District. I've been planning this for months—when I couldn't fucking move, I could still think. I made him feel everything, Charity. Every broken bone. Every bruise. I wanted names and he kept saying all the wrong shit. He didn't deserve another breath anyway, but he didn't—Gale shouldn't have—"

Rhys paused, breath hitching, teeth grinding.

"I should have been the one to kill that bastard. I was my responsibility—I'm the one who's supposed to be representing Anaxi Law, godsdamnit. It's not like he would have ever been tried. Not fairly. Galdori don't get trials—it's all a fucking joke. If a human had done that to you—to anyone—if they'd been caught with drugs—they would have—" He hesitated, aware of what he was and what he wasn't, aware that he was protected by an illusion, aware that he'd taken the risks anyway.

"—hung. We both know it."

Closing his eyes, his hands let go of her to dig the heels of his palms into his face, growling angrily. Not removing his fingers from his face, he groaned from behind them,

"I'm a fucking coward who let a friend finish the job because I wasn't enough. I wasn't brave enough and Gale was." Lowering his hands, his expression twisted into a pained sneer but there was still no guilt in it. Just regret. Just a passionate anger at a missed opportunity he could never get back, not with Benjamin's body at the bottom of the Arova, "He's in the river. No one's going to fucking find him, not in the Soot District. And even if they do—even then—you know I've covered everything. I'm a fucking Sergeant of the Investigative Division. I know exactly what I'd look for, and I covered our tracks."
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Charity Valentin
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Mon Dec 30, 2019 8:12 am

9th of Intas, 2719
HOME| EVENING
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"I do Rhys. I do.” The pianist whispered, eyes wide and nodding even as the wick pulled her into his arms, curling into him and holding the broken man tightly as her heart hammered in her chest and her field brimmed with ferocious fury.

Listening in silence, Charity’s breath hitched at the mention of broken bones and bruises, pressing tighter against the blonde as he bared his grievance. She heard him pause, and couldn’t help but draw back to look up at his face, teeth clenched and anger vibrant in his glamour. Her violet gaze shifted away again as he growled through his sentences, stomach churning at the reminder of Benjamin’s crimes let slip because of his race and status. Rhys shifted, arms lifting from her to dig palms into his face, fingers pressed against tanned skin. She shook her head, even if he couldn’t see it, sitting more upright to take his hands even as he lowered them, still shaking her head.

“No. No you are not a coward Rhys Valentin. You are a good man, with a heart and a conscience. If you’d been the one to kill him, the one to truly end it, then you become no better than my father. Than Diaxio. Than Ben.” Swallowing hard, squeezing her eyes together tightly at the names that fell from her lips, the petite creature pushed down the surge of violence rage that threatened to burn through her. Taking a deep breath, she opened them again and looked at her husband, tightly holding his hands, tucked on the small couch in the darkened room with him.

“Justice was served, by your hand, in fair sentence. Benjamin’s death was wrought by the Gods. By fate, through the conduit of your blood. The ersehole deserved everything he got, and the Arova is too beautiful a burial for someone so ugly. I hope the creatures within devour his foul remains.” Vehement in her statement, Charity tilted her head slightly, focusing on Rhys’ crystalline iris’ as she searched there for a moment. Suddenly she huffed a small sound, something like a wry half laugh, looking down and exhaling slowly.

“I should feel worried, or disgusted, or shocked. Perhaps that would be what a good woman would feel at this moment. A good woman would wish no ill on others, no matter their evil deeds, but honestly,” She frowned, turning her head to stare at the low burning fireplace, narrowing her gaze a little.

“Honestly I feel…vindicated.” Blinking, Charity looked back at the wick, taking his hands up again firmly and looking at him with a serious, hard expression.

“You must never ever speak of this event, ever again. Do you understand Rhys? Not ever, ever again. If they find out at all, even suspect at all, it had something to do with you…” She let the words hang in the air, unclear as to whether ‘they’ were the Seventen, or Damen and Diaxio. Sitting for a moment, staring hard at the man until positive the point was made clear, the young woman finally nodded and sat straighter.

“Come. Let’s get you upstairs, into the bath. Then into bed. I will bring you some chamomile and ginger tea, and some of that savory loaf you brought home yesterday.” Charity said in a no-nonsense tone, her field flexing as the voice in her head whispered her worst fears like the steady trickle of a broken faucet.

He’ll be found, and you’ll both be put to the gallows. The murder and his confidant. You’ll hang! I can see it now, star-crossed lovers till the end. How utterly repulsive.

Clenching her jaw, the blonde winced, standing up from the couch.

“Did he suffer?” Her eyes were focused on the seat beside him, fingers twisting together and chin lifting as though steeling herself against her own words. Finally she let her gold-flecked gaze sweep to meet his, welling with tears that she was fighting to hold back, tension visible in the stiffness of her neck.

“Did he beg before Gale—before it ended? Did he scream for mercy.” The galdor’s voice was a hoarse whisper, shaky with the strange sense of needful anguish that clawed for Benjamin’s final moments. Were they spent in fear and pain?

Gods, she hoped so.

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Rhys Valentin
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Tue Jun 09, 2020 4:19 pm

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Home Sweet Home
early into the 9th of Intas, 2719
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​​Rhys desperately wanted her affirmation to bring some kind of relief, as if anything he'd said was at all stained with some form of repentance. It wasn't. He wasn't fucking sorry. If a career in law enforcement had at all shown him anything, it was that some people refused to ever change, immovable. Benjamin Tolsby had been one of those people, and the blond wick was dead sure that Damen D'Arthe was no different—that the corrupt bastard had no desire and no will to be anyone but his dark, terrible self.

How anyone could let those beasts continue to devour all that was light and good, the young Valentin didn't understand. He'd never understood, though he also knew he'd been far too complicit for far too long. In his Brunnhold uniform, he'd let things go, defeated and cowardly, instead of pursuing Charity in defiance of her father's wishes—and how far, indeed, had he let things go! Regret was heavy and bitter, settling in the back of his throat like bile.

In his Seventen uniform, how long had he simply kept his head down and done what he was told? Years now—almost a whole fucking decade. Sure, he was known in the Investigative Division for thinking outside of everyone's standard boxes, for doing things a little differently, but he'd still done them. He'd still been responsible for plenty of arrests that he wondered if he'd agree to be a part of now, knowing what he'd come to know.

Too much.

How deep did this all go? How full of decay had things become?

Had he helped or just made things worse?

Vindicated. Charity breathed, there in his lap with that frown on her face slowly fading into something almost unreadable that hardened like a mask with determination. Her hands tangled with his and her voice dropped; with it, so did his heart.

"I have no one to tell, save for you—" He admitted trust felt impossible, even if Gale had helped with the whole dirty mess. He had no one else to turn to—none of his squad could support him, none of them knew the truth. Just the petite blonde he'd made his wife after waiting too long to do so, just the young woman he'd wasted so much time hiding from.

"—I don't—I'm not—ah, fine. I should burn every damn thing, anyway. All of it. I can't let a drop of blood linger for some Clairvoyant to find months from now." He hissed, fully aware of the magial capabilities of folks like his own Constable when it came to tracking and seeking necessary information for a case. He sighed, watching something strange pass over Charity's teary face, and the wick's blond brows drew together in frustration and concern.

Rhys' frown deepened into some grim, helpless expression. He blinked, hearing the hitch in her breath and wincing at the flex of her field, wilting beneath the blonde pianist's violet stare,

"Benjamin Tolsby was an ersehole. He hurt and suffered, sure, but was it enough, Charity? No, it fucking wasn't." He chose not to answer, directly, not to give the gritty details of the kind of shit that oozed from the galdor's broken, bloodied mouth that proved the man took his unrepentant perversion to the grave. He remembered the threats and the confidence, even in the face of death, and those cuts were still too fresh, still bleeding in the heart of the Sergeant who'd thought he was doing the right thing by bringing justice to those who'd gotten away with so much unjust behavior.

He'd still failed. Vengeance was sour. It stung.

"He fought until the end. Not like a coward, not like me."

Rhys groaned, defeated instead of victorious, feeling more lost instead of at all more sure of his direction, slowly shifting beneath the blonde woman and making his way to stand, to drag her upstairs with him to the bath she promised, uncaring about drink or food anymore. The very thought turned his already hollow stomach, and he looked away from her once on his feet, feeling the heat of tears like liquid fire burning down his face.

"A lesson learned." He whispered, "Everyone else will be handled with a lot more fucking carefulness, that's for sure. Not a single one of your father's hirelings, nor your father himself, are going to get away with any of this. I don't give a damn about mercy anymore. None of them deserve it. None of them would give such a gift to either of us."

No bath would wash away the stains that had seeped under his skin tonight, but he had no choice but to accept them. No matter how comforting he longed for Charity's company to be, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd failed her so much already, that there was nothing he could do to fix what was broken.
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