[Y - 32nd] Revelations

Charity finally lets Rhys know what her father is really like, and Rhys opens up about the night of the Riots

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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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Charity Valentin
Posts: 129
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 23
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: The voices aren't real, right?
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Writer: Raksha
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 6:57 am

Yaris 32nd, 2718
VIENDA | MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
Image
Fire.

That’s what Charity has first seen when the riots broke out, seated by her piano near the window, absentmindedly practicing a piece for the small review the orchestra were planning to hold in the coming days. At first, there had been some muffled yells and cries, not enough to draw the galdor’s attention but enough to be heard when she stopped playing. It wasn’t till the house a block across from the theatre itself began to smoke, and flames licked the sky. The blonde stopped, jumping up from the seat and pressing her face to the window. Only then did she see the people running, fighting and looting down the lane way.

Of course, the first thing she had done was think of her lover, knowing full well his occupation would take him directly into the fray. Taking the staircase two at a time, she had fled the house, Damen already gone dealing with the mess. Avoiding the worst of it, and keeping to the back streets, Charity arrived at Rhys. Only, he wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t there.

She waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually the noises scared her enough to go home, heart in her throat and field on edge as more than once she encountered groups of angry people. As darkness settled in Vienda, she entered the gates of her father’s home and locked them shut behind her, before entering the house and locking herself inside.

The fighting went on for days, and Captain D’Arthe forbade her to leave the house, when he was home. As soon as he left, she would sneak out the window, over the fence and along the aqueducts till she could reach Rhys. Except he was never there. The house looked unlived in, Charity even making an effort to clean up his last unfinished meal. She didn’t even use during those days, afraid that if she was high, she would miss him some how.

Eventually, finally the fires were abated and the rioting forced into heavy handed control, and yet Rhys still hadn’t come home. Doing her best to feed the one eyed osta, Charity felt fear and concern for the tall Seventen that she’d held a candle over ten years for. Mad with worry and withdrawals, the petite resorted to desperate measures.

“Excuse me, sir.” The nervous woman said softly, knocking on her father’s office door. Damen sat at his desk amid paperwork that seemed to span for days, sharp eyes not even looking up at his daughter.

“What is it Charity?” He asked in a voice that was already threatening in tone, annoyed by her interruption.

“It had better be good. These bastard wicks have hell to pay for the past few days, and I’ve no patience for your nattering.” Swallowing her fear, the blonde entered, dressed in a high necked lavender blouse and black skirt. Her hair was drawn into a simple ponytail, and her eyes were lined with dark circles, feeling the effects of her withholding like an illness.

“Apologies sir, but I don’t know who else to ask and I am concerned that someone I know may have been hurt in the riots.” The Bastian looked up for a moment from under his heavy brows, searching her face, before placing his paper work down and standing. The pianist watched, heart all but leaping from her throat as he approached her, ready to dodge or move should he try to grab her. Instead, with an unprecedented gentleness, Damen placed his hands on her shoulders and smiled warmly.

“Diaxio is just fine. I already had one of my Sergeants check in on her, and we placed security at her home just in case.” Nodding as though he knew what she was thinking, the black dressed man sighed.

“You’re so much like your mother, and I could never refuse her. At least, not before she let herself become the town chrove.” Charity smiled wanely, nodding and lacing her hands nervously as Damen released her to turn back to his desk.

“Not Xi. I need to know if you’ve...have you heard whether Mister Valentin is safe?” Her field jittered, and her knees felt weak with terror as the dark haired man stopped at the mahogany table top, fingers toying with the quill sitting in his ink pot.

Rhys Valentin?” Her father said after a long pause, looking back at her over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. The petite galdor nodded, violet eyes wide and mouth dry. The Captain made a face of ‘oh’, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other tapping his well manicured moustache thoughtfully.

Rhys Valentin. Why would my daughter be asking about a go nowhere son-of-a-farmer who she hasn’t seen in years?” Charity stammered like a fish out of water, her eyes burning with unshed tears of terror.

“Plantation owner.” She said ridiculously, watching her father turn slowly.

“No better than a wick either way. Low born. Low raised. Not worth a second look.” The pale creature bit her lip, before pressing on.

“I...I just...I just want to know if he is okay. The riots have hit all of Vienda after all, and I doubt he’d have left the city. I...I recall he was interested in...in the Seventen. So I thought...” Her lie was flimsy, and they both knew it. The man smiled at her again, coming closer as he inspected the nails on his free hand. His field was strange, unreadable.

“Sergeant Rhys Valentin. Did he tell you that he’s a Sergeant now? In the Investigative Division. Managed to bag a significant narcotic ring a few weeks back. But he probably told you that too.” The blonde shifted back away from the man, instinctively aware that this was the calm before an allmighty shitstorm.

“I just want to know he’s alive.” She said softly, raising her hands slightly to placate the man, before finding her voice.

“Besides, even if I had spoken to him, I’m an adult father. I can talk to people. Including a former school friend.” The D’Arthe dragged his hand over his chin, nodding slowly and shrugging nonchalantly as though she’d made a fair point, all the while advancing step by agonising step.

“Talking. Is that all it is then? Or, are you fucking him Charity? Like mother like daughter, I should have known it.” Charity blushed, anger and shock bursting through her field.

“What the clock, that’s disgusting! You have no right to—“ She’d fallen right into his trap, and with a snap of his arm, Damen grasped at her blouse dragging her closer. The blonde grabbed at his arm, tearing her top away with a desperate sound, loosing a button or two in the process. She stumbled back with an angry shout.

“You don’t own me, you hear?! I’m not your property and I’m not mother. You can’t keep me forever, parading me for suitors that don’t clocking meet your standard of perfect.” The woman shouted, stunning them both into silence for a moment, before the older D’Arthe growled and began to come for her. Charity turned to run, only to feel his hands on her hair as he drew her head back to smack her forehead into the solid wood of the doorframe and throw her out across the marble floor. The house staff watched in silence, none moving to help her to her feet.

“I made you! I housed you! I fed you! You owe me a life Charity Ann. Your fucking brother was a scrap and your mother a whore! You owe me!” Damen raged as he stormed towards the dazed woman, rolling her over roughly and straddling her thighs. Charity sobbed, flailing her small fists and scratching at his face, legs kicking madly where they were trapped. The staff looked at each other with concern, afraid of the man’s unbridled wrath. It wasn’t the same as before, it was unhinged and uncontrolled. He was red in the face, teeth clenched as he fought to grab her wrists and keep her nails from his eyes.

“You’re insane! Clocking insane! Get off me! Help me please! Cowards! Cowards all of you!” The terrified blonde screamed, looking at the staff in anguish. Tugging a hand free, she slapped him hard, feeling a surge of elation as his head snapped sideways from the blow.

“I hate you! I’m leaving, do you hear me Damen?! I’m leaving and you can’t clocking stop me! You can’t—“ He punched her, square across the mouth, splitting her lip and sending blood flying across her blouse. Charity cried out in pain, raising her arms to defend herself as Damen suddenly began to lay into her, his fists landing on her forearms or face without care.

“You! Owe! Me!” He roared into her face with each blow, whilst Charity screamed for her life, and the staff watched in guilty horror. This wasn’t his usual attack, he would always take care to be sure her bruises could be hidden, always careful to ensure no one outside of the house knew. He was going to kill her.

Good lady he was going to kill her.

“Captain stop!” One of the passive girls shouted suddenly, rushing forward to grab at his arm. It was enough to distract the man, turning his attention to the girl to shove her hard, eyes wild. The bleeding pianist seized the moment to scream a sharp syllable of monite to push her father away. The mona reacted in kind, and a huge hard shove knocked the galdor back, sending him crashing into a beautiful 200AT dynasty sculpture of Alioe.

Scrambling to her feet, Charity ran for the front door, crashing through it and sprinting to the gates. She fell through them, a sobbing bleeding mess, catching herself before she landed on the cobblestone and fleeing through city streets like a wild remnant of the days before. They were empty, what people left busy cleaning the aftermath of the looting and fighting, some glancing up at the bloodied galdor with caution in their eyes. Somewhere along the way, the petite creature realised she’d left her shoes behind. Her key to Rhys apartment. Everything. Everything she owned was in Damen D’Arthes house.

She slowed, looking around and behind her, blood down her chin and throat soaked into her shirt. Her forehead was red and blue and black, a large lump already formed and deep purple shadows forming on her arms. Where in the tocking Circle was she? Gasping to catch her breath between sobs, Charity recognised the dsoh shop, jogging towards the stairs that led above the little Hoxian establishment and finding herself face to face with a familiar door.

“Rhys, Rhys are you home?” She pounded on the wood with her palms, breaking down and shaking as she banged, unsure whether it was a waste of time or not. Crying heavily now, she sank against the door with a keening sound, legs unwilling to support her anymore. Kneeling at the threshold, the blonde beat on the door once more, at the end of her tether.

“Please be home. Please. Please...” Charity pleaded with the gods themselves it seemed, resigned to sleeping on the front landing if she got no answer.

What had she done?


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Rhys Valentin
Posts: 262
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
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Location: Vienda
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 12:02 pm

32nd of Yaris, 2718
HOME | SOME HOUSE WHEN the CLOCKING SUN is UP
Rhys couldn't remember how he got home, but he vaguely remembered signing the papers to his release from the hospital. He vaguely remembered the blur of the last few days of the riot, but exhaustion and shock had mostly stolen his wits and injury had gnawed away at his ability to clearly recall everything right away. It would come, he knew, crashing back like some cold wave, threatening to drown him. He felt the swirl of black waters wash away from the shores of his mind even as he stirred in his bed at the sound of fists on his door.

Startled, he was sure the riot had come to him.

Oh, Gods, no more fighting—

Perhaps it had.

He just didn't anticipate how.

Muscle memory, reflex, and terror all but shoved him from his bed and almost flat on his face to the floor, the tall blond's ears ringing with a tinnitus and body churning with a vertigo the hospital physicians had promised him over and over again with kind reassurance would fade as he rested, having overspent his already meager magical abilities during the chaos. He groaned, body still sore as if bruised even if it wasn't, and he untangled himself from sweaty sheets with a few hoarse curses.

It was Charity's voice, her frayed field a tangible and disorienting mess agitating his own before he even had his fingers on the entryway, his senses finally caught up with his brain and some mix of relief and horror set fire to his insides and dragged him barefoot and still in the clean pair of his uniform trousers he came home with yesterday to his door. He more or less collapsed against it, fiddling with the lock while he strung words together from the other side,

"Charity! I'm here, yes—Gods, hang on. I'm—" Unwell, he wanted to say, so unwell. Flinging the door open with a need to grab greedily the woman he knew was anxiously on his threshold, his heart stopped for a tick,

"—fuck."

A bloodied semblance of the woman he knew was crumpled at the top of his stairs, disheveled and bruised, barefoot and broken. Blue eyes snapped to the alley. To the stairs. Down the street. To the windows. Tension filled his lanky form and his hands snatched the petite creature with a groan, dizziness of vertigo threatening to take his balance out from beneath him, but he won the skirmish, hefting the delicate pianist like a child and curling her sideways in his arms, against his chest so he could bury his face into her platinum hair and fumble mindlessly with his door and his lock again,

"What in Alioe's name is going on? Is there more rioting? I—I've been—no one has called on me." He croaked weakly, a hoarse whisper against her scalp as he made it about as far as the settee in his meager living room, simply crumpling into it with a groan, confused as to why his vision suddenly blurred with the heat of tears until they warmed trails down his cheek. He was disoriented and beyond confused, part of his mind still very much left in the Dives, the other part still half asleep.

Rhys' head fell back to rest against the raised back of the couch, blinking to bring himself into focus, unable to comprehend what had happened. His fingers sought her bloodied, torn blouse like hers had his jacket just a few weeks prior downstairs, gingerly avoiding touching her face while he attempted to move her hair away and meet her violet gaze,

"Who did this to you?"

Maybe that was the wrong question, but something like suspicion was threatening to crush his ribs. He bit his lip and found he didn't have it in him to get up and carry her to his bathroom just yet, to clean her up again. His ears rang and he winced, the thrum of his pulse making it almost unbearable,

"Are we safe here?"
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Charity Valentin
Posts: 129
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 23
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: The voices aren't real, right?
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Mon Oct 29, 2018 11:33 pm

​​​​
Yaris 32nd, 2718
​​VIENDA | MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
​​
Fuck.
​​
​​The word was uttered in a tone she didn’t recognise, and as Charity looked up the door opened, tears almost blurring her vision of the tall Seventen as she knelt sobbing at his threshold. He was alive. By the Circle he was alive. Relief washed through her field, mingling with the fear and panic and pain that danced through the woman’s small frame. Pathetic and broken, she woefully felt him lift her like a babe in arms, curling herself against his bared chest and closing her violet gaze with another useless sound. His field, so alike hers, felt frayed and tired, no doubt a symptom of whatever had occurred in the days she hadn’t been able to find him.
​​
​​Why couldn't she have just waited? Just waited a little bit longer?
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​​Words wouldn’t come at first, the petite pale creature simply lost in her tears, lifting her arms to wrap them around his neck as they all but fell onto the couch and crying uselessly.
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​​Are we safe? Safe.
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​​She shook her head at his questions, drawing back to allow the man to look at the mess that Damen had made of her face.
​​
​​ “No.” Charity managed to choke finally, responding to his last words with a shake of her head. Her hands fluttered to his cheeks, oblivious to just how bad her blood had soaked into the lavender blouse, just how badly the Captain had beaten her. Breath hitching, the pianist searched his face, finding her composure whilst her lip throbbed and her brusing darkened.
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​​ “Where have you been? What happened to you? I tried to find you, I came here. I fed Jynx, and I waited for so long. There was so much going on, the fighting and the fires. I worried you might have been…I thought you were…” Charity couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud, the sheer thought of loosing Rhys to the clutches of the afterlife almost as agonising as any physical pain. She wanted to kiss him, to take from his lips all the comfort that she so deseperately needed right now. Only the trembling of her mouth reminded her brutally of why she was here now. Again.
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​​ “I told you Rhys. I said my father couldn’t find out, but I had to find you. I had to.” The galdor nodded, bordering on shock, her adrenaline slipping away and leaving a trembling mess in its wake. Her eyes shifted to stare through him for a moment.
​​
​​ “Damen didn’t just threaten me with home schooling, or moving away from Vienda all those years ago. He hasn’t just kept me at home with some clever incentives or words. He’s cruel and he’s hurtful and he’s fucking insane.” Refocusing on the confused galdor, Charity shook her head.
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​​ “Usually he doesn’t leave marks where anyone can see, usually he’s smart but when I asked him if you were alive, he…he clocking snapped Rhys. I thought this time, for sure, he was going to kill me but Alioe our passive girl she…God’s she’s probably dead. She’s probably dead, and it’s my fault.” Tears started again, her eyes widening at the realisation, before she took a deep breath.
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​​ “We’re not safe. Not at all.” Stumbling over her words, Charity sobbed softly.
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​​ “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
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Rhys Valentin
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Tue Oct 30, 2018 9:07 am

The sharp memory of the sensation of a gun being fired point blank next to his face came rushing back to him as if her words had pulled the trigger: that dull ache of pressure through his skull, the pain in his ears, the smell and the sound ... all of it ... overwhelmed him in his mind's eye even as Charity breathed the word no. They weren't safe here and his body tensed as if he was going to get up, as if he was ready to leap to his feet and flee, but he just smirked instead, boneless beneath her as her dirty hands sought his face. Rhys couldn't help but stare, tears blurring his vision, at the mess of her beautiful features.

I thought you were—

What, dead?

Yes.

In a way, he was now. The Rhys she thought she knew, gone. But he couldn’t tell her that. Not yet. Could he ever?

The young Valentin wasn't the same, but he didn't know how to say it out loud. Everything had changed and yet he couldn't form the words. His world was upside down and Vita had tilted on her axis and yet there was more.

More!

He leaned into her hands, eyes closing for a minute as he barely whispered apologies and ambiguous answers, "I'm sorry. I was ... stuck ... in the Soot District. It was—I just—it doesn't matter, Charity, I'm alive—" That was the best he had right now. He couldn't do it. He couldn't speak of it. Not yet. Not with blood on her blouse and her body beaten. She wasn’t even wearing shoes. He was reaching up for her hands to tangle their fingers together when she explained, and his field suddenly felt filled with lead, anger sinking in the space between them, drowning his ability to hear anything else above the tinnitus that reverberated through his ear canals with such annoying ferocity,

"Damen did this to you?! Wait. Wait a fucking minute. He's always been this way? And you never told me? Clock the Circle, Charity!" Rhys didn't mean to yell, not really, but his voice was louder than it should have been, his whole body coiling with a tension as if he had half a mind to toss her off his lap and dash out his door, as if he had half a mind do stalk to her home and confront her father this very instant, "No. I can't—Good Lady. This whole godsbedamned time."

He would kill him.

That crack of a firearm rippled through his memory again, the warm, sickening sensation of the gore of a stranger against his skin. He felt on fire, and he just stared at the bloodied, petite woman without the ability to make words for several minutes too long. He didn't really hear everything else she said, unable to process that the man had beaten her nearly to death only to have some passive servant step in on her behalf.

He couldn't process a damn thing, everything inside a seething, writhing mess. Broken.

He would clocking kill him, even if it was the last thing he did as a galdor—

No.

Not even that.

He was nothing, after all.

"I—what? No. Just. No. This stops here. All of it has gone on too clocking long and it’s fucking wrong. I have nothing else—I’m not even sure—no—my address is public record. I'm a Sergeant of the Seven-fucking-ten. Earned every damn snap. Everyone knows my name. He's not setting foot inside my door, and if he does, I'm well within my rights to defend myself as necessary in your stead. We're not going anywhere, Charity. That sorry, Arazmus erse-kissing piece of chroveshit can take the past two and a half or so decades of your life and shove them—” He shifted uncomfortably as if he was making to stand, as if he was going to crawl back off to bed, but the thought of moving again nauseated him and he sat limp and quiet for several moments, all tears but no words.

This was too much.

It was all too much.

“You should have told me years ago, godsdamnit. I can’t believe you kept that—this—all of this—from me. Me, Charity! All this time—"

Dead.

He blinked—desperate to push away crumpled bodies of wicks, of humans, of Seventen that rose to his mind’s eye, that haunted him even awake— attempting to focus himself back on her face while a rage clawed it's way up his aching spine and latched fangs into the base of his skull. His chest burned. His lungs were on fire. His eyes stung, vision blurred by a decade and a half of Perceptive magic use and far too many hot, molten tears.

He was nothing.

And now this.

“Well, shit.” He whined, lost for words, separating his hands from hers with a hint of reluctance so his arms could slide around her body again and he lifted them both from the settee with obvious effort, swaying on his feet as an expected wave of vertigo washed over him, gripping the delicate woman tightly, selfishly, far more aware than she was of exactly what her company, of what her existence meant to the young Valentin. He made his way toward the bathroom and set her down before he almost mechanically set about gathering everything he would need to clean her up, including his field. It wouldn’t be much, his meager imitation of magic, but it would be just have to be enough. He needed too calm down, too angry to cast, too disturbed to string syllables of Monite together.

He started the tap for hot water before he turned and reached to help her with her blouse, not in the playful way he’d rather be, wanting to set the bloodied garment aside so he could begin some cleaning up of the disheveled, injured creature with a gentle cloth, so he could at least cast and heal the mess Damen D’Arthe has made of the woman he cared far too deeply about, the woman he’d taken too clocking long to do anything for until it was nearly too late.

“I didn’t join the ID because I’m a clocking coward, because I wasn’t willing to stand up to that ersehat. Do you want to know why I clawed my way to Sergeant? Do you, really? Let me tell you—” Rhys vented, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper as he sought to wipe grime and blood, ginger and far more careful than the vehemence in his words. He held her violet gaze, his sharp blue eyes full of a fiery purpose, full of a very raw honesty.

He had absolutely nothing left to lose. Except her.

“I’ll be opening a formal investigation, Charity. Haines will back me without question. Damen will be stripped of command. Demoted. Imprisoned if you really think he should be charged with murder—how many? That’s not how the Seventen are supposed to work—terror and pain aren't honorable ways of maintaining the peace or keeping the law. That’s not what we stand for, and I know Morde himself will agree. This all stops here, and he’ll pay for ever wasted year between us in a fucking cell.”
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Charity Valentin
Posts: 129
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 23
Race: Galdor
Location: Vienda
: The voices aren't real, right?
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Writer: Raksha
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Tue Oct 30, 2018 10:37 pm

​​
Yaris 32nd, 2718
​​VIENDA | MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
​​
Fear.
​​
​​Charity burst into renewed tears, flinching at the loud yelling that came from her lover, everything this day to fresh and too raw to deal with the man’s sudden warranted anger in a rational way. He’d laced his hands through hers, holding them tightly as his body tensed, and the blonde cowered into his chest.
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​​ “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I couldn’t Rhys, I couldn’t tell anyone. I tried to tell you, I did! But…” She searched the rage in his eyes and felt the heavy weight in his field, shaking her head slowly as the taller man vehemently made it clear he would not be chased away by Damen D’Arthe. They sat in silence, save for the tears and quiet sounds of pained revelation.
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​​ “Yes Rhys. Especially from you. Don’t you get it? Haven’t you listened? Have you ever really listened?” The pianist lay it all out, blaming not the man that held her, but the man that controlled her. Rhys couldn’t have known, even with their perceptive connection and everything that they had shared, Charity had always danced around the truth. For his sake.
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​​Not anymore.
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​​ “What do you think happened to Mathias? Why do you think my mother took her life? He’s got power, ties and contacts I don’t…I don’t even know who. I meant when I said the drugs make me feel nothing, they help me feel nothing. Her voice hitched between breaths, thick with tears and emotions that ranged from grief to hate to fear. Her field embraced him, as though needing the familiarity of his own to bring calm.
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​​The blonde shifted once he let go of her hands, searching the tired and haggard Seventens face as he lifted her again. They entered the bathroom, almost an uncarry repetition of the night they had reunited, and as Charity sat quietly she watched his face, bare feet brushing the cool tiles of the floor. Even whilst he removed her blouse, in an act of care not of desire, she watched him.
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​​Her violet eyes watched, even whilst he wiped the blood from her face so carefully to avoiding hurting her anymore, his hard voice a stark contrast to his gentle touch. They looked at each other, eye to eye, the pale creature listened to his very passionate and very professional breakdown of just how this would go.
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​​The dim lighting caught the flecks of yellow gold in her eyes as they broke away from his, turning to the floor as they sat together, she in but a skirt and undergarments and her own blood, he in just his uniform pants. Her face hurt, her arms hurt, and it seemed there was far too much blood in her mind. Smeared on her hands, dabbed on her chest, even staining the lace of her brazzier. Even though a mirror graced the bathroom, Charity avoided it, afraid of the face that looked back at her.
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​​ “Clocks.” She whispered despondently, brow drawing and eyes slipping closed as her lips trembled again. Taking a deep breath she looked at him.
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​​ ”You daw with your own eyes what happened with clear evidence in the alley that night. It’s Anaxas. Who would believe a woman, over the Captain? His own daughter, who has never once spoken up? None of the house staff will dare speak against him. Those ones who do—“
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​​ How many had he murdered?
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​​ “I don’t know. Five? Six? Do my brother and mother count? Eight?They just disappear. Fired, or sent away, that’s what is always said but…they disappear.” Reaching for his hand, she drew the cloth away, shaking her head slowly.
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​​ “I’m scared Rhys. I can’t let him make you disappear too.” She didn’t believe for a second the Seventens status or rank made any difference, too long controlled and shaped by the man’s violence and threats.
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​​ “There’s something wrong with him, you know? In the head. He’d started…never mind. It’s not important.” Her skin tingled with the unwelcome rememberance of fingers across her pale skin, grabbing hold of anything that would wash away the memory. Her eyes scanned his face again feeling once again his field was weaker, worn, drained. Stuck in the Soot he’d said, but what had happened?
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​​ “Rhys, what happened to you?” Charity asked again, ignoring for the moment all the horrific things that she needed to deal with, withdrawals still wreaking havoc in her system. It was just too much. She needed a break. For a moment. Just one moment.
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​​

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Rhys Valentin
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Wed Oct 31, 2018 10:12 am

Rhys saw her fear and heard the well-aged terror in her voice. He wasn't stupid. He'd heard these tones before with victims and with informants, with witnesses and with arrested ersehats. His jaw clenched at her quick defensiveness, at years of her living in hopelessness, and all he could do was listen and hold her until he knew he should get up and make himself useful.

"You should never have kept this from me. We could have gone anywhere, all those years ago. I would have taken you far away had you but asked." He couldn't look at her while he said those things, the regret as thick as his anger and frustration. He'd wasted too much time afraid of a man who'd taken from him the one thing he'd ever wanted. Power. Ties. Contacts. His unshaven, exhausted face twisted into an ugly sneer, but he sobbed instead of spoke again, fingers tightening, entangled with her own, "How has feeling nothing helped you when we once felt so much? The one time I actually clocking listened to someone—your stop-clocking father—and actually did what I was told was the one thing—the one single thing—I'm still regretting. Look at you. Look at this mess. No. I'm done, Charity, with letting shit happen and doing nothing about it."

He stood with those words and whisked her away into his bathroom, which was apparently just a strange metaphor for the current state of their lives, if not their relationship: messy.

Rhys was letting the tub fill with steaming water, gingerly helping her out of her blouse and letting his bleary gaze wander bruises and drying blood with a numbed horror, having already been around far more blood and death over the course of a week than he had in his entire career. He sighed through grit teeth and gently wiped what he could,

"You will be testifying, but the investigation will be led by me. If there's any staff you want out, I have ... contacts in the Soot District that don't wear the uniform. I can place them in protective custody while we build a case. I'm a Sergeant, godsdamnit, and there's a clocking Headmistress in Brunnhold. Your words have weight these days, so don't waste them in silence." He was very serious, as if he'd pushed himself to excel as a Seventen with singular purpose. Had he? Had he really carried this torch somewhere in the forgotten, dark places of his mind for all this time?

Yes.

Charity stopped his hands and he felt the fear that writhed in her field. His blue eyes slid away for a moment to the tub before he looked at her again, leaning closer and letting the anger in his haggard features soften, "I'm not going anywhere. He tried to make me disappear once, but here I am, and I've been here the whole fucking time—" He'd started to whatnow? The young Valentin paused, watching her grow uncomfortable, hearing her words trail away with just as much disgust as fear, "—everything is important. Every detail is another nail in the coffin for Damen's career. Details are what make a case, so if you don't tell me now? Fine. Tell me when you're ready, but, you've kept enough between us."

He leaned to stop the water, gripping the edge of the tub while another wave of vertigo washed through him. He grunted, sliding to sit on the floor and resting his back against the porcelain, roughly raking his hands over his face and curling fingers into his hair before he looked up at the delicate pianist and her bruised, mangled beauty. One hand reached for her, leaning his head back against the lip of the bath while he waited for everything to steady itself again, pulling her towards him. His eyes fluttered shut and he breathed through the imaginary motion of the room, unable to ignore the ringing in his ears even as his field shifted and drew closer. In all of this, Rhys was attempting to focus,

"Me? Oh, gods. Shit happened, that's what. It was all a fucking mess, this riot. I—I lost an Ensign. I have a Constable in a magically-maintained coma. My hearing, my vertigo—it's supposed to get better—but there was gunfire—" Right by his face? Should he say that? His eyes snapped open and there were immediate tears, visions of the chaos flooding him with panic, reminding of his inadequacies, chasing him with the failure of the glorious system.

Because he wasn't who he thought he was and there was no going back.

He swallowed, hard, choking the truth from pouring forth and shaking his head very gently, "—I don't know where to start."

Was that a lie? His shoulders sagged. He knew there was only one direction to go, and yet the blond Sergeant wasn't ready to tell her, to tell anyone. He blinked, heavily, shoving away the words that wanted to come spilling out, hot and searing like an iron from the forge's fire, "The last few days, I was in the Soot District. Things were desperate, and I—I—you know what, let's take care of you first. You don't need to hear about any of this right now."

Maybe ever.

The quick dismissal was such painfully obvious avoidance and tears escaped down his cheeks. He didn't look at her for a moment, blue eyes traveling down her bruised face and over her body, hands moving to hover just above touching her still bloodied cheek, "Give me just a bit more time. I'm not sure I'm ready." Rhys' honesty was deadpan. Ready to tell her everything. Ready to talk about the riot. Ready to talk about Gale. Ready to talk about any of it, "Please?"

He all but begged her with his expression, gathering his field and not waiting for any objections, channeling his emotions into his quiet Monite. The mona heard him, the mona had always heard him. Regardless of how much he was teased for being weak as a student, he'd never questioned his relationship with the sentient particles he could talk to. Did they know? Did they care? He spoke the words that eased pain, that reduced swelling, that knit together knuckle-broken skin, for he knew too well these injuries and was well-practiced in the healing of bruises and battered faces. The mona didn't bristle against his self-doubt, against his worries that now that he knew what he was, all of his magic was suddenly wrong.

Aziza, that Mugrobi witch from the last horrid riot, had taught him that the mona listened to her Monite, too. Her casting was so comfortable, intimate, and conversational, and while he'd learned a much stuffier form of spell etiquette, the galdori schools of study were still called Conversations, even if the protocols used weren't always so casual.

Was there an edge of discomfort in his tone? Was there fear? Doubt? Could Charity hear the change in how he put the phrases of Monite together with his tongue? Tears slid down his face even as hers became less mangled, but he was far too weary and drained to do a perfect job of things. The last of his words were punctuated by a sob, the warmth of accomplishment, the triumph of still being heard, not a comfort because he knew, he knew, he wasn't worthy of the privileges he'd been given.

He wasn't a galdor, after all.

But he wasn't less than, either.

Not any more.

The truth was a double-edged sword. He felt like he'd been cut open, from the inside, and blood pooled heatedly in the cavity of his chest with the knowledge he now carried.

"Charity," Rhys gasped for breath, suddenly tired but gingerly touching the face he'd just healed, trembling palms brushing lovely cheeks, his voice wavering because the taste of mint stung his tongue and his ears rang almost painfully with the exertion, "If I've thought of nothing else in the past few days, I've clung desperately to my feelings for you. I've loved you for so clocking long. We've both let so much come between us—time, fear, secrets—and I just can't anymore. I won't do it. You don't have to feel the same, but—do you?"

Did she love him, too? Could she endure the truth?

The weight of what he knew crushed him and his whole body ached. She deserved to know everything, but what would the price be?
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Charity Valentin
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: The voices aren't real, right?
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Thu Nov 01, 2018 5:31 am

​​
Yaris 32nd, 2718
​​VIENDA | MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
Feeeels
​​
Fool.
​​
​​How could he have taken her away? Sixteen, barely seventeen at the time, they were just children. Sure, they continued together in Brunnhold till final form, but not as friends or as lovers. As two ships passing quietly in the night, aware of the other, but unable to come close for fear of an almighty collision.
​​
​​She didn’t comment on his words as they moved to the bathroom, the realisation dawning that no matter what she said, Rhys was done. He was done with Damen, and done with their long and painful seperation. The blonde pianist wanted to be happy, elated even, but her broken mind couldn't see past the hurt and fear of so many years.
​​
​​ “Testifying? Will he…would he be there? My father? Or just us? Just you?” Charity asked softly, envisioning some imagined courthouse event with her father clasped in chains, his eyes burning into her very soul as she recounted her stories against him. Her mouth felt dry, and her field drew closer almost instinctively, blinking and pushing away the vision with a short nod.
​​
​​ “None of the staff are friends to me, but the passive girl, with auburn hair and hazel eyes. If she’s alive, if she’s still there, I would ask you to find her. She has seen the worst of it.” She paused, closing her eyes again.
​​
​​ “All of the worst of it.” Charity tilted her head to face the ceiling, taking a breath as though dragging air through thick cloying molasses, opening her eyes with a shaky sigh and a nod before looking back at the man.
​​
​​ “You’re right. I’ve kept enough. I’ve done this to myself. No more secrets. I don’t know how to explain it, he’s started looking at me differently. Telling me how much I look like my mother. After I left here, that first night, he demanded entry whilst I was bathing. I refused, of course, but he damned near broke down the door. He told me how much he liked the Giorans and for one moment Rhys I thought…” She rubbed her arms suddenly and shook her head, lip quivering.
​​
​​ “Whatever it was, it passed and he gripped my throat, and I thought that was it. I thought that was the moment I’d see the afterlife, but I guess I was still of value to him then. Still property to be bartered and sold for more power.” The whisper of a galdor watched Rhys move to turn off the taps, her eyes widening as he wavered and almost melted to sit on the floor, taking his hand with a worried frown. Moving to slip onto the floor beside him, Charity searched his face as the tall man closed his eyes, recounting the days before in a strange mess of words.
​​
​​ “Gunfire? You’re hearing…clocking hell Rhys.” The blonde breathed reaching for his face, seeing the tears and feeling the panic in his field. Her own problems were forgotten for a heartbeat, brushing away a lock of hair that defied his hands that had twisted so firmly against his scalp. She wanted to know more, his grief clear in his face and in the entangled brush of their fields, words only firing her concern for the Seventen. And then, in a brash contradiction to his words about the truth and secrets no longer to be kept, the tall galdor turned away from the events of the riot to hold his words a little longer.
​​
​​I’m not sure I’m ready.
​​
​​Charity nodded, drawing her hand back with a guilty sinking in her chest, watching the tears roll down his cheeks. She knew what it was like, to have to hold onto words that you probably should say, and because of that the delicate woman could respect his wishes for now.
​​
​​ “Alright, it’s alright Rhys. You don’t need to tell me, not yet. Take the time you need. I’ll still be here, when you are ready.” Hey violet gaze disappeared behind redrimmed lids as the mona danced across her broken and battered body, the slight pain of knitting flesh and healing bruises almost grounding in a way. The spell ended with a sob, her lip no longer split and swelling gone, the mottled yellows and greens of faded bruising left behind on her face and arms. A few days rest, and there would be no trace of Captain D’Arthes murderous outburst.
​​
​​No physical trace at least.
​​
​​Crying again, afraid of the broken creature that suddenly sat before her, Charity shifted onto her knees, moving to come closer to his face and her own hands reaching to hold his against her face. So this is how it felt for him, to see her in the clutches of desperation and sorrow, a thing snapped and trampled underfoot. Her chest ached with empathy for the Valentin, not sure what to say or do to help him.
​​
​​ I’ve loved you for so clocking long.
​​
​​The galdor musician gasped, her breath caught in her throat, heart beat pounding hard in her chest. It wasn’t true, it couldn’t be true. For nearly her whole childhood and beyond, Charity D’Arthe had imagined hearing Rhys Valentin utter those sweet words. She’d dreamed them, in so many different ways, so many different places and scenarios.
​​
​​Back at school, in the privacy of their dorm rooms. Or during her birthday in the Stacks, before her run in. Perhaps after a theatre show, the drugs never touching her lips. All beautiful, romantic, amazing scenes that had played out in her mind. Not once, not ever, had she imagined it would be on the cold tiled floor of his apartment bathroom after so much violence and fear.
​​
​​But then, it didn’t matter when or where it was. Because there was one thing that filled her heart and brought a fresh sting of tears to her eyes.
​​
​​Rhys Valentin loved her. Then and now. Still. After everything he’d learned, all the horrible truths he’d learned about her, the tall blonde loved her.
​​
​​Realising she was holding her breath, Charity let it out with a rush, her silence perhaps dragging longer than it should have. Nodding, she knelt before the tired shattered man, holding the crystaline blue of his eyes with a trembling smile and a stupid short breathless laugh.
​​
​​ ”Yes, yes you wonderful fool. I’ve loved you ever since third form, and I love you now. I wanted to tell you ages ago, but I was afraid.” Her eyes lowered in shame, cheeks flushed and smile faded.
​​
​​ “I’m not perfect, and I’m not remotely what you deserve. You should have found some pretty, stable girl to hang off your arm. I’m sure plenty of proper ladies would sell their firstborn to have a Seventen Sergeant as a husband. I let my father break us apart, and I fell into the darkness. I’ve made a fool of myself in public, I’ve embarrassed you, and put myself in situations that were stupid and dangerous. I’ve been an absolute kensers erse Rhys, and you don’t deserve to be dragged down by my trashfire of a life.” Glacing up again, she reached out to brush his hair from his forehead gently, smiling again.
​​
​​ “Of course I feel the same. You were my whole world Valentin. You always have been, I just…” Gale’s words from the dsoh hut ran through her head.
​​
​​What next? Locking’ away in some tower for some prince to come rescue?”
​​
​​ “I’ve been stuck in the monsters tower waiting for you to rescue me.”

​​

​​
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Rhys Valentin
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Thu Nov 01, 2018 1:11 pm

"Be there? Hell yes, a full on public trial. These kinds of allegations can't be settled in private. The Kingdom needs to see the truth, and the more people who see, the safer you are. The safer we both are, out in the open." Rhys had considered this before, obviously, and he'd had years to perfect his approach, to smooth all the rough angles of such a plan. Never in over a decade would he have ever thought he'd have a real reason, several real reasons, to indict Co-Captain Damen D'Arthe, but now he did.

And he wouldn't back down from such an opportunity.

"Does she have a name? I know when your father isn't home thanks to you. I'll take care of things. I'll take care of everything I can. I—" The tall blond promised quietly, sincerely, and yet he wasn't prepared for what he asked for (as if he could have been), Charity hinting at more than just violence. He listened, blinking, too smart for his own damn good, too disturbed enough as it was in his mind to even need to be told directly. He sneered in obvious disgust, not just at how much bodily harm the delicate pianist had been treated with over the years, but the twisted, obvious ways her father's intentions had changed,

"—Clock the Circle. You're staying with me, and that's that. He's never touching you again unless I'm nothing more than a stain on my own floor." He spoke those last words while staring at the water, the reflection of his haggard face rippling back up at him. His right bastard face. He made promises he couldn't keep. He swore protection he couldn't give. He knew as his own eyes washed over himself that he couldn't keep the truth from her, that before this went any further than it already had, he had to put all of his cards on the table. Especially the losing ones.

It was the movement that did him in, the settling of liquid that set his body off and shoved him roughly to the tiles in a dark wave of nauseating vertigo. He was too dizzy to pull away from the petite blonde's hands, suddenly so self conscious, suddenly so aware.

How could he tell her this now?

How could he tell her this ever?

But he had to. He just had to.

He wanted to hold himself together, to cling to who he thought he'd once been, to make sure he stayed a godsbedamned Sergeant in the clocking Seventen just long enough for everything to go to trial, just long enough to see that wrong bastard, Damen, stripped of his uniform and his snaps, convicted and sentenced. Gods, just a little bit longer. Then? Well, then he would deal with the consequences of who—no, of what—he was.

If he was going to tell her anything else, if he was going to be as honest as he'd asked her to be, then he needed to know: Could anyone love someone enough to see past this kind of truth? He barely could, and he had to live with himself.

Charity reached for him while he sobbed the confessions of his heart. He'd tried and failed in a few relationships over the years just in desperation to forget her. Everything had always ended in a mess, and he was well aware that, every time, every other woman chased out of his life, had been his fault for wordlessly comparing them to her. No one could replace her, and as she apologized to him for not being proper enough, for being broken, for embarrassing him, his breath hitched and he felt a chill gnaw up his spine because now no one ever would.

Good Lady, if only she'd said she didn't love him.

"I can't be that man."

Rhys exhaled, setting his jaw and willing himself to come into focus, to hold his delicate pianist's gaze with an intense look of helpless sorrow, "I don't deserve you. I don't deserve anyone like you. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve my life. Because it's a lie. Not my lie, mind you, because I didn't know. Until now. Now I know. But still, a lie. Charity, I will do everything—everything—in my power to keep my promises to you because you have my whole heart and always have, but, I'm—I can't be who I have lived my life hoping to be in yours because I'm not a galdor. Your father is a horrible creature and he will pay for the pain he's put you through, but he has always been right about me—"

He did his best to speak through tears, unable to crawl away from the woman in front of him because of the warm porcelain against his spine,

"—I'm a nobody. Theodore Valentin's bastard son. My mother was human."

The words lifted an anvil from his aching ribs and Rhys inhaled, body already beginning to curl and coil inward toward itself as if in preparation for the betrayal and hatred that he knew he deserved to wash over him, his field, his poor glamour, tightening as if it was any effective sort of barrier. His expression was so broken, so terrified, so full of a hopeless adoration, and tears flowed so very swiftly down his well-carved cheeks.

"I'm sorry. I can't keep that from someone I love as much as you."
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Charity Valentin
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Thu Nov 01, 2018 7:08 pm

Yaris 32nd, 2718
VIENDA | MORNING AFTER BREAKFAST
Feeeels
Fall.

Safer out in the open? Charity took a deep breath, unable to reconcile the clinging cloying claws of fear that raked her field with the idea that exposing her father in public would be safer. But, she had to trust in the Seventen, knowing that he wouldn’t throw her to the wolf.

“A name? I don’t…I don’t know. I never learn their names, whats the point?” It sounded heartless to hear it out loud, but it was true. She’d never bothered to learn names, angry mostly at them all for standing by watching it happen for so long. If not for the passive girls actions, Charity wouldn’t have even remembered her. A strange warmth spread through the blonde as Rhys decided there and then she would stay with him, in his home. It was the safest place to be, and it made sense, she didn’t have anyone else but Xi and frankly that would be the first place Damen would go.

It felt right. A weight she didn’t realise was hanging on her shoulders lifted, as though the idea of where she would lay her head had never occurred to her but had been in the back of her mind.

“I have nothing Rhys, everything is in his home. Everything.” She would need to visit the bank and withdraw her own funds, buy her own clothes. Clocks her own things. Belonging to her, chosen by her. The thought was almost thrilling, if it wasn’t so pathetic. Twenty seven years old and governed by her father on what to wear and who to speak to and when to leave the house and return. Pathetic.

"I can't be that man."

Charity blinked, searching his face with a confused look, shaking her head a little as Rhys began to put himself down.

“What? No, don’t say that Rhys. You’re a good man. A good…what? Not a galdor? Rhys stop it, stop I don’t understand I…wait no. My father is never right. He’s a monster, a bastard, a—”

"—I'm a nobody. Theodore Valentin's bastard son. My mother was human."

The petite pianist blinked, her mind suddenly blank, unable to process the ridiculous words coming from the Seventen—the galdor—sitting before her. Her hands drew away, tilting her head with a frown, pushing his hands away from her face so she could think.

“What? No, that’s stupid. You’re not…you’re no wick. Your mother died, before you could remember her. You’re a golly. You went to Brunnhold for clocks sake. We graduated in the same gods-be-damned year. You dueled people. There’s no way to…wicks can’t…” Shaking her head and putting her hands to her temples, the pale woman tried to rationalise with him.

“Just because your field isn’t as strong, doesn’t make you…no…it’s not possible. Who the clock told you that garbage? Was it…was it my father? Did he already get to you somehow? Don’t believe him Rhys, he’s a piece of chrove shit. It’s a lie. It’s a clocking lie. Don’t…you’re not.” Charity scoffed, standing and shaking her head, flat out refusing to accept it. Even if part of her niggled with suspicion, as though really she should have known.

“No, I don’t accept it. You’ve had someone get in your head and feed you some awful lie and you’re tired and…and I…no. I refuse.” Holding her hands out as though to stop an oncoming attack, the galdor laughed harshly.

“I refuse! You are Rhys Valentin, and you’re a clocking galdor in the Seventen and I love you and that is that.” Needing to move, to act, to do something, Charity reached for the fastenings of her long black skirt and fumbled to unclasp them with shaking hands.

“Here now, enough of this ridiculousness. Up on your feet Sergeant, undress. Get in that tub. Everything is just jumbled and we’re both tired and upset and saying silly things.” Standing in a state of underdress, wearing only her undergarments, the small framed woman reached for his hands, pulling to bring the man to his feet whether he wanted to or not.

“Now see, a hot bath, relaxing. Calming. Because its all fine. Everything will be fine. Right? You said it would be fine and…and…and…” Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she continued to shake her head, even as her words faded into nothing. Her eyes shifted to the water, staring at it with a strange look.

“You can’t be.” She said finally, looking back at the man, hands resting on the side of the bath for support, feeling weak at the knees and light headed. Charity didn’t mind wicks, she got along with all sorts. Fuck if she didn’t, where would her best hits come from? But, her father had insulted Rhys so many times with that term, and she’d fought so hard to defend him. The first time he’d hit her, Damen had called the boy a wick, and Charity had been furious.

It wouldn’t have mattered, it shouldn’t matter, except that if she accepted it then Damen was right. And he couldn’t be right.

He absolutely couldn't be.

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Rhys Valentin
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Thu Nov 01, 2018 11:42 pm

Of course she didn't know the clocking passive's name. Rhys forgot that most average, every day galdori ignored such useless details as recognizing who had the right to a name. He'd have to take care of things himself, but such was the burden of his Investigative training.

Charity D'Arthe arrived bloodied on his doorstep with nothing, and had she just arrived a few days sooner, had he been home instead of in the Soot District, in fucking Saunder's Forge, she could have had his whole world.

Now?

"I know where I've been. I graduated with honors. I was accepted into the Seventen with a stipend. I'm twenty-clocking-seven and a Sergeant. I know what I'm capable of, but—" Her hands pushed his away and he hissed a sob at her denial, leaning his head back against the lip of the tub and watching her face with fear thick in his field as she processed his words.

Rhys just sat there, curling his legs up to his narrow chest once the delicate pianist stood and resting his arms on his knees. His vision was blurred by years of Perceptive magic use, by overtaxing himself during the riot, and by tears. His breath hitched at all Charity had to say, regretting even offering to tell her the truth, the whole truth,

"No—" He wasn't good. He was a bastard.

"Wait, Charity—" Wicks could do more than he ever imagined.

"I haven't spoken to your father, directly, in months—" He wouldn't have believed him, anyway.

"You can't just—" Decide.

He blinked at her, the young Valentin watching her hands move, watching her undress. He felt suddenly self-conscious, suddenly so painfully self aware that his skin crawled at the thought. Gods, they'd savored each other's bodies without a hint of shame over the past season, but everything suddenly felt so different. His blue eyes traveled over her petite form as he sobbed, desperate to focus, but she reached for his hands and tugged, indicating that he should stand, too. So he did with a mechanical sort of obedience, the longing for what was comfortable and familiar driving him to pretend what they were doing was normal and necessary. Muscle memory and emotion moved his body, even as truth still hung so painfully in his words,

"Charity, it's not a lie. It all makes sense. It makes too much damn sense. Listen to me, listen to all of it. Listen, please? I need you to hear me. I need someone I trust to hear me." Rhys whispered warily, dragging the trembling palm of a hand across his wet face and swaying on his feet as he ignored the vertigo that hounded him. He caught his breath and steadied his balance, reaching to finish undressing the delicate pianist as if they were having a totally normal, expected kind of conversation. He bit his bottom lip, hands moving with familiarity over her body, removing her bloodied brazier and reaching lower, watching his fingers travel over pale skin instead of meeting her violet gaze, inviting her to step out of her undergarments while he continued to speak quietly.

There was an even and honest cadence to his voice, a measured way of speaking that revealed he'd mulled over these words for days now (because he had), "Do you remember the young man you kissed downstairs? Mister Gale Saunders. The human who looked so much like me. Well, Gale and I have met before. I saved her—him—them—I stepped in for them during a fight and arrested Gale's attacker."

Rhys began his difficult tale at the beginning, offering his hand to help Charity into the tub before he hesitated, fingers frozen for several heartbeats at the fastenings of his green-dyed trousers as if he really was shy, as if he suddenly was someone she'd never seen, as if there was something physical about him that the petite blonde would at all disapprove of when he know that was impossible, when he knew how well she knew all of him now. He undressed, the warm chagrin of vulnerability, of having nothing left to hide, pooling at the base of his spine before he carefully stepped into the tub, slowly sinking into the hot water, uncaring that a bit of it sloshed over the lip and onto the floor. He faced the delicate pianist, unsure of what to do with his hands.

Catching his breath, he continued quietly, ignoring the blurring of pronouns because he knew too much about the blonde smith, about the young woman who'd suddenly become his family, to care about the confusion in the moment, so flustered and hurt and urgent and confused, "Days later, they showed up in the dsoh shop, perhaps looking for me. During the riots, Mister Saunders saved me on the street, took me to the forge. I was injured. Aliendra was injured. There was nowhere else to go."

He conveniently left out that Gale had shot three men in the street with her own gun, point blank and next to his face. He conveniently left out that they'd fought together, afraid of admitting his suspicions about who and what Gale had connections to, "We drank too much. We talked too much. I'd been up for days. I was exhausted. I hadn't eaten. Ensign Ward was dying. Gale revealed they knew me, that they were my sister, that their human mother—my human mother—had been Ol' Theo's household help. He was always a bit too friendly with the help. He always told me I looked like my mother, but never had any paintings or spectrograms of her. Gale said he'd kept me, lied to me, and kept her to raise me as a babe. She wanted to run away with me, Charity, but Theodore wouldn't let her. She met someone, and my father let her go, but kept me to raise as his legitimate son when I wasn't. He lied to me. He raised me as a galdor. The man she met was Gale's father and he warned her of me growing up. Of me! She—she knew all the parts that were missing, and I can't deny that it makes sense—"

His last words were more of a whine than anything else, and as much as he wanted to reach for her in the water, to feel her body against his like an anchor, he hesitated, Rhys as tense as his field,

"—Charity, I believe Gale. We look like family—even you saw it—It explains so much about me—my shortcomings—being a wick—but—then so much is a lie. Everything I've done. Everything I've lived. That's all against everything we've been taught, everything I've been told. As galdori. Godsdamnit! Being half human changes what I am, but it doesn't change who I am. It doesn't change how I feel."

Rhys did his best to hold himself together, the heated water making him dizzy, the truth making his very bones ache. His crystalline, blue eyes searched the delicate pianist's face for some sign of belief, of understanding. Terrified of anger and betrayal, his hands finally moved, hesitantly, toward hers, fingers brushing over pale skin,

"I've requested personal leave. I need to go home to Elmonton. I need to hear it from Theo himself. I have to follow the lead to find the truth. I don't know what else to do. I can't let anyone know—Good Lady! No one can fucking know! I shouldn't have even told you. I'm destroyed, Charity. My career? My education? My status? I'm no tsat. I've lived a galdor's life for almost three decades, and clocking well, thank you—" He leaned, bringing one of her hands up from the water to place on his chest, over the racing of his heart,

"I'm the same Rhys. Inside. Somewhere. Right now? I don't even know. The riot—fuck—I'm sorry."

The young Valentin slid his hand away and leaned back, disappearing for a long time under the hot water, holding his breath until his lungs screamed for air and his mind warned him of its objections. He closed his eyes, wanting the heated water to wash him all away, to totally wash away everything. Coming up with a gasp, the water running down his face, hiding his tears, "I'm the same. I'm the clocking same inside. Right?"
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