Who Gave You The Right?

Charity comes for a chat with Gale, though peacefully seems a bit of a stretch

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Charity Darthe
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Mon Dec 03, 2018 12:37 am

14th Dentis, 2718
THE FORGE | LATE AFTERNOON
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I​​t was stupid to go out, she knew it was stupid, but after so many weeks staring at the inside of the apartment thinking over and over what had happened in Elmonton and after the riot, Charity couldn’t shake the thought of Gale Saunders. The man who was in fact a woman, the human who was the sister of her lover, somewhere amid all the turmoil of it all the petite woman needed to talk to them.
​​
​​Not because she didn’t believe them, no that truth was well and truly established, but more to just understand.
​​
​​Understanding why.
​​
​​There had to be a reason, a clocking substantial reason why Gale had blurted their relationship with Rhys to the hurting and scared Seventen whilst the two got sickenly drunk in the forge. Was it that Gale was lonely? Or did the knowledge eat at them so much they simply had to get it off their chest? It could have gone unsaid, it just could have. Then, her troubled gal—wick wouldn’t be beating himself up over something he’d never had control over.
​​
​​It made her angry. An unnecessary strain on the poor man. A dangerous secret now made known.
​​
​​Huddled into a newly purchased cream coat she had obtained in Elmonton, hiding in the thick pale winter hingle fur that lined the hood that was drawn up to hide her pale hair, the galdor made her way through Vienda using very public and very busy streets. It frightened her, and every green finery that caught her eye caused the woman to catch her breath, afraid any given moment a firm hand would snatch her by the arm and drag her screaming back to Damen’s manor. It never did though, and ignored as just another face in the crowd, Charity D’Arthe soon found herself at the doors of what she hoped was this forge Gale busied themselves in.
​​
​​ “Mi—Mister Saunders?” She tripped over the inaccurate title as she pushed open the heavy door, knocking and peering curiously into the unfamiliar place. She’d never seen a forge before, in fact she barely knew what a forge was for, so the woman could only assume it was the right place as she glanced at various metalworked implements hanging from the ceiling or leaning against the wall.
​​
​​ “Mister Saunders, it’s Charity D’Arthe. Are you here?” The violet eyed woman contracted her field, trying to appear less threatening, the gold flecks in her eyes catching the late afternoon sunlight as easily as it caught motes of dust floating in the air. Reaching to close the door behind her once she stepped inside, Charity drew back her hood, tucking her hands into the fur lined sleeves of the long winter coat to resist the urge to run her fingertips over the workmanship in the shop.
​​
​​ “I only wish to talk, if you’ll spare me a few moments.” The short blonde said softly, turning away from the forge itself to follow the metal shapes on the walls. She was nervous, it was stupid not to be. There had been no love lost between herself and the human, and even more so Charity was still the enemy. Rhys was a wick now, and a brother. Charity was still a galdor, no matter who she loved and what her situation was. Everything she did or said was nothing to Gale. They saw her as the oppressor her people were, regardless of her personal feelings.

This was supposed to be a peaceful chat, but the blonde wondered idly to herself just how long it would be that way. She let out a slow breath, reminding herself that being angry at the human wouldn’t help.

Clocks, she should just go. This was a moony idea.
​​
word count: 666

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Gale
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Mon Dec 03, 2018 7:02 am

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Saunders Forge| afternoon
14 dentis 2718
Saunders forge was an open space where work and display stood side by side. The low, rumbling hum escaped the base of the smith. The fires hot as the sound reverberated around the forge, bouncing off the stone walls. The beat of hammer on metal, the clinking noise chiming out in rhythm out across the space. The hum pitched up into a song, a low melody tune they vaguely remembered.

“The cruel war is ragin’, my man has to fight, I long to be with ‘im from mornin’ ‘till night.”

The shutters were open; the heat escaped the furnace and hissed against the cooler autumn air. Was it autumn? Or the beginning turns of winter? The smith was far from concerned; it was not at the stage where it was affecting their work. Shirt and trousers, the thick leather apron protected their front, the gloves their hands as they continued their labours. Daylight came in through the shutters, though far from bright – it left a lingering grey and muted tones across the world. The few oil lanterns were lit in compensation, an off glow of white and ochre streaking across the forge. It glinted against the numerous tools, the few display pieces left out for inspection - candlesticks, skillets, cutlery and other utensils.

“I want to be with ‘im, it grieves my h’art so. Won’t ye let me come with you? Nay, my love, no.”

The hammering stopped.

Shoving the metal into the hot fires, the smith watched as the squared iron rod once began to grow heated. In the meanwhile the human moved, locating their vice and moving it closer to the anvil. Securing it, they withdrew the hot iron and locked it in place within. The wrench came next, clasping the free end tightly. The hot metal glowed, grip adjusting as it was twisted. While it was hot and considerably malleable, it was still hard work. From the front the smith heard the voice call out their name, but their vision did not lift from their work. From behind the hanging tools, they felt the faint prickle of something else but did not dwell onto it.

“Aye,” the smith released a grunt, muscles rolling as the iron was twisted, “Be ri’ht with yeh.”

The corners turned, a sharp edge that turned and provided a decorative edge. Forty-five degrees, they held it there before lifting the hammer and striking the surface until the new flat edges managed to touch each other. It back twisted after that, the lines creaking a diamond pattern on the surface – or as Beckett would have called it, a thorn twist. Still glowing the smith dextrously released it, the hot metal clenched in the wrench before it was quenched within the brine water. It hissed and steamed, cooling as it was removed and returned to the top of the anvil. It was still warm, but far from the state it previously was.

Releasing it, the smith hung up their tools, stepping into better view as it surveyed the creature that entered. Rolled up sleeves, the shoulder leaning up against one of the supporting pillars of the space. While the smith looked their vision did not focus on the Galdor directly.

Clean. Female. Well off. Upper class. Cold outside, perhaps?

The name meant little to the smith at present, the arms folding across their chest as the thoughts slurred and slushed around. Within a breath they had settled onto a tact to take, and in the next Gale had committed, “I… ‘pologies for my lack of engagin’. Got my attention on this work. ‘ere’s to no slight from yerself, ma’am.”

Gale was dirty; the sweat and soot had clung in places, the lighter hair darkened by the grime of labour. A patina of shades lingered across their face, faint purples and yellows of bruising lingering. They made no move, expression neutral as it repeated the said words, “S’what can this smith do for a lady such as yerself today? Must be ‘umbled in sayin’ I am no producer of finery that you and your peers’ desire, but my work is solid. Sure I can produce somethin’ to please.”

The smith still had yet to meet the face, eyes now coming to rest less at her shoulder but more at the space directly behind. The lips twitched, a small tilt before a low hum escaped. The smith felt their shoulders begin to rise, or their head lowered into their neck. A brace against whatever this particular Galdor wanted. The smith chewed upon their lip, foot shifting as if to begin slinking away. That small pressure, that wariness that tickled against their subconscious as they realised who was in their forge, “Though, guessin’… I… Yes, miss D'Arthe?”

The hand waved as the voice left them, a mere flick in gesture for the Galdor to speak. The smith held their breath.
word count: 825
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
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Charity Darthe
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Thu Dec 06, 2018 5:45 am

14th Dentis, 2718
THE FORGE | LATE AFTERNOON
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C​​locking hell it got hot!

Charity pulled her thick winter coat from her shoulders with an almost desperate action, hearing the sudden absence of the hammering she hadn’t actually realised was being controlled out the back of the forge. Dressed in a pastel periwinkle button down dress, the blonde threw her coat over her arm and thanked Alioe she’d at least tied her hair back from her face and neck. Of course it was hot, it was a gods-be-damned forge.

She just hadn’t anticipated how hot.

The galdor heard the familiar voice of the smith from beyond the hanging metal works, turning to face their direction as she waited somewhat patiently for Gale to enter, unsure at all if it was appropriate to go to the back. As the human came through, it was obvious they didn’t recognise her, and to be fair why should they? Charity had been a brief stranger in a noodle house, a drugged and drunken thing to be pitied and laughed at, not something to remember. Her eyes took in the sight before her, dirtied from the work, sweaty from the heat. But also, mottled with older bruises still on the mend. Her brow creased with a small frown, doing her own personal maths on just how deep a bruise needed to be and how long ago it had occurred to be that color. She had her experiences, and assumed they couldn’t entirely be from the riots. It was weeks now.

Perhaps Mister Saunders had a habit of violent encounters.

Watching as the artisan grumbled words at her, it was easy to see when Gale recognised who she actually was. A sort of shift in body language, a subtle act of self-protection. The blonde paused, realising that whilst there was no ill intent on her behalf, the human that was in fact Rhys’ kin had good reason to fear her. Even with her field suppressed, the woman was no expert magister, so it still brushed against the smith. Still teased of those things she could wield with a breath of monite. The shorter woman held out her hands slowly, as though to indicate she was coming in peace.

Was she though?

“Mister Saunders. I’m not here for trouble, just to talk.” Moving with a gentle shift, she took the cloak from her arm, questioning them with a raised eyebrow before placing it on one of the benches of metal curiosities. Straightening, she smoothed her dress, before sighing.

“I thought I knew what I wanted to say to you, but frankly, now that I’m here I’m a bit lost for words. I just…” Her frown returned, eyes a shade of lavender in the soft morning light drifting in through the forge windows, searching the strange familiarites of their face. Theo, Ol’ Theo, he really didn’t show in the children. But Rhys and Gale looked so alike, Charity imagined they both looked strongly like their shared mother.

And that was why she was here.

“I visited Elmonton, with Rhys. He saw yo—his father. Asked him about this whole business and…and it’s true. Per Mister Valentin it’s all true. But I…” Her frown drew slightly deeper, and her hands curled into the fabric of her skirt as though she needed to ground herself. Rhys would be furious for her coming here, but…

“Why?” Charity asked quietly, a small edge of frustration creeping into her tone.

“Why did you even tell him in the first place? At first, I thought you’d made up some fable to keep Rhys under your thumb, but it seems you were telling the truth, and I am…I have to accept that is the way of things, but I can’t understand why you told him.” Her brow was drawn still, a mild anger etched there.

“Were you lonely? Craving family? Were you in trouble, looking for a way out by distracting him with the truth? Are you out to ruin him? I need to understand, I need to know why, Mister Saunders. Rhys is, very dear to me, and I need to be sure you aren’t looking to hurt him.” Her field flexed slightly, not a threat, but definitely a show of annoyance. Charity crossed her arms, looking across at the human with a slight lowering of her chin.

“You’re not trying to hurt him, are you sir?”
​​
word count: 775
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Gale
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Thu Dec 06, 2018 7:26 am

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Saunders Forge| afternoon
14 dentis 2718
Gale did not look at them directly as they spoke, eyes locked onto the door frame and the faint sign of peeling paint. On the surface they were still, quiet, a mere lift of the shoulders into a shrug. The delicate creature – which was more truth that whimsical fancy – began to take on the offensive, leading the conversation as the element of scrutiny took hold. The hands were raised in peace, but the first lie came far too easily.

It was a lie, it had to be. How many times had they heard those words or similar, which in the end did result in trouble?

The green orbs shifted with the change of her body language. Those subtle hints, those social cues; fists and fingers clung and clenched out of fear or of anger. The sigh was one to calm self, the blue – it was blue, the smith had little time for the ideals of unusual colour names – while soft an matched, was a colour more associated with the lower class. The fact she had come here suggested that this was little more than a masquerade, all pearls and fancies to hide the truth of the matter.

They eventually settled on the bench corner behind her, a chipped and worn thing they really should bother to varnish. It put the small pieces of display to shame. Or at least, that was what their father told them – Gale still did not quite understand it. The face still had yet to change, slow, deep inhale and measured breaths as Charity spoke.

“I understand,” the voice creeped out, an almost off monotone sound deliberately set. It had to be, because while a face of mostly calm rested on the surface the mind raced. It placed pieces together, following the suggestions, the changes of tone – a race and struggle to keep up as the proverbial battle began. The usual fingers that fidgeted and twiddled did not, instead they grew still. The tendons of the neck tensed, form stiffening while the other grew more agitated.

It took a moment longer than expected to realise that Charity had finished, arms folded chin raised. The smith held their own arms crossed already, but it did not stop them lowering their own chin. Eyes still averted, the mind tried to process what the correct thing to say was. If that even was an option? The Galdor had lied; they had come to seek a villain, to find someone to blame and torment due to things out of their control. No answer was a good answer, and as it stood the smith had little to hide.

After all, it seemed Rhys had chosen to blurt out a variety of better left silent – the exact details however were something still left to be confirmed. So, for now it was the matter of treading carefully. There was a small frown, a tiny pinch as the length of time continued from seconds into minutes. The lips parted once, faltered, and then closed once more.

What was the best way to answer that caused the least amount of damage?

“Because I was drunk?” Gale slowly began, voice a near whisper, “Because I was angry?”

The eyes closed briefly, the heat of the forge smothered by the sensation of icy fingers digging into their flesh, the rotting faces screaming while they clawed, marred and attempted to drag the smith down. Gale flinched, tensed briefly, then cracked open their lids, “Scared? Frighten’d? ‘Cause I’m some ass human just lookin’ for an ‘cuse to spite? One that'd be better off dead? I Dunno. That’s my answer. I…”

You are the villain in this story. Nothing more than weak, pathetic, scum. No one will ever want you. Freak.

Swallowing, the smith felt themselves hunch in. They knew it was a bad answer, but it was the one they gave. They could feel their throat beginning to crack, a deep inhale as they waited for the boot to come down. It was all their fault, they were better off not saying anything. They could feel that sickening pressure begin to build in their chest, “I can’t fix it. Not now. I’ll stay away. Not come near. Nay, I don’t want to hurt ‘im. I won’t… whatever it is ye want. Just say it.”

The form began to curl back around the pillar, defensive the small shift in weight as the back foot found solid ground, “If ye want me to fuck off, then say it. And I’ll do it. Or whateffer it is that needs. If it’ll make things better, for a sense of the word, then… fine. If that’s what ye want. ”
word count: 792
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
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Charity Darthe
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Fri Dec 07, 2018 4:44 am

14th Dentis, 2718
THE FORGE | LATE AFTERNOON
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C​​harity blinked, surprised when Gale didn’t immediately snap back or throw insults in her face. Instead, the human understood. They understood, with little fanfare or so much as a carry on. They understood. The building readiness in her field for a fight seeped away with a sense of being unsatisfied. What exactly had she expected? Had she come for answers, or had she really come to argue with the blonde look alike?

A silence grew between them, growing and building like a living thing, seconds becoming minute. The galdor looked over the smith, patient as could be helped in their current situation. The human took a breath, began, faltered, and she waited. Had she caught Gale out? Had the youth really not considered exactly what possessed them to reveal to Rhys secrets best left shelved? Deadly secrets that could ruin the man, kill the man in fact.

Finally Gale spoke, and Charity listened, her brow still drawn and arms still crossed. Drunk and angry, by Alioe she knew all too well what sort a combination that could be. She couldn’t blame them for that. As the craftsman—woman—continued, the delicate pianist swore and shook her head with a sigh, releasing her arms from their place across her chest to shake her hands and her head.

“No, no that’s not what I want. Rhys needs you, Gods I think he needs you more than he needs me right now. He’s…hurting, inside. He needs someone that can keep him from flying apart. He needs…”

She sighed, dropping her hands to her thighs and letting her shoulders sag in defeat, field relaxing again.

“He needs family.” Throwing her hands up in the air, Charity began to pace back and forth across the room, frustrated by her sudden lack of fire. She wanted to be angry at Gale, but it was impossible when the young human was just as broken as the wick that she loved so very much.

“I’m an awful person, and I’ve brought nothing but trouble on his doorstep, but this is more than that. He was a galdor, a magister. He was one of the elite, or whatever our race like to say. Clocks, he attended Brunnhold and Numbrey and became a Seventen. My own father used to make derogatory statements about his weak magic, used to make out that he was a wick, and by Alioe we ended up in the worst fights because of it. I refused to let Damen belittle him, and then after all of that, ironically he was right.” Pushing a hand against her forehead and over platinum locks, the musician stooped to look at him with a face that bordered on panicky.

“You do know how dangerous this is for him right? If this actually gets out further than you or I, or Theo? It’s not just his career or his reputation that could be on the line. They could literally kill him.” Holding her arms again, the blonde shook her head.

“Someone finds out you’re related to a wick, so what? No big deal. But Rhys? Tocking hell…he was in Brunnhold, in the Crypts. He learned galdori spells and dueled his peers. The Judges and the Headmistresses would never live it down, a scourge on the whole institution.” Moving a little closer to the human smith, Charity tilted to try and catch their eye, her face dead serious.

“Mister Saunders, if you don’t mean to hurt Rhys. If you did this because you needed family as much as he needs it, then promise me something. Promise me you will be there, right now. Don’t suddenly disappear from his life, don’t cut him off. Be there, help him where I just cannot. I fear—” Brushing her hands over her face, resting her thumb between her lips and staring through the blonde for a moment before focusing on them again, she continued.

“I fear I am something between a welcome comfort and an awful reminder of what he can no longer be. I can’t…if something…if I weren’t to be there for whatever reasons may come….can you promise you won’t leave him alone in this mess? Can you promise to keep the secret safe, for as long as you can stand to call him brother?” Her field hummed with a sense of dread, afraid of all the things the Seventen wanted her to confront about Damen, recalling how quickly Mathias disappeared so many years ago. If she disappeared, the pale creature needed to know that Gale hadn’t just dropped the news on Rhys to fly away into the void and leave him picking up the pieces.

“You owe me nothing, sir, I know. But I ask this of you, regardless.”
​​
word count: 836
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Fri Dec 07, 2018 7:54 am

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Saunders Forge| afternoon
14 dentis 2718
Gale braced as the sigh escaped. To their ears it was akin to a hiss of annoyance, that sound that cut and berated. It was the same noise Beckett used to make when he became frustrated, when the then much younger smith struggled with the advance concepts he was trying to teach. Age and time was the only cure for that. Positioned in place the smith watched the Galdor become animated, as if trying to catch onto the energy that seemingly faltered and drained before it could be plugged. It did not stop the smith from holding their breath however, a hard lump having formed in their throat that in turn restricted the airflow. They coughed after a few more moments, a deep inhale as they attempted to formulate the rest of the words.

It was almost as if what she was saying was being masked, warped by the space between them. The eyes did not move as they paced, silent while the unspoken accusations were thrown. The history thrown out and exposed, the other animated and closing the gap.

The smith remained incredibly still. The body was coiled up, tensed, waiting to spring and move- somewhere? They had not worked out the exact of where yet, but merely away. The forge door was still open and a viable target, and the smith knew this Galdor would not dwell long in this environment. There was a lean away as the woman came closer; Gale’s chin tucked into their chest, eyes lowering to look onto the floor. Chewing on their lip, the hairs rose to the movement of the field. Leather gloves creaked, the hold on the sleeve growing tighter.

“I know,” the throat croaked, a brief tentative look – the eyes barely managed to reach Charity’s lips before they returned to the floor, “Can you… stop tryin’ to stare so close? I don’t…”

I don’t like it. It makes me nervous. I feel uncomfortable. I don’t feel safe. It hurts.

Gale shook their head, silencing themselves and that motion of thought. Galdori will always do whatever they want, no matter what was asked of them from the lesser races. So they went back to listening, feeling the words prodding at things Gale already knew. It was dangerous, all of it was – they were not ignorant of that. It was not as if they spent all their time existing under a rock and peddling their trade.

“I don’t ‘urt people. Mean, less they’re askin’ for it. Like they don’t expect you to punch back, or start bein’ some high ‘orsed bastard,” gingerly the smith licked their lips, “I don’t go tryin’ to look for trouble either. Enough of it tends to come to me anyway.”

The shoulders managed a shrug, a stiff, mechanical movement that locked out quickly, “I’m not a good person.”

Fact, least from Gale’s mind; they were a freedom fighter, a resistance against the oppression, they were a creator of weapons and subservient to a rabid dog that would tear it all down the moment he was let loose. They followed, for now – but knew they had to do better. Yet how was that even possible when that was all they knew, and other methods were currently barred off to them? The Galdori, based on their own experience, were deaf to their words.

“What secret?” it was rhetorical, the tone alone said that. The smith knew and agreed. They resisted squirming, feeling the weight of the judging gaze boring deeply, “If he wants me around, then I’ll… dunno. People things. Stay. ‘Nd be awkward. Exist. Get involved. Least, much as he allows. If he don’t then, I’ll…”

The smith frowned, “Dunno. Somethin’. Whateffer.”

“If. If. If. S’always if. Nothing’s certain,” The little sparks in the mind ignited then, questions blooming but being held back - it was inappropriate, “But, my word is my law. That much I can give, if it’ll please. But...” Again the smith faltered, lips twisting as they attempted to find some words as it made the mental leaps. The pause, it dragged on as they tried to pick on a particular tact, “I… don’t think that is all?”

The frown deepened, eyes daring back and forth as if they were reading something, the connections sparking and igniting. The past experiences, the hidden connotations based on their previous encounter now with names. It rushed into the head of the human, overwhelming as they worked through the information, “You’re… scared. Of somethin’ coming. Somethin’ brewing that you can’t fight against. I dunno. Ignore me. I ain’t good at this stuff. Was out of line. Before ‘nd now.”

Gale shook their head, forcing out words that spoke more as a business transaction than the emotional request it was. The idea of exposing themselves to such sounded too painful – they needed to keep things at a distance for their own sake, more so if the eyes of the Gentleman lingered nearby, “There anythin’ else I can help ye with today Miss D’Arthe? No other service I can ‘umbly provide to ye? Means, I am all but an smith.”
word count: 876
When the last of us will disappear
Like shadows into the night
The broken ones, the fighting sons
Of ignorance

Saunders' Forge | Bear's Journal
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Charity Darthe
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Sat Dec 08, 2018 12:50 am

14th Dentis, 2718
THE FORGE | LATE AFTERNOON
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"You’re not a bad person though either, at least, from what I can tell. Otherwise you’d have done more than just tell a galdor he was a wick.” Charity said softly, watching the human as they seemed to fight with themselves over thoughts and feelings. The youth was barely more than a child, not much older than herself when she’d nearly died in the Stacks. They were worlds apart, but she remembered behing that age. Sad, lonely, alone. Stuck in the bindings of the monsters den whilst pushing her only ray of sunshine away out of her life. For his own good, for hers too. Gale had clearly lived, maybe more lives than someone their age should have had to. Briefly a smile flashed on her face, wane and quick, at the clarification that yes the secret would remain exactly that. She breathed a soft sound of relief, as though needing to hear the words from Gales own lips. They would be there, for Rhys, for it all.

“He’ll allow. Even if he seems to be holding back, Rhys has a lot in his heart and mind that wears him down. He takes on too much, takes on too many of others problems that he probably shouldn’t. It’s part of what had a much younger version of myself absolutely smitten with him as children. There’s something in him, something good and honest and…I ramble I’m sorry.” Charity turned away as the blonde smith suddenly made their own slow revelation, her cheeks darkening with shame, blinking away the tears that stung her eyes. There was a moment of silence, as though the cogs were turning in Gales mind, and the galdor didn’t want to have that conversation. It didn’t need to be said out loud, but oh, there it was.

“You’re… scared.”

Glancing back at Gale, the slip of a creature let her violet gaze sink to the floor between them with a small humorless smile.

“No, no you’re right. I am afraid. I made a stand against something I should have told Rhys about a long, long time ago and…he thinks he is helping but I don’t think what is happening is the end of it. I don’t think this is all going to be wrapped up in a neat little bow like he thinks. And I have tried to tell him, Alioe knows I have tried, but he is so fixated on all his evidence and proof and such but I know better. I’ve seen what happens when…” Stopping herself with a tilt of her head, the blonde lifted her chin and looked at the smith whilst reaching for her cloak, unwilling to pour her sob story of a life onto the human that had probably had it much worse. What could a galdor living in the lap of wealth possibly know about pain or loss or fear?

“I think that will be all, Mister Saunders. Thank you.” Sweeping her cream warm winter garment over her shoulders, the blonde ignored the heat that barreled down around them, tucking her hair under the hood and pushing her hands into her sleeves.

“You and I met under poor circumstances I know, and I haven't given you any reason to see myself as anything more than an airheaded golly who probably does nothing but get herself in trouble and have to leave your...brother to pick up the pieces. But I do have more to give then that. Perhaps we might one day be able to meet under less frightful terms, without the need for sneaking or secrecy or promises for ‘what if’s. I’d like to think Mister Saunders, that given half the chance, you and I could genuinely be friends. Or at least, aquintances. For now though, we have a mutal care for Mister Valentin, and I hope that is enough for now.” Moving to the door, she nodded to the human, cracking the wooden barrier and letting the thankfully chilled air of Dentis sweep over her face.

“Clocks it’s so much cooler out there.” Glancing back at Gale, the galdor nodded in thanks.

“Good day sir.” She said softly, before slipping out into the morning, making her way back towards the Seventen’s home before she was missed.

word count: 759
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